The Ninja's Daughter (9 page)

“We have Jiro,” Hiro said, “and Emi's sister, Chou, can tell us more about the people Emi knew.”

Father Mateo sipped his tea. “She didn't say much this afternoon.”

“She wouldn't, in front of her parents.” Hiro raised his teacup and inhaled the fragrant steam. He sipped and paused to enjoy the delicate flavor of the tea.

Muffled barking outside the house announced the approach of someone in the street. Hiro loathed the neighbor's Akita, but, at least in this, the dog was useful.

The front door creaked, and heavy footsteps thumped across the entry.

“Good evening, Luis,” Hiro said without turning.

“How do you always know it's me?” The merchant entered the common room.

“The rest of us are home already,” Father Mateo said.

Hiro would have answered the question differently, but let it pass. Father Mateo wouldn't approve of him saying Luis had the grace of a drunken ox.

Luis leaned over Father Mateo's shoulder to inspect the tray of snacks. He straightened with an indignant sniff. “Rice balls again. I should have known. This country needs some decent food, like bread, and meat, and Portuguese wine.”

Hiro considered the merchant's rounded belly and puffy face. For all Luis's complaining, the Japanese diet hadn't harmed his girth.

“I ate near the warehouse anyway.” The merchant started toward his room. “Big day tomorrow. I have a shipment coming from Yokoseura.”

“Yokoseura?” Hiro remembered Ozuru's warning. “You say it arrives tomorrow?”

Luis turned back. “Why do you care?”

“I don't,” Hiro lied. “I was being polite.”

“Oh.” Luis scratched his stomach. “Well, since we're being polite, I'll answer. The shipment won't arrive for a couple of days, but I need to make room in the warehouse, which means a very long day tomorrow, supervising lazy peasants who'd rather nap in the corner than do the job I've paid them for.

“And now, I need my rest. Good night, Mateo.”

Luis went into his room and closed the door.

CHAPTER 16

“What's going on?” Father Mateo looked suspicious. “You're never ‘just polite' to Luis.”

“Perhaps my character is improving.” Hiro refilled the Jesuit's tea and poured himself another cup as well. As before, he raised the cup to inhale the fragrant steam.

Father Mateo didn't care for extravagant food or special teas, but Luis kept the Jesuit's pantry stocked with
ichibancha
—the most-expensive, first-picked leaves. Hiro's sensitive nose and tea-loving palate considered this a rare redeeming point in the merchant's favor.

“Right,” the Jesuit said, “and I'm a Buddhist. What's the truth?”

Hiro closed his eyes and drew another lingering breath. He sipped the tea and felt the liquid roll across his tongue.

“Hiro,” Father Mateo said expectantly.

Hiro sighed. A cultured man should not disrupt a special cup of tea with sour talk. He opened his eyes and lowered his cup.

“After I spoke with Jiro, I ran into a man from Koga.” He spoke softly to ensure his voice wouldn't carry through the walls or across the rafters.

“A man . . . like you?” Father Mateo avoided the word “shinobi,” even at home, because Luis and Ana didn't know the truth.

“He warned us to leave the city at once.” Hiro considered how much of Ozuru's message to reveal. “Kyoto is no longer safe for you—or for Luis.”

“I hope that God will prevent a war,” Father Mateo said. “I pray for it every night and every morning.”

“Your god may have the power to prevent a war in Portugal,” Hiro said, “but the kami like a good war now and then.”

“There is only one God, and he can prevent a war in Japan, if he chooses.”

“And if he doesn't?” Hiro asked.

“Then I will trust him anyway.”

Hiro shifted the conversation back to its original topic. “The man from Koga warned me that Hisahide has sent for a Portuguese merchant, a replacement for Luis.”

“Replacement?” Father Mateo echoed. “Luis hasn't mentioned wanting to leave Kyoto. No more than usual, anyway, and he never truly means it.”

“Hisahide does not forgive disloyalty,” Hiro said.

