by Susan Spann
“Are you going to Ginjiro’s?” Ichiro asked.
“How do you know about Ginjiro’s?”
Ichiro smiled. “Kazu goes there. He won’t take me. He says I’m too young for sake shops.”
Hiro smiled at the boy’s unguarded simplicity. “Kazu is right.”
Ichiro’s smile grew lopsided in a nearly successful attempt to hide disappointment. He looked at the river. “I’m glad you believed me that Kazu was innocent.”
“It was good of you to have faith in him,” Hiro said.
“I told you before, it isn’t just faith. It’s a fact. Kazu couldn’t have done it.”
Ichiro hadn’t mentioned facts before.
“How do you know for certain Kazu is innocent?” Hiro asked.
“I can’t tell you.” Ichiro kept his eyes on the fishing line. “It would get me in trouble—and Kazu too.”
Chapter 45
The obvious question seemed unlikely, but Hiro asked it anyway. “Was Kazu fishing with you when your father was murdered?”
“Kazu doesn’t know about my fishing. I wanted to tell him, but I was afraid he would tell my father.” Ichiro looked down at his hands. “The last time Father caught me, he beat me with the pole until it broke. That’s when I started leaving my poles at the river.”
“But you were fishing the night your father died.”
Ichiro nodded. “Mother went to bed when the bells rang, three hours after sunset. I waited another hour to make sure she was asleep.”
“You didn’t worry about your father coming home?”
“Father rarely slept at home.” Ichiro jiggled his pole and changed the subject. “I like fishing under this bridge. The lamps up there draw the fish at night, and the revelers from Pontocho are always too drunk to notice me.”
“What do you do with your catch?” Hiro asked.
“There’s a noodle vendor on Sanjō Road who buys them, if they’re big enough to keep.”
Hiro knew the man in question. The vendor bragged about using only fresh-caught fish from the Kamo River. All this time, the shinobi had thought him a liar.
“He buys from samurai?” Hiro asked.
“I don’t usually wear my swords when fishing.”
Hiro glanced at the samurai knot in Ichiro’s hair and considered what he knew of the boy’s behavior. The vendor knew who he bought from, he just ignored it—and with good reason. Hiro doubted a boy who lied about fishing bothered to bargain much for the price of his catch.
“I didn’t intend to come fishing today,” Ichiro said, “I thought it might distract me, but it hasn’t worked.”
“Since the investigation is over, will you explain why Kazu is innocent? I won’t tell your mother or Hisahide.”
Ichiro considered the request. “I will, if you also agree not to get the girl in trouble.”
Hiro raised an eyebrow at Ichiro. “What girl?”
“The one that Kazu brought to the river the night my father died.”
Couples often walked by the Kamo River on moonlit nights. Although romantic, the setting was also public enough to preserve a maiden’s honor, provided the couple was chaperoned and didn’t stay out too late.
Hiro suspected Kazu and his companion broke those rules.
“She was pretty and young and certainly not a prostitute,” Ichiro said. “But not samurai either. She looked like an artisan’s daughter.”
“Did you catch her name?” Hiro asked, though he thought he knew.
Ichiro raised his face to look at the underside of the bridge. The wood was strung with spiderwebs and the remnants of swallows’ muddy nests. Overhead, rain pattered on the timbers.
“Tomiko,” Ichiro said at last. “Tomiko, I’m sure that’s it.” He grinned at Hiro. “Kazu tried to kiss her. She wouldn’t let him.”
“How long did they stay on the bridge?”
“They walked on the bridge and the bank for over an hour, maybe longer.” Ichiro pointed to the path. “I started to worry they wouldn’t leave. If my mother woke up and found me missing, she’d call the watch, and then I’d really be in trouble.”
“But she didn’t,” Hiro said.
“She never even knew I’d left the house.” Ichiro tugged on his pole. “Hisahide said someone killed my father shortly after midnight. But Kazu was here until at least an hour after that. He couldn’t have done it.”
Ichiro pulled in the fishing line. A grub hung limp on the hook, white and swollen from soaking in the river. “The fish aren’t biting today. I should just go home.”
