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?”
“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?”
“Of course it is,” Gizaemon said, annoyed. “I’ve served him since he was born.”
But people didn’t stand in the way of justice unless they had something to lose, Hirata knew from years of detective experience. And Gizaemon had already given him and Sano enough reason to be suspicious of him. They should have a little talk with him later.
Tekare was only one of many Ezo women who were mistresses to Japanese men,“ Sano reminded the chieftain. ”Why did you want to rescue her in particular?“
She was the shamaness of our village.“
Sano leaned forward, intrigued by this new fact about the murder victim. Hirata’s own interest quickened at the introduction of Ezo spiritual tradition, which might relate to the mystic martial arts and his own quest. “What does a shamaness do?” Sano asked.
“She diagnoses and cures diseases with potions, rituals, and exorcisms. She’s our conduit between the spirit world and the human world. Without her, we cannot call upon the spirits to help us and protect us. So you can understand why we want her back.”
Apparently Lord Matsumae had worsened the hostilities between the Ezo and the Japanese by taking a most important person from her tribe as his sex slave.
“Aside from being important to the village,” Sano said, “what kind of person was Tekare?”
“She was a strong, capable woman.”
Even though Hirata didn’t know what Awetok was saying until it was translated, he sensed that Awetok was deliberately speaking of the dead in the most general, uncritical terms. He also perceived the mental energy that the chieftain gave off while Sano asked questions.
“What did you think of her?” Sano said.
“I thought very highly of her abilities. She was the most powerful shamaness I’ve seen in my lifetime.”
“And you?” Sano addressed the other men.
They echoed the chieftain’s opinion. Evasions all around, Hirata noted. Either they couldn’t think for themselves, they didn’t want to contradict their leader, or they hadn’t cared for the woman.
Sano then asked each man what relation he had to her. The chieftain was her uncle by marriage, one man her brother-in-law, another her cousin. The Ezo village evidently consisted of several interrelated families. Urahenka identified himself as her husband.
“Were you on good terms with Tekare?” Sano asked him.
Urahenka spoke with bitter resentment. “We were on no terms at all. I hadn’t seen her in almost three years. Not since she was taken from me.”
Hirata imagined how would it be to have his own wife stolen and forced to be somebody else’s mistress. He felt a twinge of guilt because he’d neglected Midori while studying martial arts. He missed his sweet, loyal wife, and he sympathized with Urahenka in spite of himself.
