Island of Exiles

CHAPTER TWELVE

The following morning brought more surprises, the most disturbing of which was the disappearance of Genzo.

As instructed, Akitada had risen early. Nobody else seemed to be awake yet. After carrying wood and water into the kitchen and washing at the well, he went to the stable to saddle their horses.

He wondered briefly about Genzo, but the scribe’s laziness was by now so well established that he did not become suspicious until he saw Genzo’s saddlebags lying empty in a corner.

He finished saddling up, then went back into the inn, where he found the sharp-tongued mother of their hostess back in charge. She merely grunted in response to his greeting. When he asked about Genzo, she gave him a blank stare. “Who’s that? Another lazy layabout belonging to that piece of deadwood in there?” She jerked her head in the direction of Osawa’s room.

Akitada grinned and asked if Osawa was awake.

For some reason, she flushed crimson. “If you can call it that,” she snapped.

Akitada started down the corridor.

“Hey, you can’t go in there now!” she shouted after him.

Ignoring her shouts, he raised his hand to open the door to Osawa’s room, when he heard soft laughter inside.

He smiled to himself. The middle-aged, stuffy Osawa was revealing some astonishing talents in seduction. He knocked softly and called Osawa’s name. The abrupt silence inside gave way to the rustling of bedding. Osawa shouted, “What do you want?”

“I’ve saddled the horses, sir, but Genzo seems to have left already.”

Another silence.

“Left? What do you mean, he’s left? He’s probably sleeping someplace, the lazy lout. Wait, Takao!” Too late. The door opened abruptly, and Takao, looking almost pretty with her rosy flush and disordered hair, smiled up at Akitada. She clutched her loose gown to her middle, but there was little doubt that she was quite naked under it.

Osawa was sitting on his bedding and jerked up a quilt to cover his own nakedness.

When Takao stepped aside, Akitada walked in, closing the door behind himself. With a straight face he wished the inspector a very pleasant good morning and congratulated him on his amazing recovery.

“Get out!” Osawa snapped.“Can’t you see I’m not . . . dressed?” Akitada bowed to the landlady. “Your honorable mother is in the kitchen,” he told her.

She rolled her eyes, then turned to Osawa and said, “Please permit me to speak to my mother, dearest heart.” He blushed and waved a languid hand.

Takao winked at Akitada, then asked Osawa coyly, “Shall I get your gruel ready, since you are in such a hurry to leave me?” Osawa looked embarrassed. “Yes. Er, we’ll talk later.” When she was gone, he demanded, “Now, what is this about Genzo?”

“His saddlebags are empty. That suggests that he has left us.

Perhaps he has found better employment?” Osawa scowled. “That piece of dung?”

“I believe the last time anyone laid eyes on him was the night we arrived. He may have walked off as early as yesterday morning. If he left Minato, he is long gone, and if he stayed in town, he is keeping out of sight. What do you wish me to do?”

Osawa muttered a curse. He knew as well as Akitada that Genzo’s sudden flight made it likely that someone had lured him away. True, he was not a very good scribe, but scribes were scarce. And that was not all. Working for the provincial administration, Genzo was privy to information which could be valuable to criminal gangs or pirates, and Sadoshima certainly had those. Genzo knew the size and itinerary of tax collections, the contents of granaries and the provincial treasury, and the number of guards assigned to them. That made him a valuable source of information.

“I have to bathe and eat something before we leave,” Osawa grumbled. “Go into town and ask around if anyone has seen him. If you cannot find him, report him to the local warden.

Make up some tale. Say he has stolen the mule.”

“He hasn’t stolen the mule.”

“Don’t be a fool,” snapped Osawa. “Of course you’ll have to get rid of the mule. Just let it loose someplace.” He fluttered a pudgy hand in the direction of the door. “Go on! Go on!” Osawa’s manner seemed more irresponsible than usual. But then, Akitada was concerned about Genzo’s whereabouts for reasons other than the security of provincial taxes. Genzo hated him and had made one attempt already to cause him harm. Akitada had expected him to retaliate before now for his humiliation at Kumo’s place. Possibly Genzo’s departure meant that trouble was afoot.

