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.”
The beggar squeaked. When Tora released him, he rubbed his scrawny neck, where the scratches started bleeding, and grumbled, “Don’t threaten me. I know you, even in those old rags. You’re the one used to hanker after that blind slut. What happened? Lost your job?”
Tora glared. “Watch your mouth when you speak of the dead, turd. As for my clothes, I’m undercover. I’m working with the police on her murder.” It was stretching the truth a bit, but that couldn’t hurt with scum like this.
To Tora’s surprise the man’s face turned pasty white and his eyes boggled. “Here, I know nothing about that,” he stammered, jumping up.
Tora grabbed him by the arm and flung him back on his seat. “Not so fast!” He eyed him with disgust, then reminded himself that beggars shied away from police matters because all too often they made convenient scapegoats. The beggar gulped, ran a grimy hand through the greasy strands of hair that hung to his shoulders, and hitched up his ragged shirt, revealing that he had not bothered to wear a loincloth. He looked like a living piece of garbage. Worse, he stank like garbage, and fear had intensified the aroma.
Tora moved downwind and kept his eyes on the creature’s face, but found this equally nauseating. The shifty eyes squinted everywhere but at Tora, and the thick lips were cracked and had traces of dried white spittle in the corners. “Relax,” Tora said, “you’re not in trouble. I just want to ask some questions.”
The beggar croaked, “You sure don’t look like police.”
“I told you, I’m in disguise. Tell me what you know about Tomoe’s regular customers. Especially those engaged in illegal activities.”
“Engaged in illegal activities?” mocked the beggar, who was getting his nerve back. “And what might those be? I’m just an ignorant bastard, you know.”
“Don’t jerk me around. You know what I mean: gambling, robbery, burglary, selling children into prostitution, and cheating old people.”
Tora had heard that criminals looked at their work as a kind of trade and formed guilds or families that were run by a boss, or father figure, and staffed with members who were ranked as officers, soldiers, and apprentices. He figured that Tomoe had tangled with a gang boss.
The beggar’s expression turned shifty. His eyes moved constantly-like black flies crawling on a moldy dumpling-from Tora, to other restaurant patrons, to the passing crowd in the market, then back to Tora again. “I wouldn’t know, but if you’re looking for her killer, you’d better check the toms she took home with her. She put out to anybody who paid enough. That back door of hers might as well have been a curtain. I figure one of them felt cheated and cut her up a bit. They say there was a lot of blood.” The beggar licked his lips and grinned. “Maybe he even liked doing it.”
Tora narrowed his eyes, but there was nothing to be gained by hitting the beggar now. Better let him talk.
The waiter came and slapped food and drink down on the bench between them. “Ten coppers. You pay now.”
Tora suppressed a grimace. That left him with only three coppers, and he had a long day ahead of him. He paid, then snatched the wine flask from the beggar’s greedy fingers. One of them was missing the tip. “Talk first!” he snapped.
The beggar stuck out his tongue and reached for the soup bowl.
“I said, ‘Talk first!’ Tora shouted and pounded the flimsy bench. Some of the soup splashed out.
“Now see what you’ve done,” complained the beggar. “Oh, all right. She used to sing to a guy owns a training school on the other side of town. They say that’s not all he does. He comes here with his friends: a big, mean-looking guy and a young kid. I don’t know their names.”
“Is his name Kata?”
Surprise flashed in the beggar’s eyes, but he said, “How should I know? He didn’t introduce himself to me.”
Tora reached for the soup.
“All right. It may have been.”
Tora relaxed. He was pretty sure now that the beggar knew Kata. He pushed wine and soup toward the man and thought about the interesting implications. Not only was he looking forward to getting his hands on that sly fellow Kata, but there was also the Haseo look-alike. And that one had been seen near the watchtower, not far from where Tomoe worked. He hoped they would not recognize him in his rags but planned to apply a handful of dirt to his face before paying his visit. Impatient now to be gone, Tora watched with ill-concealed irritation as the beggar slurped his soup and drank his wine. The sight turned his stomach. Getting up, he told the filthy creature, “Stay out of trouble or else!” and walked away.
Kata’s training school was in session again, but the crowd outside seemed much smaller than last time. They hardly gave Tora a second glance; he was one of them, a shabby, dirty fellow without a job and nothing better to do on a fine day than to watch some fighting. Tora squatted next to a scruffy youngster and scanned the training hall.
Kata was demonstrating a sword technique to three older students. It looked like an aggressive move against two or more armed fighters that involved a quick and fatal outcome. Kata was certainly not training for contests, and Tora appreciated the usefulness of his technique. Having been a soldier, he did not like to play games with a sword.
