The Snow Empress си-12 Read online

  A flight of steps led up the hill to it. The snow had been shoveled off them. At the top, the ironclad door of the keep opened. The sound of coughing drifted down to Reiko. Two young soldiers stepped out the door. They carried buckets whose liquid contents they dumped onto the snow. As they went back inside and shut the door, Reiko’s hope of rescuing Masahiro stalled like a bird shot in flight. “No can get in,” Wente whispered.

  “There must be a way,” Reiko whispered back, even as she saw another soldier walk around the corner of the keep and go inside. That Masahiro was so close, yet out of reach! She could barely stand the agony.

  Wente tugged at her arm. “Must go. Before men see us.”

  “Wait! No!”

  Reiko couldn’t leave. She felt as if an invisible chain connected her to her son inside the keep and anchored her to the ground. But storming the keep was out of the question. Even though she’d been trained in combat and won fights before, she was one woman with a knife against heaven knew how many armed guards. Getting caught would do Masahiro no good.

  She let Wente tear her away. Her every heartbeat was a throb of pain as they moved from hiding place to hiding place through the castle. Reiko could hardly breathe past the sob caught deep in her lungs. The invisible chain dragged harder at her with every step.

  They’d reached the garden outside the guest quarters when five soldiers appeared. Wente yanked Reiko to the ground behind a snowdrift. They lay on their stomachs, holding their breath and listening to the soldiers’ voices.

  “She can’t have gotten out of the castle.”

  “And she can’t hide forever. We’ll find her eventually.”

  “You three stay here and watch the chamberlain’s men. The last thing we need is more prisoners on the loose. We’ll keep looking for her.”

  Footsteps crunched through the snow near Reiko and Wente. Reiko was horrified to realize that the guards had discovered she’d escaped. She lost all hope of sneaking back into the guest quarters undetected. With her chin pressed into the icy snow crystals, she thought fast and hard.

  “What you do?” Wente whispered.

  Giving herself up wasn’t an option. The guards would lock her in and watch her more closely than before. Reiko would sit in her room, helpless. This was her one chance to reach Masahiro. She couldn’t waste it.

  “I’m going back to the keep,” she told Wente.

  Although her expression said what a rash plan she thought this was, Wente gamely accompanied Reiko. But search parties swarmed the castle. Reiko and Wente dived behind bushes, darted around buildings, narrowly evading one patrol after another. They circled the keep from a distance, like a moon orbiting a planet, never getting any closer. Out of breath, gasping with fatigue, they paused in the shadow of a storehouse to rest.

  Its door burst open. A soldier came out and spotted Reiko. “There she is!” he shouted.

  Reiko fled. Too late she noticed that Wente had run in a different direction. Separated from her guide, on her own now, Reiko ran for her life.

  10

  Granted permission to interrogate the gold merchant, Hi-rata headed into town with the soldiers assigned to guard him. They were two samurai about eighteen years old. Filled with youthful masculine gusto yet insecure about their abilities, they were anxious to prove themselves superior to other men, including Hirata, their closest target.

  “Try to get away from us,” one said, as they escorted him along the road down the hill from the castle. He had a round, pimpled, mischievous face. “Come on, try.”

  “We’ll give you a head start.” The other was tall and lanky with an overbite, hopping in his eagerness for a fight. “But you won’t get very far.”

  Hirata kept silent and kept walking.

  “Of course he won’t,” said the first guard. “Look at him. He limps.

  “What happened? Did you fall and break your leg?” the second guard asked.

  Even though they must know that Hirata had killed several of their fellows yesterday, they felt safe teasing him because his comrades back at the castle were hostage to his good behavior. When he didn’t answer, the first man jeered “Cripple!” and shoved him.

  Hirata, trained to stay in equilibrium under any conditions, let the energy from the shove pass through and out of his muscles. His step didn’t even falter. The guard gave him another, harder shove. This time Hirata flashed its energy back at his tormenter. The guard went reeling as if struck. He landed on his buttocks on a patch of ice and slid.

  “Hey!” he cried.

  He and his companion lunged at Hirata. Hirata dodged so fast that he seemed to vanish from the place he’d been standing. They collided and fell facedown. Scrambling up, they stared at Hirata with expressions now sober and frightened. Snow clung to their cheeks like sugar on cakes.

