by Susan Spann
“Thank you, Grandmother.” Hiro bowed and started toward the door. “I won’t disturb you any longer.”
“Not so fast. Hanzō-kun left clear instructions. If you showed up here, he wants to see you.”
Hattori Hanzō looked up as the door to his private study slid open. “Good afternoon, Hiro.” He shifted his gaze to Akiko. “Thank you, Grandmother.”
A ripple of frustration ran up Hiro’s spine at his cousin’s dismissive tone. Akiko merely nodded, backed away, and closed the door without a sound.
Hanzō made a gesture. “Please, be seated.”
Hiro knelt across from the Iga commander, noting the odors of cedar and parchment that perfumed the air. As always, he found it ironic that Hanzō’s private quarters lacked the scent of the blood that paid to build them. Of course, the same was also true of many other homes in Iga.
Hanzō nodded, granting Hiro permission to speak.
Instead, Hiro folded his hands in his lap and gazed at the scroll in the tokonoma, wondering how long his cousin would once again tolerate his silence. As he waited, Hiro tried to decide what he hoped to achieve in the conversation, thoughts unfurling and straightening like the ferns that grew beneath the massive cedars.
He suspected his cousin knew more about Yajiro’s death than he chose to reveal. However, Hiro was not certain how to force a revelation. Hanzō had perfected the arts of secrets and misdirection.
A samurai lord would have already insisted that Hiro speak, but the Iga commander merely waited. Hiro decided on his objective and opened the conversation. “It appears the weather has grown cold.”
Hanzō’s eyebrows lowered slightly. “Did you come here to report what I already know?”
“Knowledge without wisdom is a load of books on the back of an ox.”
Hanzō sighed. “Just once, could we have a normal conversation? I understand your love of games, but I am not your adversary. You would do well to remember who the enemy truly is.”
“Have we enemies in Iga?” Hiro asked. “I thought the Koga came in peace.”
Hanzō clenched his jaw and did not answer. After a silence long enough to show displeasure, but not weakness, he continued, “The Koga emissaries have requested a formal meeting, at which I believe they intend to announce their departure. They will also demand the killer’s name.”
“As I recall, you have a name to give them.” Hiro took special care to keep his tone entirely neutral, but anxiety rose in his chest at the thought of his mother taking the blame.
“I do not wish Midori’s death any more than you do,” Hanzō said. “She would be . . . difficult to replace.”
“On that, we agree.”
“Then give me another name,” Hanzō pressed. Hiro stood.
“Hattori Hiro. I will take the blame.”
CHAPTER 32
Hanzō gave a mirthless laugh. “A noble gesture, but no one will believe it. You arrived in Iga too late in the day to have killed Yajiro.”
“On the contrary,” Hiro said, “I could have slipped into the kitchen and poisoned the food before I joined the feast. The priest and I were late, if you recall.”
“And the tea at Midori’s house? You discovered the poison.”
Hiro shrugged. “Who better to reveal it than the one who put it there?”
“No one will believe that tale. I need a different name.”
“Until I discover the real killer, mine is the only name you will receive.”
“You disappoint me.” Hanzō frowned. “My reports from Kyoto say you had no problem finding a name on a deadline there.”
“Because I learned the truth in time.”
“Your time is up. I need a name.” Hanzō crossed his arms.
“You have one. Mine.” Hiro met his cousin’s stare.
After a long, uncomfortable silence, Hanzō said, “If you will not be reasonable, at least report the facts you know thus far.”
Hiro knelt again before he answered. “We believe Yajiro died from a fatal dose of torikabuto. The symptoms match, and given its presence in Mother’s tea, it seems the likely choice. However, the toxin acts too slowly for him to have consumed it at the feast.”
“You suspect the welcome cakes I sent to the guesthouse.”
Hiro nodded. “Or the tea. Sencha can mask a poison, as you know.”
“The female Koga emissary, Kiku, had the same idea.” Hanzō uncrossed his arms and rested his hands on his thighs. “She came here earlier, asking questions about the kitchen and the tea.”
