The Convict's Sword by I. J. Parker Page A

was one of them. When he saw us looking at him, he got frightened.”
    Tora looked down at himself. “Amida,” he muttered. “I think you’ve got it. I look like a thief-taker to them. Should’ve worn my sword.”
    Akitada suppressed a smile. Having once belonged to the class not permitted to wear or use a sword, Tora was inordinately proud of his present status as a retainer.
    But life is a candle in the wind, and not all men can have what they wish for. Akitada had hoped for a modest career of legal scholarship, drafting codes and writing commentaries on the law, or perhaps a minor governorship administering those laws in some distant province. Instead he had been assigned to the Ministry of Justice, where a vengeful Soga had kept him at dull paperwork. And now he had even lost that position. And he had failed again to keep his promise to Haseo. As head of his family, for his people, and for his son’s future, he must return to duty until Soga returned. And then he must suffer Soga’s insults in order to avoid a negative evaluation that would make it impossible to get another appointment.

    But sacrifices are not without their rewards. Happy laughter greeted him at home. Genba was cavorting about the lantern-lit courtyard with Yori on his back as Seimei and Tamako watched from the veranda.
    Genba had joined Akitada’s household shortly before his master’s marriage and had made himself indispensable without quite achieving the closeness that existed between Tora and his master. For one thing, Genba was too much in awe of his master. He was a huge man, taller than either Akitada or Tora, both of whom were above average, and he was quite fat these days. He had developed a passion for food when he had prepared to become a wrestler.
    Now his face was red from exertion, and sweat glistened on his bulging neck as he pranced and huffed around in a circle, his belly and buttocks bobbing, while Yori shouted and made passes with his sword at the straw man Tora had built.
    Tora gave a sharp whistle, and Genba whinnied and stopped, letting the boy slip from his shoulders before he trotted to the house and collapsed on the veranda steps.
    “Father, Father,” cried Yori, catapulting himself into Akitada’s arms. “I hit him six, no, seven times. It could have been more, but Genba is so slow and clumsy.”
    “Genba is no horse,” said his father. The big man was wiping the sweat off his crimson face, and his huge chest rose and fell as he drew breath. “Perhaps we should get you a small horse instead. What do you think, Tora?”
    Tora was dubious. “Not many around that are small enough. Maybe a donkey?”
    “No,” shouted Yori, outraged. “A horse. A proper horse. I shall not sit on a donkey.”
    Tamako called out anxiously, “You are too young for a horse, my son. Wait a few years first.”
    Akitada regretted his rash offer. Putting Yori down, he said, “I shall consider your request, Yori, when your writing improves.”
    He went to greet Tamako and Seimei and then sat down beside Genba to remove his shoes. He was very tired. They had walked far, and his old leg injury still ached occasionally.
    Seimei said, “That nice young man from the ministry stopped by on his way home.”
    Akitada’s heart stopped for a moment. He looked up at the old man. “Some problem at the ministry?”
    “No, sir. He said to tell you that all was quiet still. His exact words. I wondered why he would bother to bring such a message.”
    But Akitada knew. Nakatoshi had warned him that, though Soga had not returned today, he might be back tomorrow. Well, it was settled. Akitada would return to work in the morning. The game was over—and he had lost.
    He had little appetite for his evening rice that night and soon retreated to his own room. Taking a slim roll of brocade from the bookshelf, he went out onto the veranda. The air had cooled off and it was quite dark, but a few stars glimmered in the heavens. This was the time of night when