Tora and Kinjiro made their way to the Scarecrow’s house by such a circuitous route that the sun was getting low by the time they reached the quarter. They need not have troubled. Most streets were empty. When they got close to the house, they moved even more cautiously, but all looked quiet and deserted.
“There may be somebody inside,” Tora said. “Is there a way in from the back?”
Kinjiro looked Tora over. “You’re big,” he said, “but you may be able to do it.”
It involved climbing the rear fence at a corner, and then walking like a rope dancer along the narrow top of the wall for a distance of about twenty feet, before jumping to the roof of the large shed.
Kinjiro demonstrated with the ease of someone used to the route. Tora shuddered. He doubted the flimsy wall would support him, and anyone walking along the top and on the shed roof would be visible from several streets and houses.
“Kinjiro,” Tora hissed.
The boy paused, swaying back and forth, and grinned down at Tora. “Nothing to it.”
“It won’t hold me.”
“It’ll hold you if you walk quickly.”
“People will see us.”
Kinjiro cast a glance around. “It’s the hour of the evening rice. There’s nobody out. But if you stand there and wait, somebody may need to take a pee or something. Hurry up!”
With a sigh, Tora pulled himself up, tested the top of the wall, which was rounded and narrower than his foot, and found that it cracked and shifted alarmingly when he put his weight on it. He peered down into the service yard and at the back of the house. The area was deserted. The neighboring house also looked empty, but a thin spiral of smoke proved that someone was still living there and cooking the evening rice.
Kinjiro practically skipped along the wall and took a graceful leap to the shed, where he sat down to wait for Tora.
Tora began the balancing feat, arms outstretched, placing each foot carefully before the other. It did not seem too bad. Then he heard a door slam somewhere and Kinjiro waved to him to hurry. Tora slipped and almost fell. He caught himself, took two or three running steps, and just as he prepared to jump, the top of the wall gave under him and he fell. With a crack and a rumble that must have carried clear across the quarter, an entire section of the wall collapsed, and Tora descended in a deafening rattle of ripping and falling laths and chunks of dirt. He ended up in a pile of rubble, covered with dust and scrapes. He waited until the dust settled, his eyes on the back of the house, expecting Kata’s people to come pouring out in force to investigate the racket.
“Now you’ve done it,” Kinjiro sneered from the roof of the shed, rubbing in the obvious. But miraculously, all remained silent. Not even the cooking neighbor put out his or her head to stare at the large hole in the common wall between their properties. Tora struggled up, removed a rather large splinter from his right buttock, and limped toward the storehouse.
“Old man?” he called through the door, “Are you still in there?” There was no answer. “We’ll try to get you out. Are you all right?”
Kinjiro joined him. “Hey, Uncle Chikamura? It’s Kinjiro. Is that you in there?”
There was no response, and Tora said worriedly, “Maybe he’s dead. Or maybe he’s got the disease and can’t talk.”
They looked at each other. “You’re going to look, aren’t you?” Kinjiro asked.
“Yes, but you needn’t be here when I get the door open.”
“Needn’t be here? Why not?”
“In case he’s got the disease. Aren’t you afraid of catching it?”
“Who? Me?” Kinjiro spat. “I’m young and tough.”
Tora let it go. “In that case, let’s get those keys,” he said, his eyes scanning the pile of rubble, the gaping hole, and the neighbor’s yard beyond. How long till someone would come out to investigate?
They entered the house quietly, moving on the balls of their feet and listening for sounds. The house seemed empty, and Kinjiro got tired of the precautions. Saying in a normal voice, “Nobody’s here. I’m starving. I wonder if there’s any food left,” he headed for the kitchen.
“First the keys,” Tora snapped.
Grumbling, the boy turned into the main room. It looked as before, with clothes and bedding strewn about and a general air of abandonment. Kinjiro opened a small wooden panel in the wall. Inside were some papers and a small pile of keys. He scooped up the lot and dropped them into Tora’s cupped hands.