“Reasonable,” Hiro said. “The welcome cakes and tea originated in your home.”
“Which proves precisely nothing.” Hanzō’s voice revealed a hint of anger. “Any of the emissaries could have added poison after the tray arrived. Did you know they refused to let Neko brew the tea?”
“It sounds as if you have a name in mind already.” Hiro wondered why his cousin continued to threaten Midori—at least by implication—if he suspected the Koga emissaries committed the crime.
“I do not know which one of them did it.” Hanzō glared at Hiro. “I need evidence that you have failed to deliver. Have you nothing else of relevance to share?”
“Only a strange coincidence.”
Hanzō leaned forward. “Tell me.”
“Many times, a killer tries to ‘help’ an investigation by suggesting the name of a person who might be guilty.”
“To divert attention from the truth. A standard tactic,” Hanzō said. “Has that happened here?”
You did it yourself, two minutes ago. Aloud, Hiro answered, “Neko claims that Kiku is the killer.”
For the moment, he omitted Kiku’s counteraccusation.
“Neko follows my orders without question,” Hanzō said. “No one in Iga is more loyal.”
“You know she disapproves of your alliance.”
“Do not allow emotion to cloud your judgment,” Hanzō warned. “Last time, it cost you dearly—”
“This is not a case of clouded judgment. Neko has accused the other woman twice, and seems unusually eager to ensure that Kiku takes the blame.”
“Perhaps because the Koga woman did it!” Hanzō raised his hands. “It fits the evidence, and it would save Midori’s life. In fact, it seems that everyone would benefit from this solution.”
“Everyone but Kiku.” Hiro found himself at odds internally. He recognized the truth of Hanzō’s argument. The evidence implicated Kiku enough to persuade the others of her guilt and save his mother. Yet, as tempting as that answer was, he found himself unable to accept it.
Hanzō lowered his hands to his knees. “I am not your enemy, Hiro. Do not fight me when we have no argument. The evidence now suggests a way to implicate the Koga woman rather than a member of our clan. Why sacrifice your mother’s life unnecessarily?”
The words should have brought relief, but Hiro felt only anger. “Justice requires more than merely trading one innocent life for another.”
“You are shinobi,” Hanzō said. “Lies and violence are your trade. You have until sunset to find or arrange the evidence we need to blame Koga Kiku.”
“At the cost of my honor.”
“Your honor depends entirely on faithful service to this clan.” Hanzō paused. “Perhaps what you truly fear is that the Koga emissaries won’t believe the evidence you offer.”
“Arranging evidence is not the problem.”
“If you say so. . . .” Hanzō’s tone suggested otherwise.
“You cannot goad me into compliance with your wish to condemn the innocent.” As he spoke, Hiro realized the words were not only true but the source of his fury. Years of training had taught him success would justify any action taken to ensure it; suddenly, he found himself unable to accept that premise.
Life had been much easier before he met Father Mateo and grew a conscience.
“Neko told me about the emissaries’ argument,” Hanzō said, “and also that Kiku brewed the welcome tea. Given that evidence, how can you defend her?”
Hiro wondered if his cousin’s quick adoption of Kiku’s guilt was planned, or merely coincidental. Either way, he refused to accept it.
“I am not defending anyone.” Hiro rose. “I merely wish to complete my investigation and find the truth.”
“Your investigation is over. At sunset, the Koga emissaries will arrive for our final meeting, which cannot end with the murder still unsolved.”
“Then I will solve it,” Hiro said, “before your meeting.”
“Why do you still refuse to cooperate?” Anger heated Hanzō’s voice. “The truth is no longer relevant!”
“The truth is always relevant.”
“You sound exactly like the foreign priest.”
Hiro bowed. “Thank you. I consider that a compliment.”
“It was not.” Hanzō brushed invisible dust from his kimono. “Tonight, at the meeting, you will announce that Kiku killed Yajiro.”
