When Tora woke the first time, he thought he had the worst hangover of his life. The world gyrated blearily before his eyes, which hurt almost as much as his head, and when his stomach heaved, he rolled quickly to avoid vomiting all over himself. After that he passed out again.
The next return to reality began the same way, but the vomiting produced only dry heaves and he remained conscious. He put a hand to his throbbing head, touched sticky blood, and reconsidered his condition. An injury? Cautious investigation confirmed that he had a large wound on his scalp, and a lot of dried blood not only on his head, which was too tender to explore thoroughly, but also on his face and neck, and on some ragged clothes he seemed to be wearing. The clothes brought back memory.
He was lying on a dirt floor, propped against a wall inside a storage shed. Bars of sunlight fell through the spaces between the boards that formed the walls and roof. In a corner lay a pile of sacks and boxes. Otherwise the shack was empty. It was daytime, but probably not the same day he had fought Matsue. That bastard!
Wondering if he was a prisoner, he crawled to the door and stood. For a moment the shack spun madly while the floor heaved under his feet. Afraid of falling, he got back down on all fours. The door was not locked, but he was exhausted and crawled into the corner with the sacks, rested his aching head on them, and closed his eyes.
He must have dozed off, because he next felt someone shaking his arm.
“Tora? It’s me. Kinjiro.”
“Wha… oh.” He struggled to a sitting position. “What’s going on?” he managed.
“I brought you some water and a bit of food. How are you feeling?”
“Thanks. Not too bad,” Tora lied. He took the pitcher and drank it nearly empty. After that he felt a little better, but he did not want the food, though it looked like good rice and vegetables. Kinjiro gobbled it down hungrily.
“I guess I made a fool of myself,” Tora said bitterly.
“No, you didn’t. They’re talking about how good you were. You slipped, that’s all. Matsue shouldn’t have struck you like that.”
Tora was grateful. Really, there was hope for this kid. “So what now?” he asked. “I don’t guess I’ll get the job.”
“There was talk last night. Kata Sensei and Matsue Sensei arguing. I couldn’t hear all the words. Matsue Sensei doesn’t like you, but Kata Sensei was very impressed.”
“He can’t be too impressed after what happened,” said Tora. “Who brought me here?”
“Two of the students and me.”
“Thanks. What about the students?”
“They think you should stay.” Kinjiro grinned. “They figure they can learn to beat you. Matsue Sensei won’t waste his time on them.”
Tora snorted and touched his sore head. “I guess he’s done me an honor then. That makes me feel a lot better.”
“Matsue Sensei’s a bit fanatical about being the best. You want to wash? There’s a lot of blood on you.”
“Make myself presentable to express my thanks for the welcome, you mean? I don’t think I’ve got the strength yet to deal with all those students who’re planning to challenge me.”
Kinjiro laughed. “You’re funny. I like you.”
Tora reached across and tousled the boy’s hair. “I like you, too. Thanks for bringing the water and food.”
Kinjiro flushed. “It was nothing,” he said gruffly.
Tora eyed him thoughtfully. “Tell me about yourself while I try to stop my head from acting like it’s about to burst open like a ripe melon.”
“There’s nothing to tell. What you see is what I am.”
“Not much then. But in time, with some proper food, you may fill out.”
“Yeah. I’m not stupid. They feed me here.”
“And they didn’t at home?”
The boy spat. “Home!”
“No parents? No brothers and sisters?”
“I wish!” This was said with such venom that Tora raised his brows.
“Oh?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” The boy moved impatiently. “What about you?”
“Oh, my family’s nothing special. They were peasants. We had a small bit of land at the end of the eastern highway. They’re all dead now.”
“How come?”
Tora said nothing for a moment, then, “They starved.”
“Starved? Farmers? You’d think a farmer wouldn’t starve.”
“They do when they have a few bad harvests and the tax collector takes all their rice for taxes. You can get through the winter gnawing a few roots and leaves left in the fields, but if your seed rice is gone, there’ll be no harvest the next year. But the tax man comes anyway, and if you can’t pay, he takes what you have and makes everyone work off the debt on one of the lord’s pet projects. In my case, I got to be a soldier. When I got back from fighting, they were all dead.”
