Outside, the broken wall had not yet attracted notice, and Tora began to work on the lock. The nails were set deeply and had rusted, but they were no match for the sturdy tongs. In time they loosened, and the lock swung down.
Tora flung back the door. A nauseating stench greeted him. At first Tora thought the pile of clothing was too small to contain a body. He looked beyond, saw an empty bowl and the skeletal arm and hand that grasped it. He cursed with pity and anger at the inhuman monster who had confined an old man here without food or water. He was afraid to touch the body because it looked so lifeless, the arm and hand as frail as some ancient mummified limb, but Kinjiro pushed him aside and knelt on the floor.
“Old man? Are you awake? It’s Kinjiro,” he said—his first words since the fight in the kitchen. He put his hand gently on the clothes. Miraculously, the fingers on the bowl twitched a little.
“He’s alive,” Kinjiro said. “Help me get him out of here. The place stinks like an outhouse.”
Tora knew all about the smell of a close prison and much preferred it to the stench of decomposing flesh or fresh blood. He stepped in and scooped up the small body, which weighed little more than a bundle of dirty laundry.
They brought the old man to the main room of the house, where Kinjiro spread some of the bedding on the floor. In the sparse light that came from outside, Tora saw the old man more clearly. His flesh had shrunk from his bones with age or suffering. Where it was not covered by thin white hair or stubble, his skin resembled yellowed paper, and his eyes lay deep in their sockets. They were closed, but his mouth gaped on a few yellow teeth.
“He’s in bad shape,” said Tora, shaking his head. “Fetch some of that wine.”
There was no answer.
Tora started to curse the boy’s laziness, then remembered the scene in the kitchen and went himself.
The Scarecrow and Genzo were as he had left them. A few lazy flies buzzed up from the blood. As he filled a pitcher with wine from the barrel he wondered what the old man would make of his nephew’s death. When he came back into the main room, the boy was bending over the old man.
“How is he?”
“Coming around. He’s trying to say something.”
Tora knelt. The old man’s eyes were open now and moving around. A grating sound came from his throat. Tora said, “I brought you something to drink. Don’t try to talk.”
The old man drank a little of the wine, then shook his head and croaked, “Water.”
Kinjiro rushed away. Tora brushed a few thin strands of white hair from the old man’s face. His skin felt hot and dry. “I’m sorry they locked you up, grandfather,” he told him. “The boy and I will look after you now. My name’s Tora, by the way.”
The skeletal hand crept from the bedding and seized his. It also was hot and dry, the bones like those of a small bird. “Chi . . . Chikamura,” the bloodless lips mumbled. As if that had been too much of an effort, he closed his eyes with a sigh.
Kinjiro came back with the water. Putting his arm under the slight shoulders again, Tora lifted the old man while Kinjiro helped him drink. He drank for quite a long time, and Tora laid him back down. He seemed to go to sleep.
“Poor old man,” Tora muttered.
“What will we do with him?” Kinjiro looked nervously down the dark corridor. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“We’ll take him with us. It’s getting dark, and that’s good. Go and light those oil lamps over there. I want to have a look at the trunk in Matsue’s room before we leave.”
“There’s no time,” the boy squealed. “They’ll come and kill us. Haven’t you spilled enough blood?”
Tora almost felt sorry for the kid, but there were more important things at stake. “You should’ve thought of your aversion to blood before you joined a gang,” he said coldly, then went to light the lamps himself. “What did you do with those tongs?”
“M . . . me? Nothing. I guess they’re still outside. You want me to get them?”
“Never mind. Just keep an eye on old Chikamura and give him some more water from time to time. He’s probably not had any for days.”
Carrying one of the flickering oil lamps, Tora found the tongs, somewhat bent from cracking the storehouse lock, and made his way to Matsue’s room to repeat the process on the long ironbound chest. He managed to loosen part of the iron fitting near the lock, inserted the tong, and twisted. The fitting gave some more and the wood cracked, but the lock held. A hatchet would do the job more quickly, but he had none. He worked up a sweat, twisting and bending and prying. Each time, the metal gave a little more. Salty perspiration ran into the fresh cut on his back and started to burn. He had forgotten about that, so it could not be too bad. And then the lock popped open.
