The Way of the Traitor

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “Were any of you around when the fire started?” he asked.

  “I was,” a young samurai volunteered. “I had firewatch duty last night.” He pointed to a roofed wooden platform that rose on poles above the houses in the next block. “I saw the flames and rang the bell.”

  “Did you see anyone near the house then?”

  The samurai nodded. “There was a man standing on the roof. When the flames went up, he jumped on top of the next house. I yelled at him to stop, but he ran away. By the time I climbed down from the tower and got over here, he was gone.”

  “What did he look like?” Sano asked.

  “I was too far away to see him very well, but he wore a big hat and a short kimono.”

  And he must be fairly young and agile. It could not have been Governor Nagai, who would have delegated such dirty work. Though Abbot Liu Yun’s age excluded him, Chief Ohira, Urabe, Interpreter Iishino, and the Deshima guards were possible culprits who would want to minimize the slim chance that Sano might be acquitted by the tribunal and convince the Edo authorities to investigate their affairs. Sano clenched his jaws in frustration. The tragedy had scarcely even narrowed down his original list of suspects.

  Yet a cold, determined fury solidified like a layer of ice below the surface of Sano’s anger. His enemies had made his work harder, but he would not give up. There was still the plan he’d formulated last night. He had more deaths to avenge now, and a guilty conscience to assuage.

  If he lived long enough.

  A search for better witnesses to the arson proved futile, but the god of luck did grant Sano two compensatory blessings. His money, sealed in a fireproof iron chest, had survived the fire. And when he left the site, no one followed: News of his survival had not yet reached his enemies. He hurried to take advantage of his temporary autonomy.

  He gave his long sword to the street headman for safekeeping. In the merchant district, he replaced his burnt clothes with a short cotton kimono, wide straw hat, sandals, leggings to cover the bandages on his burns, and a baggy cloak to hide his short sword. At a ropemaker’s, he bought a coil of straw cable and attached to it an iron hook purchased from a blacksmith. He tied the rope around his waist under his cloak, then headed for the waterfront.

  A diminishing stream of evacuees made their way toward the hills; many shops were already closed, houses shuttered and empty. Sano surveyed the view and cursed under his breath. Troops still occupied the promenade, docks, and beach. Sentries still guarded the Deshima guardhouse and bridge; watchboats still circled the island. The evidence Sano needed to incriminate the smugglers and clear himself and Hirata was on Deshima. But how to get there?

  Past Sano trudged water bearers, each with two wooden buckets suspended from a pole on his shoulder. Sano’s interest roused as he watched the men fill the buckets at a well and carry them downhill. The morning was sultry, overcast, and windless; moisture from yesterday’s rain steamed up from the earth. The water shimmered like colorless silk beneath the Dutch ship, Japanese war vessels, and patrol barges. The beat of the war drums continued, their relentless pulse underscoring the heat. Sano sweltered under his bulky clothing, but smiled when he saw the water bearers busily serving the thirsty troops. Hurrying over to the well, he approached a bearer who’d just obtained a refill.

  “Give me your buckets,” he said, drawing his sword.

  The bearer gulped. “Yes, master!”

  Sano shouldered the pole and hurried downhill, wincing under the awkward load. How did those fellows carry such heavy buckets all day long? He imitated the way they let the pole teeter so that the weight constantly shifted. Water sloshed from his buckets. A sore spot quickly formed on his shoulder. Sano reached the promenade breathless and panting.

  “Water!” called a mounted soldier.

  Sano hurried over. Keeping his face averted, he set down the buckets and filled the ladle. As he handed it up to the soldier, the horse suddenly reared. Water splashed the soldier’s armor tunic.

  “Clumsy oaf!” he said, cuffing Sano on the head.

  Sano’s samurai pride bristled at the insult. He stifled an angry retort, preserving his peasant disguise. “A thousand pardons, master,” he said meekly.

  Dispensing water to other troops, he moved down the promenade, but didn’t see how he could sneak past the Deshima guards. His buckets were quickly emptying; soon he would have to go back to the well. Farther along the coast, past the buildings and docks, the shoreline was rocky and wooded. From there, he might sneak into the water. But he could never swim all the way to Deshima with his wounded shoulder, burns, and cumbersome gear. The watchboat sentries would spot him before he even got close. He had to find another way.