He walked about town for an hour or so, asking shopkeep-ers, monks, and market women if they had seen a big man, dressed, like Akitada, in the blue robe and black cap of a provincial clerk. No one had. Genzo had disappeared into thin air, and Akitada felt the same puzzled unease as two nights ago, when the bird-faced man had followed him through the dark streets and alleys of Minato.

Eventually he stopped at the warden’s office to report him missing. He did not claim that Genzo had stolen the mule but instead suggested the possibility of foul play. The warden was unimpressed. He seemed to think that any free man working for the governor was more likely to look for better employment elsewhere.

When Akitada returned to the inn, he found Osawa and the landlady walking about the courtyard. Osawa wore his boots and traveling clothes and had the contented air of a man of means. She was dressed in another pretty gown and clung to his arm, fanning herself lightly. He was pointing at features of the inn, while she listened attentively.

“And over here an addition,” he was saying, “as the family grows, you know. We wouldn’t want to lose guest rooms.” She giggled, hiding her face behind the fan.

As Akitada took his puzzled gaze off the couple, he noticed the landlady’s mother standing in the kitchen doorway. She waved to him, nodding her head and smiling broadly. This was so contrary to her usual behavior that he went to ask her what had happened.

“Happened?” she said vaguely, watching the couple in the courtyard. “Isn’t your master a handsome figure of a man? You’re lucky to be working for such a learned and dignified official.” Akitada turned to see if they were discussing the same person. The balding and round-bellied Osawa was patting the landlady’s hand and whispering in her ear. Perhaps the old crone was just happy to see him depart. But there was something proprietary in the way Osawa regarded the inn, and something equally proprietary in the way its owner clutched his arm. Akitada realized that Takao had used her charms to a purpose. She needed a man, and it looked as though she had caught Osawa.

Apparently he intended to give up his government job in order to run an inn and be pampered by a devoted wife. Mutobe had not only lost an undesirable scribe, but also his tax inspector.

Understandably, with a comfortable and leisurely future assured, Osawa washed his hands of Genzo and seemed to want to get through the rest of his duties as quickly as possible. He told Akitada to bring out the horses while he made his farewells to the “ladies.” He probably planned to hand Mutobe his resignation as soon as they reached Mano.

Shifting their saddlebags and Genzo’s empty ones to the mule, Akitada led all three animals into the courtyard. Osawa ignored the mule and climbed on his horse, waving to the women, who followed them to the gate.

It was a good day for travel. The weather continued clear and sunny, and Akitada relaxed for the first time in many days. He was glad to be rid of Genzo, whom he would have had to watch continuously. Osawa was in a pleasantly distracted mood, and Akitada felt that he had learned all he could in Minato. The rest of the puzzle would fall into place as soon as he saw Shunsei.

They headed south along the shore of the lake, the way they had come, but this time under a blue sky and with a light, refreshing wind at their backs. They trotted along easily, Osawa in front, and Akitada, leading the mule, following behind.

Osawa’s riding skills had improved as much as his mood.

When they had left the last houses of Minato behind and had the road to themselves, he suddenly broke into song.

“Ah, on Kamo beach, on Kamo beach in Sadoshima, The waves roll in and splash my love.

Ah, on the beach, my girl, as pretty as a jewel, As pretty as the seven precious jewels, Beautiful from head to toe,

As we lie together on the beach, On Kamo beach in Sadoshima.”

Osawa’s voice was powerful but far from melodious. He made up for this with great enthusiasm and after his rendition of “Kamo Beach” he plunged straight into “Plum Blossoms,” following up with “Summer Night,” “The Maiden on Mount Yoshino,” and “My Recent Love Labors.” Finally he rendered

“Kamo Beach” a second time and turned around to ask Akitada how he liked the song.

“Very appropriate,” said Akitada with a straight face, “and your voice is truly amazing.”

Osawa smiled complacently. “Do you think so? Your praise is very welcome, since you are someone who has visited the capital and is bound to have heard many singers. Of course, I am strictly an amateur, but singing is a hobby of mine. Ha, ha, ha!

It’s very useful with the ladies sometimes.” Akitada raised his eyebrows. “I did not hear you sing to our charming hostess. Surely you made a conquest there without displaying your remarkable musical gifts.” Osawa laughed again. “I did, too. You just didn’t hear me.

