Blade of the Samurai: A Shinobi Mystery (Shinobi Mysteries)

by Susan Spann

  “Not to you.”

  “To everyone,” Hiro snapped, “unless your training failed.”

  The shinobi held Kazu’s gaze but watched peripherally for movement. He stood as still as possible so as not to provoke a fight.

  Kazu scowled. “It is brotherhood that has failed.” He turned on his heel and stalked away down the path.

  Hiro followed in a silence that lasted all the way to the stable. The shinobi wanted to mend the breach, but his mouth refused to form a single conciliatory word. His current mistrust of Kazu ran too deep. He also objected deeply to Kazu risking Father Mateo’s safety—and Hiro’s own—without offering the courtesy of the truth.

  Hiro loathed feeling used, and at that moment he felt very ill used indeed.

  When they reached the edge of the stable yard, Kazu paused for only a moment and then departed without a word. Hiro noticed Akira waiting outside the stable and decided to obtain permission for Father Mateo to join their ride to Ōtsu. The shinobi had no intention of leaving the Jesuit alone in Kyoto with Kazu and Hisahide.

  Hooves pounded on the bridge as Ichiro rode into the yard on his tall bay horse.

  The boy leaned back in his saddle, brought the horse to a stop, and dismounted.

  “Masao,” he called, “take my horse, I’m late!”

  Masao emerged from the stable, bowed, and took the horse’s reins.

  Ichiro noticed Hiro. “Good morning, Matsui-san,” he said with a bow. “Have you captured my father’s killer?”

  Hiro bowed as if addressing an adult. “Not yet, Ashikaga-san, but I will.”

  “Kazu called on us last night. Thank you for proving that he was not to blame.”

  Hiro decided not to mention his reconsideration of Kazu’s guilt. “Thank you for speaking on his behalf. Your opinion was very helpful.”

  “It was not an opinion.” Ichiro straightened his shoulders and raised his chin. “I know that Kazu is not guilty.”

  “My apologies,” Hiro said. “Thank you for sharing your knowledge.”

  Ichiro nodded. “Please excuse me. A samurai should never be late for his lessons. Tardiness shows disrespect for the tutor.”

  He strode off toward the mansion, head high and pace unhurried, looking more noble than most men twice his age.

  The boy had barely left the yard when Akira asked, “Do you have to obtain the priest’s permission before you can leave Kyoto?”

  “I am free to come and go as I please,” Hiro said, “but—”

  “You serve the wrong priest, you know,” Akira said. “Father Vilela’s mission is large and honorable. Your Father Mateo makes serious mistakes.”

  “Does he?” Hiro asked.

  “All men are not equal. It is nonsense to suggest it and unacceptable even to mention such a thing to peasants. Commoners’ ignorance leads them to folly quickly enough without the intervention of foreign priests.”

  “I assure you,” Hiro said, “he intends no harm.”

  “And I assure you, his intentions are irrelevant. Persisting in this error will bring worse trouble than expulsion from the shogunate.”

  Masao emerged from the stable a second time, leading a pair of horses.

  Akira took the larger horse’s reins and swung into the saddle. He looked down his nose at Hiro. “You would do well to find employment elsewhere.”

  The guards at the gate cried out in surprise. A little boy raced past them into the yard.

  Two samurai in lacquered armor ran after the child, but the boy eluded their grasp. He started for Hiro but froze at the sight of Akira and the horses.

  The child’s thin hands clutched at his faded kimono as if the fabric might protect him from samurai rage. His bare feet shuffled on the ground. He didn’t seem to notice the mud that squelched between his toes.

  A chill spread over Hiro as if he had plunged headfirst into an icy lake. The child was the only son of Father Mateo’s neighbor across the street.

  “Wait!” The shinobi raised a hand to the guards. “I know him. Let him speak.”

  The armored samurai paused and exchanged an awkward look.

  The boy bent forward, struggling to catch his breath.

  At last he straightened. “Hiro, come quickly! Father Mateo is dying!”

  Chapter 28

  “Dying?” Hiro couldn’t believe it. “How?”

  “Otosan’s dog got loose.” The boy sounded desperate. “It went after Ana. Father Mateo tried to help but the dog attacked him instead.”