He coiled the fishing line neatly around the pole. When he reached the hook he removed the grub and tossed it into the water.
“Do you have to tell anyone what I’ve told you?” Ichiro asked as he stowed the pole out of sight among the pilings. “I don’t want Kazu’s girlfriend to get in trouble. She seemed very nice and she didn’t do anything wrong.”
Other than falling for Kazu, Hiro thought.
Aloud he said, “I’ll do what I can to keep her out of trouble.”
Ichiro smiled and followed Hiro out from under the bridge. The rain had slowed to a drizzle. Hiro watched Ichiro walk away up the path. When the boy disappeared behind a tree, the shinobi started west along Sanjō Road toward Ginjiro’s brewery.
As he walked, he felt his frustration mounting. He had chosen Ginjiro’s to serve as a safe spot to pass information to Kazu when necessary, but Kazu’s clandestine affair with the brewer’s daughter compromised the meeting spot as well as Tomiko’s honor.
Breaches of discipline made the shinobi angry, but Kazu’s lack of respect for Tomiko’s emotions made Hiro furious. Men who played games with women were part of the reason women could not be trusted.
A few blocks west of the river Hiro turned south into the commercial district. Sake shops and teahouses lined the street, their open storefronts bathing the drizzly road with inviting light and enticing smells.
The noodle vendor Hiro wanted had set up his charcoal brazier on the eastern side of the street near Sanjō Road. A lacquered umbrella shielded both the man and his smoking fire from the rain. As Hiro approached, the vendor called, “Fish noodles! Best in Kyoto! Fresh-caught fish from the Kamo River! Extra good today!”
The shinobi didn’t miss the hopeful look in the vendor’s eyes. Only regulars stopped for snacks on a rainy night.
Charcoal smoke stung Hiro’s eyes as he approached the vendor’s stall. He noted the salty odor of fish beneath the more pungent smells of smoke and rain. His mouth watered, anticipating the treat to come. As usual, he ordered the largest bowl.
“Extra onions?” the vendor asked with a gap-toothed smile.
Hiro nodded and traded the man a copper coin for a heaping bowl and a pair of wooden chopsticks. He usually stepped away to avoid the smoke, but tonight the umbrella gave some refuge from the rain. He stood beneath it and savored the chewy noodles.
It seemed no time at all until the chopsticks clattered against the empty bowl.
“Another?” the vendor asked hopefully.
Hiro shook his head but held up a second coin. “Where do you get your fish?”
The vendor glanced at the boiling pot atop his brazier. He shuffled his feet. “From a vendor, sir, same as everyone else.”
“Then how do you know they come from the Kamo River?” Hiro asked.
“You can tell they’re fresh. None better in Kyoto!”
Hiro lowered his voice. “I think you buy them from a samurai boy. Not every day, but every day he sells them.”
The vendor’s eyes grew wide. “Your son?”
Before Hiro could respond the noodle vendor knelt in the muddy street. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll pay him fairly from now on. I didn’t realize he was samurai. An honest mistake, I swear it!”
Hiro opened his mouth to correct the mistake but decided not to. A man who took advantage of children didn’t deserve that courtesy. Instead the shinobi handed over the bowl and the second coin, and then continued his drizzly walk.
He reached Ginjiro’s brewery just before sunset, though the clouds allowed no evening beams to paint the sky.
The brewery was empty of paying patrons. Suke lay in his usual corner, snoring beneath his stained and ragged robe. Perhaps because of the early hour, Tomiko stood alone behind the counter.
Hiro entered the shop, drew his katana, and handed the weapon to the girl. She accepted it with a bow. “Good evening, Matsui-san.”
“Good evening, Tomiko.” Hiro glanced at the indigo noren that hung in the kitchen doorway. As Tomiko placed his sword in the wooden cabinet behind the counter Hiro said, “I know where you were two nights ago.”
Tomiko’s hands flew up to cover her mouth. She lowered them slowly. “Are you going to tell my father?”
“That depends on whether you tell the truth.”
Chapter 46
Tomiko met Hiro’s gaze without pretense. “What do you want to know?”
“Where were you two nights ago?” Hiro asked.
“You said you already knew.”
