The Ninja's Daughter Read online

  “I will not delay you further.” The samurai looked at Jiro. “In future, wait for dawn to get the priest.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jiro bowed so deeply that he almost tumbled over.

  The samurai nodded to Father Mateo and looked away. Hiro received no recognition, but didn’t mind. As a rule, the shinobi preferred to pass unnoticed.

  Jiro turned south on the path that paralleled the western bank of the Kamo River. Hiro and Father Mateo followed. At every bridge, they stopped to explain their business to the samurai on guard. Fortunately, no one questioned Father Mateo’s story.

  A trio of samurai stood on the riverbank south of the bridge at Shijō Road. The larger two wore wide-shouldered tunics with pleated hakama. Plenty of samurai wore pleated trousers, but these men also carried hooked metal nightsticks, which identified them as dōshin—low-ranked members of the Kyoto police.

  The third samurai wore a tunic sewn from alternating stripes of brilliant green and orange silk. A pair of swords hung from his patterned obi. The gaudy clothing and lack of a nightstick marked him as a yoriki, or assistant magistrate.

  All three samurai had their backs to the path. They stared at a rumpled lump on the ground, about the size and shape of a human body.

  The yoriki turned as Hiro and the others approached. His expression changed from surprise to recognition, and then annoyance. “Not you again.”

  Hiro had much the same reaction, though he kept his face a neutral mask. In an unfortunate stroke of luck, the girl had died within the jurisdiction of the yoriki who handled the brewery killing the month before. He hadn’t approved of Hiro and Father Mateo’s involvement then, and he clearly wasn’t pleased to see them now.

  Father Mateo bowed to the yoriki. Hiro followed suit.

  Jiro bent forward and held his bow, awaiting permission to rise.

  “Good morning,” Father Mateo said. “We understand a girl was murdered here.”

  “You understand incorrectly,” the yoriki said. “There was no murder.”

  “What?” Jiro spoke—and straightened—in surprise. A moment later he fell to his knees and pressed his forehead to the ground. “A thousand apologies for my rudeness.”

  The yoriki ignored him.

  Father Mateo leaned sideways in an attempt to see around the samurai. “That certainly looks like a corpse to me.”

  The yoriki stepped aside and motioned for the dōshin to clear the way.

  A girl of no more than sixteen years lay on her back with her arms at her sides. Faint green grass stains streaked her gold kimono. A pale blue obi trailed at her side, and bits of hair strayed loose from her long black braid.

  Angry rope burns crossed her neck, with darker bruising spreading out around them. Moon-shaped cuts and vertical scratches around the bruises revealed the girl had struggled with her killer.

  Hiro noticed a leather thong around the victim’s neck. It disappeared into her robe, suggesting a pendant tucked within her clothes. Based on the size and shape of the burns and bruises, the thong appeared to be the murder weapon.

  Above the victim’s mangled neck, a set of delicate features balanced in her oval face. The girl had a loveliness, and an innocence, even death could not erase.

  Then Hiro saw her eyes.

  Hemorrhages bloomed within the whites, the color startlingly vibrant even hours after death.

  Father Mateo gasped and backed away. He made the sign of the cross and clasped his hands together as if in prayer.

  Hiro watched the Jesuit with surprise. Father Mateo had never reacted dramatically to a murder victim, even though most of the bodies they had seen looked worse than this one.

  He wondered if the Jesuit had seen this girl before.

  “Do you know her?” the yoriki demanded.

  Father Mateo shook his head. “No, I . . . simply wasn’t prepared to see a girl so young. How can you say this wasn’t murder? Clearly, she did not die of natural causes.”

  “The girl is an actor’s child,” the yoriki said, as though this answered the Jesuit’s question.

  Jiro’s head rose up in surprise, but he pressed it to the ground again at once.

  “An actor’s daughter?” Father Mateo looked confused.

  “Actors stand outside the social order,” Hiro said in Portuguese.

  “What does her status have to do with the nature of her death?” Father Mateo spoke in Japanese and to the yoriki.

  “Actors’ daughters do not matter to the law.” The yoriki spoke slowly, as if addressing an unusually stupid child.

