by Susan Spann
Hiro frowned. He should have known the diversion wouldn’t work. “Because he trusts her to protect his interests—and his guests.”
Or poison them, depending on the plan, he added silently, though he doubted Midori would have placed his life, or that of the priest, in danger.
“It’s not dishonorable then?” the Jesuit asked. “To serve?”
“Members of the Iga ryu are duty bound to follow Hanzō’s orders. Refusal, not obedience, brings dishonor.”
A surge of emotions flowed through Hiro as the familiar, shadowed form of his childhood home rose up before him, slatted windows glimmering from firelight within. A chest-high lantern shone beside the covered porch, a beacon to his past.
The best, and worst, of who he was had formed inside those cedar walls.
Hiro lowered his voice and switched to Portuguese. “Before we enter, you should know: there isn’t room in this house for Ana, and I don’t think she’s safe here anyway.”
“She won’t like that,” Father Mateo said. “You have to tell her.”
Hiro didn’t blame the priest for wanting to avoid a confrontation with his aging, cranky housekeeper. He didn’t relish the thought of breaking the news to her himself.
Fortunately, he had a plan.
“I’ll tell her Midori won’t allow a cat inside the house, and ask her to keep Gato at the guesthouse.”
“Better you than me.” The Jesuit hurried toward the house.
Like many village houses, Midori’s lacked a formal entry. Hiro opened the door and stepped directly into the common room.
Father Mateo followed him inside.
A fire blazed in the sunken hearth at the center of the floor. Braziers in the corners filled the room with golden light. Hiro inhaled the familiar smells of clean tatami and cedar planks. The scent of Midori’s favorite autumn tea perfumed the air like a peaceful ghost.
Memories haunted the room as well, for the most part equally benign.
Hiro indicated a sliding door to his right, in the southern wall. “That leads to Mother’s room.”
A paneled door in the wall directly across from the entrance opened with a rattle. Fuyu stepped up into the common room from the kitchen, which sat lower, at ground level.
Hiro noted the bald shinobi wore a sword he had not brought to dinner.
“Why does this house have a kitchen as well as a cooking hearth in the common room?” Fuyu asked.
His entrance through the dirt-floored kitchen explained why Hiro had not seen his sandals by the outer door.
“My father added a separate room for cooking, along with the storeroom and second sleeping chamber, after my younger brother’s birth.” Hiro crossed the common room to a door in the wall to the left of the entrance. “Father Mateo and I will sleep in here.”
Toshi followed Fuyu in from the kitchen.
“I guess that means we sleep in here,” the young shinobi commented, “since Kiku said she wants the owner’s room.”
“Unacceptable,” Fuyu snapped. “As visitors to Iga, we should get the private rooms. Hattori Hiro and the priest can sleep beside the hearth.”
Hiro decided not to point out that Father Mateo was also a guest in Iga. “The priest and I will gladly sleep in the common room. I merely thought you would object to an Iga assassin blocking your route to the house’s only exits.”
Fuyu glanced at the entry door. “I’ve changed my mind. Toshi and I will sleep beside the hearth. You and the priest will use the room without an exit.”
“As you wish.” Hiro opened the door and stepped into his childhood room.
The six-mat chamber seemed unchanged in the years since he left for Kyoto. Clean tatami covered the floor. A futon chest sat opposite the entrance, under a slatted window covered with oiled paper. Next to the chest stood a wooden cabinet that doubtless held his old kimono, along with those of his younger brother, Kazu.
Father Mateo followed Hiro into the room and stopped in front of the decorative alcove in the wall to the left of the door. The priest examined the scroll displayed in the tokonoma: a monochromatic landscape showing a set of distant, snow-capped mountains.
The Jesuit stared at the painting. “That looks like the one in Hanzō’s study.”
“Indeed.” Hiro nodded, impressed by the priest’s discernment. “My father painted both.”
“He was an artist?”
Hiro smiled. “Among other things.”
“That reminds me. I thought Hanzō would be older.”
