by Susan Spann
“As if I’d be attracted to her now?”
“Those words might persuade the priest, but you cannot fool me.” Midori drew a breath, but hesitated, as if to change her mind about her words. “Go to the bathhouse. Allow Neko to explain.”
“What she did requires no explanation!” Hiro stepped backward, shocked by his own vehemence. He bowed. “I humbly apologize. I should not have raised my voice to you.”
“Neko cares for you,” Midori said. “More truly, and more deeply, than you know.”
“How can you say that? Have you forgotten what she did to me?”
Midori laid a hand on Hiro’s shoulder. “Many years ago, I bound these wounds. I did not realize they festered still.”
“I’m not festering.” Hiro didn’t like hearing the Jesuit’s wisdom repeated in his mother’s voice.
Midori pulled her hand away. “Neko’s scars are hidden, but they run at least as deep as those you bear.”
“She chose to inflict them. I did not!”
“There you are mistaken, Hiro. What she did to you was not by choice.”
CHAPTER 48
“Not by choice?” Hiro searched Midori’s face. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“If I had told you, Hanzō would have killed you, on his father’s orders.”
Reality, as Hiro knew it, shifted underneath his feet. Truths that he relied upon collapsed like avalanching snow. If Neko had not betrayed him voluntarily . . . “Hanzō’s father ordered her to do it?”
“For the benefit of the Iga ryu.” Midori spoke softly, as if to dull the impact of her words. “You were almost the best assassin Iga ever trained. You had one fatal weakness.”
“Neko.”
“No,” Midori corrected. “Your trust for those you love. Neko, yes, but me as well. Hanzō—your cousin’s father—believed betrayal would make you Iga’s perfect weapon.”
“No one is that cruel. I don’t believe you.” Despite his words, he suddenly knew it was true.
“I was there the night he ordered Neko to betray you.”
Midori’s words fell like daggers into Hiro’s heart.
“You knew? And you did nothing?”
She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Neko refused, but Hanzō said if she did not obey his order, or if you ever learned the truth, he would kill you slowly, and make both Neko and me watch him do it. His son—your cousin—was there, and Hanzō ordered him to fulfill the penalty also, if you learned the truth after your cousin assumed control of the Iga ryu.” Midori bowed her head. “I am sorry, Hiro. Concealing this from you—lying to you—is the most difficult thing that I have ever done.”
“Why tell me now? Did Hanzō change his mind about carrying out his father’s order?”
“Neko and I decided that you need our help to save the priest. Neko has a plan, but we knew that you would never trust her . . . unless you knew the truth.”
“I do not trust her anyway!” Realizing he had misdirected his anger for all these years made it flare with even more intensity.
“At least allow her to explain.”
Hiro’s suspicions swooped back in with a vengeance. “Suddenly, neither you nor she is worried about Hanzō killing me?”
“I’m more concerned about you killing him.” Midori glanced at the gates. “Promise me that you will not.”
Hiro didn’t answer.
“Iga cannot afford to lose its leader with Japan on the brink of war.” Midori’s stare bored into him. “Your cousin is not responsible for his father’s decisions—or the oaths that he was forced to take.”
As usual, she was right.
Hiro exhaled heavily. “I will uphold my oath to defend the ryu.”
She nodded. “If you plan to meet with Neko, you should go.”
He pulled the envelope from his sleeve. “I think you dropped this as we left the mansion.”
Midori examined the folded paper. “That’s not mine, and you know it. Where did it come from?”
“I’m not certain. Can you tell me?”
“I can try.” She accepted the envelope and carefully looked inside. Frowning, she raised the paper and sniffed its contents. “Where did you get this?”
“Someone gave it to me,” Hiro said. “I can’t reveal who.”
“You know this isn’t the torikabuto that killed Yajiro.”
“It isn’t?” Hiro asked. “Are you certain?”
“This is mixed with willow bark. Nothing I cooked would have hidden the taste, and no tea would disguise it either.” Midori shook the envelope slightly. “Depending on where you found this, it suggests the killer plans to strike again.”
