“No,” Detective Fukida said.
“No,” Sano lied.
Gizaemon gave them an I told you so look. “Still want to search the rest of the palace?”
“Yes.” Anxious to read the diary, Sano thought of the one place where he could have some privacy. “But first I need to visit the Place of Relief.”
The Place of Relief was a privy shed attached to the palace by an enclosed corridor. Inside, Sano stood in the corner, as far as possible from the malodorous hole cut in the floor. The privy was freezing cold, but he opened the window to admit light and fresh air. Snowflakes drifted in. Conscious of Gizaemon waiting nearby, Sano began reading the diary.
From the time I was a young boy, it was my dream to experience true, eternal love. But as years passed, I grew certain I never would. I didn’t lack for women—a man of my position can have as many as he wants. But each affair ended in boredom. Women provided me nothing more than momentary physical release. Some essential ingredient was missing. I resigned myself to yearn forever for a woman with whom I could share a deep, spiritual affinity.
But tonight, a wondrous miracle happened. I went to a banquet given by Daigoro the gold merchant, one of his usual ornate, vulgar affairs designed to show off his wealth and ingratiate himself with his betters. In the midst of the music and feasting, I went outside on the veranda. The spring night was lovely, the flowers fragrant, the moon full. I composed some lines of poetry and spoke them aloud. Then I realized I was not alone.
An Ezo woman stood at the far end of the veranda. That was the first time I saw Tekare. She looked like an apparition from another world. I was stunned by her beauty. I desired her at once. But as our gazes met, I felt more than physical attraction. Something in her reached out to the yearning, lonely part of me. Then she smiled, such a sweet smile. And I knew she was the woman I’d been searching for all my life.
I have taken Tekare from the gold merchant and brought her to the castle. At first I thought I must bed her at once. But she is so shy, so nervous. When I come near her, she trembles, and she speaks only in soft, polite whispers. She seems like a bird wounded by too many men, who would die if I laid a hand on her. Thus, I have forced myself to be patient. I write and read poetry to her. I have given her the finest clothes, the finest rooms in the castle, everything she could want. I must court her until she falls in love with me, as I already have with her. Yet how can I bear to wait? Oh, the longing, the torment!
At last my patience is rewarded, and oh, the joy! Yesterday Tekare said to me, “Master, will you please come to my room tonight?” All day I could hardly keep my mind on my work. When finally the sun set, I went to Tekare. Her room was lit by a hundred lamps made of scallop shells and whale oil. She sat, dressed in the silk robes I’d given her, on a bed covered with a bear pelt. She looked like a native goddess.
“Master, I have been waiting so many nights for you,” she said in a voice filled with the same longing that I felt. “I love you so much.”
Overwhelmed by gladness, I sank to my knees before her like a worshipper. This was what I’d dreamed of, yet I was too in awe to touch her. It was Tekare who led the way to my heart’s desire.
“Please let me show you the Ezo wedding night ceremony,” she said.
She gave me wine to drink, and a silver pipe to smoke. Soon my head was light, my senses dizzied. Weird music echoed around me. Tekare seemed to float amid the lamp flames. Chanting spells, she undressed me and wrote mysterious symbols on my naked flesh. The brush caressed my manhood. I almost swooned with pleasure. When finally I entered her, I felt our spirits touch. Mine melted into hers in such radiant warmth as I had never before experienced. Tekare and I were truly one.
In the past, my feelings for a woman would always cool after I made love to her. Familiarity would set in. I would have my fill of her and seek excitement elsewhere. But that didn’t happen with Tekare. She was always as much a mystery as when we’d first met. The day after the wedding ritual, she was again shy, aloof. I had to begin courting her all over again, plying her with more gifts, more love poetry. At last she relented, smiled, and welcomed me into her chamber. This happened many times. I was always uncertain of her feelings for me, always her suitor rather than her lord. My love and need for her only increased.
