Claws of the Cat (14 page)

*   *   *

Hiro reached the Kamo River just as a rider on a dark brown horse approached the bridge from the opposite side. The mare’s hide glowed crimson in the setting sun and her hooves seemed to disappear in the shadows near the road.

Only samurai had the legal right to ride, so the equestrian’s twin swords did not surprise Hiro, though the rider’s dark
hakama
trousers and matching silk surcoat made the shinobi take a closer look. Men almost always chose contrasting colors.

The rider was a woman, though dressed like a samurai, and even across the river Hiro recognized her face.

Akechi Yoshiko reined her horse to the right and trotted southward along the narrow dirt road on the west side of the river. She ducked to avoid a tree branch that grew over the path and spurred the mare to a canter. As she rode away, she glanced over her shoulder as though making certain no one followed her.

But for that gesture, Hiro might have dismissed it as just an evening ride for pleasure or exercise, but Yoshiko’s concern made him curious. He decided to forego his original plans for a little while and turned south along the parallel path that followed the eastern bank. As he hurried along, he wished he could have worn his shinobi trousers in public instead of the bulky kimono and swords his alleged occupation required. Kimonos made it hard to run without attracting notice and even harder to scale rooftops and climb trees for a secret view. He consoled himself with the knowledge that the kimono reduced the need for explanations if Yoshiko noticed him following. This close to Pontocho, Hiro could claim an appointment in the pleasure quarters.

The sun slipped beneath the horizon and the sky darkened from red and gold to lavender and indigo. Puffy clouds glowed like embers and then faded like dying coals.

Hiro lost sight of the horse in the fading light. The sound of its hooves died away. He slowed his pace and balled his fist in frustration, though he doubted he had missed any useful clue. A woman on horseback attracted attention even in busy Kyoto, and he doubted Yoshiko would take the horse on any suspicious mission.

For a moment, though, he had felt almost like a real shinobi again. He had missed that feeling since his arrival in Kyoto. Clandestine practice kept his skills sharp but didn’t produce the excitement of tracking real prey.

A few minutes later Hiro reached the bridge at Sanj
ō
Road. Darkness had fallen but glowing lanterns beckoned from the commercial ward on the opposite side of the river. As Hiro stepped onto the bridge to cross, he heard a faint neigh from somewhere behind him.

He turned and looked down the road toward the Sakura Teahouse. It wasn’t difficult to spot the establishment at night. Lanterns hanging from the eaves lit the building as brightly as day. Hiro saw figures in the yard and on a hunch, he walked toward the teahouse.

A horse-shaped shadow stood in the road in front of the Sakura. A dark figure in trousers held its reins, but it didn’t look like Yoshiko. More likely, a
d
ō
shin
held the reins while the woman met with someone inside the house. Nobuhide’s men would not refuse a request from the
yoriki
’s sister, even if it made them act like grooms. At least, the older ones would not refuse. Hiro doubted the arrogant younger man would sacrifice his pride for any woman.

As Hiro reached the space between the first and second houses, he conquered his curiosity and stopped. A closer approach would only work to his disadvantage. The
d
ō
shin
wouldn’t explain Yoshiko’s presence even if they knew the reason, and Hiro couldn’t scale rooftops wearing a kimono and swords. He could stop Yoshiko when she left, but she had no reason to tell the truth or even respond to his inquiry. His presence would only inform her that he knew what she was doing, and Hiro disliked unequal exchanges of information that didn’t weigh in his favor.

He retreated as far as the bridge and looked for a place to hide. He wouldn’t confront Yoshiko, but he had no intention of leaving before she did. He wanted to know the length of her visit and whether she left alone.

The sakura trees along the road provided no cover for someone on the ground. Leaves and branches would camouflage a climber in a hood, but a man without a mask would stand out like snow on a mountaintop.

Wide verandas circled the houses on both sides of the road. The porches were dark and shadowed by eaves, but candles flickered behind the paneled screens and Hiro didn’t relish the thought of explaining his presence to a resident who stepped out for a breath of air.

He turned to the bridge. The arched wooden structure was built on pilings of wood and stone that curved above and across the river. The riverbed was fairly steep, but the sheltered space where the bridge met the bank created an artificial cave just large enough to hide a man. Hiro moved around the end of the bridge and eased himself toward the bottom of the structure.

He had almost reached the shadowed space when a voice yelled, “Help! Murder!!”

Chapter 20

Hiro spun toward the road, then realized that the yell came from under the bridge.

A lumpy shadow emerged from the deeper darkness beneath the pilings. The sharp smell of urine wafted toward him, followed by a blast of rancid breath as the shadow screamed, “Help! Help! Murder!”

“Shh.” Hiro hushed the figure and waved his hands palm up to demonstrate he held no sword. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

He listened for footsteps on the road but heard nothing. The yells had not alarmed the
d
ō
shin
yet.

“Help!” the shadow called, more feebly this time. The odiferous figure canted to one side as though looking at Hiro from another angle. It did not yell again. Instead it asked, “Are you the police, or a murderer come to kill me?”

“Neither,” Hiro hissed. “I’m … lost. I wanted a place to sleep.”

“Lost? With those swords?” The shadow cackled with laughter. “Try again.”

The scent of long-dead fish and rotting teeth assailed Hiro’s nostrils.

“All right,” he confessed, crouching low and dropping his voice to a whisper. The shadow crouched a foot away and leaned forward conspiratorially. Ancient sweat and the odor of greasy hair joined the assault on Hiro’s senses. He tried to ignore them and stifled a cough of disgust.

“My wife is up there,” Hiro whispered, “with another man. I don’t want her to know I followed her.”

The shadow cackled again, more softly this time. “Are you going to kill him? Do you want me to help? I would, you know, for a silver coin.”

