Betrayal at Iga Page 5

  “Do you think he was?”

  “I think,” Hiro said, “that I know better than to trust assumptions. They get people killed.”

  “Then Hattori Hanzō is a suspect.” Father Mateo nodded.

  “One of several.” Hiro slowed his pace as they left the road and started north on the path that led to Midori’s home. “Including possible traitors within Iga or in the Koga delegation.”

  “A traitor in Iga makes more sense,” the Jesuit said. “All of the ambassadors are members of the Koga clan.”

  “As Neko pointed out at dinner, Koga would not send four emissaries from a single clan. More likely, everyone but Koga Yajiro is merely using the surname as an alias.”

  “Why ‘everyone but Yajiro’?” the Jesuit asked.

  “The head of a delegation normally comes from the most influential family. The Koga do not rule the ryu, but they are its strongest clan.”

  “Why would the others want to kill him?”

  “That is why we need an investigation.” Hiro regarded the glowing windows of his mother’s house, ahead through the trees. “Until we know for certain . . . don’t trust anyone.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Hiro entered Midori’s house to find Toshi and Fuyu laying out futons on the floor of the common room.

  Toshi looked up as Father Mateo followed Hiro through the door. “We found these in the storeroom—”

  “You don’t need to explain to him,” Fuyu interrupted. “We can use whatever we want.”

  Toshi ducked his head as a flush of embarrassment colored his cheeks.

  Hiro felt a rush of compassion for the younger man. “You are welcome to them. Please excuse us, we should sleep as well.” Halfway to his room, he added, “The foreigner’s housekeeper will return in the morning, to cook and clean the house.”

  “Not without permission,” Fuyu said. “We made that clear.”

  Hiro turned to face the bald shinobi. “Are you afraid of an elderly woman?”

  “You can’t fool me.” Fuyu sneered. “You think I’ll give permission so I will not seem afraid.”

  Hiro shrugged. “If you would rather clean the house yourself, it’s fine with me.”

  “Only the housekeeper,” Fuyu said, “and she leaves when she’s not working.”

  “Understood.” Hiro followed Father Mateo into their room and closed the door.

  The Jesuit used the coals from his lantern to light the brazier near the door, as Hiro crossed the room and lifted the lid of the futon chest.

  “Lay this out by the window.” Hiro handed the priest a narrow mattress and a quilt. “I’ll sleep by the door.”

  “In case of attack?” The Jesuit looked at the sliding panel as if expecting someone to burst through it.

  Hiro removed a second futon from the chest and didn’t answer.

  As they laid the mattresses on the floor and spread the quilts on top, Father Mateo whispered, “If there is a traitor in Iga, how will we identify him?”

  “Identify her, more likely,” Hiro whispered back. “Hanzō aside, the logical Iga suspects are all female.”

  “You mean Neko?” Father Mateo asked.

  “Neko, Akiko, and Midori. All experienced assassins, though I doubt my mother or Akiko would kill an emissary except on Hanzō’s orders.”

  “Making Neko our primary suspect?”

  “Unless Hanzō is involved.” Hiro raised his quilt and slipped beneath it, fully clothed. “We need to examine the evidence and use the facts to reveal the truth, just as we do with every investigation. For tonight, let’s get some rest. Today was long. Tomorrow will be worse.”

  He closed his eyes and exhaled softly, clearing the tension from his muscles. The rustle of a quilt across the room indicated that Father Mateo had also decided to sleep in his clothing. Hiro approved, given the chill in the air and the Koga shinobi in the adjacent room.

  He had almost fallen asleep when Father Mateo whispered. “You named the cat for her, didn’t you? Gato and Neko . . . they have the same meaning.”

  Hiro didn’t answer.

  “I know you’re awake,” the Jesuit added. “Your breathing gives you away.”

  “Gato’s name has nothing to do with her.”

  “You loved her, didn’t you?” Father Mateo whispered. “Do you still?”

  “We are not having this conversation.” Hiro rolled onto his side, away from the priest.

  “Back in Kyoto, you didn’t seem happy to hear her name, and the way you fought with her tonight . . .”