You were at Sakamoto’s. I entertained the little woman all afternoon. In fact, Takao had mentioned you playing your flute for her, so I thought I’d show her what I could do. She was impressed.” He laughed again, a happy man. “How about taking out your flute now and playing along with me?” Osawa’s present good humor was an immense improvement over his previous irritability, but Akitada cringed at riding down the road while playing his flute to accompany Osawa’s off-key love songs. Still, he could not offend him. He needed a free hand with Shunsei and could not hope for another distraction like a cold or an attractive landlady. So he dug the flute out of his saddlebag and played whatever suited Osawa’s repertoire.

They attracted a certain amount of embarrassing notice.

In one lakeside village, a group of children abandoned their games to follow them, adding their own, astonishingly rude variations to Osawa’s song, and later an old woman gathering berries by the road clapped both hands over her ears as they passed. But Osawa was irrepressible.

Finally, toward noon, his throat rebelled, and they stopped for a rest at the crossroads to Tsukahara. A small grove of trees provided shade from the sun which had blazed down on them more and more fiercely as the day progressed. Osawa produced a basket of food and wine, which his betrothed and her mother had packed for him, and shared generously with Akitada while praising his bride’s talents and business acumen. Then he stretched out under a pine tree for a short nap.

Akitada went to sit on a rock near the two horses and the mule, who were grazing under a large cedar. From here he had a view of the road, the lake, and the mountains embracing them from either side. Far, far in the distance lay the ocean that separated him from all that mattered to him in this world. He wished he could solve this case and return. The trouble was he seemed to be no closer to finding Okisada’s murderer than before he started.

He thought about the four men in Minato and their meeting in the lake pavilion. There was no longer any doubt that they had been plotting and were still determined to rid themselves of Mutobe and son. Was Kumo planning a rebellion?

Sakamoto was too weak to be more than a minor player. From the cavalier fashion in which Taira had spoken to him, it was clear that the others thought the same. Taira and Nakatomi were unknown factors. Nakatomi had sounded both sly and clever, but his relatively modest status as a mere physician made it unlikely that the others would treat him as an equal. He had probably been used only to prove that Okisada had died from young Mutobe’s stew. And if so, what had Okisada really died from? And who had killed him? And why?

Akitada’s thoughts turned to Taira. He had been closer to the prince than anyone else, and even the few words the man had spoken before the fat servant’s accident proved that the others looked up to him. The trouble was that Taira was too old to lead a rebellion on his own account. And so Akitada came back to Kumo, a man he had come to respect, even admire. And to the prince’s murder.

He shook his head, dissatisfied, and glanced up the dirt road toward Tsukahara. Buddhist monks had settled in the foothills above Tsukahara, seeking higher ground to build Konponji, their temple. Shunsei lived there. Tsukahara was close enough for Okisada’s periodic visits to his friends at the lake and at least once, on his last visit, his fondness for Shunsei had caused him to bring the young monk along.

Akitada would have preferred not to probe into the details of a private love affair of two men, but Kumo had been worried that Shunsei might reveal some secret during the trial. Had the four men been talking about the fact that prince and monk had been lovers? It was possible, but given both Kumo’s and Sakamoto’s nervousness, Akitada suspected that there was another secret and that it had something to do with the murder.

The faint sound of rhythmic chanting caused him to look back toward the lake. He could not see who was coming, because the road disappeared around a bend. It seemed to be a day for singing, and this did not sound like a monk’s chant. It grew louder, and then a strange group appeared around the trees.

Two bearers, carrying a large sedan chair suspended from long poles on their shoulders, came trotting along. They were naked except for loincloths and scarves wrapped around their heads, and they chanted something that sounded like “Eisassa, eisassa.” The sedan chair’s grass curtains were rolled up on this warm day, and Akitada saw that it contained the hunched figure of an old man which bobbed and swung gently to the rhythm of the bearers’ gait.

Sedan chairs of this size and quality were rare even in the capital, where the old and infirm preferred ox-drawn carts or carriages. But Akitada’s surprise was complete when he saw who the traveler was.

