by Susan Spann
“A prostitute?” Hiro asked.
“No one else wears an obi that way,” Mitsuhide confirmed. “That’s why I noticed. At the time I thought she was sneaking in so no one would know she had strayed and stayed out so late. But when I heard about Hideyoshi’s murder I wondered if she might have been the assassin, or at least another witness who might have seen something—if you can identify her.”
“Quite possibly,” Hiro said.
“Thank you for coming all this way back to tell us,” Father Mateo said. “You may have saved two lives.”
“I have one more question,” Hiro asked. “Did Hideyoshi have a source of income other than his stipend from the shogun?”
“If he did, I never heard about it,” Mitsuhide said, “though it wouldn’t surprise me. Teahouses are expensive, and Hideyoshi spent a lot of time there. Then again, we didn’t know each other well and I didn’t visit often. We would hardly have discussed his financial status.”
Mitsuhide stood up and stretched his legs. “Thank you for your hospitality. Now, as we agreed, I must go.”
“Don’t you want to rest?” Father Mateo asked. “We can give you a place to sleep.”
Mitsuhide smiled like an indulgent parent trying not to laugh at a child’s mistake. “I think I had better go. Any lives my information saved would be lost, and then some, if the shogun’s retainers learn that I was here.”
Chapter 37
Hiro walked Mitsuhide to the door and returned to the hearth just in time to hear Father Mateo ask, “Have you any idea how big a risk you took?”
“Hardly a risk.” Luis sneered. “These Japanese know their emperor would cut off their heads in an instant if they harmed me. Besides, they all know I’m armed and I’m better with a firearm than they are.”
Luis’s eyes shifted from the priest to the fire as his hands fidgeted in his lap. Hiro was impressed by the merchant’s unusually self-effacing attitude.
But the moment didn’t last.
“Even you should be able to find the murderer now,” Luis told Hiro, “since someone else has solved the hard parts for you.”
“Perhaps I can,” Hiro said drily. “One more question, though. What made you so certain the merchant was not the killer? You wouldn’t have gone after him otherwise.”
Not even Luis was that stupid, though Hiro kept that part to himself.
“He seemed too familiar,” Luis said. “He claimed we had never met before, but he wasn’t scared and he didn’t stare like most of my customers do. At the time I just considered him a conniving, self-interested bastard, like any other merchant worth his salt, but when you pointed out the illegible seal and told me about the murder I realized I had seen him before. He looked different with his hair cut and wearing that moth-eaten robe, but yesterday evening I realized who he was—and guessed that he wouldn’t have killed his cousin. Even samurai tempers have their limits.”
“Why didn’t you tell us before you left?” Father Mateo asked. “I thought…”
Luis sniffed. “You thought I fled for my life. Really, Mateo. I expect that of him”—he nodded at Hiro—“but not of you.”
“You did take the imperial pass.”
“I couldn’t get through the barricades without it. I am sorry I didn’t mention my departure but I didn’t want to raise your hopes. I might not have found him, or he might have been the wrong man after all.”
Someone knocked on the door. Ana bustled through from the kitchen, disappeared into the foyer, and returned a moment later.
“It’s a fisherman, come to speak with Father Mateo.” She sighed, tossed her hands, and returned to the kitchen muttering, “Hm. Come to pray at all hours, without even the decency to bring us a fish or two.”
Father Mateo excused himself, and Hiro took the opportunity to leave the self-satisfied Luis preening by the hearth. The shinobi still didn’t like the merchant, but he recognized the possibility of admirable qualities even in detestable individuals, and perhaps he also loathed Luis just a shade less than before.
Hiro went to his room and retrieved the scraps of paper from the teahouse ledgers. He set them on his writing desk and gazed at them idly as he considered what he knew about the murder. As his thoughts shifted from one fact to another, he suddenly found himself smiling. Despite the risk to himself and to Father Mateo, investigating the murder had let him use skills that he hadn’t needed since coming to Kyoto, skills that had once defined him and kept him alive. He practiced every morning to keep his abilities sharp, but Hiro had missed the excitement of putting his life on the line.
