The Fires of the Gods (16 page)

His good humor did not last. If the same hoodlums had Jirokichi, the poor Rat was most likely already dead. Still, he suddenly felt a great urgency and walked more quickly.

At the Western Market, he pounded on the door of Hoshina’s wine shop. She opened it a crack, saw him, and threw the door wide.

‘What is it? Have you found him?’ she asked, the words spilling out in mingled hope and fear.

Tora stepped in and closed the door again. ‘No. But I picked up something. A blind man in the Fifth Ward heard some young louts talking about Jirokichi. He says they smelled of malt. I wondered if you might know where I could look for them.’

‘Oh, I hope those evil bastards haven’t got him again. They nearly killed him last time.’

‘Malt,’ Tora reminded her.

She looked confused. ‘You mean a place that sells malt? Or a brewery?’

‘I don’t know. It’s got to be someplace where they either work or live.’

‘Them, work?’ She snorted. ‘Never. They’re thieves and robbers.’ Seeing Tora’s impatient face, she thought. ‘About six blocks west of here are warehouses. Some belong to breweries. They’re supposed to be watched, but a lot of scum hang out around there. Some of the warehouses are empty.

‘Where?’ Tora had his hand on the door.

She described the place where he had almost got a knife in his back.

He nodded. ‘Wish me luck.’

He covered the distance at a steady trot, fearing already that he would find the bloodied corpse of Jirokichi in some corner among garbage and at the mercy of wild dogs. Then he would have to go back and tell Hoshina. He had not been very good at saving lives lately.

When he reached the alley – for the third time – he sniffed the air. Yes, there was the unmistakable, if faint, smell of malt. Glancing first one way, then the other, he decided that the most likely warehouse was near the middle of the block and on the right side. The Fragrant Peach was just down the road and around the corner. Tora decided to have a look at the warehouse first.

He walked down the deserted lane, which was little more than two weedy ruts where an occasional cart had passed.

The warehouses were long, low buildings, their flat roofs made of boards weighted down by large stones. The fourth building was the one with the malt smell. It looked abandoned, its chained gate leaning drunkenly, the access unmarked by wheels. The fence was unbroken, but the gate gave enough to allow a man to slip in and out.

Tora pushed it cautiously and peered inside. The warehouse lay still in the afternoon sun, its doors closed. It was hot in the barren yard, and flies buzzed nearby. Tora did not like the idea of flies. He shuddered and withdrew his head. The dust around his feet showed the footprints of people going in and out, some in shoes and some barefoot. Then he saw something else: a small
brown spot in the pale dirt. And there was another a few feet away. He bent down, licked a finger and touched the spot. A sniff verified his suspicion: someone had dripped blood here.

He studied the tracks more closely. Among the footprints he found some straight lines – double lines, as if from someone’s feet being dragged through the dust. The lines came from the street and passed into the warehouse yard. He had found the place. Jirokichi had been brought here, probably alive but bleeding.

Tora considered the situation. He was alone and did not know how many of the bastards he would have to deal with. It was unlikely that there would be only two of them; the place looked like a hang-out for the whole gang. He did not dare check more closely, because they might have put out a guard. And he could not hang about outside on this deserted road either, in case one or the other decided to leave or come back.

Torn between the urgency of saving Jirokichi and his promise to Hanae to be careful, he chose duty to his family. He walked quickly to the Fragrant Peach.

By now the hour for the midday rice was past, and the place was dimly lit and empty of customers. The fire in the hearth had been banked, and the heavy cauldron was gone. Only the girl was there, sweeping the dirt floor.

‘Well met, pretty flower,’ Tora called out, hoping to overcome her hostility with charm. ‘Where do I find the local warden?’

She glowered at him. ‘We’re not open.’

‘Oh, come, you can answer a simple question.’

‘No time. Go away.’

Tora stood his ground. ‘How about your boyfriend, then?’

She flushed and cast a glance towards the back door. ‘I have no boyfriend,’ she snapped.

Tora grinned. So, the young scamp was hiding out back there, probably just biding his time before jumping her again. Boys his age never thought of anything but sex. ‘I saw you two together. You were very friendly to him in the alley outside.’

