Reaching his mansion exhausted, weak, and soaked with sweat and blood, Sano collapsed outside the gate. The two guards stationed there helped him into the house.
“Sōsakan-sama!” Hirata came running to greet him in the corridor, accompanied by a manservant with bulging eyes and a puckered mouth. “What happened to you?”
“Shot. At the harbor,” Sano gasped out as the guards carried him to his bedchamber. “Get a doctor.”
The fish-faced servant spoke up cheerfully. “No need for a doctor, master. Old Carp, at your service. Better at healing than anyone else in Nagasaki, if I may be so bold to admit. A moment, please.”
He shuffled off toward the kitchen. In the bedchamber, Hirata lit lamps and spread a futon on the floor. Gratefully Sano lay down on it. The pain was now a throbbing ache that consumed the upper right part of his body. He closed his eyes, fighting the fear that he’d lose the use of his sword arm.
Hirata knelt beside him. “Gomen nasai—I’m sorry, but I have to remove your clothes. I’ll try not to hurt you.”
With a sharp knife, he cut through Sano’s cloak and kimonos. Sano winced when he saw all the blood on them. After Hirata peeled away the last layer of cloth, Sano nearly fainted at the sight of the arrow, protruding from the wound from which more blood oozed.
“Tell me what happened.” Hirata’s voice sounded as though it came from very far away.
Sano explained how he’d come to be shot, and his theories about why. The act of speaking helped him retain his grip on consciousness.
Hirata frowned as he gathered up Sano’s ruined garments. “The Deshima guards practice archery. I saw them outside the guardhouse yesterday. Could one of them have shot you?”
“It’s possible, if they’re the ones behind Spaen’s murder or whatever is happening on Deshima.”
Sano’s strength was spent. All he wanted was to have his wound treated, then rest before telling Governor Nagai about Captain Oss’s ultimatum. Yet he couldn’t put off dealing with Hirata’s insubordination.
“You shouldn’t have been anywhere near Deshima,” Sano said, “or questioned the guards. And you shouldn’t have gone to the pleasure quarter looking for suspects. I ordered you to stay out of the investigation. You disobeyed. Tomorrow morning, you leave for Edo.”
Before Hirata could reply, Old Carp entered the room, carrying a water bucket in one hand and a laden tray balanced on the other. “I’ll soon have you back in good health again, master,” he said. Setting down his burdens, he knelt beside Sano. His mouth puckered tighter as he examined the wound. “Very shallow, and the arrowhead is small and thin. You are lucky. But I must remove the shaft and push the head through.” From his tray, he picked up a knife. “This will hurt, I’m afraid.”
“Just get it over with as fast as you can,” Sano said, turning his face to the wall.
The servant touched the arrow, and the pain flared. Sano jumped. “Lie still, please,” Old Carp said.
Sano gritted his teeth, holding himself rigid while the knife sawed through the cords that bound the arrow’s shaft and head. Involuntary tears leaked from his closed eyes.
“Be careful,” he heard Hirata say.
“Sorry, sorry,” Old Carp soothed. “Almost done. Aha! Here we go.”
A bolt of pure agony coursed through Sano as the arrowhead slid forward and broke through tissue and skin. Sano jerked violently. The pain tore a yell from his throat, then subsided. He opened his eyes to Hirata’s relieved face, and Old Carp triumphantly holding up the arrowhead.
“Worst is over,” the servant said. He pressed the wound with a cloth, stanching the flow of blood. “Now I make you feel better. Drink this, please.”
Hirata lifted Sano’s head, and Old Carp held a bowl of steaming liquid to his mouth. Sano swallowed, tasting spicy ginseng to calm the nerves, prolong life, and combat weakness; bitter honeysuckle to detoxify his system; musty turmeric to relieve pain and inflammation; the subtle flavor of saffron, used to prevent shock. He lay back and rested while Old Carp washed the blood off him and bathed the wound with a pungent extract of green onion, a remedy against festering and fever. His strength was returning, but melancholy dimmed his spirits. He remembered the night when soldiers had chased him through Edo Castle and beaten him, and Aoi treating his wounds with these same medicines. She had spread the cooked onion leaves over his skin, as Old Carp was doing now. That night, they’d loved for the first time.