“I will not,” Hiro declared. “And it has not escaped my notice that you, like Neko, attempt to offer a name besides your own.”
“Cousin or not, you go too far.” Hanzō sprang to his feet. “Do not force me to give an order we will both regret.”
“Do not force me to choose between your orders and my conscience. We both already know how that will end.”
Hiro bowed and left the room without awaiting permission, uncomfortably aware that he was out of time and no closer to finding Yajiro’s killer.
CHAPTER 33
As Hiro left Hanzō’s study, he caught a glimpse of a foot disappearing around the corner at the far end of the passage.
He hurried after it, taking care to ensure his footsteps made no sound. At the end of the passage he whispered, “Tane, do not run. I mean no harm.”
The girl’s face appeared around the corner.
“Why were you listening at Hanzō’s door?” Hiro whispered.
She cupped a hand to her ear and shook her head.
“Don’t lie to me. I saw you run away as I left the room.”
She looked past him toward the study door. Returning her gaze to Hiro, she shook her head again and pointed to his chest. A flush spread through her cheeks.
“Were you waiting for me?” he asked.
She nodded slowly.
“Have you something to tell me?”
Tane looked over her shoulder, as if to ensure they were alone, then nodded.
“Come with me.” Hiro started toward the front of the mansion, wondering what the girl could possibly have to communicate and also nervous about what she might reveal. He suspected she knew something about the murder. Nothing else would make her set aside her fear of strangers. However, her choice to reveal her knowledge to Hiro implied Akiko’s involvement in the killing. His stomach shifted uncomfortably. It seemed there was no longer anyone in Iga he could trust.
At the front of the mansion, Hiro opened the door and stepped out onto the wide veranda. Tane stopped on the threshold as if restrained by invisible bonds. She shook her head.
“We won’t go far.” Hiro slipped on his sandals. “Just to the other side of the walls, where no one can see us talking.”
Tane made a helpless gesture, as if wishing to explain but aware she could not make him understand.
Hiro stepped back inside the entry. “Can you tell me here?”
She nodded but still looked nervous.
“Does Akiko know what you’re about to tell me?” Hiro asked.
Tane bit her lower lip and looked away, refusing to meet his eyes.
“It’s all right.” Hiro tried to infuse his voice with as much encouragement as possible. “I won’t tell anyone what you reveal.”
She glanced up but would not hold his gaze. She tapped her right hand to her chest, then tapped her mouth, and flicked her hand away, exasperated. Clenching her fists, she struck them together, as if annoyed by their inability to convey her thoughts.
Tane’s reaction impressed upon Hiro just how difficult her life must be, especially when questions required more than just a nod of response. “Did you try to tell Akiko what you wish to tell me now?”
She nodded.
“Did Akiko understand you?”
As Tane shook her head, Hiro’s stomach settled. That, at least, explained her choice to tell him. He and the priest had shown her patience, probably more than she received from anyone other than Akiko.
He hated putting words in her mouth, but in this case he had no other option. “Does your message relate to the Koga man who was murdered here last night?”
Tane nodded.
“I cannot guarantee that I will understand you,” he said, “but I will try.”
She made the sign of the cross and laid her palms together, fingers straight, in the gestures Father Mateo used in prayer.
“The priest?” Hiro asked. “How did you learn his holy sign?”
She scowled in frustration, and he realized the futility of asking indefinite questions without context.
“Have you seen a foreigner before?”
When Tane nodded, Hiro continued, “In your village?”
Another nod, and the girl repeated the sign of the cross, looking out the door with a hopeful expression that made him realize he might not have been the one the girl had hoped to speak with, after all.
“Did you want to”—Hiro barely stopped himself from saying “speak to”—“see the priest?”
When she nodded, he said, “He cannot see you now, but I will take your message to him if you wish.”
She bit her lip and looked at the ceiling, fingers clenching and unclenching. Just when Hiro thought she would refuse, she exhaled heavily and nodded.
