by Susan Spann
“Good afternoon, Matsui-san.” Ginjiro accepted Hiro’s katana and placed it in a wooden rack designed to hold patrons’ swords. As he turned back to the counter he caught Hiro’s eye and raised his eyebrows a fraction in silent inquiry.
The shinobi glanced at Akira. Hiro held Father Mateo in higher regard, but Akira would take offense if the brewer greeted the Jesuit first.
Ginjiro bowed to the samurai and took his sword with a respectful greeting. A moment later he did the same for Father Mateo.
With all three swords placed safely on the rack, Ginjiro asked, “May I offer you sake and snacks?”
Father Mateo opened his mouth to respond, but Akira cut him off. “No, thank you. We are here on the shogun’s business.”
All emotion drained from Ginjiro’s face. He bowed again, more deeply. “How may I assist the shogunate?”
“Where is Ito Kazu?” Akira asked.
Ginjiro’s gaze flickered to Hiro. The shinobi gave an almost imperceptible nod, though he wondered what the brewer knew that made him seek approval to answer the question. Ginjiro didn’t know Hiro’s real identity, or Kazu’s. He knew them only as regular patrons.
“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Ginjiro said, “but if you wish to wait, he should arrive within an hour or two.”
The response made Hiro certain that Ginjiro knew more than he would reveal with Akira present.
“How do you know?” the samurai asked. “Do you have a meeting with him?”
Ginjiro smiled and shook his head. “We have no appointment. Ito-san often drinks here in the evenings. I expect him every night, though truthfully he doesn’t always come.”
“What about last night?” Akira asked. “Was he here?”
“Ito-san was here last night.” Ginjiro used rigidly formal language and did not take his eyes from Akira’s face, though as custom demanded he made no direct eye contact.
The brewer played the role of polite subordinate perfectly, suggesting he had experience using etiquette to conceal a spoken lie. Hiro doubted Akira noticed, but the shinobi had used the trick too often to miss it.
“What time did he arrive?” Akira asked. “How late did he stay?”
The questions clattered through the silent shop like a horse’s hooves on stone.
Hiro heard a rustle of cloth behind him. The sleeping monk had awakened.
Ginjiro smiled politely. “He arrived after dark. I apologize, but I did not note the time. I don’t always hear the temple bells when the shop is busy.”
“How late did he stay?” Akira repeated.
Before Ginjiro could respond, Hiro heard a muffled thump and a yelp of pain.
Akira whirled toward the sound, reaching for the wakizashi at his side. Father Mateo startled too, but Hiro turned more slowly. He already knew what had happened. The monk had rolled off the platform and fallen into the street.
A balding head appeared above the edge of the brewery floor.
“Sir, are you hurt?” Father Mateo called.
The monk blinked like a sun-dazzled owl. He looked up and touched his forehead as if to confirm the existence of falling rain. When he looked back into the shop, his mouth split open in a nearly toothless grin.
“Hiro-san!” He waved a skinny arm and wobbled on his feet.
Akira looked down his nose at Hiro. “He knows you?”
“His name is Suke,” Hiro said, “and he knows all of Ginjiro’s customers.”
Hiro followed Father Mateo across the shop and helped the priest lift Suke back into the brewery.
“I was sleeping.” Suke’s eyebrows shot up as if trying to escape his hairless forehead. “An oni must have pushed me!”
“I doubt the demons are bored enough to shove old men out of breweries.” Hiro knelt and looked the monk in the eye. “Are you hurt?”
Suke’s gaze darted to the counter. “Nothing a little sake wouldn’t cure.”
Ginjiro glared at the monk and shook his head. The brewer considered Suke a nuisance, but wouldn’t risk the monastery’s displeasure, or that of the kami, by forcing the ancient monk into the street.
“Shall I buy you a cup?” Hiro already knew the answer, but the question was part of the game, and Suke’s response would prove the monk hadn’t injured himself in the fall.
“A cup might help a little,” Suke said, “but a flask would earn you a thousand blessings.”
Hiro nodded. The monk was fine.
“Ginjiro,” the shinobi called, “draw a flask for Suke, and bring a bowl of rice with meat.”
