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

by Susan Spann

  Preparations complete, he went looking for Ana.

  He found the housekeeper sweeping the oe floor. She looked up as he entered and raised a hand to her lips to warn him that Father Mateo was sleeping.

  Hiro nodded and whispered, “How is he?”

  “I warmed up more of your special tea at dawn.”

  “It’s gone, then?” Hiro asked.

  “There’s still a cup left, maybe two.”

  “Give it to him when he wakes, along with the strongest broth you can make, but no rice unless he asks for it specifically.”

  “Hm,” Ana said. “You think I’ve never tended an injured man?”

  Hiro smiled. “If Father Mateo asks, I’ll be back by noon.”

  The front door creaked and heavy footsteps thumped on the entry floor. Hiro turned, but without alarm. Only Luis sounded so much like a drunken bear.

  The Portuguese merchant appeared in the doorway. His face was red and shone with sweat despite the cloudy morning.

  Luis saw Hiro and raised a hand to his chest. “Don’t sneak around like that!”

  “I haven’t moved,” Hiro said.

  “Well, make more noise. You’ll scare someone to death.”

  “You should make less noise.” Hiro gestured toward the Jesuit’s door and lowered his voice. “Father Mateo is resting.”

  “At this hour?” The merchant frowned, though Hiro noted Luis did lower his voice.

  “How was your trip to Ōtsu?” Hiro asked.

  “Miserable,” Luis fumed. “I barely had time for a meal, and a poor one at that. I brought the weapons though. My servants are unloading them at the warehouse now. Lord Oda’s men aren’t due until tomorrow, so even Lord Matsunaga will have to admit I met his deadline.”

  “Matsunaga-san is not a daimyo,” Hiro said.

  Luis looked smug. “Every samurai fancies himself a lord. If he pays his bills, I’ll call him one in the bargain.”

  “Did you see Miyoshi Akira on the road?” Hiro asked.

  Luis wiped his forehead with a greasy hand. “How did you know? He passed me yesterday afternoon on the way to Ōtsu. He stopped just long enough to order me not to stay the night—and then galloped off without waiting for my response! Some nerve, addressing me as if I was some kind of servant.”

  The merchant opened his mouth to continue, but Hiro had no desire to entertain another of Luis’s diatribes.

  “Matsunaga-san ordered him to find you,” Hiro said, “and also to return to Kyoto quickly.”

  “Well, he took it seriously,” Luis said. “By the time I reached Ōtsu, he’d already left.”

  “Did you see Lord Oda’s ambassadors?” Hiro asked.

  “They hadn’t reached Ōtsu yet. According to the innkeeper, their messengers hadn’t even arrived.”

  “You asked?” Hiro let his surprise show.

  “Of course I asked,” Luis scoffed. “I didn’t want some overzealous samurai trying to seize the shogun’s weapon shipment.”

  Hiro considered this news. Samurai traveling parties often sent messengers ahead on the road to reserve sufficient space at the village inns. If the messengers for Lord Oda’s embassy hadn’t reached Ōtsu, the ambassadors must still be days from Kyoto.

  Luis looked around. “You didn’t answer my question. Why is Mateo sleeping at this hour? Is he ill?”

  “The neighbor’s dog attacked him,” Hiro said. “He’ll recover, but he needs to rest.”

  “I knew that beast would hurt someone,” Luis scowled. “Did you kill it?”

  “I wasn’t here.”

  Luis’s upper lip curled back from his teeth. “And you let that stop you? I thought you samurai understood revenge.”

  “Vengeance is taken for wrongful acts by men,” Hiro said. “Samurai do not declare duels with dogs.”

  “The owner should pay an indemnity.”

  “A matter Father Mateo can address when he recovers,” Hiro said, knowing the priest would neither demand nor accept any money for his injuries.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Luis said, “I can still get a few hours’ sleep before I meet Lord Matsunaga at the warehouse.”

  He looked at Ana as if just noticing her presence. “Don’t disturb me until noon.”

  As the merchant waddled to his room, Hiro left the house and hurried toward the shogunate.

