Flask of the Drunken Master (15 page)

An entertainer entered the room from a sliding door to the north. She wore a blue kimono painted with a scene of crashing waves, a patterned obi, and a hairstyle featuring several jeweled pins. Despite the costume’s weight, she moved with ease and confidence. Her face looked barely twenty, though Hiro knew her real age was almost twice that number.

The entertainer crossed her hands and bowed in greeting. “Good evening Matsui-
san
. It is nice to see you.”

“Good evening, Riko,” Hiro said. “You look well.”

The woman covered her surprise. Entertainers memorized the names of everyone they met but didn’t expect a man to return the favor—especially not a samurai who never patronized the woman’s house.

“Matsui-
san
has come on a business matter,” Mayuri said. “Please ask Okiya to answer the door until we finish our conversation.”

Riko bowed. “I will, Mayuri.”

“Do not open the door yourself.” Mayuri raised a hand like a mother admonishing a willful child.

Riko blushed. “He wouldn’t mind.”

“I mind.” Mayuri’s tone allowed no argument.

“I understand.” Riko bowed in acceptance and stepped aside as Mayuri led Hiro through the door in the northern wall.

Beyond the waiting room lay a private
oe
and a narrow passage that led to Mayuri’s office. Hiro remembered the way, and also the office. The white tatami and hardwood writing desk looked just as he remembered.

Mayuri slid the shoji closed behind them, crossed the room, and knelt on the opposite side of the wooden desk.

Hiro didn’t like to turn his back on the only entrance, but etiquette didn’t give him another option. He knelt facing Mayuri but angled his body just enough to see the doorway from the corner of his eye.

To his surprise, Mayuri didn’t wait for him to speak.

“Forgive my presumption,” she said, “but I have a busy evening, and we are well enough acquainted to dispense with needless formalities. Whatever you have to say about Yoshiko, please speak plainly.”

“I understand that Akechi-
san
has acquired an interest in this house and serves as its debt collector,” Hiro said.

“That is neither a question nor a complaint,” Mayuri said.

“Very well,” Hiro said. “A question: Do you know where Yoshiko was last night?”

“You speak as though her whereabouts are my concern,” Mayuri said. “She is a business partner, not a servant.”

“Yes,” Hiro said, “but the law holds you responsible for crimes she commits in the course of collecting your debts.”

“Have you left your job as a translator and joined the Kyoto police?” Mayuri’s eyes widened in a show of false surprise. “If not, I believe you realize I have no obligation to endure this conversation any longer.”

Hiro recognized the bluff. Mayuri would not have allowed him in if she didn’t intend to talk—at least until she discovered what he knew.

“My authority arises from a private investigation,” Hiro said. “But if you would rather answer to the
yoriki
, I can arrange that also.”

Mayuri’s face looked carved from stone, like the dogs that guarded her walkway.

Hiro gave her a moment to consider the threat and then continued, “Given your involvement in General Akechi’s murder, the
yoriki
might prefer to take a detailed look at your establishment.”

Mayuri said nothing.

Most samurai would have repeated the threat, or followed up with a stronger one, but Hiro simply waited. Eventually, his silence and Mayuri’s fears—or guilt—would prompt an answer.

“I cannot tell you what Yoshiko may have done,” the teahouse owner said at last, “but I do not condone violence. Not even in debt collection.”

“Interesting,” Hiro said. “I didn’t mention violence.”

Chapter 28

“What have you heard about Yoshiko’s collection tactics?” Hiro asked Mayuri.

“Lies and rumors, nothing more.” The teahouse owner waved her hand as if to dismiss the topic. “No man likes an aggressive woman, and some would rather make up lies than pay an honest debt. Wise people put no trust in debtors’ words.”

“Did you see Yoshiko last night?” Hiro asked.

“Briefly,” Mayuri said. “I didn’t speak with her myself. I had a meeting with the owner of the house across the road. You may have seen the ugly lanterns he installed a week ago.”

“I didn’t notice,” Hiro said.

“Clumsy carving, poorly finished … a disgrace to a high-class street.” Mayuri sniffed. “But you asked about Yoshiko. As far as I know, she picked up a list of debtors and left immediately.”

“A long list?” Hiro didn’t ask for names. A teahouse owner never revealed her customers’ identities.

