Flask of the Drunken Master

by Susan Spann

  Ana slowly turned to Hiro. She caught his eye and shook her head, lips set in a line that boded ill for Hiro’s gastronomic future. He wondered how many sweetened rice balls Suke’s visit cost him.

  He stifled a sigh. He would miss the tasty snacks.

  Father Mateo’s parishioners stared at Hiro and the monk. One of the older women looked nervous; the others just seemed confused.

  Hiro wished that Suke had arrived a little later. The shinobi stayed away from Father Mateo’s religious meetings, mostly so the converts wouldn’t ask why Hiro didn’t care about the foreign god. To his credit, Father Mateo didn’t seem to mind Hiro’s absence. A decision not to pray was not the same as showing disrespect.

  Hiro felt no guilt about rejecting Father Mateo’s god and faith. The unknown benefactor who hired the Iga ryu—and Hiro—did not make religion part of the job assignment. All he asked—and paid for—was a man to guard the priest.

  Suke noticed Hiro and lit up with recognition. He bowed with such excitement that he almost tumbled over. “Hiro-san, we need to speak … alone.”

  Father Mateo’s converts shifted. Rudeness made most Japanese uneasy.

  Suke blinked and looked around. “Who are all these people?”

  Hiro gestured toward his door. “Please come this way. We can speak in private.”

  Suke surveyed the room. “Is this a meeting?” He bowed to a woman who knelt nearby. “Good evening, Miss. Is this a dinner party?”

  The woman wore her obi tied in front, which marked her as a prostitute. She had a narrow face and deep-set eyes. When she smiled, her face showed real kindness.

  “No,” she said. “We gather here to worship Jesus God. Do you know Him?”

  “I’m on a first-name basis with all the kami.” Suke straightened proudly, though a wobble drained the dignity from his pose.

  The woman gave Suke a sorrowful look. “Kami are evil spirits, trying to lead your soul astray.” She patted the floor beside her. “Sit. I will tell you of the real god.”

  Suke glanced at Hiro, clearly torn between his errand and the prostitute’s attention.

  “We’ll have snacks and tea together afterward,” she promised.

  Suke’s head snapped toward the woman. “Sake?” he asked hopefully.

  “Oh, no.” She shook her head. “God disapproves of people drinking sake.”

  “What kind of selfish god keeps all the sake for himself?” Suke demanded. “Never mind. I haven’t time. I’m on important business. No distractions.”

  Suke crossed the floor and entered Hiro’s room.

  Hiro gave Father Mateo an apologetic look. The Jesuit smiled and nodded.

  Hiro stepped back into his room and slid the shoji closed behind him.

  Suke knelt beside the open door that led to the veranda. Gato sat on Hiro’s futon, staring at the monk. She leaned toward Suke and inhaled, lips apart as if to taste the air.

  She sneezed.

  Suke laughed at the cat.

  Gato stood and shook herself, offended by the laughter. She gave the monk a disdainful look, stalked to the other side of the mattress, and cleaned herself with a vigor that, in a human, would show chagrin.

  Hiro knelt. Under the circumstances, he dispensed with formal greetings. “You have news?”

  “Urgent news,” Suke said. “This afternoon, the jailers whipped Ginjiro!”

  When Hiro didn’t respond at once, Suke said, “I see your shock. Magistrate Ishimaki changed his mind.”

  Hiro reminded himself that Suke believed his “news” would help.

  “Yes,” Hiro said. “I heard about the beating. In fact, I visited the prison this afternoon.”

  Suke frowned, eyebrows drawn together and lips pushed out like a petulant child’s. “How can I help if you learn all the information before I do?”

  Hiro struggled not to smile at Suke’s genuine disappointment. “I appreciate your help. It’s quite important.”

  “It is?” Suke’s smile returned. “I’ll find the next clue first.” The smile faded. “Hiro-san, we have to help Ginjiro. Never once has he refused me food—or sake—even when nobody pays him for it. Some nights, Tomiko brings food to the alley after closing. Ginjiro watches from behind the door. He is generous and kind. I can’t believe he killed a man in anger.”

  “I agree,” Hiro said, “but our opinions will not save Ginjiro. We need proof to show the magistrate.”

