Seven Paths to Death Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1 - THE TATTOOED MAN

  Chapter 2 - EIGHT, NINE AND THREE

  Chapter 3 - THE UNDERGROUND MAN

  Chapter 4 - A DISHONORABLE WEAPON

  Chapter 5 - THE MONKEY THIEF

  Chapter 6 - SEVEN MEN, SEVEN MAPS

  Chapter 7 - BOKO’S FATE

  Chapter 8 - THE RETURN OF THE FOX

  Chapter 9 - THE CARPENTER’S SURPRISE

  Chapter 10 - WARN FIRST, THEN KILL

  Chapter 11 - MESSAGE AT THE TEMPLE

  Chapter 12 - OVER CONFIDENCE

  Chapter 13 - “I CAN TELL WHEN PEOPLE ARE LYING”

  Chapter 14 - THE SCARRED MAN

  Chapter 15 - FEEDING THE FISH

  Chapter 16 - A GAME OF CARDS

  Chapter 17 - CAPTURED

  Chapter 18 - LADY OSUNI’S COMMAND

  Chapter 19 - AT SEA

  Chapter 20 - THE LAST LINK

  Chapter 21 - AN ALLIANCE

  Chapter 22 - CRABS ARE BAD LUCK

  Chapter 23 - THE STONE SOLDIERS

  Chapter 24 - THE END OF THE PATH

  Chapter 25 - A VOICE IN THE DARKNESS

  AUTHORS’ NOTE

  “Help me turn him over.”

  Seikei wasn’t eager to touch the man, but the judge gave him a nod. Surprisingly, the body was harder to move than Seikei had thought. The man was heavy.

  The sight of his back made Seikei gasp. Every part of his skin, from his neck to his buttocks, had been tattooed. Nothing as dull as the few characters between his fingers. Spread out before them was a whole scene, like the nature prints sold in Edo for people to display in their houses. In the scene on the man’s back, a mountain towered over a valley through which a stream flowed. Seikei could see little details: trees, rock formations, pinecones, wildlife. He caught his breath as he thought of how long it must have taken for the tattoo to be completed. The precise lines were unwavering, indicating that the man had not flinched as the needles made their way through his flesh.

  The judge, as usual, saw something more. He touched a spot on the man’s skin where a footpath had been drawn. It had a series of symbols on it, like arrows pointing, but not exactly. The judge traced the path as it moved from one side of the man’s back to the other.

  “Do you have the paper?” he suddenly asked Seikei.

  MORE SAMURAI MYSTERIES FROM Dorothy & Thomas Hoobler

  The Ghost in The Tokaido Inn AN EDGAR AWARD FINALIST

  The Demon in the Teahouse

  In Darkness, Death WINNER OF THE EDGAR AWARD

  The Sword that Cut the Burning Grass

  A Samurai Never Fears Death

  SLEUTH PUFFIN

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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  Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published in the United States of America by Philomel Books,

  a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2008

  This Sleuth edition published by Puffin Books,

  a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2009

  Copyright © Dorothy and Thomas Hoobler, 2008

  All rights reserved

  THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE PHILOMEL BOOKS EDITION AS FOLLOWS: Hoobler, Dorothy.

  Seven paths to death : a samurai mystery / Dorothy and Thomas Hoobler. p. cm.

  Summary: Samurai Seikei and Judge Ooka, his foster-father, seek seven men who have seven maps on their backs in order to locate a cache of dangerous weapons before they fall into the wrong hands.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-17655-9

  1. Japan—History—Tokugawa period, 1600-1868—Juvenile fiction.

  [1. Japan—History—Tokugawa period, 1600-1868—Fiction. 2. Samurai—Fiction.

  3. Maps—Fiction. 4. Weapons—Fiction. 5. Tattooing—Fiction. 6. Mystery and detective stories.]

  I. Hoobler, Thomas. II. Title.

  PZ7.H76227Sev 2008 [Fic]—dc22 2007042092

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To our agent, Al Zuckerman, who has always believed in our work

  PROLOGUE

  It was supposed to be a joyous day. Each spring the villagers awakened the Ta No Kami, the spirit of the rice, with dancing and song. The rapid booming of drums announced the appearance of Amaterasu, the sun goddess. When her beams shone across the dark waters of the rice paddies, the young girls of the village raised their voices in welcome. Their older sisters began to dance across the wooden platforms that crisscrossed the shallow water. Another group of young people waited for a signal from the village chief. The rice seedlings that they held would then be transplanted into the paddies, marking the beginning of this year’s crop.

  The kami of the rice, who had been asleep all winter, now would awaken to these pleasant sounds. In a benevolent mood, he would repay the villagers with a plentiful harvest. A quantity of the very best rice from last year had been saved and would be cooked and eaten at today’s feast, which all would share.

  No one had ever actually seen the rice spirit, but neither did anyone doubt his existence. For clearly it was a great and powerful force that visited the rice paddies, causing the plants to grow and bringing prosperity—and life itself—to the village year after year.

