Flask of the Drunken Master (12 page)

“Matsunaga-
san
has controlled the city for only two months,” the shinobi said. “You heard the guards. He is looking for spies.”

“Spies would justify guards at the city boundaries and the gates, not samurai at the entrance to every ward.” Father Mateo thought for a moment. “Do you think the Ashikaga clan will challenge Matsunaga Hisahide’s claim to the shogunate?”

Hiro found the Jesuit’s guess surprising but not startling. Father Mateo paid attention to local Japanese politics, and generally remembered what he learned.

“The Ashikaga blame Matsunaga-
san
for the shogun’s recent death.” Hiro offered a simpler truth in place of the deeper problem. “They do not believe the shogun committed suicide.”

“I wondered,” Father Mateo said. “It struck me as odd that Hisahide announced himself as the shogun’s chosen successor. Matsunaga Hisahide serves the Miyoshi daimyo. Why would Shogun Ashikaga name another lord’s retainer to succeed him?”

Hiro knew the truth about the shogun’s reported suicide, but he would not break an oath to satisfy the Jesuit’s curiosity. Not when the words would cost the priest his life.

Instead, he focused on the larger issue. “The Ashikaga no longer possess the strength to defend Kyoto against Lord Oda. Matsunaga Hisahide has the power, and the allies, to keep the city safe.”

“Provided the Ashikaga do not rebel.” Father Mateo nodded. “These samurai guards are a show of force. Matsunaga Hisahide wants to send a message to the Ashikaga clan.”

“Yes,” Hiro said, “and also to Lord Oda. Hisahide will not tolerate threats to his bid for the shogunate.”

Father Mateo stopped walking. “We made a mistake. We forgot to ask the names of the friends who went to the teahouse with Basho.”

“You forgot,” Hiro said. “I decided not to ask. Hama would not have remembered the names.”

The Jesuit gave the shinobi a cautious look. “You mean, she would have lied.”

“She lied already,” Hiro said. “No woman shows so little concern about her husband’s disappearance.”

“Unless she caused it,” Father Mateo said.

Hiro gave the priest a disbelieving glance. “Especially if she caused it. No, I think she knows where Basho went.”

“Then why say otherwise?” Father Mateo asked.

Hiro smiled. “Because she doesn’t want us to find him.”

Chapter 22

Father Mateo hurried along the path to catch up with Hiro. “Why would Basho’s wife not want her husband found? Do you think he was involved in Chikao’s murder?”

“His disappearance raises suspicions,” Hiro said, “but, so far, no facts connect him to Chikao.”

“Except that one is dead and the other is missing,” Father Mateo said.

Hiro didn’t answer.

“I don’t think Ginjiro killed Chikao,” the priest continued, “and I do not think Yoshiko killed him either. Both of them would want him alive, because he paid Kaoru’s debts.”

“Perhaps,” Hiro said, “but remember, Chikao might have died by accident.”

“Accident?” Father Mateo raised his hand and pantomimed a downward strike. “You don’t beat an unconscious man to death by accident.”

“No,” Hiro said, “but accidents happen. Perhaps Yoshiko confronted Chikao in the alley and threatened to hurt him unless he paid the debt. Chikao refused. Yoshiko struck him in the face, the way she apparently did Basho. Chikao might have threatened to report her—the magistrate frowns on violence in collections—and Yoshiko may have struck him again as he turned to walk away.”

“But why would she kill him?” Father Mateo asked. “That seems unlikely.”

“True,” Hiro said. “She probably struck in anger. Either way, if her second attack knocked Chikao senseless, Yoshiko would have a serious problem.”

Father Mateo shook his head. “The woman is a samurai. She wouldn’t murder an innocent man to prevent a report to the magistrate. Everyone knows the magistrates favor nobles.”

“Angry samurai make foolish choices,” Hiro said, “and a commoner turning his back on a samurai is a grievous insult.”

“Grievous insults do not justify murder,” Father Mateo said.

“There is another option,” Hiro offered. “What if Yoshiko struck Chikao several hours before he died, but he didn’t succumb to his injuries until later?”

“You mean, he just dropped dead in the alley?” Father Mateo squinted in disbelief. “That happens?”

“It can happen,” Hiro said. “I’ve seen it once before. A blow to the head can cause a man to bleed inside his skull. If he bleeds enough, he just drops dead, sometimes hours later.”

Father Mateo started to speak, but Hiro raised a hand for silence.

