Flask of the Drunken Master (21 page)

As Hiro approached, the samurai stepped forward with the arrogance of a man promoted far above his talents.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “Identify yourself and show your pass.”

Hiro stopped and bowed. “I am Matsui Hiro, interpreter for the foreign priest who lives up the road, past Okazaki Shrine. We passed this way, coming home, a few minutes ago.”

“I didn’t see you.” The samurai gripped his firearm more tightly. “I came on duty ten minutes ago, when the temple bells rang the hour. Show me your travel pass and identification.”

“I don’t need identification.” Hiro smiled with a politeness he didn’t feel. “I haven’t passed any barricades. I don’t want to cross the river. I’m going north, to the bathhouse, for a soak.”

The samurai scowled. “Okazaki Shrine marks the eastern boundary of Kyoto. If you enter the city from past the shrine, you have to present a pass.”

“I left it at home,” Hiro said.

“Go back and get it.”

Hiro bristled. His desire to avoid attention warred with loathing for this petty bully flexing his authority without cause.

“Fetch your pass,” the guard repeated, “or you can explain yourself to the magistrate.”

“You’re going to arrest me?” Hiro couldn’t believe it. “On what charge?”

Chapter 41

The samurai took an aggressive step forward. “I have orders to guard this bridge, and to arrest any person who seems suspicious.”

He glared at Hiro to reinforce the threat.

The shinobi felt a strong desire to give the insolent samurai a lesson—and a limp. Fortunately, training and the wish to avoid arrest stayed Hiro’s hands. Instead, he bowed. “I will go home and retrieve the pass.”

The samurai scowled. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m taking you to the magistrate, on a charge of trying to enter the city without the required documentation.”

“That charge does not apply to a man who hasn’t passed a barricade,” Hiro said. “Do you really want to confess to arresting an innocent man a mile from his home?”

“Enough!” The guard made a grab for Hiro’s arm. “You’re under arrest.”

Hiro stepped away and laid a hand on his katana. “I respectfully decline to be arrested.”

The samurai’s nostrils flared. “How dare you threaten the shogun’s agent?”

“I made no threats,” the shinobi said, “I simply refused your invitation to visit the magistrate.”

“With a hand on your sword.” The samurai lowered the arquebus until its muzzle pointed at Hiro’s chest.

“I’m carrying a towel.” Hiro waved the strip of cloth across the end of the samurai’s firearm. “What kind of man starts trouble with a towel?”

“That might be a ruse,” the samurai snapped.

Hiro wondered whether the samurai realized his arquebus wasn’t primed and wouldn’t fire. “Perhaps you would change your mind if you knew I reside in the home of the Portuguese merchant who sold that weapon to Matsunaga-
san
.”

The samurai glanced at the weapon. “The shogun’s quartermaster issued this to me this afternoon. I do not know who bought it or from whom.” He raised the weapon’s muzzle a fraction. “How do I know you’re telling the truth? You might be a shinobi in disguise.”

“Do I look like a shinobi?” Hiro asked.

The arquebus wavered. “How would I know? I’ve never seen one. Nobody sees a shinobi and lives.”

“Consider this carefully,” Hiro said. “If you take me to Magistrate Ishimaki—who, I will add, is a friend of mine—I will have to file a formal complaint against you. Would your record survive the embarrassment of arresting a man for bathing?”

The samurai stared at Hiro’s towel. After a minute that felt much longer, he scowled.

“Go on, then, but I’m following you to the bathhouse, and I’ll wait outside to ensure you aren’t faking.”

“You’re welcome to follow me all the way in.” Hiro shrugged. “It’s a public bath. But, just out of curiosity, who will watch the bridge while we are bathing?”

The samurai scowled. “Go away. Enjoy your bath.”

“Thank you.” Hiro smiled. “I intend to.”

*   *   *

As Hiro soaked in the heated water, he considered the samurai guards throughout Kyoto. The presence of the samurai sent a message to the Ashikaga clan, as well as every spy within the city—a message that Matsunaga Hisahide met all threats with force.

However, Hiro suspected Hisahide had a secondary goal. Samurai at the city gates would send a similar message with less effort and expense than posting men in every ward. Hiro wondered what the acting shogun gained by flooding the streets with guards. To his intense frustration, the answer eluded him.

