by Susan Spann
“Justice excuses a breach of etiquette.” Okiya lowered her voice. “Thank me by finding the killer. I don’t know what happened here last night, but Sayuri did not murder anyone. She does not deserve to be executed for someone else’s crime.”
Chapter 12
After Okiya left, Hiro crossed the teahouse and entered Sayuri’s room. Father Mateo knelt near the tokonoma with his back to the door. Sayuri faced him. Their heads were bowed in prayer.
A shamisen sat on the floor at Sayuri’s side. The instrument had a stringed neck about the length of a man’s arm, attached to a rounded body covered with animal skin. The skin was stretched taut like the cover of a drum, and three silk strings ran from pegs at the head of the instrument to a single anchor peg attached to the base of the body.
The shamisen took years to play badly and much longer to play well. Only women with genuine talent trained in the difficult instrument.
Hiro knelt beside Father Mateo. When the priest said, “Amen,” Sayuri looked up.
Hiro nodded toward the shamisen. “Do you play?”
“A little.” The confidence in her voice negated her socially mandated humility.
“Would you play something now?”
Sayuri picked up the shamisen. She cradled its neck in her left hand and settled its body against her right knee. When the position suited her, she picked up the ivory plectrum and strummed the strings.
She played right-handed, in the standard style, and exceptionally well. Hiro recognized the haunting lullaby. His mother had played it often, and equally well, though he doubted Sayuri’s shamisen pick had a blade concealed in its sheath.
When the final note died away Sayuri set the instrument on the floor as if lowering a sleeping child. Hiro felt a pang of regret. For a moment, the music had taken him back to Iga.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Did Okiya and the others hear anything?” she asked. “Mayuri said no, but I hoped…”
“They heard no intruders,” Hiro said.
The door whispered open. Mayuri knelt at the threshold.
“Have you finished?” she asked.
Father Mateo stood up. Hiro suppressed a desire to bait the woman by asking to remain. He didn’t dislike her exactly, but he never liked acceding to rude requests.
“Have faith,” Father Mateo told Sayuri. “God will protect you and we will find the killer.”
She nodded. “I will pray.”
As they left the room, Hiro leaned toward Father Mateo and whispered, “You need to use the latrine.”
“I do not.” Father Mateo blushed.
As usual, Hiro found the reaction amusing. He had never understood the Jesuit’s shyness about discussing bodily functions.
He raised his voice. “Mayuri, Father Mateo needs to visit the latrine.”
The priest turned a brilliant shade of red. His mouth opened and closed like one of his beloved koi.
Mayuri inclined her head and looked from one man to the other. “Did you say he needs to use the latrine?”
“Urgently,” Hiro said.
The woman and the priest exchanged a stare. Hiro didn’t mind embarrassing Father Mateo, and he knew Mayuri could not refuse the request.
After a very long moment Mayuri nodded. “Follow me.”
She led the men through the family room and into the narrow four-mat storeroom beyond. A hallway led off the east side of the storeroom, and at the far end of the hall a wooden staircase led to the second floor.
Mayuri gestured to the sliding doors in the north wall of the storeroom. “The latrine is outside—the building on the left.” She paused. “You will forgive me if I do not escort you there.”
“Of course,” Hiro said. “Thank you.”
As he stepped across the room and opened the door, he wondered what lay beyond the sliding door in the storeroom’s western wall. Another storage room, or perhaps a private office.
Hiro waited for Father Mateo to step onto the veranda, then followed him out and closed the door.
Three wide steps led down to the narrow yard, where a forked gravel path connected the teahouse to a pair of outbuildings. The latrine stood about forty feet from the house on the left-hand side of the yard. Hiro had seen it from the veranda earlier.
A second, larger building stood ahead and to the right. It had a thatched roof, wooden sides, and two entrances, one at the end of the gravel path and a slightly smaller one on the opposite end. A worn track in the grass led to the smaller door. Slatted screens covered the three narrow windows below the eaves, allowing light to enter but obscuring the interior from view. The design suggested a bathhouse, and the woodpile outside the smaller door confirmed it.
