The Ninja's Daughter Page 7

  “There is only one God, and he can prevent a war in Japan, if he chooses.”

  “And if he doesn’t?” Hiro asked.

  “Then I will trust him anyway.”

  Hiro shifted the conversation back to its original topic. “The man from Koga warned me that Hisahide has sent for a Portuguese merchant, a replacement for Luis.”

  “Replacement?” Father Mateo echoed. “Luis hasn’t mentioned wanting to leave Kyoto. No more than usual, anyway, and he never truly means it.”

  “Hisahide does not forgive disloyalty,” Hiro said.

  “Do you mean Luis’s sale of Portuguese firearms to the warlord—the Miyoshi daimyo?” Father Mateo asked. “That happened months ago—and he didn’t follow through.”

  “Fish will spoil with age; revenge does not,” Hiro said. “Hisahide will kill Luis, and perhaps you also, as soon as the other merchant reaches Kyoto.”

  “He has no authority to kill us,” Father Mateo said. “Luis and I have an imperial pass. We are immune to punishment, unless we break the law.”

  “You speak of authority,” Hiro said. “I speak of regrettable accidents. Mistaken identities. Bad translations. A samurai making a most unfortunate error. Apologies would be made, of course, and reparations paid to your king. But you and Luis Álvares will be dead.”

  “You’re overreacting,” Father Mateo said.

  Hiro raised his cup but didn’t drink. The tea was cold.

  “What would you have me do? Leave the city?” Father Mateo asked. “I cannot abandon my congregation.”

  “You can, and you will, if preserving your life requires it.” Hiro selected a rice ball from the plate. He expected the priest to argue, but Father Mateo did not respond.

  Unfortunately, Hiro knew the Jesuit’s silence did not constitute consent.

  After a moment just long enough to permit a change of subject without rudeness, Father Mateo asked, “How will you persuade Chou to admit what she knows about Emi’s trip to the river?”

  Hiro smiled. “I’m not going to persuade her. You are.”

  The following morning, Hiro and Father Mateo left the house right after breakfast. The sky was a deep, autumnal blue, and a heavy scent of wood smoke permeated the chilly air. At Hiro’s instruction, Father Mateo carried Emi’s coin in his purse.

  The guard at Marutamachi Bridge nodded but didn’t stop them as they turned onto the path that paralleled the eastern side of the river.

  “Do the samurai seem more relaxed to you?” Father Mateo asked.

  “Relaxed?” Hiro resisted the urge to look over his shoulder at the bridge.

  “Less nervous,” Father Mateo said. “Is it possible that the emperor named Hisahide shogun without us knowing?”

  “When the emperor names a shogun, it’s no secret,” Hiro said. “The guards have simply become complacent. No man can maintain vigilance forever.”

  “Do they believe the threat of rebellion has passed?”

  “Quite the opposite,” Hiro said. “The Ashikaga clan has lodged a formal objection to Hisahide’s claim on the shogunate. They haven’t begun an armed revolt, but only because they lack the strength, and numbers, to seize Kyoto. That could change if the proper claimant appeared at the city gates.”

  “The proper claimant . . . Shogun Ashikaga’s brother?” Father Mateo asked.

  Hiro nodded. “Rumors say he plans to claim the shogunate.”

  “Will the emperor honor his claim, now that Hisahide controls the city?”

  Hiro shrugged. “That depends on the size of the army he brings with him.”

  CHAPTER 17

  A thin boy crouched on the ground outside the building that housed the Yutoku-za. He looked no more than eight years old, with skinny limbs and a freshly shaven scalp. The razor had nicked the back of his head, but a crusty scab already covered the spot.

  The boy squatted close to the ground and poked at something with a stick.

  As Hiro drew closer, he realized the boy was steering a beetle away from the street. A horn projected several inches out from the beetle’s face. The insect moved with caution, like an elderly samurai in spiky armor.

  Every time the beetle tried to turn back toward the road, the child nudged it in the opposite direction. Slowly but surely, the beetle moved away from the crushing feet of passersby.

