Here and there on a river bank, a group of fishermen’s huts appeared and disappeared.  Once he saw that the land rose in the distance, and ordinary farm houses appeared on higher ground, shaded by groves of trees.  Then the landscape changed.  The waterway widened and bridges crossed it.  There were more boats boat and barges.

Sweat poured off the boatman’s back as he maneuvered expertly between other vessels.  Buildings crept closer to the shores, and in the distance pagodas above roofs.  Before Akitada’s eyes, the scene opened up to the bay again.  Many large ships lay at anchor, their square sails white against the immense blue of sea and sky.

Lumber yards encroached on the shoreline.  Barges carried boards and beams, and large rafts of tree trunks, tied together with vines or hemp ropes, bobbed on the river.

In the harbor, several large ships were tied up at docks.  On land, warehouses stood in rows, many more than in Naniwa, also built on tall stilts to protect the goods from storm tides.  A steady flow of porters went between them and the docks, loading or unloading cargo.

Akitada felt a surge of pride at the sight of so much healthy commerce.  His was a great nation, and his people were surely the most industrious on this earth.

Goods used by the court, fine utensils and art works displayed in the great temples, the sustenance of nobles and commoners came this way.  Kawajiri was the end of the sea route from Kyushu and the western provinces.  Tribute and tax goods, as well as goods and people from foreign countries sailed across the waters of the Inland Sea to this place.

When he set him ashore, his boatman looked exhausted.  Akitada paid him with the agreed upon government token and a handful of coins from his own funds.  The man bowed deeply and raised his hands to his forehead, then jumped back into his boat to pick up another customer for the return trip.  Akitada looked after him and marveled at how hard the man worked for a few coins.

 He walked along the crowded harbor, stopping from time to time to ask if anyone had seen Sadenari.  Not surprisingly, he had no luck at all.  One of the ships had the colorful name Black Dragon and a painted carving of a black dragon with red eyes, white teeth, and red flames shooting from its body at its bow.  He admired more ships with names like Great Phoenix, Flying Crane, Cloud Falcon, and Curling Wave.  Sailors had poetic souls, it seemed, but he detected signs of hostility whenever he asked his question.  Tora would have handled this better.  Akitada felt humble.

When he had his fill of the smells of tar and fish and the often incomprehensible language, he turned inland.  Bales and cases were stacked along the docks, and two-wheeled carts waited to be loaded.  The warehouses stood in enclosures, no doubt for security.  He noted watchmen and red-coated police at the open gates.  Clearly, theft was much easier before the ship reached this port.

“Who owns all the warehouses?” he asked a porter, who stood waiting beside his cart.

“The ones with the flags belong to the emperor,” he said in a broad dialect.  “It’s part of the palace storehouses.  The others are mostly Master Watamaro’s or belong to temples.”

“Watamaro?  He must be a rich man if he owns so much.”

The man rolled his eyes.  “He’s very rich.  Richer than the emperor maybe, but a lot more generous to the poor.”

Akitada was taken aback by the comparison but let it go.  It was past the time of the midday rice and his stomach growled.  Turning his back on the harbor, he took one of the narrow streets beside the customs house. It led into town and was crowded with signs and paper lanterns belonging to small wine shops and eating places.  They were much smaller and more modest than the crab restaurant Nakahara had taken him to, but Akitada was ravenous.  He chose a restaurant that seemed busier than the rest, perhaps because of the delectable smell of fried fish and a sign that promised “delicacies to make the gods smile”.

Inside, he found a wooden platform extending toward the back where a fat cook dipped into a large cauldron for golden nuggets of fish.  Nobody seemed to mind the heat.  A number of guests sat near the open doors singly or in small groups.  They looked like small tradesmen and travellers.  He threaded his way past them and found an open space where a slight breeze from the doorway made the heat seem less oppressive.  It was too warm for comfort, and the smells coming from the cauldron made him slightly nauseous .

A waitress came with wine and recited a selection of seafood.  Akitada turned down the wine with a shudder and asked for something simple, soup for example.  The waitress frowned but said they had noodle soup with fish and vegetables.  Good enough.

She left and returned with a large bowl of soup.  Akitada paid a modest sum and tasted the broth.  It was good and settled his delicate stomach wonderfully.  He wolfed down the rest, using his fingers to catch the slippery noodles and chunks of fish.

The cook had watched him, and when Akitada put down the empty bowl, he caught the man’s eyes and gave him a nod, holding up a finger for another serving.  The cook’s sweating red face broke into a wide smile.  The next bowl arrived with particularly large and tasty bits of fish.

At that moment, a group of men got up to leave, and Akitada’s gaze fell on a strange-looking creature who huddled in a dark corner some ten feet away.  He was about fifty, thin to emaciation, and poorly dressed.  When he turned his head, Akitada almost recoiled.  He was horribly disfigured.  One of his eyes looked upward, showing the white of the eyeball, and a scar carved a jagged cicatrice across his face, having taken part of his nose.  The wound had been deep and when it healed, it had caused his thin-lipped mouth to twist downwards in a permanent sneer.

The ugly man was also staring, but his eyes were on Akitada’s bowl of noodle soup.  He licked his lips, then caught Akitada’s glance and looked away quickly.  Akitada saw the man’s threadbare, patched gown and felt pity.

After a moment, the other man glanced back and read Akitada’s expression.  The scar on his face darkened.  He inclined his head and got up to leave.

On an impulse, Akitada called out, “Could you spare me a moment of your time?”

The other man, even thinner than before now that he was upright, glanced over his shoulder to see if someone else was meant, then approached slowly.  “Were you addressing me, sir?”

The formal words did not match his appearance.  Akitada adjusted his own tone. “Yes.  If you would have the goodness to join me, I need some information.  Perhaps you would allow me to order you some wine?”

The scarred man bowed, then knelt.  He hesitated.  The scar flamed red again, and he said, “No wine, thank you.  But I could join you in a bowl of noodles.”

“You would do me an honor.” Akitada gestured to the waitress.

The ugly man bowed again.  “Thank you.  My name is Saburo.  I’m at your service, sir.”

 Close up, the face was even more frightful.  The scar was puckered and pitted.  Normally nearly white against the dark tan, it seemed to change colors with the man’s moods.  Akitada wondered how he had become so disfigured.  The eye, of course, he might have been born with, though more small scars suggested an accident of some sort.  Such disfigurements were not uncommon among the poor, but they frightened small children and made adults look away.

Life was often unfair.

Akitada smiled at his guest.  “My name is Sugawara.  I’m not from here, and you look like a local man who knows his way around this part of town.”

Saburo’s soup arrived, set down so carelessly by the waitress that some of the broth splashed on Saburo’s patched robe.

Akitada paid and snapped, “Next time watch what you’re doing.”  The waitress slunk off with an apology.