Flask of the Drunken Master Page 7

  A little over a year before, Hiro and Father Mateo solved the murder of Yoshiko’s father, retired samurai general Akechi Hideyoshi. The general had raised his only daughter as a samurai warrior, allowing her to dress—and act—like a man.

  Yoshiko hadn’t changed her appearance since her father’s death. If anything, she looked more masculine now than she had before. She wore a blue kimono bearing the five-petaled bellflower mon that symbolized the Akechi clan. With her hair drawn back in a samurai knot and a pair of swords at her side, only her unshaven pate revealed her gender.

  Yoshiko stood talking with the samurai guard at the gate.

  Hiro approached and bowed. Yoshiko returned the gesture instinctively, but as she straightened her eyes widened with recognition. She smiled a genuine smile.

  “Matsui Hiro,” Yoshiko said. “A pleasant surprise.”

  “Good morning Akechi-san,” Hiro said. “I trust you also remember Father Mateo.”

  “Of course.” She bowed to Father Mateo. “Please, call me Yoshiko.”

  The woman’s tone seemed a bit too friendly, her smile a bit too bright. Worst of all, her eyes had a sparkle that made Hiro fear her interest in him went beyond professional courtesy.

  Before Hiro could find a way to avoid further conversation, Father Mateo said, “It’s nice to see you, Yoshiko. If you’ve finished your business here, we can walk together.”

  Her smile widened into a grin. “As it happens, I’ve just finished.” She looked at Hiro. “I would be delighted to walk with you.”

  Hiro fought the urge to turn around and return to the cages. He had seen a smile like that on a woman’s face before. Given his aversion to Akechi Yoshiko, Hiro already knew this walk would end in an awkward scene.

  Chapter 16

  “What brings you to the prison?” Father Mateo asked Yoshiko as they walked along the narrow street. “I hope nothing has happened to your relatives?”

  “I went to the prison on business,” Yoshiko said. “After we finished mourning my father, I went to work for the Sakura Teahouse.”

  Hiro tried to imagine the samurai woman dressed as a painted entertainer from Kyoto’s floating world. His mind refused the image.

  Father Mateo looked even more disturbed.

  Yoshiko laughed at the priest’s confusion. Amusement softened her features, but not enough to make her attractive.

  “Not as an entertainer,” she said. “I collect the teahouse debts. I also handle collections for several merchants.”

  Hiro found it odd that she spoke so openly of her work. Most samurai considered a job a humiliating necessity. Worse, most debt collectors were commoners, making collections a shameful occupation for samurai.

  Then again, Yoshiko’s very existence flouted the rules of samurai conduct. Her choice to live an independent life should not surprise him.

  Hiro respected that independence, even though he found the woman personally repellant.

  “You’re a debt collector?” Father Mateo asked.

  Hiro caught the surprise in the Jesuit’s tone.

  “Yes.” Yoshiko glanced at Hiro. “I find it pays quite well.”

  “Does your mother object to your employment?” Father Mateo asked.

  Once again, the Jesuit had blundered into a social error. Family conflict wasn’t a permitted topic of conversation among the Japanese. Not for people outside the family, anyway.

  Hiro gave the priest a warning look.

  “Mother doesn’t know,” Yoshiko said, “and I would appreciate your discretion, if you see her in the street.”

  Hiro found the answer surprising—not for its content, but because Yoshiko spoke the words aloud.

  “After my father’s death,” she continued, “the shogun terminated our stipend. We had bills but no income with which to pay them.”

  Yoshiko paused and looked at Hiro. “It appears I, too, am ronin now.”

  “Doesn’t your mother ask where the money comes from?” Father Mateo asked.

  “That is not our business,” Hiro said. “Forgive my employer. He forgets his manners.”

  “His questions do not offend,” Yoshiko said. “I am different from other women. It is normal for men to wonder.

  “Do you visit the prison often? I haven’t seen you there before.”

  Hiro glanced at Father Mateo, giving the priest permission to answer.

  “No,” the Jesuit said, “I’ve never been there before today.”

  “Visiting a friend?” Yoshiko asked.

  Father Mateo nodded. “Ginjiro, the brewer.”

  Hiro closed his eyes and stifled a sigh. Yoshiko had set a trap and the priest didn’t see it coming.

