“Can’t do. You’re supposed to be solving the crime. My orders are to help you with that and nothing else.”

“Lord Matsumae won’t have to know.”

Gizaemon chuckled harshly. “I’m not going to help you, and neither is anyone else here. You want to get off this island alive, you’d best forget your son, cut your losses‘, and march in step.”

Although Sano realized how even more serious the situation was than he’d thought at first, and how prudent was Gizaemon’s advice, he said, “In case you don’t realize it, your nephew has put you in a bad position. He’ll eventually be held accountable for his actions. Do you really want to go down with him?”

“It’s my duty to go wherever my lord goes.” Gizaemon sounded ardently pledged to that duty; he wasn’t just paying lip service to Bushido. “I gladly bow to his wishes.”

“Cooperate with me, and I’ll help you later,” Sano persisted.

“Forget it.”

“If my son is here, at least ask Lord Matsumae to give him to me. Use your influence to save him.”

Sadness in his gaze said that Gizaemon wasn’t as heartless as he seemed, but he shook his head. “I have no influence with Lord Matsumae anymore. Nobody does, except Tekare.”

Sano tasted the bitterness of defeat yet refused to swallow it. There was always more than one path to a goal. For now he said, “I’ll talk to the Ezo. Can you bring me the ones who were around town the night of the murder?”

“That I can do.”

Reiko darted around the corner of the guest quarters and crouched among some bushes. Her heart fluttered with exhilaration because she’d made her escape. But where should she go first? How long before the guards discovered she was gone?

Thankful for her fur-lined boots, Reiko trudged through a snowy garden. Fukuyama Castle seemed bigger than it had yesterday, with more buildings. Her heart sank at the amount of ground she had to search for Masahiro.

If he was here at all.

If he was still alive.

Reiko shut those thoughts out of her mind. As she skirted the palace, she heard male voices coming toward her. She ducked behind a tall stone lantern. Two guards passed her. She saw others patrolling everywhere. Security was even tighter here than in Edo Castle. Eventually she would run smack into someone who would realize she wasn’t one of the maids. She slipped through a gate and found herself in a compound of dingy outbuildings.

Some were storehouses with fireproof plaster walls, iron doors, and tile roofs. Smoke and food odors identified others as kitchens. Reiko heard voices shouting over a din of chopping, banging, and sizzling inside. Servants carried in coal, came out and dumped slops. Reiko hurried past them, face averted. She darted out another gate.

An uproar of barking startled her. Four huge, fierce dogs charged at her, their teeth bared. Reiko screamed and flung up her arms in self-defense.

A voice called a command in Ezo language. The dogs halted close to Reiko, their eyes glaring, hackles bristling, and growls thrumming, but didn’t attack. Reiko looked beyond them and saw an Ezo woman standing outside an open shed that contained sleds and harnesses. She was the concubine Reiko had tried to protect from Lady Matsumae.

She spoke to the dogs, who turned and trotted to her, docile and tame as pets. She rubbed them behind their 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.

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.”