Black Arrow (43 page)

Hamaya bowed, pink with pleasure. “Immediately, sir. Oh, I almost forgot...look at this. It’s a letter from someone in the capital, I think. Stuck in the pages of the merchant’s personal accounts. It must be a hoax. Surely it couldn’t be ... treason?”

Akitada snatched the letter from Hamaya’s hand, glanced at it, and felt his heart stop. “Someone’s private joke, no doubt,” he told the head clerk and tossed the paper carelessly on his desk. “Let me know when the charges are ready.”

He waited until Hamaya had left his office, then read the letter again. It was addressed to Sunada and encouraged him in his plan to establish a separate northern rule with promises of high appointment in the capital if his endeavor could influence imperial succession. The letter was unsigned, but Akitada had recognized the seal. It belonged to one of the sons of the retired emperor. This young man had briefly served as crown prince, but had been replaced in the succession by a child, the son of the present empress and grandson of the Fujiwara chancellor.

Because of Fujiwara marriage politics, intrigue within the imperial family was always a danger, and punishment usually fell heavily on the innocent, on loyal servants and dutiful officials along with their families, rather than the highly placed principals.

Therefore Akitada stared at the elegant paper with particular horror. It lay on his desk between the black arrow which had killed Kaibara and saved Akitada’s life and the lacquered box of Tamako’s shell-matching game. Men played deadly games everywhere. Not only was he about to risk his life to secure this province, but the letter represented a bloody upheaval about to happen in the capital, and on his, Akitada’s, report. Yet duty required him to make this report. By a twist of fate, he was forced to destroy lives, careers, and families, perhaps his own included, when he had struggled all along to avoid bloodshed.

Akitada knew that another man would burn the letter and forget its contents. Echigo was a remote province. If the insurrection collapsed here, the disaffected prince in the capital might well give up his aspirations.

But weighed against the present and future danger to the emperor, this was not an option open to Akitada. What if the news of the collapse of the northern uprising prompted desperate action in the capital? And what guarantee was there that an ambitious prince might not plot again, and again?

He raised his hands to his face and groaned.

“What is the matter, husband?” Tamako had entered silently, wide-eyed with concern. She looked frail in the morning light, her hands resting protectively on her swelling body.

Akitada smiled bleakly. “I am afraid I may have failed both of us,” he said. “I no longer know what is to be done.” He closed his eyes. “And I think I am about to fail the emperor no matter how I choose to act.”

He heard the rustle of her silk gown as she sank down next to him, then felt the warmth of her body pressed to his. “You cannot fail me,” she whispered, “no matter what you do. It is not in you.” She withdrew a little. “You will fail yourself only if you shirk your duty. And how can you fail the emperor if you obey his laws and perform your duty?”

He shook his head and smiled a little at her fervor. “Here,” he said, pushing the letter toward her. “This affects you and our unborn child as well. Read it!”

She read. “Whose is this?” she asked.

“It is Prince Okisada’s seal.”

She drew in her breath sharply. “I see.” Her eye fell on the arrow on his desk. “Would you aim an arrow into a dark cave because you thought a bear was moving inside?”

A bear? A cave? What did she mean? Perversely, Tamako’s words conjured up another memory: White Bear, Kaoru’s dog. Kaoru’s long bow. Akitada’s hand went to the arrow. By its length and rare feather it was a contest arrow, not an ordinary soldier’s issue. He recalled Hitomaro’s amazement at Kaoru’s bow, his skill with it. Like his coroner, his new sergeant of constables was an enigma.

The more he thought about it, Kaoru’s education and his difference from the other outcasts were mysteries he had not pursued because there were more urgent problems to be solved. Was this just a minor puzzle, or was it at the heart of the Uesugi stranglehold on this province? And how was it connected to Kaibara’s death?

“Akitada?”

He was snatched back to the present. “What?”

“I only meant that you cannot know the situation in the capital. If you release the arrow, it may merely wound the bear, or kill its cub. Then you may be hurt instead.”

How astute she was. “Yes. I know. That is the problem.” He turned his attention to the arrow again, twisting it this way and that.

Tamako frowned. “A hunter might wait for another opportunity,” she remarked anxiously.

“Yes. You are quite right. Thank you.” He smiled at her, noting that the protective hand rested on her softly rounded belly again. Women played by their own rules, followed their own concept of honor, he thought and was surprised at the discovery.

She blushed as if she had read his mind. “Forgive me. It was not my place to advise you.”

“On the contrary. I think you have helped me solve another mystery.”

“Oh?” Her pale face lit up, then looked puzzled. “Again?”

“Yes. Your final match in our shell game led me to Sunada.”

“The ladies with the lutes!” She clapped her hands. “But how?”

“The murdered woman owned a lute, a very expensive, rare one. After the murder, that lute was gone. I realized that only Sunada could have bought it, or had the taste to do so. And he would have taken it away with him.”

“How horrible!” Tamako’s eyes were large with shock. Then she added quickly, “But he must have loved her very much to have spoiled her so,” and her eyes lit up as if a thought had crossed her mind. She glanced at the shell-matching game. “Did the game ... cost very much?” she asked, half hopeful, half afraid.