  According to Luis’s estimate, Akira and Den would have reached Kyoto by midnight the night before. The boy would not have gotten much sleep, but Hiro wanted to hear Den’s version of the events on the night Saburo died. More importantly, he needed to know if love for Jun was sufficient to turn the boy into a killer.

  Chapter 33

  A crowd of armored samurai lined the wooden bridge that led to the shogunate. At first they looked like petitioners waiting for entry, but as Hiro drew closer he realized the men all faced the street instead of the gates.

  The samurai guards wore battle-scarred armor in place of their usual decorative pieces. Every man wore a helmet and several had sarubo, monkey cheek armor, protecting their lower jaws.

  Hiro felt the charge in the air, as if the guards expected a horde of attackers to flood the street at any moment. Lord Oda’s men must have bypassed Ōtsu and arrived in Kyoto ahead of schedule.

  The shinobi slowed his pace and approached the gates with a casual stride that gave the samurai time to notice his approach.

  “Halt!” a guard ordered. “Come no farther. State your name and business.”

  Hiro stopped about ten feet short of the wooden bridge that led to the gates. He bowed. “I am Matsui Hiro. The shogun ordered me to investigate Ashikaga Saburo’s murder. I have come to continue my work.”

  “Approach,” the guard said.

  Hiro walked to the edge of the bridge. As he reached a more comfortable speaking distance the guard continued, “The messenger reached you quickly.”

  “Someone sent a messenger?” Hiro asked.

  “Half an hour ago,” the samurai said. “I didn’t see the message, but I assume it requested your presence, given the suicide.”

  A prickling sensation ran down Hiro’s spine and settled into his stomach. He hated being caught off guard, particularly when situations turned dangerous.

  “I’m afraid I missed the messenger,” Hiro said.

  Samurai often used suicide to atone for a heinous crime. Yet Kazu, the only samurai suspect, hadn’t seemed suicidal the night before. Women sometimes killed themselves over love affairs gone wrong, but the little Hiro knew of Jun made him doubt that option too. He wondered who had killed himself and why.

  Seconds passed. Hiro wished the samurai guard would explain and save him the trouble of questions.

  The guard looked up the street. “The messenger must have passed you on the road.” He seemed uncertain how to proceed.

  “May I see Miyoshi Akira?” Hiro asked.

  “Since you’re involved in the investigation, I don’t think you need to wait for Miyoshi-san.” The guard motioned to one of his companions. “Please escort Matsui-san to the stable.”

  “The stable?” Hiro asked.

  “Yes,” the guard said. “I’d explain, but it’s not my place.”

  Hiro followed the second guard through the compound, silently cursing the samurai’s leisurely pace.

  The dead man had to be Masao or Den. No samurai would kill himself in a stable, and a commoner’s death explained the lack of urgency in the escort’s pace. Hiro tried not to guess which man was dead. He preferred to wait until he knew the facts.

  * * *

  A pair of armored samurai stood guard at the stable doors. They shifted their feet as if wishing to leave the scene. Hiro found it vaguely amusing that most samurai felt uncomfortable near a corpse.

  The shinobi glanced at the sky as he crossed the courtyard. Storm clouds smothered the sun and promised another day of rain. He could almost smell the droplets preparing to fall.

  Akira emerged from the stable and bowed. “Good morning. I see you received o
ur message.”

  Hiro returned the bow. “I’m afraid I didn’t. I must have passed the messenger on the road. I was already on my way to speak with Den.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible now.” Akira gestured for Hiro to follow and turned back into the stable.

  The moment Hiro passed through the doors he saw the body hanging from the rafters.

  A rope ran around the corpse’s neck, up over a ceiling beam and down to a wooden pillar at the edge of the platform where Den and Masao usually slept. The body dangled above the end of the platform, limp but already showing signs of the stiffness that followed death.

  The corpse belonged to a boy of twenty, or thereabouts, with close-cropped hair and a scar on the bridge of his nose. Hiro noticed the scar particularly. It stood out, pale and shining, because the corpse’s nose had turned a blotchy gray.

