“Peony!”
Minami’s voice jolted her back to the present. “Get back in the house. Now!” Scowling, he grabbed her hair, dragging her inside. “You have work to do.”
Peony’s secret buoyed her heart. Hiding a smile, she murmured, “Yes, master.”
He was her master now, but not for much longer.
By making inquiries around town, Sano tracked down the merchant Urabe in Nagasaki’s Chinese settlement. This occupied an area near the harbor and was surrounded by high wooden palisades, a moat, and fishermen’s cottages. A continuous stream of Japanese merchants, porters, officials—and even a few women, accompanied by male escorts—passed through the gate, where guards searched them and recorded entries or exits.
Afternoon had begun its descent toward evening by the time Sano tied his horse to the moat’s railing and joined the traffic entering the settlement. The sunlight had turned coppery, the sea cobalt. Windblown clouds, edged in violet, swept across a fading sky.
“State your name and business,” a guard ordered when Sano reached the gate.
Sano complied, noting the perfunctory way the man searched him and recorded his name without asking for proof of identity. The Chinese were subject to the same basic restrictions as all foreigners—trade quotas; a separate residential area; limited contact with citizens—but China’s centuries-old relationship with Japan accorded special advantages.
Entering the settlement, Sano found himself in a busy marketplace. Chinese merchants manned stalls decorated with red lanterns and heaped with porcelainware, bolts of raw silk, barrels of sugar, turpentine, camphor, and myrrh, Cambodian teakwood, Korean ginseng root, books, medicines, and other exotic goods. The merchants, dressed in cotton trousers, high-collared tunics, and cloth slippers, dashed about, queues waving as they bargained with Japanese buyers. Their fingers flew over abacus beads, calculating prices. Each Japanese merchant was accompanied by clerks, an interpreter, and porters carrying the goods he’d purchased or brought to trade. Government censors examined Chinese books and applied seals to those that passed inspection. The rapid singsong of Chinese speech lent the business a frenetic quality. The Chinese enjoyed freer trade privileges than the Dutch—seventy ships allowed each year instead of just one, and continuous sales open to a greater number of Japanese merchants. With the current peaceful state of relations between the two countries, security was looser; the Chinese merchants and sailors could even leave their residences to worship at their own temple.
Lifting his gaze, Sano saw the temple’s red pagoda rising from its distant hillside. He recalled Hirata’s story about mysterious lights and the abbot’s grudge against the Dutch. The Chinese were allowed to keep guns on their ships. Sano must eventually question the abbot, whose mobility and access to weapons made him a viable murder suspect.
However, freedom of movement and trade didn’t translate into other special privileges for the Chinese. Their quarters consisted of shabby, crowded barracks. Laundry flapped on the balconies, and the stench of sewage mingled with cooking odors. Still, none of the residents stayed long, and their profits made up for the discomfort.
A sudden disturbance broke out down the aisle of stalls along which Sano walked in search of Urabe. Two shouting Chinese merchants lunged at each other. Fists flew and feet kicked. Nearby Chinese flocked around the fighters, yelling and waving. Coins changed hands: Instead of stopping the brawl, the Chinese were betting on it!
“Break it up!” Wielding bamboo canes, Japanese guards delivered sharp blows to Chinese rear ends. “Fun’s over. Go back to your business!”
The guards dragged away the two troublemakers. The audience scattered, howling unintelligible complaints. “Ouch, my behind hurts!” a passing interpreter translated.
Sano watched in amazement. As a scholar, he’d always viewed the great Middle Kingdom as the font of knowledge and civilization. From China had come many mainstays of Japanese culture: Buddhism; the Confucian system of education and government; herbal medicine; the formal written language. Chinese influence had shaped Japanese architecture, music, painting, and literature. Chinese scientists had invented steel, lacquer, paper, porcelain, matches, gunpowder, block printing, and the compass. But the Chinese whom Sano now beheld seemed like pure rabble. Disillusioned, he approached a guard.
“Where can I find the merchant Urabe?” he asked.
The guard pointed. “That’s him at the lumber stall—in the green kimono, bargaining for all he’s worth. His business isn’t doing too well lately.”
