Flask of the Drunken Master

by Susan Spann

  Hiro knew the house was in no danger. He had used small charges, packed with just enough explosive force to cause a nice distraction—and destroy the ostentatious lanterns.

  The homeowner ran for another bucket.

  Hiro hurried across the road to the place where the peddler lay.

  “You need to get up and run,” the shinobi said.

  The peddler’s moan explained why the poor man hadn’t answered the samurai.

  He was mute.

  Hiro grabbed the peddler’s arm and helped the quivering man to his feet.

  “If you can understand my words, you need to run—right now.”

  Chapter 45

  The peddler shielded his face with his hands.

  “Do you understand me?” Hiro asked.

  The peddler nodded and gestured toward the empty sack.

  Hiro picked it up and shook it open. “I will help, but hurry. You need to leave this place at once.”

  And so do I.

  The peddler grasped the nearest wooden bowl.

  Hiro and the peddler gathered up the scattered wares. When they finished, the poor man bowed, making sounds that indicated gratitude.

  “Go,” Hiro said, “and from now on, make sure you’re home by nightfall.”

  The peddler nodded, bowed, and hurried off. Hiro noted with approval that the poor man stuck to the shadows near the edge of the river road.

  Busy listening to the patter of the peddler’s feet on the earthen path, Hiro almost missed the hiss of steel behind his back.

  Almost.

  The shinobi ducked. A swish of wind brushed past his head. The attacker’s blade had missed by only inches.

  Hiro drew his shortsword as he spun to face his foe—the samurai guard who kicked the peddler and fled when the explosion shook the street.

  He must have recovered his courage and returned.

  “Shinobi,” the samurai hissed as he advanced and struck again.

  Hiro blocked the attack with his wakizashi and backed away to the shadows of the trees. He didn’t want the people up the street to see the fight and raise an alarm.

  The samurai followed, slashing the air with strikes that made up in force what they lacked in accuracy. Hiro continued to back away, dodging the body-level strikes and ducking when the samurai aimed for his neck.

  Without a katana, Hiro lacked the samurai’s reach. He couldn’t get in range to attack. He could only defend himself and wait for an opening.

  When they reached the shadow of the trees, the samurai paused, sword high. “You are a disgrace,” he said, “you honorless, beggar-loving shinobi dog. You and all your kind deserve to die.”

  Hiro gripped his wakizashi. “The only dog I see in this street is you.”

  With a growl of rage, the samurai raised his katana, lunged … and impaled himself on the blade of Hiro’s shortsword.

  Hiro grasped the samurai’s shoulder with his free hand as he shoved his sword into the samurai’s stomach. He had dodged beneath the guard’s attack and angled his wakizashi upward, piercing the guard beneath his ribs and thrusting the point toward his heart.

  The samurai gasped and dropped his sword.

  Hiro shoved the blade even deeper, feeling the warmth and wetness of the samurai’s blood flow over his hand. He stopped when the hilt stuck fast.

  The guard coughed and choked on the liquid flooding his lungs. He sputtered, coughed again, and sent a spray of bloody spittle down his chin.

  Hiro stepped away, withdrew his sword, and pressed the blade against the samurai’s neck.

  “You’re a dead man,” Hiro said. “The question is, do I end this fast or let you bleed to death on the river bank?”

  This time, there was no priest to stay his hand.

  The samurai spit a mouthful of blood in Hiro’s face and reached for his wakizashi. Hiro wrenched the weapon from his hand.

  The samurai fell to his knees, struggling to breathe as his lungs filled up with blood.

  “Enough.” Hiro dropped the samurai’s shortsword in the road and wiped his own sword clean on the dying man’s robe. He grasped the man’s topknot and pulled it back.

  He bent to look the guard in the eye. “Unlike you, I do not want a man to suffer.”

  Hiro sheathed his sword, grasped the samurai’s chin with his free hand, and snapped the man’s neck.

  He felt the samurai go limp, life ended with merciful speed.

  Hiro released his grip, and the body crumpled forward on the road.