The brewer sighed and disappeared into the kitchen.
Father Mateo returned to the counter without a word.
Hiro turned to follow, but Suke laid a restraining hand on his arm. The monk’s wiry fingers had surprising strength.
“If there’s trouble,” Suke whispered, “I will swear that Ito Kazu was here all night.”
Chapter 19
Hiro doubted Suke’s oath would persuade a child, let alone the shogun, but he appreciated the offer. He returned to the counter as Suke settled cross-legged on the floor.
“Do you buy him food often?” Father Mateo asked.
Hiro shrugged. “It keeps him from drooling into mine.”
Ginjiro returned and set a pair of bowls on the countertop. One held a generous mound of steaming rice. The other held pickled vegetables and five thick slices of fatty pork.
The brewer didn’t like Suke, but he never shorted a paying customer.
Hiro looked from the bowls to Ginjiro and waited.
The brewer sighed and bent below the counter. When he straightened, he set a ceramic flask and an egg-sized sake cup beside the bowls. Hiro nodded approval and carried the food and drink to the waiting monk.
Suke clapped his hands in delight. “A thousand blessings upon you, Hiro-san.”
The monk swallowed two cups of sake in quick succession, wiped his mouth, and removed a pair of wooden chopsticks from his filthy robe.
Hiro returned to the counter as Suke shoveled vegetables into his mouth.
Akira had already resumed his questioning. “Can you confirm how late Ito Kazu stayed?”
Ginjiro’s smile froze. “Some time after midnight.”
“Was he drinking all evening?” Hiro asked. “If so, he would have been very drunk when he left.”
Father Mateo gave the shinobi a sidelong look, but Hiro ignored him. The wording was neither careless nor accidental.
Ginjiro nodded and gave the desired answer. “More so than I’d ever seen him. I’d be surprised if he made it home in that condition.”
Hiro made a mental note to tip Ginjiro handsomely.
“Did Kazu tell you where he was going?” Akira asked.
“My patrons don’t usually ask permission to leave.” Ginjiro looked at Hiro with concern. “Is Ito-san injured?”
“We don’t know,” Hiro said. “No one has seen him since last night.”
The noren fluttered in the kitchen doorway, giving Hiro a glimpse of a purple kimono behind the fabric panels. Ginjiro’s daughter, Tomiko, had a crush on Kazu as well as a tendency to eavesdrop.
“Does Kazu have a woman in Pontocho?” Akira asked.
Ginjiro pressed his lips together. “I don’t know. If he does, he’s never mentioned her and never brought her here. I certainly never asked. It is not my place to inquire about a customer’s business in the pleasure district.”
The brewer’s comments revealed his disapproval. Akira’s question overstepped the bounds of polite inquiry.
Akira turned to Hiro, ignoring the brewer’s tactful reprimand. “You were wrong. He doesn’t know anything useful.”
“On the contrary,” Hiro said, “we know that Kazu spent the evening here and left in a drunken stupor.”
Akira thrust an expectant hand across the counter. Ginjiro retrieved the samurai’s sword and also Father Mateo’s. When the brewer returned Hiro’s katana, the shinobi accepted the weapon with both hands, an unnecessary courtesy intended to sho
w respect. Ginjiro had tried to keep Kazu out of trouble, and Hiro appreciated the brewer’s loyalty.
The shinobi sheathed his katana and handed Ginjiro a silver coin for Suke’s meal and a second one to express his thanks for the brewer’s cooperation.
After joining Akira and Father Mateo in the street, Hiro stepped to the edge of the floor where Suke squatted and asked, “Did you notice which way Kazu went when he left last night?”
The monk paused, mouth full of rice. After a moment he nodded and mumbled, “River.”
Several grains of rice popped out from between his lips. He pushed them back into his mouth with a grubby finger.
Akira’s nostrils flared in disgust.
Father Mateo bowed. “Thank you, Suke-san.”
Suke nodded and returned his attention to his rice.
The rain had slowed to a mist again while the men were inside the brewery, but the brief downpour left puddles in the road. The shinobi took care to avoid them.