  But this year, as the ceremony was reaching its height, someone saw a ripple in the water, some distance from where the seedlings were about to be planted. A boy pointed to the spot and cried out, but his mother hushed him. Someone else noticed, but thought it was only a carp that had somehow gotten into the paddy.

  Then it emerged from the water, and everyone saw. The music slowed, then stopped, and the dancers froze. A village elder with poor eyesight motioned furiously for them to begin again, thinking that this must be a visible manifestation of Ta No Kami. An unparalleled honor for the village. When the news spread, a shrine would have to be built. Pilgrims would travel here to see the place where Ta No Kami had . . .

  The spirit seemed to be trying to stand, but, very un-spirit-like, it was having trouble. As he tumbled forward, the sun shone on his back, illuminating a rainbow of colors. As the villagers saw it, a murmur spread through the crowd.

  Now on his hands and knees, the kami splashed about, trying to rise again. Two of the elders exchanged glances. Perhaps someone should help him? No, that would be . . . blasphemous.

  The kami got to his feet and took a few steps forward, clumsily, like a baby. The sun illuminated the front of his body now, and the villagers could see something that looked very much like blood. But that was unthinkable, unless it was meant to be a bad omen.

  A very bad
omen.

  There was only one other explanation. One of the elders took a breath and stepped into the rice paddy, thinking that if he were wrong, he would be struck dead. That would not be so bad, because he had already lived a long time. Besides, death was certain to be swift.

  But nothing happened. Ankle deep in the water of the paddy, the elder turned and said, “Come and help me. If it is only a man, we cannot let him die in the rice field.” Everyone saw the truth of this. Death brought pollution to the place where it occurred. Even Buddhist monks would have to work hard to make the paddy safe for planting again. Perhaps it could not be used this year at all.

  The kami—or man, for that is what he turned out to be after all—had fallen again, and was lying with his face down, motionless. “Lift him up! Lift him up!” the elder called to the others. “He must not die here.”

  There was no lack of helpers. Now that others saw it was safe to enter the paddy, many followed. As they pulled the fallen man from the muddy water, they saw that he was bleeding from several gashes in his chest and arms. But his back was what caused the greatest surprise among those who picked him up. They had seen tattoos before, but none as elaborate and colorful as the one this man had. It was almost enough to make them think he was, after all, a visitor sent from heaven to deliver some strange and wonderful message—one that only a very wise man could decipher.

  1

  THE TATTOOED MAN

  It is fortunate,” Seikei said, “that you were visiting this province.”

  His foster father, Judge Ooka, gave a modest smile. The two of them were on horseback, riding slowly because the road here was so seldom used that it was strewn with loose stones and branches. “Fortunate for whom?” the judge asked.

  “Well . . .” Seikei hesitated, sensing that the judge was testing his ability to reason. “The person who was killed?” That sounded wrong as soon as he said it.

  “We do not know yet if he was killed,” the judge pointed out. “The only information we have is that a man was attacked. A serious attack evidently, but perhaps he is still alive. And if he does prove to be dead, I can hardly think him fortunate, whether or not we arrive.”

  “Then you will find out who killed him.”

  “Perhaps so.”

  “I am sure you will, Father. The provincial governor told us it was a small village, fewer than a hundred people.”

  “Are you suggesting that those are the only suspects?”

  “It seems likely, doesn’t it? There seem to be no other people living nearby.” Seikei motioned to the woods and mountains that flanked the lonely road.

  “On the other hand,” the judge reasoned, “this incident will cause quite severe hardship for all the villagers. It disrupted their rice-planting ceremony, and they fear it will drive away the Ta No Kami. The rice crop will then fail, and they will go hungry, even starve. Who among them would desire such misery?”

  “That is why the governor asked you to solve the crime,” said Seikei. After a moment’s thought, he added, “So it is the villagers who are fortunate you were visiting the area.”

  “I hope I can justify your confidence,” said the judge.

  Seikei had no doubt he would. Throughout Japan, the judge was well known for his uncanny ability to solve the most difficult crimes. The shogun himself had placed the judge in charge of keeping order in Edo, the capital of the bakufu, the samurai government. Two years ago, through good fortune, Seikei had helped the judge solve the mystery of a stolen jewel. That had allowed Seikei to achieve his lifelong dream of becoming a samurai. His original father had been a tea merchant, and in the ordinary course of things that would have been Seikei’s destiny as well. But the judge, seeing Seikei’s qualities, had adopted him and given him the training that the son of a samurai family should have.

  Seikei and the judge had traveled here, to a province in the north, on a mission for the shogun. The judge was to examine the records of the local rice tax revenues, which were unusually low. Seikei knew that the real reason the judge wanted to come here was that the coastal waters were full of shirao—tiny fish that were netted and then eaten while still alive. The judge was a connoisseur of fine food, as anyone seeing his stocky frame could guess.

