Claws of the Cat Page 13

  “You see?” he asked. “A true smile begins in the eyes.”

  “I never noticed,” Hiro lied. “Is that why you wanted to marry her?”

  It wasn’t a normal choice. Most samurai would never marry a commoner, let alone a woman in the entertainment trade. Hidetaro’s monastic tendencies made the decision even more unusual. Few men would allow a woman to change the course of an ascetic life.

  “That, and the fact that she returned my affection.” Hidetaro gave an uncomfortable smile. “You may see the difference in our ages, but Sayuri did not mind it.”

  Hiro found that surprising too, especially since the girl had talents to match her looks. Young, beautiful women rarely fell in love with substantially older men.

  Unlike Hidetaro, the shinobi sought a deeper, and probably financial, explanation. He wondered where a destitute samurai found the money to buy a performer’s contract and whether Sayuri believed Hidetaro had silver hidden in his purse as well as his hair. Social convention prevented him from asking.

  “Did Mayuri negotiate much on the contract price?” Hiro wondered aloud.

  Hidetaro’s cheek twitched. “Not as much as I would have liked.”

  “Perhaps she will reduce it more because of all the blood.”

  Hiro realized a moment too late that his effort to flush out a useful response had overstepped the boundaries of politeness.

  Hidetaro stood up. “I’m afraid I have an appointment. Please excuse my rudeness, but I must leave.”

  Hiro stood up and bowed. “Thank you for speaking with me. I apologize if my words have offended.”

  They left the temple together. When they reached the abbot’s quarters Hidetaro paused and reached down to adjust his katana.

  He gave Hiro an apologetic smile. “Go on without me. This will take a minute.”

  Hiro started up the path toward Tsuten-kyo, stifling a smile at the samurai’s clumsy attempt at deception. Such an awkward effort might fool the guards at provincial border stations but they would never mislead a shinobi.

  Hiro suspected where Hidetaro was going. He was tempted to follow and see whether Hidetaro managed to see Sayuri, but the knowledge would not help his investigation, so he decided to check on Father Mateo instead.

  * * *

  At the church Hiro found Ana on her hands and knees, polishing the floor and grumbling to herself. She looked up as the shinobi’s shadow fell across the doorway. Her ancient face condensed into a scowl.

  “Of all the cats in the world,” she said, shaking her cleaning cloth in his direction, “I should have known you would pick the defective one.”

  Hiro stopped. “What?”

  Ana pointed at Father Mateo’s room. The sliding door stood open. Hiro heard a rustling, like silk rubbing against tatami mats.

  Ana rose up on her knees and rested her fists on her hips. “That cat ate Father Mateo’s Bible!”

  Hiro started toward the room. Behind him, Ana went back to her work.

  “Hm,” she sniffed, “ten thousand cats in Kyoto. He picks the one that eats paper instead of mice.”

  Hiro paused in the doorway of the little room. Father Mateo sat cross-legged on the tatami, scrubbing at a dark splotch on the floor. He held a wet rag marked with stains that looked like ink.

  A sheet of blank parchment lay on the floor at his side, with a dirty but empty inkwell on top of it. Remnants of glistening liquid clung to the bottom and a black swatch over the side suggested a spill.

  The priest’s beloved leather-bound Bible lay open in the writing alcove. The upper right corner of the open page was missing, along with the first few words in the right-hand column. At a distance it looked torn, but Hiro suspected the kitten was to blame.

  He felt terrible and didn’t know what to say. After trying several options in his mind, he settled on a statement of the obvious.

  “Did my kitten do that?”

  It was the first time Hiro referred to the cat as his own, and he did it intentionally. He had brought the animal into the house. That made it his, and he was responsible for it.

  Father Mateo nodded and set the rag on top of the stained tatami. “I went to the kitchen to add more water to my ink, and when I returned she was eating Paul’s letter to the Romans. I dropped the inkwell trying to shoo her off.”

  “I am sorry. Can the book be fixed?”

  “Only one verse is missing,” Father Mateo said, “and under the circumstances I’m not likely to forget it.” He paused and then recited, “‘For all have sinned and come short of the glory of God’—kittens included.”

