The Way of the Traitor

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “Before we talk about me,” he said, “I need to know what kind of information you give clients about prospective matches. For instance, what did your investigation turn up on Interpreter Iishino?”

  Madam Kihara frowned. “The results of my investigations are confidential.” She paused, and Hirata waited, hoping that the enjoyment of learning and reporting facts about people was why she arranged marriages instead of idling away her time like most rich old ladies. “… However, since you’re an old acquaintance of Iishino, it can’t hurt to use him as an example of what I can do for you.

  “Interpreter Iishino’s service record was spotless.” Madam Kihara picked up her embroidery and began to stitch. Hirata’s heart dropped, then swelled with hope as she continued, “His salary is twenty koku—higher than usual for a man of his rank—but he often takes out loans.” She named last year’s total, a sum almost equal to the cash equivalent of his rice-based government stipend. “He always pays the money back promptly, though. He frequents the pleasure quarter but has no regular courtesan; he likes variety.”

  Hirata wondered why Iishino merited a high salary. Because he performed dubious tasks—like smuggling—at his superior’s behest? Why did he need loans, and how did he repay them? Did Iishino patronize the Half Moon Pleasure House, where Peony had died?

  “Iishino’s prospects were very solid,” Madam Kihara went on. “Dutch is a valuable skill. His only real fault is his personality—he’s the most irritating man I’ve ever met!” She stitched, puffed, and grimaced. “Do you know what he said to me?

  “ ‘Madam Kihara, I must tell you something for your own good, your own good.’ ” Head bobbing, eyes and smile wide, she did an excellent imitation of Iishino. “ ‘You shouldn’t smoke; it’s unfeminine, and the pipe draws attention to your missing teeth.’ The gall of that man!” Madam Kihara jabbed her needle into the cloth. “During the miai, I had to burn his arm with my pipe whenever he started to speak, so he wouldn’t offend the Nagai family.”

  Hirata laughed at this amusing picture, despite his burgeoning need to reclaim his weapons and be gone. “But you couldn’t have hidden Iishino’s problem forever. And surely the Nagai could have found a better match for the girl, even if she was born unlucky. Why did they accept Iishino’s proposal?”

  “For the same reason Governor Nagai and other officials tolerate him: He buys the favor of people he wants to impress, with gifts.”

  That might explain why Iishino needed loans. Perhaps Iishino borrowed money to cover his purchases, then paid his debts when he received a share of the smuggling profits. Maybe Peony had seen him remove goods from Deshima. But the interpreter had no apparent motive for killing Jan Spaen; there was no evidence to tie him to Spaen’s murder, or Peony’s. And without this, the tribunal wouldn’t believe he’d framed Sano.

  “Please excuse me for rambling on so long,” Madam Kihara said. “Let’s talk about you now. Who are your people? What is your income? Do you expect to inherit any property? Speak up, don’t be shy. Any good family will require this information before they consider a proposal from you.”

  Just as Hirata was wondering how to make a graceful exit, he heard heavy footsteps in the corridor, and men’s voices: “… fugitive … reason to believe he’s posing as a doshin … possible sightings reported … headed this way …”

  Aghast, Hirata bolted toward the outer door, reaching automatically for his jitte and sword—which were still sitting on the shelf in the entryway.

  “What’s wrong, young master?” The pipe fell out of Madam Kihara’s gaping mouth. “Where are you going?”

  “Forgive me, madam,” Hirata stammered, sliding open the door. Panic arced through him when he saw three samurai searching the garden. One was the paunchy guard from Sano’s mansion. Hirata leapt back into the house, but too late.

  “There he is!” shouted the guard.

  All three men rushed Hirata. At the same time, four more entered the reception room, swords drawn, trapping him.

  “How dare you attack my guest?” Madam Kihara demanded. “Get out!”

  “This man is a fugitive from the law,” the leader told her. To Hirata he said, “Come along easy, and you won’t get hurt.”

  As the soldiers converged on him, Hirata’s scattered thoughts focused into a white-hot sun of determination: He would not be locked in a cell while his master’s enemies went free. He lifted a charcoal brazier and spun around, flinging hot coals and ash at the soldiers.

