Flask of the Drunken Master Read online

  “Do you welcome your debtors as visitors, then?” Hiro asked.

  Mayuri’s smile vanished. “I will not disclose information about my patrons.”

  “Not to me, perhaps,” Hiro said. “You may feel differently standing before the magistrate.”

  Mayuri matched the shinobi’s gaze with intensity, but as the seconds passed her expression wavered.

  “I will not reveal my patrons’ names,” she repeated at last, “but men who refuse to pay their debts will find no welcome here.”

  Hiro lowered his voice. “I need to know if Yoshiko’s list included a man named Kaoru.”

  Mayuri straightened. “You know I will not answer that. However, I have heard that name, and the man it belongs to is not welcome here.”

  She spoke with a finality that indicated the end of the conversation.

  Hiro stood. “Thank you for your time.”

  Mayuri’s forehead furrowed, sending shadowed lines across her features. “What has happened to the man of whom you speak?”

  “To Kaoru? Nothing.” Hiro paused in the doorway. “His father is dead.”

  “And you think Yoshiko killed him.” Mayuri narrowed her eyes. “You believe it, without evidence, because she dares to call her life her own.”

  “On the contrary,” Hiro said, “I have no objection to independent women. I do, however, take offense when the guilty blame the innocent. I will find this killer, as I did in General Akechi’s case, and if the trail leads back here, I promise, you will not escape unscathed.”

  “You may leave,” Mayuri said. “Our talk is over.”

  “At last, we agree.” Hiro slid open the shoji. “There is no need to escort me out. I know the way.”

  * * *

  Hiro headed for the river, regretting his decision to see Mayuri. The teahouse owner essentially confirmed that Kaoru owed her money, but her words had offered little else of note. Worse, Hiro hadn’t found an opening to ask what Mayuri knew about Yoshiko’s other employers, and he doubted he would have a second chance.

  As he reached the Kamo River, Hiro saw a samurai approaching. He slowed, loathing the thought of another confrontation with Matsunaga Hisahide’s obnoxious guards.

  A lantern lit the samurai’s features, revealing not a guard but Akechi Yoshiko.

  She wore a masculine blue kimono and an obi of smoky silk. Her wakizashi hung from her sash and a long katana stretched upward behind her back. The longsword waggled when she walked like the tail of a happy dog.

  Or a she-wolf, Hiro thought.

  Yoshiko bowed. “Good evening, Matsui-san. Or, perhaps, I may call you Hiro?”

  Hiro returned the bow. “Good evening, Yoshiko.”

  His use of her given name gave her permission to use his also; Hiro saw no way to refuse without causing offense.

  “This is a pleasant surprise.” She looked past Hiro up the street. “Are you coming from the Sakura?”

  “Yes. I was looking for you.” Hiro smiled to cover the lie. He doubted the woman could see his features well in the gathering darkness but knew the smile would carry into his tone.

  “For me?” Yoshiko’s voice revealed delight.

  Hiro swallowed his distaste and smiled more broadly. “I hoped you would help me.”

  “Of course I will. I can walk with you, and you can explain on the way.” Yoshiko inclined her head toward Hiro as she spoke.

  Most of the time, the shinobi thought that particular feminine gesture unduly subservient. On Yoshiko, it looked absurd.

  “No need,” Hiro said. “I do not want to interrupt your errand.”

  “Please, it would be my pleasure.” She turned and stood at Hiro’s side.

  He accepted the inevitable and started across the bridge.

  “Where are we going?” Yoshiko asked.

  “Ginjiro’s sake brewery.”

  “Ginjiro brews the best in Kyoto,” Yoshiko said. “As it happens, I need to visit there myself. Ginjiro’s daughter, Tomiko, asked to speak with me this evening. I intended to see her later, but this works just as well. Better, really, because I can walk with you.”

  She lowered her face as if embarrassed, but the light of a passing lantern lit the smile that touched her lips.

  For the second time that day, Hiro wished he could disappear.

  Chapter 29

  Yoshiko matched Hiro stride for stride, with a confident pace that belied her awkward attempts at femininity.

  He noticed her stealing sidelong glances at him as they walked. He wondered—not for the first time—what he’d done to encourage her affections. Their previous interactions, shortly after her father’s murder, were not the sort that usually sparked romantic feelings.

