by Susan Spann
Knowing the monk, it was probably more like a flask.
“Kazu is a good man,” Suke said, “though not as good as you are, Hiro, Amida Buddha bless you.”
The words had barely left his mouth when a samurai approached the sake shop. He wore an expensive black kimono that bore the shogun’s crest, and his swords cost more than most shopkeepers made in a year. He wore his hair in a perfect topknot, oiled and shining like moonlight on a midnight lake. His narrow face and black almond-shaped eyes stopped women in the street, but he exuded a humility that belied his twenty years. His careful movements and friendly demeanor made men trust him and consider him no threat.
Most men, anyway.
Hiro knew Kazu better than that.
Chapter 21
The samurai drew his katana, climbed into the shop, and handed the sword to the brewer. As he turned away from the counter with his cup and flask in hand, he noticed Hiro sitting beside the monk. A smile spread over the young man’s face and he swept a graceful bow.
“Hiro,” he said in the eloquent accent favored by the shogunate and the imperial court. “What brings you to Ginjiro’s? Avoiding another prayer meeting with your foreign priest?”
Hiro smiled at the flawless speech. Kazu had done nothing but complain while learning it, yet, all these years later, no one would guess the polished young man had grown up in the wilds of Iga.
“He needs someone to pray for other than you, Kazu,” Hiro retorted with a grin.
Kazu laughed and knelt between Hiro and the monk. He looked around the room as he settled himself. He opened his mouth to ask a question but Hiro cut him off.
“Haven’t seen her.”
A flash of disappointment crossed Kazu’s face. Hiro knew the reason. Kazu had taken a fancy to Ginjiro’s daughter, Tomiko, who helped the brewer in the shop on certain nights.
Samurai did not intermarry with merchants, but that knowledge had done little to curb Kazu’s ardor, and, although Hiro doubted the young man would act on the impulse, he did all he could to discourage the foolish crush.
“You know better,” Hiro said.
“We are the only ones here,” Kazu protested, misunderstanding Hiro’s objection. He picked up the empty sake flask on the floor and shook it meaningfully. “Suke won’t remember anything tomorrow.”
“I’ll remember your generosity forever,” Suke slurred as he helped himself to a cup from Kazu’s flask. “A thousand Amida blessings on your house.”
He drained the cup and leered at Kazu over the rim.
“See?” Kazu said.
The brewer brought a third flask of sake for Hiro and also a plate of pickled vegetable snacks. When the monk reached for a radish, Ginjiro swept the plate away and placed it between the samurai, just out of Suke’s reach. The brewer glared at Hiro as though daring him to feed the offending monk before returning to his place behind the counter.
Suke looked from the samurai to the food with a pleading expression that turned to a drunken grin as Hiro pushed the plate in the monk’s direction. The vegetables disappeared in less than two minutes, followed by most of Hiro’s third flask.
Kazu shook his head. “All that sake isn’t good for him.”
“When did you develop a conscience?”
Kazu lowered his head and gave Hiro a practiced glare. “If you want him here to drink with you, it behooves you to consider his well-being.”
Hiro nodded, accepting the chastisement, and asked Suke, “Have you eaten rice today?”
“Rice?” Suke’s question sent bits of pickled radish all over the front of his robe. Kazu leaned back to avoid the spray. The monk shook his head emphatically. “Not today.”
Hiro caught Ginjiro’s eye, cupped his hands in a bowl, and mouthed the word “rice.”
Ginjiro shook his head, but when Hiro held up two silver coins the merchant sighed and disappeared through the indigo curtain that separated the storefront from the living quarters and brewery beyond.
Hiro took a sip from his sake cup, which was still half full from his initial pouring. The fermented rice liquor smelled sweet but burned like poison in his throat. Hiro found few things more unpleasant than pretending to enjoy it.
Hiro and Kazu sipped at their cups while the monk finished off Hiro’s liquor and started on Kazu’s. When the rice arrived Hiro gave Ginjiro the silver coins, plus another for the sake. It was more than twice the total bill, but Hiro didn’t mind. The extra money ensured that Suke would have a place to sleep off the drink later on.
