Flask of the Drunken Master (2 page)

Hiro felt his noodles slip away as he turned in the direction of the sound.

Half a block to the south, a samurai stood alone in the narrow street. The man wore a colorful surcoat, cut the style favored by
yoriki—
the assistant magistrates who supervised lower-ranked policemen known as
d
ō
shin
.

Hiro frowned. If a
yoriki
left his office before noon, someone was either dead or being arrested.

Possibly both.

A bald-headed monk in a stained brown robe jumped up and down in front of the
yoriki
. “Listen to me!” he yelled. “I’m a dangerous man!”

The
yoriki
stepped around the monk as a pair of
d
ō
shin
emerged from a nearby brewery. The policemen held the arms of a brewer who walked with a lowered head and sagging shoulders. Hiro couldn’t tell if the merchant’s posture suggested guilt or merely embarrassment.

Years of training told the shinobi to turn away and ignore the scene.

But Hiro’s conscience wouldn’t let him do it. He recognized the monk who hopped and danced around the
yoriki
. More importantly, he knew the brewer walking between the
d
ō
shin
.

The man was named Ginjiro—and Hiro owed him a personal debt.

Chapter 2

Father Mateo looked up the street. “Are the
d
ō
shin
arresting Ginjiro, the brewer? And did that monk say ‘murder’?”

Hiro nodded.

Father Mateo had met Ginjiro a couple of months before, while investigating a murder at the shogunate. Hiro knew the Jesuit would want to help the brewer, even though most Japanese would turn away. The priest cared more for justice than for etiquette.

Father Mateo switched to Portuguese. “We have to help him.”

Hiro appreciated the language shift. The noodle vendor didn’t need to hear this conversation.

“Not our business,” Hiro said, also in Portuguese, though he slipped his coin purse into his kimono as he spoke. He intended to help Ginjiro, too, but hoped an argument would cause the priest to show some caution. “The
yoriki
could arrest us for interfering.”

“That man is your friend,” Father Mateo said. “You cannot turn your back on his distress.”

“He owns a brewery I frequent,” Hiro said. “He’s not a friend.”

Father Mateo shook his head in disapproval. “Ginjiro helped when you needed him. I think that makes him more than just a brewer.”

The time had come to let the Jesuit win.

“Agreed,” Hiro said, “but let me lead. We cannot anger the
yoriki
.” He turned to the noodle vendor and switched back to Japanese. “Regrettably, we will not need noodles after all.”

Kenji bowed as Hiro and Father Mateo walked away.

The two men walked toward the brewery at the leisurely pace of samurai enjoying a morning stroll.

Ahead, the balding cleric shouted, “I am the murderer! Listen to me!”

The
yoriki
ignored the monk’s confession.

Hiro didn’t believe it either. The monk, whose name was Suke, spent his evenings drinking Ginjiro’s sake and mornings sleeping it off in the narrow alley beside the brewery. He might be guilty of vagrancy, but not of murder.

Suke turned to the
d
ō
shin
who held Ginjiro. “I am a dangerous man!” the monk declared.

The wooden shutters covering the brewery storefront rattled open, revealing Ginjiro’s adult daughter, Tomiko, and a tiny, gray-haired woman that Hiro recognized as Ginjiro’s wife, though at the moment he could not recall her name.

The elderly woman squinted and blinked like an owl caught in sunlight. When she saw Ginjiro between the
d
ō
shin
, she clutched at Tomiko’s sleeve and whispered something in her daughter’s ear.

Tomiko bent her head and whispered back. When the elderly woman released her sleeve, Tomiko bent down and set a pair of geta in the street. She stepped down into her sandals, approached the
yoriki
, and bowed, hands crossed before her body to show respect.

Hiro noted with approval that Tomiko did not tremble. Women rarely showed such courage when addressing the police.

Suke pushed himself between Tomiko and the
yoriki
.

“You fool!” the monk declared. “Are you deaf, or merely stupid?”

