The Ninja's Daughter Read online

  Jiro shrugged. “It didn’t seem important.”

  “How do I know you’ll keep your word?” Hiro let suspicion creep into his voice even though he believed that Jiro would follow through. The fear on the young man’s face was real. He wouldn’t risk them coming back and talking to Basho.

  “I promise, I’ll meet you,” Jiro said. “I couldn’t run if I wanted to. I haven’t got a travel pass, and Basho won’t loan me his without a reason. Especially not at harvest time, with rice coming in from all the farms. I’ll tell you everything, but please, don’t make me say it here.”

  Not many men would dare to ask a samurai to wait. Hiro paused as if considering Jiro’s request and inhaled deeply, enjoying the grassy-sweet scent of the rice shop. His stomach might prefer noodles, but few aromas pleased Hiro’s nose as much as the smell of freshly polished rice.

  “Very well,” he said. “Meet me at Ginjiro’s brewery, tonight, just after sunset. If you fail to appear, or lie to me, I will tell your master everything—including my suspicion that you killed the girl because you discovered she wasn’t truly an entertainer.”

  Jiro bowed from the waist. “I’ll be there. I swear it . . . and thank you. I’m in your debt.”

  Under the circumstances, Hiro drew no inference from the young man’s failure to deny the murder allegation. Commoners had no legal right to contradict a samurai, and Jiro had already claimed he didn’t know what actually happened by the river.

  Father Mateo gestured to a nearby barrel. “Please deliver a bag of that rice to my home on Marutamachi Road.” He pulled a silver coin from his purse and handed it to Jiro.

  “Thank you.” Jiro bowed again and accepted the coin with both hands. “I will arrange delivery today.”

  As they left the shop, Hiro said, “I wonder what Ana will think when that rice arrives, considering that your barrel is currently full.”

  “I know the barrel is full as well as you do,” Father Mateo said, “but the purchase gives Jiro an explanation for our appearance at the shop.”

  “I was planning to buy some rice for that very reason,” Hiro said, “but I’m surprised you thought of it, and that you willingly helped the boy to lie.”

  “On the contrary.” Father Mateo smiled. “I saved him from a lie. We did, in fact, buy rice.” The smile faded. “Do you think he told the truth about the coin?”

  “I’m not certain,” Hiro said. “His hands kept fidgeting as we spoke, but any number of things could have made him nervous.”

  “Talking with a samurai, for one,” the Jesuit offered.

  “Or killing a girl by the river,” Hiro countered.

  “Why did you agree to talk with him later?” Father Mateo asked. “You normally want answers on the spot.”

  “I saw no point in causing trouble prematurely,” Hiro said. “Whatever relationship Jiro had with the girl, it’s over now. We’ve plenty of time to talk with Basho if the evidence proves that Jiro is a killer.”

  Just before sunset, Hiro left the Jesuit’s house and walked toward the river. Father Mateo disapproved of sake shops, and had a prayer meeting anyway, so Hiro went to meet Jiro alone.

  He reached the bridge as sunset lit the evening sky ablaze.

  The samurai guard on duty stepped forward. “Where are you going?”

  Hiro bowed. “To a sake shop, west of Pontochō.”

  He expected the guard to let him pass, but the samurai didn’t move.

  “Don’t you get tired of being a ronin, or serving a foreign priest?” he asked.

  “Pardon me?” Hiro felt an instinctive, warning twitch in his stomach. Other samurai didn’t normally mention a ronin’s status, except to insult him or start a fight.

  “What if I could offer you a chance to serve a noble lord?” the samurai asked.

  The question made Hiro suspicious. A masterless samurai didn’t usually have a chance to redeem his honor, or to serve another lord. A ronin remained a ronin until he died.

  “Which of the daimyo has opened his ranks to ronin?” Hiro asked.

  “Shogun Matsunaga needs an army to hold Kyoto against his enemies,” the guard explained. “He has issued an invitation to every samurai in the city. The shogun is generous. He rewards his warriors’ faithful service. Distinguish yourself, and he might restore your honor.

  “You must provide your own weapons and armor, of course, but that—and your pledge of fealty—is all that Matsunaga-san requires. A rare opportunity for a man like you.”

