Black Arrow (12 page)

“Oh, no,” she gasped, moving energetically, “she wouldn’t have him ... and he, fool that he was ... doted on her anyway.”

“Maybe she has a lover.” The girl was so agile, Tora was having difficulty concentrating on his questions.

“Mmm! ... I like you.”

“You’re not bad yourself, my girl!” He grunted and forced his mind back on business. “I suppose she could’ve paid to have the old man killed.”

She stopped moving abruptly. For a moment she said nothing, then, “I thought she didn’t like those three. Made them sleep on the kitchen floor and said it was good enough for such rubbish. But it’s true, they did do her a big favor. Never mind. The dirty old bastard deserved what he got.” She sounded venomous when she said that, and started moving again, furiously, mumbling, “Bastard ... mmm...aah!” She collapsed on top of Tora with a sigh. “That woman doesn’t know how lucky she is! I tell you, she owes me!” she muttered, as they rolled apart.

Tora frowned in the dark. Kiyo had some unexpected attitudes toward her employers. He wondered about the widow. “Well, did she have a lover?” he asked again.

“She’s a cold fish, though she acts the slut with those weird eyes of hers, and men like that. No, making money and buying clothes for herself is all she’s interested in.”

“That night Sato was killed, did you hear anything?” Tora asked, pulling the quilt over their sweat-covered bodies.

“Not me. I had a bad cold. Took some of the old man’s medicine with a little hot wine and slept like a bear. I’m glad they didn’t slit my throat, too. Would’ve been easy enough. Say, what is this? Let’s talk about us!”

Tora pulled her close. “I was thinking about you, all alone with those killers in the house,” he whispered in her ear.

She cuddled. “You know, I could really go for a man like you! And not just in bed. Do you like me?”

“What do you think?”

“Want to do it again?” She propped herself on an elbow, and tickled his ear.

Tora almost yelped. “Look, Kiyo, a girl shouldn’t ask a man. It’s forward. A man likes to be in control of these situations.”

She flopped back down. “Well, if you really want to know, my cold was horrible. What with the medicine, and feeling that awful, I couldn’t cook dinner that night and forgot all about old Sato. I did feel bad about it the next morning and, seeing that the three guests had already left, I made him a special soup, with bits of mushrooms and a handful of rice and some bean paste. He used to like that before the bitch moved in. And there he was, blood all over, the room in a mess, and his money box lying there empty!”

“I bet that shook you up,” Tora muttered, his mind in turmoil. One moment she cursed the old geezer and the next. .. an unpleasant thought took hold of him. He moved away from her abruptly and sat up. “Wonder what time it is. I’d better go.”

She yawned. “You can stay the night, Hiroshi. Maybe after a rest you’ll want to do it again?”

“No!” He was up, straightening his clothes hurriedly. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Tora paused at the door. “I forgot something I have to do.” Then he took to his heels as if a demon were after him.

* * * *

THE OUTCASTS

fter parting from Tora, Hitomaro continued on the main road for a while, then turned off in the direction of the coast and harbor. He passed among dwellings and shops of ramie weavers, smiths, rope twisters, broom makers, and soothsayers. The houses gradually became smaller and shabbier, their inhabitants now laborers or porters. At the point where the narrow street turned into an open dirt road through barren fields, and the last straggling outskirts of Naoetsu merged with the first scattered dwellings of Flying Goose village, stood a small shack. Its dilapidated sign promised fresh seafood.

Hitomaro lifted the worn curtain that served as a door and ducked into the dimly lit interior. Steamy heat met him and the powerful smell of fish frying in hot oil. On a wooden platform a small group of men sat around a hissing and bubbling cauldron, presided over by a red-faced, sweating cook with a blue-checked rag tied about his head. He was stirring the kettle and watching in a fatherly fashion over his chattering customers.

A huge man, a mountain of flesh and muscle, rose from the group and greeted Hitomaro in a booming voice. The firelight cast a red glow on his shaven head and round, smiling face. “Throw in some more abalone, Yaji,” he told the cook. “And the rest of you, make room.” He waved Hitomaro over. “Come and eat, brother. We’re planning our strategy for the match.”

Hitomaro grinned at Genba, nodded to his supporters, and settled himself on the platform. He knew only Genba’s landlord, the rice-cake baker, a stringy middle-aged fellow in a faded, patched cotton gown. The others matched him in age and also looked like small tradesmen.

“May your opponents eat the dirt at your feet, Genba,” Hitomaro said. “Allow me to pay for the next round of wine.”

A storm of protest arose: Both Genba and his friend were their guests and they would be deeply hurt if not allowed to treat them.

The food was as fresh as the sign had promised. Since Genba’s disguise had such unexpected benefits, Hitomaro accepted graciously a share of the excellent fried abalone and very decent wine, listening with only half an ear to their discussion of odds, weights, and the physical attributes of various competitors. When someone mentioned outcasts, his interest perked.

“Totally ruined, I tell you,” the man said. “One year district champion, the next a nobody. And all because of a
hinin
woman. Those outcast women are witches. You beware of those foxes, Genba. Go to regular prostitutes.”