  Questions swirled in Hiro’s mind: how the akita escaped its tether, what it was doing at home again, and why the owner hadn’t noticed the dog’s escape in time to prevent the attack.

  He didn’t stop to ask.

  “I need this horse.” Hiro took the reins from Masao and swung into the saddle.

  As the shinobi reined the horse in a circle Akira said, “You may take it.”

  Hiro glanced over his shoulder, surprised by the samurai’s consent.

  “I may not like your Jesuit,” Akira said, “but no honorable man would withhold assistance.” He nodded. “Go.”

  Hiro pulled the neighbor’s child up behind him on the saddle. As soon as he felt the boy’s hands on his waist, the shinobi put his heels to the horse’s sides.

  “I’ll go to Ōtsu,” Akira called, “and bring Den back to Kyoto later tonight.”

  Hiro barely heard him over the sound of the horse’s hooves on the wooden bridge.

  He held the beast at a gallop the whole way home, scattering pedestrians and spattering the slower ones with mud from the stallion’s hooves. For once, he didn’t try to avoid attention. If Father Mateo died, it wouldn’t matter who saw Hiro on the road.

  When they reached the Jesuit’s house the shinobi lowered the boy to the ground, dismounted, and handed the child the reins.

  “Walk the horse to Okazaki Shrine, and ask a priest to return it to the shogunate.”

  A splash of crimson stained the grass by the veranda. Bloody droplets formed a trail across the porch, and a single bloody footprint smeared the threshold.

  As he followed the trail inside, Hiro tried to calculate how much blood the priest had lost. Not enough to have bled to death immediately, but enough that Hiro worried he might still have come too late.

  The trail continued through the foyer, across the oe, and under the door of Father Mateo’s room. The wooden shoji frame and paper panels showed no bloody stains. Someone, probably Ana, had helped the Jesuit to his room.

  Hiro laid a hand on the door, wanting and yet not wanting to see what lay on the other side. He took a breath and entered.

  Darkening bloodstains spattered the tatami from the doorway to the center of the room. There, Father Mateo lay on a hastily opened futon. His eyes were closed. His misshapen, bloody hands lay folded across his stomach. Crimson stains covered his neck and the front of his brown kimono.

  His face was pale. He wasn’t moving.

  “Mateo!” Hiro rushed to the Jesuit’s side.

  Father Mateo opened his eyes. “I stopped the dog.” He tried to smile but failed. A bloody wound at the base of his throat sent a crimson trickle down his neck.

  “You got here quickly,” Ana bustled into the room with a steaming pot in one hand and strips of cream-colored silk in the other. “Taro must have found you at the shogunate.”

  She thrust the silk into Hiro’s hands and set the pot on the floor beside Father Mateo.

  The Jesuit’s bloody neck and ruined hands told Hiro that water alone would not suffice.

  “Boil another kettle,” he said. “Add a handful of salt. And when you bring it, please get the medicine box from the shelf beside my desk.”

  Ana nodded, controlled as always, but Hiro saw the worry in her eyes.

  When she left the room he knelt and turned his attention to the wounds.

  The gash on the left side of Father Mateo’s neck had bled heavily. Fortunately, the bleeding had slowed, though the skin of the Jesuit’s throat looked badly
torn.

  Father Mateo’s left hand bore a series of deep red punctures that oozed a mixture of blood and pinkish fluid. The surrounding flesh was ripped and swollen, indicating broken bones, probably crushed by the force of the bite. Blood covered the hand, some still red and the rest already dark and clotting.

  The priest’s right hand looked better, but only by comparison. The punctures were fewer in number and without the ragged gashes. The swelling seemed less prominent, too, but until the wounds were clean the shinobi couldn’t tell how much damage the hand had suffered.

  Hiro started to reach for the priest’s left hand. He paused. Father Mateo’s bloody sleeves and chest suggested additional injuries.

  “Where else were you bitten?” Hiro asked.

  Father Mateo started to raise his hands but stopped with a jerking motion and a grimace. He inhaled sharply against the pain. After a slow but not quite shuddering breath he said, “My hands, my left arm—and my neck. It could have been worse.”

  Hiro nodded. “It’s important to clean them properly. This will hurt.”

