Junshi snorted. "A warden with an office? In this quarter? If there ever was one, it's long gone. The position is what you might call 'by popular acclaim.' My boss runs things here and he's usually somewhere around the temple in the daytime."

Tora sat up. "What temple? Does it have a pagoda? And monks?"

Junshi laughed. "They call it the Temple of Boundless Mercy-which is a laugh, seeing that mercy's the last thing you expect to find there-but yes, it's got a pagoda. The monks left long ago. There's only the one hall and the pagoda left. People think demons roam about at night there. That makes it a fine meeting place for thugs. Either way, it's unhealthy after dark." He touched his bandage and grimaced.

Tora shuddered. However, he merely needed to find the house where the slasher had taken Yukiyo, and it was still broad daylight. "Can you introduce me to your boss?"

Junshi guffawed. "Not today. He'll send me back after the bastards tonight. I'll show you the way to the temple, but you'll have to find him yourself. And don't mention you've seen me."

Tora paid for their wine, and they walked northwestward through slums and open fields with squatters' shacks. People glanced at them and crossed the street. Junshi filled Tora in on the dangers of the quarter. "Bodies in the street almost every day," he said in a matter-of-fact tone. "If it wasn't for the boss, it'd be worse. The police don't come here. They don't like to deal with outcasts. The boss doesn't care what a man is or has, so long as he doesn't hurt people."

"He sounds good to me," said Tora. "Any bamboo groves near the temple?"

"No groves. The fox shrine has some pines around it." They emerged into the square in front of the ruined temple. Junshi stiffened and grabbed Tora's arm, saying, "There's the boss now. Good luck!" and was gone before Tora could thank him.

A bearded giant stood in front of the remnants of the temple gate, his arms folded across a barrel-like chest. A group of young boys surrounded him. Tora crossed the square slowly. The semilegal standing of this individual did nothing to reassure him. He looked more like a robber chief than a representative of the law in his sector.

The giant was laughing with the boys, but his eyes found Tora immediately and sharpened. He detached himself from the youngsters and strolled up. "Good day to you," he said. His voice rumbled from the depth of his chest like a rock slide.

Tora returned the greeting with a grin. "I am told you're the warden," he said. "Could you tell me where I might find a bamboo grove around here?"

The warden's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What's your purpose for asking?" he demanded.

Tora bristled. "Look, I'm a stranger here, asking for directions. What's with the third degree?"

"I like to know what strangers are up to in my district," snapped the big man. "You either tell me what you want here, or you leave."

Tora considered his options and said in an ingratiating tone, "Well, it's a bit embarrassing. But here goes. I'm looking for my sister, who's disappeared. She's been working as a whore. Now our mother's on her deathbed and wants to see her. Someone told me she worked around here and might have gone off with a monk. To a bamboo grove."

The eyes narrowed even further, moving speculatively from Tora's trim mustache to his hands. "Who told you that?"

"Er, the landlord of a tavern."

The boss sneered and opened his mouth, but was suddenly distracted by the sounds of a fight inside the temple grounds. He snapped, "No monks in my district and no bamboo groves, either. You'd better go look in another part of town." He strode off to investigate.

Tora wondered for a moment about the man's reaction. Everyone else had swallowed the tale of the dying mother. He looked down at himself. His clothes looked no worse than the warden's rags. Maybe the guy had a hangover or a toothache.

Shaking his head, he also went into the temple grounds, where a pitiful sort of market seemed to be in progress. The fight had attracted scant attention. Human scarecrows sat about on the muddy ground with items spread out for sale which looked like the garbage tossed out by the servants of the better houses, and probably was. Tora strolled about and tried to strike up conversations, but after a glance at him people turned uncommunicative. He was an outsider and his rags made him unwelcome here, for clearly he had no money for purchases, but might be there to steal from them.

It was already long past midday, and so far Tora was no closer to his objective than before. Glancing up at the old pagoda, he got an idea. If he climbed up there, he could look over the rooftops for miles. A bamboo grove within a few blocks of the pagoda should be easy to find.

Luck was with him-the entrance to the tower had not been boarded up. Inside, however, his heart fell. The steep stairs were missing steps, and a pile of rotten timbers had fallen from the upper floors. Tora peered up. The floor above him was missing so many planks that he could see through it to the one beyond. But he decided to risk it. At least there was enough daylight so he could see where he was putting his feet.

The climb was tedious because each step and each board must be tested before he dared put weight on it, and when he reached the top floor, he was sweating in spite of the cold. Slowly he made his way around all four sides, looking out over the quarter. There were only a few spots of green among the wintry huddle of dull brown roofs. All but one of these were the dark green of pines, but one was paler, the jade green color of bamboo. It was smaller than a grove or woods, but larger than the yards of houses thereabouts, and it lay only two blocks to the southeast of the temple.