“Oh.” Kinjiro thought about it, then said, “I’ve never been out of the capital. My father was a scribe. We lived in a nice house a few wards north of here.”
“A scribe? That’s a pretty good job, isn’t it? Practically a learned man. How come you end up here?”
“He died.”
“But…?” Tora swallowed the rest of his question. The boy had turned his head and was plucking nervously at his shirt.
“I don’t care,” he said fiercely. “I can look after myself. I don’t need anybody. Someday I’ll show them all.”
“Is your mother dead, too?”
The boy kicked a heel viciously into the dirt. “No such luck! The bitch had better things to do. She got married again.”
Tora was appalled. After a moment, he said, “I guess her new husband didn’t want to adopt a whole family. What about brothers and sisters?”
“She kept my baby sister. And it wasn’t her new husband got rid of me. It was her. She tried to sell me to a post stable where they beat me every day. When I ran back home, she had to return the money. That made her mad and she said I had to get out. The filthy bitch.” His voice broke and he jumped up, kicked the door of the shack open, and disappeared.
The door clattered shut, and Tora stared at it. Poor kid. He had at least been a grown man when his parents died. Kinjiro’s mother was either heartless or without choice in the matter, and the boy was taking her rejection hard. No wonder he had joined a gang.
Tora rested a little more and was just making up his mind to walk home, when Kinjiro returned. “You’re in,” he cried. “Kata wants to talk to you about the job.” Before Tora could ask for details, he was gone again.
Tora got up and walked out of the shed. The bright sun blinded him, but most of the dizziness was gone. He found a well. Kneeling on the stone coping, he lowered the wooden bucket by its old rope and pulled up water. It took three more buckets before he had rid himself of most of the caked blood in his hair and on his skin. His skull seemed to be in one piece, though it hurt like the devil. He washed out his shirt in the last bucket and draped it over the fence behind the training school to dry. He would stay long enough to find out what the job entailed.
Wearing only his short pants and hoping that the old scars on his upper body would look more impressive than a ragged shirt, he walked into the training hall. Kata stood talking to some students and ignored him. Tora did not see Matsue and went to sit on the trunk. After a while, the boy showed up with a paper-wrapped bundle.
The thought of working for Kata was still tempting. Of course he would have to get his information quickly, before Kata decided to send him out on a burglary or hold-up. He had an uneasy feeling that he should have planned things better.
Thinking made Tora’s head hurt worse. He decided to go back to his shack and take a little nap, but as he was shuffling away, Kata called out, “Hey, you. Tora.”
Tora turned and said humbly, “Yes, Sensei?”
Kata dismissed the students, then said, “Come here.”
Tora obliged and submitted to a close inspection of his wound. Kata tsked and shook his head. “How do you feel?”
A little surprised by the solicitude, Tora managed a grin. “Like I’ve a beehive in my head and the bees are trying to get out.”
Kata chuckled. “Matsue shouldn’t have struck so hard, but it was an accident.”
Tora’s grin faded. “It was no accident.”
“These things happen,” said Kata vaguely. “Anyway, you can have a job helping me in the training hall. I’ve seen you handle a sword. How are you at kickfighting and wrestling?”
“Not so good, but I can beat anybody with a pole.”
“Really?” Kata waved to the boy. “Kinjiro, get two poles.”
Tora bit his lip. His head pounded like blazes every time he moved. But he accepted the bamboo pole and took up his position. It was a short bout. After a few turns, Kata stepped away. “Yes,” he said, “I can see you’re good. You can teach me a few things.” He tossed the pole to Kinjiro, went to pick up the paper-wrapped package, and thrust it at Tora. “Put these on. The boy’ll take you to a house where you can stay tonight.”
Tora was so astonished by all this that he made Kata a deep bow. The pain that shot through his head added a touch of unintended emotion to his expression of gratitude.
“Never mind,” said Kata. “You’ll be useful. Maybe later I’ll let you help with some other business. How do you feel about the police?”
