Island of Exiles sa-5 Read online

  “He’s got his usual visitor with him,” said one of the guards.

  He reached for a lantern and led the way down a narrow, dark hallway.

  Yamada followed without comment, and Akitada trailed behind. Apparently the visitor had raised no eyebrows. Akitada wondered if the governor was with his son.

  Most of the cells appeared to be empty. Prisoners from the mainland were put to hard labor upon arrival. Mutobe Toshito’s cell was toward the back. To Akitada’s surprise, the sound of a woman’s voice came from it.

  There was little light in the cell. A pale glimmer of sunshine fell through a single small window so thickly barred that it seemed the bottom of a basket. In the murky gloom, Akitada made out two seated figures. One was that of a young man of middle size, dressed in a pale silk robe; the other was an elderly nun in white hemp robe and veil.

  At their entrance, the nun rose awkwardly with the assistance of the young man, and turned to face them. As the guard raised his lantern, Akitada saw a thin figure with a narrow face that was darkened by sun and weather and dominated by enormous eyes like pools of ink. She looked frail, like a sliver of discarded wood, as if exposure and illness had destroyed a former great beauty by consuming what once gave it life.

  “Madam.” The superintendent bowed deeply. “Your visit honors this dismal place. You bring spiritual riches to those who have nothing else left in this life.”

  She shuddered at his words. “Let us hope for a better outcome in this instance, Yamada, but thank you. I shall leave now.” Her voice was beautiful, and the elegance of her dic-tion reminded the startled Akitada of the faraway court at Heian-kyo.

  Turning back to the prisoner, she said, “Do not forget what I told you.” Then she slipped past them so gently that she seemed no more than a wraith on a breath of air.

  Akitada stared after her. “Who was that?” he burst out, for-getting for a moment his own position.

  Fortunately, Yamada was preoccupied. He was greeting the prisoner with a friendly courtesy which the young man seemed to return. Over his shoulder, Yamada said, “They call her Ribata. She’s a hermit nun who lives on a mountain not far from here. Sometimes she visits prisoners in need of spiritual counsel.”

  The guard added helpfully, “She’s been visiting him every day.”

  The young man with the pale, intelligent face smiled bitterly. “I suppose that means my case is desperate. We pray together. She is very holy.” His tone was casual, but Akitada did not quite believe it. Mutobe Toshito glanced at him and asked,

  “Who is that with you, Yamada?”

  “His name is Taketsuna, a new prisoner. He’s here to take notes.” Pulling a sheaf of papers from his sleeve, Yamada said apologetically, “I am to ask you some more questions. The answers are needed to prepare your case.”

  “You mean, the case against me,” the prisoner corrected him.

  Yamada fidgeted uneasily. “Let us sit down,” he said, seating himself on the dirt floor. When the young man reluctantly sat, he added soothingly, “You mustn’t be so downcast. Your father will speak for you, as will many others.” But he did not sound as if he believed it, and the prisoner gave a harsh laugh.

  “The governor is no longer my father. How could he be, when I have been charged with such a hideous crime?”

  “Now, now,” mumbled Yamada again. “Sit down, sit down,” he told Akitada, then turned to the guard. “Paper and ink for the clerk.”

  An uncomfortable silence fell as they waited. After a moment, Toshito addressed Akitada. “I would bid you welcome, but this prison and the island are a special kind of hell for people like you and me. So you have my pity instead. What did you do to have been sent here?”

  Akitada glanced at Yamada for permission to answer, but the superintendent was again lost in his own thoughts, his chin sunk into his chest. “I killed a political enemy,” he said.

  “Really? Much the same crime of which I stand accused.

  With, of course, the major difference that I’m supposed to have murdered an imperial prince and will not live to see exile.” Akitada could not think of an appropriate response, so merely murmured, “I’m sorry.”

  Another silence fell, and then the guard reappeared to hand Akitada a lap desk, paper, and writing utensils. Akitada rubbed the ink, then glanced at Yamada, who still brooded. “Ready, sir.”