Tora returned to the storehouse by himself. All was as before. He tried all the keys, but none worked. And there was still no sign of life inside. Well, they had come this far and had made a considerable amount of noise in the process, so there was no point in being careful any longer. Remembering the stuff in the shed, Tora went to look for something to force the lock. He returned with the broom and the ladder. The ladder he leaned against the storehouse, in case he had to resort to breaking in through the tiles, and the broom handle he inserted between the lock and the door and twisted hard. The broom handle broke, but this time Tora thought he heard a faint moaning from inside. “We’re getting you out,” he shouted. “Just be patient.” Then he headed back into the house.
“Kinjiro?” His voice echoed strangely down the dim hallway. Outside, daylight was beginning to fade. All the more reason to hurry. He had to release the old man and then take a look at what was in the locked chest in Matsue’s room. A pity Matsue got the document back. Tora had looked forward to presenting it to his master. Where was that boy? He started toward the kitchen. “Kinjiro! Where the devil are you? I need your help.”
And then it struck him that there was something very odd about this continued silence. He stopped and held his breath. Had the boy run into trouble? Almost certainly. Tora remembered the assortment of weapons the gang had left lying about, but he had no way of getting to them, and no doubt they were by now in the hands of their owners. He was unarmed.
He reviewed in his mind the contents of the service yard and the shed, but came up with nothing except the broken broom handle. It was a pitiful weapon against a sword or even a knife, but he dashed back to get it.
Broom handle in hand, he reentered the silent, shadowy house, where someone probably waited to kill him. He did not know how many of them there were, but he had to get to the boy.
Slowly he crept along the wall, checking each room to make sure it was empty before moving on. Opening doors took time and nerve. Even the slightest squeak set his teeth on edge, and each time he expected to be jumped. In this manner he made it all the way to the main room. It was empty, but the hidden compartment which had held the keys, and which he remembered closing now stood open. Beyond lay the corridor that led to the kitchen.
Tora brushed the sweat from his eyes, gripped the broom handle more firmly, and started forward. He had taken a few steps when he heard the boy cry out something. It was a brief sound, quickly stifled and followed by a groan. Baring his teeth, Tora rushed forward and burst into the kitchen, lashing out wildly with his broom handle.
“Ah! Finally.” The Scarecrow greeted him with a grin of satisfaction. He was standing across from the door and had an arm around Kinjiro and a knife at his throat. A trickle of blood from a fresh cut was seeping into the boy’s shirt. Kinjiro stared at Tora with wide, frightened eyes.
“Let him go!” growled Tora.
To his surprise, the thin man obeyed. He flung the boy aside and started toward Tora. The room was small, but Tora thought that he might be able to disarm the other man before he could do any harm with that knife: It was fortunate that the Scarecrow was alone.
But no, he heard the scraping of a boot behind him. Swinging around, he saw the ill-featured thug who had guarded the front door on his last visit. He, too, had a knife and a grin on his face.
The Scarecrow snapped, “What’re you waiting for, Genzo? Get him!”
When confronted by two men with knives, it is best to use delaying tactics until one of the opponents makes a mistake, but in this case Tora was given no time. The man behind him jumped and slashed at Tora’s back.
Tora flung himself aside, heard the hiss of the knife slicing through the fabric of his shirt and jacket, and then felt pain sear from his shoulder to his waist. He ignored it. There was no time. His evasive move had trapped him with his back against the kitchen wall. His attackers were now in front and moving in from two sides. Tora thought fleetingly of the whirlwind move he had demonstrated to Kinjiro, but the kitchen was too small for such acrobatic tricks, and fending off two knives with nothing but a broom handle was pretty hopeless. He steeled himself for the inevitable-at the very least some bad knife wounds. Of the two, the Scarecrow was the more dangerous, being in an excellent position to slash and stab at Tora; his companion was hampered by the fact that he was on Tora’s left and had to reach across his own body to score a hit. Tora kept his attention on the Scarecrow.