“I do, but I want confirmation.” Hiro paused. “A life may depend upon the truth.”
She rested her palms on the countertop. “I waited until my mother went to sleep and cleaned the kitchen, but I didn’t go to bed when I finished. I sneaked away and went for a walk with Kazu.” She shook her head slightly. “My father would be furious if he knew, but there is no reason to tell him. I promise you it was only an innocent walk.”
“How long did you spend at the river?” Hiro asked.
“A couple of hours—I had to get back before Father closed the shop and noticed my absence.” She tilted her head a fraction. “How did you know? Who told you? Kazu would never tell.”
“Someone saw you at the river.”
Panic spread across her features. “Does Father know?”
“No,” Hiro said, “and the person who saw you has reasons to keep your secret. But if I hear that you’ve done it again, I will tell your father myself.”
Tomiko lowered her eyes to the counter. She nodded. “I won’t. I promise.” She looked up and startled. A crimson blush crept into her cheeks.
Hiro turned to follow her gaze, though the scent of wintergreen and the girl’s reaction had already told the shinobi who stood behind him.
Kazu looked surprised to see Hiro and paused before returning the older man’s bow.
“It’s been a long day,” Hiro said before Kazu could hand his sword across the counter. “I need a walk. Would you like to come with me?”
Kazu narrowed his eyes. For a moment, Hiro thought the younger man would refuse to comply with the coded instruction.
Eventually Kazu nodded. “Pour a flask for me,” he said to Tomiko, “I won’t be long.”
Hiro retrieved his sword from the girl and led Kazu into the street. Together they walked south in the gathering dark. The drizzling rain made the lanterns sparkle and washed the street in a fresher scent than the quarter typically enjoyed. Kazu said nothing, waiting for Hiro to speak.
When they had left Ginjiro’s far enough behind Hiro said, “I know about you and Tomiko.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Kazu said. “Tomiko … Ginjiro’s daughter?”
“Ashikaga Ichiro saw you at the river,” Hiro said. “He was fishing under the bridge at Sanjō Road two nights ago.”
Kazu clenched his jaw and gave Hiro a sideways look.
The shinobi stopped walking. Kazu took two more steps before he realized Hiro had stopped. He turned around, shoulders squared and ready to fight.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Kazu said. “It’s none of your business anyway.”
Hiro swallowed the flush of anger that rose in his throat at Kazu’s words and, with it, the scolding he intended to deliver. Instead he reminded himself why the priest had sent him.
When he finally answered Kazu, his voice was calm. “I apologize for accusing you of Ashikaga Saburo’s murder.”
“I told you I didn’t do it,” Kazu said. “You believe me now?”
“You would have thought the same if our places were reversed.” Hiro struggled to keep his anger from returning.
“I thought you didn’t make assumptions.”
Hiro blinked, surprised by Kazu’s bitterness. “You don’t accept my apology?”
“Would you have accepted mine, if our positions were reversed?”
“You know I would,” Hiro said. “I always do.”
Kazu shook his head, still angry, but eventually he sighed. “All right, I accept your apology.” He turned back toward Ginjiro’s. “You always have to win.”
Hiro shook his head at Kazu and wondered why the younger man saw everything as a contest.
As they started back toward the brewery Hiro asked, “How far has it gone?”
“With Tomiko?” Kazu shrugged. His anger had dissipated, leaving sheepishness behind. “Believe it or not, that was the first time I took her anywhere. I’d wanted to for a while, but I knew I shouldn’t.”
“You’re right that you shouldn’t,” Hiro said. “She’s an artisan’s daughter. You’re samurai.”
Kazu returned Hiro’s gaze without blinking. He didn’t answer.
“Don’t make her wish for what can never be,” Hiro said.
“Yes, Father,” Kazu mocked a childish response. He held up his hands. “You’re ri—”
He stopped in midsentence and stared up the street.
Ichiro ran toward them, splashing through puddles as if he ran for his life. His swords stuck out at awkward angles. The hem of his kimono was dark with mud. He paused in front of a sake shop to read the name above the lighted space.
Kazu hurried toward him. “Ichiro!”
The boy looked weak with relief.