Hiro couldn’t see the connection, but humored the Jesuit’s inquiry. “Hanzō’s father was the older brother, but my father married first.”
A swirl of chilly air flowed through the room as someone entered the house.
“What are you doing here?” Fuyu’s demand carried clearly through the open door.
Hiro stepped back into the doorway just as Midori entered the house with Ana, the Jesuit’s housekeeper, behind her.
“I came to retrieve my belongings,” Midori said, “and to show the foreigner’s maid the way.”
“Show her back to wherever she came from,” Fuyu ordered, “and be grateful we don’t kill you both for entering this house without permission.”
Hiro bowed from the doorway in an exaggerated show of respect. “Thank you, Mother, for allowing the Koga shinobi to use your home.”
Midori returned the bow with a look of annoyance, reminding Hiro of a similar backhanded act of politeness he had used to humiliate his brothers many years before.
“Beware the arrogance of pointed manners,” Midori had warned the six-year-old Hiro. “In shaming your brothers, you shame yourself as well.”
He felt his cheeks grow warm, but reminded himself that, on this occasion, his was not the worst behavior in the room.
Midori’s attention had shifted back to Fuyu. “I gladly surrendered my home for your use, and will comply with your demands, but need to retrieve some personal items in order to stay away for the duration of your visit. You may watch as I retrieve them, if you wish.”
Fuyu flung a hand toward Toshi. “List the items you require. He will fetch them for you.”
“This is still my mother’s home.” Hiro felt his patience with the bald shinobi wearing thin. “I overlooked your rude behavior at the feast, because defense of Hattori Hanzō’s honor does not fall to me. Insult my mother again, and you will answer to my blade.”
Fuyu’s hand dropped to the hilt of his sword.
Midori caught Hiro’s eye, glanced at the floor, and raised her eyes again with a silent but unmistakable message: Don’t you dare get blood on my tatami.
Thankfully, Toshi broke the silence. “We apologize for the insult, Hattori-san.” He bowed. “Please gather what you need, and I will watch.”
Hiro expected Fuyu to argue, but the surly shinobi had transferred his attention to Ana.
“What about her? We have no room for servants here.”
“Please, allow me to handle this,” Father Mateo called. “Ana, may I speak with you alone?”
Hiro stepped back into the sleeping chamber, and Ana joined them a moment later.
CHAPTER 9
As Hiro closed the chamber door, the Jesuit gave him a pleading smile, clearly hoping for help . . . or rescue.
“Hm.” Ana turned and fixed an angry glare on Hiro. “Not three hours we’ve been in Iga, and already you’re mixed up in another murder!”
Few commoners would risk their lives by castigating a samurai, but age and position made Ana act more like Hiro’s relative than the Jesuit’s servant.
For the second time in less than ten minutes, Hiro felt his cheeks grow warm.
“Don’t worry, Ana,” Father Mateo said. “We are in no danger. Please, return to the guesthouse and enjoy yourself for a couple of days. You worked so hard in Kyoto. You’ve earned a rest.”
“Rest?” Her face contorted as if the priest had ordered her to leap into the nearest gorge. “I’ve no intention of lying around all day like a spoiled
teahouse girl.”
Hiro stifled a smile at the thought of ancient, wrinkled Ana in an entertainer’s silken robes. At least, he thought he stifled it—her scowl suggested otherwise.
“Hm,” she grumbled.
“Please, Ana,” Father Mateo repeated. “I cannot permit you to sleep in the kitchen, and all of the other rooms in the house are taken.”
The door to the common room slid open. Midori stood on the threshold, carrying a lumpy quilt that apparently held a number of other objects.
“Please forgive my interruption. I will gladly escort the housekeeper back to the guesthouse, if you do not wish for her to stay. She is also welcome to sleep at Neko’s house, with me.”
Hiro found the invitation strange, and a bit suspicious. “Thank you, Mother, but Ana will stay at the guesthouse. I will escort her back myself when we finish here.”
Surprisingly, Ana did not argue. Hiro wondered whether the housekeeper did not trust Midori or merely wanted her to leave so Ana could renew the debate about the guesthouse.