  Father Mateo’s look of confusion changed to one of anger.

  Before the priest could argue, Hiro said, “Then you consider the matter closed.”

  The yoriki nodded. “My office has more important business than finding out who dumped this pile of filth on the riverbank.”

  “And yet, you spared three men to come and stare,” Father Mateo said. “How do you know the girl is an actor’s daughter? She didn’t tell you.”

  The yoriki gestured toward the bridge that crossed the river at Shijō Road. “After she didn’t come home last night, her parents sent her siblings out to find her. The sister arrived just after we did. We are only here to ensure the family removes the corpse before it stinks.”

  “How thoughtful.” Father Mateo’s frozen tone revealed unusual self-restraint.

  Hiro glanced at Jiro, wondering whether the boy had lied to them about the girl’s profession. Entertainers lived at a teahouse, never in their parents’ homes. The youth’s reaction indicated surprise, but ignorance was easily faked.

  He also wondered what Father Mateo intended to do when the family arrived—assuming the yoriki let them stay, which, under the circumstances, seemed unlikely.

  Father Mateo hadn’t finished. “Your words imply you don’t intend to investigate this murder.”

  “Her life meant nothing,” the yoriki said. “No investigation is required."

  CHAPTER 4

  The yoriki looked down at Jiro. “Who are you? Identify yourself.”

  The young man kept his face to the ground. “A merchant’s apprentice, sir, called Jiro. I work for Basho, in the rice-sellers’ street.”

  “You have no business here,” the yoriki snapped. “Be on your way.”

  Jiro stood and scurried off without a backward glance.

  Hiro noted the look of relief on the young man’s face as he departed—unusual for someone who just discovered the girl he loved was a liar. And yet, had Jiro known the truth, he wouldn’t have bothered to ask the priest for help.

  Either way, the youth’s reaction didn’t fit the facts.

  Fortunately, Jiro’s suspicious behavior no longer mattered. Hiro had no intention of investigating a crime without a reason.

  “Someone killed her.” Father Mateo gestured to Emi’s body. “How can you claim there was no crime?”

  The yoriki stared at the Jesuit. “Her death is of no consequence. To anyone.”

  Hiro caught the warning in the words. The yoriki had allowed them to investigate the brewery murder, mainly because his supervisor—the magistrate—respected the foreign priest. However, that crime involved the death of an artisan, not an actor. Father Mateo might object, but to the Japanese the social status of the victim made a difference.

  One of the dōshin caught the yoriki’s eye and nodded toward Shijō Road. A man and two women had just stepped off the bridge.

  The man had a narrow face and a slender build. He walked with his shoulders rounded forward, face turned down, and heavy feet, as if his grief weighed more than he could bear. The woman to his left had graying hair and a work-worn face that retained the shadow of its former beauty. She leaned on a teenage girl whose features echoed hers in a plainer way.

  When they had almost reached the body, the older woman fell to her knees. She covered her mouth with her hands and sobbed as tears spilled down her cheeks. The daughter knelt beside her mother, leaving the man to approach the scene alone. As he reached a respect
ful distance, he knelt and pressed his face to the ground.

  After a moment long enough to reinforce his status, the yoriki said, “I assume you have come to claim this body?”

  The man pushed himself to a kneeling position, but kept his face turned down.

  “Speak up,” the yoriki snapped. “I don’t have time to listen to your silence.”

  “Noble yoriki,” the man replied, “this girl is my daughter Emi.”

  A muffled sob escaped the lips of the woman behind him.

  The man tensed. “Please forgive my wife,” he said, “she means no disrespect. Sometimes a woman can’t control her tears.”

  “What is your name and occupation?” the yoriki demanded.

  “I am Satsu, an actor, from the Yutoku-za.”

  Hiro’s stomach dropped at the name of the actor and his guild. He wished he had made the Jesuit stay at home.

  Father Mateo leaned toward Hiro and whispered, “What are they waiting for?”

  “Permission,” Hiro whispered back. “The family cannot move the body until the yoriki consents.”