The white hair and bushy black eyebrows were unmistakable. Lord Taira was on his way home from his meeting with Sakamoto and the others. Akitada got up quickly and went to busy himself with the horses, keeping his face down. The chanting stopped abruptly as the group drew level.

“Ho!” shouted Taira.

Akitada peered over his horse’s crupper. The bearers had lowered their burden and were grinning. Their eyes and Taira’s were on the sleeping Osawa, who lay flat on his back in the grass, his belly a gently moving mound, his eyes closed, and his mouth open to emit loud snores.

“Ho, you there,” repeated Taira.

Osawa blinked, then jerked upright and stared.

“Who are you?” Taira wanted to know.

Osawa bristled and his face got red. “What business is it of yours, old man?” he snapped.

The black eyebrows beetled. “I am Taira. I asked you your name.”

“Taira?” Osawa slowly climbed to his feet. “Lord Taira, the prince’s tutor?”

“Yes.”

Osawa bowed. “Begging your pardon, Excellency. This person has long wished to make Your Excellency’s acquaintance, but has hitherto not had the pleasure. This person’s humble name is Osawa, provincial inspector of taxes.”

“Hah.” Taira turned and craned his neck. This time he saw Akitada, who stared back at him stolidly. “You there,” commanded Taira. “Come here.”

Irritated by the man’s manner, Akitada strolled up slowly.

They measured each other. On closer inspection Taira looked not only old but frail. His back was curved and bony shoulders poked up under his robe. No wonder he traveled by sedan chair, and this one was large enough for two. Only the black eyes under those remarkable eyebrows burned with life. “Who are you?” Taira demanded.

“Er,” interrupted Osawa, who had come up, not to be ignored. “Actually, he’s a convict, temporarily assigned to me as my clerk. Can I be of some assistance, Excellency?”

“No,” snapped Taira without taking his eyes off Akitada.

After another uncomfortable moment, he said, “Move on!” to the bearers. They stopped grinning, shouldered their load, and left, falling easily into their trot and rhythmic “Eisassa” again.

Osawa stared after them. “What a rude person,” he muttered. “He’s an exile, of course, even if he’s a lord. Ought to be more polite to someone in authority. Come to think of it, the prince used to live in Tsukahara. Wonder where Taira’s been.” Akitada could have answered that, but instead he brought up Osawa’s horse.

“Let’s go slowly,” Osawa said, as he climbed into the saddle.

“I don’t want to catch up with him. A dreadful old man. They say he went mad when his pupil died. It seems to be true.”

“Has he always lived with the prince?”

“Oh, yes. Thought of himself as the prince’s right hand, I suppose. They kept a regular court in exile. Taira would receive all visitors and instruct them about the proper respect due the prince. Complete prostration and withdrawing backwards on your hands and knees, I heard. Thank heaven, I never had to go there. Members of the emperor’s family don’t pay taxes.

Hah! And both of them traitors.” Osawa’s good humor had evaporated.

Akitada also had no desire to encounter Taira. The old man’s stare had been disconcerting, but he did not for a moment think the prince’s tutor mad. He thought Taira had looked suspicious. On the whole, he wished they would speed up and pass the old man before he had a chance to warn Shunsei.

Fortunately, Osawa reached the same conclusion. “This is too slow,” he said irritably. “Let’s hurry up and get past Taira, so we’ll reach Tsukahara before sunset.” It was not even close to sunset. In fact, since they had left the lake, the cool breeze had died away and now it was uncomfortably hot. They whipped up their horses and galloped past the trotting bearers and their burden in a cloud of dust.

Osawa was red-faced and sweating, but he kept up the pace, and they soon reached the foothills.

The pleasant small village of Tsukahara nestled against the mountains where the Ogura River came down and watered the rice paddies of the plain. Its two largest buildings were a shrine and the walled and gated manor of the Second Prince.

The Temple of the True Lotus and its monastery were another mile up the mountain. Akitada would have liked a closer look at the prince’s dwelling, but did not think it wise to be caught by Taira.

The dirt road dwindled to a track winding and climbing through the woods. It was wonderfully cool in the shade. Sometimes they heard the sound of water splashing down the mountainside.

