Claws of the Cat (2 page)

Father Mateo started to run his hand through his hair again, but caught himself and stopped. He faced the swinging door at the front of the house and called, “Who’s there?”

His Portuguese accent often made people pause, but this time a male voice answered at once. “Mateo Ávila de Santos? You are wanted at the Sakura Teahouse.”

Father Mateo opened the door. “So early?”

The visitor wore a simple kimono belted at the waist with a wide obi. A dagger hung at his hip but he carried no sword. His close-cropped hair was thinning on top, a situation made even more obvious by the fact that his head barely reached the Jesuit’s chest.

The messenger startled at the sight of the foreign priest but recovered more quickly than most. “There has been a murder. A man is dead.”

“Was the victim one of my students?” Father Mateo avoided the term “converts” in the company of strangers.

“No. The murderer asked for you.”

“The murderer?”

The messenger nodded. “Sayuri, an entertainer.”

Father Mateo stepped backward and shook his head. “That’s impossible. Sayuri would never kill anyone.”

“She did, and a samurai at that. You’d better come quickly if you want to see her.”

“Is she going to commit suicide?” Father Mateo asked.

“You’d better come quickly,” the messenger repeated. “She hasn’t got much time.”

Hiro emerged from his room wearing a smoke-colored silk kimono and a pair of swords. The short
wakizashi
hung down from his obi, while the longer
katana
stuck upward through the sash with its black-lacquered bamboo scabbard jutting several feet behind his back. Somehow, the shinobi had also found time to retie his long hair in a samurai’s oiled topknot. Not a strand was out of place.

The messenger’s eyes went wide at the sight of a samurai. He dropped to the ground and laid his forehead in the dirt.

“Get up,” Hiro said as he reached the doorway. “Where is the Sakura Teahouse?”

The messenger stood and bowed from the waist. “Honorable sir, it lies on this side of the Kamo River, on Shij
ō
Road, east of Pontocho. It’s the third house east of the bridge. You will know it by the stone dogs in the yard.”

Hiro scowled. “I will bring the priest. You may go.”

The messenger bowed twice more and hurried away.

“We could have gone with him,” Father Mateo protested as Hiro shut the swinging door.

“Samurai do not follow commoners.” Hiro looked the priest up and down. “More importantly, that’s your old kimono and you need to put on your swords.”

“You know I don’t like to wear them, and we need to hurry.”

“Why did I train you to use them if you won’t wear them?” Hiro shook his head at the priest’s stubbornness. “Nevermind. As you say, we should hurry. Change and get your swords.”

“Why are the swords so important?”

“Two years in Japan, and you still have to ask?”

The priest crossed his arms over his chest.

Hiro pointed at the swinging door. “You saw the way he reacted when I appeared. Only samurai have the right to wear two swords and to order men to obey. The shogun’s edict granted you the rank of a samurai, and today you must use it. If this woman is in trouble, you will need your swords to save her.”

“We have yours,” the priest pointed out.

“Mine are paid to protect you,” Hiro said. “My clan and I owe nothing to a girl we do not know.”

And have every reason to let her die if doing so saves your life,
he thought.

But he didn’t say that part aloud.

Chapter 2

Hiro and Father Mateo left the house and walked west along the narrow earthen road that led to the Kamo River. The priest stood three inches taller than his Japanese protector, but the status he gained by his six-foot height was destroyed by his katana. The longsword wagged behind him like the tail of an overexcited dog.

Hiro shook his head and fought a smile. “That would stop if you practiced wearing the swords, you know.”

“Yes. Just like the last ten times you told me.” Father Mateo smiled to remove the comment’s sting.

After half a mile they passed the white torii gate at the public entrance to Okazaki Shrine, which marked and guarded Kyoto’s eastern border. A white-robed Shinto priestess sold amulets by the gate. She nodded respectfully to Father Mateo. Shinto acknowledged a multitude of divinities. The priestess considered the Christian god no threat.

Father Mateo returned the silent greeting. He saw the woman often on the road, and, though he disagreed with her theology, he bore her no ill will.

At the river Hiro and Father Mateo turned south along the unpaved road that followed the eastern bank. Cherry trees lined the way. A month before, their blossoms fell like snow, but Hiro preferred May’s leaves to April’s flowers. They made better camouflage.

A bridge spanned the river at Sanj
ō
Road. Had they crossed, the street would have led them to Pontocho, a twisting alley connecting Sanj
ō
Road with Shij
ō
Road to the south. Teahouses and brothels crowded the narrow thoroughfare, barely leaving space for three people to walk abreast.

Hiro glanced at the bridge and the city beyond. He hated Pontocho. Tight spaces didn’t bother him, but large concentrations of dishonest women did.

East of the river, Sanj
ō
Road was residential. Well-groomed gardens and trees surrounded the dwellings. As the messenger promised, stone dogs stood guard at the third house on the left, a two-story structure with a raised foundation and a steeply peaked roof. Long eaves overhung the wide veranda that circled the house, and a gravel path led to gates at both sides of the building. Wooden fences shielded the yards beyond from public view.

Crowded Pontocho had no room for private gardens. Then again, the average teahouse patron wasn’t paying to see a landscape.

Father Mateo walked to the door and knocked with a familiar confidence that made Hiro wonder how much time his pious friend spent in teahouses.

The door swung open to reveal a woman in a formal kimono embroidered with dark purple blossoms. Her hair and makeup looked flawless despite the early hour, and though her thinning face suggested age, no lines or wrinkles marred her powdered features.

She inclined her head to the priest.

Father Mateo bowed. “Good morning, Madame Mayuri. Sayuri sent for me?”