  The yoriki turned to Hiro. “Tell your master he may leave. No one here requires his aid.”

  “I have no intention of leaving,” Father Mateo said. “This family needs my help.”

  The yoriki laid a hand on his sword. “This matter does not concern you. I have decided. My word is law.” He looked at Hiro. “Translate to ensure he understands!”

  Hiro complied, to avoid a fight and to give the Jesuit time to reconsider. In truth, the yoriki couldn’t forbid an investigation—only the magistrate had that power—but magistrates tended to approve the decisions a yoriki made in the field.

  Also, people shouldn’t pick fights with men who could arrest them.

  When Hiro finished translating the order into Portuguese, Father Mateo bowed and said, “Perhaps you misunderstood my intentions. I merely wish to pray with this family and comfort them in this difficult time.”

  “These people do not warrant a priest’s attention,” the yoriki said.

  “What about the ground beneath the body?” Father Mateo gestured toward, but did not look at, the murdered girl. “Only a priest can cleanse the defilement after the family moves her.”

  “A Japanese priest,” the yoriki said. “Our kami do not speak your foreign tongue.”

  “The Christian God inhabits Japan as well as other places,” the Jesuit said. “Would you knowingly risk his wrath by refusing me?”

  Hiro admired the Jesuit’s gamble but doubted it would work. The yoriki didn’t strike him as the type of man who feared a foreign god.

  “I do not want to waste the morning arguing with you.” The yoriki turned to the pair of burly dōshin. “Go to Kenninji and fetch a priest to cleanse the ground. Tell him the Yutoku-za will cover the donations.”

  The dōshin bowed. As they swaggered off, the yoriki turned to Hiro. “Ensure your master does no more than pray. I will hold you both responsible if he tries to investigate.”

  Hiro bowed to avoid a reply. Until he heard the actor’s name, he might have agreed to prevent an investigation. Now, he made no promises.

  The yoriki turned and walked away without another word.

  A keening wail rose from Satsu’s wife as she crawled to her murdered daughter’s side. Her grief brought unexpected tears to Hiro’s eyes. He had seen, and heard, such pain before, on the day that he—the second son—became his mother’s eldest living child.

  He forced the memory away, and his emotions with it.

  Satsu said, “Chou, help your mother. I will carry Emi. We must go before the samurai return.” The actor kept his face turned down, shielding it from view.

  Father Mateo took a step toward the family. “If you please, may I speak with you before you go?”

  Satsu bowed his head to the ground. His wife and daughter bowed as well.

  “Forgive me,” Satsu said, “but a man like you would only defile himself with the likes of us. Please allow us to take our dead and leave.”

  CHAPTER 5

  “Nothing outside a man can defile him,” Father Mateo said.

  Chou looked at the Jesuit. “Truly?”

  Satsu’s wife reached out and slapped the girl across the face, her movement as fast as a striking snake and just as startling. Satsu’s daughter clutched her cheek in pain.

  “Please don’t kill her!” The woman wailed as she resumed her prone position.

  Father Mateo seemed confused, but Hiro understood. By law, a commoner had no right to question the word of a samurai, and the priest, though not actually samurai, had equivalent status—at least, in a commoner’s eyes.

  “I will not harm her,” Father Mateo said. “I simply wish to talk with you, and pray. If not here, perhaps we could follow you home.”

  Hiro frowned. The Jesuit did not understand the problem his words created. These people could not refuse his request, but their house would not be prepared to receive a man of samurai rank. Accepting would also place the family at risk, if the yoriki discovered what they’d done.

  “Let them go,” Hiro said. “We should leave them to their grief.”

  Father Mateo lowered his voice and switched to Portuguese. “Have you no conscience? But for us, this girl will have no justice.”

  “The law does not entitle her to justice.” Hiro wanted to agree with the priest, but he would not place this family at risk.

  “The girl is not a pile of trash, or a beast,” the Jesuit said. “Her life had meaning. No one had the right to take it from her.”

  “You heard the yoriki. He forbade—” Hiro fell silent at the sight of Satsu’s face.

