The Ninja's Daughter (6 page)

“Do you think the killer panicked and left it?” Father Mateo asked.

Hiro shrugged. “Inexperienced killers panic. Trained ones misdirect.”

Luis looked up from his seat near the hearth as Hiro and Father Mateo entered the house. The merchant wore a purple tunic cut in the foreign style he favored. Its bulbous, puffy sleeves reminded Hiro of overripe plums. Beneath the tunic, form-fitting hose directed unfortunate attention to the merchant's bulging thighs.

“Didn't expect you back so soon,” Luis said through a mouthful of rice. “Did the magistrate hang the boy without a trial?”

“The yoriki released him,” Father Mateo said. “Unharmed.”

“What? He confessed to murder,” Luis protested. “Never seen a samurai pass up the chance to cut off someone's head.”

“A beheading could be arranged,” Hiro said. He often wished the Jesuit didn't like the obnoxious merchant quite so much.

“See?” Luis raised a hand toward Hiro. “He makes my point exactly.”

“The yoriki elected not to investigate,” Father Mateo said. “It appears the girl was an actor's daughter, not a teahouse entertainer.”

“An outcaste?” Luis said. “You know, they have a word for that. It translates, ‘pile of—'”

“Thank you, I've heard it.” Father Mateo cut Luis off before he could speak the offensive word.

“That's not the proper term anyway,” Hiro said. “For actors, we use—”

“Don't encourage him,” Father Mateo said.

Hiro shrugged. He intended correction, not encouragement.

“Well, at least you won't end up involved in another investigation,” Luis said. “Far too much of that nonsense going on lately.”

Father Mateo glanced at Hiro, who reminded himself to teach the priest that ill-timed glances often suggested guilt.

“Excuse me,” Father Mateo said. “I need to eat, and then attend to my morning prayers.”

“Offer one up for me,” Luis said. “I'm spending the day at the city gates, waiting on a shipment from Yokoseura. Have to meet it personally—new orders from the shogun.”

Hiro had heard enough, so he went into the kitchen, where Ana prepared him a bowl of rice. As he ate, she prepared a tray for Father Mateo and carried it into the common room, walking with a stiffness that betrayed her loathing for the merchant's constant griping.

She returned and scrubbed a teapot with frustrated vigor.

Luis's voice carried over the rafters. He grumbled to Father Mateo about the “obnoxious regulations” Matsunaga Hisahide placed on weapons shipments to Kyoto.

If someone gave that man a kingdom, he would complain about the distance he rode to claim it
, Hiro thought.

After finishing his rice, Hiro went to his room and put on a tunic and practice trousers. He stepped out through the veranda door, trading the merchant's whine for the burble of Father Mateo's koi pond and the whisper of breezes through the cherry trees that lined the garden.

He wondered, yet again, at Father Mateo's exceptional patience. Luis's sales financed the Jesuit's work in Japan, and from that perspective Father Mateo needed the merchant, but their relationship went beyond financial dependence. Hiro didn't understand how, or why, but he did recognize that only a rare and unusual man could consider Luis Álvares a friend.

After Hiro finished his meditation and weapons practice, he changed back into his gray kimono and stood outside the door that led to Father Mateo's room.

“I'm going to visit Jiro now.” He spoke with just enough volume for his voice to carry through the door, but not enough to disturb a meditation.

The door slid open, and Father Mateo appeared. “Jiro? Why now?”

“At this hour, the rice shop will be crowded,” Hiro said, “which means our talk will not attract attention. The boy has less incentive to lie if his master isn't part of the conversation.”

Father Mateo rubbed his hands. The smallest finger on the priest's right hand did not bend properly into the gesture.

“You haven't recovered use of that finger?” Hiro wondered why he hadn't noticed.

Father Mateo raised his hand. “This one?” He tried to bend it, and winced. “I can force it farther, but it hurts. It hasn't healed as well as the others. The bone seems out of place.”

Earlier, in the summer, the neighbor's Akita had broken free and attacked the priest. Fortunately, Father Mateo suffered only broken hands and a bite that left a scar across his neck.

“The finger may need breaking again, in order to set it straight.” Hiro reached for the Jesuit's hand. “I can do it.”

“You most certainly will not!” Father Mateo pulled his hand away.

“I didn't mean right now,” Hiro said. “I was simply going to examine it.”

Father Mateo clasped his hands together. “Thank you, but that won't be necessary.”

“The examination?” Hiro asked. “Or the breaking?”

“Either.” Father Mateo changed the subject. “Do you think Jiro will speak with us? He heard the yoriki say we can't investigate.”

“Don't worry.” Hiro drew the coin and strip of leather from his sleeve. “He'll talk when I ask if he wants his
koban
back.”

CHAPTER 11

“I'm sorry, but that isn't mine.” Jiro shook his head, eyes fixed on the golden coin that dangled before him on its leather thong.

Hiro swung the pendant gently. “Didn't you mention receiving a tip from a wealthy customer yesterday?”

