“Is that appropriate?” Father Mateo asked, “With Ginjiro in prison?”
“Patronizing the brewery helps Ginjiro,” Hiro said, “though, as it happens, I’m not drinking. I have business there tonight.”
“The man Tomiko mentioned,” Father Mateo said. “An Iga contact?”
Hiro smiled but said nothing.
The Jesuit took the smile as affirmation. “Please send my regards to your family.” The priest looked down at his Bible. As he read, his hand crept up to rub the jagged scar that traced a crimson line from his jaw to the base of his neck.
“Does that hurt?” Hiro bent to examine the scar.
Father Mateo looked up, surprised. “No. But it itches.”
“That means it’s healing,” Hiro said.
“Now that you mention it, my hands ache more than I think they should.” Father Mateo looked at his hands as if hoping the words would dull the pain. “I think the bones have mended, but they hurt in the evening, after the sun goes down. I wouldn’t complain, but you asked…”
“The pain is normal,” Hiro said. “Your hands will ache for several months and probably every winter for several years.” If not forever, he added silently.
Father Mateo nodded. “I thought they might.”
“Injuries to the hands heal slowly, and hurt, because the hands are unusually sensitive.” Hiro glanced toward his room. “Would you like me to give you something to dull the pain?”
Father Mateo shook his head and rubbed the back of his hand. “If you say the pain is normal, I can bear it.”
* * *
Hiro walked west on Marutamachi Road until he reached the Kamo River. There, he nodded to the samurai on guard. Once again, the guard made no attempt to arrest the shinobi’s progress. Either he recognized Hiro’s face or the guards had received new orders to stop harassing samurai without cause.
Hiro suspected the former. Matsunaga Hisahide didn’t care who he offended.
The shinobi turned south on the road that followed the eastern bank of the river. At Sanjō Road he took a left and headed into a residential ward.
Well-groomed gardens surrounded the houses, which sat on larger lots than those on the western side of the river. A short distance down the road, on the left-hand side of the street, stone dogs guarded a two-story building. The house had a raised foundation and steep peaked roof. Long eaves overhung the wide veranda, and gravel paths led to wooden gates on either side of the building. Fences shielded the yards beyond from public view.
An expensive, hand-painted sign on the veranda read SAKURA TEAHOUSE.
The Sakura looked no different than it had a year before, when Hiro and Father Mateo solved the murder of Akechi Hideyoshi, a samurai who died in one of the private rooms. As he approached the door, Hiro wondered whether Mayuri, the teahouse owner, would respond to his questions about Yoshiko.
Knowing Mayuri, she might not even let him in.
Hiro knocked and waited to speak with the house’s servant, but when the wooden door swung open, it was Mayuri who stood in the entrance.
The retired entertainer’s flawless hair and makeup complemented her green kimono embroidered with lotus flowers. On another woman, the colors and patterns might suggest a struggle to retain her fading youth. On Mayuri, the years fell away of their own accord.
Hiro disliked entertainers, but understood why men once found Mayuri’s company worth their silver. Despite her age, she remained a compelling woman.
Mayuri’s painted face adopted a frozen smile. “Good evening, Matsui-san. I don’t remember your name on this evening’s list of guests.”
Only a person trained to read faces would notice the concern that flickered through Mayuri’s eyes before she spoke. Unfortunately for Mayuri, Hiro was that kind of person.
He said nothing, hoping discomfort would make her talk.
“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” Mayuri asked.
“I hoped to speak with you privately,” Hiro said.
Mayuri’s smile faded. “Does this relate to last year’s business?”
“It relates to an Akechi,” Hiro said, “though not the one who brought me here last summer.”
“I understand.” Mayuri nodded. “Follow me.”
She led him through the entry and into the room where entertainers waited for their guests. The teahouse smelled of lotuses and other strange perfumes, as if haunted by the ghosts of forgotten blooms. Shoji along the walls led into private rooms on either side. Murmuring voices and the wavering notes of a shamisen told Hiro some of the evening guests had arrived already.
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.”