  “If you try any more nonsense, I’ll have to hurt you,” Hirata said. “Understood?”

  They proceeded into town without further incident.

  Fukuyama City was a poor excuse for a capital. Along the main street, people fought a losing battle with winter, shoveling the snow from two days ago off their roofs. The stores were identified only by names carved on plaques, and when the few customers passed through the doors, Hirata could see nothing inside except dim lantern light. Wolfish dogs prowled, leaving yellow marks in the snow. Down the side streets nearest the castle, walls surrounded mansions that must belong to Matsumae officials. Farther away, fences enclosed houses where the rich merchants probably lived. The whole place had a shut-in, unwelcoming aspect. Men with what Hirata now recognized as the typical weathered, prematurely aged Ezogashima complexion loitered outside a teahouse, smoking pipes. They regarded Hirata with suspicious curiosity.

  His escorts led him to a storefront that took up an entire corner and looked more prosperous than the other businesses. Thick pillars supported the eaves over the veranda. The chimney spewed smoke. Iron filigree lanterns hung on either side of the door. Inside was a Japanese shop modified for the northern climate, its walls lined with the ubiquitous woven mats. A large, square fire pit in the center held burning logs. Around the fire, three clerks sat at tables strewn with coins, soroban for counting money, brushes, ink, and paper for recording transactions. One customer emptied a pouch of gold nuggets in front of a clerk. They haggled about the exchange rate. The other clerks and their customers bargained over debt payment schedules. Daigoro was evidently a banker and money-lender as well as a gold merchant. Two samurai, who looked to be ronin hired to guard the shop, lounged nearby, playing cards. As everyone looked up at Hirata, business and talk ceased.

  One of Hirata’s escorts announced, “This is Hirata-san, chief retainer of Chamberlain Sano from Edo. He wants to talk to Daigoro-san.”

  A clerk went through a passage hidden by a mat at the back of the shop. Soon he returned and said, “He’ll see you in his private office.”

  “You wait here,” Hirata told his escorts.

  He went down the passage. At the end was a door covered by another mat. He stopped short of it, revolted by a powerful sense of death. Below the faint stench of decayed flesh vibrated the echo of pain and violence.

  When Hirata cautiously entered the room, a man seated behind a desk near a fire pit bowed and said, “Greetings.”

  Small, thin, and some forty years old, he wore a lush brown fur coat. His features were neat and well-proportioned, but the gleam in his eyes, the flare of his nostrils, and the wetness of his lips expressed pure avarice.

  “At your service, master,” Daigoro said.

  Hirata felt an odd, plushy texture under his feet. Glancing down, he saw a bear pelt, complete with claws. He looked up at the head mounted on the wall alongside a stuffed eagle. Other, smaller creatures-rabbits, foxes, and otters-stared at Hirata with eyes made from black beads. Antlers attached to fur-covered bits of skull branched over them. No wonder Hirata had sensed death. This office was a tomb for slain animals.

  “What a collection,” Hirata said.

  �
�Oh, it’s nothing,” Daigoro said modestly.

  “Is this a local custom, displaying them like trophies?”

  “No, I thought up the idea.” Daigoro sounded proud of his originality.

  “Did you kill them all?” Hirata pictured the merchant setting a spring-bow, felling a woman instead of wild game.

  “Of course not. I buy them from the Ezo. But I do stuff them myself.”

  The very idea repulsed Hirata. The man totally lacked the traditional concern about cleanliness and purity. He seemed more feral than Japanese, more barbarous than the Ezo.

  “I don’t just collect animals.” Rising, Daigoro pointed to an exhibit of wands with shaved tassels at the ends, such as Hirata had seen in the Ezo chieftain’s hut. “These are inau-the barbarians’ messengers to their gods. Those are ikupasuy.” He showed Hirata some sticks carved with geometric designs, animal figures, and strange symbols. “Prayer sticks, used in Ezo religious rituals. And look here.”

  He opened a cabinet. On a shelf inside lay what looked like belts made of multiple woven cords cinched with black twine at different intervals. Attached to them by black cords were square black cloth tabs in varying numbers.