Jiro glanced nervously into the crowded rice shop.

As expected, Basho's apprentice had scurried forward the moment he caught sight of Hiro and Father Mateo in the entrance. He spoke in the muted tones of a man who didn't want anyone hearing his conversation.

“I did,” Jiro said, “but the customer paid me in silver, not in gold.”

“So you didn't give this to Emi?” Hiro lowered the coin to his other palm and closed his hand around it so the gold would not attract undue attention.

“I have never owned a golden coin, and—if I may speak honestly—I wouldn't waste one on a girl,” Jiro said. “I would buy myself a new kimono first.”

“You're lying,” Hiro said. “Perhaps Basho can help us learn the truth?”

“No, please!” Jiro glanced into the shop again. “The coin's not mine, but I know where it came from. I'll meet you later, and tell you, but please—I beg you—don't tell my uncle about Emi.”

“He's your uncle?” Father Mateo asked. “You never told us that before.”

Jiro shrugged. “It didn't seem important.”

“How do I know you'll keep your word?” Hiro let suspicion creep into his voice even though he believed that Jiro would follow through. The fear on the young man's face was real. He wouldn't risk them coming back and talking to Basho.

“I promise, I'll meet you,” Jiro said. “I couldn't run if I wanted to. I haven't got a travel pass, and Basho won't loan me his without a reason. Especially not at harvest time, with rice coming in from all the farms. I'll tell you everything, but please, don't make me say it here.”

Not many men would dare to ask a samurai to wait. Hiro paused as if considering Jiro's request and inhaled deeply, enjoying the grassy-sweet scent of the rice shop. His stomach might prefer noodles, but few aromas pleased Hiro's nose as much as the smell of freshly polished rice.

“Very well,” he said. “Meet me at Ginjiro's brewery, tonight, just after sunset. If you fail to appear, or lie to me, I will tell your master everything—including my suspicion that you killed the girl because you discovered she wasn't truly an entertainer.”

Jiro bowed from the waist. “I'll be there. I swear it . . . and thank you. I'm in your debt.”

Under the circumstances, Hiro drew no inference from the young man's failure to deny the murder allegation. Commoners had no legal right to contradict a samurai, and Jiro had already claimed he didn't know what actually happened by the river.

Father Mateo gestured to a nearby barrel. “Please deliver a bag of that rice to my home on Marutamachi Road.” He pulled a silver coin from his purse and handed it to Jiro.

“Thank you.” Jiro bowed again and accepted the coin with both hands. “I will arrange delivery today.”

As they left the shop, Hiro said, “I wonder what Ana will think when that rice arrives, considering that your barrel is currently full.”

“I know the barrel is full as well as you do,” Father Mateo said, “but the purchase gives Jiro an explanation for our appearance at the shop.”

“I was planning to buy some rice for that very reason,” Hiro said, “but I'm surprised you thought of it, and that you willingly helped the boy to lie.”

“On the contrary.” Father Mateo smiled. “I saved him from a lie. We did, in fact, buy rice.” The smile faded. “Do you think he told the truth about the coin?”

“I'm not certain,” Hiro said. “His hands kept fidgeting as we spoke, but any number of things could have made him nervous.”

“Talking with a samurai, for one,” the Jesuit offered.

“Or killing a girl by the river,” Hiro countered.

“Why did you agree to talk with him later?” Father Mateo asked. “You normally want answers on the spot.”

“I saw no point in causing trouble prematurely,” Hiro said. “Whatever relationship Jiro had with the girl, it's over now. We've plenty of time to talk with Basho if the evidence proves that Jiro is a killer.”

Just before sunset, Hiro left the Jesuit's house and walked toward the river. Father Mateo disapproved of sake shops, and had a prayer meeting anyway, so Hiro went to meet Jiro alone.

He reached the bridge as sunset lit the evening sky ablaze.

The samurai guard on duty stepped forward. “Where are you going?”

Hiro bowed. “To a sake shop, west of Pontochō.”

He expected the guard to let him pass, but the samurai didn't move.

“Don't you get tired of being a ronin, or serving a foreign priest?” he asked.

“Pardon me?” Hiro felt an instinctive, warning twitch in his stomach. Other samurai didn't normally mention a ronin's status, except to insult him or start a fight.

“What if I could offer you a chance to serve a noble lord?” the samurai asked.

The question made Hiro suspicious. A masterless samurai didn't usually have a chance to redeem his honor, or to serve another lord. A ronin remained a ronin until he died.

“Which of the
daimyo
has opened his ranks to ronin?” Hiro asked.

“Shogun Matsunaga needs an army to hold Kyoto against his enemies,” the guard explained. “He has issued an invitation to every samurai in the city. The shogun is generous. He rewards his warriors' faithful service. Distinguish yourself, and he might restore your honor.

“You must provide your own weapons and armor, of course, but that—and your pledge of fealty—is all that Matsunaga-
san
requires. A rare opportunity for a man like you.”