And no matter how often we coupled, I could never get enough of Tekare. We always began with the wine and the pipe filled with native herbs, but each time brought some new, thrilling ritual. One night she tied me up and whipped me with a flail made of willow boughs. Another night she inserted fishhooks in my nipples and pulled on cords attached to them. She taught me that pain intensifies sexual excitement. As I bled and cried, my release was pure ecstasy. I learned the pleasure of submitting to my beloved.
I can think of nothing except Tekare. When I’m not with her, I daydream about her. The wine and smoke leave me in a constant stupor. When I should be working, I instead paint pictures of myself and Tekare together. I hardly listen to what anyone says to me, because her voice is inside my head, chanting her love spells. I neglect my duties, my appearance, and my health while I live in a dream-world. This obsession is not normal. But how can something that feels so wonderful be wrong? I am truly in love for the first time in my life. Everything I do with her seems sacred. As long as Tekare is mine, I will be content.
Exactly when did I begin to fear that I will lose her? I do not remember. I only know that the fear tortures me. I notice how other men look at Tekare. Does she smile at them? Do their eyes hold a moment too long? I am so dazed, my body and mind so weakened, that I cannot trust my impressions.
Sometimes Tekare says she does not feel well and needs to rest alone. One night, consumed by suspicion, I hid outside her window. I heard her voice and a man’s, whispering. I saw shadows moving together. Agony twisted my heart. Eventually the light in the window went out. A door opened. Onto the veranda stepped one of my soldiers, a young, handsome fellow. He strolled away in the darkness, whistling to himself.
Later I confronted Tekare. I accused her of being unfaithful to me. She denied it, said I’d imagined what I’d seen. And perhaps I did, for I can hardly distinguish between dreams and reality. I must believe that Tekare is true to me.
My worst fears have been realized. Last night, after Tekare and I made love, I fell into a deep slumber. I was awakened hours later by cries and moans. The scallop-shell lamps were burning. In the light of the dancing flames, I saw Tekare and the young soldier. They were naked. She had her back against the wall, her legs around his waist, while he plunged into her. They dared to couple right in front of me, as if I were not there!
I tried to protest. I tried to rise and stop them. But I could neither move nor make a sound. My gaze caught Tekare’s. She smiled. She smiled at me as I lay helpless and horrified and she made love with another man!
This time, when I told Tekare what I’d seen, she didn’t deny it. She laughed. All her sweetness disappeared. She turned into a cruel stranger. She said that if she wanted another man, she would have him, and she didn’t care if I was jealous.
I raged at her. I lifted my hand to strike her, but she pushed me away, and I was so weak that I fell. I called her ungrateful. I told her she wouldn’t get any more gifts from me. She said she wouldn’t give me any more fun.
Fun! That is what she called our sacred lovemaking!
I threatened to put to death any man she dallied with. She said that by the time I was done, I would have no retainers left. I threatened to send her back to her tribe unless she behaved herself. But she said that if I did, I would never see her again. And I know that my threats are no good. I am at her mercy.
What am I to do? I now fear and revile Tekare as much as I love her. She has cast over me an evil spell that has reduced me to a pathetic shadow of myself. I must break free of her, but how?
After much thought, I have realized that I must destroy her before she completely destroys me. At night I lie awake, plotting her death. If I take my sword to her, she
will overpower me before I can strike her down. Perhaps I can cut her throat while she sleeps. But I cannot bear to watch her die. I must attack her on the sly, when she least expects it, when she cannot stop me. Perhaps I should poison her food. Or set a spring-bow trap along a path she walks. But whatever I do, it must be soon, while I still have a chance for salvation. May the gods give me the will to act!
As Sano deciphered the final passage in the diary, he experienced such shock that he barely noticed the snow falling through the window onto his sleeve, the stench inside the privy shed, or the fact that his hands were frozen stiff. But he had no time to ponder the significance of what he’d read, because there came a loud banging on the door.
“Honorable Chamberlain, what’s taking you so long?” said Gizaemon. “Come out, or I’ll break the door down.”
Chapter Nineteen
Reiko awakened suddenly from a thick, dark sleep induced by the strong wine that Lilac had given her. She felt someone in the room with her, sat up, and saw Wente, the Ezo woman, crouched near her.