  “It already hurts.” The Jesuit closed his eyes. “Do what you need to.”

  Hiro drew back Father Mateo’s sleeve, exposing deep bloody gashes on the Jesuit’s left arm. The punctures were not as numerous as the ones on the hands, but they looked deep and the muscles seriously torn. Fortunately, the Jesuit’s bones appeared intact.

  “I don’t think your arm is broken,” Hiro said. “Can you move your fingers?”

  Father Mateo opened his eyes. “Not easily, and I’d rather not even try. I asked Ana to send for a surgeon, but she insisted we wait for you.”

  “She was right,” Hiro said. “I can treat wounds better than any Kyoto surgeon. It was part of my training.”

  “How would Ana know that? Did you tell her…?”

  Hiro shook his head. “She thinks I’m ronin, like everyone else does, but she’s seen my medicine box and she recognized some of the healing herbs. She probably thinks since I own them I know how to use them.”

  “Do you?”

  Hiro raised an eyebrow at the priest. “Most men in your position would worry more about the bites than about the treatment.”

  “Begging your pardon, but if you poison me the bites become less important.”

  The shinobi laughed despite his concern. “I know how to use the herbs.”

  Hiro found the Jesuit’s fortitude impressive. Few samurai would endure the pain so well.

  He glanced at the door and wished Ana would hurry. He needed salted water and medicines to clean the wounds before an infection started. The bleeding had stopped for the moment, but only time would tell if the Jesuit had lost too much blood to recover.

  “Can you tell me about the attack?” Hiro asked.

  Blood loss could cloud a victim’s perception. Hiro hoped the answers would help him evaluate the priest’s condition.

  “Ana was outside, sweeping the steps. I heard her speak to the neighbor’s son and went out to invite his family to church on Sunday.”

  “Why do you keep inviting them?” Hiro asked. “They never come.”

  “They are my neighbors,” Father Mateo said. “I am treating them the way I would want to be treated.”

  Hiro bit his tongue. This wasn’t the time to ask if the priest liked being harassed with unwanted invitations.

  “As I opened the door I heard Taro shout a warning,” Father Mateo said. “The dog ran into the yard with a frayed rope trailing behind it. It started for Ana. I yelled to distract it and jumped off the porch to protect her.”

  “You yelled at the dog?” Hiro asked.

  “I did. A Portuguese dog would have fled.”

  Hiro shook his head. “Akitas attack when threatened.”

  “Now you tell me.”

  Hiro found the sarcasm encouraging.

  Dying men didn’t usually display a functional grasp of irony.

  Chapter 29

  “Did you kill the dog?” Hiro asked.

  “He did not.” Ana entered the room with a steaming pot and a lacquered box retrieved from Hiro’s room. She set both on the floor and continued, “Taro’s father pulled the dog away.”

  “He’s home today?” Hiro asked.

  “His wife is ill.” Ana looked at Father Mateo. “Good thing I bought a fish this morning. The broth will help him.”

  “I agree,” Hiro said.

  Ana looked surprised, then nodded. “I’ll cook it now. Let me know if you need my help.”

  She hurried out and closed the door behind her.

  Hiro dipped a strip of silk in the salted water. Based on the saline odor that rose from the pot and the scalding heat on his fingertips, Ana had done exactly as he requested. He wrung the extra water from the silk and dabbed at the Jesuit’s neck.

  Father Mateo drew a hissing breath.

  “It’s going to get worse,” Hiro said. “Do you want a cloth to bite on?”

  Father Mateo opened his eyes. “I can manage without.”

  Blood saturated the first cloth almost immediately. Hiro dropped it into the pot of unsalted water and dipped another strip in the steaming brine. He cleaned the Jesuit’s wounds, wiping firmly but carefully around each rip and puncture. The priest flinched only a little and didn’t cry out at all.

  Hiro remembered the painful salt-water cleansing of the wounds that scarred his own inner thigh and shoulder. Despite the years, the memory remained as vibrant—and as excruciating—as if it had happened only yesterday.

  He forced his thoughts back to the present, unwilling to dwell on his injuries and even less willing to think of how he received them.

