SI3 The Way of the Traitor (1997)

by Laura Joh Rowland

  oNee!

  Spaen's vehement negative stopped her. Puzzled, she watched as he walked to the chest and took out three ropes. Then he shed his coat and shoes, his shirt, trousers, stockings, and undergarments. Seeing his hairy, muscular body, Peony shuddered. She turned away from the sight of the bull-like genitals that hung from a tangle of wiry gold pubic hair. Hugging herself, she waited for the inevitable attack. But Spaen's voice was gentle.

  oKom hier.

  She glanced at him, curious now. Her mouth dropped.

  He sat on his seat, binding his ankles to its legs. Then he spoke, motioning for her to tie his hands behind his back. Peony stood paralyzed with shock. She'd heard other courtesans whisper about such disgusting sex games. How unfortunate that the barbarians also knew them! Only the thought of Minami's anger enabled her to take up the rope.

  When she tightened it around his wrists, Spaen groaned, a deep, wounded-animal sound. Quickly she let go and jumped back. oI'm sorry I hurt you, master! she cried.

  But he twisted in his seat, face dark with passion, and shouted for her to continue. Sweat beaded his skin; the rank smell grew stronger. Peony saw his organ swell upright. And strangely, she felt an answering response within her own body. Her heartbeat and breathing quickened the way they did when she stole. An unfamiliar warmth pulsed in her groin, tingled her nipples. She realized she wanted the barbarian as much as he did her, and in the same way. When he shouted more orders, she knew instinctively what to do.

  She slapped his face, hard. He moaned, his eyes feverish with pain and lust. She punched his chest, and he writhed, his organ fully erect. As she struck him again and again, her moans joined his. She tore off her clothes and straddled Spaen, impaling herself on his erection. The heat and smell of his sweat-drenched skin fed her desire, as did the sight of his contorted face and straining muscles. She raised and lowered herself, nearly mad with pleasure.

  He climaxed almost immediately, in a series of hoarse shouts and violent convulsions. She rode him until her own pleasure crested. She felt powerful, triumphant. This mastery of a wild barbarian was even better than stealing.

  That was the first of many nights. The game grew more intense and violent. Sometimes Spaen made her threaten him with a knife or gun. Peony had wondered where he'd gotten the weapons. Now she knew. She'd seen and heard things on Deshima, and not just on the night Spaen had disappeared. Eventually they'd learned to communicate using a mixture of simple Japanese and Dutch words. Sometimes he told her interesting things. This was his legacy to her, a payment for the suffering she'd endured during their game's other phase.

  She'd soon understood that for Spaen to completely enjoy sex, he must first abuse his abuser, mocking and mistreating her in front of other people. He derived extra pleasure from the reversal of their roles, the constant shift of power between them. This caused terrible anguish to Peony, who had told the ssakan only half the truth about her feelings toward Spaen. She'd loved the barbarian for the power and ecstasy he'd given her; she honestly grieved for him. She'd accepted the rules of their private game. Yet she had hated the humiliation of cleaning up the dung he'd deliberately spilled, of enduring his insults. The besotted love slave in her wanted to die so they could spend eternity together, but the survivor rejoiced in his murder.

  Through her lover's death, she would live, as an independent woman who need not steal to assert her power.

  In the street she spotted a town messenger, a young man with the city crest painted on a flag attached to his back, and his kimono tied up around the waist to free his legs for running. She beckoned, and he trotted over.

  oDeliver this message for me, Peony said. She whispered in his ear the name of the man from whom she'd stolen the treasure, then said, oTell him Peony has the property he lost. She'll return it for ten thousand koban. This sum would settle her debts and secure her future. oHe must come alone to my room tonight, with the money, at the hour of the boar.

  She explained what would happen if he didn't, then paid the messenger, who ran off to deliver the ultimatum. Peony smiled. She was sure the man would meet her demands. Yet even if he refused, she couldn't lose: She would simply sell her prize to the ssakan, and win her freedom that way "with the added bonus that she need no longer fear being convicted for the murder of her lover.

  oPeony!