She stopped working and stared at him.

‘Maybe this is something you do on the side for money and to keep customers happy.’

With a shriek of fury, she raised the broom and rushed him. Tora jumped up easily, sidestepped her with a laugh, and caught her round the middle with one arm, while he twisted the broom
from her fingers with the other. She struggled and spat in his face. Tora dropped the broom and gave her a good shake. ‘All right, my girl,’ he said. ‘Enough of this nonsense. Someone’s in bad trouble and I need help. It’s either the warden or Tojiro.’

She stopped fighting him. Holding on to her, Tora swung about and found himself face to face with the gray-haired deaf mute.

Her daddy.

Carrying the cauldron.

Tora saw the coiled-up violence in the man’s eyes and knew it was about to explode like a volcano. The brute’s right hand started swinging the cauldron.

Tora released the girl so suddenly that she almost fell. She staggered away from him, leaving nothing but air between Tora and the volcano. The man’s right arm moved back. Tora scooted away a couple of steps. ‘No,’ he shouted at the top of his voice. ‘Don’t. I came for help.’

No use shouting at a deaf mute.

Daddy measured the distance and adjusted his aim. Tora took another step back and was up against a wall. Seeing the black cauldron coming at him, he pleaded with the girl, ‘Tell him Jirokichi’s in trouble.’

To his surprise – he had not expected it to work – her father stopped the swing of the ugly weapon and turned to his daughter. She gestured while he looked from her to Tora and frowned. Then he set the cauldron down to respond.

Tora took a shuddering breath.

She said, ‘He wants to know what this is about.’

Tora explained, still doubtful that it would make a difference. She translated, and her father’s face grew longer and he clenched his fists. Tora became nervous again, but the big man only gave him a sharp look, then nodded, and ran out the back door with surprising speed.

The daughter eyed Tora without much favor. ‘How come you know Jirokichi?’

Tora explained about how they had met, then asked, ‘Where did your father go?’

‘To get his friends. Come on,’ she said. ‘They’ll meet us there.’ She started for the door.

He caught her arm. ‘No, you’d better stay here. There’ll be a nasty fight. It’s not safe for a girl.’

She shook his hand off, glaring. ‘Shut up.’

With a sigh, he tagged along behind her. It would make things more difficult, having to look out for a slip of a girl. Still, he liked her spirit. But when he saw that she knew the way to the warehouse, he became uneasy again. He was confused by the strange relationships between Jirokichi, the girl, her deaf mute father, Tojiro, and the arson gang.

When they reached the leaning gate, there was no sign of reinforcements. She turned to him. ‘We wait,’ she said.

Tora eyed her suspiciously. It was beginning to feel like a trap. ‘Why is your dad willing to help Jirokichi?’ he asked.

‘Jirokichi’s our friend.’ After a short pause, she asked, ‘Why do you keep coming and making trouble for me?’

‘Kids have been setting fires. I think those young bastards that have Jirokichi are the ones. And your boyfriend’s one of them.’

Her eyes had widened with surprise, but now she flared up. ‘That’s a fucking lie!’

‘Nice language for a young lady.’

She raised her chin. ‘You sound just like Tojiro. So what? I’m no lady, and Tojiro loves me anyway. But he’d never hang out with them.’

‘Then why do I keep finding him with them every time there’s a fire?’

‘I don’t believe you. And what makes you think they’re the ones setting the fires?’

‘I’ve seen them.’

It was not entirely true. It had been too dark to recognize anyone both times they had run past him. The only faces he had seen belonged to the five that had manhandled Jirokichi. That reminded him of the poor Rat. He peered through the gate. Nothing had changed. Fear seized him again that they were too late, that the pitiful corpse of Jirokichi would greet them inside the warehouse. ‘We can’t stand around chatting,’ he snapped. ‘Where’s your father with the others?’

‘He’s bringing Shinichi and Seiji.’

‘The two old guys I saw with him last time? There could be ten or more young men in that warehouse.’

‘Don’t you worry about my dad and Shinichi and Seiji,’ she said. A moment later, she glanced down the lane. ‘Here they come.’

