They entered the house quietly, moving on the balls of their feet and listening for sounds. The house seemed empty, and Kinjiro got tired of the precautions. Saying in a normal voice, “Nobody’s here. I’m starving. I wonder if there’s any food left,” he headed for the kitchen.

“First the keys,” Tora snapped.

Grumbling, the boy turned into the main room. It looked as before, with clothes and bedding strewn about and a general air of abandonment. Kinjiro opened a small wooden panel in the wall. Inside were some papers and a small pile of keys. He scooped up the lot and dropped them into Tora’s cupped hands.

Tora returned to the storehouse by himself. All was as before. He tried all the keys, but none worked. And there was still no sign of life inside. Well, they had come this far and had made a considerable amount of noise in the process, so there was no point in being careful any longer. Remembering the stuff in the shed, Tora went to look for something to force the lock. He returned with the broom and the ladder. The ladder he leaned against the storehouse, in case he had to resort to breaking in through the tiles, and the broom handle he inserted between the lock and the door and twisted hard. The broom handle broke, but this time Tora thought he heard a faint moaning from inside. “We’re getting you out,” he shouted. “Just be patient.” Then he headed back into the house.

“Kinjiro?” His voice echoed strangely down the dim hallway. Outside, daylight was beginning to fade. All the more reason to hurry. He had to release the old man and then take a look at what was in the locked chest in Matsue’s room. A pity Matsue got the document back. Tora had looked forward to presenting it to his master. Where was that boy? He started toward the kitchen. “Kinjiro! Where the devil are you? I need your help.”

And then it struck him that there was something very odd about this continued silence. He stopped and held his breath. Had the boy run into trouble? Almost certainly. Tora remembered the assortment of weapons the gang had left lying about, but he had no way of getting to them, and no doubt they were by now in the hands of their owners. He was unarmed.

He reviewed in his mind the contents of the service yard and the shed, but came up with nothing except the broken broom handle. It was a pitiful weapon against a sword or even a knife, but he dashed back to get it.

Broom handle in hand, he reentered the silent, shadowy house, where someone probably waited to kill him. He did not know how many of them there were, but he had to get to the boy.

Slowly he crept along the wall, checking each room to make sure it was empty before moving on. Opening doors took time and nerve. Even the slightest squeak set his teeth on edge, and each time he expected to be jumped. In this manner he made it all the way to the main room. It was empty, but the hidden compartment which had held the keys, and which he remembered closing now stood open. Beyond lay the corridor that led to the kitchen.

Tora brushed the sweat from his eyes, gripped the broom handle more firmly, and started forward. He had taken a few steps when he heard the boy cry out something. It was a brief sound, quickly stifled and followed by a groan. Baring his teeth, Tora rushed forward and burst into the kitchen, lashing out wildly with his broom handle.

“Ah! Finally.” The Scarecrow greeted him with a grin of satisfaction. He was standing across from the door and had an arm around Kinjiro and a knife at his throat. A trickle of blood from a fresh cut was seeping into the boy’s shirt. Kinjiro stared at Tora with wide, frightened eyes.

“Let him go!” growled Tora.

To his surprise, the thin man obeyed. He flung the boy aside and started toward Tora. The room was small, but Tora thought that he might be able to disarm the other man before he could do any harm with that knife: It was fortunate that the Scarecrow was alone.

But no, he heard the scraping of a boot behind him. Swinging around, he saw the ill-featured thug who had guarded the front door on his last visit. He, too, had a knife and a grin on his face.

The Scarecrow snapped, “What’re you waiting for, Genzo? Get him!”

When confronted by two men with knives, it is best to use delaying tactics until one of the opponents makes a mistake, but in this case Tora was given no time. The man behind him jumped and slashed at Tora’s back.

Tora flung himself aside, heard the hiss of the knife slicing through the fabric of his shirt and jacket, and then felt pain sear from his shoulder to his waist. He ignored it. There was no time. His evasive move had trapped him with his back against the kitchen wall. His attackers were now in front and moving in from two sides. Tora thought fleetingly of the whirlwind move he had demonstrated to Kinjiro, but the kitchen was too small for such acrobatic tricks, and fending off two knives with nothing but a broom handle was pretty hopeless. He steeled himself for the inevitable—at the very least some bad knife wounds. Of the two, the Scarecrow was the more dangerous, being in an excellent position to slash and stab at Tora; his companion was hampered by the fact that he was on Tora’s left and had to reach across his own body to score a hit. Tora kept his attention on the Scarecrow.

When the Scarecrow lunged, his knife aimed at Tora’s belly. From the corner of his eye, Tora saw Genzo closing in and preparing to strike also. Tora swung up the broom handle, felt it make contact, heard the Scarecrow’s curse as his knife arm came up. Tora snatched for the knife, but the Scarecrow jerked away sharply. There was a hiss and something clattered on the floor. The Scarecrow started forward again.

At that moment the odds changed. Tora became aware of strange choking and gurgling sounds, and the Scarecrow took his eyes off Tora to glance toward his companion. Tora saw his eyes widen and instantly twisted toward what he thought was an attack. But Genzo just stood there, eyes bulging strangely, mouth gulping for air like a fish, and both hands clasped tightly to his neck.

Then Tora saw the blood. It seeped from between the man’s fingers; more and more of it welled forth until it ran down his body in great gouts, covering his chest with glistening, steaming gore, and dripping to the ground. The hot, sweet smell hung sickeningly in the air, and time seemed to stand still. Tora wondered how a man could lose so much blood so quickly, yet still keep to his feet, still move his lips and roll his eyes. Genzo tried to speak, but only a smacking sound emerged, along with a great gush of blood. And then finally his knees buckled and he fell to the ground.

The Scarecrow stared stupidly down at the body. “What—?”

Tora snatched up the dead man’s knife from the floor and said, “Thanks, stupid. That evens things up a bit.”

The Scarecrow finally realized that it had been his own knife that had slashed his companion’s throat and came at Tora with a roar of fury.

He was no trouble after that, and Tora felt no compunction about killing him. He slammed the knife into the man’s chest, watched him fall, wiped the bloody blade on the Scarecrow’s jacket, and looked around for Kinjiro. The boy was vomiting into a corner. Tora went to the wine barrel and dipped out a large helping. “Here,” he said. “Drink that and pull yourself together. We’ve got work to do. The others may be on their way.”

Kinjiro’s face was white in the gloom, and he shook a little, but he nodded and drank. Some color seeped back into his cheeks. Tora dipped out more wine, watched him drink this also, then helped himself to some.

“Very well, let’s get on with it,” he said. “We need a metal tool to break open the lock. The keys don’t fit.”

The boy nodded, stepped over the Scarecrow with a shudder, and reached into a box of kitchen tools. He pulled out a set of iron tongs. Tora nodded.