The Convict's Sword (17 page)

He did not wait to see if they could swim but gathered his trousers and ran up the street. The third man had the nun on the ground. Akitada flung himself on his back. The thug tried to throw him off.

“Run,” Akitada cried to the nun, digging his fingers into the man’s throat. She lay sprawled on the ground in a tangle of robes and silken undergowns, slender legs bare except for her white socks, long black hair tumbling from under her veil, and eyes huge with terror. She scrambled to her feet, gathered up her skirts, and took off up the street.

He saw no more, for he was whipped around and his back and head made violent and painful contact with the wall behind. The nun’s assailant was choking, but he knew a few things about street fighting. With a grunt of pain, Akitada let go and slipped off the man’s back.

The situation had deteriorated, for if the other two had climbed out of the canal, he was faced with three angry hoodlums who would hardly settle for robbing him of his fine outfit and the amusement of watching him run off in naked humiliation. In fact, the brute who had attacked the nun was so outraged at the interruption of the rape that he came at Akitada with fists flying. Akitada ducked, but not fast enough. His eye took the full impact of the fist. He sat down abruptly on the ground.

Lights flashed wildly inside his head. He knew he must move, must take some action, but he could do no more than raise his arms to protect his head. He fully expected a vicious beating, but instead his ears registered shouts and receding footsteps. Cautiously he lowered his arms, pushed his lopsided hat out of his face, and saw with his good eye that his assailant was running toward the bridge, where his wet companions were making frantic gestures for him to hurry. Slowly and painfully, Akitada turned his head the other way.

A very odd-looking old man with a long staff was coming down the street.

Akitada was too surprised to get up. The man was covered from head to toe in a large, extraordinary garment of many colors and patterns vaguely reminiscent of the patchwork stoles worn by Buddhist clergy, and his staff seemed to have a Buddha figure at its top. He was not a monk, because he had luxurious white hair and a full beard.

The white-beard stopped in front of him, and uttered a hoarse, “Ah!” Bending forward a little, he studied Akitada with the detached interest of a small boy who has found a strange lizard or beetle. Akitada bowed from his sitting position. The old man bowed back.

“Thank you for coming to my aid, Uncle,” said Akitada, using the polite term for an elderly person of the lower classes. He thought the old fellow must be one of the poor eccentrics who lived on a few coins or a bowl of food donated by the servants of the wealthy. He was probably senile, but such venerable age demanded courtesy, regardless of condition. And he was grateful that he had come tottering along when he did.

“You are welcome,” said the old man gravely.

Akitada got to his feet. He was puzzled why the thugs had run, and looked around for a constable or perhaps a soldier. But the street was empty. Various aches and pains made themselves felt. He arched his back, decided that it was only bruised, and found that a sleeve was torn from his robe. He brushed at the dirt on his skirts and inspected the tears and stains in his white trousers ruefully. He hoped his clothes could be mended but had his doubts. Still, it might have ended worse. Now that the excitement was over, he began to feel angry.

“You should do something about that eye,” said the old man, bending closer and peering at him critically.

The eye had swollen shut and throbbed unpleasantly, but Akitada’s good eye revealed that the old man’s eccentric garment, though dirty and a bit ragged, was a patchwork of fine silks and brocades and that his staff was beautifully carved and lacquered. Wondering, Akitada asked, “Did you see what happened?”

“I see most things.”

“Then you saw the nun and the three men who attacked us?”

The old face creased in thought. “Perhaps. There are many nuns about. Also robbers and thieves. Were they robbers?”

“Yes.” Akitada decided that the old-timer probably could not see very well. “Do you often pass this way, Uncle?” he asked.

“I go wherever I please. Why do you ask?”

“The nun screamed for help, and I shouted also. Nobody came to our aid, even though this is a respectable and quiet neighborhood. There must have been people behind these walls who heard us. I wondered why no one came.”

“You think it’s quiet here, do you?” asked the old man and looked fixedly at the wall behind Akitada. “Are you looking for the quiet life? You won’t find it here, young man. No, not at all. The contrary, in fact.”