Tora stepped back and glowered. “I won’t have anything to do with them.” His memory of Lieutenant Ihara made him embellish a bit. “Those crooked devils treat poor bastards like filth while the rich can do no wrong. Greedy merchants rob their customers, and then they turn around and rob their workers by sending us away without wages. And if we complain to a constable, he’ll lock us up and beat us half to death for making trouble.”
Kata nodded. “I know. Police brutality. I noticed the fresh stripes on your back. We feel like you do and protect each other. That means we don’t talk about our business to anyone outside the family. How do you feel about that?”
“It’s an excellent rule.”
Kata laughed and patted his shoulder. Then Kinjiro took Tora’s arm to pull him away. Tora was nearly blinded by the agony inside his skull.
Tora changed in the shed, putting on a pair of full cotton trousers and a plain blue shirt. The jacket had been made for a man who was both shorter and much fatter than Tora, but it was comfortable.
“I got the best,” Kinjiro informed him. “Old Gunzaemon buys his used clothes only from the best people. Got a nice selection. Lots of people dying this year.”
Tora grunted. The stick-fighting bout had made him sick again and he did not feel like talking. He did not feel like walking either and shuffled along glumly, until Kinjiro had to grab his elbow when he veered and almost fell into a ditch. “Here,” cried the boy impatiently, “watch where you’re going.”
They crossed Suzaku Avenue, turning into the business quarter, and soon passed the market.
Emerging from his haze of pain, Tora stopped.
“Kinjiro,” he asked, “did you ever come here with Kata?”
Kinjiro looked impatient. “Kata Sensei.”
“Sorry. Kata Sensei. I’m not at my best today.”
The boy relented a little. “Yes, I’m here a lot. Why?”
“I think I saw Kata once. At the tower.”
“Listening to the blind woman, I bet.”
“Yes. Do you know her?”
“I know everybody. She got murdered. Kata Sensei was in a terrible temper when he heard. We all stayed away from him.”
This was puzzling. Had something gone wrong with an order Kata had given? “Why was he mad?”
But Kinjiro clammed up. “You ask too many questions. Forget it.”
After a moment Tora tried again. “How many people work for him?”
The boy looked at him suspiciously. “Why do you want to know that?”
“An important man’s in more danger. I was wondering how best to guard him.”
“He’s important. We keep our eyes open and our mouths shut. You heard what he said.”
Tora nodded. If Kata had a big operation, he might take drastic steps to stop a blind female from talking about his activities. “Good. I’ll be useful then. Where are we going?”
“Just a place.”
Tora sighed inwardly. This was like dipping water out of the ocean with an acorn shell. He decided it was his turn to be resentful. “Sorry I asked,” he said huffily.
The boy gave him a sidelong glance. Tora compressed his lips and looked straight ahead. After a moment, the boy said, “It’s just a house. Kata’s borrowing it.”
Tora said nothing.
“What’s the matter?” the boy demanded.
“Never mind. I thought we were friends,” said Tora heavily, “but I see you don’t like me. You don’t trust me either. I’ll be better off working elsewhere.”
“Don’t say that,” the boy cried. “I didn’t mean it. It’s just.. . you’ll get in trouble if you know too much.”
Tora pointed to his head. “I feel awful and I’m just trying to learn about the job.”
“I’m sorry. I want to be your friend, Tora. Honestly.”
Tora looked up at the sky. “Hmm.”
The boy caught his sleeve. “Please, Tora. I don’t have any friends. The others treat me like a kid. We could help each other. I’d look out for you and you for me.”
“We… ll…”
“Please?”
“Friends trust each other.”
“I trust you.”
“All right. Let’s see if you do. If I’m going to work for Kata Sensei, I’d like to know as much as I can about him and his people.”
Kinjiro’s eyes flickered. “I don’t know everything. And we’re not supposed to talk.”
“I thought I was one of you now. See, you don’t trust me. Never mind.”
“What do you want to know?”
“How do you like the boss?”
“I’d die for him. He makes sure I get plenty to eat and sometimes he tells me I’ve done well. He’s like a father. He looks after us. He finds us places to stay, and buys our food and wine. And if we get hurt, he gets a doctor. He sent me for new clothes for you when I told him how bloody you were. We all belong to Kata Sensei.”