Elated, Tora started downward, but in his hurry he took a misstep, lost his footing, and, twisting wildly, plunged through space.

When he regained consciousness, he was in darkness but knew immediately where he was. His back rested across a beam, his hips and legs, slightly higher than the rest of his body, were supported by more solid flooring, but his head hung over empty space. He was conscious of pain everywhere, but the worst of it in his head. After cautiously checking to see if he could move his limbs without falling again, he shifted just enough on his beam to support his head. After resting for a few moments, he tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness hit him and he grasped desperately around him to keep from tipping over the edge. After a moment the nausea passed and his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He could make out vague shapes of flooring and part of the stairs. Carefully, inch by inch, he moved toward them, testing each plank before heaving his bruised and aching body onto it.

After a short rest, he felt his head and found his hair wet with blood and a large, painful swelling behind his right ear. Otherwise he seemed whole, though very sore in places. He looked up. If memory served, he had fallen from the fourth level to the second. The beam had caught his shoulders and kept him from landing headfirst on the stone floor of the entrance level. He must have been unconscious for hours if it was nighttime. He listened. All was silent outside the pagoda. The market was over, and people had left without discovering his fall. Or, more likely, they had ignored it.

He got to his hands and knees and crept backward down the stairs. In the almost complete darkness he had to trust his sense of touch not to step through a hole and fall the rest of the way. When he finally reached solid ground and stood up, the world spun dizzily for a moment. He staggered toward the lighter rectangle of the doorway and looked out.

The night was moonless, and the courtyard lay deserted. In the darkness, the shapes of trees, buildings, and walls loomed strangely, and he suddenly remembered the reputation of the temple. Sweat broke out on his body and his hair bristled unpleasantly. Everybody knew deserted temples were dwelling places for demons and hungry ghosts. With a shudder he shrank back into the doorway. But a strange rasping sound, followed by a skittering noise, came from under the stairs, and with a mighty leap Tora plunged down the stone steps and into the open.

Almost immediately a loud wail rose from somewhere near the monstrous black shape of the old temple hall. Tora froze. Several dark figures detached themselves from the hall and moved toward him, gliding low across the ground and wailing loudly. With a hoarse cry, Tora ran for the gate.

When he had put some distance between himself and the haunted temple, he stopped to orientate himself. He wished himself elsewhere with all his heart, but having come this far he would find that bamboo grove.

After a false turn and falling once over some garbage in an alley, setting off a dog's barking, he found a wall over which a thick tangle of bamboo branches drooped their rustling leaves, sere and shredded by the winter winds but still dense enough to hide the house behind the closed gate. The wall was too high to climb and the gate looked sturdy. Tora tried to make out the inscription over the gate, but the characters were in Chinese. Inside, a sleepy crow gave a hoarse croak.

At that moment, the gate creaked open. Tora shrank into the shadow of the wall. A small hooded figure emerged, relocked the gate, and walked slowly up the street.

Tora was after him in an instant. "Stop!" he cried, grabbing the other man's shoulder. "Let's have a look at you."

The hood slipped back, and he caught a brief glimpse of a round, ugly face under bristly gray hair. Then the man seized his arm with both hands, twisted, and jerked. Pulled off balance, Tora released his hold and tried to recover. Too late. With another mighty shove in the back, he went sprawling, and when he scrambled to his feet, the hooded man had disappeared.

Cursing, Tora ran this way and that before giving up and returning to the gate. He decided to see how large the area was. A narrow path followed the wall toward the back. He had only taken a few steps along this track when it happened. A moment before the excruciating blow struck the back of his head, he had a dim impression of running steps. Then he pitched forward and passed out.

TWENTY.

A Hell of Ice Yori disappeared the day of Tora's adventures.

Because Harada's condition had worsened, everyone in the Sugawara household was preoccupied with his care, and the boy was left to amuse himself. Yori's absence was not noticed until the hour of the midday rice. At first it caused only mild concern, because Yori had wandered off before. But when time passed without his return and it grew colder outside, a search was organized, first of the house, gardens, and stable, then of the immediate neighborhood.

By midafternoon both Tamako and Akitada were pacing the floor. Unable to wait any longer, Akitada threw on an extra robe, put on his warm boots, and rushed out into the street. He knocked on every gate and personally questioned every resident of the surrounding streets, every passerby, every vendor, every beggar, and every passing servant, asking if they had seen the child. Nobody had.

Toward dusk, Akitada, now frantic with fear, picked up the first news at one of the mansions in the next quarter. A house-boy had passed the Sugawara mansion on an errand during the morning and noticed a small man with short bushy gray hair hovering by the open gate. The man had been gesturing to someone inside.

