“Yes, but if Umeha claimed assault, Mayuri could only charge him for one night.”
Chapter 10
The sun stood almost overhead by the time Hiro and Father Mateo returned to the church. As the priest stepped into the entry, an elderly female voice called, “Oi, Father Mateo, you’re back. I have your meal waiting.”
Hiro followed the Jesuit inside as the woman rose from her bow. She had steel-gray hair and a dried-plum face that showed every one of her sixty-two years, along with a few that she hadn’t even lived yet. Her wrinkled cheeks creased in a smile that set her black eyes twinkling. Anyone could tell she adored the priest.
“Have you had a nice morning?” she asked.
“Very nice, thank you, Ana,” Father Mateo replied as he bowed.
The elderly housekeeper had served as the previous owners’ nanny and maid and had stayed on when Father Mateo acquired the property. Her name was Ane, but she changed the pronunciation the moment she learned that Ana was a name in Portuguese.
Her smile faded when she saw the shinobi.
“Hiro,” she said. “I suppose you want rice?”
She spoke like a parent addressing a child who spilled his food and asked for more, only to spill that too.
“Thank you, Ana.” Hiro nodded respectfully. Samurai did not bend to servants, but the housekeeper inspired respect that transcended her station.
“Hm.” She pointed to the hearth as she shuffled toward the kitchen. “Sit down.”
Hiro and Father Mateo crossed to the hearth that dominated the
oe,
the large central room that functioned as a combination parlor and dining room. The sunken hearth sat six inches below the surrounding floor. It held a bed of dark sand upon which a small fire burned. A kettle hung over the fire, suspended on a chain that hung from a ceiling beam. Steam rose from the kettle and mingled with the tendrils of woodsmoke that curled toward the ceiling.
The hearth fire could have cooked a meal, and did in smaller homes, but the priest’s house had a separate kitchen beyond the
oe,
where Ana did the cooking. Father Mateo initially tried to help, but the elderly woman resented any intrusion or assistance, particularly from a man whose efforts she viewed as a fire hazard.
The priest knelt before the hearth, in the position facing the door. He knelt directly on the tatami, like a Japanese would, without any cushion or chair. Hiro took the place to Father Mateo’s left, on the side of the hearth normally used by the other members of a family.
The seat of honor to Father Mateo’s right was already occupied by the final member of the Jesuit’s household.
Luis Álvares was a portly man with skin the color of wilted primroses and an unusually large, red nose that looked to Hiro like a cross between a berry and a gourd. He had long dark hair pulled back in a greasy ponytail and piggish brown eyes that missed only what their owner chose not to see. He wore a short-waisted, high-necked doublet and fitted hose that did no courtesies to his ample figure. Slashes in the doublet sleeves revealed a cream-colored blouse beneath.
“Good morning, Mateo,” Luis said in Portuguese. He wiped his sweaty forehead with the hand that held his chopsticks.
“And to you, Luis,” Father Mateo said. “I’m surprised you’re still here at this hour.”
“Been to the warehouse and back already,” Luis said between mouthfuls. “One of the rice merchants made a major purchase.”
“Curious,” Hiro said. “I wouldn’t think rice dealers had much use for firearms.”
Luis looked down his nose at Hiro. “I sell more than weapons, you know.”
“How are those textiles selling for you?” Hiro asked. “Wool, I believe you called them?”
Luis made an exasperated noise. A grain of rice flew from his mouth and sizzled in the fire. “The Japanese refuse to buy it. Yesterday a woman had the nerve to tell me it smelled bad!”
Hiro couldn’t agree more. Wool smelled like a three-day-old corpse. He couldn’t believe anyone wore it willingly, though the bolts in Luis’s warehouse suggested that someone considered it worth the trouble to produce and sell.
“Silk kimonos are comfortable in this climate.” Father Mateo sounded almost apologetic.
“I still can’t believe you wear that ridiculous native costume,” Luis said. “You look like a woman.”
“You should try it,” Father Mateo replied. “It’s cooler than doublets and hose.”
“And more difficult to rip,” Hiro added, with a pointed look at the merchant’s tunic.
“My sleeves are made this way,” Luis said indignantly. “The style is very fashionable, though I suppose I shouldn’t expect a Japanese to understand.”
“I’m afraid not.” Hiro smiled. “We ignorant natives prefer to buy new clothes instead of calling damaged ones ‘fashionable.’”
Father Mateo changed the subject. “What did the merchant buy this morning?”
Before Luis could reply Ana scurried in and set a tray on the floor in front of Father Mateo. It held a bowl of miso soup with tofu, a teapot, and a pair of chopsticks balanced on an ivory rest.
She frowned at the men around the hearth. “Who brought that cat in?”
The tortoiseshell kitten had followed her into the room. As she pointed in its direction, it turned around and streaked into Hiro’s room.
Hiro and Father Mateo exchanged a look.
“I did,” Hiro admitted, “as a present for Father Mateo.”
He hoped Ana’s love for the Jesuit would prevent a scolding, but didn’t count on it.
“Hm,” she said. “Is it staying?”
“Yes?” Father Mateo asked.
She nodded. “Good. When it grows up it will keep the mice away. It’s already started on the spiders.”
“It eats spiders?” Hiro asked.
“Plucks them right off the wall.” Ana gave Hiro a rare nod of approval as she turned back toward the kitchen.
“Three dozen arquebuses.” Luis continued the conversation as though Ana had not spoken. The merchant acknowledged servants only when he had no other choice. “The man has been having trouble with thieves and wanted to arm his guards.”
“They want muskets instead of swords?” Father Mateo asked.
Hiro thought the idea made good sense. A firearm beat a sword for stopping thieves.