When they reached the monastery, both riders and horses were tired. They found a small, rather humble temple compound, comprised of only seven buildings. The temple had neither gatehouse nor pagoda, and there were no walls to enclose it. Surrounded by forest trees, the halls were built of weather-darkened wood roofed with cedar bark and stood dispersed here and there among the trees wherever a piece of reasonably level ground had allowed construction. Paths and steps of flat stones connected the different levels; the approach to the main Buddha hall was a very long and wide flight of steps flanked by two enormous cedars.

It was peaceful here, and the air was fragrant with the smell of cedar and pine. Ferns and mosses grew between the stones, under the trees, and in the cedar bark of the roofs. Birds sang in the trees and monks chanted somewhere. A sense of calm descended on Akitada.

They left their horses and the mule with a shy young monk, and followed an older one to the abbot’s quarters, a house so small and simple it resembled a hut. The abbot was an old man with pale, leathery skin drawn tightly over his face and shaven skull. Osawa was known to him from previous inspections, and they exchanged friendly greetings. Osawa introduced Akitada and presented the customary gift, a carefully wrapped donation of money. Then they were shown to their quarters, two small cells at the end of the monks’ dormitory, and offered a bath in a small forest pond.

Osawa wrinkled his nose at the idea of bathing in a pond, but Akitada accepted eagerly. The ride had been hot and, while the air was cooler under the trees, he felt gritty and his clothes clung unpleasantly to his skin. He took a change of undercloth-ing from his bag and walked down to the pool.

A mountain stream had been diverted to fill a small pool with constantly changing clear water. Two naked boys were already there-novices by their shaven heads. They squatted on the rocks which edged the pond, engaged in washing piles of monastic laundry. Akitada introduced himself, was told their names, that they were thirteen and fifteen years, respectively, and that he was the first visitor from the faraway capital they had ever met.

Their progress in the discipline had not yet cured them of avid curiosity about the life of the great and powerful. They chattered eagerly while Akitada stripped and plunged into the dark, clear waters of the pool. It was deliciously cool and soft on his heated body, and he splashed and swam about under the fas-cinated eyes of the two youngsters.

When he emerged, they expressed amazement that he could swim. He laughed and washed out his shirt and loincloth, draping them over a shrub to dry in the sunlight. Looking curiously at his lean body, they asked about his scars, and he told them-

matter-of-factly, he thought-about each. To his dismay, their eyes began to shine with notions of martial adventure.

Dressed again in clean clothes and feeling a little guilty for tempting these half-trained youngsters from their peaceful life, he entertained them instead with descriptions of the religious festivals in the capital. They were grateful and trusting and readily answered his questions about their life in the monastery.

Working Shunsei into this chat was not really difficult. From reminiscences about life at court it was only a short step to a casual remark about the Second Prince by one of the novices, and he was soon informed that Shunsei, who had been so signally marked by the prince’s attention, was in deep mourning for his benefactor.

To do them justice, the two youngsters seemed to be completely innocent about the precise nature of the prince’s attentions to Shunsei and talked away happily about their distinguished colleague.

“He stays by himself, eats nothing, and prays day and night in front of the Buddha to be transported to the Pure Land. He’s very holy,” confided one.

Akitada expressed a desire to meet this exemplary monk and was told that he might do so by walking a little ways up the mountain to the Hall of the Three Jewels. It seemed this had been donated to the temple by the Second Prince, who had also overseen its design and construction and had often stayed there.

Shunsei apparently now lived there by himself, fasting and praying, practicing spiritual purification in an effort to approach Buddhahood. “He doesn’t sleep or eat the food we take him and only drinks water,” repeated the boy. “We think he’ll die, but the reverend abbot says he has found enlightenment and will join the prince in the land of bliss.” Akitada refrained from snorting. The fellow, he decided, must either be demented or an arch-hypocrite. But Shunsei’s isolation from the others made his own plans much easier. Had Shunsei remained a part of the monks’ community, it would have been difficult to speak to him alone.

He returned to his cell and found a bowl of millet and beans and some fresh plums waiting. He ate, quenched his thirst from the water jug, and then went to Osawa. The temple collected the local taxes, and they were to examine the accounts. For Akitada this was, of course, primarily a pretext to meet Shunsei, but he had to maintain the deception a little while longer.

