CHAPTER 11

“I’m sorry, but that isn’t mine.” Jiro shook his head, eyes fixed on the golden coin that dangled before him on its leather thong.

Hiro swung the pendant gently. “Didn’t you mention receiving a tip from a wealthy customer yesterday?”

Jiro glanced nervously into the crowded rice shop.

As expected, Basho’s apprentice had scurried forward the moment he caught sight of Hiro and Father Mateo in the entrance. He spoke in the muted tones of a man who didn’t want anyone hearing his conversation.

“I did,” Jiro said, “but the customer paid me in silver, not in gold.”

“So you didn’t give this to Emi?” Hiro lowered the coin to his other palm and closed his hand around it so the gold would not attract undue attention.

“I have never owned a golden coin, and—if I may speak honestly—I wouldn’t waste one on a girl,” Jiro said. “I would buy myself a new kimono first.”

“You’re lying,” Hiro said. “Perhaps Basho can help us learn the truth?”

“No, please!” Jiro glanced into the shop again. “The coin’s not mine, but I know where it came from. I’ll meet you later, and tell you, but please—I beg you—don’t tell my uncle about Emi.”

“He’s your uncle?” Father Mateo asked. “You never told us that before.”

Jiro shrugged. “It didn’t seem important.”

“How do I know you’ll keep your word?” Hiro let suspicion creep into his voice even though he believed that Jiro would follow through. The fear on the young man’s face was real. He wouldn’t risk them coming back and talking to Basho.

“I promise, I’ll meet you,” Jiro said. “I couldn’t run if I wanted to. I haven’t got a travel pass, and Basho won’t loan me his without a reason. Especially not at harvest time, with rice coming in from all the farms. I’ll tell you everything, but please, don’t make me say it here.”

Not many men would dare to ask a samurai to wait. Hiro paused as if considering Jiro’s request and inhaled deeply, enjoying the grassy-sweet scent of the rice shop. His stomach might prefer noodles, but few aromas pleased Hiro’s nose as much as the smell of freshly polished rice.

“Very well,” he said. “Meet me at Ginjiro’s brewery, tonight, just after sunset. If you fail to appear, or lie to me, I will tell your master everything—including my suspicion that you killed the girl because you discovered she wasn’t truly an entertainer.”

Jiro bowed from the waist. “I’ll be there. I swear it . . . and thank you. I’m in your debt.”

Under the circumstances, Hiro drew no inference from the young man’s failure to deny the murder allegation. Commoners had no legal right to contradict a samurai, and Jiro had already claimed he didn’t know what actually happened by the river.

Father Mateo gestured to a nearby barrel. “Please deliver a bag of that rice to my home on Marutamachi Road.” He pulled a silver coin from his purse and handed it to Jiro.

“Thank you.” Jiro bowed again and accepted the coin with both hands. “I will arrange delivery today.”

As they left the shop, Hiro said, “I wonder what Ana will think when that rice arrives, considering that your barrel is currently full.”

“I know the barrel is full as well as you do,” Father Mateo said, “but the purchase gives Jiro an explanation for our appearance at the shop.”

“I was planning to buy some rice for that very reason,” Hiro said, “but I’m surprised you thought of it, and that you willingly helped the boy to lie.”

“On the contrary.” Father Mateo smiled. “I saved him from a lie. We did, in fact, buy rice.” The smile faded. “Do you think he told the truth about the coin?”

“I’m not certain,” Hiro said. “His hands kept fidgeting as we spoke, but any number of things could have made him nervous.”

“Talking with a samurai, for one,” the Jesuit offered.

“Or killing a girl by the river,” Hiro countered.

“Why did you agree to talk with him later?” Father Mateo asked. “You normally want answers on the spot.”

“I saw no point in causing trouble prematurely,” Hiro said. “Whatever relationship Jiro had with the girl, it’s over now. We’ve plenty of time to talk with Basho if the evidence proves that Jiro is a killer.”

Just before sunset, Hiro left the Jesuit’s house and walked toward the river. Father Mateo disapproved of sake shops, and had a prayer meeting anyway, so Hiro went to meet Jiro alone.

He reached the bridge as sunset lit the evening sky ablaze.

The samurai guard on duty stepped forward. “Where are you going?”

Hiro bowed. “To a sake shop, west of Pontochō.”

He expected the guard to let him pass, but the samurai didn’t move.

“Don’t you get tired of being a ronin, or serving a foreign priest?” he asked.

“Pardon me?” Hiro felt an instinctive, warning twitch in his stomach. Other samurai didn’t normally mention a ronin’s status, except to insult him or start a fight.

“What if I could offer you a chance to serve a noble lord?” the samurai asked.

The question made Hiro suspicious. A masterless samurai didn’t usually have a chance to redeem his honor, or to serve another lord. A ronin remained a ronin until he died.

“Which of the daimyo has opened his ranks to ronin?” Hiro asked.

“Shogun Matsunaga needs an army to hold Kyoto against his enemies,” the guard explained. “He has issued an invitation to every samurai in the city. The shogun is generous. He rewards his warriors’ faithful service. Distinguish yourself, and he might restore your honor.

“You must provide your own weapons and armor, of course, but that—and your pledge of fealty—is all that Matsunaga-san requires. A rare opportunity for a man like you.”

Given his past experiences with Matsunaga Hisahide, Hiro suspected the “invitation” would not apply to him as to other men. However, he had no intention of mentioning this to the samurai guard.

Instead, he bowed. “Thank you. I will consider the shogun’s offer.”

“Do more than consider,” the samurai said. “Soon the Miyoshi army will march on Kyoto. Wait too long, and you will miss your chance to survive the coming war.”

“A man’s allegiance does not assure his survival in times of war,” Hiro said.

“And yet, it can ensure his death,” the samurai countered.

Hiro nodded. “I appreciate the warning.”

“Appreciation won’t save your life. Accept the shogun’s offer while you can.” The guard stepped back, and Hiro continued across the bridge.

When he reached the western bank, he started south on the path that paralleled the river. As he walked, he considered the samurai’s words.

Matsunaga Hisahide had seized control of Kyoto after the former shogun’s alleged suicide three months before. The emperor had not officially given Hisahide the shogunate, but it would happen unless another claimant seized the capital city soon. Hiro didn’t care who became the shogun, as long as Father Mateo remained alive and out of danger. Warlords had ruled Kyoto for over a century, and, though some men might argue otherwise, Hiro saw little difference between Hisahide and any other.

Hiro turned west at Shijō Road. A block from the river, he passed the entrance to Pontochō. Few customers walked the narrow alley at this early hour. The pleasure district’s bars and teahouses didn’t fill up until after dark.

A ragged beggar emerged from the shadows near the alley entrance. He wore a dingy, hooded robe with a cowl that hid his face. He started toward Hiro, head bowed and hands extended. “Sir?”

A dōshin raced across the street, brandishing his jitte. “Leave the samurai alone! Get out of here, you filthy trash!”