  Then Sano saw a watchboat leave its post. The two-man crew rowed to the harbor patrol station and disembarked at the pier. A new crew took its place in the boat, rowed back to Deshima, and resumed the watch. Sano hurried onto the pier, as if to serve water to troops there. They were watching another boat approach and didn’t notice him. The station shielded him from view of the soldiers on the promenade. Abandoning his buckets and pole, he shimmied down a piling and into the water. Its salty chill stung his burns. Quickly he removed his hat and cloak and stuffed them between the piling and a diagonal support beam. Then he gulped a deep breath, dived beneath the water under the pier, and swam toward another piling near where the boat would arrive.

  The water was so murky he could barely see. Debris floated past him. His gear and clothing hampered his movements. Kicking and stroking strained his burned limbs and sore shoulder. His lungs demanded air. Just when he thought his chest would explode, his fingers touched slimy, algae-covered wood. He grabbed the piling and cautiously raised his head above water, trying to quiet his gasps.

  The watchboat drew up parallel to the pier, almost within touching distance, the oarsman standing in the stern, his partner sitting behind the pointed prow that arched up from the water. Both wore arquebuses. Shivering, Sano watched the crew secure the boat, heard them greet the shore troops who helped them onto the pier. The replacement crew stepped aboard. Quickly Sano plunged underwater and swam under the boat. The dipping oar nearly hit him. The bow turned toward Deshima, and the boat’s curved bottom began moving away. Still underwater, Sano rolled onto his back; kicking hard, he caught up with the boat and aligned himself along its length. He desperately craved air; he was drowning. The boat was moving too fast. Determination spurred him on. He grasped the prow and pulled himself up until his face just cleared the surface. The sea sucked at him as the boat picked up speed. Spitting water, he hung on, his nails digging into the rough wood.

  “Something just hit the boat,” Sano heard the man nearest him say.

  The oar continued splashing. “Probably just trash,” the other man said. “Harbor’s filthy. Yesterday I saw four broken barrels, a dead dog, an old fishing net …”

  While the litany droned on, Sano gasped and spewed and fought to maintain his grip. Twisting his neck, he saw that they were nearing the outer shore of Deshima, where two other watchboats floated outside the signposts. The men in them sat facing the harbor. Before Sano came within their range of vision, he let go and ducked underwater. When the boat passed over him, he grabbed the stern, letting it tow him.

  The boat glided to a stop near the island’s northwest corner. Cautiously Sano poked his head above the water and saw the crew sitting with their gazes turned seaward. Sano swam underwater toward Deshima, hoping the Dutch ship would hold their attention and the sound of waves and war drums mask any noises he made. Breathless and exhausted, he reached the island’s rocky, vertical foundation. The fence rose high above him. Hurriedly he untied the rope around his waist, watching the sentries not twenty paces away. How much time before someone got bored and chanced to look behind him?

  Half in, half out of the water, Sano leaned against the foundation and put his ear to the fence. He heard marching footsteps approach, pass, and recede: a guard, patrolling the perimeter. With no time to lose
before the next inspection, Sano tossed the iron hook at the top of the fence. It struck with a loud thump, then clattered noisily onto the rocks, bringing the rope with it. Sano cursed under his breath; panic thrummed along his nerves as he glanced at the boat sentries …

  … who remained immobile, facing out to sea. Praying for luck, Sano threw the hook again. This time it caught the fence and held securely. Bracing his feet against the island’s foundation, he pulled his dripping self clear of the water, looking over his shoulder at the watch-boats. Hand over hand he climbed up the fence. His feet scraped against the planks; he expected to hear an alarm rise from within the compound. When his head cleared the fence, he looked down into the narrow passage between the outer and inner fences.

  It was empty, but Sano heard nearby voices. Briefly he contemplated the dire consequences of being caught trespassing on Deshima: instant death. But he’d already breached island security, and the boat sentries would shoot if they saw him. He scrambled onto the top of the fence, wincing as the spikes jabbed him. Pulling the hook free, he dropped into the passage.

  His feet hit the gravel with a loud crunch. Hastily he crammed the rope and hook inside his drenched kimono, then sped to the gate he remembered from his first visit. He cautiously opened it and looked inside.