Stick fighting was another matter, and Tora was remarkably skilled at that. A long bamboo pole could kill if handled a certain way, but it was primarily a weapon of defense. The idea was to disarm the other guy or perhaps incapacitate him by breaking an arm or a leg. In a case like that, a man could afford to toy a bit with an opponent. He saw that Kata’s stick fighters were rank beginners, and an idea began to form in his mind.
An elbow poked his side. “You new here?” asked his neighbor.
Tora eyed the skinny kid. He was maybe twelve, stringy, and wild looking. He probably had no family and lived on the streets on what he could steal from food stalls and shops, or from people’s houses if they were careless enough to leave them unattended. There were thousands of hungry, homeless boys like this in the streets of the capital and they were always a nuisance.
“None of your business, brat,” he growled and turned his attention back to the lesson. Kata being a gang boss certainly made sense. As a training master, he could conduct his business practically under the noses of the authorities. Haseo’s double was absent, but he surely had some link to the organization. Tora smiled with grim satisfaction.
“Bet I could tell you what you want to know,” squeaked the youngster beside him.
His voice was changing and made Tora jump a little and wonder if he had underestimated his age. He turned to look him over more carefully. The boy cocked his head and touched his nose in the manner of someone who has information for sale.
“What could you know? You’re barely weaned from your ma’s tits,” Tora said.
“Hah!” The scruffy youngster stuck out his bony chest and announced proudly, “I work for him,” jerking his head in the direction of the training school. “That’s how I know. Bet you came looking for a job.”
Tora gaped in mock surprise. “How d’you know that?”
The boy grinned. “You’re the type. You like fighting and you look like a soldier out of work. They always come and pretend they’re just watching. Then, pretty soon, they offer to work for food.”
Tora glanced at the students again. The ones in front were practicing the “whirlwind” defense, which involved turning rapidly in a circle while slashing about with the sword. They were coming dangerously close to wounding each other with their wooden swords, wheeling about the training hall like demented tops. He snorted. But the boy might be useful. Tora asked, “D’you think he’d take me on?”
“Might.” The boy squinted at him. “You been in the army?”
“Yes. And I’m better with a sword than those fools.”
“Good. Got a good army record?”
Tora shifted uneasily. “Well…”
The boy grinned and slapped his shoulder. “Don’t worry. That’s good, too. Just so long as they’re not looking for you.”
“They wouldn’t be looking for me here anyway.”
“Where you from then?”
“The North Country.”
The boy clapped his hands. “Kata will like that. He says they’ve got tough fighters up that way. Yes, I’d say you’ve got a good chance. Mind you, he expects loyalty. Me, I’ve worked for him almost two years now. I’ll soon be a regular and get my lessons for free.”
“What sort of work?”
“I’m a runner now. The fastest there is because I know my way around. And I keep my mouth shut. That’s important in this business.”
I bet it is, thought Tora. “You’re a bright kid. You’ll go far.”
The boy nodded. “I know. And I’m not afraid.”
“Well,” said Tora, “if you can help me get the job, I’ll make you a deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
“You tell me how to act and who to talk to, and if all goes well, I’ll give you some lessons to get you started. I can use a sword and a pole better than any of them.”
But the youngster balked a little. He cast a nervous glance toward Kata, who was shouting at an unfortunate student. “Are you really good?”
Tora jerked his head toward the alley behind the school. “Let’s go back there and I’ll show you.”
The alley was deserted. One side was the mostly blind wall of the training school, and the other a long line of half-broken fencing separating the alley from the backyards of poor dwellings. A few empty sake barrels rested against the wall, and a pile of kitchen garbage had gathered near a wooden shed. Tora waited. In a moment the skinny youngster opened the back door and emerged, carrying two wooden swords.
Tora extended his hand for one of the swords. “Just a little sample. That move your master was teaching just now? It’s called ‘The Whirlwind,’ and it should be done like this.” He demonstrated with an explosion of movement that made his arms and legs a blur, causing the air to whistle around his out-flung sword arm. He finished with a sudden jump that brought the point of the sword against the boy’s throat.
The youngster shrieked and fell backward into the dirt. Tora grinned down at him. “Like that, see? You slash at as many as you can, making some room for yourself, and then you go for the leader. That stops the rest, but if it doesn’t, you kill the bastard and start over again. I’ve never had to do it more than once. By then they’ve got the message and run.”
