Betrayal at Iga Read online

  Hiro awoke to the smell of steaming rice. His stomach growled.

  Daylight glowed through the oiled paper covering the window.

  Father Mateo knelt on his futon, head bowed down, hands clasped in prayer. His lips moved slightly, but no sound emerged. The words he spoke were for his god alone.

  When he finished his prayer, the Jesuit opened his eyes. “Good morning, Hiro.”

  “And to you.” Hiro stood and stretched to loosen muscles taut from sleeping. Something about his childhood room had lulled him into deeper rest than normal, and that bothered him.

  “You could have warned me,” the Jesuit said.

  Hiro looked at the priest, confused.

  Father Mateo gestured to the caltrops scattered by the door. “Was that truly necessary?”

  Hiro shrugged. “It seemed a good idea at the time.”

  “Did you discover anything useful in the night, when you couldn’t sleep?”

  “No.” Hiro thought for a moment. “But this morning, we need to examine the guesthouse where the emissaries received the welcome cakes and tea.”

  “Surely someone cleared the tray by now.”

  “Especially if the snacks contained the poison that killed Yajiro,” Hiro agreed, “but it doesn’t hurt to look.”

  Father Mateo nodded. “I need a few minutes to finish my morning prayers.”

  Hiro scooped up the caltrops and returned them to their box. “I’ll see about breakfast.” He opened the door and almost tripped over Toshi, who lay directly across the doorway, blocking the entrance to the common room.

  Hiro nudged the young man with his foot.

  Toshi startled awake. “Help! He’s killing me!”

  Fuyu leaped to his feet beside the hearth.

  “No one’s killing anyone.” Hiro looked down at the young shinobi. “Why are you sleeping across my door?”

  “So you can’t sneak up on me.”

  Hiro gave the younger man an ironic look. “It didn’t work.”

  Toshi scrambled to clear the doorway as Fuyu knelt beside the hearth and stirred the coals to life.

  “What would you have done if I surprised you in the night?” Hiro asked.

  “I would have killed you,” Toshi said.

  “You’d kill a man for using the latrine?” Hiro closed the door behind him, sighed, and started toward the kitchen. Fuyu’s sour temperament, though irritating, seemed more understandable this morning. Training an eager but foolish young shinobi would try the patience of a bodhisattva, and though Fuyu had not identified himself as Toshi’s teacher, their relationship seemed clear enough.

  Hiro opened the kitchen door to see Ana standing in front of the earthen stove. A pair of pots sat over the fire, sending up coils of steam.

  “I made enough for the visitors,” the housekeeper said, “if they’re willing to eat.”

  Hiro found Ana’s description of the Koga shinobi vaguely amusing. She had no more connection to Iga than the emissaries did.

  “We’ll cook for ourselves,” Fuyu answered from the hearth.

  “You may, if you wish,” Hiro said, “but you must clean the kitchen when you finish. The foreigner’s housekeeper should not have to wash the dishes twice for every meal.”

  The door to Midori’s room slid open, and Kiku entered the common room. She wore a practice tunic over pleated trousers, and her hair hung braided to her waist. “Do I smell rice?”

  Fuyu faced her. “We’re not eating anything they serve.”

  Kiku scoffed. “Starve if you wish, but I’m not going to. Iga’s cooking carries a risk of harm, but at least it’s edible, which is more than I can say for mine.” She looked at Hiro. “If the housekeeper made enough to share.”

  “She did.” Hiro paused. “How did you know that Ana returned this morning?”

  “I doubted you or the priest could cook.” She knelt by the hearth, and Hiro joined her.

  Father Mateo entered the common room as Ana poked her head through the kitchen doorway.

  “Who is eating?” the housekeeper asked.

  Father Mateo seemed confused by Ana’s breach of etiquette, but Hiro found it perfectly in character. Back in Kyoto, the housekeeper offered the Jesuit’s “visitors” no more respect than she felt they deserved. Her master might not own this house, but Ana’s behavior hadn’t changed.

  “The three of us.” Hiro’s gesture included Kiku, Father Mateo, and himself.