To banish the familiar stab of longing, Sano addressed Hirata more sharply than he’d intended.
“You have my order. Can I trust you to obey this time?”
Hirata stood by the door, giving Old Carp room to work. “Sumimasen—excuse me, but you need my help. If I’d been with you, we might have caught the lights. And I could have protected you.”
Old Carp, recognizing their need for privacy, said, “Young master, if you would please press your hand against the onion leaves like so, I will return soon.”
Sano said, “Tell the groom to bring my horse. I have to go to the governor’s mansion.”
Old Carp sucked in his cheeks, increasing his resemblance to his namesake. “Must advise against riding in your condition, master. Bleeding has stopped, but will start again if you move around too much.”
“Get me a palanquin, then.”
“But … All right, master.” Bowing, the servant withdrew.
Hirata pressed his palm gently against the onion leaves on Sano’s wound. Sano felt warmth and concern flowing from his retainer’s square, blunt-fingered hand. He resisted the urge to accept the implicit offer of comradeship, because it also carried the threat of pain and loss.
“If you’d been with me tonight, it might be you lying here instead of me,” Sano said. “This investigation is dangerous. I don’t want you involved.” He paused, then added the selfish reason that was as important to him as Hirata’s safety. “And I can’t bear your death or disgrace, even if you can.”
Above him, Hirata’s face was an image of troubled uncertainty, though his hand maintained a steady pressure against Sano’s shoulder. “I—please understand, but—I must …”
While he blushed and stammered, Sano waited, hoping to hear why he was so persistent in his disobedience. But Hirata, not given to personal revelations, finally shook his head and blurted, “It’s my duty to face danger with you, or die in your place. If I don’t, then I’m already in disgrace. I might as well be dead. A detective who doesn’t detect is worthless.” This obviously wasn’t what he’d started to say, but he just as obviously meant every word. “And a samurai who doesn’t serve and protect is no samurai at all.”
Pinned under Hirata’s hand, Sano stifled a sigh. Here in Nagasaki, all the buried tensions of the past year had surfaced. Hirata had placed him in an untenable position. He didn’t want to deny another samurai the right to follow Bushido, but now his own role of master was at stake: He couldn’t back down without losing face. Yet if he didn’t offer a compromise, he would alienate Hirata even if they both survived this investigation. The dependable Hirata wouldn’t leave him, but would serve without the spirit that made him a valuable second-in-command.
“Tomorrow you can verify Abbot Liu Yun’s whereabouts the night of Spaen’s murder,” Sano said after telling Hirata about his interview with the Chinese man, “and also where he was tonight. Find out if he has, or ever had, a gun.” He paused, then added with quiet emphasis, “And don’t even think about going to Deshima, because if I catch you there, you leave Nagasaki.”
“Yes, sōsakan-sama.” Bitterness shaded Hirata’s voice and expression: He recognized Sano’s ploy to shield him by assigning him a suspect who was neither Dutch nor Japanese.
Old Carp returned, applied several more onion treatments to Sano’s wound, then nodded in approval. “It should heal perfectly,” he said, binding Sano’s shoulder with white cotton pads and strips. “Are you feeling better?”
“Yes, thank you,” Sano answered.
And for this he was glad. Bec
ause now he must deliver to Governor Nagai the news of the Dutch military threat. And tomorrow he must hurry to solve the murder case in time to save the city and his life, and prevent the rift between him and Hirata from becoming permanent.
As night crept past the hour of the boar, Nagasaki’s pleasure quarter sparkled with its usual gaiety. Parties adorned terraces and balconies; music and laughter floated from doorways. Through streets bright with lanterns, samurai, peasants, and merchants strolled past the window cages from which gaudily dressed women called and flirted. Boisterous drinkers filled every teahouse.
Like the other brothels, the Half Moon boasted a noisy gala of courtesans and clients. Peony could hear the music from her room, a tiny chamber at the rear of the second floor. Wringing her hands, she paced before the open window. The odors of liquor, cooking, and urine tainted the breeze that cooled her flushed cheeks. The lamp on the low table cast her restless shadow against bare walls. Peony prayed that her visitor would come before Minami noticed she wasn’t serving drinks at the party and sent someone to fetch her.