Then Saburo came rushing up with more news. In the next block, a cook's children were playing in the alley when a hooded monk passed them, leading a small boy by the hand. They had stared because the boy had worn a very pretty red silk robe. It had to be Yori. And the hooded monk?

Akitada was seized with a sudden, gut-wrenching, irrational fear, but he told Saburo calmly, "I believe I know where he is. Tell your mistress that I have gone to bring him back and not to worry."

Noami! It must have been Noami. The bushy hair, barely grown out; the children thinking of a monk, because Noami, dressed in monk's robes, had probably covered his head against the cold. It did not explain why he had taken Akitada's son.

Akitada set out for the painter's home at a loping run, telling himself that there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for what had happened.

What was more likely than that Yori, bored and left out of his elders' activities, had spied Noami passing the house? The boy, remembering the interrupted painting lesson, would have begged the artist for another one, and Noami, unwelcome in Akitada's house, would have offered to teach Yori at his home.

The distance between Akitada's house and Noami's Bamboo Hermitage was nearly two miles, and Akitada kept to the most direct route. Rushing along, he attracted stares and soon began to perspire in spite of the freezing cold.

He was no longer accustomed to exercise and soon tired, but he kept up his pace until he reached the artist's place. It was getting dark, and the narrow street was as deserted as it had been the last time. When he pounded on the gate, the dry leaves of the bamboo rustled mysteriously and he half expected to hear the raucous cry of the crow again. Instead there was the sound of someone shuffling through the fallen leaves inside. A wooden bar was pulled back and the gate swung slowly open.

Noami stood before him. A slow smile stretched the wide mouth, his large yellow teeth making him look more than ever like a grinning monkey.

Like the monkey that ate the plum, Akitada thought, and snapped, "Do you have my son here?"

"But certainly, my lord." Noami bowed and threw the gate wide. "The youngster has enjoyed himself enormously. Please come in."

Relief washed over Akitada and left him wordless. He followed Noami down the path to his studio. At the entrance they both removed their boots. Akitada said peevishly, "May I ask why you brought him here?"

"To paint." Noami raised his brows in surprise. "I came by to see if he might like a lesson. The boy told me that you and your lady were busy, but that he might visit my studio. I was about to bring him back."

It sounded plausible. Yori was very likely to have said such a thing if he wished to go. Still, Noami's high-handed invitation had put them all to immense trouble and worry. Akitada said brusquely, "We did not know and have been searching for him since he left."

"Oh, dear," said the painter blandly. "I am so sorry. It is amazing what youngsters can get up to. Please come in."

Yori sat on the floor, surrounded by pieces of paper and small containers of paints. Noami had removed his quilted red robe and given him a short cotton shirt which covered his full trousers and jacket. It was liberally stained with paint. Yori turned a smiling face to his father.

"Look at my paintings," he cried.

The studio looked much like the last time, except that all the sliding doors were closed against the winter chill. Noami had lit a lamp near some cushions. A large brazier warmed the room.

"May I offer refreshments?" Noami asked.

"Please do not bother," Akitada said quickly. He disliked the man intensely, but felt it would be boorish to express his feelings, when the painter had done no more than entertain Yori for an afternoon. "We must return immediately. His mother is anxious."

"Yes, of course. I forgot. But let me get something to clean him up a little. Please do have some wine. You look chilled. Surely on such a cold night... ?"

Akitada saw a wine flask on the brazier. His fingers and ears felt nearly frozen, and the sweat was like ice against his skin. "Very well." He seated himself. Noami poured and offered the wine with a bow, then hurried away.

Akitada warmed his frozen hands by holding them over the brazier. Yori was dipping his fingers into some yellow paint and making hand prints on the paper.

"Stop that!" his father snapped. "Why did you run away without permission?"

Yori turned round eyes to his father. "But I asked permission. You were reading some papers and nodded your head."

Akitada did not remember. Seimei had been busy with the sick Harada, and Akitada had worked over the accounts himself. An unpleasant draft passed through the studio, chilling him to the bone but doing little to disperse the strong smell of paints and pigments which hung about the studio. He sipped a little of the spiced wine and found it strange but not unpleasant. Papers lay scattered about the floor, Yori's handiwork. He remembered the last painting lesson and became angry again. "Wipe your hands and come here."

Yori obeyed, using Noami's shirt for the purpose. Picking up some of the papers, he brought them to his father. "Look!"

The boy had tried to draw people this time, strange creatures with large heads, open mouths, huge eyes, and missing hands or feet. Childish distortions because he had found them too difficult to draw? Akitada took another sip, letting the wine warm and settle his stomach, and rose to look at the other sheets. As he did so, he came across a drawing by Noami. This, too, was of a human being, a small boy, whose eyes were wide with fear and his mouth open in a scream. Akitada dropped the paper in sudden revulsion. This drawing also had only stumps where the hands and feet should have been. How dare the man show such things to a child!

