Flask of the Drunken Master Page 19

  “Give me the money,” Yoshiko said.

  Hiro clenched his fist at his side.

  Yoshiko would destroy the shop in her search for Basho’s money. The law protected her right to collect a debt, but her bullying tactics turned the shinobi’s stomach. Unfortunately, Hiro could not intervene without Yoshiko’s wanting an explanation and also recognizing that he wore assassin’s clothes.

  The samurai woman would not forgive his interference, either way. Any intervention would embarrass Yoshiko in front of Hama. Hiro knew how quickly infatuation could shift to loathing, and he didn’t want to think about the emotional outburst that might follow if he pushed Yoshiko over that razor’s edge.

  Inside the shop, another barrel crashed onto the floor.

  Hiro looked around the street, hoping someone would appear. He thought he saw a shadow move in a darkened upstairs window, but it didn’t move again, and no one came into the street.

  He cringed at the sound of Yoshiko’s geta crushing the merchant’s rice. His training told him to stay in the alley, silent and unobserved, but a deeper instinct revolted against the unjust injury the woman caused.

  At times, a sense of justice proved an inconvenient traveling companion.

  Just as Hiro drew a breath and prepared to intervene, a high-pitched cry and the patter of footsteps echoed in the street.

  A shadow darted across the road and into Basho’s shop. Moments later, a human body hit the floor. Wooden scabbards clattered and Yoshiko’s voice cried out in startled pain.

  “I will not let you hurt these people!” Suke yelled. “You bad kitsune!”

  The female samurai tried to speak, but her words sounded muffled, as if someone pressed her face against the floor.

  Hiro longed to look but didn’t dare expose himself to view.

  “The law grants you the right to collect,” Suke said, “but not to ruin a merchant’s rice without good cause!”

  “Get off me!” Yoshiko’s words were clearer but sounded strained.

  “No,” Suke replied.

  Hiro leaned around the corner.

  Hama stood inside the entrance, holding a lantern that illuminated a startling scene.

  Akechi Yoshiko lay face down on the wooden floor. Suke perched atop her back like the monkey king on his golden throne. He twisted the female samurai’s arm in a way that caused significant pain if Yoshiko moved at all.

  Grains of rice and overturned barrels lay on the floor around them.

  “Let me up right now,” Yoshiko snarled.

  “If I do,” Suke said, “will you leave this shop alone?”

  “Her husband—OW!” Yoshiko’s words became a yell as Suke pulled her arm a little higher.

  “We will pay you,” Hama said, “I promise. But we haven’t got the money now. Matsunaga Hisahide raised our taxes just this month. We had to call in all our loans, and even then we couldn’t pay the bill.”

  “Not my problem.” Yoshiko turned her head and glared at Suke. “Get off my back, old man!”

  “I should break this arm,” the bald monk mused.

  “If you try, I’ll have you dragged before the magistrate and executed.” Yoshiko struggled slightly, then lay still. “You’ve already earned a whipping, if not more, for laying hands on a samurai.”

  Chapter 48

  “Swords do not make you a samurai, any more than the smell of my robe makes me a sake flask,” Suke told Yoshiko. “The magistrate will not flog me, either. You see, I was born a samurai, which makes this a legal fight.”

  A door slid open somewhere in Basho’s shop. Hiro stepped back into the alley and listened as heavy footsteps crossed the floor. The footsteps stopped. Something metallic bounced and jingled on the wooden floorboards.

  “There’s your silver,” a deep voice said. “Now go away and leave my family in peace.”

  “Basho,” the merchant’s wife exclaimed, “where did that money come from? I thought you loaned everything we had to the man from the Lucky Monkey.”

  “The guild has emergency funds. I took a loan.” He paused. “I’m sorry, Hama.”

  Hiro glanced around the corner just as Suke released Yoshiko’s arm.

  The samurai woman pushed herself to a kneeling position and scooped the pile of coins into her hands. She counted them quickly. “This is only half of what you owe.”

  “You agreed to take half to start with,” Basho said.

  Yoshiko stared at the merchant. After a long, uncomfortable moment she closed her fist around the coins. “Very well. This much will do for now.”