The
yoriki
turned away.

Suke drew a breath but let it out, the words unspoken, at the sight of Hiro and the priest.

“Hiro-
san
!” Suke ran toward them, long sleeves flapping like a pair of greasy wings. “He wants to arrest Ginjiro, but I’m the killer.”

The
yoriki
met Hiro’s eyes and shook his head.

Father Mateo approached and asked, “Has a murder been committed?”

Hiro wondered how the Jesuit always managed to ask the most obvious question possible.

Suke pointed to the narrow space between the brewery and the restaurant next door. “In the alley. He’s still lying where I killed him.”

The
d
ō
shin
holding Ginjiro’s arms looked around, as if for instructions. The
yoriki
made a motion for them to wait.

“Good morning, Father.” The
yoriki
bowed.

Hiro wondered whether the
yoriki
knew that “Father” was a title or whether he omitted the suffix “-
san
” to slight the priest.

“Good morning.” The Jesuit returned the bow. “I am Father Mateo
Á
vila de Santos, and this is my interpreter, Matsui Hiro.”

The
yoriki
gave Hiro a cautious look. Father Mateo’s introduction didn’t mention the translator’s rank or province of origin, indicating Hiro was ronin, a masterless samurai forced to adopt a trade.

“What happened here?” Father Mateo asked in Japanese.

The
yoriki
looked at Hiro. “Please inform your master we do not require his aid.”

Hiro translated into Portuguese, mostly to delay the priest’s response. Father Mateo’s Japanese was better than his patience.

“We know this brewer,” Father Mateo said. “He’s not a killer.”

Hiro felt a rush of pride as the Jesuit made a Japanese-style gesture toward Ginjiro. The priest remembered that samurai considered pointing rude.

The
yoriki
scowled at Hiro. “Tell your master he is misinformed.”

“
I
am not misinformed,” Suke said, “and I already told you, Ginjiro is not the killer.”

“Shut up, old man,” the
yoriki
said in a voice that sounded more bored than angry. “Don’t make me arrest you for causing trouble.”

“Arrest me for causing a murder!” Suke shrieked.

The
yoriki
raised his hands in exasperation.

“Who was murdered?” Father Mateo asked. “I see no corpse.”

“No one important,” the
yoriki
said.

Father Mateo started toward the alley. “I want to see.”

Chapter 3

The
yoriki
looked from the priest to Hiro. “Stop him!”

“Me?” Hiro shrugged. “You’re the assistant magistrate. I’m a translator.”

The
yoriki
sighed and made a dismissive gesture. “Then go with him, and make sure he touches nothing.”

Hiro raised an eyebrow at the
yoriki
’s unexpected change of mind.

“You think I don’t know who you are?” The
yoriki
lowered his voice. “Magistrate Ishimaki speaks quite highly of the priest and ronin who captured General Akechi’s killer a year ago. There cannot be two such pairs of men in Kyoto.

“If I stop the priest, I risk a reprimand. It’s safer to let him look, provided he doesn’t interfere.”

Hiro found it curious—and not entirely pleasant—that the magistrate considered their activities worth discussing. He preferred to remain unnoticed when he could.

Hiro bowed and followed the Jesuit into the alley.

The eaves of the two-story brewery overhung the roof of the neighboring restaurant, leaving the alley in constant shadow. Barrels stood in rows along the brewery wall, while stacks of boxes lined the side of the restaurant. Two people could walk abreast in the space between, but only if they knew each other well.

Beyond the end of the brewery, the alley opened into a yard that served as a communal garden and storage space for the residents of the block. The buildings fronted on different roads, but their occupants considered themselves united by the open space they shared. At the moment, the way to that open space was blocked by a
d
ō
shin
standing guard at the far end of the brewery. He stood in the gap, looking bored but alert, ready to stop the neighbors from wandering into the murder scene.

A dead man’s body lay on the ground outside the narrow door that served as a private entrance to Ginjiro’s storeroom. Customers didn’t use that door, but Hiro didn’t think this man had come for a flask of sake.

