Island of Exiles (18 page)

“Yes,” he admitted, awed by her perception. “I’m not very good, because I don’t concentrate on technique but only on the sounds and my thoughts. How did you know?” In the faint light remaining, he could see that her eyes were open now and rested on him. “The flute told me.”

“I want to do better,” he said humbly, and, saying it, he knew he meant more than flute playing.

He waited a long time, but she made no other comment.

Finally he bowed. “I have been a nuisance,” he said. “Please forgive me. Thank you for allowing me to play this magnificent flute. I shall always remember it.” He turned to go.

“Take it with you,” she said.

He stopped, appalled. “No. I couldn’t. Not that flute. I’m not worthy and-”

“Take it,” she said again.

“You don’t understand. I could not care for it properly. It might get lost or broken. Where I am going there is . . . unrest, perhaps danger.”

“I know. Take it. You can return it to me when you have done what you came to do.” And silently, she rose and slipped past him with a mere whisper of her robe.

He looked after her, dazed with wonder, until she passed across the bridge, her white robe a brief glimmer against the black mass of trees-a pale insubstantial ghost returning to the darkness. Only the flute remained, a tangible link to the mystery of her past, and perhaps to that of Kumo, and his grandmother, and of Prince Okisada who had died, or been murdered, for his own past.

Akitada went back, took up the flute, and put it tenderly into his sleeve. Then he left the garden in search of food and a place to sleep.

Wherever Inspector Osawa would be bedding down, the convict Taketsuna could only hope for a dry corner among the servants and horses. It was fully dark now, and no one seemed about. Lights glimmered from the residence, and torches spread a reddish glow over the stable yard.

As Akitada approached the stockade enclosing the stables, kitchens, storehouses, and servants’ quarters, he heard the crunch of hooves on gravel and the creaking of leather. A moment later a horseman passed him. Even in the dark, Akitada could see that both animal and man drooped with fatigue. For a moment, he thought the governor had sent someone after them, but when he had followed the rider through the open gate, he found him talking to one of the grooms. Apparently the rider had come from some other Kumo holding with a report for his master.

“Rough journey, Kita?” asked the groom.

The other man slid off his horse wearily. His voice was indistinct with exhaustion, but Akitada caught the phrases “pack train to the coast,” “bad mountain roads,” and a place name: “Aikawa.”

“Why not rest first?” offered the groom.

The rider shook his head and mumbled something Akitada could not hear.

“A fire? What a turn-up!” the groom commented. “The master’ll be up to check for certain now.” They parted, the new arrival in direction of the residence, and the groom with the horse toward the stables. Akitada followed the groom.

Perhaps because of preoccupation or the noise of the horse’s hooves on the gravel, the groom took no notice of Akitada. He led the tired animal into a fenced pen next to the stable and began to feed and water it and rub it down. The enclosure already held their mounts and others. As the groom seemed occupied for a while, Akitada decided to take a look in the stable.

He opened the heavy double door just enough to slip in-

and stopped in amazement. It was a large, open hall, very clean and well lit by torches attached to the support beams. One whole length of the stable was taken up by a raised dais, the other by fodder, saddles, bridles, and assorted armor-helmets and breastplates, bows and arrows and swords. On the dais stood ten or twelve superb horses, dozing, feeding, drinking, or being brushed by an attendant. Each animal was of a different color or marking, each was held only by a thick straw rope which passed under its belly and was tied to a large metal ring on a ceiling beam to allow it maximum comfort of movement within its space, and each seemed to have its own attendant sitting close by or tending to his chores.

Akitada loved horses and had never seen so many superb ones in one stable. The grooms smiled and nodded as he passed slowly, admiring their charges. Several of the great men in the

capital were also horse fanciers, but few could claim such a collection. It must be worth a fortune.

He was about to speak to one of the grooms when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. A squat, burly fellow, wearing an old hunting jacket and plain trousers pushed into boots, stood behind him. The head groom?

He eyed Akitada suspiciously. “Who are you and what do you want?”

