An uncomfortable silence fell as Akitada wondered what other disasters were awaiting him.

Kobe sighed and got to his feet. ‘Well… I must be on my way. Best wishes on the impending birth.’

Akitada walked the superintendent to the steps into the courtyard, then returned to his study. People were in a great hurry to lay the blame for the murder on him. It proved how powerful and dangerous the resentment against him was. The progress from implicating him in the murder to his arrest, trial, and exile required only small steps for those in power. He had relaxed too soon, thinking that his former enemies had either died – like Soga – or lost interest in him. Apparently, recent shifts in the administration had once again created an atmosphere where he became a handy scapegoat for the offenses committed by others.

The worst of it was that this time he had no idea who was behind it.

JIROKICHI, THE THIEF

There were five of them. All were in their teens, but strong and fast. Five against one.

Despite his age, Jirokichi was agile, but they cornered him. Somehow, in his hurry to escape the first two, he took a wrong turn down an alley, which brought him to the abandoned temple, and then there were suddenly five, and he took another wrong turn into the temple grounds, hoping to double back towards a busier part of the city.

But they worked together and herded him into the farthest corner, where he ended up boxed in by walls too tall to scale – though he was agile enough – and now they were walking towards him, slowly, with grins on their faces.

Stray dogs closing in on a rat.

‘Hey, Rat,’ said the one in front, a stringy youth who was their leader, ‘why so unfriendly? We just want to chat. We heard business was good lately.’

Business had been good. He had found gold and a finely carved and gilded Buddha figurine he hoped to sell at a great profit to an abbot of his acquaintance, but these five could not know about that. They were guessing.

They closed in around him, their eyes bright with excitement.

‘What do you want?’ he squeaked. He was small, deceptively frail looking, and when nervous, his voice rose to a piercing squeal.

‘Whatever you got, Rat,’ said the leader, still grinning. He was an ugly kid with a broken nose and a knife scar running from one ear to the corner of his mouth. His teeth were broken, too, and then Jirokichi saw that the fists he clenched had scarred knuckles – from beating up other victims.

Jirokichi shrunk away a little more until his back was against the wall. The boy next to the leader eyed him with a hungry look. ‘Let’s take his clothes off and see what he’s got.’ He fingered the knife in his belt. ‘Maybe we’ll cut off his jewels.’ They laughed.

Jirokichi was close to wetting his pants. He stripped off his jacket and tossed it to them. ‘I’ve got nothing. See for yourselves. You got the wrong fellow.’ They searched the jacket and tossed it aside. He started to undo the rope that held up his pants, but the leader’s arm shot out and grabbed Jirokichi’s wrist. He jerked him forward, against himself, until they were nose to nose. Jirokichi was short, and the other had to lean down over him. Jirokichi felt hands on his body, checking to see if anything was hidden in his pants. One of them twisted his genitals so viciously that he screamed. The leader dropped him, and he fell sobbing and moaning into the dirt.

‘Wasted our time,’ said one of the youths and kicked Jirokichi in the kidneys.

‘Maybe not,’ said the leader. ‘He left it at home. Up, you turd,’ he told Jirokichi.

Jirokichi stayed on the ground, rolled up in a ball and trembling. One of the youths grabbed him by an arm and jerked him upright. Another slapped his face with both hands until tears, snot, and blood dribbled down on Jirokichi’s bony chest.

‘Where’s your place?’ demanded the leader.

‘B–by the f–fox shrine.’

The leader slapped him only once this time. ‘What fox shrine, turd?’

‘Umajiro koji.’

‘Well? Are you going to take us there or not?’ the leader asked. Jirokichi moaned and nodded. He tried to take a step, but crumpled.

‘Wipe his face and put his jacket back on,’ snapped the leader, ‘Walk him between you. Arms around his shoulders. Like friends walking home a drunk.’

They did, and Jirokichi hung between two of them, legs bent and head drooping.

The leader seized Jirokichi’s topknot and jerked his face upward to show him a knife. Jirokichi blinked. ‘If you try to call for help, you’re dead. Understand?’

Jirokichi drooled a little, but nodded again. He accepted that he would probably die anyway.

Tora wore old clothes that were slightly too small and ripped in places where his muscular arms and chest showed to best advantage. His loose hair was tied up in a twisted rag, and he strode through the city with the bearing of a man who could handle himself in any situation.

He felt almost well again. His breathing had returned to normal, and the blisters on his hands had scabbed over. He planned to find the gang of young thieves. The money the bastards had stolen from him had been a small fortune, and the fact that he had been attacked in such a brazen manner in a decent neighborhood rankled.

His destination was the warren of poor tenements that adjoined the Western Market and the deserted ruins and barren fields where the capital’s criminals lived like animals in their burrows. Not even the armed constables of the city’s police went there willingly. He did not really think he would find the culprit and get his winnings back, but at least he could get information about youth gangs for the police, and that might teach the young bastards a lesson.

When he reached the outskirts, where shacks and warehouses were interspersed with large open areas, he kept a sharp eye on the people he saw. They were poor laborers and their families and outcasts, scrabbling through the garbage of ordinary people to make a living. Not all were criminals, but frequently a father, brother, or son provided for the family with ill-gotten income and was caught, and so all of them hated the police and officials. That was the main reason Tora was dressed in rags. He hoped to be taken for a tough, a street fighter they wouldn’t dare jump in some dark alley.

Even so, he still met some hostile looks from the men. Outside one of the plank huts, a skinny girl with a small child tied to her back gave him a gap-toothed smile and sang out, ‘What’s your hurry, handsome? Why don’t you stay awhile?’ Tora quickly turned the corner and walked through a series of dingy alleys with ragged clothing drying on broken fences and hungry dogs barking at him. Where he emerged, a ruined temple, part of its roof collapsed, rose from a grove of trees. He turned that way and almost immediately encountered an oddly assorted group of people.

Five young men in flashy clothing accompanied an older man, who seemed to be having trouble walking. A drunk? Tora had little faith in the charitable nature of the young in this part of town. He had once been their age and poor and had had no regard for anyone else. The young are first of all survivors. Here, in the capital, they were frequently raptors. As he got closer, he saw that the man they supported had been beaten. There were bloodstains on his jacket, and his face was swollen. And they were not supporting him. They were forcibly taking him somewhere.

Their prey was middle-aged, short and frail, his clothes a grayish brown. He did not look strong enough to tackle even the smallest of the five louts.

Tora gauged their strength. Five of them, young and tough-looking. No doubt they carried knives. They were probably no better than the thieves that had taken his money.

He was unarmed. Bad odds, though he outweighed the biggest one and knew a good deal about fighting. Their victim would be no help. On a second glance, he looked like a crook himself. Perhaps the youths had merely repaid him for something he had done to them or their families.