As he sat lost in thought, a tiny black paw snaked onto the desk and snatched a ledger page.
“Hey!”
The theft brought Hiro back to the present in a flash. The tiny kitten streaked across the floor with the paper in her mouth. In the doorway she turned, rear legs swinging wide as her furry paws slipped on the highly polished floor, but she regained traction and disappeared in an instant.
Hiro jumped up and gave chase.
He reached the door as the kitten rounded the corner into Father Mateo’s room. The door stood open, and Hiro barely had time to realize that the priest might have a parishioner with him before he, too, was standing in the doorway.
Fortunately, the room was empty except for the priest and the overexcited kitten, who gave a splay-legged leap across Father Mateo’s futon before racing for the open veranda door. The priest sat cross-legged on the floor, looking out at the darkened garden with his back to the room, and did not see the kitten coming.
She leaped onto his shoulder, into his lap, and then pattered out into the night.
Hiro sighed. “Sorry. She had a paper. I guess it’s gone.”
“You mean this?” Father Mateo turned around and held up the scrap of paper. It was damp along one edge but still intact.
He chuckled, then sneezed. “She was too busy escaping from you to notice me, and it cost her the prize.”
He extended the paper but Hiro shook his head slowly. “I don’t need it anymore. I already know the answer.”
Father Mateo frowned at the scrap. “Isn’t this one of the ledger fragments from the Sakura?” He looked up, startled. “You know who the murderer is? When did you figure it out?”
Hiro smiled. “A minute ago. You gave me the final clue.”
“I did? What was it?”
“I’ll tell you in the morning. I have one more problem to solve tonight.”
Father Mateo stood up. “Then let’s get going.”
“Not you,” Hiro said. “I need to do this alone.”
“You can’t just leave me here to do nothing.”
“Do you believe that god of yours answers prayers?” Hiro asked.
“He does. It isn’t just a matter of belief.”
“Then get on your knees and pray,” Hiro said, “but wake me before you go to sleep.”
Hiro returned to his room and lay down. He would not get much sleep that night, and years of training had taught him to rest when he could.
* * *
Hiro woke up the moment Father Mateo stepped through the door of the room.
The shinobi sat up, immediately alert. “Time?”
“An hour past midnight.”
“Excellent. Thank you.”
“I still think I should go with you.”
“Impossible,” Hiro said. “This is something I need to do alone.”
“Are you going to assassinate Nobuhide?”
Hiro raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “That’s not a bad idea. Do you mind?”
“Of course I mind! You don’t solve a murder by committing another one.”
“I don’t know,” Hiro mused. “Eliminating Nobuhide would solve a lot of problems.”
Father Mateo frowned. “Are you joking? I thought you were but suddenly I can’t tell. I forbid you to kill Nobuhide.”
“Calm down. I’m not planning to kill anyone tonight, though if my errand goes as planned, by noon tomorrow Nobuhide
won’t be a problem for us—or for Sayuri—anymore.”
Chapter 38
Hiro changed from his kimono into a set of baggy black trousers and a dark blue hooded tunic that tied in the front like a kimono. Unlike a normal surcoat this one had narrow sleeves and was belted with a special girdle. Instead of his usual obi, he used a long piece of cloth sewn into a tube. Concealed inside the tube was a kaginawa, a small grappling hook on a length of cord. Hiro tucked a second length of cloth around his waist and fastened it to the obi. It would serve as a mask when he reached his destination.
Hiro tucked his hood into the back of the tunic, where it disappeared inside a special pocket designed for that purpose.
He opened a wooden chest beside his desk and carefully removed the papers stacked inside. When the chest was emptied he pressed on the false wooden bottom to reveal a secret compartment where he stored special weapons. Shinobi weapons. They glimmered in the candlelight as Hiro selected the ones he wanted.