As the men walked east toward the Kamo River, Hiro wondered why Kazu failed to meet them at the brewery as planned. He didn’t like doubting a fellow shinobi, but Kazu’s conduct didn’t inspire confidence.
Just outside the winding alley that housed the pleasure district of Pontocho, a pair of young women huddled beneath an oiled paper umbrella. They wore expensive kimonos patterned with summer scenes. Red linings peeked from the neck of their robes, marking the girls as maiko, or apprentice entertainers. Hiro knew them for novices even before he saw the collars. Water ruined time-consuming makeup and costly hairstyles. Experienced entertainers stayed inside on a rainy day.
The girls scooted up against a building, gaping with astonishment at the sight of the foreign priest. Father Mateo bowed without slowing. Akira ignored the girls and Hiro looked away. He refused to acknowledge women who lacked the sense to get out of the rain.
When they reached the river, Hiro paused to watch the raindrops fall on the flowing water. They dimpled the surface and disappeared, consumed by the thirsty river.
“Perhaps we should go back,” Akira said, “and search Pontocho?”
“If you like.” Hiro hoped the samurai wouldn’t insist. The shinobi hated Pontocho.
“I’d rather not.” Akira glanced over his shoulder. “It’s hardly an appropriate place to be seen.”
In daytime, anyway, Hiro thought.
Samurai flooded Pontocho at night, despite the ethical prohibition on nobles consorting with prostitutes. No one paid attention, and, for the most part, no one cared.
By daylight, however, a man in Pontocho attracted considerable notice.
Akira started north along the road that followed the river bank. “I’m not risking my reputation. If Kazu’s alive, he’ll turn up sooner or later.”
“And if he’s not alive?” Father Mateo matched Akira’s pace.
The samurai turned. “Do you think the murderer killed him too?”
“He has disappeared,” Father Mateo said.
“But why would the killer hide the second victim?” Akira asked.
“He wouldn’t, without a reason.” Hiro said.
The shinobi walked on Akira’s right, closest to the river.
“Why do you think the murderer killed Saburo?” Akira asked.
“The evidence makes robbery unlikely,” Hiro said.
“Vengeance, maybe?” Akira offered.
“Perhaps,” Hiro said. “Did anyone have a grudge against Saburo?”
Akira’s momentary silence suggested unwillingness to speak, but eventually he said, “Saburo was not popular. He thought his name entitled him to privileges above his rank.”
“He demanded unusual deference?” Father Mateo asked.
Akira gave an awkward smile. “Yes, but also … with the maids.”
Hiro understood at once. “Do any of the girls he approached still work at the shogunate?”
“I don’t know,” Akira said. “It is a delicate situation.”
“Perhaps Saburo’s wife knows more about it,” Hiro said.
Akira’s eyes widened. His cheeks flushed. “I would rather you didn’t…”
Before he could finish the sentence, Father Mateo made a startled sound.
Just ahead, a male figure emerged from beneath a bridge. His blue kimono was streaked with mud. Dead grass and broken reeds poked out of the ragged samurai knot atop his head, and his face was bruised and battered. The man raised a hand to his temple as if to soothe its aching, but the effort seemed to increase his pain and he lowered his hand to his side.
Shock forced a name from Hiro’s lips.
“Kazu?” he asked. “What are you doing here?”
Chapter 20
Mud and grass clung to Kazu’s kimono as if he had rolled on the river bank. Bruises marked his cheek and temple. His right eye was purple and swollen nearly shut.
Kazu opened his mouth, winced, and raised a hand to a blackening, bloody scab on his lower lip. He touched the injury gingerly and glanced at his fingers to see if the wound was bleeding.
Hiro could tell the pain was real.
Father Mateo rushed forward. “Ito-san, what happened?”
Kazu blinked at the sky. “What time is it?”
“Late afternoon,” Akira said. “Where have you been all morning?”
Kazu looked over his shoulder at the river. “Under the bridge, I think.” He blinked and looked up. “It’s raining.”
“You slept under a bridge?” Akira’s forehead wrinkled, caught between concern and disgust.
Hiro wanted to hear the answer, even though he knew Kazu would lie.