  They fell back, howling and clutching their faces. Madam Kihara shrieked. Over hot embers that burned through his cloth guest slippers, Hirata dashed to the door, then froze at the sight of more troops swarming into the garden. He ran back into the room, where the wounded soldiers blocked his path to the main exit.

  “Stop!” they cried, grabbing at him.

  The room’s side wall was translucent paper divided by thin wooden mullions. Hirata hurtled straight at it. With a splintering tear, he burst through the fragile partition. Then he was running through parlors and bedchambers, down passages. Frightened servants leapt out of his way. The troops stampeded after him. His body filmed with sweat, his heart thumping, he shot through a door and into a narrow courtyard inside the estate’s back wall. In the open gate stood the paunchy guard, long sword drawn, eyes red from the ash Hirata had thrown.

  “I’ve got you now,” he said, glaring at Hirata in angry triumph.

  The wall was too high and smooth to climb. Troops filled the mansion. Laughing, the guard lunged. Powered by desperation, Hirata grabbed the guard’s sword arm, then punched him in the eye. The guard yowled. Hirata slammed him against the wall and wrenched the sword away. The guard recovered, drew his short sword, and staggered between Hirata and the gate. Hirata heard the troops coming, their shouts echoing down the corridor behind him.

  “Surrender,” the guard gasped out. “You can’t escape.”

  He lunged again. Hirata lashed out with the captured sword. Its blade evaded the guard’s parry and slit his throat from jowl to Adam’s apple. He collapsed in a squealing, gurgling geyser of blood. Hirata dropped the soiled weapon, which would brand him a murderer to anyone who saw him carrying it. He leapt over the body and ran out the gate. As he raced down the alley, he heard the troops’ cries fade and saw no one pursuing him. He was free.

  But an overwhelming sense of doom quickly eclipsed his relief. He’d killed a man. The search for him would intensify. He was unarmed, his disguise useless. How could he save Sano now, or atone for past mistakes?

  By the time the warship docked and Sano descended the gangplank, evening was deepening into night. Patrolling troops carried flaming metal lanterns that smoked in the moist air. Townspeople, their backs laden with belongings, trudged uphill, evacuating the city. Over the blustery sea wind, Sano heard a strange, rhythmic pulse emanating from the hills. With mingled dread and excitement, he identified it as the beating of war drums. His samurai spirit would have rejoiced at the thought of serving honor and fulfilling his destiny by dying in battle for his lord—had he not borne a grievance against the regime nor felt responsible for courting a disaster that could lay waste to the country.

  Now, as a tentative plan formed in his mind, Sano rode back toward Deshima. If the smugglers planned to move any more goods out of the warehouses, they must do so before the ship landed and the newly arrived East India officials could discover and stop the illicit trade. And when better than now, with the governor’s troops occupying the waterfront? The smugglers wouldn’t need mysterious lights to chase away witnesses.

  An officer accosted Sano. “Early curfew in effect on the waterfront until further notice. Except for authorized personnel, everyone shall remain indoors between sunset and dawn.”

  Sano could see troops chasing peasants out of the streets. “I’m the shogun’s representative,” he countered angrily. “You don’t command me.”

  “Go, or I’ll arrest you,” the officer said, unperturbed. He held his lantern up to Sano. “You’re
bleeding, in case you don’t know.”

  Sano saw with alarm that his wound had bled through the bandage and onto the collar of his white under-kimono. He grew aware of a disturbing heat and pressure in his shoulder. To prevent the wound from festering, he needed immediate treatment. Afterward he might still catch the smugglers when they met their black market contacts to sell the goods. And he had a choice of suspects who might lead him to the rendezvous point: Iishino, Governor Nagai, Urabe, Abbot Liu Yun, and Chief Ohira.

  Then, on his way home, Sano discovered further signs of how difficult continuing the investigation would be. Soldiers trailed him openly through the streets. He also sensed the presence of watchers he couldn’t see. Reaching his mansion, he found troops loitering outside: The hunt for Hirata continued.

  “Has there been any word from my retainer?” he asked when Old Carp met him in the corridor.

  “I’m sorry, master,” the servant mumbled, “but the soldiers almost caught him at the city treasurer’s estate. He murdered a man while trying to escape. The troops have orders to kill him on sight.”