  She stood up and straightened her kimono.

  “You got what you came for,” Suke said, “now go.”

  Hiro slid out of sight around the corner.

  “I expect the rest in a month,” Yoshiko said. “Do not make me track you down again.”

  “I will pay as soon as the farmers deliver the harvest,” Basho said. “Sooner, if the men that I’ve loaned money pay their debts.”

  “See that you do,” Yoshiko snapped.

  Hiro pressed himself against the wall as Yoshiko’s departing shadow crossed the street and disappeared.

  “Please excuse me,” Suke said from inside the shop, “I need to go!”

  The monk followed the samurai woman down the road. To his credit, and to Hiro’s surprise, Suke moved almost without a sound.

  Hiro shook his head. He hoped Suke wasn’t crazy enough to let Yoshiko see him again that night.

  “Go back upstairs,” Basho said, presumably to Hama. “I will clean this up and join you. There’s no point in hiding anymore.”

  “I’ll leave the lantern,” Hama said. Her footsteps faded away toward the back of the shop.

  Hiro looked up and down the silent street. Suke and Yoshiko had disappeared. The buildings remained dark and shuttered, though Hiro felt certain some of the neighbors had watched the scene from upstairs windows.

  He hoped they had turned away when Yoshiko left.

  After a check to ensure the cloth remained securely tied across his nose and mouth, Hiro rounded the corner and stepped up into the shop.

  Basho had started to close the shutters, but startled and jumped backward. The merchant’s jaw fell open as Hiro entered and pulled the shutters closed behind him.

  “Take anything you want—just please don’t hurt me,” Basho whispered, clutching the lantern in both hands as if it might protect him from attack.

  As Hiro hoped, the merchant took him for a bloodstained bandit.

  “I have no silver,” Basho said, “I gave it all to a samurai—you probably saw her leave. But you can have all the rice you want, and anything else I have.”

  Hiro pitched his voice as low as he could comfortably speak. “I do not want your rice. It’s information I desire.”

  “Information?” Basho echoed. “I don’t understand.”

  “My friends and I drink sake at a brewery not far from here. Two nights ago, an unknown person killed the brewery owner. Rumors say you know the killer. I want to know his name.”

  Basho’s eyes went wide with terror. “No. I don’t know anything!” His hands trembled. Light from the lantern danced across the walls. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about. I swear!”

  “My sources say otherwise,” Hiro said. “They saw you with the dead man’s son the night the murder happened.”

  Basho started to shake his head but stopped as recognition lit his features. “You mean Kaoru? I saw him at the Golden Buddha two nights ago, but I know nothing about a murder.”

  Hiro remembered Hama’s mention of the man from the Lucky Monkey. “My sources say you also loaned him money.”

  “Kaoru? No—he asked for a loan, but I never gave him money.”

  “Let me tell you how this works,” Hiro said. “If you tell me what you know, and tell the truth, I let you live. If you lie or pretend ignorance—you die.”

  Basho slipped on the rice-strewn floor and staggered backward several steps. He recovered his balance and s
hook his head. “I made a loan to the Lucky Monkey and haven’t been repaid, but I don’t know anything about a murder. Sir, I swear it!”

  “Then you are of no further use to me.” Hiro reached for his wakizashi.

  “Wait!” Basho pleaded. “I—I do know something. Not a name, but it might help you find the man you seek.”

  “Speak carefully,” Hiro said. “Your life depends upon your memory.”

  “I didn’t intend to go out that night.” Basho gripped the lantern hard enough to turn his knuckles pale. “My wife didn’t like my spending money—especially when we already owed so much and our debtors didn’t pay—”

  “I care nothing about your debts,” Hiro growled, “and even less about your wife. Unless, perhaps, she’s attractive? Is she here?” He glanced at the ceiling as if considering a trip to the upstairs living quarters.

  “No, she’s not attractive,” Basho said, then added, “well, only to a fat old man like me.”

  “Then get to the point,” Hiro said, “I have no patience for rambling stories.”

