Gizaemon ignored Sano’s hint that he was guilty and diverting the blame for the murder onto innocent people in order to avoid punishment himself. “They’re a shifty, dishonorable people. The opposite of samurai.” Fukida rolled his eyes at Sano: They’d met too many samurai who were a disgrace to the Way of the Warrior. “And they don’t respect Japanese law. One of theirs misbehaves, they take care of the problem in their own fashion. That rule applied to Tekare.”
“The Empress of Snow Country?” Sano said. “The wife who sold her favors to men in exchange for gifts, then left her husband to come to the city as a mistress to Japanese men?”
Sardonic humor wrinkled the leathery skin around Gizaemon’s eyes. “I see that Hirata-san got an earful from the gold merchant. You should listen, Honorable Chamberlain. It’ll lead you to her killer.”
“Urahenka?” Sano said, recalling the young Ezo’s passionate claim that he’d loved his wife, wanted her back, and had come to Fukuyama City to rescue her. His angry denial that he’d murdered her had seemed more credible yesterday, before the gold merchant had shown Tekare in a bad light.
“Not him. He doesn’t have the authority to act on his own. The chieftain’s the one I mean.”
“Why would he have killed Tekare? She was the village shamaness. He wanted to bring her home for the good of the tribe.”
“If you believe him, then I’ll sell you the hot spring to take back to Edo.” Gizaemon turned and stalked down the path the way they’d come. “No, he wanted to punish her.”
“Punish her for what?” As Sano kept pace with Gizaemon, he felt lost in this land of unfamiliar customs.
“For everything she did wrong. The Ezo believe that the shamaness keeps the village in balance with the cosmos. If she’s a good girl, fortune will smile upon them. If not, the spirits will send them sickness, famine, and death. Tekare had upset the natural order. The only way for the Ezo to restore it was to destroy her. And that was the chieftain’s duty.”
Sano frowned. Chieftain Awetok had impressed him as straight-forward and honest, but maybe Sano was misjudging the man due to his ignorance about the Ezo. Maybe he was viewing them as savages who didn’t have motives or relationships as complicated as Japanese had. Maybe he was too ready to think them incapable of subterfuge.
Were they hiding secrets behind the barrier of cultural differences? Understanding the Ezo might be critical to solving the crime, but Sano understood his fellow Japanese very well. Gizaemon behaved like a decoy soldier planting false tracks for enemy troops to follow.
“You said Tekare upset the natural order. Did she do that here? Did she cause trouble for you?” Sano said.
Gizaemon snorted as they walked down the path. He seemed to imply that a mere Ezo woman was too trivial to bother him. “She didn’t know her place in the world. But that wasn’t my business. She was the barbarians’ problem. And their chieftain dealt with her.”
Trying to pin Gizaemon down was like trying to nail an eel to a board while it slithered repeatedly out of one’s grasp. Sano said, “You seem to know a lot about the Ezo.”
“I should. I’ve spent most of my life in their territory.”
“That would include knowing how to use Ezo weapons,” Sano said, “like the spring-bow.”
Gizaemon halted at the spot where the string had been stretched across the path. Exasperation colored his tough face. “For the last time, I didn’t kill that woman. For your own good, you’d better stop trying to pin her murder on me. When Lord Matsumae gets tired of waiting for you to solve the crime and puts you to death, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Refusing to be intimidated or sidetracked, Sano said, “Where were you the day Tekare died, before she sprang the trap?”
“Nowhere near it. You won’t be able to prove I was.”
“Have you ever used a spring-bow?”
Gizaemon’s manner turned condescending. “If you want to know about the spring-bow, let me explain something to you. There’s no trick to using a spring-bow. That’s the whole point of it. You don’t have to be a good shot. You just set it up, aim it in the right direction, and tie the string. You walk away and wait. Then-”
His fist socked his palm. “Anyone with a little strength and the slightest intelligence can score a hit. Even a woman.”
14
At the entrance to Lady Matsumae’s chambers, the guard said to Reiko, “We’ll be waiting right here. Don’t try anything.”
Reiko bowed her head meekly even though rebellion seethed in her. If she wanted to find Masahiro, she must lull the guards into trusting her, the better to escape again later.
Inside the chamber she found Lady Matsumae, her attendants, and the maid Lilac. Lady Matsumae knelt at a table spread with sheets of paper, a writing brush in her hand. The attendants mixed and poured out ink for her. Their actions had the solemn air of a religious ritual. Lilac fanned the coals in a brazier. She gave Reiko a furtive smile. The other women bowed politely.
“Good morning,” Lady Matsumae said.
The few syllables conveyed that she was anything but happy to see Reiko again. Reiko saw that if she wanted information from Lady Matsumae, she had serious amends to make.
Kneeling and bowing, Reiko said, “I’m sorry about your daughter, I shouldn’t have spoken so insensitively yesterday. Please accept my condolences.”
“They are much appreciated.” Lady Matsumae seemed to relent a little. “It was wrong of me to treat an honored guest so discourteously. Please forgive me.”
In spite of this apology, Reiko felt a new aversion to Lady Matsumae. Now that she knew Lady Matsumae had lost a child, she didn’t want to be near the woman. She had an irrational yet potent fear that Lady Matsumae’s bad luck would rub off on herself. But she mustn’t let Lady Matsumae sense her feelings.
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Reiko said, forcing compassion into her tone. “I understand.”
“My daughter was my only child.” Lady Matsumae inked her brush and drew lines on a page-practicing calligraphy, Reiko assumed. “She was only eight years old when she died.”
Reiko sympathized with her need to speak of her daughter, but she didn’t want to listen because she felt a terrible kinship with Lady Matsumae. There wasn’t enough distance between a woman whose child was missing and a woman who’d lost hers forever. Reiko could imagine herself speaking similar words: Masahiro was my only son. He was only eight years old when he died.
Lady Matsumae was watching Reiko, awaiting some response. Reiko had a nightmarish idea that their positions had reversed and it was she telling her story of tragedy to Lady Matsumae. She stammered, “May I ask your daughter’s name?”
“Nobuko.” Lady Matsumae lingered on the word as if it were a spell that could resurrect the dead.
“She was such a beautiful little girl,” said one of the ladies-in-waiting.
Yesterday Reiko hadn’t paid them much attention and they’d seemed identical. She’d forgotten their names, but now she noticed that they were in fact very different in appearance. The one who’d spoken was as slender as a bamboo rod, intelligent of expression, her movements precise as she ground more ink for Lady Matsumae.
“And so good and charming,” twittered the lady who mixed the ink with water. She had a rounded figure and a sweet, vacuous face like a pansy.
“Nobuko was very accomplished,” said the third. Sitting idle, nearest to Lady Matsumae, she had a strong, thick build and features. If she shaved her crown and wore a suit of armor, she could pass for a soldier.
“She played the samisen, wrote poetry, and embroidered. Her honorable mother brought her up as well as any young lady in Edo.”
“It was nothing,” Lady Matsumae murmured as she set aside her finished calligraphy and started a fresh page. “She was just an ordinary girl.”
Despite this obligatory disclaimer, she smiled, her spirits lifted by the praise. Then she saddened again. “The climate in Ezogashima is very harsh on children. Last winter Nobuko took ill. The fever and cough wouldn’t go away. She lost all her appetite.” Lady Matsumae frowned over her writing. “Even though the physician did his best to cure her, it was no use. Soon she was too weak to get out of bed.”