Flask of the Drunken Master Page 8

  “Hiro-san,” Suke said, “I need your help to free Ginjiro.”

  “I’m trying to find the killer,” Hiro said. “It may take time.”

  “We have no time.” Suke leaned forward. “We need to free Ginjiro now.”

  “What do you mean?” Hiro had a nasty suspicion he knew what the monk intended.

  “You and me,” Suke whispered. “We’ll sneak him out of prison.”

  “That won’t work,” Hiro said. “The dōshin will catch us and throw us into the cages too.”

  “You’re right. We need a diversion.” Suke thought for a moment. “The foreign priest could make a scene outside the gates! Will he help us?”

  “I don’t think so,” Hiro said. “He tends to disagree with plans that lead to our arrest.”

  “No reason to get upset,” Suke said. “You’re the one who suggested we use the priest.”

  Hiro opened his mouth to object but realized it wouldn’t help. “Why did the dōshin set you free?”

  “They told me I’m not guilty.” Suke shook his head. “They wouldn’t even let me speak to the magistrate. Stupid fools!”

  Hiro eyed the monk. “That makes you angry?”

  “Of course it does!” Suke crossed his arms. “They plan to punish Ginjiro for my crime.”

  “You truly believe you killed Chikao,” Hiro said.

  Suke’s eyebrows threatened to launch themselves from the top of his balding head. “It isn’t a matter of what I believe—I killed him!”

  “You were asleep when the murder happened,” Hiro said.

  “I’m a dangerous man,” Suke replied. “Lethal, even in slumber.”

  “Maybe so,” Hiro said with a sigh, “but the evidence says you’re not the killer.”

  Suke’s arms fell down to his sides. “You’re sure it wasn’t me?”

  Hiro gestured to the bloodstains on the wall. “Chikao didn’t die from a sleepwalker’s blow. I respect your martial prowess, but the killer continued striking the body after Chikao was dead. A sleeper would have woken up and seen the situation.”

  Suke’s jaw dropped open. “That is true. This changes everything! But how did my flask end up in a killer’s hands?”

  Chapter 19

  “The murderer stole your flask without your waking,” Hiro said.

  “Impossible.” Suke shook his head. “I’m a dangerous man. No one steals my flask without me knowing. I must have killed him after all. I have to make the dōshin understand.”

  Hiro realized, with the dismay that accompanies nasty truths, that the only way to stop Suke from interfering with the case was to let the monk believe he was helping solve it.

  “How about this?” the shinobi asked. “If the evidence proves you killed Chikao, I’ll make the dōshin listen to your story. However, until we know for certain, you keep quiet and help my investigation.”

  Suke’s mouth split into a startled grin. “You’d let me help?”

  “Yes, but secretly,” Hiro said. “We can’t let anyone know. The killer thinks he’s safe because you confessed.”

  “Of course! Of course!” Suke nodded vigorously, sending waves of noxious odors rolling off his robe. “I will help you, Hiro-san! Together, we’ll find the killer.” His smile faded. “Even if the killer turns out to be me.”

  “Listen carefully,” Hiro said. “I need you to watch Ginjiro’s brewery. Listen to the patrons. Someone might say something about the murder.”

  “I understand. The killer might get drunk and confess the crime.” Suke paused. “I don’t suppose you’d give me money to buy a flask of sake—purely to preserve the illusion, of course.”

  Hiro removed a couple of silver coins from his purse. “Remember,” he said as he dropped them into Suke’s waiting palm, “your job is to listen without revealing you’ve joined the investigation. Do not call attention to yourself.”

  Suke nodded and scurried out of the alley.

  Hiro followed, reflecting on his decision. He doubted Suke would prove any help but hoped the assignment would keep the monk out of trouble and out of the way.

  Father Mateo met Hiro in the street. As they started south the Jesuit gestured over his shoulder and asked, “What did you tell him? He seems much happier.”

  Hiro glanced over his shoulder at Suke. The monk had settled in the street to wait for the brewery to open. “I gave him a job, to keep him out of trouble.”

  Father Mateo smiled. “Let me know how that works out.”

  “If it doesn’t, we’ll both know.” Hiro saw the Jesuit wince and slowed his pace. “Does your injury bother you?”