  “What? Oh. Oh, yes.” Yamada focused his eyes on the sheaf of questions in his hand. “Very well. Write: Interview between the prisoner Mutobe Toshito and Yamada Tsubura, superintendent of Sado Provincial Prison. The fourteenth day of the eighth month of the third year of Chogen.” Akitada wrote.

  “Now write down all the questions I ask and the answers the prisoner gives.” Yamada consulted his papers and addressed the young man. “Mutobe Toshito, how did you come to attend the banquet during which the Second Prince died?” The prisoner made a face. “I have already answered that several times. My fa . . . the governor often received invitations to dinners given for the Second Prince. Because of Prince Okisada’s illustrious rank, it was his habit to accept these, but on this occasion the governor was not well and did not wish to make the journey. So I went instead and carried his apologies.” Yamada frowned. “Ah, yes. You are right. These questions seem to have been asked before,” he muttered, scanning the list in his hands. “Feel free to add any information you may not have given earlier. Perhaps it will reveal something to your benefit.” Akitada knew very well why there were no new questions.

  They were meant to give him access to the evidence from young Mutobe’s own recollections.

  “Now, about that prawn stew you brought for the prince.

  Why did you bring food to the dinner?” A good question that had puzzled Akitada.

  The prisoner compressed his lips. “I know that is against me. It was customary to bring the prince a small gift. I never liked this custom and used to argue against it, but my fa . . . the governor insisted that it would offend certain people in the capital if we did not show such courtesy. When it was a matter of my going by myself, I decided to take something simple. I knew that the prince was particularly fond of the prawn stew a woman in Minato made, so I decided to take him this instead.” Ah! A second unplanned event.

  “This woman, did she know the stew was for the prince?”

  “I mentioned my purpose when I picked it up, I think. She lives not far from Professor Sakamoto’s villa and knows about the prince’s tastes.”

  “Could she have poisoned the stew intentionally?” Young Mutobe shook his head. “No. She’s just a simple fisherman’s wife who runs a small restaurant. She would never do such a thing.”

  That was naive, but then the governor’s son seemed rather naive in other ways, too.

  “Could the stew have become poisoned by accident?”

  “I don’t know. I expect the police have investigated.” The superintendent nodded. “They have. Apparently the woman served the same stew to her customers without ill effects. It seems you are the only one who could have added something to the dish after it left her premises.” Toshito said sharply, “What about Professor Sakamoto, his servants, or his other guests?”

  Akitada shot a glance at the prisoner. So the young man was not completely resigned to his fate.

  Yamada sighed. “The guests and servants testified that you arrived late and presented the dish to His Highness, who placed it on the tray before him. The servants had already served the prince and neither of his neighbors was close enough to add anything to the stew without being seen. I’m afraid the burden of the charge does fall on you . . . unless you can account for some other instance in which someone might have tampered with the food?”

  The superintendent was trying to help, but the prisoner shook his head. “I’ve had weeks to think about it, and I cannot understand what happened. Perhaps the stew was fine and the poison was in something else.”

  Yamada shook his head. “You forget the dog died.”

  “Perhaps the dog died from som
e other cause.” Yamada moved restlessly. “Too much of a coincidence. And such speculations are remote indeed when motive is considered. Who in that house that night would have had a reason to kill Prince Okisada?”

  “I don’t know,” cried young Mutobe, his voice rising in frustration. “How could I know? That is for the authorities to discover. Why ask me what I cannot speak to?” The superintendent cleared his throat. “I am sorry. You’re quite right. Let us return to the questions. You are accused of attempting to strangle His Highness the moment the other guests left the pavilion. You have testified that you were merely loosening the prince’s collar as he had asked you to do. Why then did he scream for help?”

  Toshito raised his hands helplessly. “I cannot say, except that he was in distress. He seemed to be gasping for breath.”

  “A man who is choking cannot call out,” Yamada pointed out. “And according to the physician, the poison caused pains in the belly and later convulsions.”

