Blade of the Samurai: A Shinobi Mystery (Shinobi Mysteries) (3 page)

“Hiro,” Father Mateo said, “your friend has a basket on his head.”

“A hat,” Hiro corrected. “The
komus
ō
monks of Fuke Zen wear such things to distance themselves from the world.”

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Kazu said, his perfect Kyoto accent slightly muffled by the basket. “I will not impose upon you again.”

Father Mateo bowed.

Hiro escorted Kazu out. When they reached the front door Kazu said, “You should help the Jesuit solve this murder.”

Hiro raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You really didn’t kill Saburo?”

The basket shimmied as Kazu shook his head. “No, but Hanzo will want to know who did.”

Hiro didn’t answer. Kazu was right. The head of the Iga
ryu
demanded an explanation for everything that impacted an Iga shinobi’s mission, and he wasn’t known to suffer failures well.

“Besides,” Kazu added, “you will need to solve the crime to prove you didn’t help me escape.”

Hiro had thought of that too. Samurai justice often condemned a guilty man’s friends and family if the criminal escaped the grasp of justice. No one in Kyoto knew that Hiro and Kazu shared more than a casual friendship, but the two were well-known as friends and drinking companions. Since Kazu had no family in the capital, his friends would bear the brunt of the shogun’s anger.

“Travel safely,” Hiro said. “Give my regards to everyone at Iga.”

Kazu paused as if wanting to say something more, but after a moment he set down the sandals, slipped them on, and headed for the street.

The sky had lightened, though clouds prevented a visible sunrise. A bird chirped in a nearby tree, and Kazu’s sandals crunched an accompaniment on the gravel path. At the narrow earthen road the young shinobi turned east, away from Kyoto.

Angry barking erupted from the yard across the street.

On the narrow strip of grass beside the house, a huge akita strained at the end of a braided rope secured to a wooden stake. The dog weighed almost as much as a man and stood three feet high at the shoulder. It barked ferociously at Kazu, barely pausing to draw a breath.

Hiro found it odd that the dog was home. The woodsman who lived across the street usually left before dawn and always took the akita with him.

After watching long enough to ensure the dog would not break free, Hiro shifted his gaze to Kazu’s retreating form. He hoped that Kazu hadn’t killed Saburo. If the investigation proved otherwise, the shogun would execute both Hiro and Father Mateo the moment he learned that Kazu had slipped away.

Hiro didn’t want to get involved in another murder, but no man could easily refuse a command from the shogun. Father Mateo had to find the killer, and Hiro—sworn to protect the priest—had no choice but to follow him into danger.

An unexpected rush of excitement struck the shinobi as he turned back into the house and closed the door. Although he wouldn’t have chosen this assignment, solving a murder allowed him to use his special training in a way his bodyguard duties seldom offered. Hiro found himself looking forward to the challenge, even though accepting it went against his better judgment.

He returned to the common room as Father Mateo emerged from his bedroom wearing a formal kimono.

Before Hiro could speak the Jesuit said, “You might as well skip the protest. I’m solving this murder and you’re going to help me do it.”

Chapter 5

Hiro and Father Mateo walked west along Marutamachi Road past Okazaki Shrine, the Shinto temple that marked Kyoto’s official eastern boundary.

They crossed the wood and stone bridge that spanned the Kamo River. As they entered the elite residential ward on the opposite side, Father Mateo said, “I’m glad Luis is out of town. If he’d heard Ana scream…”

He didn’t need to finish the sentence. The Portuguese merchant whose weapon sales financed Father Mateo’s mission kept a secret about as well as a toddler—and not even that well if he saw an advantage in talking.

A few blocks past the river, Hiro and Father Mateo turned north onto the road that led to the shogunate. The shogun’s compound lay a block ahead on the western side of the street.

Twenty-foot walls of wood and stone surrounded the shogun’s compound. A roof of curved black tiles surmounted the walls, punctuated at intervals by surveillance towers that jutted into the air like curling fangs from the mouth of a boar. The massive perimeter wall stretched two city blocks on every side. At the base of the wall lay a water-filled moat too broad for most men to jump.

“Such a large compound for only one man,” Father Mateo said.

