The Way of the Traitor Read online

  Peony’s defiance faded under his stern gaze. Pulling on her kimono, she huddled inside it, face hidden behind curtains of hair. “The palanquin left me at the gatehouse. I went inside. The guards searched me and wrote my name in the book. They laughed and said I was lucky the barbarian wanted me, because no one else did.”

  “Did you take anything onto the island?”

  “No.” She sniffled, weeping again. “The police took all my things when I was arrested. To pay back the people I stole from. Minami checks to make sure I don’t take anything from the house when I leave. And now that Spaen-san is dead, I have nothing left. Nothing.”

  Sano doubted whether anyone could have smuggled a gun and knife past the Deshima guards. But although Peony’s grief seemed genuine, he couldn’t imagine a Japanese woman loving a barbarian. Could the same person who’d helped dispose of the body also have furnished the weapons?

  “What happened next?” Sano asked.

  “The guards took me to Spaen-san’s room. I went inside. He was there. We …” Sobbing, she gasped out, “We drank. Then we … pleasured each other. Afterward, I fell asleep. The next thing I knew, the guards were shaking me awake. Asking where Spaen-san was.”

  The last part of her speech sounded rushed, as though she’d glossed over important details. “So you slept all night,” Sano said, “without hearing or seeing anything that happened in the room, or outside?”

  “Yes.”

  The reply, muffled behind her heavy hair, was barely a whisper. Sano, sensing a new wariness about her, pressed the point. “Didn’t the storm wake you? Peony. Look at me.” Grasping her chin, he forced her head up. “Tell me what happened to Director Spaen.”

  Her features were blurred with weeping, her nose red and swollen, her cheeks blotchy. But her eyes darted slyly between their puffy lids.

  “I had five cups of sake,” she mumbled. “I slept very soundly. I didn’t even hear the storm. But I wish it had wakened me. Because then I might have saved Spaen-san.”

  Her face twisted, and she tried to turn away. Sano grabbed her shoulders. “Director Spaen treated you like filth. You didn’t love him—you hated him. That night, you decided to take your revenge. You shot Spaen and mutilated his body to make it look like he’d been stabbed to death. But you couldn’t have done it alone. Someone gave you the weapons after you were on the island. Someone opened the water gates for you.” Much as he feared this, he couldn’t ignore the obvious possibilities. “Who was it, Peony? A guard? Chief Ohira? Talk!”

  “You’re hurting me,” Peony blubbered, writhing in Sano’s grip. “I didn’t kill him. I wouldn’t. I loved him. I didn’t see anything. I don’t know anything.” Pulling free, she crawled away and sat with knees hunched, head cradled in her arms. A high, keening moan rose from her as she rocked back and forth.

  Sano sat back on his heels, frustrated and torn. If she was innocent, then he was needlessly brutalizing her. A Deshima guard might have conspired with deGraeff—or Dr. Huygens—to kill Spaen. However, if Peony knew something about the murder, he couldn’t stop now.

  “Who put the crucifix around Spaen’s neck?” Sano demanded, standing over her. “You or your accomplice? And why? Because you’re Christians?”

  Abruptly Peony’s moans stopped; she went still. “I’m not a Christian,” she muttered. “It’s against the law.”

  Either she hadn’t known about the crucifix, or its mention had struck a nerve. “The Christian doctrine forbids killing,” Sano said, “and requires people to love one another. Did you atone for your sin by putting the crucifix on Director Spaen and praying for his soul after you killed him? Do you love him now, because he can’t hurt you any more? Did your hatred die with him?”

  “I never hated Spaen-san.” Peony raised her head, tossing back her hair. Her teary eyes glistened with new defiance and cunning. “But I can tell you who did. Urabe, the foreign-goods merchant. Because Spaen-san cheated him. And he was on Deshima that night, too.”

  “But yours was the only name listed in the visitors’ ledger,” Sano said.

  She laughed scornfully. “Then the ledger is wrong. I saw Urabe with my own eyes. Not everything that happens on Deshima is recorded, you know.” Then she looked stricken, as if she’d said more than she had intended. Ducking her head, she whimpered, “I’m tired. I have work to do, and Minami will starve me if I don’t finish. Please, leave me alone. I’ve told you everything I know.”

