The Dragon Scroll (44 page)

But Shinsei and his companions knew nothing of this, so Akitada let them go.

When the door opened again, Tora brought in a leather box.

“Ah, yes,” said the governor. “That is one of our boxes and here is the mark.” He pointed to the burn mark on one side and explained how it had got there.

“Tell us where you found this, Tora,” said Akitada.

“In one of the temple storehouses. The same one where they hid all those halberds. And the bean barrels were filled with swords. A whole arsenal.”

Of course there should not have been bean barrels in both storehouses when only the second one was used for foodstuffs. Overlooking the swords was an embarrassment to Akitada, but he had made graver mistakes than that.

The officials passed around the leather box, peering and muttering.

The senior magistrate asked, “What happened to the gold? And how did the monks get hold of it?”

“The gold may have been spent on temple buildings and other expenses,” said Akitada. “And the monks attacked the tax convoys. We have an eyewitness to their last raid. Seimei?”

Seimei unrolled Otomi’s scroll and hung it on a nail. Then he went to the door and admitted Ayako and her sister. Dressed in their best gowns, they knelt before the dais.

Seeing Ayako’s slender figure and her narrow, pale face with those compelling eyes was almost more than Akitada could bear. He clenched his hands as he told the officials, “These are the daughters of Higekuro, a well-known wrestling instructor in this city. The younger is called Otomi. She is the artist who painted the scroll you see before you. Unfortunately, she is a deaf-mute. Her sister, Ayako, will interpret for her by using sign language.”

Then he took both girls through their testimony carefully. Both sisters identified the scroll as a scene Otomi had witnessed while visiting a temple in Shinano province. As Ayako translated her sister’s signs, telling of the raid on the convoy and the subsequent massacre, the officials looked profoundly shocked.

“But,” said the senior magistrate after whispering with his neighbors, “that will mean that the victims’ families will demand justice.”

“And they shall have it, Judge,” Akitada said tiredly. “It will be your duty to give it to them.”

“You misunderstand, Excellency,” said the man. “I referred to civil unrest. Rioting. Attacks on civil authorities who attempt to protect the prisoners.”

“Your fears are unwarranted,” snapped Akitada. “Put your trust in the garrison, sir. Captain Yukinari has already demonstrated his ability.”

The magistrate subsided with a red face.

Akitada was conscious of a profound sense of inadequacy. He had lost his temper, and his feelings for Ayako troubled him deeply. When they came to the slaughter of Higekuro and the subsequent hunt for the girls, he knew his questions and comments were too blunt, too abrupt and unfeeling, but he pressed on to get finished. Ayako remained calm and answered patiently, but she avoided looking at him.

The hardest part was yet to come. He must prove to the officials that the two young women were reliable witnesses, but springing a surprise on Otomi, who was very pale already, was both cruel and dangerous.

He said, “I should like you both to identify someone, if you can.”

“Of course,” Ayako said.

What enormous presence she had. From the moment she walked in, she had behaved with a nobility of manner and spirit he had not expected in a commoner or a woman.

“The night you and your sister were attacked,” he said, “one of your assailants escaped. He is in custody and will be brought in momentarily.”

Ayako’s eyes widened briefly, then she said, “If he is the one who is missing part of an ear, Otomi will identify him as the monk in charge of the attack on the convoy.” She went to the scroll and pointed to the figure of the seated monk. “If you look closely, you can see his maimed ear.”

She had made it easy for him. Akitada said gratefully, “I hope she will recognize him, but it may be too much for her.”

“My sister will do her duty,” Ayako said stiffly.

Two soldiers dragged in a tall man in bloodied monk’s robes and tossed him down before the dais. The man raised himself slowly on muscular arms and assumed a kneeling posture.

“Turn around,” said Akitada.

When the prisoner turned, Otomi gave a strangled sob.

Raising a shaking finger, she pointed first to the prisoner and next to the scroll. Then she fainted.

Catching her, Ayako said, “Otomi identifies this person as the one on the ship, the one who led the attack on the tax convoy.” She bent over her sister, attempting to bring her around.

The prisoner jumped up and shouted, “I didn’t hear her say anything.”

“Kneel and state your name,” snapped Akitada.

“Daishi,” spat the man in his hoarse voice. “Not that it’s any of your business. You have no right to arrest the disciples of the holy Joto.”

One of the soldiers pushed him down and took a leather whip from his belt, looking at Akitada hopefully.

“Neither you nor Joto is a legitimate member of this temple,” Akitada told the prisoner. “I want your real name.”

The prisoner stared back defiantly. “Daishi.”

The soldier raised the whip.

