“That I can do.”
Reiko darted around the corner of the guest quarters and crouched among some bushes. Her heart fluttered with exhilaration because she’d made her escape. But where should she go first? How long before the guards discovered she was gone?
Thankful for her fur-lined boots, Reiko trudged through a snowy garden. Fukuyama Castle seemed bigger than it had yesterday, with more buildings. Her heart sank at the amount of ground she had to search for Masahiro.
If he was here at all.
If he was still alive.
Reiko shut those thoughts out of her mind. As she skirted the palace, she heard male voices coming toward her. She ducked behind a tall stone lantern. Two guards passed her. She saw others patrolling everywhere. Security was even tighter here than in Edo Castle. Eventually she would run smack into someone who would realize she wasn’t one of the maids. She slipped through a gate and found herself in a compound of dingy outbuildings.
Some were storehouses with fireproof plaster walls, iron doors, and tile roofs. Smoke and food odors identified others as kitchens. Reiko heard voices shouting over a din of chopping, banging, and sizzling inside. Servants carried in coal, came out and dumped slops. Reiko hurried past them, face averted. She darted out another gate.
An uproar of barking startled her. Four huge, fierce dogs charged at her, their teeth bared. Reiko screamed and flung up her arms in self-defense.
A voice called a command in Ezo language. The dogs halted close to Reiko, their eyes glaring, hackles bristling, and growls thrumming, but didn’t attack. Reiko looked beyond them and saw an Ezo woman standing outside an open shed that contained sleds and harnesses. She was the concubine Reiko had tried to protect from Lady Matsumae.
She spoke to the dogs, who turned and trotted to her, docile and tame as pets. She rubbed them behind their ears and smiled at Reiko in a shy but friendly fashion. Understanding leaped across the barrier of experience and culture that separated them. Reiko had stood up for her, and she wanted to return the favor. Reiko smiled, too. Here was an ally more trustworthy than Lilac. But how could Reiko communicate what she needed?
The Ezo woman looked around furtively, as if to check whether anyone was observing them. She beckoned to Reiko. “Come,” she whispered in Japanese.
Chapter Eight
Gizaemon sent men to fetch the barbarians and told Sano and Hirata, “You can interrogate them in the trade ceremony room.”
This was a chamber where Lord Matsumae and his officials received the Ezo when they made their yearly visits to Fukuyama Castle. Its décor told Hirata that the ceremony had evolved from a mere striking of deals into a demonstration of Japanese supremacy and Ezo submission. The chamber was furnished with hanging curtains that bore huge Matsumae crests and a display of armor, lances, guns, and cannons.
“Doesn’t hurt to show them who’s in charge,” Gizaemon said.
Sano said, “I’ll need my interpreter.”
“I speak Ezo language. I’ll translate for you.”
“I’d rather use my own man,” Sano said.
Hirata knew he wanted someone he could trust more than the kin of the madman who was holding them captive. And he had other reasons to distrust Gizaemon besides his association with Lord Matsumae.
“Suit yourself.” Gizaemon’s indifference said he didn’t think much of Sano’s chances of solving the crime no matter what interpreter he used.
The Rat was summoned. He came wearing a look of doleful resentment.
“Have a seat,” Gizaemon said, pointing Sano and Hirata to the dais.
The guards brought the seven barbarians who’d sheltered Sano’s party. Hirata was disconcerted by the change in them. Instead of their animal skins they wore silk robes printed with Chinese designs, apparently intended as ritual costume. They held hands like children and walked with a hunched-over, mincing gait. Hirata supposed this protocol was meant to degrade them. He felt a stab of outrage on behalf of the old Ezo chieftain Awetok, who bore his humbling with stoic dignity. Awetok glanced at Hirata, and although his face showed no recognition, Hirata sensed the same affinity between them.
The Ezo knelt on the lowest level of the multitiered floor, emphasizing their inferiority. Seated in the position that symbolized Japanese power, Hirata gazed at the man he’d marked as his destiny, his teacher, across an even wider separation of rank and culture than ever.
“Tell them to recite their names and titles,” Gizaemon ordered the Rat. “That’s standard procedure.”
