“I’m coming, too.”

“No, don’t,” Tora cried, raising his bloody sword. She goggled at the sword and backed away. With a little scream, she turned to stumble across the rubble of the wall.

Tora did not wait to watch her go, but rushed back inside. Chikamura was still sitting there, but Matsue had gone. Chikamura cried, “Hurry! He’s run away. Out the front door.”

Tora sighed and sat down abruptly. “Never mind,” he said tiredly. “Let him go. We’ve got to leave. Your neighbor’s going to call the constables down on us.” He stared at the stained blade of his sword, and reached for one of the rags to clean it. The scabbard was lying in a puddle of Matsue’s blood. He went and got it. The blood had stained the white covering. Tora dabbed at the spot and then inserted the blade. He hoped the swordsmith could clean it properly. Then he looked at his leg. The cut was in his upper thigh, deep but clean. It had bled copiously earlier, but hardly oozed now. Taking off his shirt, he tore it into strips to make a thick bandage for his leg.

Kinjiro crept in. He stared at the puddle of blood and Matsue’s fingers. “You didn’t kill him?”

“No. But he can’t fight anymore. His sword hand is useless.”

“Wrong,” said the boy. “You should’ve killed him.”

Tora straightened up and looked at him. “It takes more than killing someone or winning a fight to be a man. There’s been enough killing here. Now you can help me get the old man away before any more of Kata’s thugs show up.”

“Where are we going?”

“Home. Go get the ladder. We’ll put the old man on it all wrapped up. If a constable tries to stop us, we’ll pretend it’s his funeral. I’m the son and you’re the grandson. He’ll keep his distance.”

“No,” squeaked old Chikamura, scrambling to his feet. “I’m not dead. I can walk. We’ll get the police. They’ll arrest the crooks. Look at what they’ve done to my house. This time I’ll lay charges against Buntaro and his rotten friends.”

“Ah, hmm,” said Tora, “there’s something I forgot to tell you. There was a fight earlier. I’m very sorry, old man, but I had to kill your nephew.”

Chikamura stared at him. Then he said, “Good riddance. Never could stand him. Nothing like the rest of the family. I swear my brother’s wife must’ve lain with a demon.”

Tora breathed a sigh of relief. “All right. Let’s go then.”

The old man shook his head. “I’m not going to Toribeno. I’m not dead.”

Tora began to pull at his hair. “We’re not going to Toribeno. We’re going to my master’s house. He’s Lord Sugawara. You’ll be safe there, and old Seimei will mix you one of his tonics to make you feel like a young man again.”

Chikamura’s eyes widened. “The great and wise Lord Sugawara from the Ministry of Justice?”

“That’s the one. Now will you come?”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE EVIL OMEN

The great and wise Lord Sugawara was at his wit’s end. Tamako had consulted a fortune-teller, and when he got home, she was pacing the floor and ringing her hands.

“Our son will die,” she greeted him, “and you are to blame.”

Akitada, having barely had time to slip out of his shoes before being faced with this latest crisis, wished himself elsewhere. “Tamako,” he said wearily, “Genba is making preparations to take you to Akiko in the morning. All will be well.”

“All will be well?” she cried. “All will be well? The soothsayer says this house is under a dark cloud and he sees death. And right after he left, a letter from your sister came; she thinks one of their servants has the illness. But you won’t care. You never cared for anything but your work.”

Akitada sighed. “Poor Akiko. I hope she’s wrong. Of course you cannot go there under the circumstances, but you may still go to our farm if you don’t mind the discomfort. Or, since you had planned to stay here in any case, you may want to take your chances . . .”

“What chances? It’s too late.” She burst into tears. “Oh, it is too late. My poor Yori will die. My boy, my only child.” She collapsed on the floor and wailed.

Akitada had never seen Tamako, or any other woman, in hysterics. He was so shocked that he looked at his wife of six years with the eyes of a stranger. Was she possessed? Feverish? Near madness? Perhaps it was her anger at him which had brought on this violent and uncharacteristic outburst. The best policy was to withdraw from her presence to his study as quickly and quietly as possible.

But he could not do it. Instead he went to her, knelt, and gathered her to himself. “Ssh,” he soothed, stroking her disordered hair and rocking her shaking body against his. “Ssh, my dear. These are frightening times, and you worry about Yori, but surely he’s well, isn’t he?”

Her sobs subsided a little and she nodded.

“There, you see. He is a very healthy, strong child. I’m surprised you would allow a fortune-teller to upset you so much.”

She sat up a little and wiped her face with a sleeve. “It wasn’t just the fortune-teller. I had a dream,” she said brokenly. “Not once, but several times. The first time I dreamt you and I were in mourning clothes. It was nighttime at Toribeno. There was a pyre and the flames were licking upward. I woke up weeping.”

Akitada could imagine how vivid that nightmare had been. They had attended two funerals together: his mother’s and her father’s. He said soothingly, “I am sorry, my dear, but you are fearful for Yori and that has brought back memories of your father’s death.”

She shook her head. “No. There were two more dreams. I was back at Toribeno, but I was alone. I went to place the familiar things into the coffin and to offer a final meal. But when I looked I had Yori’s sword in my hand, the wooden one you bought for him, and his favorite jacket, and . . . and a tray of jam-filled cakes.” She buried her face against him again and began to weep anew. Akitada held her, miserable that he did not know how to help her. They sat there, she weeping her heart out and he glumly contemplating the troubles which seemed to have befallen his family.

Much later, she detached herself and said in an almost normal tone, “After dreaming for the third time, I sent for the fortune-teller. I hoped he would tell me my dream meant something else. But he merely looked sad, muttered the words about the black cloud, offered some condolence, and left. Oh, Akitada, I’m so afraid.”

Feeling a great sense of pity, Akitada got up and extended a hand to her. “Come. You’re overtired. We will go to your room and see what’s to be done.”

She clutched at his hand and got to her feet. “Then you do think it will come true?” she cried, eyes widening with new panic.

Akitada put an arm around her. “No, I do not,” he said firmly, walking her toward her room. “I think your fears have destroyed your peace of mind and I’m anxious to have my normal, sensible, cheerful wife back.” He looked to see if that had raised a smile or word of acknowledgment, but she detached herself abruptly and said bitterly, “I must seem a dreadful burden to you.”

He sighed inwardly. “No more than I am a burden to you, my dear. We are husband and wife, after all. It’s proper that we should care about each other.” It occurred to him that Tamako had not shown the slightest interest in his troubles for a long time now, but he put the thought aside.

She paused at the door to her room and brushed a limp hand over her forehead. “I have a headache,” she said dully. “Perhaps I’d better try to rest. Thank you for your concern. You must have many other things on your mind.” Without looking at him, she disappeared inside, closing the door gently but firmly in his face.

So that was that. For a moment he had felt close to his wife again, and the idea of first sharing their worries and then perhaps her bed had been on his mind, but it was not to be. Disappointed, he went to his study. He felt utterly alone and neglected. Seimei brought him some tea, and Akitada was ridiculously grateful for the small gesture.