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I Parker: The Convict's sword

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I Parker The Convict's sword

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It was still early in the year, but the weather was getting warm already. There had been no rain for days, and a thin cloud of dust, stirred up by wheels, hooves, and feet, covered everything. The willow trees lining the avenue drooped motionless in the still air.

“Tora,” said Akitada, “do you remember Sadoshima? Did Haseo speak to you at all before he died?”

“What made you think of that again?”

“Guilt. That day I promised to clear his name. It’s been on my conscience, and today I decided to do something about it. The trouble is, I know next to nothing about his background.”

Tora clapped his hands. “Good! A new case. Just what we need. But I can’t help you much. He wasn’t up to talking, remember? Muttered a bit, though. His mind was wandering. I thought maybe he was praying.”

Praying? That did not sound like Haseo. “Try to remember his words.”

“I don’t know that I can, sir. It’s been five years.” Tora scrunched up his face in thought. “Well, he said something about a sword. But he’d been talking about swords before the battle. A good swordsman would, you know.”

“Yes.” Akitada thought about it and had an idea. If Haseo had been an expert sword fighter, perhaps his name would be known to other swordsmen. “Yes,” he said again with a nod. “That’s very helpful. We can make inquiries here in the capital. The training schools for young noblemen may know something or point us to someone who does.” Akitada’s mood lifted. “What did he say about this sword?”

“It’s been so long, sir. All I remember is some muttering about ‘my sword’ or ‘where’s my sword,’ or ‘my fine sword.’ Sorry, sir.”

“Never mind. I should have asked him before he got fatally wounded, but my mind was on other matters then. Do you remember anything else? About this praying, for example?”

Tora, though visibly concentrating, shook his head.

They were passing the walled and gated compound of the administration of the Left Capital. Akitada stopped. “I wonder if Haseo spent any time studying swordsmanship. Perhaps the city administration has a record of him.”

“Ah,” said Tora. “Very good! Wish I’d thought of that. But what about Tomoe?”

“Later. Where does this street singer of yours perform?”

“On the tower platform of the Left Market.”

Akitada suppressed a shudder. What had he been thinking of to agree to go to such a public place and listen to a common trollop? “You have low-bred girlfriends,” he said.

“She’s not low-bred and she’s not my girlfriend,” Tora said, a little stiffly. “Can’t a fellow have women friends without sleeping with them?”

“In your case it’s doubtful.” Akitada chuckled as he turned into the offices of the Left Capital. Tora’s romantic pursuits were legion. He felt a great deal better. Tora always had that effect on him because he approached all obstacles with energetic zeal, unlike Akitada, who was invariably torn by conflicting duties and agonized over every decision. Even now, he was guiltily aware that he should be in his office.

The city administration, like other official buildings in the capital, existed in two separate halves, one on each side of Suzaku Avenue, each responsible for its half of the capital. The Right Capital had, soon after its inception, fallen into ruin and ill repute and was now mainly occupied by the poor, the gangs, and a few holdouts. Akitada assumed that Haseo, as a member of the provincial gentry, would have resided in the Left Capital.

Since he was still wearing his official silk robe and stiff gauze hat and was accompanied by a servant, Akitada was greeted by the head clerk, who listened to his question and shook his head. “Utsunomiya? A single gentleman taking lodgings? And this was more than five years ago? Maybe as many as ten? Impossible, my dear sir. There is considerable coming and going in the city. Unless his family maintains property here, we won’t find anything.”

The man was not trying very hard, but he had a point. Akitada sighed and glanced around at the shelves of ledgers and registers of city wards. “Perhaps he resided in the area where the training schools in martial arts are located.”

The clerk was beginning to fidget. Only Akitada’s rank kept him from throwing up his hands and sending this bothersome person away. “Such schools exist in three different wards.”

“Ah,” said Akitada encouragingly. “That should help. Can we look through the residential registers of those wards for the years I mentioned?”

“But,” protested the clerk, “we don’t keep records of the students attending every training academy in the capital. Besides, there is no certainty that he even registered. He may simply have been someone’s houseguest. How long was he here?”

Akitada did not know and decided that he had to use different tactics. He raised his brows. “What possible difference does it make? Don’t you have your wardens report the names of everyone in their ward for every month of each year? Surely that is what the law requires.”

The clerk capitulated. “Of course,” he muttered. “Just a moment.” He went to consult with an assistant, who went to consult with several more, who dispersed and returned carrying enormous stacks of documents. “There you are,” said the clerk with a smirk. “The registers for the twelfth, thirteenth, and fifteenth wards for the past fifteen years. They are the wards which have or had training schools for martial arts.”

The stacks were enormous. Akitada saw no point in sifting through tens of thousands of entries. Instead, he informed himself about the location of the wards, the names of the schools, and the identity of the local wardens, and they left.

The first training school belonged to a master called Takizawa. They found him and his disciples already hard at work. The students, two agile youngsters in their mid-teens, were facing each other barefoot on the gleaming wood floor, while their teacher moved around them, calling out instructions. They were using wooden swords, but even a wooden sword could do considerable damage. As Akitada and Tora watched, one of the youngsters did not parry properly and had his wrist injured by his opponent. He bore the pain manfully, only asking the master’s assistant, who was putting on a splint and a bandage, if he would ever fight again.

The accident created an opportunity for Akitada to speak to Master Takizawa. But the name Utsunomiya meant nothing to the man.

“I never had a student by that name,” he said. “A colleague of mine once had quite a good pupil called Haseo. But his family name was different.”

They walked to the next school, where they met with nearly the same answer, although the master in this instance-they had to wait through two instruction sessions before he was at liberty to speak to them-suggested that a serious student of swordsmanship was likely to invest in a good sword made by a master swordsmith. Such an order was expensive and not many really fine swords were sold. The swordsmith would remember his customer. He provided them with the name of the best smith.

As they approached the Left Market, Tora said, “We could stop for a bowl of noodles or a cup of wine now, sir.”

“Later. We have hours until the evening rice.”

Tora drew in his breath. “I was hoping to introduce you to Tomoe, sir. She leaves early.”

Akitada glowered at him. “Surely even you can see that this is more important than your affairs. And please spare me the particulars.”

Tora, who had opened his mouth in protest, snapped it shut and looked offended instead.

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