Akitada turned and looked at the wall also. It was an ordinary whitewashed mud wall, over six feet in height and topped with slanting tiles to let the rain wash off. Many of the noble residences in the capital had such walls. His own did, though it was not in such good repair. That fact and the length of the wall and probable size of the property beyond meant that the owner was a rich man. Surely he had many servants, some of whom should have been within hearing distance and rushed to their aid. But not a sound came from the other side of the wall.

“Really? Who lives there?” he asked the old man.

“Nobody.”

“Then why do you say this is not a quiet place?”

“Quietness doesn’t always signify the absence of sound, or even of human presence. Sometimes places retain the spirit of past turbulence long after its source is gone.”

Akitada gave the old man a sharp look. He was a very well-spoken beggar and had, on consideration, not once shown proper respect by bowing or kneeling or asking for alms. Neither had he used a polite form of address. Akitada was not fussy about rank, but many of his acquaintances would have been outraged, and some might have had the beggar beaten. Because of the white mustache and beard, it was hard to make out the man’s expression, but it seemed to Akitada that he was being laughed at.

He frowned. “Look here. I’ve been attacked in broad daylight by three hoodlums who were trying to rape a nun, and I intend to get to the bottom of this. Now, did you see any part of the attack or not?”

The old man shook his head.

“You did not see the nun running toward you? You must have seen her.”

The old man shook his head again.

“And you don’t know who owns the houses around here?”

“Oh, I know that very well. You asked me who lived here. Nobody lives there, for the owner is absent, having gone to his place in the country, but the property belongs to Lord Yasugi. And the houses across the street belong to Secretary Ki, to old Lady Kose, and to Professor Takahashi.” He jabbed his staff toward the thatched roofs rising behind garden walls and shrubbery. “In the street beyond are the homes of Minister Soga, Junior Architect Wakasa, Lay Priest Enshin, and Assistant Lieutenant Akizane. Would you like me to go on?”

Akitada said weakly, “No, thank you.”

How close Soga’s residence was to the Greater Palace, and yet Soga had never managed to arrive at work on time. And Akitada had never been invited to his superior’s house. He thought of the three thugs and wondered why Soga had not at least taken some action to secure his own neighborhood. He said, more to himself than to the old man, “Things have truly come to a terrible pass, when not even a nun is safe on these streets in broad daylight.”

The beggar cackled. “There’ll be worse before the year is out. Death and chaos. It was predicted and has come to pass.”

Akitada stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t you read the calendar? This is a most unlucky year.”

Akitada had little patience with superstitious taboos and prognostications. They got in the way of getting things done, and those who terrified the gullible with such predictions caused, in his opinion, nothing but trouble. He snapped, “Nonsense. The calendar often predicts dire events that don’t come to pass.”

The old man drew himself up and shook his staff at Akitada. “You fool!” he shouted. “You don’t have the brains to interpret the irregularities in the motion of the planets. During the first month alone ten stars fell out of the sky. And what of the strange cloud of black smoke over the Josei Gate on the second day of the second month? Hmm? How do you explain that?”

“Such things happen independently of human affairs.”

“Is it human affairs you want? Then what of all the reports that fiery souls have been seen leaving the bodies of the living? Even you should know that portends death. All the signs spell death, and deaths there shall be. The cremation fires at Toribeno shall not cease burning till half this city is empty. A few thugs more or less pale by comparison.”

The old man scowled ferociously, then turned and strode away toward the bridge, his colorful robe dragging in the dust. Akitada looked after him and shivered. It was nonsense, of course. He should not have troubled the poor old man, nearly blind and no longer quite rational. Old age damaged men in different ways, Seimei as well as Kunyoshi, and Judge Masakane as much as this poor creature. Death announced its coming in their infirmities.

He turned to follow the long wall around the corner, where he found a big roofed gate and gatehouse. But the gatehouse was empty and shuttered, and no amount of pounding brought an answer. The beggar had been right about this anyway. No one was in residence.