Tane raised her hands to chest level and held them there, palms up. When Hiro did not respond, she shook her hands as if to call attention to them.
“I do not understand you,” Hiro said. “You need to start with something clear.”
Tane lowered her hands and bit her lip again. Suddenly, she pointed to Hiro’s kimono.
“Me?”
She shook her head and pointed more distinctly, to his sleeve.
“My sleeve?” He raised his arm to look more closely.
Tane’s hand snaked toward the cuff as if to reach inside.
Hiro jerked his hand away, but the girl pointed insistently at the sleeve. Cautiously, he moved his arm back toward her.
Tane reached inside his sleeve and tapped the hidden pocket where he stored his shuriken. When her finger touched the metal stars, she pulled away as if burned and backed against the wall.
“They’re only shuriken.” Hiro took one out to show her.
Tane waved her hands as if by doing so she could make the weapon disappear. Once again, she pointed to his sleeve.
“Not the weapons, then. The pocket?” Hiro asked. “Something about my kimono pocket?”
Tane nodded enthusiastically. She clasped her left hand into a loose fist, leaving a circular opening between her thumb and forefinger, turning the fist into a kind of pocket. Holding it toward him, she used her right hand to pantomime putting something inside it.
“You want to put something in my kimono pocket?” The question made Hiro highly uncomfortable.
Fortunately, Tane shook her head.
Hiro tried to figure out what else the girl might mean. “Did you put something in another kimono pocket?”
Her face lit up. Once again, she made the sign of the cross and bowed her head as if in prayer.
Hiro wondered what Father Mateo had to do with kimono sleeves—and then, in a flash, he understood. “You put something in the sleeve of the kimono you delivered to the foreigner this morning.”
Tane hugged herself in delight, gripping her own kimono sleeves and shivering with joy.
“Can you tell me what it is? Will it help us find the person who killed the emissary?” In his excitement, Hiro almost forgot the girl couldn’t answer him in speech.
Frustration passed across Tane’s face, but it disappeared quickly. Releasing her sl
eeves, she raised a hand and tapped her temple hesitantly.
“Tane?” Akiko’s voice preceded her presence only by an instant, but in that time the girl’s face and bearing changed completely.
By the time Hiro’s grandmother rounded the corner, Tane was swaying from side to side, arms crossed over her chest as she stared at the floor.
“Hiro-kun, I thought you’d left already.” Akiko’s expression shifted to concern at the sight of Tane. “What happened?” She looked at Hiro. “What have you done?”
“I . . . nothing.” With no other options, he gambled on a version of the truth. “I simply asked if she knew anything about Yajiro’s murder.”
Tane’s hands flew up to cover her ears. She closed her eyes and shook her head.
“Do not discuss it in front of her.” Akiko grabbed Hiro by the arm and escorted him out to the veranda. “I told you the child is frightened of strangers. If you wanted to speak with her, you should have gone through me. You can’t just speak to her of death. It upsets her . . . as you see.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .” Hiro wondered if Tane’s fright was real, or an act to prevent Akiko from learning about their conversation.
“She will be fine.” Akiko’s tone softened. “But do not do that again.”
CHAPTER 34
Hiro started down the hill, wondering what Tane hid in Father Mateo’s kimono sleeve and how the Jesuit could have missed its presence. He suspected the girl had lied about attempting to share the evidence with Akiko. More likely, the object implicated someone from Iga in the murder, and Tane feared revealing it to anyone connected with the kitchen—or, potentially, the crime.
Her choice of the priest did not seem strange. Father Mateo inspired trust in those he met. The Jesuits Tane encountered in her village must have behaved in a similar manner.
Hiro wished Akiko had not arrived so prematurely, but hoped the evidence in Father Mateo’s pocket would speak with the voice the girl had now been twice denied.
At the base of the hill he took a right and began to construct a plausible excuse for interrupting a funeral prayer. He had no intention of waiting to discover what lurked in the Jesuit’s sleeve.