His escorts led him to a storefront that took up an entire corner and looked more prosperous than the other businesses. Thick pillars supported the eaves over the veranda. The chimney spewed smoke. Iron filigree lanterns hung on either side of the door. Inside was a Japanese shop modified for the northern climate, its walls lined with the ubiquitous woven mats. A large, square fire pit in the center held burning logs. Around the fire, three clerks sat at tables strewn with coins, soroban for counting money, brushes, ink, and paper for recording transactions. One customer emptied a pouch of gold nuggets in front of a clerk. They haggled about the exchange rate. The other clerks and their customers bargained over debt payment schedules. Daigoro was evidently a banker and money-lender as well as a gold merchant. Two samurai, who looked to be ronin hired to guard the shop, lounged nearby, playing cards. As everyone looked up at Hirata, business and talk ceased.

One of Hirata’s escorts announced, “This is Hirata-san, chief retainer of Chamberlain Sano from Edo. He wants to talk to Daigoro-san.”

A clerk went through a passage hidden by a mat at the back of the shop. Soon he returned and said, “He’ll see you in his private office.”

“You wait here,” Hirata told his escorts.

He went down the passage. At the end was a door covered by another mat. He stopped short of it, revolted by a powerful sense of death. Below the faint stench of decayed flesh vibrated the echo of pain and violence.

When Hirata cautiously entered the room, a man seated behind a desk near a fire pit bowed and said, “Greetings.”

Small, thin, and some forty years old, he wore a lush brown fur coat. His features were neat and well-proportioned, but the gleam in his eyes, the flare of his nostrils, and the wetness of his lips expressed pure avarice.

“At your service, master,” Daigoro said.

Hirata felt an odd, plushy texture under his feet. Glancing down, he saw a bear pelt, complete with claws. He looked up at the head mounted on the wall alongside a stuffed eagle. Other, smaller creatures-rabbits, foxes, and otters-stared at Hirata with eyes made from black beads. Antlers attached to fur-covered bits of skull branched over them. No wonder Hirata had sensed death. This office was a tomb for slain animals.

“What a collection,” Hirata said.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Daigoro said modestly.

“Is this a local custom, displaying them like trophies?”

“No, I thought up the idea.” Daigoro sounded proud of his originality.

“Did you kill them all?” Hirata pictured the merchant setting a spring-bow, felling a woman instead of wild game.

“Of course not. I buy them from the Ezo. But I do stuff them myself.”

The very idea repulsed Hirata. The man totally lacked the traditional concern about cleanliness and purity. He seemed more feral than Japanese, more barbarous than the Ezo.

“I don’t just collect animals.” Rising, Daigoro pointed to an exhibit of wands with shaved tassels at the ends, such as Hirata had seen in the Ezo chieftain’s hut. “These are inau-the barbarians’ messengers to their gods. Those are ikupasuy.” He showed Hirata some sticks carved with geometric designs, animal figures, and strange symbols. “Prayer sticks, used in Ezo religious rituals. And look here.”

He opened a cabinet. On a shelf inside lay what looked like belts made of multiple woven cords cinched with black twine at different intervals. Attached to them by black cords were square black cloth tabs in varying numbers.

“These are kut-chastity bands,” Daigoro said, “worn by Ezo women under their clothes. It shows what family line they belong to. A woman can’t marry a man whose mother wears the same type. That prevents inbreeding. Kut are supposed to be secret. Men aren’t allowed to see them. Women who take them off, or wear them to commit adultery, are clubbed.”

“How did you get these?” Hirata asked.

Daigoro laughed, an insolent chuckle. “When people need money, it buys anything from them.”

Hirata was even more revolted by the man’s collection of relics than by the animal trophies. Daigoro had plundered the most sacred, personal items from the native culture. Hirata’s sympathies swung even further toward the Ezo.

I travel all over Ezogashima, surveying the gold mines, prospecting for new ones,“ Daigoro said. ”I’ve been to all the villages, picked up whatever I liked there.“

“Did that include a woman named Tekare?” Hirata asked.

A knowing look brightened the dirty gleam in Daigoro’s eyes. “Ah, we’re getting down to business now. I assume you’re helping Chamberlain Sano investigate the murder of Lord Matsumae’s mistress. A clever man, your master. Buying his life with a promise to solve the crime.”

“How did you know?”

Daigoro tapped his forefingers near the corners of his eyes, then on his ears. “I have these everywhere.”

People at the castle who owed money to Daigoro would be willing to exchange news for a reduction in their debts, Hirata supposed. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Yes, I found Tekare during a prospecting trip. The villages in that part of Ezogashima are known for their beautiful women. I’ve sampled quite a few. But she was the best.”

Hirata had never thought to criticize men he knew for taking their pleasure with women from the Japanese lower classes, but the Ezo women seemed even more helpless, and their exploitation by Daigoro cruel instead of condonable. “So you collected her the way you collected these things?” Hirata gestured to the dead, preserved animals.

The merchant frowned at the disapproval in Hirata’s tone. “Judge me if you want, but with all due respect, you have no idea what life is like in Ezogashima. I can tell you, because I’ve been here twenty-two years, since I was just a boy.

“I was convicted of raping the three daughters of the man who owned the shop in Osaka where I worked. That’s not a crime, but the magistrate felt sorry for the girls. He sentenced me to be exiled here. He didn’t deny what he’d done, but he clearly thought his punishment excessive. ”I was dumped off a ship and left to fend for myself. Have you ever mined for gold?“

When Hirata shook his head, Daigoro said, “You walk along streams, filtering water through a sieve. If you find gold nuggets, you divert the stream and expose the bottom. Then you dig under the sand and rock until you find the gold deposits. It’s long, hard work. And I did it for thirteen years, until I struck a big lode and made my fortune. I deserve a little enjoyment.”

“At the expense of the Ezo women,” Hirata said.

“Not always.” A strange note crept into Daigoro’s voice. “With the other women, maybe, but not Tekare. She was different.”

“You mean you didn’t force yourself on her?” Hirata said skeptically.

“No. That is, it might have seemed that way. I followed her into the woods, and I took her. But it wasn’t.” Daigoro’s face acquired the same dumb, beaten expression as the stuffed animals on the wall. “It was as if she’d taken me.”

Eager to make Hirata understand, Daigoro said, “Tekare wasn’t like the other Ezo women. She wasn’t content to go on hunting trips with her husband. That’s how the Ezo do it, you know. The husband shoots the game. The wife carries his gear, sets up camp, does the cooking. That’s why strong women are the ones the men want to marry. But Tekare was more than just the usual beast of burden.

“She thought she deserved more. When I first met her, she’d given herself to all the traders, miners, and fishermen who passed through her village. In exchange, they gave her Japanese trinkets. Other Ezo women are simple, humble, and virtuous. Not her.” Disgust and admiration mingled in Daigoro’s laugh. “Tekare played men for all she was worth. She put on such airs, her nickname was ‘The Empress of Snow Country.”“