  Minami's voice jolted her back to the present. oGet back in the house. Now! Scowling, he grabbed her hair, dragging her inside. oYou have work to do.

  Peony's secret buoyed her heart. Hiding a smile, she murmured, oYes, master.

  He was her master now, but not for much longer.

  Chapter 11

  BY MAKING inquiries around town, Sano tracked down the merchant Urabe in Nagasaki's Chinese settlement. This occupied an area near the harbor and was surrounded by high wooden palisades, a moat, and fishermen's cottages. A continuous stream of Japanese merchants, porters, officials "and even a few women, accompanied by male escorts "passed through the gate, where guards searched them and recorded entries or exits.

  Afternoon had begun its descent toward evening by the time Sano tied his horse to the moat's railing and joined the traffic entering the settlement. The sunlight had turned coppery, the sea cobalt. Windblown clouds, edged in violet, swept across a fading sky.

  oState your name and business, a guard ordered when Sano reached the gate.

  Sano complied, noting the perfunctory way the man searched him and recorded his name without asking for proof of identity. The Chinese were subject to the same basic restrictions as all foreigners " trade quotas; a separate residential area; limited contact with citizens "but Chinas centuries-old relationship with Japan accorded special advantages.

  Entering the settlement, Sano found himself in a busy marketplace. Chinese merchants manned stalls decorated with red lanterns and heaped with porcelainware, bolts of raw silk, barrels of sugar, turpentine, camphor, and myrrh, Cambodian teakwood, Korean ginseng root, books, medicines, and other exotic goods. The merchants, dressed in cotton trousers, high-collared tunics, and cloth slippers, dashed about, queues waving as they bargained with Japanese buyers. Their fingers flew over abacus beads, calculating prices. Each Japanese merchant was accompanied by clerks, an interpreter, and porters carrying the goods he'd purchased or brought to trade. Government censors examined Chinese books and applied seals to those that passed inspection. The rapid singsong of Chinese speech lent the business a frenetic quality. The Chinese enjoyed freer trade privileges than the Dutch "seventy ships allowed each year instead of just one, and continuous sales open to a greater number of Japanese merchants. With the current peaceful state of relations between the two countries, security was looser; the Chinese merchants and sailors could even leave their residences to worship at their own temple.

  Lifting his gaze, Sano saw the temple's red pagoda rising from its distant hillside. He recalled Hirata's story about mysterious lights and the abbot's grudge against the Dutch. The Chinese were allowed to keep guns on their ships. Sano must eventually question the abbot, whose mobility and access to weapons made him a viable murder suspect.

  However, freedom of movement and trade didn't translate into other special privileges for the Chinese. Their quarters consisted of shabby, crowded barracks. Laundry flapped on the balconies, and the stench of sewage mingled with cooking odors. Still, none of the residents stayed long, and their profits made up for the discomfort.

  A sudden disturbance broke out down the aisle of stalls along which Sano walked in search of Urabe. Two shouting Chinese merchants lunged at each other. Fists flew and feet kicked. Nearby Chinese flocked around the fighters, yelling and waving. Coins changed hands: Instead of stopping the brawl, the Chinese were betting on it!

  oBreak it up! Wielding bamboo canes, Japanese guards delivered sharp blows to Chinese rear ends. oFun's over. Go back to your business!

  The guards dragged away the two troublemakers. The audience scattered, howling unintelligible complaints. oOuch, my behind hurts! a passing
interpreter translated.

  Sano watched in amazement. As a scholar, he'd always viewed the great Middle Kingdom as the font of knowledge and civilization. From China had come many mainstays of Japanese culture: Buddhism; the Confucian system of education and government; herbal medicine; the formal written language. Chinese influence had shaped Japanese architecture, music, painting, and literature. Chinese scientists had invented steel, lacquer, paper, porcelain, matches, gunpowder, block printing, and the compass. But the Chinese whom Sano now beheld seemed like pure rabble. Disillusioned, he approached a guard.

  oWhere can I find the merchant Urabe? he asked.

