Blade of the Samurai: A Shinobi Mystery (Shinobi Mysteries) (11 page)

Once again, Hiro knew better, but as before he let the inaccurate statement pass without comment.

“No,” Kazu said, “just common brigands.”

“Did you see their faces?” Akira asked. “We should report this to the police.”

Kazu started to shake his head but stopped, as if the motion made him dizzy. “They wore hoods and covered their faces. I wouldn’t recognize them if I saw them.”

“Insolent thugs,” Akira said, “most likely wasting your money as we speak. The police are paid to patrol this river at night. I’ll have Hisahide speak to the ward commander.”

“Matsunaga-
san
obeys your commands?” Hiro asked.

Akira flushed. “I meant I would ask him.” After an awkward pause he continued, “Hisahide will want to know. This attack might be connected to the one at the shogunate.”

“Attack at the shogunate?” Kazu repeated. “Was the shogun also robbed?”

Akira shook his head. “I am sorry to bear bad news. Ashikaga Saburo has been murdered.”

Hiro caught a whiff of something terrible, like sake mixed with urine.

“Murdered?” Kazu stepped toward Akira. “What happened?”

The smell increased. It was coming from Kazu’s robe. The scents of the rain and the river had covered the unpleasant odor initially, but the longer they stood on the bank, the more it permeated the air.

Hiro wrinkled his nose. Kazu had overdone it.

“He was killed last night, in his office at the shogunate.” Akira seemed to notice the smell. He stepped away from Kazu but covered the movement by gesturing to Hiro and Father Mateo. “The shogun asked these men to help Hisahide find the killer.”

“Hiro?” Kazu squinted in confusion. “Why?”

“He has solved murders before,” Akira said. Hiro could see the samurai trying not to inhale too deeply. The smell lingered unpleasantly on the air. Etiquette forbade Akira from mentioning it, but no one could have missed the pungent odor.

“Saburo was stabbed to death with your dagger,” Hiro said. “If you killed him, confess it now.”

“Me?” Kazu stepped backward. The fear in his eyes looked real.

“You were missing,” Father Mateo said. “Matsunaga Hisahide asked us to find you.”

“I didn’t…” Kazu paused. “Who would kill Saburo?” He looked up the road to the north. “I need to get to the shogunate. I can search the office, identify things out of place.”

“You need a physician,” Father Mateo said.

“Only my pride is injured.”

“Under the circumstances, I think you should rest—and possibly change,” Akira said. “I will explain to Hisahide, and he will inform the shogun of your whereabouts.”

“With respect, I must refuse. Saburo’s confidential papers must be protected and delivered to the shogun.” Kazu’s face fell. “Also, I should pay my respects to Ichiro.”

The catch in Kazu’s voice sounded genuine. Hiro studied the younger shinobi with a concern that had nothing to do with Kazu’s injuries. A shinobi must always remain detached from his mission. Real emotion was dangerous and forbidden.

Hiro’s friendship with Father Mateo violated the rule too, but Hiro pardoned his own transgression because his assignment was permanent and tied his own life to the priest’s. Kazu’s assignment was neither lifelong nor dependent upon anyone’s survival but his own.

“Ichiro seemed fine this morning,” Hiro said. “He accompanied his mother to the shogunate.”

“I should pay my respects,” Kazu repeated. “As his tutor, it is my duty.”

Hiro hoped Kazu’s attachment to the child was merely a pretense.

“Lady Ashikaga will not welcome you today,” Father Mateo said. “She believes you killed her husband.”

Kazu raised his chin and squared his shoulders. “Then I must convince her otherwise.”

“It will help if I accompany you,” Akira said.

Hiro hadn’t expected that offer, especially given the way Kazu looked and smelled. It raised his estimate of Akira considerably.

“Would you?” Kazu asked. “Could we go now?”

Akira nodded. “I will explain that you were indisposed and could not have killed Saburo.” He paused. “But perhaps you would like to change your kimono first?”

Hiro’s frustration with Kazu hadn’t faded. The younger man should not have altered the cover story. His failure to meet them at Ginjiro’s ruined Hiro’s original plan. Still, Akira seemed to believe Kazu’s alternate claims, so maybe the changes hadn’t done any harm.

Hiro just hoped the police wouldn’t investigate the alleged assault too closely.

