Flask of the Drunken Master Read online

  Hiro smelled the salty scents of human blood and sweat. The odors caused an unexpected ache of sympathy, which made him pause—never once had he felt empathy for the guilty.

  Although Ginjiro’s innocence remained an open question, Hiro found himself inclined to trust his instincts.

  The brewer rested his forehead against the post, eyes shut and lips drawn tight against the pain. He didn’t look up as Hiro and Father Mateo approached, though sudden tension in his back revealed he heard their footsteps.

  “Ginjiro, listen,” Hiro whispered. “Don’t reveal you know us.”

  The brewer winced. “Tell me that my daughter isn’t with you.”

  “No,” Hiro said, “but she knows what happened. She’s the one who told us we should come.”

  Ginjiro sighed. “She must not ever come here again.”

  “Why did they do this?” Father Mateo asked. “What made them beat you?”

  “The yoriki claims I lied about killing Chikao,” Ginjiro said. “He demanded a confession. I wouldn’t give it.”

  “Did you kill Chikao?” Hiro asked.

  “Of course he didn’t!” Father Mateo said.

  Ginjiro tilted his head, trying to look Hiro in the eye. “I did not, but I did lie to the yoriki.”

  “Tell us,” Hiro said. “We need the truth, and we need it now.”

  Ginjiro sighed again and nodded. “I might as well tell you, now that the magistrate knows.

  “A month ago, or a little more, Chikao and Ren made an offer to buy my brewery. They wanted a better location, and they thought, if I sold them mine, the guild would approve their application on the spot. They wanted to buy my recipes, too, the entire business.

  “I told them I didn’t want to sell. They left, and then, a few days later, Chikao returned alone. He tried again to make me sell. When I refused, he asked me to let Tomiko marry his son. As if I would consider such a thing…”

  Ginjiro drew a deep, slow breath and exhaled with a gingerness that spoke of real pain.

  “How did that provoke a beating?” Father Mateo asked.

  Hiro frowned at the priest. “He hasn’t finished.”

  The brewer closed his eyes and said, “I refused the offer and told Chikao I would never let my daughter wed his son.

  “But Chikao and Ren would not accept my refusal. They came again—the last time, just three days before Chikao died. They asked for Tomiko as well as the shop. I told Chikao if he didn’t stop, I would withdraw my support for their application to join the brewers’ guild, and also do everything in my power to ensure the za refused them membership.

  “I lost my temper. I made a foolish threat—but I didn’t mean it. Not the way it sounded, anyway.”

  “How did Chikao respond?” Hiro asked.

  “He swore to make me change my mind.” Ginjiro looked at the ground. “I told him I would like to see him try.”

  “Did he fight you?” Hiro asked.

  “No.” Ginjiro shook his head. “He made an excuse and left.”

  “Why didn’t you explain all this before?” Father Mateo asked.

  “I didn’t think it really made a difference,” Ginjiro said. “I didn’t kill Chikao. We argued, spoke unpleasant words. Men argue with each other all the time.”

  “Perhaps,” Hiro said, “but most men’s arguments do not end in murder.”

  Chapter 40

  “How did the magistrate learn about your problems with Chikao?” Father Mateo asked.

  “Kaoru told him,” the brewer said, though Hiro had already guessed the answer.

  “You there!” A man emerged from the prison house and hurried toward them. The hooked jitte in his hand identified him as a dōshin, and he wore a vibrant, patterned surcoat over dark hakama.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” the dōshin demanded as he reached them. “You cannot speak with the prisoner now.”

  Hiro gestured to Father Mateo. “This man is a priest.”

  “The brewer worships the foreign god?” The dōshin frowned at Ginjiro. “Is this true?”

  Ginjiro bowed his head. “I worship the foreigners’ god, and Amida Buddha, and also follow the Shinto way.”

  The answer, though contrary to the truth and Father Mateo’s theology, didn’t sound abnormal. Many Japanese hedged their bets by worshipping all available deities. Hiro was glad the brewer had the presence of mind to go along with the lie.

  The dōshin scratched his head. “I don’t remember the magistrate granting permission for a priest…”

  He trailed off, unable to reconcile his respect for religious practices with his duty to follow orders.