The Rat obeyed; the Ezo men spoke, and he translated. The chieftain’s companions turned out to be men from his village. The strong one with the blue bead necklace was named Urahenka. He behaved as docilely as the rest, but Hirata read resentment in his fierce eyes, the clench of his jaw.
“I’d like to speak to them in private,” Sano said to Gizaemon. “Would you and your men wait outside?”
“Our duty is to watch you,” Gizaemon said. “And after yesterday, you bear watching.”
Hirata could tell how little Sano liked being treated like a dog on a leash, forced to conduct the investigation on the terms of a madman, when all he wanted was to find his son. But Sano bowed to the Ezo and said, “Greetings. Your presence is appreciated.” Hirata knew he was trying to make up for their poor treatment, in the hope of willing rather than forced cooperation. “I am investigating the murder of Tekare, who was Lord Matsumae’s mistress. I need you to answer some questions.”
After the Rat translated, the chieftain’s shrewd glance flicked from Sano and Hirata to the Matsumae guards stationed around the room. Awetok clearly understood that the newcomers were under some kind of duress even if he didn’t know the details. He spoke, his voice steady. “As you wish,” the Rat said, and the process of questions and translations, answers and more translations, began.
“Did you know Tekare?” Sano asked.
Nods all around. The chieftain said, “She was from our village.”
“Why were you in town when Tekare was murdered? Wasn’t trade season already over by then?”
“We came to rescue her.”
“Rescue her?” Sano frowned in the same puzzlement that Hirata felt. “From what?”
While the chieftain spoke at length, Hirata sensed anger behind his calm tone, building inside the other barbarians. “Lord Matsumae stole Tekare from us. He turned her into a slave for his pleasure. As if it isn’t enough that he forces us to sell our goods to his clan for ridiculously low prices, he helps himself to our women.”
Offense darkened Gizaemon’s face. He rapped out an order to Awetok. The Rat said, “He told him, ‘Watch your mouth. Any more criticism of Lord Matsumae, and you’ll be beaten.’”
“Tell him he has my permission to speak frankly,” Sano said. As the Rat conveyed his words, Sano turned to Gizaemon. “Whether or not you approve of my investigation, Lord Matsumae wants it. It may be his best chance of regaining his sanity. Your interfering won’t help him.” Sano paused for an instant. “Or maybe it’s not him that you’re trying to help?”
“Of course it is,” Gizaemon said, annoyed. “I’ve served him since he was born.”
But people didn’t stand in the way of justice unless they had something to lose, Hirata knew from years of detective experience. And Gizaemon had already given him and Sano enough reason to be suspicious of him. They should have a little talk with him later.
“Tekare was only one of many Ezo women who were mistresses to Japanese men,” Sano reminded the chieftain. “Why did you want to rescue her in particular?”
“She was the shamaness of our village.”
Sano leaned forward, intrigued by this new fact about the murder victim. Hirata’s own interest quickened at the introduction of Ezo spiritual tradition, which might relate to the mystic martial arts and his own quest. “What does a shamaness do?” Sano asked.
“She diagnoses and cures diseases with potions, rituals, and exorcisms. She’s our conduit between the spirit world and the human
world. Without her, we cannot call upon the spirits to help us and protect us. So you can understand why we want her back.”
Apparently Lord Matsumae had worsened the hostilities between the Ezo and the Japanese by taking a most important person from her tribe as his sex slave.
“Aside from being important to the village,” Sano said, “what kind of person was Tekare?”
“She was a strong, capable woman.”
Even though Hirata didn’t know what Awetok was saying until it was translated, he sensed that Awetok was deliberately speaking of the dead in the most general, uncritical terms. He also perceived the mental energy that the chieftain gave off while Sano asked questions.
“What did you think of her?” Sano said.
“I thought very highly of her abilities. She was the most powerful shamaness I’ve seen in my lifetime.”
“And you?” Sano addressed the other men.
They echoed the chieftain’s opinion. Evasions all around, Hirata noted. Either they couldn’t think for themselves, they didn’t want to contradict their leader, or they hadn’t cared for the woman.
