“You do not understand.” Hiro glared at the merchant. “Matsunaga-san will consider you a traitor for selling firearms to his enemies.”
“Lord Matsunaga doesn’t even know me,” Luis said. “I’m Portuguese. I’m not his subject. I’ve permission to do business in Kyoto, and that means I’ll sell my weapons to whatever lord I please.”
“You prove yourself both foolish and shortsighted,” Hiro said. “If you anger the acting shogun, you will put us all in danger.”
Ana returned with a tray of food, which she set in front of Luis.
The merchant surveyed the roasted fish and heaping bowl of rice with hungry eyes. “I appreciate your opinion, Hiro, but if you’ve finished foretelling my doom, I’d like to eat in peace.”
* * *
The following morning, Hiro woke before dawn and spent an hour in meditation, though not the inward-style reflection Buddhists favored. Instead, he stilled his thoughts and focused on the scents and sounds around him, sharpening his ability to “see” without his eyes.
A croak and a splash near the koi pond indicated a leaping frog. In the trees, a bird chirped sleepily. She set the nest to crackling as she stirred.
A breeze filled Hiro’s nostrils with the scents of grass and dew. A hint of sewage followed, as the night-soil collector passed the house on his morning rounds.
Hiro opened his eyes, returned to the house, and donned his favorite gray kimono and his swords.
When he left his room, he found Father Mateo waiting in the common room. The priest wore a brown kimono fastened at the waist with a dark blue obi. A wooden cross hung from a braided thong around his neck. The pale light from the firepit highlighted the jagged scar on his neck.
“Good morning,” Hiro said.
Father Mateo nodded. “Shall we eat before we leave?”
“I’d rather have noodles.” Hiro paused. “Wait … you’re coming with me?”
“I am,” the priest replied, “and do not argue. I spent most of our last investigation recovering from that attack. I’ve no intention of missing this one too.”
Hiro nodded. The interviews he had in mind would go more smoothly with the Jesuit along to ask the awkward questions.
“Did you learn any new information yesterday evening?” Father Mateo asked. “Aside from Daimyo Miyoshi’s plans to start a war?”
“Not much,” Hiro said. “I’m confident that Kaoru owed the Sakura Teahouse money, but I still don’t know if Ginjiro hired a guard or how Yoshiko learned about Chikao’s death.”
“So we haven’t eliminated anyone,” Father Mateo said.
“Not yet.”
They left the house and headed west on Marutamachi Road. The air felt muggy and far too warm for Hiro’s taste. He thought wistfully of autumn’s colder nights and cleaner air.
As he passed Okazaki Shrine, Hiro shifted to taking shallow breaths. In the mornings, braziers just outside the shrine emitted clouds of cloying incense, and the smoke clogged Hiro’s lungs like lacquer vapor.
Father Mateo nodded to the priestess selling amulets beside the temple’s tall, white torii gate. She returned the nod and also smiled.
Father Mateo turned to Hiro. “Where are we headed first?”
Hiro briefly related his conversation with Mayuri and the relevant parts of his talk with Yoshiko.
“Almost everyone on our suspect list spent time in Pontocho that night.” Father Mateo counted off names on his fingers. “Kaoru, Yoshiko … well, I guess Basho is not a suspect.”
“He might be,” Hiro said. “I’d like to know more about what he did there, anyway. But before we head to Pontocho, I have a few more questions for Tomiko.”