“I don’t know where it came from.” Hiro wavered, but necessity proved stronger than suspicion. “Can you tell me anything more about it?”
Midori bent toward the lantern, looked more closely, and shook her head. “Not in this light. I could probably find out what the paper’s made from, which would tell us whether the envelope was made in Iga or somewhere else.”
“That may be all I need to know.”
She slipped the envelope up her sleeve. “I’ll let you know as soon as I can. Now go—Neko is waiting, and you have a friend to save.”
Hiro cut through the forest and down the hill to the east of Hanzō’s mansion, staying off the path to ensure he wasn’t seen. His mind replayed Midori’s words, as well as the night of Neko’s betrayal—a scene he had tried to forget for years, but still recalled in excruciating detail.
As he combed his memories, the facts confirmed Midori’s version better than he anticipated. By the time he reached the bottom of the hill, he had decided he believed her.
The core of anger burning in his chest made Hiro glad he hadn’t known the truth before he fought with Hanzō. Given the chance again, he did not know if he could stay his hand.
Approaching the river, he smelled the distinctive odor of burning pine and noticed a column of pale smoke rising up from the chimney of the bathhouse.
Hiro shook his head. The elderly woman who owned the establishment lived a short distance away through the trees. In the past, she had often left the fire burning late at Neko’s request. Apparently, some things did not change.
He remembered his frustration at learning he missed his bath that afternoon. Apparently, he would get one after all.
Suddenly, Hiro felt as if someone released a fistful of silkworms in his stomach. His cheeks grew warm as the rustling in his belly spread to his knees. Forcing the nervousness away, he started toward the bathhouse door.
No noren hung in the entry, and the lantern by the door was dark, indicating the bathhouse was closed for the night.
Even so, the wooden door swung open beneath his hand.
He passed through the silent entry and into the changing room beyond, where a brazier burned in the corner near the wall. Despite Neko’s invitation, which suggested a meeting in the bath, he half expected to find her waiting for him in the changing room. However, the narrow room was empty except for a dark-colored tunic and trousers hanging on one of the hooks beside the paneled door that led to the bathing chamber.
Across from the clothing, a line of buckets, brushes, and wooden stools sat beside a metal pump that drew cold water from the river. The floor around the stools was wet. Puddles glistened near the slatted drain on the chamber floor.
Hiro tried not to envision Neko waiting naked in the bath.
He failed.
To say he had mixed feelings about the encounter was an understatement. He stared at the door to the bathing room, trying to decide if he trusted Neko enough to disrobe before entering. It was highly inappropriate to enter a bath unwashed, or wearing clothing, but taking off his clothes would make him vulnerable to attack.
Hiro started across the room. He would not strip and allow himself to be played for a fool a second time.
At the door to the bathing room, he paused.
Passing through that door with clothes on violated every rule of bathin
g he had known since early childhood. Refusing to disrobe would also make him look afraid.
Frustration warred with common sense. In the end, he realized a thin kimono did less to block a blade than nakedness would do to protect his honor.
Hiro stepped away from the door and stripped off his kimono, hesitating for only a moment before removing his loincloth too. He hung his clothes on the hook adjacent to Neko’s, sighing at the ruined sleeve. His arm no longer bled beneath the bandage, but it had begun to ache and burn. He would have to be careful to avoid reopening it in the bath.
He crossed the room to the row of stools, grasped the nearest bucket, and held it under the pump while he worked the lever. Frigid water spurted from the tap. He shivered as a spray of droplets spattered against his shins. The fire in the boiler room heated the bath itself, but the water from the river was untreated, freezing cold.
After a deep, preparatory breath, he raised the bucket and poured the water over his head. The icy liquid forced the breath from his lungs. Teeth chattering, he reached for a brush and scrubbed his skin, moving quickly as he rubbed the blood from his arms and hands, avoiding only the spot around the bandage. He filled the bucket once again and held his breath as he rinsed his body with the frigid water.
