When he finished Hiro went back inside and went through a series of katas. The practice forms kept his body limber and his muscles familiar with fighting stances. Most mornings he practiced in the yard or on the roof, but that morning he worked inside to practice stealth on the raised wooden floor that often creaked underfoot. Hiro completed his exercises without a sound.
He didn’t even wake the sleeping kitten.
Half an hour before sunrise Hiro changed to his usual gray kimono, fastened his swords to his obi, and left the room. He left the kitten dozing on the futon.
Candlelight flickered in Father Mateo’s room. Hiro saw the Jesuit’s shadow against the paper panels of the dividing wall. As he expected, the priest was kneeling in prayer.
Hiro slipped to the front door using
nuki-ashi
, a secret step that prevented floorboards from creaking. He had several errands to run that morning and intended to accomplish them alone.
He walked west to the river, crossed the bridge, and continued on toward the Nishijin district, which lay in the northwest corner of the city. He reached the silk and embroiderers’ ward as the sun began to rise.
Hiro took his time as he walked along the unpaved street. Two-story buildings rose on both sides of the narrow thoroughfare. The merchants lived on the second floor, above their street-level workshops and storefronts. Hiro often wondered if they found the close quarters stifling. He couldn’t imagine living where the neighbors could see from their windows into his own.
In an hour or two the street would bustle with shoppers and ring with merchants’ voices announcing their fabulous wares, but at dawn the road was empty and the stores were shuttered tight. Here and there turtledoves strolled in the road. The birds’ rolling gait and bobbing heads made them look like drunken samurai heading home from an overnight binge.
The shop Hiro wanted stood on a corner beside a famous silk emporium. He didn’t expect to find it open, but as he approached the corner he saw an indigo
noren
hanging in the doorway of the store, announcing that the tailor had already opened his shop for business.
White letters on the indigo banner read
YASO KIMONO AND SILKS
.
A girl of eight or nine stood in front of the door and swept the edge of the street with a homemade broom. Her braid hung past her waist, and her glossy black hair shone in the morning sun. She wore a kimono of pink silk, exactly the shade of cherry blossoms in bloom. Although the color was slightly out of season, the cut and fashion were of the latest style. A contrasting obi bound her waist and trailed to the ground behind her.
The girl looked up at the sound of Hiro’s footsteps and her face glowed with delighted recognition. She bowed but did not greet him. Well-bred little girls from the merchant class did not speak until spoken to, especially when addressing samurai.
Hiro returned the bow, and the girl blushed red at the compliment.
“Good morning Akiko,” he said. “Is your father in?”
She nodded.
“Would you ask him if he will see me? Please tell him I am sorry about the hour.”
Akiko bowed and disappeared into the shop. A couple of minutes later a man emerged. He wore a brown kimono and no sword, and he had a rolled-up piece of silk behind his ear. A glint of metal in the silk suggested a needle, or possibly several. The man had a thin mustache that made him look older than his thirty-three years, and his eyes had a permanent squint from sewing without enough light.
He bowed to Hiro with a mixture of curiosity and familiarity.
Hiro returned the bow. “Good morning, Yaso. I hope I did not disturb you.”
The tailor smiled. “Only samurai sleep late.” He gave Hiro’s kimono an appraising look. “Is there a problem with your kimono? I don’t see any tears or stains.”
“I’m afraid not. I have a question about one of your other clients.”
Yaso leaned forward eagerly. “A fashion you’d like to copy?”
“Not exactly. The man is dead.”
Yaso nodded. “Akechi Hideyoshi. That design might be bad luck.”
“How did you know who I meant?” Hiro asked.
“My clients don’t die every day. His son, Nobuhide, was here yesterday.
“I’m not in the habit of divulging private information,” the tailor added. “It’s not good business.”
“The question is actually about Hideyoshi’s cousin.”
Yaso’s expression turned grim. He didn’t answer.
“I know what you helped him do,” Hiro said, “but if you help me I might forget to mention it to the shogun.”