  “These are kut-chastity bands,” Daigoro said, “worn by Ezo women under their clothes. It shows what family line they belong to. A woman can’t marry a man whose mother wears the same type. That prevents inbreeding. Kut are supposed to be secret. Men aren’t allowed to see them. Women who take them off, or wear them to commit adultery, are clubbed.”

  “How did you get these?” Hirata asked.

  Daigoro laughed, an insolent chuckle. “When people need money, it buys anything from them.”

  Hirata was even more revolted by the man’s collection of relics than by the animal trophies. Daigoro had plundered the most sacred, personal items from the native culture. Hirata’s sympathies swung even further toward the Ezo.

  I travel all over Ezogashima, surveying the gold mines, prospecting for new ones,“ Daigoro said. ”I’ve been to all the villages, picked up whatever I liked there.“

  “Did that include a woman named Tekare?” Hirata asked.

  A knowing look brightened the dirty gleam in Daigoro’s eyes. “Ah, we’re getting down to business now. I assume you’re helping Chamberlain Sano investigate the murder of Lord Matsumae’s mistress. A clever man, your master. Buying his life with a promise to solve the crime.”

  “How did you know?”

  Daigoro tapped his forefingers near the corners of his eyes, then on his ears. “I have these everywhere.”

  People at the castle who owed money to Daigoro would be willing to exchange news for a reduction in their debts, Hirata supposed. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Yes, I found Tekare during a prospecting trip. The villages in that part of Ezogashima are known for their beautiful women. I’ve sampled quite a few. But she was the best.”

  Hirata had never thought to criticize men he knew for taking their pleasure with women from the Japanese lower classes, but the Ezo women seemed even more helpless, and their exploitation by Daigoro cruel instead of condonable. “So you collected her the way you collected these things?” Hirata gestured to the dead, preserved animals.

  The merchant frowned at the disapproval in Hirata’s tone. “Judge me if you want, but with all due respect, you have no idea what life is like in Ezogashima. I can tell you, because I’ve been here twenty-two years, since I was just a boy.

  “I was convicted of raping the three daughters of the man who owned the shop in Osaka where I worked. That’s not a crime, but the magistrate felt sorry for the girls. He sentenced me to be exiled here. He didn’t deny what he’d done, but he clearly thought his punishment excessive. ”I was dumped off a ship and left to fend for myself. Have you ever mined for gold?“

  When Hirata shook his head, Daigoro said, “You walk along streams, filtering water through a sieve. If you find gold nuggets, you divert the stream and expose the bottom. Then you dig under the sand and rock until you find the gold deposits. It’s long, hard work. And I did it for thirteen years, until I struck a big lode and made my fortune. I deserve a little enjoyment.”

  “At the expense of the Ezo women,” Hirata said.

  “Not always.” A strange note crept into Daigoro’s voice. “With the other women, maybe, but not Tekare. She was different.”

  “You mean you didn’t force yourself on her?” Hirata said skeptically.

  “No. That is, it might have seemed that way. I followed her into the woods, and I took her. But it wasn’t.” Daigoro’s face acquired the same dumb, beaten expression as the stuffed animals on the wall. “It was as if she’d taken me.”

  Eager to make Hirata understand, Daigoro said, “Tekare wasn’t like the other Ezo women. She wasn’t content to go on hunting trips with her husband. That’s how the Ezo do it, you know. The husband shoots the game. The wife carries his gear, sets up camp, does the cooking. That’s why strong women are the ones the men want to marry. But Tekare was more than just the usual beast of burden.

  “She thought she deserved more. When I first met her, she’d given herself to all the traders, miners, and fishermen who passed through her village. In exchange, they gave her Japanese trinkets. Other Ezo women are simple, humble, and virtuous. Not her.” Disgust and admiration mingled in Daigoro’s laugh. “Tekare played men for all she was worth. She put on such airs, her nickname was ‘The Empress of Snow Country.”“

  This description of Tekare challenged Hirata’s view of the murder victim. At least according to Daigoro, she hadn’t been a downtrodden sex slave to the Japanese, but an ambitious climber out for herself. Daigoro’s version of her jibed with the vindictive spirit that inhabited Lord Matsumae.