Five shuriken, or throwing stars, could serve as either projectiles or a fist load in the case of hand-to-hand combat. They went into the inside pockets of his tunic sleeves. A handful of four-pronged tetsubishi caltrops joined the shuriken, along with a pair of shuko, three-pronged climbing claws that fitted over the wrists for scaling walls. As Hiro knew from other occasions, they were also useful weapons at close range.
He bypassed the other weapons and replaced the false bottom of the chest, seating it carefully to ensure a proper fit. He returned the papers to their places, retrieved his swords and a pair of daggers from the holder on the wall, and fastened a small leather pouch around his waist. The pouch held fire tools, a length of rope, and a kairo, a piece of treated bamboo Hiro used for holding coals, heating water, or anything else that came to mind.
He checked everything twice to make sure he hadn’t overlooked anything he might need. As it happened, he doubted he would need the tools, but it was better to have them all than to die for want of any one of them.
Then it was time to go.
Outside, the moon looked like a giant golden koban, hanging high and full in the sky.
Hiro preferred to work in the dark of the moon, but he couldn’t choose the timing of this assignment. He set off at the confident pace of a samurai on an evening errand.
He passed the temple, turned left at the Kamo River road, and walked south along the river toward Pontocho. He didn’t see a single soul on the road, and only a few lights still glowed in the houses near the river. A breeze rippled the water and wafted a slightly fishy odor through the air. Hiro smelled the trees and some kind of night-blooming flower in the distance, along with a rancid undertone, probably from scrap and nightsoil buckets.
As he walked, he thought about Iga. Eighteen months was not very long, and also an eternity. He missed his friends and relatives there, and until a couple of days ago he had wanted only to earn his way home. That hadn’t changed, exactly, but for the first time he saw his current assignment as something other than a punishment. Had he not been shinobi, Father Mateo almost certainly would have died.
Half a mile north of Sanjō Road, Hiro left the path and disappeared into the shadows beneath the trees. Most of the houses on this side of the river had walled gardens, and Hiro walked close to the wall to avoid being seen. When he reached the last house before Sanjō Road, he removed the cloth from his obi and wrapped it around his face. He pulled up his hood and climbed up into a cherry tree that stood by the wall with its branches growing over into the yard.
Once up the tree, Hiro removed his katana and tied it carefully to a branch where no one would see it from the ground. Although necessary to his disguise, the longsword was a liability to stealth.
His hands found the hidden drawstrings inside his sleeves and drew the cuffs tight around his wrists. He did the same with the cuffs of his trousers.
With his clothes secured, Hiro continued up the tree until he perched about three feet above the eaves of the house adjacent to the tree. Unlike the Akechis’, this house lacked a careful gardener, and the cherry tree’s spreading branches extended several feet over the roof.
Hiro stretched himself along a branch and slithered away from the trunk. His weight lowered the branch until it rested against the roof. When the leaves touched the eaves, Hiro slowed his movements to ensure the limb would not rustle and alert the home’s inhabitants.
He saw no lights, but that did not mean that everyone was asleep.
When he reached the roof, Hiro stepped from the branch without a sound and slowly eased the limb back up to its original position. He didn’t dislodge a single leaf.
Hiro squatted on the roof and listened. He heard no sound from the house below and saw no lanterns or other light. After a couple of minutes, Hiro climbed to the peak of the sloping roof. He kept his body low to minimize his profile against the sky.
He saw no one in the street and no movement in the yard. The next house to the east had its shutters drawn. Its owners had also gone to bed.
Hiro jumped from the east side of the roof to a spreading pine in the neighbors’ yard. The needles smelled sharp and fresh in his nose, and the bark felt reassuringly rough and stable under his hands after climbing the cherry tree. Pines were much easier to climb.
It took him only moments to traverse the pine and jump lightly to the roof of the second house. He moved more slowly up the ridge of the second roof because from its peak he would be able to see the Sakura Teahouse—and anyone in the teahouse yard would be able to see him too.