  “Of course,” Yoshiko said. “He doesn’t seem the type to commit a murder.”

  Hiro wondered how she knew the nature of the brewer’s crime.

  “We don’t believe he’s guilty, either,” Father Mateo said. “In fact, Matsui-san and I are trying to help the family prove his innocence.”

  “As you identified my father’s killer?” Yoshiko held Hiro’s gaze a little longer than necessary.

  “Nothing that complicated.” Hiro forced a smile and glanced at the priest. “In fact, it’s not important enough to discuss.”

  The conversation flagged, but Yoshiko didn’t leave as Hiro hoped. Instead, she matched the shinobi’s pace, in what she seemed to consider friendly silence.

  Tension crept up Hiro’s back. Yoshiko’s bearing indicated an interest that transcended mere acquaintance. He hoped he misinterpreted her bearing and proximity, but Hiro had seen—and refused—too many women’s advances to be wrong.

  He wondered how to free himself of Yoshiko before they reached Ginjiro’s. Hiro needed to talk with Tomiko, but didn’t want to give the female samurai information—especially since she already knew far more than a stranger should.

  At Sanjō Road, they found a pair of armored samurai standing guard in front of the fire tower that marked the boundary between the wards. The samurai guards wore bamboo armor over kimono marked with the five-leaved Matsunaga mon. Wakizashi hung from their obis, and sheathed katanas jutted up behind them like the tails of angry monkeys.

  The shorter samurai held up a hand, palm outward. “Halt! State your names and business.”

  Hiro fought the urge to laugh. The guard’s broad girth and bamboo armor made him look like a sake barrel impersonating a samurai.

  Yoshiko stepped forward. “I am Akechi Yoshiko, eldest child of General Akechi Hideyoshi. My business is none of yours.”

  The samurai woman looked relaxed, but Hiro noted her dangling hands and the way she planted her feet exactly shoulder-width apart. If the guard provoked Yoshiko, she would fight.

  “State your business, or you will not pass.” The guard stepped sideways, into Yoshiko’s path.

  Hiro couldn’t decide if the guard intended to start a fight or simply didn’t believe the samurai woman would attack.

  Yoshiko laid a warning hand on the hilt of her katana. “By whose authority do you speak so rudely? Only the shogun commands the Akechi clan.”

  The samurai flushed red. Before he could answer, the other guard said, “Our apologies, Akechi-san. Matsunaga-san suspects that enemy spies have infiltrated the capital. Until they are captured, no one passes certain points without identification.”

  “I needed no identification here an hour ago.” Yoshiko nodded at Father Mateo. “Does this foreigner look like a spy to you? Do I?”

  “We were delayed—” the guard began.

  His heavyset companion said, “Who knows where a foreigner’s loyalty lies?”

  “I know the priest’s allegiances,” Hiro said. “He is no threat.”

  “And who are you to make such claims?” the portly guard demanded.

  Hiro fixed a withering glare on the man. “I am Matsui Hiro, a special investigator, appointed by order of Magistrate Ishimaki. What is your name? The magistrate will want to know who tried to delay my progress.”

  The talle
r guard gave his portly companion a nervous look. When the sake barrel didn’t respond, the tall guard said, “Again, sir, we apologize. We will not delay you further.”

  The shorter guard scowled but stepped aside to let them pass.

  Once they left the guards behind, Yoshiko turned to Hiro and asked, “Why didn’t you tell me you’d entered the magistrate’s service?”

  Chapter 17

  Hiro had no intention of telling Yoshiko that his claim was mostly bluff. The magistrate’s decision to delay Ginjiro’s hearing gave the shinobi permission to investigate, though only by implication.

  Before Hiro could respond, Father Mateo said, “I’m afraid we cannot tell you more. You may remember, a year ago, Magistrate Ishimaki ordered us not to discuss the details of your father’s death with anyone outside the investigation. Unfortunately, the same restrictions apply to our current duties.”

  “I understand.” Yoshiko stopped at the end of the block where Ginjiro’s brewery lay.

  Hiro wanted to keep on walking, but manners required a pause.

  Yoshiko bowed. “Forgive me. I must leave you here. It is nice to see you, Matsui-san. Perhaps we will meet again?”

