“That’s right. Your old woman won’t let you out of her sight,” agreed another man. “Seven brats in eightyears!” 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 untilt he 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 myway 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. Idon’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?”
“They’re good people. You saw what they’re like. This wrestling match is about the only thing they have to look forward to. Their sons are sent to war with the Ezo, and taxes have made them poor. They work too hard to have time for plotting.”
Hitomaro said, “Tora’s working on a murder case, but you and I are to report anything that will help the master get control. I’m off to become acquainted with the hinin women.”
Genba raised his brows. “Better you than me, brother. Not my kind of training. Come to think of it, it’s not much in your line either. Tora should make that sacrifice.” He chortled.
Hitomaro did not smile. “Well,I have no choice. It’s a good way to get information. If you have some more news, we’ll meet at the shrine near the hour of the boar. I’m to report to the master tonight.”
Genba nodded and ducked back inside.
Walking quickly back to the market, Hitomaro dodged the muffled housewives with their baskets near the vegetable stalls, found the pharmacy, and turned down a narrow alley. The deepeaves of adjoining houses almost met overhead. He had been told that the city streets would become tunnels underneath mountains of snow, but at the moment he saw gray sky above. The small Shinto shrine in the next block lay desertedunder its pines. He passed it and found another street of small, tidy houses.
Hitomaro hardly knew what toe xpect of the local pleasure quarter, but it was not this quiet line of modest houses behind bamboo fences. Neither garish banners nor paper lanterns marked this street as special. There were no painted women calling from windows, normale touts running up and down the street looking for customers. And for music there was only the solitary sound of a single lute. He passed a fan and combshop without customers and saw only one other person on the street but reminded himself that it was still early in the day, and that the scene would surely change at night. The lute music seemed to come from the largest house in the middle of the block. At the end of the street, he recognized a wineshop by its painted door curtain and decided that this was as good a place as any to ask about outcast women.
The prospect was unnerving to Hitomaro, who had, since his brief and tragic marriage, steadfastly avoided female company of any sort.
He had almost reached the large house, when the music stopped. As he looked, the door opened and a slender young woman in a cream-colored silk gown appeared. She carried a lute wrapped in a brocade cover and was speaking over her shoulder to a middle-aged,sharp-nosed female in black. Fascinated, Hitomaro stopped. The young woman passed something to the older one and turned to leave.
When he saw her face, he gasped, “Mitsu?”
The young woman paused. She looked him over carefully, smiling a little, while Hitomaro hid his shakinghands and stammered, “Forgive me. I thought for a moment.. .” He faltered, ashis eyes traced her features and his heart nearly burst with mingled grief and joy.
She laughed softly, hiding her mouth with her sleeve, and he was lost. Just so had his young wife laughed upat him. Mitsu, who had hanged herself after their neighbor had raped her. The face of her beautiful look-alike receded into a fog of black despair.