He looked at the three tree-shaded houses across the way. The properties were smaller and the gates more modest, but the nun could have sought refuge here.

A young servant girl peered through a small opening in the gate of the first villa. When she saw Akitada’s face, she started back fearfully and refused to admit him, asserting that no one had come to this house, and that no nun lived there, or anywhere else on this street.

With a sigh, Akitada passed on to the next gate. Here his knock was answered by a boy. He told Akitada that his master, Secretary Ki, had removed himself and his household to the country. Nobody had come to the house all day, and the boy had never known of any nuns in any of the houses in the neighborhood. Akitada came away, thinking that Soga’s fear of smallpox seemed to have affected his neighbors.

He had no high hopes of finding anyone home at the third house either, but to his surprise, the gate was opened by the owner himself. A thin middle-aged man in a wrinkled and faded blue silk robe glowered at Akitada, and snapped, “Well?”

Akitada bowed. “Am I addressing Professor Takahashi?”

“Yes. So?”

“My name is Sugawara. A little while ago three hoodlums attacked a young nun on the next street. She got away, and I wondered if she came here for help or if you might know where she lives.”

“No.” The professor was pushing the gate shut, but Akitada placed a hand against it, and said, “Just a moment, professor. Both my rank and my request entitle me to some courtesy. If you will not invite me in, at least answer my questions.”

Takahashi reluctantly opened the gate again. “You can come in, if you must,” he said ungraciously.

Akitada walked in, and watched his host closing and re-latching the gate behind him. Takahashi muttered, “Can’t be too careful about whom you admit these days. The whole capital is overrun by criminals.” He eyed Akitada’s appearance sourly and added, “As you seem to have discovered.”

They stood in a small overgrown front garden on stepping stones that led to a building half hidden behind trees and fronds of bamboo. Takahashi made no move toward the house.

“Did you hear anything, someone passing in the street or knocking on a gate?” Akitada asked.

“I neither saw nor heard anyone,” Takahashi insisted testily. He cast an impatient glance at his house. “You had better report the matter to the police and be done with it. Not that anything will come of it. The authorities have their own concerns to look after.”

Wondering if this was a sarcastic comment on Soga’s flight, Akitada asked, “You live alone?”

Takahashi said, “I cannot fathom what possible concern that could be under the circumstances. If you are just making conversation, I am busy.”

As if to confirm this, a young male voice called petulantly, “Where are you,
sensei
? The soup is getting cold.” Footsteps approached and a young man in white silk shirt and trousers appeared from behind the screen of vegetation. He stopped when he saw Akitada in his bedraggled finery. “Oh dear,” he breathed and adjusted his hair and his clothing in an almost girlish manner, “I didn’t know we had company. An injured gentleman of rank. Won’t you ask our guest in?”

Takahashi glared. “Mind your own business. The gentleman is a stranger who was merely asking about the neighbors. Go back and eat. I shall come in a moment.”

The youth pouted, but gave Akitada a regretful smile and a graceful wave of the hand before retreating.

Looking after him, Akitada said, “Perhaps your companion . . . ?”

Takahashi interrupted him. “My student. He heard nothing. We have been at our studies. I resigned from the university and now devote myself to private teaching.”

“I see. Since you have lived here all your life, perhaps you can tell me if any of your neighbors may be likely to shelter a nun.”

“I pay no attention to my neighbors. The place across from me has an absentee owner. He spends most of his time on his estates. I doubt that a man so lacking in any spiritual qualities, or indeed intellectual ones, would have acquaintance with nuns or priests, but he does at least maintain his property. The others are either too young or have outlived their relatives. If that is all . . . ?”

“Thank you. You have been most obliging,” Akitada said with some sarcasm.

Takahashi ignored his tone and unlatched the gate.

Back on the street, Akitada turned. “Who is that rather strange old man in a robe of colored silk patches?”

“That’s Enshin. Calls himself a lay priest now, but he used to be head of the Bureau of Divination. Gone quite mad, of course.” With that, Takahashi slammed the gate in Akitada’s face.