The samurai took an aggressive step forward. “I have orders to guard this bridge, and to arrest any person who seems suspicious.”
He glared at Hiro to reinforce the threat.
The shinobi felt a strong desire to give the insolent samurai a lesson—and a limp. Fortunately, training and the wish to avoid arrest stayed Hiro’s hands. Instead, he bowed. “I will go home and retrieve the pass.”
The samurai scowled. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m taking you to the magistrate, on a charge of trying to enter the city without the required documentation.”
“That charge does not apply to a man who hasn’t passed a barricade,” Hiro said. “Do you really want to confess to arresting an innocent man a mile from his home?”
“Enough!” The guard made a grab for Hiro’s arm. “You’re under arrest.”
Hiro stepped away and laid a hand on his katana. “I respectfully decline to be arrested.”
The samurai’s nostrils flared. “How dare you threaten the shogun’s agent?”
“I made no threats,” the shinobi said, “I simply refused your invitation to visit the magistrate.”
“With a hand on your sword.” The samurai lowered the arquebus until its muzzle pointed at Hiro’s chest.
“I’m carrying a towel.” Hiro waved the strip of cloth across the end of the samurai’s firearm. “What kind of man starts trouble with a towel?”
“That might be a ruse,” the samurai snapped.
Hiro wondered whether the samurai realized his arquebus wasn’t primed and wouldn’t fire. “Perhaps you would change your mind if you knew I reside in the home of the Portuguese merchant who sold that weapon to Matsunaga-san.”
The samurai glanced at the weapon. “The shogun’s quartermaster issued this to me this afternoon. I do not know who bought it or from whom.” He raised the weapon’s muzzle a fraction. “How do I know you’re telling the truth? You might be a shinobi in disguise.”
“Do I look like a shinobi?” Hiro asked.
The arquebus wavered. “How would I know? I’ve never seen one. Nobody sees a shinobi and lives.”
“Consider this carefully,” Hiro said. “If you take me to Magistrate Ishimaki—who, I will add, is a friend of mine—I will have to file a formal complaint against you. Would your record survive the embarrassment of arresting a man for bathing?”
The samurai stared at Hiro’s towel. After a minute that felt much longer, he scowled.
“Go on, then, but I’m following you to the bathhouse, and I’ll wait outside to ensure you aren’t faking.”
“You’re welcome to follow me all the way in.” Hiro shrugged. “It’s a public bath. But, just out of curiosity, who will watch the bridge while we are bathing?”
The samurai scowled. “Go away. Enjoy your bath.”
“Thank you.” Hiro smiled. “I intend to.”
* * *
As Hiro soaked in the heated water, he considered the samurai guards throughout Kyoto. The presence of the samurai sent a message to the Ashikaga clan, as well as every spy within the city—a message that Matsunaga Hisahide met all threats with force.
However, Hiro suspected Hisahide had a secondary goal. Samurai at the city gates would send a similar message with less effort and expense than posting men in every ward. Hiro wondered what the acting shogun gained by flooding the streets with guards. To his intense frustration, the answer eluded him.
The Miyoshi’s threat of war did not explain the city guards. An army on the march moved slowly, giving Hisahide time to secure the city before his enemies arrived. The battle would start outside the Japanese capital, not within it.
Hiro’s instincts warned him that Hisahide was up to something. Unfortunately, those instincts couldn’t tell him what it was.
He hurried home as twilight doused the final flames of the setting sun. As he passed the Kamo River bridge, he nodded to the grumpy samurai.
The guard pretended not to notice.
As he reached the Jesuit’s house, Hiro heard the distinctive murmuring of voices raised in prayer. He smiled. Father Mateo held worship meetings almost every evening. With luck, the shinobi could change his clothes and leave again before the Jesuit realized he’d been home.
Hiro laid his hand on the garden gate.
Aggressive barking started in the yard across the street.
Hiro turned.
A giant akita strained against the woven rope that tied it to a stake in the neighbor’s yard. Hiro knew the dog did only what its nature called for, but he did not like the beast’s near-constant barking in the night—or the memory that this dog had almost killed the Jesuit whose life was tied by oaths to Hiro’s own.
Hiro stalked across the road in the gathering dark. Shinobi did not take revenge on beasts, but Hiro wanted to teach the dog a lesson. He stopped three feet from the end of the rope, sending the akita into a frenzy. The barking increased. A line of drool swung from the dog’s bared fangs.
The akita lunged against the rope, but cord and stake held firm. In the weeks since the Jesuit’s injuries, the neighbor had learned to tie his dog securely.
Hiro snarled, a sound in tone and timbre indistinguishable from the akita’s own. The dog stopped barking, momentarily confused. Hiro lunged. The dog leaped backward with a startled yelp.
The akita growled. Hiro growled back. The akita barked, but with less confidence.
Hiro suddenly realized how foolish he looked and that he had momentarily—and unwisely—let his own emotions off the rope. He didn’t actually want the neighbor’s dog to quit its barking altogether. He loathed the beast for biting the priest, but as long as the neighbor kept the dog securely in the yard, the dog did make a decent warning system.
“I don’t like you,” Hiro said as the dog resumed its barking, “but for now your usefulness outweighs the irritation.”
Hiro returned to the Jesuit’s yard and slipped through the garden gate. He hoped no one had seen his conversation with the dog. He didn’t understand why he approached it in the first place—he didn’t usually let emotion rule his conscious mind. The difficulties of this day, and this investigation, must be having more effect than he had realized.
Hiro reminded himself that he must think before reacting from now on.
Gato greeted him at the veranda door with a mew and a patter of paws. He felt the cat rub against his shin and bent to pick her up.
Someone—probably Ana—had already lit the brazier in the corner of Hiro’s room and unfolded his narrow futon on the floor. Hiro gave the mattress a longing look. Given his plans, he wouldn’t be using it very much that night.
Gato squirmed. Hiro set her down and watched her trot into the garden. He left the door ajar for her return, crossed to his desk, and knelt before it. After a moment to clear his thoughts, he walked his mind through his plans for the evening.
He visualized himself avoiding the samurai patrols and reaching Basho’s shop without detection. Once there, he intended to find Basho and learn what the merchant knew about the murder. He imagined the encounter. Basho would likely flee. In his mind the shinobi tripped the merchant, who fell to the ground with a thump.
Hiro opened his eyes.
The thump was real.
Father Mateo’s worship service had gone silent.
Someone pounded on the Jesuit’s front door.
Hiro leaped to his feet and listened. His urge to rush to the priest’s defense waged war against the training that required him to hold his ground until he knew the nature of a threat. The visitor might not mean the Jesuit harm. Hiro split the difference. He crouched at the door that separated his room from the common room and listened.
Moments later, a reedy voice called, “Hiro-san! Where are you?”