  “I will think of a way to find some proof.” Suke closed his eyes. His forehead furrowed as he searched his addled brain.

  Hiro contemplated the errand he would run when Suke left. A sliver of moon hung low in the sky, making concealment easier. Hiro appreciated that advantage, especially with nervous warriors guarding Kyoto’s streets.

  Gato stepped off the bed and approached the monk, ears pricked forward and tail extended. She sniffed the air, nose twitching at the unfamiliar odors emanating from the stranger’s robe.

  Suke opened his eyes but didn’t move. The cat extended her whiskers until they grazed Suke’s left knee. The monk’s lips twitched as he suppressed a smile. Gato lowered her nose and sniffed at one of the greasy spots that dotted the monk’s kimono like fleas on a dog.

  Then, to Hiro’s horror, Gato licked it.

  Chapter 43

  Suke’s face lit up in a gleeful smile. “Cats do like sake!”

  Gato continued licking at the spot.

  Hiro didn’t know what the spot contained, and didn’t want to. He grabbed the cat, who flailed her paws in a vain attempt to return to the monk’s kimono.

  “I apologize for her lack of manners.” Hiro tucked the cat to his chest and stroked her fur. After a moment, Gato ceased her struggling and relaxed in the crook of his arm. A rumbling purr rose up in her throat.

  Suke leaned forward. “Does it like your rubbing its fur that way?”

  Hiro looked at Gato, aware of how unusual his interaction with the cat appeared to others’ eyes. Most Japanese people thought of cats as useful vermin hunters but developed no attachment to the beasts. Until he rescued Gato, a little over a year before, Hiro had never known a cat and had no real desire to bring one home.

  In the intervening months, his opinion changed.

  He ran a hand over Gato’s back, enjoying the feel of her fur beneath his fingers. “She seems to like it.”

  Gato’s purr crescendoed.

  Suke raised a gnarled hand. “Can other people touch it? Does it bite?”

  Hiro glanced at Gato. “She does bite, sometimes, mostly just in fun.”

  Suke touched the cat with the tips of his fingers. A smile crept over his face as he stroked her neck and back with a gentle touch. “It has hair like a baby, soft and warm.”

  Hiro wondered how Suke knew the feel of an infant’s hair. He realized how little he really knew about the monk.

  Unraveling that mystery would have to wait for another day.

  “I have a plan to help Ginjiro,” Hiro said.

  “Why didn’t you say so?” Suke straightened and laid his hands in his lap. “How are we going to free him?”

  Hiro resisted the urge to dismiss the question. Suke needed to feel useful, if only to prevent him from unwanted interference.

  When Hiro didn’t answer right away, the monk stood up and said, “We should go at once.”

  Hiro thought quickly. “We can’t be seen together. You were right—there’s too much risk.”

  Suke leaned forward conspiriatorially. “Give me a job. I can handle it.”

  Hiro stood up. “All right. I need you to watch a suspect.”

  Suke’s grin told Hiro the monk had fallen for the plan.

  “Go back to Ginjiro’s,” Hiro said, “and look for Akechi Yoshiko.”

  “You want me to watch a kitsune?” Suke drew back, aghast. “What if she leads me into the mountains and traps me there forever?”

  “Yoshiko is not a fox spirit,” Hiro said, “though, if she were, I would think a man of your wisdom could outwit her easily.
”

  Concern warred with pride on Suke’s face. At last he said, “I am a dangerous man.”

  “To foxes as well as to humans, I am certain,” Hiro said. “Tomiko hired Yoshiko to guard the brewery tonight.”

  “Do you think a kitsune might have killed Chikao?” Suke asked.

  “Foxes don’t strike men on the head with sake flasks,” the shinobi said. “Still, I think it wise to use discretion. Akechi-san should not suspect you’re watching.”

  Suke nodded. “I will be as secretive as a shinobi!” He furrowed his brow. “I’ll need a disguise.”

  “Pretend to be drunk and sleeping in a corner,” Hiro said.

  Suke frowned. “That’s not a disguise. I do that all the time.” He paused. A smile crept over his face. “But this time, I’ll be faking! Hiro-san, that might just work!”

  The monk had all the subtlety of a swarm of bees in a bathhouse.