All day she’d slaved in the house, hoping he would reward her obedience by not sending her to the Arab settlement. Fortune had favored her: Two maids had fallen ill, and Minami had kept her home to do their work. But if she didn’t win her freedom tonight, she might suffer days of pain and degradation before another opportunity arose. The shogun’s sōsakan might discover the truth about Deshima and Spaen-san’s murder before she could profit from the use of the evidence she possessed.
A sound outside halted Peony’s nervous steps. Face pressed against the window bars, she peered down into the alley. She’d left the back door open and a lantern burning there for her visitor. Now her pulse fluttered as someone moved into the dim light. A man in a hooded cloak, coughing—the sound she’d heard. Stopping beside the door. Looking around to see if anyone was near. Lifting his garments, urinating against the wall…
… and walking away.
Clutching the bars, Peony sank to her knees and shut her eyes. Maybe he hadn’t gotten her message. Maybe he couldn’t get the money. Disappointment crushed Peony’s heart. Rising, she looked out the window again.
The alley remained empty, enlivened only by noise from the streets beyond. Peony lumbered to the cabinet where she and her two roommates kept their possessions. She needed something to occupy her, to make the agonizing wait bearable. Among her bedding, clothes, and other personal articles, she found her comb and mirror. After a moment’s hesitation, she took out the lacquer box containing her treasure. She’d meant to keep it safely hidden until she got the money, but she needed the hope it represented. She knelt and set the box on the table beside the lamp, then unpinned her hair. The gleaming mass cascaded around her shoulders. Holding the mirror before her face, she began to comb. The rhythmic motion and the sensuous feel of her hair lifted Peony’s spirits. In the mirror’s clouded glass, her ugly reflection smiled as she fantasized about the future.
She saw herself, money in hand, striding into the reception room. The crowd would jeer; Minami would scowl and say, “Where have you been, Peony? The guests want you to dance ‘Rising River.’ ”
Peony would answer, “I’ll never dance for you or anyone else again.” Then she would throw the money in Minami’s face and walk right out the door.
She imagined buying a house and hiring a maid; riding through the merchant district in a palanquin, shopping.
“I’ll have this, and this, and this,” she would say to the clerks as she selected the finest hair ornaments, clothes and food, household furnishings. Spending money would give her the power she’d once derived from stealing. But Peony knew that wealth alone wasn’t enough. She also needed the kind of companionship she’d enjoyed with Spaen-san.
Her new bedchamber would be furnished with lacquer chests and tables, gilt murals, painted screens. Upon silk cushions she would recline, dressed in a lavish red satin kimono, watching a shy young man enter the room.
“Welcome,” she would murmur.
The youth, chosen not only for his handsomeness but for his poverty and compliant nature, would gaze in awe at the luxurious surroundings. “I’m honored, my lady,” he would say, kneeling and bowing as if she were the most beautiful woman in the world.
And she would bring out the ropes, the chains, the knives, the whip, the gun. “Don’t be afraid,” she would say as she initiated him into the way of love that she’d learned from her Dutch barbarian.
In the corridor outside Peony’s room, the floor creaked under the pressure of footsteps that came from the stairs leading up from the reception room. Peony’s fantasy evaporated; she dropped the comb and mirror, dismayed.
Minami!
Peony had to hide. She couldn’t let him drag her back to the party, not now, when her visitor might still come. She leapt to her feet. In her awkward haste, she bumped the box on the table. Its loose lid popped off. Caught in a flurry of panic, Peony moaned. She must put out the lamp and get out, now. But she couldn’t let Minami find the box and punish her for stealing it. She couldn’t leave the treasure lying in plain sight. She couldn’t think what to do first.
Her indecision doomed her. The door slid open. Helplessly Peony watched, wringing her hands. Then, when she saw him, a huge wave of relief broke over her.
“Oh, it’s you!” she cried.
Her eagerly awaited visitor carried a cloth bundle under his arm. He entered the room and closed the door. Involuntarily she glanced at the open box on the table. His gaze followed hers; he saw. Quickly Peony stepped between him and his property.
