The Ninja's Daughter

by Susan Spann

  “You’d kill your own uncle?” Father Mateo sounded horrified.

  “I am paid to keep you alive,” Hiro said.

  “Though we don’t know why, or by whom,” the priest interjected. “Surely family supersedes the orders of a stranger.”

  “Duty knows no family, and duty must prevail.” Hiro paused to let the words sink in. “My orders are to protect you, and I will not hesitate to kill anyone who threatens that objective.”

  “If you don’t know Satsu, how did he know you?” Father Mateo asked.

  Hiro noted the change of subject, a tactic the Jesuit often used to avoid unpleasant topics—like whether or not his friend would run a sword through a relative’s heart.

  “That’s a question I intend to ask him.”

  Satsu’s recognition didn’t surprise Hiro nearly as much as the fact that the actor requested help. No shinobi would risk exposure over a simple murder. But Hiro wouldn’t speculate about the cause until he talked with Satsu. Speculation led to assumptions. Assumptions caused mistakes.

  “This doesn’t seem suspicious to you?” Father Mateo asked.

  “No more than any other family asking us for help.”

  Satsu stopped in front of a wooden building on the north side of the street. It was larger than Hiro expected, though theater troupes did need significant room for practice and storage spaces. An indigo noren hung in the entry. Characters running down the fabric panels read “YUTOKU-ZA, PERFORMERS OF NŌ.”

  Satsu spoke to his wife and Chou, who bowed and entered the building while the actor stood outside with Emi’s body.

  Hiro stopped a short distance away. “We should give them time to make arrangements.”

  “Do they live there?” Father Mateo asked. “That looks like a business.”

  “Actors live with their troupes,” Hiro said. “The building most likely belongs to the man who leads the Yutoku-za.”

  Chou reappeared in the doorway. Satsu followed her inside.

  Father Mateo started forward, but Hiro stopped him. “Wait. He will come to us.”

  More than courtesy prompted the words. The street gave Hiro room to maneuver. Defending against attack would prove more difficult indoors.

  As he waited for Satsu, Hiro watched a handful of people enter and leave the tiny shrine across the road. Unlike the larger temples, which had landscaped grounds and many buildings, this one encompassed only a single yard and a couple of tiny structures. Lettering over the entrance gate identified the temple as Chugenji.

  “Is that a shrine?” Father Mateo asked.

  Hiro nodded. “Most likely, it honors a local kami or lesser deity not important enough for a larger place.”

  Before the priest could answer, Satsu arrived at Hiro’s side. He bowed low and held the gesture before he rose. “Forgive me, but Botan is teaching a lesson, and we have disturbed the house already, with Emi’s body. Perhaps we could talk on the grounds of Kenninji instead of here?”

  “Of course,” Hiro said. “The temple grounds are pleasant in the autumn.”

  “This hardly seems an appropriate time for a foliage viewing,” Father Mateo said.

  “He wants to speak with us privately,” Hiro said in Portuguese. “His home has too many curious ears for the words he wants to say.”

  Satsu bowed. “Please, I would be honored to show you the temple grounds. That is, if you don’t object to an actor’s company.”

  Hiro made a permissive gesture, and Satsu led the way.

  They had barely traveled a block to the east before Father Mateo said, “Tell me, Satsu, how long have you acted with the Yutoku-za?”

  Satsu glanced at Hiro, who walked on the other side of the priest.

  Hiro pretended not to see him. For once, Father Mateo’s curiosity came in handy. The answer would give Hiro a chance to evaluate Satsu’s honesty, though he suspected most of the story would be untrue.

  “Twenty years,” Satsu said. “Nori, my wife, is the only child of Botan, who leads the Yutoku-za and acts the role of shite in the plays.” Satsu looked at Father Mateo. “Do you understand the various roles in a nō performance?”

  “I know of nō,” Father Mateo said. “It’s a kind of Japanese play, performed on a special stage. I saw it once, some years ago, though I confess, I did not understand it well.” After a pause, he added, “However, I found it quite intriguing.”