  He wiped the blood from his face and hands as best he could and looked around. No one had seen him. The trees along the river path were out of sight of Sanjō Road, and no one walked the path that night—most likely to avoid the samurai guards. Even the peddler had disappeared, though Hiro doubted the mute would turn him in.

  Hiro needed to vacate the scene but didn’t want to leave a body lying in the road. He had an errand to complete and didn’t need the shogun’s guards discovering a samurai corpse before he finished his mission. In truth, he would rather they never found it at all.

  Without a witness, no one could tie Hiro to the crime, but he still preferred to dispose of the body.

  He looked at the river. The current near the banks ran slow, but farther out the water flowed with better speed. He hoped it was enough to move a corpse.

  Hiro sheathed his sword and raised the samurai’s limp arm. Slinging the arm around his shoulders, Hiro grasped the dead man’s waist and lifted the samurai to his side. With one arm around the samurai’s waist and the other holding the dead man’s lifeless arm around his shoulders, Hiro started toward the bridge. From a distance, they looked like a poorly dressed samurai helping a friend stagger home after too much sake.

  When they reached the bridge, Hiro risked a glance up Sanjō Road toward the ruined lanterns. A cluster of people stood in the road, faces lit by the flickering glow of a handheld lantern carried by a woman who might—or might not—have been Mayuri. Angry voices pierced the night. The words didn’t carry as far as the bridge, but Hiro didn’t care what they said. They hadn’t noticed him or the corpse.

  Hiro started across the bridge, carrying the samurai at his side. When they reached the middle of the river, Hiro checked to make sure that no one was looking and swung the samurai over the railing.

  The body hit the water with a muffled splash.

  As Hiro hoped, the current carried the dead man’s body away, the corpse already starting to sink as water soaked his heavy silk kimono.

  Hiro glanced in both directions. The bridge was empty. No one had seen him dump the body. Sooner or later, the samurai’s corpse would wash up on the bank or catch on a bridge, but at least no one would discover it here tonight.

  After retrieving the samurai’s fallen swords and tossing them into the river, Hiro hurried across the bridge and continued west, though not on Sanjō Road. He wove through narrow side streets to avoid patrolling guards. Not only was he dressed as a shinobi, but his clothes were now stained with samurai blood.

  Chapter 46

  Hiro doubled back from the south and reached the rice sellers’ street as the temple bells began to ring hour.

  As Hiro expected, a samurai stood guard at the intersection of Sanjō Road and Karasuma Street. Hiro paused and observed the guard from the safety of the shadows. Unlike the samurai on the bridge, this one didn’t pace or seek distractions. He watched the road, bored but alert.

  Hiro pulled a stoppered bamboo segment from his tunic. As he weighed the explosive in his hand, he considered its effect. The bombs had served their purpose at the bridge, but after dark, in a silent ward, another explosion would lead to trouble Hiro didn’t need.

  He returned the bamboo tube to his tunic and bent to untie the thongs that held his trousers against his ankles. Once released, they fell into a standard hakama shape. Hiro hoped they would pass for normal trousers in the dimly lighted street.

  He stepped from the alley and headed toward the guard, affecting the purposeful gait
of a man on an errand.

  The samurai turned as Hiro’s footsteps reached his ears. Light from a nearby lantern shimmered on his graying hair. The slenderness of his lower arms revealed advancing age.

  Hiro hoped the guard was new and didn’t know the neighborhood too well.

  When the shinobi drew within speaking distance, the samurai said, “Come no farther, sir. Please state your name and business on this street.”

  Hiro stopped and bowed, encouraged by the samurai’s politeness.

  “Good evening,” he said, “I am a physician on an urgent call.”

  The samurai looked suspicious. “I didn’t see anyone go to call a physician.” He took a closer look at Hiro and frowned. “Is that blood on your clothes?”

  Hiro looked down at his clothes as if just noticing the spray of bloody droplets down the front. The dark fabric muted the color, but, as he expected, an experienced samurai recognized it even so.

  “I was called to a fight in a teahouse. A cook and a brewer, fighting over a girl. I didn’t even have time to put on proper clothes.” He hoped his tone was sufficiently nonchalant. He didn’t want to kill another samurai that night.