  “I stopped at the Golden Buddha for a drink,” Basho said. “I didn’t want to sit with Kaoru—he always leaves his bill for someone else—but the only seat in the place was at his table. After we shared a couple of flasks, he started bragging that soon he’d have lots of money and a pretty young wife as well.”

  “Get to the point.” Hiro stepped forward.

  “I’m sorry!” Basho raised the lantern to shield himself. “Kaoru said his father intended to buy a bigger brewery and that he—that Kaoru—would marry the brewer’s daughter as part of the deal.”

  “How does that help me?” Hiro demanded.

  “There’s more to the story,” Basho said. “A lot of dōshin drink at the Golden Buddha. They laughed and said no man would let his daughter marry a good-for-nothing drunk. Kaoru took a swing at one and missed.”

  “A fight?” Hiro asked.

  “No,” the merchant said, “I stopped it. I don’t like Kaoru much, but I didn’t want to see him arrested, either. I asked him to take a walk outside and tell me about his newfound fortune.”

  “Why do you care if dōshin arrest a drunk?” Hiro asked. “More importantly, why should I?”

  Basho glanced over his shoulder, as if to ensure his wife had not returned.

  “Get to the point,” Hiro growled, “and quickly, if you want to live.”

  Chapter 49

  Basho looked at his lantern and murmured, “I didn’t want Kaoru arrested … because of his mother.”

  That wasn’t the answer Hiro expected. “What do you mean? Explain yourself!”

  “I knew Mina—Kaoru’s mother—before she married.” Basho gestured toward the shutters. “Her father owned the shop across the street and two doors down. I wanted to marry her, but her father chose Chikao instead of me.”

  “You stopped an arrest because you care about some drunkard’s mother?” Hiro asked.

  “You don’t have to believe me,” Basho said. “But it’s the truth.”

  “What did you learn on your little walk?” Hiro narrowed his eyes at the merchant.

  “Kaoru talked about calling upon the angry ghosts of Ginjiro’s ancestors and how a selfish man would always pay for his selfish ways. He said, ‘We’ll see how big Ginjiro feels when he’s lost everything.’ Ginjiro is another sake brewer.”

  “I know who he is,” Hiro hissed. “Enough delay. Tell me who killed Chikao.”

  “I swear, I do not know.” Basho looked desperate.

  “If you truly knew nothing, you wouldn’t have guessed that he was the man I meant.” Hiro drew his wakizashi. “Would you remember more with a blade at your neck?”

  “Please,” Basho whimpered. “I don’t know who killed him. I swear. I was told that he died but nothing more. Please, I have a family…”

  Hiro believed the merchant but needed to ensure his silence. He placed the point of his sword on Basho’s stomach. “You will never mention this conversation. Not to anyone, including your wife.”

  “I won’t breathe a word.” Tears spilled over Basho’s eyelids, but the merchant didn’t dare wipe them away. “I swear I won’t.”

  “I hope not,” Hiro said, “because I will know, and even a word is more than your life is worth.”

  He sheathed his sword, slid the shutters open, and dashed away into the night. When he reached the opposite side of the road, he hid in the shadows and watched Basho close up the shop. He didn’t leave until the locks slid into place with a click that echoed through the midnight silence.

  Hiro didn’t worry about Basho discussing his visit. Kyoto’s bandit clans showed mercy to people who held their tongues, but none to those who talked. Basho would never risk his family’s safety, or his own, by telling tales.

  Unfortunately, the merchant’s words had not revealed as much as Hiro hoped. The shinobi considered the story as he made his way home through the darkened streets and alleys.

  Even if ghosts existed—and Hiro did not believe they did—the dead would not obey the commands of the living. Father Mateo’s religion claimed that people could speak with a holy ghost, but the priest didn’t say he could bend the ghost to his will. On the contrary, the Jesuit claimed it worked the other way around.

  However, the part about Ginjiro’s losing everything suggested a real threat and also implicated Kaoru. Hiro might have dismissed the story as a drunken flight of fancy, but the words meshed well enough with the facts to make him wonder why Chikao returned to Ginjiro’s brewery the night he died—and whether or not he truly returned alone.