  Just when Hiro thought the ruse might work, the dōshin said, “I can’t allow it. The yoriki could have me whipped for letting you interrupt an interrogation.”

  “This man has had enough for one day,” Father Mateo said. “God restricts the maximum number of lashes a man can receive at once.”

  “Truly?” Curiosity overcame concern. “How many does your god allow?”

  “Forty,” Father Mateo said. “No more, regardless of his crime.”

  The dōshin looked at Ginjiro. “Then he still has a few to go.”

  “It is a maximum, not a goal.” The Jesuit frowned, displeased his plan had failed.

  Hiro wondered whether the rule existed or whether the priest had made it up to reduce Ginjiro’s punishment.

  “Do you intend to beat this man again?” Father Mateo demanded.

  “That depends,” the dōshin said, “on whether he confesses.”

  “What if he isn’t guilty?” Father Mateo asked. “Surely you wouldn’t expect an innocent man to confess a crime.”

  “The Kyoto police do not arrest innocent men,” the dōshin said. “If he doesn’t confess before his trial, or during it, the yoriki will bring him here and press him until he does.”

  Father Mateo looked at Hiro and switched to Portuguese. “Does he mean they intend to place him beneath a stone? They do this in my country, too. It’s almost always fatal.”

  Hiro took a moment to parse the question. The lack of proper names helped keep the conversation secret but made the Jesuit harder to understand.

  “Yes,” he replied in the Jesuit’s tongue, “and they will increase the weight of the stones until he confesses or dies.”

  Hiro switched to Japanese and told the dōshin, “The foreigner does not speak our language well.”

  The dōshin nodded, neither surprised nor offended.

  “May I speak with you privately?” Hiro asked the dōshin.

  They walked a few steps away. As Hiro hoped, Father Mateo remained at Ginjiro’s side.

  The shinobi lowered his voice as if to keep the priest from overhearing. “Will the magistrate hear this case tomorrow? And press him immediately afterward?”

  “That’s what I heard,” the dōshin said, “assuming the brewer doesn’t confess to the magistrate during the hearing. Why do you care? You can’t observe the pressing.”

  “On the contrary,” Hiro said, “we must. The foreign god has different rules than Japanese kami do. If one of his worshippers dies with a lie on his soul, the foreign god will send that man to the hell of everburning flames. The priest must witness the brewer’s confession and confirm he died an honest death.”

  “How can a priest ensure a man is honest?” the dōshin asked.

  “How would I know?” Hiro said. “I’m a translator and scribe. I know his rituals. I don’t share his faith.”

  “I don’t think the yoriki will allow it,” the dōshin said. “You’ll have to get the magistrate’s permission.”

  “We will obtain permission.” Hiro nodded, the gesture just shy of a bow. “Thank you. Now we will leave, to save you trouble.”

  The dōshin bowed.

  Hiro returned to Ginjiro and whispered, “If you’re guilty, confess at once.”

  “I’m innocent.” The brewer spoke so quietly that Hiro had to strain to hear the words. “I swear I am.”

&
nbsp; * * *

  After returning home with Father Mateo, Hiro retrieved a towel and headed out for a soak at the bathhouse.

  An unfamiliar samurai stood guard at the eastern end of the Kamo River bridge. His lamellar armor bore the Matsunaga crest. His swords hung sheathed at his waist, and he carried an arquebus in his arms. He gripped the firearm like a sword, with the muzzle held much higher than the stock.

  As Hiro approached, the samurai stepped forward with the arrogance of a man promoted far above his talents.

  “Who are you?” he demanded. “Identify yourself and show your pass.”

  Hiro stopped and bowed. “I am Matsui Hiro, interpreter for the foreign priest who lives up the road, past Okazaki Shrine. We passed this way, coming home, a few minutes ago.”

  “I didn’t see you.” The samurai gripped his firearm more tightly. “I came on duty ten minutes ago, when the temple bells rang the hour. Show me your travel pass and identification.”

