This sounded so patently mad it took Hitomaro’s breath away. The girl in the market had been right. He put on an apologetic expression and bowed deeply. “Forgive me, Excellency,” he stammered. “We have indeed heard rumors. I should have offered my humble felicitations right away but thought it wiser not to speak of it. Besides, I have always aspired to be a great judge like you and could not help thinking that your elevation must be a great loss to jurisprudence. Your children must be very proud of their father.”

“I have no children. Cannot abide them.” Hisamatsu was appeased by the flattery. “So you wish to be a judge? Let me tell you, there’s no advantage in it. Any upstart court official can order you about.” He nodded for emphasis. “But true genius rises above the common run of things. I’m afraid my own nature is quite different from yours.”

Hitomaro sincerely hoped so. “I could never compare myself to a great mind like yours,” he said. “Indeed, I feel that I am in the presence of an intellect like that of... of Master Confucius. In your presence I am ashamed of my lack of education. I managed to qualify for the imperial university in the capital, but family matters prevented my going. Now the best I can hope for is to become a tutor to merchants’ sons.”

A brief silence fell. Hisamatsu continued to stare at him. “You qualified for the imperial university, you say?” he finally asked. “And you are looking for work?”

Hitomaro bowed humbly.

“People become rather touchingly dependent on someone like me,” Hisamatsu said. “It pleases me to help them better their lot in life. Perhaps you could assist me. Mind you, I expect complete loyalty, and no doubt you have much to learn.” He sighed. “But I suppose we must expect to train our future officials.”

Hitomaro expressed himself overwhelmed with gratitude and then pointed to the books on the shelves. “Is that a complete set of the Chinese masters, I see?” he asked. “I’m afraid, Excellency, my Chinese is not fluent.”

Hisamatsu waved the objection away with a pudgy hand. “Never mind that. I don’t bother with Chinese. The locals are not able to grasp it. Those are translations.”

“In that case, how soon may I start? I hope with your guidance ...”

Hisamatsu interrupted, “I am a very busy man. But come tomorrow anyway. No sense in wasting time.” He looked at the door.

Recognizing dismissal, Hitomaro made several deep bows and murmured, “Thank you, Excellency. I am most grateful for the opportunity,” as he backed out of the room.

He almost fell over the old man crouching in the dark hallway.

“I’m leaving,” he told the servant, unnecessarily since he had clearly been eavesdropping.

The servant scowled. “Your horse is in the stable. Get it yourself. Do you think I have nothing better to do than wait on every fellow who calls?”

“I suppose,” Hitomaro said, “your master has many visitors since he has become such an important person.”

“Pah,” said the old man.

“Looking after all those important guests must be a chore for an elderly person like yourself. I assume they stay here? Perhaps even families with children?”

“Are you mad? He hates children, and nobody stays here. What is it to you?”

“I am to be his assistant.”

The old man made a sound that might have been a grunt or another “pah” and shuffled off down a dark hallway.

♦

By this time, dusk had fallen. Hitomaro got on his horse and glanced back at the villa huddling under the bare willows. No sane man would conceive of the scheme Hisamatsu had proposed. Merely mentioning such matters was high treason. But here in the north, so close to the barbarians, many things were not as they should be. Hitomaro debated for a moment whether to return to the tribunal to make his report. But he had another promise to keep, and there was no longer any urgency. Toneo was certainly not hidden in Hisamatsu’s house. The ill-tempered servant would have complained, had he been asked to look after a small boy. On the other hand, there might be other secrets, secrets connected with the mutilated corpse. How fortunate that the mad judge had offered him a job. All in all, it had been a very productive day, and Hitomaro felt he had earned a night of pleasure.

Spurring his horse, he hummed, “Ofumi, my love, loosen your sash and soothe my troubled heart.”

The sharp-nosed woman—he knew by now her name was Mrs. Omeya and that she claimed to be a respectable lute teacher, though, in fact, she was a procuress who purchased the services of young women by paying money to their parents— opened to his knock and helped him off with his wet straw cape and boots.

“You are later than usual, Lieutenant,” she gushed. “The pretty flower is waiting anxiously.” She accepted her usual fee, gave him a coy wink, and led him to the customary room, closing the sliding doors after him.

After the cold and stormy darkness outside, the room embraced him with perfumed warmth, soft light, and the gentle chords of music. He stood for a moment and drank in the scene, feeling, as always, the hot blood starting to pound in his temples and groin.

Silken bedding had been spread on the mats. Ofumi reclined on it, idly moving an ivory plectrum over the strings of a lute. She wore only the thinnest white silk robe, and her thick, long hair fell over her shoulders, framing her beautiful face.

Her resemblance to his late wife always moved him profoundly. Lost in the momentary memory of the dead past, he whispered, “Mitsuko,” then winced at the jarring sound from the lute.

She sat up, her beautiful face angry. “I have told you not to call me that.” Her loose robe had slipped, revealing pink-tipped breasts and a softly rounded belly. Hitomaro’s eyes greedily searched lower, but she snatched at the silk and covered herself.

He was instantly contrite. Falling to his knees beside her, he begged, “Forgive me, my beloved. Your beauty has bewitched me until I no longer know who or where I am.”

“Tell me that I am more beautiful than that dead wife of yours,” she demanded.

His heart rebelled, but his eyes wandered over her body, lingering where warm skin shimmered through the silk. “You are more beautiful than any woman living or dead,” he murmured, lightly touching a breast and then cupping it in his hand.

She shuddered and moved away. “How cold your hands are. Where have you been?”

His eyes fell on the lute. Even to his inexperienced eye this was a rare instrument. It was made of sandalwood and the front and back of the oval body were covered with an intricate floral design of inlaid amber, mother-of-pearl, and tortoiseshell. Such an instrument was worth a fortune. The bitter bile of jealousy rose in his throat. She had another lover.