“I abstain from sexual activity while in training,” Genba said piously. He smacked his lips and held up his empty bowl for a refill. Genba had put on considerable weight since their days of hardship when there was a price on their heads. Hitomaro was convinced that those years of near starvation had made Genba prefer the pleasures of food to those of the bedchamber.

“Well, I’m not a wrestler,” he said, “and I’m not afraid of any woman so long as she’s a looker and good at her job. Are they really so special?”

The short man shook his head doubtfully. “Oh, they’re very handsome and know some clever tricks, but I for one don’t want to chance it.”

The cook chortled, “You’re just henpecked, Kenzo.”

“That’s right. Your old woman won’t let you out of her sight,” agreed another man. “Seven brats in eight years!” he told Hitomaro. “He hasn’t got the time or the money, let alone the strength to tangle with one of the mountain beauties. If you’re game, go past the shrine behind the market. The brothels are back there. You knock on a door and talk to one of the aunties; she’ll fix you up with an outcast girl. But it’ll cost you. A hundred coppers for a top girl.” Seeing smirks on the faces of the others, he added, “Or so I’m told.”

“A hundred coppers!” The little baker was outraged. “If you have a hundred coppers, invest them in your friend here! Women aren’t worth it.”

“Tell that to Sunada! They say he’s a regular at Mrs. Omeya’s. And he’s got more money than anybody around here.”

“Yeah, but he’s a crook. Honest people can’t make a decent living anymore,” grumbled the baker. “The price they charge for their rotten rice flour!”

A blast of cold air blew in and a gruff voice demanded, “What was that, you little bastard?” A burly man with an ugly red scar across one cheek had flung aside the door curtain. Now he crossed the room in a few big strides, jerked the baker upright, and smashed a fist into his face before his companions could catch their breaths. “That’ll teach you not to tell lies about your betters,” he said, dropping his victim like a dirty rag.

“What the devil—?” Genba shot up with an agility surprising in so large a man, and Hitomaro followed. But the small room suddenly filled with other burly, sunburned, scowling men.

“Please, no fighting, Master Boshu!” squeaked the cook, dropping his ladle. “Master Genba here is an important contender in the great match. Mr. Sunada would not like it if you made trouble for him.”

The scarred man looked Genba up and down and growled, “The new contender, eh? I heard about you. You keep bad company. Nobody calls Mr. Sunada names and gets away with it around here. We all work for him. Half the families in Flying Goose village do. He looks after his people, and we look after him. So watch your step if you want to stay healthy.” With a jerk of the head to his companions, he turned and left, his grinning followers filing out behind him.

The baker sat up with a moan. He was pressing a blood-soaked sleeve to his mouth.

Hitomaro looked at him. “I’ll have a word with that piece of dung!” he snarled and went after the intruders.

Outside he pushed past Boshu’s companions and grabbed him by the shoulder. Swinging him round, he said, “Not so fast, bastard. I’m not a wrestler and I don’t mind teaching bullies a lesson. You probably broke that little guy’s jaw. He’s half your size and twice your age. That makes you a coward.”

There was a low growl from the others, and heavily breathing men pressed around him. Boshu’s face purpled until the scar flamed against his dark skin, but he shrugged off Hitomaro’s hand. “Not here,” he ground out. “You heard the cook. Mr. Sunada doesn’t like public fights. But we’ll meet again.” He brought his brutish face close to Hitomaro’s. “I’ll know how to find you, asshole. Not here and now, but soon. You won’t forget this day.” He bared yellow teeth in an unpleasant grin and strode away toward the harbor. His band of toughs barred the way until Boshu had gained some distance, then followed him.

Hitomaro looked after them with a frown. When he returned to the restaurant, Genba and the others were gathered about the baker, muttering angrily.

Genba said, “His jaw’s all right, but he bit his tongue and lost two teeth.”

“Who was that bastard?”

The cook looked apologetic. “Boshu is Sunada’s manager. They’re regulars here. I wish I’d seen him come in.”

“Sunada’s the richest man in this part of the country. Can’t blame a man for defending his master,” said Genba peaceably.

Hitomaro exchanged a glance with him, then poured the baker a cup of wine. He said, “I’d better be on my way before they decide to come back and make more trouble.”

Genba nodded. “I’ll walk out with you.”

Outside the road was empty. A salt-laden gust of icy wind hit their faces. In the distance they could hear the roar of the ocean. Flying Goose village, a small huddle of low brown buildings gathered about a larger compound, marked the distant harbor. The square sails of several big ships and the masts of many small fishing boats rocked uneasily in a choppy gray sea. The horizon was lost in a milky haze.

Hitomaro. said, “The bastard wouldn’t fight. Strange, when you think about it. There were enough of them. I don’t like it. It’s a good thing nobody knows who you really are. Find out what you can about this Sunada.”

Genba nodded.

“Last night the old warlord died. Our master thinks his son is the one who’s plotting against us. Are you sure the local people aren’t hostile toward us?”