The newly betrothed Osawa was in no mood to look at accounts. He referred Akitada to the monk bursar and told him to take care of the matter. “Nothing to it,” he assured him.

“Couldn’t possibly suspect the good brothers of shortchanging us. Ha, ha, ha.”

As Akitada wandered about the temple grounds, peering into its halls and asking for the monk bursar, he passed a ceme-tery with moss-covered stone markers. The sun was setting. Its light gilded moss and stone and turned the trunks of the pine trees a tawny gold. Akitada stopped, struck by the beauty and peacefulness of the scene. Death almost seemed attractive in

such a setting. Of course, monks practiced detachment from the pleasures of life and might be said to prepare themselves for the end. Was Shunsei about to join those who had gone before him because he had been too attached to a life that had become unbearably empty? Akitada shook off a shiver of panic and left the place quickly.

He found the bursar in the small library adjoining a meditation hall. A perpetually smiling man, he was eager to demon-strate the neatness of his bookkeeping, and it took Akitada a while to get rid of him so he could glance through the documents and take a few notes. His mind was not on business and he had to make an effort to give Osawa what he wanted. Fortunately, Osawa had been right and it turned out to be a simple matter.

He walked back through rapidly falling dusk and reported to the inspector, who was drinking the rest of Takao’s wine and softly singing love songs. Then he set out in search of the Hall of the Three Jewels and Shunsei, unable to rid himself of an unnerving sense of urgency to be gone from Sadoshima.

The sky was still a pale lavender between the thick branches of the trees, but the forest was already plunged into darkness.

Only a few glowworms glimmered in the ferns. The Hall of the Three Jewels stood on a small promontory overlooking the great central plain of Sadoshima. As the last daylight was fading, the moon rose in the eastern sky, and he could see details quite well. Though small, the hall was newer and far more elegant than any of the other monastery buildings. It was the kind of personal hermitage in which any great court noble could have felt comfortable. The mountains around the capital had many private religious retreats like this. As Akitada now knew, this one was also the love nest of the late prince.

From the forest behind him a temple bell sounded, but all was silent here; the building seemed deserted. Akitada called out Shunsei’s name several times before one of the carved doors opened and a slender figure in black appeared on the threshold.

Shunsei came as something of a surprise. Akitada had expected a handsome, pampered minion, but this was an ascetic.

He was small-boned, pale, and thin, his eyes overlarge in a face of childlike innocence.

“Yes?” he asked in a soft voice. “Are you lost?”

“No. My name is Taketsuna and I came to speak to you.”

“I don’t know you.” It was a statement of fact without surprise or curiosity. Shunsei seemed indifferent rather than hostile or impatient about strange visitors.

“We have never met. I came to talk about the Second Prince.

May I come in?”

Shunsei stepped aside, waited for Akitada to remove his sandals, and then led the way into a single spacious room inside. It was dark, and the young monk lit one of the tall candles in the middle of the room. By its light, Akitada saw that thick grass mats bound in fine silk covered the floor, and the built-in cabinets along the wall were decorated with ink paintings of mountain scenes. There was an altar on another wall, and against the third a shelf with books and papers. A fine desk stood in front of the fourth wall. Doors were open to a veranda overlooking a picturesque ravine that plunged down to the central plain.

Beyond were the distant mountains of northern Sadoshima.

The peaks stood dark against the translucent sky, and the pale moon hung above them like a large paper lantern. The view was magnificent; the occupant of this quiet retreat surveyed the world from godlike heights. Akitada reminded himself that it was the room of a dead man.

Shunsei’s place in this luxurious retreat appeared to be confined to his small prayer mat before the altar. As Akitada stood gazing, the monk lit some candles there also. Suddenly glorious colors sprang to life in a room which otherwise completely lacked them. Behind a small exquisite carving of the Buddha hung a large mandala of Roshana, the Buddha of Absolute Wisdom. The painting’s dominant color was a deep and brilliant vermilion, but there were contrasting areas of black and gold, as well as touches of emerald, cobalt, white, and copper. The mandala shone and gleamed in the candlelight with an unearthly beauty and was surely a treasure the temple would have been proud to display in its Buddha Hall. But here it was, the private object of worship of a prince and his lover.