Naked and dripping, he reached for one of the tiny, hand-sized towels sitting on a shelf above the washing station. People normally carried them into the bath to wipe away perspiration, but Hiro had a different plan in mind.
Towel in hand, he crossed the room and retrieved the shuriken from his kimono sleeve. Neko and Midori would have him believe he had nothing to fear from the bath, but he would never again trust assumptions.
Hiro closed his fist around the shuriken, letting the points protrude between his fingers. The cut on his arm protested as his muscle flexed, but he ignored the pain. He draped the little towel over his fist to hide the weapon and approached to the wooden door that led to the bath.
The silkworms in his stomach metamorphosed into moths.
He drew a breath, and then another, dispelling the unexpected weakness in his knees. He reminded himself that a fight most likely awaited him in the bathing chamber. Slowing his breathing, he paused until his heartbeat slowed, then opened the door.
CHAPTER 49
A dense cloud of steamy air flooded out of the bathing chamber like the exhalation of a dragon. The piney, slightly salty aroma suggested Neko had scented the water—confirming that, as Midori mentioned, the woman had more in mind than merely rescuing the priest.
Alert for an ambush, Hiro stepped inside . . . and found the chamber empty.
Flickering braziers lit the room, illuminating the giant cedar bathtub at its center. The tub steamed like a cauldron, filling the air with humid heat that condensed and trickled in droplets down the walls. The braziers cast an orange glow on the wood and tinted the water scarlet.
Hiro stopped and looked again.
The water in the tub was red.
An instant later, he noticed the ferrous odor of blood beneath the scent of piney steam. He looked more closely at the room, and froze in horror.
Bloody streaks ran down the wall beside the door, the crimson trails barely visible against the varnished wood. More blood smeared the side of the tub away from the door, suggesting a wounded person had tried to flee.
Hiro pulled the towel off his fist and dropped it to the floor. Shuriken raised, he took a step forward and peered into the circular tub.
Except for the water, it was empty.
Walking around the side of the bath, he discovered Neko’s blood-streaked body lying on the wooden floor.
Crimson liquid puddled around her, partially water and partially blood. Her eyes stared sightlessly at the wall. In one hand, she clutched the edge of a bloody towel, while the other lay across her chest, index finger stained with crimson. A gaping wound in her neck and slashes on her hands and arms revealed her death was not a suicide.
Hiro dropped the shuriken and collapsed to his knees beside her body. His throat swelled closed until he couldn’t breathe.
He felt for a pulse, but the stillness beneath his fingers confirmed what his eyes and heart already knew.
He felt weak. The room began to spin. He set his hands on the floor and closed his eyes until the dizziness passed. When he opened them, his stomach churned.
His breaths came far too fast, but for the first time in his life, he could not slow them. Tears blurred his vision as he lifted Neko’s body in his arms. He buried his face in her hair, and the scent of jasmine filled his nose—but for only a moment, before crying closed his sinuses and rendered smell beyond him.
At first, the force of his emotions pushed out conscious thought. But as he held her, an idea seeped into his mind, soft but insistent, like a mosquito buzzing in a silent room.
This is your fault.
The assassin must have entered the bathhouse after Neko entered the tub. She would have turned when the door swung open, but slowly, expecting Hiro. Her assumption gave the killer the advantage of surprise.
If he hadn’t fought with Hanzō, or delayed so long with Midori, he might have arrived in time to save her life.
An anguished moan escaped his lips. He clutched her body close, consumed by grief.
“What have you done?” Midori’s cry echoed off the walls.
Hiro looked up. At the sight of his mother’s horrified eyes, he realized how the scene must look: his naked body covered in Neko’s blood, his shuriken on the floor nearby.
He found his voice. “I didn’t . . .”
The rest of the sentence faded away as Hanzō entered the room behind Midori.
For several moments, no one spoke.
