I. Parker - Death on an Autumn River

When she reemerged, she carried an armful of clothing. This she dumped on the floor. “Take your pick.”

Tora rummaged through the pile and came up with a pair of full knee-length cotton trousers that once had a black and white check pattern but now were mottled gray. He combined these with a torn shirt that was almost white, and a full jacket of a rust brown color with a large number of stains.

“I can sew up that tear,” said the woman.

“No, it’s perfect like that. What about shoes?”

She studied his feet. “No boots, but plenty of sandals.”

Tora made a face but nodded reluctantly.

She scooped up the rejected merchandise, disappeared among the swaying, odoriferous lines of clothing. This time, she brought forth five pairs of sandals and one pair of leather shoes. The leather shoes had once been boots, but a previous owner had cut off the tops for some other purpose. Tora slipped them on. They looked ridiculous but fitted like gloves and would last longer than sandals. He nodded.

He changed behind a wall of clothing. Then he untied his hair and let it hang loose. He had not been shaved since they arrived in Naniwa. The stubble added to his derelict appearance. He handed over his own clothes and paid for the rags. The price was high but Tora counted the overcharges as a fee for safe-guarding his property.

She tucked the money away, looked him over by walking all around him, and brought out a square of red and white fabric. “Here,” she said, “No extra charge. Twist it and tie your hair up with this. Anyone can see that you used to wear a topknot.”

Tora gave her one of his big smiles, twisted the square of fabric and tied it around his head. She came and stood on tiptoes to disarrange his hair, tucking parts under, so that it looked uneven. “Now you look fine,” she said.

Tora made her an exaggerated bow. “You’ve been blessed with superior intelligence as well as an eye for fashion, madam. Many thanks,” he said, and pushed his sword into the belt, making sure that the jacket covered it. Then he headed for the door.

“What do I do with your stuff if you don’t come back?” she called after him.

“If I’m not back in a week, you can sell it.”

As he walked away, he realized that she did not expect him to be back and thought about what lay ahead. If all went well, he should be done in a day, perhaps two. He carried very little money, but even this could spoil his plan. He stepped behind a shed and secreted the two silver pieces between the leather and lining of his shoes. When he reemerged into the street, he collided with a man who was hurrying past. Tora called an apology after him, but the man neither turned nor acknowledged it. He disappeared around the next corner. Tora shook his head and walked on. There had been something familiar about that thin, angular back in its non-descript gray jacket and pants. Still, half of the inhabitants of the poorer quarters of any city were scrawny and dressed in old clothes. He looked down at his own outfit with some complacency. It marked him as a poor man but it was colorful and gave him a certain presence. Plus, he was tall and muscular. All quite useful for this adventure.

After a while, he stopped to ask a small boy the way to the Hostel of the Flying Cranes. The grimy child pointed to a side street up ahead. Tora approached the hostel from the front. When he passed an old woman enthroned on an upturned basket beside her front door, it occurred to him she must be the one who had seen Sadenari leaving with the sailors from the Black Dragon. He gave her a smile and a nod.

“Stop a moment to talk to a lonely granny,” she cried. “What’s your rush? Come give Granny a kiss, you handsome dog!”

Tora laughed and did as she asked. With the speed of a striking adder, her hand darted to his groin, and he jumped back several feet. She cackled. “As skittish as a virgin! With such fine jewels, you needn’t be shy, handsome. I’ve a good mind to take you to bed.”

Tora flushed with the shock. “Where’s your modesty, old woman?” he demanded from a safe distance.

She shook with laughter. “Lost that more years ago than you’ve been alive. Come back here,” she wheedled. “How about just a little fondling? A little tongue?” She stuck it out.

Tora decided the incident was funny. “Sorry, Granny, you’re too much woman for me,” he said with a laugh. “I hear you’ve got your eye on all the sailors from the hostel.” Shaking his head, he walked on. First the postmaster’s tale of the aged princess with her young lovers and now this. What was the matter with old women here? Something in the water maybe.

Her cackling laughter pursued him all the way to the hostel.

He liked the looks of it. This was the very sort of place that attracted men who lived outside the law. When he reached the door, he heard angry shouting and squeals. He walked in and followed the sounds to the back of the place.

They had been gambling again. Dice lay on the scuffed floor, and a large man with a tattoo of a writhing dragon on his bare thigh had a smaller, older man by the neck and was shaking him like a rat. The smaller man did the squealing, while the big brute shouted. Coins dropped from the smaller man’s clothes. Three other men, also middle-aged, cowered in a corner.

The shouting involved words like “thieving bastards” and “I’ll make you eat your dice.” Tora grinned. No doubt, fleecing customers was a regular pastime here, but this time the customer had caught on.

The customer with the dragon tattoo was a brute, easily twice the bulk of the little fellow he was throttling. Tora decided to take the side of the underdog, regardless of the underdog’s offense. He waded into the fray with a roar, seized the brute’s topknot and jerked him back sharply.

The man howled, let go of his victim, and swung around. What followed was one of the uglier battles Tora had engaged in.

Dragon Tattoo twisted out of Tora’s grasp, leaving a handful of hair behind, and rammed a fist into Tora’s stomach with such force that Tora flew back and hit a pillar, doubling up. The pillar saved him from falling flat on his back. He pushed away and butted his head into the other man’s middle as he came again with fists flying. There was a grunt, and then the brute vomited up an evil-smelling flood. Tora waited for the vomiting to stop, and when the other man’s head came up, he smashed his fist into his face. Blood spurted, and suddenly a knife appeared in the man’s hand.

Tora stepped back and drew his sword.

For a moment, the action froze. Then the brute cursed long and volubly. He snarled, “This isn’t over, you bastards! I’ll be back and get you both.” Raising the knife, he made a slashing motion across his throat. Then he turned and lumbered from the room.

Tora put away his sword. His stomach was on fire, and he felt a sudden nausea rising. Moving away from the stench of the vomit, he asked, “Who was that?”

His audience exchanged glances and then stared at him. The huddle in the corner dissolved as the three men crept forward. The one who had been throttled, coughed and bent to pick up the coins and dice. “One of the sailors,” he rasped.

“He’s a pirate,” offered one of the others. “Said he’s coming back. What will you do, Kunimitsu?”

So the man he had saved was the manager of the hostel. Tora considered briefly that it might have been wiser to befriend the pirate than him. “You run this place?” he asked.

Kunimitsu massaged his throat. “What do you want?” he asked sourly.

“What? Not a word of thanks?” Tora raised his brows in mock horror. “Shall I run after the guy and tell him to go ahead with what he’d planned for you and offer to help him? I take it, you’ve been cheating him at dice?”