  He remembered telling Mayuri that he didn’t mind an independent woman. That was true. Hiro preferred aggressive women to wilting flowers. Even so, something about Yoshiko put him off.

  He had barely finished the thought when Yoshiko asked, “Have you made any progress with your murder investigation? I would gladly offer assistance, if I may.”

  Hiro expanded his earlier lie to encompass a partial truth. “I am glad you decided to see Tomiko. She and her mother need someone to guard the brewery during the evening hours, at least until Ginjiro returns from prison. I believe she intended to ask you, though I do not want to presume.”

  “I’m sure she won’t mind your asking,” Yoshiko said. “I know I don’t.”

  Only Hiro’s years of training kept his expression neutral.

  “I know what it is like to lose a father,” she continued. “I would be honored to help Tomiko, doubly so because the work helps you as well.”

  “Guarding the brewery won’t take too much time from your other duties?” Hiro asked.

  “No.” She shook her head. “Last night alone I collected two debts—and made arrangements for a third—and finished them all two hours before the temple bells rang midnight.”

  “How fortunate,” Hiro said. “I’m sure your mother was glad you came home early.”

  As they passed by Pontocho, a ripple of feminine laughter fluttered toward them on the air. Yoshiko turned. Hiro followed her gaze.

  Dozens of colorful paper lanterns lit the alley that held the entertainment district. More lights blazed in the teahouse windows, flickering gaily behind the paper panels.

  Samurai thronged the street, their darker tones offsetting the brilliance of the painted entertainers whose silk kimono shimmered with every imaginable hue. Kanzashi sparkled in the ladies’ hair, but stark white makeup turned their faces into phantoms.

  Fitting, the shinobi thought, an entertainer’s love has all the substance of a ghost.

  “I did not go home.” Yoshiko’s voice jarred Hiro back to the moment.

  He gave the samurai woman a curious look.

  “When I finished collecting debts,” Yoshiko said. “I did not go home. I returned to the Sakura and guarded the teahouse until the last of the guests departed.”

  Yoshiko’s story contradicted the one Mayuri told, which meant that one—or both—of the women lied.

  For the moment, Hiro let the story pass. “I’ve considered taking on extra work as a debt collector. Do you find the jobs unpleasant or hard to find?”

  “Not particularly.” Yoshiko glanced over her shoulder as another stream of laughter echoed out of Pontocho. “Most of my work, of course, is for the Sakura.”

  “But you work for other clients too?” Hiro asked.

  “On occasion.” Yoshiko seemed more comfortable with this topic than with flirting. “Once you build a reputation, work finds you.”

  “Do you work for samurai, or just for merchants?” To his surprise, Hiro found himself truly interested in her answer.

  “I do not call on samurai, for work or for debt collection.” Yoshiko spoke firmly, but without anger. “Samurai suffer embarrassment if a debt collector appears at their homes, and, as you know, it violates the law for samurai to engage in business.”

  Hiro nodded. “A law y
ou honor in the breach.”

  Yoshiko smiled, this one genuine rather than simpering. “True enough, and, as you know, I’m not the only one. In truth, I do not think our kind would tolerate a female debt collector. Not all men share your willingness to overlook my choices.”

  Hiro smiled. I wish that you would overlook me in return.

  Just before the pause grew awkward, Yoshiko continued, “Collecting from merchants is easy. Take last night, for example. The men I sought are known in Pontocho. I found them quickly—”

  “In Pontocho?” Hiro asked. “You collect in the pleasure district?”

  “Why not?” Yoshiko asked. “Men don’t forego entertainment just because they owe a debt.”

  “Why confront them in Pontocho and not at home?” the shinobi asked.

  Yoshiko’s smile grew more confident and decidedly less feminine. “Men pay more quickly in public places. Wives get angry for a night. Teahouse owners have much longer memories.”

  They turned onto the road that led to Ginjiro’s. People thronged the narrow street despite the evening hour. Vendors’ braziers filled the air with the scented sizzle of grilling meat.

  Hiro still had not confirmed whether Yoshiko tried to collect a debt from Kaoru or Chikao the night before. He had time for one more try. “You said you collected two debts, but not a third? What happened there?”