  When questioned about the staff’s and the other barbarians’ relations with Director Spaen, she pleaded ignorance. “The guards don’t let me see everything they do. And I can’t understand what the barbarians say.”

  Finally Sano rose to go, more confused than ever. The scope of the investigation kept growing. How many secrets must he expose before discovering the truth about Spaen’s murder? How did the Christian element fit into it? Sano didn’t trust Peony’s veracity any more than the guards’. She was hiding something; he could tell. But he must at least check out her story about Urabe, his latest Japanese suspect.

  Peony remained in the room, listening to the sound of the sōsakan’s receding footsteps. She heard him speak and Minami reply. Then their voices faded as they left the garden. Hurrying to the door, Peony looked outside. The courtesans had gone from the veranda. Maybe no one would miss her for the moment. As much as the forced sex with strangers, she hated the constant demands made upon her by the brothel’s residents. But now a path to liberty had opened. Soon she would no longer be a prostitute by night, a servant by day, despised and scorned.

  Wiping the tears from her face, Peony slid open the door leading to the corridor, looked both ways, and saw no one. She tiptoed down the corridor. Through the paper-paned walls, she heard courtesans chattering while they bathed and dressed for the night’s festivities. She cringed, anticipating shrill voices calling her name. Miraculously, no summons came. She was free to plot her escape.

  She lumbered down a narrow passage and up three steps to the privy, a small shed attached to the house, and slipped inside. The light from a barred window illuminated the cramped room with a hole in the floor. The stench of urine and feces enveloped Peony, but she was blessedly alone. She reached up, removed a loose board from the ceiling, and inserted her hand into the open space under the roof.

  After she’d been convicted of theft and sentenced to the pleasure quarter three years ago, she’d continued stealing—money from clients, trinkets from the other women, food from the kitchen. At first she’d hidden the loot in her room, but Minami had found it and beaten her badly.

  “You’ll learn your lesson,” he’d said when she pleaded for mercy.

  Instead, Peony found a better hiding place in the privy, where no one would stay long enough to inspect the ceiling. Now she pulled out a black lacquer box, one handspan square. Lovingly she caressed the floral design inlaid in mother-of-pearl on the cover. This, stolen from a traveling merchant, was the most beautiful thing she’d acquired since arriving at the Half Moon. Yet the box had less value than what was inside: her passage to liberty.

  As she anticipated a life far away from the pleasure quarter, Peony’s excitement invoked the same sensations she always got from stealing. Her heart thudded; her breathing quickened. A thrilling sense of power flooded her. She had known and craved this feeling since childhood, when she’d stolen for the first time—a beautiful doll, taken from a peddler of toys. The pleasure derived from the ill-gotten items was secondary to the joy of stealing. She felt invincible. So had it happened with the prize concealed inside the lacquer box.

  One sultry summer night last month, the revelry in the Half Moon had reached its bawdy zenith. Drunken clients sang and clapped to the music of samisen, flute, and drum.

  “The river is rising, rising—”

  “Lift up your skirts so they don’t get wet!”

  Forced to dance for the clients, Peony raised her skirt above her ankles. The other courtesans tittered; the men hooted and yelled. Tears of shame trickled down
Peony’s cheeks as she reluctantly hopped, spun, and exposed first her bowed calves, then her heavy thighs.

  “Higher! Higher!”

  Minami laughed with the crowd, but his eyes were hard when they met Peony’s, his message clear: If she disobeyed the customers, she would suffer. Almost fainting with embarrassment, she hiked her skirts, revealing her huge, bare buttocks and shaved pubis.

  The clients jeered, gagged, and held their noses. Peony fled, sobbing, down the dark corridor. The door to one of the guest chambers stood open. From it issued giggles and moans. Moonlight streamed through the window, illuminating two nude figures entwined on the futon, and an item that lay amid scattered clothing. Quicker than a breath and more quiet, Peony was inside the room, then out again with the thing hidden beneath her kimono, and triumph spreading a balm over her wounded pride.

