Shōgun

CHAPTER THIRTY

“You’re certain everything’s ready, Mura?”

“Yes, Omi-san, yes, I think so. We’ve followed your orders exactly—and Igurashi-san’s.”

“Nothing had better go wrong or there’ll be another headman by sunset,” Igurashi, Yabu’s chief lieutenant, told him with great sourness, his one eye bloodshot from lack of sleep. He had arrived yesterday from Yedo with the first contingent of samurai and with specific instructions.

Mura did not reply, just nodded deferentially and kept his eyes on the ground.

They were standing on the foreshore, near the jetty, in front of the kneeling rows of silent, overawed, and equally exhausted villagers—every man, woman, and child, except for the bed-ridden—waiting for the galley to arrive. All wore their best clothes. Faces were scrubbed, the whole village swept and sparkling and made wholesome as though this were the day before New Year when, by ancient custom, all the Empire was cleaned. Fishing boats were meticulously marshaled, nets tidy, ropes coiled. Even the beach along the bay had been raked.

“Nothing will go wrong, Igurashi-san,” Omi said. He had had little sleep this last week, ever since Yabu’s orders had come from Osaka via one of Toranaga’s carrier pigeons. At once he had mobilized the village and every able-bodied man within twenty ri to prepare Anjiro for the arrival of the samurai and Yabu. And now that Igurashi had whispered the very private secret, for his ears only, that the great daimyo Toranaga was accompanying his uncle and had successfully escaped Ishido’s trap, he was more than pleased he had expended so much money. “There’s no need for you to worry, Igurashi-san. This is my fief and my responsibility.”

“I agree. Yes, it is.” Igurashi waved Mura contemptuously away. And then he added quietly, “You’re responsible. But without offense, I tell you you’ve never seen our Master when something goes wrong. If we’ve forgotten anything, or these dung eaters haven’t done what they’re supposed to, our Master will make your whole fief and those to the north and south into manure heaps before sunset tomorrow.” He strode back to the head of his men.

This morning the final companies of samurai had ridden in from Mishima, Yabu’s capital city to the north. Now they, too, with all the others, were drawn up in packed military formation on the foreshore, in the square, and on the hillside, their banners waving with the slight breeze, upright spears glinting in the sun. Three thousand samurai, the elite of Yabu’s army. Five hundred cavalry.

Omi was not afraid. He had done everything it was possible to do and had personally checked everything that could be checked. If something went wrong, then that was just karma. But nothing is going to go wrong, he thought excitedly. Five hundred koku had been spent or was committed on the preparations—more than his entire year’s income before Yabu had increased his fief. He had been staggered by the amount but Midori, his wife, had said they should spend lavishly, that the cost was minuscule compared to the honor that Lord Yabu was doing him. “And with Lord Toranaga here—who knows what great opportunities you’ll have?” she had whispered.

She’s so right, Omi thought proudly.

He rechecked the shore and the village square. Everything seemed perfect. Midori and his mother were waiting under the awning that had been prepared to receive Yabu and his guest, Toranaga. Omi noticed that his mother’s tongue was wagging and he wished that Midori could be spared its constant lash. He straightened a fold in his already impeccable kimono and adjusted his swords and looked seaward.

“Listen, Mura-san,” Uo, the fisherman, was whispering cautiously. He was one of the five village elders and they were kneeling with Mura in front of the rest. “You know, I’m so frightened, if I pissed I’d piss dust.”

“Then don’t, old friend.” Mura suppressed his smile.

Uo was a broad-shouldered, rocklike man with vast hands and broken nose, and he wore a pained expression. “I won’t. But I think I’m going to fart.” Uo was famous for his humor and for his courage and for the quantity of his wind. Last year when they had had the wind-breaking contest with the village to the north he had been champion of champions and had brought great honor to Anjiro.

“Eeeeee, perhaps you’d better not,” Haru, a short, wizened fisherman, chortled. “One of the shit-heads might get jealous.”

Mura hissed, “You’re ordered not to call samurai that while even one’s near the village.” Oh ko, he was thinking wearily, I hope we’ve not forgotten anything. He glanced up at the mountainside, at the bamboo stockade surrounding the temporary fortress they had constructed with such speed and sweat. Three hundred men, digging and building and carrying. The other new house had been easier. It was on the knoll, just below Omi’s house, and he could see it, smaller than Omi’s but with a tiled roof, a makeshift garden, and a small bath house. I suppose Omi will move there and give Lord Yabu his, Mura thought.

He looked back at the headland where the galley would appear any moment now. Soon Yabu would step ashore and then they were all in the hands of the gods, all kami, God the Father, His Blessed Son, and the Blessed Madonna, oh ko!

Blessed Madonna, protect us! Would it be too much to ask to put Thy great eye on this special village of Anjiro? Just for the next few days? We need special favor to protect us from our Lord and Master, oh yes! I will light fifty candles and my sons will definitely be brought up in the True Faith, Mura promised.

Today Mura was very glad to be a Christian; he could intercede with the One God and that was an added protection for his village. He had become a Christian in his youth because his own liege lord had been converted and had at once ordered all his followers to become Christians. And when, twenty years ago, this lord was killed fighting for Toranaga against the Taikō, Mura had remained Christian to honor his memory. A good soldier has but one master, he thought. One real master.

Ninjin, a round-faced man with very buck teeth, was especially agitated by the presence of so many samurai. “Mura-san, so sorry, but it’s dangerous what you’ve done—terrible, neh? That little earthquake this morning, it was a sign from the gods, an omen. You’ve made a terrible mistake, Mura-san.”

“What is done is done, Ninjin. Forget about it.”

“How can I? It’s in my cellar and—”

“Some of it’s in your cellar. I’ve plenty myself,” Uo said, no longer smiling.

“Nothing’s anywhere. Nothing, old friends,” Mura said cautiously. “Nothing exists.” On his orders, thirty koku of rice had been stolen over the last few days from the samurai commissariat and was now secreted around the village, along with other stores and equipment—and weapons.

“Not weapons,” Uo had protested. “Rice yes, but not weapons!”

“War is coming.”

“It’s against the law to have weapons,” Ninjin had wailed.

Mura snorted. “That’s a new law, barely twelve years old. Before that we could have any weapons we wanted and we weren’t tied to the village. We could go where we wanted, be what we wanted. We could be peasant-soldier, fisherman, merchant, even samurai—some could, you know it’s the truth.”

“Yes, but now it’s different, Mura-san, different. The Taikō ordered it to be different!”

“Soon it’ll be as it’s always been. We’ll be soldiering again.”

“Then let’s wait,” Ninjin had pleaded. “Please. Now it’s against the law. If the law changes that’s karma. The Taikō made the law: no weapons. None. On pain of instant death.”

“Open your eyes, all of you! The Taikō’s dead! And I tell you, soon Omi-san’ll need trained men and most of us have warred, neh? We’ve fished and warred, all in their season. Isn’t that true?”

“Yes, Mura-san,” Uo had agreed through his fear. “Before the Taikō we weren’t tied.”

“They’ll catch us, they have to catch us,” Ninjin had wept. “They’ll have no mercy. They’ll boil us like they boiled the barbarian.”

“Shut up about the barbarian!”

“Listen, friends,” Mura had said. “We’ll never get such a chance again. It’s sent by God. Or by the gods. We must take every knife, arrow, spear, sword, musket, shield, bow we can. The samurai’ll think other samurai’ve stolen them—haven’t the shit-heads come from all over Izu? And what samurai really trusts another? We must take back our right to war, neh? My father was killed in battle—so was his and his! Ninjin, how many battles have you been in—dozens, neh? Uo—what about you? Twenty? Thirty?”

“More. Didn’t I serve with the Taikō, curse his memory? Ah, before he became Taikō, he was a man. That’s the truth! Then something changed him, neh? Ninjin, don’t forget that Mura-san is headman! And we shouldn’t forget his father was headman too! If the headman says weapons, then weapons it has to be.”

Now, kneeling in the sun, Mura was convinced that he had done correctly, that this new war would last forever and their world would be again as it had always been. The village would be here, and the boats and some villagers. Because all men—peasant, daimyo, samurai, even the eta—all men had to eat and the fish were waiting in the sea. So the soldier-villagers would take time out from war from time to time, as always, and they would launch their boats. . . .

“Look!” Uo said and pointed involuntarily in the sudden hush.

The galley was rounding the headland.

Fujiko was kneeling abjectly in front of Toranaga in the main cabin that he had used during the voyage, and they were alone.

“I beg you, Sire,” she pleaded. “Take this sentence off my head.”

“It’s not a sentence, it’s an order.”

“I will obey, of course. But I cannot do—”

“Cannot?” Toranaga flared. “How dare you argue! I tell you you’re to be the pilot’s consort and you have the impertinence to argue?”

“I apologize, Sire, with all my heart,” Fujiko said quickly, the words gushing. “That was not meant as an argument. I only wanted to say that I cannot do this in the way that you wished. I beg you to understand. Forgive me, Sire, but it’s not possible to be happy—or to pretend happiness.” She bowed her head to the futon. “I humbly beseech you to allow me to commit seppuku.”

“I’ve said before I do not approve of senseless death. I have a use for you.”

“Please, Sire, I wish to die. I humbly beg you. I wish to join my husband and my son.”

Toranaga’s voice slashed at her, drowning the sounds of the galley. “I’ve already refused you that honor. You don’t merit it, yet. And it’s only because of your grandfather, because Lord Hiro-matsu’s my oldest friend, that I’ve listened patiently to your ill-mannered mouthings so far. Enough of this nonsense, woman. Stop acting like a dung-headed peasant!”

“I humbly beg permission to cut off my hair and become a nun. Buddha will—”

“No. I’ve given you an order. Obey it!”

“Obey?” she said, not looking up, her face stark. Then, half to herself, “I thought I was ordered to Yedo.”

“You were ordered to this vessel! You forget your position, you forget your heritage, you forget your duty. You forget your duty! I’m disgusted with you. Go and get ready.”

“I want to die, please let me join them, Sire.”

“Your husband was born samurai by mistake. He was malformed, so his offspring would be equally malformed. That fool almost ruined me! Join them? What nonsense! You’re forbidden to commit seppuku! Now, get out!”

But she did not move.

“Perhaps I’d better send you to the eta. To one of their houses. Perhaps that’d remind you of your manners and your duty.”

A shudder racked her, but she hissed back defiantly, “At least. they’d be Japanese!”

“I am your liege lord. You-will-do-as-I-order.”

Fujiko hesitated. Then she shrugged. “Yes, Lord. I apologize for my ill manners.” She placed her hands flat on the futon and bowed her head low, her voice penitent. But in her heart she was not persuaded and he knew and she knew what she intended to do. “Sire, I sincerely apologize for disturbing you, for destroying your wa, your harmony, and for my bad manners. You were right. I was wrong.” She got up and went quietly to the door of the cabin.

“If I grant you what you wish,” Toranaga said, “will you, in return, do what I want, with all your heart?”

Slowly she looked back. “For how long, Sire? I beg to ask for how long must I be consort to the barbarian?”

“A year.”

She turned away and reached for the door handle.

Toranaga said, “Half a year.”

Fujiko’s hand stopped. Trembling, she leaned her head against the door. “Yes. Thank you, Sire. Thank you.”

Toranaga got to his feet and went to the door. She opened it for him and bowed him through and closed it after him. Then the tears came silently.

She was samurai.

Toranaga came on deck feeling very pleased with himself. He had achieved what he wanted with the minimum of trouble. If the girl had been pressed too far she would have disobeyed and taken her own life without permission. But now she would try hard to please and it was important that she become the pilot’s consort happily, at least outwardly so, and six months would be more than enough time. Women are much easier to deal with than men, he thought contentedly. So much easier, in certain things.

Then he saw Yabu’s samurai massed around the bay and his sense of well-being vanished.

“Welcome to Izu, Lord Toranaga,” Yabu said. “I ordered a few men here to act as escort for you.”

“Good.”

The galley was still two hundred yards from the dock, approaching neatly, and they could see Omi and Igurashi and the futons and the awning.

“Everything’s been done as we discussed in Osaka,” Yabu was saying. “But why not stay with me for a few days? I’d be honored and it would prove very useful. You could approve the choice of the two hundred and fifty men for the Musket Regiment, and meet their commander.”

“Nothing would please me more but I must get to Yedo as quickly as possible, Yabu-san.”

“Two or three days? Please. A few days free from worry would be good for you, neh? Your health is important to me—to all your allies. Some rest, good food, and hunting.”

Toranaga was desperately seeking a solution. To stay here with only fifty guards was unthinkable. He would be totally in Yabu’s power, and that would be worse than his situation at Osaka. At least Ishido was predictable and bound by certain rules. But Yabu? Yabu’s as treacherous as a shark and you don’t tempt sharks, he told himself. And never in their home waters. And never with your own life. He knew that the bargain he had made with Yabu at Osaka had as much substance as the weight of their urine when it had reached the ground, once Yabu believed he could get better concessions from Ishido. And Yabu’s presenting Toranaga’s head on a wooden platter to Ishido would get Yabu immediately far more than Toranaga was prepared to offer.

Kill him or go ashore? Those were the choices.

“You’re too kind,” he said. “But I must get to Yedo.” I never thought Yabu would have time to gather so many men here. Has he broken our code?

“Please allow me to insist, Toranaga-sama. The hunting’s very good nearby. I’ve falcons with my men. A little hunting after being confined at Osaka would be good, neh?”

“Yes, it would be good to hunt today. I regret losing my falcons there.”

“But they’re not lost. Surely Hiro-matsu will bring them with him to Yedo?”

“I ordered him to release them once we were safely away. By the time they’d have reached Yedo they would have been out of training and tainted. It’s one of my few rules: only to fly the falcons that I’ve trained, and to allow them no other master. That way they make only my mistakes.”

“It’s a good rule. I’d like to hear the others. Perhaps over food, tonight?”

I need this shark, Toranaga thought bitterly. To kill him now is premature.

Two ropes sailed ashore to be caught and secured. The ropes tightened and screeched under the strain and the galley swung alongside deftly. Oars were shipped. The gangway slid into place and then Yabu stood at its head.

At once the massed samurai shouted their battle cry in unison. “Kasigi! Kasigi!” and the roar that they made sent the gulls cawing and mewing into the sky. As one man, the samurai bowed.

Yabu bowed back, then turned to Toranaga and beckoned him expansively. “Let’s go ashore.”

Toranaga looked out over the massed samurai, over the villagers prostrate in the dust, and he asked himself, Is this where I die by the sword as the astrologer has foretold? Certainly the first part has come to pass: my name is now written on Osaka walls.

He put that thought aside. At the head of the gangway he called out loudly and imperiously to his fifty samurai, who now wore Brown uniform kimonos as he did, “All of you, stay here! You, Captain, you will prepare for instant departure! Mariko-san, you will be staying in Anjiro for three days. Take the pilot and Fujiko-san ashore at once and wait for me in the square.” Then he faced the shore and to Yabu’s amazement increased the force of his voice. “Now, Yabu-san, I will inspect your regiments!” At once he walked past him and stomped down the gangplank with all the easy confident arrogance of the fighting general he was.

No general had ever won more battles and no one was more cunning except the Taikō, and he was dead. No general had fought more battles, or was ever more patient or had lost so few men. And he had never been defeated.

A rustle of astonishment sped throughout the shore as he was recognized. This inspection was completely unexpected. His name was passed from mouth to mouth and the strength of the whispering, the awe that it generated, gratified him. He felt Yabu following but did not look back.

“Ah, Igurashi-san,” he said with a geniality he did not feel. “It’s good to see you. Come along, we’ll inspect your men together.”

“Yes, Lord.”

“And you must be Kasigi Omi-san. Your father’s an old comrade in arms of mine. You follow, too.”

“Yes, Lord,” Omi replied, his size increasing with the honor being done to him. “Thank you.”

Toranaga set a brisk pace. He had taken them with him to prevent them from talking privately with Yabu for the moment, knowing that his life depended on keeping the initiative.

“Didn’t you fight with us at Odawara, Igurashi-san?” he was asking, already knowing that this was where the samurai had lost his eye.

“Yes, Sire. I had the honor. I was with Lord Yabu and we served on the Taikō right wing.”

“Then you had the place of honor—where fighting was the thickest. I have much to thank you and your master for.”

“We smashed the enemy, Lord. We were only doing our duty.” Even though Igurashi hated Toranaga, he was proud that the action was remembered and that he was being thanked.

Now they had come to the front of the first regiment. Toranaga’s voice carried loudly. “Yes, you and the men of Izu helped us greatly. Perhaps, if it weren’t for you, I would not have gained the Kwanto! Eh, Yabu-sama?” he added, stopping suddenly, giving Yabu publicly the added title, and thus the added honor.

Again Yabu was thrown off balance by the flattery. He felt it was no more than his due, but he had not expected it from Toranaga, and it had never been his intention to allow a formal inspection. “Perhaps, but I doubt it. The Taikō ordered the Beppu clan obliterated. So it was obliterated.”

That had been ten years ago, when only the enormously powerful and ancient Beppu clan, led by Beppu Genzaemon, opposed the combined forces of General Nakamura, the Taikō-to-be, and Toranaga—the last major obstacle to Nakamura’s complete domination of the Empire. For centuries the Beppu had owned the Eight Provinces, the Kwanto. A hundred and fifty thousand men had ringed their castle-city of Odawara, which guarded the pass that led through the mountains into the incredibly rich rice plains beyond. The siege lasted eleven months. Nakamura’s new consort, the patrician Lady Ochiba, radiant and barely eighteen, had come to her lord’s household outside the battlements, her infant son in her arms, Nakamura doting on his firstborn child. And with Lady Ochiba had come her younger sister, Genjiko, whom Nakamura proposed giving in marriage to Toranaga.

“Sire,” Toranaga had said, “I’d certainly be honored to lock our houses closer together, but instead of me marrying the Lady Genjiko as you suggest, let her marry my son and heir, Sudara.”

It had taken Toranaga many days to persuade Nakamura but he had agreed. Then when the decision was announced to the Lady Ochiba, she had replied at once, “With humility, Sire, I oppose the marriage.”

Nakamura had laughed. “So do I! Sudara’s only ten and Genjiko thirteen. Even so, they’re now betrothed and on his fifteenth birthday they’ll marry.”

“But, Sire, Lord Toranaga’s already your brother-in-law, neh? Surely that’s enough of a connection? You need closer ties with the Fujimoto and the Takashima—even at the Imperial Court.”

“They’re dungheads at Court, and all in pawn,” Nakamura had said in his rough, peasant voice. “Listen, O-chan: Toranaga’s got seventy thousand samurai. When we’ve smashed the Beppu he’ll have the Kwanto and more men. My son will need leaders like Yoshi Toranaga, like I need them. Yes, and one day my son will need Yoshi Sudara. Better Sudara should be my son’s uncle. Your sister’s betrothed to Sudara, but Sudara will live with us for a few years, neh?”

“Of course, Sire,” Toranaga had agreed instantly, giving up his son and heir as a hostage.

“Good. But listen, first you and Sudara will swear eternal loyalty to my son.”

And so it had happened. Then during the tenth month of siege this first child of Nakamura had died, from fever or bad blood or malevolent kami.

“May all gods curse Odawara and Toranaga,” Ochiba had raved. “It’s Toranaga’s fault that we’re here—he wants the Kwanto. It’s his fault our son’s dead. He’s your real enemy. He wants you to die and me to die! Put him to death—or put him to work. Let him lead the attack, let him pay with his life for the life of our son! I demand vengeance. . . .”

So Toranaga had led the attack. He had taken Odawara Castle by mining the walls and by frontal attack. Then the grief-stricken Nakamura had stamped the city into dust. With its fall and the hunting down of all the Beppu, the Empire was subdued and Nakamura became first Kwampaku and then Taikō. But many had died at Odawara.

Too many, Toranaga thought, here on the Anjiro shore. He watched Yabu. “It’s a pity the Taikō’s dead, neh?”

“Yes.”

“My brother-in-law was a great leader. And a great teacher too. Like him, I never forget a friend. Or an enemy.”

“Soon Lord Yaemon will be of age. His spirit is the Taikō’s spirit. Lord Tora—” But before Yabu could stop the inspection Toranaga had already gone on again and there was little he could do but follow.

Toranaga walked down the ranks, exuding geniality, picking out a man here, another there, recognizing some, his eyes never still as he reached into his memory for faces and names. He had that very rare quality of special generals who inspect so that every man feels, at least for a moment, that the general has looked at him alone, perhaps even talked with him alone among his comrades. Toranaga was doing what he was born to do, what he had done a thousand times: controlling men with his will.

By the time the last samurai was passed, Yabu, Igurashi, and Omi were exhausted. But Toranaga was not, and again, before Yabu could stop him, he had walked rapidly to a vantage point and stood high and alone.

“Samurai of Izu, vassals of my friend and ally, Kasigi Yabu-sama!” he called out in that vast sonorous voice. “I’m honored to be here. I’m honored to see part of the strength of Izu, part of the forces of my great ally. Listen, samurai, dark clouds are gathering over the Empire and threaten the Taikō’s peace. We must protect the Taikō’s gifts to us against treachery in high places! Let every samurai be prepared! Let every weapon be sharp! Together we will defend his will! And we will prevail! May the gods of Japan both great and small pay attention! May they blast without pity all those who oppose the Taikō’s orders!” Then he raised both his arms and uttered their battle cry, “Kasigi,” and, incredibly, he bowed to the legions and held the bow.

They all stared at him. Then, “Toranaga!” came roaring back at him from the regiments again and again. And the samurai bowed in return.

Even Yabu bowed, overcome by the strength of the moment.

Before Yabu could straighten, Toranaga had set off down the hill once more at a fast pace. “Go with him, Omi-san,” Yabu ordered. It would have been unseemly for him to run after Toranaga himself.

“Yes, Lord.”

When Omi had gone, Yabu said to Igurashi, “What’s the news from Yedo?”

“The Lady Yuriko, your wife, said first to tell you there’s a tremendous amount of mobilization over the whole Kwanto. Nothing much on the surface but underneath everything’s boiling. She believes Toranaga’s preparing for war—a sudden attack, perhaps against Osaka itself.”

“What about Ishido?”

“Nothing before we left. That was five days ago. Nor anything about Toranaga’s escape. I only heard about that yesterday when your Lady sent a carrier pigeon from Yedo.”

“Ah, Zukimoto’s already set up that courier service?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Good.”