The victim lay on his stomach with his face turned toward the restaurant and his arms splayed out to his sides. The back of his head was covered with graying stubble and spattered blood, while an injury left the base of his skull misshapen and concave.

The
d
ō
shin
noticed the priest. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Hiro raised a placating hand. “The
yoriki
gave us permission to view the body.”

The
d
ō
shin
looked past Hiro as if expecting someone to follow them into the alley. When no one appeared, he said, “All right, you can look, but don’t touch anything.”

Father Mateo stopped a respectful distance from the body.

Hiro passed the Jesuit and leaned down for a closer look.

The corpse’s close-cropped hair and lack of swords indicated a commoner, and the quality of his clothes suggested a merchant. He wore a faded striped kimono, once expensive but now fraying at the seams. A patch on the back revealed a repair, but the tailor had matched the pattern well, using cloth from inside the hem. Most people would not have noticed it was mended.

“An artisan?” Father Mateo gestured to the corpse’s upturned palms. “Those calluses say he worked with his hands.”

“Yes,” Hiro said, “but the strength of his upper body and the condition of his clothing suggest a merchant. I don’t see rice dust on him … perhaps a brewer?”

“I’m impressed!” The
d
ō
shin
took a step forward, but stopped as if remembering he shouldn’t discuss the murder, or the victim.

Hiro nodded. “A brewer, then.”

The
d
ō
shin
flushed an embarrassed red. “I didn’t say—you didn’t hear me say that.”

“What killed him?” Father Mateo asked.

Hiro indicated the flattened base of the dead man’s skull. “Beaten to death, most likely with something blunt.”

A tear in the corpse’s scalp revealed shattered bone beneath. Congealed blood spattered the back of the victim’s head and shoulders, and a spray of rusty droplets covered the ground around the body as well as the base of the brewery wall.

“We agree.” The
d
ō
shin
nodded. “Killed in a fight—an accidental death.”

Hiro looked at the misty droplets around the body and on the wall. “I disagree. This man was murdered.”

The
d
ō
shin
looked suspicious. “How do you know his death was not accidental? Where were you last night when this brewery closed?”

“At home, on Marutamachi Road.” Hiro nodded at Father Mateo. “The priest can attest to my presence there. Also, the
yoriki
told us the man was murdered.”

The
d
ō
shin
waited for Father Mateo’s affirming nod before asking, “How do you know so much about his death?”

Hiro gestured to the wall. “Tiny droplets mean the blows were struck with vicious force. Above knee height, the droplets change from round to elongated, and the tails of the droplets all point upward.”

“So?” The
d
ō
shin
frowned.

“So,” Hiro said, “that means the victim lay on the ground, unconscious, when those blows occurred. Any experienced warrior would have known that.”

“I did know it,” the
d
ō
shin
said. “The
yoriki
declared the death a murder, probably unintended. He instructed us to call it an accident.”

Hiro recognized the bluff. No
d
ō
shin
would ever admit ignorance to a ronin.

Father Mateo studied the stains as if he might find the killer’s name in the pattern. “Do you think the attacker surprised him from behind? This man must not have seen his assailant coming.”

“He saw something.” Hiro gestured to the dead man’s face. “The injury to his eye preceded death.”

The right side of the corpse’s face lay against the ground. The lower side of the nose and cheek had blossomed into the reddish purple color common in the parts of a body closest to the ground at the time of death. The left side of the face was mostly pale—also normal, for the side of a body that didn’t face the ground.

However, the flesh around the man’s left eye swelled out in a dark blue lump the size of a chicken egg. Tissues didn’t bruise that way unless the victim’s heart was beating. Someone punched the dead man’s face before he died.

“That’s why we think the death, though murder, was unintended,” the
d
ō
shin
said. “Two men fight, one ends up dead. It happens fairly often.”

“Indeed,” Hiro said. “What makes you suspect Ginjiro?”