As the monk shoveled down his rice, Kazu asked, “Have you had a busy week?”
“More than usual,” Hiro said, “but I need to go. Shall I tell you on the way?”
Kazu nodded assent to the coded request. “We can walk together.”
They said farewell to Suke, retrieved their swords, and stepped down into their sandals. Hiro stepped to the center of the street and started north.
Kazu waited until they had left the brewery behind before asking, “What do you need?”
He kept his voice low to ensure they were not overheard, but as always he retained his polished accent. Kazu never dropped his elaborate shogunate façade.
“Did you hear about the murder east of Pontocho this morning?” Hiro asked.
Kazu shook his head. “Not your work, I assume.”
“Nor yours?” Hiro asked.
“You know I don’t take those assignments. I am too valuable at the shogunate.” After a pause he added, “What happened?”
“A samurai, murdered in a teahouse.”
“Why are you asking me about it?”
“The corpse is named Akechi Hideyoshi.”
The startled look on Kazu’s handsome face made Hiro’s next question unnecessary.
“The general?” Kazu asked. “Akechi Mitsuhide’s cousin?”
It was Hiro’s turn to look startled. “How do you know that name?”
“Everyone at the shogunate knows that name,” Kazu said, “and I would be a pretty poor scribe if I forgot, considering that I wrote the order condemning him to die if he sets foot in Kyoto again. At the shogun’s instruction, of course. He was furious when Mitsuhide defected to Lord Oda’s command.”
“Does the death sentence extend to the rest of the family?” Hiro asked.
“Of course not. The last thing the shogun wants is a blood feud with the Akechi clan, especially with Lord Oda threatening to seize the shogunate.”
“Has he threatened the shogun publicly?”
“Not yet,” Kazu said, “but it’s only a matter of time, and when the fight comes the shogun needs every loyal sword he can get.”
“Does he believe the Akechi are loyal?” Hiro asked. “I heard that Akechi Mitsuhide visited Kyoto on his way to Nagoya.”
“To buy weapons, if I’m not mistaken.” Kazu gave a knowing smile. “A hundred and fifty arquebuses to arm Lord Oda’s troops. Why do you think the shogun was so angry?”
“All right, All-Knowing One,” Hiro said, “let’s see how you fare with this riddle. How many merchants from Nagoya sold rice to the shogun this week?”
Kazu’s grin disappeared in an instant. “If that’s a joke, it isn’t funny.”
“A man claiming to be a Nagoya rice merchant visited the Sakura Teahouse last night,” Hiro said.
Kazu’s delicate eyebrows knitted with concern. “A spy?”
“That’s what I want to know,” Hiro said. “If he killed Hideyoshi, Lord Oda may be testing the shogun’s defenses.”
Kazu nodded. “I will see what I can find.”
“Tonight,” Hiro said. “I need an answer by morning.”
“Why in such a hurry? The corpse can’t get any colder.”
“If I don’t find the killer in two days, Hideyoshi’s son will kill the Jesuit priest.”
Kazu stared at Hiro as though the shinobi had suggested they should kill the foreigner themselves. “You cannot let that happen.”
“I hardly need you to tell me that my life depe
nds on the priest’s survival. Hanzo made that clear when he sent me here.”
“I’m not talking about your life.” Kazu looked like someone had kicked him in the stomach. “The shogun’s spies in Nagoya report that Lord Oda has told the Portuguese Kyoto is not safe. He granted permission for them to build a church in his capital and promised safety for every trader who locates his warehouse there.
“For now, the Portuguese merchants have stayed in Kyoto, and elsewhere. They know that more cities mean more sales. But if your priest dies…” He trailed off.
“Oda will have all the warehouses, all the firearms,” Hiro said.
Kazu shook his head. “Worse than that. Lord Oda will march on Kyoto and the Portuguese will help him take it.”
Chapter 22
“Father Mateo isn’t going to die,” Hiro said with more confidence than he felt, “but I need to know who wanted Akechi Hideyoshi dead. If it’s not Lord Oda, or the shogun seeking vengeance, I’ll know I need to look for someone else.”
