Claws of the Cat (4 page)

Hiro’s muscles tensed as the blade hissed against its scabbard. Only years of training kept his hands and body still.

“I have the right to avenge my father’s death,” Nobuhide declared, “first as his son and second as the
yoriki
in charge of Pontocho.”

Hiro drew a sharp breath.
Yoriki
were police commanders and assistant magistrates, with as many as thirty
d
ō
shin
at their command.

“Please, no,” Sayuri begged.

Mayuri watched from the doorway, as mute as the stone dogs that guarded her teahouse.

“Wait,” Father Mateo said.

Nobuhide turned. “You said he didn’t speak Japanese.”

Hiro’s hand moved toward his katana, but he resisted the urge to draw it. Thus far Nobuhide had only threatened Sayuri, and Hiro still preferred not to kill a grieving man. Not with witnesses, anyway.

He took a step toward Nobuhide. “I said he did not speak our language well. I never said he could not understand it.”

The young samurai held his katana at waist level with his left hand almost touching the guard and his right at the base of the hilt. Hiro recognized the fighting stance. He also knew that resheathing swords without shedding blood caused samurai shame and loss of face, and that policemen didn’t take embarrassment well.

He had to diffuse the situation at once or someone would die.

“We have to do something,” Father Mateo said in Portuguese.

“It is the law,” Hiro replied. “He has the right to avenge his father.”

“She didn’t kill his father,” the priest protested. “Her death accomplishes no justice.”

“Speak Japanese,” Nobuhide growled, raising his sword to emphasize the threat.

Father Mateo stepped between Sayuri and the samurai with a confidence that suggested either ignorance or foolishness. Nobuhide’s eyes widened and he lowered his sword a fraction.

The priest told Hiro, “Translate,” then bowed to Nobuhide and continued in Portuguese. “Honorable sir, I respect your customs and your law, but this woman is under the protection of the church, which is itself protected by the shogunate.

“Shogun Ashikaga granted my predecessor, Francis Xavier, permission to reside in Kyoto and teach our religion to all who wish to accept it. This woman has recognized Jesus Christ as her Lord and savior. She is governed by God’s justice as well as by Japanese law.”

The Jesuit’s right hand twitched. For a moment Hiro thought he would raise it, but the priest resisted the nervous gesture. Hiro noted the restraint with satisfaction. He had often warned Father Mateo about the importance of control to samurai.

Hiro translated the words as politely as possible and watched Nobuhide’s reaction. The shinobi wouldn’t kill without provocation, but he would act without hesitation to save the priest.

Nobuhide sneered. “She is a murderer. She has no rights under any law.”

“A Christian must have the right to prove her innocence,” the priest persisted, still in Portuguese. “The law of the church requires it.”

Hiro suspected the Jesuit was bluffing but translated anyway.

“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Nobuhide said, “and samurai are not bound by your Christian laws.”

“But Sayuri is,” Father Mateo countered, “as you are bound by the Bushido code, which requires a samurai to temper justice with benevolence.”

When Nobuhide heard the translation, he stepped back in surprise and lowered the tip of his sword by several inches. He scowled at Hiro. “He didn’t really say that. You made it up to help him.”

“Father Mateo is a student of Bushido as well as of Christ,” Hiro said, glad that the priest’s quick mind had appealed to samurai honor and not just religious law.

“How can she prove her innocence?” Nobuhide demanded. “She is clearly guilty.”

“She must have two days to prove otherwise,” Father Mateo insisted, “the amount of time our Lord spent in the tomb before He proved His divinity by rising from the grave. This is a central tenet of our faith. Surely you would not deny Sayuri a final religious expression?”

As Hiro finished the translation he added, “You can kill her just as easily two days from now.”

“She will run away.” Nobuhide glared at Sayuri.

The girl remained kneeling with her forehead on the floor.

“She won’t run,” Hiro said. “If you’re concerned, post
d
ō
shin
outside the teahouse.”

He didn’t care what happened to Sayuri, but convincing Nobuhide would enable the Jesuit to leave with his head on his shoulders.

“How will I run my business with policemen at the doors?” Mayuri sounded horrified.

“It’s a trick,” Nobuhide said. “The priest will smuggle her out in the night.”

“I give you my word he will not.” Hiro had no intention of ever returning to the Sakura. “Give the girl two days, under guard. If she cannot prove herself innocent, execute her. Men will remember your dedication to justice.”

As Nobuhide considered the suggestion, Hiro could see Bushido honor struggling with vengeance in the young man’s thoughts.

“Very well.” Nobuhide took a hand off his sword and pointed at Father Mateo. “But I hold him equally responsible.”

The priest bowed. “I give you my word that Sayuri will not escape.”

“Not for that,” Nobuhide said. “My men will secure the teahouse. I hold you responsible for my father’s death. If you prove Sayuri’s innocence by noon two days from now, I will execute the killer and set her free.

“But if you fail, I will kill you both.”

Chapter 5

“Have you lost your mind?” Hiro barely restrained himself until he and Father Mateo reached the street. “What were you thinking?”

“He won’t kill me,” the priest replied. “I’m under the shogun’s protection.”

“You forfeited special status when you offered to help the girl. How do you know her anyway? I’ve never seen her before.”

“I met her a month ago, in Pontocho.”

Hiro stopped short. “What were you doing in Pontocho? I thought you didn’t like women.”

“There are other reasons for taking a vow of chastity,” Father Mateo said.

Hiro raised an eyebrow. “Not in Japan.”

“If you must know, I went to Pontocho for the cherry blossom dances. I missed them last year and heard they were something to see. Sayuri danced her formal debut this year. She is a talented entertainer.”