  Her smile made Hiro’s stomach clench.

  “We’d like that.” Father Mateo bowed, oblivious to the fact that Yoshiko intended the words for Hiro. “Please give my regards to your mother. Would she allow us to visit her at home?”

  “She would enjoy that.” Yoshiko looked at Hiro. “As would I. Perhaps you could join us for a meal tomorrow evening.”

  “We would consider it an honor,” the Jesuit said.

  “The honor is ours. We look forward to seeing you, perhaps at sunset?” Yoshiko bowed and walked away without awaiting a response.

  Hiro started south with Father Mateo.

  After glancing over his shoulder to confirm Yoshiko’s disappearance, Hiro said, “I can’t believe you offered to visit. What were you thinking?”

  Father Mateo looked surprised. “Yoshiko’s mother must be lonely since her husband’s death. Yoshiko seemed quite pleased that we wanted to come.”

  “It’s not the ‘we’ that pleased her,” Hiro said. “She’s after me.”

  “That’s an assumption,” Father Mateo said, with a hint of a smile.

  Hiro frowned. He hated assumptions almost as much as he hated being caught in one.

  “Consider Yoshiko’s mother,” the Jesuit said, “an aging widow. Visiting her is a charitable act.”

  Hiro didn’t answer.

  “You don’t have to go with me,” Father Mateo said. “I’m sure I can find my way alone, at night, in a city filled with overanxious samurai hunting spies.”

  Hiro’s frown deepened into a scowl. “I will go, but just this once.”

  * * *

  The sun stood high overhead when Hiro and Father Mateo reached Ginjiro’s. Tomiko had opened the shutters and stood behind the wooden counter, cleaning the countertop with a clean white cloth. She didn’t look up, but Hiro saw the shift in her posture that indicated awareness of their presence.

  He paused at the edge of the brewery floor, unwilling to enter without permission. Samurai didn’t have to ask, but Hiro’s notion of courtesy didn’t hinge on formal etiquette.

  “Good afternoon, Tomiko,” he said. “May we speak with you?”

  She looked up and bowed. “Of course. Please come inside.”

  Hiro stepped out of his sandals and knelt up onto the knee-high brewery floor. Father Mateo followed suit. They crossed to the counter, though Hiro didn’t hand his katana across the countertop. The rules about swords did not apply when the shop was closed.

  Tomiko wiped her hands. “Have you seen my father?”

  “He seems unharmed,” Hiro said. “He asked us to tell you he trusts you to care for the brewery, and your mother, in his absence.”

  Ginjiro hadn’t said any such thing, but Tomiko would benefit from believing he had.

  As Hiro expected, Father Mateo didn’t confirm the lie but didn’t deny it. The Jesuit seemed to understand that certain deceptions furthered a moral goal.

  Tomiko inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, as if struggling to keep her emotions in check. “Thank you. I will try to make him proud.”

  “Can you truly manage alone?” Father Mateo asked.

  Tomiko looked down at the counter. “Forgive my directness, but you are a man of samurai rank. My problems are not an appropriate topic of conversation.”

  “Your personal safety is,” Hiro said, “and I think you underestimate the danger. Someone committed a murder here. The killer may return.”

  “Why would Chikao’s death endanger me?” Tomiko asked. “Do you think his son might try to avenge him?”

  “Do you?” Hiro asked. Kaoru wasn’t his first concern, but Tomiko’s comment made him curious.

  “I don’t know.” Tomiko considered the question. “He has a terrible temper, but I don’t believe he would try to hurt us.”

  Hiro wondered how much Tomiko knew about her father’s business, particularly Ginjiro’s habits when it came to hiring guards or debt collectors. The woman had clearly inherited her father’s talent for keeping secrets, and Hiro doubted she would admit to incriminating facts. He would need to approach the topic of private guards another way.

  “What if Chikao’s death was accidental?” Hiro asked.

  “In our alley?” Tomiko looked confused. “What kind of accident would happen there?”

  “Did your father owe anyone money?” Hiro suspected he knew the answer, but wanted to broach the topic of debt collectors without hinting at his ultimate objective.

  “We have no debts,” Tomiko said. “My father spends no money before he earns it.”