Sano worked his way over to the lumber stall, where Urabe was inspecting rough, fragrant boards through a small magnifying lens. Seeing the device, Sano uneasily remembered Dr. Huygens and their illicit collaboration.
“This wood has wormholes in it,” Urabe announced. His voice rasped like a sliding door in a warped frame. He was in his mid-forties, and had a neck so short that his head seemed set directly upon his shoulders. His face wore a look of perpetual irritation, with frown lines on the low brow above his narrowed eyes, and tensely puckered lips. Urabe moved from board to board, peering through his lens, sharp chin jutting forward as if eager to get ahead of himself. “I won’t pay more than fifty momme for this whole lot.”
An interpreter translated the words into Chinese for the dealer, who erupted in angry disagreement. “He says that what you see are natural pores in the wood, not wormholes,” the interpreter told Urabe. “He won’t lower his price.”
“Well, then, the deal is off. Let’s go.”
Urabe sauntered down the aisle past Sano, gesturing for his staff to follow. But Sano saw the hard, acquisitive gleam in Urabe’s eyes, the nervous way he picked at a mole on his left cheek. He meant to get the lumber on his terms, but he was afraid he wouldn’t.
The Chinese man hurried after Urabe. He entreated and gestured. “My final offer is seventy momme,” Urabe rasped, chin thrust forward belligerently. “Take it or leave it.”
Looking resentful, the Chinese merchant agreed. Money changed hands, and Urabe’s porters loaded up the wood. Sano stepped forward. “Urabe-san. I’m Sano Ichirō, the shogun’s sōsakan. I’m investigating the murder of the Dutch trade director, Jan Spaen, and I’d like a word with you.”
The merchant’s face took on a “what now?” expression. “Of course, master,” he said. His gaze roamed, seeking other deals.
“What happened between you and Spaen when you met him on Deshima the night before last?” Sano asked.
“Sorry, you’re mistaken.” Urabe edged across the aisle to a porcelain dealer’s stall. “Haven’t been to Deshima since the barbarians sold their goods there last year.”
Given that Urabe’s name hadn’t appeared in the visitor’s log, Sano had expected a denial. “Are you saying you haven’t seen Jan Spaen since then?”
The Chinese porcelain merchant came up to Urabe, smiling eagerly. “Ask him how much for these plates,” Urabe told the interpreter. To Sano he said, “That’s exactly what I’m saying. One hundred momme apiece!” he exclaimed when the interpreter translated. “That’s robbery. Forty momme, no more.” He turned back to Sano. “Who told you I was on Deshima the night before last?”
“A witness who saw you there,” Sano said, reluctant to reveal his source.
Urabe chuckled. “Bet it was Spaen’s whore, Peony. Ha, I’m right, aren’t I? Fifty momme,” he countered in reply to the Chinese man’s offer of eighty. “Whatever Peony says about me is a lie. To get me in trouble.”
Sano was tired of competing for his suspect’s attention. “Stop the negotiations until we’re done talking,” he ordered the interpreter. “Urabe, why would Peony want to get you in trouble?”
The porcelain merchant turned away to greet another customer. “Come back!” Urabe called. To Sano, he protested indignantly, “I have a living to earn. Can’t this wait?”
Seeing Sano’s glare, he shrugged, his head sinking deeper between his shoulders. “Oh, all right. I was at a party at the Half Moon last month. Went to
buy a drink; reached for my money pouch. It was gone. Looked around and saw that ugly whore sneaking out of the room. I guessed she’d stolen my pouch, so I reported her to Minami. He went after her and got it back, then beat her. So now she hates me. When you asked her about the barbarian, she pointed you toward me, out of spite.”
The explanation sounded plausible, to Sano’s regret. If he couldn’t pin the murder on a prostitute, his next safest choice was a merchant. The bakufu might even welcome Urabe’s conviction as an excuse to seize his assets. Yet there was still hope of incriminating him.
“I hear your business is in trouble,” Sano said.
Urabe, who had turned for another look at the porcelain, snapped his head around, his expression suddenly guarded. “No, it isn’t. Who told you that?”
“Made some bad deals lately?” Sano pressed, raising his voice. “Short of cash?”
Looking around to see if anyone was listening, Urabe put a finger to his lips. “Just a small setback, that’s all. Please, I don’t want rumors to get to my bankers.”