  Now, secluded in the privy, she smiled. She’d soon learned the significance of her treasure, and what crimes its owner had committed. The sōsakan’s mention of the crucifix supported her other suspicions. In her excitement, she’d almost revealed Deshima’s secrets to him, then caught herself just in time. The owner of the treasure wouldn’t want such damning evidence to reach the Edo authorities. How much would he pay to get it back? Surely enough to buy her freedom from the pleasure quarter!

  Quickly Peony stuffed the box back in its hiding place. She grabbed the coins also secreted there, replaced the board, and left the privy. Luck favored her; she met no one as she hurried out the back door and into the street. She scanned the crowds, yearning for the limited independence she’d once had.

  At age fourteen, Peony had gone to work as a maid in a rich man’s house. She’d cleaned and sewn, fetched and carried from dawn until late at night. Fearing her employer’s wrath, she’d controlled her thieving impulses until the eldest daughter’s wedding day, when she’d stolen a set of hair ornaments, gifts to the bride. If she’d hidden the loot right away, she might have escaped her sad fate. But vanity proved her downfall. She was inserting an ornament in her hair when her mistress walked into the room, saw the ornament in Peony’s hands, and cried, “Thief! Thief!”

  Soon the doshin arrived and took Peony to jail. At her trial, the police testified that they’d found other stolen goods in her room. Citizens came forward to report past thefts associated with places Peony had frequented. And her employer had considerable influence with the bakufu.

  “You, Peony,” said the magistrate, “will work as a courtesan in the Nagasaki pleasure quarter until you have repented of your crimes, made reparation to your victims, and repaid the cost of your keep while serving your sentence.”

  With her looks, she could never earn enough money to pay for all that. Peony wished the magistrate had sentenced her to death. Day after day she slaved at the Half Moon. Night after night she spent in the foreign settlements, bedding the only men who would have her: stinking Chinese, Arab, and Korean sailors and merchants. The high prices they paid were not enough to cover the costs Minami charged against Peony’s earnings. Her continued thefts made life bearable, but extended her punishment. And the worst day of all had come two years ago, when Minami ordered her to service the Dutchmen whose ship had just arrived.

  Crossing the bridge to Deshima, Peony had tried to jump into the sea, to drown herself and thus avoid the disgrace of bedding a barbarian. But the guards restrained her. They led her to the house where the Dutch trade director waited. Peony struggled and sobbed. The guards threw her into the barbarian’s room and locked the door.

  The barbarian rose from his seat. Peony shrank back against the door, fearing his strange blue eyes, light hair, and immense size. His odor sickened her. Helplessly she waited for him to assault her the way other foreigners did after long journeys without women. He would savage her with those huge hands and strong teeth. His huge organ would tear her insides apart. Peony suppressed a scream, fearing that resistance might provoke cruelty.

  But the barbarian merely pointed to himself and said, “Jan Spaen.” Then he pointed to her, a question in his strange eyes.

  “Peony,” she whispered, surprised. Clients never asked her name; she was just a convenience to them.

  Jan Spaen went to the table and poured two cups from a flask. “Een brandewijn?” he said, offering one to her.

  And clients never offered her a drink, as they did the prettier women. She accepted the cup, careful not to touch his hand. Maybe the liquor would give her courage. When Jan Spaen sat on his raised bed and motioned for her to join him, she perched as far from him as possible. He raised his cup to her, then drank. Hesitantly she followed suit. The potent foreign liquor burned her throat. Heat flushed her body. Suddenly light-headed, she giggled despite her fear.

  Jan Spaen proffered the flask.

  “Yes, please,” Peony said eagerly.

  They drank again, and she relaxed. The barbarian wasn’t so bad after all. He didn’t seem to notice her ugliness. His smell no longer seemed so awful, either. Though she knew he didn’t understand Japanese, she began to flirt with him.

  “Master is so kind,” she cooed. “And so strong and virile.”

  The barbarian answered in his own tongue. Their attempts at conversation struck them both as hilarious; they laughed together. Peony, the usual butt of all jokes, marveled at the unexpected pleasure of shared humor.