“And she talked to you?” Hiro could hardly believe it. Most entertainers only had time for paying clients.

“You don’t have to look so surprised. But as it happens, I didn’t talk with Sayuri at the dances. I ran into her on the street a few days later. She was going to have her hair styled, and I walked her there and back. Since then, we’ve met for tea several times. She became a Christian only a week ago.”

“How convenient,” Hiro said, “just in time for you to defend her.”

“She didn’t do this,” the Jesuit said. “She wouldn’t lie.”

“All women lie,” Hiro retorted, “and she’s not even good at it. That samurai was awake when someone killed him, and she couldn’t have slept through it.”

“How do you know that?”

“The blood on the walls all sprayed in the same direction, the one he was facing when someone cut his throat.”

They had reached the Kamo River, but instead of turning homeward Hiro started across the bridge.

“Where are you going?” Father Mateo asked.

“
Yoriki
answer to the magistrate.” Hiro paused and waited for the Jesuit to follow. “As Nobuhide’s superior, the magistrate can absolve you of liability. I’m going to see him and explain you have no part in this.”

“But I do have a part in it.” Father Mateo caught up and fell into step. “I’m going to help Sayuri prove her innocence.”

“What? You hardly know her!”

“She is a member of my flock and my sister in Christ. Would you let your sister be wrongfully executed?”

Hiro looked away at the mention of sisters. That topic ranked high on the list of things the shinobi did not discuss, even with friends.

When Hiro did not answer Father Mateo added, “I cannot sit by and watch someone put an innocent woman to death.”

“You can and you will, even if she is innocent, which I doubt. I swore an oath to keep you safe, and I don’t intend to fail.”

“I’m trying to save a woman’s life and you’re worried about your salary?”

“Salary?” Hiro made a sound, more bark than laugh. “If you die, it means my head.”

“Shogun Ashikaga would understand that I acted on my conscience. I’ll write a letter saying you were not to blame.”

“You overestimate samurai understanding,” Hiro said. “The Iga
ryu
sent me here, not the shogun, and Iga does not forgive failure.”

“The shogun will make them.”

“The shogun controls Kyoto,” Hiro said, “but his reach does not extend to Iga Province. Even if it did, shinobi clans do not answer to warlords, including the shogun.”

“Then you’ll have to convince the magistrate some other way,” Father Mateo said. “I’m helping Sayuri no matter what the cost.”

Two samurai boys were sparring at the far end of the bridge. The crack of their wooden swords echoed off the buildings that lined the bank. The older boy stood half a head taller, but the younger one showed more skill. He ducked beneath his opponent’s blade and brought his wooden
bokken
down on the tall boy’s skull with a thump that rang across the water.

“
AI!
” The younger boy yelled in victory. He raised his sword and stepped back, ending the fight.

The older boy bent double and rubbed his head. Hiro winced in sympathy. He remembered the ache of
bokken
strikes, despite the many years since he felt a blow.

The priest shook his head. “That’s got to hurt.”

“Better hurt than dead,” Hiro replied.

“Why has the older one got a forelock?” Father Mateo asked. “I thought samurai shaved their heads at sixteen. He looks older than that.”

“It varies,” Hiro said. “A boy shaves his forehead after
genpuku,
when he receives his sword and also his adult name. Every father decides when his son is ready.”

The boys gaped at the foreigner, mouths wide like gasping fish. Father Mateo ignored their familiar surprise, but Hiro scowled and laid his hand on the hilt of his katana.

The boys bowed low and returned to their sparring. Hiro smiled to himself. A man didn’t have to draw his sword to use it.

The men continued up Sanj
ō
Road. Hiro glanced down Pontocho as they passed. The alley looked dark and silent in the morning light. Teahouses and brothels woke at sunset and slept at dawn.

A couple of blocks farther on they turned north and passed the walled police compound at the entrance to the administrative ward. The guards at the gate nudged one another and whispered at the sight of the Jesuit priest.

Hiro also heard the word “
ronin
,” followed by snickering laughter. He was used to men mistaking him for a masterless samurai, or ronin, who served the foreign ghost because he had no other option. Most men would have found the disdain offensive, but Hiro considered it useful and slightly amusing.

The magistrate’s compound lay a short distance past the police. Two samurai in leather armor guarded the gates, and a small crowd of merchants and laborers had already gathered at the entrance to the compound. Their expressions ranged from concern to nervousness. Most were men, but here and there a woman waited in her husband’s shadow.

No one spoke.

A sweaty smell rose from the crowd. Normally people bathed enough to avoid offensive odors, but a visit to the magistrate inspired fear, even when men thought their causes just.

The crowd stared as the foreigner approached. A child pointed but his mother hushed him before he made a sound. The guards decided the order in which people pled their cases, and no one wanted to make a scene that might drop them back in the line.

Hiro put on a swagger as he approached the guards. The man on the right would not meet his eye, so he spoke to the one on the left. “We wish to see the magistrate.”

“The magistrate is sleeping,” the guard said. “Come back later and wait your turn.”

“The matter cannot wait,” Hiro said. “It concerns a
yoriki
’s murder.”

The guard blinked and stood straighter. “Murder? What happened?”

Hiro glanced at the crowd of merchants. “It is a delicate matter. Perhaps the magistrate would prefer to discuss it in private.”

Comprehension dawned on the guard’s round face. He nodded slowly. “Yes, he may want to speak with you before the official hearing.”

The guard disappeared into the compound. His companion glanced at Hiro and looked away, trying not to stare at the foreigner. Instead he glared at the commoners, who shuffled a little farther away from the gate. Discomfort flowed through the social strata like water running down a hill.