When the Scarecrow lunged, his knife aimed at Tora’s belly. From the corner of his eye, Tora saw Genzo closing in and preparing to strike also. Tora swung up the broom handle, felt it make contact, heard the Scarecrow’s curse as his knife arm came up. Tora snatched for the knife, but the Scarecrow jerked away sharply. There was a hiss and something clattered on the floor. The Scarecrow started forward again.
At that moment the odds changed. Tora became aware of strange choking and gurgling sounds, and the Scarecrow took his eyes off Tora to glance toward his companion. Tora saw his eyes widen and instantly twisted toward what he thought was an attack. But Genzo just stood there, eyes bulging strangely, mouth gulping for air like a fish, and both hands clasped tightly to his neck.
Then Tora saw the blood. It seeped from between the man’s fingers; more and more of it welled forth until it ran down his body in great gouts, covering his chest with glistening, steaming gore, and dripping to the ground. The hot, sweet smell hung sickeningly in the air, and time seemed to stand still. Tora wondered how a man could lose so much blood so quickly, yet still keep to his feet, still move his lips and roll his eyes. Genzo tried to speak, but only a smacking sound emerged, along with a great gush of blood. And then finally his knees buckled and he fell to the ground.
The Scarecrow stared stupidly down at the body. “What-?”
Tora snatched up the dead man’s knife from the floor and said, “Thanks, stupid. That evens things up a bit.”
The Scarecrow finally realized that it had been his own knife that had slashed his companion’s throat and came at Tora with a roar of fury.
He was no trouble after that, and Tora felt no compunction about killing him. He slammed the knife into the man’s chest, watched him fall, wiped the bloody blade on the Scarecrow’s jacket, and looked around for Kinjiro. The boy was vomiting into a corner. Tora went to the wine barrel and dipped out a large helping. “Here,” he said. “Drink that and pull yourself together. We’ve got work to do. The others may be on their way.”
Kinjiro’s face was white in the gloom, and he shook a little, but he nodded and drank. Some color seeped back into his cheeks. Tora dipped out more wine, watched him drink this also, then helped himself to some.
“Very well, let’s get on with it,” he said. “We need a metal tool to break open the lock. The keys don’t fit.”
The boy nodded, stepped over the Scarecrow with a shudder, and reached into a box of kitchen tools. He pulled out a set of iron tongs. Tora nodded.
As they left the kitchen, they had to step around the large puddle of blood forming around Genzo’s corpse. The boy was still shaking badly.
Outside, the broken wall had not yet attracted notice, and Tora began to work on the lock. The nails were set deeply and had rusted, but they were no match for the sturdy tongs. In time they loosened, and the lock swung down.
Tora flung back the door. A nauseating stench greeted him. At first Tora thought the pile of clothing was too small to contain a body. He looked beyond, saw an empty bowl and the skeletal arm and hand that grasped it. He cursed with pity and anger at the inhuman monster who had confined an old man here without food or water. He was afraid to touch the body because it looked so lifeless, the arm and hand as frail as some ancient mummified limb, but Kinjiro pushed him aside and knelt on the floor.
“Old man? Are you awake? It’s Kinjiro,” he said-his first words since the fight in the kitchen. He put his hand gently on the clothes. Miraculously, the fingers on the bowl twitched a little.
“He’s alive,” Kinjiro said. “Help me get him out of here. The place stinks like an outhouse.”
Tora knew all about the smell of a close prison and much preferred it to the stench of decomposing flesh or fresh blood. He stepped in and scooped up the small body, which weighed little more than a bundle of dirty laundry.
They brought the old man to the main room of the house, where Kinjiro spread some of the bedding on the floor. In the sparse light that came from outside, Tora saw the old man more clearly. His flesh had shrunk from his bones with age or suffering. Where it was not covered by thin white hair or stubble, his skin resembled yellowed paper, and his eyes lay deep in their sockets. They were closed, but his mouth gaped on a few yellow teeth.