  Someone in Kyoto knew what happened in that alley. Hiro had to find out who and make that person talk—and he had less than half a day in which to do it. He wished he could have asked Basho what time Kaoru left the Golden Buddha on the night Chikao died, but the question would have sounded too suspicious coming from a bandit’s lips.

  He would have to learn the answer another way.

  When he reached the bridge at Sanjō Road he found half a dozen samurai standing guard. Given the explosion and the missing guard, he expected more. Hiro waited in the shadows until the guards distracted themselves in conversation. When they did, he scurried off to cross the river farther north.

  Only a single samurai guarded the bridge at Marutamachi Road. The guards must have decided Hiro’s bombs were an isolated incident, worthy of extra guards at that location but nothing more.

  Hiro slipped under the western end of the bridge and considered his options. He doubted his physician act would work so close to home. The guards who patrolled this bridge had seen him in the past, or else would see him in the future, making the lie too great a risk.

  Explosive charges wouldn’t help him either. One exploding lantern was coincidence. Two explosions in one night meant sabotage. Hiro wanted to get across the bridge, but not enough to generate a citywide alert.

  A shadow moved in the street to the west of the bridge. Hiro watched it from his hiding place among the pilings. The shadow didn’t move like a tree or with the measured pace of a human being or a horse. The movements came at intervals, and without repetition, in the manner of a spy who wanted to remain unseen.

  Nervous excitement loosened Hiro’s joints and pooled in his stomach. Whoever approached the bridge did so with the stealth and speed of a highly trained shinobi.

  Hiro took a long, slow breath to counteract the energy that lit his veins on fire. Many shinobi worked in Kyoto, rivals as well as those from his own ryu.

  Unfortunately, a shinobi heading east on Marutamachi Road at night suggested only two potential targets—and only one if the assassin crossed the bridge. If that happened, Hiro would have to kill the spy before he reached the house where Father Mateo lived.

  The other shinobi approached the river slowly, with the subtlety of a master. Hiro tracked the assassin’s movements with interest, wondering how the rival shinobi planned to cross the bridge. He doubted the assassin would swim the river. Not only would the samurai g
uard see someone in the water, but soaking clothes would leave a trail—a fatal error no trained spy would make.

  The shadow reached the final house before the bridge and disappeared into the yard. Hiro fixed his eyes on the spot and waited. Nothing moved.

  Perhaps the assassin wasn’t after the Jesuit after all.

  Hiro breathed a sigh of relief and reprimanded himself for the assumption.

  As the surge of excitement left his muscles, Hiro wondered who lived in the house at the end of the street. He stared at the building but saw no clues to the owner’s identity. He saw no sign of the assassin, either. No light shone through the latticed windows. No foliage moved in the yard.

  Hiro turned his thoughts to the river and how to cross it safely.

  A woman’s scream shattered the silence.

  Hiro tensed. The scream came from inside the final house before the river—the one the shinobi assassin entered.

  “Help!” the woman screamed again. “Help me! Help! A thief!”

  Geta thumped on the wooden bridge as the samurai guard responded to the cry. Footsteps pounded the earthen road, and Hiro peeked from beneath the bridge to watch the samurai race to the darkened house.

  Hiro crouched, preparing to run across the bridge the moment the guard disappeared from view. He knew he could get across and hide before the samurai returned. He took a breath, prepared to run …

  … and ducked back into his hiding place as the strange shinobi broke from the shadows and raced across the Kamo River bridge.

  Chapter 50

  A second surge of adrenaline shocked Hiro’s system as the assassin’s footsteps pattered overhead. When they faded into silence, Hiro hurried out from his hiding place and pursued the strange shinobi across the bridge.

  As he ran, he caught a glimpse of the assassin disappearing into the shadows on Marutamachi Road.

  Hiro didn’t stop running until he reached the torii gate at Okazaki Shrine. There, he paused in the shadows to listen. He heard crickets and cicadas, nothing more. He hoped his race across the bridge alerted the assassin to his presence. Most shinobi abandoned a mission, temporarily at least, if someone saw them approaching the target’s home.