The three deaf mutes came loping towards them, armed with
cudgels and lengths of bamboo. They offered spares to Tora and the girl. Tora accepted a bamboo pole, weighed it in his hand, and executed a few stick-fighting swipes. They watched, impressed. Then Daddy kicked open the gate, and they stormed in.

THE MAJOR-DOMO

A
s soon as Tora left his study, Akitada got up to pace. A new energy had seized him. He wanted to run off and do any number of things immediately. Foremost in his mind was Kobe’s visit. Tamako’s suggestion that Kobe’s behavior could only be explained by some event Akitada knew nothing about made him want an instant explanation, but he could not confront Kobe, not after what had passed between them. He wasted time wondering who might know, and eventually accepted that he must wait for the answer.

Well, he still had two cases to solve. Tora was making a start on Abbot Shokan’s lost acolyte, though perhaps that would not bring any results. What then? He would have to return to Seikan-ji and talk to the other acolytes and the monks who knew him. It struck him that he had neglected to probe for details about the mother’s background – an embarrassing oversight, even if it was likely that Shokan had intentionally suppressed the information. There had been something almost coy in the way the imperial monk had parted with the smallest possible bits of information. Yes, perhaps he would return to the monastery in the woods tomorrow.

That left the Kiyowara case for today. He must go back and interview the servants. Someone must have seen something. Strange that Lady Aoi had insisted he suspected the wrong person when he had no suspects.

Or rather, they were all suspects: the heir, Katsumi, who was now Lord Kiyowara; his mother; Ono, if he was the mother’s lover; and perhaps even that stiffly proper major-domo. In fact, the late Kiyowara could have been killed by anyone on the property that afternoon. It meant he would need to spend considerable time with the servants to find out who else might have had a motive or access.

He stopped his pacing when he reached this conclusion and clapped his hands for Seimei. The old man appeared promptly. When he saw his master’s face, he smiled. ‘You have found an answer, sir. Truly, there’s blessedness even in adversity.’

‘I’m afraid I’m sadly short of answers, Seimei. No, I only wanted to tell you that I’m off to revisit the Kiyowara mansion. I may be late. Please inform my wife.’

‘Very good, sir. May misfortune turn into success.’ Then he chuckled. ‘The common people in the provinces believe that if a man has eyes and a nose, he may go to the capital. You have both and are already here.’

That made Akitada laugh, and he left in good spirits.

His hopes were dashed immediately when he reached the Kiyowara mansion and encountered a policeman at the gate. The policeman barred his way and demanded his name. When Akitada gave it, the man drew himself up and put his hand on his short sword.

‘You are forbidden to visit, sir, by order of His Majesty.’

Akitada was stunned for a moment. Then he realized that the emperor had had nothing to do with this. Kobe had simply applied the standard formula to an order, and the policeman had recited it. Anger rose again and nearly choked him. He turned away.

What could he do without access to possible witnesses of the crime? And why force him away from the case? Was this again politics? It made him think that one of the Kiyowaras or the Minister of Central Affairs was guilty, and that the chancellor or one of his powerful sons was protecting a murderer.

If that was the case, it was sufficient warning for him to stay away. He would have to return the gold Lady Kiyowara had paid him. The thought that he was made part to a cover-up sickened him.

But perhaps someone was simply making sure he would be ruined. Akitada almost hoped that was all it was. As for the Kiyowara murder, there was still one thing he could try. He set out at a brisk pace for the home of Major-domo Fuhito.

The sun was setting over the western hills in a spectacular conflagration of sky and clouds, and the heat was marginally less breath-taking. Fuhito’s house was one among several old villas in an equally old neighborhood. Akitada was familiar with this part of the city. Not only did his wife still own a piece of property here – a herb-, vegetable-, and flower-garden on the
land where her late father’s home once stood – but also some of the people in this neighborhood had played significant roles in his past cases.

As he walked beneath the trees shading the street with green branches that overhung the walls and fences, Akitada thought of Hiroko – not the Hiroko who was Lady Kiyowara, but the woman he had loved in vain. The familiar longing still twisted his heart. He had never known a more beautiful creature, and even now the memory still made him dizzy with desire. He had been tempted, had offered her marriage, but nothing had come of it. Worse, her memory was forever tied to another loss that was more painful than hers.