“I do not think the shogun is involved,” Kazu said, “but I will look at the records and meet you at Ginjiro’s tomorrow evening.”
“That’s too late,” Hiro said. “I only have until noon the day after tomorrow.”
“I could check tonight and meet you in the morning. An hour after dawn, at our usual sparring ground just north of Tofuku-ji?”
“Excellent,” Hiro said. “It’s been a while since I taught you a thing or two.”
They had reached Shijō Road. Hiro started to turn right, toward the river, and paused. “One more thing.”
Kazu arched an eyebrow.
“Don’t do that,” Hiro said. “People might think we’re related.”
“We are related.”
“Not in public,” Hiro growled.
Kazu’s second eyebrow joined the first.
“Why didn’t Hideyoshi’s son follow him into the shogun’s army?” Hiro asked. “Wouldn’t a general’s son normally receive a commission?”
“Normally,” Kazu replied. Then, “Akechi Hideyoshi had a son?”
“Has a son. A yoriki named Nobuhide.”
“Unfortunate choice,” Kazu said. “He will not win the shogun’s favor with a name so close to Nobunaga’s.”
“Do you think that might have affected his status?”
“I doubt it, but I can look. If he has a record it should be next to his father’s.”
They parted for the second time and Hiro turned back again. “Kazu.”
The younger man looked back over his shoulder.
“Be careful,” Hiro warned. “I doubt the shogun ordered this murder, but, if he did, a man who starts asking questions could find himself in danger.”
* * *
The next morning Hiro woke before dawn. A gentle but unexpected weight pressed down on his feet and ankles. He raised his head and saw the tortoiseshell kitten curled in a ball at the end of the futon, directly atop his feet. She had her tail tucked under her nose and her eyes screwed shut in sleep. When Hiro stirred she raised her head and gave him a sleepy look, then closed her eyes and laid her head down with a sigh.
Hiro slipped out from under the kitten and into his practice clothes, a dark blue tunic and surcoat that belted at the waist and a pair of baggy black hakama that almost reached the ground. He slipped on a pair of socks with a separate section for the toe and special soles designed for outside wear without sandals, opened the sliding door to the garden, and knelt on the veranda.
He spent several minutes in silent meditation, eyes closed and listening to his surroundings. He heard a breeze in the cherry tree and a koi break the surface of the pond. Leaves rustled, a shutter creaked, and a bird made a sleepy chirp on the far side of the garden wall. Hiro isolated each sound and imprinted it in his memory.
When he finished Hiro went back inside and went through a series of katas. The practice forms kept his body limber and his muscles familiar with fighting stances. Most mornings he practiced in the yard or on the roof, but that morning he worked inside to practice stealth on the raised wooden floor that often creaked underfoot. Hiro completed his exercises without a sound.
He didn’t even wake the sleeping kitten.
Half an hour before sunrise Hiro changed to his usual gray kimono, fastened his swords to his obi, and left the room. He left the kitten dozing on the futon.
Candlelight flickered in Father Mateo’s room. Hiro saw the Jesuit’s shadow against the paper panels of the dividing wall. As he expected, the priest was kneeling in prayer.
Hiro slipped to the front door using nuki-ashi, a secret step that prevented floorboards from creaking. He had several errands to run that morning and intended to accomplish them alone.
He walked west to the river, crossed the bridge, and continued on toward the Nishijin district, which lay in the northwest corner of the city. He reached the silk and embroiderers’ ward as the sun began to rise.
Hiro took his time as he walked along the unpaved street. Two-story buildings rose on both sides of the narrow thoroughfare. The merchants lived on the second floor, above their street-level workshops and storefronts. Hiro often wondered if they found the close quarters stifling. He couldn’t imagine living where the neighbors could see from their windows into his own.
In an hour or two the street would bustle with shoppers and ring with merchants’ voices announcing their fabulous wares, but at dawn the road was empty and the stores were shuttered tight. Here and there turtledoves strolled in the road. The birds’ rolling gait and bobbing heads made them look like drunken samurai heading home from an overnight binge.