“If you will pardon my presumption,” Father Mateo said, “we should all get out of the rain.”

They walked together as far as the bridge at Marutamachi Road. There, Akira and Kazu turned into the wealthy residential district that housed the imperial palace and the shogunate, while Hiro and Father Mateo crossed the bridge and headed home.

As they passed Okazaki Shrine Father Mateo asked, “Do you think Kazu is safe? Akira seemed to believe him, but samurai often hide their thoughts.”

“Kazu can take care of himself,” Hiro said.

“Speaking of which, where did his bruises come from? And that smell…”

“Sake,” Hiro said, “mixed with what it becomes a few hours later.”

“And the injuries?”

Hiro shrugged. Every shinobi knew about self-inflicted wounds and how to cause them, but Hiro couldn’t explain that without also revealing that Kazu was more than just a man from Iga Province.

Moreover, Kazu’s wounds didn’t look entirely self-inflicted. Few men could strike themselves hard enough to split a lip and blacken an eye that badly. Kazu must have enlisted help, but Hiro didn’t know who the younger man would trust to do him harm.

Suddenly, a name sprang to mind. It seemed absurd, but Hiro knew it had to be the right one. He shook his head and smiled, though the expression faded quickly at the sight of the stranger standing in the road in front of Father Mateo’s home.

Chapter 21

The stranger wore a dark brown robe and woven sandals. Graying stubble covered his balding head. He stood in the street, holding the reins of a skinny chestnut gelding and a glossy black stallion that stomped the muddy ground as if impatient with the rain.

The brown horse wore a simple wooden saddle and a bridle made of rope, but the stallion had expensive leather trappings and a foreign bridle set with silver rings. It towered over the chestnut like a samurai beside a farmer’s child.

Father Mateo slowed his pace for a moment and then hurried toward the house.

“Samurai do not run,” Hiro murmured. He increased the length of his strides to match the priest’s.

Father Mateo slowed to a walk and made a nervous gesture toward the stallion. “That’s Father Vilela’s horse.”

“The black one?” As Hiro said the words, he realized his perception of priests had changed. Two years ago he would have assumed the nicer horse belonged to the wealthy foreigner, but Father Mateo’s ascetic nature had altered Hiro’s expectations. He now found it odd that a Jesuit priest would ride an expensive stallion.

Father Mateo didn’t miss the surprise in Hiro’s voice. “It was a gift from the shogun.”

“Interesting.” Hiro masked concern behind a casual tone. Father Vilela had never visited Father Mateo before.

Father Mateo ran a hand through his dark brown hair. “He must have news from Portugal.”

The brown-robed servant bowed as they passed but kept his eyes on the road. Father Mateo returned the bow, though for once he didn’t stop to address the stranger.

Ordinarily, the Jesuit’s adherence to Japanese etiquette would have drawn an approving nod from Hiro, but the fear on Father Mateo’s face deprived the shinobi of any satisfaction. Father Mateo had family and friends in Portugal. News arrived infrequently, and only tragic news would merit a personal visit from Father Vilela.

Father Mateo slipped out of his sandals and hurried across the veranda into the house. Hiro followed, alert but apprehensive. Father Mateo had not mastered the Japanese art of stifling emotion in difficult circumstances, and emotional moments made Hiro uncomfortable.

*   *   *

The shinobi had seen Gaspar Vilela only once, and at a distance, but he recognized the kimono-clad Jesuit instantly.

Except for his foreign features and the wooden cross that hung around his neck, Father Vilela could have passed for a samurai. His hair was so dark that not even a Japanese would call it brown, and he wore it in the samurai style, with a shaven pate and neatly tied
chonmage
atop his head. A hooked nose perched between his deep brown eyes, and beneath it Vilela’s mouth fell naturally into stern but neutral lines.

Hiro wished Father Mateo looked as much like a samurai.

Father Vilela bowed from a seated position but did not rise. Hiro and Father Mateo returned the gesture and joined the senior Jesuit at the hearth.

“Mateo,” Father Vilela said, “I hope you don’t mind my waiting.”

He spoke Japanese, doubtless in recognition of Hiro’s presence. The shinobi found that courtesy intriguing.

“Of course not,” Father Mateo said. “I am honored by your visit.”

“And no doubt, confused.” Father Vilela’s sternness melted away in the warmth of his smile. “Are you comfortable here? Now that I see it, the house looks rather small.”

