The fire began to burn out after a while, and more wood was added to the pyre. The air became saturated with the smell of wood smoke and incense and, very faintly, of burnt flesh.
Tora came quietly to take the sleeping child to his mother. When he left, Toshikage whispered, “Do you think the ladies are warm enough?”
Akitada nodded and glanced at the sky. “It will be dawn soon,” he murmured. “Come to my house to warm up before returning home.”
Toshikage nodded gratefully.
Akitada thought how easily the words “my house” had come to his lips. It was truly his home now, no longer poisoned by memories of his parents’ supposed rejection of him. He recalled his father’s stern mien, so harsh and frightening in his childhood memories, and tried to see it as a mask put on to reassure a jealous wife that he felt no love for this son and merely tolerated him. And he thought much of the young woman who had been his mother. How short her life had been! Had she loved his father? If she had lived, would his life have been different? He felt in his heart that his mother would have loved him.
With the first light of the dawn, the monks stopped chanting. They went to pour water on the smoking remnants of the fire, then sprinkled the ashes with rice wine. Later they would collect the bones and inter them near his father. Akitada wondered where his mother’s remains lay. The mourners straggled to their feet stiffly, and attendants went to get the litters ready for the women. Yori, still asleep, would ride with Tamako, but Akitada and Toshikage walked back side by side.
On the way from the cremation grounds, they stopped to perform the ritual purification at one of the canals which crisscrossed the city. The water was icy, and they hurried their ablutions.
“A fine funeral,” remarked Toshikage, wrapping his wet hands into the full sleeves of his gown.
“Yes. It went very well,” replied Akitada. One said such things, when there was nothing else to say. Certainly Toshikage knew better than to assume that Lady Sugawara was sincerely mourned by anyone, including his wife Akiko.
But this did not stop Akiko later from reciting lines of poetry about the melancholy event when they gathered for some hot rice gruel and warm wine. She dwelt with many sighs on the emptiness of life, and spoke of that sad period spent in “a night of endless dreams” before entering “the dark path” into death, meanwhile eating and drinking heartily between moments of inspiration.
Toshikage watched her complacently, remarking that the enforced period of mourning would give him a chance to see more of his wife. “I shall not be expected at the office,” he said, adding with a distinct note of fatherly pride, “Takenori is quite capable of carrying out my duties for the next week. The boy is really a great help to me these days.”
Akitada went to visit Takenori later that day. It was early afternoon, and he had had only a few hours of sleep. The weather was still wintry, but the sun shone brightly and warmed the air. He had dressed in a plain gray robe and formal black cap which could pass for either mourning or ordinary wear, but wore the wooden taboo pendant attached to the cap. It would stop casual acquaintances and strangers from engaging him in conversation on his way across the palace grounds.
He left the house quiet and shuttered, the large taboo sign at the gate warning visitors away from the contamination that a recent death placed on a household. The morbid presence of these reminders of death cast a dark mood over his errand. Much—no, everything—depended on Toshikage’s son, and their previous meeting had not been encouraging.
When he reached the Greater Palace, the streets and buildings of the large enclosure hummed with activity: officials and clerks bustled about and messengers ran to and fro, carrying documents and records; the Imperial Guard made a splendid show at the gates, and performed a snappy drill in front of their headquarters. Akitada had his private doubts about the guard’s effectiveness in case of an armed attack on the emperor. It had become a much-sought-after profession for the sons of minor nobles and provincial lords who wished to give their offspring exposure at court. But the guardsmen were young and looked sharp enough in their stiff black robes and feathered hats as they rode their horses in tight circles and twanged their bows.
The Bureau of Palace Storehouses was in a large building immediately to the north of the imperial residence. It contained not only offices but storage for the treasures belonging to the sovereign and other members of the emperor’s family. The entrance was guarded by two young guardsmen who cast sharp glances at Akitada, noting his cap rank as well as the taboo marker, and let him pass.
Akitada was not prepared to answer searching questions about his identity and business there, so he was pleased to find Toshikage’s name on a door almost immediately. He knocked, heard a firm young voice inviting him in, and entered, closing the door behind him.
Takenori was seated at his father’s desk, bent over a ledger into which he was making entries. When he saw who had walked in, he froze, brush in hand, and stared openmouthed.
“Good afternoon, Takenori,” said Akitada pleasantly, seating himself across from the young man.
Takenori dropped his brush into the water container and scrambled to his feet to bow. “Good afternoon, my lord,” he gasped. When he straightened up, he still looked utterly confused. “Er, allow me to express my condolences, my lord,” he stammered, then ruined the conventional courtesy by blurting out, “But your honored mother’s funeral was only last night. My father is at home because of it. How is it that you are here?” He stopped and, with sudden panic showing in his face and voice, cried, “Something has happened! Is it my father? Is he ill?”
Akitada noted this reaction with approval and relief. So the young man did care about his father! That made things easier. He said, “No. Nothing of the sort. Please be seated. I had hoped to have a chat with you while your father is elsewhere, that is all.”
Slowly Takenori sat down. His brows contracted, and some of his former antipathy returned. No doubt he wondered what could be of such importance that Akitada would break the social and moral rules of mourning so flagrantly to consult him personally.
Akitada smiled at him. “Though I have not known your father very long, you should know that already I feel a great affection for him.”
Takenori barely suppressed a look of distaste. He clearly did not believe Akitada, but said politely enough, “Thank you. You do us a great honor, my lord.”
“And that is why I am very concerned about the missing items. I think you must be aware of the seriousness of your father’s situation. Should he be found guilty of this theft, he along with his whole family would be exiled to some very unpleasant, faraway province.”
Takenori flushed. “My father is innocent and will prove it.”
“Furthermore,” continued Akitada as if Takenori had not spoken, “his property, large though it is, would be confiscated and all of you, you and your brother included, would be penniless.”
Takenori became quite still. He looked at Akitada for a long time, clenching and unclenching his hands. Then he asked harshly, “Did you come here to tell me that you wish my father’s wife, your sister, to return to her family because you fear for her future?”
Akitada raised his brows. “That was not only rude, but silly,” he said. “I would not discuss such a matter with you, but with your father.”
But Takenori had worked himself into a seething temper. “Well, if it was not your intention to dissolve the marriage,” he said, “you must forgive me, for I cannot imagine that anything but an urgent crisis affecting your own family could bring you out during the ritual seclusion. And what else could you have to discuss with me?”
Akitada cocked his head. “Come, now, Takenori, we both know who took the missing objects, don’t we?”