  After Ana served the soup and rice, along with tea, Father Mateo bowed his head and asked his god to bless the food. During the prayer, Hiro caught Kiku’s eye and extended his rice bowl, offering to trade. She pantomimed him tasting the food, and when the prayer ended Hiro took a bite from each of his bowls before passing them to her across the hearth.

  “Thank you.” Kiku handed her bowls to Hiro in return.

  “Does she think it might be poisoned?” Father Mateo asked in Portuguese.

  Hiro took a mouthful of soup. It tasted strongly of salty miso with a hint of bonito flake.

  “Speak Japanese only,” Fuyu warned. “We cannot understand your foreign tongue.”

  “We will speak Portuguese on some occasions,” Hiro said. “The foreigner has only a basic grasp of Japanese.” And neither of us plans to let you hear our private conversations.

  “I’m sure the foreigner means no harm,” Toshi ventured softly.

  Fuyu rounded on the younger man, but Kiku changed the subject. “Have you a plan to find Yajiro’s killer? Time is short.”

  Father Mateo took an enormous bite of rice—an obvious attempt to stall for time. Suspecting Fuyu would object to anyone else’s answer, Hiro waited for the priest to finish chewing.

  Eventually, Father Mateo swallowed. “I would like to inspect the guesthouse where Yajiro’s body lies.”

  “You examined his corpse last night,” Fuyu said. “You do not need to prod his body further.”

  “We did not prod the first time,” Father Mateo countered, “and I wish to examine the guesthouse, not the body.”

  “But Yajiro-san was poisoned at the feast.” Toshi’s forehead wrinkled. “How can the guesthouse help you find his killer?”

  “I see no reason not to let them look.” Kiku set her rice bowl on the mat. “That is, if you go with them and observe.”

  “Us?” Fuyu leaned back. “But you—”

  “You insisted we allow the investigation.” She stood up. “So you can go and supervise.”

  CHAPTER 14

  “You did not want an investigation?” Father Mateo asked.

  Kiku shook her head. “It is a futile exercise. It will not bring Yajiro back to life, and the killer will not be punished. Meanwhile, we are heavily outnumbered, lightly armed, and surrounded by those who mean us harm. Toshi and Fuyu wanted this investigation. I did not.”

  “We will find the killer,” Father Mateo said. “I promise you.”

  “He didn’t mean that.” Hiro switched to Portuguese. “In Japan, a man who gives his word and fails must offer his life as recompense.”

  “Then let’s not fail,” the priest replied in kind.

  “I told you—” Fuyu began, but Kiku spoke over him.

  “Have you an archery range in Iga?”

  Hiro wondered at her behavior. Only a person of significant rank would dare to interrupt so rudely. “South of here, on the eastern end of the village.” He gave directions to the place, but added, “I’d be glad to show the way.”

  “I can find it on my own.” Kiku retrieved her bow and quiver from Midori’s room and left the house.

  The walk to the guesthouse passed in awkward silence. Hiro led the way with Father Mateo at his side. Fuyu and Toshi followed, several steps behind.

  “Shouldn’t we wait for them to catch us?” Father Mateo whispered. “It seems rude to walk ahead.”

  “Every time I slow my pace, they slow to match it,” Hiro said. “I don’t think Fuyu wants a conversation.”

  An elderly man walked toward them, carrying a lo
ad of wood. As he drew close, he turned to his right and left the road, walking across the roughened earth of the rice fields parallel to the path.

  “Why did he leave the road?” Father Mateo turned to watch the old man trudging along beneath his heavy burden.

  “The Koga delegation threatened to kill anyone who approached without permission,” Hiro reminded the priest. “Hanzō doubtless spread the word, and everyone in Iga will obey.”

  As they approached the guesthouse where Yajiro’s body lay, Hiro looked through the trees at the second, smaller house where Ana had spent the night. He wondered whether the housekeeper minded sleeping so close to a corpse. Many women would, but Hiro doubted Ana cared for popular superstitions, and he pitied any ghost that tried to haunt her.

  He stopped beside the guesthouse door and bowed while the others removed their shoes and entered. After slipping off his own sandals, he stood in the doorway and surveyed the room.