“What kind of setback?”
“Ahhh.” The merchant flapped a dismissive hand. “I thought the price of copper was going to rise. So I borrowed money and bought a lot. When the time came to sell, the bakufu set a lower price than I expected. But I’ll make it up on other ventures. That’s business: You win, you lose.”
“The Dutch buy a lot of copper from Japan, don’t they?” Sano asked. At Urabe’s assent, he continued, “So the copper you bought at a high price, you sold to them at a loss. Is that how you got cheated in your deal with Jan Spaen?”
Urabe scowled. “I never get cheated,” he rasped. “And certainly not by barbarians. The bakufu set the price. Spaen had nothing to do with my loss.”
Sano felt someone watching them, and turned. Backlit by the sun, a woman stood in the aisle nearby. Sano’s heart skipped, then drummed a joyful cadence when he saw upswept hair, the outline of a squarish face. Aoi!
Then she came nearer, and the illusion faded. She was a girl about fourteen years old, long hair pinned back at the sides, dressed in a pink kimono. Her resemblance to Aoi didn’t extend beyond the shape of her face. Her nose was small and round, her lips were a pair of delicate, rosy petals. Totally lacking Aoi’s serene self-possession, she hovered awkwardly, hands clasped at her small bosom, eyes shining with youthful innocence. A sour-faced woman and two male servants, presumably her chaperones, hovered behind her.
“Father,” she began.
Urabe waved her away. “Not now, I’m busy.”
“I’m sorry, Father.” Her voice was shy and sweet. Blushing, she bowed, then quickly retreated.
“Sorry for the interruption,” Urabe said. “That was my daughter, Junko. The youngest, and the only one yet to marry.” He shook his head gloomily. “Four daughters and no sons. The gods have cursed me, to be sure. They could at least send me a rich son-in-law who’s fit to be my business partner. But no—of the ones I have so far, one is a drunk, the second a wastrel, and the third a moron. Junko is my last chance to bring capital and talent into this family. I intend to get my money’s worth for her dowry.”
Sano watched Junko wandering about the market. His joy died, leaving behind a familiar ache in his spirit. Must he spend his whole life seeing resemblances to Aoi in every woman he met? Taking a deep breath, he forced his thoughts back to the investigation.
“You sell the Dutch other goods besides copper, don’t you?” he asked Urabe. “Were those dealings with Spaen amicable?”
“Of course,” Urabe said impatiently, but his fingers picked at his mole, belying his words. Dutch traders drove hard bargains. Had Spaen gotten the better of Urabe?
“If you weren’t on Deshima the night before last, then where were you?” Sano asked.
Urabe thrust his chin forward, gaze defiant. “Worked late at the shop, then came home and slept. My clerks and my wife can vouch for me. I couldn’t have killed Spaen even if I’d wanted to, which I didn’t. The Dutch are important suppliers and customers, even if they are dirty animals.”
Sano didn’t give this alibi much credence, because self-interest bound Urabe’s wife and employees to say whatever he ordered. Yet even if Urabe had a motive for Spaen’s murder, it would be hard to establish his presence on Deshima.
From down the aisle came Junko’s sweet voice, singing:
“Since the last autumn moon have I traveled,
Following the promise of love.
The rain is cold and the wind blows bitter—
I cry lest we fail to meet again.”
Sano saw her lift and examine a vase from a stall, head tilted gracefully as she hummed. Against his will, Sano imagined Aoi in her place. He wrenched his gaze back to Urabe and, to stem a flood of memories, abruptly introduced another subject related to the murder case.
“I’ve heard rumors about mysterious lights in the harbor around Deshima,” he began.
Junko’s humming stopped. There was a loud crash. Sano looked over and met the girl’s stricken eyes. Quickly she bent and began picking up broken pieces of the vase she’d been holding. The Chinese vendor assailed her with angry shouts.
“Clumsy girl,” Urabe fumed. “Now I’ll have to pay for that vase. What were you saying?”
Sano noticed a furtive, listening air about Junko. Why was she interested in this part of the conversation? He repeated his comment, then added, “Do you have any idea what’s causing the lights?”
Urabe picked at his mole. “Never bothered to go look. I’m too busy to waste time on things with no profit in them.”