“Amida.” The youngster got to his feet, his eyes big with wonder. “I’ve never seen Kata Sensei move like that.” Then he added loyally, “But I figure he could.”
Tora doubted that Kata would teach that particular trick, because he had just invented it. The problem with it was that it left your back unprotected when you stopped whirling to attack a single opponent. But the youngster would not know that. So he grinned lazily and perched his backside on one of the upturned barrels. “Now it’s your turn. What’s your name?”
“Kinjiro. And you?”
“Tora.”
“Tora?” The boy looked impressed. “If they call you Tiger, you must be famous.”
Tora said modestly, “Nah. Would I be looking for a job if I were?”
Kinjiro said fervently, “Well, I think you’re great. And if you aren’t famous, you will be.”
Tora nearly blushed at so much admiration and began to wonder if this young sprout of a cutthroat might be salvageable after all. But he doubted that his master would take on another obligation just now, especially one of such dubious promise, and put the thought firmly from his mind. He said, “Thank you. Someday you may have such a name, too. You know a lot already. Speaking of that, can you tell me about a big fellow with a trimmed beard? He was with your boss. Nicely dressed. About forty, I’d say. We had some words. I didn’t like his manner and I doubt he liked mine. Who is he?”
“Uh, oh! I bet you messed with Sangoro.” The boy clapped his hand over his mouth and looked over his shoulder. “Don’t mention that I called him that. He wants to be known as Matsue Sensei.”
“Sensei? Is he a teacher like Kata?”
“Matsue Sensei is a master swordsman. He doesn’t waste his time with ordinary fighters.”
“Or so he says.”
The boy grinned. “Maybe you’ll show him, eh? I don’t like him, because he beats me. But he’s the boss’s friend. Maybe he’s in the business. I wouldn’t know because I’m not allowed in the meetings.” His face lengthened. “Matsue Sensei might make trouble for you. The best thing to do is to talk to the boss when he’s not around. Once you’re in, show the boss what you can do. Matsue Sensei’ll have a hard time getting rid of you then.”
Tora gravely thanked him for the advice.
The youngster asked, “Will you show me how to handle my sword now?”
The impromptu lesson was inconvenient, because someone might come at any moment, but a deal was a deal, and Kinjiro had passed on some useful information. Tora picked up the sword again and showed Kinjiro various stances. His private opinion was that the slight, bandy-legged boy would never develop the muscles, height, or weight needed to handle a heavy sword. But the exercise reminded him that he had become rusty himself. They used to have sword or pole practice every morning in the courtyard-he, the master, and Genba. But lately the master rarely had the time, and when he did, he practiced with Yori, who had become very enthusiastic about swords. Genba had turned into a lazy slug. Perhaps signing up with Kata was not such a bad idea. There was some small risk that Kata would recognize the ragged, unshaven Tora as the companion of the official who had asked nosy questions about Matsue, but Kata had never seen him close up. Tora felt his chin. Perhaps in a day or so he could grow enough of a beard to be safe. The temptation of getting inside the gang was too much to resist.
“Tora?”
Not much harm in teaching the kid a few tricks. He might need him in the future. “Pay attention, Kinjiro,” Tora said. “There’s more to being a fighter than learning moves. Think about it: Every time two men meet with swords, one will be the winner and one will be dead. Never get into a quarrel lightly.”
“I don’t plan to lose,” said the boy with a toss of the head. “And if I do, I deserve to die. That’s a fighter’s fate.”
“Hmm. Yes. But always keep death in sight. If you forget it, you’ll make a mistake and death will rudely remind you.”
The boy nodded. “That’s very good. I shall remember it. Now show me what I must do.”
Tora sighed and assumed his position. “Watch me. You must train your body to obey you perfectly, and most especially you must think to protect yourself. So, first of all, always stand sideways to your enemy. See? He’s got less to strike at that way.”
The boy watched and followed Tora’s example.
“Crouch down a bit more. Make sure your shoulders are no higher than your enemy’s sword hand. No, put your weight on the forward knee. Right. Now stretch the other leg out behind you. That allows you to lunge, twist, or retreat instantly.” He demonstrated.
The boy grinned and lunged. Tora twisted aside and, lashing up with his sword, easily disarmed him.
“Ouch!” Kinjiro rubbed his wrist. When he tried to pick up his sword again, his hand would not obey.
“What’s this?” drawled a lazy voice behind them. “How dare you injure this child?”
Kinjiro cried out, “It wasn’t like that, Matsue Sensei. Tora was teaching me.”
