THE SHELL GAME

I

t was only late afternoon, but lanterns swaying from the rafters of the restaurant already cast a smoky golden light over the flushed and shining faces of men; old and young, poor and well-to-do, laborers and merchants were celebrating with the champions of the wrestling contest. Harried waitresses moved among the guests, pouring warm wine and carrying heaping trays of pickled vegetables and fried fish. Someone was singing along with the folk tunes played by an old zither player, and Tsuneya, the champion, was giving a solo performance of a local dance on a sake barrel.

Genba was there also, surrounded by his own circle of supporters. It mattered little to Genba’s fans that he had lost the final match; he had come very close to winning, and that was reason enough for them to celebrate. And there was always next year.

Akitada, a stranger to all but Genba, stayed well in the background. He had come to congratulate Genba and because he wanted to gauge the mood of the local people. Their light-hearted revels reassured him, but his thoughts were on the coming night and his attention on the door to the restaurant.

Genba did not look at all unhappy with his loss to Tsuneya and was soaking up compliments, food, and wine in enormous portions. Akitada had put aside his fanciful notions about the contest somehow forecasting his future and felt relieved that Genba had not won. Winning the title would have meant his departure for the capital to perform before the emperor.

Thinking of this, Akitada leaned toward Genba and asked, “Will you continue with your wrestling?”

Genba put down his cup and burped softly behind his hand. Then he grinned, patting his huge midriff. “Sorry, sir. I’ve had no wine during training and now it seems to put wind in my belly. As for the wrestling, well, I guess it’s in my blood. I was amazed how easily it all came back to me. And that was a good match today, sir. Never think they are yokels fresh from the farm or mountain men who live in caves the rest of the year. No, people honor the art hereabouts. Tsuneya has a very good chance of becoming national champion.”

“I could see that.” Akitada’s heart sank at the thought that he was losing Genba after all. But he added bravely, “I had no idea that you were so good. I was very proud of you.”

“Thank you, sir.” Genba lowered his eyes and scratched his shiny scalp, overcome with embarrassment.

The zither player struck up another tune, and Akitada’s eyes wandered to the door again. Nothing. “So, I suppose,” he persisted, “you will not wish to take up your duties at the tribunal now?”

Genba stared at Akitada, his smile fading. “Why not? Don’t you want me anymore?”

“Don’t be foolish!” snapped his master, his nerves stretched as tight as the old man’s zither strings. “Of course I want you. I even need you. But you cannot serve as my lieutenant in the tribunal and at the same time engage in wrestling as a profession.”

“Oh!” The grin returned to Genba’s face. “In that case, don’t worry. I was afraid you were angry with me for spending so much time away. I’ll be going back to the tribunal with Hito and Tora as soon as this party is over. My landlord’s already paid off, and my things are over there in that bundle by the door. Some more wine, sir?”

“Thank you,” said Akitada with feeling and held out his cup. His eyes went to the door again. He noted the bundle, then tried to control the sick panic that had been forming in his belly ever since the abbot’s warning. But the door finally opened and Hitomaro slipped in, brushing a dusting of snow from his jacket.

Akitada put down his cup and got up to meet him. “Well?” he asked, his heart beating faster.

“No difficulties at all, sir.” Hitomaro took a tightly folded and sealed paper from his sleeve and handed it over. “The weather is changing,” he added. “The captain seems to think that will make it easier to hold the tribunal.”

Akitada felt almost dizzy with relief. He scanned the letter and nodded. “The abbot was right. Takesuke will help us. One hundred men. He expresses his eagerness to uphold imperial authority in this province. Very proper.” He gave Hitomaro the letter with a twisted smile. “Perhaps his fervent wish to ‘sacrifice his own life and that of all his soldiers in this stand against the military might of traitorous warlords’ is a little unsettling, but I am grateful for his support. It seems we are not friendless after all. Come, join us for a quick bite and a cup of wine. I expect we have a long night ahead of us.”

♦

Much later that night, past the hour of the tiger, Tora and Hitomaro, in partial armor, sat dozing in Akitada’s office. They had spent several hours helping to prepare for the defense of the tribunal. Now there was nothing left but the waiting. Akitada had sent Seimei, who was still weak from his recent illness, to bed.

The smell of wood smoke was in the air, and a faint red glimmering showed through the closed shutters where metal cressets filled with oil-soaked kindling lit the courtyard. Now and then one of the guards outside pulled his bowstring with a loud twang to show that all was safe. Their master slept, wrapped in quilts and protected from the pervasive drafts by low screens. Genba snored in a corner.

“Go turn him over,” muttered Hitomaro, “before he wakes the master.”

Tora stumbled up, shook Genba, who grunted and rolled onto his side. From the courtyard came the muffled shouts of the sentries. Tora stretched and yawned. “I’ll take a look around,” he whispered to Hitomaro and slipped out.

Behind the screen Akitada said, “Hitomaro?”

“Yes, sir.” Hitomaro got up and walked around the screen.

“Any news?” Akitada was propped on his good elbow and looked wide awake.

“Nothing, sir. It’s been quiet as a grave.”

“Not an apt comparison, I hope,” Akitada said dryly and threw back his cover. He was fully dressed under theyoroi which protected his torso and thighs, but the rest of the equipment— shin guards, neck guard, left shoulder plates, and helmet—lay in a corner of the room, where he hoped they would stay. “Is there any tea?” he asked, getting up with some difficulty and sitting down behind his desk.

“I’ll get hot water, sir.” Hitomaro headed out the door, as Tora came in with Captain Takesuke.

Takesuke, in full armor, light gleaming on the lacquered scales and the round helmet, saluted smartly. He looked tense and excited. “I just received a report from my reconnaissance troop, sir.”

“Yes?”

“A force of mounted warriors has left Takata. Most of their banners have the Uesugi crest, but there are also some strange banners with dragons and an unknown crest among them. We have counted at least a hundred and fifty warriors. They are moving slowly, but should get here in less than two hours.”