“Her message read: ‘Toranaga has successfully escaped from Osaka with our Master in a galley. Make preparations to welcome them at Anjiro.’ I thought it best to keep this secret except from Omi-san, but we’re all prepared.”

“How?”

“I’ve ordered a war ‘exercise,’ Sire, throughout Izu. Within three days every road and pass into Izu will be blocked, if that’s what you want. There’s a mock pirate fleet to the north that could swamp any unescorted ship by day or by night, if that’s what you want. And there’s space here for you and a guest, however important, if that’s what you want.”

“Good. Anything else? Any other news?”

Igurashi was reluctant to pass along news the implications of which he did not understand. “We’re prepared for anything here. But this morning a cipher came from Osaka: ‘Toranaga has resigned from the Council of Regents.’ ”

“Impossible! Why should he do that?”

“I don’t know. I can’t think this one out. But it must be true, Sire. We’ve never had wrong information from this source before.”

“The Lady Sazuko?” Yabu asked cautiously, naming Toranaga’s youngest consort, whose maid was a spy in his employ.

Igurashi nodded. “Yes. But I don’t understand it at all. Now the Regents will impeach him, won’t they? They’ll order his death. It’d be madness to resign, neh?”

“Ishido must have forced him to do it. But how? There wasn’t a breath of rumor. Toranaga would never resign on his own! You’re right, that’d be the act of a madman. He’s lost if he has. It must be false.”

Yabu walked down the hill in turmoil and watched Toranaga cross the square toward Mariko and the barbarian, with Fujiko nearby. Now Mariko was walking beside Toranaga, the others waiting in the square. Toranaga was talking quickly and urgently. And then Yabu saw him give her a small parchment scroll and he wondered what it contained and what was being said. What new trickery is Toranaga planning? he asked himself, wishing he had his wife Yuriko here to help him with her wise counsel.

At the dock Toranaga stopped. He did not go onto the ship and into the protection of his men. He knew that it was on the shore that the final decision would be made. He could not escape. Nothing was yet resolved. He watched Yabu and Igurashi approaching. Yabu’s untoward impassivity told him very much.

“So, Yabu-san?”

“You will stay for a few days, Lord Toranaga?”

“It would be better for me to leave at once.”

Yabu ordered everyone out of hearing. In a moment the two men were alone on the shore.

“I’ve had disquieting news from Osaka. You’ve resigned from the Council of Regents?”

“Yes. I’ve resigned.”

“Then you’ve killed yourself, destroyed your cause, all your vassals, all your allies, all your friends! You’ve buried Izu and you’ve murdered me!”

“The Council of Regents can certainly take away your fief, and your life if they want. Yes.”

“By all gods, living and dead and yet to be born . . .” Yabu fought to dominate his temper. “I apologize for my bad manners but your—your incredible attitude . . . yes, I apologize.” There was no real purpose to be gained in a show of emotion which all knew was unseemly and defacing. “Yes, it is better for you to stay here then, Lord Toranaga.”

“I think I would prefer to leave at once.”

“Here or Yedo, what’s the difference? The Regents’ order will come immediately. I imagine you’d want to commit seppuku at once. With dignity. In peace. I would be honored to act as your second.”

“Thank you. But no legal order’s yet arrived so my head will stay where it is.”

“What does a day or two matter? It’s inevitable that the order will come. I will make all arrangements, yes, and they will be perfect. You may rely on me.”

“Thank you. Yes, I can understand why you would want my head.”

“My own head will be forfeit too. If I send yours to Ishido, or take it and ask his pardon, that might persuade him, but I doubt it, neh?”

“If I were in your position I might ask for your head. Unfortunately my head will help you not at all.”

“I’m inclined to agree. But it’s worth trying.” Yabu spat violently in the dust. “I deserve to die for being so stupid as to put myself in that dung-head’s power.”

“Ishido will never hesitate to take your head. But first he’ll take Izu. Oh yes, Izu’s lost with him in power.”

“Don’t bait me! I know that’s going to happen!”

“I’m not baiting you, my friend,” Toranaga told him, enjoying Yabu’s loss of face. “I merely said, with Ishido in power you’re lost and Izu’s lost, because his kinsman Ikawa Jikkyu covets Izu, neh? But, Yabu-san, Ishido doesn’t have the power. Yet.” And he told him, friend to friend, why he had resigned.

“The Council’s hamstrung!” Yabu couldn’t believe it.

“There isn’t any Council. There won’t be until there are five members again.” Toranaga smiled. “Think about it, Yabu-san. Now I’m stronger than ever, neh? Ishido’s neutralized—so is Jikkyu. Now you’ve got all the time you need to train your guns. Now you own Suruga and Totomi. Now you own Jikkyu’s head. In a few months you’ll see his head on a spike and the heads of all his kin, and you’ll ride in state into your new domains.” Abruptly he spun and shouted, “Igurashi-san!” and five hundred men heard the command.

Igurashi came running but before the samurai had gone three paces, Toranaga called out, “Bring an honor guard with you. Fifty men! At once!” He did not dare to give Yabu a moment’s respite to detect the enormous flaw in his argument: that if Ishido was hamstrung now and did not have power, then Toranaga’s head on a wooden platter would be of enormous value to Ishido and thus to Yabu. Or even better, Toranaga bound like a common felon and delivered alive at the gates of Osaka Castle would bring Yabu immortality and the keys to the Kwanto.

While the honor guard was forming in front of him, Toranaga said loudly, “In honor of this occasion, Yabu-sama, perhaps you would accept this as a token of friendship.” Then he took out his long sword, held it flat on both hands, and offered it.

Yabu took the sword as though in a dream. It was priceless. It was a Minowara heirloom and famous throughout the land. Toranaga had possessed this sword for fifteen years. It had been presented to him by Nakamura in front of the assembled majesty of all the important daimyos in the Empire, except Beppu Genzaemon, as part payment for a secret agreement.

This had happened shortly after the battle of Nagakudé, long before the Lady Ochiba. Toranaga had just defeated General Nakamura, the Taikō-to-be, when Nakamura was still just an upstart without mandate or formal power or formal title and his reach for absolute power still in the balance. Instead of gathering an overwhelming host and burying Toranaga, which was his usual policy, Nakamura had decided to be conciliatory. He had offered Toranaga a treaty of friendship and a binding alliance, and to cement them, his half sister as wife. That the woman was already married and middle-aged bothered neither Nakamura nor Toranaga at all. Toranaga agreed to the pact. At once the woman’s husband, one of Nakamura’s vassals—thanking the gods that the invitation to divorce her had not been accompanied by an invitation to commit seppuku—had gratefully sent her back to her half brother. Immediately Toranaga married her with all the pomp and ceremony he could muster, and the same day concluded a secret friendship pact with the immensely powerful Beppu clan, the open enemies of Nakamura, who, at this time, still sat disdainfully in the Kwanto on Toranaga’s very unprotected back door.

Then Toranaga had flown his falcons and waited for Nakamura’s inevitable attack. But none had come. Instead, astoundingly, Nakamura had sent his revered and beloved mother into Toranaga’s camp as a hostage, ostensibly to visit her stepdaughter, Toranaga’s new wife, but still hostage nonetheless, and had, in return, invited Toranaga to the vast meeting of all the daimyos that he had arranged at Osaka. Toranaga had thought hard and long. Then he had accepted the invitation, suggesting to his ally Beppu Genzaemon that it would be unwise for them both to go. Next, he had set sixty thousand samurai secretly into motion toward Osaka against Nakamura’s expected treachery, and had left his eldest son, Noboru, in charge of his new wife and her mother. Noboru had at once piled tinder-dry brushwood to the eaves of their residence and had told them bluntly he would fire it if anything happened to his father.

Toranaga smiled, remembering. The night before he was due to enter Osaka, Nakamura, unconventional as ever, had paid him a secret visit, alone and unarmed.

“Well met, Tora-san.”

“Well met, Lord Nakamura.”

“Listen: We’ve fought too many battles together, we know too many secrets, we’ve shit too many times in the same pot to want to piss on our own feet or on each other’s.”

“I agree,” Toranaga had said cautiously.

“Listen then: I’m within a sword’s edge of winning the realm. To get total power I’ve got to have the respect of the ancient clans, the hereditary fief holders, the present heirs of the Fujimoto, the Takashima, and Minowara. Once I’ve got power, any daimyo or any three together can piss blood for all I care.”

“You have my respect—you’ve always had it.”

The little monkey-faced man had laughed richly. “You won at Nagakudé fairly. You’re the best general I’ve ever known, the greatest daimyo in the realm. But now we’re going to stop playing games, you and I. Listen: tomorrow I want you to bow to me before all the daimyos, as a vassal. I want you, Yoshi Toranaga-noh-Minowara, a willing vassal. Publicly. Not to tongue my hole, but polite, humble, and respectful. If you’re my vassal, the rest’ll fart in their haste to put their heads in the dust and their tails in the air. And the few that don’t—well, let them beware.”

“That will make you Lord of all Japan. Neh?”

“Yes. The first in history. And you’ll have given it to me. I admit I can’t do it without you. But listen: If you do that for me you’ll have first place after me. Every honor you want. Anything. There’s enough for both of us.”

“Is there?”

“Yes. First I take Japan. Then Korea. Then China. I told Goroda I wanted that and that’s what I’ll have. Then you can have Japan—a province of my China!”

“But now, Lord Nakamura? Now I have to submit, neh? I’m in your power, neh? You’re in overwhelming strength in front of me—and the Beppu threaten my back.”

“I’ll deal with them soon enough,” the peasant warlord had said. “Those sneering carrion refused my invitation to come here tomorrow—they sent my scroll back covered in bird’s shit. You want their lands? The whole Kwanto?”

“I want nothing from them or from anyone,” he had said.

“Liar,” Nakamura had said genially. “Listen, Tora-san: I’m almost fifty. None of my women has ever birthed. I’ve juice in plenty, always have had, and in my life I must have pillowed a hundred, two hundred women, of all types, of all ages, in every way, but none has ever birthed a child, not even stillborn. I’ve everything but I’ve no sons and never will. That’s my karma. You’ve four sons living and who knows how many daughters. You’re forty-three so you can pillow your way to a dozen more sons as easy as horses shit and that’s your karma. Also you’re Minowara and that’s karma. Say I adopt one of your sons and make him my heir?”

“Now?”

“Soon. Say in three years. It was never important to have an heir before but now things’re different. Our late Master Goroda had the stupidity to get himself murdered. Now the land’s mine—could be mine. Well?”

“You’ll make the agreements formal, publicly formal, in two years?”

“Yes. In two years. You can trust me—our interests are the same. Listen: In two years, in public; and we agree, you and I, which son. This way we share everything, eh? Our joint dynasty’s settled into the future, so no problems there and that’s good for you and good for me. The pickings’ll be huge. First the Kwanto. Eh?”

“Perhaps Beppu Genzaemon will submit—if I submit.”

“I can’t allow them to, Tora-san. You covet their lands.”

“I covet nothing.”

Nakamura’s laugh had been merry. “Yes. But you should. The Kwanto’s worthy of you. It’s safe behind mountain walls, easy to defend. With the delta you’ll control the richest rice lands in the Empire. You’ll have your back to the sea and an income of two million koku. But don’t make Kamakura your capital. Or Odawara.”

“Kamakura’s always been capital of the Kwanto.”

“Why shouldn’t you covet Kamakura, Tora-san? Hasn’t it contained the holy shrine of your family’s guardian kami for six hundred years? Isn’t Hachiman, the kami of war, the Minowara deity? Your ancestor was wise to choose the kami of war to worship.”

“I covet nothing, worship nothing. A shrine is just a shrine and the kami of war’s never been known to stay in any shrine.”

“I’m glad you covet nothing, Tora-san, then nothing will disappoint you. You’re like me in that. But Kamakura’s no capital for you. There are seven passes into it, too many to defend. And it’s not on the sea. No, I wouldn’t advise Kamakura. Listen: You’d be better and safer to go farther over the mountains. You need a seaport. There’s one I saw once—Yedo—a fishing village now, but you’ll make it into a great city. Easy to defend, perfect for trade. You favor trade. I favor trade. Good. So you must have a seaport. As to Odawara, we’re going to stamp it out, as a lesson to all the others.”

“That will be very difficult.”

“Yes. But it’d be a good lesson for all the other daimyos, neh?”

“To take that city by storm would be costly.”

Again the taunting laugh. “It could be, to you, if you don’t join me. I’ve got to go through your present lands to get at it—did you know you’re the Beppu front line? The Beppu pawn? Together you and them could keep me off for a year or two, even three. But I’ll get there in the end. Oh, yes. Eeeee, why waste more time on them? They’re all dead—except your son-in-law if you want—ah, I know you’ve an alliance with them, but it’s not worth a bowl of horseshit. So what’s your answer? The pickings are going to be vast. First the Kwanto—that’s yours—then I’ve all Japan. Then Korea—easy. Then China—hard but not impossible. I know a peasant can’t become Shōgun, but ‘our’ son will be Shōgun, and he could straddle the Dragon Throne of China too, or his son. Now that’s the end of talk. What’s your answer, Yoshi Toranaga-noh-Minowara, vassal or not? Nothing else is of value to me.”

“Let’s piss on the bargain,” Toranaga had said, having gained everything that he had wanted and planned for. And the next day, before the bewildered majesty of the truculent daimyos, he had humbly offered up his sword and his lands and his honor and his heritage to the upstart peasant warlord. He had begged to be allowed to serve Nakamura and his house forever. And he, Yoshi Toranaga-noh-Minowara, had bowed his head abjectly into the dust. The Taikō-to-be now had been magnanimous and had taken his lands and had at once gifted him the Kwanto as a fief once it was conquered, ordering total war on the Beppu for their insults to the Emperor. And he had also given Toranaga this sword that he had recently acquired from one of the Imperial treasuries. The sword had been made by the master swordsmith Miyoshi-Go centuries before, and had once belonged to the most famous warrior in history, Minowara Yoshitomo, the first of the Minowara Shōguns.

Toranaga remembered that day. And he recalled other days: a few years later when the Lady Ochiba gave birth to a boy; and another when, incredibly, after the Taikō’s first son had conveniently died, Yaemon, the second son, was born.

So was the whole plan ruined. Karma.

He saw Yabu holding the sword of his ancestor with reverence.

“Is it as sharp as they say?” Yabu asked.

“Yes.”

“You do me great honor. I will treasure your gift.” Yabu bowed, conscious that, because of the gift, he would be the first in the land after Toranaga.

Toranaga bowed back, and then, unarmed, he walked for the gangway. It took all his will to hide his fury and not to let his feet falter, and he prayed that Yabu’s avariciousness would keep him mesmerized for just a few moments more.

“Cast off!” he ordered, coming onto the deck, and then turned shoreward and waved cheerfully.

Someone broke the silence and shouted his name, then others took up the shout. There was a general roar of approval at the honor done to their lord. Willing hands shoved the ship out to sea. The oarsmen pulled briskly. The galley made way.

“Captain, get to Yedo quickly!”

“Yes, Sire.”

Toranaga looked aft, his eyes ranging the shore, expecting danger any instant. Yabu stood near the jetty, still bemused by the sword. Mariko and Fujiko were waiting beside the awning with the other women. The Anjin-san was on the edge of the square where he had been told to wait—rigid, towering, and unmistakably furious. Their eyes met. Toranaga smiled and waved.

The wave was returned, but coldly, and this amused Toranaga very much.

Blackthorne walked cheerlessly up to the jetty.

“When’s he coming back, Mariko-san?”

“I don’t know, Anjin-san.”

“How do we get to Yedo?”

“We stay here. At least, I stay for three days. Then I’m ordered there.”

“By sea?”

“By land.”

“And me?”

“You are to stay here.”

“Why?”

“You expressed an interest in learning our language. And there’s work for you to do here.”

“What work?”

“I don’t know, I’m sorry. Lord Yabu will tell you. My Master left me here to interpret, for three days.”

Blackthorne was filled with foreboding. His pistols were in his belt but he had no knives and no more powder and no more shot. That was all in the cabin aboard the galley.

“Why didn’t you tell me we were staying here?” he asked. “You just said to come ashore.”

“I didn’t know you were to remain here also,” she replied. “Lord Toranaga told me only a moment ago, in the square.”

“Why didn’t he tell me then? Tell me himself?”

“I don’t know.”

“I was supposed to be going to Yedo. That’s where my crew is. That’s where my ship is. What about them?”

“He just said you were to stay here.”

“For how long?”

“He didn’t tell me, Anjin-san. Perhaps Lord Yabu will know. Please be patient.”

Blackthorne could see Toranaga standing on the quarterdeck, watching shoreward. “I think he knew all along I was to stay here, didn’t he?”

She did not answer. How childish it is, she said to herself, to speak aloud what you think. And how extraordinarily clever Toranaga was to have escaped this trap.

Fujiko and the two maids stood beside her, waiting patiently in the shade with Omi’s mother and wife, whom she had met briefly, and she looked beyond them to the galley. It was picking up speed now. But it was still within easy arrow range. Any moment now she knew she must begin. Oh, Madonna, let me be strong, she prayed, all her attention centering on Yabu.

“Is it true? Is that true?” Blackthorne was asking.

“What? Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t know, Anjin-san. I can only tell you Lord Toranaga is very wise. The wisest man. Whatever his reason, it was good.” She studied the blue eyes and hard face, knowing that Blackthorne had no understanding of what had occurred here. “Please be patient, Anjin-san. There’s nothing to be afraid of. You’re his favored vassal and under his—”

“I’m not afraid, Mariko-san. I’m just tired of being shoved around the board like a pawn. And I’m no one’s vassal.”

“Is ‘retainer’ better? Or how would you describe a man who works for another or is retained by another for special . . .” Then she saw the blood soar into Yabu’s face.

“The guns—the guns are still on the galley!” he cried out.

Mariko knew the time had come. She hurried over to him as he turned to shout orders at Igurashi.

“Your pardon, Lord Yabu,” she said, overriding him, “there’s no need to worry about your guns. Lord Toranaga said to ask your pardon for his haste but he has urgent things to do on your joint behalves at Yedo. He said he would return the galley instantly. With the guns. And with extra powder. And also with the two hundred and fifty men you require from him. They’ll be here in five or six days.”

“What?”

Mariko explained patiently and politely again as Toranaga had told her to do. Then, once Yabu understood, she took out a roll of parchment from her sleeve. “My Master begs you to read this. It concerns the Anjin-san.” She formally offered it to him.

But Yabu did not take the scroll. His eyes went to the galley. It was well away now, going very fast. Out of range. But what does that matter, he thought contentedly, now over his anxiety. I’ll get the guns back quickly and now I’m out of the Ishido trap and I’ve Toranaga’s most famous sword and soon all the daimyos in the land will be aware of my new position in the armies of the East—second to Toranaga alone! Yabu could still see Toranaga and he waved once and the wave was returned. Then Toranaga vanished off the quarterdeck.

Yabu took the scroll and turned his mind to the present. And to the Anjin-san.

Blackthorne was watching thirty paces away and he felt his hackles rise under Yabu’s piercing gaze. He heard Mariko speaking in her lilting voice but that did not reassure him. His hand tightened covertly on the pistol.

“Anjin-san!” Mariko called out. “Would you please come over here!”

As Blackthorne approached them, Yabu glanced up from the parchment, nodded in friendly fashion. When Yabu had finished reading he handed the paper back to Mariko and spoke briefly, partly to her, partly to him.

Reverently Mariko offered the paper to Blackthorne. He took it and examined the incomprehensible characters.

“Lord Yabu says you are welcome in this village. This paper is under Lord Toranaga’s seal, Anjin-san. You are to keep it. He’s given you a rare honor. Lord Toranaga has made you a hatamoto. This is the position of a special retainer of his personal staff. You have his absolute protection, Anjin-san. Lord Yabu, of course, acknowledges this. I will explain later the privileges, but Lord Toranaga has given you also a salary of twenty koku a month. That is about—”

Yabu interrupted her, expansively waving his hand at Blackthorne, then at the village, and spoke at length. Mariko translated. “Lord Yabu repeats that you are welcome here. He hopes you will be content, that everything will be done to make your stay comfortable. A house will be provided for you. And teachers. You will please learn Japanese as quickly as possible, he says. Tonight he will ask you some questions and tell you about some special work.”

“Please ask him, what work?”

“May I advise just a little more patience, Anjin-san. Now is not the time, truly.”

“All right.”

“Wakarimasu ka, Anjin-san?” Yabu said. Do you understand?

“Hai, Yabu-san. Domo.”

Yabu gave orders to Igurashi to dismiss the regiment, then strode over to the villagers, who were still prostrate in the sand.

He stood in front of them in the warm fine spring afternoon, Toranaga’s sword still in his hand. His words whipped over them. Yabu pointed the sword at Blackthorne and harangued them a few moments more and ended abruptly. A tremor went through the villagers. Mura bowed and said “hai” several times and turned and asked the villagers a question and all eyes went to Blackthorne.

“Wakarimasu ka?” Mura called out and they all answered “hai,” their voices mixing with the sighing of the waves upon the beach.

“What’s going on?” Blackthorne asked Mariko, but Mura shouted, “Keirei!” and the villagers bowed low again, once to Yabu and once to Blackthorne. Yabu strode off without looking back.

“What’s going on, Mariko-san?”

“He—Lord Yabu told them you are his honored guest here. That you are also Lord Toranaga’s very honored vas—retainer. That you are here mostly to learn our tongue. That he has given the village the honor and responsibility of teaching you. The village is responsible, Anjin-san. Everyone here is to help you. He told them that if you have not learned satisfactorily within six months, the village will be burnt, but before that, every man, woman, and child will be crucified.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The day was dying now, the shadows long, the sea red, and a kind wind blowing.

Blackthorne was coming up the path from the village toward the house that Mariko had earlier pointed out and told him was to be his. She had expected to escort him there but he had thanked her and refused and had walked past the kneeling villagers toward the promontory to be alone and to think.

He had found the effort of thinking too great. Nothing seemed to fit. He had doused salt water over his head to try to clear it but that had not helped. At length he had given up and had walked back aimlessly along the shore, past the jetty, across the square and through the village, up to this house where he was to live now and where, he remembered, there had not been a dwelling before. High up, dominating the opposite hillside, was another sprawling dwelling, part thatch, part tile, within a tall stockade, many guards at the fortified gateway.

Samurai were strutting through the village or standing talking in groups. Most had already marched off behind their officers in disciplined groups up the paths and over the hill to their bivouac encampment. Those samurai that Blackthorne met, he absently greeted and they greeted him in return. He saw no villagers.

