murder on her, neglected caution. “I no want him. But he take me.” Bitterness saturated her voice. “And she happy.”
Reiko absorbed the ugly meaning of this tale. Wente had been forced to become a concubine in order that Tekare could have her company at the castle. Tekare had paired Wente up with a Japanese man, regardless of Wente’s feelings. Wente had suffered doubly, from sexual enslavement and her sister’s cruel, selfish connivance in it.
“So you fought with her because of that?” Reiko asked.
Wente nodded, then shook her head: What Tekare had done was the root of the argument but not its topic. “I want go home. She no let me.”
Reiko perceived that she’d stumbled up against another situation beyond her limited understanding of Ezogashima. “But once you became a concubine, wasn’t it up to the man to say where you can go?” That was how the situation worked in Edo. “What authority did your sister have?”
“Soldier tired of me, say he send me back to village. But Tekare say she ask Lord Matsumae let me stay. He do anything she want him do for her.” The hatred exuded from Wente, foul as rot. “I beg her, but she no give in.”
Reiko wondered if Tekare’s side of the story had been different. “Maybe she was scared to be by herself at the castle. Maybe she was homesick and needed someone from her family, someone she loved, with her.”
Wente burst out indignantly, “She no scared. Always, ”Wente do this, Wente do that.“ ‘Wente, bring me food, rub back, brush hair. She no love me!”
It sounded to Reiko as if Tekare had treated her sister as nothing but a servant, adding insult to abuse.
“Same at home,” Wente continued. “When we children, I do all work-gather food, cook, sew, wash. Tekare do nothing. She shamaness. She special. I just plain girl.” Reiko heard old disgruntlement as sharp as a knife blade in Wente’s tone. “She always treated best. Get best things.” Wente touched her clothes, her bead necklace.
“When not enough food, she eat. Village need her. I go hungry. She take everything. Leave nothing for me. And she happy.”
Reiko got a picture of a girl who’d been led to believe she was better than the other villagers. The Empress of Snow Country, who’d enjoyed her privileges, who’d provoked her ordinary sister’s jealousy.
“All my life, I wait to get away from Tekare. I older, I marry first, have own house. We grow up, and I find man. He strong, handsome, good hunter. He best man in village.” Wente’s eyes shone with the memory. “We fall in love.” Tenderness softened her voice. “We-”
She fumbled for words, and Reiko said, “Became engaged?”
Although Wente nodded, her expression went black. “But
Reiko pitied Wente, having her sister steal her fiance. But she hardened her heart against Wente. This history only strengthened her cause for murder.
“In village, I try not see them, not look at him. But I still love. And she no care about him. She want rich Japanese. When she get Lord Matsumae and she bring me to city, I think I never see Urahenka again.”
“Urahenka?” The familiar name jarred Reiko. “Isn’t he one of the men at the camp?”
Wente nodded. Now Reiko remembered her watching him at the funeral. But she’d not bothered to wonder why; she’d been too preoccupied with her own feelings to perceive a love triangle.
“Men come for Tekare, want take her home. But not Urahenka. He come for me. He say marry Tekare, mistake. He no love, no want. He love
Wente was quick to sense the accusation implicit in Reiko’s questions. “He not hurt Tekare! No matter how she treat him, he too good, too-” She grasped for an adjective and found one she must have heard often in the samurai domain. “Honorable.”
But honor often took second priority to love. Urahenka wouldn’t have been the first man who’d wanted to rid himself of one woman so he could have another. He had as much reason for murder as Wente.
“He could have killed Tekare,” Reiko said. “I think it was either him or you. Tell me which.”
Maybe Wente would confess now in order to protect Urahenka. But she declared, “Not him. Not me.”
For the first time, Reiko considered the possibility that there was more than one killer, that the murder had resulted from a conspiracy. “Maybe it was both of you. You told Urahenka that Tekare used that path to the hot spring at night. He set the trap. She walked into it. If Lord Matsumae hadn’t gone mad and taken everyone in Fukuyama City hostage, you and Urahenka would have been free to go home and marry.”
Wente repeated, “Not him.” She had the look of a hunted, cornered animal. “Not me.”
“But that’s too complicated,” Reiko said. “Often the simplest answer is the correct one. It’s more likely that you acted alone. Urahenka doesn’t know you killed his wife, your own sister. But I think Lilac did. She saw you. She blackmailed you. And you killed her.”
Now Reiko grew furious on behalf of Lilac, Urahenka, and many others in addition to herself. “Lord Matsumae will kill your people in a war because of what you did. Many Japanese will die, too. If you have any decency at all, you’ll confess. Maybe it’s not too late to save them.
Woe clouded Wente’s eyes. “Mistake,” she pleaded.
“You’re still saying Tekare’s death was an accident? I suppose Lilac’s was, too? And my son’s?” Reiko laughed sarcastically. “ Spare me your nonsense.” She was ready to hold Wente responsible for Masahiro’s death, to believe that the loss of her son stemmed from Wente’s selfishness. “I should kill you for everything you’ve done!
Wente stiffened in terror of Reiko, of the Japanese who held the power of life and death over her. She extended a trembling hand toward Reiko. “Please,” she whispered. “Believe.”
Her appeal begged the favor of Reiko’s mercy in exchange for favors Wente had granted. It called on Reiko to remember the brief yet intense relationship that had sprung up between kindred souls thrown together in harsh circumstances. But Reiko turned her back on Wente. She wasn’t absolutely sure that Wente had killed Tekare or Lilac, but she was certain that true friendship must be based on trust. This relationship was over.
26
Lord Matsumae lay on his bed, wrapped from chin to toes in a quilt tied with ropes wound around his body. He groaned and writhed as Tekare ranted curses at him out of his own mouth.
“Is he going to be all right?” Gizaemon asked anxiously.
“I don’t know,” said the physician. He tried to stick acupuncture needles in Lord Matsumae’s head as it tossed from side to side. “Not if he keeps trying to hurt himself.”
Guarded by troops, Sano watched from the place across the room where Gizaemon had ordered him to stand out of the way. When Tekare had attacked Lord Matsumae, Sano and Hirata had helped restrain him, get him to his room, and wrap him up. Afterward, Gizaemon had sent Hirata back to the guest quarters. Now Sano locked eyes with Gizaemon.
“Look what you’ve done,” Gizaemon said bitterly. He looked aged ten years by worry. “This is all your fault.”
Sano wasn’t sorry. “Lord Matsumae killed Tekare. He deserves to suffer. It’s fitting that the spirit of Tekare kills him.”
“He didn’t kill her,” Gizaemon insisted angrily. “He’s innocent.
“He’s guilty of everything else that’s happened since the murder. Sano thought of Masahiro. How much had he suffered?
“You’re so sure you’re right. But suppose for the moment that you’re wrong. What happens to my nephew?”
Soldiers held Lord Matsumae’s head. He snarled, tried to bite them, and howled while the doctor inserted the