  Satsu nodded. “Nō is a purely Japanese art. I can understand how it might confuse a foreigner.” At the corner, he turned right and led them south, toward Kenninji. “The shite performs the leading role, the most demanding part of the play, and also the most important. Only the greatest actors have the chance to become shite.”

  “The role is also hereditary,” Hiro said. “At least, that is my understanding.”

  “Yes,” Satsu replied. “I normally act in the chorus.”

  “And yet you married a shite’s daughter,” Father Mateo said.

  Satsu shrugged. “In my youth, I had talent. Botan accepted me as an apprentice, and his son-in-law, before we realized my limited skills would not allow me to succeed him.”

  Hiro recognized the lie. The leader of a theater troupe would never marry his only child to a man who lacked the skills to succeed him. Not unless that man had something exceedingly valuable to offer.

  “Fortunately,” Satsu continued, “my son shows promise, which lessens the shame of my personal failure.”

  Father Mateo asked no further questions. A father would not brag about his son’s accomplishments in public, and Satsu’s mention of personal failure made inquiries on that topic equally awkward.

  Hiro admired Satsu’s skill at ending the unwanted conversation.

  A few blocks to the south, they reached the massive wooden entrance to Kenninji. Its sloping, black-tiled roof rose more than three stories above the ground. Father Mateo craned his neck to examine the decorative latticework as they approached the sliding door that led into the gate and to the temple grounds beyond.

  A pair of samurai stood guard outside the entrance, wearing kimono emblazoned with the Matsunaga crest. They barely seemed to notice the three men passing.

  “Curious that they do not care about our names and business,” Father Mateo murmured.

  Satsu smiled. “Those who pass inside the gates to pray are not the true concern. Wise men fear the ones who live within.”

  “You mean the monks?” Father Mateo asked.

  “Most of the warrior monks have fled to the countryside,” Satsu explained, “but who can tell how many remain in the city, hiding and awaiting a chance to strike?”

  Father Mateo gave Hiro a curious glance.

  “Later,” Hiro murmured in Portuguese.

  The foreign word drew a glance from Satsu, though Hiro saw no comprehension in the actor’s eyes.

  “The monks have no known argument with Matsunaga Hisahide,” Satsu added as he led them through the temple grounds. “However, less-important events than Shogun Ashikaga’s recent death have sparked rebellions in the past.”

  Hiro and Father Mateo followed the actor through another building and into a landscaped garden. Covered wooden walkways surrounded the space. A group of stones rose up from a grassy hillock at the garden’s center. Closer to the walkways, maples blazed with autumn’s fire, their changing leaves a brilliant splash of red and gold.

  Father Mateo paused at a railing. He shook his head, at a loss for words.

  Hiro understood. Like most Zen gardens, the landscape inspired thought and, in this season, awe. He paused to appreciate the scene, but did not lose himself in its beauty.

  Satsu might be family, but even so, he did not trust the actor . . . yet.

  CHAPTER 7

  After a moment long enough to show respect for the garden, Hiro said, “Enough pretense. What is your connection to Iga Province?”

  Satsu continued to watch the garden, as if reflecting on the autumn landscape.

  Hiro laid a warning hand on the hilt of his katana. “Answer
my question or I will kill you, and then I will kill the rest of your family also.”

  “Hiro!” Father Mateo sounded shocked.

  “If you are who I believe, you are not bluffing,” Satsu said. “May I speak freely, without regard for rank?”

  “There’s no one here but us and the priest,” Hiro said. “You may say what you like. But I warn you, I have no patience for strangers’ lies.”

  “I probably do seem strange to you, though you’re not strange to me.” Satsu smiled. “You look exactly like your father.”

  “My father will be pleased to hear you think so,” Hiro said.

  “Your father is dead, Hattori Hiro,” Satsu replied, “though I hope my youngest sister lives.”

  The answer passed the initial test, but Hiro wasn’t finished. “Tell me why I shouldn’t turn you over to the shogun’s samurai.”

  “Matsunaga Hisahide is not the shogun,” Satsu said, “no matter how loudly he claims the title. And you won’t turn me in. My sister’s son could never be a traitor.”

  Hiro noticed Father Mateo watching the exchange with interest.