“I have everything I need,” Father Mateo said, “and my parishioners appreciate humble houses.”

Father Vilela nodded. “If it pleases you, then it pleases me also.”

Watching the senior Jesuit, Hiro wondered—not for the first time—why a samurai client had hired the Iga
ryu
to protect Mateo instead of Gaspar Vilela. Both men came from Portugal, and Vilela was undoubtedly more important to the Church.

Hiro didn’t know the client’s identity and couldn’t guess at his motives, but the choice of Father Mateo suggested the unknown client’s motivations went beyond an appreciation of the Catholic faith.

As always, Hiro dismissed the question as soon as he found himself asking. So long as the client paid his bill, a shinobi would follow instructions, and the man who insisted on Father Mateo’s safety paid very often and very well indeed.

“May I offer you tea or cakes?” Father Mateo looked for Ana.

“Your maidservant offered when I arrived,” Father Vilela said, as if reading the other Jesuit’s thoughts, “but unfortunately I cannot stay long enough to enjoy your hospitality.”

“Is there news from Portugal?” Father Mateo ran his hand through his hair again, but this time flushed with embarrassment as he lowered the hand to his lap.

Hiro noted the flush with satisfaction. At least the priest remembered that in Japan, a nervous gesture was considered a sign of weakness.

“Not lately.” Father Vilela shook his head as if confused by the question. Almost at once, his eyes widened with understanding. “Did you think I brought bad news from home? That’s not why I have come.”

Father Mateo looked relieved, but the tone of Father Vilela’s final words mimicked samurai disapproval too closely for coincidence. Hiro prepared himself for unpleasant news.

“Miyoshi Akira sent me a message this morning,” Father Vilela said.

“Akira is a Christian?” Father Mateo drew back in surprise.

“He is not,” Father Vilela said, “though several high-ranked members of his clan have accepted the faith. Akira wrote to express displeasure with your treatment of the shogun’s servants.”

Father Mateo’s mouth fell open. “I assure you, we mistreated no one.” He looked to Hiro for support.

“On the contrary.” Vilela sounded more like a samurai than ever. “You treated everyone far too well. In addition, Miyoshi-
san
expressed displeasure with your statements that Christianity is available to commoners.”

The hint of a smile passed over Vilela’s face, then disappeared. “He accuses you of believing all men are equal.”

“All men are equal in God’s sight,” Father Mateo said. “Should I treat them otherwise?”

“The Japanese are a complex people, with intricate social rules. We have made great progress here, but that progress must come on Japanese terms. Father Xavier left very specific instructions—we argue with the Japanese only on vital points of doctrine.”

“Equality before God is a vital point of doctrine.” Father Mateo’s voice rose in pitch.

Father Vilela raised a hand like a parent calming an angry child. “It is your manner that offended. You must learn to speak the truth another way. Samurai do not want to hear that servants are the same as noble men.”

“I will not exchange the truth for samurai rudeness.” Father Mateo kept a civil tone, but barely. Hiro had seldom, if ever, seen the priest so angry. “No man deserves ill treatment just because of common birth.”

“I have not asked for any man’s mistreatment,” Father Vilela said, his voice as calm as a midnight pond, “merely that you remember you do not speak for yourself alone.”

“I speak for men who cannot speak for themselves.”

“Do you help their cause by making their lords resent us?”

Hiro watched, impressed, as Father Mateo’s expression changed from anger to chastened realization and then regret. Few men had the strength to acknowledge errors that flowed from a commitment to moral values.

“I apologize,” Father Mateo said. “It would be wrong for me to tear down what you and others have built.”

“To be clear,” Father Vilela said, “I am not asking you to change your message, merely to remember that words have appropriate times and places.”

“I will apologize to Miyoshi-
san
,” Father Mateo said.

“Unnecessary,” Father Vilela said, “and impossible, since you will not return to the shogunate.”

Chapter 22

Father Mateo’s eyes widened. “Are you ordering us to abandon the investigation?”

“Not both of you.” Father Vilela indicated Hiro. “I believe you said Matsui-
san
helped you solve the previous murder. I am sure he can solve this one in your absence.”

The shinobi shook his head. “We worked together to find the Akechi killer.”

“You will find this one alone.” Father Vilela’s tone permitted no argument, which naturally made Hiro inclined to argue.