  “Perhaps you didn’t hear me say ‘We are not having this conversation.’”

  Across the room, the other futon rustled as the priest sat up.

  “I’m not just idly curious. Your relationship with her could impact our investigation, especially if you’re not honest with yourself about your feelings.”

  “I have no relationship with Neko,” Hiro growled, “and no intention of talking about my feelings.”

  “Fine.” The futon shifted again. “Don’t tell me what happened. I’ll ask your mother tomorrow.”

  Hiro sat up. “You will not.”

  “You’re not the first man to love a woman who didn’t love him back, you know.”

  “That’s not what happened.”

  “Then tell me the truth.” Father Mateo sat up again and folded his hands in his lap like a child waiting to hear a bedtime story.

  “Fine. But only so you understand this has no impact on the investigation—and no interrupting me with questions.”

  Memories swirled in Hiro’s mind like a swarm of angry bees. He’d tried to avoid them for most of a decade, yet the moment he set them free they flooded back as painfully as if they happened only days before.

  “Neko and I grew up together. Each of us wanted to become the best assassin Iga ever trained. As children, we were rivals, but as we aged—”

  “You fell in love with her,” Father Mateo said, “but she didn’t return your affections.”

  “Actually, she did.” Suddenly, Hiro felt an inexplicable need to share the entire story. He found himself continuing like one of the Jesuit’s Christian converts, confessing his sins in the hope of finding peace. “And you are correct, I loved her also. During our final year of training we were inseparable, day and night.”

  “I don’t need all the details,” Father Mateo whispered.

  Hiro ignored him. “When I was seventeen, Mother told me in confidence that Hanzō—not my cousin, but his father, who was then commanding the Iga ryu—believed I could become the best shinobi Iga ever trained. Later that day, I shared the news with Neko. Her mother was away from the village—her father had died the year before—and she invited me to her house that night, alone, to celebrate the news.”

  “I really don’t need—”

  “Let me finish,” Hiro insisted. “You will understand.”

  Father Mateo looked dubious, but nodded.

  “That night, when everyone else was asleep, I sneaked out of the house and went to Neko’s. She opened the door wearing only a thin kimono, which she dropped to the floor the moment I came inside.

  “She led me to a futon by the hearth and helped remove my clothes. I lay down beside her . . . and suddenly felt a burning in my shoulder and my thigh. When I looked down, I was covered in blood. She had hidden a set of neko-te beneath the futon, lured me in, and used the claws to cut me.”

  “The scars on your shoulder . . .” Father Mateo’s eyes went wide.

  “I have a matching set on my inner thigh.” Hiro clenched his fist. “Had she been anyone else, I would have snapped her neck.”

  “Why did she do it?”

  “In her words: to prove who truly was the best in Iga. Worse, the moment she said it, Hanzō and Mother stepped out from behind a screen at the edge of the room.”

  “Your mother?” Father Mateo sounded shocked, but also confused. “Which Hanzō?”

  Hiro sighed. “Both of them—my cousin and his father. Neko set me up.”


  “But why was your mother there? And why your cousin, if he wasn’t in command?”

  “Hanzō is a title,” Hiro said, “not just a name, and at that time my cousin was in training to take over both his father’s name and control of the Iga ryu. As one of Iga’s senior captains, and Neko’s main instructor, Mother insisted on being present to ensure the test was fair.”

  “She didn’t try to stop it? Or to warn you?”

  “Hanzō commanded her not to,” Hiro said. “Neko had gone to him in secret and made a serious accusation—that I was vulnerable. He had to know the truth.”

  Father Mateo frowned, as if struggling to understand.

  Hiro did not find the priest’s reaction odd. Even other Japanese people had trouble understanding shinobi ways, and, despite his unusual empathy, the Jesuit came from a very foreign land.

  Eventually Father Mateo asked, “What happened then?”

  “Fortunately, Hanzō believed me when I swore I would never again let feelings cloud my judgment. He said my scars would suffice as a reminder—and a punishment.”

  “I meant with Neko.”