  “What about debtors—aside from Chikao—or debt collectors your father hired to work on his behalf?” Hiro kept the questions light, as if they stemmed from random thoughts. “Had your father mentioned any trouble?”

  “Only the argument with Chikao and Kaoru,” Tomiko said. “We don’t have many debtors. Father has hired collectors, from time to time, but I do not think he hired one to deal with Kaoru’s debt. Not yet, at least.”

  She paused.

  “No,” she continued, “I’m sure he would have told me if he had hired one. But this does give me a helpful idea. I think I’ll hire a debt collector to guard the shop until Father returns.”

  Hiro didn’t like the thought of Tomiko dealing with debt collectors, many of whom had flexible attitudes toward personal honor. Her idea surprised him, too. Ginjiro’s daughter seemed too wise to risk her safety with an unknown man.

  Tomiko smiled at his concern. “Do not worry, Matsui-san. The debt collector I intend to hire is a woman.”

  Chapter 18

  “Not Akechi Yoshiko?” Hiro asked.

  “Yes,” Tomiko said. “Do you know her? My father says she works quite fast and gets results.”

  “Your father knows her?” Coincidences started lining up in Hiro’s mind.

  “He hired her to collect a debt about a month ago. She brought the money quickly, but I’m not sure he would work with her again.” Tomiko paused. “Last week, I heard him talking with Basho—a merchant who sells the rice we use for sake. Basho had an injured eye and claimed Akechi-san had struck him.”

  “Over a debt?” Hiro asked.

  “She hit him hard enough to bruise his eye?” Father Mateo gave Hiro a look of alarm.

  “That’s what he claimed,” Tomiko said. “My father didn’t like it, but I’m glad I heard him say it. I’ll feel safer hiring a guard who uses violence when necessary.”

  Hiro felt a sudden need to meet Basho.

  “That reminds me,” Father Mateo said, “Ana said we’re out of rice.”

  Hiro said nothing. The housekeeper had made that comment days before, and Father Mateo had already purchased rice to fill their barrel.

  “Does Basho sell rice for eating or just for sake?” the Jesuit asked.

  A smile lit Tomiko’s face. “
Both. We use the highest quality rice for our sake.”

  “Will he sell to a foreigner?” Father Mateo asked. “And if so, where can we find him?”

  “Basho has fifty feet of frontage at the end of the Sanjō rice market, west of Karasuma Street and east of Muromachi Road. You can’t miss it—it’s the largest shop on the block. Tell him Ginjiro sent you. You will get a better price.”

  “Thank you.” Father Mateo turned to Hiro. “Shall we go?”

  Hiro considered warning Tomiko not to trust Akechi Yoshiko. Unfortunately, he didn’t know if Ginjiro’s daughter had told them all she knew about the night Chikao died. If Ginjiro had hired a guard—Akechi Yoshiko or someone else—Tomiko would know. She would probably also know if the guard had killed Chikao.

  If Hiro wanted to learn the truth, he couldn’t assume that anyone was an ally.

  Fortunately, Hiro doubted Yoshiko presented any real threat to Ginjiro’s family. Not as long as Ginjiro kept his silence, anyway.

  As Hiro stepped down into the street, a familiar balding figure approached the brewery at a rapid trot.

  “Hiro-san!” Suke raised a hand in greeting.

  Prison hadn’t done the monk’s aroma any favors. The pungent odor of human offal mingled with the sake fumes that rose from Suke’s robes, giving the monk the distinctive smell of a man who had bathed in a brewery’s night-soil bucket.

  Hiro fought the urge to back away.

  Suke grasped the shinobi’s arm. “I’m glad I found you.” He started toward the alley, dragging Hiro by the sleeve. “I need to speak with you right now.”

  Hiro started to object, but Father Mateo raised a hand. “No—please—go with him. I will wait for you right here.”

  Hiro scowled at the Jesuit’s amusement. They had no time to cater to Suke’s addled needs. Still, he went along with the monk. It was always faster to let Suke speak his mind.

  Shadows lurked in the narrow alley, as if daylight avoided the scene of the recent crime. Hiro looked for threats but didn’t see anything out of place.

  The monk led Hiro far enough from the street to ensure their privacy. They stopped just short of the place where spattered blood still rusted the ground and wall.