  Given his past experiences with Matsunaga Hisahide, Hiro suspected the “invitation” would not apply to him as to other men. However, he had no intention of mentioning this to the samurai guard.

  Instead, he bowed. “Thank you. I will consider the shogun’s offer.”

  “Do more than consider,” the samurai said. “Soon the Miyoshi army will march on Kyoto. Wait too long, and you will miss your chance to survive the coming war.”

  “A man’s allegiance does not assure his survival in times of war,” Hiro said.

  “And yet, it can ensure his death,” the samurai countered.

  Hiro nodded. “I appreciate the warning.”

  “Appreciation won’t save your life. Accept the shogun’s offer while you can.” The guard stepped back, and Hiro continued across the bridge.

  When he reached the western bank, he started south on the path that paralleled the river. As he walked, he considered the samurai’s words.

  Matsunaga Hisahide had seized control of Kyoto after the former shogun’s alleged suicide three months before. The emperor had not officially given Hisahide the shogunate, but it would happen unless another claimant seized the capital city soon. Hiro didn’t care who became the shogun, as long as Father Mateo remained alive and out of danger. Warlords had ruled Kyoto for over a century, and, though some men might argue otherwise, Hiro saw little difference between Hisahide and any other.

  Hiro turned west at Shijō Road. A block from the river, he passed the entrance to Pontochō. Few customers walked the narrow alley at this early hour. The pleasure district’s bars and teahouses didn’t fill up until after dark.

  A ragged beggar emerged from the shadows near the alley entrance. He wore a dingy, hooded robe with a cowl that hid his face. He started toward Hiro, head bowed and hands extended. “Sir?”

  A dōshin raced across the street, brandishing his jitte. “Leave the samurai alone! Get out of here, you filthy trash!”

  CHAPTER 12

  The beggar paused a bit too long. The dōshin’s nightstick struck his shoulder with a thump that promised an ugly bruise. The beggar doubled over and raised his hands to shield his head. “I’m sorry, sir! I’m sorry!”

  The quavering voice sounded slightly familiar, though Hiro couldn’t place it.

  “Get out of here!” the dōshin ordered. “I’ve told you filth a thousand times—no begging in Pontochō during business hours!”

  The beggar whimpered and turned to flee.

  As the dōshin raised his jitte again, a winged shadow streaked from the sky and struck the policeman’s face. He staggered backward with a startled cry.

  The bird beat its wings on the dōshin’s head. Its talons scratched his cheek, and then the bird flew off toward the river, as suddenly as it appeared.

  Hiro noted the beggar had used the distraction to escape.

  The dōshin raised a hand to his cheek. “A demon! It attacked me!”

  “A crow, not a demon.” Hiro gestured toward the roof from which the bird had come. “Most likely, it nests in the rafters.”

  The dōshin glanced upward nervously, as if expecting another attack. “A crow? I’ve never seen one do that before.”

  Hiro had, though not to a person. In Iga, he’d often seen the adult birds defending their nests against predators. Father Mateo had said that Western people considered crows an evil omen, but in Japan they were harbingers of the gods. Hiro admired the large black birds. Like shinobi, they protected their own. He did find it odd that the crow appe
ared at the moment the beggar needed help. Especially since, despite his words, he saw no nest nearby.

  Hiro continued toward Ginjiro’s as the sunset torched the sky. A couple of blocks past Pontochō, he turned and continued south. Just before he reached the brewery, Hiro stopped to buy a bowl of noodles from his favorite roadside vendor. Nothing tasted better than steaming udon in a savory, fishy sauce. He finished his treat as the sky grew dark and the golden glow of lanterns lit the street. With a nod, he returned the bowl to the vendor and resumed his walk.

  Most of the shops had opened, but few customers walked the street. Laborers ended work at sunset, as did many samurai, and getting to the restaurants took time. Flickering, inviting light emerged from doorways along the street, blocked in places by the shadowed forms of business owners watching passersby with hopeful eyes.

  “You! Ronin!”

  The voice made Hiro pause. He turned to see one of the yoriki’s henchmen walking toward him. He waited as the dōshin approached, but didn’t speak or bow.

  “What are you doing out without your master?” the dōshin demanded.

