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 … ?”

“Don’t worry! My secretary is quite good with herbal remedies, and so is my wife. They will have you feeling better in no time.”

“Tha’s very good of you,” mumbled Harada. He looked at Akitada uneasily. “Er, who are you? I seem to have forgotten.”

“Sugawara. You are in my house. I brought you here because you seem a bit feverish.”

“Hmm,” said Harada, and fell into a dry coughing fit which left him shaking and gasping.

The door opened and Seimei came in.

“Another patient for you,” said Akitada. “This is Professor Harada. He was manager for Nagaoka’s father-in-law, Yasaburo, who was arrested for Nagaoka’s murder. Our guest is a witness in the case. I brought him here because he is too sick to go anyplace else.”

Seimei was immediately all interest and attention. He knelt, greeting Harada with a bow, before peering at his face intently. Harada peered back. Seimei bowed again and touched Harada’s forehead. “A fever is burning your life force and you must be put to bed immediately, sir,” he informed the sick man. Then he turned to Akitada. “Shall I put Professor Harada in Miss Akiko’s room?”

“Yes. And see what you can do for him.” Harada had closed his eyes and was either asleep or unconscious. Akitada took Seimei aside and gave him a sketchy outline of Harada’s misfortunes, adding, “He has suffered more misery than one man deserves.”

Seimei shook his head with pity, but remarked, “As to what he deserves, sir, we do not know what he may have been guilty of in his previous life.” Seimei was a strong believer in karma as the ultimate leveler of human lives, punishing transgressions and rewarding virtues in subsequent lives.

“How is Tora?” Akitada asked.

Seimei smiled. “Much improved, though he won’t say so in front of the ladies.”

“The ladies?”

“Oh, yes. He has visitors every day.”

Akitada scooped the sick man up again, and carried him to another wing of the house where his sister Akiko’s room had stood empty since her marriage to Toshikage. There, Seimei spread bedding from a trunk. Together they divested Harada of an odd assortment of patched blankets and robes and tucked him under the quilts.

The small room Tora shared with Genba was crammed full of people. Tora, covered by a quilt and leaning on an armrest, reclined on a mat in its center. Next to him sat Miss Plumblossom, enthroned on an upturned water barrel on which someone had placed one of the silk cushions from Akitada’s room. Apparently she refused to sit on the floor like everyone else. Slightly behind her was her maid, her scarred face hidden behind a fan, and on Tora’s other side knelt a very pretty young girl with sparkling eyes. Genba’s bulk filled the rest of the room. All of them looked up at Akitada’s entrance, smiled, and bowed.

“Well!” Akitada looked around. “I hope I see you all well. Especially you, Tora.”

“Pretty well, pretty well,” Tora said with an expression of patient suffering. “The company helps, but the nights are bad, and I can’t seem to move without much pain.” The pretty girl by his side took his hand and stroked it, murmuring, “My poor tiger.”

The rascal, thought Akitada, and sat down. He kept a straight face and told Miss Plumblossom, “I am happy to see that you have made your peace.” Sitting down had put him at a distinct disadvantage, because the formidable Miss Plumblossom now towered over him.

She was untroubled by the impropriety. “The four of us have come to an understanding,” she informed Akitada, and smiled with fashionably blackened teeth. “Yukiyo, the foolish girl, will make up for falsely accusing poor Tora by helping him find the slasher. Between us we’ll get the bastard, if it’s the last thing we do.” She nodded emphatically and her red hair ribbons bounced.

Akitada looked at Tora, who looked back uneasily. “It’s what I’d planned to do all along, sir,” he pleaded. “In fact, that’s one reason I went to Miss Plumblossom’s. I’ve finally got a case of my own to solve.”

Akitada opened his mouth to point out some small problems—such as the fact that Tora needed rest, or that, once he was well, he had certain duties to perform, or that the slasher had so far escaped the superior manpower of the police as well as the watchful eyes of people. Something about Tora’s face made him keep his thoughts to himself. “Excellent!” he said heartily. “I wish you the greatest success. Given your experience and special talents and Yukiyo’s description of the man, you will triumph where Superintendent Kobe has failed.”