There was a clatter, a grunt, and Matsue backed away, staring at the bleeding stump that had been his sword hand. His sword lay on the floor, in a splatter of blood and severed fingers. With a roar, he tried to snatch at the sword with his left hand, but Tora put his foot on it and placed the tip of his blade at Matsue’s neck.
“It’s over,” he said, almost sadly. “You’ll never fight again.”
Matsue slowly sank to his knees. His face worked dreadfully. “So kill me and be done,” he shouted hoarsely.
“Not yet. Did you kill Tomoe?”
Matsue gave a bitter laugh. “A swordsman doesn’t dirty his blade on women. Only scum does that.” He looked up at Tora with a frown. “What are you waiting for? Kill me. I fought honorably. I deserve an honorable death by the sword.” He paused and pointed. “By that sword.”
“Maybe you fought honorably this time, but you didn’t the last time.”
“That was no fight. I was teaching you a lesson about respecting your betters.”
Killing Matsue might save trouble in the long run, but Tora believed now that Matsue had not killed Tomoe. Besides, he hated killing a defeated man. Matsue was finished as a fighter, and since that part of his life mattered more to him than anything else, he was punished enough. Perhaps he might bleed to death, but if he bandaged his arm tightly and found a doctor at this time of night in a city full of smallpox, he would live. Either way, he was no longer a threat.
Tora scooped up the fallen sword and broke it between two boards of the veranda. The hilt he flung as far as he could over the adjoining wall. Then he went to look for Kinjiro and the old man. To his surprised relief, the boy had disappeared. That meant he was alive and not badly hurt. More relief washed over Tora when he found Chikamura hiding in a corner. The old man peered up at him from under his bedding and whispered, “Is it over?”
“Yes. Where did the boy go?”
“He ran away.”
Matsue still sat motionless, perhaps waiting to die. Tora called, “Kinjiro?” but got no answer. The boy was probably far away by now. The events of this day had been enough to give a grown man nightmares. Suddenly Tora felt alone and exhausted. His knees threatened to buckle and he sat down heavily on the edge of the veranda.
The moon had risen and the night was no longer so black. In the distance a temple bell rang. Only a few hours ago they had sought refuge in the temple, and Tora had pretended he was Kinjiro’s father. What would become of the youngster now?
A sharp female voice broke into his brooding. “Hey, you rascal. What’s going on? Who knocked down my wall? Where’s Chikamura?”
Tora looked around wildly and realized that the voice had come from the other side of the garden wall. Someone was in the yard.
Then came Kinjiro’s voice, in a loud whisper. “Sssh! It was an accident. Don’t worry. It’ll be fixed.” Kinjiro sounded nervous.
“I don’t believe you. Come here.”
Kinjiro squealed.
With a muttered curse, Tora jumped up and ran back into the room. Matsue had not moved. His eyes were closed, and he was white from shock or loss of blood. Old Chikamura was sitting up. Tora cried, “Keep an eye on him and call me if he tries anything,” then dashed down the corridor.
In the moonlit yard, he found a large woman who stood with her back to him and had a grip on Kinjiro’s ear. When the boy saw Tora, his face brightened. He cried, “Make her let go of me.”
The woman gave her prey a sharp and painful shake and rasped, “You won’t fool me with that old trick, you little bastard. I’m past putting up with you lying, thieving rogues over here. I want to see Chikamura now.”
Tora hid his sword behind his back and cleared his throat.
She let go then and swung around to glare at him. “So there’s more of you bastards. I’m not afraid of you either.” Advancing on Tora, she said defiantly, “Come on, you big villain, I dare you lay a hand on me.”
Tora stepped back quickly. “No, no, madam, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m not with those crooks. The boy and I came to free the old man. His nephew locked him in the storehouse and left him to die.”
She looked from him to the open door of the storehouse. The broken lock and empty water bowl seemed to convince her, but she was still suspicious. “The boy’s one of them,” she said, shooting a venomous glance at Kinjiro, who was rubbing his ear and sticking out his tongue at her. “I want to see Chikamura.”
Before Tora could answer, a weak shout came from inside the house. “Look,” he pleaded, “that was Chikamura. He isn’t well. I’ve got to go.”
“I’m coming, too.”
“No, don’t,” Tora cried, raising his bloody sword. She goggled at the sword and backed away. With a little scream, she turned to stumble across the rubble of the wall.
Tora did not wait to watch her go, but rushed back inside. Chikamura was still sitting there, but Matsue had gone. Chikamura cried, “Hurry! He’s run away. Out the front door.”
Tora sighed and sat down abruptly. “Never mind,” he said tiredly. “Let him go. We’ve got to leave. Your neighbor’s going to call the constables down on us.” He stared at the stained blade of his sword, and reached for one of the rags to clean it. The scabbard was lying in a puddle of Matsue’s blood. He went and got it. The blood had stained the white covering. Tora dabbed at the spot and then inserted the blade. He hoped the swordsmith could clean it properly. Then he looked at his leg. The cut was in his upper thigh, deep but clean. It had bled copiously earlier, but hardly oozed now. Taking off his shirt, he tore it into strips to make a thick bandage for his leg.
Kinjiro crept in. He stared at the puddle of blood and Matsue’s fingers. “You didn’t kill him?”
“No. But he can’t fight anymore. His sword hand is useless.”
“Wrong,” said the boy. “You should’ve killed him.”
Tora straightened up and looked at him. “It takes more than killing someone or winning a fight to be a man. There’s been enough killing here. Now you can help me get the old man away before any more of Kata’s thugs show up.”
“Where are we going?”
“Home. Go get the ladder. We’ll put the old man on it all wrapped up. If a constable tries to stop us, we’ll pretend it’s his funeral. I’m the son and you’re the grandson. He’ll keep his distance.”
“No,” squeaked old Chikamura, scrambling to his feet. “I’m not dead. I can walk. We’ll get the police. They’ll arrest the crooks. Look at what they’ve done to my house. This time I’ll lay charges against Buntaro and his rotten friends.”
“Ah, hmm,” said Tora, “there’s something I forgot to tell you. There was a fight earlier. I’m very sorry, old man, but I had to kill your nephew.”
Chikamura stared at him. Then he said, “Good riddance. Never could stand him. Nothing like the rest of the family. I swear my brother’s wife must’ve lain with a demon.”
Tora breathed a sigh of relief. “All right. Let’s go then.”
The old man shook his head. “I’m not going to Toribeno. I’m not dead.”
Tora began to pull at his hair. “We’re not going to Toribeno. We’re going to my master’s house. He’s Lord Sugawara. You’ll be safe there, and old Seimei will mix you one of his tonics to make you feel like a young man again.”
Chikamura’s eyes widened. “The great and wise Lord Sugawara from the Ministry of Justice?”
“That’s the one. Now will you come?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The great and wise Lord Sugawara was at his wit’s end. Tamako had consulted a fortune-teller, and when he got home, she was pacing the floor and ringing her hands.
“Our son will die,” she greeted him, “and you are to blame.”
Akitada, having barely had time to slip out of his shoes before being faced with this latest crisis, wished himself elsewhere. “Tamako,” he said wearily, “Genba is making preparations to take you to Akiko in the morning. All will be well.”
“All will be well?” she cried. “All will be well? The soothsayer says this house is under a dark cloud and he sees death. And right after he left, a letter from your sister came; she thinks one of their servants has the illness. But you won’t care. You never cared for anything but your work.”