  Clean tatami covered the floor, and a pair of wooden screens blocked off the left rear corner of the space. A sunken hearth provided a place for guests to cook, and metal braziers in two of the corners waited to light the room by night.

  A paneled door in the wall across from the entrance stood ajar; Yajiro’s body rested on a futon in the center of the narrow room beyond. The emissary lay on his back, hands folded across his stomach as if to hide the stains that streaked his robe.

  Father Mateo leaned toward Hiro. “As I thought, they took the tray.”

  “Shh,” Hiro whispered. “Discuss it later.”

  “Well?” Fuyu asked from the hearth. “Don’t you intend to investigate?”

  “Did you set those up?” Father Mateo gestured to the wooden screens. The painted panels showed a bamboo grove in winter; snow hung heavy on the leaves and bent the narrow branches toward the ground.

  “We set them up to make a place for sleeping,” Toshi said.

  “Has anything else been moved, or removed, that you remember?” the Jesuit asked.

  “The tray.” Toshi looked around. “The one that held the tea and cakes. It was here when we left for the feast last night.”

  “Would you recognize the person who brought the tray, if you saw her—or him—again?” Father Mateo sounded hopeful.

  “Of course we would.” Fuyu’s voice dripped venom. “She is Iga’s best assassin.”

  “Neko brought the tea and cakes?” Hiro asked. “You’re certain?”

  “In Koga, we don’t send assassins to perform a servant’s job,” Fuyu replied, “unless, of course, they just pretend to serve.”

  “Perhaps Hattori Hanzō sent her as a sign of respect for Koga,” Father Mateo offered.

  “Or perhaps she came to kill us,” Fuyu said.

  The Koga shinobi’s clear desire for a fight made Hiro determined to deny him one—at least for the moment. “Which members of your delegation drank the tea and ate the welcome cakes?”

  “Yajiro had both tea and cakes. I drank some tea . . .” Toshi gave Fuyu a guilty look and quickly added, “. . . but not much.”

  “You should have known better,” Fuyu scolded. “How could you forget my warning?”

  “I inspected the tea before I drank it,” Toshi began, but Fuyu cut him off.

  “You lack the training to recognize poisoned tea.”

  “I learned last summer, in Mikawa.” Toshi’s reply held a hint of frustration, though he covered it admirably.

  “On a mission where your instructor died,” Fuyu scoffed. “The only thing you could have learned from him was how to fail.”

  Toshi’s face reddened. “I learned enough for Father to send me here.”

  “As my shadow.” Fuyu glared at the younger man. “Do not forget your place.” Turning his back on Toshi, Fuyu asked, “Have you seen what you came to see? I need to speak with the monks about Yajiro’s ordination. By this hour, they should have arrived in Iga.”

  “Yajiro wanted to become a monk?” Father Mateo looked at Hiro as if to confirm his understanding.

  “Posthumous ordination plays a role in Buddhist funeral rites,” Hiro explained. “Whether or not the decedent planned to become a monk in life.”

  Father Mateo looked at Toshi. “Did Yajiro-san seem well on your trip from Koga?”

  Hiro approved of the Jesuit’s choice to treat the younger man as an equal, especially now that Fuyu had refused to do the same. He half expected the bald shinobi to interrupt and forbid an answer, but Toshi spoke too quickly.

  “He had a lot of headaches, and he didn’t like the food at inns.”

  “Irrelevant gripes from a man unaccustomed to inconveniences,” Fuyu snapped. “Do not mar his memory with slights.”

  “I didn’t . . .” Toshi caught Fuyu’s angry glare and lowered his face. “I humbly apologize. I meant no insult.”

  “Did he mention specific foods he didn’t like to eat?” the Jesuit asked. “Or, perhaps, a food that made him sick?”

  “What do you mean?” Toshi looked up.

  “Sometimes certain foods, or animals, make people sick. Hiro’s cat, for example: if I touch it, I sneeze and my eyes will itch.”

  “I have seen this illness.” Fuyu’s forehead furrowed. “A girl in my village died from eating roasted prawns. Her throat swelled closed until she could not breathe. She seized, but did not vomit. . . .”

