Black Arrow (3 page)

“There you are,” said the judge to Hitomaro. “Now please go. Here is Dr. Yasakichi.”

“Just a minute—” Tora started, but Hitomaro took his arm and pulled him out of the room. In the dim passage they moved aside for the coroner, dingy-robed and carrying a satchel.

Hitomaro released his companion when they were back in the drafty courtyard. “Look,” he said, “you’ve got to control your temper better. We don’t know what’s what yet and you can’t be making enemies before we even get to know these people. Remember what the master said.”

Tora felt rebellious but nodded. “I guess you’re right, brother. Did you smell that coroner? Not that I blame a man for having something to warm his belly in this weather.” He gestured across the highway. “Since we didn’t get much information here, how about a cup of hot wine in that shack over there?”

The “shack” was opposite the post station next door. A train of pack horses was leaving, the grooms shouting and whipping up the animals. Steam rose from their shaggy coats in the cold air. Near the wineshop, a few hawkers had set up their stands. Bundled up, they were selling straw boots and rain coats, rice dumplings, and lanterns to travelers departing for the warmer south before the snows came. The onlookers at the gate were gone, no doubt beaten back by the constable.

Tora and Hitomaro crossed the street after the pack train. A tattered bamboo blind with faded characters covered the door of the wineshop. They lifted it and ducked in.

A thick miasma of smoke, oil fumes, and sour wine met them. The light was dim because both tiny windows were covered with rags and blinds to keep out the frigid air. What little light there was came from oil lamps attached to the walls and from a glowing charcoal fire in the middle of the small room. A handful of customers sat around the fire, and an ancient woman, round as a dumpling, was pouring wine and carrying on a conversation. An even older man, his thin frame bent almost double, bustled forward. Hitomaro and Tora decided to stay away from the haze around the fire and sat on an empty bench near the door. Leaning their bows against the wall, they ordered a flask of hot wine.

“What did you make of that?” Tora asked, jerking his head toward the Golden Carp.

Hitomaro looked thoughtful. “Lack of cooperation. Not surprising, really. The judge wasn’t too sure of himself, though, or we wouldn’t have had the time of day from them.”

“I meant the murder.”

Hitomaro chewed his lip. “Could be it happened that way.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh?”

“A peddler, a peasant, and an actor agreeing to kill an innkeeper on the road? They wouldn’t agree to do anything together.”

“How do we know that’s what they are?”

“The maid said so.”

“Maybe the maid lied.”

Tora considered the maid until their wine came. Her shapely legs featured in his thoughts.

The old man set down the flask and two cups along with a plate of pickles. “Are the gentlemen new in town?” he asked, peering at them from watery eyes,

Tora tasted the wine. It was thick with sediment and sour. He put down his cup. “You guessed right, uncle. Looking for a place to stay Someone told us the inn over there is cheap, but there’s been a murder. We don’t like places where they kill the guests.” He held up the flask. “How about joining us in a cup?”

“Thank you, thank you!” The old man cast a furtive glance toward the old woman and produced a chipped cup from his sleeve. This Tora filled, and the old man drained it, smacking his lips and tucking the cup away again in the twinkling of an eye. “As for the Carp,” he said with a toothless grin. “It’s old Sato, the innkeeper, who was killed and the guests did it. Serves him right. The old skinflint puts up anything that crawls in off the road and has a few coppers. His poor wife’s been trying to spruce up the place and bring in a better clientele.” He cast a dubious glance at their rough clothes, his eyes lingering on Tora’s bearskin.

Tora sampled the pickles and found them excellent, crisp and nicely spiced. He slipped off the bear skin and revealed a neat blue cloth jacket underneath.

The old man looked relieved. “It’s been hard for that young woman,” he said, “running a place with such a husband. Like an ant dragging an anchor.”

Tora grinned. “Well, she’s rid of the anchor now. Young, you say?”

The old man chortled. “Oh, my, yes. And a beauty! Old Sato didn’t deserve the pretty thing, and that’s the truth. But she knows it, so don’t get your hopes up.” He sighed. “Some men have all the luck.” He cast another furtive look over his shoulder, started, and put a gnarled finger to his lips.

The old woman waddled up. She gave them a nod and told the old man, “I need some firewood if you want me to cook the rice and keep the wine warm. Somebody’s got to do the work if we’re to eat.”

“Get it yourself. My wife,” he said to Tora, rolling his eyes. “Can’t stand to see a man rest. Ask her about the Carp. She knows everything.”

Tora turned on the charm. “Lucky you. Your lady’s not only fetching but well-informed. I bet she makes these delicious pickles herself.”

The woman’s round face widened into a broad smile nearly as toothless as her husband’s. She sat down beside Tora. “A family recipe. Been making them all my life. So, where are you two from?”

“The capital,” Hitomaro said, chewing a pickle. “We stopped across the street first. You know anything about the murder?”