Akitada reined in his memories, saddened and feeling mildly guilty of disloyalty towards Tamako.

Fuhito could still be at work – Akitada had no idea what hours a major-domo kept – but his servants must be home. Akitada would wait. When he reached the house, he saw that here, too, many old trees grew behind the cypress fence, promising green coolness after the sweltering day. He used a bamboo clapper to strike a small bell at the gate.

As he waited, he looked around. It was a quiet, peaceful street that resembled Akitada’s own and probably dated to the same time two centuries ago, though these lots were smaller, having been designed for lower-ranking officials and clerks. It was pleasant here, far from the clamor and clangor of the merchant quarters. Birds sang, and the scent of flowers drifted over the tall fence.

Akitada rang the bell again, more impatiently. Where were the servants?

This time, he heard a woman’s voice call out, ‘A moment. I’m coming.’ Then the gate creaked open and a rattle sounded. He looked down at a short old woman who was leaning on a cane and peering back at him. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said, ‘I don’t know you. Are you lost?’

To judge from her clothing, she was an upper servant, perhaps Fuhito’s housekeeper. Akitada smiled at her. ‘I hope not. My name is Sugawara Akitada, and I came to speak to Fuhito.’

‘He never comes home until dark,’ she said. For her age – the hair she wore twisted into a bun at her neck was snow-white – she held herself still proudly erect, in spite of the frailty and hollowness of great age.

‘Perhaps I might wait for him?’ he suggested.

She hesitated, and he wondered if she was afraid to admit him because she was alone in the house. He prepared to reassure her of his good character when she smiled quite sweetly, made him a bow, and said, ‘But of course, My Lord.’ She stepped aside, and he walked into a garden.

Perhaps this place had once had a courtyard and outbuildings to stable a horse or two, and to keep a cart or small carriage, but these were long since gone. Instead a narrow path of large, flat stones wound through shrubs and among trees towards a partially hidden home. The scent of flowers and the song of birds seemed intense.

‘Allow me to show you the way,’ she said, since the path was narrow and custom did not allow a servant or a female to walk ahead of a man.

Akitada nodded and followed. ‘How beautiful!’ he said, looking around. ‘Who made this garden?’

‘My son did most of it, though the trees were here long before our time.’

‘Ah, your son is a very talented gardener.’

She turned and smiled that charming smile again. ‘Yes, Fuhito loves this garden. It gives him peace.’

Taken aback, Akitada asked, ‘You are Fuhito’s mother? I beg your pardon.’ He searched his mind for a family name and failed.

She was clearly amused. ‘You are wondering why I answered the gate? We live very simply here. Today my maid went to market to buy something for our evening rice. She doesn’t trust me to do the shopping.’ She chuckled. ‘Or the cooking. Kosue is becoming very bossy in her old age.’

Akitada was charmed by the old lady, for ‘lady’ she surely was. Did she know why he was here? Apparently not. He wondered once again about Fuhito’s background as he followed her down the winding path through cool and moist greenery and emerged into an open area around a small house. Apparently, there was a main house and a second, smaller pavilion. Both were old, but in very good repair, and Akitada suspected that they had been part of a larger compound.

All around him, lush shrubs and flowering plants spread, climbed, and cascaded from tall trees. Tamako would know their names, but he only recognized azaleas – still in bloom so late in the season – peonies, roses, and a late-flowering wisteria.

‘I wish my wife could see this,’ he said, looking all around.

‘Then you must bring her next time.’

How simple and gracious that invitation was. She did not know him, nor why he had come, yet she had done him the courtesy of treating him as a welcome visitor. He was ashamed for taking her for a servant, and worse, for suspecting her son of murdering his master. Thanking her, he explained about the imminent birth at his house.

She clapped her hands in delight. ‘What happy news. You must be overjoyed.’

Was he overjoyed? There was still a large element of fear involved in the birth of his second child. But Tamako had looked and felt much stronger lately, so he allowed himself some joy and said, ‘Yes, thank you. And you? Do you have other children? Or grandchildren?’