  “I am sorry about her death,” the Jesuit said, “and, yes, that is the illness I refer to.”

  “I do not think this illness killed Yajiro. When he died, it did not look the same.” Fuyu pointed at Hiro. “Your relatives poisoned the food, and now you try to trick us with distractions!”

  “I’m not the one who suggested an illness,” Hiro said calmly, “and I prefer you not accuse my relatives without cause.”

  “Statements of fact are not accusations.” Fuyu took a step toward Hiro. “If you want to solve this crime, interrogate your mother and Neko. They, and Hattori Hanzō, are the only suspects here.”

  “Enough!” Father Mateo stepped directly into Fuyu’s path. “I will decide who is a suspect here, and who is not!”

  CHAPTER 15

  Hiro stared. Fuyu froze, and even Toshi took a shocked step backward.

  “You appointed me to act as your representative,” Father Mateo said, “and I give you my word, as a servant of the Most High God, that I will discover who murdered Koga Yajiro. As it happens, I do intend to speak with the women who cooked the feast and served your welcome tea. However, I will not tolerate your inappropriate demands. Such behavior dishonors you and shames your clan.”

  Hiro shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, prepared for an attack.

  To his surprise, it didn’t come.

  “You will report all new information to me immediately,” Fuyu ordered. “Especially if it incriminates a member of the Hattori clan.”

  Without awaiting a response, he started for the door. “I must arrange the prayers for Yajiro. Toshi, come with me.”

  “But . . . what about them?” The younger man looked from Hiro to Father Mateo. “Will we leave them to investigate alone?”

  “Iga shinobi will not speak honestly with us present,” Fuyu said. “I do not trust them, and I do not like it, but we have no other choice.”

  From the guesthouse doorway, Hiro watched Toshi scurry down the path in Fuyu’s wake. When the emissaries passed out of earshot, he lowered his voice and said, “We are no longer in Kyoto. Insulting samurai is foolish. Insulting shinobi . . . lethal.”

  “You didn’t seem concerned last night, or this morning, when you defended your family’s honor.” Father Mateo stepped outside and into his sandals.

  “My reputation will stay the hand of any man who knows my name. The same cannot be said of you.” Hiro shut the guesthouse door.

  “I will try to remember.” Father Mateo’s tone made no such promise.

  Together they started down the sloping path.

  “Does this village house the entire Iga ryu?” the Jesuit asked. “It seems so sm
all.”

  “Iga has many villages,” Hiro answered, “scattered throughout the province, both for safety and to hide our numbers.”

  “All of them answer to Hanzō?”

  When Hiro nodded, Father Mateo asked, “Why don’t people call him Daimyō Hattori?”

  “Hanzō is not a samurai lord, although, like me, he is of samurai blood. Also, ‘Hanzō’ is a pseudonym. In childhood, people called him Masanari.”

  They reached the road that bisected the village and headed east along it.

  Morning sunlight cast a pale glow across the stubbly fields south of the road. Low dirt berms divided the paddies, transforming the land into a tawny quilt. Here and there, the wooden houses rose between the fields like sentinels guarding the landscape.

  Hiro inhaled the mingled scents of pine and grasses, with an undertone of sweetness from the rice fields drying in the sun.

  The smell of home.

  “Hiro, look!” Father Mateo pointed to an empty field just ahead, beside the road.

  Inside the stubble-covered field, two young children circled one another like a pair of angry cats. Sunlight glinted off the daggers in their hands.

  The children wore long tunics over midnight-colored trousers. Neither one was more than ten years old. The larger boy stood head and shoulders taller than the smaller child, who scowled like a tiger, unafraid, despite the difference in their size.

  The big boy lunged. The small one backed away.

  “Hiro,” the priest repeated, far more urgently, “we have to intervene!”

  “No. Wait.” He raised a hand to calm the priest.

  The larger child advanced again and struck. The small boy backed away.

  “He’s going to hurt the little one.” The Jesuit started forward.

  Hiro laid a hand on Father Mateo’s arm. “Just watch and see.”

  The taller boy attacked with fury, but his diminutive opponent dodged his strikes with ease.