The Snow Empress си-12 Page 7

  “Have you seen him again?” Reiko demanded.

  Lilac recoiled, frightened by the intensity of Reiko’s gaze. “No.”

  “Could he still be in the castle?” Reiko sat very still, her ears pricked, her eyes wide, mouth open, every sense straining to detect her son’s whereabouts.

  “He could,” Lilac said, but she sounded more as if she wanted to please Reiko than as if she thought so.

  One of the other maids peeked in the door. “Lilac! Lady Matsumae wants you.”

  “I have to go,” Lilac said, rising.

  Reiko clutched her arm and whispered, “Can you find out if my son is here? Will you look for him for me? Please!”

  Sly satisfaction glittered through the sympathy in Lilac’s eyes. “I’ll try.”

  As she hurried off, Reiko knew that she’d put herself right where Lilac wanted, in her debt. Reiko didn’t trust someone who would take advantage of the mother of a kidnapped child, but she would deal with all the gods of evil to find Masahiro. At least now she had more hope than before, something else to wait for besides news from Sano. But the waiting grew even harder to bear. With every moment that passed, Reiko’s patience stretched beyond the limits of frustration.

  The other maids came to sweep her room. When they finished, they fastened their fur-lined coats and pulled their leather hoods over their heads, preparing to go out into the cold. Inspiration flashed through Reiko as she looked at their clothes, then at her own that Lilac had given her. She quickly tagged after them. People took servants for granted, didn’t pay them much attention. The maids were chattering together and didn’t seem to notice Reiko. She kept her head down, and the guards at the door didn’t look twice at her as she walked past them out the door.

  7

  Gizaemon and the guards led Sano and Hirata outside, to a tea ceremony cottage with a thatched roof, plank walls, and a stone basin by the door for washing hands before entering. This symbol of Japanese high culture looked out of place in the alien north. Sano felt more unsettled than comforted by the familiar sight, as if he’d flown to the moon only to discover trappings of home. He had thought that after what he’d already experienced here, nothing else could shock him, but when he stepped inside the cottage with Hirata and Gizaemon, he found out how wrong he’d been.

  The corpse lay in a pine coffin set on the tatami floor, between the gnarled wooden columns that supported the ceiling. Strewn around it were gold lotus flowers and brass incense burners. Tekare wore a lavish gold silk brocade kimono embroidered with darker gold water lilies. Her thick, wavy black hair fanned across the pillow under her head. Her eyes were closed, her arms laid at her sides. Lord Matsumae had enshrined his beloved’s remains. The cold had semi-preserved her, although her face was withered, sunken. At first Sano thought the bluish discoloration around her mouth was decay, but then he realized it was a tattoo such as Reiko had described seeing on the Ezo concubines.

  “Lord Matsumae’s dead mistress was an Ezo woman,” Sano said.

  As he and Hirata stood gazing down at the corpse, he noticed the flattened silk cushion beside Tekare’s head. Lord Matsumae must spend hours kneeling beside her. Mourning her. Worshipping her. Sano thought about the scene in Lord Matsumae’s chamber. His intellect couldn’t accept what he’d seen, heard, and felt. Surely the dead Tekare hadn’t taken over Lord Matsumae; surely his madness made him act out her persona. But spirit possession appeared to be the prevalent belief about what ailed him, and Sano-his prisoner-didn’t have much choice except to operate under the same assumption.

  “Taking Ezo women as concubines is common in these parts,” Gizaemon said. “Not enough Japanese women, and some men have a taste for native meat.”

  Sano raised his eyebrows at the crude remark. “You don’t approve?

  “Only because of the trouble it can cause. Which you’ve seen with my nephew.”

  “Didn’t you like Tekare?” Hirata asked.

  “She was as good as any of them.”

  “Is it Ezo in general you don’t care for?”

  Gizaemon shrugged. “They have their uses. If not for them, my clan would be foot-soldiers for the shogun instead of ruling a trade monopoly.”

  Hirata exchanged glances with Sano as they noted Gizaemon’s attitude. Sano asked, “Can you tell me how she died?”

  “She was shot with a spring-bow. Ever seen one?” When Sano shook his head, Gizaemon explained, “It’s for hunting, a bow and arrow rigged with a string that’s tied across a path. When an animal trips the string, the bow lets loose. Except in this case, it wasn’t a deer that the arrow hit.”