  The prisoner shook his head. “All I know is that it happened.

  I have no explanation.”

  With a sigh, the superintendent folded his papers and put them back in his sleeve. “Is there anything you can say in your defense?” he asked. “For example, do you know of anyone at all who might have wanted to kill the prince?” Toshito cried, “I did not want to kill him, but they arrested me. He was not a likable man, but why would anyone kill him for that?”

  There. It was out. The motive was not his, but his father’s.

  The charge would be that Governor Mutobe had prevailed upon his son to poison Okisada because the prince had become a threat to Mutobe’s career.

  Yamada rose abruptly. “That is all. We’ll leave you in peace now.” He looked distressed at his choice of words and muttered something.

  Akitada cleared his throat. “Your pardon, sir,” he said, “but being new at this kind of thing, I’m concerned about accuracy because my notes might be used in court. Could I clear up a small matter to make sure I wrote it correctly?”

  “What is it?”

  “Whose idea was the prawn stew? It seemed to me the accused said the prince had asked for it, and that was why he thought to bring it.”

  The superintendent turned to the prisoner. “Well, was it your idea or the prince’s request?”

  The young man looked confused. “I cannot recall. Surely it was mine. I believe the prince had talked about his fondness of stewed prawns on a previous occasion, but I was the one who decided that day to stop at the restaurant. The owner’s prawn stew is well known in the area.”

  Yamada pressed him, “Perhaps your father suggested it? I assume he was the one who told you of the prince’s taste for prawns?”

  The prisoner sprang to his feet. “He may have heard him talk about it,” he cried, his eyes flashing. “The prince was always talking about food. But no, he never made such a suggestion. It would never have occurred to him to take such a humble gift.

  He had nothing to do with the stew. The stew was my idea, no one else’s, do you hear?”

  With a sigh, Yamada nodded. Akitada, whose eyes had hung on the prisoner during his outburst, hurriedly wrote down the final questions and responses, then bundled up his notes.

  Bowing to the prisoner, he followed the superintendent out of the jail.

  Yamada looked dejected. “Poor young man,” he said. “It will go hard with him. And with the governor, too. He loves the boy dearly.” He heaved a deep sigh and added with a breaking voice,

  “Life is full of suffering, but nothing compares to a father’s pain when he causes misery for his child.” He stretched out his hand for the notes of the interview and said in a more normal tone,

  “Thank you, young man. Better report to Yutaka now.” Then he turned and walked away.

  Akitada spent the rest of the day in the archives, wielding his brush and thinking over what Yamada had said. Apparently he believed the governor had used his son to carry out the murder of the prince. That was shocking enough, but Akitada could not rid himself of the conviction that Yamada had also spoken of himself. If so, he must have been thinking about the drudgery, which the lovely Masako accepted so readily, but which seemed shockingly cruel to Akitada. What would make a father demand such a sacrifice from his daughter?

  He decided to ask Yutaka.

  Taking one of the documents as a pretext, he left his cubicle and sought out the superintendent of archives.

  Yutaka was at his desk, bent over some papers, with his thin back to the entrance. Apparently the shortage of scribes kept him as busy as his clerks.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” Akitada said, raising his voice a little, “but I have a question about this.” There was no answer, and Akitada saw that the brush had fallen from Yutaka’s hand. With a sudden sense of foreboding, he stepped quickly around Yutaka. The elderly man’s chin had sunk into his chest and his eyes were closed. The brush had left a jagged line on the paper, and his lifeless hand hung limp. Fearing that the man was dead, Akitada put his hand on his head to raise it.

  “Wh . . . what?” Yutaka, coming awake, jerked away, stared up at Akitada, and shrieked for help.

  “Sir! Sir!” cried Akitada, dismayed. “Please calm down. I did not realize you were asleep. I thought . . .” He did not get any further, because at that moment the other two clerks burst in and flung themselves upon him so violently that he crashed to the floor. Though he offered no resistance, they belabored him with whatever they could lay their hands on, a water container filled with inky liquid, Yutaka’s wooden armrest, and a document rolled around a wooden dowel.