  The actor had risen to his knees. He looked at Hiro with surprise—and recognition. Hiro searched his memory, but couldn’t place the actor’s face beyond a fuzzy memory he did not trust as truth. Still, in combination with the name . . .

  Father Mateo followed Hiro’s gaze.

  This time, Satsu didn’t hide his face. “I apologize, noble sir, if you find me rude, but . . . do I hear Iga’s shadow in your speech?”

  The coded question identified Satsu as an Iga shinobi in need of aid. It would have obligated Hiro even if he hadn’t recognized the actor’s name.

  Once again, he wondered how Satsu knew him.

  “What do you care if my speech bears Iga’s shadow?” Hiro asked.

  “After so many years away, even the shadow of home seems bright as sunlight,” Satsu said. “It drew me, as twilight draws the shadows close.”

  Father Mateo looked from Hiro to Satsu, puzzled.

  “I am only a humble man,” the actor continued, “but I would be honored, and grateful, if you and the priest would accompany me home.”

  Hiro nodded. He didn’t know what Satsu wanted, but as long as it didn’t endanger Hiro’s mission to protect the priest, he had an obligation to assist. Since Father Mateo seemed inclined to help the family anyway, it wouldn’t hurt to hear the actor out.

  “What changed his mind?” Father Mateo asked in Portuguese as he and Hiro followed Satsu’s family across the bridge at Shijō Road.

  The samurai on guard had let them pass without a word. The mourning family, and the corpse, required no explanation.

  “Do you intend to investigate this murder?” Hiro asked.

  “Of course I do,” the Jesuit said, “regardless of the yoriki’s threats.”

  “What will you do with the killer?” Hiro asked. “You can’t turn him in to the magistrate. The yoriki would arrest us both for disobeying orders.”

  “When did you start to worry about the yoriki?” Father Mateo asked.

  Instead of answering, Hiro looked at the family ahead on the bridge.

  Satsu’s living daughter, Chou, walked behind her father with an outstretched arm around her mother’s shoulders. Just in front of them, Satsu carried Emi in his arms. The stiffness that followed after death had already frozen Emi’s muscles, but Satsu had no trouble balancing her tiny frame. Etiquette didn’t allow th
e other men to offer help, but Hiro suspected Satsu would have refused it anyway.

  “What happened back there?” Father Mateo glanced over his shoulder toward the river. “One moment you tell me to leave him alone, the next you’re talking nonsense, and now—” His eyes widened with realization. “Shadows of Iga . . . Satsu . . . He’s like you?”

  Hiro appreciated the priest’s decision not to say “shinobi.” Wise men didn’t use the word aloud. He was also impressed. The Jesuit had made the connection faster than Hiro anticipated.

  “Do you know him?” Father Mateo asked. “You treated him like a stranger.”

  Hiro increased his pace as Satsu’s family reached the eastern end of the bridge. He didn’t want to lose them in the narrow streets beyond the river.

  “He is a stranger,” Hiro said, “and also my uncle, on my mother’s side.”

  CHAPTER 6

  “That man is your uncle?” Father Mateo stared at Satsu. “How do you know, if he’s a stranger?”

  Hiro answered in Portuguese. “When I left home, my mother mentioned her brother had come to Kyoto years ago. She told me the name that he assumed and that he had joined a school of actors called the Yutoku-za.”

  “Why haven’t you mentioned him?” Father Mateo asked.

  “And risk his safety? Two men keep secrets only if one is dead.” Hiro hoped the priest would understand the awkward phrasing. Despite three years of study, and his aptitude for languages, he sometimes failed to express himself precisely in Portuguese.

  “Can we trust him?” Father Mateo asked.

  Hiro shrugged. “I don’t.”

  “Then why go with him?” Father Mateo asked.

  “You’re the one who wanted to follow him home.”

  “He wasn’t dangerous then,” the Jesuit said.

  Hiro raised an eyebrow. “I assure you, he was no less a threat before you knew the truth. I do not trust him, but he asked for help, so I must hear him out. If he refuses to answer my questions, or threatens us in any way, I will kill him—and his family—at once.”