“Do you mean Luis's sale of Portuguese firearms to the warlord—the Miyoshi daimyo?” Father Mateo asked. “That happened months ago—and he didn't follow through.”

“Fish will spoil with age; revenge does not,” Hiro said. “Hisahide will kill Luis, and perhaps you also, as soon as the other merchant reaches Kyoto.”

“He has no authority to kill us,” Father Mateo said. “Luis and I have an imperial pass. We are immune to punishment, unless we break the law.”

“You speak of authority,” Hiro said. “I speak of regrettable accidents. Mistaken identities. Bad translations. A samurai making a most unfortunate error. Apologies would be made, of course, and reparations paid to your king. But you and Luis Álvares will be dead.”

“You're overreacting,” Father Mateo said.

Hiro raised his cup but didn't drink. The tea was cold.

“What would you have me do? Leave the city?” Father Mateo asked. “I cannot abandon my congregation.”

“You can, and you will, if preserving your life requires it.” Hiro selected a rice ball from the plate. He expected the priest to argue, but Father Mateo did not respond.

Unfortunately, Hiro knew the Jesuit's silence did not constitute consent.

After a moment just long enough to permit a change of subject without rudeness, Father Mateo asked, “How will you persuade Chou to admit what she knows about Emi's trip to the river?”

Hiro smiled. “I'm not going to persuade her. You are.”

The following morning, Hiro and Father Mateo left the house right after breakfast. The sky was a deep, autumnal blue, and a heavy scent of wood smoke permeated the chilly air. At Hiro's instruction, Father Mateo carried Emi's coin in his purse.

The guard at Marutamachi Bridge nodded but didn't stop them as they turned onto the path that paralleled the eastern side of the river.

“Do the samurai seem more relaxed to you?” Father Mateo asked.

“Relaxed?” Hiro resisted the urge to look over his shoulder at the bridge.

“Less nervous,” Father Mateo said. “Is it possible that the emperor named Hisahide shogun without us knowing?”

“When the emperor names a shogun, it's no secret,” Hiro said. “The guards have simply become complacent. No man can maintain vigilance forever.”

“Do they believe the threat of rebellion has passed?”

“Quite the opposite,” Hiro said. “The Ashikaga clan has lodged a formal objection to Hisahide's claim on the shogunate. They haven't begun an armed revolt, but only because they lack the strength, and numbers, to seize Kyoto. That could change if the proper claimant appeared at the city gates.”

“The proper claimant . . . Shogun Ashikaga's brother?” Father Mateo asked.

Hiro nodded. “Rumors say he plans to claim the shogunate.”

“Will the emperor honor his claim, now that Hisahide controls the city?”

Hiro shrugged. “That depends on the size of the army he brings with him.”

CHAPTER 17

A thin boy crouched on the ground outside the building that housed the Yutoku-za. He looked no more than eight years old, with skinny limbs and a freshly shaven scalp. The razor had nicked the back of his head, but a crusty scab already covered the spot.

The boy squatted close to the ground and poked at something with a stick.

As Hiro drew closer, he realized the boy was steering a beetle away from the street. A horn projected several inches out from the beetle's face. The insect moved with caution, like an elderly samurai in spiky armor.

Every time the beetle tried to turn back toward the road, the child nudged it in the opposite direction. Slowly but surely, the beetle moved away from the crushing feet of passersby.

Hiro wondered if Father Mateo had saved such helpless creatures as a child. He decided the Jesuit probably had. In many ways, the priest resembled the squatting boy, determined to help the innocent things that could not help themselves.

The boy looked up as Hiro's shadow fell across the beetle's path. His curiosity faded to dismay at the sight of the samurai and the priest. He laid his palms in the dirt and bowed his forehead to the ground, taking care to shield the beetle in the space between his hands and knees.

“Good morning,” Father Mateo said. “What is your name, young man?”