  Masao sat on the far end of the wooden platform. He held his head in his hands and his shoulders slumped, though they did not shake. Masao looked up as Hiro entered. The shinobi saw despair in the stable master’s red-rimmed eyes.

  Still, Masao summoned the strength to stand and bow.

  Hiro looked from the stable master to the corpse that twisted gently on its rope. He inhaled, but smelled only horses, hay, and leather. The corpse had not begun to putrify.

  “This is Den, the stable boy?” he asked.

  Masao clenched his jaw and nodded. He swallowed hard, but no words came. He turned pleading eyes on Akira. “Please, Miyoshi-san, may I cut him down?”

  “No.” Akira said. “Matsui-san, I would like you to confirm the death is a suicide.”

  Hiro looked from the samurai to the corpse. “Confirmation is required?”

  “A formality, of course,” Akira said, “but since you are here it would be impolite to conclude the matter without you.”

  Hiro stepped back into the doorway and looked carefully at the scene.

  Three bales of hay lay at odd angles on the stable floor. The boy had apparently stacked the hay on the platform, climbed onto the bales to fasten the rope around his neck, and kicked the hay to the floor to finish the job.

  Hiro mentally measured the relative heights and distances. Given Den’s size, and the height of the rafter, three bales seemed the right number. The positioning also looked right for a suicide.

  He asked Masao, “Where were you when this happened?”

  “Sleeping.” Masao pointed to a futon at the center of the platform. A pile of rumpled quilts lay discarded to one side.

  A second futon lay beside the first, still neatly made. It must have belonged to Den.

  “I’m not usually a heavy sleeper,” Masao said, “but I stayed up late to have tea with Den when he returned from Ōtsu.”

  A teapot and two empty cups sat near the futons, confirming his story.

  Hiro stepped up on the platform to look at the body. The rope was knotted around Den’s neck with a simple hitch that tightened when pulled. Otherwise, the boy had no obvious injuries. His fingers had turned the same blotchy gray as his nose and ears. Hiro found the color interesting. Most corpses turned blue or purple instead of black.

  “Did he say anything that suggested he planned to do this?” Hiro asked, without taking his eyes off the corpse.

  “No.” Masao said. “I had no idea…” His voice failed, but he tried again. “I would have stopped him. I swear it.”

  “I’m sure he knew that,” Akira said, “so he didn’t give you the chance.”

  “But why would he do it?” Hiro asked. As he turned, he saw the answer to his question.

  A row of charcoal characters marched down the back of the beam where the rope was tied. The message wasn’t visible from the stable entrance, but it was the last thing Den would have seen in life.

  Akira pointed at the words. “His confession speaks for itself.”

  Chapter 34

  Do not blame Masao, the words on the pillar read, I acted alone.

  The second line of characters continued the message in bolder, thicker strokes, as if the writer drew strength from the opening words.

  I killed Saburo to save the shogun, and kill myself to purge my guilty soul.

  Hiro read the scrawled confession twice in silence. He saw no need to torture Masao by speaking the words aloud.

  A burned stick lay at the base of the pillar, presumably discarded after writing the charcoaled words.

  Akira pointed at the pillar. “You see? ‘I killed Saburo’—a clear confession.”

  “Den knew how to write?” Hiro asked.

  Masao nodded. “It is his hand.”

  Hiro studied the characters. “Every word?”

  Masao looked at the ground. “Yes, every one.”

  “The wording seems to confirm the threat implied in Saburo’s letter,” Akira said, “unless there were two plots, which seems unlikely.”

  “I agree,” Hiro said. “But how would Den have learned about a plot to harm the shogun?”

  The confession seemed too convenient, given the altered ledger Kazu discovered the night before. Unfortunately, Hiro still didn’t know who made the alterations or why.

  “You saw the letter,” Akira said. “Saburo needed to let his unnamed ‘friends’ into the compound. He must have enlisted Den to open the gates.”

  “Impossible,” Masao said. “Den was a loyal servant of the shogun.”

  “So it appears.” Hiro gestured to the characters on the pillar.

  “But Saburo didn’t know that,” Akira said. “Perhaps Den pretended cooperation in order to kill Saburo and stop the plot.”