“What about the work-anybody ever get killed?”
Kinjiro hesitated. “You mean us? Not so far. A few got arrested. It beats starving in the streets.”
“Hmm. And what does Matsue Sensei do for the boss?”
“They’re friends. Matsue Sensei is a great sword fighter but he can be mean.”
“I know.” Tora touched his head and grimaced. “But you say they argue. And he doesn’t teach. Why does Kata need him?”
“I’m not sure. Sometimes I think Matsue Sensei can lay his hands on money. Or maybe he knows something about Kata Sensei.”
“Ah. When Kata Sensei lost his temper about the blind woman’s murder? Did he argue with Matsue about that?”
“Maybe. Kata Sensei liked her a lot, but Matsue Sensei hated her.”
Tora stared at Kinjiro. “Kata liked her? And Matsue hated her?”
“Matsue Sensei would not go near her. He’d just stare at her from a distance. Weird. Like he didn’t think she was really blind. Once Kata tried to make him talk to her. He got so angry he walked off. Matsue Sensei is very strange.”
“Right.” Tora lost interest. The long walk had been too much. He was so exhausted he could barely see where he was going.
He was spared racking his painful head for more questions when they reached the quarter of the Eighth Street Gate, a quiet and respectable neighborhood where the houses were old and solid. This time of day the streets were empty and the shop fronts closed. Apparently everybody was at their evening rice. The place they sought was at the end of a block, a large one storied house. It presented windowless walls to its neighbor and the side street, but had sliding doors and shutters in front.
It seemed a strange hideout for Kata’s thugs. Surely the neighbors would not keep quiet about the comings and goings of shady characters. Tora decided that it must be a temporary refuge. Criminals tended to move from place to place, though Tora had never known any to live so well.
Kinjiro gave four quick taps to the door. A panel slid open, and then the door slid back with a squeak, revealing a scruffy-looking individual who nodded to the boy and eyed Tora suspiciously.
In the dim light from some high windows, Kinjiro led Tora down a stone-paved hallway past the empty raised shop front and into an equally empty kitchen. Here a strange mix of aromas greeted them: food, both fresh and stale, sweat, smoke, and-all-pervasive-the clean scent of aged wood.
The boy lifted the lid of a rice cooker. A white cloud of steam escaped and filled the air with a rich smell. “You hungry yet?”
Tora sniffed. “I could eat something. Where is everybody?”
“They’ll come later. After work.” Kinjiro found two bowls and filled them with rice from the pot. He located a tray of salted vegetables, ladled them on top of the rice, then fished some pickled radish from a barrel on the floor. Handing Tora one of the bowls, he said, “Come,” and headed farther along the dark corridor.
Tora followed. They walked in the dusty footprints of others past an interior garden, and stepped up into the main room of the house. It had once been the best room of a prosperous merchant family. The wooden beams and walls had darkened over the years, and many stockinged feet had polished the raised wooden boards to a deep luster, now dulled by dirt and scuff marks. In one corner the floor was charred black. Someone had either lit an open fire there or spilled burning charcoal and left it. It was a miracle the house had not burned down. Spills and food stains marred the floor where it was not covered with the abandoned belongings of prior occupants. Clothing and bedding lay about in heaps wherever they had been kicked.
“Whose house is this?” Tora asked, surprised. “Where are the servants? The family?”
Kinjiro went out on a narrow veranda overlooking the small garden and sat down. “It belongs to Buntaro. He’s second in command. No servants. Just an old man.” He started eating with the greedy appetite of a growing boy.
It was much lighter outside than in the house and Tora looked curiously at the plants and small fish pond that filled the enclosed space. The fish in the pond were dead, bloated forms that floated on the surface, and the plants needed water. He sat down and looked dubiously at his food. He had not eaten for more than a day, but the sight of the dead fish made him feel queasy again. He took a small bite of the vegetables. It was good, and he tried some rice. “But there must have been women and servants once,” he said between mouthfuls.
“Don’t know. We haven’t been here long.” Kinjiro did not bother to empty his mouth but talked around the food. “There was nobody here but the old man when we came. The old man’s gone away on a trip.”