“He’s in bad shape,” said Tora, shaking his head. “Fetch some of that wine.”
There was no answer.
Tora started to curse the boy’s laziness, then remembered the scene in the kitchen and went himself.
The Scarecrow and Genzo were as he had left them. A few lazy flies buzzed up from the blood. As he filled a pitcher with wine from the barrel he wondered what the old man would make of his nephew’s death. When he came back into the main room, the boy was bending over the old man.
“How is he?”
“Coming around. He’s trying to say something.”
Tora knelt. The old man’s eyes were open now and moving around. A grating sound came from his throat. Tora said, “I brought you something to drink. Don’t try to talk.”
The old man drank a little of the wine, then shook his head and croaked, “Water.”
Kinjiro rushed away. Tora brushed a few thin strands of white hair from the old man’s face. His skin felt hot and dry. “I’m sorry they locked you up, grandfather,” he told him. “The boy and I will look after you now. My name’s Tora, by the way.”
The skeletal hand crept from the bedding and seized his. It also was hot and dry, the bones like those of a small bird. “Chi… Chikamura,” the bloodless lips mumbled. As if that had been too much of an effort, he closed his eyes with a sigh.
Kinjiro came back with the water. Putting his arm under the slight shoulders again, Tora lifted the old man while Kinjiro helped him drink. He drank for quite a long time, and Tora laid him back down. He seemed to go to sleep.
“Poor old man,” Tora muttered.
“What will we do with him?” Kinjiro looked nervously down the dark corridor. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“We’ll take him with us. It’s getting dark, and that’s good. Go and light those oil lamps over there. I want to have a look at the trunk in Matsue’s room before we leave.”
“There’s no time,” the boy squealed. “They’ll come and kill us. Haven’t you spilled enough blood?”
Tora almost felt sorry for the kid, but there were more important things at stake. “You should’ve thought of your aversion to blood before you joined a gang,” he said coldly, then went to light the lamps himself. “What did you do with those tongs?”
“M… me? Nothing. I guess they’re still outside. You want me to get them?”
“Never mind. Just keep an eye on old Chikamura and give him some more water from time to time. He’s probably not had any for days.”
Carrying one of the flickering oil lamps, Tora found the tongs, somewhat bent from cracking the storehouse lock, and made his way to Matsue’s room to repeat the process on the long ironbound chest. He managed to loosen part of the iron fitting near the lock, inserted the tong, and twisted. The fitting gave some more and the wood cracked, but the lock held. A hatchet would do the job more quickly, but he had none. He worked up a sweat, twisting and bending and prying. Each time, the metal gave a little more. Salty perspiration ran into the fresh cut on his back and started to burn. He had forgotten about that, so it could not be too bad. And then the lock popped open.
The trunk held treasure all right. Bars of gold were stacked next to bags of coin. The bags were filled with silver. The difficulty of carrying off this wealth-a considerable weight, even if it did not take up much space in the trunk-occupied him for a moment, until he saw the sword. Though it was swathed in silk, he knew it for a sword right away. Tora lifted it out and unwound the silk. He saw a scabbard covered with some soft white material, a green-silk wrapped hilt, and green silk cords. The sword guard was decorated with gold. It was a special weapon, and when he drew the blade, it slipped easily from the scabbard. Matsue had cared well for it. And then Tora remembered.
Before he could wonder what the sword was doing here, a shrill scream cut through the silence of the house. Kinjiro! Tora whirled and charged back to the main room, drawn sword in hand. He heard Kinjiro sobbing, “I don’t know what happened. I found them like that. The old man, too. I swear it.”
Another voice cut in viciously, “You lie, snotty brat. Where is the bastard?”
So Matsue had come back for his property and caught the boy. Tora hesitated, wondering if he was alone, but Kinjiro screeched again.