The symbolic connection between the Buddha and Okisada, once emperor-designate, was instantly clear to Akitada.

On the mandala, the Buddha occupied the very center and was surrounded by concentric rings of petals of the lotus flower, representing an enormous spiritual hierarchy; each petal contained a figure, from the Buddha’s own representations to hundreds of increasingly smaller saints, each representing multiple worlds. The court had always perceived an analogy between this Buddha and the emperor who, surrounded by his great ministers, each in charge of his own department of lesser officials, ruled the lives of the people down to the least significant persons in the realm. When the emperor was a descendant of gods, the religious hierarchy validated the secular one. Okisada had certainly not lost his delusions of godlike majesty in exile.

But what of Shunsei? Apparently the young monk now spent his days and nights in front of the mandala. Praying?

Grieving for his lover? Meditating in an effort to achieve enlightenment? Or atoning for a mortal sin?

The monk stood, waiting passively, patiently, his eyes lowered and his hands folded in the sleeves of his black robe. Up close, he was older than Akitada had at first thought. He must be well into his thirties, no boy but a mature man. He also looked frail and ill, as if the childish flesh had fallen away, the soft skin had lost its healthy glow, and the rounded contours of cheek and chin had disappeared to leave behind the finely drawn features of total abstinence. Startlingly, the very large, soft, and long-lashed eyes and the softly curving lips were still there and powerfully sensual in the pale, thin face.

Shunsei raised those tender liquid eyes to Akitada’s. “Would you like to sit down?” he asked in the same soft voice. “I have only water to offer you.”

“Thank you. I need nothing.” Akitada seated himself on the mat and gestured toward the mandala. “I have never seen a more beautiful painting of Roshana,” he said.

“He sent for it when he built this hall. Now I pray to him.

Perhaps, someday soon, he will allow me to join him.” Somehow this strange statement made sense. Shunsei’s identification of the Buddha with the late prince might have been the result of excessive grief, but Akitada suspected that Okisada had planted the seed of worship in the young monk’s mind a long time ago. For the first time he wondered about Okisada’s physical appearance. He must have been old enough to be Shunsei’s father. Of course, Shunsei himself looked decep-tively young because of his small size and dainty shape. The only imperial princes Akitada had met had been portly men of undistinguished appearance. How, then, had Okisada attracted such deep devotion in his lover unless it was through linking physical lust to spiritual worship? The thought was disturbing, and Akitada glanced away from those soft eyes and curving lips to the Roshana Buddha.

“What do you wish to know?” the soft voice asked.

Akitada pulled his thoughts together. He had a murder to solve and a conspiracy to prevent. “Tell me about him,” he begged.

“Why?”

Akitada phrased his response carefully. “I have been sent here. In the capital his death will raise questions. I have already spoken to the high constable and Professor Sakamoto and I have listened to Lord Taira and the prince’s physician, but still some of the answers escape me.”

It was surprising how easily these half-truths came to his tongue, and amazing how this simple monk accepted them without question. He even smiled a little. “Yes, they all loved him,” he said with a nod, “but not the same as I. We, he and I, became as one when we were together. When he entered the dark path, I wished to join him but couldn’t. Not then, but soon now.” He nodded again and looked lovingly at the altar.

“Will you tell me about it?”

“Yes. It is good that they should know in the capital. That his family should know, and the whole world. You see, he knew the great transformation was approaching. At first he thought it was just an indisposition. He called his doctor in and took medicine, and when the pains got very bad he would come to me, and I would chant as I rubbed his back and his aching belly.” Akitada stared at Shunsei. He had a strange sense that the floor beneath him had lost its solidity and there was nothing to hold on to. “The prince was ill?” he asked.

“At first that was what we thought, he and I. I gave him relief, he said, but now I know the great transformation had already begun. The pain came more and more often, until he wished for release from this world. I thought my weak prayers had failed, and lost my faith.” He hung his head and looked down at his hands, which rested in his lap.