Tora had an uncomfortable feeling about the place. His encounter with the vicious Matsue had been bad enough. Now he was involved with a gang of thugs and thieves who would not think twice about killing him if they found out what he was up to. Though he was not precisely working for the police, the criminals would certainly see it that way.
And then there was a chance that the police might be tipped off by a neighbor and decide to raid this place. The guard was not at the door for nothing. If Tora, already a defendant in a murder case, were caught living with a gang so soon after his arrest, he would not have a chance in hell to prove his innocence. But it was a little late to back out now. He reminded himself that he was on the trail of Tomoe’s killer.
Kinjiro departed with his empty bowl and returned with a large pitcher of wine and two cups. Tora, who was making little headway with his food, refused the wine. His head pounded until he was nearly cross-eyed with the pain. What he needed was water. He watched the boy pour down several brimming cups in quick succession. “Are you allowed to drink all that?”
“Sure,” boasted Kinjiro, belching. “It’s the best. Kata Sensei gets it from one of his clients. Here! Try some.”
“I need water,” croaked Tora, staggering to his feet, “and the outhouse.”
Kinjiro got up. “I’ll show you.”
They passed down another dark corridor and through a back door into a fenced service area with several smaller buildings. Kinjiro pointed out the latrine, but Tora made straight for the well. When he reached it, he ran out of strength and sat down heavily. Kinjiro pulled up a pail of water, dipped a ladle in and offered it to Tora. “You don’t look too good,” he said needlessly.
Tora drank and handed the ladle back. “I’ll be all right in a minute,” he muttered, closing his eyes.
“Are you sure? Because I can’t stay.”
Tora’s eyes flew open. “You’re leaving?” he yelped. He had visions of a gang of bandits jumping on the strange intruder and asking questions later. “Who’s going to explain to the others what I’m doing here?”
Kinjiro narrowed his eyes. “You aren’t afraid, are you?”
Tora flushed. Of course he was afraid, but he could not disillusion his only ally. “Don’t be an idiot,” he snapped. “I want to get some sleep and I don’t want every fool who trails in to shake me awake because he’s never seen me before.”
“Oh.” The boy relaxed and grinned. “I’ll tell the guy at the door to warn them. See you in the morning then.”
Tora nodded and watched him disappear into the house. Actually, the situation was not without interest. He was alone in a robber’s den-well, alone except for the character at the street door, and he would hardly leave his post except for an emergency, such as a trip to the outhouse. Tora eyed the latrine and decided to use it himself.
When he emerged, he investigated the service yard. It was nearly dark by now. Wishing he had a lantern, Tora poked around in the large shed. It held household goods. He made out firewood, tools, spare buckets, a ragged broom, a coil of rope, a couple of braziers, a ladder, and an abandoned bathtub filled with sacks of beans, strings of onions, root vegetables, and a lot of other unidentifiable household goods.
A storehouse stood in the middle of the yard. It was the most substantial of the outbuildings, covered with plaster and roofed with tiles. Storehouses protected family valuables from the fires that often consumed the wooden dwellings, and this one was securely locked. No doubt the gang kept its ill-gotten gains in it.
Night was falling rapidly and already the unfamiliar place was full of black shadows and eerie sounds. Something knocked and something else scrabbled. When Tora thought he heard a groan, he retreated into the house.
It was even darker there. Suppressing irrational fears about ghosts and goblins, Tora felt his way down the dark corridor to the main room, where he could barely make out the piles of bedding. Helping himself to one of the quilts, he curled up in a corner and went to sleep.
He slept fitfully because he was nervous and because his head bothered him. At one point he thought he heard voices and steps, but nobody came to disturb him. Toward morning he fell into a deeper sleep and did not wake until well after daylight. To his surprise, he was still alone.
He sat up and gave a tentative shout, but no one appeared. After rolling up his bedding and tossing it back on the pile, he went to take a look around, but the rest of the house was as empty as the main room. Even the guard had disappeared.
This last discovery made Tora very uncomfortable. Where had the guard gone? And why? And why had he been left behind? He could not rid himself of a sense of impending disaster. Did they expect a raid? Perhaps he had been left to be arrested for some crime the others had committed during the night. He listened for the pounding boots and whistles of police constables, but all remained still.