  “I don’t need identification.” Hiro smiled with a politeness he didn’t feel. “I haven’t passed any barricades. I don’t want to cross the river. I’m going north, to the bathhouse, for a soak.”

  The samurai scowled. “Okazaki Shrine marks the eastern boundary of Kyoto. If you enter the city from past the shrine, you have to present a pass.”

  “I left it at home,” Hiro said.

  “Go back and get it.”

  Hiro bristled. His desire to avoid attention warred with loathing for this petty bully flexing his authority without cause.

  “Fetch your pass,” the guard repeated, “or you can explain yourself to the magistrate.”

  “You’re going to arrest me?” Hiro couldn’t believe it. “On what charge?”

  Chapter 41

  The samurai took an aggressive step forward. “I have orders to guard this bridge, and to arrest any person who seems suspicious.”

  He glared at Hiro to reinforce the threat.

  The shinobi felt a strong desire to give the insolent samurai a lesson—and a limp. Fortunately, training and the wish to avoid arrest stayed Hiro’s hands. Instead, he bowed. “I will go home and retrieve the pass.”

  The samurai scowled. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m taking you to the magistrate, on a charge of trying to enter the city without the required documentation.”

  “That charge does not apply to a man who hasn’t passed a barricade,” Hiro said. “Do you really want to confess to arresting an innocent man a mile from his home?”

  “Enough!” The guard made a grab for Hiro’s arm. “You’re under arrest.”

  Hiro stepped away and laid a hand on his katana. “I respectfully decline to be arrested.”

  The samurai’s nostrils flared. “How dare you threaten the shogun’s agent?”

  “I made no threats,” the shinobi said, “I simply refused your invitation to visit the magistrate.”

  “With a hand on your sword.” The samurai lowered the arquebus until its muzzle pointed at Hiro’s chest.

  “I’m carrying a towel.” Hiro waved the strip of cloth across the end of the samurai’s firearm. “What kind of man starts trouble with a towel?”

  “That might be a ruse,” the samurai snapped.

  Hiro wondered whether the samurai realized his arquebus wasn’t primed and wouldn’t fire. “Perhaps you would change your mind if you knew I reside in the home of the Portuguese merchant who sold that weapon to Matsunaga-san.”

  The samurai glanced at the weapon. “The shogun’s quartermaster issued this to me this afternoon. I do not know who bought it or from whom.” He raised the weapon’s muzzle a fraction. “How do I know you’re telling the truth? You might be a shinobi in disguise.”

  “Do I look like a shinobi?” Hiro asked.

  The arquebus wavered. “How would I know? I’ve never seen one. Nobody sees a shinobi and lives.”

  “Consider this carefully,” Hiro said. “If you take me to Magistrate Ishimaki—who, I will add, is a friend of mine—I will have to file a formal complaint against you. Would your record survive the embarrassment of arresting a man for bathing?”

  The samurai stared at Hiro’s towel. After a minute that felt much longer, he scowled.

  “Go on, then, but I’m following you to the bathhouse, and I’ll wait outside to ensure you aren’t faking.”

  “You’re welcome to follow me all the way in.” Hiro shrugged. “It’s a public bath. But, just out of curiosity, who will watch the bridge while we are bathing?”

  The samurai scowled. “Go away. Enjoy your bath.”

  “Thank you.” Hiro smiled. “I intend to.”

  * * *

  As Hiro soaked in the heated water, he considered the samurai guards throughout Kyoto. The presence of the samurai sent a message to the Ashikaga clan, as well as every spy within the city—a message that Matsunaga Hisahide met all threats with force.

  However, Hiro suspected Hisahide had a secondary goal. Samurai at the city gates would send a similar message with less effort and expense than posting men in every ward. Hiro wondered what the acting shogun gained by flooding the streets with guards. To his intense frustration, the answer eluded him.

  The Miyoshi’s threat of war did not explain the city guards. An army on the march moved slowly, giving Hisahide time to secure the city before his enemies arrived. The battle would start outside the Japanese capital, not within it.

  Hiro’s instincts warned him that Hisahide was up to something. Unfortunately, those instincts couldn’t tell him what it was.

  He hurried home as twilight doused the final flames of the setting sun. As he passed the Kamo River bridge, he nodded to the grumpy samurai.