  I could ask the same of you, Hiro thought, but opted for something less likely to cause a fight. “I do not work in the evenings. I came out for a flask of sake.”

  “We don’t want your kind in this ward. If you want sake, go to Pontochō.”

  “This street serves every class of man, from samurai to farmer.” Hiro struggled to retain his calm demeanor. “You have no right to order me to leave.”

  “I could arrest you for causing trouble.” The dōshin’s upper lip curled with disdain. “Yoriki Hosokawa says you’re troublemakers—you and the priest.”

  “Did he order you to follow me?” Hiro asked. “Or did you simply see me walking and decide to create a problem where none existed? I will remind you, in case you’d forgotten, that Magistrate Ishimaki respects me . . . and the foreign priest.”

  “That won’t save you from interrogation,” the dōshin threatened. “We have orders to make sure you’re not conducting an investigation.”

  “Does this look like an investigation?” Hiro made an expansive gesture. “It looks to me like a man in search of a drink.”

  “I’m watching you,” the dōshin snarled. “Do not forget your place.”

  “Words every man should remember,” Hiro said.

  After an uncomfortable moment, the dōshin scowled and stomped away. When he disappeared up the street, Hiro continued toward his destination.

  Ginjiro’s brewery featured an open storefront with a raised, tatami-covered floor where patrons could sit and enjoy their drinks with a view of the usually bustling street. As Hiro approached, he noticed Ginjiro standing behind the wooden counter that ran along the left side of the shop. Charcoal braziers cast a golden glow on the honeyed wood and chased the shadows from the knee-high floor where patrons gathered during business hours.

  The shop was empty of customers, but the brewer wasn’t alone inside. A bald-headed monk knelt in the corner nearest the street, as far from the counter—and Ginjiro—as possible. He wore a filthy, grease-stained robe, and his age-lined face had a patient, if vacant, expression. When he noticed Hiro, his countenance lit up with a smile that revealed his lone remaining tooth.

  “Hiro-san!” the monk exclaimed. “A thousand blessings on you this fine evening!”

  “And on you, Suke,” Hiro said. “Are you well tonight?”

  Suke’s smile vanished. “In truth, I have a terrific thirst. I’d bless a man a hundred times for buying me a drink.”

  “And two hundred for a flask?” Hiro slipped off his sandals and knelt up onto the knee-high floor but did not remove his katana because he didn’t intend to stay.

  “A man of my humble means could never expect such generosity,” Suke said, “but if your words are an offer, I won’t refuse.”

  Ginjiro bowed as Hiro reached the counter. “Good evening, Matsui-san.”

  Like most people in Kyoto, the brewer knew him only as Matsui Hiro, the masterless samurai who served the foreign priest—an identity Hiro had adopted upon his arrival in Kyoto, to ensure his shinobi status remained a secret.

  Ginjiro bowed again, more deeply. “Thank you again for helping me—”

  Hiro cut him off. “No further thanks is necessary. What is past is finished.”

  The brewer’s gaze flickered to the swords in Hiro’s sash. “How may I help you?”

  “Draw a flask for Suke,” Hiro said, “and bring him a bowl of rice, along with whatever else you have tonight.”

  Ginjiro frowned at the monk in the corner. “It’s early. Nothing is ready but soup and pickled vegetables.”

  Hiro ignored the brewer’s scowl. Ginjiro pretended to disapprove of Suke’s constant presence, but he never sent the monk away and always ensured that Suke had food to eat if no one bought it for him.

  “Soup and vegetables will do, along with a bowl of rice.” Hiro set a pair of silver coins on the wooden counter. “I cannot stay, but this should cover the expense.”

  “And then some.” Ginjiro took the coins. “I will see that he gets food.”

  “And sake!” Suke called from his corner. “Hiro mentioned sake.”

  He might have lost his hair and teeth, but there was nothing wrong with Suke’s ears.

  Footsteps approached the brewery, and Hiro turned to see Jiro outside the shop. The young man bowed, but seemed unwilling to step inside.

  Hiro left the shop and slipped on his sandals. “Would you like some noodles?”

  “Noodles?” Jiro seemed confused.