  Hiro wondered if Father Mateo had saved such helpless creatures as a child. He decided the Jesuit probably had. In many ways, the priest resembled the squatting boy, determined to help the innocent things that could not help themselves.

  The boy looked up as Hiro’s shadow fell across the beetle’s path. His curiosity faded to dismay at the sight of the samurai and the priest. He laid his palms in the dirt and bowed his forehead to the ground, taking care to shield the beetle in the space between his hands and knees.

  “Good morning,” Father Mateo said. “What is your name, young man?”

  The child raised his face to the priest. “Please do not kill me, noble sir.”

  “Nobody’s going to kill you,” Father Mateo said. “I merely asked your name.”

  “Please, sir, I am Haru, son of Satsu.” The child returned his face to the ground. “Forgive my impertinence for speaking in the presence of a samurai.”

  He spoke with unusual precision, rare in a child so young.

  “Stand up, Haru, son of Satsu,” Father Mateo said. “I don’t like talking to the backs of people’s heads.”

  The boy stood up, but continued to face the ground.

  “That’s a fine-looking beetle,” Father Mateo said. “Is it yours?”

  The beetle butted at the stick, which Haru had positioned to stop the insect from returning to the street.

  “The kabutomushi?” Haru looked up. “No, sir. He belongs to himself. I’m only helping. I didn’t want someone to step on him before he finds a mate. Of course, this late in the year, he might not find a lady beetle, but I think that he should have the chance to try.”

  “A noble sentiment,” Father Mateo said. “Are you a Buddhist?”

  “A Buddhist, sir?” Haru ran a hand across his scalp. “I’m not a monk, if that’s what you mean. My mother shaved my hair for my sister. She died, and we’re in mourning. That is, my sister died. My mother is alive.”

  “I am sorry to hear about your sister,” Father Mateo said.

  “I wanted to save the beetle because I couldn’t save my sister.” Haru’s voice cracked, and he looked down at the kabutomushi.

  “It isn’t your fault she died.” Father Mateo started to reach for the boy, but stopped before Haru noticed. Hiro approved. Men of samurai status did not touch commoners voluntarily.

  “Thank you, sir,” Haru said, with a pause that suggested he might have said more, had etiquette allowed it.

  Hiro took over the conversation. “Is your father home this morning?”

  Haru bowed. “I apologize, sir, but my father has gone to the temple, with my mother, to speak to the priests about Emi’s funeral. I can fetch him for you, if you wish.”

  “We have only a minor question,” Hiro said. “Perhaps your sister, Chou, is home to answer it for us?”

  “Chou?” Haru sounded doubtful. “She doesn’t know much of anything, except about Yuji.” He said the last word in a dreamy tone, as if mimicking someone—it wasn’t difficult to guess who.

  Hiro squared his shoulders and glared at the boy. “You will tell your sister we’ve come.” One advantage to samurai status was never having to ask, or explain himself, when speaking to commoners.

  “Of course, sir.” Haru bowed and used the gesture to scoop the beetle into his hand. “I will fetch her at once.” He backed to the door of the house and slipped inside.

  “You didn’t have to frighten the child,” Father Mateo said, “and we could have gone with him. He didn’t have to call his sister to the street.”

  “Frightened children don’t remember to take the beetle,” Hiro said, “and we do need Chou to come to the street. She will not reveal
Emi’s secrets where others might overhear.”

  “Maybe they didn’t have any secrets,” Father Mateo said.

  Hiro stared at the priest. “You don’t know much about women, do you?”

  Father Mateo frowned.

  Before he could answer, Haru returned with Chou.

  The girl stood shorter than average, with a sturdy build and a mottled complexion completely unlike her sister’s silken skin. Her dark hair lacked the gleam so common in girls from wealthier families, and her features seemed to disagree about the proper proportions for her face.

  “You lead the questioning,” Hiro murmured to Father Mateo in Portuguese. “The girl won’t fear a priest—not even a foreign one—as much as a samurai.”

  Father Mateo nodded, acknowledging Hiro’s words and Chou’s arrival simultaneously. As the young woman bowed, he said, “Good morning. Do you remember us from yesterday?”

  Chou began to nod, then hastily added, “Yes, sir.”