  He took the front of the woman’s robe between his thumb and forefinger and gingerly pulled it open. Her flesh was grayish, her breast shriveled. Between her ribs was an ugly wound, the tissue blackened with blood and rot.

  “A good, clean shot,” Gizaemon said.

  The satisfaction in his voice repelled Sano. “Why does Lord Matsumae think Tekare was murdered? Couldn’t her death have been accidental? She walked into a trap set for deer?”

  “Not a chance,” Gizaemon said scornfully. “Nobody hunts game on that path. There isn’t any so close to town. Make no mistake, this wasn’t an accident.”

  He added, “It wasn’t just the arrow that killed her. The head was poisoned with surkuay”

  “‘Surkuay’?” Sano frowned at the unfamiliar word.

  “A native potion made from monkshood plant, tobacco, stingray spines, and other poisonous things. You hit a bear anywhere on his body with it, and he can walk only about two hundred paces before he dies. You follow him until he drops. There’s only one cure. Immediately cut away the poisoned flesh and wash out the wound. As you can see she tried to do.”

  “With her bare hands,” Sano said as he and Hirata studied the claw marks around the wound.

  “Little good it did,” Gizaemon said callously.

  Sano thought his negative view of Tekare equaled fertile ground for the murder investigation. “Who do you think killed her?”

  “Had to be an Ezo.” Gizaemon sounded certain.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “The spring-bow is an Ezo weapon. The poison is Ezo. One plus one equals two.”

  “You sound as if you want the killer to be an Ezo,” Sano said. “Why?”

  Amused condescension flickered across Gizaemon’s weathered face. “Let me explain the situation here in Ezogashima, Honorable Chamberlain. Relations between Ezo and Japanese have always been tense. They don’t like us keeping them confined in their own territory, controlling their trade with the outside. They’d rather come and go as they please.”

  “If they sell their goods directly to customers in Japan, they can set their own prices and cut the Matsumae middlemen out of the deals,” Sano said. “I know. What’s your point?”

  “So far we’ve had a compromise. The Ezo behave themselves. We let them choose their own leaders, rule their own villages, keep their traditions. But it doesn’t always work.”

  “There have been Ezo uprisings.

  “Right. Even though the Ezo will never drive us out, they’ll keep trying. Who needs the trouble? Much better to get them under our thumb for good.”

  His words conjured up a vision of the Ezo subjugated by warfare, their territory annexed to Japan. Sano thought of the men who’d saved him and Reiko and their companions yesterday. Now he saw the murder case in the larger context of politics. It had dimensions far beyond the matter of justice for one dead woman. If an Ezo had killed Tekare, that would give Lord Matsumae an excuse to subjugate the barbarians, even though she’d been one of their own. The survival of an entire people hinged on the outcome of this investigation.

  But Sano felt enormous pressure to solve the crime whatever way he could. His own fate, his wife’s, his son’s, and his dearest comrades’ depended on his success. He couldn’t shy away from incriminating the Ezo, and perhaps one of them was guilty.

  “Why would an Ezo have murdered Tekare?” Sano asked.r />
  “Who knows? Some squabble. Who cares?” Gizaemon’s tone said all personal relations between the barbarians were trivial.

  “I promised Lord Matsumae I would find Tekare’s killer,” Sano said. “I doubt he would be satisfied with pinning the murder on her people in general. Knowing why she died might lead me to who did it.”

  “Well, I’m not the person who can tell you why,” Gizaemon said. Better talk to the Ezo themselves.“

  “I intend to,” Sano said, “but first I must talk to you, about my son.”

  Resistance immediately hardened Gizaemon’s face.

  “What happened to him?” Sano prodded. “Where is he?”

  Gizaemon shook his head. Do you mean you don’t know or you won’t tell me?“

  “I mean you can’t force me to say anything that can be used against my nephew,” Gizaemon said with the obstinacy of a samurai loyal to his master.

  Sano’s anger at Lord Matsumae expanded to include Gizaemon, who he suspected did know Masahiro’s fate. “This is an innocent eight-year-old child who’s at stake. How can you do nothing?”