Akitada gave him an apologetic smile. “Sorry to trouble anyone. I am Taketsuna and came today with Inspector Osawa. We have been working late in the main house, and I can’t seem to find my way about. I thought perhaps I was supposed to sleep here.”

“In the stable?” The head groom looked him up and down.

What he saw seemed to reassure him a little, but he remained hostile. “We don’t like strangers snooping. The guest quarters are over there.” He pointed in the direction of a low dark building Akitada had passed near the gate.

Akitada hung his head humbly. “I’m not a guest. I’m a convict.”

Surprisingly, this information improved the groom’s attitude.

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” he cried. “All of us here are convicts, or former convicts, or the sons and daughters of convicts.” Akitada’s eyes widened. “You don’t mean it!” The groom grinned and slapped his shoulder. “Just arrived on Sadoshima? Cheer up! Life’s not over. You can live quite well here if you serve the right master. Now, our master only employs convicts. Says they’re grateful to be treated like humans and work twice as hard. And he’s right. We’d all die for him.”

“He must be a good master,” Akitada said in a wistful tone.

He was surprised by the constant praise heaped on Kumo. In his experience, wealthy and powerful men rarely earned such ven-eration from their servants.

“He’s a saint. Better than anyone you’d find on the mainland or in the capital.”

Akitada hung his head again. “You’re lucky. I’ve had nothing but beatings and little to eat since I set foot on this island six days ago.”

The groom narrowed his eyes and stepped closer to peer at Akitada’s head, where the scabs and bruises from the beating Genzo and his partner had given him were still visible. “Is that how you got those?”

Akitada nodded. When he lifted his sleeve to show the purplish bruises left by his fall from the horse that day, the groom sucked in his breath. “You poor bastard.” He patted Akitada’s back sympathetically. “Well, at least we can look after you while you’re here. I’m Yume, the head groom, by the way.” They bowed to each other. “How about sharing my quarters while you’re here?”

“That’s very good of you, Yume. Are you sure it’s permitted?”

“Of course. Have you had your evening rice?”

“Well, no. I missed it. Working late.”

“Bastards!” growled the groom. “Come along. We’ll get you something in the kitchen.”

The kitchen was a place of good smells, and Akitada was ravenously hungry by now. The groom had eaten earlier, but to be companionable he joined his new acquaintance in a bowl of noodle soup.

“Good, isn’t it?” he said.

Drinking the last drop, Akitada nodded, smacked his lips, and looked hungrily toward the large iron kettle suspended over the fire. The soup had been thick with succulent noodles and tasty bits of fish and vegetables. Kumo’s people ate well.

Yume laughed and got up to get him a refill. The cook, a fat man who had lost a leg but moved with surprising agility about the kitchen on his crutch, was pleased and gave Akitada a nod.

It was a comfortable place to live and work. Akitada thought that Seimei would have had a saying for it: In a rich man’s house there are no lean dogs.

“You look strong,” Yume said. “Maybe you could work for the master, too. Trouble is, there’s no opening here, but the master always needs good men at the mines. If you don’t mind roughing it a bit, it’d be worth a try.” Akitada shook his head. “I met a little guy with running sores on his arms and knees from working the mines. They say lots of prisoners die or come out crippled for life.”

“See the cook? He lost his leg in a rock slide. The difference is the master looks after his people.”

“Really? Where exactly are your master’s mines?”

“Near Aikawa. Why don’t you talk to Kita? He’s the mine foreman. Maybe he’ll take you on to keep records.” Akitada shook his head and sighed. “It sounds tempting, but I’d never be allowed to leave my present place. Especially not now when we’re just starting an inspection tour.” The talk turned to horses. Kumo’s had been brought over from the mainland about a year ago. The high constable had sent an agent to purchase the finest animals anywhere at whatever cost. He planned to breed superior horses in Sadoshima.

“He loves hunting and fighting on the back of a horse. We often have races,” Yume informed Akitada proudly.