Blackthorne stopped outside the gate that was set into the fence. There were more of the peculiar characters painted over the lintel and the door itself was cut out in ingenious patterns designed to hide and at the same time to reveal the garden behind.

Before he could open the door it swung inward and a frightened old man bowed him through.

“Konbanwa, Anjin-san.” His voice quavered piteously—Good evening.

“Konbanwa,” he replied. “Listen, old man, er—o namae ka?”

“Namae watashi wa, Anjin-sama? Ah, watashi Ueki-ya . . . Ueki-ya.” The old man was almost slavering with relief.

Blackthorne said the name several times to help remember it and added “san” and the old man shook his head violently. “Iyé gomen nasai! Iyé ‘san,’ Anjin-sama. Ueki-ya! Ueki-ya!”

“All right, Ueki-ya.” But Blackthorne thought, why not “san” like everyone else?

Blackthorne waved his hand in dismissal. The old man hobbled away quickly. “I’ll have to be more careful. I have to help them,” he said aloud.

A maid came apprehensively onto the veranda through an opened shoji and bowed low.

“Konbanwa, Anjin-san.”

“Konbanwa,” he replied, vaguely recognizing her from the ship. He waved her away too.

A rustle of silk. Fujiko came from within the house. Mariko was with her.

“Was your walk pleasant, Anjin-san?”

“Yes, pleasant, Mariko-san.” He hardly noticed her or Fujiko or the house or garden.

“Would you like cha? Or perhaps saké? Or a bath perhaps? The water is hot.” Mariko laughed nervously, perturbed by the look in his eyes. “The bath house is not completely finished, but we hope it will prove adequate.”

“Saké, please. Yes, some saké first, Mariko-san.”

Mariko spoke to Fujiko, who disappeared inside the house once more. A maid silently brought three cushions and went away. Mariko gracefully sat on one.

“Sit down, Anjin-san, you must be tired.”

“Thank you.”

He sat on the steps of the veranda and did not take off his thongs. Fujiko brought two flasks of saké and a teacup, as Mariko had told her, not the tiny porcelain cup that should have been used.

“Better to give him a lot of saké quickly,” Mariko had said. “It would be better to make him quite drunk but Lord Yabu needs him tonight. A bath and saké will perhaps ease him.”

Blackthorne drank the proffered cup of warmed wine without tasting it. And then a second. And a third.

They had watched him coming up the hill through the slit of barely opened shojis.

“What’s the matter with him?” Fujiko had asked, alarmed.

“He’s distressed by what Lord Yabu said—the promise to the village.”

“Why should that bother him? He’s not threatened. It’s not his life that was threatened.”

“Barbarians are very different from us, Fujiko-san. For instance, the Anjin-san believes villagers are people, like any other people, like samurai, some perhaps even better than samurai.”

Fujiko had laughed nervously. “That’s nonsense, neh? How can peasants equal samurai?”

Mariko had not answered. She had just continued watching the Anjin-san. “Poor man,” she said.

“Poor village!” Fujiko’s short upper lip curled disdainfully. “A stupid waste of peasants and fishermen! Kasigi Yabu-san’s a fool! How can a barbarian learn our tongue in half a year? How long did the barbarian Tsukku-san take? More than twenty years, neh? And isn’t he the only barbarian who’s ever been able to talk even passable Japanese?”

“No, not the only one, though he’s the best I’ve ever heard. Yes, it’s difficult for them. But the Anjin-san’s an intelligent man and Lord Toranaga said that in half a year, isolated from barbarians, eating our food, living as we do, drinking cha, bathing every day, the Anjin-san will soon be like one of us.”

Fujiko’s face had been set. “Look at him, Mariko-san . . . so ugly. So monstrous and alien. Curious to think that as much as I detest barbarians, once he steps through the gate I’m committed and he becomes my lord and master.”

“He’s brave, very brave, Fujiko. And he saved Lord Toranaga’s life and is very valuable to him.”

“Yes, I know, and that should make me dislike him less but, so sorry, it doesn’t. Even so, I’ll try with all my strength to change him into one of us. I pray Lord Buddha will help me.”

Mariko had wanted to ask her niece, why the sudden change? Why are you now prepared to serve the Anjin-san and obey Lord Toranaga so absolutely, when only this morning you refused to obey, you swore to kill yourself without permission or to kill the barbarian the moment he slept? What did Lord Toranaga say to change you, Fujiko?

But Mariko had known better than to ask. Toranaga had not taken her into this confidence. Fujiko would not tell her. The girl had been too well trained by her mother, Buntaro’s sister, who had been trained by her father, Hiro-matsu.

I wonder if Lord Hiro-matsu will escape from Osaka Castle, she asked herself, very fond of the old general, her father-in-law. And what about Kiri-san and the Lady Sazuko? Where is Buntaro, my husband? Where was he captured? Or did he have time to die?

Mariko watched Fujiko pour the last of the saké. This cup too was consumed like the others, without expression.

“Dozo. Saké,” Blackthorne said.

More saké was brought. And finished. “Dozo, saké.”

“Mariko-san,” Fujiko said, “the Master shouldn’t have any more, neh? He’ll get drunk. Please ask him if he’d like his bath now. I will send for Suwo.”

Mariko asked him. “Sorry, he says he’ll bathe later.”

Patiently Fujiko ordered more saké and Mariko added quietly to the maid, “Bring some charcoaled fish.”

The new flask was emptied with the same silent determination. The food did not tempt him but he took a piece at Mariko’s gracious persuasion. He did not eat it.

More wine was brought, and two more flasks were consumed.

“Please give the Anjin-san my apologies,” Fujiko said. “So sorry, but there isn’t any more saké in his house. Tell him I apologize for this lack. I’ve sent the maid to fetch some more from the village.”

“Good. He’s had more than enough, though it doesn’t seem to have touched him at all. Why not leave us now, Fujiko? Now would be a good time to make the formal offer on your behalf.”

Fujiko bowed to Blackthorne and went away, glad that custom decreed that important matters were always to be handled by a third party in private. Thus dignity could always be maintained on both sides.

Mariko explained to Blackthorne about the wine.

“How long will it take to get more?”

“Not long. Perhaps you’d like to bathe now. I’ll see that saké’s sent the instant it arrives.”

“Did Toranaga say anything about my plan before he left? About the navy?”

“No. I’m sorry, he said nothing about that.” Mariko had been watching for the telltale signs of drunkenness. But to her surprise none had appeared, not even a slight flush, or a slurring of words. With this amount of wine consumed so fast, any Japanese would be drunk. “The wine is not to your taste, Anjin-san?”

“Not really. It’s too weak. It gives me nothing.”

“You seek oblivion?”

“No—a solution.”

“Anything that can be done to help, will be done.”

“I must have books and paper and pens.”

“Tomorrow I will begin to collect them for you.”

“No, tonight, Mariko-san. I must start now.”

“Lord Toranaga said he will send you a book—what did you call it?—the grammar books and word books of the Holy Fathers.”

“How long will that take?”

“I don’t know. But I’m here for three days. Perhaps this may be a help to you. And Fujiko-san is here to help also.” She smiled, happy for him. “I’m honored to tell you she is given to you as consort and she—”

“What?”

“Lord Toranaga asked her if she would be your consort and she said she would be honored and agreed. She will—”

“But I haven’t agreed.”

“Please? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“I don’t want her. Either as consort or around me. I find her ugly.”

Mariko gaped at him. “But what’s that got to do with consort?”

“Tell her to leave.”

“But Anjin-san, you can’t refuse! That would be a terrible insult to Lord Toranaga, to her, to everyone! What harm has she done you? None at all! Usagi Fujiko’s consen—”

“You listen to me!” Blackthorne’s words ricocheted around the veranda and the house. “Tell her to leave!”

Mariko said at once, “So sorry, Anjin-san, yes you’re right to be angry. But—”

“I’m not angry,” Blackthorne said icily. “Can’t you . . . can’t you people get it through your heads I’m tired of being a puppet? I don’t want that woman around, I want my ship back and my crew back and that’s the end of it! I’m not staying here six months and I detest your customs. It’s God-cursed terrible that one man can threaten to bury a whole village just to teach me Japanese, and as to consorts—that’s worse than slavery—and it’s a goddamned insult to arrange that without asking me in advance!”

What’s the matter now? Mariko was asking herself helplessly. What has ugliness to do with consort? And anyway Fujiko’s not ugly. How can he be so incomprehensible? Then she remembered Toranaga’s admonition: ‘Mariko-san, you’re personally responsible, firstly that Yabu-san doesn’t interfere with my departure after I’ve given him my sword, and secondly, you’re totally responsible for settling the Anjin-san docilely in Anjiro.’

‘I’ll do my best, Sire. But I’m afraid the Anjin-san baffles me.’

‘Treat him like a hawk. That’s the key to him. I tame a hawk in two days. You’ve three.’

She looked away from Blackthorne and put her wits to work. He does seem like a hawk when he’s in a rage, she thought. He has the same screeching, senseless ferocity, and when not in a rage the same haughty, unblinking stare, the same total self-centeredness, with exploding viciousness never far away.

“I agree. You’re completely right. You’ve been imposed upon terribly, and you’re quite right to be angry,” she said soothingly. “Yes, and certainly Lord Toranaga should have asked even though he doesn’t understand your customs. But it never occurred to him that you would object. He only tried to honor you as he would a most favored samurai. He made you a hatamoto, that’s almost like a kinsman, Anjin-san. There are only about a thousand hatamoto in all the Kwanto. And as to the Lady Fujiko, he was only trying to help you. The Lady Usagi Fujiko would be considered . . . among us, Anjin-san, this would be considered a great honor.”

“Why?”

“Because her lineage is ancient and she’s very accomplished. Her father and grandfather are daimyos. Of course she’s samurai, and of course,” Mariko added delicately, “you would honor her by accepting her. And she does need a home and a new life.”

“Why?”

“She is recently widowed. She’s only nineteen, Anjin-san, poor girl, but she lost a husband and a son and is filled with remorse. To be formal consort to you would give her a new life.”

“What happened to her husband and son?”

Mariko hesitated, distressed at Blackthorne’s impolite directness. But she knew enough about him by now to understand that this was his custom and not meant as lack of manners. “They were put to death, Anjin-san. While you’re here you will need someone to look after your house. The Lady Fujiko will be—”

“Why were they put to death?”

“Her husband almost caused the death of Lord Toranaga. Please con—”

“Toranaga ordered their deaths?”

“Yes. But he was correct. Ask her—she will agree, Anjin-san.”

“How old was the child?”

“A few months, Anjin-san.”

“Toranaga had an infant put to death for something the father did?”

“Yes. It’s our custom. Please be patient with us. In some things we are not free. Our customs are different from yours. You see, by law, we belong to our liege lord. By law a father possesses the lives of his children and wife and consorts and servants. By law his life is possessed by his liege lord. This is our custom.”

“So a father can kill anyone in his house?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re a nation of murderers.”

“No.”

“But your custom condones murder. I thought you were Christian.”

“I am, Anjin-san.”

“What about the Commandments?”

“I cannot explain, truly. But I am Christian and samurai and Japanese, and these are not hostile to one another. To me, they’re not. Please be patient with me and with us. Please.”

“You’d put your own children to death if Toranaga ordered it?”

“Yes. I only have one son but yes, I believe I would. Certainly it would be my duty to do so. That’s the law—if my husband agreed.”

“I hope God can forgive you. All of you.”

“God understands, Anjin-san. Oh, He will understand. Perhaps He will open your mind so you can understand. I’m sorry, I cannot explain very well, neh? I apologize for my lack.” She watched him in the silence, unsettled by him. “I don’t understand you either, Anjin-san. You baffle me. Your customs baffle me. Perhaps if we’re both patient we can both learn. The Lady Fujiko, for instance. As consort she will look after your house and your servants. And your needs—any of your needs. You must have someone to do that. She will see to the running of your house, everything. You do not need to pillow her, if that concerns you—if you do not find her pleasing. You do not even need to be polite to her, though she merits politeness. She will serve you, as you wish, in any way you wish.”

“I can treat her any way I want?”

“Yes.”

“I can pillow her or not pillow her?”

“Of course. She will find someone that pleases you, to satisfy your body needs, if you wish, or she will not interfere.”

“I can treat her like a servant? A slave?”

“Yes. But she merits better.”

“Can I throw her out? Order her out?”

“If she offends you, yes.”

“What would happen to her?”

“Normally she would go back to her parents’ house in disgrace, who may or may not accept her back. Someone like Lady Fujiko would prefer to kill herself before enduring that shame. But she . . . you should know true samurai are not permitted to kill themselves without their lord’s permission. Some do, of course, but they’ve failed in their duty and aren’t worthy to be considered samurai. I would not kill myself, whatever the shame, not without Lord Toranaga’s permission or my husband’s permission. Lord Toranaga has forbidden her to end her life. If you send her away, she’ll become an outcast.”

“Why? Why won’t her family accept her back?”

Mariko sighed. “So sorry, Anjin-san, but if you send her away, her disgrace will be such that no one will accept her.”

“Because she’s contaminated? From being near a barbarian?”

“Oh no, Anjin-san, only because she had failed in her duty to you,” Mariko said at once. “She is your consort now—Lord Toranaga ordered it and she agreed. You’re master of a house now.”

“Am I?”

“Oh, yes, believe me, Anjin-san, you have privileges. And as a hatamoto you’re blessed. And well off. Lord Toranaga’s given you a salary of twenty koku a month. For that amount of money a samurai would normally have to provide his lord with himself and two other samurai, armed, fed, and mounted for the whole year, and of course pay for their families as well. But you don’t have to do that. I beg you, consider Fujiko as a person, Anjin-san. I beg you to be filled with Christian charity. She’s a good woman. Forgive her her ugliness. She’ll be a worthy consort.”

“She hasn’t a home?”

“Yes. This is her home.” Mariko took hold of herself. “I beg you to accept her formally. She can help you greatly, teach you if you wish to learn. If you prefer, think of her as nothing—as this wooden post or the shoji screen, or as a rock in your garden—anything you wish, but allow her to stay. If you won’t have her as consort, be merciful. Accept her and then, as head of the house, according to our law, kill her.”

“That’s the only answer you have, isn’t it? Kill!”

“No, Anjin-san. But life and death are the same thing. Who knows, perhaps you’ll do Fujiko a greater service by taking her life. It’s your right now before all the law. Your right. If you prefer to make her an outcast, that too is your right.”

“So I’m trapped again,” Blackthorne said. “Either way she’s killed. If I don’t learn your language then a whole village is butchered. If I don’t do whatever you want, some innocent is always killed. There’s no way out.”

“There’s a very easy solution, Anjin-san. Die. You do not have to endure the unendurable.”

“Suicide’s crazy—and a mortal sin. I thought you were Christian.”

“I’ve said I am. But for you, Anjin-san, for you there are many ways of dying honorably without suicide. You sneered at my husband for not wanting to die fighting, neh? That’s not our custom, but apparently it’s yours. So why don’t you do that? You have a pistol. Kill Lord Yabu. You believe he’s a monster, neh? Even attempt to kill him and today you’ll be in heaven or hell.”

He looked at her, hating her serene features, seeing her loveliness through his hate. “It’s weak to die like that for no reason. Stupid’s a better word.”

“You say you’re Christian. So you believe in the Jesus child—in God—and in heaven. Death shouldn’t frighten you. As to ‘no reason,’ it is up to you to judge the value or nonvalue. You may have reason enough to die.”

“I’m in your power. You know it. So do I.”

Mariko leaned over and touched him compassionately. “Anjin-san, forget the village. A thousand million things can happen before those six months occur. A tidal wave or earthquake, or you get your ship and sail away, or Yabu dies, or we all die, or who knows? Leave the problems of God to God and karma to karma. Today you’re here and nothing you can do will change that. Today you’re alive and here and honored, and blessed with good fortune. Look at this sunset, it’s beautiful, neh? This sunset exists. Tomorrow does not exist. There is only now. Please look. It is so beautiful and it will never happen ever again, never, not this sunset, never in all infinity. Lose yourself in it, make yourself one with nature and do not worry about karma, yours, mine, or that of the village.”

He found himself beguiled by her serenity, and by her words. He looked westward. Great splashes of purple-red and black were spreading across the sky.

He watched the sun until it vanished.

“I wish you were to be consort,” he said.

“I belong to Lord Buntaro and until he is dead I cannot think or say what might be thought or said.”

Karma, thought Blackthorne.

Do I accept karma? Mine? Hers? Theirs?

The night’s beautiful.

And so is she and she belongs to another.

Yes, she’s beautiful. And very wise: Leave the problems of God to God and karma to karma. You did come here uninvited. You are here. You are in their power.

But what’s the answer?

The answer will come, he told himself. Because there’s a God in heaven, a God somewhere.

He heard the tread of feet. Some flares were approaching up the hill. Twenty samurai, Omi at their head.

“I’m sorry, Anjin-san, but Omi-san orders you to give him your pistols.”

“Tell him to go to hell!”

“I can’t, Anjin-san. I dare not.”

Blackthorne kept one hand loosely on the pistol hilt, his eyes on Omi. He had deliberately remained seated on the veranda steps. Ten samurai were within the garden behind Omi, the rest near the waiting palanquin. As soon as Omi had entered uninvited, Fujiko had come from the interior of the house and now stood on the veranda, white-faced, behind Blackthorne. “Lord Toranaga never objected and for days I’ve been armed around him and Yabu-san.”

Mariko said nervously, “Yes, Anjin-san, but please understand, what Omi-san says is true. It’s our custom that you cannot go into a daimyo’s presence with arms. There’s nothing to be af—nothing to concern you. Yabu-san’s your friend. You’re his guest here.”

“Tell Omi-san I won’t give him my guns.” Then, when she remained silent, Blackthorne’s temper snapped and he shook his head. “Iyé, Omi-san! Wakarimasu ka? Iyé!”

Omi’s face tightened. He snarled an order. Two samurai moved forward. Blackthorne whipped out the guns. The samurai stopped. Both guns were pointed directly into Omi’s face.

“Iyé!” Blackthorne said. And then, to Mariko, “Tell him to call them off or I’ll pull the triggers.”

She did so. No one moved. Blackthorne got slowly to his feet, the pistols never wavering from their target. Omi was absolutely still, fearless, his eyes following Blackthorne’s catlike movements.

“Please, Anjin-san. This is very dangerous. You must see Lord Yabu. You may not go with pistols. You’re hatamoto, you’re protected and you’re also Lord Yabu’s guest.”

“Tell Omi-san if he or any of his men come within ten feet of me I’ll blow his head off.”

“Omi-san says politely, ‘For the last time you are ordered to give me the guns. Now.’ ”

“Iyé.”

“Why not leave them here, Anjin-san? There’s nothing to fear. No one will touch—”

“You think I’m a fool?”

“Then give them to Fujiko-san!”

“What can she do? He’ll take them from her—anyone’ll take them—then I’m defenseless.”

Mariko’s voice sharpened. “Why don’t you listen, Anjin-san? Fujiko-san is your consort. If you order it she’ll protect the guns with her life. That’s her duty. I’ll never tell you again, but Toda-noh-Usagi Fujiko is samurai.”

Blackthorne was concentrating on Omi, hardly listening to her. “Tell Omi-san I don’t like orders. I’m Lord Toranaga’s guest. I’m Lord Yabu’s guest. You ‘ask’ guests to do things. You don’t order them, and you don’t march into a man’s house uninvited.”

Mariko translated this. Omi listened expressionlessly, then replied shortly, watching the unwavering barrels.

“He says, ‘I, Kasigi Omi, I would ask for your pistols, and ask you to come with me because Kasigi Yabu-sama orders you into his presence. But Kasigi Yabu-sama orders me to order you to give me your weapons. So sorry, Anjin-san, for the last time I order you to give them to me.’ ”

Blackthorne’s chest was constricted. He knew he was going to be attacked and he was furious at his own stupidity. But there comes a time when you can’t take any more and you pull a gun or a knife and then blood is spilled through stupid pride. Most times stupid. If I’m to die Omi will die first, by God!

He felt very strong though somewhat light-headed. Then what Mariko said began to ring in his ears: “Fujiko’s samurai, she is your consort!” And his brain began to function. “Just a moment! Mariko-san, please say this to Fujiko-san. Exactly: ‘I’m going to give you my pistols. You are to guard them. No one except me is to touch them.’ ”

Mariko did as he asked, and behind him, he heard Fujiko say, “Hai.”

“Wakarimasu ka, Fujiko-san?” he asked her.

“Wakarimasu, Anjin-san,” she replied in a thin, nervous voice.

“Mariko-san, please tell Omi-san I’ll go with him now. I’m sorry there’s been a misunderstanding. Yes, I’m sorry there was a misunderstanding.”

Blackthorne backed away, then turned. Fujiko accepted the guns, perspiration beading her forehead. He faced Omi and prayed he was right. “Shall we go now?”

Omi spoke to Fujiko and held out his hand. She shook her head. He gave a short order. The two samurai started toward her. Immediately she shoved one pistol into the sash of her obi, held the other with both hands at arm’s length and leveled it at Omi. The trigger came back slightly and the striking lever moved. “Ugoku na!” she said. “Dozo!”

The samurai obeyed. They stopped.

Omi spoke rapidly and angrily and she listened and when she replied her voice was soft and polite but the pistol never moved from his face, the lever half-cocked now, and she ended, “Iyé, gomen nasai, Omi-san!” No, I’m sorry, Omi-san.

Blackthorne waited.

A samurai moved a fraction. The lever came back dangerously, almost to the top of its arc. But her arm remained steady.

“Ugoku na!” she ordered.

No one doubted that she would pull the trigger. Not even Blackthorne. Omi said something curtly to her and to his men. They came back. She lowered the pistol but it was still ready.

“What did he say?” Blackthorne asked.

“Only that he would report this incident to Yabu-san.”

“Good. Tell him I will do the same.” Blackthorne turned to her. “Domo, Fujiko-san.” Then, remembering the way Toranaga and Yabu talked to women, he grunted imperiously at Mariko. “Come on, Mariko-san . . . iki-masho!” He started for the gate.

“Anjin-san!” Fujiko called out.

“Hai?” Blackthorne stopped. Fujiko was bowing to him and spoke quickly to Mariko.

Mariko’s eyes widened, then she nodded and replied, and spoke to Omi, who also nodded, clearly enraged but restraining himself.

“What’s going on?”

“Please be patient, Anjin-san.”

Fujiko called out, and there was an answer from within the house. A maid came onto the veranda. In her hands were two swords. Samurai swords.

Fujiko took them reverently, offered them to Blackthorne with a bow, speaking softly.