  Hiro hoped someone would buy Suke enough sake to make the monk forget his assignment altogether. Unfortunately, Hiro couldn’t give Suke any more money—the monk didn’t usually have any coins, and Hiro had already given him money recently. Someone might notice and ask Suke where he obtained the silver. Hiro didn’t trust the monk to remember his assignment was a secret.

  Still, he felt fairly certain that someone would offer the monk a drink.

  Hiro escorted Suke across the veranda and through the garden. He didn’t want to disturb the prayer meeting a second time.

  When they reached the street, the monk took off for Ginjiro’s at a surprisingly rapid pace, as if determined to reach the sake shop in time to beg a drink before the generous patrons left.

  After Suke disappeared, Hiro returned to his room to prepare for his own clandestine mission. He changed from his gray kimono into a pair of dark hakama and a dark blue surcoat that blended with the shadows. As he dressed, he grew aware that the sounds of prayer had ceased again. He paused and listened but heard no voices in the common room.

  Father Mateo must have concluded the worship service earlier than usual.

  Hiro finished tying his obi and went to the door that separated his room from the common room beyond. He slid the shoji open and looked out.

  Father Mateo knelt by the hearth, alone, eating his dinner off a lacquered tray.

  Hiro joined the priest at the hearth. “I apologize if Suke ruined your meeting.”

  The Jesuit smiled. “He caused a stir but did no damage. I needed to end the service early anyway. Some of my converts walk a long way to get here. I didn’t want them leaving late, with so many guards in the streets.”

  Hiro nodded. An arrogant samurai wouldn’t hesitate to harass a prostitute, or any other commoner, for that matter.

  The front door banged. Heavy footsteps thumped in the entry.

  Hiro faced the entrance without alarm. Only Luis Álvares sounded so much like a drunken bear.

  Luis stormed into the common room, cheeks red and shoulders heaving. Without a word, he crossed to the hearth and thumped himself down in the seat reserved for the master of the house. As usual, Hiro found the merchant’s choice offensive. Father Mateo claimed he didn’t care, but the shinobi hated seeing Luis in the Jesuit’s rightful place.

  After crossing his legs in an awkward manner, Luis declared, “I’ve sent a message to the Miyoshi daimyo, telling him that a merchant in Fukuda will take over the sale from here. I believe that should resolve the shogun’s issue.” He turned his face toward the kitchen and shouted, “Ana!”

  Luis leaned forward and peered at Father Mateo’s dinner tray. “No meat tonight? How do these people survive on rice and mush?”

  Hiro raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Teaching Luis to appreciate Japanese customs was like capturing wind in a bucket, and Hiro didn’t waste his precious time on futile acts.

  Chapter 44

  Hiro left home three hours after sunset. He wore dark clothes and left his katana but carried his wakizashi, along with other, less common weapons he concealed within his clothes.

  He kept to the shadows along the edge of the street. Not even the neighbor’s vigilant akita saw him leave. As he glided from shadow to shadow, he kept a watchful eye on the road. The choice to wear assassin’s clothing would not go over well with the shogun’s guards.

  During other investigations, Hiro wore his samurai clothes on nighttime missions. Until recently, no one noticed a warrior out for an evening stroll. But edgy guards might stop a samurai out late at night, and a search of Hiro’s person would reveal forbidden shinobi weapons.

  Hiro passed the torii gate in front of Okazaki Shrine, silent as a shadow and ephemeral as the incense smoke that drifted upward in the starry night. He crossed the road and sneaked through private yards until he reached the final residence before the Kamo River.

  The arrogant young samurai marched back and forth across the bridge, doubtless to combat his rising boredom.

  Hiro smiled. Guards who sought to amuse themselves created opportunities for spies to pass unnoticed.

  At the near end of the bridge, the samurai guard turned around on his heel and marched away with his back to Hiro. When the guard passed the middle of the bridge, Hiro dashed across the open space between the end of Marutamachi Road and the line of sakura trees that shaded the path along the eastern side of the river. By the time the guard turned back around, at the far end of the bridge, the shinobi had disappeared into the shadows.

  Hiro headed south along the path beside the river, hoping to cross unchallenged at Sanjō Road. That bridge sat close to Pontocho. With luck, the allure of beautiful women and glowing lanterns would distract the guards assigned to watch the Sanjō bridge.