  Shock hit Sano like a thunderclap in both ears. “What on earth was Hirata doing at the treasurer’s estate?”

  “The police say he broke into the house to steal money so he could get out of town.”

  “Lies!” Sano knew better. Instead of trying to escape, Hirata was investigating their accusers. His inquiries must have led him to the Official Quarter, where he’d surely killed in self-defense. Sano’s heart sickened as he watched the false charges multiply. Belatedly he noticed that Old Carp mumbled because his mouth was swollen. “What happened to you?” Sano asked.

  Old Carp tried to smile, but winced instead. “Governor Nagai found out about how I tricked the spies by pretending I was you last night. Today he sent someone to teach me a lesson. But the beating wasn’t too bad; Old Carp is tough. And a good joke like that was worth the price, yes?”

  “No,” Sano said, appalled because the servant had suffered on his account. And since he could no longer solicit Old Carp’s help, how would he escape his watchers?

  The desperate energy that had carried him through the day suddenly vanished. He felt weak from hunger, pain, and blood loss. Now that his enemies knew his arrest had not halted his investigation, they aimed to isolate him, to strip him of the power to exonerate himself and expose their crimes. Sano was utterly alone, virtually helpless. Yet even as he experienced the crushing black pressure of despair, his detective spirit rallied. A new plan took shape in his mind. However, he first had to restore his strength.

  “I need more medicine and a fresh dressing for this wound,” he told Old Carp. “Have the maids bring me a meal, heat the bath, and prepare my bed.”

  Soon Sano was fed, clean, and wore a new bandage on his shoulder. He retired to his bedchamber, where the futon, piled with soft quilts, offered an irresistible invitation to rest. But Sano feared sleep as much as he craved it.

  Somewhere in the night was the assassin who’d shot him; he was surrounded by enemies. Sano dressed in fresh outdoor wear and re-fastened his swords at his waist. Eschewing the futon, he lay on the floor with his neck propped on a wooden headrest. Alert to the approach of danger, hand grasping his long sword, he skimmed the surface of sleep. But fatigue quickly pulled him into deep, dark oblivion.

  He was walking through a boundless forest of flowering cherry trees that gave off a peculiar acrid odor and crackling noise. Somewhere a temple bell tolled repeatedly, its sound loud and dissonant. In the distance stood a woman, arms waving in frantic agitation, pale kimono swirling in the hot, dry wind. Sano recognized Aoi, and his heart swelled with joy. He shouted her name, but the bell drowned out his voice. He ran toward her.

  Then, as he drew near, he saw terror on Aoi’s face and realized she wasn’t beckoning, but waving him away. He couldn’t hear her voice, but read the words her lips formed: No! Danger. Run! Sano ignored the warning. Reaching Aoi, he clasped her in his arms.

  The moment they touched, she burst into flames. Her body, hair, and clothes dissolved in a hot, suffocating mass of light and smoke. Sano cried out, awakening with a start in his bedchamber. But the acrid odor remained; the crackling sound grew louder. The suffocating sensation didn’t abate. Dense smoke and an eerie orange light filled the room. Coughs wracked Sano’s chest; his eyes stung. This was no dream. The ringing bell was the fire alarm. The house was burning. Aoi’s spirit had warned him.

  Stumbling to his feet, Sano lurched across the room, coughing and gasping. He banged into walls and furniture before his groping hands found a door and opened it. A wave of heat struck him as he saw he’d mistaken an interior door for the one leading to the outer corridor and garden. Along the passage and in the room opposite his bedchamber, flames licked at walls and withered paper partitions. Billowing smoke forced corrosive fumes into Sano’s lungs; his throat burned. Holding his sleeve over his nose and mouth, he ran back into the bedchamber, where the floor mats, painted mural, and paper windows blazed.

  Suddenly the room’s exterior wall crashed inward, and Sano saw flames leaping in the outer corridor. The crackling noise heightened to a roar, punctuated by thuds and crashes. He dared not negotiate the corridors, where the fire could trap him or falling timbers crush him to death. Shielding his head with his arms, he rushed through the inferno in the outer corridor. Intense heat seared his skin; the burning tatami charred his stockinged feet. His hem caught fire in a woosh of flame. The smoke blinded him. Then he burst through the ruined wall and into the blessedly cool, fresh night air. He fell into the garden and rolled to extinguish the flames that engulfed him.

