Yujiro bared his teeth and took a threatening step toward Father Mateo.
Hiro laid a hand on the hilt of his katana and stepped between them. “We want no trouble.”
Yujiro looked at Father Mateo. “Your friend’s behavior indicates otherwise.”
Hiro agreed. He wondered why the priest insulted the samurai so openly. Father Mateo had never done that before.
The shinobi felt the moment slip toward violence. His limbs relaxed, prepared and almost longing for a fight. Just before he decided to release his martial instincts, training and better judgment took control.
Hiro bowed his head to feign regret. “Please forgive the foreign priest. In his country, a noble man must always return an insult or face permanent dishonor.”
“In Japan, he faces death.”
Yujiro’s sword slipped from its sheath with a whispering ring.
In an instant, Hiro drew both of his swords. He crossed them in front of him, blocking the strike. Stepping backward, he lowered the wakizashi. He held the katana level, expecting Yujiro to back away.
Instead, the samurai leaped forward, raising his sword for another aggressive blow.
Hiro blocked with his katana. Deflecting his opponent’s sword, he counterattacked with the wakizashi.
Yujiro parried and stepped away.
Hiro struck with his katana. Yujiro backed away again and parried a second time.
Hiro advanced, alternating overhand katana strikes with slashing blows from the wakizashi. Yujiro deflected every one.
To Hiro’s surprise, the arrogant samurai was a talented swordsman.
After several flurries of attacks and counterattacks, Hiro sensed his opponent tiring.
Yujiro launched a counterattack with the desperation of a man who knew he must win or die. Hiro was forced to back away, parrying and deflecting. He focused on his opponent’s eyes, watching for the chance to kill the samurai and end the fight.
Just as he started to wonder whether Yujiro had only faked exhaustion, the samurai stumbled over an uneven spot in the road.
Hiro leaped sideways, slipping his wakizashi under the samurai’s chin. By the time Yujiro regained his balance, Hiro’s blade was at his throat.
The samurai bowed his head and lowered his sword.
Hiro raised his katana high to strike the fatal blow, but Father Mateo’s expression stayed his hand. Miraculously, the priest didn’t seem to want this man to die.
“What are you waiting for?” Yujiro demanded, without looking up.
Father Mateo shook his head.
Hiro looked at the Jesuit. Killing this man is the right thing to do.
Father Mateo met Hiro’s gaze without faltering.
With a sigh of frustration, Hiro lowered his sword. “My master chooses to let you live.”
“The foreigner insulted me.” Yujiro straightened and scowled. “His life is forfeit.”
“You are mistaken,” Hiro said. “It is you who lost the fight. By rights, your life belongs to the priest—”
“—and the priest has given it back to you,” Father Mateo finished.
Yujiro looked confused and angry. By law, and by the samurai code, Hiro should have killed him. Survival would leave a permanent stain on Yujiro’s personal honor.
Unfortunately, that also increased the chance of a second fight. At this moment, Yujiro had nothing to lose.
Yujiro’s partner found his voice. “This is over. Let them pass. The fight was fair.”
“The foreigner should fight for himself,” Yujiro said, though he sounded more like a petulant child than a samurai.
“Why do you think he hired a ronin?” the other samurai asked. “Everyone knows a foreigner poses no more threat than a woman. Not unless he’s carrying a firearm, anyway.”
Hiro decided not to mention that, in his experience, women were far more deadly than Portuguese firearms. He had scars on his shoulder and inner thigh—and more on his heart—that proved it. Other injuries faded to memory once the wounds had healed, but the pain of a woman’s betrayal—that betrayal—had eased far less than Hiro liked to admit.
Yujiro scowled. “Get out of my sight.”
Hiro bowed to the second guard. “We seek a merchant named Basho. Perhaps you know his shop?”
Yujiro scowled, but the other samurai nodded. “I do. I buy his rice myself.”
The samurai turned and pointed west along the market street. “Head that way. It’s three blocks down. The noren says ‘Basho.’ You cannot miss it.”
* * *
In the rice sellers’ street, the distinctive thump and swish of hulling machines competed with the sounds of merchants calling out specials to passersby. Indigo noren fluttered in doorways, ruffled by a summer breeze laden with the dusty-sweet scent of rice.
“What’s that thumping?” Father Mateo asked.
Hiro nodded to the pounder on display in front of the nearest shop. “Hulling machines. Have you never seen one?”