  In the barbarians’ garden, three sentries sat playing cards, their backs to him. Smoke rose from their pipes. Tethered goats grazed; chickens scratched in the pen by the vegetable patch. Beyond stood the barbarians’ houses. Sano slipped through the gate, closed it quietly, and sprinted across the garden. Ducking behind the goat shed, he studied the guards, who seemed unaware of anything amiss. The stairs to the balcony lay perhaps ten paces away. Then a clear remark emerged from the mutter of the guards’ conversation:

  “With all the extra troops on Deshima and all the barbarians locked up in the common room together, it’s like a holiday for us regulars. We should have war more often.”

  Laughter followed; Sano’s heart sank. How would he speak to Dr. Huygens in private, especially if the barbarians were under even heavier surveillance than usual? The task he must accomplish afterward also seemed impossible.

  And how would he get off Deshima alive?

  Sano thought of Hirata and Peony; of Old Carp and the other servants killed in the fire; of Kiyoshi, perhaps wrongfully condemned. He pictured Governor Nagai, Chief Ohira, Interpreter Iishino, Urabe, Abbot Liu Yun, and the barbarians, free to murder and smuggle again unless he stopped them. His particular anger at Dr. Huygens flared; his resolve hardened. Watching the sentries and keeping alert for others, Sano left his shelter and angled toward the gap between the houses. Through it he could see the street, the warehouse opposite, and the patrolling guards. Danger prickled his skin like the energy current before a lightning strike. Halfway there. Just ten paces to go …

  Sano darted into the gap. He pressed himself against the wall and expelled the breath he’d been holding. Then he crept toward the street and cautiously peered up and down it.

  Except for a sentry at each guardhouse, Deshima’s security force was concentrated on the building that contained the common room, across the street and some fifty paces to Sano’s right. There were ten men outside the door, three on the balcony, probably others at the rear. Could he create a diversion and draw the guards away so he could get inside to Dr. Huygens?

  Then, looking down the street, Sano saw Nirin walk out of the doctor’s surgery. Sano ducked back into the yard and hurried toward the surgery. A guard emerged from a building, and Sano darted behind a tree. At last he reached his destination. He peered through the window.

  Inside, Dr. Huygens stood by the table where they’d examined Jan Spaen’s corpse. Upon it slept a young man, covered with a quilt. A lone guard leaned against the wall, his back to the door. In an instant, Sano was in the surgery, his arm locked in a choke hold around the guard. The patient didn’t awaken, but Dr. Huygens exclaimed in surprise.

  “Quiet!” Sano rasped, straining to subdue his flailing, coughing captive. He applied more pressure to the guard’s neck. The coughs turned to gasps; then the guard went limp and unconscious. Sano eased him to the floor, shut the door, then faced Huygens. “Why did you lie to me?”

  Dr. Huygens didn’t pretend to misunderstand. Behind his glasses, his eyes closed briefly as his shoulders heaved in a sigh of mingled sadness and relief. “I no want you think I kill Spaen,” he said, adjusting the bandage on his patient’s leg. “I afraid.”

  Sano remembered the calm detachment with which Huygens had examined Jan Spaen’s corpse. At the funeral, when Huygens had said, “May all our sins be forgiven,” he could have been praying for Spaen’s soul—or asking absolution for his own sin of murdering Spaen. Had he helped Sano because he was a believer in justice, or to protect himself?

  “You fought with Spaen before he died,” Sano said. “About what?”

  Huygens hesitated, but only long enough to draw Sano into the corner so their conversation wouldn’t disturb the patient. Either he was unaware that Sano had lost authority on Deshima, or didn’t care because he needed to confess. “I want leave East India Company; go home. Spaen no let me.”

  Then followed a tale of misspent youth and subsequent reform; of how Jan Spaen had gained power over and exploited Huygens. “I no mean kill Franz Tulp.” Dr. Huygens’s anguished eyes pleaded for Sano’s belief. “I drunk; I mad. We fight. I hit too hard. He fall.”