Someone was approaching on the path.

Hiro turned to see Jiro, the clerk from Basho’s shop, hurrying toward them along the river road. The clerk slowed to a rapid shuffle when he saw the shinobi turn, but his red face and heaving shoulders indicated he’d been running hard.

“Is it wise to let him approach?” Father Mateo asked in Portuguese.

Hiro replied in kind. “A man who intended harm would never make so much noise.” He had barely finished speaking when Jiro reached them.

The young man bowed from the waist—an awkward gesture made much worse by Jiro’s skinny arms and heaving chest.

Hiro nodded, granting permission for the clerk to speak.

“I wanted to tell you … not to waste time … looking for Basho,” Jiro panted. “He left Kyoto yesterday.”

“Left the city?” Father Mateo asked. “Where did he go?”

And why did you run to tell us?
Hiro wondered.

The skinny clerk looked eastward as he fought to recover breath. “Up the T
ō
kaid
ō
Road … to Edo. Hama believes … he was drinking in Pontocho, but that isn’t true.” Jiro gave Father Mateo an apologetic bow. “I am sorry. He won’t be able to answer your questions now.”

“Pardon my inquiry,” Father Mateo said, “but why did he leave the city?”

Hiro didn’t mind the Jesuit’s question. Basho’s apprentice would surely lie, but Father Mateo might ask about something Jiro wasn’t prepared to answer, and the clerk might accidentally say something useful.

Jiro looked at the ground and mumbled, “He owes a debt he cannot pay.”

“To someone in Pontocho?” Hiro asked.

Jiro shook his head.

“It’s all right,” Father Mateo said. “You can tell us. We’ll keep your secret.”

Hiro smiled. “Hama doesn’t know where Basho actually spent his evenings, does she?”

Jiro’s head whipped up. He gave the shinobi a pleading look. “Please don’t tell. She’ll fire me the moment she learns I knew…”

“Then why did you come to tell us where he went?” the Jesuit asked.

Hiro suspected he already knew the answer.

“I was afraid,” Jiro said. “You are a foreigner, an important man. If you ask, the
yoriki
will investigate. The
d
ō
shin
will learn about the debt, and Hama will be so angry…”

“Tell us the name of the teahouse,” Hiro said, “or we tell Hama everything.”

Jiro’s eyes grew wide. “No! Please…”

“Then give me a name,” Hiro growled.

“The Golden Buddha.” Jiro wrung his hands. “Lately, Basho went to drink at the Golden Buddha in Pontocho. Until last month, he preferred a house on the other side of the Kamo River—a nice one, the Sakura. Those are the only two I know.”

Hiro had never heard of the Golden Buddha in Pontocho, but the Sakura was Yoshiko’s house—and the name he expected to hear.

“How do you know Basho was headed for Edo?” Hiro asked.

“He told me.” Jiro glanced over his shoulder. “The Sakura’s debt collector started making real threats. Basho couldn’t pay. He thought if he disappeared, the debt collector would leave his wife alone.”

“You know that will not happen,” Hiro said. “Basho would know it, too. The law does not distinguish between a husband and his wife regarding debts.”

“Yes,” Jiro said, “but magistrates show mercy on a woman when her husband runs away.”

That, at least, explained why Basho hadn’t told his wife where he was going. Hiro didn’t want to be the one to tell her, either.

“Please,” Jiro said, “do not tell Hama. My master isn’t an evil man. He made a mistake, and he didn’t want his family to suffer.”

“We understand,” Father Mateo said.

Jiro bowed and walked away. Every few paces, he turned around and gave them a pleading look.

“That explains Basho’s absence,” Father Mateo said as they watched the apprentice leave.

“Really?” Hiro asked. “Do you believe that boy sneaked out of a crowded shop without Hama knowing? Or that your status scared him into the truth?”

“Why would he lie?” Father Mateo asked. “That makes no sense.”

“It makes as much sense as the lie you told to Hama,” Hiro said. “Speaking of which, when did lies become acceptable to you?”

“Lies are not acceptable.” Father Mateo paused. “I do want to learn about rice.”

“And I’m really a woman dressed up as a man,” Hiro countered.

“Yoshiko does it better,” the Jesuit said.

“That isn’t funny.” Hiro turned around and started south along the road.

“Where are you going?” Father Mateo followed. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to insult you.”

Hiro looked over his shoulder at the priest. “I’m not upset—I felt a sudden need to see a dead man.”