  After a while she wasn’t satisfied with porcelain tea sets, lacquer boxes, and jade figurines. What good did they do her, when she was stuck in the middle of nowhere? She wanted to live like a fine Japanese lady. She started looking for someone who could take her away from her village.“ Daigoro pointed at his chest. ”That sucker was me.“

  Hirata thought of the courtesans in Edo’s Yoshiwara pleasure quarter. They were usually poor peasant girls sold into prostitution or sentenced to it as punishment for petty crimes. Some managed to use the men who used them to win fame, wealth, and independence. Tekare must have been their sister under the skin.

  “She hung around my camp. She flirted with me, drove me wild. One night, when she walked back to her village, I went after her, but that was what she wanted. She rode me like a horse. She was the most exciting woman I’ve ever known.” The memory of passion suffused Daigoro’s eyes. “I couldn’t get enough of her. I fell in love. When I came back to Fukuyama City, I brought her with me.”

  “So Lord Matsumae didn’t steal her from her village,” Hirata said. It was you.

  Daigoro laughed, bitterly this time. “Nobody stole Tekare. I was her passage to civilization. I put her up in my house, gave her servants, Japanese clothes, whatever she wanted. But pretty soon she realized that even though I’m rich, I’m not the biggest man around. That’s when Lord Matsumae came into the picture.”

  “Who introduced her to him?” Hirata said.

  “Me, fool that I was.” Daigoro grimaced. “I loved her, I was proud of her, I wanted to show her off. I invited Lord Matsumae to a banquet at my house. He took one look at Tekare, and he was smitten. She took one look at him and saw her fortune. The next day he sent for her. She moved out of my house and into the castle. She didn’t even thank me.”

  Indignation swelled Daigoro. “After all I’d done for her!”

  “So you were angry at Tekare,” Hirata said.

  “You bet I was.”

  “You wanted to punish her.” Hirata thought Daigoro had much more cause for murder than did the Ezo men, who’d wanted to rescue their shamaness even if she didn’t want rescuing.

  “What are you getting at?” Daigoro regarded Hirata with narrowed eyes.

  “Where were you the
night she was killed?”

  “At home, asleep in bed. Ask my servants.”

  Hirata figured they would lie for their master, upon whom their livelihood depended. He didn’t think much of Daigoro’s alibi. “You’d have liked a little revenge on Tekare, wouldn’t you?”

  “If you’re asking me if I murdered her, no, I didn’t,” Daigoro said. “I didn’t need to. Someone else did it for me.”

  He smiled, a dirty smile of private, satisfied reminiscence. “Do you want to know what I think happened?”

  Hirata’s distaste toward the man grew as he saw that here came Daigoro’s attempt to divert suspicion away from himself onto somebody else. “I suppose you’re going to tell me.”

  “I wasn’t the only one with a grudge against Tekare. She was a troublemaker, caused bad feelings wherever she went. You should be looking among her own people.”

  “Which ones?” Hirata was dismayed to see the wind of suspicion blown back at the Ezo.

  “Her husband, for a start. He knew exactly what Tekare was doing, and he hates the Japanese. He didn’t like being married to a whore who sold herself to them.”

  I loved her. I wanted her back, Urahenka had said. Hirata wondered against his will if the man had been lying.

  “The day before Tekare left the village with me, he ordered her to stay and threatened to kill her if she didn’t. She disobeyed. He shows up here, and a few days later she’s dead.” Daigoro raised an insinuating eyebrow.

  Hirata thought how easy it was to visualize Urahenka setting the spring-bow for his wife, then chasing her along the path until she triggered it. It was as easy as imagining Daigoro doing it, wishing he could mount Tekare on the wall beside his other trophies. Who was the more likely killer, the exiled criminal or the cuckolded husband?

  “But don’t stop with her husband,” Daigoro said. “Nobody in that village liked Tekare. Maybe they thought she was a disgrace to their tribe. Or maybe they were just jealous.” He grinned, showing jagged teeth that looked strong enough to dig gold out of riverbeds. “And what do you know? There were other Ezo who came into town with Tekare’s husband. If he didn’t do it, one of them could have.”