Betrayal at Iga Read online

  ALSO BY SUSAN SPANN

  Claws of the Cat

  Blade of the Samurai

  Flask of the Drunken Master

  The Ninja’s Daughter

  Published 2017 by Seventh Street Books®, an imprint of Prometheus Books

  Betrayal at Iga. Copyright © 2017 by Susan Spann. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, organizations, products, locales, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Cover design by Nicole Sommer-Lecht

  Cover image © Shutterstock

  Cover design © Prometheus Books

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Spann, Susan, author.

  Title: Betrayal at Iga : a Hiro Hattori novel / by Susan Spann.

  Description: Amherst, NY : Seventh Street Books, an imprint of Prometheus Books, 2017. | Series: A Shinobi mystery ; 5 | Description based on print version record and CIP data provided by publisher; resource not viewed.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017005189 (print) | LCCN 2017011773 (ebook) | ISBN 9781633882782 (ebook) | ISBN 9781633882775 (softcover)

  Subjects: LCSH: Ninja—Fiction. | Samurai—Fiction. | Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3619.P3436 (ebook) | LCC PS3619.P3436 B45 2017 (print) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017005189

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Christopher

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Although the characters in this book are fictitious (even when based on historical figures), I have tried to portray the time and its people as realistically as possible. Since Japanese names and terms can be tricky for readers unfamiliar with the time and culture, I’ve included a cast of characters—and a brief glossary—at the back of the book. Where present, Japanese characters’ surnames precede their given names, in the Japanese style. Western surnames follow the characters’ given names, in accordance with Western conventions.

  Thank you for reading—I hope you enjoy the adventure!

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  GLOSSARY OF JAPANESE TERMS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  AUTUMN 1565

  Hiro Hattori leaned into the wind that swept down the hill and across his face. He pulled his kimono tighter and glanced at the Portuguese priest beside him. “Remember, you must eat everything set before you—”

  “—because leaving food on the plate offends the host.” Father Mateo smiled. “I have attended Japanese feasts before.”

  “Not like this one.” The words came out more sharply than intended.

  Father Mateo stopped short. “You’re nervous.”

  “And you should be.” Hiro faced the Jesuit. “This is not a ‘welcome the foreigner’ feast in Kyoto, with samurai willing to overlook a stranger’s breach of etiquette.”

  The sun had dropped below the horizon, filling the air with the chill of mountain twilight. Hiro gestured toward the top of the hill. “That house belongs to Hattori Hanzō, leader of the Iga ryu. Everyone inside is a trained assassin, half of them visitors from Koga and thus not under Iga’s control. If you can think of a less advisable place to cause offense, feel free to enlighten me.”

  “But . . . isn’t Hanzō your cousin?”

  Hiro frowned. “That fact will not protect you.”

  Father Mateo looked concerned. “If attending is truly so dangerous, why didn’t you try to prevent me from accepting the invitation?”

  “Would you have listened?”

  “No,” the priest admitted.

  Hiro shrugged. “That answers your question.”

  “It never stopped you before.”

  Hiro ignored the comment and continued up the hill.

  Father Mateo fell in step beside him. “I’ve wanted to meet Hattori Hanzō from the moment I learned he sent you to protect me, back in Kyoto.”

  “The client who hired the Iga ryu to guard you is responsible for your protection,” Hiro corrected. “Hanzō merely chose me for the job.”

  Father Mateo smiled. “Do you realize fear makes you peevish?”

  “I am not frightened,” Hiro snapped. “I’m focused.”

  “Either way, you’re peevish.”

  They rounded a curve, and Hiro shivered as the wind rustled through the leaves of the pines and colorful maples that crowded against the earthen path. His favorite gray kimono wasn’t warm enough to block the autumn chill.

  “Why did Hanzō invite me tonight?” the Jesuit asked. “I know he wanted you to keep an eye on the Koga emissaries, but I’m not part of the peace negotiations.”

  “The commander of the Iga ryu has an obligation to welcome every guest who arrives in the village. Important guests must also be given a feast on the night they arrive.”

  “So the Koga shinobi arrived today as well?”

  Hiro nodded. “Unfortunately, they did not reveal their arrival date in advance, placing Hanzō in the awkward position of needing to welcome multiple guests on a single . . .”

  He trailed off as he realized the priest was no longer beside him.

  Father Mateo stood on the path staring up at Hanzō’s mansion, which had finally come entirely into view.

  Solid walls of earth and stone rose ten feet high around the compound, giving it the appearance of a fortress. Black-glazed tiles topped the walls and arched across the massive wooden gates that marked the entrance. Beyond them, the mansion’s sloping roof rose up like the back of a sleeping dragon.

  “It looks like the
shogun’s palace.” Father Mateo was awestruck.