Dazedly Akitada followed his glance. Beautiful hands, he thought, long-fingered and shapely, covered with the same translucent skin as his face. Curled together, they lay passively where once, no doubt, the dead lover’s hands had roamed, where Shunsei and Okisada had found the center of their universe together. The thought was disturbingly erotic, and Akitada felt hot and ashamed. He shifted to look back at the mandala. Death, religious ecstasy, and sexual arousal were perhaps not far apart. The thought would be rejected as blas-phemous by most, but here was at least one man who, in the simplicity of his faith and because of repressed desires, had equated physical lovemaking with spiritual worship. How could you judge a man’s faith?

Was this the secret the others had wanted to hide at all cost?

That the prince had died from a severe and protracted illness?

That would destroy the case against Mutobe and his son.

But what of the poisoned dog? Or had there been a dog?

Perhaps that was a lie, too. Or the dog had been poisoned as an afterthought. And then another, more terrible thought entered Akitada’s mind. What if Okisada had become ill because someone had administered poison to him over a period of time?

Shunsei’s account of Okisada’s “transformation” could describe the effects of systematic poisoning, and his death in the pavilion would have marked the final dose. That would also clear young Mutobe, who could not have had the opportunity to administer all the prior doses. But why kill Okisada, whose return to imperial power had been the object of the plot? Was there someone else who wished Okisada dead? Akitada shook his head in confusion.

Shunsei’s soft sigh brought him back. The monk said gravely, “Do not doubt the miracle, as I did. He achieved what we had both prayed for, a state of blessedness, a cessation of pain. I know, for he has come and told me so.” Akitada looked at Shunsei’s deep-set, feverish eyes and felt a great pity. This man was dying himself, by his own choice, and in the final stages of starvation and meditation he must have been hallucinating.

Kumo, Taira, and Sakamoto need not worry about his testimony. Shunsei would not live long enough to travel to Mano.

Of course, there was still Nakatomi. They had wanted the physician to testify only to the cause of death, and not touch on the prince’s prior state of health. They had known of his illness.

But Akitada’s eavesdropping had convinced him that his death had shocked and surprised them. Sakamoto in particular had complained bitterly about it. Only one fact was certain: they all wanted the governor’s son convicted of murder as soon as possible.

Shunsei still sat quietly looking down at his hands.

“You knew he would die?” Akitada asked.

The monk raised his eyes and smiled sweetly. “Oh, yes. Only not so soon.”

“And young Mutobe? Is he to die also?” The smile faded to sadness. “If it is his karma. We all must die.”

Akitada gritted his teeth. A moment ago he thought he had his answer, but Shunsei seemed to have changed his mind again.

Perhaps he was dealing with a madman after all. He looked long into Shunsei’s eyes. Impossible to tell. The large black orbs gazed back calmly.

“But you do not believe that he murdered the prince?” Akitada finally asked bluntly.

Shunsei smiled again. “He assisted in the transformation,” he corrected.

“What? How?”

“He helped him achieve nirvana more quickly.” Akitada staggered to his feet. He had failed. Shunsei, who had been present, truly believed that young Mutobe had poisoned Okisada. “Thank you,” he muttered, and bowed.

Shunsei also rose. He swayed a little as if light-headed.

“Thank you for coming,” he said politely. “Please tell them what I said. His memory will be sacred forever.” Blindly, Akitada walked to the door, followed by Shunsei.

On the steps, he turned one more time to look back at the other man, who stood on the veranda, supporting himself against a column. The moon cast an eerie whiteness over his face, sharp-ening the angles of the underlying skull and turning the eyes into fathomless pools of darkness.

On some strange impulse, Akitada said, “I was told the prince enjoyed fugu. Did he, by any chance, eat some the day he died?”

This time, Shunsei’s smile broke the spell of strangeness and made him almost human again. “Oh, yes. The blowfish. He sent me to the fisherman’s wife for it. He was not well and wished to be strong for the meeting. He always enjoyed fugu, but since his illness he also derived relief from it.” Akitada reached for the railing. “But . . . no fugu was served to the others.”

“Oh, no. He prepared it himself in his room and carried a small dose with him. He was very familiar with the preparation.” Shunsei pressed his palms together and bowed. Then he disappeared back into the room, extinguishing the lights until all was plunged into darkness again.

Akitada groped his way back to the monks’ dormitory, his mind as murky as the darkness of the forest around him. Had Okisada died by accidentally poisoning himself?

Or had he committed suicide to escape the torment of his pain?