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

trees and shrubs took on an impenetrable blackness and loomed against the lighter sky and the faint glow of the city beyond. He thought of the blind woman. Once he had been buried underground for many days and found his terror of the darkness had been greater than his fear of his captors. Tora was right: People should not turn their backs on those whose distress was manifest. He would at least listen to the woman’s problem.
    From the corner of the house, a cicada called, and another answered from the neighboring garden. Now and then there was a small splash, as one of the carp in the tiny fishpond jumped for an insect.
    Akitada unrolled the brocade and took out his flute. He touched the familiar shape lovingly. As always, when he placed the flute to his lips and began to play, his sadness lifted, the tension in his muscles eased, and his mind emptied itself of worries. He felt as light as a moth on the night wind.
    Much, much later he stopped. He was still tired, but his mind was calm now. Putting the flute back into its cover, he rose and went inside. Someone had spread his bedding. Tamako. He felt vaguely guilty but was too tired to go to her. Taking off his robe, he slipped under the quilt and closed his eyes.
    In that last half-conscious moment before sleep, it occurred to him that the swordsmith had said something significant, but he was too tired to remember.

CHAPTER FOUR
    THE BLIND STREET SINGER

     
     
     
    Seimei shook him awake long before he was ready. Heavy with unfinished sleep, he struggled to a sitting position. It was pitch dark outside, but Akitada customarily arrived at the ministry before sunrise. “Is it time already?” he grumbled. “I feel as if I’d just lain down.”
    “No, sir. It’s Tora.”
    “What?” Akitada rubbed his eyes and blinked against the light of the flickering candle. “What does he want in the middle of the night?”
    “He’s been arrested for murder. Someone from the Metropolitan Police is outside. Tora gave your name, and they sent an officer.”
    “It must be a ridiculous mistake. Tell them Tora is here. He came back with me.” Akitada lay back down with a sigh of mingled irritation and relief.
    “Tora is not here, sir. He left again after you retired.”
    Akitada sat up again, wide awake now. “He left again? Why? Where did he go?”
    “I don’t know, sir.” Seimei held out Akitada’s trousers and robe.
    Pushing aside the bedding, Akitada got up, stepped into the wide silk trousers and tied them around his waist and ankles. Then he put his arms into the sleeves of the silk robe he had intended to wear to the ministry, and felt his topknot to make sure it was reasonably tidy.
    “Where is the constable?” he asked.
    “In the reception room. But he’s a police lieutenant.”
    “Hmm.” Barefoot, Akitada padded out of the room.
    The lieutenant was young and excessively proper. Dressed in his uniform of white trousers, red coat, and black hat, he was still standing in the middle of the room and came to stiff attention when Akitada entered. His bow was snappy and precise. “Lieutenant Ihara, sir. Is it my honor to address First Secretary Sugawara?”
    “Er, yes. Please be at ease, Lieutenant. What is all this about?”
    “A female was murdered in the ninth ward. The man arrested at the scene of the crime claims to be your retainer, sir. Name of Tora?”
    “I have a retainer by that name. Describe him!”
    “Taller than I by a hand’s width. About thirty years old. Small mustache. Pale features. Good teeth. Wearing a plain blue robe with black sash. No other identifying marks that I could see.”
    Akitada sighed. No doubt Tora had gone out after some female and got himself into trouble. “It sounds like him,” he admitted. “What happened?”
    “The warden of the ninth ward received word that a crime was being committed and sent some constables. They walked in on the murder scene and found this Tora bent over the victim with a knife in his hand. The