Flask of the Drunken Master (20 page)

Hiro decided to leave before the conversation tested his patience beyond its limits. Just before he turned away, loud knocking echoed through the house.

Gato startled and raced away.

Father Mateo looked at Luis. “Do you expect a visitor?”

“No one visits me.” The merchant started toward his room. “All this samurai nonsense wears me out. I need a nap.”

Ana appeared in the kitchen door and started across the room.

“Don’t worry, Ana, I’ll answer it,” Father Mateo said, but the housekeeper hurried past him.

As she entered the foyer, she looked back over her shoulder. “Hm. Not as long as I’m here and able.”

Father Mateo looked resigned.

Moments later, Ana led Tomiko into the
oe
.

Ginjiro’s daughter bowed to Hiro and then to Father Mateo. A woven basket shook in her trembling hands.

“Matsui-
san
,” Tomiko said, “I apologize for disturbing you at home.”

“It’s quite all right,” Father Mateo said. “Would you like some tea?”

Tomiko shook her head. “Thank you, but there is no time. Magistrate Ishimaki has ordered my father whipped this afternoon.”

“Today?” Father Mateo asked. “He granted us four days to investigate.”

Tomiko hung her head. “He changed his mind.”

“How do you know this?” Hiro asked.

“I went to the prison to take my father food. I found him tied to a stake in the yard. The guards said Magistrate Ishimaki ordered an interrogation. Worse, the magistrate has changed his mind about my father’s trial. He will hear the murder charge tomorrow.”

“That makes no sense,” Father Mateo said. “We have four days. He gave his word.”

Hiro ignored the Jesuit. “Did you ask what changed the magistrate’s mind?”

Tomiko shook her head. “I didn’t think … I turned and ran straight here. I didn’t know what else to do. The magistrate won’t listen to me the way he would a man. I hoped…”

She fell silent. Hiro saw the plea in her frightened eyes.

So did Father Mateo. “We’ll go at once,” the Jesuit said.

“Don’t let them kill him. Please.” Tomiko fought back tears.

Hiro wanted to reassure the girl but found he respected her too much to offer false assurances. “I cannot promise, but we’ll do our best.”

Chapter 39

“I don’t understand why Magistrate Ishimaki changed his mind,” Father Mateo said as he and Hiro hurried toward the prison.

“Magistrates change their minds for many reasons,” Hiro said. “We need to hurry, not to speculate.”

A
d
ō
shin
stopped them at the prison gates.

“What is your business here?” he asked.

“We wish to see a prisoner,” Hiro said. “The brewer, Ginjiro.”

“Come back later,” the
d
ō
shin
said. “You cannot see him now.”

Hiro looked past the
d
ō
shin
and saw Ginjiro tied to one of the whipping posts in the compound yard. The brewer was naked except for a loincloth. Shackles bound his hands to the top of the post. His body drooped and dark red stains traced jagged lines along his back.

No one stood nearby, suggesting a break in the interrogation.

“The questioning seems to be finished,” Father Mateo said.

Hiro appreciated the Jesuit’s use of “questioning” rather than “whipping” or “torture.” The priest objected to violent punishments, deserved or not, but antagonizing the
d
ō
shin
now would not advance their cause.

The
d
ō
shin
glanced over his shoulder as if confirming the Jesuit’s words. “He wouldn’t confess. We’re giving him time to reconsider his lack of cooperation.”

“An innocent man has nothing to confess,” the Jesuit said. “Besides, the magistrate suspended the brewer’s case.”

“He unsuspended it this morning,” the
d
ō
shin
said. “New evidence changed his mind.”

“What kind of new evidence?” Father Mateo asked.

“How would I know?” The
d
ō
shin
shrugged. “The magistrate doesn’t share his thoughts with me. I overheard the
yoriki
telling the prisoner.”

Hiro squared his shoulders and laid a hand on the hilt of his sword. “We will speak with Ginjiro now. You have no authority to refuse the shogun’s special investigators.”

“You’re…” The
d
ō
shin
bowed without finishing the statement. “A thousand apologies, noble sir. Of course you may enter at once.” He stepped aside and bowed again as Hiro stalked into the prison yard.