  “Fire!” he yelled, his voice hoarse from the smoke. A coughing fit overwhelmed him. Sitting up, he retched and spat. The mansion’s roof blazed. Sparks flew upward like brilliant orange birds; sails of black smoke fanned the sky. “Help, fire!”

  From outside the garden wall came shouts, running footsteps, and the insistent clang of the firebell. The Nagasaki fire brigade, clad in leather cloaks and visored helmets, burst through the gate. They conveyed buckets down a line from a well in the street, brought ladders, climbed to the roof, and splashed water on the burning thatch. With long picks, they pulled down the ruined mansion to keep the fire from spreading. The commander approached Sano.

  “You’re lucky to be alive,” he said. “Better get out in the street, where it’s safe. Here, I’ll help you.”

  “The servants,” Sano gasped, pointing toward the mansion’s back wing, which was now consumed by flames. “We have to save them!”

  He would have sped to the rescue, but the commander held him back. “It’s too late. There’s nothing anyone can do.”

  Dawn. The rising sun was a smear of orange in the vaporous sky, like a carp swimming in a murky pond. The fire was out, and the mansion’s blackened skeleton stood amid a wet mass of soot, ashes, charred boards, and ruined furniture. From the wreckage of the servants’ quarters, Sano and the fire brigade unearthed ten partially burnt but still recognizable corpses: cook, housekeeper, gardener, stableboy, five maids—and Old Carp. Mournfully Sano wrapped the servant’s body in a cloth provided by a neighborhood shrine. He bent his head and murmured a prayer for Old Carp’s soul. Then, as eta corpse handlers conveyed the dead to the city morgue, Sano collapsed wearily against the earthen wall.

  His head and chest hurt; violent coughs brought up thick, salty phlegm. Raw, red burns on his arms and legs ached with a fierce heat. He was lucky to have survived Japan’s most feared but all too common natural disaster, and for the first time thankful for Hirata’s absence. Wherever he was, at least he’d not died in the fire. But pain and despair overwhelmed Sano as he tried to summon the energy to resume the fight against his enemies.

  The fire brigade commander was walking through the ruins, muttering while he inspected them. A new sense of unease disturbed Sano. He rose and joined the commander.

  “I’ve never known a natural fire to burn so hot and fast under these conditions,” the c
ommander said. “It rained most of yesterday; the moisture should have kept the flames from spreading. The weather was too warm for charcoal braziers. And I don’t think the fire was caused by a lamp or candle accidentally left burning, either.”

  “Then it was arson?” Sano said.

  “I’d stake my honor on it.” The commander pointed upward. “Roof and ceilings totally destroyed. Only structural components left are interior ones.” He kicked a pile of fallen beams and joists. “The fire moved down from the outside of the house to the inside, opposite the usual way. And look at this.”

  He picked up a charred plank and handed it to Sano, who noted the greasy residue on the unburnt portion. “Lamp oil,” he said. His heart plummeted, and fury enveloped his spirit.

  “Poured over the roof,” the commander clarified, “then lit.”

  So the feared attack had come after all, though in a form Sano hadn’t expected. The world darkened at the edges of his vision as the nightmare of his past investigations began again. Because of him, innocent people—including his only Nagasaki friend—had died. If he’d accepted Peony’s confession, if he’d resigned himself to his fate after his arrest, they would be alive now. Who had done more harm: the murderer of Jan Spaen—or Sano? Beneath his ostensible quest for honor, Sano perceived another, less noble purpose, which he’d never before considered. Had a selfish desire to prove himself right—to triumph through his own moral superiority—caused eleven deaths and a possible war?

  Sano’s horrified guilt over his own motives turned to anger at the men who wanted him dead so badly that they didn’t care who else they killed to make his death look accidental. He stalked out the front gate to the street. Just as he’d expected, the troops were gone. They’d probably left to let the arsonist do his work, then not returned because they’d assumed Sano would perish in the fire. Sano approached a crowd of curious onlookers.