  Father Mateo looked down at his hands, which were covered in angry scars from an attack two months before. “A little. Is it obvious?”

  “Only to me,” Hiro lied. “Why did you want to see Basho?”

  “To learn how far Yoshiko’s violent tendencies might go,” the Jesuit said. “It doesn’t take much skill to suspect a connection between Ginjiro and Yoshiko. After all, she knew about the crime. Do you think she might be the guard Ginjiro hired?”

  “We don’t know, for certain, that he hired one,” Hiro said. “Until we do, we must explore all options.”

  “It’s hard for me to believe Yoshiko would kill Chikao,” Father Mateo said. “Not with her own father murdered a year ago.”

  “Yoshiko’s father was samurai. Chikao is a merchant. Their deaths are not the same.” Hiro doubted the priest would understand.

  “They are to me, and they are to God.” Father Mateo paused. “Could a woman beat a man to death?”

  “You’ve seen Yoshiko,” Hiro said. “If a man could do it, she could.”

  Father Mateo sighed. “This investigation seems more difficult than the others. Chikao didn’t have any enemies. We don’t even have good suspects.”

  Hiro noticed a noodle vendor and headed toward the cart. As he did, he switched to Portuguese. “On the contrary, we have three: Kaoru, Ren, and Ginjiro.”

  He switched back to Japanese and ordered two bowls of udon.

  “The second two I understand,” Father Mateo said in Portuguese, “but why the son? He doesn’t want to work. Also, won’t he share his inheritance with his mother?”

  Hiro smiled at the Jesuit’s use of general terms instead of names. “A wife inherits only when the husband leaves a will that names her heir.”

  Father Mateo watched Hiro pay the vendor. “I can’t believe you’re hungry.”

  Hiro accepted some copper change. “I can’t believe you’re not.”

  The vendor handed each man a bowl of steaming noodles in pungent sauce.

  Hiro inhaled deeply. His stomach grumbled. As he hoped, the chewy noodles had just the right combination of onions, fish, and savory broth.

  Father Mateo ate, but slowly, and fumbled with his chopsticks. His injured hands had not regained their full dexterity.

  All too soon, Hiro’s chopsticks clattered against the empty bowl. He returned them to the vendor. Father Mateo returned his, too, though he hadn’t finished his noodles.

  The vendor gave the Jesuit’s half-filled bowl a worried look. “I’m sorry you didn’t like the flavor.”

  “I enjoyed it.” Father Mateo gave the vendor an apologetic smile. “I am not very hungry this afternoon.”

  Hiro glanced at the Jesuit’s hands. He saw no sign of infection but reminded himself to keep an eye on the priest.

  Father Mateo switched to Portuguese. “It’s not my hands. I suppose I should tell you—I really don’t like udon.”

  * * *

  A samurai in lacquered armor guarded Sanjō Road at Karasuma Street.

  Hiro wasn’t surprised. Prosperous rice merchants often served as moneylenders, too. Their storehouses held not only coins but samurai heirlooms left as collateral for loans. With the city on alert, Matsunaga Hisahide would protect them. No man who wanted the shogunate would risk the loss of so much valuable treasure—or the tax revenue that accompanied it.

  Despite his understanding, Hir
o bristled at the thought of yet another interruption.

  The guard stepped into the road and blocked their path. “State your names and business in this ward.”

  Hiro felt his patience wane. “Surely the shogun has more important business than keeping honest men from theirs?”

  “From their what?” The samurai tipped his head to the side, confused.

  “Their business,” Hiro said.

  “My business is to protect this ward.” The samurai stepped forward until his chin was only inches from Hiro’s chest. “Do not challenge my authority. I speak with the voice of Shogun Matsunaga.”

  Hiro raised an eyebrow. “Matsunaga-san is taller than you and also better looking.”

  “How dare you!” The samurai’s hand moved to the hilt of his katana.

  A second armored samurai emerged from a nearby shop, cheeks bulging with an enormous bite from a bun. When he saw the situation, he swallowed quickly, stashed the bun in his armor, and joined his partner in the street. “What’s going on?”

