When he and Tamako had traveled north, the woods had reminded them of pieces of brocade, the maple leaves weaving glowing designs against the deep green of the pines. They had taken their meals by the side of the road, and remarked on the beauty of the country.

But then the weather had turned dismal and the winds bitterly cold. No wonder Echigo was a place where the emperors used to send their political enemies. And now they had sent him and Tamako to this godforsaken place.

Akitada closed his eyes against the dreary grayness, stubbornly blocking such thoughts from his mind. It was this confounded bellyache. At his age, being appointed deputy governor, even if it was just a provisional appointment with limited powers and even more limited salary, was an extraordinary piece of luck. Here he could make a name for himself and prove his worth.

He gulped more air and wondered how he would get through the banquet tonight. Any reluctance to sample the offered dishes would be interpreted as an insult. Perhaps it was wiser to stay home. No! He must find out how things stood. He could not go on this way. Conditions in the tribunal were intolerable. He wanted to replace the entire staff, but where to find loyal men in this hostile city? Why was everyone against him?

A horrible sound—like the distant wailing of a lost soul, culminating in the bellowing of an angry bull—tore at his ear drums. He jumped, looked about wildly, and rushed around the corner.

There, just below the rear veranda, stood a very strange creature. For a moment, Akitada thought he was a ghost, the ghost of an old man with long, unbound white hair and a large white beard blowing crazily in the wind.

When the old man saw Akitada, he slowly lowered a big conch shell from his lips. He was dressed in short, dark cotton trousers and a full-sleeved blouse of black and white checks with strange tassels hanging about his neck, and he stood motionless and silent, supporting himself on a carved staff. He stared fixedly at Akitada.

“What in the Buddha’s name do you think you are doing, blowing that thing here?” Akitada demanded in a shaking voice. “This is the tribunal and you’re trespassing. Get away from here or I’ll call the constables.”

Without taking his sharp black eyes off Akitada, the old man slowly hooked the conch shell to his belt and stepped a little closer. Akitada, irritated by this latest example of disrespect, glared back. He was amazed at the darkness of the old man’s skin, blackened rather than bronzed by exposure and all the more startling for the contrast with the silver-white mane and beard. His eyes fell to the man’s legs, naked from the knees down to his bare feet, and as dark and leathery as his face.

In this cold.

A hungry beggar. Suddenly shame overwhelmed Akitada’s anger. “Forgive me,” he said to the old man, bowing slightly. “How rude of me. I have not been feeling very well and you startled me. It is cold outside and I am sure you have not eaten. You are welcome here, but I have nothing to offer you. If you will go across the courtyard, you will find the kitchen.” He pointed. “Tell them that the governor said to fill your bowl until you have had enough and to find you a warm place to sleep.”

The beggar, inclining his head slightly, like a haughty nobleman, turned away. A strange piece of fur, attached to his belt in the back, flapped as he melted into the dusk.

Behind Akitada, a door opened with a creak, and Tora asked, “What was that cursed noise?”

Akitada turned. Tora, in his shaggy bearskin, reminded him of one of the northern barbarians. “Do you plan to wear that pelt tonight?” he asked irritably. “You look like a wild animal.”

Seimei appeared behind the young man. “Her ladyship says your clothes are ready, sir. And she wonders about the strange sound a moment ago.”

“Thank you, Seimei. It was an old beggar blowing a conch shell. A peculiar way of asking for alms, but perhaps he is a mute. I sent him to the kitchen for food and lodging. Try to find him some straw boots, Seimei. The poor old fellow was barefoot in this weather.”

Tora asked, “Was he wearing a checked blouse and carrying a tall staff?”

“Yes. You know him?”

“Not really, sir, but you’ve just met a yamabushi. They’re holy men that live in the mountains and pray to the Buddha by standing naked under a waterfall in the middle of winter.”

“Then they must be mad,” Akitada said impatiently and headed for his quarters. “Come along.”

Tamako greeted Tora with a smile. Of her husband’s three lieutenants, he was the only one admitted to their private quarters. Though Tora had been an army deserter when his path crossed Akitada’s, there was a strong bond of mutual obligation between them. They owed their lives to each other. And Tora’s loyalty to his master extended also to his young wife and the rest of the Sugawara family in the capital. Even Akitada’s mother, the ill-tempered old dowager, had been softened by his cheerful willingness to be of service to her.

Tora sat down near the door and watched as Akitada, with his wife’s help, dressed for the visit to Takata.

“What do you hear from Genba?” Akitada asked, slipping out of his robes and handing them to his wife.

“He’s settled in nicely. Has a room above a rice-cake baker’s and all the rice cakes he can eat. His landlord’s besotted with wrestling. He wants to enter Genba in the regional matches.”

“Good,” Akitada said, his voice muffled by a silk undershirt he was slipping into. “The baker may win back his investment. After all, Genba used to be a wrestling master.” He emerged from the shirt and reached for a pair of voluminous white trousers made of stiffened silk. “I am glad the local people accept him. They respect wrestlers. Soon we will find out about the strange mood in town.”

Akitada had reason to trust his three lieutenants. They had proven their loyalty. In return he had offered Genba and Hitomaro employment though they were fugitives from murder charges in their home provinces. Genba had killed in self-defense when two provincial constables had been ordered to assassinate him because his lord’s son had had a fatal accident during a wrestling bout. And Hitomaro had avenged his young wife who had committed suicide after being raped by his neighbor.

Justice was not always evenhanded.

Akitada frowned and said, “I hope you and Hitomaro are careful when you visit Genba?”

“We change into old clothes and leave by the back. Genba doesn’t have much to report yet, except that people are scared of a draft for the northern front.”

Akitada sat down to slip on a clean pair of white socks and tie the legs of his trousers securely below his knees. He shook his head. “Doubtful. That trouble should be over as soon as the snows come. By the by, how does the weather look to you? Rain, do you think?” Back on his feet again, he accepted, one by one, several light silk robes in shades of blue and topped these off with a finely patterned dark blue brocade vest.