“You don’t have to sound so disappointed,” Luis said. He set down his bowl and chopsticks and poured himself a cup of tea. “Francis Xavier approved this trade to finance mission work in Japan, and if the former head of the Jesuit order didn’t mind you have no reason to object.”
“Even you must see the irony in taking lives with one hand while the other tries to save them,” the priest replied.
“The Japanese are quite capable of taking lives without my assistance,” Luis snorted. “They were hacking each other apart with swords long before we landed.”
Father Mateo did not respond. It was an old argument, and not one he would win.
The maid returned with a tray for Hiro. She set it down and disappeared without a word. As Father Mateo blessed the food, Hiro noted his own soup contained seven cubes of tofu—three more than usual—doubtless a reward for bringing the cat.
“Where have you been this morning?” Luis asked.
Father Mateo set down his bowl. “One of my converts was accused of killing a samurai.”
Luis sipped his tea. “Did he?”
“She,” Father Mateo corrected, “and no, she didn’t.”
“Pity,” Luis said without feeling. “I take it you went to perform last rites? The murderous bastards doubtless killed her anyway.”
“Actually, no. She has been granted two days to prove her innocence, and I’m going to help her do it.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“Because if he doesn’t,” Hiro said, “the dead man’s son will kill him too.”
Luis sputtered in surprise and lost his grip on the egg-shaped teacup. Hot liquid spilled down his doublet and onto his hose.
“Pestilence!” Luis swore as he brushed at the stain. “I’ll have to change! Hiro, that isn’t funny.”
Luis realized no one was laughing.
“Mateo, please tell me he’s joking.”
“It’s no joke,” Father Mateo said, “but we’ll find the killer in time.”
“Blind faith won’t save you from swords.” Luis turned a sweaty glare on Hiro. “How could you let this happen? Why did you translate things that would get him killed!”
“It’s not his fault,” Father Mateo said.
“Get the magistrate to intervene,” Luis continued. “They’re always bragging about their powerful judges.”
“The law allows a nobleman’s son to avenge his father’s death,” Father Mateo said. “If I don’t help, the girl is as good as dead.”
“Then let her die,” Luis said. “What is she, anyway, some kind of prostitute?”
“Entertainer,” Father Mateo corrected.
“Prostitute,” Luis repeated as he hoisted himself to his feet. “Let her die. Leave town if you must. She’s not worth jeopardizing your work, or my profits.”
Hiro watched in silence as Luis disappeared into his room. For the first time ever, he found himself agreeing with the merchant.
He swallowed the last of his soup. As he set the empty bowl on the tray the scrap of paper from the teahouse scratched his arm inside his sleeve. He pulled it out to toss it in the fire, but at the last moment he snatched it back from the flames.
The palm-sized fragment of parchment contained columns of names and figures written in a feminine hand. The lower edge was dark and smudged with dirt or ash but not actually burned.
Teahouses kept careful records and never destroyed their ledgers. Hiro wondered why this one had been torn, and whether its destruction was intentional or merely coincidence.
Given the ash, and Mayuri’s burned hand, he decided against coincidence.
“What’s that?” Father Mateo asked.
“A scrap I retrieved from Mayuri’s kimono. It seems to be part of a ledger.”
“From her kimono?” The priest leaned forward for a better look. “That’s strange.”
“More than you know,” Hiro said. “We need to go back to the teahouse. Immediately.”
“Why?”
Hiro offered the paper. “To find out why Mayuri destroyed her ledger this morning.”
“Destroyed it? Are you sure?” Father Mateo examined the paper. “Maybe it was an old one?”
“The date at the side indicates this year,” Hiro said, “and the smudge on the corner looks like ash. Curious, since Mayuri burned her hand in a fire this morning.”
“Why would she burn a ledger?”
“More importantly,” Hiro said, “why would she burn it today?”
Chapter 11
The
d
ō
shin
in the teahouse yard barely acknowledged Hiro and Father Mateo upon their return. Hiro had no objection. He preferred disregard to harassment.
When Mayuri answered the door, she didn’t even bother with a greeting. “How will I prepare for guests with you coming and going all day?”
Hiro hadn’t expected a warm welcome, but the woman’s lack of manners still surprised him. The teahouse culture frowned on rudeness, and Mayuri should have welcomed help to prove Sayuri’s innocence—and her own.
“Are you entertaining tonight?” Hiro asked.
“Unless Nobuhide’s
d
ō
shin
chase our visitors away.” She paused. “Akechi-san’s death is unfortunate, but I have a business to run.”
“We have no objection to your business,” Hiro said. “Father Mateo has come to pray with Sayuri.”
“And you?”
“I would like to speak with the other women.”
Mayuri smiled without humor or warmth. “As I told you, I spoke with them earlier. Everyone but Sayuri was asleep when Akechi-san was killed.”
“Then I will not need to ask them many questions.”
Hiro preferred not to draw attention to himself, by rudeness or otherwise, but subtlety would not find Hideyoshi’s killer.
Mayuri threw up her hands in exasperation. A white silk bandage covered the left one all the way to the wrist. She flinched and lowered the injured hand to her side.
“Very well,” she said, “follow me.”
She took Father Mateo to see Sayuri and then led Hiro to the opposite side of the central common room. She knelt and slid open a door, using only her right hand.
“Wait here.”
Hiro entered the room and knelt before the tokonoma in the northern wall. The alcove held an empty vase, narrow at the bottom but bulging near the top and with a mouth just large enough to hold a few flower stems. White glaze coated the porcelain and blue, hand-painted leaves flowed around the sides.
The door rustled open. Hiro heard feet on the tatami and a soft rattle as the paneled door slid closed again. Kimonos swished as the women settled on the floor a few feet away. No one spoke. Entertainers would not interrupt a visitor’s meditation.
Hiro let them wait.