promised her information about Masahiro, about the murder, today.
Troops resplendent in full armor ushered Sano, Reiko, Hirata, the detectives, and the Rat last through the door. Inside the hall, a fire burned in a native-style hearth. The corpse lay north of the hearth, on a woven mat, amid brass bowls from which rose yellow, acrid smoke.
“It’s the native custom to burn sulfur, to mask the odor of decay,” the Rat whispered.
Reiko smelled its vicious stench despite the sulfur. The natives hugged one another, hands positioned on shoulders or under armpits, in a gesture of mutual condolence. Lord Matsumae and his men knelt along the north wall. His face was hollow-eyed and drawn with misery, theirs stoic. The strong, handsome native that Reiko remembered from the beach squeezed in beside Lord Matsumae, who was nearest the corpse.
“You don’t belong here,” Lord Matsumae said, offended. “Sit somewhere else.”
The native blurted out angry speech. The Rat whispered, “Urahenka says that as Tekare’s husband, he’s the most important mourner, and he, not Lord Matsumae, should sit in the place of honor.”
The troops stood over Urahenka. He slunk off to join the other native men along the east wall. Wente’s solemn gaze clung to him. Sano and his comrades took places along the south wall, the women along the west. Kneeling in the gap that separated the Japanese ladies from the native concubines, Reiko got her first good look at the corpse.
Tekare wore leggings, fur mittens, and an ocher-colored robe with black-and-white designs on the collar band and sleeve hems. These covered her shrunken body, but her face showed in all its gruesome mortality. The blue tattoo around her mouth melded with the discolored adjacent skin that had sunken at the eye sockets. Outlines of her teeth showed through it. Silver earrings hung with black, turquoise, and red beads pierced lobes that looked like dried gristle. Disgust nauseated Reiko. She thought of Lilac, who’d somehow avoided the funeral, and a spark of new emotion kindled within her grief.
It was anger toward Lilac. Reiko was certain that Lilac knew Masahiro was dead. She’d strung Reiko along, teasing her with false hopes, wangling for a new life in Edo. Such despicable cruelty!
Servants brought trays containing a feast-dried salmon, deer stew with vegetables, fish roe, chestnuts, cakes made from millet, and water vessels. They placed one tray beside the head of the corpse, offerings to the gods. The other trays were laid before the assembly. The natives and the local Japanese began to eat, slowly and ceremonially, with their fingers. “You have to eat,” the Rat hissed at the Japanese from Edo. “You’ll be cursed if you don’t.”
Reiko nibbled at a millet cake, forced herself to swallow a few crumbs, and washed them down with water. Sano, Hirata, and the detectives did the same. Lord Matsumae sobbed.
“Tekare!” he wailed, then said in an eerie female voice, “I’m here with you, my lord. Be strong.”
Weeping broke out among the natives, a low, collective wail. “It’s the custom to weep at funerals, no matter how you felt about the person who died,” the Rat explained.
The natives chanted,
The Rat said, “That means, ”Oh, how dreadful.“ Everybody should join in.”
Everybody did, except Lady Matsumae, who wore a faint smile. Under the cover of the noise, Reiko said to Lady Smart, who sat beside her, “Where is Lilac?”
“She must have sneaked out of the castle. The bad girl!”
Lord Matsumae rose, walked to Tekare, and knelt by her head. So did Urahenka. “Go away,” Lord Matsumae said, shooing the man away as though he were a dog.
Sulky and defiant, Urahenka held his position. A servant brought a cup of water, which he and Lord Matsumae both grabbed for. It spilled. Another servant hurried over with two cups. They drank the ritual toast, glaring at each other, then retreated to their places.
“Where did she go?” Reiko asked Lady Smart.
The woman shook her head, but Lady Pansy spoke across her: “To the hot spring.”
The chanting continued. The chieftain began to speak, apparently prayers to the gods. The natives moved forward one by one to bow and weep over the corpse. Sulfur smoke and fury choked Reiko. That Lilac had sneaked off to cavort in the hot spring while she suffered! After scheming to exploit her!