  “Who won?” the samurai asked, suspicion giving way to curiosity.

  Hiro shrugged. “The cook had a knife, but I think both men will live.”

  “Who called you here?” the samurai asked.

  “They sent a boy—he found me at the teahouse,” Hiro said. “I don’t remember the patient’s name. The shop lies two doors past the one of a merchant named Basho.”

  The guard shrugged. “No idea who that is, but before you go—my wife has a problem with a recurring toothache. The physician we consulted couldn’t cure it.”

  “Toothache?” Hiro asked. “Have you tried mint tea? Any apothecary should have mint leaves. Buy the fresh ones—they work better than the dried. Your wife should chop a handful of leaves, boil them in water for ten full minutes, strain the liquid, and let it cool. She can drink two cups at a time, three hours apart, until the ache subsides. If that doesn’t work, the tooth will have to come out.”

  “Thank you!” The samurai reached for his purse. “May I pay you? I don’t want to take advantage.”

  Hiro shook his head and bowed. “Not many men would treat a physician with courtesy and respect. I consider your generosity more than sufficient compensation.”

  “I wish you great success with your other patient.” The samurai stepped aside.

  Hiro continued down the street, pleased that the samurai’s personal needs played into his ruse so well. At the same time, his heart thudded in his chest and his stomach swirled with anxious tension.

  As he approached Basho’s warehouse, he slowed and moved to the side of the street.

  Lights flickered in the upper floors of half the merchants’ houses. Wealthy men could afford the oil to stay up after dark. Unfortunately, wakeful neighbors made the errand far more dangerous. Hiro would have to wait for them to sleep before he entered Basho’s shop.

  Wooden shutters covered the front of Basho’s warehouse, blocking the light from within. The upper story had no windows on the front and angled slats across the windows on the sides. Hiro wouldn’t know for certain when the merchant’s family went to sleep.

  Narrow alleys separated Basho’s building from the ones on either side. Hiro stepped into the alley on the east side of the warehouse. Squinting up, he thought he saw a light between the slats of the upstairs window. Unfortunately, he couldn’t tell for certain.

  Hiro returned to the edge of the alley and looked out into the street. He saw no one in the road and heard no sounds except cicadas and, more distantly, the hoot of an evening owl.

  Halfway along the alley, a pair of barrels sat outside a door that probably led to a private storage room behind the shop. Hiro lifted the lid of the closest barrel. The grassy scent of rice hulls wafted out, along with a hint of dust.

  Hiro reached inside and found the barrel empty. It seemed solid and smelled clean, but merchants rarely left undamaged barrels out unguarded overnight. Faulty or no, this one would serve his purpose. Hiro climbed into the barrel and returned the lid to its place above his head. The space was dark and cramped but smelled far better than many places Hiro had spent the night.

  As he crouched in the barrel, Hiro considered Chikao’s murder, and why Ginjiro felt the need to hide the truth about his interactions with the brewer. Omissions seemed suspicious from a man who claimed he had nothing to hide.

  Yet Ginjiro wasn’t the only suspect.

  Kaoru’s temper, combined with his love of money, gave Chikao’s son a motive, too. However, in Hiro’s experience, laziness trumped avarice when a murder required work.

  Yoshiko claimed innocence, but Hiro didn’t know how to interpret the samurai woman’s denials. He needed more information about her whereabouts at the time of Chikao’s death.

  The lack of a clear investigative path made Hiro peevish. In both of the previous murders he solved—the one at the teahouse and the more recent one at the shogunate—specific facts had pointed the way to the killer. This time, the evidence didn’t point in any clear direction.

  Hiro hoped he could find Basho and that the merchant’s information would prove useful. If not he had killed a man, and spent a night in a barrel, for no good reason.

  Temple bells rang. An hour had passed. Hiro stretched his muscles as well as he could to keep from cramping in the tiny space. His foot and ankle went to sleep, sending painful tingling up his leg. Hiro wiggled his toes until the unpleasant sensation went away.

  No sooner had he managed this when the other one started prickling.