  Hiro suspected Chou had little experience talking with men of higher rank.

  “I am a priest of God,” the Jesuit said. “This man is my interpreter, Matsui Hiro.”

  “But you don’t need a translator,” Haru objected. “You speak Japanese quite well.”

  Hiro stifled a smile. Most adults considered the Japanese language too nuanced for a foreigner to master. Children lacked that prejudice, which made them difficult to fool.

  “I help him with our customs as well as the language,” Hiro said.

  Haru opened his mouth to speak, but Chou nudged him. “Enough.” She bowed again. “I apologize for my brother. He is young and forgets his manners. How may I help you?”

  Father Mateo reached into his purse. “Your father asked me to find the owner of the coin your sister wore the night she died.”

  He displayed the golden coin in his palm. The leather dangled toward the street.

  Chou clutched the sides of her faded kimono. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know where that came from. I saw it only yesterday morning, after we brought her home.”

  “Might a friend have given it to her?” Father Mateo asked.

  Chou shook her head. “Emi didn’t have any friends who could give a gift like that.”

  Father Mateo glanced at Hiro. The Jesuit seemed to have run out of questions.

  “Your brother speaks well for his age,” Hiro said. “Does he act on the stage?”

  Haru straightened with obvious pride.

  “He will make his debut as a kokata soon,” Chou said.

  “A child actor,” Hiro translated for Father Mateo’s benefit. “Some plays have special roles that are played by children.”

  “I will take the stage next month,” Haru said.

  “Will Yuji act in that performance also?” Hiro asked.

  “Perhaps.” Chou blushed and cast her eyes downward at the mention of Yuji’s name.

  “But not as shite,” Haru added, “only in the lesser roles. When I am older, I will play the shite’s roles, but Yuji never will.” He spoke without arrogance, as if simply stating a fact that everyone took for truth.

  “Do not say such things,” Chou cried, with a hint of anger.

  “I’m only repeating what Grandfather said.” Haru raised his chin. “Yuji’s flower does not advance as it should. He cannot handle the larger roles.”

  “Haru,” Chou began as if to scold the boy, but her demeanor suddenly changed. “Did you notice the drummers warming up as we left the house?”

  “No!” Haru said. “You promised to tell me when they started. I want to see the practice!”

  Chou gestured toward the house. “You haven’t missed it. . . .”

  “Please excuse me.” Haru bowed and hurried back inside.

  Hiro admired the ease with which Chou diverted her brother’s attention. He also hoped she had something useful to tell them, now that they were alone.

  CHAPTER 18

  “I apologize for Haru,” Chou said as the door swung shut behind the boy. “Talented children in our art do not receive much discipline before the age of eight. Grandfather says that too much restriction distorts their natural talent.”

  “Is your father waiting for Yuji’s skills to improve before you wed?” Hiro spoke too bluntly for a conversation between men, but samurai owed no subtlety to a woman.

  Chou bowed her head. “Our parents wanted us to wed last New Year, after the festival, but Yuji’s father died two days before the festival began. Now, we will marry as soon as our year of mourning is complete.”

  “Do you participate in the mourning also?” Father Mateo asked.

  Chou nodded. “I will soon be Yuji’s wife. It is proper that I share this duty.”

  “Had your parents found a husband for Emi also?” Hiro asked.

  “No, sir.” Chou paused as if deciding how much to say. At last she settled on, “My father couldn’t find an appropriate match.”

  “Did Emi cause problems within the Yutoku-za?” Father Mateo asked.

  “No, sir, quite the opposite. Father couldn’t find a man he thought was good enough for Emi. Not with Yuji already betrothed to me. And despite what Haru said, my Yuji is a rising star. Grandfather simply thinks he needs more time for his talent to mature. No one is as handsome, or as skilled on the stage, as Yuji.”

  “You seem to know him well,” Father Mateo said.

  The comment made Hiro wonder whether the Jesuit had noticed Chou’s unusual use of the words, “my Yuji.” Few unmarried women, and not even many wives, would speak of a man with such familiarity.

  “We grew up together, in the za,” Chou said. “Our parents always planned for us to marry. They arranged it before Emi was even born.”

