In the private rooms, Tamako was sipping tea with Seimei. He had reported that her husband seemed quite well again, much to her relief because she knew he had not come to bed the night before. Now they heard the squeal of the flute and looked at each other. Tamako smiled.
“Oh, I am so glad. He is better. Was it something you gave him?”
Seimei frowned. “No. He has not taken any of my infusions. He can be very stubborn. Against unreason even the Buddha cannot prevail.”
Outside,Tora and Hitomaro, on their way from the constables’ barracks, stopped and looked at each other.
“He’s started again,” said Torain a tone of horror. “It’s that devil’s instrument. People will say he’s mad.As if we didn’t have enough trouble. I wish he’d left the cursed thing in the capital.”
Hitomaro, who was in anunusually good mood, laughed. “Don’t complain, brother. It means he’s feeling better.” He looked up at the sun. “I must go, but I should be back for the evening rice.”
Tora watched him stride out the gate. Something was up with Hito. He had never seen him so excited. Or so concerned with his appearance. One would almost swear he was on his way to meet a girl.
Several hours after Akitada had wrapped up his flute again and returned to his paperwork, he was startled by the loud clanging of the bell outside the tribunal gate. This was meant to be rung by persons who wished to lay acomplaint against someone or report a crime. Finally! He sat up inanticipation.
Hamaya showed in three people. “Mr.Oshima and his wife, sir, and their daughter, Mrs. Sato,” he announced, looking unhappy. “Mrs. Sato is the widow of the slain innkeeper.”
The elderly couple in thei rneat cotton gowns knelt and bowed their heads to the mats. The young womanlifted her veil, then followed their example more slowly and gracefully.Akitada tried not to stare. She was quite beautiful and wore silk, very inappropriate for the widow of a mere innkeeper. But his primary reaction was disappointment. No new case after all. Still, at least these people acknowledged his authority.
“You may sit up,” he told them,“and inform me of your business.”
The parents settled themselveson their knees and cleared their throats. They cast uneasy glances at Akitada’sofficial brocade robe, at the elegant lacquer writing set and the documentstacks on the desk, and at the thick, silk-trimmed floor mats- Akitada’s ownproperty, which his wife had insisted on installing when she saw his office.
“Don’t be afraid,” Akitada saidpleasantly. “I am glad you came and will do my best to help you.”
The old man murmured, “It’s our daughter, your Honor. She says that her husband’s death must be avenged because she’s troubled by his spirit.”
Astonished, Akitada asked, “Thedead man’s ghost appears to her?”
“My husband’s ghost resides in our inn,” said the widow in a surprisingly firm voice. “He’s everywhere, in all the dark corners. I live in fear that one of the guests will see him. And at night he hovers over me as I lie on my mat. Sometimes I hear his blood dripping. I have not slept since he died.” She touched a sleeve to her eyes.
“But surely you should call anexorcist.”
“Of course I did that. It was no use.”
Akitada frowned. “I don’t see how I can be helpful.”
The widow’s chin came up and her eyes flashed. “Where am I to find justice, if not from the law? And is not the tribunal the place where we have our wrongs redressed? Ghosts walk only when murder goes unpunished.”
Akitada thought her manner lacking in respect and humility, but he only remarked, “I assure you, madam, Iam giving your case my personal attention. The day after tomorrow I shall preside over a public hearing of the matter. You would have been notified shortly.”
“A hearing?” she cried, a flushstaining her porcelainlike complexion. “What good is a hearing? The criminals have confessed and must be sentenced.”
The old lady gave a frightened cry. She scooted a little closer to Akitada’s desk and bowed deeply. “Please forgive my daughter’s bad manners,” she murmured. “It is her grief and worry speaking. We came to town for a visit and saw the notices. It is merely to ask about them that we came, your Honor.”
Akitada opened his mouth, but Mrs. Sato was quicker. “No!” she cried. “I have no more patience. I want justice now. And since I’m not getting it, I am filing a complaint.”
Akitada’s mouth snapped shut.He locked eyes with the widow. She did not lower hers, and he read a challenge in her set face which told him negotiations were futile. Suddenly there was no doubt in his mind that this was the beginning of a well-planned campaign. “Very well,” he said coldly. “It is your right to do so. See my clerk. But you will all three attend the hearing anyway.”
EIGHT
MOURNING THE DEAD
Clouds of incense drifted between the massive pillars, obscuring the carved and gilded ceiling beams and putting a haze over the black robes of the monks and the darkclothing of the mourners. The sweet smell overwhelmed the senses, and the humof sutra chanting, the clanging of gongs, and the chiming of cymbals floated onthe air in gentle waves. The celebrants circled and spun in a graceful ritual dance, and Akitada’s eyes closed and his fingers began to move in accompanimenton an imaginary flute.
Abbot Hokko, seated next to him, cleared his throat softly, and Akitada returned to reality, guiltily plunging his hands into his voluminous sleeves. The ceremony was drawing to its end, and not a moment too soon. Two hours of prayers, readings, and making reverent bows to the coffin of the late high constable, to the statue of the Buddha,and to Lord Makio, the chief mourner, were beginning to take their toll on Akitada who had been up most of the night preparing for the hearing.
He looked at the solitary,motionless figure of the new lord for a moment. Makio wore full armor, lacqueredred and gold and laced with deep purple silk. He sat holding his black helmet with the gilded studs stiffly in front of him. His only concession to mourning was a white silk sash draped across his chest. He had not moved a muscle or changed his stern expression throughout the ceremony. Akitada knew that the wearing of the armor carried a message to himself. More important, his adversary was a man capable of great self-control. It would be a mistake to underestimate the new lord of Takata.
Akitada glanced at the longl ine of mourners from the Uesugi household. Some wore armor with the Uesug icrest prominently displayed and white mourning armbands, but the rest were in dark robes and the hempen jackets required for a funeral of the head of the clan. Their faces showed reverence or indifference, as the case might be, but no grief. The exception was a small boy at the end of the front row of male retainers and upper servants. His soft face was blotchy from weeping, and he sat sunken in despair, the stiff hemp enveloping him like a strange cocoon. A grandson? No, Makio had no children. Perhaps the old lord had befriended the child of a retainer and thus earned for himself the tears of affection none ofthe others were able to shed.
Akitada caught a quick movement out of the corner of his eye. A gray mouse had scurried from one of the pillars and ventured into the open space in front of the mourners. There it paused,twitching its nose. A half suppressed gurgle came from the child. He put a handover his mouth, trying to stifle his laughter. Their eyes met and Akitada smiled, nodding at the mouse. To his delight, the boy lowered his hand and gave him a conspiratorial grin and a wink.
The ceremony ended and the mouse reconsidered and dashed back into its hole. The mourners filed out of the temple hall into the bright sunlight, where a carefully orchestrated cortege assembled to accompany the body of Lord Maro to its final resting place in the family tomb near Takata manor. The Uesugi held on to an old family tradition of burying their dead.