Hiro crept along the alley toward the street.
Yoshiko pounded on the shutters. “Basho! I know you’re in there—open up! Quit hiding in your rice like a frightened rat. Get out here now and pay your debt like a man!”
A muffled female voice came through the shutters. “Basho isn’t here.”
“You’re lying,” Yoshiko replied.
“It’s after midnight,” Basho’s wife complained. “Come back tomorrow.”
Yoshiko gave a derisive snort. “Why, so you can claim he isn’t here? We’ve played that game long enough. No more.”
“We haven’t got your money,” Hama called. “Come back tomorrow.”
“No,” Yoshiko growled. “Open this door, or I’ll break it down.”
Hiro jumped as the shutters banged and rattled.
He peeked around the corner just as Yoshiko stepped back and kicked the wooden shutters hard. Hiro didn’t know many women capable of breaking down a door, but Yoshiko had the strength—and the determination too.
Hiro looked at the upper floors of neighboring houses. He saw no lights or movement. No one cried alarm, although that fact did not surprise him. Merchants often worked together to protect their wards from fire and natural dangers, but no one wanted to confront a thief or debt collector in the dark of night. Unless Matsunaga Hisahide’s guards investigated, Hama and Basho were on their own.
Hiro doubted the samurai would come to save the merchant, either. Hisahide’s guards weren’t paid to intervene in debt collections. More importantly, the guard on duty let Yoshiko down the street.
She kicked the door again, and Hiro heard a cracking underneath the shuddering bang.
“Stop it—please!” Hama’s voice revealed an edge of fear. “I’ll open up. Don’t break it down!”
Hiro heard the click of a latch and a rattling sound as the shutters opened.
This time, Hama’s voice was clear. “I told you, my husband is not home. You have no right to harass us in the middle of the night.”
“Your husband owes a substantial debt to the Sakura Teahouse.” Yoshiko’s response held no remorse. “Over a month ago, he asked for mercy, and I granted him additional time to pay. He hasn’t paid a single copper coin. I’m finished waiting.”
“Basho went out of town on business,” Hama said. “He’ll pay when he returns.”
“No rice merchant leaves Kyoto at this time of year.” Yoshiko’s voice sounded slightly farther away, as if she had stepped inside the shop. “He’s hiding, trying to avoid his debt.”
Hiro wondered whether Yoshiko was bluffing.
“You have no authority to threaten this family,” Hama said. “I’ll report you to the magistrate!”
“Go ahead,” Yoshiko said. “In fact, I’ll stand right here and wait. Your husband owes a legitimate debt. I have the right to collect it. Who will the magistrate punish if you wake him in the night?”
“Only a wicked woman would use her status in this way,” Basho’s wife hissed. “You disgrace your family and your class.”
Hiro expected Yoshiko to kill the older woman on the spot. No commoner could legally insult a samurai. Instead, he heard a heavy crash and the shimmering hiss of rice against the floor.
“No!” Hama gasped.
A second barrel crashed to the floor.
“No, please,” Basho’s wife moaned, “I’m sorry—I apologize! Please stop, before you ruin us. We cannot sell the rice once it’s been soiled.”
“Give me the money,” Yoshiko said.
Hiro clenched his fist at his side.
Yoshiko would destroy the shop in her search for Basho’s money. The law protected her right to collect a debt, but her bullying tactics turned the shinobi’s stomach. Unfortunately, Hiro could not intervene without Yoshiko’s wanting an explanation and also recognizing that he wore assassin’s clothes.
The samurai woman would not forgive his interference, either way. Any intervention would embarrass Yoshiko in front of Hama. Hiro knew how quickly infatuation could shift to loathing, and he didn’t want to think about the emotional outburst that might follow if he pushed Yoshiko over that razor’s edge.
Inside the shop, another barrel crashed onto the floor.
Hiro looked around the street, hoping someone would appear. He thought he saw a shadow move in a darkened upstairs window, but it didn’t move again, and no one came into the street.
He cringed at the sound of Yoshiko’s geta crushing the merchant’s rice. His training told him to stay in the alley, silent and unobserved, but a deeper instinct revolted against the unjust injury the woman caused.
At times, a sense of justice proved an inconvenient traveling companion.
Just as Hiro drew a breath and prepared to intervene, a high-pitched cry and the patter of footsteps echoed in the street.
A shadow darted across the road and into Basho’s shop. Moments later, a human body hit the floor. Wooden scabbards clattered and Yoshiko’s voice cried out in startled pain.
“I will not let you hurt these people!” Suke yelled. “You bad kitsune!”
The female samurai tried to speak, but her words sounded muffled, as if someone pressed her face against the floor.
Hiro longed to look but didn’t dare expose himself to view.
“The law grants you the right to collect,” Suke said, “but not to ruin a merchant’s rice without good cause!”
“Get off me!” Yoshiko’s words were clearer but sounded strained.
“No,” Suke replied.
Hiro leaned around the corner.
Hama stood inside the entrance, holding a lantern that illuminated a startling scene.
Akechi Yoshiko lay face down on the wooden floor. Suke perched atop her back like the monkey king on his golden throne. He twisted the female samurai’s arm in a way that caused significant pain if Yoshiko moved at all.
Grains of rice and overturned barrels lay on the floor around them.
“Let me up right now,” Yoshiko snarled.
“If I do,” Suke said, “will you leave this shop alone?”
“Her husband—OW!” Yoshiko’s words became a yell as Suke pulled her arm a little higher.
“We will pay you,” Hama said, “I promise. But we haven’t got the money now. Matsunaga Hisahide raised our taxes just this month. We had to call in all our loans, and even then we couldn’t pay the bill.”
“Not my problem.” Yoshiko turned her head and glared at Suke. “Get off my back, old man!”
“I should break this arm,” the bald monk mused.
“If you try, I’ll have you dragged before the magistrate and executed.” Yoshiko struggled slightly, then lay still. “You’ve already earned a whipping, if not more, for laying hands on a samurai.”