  “Your friend believes himself the shogun’s equal,” Hiro said, consciously overlooking the fact that Matsunaga-san was not yet shogun. “I chose to disabuse him of that notion.”

  The second samurai sighed. “Yujiro, let them pass. We’re only supposed to stop saboteurs and spies.”

  The comment revealed these guards hadn’t worked together very long, or very often. Regular partners would not contradict one another in public.

  Yujiro nodded at Father Mateo. “The foreigner looks suspicious to me, and everyone knows you cannot trust a ronin.”

  Hiro ignored the insult. Men promoted above their abilities often resorted to bullying.

  Father Mateo stepped into the samurai’s path. “Indeed, I’m quite suspicious. Best arrest me before I carry out my devious plot … to purchase a sack of rice.”

  Yujiro’s cheeks turned purple. “Did you insult me?”

  Father Mateo squared his shoulders. “I treat a man as he deserves, and you deserve no better.”

  Chapter 20

  Yujiro bared his teeth and took a threatening step toward Father Mateo.

  Hiro laid a hand on the hilt of his katana and stepped between them. “We want no trouble.”

  Yujiro looked at Father Mateo. “Your friend’s behavior indicates otherwise.”

  Hiro agreed. He wondered why the priest insulted the samurai so openly. Father Mateo had never done that before.

  The shinobi felt the moment slip toward violence. His limbs relaxed, prepared and almost longing for a fight. Just before he decided to release his martial instincts, training and better judgment took control.

  Hiro bowed his head to feign regret. “Please forgive the foreign priest. In his country, a noble man must always return an insult or face permanent dishonor.”

  “In Japan, he faces death.”

  Yujiro’s sword slipped from its sheath with a whispering ring.

  In an instant, Hiro drew both of his swords. He crossed them in front of him, blocking the strike. Stepping backward, he lowered the wakizashi. He held the katana level, expecting Yujiro to back away.

  Instead, the samurai leaped forward, raising his sword for another aggressive blow.

  Hiro blocked with his katana. Deflecting his opponent’s sword, he counterattacked with the wakizashi.

  Yujiro parried and stepped away.

  Hiro struck with his katana. Yujiro backed away again and parried a second time.

  Hiro advanced, alternating overhand katana strikes with slashing blows from the wakizashi. Yujiro deflected every one.

  To Hiro’s surprise, the arrogant samurai was a talented swordsman.

  After several flurries of attacks and counterattacks, Hiro sensed his opponent tiring.

  Yujiro launched a counterattack with the desperation of a man who knew he must win or die. Hiro was forced to back away, parrying and deflecting. He focused on his opponent’s eyes, watching for the chance to kill the samurai and end the fight.

  Just as he started to wonder whether Yujiro had only faked exhaustion, the samurai stumbled over an uneven spot in the road.

  Hiro leaped sideways, slipping his wakizashi under the samurai’s chin. By the time Yujiro regained his balance, Hiro’s blade was at his throat.

  The samurai bowed his head and lowered his sword.

  Hiro raised his katana high to strike the fatal blow, but Father Mateo’s expression stayed his hand. Miraculously, the priest didn’t seem to want this man to die.

  “What are you waiting for?” Yujiro demanded, without looking up.

  Father Mateo shook his head.

  Hiro looked at the Jesuit. Killing this man is the right thing to do.

  Father Mateo met Hiro’s gaze without faltering.

  With a sigh of frustration, Hiro lowered his sword. “My master chooses to let you live.”

  “The foreigner insulted me.” Yujiro straightened and scowled. “His life is forfeit.”

  “You are mistaken,” Hiro said. “It is you who lost the fight. By rights, your life belongs to the priest—”

  “—and the priest has given it back to you,” Father Mateo finished.

  Yujiro looked confused and angry. By law, and by the samurai code, Hiro should have killed him. Survival would leave a permanent stain on Yujiro’s personal honor.

  Unfortunately, that also increased the chance of a second fight. At this moment, Yujiro had nothing to lose.

  Yujiro’s partner found his voice. “This is over. Let them pass. The fight was fair.”

  “The foreigner should fight for himself,” Yujiro said, though he sounded more like a petulant child than a samurai.