  Offense drew together Gizaemon’s bushy eyebrows. “I’m trying with all my might to keep order in Ezogashima and minimize the damage that Tekare does through my nephew. Wouldn’t call that ‘nothing.” Imagine yourself in my place. One lost boy would be the least of your concerns.“

  That logic didn’t diminish Sano’s need to find Masahiro or his determination to enlist the aid of Gizaemon, who seemed the only person here with any sense even if he was a good murder suspect. “You don’t have to betray your nephew. Just let me search for my son.”

  “Can’t do. You’re supposed to be solving the crime. My orders are to help you with that and nothing else.”

  “Lord Matsumae won’t have to know.”

  Gizaemon chuckled harshly. “I’m not going to help you, and neither is anyone else here. You want to get off this island alive, you’d best forget your son, cut your losses‘, and march in step.”

  Although Sano realized how even more serious the situation was than he’d thought at first, and how prudent was Gizaemon’s advice, he said, “In case you don’t realize it, your nephew has put you in a bad position. He’ll eventually be held accountable for his actions. Do you really want to go down with him?”

  “It’s my duty to go wherever my lord goes.” Gizaemon sounded ardently pledged to that duty; he wasn’t just paying lip service to Bushido. “I gladly bow to his wishes.”

  “Cooperate with me, and I’ll help you later,” Sano persisted.

  “Forget it.”

  “If my son is here, at least ask Lord Matsumae to give him to me. Use your influence to save him.”

  Sadness in his gaze said that Gizaemon wasn’t as heartless as he seemed, but he shook his head. “I have no influence with Lord Matsumae anymore. Nobody does, except Tekare.”

  Sano tasted the bitterness of defeat yet refused to swallow it. There was always more than one path to a goal. For now he said, “I’ll talk to the Ezo. Can you bring me the ones who were around town the night of the murder?”

  “That I can do.”

  Reiko darted around the corner of the guest quarters and crouched among some bushes. Her heart fluttered with exhilaration because she’d made her escape. But where should she go first? How long before the guards discovered she was gone?

  Thankful for her fur-lined boots, Reiko trudged through a snowy garden. Fukuyama Castle seemed bigger than it had yesterday, with more buildings. Her heart sank at the amount of ground she had to search for Masahiro.

  If he was here at all.

  If he was still alive.

  Reiko shut those thoughts out of her mind. As she skirted the palace, she heard male voices coming toward her. She ducked behind a tall stone lantern. Two guards passed her. She saw others patrolling everywhere. Security was even tighter here than in Edo Castle. Eventually she would run smack into someone who would realize she wasn’t one of the maids. She slipped through a gate and found herself in a compound of dingy outbuildings.

  Some were storehouses with fireproof plaster walls, iron doors, and tile roofs. Smoke and food odors identified others as kitchens. Reiko heard voices shouting over a din of chopping, banging, and sizzling inside. Servants carried in coal, came out and dumped slops. Reiko hurried past them, face averted. She darted out another gate.

  An uproar of barking startled her. Four huge, fierce dogs charged at her, their teeth bared. Reiko screamed and flung up her arms in self-defense.

  A voice called a command in Ezo language. The dogs halted close to Reiko, their eyes glaring, hackles bristling, and growls thrumming, but didn’t attack. Reiko looked beyond them and saw an Ezo woman standing outside an open shed that contained sleds and harnesses. She was the concubine Reiko had tried to protect from Lady Matsumae.

  She spoke to the dogs, who turned and trotted to her, docile and tame as pets. She rubbed them behind their ears and smiled at Reiko in a shy but friendly fashion. Understanding leaped across the barrier of experience and culture that separated them. Reiko had stood up for her, and she wanted to return the favor. Reiko smiled, too. Here was an ally more trustworthy than Lilac. But how could Reiko communicate what she needed?

  The Ezo woman looked around furtively, as if to check whether anyone was observing them. She beckoned to Reiko. “Come,” she whispered in Japanese.

  8

  Gizaemon sent men to fetch the barbarians and told Sano and Hirata, “You can interrogate them in the trade ceremony room.”