Hiro felt a twinge of jealousy. Like most residents of Kyoto he bathed several times a week, and like most people he used the public baths. Only the very wealthy could afford a private bathhouse, and the Sakura’s looked particularly fine.
At his side, Father Mateo hissed, “I do not have to use the latrine!”
“Fake it.” Hiro pointed at the left-hand building. “I need at least five minutes.”
“What are you doing?”
“No time.” Hiro hurried down the stairs and across the yard to the bathhouse. When he reached the smaller door he glanced over his shoulder. He noted with satisfaction that Father Mateo had started toward the latrine.
Hiro grasped the wooden handle and pulled open the swinging door. As he suspected, it led to the fire room adjacent to the larger bathing chamber. A large wood-burning stove dominated the tiny room. It was square and made from whitewashed bricks of clay, though dust and ash had darkened its sides to gray. A large iron cauldron sat atop the stove, and iron pipes ran from the cauldron to the wall, funneling steam and hot water directly into the bathing room beyond.
Hiro was impressed. The setup was far more efficient than some of the older bathhouses he frequented, where servants carried hot water from the stoves to the baths.
The iron door on the front of the stove was warm but not hot to the touch, and its slatted grate was closed. Hiro grasped the handle and opened the oven door.
Coals glowed in the belly of the stove, though the flames had died away. They flared red for a moment when fresh air swirled in through the door, but faded almost at once. A pile of ash at the center of the stove supported some half-burned objects that looked like ledger books—exactly as Hiro expected. Sheets of delicate ash fanned out from the half-burned spines.
Someone had thrown the books into the fire but hadn’t stayed to ensure that they burned completely. The bottom books were destroyed but the top one had escaped the worst of the flames. The heavy covers and dense pages kept the fire from breathing and the closed oven grating had not allowed enough air for proper combustion.
A practiced tender would have left the grate open, but Hiro suspected Mayuri had little experience with fires and even less with destroying evidence.
He picked up the tongs and removed the half-burned book from the top of the pile. The fan of ashy pages beneath collapsed with a whisper like feet on snow. It blew a wave of heat from the stove and made the embers glow red again for a moment.
Hiro tapped the book but found it too hot to hold so he turned the tongs to examine the other side. The cover was cracked and black with soot, and the edges of the pages had burned away, but the interior pages seemed mostly intact. As soon as the book had cooled enough for handling, Hiro lifted the cover. Heat had destroyed or obscured the ink on almost all the entries. The few pages that still showed visible writing seemed close to illegible.
Hiro hoped they would prove more readable in better light.
He pulled the best-preserved pages from the book and tucked them into his sleeve. He hoped they held enough information to tell him what Mayuri had risked injury to conceal and destroy.
Chapter 13
“Did you find what you were looking for?” Father Mateo asked. “And why on earth did you ask where to find Nobuhide? He’s the last person I thought yo
u would want to see.”
They walked north along the west bank of the Kamo River. Two-story houses and merchant shops crowded the path.
“Because we’re going to see him,” Hiro said. “Right now.”
“Now? Why?”
“Hideyoshi’s killer might try to kill Nobuhide too,” Hiro said, “and he deserves a warning.”
“How did you…” Father Mateo’s eyes widened. “You said the other women heard nothing.”
“I said they heard no intruders,” Hiro said. “They may have entertained an assassin without knowing it.”
“Why warn Nobuhide?” Father Mateo asked. “Do you really think he’s in danger?”
“Possibly,” Hiro said. “Until we know for certain, we can’t assume anything.”
Father Mateo stopped in the middle of the path. Hiro took two more steps before he realized the Jesuit wasn’t following.
“What’s wrong?” Hiro asked.
“You don’t normally show such regard for your enemies.”
“Nobuhide is not my friend, but he’s not my enemy, either. Arrogance is not a capital crime. It’s hardly fair to condemn a man based on his reaction to his father’s mutilated corpse.” Hiro gave the priest a sideways glance. “Isn’t that what you would say?”
