6
They spent the rest of the day idle in the guest quarters, keeping warm by huddling under blankets or pacing the floors. They ate the meals brought to them and took turns bathing in a tub filled by servants lugging pails of hot water. The night was the longest and coldest Sano had ever known.
Japanese architecture couldn’t match the Ezo huts in protecting humans against the weather. Drafts blew through the guest quarters. The charcoal braziers gave off inadequate whiffs of heat. Pressed close to Reiko under piled quilts, Sano couldn’t sleep even though she did, and his men snored across the hall. He missed the human noise of Edo Castle: the troops patrolling, music from parties, temple gongs ringing. Here he heard wolves howling in the forest. It was almost dawn before he fell asleep.
A short time later he was jolted awake by the presence of a stranger. Sitting up, he blinked at the figure that stood in the doorway.
“Honorable Chamberlain.” The voice was male, gritty. “Lord Matsumae wants to see you.”
Sano hoped this meant good news. “Give me a moment to dress.”
He told Hirata to come with him and the other men to stay with Reiko, who was still asleep. When he and Hirata stepped outside the building into another day of bright, eye-watering, bitter cold, the man greeted them and said, “I’m Matsumae Gizaemon. Lord Matsumae’s uncle.”
About sixty years old, he looked like a cross between a Japanese and an Ezo. He wore a deerskin coat and mittens lined with fur, and fish-skin boots. His face was as weathered and lined as the barbarians‘, his brows bushy; the eyes beneath them squinted as if from a lifetime spent looking at sun on snow. But his bare head had its crown shaved and its gray hair gathered in a topknot, samurai-style. At his waist hung the customary two swords.
Sano introduced Hirata. As they walked along the covered corridor to the palace, three guards fell into step behind them. Gizaemon said, “Sorry I wasn’t around to meet you yesterday.” He had the quick, agile gait of a much younger man. “I was away on business for Lord Matsumae.”
“What do you do for him?” Sano asked.
“Help him manage his domain. I’m his chief aide.” Gizaemon reached in his coat, took out a toothpick, and chewed it vigorously. Sano smelled the sweet, spicy odor of sassafras bark. “I inspect the trading posts. Keep the Japanese merchants in line. The Ezo, too.”
“You must know Lord Matsumae fairly well,” Sano said.
“Known him since he was born. His father was my older brother. Left his education to me. I practically raised him. He’s like my own son.” Affection and concern crept into Gizaemon’s voice. He was clearly troubled by the turn Lord Matsumae had taken.
“What’s the matter with him?” Sano asked. “Surely not just that the death of his mistress has upset him?”
“No,” Gizaemon agreed. “He’s possessed by her spirit.”
“You’re not serious?”
“Yes, I am.” Gizaemon laughed dryly. “It’s obvious that you think spirit possession is just a myth. Well, maybe that’s so in Edo. But not here. I’ve seen spirits take over people’s bodies, make them speak in tongues and jump off cliffs.” Seeing Sano’s skeptical look, he said, “Don’t believe me? Just wait till you’ve been in Ezogashima a while longer.”
“Did Lord Matsumae tell you about our meeting?” Sano asked.
“Some.” Gizaemon sounded angry, but not with his nephew. “Hell of a guest you are, coming in here and killing our men.”
“Excuse me, but Lord Matsumae isn’t exactly blameless,” Sano said evenly. “Are you aware of what he’s done?”
“Here we are,” Gizaemon said, dropping the subject of his nephew’s crimes.
“Has Lord Matsumae made a decision about my offer?”
“You’ll have to ask him yourself.” Gizaemon spat his toothpick into the snow below the corridor, then opened the palace door.
Lord Matsumae received them in his private chamber. It was furnished with the same built-in cabinets, lacquer furniture, and study alcove as any samurai official’s, with no native decor except the wall mats. Sprawled amid quilts rumpled by a restless night, he looked like a man suffering from a malignant illness. In each of his cheeks burned a spot of fever.
“Greetings, Honorable Chamberlain.” He lifted a bowl of herb tea; his hands shook as he drank. “I’ve thought about what you said yesterday. And I’ve decided to accept your offer.”
“Good,” Sano said, relieved. “My men and I will begin investigating the murder right away.” And look for Masahiro.
“Not so fast!”
The voice that came out of Lord Matsumae was high-pitched, not his own. Sano felt every hair on his body rise in a shivering tingle. He was astounded to see Lord Matsumae’s face alter. It seemed to grow younger, female.
“You can’t just go off wherever you want.” The voice had a strange accent, with inflections that Sano had heard in the Ezo language. Why should we trust you? How do we know you can find out who killed me?“
Shocked, Sano and Hirata looked at Gizaemon.
Gizaemon’s dour smile said, I told you so. “Better answer the question.”
Sano said, “I was once the shogun’s detective.” He was so fascinated by the stranger looking at him through Lord Matsumae that he hardly knew what he was saying. “His Excellency trusted me to solve murders for him. The presence of the spirit infected the atmosphere. Atavistic fear crept through him. ”He was satisfied with my work.“
Lord Matsumae’s face reverted to its own aspect; he spoke in his own voice: “You will tell me everything you’re going to do and get my permission in advance. You and your men won’t go anywhere without an escort.”
“Those conditions weren’t part of the deal,” Sano said, disturbed not only because he now had two taskmasters, one a figment of the imagination or a real ghost. The constraints would allow him little freedom to search for his son as well as hinder his efforts to find the killer.
“Take it or leave it!” Lord Matsumae said. Two intense lights burned in each of his eyes, from two souls.
“Very well,” Sano said, astonished into conceding.
Pacified, Lord Matsumae said, “What is your first step?”
“I would usually examine the body of the murder victim,” Sano said. But so much time had passed; the corpse must be long cremated and buried. “Since that’s not possible, maybe you could just tell me what happened-”
“It’s possible,” Lord Matsumae said, turning to his uncle. “Take them to see Tekare.”
As Gizaemon gestured Sano and Hirata toward the door, his eyes glinted with sardonic humor at their surprise. “Right this way.”
Alone in her room, Reiko climbed out of bed. It was so cold she could see her breath. She washed, dressed, and groomed herself as fast as possible and ate the meal that a servant brought her. She opened the window shutters, pushed aside the paper panel, and peeked outside.
Matsumae troops loitered on the veranda. She was desperate to look for Masahiro, but if she tried, would they stop her? Sano and Hirata had been escorted away by other troops who’d seemed not about to let them stray. Was she under the same arrest? In Edo, the rules were clear-cut. Here she felt marooned in a lawless, senseless nightmare.
There was a tap on the door. “Come in,” Reiko called.
It was the maid from Lady Matsumae’s chamber. She carried in a bundle of leather and fur. “Pardon me, Honorable Lady,” she said, bowing, “but I thought maybe you’d like these.” Her speech was carefully polite. Kneeling, she laid a fur-lined deerskin coat and hood, fish-skin boots, and leather mittens in front of Reiko.
“Thank you,” Reiko said, grateful for the maid’s kindness. She put on the garments. They were roughly made, similar to what the maid wore, and smelled gamy, but they were much warmer than the clothes Reiko had brought from Edo.
“I didn’t think she would give you anything,” the maid said. “Not after what happened yesterday.”