  This was a chamber where Lord Matsumae and his officials received the Ezo when they made their yearly visits to Fukuyama Castle. Its decor told Hirata that the ceremony had evolved from a mere striking of deals into a demonstration of Japanese supremacy and Ezo submission. The chamber was furnished with hanging curtains that bore huge Matsumae crests and a display of armor, lances, guns, and cannons.

  “Doesn’t hurt to show them who’s in charge,” Gizaemon said.

  Sano said, “I’ll need my interpreter.”

  “I speak Ezo language. I’ll translate for you.”

  “I’d rather use my own man,” Sano said.

  Hirata knew he wanted someone he could trust more than the kin of the madman who was holding them captive. And he had other reasons to distrust Gizaemon besides his association with Lord Matsumae.

  Suit yourself.“ Gizaemon’s indifference said he didn’t think much of Sano’s chances of solving the crime no matter what interpreter he used.

  The Rat was summoned. He came wearing a look of doleful resentment.

  “Have a seat,” Gizaemon said, pointing Sano and Hirata to the dais.

  The guards brought the seven barbarians who’d sheltered Sano’s party. Hirata was disconcerted by the change in them. Instead of their animal skins they wore silk robes printed with Chinese designs, apparently intended as ritual costume. They held hands like children and walked with a hunched-over, mincing gait. Hirata supposed this protocol was meant to degrade them. He felt a stab of outrage on behalf of the old Ezo chieftain Awetok, who bore his humbling with stoic dignity. Awetok glanced at Hirata, and although his face showed no recognition, Hirata sensed the same affinity between them.

  The Ezo knelt on the lowest level of the multitiered floor, emphasizing their inferiority. Seated in the position that symbolized Japanese power, Hirata gazed at the man he’d marked as his destiny, his teacher, across an even wider separation of rank and culture than ever.

  “Tell them to recite their names and titles,” Gizaemon ordered the Rat. “That’s standard procedure.”

  The Rat obeyed; the Ezo men spoke, and he translated. The chieftain’s companions turned out to be men from his village. The strong one with the blue bead necklace was named Urahenka. He behaved as docilely as the rest, but Hirata read resentment in his fierce eyes, the clench of his jaw.

  “I’d like to speak to them in private,” Sano said to Gizaemon. “Would you and your men wait outside?”

&nb
sp; “Our duty is to watch you,” Gizaemon said. “And after yesterday, you bear watching.”

  Hirata could tell how little Sano liked being treated like a dog on a leash, forced to conduct the investigation on the terms of a madman, when all he wanted was to find his son. But Sano bowed to the Ezo and said, “Greetings. Your presence is appreciated.” Hirata knew he was trying to make up for their poor treatment, in the hope of willing rather than forced cooperation. “I am investigating the murder of Tekare, who was Lord Matsumae’s mistress. I need you to answer some questions.”

  After the Rat translated, the chieftain’s shrewd glance flicked from Sano and Hirata to the Matsumae guards stationed around the room. Awetok clearly understood that the newcomers were under some kind of duress even if he didn’t know the details. He spoke, his voice steady. “As you wish,” the Rat said, and the process of questions and translations, answers and more translations, began.

  “Did you know Tekare?” Sano asked.

  Nods all around. The chieftain said, “She was from our village.”

  “Why were you in town when Tekare was murdered? Wasn’t trade season already over by then?”

  “We came to rescue her.”

  “Rescue her?” Sano frowned in the same puzzlement that Hirata felt. “From what?”

  While the chieftain spoke at length, Hirata sensed anger behind his calm tone, building inside the other barbarians. “Lord Matsumae stole Tekare from us. He turned her into a slave for his pleasure. As if it isn’t enough that he forces us to sell our goods to his clan for ridiculously low prices, he helps himself to our women.”

  Offense darkened Gizaemon’s face. He rapped out an order to Awetok. The Rat said, “He told him, ”Watch your mouth. Any more criticism of Lord Matsumae, and you’ll be beaten.“”

  “Tell him he has my permission to speak frankly,” Sano said. As the Rat conveyed his words, Sano turned to Gizaemon. “Whether or not you approve of my investigation, Lord Matsumae wants it. It may be his best chance of regaining his sanity. Your interfering won’t help him.” Sano paused for an instant. “Or maybe it’s not him that you’re trying to help?”