When Tora burst onto the scene, Matsue was headed his way, sword in one hand and a lantern in the other. There was a look of grim determination on his handsome, cruel face. Behind him, in the uncertain light of the oil lamp, Tora saw the motionless shapes of Chikamura and the boy lying on the floor like scattered rags.
Matsue stopped when he saw Tora. An unpleasant smile twisted his mouth, until his eye fell on the scabbard that Tora still clutched in his left hand. The smile faded, and he took a step backward. Baring his teeth, he hissed, “So.”
Tora’s heart was pounding. If the bastard had killed the boy and the old man… but that would have to wait. They were facing off again, he and Matsue. Only this time they both had real swords. They were on equal terms, and this fight would be to the death. Tora had no intention of losing again.
“Thief!” Matsue’s voice grated with suppressed outrage. “Give me my sword, or I’ll slice you in half like a ripe melon.”
Tora grinned. It was a stupid request, not worth replying to. He moved a little to the left to avoid the light. As he moved, he kicked bedding aside so they would have a clear space to fight in.
Matsue’s eyes narrowed. He nodded his understanding and moved to block Tora. “Did you kill the two in the kitchen?” he asked in a casual tone.
“Yes.”
Matsue spat. “Fools and weaklings. You won’t be so lucky now. And these are not wooden swords.”
Tora watched the light dancing along the steel blades. “I won’t slip this time, coward.”
Matsue set down the lantern and took his position. They circled cautiously. Whichever way Tora faced, one of the lights distracted him so that he could not see his opponent’s face well. Matsue flexed his shoulder, and Tora tensed for an attack. Matsue snorted. “Ah, you’re afraid, mouse catcher. Nobody has ever beaten Matsue, and you’re nothing but a miserable foot soldier with a big mouth.” He demonstrated his superior skills with a few rapid lunges, slashes, twists, and thrusts, which Tora, expecting a trick, responded to with quick evasive or defensive moves. Matsue paused to fling back his head and laugh. “You know the way a cat plays with a mouse before it eats it? You’re the mouse now, and I’m the cat.”
Doubt nagged at Tora’s confidence. Could the man be really as good as his reputation? There had been all those certificates in his trunk. Matsue had received formal training and had proved himself to be an expert in the art. Except for a few pitiful tricks he had adapted from stick fighting, all of Tora’s experience came from fighting and killing. He wished he had not bragged to poor Kinjiro about his tricks. When it came right down to it, he had none-just a burning desire to rid the world of this man.
Tora went into his attack. A few feints and lunges and he caused Matsue to bound backward a few paces. Pleased, Tora took advantage of this to adjust his position so he no longer had the light in his eyes and could read Matsue’s expression. Much depended on recognizing the moment of attack in his opponent’s eyes an instant before it happened.
Matsue had not tried to stop him, and a flicker of the other man’s eyes explained why. Tora now had the open doors to the veranda at his back, and Matsue planned to drive him backward until he stumbled off the veranda and fell into the small garden below. There he would impale Tora as he floun dered on the gravel like a beached fish. Perversely, Tora gained new confidence from this: It was good to know the other man’s mind.
And then Matsue attacked. He came with an enormous roar: “H-o-o-o-o-u!” Tora waited, watching the pointed blade coming toward him, feeling the vibration of the other man’s pounding steps in the soles of his feet. He waited until he saw in Matsue’s face the dawning realization that Tora was not retreating, that he might kill him then and there, watched him adjust his grip to the new target, firming and aiming his sword differently, saw the triumph of the kill light up Matsue’s eyes just before he put all his power into the final lunge.
And then Tora stepped aside.
It was a very small step. They were so close that he felt the blade brush his arm, smelled Matsue’s hot breath as he shot past him, heard his feet hit the veranda floor, and turned to deliver the fatal stroke to his enemy.