“Not tonight.” Hiro thought quickly. “I think she has a second lover also, and I want to find him too.”

“Then give me the silver anyway. If you don’t, I’ll yell again.”

“If I do, will you stay quiet until I leave?”

The beggar’s shadowy head tipped from side to side as he considered the offer. “All right.”

Hiro pulled a coin from the purse inside his kimono and placed it in the beggar’s outstretched palm. He had no trouble finding the proffered hand despite the darkness. The beggar almost poked Hiro in the eye in his eagerness to grab the coin.

The moment metal met palm the beggar snatched the silver away with a cackle and shuffled back under the bridge. Hiro crouched beside the piling and waited. He tried not to breathe through his nose.

A few minutes later a horse approached from the direction of the teahouse. Hooves thudded on the bridge. When Hiro judged the rider had reached mid-river he crept to the end of the bridge and looked across. Lanterns in the commercial ward backlit the horse, but Hiro could tell the rider was dressed like a samurai and had a full head of hair.

Yoshiko had spent about half an hour in the teahouse, too long just to pick up her father’s belongings and far too short to conduct an interrogation. Hiro considered following her but decided against it. In the dark and on foot was no way to track a rider.

Instead, he set off across the bridge. On the other side of the river he headed west along Sanj
ō
Road. Plinking music and women’s laughter floated out of Pontocho, along with the muffled conversation of men and women walking in the narrow alley. He glanced toward the House of the Floating Plums but couldn’t distinguish Umeha’s house from the other gaily lit establishments. He smelled rice cakes and grilling meat from a nearby shop and a whisper of sake from the breath of a man passing by in the road.

He left the alley behind without a second look and continued down the road. He turned left at the next thoroughfare, a commercial street filled with restaurants and sake shops. Hiro thought their familiar lights glared less and welcomed more than Pontocho’s.

A little way down the street, a vendor had set up a noodle stall in front of a sake shop. The stall was only a charcoal brazier standing beside the vendor’s crates of supplies, but the smell of noodles and thick fishy sauce made Hiro’s stomach growl. He stopped and ordered the largest bowl available.

The vendor pulled fresh noodles from a box and dangled them in boiling water for little more than a minute before swirling them into a bowl and pouring a ladle of fishy soy sauce over the top. A sprinkle of dried bonito flakes finished it off, and Hiro handed the vendor a copper coin in return for the heaping bowl and a pair of chopsticks. He ate the noodles standing in the road and returned the empty bowl with a speed that surprised and pleased the vendor.

“Thank you,” Hiro said, “very tasty.”

The vendor bowed and continued bowing as Hiro turned south on the unpaved road.

A couple of minutes later Hiro arrived at Ginjiro’s sake brewery. Like many brewers, Ginjiro’s had an open storefront with a raised floor that sat almost waist level above the street. Patrons knelt at the edge of the floor to enter, and once inside they could sit, drink sake, and watch passersby in the road. Hiro liked Ginjiro’s because it was small, and also because the shop offered better food than most.

Ginjiro’s opened at noon and closed when the last patron left or the sun came up, which usually meant the shop stayed open until dawn. Ginjiro served the sake himself, from barrels kept behind the wooden counter that ran the length of the establishment at the back of the shop. The floor of the service area sat at ground level, so only half of Ginjiro was visible over the top of the counter.

Hiro surveyed the storefront as he approached. Two samurai sat by the left end of the bar, drinking sake from tiny cups the size and shape of half an eggshell. An earthenware flask marked with Ginjiro’s seal sat on the tatami before them. It looked much like the flask Hiro used as a decoy until Ana’s wrath relieved him of that unpleasant portion of his cover. Most sake drinkers had a personal flask for taking sake home. Hiro was glad to have an excuse for its omission.

The customer on the right raised the flask and filled his companion’s cup and then his own. They raised the cups to each other and resumed their conversation.

An ancient monk sat alone at the opposite end of the brewery. His cross-legged form teetered on the edge, as if about to tumble into the street. Liver spots covered his balding head, an almost-perfect match to the color of his tattered robe, which was itself spotted with the remnants of meals long eaten and other things best forgotten.

When the monk saw Hiro, his wet lips parted in a grin that revealed his last remaining lower tooth.

“Ai! Hiro!”

The monk raised a hand in a wave that would have tipped him to the ground if Hiro hadn’t stepped up and caught his arm.

“Good evening, Suke.” Hiro steadied the monk and withdrew his hands carefully to ensure the elderly cleric did not fall.

With the monk settled, Hiro drew his katana from its sheath and laid it on the raised floor while he slipped off his sandals and climbed into the brewery. Then he carried the sword to the bar. Ginjiro accepted the weapon with a bow and placed it in a wooden holder at the far end of the room, beside three other katana. Two would belong to the other patrons. The third must have been left by drunken mistake.

Hiro raised two fingers to Ginjiro.

The proprietor frowned. “Don’t buy him sake. You know I don’t like him here.”

“Then run him off,” Hiro said, well aware that the brewer would not.

“You know I can’t. Not without risking bad karma.”

“And the abbot of his temple complaining to the magistrate,” Hiro added. The brewer feared the judge’s wrath far more than any gods.

“He’s bad for business,” Ginjiro complained.

“I don’t like to drink alone,” Hiro countered, “so it seems to me that makes him good for business—if you want mine, anyway.”

Ginjiro frowned as he reached beneath the counter and clapped two ceramic sake cups on the wooden countertop. He sighed and moved away to draw a flask of sake.

When the brewer returned Hiro took the cups and the flask of liquor across the room to Suke.

“Very kind of you, very kind,” the monk said as Hiro knelt and set the cups and flask on the floor between them. “Amida Buddha have mercy on your soul.”

Hiro filled Suke’s cup and then his own.