Akitada looked and raised his eyebrows at the neat script, then smiled. “Very well, Sergeant, go ahead. But first tell your three prisoners that they are free to go. Hamaya will return their money and property to them. There should be additional compensation from Sunada’s confiscated estate after both cases are settled.”

♦

Someone, Tamako or Seimei, had brought hot tea and placed it on the brazier in his office. He poured some and drank greedily before sitting down at his desk.

The prince’s letter still awaited his attention. Tamako had understood immediately that an official report to the chancellor would set wheels in motion which might well put Akitada and his family in personal danger. She had wanted him to wait. But this could not wait. The emperor himself was in danger.

Akitada reached for his writing utensils. His cover letter was very brief. He enclosed it and the prince’s letter in another sheet of paper, sealed this, and addressed both to a man whose wisdom and kindness were well known to him, the retired emperor’s brother who was a Buddhist bishop. Then he clapped his hands.

The young soldiers selected by Takesuke looked eager and intelligent. Akitada gave his instructions and turned his letter over to them. This accomplished, he had another cup of tea and relaxed.

There was little left to do. The tangled web of murder and mayhem had resolved itself with Sunada’s confession. Akitada took no pleasure in it. There had been many deaths and there would be many more, public executions which he must attend in his official role. Besides, it had not been his own effort which had brought justice to the three unfortunate travelers, or revealed and broken the conspiracy against the emperor. No, it had all been due to chance encounters between one woman and two men.

He considered the destruction Mrs. Sato had wrought in the lives of others. The good abbot Hokko had his own symbol to explain the inexplicable. Buddhist scripture taught that man occupied a precarious position midway between the angels and the demons on the wheel of life. A turn of the wheel propelled him either upward, toward righteousness, good fortune, and happiness, or it dragged him into the filth of evil and crushed him underneath. The wheel had crushed Sunada.

He sniffed. There was a strange fishy smell in the air. Then he became aware of a peculiar noise coming from the wooden shutters behind him. It sounded like the gnawing of a rat. A soft hissing followed, then a scrabbling noise. Akitada turned on his cushion so that he faced the shutters. As he watched, a narrow line of light widened into a crack and a pudgy hand appeared in the opening. More hissing followed—whispering, Akitada decided—and then a round red face topped with short black horns appeared and leered in at him from bulging eyes.

Both Akitada and the goblin jerked back in surprise. The goblin squealed, and the shutter slammed shut. Akitada opened his mouth to shout for a guard, when the shutter flew open again, revealing two human backs, bowed abjectly on the narrow veranda outside.

“Who are you and what do you want?” barked Akitada, his heart pounding.

One of the creatures, the horned goblin, visibly trembled, but the other one raised his gray head. Akitada recognized Umehara.

“Forgive us, Excellency,” Umehara said, wringing his hands and sniffling. “We asked your clerk to let us see you, but it was strictly forbidden, so we came this way.”

“Ah.” Akitada regarded the shaking figure. A certain plumpness suggested Okano, but the horns? “Is that Okano?” he asked.

The spiked head nodded violently.

“What happened to your head, Okano? Are you playing a goblin?”

“Oh!” The actor wailed and covered the spikes with both hands. “See, Umehara? Okano should have worn his scarf! He is so ugly!”

“His hair is growing back,” explained Umehara.

Akitada suppressed a smile. “Sit up and look at me, Okano.”

The actor sat up slowly, pudgy hands fluttering from hair to face and finally dropping in despair. With great difficulty, Akitada kept a straight face. Above Okano’s red face with its bulging, tear-filled eyes and quivering lips, black tufts rose into the air. Poor Okano needed no costume to play the part of a goblin. “Can you not comb it back?” he suggested.

“It’s too short. See?” Okano slapped at the horns with both hands. “Umehara gave Okano some fish oil. But it made it worse.”

That explained the strange smell.

“Ah. No doubt it will improve in time. You did not wish to consult me about your hair, I trust,” Akitada remarked.

“Oh, no,” they chorused, exchanging doleful looks.

Umehara was wringing his hands, “It’s about the sergeant telling us to leave.”

Okano wailed, “Where will Okano go? What will he do? He has no friends in the whole wide world. Okano will kill himself!”

“Holy heavens,” cried Akitada. “Stop that nonsense at once. Umehara, can’t you explain to him that he is a free man, cleared of all charges, and that he will receive some money for his suffering? Why, in heaven’s name is he carrying on like this?”

Umehara began to weep also. “He understands,” he sobbed. “It’s all very well for Takagi.” He wiped his streaming face and nose on his sleeve. “Takagi wants to go home to his village. But Okano and me ...”—he sniffed—”... we’ve got nobody and ... we’ve never been as happy as we’ve been here. We don’t want to leave your jail, sir.”

Akitada was taken aback. After a moment, he said in a choking voice, “Well, if you are sure, I’ll put in a good word for you with the sergeant.”

* * * *

TWENTY

THE WAY OF WAR

T

wo hours before sunrise Akitada still sat at his desk, staring now at the feathered arrow, now at the shell-matching game. The tea in his cup had long since been drunk and the brazier was filled with ashes. It had grown cold, but he felt neither the chill nor thirst or tiredness.

All night he had turned over in his mind the problem of the impregnable manor. Hamaya had searched the archives for information about its construction but found nothing of interest. Akitada’s memory from his visits discouraged hope. The natural defenses were just too good. Each time, he had approached the mountaintop manor by its main gate—was there another access?—and found it could be defended against an army by a handful of bowmen on the watchtower above. A battering ram was out of the question, and so were ladders. The rocky hillside, topped with walls, was too high and steep to be climbed against defending archers.

Of course, a bonfire laid against the wooden main gate would eventually consume it, but at what cost to those carrying and stacking the faggots and bundles of wood? Still, some cover might be constructed for them.