  The guard pretended not to notice.

  As he reached the Jesuit’s house, Hiro heard the distinctive murmuring of voices raised in prayer. He smiled. Father Mateo held worship meetings almost every evening. With luck, the shinobi could change his clothes and leave again before the Jesuit realized he’d been home.

  Hiro laid his hand on the garden gate.

  Aggressive barking started in the yard across the street.

  Hiro turned.

  A giant akita strained against the woven rope that tied it to a stake in the neighbor’s yard. Hiro knew the dog did only what its nature called for, but he did not like the beast’s near-constant barking in the night—or the memory that this dog had almost killed the Jesuit whose life was tied by oaths to Hiro’s own.

  Hiro stalked across the road in the gathering dark. Shinobi did not take revenge on beasts, but Hiro wanted to teach the dog a lesson. He stopped three feet from the end of the rope, sending the akita into a frenzy. The barking increased. A line of drool swung from the dog’s bared fangs.

  The akita lunged against the rope, but cord and stake held firm. In the weeks since the Jesuit’s injuries, the neighbor had learned to tie his dog securely.

  Hiro snarled, a sound in tone and timbre indistinguishable from the akita’s own. The dog stopped barking, momentarily confused. Hiro lunged. The dog leaped backward with a startled yelp.

  The akita growled. Hiro growled back. The akita barked, but with less confidence.

  Hiro suddenly realized how foolish he looked and that he had momentarily—and unwisely—let his own emotions off the rope. He didn’t actually want the neighbor’s dog to quit its barking altogether. He loathed the beast for biting the priest, but as long as the neighbor kept the dog securely in the yard, the dog did make a decent warning system.

  “I don’t like you,” Hiro said as the dog resumed its barking, “but for now your usefulness outweighs the irritation.”

  Hiro returned to the Jesuit’s yard and slipped through the garden gate. He hoped no one had seen his conversation with the dog. He didn’t understand why he approached it in the first place—he didn’t usually let emotion rule his conscious mind. The difficulties of this day, and this investigation, must be having more effect than he had realized.

  Hiro reminded himself that he must think before reacting from
now on.

  Gato greeted him at the veranda door with a mew and a patter of paws. He felt the cat rub against his shin and bent to pick her up.

  Someone—probably Ana—had already lit the brazier in the corner of Hiro’s room and unfolded his narrow futon on the floor. Hiro gave the mattress a longing look. Given his plans, he wouldn’t be using it very much that night.

  Gato squirmed. Hiro set her down and watched her trot into the garden. He left the door ajar for her return, crossed to his desk, and knelt before it. After a moment to clear his thoughts, he walked his mind through his plans for the evening.

  He visualized himself avoiding the samurai patrols and reaching Basho’s shop without detection. Once there, he intended to find Basho and learn what the merchant knew about the murder. He imagined the encounter. Basho would likely flee. In his mind the shinobi tripped the merchant, who fell to the ground with a thump.

  Hiro opened his eyes.

  The thump was real.

  Father Mateo’s worship service had gone silent.

  Someone pounded on the Jesuit’s front door.

  Hiro leaped to his feet and listened. His urge to rush to the priest’s defense waged war against the training that required him to hold his ground until he knew the nature of a threat. The visitor might not mean the Jesuit harm. Hiro split the difference. He crouched at the door that separated his room from the common room and listened.

  Moments later, a reedy voice called, “Hiro-san! Where are you?”

  Chapter 42

  Hiro slid his shoji open as Suke appeared in the doorway separating the narrow foyer from the oe. The monk looked startled by the people in the common room.

  Father Mateo walked toward Suke. “Good evening. Welcome to my home.”

  Suke looked from the priest to the gathered people. “Where is Hiro-san?”

  Ana stepped into the common room from the kitchen entrance, opposite the one where Suke stood. A dusting of rice flour on her hands indicated a tasty snack in progress, probably for after the prayer meeting. The housekeeper’s gaze settled on Suke and dropped to his filthy feet.

  Suke shifted nervously. Crumbs of something fell from his kimono to the floor.