The Iga commander’s lip curled in disgust. “I knew you swore to avenge yourself, but never imagined you would dare to murder her.” He turned to Midori. “You claimed they had a plan to save the priest—”
“I did not kill her.” A breath of cool air from the door made goose-flesh rise on Hiro’s arms and chest. “Someone else—”
“How dare you deny the obvious truth!” Hanzō laid a hand on his sword. “Less than an hour ago, you accused her of murdering the Koga emissaries. Clearly, you came to accuse her, lost control, and killed her in a rage. Your petty grudge has cost me my best assassin!”
“That is not true.” Hiro glanced at Midori. “You know I wouldn’t—”
“Hanzō.” Hiro’s mother stepped between them. “Please allow him to explain.”
“Stand aside, Midori,” Hanzō ordered. “This does not concern you.”
“He would not have killed her. Not tonight.” Her voice grew grave. “He knew the truth.”
For a moment, Hanzō looked confused, but realization crept across his face. “She broke her oath?”
“No.” Midori straightened. “I broke mine.”
Hanzō drew his sword. “The penalty for taking the life of an Iga shinobi is beheading—a traitor’s death.”
Hiro gently lowered Neko’s body to the floor. “I swear to you, on my honor and by any gods you wish to invoke, I did not take her life. Why would I kill her when I finally knew the truth?”
“A traitor’s oath means nothing,” Hanzō snarled.
“Hanzō, be reasonable. Hiro would never—”
The Iga commander raised his sword. “Hattori Hiro, I condemn you to death for the murder of Kotani Neko. Have you anything to say before I carry out your punishment?”
Hiro rose. “I do not accept the penalty for a crime I did not commit.”
“You are naked and unarmed,” Hanzō said. “Do not attempt to fight.”
“If you take my life for this, you prove yourself unfit to lead the Iga ryu.”
“Kneel!” Hanzō thundered.
Hiro raised his chin and squared his shoulders. “No.”
The Iga commander shifted the angle of his sword. “I will let you choose: kneel and die, or let your mother bear your penalty.”
“Hanzō—”
As Midori
tried to intervene, Hiro fell to his knees. He landed in a puddle, spattering bloody drops across the floor. He needed a plan to delay his execution, but emotions clogged his thoughts like a mudslide blocking a mountain stream.
Finally, an idea broke through.
Hiro hung his head. “Hattori-sama, I beg you—as a sign of mercy—summon Father Mateo here before you take my life. A samurai is allowed to bid farewell to his family, even in disgrace. My brother is not in Iga. Allow the priest to take his place.”
Hiro looked up, hoping his attempt to stall for time had worked.
Hanzō scowled at Neko’s body. “A man who would do that deserves no mercy. Bow your head and accept your fate.”
CHAPTER 50
Hiro considered his odds; they weren’t good. Hanzō was fully clothed and armed, while he was naked and covered in blood that made his hands too slick for a reliable grip. Worse, if he failed to take the sword on the first attempt, Hanzō would kill him, and possibly Midori too.
He would have to outsmart Hanzō, or distract him long enough to get away.
“Why would I kill Neko?” Hiro asked. “I loved her.”
“Not as I did.” Bitterness sharpened Hanzō’s words. “And yet, she rejected me.”
Hiro could hardly believe the revelation. How had he never realized that Hanzō loved Neko too? He should have, though the Iga commander normally kept his feelings well concealed.
“A fact for which you have only yourself to blame,” Midori said softly. “You married another—”
“—because Neko would not have me!”
“Iga has lost a beloved daughter,” Midori continued as if he had not spoken. “Do not allow your personal grief to deprive us of my son as well.”
“He is responsible for her death!”
Midori took a step toward Hanzō. “Hiro will find the one who killed her.”
“As he found the one who killed the Koga emissaries?” Hanzō snorted. “He has failed, and now he pays the price.”
“Rescind his sentence,” Midori pressed. “I ask you as a captain of Iga, not as Hiro’s mother. I acknowledge my son’s imperfect record, his arrogance, and his lack of respect for authority. However, he remains our best and only chance to find the killer and avoid a war with Koga. Under the circumstances, executing him is ill-advised.”
