They sent for the doctor, but stayed at the old man’s bedside. Seimei did not wake again. The doctor arrived in time to pronounce death.
*
Early the next morning, Superintendent Kobe arrived. He was startled and dismayed to find the Sugawara household in mourning. After paying his respects to the dead Seimei, he met with Akitada in his study.
“I’m very sorry,” he said simply. “I liked him and envied you such loyalty.”
Akitada, who had sat up all night with the body, nodded wearily and tried to gather his thoughts. “Thank you for coming. The two men who killed him need to be found and arrested. My wife tells me that she has reported their descriptions.”
“Yes, to the warden. The matter just reached me this morning. Apparently, these men were no ordinary criminals. Robbers in our capital do not carry swords and halberds. They use cheap knives that can be concealed easily. Neither do they wear half armor over figured silk. From their clothes and particularly their weapons, I would say they’re trained warriors attached to some nobleman’s household. That makes the situation serious and difficult.”
“They may belong to someone in Naniwa. I think they didn’t intend to kill anyone, but rather to warn me away from my assignment in Naniwa. More than likely they are attached to either Governor Oga or his prefect, Munata.”
Kobe frowned. “Then I doubt I can be of use. Perhaps you’d better report to His Excellency, the minister, and let him handle it.”
Akitada sighed. “I will, but first I must take care of Seimei’s funeral.”
Kobe left some of his men to guard Akitada’s residence and departed.
Akitada returned to the reception hall where Seimei’s body, wrapped in white hemp, rested amidst tall candelabra. The candles cast weird shadows of the seated monks on the walls, and the draft from the open door stirred the shadows into a ghostly dance, as if the spirits of the underworld had also gathered to welcome Seimei’s soul.
He closed the door and went to kneel beside the old man. Death had not been kind. The flesh seemed to have shrunken from his face, leaving only yellowed skin stretched taut over the skull. Already, he was a stranger. Akitada suppressed a shudder and reached for Seimei’s hand. Bowing his head, he let his thoughts go back to his childhood. Seimei, who could not have reached fifty yet, had seemed old even then. Akitada recalled kindness rather than embraces. Seimei’s hand on his head or shoulder, or holding his own small hand as they walked through the garden, were the most vivid memories of their closeness.
Seimei’s hand had guided him into young adulthood. On the day the young Akitada had rebelled against his father’s harshness and left his home, there had been tears in Seimei’s eyes, and his hands had clutched Akitada’s shoulders almost desperately.
Later, Seimei had fitted himself into Akitada’s young family, being ever present and caring. He had kept the accounts, served as Akitada’s secretary when the young official could not afford to hire one, treated the family’s wounds and illnesses with his homegrown herbs and medicines, taught his young master’s son, and stood by Akitada when the boy had died.
What would they do now? Who would he turn to for advice?
Who would fill the awful void that twisted and sickened his belly?
The candles flickered, and the chanting stumbled briefly. A touch on his shoulder.
He looked up and saw his wife’s face, her eyes swollen and red from weeping. He rose and together they walked out into the corridor. The monks continued their chanting, and Tamako slipped into his arms and sobbed against his chest. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I wish I could take away your pain, but I have too much of my own. I loved him as I did my father.”
“Yes, I know,” he said, grief thick in his throat. “I know.” He had not loved his father. Seimei had taken that place.
She detached herself. Taking his hand, she led him to Seimei’s room. An oil lamp flickered on the floor and cast its light on Seimei’s books and boxes. “I’ve been sitting here, thinking about all he has done for us. And . . . and about how little we’ve done for him. I’m so ashamed, Akitada. He had so little in his life.”
Akitada looked around at the simple shelves holding Seimei’s treasured books on Kung Fu Tse and his herbals; at his small jars of medicines with the neat lettering on them; at the plain and worn roll of bedding and the plain and threadbare robe that hung over a stand; at a picture young Yori had drawn and another, a mere daub that was likely Yasuko’s work. “No,” he said almost angrily, “don’t say that. He loved us and we loved him. He was happy. We were his family.”
She sniffled and nodded her head. “Yes. It’s just that I wish I’d told him how we felt.”
“Our worst fears and doubts make us look for blame. Tora is angry with Genba. I blame myself for having caused this with my work.”
“Genba is blameless, and so are you,” Tamako said firmly and turned to leave the room. “No one is to blame. It happened. It was karma.”
Akitada would have none of it. “It happened because of my investigation in Naniwa. Someone wanted to make sure I abandoned it.”
Tamako stopped in the corridor and looked back at him. “Are you meddling in something very dangerous?”
He did not like that “meddling” but said only, “Perhaps. It has to do with the pirates on the Inland Sea. They may have abducted Sadenari, sent thugs after me in Naniwa, and now they have struck at my family. This time they succeeded.”
She drew in her breath sharply. “I don’t suppose you can get out of it?”
“Not unless the Minister of the Right drops the investigation or replaces me.”
“You must be careful of yourself, promise me.”
Akitada promised and they parted, she to see to household matters, and he to work on his report. He would have to use a messenger. Because of Seimei’s death, they were ritually unclean and could go out only for emergencies, and then only while wearing a tablet to warn people in case they had been preparing for Shinto worship and would have to begin their elaborate purification rites all over again. Members of the court were particularly likely to be involved in Shinto ceremonies.
*
He had just sent off the messenger, when Tora brought Superintendent Kobe into his study.
“I’m back.” Kobe gave Akitada a sharp look. “You look terrible.”
Akitada brushed a weary hand over his face. “Is there any news?”
Kobe sat down. They had been close friends for years now and dispensed with formalities. “It seems your attackers were strangers in the capital. We checked all the retainers of the local families. As you suspect, they must serve some provincial lord.”
Seimei would have arrived by now with wine and refreshments. For a moment, Akitada felt utterly bereft; then he got to his feet. “Excuse me. There must be some wine.” He looked about, at a loss.
Kobe said, “It doesn’t matter.”
“No, no. I’ll be only a moment.”
In the kitchen, Akitada found wine, cups, and some nuts. He carried these back to his room.
Kobe served himself and then filled Akitada’s cup. “We’re now checking the hostels and temples that provide lodging. Something may turn up there. They enjoyed a certain degree of status. Good quality clothing and arms. If they arrived on horses, they would have stabled them someplace, and the innkeepers or monasteries can tell us more.”
Akitada sighed. “I’m sure these men have been sent from Naniwa or Kawajiri. Someone protects not only a lucrative business but also a position of considerable power. It’s possible that piracy is only a small part of a larger conspiracy directed against the emperor himself. I don’t like this at all.”
Kobe raised his brows. “You’re thinking there is another Sumitomo uprising brewing?”
“Perhaps. The government has been notoriously lax about controlling provincial governors and local families. That proved dangerous in the past. They contained the Sumitomo and Masakada rebellions with a loss of many lives and at great expense – and the expense matters more to them. This time they may not be so lucky. Our man may think that they’ll be unwilling to interfere on this occasion.”