She shook her head. ‘Alas, no. Fuhito is my only surviving child, though no mother could have been more blessed in a son. And he, poor man, still mourns his only child. Now, there are only the two of us here.’ She brightened. ‘But don’t listen to an old woman’s carping. If you have quite decided on waiting for him, would you prefer to do so alone or in my company?’

He said quickly, ‘Oh, in your company, of course. Thank you for offering. And perhaps you would not mind showing me a little of this wonderful garden?’ He stopped himself, seeing her cane and her great age. ‘I beg your pardon. It is too much to ask.’

But she looked so pleased and was so eager that he accepted. She led the way, explaining graciously and with considerable pride. ‘My son has studied the art deeply,’ she said at one point. ‘He has a library of books, both in our language and in Chinese. It has helped him deal with his grief.’

Akitada asked, a little diffidently because it was a personal question, ‘His grief? Forgive me, but he seemed calm and businesslike when we met. I confess I have had little chance to get to know him well.’

She was silent for a long time. Finally, she said, ‘My son was widowed early, but this sadness concerns the loss of his daughter, my granddaughter. Motoko was beautiful and young and full of happiness. He loved his child entirely. Some would say too much. She was his whole life. This garden makes a poor substitute.’

Akitada’s thoughts flew back to the horrible death of his
beloved son Yori. He, too, had loved his child entirely. He still loved him. Taking a deep breath, he said softly, ‘I know. They call it the darkness of the soul.’

She turned and searched his face. ‘You also?’

He nodded. ‘My five-year-old son. Last year, from smallpox.’

She reached out impulsively to touch his arm. ‘Oh, I am so very sorry. And now you fear for this child?’ Hushing, she withdrew her hand. ‘Forgive me. That was quite improper.’

He managed a smile. ‘Not at all. You are very kind. A kindness is never improper. And yes, I am afraid – for the child
and
its mother.’

She nodded. ‘I shall remember them to Amida when I worship.’ She sighed. ‘Don’t you think it is terrible when you have nothing left to fear?’

He thought about that for a moment because there was a good deal of pain in his fears, but he nodded. Old people became lonely if their children died before them. He was sorry for her even as his own heart lifted a little. Soon there would be another child in his home, another son to raise and to carry on his name, and this time the chances of his surviving into adulthood would surely be better. Yori had been a healthy child until the disease had struck him down. They would be more careful this time.

They finished their stroll through the garden.

Fuhito had created banks of flowering azaleas, a miniature mountain with a small waterfall that became a watery rill, winding about in more intricate curves even than the paths they walked. They passed over three different small bridges and walked beside a pond filled with water lilies. Tiny frogs swam there, and carp jumped for clouds of small gnats.

It was dusk when they reached the house again. The first fireflies sparked among the darkening boughs. Into that peaceful world broke the sudden rattle of bamboo from the gate.

‘That will be my son now,’ she said, and even in the fading twilight, Akitada saw her face light up. Perhaps she was not really so bereft that she had nothing to fear. She loved her son, and Akitada might take him from her.

Steps approached, and there was Fuhito, stopping in surprise – or terror, for he turned quite pale when he recognized Akitada.

His mother said quickly, ‘See who has come. Lord Sugawara has honored our house with a visit and taken a great interest in your garden.’

Akitada smiled and nodded. ‘Indeed, I have had great pleasure seeing this beautiful place. Surely this is what the Western Paradise must look like. You are to be congratulated.’

Fuhito bowed. ‘Thank you, My Lord. The garden is a poor thing, a mere dabbling for the sake of passing time.’

Akitada explained his presence, and Fuhito nodded. ‘Yes, Her Ladyship was very upset about the policeman at the gate. She would be even angrier if she knew that you have been forbidden access.’ He turned to his mother. ‘This concerns the death of His Lordship. We will talk in my room.’

Her smile faded, and she looked quickly from her son to Akitada. ‘Of course,’ she said softly. With a bow to Akitada, she walked quickly away.

Fuhito took Akitada into the main house. It was not only of modest size, but also sparsely furnished and nearly dark. In a corner room, he lit an oil lamp. Akitada saw that many unmatched old shelves and stands held books. Whatever former wealth the books represented was disproved by the bare wood floor and the flimsy, scratched desk and cheap writing set. There were not even cushions to sit on.