  Hiro caught a hint of defensiveness in her tone. He wondered whether there was more to her possessiveness—and Emi’s lack of a husband—than Chou revealed. He decided not to press the issue further. Not for the moment, anyway.

  “Did Emi have a suitor your parents didn’t know about?” Father Mateo asked. “Perhaps a man who gave her the coin as a pledge?”

  “Impossible.” Chou shook her head. “We shared a room, and shared our secrets. If she had a man . . . or a golden coin . . . I would have known.”

  “Then you believe, as your father does, that Emi acquired the coin the night she died?” the Jesuit asked.

  Hiro gave the priest a disapproving look.

  Chou didn’t seem to notice. “That must be what happened. A thing like that, she certainly would have shown me.”

  “Do you know where your sister went that evening?” Father Mateo asked.

  “Yes, sir.” Chou gestured to the shrine across the road. “To Chugenji. She went there every evening, sometimes even when it rained.”

  “She prayed there?” Father Mateo sounded surprised as he turned to look at the little shrine. “Not at one of the larger temples?”

  Chou shrugged. “She thought, because the shrine is small, the god would hear her prayers more clearly than the kami at the bigger temples.”

  “She went only to that shrine?” Hiro asked.

  “As far as I know, sir. She would have mentioned another.” After a pause, Chou added, “Emi often walked by the river after praying. She said it gave her space to think—‘to think,’ she would say . . . as if she was a man. I told her, girls like us don’t need to think. We marry and our husbands do the thinking.”

  “Did Emi tell you what she thought about?” Father Mateo asked.

  “No, sir.” Chou looked at the ground. “She said I would not understand.”

  “Then how do you know she had no need to think?” Father Mateo asked.

  Chou seemed to struggle between an honest answer and the prohibition on contradicting a man of samurai rank. At last she said, “Nice girls don’t walk alone by the river at night, for any reason.”

  Hiro noted the nonresponsive answer. “Did your parents know that Emi walked by the river?”

  Chou looked up with fear in her eyes. “Please, sir, do not speak
to them of this. They would be angry. . . . Emi swore she never stopped or talked to anyone by the river. She told me she only went there alone—to think—and I believed her. . . .”

  “Do you believe something different now?” Father Mateo asked.

  Chou’s nose turned red. Tears filled her eyes. “I do not know what I believe. Someone gave that coin to my sister. I don’t know who, or why. Please . . . I don’t want my parents to blame me for her death, because I didn’t tell . . .”

  “I see no reason to mention it, as long as you’ve told the truth,” Hiro said.

  “I’ve told you everything.” Chou sounded desperate. “I promise.”

  “We appreciate your assistance,” Father Mateo said.

  “Perhaps you can help with another issue also,” Hiro added. “Father Mateo wishes to learn as much as he can about Japan, but has yet to speak with an actor about his craft. Perhaps you would ask Yuji to share his knowledge of nō with the priest?”

  Chou’s face burst into a brilliant smile. “Of course!” She bowed to Hiro and then to Father Mateo. “My Yuji would be honored to help the foreigner. When would you like to speak with him?”

  “Now, if possible,” Hiro said. “We can wait for him here and go to a teahouse. We do not wish to disrupt your home.”

  Hopefully, the choice to conduct the conversation away from the house would keep Chou from returning along with Yuji. Even if she did, a woman was easily sent away when a group of men decided to visit a teahouse.

  After Chou disappeared into the house, Father Mateo asked, “Do you think she will tell her parents that she spoke with us?”

  “No chance of that.” Hiro shook his head. “Especially since she lied.”

  “She did? Which part was a lie?”

  “There’s more to her relationship with Yuji than she shared, and I suspect she knows more about Emi’s walks than she let on. I’m curious to see what Yuji tells us.”

  “Do you think he’s involved in the murder?” For once, the Jesuit didn’t sound surprised.

  But Hiro was. “What makes you think he might be?”

  “I’d like to believe that Chou’s betrothed would not have made advances toward her sister. However, Emi was beautiful, Chou is not, and I doubt that fact escaped young Yuji’s notice.”