“The shogun is the most powerful man in Japan,” Hiro answered, “more powerful than the emperor in every way that matters. And the shogunate isn’t large just for the sake of display. It also houses the
bakufu
—the government offices.”

“Yes, in the mansion,” Father Mateo said. “That’s where the shogun received me when I first arrived in Kyoto. The grounds are spectacular, too.”

“Shogun Ashikaga has an eye for beauty,” Hiro said, “though some men worry it blunts his martial edge.”

Hiro fell silent as as they reached the eastern entrance to the compound. A wooden bridge spanned the moat and a black tile roof arched high above the massive wooden gates that stood open for shogunate business from dawn until dusk.

Half a dozen armored samurai stood guard around the entrance. They snapped to attention as Hiro and Father Mateo approached.

The Jesuit paused at the eastern end of the bridge and bowed to the guards. They returned the greeting in kind. Hiro noted with approval that the guards bowed deeply, from the waist, a more respectful greeting than samurai usually offered foreigners.

“I am Father Mateo Ávila de Santos,” the Jesuit said. “I have come to see Matsunaga Hisahide.”

“Greetings, Father,” the tallest guard said. “Please wait here. I will inform Matsunaga-
san
of your arrival.”

He disappeared into the compound as Hiro and Father Mateo crossed the bridge. While they waited for the guard to return, Hiro looked at the shogunate compound—or at least, at the portion visible from the gate.

The entrance opened onto a graveled courtyard. To the north and south, the yard was lined with stands of delicate maple trees interspersed with taller pines and cedars. On the western side, opposite the gates, lay the entrance to the massive government mansion.

The building rose higher than a normal one-story structure, creating a dramatic appearance and also allowing room for the shogun’s spies to move beneath the rafters. Heavy cedar beams supported the tile roof, while decorative carvings adorned the woodwork, much of which was painted blue and gold.

The trees surrounding the mansion were carefully trimmed. Hiro smiled grimly. Not even he could leap that distance onto tiles without making noise and raising an alarm.

The gate guard emerged from the mansion with a young samurai at his side. At the edge of the veranda they slipped on their sandals and started across the yard.

Father Mateo leaned toward Hiro and whispered, “Is that Matsunaga Hisahide?”

The samurai wore a stylish black kimono with a black and white mon on the upper left side of the chest. Hiro recognized the symbol. The small white diamond within a larger black one was the crest of the Miyoshi samurai clan.

“He’s too young,” Hiro replied in Portuguese, then added, “Most likely a son of Daimyo Miyoshi.”

“The lord of Yamato Province?” Father Mateo asked.

Hiro nodded. “One of the shogun’s strongest allies.”

The young man stopped in front of Father Mateo and dismissed the guard with a nod. He let the priest bow first, but returned a deeper bow than Hiro expected and held it long enough to show sincere respect.

“I am Miyoshi Akira,” he said as he straightened, “second cousin to Daimyo Miyoshi of Yamato. I am assisting Matsunaga Hisahide with the murder investigation.”

As an afterthought he added, “Welcome to the shogunate.”

“I am Father Mateo, from Portugal,” the Jesuit said in Japanese, then added, “Although I speak your language a little, I often require assistance to understand the finer points. This is my translator, Matsui Hiro.”

The simple introduction, which stated no clan or province of origin, implied that Hiro was ronin, a masterless samurai forced to adopt a trade. As such, Hiro could claim no rank or privilege in the company of other samurai.

The shinobi bowed as deeply as possible.

To Hiro’s surprise, Akira nodded respectfully and without any visible disdain. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Matsui-
san
.”

Akira’s gaze returned to the priest. “Matsunaga Hisahide sends his apologies. He wished to greet you himself but was unavoidably detained. You will follow me?”

He turned and led them across the courtyard.

Hiro inhaled the musky scent of cedars and a dampness in the air that promised rain. The clouds that obscured the sunrise had gathered and darkened. Hiro doubted his kimono would get home dry and wondered whether Ana would decide to forego the airing of quilts and clothes.

The maid would be in a foul mood if showers spoiled her work.

