Tora did not turn. “Don’t let it bother you. I see they aren’t looking for me anymore. I’ll find other work. There’s a lot of fighting going on. Maybe I’ll go back to the army.”

“But aren’t you marrying Otomi?”

Tora swung around, astonished. “Me, marry?”

So much for love! Relief washed over Akitada. Otomi’s loss was his gain. “In that case,” he said, “perhaps you would consider returning to the capital with me. It’s not very interesting work, I’m afraid, and I can’t pay you much, but there are some very pretty girls there.”

* * * *

TWENTY-TWO

MORNING GLORY

I

n an austere office of the Bureau of Censors, two middle-aged men faced each other across a desk with neat stacks of documents. The desk and office belonged to Minamoto Yutaka, the feared president of the censors, a personage so powerful that he reported directly to the chancellor. He was a tall, almost cadaverous man, his sparse hair graying, his nose sharp, and his lips thin and permanently turned down at the corners. He sat stiffly upright, hands tucked into the sleeves of a dark green brocade robe, and watched the man opposite him from slitted eyes.

Soga Ietada, the current minister of justice, wore a lighter shade of green and was physically Minamoto’s opposite. Almost obese, he had abundant, bristling hair on his head, eyebrows, mustache, and the backs of his hands. At the moment he was occupied with a fan and a cup of tea.

“There are those at court who predicted a different outcome to this matter,” Soga said, putting down his empty cup. He spoke with a slight whine, as if he were complaining.

The president turned down the corners of his mouth a little more. “The Fujiwaras are blessed by Buddha. Motosuke emerged from this regrettable affair not only with a clean record but as the man who uncovered a dangerous conspiracy.”

The minister waved his fan agitatedly. “We should have stopped Moto—” He broke off, his mouth frozen open in mid-speech.

The thin man had opened his eyes wide and raised a hand. “You are confused, Soga. It is naturally with great relief and pleasure that we have received the news of Fujiwara Motosuke’s return from Kazusa and his appointment as senior councilor in the Great Council of State. Equally delightful is the news that his daughter has entered the imperial household.”

The minister found his voice again. “If she produces an heir, Motosuke may become the next chancellor.”

“Quite possible.” The president pursed his thin lips and smiled sourly. “And in the fullness of time, your junior clerk Sugawara may become minister of justice.”

The minister blanched. “This development was completely unforeseen. Sugawara was a mere nobody, and now everyone talks of his brilliant future. The worst thing is that we are thought to support the Fujiwara faction because I recommended Sugawara to you.”

The president smiled unpleasantly. “If you intended a different outcome, you should have chosen a different man. Not even you could have been blind to this man’s ability. I have reviewed Sugawara’s background and read his reports. He took top honors from the university in both Chinese studies and the law, no mean feat, which should have secured him a promising position in the administration. Instead he ends up in your dusty archives. His reports are more than competent and reveal an intelligence unexpected in one of your clerks. Such a man should have been watched more carefully.”

The minister wailed, “That is precisely what I did. But he began meddling in murder cases, stirring up trouble for everyone and making himself a reputation. Finally, in desperation, I suggested him for this assignment. Your Excellency told me yourself that whoever went would fail. Failure would have removed him forever to some remote provincial administration.”

The president leaned forward, fixing the minister with a cold eye. “Do not dare to shift the blame! Regrettably, you miscalculated. I had nothing to do with your private vendetta, although I may regret having put my trust in you.”

The minister paled. “I... I... It was not my intention ...”

“Enough,” said Minamoto coldly. “The matter is closed.”

As soon as his visitor had bowed himself out, the president clapped for his clerk. “Send in Sugawara,” he ordered.

Akitada stumbled over the threshold, lost his balance, and reached up to steady his court hat, while sinking to his knees clumsily. He had been waiting outside for over an hour, during which his superior, the minister, had arrived, walking past him without so much as a nod. Just now Soga had reemerged, mopping his face and giving him a look of such open fury that Akitada had gaped after the minister in shocked confusion.

Now here he was himself, prostrated before one of the most powerful men in the government, a man who was said to have neither friends nor enemies because he was so widely feared. Akitada quailed at the thought of what was about to be done to him.

“Approach,” ordered the thin voice, icy as the floor Akitada knelt on.

He slid closer to the desk and stole a glance at the great man. It was not reassuring. Cold eyes, reminiscent of a snake’s unblinking inspection of a mouse, measured him from half-closed lids.

“You are the person we sent to Kazusa as inspector to the outgoing governor?”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

“I have read your report. As regards the taxes, it reveals incredibly lax standards of investigation, a rashness of action that borders on madness, and an appalling lack of concern for the most fundamental rules of behavior. You succeeded in your assignment only because of amazing luck and favorable circumstances. What do you have to say?”

“I regret extremely my foolish mistakes and shall endeavor to learn from them.”

There was a moment of silence. When Akitada glanced up, the president’s eyes were looking into the distance, as if Akitada were no longer worthy of regard. “If you are implying,” Minamoto finally said flatly, “that you expect a similar assignment, or any other position of responsibility, you are even less intelligent than I thought. We cannot afford to employ bunglers.”

Akitada turned cold with apprehension.

“Still, you write clearly and seem to have handled the review of provincial accounts well enough. Those skills are of some use in the administration. Because others seem to be more impressed with your activities in Kazusa than I am, I am recommending your transfer to the Ministry of Ceremonial. The position of senior recorder has fallen vacant. This amounts to a promotion in rank by half a grade and an increase in salary. In my opinion, you do not deserve either.”