  “Why do you think he hired a ronin?” the other samurai asked. “Everyone knows a foreigner poses no more threat than a woman. Not unless he’s carrying a firearm, anyway.”

  Hiro decided not to mention that, in his experience, women were far more deadly than Portuguese firearms. He had scars on his shoulder and inner thigh—and more on his heart—that proved it. Other injuries faded to memory once the wounds had healed, but the pain of a woman’s betrayal—that betrayal—had eased far less than Hiro liked to admit.

  Yujiro scowled. “Get out of my sight.”

  Hiro bowed to the second guard. “We seek a merchant named Basho. Perhaps you know his shop?”

  Yujiro scowled, but the other samurai nodded. “I do. I buy his rice myself.”

  The samurai turned and pointed west along the market street. “Head that way. It’s three blocks down. The noren says ‘Basho.’ You cannot miss it.”

  * * *

  In the rice sellers’ street, the distinctive thump and swish of hulling machines competed with the sounds of merchants calling out specials to passersby. Indigo noren fluttered in doorways, ruffled by a summer breeze laden with the dusty-sweet scent of rice.

  “What’s that thumping?” Father Mateo asked.

  Hiro nodded to the pounder on display in front of the nearest shop. “Hulling machines. Have you never seen one?”

  “Not like that,” the Jesuit said. “But then, I buy our rice from a cart.”

  They paused for a moment before the store. Hiro tried to see the hulling machine through foreign eyes.

  The pounders featured a round wooden beam, about twelve feet long, with a wooden support in the middle that allowed the beam to pivot up and down. One end of the beam had a flattened place for a person’s foot to rest. At the opposite end, a wooden post protruded downward into a bucket filled with rice. When a laborer stepped on the flattened beam, the post rose out of the bucket. When the laborer stepped back off again, the post fell down with a swish and a thump, pounding the rice and shedding the fibrous hulls.

  Father Mateo gestured toward the pounder. “The merchant I buy from hasn’t got room for one of those on his cart. I wonder where he keeps it.”

  “If you don’t see the machine, he hasn’t got one,” Hiro said. “Smaller merchants pay to use a larger shop’s machine or arrange for a mobile pounder to
hull their rice.”

  The Jesuit nodded. “The machines do look expensive.”

  “Smaller shops and carts don’t always need them,” Hiro said. “Many commoners buy their rice unhulled. It’s cheaper, and the husks make up in bulk what they lack in taste.”

  Clouds of rice dust rose from the pounders and floated into the street. The noren fluttering at one side of the open storefront read BASHO—FINEST RICE IN KYOTO. The characters flowed down the indigo banner in skilled calligraphy. Basho had paid a handsome price for his sign.

  Hiro noted the heavy wooden shutters folded back on either side of the entrance. Basho’s appreciation of quality extended to security as well.

  Despite the size of Basho’s establishment, so many people clustered inside that Hiro and Father Mateo had to wait their turn in the street. As they waited, they watched the customers leave the shop. Some carried bags of rice, while others left empty-handed.

  “I wonder why he didn’t buy anything,” the Jesuit murmured as a well-dressed samurai stepped into the street and strolled away. “He looks like he could afford it.”

  “No warrior carries a parcel,” Hiro replied in Portuguese. “A shop will always deliver a nobleman’s purchase.”

  “Would you truly have killed that man?” Father Mateo asked in his native tongue.

  It took Hiro a moment to realize that the priest referred to the samurai guard, Yujiro.

  “He intended to kill you,” Hiro said. “Did you think I would let him do it?”

  “I…” Father Mateo trailed off. After a moment, he continued, “I didn’t intend to cause violence. Sometimes I forget how quickly words can escalate in Japan.”

  “Especially now, and especially here.” Hiro watched a bird swoop down and peck at fallen grains of rice.

  Eventually, their turn came and they stepped inside. Barrels of rice lined the walls on either side of the entrance. Some had covers, but most sat open, displaying the various grades of rice. A koku of grain, five bushels by Father Mateo’s Western measure, was considered enough to feed an adult person for a year. These barrels held hundreds, or possibly thousands, of koku, the kernels as valuable as silver and indicating the merchant’s enormous wealth.