Midori nodded. “Please use anything in the house or storeroom that you wish.” She turned to Toshi, who stood behind her in the common room. “The same applies to your delegation.”
“We have no intention of eating your poisoned food,” Fuyu declared, from out of sight.
The front door opened, letting in another swirl of chilly air.
Kiku entered, carrying a cloth-wrapped bundle in her arms. She wore a longbow and a quiver across her back.
She looked around. “Which room is mine?”
Toshi nodded. “That one . . . on the far side of the room.”
“Her chamber.” Fuyu’s tone suggested he had pointed to Midori. “As you wished.”
Kiku disappeared across the room.
“Please excuse me. I should go.” Midori bowed and left the house.
Ana looked reproachfully at Hiro. “I should start my long, cold walk as well.”
“It’s only for a couple of days.” Father Mateo looked and sounded guilty, despite the housekeeper’s clear intent to lay her full reproach on Hiro.
“I will return at dawn to make your breakfast.” Ana narrowed her eyes at Hiro. “Yours as well, although you don’t deserve it.”
“I’ll walk with you to the guesthouse,” Father Mateo said as Hiro followed the housekeeper from the room. “I haven’t had my evening walk tonight.”
Hiro expected the priest had more in mind than an evening stroll.
The first half of the walk to the guesthouse passed in silence. A waxing moon flooded the path with a silvery glow that eliminated the need for Ana and Father Mateo’s lanterns. Even so, Hiro didn’t mind the extra light. Until they knew who killed Yajiro, preventing an ambush was a prime concern.
They passed through Iga village with the forest on their right and stubbly rice fields spreading away to the left of the path. Although it rarely saw a horse-drawn cart, the road was broad enough for two such vehicles to pass abreast.
“You are certain she’ll be safe alone?” Father Mateo asked in Portuguese. He gestured to the moon to hide his meaning.
“Safer than she is with us,” Hiro replied in kind.
“No use plotting to stop me making breakfast,” Ana said. “I’ve no intention of lazing around that guesthouse like a hibernating bear.”
The housekeeper spoke no Portuguese, but knew the Jesuit well enough to suspect the reason for his unusual switch to his native tongue.
“The walk to Midori’s isn’t short,” Father Mateo said in Japanese. “You needn’t—”
“Shorter than a trip to the Kyoto market.” Ana sniffed. “And neither of you can cook a single grain of rice worth eating.”
Father Mateo didn’t argue. Neither did Hiro. On both points, she had them dead to rights.
CHAPTER 10
Iga’s guesthouses sat on the western end of the village, north of the road and near the top of a low, forested hill.
When they reached the proper path, Hiro led the others off the road and through the trees. Towering bamboo grew between the pines and cedars, silvered by the dappled moonlight shining through the canopy. Ordinarily, Hiro loved the silent mountain forest after dark; tonight, he looked over his shoulder almost as often as he watched the path ahead. In his imagination, every shadow hid a blade.
As they approached the guesthouse door, it rattled faintly on its hinges, as if someone touched it from inside.
Hiro froze and raised a hand for silence. Ana and Father Mateo seemed confused, but when he signaled for them to wait, they stopped on the path and asked no questions.
Alone, he crept toward the guesthouse.
The one-room structure had only a single entrance and two slatted windows, one in each of the walls adjacent to the entry door. Neither window opened, and the slats prevented anyone from using them for ingress or egress. Inside the house, a pair of painted wooden screens allowed for semiprivate sleep or storage spaces, but aside from those the guesthouse had no place to hide.
A person lying in wait within would have to attack the moment the door swung open.
Hiro stopped at the edge of the narrow veranda that ran around the house. It lacked the usual roof, and the boards intentionally squeaked, preventing anyone from sneaking up on the building from outside. Earlier that afternoon, Hiro found these architectural details reassuring. Now, he regarded the door as he would a viper.
Once again the paneled door rattled in its frame, though the air was still.
Hiro’s heart beat faster. Carefully, he slowed his breathing.