  The temple bells marked the passage of another hour.

  Hiro lifted the lid of the barrel and listened. He heard no human sounds in the alley. All the houses he could see were dark. A cricket chirped near the base of the barrel, but only once. Then silence fell.

  Hiro left the barrel. As he replaced the lid, he heard footsteps in the street. He crouched behind the barrel and pressed himself against the warehouse wall.

  A shadowed figure passed the alley. Hiro saw a scabbard sticking up behind the shadow’s back and caught the faintest gleam of moonlight off the oiled chonmage on a samurai’s head.

  Hiro pulled a strip of cloth from beneath his obi and secured it over his nose and mouth.

  The thump of geta echoed on the porch of Basho’s shop, followed by the hollow bang of a fist on wooden shutters.

  “Basho!” yelled a female voice. “Get up and open this door at once!”

  The voice belonged to Akechi Yoshiko.

  Chapter 47

  Hiro crept along the alley toward the street.

  Yoshiko pounded on the shutters. “Basho! I know you’re in there—open up! Quit hiding in your rice like a frightened rat. Get out here now and pay your debt like a man!”

  A muffled female voice came through the shutters. “Basho isn’t here.”

  “You’re lying,” Yoshiko replied.

  “It’s after midnight,” Basho’s wife complained. “Come back tomorrow.”

  Yoshiko gave a derisive snort. “Why, so you can claim he isn’t here? We’ve played that game long enough. No more.”

  “We haven’t got your money,” Hama called. “Come back tomorrow.”

  “No,” Yoshiko growled. “Open this door, or I’ll break it down.”

  Hiro jumped as the shutters banged and rattled.

  He peeked around the corner just as Yoshiko stepped back and kicked the wooden shutters hard. Hiro didn’t know many women capable of breaking down a door, but Yoshiko had the strength—and the determination too.

  Hiro looked at the upper floors of neighboring houses. He saw no lights or movement. No one cried alarm, although that fact did not surprise him. Merchants often worked together to protect their wards from fire and natural dangers, but no one wanted to confront a thief or debt collector in the dark of night. Unless Matsunaga Hisahide’s guards investigated, Hama and Basho were on
their own.

  Hiro doubted the samurai would come to save the merchant, either. Hisahide’s guards weren’t paid to intervene in debt collections. More importantly, the guard on duty let Yoshiko down the street.

  She kicked the door again, and Hiro heard a cracking underneath the shuddering bang.

  “Stop it—please!” Hama’s voice revealed an edge of fear. “I’ll open up. Don’t break it down!”

  Hiro heard the click of a latch and a rattling sound as the shutters opened.

  This time, Hama’s voice was clear. “I told you, my husband is not home. You have no right to harass us in the middle of the night.”

  “Your husband owes a substantial debt to the Sakura Teahouse.” Yoshiko’s response held no remorse. “Over a month ago, he asked for mercy, and I granted him additional time to pay. He hasn’t paid a single copper coin. I’m finished waiting.”

  “Basho went out of town on business,” Hama said. “He’ll pay when he returns.”

  “No rice merchant leaves Kyoto at this time of year.” Yoshiko’s voice sounded slightly farther away, as if she had stepped inside the shop. “He’s hiding, trying to avoid his debt.”

  Hiro wondered whether Yoshiko was bluffing.

  “You have no authority to threaten this family,” Hama said. “I’ll report you to the magistrate!”

  “Go ahead,” Yoshiko said. “In fact, I’ll stand right here and wait. Your husband owes a legitimate debt. I have the right to collect it. Who will the magistrate punish if you wake him in the night?”

  “Only a wicked woman would use her status in this way,” Basho’s wife hissed. “You disgrace your family and your class.”

  Hiro expected Yoshiko to kill the older woman on the spot. No commoner could legally insult a samurai. Instead, he heard a heavy crash and the shimmering hiss of rice against the floor.

  “No!” Hama gasped.

  A second barrel crashed to the floor.

  “No, please,” Basho’s wife moaned, “I’m sorry—I apologize! Please stop, before you ruin us. We cannot sell the rice once it’s been soiled.”