Flask of the Drunken Master
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Authors: Susan Spann
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For my brother, Rob, a real-life Hiro
No matter how many novels I write, the acknowledgments never get easier. If anything, it becomes even harder to fit an appropriate “thank you” on the page. So many people help and support me on my writing journey that this page will never suffice to thank them all. Still, I need to thank at least a few by name:
To my husband, Michael, and my son, Christopher—you make me laugh, you bring me joy, and you support me in too many ways to mention. Thank you for every day and every smile.
To my incomparable agent, Sandra Bond, and my talented editor, Toni Kirkpatrick—it is an honor and a privilege to work with people who share my love for Hiro and my vision for these books.
To Heather Webb, thank you for your friendship, your eagle eyes, and, most importantly, for being the shoulder I lean on when the writing road gets steep and rocky. But for you, I’d never make it out of the weeds.
To Kerry Schafer, thank you for honest critiques, late-night texts, and being the kind of friend who would even help me fill a carp with bees.
To Chuck Harrelson—thank you for your friendship and for offering the all-important male perspective on my peer-review team.
To the amazing ladies of my critique group, the infamous SFWG—you are more than merely “crit partners,” and I value you more than words can express.
Thank you to everyone at Minotaur Books who helped this novel, and its brethren, become a reality. David Rotstein, Sara Pastel, Jennifer Letwack, Shailyn Tavella, and everyone else whose names I might not know—I appreciate your talents and dedication.
Thanks to my family: Paula, Spencer, Rob, Lola, Spencer (III), Anna, Matteo, Gene, Marcie, and Bob—your support, as always, gives me strength and joy.
Thank you to Joe, Master of the Interwebz, for everything from designing and maintaining my Web site to helping me figure out that the cat has reset my function keys.
Arigato gozaimasu
to Tomoko Yoshihara for helping with my research about Kyoto and medieval Japan.
Thank you to Wing, Peter, Laura, Michelle, Jacob, and all of the other friends—online and off—who encourage me and support this crazy dream come true.
And last, but certainly not least, thank you to every reader who joins Hiro, Father Mateo, and me for the journey within these pages.
The name on the cover is mine, but your support is what makes the adventure possible.
(in alphabetical order)
Where present, Japanese characters’ surnames precede their given names, in the Japanese style. Western surnames follow the characters’ given names, in accordance with Western conventions.
Akechi Yoshiko
, a female samurai
Ana
, Father Mateo’s housekeeper
Basho
, a wealthy Kyoto rice merchant
Chikao
, a sake brewer; half owner of the Lucky Monkey brewery
Eba
, owner of the Golden Buddha teahouse
Father Mateo
Ávila de Santos
, a Christian priest from Portugal, currently working in Kyoto
Gato
, Hiro’s cat
Ginjiro
, a sake brewer; owner of Ginjiro’s brewery
Hama
, Basho’s wife
Hattori Hiro
, a
shinobi
(ninja) assassin from the Iga
ryu
, hired by an anonymous benefactor to guard Father Mateo
Jiro
, Basho’s apprentice
Kaoru
, Chikao’s adult son
Luis
Álvares
, a Portuguese merchant whose weapons sales finance Father Mateo’s work
Magistrate Ishimaki
, a judge appointed to oversee justice in Kyoto
Matsunaga Hisahide*
, a samurai warlord who siezed Kyoto in June 1565
Mayuri
, a retired entertainer; owner of the Sakura Teahouse
Mina
, Chikao’s wife
Oda Nobunaga
*
, a samurai warlord
Ozuru
, a
shinobi
assassin from the Koga
ryu
, on assignment and posing as a carpenter in Kyoto
Ren
, a sake brewer; half owner of the Lucky Monkey brewery
Suke
, a Buddhist monk who frequents Ginjiro’s brewery
Tomiko
, Ginjiro’s adult daughter
Yoka
, Ginjiro’s wife
*
Designates a historical figure. (All other characters are fictitious.)
“Halt!” The armored samurai stepped forward to block the bridge. “No one crosses the Kamo River without identification. State your names and your business in Kyoto.”
Hattori Hiro gestured to the Jesuit at his side. “Father Mateo
Á
vila de Santos, a priest of the foreign god, from Portugal. I am Matsui Hiro, his interpreter and scribe.”
After a pause, Hiro added, “Our business in the capital has not changed since yesterday. As you know, we live just up the road.”