Tora turned and saw two men. Both were tall. One-a stranger-was as thin and lanky as a scarecrow; the other was Haseo’s double. Tora finally had a good look at their mysterious stranger. Matsue did the same with him. His scrutiny was unfriendly. “Tiger?” he sneered. “You look like a mangy cat.”
Matsue bore a certain superficial resemblance to Haseo. It was probably greater at a distance and due to the way he walked and held himself. His face was actually quite different. The eyes were smaller and colder, more calculating than Haseo’s. Haseo had not had much to smile about, but when Tora had met him, the joy of having escaped and the thrill of holding a sword again had lit up his face like the sun. This man’s smile was tight, contemptuous, and spiteful. Tora reacted with instant loathing. He cocked his head and snapped, “I may look like a mangy cat, but I got claws for rude bastards like you.”
Kinjiro pulled his sleeve. “No, Tora. This is the master’s friend, the one I told you about.”
Tora already regretted his rash words and was seeking some way to gloss over them, when Matsue took a step toward the boy, spun him about by the arm, and slapped him so viciously across the face that he flew through the air and landed in a whimpering heap in the dirt.
“Hey, why’d you do that?” Tora cried, clenching his fists.
“He talks too much. People have lost their tongues for doing that.”
The boy uttered a choking moan and crept up to cower behind Tora, clutching his shirt and peering around him at Matsue. “Please, Matsue Sensei,” he wailed, “I’ve said nothing I shouldn’t. I only told Tora what a great swordsman you are.”
Matsue lost some of the cold fury that had marked his attack on the youngster. He growled, “What business is that of his? Your job is to send scum like him on their way.”
“But, Master, he wants to sign up. He’s from the north and a very great fighter. He’s almost as great as you.”
Silence fell. Tora was still glaring at Matsue, aware only of an intense, burning hatred for the man. He strove for self-control, forcing his breathing to become shallow and gradually relaxing the tension in his body.
Kinjiro’s words had caused Matsue to shift his attention to Tora. As they locked eyes, Tora almost lost his control again. He felt a strange shock and thought: He can see right into my head with those mean eyes. He knows what I’m thinking. He knows what I’m here for. Maybe he’s the one that killed Tomoe.
Matsue broke the spell first. He spat. Then he drawled, “Let’s go inside and see how good you are, mouse catcher.” He turned toward the training hall and held open the backdoor for Tora to enter.
Tora hesitated. Matsue was heavier, especially in the shoulders. That should make him slower, but his strokes would carry all his weight and would be hard to parry. Besides, Matsue had a reputation as a swordsman, and Tora had little training, had only used a sword in battle, and was badly out of practice. On the other hand, here was his chance to show the bastard who was the better man. In front of Kata and his men. In front of a crowd who believed Matsue superior. It was tempting, but Tora knew he must not do this if he wished to gain information.
Kinjiro gave him a little push from behind. “Go on. Show them what you can do. You’ll be in for sure.” The boy’s cheek was red and swelling. Tomorrow he might even have a black eye. Tora remembered the bean-filled rice cake in his sleeve. No telling when he’d get home. He fished it out and handed it to the boy. “Here. I’m sorry you got hurt on my account.”
Kinjiro looked surprised. “Thanks. It was nothing,” he said and took a large bite.
Tora walked quickly past Matsue and the thin man into the hall.
Matsue interrupted class.
Kata frowned. “What’s this?” he demanded, staring at Tora, who still held his sword. “Since when do we invite vagrants to join a class?”
Matsue said, “This one’s been outside talking to the kid. Apparently he’s been bragging that he’s some great fighter from the north. I thought he might show us his stuff.” He gave a derisive snort.
Kata eyed Tora. “Have I seen you before?”
“Maybe. I came once just to watch a little. I’d heard about you in the market, Master Kata. Thought I’d ask for a job, but you were busy.”
Kata’s eyes narrowed. “In the market? Who sent you?”
“I don’t know his name. A beggar. I tripped over him near the tower.”
One of the students guffawed.
Kata relaxed. He nodded, smiling. “We know him.”
“He can start with the students,” Matsue said. “That should give them some confidence.”
Kata turned to one of the students. “You, Seijiro. You can use the practice.”
Seijiro flushed. Younger and smaller than the others, he looked nervous, but took his stance. Tora eyed him and decided that he had been matched against the weakest student in the school. Feeling the insult, he crouched and attacked, disarming the other fellow almost instantly.
Turning to Kata, he said, “You haven’t got very far with this batch, have you?”
Kata did not answer. He called a name, and another student assumed his position.