The trunk held treasure all right. Bars of gold were stacked next to bags of coin. The bags were filled with silver. The difficulty of carrying off this wealth—a considerable weight, even if it did not take up much space in the trunk—occupied him for a moment, until he saw the sword. Though it was swathed in silk, he knew it for a sword right away. Tora lifted it out and unwound the silk. He saw a scabbard covered with some soft white material, a green-silk wrapped hilt, and green silk cords. The sword guard was decorated with gold. It was a special weapon, and when he drew the blade, it slipped easily from the scabbard. Matsue had cared well for it. And then Tora remembered.
Before he could wonder what the sword was doing here, a shrill scream cut through the silence of the house. Kinjiro! Tora whirled and charged back to the main room, drawn sword in hand. He heard Kinjiro sobbing, “I don’t know what happened. I found them like that. The old man, too. I swear it.”
Another voice cut in viciously, “You lie, snotty brat. Where is the bastard?”
So Matsue had come back for his property and caught the boy. Tora hesitated, wondering if he was alone, but Kinjiro screeched again.
When Tora burst onto the scene, Matsue was headed his way, sword in one hand and a lantern in the other. There was a look of grim determination on his handsome, cruel face. Behind him, in the uncertain light of the oil lamp, Tora saw the motionless shapes of Chikamura and the boy lying on the floor like scattered rags.
Matsue stopped when he saw Tora. An unpleasant smile twisted his mouth, until his eye fell on the scabbard that Tora still clutched in his left hand. The smile faded, and he took a step backward. Baring his teeth, he hissed, “So.”
Tora’s heart was pounding. If the bastard had killed the boy and the old man . . . but that would have to wait. They were facing off again, he and Matsue. Only this time they both had real swords. They were on equal terms, and this fight would be to the death. Tora had no intention of losing again.
“Thief!” Matsue’s voice grated with suppressed outrage. “Give me my sword, or I’ll slice you in half like a ripe melon.”
Tora grinned. It was a stupid request, not worth replying to. He moved a little to the left to avoid the light. As he moved, he kicked bedding aside so they would have a clear space to fight in.
Matsue’s eyes narrowed. He nodded his understanding and moved to block Tora. “Did you kill the two in the kitchen?” he asked in a casual tone.
“Yes.”
Matsue spat. “Fools and weaklings. You won’t be so lucky now. And these are not wooden swords.”
Tora watched the light dancing along the steel blades. “I won’t slip this time, coward.”
Matsue set down the lantern and took his position. They circled cautiously. Whichever way Tora faced, one of the lights distracted him so that he could not see his opponent’s face well. Matsue flexed his shoulder, and Tora tensed for an attack. Matsue snorted. “Ah, you’re afraid, mouse catcher. Nobody has ever beaten Matsue, and you’re nothing but a miserable foot soldier with a big mouth.” He demonstrated his superior skills with a few rapid lunges, slashes, twists, and thrusts, which Tora, expecting a trick, responded to with quick evasive or defensive moves. Matsue paused to fling back his head and laugh. “You know the way a cat plays with a mouse before it eats it? You’re the mouse now, and I’m the cat.”
Doubt nagged at Tora’s confidence. Could the man be really as good as his reputation? There had been all those certificates in his trunk. Matsue had received formal training and had proved himself to be an expert in the art. Except for a few pitiful tricks he had adapted from stick fighting, all of Tora’s experience came from fighting and killing. He wished he had not bragged to poor Kinjiro about his tricks. When it came right down to it, he had none—just a burning desire to rid the world of this man.
Tora went into his attack. A few feints and lunges and he caused Matsue to bound backward a few paces. Pleased, Tora took advantage of this to adjust his position so he no longer had the light in his eyes and could read Matsue’s expression. Much depended on recognizing the moment of attack in his opponent’s eyes an instant before it happened.
Matsue had not tried to stop him, and a flicker of the other man’s eyes explained why. Tora now had the open doors to the veranda at his back, and Matsue planned to drive him backward until he stumbled off the veranda and fell into the small garden below. There he would impale Tora as he floun dered on the gravel like a beached fish
.
Perversely, Tora gained new confidence from this: It was good to know the other man’s mind.