The samurai pointed east, away from the bridge. “You live two blocks past Okazaki Shrine, beyond the official boundary of Kyoto. You cannot enter the city without declaring your names and business. That, also, has not changed since yesterday.”
Hiro considered pointing out that only a fool asked for identification from men he recognized. However, he didn’t bother. Men who followed orders blindly didn’t respond to logic, and Hiro, a
shinobi
assassin, didn’t waste time on fools.
“You’ve stopped us every morning for a week,” Hiro said, “and yet, our names and business have not changed.”
“Surely you remember us—your words suggest you do,” Father Mateo said in perfect Japanese.
The Jesuit’s skill with the Japanese language often made Hiro wonder why few people questioned the priest’s continuing use of a translator. After three years in Japan, Father Mateo spoke and understood the language well.
Fortunately, most Japanese natives believed their language and culture far too nuanced for a foreigner to master. Hiro knew this also—it was one of many factors he depended on to shield his true identity and his mission to protect the Jesuit’s life.
“I have orders.” The samurai glanced over his shoulder as if expecting to see someone behind him.
Hiro’s attitude softened a fraction. Many men obeyed unreasonable orders out of fear, and Matsunaga Hisahide, the samurai who controlled Kyoto, inspired well-founded fear in all who served him.
“Noodles,” Hiro said.
The samurai’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “Excuse me … noodles?”
“Our business in Kyoto,” Hiro said without a smile. “Do we have to show a travel pass to eat a morning snack?”
The samurai’s cheeks flushed almost as dark as the crimson armor that covered his chest. “No,” he said, “but I need not apologize for following orders.”
“Not to me,” Hiro said. “However, this priest has the emperor’s personal permission to enter and leave Kyoto without restriction, and, unless I am mistaken, the emperor outranks Matsunaga Hisahide.”
Technically, Father Mateo worked in Kyoto under a blanket permission granted to all the Jesuits, but Hiro hoped his companion would cooperate with the bluff.
The samurai’s mouth opened and shut like a fish hooked out of the river beneath the bridge. He bowed. “I apologize, Father-
san
. I did not know.”
“If you wish to keep your job,” Hiro said, “I suggest you learn to distinguish between genuine threats and imagined ones.”
As Hiro followed the priest across the bridge, he considered the irony in his parting words. Despite his current position as the Jesuit’s bodyguard, Hiro’s shinobi training made him a dangerous threat indeed.
Father Mateo said nothing until they started south on the road that paralleled the river bank.
“You know what I think of lies.” The priest spoke softly to ensure the samurai wouldn’t overhear.
Hiro put on an innocent look. “I told no lies.”
“Permission to work in Kyoto hardly equates to unfettered movement.” Father Mateo frowned at Hiro. “You stretched the truth on purpose to intimidate that young man.”
“I wouldn’t have had to do it if he exercised discretion.” Hiro disapproved of men who flexed their power without cause. “We have tolerated his arrogance long enough.”
Father Mateo’s lips drew into a disapproving line.
The men walked on in silence.
The clear blue sky and pleasant summer temperature soon lightened Hiro’s mood. By the time they turned east on Sanj
ō
Road, the priest’s good temper seemed to return as well.
A few minutes later, they reached the road where Hiro’s favorite noodle vendor frequently set up his wheeled cart. Shuttered sake shops and restaurants lined the narrow street. The last of the patrons would have straggled home just hours earlier, as dawn began to kiss the eastern sky. Fortunately for the hungry shinobi, vendors opened earlier than sake shops and restaurants. Charcoal smoke and the oily odor of roasting fish already filled the air.
Hiro’s mouth watered at the thought of handmade noodles in a savory, fishy broth. He spotted the vendor almost at once and had to restrain his pace to keep from hurrying toward the cart. A samurai never hurried. Not even for the tastiest
udon
Kyoto had to offer.
The vendor greeted Hiro with a deep, respectful bow and a happy grin. “Good morning, Matsui-
san
. So nice to see you!”
“Good morning, Kenji.” Samurai didn’t bow to vendors, but Hiro’s use of the merchant’s name conveyed respect.
“Two bowls this morning?” Kenji asked as he bowed to Father Mateo.
Hiro nodded and reached for his purse. As he withdrew it from his kimono, he heard shouting at the far end of the block.
“Arrest me!” a reedy voice screeched. “I’m the guilty one, not him!”
Hiro recognized the voice. He wished he hadn’t.
The shouts continued. “I’m the murderer, you fool! Why won’t you listen?!”