  Akitada suffered a number of crushing blows to his skull, particularly from the armrest and the document scroll, before

  Yutaka, perhaps out of concern for his precious scroll, put a stop to the beating.

  It took a while to clear up the misunderstanding, because Akitada was too dizzy and nauseated to be able to say much. But eventually Yutaka grudgingly apologized, taking his embarrassment out in a tongue-lashing of the two clerks, who slunk away silently. Akitada staggered to his feet, wiping dazedly at some blood which was running down his cheek.

  Seeing his condition, Yutaka sent him home.

  Later Akitada had little recollection of how he had crossed the yard and collapsed on the bare floor of his small room. He passed out or fell asleep, and did not return to full consciousness until a touch on his bruised head made him jerk away. This movement caused such a jangling and ringing in his head that he sucked in his breath and closed his eyes again.

  But not before he had caught a glimpse of Masako’s face, bent over him with an intense look of concern on her pretty features.

  “What happened to you, Taketsuna?” she asked, her voice trembling and cool fingertips touching his cheek. The gentle caress almost brought tears to his eyes, and he snatched at her hand. After a moment, she pulled it from his grasp. “Can you speak?” she asked.

  “I . . . yes. It was all a misunderstanding. Yutaka was asleep at his desk and thought I meant him harm. He called for help and his clerks gave me a beating.”

  “Oh.” She looked at him from her large, soft eyes, a spot of color in her cheeks. “We should have warned you. You see, he really was attacked last year. One of the prisoners went mad, and Yutaka got cut pretty badly. But that he should have set the clerks on you is outrageous. We must report it to the governor.

  And you need a doctor.” She rose with a rustle of silk.

  “No!” Akitada snatched at her hem and begged, “Please don’t mention this to Dr. Ogata or the governor. It was nothing, and Yutaka apologized. Please! I don’t want to lose my job in the archives.”

  She stood, frowning in indecision. Then she nodded. “Very well. I’ll get some water and salve and see what I can do.” When the door had closed behind her, Akitada stared at it in confusion. Something had just happened between them, something that had made his heart beat faster and heated his blood.

  When she had touched him, he had felt a powerful attra
ction to her, a desire that was more than physical. Only two women in his life had moved him this way. He had lost the first one and been wretched. The second he had taken for his wife. Perhaps the beating had robbed him of his sanity. He loved Tamako. His reaction to this girl seemed like a betrayal, and he was suddenly afraid of being alone with her, of letting her touch him again.

  Sitting up, he saw his own robe lying neatly folded on the trunk in which his bedding was kept. He tried to rise, but a blinding pain shot through his skull.

  He tensed at the sound of returning steps in the corridor and was ridiculously relieved when the door opened and he saw that Masako was not alone. The white-robed nun he had seen that morning in young Toshito’s cell followed her into the room.

  “This is the reverend Ribata,” Masako announced, setting down a bowl of water next to Akitada. “I found her at the well and brought her because she has great skill with wounds.” Intensely aware of the girl, Akitada kept his eyes on the nun.

  “Th-there was no need,” he stammered, staring into the strange black eyes, which regarded him fixedly.

  “We have met,” Ribata said, in that beautiful, cultured voice of hers. “You are the new prisoner from the capital who has made himself useful to the governor.” She was well informed for an ordinary nun. But then this was no ordinary nun. She came from a background as good as his own, perhaps better. What had brought her to this godforsaken outpost in the Northern Sea?

  She came forward and crouched on the floor next to him to examine his head. Her hands were so thin from age and deprivation that they looked more like the claws of some huge bird of prey. But her touch was not ungentle, though certainly more businesslike than Masako’s. The comparison was unfortunate, because it made him glance at the younger woman’s anxious face on his other side. She was leaning forward a little, and the collar of her robe revealed a smooth white neck. The soft silk hid the rest, but as she bent toward him, it was easy enough to imagine her full breasts where the fabric strained against them.