Gizaemon and the guards led Sano and Hirata outside, to a tea ceremony cottage with a thatched roof, plank walls, and a stone basin by the door for washing hands before entering. This symbol of Japanese high culture looked out of place in the alien north. Sano felt more unsettled than comforted by the familiar sight, as if he’d flown to the moon only to discover trappings of home. He had thought that after what he’d already experienced here, nothing else could shock him, but when he stepped inside the cottage with Hirata and Gizaemon, he found out how wrong he’d been.

The corpse lay in a pine coffin set on the tatami floor, between the gnarled wooden columns that supported the ceiling. Strewn around it were gold lotus flowers and brass incense burners. Tekare wore a lavish gold silk brocade kimono embroidered with darker gold water lilies. Her thick, wavy black hair fanned across the pillow under her head. Her eyes were closed, her arms laid at her sides. Lord Matsumae had enshrined his beloved’s remains. The cold had semi-preserved her, although her face was withered, sunken. At first Sano thought the bluish discoloration around her mouth was decay, but then he realized it was a tattoo such as Reiko had described seeing on the Ezo concubines.

“Lord Matsumae’s dead mistress was an Ezo woman,” Sano said.

As he and Hirata stood gazing down at the corpse, he noticed the flattened silk cushion beside Tekare’s head. Lord Matsumae must spend hours kneeling beside her. Mourning her. Worshipping her. Sano thought about the scene in Lord Matsumae’s chamber. His intellect couldn’t accept what he’d seen, heard, and felt. Surely the dead Tekare hadn’t taken over Lord Matsumae; surely his madness made him act out her persona. But spirit possession appeared to be the prevalent belief about what ailed him, and Sano-his prisoner-didn’t have much choice except to operate under the same assumption.

“Taking Ezo women as concubines is common in these parts,” Gizaemon said. “Not enough Japanese women, and some men have a taste for native meat.”

Sano raised his eyebrows at the crude remark. “You don’t approve?

“Only because of the trouble it can cause. Which you’ve seen with my nephew.”

“Didn’t you like Tekare?” Hirata asked.

“She was as good as any of them.”

“Is it Ezo in general you don’t care for?”

Gizaemon shrugged. “They have their uses. If not for them, my clan would be foot-soldiers for the shogun instead of ruling a trade monopoly.”

Hirata exchanged glances with Sano as they noted Gizaemon’s attitude. Sano asked, “Can you tell me how she died?”

“She was shot with a spring-bow. Ever seen one?” When Sano shook his head, Gizaemon explained, “It’s for hunting, a bow and arrow rigged with a string that’s tied across a path. When an animal trips the string, the bow lets loose. Except in this case, it wasn’t a deer that the arrow hit.”

He took the front of the woman’s robe between his thumb and forefinger and gingerly pulled it open. Her flesh was grayish, her breast shriveled. Between her ribs was an ugly wound, the tissue blackened with blood and rot.

“A good, clean shot,” Gizaemon said.

The satisfaction in his voice repelled Sano. “Why does Lord Matsumae think Tekare was murdered? Couldn’t her death have been accidental? She walked into a trap set for deer?”

“Not a chance,” Gizaemon said scornfully. “Nobody hunts game on that path. There isn’t any so close to town. Make no mistake, this wasn’t an accident.”

He added, “It wasn’t just the arrow that killed her. The head was poisoned with surkuay”

“‘Surkuay’?” Sano frowned at the unfamiliar word.

“A native potion made from monkshood plant, tobacco, stingray spines, and other poisonous things. You hit a bear anywhere on his body with it, and he can walk only about two hundred paces before he dies. You follow him until he drops. There’s only one cure. Immediately cut away the poisoned flesh and wash out the wound. As you can see she tried to do.”

“With her bare hands,” Sano said as he and Hirata studied the claw marks around the wound.

“Little good it did,” Gizaemon said callously.

Sano thought his negative view of Tekare equaled fertile ground for the murder investigation. “Who do you think killed her?”

“Had to be an Ezo.” Gizaemon sounded certain.

“What makes you say that?”

“The spring-bow is an Ezo weapon. The poison is Ezo. One plus one equals two.”

“You sound as if you want the killer to be an Ezo,” Sano said. “Why?”

Amused condescension flickered across Gizaemon’s weathered face. “Let me explain the situation here in Ezogashima, Honorable Chamberlain. Relations between Ezo and Japanese have always been tense. They don’t like us keeping them confined in their own territory, controlling their trade with the outside. They’d rather come and go as they please.”

“If they sell their goods directly to customers in Japan, they can set their own prices and cut the Matsumae middlemen out of the deals,” Sano said. “I know. What’s your point?”

“So far we’ve had a compromise. The Ezo behave themselves. We let them choose their own leaders, rule their own villages, keep their traditions. But it doesn’t always work.”

“There have been Ezo uprisings.

“Right. Even though the Ezo will never drive us out, they’ll keep trying. Who needs the trouble? Much better to get them under our thumb for good.”

His words conjured up a vision of the Ezo subjugated by warfare, their territory annexed to Japan. Sano thought of the men who’d saved him and Reiko and their companions yesterday. Now he saw the murder case in the larger context of politics. It had dimensions far beyond the matter of justice for one dead woman. If an Ezo had killed Tekare, that would give Lord Matsumae an excuse to subjugate the barbarians, even though she’d been one of their own. The survival of an entire people hinged on the outcome of this investigation.

But Sano felt enormous pressure to solve the crime whatever way he could. His own fate, his wife’s, his son’s, and his dearest comrades’ depended on his success. He couldn’t shy away from incriminating the Ezo, and perhaps one of them was guilty.

“Why would an Ezo have murdered Tekare?” Sano asked.

“Who knows? Some squabble. Who cares?” Gizaemon’s tone said all personal relations between the barbarians were trivial.

“I promised Lord Matsumae I would find Tekare’s killer,” Sano said. “I doubt he would be satisfied with pinning the murder on her people in general. Knowing why she died might lead me to who did it.”

“Well, I’m not the person who can tell you why,” Gizaemon said. Better talk to the Ezo themselves.“

“I intend to,” Sano said, “but first I must talk to you, about my son.”

Resistance immediately hardened Gizaemon’s face.

“What happened to him?” Sano prodded. “Where is he?”

Gizaemon shook his head. Do you mean you don’t know or you won’t tell me?“

“I mean you can’t force me to say anything that can be used against my nephew,” Gizaemon said with the obstinacy of a samurai loyal to his master.

Sano’s anger at Lord Matsumae expanded to include Gizaemon, who he suspected did know Masahiro’s fate. “This is an innocent eight-year-old child who’s at stake. How can you do nothing?”

Offense drew together Gizaemon’s bushy eyebrows. “I’m trying with all my might to keep order in Ezogashima and minimize the damage that Tekare does through my nephew. Wouldn’t call that ‘nothing.” Imagine yourself in my place. One lost boy would be the least of your concerns.“

That logic didn’t diminish Sano’s need to find Masahiro or his determination to enlist the aid of Gizaemon, who seemed the only person here with any sense even if he was a good murder suspect. “You don’t have to betray your nephew. Just let me search for my son.”