“Thieves attacked me.” Kazu sounded disoriented, as if remembering a dream. “I was walking home from Ginjiro’s and saw shadows near the bridge. I fought back, but there were too many. The next thing I remember, I woke up—just now—and saw you on the path.
“They must have left me under the bridge.”
Talking had cracked the scab on Kazu’s lip. He dabbed at the drop of blood that oozed from the wound.
His eyes widened. He searched through his kimono. “My purse is gone! Fifty silver chogin!”
Akira’s mouth fell open in dismay. “Fifty?”
The sum was more than some samurai made in a year, though well within the range a wealthy man might carry in Kyoto. Hiro didn’t know the size of Kazu’s stipend from the Iga ryu, but money was vital to Kazu’s cover story. The wealthy eldest son of an Iga nobleman would have plenty of coins to spend.
“Were they samurai?” Father Mateo asked. “The thieves, I mean.”
Akira looked down his nose at the priest—a difficult task, given the Jesuit’s eight-inch height advantage. “Samurai do not become thieves.”
Once again, Hiro knew better, but as before he let the inaccurate statement pass without comment.
“No,” Kazu said, “just common brigands.”
“Did you see their faces?” Akira asked. “We should report this to the police.”
Kazu started to shake his head but stopped, as if the motion made him dizzy. “They wore hoods and covered their faces. I wouldn’t recognize them if I saw them.”
“Insolent thugs,” Akira said, “most likely wasting your money as we speak. The police are paid to patrol this river at night. I’ll have Hisahide speak to the ward commander.”
“Matsunaga-san obeys your commands?” Hiro asked.
Akira flushed. “I meant I would ask him.” After an awkward pause he continued, “Hisahide will want to know. This attack might be connected to the one at the shogunate.”
“Attack at the shogunate?” Kazu repeated. “Was the shogun also robbed?”
Akira shook his head. “I am sorry to bear bad news. Ashikaga Saburo has been murdered.”
Hiro caught a whiff of something terrible, like sake mixed with urine.
“Murdered?” Kazu stepped toward Akira. “What happened?”
The smell increased. It was coming from Kazu’s robe. The scents of the rain and the river had covered the un
pleasant odor initially, but the longer they stood on the bank, the more it permeated the air.
Hiro wrinkled his nose. Kazu had overdone it.
“He was killed last night, in his office at the shogunate.” Akira seemed to notice the smell. He stepped away from Kazu but covered the movement by gesturing to Hiro and Father Mateo. “The shogun asked these men to help Hisahide find the killer.”
“Hiro?” Kazu squinted in confusion. “Why?”
“He has solved murders before,” Akira said. Hiro could see the samurai trying not to inhale too deeply. The smell lingered unpleasantly on the air. Etiquette forbade Akira from mentioning it, but no one could have missed the pungent odor.
“Saburo was stabbed to death with your dagger,” Hiro said. “If you killed him, confess it now.”
“Me?” Kazu stepped backward. The fear in his eyes looked real.
“You were missing,” Father Mateo said. “Matsunaga Hisahide asked us to find you.”
“I didn’t…” Kazu paused. “Who would kill Saburo?” He looked up the road to the north. “I need to get to the shogunate. I can search the office, identify things out of place.”
“You need a physician,” Father Mateo said.
“Only my pride is injured.”
“Under the circumstances, I think you should rest—and possibly change,” Akira said. “I will explain to Hisahide, and he will inform the shogun of your whereabouts.”
“With respect, I must refuse. Saburo’s confidential papers must be protected and delivered to the shogun.” Kazu’s face fell. “Also, I should pay my respects to Ichiro.”
The catch in Kazu’s voice sounded genuine. Hiro studied the younger shinobi with a concern that had nothing to do with Kazu’s injuries. A shinobi must always remain detached from his mission. Real emotion was dangerous and forbidden.
Hiro’s friendship with Father Mateo violated the rule too, but Hiro pardoned his own transgression because his assignment was permanent and tied his own life to the priest’s. Kazu’s assignment was neither lifelong nor dependent upon anyone’s survival but his own.
“Ichiro seemed fine this morning,” Hiro said. “He accompanied his mother to the shogunate.”
“I should pay my respects,” Kazu repeated. “As his tutor, it is my duty.”
