Island of Exiles

CHAPTER THREE

The governor was nearly as tall as the prisoner, but age had bent his back a little. The black cap did not hide the gray of his hair, or his robe of office the weariness on his lined face. In the candlelight his eyes looked deeply sunken as they searched the convict’s features anxiously. “You are the person who has been sent . . . I mean, you are the man known as Yoshimine Taketsuna?”

Thinking the governor’s tone and manner odd, the prisoner said cautiously, “Yes.”

“I was informed of your coming. The captain of your ship brought me a letter from . . . someone of very high rank. It told me that you were to help me in my present difficulties.” The prisoner sighed. “May I see the letter, please?” he asked.

The governor fished it from his sash and passed it over. “My dear Sugawara,” he said earnestly, “I cannot tell you how sorry I am to see you like this.”

Akitada, who had been accustoming himself to the role of the convict Taketsuna, was angry. He looked around the room, bare except for the desk, a tall candle, two silk cushions, and four large lacquer trunks, and then went to throw open one panel of the sliding doors to the outside. A tiny landscape of rock, pebbles, lantern, and a few shrubs had been squeezed between the governor’s room and a high, blank wall. It was too small for anyone to hide in. He closed the door again and faced the governor.

“You should have destroyed this,” he said, after glancing at the short letter. “Please do it now.” He waited as the other man held the letter into the candle flame until it grayed, shriveled, and became dust. “Our meeting,” Akitada continued, “is dangerous. But since I am here, and you are informed of my purpose, I suppose you had better tell me what you know.” Reaching up to the collar of his stained robe, he picked at a seam. After a moment, he eased a thinly folded sheet of paper from between the layers of fabric and extended it to the governor, who unfolded it and read quickly before raising it reverently to his forehead.

With a deep bow, he returned the document. “Yes, quite in order. The vermilion seal and the seals of His Majesty’s private office. I am deeply honored. As you saw, my letter instructed me to assist you in investigating the murder of the Second Prince.

But my son-” He broke off and looked away. His thin hands, folded across his chest, clenched and unclenched convulsively.

Akitada said more gently, “Let us sit down.” Mutobe looked flustered. “Yes, of course. Please forgive me.

The past week has been terrible, terrible.” After they had seated themselves on the cushions-they were of good quality and not at all worn like those in Echigo-he looked at Akitada with deep concern. “Your face . . . I blame myself, but I could not prevent it.”

Akitada waved the apology away. “It is nothing.”

“Welcome to Sado, such as it is,” the governor said, still dubiously, “though, of course, you may not wish to continue with this dangerous impersonation now.”

“Why? Has the situation changed?”

“No. If anything . . . but heavens, sir . . .” Akitada raised a hand in warning. “No names and no hon-orifics. I am a convict called Yoshimine Taketsuna.” The governor swallowed and continued, “I cannot protect you. Not only is my administration compromised by the murder charge against my son, but now my son’s life is in danger. I dare not take any actions against my enemies.” He smiled bitterly. “It was my fault for attempting to curb Kumo and his minions. Now they are planning to get rid of me. The central government considers this island no more than a prison colony. The law here is enforced by the police, whose commander is a government appointee but works for Kumo, and by the high constable, who thinks he is responsible to no one but himself. So you see, your scheme is much too dangerous. A matter of life and death.”

“The murder of the Second Prince may well hide something far more dangerous. You suspect the high constable of plotting to remove you from office by linking you to the crime? Why would he do this all of a sudden?”

The governor blinked. “Isn’t it obvious? The man is a mega-lomaniac. He wants to rule this island. He already controls most of its wealth. Now he wants absolute power. In the years that I have been governor here, I have seen him seize more and more control. I have tried to stop him, but all it got me was a reprimand from the capital, and now my son is accused of a murder he did not commit.”

Akitada knew that local overlords could become very powerful and that the government often made use of their power by appointing them high constables, thus saving the cost of

maintaining troops in the distant provinces. But surely Kumo would not kill the Second Prince to seize a province? He said,

“The emperor is concerned. I am here to learn the truth about the murder and to verify your suspicions.” Mutobe brightened a little. “Yes. Perhaps Kumo will think you are one of them. Your disguise was a real stroke of genius.” Akitada was not so sure. He said dryly, “Let’s hope the matter is settled before they find out that the real Yoshimine is in jail in Heian-kyo.”