He crouched low behind the ridgepole that ran the length of the roof. Rough thatch poked at the soles of his slippers and jabbed at the knees of his trousers.
The continuing smell of pine told Hiro that he had touched or rubbed some sap onto his clothes. In Iga, that would mean failure, but fortunately this was not a training exercise. The flowers and perfumes of the Sakura would more than overwhelm a spot or two of pitch.
He eased himself over the ridge of the roof and looked down at the teahouse.
The shutters were open and lights shone brightly in the windows of every room on the lower floor, though the windows of the upper floor were dark.
Hiro moved along the roof toward the pair of large, spreading cherry trees that grew beside the teahouse latrine. As he remembered, their questing branches reached over the wall, not quite all the way to the neighboring roof but close enough for his purposes.
He crouched and sprang. The six-foot gap opened wide beneath him but he kept his eyes on his target and a moment later he felt the prickly bark beneath his fingers. He grabbed hold, relaxing his muscles to finish the fall without breaking the branch.
Less than a minute after he landed in the tree, a door slid open on the near side of the house and a portly samurai staggered onto the veranda. A tinkling female laugh followed him out into the night. It sounded like Riko, though Hiro couldn’t tell for certain.
The samurai turned and laughed back into the room, then stepped off the porch and waddled toward the latrine. His gait wavered slightly, drunk but not quite beyond control. Hiro watched him pass beneath the other side of the tree and enter the latrine.
When the samurai had gone, Hiro moved silently through the branches until he reached a place where the leaves grew thick enough to hide in.
There he waited.
A few minutes later the drunken samurai finished in the latrine and returned to the teahouse. A feminine laugh greeted him and a kneeling figure slid the door closed behind him. Their shadows retreated farther into the room until Hiro saw only candlelight flickering on the paper panels.
The moon continued its circuit through the sky.
Some time later Hiro heard a murmur of voices on the front porch of the teahouse, or perhaps out in the street. A woman called “good night,” and a lower male voice replied with indistinct words. Someone was leaving. The candles still burned in the samurai’s room, so Hiro guessed another guest had departed for the night.
Moments later a light fl
ickered in the upstairs rooms. It was pale at first, but grew, like someone bringing a lantern up a flight of stairs. It extinguished itself before it grew distinct, suggesting that the bearer had come upon a room of sleepers and didn’t want to wake them. Hiro waited but the light did not reappear.
He leaned against his branch and watched the lights in the samurai’s room. He had only until dawn, but the moon was still high. He could almost hear his father’s voice reminding him that impatience was the enemy of stealth—a lesson the bullies of Iga had taught him all too well, and that he had repaid in full once he had learned to master patience and surprise.
Another hour passed and the final visitor departed. Hiro heard his drunken laughter in the street. He wondered what the neighbors thought about the teahouse’s late-night revels and if they ever learned to ignore the raucous shouts of departing samurai.
A moment later the last candle went out in the downstairs room. The ground floor faded into darkness. A minute later, a light bobbed into the upstairs window. It disappeared as quickly as the one before. Hiro barely saw a woman’s form silhouetted against the paper panels before the entire house went dark. Only the lanterns outside the latrine still burned.
Hiro waited. He watched the teahouse and the moon. He listened to crickets singing in chorus and a frog burping at the edge of an unseen pond. A brave cicada hissed in a tree, too early and out of season for the fourth month of the year.
A cloud slid across the sky. A second one joined it, and they combined into a single mass of gray. As the cloud approached the moon Hiro flexed his muscles, limbering them to move.
The moonlight dimmed, then faded as the cloud slipped over the pale disc. Hiro slithered down the tree trunk and scurried across the yard, keeping low and moving fast to avoid detection. By the time the moon reappeared, the shinobi was gone.
Hiro crouched at the edge of the wall beside the back door of the teahouse. The paper panels were dark and opaque with no movement or light within. He laid a hand on the door, lifted slightly to reduce its rumble against the wooden tracks, and pushed it open just far enough to slip through. Once inside, he closed the door without a sound.