Mariko said, “Your consort rightly points out that a hatamoto is, of course, obliged to wear the two swords of the samurai. More than that, it’s his duty to do so. She believes it would not be correct for you to go to Lord Yabu without swords—that it would be impolite. By our law it’s duty to carry swords. She asks if you would consider using these, unworthy though they are, until you buy your own.”

Blackthorne stared at her, then at Fujiko and back to her again. “Does that mean I’m samurai? That Lord Toranaga made me samurai?”

“I don’t know, Anjin-san. But there’s never been a hatamoto who wasn’t samurai. Never.” Mariko turned and questioned Omi. Impatiently he shook his head and answered. “Omi-san doesn’t know either. Certainly it’s the special privilege of a hatamoto to wear swords at all times, even in the presence of Lord Toranaga. It is his duty because he’s a completely trustworthy bodyguard. Also only a hatamoto has the right of immediate audience with a lord.”

Blackthorne took the short sword and stuck it in his belt, then the other, the long one, the killing one, exactly as Omi was wearing his. Armed, he did feel better. “Arigato gozaimashita, Fujiko-san,” he said quietly.

She lowered her eyes and replied softly. Mariko translated.

“Fujiko-san says, with permission, Lord, because you must learn our language correctly and quickly, she humbly wishes to point out that ‘domo’ is more than sufficient for a man to say. ‘Arigato,’ with or without ‘gozaimashita,’ is an unnecessary politeness, an expression that only women use.”

“Hai. Domo. Wakarimasu, Fujiko-san.” Blackthorne looked at her clearly for the first time with his newfound knowledge. He saw the sweat on her forehead and the sheen on her hands. The narrow eyes and square face and ferret teeth. “Please tell my consort, in this one case I do not consider ‘arigato gozaimashita’ an unnecessary politeness to her.”

Yabu glanced at the swords again. Blackthorne was sitting cross-legged on a cushion in front of him in the place of honor, Mariko to one side, Igurashi beside him. They were in the main room of the fortress.

Omi finished talking.

Yabu shrugged. “You handled it badly, nephew. Of course it’s the consort’s duty to protect the Anjin-san and his property. Of course he has the right to wear swords now. Yes, you handled it badly. I made it clear the Anjin-san’s my honored guest here. Apologize to him.”

Immediately Omi got up and knelt in front of Blackthorne and bowed. “I apologize for my error, Anjin-san.” He heard Mariko say that the barbarian accepted the apology. He bowed again and calmly went back to his place and sat down again. But he was not calm inside. He was now totally consumed by one idea: the killing of Yabu.

He had decided to do the unthinkable: kill his liege lord and the head of his clan.

But not because he had been made to apologize publicly to the barbarian. In this Yabu had been right. Omi knew he had been unnecessarily inept, for although Yabu had stupidly ordered him to take the pistols away at once tonight, he knew they should have been manipulated away and left in the house, to be stolen later or broken later.

And the Anjin-san had been perfectly correct to give the pistols to his consort, he told himself, just as she was equally correct to do what she did. And she would certainly have pulled the trigger, her aim true. It was no secret that Usagi Fujiko sought death, or why. Omi knew, too, that if it hadn’t been for his earlier decision this morning to kill Yabu, he would have stepped forward into death and then his men would have taken the pistols away from her. He would have died nobly as she would be ordered into death nobly and men and women would have told the tragic tale for generations. Songs and poems and even a Nōh play, all so inspiring and tragic and brave, about the three of them: the faithful consort and faithful samurai who both died dutifully because of the incredible barbarian who came from the eastern sea.

No, Omi’s decision had nothing to do with this public apology, although the unfairness added to the hatred that now obsessed him. The main reason was that today Yabu had publicly insulted Omi’s mother and wife in front of peasants by keeping them waiting for hours in the sun like peasants, and had then dismissed them without acknowledgment like peasants.

“It doesn’t matter, my son,” his mother had said. “It’s his privilege.”

“He’s our liege Lord,” Midori, his wife, had said, the tears of shame running down her cheeks. “Please excuse him.”

“And he didn’t invite either of you to greet him and his officers at the fortress,” Omi had continued. “At the meal you arranged! The food and saké alone cost one koku!”

“It’s our duty, my son. It’s our duty to do whatever Lord Yabu wants.”

“And the order about Father?”

“It’s not an order yet. It’s a rumor.”

“The message from Father said he’d heard that Yabu’s going to order him to shave his head and become a priest, or slit his belly open. Yabu’s wife privately boasts it!”

“That was whispered to your father by a spy. You cannot always trust spies. So sorry, but your father, my son, isn’t always wise.”

“What happens to you, Mother, if it isn’t a rumor?”

“Whatever happens is karma. You must accept karma.”

“No, these insults are unendurable.”

“Please, my son, accept them.”

“I gave Yabu the key to the ship, the key to the Anjin-san and the new barbarians, and the way out of Toranaga’s trap. My help has brought him immense prestige. With the symbolic gift of the sword he’s now second to Toranaga in the armies of the East. And what have we got in return? Filthy insults.”

“Accept your karma.”

“You must, husband, I beg you, listen to the Lady, your mother.”

“I can’t live with this shame. I will have vengeance and then I will kill myself and these shames will pass from me.”

“For the last time, my son, accept your karma, I beg you.”

“My karma is to destroy Yabu.”

The old lady had sighed. “Very well. You’re a man. You have the right to decide. What is to be is to be. But the killing of Yabu by itself is nothing. We must plan. His son must also be removed, and also Igurashi. Particularly Igurashi. Then your father will lead the clan as is his right.”

“How do we do that, Mother?”

“We will plan, you and I. And be patient, neh? Then we must consult with your father. Midori, even you may give counsel, but try not to make it valueless, neh?”

“What about Lord Toranaga? He gave Yabu his sword.”

“I think Lord Toranaga only wants Izu strong and a vassal state. Not as an ally. He doesn’t want allies any more than the Taikō did. Yabu thinks he’s an ally. I think Toranaga detests allies. Our clan will prosper as Toranaga vassals. Or as Ishido vassals! Who to choose, eh? And how to do the killing?”

Omi remembered the surge of joy that had possessed him once the decision had been made final.

He felt it now. But none of it showed on his face as cha and wine were offered by carefully selected maids imported from Mishima for Yabu. He watched Yabu and the Anjin-san and Mariko and Igurashi. They were all waiting for Yabu to begin.

The room was large and airy, big enough for thirty officers to dine and wine and talk. There were many other rooms and kitchens for bodyguards and servants, and a skirting garden, and though all were makeshift and temporary, they had been excellently constructed in the time at his disposal and easily defendable. That the cost had come out of Omi’s increased fief bothered him not at all. This had been his duty.

He looked through the open shoji. Many sentries in the forecourt. A stable. The fortress was guarded by a ditch. The stockade was constructed of giant bamboos lashed tightly. Big central pillars supported the tiled roof. Walls were light sliding shoji screens, some shuttered, most of them covered with oiled paper as was usual. Good planks for the flooring were set on pilings raised off beaten earth below and these were covered with tatamis.

At Yabu’s command, Omi had ransacked four villages for materials to construct this and the other house and Igurashi had brought quality tatamis and futons and things unobtainable in the village.

Omi was proud of his work, and the bivouac camp for three thousand samurai had been made ready on the plateau over the hill that guarded the roads that led to the village and to the shore. Now the village was locked tight and safe by land. From the sea there would always be plenty of warning for a liege lord to escape.

But I have no liege lord. Whom shall I serve now? Omi was asking himself. Ikawa Jikkyu? Or Toranaga directly? Would Toranaga give me what I want in return? Or Ishido? Ishido’s so difficult to get to, neh? But much to tell him now. . . .

This afternoon Yabu had summoned Igurashi, Omi, and the four chief captains and had set into motion his clandestine training plan for the five hundred gun-samurai. Igurashi was to be commander, Omi was to lead one of the hundreds. They had arranged how to induct Toranaga’s men into the units when they arrived, and how these outlanders were to be neutralized if they proved treacherous.

Omi had suggested that another highly secret cadre of three more units of one hundred samurai each should be trained surreptitiously on the other side of the peninsula as replacements, as a reserve, and as a precaution against a treacherous move by Toranaga.

“Who’ll command Toranaga’s men? Who’ll he send as second in command?” Igurashi had asked.

“It makes no difference,” Yabu had said. “I’ll appoint his five assistant officers, who’ll be given the responsibility of slitting his throat, should it be necessary. The code for killing him and all the outlanders will be ‘Plum Tree.’ Tomorrow, Igurashi-san, you will choose the men. I will approve each personally and none of them is to know, yet, my overall strategy of the musket regiment.”

Now as Omi was watching Yabu, he savored the newfound ecstasy of vengeance. To kill Yabu would be easy, but the killing must be coordinated. Only then would his father or his elder brother be able to assume control of the clan, and Izu.

Yabu came to the point. “Mariko-san, please tell the Anjin-san, tomorrow I want him to start training my men to shoot like barbarians and I want to learn everything there is to know about the way that barbarians war.”

“But, so sorry, the guns won’t arrive for six days; Yabu-san,” Mariko reminded him.

“I’ve enough among my men to begin with,” Yabu replied. “I want him to start tomorrow.”

Mariko spoke to Blackthorne.

“What does he want to know about war?” he asked.

“He said everything.”

“What particularly?”

Mariko asked Yabu.

“Yabu-san says, have you been part of any battles on land?”

“Yes. In the Netherlands. One in France.”

“Yabu-san says, excellent. He wants to know European strategy. He wants to know how battles are fought in your lands. In detail.”

Blackthorne thought a moment. Then he said, “Tell Yabu-san I can train any number of men for him and I know exactly what he wants to know.” He had learned a great deal about the way the Japanese warred from Friar Domingo. The friar had been an expert and vitally concerned. “After all, señor,” the old man had said, “that knowledge is essential, isn’t it—to know how the heathen war? Every Father must protect his flock. And are not our glorious conquistadores the blessed spearhead of Mother Church? And haven’t I been with them in the front of the fighting in the New World and the Philippines and studied them for more than twenty years? I know war, señor, I know war. It has been my duty—God’s will to know war. Perhaps God has sent you to me to teach you, in case I die. Listen, my flock here in this jail have been my teachers about Japan warfare, señor. So now I know how their armies fight and how to beat them. How they could beat us. Remember, señor, I tell thee a secret on thy soul: Never join Japanese ferocity with modern weapons and modern methods. Or on land they will destroy us.”

Blackthorne committed himself to God. And began. “Tell Lord Yabu I can help him very much. And Lord Toranaga. I can make their armies unbeatable.”

“Lord Yabu says, if your information proves useful, Anjin-san, he will increase your salary from Lord Toranaga’s two hundred and forty koku to five hundred koku after one month.”

“Thank him. But say, if I do all that for him, I request a favor in return: I want him to rescind his decree about the village and I want my ship and crew back in five months.”

Mariko said, “Anjin-san, you cannot bargain with him, like a trader.”

“Please ask him. As a humble favor. From an honored guest and grateful vassal-to-be.”

Yabu frowned and replied at length.

“Yabu-san says that the village is unimportant. The villagers need a fire under their rumps to make them do anything. You are not to concern yourself with them. As to the ship, it’s in Lord Toranaga’s care. He’s sure you’ll get it back soon. He asked me to put your request to Lord Toranaga the moment I arrive in Yedo. I’ll do this, Anjin-san.”

“Please apologize to Lord Yabu, but I must ask him to rescind the decree. Tonight.”

“He’s just said no, Anjin-san. It would not be good manners.”

“Yes, I understand. But please ask him again. It’s very important to me . . . a petition.”

“He says you must be patient. Don’t concern yourself with villagers.” Blackthorne nodded. Then he decided. “Thank you. I understand. Yes. Please thank Yabu-san but tell him I cannot live with this shame.”

Mariko blanched. “What?”

“I cannot live with the shame of having the village on my conscience. I’m dishonored. I cannot endure this. It’s against my Christian belief. I will have to commit suicide at once.”

“Suicide?”

“Yes. That’s what I’ve decided to do.”

Yabu interrupted. “Nan ja, Mariko-san?”

Haltingly she translated what Blackthorne had said. Yabu questioned her and she answered. Then Yabu said, “If it wasn’t for your reaction this would be a joke, Mariko-san. Why are you so concerned? Why do you think he means it?”

“I don’t know, Sire. He seems . . . I don’t know. . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Omi-san?”

“Suicide’s against all Christian beliefs, Sire. They never suicide as we do. As a samurai would.”

“Mariko-san, you’re Christian. Is that true?”

“Yes, Sire. Suicide’s a mortal sin, against the word of God.”

“Igurashi-san? What do you think?”

“It’s a bluff. He’s no Christian. Remember the first day, Sire? Remember what he did to the priest? And what he allowed Omi-san to do to him to save the boy?”

Yabu smiled, recollecting that day and the night that had followed. “Yes. I agree. He’s no Christian, Mariko-san.”

“So sorry, but I don’t understand, Sire. What about the priest?”

Yabu told her what had happened the first day between Blackthorne and the priest.

“He desecrated a cross?” she said, openly shocked.

“And threw the pieces into the dust,” Igurashi added. “It’s all a bluff, Sire. If this thing with the village dishonors him, how can he stay here when Omi-san so dishonored him by pissing on him?”

“What? I’m sorry, Sire,” Mariko said, “but again I don’t understand.”

Yabu said to Omi, “Explain that to her.”

Omi obeyed. She was disgusted by what he told her but kept it off her face.

“Afterwards the Anjin-san was completely cowed, Mariko-san.” Omi finished, “Without weapons he’ll always be cowed.”

Yabu sipped some saké. “Say this to him, Mariko-san: suicide’s not a barbarian custom. It’s against his Christian God. So how can he suicide?”

Mariko translated. Yabu was watching carefully as Blackthorne replied.

“The Anjin-san apologizes with great humility, but he says, custom or not, God or not, this shame of the village is too great to bear. He says that . . . that he’s in Japan, he’s hatamoto and has the right to live according to our laws.” Her hands were trembling. “That’s what he said, Yabu-san. The right to live according to our customs—our law.”

“Barbarians have no rights.”

She said, “Lord Toranaga made him hatamoto. That gives him the right, neh?”

A breeze touched the shojis, rattling them.

“How could he commit suicide? Eh? Ask him.”

Blackthorne took out the short, needle-sharp sword and placed it gently on the tatami, point facing him.

Igurashi said simply, “It’s a bluff! Who ever heard of a barbarian acting like a civilized person?”

Yabu frowned, his heartbeat slowed by the excitement. “He’s a brave man, Igurashi-san. No doubt about that. And strange. But this?” Yabu wanted to see the act, to witness the barbarian’s measure, to see how he went into death, to experience with him the ecstasy of the going. With an effort he stopped the rising tide of his own pleasure. “What’s your counsel, Omi-san?” he asked throatily.

“You said to the village, Sire, ‘If the Anjin-san did not learn satisfactorily.’ I counsel you to make a slight concession. Say to him that whatever he learns within the five months will be ‘satisfactory,’ but he must, in return, swear by his God never to reveal this to the village.”

“But he’s not Christian. How will that oath bind him?”

“I believe he’s a type of Christian, Sire. He’s against the Black Robes and that’s what is important. I believe swearing by his own God will be binding. And he should also swear, in this God’s name, that he’ll apply his mind totally to learning and totally to your service. Because he’s clever he will have learned very much in five months. Thus, your honor is saved, his—if it exists or not—is also saved. You lose nothing, gain everything. Very important, you gain his allegiance of his own free will.”

“You believe he’ll kill himself?”

“Yes.”

“Mariko-san?”

“I don’t know, Yabu-san. I’m sorry, I cannot advise you. A few hours ago I would have said, no, he will not commit suicide. Now I don’t know. He’s . . . since Omi-san came for him tonight, he’s been . . . different.”

“Igurashi-san?”

“If you give in to him now and it’s bluff he’ll use the same trick all the time. He’s cunning as a fox-kami—we’ve all seen how cunning, neh? You’ll have to say ‘no’ one day, Sire. I counsel you to say it now—it’s a bluff.”

Omi leaned forward and shook his head. “Sire, please excuse me, but I must repeat, if you say no you risk a great loss. If it is a bluff—and it may well be—then as a proud man he will become hate-filled at his further humiliation and he won’t help you to the limit of his being, which you need. He’s asked for something as a hatamoto which he’s entitled to, he says he wants to live according to our customs of his own free will. Isn’t that an enormous step forward, Sire? That’s marvelous for you, and for him. I counsel caution. Use him to your advantage.”

“I intend to,” Yabu said thickly.

Igurashi said, “Yes, he’s valuable and yes, I want his knowledge. But he’s got to be controlled—you’ve said that many times, Omi-san. He’s barbarian. That’s all he is. Oh, I know he’s hatamoto today and yes, he can wear the two swords from today. But that doesn’t make him samurai. He’s not samurai and never will be.”

Mariko knew that of all of them she should be able to read the Anjin-san the most clearly. But she could not. One moment she understood him, the next, he was incomprehensible again. One moment she liked him, the next she hated him. Why?

Blackthorne’s haunted eyes looked into the distance. But now there were beads of sweat on his forehead. Is that from fear? thought Yabu. Fear that the bluff will be called? Is he bluffing?

“Mariko-san?”

“Yes, Lord?”

“Tell him . . .” Yabu’s mouth was suddenly dry, his chest aching. “Tell the Anjin-san the sentence stays.”

“Sire, please excuse me, but I urge you to accept Omi-san’s advice.”

Yabu did not look at her, only at Blackthorne. The vein in his forehead pulsed. “The Anjin-san says he’s decided. So be it. Let’s see if he’s barbarian—or hatamoto.”

Mariko’s voice was almost imperceptible. “Anjin-san, Yabu-san says the sentence stays. I’m sorry.”

Blackthorne heard the words but they did not disturb him. He felt stronger and more at peace than he had ever been, with a greater awareness of life than he had ever had.

While he was waiting he had not been listening to them or watching them. The commitment had been made. The rest he had left to God. He had been locked in his own head, hearing the same words over and over, the same that had given him the clue to life here, the words that surely had been sent from God, through Mariko as medium: ‘There is an easy solution—die. To survive here you must live according to our customs. . . .’

“. . . the sentence stays.”

So now I must die.

I should be afraid. But I’m not.

Why?

I don’t know. I know only that once I truly decided that the sole way to live here as a man is to do so according to their customs, to risk death, to die—perhaps to die—that suddenly the fear of death was gone. ‘Life and death are the same . . . Leave karma to karma.’ I am not afraid to die.

Beyond the shoji, a gentle rain had begun to fall. He looked down at the knife.

I’ve had a good life, he thought.

His eyes came back to Yabu. “Wakarimasu,” he said clearly and though he knew his lips had formed the word it was as though someone else had spoken.

No one moved.

He watched his right hand pick up the knife. Then his left also grasped the hilt, the blade steady and pointing at his heart. Now there was only the sound of his life, building and building, soaring louder and louder until he could listen no more. His soul cried out for eternal silence.

The cry triggered his reflexes. His hands drove the knife unerringly toward its target.

Omi had been ready to stop him but he was unprepared for the suddenness and ferocity of Blackthorne’s thrust, and as Omi’s left hand caught the blade and his right the haft, pain bit into him and blood spilled from his left hand. He fought the power of the thrust with all his strength. He was losing. Then Igurashi helped. Together they halted the blow. The knife was taken away. A thin trickle of blood ran from the skin over Blackthorne’s heart where the point of the knife had entered.

Mariko and Yabu had not moved.

Yabu said, “Say to him, say to him whatever he learns is enough, Mariko-san. Order him—no, ask him, ask the Anjin-san to swear as Omi-san said. Everything as Omi-san said.”

Blackthorne came back from death slowly. He stared at them and the knife from an immense distance, without understanding. Then the torrent of his life rushed back but he could not grasp its significance, believing himself dead and not alive.

“Anjin-san? Anjin-san?”

He saw her lips move and heard her words but all his senses were concentrated on the rain and the breeze.

“Yes?” His own voice was still far off but he smelled the rain and heard the droplets and tasted the sea salt upon the air.

I’m alive, he told himself in wonder. I’m alive and that’s real rain outside and the wind’s real and from the north. There’s a real brazier with real coals and if I pick up the cup it will have real liquid in it and it will have taste. I’m not dead. I’m alive!

The others sat in silence, waiting patiently, gentle with him to honor his bravery. No man in Japan had ever seen what they had seen. Each was asking silently, what’s the Anjin-san going to do now? Will he be able to stand by himself and walk away or will his spirit leave him? How would I act if I were he?

Silently a servant brought a bandage and bound Omi’s hand where the blade had cut deeply, staunching the flow of blood. Everything was very still. From time to time Mariko would say his name quietly as they sipped cha or saké, but very sparingly, savoring the waiting, the watching, and the remembering.

For Blackthorne this no life seemed to last forever. Then his eyes saw. His ears heard.

“Anjin-san?”

“Hai?” he answered through the greatest weariness he had ever known.

Mariko repeated what Omi had said as though it came from Yabu. She had to say it several times before she was sure that he understood clearly.

Blackthorne collected the last of his strength, victory sweet to him. “My word is enough, as his is enough. Even so, I’ll swear by God as he wants. Yes. As Yabu-san will swear by his god in equal honor to keep his side of the bargain.”

“Lord Yabu says yes, he swears by the Lord Buddha.”

So Blackthorne swore as Yabu wished him to swear. He accepted some cha. Never had it tasted so good. The cup seemed very heavy and he could not hold it for long.

“The rain is fine, isn’t it?” he said, watching the raindrops breaking and vanishing, astonished by the untoward clarity of his vision.

“Yes,” she told him gently, knowing that his senses were on a plane never to be reached by one who had not gone freely out to meet death, and, through an unknowing karma, miraculously come back again.

“Why not rest now, Anjin-san? Lord Yabu thanks you and says he will talk more with you tomorrow. You should rest now.”

“Yes. Thank you. That would be fine.”

“Do you think you can stand?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Yabu-san asks if you would like a palanquin?”

Blackthorne thought about that. At length he decided that a samurai would walk—would try to walk.

“No, thank you,” he said, as much as he would have liked to lie down, to be carried back, to close his eyes and to sleep instantly. At the same time he knew he would be afraid to sleep yet, in case this was the dream of after-death and the knife not there on the futon but still buried in the real him, and this hell, or the beginning of hell.

Slowly he took up the knife and studied it, glorying in the real feel. Then he put it in its scabbard, everything taking so much time.