Mutobe fidgeted. “I must warn you. No matter how hard we try to intercept messages, Okisada’s people always hear of news in the capital. Pirate ships carry their letters. I am afraid this is going to be very dangerous indeed. Of course, you must do as you wish, only don’t count on me to save you. Kumo’s people don’t stop at murder, and with my son’s life at stake . . .” His voice trailed off.

He looked at Akitada’s face again and shook his head. Reaching for a slender porcelain flask, he poured wine into two fine porcelain cups and extended one to his visitor. “I was told you almost died at sea and then were beaten by Wada’s constables.” Akitada emptied his cup thirstily, nodded in appreciation, and passed it back for a refill. “Wada is the police official who greeted me at the dock? If he treats all arriving prisoners that way, something should be done about him, but for the present it does not matter. The incident lent a certain realism.” Mutobe shook his head again. “I don’t want to belabor the point, but I wonder if you realize that even under the best circumstances an ordinary prisoner’s life is worthless here. Wada is a brutal beast and his constables act as he wishes. The high constable has made a special pet of Wada. Between them, they claim to keep the peace on Sado, reminding me that my function here is purely judicial and administrative. And it seems the prince, whom I have had to remind of his status many times, still has friends in the government.”

Akitada was becoming impatient with Mutobe’s whining.

His ill-considered actions against the high constable and his dilatoriness in reporting the trouble to the council of state had provoked the situation. He suspected that the governor had let a personal power struggle get out of hand. He changed the subject. “Did you send that very drunk physician to me?” Mutobe looked embarrassed. “Ogata is my coroner and tends to the prisoners. When I got the captain’s letter, I went to take a look at you. I was shocked by your wounds and thought you needed medical attention. Ogata drinks, but he is a perfectly capable physician. In fact, if it had not been for his drinking and slovenly appearance, he would have treated the late prince. The prince’s doctor, Nakatomi, is more interested in wealth than healing. Ogata can be trusted. He is absolutely unbribable because he has neither ambition nor greed.”

“A rare man indeed. I was not complaining but wanted to thank you.”

The governor relaxed and smiled for the first time. “Apparently Ogata liked you, too. He told me that I had to find you a place here because you might not survive the hardships of roadwork or mining. When I pretended lack of interest, he offered to make you his assistant because he was getting too old for his work. He put on quite a good performance, gasping and pressing a hand to his heart. He even groaned as he bowed.”

Akitada laughed. “He must think me a weakling. I thought I was in excellent physical condition.”

“Working on roads or breaking rock is not the same as a bout with the sword or some hard riding. In any case, I will find you a place in the archives where I can keep in touch with you.”

“I am not sure that is a good idea. Any close contact between us will cause suspicion. Also I must be able to travel.”

“But I thought . . .” The governor looked upset and said in an almost pleading tone, “Surely you will want to meet my son?

To get his story? Then I’ll do my best to send you away.” Akitada weakened. “Well, perhaps. If it is only for a day or two. Do you have a map of Sadoshima?” Mutobe rose and delved into one of the lacquered trunks.

He produced a large rolled-up scroll and spread this out on the desk between them.

The island’s shape resembled a large butterfly flying northeast, its body flat heartland, the wings mountainous. The governor pointed to the southwestern opening between the two wings.

“We are here, on Sawata Bay. The murder happened in Minato, a small town on Lake Kamo near the opposite coast. Okisada was the guest of honor at the villa of a retired professor there.

Okisada’s own manor is in Tsukahara, not far from the lake. The central plain northeast of us is full of rice farms. Kumo’s estate is there.” Mutobe pointed to the center of the island. “Most of the farmed land belongs to the descendants of earlier exiles. I mention this because some families still bear a grudge against the government. Kumo and Okisada may have formed allies there.” Akitada nodded. “Tell me about Kumo.”

“He is thirty-eight years old. His great-grandfather was sent here on trumped-up charges. The family has been cleared, but since the descendants had become wealthy on Sadoshima, they stayed here. Kumo now controls one-third of the rice land in the province. He also owns two silver mines. Kumo’s father was appointed high constable, either because of his wealth and influence on the island, or because of the emperor’s guilty conscience. His son inherited the office.”

“What sort of man is he?”

Mutobe made a face. “Handsome, arrogant, and fiercely possessive of the island. He regards imperial appointees as a form of harassment for the natives and claims that the non-political prisoners are responsible for all the crime. Hence his support for Wada.”

