“You’ll do,” pronounced the masseur. “If you permit, I’ll wash your hair to keep the wound clean and prevent you frightening people. There’s a lot of blood.”
“You’re very kind, but I don’t want to trouble you.”
“No trouble. I pride myself on the way I wash hair.” Bashan chuckled.
Saburo murmured, “Thank you,” and submitted.
Apart from the faint burning when the water and Bashan’s fingers came too close to his broken scalp, the experience was pleasant, and when it was over, Saburo felt a good deal better.
“Do you wear your hair in a knot?” asked the masseur.
“Yes, but I didn’t tonight. I suppose the knot might have softened the blow.”
Bashan smiled. “Perhaps, but I don’t think your enemy meant to kill you.”
“I don’t feel particularly grateful at the moment,” Saburo said sourly. “I’ve worked out that I’m in the temple of the beggars. When I first came to, there was this weird old fellow in women’s clothes sitting beside me. He called me by my name and said he was Kenko. It was… well, disconcerting. How did he know my name?”
Bashan’s eyebrows rose. “A warning, friend. The Venerable Kenko is the chief of the beggars and the temple priest. The people here love and obey him. As for how he knew your name: Kenko knows just about everything. My guess is someone recognized you and told him.”
Saburo thought about this. It was possible. His face was not easily forgotten, and beggars were everywhere. He also thought about the priest. Aside from Bashan, the beggars so far had not impressed him. A priest dressed in a woman’s red silk gown perhaps least of all. But he knew he had almost made a bad mistake.
“Thanks for your help,” he told Bashan. “I owe you. I’m not one of them, so I can pay, only I don’t have any money on me. I’ll come back. Will I find you here?”
“Only when they need me,” Bashan said, packing his tools into his case. “And you owe me nothing. But be careful, Saburo. Next time you may not be so lucky.” He got to his feet, slung the box over his shoulder and chest, attached the basin to it, and took up a long staff leaning against the well coping. Giving Tora a nod, he walked away, tapping the ground before him.
Saburo cast another look around. The beggars had melted away, and he was alone. Never mind. He would return when he felt a bit better. It had struck him that beggars made the perfect spies, being everywhere and ignored by all.
The Grieving Father
Akitada pondered the character of the prince’s wife all the way to the Minamoto residence. He wished he could speak to this powerful woman, but his interview with the prince had not gone well, and he had no way of approaching Lady Kishi.
She would not in any case welcome such a call, even if the problems of visiting another man’s wife could be overcome. Lady Kishi was in a peculiar position. As Prince Atsuhira’s wife, she was most likely deeply offended by her husband’s affair with one of the emperor’s ladies, yet, her fate was tied to her husband’s, and he clearly was in serious political trouble. Would she have been angry enough to punish him by accusing him of treasonable plotting? It did not seem likely, but perhaps she had acted thoughtlessly in her jealousy and now regretted having taken her vengeance.
Then there was the murder of Lady Masako. Could Lady Kishi have ordered it? The charge of treason did not appear to be related to the murder of his lover, but Akitada did not like the coincidence.
Yes, Lady Kishi was a fascinating character and certainly a suspect in the murder at least.
Minamoto Masaie’s house was within a block of the western wall of the Greater Palace enclosure. Many of the provincial lords maintained town residences to conduct business in the capital. Masaie’s was a comfortable size and well maintained behind its plaster walls and roofed double gate.
Armed soldiers guarded this gate and were more peremptory than at the prince’s palace, but these were Masaie’s own retainers.
“I come from the Ministry of Justice and have business with your master,” Akitada told them.
The senior man merely shook his head.
Akitada was searching his mind for something that might gain him access when he looked past the warrior and saw a familiar short, round figure inside the compound. His friend Kosehira was coming toward the gate.
He looked glum, but his round face broke into a smile when he saw Akitada. “I’m so glad to see you,” he cried. “What are you doing here?”
Akitada glanced at the guard. “I wanted to pay my respects to Masaie, but I don’t seem to be welcome. And you?”
“Paying my mother’s respects,” said Kosehira with a grimace. “Come, I’ll introduce you.” To the soldier, he said, “He’s all right. I know him.” And with that he drew Akitada into the compound.
They did not try to stop them. Kosehira’s position apparently vouched for both of them.
Still it rankled a little. “Would you mind telling me,” Akitada asked, “how you manage to gain access while I, a representative of a ministry, am denied?”
“Oh, it’s the same old story. It’s not whom you represent but whom you know. Don’t forget the regent is my cousin.”
Akitada shook his head. They passed into an inner courtyard and walked along an open gallery to a side wing of the main house. Here a servant saw them and ran to tell his master.
Minamoto Masaie was talking to a tall young man as they walked in. Apparently, they had interrupted an argument because both looked thunderous at the interruption.
Masaie glared at the servant, who muttered an apology and ran. “Back again already?” the Minamoto lord said to Kosehira. “What do you want now?”
Not a promising beginning.
And very rude, considering Kosehira’s status.
The young man bore a resemblance to Masaie. They were both large with round heads and big limbs. Both wore beards. And both were red-faced with anger. Akitada guessed they were father and son.
Before Kosehira could speak, the son decided to add his own insults, perhaps to deflect his father’s anger from himself and curry favor with him. “You lack manners, sir,” he snapped at Kosehira. ‘How dare you have the gall to trouble my father at such a time? He just lost his daughter. Where is your respect?”
Masaie growled, “Quiet, Masanaga. You may leave us.”
The son closed his mouth and glared.
Kosehira didn’t bat an eyelid. He smiled at the young man. “Sorry, Masanaga. Didn’t know you were with your father.”
Masanaga did not acknowledge the apology and walked out.
Kosehira looked after him, then turned to Masaie. “Here’s some luck, Masaie,” he said. “I was just leaving when I ran into Akitada coming in. Sugawara Akitada. I expect you’ve heard of him?”
Masaie gave Akitada an unfriendly stare. “He’s a troublemaker in the Ministry of Justice.”
Akitada opened his mouth to protest, but Kosehira said quickly, “Exactly, and that makes him the very man to help you out of your predicament.”
The unfriendly stare was practically frigid now. “I told you there’s no trouble, and I’ll thank you not to discuss my affairs with everybody you meet on the street.”
Akitada cleared his throat, but Kosehira was undisturbed. “Come, let’s all sit down,” he said, pulling Akitada to one of the cushions near the open doors.
Outside was a small veranda and, as at the prince’s house, a cherry tree. Only this one was in a tub and just coming into bloom. Akitada could not help wondering why such a very irate person would arrange for this small tree. And for the sparrows that scratched around in the gravel as if they expected to be fed. But such puzzles were pointless. Masaie normally resided at his country seat. Some servant must have brought the tree here, hoping to please his ill-tempered master.
Masaie did not sit. “You may both leave, Kosehira,” he said coldly. “I’ve said all I’m going to say. I will not help that despicable traitor.”