Hiro returned to the Jesuit’s home. As he opened the door, he inhaled the tantalizing aroma of grilling fish. His stomach rumbled. The afternoon’s noodles seemed a distant memory. He hoped that Ana had cooked enough and that Luis and Father Mateo hadn’t eaten it all already.
Father Mateo knelt beside the common room hearth with a half-empty dinner tray before him. Gato sat to the Jesuit’s right, staring at the priest. The cat’s ears swiveled as Hiro entered, but she didn’t take her eyes off Father Mateo.
The Jesuit studied his bowl intently.
Gato studied the priest.
Hiro grinned. “Tasty fish?”
Father Mateo looked up. “You should have some. It’s delicious. Have you already finished your business at Ginjiro’s?”
Gato caught the shinobi’s eye and gave a plaintive mew.
“She is not hungry,” the Jesuit said. “Ana fed her less than an hour ago.”
“Apparently, she’s not happy with innards and tails,” Hiro said.
Ana, the housekeeper, bustled into the room. “Hm,” she said indignantly. “As if I’d force this dear to eat the scraps!”
She scooped the cat into her arms. Gato purred.
Ana glared at Hiro. “She had a fish of her very own.”
“You bought a fish for the cat?” Hiro asked.
Gato’s purr crescendoed as she kneaded her paws in Ana’s kimono sleeve.
“I didn’t have to,” Ana said. “The fishmonger found a little fish in a bigger fish’s belly. Not fit for a person, but Gato didn’t mind.”
A shoji on the eastern side of the room slid open, revealing a sleepy-looking Portuguese man with a bearded chin and a rounded belly.
“That cat eats better than me,” he grumbled.
Luis Álvares wore a lace-necked doublet in an uncomplimentary shade of purple. Dark brown leggings stretched over his meaty thighs. Together, the garments put Hiro in mind of a lace-crowned plum swollen far too large for its twig.
“Good evening, Luis.” Father Mateo gestured toward the hearth. “Would you like to eat?”
“That depends,” the merchant said. “Is there any the cat hasn’t licked?”
Ana smiled, but her eyes revealed displeasure. “Of course, Luis-san. I saved you the best of the fish.”
Hiro wondered whether the merchant knew that, to Japanese, the head was the choicest morsel. He doubted it, almost as much as he doubted Ana would really save that part for Luis. The housekeeper disapproved of the merchant only slightly less than she did of Hiro.
“Fetch it.” Luis thumped his ample rear to the floor and crossed his legs.
Despite having watched the merchant sit this way for several years, Hiro didn’t understand why Luis preferred such an ugly and awkward position. Then again, the merchant favored habit over comfort.
In Hiro’s experience, difficult people often did.
Ana bowed and carried Gato from the room.
“Luis,” Hiro said, “I hear the Miyoshi placed a weapons order.”
He didn’t bother with subtlety. The merchant had no manners and didn’t care about Japanese etiquette anyway.
Father Mateo gave Hiro a curious look. The shinobi met the Jesuit’s eyes and shook his head a fraction. The priest appeared to get the message. At least, he didn’t ask any questions.
“You heard correctly.” Luis swelled with pride. “The largest single order I’ve had since arriving in Japan. Two thousand arquebuses now, and more if they like the first ones.”
“Two thousand?” Father Mateo asked. “Have the Miyoshi gone to war?”
“Not my business.” Luis shrugged. “I’ll make a nice profit from it, war or no.”
The Portuguese merchant rubbed his tiny beard. “But, if I can find out who they’re fighting with, perhaps I could double the order.”
“Two thousand firearms means hundreds, or thousands, of people dead.” Father Mateo set down his chopsticks. “Doubling that means twice as many graves.”
“You can’t have it both ways, Mateo,” Luis chided. “You know these sales support your work. Without them, you’d be sailing home tomorrow.”
“The necessity of an income does not mean I support a war,” the Jesuit said.
“You’re overreacting, Mateo,” Luis said. “This isn’t any different from other sales.”
“The others you sold for self-defense,” Father Mateo said. “Daimyo and samurai lords protecting their castles. It is different when men seek to start a war.”
“Tell yourself whatever you like, if it helps you sleep at night,” Luis said. “War or not, these Japanese squabbles are none of our concern.”
“The lives of the Japanese people are precisely my concern.” Father Mateo leaned forward, preparing to stand.
“I agree with Father Mateo,” Hiro said. “Sell firearms to the shogunate or samurai nobles in and around Kyoto. Those sales will generate sufficient wealth. Do not choose to facilitate a slaughter.”
Luis frowned. “You agree … with him? Where did you find a conscience?”
Hiro looked down at Luis. “No daimyo needs two thousand foreign firearms. No one in Japan controls so many.”
“Since when do you object to violence? I expect that sort of talk from him”—the merchant gestured to the priest—“but not from a samurai.”
“Self-preservation is not the same as objection,” Hiro said. “The Miyoshi want those weapons to seize Kyoto and the shogunate.”
“Nonsense,” Luis said. “Their man’s already on the shogun’s throne.”
“Matsunaga Hisahide is not the shogun,” Hiro said. “And also, the shogun doesn’t sit on a throne.”
“Hisahide’s in control,” Luis retorted. “That’s what counts.”
“Hisahide no longer answers to the Miyoshi,” Hiro said. “He breached his oath. That is why the Miyoshi march to war.”
“When did you hear this?” Father Mateo’s voice revealed alarm.
Hiro shifted his gaze to the priest. “Earlier this evening, at Ginjiro’s.”
“So?” Luis shrugged. “Who cares if they fight? A war just means more profits for us all.”