  “A reminder to all that Hattori Hanzō is more than a village chieftain. Hurry up, we can’t be late.”

  “Shouldn’t there be someone here to greet us?” the Jesuit asked as they passed between the gates and entered the courtyard. “Guards, or someone?”

  “In peacetime, Hanzō needs no guards.” Hiro looked around. “I would have expected some tonight, with Koga emissaries in the village. Apparently, Hanzō believed them unnecessary.”

  As he crossed the yard with Father Mateo, Hiro observed how barren the compound seemed, compared with Kyoto’s samurai mansions. No Buddhist statuary or flowing koi ponds filled the space. A Zen dry garden in the corner offered an interesting view, but only to those whose eyes were trained to understand its austere beauty.

  Carved stone lanterns stood on either side of the wooden steps leading up to the covered veranda that surrounded Hanzō’s home. In the gathering darkness, their flickering light illuminated a row of crimson maples, dwarfed by pruning to prevent intruders from using them to scale the roof. The maple leaves glowed like coals, surrounding the house with living flame.

  The mansion’s roof soared high overhead, with finials carved in the shape of tigers. Twilight hid the details, but Hiro remembered them all too well.

  He passed the lanterns and stepped onto the porch, frowning at the line of sandals sitting by the door. “The Koga delegation has arrived, which makes us late.”

  The heavy, wooden door swung open, revealing an ancient, wizened woman barely as tall as Hiro’s chest. Wrinkles obscured her features, and her ears resembled apricot slices left in the sun too long. Golden hairpins glimmered in the coil of snow-white hair atop her head, while embroidered autumn leaves flowed down the side of her silk kimono, shimmering in brilliant shades of scarlet, gold, and orange.

  The wrinkles around her mouth drew back, revealing a set of shockingly healthy teeth.

  She did not bow, but Hiro did, more deeply and with more respect than Father Mateo had ever seen him show. As Hiro straightened, the priest made a slow, equally respectful bow.

  The woman’s smile grew. “Welcome home, Hiro-kun.”

  Father Mateo looked at Hiro, surprised by the ancient woman’s use of the diminutive.

  “Thank you, it is nice to be back.” Hiro gestured to the priest. “May I introduce Father Mateo Ávila de Santos, a priest of the foreign god, from Portugal.”

  The woman nodded.

  Addressing the Jesuit, Hiro added, “My grandmother, Hattori Akiko.”

  Father Mateo bowed again.

  “You are late, Hiro-kun,” Akiko warned. “The meal is ready. Everyone is waiting.”

  “Is that why you answered the door?” Hiro asked.

  She shrugged, and her formality fell away. “Hanzō sent his wife into the mountains, with their infant son.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Betraying his assertion that he trusts the Koga, and needs no guards, because the delegation comes in peace.”

  “He didn’t send you to the mountains?” Hiro asked.

  Akiko made a dismissive gesture. “I refused to go. I’m old. Nobody wants to hurt me, and if they tried, I wouldn’t care. It’s been too long since I had a decent fight.”

  She stepped away from the door. “Follow me, and hurry. You know how Hanzō-kun dislikes delays.”

  Almost as much as he hates the nickname “Hanzō-kun,” Hiro thought as he left his sandals by the door. A wave of discomfort washed over him as he followed Akiko into the house. The last time he had seen his cousin Hanzō, things had not gone well.

  Behind him, Father Mateo whispered, “She’s your grandmother?”

  The Jesuit spoke in Portuguese, so Hiro replied in kind. “Yes, and don’t be fooled by her innocent act. She has killed a man with nothing but a chopstick.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Hiro and Father Mateo followed Akiko down a narrow passage lined with paneled sliding doors and covered by a low, carved ceiling designed to prevent the use of swords.

  Underfoot, the wooden floorboards creaked.

  Father Mateo looked down. “Nightingale floors, like the ones in the shogun’s palace.”

  “To warn of intruders,” Hiro confirmed. “Iga had them first.”

  At the end of the building the passage made a sharp left turn. Just past it, Akiko knelt in front of yet another paneled door. She laid her hands on the frame and looked expectantly at Hiro.

  He knelt beside her and gestured for the priest to do the same. “Hanzō holds with protocol. The feast has started, so we must enter the room from a kneeling position.”

  Akiko smiled approvingly as Father Mateo joined them on the floor. When Hiro nodded, she slid the panel open.

  A knee-high rectangular table sat at the center of the feasting room, the only furniture in the space. At the head of the table, facing the door, knelt a man about Hiro’s age. He wore a kimono of dark blue silk, and his hair was bound in the samurai style. His features bore a strong resemblance to Hiro’s; strangers often mistook them for brothers. Although the other man wore no swords, Hiro had no doubt that Hattori Hanzō—and everyone else in the eight-mat room—was fully armed beneath his silk veneer.