Much too still! The sun was up. Where were the normal sounds of a neighborhood waking to another work day?
The urge to run warred with Tora’s curiosity. He stood uncertain for a moment, then decided that he would at least do a quick search of the rooms first.
In the kitchen he found evidence that someone had visited the house during the night. The rice pot was empty and on a shelf was a paper containing two square rice cakes and a lot of crumbs. Tora helped himself to the cakes, then checked the rest of the house. He found little of interest, apart from some spare clothing and one or two weapons of the type common among criminals, until he opened the door to a room that was furnished better than the rest. It had thick grass mats on the floor, its own small garden court, and a few pieces of well-made furniture. Apparently it was used as a guest room for an honored visitor.
Among the furnishings stood a large ironbound chest of the type used by traveling merchants to carry precious goods. Tora checked it. It was locked. The police would force the lock, he thought, and listened again for the sound of their pounding feet, but the same eerie silence prevailed. He was about to open a clothes chest, when he heard an odd little bump in the corridor outside. He peered cautiously out the door. The corridor was empty. Deciding he must have imagined it, Tora turned back to the clothes chest. And here he finally made a discovery, though what it meant was more than he could understand. On the bottom of the clothes chest, underneath the folded jackets, shirts, and pants, he found some documents. They seemed to belong to Matsue. Tora had no wish to be caught rifling through that character’s private property and quickly flipped through them. Some were about his training and qualifications as a swordsman and some were old travel permits. But two pieces of paper made him whistle softly in surprise.
One was a formal transfer of rice land in the Tsuzuki district between a Lord Tomonari and his maid. The other was the title of ownership to a small farm. Tora was familiar with such legal papers, because his family had once owned a farm. This particular farm was slightly larger and probably on much better land, and it belonged to someone called Sangoro.
Sangoro was the name Kinjiro had used for Matsue before correcting himself quickly. Nothing unusual about that. Many an aspiring swordsman changed his name for any number of reasons. Perhaps Matsue wanted to hide his peasant background. What startled Tora was another word that jumped up at him from among the lines of spidery writing. It looked like the family name of the dead Haseo: Utsunomiya.
Tora was still trying to decipher this paper when he heard a distant squeaking noise followed by the clicking of a latch: the street door. Slipping the document inside his shirt, he hurriedly replaced the rest of the papers and closed the trunk. Then he stepped out into the corridor and listened. The house was as still as before. He checked the main room and then the entry, but found nobody. Belatedly it occurred to him that the door could have been closed by someone leaving the house. The thought that he had been watched made him nervous. Tora opened the door, verified the squeak, and looked up and down the street. Nobody. The neighborhood lay deserted.
Remembering the service yard, he went back to check there. It was as empty as the house. A couple of sparrows were bathing in the dust beside the storehouse. Tall walls screened out all but the roof of the neighbor’s house and some treetops. Tora pulled up a pail of water, drank thirstily, and splashed some on his face and head. His headache had dulled considerably.
The silence made him jumpy. He should have been hearing the voices of children and the sounds of men and women at work beyond the fence, but there was nothing but the soft twitter of small sparrows and the cooing of a few pigeons on the roof. He listened, then heard another sound. It was very faint, a sort of scrabbling accompanied by a whimper. Only a dog, he decided. It must be locked up somewhere. Perhaps it was thirsty. He filled the bucket again and left it on the well coping while he looked around. He peered behind the latrine and into the storage shack. No dog, but the whimpering continued. That left the storehouse. Storehouses were windowless because they were not intended for habitation, human or animal, yet it was from inside the storehouse that the sounds came.
Who would lock an animal in a storehouse? It was dark and airless in there. Was the dog being punished? Or was it supposed to guard some particularly costly haul the thugs had hidden there? He grinned at the thought of robbers afraid of being robbed. Poor beast, but he could do nothing about it.
As he turned away, he remembered the eerie groan the night before. Come to think of it, this faint wailing did not sound like a dog. Tora pressed his ear to the storehouse wall and gasped. Whatever was wailing in there did not sound human, either. He recoiled from the wall, a slow horror building inside his chest and taking his breath away.