“Close enough,” Father Mateo said. “But why are you concerned for his safety now? What did you learn at the teahouse?”
“Do you know the name Oda Nobunaga?” Hiro asked.
They had reached Marutamachi Road, but instead of turning right, toward home, Hiro made a left into one of the expensive residential wards that lay southeast of the shogun’s fortress and the imperial palace.
“Lord Oda controls Owari Province, to the southeast.” Father Mateo thought a moment and added, “He’s a retainer of the shogun, isn’t he?”
“Nominally, yes,” Hiro said, “like all the other daimyo, but some people think Lord Oda plans to kill Ashikaga Yoshiteru and claim the shogunate for himself.”
“Can he do that?” The Jesuit sounded surprised. “Doesn’t the emperor pick the shogun?”
Hiro laughed. “The emperor says so, and the shogun doesn’t dispute it in public, but in reality the shogun rules by strength alone. If another daimyo seized Kyoto, the emperor would appoint him shogun in Yoshiteru’s place.”
“What does that have to do with Nobuhide?”
“A stranger visited the teahouse last night. He claimed to be a rice merchant from Nagoya, which lies in Owari Province.
“If the man who killed Hideyoshi acted at Lord Oda’s command, this murder could represent the start of an attack on the shogun’s retainers and their families. To weaken the shogun’s support.
“It’s what I would do if I wanted to seize the shogunate.”
“But Hideyoshi was retired.”
“A perfect test of the shogun’s vigilance. Assassinate a retired general and his family, and see if anyone notices.”
Hiro paused outside the door of a large wooden house with a peaked roof and sprawling veranda surrounded by well-kept gardens. A latrine and storehouse were just visible at the back of the yard, along with a larger building that looked like a stable. Hoof prints marked the worn dirt track that ran along the outer edge of the property, and a gravel path led from the street to the door.
Trees dotted the property, but someone had trimmed all the branches so nothing grew within four feet of the sloping roof. Pruning scars suggested they had been kept that way for some time. Someone was very cautious, and also ignorant. Four feet might stop the average man, but trained shinobi could jump at least twice that far, even from the branches of a tree.
Father Mateo looked at the house. “I thought yoriki lived at the police barracks.”
“Most of them do,” Hiro said. “The dōshin said Nobuhide had permission to live at his father’s home.”
As Hiro approached the house he caught a whiff of cedar. Only the wealthy built houses of cedar instead of the less-expensive pine.
The carved front door swung open as they approached.
Nobuhide scowled at them from the doorway. “What do you want?”
Hiro and Father Mateo bowed. Nobuhide didn’t return it.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded. “This is a house of mourning!”
A second samurai appeared in the doorway.
He was older than Nobuhide, and slightly taller. They shared the same slender build and narrow features, though the newcomer had no mustache. He wore a blue-gray kimono emblazoned with the Akechi crest and a pair of swords stuck through a dark gray girdle. When he bowed, Hiro noticed strands of silver in his hair.
Something about the newcomer looked odd, but Hiro couldn’t place it.
“May I help you?” the stranger asked.
As the samurai spoke, Hiro realized why the man seemed strange.
The traditional samurai topknot, or chonmage, required shaving the forehead and pulling the remaining hair into a tail atop the head. The hair was folded over, sometimes more than once, and fastened with a band just behind the shaven area.
This samurai didn’t have a shaven pate. He also had a melodic voice, and Hiro suddenly recognized that the newcomer was a woman, though dressed in a masculine style.
Hiro bowed again. “We have come to offer condolences and a caution—Akechi Hideyoshi’s assassin may have reason to target the rest of the family too.”
Nobuhide’s eyes narrowed. “We do not want your condolences. Go away!”
“Nobuhide!” The woman’s voice held more than a hint of warning.
“No foreign ghost will desecrate my father’s corpse!” Nobuhide blocked the doorway and laid his hand on the hilt of his katana. “I forbid you to enter my home!”