But Matsue had not gone over the edge to fall prone on the gravel. He had leapt down instead, landing on his feet, and he instantly swung into another charge. Propelled by the fury of having fallen for a child’s trick, he bounded back onto the veranda in one great leap. Tora could not stop the speed of this onslaught and moved aside again. But this time, Matsue had known what he would do and slashed at Tora’s leg. He was past and back in the center of the room before Tora felt the burning pain and the hot blood trickling down his thigh. He had no time to check the wound, but knew that the blood loss would weaken him quickly and make the floor slippery underfoot. The odds had changed again.
It was very still in the room. Tora could hear his breathing and that of Matsue, an occasional rustle of fabric, and the sound of their bare feet sliding across the floor as they moved and counter-moved, seeking the right place and moment to strike. Tora began to inch toward Matsue, keeping his eyes on the other’s face. Matsue feinted toward the left-Tora had guessed it from the flicker of Matsue’s eyes and ignored it-and then Matsue lunged toward the right, where he expected Tora to be. Only Tora had by then moved the other way, raised his sword, and brought it down with a hiss of air and a shout drawn deep from his belly.
There was a clatter, a grunt, and Matsue backed away, staring at the bleeding stump that had been his sword hand. His sword lay on the floor, in a splatter of blood and severed fingers. With a roar, he tried to snatch at the sword with his left hand, but Tora put his foot on it and placed the tip of his blade at Matsue’s neck.
“It’s over,” he said, almost sadly. “You’ll never fight again.”
Matsue slowly sank to his knees. His face worked dreadfully. “So kill me and be done,” he shouted hoarsely.
“Not yet. Did you kill Tomoe?”
Matsue gave a bitter laugh. “A swordsman doesn’t dirty his blade on women. Only scum does that.” He looked up at Tora with a frown. “What are you waiting for? Kill me. I fought honorably. I deserve an honorable death by the sword.” He paused and pointed. “By that sword.”
“Maybe you fought honorably this time, but you didn’t the last time.”
“That was no fight. I was teaching you a lesson about respecting your betters.”
Killing Matsue might save trouble in the long run, but Tora believed now that Matsue had not killed Tomoe. Besides, he hated killing a defeated man. Matsue was finished as a fighter, and since that part of his life mattered more to him than anything else, he was punished enough. Perhaps he might bleed to death, but if he bandaged his arm tightly and found a doctor at this time of night in a city full of smallpox, he would live. Either way, he was no longer a threat.
Tora scooped up the fallen sword and broke it between two boards of the veranda. The hilt he flung as far as he could over the adjoining wall. Then he went to look for Kinjiro and the old man. To his surprised relief, the boy had disappeared. That meant he was alive and not badly hurt. More relief washed over Tora when he found Chikamura hiding in a corner. The old man peered up at him from under his bedding and whispered, “Is it over?”
“Yes. Where did the boy go?”
“He ran away.”
Matsue still sat motionless, perhaps waiting to die. Tora called, “Kinjiro?” but got no answer. The boy was probably far away by now. The events of this day had been enough to give a grown man nightmares. Suddenly Tora felt alone and exhausted. His knees threatened to buckle and he sat down heavily on the edge of the veranda.
The moon had risen and the night was no longer so black. In the distance a temple bell rang. Only a few hours ago they had sought refuge in the temple, and Tora had pretended he was Kinjiro’s father. What would become of the youngster now?
A sharp female voice broke into his brooding. “Hey, you rascal. What’s going on? Who knocked down my wall? Where’s Chikamura?”
Tora looked around wildly and realized that the voice had come from the other side of the garden wall. Someone was in the yard.
Then came Kinjiro’s voice, in a loud whisper. “Sssh! It was an accident. Don’t worry. It’ll be fixed.” Kinjiro sounded nervous.
“I don’t believe you. Come here.”
Kinjiro squealed.
With a muttered curse, Tora jumped up and ran back into the room. Matsue had not moved. His eyes were closed, and he was white from shock or loss of blood. Old Chikamura was sitting up. Tora cried, “Keep an eye on him and call me if he tries anything,” then dashed down the corridor.