  “I accept that you know me,” Hiro said. “Now explain why I should trust you.”

  Satsu snorted. “No one trusts an actor.”

  “You’re no actor,” Hiro said. “Not if you were born in Iga.”

  “Iga has more than its share of actors,” Satsu countered, “most of whom will never set a foot upon a stage. However, I am an actor, as well as shinobi.”

  “Does your father-in-law know what you are?” Hiro asked.

  “Of course not,” Satsu said. “I arrived in Kyoto with documents establishing my lineage as the cousin of a shite from an acting troupe in Edo.”

  “Forged,” Hiro said.

  “He is, in fact, my cousin,” Satsu said, “and also one of us—like me, inserted long ago and living in disguise, in case of need. But to answer your question directly, no, neither my wife nor her relatives know about my other profession. I would prefer it remained that way.”

  “If you want to stay hidden, why did you reveal yourself to us?” Father Mateo asked.

  Hiro found the reversal of roles amusing. Normally, Hiro questioned people, trying to keep the Jesuit out of trouble. Now, it seemed, the priest was returning the favor.

  “Someone killed my daughter.” Satsu glanced across the garden, as if ensuring they remained alone. “I want to know who, and why, and if Emi’s murder puts others at risk.”

  “Why would her death threaten others?” Father Mateo asked.

  “A week ago, a stranger approached the Yutoku-za.” Satsu turned to Hiro. “He demanded money and said if Botan didn’t pay him, he would tell Matsunaga-san that we were hiding spies within the troupe.”

  “Sounds like standard bribery,” Hiro said, “unless you’re sloppy and were seen.”

  Satsu folded his arms across his chest. “Twenty years, and not a hint of an accusation before now.” He shook his head. “I didn’t think anything of it until this morning, but then, with Emi’s death—I had to wonder. Did the killer figure out the truth? And then I saw the coin.”

  “What coin?” Father Mateo asked.

  “Botan believed himself innocent, but he paid the extortionist anyway,” Satsu said. “He couldn’t risk the shogunate samurai closing down the troupe. He didn’t have the money to pay the entire sum the man demanded, but what he paid, he paid in golden coins . . . exactly like the one on the leather thong that killed my daughter.”

  Father Mateo looked at Hiro. “Do you understand what he’s talking about?”

  Hiro suspected he did, but had no intention of offering an explanation.

  “My daughter had a leather thong around her neck,” Satsu continued. “A coin was strung on the leather, like a pendant. I saw it when I took her body home.”

  “Couldn’t the coin have belonged to your daughter?” Father Mateo asked.

  Satsu shook his head. “Emi did not own a golden coin. The killer must have left it on her body for some reason. Maybe he wants more money and murdered Emi to scare us into paying. Either that, or he knows who I am and killed my daughter to warn me I am next. The former places my troupe at risk. The latter might endanger every Iga shinobi in Kyoto, depending on how much the killer knows.

  “That’s why I need your help. I need to find the link between the killer and the coin, and I can’t investigate it on my own.”

  Hiro didn’t trust Satsu, but couldn’t ignore the possibility that the actor spoke the truth. Matsunaga Hisahide had ordered his men to hunt for spies, and it did seem a strange coincidence that someone accused Botan of hiding shinobi.

  “What makes you think we can help you?” Father Mateo asked.

  “All the entertainers know about the ronin and the priest who help the wrongfully accused.” Satsu gave a mirthless laugh. “It didn’t occur to me that the ‘masterless samurai’ might have been a shinobi in disguise until this morning, though it should have. Most true ronin wouldn’t serve a foreign master.”

  After a pause, he added, “How did you learn about Emi’s murder?”

  “A friend of your daughter,” Father Mateo said.

  Hiro frowned at the priest with irritation.

  “Impossible,” Satsu said. “Emi had no friends outside the troupe, and no one from the Yutoku-za would talk to an outsider.”

  “Then you tell us how we learned about her murder,” Father Mateo said.

  Satsu frowned. “I want his name—and don’t deny it was a man. My daughter would not have concealed a woman’s friendship.”