The Miyoshi’s threat of war did not explain the city guards. An army on the march moved slowly, giving Hisahide time to secure the city before his enemies arrived. The battle would start outside the Japanese capital, not within it.

Hiro’s instincts warned him that Hisahide was up to something. Unfortunately, those instincts couldn’t tell him what it was.

He hurried home as twilight doused the final flames of the setting sun. As he passed the Kamo River bridge, he nodded to the grumpy samurai.

The guard pretended not to notice.

As he reached the Jesuit’s house, Hiro heard the distinctive murmuring of voices raised in prayer. He smiled. Father Mateo held worship meetings almost every evening. With luck, the shinobi could change his clothes and leave again before the Jesuit realized he’d been home.

Hiro laid his hand on the garden gate.

Aggressive barking started in the yard across the street.

Hiro turned.

A giant akita strained against the woven rope that tied it to a stake in the neighbor’s yard. Hiro knew the dog did only what its nature called for, but he did not like the beast’s near-constant barking in the night—or the memory that this dog had almost killed the Jesuit whose life was tied by oaths to Hiro’s own.

Hiro stalked across the road in the gathering dark. Shinobi did not take revenge on beasts, but Hiro wanted to teach the dog a lesson. He stopped three feet from the end of the rope, sending the akita into a frenzy. The barking increased. A line of drool swung from the dog’s bared fangs.

The akita lunged against the rope, but cord and stake held firm. In the weeks since the Jesuit’s injuries, the neighbor had learned to tie his dog securely.

Hiro snarled, a sound in tone and timbre indistinguishable from the akita’s own. The dog stopped barking, momentarily confused. Hiro lunged. The dog leaped backward with a startled yelp.

The akita growled. Hiro growled back. The akita barked, but with less confidence.

Hiro suddenly realized how foolish he looked and that he had momentarily—and unwisely—let his own emotions off the rope. He didn’t actually want the neighbor’s dog to quit its barking altogether. He loathed the beast for biting the priest, but as long as the neighbor kept the dog securely in the yard, the dog did make a decent warning system.

“I don’t like you,” Hiro said as the dog resumed its barking, “but for now your usefulness outweighs the irritation.”

Hiro returned to the Jesuit’s yard and slipped through the garden gate. He hoped no one had seen his conversation with the dog. He didn’t understand why he approached it in the first place—he didn’t usually let emotion rule his conscious mind. The difficulties of this day, and this investigation, must be having more effect than he had realized.

Hiro reminded himself that he must think before reacting from now on.

Gato greeted him at the veranda door with a mew and a patter of paws. He felt the cat rub against his shin and bent to pick her up.

Someone—probably Ana—had already lit the brazier in the corner of Hiro’s room and unfolded his narrow futon on the floor. Hiro gave the mattress a longing look. Given his plans, he wouldn’t be using it very much that night.

Gato squirmed. Hiro set her down and watched her trot into the garden. He left the door ajar for her return, crossed to his desk, and knelt before it. After a moment to clear his thoughts, he walked his mind through his plans for the evening.

He visualized himself avoiding the samurai patrols and reaching Basho’s shop without detection. Once there, he intended to find Basho and learn what the merchant knew about the murder. He imagined the encounter. Basho would likely flee. In his mind the shinobi tripped the merchant, who fell to the ground with a thump.

Hiro opened his eyes.

The thump was real.

Father Mateo’s worship service had gone silent.

Someone pounded on the Jesuit’s front door.

Hiro leaped to his feet and listened. His urge to rush to the priest’s defense waged war against the training that required him to hold his ground until he knew the nature of a threat. The visitor might not mean the Jesuit harm. Hiro split the difference. He crouched at the door that separated his room from the common room and listened.

Moments later, a reedy voice called, “Hiro-
san
! Where are you?”

Chapter 42

Hiro slid his shoji open as Suke appeared in the doorway separating the narrow foyer from the
oe
. The monk looked startled by the people in the common room.

Father Mateo walked toward Suke. “Good evening. Welcome to my home.”

Suke looked from the priest to the gathered people. “Where is Hiro-
san
?”

Ana stepped into the common room from the kitchen entrance, opposite the one where Suke stood. A dusting of rice flour on her hands indicated a tasty snack in progress, probably for after the prayer meeting. The housekeeper’s gaze settled on Suke and dropped to his filthy feet.

Suke shifted nervously. Crumbs of something fell from his kimono to the floor.

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.