  The guard pointed. oThat's him at the lumber stall "in the green kimono, bargaining for all he's worth. His business isn't doing too well lately.

  Sano worked his way over to the lumber stall, where Urabe was inspecting rough, fragrant boards through a small magnifying lens. Seeing the device, Sano uneasily remembered Dr. Huygens and their illicit collaboration.

  oThis wood has wormholes in it, Urabe announced. His voice rasped like a sliding door in a warped frame. He was in his mid-forties, and had a neck so short that his head seemed set directly upon his shoulders. His face wore a look of perpetual irritation, with frown lines on the low brow above his narrowed eyes, and tensely puckered lips. Urabe moved from board to board, peering through his lens, sharp chin jutting forward as if eager to get ahead of himself. oI won't pay more than fifty momme for this whole lot.

  An interpreter translated the words into Chinese for the dealer, who erupted in angry disagreement. oHe says that what you see are natural pores in the wood, not wormholes, the interpreter told Urabe. oHe won't lower his price.

  oWell, then, the deal is off. Let's go.

  Urabe sauntered down the aisle past Sano, gesturing for his staff to follow. But Sano saw the hard, acquisitive gleam in Urabe's eyes, the nervous way he picked at a mole on his left cheek. He meant to get the lumber on his terms, but he was afraid he wouldn't.

  The Chinese man hurried after Urabe. He entreated and gestured. oMy final offer is seventy momme, Urabe rasped, chin thrust forward belligerently. oTake it or leave it.

  Looking resentful, the Chinese merchant agreed. Money changed hands, and Urabe's porters loaded up the wood. Sano stepped forward. oUrabe-san. I'm Sano Ichir, the shogun's ssakan. I'm investigating the murder of the Dutch trade director, Jan Spaen, and I'd like a word with you.

  The merchant's face took on a owhat now? expression. oOf course, master, he said. His gaze roamed, seeking other deals.

  oWhat happened between you and Spaen when you met him on Deshima the night before last? Sano asked.

  oSorry, you're mistaken. Urabe edged across the aisle to a porcelain dealers stall. oHaven't been to Deshima since the barbarians sold their goods there last year.

  Given that Urabe's name hadn't appeared in the visitor's log, Sano had expected a denial. oAre you saving you haven't seen Jan Spaen since then?

  The Chinese porcelain merchant came up to Urabe, smiling eagerly. oAsk him how much for these plates, Urabe told the interpreter. To Sano he said, oThat's exactly what I'm saying. One hundred momme apiece! he exclaimed when the interpreter translated. oThat's robbery. Forty momme, no more. He turned back to Sano. oWho told you I was on Deshima the night before last?

  oA witness who saw you there, Sano said, reluctant to reveal his source.

  Urabe chuckled. oBet it was Spaen's whore, Peony. Ha, I'm right, aren't I? Fifty momme, he countered in reply to the Chinese man's offer of eighty. oWhatever Peony says about me is a lie. To get me in trouble.

  Sano was tired of competing for his suspect's attention. oStop the negotiations until we're done talking, he ordered the interpreter. oUrabe, why would Peony want to get you in trouble?

  The porcelain merchant turned away to greet another customer. oCome back! Urabe called. To Sano, he protested indignantly, oI have a living to earn. Can't this wait?

  Seeing Sano's glare, he shrugged, his head sinking deeper between his shoulders. oOh, all right. I was at a party at the Half Moon last month. Went to buy a drink; reached for my money pouch. It was gone. Looked around and saw that ugly whore sneaking out of the room. I guessed she'd stolen my pouch, so I reported her to Minami. He went after her and got it back, then beat her. So now she hates me. When you asked her about the barbarian, she pointed you toward me, out of spite.

  The explanation sounded plausible, to Sano's regret. If he couldn't pin the murder on a prostitute, his next safest choice was a merchant. The bakufu might even welcome Urabe's conviction as an excuse to seize his assets. Yet there was still hope of incriminating him.

  oI hear your business is in trouble, Sano said.