“How did you get in here?” she said.
Wente put a finger to her lips. She beckoned Reiko.
“What—?”
“Hurry!” Wente whispered, sidling out of the room.
“Wait a moment.” Reiko ran to the cabinet and dragged out her futon. Wente helped her arrange quilts on it so that if someone looked in on her, it would look like she was taking a nap. They tiptoed down the corridor and out the door. Snow was falling heavily, mounding the castle’s walls, turrets, and roofs, coating the trees. Not a single distinct edge existed in this new white landscape. Not a soul did Reiko see.
“Where are the guards?” she asked.
“Sick,” Wente said.
Reiko surmised that disease had befallen the men, who’d left their posts. Her depression evaporated like fog dispelled by a radiant dawn. Now Wente could take her to rescue Masahiro.
They hastened toward the keep, its white shaft almost lost against the white, dissolving sky. The snow quickly coated their garments, camouflaging them. The route looked so different that Reiko didn’t recognize it. She was glad to have Wente guiding her, and Wente might be able to help her in more ways than this.
“Did you know the woman who was killed with a spring-bow?” Reiko asked.
Wente’s head snapped around toward her. Fear flashed across her tattooed face. Walking faster, ahead of Reiko, she muttered something in Ezo language.
“What did you say?” Reiko hurried to catch up.
“Sister,” Wente said, her voice slurred, her face distorted by grief. Snowflakes melted in the tears that wet her cheeks.
“Tekare was your sister? I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” Reiko didn’t like to upset her friend by talking about the murder, but Wente was the only person she’d met here, except for Lilac, who’d been willing to help her. And Reiko trusted Wente more than she did the servant girl.
“Do you have any idea who killed Tekare?” Reiko asked.
Wente shook her head so hard that her fur-lined hood slipped off. She pulled it up, shoulders hunched, as they tramped through a courtyard. She uttered a phrase in her own language, then said, “It was mistake.”
“Mistake? Do you mean an accident? She just wandered into a trap set for deer?”
Again Wente replied in Ezo language, words that she didn’t translate for Reiko. When upset, she seemed to lose her ability to speak Japanese.
“Lord Matsumae thinks Tekare was murdered,” Reiko said.
“No.” Wente sobbed.
Perhaps it was too painful for her to believe that her sister had been deliberately killed. Reiko said, “Do you think Lady Matsumae did it?”
A few garbled words came from Wente. Under other circumstances Reiko would have pressed her for information. Under other circumstances Reiko would have questioned Wente about her relationship with Tekare, for Reiko knew that a murder victim’s kin were potential culprits. But Wente seemed honest, decent, and truly grief-stricken by Tekare’s death. And now she was leading Reiko up the hill toward the keep.
Anticipation sped Reiko’s pace so fast that she stumbled climbing the steps. She half-crawled the rest of the way. Gasping, she looked up at the keep’s dingy plaster walls, protruding roofs, and barred windows. Snow pelted her face. Vertigo and hope dizzied her. She reached the ironclad door, which was unguarded. Wente helped her tug it open. Cautiously they stepped inside.
A dim, quiet anteroom enclosed them. The cold air stank of urine and feces. Wooden studs showed through gaps in the plaster on the walls. Reiko saw wooden benches, braziers filled with ash, and mops that stood in pails of water. The water was a dirty reddish brown. Instinctive fear bit deep into Reiko. Holding their gloved hands over their noses, she and Wente stole through a doorway that led farther into the keep. They found a maze of cells with metal bars across their fronts. Soiled hay had been swept into corners. The walls were smeared, streaked, and blotched with blood. Red-stained rags littered the floors. Reiko stared in horrified comprehension.
This was where Lord Matsumae had imprisoned the outsiders who’d arrived in Ezogashima during his madness. Here they’d been tortured and killed. The troops she’d seen here yesterday had been trying to clean the place up, probably in case Sano should see it. But the troops had taken ill, leaving their job unfinished and the truth plain as day to Reiko.