Sano then asked each man what relation he had to her. The chieftain was her uncle by marriage, one man her brother-in-law, another her cousin. The Ezo village evidently consisted of several interrelated families. Urahenka identified himself as her husband. Well, well, Hirata thought as the blue-beaded strongman rose to the top of the hierarchy of Ezo suspects.
“Were you on good terms with Tekare?” Sano asked him.
Urahenka spoke with bitter resentment. “We were on no terms at all. I hadn’t seen her in almost three years. Not since she was taken from me.”
Hirata imagined how would it be to have his own wife stolen and forced to be somebody else’s mistress. He felt a twinge of guilt because he’d neglected Midori while studying martial arts. He missed his sweet, loyal wife, and he sympathized with Urahenka in spite of himself.
“Was your marriage satisfactory before she was taken?” Sano asked.
“Yes. I loved her. I wanted her back. But now she’s gone. I’ll never see her again in this life.”
He emphasized his words by pounding on his heart, grasping the air with his hands, then letting them drop while his shoulders sagged in grief. The language barrier and his foreignness made gauging his truthfulness difficult. Hirata focused on the field of mental energy that surrounded him. It hummed with contradictory vibrations.
“Where were you the night Tekare died?” Sano asked.
Urahenka glared at Sano. “Do you mean, did I kill her?”
Gizaemon barked out a command in Ezo language, obviously ordering Urahenka to answer, not ask questions.
“I didn’t!” Urahenka balled his fists, more angry at the tacit accusation than fearful of punishment.
“That’s what he’s been saying all along,” Gizaemon muttered. “That’s what they’ve all been saying.”
“Maybe it’s true,” Sano said, his tone even. He addressed the young barbarian: “If you expect me to believe you’re innocent, then tell me where you were the night of the murder.”
“I was at the camp.”
When asked individually, each Ezo, including the chieftain, said they’d all been at their camp, together, the whole night.
“That alibi’s worth nothing,” Gizaemon said disdainfully. “The bastards always lie for each other.”
Chieftain Awetok raised his hand. Sano nodded permission for him to speak. “The Matsumae soldiers were guarding our camp. We couldn’t have left without them knowing. We were there. Ask them.”
Sano turned a questioning look on Gizaemon.
“Hard to keep track of the bastards. They move through the forest like ghosts, there one moment, gone the next,” Gizaemon said. “Could have sneaked out and back in, nobody the wiser.”
Urahenka shouted angry words. Gizaemon snapped at him.
“‘If you want to find out who killed Tekare, you’re looking at the wrong people,’” the Rat interpreted. “‘Don’t speak until you’re spoken to.’”
Sano’s chest swelled with a breath of vexation. Hirata could tell how tired he was of Gizaemon getting between him and the suspects, how helpless he felt to do anything about it while a prisoner, and how desperate he was to look for his son instead of indulging a madman. But when Sano addressed Urahenka, his manner was patient, controlled.
“Which people do you suggest I look at?”
“Japanese!”
Nobody needed the Rat to translate that. Sano said, “But Tekare was shot with a spring-bow, an Ezo hunting weapon.”
“It was a trick by a Japanese. To make us look like we killed her.”
Urahenka let loose a stream of imprecations. Gizaemon stalked over to him and shouted at him.
“He’s insulting the Matsumae clan,” the Rat explained. His feral eyes shone with nervousness. “Gizaemon is telling him to watch his mouth.”
Chieftain Awetok spoke words of caution that Urahenka ignored. Urahenka sprang to his feet. He and Gizaemon yelled into each other’s faces.
“‘You Japanese want to stamp us out. You started by killing my wife, and you won’t stop until we’re all gone and you can take over our land,’” the Rat interpreted. “‘Show some respect, you animal, or you’ll be the next to die.’”
The other men stood, rallying around Urahenka, their furious voices joining his. Hirata surmised that they belonged to a faction of Ezo that wanted to fight Japanese domination. As they argued with Gizaemon, he shoved them. They shoved back. The guards went rushing to support Gizaemon, swords drawn.