Akitada thought about this. “Who really controls Sado?” Mutobe flinched. “There is no need to be so blunt,” he said stiffly. “I am fully aware that you were dispatched here because it is thought that I have failed in my duties.”

“No, that was not the reason,” Akitada said quickly. “You are in no position to investigate this murder. But let’s not waste time. I cannot remain in conference with you indefinitely before someone will take notice.”

Mutobe took a deep breath. “Yes. Sorry. It is just that I have not slept much since . . . the murder. Briefly, then: nominally, I have administrative authority over the whole province; however, the special nature of Sado as a prison for exiles of different types gives extraordinary powers to the kebiishicho, that is Wada, and the high constable, namely, Kumo.” The provincial kebiishicho was the police department run by an officer from the capital. Their original purpose had been to assist the governors in curbing the power of provincial strongmen.

In Sadoshima, this seemed to have backfired. Evidently Lieutenant Wada had allied himself with Kumo and ignored Mutobe’s wishes.

Mutobe explained, “Political exiles are generally well-behaved, but men who are sent here for piracy, robbery, and other violent crimes are another matter. There is a small garri-son to protect provincial headquarters, but the soldiers are all local men and the commandant is an elderly captain for whom the assignment was tantamount to retirement. And, of course, Kumo controls the landowners and most of the farmers.”

“Farmers are generally a peaceable lot.”

“Yes, but large landowners like Kumo are not, properly speaking, farmers. They own most of the land and therefore the wealth of Sado. Since we must maintain ourselves and the

prisoners and exiles with their families, we need their rice, and the emperor needs their silver.”

“I see. Where is your son?”

Again Mutobe’s hands twisted. “My son is in jail,” he said bitterly.

Akitada sat up. “In jail? You mean here in the provincial jail?

Is that not somewhat unusual?”

“Yes. Well, there was some thought of putting him in the stockade, but I managed to avert that. He could have given his word and been put under house arrest, but they insisted on jail-ing him like a common criminal.” Mutobe buried his face in his hands. “Every day I fear for his life. In a jail cell it is so simple to fake a suicide.”

Akitada softened toward the man. No wonder he lived in fear of upsetting his enemies. “Would it be possible for me to speak with him without causing comment?” Mutobe lowered his hands. “Yes. I think I can arrange that.”

“Tell me about the people who were present when the prince died.”

“Okisada died after a dinner at the home of Professor Sakamoto. Sakamoto used to teach at the Imperial University in the capital, but after a visit here he decided to stay and write a history of Sado Island. He is a well-respected man, but I have wondered if he was sent to spy on the prince. If he was, Okisada made it easy. He and his companion, Lord Taira, were regular visitors at his house. Okisada enjoyed boating and seafood, both of which are excellent on Lake Kamo.” Mutobe paused.

When he continued, his voice was curiously flat. “On this occasion, there were two other guests, a young monk called Shunsei, and my son. Originally I had been invited, but I begged off. My son represented me.” Passing a weary hand over his face, he sighed. “Forgive me. This is a painful matter for me. Besides being my son, Toshito has been my official assistant.”

Akitada was startled. “Your assistant?”

“Sadoshima is not like other provinces. I came here almost twenty years ago and married a local woman. She died when Toshito was only a baby. I could have returned to the capital, but a man of my background has no future there. I decided to stay and raise my son, and the government was happy with the arrangement. Few capable officials are willing to serve on the island of exiles. When Toshito showed promise, I sent him to the capital to study law, and after he returned he became so useful to me that I requested official status for him. My request was granted last year.”

Akitada thought of his own young family. He had not yet achieved Mutobe’s status. Would he, too, be condemned to spend the rest of his career in Echigo, far from the capital and with no chance at promotion? What if he lost Tamako and found himself raising his son alone? He suddenly felt great sympathy for the pale, elderly man across from him. He said, “I see.

Please continue.”

“The witnesses were all in agreement about what happened . . . well, Taira, of course, cannot be trusted, but the others had no reason to lie. Sakamoto lives quietly, except for visits by the prince. Apparently the prince took an interest in the history Sakamoto is writing. And Shunsei is just a young monk the prince has befriended. Kumo, of course, did not attend because I was to be there. Anyway, they all claim that after dinner Toshito was left alone with the prince in the lake pavilion.