It must be a ghost-the ghost of somebody the robbers had killed. That’s why they had taken to their heels without their clothes and valuables. Tora backed away slowly.
Another faint but horrible wail struck his ear, and he reached for his amulet before remembering that he had left it at home.
Home. That’s where he should be. Tora feared ghosts much more than a whole army of cutthroats in the flesh.
But it was broad daylight, and he had second thoughts about this particular ghost. What if the man inside was still alive?
He approached the storehouse again and checked the lock. It was heavy and unbreakable. Inside, the wailing stopped. A cracked voice called out, “Buntaro?” Tora skipped back a pace, thought about it, and decided that a ghost would not get his name wrong. And this Buntaro was one of the thugs, the owner of this place.
Relieved that he was not dealing with the supernatural, Tora put his mouth to the door, and shouted, “I’m not Buntaro. What are you doing in there?”
The voice inside broke into an agitated and incomprehensible babble and he heard fingernails scrabbling at the door.
“I don’t have a key and can’t understand you,” Tora shouted.
The babbling rose a few decibels but was still too agitated to make out. He thought he heard the word “police.” Did the person inside want him to get the police? A gangster, no matter how desperate, would never make such a request.
This cast a different light on the situation. It was one thing if gangsters dealt harshly with one of their own, but if they held an innocent person in there, Tora had an obligation to help him.
He considered the storehouse. Like all such buildings, it was made of very thick plaster walls, its roof was tiled, and its single door was of thick wooden planks. It had been built to withstand fire and robbers, and the lock was hopeless without a key.
He was taking another look at the lock when the door behind him flew open and someone cursed. A tall, thin man stood on the threshold. “What are you doing there?” he bellowed, adding another curse for emphasis.
Tora remembered him now. He had been the one with Matsue when they had found him giving the boy a lesson in sword fighting. Tora had nicknamed him the “Scarecrow” because he was ugly and his clothes hung like rags on his thin frame. The situation was awkward, but at least the fellow would remember him. He said quickly, “Oh, hello. I wondered where everyone was. I thought I heard a dog in there. Must’ve been mistaken.”
In reply, the Scarecrow pulled a knife from his jacket and started across the yard. Tora stepped back and crouched to defend himself, but the thug only checked the lock, then glared at him. “You’d better not be making trouble,” he shouted, pounding his fist against the door for emphasis, “if you know what’s good for you. Kata Sensei doesn’t like meddlers and neither do I.”
Tora straightened up. “Don’t worry, I don’t care what you keep in there. The emperor’s treasures, for all I care. I was washing myself at the well when I thought I heard a dog whining.”
The other man looked at the bucket and at Tora’s wet hair. “All right,” he said grudgingly, shoving the knife back into his belt. “Just keep your nose out of our business in the future. You’d better come along now. Kata Sensei wants you.” He took Tora’s arm, but kept the other hand on the knife handle.
“Where’s everybody gone to?” Tora asked, allowing himself to be dragged along.
“Moved to another place.”
“Why?” He remembered the ironbound chest. Why had they left their loot behind? Not to mention their prisoner.
The Scarecrow opened the street door and pushed Tora out. “Smallpox,” he said. “Next door and a few houses up the street and behind us. Almost everybody’s gone from this quarter. We found out this morning.” He locked up and motioned for Tora to start walking.
Smallpox.
Tora thought of the amulet seller in the market. It must be spreading fast. He wondered about the man in the storehouse. Maybe he had been locked up and left to die because he had smallpox. Tora shivered. “Why didn’t someone tell me?”
The Scarecrow snapped, “I just did. Shut up and get your legs moving.”
Stupid question. They hadn’t cared what happened to him. It was Kata who had sent the Scarecrow back for him. And that might be an ominous sign, too.
The street lay deserted, but when they passed the neighbor’s house, Tora saw the paper seal with the official warning on the door. A faint sound of chanting could be heard. Someone was dead or dying inside. He felt sorry for the family.
But then, he was not exactly on his way to a celebration himself. And what was he to do about the poor wretch in the storehouse?