The child raised his face to the priest. “Please do not kill me, noble sir.”

“Nobody's going to kill you,” Father Mateo said. “I merely asked your name.”

“Please, sir, I am Haru, son of Satsu.” The child returned his face to the ground. “Forgive my impertinence for speaking in the presence of a samurai.”

He spoke with unusual precision, rare in a child so young.

“Stand up, Haru, son of Satsu,” Father Mateo said. “I don't like talking to the backs of people's heads.”

The boy stood up, but continued to face the ground.

“That's a fine-looking beetle,” Father Mateo said. “Is it yours?”

The beetle butted at the stick, which Haru had positioned to stop the insect from returning to the street.

“The
kabutomushi
?” Haru looked up. “No, sir. He belongs to himself. I'm only helping. I didn't want someone to step on him before he finds a mate. Of course, this late in the year, he might not find a lady beetle, but I think that he should have the chance to try.”

“A noble sentiment,” Father Mateo said. “Are you a Buddhist?”

“A Buddhist, sir?” Haru ran a hand across his scalp. “I'm not a monk, if that's what you mean. My mother shaved my hair for my sister. She died, and we're in mourning. That is, my sister died. My mother is alive.”

“I am sorry to hear about your sister,” Father Mateo said.

“I wanted to save the beetle because I couldn't save my sister.” Haru's voice cracked, and he looked down at the kabutomushi.

“It isn't your fault she died.” Father Mateo started to reach for the boy, but stopped before Haru noticed. Hiro approved. Men of samurai status did not touch commoners voluntarily.

“Thank you, sir,” Haru said, with a pause that suggested he might have said more, had etiquette allowed it.

Hiro took over the conversation. “Is your father home this morning?”

Haru bowed. “I apologize, sir, but my father has gone to the temple, with my mother, to speak to the priests about Emi's funeral. I can fetch him for you, if you wish.”

“We have only a minor question,” Hiro said. “Perhaps your sister, Chou, is home to answer it for us?”

“Chou?” Haru sounded doubtful. “She doesn't know much of anything, except about Yuji.” He said the last word in a dreamy tone, as if mimicking someone—it wasn't difficult to guess who.

Hiro squared his shoulders and glared at the boy. “You will tell your sister we've come.” One advantage to samurai status was never having to ask, or explain himself, when speaking to commoners.

“Of course, sir.” Haru bowed and used the gesture to scoop the beetle into his hand. “I will fetch her at once.” He backed to the door of the house and slipped inside.

“You didn't have to frighten the child,” Father Mateo said, “and we could have gone with him. He didn't have to call his sister to the street.”

“Frightened children don't remember to take the beetle,” Hiro said, “and we do need Chou to come to the street. She will not reveal Emi's secrets where others might overhear.”

“Maybe they didn't have any secrets,” Father Mateo said.

Hiro stared at the priest. “You don't know much about women, do you?”

Father Mateo frowned.

Before he could answer, Haru returned with Chou.

The girl stood shorter than average, with a sturdy build and a mottled complexion completely unlike her sister's silken skin. Her dark hair lacked the gleam so common in girls from wealthier families, and her features seemed to disagree about the proper proportions for her face.

“You lead the questioning,” Hiro murmured to Father Mateo in Portuguese. “The girl won't fear a priest—not even a foreign one—as much as a samurai.”

Father Mateo nodded, acknowledging Hiro's words and Chou's arrival simultaneously. As the young woman bowed, he said, “Good morning. Do you remember us from yesterday?”

Chou began to nod, then hastily added, “Yes, sir.”

Hiro suspected Chou had little experience talking with men of higher rank.

“I am a priest of God,” the Jesuit said. “This man is my interpreter, Matsui Hiro.”

“But you don't need a translator,” Haru objected. “You speak Japanese quite well.”

Hiro stifled a smile. Most adults considered the Japanese language too nuanced for a foreigner to master. Children lacked that prejudice, which made them difficult to fool.