They were walking back to the house when they heard Okisada shout for help. Toshito was bent over the seated prince with both hands at his throat. They ran back and found the prince dead. Toshito denied having attacked Okisada, but he was not believed.”

“Strange. What did the coroner say?”

“His report shows that Okisada died of poison.”

Akitada stared at him. “Poison? I do not understand. Why is your son in jail?”

“Unfortunately, Toshito had taken a favorite dish to the prince. There was not enough for the others, so Okisada alone ate it. The prince complained about the taste and a pain in his belly before he died. Later, when someone let a dog lick the bowl which had contained the stew, the animal died in convulsions.” Akitada shook his head. “I can hardly believe it. I assume, of course, that your son also denies poisoning the dish.”

“Of course.”

“Why was the monk there? Was the prince religious?”

“I have been told that he had become so lately. I’m afraid the prince led a very private life. I don’t know anything about the monk.”

“Do you have any idea how and why this murder happened?” The governor compressed his lips. “I am convinced Kumo had a hand in it. My son was set up. I would be in his place if I had accepted the invitation.”

Akitada thought about this. He still did not like it. “Have you made any public threats against Okisada?” Mutobe flushed. “Yes. Okisada made outrageous public comments charging me with dishonest practices. A month ago I sent him a letter warning him that I would take steps to stop his libelous attacks on me and my administration. When he apologized, I put the matter from my mind.”

“I see. It seems an incredible story. If you can arrange it, I’d like to meet your son first, but then I must try to see Kumo and the men who attended the dinner. Do you send inspectors to outlying districts?”

“Yes. One is to leave soon.” Mutobe clapped his hands together. “Of course. That’s it. You can go along as a scribe. Both Kumo’s manor and Shunsei’s monastery are on his regular circuit.”

“Perfect.” Akitada rose and smiled. “I pride myself on my calligraphy.”

Mutobe also stood. “In that case,” he said eagerly, “you might start by working in the archives. I will have a pass prepared for you. It gives you a limited amount of freedom. While you are in this compound, you won’t be locked up, but you cannot leave it alone. I’m afraid I can only offer you quarters with the prison superintendent.”

“A jail cell would be more convincing, but perhaps it is better not to keep such very close contact with your son.” They walked out together, Akitada falling several steps behind when the governor clapped his hands for the guard outside.

“Take him back,” Mutobe told the man. “Tomorrow he is to report to the shijo. Pick him up at dawn. I want reports on his behavior as soon as possible.” He turned on his heel and walked back to his office without another glance at Akitada.

Akitada followed the guard meekly back across town. His return raised no interest. Only the silent Haseo was still there, curled up in his corner, apparently fast asleep. When Akitada asked one of the sleepy guards, “What happened to the others?” he got a grunted “None of your business” in reply. He decided that the prisoners had been moved at night and hoped that little Jisei had been released. Then he lay down and tried to catch a few hours’ sleep before dawn.

The guard reappeared early and took Akitada back to the tribunal before he had a chance to eat his morning gruel. At this time of day, the merchants were opening shutters, and the first farmers were bringing their vegetables to market. Nobody paid much attention to a guard with a chained prisoner.

In the government compound there were also signs of life. The guard removed the chains, and Akitada looked about curiously. Soldiers passed back and forth, a clerk or scribe with papers and document boxes under his arm rushed between buildings, and a few civilian petitioners hung about in deferential groups.

They crossed the graveled compound to a small building with deep eaves. Its interior was cool and smelled pleasantly of wood, paper, and ink. A gaunt man, bent from years of poring over manuscripts, came toward them.

The shijo, or head scribe, was nearsighted and hard of hearing. He had the guard repeat the governor’s instructions.

“Good, good,” he finally said. “We’re very short-handed. Very much so.” Peering up at Akitada, he said dubiously, “You are tall for a scribe. How many characters do you know?”

“I’m afraid I never counted them.”

“Counting? There’s no counting required. You are to write.

Can you use the brush?”

Akitada raised his voice. “Yes. I studied Chinese as a boy and young man. I believe you will be satisfied with my calligraphy.”

“Don’t shout. Hmph. We’ll see. They all brag. The fools think copying work is easier than carrying rocks or digging tunnels. Never mind. I’ll know soon enough. Soon enough, yes.

What’s your name?”

“Yoshimine Taketsuna.”

“What? Which is it?”

Raising his voice again, Akitada repeated the double name, adding that the first was his family name.