Realizing he would get no further with Urabe at present, Sano took his leave. Outside the settlement, he pondered his next move. The day was drawing to a close. Smoke rose from chimneys; orange-robed priests filed uphill toward the temples for evening rites. But for Sano, much work remained. He must requestion Chief Ohira and the Deshima guards, confront Peony with Urabe’s statement, and ask the barbarians about Spaen’s relations with Japanese citizens.
He’d mounted his horse and started toward the harbor, when someone ran out the settlement gate past him. It was Junko. Pulling a shawl over her head, she dashed uphill.
Sano considered her odd reaction to his mention of the mysterious lights. Perhaps she knew something about Urabe’s dealings with the Dutch. And, in spite of himself, he felt drawn to Junko because of her fleeting resemblance to Aoi.
He turned his horse and rode after her.
Up the hill Junko hurried, weaving through the crowds. Soon she began to pant. Unaccustomed to vigorous exercise, her slender legs ached. She dreaded the consequences should her father learn that she’d again defied his orders, but her yearning heart propelled her toward her forbidden lover.
Until recently, she’d accepted the idea of marriage to a man chosen for his wealth and business acumen. She’d endured countless meetings with unattractive potential husbands. Then, at the town’s last autumn festival, she’d met a man with whom she’d fallen instantly and deeply in love.
“He’s too young, too poor, and has no business experience,” her father had scoffed when she voiced her preference. “And his family would never consent to your marriage anyway; they’ll want him to marry into an important samurai clan. Forget him.”
But Junko had cast aside fourteen years of proper upbringing and rebelled. They’d been meeting secretly for almost a year now, whenever his work schedule allowed and she could sneak away from home—until two months ago, when her father had caught her climbing out the window.
“I won’t have my daughter whoring around,” he raged, chasing her through the house, a bamboo cane in hand.
Junko sobbed as he rained blows upon her back. “Please, Father, I love him! We want to be married.”
“You’ll marry the man I choose!”
Afterward Urabe had hired a chaperone to watch Junko. He intensified his search for an appropriate match for her. Junko hid her heartbreak, praying that her father would reconsider her request. Tod
ay, desperation had forced her to approach him again. What she’d overheard between him and the sōsakan-sama had driven her to seek her lover. Escaping her chaperone, Junko had fled the Chinese settlement.
Now she ran past the walled daimyo estates above the merchant district. Soon she left behind the summer villas that clung to the hills, following a narrow, winding road up into the forest. The air grew cooler and thinner. Junko’s heart thudded and her lungs heaved, but she didn’t slow her frantic pace. Taking a shortcut through the woods, she scaled bluffs, climbing over rocks and tripping on fallen branches until at last she reached her destination.
A tall, thin structure with a pointed tile roof, the watchtower was one of several that crowned Nagasaki’s hills. Narrow, barred windows pierced the weathered plank walls; from the room at the top, a larger, unobstructed window overlooked the harbor. There Junko saw a glint of light. Joy shot through her. He was there, watching through his spyglass for approaching ships.
Out of breath and belatedly cautious, Junko hesitated beneath the trees at the base of the tower. Evening’s chill darkness seemed to rise from the loamy, fragrant earth, absorbing the daylight. Crickets and locusts shrilled; birds twittered; the cool wind rustled the leaves. But Junko detected no sign of human presence. Quickly she slipped through the tower doorway and ascended the stairs that spiraled upward into the shaft.
From the top, a young, male voice shouted, “Who goes there?”
“Kiyoshi, it’s me!” Junko cried eagerly.
His footsteps pounded down the stairs. Almost sobbing with happiness, Junko climbed faster. They met halfway up, beside a window that admitted light into the narrow stairwell. Junko halted two steps below Kiyoshi. She drank in the sight of him.
He looked as beautiful as ever, but his sensitive face had somehow aged since they’d last met. New shadows in his eyes lent him a somber maturity far beyond his fifteen years. In his gray uniform, he seemed an unapproachable stranger. A chord of alarm reverberated in Junko’s breast. Then Kiyoshi smiled, and the familiar youthful exuberance animated his features. Junko’s alarm yielded to joy, and she smiled too.
The Way of the Traitor Page 12