Hiro left home three hours after sunset. He wore dark clothes and left his katana but carried his wakizashi, along with other, less common weapons he concealed within his clothes.
He kept to the shadows along the edge of the street. Not even the neighbor’s vigilant akita saw him leave. As he glided from shadow to shadow, he kept a watchful eye on the road. The choice to wear assassin’s clothing would not go over well with the shogun’s guards.
During other investigations, Hiro wore his samurai clothes on nighttime missions. Until recently, no one noticed a warrior out for an evening stroll. But edgy guards might stop a samurai out late at night, and a search of Hiro’s person would reveal forbidden shinobi weapons.
Hiro passed the torii gate in front of Okazaki Shrine, silent as a shadow and ephemeral as the incense smoke that drifted upward in the starry night. He crossed the road and sneaked through private yards until he reached the final residence before the Kamo River.
The arrogant young samurai marched back and forth across the bridge, doubtless to combat his rising boredom.
Hiro smiled. Guards who sought to amuse themselves created opportunities for spies to pass unnoticed.
At the near end of the bridge, the samurai guard turned around on his heel and marched away with his back to Hiro. When the guard passed the middle of the bridge, Hiro dashed across the open space between the end of Marutamachi Road and the line of sakura trees that shaded the path along the eastern side of the river. By the time the guard turned back around, at the far end of the bridge, the shinobi had disappeared into the shadows.
Hiro headed south along the path beside the river, hoping to cross unchallenged at Sanjō Road. That bridge sat close to Pontocho. With luck, the allure of beautiful women and glowing lanterns would distract the guards assigned to watch the Sanjō bridge.
Hiro slowed his pace as he approached the river crossing. A samurai stood at the eastern end of the bridge, interrogating a peddler. The peddler knelt, head bowed, and clutched a sack of goods before him. Lanterns on the bridge illuminated the poor man’s frightened face.
The samurai shouted a question and slapped the back of the peddler’s head. The poor man cringed away from the blow, which made the samurai strike him a second time.
“What are you doing out after dark?” the samurai bellowed. “Identify yourself and state your business!”
The peddler lowered his face to his hands and moaned.
Hiro stopped in the shadows beneath the trees.
“What’s in there?” The samurai kicked the peddler’s sack. It rattled. “What’s in the bag?”
The samurai kicked the sack again, and the peddler lost his grip. The sack fell over. Wooden bowls spilled out into the dirt.
The samurai grasped the sack by its bottom and shook it, sending a shower of wooden objects into the road.
“Worthless.” The samurai dropped the empty sack. “Nobody sells wooden junk after dark. What are you doing? Are you a Miyoshi spy? Speak up!”
The peddler shook his head and pressed his face to the dirt.
“I said, speak up!” The samurai kicked the peddler in the ribs.
The man fell onto his side. He raised his knees to his chest and curled his arms around his face. As the samurai kicked him again, he whimpered softly.
Hiro’s temper flared. Any fool could recognize a pauper heading homeward for the night.
The samurai kicked the peddler’s shins. “I asked you a question! Answer me.”
Conflict sliced through Hiro’s chest like a sword through silken cloth. His hatred of bullies prompted him to intervene on the peddler’s behalf, but Hiro knew the samurai would only arrest them both. He briefly considered assassinating the guard. Unfortunately, that could create more problems than it solved.
Hiro looked around for another solution.
A pair of carved stone lanterns flickered brightly in a yard to the east of the bridge. They sat about four houses up the road, across the street from the Sakura Teahouse.
Hiro heard Mayuri’s voice in his head.
Clumsy carving, poorly finished … disgrace to a high-class street.
Hiro smiled. Perhaps he could solve two problems in one evening.
While the samurai yelled at the peddler, Hiro scaled the wall that separated the river path from the private home beyond. To his relief, the house was dark and shuttered.
He hurried through the darkened yard with no more sound than a pine tree shedding needles. When he reached the street, he looked back toward the bridge. Distance and foliage made the samurai’s anger less distinct, but his posture, and the peddler’s quivering, told the shinobi the harassment hadn’t ceased.
When the samurai bent over the peddler, Hiro dashed across the street and into the shadows on the far side of the road. He made his way through the darkened yards until he reached the veranda of the home with the flickering lanterns.
Light seeped under the cracks in the house’s entryway and glowed behind the oiled paper windows. The family who lived there was awake.
Hiro retrieved a pair of stoppered bamboo segments from a pouch concealed within his tunic. He double-checked the thickness of the segments and the stoppers. Then he checked the street and all the houses. He saw no one.
A final glance toward the bridge confirmed the samurai remained preoccupied with the peddler. Hiro raced to the lanterns—which were, in fact, as ugly as described—and dropped a bamboo segment into each.
He returned to the shadows, but didn’t pause beside the house. He raced along the edges of the houses toward the river, counting off the seconds as he ran.
Just as Hiro reached the final house before the bridge, the bombs exploded.
The explosion split the silence, setting Hiro’s ears to ringing. Pieces of the broken lanterns clattered on the ground. Hiro didn’t waste a moment looking back. He knew exactly what the bombs had done.
Ahead, by the bridge, the samurai leaped away from the peddler.
“Run!” he yelled. “Kyoto is under attack!”
But instead of running toward the explosion, the samurai guard ran away across the bridge.
Hiro heard shouts behind him and risked a glance. The owner of the ugly lanterns ran into the yard and tossed a bucket of water on the wreckage. The shattered lanterns hissed and sent up plumes of acrid smoke.
“Water!” the man yelled toward his house. “Hurry, before it catches the house on fire!”
Hiro knew the house was in no danger. He had used small charges, packed with just enough explosive force to cause a nice distraction—and destroy the ostentatious lanterns.
The homeowner ran for another bucket.
Hiro hurried across the road to the place where the peddler lay.
“You need to get up and run,” the shinobi said.
The peddler’s moan explained why the poor man hadn’t answered the samurai.
He was mute.
Hiro grabbed the peddler’s arm and helped the quivering man to his feet.
“If you can understand my words, you need to run—right now.”