Reiko nibbled at a millet cake, forced herself to swallow a few crumbs, and washed them down with water. Sano, Hirata, and the detectives did the same. Lord Matsumae sobbed.

“Tekare!” he wailed, then said in an eerie female voice, “I’m here with you, my lord. Be strong.”

Weeping broke out among the natives, a low, collective wail. “It’s the custom to weep at funerals, no matter how you felt about the person who died,” the Rat explained.

The natives chanted, “O-yoyopota! O-yoyopota!”

The Rat said, “That means, ”Oh, how dreadful.“ Everybody should join in.”

Everybody did, except Lady Matsumae, who wore a faint smile. Under the cover of the noise, Reiko said to Lady Smart, who sat beside her, “Where is Lilac?”

“She must have sneaked out of the castle. The bad girl!”

Lord Matsumae rose, walked to Tekare, and knelt by her head. So did Urahenka. “Go away,” Lord Matsumae said, shooing the man away as though he were a dog.

Sulky and defiant, Urahenka held his position. A servant brought a cup of water, which he and Lord Matsumae both grabbed for. It spilled. Another servant hurried over with two cups. They drank the ritual toast, glaring at each other, then retreated to their places.

“Where did she go?” Reiko asked Lady Smart.

The woman shook her head, but Lady Pansy spoke across her: “To the hot spring.”

The chanting continued. The chieftain began to speak, apparently prayers to the gods. The natives moved forward one by one to bow and weep over the corpse. Sulfur smoke and fury choked Reiko. That Lilac had sneaked off to cavort in the hot spring while she suffered! After scheming to exploit her!

At last the chieftain ended his prayers. The native women wrapped Tekare in the mat upon which she lay. They bound the mat with plaited black-and-white strands of hemp. The men tied it to a long pole. Lord Matsumae grasped one end of the pole, but he was too weak to lift Tekare’s weight. Captain Okimoto hefted the pole onto his shoulder. Lord Matsumae laid his hand on it, reverently as if touching his beloved’s flesh. He ignored the native man who took up the pole’s other end. The assembly rose as the bearers angled the wrapped, suspended corpse feet-first toward the door.

Wente, carrying a small lacquer water vessel, led them out of the hall. The officials followed with a lacquer chest. Urahenka trudged after them, a walking stick in his hand, a lumpy bundle on his back. The other native men followed, laden with more paraphernalia. The troops herded the Japanese and native women, then Reiko, Sano, and their comrades, outside.

The sun was at its dazzling zenith, the snow glittering with jeweled reflections. The procession filed through the castle grounds to a back gate. As she realized that they were leaving the castle, Reiko saw her chance to settle a score.

The procession moved down the hill, along a path plowed for easy walking two or three abreast. The natives chanted. Reiko lagged behind Sano. He turned toward her, but a soldier said, “Don’t look back, sideways, or down!” He prodded Sano with his lance. “That’ll invite evil spirits to possess us!”

Sano marched face-forward, as did everyone else. Reiko silently thanked the gods for native superstition. She fell into step with Lady Smart and whispered, “Which way to the hot spring?”

Lady Smart frowned and shook her head.

“Please!”

“Take the right fork in the path.”

When they reached it, Reiko peeled away from the group, which marched right past her. She sped off in pursuit of Lilac.

The graveyard was located on a plateau above the city. Towering cedars surrounded and cast deep blue shadows on open snow studded with wooden burial posts. These marked the graves of natives who’d died in the Japanese domain. Some of the posts had pointed tops; the rest, elongated holes.

“Spears for men, sewing needles for women,” the Rat said.

This lesson on native customs glanced off Sano. He felt like a vestige of himself, as though Masahiro’s death had amputated his spirit from his body. But the Way of the Warrior kept him stoically going through the motions of life. Bushido was like a skeleton that held him up. He still had his duty to his lord to fulfill, and he came from a long line of samurai who’d marched from one battle to the next, bleeding from their injuries, to fight until they dropped.

Four Ainu men cleared snow off the ground and began digging a hole. Sano watched Lord Matsumae shambling amid his entourage. Centuries of instinct stirred in Sano. His samurai blood flamed with the age-old desire for vengeance. Lord Matsumae was responsible for Masahiro’s death. Never mind the deal they’d struck-Lord Matsumae’s days were numbered.

The gravediggers finished. They lined the rectangular hole with matting. At its west end they placed two bowls of earth. Wente poured water from her vessel into these. Lord Matsumae moaned, clutching at his heart, while the native men lowered the corpse into the grave. Urahenka opened his bundle. It contained a robe, a spindle, needles and thread, a bowl and a spoon, a knife, a cooking pot, and a sickle. The officials opened their chest and brought out a silk kimono, Japanese lacquer sandals, and hair ornaments.

“Grave goods,” whispered the Rat. “For the deceased to use when she gets to the spirit world.”

Urahenka raised his walking stick and struck his grave goods repeatedly. He shattered the bowl, dented the pot, and ruined the other items. A soldier handed Lord Matsumae a lance. He wept and staggered while he hacked at the things his men had brought.

“They have to be broken to release their spirit to the service of the dead,” the Rat explained.

The pieces were dumped into the grave. The natives and Lord Matsumae picked up handfuls of dirt. Urahenka flung the first handful onto his wife’s corpse. Lord Matsumae dropped in his own dirt from fingers that shook with the sobs that wracked him. Sano longed for a sword, longed to feel his blade cut through Lord Matsumae’s flesh, to spill blood for blood. But he was patient. He came from a long line of samurai who pursued their enemies to the end of the earth, for as long as it took.

The gravediggers filled in the hole, placed the needle-shaped burial post. The native women brushed the covered grave, one another, and their men with willow switches. “To purify them,” said the Rat.

The group prepared to depart. Sano recalled that he’d hoped that the funeral would provide information useful to his investigation, that something would happen to unmask the killer. So far it hadn’t.

Suddenly Chieftain Awetok spoke in a tone of command. Everyone paused, turning to him in surprise. He raised his hand, spoke again. An excited murmur swept through the natives.

“He says to wait,” the Rat said. “He wants to perform a special ritual.

“What kind of ritual?” Sano asked.

The chieftain spoke. Gizaemon said, “A trial by ordeal. It’s the Ezo custom when one of them is murdered. They dip their hands in boiling water.” The native men set an urn on the hot charcoal brazier they’d brought. “If they’re guilty, they get scalded. If they’re innocent, the spirit of the victim protects them, and the hot water doesn’t burn them.”

A buzz of disapproval arose among the Japanese officials. Lord Matsumae regarded the Ainu with skepticism and hope. “Can this really determine who killed Tekare?”

“Of course not,” the gold merchant said scornfully.

“It’s just barbarian foolishness,” Gizaemon said. “Don’t allow it, Honorable Nephew.”

The native men began protesting. “They say they’ve been unjustly accused,” the Rat said. “They want a chance to prove their innocence. And they want everyone else to be tested, to find out who’s guilty.”

Urahenka stood beside the brazier. He flung off his right mitten and held up his bare hand.

Sano said, “I order the trial to proceed.” Not that he believed in magic rituals, but he was amenable to anything that might shed light on the crime that he’d taken responsibility for solving. And if Lord Matsumae took the test and scalded himself, so much the better.