“Sorry I’m so slow,” he murmured.

“You mustn’t be sorry, Anjin-san. Tonight you’re reborn. This is another life, a new life,” Mariko said proudly, filled with honor for him. “It’s given to few to return. Do not be sorry. We know it takes great fortitude. Most men do not have enough strength left afterwards even to stand. May I help you?”

“No. No, thank you.”

“It is no dishonor to be helped. I would be honored to be allowed to help you.”

“Thank you. But I—I wish to try. First.”

But he could not stand at once. He had to use his hands to get to his knees and then he had to pause to get more strength. Later he lurched up and almost fell. He swayed but did not fall.

Yabu bowed. And Mariko, Omi, and Igurashi.

Blackthorne walked like a drunk for the first few paces. He clutched a pillar and held on for a moment. Then he began again. He faltered, but he was walking away, alone. As a man. He kept one hand on the long sword in his belt and his head was high.

Yabu exhaled and drank deeply of the saké. When he could speak he said to Mariko, “Please follow him. See that he gets home safely.”

“Yes, Sire.”

When she had gone, Yabu turned on Igurashi. “You-manure-pile-fool!”

Instantly Igurashi bowed his head to the mat in penitence.

“Bluff you said, neh? Your stupidity almost cost me a priceless treasure.”

“Yes, Sire, you’re right, Sire. I beg leave to end my life at once.”

“That would be too good for you! Go and live in the stables until I send for you! Sleep with the stupid horses. You’re a horse-headed fool!”

“Yes, Sire. I apologize, Sire.”

“Get out! Omi-san will command the guns now. Get out!”

The candles flickered and spluttered. One of the maids spilled the tiniest drop of saké on the small lacquered table in front of Yabu and he cursed her eloquently. The others apologized at once. He allowed them to placate him, and accepted more wine. “Bluff? Bluff, he said. Fool! Why do I have fools around me?”

Omi said nothing, screaming with laughter inside.

“But you’re no fool, Omi-san. Your counsel’s valuable. Your fief’s doubled from today. Six thousand koku. For next year. Take thirty ri around Anjiro as your fief.”

Omi bowed to the futon. Yabu deserves to die, he thought scornfully, he’s so easy to manipulate. “I deserve nothing, Sire. I was just doing my duty.”

“Yes. But a liege lord should reward faithfulness and duty.” Yabu was wearing the Yoshitomo sword tonight. It gave him great pleasure to touch it. “Suzu,” he called to one of the maids. “Send Zukimoto here!”

“How soon will war begin?” Omi asked.

“This year. Maybe you have six months, perhaps not. Why?”

“Perhaps the Lady Mariko should stay more than three days. To protect you.”

“Eh? Why?”

“She’s the mouth of the Anjin-san. In half a month—with her—he can train twenty men who can train a hundred who can train the rest. Then whether he lives or dies doesn’t matter.”

“Why should he die?”

“You’re going to call the Anjin-san again, his next challenge or the one after, Sire. The result may be different next time, who knows? You may want him to die.” Both men knew, as Mariko and Igurashi had known, that for Yabu to swear by any god was meaningless and, of course, he had no intention of keeping any promise. “You may want to put pressure on him. Once you have the information, what good is the carcass?”

“None.”

“You need to learn barbarian war strategy but you must do it very quickly. Lord Toranaga may send for him, so you must have the woman as long as you can. Half a month should be enough to squeeze his head dry of what he knows, now that you have his complete attention. You’ll have to experiment, to adapt their methods to our ways. Yes, it would take at least half a month. Neh?”

“And Toranaga-san?”

“He will agree, if it’s put correctly to him, Sire. He must. The guns are his as well as yours. And her continuing presence here is valuable in other ways.”

“Yes,” Yabu said with satisfaction, for the thought of holding her as hostage had also entered his mind on the ship when he had planned to offer Toranaga as a sacrifice to Ishido. “Toda Mariko should be protected, certainly. It would be bad if she fell into evil hands.”

“Yes. And perhaps she could be the means of controlling Hiro-matsu, Buntaro, and all their clan, even Toranaga.”

“You draft the message about her.”

Omi said, offhand, “My mother heard from Yedo today, Sire. She asked me to tell you that the Lady Genjiko has presented Toranaga with his first grandson.”

Yabu was at once attentive. Toranaga’s grandson! Could Toranaga be controlled through this infant? The grandson assures Toranaga’s dynasty, neh? How can I get the infant as hostage? “And Ochiba, the Lady Ochiba?” he asked.

“She’s left Yedo with all her entourage. Three days ago. By now she’s safe in Lord Ishido’s territory.”

Yabu thought about Ochiba and her sister, Genjiko. So different! Ochiba, vital, beautiful, cunning, relentless, the most desirable woman in the Empire and mother of the Heir. Genjiko, her younger sister, quiet, brooding, flat-faced and plain, with a pitilessness that was legend, even now, that had come down to her from their mother, who was one of Goroda’s sisters. The two sisters loved each other, but Ochiba hated Toranaga and his brood, as Genjiko detested the Taikō and Yaemon, his son. Did the Taikō really father Ochiba’s son, Yabu asked himself again, as all daimyos had done secretly for years. What wouldn’t I give to know the answer to that. What wouldn’t I give to possess that woman.

“Now that Lady Ochiba’s no longer hostage in Yedo . . . that could be good and bad,” Yabu said tentatively. “Neh?”

“Good, only good. Now Ishido and Toranaga must begin very soon.” Omi deliberately omitted the “sama” from those two names. “The Lady Mariko should stay, for your protection.”

“See to it. Draft the message to send to Toranaga.”

Suzu, the maid, knocked discreetly and opened the door. Zukimoto came into the room. “Sire?”

“Where are all the gifts I ordered brought from Mishima for Omi-san?”

“They’re all in the storehouse, Lord. Here’s the list. The two horses can be selected from the stables. Do you want me to do that now?”

“No. Omi-san will choose them tomorrow.” Yabu glanced at the carefully written list: “Twenty kimonos (second quality); two swords; one suit of armor (repaired but in good condition); two horses; arms for one hundred samurai—one sword, helmet, breastplate, bow, twenty arrows and spear for each man (best quality). Total value: four hundred and twenty-six koku. Also the rock called ‘The Waiting Stone’—value: priceless.”

“Ah yes,” he said in better humor, remembering that night. “The rock I found in Kyushu. You were going to rename it ‘The Waiting Barbarian,’ weren’t you?”

“Yes, Sire, if it still pleases you,” Omi said. “But would you honor me tomorrow by deciding where it should go in the garden? I don’t think there’s a place good enough.”

“Tomorrow I’ll decide. Yes.” Yabu let his mind rest on the rock, and on those far-off days with his revered master, the Taikō, and last on the Night of the Screams. Melancholy seeped into him. Life is so short and sad and cruel, he thought. He eyed Suzu. The maid smiled back hesitantly, oval-faced, slender, and very delicate like the other two. The three had been brought by palanquin from his household in Mishima. Tonight they were all barefoot, their kimonos the very best silk, their skins very white. Curious that boys can be so graceful, he pondered, in many ways more feminine, more sensuous than girls are. Then he noticed Zukimoto. “What’re you waiting for? Eh? Get out!”

“Yes, Sire. You asked me to remind you about taxes, Sire.” Zukimoto heaved up his sweating bulk and gratefully hurried away.

“Omi-san, you will double all taxes at once,” Yabu said.

“Yes, Sire.”

“Filthy peasants! They don’t work hard enough. They’re lazy—all of them! I keep the roads safe from bandits, the seas safe, give them good government, and what do they do? They spend the days drinking cha and saké and eating rice. It’s time my peasants lived up to their responsibility!”

“Yes, Sire,” Omi said.

Next, Yabu turned to the subject that possessed his mind. “The Anjin-san astonished me tonight. But not you?”

“Oh yes he did, Sire. More than you. But you were wise to make him commit himself.”

“You say Igurashi was right?”

“I merely admired your wisdom, Sire. You would have had to say ‘no’ to him some time. I think you were very wise to say it now, tonight.”

“I thought he’d killed himself. Yes. I’m glad you were ready. I planned on you being ready. The Anjin-san’s an extraordinary man, for a barbarian, neh? A pity he’s barbarian and so naïve.”

“Yes.”

Yabu yawned. He accepted saké from Suzu. “Half a month, you say? Mariko-san should stay at least that, Omi-san. Then I’ll decide about her, and about him. He’ll need to be taught another lesson soon.” He laughed, showing his bad teeth. “If the Anjin-san teaches us, we should teach him, neh? He should be taught how to commit seppuku correctly. That’d be something to watch, neh? See to it! Yes, I agree the barbarian’s days are numbered.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Twelve days later, in the afternoon, the courier from Osaka arrived. An escort of ten samurai rode in with him. Their horses were lathered and near death. The flags at their spearheads carried the cipher of the all-powerful Council of Regents. It was hot, overcast, and humid.

The courier was a lean, hard samurai of senior rank, one of Ishido’s chief lieutenants. His name was Nebara Jozen and he was known for his ruthlessness. His Gray uniform kimono was tattered and mud-stained, his eyes red with fatigue. He refused food or drink and impolitely demanded an immediate audience with Yabu.

“Forgive my appearance, Yabu-san, but my business is urgent,” he said. “Yes, I ask your pardon. My Master says first, why do you train Toranaga’s soldiers along with your own and, second, why do they drill with so many guns?”

Yabu had flushed at the rudeness but he kept his temper, knowing that Jozen would have had specific instructions and that such lack of manners bespoke an untoward position of power. And too, he was greatly unsettled that there had been another leak in his security.

“You’re very welcome, Jozen-san. You may assure your master that I always have his interests at heart,” he said with a courteousness that fooled no one present.

They were on the veranda of the fortress. Omi sat just behind Yabu. Igurashi, who had been forgiven a few days before, was nearer to Jozen and surrounding them were intimate guards. “What else does your master say?”

Jozen replied, “My Master will be glad that your interests are his. Now, about the guns and the training: my Master would like to know why Toranaga’s son, Naga, is second-in-command. Second-in-command of what? What’s so important that a Toranaga son should be here, the Lord General Ishido asks with politeness. That’s of interest to him. Yes. Everything his allies do interests him. Why is it, for instance, the barbarian seems to be in charge of training? Training of what? Yes, Yabu-sama, that’s very interesting also.” Jozen shifted his swords more comfortably, glad that his back was protected by his own men. “Next: The Council of Regents meets again on the first day of the new moon. In twenty days. You are formally invited to Osaka to renew your oath of fidelity.”

Yabu’s stomach twisted. “I understood Toranaga-sama had resigned?”

“He has, Yabu-san, indeed he has. But Lord Ito Teruzumi’s taking his place. My Master will be the new President of the Regents.”

Yabu was panic-stricken. Toranaga had said that the four Regents could never agree on a fifth. Ito Teruzumi was a minor daimyo of Negato Province in western Honshu but his family was ancient, descended from Fujimoto lineage, so he would be acceptable as a Regent, though he was an ineffectual man, effeminate and a puppet. “I would be honored to receive their invitation,” Yabu said defensively, trying to buy time to think.

“My Master thought you might wish to leave at once. Then you would be in Osaka for the formal meeting. He orders me to tell you all the daimyos are getting the same invitation. Now. So all will have an opportunity to be there in good time on the twenty-first day. A Flower-Viewing Ceremony has been authorized by His Imperial Highness, Emperor Go-Nijo, to honor the occasion.” Jozen offered an official scroll.

“This isn’t under the seal of the Council of Regents.”

“My Master has issued the invitation now, knowing that, as a loyal vassal of the late Taikō, as a loyal vassal of Yaemon, his son and heir and the rightful ruler of the Empire when he becomes of age, you will understand that the new Council will, of course, approve his action. Neh?”

“It would certainly be a privilege to witness the formal meeting.” Yabu struggled to control his face.

“Good,” Jozen said. He pulled out another scroll, opened it, and held it up. “This is a copy of Lord Ito’s letter of appointment, accepted and signed and authorized by the other Regents, Lords Ishido, Kiyama, Onoshi, and the Lord Sugiyama.” Jozen did not bother to conceal a triumphant look, knowing that this totally closed the trap on Toranaga and any of his allies, and that equally the scroll made him and his men invulnerable.

Yabu took the scroll. His fingers trembled. There was no doubt of its authenticity. It had been countersigned by the Lady Yodoko, the wife of the Taikō, who affirmed that the document was true and signed in her presence, one of six copies that were being sent throughout the Empire, and that this particular copy was for the Lords of Iwari, Mikawa, Totomi, Sugura, Izu, and the Kwanto. It was dated eleven days ago.

“The Lords of Iwari, Mikawa, Suruga and Totomi have already accepted. Here are their seals. You’re the last but one on my list. Last is the Lord Toranaga.”

“Please thank your master and tell him I look forward to greeting him and congratulating him,” Yabu said.

“Good. I’ll require it in writing. Now would be satisfactory.”

“This evening, Jozen-san. After the evening meal.”

“Very well. And now we can go and see the training.”

“There is none today. All my men are on forced marches,” Yabu said. The moment Jozen and his men had entered Izu, word had been rushed to Yabu, who had at once ordered his men to cease all firing and to continue only silent weapon training well away from Anjiro. “Tomorrow you can come with me—at noon, if you wish.”

Jozen looked at the sky. It was late afternoon now. “Good. I could use a little sleep. But I’ll come back at dusk, with your permission. Then you and your commander, Omi-san, and the second commander, Naga-san, will tell me, for my Master’s interest, about the training, the guns, and everything. And about the barbarian.”

“He’s—yes. Of course.” Yabu motioned to Igurashi. “Arrange quarters for our honored guest and his men.”

“Thank you, but that’s not necessary,” Jozen said at once. “The ground’s futon enough for a samurai, my saddle’s pillow enough. Just a bath, if you please . . . this humidity, neh? I’ll camp on the crest—of course, with your permission.”

“As you wish.”

Jozen bowed stiffly and walked away, surrounded by his men. All were heavily armed. Two bowmen had been left holding their horses.

Once they were well away, Yabu’s face contorted with rage. “Who betrayed me? Who? Where’s the spy?”

Equally ashen, Igurashi waved the guards out of earshot. “Yedo, Sire,” he said. “Must be. Security’s perfect here.”

“Oh ko!” Yabu said, almost rending his clothes. “I’m betrayed. We’re isolated. Izu and the Kwanto are isolated. Ishido’s won. He’s won.”

Omi said quickly, “Not for twenty days, Sire. Send a message at once to Lord Toranaga. Inform him that—”

“Fool!” Yabu hissed. “Of course Toranaga already knows. Where I’ve one spy he has fifty. He’s left me in the trap.”

“I don’t think so, Sire,” Omi said, unafraid. “Iwari, Mikawa, Totomi, and Sugura are all hostile to him, neh? And to anyone who’s allied to him. They’d never warn him, so perhaps he doesn’t know yet. Inform him and suggest—”

“Didn’t you hear?” Yabu shouted. “All four Regents agree to Ito’s appointment, so the Council’s legal again and the Council meets in twenty days!”

“The answer to that is simple, Sire. Suggest to Toranaga that he have Ito Teruzumi or one of the other Regents assassinated at once.”

Yabu’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

“If you don’t wish to do that, send me, let me try. Or Igurashi-san. With Lord Ito dead, Ishido’s helpless again.”

“I don’t know whether you’ve gone mad, or what,” Yabu said helplessly. “Do you understand what you’ve just said?”

“Sire, I beg you, please, to be patient with me. The Anjin-san’s given you priceless knowledge, neh? More than we ever dreamed possible. Now Toranaga knows this also, through your reports, and probably from Naga-san’s private reports. If we can win enough time, our five hundred guns and the other three hundred will give you absolute battle power, but only once. When the enemy, whoever he is, sees the way you use men and firepower they’ll learn quickly. But they’ll have lost that first battle. One battle—if it’s the right battle—will give Toranaga total victory.”

“Ishido doesn’t need any battle. In twenty days he has the Emperor’s mandate.”

“Ishido’s a peasant. He’s the son of a peasant, a liar, and he runs away from his comrades in battle.”

Yabu stared at Omi, his face mottled. “You—do you know what you’re saying?”

“That’s what he did in Korea. I was there. I saw it, my father saw it. Ishido did leave Buntaro-san and us to fight our own way out. He’s just a treacherous peasant—the Taikō’s dog, certainly. You can’t trust peasants. But Toranaga’s Minowara. You can trust him. I advise you to consider only Toranaga’s interests.”

Yabu shook his head in disbelief. “Are you deaf? Didn’t you hear Nebara Jozen? Ishido’s won. The Council is in power in twenty days.”

“May be in power.”

“Even if Ito . . . How could you? It’s not possible.”

“Certainly I could try but I could never do it in time. None of us could, not in twenty days. But Toranaga could.” Omi knew he had put himself into the jaws of the dragon. “I beg you to consider it.”

Yabu wiped his face with his hands, his body wet. “After this summons, if the Council is convened and I’m not present, I and all my clan are dead, you included. I need two months, at least, to train the regiment. Even if we had them trained now, Toranaga and I could never win against all the others. No, you’re wrong, I have to support Ishido.”

Omi said, “You don’t have to leave for Osaka for ten days—fourteen, if you go by forced march. Tell Toranaga about Nebara Jozen at once. You’ll save Izu and the Kasigi house. I beg you. Ishido will betray you and eat you up. Ikawa Jikkyu is his kinsman, neh?”

“But what about Jozen?” Igurashi exclaimed. “Eh? And the guns? The grand strategy? He wants to know about everything tonight.”

“Tell him. In detail. What is he but a lackey,” Omi said, beginning to maneuver them. He knew he was risking everything, but he had to try to protect Yabu from siding with Ishido and ruining any chance they had. “Open your plans to him.”

Igurashi disagreed heatedly. “The moment Jozen learns what we’re doing, he’ll send a message back to Lord Ishido. It’s too important not to. Ishido’ll steal the plans, then we’re finished.”

“We trail the messenger and kill him at our convenience.”

Yabu flushed. “That scroll was signed by the highest authority in the land! They all travel under the Regents’ protection! You must be mad to suggest such a thing! That would make me an outlaw!”

Omi shook his head, keeping confidence on his face. “I believe Yodoko-sama and the others have been duped, as His Imperial Highness has been duped, by the traitor Ishido. We must protect the guns, Sire. We must stop any messenger—”

“Silence! Your advice is madness!”

Omi bowed under the tongue-lash. But he looked up and said calmly, “Then please allow me to commit seppuku, Sire. But first, please allow me to finish. I would fail in my duty if I didn’t try to protect you. I beg this last favor as a faithful vassal.”

“Finish!”

“There’s no Council of Regents now, so there is no legal protection now for that insulting, foul-mannered Jozen and his men, unless you honor an illegal document through—” Omi was going to say “weakness” but he changed the word and kept his voice quietly authoritative—“through being duped like the others, Sire. There is no Council. They cannot ‘order’ you to do anything, or anyone. Once it’s convened, yes, they can, and then you will have to obey. But now, how many daimyos will obey before legal orders can be issued? Only Ishido’s allies, neh? Aren’t Iwari, Mikawa, Totomi, and Sugura all ruled by his kinsmen and allied to him openly? That document absolutely means war, yes, but I beg you to wage it on your terms and not Ishido’s. Treat this threat with the contempt it deserves! Toranaga’s never been beaten in battle. Ishido has. Toranaga avoided being part of the Taikō’s ruinous attack on Korea. Ishido didn’t. Toranaga’s in favor of ships and trade. Ishido isn’t. Toranaga will want the barbarian’s navy—didn’t you advocate it to him? Ishido won’t. Ishido will close the Empire. Toranaga will keep it open. Ishido will give Ikawa Jikkyu your hereditary fief of Izu if he wins. Toranaga will give you all Jikkyu’s province. You’re Toranaga’s chief ally. Didn’t he give you his sword? Hasn’t he given you control of the guns? Don’t the guns guarantee one victory, with surprise? What does the peasant Ishido give in return? He sends a ronin-samurai with no manners, with deliberate orders to shame you in your own province! I say Toranaga Minowara is your only choice. You must go with him.” He bowed and waited in silence.

Yabu glanced at Igurashi. “Well?”

“I agree with Omi-san, Sire.” Igurashi’s face mirrored his worry. “As to killing a messenger—that would be dangerous, no turning back then, Sire. Jozen will certainly send one or two tomorrow. Perhaps they could vanish, killed by bandits—” He stopped in mid-sentence. “Carrier pigeons! There were two panniers of them on Jozen’s pack horses!”

“We’ll have to poison them tonight,” Omi said.

“How? They’ll be guarded.”

“I don’t know. But they’ve got to be removed or maimed before dawn.”

Yabu said, “Igurashi, send men to watch Jozen at once. See if he sends one of his pigeons now—today.”

“I suggest you send all our falcons and falconers to the east, also at once,” Omi added quickly.

Igurashi said, “He’ll suspect treachery if he sees his bird downed, or his birds tampered with.”

Omi shrugged. “It must be stopped.”

Igurashi looked at Yabu.

Yabu nodded resignedly. “Do it.”

When Igurashi came back he said, “Omi-san, one thing occurred to me. A lot of what you said was right, about Jikkyu and Lord Ishido. But if you advise making the messengers ‘vanish,’ why toy with Jozen at all? Why tell him anything? Why not just kill them all at once?”

“Why not indeed? Unless it might amuse Yabu-sama. I agree your plan’s better, Igurashi-san,” Omi said.

Both men were looking at Yabu now. “How can I keep the guns secret?” he asked them.

“Kill Jozen and his men,” Omi replied.

“No other way?”

Omi shook his head. Igurashi shook his head.

“Maybe I could barter with Ishido,” Yabu said, shaken, trying to think of a way out of the trap. “You’re correct about the time. I’ve ten days, fourteen at the most. How to deal with Jozen and still leave time to maneuver?”

“It would be wise to pretend that you’re going to Osaka,” Omi said. “But there’s no harm in informing Toranaga at once, neh? One of our pigeons could get to Yedo before dusk. Perhaps. No harm in that.”

Igurashi said, “You could tell Lord Toranaga about Jozen arriving, and about the Council meeting in twenty days, yes. But the other, about assassinating Lord Ito, that’s too dangerous to put in writing even if . . . Much too dangerous, neh?”

“I agree. Nothing about Ito. Toranaga should think of that himself. It’s obvious, neh?”

“Yes, Sire. Unthinkable but obvious.”