  Urabe, who had turned for another look at the porcelain, snapped his head around, his expression suddenly guarded. oNo, it isn't. Who told you that?

  oMade some bad deals lately? Sano pressed, raising his voice. oShort of cash?

  Looking around to see if anyone was listening, Urabe put a finger to his lips. oJust a small setback, that's all. Please, I don't want rumors to get to my bankers.

  oWhat kind of setback?

  oAhhh. The merchant flapped a dismissive hand. oI thought the price of copper was going to rise. So I borrowed money and bought a lot. When the time came to sell, the bakufu set a lower price than I expected. But I'll make it up on other ventures. That's business: You win, you lose.

  oThe Dutch buy a lot of copper from Japan, don't they? Sano asked. At Urabe's assent, he continued, oSo the copper you bought at a high price, you sold to them at a loss. Is that how you got cheated in your deal with Jan Spaen?

  Urabe scowled. oI never get cheated, he rasped. oAnd certainly not by barbarians. The bakufu set the price. Spaen had nothing to do with my loss.

  Sano felt someone watching them, and turned. Backlit by the sun, a woman stood in the aisle nearby. Sano's heart skipped, then drummed a joyful cadence when he saw upswept hair, the outline of a squarish face. Aoi!

  Then she came nearer, and the illusion faded. She was a girl about fourteen years old, long hair pinned back at the sides, dressed in a pink kimono. Her resemblance to Aoi didn't extend beyond the shape of her face. Her nose was small and round, her lips were a pair of delicate, rosy petals. Totally lacking Aoi's serene self-possession, she hovered awkwardly, hands clasped at her small bosom, eyes shining with youthful innocence. A sour-faced woman and two male servants, presumably her chaperones, hovered behind her.

  oFather, she began.

  Urabe waved her away. oNot now, I'm busy.

  oI'm sorry, Father. Her voice was shy and sweet. Blushing, she bowed, then quickly retreated.

  oSorry for the interruption, Urabe said. oThat was my daughter, Junko. The youngest, and the only one yet to marry. He shook his head gloomily. oFour daughters and no sons. The gods have cursed me, to be sure. They could at least send me a rich son-in-law who's fit to be my business partner. But no "of the ones I have so far, one is a drunk, the second a wastrel, and the third a moron. Junko is my last chance to bring capital and talent into this family. I intend to get my money's worth for her dowry.

  Sano watched Junko wandering about the market. His joy died, leaving behind a familiar ache in his spirit. Must he spend his whole life seeing resemblances to Aoi in every woman he met? Taking a deep breath, he forced his thoughts back to the investigation.

  oYou sell the Dutch other goods besides copper, don't you? he asked Urabe. oWere those dealings with Spaen amicable?

  oOf course, Urabe said impatiently, but his fingers picked at his mole, belying his words. Dutch traders drove hard bargains. Had Spaen gotten the better of Urabe?

  oIf you weren't on Deshima the night before last, then where were you? Sano asked.

  Urabe thrust his chin forward, gaze defiant. oWorked late at the shop, then came home and slept. My clerks and my wife can vouch for me. I couldn't have killed Spaen even if I'd wanted to, which I didn't. The Dutch are important suppliers and customers, even if they are dirty animals.


  Sano didn't give this alibi much credence, because self-interest bound Urabe's wife and employees to say whatever he ordered. Yet even if Urabe had a motive for Spaen's murder, it would be hard to establish his presence on Deshima.

  From down the aisle came Junko's sweet voice, singing:

  oSince the last autumn moon have I traveled,

  Following the promise of love.

  The rain is cold and the wind blows bitter "

  I cry lest we fail to meet again. o

  Sano saw her lift and examine a vase from a stall, head tilted gracefully as she hummed. Against his will, Sano imagined Aoi in her place. He wrenched his gaze back to Urabe and, to stem a flood of memories, abruptly introduced another subject related to the murder case.

  oI've heard rumors about mysterious lights in the harbor around Deshima, he began.