Dismay gripped Hirata because he realized that a war could start here, in this very room. Sano leaped up and shouted, “Stop! Everyone back off!” Hirata called upon the mystical power within himself. A strong, calming energy flowed from him over Gizaemon, the guards, and the barbarians. Chieftain Awetok uttered a warning. His lips kept moving after the sound from them stopped. He flexed his hand, as though casting a spell.
Later Hirata couldn’t have said which tactic had worked, or whether all of them together had. But the guards sheathed their weapons and retreated. Urahenka and the other Ezo men dropped to their knees. Gizaemon squatted, surly but tamed, near the dais. All the combatants looked relieved but confused; they didn’t know what had happened, either. But the tension had been diffused.
As Sano and Hirata resumed their seats, Hirata sent Chieftain Awetok a curious gaze. The chieftain sat silent and impassive, but Hirata detected a sly glint in his eye. Hirata felt more strongly than ever that the old Ezo man possessed abilities that he couldn’t fathom but were far beyond his own, and knew things Hirata needed to know.
“Just a few more questions,” Sano said. He fixed his solemn attention on the Ezo, measuring each man. “Did you kill Tekare?”
Each shook his head and said a word that clearly meant “No.” Their gazes met Sano’s as the chieftain spoke. “We are innocent.”
Sano gave no hint of whether he believed them, although Gizaemon snorted. “Then who do you think did?”
Chieftain Awetok answered. The other Ezo nodded. “If I were you, I would talk to a Japanese named Daigoro. He’s a gold merchant who lives in Fukuyama City. He’s known for mistreating our women.”
This wasn’t the first time Hirata had seen people point the finger toward others and shift suspicion away from themselves. But at least he and Sano had a new lead to follow. And Hirata was inclined to believe that the Ezo were innocent. He realized he’d chosen sides with the barbarians against his own Japanese countrymen.
“Thank you for your assistance,” Sano said, as courteous as if the Ezo had given it voluntarily.
Chieftain Awetok spoke a question. Gizaemon said, “Of all the nerve. The bastard is asking you for a favor, Honorable Chamberlain.”
With an obvious effort, Sano ignored Gizaemon. “What is it you want?”
“A proper funeral for Tekare, according to the traditions of our people. Without one, her spirit can’t cross over to
the realm of the dead. It lingers in this world, haunting Lord Matsumae.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Sano told the chieftain.
Awetok bowed in thanks. Once more Hirata felt the shape and texture of the chieftain’s mental energy. Now he knew what it meant. When Sano spoke to him, the chieftain understood. Awetok knew Japanese.
A group of guards rushed into the room. “Begging pardon for the interruption, but there’s bad news,” said the one with the deer antlers on his helmet.
“Well, what is it?” Gizaemon said.
“The honorable chamberlain’s wife is missing.”
Chapter Nine
“How come you know Japanese?” Reiko asked.
“I live in castle…” The Ezo woman raised three fingers.
“Three years?”
Nodding, she touched her ear. “I listen.”
They stood in the shed together. It was cold, dim, and smelled of the dogs, who sniffed and wagged their tails around Reiko. Reiko felt safe, hidden from Lord Matsumae’s troops.
“What’s your name?” Reiko asked.
“Wente.” She pointed at Reiko, shy and inquisitive.
“Reiko.”
They smiled at each other. Wente bowed, humble as any Japanese peasant, and said, “Many thanks.”
Reiko nodded, aware that Wente was expressing gratitude because Reiko had stepped in to protect her yesterday. “I’m sorry for how Lady Matsumae treats you.”
Wente made a gesture of resignation that said volumes about what the Ezo endured from the Japanese. She studied Reiko as if curious about this rare Japanese who wasn’t cruel. “Yesterday. In Lady Matsumae’s room. I heard.” She groped for words, then cradled her arms, the universal sign language of a mother holding a child, and pointed at Reiko. Pity darkened her eyes. “I sorry.”
This was the first sign of genuine caring about her kidnapped child that anyone in Ezogashima had shown Reiko. It broke down Reiko’s self-control. Tears burned down her cold cheeks. Wente stood by, awkward and embarrassed.
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