Akitada said quickly, “Very well. It is immaterial at the moment. You and your friends are under arrest for treason and murder. In a short time, all of you will undergo questioning until each of you has confessed fully. I trust you understand how this is done?”

“You can do nothing to me.” The words were defiant, but a faint sheen of perspiration appeared on the man’s face.

“You may be able to suffer repeated floggings without confessing, but I assure you that your fellow conspirators will be quick to place the blame on you. Their confessions will corroborate the other evidence, such as the painting done by this young woman who was an eyewitness to your raid on the tax convoy. Look at it closely. The figure on the raised platform of the ship is missing part of his ear.”

The man turned his head and saw the scroll on the wall. His hand went to his right ear. The lower half of it had been torn or cut off, leaving an ugly red scar behind. He looked shaken. “It’s a trumped-up lie,” he said. “She wasn’t there. That’s just a picture of a storm dragon. There was no storm”—he corrected himself—”that time of year.”

Motosuke snorted. “You heard him. He’s like a cat protesting innocence with a fish tail hanging from its mouth.”

“In addition to leading the tax raid,” Akitada went on, “you led the nine assassins who slaughtered Higekuro and attempted to kill his daughters.”

Tora called out, “Remember me, bastard? We saw you in the temple garden. And we caught two of your gang that night.”

“Yes. He was there. I saw him, too,” Ayako said in her clear voice.

“Do you want any more proof that you are lost?” Akitada asked.

For a moment, the false monk’s eyes searched the room like a cornered animal. When they fell on Otomi, he jerked his chains from the hands of the astonished guards and rushed forward.

Ayako was still kneeling, holding her sobbing sister in her arms, when the wild-eyed brute attacked, howling, cursing, his chains flying, his clawlike fingers reaching for them.

Tora snatched up the small writing desk in front of Seimei and threw it across the room. It caught the monk between the legs. He fell, crushing the desk. The guards, awaking belatedly to their duty, pounced on him.

Seimei cursed for the first time in his life. When Akitada turned disbelieving eyes on his proper old servant, Seimei glared at his scattered papers, his brush still poised in his hand, ink spattered over his gown and the tip of his nose, and an expression of outrage on his face. After a moment, he raised his eyes to Akitada. “Ah,” he said. “Hmm. Is there another desk? That is, if you intend to continue this ... ah ... unusual interrogation, sir.” With the blame neatly shifted to Akitada, he sniffed and dabbed the ink off his face with a piece of paper.

“Never mind. We are finished,” said Akitada, and added to the two soldiers who had jerked the limp figure of the monk into a kneeling posture again, “Take him away.”

Ayako helped her sister up. Bowing slightly toward the dais, she said, “If you have no further need of us, we will leave. My sister is not very strong.”

Akitada did not know what to say to her, but Motosuke told her, “You have performed a great service for this province and nation, both of you. We shall not forget what we owe you.”

Ayako inclined her head a fraction. “Thank you, Excellency, but that is quite unnecessary. Our family has always honored its obligations to this country.” Without another glance at Akitada, she led her sister from the room.

Akitada sat, lost in silent misery.

Motosuke cleared his throat. “Well?” he asked. “Is there anything else?”

“No. That is all.”

* * * *

TWENTY-ONE

SNOWFLAKES

eaden clouds hung low over the tribunal compound. Already a few snow flurries teased the snarling clay dragons guarding the curved eaves of the governor’s residence and danced around Akitada as he dodged the many carts and porters who were loading Motosuke’s household goods for the journey to the capital.

Outside the gate, Akitada turned left and walked to the prefecture. Tucking his chin into his collar against the wet flakes, he considered sadly how differently his great adventure had turned out from what he had hoped. Only a few weeks ago he had looked forward to the journey here, to meeting people in the provinces, to learning much and achieving more. All of these things had happened, but the price had been human lives. Far from bringing him pleasure and satisfaction, his assignment had left him humbled and distraught. He had lost a priceless thing: faith in himself. All that was left was the sense of duty his parents and teachers had instilled in him, and duty to his emperor and to his family overruled any private desires and was, in and of itself, sufficient reason to carry on. The prospect was a bleak one.

Duty had brought Akitada out on his last day in the city. The prefecture, his first stop, was much smaller than the provincial headquarters, consisting only of a modest administration hall, a jail, and barracks for the constables. He found Akinobu bent over a desk piled high with documents. The new prefect greeted Akitada with a tired smile.

“I am sorry that I cannot offer Your Excellency tea,” he said. “I doubt our budget permits such a thing in any case. But perhaps a cup of wine?”

“No, thank you. I have had some of the governor’s excellent tea. Besides, I am not exactly accustomed to luxuries myself. My assignment, along with its honorifics, ends as yours begins. My heartfelt congratulations on your appointment as prefect.”