Omi waited in the silence, his mind frantically seeking a solution. Yabu’s eyes were on him but he was not afraid. His advice had been sound and offered only for the protection of the clan and the family and Yabu, the present leader of the clan. That Omi had decided to remove Yabu and change the leadership had not prevented him from counseling Yabu sagaciously. And he was prepared to die now. If Yabu was so stupid as not to accept the obvious truth of his ideas, then there soon would be no clan to lead anyway. Karma.

Yabu leaned forward, still undecided. “Is there any way to remove Jozen and his men without danger to me, and stay uncommitted for ten days?”

“Naga. Somehow bait a trap with Naga,” Omi said simply.

At dusk, Blackthorne and Mariko rode up to the gate of his house, outriders following. Both were tired. She rode as a man would ride, wearing loose trousers and over them a belted mantle. She had on a wide-brimmed hat and gloves to protect her from the sun. Even peasant women tried to protect their faces and their hands from the rays of the sun. From time immemorial, the darker the skin the more common the person; the whiter, the more prized.

Male servants took the halters and led the horses away. Blackthorne dismissed his outriders in tolerable Japanese and greeted Fujiko, who waited proudly on the veranda as usual.

“May I serve you cha, Anjin-san,” she said ceremoniously, as usual, and “No,” he said as usual. “First I will bathe. Then saké and some food.” And, as usual, he returned her bow and went through the corridor to the back of the house, out into the garden, along the circling path to the mud-wattled bath house. A servant took his clothes and he went in and sat down naked. Another servant scrubbed him and soaped him and shampooed him and poured water over him to wash away the lather and the dirt. Then, completely clean, gradually—because the water was so hot—he stepped into the huge iron-sided bath and lay down.

“Christ Jesus, that’s grand,” he exulted, and let the heat seep into his muscles, his eyes closed, the sweat running down his forehead.

He heard the door open and Suwo’s voice and “Good evening, Master,” followed by many words of Japanese which he did not understand. But tonight he was too tired to try to converse with Suwo. And the bath, as Mariko had explained many times, ‘is not merely for cleaning the skin. The bath is a gift to us from God or the gods, a god-bequeathed pleasure to be enjoyed and treated as such.’

“No talk, Suwo,” he said. “Tonight wish think.”

“Yes, Master. Your pardon, but you should say, ‘Tonight I wish to think.’ ”

“Tonight I wish to think.” Blackthorne repeated the correct Japanese, trying to get the almost incomprehensible sounds into his head, glad to be corrected but very weary of it.

“Where’s the dictionary-grammar book?” he had asked Mariko first thing this morning. “Has Yabu-sama sent another request for it?”

“Yes. Please be patient, Anjin-san. It will arrive soon.”

“It was promised with the galley and the troops. It didn’t arrive. Troops and guns but no books. I’m lucky you’re here. It’d be impossible without you.”

“Difficult, but not impossible, Anjin-san.”

“How do I say, ‘No, you’re doing it wrong! You must all run as a team, stop as a team, aim and fire as a team’?”

“To whom are you talking, Anjin-san?” she had asked.

And then again he had felt his frustration rising. “It’s all very difficult, Mariko-san.”

“Oh, no, Anjin-san. Japanese is very simple to speak compared with other languages. There are no articles, no ‘the,’ ‘a,’ or ‘an.’ No verb conjugations or infinitives. All verbs are regular, ending in masu, and you can say almost everything by using the present tense only, if you want. For a question just add ka after the verb. For a negative just change masu to masen. What could be easier? Yukimasu means I go, but equally you, he, she, it, we, they go, or will go, or even could have gone. Even plural and singular nouns are the same. Tsuma means wife, or wives. Very simple.”

“Well, how do you tell the difference between I go, yukimasu, and they went, yukimasu?”

“By inflection, Anjin-san, and tone. Listen: yukimasu—yukimasu.”

“But these both sounded exactly the same.”

“Ah, Anjin-san, that’s because you’re thinking in your own language. To understand Japanese you have to think Japanese. Don’t forget our language is the language of the infinite. It’s all so simple, Anjin-san. Just change your concept of the world. Japanese is just learning a new art, detached from the world. . . . It’s all so simple.”

“It’s all shit,” he had muttered in English, and felt better.

“What? What did you say?”

“Nothing. But what you say doesn’t make sense.”

“Learn the written characters,” Mariko had said.

“I can’t. It’ll take too long. They’re meaningless.”

“Look, they’re really simple pictures, Anjin-san. The Chinese are very clever. We borrowed their writing a thousand years ago. Look, take this character, or symbol, for a pig.”

“It doesn’t look like a pig.”

“Once it did, Anjin-san. Let me show you. Here. Add a ‘roof’ symbol over a ‘pig’ symbol and what do you have?”

“A pig and a roof.”

“But what does that mean? The new character?”

“I don’t know.”

“ ‘Home.’ In the olden days the Chinese thought a pig under a roof was home. They’re not Buddhists, they’re meat eaters, so a pig to them, to peasants, represented wealth, hence a good home. Hence the character.”

“But how do you say it?”

“That depends if you’re Chinese or Japanese.”

“Oh ko!”

“Oh ko, indeed,” she had laughed. “Here’s another character. A ‘roof’ symbol and a ‘pig’ symbol and a ‘woman’ symbol. A ‘roof’ with two ‘pigs’ under it means ‘contentment.’ A ‘roof’ with two ‘women’ under it equals ‘discord.’ Neh?”

“Absolutely!”

“Of course, the Chinese are very stupid in many things and their women are not trained as women are here. There’s no discord in your home, is there?”

Blackthorne thought about that now, on the twelfth day of his rebirth. No. There was no discord. But neither was it a home. Fujiko was only like a trustworthy housekeeper and tonight when he went to his bed to sleep, the futons would be turned back and she would be kneeling beside them patiently, expressionlessly. She would be dressed in her sleeping kimono, which was similar to a day kimono but softer and with only a loose sash instead of a stiff obi at the waist.

“Thank you, Lady,” he would say. “Good night.”

She would bow and go silently to the room across the corridor, next to the one Mariko slept in. Then he would get under the fine silk mosquito net. He had never known such nets before. Then he would lie back happily, and in the night, hearing the few insects buzzing outside, he would dwell on the Black Ship, how important the Black Ship was to Japan.

Without the Portuguese, no trade with China. And no silks for clothes or for nets. Even now, with the humidity only just beginning, he knew their value.

If he stirred in the night a maid would open the door almost instantly to ask if there was anything he wanted. Once he had not understood. He motioned the maid away and went to the garden and sat on the steps, looking at the moon. Within a few minutes Fujiko, tousled and bleary, came and sat silently behind him.

“Can I get you anything, Lord?”

“No, thank you. Please go to bed.”

She had said something he did not understand. Again he had motioned her away so she spoke sharply to the maid, who attended her like a shadow. Soon Mariko came.

“Are you all right, Anjin-san?”

“Yes. I don’t know why you were disturbed. Christ Jesus—I’m just looking at the moon. I couldn’t sleep. I just wanted some air.”

Fujiko spoke to her haltingly, ill at ease, hurt by the irritation in his voice. “She says you told her to go back to sleep. She just wanted you to know that it’s not our custom for a wife or consort to sleep while her master’s awake, that’s all, Anjin-san.”

“Then she’ll have to change her custom. I’m often up at night. By myself. It’s a habit from being at sea—I sleep very lightly ashore.”

“Yes, Anjin-san.”

Mariko had explained and the two women had gone away. But Blackthorne knew that Fujiko had not gone back to sleep and would not, until he slept. She was always up and waiting whatever time he came back to the house. Some nights he walked the shore alone. Even though he insisted on being alone, he knew that he was followed and watched. Not because they were afraid he was trying to escape. Only because it was their custom for important people always to be attended. In Anjiro he was important.

In time he accepted her presence. It was as Mariko had first said, ‘Think of her as a rock or a shoji or a wall. It is her duty to serve you.’

It was different with Mariko.

He was glad that she had stayed. Without her presence he could never have begun the training, let alone explained the intricacies of strategy. He blessed her and Father Domingo and Alban Caradoc and his other teachers.

I never thought the battles would ever be put to good use, he thought again. Once when his ship was carrying a cargo of English wools to Antwerp, a Spanish army had swooped down upon the city and every man had gone to the barricades and to the dikes. The sneak attack had been beaten off and the Spanish infantry outgunned and outmaneuvered. That was the first time he had seen William, Duke of Orange, using regiments like chess pieces. Advancing, retreating in pretended panic to regroup again, charging back again, guns blazing in packed, gut-hurting, ear-pounding salvos, breaking through the Invincibles to leave them dying and screaming, the stench of blood and powder and urine and horses and dung filling you, and a wild frantic joy of killing possessing you and the strength of twenty in your arms.

“Christ Jesus, it’s grand to be victorious,” he said aloud in the tub.

“Master?” Suwo said.

“Nothing,” he replied in Japanese. “I talking—I was just think—just thinking aloud.”

“I understand, Master. Yes. Your pardon.”

Blackthorne let himself drift away.

Mariko. Yes, she’s been invaluable.

After that first night of his almost suicide, nothing had ever been said again. What was there to say?

I’m glad there’s so much to do, he thought. No time to think except here in the bath for these few minutes. Never enough time to do everything. Ordered to concentrate on training and teaching and not on learning, but wanting to learn, trying to learn, needing to learn to fulfill the promise to Yabu. Never enough hours. Always exhausted and drained by bedtime, sleeping instantly, to be up at dawn and riding fast to the plateau. Training all morning, then a sparse meal, never satisfying and never meat. Then every afternoon until nightfall—sometimes till very late at night—with Yabu and Omi and Igurashi and Naga and Zukimoto and a few of the other officers, talking about war, answering questions about war. How to wage war. How barbarians war and how Japanese war. On land and at sea. Scribes always taking notes. Many, many notes.

Sometimes with Yabu alone.

But always Mariko there—part of him—talking for him. And for Yabu. Mariko different now toward him, he no longer a stranger.

Other days the scribes reading back the notes, always checking, being meticulous, revising and checking again until now, after twelve days and a hundred hours or so of detailed exhaustive explanation, a war manual was forming. Exact. And lethal.

Lethal to whom? Not to us English or Hollanders, who will come here peacefully and only as traders. Lethal to Yabu’s enemies and to Toranaga’s enemies, and to our Portuguese and Spanish enemies when they try to conquer Japan. Like they’ve done everywhere else. In every newly discovered territory. First the priests arrive. Then the conquistadores.

But not here, he thought with great contentment. Never here—now. The manual’s lethal and proof against that. No conquest here, given a few years for the knowledge to spread.

“Anjin-san?”

“Hai, Mariko-san?”

She was bowing to him. “Yabu-ko wa kiden no goshusseki o konya wa hitsuyo to senu to oserareru, Anjin-san.”

The words formed slowly in his head: “Lord Yabu does not require to see you tonight.”

“Ichi-ban,” he said blissfully. “Domo.”

“Gomen nasai, Anjin-san. Anatawa—”

“Yes, Mariko-san,” he interrupted her, the heat of the water sapping his energy. “I know I should have said it differently but I don’t want to speak any more Japanese now. Not tonight. Now I feel like a schoolboy who’s been let out of school for the Christmas holiday. Do you realize these’ll be the first free hours I’ve had since I arrived?”

“Yes, yes I do.” She smiled wryly. “And do you realize, Senhor Captain-Pilot B’rack’fon, these will be the first free hours I’ve had since I arrived?”

He laughed. She was wearing a thick cotton bathing robe tied loosely, and a towel around her head to protect her hair. Every evening as soon as his massage began, she would take the bath, sometimes alone, sometimes with Fujiko.

“Here, you have it now,” he said, beginning to get out.

“Oh, please, no, I don’t wish to disturb you.”

“Then share it. It’s wonderful.”

“Thank you. I can hardly wait to soak the sweat and dust away.” She took off her robe and sat on the tiny seat. A servant began to lather her, Suwo waiting patiently near the massage table.

“It is rather like a school holiday,” she said, as happily.

The first time Blackthorne had seen her naked on the day that they swam he had been greatly affected. Now her nakedness, of itself, did not touch him physically. Living closely in Japanese style in a Japanese house where the walls were paper and the rooms multipurpose, he had seen her unclothed and partially clothed many times. He had even seen her relieving herself.

“What’s more normal, Anjin-san? Bodies are normal, and differences between men and women are normal, neh?”

“Yes, but it’s, er, just that we’re trained differently.”

“But now you’re here and our customs are your customs and normal is normal. Neh?”

Normal was urinating or defecating in the open if there were no latrines or buckets, just lifting your kimono or parting it and squatting or standing, everyone else politely waiting and not watching, rarely screens for privacy. Why should one require privacy? And soon one of the peasants would gather the feces and mix it with water to fertilize crops. Human manure and urine were the only substantial source of fertilizer in the Empire. There were few horses and bullocks, and no other animal sources at all. So every human particle was harbored and sold to the farmers throughout the land.

And after you’ve seen the highborn and the lowborn parting or lifting and standing or squatting, there’s not much left to be embarassed about.

“Is there, Anjin-san?”

“No.”

“Good,” she had said, very satisfied. “Soon you will like raw fish and fresh seaweed and then you’ll really be hatamoto.”

The maid poured water over her. Then, cleansed, Mariko stepped into the bath and lay down opposite him with a long-drawn sigh of ecstasy, the little crucifix dangling between her breasts.

“How do you do that?” he said.

“What?”

“Get in so quickly. It’s so hot.”

“I don’t know, Anjin-san, but I asked them to put more firewood on and to heat up the water. For you, Fujiko always makes sure it’s—we would call it tepid.”

“If this is tepid, then I’m a Dutchman’s uncle!”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

The water’s heat made them drowsy and they lolled a while, not saying a word.

Later she said, “What would you like to do this evening, Anjin-san?”

“If we were up in London we’d—” Blackthorne stopped. I won’t think about them, he told himself. Or London. That’s gone. That doesn’t exist. Only here exists.

“If?” She was watching him, aware of the change.

“We’d go to a theater and see a play,” he said, dominating himself. “Do you have plays here?”

“Oh, yes, Anjin-san. Plays are very popular with us. The Taikō liked to perform in them for the entertainment of his guests, even Lord Toranaga likes to. And of course there are many touring companies for the common people. But our plays are not quite like yours, so I believe. Here our actors and actresses wear masks. We call the plays ‘Nōh.’ They’re part music, partially danced and mostly very sad, very tragic, historical plays. Some are comedies. Would we see a comedy, or perhaps a religious play?”

“No, we’d go to the Globe Theater and see something by a playwright called Shakespeare. I like him better than Ben Jonson or Marlowe. Perhaps we’d see The Taming of the Shrew or A Midsummer Night’s Dream or Romeo and Juliet. I took my wife to Romeo and Juliet and she liked it very much.” He explained the plots to her.

Mostly Mariko found them incomprehensible. “It would be unthinkable here for a girl to disobey her father like that. But so sad, neh? Sad for a young girl and sad for the boy. She was only thirteen? Do all your ladies marry so young?”

“No. Fifteen or sixteen’s usual. My wife was seventeen when we were married. How old were you?”

“Just fifteen, Anjin-san.” A shadow crossed her brow which he did not notice. “And after the play, what would we do?”

“I would take you to eat. We’d go to Stone’s Chop House in Fetter Lane, or the Cheshire Cheese in Fleet Street. They are inns where the food’s special.”

“What would you eat?”

“I’d rather not remember,” he said with a lazy smile, turning his mind back to the present. “I can’t remember. Here is where we are and here is where we’ll eat, and I enjoy raw fish and karma is karma.” He sank deeper into the tub. “A great word ‘karma.’ And a great idea. Your help’s been enormous to me, Mariko-san.”

“It’s my pleasure to be of a little service to you.” Mariko relaxed into the warmth. “Fujiko has some special food for you tonight.”

“Oh?”

“She bought a—I think you call it a pheasant. It’s a large bird. One of the falconers caught it for her.”

“A pheasant? You really mean it? Honto?”

“Honto,” she replied. “Fujiko asked them to hunt for you. She asked me to tell you.”

“How is it being cooked?”

“One of the soldiers had seen the Portuguese preparing them and he told Fujiko-san. She asks you to be patient if it’s not cooked properly.”

“But how is she doing it—how’re the cooks doing it?” He corrected himself, for servants alone did the cooking and cleaning.

“She was told that first someone pulls out all the feathers, then—then takes out the entrails.” Mariko controlled her squeamishness. “Then the bird’s either cut into small pieces and fried with oil, or boiled with salt and spices.” Her nose wrinkled. “Sometimes they cover it with mud and put it into the coals of a fire and bake it. We have no ovens, Anjin-san. So it will be fried. I hope that’s all right.”

“I’m sure it’ll be perfect,” he said, certain it would be inedible.

She laughed. “You’re so transparent, Anjin-san, sometimes.”

“You don’t understand how important food is!” In spite of himself he smiled. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be interested in food. But I can’t control hunger.”

“You’ll soon be able to do that. You’ll even learn how to drink cha from an empty cup.”

“What?”

“This is not the place to explain that, Anjin-san, or the time. For that you must be very awake and very alert. A quiet sunset, or dawning, is necessary. I will show you how, one day, because of what you did. Oh, it is so good to lie here, isn’t it? A bath is truly the gift of God.”

He heard the servants outside the wall, stoking the fire. He bore the intensifying heat as long as he could, then emerged from the water, half helped by Suwo, and lay back gasping on the thick towel cloth. The old man’s fingers probed. Blackthorne could have cried out with pleasure. “That’s so good.”

“You’ve changed so much in the last few days, Anjin-san.”

“Have I?”

“Oh yes, since your rebirth—yes, very much.”

He tried to recall the first night but could remember little. Somehow he had made it back on his own legs. Fujiko and the servants had helped him to bed. After a dreamless sleep, he woke at dawn and went for a swim. Then, drying in the sun, he had thanked God for the strength and the clue that Mariko had given him. Later, walking home, he greeted the villagers, knowing secretly that they were freed of Yabu’s curse, as he was freed.

Then, when Mariko had arrived, he had sent for Mura.

“Mariko-san, please tell Mura this: ‘We have a problem, you and I. We will solve it together. I want to join the village school. To learn to speak with children.’ ”

“They haven’t a school, Anjin-san.”

“None?”

“No. Mura says there’s a monastery a few ri to the west and the monks could teach you reading and writing if you wish. But this is a village, Anjin-san. The children here need to learn the ways of fish, the sea, making nets, planting and growing rice and crops. There’s little time for anything else, except reading and writing. And, too, parents and grandparents teach their own, as always.”

“Then how can I learn when you’ve gone?”

“Lord Toranaga will send the books.”

“I’ll need more than books.”

“Everything will be satisfactory, Anjin-san.”

“Yes. Perhaps. But tell the headman that whenever I make a mistake, everyone—everyone, even a child—is to correct me. At once. I order it.”

“He says thank you, Anjin-san.”

“Does anyone here speak Portuguese?”

“He says no.”

“Anyone nearby?”

“Iyé, Anjin-san.”

“Mariko-san, I’ve got to have someone when you leave.”

“I’ll tell Yabu-san what you’ve said.”

“Mura-san, you—”

“He says you must not use ‘san’ to him or to any villagers. They are beneath you. It’s not correct for you to say ‘san’ to them or anyone beneath you.”

Fujiko had also bowed to the ground that first day. “Fujiko-san welcomes you home, Anjin-san. She says you have done her great honor and she begs your forgiveness for being rude on the ship. She is honored to be consort and head of your house. She asks if you will keep the swords as it would please her greatly. They belonged to her father, who is dead. She had not given them to her husband because he had swords of his own.”

“Thank her and say I’m honored she’s consort,” he had said.

Mariko had bowed too. Formally. “You are in a new life now, Anjin-san. We look at you with new eyes. It is our custom to be formal sometimes, with great seriousness. You have opened my eyes. Very much. Once you were just a barbarian to me. Please excuse my stupidity. What you did proves you’re samurai. Now you are samurai. Please forgive my previous bad manners.”

He had felt very tall that day. But his self-inflicted near-death had changed him more than he realized and scarred him forever, more than the sum of all his other near-deaths.

Did you rely on Omi? he asked himself. That Omi would catch the blow? Didn’t you give him plenty of warning?

I don’t know. I only know I’m glad he was ready, Blackthorne answered himself truthfully. That’s another life gone!

“That’s my ninth life. The last!” he said aloud. Suwo’s fingers ceased at once.

“What?” Mariko asked. “What did you say, Anjin-san?”

“Nothing. It was nothing,” he replied, ill at ease.

“I hurt you, Master?” Suwo said.

“No.”

Suwo said something more that he did not understand.

“Dozo?”

Mariko said distantly, “He wants to massage your back now.”

Blackthorne turned on his stomach and repeated the Japanese and forgot it at once. He could see her through the steam. She was breathing deeply, her head tilted back slightly, her skin pink.

How does she stand the heat, he asked himself. Training, I suppose, from childhood.

Suwo’s fingers pleasured him, and he drowsed momentarily.

What was I thinking about?

You were thinking about your ninth life, your last life, and you were frightened, remembering the superstition. But it is foolish here in this Land of the Gods to be superstitious. Things are different here and this is forever. Today is forever.

Tomorrow many things can happen.

Today I’ll abide by their rules.

I will.

The maid brought in the covered dish. She held it high above her head as was custom, so that her breath would not defile the food. Anxiously she knelt and placed it carefully on the tray table in front of Blackthorne. On each little table were bowls and chopsticks, saké cups and napkins, and a tiny flower arrangement. Fujiko and Mariko were sitting opposite him. They wore flowers and silver combs in their hair. Fujiko’s kimono was a pale green pattern of fish on a white background, her obi gold. Mariko wore black and red with a thin silver overlay of chrysanthemums and a red and silver check obi. Both wore perfume, as always. Incense burned to keep the night bugs away.

Blackthorne had long since composed himself. He knew that any displeasure from him would destroy their evening. If pheasants could be caught there would be other game, he thought. He had a horse and guns and he could hunt himself, if only he could get the time.

Fujiko leaned over and took the lid off the dish. The small pieces of fried meat were browned and seemed perfect. He began to salivate at the aroma.

Slowly he took a piece of meat in his chopsticks, willing it not to fall, and chewed the flesh. It was tough and dry, but he had been meatless for so long it was delicious. Another piece. He sighed with pleasure. “Ichi-ban, ichi-ban, by God!”