  “Clearly, she got what she wanted. Hanzō considers her Iga’s best. The morning after betraying me, she left the village on her first assignment. I never saw her again until tonight.” After a moment, Hiro added, “I assure you, I have no feelings for her that will compromise our investigation. And now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to sleep.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Unfortunately, sleep refused to come.

  The fire in the brazier slowly died, and darkness filled the room. Hours passed as Hiro stared at the rafters, listening to Father Mateo’s even breathing.

  “Hiro . . .”

  The whisper came from outside the slatted window.

  Hiro pushed the quilt aside, stood up, and crossed the room without a sound.

  As he reached for the window frame, he hesitated. The last time he answered this voice by night, his body and his pride had suffered scars.

  He looked at Father Mateo, sleeping soundly on the floor, and at the narrow sliding door that separated them from the Koga assassins in the room beyond. He doubted the emissaries meant the Jesuit any harm, whether or not they killed Yajiro.

  Even so . . .

  He doubled back across the room and lifted the lid of a decorative box sitting on the tokonoma shelf. As he hoped, it still contained the bamboo caltrops he had left there on the morning he departed for Kyoto. He scooped them into his hand, pricking his palm on the sharpened edges in the process.

  “Hiro . . .” Neko’s whisper came again.

  Silently, Hiro scattered the caltrops across the doorway, ensuring that Father Mateo would have warning if anyone entered the room. Nobody stepped on a cluster of sharpened bamboo spikes without announcing his presence, one way or another.

  Hiro returned to the window, hoping the priest did not wake up and discover him missing—or, worse, have a barefoot encounter with the caltrops on the way to the latrine. Still, the risks of leaving Father Mateo unattended paled beside the prospect of a conversation—or, perhaps, a confrontation—many years past due.

  He flipped a hidden latch beneath the slatted window frame, which pivoted open on silent, well-oiled hinges. Slipping out, he quickly pushed the window closed, securing it carefully while ensuring the lock did not engage completely.

  Neko waited near the window, just beyond his reach. Moonlight washed the color from her cheeks and shimmered on her long, dark hair. She beckoned him to follow and started north into the forest. Her silence reminded Hiro of yuki-onna, the legendary spirit of snow that took the form of a beautiful woman.

  Like the spirit, Neko’s intentions were impossible to read.

  Hiro noted that his sandals sat on the ground beneath the window. Neko must have brought them from the porch, which meant she knew he would answer her summons. Overriding his distaste for predictable actions, Hiro slipped on the sandals and followed her through the trees.

  Neko carried no lantern but moved with confidence through the forest, using only the speckled moonlight that filtered downward through the branches. The muffled crunch of her footsteps had a light, irregular quality, more like a harmless forest creature than a human on the move.

  Hiro reached into his sleeve and gripped his shuriken, doubly glad he hadn’t removed the weapon before his attempt to sleep. The decision to follow Neko seemed increasingly foolish the farther they walked, but turning back would make him look afraid.

  Eventually Neko left the trees and entered a clearing. A wooden bathhouse sat nearby, at the edge of a swiftly flowing river. Iga’s only public bath stood on a raised foundation, with steps leading up to the entrance. Carved stone lanterns stood on either side of the door, but at this hour they were dark and cold. Given the time, the darkened lanterns, and the absence of a paneled noren hanging in the entrance, the establishment was clearly closed for the night.

  Neko climbed the steps and laid a hand on the bathhouse door.

  Hiro stopped walking. “Not a chance.”

  “Pardon me?” She faced him.

  “Whatever you have to tell me, you can say it in the open.”

  Neko descended the wooden steps and returned to Hiro. A smile flickered across her face. “I wondered where you’d draw the line.”

  His temper stirred. “Was this a test?”

  “No.” She bowed from the waist. “It is a most sincere, and overdue, apology.”

  As she straightened, Hiro realized his mouth had fallen open in shock. He shut it quickly.

  “I do not expect forgiveness,” she continued. “In your place, I am not certain that I could, or would, forgive, but I sincerely regret my actions, and I do apologize.”