“Kazu,” he gasped. “Help me. My mother is dead.”
“Your mother?” Hiro asked. “What happened?”
As Hiro and Kazu reached him, Ichiro finally lost control. His lower lip trembled and tears welled up in his eyes. He hung his head. His shoulders shook.
Kazu laid a hand on Ichiro’s shoulder. Hiro wouldn’t have dared it, but Kazu was the closest thing Ichiro had to a father now.
They waited while the boy regained control. He managed it faster than Hiro expected.
Ichiro raised his face to Kazu. “Someone killed her and tried to make it look like a suicide.”
Chapter 47
“How do you know it was murder?” Hiro asked.
Kazu shot the shinobi an angry look over Ichiro’s head.
“We have to know.” Hiro glanced at the boy. “If it really wasn’t suicide he’s in danger.”
Ichiro forced his tears away and sniffed to clear his nose. “My mother would never kill herself. Not before, and definitely not now. She had control of my father’s money. She had no reason…”
He paused, unable to finish but determined to keep control.
“How did it happen?” Hiro asked.
“Poison, I think,” Ichiro said. “Her mouth was foaming, but she was dead. I didn’t know what to do … I was looking for you at Ginjiro’s. I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
“You can stay with me tonight,” Kazu said. “We’ll talk to your relatives in the morning.”
“But first we need you to take us to your mother,” Hiro said. “You don’t have to see her again, but I need to know whether this was murder or suicide.”
“It was murder,” Ichiro said. “She would never leave me.”
“I believe that,” Hiro said, “and I will find the person who did this.”
“And I will kill him,” Kazu added.
“I’m coming with you.” Father Mateo stepped from the shadows at the edge of the road.
“What are you doing here?” Hiro asked.
“I know a thing or two about mending dams,” the Jesuit said. “I followed you—by a different route—in case my help was required.”
Kazu looked at Hiro. “What is he talking about?”
“He doesn’t trust me to apolo
gize properly,” Hiro said.
Kazu gave the priest an appraising glance. “He knows you well.”
“We can discuss that another time.” Hiro nodded at Ichiro. “Let’s go.”
* * *
Ichiro’s home lay on Marutamachi Road, in the expensive residential ward that surrounded the shogunate. The two-story wooden house had painted lintels and cedar beams. A pair of snarling statues guarded the path that led to the entrance.
The house was dark except for a muted glow that spilled onto the porch from the open door. Ichiro had left it ajar in his flight.
Hiro felt a pang of sorrow for the boy, bereft of father and mother in less than a week. The Ashikaga clan would look after its own, but the knowledge did little to soothe the shinobi’s regret, or his rising frustration. The man—or woman—who murdered Ashikaga Saburo, and probably Den, had almost certainly killed Netsuko too. With Masao under guard at the shogunate, the list of suspects was very short indeed.
Part of Hiro hoped Netsuko had killed herself after all.
Ichiro paused at the edge of the veranda.
“You don’t have to go in,” Kazu said.
“Yes, I do.” The boy stepped onto the porch and approached the door. “A samurai does not shirk his duty, especially to his parents. If you’re going to catch her killer, I’m going to help you.”
Inside, the dark foyer gave way to an oe lit by a single brazier near the door. Ichiro must have lit it, or added charcoal, when he returned, illuminating the grisly scene within.
Ashes covered the coals of a near-dead fire in the sunken hearth. A kettle hung from a chain above the fire pit. On the tatami beside the hearth, a single porcelain teacup sat to the right of the host’s position, as if waiting for a guest who had not come. A second teacup lay on its side a little way from the hearth, just beyond the outstretched fingers of the woman lying dead beside the fire.
Netsuko was sprawled on her back, with her left arm over her head and the right flung out to the side, almost touching the empty teacup that she had been holding when she fell. Her empty eyes stared into the distance, devoid of spirit and slightly glazed by exposure to the air. Her nose and fingers had the grayish hue that Hiro expected, and the vomit on the floor and around her mouth gave off the distinctive odor of opium. Hiro smelled it even over the charcoal smoke from the dying fire and the pervasive wintergreen of Kazu’s hair oil.