Not voluntarily, anyway.

“No.” Mayuri’s lips pressed into a narrow smile. “Most of our visitors pay quite promptly since Yoshiko started work.”

“Do you welcome your debtors as visitors, then?” Hiro asked.

Mayuri’s smile vanished. “I will not disclose information about my patrons.”

“Not to me, perhaps,” Hiro said. “You may feel differently standing before the magistrate.”

Mayuri matched the shinobi’s gaze with intensity, but as the seconds passed her expression wavered.

“I will not reveal my patrons’ names,” she repeated at last, “but men who refuse to pay their debts will find no welcome here.”

Hiro lowered his voice. “I need to know if Yoshiko’s list included a man named Kaoru.”

Mayuri straightened. “You know I will not answer that. However, I have heard that name, and the man it belongs to is not welcome here.”

She spoke with a finality that indicated the end of the conversation.

Hiro stood. “Thank you for your time.”

Mayuri’s forehead furrowed, sending shadowed lines across her features. “What has happened to the man of whom you speak?”

“To Kaoru? Nothing.” Hiro paused in the doorway. “His father is dead.”

“And you think Yoshiko killed him.” Mayuri narrowed her eyes. “You believe it, without evidence, because she dares to call her life her own.”

“On the contrary,” Hiro said, “I have no objection to independent women. I do, however, take offense when the guilty blame the innocent. I will find this killer, as I did in General Akechi’s case, and if the trail leads back here, I promise, you will not escape unscathed.”

“You may leave,” Mayuri said. “Our talk is over.”

“At last, we agree.” Hiro slid open the shoji. “There is no need to escort me out. I know the way.”

*   *   *

Hiro headed for the river, regretting his decision to see Mayuri. The teahouse owner essentially confirmed that Kaoru owed her money, but her words had offered little else of note. Worse, Hiro hadn’t found an opening to ask what Mayuri knew about Yoshiko’s other employers, and he doubted he would have a second chance.

As he reached the Kamo River, Hiro saw a samurai approaching. He slowed, loathing the thought of another confrontation with Matsunaga Hisahide’s obnoxious guards.

A lantern lit the samurai’s features, revealing not a guard but Akechi Yoshiko.

She wore a masculine blue kimono and an obi of smoky silk. Her
wakizashi
hung from her sash and a long katana stretched upward behind her back. The longsword waggled when she walked like the tail of a happy dog.

Or a she-wolf,
Hiro thought.

Yoshiko bowed. “Good evening, Matsui-
san
. Or, perhaps, I may call you Hiro?”

Hiro returned the bow. “Good evening, Yoshiko.”

His use of her given name gave her permission to use his also; Hiro saw no way to refuse without causing offense.

“This is a pleasant surprise.” She looked past Hiro up the street. “Are you coming from the Sakura?”

“Yes. I was looking for you.” Hiro smiled to cover the lie. He doubted the woman could see his features well in the gathering darkness but knew the smile would carry into his tone.

“For me?” Yoshiko’s voice revealed delight.

Hiro swallowed his distaste and smiled more broadly. “I hoped you would help me.”

“Of course I will. I can walk with you, and you can explain on the way.” Yoshiko inclined her head toward Hiro as she spoke.

Most of the time, the shinobi thought that particular feminine gesture unduly subservient. On Yoshiko, it looked absurd.

“No need,” Hiro said. “I do not want to interrupt your errand.”

“Please, it would be my pleasure.” She turned and stood at Hiro’s side.

He accepted the inevitable and started across the bridge.

“Where are we going?” Yoshiko asked.

“Ginjiro’s sake brewery.”

“Ginjiro brews the best in Kyoto,” Yoshiko said. “As it happens, I need to visit there myself. Ginjiro’s daughter, Tomiko, asked to speak with me this evening. I intended to see her later, but this works just as well. Better, really, because I can walk with you.”

She lowered her face as if embarrassed, but the light of a passing lantern lit the smile that touched her lips.

For the second time that day, Hiro wished he could disappear.

Chapter 29

Yoshiko matched Hiro stride for stride, with a confident pace that belied her awkward attempts at femininity.

He noticed her stealing sidelong glances at him as they walked. He wondered—not for the first time—what he’d done to encourage her affections. Their previous interactions, shortly after her father’s murder, were not the sort that usually sparked romantic feelings.