  “Tell us the name of the man who bribed the theater troupe,” the Jesuit countered.

  “I don’t know it,” Satsu said. “Botan spoke with him alone and claimed he was a bandit. I didn’t believe him—bandits don’t threaten to turn you in to the shogun. I pushed the issue as far as I could, but Botan wouldn’t change his story. He also claimed he didn’t know the man, and that part I believe.”

  “Then we need to speak with Botan,” Hiro said.

  “I want the name of the man who told you about my daughter’s murder,” Satsu said.

  “Not until we determine whether or not he deserves to die.” Hiro had no intention of giving a grieving father enough information to kill the only potential witness—and suspect—he currently had to investigate.

  “Then you will help me?” Satsu asked.

  Hiro nodded. To his surprise, he wanted to know the truth about Emi’s murder, and not just because of the danger it might present to his clan, the Iga ryu. Although he had never met the girl, the blood of his family flowed in her veins.

  Her death required an answer, and he would find it.

  “We will help you,” Hiro said, “on one condition. Our assistance must remain a secret. We will not incur the yoriki’s wrath, or the magistrate’s, for conducting a forbidden investigation.”

  “I will honor that condition,” Satsu said.

  “Very well,” Hiro said. “We need to examine the body.”

  Satsu bowed. “I will take you to her.”

  CHAPTER 8

  As they approached the building that housed the Yutoku-za, Hiro turned to Father Mateo and whispered, in Portuguese, “Do not contradict me, regardless of what I say.”

  “If I wanted to argue with you in public, I would have done it back at the temple.” Father Mateo glanced at Satsu. “I don’t trust him.”

  “I don’t either,” Hiro replied, “but I have an obligation, at least for now.”

  Before the priest could answer, Hiro stepped behind Satsu and shoved him hard. The actor staggered forward, striking the wooden door of his home and falling to the ground.

  “What do you mean you can’t do it today?” Hiro demanded, loudly enough for people on the street to hear. “You told me you could arrange a performance!”

  Satsu rose to his knees. “I’m sorry. Please come inside. We will make the arrangements immediately.” He bowed his forehead to the ground. “Forgive my insolence.”
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  The change in his voice, and his instant cooperation, reinforced Hiro’s suspicion that Satsu was a persuasive liar.

  “What are you doing?” Father Mateo whispered in Portuguese.

  “I said, don’t argue,” Hiro whispered back. “We need an excuse to enter the house so the neighbors don’t suspect our real purpose.”

  Slowly, the door swung open, as if the person on the other side had heard the commotion. Satsu’s daughter, Chou, appeared in the doorway. She bowed to the visitors, looked at her father on the ground, and withdrew into the house without a word.

  Satsu scrambled to his feet, bowed low, and led the men inside.

  As he followed, Hiro wondered why Chou had answered the door. Satsu’s daughter should have been helping her mother with the body.

  Just beyond the narrow entry lay an enormous common room with a central hearth. The room would have seemed out of place in a standard home, or even a teahouse, but the size made sense for a theater troupe, where several generations of multiple families shared the space. Clean tatami covered the floor, and sliding doors in every wall led off to rooms beyond. A colored scroll hung in a decorative alcove across from the entry. The scroll depicted a scene from a play, though Hiro couldn’t identify either the characters or the source.

  A kettle hung above the fire, suspended from a chain attached to the ceiling beams. Chou removed the kettle and knelt beside a teapot and a tray of porcelain cups.

  “Three cups, but the girl is alone in the room,” Father Mateo whispered in Hiro’s ear. “Satsu knew we would return.”

  Hiro had noticed that too, and didn’t like it.

  “May I offer you gentlemen tea?” Satsu asked.

  “No,” Hiro said. “Just take us to the body.”

  Satsu bowed. “As you wish, sir. Please follow me.”

  He led them to a sliding door on the eastern side of the room, pulled it open, and stepped away so Hiro and Father Mateo could enter first.

  A brazier cast a golden light across the room where Emi lay. Inexpensive tatami filled the air with the scent of grasses. A hint of sandalwood incense also lingered in the room, but faintly, like the ghost of a prayer almost forgotten.