“Fortunately, it is not yet your home.” The woman turned to face the visitors and bowed. “I am Akechi Yoshiko, eldest child of Akechi Hideyoshi. Please come inside.”
Nobuhide did not move.
Yoshiko stepped forward until she stood directly behind her brother, with her mouth only inches from his ear. Her lips barely moved as she whispered, “Do not make me embarrass you in front of strangers.”
Nobuhide tensed as if preparing for a fight.
Chapter 14
The moment passed. Nobuhide removed his hand from his sword.
“I was going out anyway,” he said. “Make sure they are gone when I return.”
He slipped his sock-clad feet into a pair of sandals that sat beside the door and stalked off in the direction of the stable.
Nobuhide’s shoulder brushed Hiro as he passed. On any other day the insult would have required a fight, but Hiro chose to ignore it. If Nobuhide wanted a confrontation he could have one, in two days’ time. Until then Hiro was focused on the killer.
Three more pairs of sandals sat beside the door with their toes pointed neatly toward the house. The smallest looked barely large enough for a school-age child. The pair beside them was covered in drying mud. The sandals closest to the door were made of straw and falling apart from age. At least three people remained in the house.
Yoshiko bowed. “I apologize for my brother. He is devastated by our father’s death.”
“You are not?” Hiro asked.
“Of course, but rudeness dishonors his memory more than tears.”
Father Mateo bowed. “I am Father Mateo Ávila de Santos, and this is Matsui Hiro, my translator. We are trying to find the man responsible for your father’s death.”
The hint of a smile flashed over Yoshiko’s face. It vanished just as quickly. “Yes. Nobuhide mentioned you. Please come inside.”
The men removed their shoes and stepped up into the house. Yoshiko led them through the entry and into the large central room beyond. The square room had a high ceiling and tatami on the floor, like the common room in Father Mateo’s home, except that this oe measured thirteen mats in size. The scent of lingering woodsmoke dulled the odor of cedar emanating from the pillars and beams. A tokonoma in the southern wall, opposite the entran
ce, displayed a landscape scroll in shades of black and gray. Sliding doors separated the room from five adjacent chambers. All but one of the doors was closed, but the door beside the tokonoma was open, revealing a second, smaller common room beyond.
Yoshiko walked to the host’s seat at the south end of the hearth. As she knelt, she gestured for the guests to join her.
Hiro and Father Mateo knelt to her right, with their backs to the eastern wall.
“Under the circumstances,” Yoshiko said, “you will forgive me for dispensing with formalities.”
She waited for them to nod assent before continuing. “You mentioned a warning, but Nobuhide claims to have the killer under guard. Please explain.”
To Hiro’s surprise, she looked at Father Mateo for the answer.
Few samurai treated the priest with such respect, despite the fact that the Jesuit had a samurai as his translator.
“We do not believe Sayuri … the entertainer…” Father Mateo paused as if uncertain what to say.
Hiro didn’t share the Jesuit’s concern for delicacy, particularly with a woman who looked and acted so thoroughly like a man.
“The girl may not be responsible,” Hiro said, “or at least not entirely. A man claiming to be from Nagoya visited the Sakura Teahouse last night.”
He paused to see if Yoshiko caught the reference and understood the threat.
Her eyebrows drew together. “Lord Oda has no reason to kill my father.”
“We think he may be planning an attack on the shogunate,” Father Mateo said.
Yoshiko’s face became a mask.
Hiro sat very still. He didn’t trust himself to move, or even blink, without revealing his frustration with the priest. Yoshiko hadn’t asked the expected questions—what the stranger did, or if he was a samurai—but the Jesuit’s comment had put her on guard before she could explain her reaction, and she seemed disinclined to say anything more.
“If so,” the priest continued, “the assassin might try to kill your brother too.”
“Nobuhide?” Yoshiko’s eyes crinkled with restrained laughter. Her smile faded almost immediately but her amusement remained. “Yoriki can’t even enter the shogun’s presence, and they’re never promoted to any higher position. You do not kill a flea to scare a dog.”