The shop Hiro wanted stood on a corner beside a famous silk emporium. He didn’t expect to find it open, but as he approached the corner he saw an indigo noren hanging in the doorway of the store, announcing that the tailor had already opened his shop for business.
White letters on the indigo banner read YASO KIMONO AND SILKS.
A girl of eight or nine stood in front of the door and swept the edge of the street with a homemade broom. Her braid hung past her waist, and her glossy black hair shone in the morning sun. She wore a kimono of pink silk, exactly the shade of cherry blossoms in bloom. Although the color was slightly out of season, the cut and fashion were of the latest style. A contrasting obi bound her waist and trailed to the ground behind her.
The girl looked up at the sound of Hiro’s footsteps and her face glowed with delighted recognition. She bowed but did not greet him. Well-bred little girls from the merchant class did not speak until spoken to, especially when addressing samurai.
Hiro returned the bow, and the girl blushed red at the compliment.
“Good morning Akiko,” he said. “Is your father in?”
She nodded.
“Would you ask him if he will see me? Please tell him I am sorry about the hour.”
Akiko bowed and disappeared into the shop. A couple of minutes later a man emerged. He wore a brown kimono and no sword, and he had a rolled-up piece of silk behind his ear. A glint of metal in the silk suggested a needle, or possibly several. The man had a thin mustache that made him look older than his thirty-three years, and his eyes had a permanent squint from sewing without enough light.
He bowed to Hiro with a mixture of curiosity and familiarity.
Hiro returned the bow. “Good morning, Yaso. I hope I did not disturb you.”
The tailor smiled. “Only samurai sleep late.” He gave Hiro’s kimono an appraising look. “Is there a problem with your kimono? I don’t see any tears or stains.”
“I’m afraid not. I have a question about one of your other clients.”
Yaso leaned forward eagerly. “A fashion you’d like to copy?”
“Not exactly. The man is dead.”
Yaso nodded. “Akechi Hideyoshi. That design might be bad luck.”
“How did you know who I meant?” Hiro asked.
“My clients don’t die every day. His son, Nobuhide, was here yesterday.
“I’m not in t
he habit of divulging private information,” the tailor added. “It’s not good business.”
“The question is actually about Hideyoshi’s cousin.”
Yaso’s expression turned grim. He didn’t answer.
“I know what you helped him do,” Hiro said, “but if you help me I might forget to mention it to the shogun.”
It was a gamble. Hiro remembered that Luis wasn’t certain who had made the introduction. But sometimes, gambles paid off.
Yaso pressed his lips together until the color bled away. After a very long moment he asked, “I know the man you mean. What help do you need?”
Chapter 23
“How did you meet Akechi Mitsuhide?” Hiro asked.
“I never actually met him in person. He wanted to buy some goods from the foreign trader, Luis. Hideyoshi knew that I make clothes for the Portuguese and asked me to make the introduction.”
Hiro raised an eyebrow at the lie. Yaso blushed. “Well, I do make kimonos for the priest, and I might have let a few people think I make Luis’s clothes too. I repair them when they tear, you know.”
Hiro doubted Luis had ever worn a patched garment but had the manners not to say so.
“So you made the introduction?” Hiro asked.
“I set up a meeting,” Yaso said, “but I swear I thought the firearms were for the shogun’s service. I didn’t know Mitsuhide would take them to Lord Oda. I swear it.”
“I believe you,” Hiro said, and meant it. The tailor looked him in the eye and didn’t fidget. His movements didn’t indicate dishonesty, and Hiro doubted the tailor had the training or constitution to lie well.
“Did you hear from Hideyoshi’s cousin again? Or anyone else in Lord Oda’s service?” Hiro asked.
“No,” Yaso said slowly, “but two days ago a stranger came to the shop and asked me to introduce him to the Portuguese merchant. He said he was a rice merchant from outside Kyoto and that bandits were raiding his shipments and his warehouses. He wanted firearms to protect the rice.
“At first I refused. I didn’t know him, and had no reason to make the introduction. But then he said he was a friend of Akechi Hideyoshi’s. He claimed they were meeting at a teahouse later that night, and that Hideyoshi told him I could introduce him to the Portuguese trader.”