In the moonlit yard, he found a large woman who stood with her back to him and had a grip on Kinjiro’s ear. When the boy saw Tora, his face brightened. He cried, “Make her let go of me.”
The woman gave her prey a sharp and painful shake and rasped, “You won’t fool me with that old trick, you little bastard. I’m past putting up with you lying, thieving rogues over here. I want to see Chikamura now.”
Tora hid his sword behind his back and cleared his throat.
She let go then and swung around to glare at him. “So there’s more of you bastards. I’m not afraid of you either.” Advancing on Tora, she said defiantly, “Come on, you big villain, I dare you lay a hand on me.”
Tora stepped back quickly. “No, no, madam, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m not with those crooks. The boy and I came to free the old man. His nephew locked him in the storehouse and left him to die.”
She looked from him to the open door of the storehouse. The broken lock and empty water bowl seemed to convince her, but she was still suspicious. “The boy’s one of them,” she said, shooting a venomous glance at Kinjiro, who was rubbing his ear and sticking out his tongue at her. “I want to see Chikamura.”
Before Tora could answer, a weak shout came from inside the house. “Look,” he pleaded, “that was Chikamura. He isn’t well. I’ve got to go.”
“I’m coming, too.”
“No, don’t,” Tora cried, raising his bloody sword. She goggled at the sword and backed away. With a little scream, she turned to stumble across the rubble of the wall.
Tora did not wait to watch her go, but rushed back inside. Chikamura was still sitting there, but Matsue had gone. Chikamura cried, “Hurry! He’s run away. Out the front door.”
Tora sighed and sat down abruptly. “Never mind,” he said tiredly. “Let him go. We’ve got to leave. Your neighbor’s going to call the constables down on us.” He stared at the stained blade of his sword, and reached for one of the rags to clean it. The scabbard was lying in a puddle of Matsue’s blood. He went and got it. The blood had stained the white covering. Tora dabbed at the spot and then inserted the blade. He hoped the swordsmith could clean it properly. Then he looked at his leg. The cut was in his upper thigh, deep but clean. It had bled copiously earlier, but hardly oozed now. Taking off his shirt, he tore it into strips to make a thick bandage for his leg.
Kinjiro crept in. He stared at the puddle of blood and Matsue’s fingers. “You didn’t kill him?”
“No. But he can’t fight anymore. His sword hand is useless.”
“Wrong,” said the boy. “You should’ve killed him.”
Tora straightened up and looked at him. “It takes more than killing someone or winning a fight to be a man. There’s been enough killing here. Now you can help me get the old man away before any more of Kata’s thugs show up.”
“Where are we going?”
“Home. Go get the ladder. We’ll put the old man on it all wrapped up. If a constable tries to stop us, we’ll pretend it’s his funeral. I’m the son and you’re the grandson. He’ll keep his distance.”
“No,” squeaked old Chikamura, scrambling to his feet. “I’m not dead. I can walk. We’ll get the police. They’ll arrest the crooks. Look at what they’ve done to my house. This time I’ll lay charges against Buntaro and his rotten friends.”
“Ah, hmm,” said Tora, “there’s something I forgot to tell you. There was a fight earlier. I’m very sorry, old man, but I had to kill your nephew.”
Chikamura stared at him. Then he said, “Good riddance. Never could stand him. Nothing like the rest of the family. I swear my brother’s wife must’ve lain with a demon.”
Tora breathed a sigh of relief. “All right. Let’s go then.”
The old man shook his head. “I’m not going to Toribeno. I’m not dead.”
Tora began to pull at his hair. “We’re not going to Toribeno. We’re going to my master’s house. He’s Lord Sugawara. You’ll be safe there, and old Seimei will mix you one of his tonics to make you feel like a young man again.”
Chikamura’s eyes widened. “The great and wise Lord Sugawara from the Ministry of Justice?”
“That’s the one. Now will you come?”