Father Mateo followed, though without the shinobi’s swagger.

When they left the guard behind, Father Mateo leaned toward Hiro and whispered in Portuguese, “What will happen when he learns we’re not the shogun’s men?”

“We’ll be gone before that happens,” Hiro whispered back.

Father Mateo didn’t look reassured.

The brewer stood before the post, head down and trembling slightly. The lines on his back looked darker and angrier, welts and bruises highlighted by streaks of blood.

Hiro smelled the salty scents of human blood and sweat. The odors caused an unexpected ache of sympathy, which made him pause—never once had he felt empathy for the guilty.

Although Ginjiro’s innocence remained an open question, Hiro found himself inclined to trust his instincts.

The brewer rested his forehead against the post, eyes shut and lips drawn tight against the pain. He didn’t look up as Hiro and Father Mateo approached, though sudden tension in his back revealed he heard their footsteps.

“Ginjiro, listen,” Hiro whispered. “Don’t reveal you know us.”

The brewer winced. “Tell me that my daughter isn’t with you.”

“No,” Hiro said, “but she knows what happened. She’s the one who told us we should come.”

Ginjiro sighed. “She must not ever come here again.”

“Why did they do this?” Father Mateo asked. “What made them beat you?”

“The
yoriki
claims I lied about killing Chikao,” Ginjiro said. “He demanded a confession. I wouldn’t give it.”

“Did you kill Chikao?” Hiro asked.

“Of course he didn’t!” Father Mateo said.

Ginjiro tilted his head, trying to look Hiro in the eye. “I did not, but I did lie to the
yoriki
.”

“Tell us,” Hiro said. “We need the truth, and we need it now.”

Ginjiro sighed again and nodded. “I might as well tell you, now that the magistrate knows.

“A month ago, or a little more, Chikao and Ren made an offer to buy my brewery. They wanted a better location, and they thought, if I sold them mine, the guild would approve their application on the spot. They wanted to buy my recipes, too, the entire business.

“I told them I didn’t want to sell. They left, and then, a few days later, Chikao returned alone. He tried again to make me sell. When I refused, he asked me to let Tomiko marry his son. As if I would consider such a thing…”

Ginjiro drew a deep, slow breath and exhaled with a gingerness that spoke of real pain.

“How did that provoke a beating?” Father Mateo asked.

Hiro frowned at the priest. “He hasn’t finished.”

The brewer closed his eyes and said, “I refused the offer and told Chikao I would never let my daughter wed his son.

“But Chikao and Ren would not accept my refusal. They came again—the last time, just three days before Chikao died. They asked for Tomiko as well as the shop. I told Chikao if he didn’t stop, I would withdraw my support for their application to join the brewers’ guild, and also do everything in my power to ensure the
za
refused them membership.

“I lost my temper. I made a foolish threat—but I didn’t mean it. Not the way it sounded, anyway.”

“How did Chikao respond?” Hiro asked.

“He swore to make me change my mind.” Ginjiro looked at the ground. “I told him I would like to see him try.”

“Did he fight you?” Hiro asked.

“No.” Ginjiro shook his head. “He made an excuse and left.”

“Why didn’t you explain all this before?” Father Mateo asked.

“I didn’t think it really made a difference,” Ginjiro said. “I didn’t kill Chikao. We argued, spoke unpleasant words. Men argue with each other all the time.”

“Perhaps,” Hiro said, “but most men’s arguments do not end in murder.”

Chapter 40

“How did the magistrate learn about your problems with Chikao?” Father Mateo asked.

“Kaoru told him,” the brewer said, though Hiro had already guessed the answer.

“You there!” A man emerged from the prison house and hurried toward them. The hooked
jitte
in his hand identified him as a
d
ō
shin
, and he wore a vibrant, patterned surcoat over dark
hakama
.

“What do you think you’re doing?” the
d
ō
shin
demanded as he reached them. “You cannot speak with the prisoner now.”

Hiro gestured to Father Mateo. “This man is a priest.”