  Hiro would have felt relief, but the Jesuit’s smile seemed forced.

  “I am sorry,” he repeated.

  “God will forgive the kitten, and you, and I would never presume to hold a grudge on His behalf,” Father Mateo said. “Besides, we have a more serious problem. Luis has disappeared.”

  Chapter 26

  “What do you mean, disappeared?” Hiro asked.

  “When I woke this morning, Luis was gone,” Father Mateo explained. “At first I thought he was sleeping, but when he didn’t get up for breakfast I checked his room. He wasn’t there, and his horse isn’t in the stable.”

  “Did he go to the warehouse?” Hiro would not have saddled a horse for the ten-minute walk to the Portuguese shop, but Luis never walked when he could ride.

  “The travel papers are also gone. The imperial ones, that grant access beyond Kyoto.”

  “Your pass?” Hiro’s stomach clenched.

  “The pass,” Father Mateo corrected. “The emperor granted only one for my household. I think he believed we would always travel together.”

  “More likely he wanted to keep you from going to two different places at once,” Hiro said, “to track your movements more easily. If Luis took the pass you can’t leave Kyoto.”

  Father Mateo frowned at the implication. “I wasn’t leaving. I’m more concerned about where Luis has gone.”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Hiro was furious. “He’s run off to save his cowardly life at the cost of yours and mine.”

  Father Mateo started to object, but then sighed. “It does look that way. He’s never left the city without telling me in advance.”

  Hiro turned back to the common room. “Ana!”

  “You don’t have to yell,” the housekeeper declared. She put down her rag and stood up. “I’m old, not deaf.”

  “Do you know when Luis left or where he was going?”

  “I heard a horse just after dark last night,” she said. “I assumed it was Luis, since you don’t ride and Father Mateo’s congregation was arriving for prayer.”

  “Fourteen hours,” Hiro said. “We’ll never catch him. He’s past the shogun’s second barricade, no matter which direction he went.”

  The shogun and most warlords erected barricades at intervals along the highways and at the borders of the lands that they controlled. There taxes were charged, goods inspected, and travelers’ papers viewed. Anyone without a pass or a good excuse would be turned back or restrained, but the emperor’s seal guaranteed that Luis would pass quickly and unmolested.

  “Perhaps he’ll come back on his own,” Father Mateo suggested.

  “He’d better,” Hiro said, “because if he doesn’t and Nobuhide kills you, I will hunt that Portuguese traitor down and make him beg to die.”

  “Hiro,” the priest said, “don’t say that. I do not want Luis to die and I do not want you to kill him. Vengeance belongs to God alone.

  “Promise me you will not harm Luis, no matter what happens.”

  Hiro didn’t answer.

  “Hiro,” Father Mateo warned.

  “Perhaps it won’t be necessary. I have new evidence that suggests Lord Oda is responsible for Hideyoshi’s death.”

  “Really?” Father Mateo stood up and wiped his hands on his kimono.

  Ana saw the rag on the tatami and bustled into the room. She knelt and shook her head at the ink spot on the floor. “Hm.”

&
nbsp; Father Mateo gave Hiro a worried look and left the room. Hiro followed him out.

  “So,” the Jesuit said, “who killed Akechi Hideyoshi?”

  Hiro had already started toward the swinging door. “I’ll tell you a theory on the way.”

  * * *

  As they walked, Hiro explained what he had learned from the tailor, though he did not mention Yaso’s name. He also omitted Kazu and the shogunate.

  “So the merchant from Nagoya was really a spy who killed Hideyoshi to avoid discovery,” Father Mateo said. “Do you think Nobuhide will believe it?”

  “No,” Hiro said. “This solution relies on two assumptions, and I cannot reveal my informant’s name. More importantly, I’m not convinced the murder happened that way.”

  “Then why are we going to see Nobuhide?” Father Mateo asked.

  “That is an assumption too,” Hiro said with a smile.

  “A safe one, based on the fact that his house is directly ahead of us.” Father Mateo pointed at the Akechi home, directly ahead on the left-hand side of the road.