  She shrugged. “I couldn’t find the debtor. Not a total failure, though. His father agreed to pay.”

  “You asked the father?” Hiro feigned surprise. “Is that permitted?”

  “The law holds a man responsible for the debts of every person under his roof,” Yoshiko said. “The debtor lives with his parents, so I had the legal right to approach the father.”

  Ginjiro’s brewery lay two shops away.

  “You asked him,” Hiro said, “or you demanded that Chikao pay?”

  Yoshiko startled but recovered quickly. “Why did you use that name?”

  “You know as well as I do why I used it,” Hiro said.

  She stopped and stared at Hiro coldly. “You mean, did I threaten him. I didn’t have to threaten. Chikao offered to pay the debt to keep his son out of prison.” She leaned toward Hiro and spoke more slowly. “And to be clear, before you ask, I didn’t kill Chikao.”

  She turned away and walked off toward Ginjiro’s.

  Welcoming light streamed from the brewery storefront. Just inside, a group of merchants sat on the pale tatami. A samurai in a dark kimono huddled near the honey-colored counter. He had his back to the street, but his posture indicated tension.

  Tomiko stood behind the counter. She seemed nervous, too, but her gestures looked too calm for real trouble.

  Hiro didn’t trust Yoshiko’s words but couldn’t risk her anger either. Not until he knew the reason for her sudden change in attitude.

  “Wait,” he called.

  Yoshiko stopped and turned.

  “How could you believe that I suspected you of murder?” Hiro walked to meet the female samurai.

  She took a step back toward him. “How could I think it? What else should I think your accusation meant?”

  “Accusation?” Hiro feigned surprise and then embarrassment. “I’m sorry … I never intended … I asked the question to clear you of suspicion. I needed to hear you say the words, to establish them as fact. You, of all people, could not commit this murder.”

  “I—of all people—could not kill?” Yoshiko’s fury grew. “You don’t believe I could take a person’s life?”

  Hiro hated when women asked a question that had no decent answer. But, usually, these no-win questions involved a clothing choice or beauty, not a murderous intent. He considered his answer carefully but quickly.

  He knew from experience, masculine pauses only made the situation worse.

  Chapter 30

  “Not without cause.” Hiro infused his voice with unfelt warmth. “Not over money. I know you better than that, Yoshiko. You wouldn’t stoop to such an act.”

  A flush rose in the samurai woman’s cheeks, but not from anger.

  Hiro startled as someone grabbed his arm. He turned, fist cocked, but relaxed when he recognized Suke at his side.

  “Do not grab me,” Hiro said. “I almost hurt you.”

  A smile lit Suke’s face. “You wouldn’t hit me, Hiro-san. I need your help.”

  “Just a moment,” Hiro said.

  “I need you now,” Suke insisted. “Urgent business.”

  Yoshiko gave Hiro the smile a woman gives her husband when their children play at mischief. “Please, do not make him wait on my account. I apologize for misunderstanding your intent. I was not aware you knew my heart so well.”

  Hiro gave her a smile that he remembered from the days when he actually cared to understand a woman’s heart. From the look in Yoshiko’s eyes, he faked the feeling well.

  “Please excuse me,” Yoshiko said with a dip of her head and a genuine smile. “We can continue our conversation later. I don’t know any more about the matter you mentioned, but I will gladly help you investigate if I can.”

  Yoshiko knelt up onto the brewery floor.

  The samurai at the counter stood up and turned to leave. His eyes widened at the sight of Yoshiko approaching. As soon as Tomiko returned his sword, the samurai hurried out of the brewery and scurried into the night. Hiro wondered whether the man thought Yoshiko frightening on her own account or whether he owed a debt and was afraid she had come to collect it.

  Suke tugged on Hiro’s sleeve and dragged the shinobi toward the alley. Hiro lengthened his steps to keep the pace. He didn’t want his kimono torn, and Suke’s grip seemed strangely tight for a man of advancing age and drunken tendencies.

  When they reached the relative privacy of the alley, Hiro asked, “What’s going on?”

  In the dim light, Hiro saw the whites of Suke’s eyes grow large. “I found important evidence—of the crime!”