When the cook finished his chores, he came to join them, bearing a flask of warm wine. Though he had suffered his crippling injury in one of Kumo’s silver mines, he also spoke of his master with great affection. Urged by Akitada, he talked about working conditions for miners. He seemed to take the hardships lightly, stressing instead the master’s kindness and certain amenities. “There’s foreign women there. Rough-looking bitches and not much to talk to, but brother, do they give you a good time. In fact, there was one . . .” A dreamy look came to his face and his voice trailed off.

When Akitada raised the subject of the murder of the Second Prince, Yume and the cook looked at each other. “That was a funny thing,” said the cook. “Why would the governor’s son go kill the prince? You would’ve thought he’d poison the master instead.”

“Why?” asked Akitada, who could guess the answer.

“Because that stuck-up tyrant hates our master. Why, they had such a fight we thought he’d show up with his soldiers and arrest him. We were ready, but somebody must’ve warned Mutobe off and he’s minded his manners since. And now his own son’s in jail. We’ll soon be rid of him for good.” He grinned with satisfaction.

That confirmed what Mutobe had told Akitada. He asked,

“Were your master and the prince close?” Yume said, “Of course. The Second Prince used to come here all the time. He and the old master were friends. After the old master died, the prince and the young master’d ride out hunting with kites. People said they were like father and son.

Some even said the prince would be recalled and become emperor, and then he’d make the master his chancellor. But that’s just silly talk, I think.”

The cook smirked. “That’s because the fools think the prince was sleeping with the master’s mother.” Yume said, “Don’t go spreading those lies. Besides, you and I know better, don’t we?”

They cook guffawed and nodded.

“Oh, come,” urged Akitada, raising his cup. “I love a good story, even if there’s no truth to it.” But Yume shook his head. “It’s just silly talk. Nothing in it, believe me.”

And then the cook made the most puzzling remark of the evening. “You know, the way the prince died reminds me of that time they thought I’d poisoned him.” Akitada was so taken aback that he stared at the cook. “How was that?”

The cook grinned. “Oh, he had this hobby. Liked to fix his own dishes. Well, one day he got really ill at a banquet. I was frightened out of my wits, I tell you, but it turned out he’d eaten something before the banquet.”

Yume nodded. “One of the house servants saw it. The prince started choking, and then his chopsticks dropped from his fingers and he fell down like dead. His eyes were open, but he couldn’t talk or move his limbs. They thought he was dying, but after a while he came around and acted as if nothing had happened.”

The cook said, “Everybody blamed me till it turned out he’d cooked up something for himself. Probably poisonous mushrooms.”

That night Akitada retired more confused than ever.

Before slipping under Yume’s redolent quilts, he took the flute from his sleeve, wrapped it carefully into his outer robe, and placed the roll under his head.

It was not until the following morning that Akitada recalled his appointment with Kumo’s secretary. Shiba had promised to send someone for him the night before. Nobody had come, but perhaps Akitada had missed the summons-as he had missed his evening rice-by playing the flute in the garden. He dressed quickly in his blue scribe’s robe and packed his own gown and the flute into his saddlebag.

The secretary greeted him with reserve and did not mention their appointment.

“I hope,” Akitada told him, “that we did not miss each other last night. I was late returning to the servants’ quarters.”

“No, no,” Shiba said quickly. “Do not concern yourself. I had urgent business to attend to. This is a rather busy time for me.

Regrettable. Especially since you are to leave today. Perhaps next time?”

It did not sound very convincing, but Akitada nodded and went to his desk. Genzo had not arrived yet but left a stack of last night’s copies.

Akitada had little interest in Genzo’s work, or his own, for that matter. All of it was just a subterfuge to meet Kumo. If Kumo had been informed about the prisoner Taketsuna and his background, he had given no indication of it. But Akitada had learned enough. Kumo’s leading an uprising seemed less likely than he had feared. The governor had painted a villainous image of the high constable, but the man who rescued convicts from unbearable working conditions, trained them, and then treated them with generosity and respect was surely no villain. In Akitada’s view such goodness could hardly coexist with a desire for bloody vengeance against the emperor. In fact, Akitada began to doubt Mutobe, an unpleasant state of mind comparable to feeling the earth shift during an earthquake.