Fujiko blushed and poured him saké to hide her face. Mariko fanned herself, the crimson fan a dragonfly. Blackthorne quaffed the wine and ate another piece and poured more wine and ritualistically offered his brimming cup to Fujiko. She refused, as was custom, but tonight he insisted, so she drained the cup, choking slightly. Mariko also refused and was also made to drink. Then he attacked the pheasant with as little gusto as he could manage. The women hardly touched their small portions of vegetables and fish. This didn’t bother him because it was a female custom to eat before or afterward so that all their attention could be devoted to the master.

He ate all the pheasant and three bowls of rice and slurped his saké, which was also good manners. He felt replete for the first time in months. During the meal he had finished six flasks of the hot wine, Mariko and Fujiko two between them. Now they were flushed and giggling and at the silly stage.

Mariko chuckled and put her hand in front of her mouth. “I wish I could drink saké like you, Anjin-san. You drink saké better than any man I’ve ever known. I wager you’d be the best in Izu! I could win a lot of money on you!”

“I thought samurai disapproved of gambling.”

“Oh they do, absolutely they do, they’re not merchants and peasants. But not all samurai are as strong as others and many—how do you say—many’ll bet like the Southern Bar—like the Portuguese bet.”

“Do women bet?”

“Oh, yes. Very much. But only with other ladies and in careful amounts and always so their husbands never find out!” She gaily translated for Fujiko, who was more flushed than she.

“Your consort asks do Englishmen bet? Do you like to wager?”

“It’s our national pastime.” And he told them about horse racing and skittles and bull baiting and coursing and whippets and hawking and bowls and the new stock companies and letters of marque and shooting and darts and lotteries and boxing and cards and wrestling and dice and checkers and dominoes and the time at the fairs when you put farthings on numbers and bet against the wheels of chance.

“But how do you find time to live, to war, and to pillow, Fujiko asks?”

“There’s always time for those.” Their eyes met for a moment but he could not read anything in hers, only happiness and maybe too much wine.

Mariko begged him to sing the hornpipe song for Fujiko, and he did and they congratulated him and said it was the best they had ever heard.

“Have some more saké!”

“Oh, you mustn’t pour, Anjin-san, that’s woman’s duty. Didn’t I tell you?”

“Yes. Have some more, dozo.”

“I’d better not. I think I’ll fall over.” Mariko fluttered her fan furiously and the draft stirred the threads of hair that had escaped from her immaculate coiffure.

“You have nice ears,” he said.

“So have you. We, Fujiko-san and I, we think your nose is perfect too, worthy of a daimyo.”

He grinned and bowed elaborately to them. They bowed back. The folds of Mariko’s kimono fell away from her neck slightly, revealing the edge of her scarlet under-kimono and the swell of her breasts, and it stirred him considerably.

“Saké, Anjin-san?”

He held out the cup, his fingers steady. She poured, watching the cup, the tip of her tongue touching her lips as she concentrated.

Fujiko reluctantly accepted some too, though she said that she couldn’t feel her legs anymore. Her quiet melancholia had gone tonight and she seemed young again. Blackthorne noticed that she was not as ugly as he had once thought.

Jozen’s head was buzzing. Not from saké but from the incredible war strategy that Yabu, Omi, and Igurashi had described so openly. Only Naga, the second-in-command, son of the arch-enemy, had said nothing, and had remained throughout the evening cold, arrogant, stiff-backed, with the characteristic large Toranaga nose on a taut face.

“Astonishing, Yabu-sama,” Jozen said. “Now I can understand the reason for secrecy. My Master will understand it also. Wise, very wise. And you, Naga-san, you’ve been silent all evening. I’d like your opinion. How do you like this new mobility—this new strategy?”

“My father believes that all war possibilities should be considered, Jozen-san,” the young man replied.

“But you, what’s your opinion?”

“I was sent here only to obey, to observe, to listen, to learn, and to test. Not to give opinions.”

“Of course. But as second-in-command—I should say, as an illustrious second-in-command—do you consider the experiment a success?”

“Yabu-sama or Omi-san should answer that. Or my father.”

“But Yabu-sama said that everyone tonight was to talk freely. What’s there to hide? We are all friends, neh? So famous a son of so famous a father must have an opinion. Neh?”

Naga’s eyes narrowed under the taunt but he did not reply.

“Everyone can speak freely, Naga-san,” Yabu said. “What do you think?”

“I think that, with surprise, this idea would win one skirmish or possibly one battle. With surprise, yes. But then?” Naga’s voice swept on icily. “Then all sides would use the same plan and vast numbers of men would die unnecessarily, slain without honor by an assailant who won’t even know who he has killed. I doubt if my father will actually authorize its use in a real battle.”

“He’s said that?” Yabu put the question incisively, careless of Jozen.

“No, Yabu-sama. I’m giving my own opinion. Of course.”

“But the Musket Regiment—you don’t approve of it? It disgusts you?” Yabu asked darkly.

Naga looked at him with flat, reptilian eyes. “With great deference, since you ask my opinion, yes, I find it disgusting. Our forefathers have always known whom they killed or who defeated them. That’s bushido, our way, the Way of the Warrior, the way of a true samurai. The better man victorious, neh? But now this? How do you prove your valor to your lord? How can he reward courage? To charge bullets is brave, yes, but also stupid. Where’s the valor in that? Guns are against our samurai code. Barbarians fight this way, peasants fight this way. Do you realize filthy merchants and peasants, even eta, could fight this way?” Jozen laughed and Naga continued even more menacingly. “A few fanatic peasants could easily kill any number of samurai with enough guns! Yes, peasants could kill any one of us, even the Lord Ishido, who wants to sit in my father’s place.”

Jozen bridled. “Lord Ishido doesn’t covet your father’s lands. He only seeks to protect the Empire for its rightful heir.”

“My father’s no threat to the Lord Yaemon, or to the Realm.”

“Of course, but you were talking about peasants. The Lord Taikō was once a peasant. My Lord Ishido was once a peasant. I was once a peasant. And a ronin!”

Naga wanted no quarrel. He knew he was no match for Jozen, whose prowess with sword and ax was renowned. “I wasn’t trying to insult your master or you or anyone, Jozen-san. I was merely saying that we samurai must all make very certain that peasants never have guns or none of us will be safe.”

“Merchants and peasants’ll never worry us,” Jozen said.

“I agree,” Yabu added, “and Naga-san, I agree with part of what you say. Yes. But guns are modern. Soon all battles will be fought with guns. I agree it’s distasteful. But it’s the way of modern war. And then it’ll be as it always was—the bravest samurai will always conquer.”

“No, so sorry, but you’re wrong, Yabu-sama! What did this cursed barbarian tell us—the essence of their war strategy? He freely admits that all their armies are conscript and mercenary. Neh? Mercenary! No sense of duty to their lords. The soldiers only fight for pay and loot, to rape and to gorge. Didn’t he say their armies are peasant armies? That’s what guns have brought to their world and that’s what guns will bring to ours. If I had power, I’d take this barbarian’s head tonight and outlaw all guns permanently.”

“Is that what your father thinks?” Jozen asked too quickly.

“My father doesn’t tell me or anyone what he thinks, as you surely know. I don’t speak for my father, no one speaks for him,” Naga replied, angry at allowing himself to be trapped into talking at all. “I was sent here to obey, to listen and not to talk. I apologize for talking. I would not have spoken unless you asked me. If I have offended you, or you, Yabu-sama, or you, Omi-san, I apologize.”

“There’s no need to apologize. I asked your views,” Yabu said. “Why should anyone be offended? This is a discussion, neh? Among leaders. You’d outlaw guns?”

“Yes. I think you’d be wise to keep a very close check on every gun in your domain.”

“All peasants are forbidden weapons of any kind. My peasants and my people are very well controlled.”

Jozen smirked at the slim youth, loathing him. “Interesting ideas you have, Naga-san. But you’re mistaken about the peasants. They’re nothing to samurai but providers. They’re no more threat than a pile of dung.”

“At the moment!” Naga said, his pride commanding him. “That’s why I’d outlaw guns now. You’re right, Yabu-san, that a new era requires new methods. But because of what this Anjin-san, this one barbarian, has said, I’d go much further than our present laws. I would issue Edicts that anyone other than a samurai found with a gun or caught trading in guns would immediately forfeit his life and that of every member of his family of every generation. Further, I would prohibit the making or importing of guns. I’d prohibit barbarians from wearing them or from bringing them to our shores. Yes, if I had power—which I do not seek and never will—I’d keep barbarians out of our country totally, except for a few priests and one port for trade, which I’d surround with a high fence and trusted warriors. Last, I’d put this foul-minded barbarian, the Anjin-san, to death at once so that his filthy knowledge will not spread. He’s a disease.”

Jozen said, “Ah, Naga-san, it must be good to be so young. You know, my Master agrees with much of what you said about the barbarians. I’ve heard him say many times, ‘Keep them out—kick them out—kick their arses away to Nagasaki and keep them bottled there!’ You’d kill the Anjin-san, eh? Interesting. My Master doesn’t like the Anjin-san either. But for him—” He stopped. “Ah, yes, you’ve a good thought about guns. I can see that clearly. May I tell that to my Master? Your idea about new laws?”

“Of course.” Naga was mollified, and calmer now that he had spoken what had been bottled up from the first day.

“You’ve given this opinion to Lord Toranaga?” Yabu asked.

“Lord Toranaga has not asked my opinion. I hope one day he will honor me by asking as you have done,” Naga replied at once with sincerity, and wondered if any of them detected the lie.

Omi said, “As this is a free discussion, Sire, I say this barbarian is a treasure. I believe we must learn from the barbarian. We must know about guns and fighting ships because they know about them. We must know everything they know as soon as they know it, and even now, some of us must begin to learn to think like they do so that soon we can surpass them.”

Naga said confidently, “What could they possibly know, Omi-san? Yes, guns and ships. But what else? How could they destroy us? There’s not a samurai among them. Doesn’t this Anjin admit openly that even their kings are murderers and religious fanatics? We’re millions, they’re a handful. We could swamp them with our hands alone.”

“This Anjin-san opened my eyes, Naga-san. I’ve discovered that our land, and China, isn’t the whole world, it’s only a very small part. At first I thought the barbarian was just a curiosity. Now I don’t. I thank the gods for him. I think he’s saved us and I know we can learn from him. Already he’s given us power over the Southern Barbarians—and over China.”

“What?”

“The Taikō failed because their numbers are too great for us, man to man, arrow to arrow, neh? With guns and barbarian skill we could take Peking.”

“With barbarian treachery, Omi-san!”

“With barbarian knowledge, Naga-san, we could take Peking. Whoever takes Peking eventually controls China. And whoever controls China can control the world. We must learn not to be ashamed of taking knowledge from wherever it comes.”

“I say we need nothing from outside.”

“Without offense, Naga-san, I say we must protect this Land of the Gods by any means. It’s our prime duty to protect the unique, divine position we have on earth. Only this is the Land of the Gods, neh? Only our Emperor is divine. I agree this barbarian should be gagged. But not by death. By permanent isolation here in Anjiro, until we have learned everything he knows.”

Jozen scratched thoughtfully. “My Master will be told of your views. I agree the barbarian should be isolated. Also that training should cease at once.”

Yabu took a scroll from his sleeve. “Here is a full report on the experiment for Lord Ishido. When Lord Ishido wishes the training to cease, of course, the training will cease.”

Jozen accepted the scroll. “And Lord Toranaga? What about him?” His eyes went to Naga. Naga said nothing but stared at the scroll.

Yabu said, “You will be able to ask his opinion directly. He has a similar report. I presume you’ll be leaving for Yedo tomorrow? Or would you like to witness the training? I hardly need tell you the men are not yet proficient.”

“I would like to see one ‘attack.’ ”

“Omi-san, arrange it. You lead it.”

“Yes, Sire.”

Jozen turned to his second-in-command and gave him the scroll. “Masumoto, take this to Lord Ishido. You will leave at once.”

“Yes, Jozen-san.”

Yabu said to Igurashi, “Provide him with guides to the border and fresh horses.”

Igurashi left with the samurai immediately.

Jozen stretched and yawned. “Please excuse me,” he said, “but it’s all the riding I’ve done in the last few days. I must thank you for an extraordinary evening, Yabu-sama. Your ideas are far-reaching. And yours, Omi-san. And yours, Naga-san. I’ll compliment you to the Lord Toranaga and to my Master. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m very tired and Osaka is a long way off.”

“Of course,” Yabu said. “How was Osaka?”

“Very good. Remember those bandits, the ones that attacked you by land and sea?”

“Of course.”

“We took four hundred and fifty heads that night. Many were wearing Toranaga uniforms.”

“Ronin have no honor. None.”

“Some ronin have,” Jozen said, smarting from the insult. He lived always with the shame of having once been ronin. “Some were even wearing our Grays. Not one escaped. They all died.”

“And Buntaro-san?”

“No. He—” Jozen stopped. The “no” had slipped out but now that he had said it he did not mind. “No. We don’t know for certain—no one collected his head. You’ve heard nothing about him?”

“No,” Naga said.

“Perhaps he was captured. Perhaps they just cut him into pieces and scattered him. My Master would like to know when you have news. All’s very good now at Osaka. Preparations for the meeting go forward. There’ll be lavish entertainments to celebrate the new era, and of course, to honor all the daimyos.”

“And Lord Toda Hiro-matsu?” Naga asked politely.

“Old Iron Fist’s as strong and gruff as ever.”

“He’s still there?”

“No. He left with all your father’s men a few days before I did.”

“And my father’s household?”

“I heard that the Lady Kiritsubo and the Lady Sazuko asked to stay with my Master. A doctor advised the Lady to rest for a month—her health, you know. He thought the journey would not be good for the expected child.” To Yabu he added, “She fell down the night you left, didn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“There’s nothing serious, I hope,” Naga asked, very concerned.

“No, Naga-san, nothing serious,” Jozen said, then again to Yabu, “You’ve informed Lord Toranaga of my arrival?”

“Of course.”

“Good.”

“The news you brought us would interest him greatly.”

“Yes. I saw a carrier pigeon circle and fly north.”

“I have that service now.” Yabu did not add that Jozen’s pigeon had also been observed, or that falcons had intercepted it near the mountains, or that the message had been decoded: “At Anjiro. All true as reported. Yabu, Naga, Omi, and barbarian here.”

“I will leave tomorrow, with your permission, after the ‘attack.’ You’ll give me fresh horses? I must not keep Lord Toranaga waiting. I look forward to seeing him. So does my Master. At Osaka. I hope you’ll accompany him, Naga-san.”

“If I’m ordered there, I will be there.” Naga kept his eyes lowered but he was burning with suppressed fury.

Jozen left and walked with his guards up the hill to his camp. He rearranged the sentries and ordered his men to sleep and got into his small brush lean-to that they had constructed against the coming rain. By candlelight, under a mosquito net, he rewrote the previous message on a thin piece of rice paper and added: “The five hundred guns are lethal. Massed surprise gun attacks planned—full report already sent with Masumoto.” Then he dated it and doused the candle. In the darkness he slipped out of his net, removed one of the pigeons from the panniers and placed the message in the tiny container on its foot. Then he stealthily made his way to one of his men and handed him the bird.

“Take it out into the brush,” he whispered. “Hide it somewhere where it can roost safely until dawn. As far away as you can. But be careful, there are eyes all around. If you’re intercepted say I told you to patrol, but hide the pigeon first.”

The man slid away as silently as a cockroach.

Pleased with himself, Jozen looked toward the village below. There were lights on in the fortress and on the opposite slope, in the house that he knew to be Omi’s. There were a few also in the house just below, the one presently occupied by the barbarian.

That whelp Naga’s right, Jozen thought, waving his hand at a mosquito. The barbarian’s a filthy plague.

“Good night, Fujiko-san.”

“Good night, Anjin-san.”

The shoji closed behind her. Blackthorne took off his kimono and loincloth and put on the lighter sleeping kimono, got under the mosquito net, and lay down.

He blew out the candle. Deep darkness enveloped him. The house was quiet now. The small shutters were closed and he could hear the surf. Clouds obscured the moon.

The wine and laughter had made him drowsy and euphoric and he listened to the surf and felt himself drifting with it, his mind fogged. Occasionally, a dog barked in the village below. I should get a dog, he thought, remembering his own bull terrier at home. Wonder if he’s still alive? Grog was his name but Tudor, his son, always called him “Og-Og.”

Ah, Tudor, laddie. It’s been such a long time.

Wish I could see you all—even write a letter and send it home. Let’s see, he thought. How would I begin?

“My darlings: This is the first letter I’ve been able to send home since we made landfall in Japan. Things are well now that I know how to live according to their ways. The food is terrible but tonight I had pheasant and soon I’ll get my ship back again. Where to start my story? Today I’m like a feudal lord in this strange country. I have a house, a horse, eight servants, a housekeeper, my own barber, and my own interpreter. I’m clean-shaven now and shave every day—the steel razors they have here must certainly be the best in the world. My salary’s huge—enough to feed two hundred and fifty Japan families for one year. In England that’d be the equivalent of almost a thousand golden guineas a year! Ten times my salary from the Dutch company. . . .”

The shoji began to open. His hand sought his pistol under the pillow and he readied, dragging himself back. Then he caught the almost imperceptible rustle of silk and a waft of perfume.

“Anjin-san?” A thread of whisper, filled with promise.

“Hai?” he asked as softly, peering into the darkness, unable to see clearly.

Footsteps came closer. There was the sound of her kneeling and the net was pulled aside and she joined him inside the enclosing net. She took his hand and lifted it to her breast, then to her lips.

“Mariko-san?”

At once fingers reached up in the darkness and touched his lips, cautioning silence. He nodded, understanding the awful risk they were taking. He held her tiny wrist and brushed it with his lips. In the pitch black his other hand sought and caressed her face. She kissed his fingers one by one. Her hair was loose and waist length now. His hands traveled her. The lovely feel of silk, nothing beneath.

Her taste was sweet. His tongue touched her teeth, then rimmed her ears, discovering her. She loosened his robe and let hers fall aside, her breathing more languorous now. She pushed closer, nestling, and pulled the covering over their heads. Then she began to love him, with hands and with lips. With more tenderness and seeking and knowledge than he had ever known.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Blackthorne awoke at dawn. Alone. At first he was sure he had been dreaming, but her perfume still lingered and he knew that it had not been a dream.

A discreet knock.

“Hai?”

“Ohayo, Anjin-san, gomen nasai.” A maid opened the shoji for Fujiko, then carried in the tray with cha and a bowl of rice gruel and sweet rice cakes.

“Ohayo, Fujiko-san, domo,” he said, thanking her. She always came with his first meal personally, opened the net and waited while he ate, and the maid laid out a fresh kimono and tabi and loincloth.

He sipped the cha, wondering if Fujiko knew about last night. Her face gave nothing away.

“Ikaga desu ka?” How are you, Blackthorne asked.

“Okagasama de genki desu, Anjin-san. Anata wa?” Very well, thank you. And you?

The maid took out his fresh clothes from the concealed cupboard that melted neatly into the rest of the paper-latticed room, then left them alone.

“Anata wa yoku nemutta ka?” Did you sleep well?

“Hai, Anjin-san, arigato gozaimashita!” She smiled, put her hand to her head pretending pain, mimed being drunk and sleeping like a stone. “Anata wa?”

“Watashi wa yoku nemuru.” I slept very well.

She corrected him, “Watashi wa yoku nemutta.”

“Domo. Watashi wa yoku nemutta.”

“Yoi! Taihenyoi!” Good. Very good.

Then from the corridor he heard Mariko call out, “Fujiko-san?”

“Hai, Mariko-san?” Fujiko went to the shoji and opened it a crack. He could not see Mariko. And he did not understand what they were saying.

I hope no one knows, he thought. I pray it is secret, just between us. Perhaps it would be better if it had been a dream.

He began to dress. Fujiko came back and knelt to do up the catches on the tabi.

“Mariko-san? Nan ja?”

“Nane mo, Anjin-san,” she replied. It was nothing important.

She went to the tokonoma, the alcove with its hanging scroll and flower arrangement, where his swords were always put. She gave them to him. He stuck them in his belt. The swords no longer felt ridiculous to him, though he wished that he could wear them less self-consciously.

She had told him that her father had been granted the swords for bravery after a particularly bloody battle in the far north of Korea, seven years ago during the first invasion. The Japanese armies had ripped through the kingdom, victorious, slashing north. Then, when they were near the Yalu River, the Chinese hordes had abruptly poured across the border to join battle with the Japanese armies and, through the weight of their incredible numbers, had routed them. Fujiko’s father had been part of the rearguard that had covered the retreat back to the mountains north of Seoul, where they had turned and fought the battle to a stalemate. This and the second campaign had been the costliest military expedition ever undertaken. When the Taikō had died last year, Toranaga, on behalf of the Council of Regents, had at once ordered the remnants of their armies home, to the great relief of the vast majority of daimyos, who detested the Korean campaign.

Blackthorne walked out to the veranda. He stepped into his thongs and nodded to his servants, who had been assembled in a neat line to bow him off, as was custom.

It was a drab day. The sky was overcast and a warm wet wind came off the sea. The steppingstones that were set into the gravel of the path were wet with the rain that had fallen in the night.

Beyond the gate were the horses and his ten samurai outriders. And Mariko.

She was already mounted and wore a pale yellow mantle over pale green silk trousers, a wide-brimmed hat and veil held with yellow ribbons, and gloves. A rain parasol was ready in its saddle-sheath.

“Ohayo,” he said formally. “Ohayo, Mariko-san.”

“Ohayo, Anjin-san. Ikaga desu ka?”

“Okagesama de genki desu. Anata wa?”

She smiled. “Yoi, arigato gozaimashita.”

She gave not the faintest hint that anything was different between them. But he expected none, not in public, knowing how dangerous the situation was. Her perfume came over him and he would have liked to kiss her here, in front of everyone.

“Ikimasho!” he said and swung into the saddle, motioning the samurai to ride off ahead. He walked his horse leisurely and Mariko fell into place beside him. When they were alone, he relaxed.

“Mariko.”

“Hai?”

Then he said in Latin, “Thou art beautiful and I love thee.”

“I thank thee, but so much wine last night makes my head to feel not beautiful today, not in truth, and love is a Christian word.”

“Thou art beautiful and Christian, and wine could not touch thee.”

“Thank thee for the lie, Anjin-san, yes, thank thee.”

“No. I should thank thee.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Never ‘why,’ no ‘why’. I thank thee sincerely.”

“If wine and meat make thee so warm and fine and gallant,” she said, “then I must tell thy consort to move the heaven and the earth to obtain them for thee every evening.”

“Yes. I would have everything the same, always.”