Akitada did not know how to answer. He had paid much less than it was worth. Had not the curio dealer said the shell-matching game had been ordered as a gift for an Uesugi lady years ago? He had a dim memory of those same flowers and grasses among the decorations on a suit of armor in the Takata armory.

Would Tamako think he did not love her? The female mind drew the most astonishing conclusions sometimes. He said, joking though his heart was afraid, “However you might rate my affection, I certainly would never entertain any murderous thoughts.”

Puzzlement, then comprehension and embarrassment passed quickly over her face. But to Akitada’s relief, she burst into laughter. Tamako laughed like a child, eyes sparkling, head thrown back, pink lips revealing perfect white teeth. She rarely practiced the custom of blackening her teeth as ladies in the capital did. And this was not ladylike laughter either. It was wholly infectious, and Akitada joined in.

The door opened, and Tora looked in curiously. Behind him Hamaya and the two clerks craned their necks.

Akitada glanced back at his wife. Her hand now covered her mouth in the prescribed manner, but above it her eyes sparkled with mirth.

“Come in, Tora,” said Akitada, smiling at his wife, who rose and, bowing to him, left the room. “What is it?”

“Kaoru sent me. Sunada wants to talk to you. Kaoru doesn’t dare leave, not after what happened with the Omeya woman. He’s afraid Sunada might kill himself.”

“Thank you,” Akitada said, jumping up, “this could be important. Anything I can use to avoid open war with Uesugi would be heaven-sent.”

♦

The atmosphere around the jail was tense. Guards manned the entrance to keep away the curious. In spite of this, two cripples had taken up position near the steps and raised sad faces to Akitada. He could not understand their piteous cries and was about to toss them some coppers, when Tora said, “Sunada’s servants. They followed him and have sat here ever since.”

In the common room more constables snapped to attention. Kaoru was seated outside Sunada’s cell door. He looked tired, but rose immediately and bowed to Akitada.

“Sergeant,” said Akitada, “I want you to send one of the constables to Captain Takesuke and request five of his best men to carry a dispatch to the capital.” His eyes fell on the barred window of a cell door which was suddenly crowded with three familiar faces.

Only Takagi’s wore the usual vacant smile. Umehara looked pale and frightened, and Okano had been weeping.

“Why are they locked up again?” Akitada asked.

“I did not want to take any chances this time, sir,” Kaoru said in a low voice. “Not after my recent negligence.”

“Let them out.”

The three men tumbled out hurriedly to express their gratitude. Okano, who had a flowered scarf tied about his face, looked more like a farmer’s wife than ever. He insisted on kissing the hem of Akitada’s gown. Umehara was gabbling something about salmon stew, and Takagi asked for his gold coins again.

The confused scene was an unwelcome reminder to Akitada that he must close their case officially. Their freedom depended on Sunada’s testimony in court.

“Get everybody out,” Akitada snapped to Kaoru, “and take care of that message. Immediately! It’s urgent. Then come back here.”

When they were alone, Akitada had Tora unlock Sunada’s cell and went in.

The change in the man was shocking. The once smooth, shining face of the wealthy merchant was gray, and the skin sagged. He looked up at Akitada from heavy-lidded eyes without bothering to rise or bow. “I could not sleep,” he said.

Akitada wondered whether this was a complaint about jail conditions or more expressions of his grief and despair. To his surprise, it was another matter altogether.

“Those three men.” Sunada’s eyes went to the wall that separated the two cells. “All night they talked. There is one—his words are those of a child, but he speaks with a man’s voice. He talked of his father and mother. And he wept for them like a homesick child. It was terrible to hear his weeping. Another fellow wept with him. This one cried like a woman. And the old man talked about food all night. He was worried his salmon would go bad. Are they the men accused of Sato’s murder?”

Akitada nodded.

Sunada sighed. “They are innocent. I expect they have gone mad expecting to be executed. Why do some men fear death so much? I welcome it.”

“They are not mad,” said Akitada. “Until recently they moved freely about the jail. Being locked up again has frightened them. But even when I first met them, they were not concerned about dying because they knew they were innocent. Their worries concern the problems of life. Takagi is a slow-witted farmer’s son who is homesick. Okano is an actor who is out of work and alone in the world. And Umehara has discovered the joys and frustrations of cooking.” Akitada paused. Sunada had surprised him again. He said tentatively, “I had hoped to prove their innocence and release them this week.”

“And now you cannot do so?”

“Not without your help.” Sunada’s words had given Akitada new hope. Perhaps he had misjudged the man. Whatever his crimes, he was not without pity. But was it reasonable to expect a favor from someone he was about to sentence to death? Sunada was guilty of triple murder and treason. Why should he care about justice in the abstract? Why would a criminal who faced execution in its most cruel form—treason against the emperor was punishable by disemboweling before decapitation or by being beaten to death—care about three poor men? Takagi, Okada, and Umehara had neither ambition nor potential. They were the dregs of a society Sunada had risen from through lifelong effort and relentless pursuit of power.

But Sunada nodded. “That is why I sent for you. I am prepared to help you.”

Akitada was astonished and relieved. They were alone, but outside in the common room he could hear Kaoru in subdued conversation with Tora.

He said, “As you know, Mrs. Sato was about to be arrested for the murder of her husband. Now her death makes it impossible to charge her with the crime.”