The similarity in the names suggested mother and daughter or master and apprentice. Hiro guessed the latter. He could hardly imagine a less maternal figure than the tall woman standing in the doorway.

Mayuri’s gaze shifted to Hiro as if drawn by his thoughts.

He bowed just enough to show manners but not quite enough for respect. “I am Matsui Hiro, Father Mateo’s translator and scribe.”

The assumed surname fell naturally from his lips. He had used it so long that it almost felt like his own.

“I have not seen you here before,” Mayuri said.

It was neither a question nor an accusation, and also both.

“His previous visits concerned only his religion,” Hiro replied, “but this time he may encounter words he does not understand.”

Mayuri nodded but did not bow. Hiro decided to overlook the slight. Teahouse women stood outside the social structure, and though they usually indulged male guests to the point of obsequiousness, this was not a normal morning and, strictly speaking, Hiro was not a guest.

“Mayuri owns the Sakura Teahouse,” Father Mateo said.

Hiro didn’t need the explanation. Successful entertainers often bought or inherited houses when they retired, and although she was now too old to sing and dance for men’s amusement, Mayuri would have won hearts and emptied pockets in younger days.

She stepped back from the door. “Come in.”

The cedar floor of the entry gleamed like honey beneath her sock-clad feet. Hiro pitied the servant tasked with keeping it clean. He stepped out of his geta and onto the raised floor, but paused to let Father Mateo enter first. Hiro always reinforced the impression that Father Mateo deserved great deference and respect, while Hiro himself was merely a low-ranked scribe.

A shinobi’s first and greatest defense was misdirection.

Six tatami covered the entry floor. Most entries measured no more than four mats, and the extra space conveyed a sense of luxury and light. A decorative screen by the eastern wall showed merchants and samurai cavorting with courtly ladies.

Hiro inhaled the scent of expensive cedar mixed with something faint and sweet that reminded him of distant flowers in bloom.

Ahead and to the right, an open doorway led to the central foyer, but before Mayuri could lead them through Father Mateo asked, “Has there really been a murder?”

Mayuri raised her painted eyebrows at his directness.

Hiro pretended not to notice. The Jesuit tried to behave like a Japanese, but his Western nature showed through under stress. At least he hadn’t run his hand through his hair yet.

Mayuri kept silent long enough to indicate her disapproval. “A samurai is dead.”

“Surely Sayuri didn’t kill him,” Father Mateo said.

Mayuri’s lack of reply said more than enough.

“I don’t believe it,” the priest insisted. “May I see her?”

Mayuri inclined her head in consent. “Follow me.”

She led them into the square, twelve-mat foyer. Sliding doors on the eastern and western walls led to private rooms, three on either side, where the teahouse women entertained their guests. Unlike prostitutes, who needed only space for a futon, true entertainers required room to sing and dance as well as a hearth for serving meals and tea.

Another door, in the northern wall, stood open to the informal room beyond, where the women gathered for meals and conversation or to wait for guests to arrive. Hiro averted his eyes. Polite people did not stare into private spaces and he had already seen enough to know the room held no imminent threat.

Mayuri knelt on the floor before the second sliding door on the western side.

As she arranged her kimono around her knees Father Mateo whispered, “Why is she kneeling?”

“No proper entertainer opens an interior door while standing,” Hiro murmured. “Didn’t Sayuri do the same?”

“I told her Christians kneel only to God.”

Before Hiro could reply Mayuri looked up. “Sayuri will explain what you see, but be warned. You may find the scene … disturbing.”

“You haven’t cleaned it up?” An edge of frustration clipped Father Mateo’s words.

Hiro made a mental note to refresh the priest’s memory of etiquette. Dead samurai didn’t mind insults and accusations, but the living often felt differently.

Mayuri sat up straighter and raised her chin. “Akechi-sama’s family has the right to see what happened.”

Her powdered face betrayed no emotion, but the words told Hiro more than she realized. Teahouse owners protected their performers like samurai guarded their honor. Mayuri’s refusal to clear the scene meant she thought the girl was guilty.

Mayuri fixed her eyes on the men. She clasped her hands, but not before Hiro saw them shaking.

“Why are you waiting?” Hiro asked.

“We have seen death before,” the Jesuit added.

“Not like this,” she said, and drew back the door.

Chapter 3

The scent of copper wafted from the room.

Father Mateo froze in the doorway. Hiro stopped short behind him, barely avoiding a collision. As he looked over the priest’s shoulder, he was grateful for the samurai tradition that forbade emotional responses to tragedy.

Because Hiro had seen death like this before.

The north wall of the room was spotted and streaked with blood. Circular droplets spattered the tokonoma and streaked the wall on both sides of the decorative alcove.

A crescent-shaped pool of drying blood soaked the tatami in front of the tokonoma, and a wavering bloody trail connected the pool to a dead samurai lying faceup on a thin mattress beside the central hearth. He was naked except for a blood-drenched loincloth clinging to his hips.

The Jesuit stepped through the door and Hiro followed. The coppery scent grew stronger, with undertones of salt. Hiro inhaled carefully but detected no smell of sweat. The dead man had not put up a very long fight.

Rusty droplets spattered the dead man’s legs from thigh to knee. Multiple jagged slash marks gouged his ruined throat. They seemed to start on the right-hand side, about where neck met shoulder, and ended just short of the samurai’s left ear.

Three vertical stab wounds marked the dead man’s chest, like punctures from short, thin daggers. A metallic glimmer in the center wound suggested a broken blade, but Hiro couldn’t see it well enough to judge the type. He fought the urge to step closer. Most Japanese considered death defiling, and though Hiro didn’t hold with superstition he wouldn’t risk his cover to satisfy his curiosity.