  By the time Hiro finished cleaning the Jesuit’s wounds, the bleeding had stopped. The deepest punctures still oozed a little fluid, but Hiro knew even that would stop very soon.

  The shinobi dropped the last used piece of silk in the bloody water and raised the lid of the medicine box. He flipped through the rows of folded paper packets until he found the one he wanted.

  Hiro removed the packet and broke the seal, revealing a crystalline powder within. A pungent odor filled the air.

  “What is that?” Father Mateo opened his eyes.

  “Camphor.” Hiro tilted the envelope slightly so the priest could see the contents. He tried to ignore the unpleasant tingling the powder always caused in his sensitive nose. “In small doses it fights infection.”

  “Does it sting?”

  “Some, but not for long, and it will numb the pain a little.” Hiro decided not to explain that, in larger doses, camphor was also toxic.

  He sprinkled the powder on Father Mateo’s wounds. As before, the priest endured the process without protest.

  “I don’t suppose you have something else for the pain?” Father Mateo asked.

  Hiro folded the camphor closed and returned it to the box. “Sake helps.”

  Father Mateo frowned.

  The shinobi stifled a smile. On matters of morality, the Jesuit was nothing if not predictable.

  When he finished bandaging the wounds. Hiro thumbed through his box and removed a twist of paper wrapped around an object about the size and shape of a soybean. “This will help. I’ll ask Ana to make you some tea.”

  Father Mateo nodded and closed his eyes. His face relaxed and his lips began to move in silent prayer.

  Knocking echoed through the house. Someone was at the door.

  Father Mateo opened his eyes and raised his head but Hiro laid a restraining hand on the Jesuit’s chest. “Ana will answer. If it’s important, I’ll handle it. You need rest.”

  Father Mateo closed his eyes without arguing.

  The shinobi picked up his medicine box and turned to the door. The shoji slid open as he approached. Ana stood in the doorway and bowed, an unusual courtesy.

  “You have a visitor, Matsui-san,” the housekeeper said.

  Hiro walked to the door and almost dropped his medicine box in surprise.

  Ashikaga Netsuko—Saburo’s wife—kn
elt by the hearth.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Ashikaga.” Hiro tucked the twist of paper into his sleeve and handed the medicine box to Ana.

  The housekeeper bowed and scurried from the room.

  “Is the priest away?” Netsuko asked as Hiro joined her at the hearth.

  “I apologize, but he is unable to see you today.”

  She looked at a spot of blood on the floor and then raised her eyes to Hiro with a directness women usually avoided.

  The unspoken question was clear.

  Hiro nodded. “There was an accident.”

  “Most unfortunate.” Netsuko nodded politely. “I trust he will recover.”

  “Yes.”

  Etiquette prevented Netsuko from asking questions about the details, but Hiro sensed she didn’t want them anyway. He also suspected it wasn’t Father Mateo she came to see.

  “May I offer you tea?” he asked.

  As if on cue, Ana appeared with a plate of sweetened rice balls, a pair of porcelain cups and an expensive teapot reserved for Father Mateo’s most important guests. In the years since he joined the Jesuit’s household, Hiro had never seen the teapot used.

  Ana knelt and placed the plate before the lady. She filled the pot with water from the kettle above the hearth, bowed low, and departed without a word.

  Delicate steam rose from the teapot, perfuming the air with the sweetly grassy scent of expensive tea. Hiro tried to hide his surprise. The housekeeper must have recognized the shogun’s family crest on Netsuko’s kimono and raided Luis’s personal stash of highest quality ichibancha.

  Ana disapproved of Hiro, but she would never show it in front of guests.

  Netsuko leaned forward and inhaled the steam. “Gyokuro tea?” She sounded impressed. “And, unless I’m mistaken, ichibancha?”

  Recognizing teas by scent was a popular game among wealthy samurai. Hiro silently thanked Ana for making a good impression on his behalf.

  “The Portuguese appreciate our ways,” Hiro said, deliberately blending Father Mateo’s cultural interest with Luis’s taste for expensive delicacies.

  “Really?” Netsuko gave Hiro a smile that no recent widow should give an unmarried man. “But no foreigner would know that first-picked leaves make the finest tea unless someone competent taught him. You, perhaps?”