  “You do eat udon, don’t you?” Hiro started toward the nearest vendor. It wasn’t his favorite, but then, he had eaten already.

  At the cart, he paid for a bowl of noodles and told the merchant to give the food to Jiro.

  “Eat,” Hiro said. “We’ll talk when you finish.”

  Jiro looked nervous, but hesitated for only a moment before he wolfed the noodles down.

  Hiro stifled a smile. Given Jiro’s age and build, as well as his occupation, Hiro suspected the youth was often hungry. He also hoped the unexpected treat would loosen Jiro’s tongue. In Hiro’s experience, hungry men let down their guard in the presence of tasty food.

  As he waited, Hiro inhaled the mingling scents of steaming noodles and grilling fish from carts along the street. The salty-sweet odor of roasting meat and a plume of smoke from a charcoal fire combined with other aromas, and Hiro’s mouth began to water. He resisted the urge to indulge in yet another bowl of noodles.

  When Jiro had almost finished, Hiro said, “Tell me what you know about the coin.”

  Jiro shrugged. “I never saw it before this morning.”

  “That’s not what you told me earlier,” Hiro said.

  Jiro flushed. “I wanted you to leave before Basho noticed you at the shop.”

  “I know the coin belonged to Emi,” Hiro said. “She was wearing it when she died.”

  “That isn’t possible.” Jiro seemed alarmed. “Emi needed money to buy her freedom from the teahouse. She would not have kept a golden coin as an ornament.”

  “She did not need to buy her freedom,” Hiro said. “She was an actor’s daughter, not a teahouse girl. She lied to you—unless you lied to me.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Jiro slurped down the last of his noodles and returned the bowl to the vendor.

  “I’m only going to ask this once,” Hiro said as they started down the street. “Did you give the coin to Emi?”

  “No, sir,” Jiro said. “Not that it matters.”

  Hiro stopped walking and turned on the youth with a glare.

  “I apologize.” Jiro ducked his head and raised his hands in self-defense. “I did not intend—”

  “Your intentions are irrelevant,” Hiro snapped. “Do not forget your place again. Does Basho know you had an affair with a riverbank girl?”

  Jiro straightened, but kept his face turned downward. “There was no affair—nothing for him to know
—I swear. We spoke at the shrine a couple of times, and once by the river, but nothing more. I never even told her how I felt—”

  “I don’t believe you,” Hiro interrupted.

  “I promise, sir, I’m telling the truth. Emi told me she worked in a teahouse. We only talked a few times, by the shrine and the river. We walked together . . . and talked . . . but nothing more. . . .” Jiro started breathing hard. His hands were shaking. “Please, you must believe me. This apprenticeship is all I have. I had to come to Kyoto because my parents can’t afford to feed me. If you talk to Basho . . . if he fires me . . . I have nowhere else to go.”

  “A persuasive story,” Hiro said, “except that I don’t believe it. You will have to do better than merely repeating the lies you’ve told before.”

  Jiro struggled to control his breathing. “I admit, I did love Emi. I wouldn’t have cared that she was an actor’s daughter. But she really did say she lived in a teahouse. I learned the truth from the yoriki this morning—just like you did.” He wiped a tear from his eye.

  Hiro examined the coin for a moment and then returned it to his sleeve. “If I discover you’ve lied to me, I will tell Basho that you had an affair with an actor’s daughter and killed her so he wouldn’t learn the truth.”

  Jiro shook his head, too stunned to speak.

  “I do not care if the story is false,” Hiro added. “Basho will believe it, and you will have to deal with the consequences.”

  “Please, sir, no.” Jiro fell to his knees and pressed his forehead to the ground. “I beg you. You must believe me. I told the truth.”

  “Then you have nothing to worry about.” Hiro made a dismissive gesture. “Go.”

  Jiro climbed to his feet and scurried away.

  Hiro knew the youth had not revealed everything he knew, but he did believe that Jiro loved the girl. Unfortunately, that didn’t eliminate the possibility that he killed her.

  Jiro had barely disappeared when a voice across the street said, “Matsui-san!”

  Hiro spun, expecting another dōshin. Instead, he saw a familiar, middle-aged man in a carpenter’s tunic and baggy trousers.