“The brewer worships the foreign god?” The
d
ō
shin
frowned at Ginjiro. “Is this true?”

Ginjiro bowed his head. “I worship the foreigners’ god, and Amida Buddha, and also follow the Shinto way.”

The answer, though contrary to the truth and Father Mateo’s theology, didn’t sound abnormal. Many Japanese hedged their bets by worshipping all available deities. Hiro was glad the brewer had the presence of mind to go along with the lie.

The
d
ō
shin
scratched his head. “I don’t remember the magistrate granting permission for a priest…”

He trailed off, unable to reconcile his respect for religious practices with his duty to follow orders.

Just when Hiro thought the ruse might work, the
d
ō
shin
said, “I can’t allow it. The
yoriki
could have me whipped for letting you interrupt an interrogation.”

“This man has had enough for one day,” Father Mateo said. “God restricts the maximum number of lashes a man can receive at once.”

“Truly?” Curiosity overcame concern. “How many does your god allow?”

“Forty,” Father Mateo said. “No more, regardless of his crime.”

The
d
ō
shin
looked at Ginjiro. “Then he still has a few to go.”

“It is a maximum, not a goal.” The Jesuit frowned, displeased his plan had failed.

Hiro wondered whether the rule existed or whether the priest had made it up to reduce Ginjiro’s punishment.

“Do you intend to beat this man again?” Father Mateo demanded.

“That depends,” the
d
ō
shin
said, “on whether he confesses.”

“What if he isn’t guilty?” Father Mateo asked. “Surely you wouldn’t expect an innocent man to confess a crime.”

“The Kyoto police do not arrest innocent men,” the
d
ō
shin
said. “If he doesn’t confess before his trial, or during it, the
yoriki
will bring him here and press him until he does.”

Father Mateo looked at Hiro and switched to Portuguese. “Does he mean they intend to place him beneath a stone? They do this in my country, too. It’s almost always fatal.”

Hiro took a moment to parse the question. The lack of proper names helped keep the conversation secret but made the Jesuit harder to understand.

“Yes,” he replied in the Jesuit’s tongue, “and they will increase the weight of the stones until he confesses or dies.”

Hiro switched to Japanese and told the
d
ō
shin
, “The foreigner does not speak our language well.”

The
d
ō
shin
nodded, neither surprised nor offended.

“May I speak with you privately?” Hiro asked the
d
ō
shin
.

They walked a few steps away. As Hiro hoped, Father Mateo remained at Ginjiro’s side.

The shinobi lowered his voice as if to keep the priest from overhearing. “Will the magistrate hear this case tomorrow? And press him immediately afterward?”

“That’s what I heard,” the
d
ō
shin
said, “assuming the brewer doesn’t confess to the magistrate during the hearing. Why do you care? You can’t observe the pressing.”

“On the contrary,” Hiro said, “we must. The foreign god has different rules than Japanese kami do. If one of his worshippers dies with a lie on his soul, the foreign god will send that man to the hell of everburning flames. The priest must witness the brewer’s confession and confirm he died an honest death.”

“How can a priest ensure a man is honest?” the
d
ō
shin
asked.

“How would I know?” Hiro said. “I’m a translator and scribe. I know his rituals. I don’t share his faith.”

“I don’t think the
yoriki
will allow it,” the
d
ō
shin
said. “You’ll have to get the magistrate’s permission.”

“We will obtain permission.” Hiro nodded, the gesture just shy of a bow. “Thank you. Now we will leave, to save you trouble.”

The
d
ō
shin
bowed.

Hiro returned to Ginjiro and whispered, “If you’re guilty, confess at once.”

“I’m innocent.” The brewer spoke so quietly that Hiro had to strain to hear the words. “I swear I am.”

*   *   *

After returning home with Father Mateo, Hiro retrieved a towel and headed out for a soak at the bathhouse.

An unfamiliar samurai stood guard at the eastern end of the Kamo River bridge. His lamellar armor bore the Matsunaga crest. His swords hung sheathed at his waist, and he carried an arquebus in his arms. He gripped the firearm like a sword, with the muzzle held much higher than the stock.