  “An incorrect one,” Hiro said. “We are going to see Akechi Sato.

  “I need more time to solve this murder. Nobuhide won’t agree, and this theory won’t convince him, but it might be strong enough to persuade his mother.”

  “Or his sister,” Father Mateo agreed.

  Hiro gave the priest an incredulous look. “Yoshiko? We have a better chance of teaching my cat to sing.”

  “She’s a woman too.”

  “In body only,” Hiro said, “and barely that. No, our best chance lies with Hideyoshi’s wife.”

  They walked up the path to the house. Three pairs of shoes sat outside the entrance, the tiny pair that could only belong to Akechi Sato, a pair of mud-spattered geta, and the decrepit servant’s sandals Hiro had seen on their previous visit.

  The shinobi knocked on the door. Shuffling steps approached from the other side, and the door swung open to reveal an elderly manservant. He wore a brown kimono with no crest and his well-worn tabi showed evidence of repair. He bowed and waited for the samurai to speak.

  “Good morning,” Hiro said. “We have come to see Akechi Sato.”

  The servant nodded. “I will see if my mistress is available.”

  He disappeared into the house.

  Hiro leaned toward Father Mateo and whispered, “Agree with everything I say.”

  Soft footsteps heralded Sato’s arrival. She wore a black kimono with no decoration and matching black obi. The hem of her inner kimono showed at the neckline. In defiance of tradition, that too was black. She wore no makeup and no visible jewelry except for the silver pins that held her hair in place. Her eyes showed no redness or puffiness, but she looked older than the day before and bent down, like a lily after a thunderstorm. Hiro suspected that, like the lily, Sato’s brokenness was not permanent. A strong woman’s spirit was not easily crushed.

  Hiro and Father Mateo bowed. When they rose, Yoshiko had joined her mother in the doorway. Hiro blinked in surprise. He had not heard the samurai woman approach.

  Like her mother, Yoshiko had shed her colored robes for black, but the daughter’s kimono was cut in male lines and she wore a samurai’s obi instead of the larger one women preferred. Her hair was freshly oiled and pulled into a topknot. Even in mourning, Yoshiko remained a samurai.

  The women bowed politely but not deeply.

  “May we help you?” Yoshiko asked.

  “We have identified your father’s killer,” Hiro said. “Sayuri is innocent.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Yoshiko narrowed her eyes. “Nobuhide told me what happened. The woman was alone with my father all night and in the morning he was dead. No one else entered the room. My father did not kill himself. No one else could have done it.”

  Hiro’s mind prickled in warning. Leaving guests outside violated the samurai code, and the day before Yoshiko had invited them in at once. Something had caused her hospitality to vanish without a trace.

  Sato peered from behind her daughter. She looked at Father Mateo with longing, as though she wanted to invite him in.

  Hiro took a chance. “One of Lord Oda’s spies came to Kyoto to purchase weapons from the Portuguese. We believe he asked your father for assistance and killed Hideyoshi when he refused to cooperate.”

  “A spy who conveniently disappeared before you could capture him?” Yoshiko asked with disdain. “You shame yourself, trying to persuade my mother with a lie. Go away.”

  She stepped back and closed the door in Hiro’s face.

  Chapter 27

  A moment later the door swung open again.

  “Are you still here?” Yoshiko asked.

  “We have hardly had time to leave,” Hiro said.

  Yoshiko sighed and opened the door. “My mother wishes to offer you tea. She wants to hear more of your explanation, though I warn you that I will not forgive an attempt to defraud her.”

  She gestured toward the interior of the house. “Come inside.”

  Sato stood at the far end of the entry chamber. As the visitors stepped into the house, she bowed and led them into the common room.

  A haze of pale blue smoke hung in the air, and the perfume of sandalwood incense overwhelmed even the scent of the cedar beams. Hiro loathed the cloying odor, though it was common in houses of mourning. In addition to its religious significance, incense masked the smell of a corpse in decay.

  He saw other signs of mourning too. The common room hearth had no fire, and the tokonoma sat empty in recognition of the patriarch’s recent death. The empty alcove reminded Hiro of his own, although his remained perpetually vacant by choice.