  Four strangers knelt along the left side of the table. They turned their heads to the door in unison, faces revealing veiled suspicion, but no alarm, at the sight of the foreign priest.

  The visitor closest to Hanzō wore a silk kimono patterned with the crest of the Koga clan. His hair, also bound in a samurai knot, had a greenish tint that suggested dye. Between his uncommonly pale skin and the sheen of sweat across his forehead, he appeared both nervous and uncomfortable.

  To the sweating stranger’s right knelt a man in his twenties, distinguished mostly by his cleanly shaven head and surly scowl. At the sight of Hiro and the priest, he leaned toward the even younger man who knelt on his other side and whispered something. Given the look in the bald man’s eyes, his words were not polite.

  The emissary in the lowest position, closest to the door, was a woman. Her hair fell down her back in a single braid so long the end of it rested on the floor. Defying tradition, she wore silk trousers and a tunic belted at the waist instead of a formal kimono. Although she knelt in the junior place, and wore the clothes of a commoner, she looked at ease in samurai company, suggesting a noble birth.

  Unable to delay any longer, Hiro shifted his gaze to the woman who knelt on the opposite side of the table, directly across from the female Koga emissary.

  His breath caught in his throat.

  Neko’s slender face was even lovelier than he had remembered, jet-black eyes and narrow eyebrows strikingly dark against her pale skin. She wore her hair in a feminine version of the samurai knot, with the back piled high atop her head, and the front hanging loose in a fringe around her face. She wore a violet kimono embroidered with a flight of shimmering phoenixes, a daring choice for a season that called for muted, or at least autumnal, hues.

  But then, Kotani Neko was impossible to mute in any season.

  Given their history, Hiro had hoped he would no longer find her attractive. Unfortunately, his body betrayed that hope.

  “Hiro.” Hanzō broke the silence. “How nice of you to join us.”

  Hiro placed his hands on the threshold and bowed his forehead to the floor. After holding the obeisance for a calculated moment, he pushed himself back to a kneeling position and entered the room, remaining on his knees.

  Behind him, Father Mateo repeated the bow and followed Hiro onto the tatami. To Hiro’s relief, the Jesuit remained on his knees, remembering that etiquette did not permit a guest to stand when the host and other guests were already seated.

  “Good evening, Hattori-sama.” Hiro opted for a higher honorific than the usual -san, in recognition of his cousin’s status. “I deeply apologize for our tardiness. May I introduce Father Mateo Ávila de Santos, a priest of the foreign god, from Portugal.”

  Hanzō nodded, accepting the introduction, and addre
ssed the sweating man to his right. “Koga-san, this is my cousin Hattori Hiro. He and his companion have just arrived from Kyoto, on their way to the foreign settlement at Yokoseura.”

  The sweaty man nodded. “I am Koga Yajiro. Allow me to introduce my companions.” He gestured first to the bald man, and then to each of the others in turn as he named them: “Koga Fuyu, Koga Toshi, and Koga Kiku.”

  Hiro found it strange that the Koga ryu, which consisted of at least a dozen clans, would send four emissaries from a single family. More likely, they merely used the surname of the ryu’s most powerful clan as an alias to hide their true identities and ranks.

  Kiku bowed her head in respectful greeting, but did not lower her face to the floor, confirming Hiro’s suspicion that she was of samurai birth. He wondered why she insulted Hanzō by wearing commoner’s clothes to a formal feast.

  The bald shinobi—Fuyu—sneered at Hanzō. “How convenient that your best assassin happened to arrive the same day we did.”

  “Actually,” Hanzō replied with a tight-lipped smile, “Hiro is Iga’s second-best assassin.”

  Fuyu scowled, but the woman across the table spoke before he could respond.

  “At least Hattori Hiro is his real name.” Neko narrowed her eyes at the bald shinobi. “Can you say the same, Koga Fuyu?”

  “Neko!” Hanzō bent his head toward Fuyu. “Please accept my apology. I invited Hiro and Neko—two of my best operatives—as a show of respect for your delegation. You are my personal guests in Iga, as safe in this village as you are in Koga Province, if not more so. Now, let us begin the feast.”

  Hiro’s grandmother bowed from the doorway. “We will serve the first course at once.”

  Hiro and Father Mateo approached the table as the door slid shut behind them.

  Neko indicated the cushion next to Hanzō. “Our foreign guest should take the place of honor.”

  She met Hiro’s eyes, and the scars on his shoulder burned beneath his robe. The pain was imagined, though the fire in the woman’s eyes was not, and Hiro wasn’t certain which one caused him more discomfort.

  As Father Mateo took his place beside Hanzō, Hiro settled beside the priest, uncomfortably aware that his position placed him in the middle of the table, hampering his ability to rise and draw a blade.