The old man stared at him. “If you’re one of the ‘good people,’ where are your servants? Yes, where are your servants, eh? And why were you sent to me? Only common criminals work.”

“I killed a man,” shouted Akitada.

The shijo jumped back, suddenly pale. “I hope you don’t have a violent disposition.”

Akitada lowered his voice a little. “Not at all, sir. It was a personal matter, a matter of loyalty.”

“Oh. Loyalty.” The other man seemed only partly reassured but said, “I’m called Yutaka and you will be plain Taketsuna here. Come along, Taketsuna.”

Sado’s provincial archives were neat and orderly. Akitada looked about with interest. Rows of shelves with document boxes divided the open interior of the hall into convenient smaller spaces. In each was a low table for making entries or searching through records. There were altogether six of these work areas, but only two were occupied by clerks copying documents. The largest space was Yutaka’s own, and he took his new clerk there.

“Sit down,” he said, peering up at one of the shelves. He stretched for a document box, and Akitada jumped up again to get it down for him. “Hmm,” muttered the old man. “You’ll be useful for something, at any rate. Yes, useful.” Akitada suppressed a smile and sat down again. Yutaka opened the box and extracted a thin roll of paper. This he unrolled partially before Akitada. Then he moved a sheet of clean paper, brushes, water, and an inkstone toward him. “Can you read this?” he asked, pointing to the document.

The document began with the usual formalities, and Akitada quickly ran his eye over these, unrolling it further to get to the text. “It appears to be a report on the flooding of Lake Kamo and the damage done to rice fields there.”

“Harrumph,” grunted Yutaka and poked a thin, bent finger at one of the characters. “What’s that?” Suppressing another smile, Akitada pronounced the character in Chinese.

“What? Oh, well. I suppose that one’s too hard. It signifies

‘forced labor.’ The high constable is requesting His Excellency to supply him with more prisoners to help dam the lake waters.

Let’s see you write that character.” Akitada poured a little water into the ink dish and rubbed the ink stone in it. When the ink was the proper thickness, he selected a brush, dipped it, and with a flourish wrote the character on the paper.

“Too big! Too big!” cried Yutaka. “You wasted the whole sheet. Make it very small.”

Akitada selected another brush and wrote it again on an unused corner, this time as small as he could.

Yutaka picked up the paper and brought it close to his eyes.

Without comment, he laid it down. “Come with me,” he said and took Akitada to meet the other two clerks, neither of whom was a prisoner and therefore regarded the new clerk with disdain. Yutaka assigned Akitada to one of the empty desks, with instructions to copy a set of tax accounts from one of the districts. For the rest of the day, as Akitada labored, he appeared on silent feet, peered over the prisoner’s shoulder, muttered, “Harrumph,” and disappeared again.

Akitada made good progress, but after several hours the un-accustomed work caused his back to ache and his wrist to cramp. His stomach growled. After more time passed, his feet had gone to sleep, and his belly ached with hunger. Apparently he was not entitled to a midday rice break.

Or rice, either. That was reserved for better people. Near sunset, a gong sounded somewhere in the compound. Akitada heard his fellow scribes rustling papers and shuffling off rapidly. He continued until he had finished the final page of a document he was working on and stretched. Suddenly Yutaka appeared.

“You didn’t hear the gong,” he said accusingly.

“I heard it. Why?”

“Time for the prisoners’ evening meal.” Akitada said, “Oh.” He started to wash out his brush.

“Never mind,” said Yutaka irritably. “Give it to me and run, or you’ll be too late. Masako doesn’t tolerate stragglers. No.

Doesn’t tolerate them at all.”

“Run where?” asked Akitada, rising.

“The jail. Where else?” Yutaka pointed vaguely. “I think you’ll be too late,” he added glumly.

Akitada bowed. “Thank you. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

When he found the jail, or more precisely the jail kitchen, it was empty except for a very shapely young maid who was stack-ing dirty bowls into a basket.

“I was told that the prisoners eat somewhere around here,” said Akitada.

She swung around, and he saw that she was very pretty, with a round face and sparkling eyes. At the moment they sparkled with anger. “Well, you’re too late,” she snapped. “The gong sounded an hour ago.” A threadbare cotton robe, much too big and too short for her, was firmly tied around her small waist, its sleeves rolled up to reveal work-reddened hands and arms, and her hair was pinned up under a kerchief. Surprisingly, the skirts of a pale blue silk gown peeked forth underneath the rough covering.