  The judge had found the shirao delicious. So, as a courtesy to the local governor, he had agreed to investigate the mysterious attack on a man during the spring rice-planting festival in an outlying village.

  It was truly not much of a village, Seikei thought as they saw it from the crest of a hill. It was more like a collection of ramshackle straw-roofed huts that looked as if they had been built close to each other by accident. He sensed that people were watching them from the dark interiors of the huts. A small boy ran across the road in front of them as if he were fleeing demons. The people here probably saw very few strangers, Seikei thought. Any samurai who passed through were likely to be ronin, masterless warriors who preyed on the farmers more often than they protected them.

  A man suddenly emerged from the house where the little boy had gone. He was quite old, and rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder to steady himself. A smile showed only two teeth. With difficulty, he approached and bowed deeply before the judge.

  Dismounting more easily than anyone might have thought possible, given his rotund belly, the judge returned the bow. Seikei could see on the old man’s face the surprise such a courteous gesture caused—especially coming from a samurai.

  When the judge announced his name, the old man’s eyes widened still further. Even here, thought Seikei, they have heard of Judge Ooka.

  “We are honored,” said the man, who gave his name only as Higo. In villages like this, a single name was sufficient. It was clear he was the village headman. “Surely you have not come all the way from Edo.”

  “No,” said the judge. “My son and I were here on business.”

  “Then we will not waste your valuable time,” said Higo. “But I have forgotten my manners. Would you like some tea to refresh yourself?”

  “After we look at the man who was attacked,” said the judge. “If he is still alive,” he added.

  “He is breathing,” said Higo, nodding. “But that is the only sign of life.”

  The villagers had carried the man to a small hut that was otherwise used for storage. No one wanted to have a stranger die in their house, thought Seikei. If so they would have to pay a monk to perform the rites of purification. Still, someone had covered the man’s wounds with cloths and provided a blanket to keep him warm. No doubt there were herbs under the cloths, for even a small village would have someone who knew medicine.

  Seikei had to look closely before he could see the man’s chest move up and down. It didn’t appear that he would be breathing much longer. The judge told Seikei to roll up the bamboo shade that covered the window. Then he leaned over and lifted one of the man’s hands. He motioned Seikei to look. At first, the only thing Seikei noticed was that the top joint on his little finger was missing. There were also a few cuts, no doubt the result of a struggle with his attacker. Then the judge spread the man’s fingers. On the folds between each were faint marks—old tattoos. They formed three characters: ya-ku-za, the symbols for the numbers eight, nine and three.

  What could that mean? Seikei looked at the judge, who had a little smile on his face but did not offer an explanation.

  Higo, the village headman, had also remained silent till now. But he seemed to feel that there was something more important to show the judge. He removed the blanket and said to Seikei, “Help me turn him over.”

  Seikei wasn’t eager to touch the man, but the judge gave him a nod. Surprisingly, the body was harder to move than Seikei had thought. The man was heavy.

  The sight of his back made Seikei gasp. Every part of his skin, from his neck to his buttocks, had been tattooed. Nothing as dull as the few characters between his fingers. Spread out before them was a whole scene, like the nature prints sold in Edo for people to display in their houses. In the scene on the man�
�s back, a mountain towered over a valley through which a stream flowed. Seikei could see little details: trees, rock formations, pinecones, wildlife. He caught his breath as he thought of how long it must have taken for the tattoo to be completed. The precise lines were unwavering, indicating that the man had not flinched as the needles made their way through his flesh.

  The judge, as usual, saw something more. He touched a spot on the man’s skin where a footpath had been drawn. It had a series of symbols on it, like arrows pointing, but not exactly. The judge traced the path as it moved from one side of the man’s back to the other.

  “Do you have paper?” he suddenly asked Seikei.

  He did. As the judge knew well, Michiko, the daughter of a papermaker, regularly sent Seikei gifts of fine writing paper. She was grateful that Seikei had once spoken up to save her father from a false accusation. That incident had actually brought Seikei good fortune, for it was then that the judge had first noticed him.

  The village headman showed Seikei where to find water, and he mixed some fresh ink with the kit he always carried. “I have no colors,” he told the judge. “Only black.” The tattoo itself was brilliantly colored.

  “That will have to do,” said the judge. “Make a copy of this scene as carefully as you can. Be sure, especially along the path, to copy exactly what is there.”

  As Seikei set to work, the judge and the headman went outside. Seikei tried to concentrate on his drawing, but questions kept popping into his head. What had caused the judge to think that this tattoo was important? Seikei had seen tattoos before, but they were almost always on the bodies of men who worked at “naked jobs”—tasks for which they shed most of their clothing. Kago-bearers decorated their bodies this way; so did carpenters, gardeners, messengers and even firemen. But farmers never did. They led simple lives. A tattoo would seem merely like a wasted expense. Anyone displaying such an elaborate design on his body would have stood out in an isolated place like this.