  Then Spaen set the cups aside. His expression turned serious. Peony saw the hunger in his eyes, and her fear returned. She fumbled at the knot in her sash. Maybe once they got the sex over with, they could drink and laugh again.

  “Nee!”

  Spaen’s vehement negative stopped her. Puzzled, she watched as he walked to the chest and took out three ropes. Then he shed his coat and shoes, his shirt, trousers, stockings, and undergarments. Seeing his hairy, muscular body, Peony shuddered. She turned away from the sight of the bull-like genitals that hung from a tangle of wiry gold pubic hair. Hugging herself, she waited for the inevitable attack. But Spaen’s voice was gentle.

  “Kom hier.”

  She glanced at him, curious now. Her mouth dropped.

  He sat on his seat, binding his ankles to its legs. Then he spoke, motioning for her to tie his hands behind his back. Peony stood paralyzed with shock. She’d heard other courtesans whisper about such disgusting sex games. How unfortunate that the barbarians also knew them! Only the thought of Minami’s anger enabled her to take up the rope.

  When she tightened it around his wrists, Spaen groaned, a deep, wounded-animal sound. Quickly she let go and jumped back. “I’m sorry I hurt you, master!” she cried.

  But he twisted in his seat, face dark with passion, and shouted for her to continue. Sweat beaded his skin; the rank smell grew stronger. Peony saw his organ swell upright. And strangely, she felt an answering response within her own body. Her heartbeat and breathing quickened the way they did when she stole. An unfamiliar warmth pulsed in her groin, tingled her nipples. She realized she wanted the barbarian as much as he did her, and in the same way. When he shouted more orders, she knew instinctively what to do.

  She slapped his face, hard. He moaned, his eyes feverish with pain and lust. She punched his chest, and he writhed, his organ fully erect. As she struck him again and again, her moans joined his. She tore off her clothes and straddled Spaen, impaling herself on his erection. The heat and smell of his sweat-drenched skin fed her desire, as did the sight of his contorted face and straining muscles. She raised and lowered herself, nearly mad with pleasure.

  He climaxed almost immediately, in a series of hoarse shouts and violent convulsions. She rode him until her own pleasure crested. She felt powerful, triumphant. This mastery of a wild barbarian was even better than stealing.

  That was the first of many nights. The game grew more intense and violent. Sometimes Spaen made her threaten him with a knife or gun. Peony had wondered where he’d gotten the weapons. Now she knew. She’d seen and heard things on Deshima, and not just on the night Spaen had disappeared. Eventually they’d learned to commu
nicate using a mixture of simple Japanese and Dutch words. Sometimes he told her interesting things. This was his legacy to her, a payment for the suffering she’d endured during their game’s other phase.

  She’d soon understood that for Spaen to completely enjoy sex, he must first abuse his abuser, mocking and mistreating her in front of other people. He derived extra pleasure from the reversal of their roles, the constant shift of power between them. This caused terrible anguish to Peony, who had told the sōsakan only half the truth about her feelings toward Spaen. She’d loved the barbarian for the power and ecstasy he’d given her; she honestly grieved for him. She’d accepted the rules of their private game. Yet she had hated the humiliation of cleaning up the dung he’d deliberately spilled, of enduring his insults. The besotted love slave in her wanted to die so they could spend eternity together, but the survivor rejoiced in his murder.

  Through her lover’s death, she would live, as an independent woman who need not steal to assert her power.

  In the street she spotted a town messenger, a young man with the city crest painted on a flag attached to his back, and his kimono tied up around the waist to free his legs for running. She beckoned, and he trotted over.

  “Deliver this message for me,” Peony said. She whispered in his ear the name of the man from whom she’d stolen the treasure, then said, “Tell him Peony has the property he lost. She’ll return it for ten thousand koban.” This sum would settle her debts and secure her future. “He must come alone to my room tonight, with the money, at the hour of the boar.”

  She explained what would happen if he didn’t, then paid the messenger, who ran off to deliver the ultimatum. Peony smiled. She was sure the man would meet her demands. Yet even if he refused, she couldn’t lose: She would simply sell her prize to the sōsakan, and win her freedom that way—with the added bonus that she need no longer fear being convicted for the murder of her lover.