“Hisahide mentioned your previous work on behalf of the Akechi clan.” Akira stepped out of his sandals and onto the wooden veranda encircling the mansion. “The shogun requires similar assistance, though I trust you understand that this situation requires even greater discretion.”

He looked from Hiro to Father Mateo, awaiting confirmation. They left their sandals beside the veranda and joined him.

“I give you my word,” the Jesuit said. “I will reveal nothing, and my translator is entirely trustworthy.”

Akira led them into the mansion and through the six-mat room where petitioners waited for an audience with the shogun or one of the government officials. At that early hour, the room was empty except for a pair of sleepy-looking guards, who let the three men pass without comment.

Hiro and Father Mateo followed Akira through a maze of tatami-floored rooms separated by sliding shoji doors. The larger spaces functioned as audience chambers and meeting rooms, while the smaller ones were little more than passages with sliding doors on either side leading to private offices beyond. Low slatted ceilings, intended to hamper the use of swords, made even the largest rooms feel oppressively small for Hiro’s taste.

After several minutes they entered a ten-mat audience room with renovations in progress. The tatami flooring was stacked in the southeast corner and covered to protect the woven mats against damage and dust. An assortment of brooms and carpentry tools lay neatly against the western wall beside an elaborate but unfinished transom screen and a waist-high pile of wooden ceiling slats.

Nearby, wooden props supported a thick cedar beam. A section of missing ceiling indicated the place where the beam would become a rafter.

Akira paused as if embarrassed. “I apologize for the mess. The shogun wants this work completed before … as soon as possible.” He indicated a sliding door on the north side of the room. “Ashikaga Saburo’s office is on the right, just through those doors.”

“Did he work alone?” Father Mateo asked.

“He had one assistant, Ito Kazu.” Akira looked at Hiro. “A friend of yours.”

Chapter 6

“I do know Ito Kazu,” Hiro said, “but I consider him an acquaintance, not a friend.”

Akira gave Hiro a look that neither accepted nor denied the shinobi’s statement.

“Touch nothing in Ashikaga-
san
’s office,” Akira said as he led them across the room and into a narrow hall with doors on either side. “His family has not arrived.”

Akira drew open the right-hand door and waited for the other men to enter.

Hiro stepped back to let Father Mateo lead, but not before his sensitive nose caught the mingling odors of documents, jasmine, and blood. The Jesuit entered the room and moved aside, giving Hiro his first clear view of the murder scene.

The six-mat room had a built-in desk and cabinet on the southern wall, to the right of the entrance. Piles of parchments lay on the desk, some neatly stacked and others spread out as if for examination. A monochromatic landscape scroll adorned the tokonoma, or decorative alcove, on the wall beside the desk. The room was otherwise empty of furniture and adornments.

An oblong pool of congealing blood the size and shape of a fallen man spread across the center of the room. A trail of bloody spots and streaks led from the pool to an open shoji in the northern wall. Rusty drops and elongated bloody spatters marked the floor and wall to the left of the door.

Judging by the size and location of the stains, the killer surprised Saburo in or near that northern entrance.

Hiro looked at the pool on the floor. The edges were crisp and linear, with very little smudging. Saburo hadn’t moved much after falling, though Hiro felt fairly certain the victim had bled to death on the floor.

A single set of bloody footprints led from the pool to a sliding door in the eastern wall of the office. Judging from the natural light that streamed through the paper panels, the door opened onto some kind of garden or courtyard.

Father Mateo pointed to the door. “Where does that lead?”

Hiro wished the Jesuit would remember that samurai considered pointing rude.

“Nowhere,” Akira said. “That is, it leads outside, but nowhere in particular. There’s a veranda and a garden with a path that leads across the grounds. We think that’s how the murderer escaped.”

“So it seems.” Father Mateo eyed the smudges of rusty blood around the door. “Do the tracks continue outside?”

Akira shook his head. “The killer must have removed his
tabi
.” He looked at Hiro. “The priest understands the word ‘
tabi
,’ socks?”

Hiro nodded. “Were the
tabi
left behind?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

Hiro glanced at the desk. The document on top of the pile was a handwritten list of names. Elaborate characters flowed down the page with a rare precision that Hiro recognized as Kazu’s. He examined the desk and the floor around it but saw no sign of blood.