  The doctor drew a long, shaky breath, as if experiencing anew the horror of that long-ago day. His red face was sweating profusely, his body odor pungent. Sano eyed the doors, waiting with controlled impatience for him to continue. “Then Jan Spaen come. He see Tulp’s body, me with bloody pipe. I scared he call the, the—”

  “The police,” Sano said.

  Huygens rushed on: “But Spaen say he help. We pick up body, carry away. I say, what if someone see us? Spaen say wait. Then horse cart come, fast. We throw body in front. Horses, cart, go over body. We run away. Hear cart stop, people shout: They think they kill Tulp.”

  And so, it seemed, did everyone else. Later Huygens had heard that the authorities had ruled Tulp’s death an accident of the sort not uncommon to Dutch festivals: a drunken youth, crushed when he fell under a cart driven by more drunken youths. Huygens’s fellow brawlers had kept silent for fear of punishment. He might have gotten away with murder, if not for Jan Spaen. Sano pitied Huygens, admiring his efforts to atone for the crime. His distaste for Spaen deepened. To solve the mystery of that cruel man’s death, Sano had risked everything. But he couldn’t let antipathy toward the murder victim affect his judgment. Nor could he excuse a suspect he liked.

  “I’ll ask you again,” Sano said. “Where were you the night Spaen disappeared?”

  Dr. Huygens took a step backward, but his eyes met Sano’s bravely. “In my room; sleep. I no kill Spaen.”

  “Did you smuggle goods from the Deshima warehouse to a cove in the harbor?”

  “I no smuggle. I no kill!”

  “Did you plant the bullet in Spaen’s body?”

  “No! No!” Clumsily Huygens dropped to his knees before Sano, hands clasped in entreaty. “Friend,” he said, weeping. “I sorry I no tell you Spaen hurt me. But I no kill. I know nothing of smuggling. Please, trust. Forgive.”

  Sano puffed out his breath in angry frustration. There was no physical evidence tying Huygens to Spaen’s murder or the smuggling, yet Sano was now convinced of the doctor’s guilt. Huygens had once killed a fellow student in a fit of drunken temper. If he hadn’t really reformed, he could have done the same to Jan Spaen. His betrayal of Sano’s trust finalized the case against him. Sano should never have trusted a barbarian; their worlds were too far apart, their values too different. The whole investigation was compromised, the evidence tainted. And unless Sano’s next actions yielded good results, he would lose his life and honor.

  “I have to go,” he said.

  He stripped off the unconscious guard’s helmet, long sword, armor tunic,
robe, and leg guards. He removed his own outer clothes and donned the stolen uniform, keeping his short sword. The guard was bigger than he, and the armor fit too loosely, but he needed the disguise. He crammed the inert body into an empty cupboard, threw his rope and hook in, and shut the door.

  “If anyone comes, tell them the guard went outside,” Sano told Dr. Huygens, who nodded as if eager to please. Then he slipped out the back door.

  His face partially hidden by the visor and side flaps of his stolen helmet, Sano crossed the yard. His heart tripped when the three guards outside the barbarians’ house looked up at him. He nodded as he passed. They nodded in reply, then returned to their card game. Sano released his breath: the first obstacle cleared. Reaching the fence, he opened the gate and stepped into the perimeter passage, nerves taut.

  Here lay the peril of a face-to-face confrontation with someone who could identify him as an imposter, while he was trapped between the fences. Would that he could subdue any passing patrol guards he met without adding murder to his list of crimes!

  Sano hurried along the fan curve of the island. Now he heard brisk footsteps coming from behind. A blare of panic echoed in his head, and he quickened his steps. On his left appeared the gate he sought. Sano slipped through it and into the garden of the office compound. This was deserted; with the barbarians imprisoned indoors and all approaches to Deshima covered, the staff had relaxed security here. Beyond an ornamental pond and more trees, the chief’s long, two-story house, with the thatched roof, large entry porch, and latticed balcony Sano remembered from his first visit, stood against the south wall. Along the west wall were the deputies’ and interpreters’ office cottages, the building where the Dutch sold their goods, the fireproof storehouses, and the stables. Sano detected no activity. When he noticed the barred windows of Ohira’s house, his hopes dwindled, yet he saw an advantage to the situation. He might have trouble getting inside the house without being seen, but the presence of Ohira’s staff might prove a boon rather than an obstacle.