  When they were seated and the manservant brought tea, Yoshiko said, “Why should we believe your tale? Lord Oda had no reason to kill my father.”

  “Wasn’t he a traitor like his cousin Mitsuhide?” Hiro asked the question bluntly, in violation of every social rule but also knowing that Yoshiko could not take offense because of her own rudeness. He hoped his abruptness would provoke a useful admission.

  Father Mateo looked shocked. Akechi Sato gasped and raised her hands to her mouth. Yoshiko narrowed her eyes and clenched her jaw, but recovered much more quickly than Hiro expected. Within moments her face had resumed its samurai stillness.

  “I see you have learned about our clan’s embarrassment,” she said. “My father was not a traitor. He tried to convince Mitsuhide to change his mind, but the fool would not be dissuaded.

  “If you know about Mitsuhide, however, you also understand why Lord Oda would not harm my father, or any other member of my clan.”

  “On the contrary,” Hiro said, “killing your father would prove the defection was real.”

  As the words left Hiro’s mouth he had a sudden flash of insight. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it quickly with the words unspoken. It was only an assumption, not a fact. At least until he could find the facts to support it.

  “Killing my father was more difficult than you believe,” Yoshiko said.

  Father Mateo gave Hiro an alarmed look, and the shinobi realized the priest had taken Yoshiko’s words for a confession. Hiro shook his head slightly and the priest relaxed, though he looked both nervous and confused.

  “As I told you before, my father has killed kunoichi,” Yoshiko continued. “Not only the one who tried to assassinate the shogun but also another, sent to take my father’s life. It happened five years ago in the very teahouse where he died. My father disarmed her and killed her with her own poisoned dagger. He should have done the same to this assassin.

  “Which leads me to believe that my father knew his killer.”

  “Do you have evidence of that?” Hiro asked.

  “Someone slit my father’s throat while he waited for Sayuri to return from the latrine,” Yoshiko said. “He would have heard the killer coming, yet he allowed that person to approach him from behind. He must have recognized the killer’s voice, or perhaps her gait.”

  A strange
gleam entered her eye as she looked at Hiro. “Surely you could recognize a woman’s gait?”

  Hiro ignored the comment and the unexpected implication. “So you believe Nobuhide is correct, that Sayuri killed him?”

  “If the woman didn’t do it she was involved. How else could a killer have entered his room, slain him, and left without being seen?”

  “Do you agree?” Father Mateo asked Sato.

  She smiled sadly. “I do not know who killed my husband, nor do I worry about the dead. I may go to him, but he will not return to me.”

  “You know King David?” Father Mateo asked.

  “Should I not? After all, I am a Christian.”

  The Jesuit’s face broke into a smile of delight. “How did you become a Christian?”

  Sato shook her head and looked at her hands, which lay folded in her lap. “I do not want to bore you with an elderly woman’s tales.”

  “Please,” Father Mateo said, “I would like to hear it.”

  Hiro did not want to hear it. He wanted to leave and prove his new theory correct, preferably after obtaining a few extra days to investigate.

  He tried to catch the Jesuit’s eye, but the priest refused to look in his direction. Hiro realized with frustration that his friend was being deliberately obtuse.

  “I married very young,” Sato said, “but for years I bore no children. It was embarrassing. A samurai wife has one duty—to provide her husband with an heir. Yoshi was patient and did not send me away, but I grew desperate. I prayed to Buddhist gods, Shinto kami, and every other spirit I could find. Mostly I prayed to Kannon, the goddess of mercy. I promised that if she gave me a child I would put a statue of her in my home and pray to it every day as long as I lived.”

  “But Kannon did not help you,” Father Mateo said in his most understanding tone.

  “No.” An impish grin came over Sato’s face. Her eyes glittered with delight at having fooled the foreign priest. “Kannon gave me a daughter, Yoshiko.”

  Mother and daughter exchanged a smile. It was the first real emotion Hiro had seen on Yoshiko’s face, but the expression disappeared almost at once.