  “Why didn’t he kill himself the night of the murder?” Hiro asked. “And why use Kazu’s dagger? Most killers don’t rely on finding a weapon at the scene.”

  “I can’t answer the second question,” Akira said, “but the first is easy. Den didn’t think that anyone would suspect him. He invented the argument with Saburo—the one he used to convince Masao to help him escape—to make himself look like a victim. It gave him an excuse to leave Kyoto.

  “When I brought him back from Ōtsu, he realized we would learn the truth and killed himself to escape the punishment.”

  Hiro glanced at the body. “Not the most effective means of escape.”

  Masao shook his head. “I don’t believe it. Den would have told me about the plot, and last night he seemed eager to talk with Matsui-san.”

  “More deception,” Akira said. “He knew you would interfere if you learned the truth.”

  Masao shook his head but didn’t argue. As a commoner, he had no right to dispute with a samurai.

  “We should cut the boy down,” Hiro said. “There’s no need to dishonor his body by leaving it hanging.”

  “He stays where he is.” Akira started toward the door. “A murderer deserves dishonor.”

  Hiro’s katana left its sheath and sliced through the air with a silent hiss. It severed the rope. Den’s body fell to the floor.

  Masao dropped to his knees with a muffled cry.

  Hiro saw Akira whirl and heard the whisper of the samurai’s blade. The shinobi raised his sword and blocked the strike that otherwise would have killed him.

  Katanas rang as steel met steel.

  Akira jumped back to block the expected counterstrike, but Hiro did not attack. The shinobi froze, sword high and eyes alert for any movement. He hadn’t known Akira would respond to his action with violence, but drawing a sword at a samurai’s back would always cause a fight.

  Hiro didn’t want Akira dead. If he had, he would have used the strike that cut the rope to sever Akira’s neck.

  But Akira didn’t know that.

  The stable darkened. The guards stepped into the doorway, swords in hand, but made no move to intervene.

  Akira’s katana quivered. His shoulders heaved and his eyes were wide.

  Hiro waited, motionless.

  After almost a minute, Akira lowered his sword. “How dare you disobey my order!”

  “I am neither your retainer
nor your servant,” Hiro said. “I will not obey a dishonorable command.”

  Akira’s nostrils flared. “You dishonor yourself by defending a murderer.”

  In a single motion, Hiro straightened and returned his sword to its sheath. “A samurai should show respect and mercy to the powerless, especially in the face of death.” He didn’t bother to hide his disdain.

  Masao knelt beside Den’s body, eyes wide and mouth open in shock.

  The guards in the doorway looked at one another and then at Akira. A moment later, they sheathed their swords and left the stable.

  Akira flushed. He sheathed his own katana and raised his chin. “I will overlook your impertinence this time, but do not think you can disobey me again without consequence.”

  Hiro nodded just enough to grant his opponent a modicum of dignity. The shinobi had made his point. Humiliating Akira further would only cause more trouble.

  Akira puffed out his chest. “Hisahide will wish to hear your opinion about the suicide. Come with me.”

  Hiro had hoped to speak with Masao in private but saw no reasonable way to refuse Akira’s command. A glance at Masao confirmed it wasn’t an optimal time for interviews anyway. The stable master bent over Den’s body, shaking as he tried to control his grief.

  Hiro followed Akira from the stable.

  “No one removes the body until I say so,” Akira said as he passed the guards.

  The men gave a nod of assent and resumed their watch on the stable doors.

  Akira led Hiro across the compound to the samurai training yard. As they approached, the shinobi heard the distinctive clatter of bokken and saw Hisahide, wooden sword in hand, facing off against the largest samurai Hiro had ever seen. Both men wore baggy hakama and padded jackets that bore the Miyoshi crest. They stood alone in the open yard, most likely because of the early hour and threatening overcast skies.

  Hiro and Akira stopped at a distance and waited for Hisahide to finish his match.

  The shinobi found it interesting that Hisahide opted for bokken rather than real swords. Samurai often used wooden blades for solo practice but most preferred to use real ones for sparring. As the bout continued, however, Hisahide’s reasons for wooden swords grew clear.