At last the chieftain ended his prayers. The native women wrapped Tekare in the mat upon which she lay. They bound the mat with plaited black-and-white strands of hemp. The men tied it to a long pole. Lord Matsumae grasped one end of the pole, but he was too weak to lift Tekare’s weight. Captain Okimoto hefted the pole onto his shoulder. Lord Matsumae laid his hand on it, reverently as if touching his beloved’s flesh. He ignored the native man who took up the pole’s other end. The assembly rose as the bearers angled the wrapped, suspended corpse feet- first toward the door.
Wente, carrying a small lacquer water vessel, led them out of the hall. The officials followed with a lacquer chest. Urahenka trudged after them, a walking stick in his hand, a lumpy bundle on his back. The other native men followed, laden with more paraphernalia. The troops herded the Japanese and native women, then Reiko, Sano, and their comrades, outside.
The sun was at its dazzling zenith, the snow glittering with jeweled reflections. The procession filed through the castle grounds to a back gate. As she realized that they were leaving the castle, Reiko saw her chance to settle a score.
The procession moved down the hill, along a path plowed for easy walking two or three abreast. The natives chanted. Reiko lagged behind Sano. He turned toward her, but a soldier said, “Don’t look back, sideways, or down!” He prodded Sano with his lance. “That’ll invite evil spirits to possess us!”
Sano marched face-forward, as did everyone else. Reiko silently thanked the gods for native superstition. She fell into step with Lady Smart and whispered, “Which way to the hot spring?”
Lady Smart frowned and shook her head.
“Please!”
“Take the right fork in the path.”
When they reached it, Reiko peeled away from the group, which marched right past her. She sped off in pursuit of Lilac.
The graveyard was located on a plateau above the city. Towering cedars surrounded and cast deep blue shadows on open snow studded with wooden burial posts. These marked the graves of natives who’d died in the Japanese domain. Some of the posts had pointed tops; the rest, elongated holes.
“Spears for men, sewing needles for women,” the Rat said.
This lesson on native customs glanced off Sano. He felt like a vestige of himself, as though Masahiro’s death had amputated his spirit from his body. But the Way of the Warrior kept him stoically going through the motions of life. Bushido was like a skeleton that held him up. He still had his duty to his lord to fulfill, and he came from a long line of samurai who’d marched from one battle to the next, bleeding from their injuries, to fight until they dropped.
Four Ainu men cleared snow off the ground and began digging a hole. Sano watched Lord Matsumae shambling amid his entourage. Centuries of instinct stirred in Sano. His samurai blood flamed with the age-old desire for vengeance. Lord Matsumae was responsible for Masahiro’s death. Never mind the deal they’d struck-Lord Matsumae’s days were numbered.
The gravediggers finished. They lined the rectangular hole with matting. At its west end they placed two bowls of earth. Wente poured water from her vessel into these. Lord Matsumae moaned, clutching at his heart, while the native men lowered the corpse into the grave. Urahenka opened his bundle. It contained a robe, a spindle, needles and thread, a bowl and a spoon, a knife, a cooking pot, and a sickle. The officials opened their chest and brought out a silk kimono, Japanese lacquer sandals, and hair ornaments.
“Grave goods,” whispered the Rat. “For the deceased to use when she gets to the spirit world.”
Urahenka raised his walking stick and struck his grave goods repeatedly. He shattered the bowl, dented the pot, and ruined the other items. A soldier handed Lord Matsumae a lance. He wept and staggered while he hacked at the things his men had brought.
“They have to be broken to release their spirit to the service of the dead,” the Rat explained.
The pieces were dumped into the grave. The natives and Lord Matsumae picked up handfuls of dirt. Urahenka flung the first handful onto his wife’s corpse. Lord Matsumae dropped in his own dirt from fingers that shook with the sobs that wracked him. Sano longed for a sword, longed to feel his blade cut through Lord Matsumae’s flesh, to spill blood for blood. But he was patient. He came from a long line of samurai who pursued their enemies to the end