She nodded. “It should suit the whore just fine,” she said darkly.

Her husband bristled. “You’ve no right to call her that, woman.”

Tora laughed. “If she’s as beautiful as your husband says, I might court her myself—now that she’s single again.”

“Then you’d better watch out. That one’s a fox,” snapped the old woman.

“Horns grow on the head of a jealous woman,” muttered her husband.

She punched his arm. “What do
you
know about such women?”

“Pay no attention to her, young man,” the old man said, rubbing his arm. “Mrs. Sato was a good little wife. Dutiful daughter, too. Not many young girls let themselves get sold to a cranky old geezer like Sato.”

Hitomaro put in, “I don’t think she was home just now.”

“She went to visit her sick mother yesterday,” the old man said. “Maybe she’s gone back.” His wife gave a snort, and he glared at her. “A dutiful wife and daughter, I say, and a fine little manager, too. She’ll do wonders for the place now that old Sato’s dead.”

“Hah!” said his wife and left.

Her husband stayed. “Sato was a terrible miser. He let the inn run down. Charged bums a few coppers for a place by the hearth and a bowl of beans or millet with wilted greens. His wife’s been wanting a nicer place.”

The fat little wife came rolling back with another plate of pickles. She said, “Guess what? One of the men’s from Takata. He says the old lord’s dying.”

Her husband pursed his mouth. “Lord Maro? He’s been dying for years. But I’d better lay in more wine anyway. If it’s true, we’ll be busy around here for the funeral.” His face broke into a happy grin for a moment, then he said piously, “Lord Uesugi’s the high constable. May he be reborn in paradise.”

“If he’s the high constable,” Tora said, “he’s had a good life already. Save paradise for us poor people.”

“You wouldn’t want to trade places with him,” said the old man. “There’s a curse on that clan.”

“A curse?”

“Ah, terrible things happen to them. Take Lord Maro’s older brother. He used to be a champion with the bow and could hit the eye of a rabbit at two hundred paces, but one day he killed his father’s wife and her little son. Killed his own brother!”

“What happened to him?” Hitomaro asked.

“The angry ghosts ate him.”

Tora’s eyes widened. “Really?”

The old woman rolled her eyes and cried, “It’s the truth. The ghosts of that poor young lady and her babe. He was never seen again.”

Her husband scowled. “I’m telling the story.” He turned back to Tora and Hitomaro. “Lord Maro’s father was pretty old when he married again and had another son. I should be so lucky!” He gave his wife a meaningful look. This sent her into hoots of derisive laughter and she waddled back to her customers.

“So? Go on,” Tora said.

“Well, they found the lady and her boy in the forest. Killed by the same arrow!” He leaned forward. “The older son’s arrow. It went through both of them. Like two birds on a spit. Lord Maro’s father had doted on them and it killed him.” He paused and eyed the wine flask. “You’re not drinking. Can I get you some more wine?”

They shook their heads. Tora said, “How about another cup for you?”

In a flash the cup reappeared from the old man’s sleeve. Tora filled it, the old man gulped it down, tucked the cup away, and continued, “Well, Lord Maro succeeded his father, but he had no luck either. Only one of his children lived. That’s Makio. But Makio’s wife died young. They say she jumped off the upper gallery a few weeks after the wedding. He never married again. Then Lord Maro went out hunting and lost his mind. Came back raving mad. Locked himself away and never came out of his room again. They say there’s crying and wailing day and night in that room. It’ll be a blessing if he finally dies.”

Tora gave a shudder. “Angry ghosts will drive a man mad.”

The old man nodded. “Mind you, there’ll be more trouble soon. It’s the new governor. Makio will get rid of him, just like his father did the last one.”

“What?” Tora and Hitomaro asked together.

“Hah! You don’t believe me? Name of Oda. Came from the capital just like this one and wanted to run things. Broke his neck falling off a horse. They called it an accident.” He snorted.

Hitomaro said, “It wasn’t an accident?”

“His horse came home with an arrow in its ass.”

Tora and Hitomaro exchanged glances, then Hitomaro got up and tossed some coins down. “That’s foolish talk,” he said harshly. “If someone raises a hand against a governor, the emperor sends an army to teach them proper respect.”

“Well,” the old man swept up the coins, “it’ll make trouble all right. That’s always the way in the end.’“

Outside, Tora asked, “You think there was any truth to that?”

“To what? The murdered governor? Or this Makio’s plans for us?”

“Both.”

“No idea. He had no reason to lie and he seemed rational enough—except for that ghost business. They say rumors are more honest than official welcomes. We’d better report it to the master.”

But when they got back to the inn yard, Tora burst into a string of curses. His catch of birds had disappeared—all but one skinny dove which had been nailed to a pole with a knife. Stuck to the knife was a piece of paper with the words, “This will be you next time.”

* * * *