She was standing in a slaughterhouse.
A slaughterhouse to which her son had been brought.
“Masahiro!” she cried, running through the maze, peering in the cells. All were empty but for signs of carnage.
“Here!” Wente pulled her up a staircase that led to a square hole in the ceiling.
They emerged into the keep’s second story. Light came from gaps around the shutters and chinks in the plaster. Reiko rushed through unfurnished rooms partitioned by sliding walls. In the last one she found a strange object, a big, square box with a wooden top and bottom, and sides made of crisscrossed iron bars. It was a cage for a large animal—or a small human. But no one was inside. Reiko let out a cry. She saw an image of Masahiro huddled in the cage, his eyes filling with joy as he recognized his mother who’d come to save him. She flung herself at the cage.
The image vanished. The cage was empty again except for hay, the door open. Nearby lay a quilt stained with blood.
“No!” Reiko wailed.
She snatched up the quilt and pressed her face to it, inhaling the sweet, earthy, little-boy smell of Masahiro and the ranker odor of his blood. She wept, assailed by a terrible vision of troops beating him to death.
Wente knelt beside her, patted her back, and murmured words of sympathy in Ezo language. She reached inside the cage, removed something from the hay, and put it in Reiko’s hand. It was a leather drawstring pouch that contained a figurine carved from wood, a brightly painted horse clad in battlefield armor. The horse belonged to a set of toy soldiers that Reiko and Sano had given Masahiro. Reiko held it to her heart and sobbed harder. This was all she had left of her son.
He was gone.
She was too late.
Sano had spent all day searching the rest of the palace and questioning the Matsumae clan members, officials, troops, and servants. He’d found no clues, but then he hadn’t really expected to; the crime wasn’t the kind that would leave evidence such as wounds on the culprit or blood-stained clothes in his possession. A vial of arrow poison was easily disposable, and nobody had left a written confession.
Except Lord Matsumae.
Sano’s interviews had also turned up nothing. The witnesses were nervous and reluctant to talk. Gizaemon had listened in on all the conversations, even though Sano had repeatedly asked him to stand out of earshot. Maybe the witnesses didn’t want to say anything that would incriminate him, Lord Matsumae, themselves, or their friends. Sano and Detective Fukida returned to their quarters at dusk empty-handed.
Except for Lord Matsumae’s diary.
The blizzard had stopped, and the sky was d
ark, but the snow gave the landscape a spectral luminescence. A lantern over the door spilled a golden glow over high white drifts piled up against the guest quarters. Gizaemon left Sano and Fukida with the lone guard stationed in the entryway. The northern plague must have sent the others to bed.
“See you at the funeral tomorrow, Honorable Chamberlain,” Gizaemon said.
After he and Fukida had removed their shoes, Sano went to the chamber he shared with Reiko. Her blanket-covered figure lay in bed in the darkness. He decided to let her sleep. She needed rest, and he didn’t have any good news for her. He joined his men in their room; Hirata, Marume, and the Rat had returned. They’d spread their coats upon drying frames over the charcoal braziers. Sano added his to theirs. The room was steamy and redolent of wet fur. Marume poured hot tea and laid out a dinner of cold rice balls, dried salmon, and soup with seaweed and boiled lotus roots. As he and the other men tore into the food, Sano forced himself to eat. Fear for Masahiro chased through his anxiety about the investigation. He felt the snow weighing upon the roof, suffocating him.
Fukida explained about the plague. “Now would be the time to cut and run, while the troops are sick and there aren’t so many around. But we don’t exactly have anyplace to go. Too bad, because we aren’t making much progress on this investigation.” He asked Hirata and Marume, “What about you?”
“We went hunting with the Ainu,” Hirata said.
“The what?”
“Ainu. That’s what the natives call themselves.” Hirata added, “They saved our lives. We owe them at least the courtesy of using their proper name.”
He sounded defensive on their behalf, Sano observed. His interest in the Ezo—or Ainu—seemed to have been strengthened by the hunt. “Did you get anything?”
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