This time Tora toyed with his opponent. He let him attack, offering openings that the other man did not see and bungled. In the end, Tora disarmed him without much effort. “Come on,” he said impatiently, “how about a better opponent, Sensei?”
But Kata, after exchanging a glance with Matsue, shook his head. “They need the practice, and I can see how you handle yourself with them. If you do well, I may give you work.”
Matsue was leaning against a wooden trunk, looking bored. He was the opponent Tora wanted, but there was nothing he could do about it if he wished to be accepted by Kata. He decided to put on a good show.
His third opponent was quick. Tora found himself moving a great deal with this one. Jumping about and twisting in this warm air made him sweat. The fellow eventually tried the new whirlwind move, and Tora ducked under the flailing sword, tripped him, and placed his sword against his throat. “Always wait until the master has taught you the right defensive action in case the whirlwind doesn’t blow away your opponent,” he admonished his victim with a grin.
Kinjiro applauded enthusiastically, but Kata shouted, “Silence!”
A fourth student stepped forward. Tora wiped the sweat from his face and saw with relief that this man was considerably older. Surely he would not jump about like a mad flea.
He did not. But he was a very deliberate defensive fighter, and this bout lasted four times as long as the last. When he had finally disarmed the man, Tora was tired. He realized he was badly out of shape, but expecting him to fight one opponent after another without allowing him rest periods between bouts struck him as unfair. By now, his thin shirt and trousers were glued to his sweating body, and he kept having to wipe his sword hand on his clothes to get a firm grip. He saw with some satisfaction that the students he had fought looked worse than he.
The last student was his own age. If the past performances had been anything to judge by, this must be the star pupil. He was. The student executed several aggressive moves perfectly. Tora decided to use caution. He concentrated and paid attention to his defensive moves while waiting for an opening for a surprise attack. This paid off, because he managed to trick his opponent into an ill-considered lunge, which allowed Tora to twist and seize the other man’s sword hand, bending it back at the wrist. The student screamed and dropped his weapon.
As he bowed to his shamefaced opponent and then to Kata, he heard Kinjiro applaud again. This time, reluctantly, a few students joined in.
Tora expelled an audible sigh of relief. He was drenched in sweat, and the muscles in his calves and shoulders ached and throbbed unpleasantly. “Well, Sensei?” he asked Kata with a grin. “Are you satisfied? Will you take me on? I work cheap. Food and shelter to start with. But I can use some sword practice, so I’d like a few private lessons, too.”
“Do you now?” Kata cocked his head. “And what other sorts of work can you do?”
“Well,” said Tora with a laugh, “I draw the line at sweeping up after everybody, but as I’m pretty good with my sword, I could take care of any troublemakers, or collect money that’s owed to you, or generally just keep an eye on you and your business.” He went to place his practice sword on the trunk Matsue was leaning against.
Matsue straightened up and seized Tora’s wrist. “Not so fast, mouse catcher. Maybe you did scare a few of the little pests, but I’m not done with you. After the tiger roars, he’d better prove that he has teeth and claws. You call yourself Tora; let’s see if you can fight like a tiger.”
Tora stared at him. He had just fought five bouts and was exhausted. Sweat was pouring off him. He said, “I’m tired. Some other time. Tomorrow, maybe? Or later tonight?”
Matsue smiled unpleasantly. “What? Are you no tiger after all? After filling the boy’s ears with your boasts, you now claim fatigue because some puny students practiced their pathetic skills on you? And you expect to become a useful member of this training school? Pah!”
Tora flushed with anger. Matsue had planned this from the beginning. He bowed. “As you wish.”
Matsue took another practice sword from the wooden box. It was beautifully tapered, slightly longer than Tora’s, and almost black in color. He performed a couple of sharp slashes, then assumed his position.
When Tora had taken his place, Matsue, small eyes flickering with malicious joy, bowed. Tora returned the bow. His hand and the grip of his sword were slippery with his sweat, but he made an effort to put this complication from his mind and think positively. He would not allow Matsue to taunt him into confusion or, worse, fear. Instead, he would make his move quickly and end the contest before it was too late.
Focusing his eyes on Matsue’s center, he waited. When Matsue lunged, Tora parried, saw his chance, and instantly took a large step forward to side kick Matsue’s leg. It was a soldier’s trick of overcoming an attacking adversary quickly. But the move failed miserably. As Tora’s leg shot forward for the kick, the foot carrying his weight slid out from under him. He slipped on the wet boards where one of the students had tumbled earlier and was already falling when Matsue’s sword came hissing down.
A fierce, hot pain exploded in Tora’s skull, and the world disappeared.