He remembered telling Mayuri that he didn’t mind an independent woman. That was true. Hiro preferred aggressive women to wilting flowers. Even so, something about Yoshiko put him off.

He had barely finished the thought when Yoshiko asked, “Have you made any progress with your murder investigation? I would gladly offer assistance, if I may.”

Hiro expanded his earlier lie to encompass a partial truth. “I am glad you decided to see Tomiko. She and her mother need someone to guard the brewery during the evening hours, at least until Ginjiro returns from prison. I believe she intended to ask you, though I do not want to presume.”

“I’m sure she won’t mind your asking,” Yoshiko said. “I know I don’t.”

Only Hiro’s years of training kept his expression neutral.

“I know what it is like to lose a father,” she continued. “I would be honored to help Tomiko, doubly so because the work helps you as well.”

“Guarding the brewery won’t take too much time from your other duties?” Hiro asked.

“No.” She shook her head. “Last night alone I collected two debts—and made arrangements for a third—and finished them all two hours before the temple bells rang midnight.”

“How fortunate,” Hiro said. “I’m sure your mother was glad you came home early.”

As they passed by Pontocho, a ripple of feminine laughter fluttered toward them on the air. Yoshiko turned. Hiro followed her gaze.

Dozens of colorful paper lanterns lit the alley that held the entertainment district. More lights blazed in the teahouse windows, flickering gaily behind the paper panels.

Samurai thronged the street, their darker tones offsetting the brilliance of the painted entertainers whose silk kimono shimmered with every imaginable hue.
Kanzashi
sparkled in the ladies’ hair, but stark white makeup turned their faces into phantoms.

Fitting,
the shinobi thought,
an entertainer’s love has all the substance of a ghost.

“I did not go home.” Yoshiko’s voice jarred Hiro back to the moment.

He gave the samurai woman a curious look.

“When I finished collecting debts,” Yoshiko said. “I did not go home. I returned to the Sakura and guarded the teahouse until the last of the guests departed.”

Yoshiko’s story contradicted the one Mayuri told, which meant that one—or both—of the women lied.

For the moment, Hiro let the story pass. “I’ve considered taking on extra work as a debt collector. Do you find the jobs unpleasant or hard to find?”

“Not particularly.” Yoshiko glanced over her shoulder as another stream of laughter echoed out of Pontocho. “Most of my work, of course, is for the Sakura.”

“But you work for other clients too?” Hiro asked.

“On occasion.” Yoshiko seemed more comfortable with this topic than with flirting. “Once you build a reputation, work finds you.”

“Do you work for samurai, or just for merchants?” To his surprise, Hiro found himself truly interested in her answer.

“I do not call on samurai, for work or for debt collection.” Yoshiko spoke firmly, but without anger. “Samurai suffer embarrassment if a debt collector appears at their homes, and, as you know, it violates the law for samurai to engage in business.”

Hiro nodded. “A law you honor in the breach.”

Yoshiko smiled, this one genuine rather than simpering. “True enough, and, as you know, I’m not the only one. In truth, I do not think our kind would tolerate a female debt collector. Not all men share your willingness to overlook my choices.”

Hiro smiled.
I wish that you would overlook me in return.

Just before the pause grew awkward, Yoshiko continued, “Collecting from merchants is easy. Take last night, for example. The men I sought are known in Pontocho. I found them quickly—”

“In Pontocho?” Hiro asked. “You collect in the pleasure district?”

“Why not?” Yoshiko asked. “Men don’t forego entertainment just because they owe a debt.”

“Why confront them in Pontocho and not at home?” the shinobi asked.

Yoshiko’s smile grew more confident and decidedly less feminine. “Men pay more quickly in public places. Wives get angry for a night. Teahouse owners have much longer memories.”

They turned onto the road that led to Ginjiro’s. People thronged the narrow street despite the evening hour. Vendors’ braziers filled the air with the scented sizzle of grilling meat.

Hiro still had not confirmed whether Yoshiko tried to collect a debt from Kaoru or Chikao the night before. He had time for one more try. “You said you collected two debts, but not a third? What happened there?”

She shrugged. “I couldn’t find the debtor. Not a total failure, though. His father agreed to pay.”