The snowy landscape was mostly empty. Few people took to the road this time of year, and those were walking, mainly local peasants or itinerant monks. But when they topped the final rise, they saw a lone horseman ahead of them.
The rider, covered in some large colorful garment, slouched and drooped, leaning alarmingly first to one side, then to the other, and was alternately kicking the beast into bursts of speed and reining it in again.
“Heavens,” cried Kobe, “that’s Harada, isn’t it?” and kicked his own horse into a gallop.
It was. When Harada heard the pursuit, he glanced over his shoulder and whipped up his mount. The animal reared and took off madly across a barren, snow-covered field, with Harada clinging on for dear life, the strange robe fluttering behind like a huge pair of multicolored wings. At first they gained only slightly on him. Then, abruptly, his horse became airborne, and Harada flew off.
When they reached him, he was sitting on the edge of a frozen irrigation ditch, shaking his fist after the escaping horse. He was surrounded by the colorful folds of a quilt, one of those which had covered his shivering body in the unheated pavilion. He seemed to have fashioned it into a cloak by cutting a hole in it for his head.
Kobe swung himself out of the saddle and said happily, “Not a bad haul. Two prisoners on a single murder charge. Trouble is, I don’t have chains or rope to tie him up with. Do you?”
Akitada shook his head and dismounted. “It’s just as well,” he said. “I have a feeling this man is a witness rather than an accomplice. Let’s go easy with him.”
Harada made no effort to get up. Instead he greeted them with the words, “I hate horses and they hate me. It’s a measure of the misery to which I have been reduced since I entered the service of that man that I should choose his horse to escape it.”
Kobe looked baffled. “Better than facing a murder charge, surely,”
“Is it murder, then?” Harada shook his head. “It wasn’t me.”
“Then why did you steal the horse and run away?” Kobe growled.
“From the purest of motives, Superintendent, I assure you. Even Confucius would approve. A man should not add to his employer’s troubles if he can avoid it.”
Akitada asked, “Are you hurt?”
Harada felt various parts of his body and shook his head. “Good thing I brought the quilt against the cold. It cushioned the impact.” He eyed his surroundings. A little distance from them one of the many little groves of trees hid a small farmhouse. “I suppose I must impose on the good farmer’s hospitality tonight.”
“Nonsense. You’re under arrest,” snapped Kobe. “Who do you think you’re dealing with? A couple of yokels? This is a murder case.”
Harada heaved a shuddering sigh. “I knew it wouldn’t work, but it was worth a try. I’m not getting on a horse, though.”
Kobe raised his brows. “You want to walk?”
“Perhaps a palanquin?”
Kobe roared with laughter. “You think you’re the emperor himself, do you? You either ride or walk. And seeing that we are in a hurry to get your master locked up, you may have to run.”
“You’ve arrested Yasaburo for the murder of his son-in-law?” Harada finally made a move to disentangle himself from the quilt, and get to his feet.
“I did. What do you know about it?”
“Not much. I was drunk at the time.”
“I thought you were supposed to have no wine except on your visits to the capital,” said Akitada.
“Yes, yes. Part of the contract, A roof over my head and a bit of food, plus a monthly binge. Except that day. He sent me a pitcher of wine—very superior stuff, by the way, which is astonishing in itself—with the message that I was to take it for my cold. I did. All of it before the sun went down. And forgot my cold and slept. When I woke up it was the middle of the next day, I was feeling a lot worse, and Nagaoka was gone.”
Kobe said, “What about Yasaburo’s daughter and husband?”
“Them? A more disreputable pair you’ll never meet. I stay out of their way when they show up. They cavort about, dressed up like lions with masks and long manes of hair, the daughter in man’s pants, lifting her legs up in the air, screeching like a demon possessed. And the old man is beating a drum and shouting encouragement. And he complains about my drinking! I ask you, would you let your daughter act that way?”
Kobe looked baffled by the question. “Let’s go,” he said gruffly. “We can’t spend the rest of the afternoon chatting in a field.”
Since Kobe climbed back on his horse and seemed to expect the shivering Harada to trot behind, Akitada said, “You can ride with me. If you sit in front, I’ll hold you and make sure you don’t fall again.”
Harada thought about it and nodded. The ascent was accomplished with difficulty, observed by a smirking Kobe, but eventually they were on their way to the highway, where the others awaited them.
Yasaburo greeted Harada with abuse and demands for his horse. He was ignored.
Slowed down by Harada, Akitada fell in behind the cortege. Harada gradually relaxed, and talked a little about his life. The loss of his family had shaken him to the point that he cared for little but periodic wine-induced bouts of forgetfulness.
“How long have you worked for Yasaburo?” Akitada asked.
“Almost a year.”
“Then you don’t know much about the performances they used to give?”
“Not much. I watched once, then stayed away when they played the fools.”
“So you did not take your meals with the family?”
Harada looked back at him over his shoulder. “What, me? Never. I would not have accepted had they asked. I stay in the garden pavilion and sleep in the stable.”
Akitada had suspected as much from close contact with Harada’s quilt.
By the time they reached the capital, Harada had unburdened himself about his work: Yasaburo rented out plots to poor farmers in exchange for rice, which he traded for silver or invested in more land purchases. Harada’s function had been to collect rents, and to keep the books in such a way that the annual tax collector’s visit might pass with minimal losses. He glossed over illegalities, but his tone implied them. He had disapproved, but, unattractive as working for Yasaburo was, he had little choice in the matter. Besides, he pointed out, it left him time to read and write, and to make periodic trips to the capital.
He shivered a little and sighed. “I suppose I could have saved myself that terrifying ride out of loyalty to a man I have no respect for.”
Long before they reached the eastern jail, Harada began to sag more heavily against Akitada, and when they arrived, he had fallen into a fitful sleep.
“We’ll put him in one of the cells,” said Kobe when he saw them trudging into the prison courtyard, Harada slumped forward across the horse’s neck and Akitada grimacing as he tried to keep him from falling off.
“He feels feverish,” Akitada said. “I think he is too ill to stay here. It is not just that Harada should now die in prison because of Yasaburo’s misdeeds. If you agree, I will take him home, where Seimei can look after him. Besides, I have a feeling he knows something about the murders without being aware of it.”
NINETEEN
The Temple of Boundless Mercy
Saburo opened the gate and helped Akitada with the semiconscious Harada. When they had him standing on wobbly legs, Harada mumbled, “Sorry, must’ve had a drop too much. Head hurts,” and pitched forward. Akitada caught him and picked him up bodily. Harada weighed little, even with his assorted blankets.
“Get Seimei and send him to my room,” Akitada told Saburo, and carried Harada into the house.
In his study, he laid him down. Harada opened his eyes and blinked at him. “What… where … ?”