A second surge of adrenaline shocked Hiro’s system as the assassin’s footsteps pattered overhead. When they faded into silence, Hiro hurried out from his hiding place and pursued the strange shinobi across the bridge.
As he ran, he caught a glimpse of the assassin disappearing into the shadows on Marutamachi Road.
Hiro didn’t stop running until he reached the torii gate at Okazaki Shrine. There, he paused in the shadows to listen. He heard crickets and cicadas, nothing more. He hoped his race across the bridge alerted the assassin to his presence. Most shinobi abandoned a mission, temporarily at least, if someone saw them approaching the target’s home.
He moved along the street, staying in the darkness when he could. Although he hoped the assassin had disappeared, Hiro didn’t trust his hopes any more than he trusted assumptions.
Lights flickered behind the oiled paper windows of Father Mateo’s home. The sight released a bit of the tension binding Hiro’s chest. A shinobi would wait for the lights to go out before infiltrating the residence.
Hiro paused and watched for movement in the shadows. The house on the opposite side of the street from the Jesuit’s was dark and silent. Hiro found himself suddenly grateful for the neighbor’s akita. The assassin could not approach from that direction without triggering a fit of angry barking.
Something moved in the shadows near the fence that circled Father Mateo’s yard. Hiro watched with horror as the strange shinobi approached the gate and slipped into the garden without a sound.
As Hiro started toward the fence, he realized that Matsunaga Hisahide might have sent the assassin after Luis Álvares, believing the merchant’s death would stop the weapon sale to the Miyoshi. That left Hiro with yet another ethical dilemma. He loathed Luis on a personal level but didn’t think the Portuguese merchant deserved to die. Not unless his death would save the priest.
The Iga ryu didn’t care about the merchant, and the unknown client who paid for Hiro’s services had never mentioned Luis Álvares. Even so, no other shinobi would harm the Jesuit’s household on Hiro’s watch.
A shout would send the assassin running, but he would return, perhaps at a time when Hiro did not expect him.
Hiro didn’t intend to let his enemy slip away.
A shinobi would notice someone following him through the garden gate, so Hiro slipped into the neighbors’ yard and climbed an ancient cherry tree that sent its questing branches across the wall. From the relative safety of the tree, he peered into the Jesuit’s yard.
A shadowed figure stood on the veranda outside Father Mateo’s room. The Jesuit’s silhouette flickered on the paper panels, separated from the assassin by only a flimsy shoji.
The strange shinobi reached for the Jesuit’s door.
Hiro retrieved a shuriken from a pocket inside his sleeve. He preferred to use the metal stars as fistload weapons, not projectiles, but he had no time to close the distance now. He measured the distance carefully. In daylight, and without obstructions, Hiro could strike a fatal blow to the man on the porch with ease. Tonight he had to make the throw in darkness and through branches, and he didn’t know how quickly this assassin would react.
Hiro drew a preparatory breath.
The strange shinobi pivoted, and Hiro saw his opponent’s face.
It was Ozuru.
Hiro threw the shuriken but knew as he released it that the star would miss its target. He leaped from the tree and hit the ground as the metal star embedded itself in the porch with a silent thump.
“Don’t move.” Hiro jumped to the veranda and drew his sword. “I missed the throw on purpose. I will kill you if you run.”
Ozuru raised his empty hands. “We have no dispute, Matsui-san.”
“We do,” Hiro said, “if you attempt to kill a man that I protect.”
Ozuru lowered his hands to his sides. “I came to warn you, not to kill the priest.”
Hiro didn’t believe him—not yet, anyway. “Deliver your warning.”
Ozuru’s gaze flickered from Hiro’s blade to the spots on his clothing. His eyes narrowed. He met Hiro’s gaze and nodded, accepting Hiro’s decision not to lower the sword.
“Hisahide has refused the Miyoshi daimyo’s demand to surrender Kyoto. War is now inevitable. If the Miyoshi start that war with Portuguese firearms, Hisahide will declare this household guilty of treason. He will execute the merchant and the priest.”
“The Miyoshi weapons order has been cancelled,” Hiro said. “Hisahide has no cause to blame the Portuguese. Not the ones in this house, anyway.”
Ozuru drew back in surprise. “Cancelled? When?”
“Yesterday,” Hiro said. “The merchant does not want to start a war.”
“My sources claim the sale proceeds on schedule,” Ozuru said, “and that your merchant simply arranged for a different Portuguese to deliver the firearms to the Miyoshi stronghold.”
Hiro hid his chagrin behind an innocent expression. “You cannot blame Luis if another merchant revives a cancelled sale.”
“Matsunaga Hisahide will not consider that a cancellation,” Ozuru said.
“I appreciate the warning.” Hiro wondered what the Koga ryu would gain from helping Hiro save the Jesuit and Luis. The respect and passive truce between the Iga shinobi and Ozuru’s Koga ryu did not explain the other man’s behavior. Somehow, the priest’s survival—or the merchant’s—benefited Koga’s plans.
Hiro sheathed his sword.
Ozuru’s expression softened. “Koga desires stability in Kyoto. Foreign deaths will divide the city, creating opportunities for enemies far more dangerous than the Miyoshi.”
“You mean Oda Nobunaga,” Hiro said.
“And others.” Ozuru paused. “Ashikaga Yoshiaki has left Nara.”
“The former shogun’s brother?” Hiro frowned. “Can a monk lay claim to the shogunate?”
“Yoshiaki renounced his vows when he left the temple,” Ozuru said. “Rumors say he does intend to claim the shogunate.”
“How much truth do these rumors hold?” Hiro asked.
Ozuru shook his head. He would reveal no more. “You should leave Kyoto quickly, with the merchant and the priest. This city is no longer safe for you.”
“I understand.” Hiro bowed but kept Ozuru’s hands in sight. “And thank you.”
“Do not thank me. I was never here.” Ozuru sprinted to the wall and disappeared over the top without a sound.
Hiro hoped he would move as smoothly when he reached Ozuru’s age.
The door behind Hiro slid open. Father Mateo stepped onto the porch.
“I heard voices.” The Jesuit looked around the yard. “Where did he go?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Hiro said. “It’s only me.”