He reached into his sleeve and retrieved a shuriken, grasping the metal star so the points protruded between his fingers. After drawing a preparatory breath, he leaped across the porch, depressed the latch, and threw the door open.
Gato trotted out of the guesthouse, purring, tail high.
A rush of delayed adrenaline shot through Hiro’s knees as the black-and-orange tortoiseshell cat rubbed up against his shins with a happy trill. Reversing course, she leaned against his legs, looked up, and mewed.
Hiro peered through the open door, half wishing to spot an assassin in the shadows. Instead, he saw only an empty room, lit by the glow of a brazier and a dying fire in the hearth.
As he bent to pick up the purring cat, he sighed.
“All clear at the guesthouse?” Father Mateo called softly.
Hiro turned as Gato settled in his arms. “All clear.”
The Jesuit laughed as he reached the porch. “Not quite the threat you anticipated?”
Hiro extended the cat to the priest. “Perhaps you’d like to hold her?”
“I take it back.” Father Mateo raised his hands and stepped away.
“Poor, sweet Gato.” Ana swept the creature from Hiro’s arms, slipped out of her sandals, and entered the guesthouse. “You’re starving, and these men just stand and talk.”
Hiro raised an eyebrow at Father Mateo. The Jesuit shrugged.
Ana set the cat by the hearth. “Are you coming in?”
Hiro ducked his head inside and looked around. The brazier’s flickering light, though dim, left no significant shadows, and the wooden screens stood flat against the wall. The basket Ana brought from Kyoto sat beside the hearth, but nothing larger than Gato would fit inside it.
Recognizing Hiro’s concern, Ana walked to the only piece of furniture in the room, a wooden chest designed for holding quilts and futons. She lifted the lid, revealing a pile of bedding. The elderly housekeeper made a fist and thumped the quilts with a vigor that belied her age.
She turned. “No uninvited guests in here.”
“Except for the moth,” Hiro added, as a small, winged insect flew in through the door, attracted by the light.
“Last one of the season.” Ana watched the creature flutter silently across the room. “And even this one won’t last long.”
Gato executed a spectacular leap and struck the hapless moth to the floor. She fell on top of the creature, sniffed it once, and swallowed it
alive.
“Does she do that often?” Father Mateo didn’t spend much time with the cat, because she made him sneeze.
“She’s an excellent hunter.” Ana bent down and ran a hand over Gato’s black-and-orange fur. The cat arched up and purred.
“Thank you for watching Gato while we’re staying at Midori’s,” Hiro said.
“Hm.” The housekeeper’s smile faded as she glanced at Father Mateo and then back to Hiro. “I expect the same of you, Hattori-san.”
Father Mateo shivered as he walked back through the village at Hiro’s side. “Iga feels colder than Kyoto.”
“Fewer buildings and higher altitude,” Hiro said. “We’ll find you a warmer kimono in the morning.”
“At least Akiko-san managed to get this one passably clean.” The Jesuit paused. “I wonder what happened to the clothes we left in Kyoto. Father Vilela promised to watch the house. . . .”
Hiro shrugged. The facts surrounding their departure from the Japanese capital could easily prevent the Jesuit leader from carrying out that promise. However, Hiro saw no point in making an issue of it at the moment.
A short time later, Father Mateo said, “Something bothers me about this murder.”
Hiro bit his lip to stifle his initial response.
“The name ‘Hattori Hanzō’ is known, and feared, throughout Japan,” the Jesuit continued. “His power in Iga is said to be absolute. Shouldn’t he have known, or at least suspected, someone planned to murder Koga Yajiro?”
“I believe I mentioned that very issue, or something close to it, before we agreed to investigate.”
“Also, he didn’t seem alarmed by Yajiro’s death,” the Jesuit added.
“We cannot judge what Hanzō knew, or did not know, by his outward reaction,” Hiro said. “For shinobi, as for samurai, revealing emotion is a sign of weakness.”
“But you agree it’s strange he had no warning of the plot against Yajiro?”
“He would not have needed warning if he was involved,” Hiro replied.