“Not like that,” the Jesuit said. “But then, I buy our rice from a cart.”
They paused for a moment before the store. Hiro tried to see the hulling machine through foreign eyes.
The pounders featured a round wooden beam, about twelve feet long, with a wooden support in the middle that allowed the beam to pivot up and down. One end of the beam had a flattened place for a person’s foot to rest. At the opposite end, a wooden post protruded downward into a bucket filled with rice. When a laborer stepped on the flattened beam, the post rose out of the bucket. When the laborer stepped back off again, the post fell down with a swish and a thump, pounding the rice and shedding the fibrous hulls.
Father Mateo gestured toward the pounder. “The merchant I buy from hasn’t got room for one of those on his cart. I wonder where he keeps it.”
“If you don’t see the machine, he hasn’t got one,” Hiro said. “Smaller merchants pay to use a larger shop’s machine or arrange for a mobile pounder to hull their rice.”
The Jesuit nodded. “The machines do look expensive.”
“Smaller shops and carts don’t always need them,” Hiro said. “Many commoners buy their rice unhulled. It’s cheaper, and the husks make up in bulk what they lack in taste.”
Clouds of rice dust rose from the pounders and floated into the street. The noren fluttering at one side of the open storefront read BASHO—FINEST RICE IN KYOTO. The characters flowed down the indigo banner in skilled calligraphy. Basho had paid a handsome price for his sign.
Hiro noted the heavy wooden shutters folded back on either side of the entrance. Basho’s appreciation of quality extended to security as well.
Despite the size of Basho’s establishment, so many people clustered inside that Hiro and Father Mateo had to wait their turn in the street. As they waited, they watched the customers leave the shop. Some carried bags of rice, while others left empty-handed.
“I wonder why he didn’t buy anything,” the Jesuit murmured as a well-dressed samurai stepped into the street and strolled away. “He looks like he could afford it.”
“No warrior carries a parcel,” Hiro replied in Portuguese. “A shop will always deliver a nobleman’s purchase.”
“Would you truly have killed that man?” Father Mateo asked in his native tongue.
It took Hiro a moment to realize that the priest referred to the samurai guard, Yujiro.
“He intended to kill you,” Hiro said. “Did you think I would let him do it?”
“I…” Father Mateo trailed off. After a moment, he continued, “I didn’t intend to cause violence. Sometimes I forget how quickly words can escalate in Japan.”
“Especially now, and especially here.” Hiro watched a bird swoop down and peck at fallen grains of rice.
Eventually, their turn came and they stepped inside. Barrels of rice lined the walls on either side of the entrance. Some had covers, but most sat open, displaying the various grades of rice. A koku of grain, five bushels by Father Mateo’s Western measure, was considered enough to feed an adult person for a year. These barrels held hundreds, or possibly thousands, of koku, the kernels as valuable as silver and indicating the merchant’s enormous wealth.
Hiro’s mouth watered at the thought of fluffy grains, nicely steamed and mounded in a bowl. His stomach still felt pleasantly full from the recent bowl of noodles, but no one could resist the aroma of plump, high-quality rice.
A clerk approached and bowed to Hiro. His limbs had the gangly look of adolescence; they protruded from his tunic like sticks in a snowbank.
An apprentice, Hiro thought, and, from his skinny state, a new one.
“How may I help you?” the young man asked.
“We have come to see Basho,” Hiro said.
“I apologize,” the young man said. “My master is not here. I am his apprentice, Jiro. May I help you?”
“We would rather see Basho,” Hiro said. “Do you expect him soon?”
“One moment, please.” Jiro bowed and hurried toward a cloth-covered doorway at the back of the shop.
He returned with a middle-aged woman in his wake.
A layer of rice dust covered her clothes and enhanced the gray in her hair. Her eyes surveyed the shop with a confidence born of ownership. The set of her lips suggested little tolerance for fools.
Jiro murmured something to the woman. She nodded, shifted her gaze to Hiro, and started toward the shinobi as Jiro turned to another customer.
The woman bowed to Hiro and then, with equal deference, to Father Mateo.
“Good afternoon,” she said. “I am Hama, Basho’s wife. May I ask your business with my husband?”
She studied Hiro and then the priest as if sizing up bags of rice. If she came to any decision, she didn’t show it.
“We wish to speak with Basho,” Hiro said.
“He isn’t here.” Hama’s eyebrows drew together. Her lips turned into a frown. “In fact, I don’t even know where he is, myself.”