Father Mateo fell in step. “Back to the Lucky Monkey?”

“Yes,” Hiro said. “We need to talk with Mina.”

The Jesuit looked uncertain. “She’s in mourning and probably praying.”

“Exactly,” Hiro said. “She also knows more than she’s told us. Now that she’s had some time to consider the consequences of her husband’s death and impending judgment, she may listen when you tell her that your god has mercy when a person tells the truth about a crime.”

Father Mateo stopped walking. “No. I will not use God’s love to trick a woman.”

Chapter 23

“It’s a tactic, not a trick,” Hiro said. “We need to learn what Mina knows.”

“God has already judged Chikao,” Father Mateo said. “His wife’s confession cannot save his soul.”

“Your god, perhaps,” the shinobi said. “Mina’s have not decided.”

“That isn’t how it works.” Father Mateo ran a hand through his hair. “There is only one God, one judgment.”

Hiro recognized the agitated gesture. He needed to take another tack, and quickly, or the priest might not cooperate at all. “Do you feel sad that Chikao died before you could tell him about your god?”

“Of course,” Father Mateo said. “I don’t want any soul to suffer.”

“Then when we arrive, you can ask to pray in the room where Mina’s husband lies. Use the time to tell your god how sorry you feel about Chikao—or whatever it is you say to him about the things that make you sad. Mina won’t know the difference, and, no matter whose gods will judge Chikao, it can’t do any harm.”

Hiro tried to evaluate the success of his words, but Father Mateo’s expression revealed nothing. However, the priest didn’t turn away, and Hiro was willing to take the Jesuit’s silence as consent.

*   *   *

As they entered the stinking alley off Shij
ō
Road, shouting echoed from the Lucky Monkey’s entrance.

Kaoru stood in the brewery doorway, facing someone farther inside. “It’s my money,” he yelled, “the least you can do is leave something for me to inherit!”

He yanked the door closed with a thump and stomped down the alley away from Hiro and Father Mateo.

The Jesuit paused. “We should leave and come back later.”

The Lucky Monkey’s
noren
parted. Mina appeared in the entrance. She stood in the doorway and watched her son disappear into the space beyond the buildings.

Mina turned and noticed Hiro and the priest. “Good afternoon.” She bowed to cover her embarrassment. “Once again, I must apologize for my son’s behavior.”

“May we speak with you inside?” Hiro asked.

“Of course.” Mina stepped aside. “That is, if you do not object to entering a house of mourning. May I offer you tea?”

“Thank you,” Hiro said. “We would like some tea.”

Crossing the threshold, Hiro heard the sound of rhythmic chanting somewhere farther inside the building. Male voices rose and fell in the cadence of funeral prayers. The monks had arrived, and formal mourning for Chikao had started.

The chanting grew more noticeable as Hiro and Father Mateo followed Mina into the brewery’s drinking room.

She paused and gestured. “Sit wherever you like. I will make the tea.”

When she left the room, Father Mateo said, “I can’t believe you asked for tea while she’s in mourning.”

“She offered.” Hiro settled himself on the floor. “Preparing tea gives her something to do, and normalcy offers distraction in difficult times. Also, I thought it would please you, since the tea gives us a different way to start the conversation. We may not need your god’s help after all.”

Father Mateo gave the shinobi a disapproving look as Mina returned.

She carried a tray with a steaming teapot, three ceramic cups, and a plate of sweetened rice balls. She set the tray on the floor and knelt beside it, but instead of pouring the tea she asked the Jesuit, “Would you like to pray?”

Mina smiled at Father Mateo’s startled look. “I have a friend who worships your Jesus god. She prays before accepting food and drink. If you wish, you may offer your prayer aloud. Honest gratitude insults no one, whether or not we pray to different gods.”

She laid her hands in her lap and bowed her head.

Father Mateo offered a prayer, asking God to bless the house, and Mina, and the food. Hiro appreciated the Jesuit’s keeping the prayer short. Tea tasted better hot, and questions, too, retained more palatability without a liberal helping of foreign faith.

Mina poured tea for Hiro and Father Mateo. She had brought a cup for herself but didn’t fill it.

“May I pour you tea?” Father Mateo offered.

Mina leaned back in surprise. Guests never poured the tea for female hosts, especially male guests of samurai rank.

“Unless, perhaps, you are fasting,” Hiro offered.

Mina’s face relaxed with sudden relief. “I am, to atone for my husband’s sins. Thank you for understanding.”