It was a gamble. Hiro remembered that Luis wasn’t certain who had made the introduction. But sometimes, gambles paid off.
Yaso pressed his lips together until the color bled away. After a very long moment he asked, “I know the man you mean. What help do you need?”
Chapter 23
“How did you meet Akechi Mitsuhide?” Hiro asked.
“I never actually met him in person. He wanted to buy some goods from the foreign trader, Luis. Hideyoshi knew that I make clothes for the Portuguese and asked me to make the introduction.”
Hiro raised an eyebrow at the lie. Yaso blushed. “Well, I do make kimonos for the priest, and I might have let a few people think I make Luis’s clothes too. I repair them when they tear, you know.”
Hiro doubted Luis had ever worn a patched garment but had the manners not to say so.
“So you made the introduction?” Hiro asked.
“I set up a meeting,” Yaso said, “but I swear I thought the firearms were for the shogun’s service. I didn’t know Mitsuhide would take them to Lord Oda. I swear it.”
“I believe you,” Hiro said, and meant it. The tailor looked him in the eye and didn’t fidget. His movements didn’t indicate dishonesty, and Hiro doubted the tailor had the training or constitution to lie well.
“Did you hear from Hideyoshi’s cousin again? Or anyone else in Lord Oda’s service?” Hiro asked.
“No,” Yaso said slowly, “but two days ago a stranger came to the shop and asked me to introduce him to the Portuguese merchant. He said he was a rice merchant from outside Kyoto and that bandits were raiding his shipments and his warehouses. He wanted firearms to protect the rice.
“At first I refused. I didn’t know him, and had no reason to make the introduction. But then he said he was a friend of Akechi Hideyoshi’s. He claimed they were meeting at a teahouse later that night, and that Hideyoshi told him I could introduce him to the Portuguese trader.”
“So you did,” Hiro said.
Yaso nodded. “I arranged a meeting.” He paused. “Did I help one of Lord Oda’s spies?”
“It’s possible,” Hiro said. “Did you tell Nobuhide about this?”
Yaso looked at the ground. “I was frightened. He might have held me responsible.”
“You are not responsible,” Hiro said, “but I understand your concern, and I will keep our conversation to myself.”
Hiro left the relieved tailor and retraced his steps as far as Higashioji Dori, where he turned south and followed the road toward Tofuku-ji. The temple lay almost an hour’s walk away, at the very southern edge of Kyoto, but Hiro didn’t mind the exercise. He walked briskly down the empty street and considered the possibility that the merchant from Nagoya had killed Hideyoshi, either on orders from Lord Oda or for some other unknown reason.
In some ways it made sense and in other ways none at all. If Lord Oda sent a spy to Kyoto expecting Hideyoshi’s cooperation, but the retired general refused, the “rice merchant” might have killed him to keep him silent. On the other hand, a daimyo like Lord Oda should know whose assistance he could count on. A man didn’t seize whole provinces by acting on unverified assumptions. Hiro wished he had learned about the stranger before the man left Kyoto, but put the thought out of his mind. A man who dwelled on past problems often missed the ones that stood ahead in the path.
When Hiro reached the entrance to the Tofuku-ji grounds, he found Kazu standing in the middle of the road. The young samurai wore a robe of jet-black silk emblazoned with the shogun’s
mon,
a circle with five horizontal black and white bars, and he scowled at Hiro like a
tengu
demon from a children’s tale. He bowed as the shinobi approached, and the moment Hiro returned the bow Kazu drew his katana and leaped forward with a yell that sent birds flying from a nearby pine.
Hiro’s katana left its scabbard with a hiss and met Kazu’s blade with a crash of steel on steel. For ten full minutes they fought, advancing and retreating along the road as the blades rang like cymbals in the silent morning air. From the moment Kazu struck, Hiro thought of nothing but the swords, and he barely thought of those. He fought by instinct as much as will, his world consisting only of a tiny sphere of ground and air and steel.