And then Matsue attacked. He came with an enormous roar: “H-o-o-o-o-u!” Tora waited, watching the pointed blade coming toward him, feeling the vibration of the other man’s pounding steps in the soles of his feet. He waited until he saw in Matsue’s face the dawning realization that Tora was not retreating, that he might kill him then and there, watched him adjust his grip to the new target, firming and aiming his sword differently, saw the triumph of the kill light up Matsue’s eyes just before he put all his power into the final lunge.
And then Tora stepped aside.
It was a very small step. They were so close that he felt the blade brush his arm, smelled Matsue’s hot breath as he shot past him, heard his feet hit the veranda floor, and turned to deliver the fatal stroke to his enemy.
But Matsue had not gone over the edge to fall prone on the gravel. He had leapt down instead, landing on his feet, and he instantly swung into another charge. Propelled by the fury of having fallen for a child’s trick, he bounded back onto the veranda in one great leap. Tora could not stop the speed of this onslaught and moved aside again. But this time, Matsue had known what he would do and slashed at Tora’s leg. He was past and back in the center of the room before Tora felt the burning pain and the hot blood trickling down his thigh. He had no time to check the wound, but knew that the blood loss would weaken him quickly and make the floor slippery underfoot. The odds had changed again.
It was very still in the room. Tora could hear his breathing and that of Matsue, an occasional rustle of fabric, and the sound of their bare feet sliding across the floor as they moved and counter-moved, seeking the right place and moment to strike. Tora began to inch toward Matsue, keeping his eyes on the other’s face. Matsue feinted toward the left—Tora had guessed it from the flicker of Matsue’s eyes and ignored it—and then Matsue lunged toward the right, where he expected Tora to be. Only Tora had by then moved the other way, raised his sword, and brought it down with a hiss of air and a shout drawn deep from his belly.
There was a clatter, a grunt, and Matsue backed away, staring at the bleeding stump that had been his sword hand. His sword lay on the floor, in a splatter of blood and severed fingers. With a roar, he tried to snatch at the sword with his left hand, but Tora put his foot on it and placed the tip of his blade at Matsue’s neck.
“It’s over,” he said, almost sadly. “You’ll never fight again.”
Matsue slowly sank to his knees. His face worked dreadfully. “So kill me and be done,” he shouted hoarsely.
“Not yet. Did you kill Tomoe?”
Matsue gave a bitter laugh. “A swordsman doesn’t dirty his blade on women. Only scum does that.” He looked up at Tora with a frown. “What are you waiting for? Kill me. I fought honorably. I deserve an honorable death by the sword.” He paused and pointed. “By that sword.”
“Maybe you fought honorably this time, but you didn’t the last time.”
“That was no fight. I was teaching you a lesson about respecting your betters.”
Killing Matsue might save trouble in the long run, but Tora believed now that Matsue had not killed Tomoe. Besides, he hated killing a defeated man. Matsue was finished as a fighter, and since that part of his life mattered more to him than anything else, he was punished enough. Perhaps he might bleed to death, but if he bandaged his arm tightly and found a doctor at this time of night in a city full of smallpox, he would live. Either way, he was no longer a threat.
Tora scooped up the fallen sword and broke it between two boards of the veranda. The hilt he flung as far as he could over the adjoining wall. Then he went to look for Kinjiro and the old man. To his surprised relief, the boy had disappeared. That meant he was alive and not badly hurt. More relief washed over Tora when he found Chikamura hiding in a corner. The old man peered up at him from under his bedding and whispered, “Is it over?”
“Yes. Where did the boy go?”
“He ran away.”
Matsue still sat motionless, perhaps waiting to die. Tora called, “Kinjiro?” but got no answer. The boy was probably far away by now. The events of this day had been enough to give a grown man nightmares. Suddenly Tora felt alone and exhausted. His knees threatened to buckle and he sat down heavily on the edge of the veranda.
The moon had risen and the night was no longer so black. In the distance a temple bell rang. Only a few hours ago they had sought refuge in the temple, and Tora had pretended he was Kinjiro’s father. What would become of the youngster now?
A sharp female voice broke into his brooding. “Hey, you rascal. What’s going on? Who knocked down my wall? Where’s Chikamura?”