seem accurate.”
“Ah. Is there any new business, Hamaya?” Akitada asked, as they passed through to the quiet archives where two shivering junior clerks were shuffling papers. Akitada was headed for a corner room under the eaves that he had made into his private office.
“Nothing, Excellency,” said the thin Hamaya, hurrying after him.
In his office, Akitada removed his quilted coat. Hamaya received it respectfully and waited as Akitada sat down at the low desk.
“I don’t understand it,” Akitada muttered, rubbing his chilled hands over the charcoal brazier filled with a few glowing pieces of coal. “The notices have been posted for days. A province of this size must have a tremendous backlog of civil cases. My predecessor not only departed without explaining the empty granary, but he left unfinished business.”
The clerk still stood, clutching Akitada’s clothing. “Under the circumstances, I suppose,” he ventured, “it is a good thing, sir. Only two of the clerks have reported for duty.”
Akitada rubbed his belly morosely. He still suffered from occasional bouts of cramping and had refused breakfast as well as another dose of Seimei’s bitter brew. Now his stomach grumbled also. And he still felt ashamed of his outburst in the courtyard. By losing his temper he was playing into the hands of enemies who apparently manipulated both the tribunal staff and the local people. Since his visit to Takata, Akitada thought he understood the reasons for his difficulties.
Now he looked at his clerk. “Tell me, Hamaya, are you and the other clerks afraid to come to work here?”
Hamaya hesitated, then said, “I believe that the two youngsters outside have great need of their salary because their families are very poor. As for me, I have no family and need not fear anybody”
Akitada clenched his fists. “This is intolerable!” he muttered. He thought for a moment, then said, “Tell my lieutenants to report when they are free. 1 know you and Seimei are still organizing the archives, but have one of your clerks make a search for information about the outcasts and their dealings with the Uesugi family.”
He spent the next hour as he had for the past week, reading reports left by his predecessors. Some of these were woefully sketchy and tended to cover up the fact that the incumbent had been unable to cope with matters. A pattern began to emerge. Of the four types of major reports each governor or his representative had to dispatch to the capital every year, three showed adequate levels of productivity for the province. These were prepared carefully and signed off on by the governor. The fourth report, called the court report, was a different matter. It indicated the condition of the provincial administration, both of its buildings and supplies and of its staff. These reports listed woeful shortages, were poorly written and prepared, and liberally laced with complaints by the incumbents. They pointed to inadequate staffing, insufficient funds, lack of labor, and lack of grain delivery to the provincial granary. The specific details were better than the conditions Akitada had found, but they explained to some extent why governors and their representatives had eventually absented themselves from the provincial capital. The tribunal was “uninhabitable” and the staff “nonexistent,” one recent official had written.
The documents Uesugi had provided to account for rice collection and storage were as neat and careful as the earlier three. They specified what amounts were stored locally and what had been shipped north as provisions for the fighting troops.
The difference between the court report and the others, as Hamaya had explained, was that anything involving the collection of rice and tribute was in the hands of the high constable. The appointed officials had simply approved documents prepared elsewhere.
It was an appalling situation. Akitada was
“Ah. Is there any new business, Hamaya?” Akitada asked, as they passed through to the quiet archives where two shivering junior clerks were shuffling papers. Akitada was headed for a corner room under the eaves that he had made into his private office.
“Nothing, Excellency,” said the thin Hamaya, hurrying after him.
In his office, Akitada removed his quilted coat. Hamaya received it respectfully and waited as Akitada sat down at the low desk.
“I don’t understand it,” Akitada muttered, rubbing his chilled hands over the charcoal brazier filled with a few glowing pieces of coal. “The notices have been posted for days. A province of this size must have a tremendous backlog of civil cases. My predecessor not only departed without explaining the empty granary, but he left unfinished business.”
The clerk still stood, clutching Akitada’s clothing. “Under the circumstances, I suppose,” he ventured, “it is a good thing, sir. Only two of the clerks have reported for duty.”
Akitada rubbed his belly morosely. He still suffered from occasional bouts of cramping and had refused breakfast as well as another dose of Seimei’s bitter brew. Now his stomach grumbled also. And he still felt ashamed of his outburst in the courtyard. By losing his temper he was playing into the hands of enemies who apparently manipulated both the tribunal staff and the local people. Since his visit to Takata, Akitada thought he understood the reasons for his difficulties.
Now he looked at his clerk. “Tell me, Hamaya, are you and the other clerks afraid to come to work here?”
Hamaya hesitated, then said, “I believe that the two youngsters outside have great need of their salary because their families are very poor. As for me, I have no family and need not fear anybody”
Akitada clenched his fists. “This is intolerable!” he muttered. He thought for a moment, then said, “Tell my lieutenants to report when they are free. 1 know you and Seimei are still organizing the archives, but have one of your clerks make a search for information about the outcasts and their dealings with the Uesugi family.”
He spent the next hour as he had for the past week, reading reports left by his predecessors. Some of these were woefully sketchy and tended to cover up the fact that the incumbent had been unable to cope with matters. A pattern began to emerge. Of the four types of major reports each governor or his representative had to dispatch to the capital every year, three showed adequate levels of productivity for the province. These were prepared carefully and signed off on by the governor. The fourth report, called the court report, was a different matter. It indicated the condition of the provincial administration, both of its buildings and supplies and of its staff. These reports listed woeful shortages, were poorly written and prepared, and liberally laced with complaints by the incumbents. They pointed to inadequate staffing, insufficient funds, lack of labor, and lack of grain delivery to the provincial granary. The specific details were better than the conditions Akitada had found, but they explained to some extent why governors and their representatives had eventually absented themselves from the provincial capital. The tribunal was “uninhabitable” and the staff “nonexistent,” one recent official had written.
The documents Uesugi had provided to account for rice collection and storage were as neat and careful as the earlier three. They specified what amounts were stored locally and what had been shipped north as provisions for the fighting troops.
The difference between the court report and the others, as Hamaya had explained, was that anything involving the collection of rice and tribute was in the hands of the high constable. The appointed officials had simply approved documents prepared elsewhere.
It was an appalling situation. Akitada was
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