  The monk peered around the shinobi, as if to see that no one followed them from the street. Satisfied, he leaned toward Hiro and whispered, “The woman you arrived with is a debt collector. She beats up men who do not pay. Chikao was beaten to death—I think she did it!”

  “You think so?” Hiro asked.

  “That’s why I rescued you,” Suke said, “before she could attack you too.”

  “She might attack me,” Hiro said, “but not the way you’re thinking.”

  Suke tilted his head in confusion. “What?”

  “Never mind,” Hiro said. “The fact that Chikao was beaten to death does not mean Yoshiko killed him. We have to connect the killer with the crime.”

  “But how?” Suke asked.

  “With evidence,” Hiro said. “Facts that put the killer in this alley at the time Chikao died.”

  Suke frowned. “I think she did it. I will keep an eye on her and find the evidence we need.”

  “Be careful,” Hiro warned. “A suspicious killer hides his tracks.”

  “Don’t worry.” Suke nodded. “I am sneaky. She won’t even know I’m watching.”

  Hiro doubted Suke’s form of stealth could fool a child. “Good. Remember, the less you watch, the better.”

  “I did well, though, figuring out she’s a debt collector?” Suke looked anxious.

  Hiro smiled. “Yes, you did. That’s very helpful.”

  “Good enough, perhaps, to merit payment?” Suke asked.

  Hiro grinned at the monk’s transparency. “Of course. A flask of sake?”

  They left the alley as Yoshiko stepped out of the brewery and tucked a stoppered flask in her kimono. Hiro only saw the flask for a moment, but its color and lacquered surface indicated it hadn’t come from Ginjiro’s stock.

  “Is that a wooden flask?” he asked.

  Yoshiko frowned. “I can afford a stoneware one. I carry the wooden type by choice. It doesn’t break as easily.”

  And, also, makes a better weapon, Hiro thought.

  She gave the shinobi an awkward smile. “Speaking
of which, you were correct. Starting tomorrow, after dinner, I will guard the brewery until Ginjiro … well, until the magistrate hears his case.”

  Before Hiro could reply, a voice behind him said, “Good evening, Matsui-san.”

  He turned to see a commoner, a man in his early forties with wiry, muscled arms and a slender build. The man wore the clothes of a carpenter, and his cropped hair glittered with silver that he didn’t bother to hide with colored oils.

  Hiro nodded in recognition. “Good evening, Master Carpenter Ozuru.”

  He used the man’s official title, though Hiro knew this carpenter was more than he appeared.

  Ozuru’s gaze shifted to Yoshiko. He bowed. “Good evening.”

  Hiro noted the omission of gender-specific honorifics. Ozuru knew better than to offend by choosing poorly.

  “Good evening,” Yoshiko said. “I will not delay you further, Hiro. I look forward to seeing you at dinner tomorrow night.”

  A slow smile crept over Ozuru’s face as he watched Yoshiko stroll away. He turned to Hiro. “Charming woman.”

  Hiro didn’t return the smile. “You might think differently if you knew her well.”

  “I’ll trust your judgment.” Ozuru glanced at the brewery. “We need to talk. Not here.”

  “I need a minute.” Hiro caught Tomiko’s eye, withdrew a coin from his kimono, and held it high. “Give Suke a drink, and see that he eats tonight?”

  Tomiko nodded.

  Hiro handed the coin to a customer at the near end of the counter. The man put the silver into Tomiko’s hand.

  Suke gave Hiro a one-toothed grin as he climbed into the brewery. “A thousand blessings on you, Hiro-san. The kami will remember your generosity forever.”

  Hiro faced Ozuru. “Shall we walk?”

  The shinobi matched the carpenter’s rapid pace through the crowded streets. Neither spoke, though Hiro didn’t wonder why. Ozuru clearly intended his message for Hiro’s ears alone.

  The men had met two months before, when Hiro investigated the death of a ranking shogunate clerk. The carpenter—a shinobi from the rival Koga ryu—was neither Hiro’s ally nor his enemy. As a result, Hiro followed Ozuru with a mixture of curiosity and caution.

  When they reached the Kamo River, Ozuru turned south as if to follow the path along the river bank. Hiro turned the other way and headed north.