  Hiro slowed his pace as he approached the river crossing. A samurai stood at the eastern end of the bridge, interrogating a peddler. The peddler knelt, head bowed, and clutched a sack of goods before him. Lanterns on the bridge illuminated the poor man’s frightened face.

  The samurai shouted a question and slapped the back of the peddler’s head. The poor man cringed away from the blow, which made the samurai strike him a second time.

  “What are you doing out after dark?” the samurai bellowed. “Identify yourself and state your business!”

  The peddler lowered his face to his hands and moaned.

  Hiro stopped in the shadows beneath the trees.

  “What’s in there?” The samurai kicked the peddler’s sack. It rattled. “What’s in the bag?”

  The samurai kicked the sack again, and the peddler lost his grip. The sack fell over. Wooden bowls spilled out into the dirt.

  The samurai grasped the sack by its bottom and shook it, sending a shower of wooden objects into the road.

  “Worthless.” The samurai dropped the empty sack. “Nobody sells wooden junk after dark. What are you doing? Are you a Miyoshi spy? Speak up!”

  The peddler shook his head and pressed his face to the dirt.

  “I said, speak up!” The samurai kicked the peddler in the ribs.

  The man fell onto his side. He raised his knees to his chest and curled his arms around his face. As the samurai kicked him again, he whimpered softly.

  Hiro’s temper flared. Any fool could recognize a pauper heading homeward for the night.

  The samurai kicked the peddler’s shins. “I asked you a question! Answer me.”

  Conflict sliced through Hiro’s chest like a sword through silken cloth. His hatred of bullies prompted him to intervene on the peddler’s behalf, but Hiro knew the samurai would only arrest them both. He briefly considered assassinating the guard. Unfortunately, that could create more problems than it solved.

  Hiro looked around for another solution.

  A pair of carved stone lanterns flickered brightly in a yard to the east of the bridge. They sat about four houses up the road, across the street from the Sakura Teahouse.

  Hiro heard Mayuri’s voice in his head.

  Clumsy carving, poorly finished … disgrace to a high-class street.

  Hiro smiled.
Perhaps he could solve two problems in one evening.

  While the samurai yelled at the peddler, Hiro scaled the wall that separated the river path from the private home beyond. To his relief, the house was dark and shuttered.

  He hurried through the darkened yard with no more sound than a pine tree shedding needles. When he reached the street, he looked back toward the bridge. Distance and foliage made the samurai’s anger less distinct, but his posture, and the peddler’s quivering, told the shinobi the harassment hadn’t ceased.

  When the samurai bent over the peddler, Hiro dashed across the street and into the shadows on the far side of the road. He made his way through the darkened yards until he reached the veranda of the home with the flickering lanterns.

  Light seeped under the cracks in the house’s entryway and glowed behind the oiled paper windows. The family who lived there was awake.

  Hiro retrieved a pair of stoppered bamboo segments from a pouch concealed within his tunic. He double-checked the thickness of the segments and the stoppers. Then he checked the street and all the houses. He saw no one.

  A final glance toward the bridge confirmed the samurai remained preoccupied with the peddler. Hiro raced to the lanterns—which were, in fact, as ugly as described—and dropped a bamboo segment into each.

  He returned to the shadows, but didn’t pause beside the house. He raced along the edges of the houses toward the river, counting off the seconds as he ran.

  Just as Hiro reached the final house before the bridge, the bombs exploded.

  The explosion split the silence, setting Hiro’s ears to ringing. Pieces of the broken lanterns clattered on the ground. Hiro didn’t waste a moment looking back. He knew exactly what the bombs had done.

  Ahead, by the bridge, the samurai leaped away from the peddler.

  “Run!” he yelled. “Kyoto is under attack!”

  But instead of running toward the explosion, the samurai guard ran away across the bridge.

  Hiro heard shouts behind him and risked a glance. The owner of the ugly lanterns ran into the yard and tossed a bucket of water on the wreckage. The shattered lanterns hissed and sent up plumes of acrid smoke.

  “Water!” the man yelled toward his house. “Hurry, before it catches the house on fire!”