Then two memories coalesced in Akitada's mind: the bleeding wounds of the tortured souls on the hell screen and the maimed son of the poor woman in the market nearby. At first his mind refused a connection too horrible to contemplate, but he sifted through the rest of the papers with frantic haste, turning up two more sketches of children with missing limbs. Remembering the rolls of drawings Noami had so angrily prevented him from seeing, Akitada took up the lamp, found the pile in the corner of the studio, and unrolled sketch after sketch, letting each fall from his trembling hands. Most were of women and children, though there were two frail old men. All of them poor weak creatures, and all of them horribly wounded or burned. Several sketches showed Yukiyo, her face slashed and her naked body bleeding from the breasts and abdomen. Akitada's stomach turned, and the sour taste of wine rose to his mouth.

He thought too late of what might happen if Noami returned and found him so. Yori! He must get the boy away.

Akitada swayed, suddenly dizzy. With shaking hands he rolled up the papers and pushed them back in their corner. Then he staggered back to Yori. He was barely in time.

Noami came in, carrying a bowl of water and some towels. For a moment, Akitada could not focus. The room swam before his eyes.

Noami busied himself wiping paint off Yori's face and hands.

"Papa saw my pictures." Yori's voice sounded a long way off, but quite cheerful. "I shall come back to paint the puppies soon."

Noami put down the dirty towels and took off the stained shirt. "I shall look forward to it, young master," he said in his grating voice. Yori ran to Akitada. Catching the child in his arms, Akitada stared at the painter. He must act naturally, or Noami would prevent their leaving.

"Are you quite well, my lord?" asked Noami. "You look very pale."

"No, I'm... I'm fine. His coat? We must g... g ..." Yori was already struggling into his red coat.

"We must go home," Akitada managed to say quite clearly. He felt strangely light-headed. Making an attempt to get to his feet, he found that his legs would not support him.

"Perhaps another cup of wine before your long walk back?" asked Noami, pressing the cup into his hand.

Anything to get to his feet. He must leave. He must take Yori. Akitada drank and staggered up. "Come, Yori," he said, and bent to take his son's hand. But he miscalculated, overbalanced, and fell to his hands and knees.

"Oh, dear, oh, dear," said Noami. "Sit down and rest, my lord. Shall I get you some water?"

Akitada nodded. "Some water. Yes."

The light was very poor, but the man seemed to be grinning as he left. For a moment, Akitada stared after him nervously. It seemed darker in the room. Then he realized that he had left the lamp in the corner with Noami's drawings. The painter knew he had seen them. Almost at the same moment, another thought worked its way through the haze of his mind: the wine he had just drunk must have been drugged to make him so dizzy and weak.

Akitada made a superhuman effort. "Yori," he mumbled, "you must run home now!"

Yori nodded. "We'll run home, Papa. I'm hungry."

"No. You must go home alone. Can you ..." Akitada's tongue would not obey. "Alone. Now! Can you ... run alone?" He had meant to ask if the child could find the way. Silly question. "Get Genba... tell Genba..." No time! He raised his voice. "Run, Yori! Now! Run!"

The boy stood irresolute, staring at him wide-eyed. Outside, there were the returning steps of Noami.

"Please, Yori," Akitada begged. "Please, hurry! And don't look back!" He gave the child a little push toward the entrance.

His urgency must have registered, for Yori nodded and ran. In a moment, he was gone. Akitada staggered to his feet again, grabbing for a pillar to stay upright. He must prevent Noami from going after Yori. Pushing himself away from the pillar, he stumbled toward the rear of the studio and slid open the doors to the garden.

"What are you doing?" cried the painter.

Akitada staggered forward and fell headlong down some steps. The pain to his knees and the cold air cleared his head a little. Noami, a vague presence in Akitada's confused state, attempted to lift him to his feet. Akitada mumbled, "Yori..."

"Where's the boy? Did he run out?"

Akitada clutched the shoulders of the small man and nodded. "Li'l rascal was looking for the ... dogs," he slurred.

"Let's get you back in first," said Noami. "Then I'll go find the boy!"

He half supported, half dragged Akitada back into the studio and let him drop onto the cushion.

Waves of nausea washed over Akitada; the room spun and receded crazily; someone pressed a cup to his lips. He tried to shake his head, opened his mouth to say no, but the liquid poured between his teeth; he gagged and swallowed.

Before him hovered the broad, grinning face of Noami. "There, now," he rasped. "That should put you to sleep." His laughter sounded like a cracked bell. "I was right about you. I knew you'd come yourself and alone, my lord. Men like you are too arrogant to think common folk would dare lay a finger on them."