“Give me the money, and you can have it back,” she blurted, uneasy because things weren’t going the way she’d planned. She’d wanted to tease him by withholding the property at first. She wanted to enjoy her power over him, but had lost the advantage.
Moving closer, he began unwrapping the bundle. He must have been at the party downstairs; Peony could smell liquor and tobacco smoke on him. Now a gleeful anticipation dispelled her uneasiness. She smiled and held out her hands. She started to thank him.
Then he flung the cloth aside. Instead of the money she’d expected, Peony saw a knife in his hand, and read the evil intent in his eyes. A gasp sucked the words back into her throat. Triumph turned to horror. She stumbled backward, raising her clasped hands in a plea for mercy.
“No, please, just take it and go,” she babbled.
Unspeaking, he advanced until her back hit the wall. Then he lashed out at her.
The knife’s long, gleaming blade slashed Peony’s throat. Pain seared her vision. She tried to scream for help, but managed only a gurgle. A warm, salty liquid filled her mouth. She clutched at the wound; blood poured over her hands. A dizzying weakness flooded her muscles. She slid down the wall and landed in a crumpled heap. Through her terror, she saw him turning away, crouching to reach inside the box.
Then darkness obliterated external sights and sounds. Peony could hear the relentless thud of her heart, pumping blood out of her body. She was eight years old again, running down an alley with a stolen doll in her arms. She’d gotten away safely, then. But this time, a horde of furious soldiers, police, and townspeople pounded after her. She ran faster. Then strong hands grabbed her, pulling her deeper into darkness. She heard her heartbeat fading.
She, the nimble, clever thief, could not escape death.
Sedated by the medicine Old Carp had given him, Sano slept until late afternoon the next day. Recalling the Dutch captain’s ultimatum, he dressed hastily and ordered his horse saddled, anxious to make up for lost time. Then he rode out the gate, into a vastly altered climate.
The wind had died; the sun glared from a hazy sky. Upon the ocean’s flat metallic expanse, anchored ships sat motionless, sails limp, while barges and fishing boats moved sluggishly. Moisture saturated the warm air, muting the street noises and enriching the odors of sea, fish, and sewage. The hills closed in on the city, shutting out fresh breezes. Yet more than the weather had changed for Sano. Overn
ight, Nagasaki had turned hostile. Someone had tried to kill him. Now Sano warily scanned the crowds as he rode, ready to draw his sword or dodge arrows. Beneath the bandages, his injured shoulder was sore, stiff, and incapable of maneuvering a sword with his usual expertise. Blood loss had drained his strength. And Nagasaki’s administration had turned against him.
In response to Captain Oss’s message, Governor Nagai had convened a meeting of top officials in his office last night. “Double the number of troops on duty,” he told the harbor patrol commander. “Put everyone on extra shifts and draft more men from the daimyo estates. I want two barges watching the Dutch ship, and messengers to report to me every hour. Ready the warships. Build bonfires on the hills, and be prepared to light them and summon troops from other provinces.”
To Yoriki Ota, he said, “Double the number of police on the street in case there are disturbances when the citizens hear the news.”
Governor Nagai turned next to the armory captain. “What munitions do we have?” Upon hearing the quantity of cannon, arquebuses, powder, and shot, he said, “I hope that’s enough. Transfer supplies to the warships and the harbor forts immediately.”
He issued the magistrate orders concerning possible evacuation of civilians, then announced grimly, “We shall maintain this state of emergency until Sōsakan Sano meets the Dutch demands.”
Everyone turned disapproving glances on Sano, seated apart from the others. “I expect to identify the killer within two days,” he said, trying to infuse his voice with confidence. Unless he regained face with Nagasaki’s officials, his investigation would suffer. And failure would destroy his career along with the city. Quickly he summarized his interviews with Peony, Urabe, and Abbot Liu Yun.
Governor Nagai frowned. “You wish to attribute the murder to Japanese citizens?”
“They had motive, opportunity, and more access to weapons than the other suspects,” Sano said.
The Way of the Traitor Page 15