Slowly, Hiro backed his opponent toward the river that bordered the northern edge of the temple grounds. Kazu shifted sideways to avoid falling off the bank, but failed to see a fist-sized rock behind his foot. His geta slipped and he fell.
Hiro pounced for the kill, but Kazu rolled away and jumped to his feet. His sword deflected Hiro’s blade with a clang, but Hiro reversed his momentum without slowing and whirled around with the speed of a striking snake. His blade stopped less than an inch from Kazu’s side.
Kazu’s face fell. He shook his head and raised his blade to his opponent, then lowered it and bowed—a deep and respectful bow that admitted defeat. Hiro answered with a lesser bow of his own and resheathed his sword.
The fight was over. As always, Hiro won.
A group of monks stood on a nearby bridge, where they had gathered to watch the fight. Hiro glanced in their direction. The older ones nodded respectfully. The youngest one even bowed. Then, one at a time, they turned and shuffled off toward various buildings on the expansive temple grounds.
Hiro and Kazu walked south along one of the many gravel paths that connected the various buildings and twenty-four subtemples in the compound. Here and there monks walked around or knelt in meditation. A small group stood by the river practicing katas with wooden swords. The Rinzai sect of Buddhism had no objection to martial pursuits.
Hiro led Kazu across the Tsuten-kyo, a covered wooden bridge that spanned a deep, natural ravine between the northern temple entrance and the abbot’s quarters to the south. In the middle of the bridge Hiro looked out over the tops of the myriad maple trees that covered the defile. A sea of feathery leaves spread out beneath the walkway as far as he could see. In autumn, when the leaves changed color, the bridge would look out on a sea of maple fire.
At the south end of the bridge, Kazu slowed his pace and said, “I looked through the records and found no sign that the shogun wanted Akechi Hideyoshi dead. He didn’t blame Hideyoshi for his cousin’s defection. In fact, there’s a note in Hideyoshi’s file specifically stating that the shogun does not hold him responsible.”
“I think Nobunaga did send a spy.” Hiro related his conversation with Yaso.
Kazu frowned. “You have to get the priest to leave Kyoto. This morning, if you can.”
“I don’t think he will go,” Hiro said.
“Persuade him,” Kazu insisted.
Hiro narrowed his eyes at the younger man.
“I apologize.” Kazu blushed, remembering how substantially Hiro outranked him. “But many lives are at stake if the foreigner dies.”
“Did you learn anything else of interest?” Hiro changed the subject to let Kazu know he forgave the breach.
“Did you know Hideyoshi had a brother?”
“Hidetaro?” Hiro stopped and looked around. There was no one else in sight. He stood with his back to the abbot’s house, facing Kazu and the bridge. “Does he have a record with the shogunate?”
Kazu stopped too. “He was a high-ranking courier. He delivered secret messages for the shogun.”
“A spy?” Hiro remembered Hidetaro’s faded robe and minor limp.
“Not shinobi,” Kazu said, “just a trusted courier with a little training in disguise and sleight of hand to help him pass through enemy territory safely. He retired—”
“After an injury,” Hiro finished.
Kazu’s nose wrinkled. “He was never injured. He retired after his father died.”
A flicker of movement behind Kazu caught Hiro’s eye. Someone had turned onto the bridge, and, despite the distance that separated them, Hiro thought he recognized the approaching samurai’s face.
Hiro grabbed the shoulder of Kazu’s tunic and dragged the young samurai into a cluster of pine and maple trees by the side of the road.
“Hey!” Kazu began, but fell silent at the look on Hiro’s face.
Hiro crouched behind the wide trunk of an ancient pine. Kazu did the same. A screen of low-hanging maple branches between the pines and the path completed their camouflage.
A moment later they heard footsteps on the bridge. A samurai in a faded blue kimono emerged from the covered passage and walked south toward the abbot’s residence. His muddy geta crunched on the gravel path.
The even footsteps made Hiro wonder if he had mistaken the man for someone else. He glanced around the tree as the samurai passed.