  Hiro stared at the lock of hair that had fallen across her forehead, mainly because it let him avoid her eyes. Internally, he struggled between the desire to believe her and the knowledge that she wanted him to do precisely that.

  “What do you expect me to say?” His words came out more harshly than intended.

  “I have no expectations,” she replied, as calm as the forest on a winter morning. “I owed you an apology, and now I have delivered it. I know my words cannot change the past, yet I have nothing more than words to offer. They will have to do.”

  He met her gaze in silence, while inside he burned with anger—not at her, but at his own instinctive urge to raise a hand and brush the hair from her face. He clenched his fist and forced the desire away.

  “I asked for you to come here.” Neko searched his face. “When Hanzō ordered me to act as a guard for the Koga negotiations, I told him you were the only person I would trust to share the duty.”

  “Am I supposed to be grateful?”

  “I would settle for polite.” She tossed her head, clearing the hair from her face. “Did you follow me all this way just to insult me?”

  Hiro drew a breath and exhaled slowly, reminding himself that hostility would not find Yajiro’s killer. “Forgive me. . . .”

  He trailed off, hoping Neko would relieve him of the duty to finish an apology he did not truly feel.

  “I understand.” She smiled. “You couldn’t know what to expect from me. I didn’t know what to expect from you, though I hoped. . . . I do regret what happened, Hiro. Had I the chance to live those days again, I would choose differently.”

  “Why did you wait until midnight to say this? Why lead me out here, and risk that I might not follow?”

  “I am better at killing than apologizing,” Neko said. “Your mother told me I shouldn’t wait, that I needed to talk with you tonight, and I had to time it so you wouldn’t bring the priest. I didn’t exactly want to say all this in front of him.”

  Hiro remembered his earlier conversation with the Jesuit. You and me both.

  “Did he truly help you identify murderers in Kyoto?”

  Hiro shrugged. “It was that or listen to him preach.”

  She laughed—a low, spontaneous sound that triggered an avalanche of memo
ries and a warmth in Hiro’s belly that he tried to force away.

  He changed the subject. “Do you know who killed Koga Yajiro?”

  The laughter died on her lips. “No, but I’m glad it happened. An alliance weakens Iga’s position in the coming war among the samurai.”

  “Allies make us stronger,” Hiro countered.

  “Incorrect.” She shook her head. “Independence is Iga’s greatest strength.”

  “If you believe that trusting others is a sign of weakness, it would seem your choices haven’t changed as much as you believe.”

  Her expression softened. “I do not want to fight with you, especially tonight.”

  Hiro felt chastised, angry, and confused in equal measure. “I should get back to Midori’s house. I must not leave the priest alone too long.”

  “I hope you find Yajiro’s killer,” Neko called as he walked away. “Iga does not need an alliance, but neither do we need a war with Koga.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Father Mateo awoke as Hiro returned to the room. “The window opens?” He sat up. “But you told Fuyu—”

  “What I wanted him to believe.” Hiro shut the frame and secured the latch.

  “Have we got an extra quilt?” The Jesuit shivered. “It’s cold tonight.”

  Hiro lifted the lid of the futon chest, retrieved the last of the quilts, and laid it over Father Mateo’s knees.

  “What about you?” the priest inquired. “We can share it, if there’s not another.”

  “I’m willing to share a room with you.” Hiro knelt on his futon. “When it comes to sharing quilts, my preferences differ.”

  He lay down and closed his eyes.

  “Where did you go?” Suspicion weighted Father Mateo’s voice. “You wouldn’t use the window just to visit the latrine.”

  “Out for a walk. I couldn’t sleep.” The answer skirted the edge of Hiro’s promise not to lie to the priest, but was also completely true.

  In the silence that followed, Hiro reviewed the encounter with Neko in his mind, examining each detail in an attempt to judge her motivation. If honest, her words suggested both remorse and a desire to renew their friendship . . . if not more. He also suspected a trap, but found it difficult to believe that Neko would reuse such an obvious tactic. Then again, attraction was a primary weapon of the kunoichi, and Neko had the skills—and looks—to use it more effectively than most.