“It smells like snow. You should have a fur cloak like mine. Neither rain, nor snow, nor wind can get through this.” Tora stroked the rough fur lovingly.

“No, thank you.” Akitada sat down again and took the round silver mirror his wife handed him to adjust the formal black silk hat over his topknot. He sniffed the air. “The warmer that bearskin gets, the more it reeks,” he said.

Returning the mirror to Tamako, Akitada stood up and reached for the silver-gray formal gown with its rich pattern of intertwined pine branches. Tamako helped him put it on and adjusted it lovingly. He smiled at her. “I feel like Prince Genji, who made all the ladies swoon with the fragrance of his robes. Are you not worried about sending your husband among the beauties at Takata?”

“I thought it was Tora who needed watching with the ladies.” She glanced at the bearskin coat and added with a twinkle in her eyes, “Though perhaps not tonight.”

Seimei came in, carrying a straw rain cape. “Everything is ready, sir. The horses are waiting.”

“We’d better be on our way.” Akitada sat down to put a pair of leather boots over his black silk slippers. Before leaving, he turned to Tamako, who was folding away his discarded clothing, and said, “Don’t wait up for me, my dear.. I shall be late.”

“Return safely!” She made him a formal bow, and turned away quickly to hide her anxiety.

In the courtyard, a pair of constables stood beside four horses. The constables were in uniform and armed with bows and arrows. One had a banner announcing Akitada’s rank as governor.

Akitada felt something cold touch his face and cast an uneasy glance at the rapidly darkening sky as he mounted his horse. White spots danced before the dark shapes of the buildings. Snow. Seimei extended the straw cape and Akitada flung it about his shoulders awkwardly, fastening it across his chest. The wind tore at his headdress, and he tightened its cords. Already a fine dusting of snow covered the horse’s mane. He nodded to the others, and they set out into the approaching storm.

* * * *

THREE

TAKATA

T

hey rode against an icy head wind that drove needle-sharp sleet into their faces, and Akitada’s nausea faded. His mind was occupied with the disquieting gossip about his host’s murderous intentions toward him. It came from the lowest source, but at the moment he had nothing else to go on, and the Uesugi had not been welcoming so far. Besides, everything that had happened so far in Echigo supported such ugly rumors.

The small village of Takata huddled at the foot of a steep hill which dominated the surrounding plain. The land for miles around belonged to the Uesugi family, as did the village. On the very top of the hill, the curving roofs of the family compound rose sharply against the darkening skies. The Uesugi manor was a stronghold that hovered above the plain like a huge hawk perched on a rock, its wings spread in readiness for its prey.

A troop of soldiers, in full battle gear and carrying pennants bearing the Uesugi crest, awaited them on the road outside the town. Their officer dismounted and approached stiff-faced and stiff-legged, bowed, and announced that the governor’s party would be escorted the rest of the way.

This reception felt more like an arrest than an honor, but Akitada was intrigued in spite of the unpromising appearance of things. This was his first experience with warlords.

“You know,” he said to Tora as they rode up the narrow paved road from the village, “the placement of this residence makes it far more impregnable than the miserable wooden palisades we have been building around forts in the plains. A remarkably good idea!” He looked back and saw that the hill controlled the post road to the north. “In fact,” he added, “nobody approaches without being seen or passes without their permission.”

“It feels like a bad place,” Tora grumbled, looking up at rock and stone foundations and precipitous walls. “I’ll be glad when we turn our backs on it. Remember that curse.” He shuddered. “I bet the hall is full of those angry ghosts.”

The first gateway, surmounted by a watch tower, came into view, and the road suddenly narrowed between rock outcrop-pings on both sides. They had to ride single-file. It would be easy to defend this gate. Any attacking army would be squeezed through the eye of a needle and deprived of its striking force. Akitada looked at the walls. The sheer drop below the foundations made it impossible to use ladders. And the walls were crowned with wooden galleries that had loopholes cut into them. Beyond, the steep roofs of many halls rose against the murky gray skies.

They passed through the gate, traversed several courtyards terraced into the mountainside, and came to a halt before the main hall. Here another honor guard of mounted warriors was lined up behind a middle-aged man in a handsome black-and-white-patterned silk robe. He stood alone, legs wide and arms folded across his broad chest.

When they had dismounted, he approached and bowed. “This humble one is Kaibara Danjo, steward to the Lord of Takata,” he announced loudly. “I bid your Excellency welcome.”

Akitada nodded and stretched his sore limbs. Then he removed his straw raincoat and handed it to Tora, who kept scanning the courtyard nervously. Firmly suppressing his own mounting sense of foreboding, Akitada glanced up at the double-storied block of wood and plaster which rose windowless for twenty feet before its projecting wooden balconies began.

Dismissing Tora and the others, Akitada nodded to Kaibara. “Lead the way.”

A narrow doorway gave access to an equally narrow winding stairway, stone at first, then wood. At the top, a servant helped Akitada remove his boots. The steward Kaibara also removed his shoes and donned a pair of brocade slippers. Akitada noted the gray in his hair and close-trimmed beard, though the steward’s movements were those of a much younger, and well-trained, soldier. They entered a large gallery, its’ walls covered with weapons and armor. Here Uesugi Makio, son and heir to the ailing lord of Takata, awaited them.

As a warlord, Makio was a distinct disappointment. A short man in his fifties, with thinning gray hair, mustache, and chin beard, he looked more like a self-satisfied civil servant. At one time perhaps well-muscled, he had become heavy, and his eyes were mere slits between rolls of fat. Perhaps his paunch or the stiff brown brocade robe prevented him from bowing more deeply. He murmured the formal phrases of greeting.

Akitada disliked him instantly, but much depended on his goodwill, and so he made an effort. “Ah, Uesugi,” he said genially. “A great pleasure to meet you at last. I hope I’m not late. The weather is turning and the wind was against us all the way.”

“Not at all. Your Excellency is most punctual. I apologize for the dreadful inconvenience of traveling so far only to be offered rough country fare in crude surroundings.”