I. Parker: Death on an Autumn River

Akitada glanced at the great doors. Surely they had locked them. And if not, they were waiting outside. He wondered what time it was. If they could attract attention, perhaps . . . but no, it was late and the warehouse was on the waterside which was deserted at night.

He sniffed, smelling smoke. Someone cooking? Perhaps there were ordinary townspeople nearby after all.

Tora appeared at his side. “Masaji’s going to die,” he said softly.

Akitada took in the blood on Tora’s clothes. “Are you wounded?”

“No. But you are.” Tora looked at Akitada’s back. “Take off that robe and let me see.”

“What? No. I can’t be. It’s someone else’s blood. I was in the thick of it at some point.” But as Tora’s fingers probed, he did feel a sharp pain on his upper back. And he did feel unusually tired.

Tora said, “It’s been bleeding quite a lot. I can’t tell if it’s just a cut, or if it went deep. You’d best lie down.” He sniffed. “Where’s that smoke coming from?”

Between them and the doors, tendrils of smoke curled up through the floorboards.

“Amida,” breathed Tora, “they’re trying to smoke us out.”

“No. They intend to burn us alive and claim the fire was accidental.” Akitada struggled to his feet, but Tora and the warehouse started spinning, and he slumped back down.

Akitada was tired. Perhaps if he closed his eyes for just a moment . . .

Tora pulled him up and told him to walk-in a tone of such urgency that he obeyed. Then he was sitting again. Someone shoved fabric under his robe. After that he was alone.

Resting.

This time he had misjudged matters fatally.

And others would die for it.

Something was burning.

He opened his eyes and staggered to his feet. Wisps of smoke floated between him and the distant light. Behind him, someone was hammering and splitting wood. At his feet, lay Masaji, curled up like a small child. His eyes were wide open, and he smiled.

“We’ll be reborn,” he whispered.

Akitada said dully, “I hope so,” and went to look for Tora and Saburo in the dim back reaches of the stored goods.

He found them using halberds and swords to hack at the back wall. The wood was old and tough, the boards thick. The air was slightly better here, but even so, both coughed and glistened with sweat. He had lost his sword, but he picked up an iron bar and joined them.

Tora looked at him from red-rimmed eyes. “Sit down, sir. You’ll open that wound again.”

Akitada shook his head. “I have to do something.” He shoved the point of the bar between two boards and pried. Nothing. He tried again, this time using both hands. A board popped loose with a satisfying crack. The smoke was growing thicker. Akitada suppressed a cough.

The silence suddenly seemed ominous. Where were Watamaro and his people? “Do you think they can hear us?” he asked hoarsely.

“I hope not.” Tora shoved a halberd under the board Akitada had loosened and between them they forced two more boards out. Fresh air blew in, but the opening was still too narrow. Behind them, the fire crackled. Something fell with a crash, then a thick cloud of smoke engulfed them, and when they turned, the whole front of the warehouse was a fiery hell.

They worked feverishly. Saburo found a coil of rope. He tied it to the nearest beam, tested the knot, and then fed it through the opening.

Akitada put his head out and looked down. It was dark and smoky; he could not see the ground. He doubted he could hold on to the rope and make his way down. His back was already sticky again with fresh blood, and he could barely lift the iron bar. From what he recalled, it was too far to jump without risking two broken legs. The Naniwa warehouses had been built high above the ground to withstand tsunami .

Tora went back into the smoke and fire that roared behind them. Akitada felt the searing heat and croaked Tora’s name in a panic.

“Coming.” Tora appeared, dragging Masaji and coughing. He dropped Masaji next to the hole and peered out. “You go first, sir.” He tossed some weapons out.

Akitada hesitated. A voice outside bellowed, “Hey! They’re getting out.”

Tora cursed. He pushed Akitada toward the opening. “Now, sir. Go!”

Akitada seized the rope and stepped into emptiness.

For a moment he hung suspended. He tried to catch the rope with his feet and go down hand over hand, but his grip slipped immediately and he began to slide. The hemp burned and tore his palms, but he managed to end up on his feet, jarred by the impact. His hands were on fire.

It was dark and smoky under the warehouse. Watamaro’s man stood only a few feet away, staring. When he lunged, Akitada barely managed to snatch up a sword.

The sword grip slipped in his raw and burning palm, but he was lucky. The other man tripped over something and fell. Akitada put a foot on his back, and stabbed downward. Agonizing pain shot up his wrist. It was too dark to see if he had struck a vital organ, but he heard a choking cry and felt a weak movement under his foot. Withdrawing the sword, he stabbed down again and again.

Then Tora was beside him. “He’s done for, sir,” he gasped. “Get ready for the others.” Above them the fire cracked and roared, and sparks showered the darkness.

Akitada looked up. The night sky was red, and the rope whipped about in circles. Smoke billowed from the opening, and then Saburo slid down and joined them. He pointed past Akitada. Dark shadows moved under the warehouse in the lurid smoke rent by flames and showers of burning debris.

Akitada still held the sword, but his hand was nearly useless. Trying to get a grip hurt as if his palm had been scorched by the flames. “It’s no use, Tora,” he called out. “We must get away. There are too many. We cannot fight them all.”

Tora shook his head. “Not without Masaji, sir. You go.”

Saburo came to stand beside them with his halberd.

Put to shame, Akitada made up his mind to fight. Above them the fire raged. Debris had accumulated under the warehouse and around it. In front of them, their attackers came out of the smoke, their weapons swinging. How many? It did not matter. They would stand and fight until they could fight no more.

A tall man with a long sword was the first to reach them. “Give up,” he shouted, breathing hard, “and you’ll live.” He looked nervous and held his sword as if he were unused to it.

Akitada charged. The man jumped back quickly, looking over his shoulder. The others came and metal rang as Tora and Saburo moved nearby, swinging, grunting, slashing. Akitada went for the tall man again and sent him running. He turned to meet two others-more experienced fighters-who forced him back. One of them fought with a staff, the other had a long sword. Akitada lunged at the swordsman, twisting away just before the staff hit him. But he stumbled over something, barely caught his balance, and knew his strength was ebbing. He could not parry or deflect another attack.

Tora appeared beside him, ducking past the man with the staff, to gore the swordsman in the side. Akitada slashed at the arm of the second man. The staff fell, and the man ran, clutching his arm. He disappeared into a cloud of smoke and fire as the front of the warehouse collapsed. Suddenly they were alone.

Saburo threw down his halberd and loped over. “How are you, sir?”

Akitada felt little beyond relief that he could let go of the sword. He said, “All right,” and looked at his palms.

Saburo checked his back. “The bleeding stopped, I think.”

A scream. “No, Masaji!”

They jumped. Tora stood looking up at the hole in the side of the warehouse. In the opening stood Masaji, smoke and flames outlining his swaying figure.