Halfway down the path, a crippled pine leaned toward the wall. One sturdy branch reached over its top. All a man had to do was to pull himself up, crawl along the branch, and jump down on the other side. The man had gone over the wall.
Akitada took off his outer robe, wrapped it around his waist, and tied up his trousers. Then he pulled himself up quickly and stood on the branch, looking down into an elegant garden. There was no sign of the intruder.
If a man had climbed the pine and jumped into the Yasugi garden, he was there for no good purpose. That left Akitada little choice but to follow and try to stop whatever was about to happen.
He nearly slipped off the branch when he caught sight of the man again. He was moving along a path, not thirty feet away. The burly shape, the checked shirt, and the bandage across his face were unpleasantly familiar. It was the thug who had come for him at the bridge the day before. He had inflicted some damage when he had rammed the small tree into the man’s face, but his presence here was not only ominous but dangerous: Akitada was not armed and did not know if the man’s companions were with him.
There was nothing like surprise reinforced by bluff. Moving out along the branch, Akitada jumped down into the garden and found the path. Putting on his robe again, he untied his trousers. Then he stepped from the cover into the path and walked casually toward the man. “Hey,” he shouted. “You there! What are you doing here?”
The fellow started and turned. His good eye almost popped out in surprise when he saw who was coming.
Akitada pretended to recognize him also and scowled dreadfully. “You again!”
Putting his hands to his mouth, he shouted, “Tora, Genba! Thieves! Come quick!”
The ruse worked. The thug made a frantic dash into the garden, with Akitada in hot pursuit, shouting, “Robbers! Call the constables! Get your bows. Quick!” and making as much noise as he could. The man disappeared into the shrubbery.
Akitada’s shouts should have brought out any Yasugi retainers, but nothing stirred in the compound. The service buildings-stables, storehouses, and a kitchen-looked deserted. Akitada moved quietly on his soft soles, peering around corners and through windows into buildings. He found all doors firmly locked. Where had the fellow got to?
Too late he heard the clicking of a latch. He swung around and saw the gate to the back street closing with a thud. The man had got away.
With a sigh, Akitada walked back to the main residence.
The path skirted an artificial lake, much larger than Lady Kose’s miniature puddle. The separate pavilions were connected to each other and to the largest building by roofed galleries. He crossed a small moon bridge over a narrow arm of the lake and looked down at floating water lilies with pale yellow starlike blooms. Speckled koi rose sluggishly to inspect the sudden intrusion of a human shadow into their quiet world.
The house was closed up, its heavy wooden shutters securely locked into place. The only sound Akitada heard was the crunching of the gravel under his feet and the occasional chirping of a bird somewhere. He inspected each building. The number of pavilions suggested that Yasugi’s wives and his daughters each enjoyed their own quarters. It was not until he had almost finished that he noticed the first sign of life.
A pair of women’s sandals, large and well-worn, stood at the bottom of the veranda steps. Not bothering to remove his own shoes, Akitada climbed the steps and turned the corner of the building. And there a wooden shutter had been pushed aside and a sliding door was open to the interior. He took a cautious step forward and peered in at thick grass mats, a clothes stand with women’s garments draped over it, and a painted screen. Various articles lay about nearby, all of them belonging to an upper class woman: a fine bronze mirror stand with its round mirror; a comb box and a cosmetics box, both finely lacquered; books; papers; writing utensils; and, near the veranda, the zither he had heard.
He cleared his throat, but all remained still. The stillness was strangely breathless, a silence filled with… what?… fear, anticipation, or perhaps danger?
“Is anyone here?” he asked.
The silence became heavy and suffocating. The image of the bloodstained room of the street singer flashed through his mind. He was suddenly afraid that he had come too late after all and crossed the threshold quickly.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. They fell first on the mirror and cosmetics box, and he felt a surge of excitement. The box was the twin of the one owned by the dead Tomoe.
He made a move toward it, when he heard a soft rustling. Half turning, he saw a figure silhouetted against the brightness of the sunlit garden beyond the door-a large sword raised in both hands.
He took a desperate leap as the long blade hissed down.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Tora left the soothsayer, greatly troubled by his prediction, and almost fell over the beggar who was crouching at the bottom of the steps. The screams of pain jerked him out of his abstraction.
The beggar was rolling in the dirt in apparent agony. “Oh, my back,” he groaned. A small crowd gathered. “My rib’s broken. Aaah! Fetch a doctor, quick. He kicked me! Oh, Amida, the pain!” His scabby knees drawn almost to his chin, the beggar rocked back and forth in the dust like a large ball of rag and bone, his face contorted and his arms clutched across his middle. Both his face and arms were covered with assorted scratches.
Tora did not believe for an instant that he could have injured the man-or that a man with broken ribs would roll around that way. He knew this for what it was: a ploy to extract money from an unwary shopper. The broken rib was an outright lie.
A crowd grew with a speed that proved the spectacle of human pain was of greater interest than shopping for food, eating, or even standing in line to buy amulets against disease. True, some of the regulars lost interest when they saw who was writhing on the ground, but others remained to see how the beggar’s victim would react.
Tora glanced at the crowd. Some people were glaring at him. One woman shook her fist, and somebody shouted, “You young hoodlums think you can walk all over us. Just you wait!”
It was not clear what he was to wait for, but Tora bent and hissed into the wailing beggar’s ear, “Cut that out and I’ll stand you some wine.”
The beggar brought the noise down to a soft whimper and whispered back, “How much? And how about some food?”
“Very well, a meal with a flask of wine in the restaurant by the gate. But I want some information.” Louder, he said, “Let me help you up.”
The beggar unwrapped himself and staggered to his feet. Tora made a show of checking him over for injuries, a process which involved some very realistic groans and squeals from the beggar. Then he put an arm around him and said, “You’ll do, but let’s get you something to eat.”
The crowd parted, murmuring encouragement, the regulars smirked, and Tora and the beggar staggered to the restaurant. There a waiter barred the door.
“Not in here!”
Tora considered: The beggar was filthy and he did not look much better. He pulled out his last coppers and held them up. “I’m buying.”
The waiter scowled and pointed to the outside benches. “You can sit there. What do you want?”
“Give him a bowl of soup and a flask of your cheapest.”
“Hey,” cried the beggar, “you promised me a full meal and some decent wine.”
The waiter spat and disappeared inside. When they were seated, Tora looked around to make sure that nobody paid attention, then leaned across to grab the beggar by the collar and jerk him close. “Listen, you stinking piece of garbage,” he snarled, “don’t think I don’t know what you pulled back there. I watched you do the same stunt before. You’re here because I want some information. And if you ever try that trick on me again, I’ll see to it that you get a public whipping.”