“I didn’t know. I am new,” he offered hopefully, staring at the silken hem.

She relented a little. “The fire’s out. You’ll have to eat the soup cold.”

He smiled at her with relief. “I don’t mind.” Her speech was more refined than he had expected in a kitchen maid, and his eyes went again to the pale silk hem. As she moved, a dainty bare foot, dirty but white and slender, appeared for a moment.

She scooped something from a large iron kettle into a bowl and handed it to him. Whatever it was, it looked and smelled unappetizing-some kind of millet mush with a few wilted greens. Akitada held the dripping bowl gingerly away from his clothes and looked about for a place to sit. Finding none, he leaned against the kitchen wall and raised the bowl to his lips. But the mush had thickened, and he had trouble drinking it.

“Would you happen to have some chopsticks?” he asked the girl, who was sweeping the floor in a haphazard fashion.

She stopped and stared at him. “Chopsticks? For a prisoner?”

“A little joke.” He chuckled. “I suppose there’s not much hope in asking for wine, so maybe I’d better settle for water, right?”

“Right!” She pointed to a large bucket in the corner.

He did not dare ask for a cup. Instead he used the dipper to pour some water into his food, stirred it with his finger, and then drank it down in several hungry gulps. It had little taste, but he gladly accepted the refill she offered. This, too, he mixed with water, and when he was done, he poured more water in the bowl, took it outside to rinse it, and refilled it to drink.

The girl had watched him surreptitiously. When he returned the bowl to her with a bow and a smile, he said, “Thank you. My name is Taketsuna. You’re very kind. And very pretty. May I ask your name?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m Masako,” she snapped. “And my father’s the superintendent, so you’d better watch yourself.” He was so astonished, he was speechless. The superintendent of a provincial jail, though of low rank, was still an official.

How could such a man allow his daughter to work in the prison’s kitchen? It occurred to him that she might be the result of an affair with a native woman, and he said, “Certainly. I’m to report to him. Can you show me the way?”

“You’ll have to wait. I have to finish cleaning up first.” She put his bowl into the basket and bent to pick it up.

“Allow me to carry that for you. Perhaps I could help you wash up?”

She regarded his tall figure thoughtfully for a moment. Her lip twitched. “All right. You can do with a wash yourself. Come along, then, Taketsuna.”

He followed her across the courtyard to the well and hauled buckets of water, while she washed the bowls and restacked them in the basket. “Now take off your robe,” she told him. “You won’t get a bath tonight, so you’d better wash here.” He glanced around. The courtyard was empty, so he obeyed, draping his stained gown carefully over the rim of the well while he stood in his loincloth, sluicing himself down with the cold well water, uncomfortably aware of her eyes on his body. When he reached for his robe, she snatched it away. “It’s filthy. I’ll wash it for you later. Get the basket and come with me.”

“B-but,” he stammered, looking down at his wet self, “I can’t go like this. I have nothing to wear.” She was walking away. “Nonsense. Nobody cares what a prisoner wears,” she snapped over her shoulder.

He picked up the basket and followed. The guards outside the gate threw it open as they passed, and two constables appeared, carrying a litter between them. Behind them waddled Ogata, the fat physician.

Masako stopped, and Akitada quickly hid behind her, clutching the basket to his body.

As the litter passed, he saw that the slight shape on it was hidden under a woven grass cover. A dead child? He recalled that Ogata was also the local coroner. The child’s death must have been suspicious, or Ogata would hardly take this kind of interest in the corpse.

For once Ogata’s eyes were alert and sharp. He recognized the prisoner instantly and halted, letting his eyes move from the girl to Akitada and back again. “Are you keeping company with

half-naked men now, Masako?” he drawled. “In broad daylight, too. Must have a talk with your father.” Akitada saw the color rise in Masako’s pale neck. “If you go worrying Father, Uncle,” she cried, raising a clenched fist,

“I’ll . . .”

“Oho! Is that the way the wind blows? A secret affair.” Ogata raised his brows comically.

Masako dropped Akitada’s robe and picked up her skirts to rush at Ogata. The doctor held her away easily, laughing while she shouted at him.

The constables stopped and put down their litter to watch.

They, too, began to laugh, looking from the half-naked Akitada to the angry girl. Guards peered in at the gate and people came from buildings to stare.

