“Oh?”

“A peddler, a peasant, and an actor agreeing to kill an innkeeper on the road? They wouldn’t agree to do anything together.”

“How do we know that’s what they are?”

“The maid said so.”

“Maybe the maid lied.”

Tora considered the maid until their wine came. Her shapely legs featured in his thoughts.

The old man set down the flask and two cups along with a plate of pickles. “Are the gentlemen new in town?” he asked, peering at them from watery eyes,

Tora tasted the wine. It was thick with sediment and sour. He put down his cup. “You guessed right, uncle. Looking for a place to stay Someone told us the inn over there is cheap, but there’s been a murder. We don’t like places where they kill the guests.” He held up the flask. “How about joining us in a cup?”

“Thank you, thank you!” The old man cast a furtive glance toward the old woman and produced a chipped cup from his sleeve. This Tora filled, and the old man drained it, smacking his lips and tucking the cup away again in the twinkling of an eye. “As for the Carp,” he said with a toothless grin. “It’s old Sato, the innkeeper, who was killed and the guests did it. Serves him right. The old skinflint puts up anything that crawls in off the road and has a few coppers. His poor wife’s been trying to spruce up the place and bring in a better clientele.” He cast a dubious glance at their rough clothes, his eyes lingering on Tora’s bearskin.

Tora sampled the pickles and found them excellent, crisp and nicely spiced. He slipped off the bear skin and revealed a neat blue cloth jacket underneath.

The old man looked relieved. “It’s been hard for that young woman,” he said, “running a place with such a husband. Like an ant dragging an anchor.”

Tora grinned. “Well, she’s rid of the anchor now. Young, you say?”

The old man chortled. “Oh, my, yes. And a beauty! Old Sato didn’t deserve the pretty thing, and that’s the truth. But she knows it, so don’t get your hopes up.” He sighed. “Some men have all the luck.” He cast another furtive look over his shoulder, started, and put a gnarled finger to his lips.

The old woman waddled up. She gave them a nod and told the old man, “I need some firewood if you want me to cook the rice and keep the wine warm. Somebody’s got to do the work if we’re to eat.”

“Get it yourself. My wife,” he said to Tora, rolling his eyes. “Can’t stand to see a man rest. Ask her about the Carp. She knows everything.”

Tora turned on the charm. “Lucky you. Your lady’s not only fetching but well-informed. I bet she makes these delicious pickles herself.”

The woman’s round face widened into a broad smile nearly as toothless as her husband’s. She sat down beside Tora. “A family recipe. Been making them all my life. So, where are you two from?”

“The capital,” Hitomaro said, chewing a pickle. “We stopped across the street first. You know anything about the murder?”

She nodded. “It should suit the whore just fine,” she said darkly.

Her husband bristled. “You’ve no right to call her that, woman.”

Tora laughed. “If she’s as beautiful as your husband says, I might court her myself—now that she’s single again.”

“Then you’d better watch out. That one’s a fox,” snapped the old woman.

“Horns grow on the head of a jealous woman,” muttered her husband.

She punched his arm. “What doyou know about such women?”

“Pay no attention to her, young man,” the old man said, rubbing his arm. “Mrs. Sato was a good little wife. Dutiful daughter, too. Not many young girls let themselves get sold to a cranky old geezer like Sato.”

Hitomaro put in, “I don’t think she was home just now.”

“She went to visit her sick mother yesterday,” the old man said. “Maybe she’s gone back.” His wife gave a snort, and he glared at her. “A dutiful wife and daughter, I say, and a fine little manager, too. She’ll do wonders for the place now that old Sato’s dead.”

“Hah!” said his wife and left.

Her husband stayed. “Sato was a terrible miser. He let the inn run down. Charged bums a few coppers for a place by the hearth and a bowl of beans or millet with wilted greens. His wife’s been wanting a nicer place.”

The fat little wife came rolling back with another plate of pickles. She said, “Guess what? One of the men’s from Takata. He says the old lord’s dying.”

Her husband pursed his mouth. “Lord Maro? He’s been dying for years. But I’d better lay in more wine anyway. If it’s true, we’ll be busy around here for the funeral.” His face broke into a happy grin for a moment, then he said piously, “Lord Uesugi’s the high constable. May he be reborn in paradise.”

“If he’s the high constable,” Tora said, “he’s had a good life already. Save paradise for us poor people.”

“You wouldn’t want to trade places with him,” said the old man. “There’s a curse on that clan.”

“A curse?”

“Ah, terrible things happen to them. Take Lord Maro’s older brother. He used to be a champion with the bow and could hit the eye of a rabbit at two hundred paces, but one day he killed his father’s wife and her little son. Killed his own brother!”

“What happened to him?” Hitomaro asked.

“The angry ghosts ate him.”

Tora’s eyes widened. “Really?”

The old woman rolled her eyes and cried, “It’s the truth. The ghosts of that poor young lady and her babe. He was never seen again.”

Her husband scowled. “I’m telling the story.” He turned back to Tora and Hitomaro. “Lord Maro’s father was pretty old when he married again and had another son. I should be so lucky!” He gave his wife a meaningful look. This sent her into hoots of derisive laughter and she waddled back to her customers.

“So? Go on,” Tora said.

“Well, they found the lady and her boy in the forest. Killed by the same arrow!” He leaned forward. “The older son’s arrow. It went through both of them. Like two birds on a spit. Lord Maro’s father had doted on them and it killed him.” He paused and eyed the wine flask. “You’re not drinking. Can I get you some more wine?”

They shook their heads. Tora said, “How about another cup for you?”

In a flash the cup reappeared from the old man’s sleeve. Tora filled it, the old man gulped it down, tucked the cup away, and continued, “Well, Lord Maro succeeded his father, but he had no luck either. Only one of his children lived. That’s Makio. But Makio’s wife died young. They say she jumped off the upper gallery a few weeks after the wedding. He never married again. Then Lord Maro went out hunting and lost his mind. Came back raving mad. Locked himself away and never came out of his room again. They say there’s crying and wailing day and night in that room. It’ll be a blessing if he finally dies.”