Akitada put down the basket and snatched up his robe. Slipping it on, he joined the doctor and the girl. “Is a suspicious death an occasion for mirth on Sadoshima?” he asked.

Masako dropped her arms, looked at the stretcher, and stepped away from Ogata, who continued to chuckle helplessly.

After a moment the doctor choked back another peal and wiped his face. “Sorry,” he gasped, looking mildly shamefaced.

“The sight of you with our lovely Masako here drove this other matter from my mind for a moment. Masako’s my goddaughter, by the way, which accounts for my teasing her.” His eyes narrowed speculatively. “As a man like you knows how to use a brush, come along. I’m to do a postmortem on this man. You can take notes.” With a wave of the hand, he set the constables and their litter in motion and they moved off.

Akitada looked at Masako and the basket.

“Never mind,” she said crossly, still rosy with embarrassment. “You go along. I can manage. Come to the house when you’re done.” She pointed out a modest building which huddled under some trees behind a bamboo fence.

Akitada followed the litter into another low building not far from the kitchen. It contained only a long table, raised to waist height, a low desk with writing implements and paper, and several rough shelves with lanterns, oil lamps, and assorted medical instruments.

Ogata directed the constables to place the body on the table, and then to light the lanterns. He placed these himself so that the still-covered body was brightly illuminated. When all was arranged to his satisfaction, he turned to Akitada.

“Squeamish?” he asked.

“I’ve seen death before.”

“This man you know,” said Ogata and whipped aside the cover.

The corpse was nude and very small. Yellowish gray in death, his ribs and bones unnaturally prominent, his face contorted as if in pain, and his eyes mere slits, he lay childlike on his side with his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped about his belly. The only wounds apparent were on both knees and elbows. It was little Jisei, the prisoner.

Akitada stifled an exclamation. “What happened?” he asked, stepping closer. “He was well yesterday. He said the ointment you had me apply eased the inflammation in his wounds. He looked forward to being released. How could he have died so quickly?”

“Not sure. That’s why we’re here.” Ogata told the constables to turn the body on its back and straighten the limbs. When one of them was careless and broke an arm, he snarled at the man,

“I’ll make sure to deal roughly with your carcass when your time comes. Which may be sooner than you think.” The constable blanched.

There were faint marks on the poor thin body in addition to the gruesome wounds on his knees and arms. Ogata said, “He got those crawling in and out of badger holes. When a prisoner’s as small as this one, that’s the work they make him do.”

“Badger holes? Why?”

“Mines. There’s silver in the mountains. The men tunnel in and bring it out. It’s grueling work. But that’s not what killed him.” He began to study every inch of the naked body, taking special note of the sunken area just below the rib cage, ordering the constables to turn Jisei on his stomach and then back again.

He pursed his lips and next gave his attention to the skull, feeling all over it carefully. Lifting the lids, he peered at Jisei’s eyes.

Finally, he pried open the dead man’s mouth with a thin ivory implement. When he straightened up, his face was filled with angry disgust. The sudden movement caused the flames in the lanterns to flicker, and for a moment it seemed as though Jisei smiled.

“What is it?” asked Akitada. But Ogata did not answer. He stared at the dead man, then looked at the constables. “You can go,” he said harshly. “It seems to be a natural death after all.” They trooped out.

Akitada stepped forward and bent to peer at Jisei’s mouth. It was filled with blood. He straightened. “I think this man has been tortured,” he said flatly. “I don’t know how, but he’s bitten through his tongue.”

Ogata was still angry. “No. He was beaten to death. Hit in the stomach where the marks don’t show. He may have bitten his tongue also, but he would have died from the ruptured organs inside. The fools thought I wouldn’t notice.” Suddenly he looked old and defeated. Pulling the mat back over the pathetic corpse, he muttered, “Not that it makes any difference. Let’s go.” Akitada said, “But the man was murdered.”

“It will be reported as a fight between prisoners.”

“A fight? This man would never fight. Look at him.” Ogata laid a finger on his lips. “Ssh. You know it and I know it, but knowledge can kill. Forget it and watch your step, young man.”

“You mean you won’t do anything about this?” Akitada was outraged. “How can you allow the murder of a human being to go unpunished?”

Ogata sighed. Blowing out the flame in one of the lanterns, he said sadly, “Here a human being is nothing but a candle in the wind. Remember it well, Taketsuna.”