“Thou art untoward happy today,” she said. “Good, very good. But why? Why truly?”

“Because of thee. Thou knowest why.”

“I know nothing, Anjin-san.”

“Nothing?” he teased.

“Nothing.”

He was taken aback. They were quite alone, and safe.

“Why doth ‘nothing’ take the heart out of thy smile?” she asked.

“Stupidity! Absolute stupidity! I forgot that it is most wise to be cautious. It was only that we were alone and I wanted to speak of it. And, in truth, to say more.”

“Thou speakest in riddles. I do not understand thee.”

He was nonplussed again. “Thou dost not wish to talk about it? At all?”

“About what, Anjin-san?”

“What passed in the night then?”

“I passed thy door in the night when my maid, Koi, was with thee.”

“What!”

“We, your consort and I, we thought she would be a pleasing gift for thee. She pleased thee, did she not?”

Blackthorne was trying to recover. Mariko’s maid was her size but younger and never so fair and never so pretty, and yes, it was pitch dark and yes, his head was fogged with wine but no, it was not the maid.

“That’s not possible,” he said in Portuguese.

“What’s not possible, senhor?” she asked in the same language.

He reverted to Latin again, as the outriders were not far away, the wind blowing in their direction. “Please do not joke with me. No one can hear. I know a presence and a perfume.”

“Thou thinkest it was me? Oh, it was not, Anjin-san. I would be honored but I could never possibly . . . however much I might want—oh no, Anjin-san. It was not me but Koi, my maid. I would be honored, but I belong to another even though he’s dead.”

“Yes, but it wasn’t your maid.” He bit back his anger. “But leave it as thou desirest.”

“It was my maid, Anjin-san,” she said placatingly. “We anointed her with my perfume and instructed her: no words, only touch. We never thought for a moment thou wouldst consider her to be me! This was not to trick thee but for thine ease, knowing that discussing things of the pillow still embarrasses thee.” She was looking at him with wide, innocent eyes. “She pleasured thee, Anjin-san? Thou pleasured her.”

“A joke concerning things of great importance is sometimes without humor.”

“Things of great import will always be treated with great import. But a maid in the night with a man is without import.”

“I do not consider thee without import.”

“I thank thee. I say that equally. But a maid in the night with a man is private and without import. It is a gift from her to him and, sometimes, from him to her. Nothing more.”

“Never?”

“Sometimes. But this private pillow matter does not have this vast seriousness of thine.”

“Never?”

“Only when the woman and man join together against the law. In this land.”

He reined in, finally comprehending the reason for her denial. “I apologize,” he said. “Yes, thou art right and I most very wrong. I should never have spoken. I apologize.”

“Why apologize? For what? Tell me, Anjin-san, was this girl wearing a crucifix?”

“No.”

“I always wear it. Always.”

“A crucifix can be taken off,” he said automatically in Portuguese. “That proves nothing. It could be loaned, like a perfume.”

“Tell me a last truth: Did you really see the girl? Really see her?”

“Of course. Please let us forget I ever—”

“The night was very dark, the moon overcast. Please, the truth, Anjin-san. Think! Did you really see the girl?”

Of course I saw her, he thought indignantly.

God damn it, think truly. You didn’t see her. Your head was fogged. She could have been the maid but you knew it was Mariko because you wanted Mariko and saw only Mariko in your head, believing that Mariko would want you equally. You’re a fool. A goddamned fool.

“In truth, no. In truth I should really apologize,” he said. “How do I apologize?”

“There’s no need to apologize, Anjin-san,” she replied calmly. “I’ve told you many times a man never apologizes, even when he’s wrong. You were not wrong.” Her eyes teased him now. “My maid needs no apology.”

“Thank you,” he said, laughing. “You make me feel less of a fool.”

“The years flee from you when you laugh. The so-serious Anjin-san becomes a boy again.”

“My father told me I was born old.”

“Were you?”

“He thought so.”

“What’s he like?”

“He was a fine man. A shipowner, a captain. The Spanish killed him at a place called Antwerp when they put that city to the sword. They burned his ship. I was six, but I remember him as a big, tall, good-natured man with golden hair. My older brother, Arthur, he was just eight. . . . We had bad times then, Mariko-san.”

“Why? Please tell me. Please!”

“It’s all very ordinary. Every penny of money was tied into the ship and that was lost . . . and, well, not long after that, my sister died. She starved to death really. There was famine in ’71 and plague again.”

“We have plague sometimes. The smallpox. You were many in your family?”

“Three of us,” he said, glad to talk to take away the other hurt. “Willia, my sister, she was nine when she died. Arthur, he was next—he wanted to be an artist, a sculptor, but he had to become an apprentice stonemason to help support us. He was killed in the Armada. He was twenty-five, poor fool, he just joined a ship, untrained, such a waste. I’m the last of the Blackthornes. Arthur’s wife and daughter live with my wife and kids now. My mother’s still alive and so’s old Granny Jacoba—she’s seventy-five and hard as a piece of English oak though she was Irish. At least they were alive when I left more than two years ago.”

The ache was coming back. I’ll think about them when I start for home, he promised himself, but not until then.

“There’ll be a storm tomorrow,” he said, watching the sea. “A strong one, Mariko-san. Then in three days we’ll have fair weather.”

“This is the season of squalls. Mostly it’s overcast and rain-filled. When the rains stop it becomes very humid. Then begin the tai-funs.”

I wish I were at sea again, he was thinking. Was I ever at sea? Was the ship real? What’s reality? Mariko or the maid?

“You don’t laugh very much, do you, Anjin-san?”

“I’ve been seafaring too long. Seamen’re always serious. We’ve learned to watch the sea. We’re always watching and waiting for disaster. Take your eyes off the sea for a second and she’ll grasp your ship and make her matchwood.”

“I’m afraid of the sea,” she said.

“So am I. An old fisherman told me once, ‘The man who’s not afraid of the sea’ll soon be drownded for he’ll go out on a day he shouldn’t. But we be afraid of the sea so we be only drownded now and again.’ ” He looked at her:

“Mariko-san . . .”

“Yes?”

“A few minutes ago you’d convinced me that—well, let’s say I was convinced. Now I’m not. What’s the truth? The honto. I must know.”

“Ears are to hear with. Of course it was the maid.”

“This maid. Can I ask for her whenever I want?”

“Of course. A wise man would not.”

“Because I might be disappointed? Next time?”

“Possibly.”

“I find it difficult to possess a maid and lose a maid, difficult to say nothing . . .”

“Pillowing is a pleasure. Of the body. Nothing has to be said.”

“But how do I tell a maid that she is beautiful? That I love her? That she filled me with ecstasy?”

“It isn’t seemly to ‘love’ a maid this way. Not here, Anjin-san. That passion’s not even for a wife or a consort.” Her eyes crinkled suddenly. “But only toward someone like Kiku-san, the courtesan, who is so beautiful and merits this.”

“Where can I find this girl?”

“In the village. It would be my honor to act as your go-between.”

“By Christ, I think you mean it.”

“Of course. A man needs passions of all kinds. This Lady is worthy of romance—if you can afford her.”

“What does that mean?”

“She would be very expensive.”

“You don’t buy love. That type’s worth nothing. ‘Love’ is without price.”

She smiled. “Pillowing always has its price. Always. Not necessarily money, Anjin-san. But a man pays, always, for pillowing in one way, or in another. True love, we call it duty, is of soul to soul and needs no such expression—no physical expression, except perhaps the gift of death.”

“You’re wrong. I wish I could show you the world as it is.”

“I know the world as it is, and as it will be forever. You want this contemptible maid again?”

“Yes. You know I want . . .”

Mariko laughed gaily. “Then she will be sent to you. At sunset. We will escort her, Fujiko and I!”

“Goddamn it—I think you would too!” He laughed with her.

“Ah, Anjin-san, it is good to see you laugh. Since you came back to Anjiro you have gone through a great change. A very great change.”

“No. Not so much. But last night I dreamed a dream. That dream was perfection.”

“God is perfection. And sometimes so is a sunset or moonrise or the first crocus of the year.”

“I don’t understand you at all.”

She turned back the veil on her hat and looked directly at him. “Once another man said to me, ‘I don’t understand you at all,’ and my husband said, ‘Your pardon, Lord, but no man can understand her. Her father doesn’t understand her, neither do the gods, nor her barbarian God, not even her mother understands her.’ ”

“That was Toranaga? Lord Toranaga?”

“Oh, no, Anjin-san. That was the Taikō. Lord Toranaga understands me. He understands everything.”

“Even me?”

“Very much you.”

“You’re sure of that, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Oh, very yes.”

“Will he win the war?”

“Yes.”

“I’m his favored vassal?”

“Yes.”

“Will he take my navy?”

“Yes.”

“When will I get my ship back?”

“You won’t.”

“Why?”

Her gravity vanished. “Because you’ll have your ‘maid’ in Anjiro and you’ll be pillowing so much you’ll have no energy to leave, even on your hands and knees, when she begs you to go aboard your ship, and when Lord Toranaga asks you to go aboard and to leave us all!”

“There you go again! One moment so serious, the next not!”

“That’s only to answer you, Anjin-san, and to put certain things in a correct place. Ah, but before you leave us you should see the Lady Kiku. She’s worthy of a great passion. She’s so beautiful and talented. For her you would have to be extraordinary!”

“I’m tempted to accept that challenge.”

“I challenge no one. But if you’re prepared to be samurai and not—not foreigner—if you’re prepared to treat pillowing for what it is, then I would be honored to act as go-between.”

“What does that mean?”

“When you’re in good humor, when you’re ready for very special amusement, ask your consort to ask me.”

“Why Fujiko-san?”

“Because it’s your consort’s duty to see that you are pleasured. It is our custom to make life simple. We admire simplicity, so men and women can take pillowing for what it is: an important part of life, certainly, but between a man and a woman there are more vital things. Humility, for one. Respect. Duty. Even this ‘love’ of yours. Fujiko ‘loves’ you.”

“No she doesn’t!”

“She will give you her life. What more is there to give?”

At length he took his eyes off her and looked at the sea. The waves were cresting the shore as the wind freshened. He turned back to her. “Then nothing is to be said?” he asked. “Between us?”

“Nothing. That is wise.”

“And if I don’t agree?”

“You must agree. You are here. This is your home.”

The attacking five hundred galloped over the lip of the hill in a haphazard pack, down onto the rock-strewn valley floor where the two thousand “defenders” were drawn up in a battle array. Each rider wore a musket slung on his back and a belt with pouches for bullets, flints, and a powder horn. Like most samurai, their clothes were a motley collection of kimonos and rags, but their weapons always the best that each could afford. Only Toranaga and Ishido, copying him, insisted that their troops be uniformed and punctilious in their dress. All other daimyos considered such outward extravagance a foolish squandering of money, an unnecessary innovation. Even Blackthorne had agreed. The armies of Europe were never uniformed—what king could afford that, except for a personal guard?

He was standing on a rise with Yabu and his aides, Jozen and all his men, and Mariko. This was the first full-scale rehearsal of an attack. He waited uneasily. Yabu was uncommonly tense, and Omi and Naga both had been touchy almost to the point of belligerence. Particularly Naga.

“What’s the matter with everyone?” he had asked Mariko.

“Perhaps they wish to do well in front of their lord and his guest.”

“Is he a daimyo too?”

“No. But important, one of Lord Ishido’s generals. It would be good if everything were perfect today.”

“I wish I’d been told there was to be a rehearsal.”

“What would that have accomplished? Everything you could do, you have done.”

Yes, Blackthorne thought, as he watched the five hundred. But they’re nowhere near ready yet. Surely Yabu knows that too, everyone does. So if there is a disaster, well, that’s karma, he told himself with more confidence, and found consolation in that thought.

The attackers gathered speed and the defenders stood waiting under the banners of their captains, jeering at the “enemy” as they would normally do, strung out in loose formation, three or four men deep. Soon the attackers would dismount out of arrow range. Then the most valiant warriors on both sides would truculently strut to the fore to throw down the gauntlet, proclaiming their own lineage and superiority with the most obvious of insults. Single armed conflicts would begin, gradually increasing in numbers, until one commander would order a general attack and then it was every man for himself. Usually the greater number defeated the smaller, then the reserves would be brought up and committed, and again the melee until the morale of one side broke, and the few cowards that retreated would soon be joined by the many and a rout would ensue. Treachery was not unusual. Sometimes whole regiments, following their master’s orders, would switch sides, to be welcomed as allies—always welcomed but never trusted. Sometimes the defeated commanders would flee to regroup to fight again. Sometimes they would stay and fight to the death, sometimes they would commit seppuku with ceremony. Rarely were they captured. Some offered their services to the victors. Sometimes this was accepted but most times refused. Death was the lot of the vanquished, quick for the brave and shame-filled for the cowardly. And this was the historic pattern of all skirmishes in this land, even at great battles, soldiers here the same as everywhere, except that here they were more ferocious and many, many more were prepared to die for their masters than anywhere else on earth.

The thunder of the hoofs echoed in the valley.

“Where’s the attack commander? Where’s Omi-san?” Jozen asked.

“Among the men, be patient,” Yabu replied.

“But where’s his standard? And why isn’t he wearing battle armor and plumes? Where’s the commander’s standard? They’re just like a bunch of filthy no-good bandits!”

“Be patient! All officers are ordered to remain nondescript. I told you. And please don’t forget we’re pretending a battle is raging, that this is part of a big battle, with reserves and arm—”

Jozen burst out, “Where are their swords? None of them are wearing swords! Samurai without swords? They’d be massacred!”

“Be patient!”

Now the attackers were dismounting. The first warriors strode out from the defending ranks to show their valor. An equal number began to measure up against them. Then, suddenly, the ungainly mass of attackers rushed into five tight-disciplined phalanxes, each with four ranks of twenty-five men, three phalanxes ahead and two in reserve, forty paces back. As one, they charged the enemy. In range they shuddered to a stop on command and the front ranks fired an ear-shattering salvo in unison. Screams and men dying. Jozen and his men ducked reflexively, then watched appalled as the front ranks knelt and began to reload and the second ranks fired over them, with the third and fourth ranks following the same pattern. At each salvo more defenders fell, and the valley was filled with shouts and screams and confusion.

“You’re killing your own men!” Jozen shouted above the uproar.

“It’s blank ammunition, not real. They’re all acting, but imagine it’s a real attack with real bullets! Watch!”

Now the defenders “recovered” from the initial shock. They regrouped and whirled back to a frontal attack. But by this time the front ranks had reloaded and, on command, fired another salvo from a kneeling position, then the second rank fired standing, immediately kneeling to reload, then the third and the fourth, as before, and though many musketeers were slow and the ranks ragged, it was easy to imagine the awful decimation trained men would cause. The counterattack faltered, then broke apart, and the defenders retreated in pretended confusion, back up the rise to stop just below the observers. Many “dead” littered the ground.

Jozen and his men were shaken. “Those guns would break any line!”

“Wait. The battle’s not over!”

Again the defenders re-formed and now their commanders exhorted them to victory, committed the reserves, and ordered the final general attack. The samurai rushed down the hill, emitting their terrible battle cries, to fall on the enemy.

“Now they’ll be stamped into the ground,” Jozen said, caught up like all of them in the realism of this mock battle.

And he was right. The phalanxes did not hold their ground. They broke and fled before the battle cries of the true samurai with their swords and spears, and Jozen and his men added their shouts of scorn as the regiments hurtled to the kill. The musketeers were fleeing like the Garlic Eaters, a hundred paces, two hundred paces, three hundred, then suddenly, on command, the phalanxes regrouped, this time in a V formation. Again the shattering salvos began. The attack faltered. Then stopped. But the guns continued. Then they, too, stopped. The game ceased. But all on the rise knew that under actual conditions the two thousand would have been slaughtered.

Now, in the silence, defenders and attackers began to sort themselves out. The “bodies” got up, weapons were collected. There was laughter and groaning. Many men limped and a few were badly hurt.

“I congratulate you, Yabu-sama,” Jozen said with great sincerity. “Now I understand what all of you meant.”

“The firing was ragged,” Yabu said, inwardly delighted. “It will take months to train them.”

Jozen shook his head. “I wouldn’t like to attack them now. Not if they had real ammunition. No army could withstand that punch—no line. The ranks could never stay closed. And then you’d pour ordinary troops and cavalry through the gap and roll up the sides like an old scroll.” He thanked all kami that he’d had the sense to see one attack. “It was terrible to watch. For a moment I thought the battle was real.”

“They were ordered to make it look real. And now you may review my musketeers, if you wish.”

“Thank you. That would be an honor.”

The defenders were streaming off to their camps that sat on the far hillside. The five hundred musketeers waited below, near the path that went over the rise and slid down to the village. They were forming into their companies, Omi and Naga in front of them, both wearing swords again.

“Yabu-sama?”

“Yes, Anjin-san?”

“Good, no?”

“Yes, good.”

“Thank you, Yabu-sama. I please.”

Mariko corrected him automatically. “I am pleased.”

“Ah, so sorry. I am pleased.”

Jozen took Yabu aside. “This is all out of the Anjin-san’s head?”

“No,” Yabu lied. “But it’s the way barbarians fight. He’s just training the men to load and to fire.”

“Why not do as Naga-san advised? You’ve the barbarian’s knowledge now. Why risk its spreading? He is a plague. Very dangerous, Yabu-sama. Naga-san was right. It’s true—peasants could fight this way. Easily. Get rid of the barbarian now.”

“If Lord Ishido wants his head, he has only to ask.”

“I ask it. Now.” Again the truculence. “I speak with his voice.”

“I’ll consider it, Jozen-san.”

“And also, in his name, I ask that all guns be withdrawn from those troops at once.”

Yabu frowned, then turned his attention to the companies. They were approaching up the hill, their straight, disciplined ranks faintly ludicrous as always, only because such order was unusual. Fifty paces away they halted. Omi and Naga came on alone and saluted.

“It was all right for a first exercise,” Yabu said.

“Thank you, Sire,” Omi replied. He was limping slightly and his face was dirty, bruised, and powder marked.

Jozen said, “Your troops would have to carry swords in a real battle, Yabu-sama, neh? A samurai must carry swords—eventually they’d run out of ammunition, neh?”

“Swords will be in their way, in charge and retreat. Oh, they’ll wear them as usual to maintain surprise, but just before the first charge they’ll get rid of them.”

“Samurai will always need swords. In a real battle. Even so, I’m glad you’ll never have to use this attack force, or—” Jozen was going to add, “or this filthy, treacherous method of war.” Instead he said, “Or we’ll all have to give our swords away.”

“Perhaps we will, Jozen-san, when we go to war.”

“You’d give up your Murasama blade? Or even Toranaga’s gift?”

“To win a battle, yes. Otherwise no.”

“Then you might have to run very fast to save your fruit when your musket jammed or your powder got wet.” Jozen laughed at his own sally. Yabu did not.

“Omi-san! Show him!” he ordered.

At once Omi gave an order. His men slipped out the short sheathed bayonet sword that hung almost unnoticed from the back of their belts and snapped it into a socket on the muzzle of their muskets.

“Charge!”

Instantly the samurai charged with their battle cry, “Kasigiiiiiii!”

The forest of naked steel stopped a pace away from them. Jozen and his men were laughing nervously from the sudden, unexpected ferocity. “Good, very good,” Jozen said. He reached out and touched one of the bayonets. It was extremely sharp. “Perhaps you’re right, Yabu-sama. Let’s hope it’s never put to the test.”

“Omi-san!” Yabu called. “Form them up. Jozen-san’s going to review them. Then go back to camp. Mariko-san, Anjin-san, you follow me!” He strode down the rise through the ranks, his aides, Blackthorne, and Mariko following.

“Form up at the path. Replace bayonets!”

Half the men obeyed at once, turned about, and walked down the slope again. Naga and his two hundred and fifty samurai remained where they were, bayonets still threatening.

Jozen bristled. “What’s going on?”

“I consider your insults intolerable,” Naga said venomously.

“That’s nonsense. I haven’t insulted you, or anyone! Your bayonets insult my position! Yabu-sama!”

Yabu turned back. Now he was on the other side of the Toranaga contingent. “Naga-san,” he called out coldly. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“I cannot forgive this man’s insults to my father—or to me.”

“He’s protected. You cannot touch him now! He’s under the cipher of the Regents!”

“Your pardon, Yabu-sama, but this is between Jozen-san and myself.”

“No. You are under my orders. I order you to tell your men to return to camp.”

Not a man moved. The rain began.

“Your pardon, Yabu-san, please forgive me, but this is between him and me and whatever happens I absolve you of responsibility for my action and those of my men.”

Behind Naga, one of Jozen’s men drew his sword and lunged for Naga’s unprotected back. A volley of twenty muskets blew off his head at once. These twenty men knelt and began to reload. The second rank readied.

“Who ordered live ammunition?” Yabu demanded.

“I did. I, Yoshi Naga-noh-Toranaga!”

“Naga-san! I order you to let Nebara Jozen and his men go free. You are ordered to your quarters until I can consult Lord Toranaga about your insubordination!”

“Of course you will inform Lord Toranaga and karma is karma. But I regret, Lord Yabu, that first this man must die. All of them must die. Today!”

Jozen shrieked, “I’m protected by the Regents! You’ll gain nothing by killing me.”

“I regain my honor, neh?” Naga said. “I repay your sneers at my father and your insults to me. But you would have had to die anyway. Neh? I could not have been more clear last night. Now you’ve seen an attack. I cannot risk Ishido learning all this”—his hand waved at the battlefield—“this horror!”

“He already knows!” Jozen blurted out, blessing his foresight of the previous evening. “He knows already! I sent a message by pigeon secretly at dawn! You gain nothing by killing me, Naga-san!”

Naga motioned to one of his men, an old samurai, who came forward and threw the strangled pigeon at Jozen’s feet. Then a man’s severed head was also cast upon the ground—the head of the samurai, Masumoto, sent yesterday by Jozen with the scroll. The eyes were still open, the lips drawn back in a hate-filled grimace. The head began to roll. It tumbled through the ranks until it came to rest against a rock.

A moan broke from Jozen’s lips. Naga and all his men laughed. Even Yabu smiled. Another of Jozen’s samurai leaped for Naga. Twenty muskets blasted him, and the man next to him, who had not moved, also fell in agony, mortally wounded.

The laughter ceased.

Omi said, “Shall I order my men to attack, Sire?” It had been so easy to maneuver Naga.

Yabu wiped the rain off his face. “No, that would achieve nothing. Jozen-san and his men are already dead, whatever I do. That’s his karma, as Naga-san has his. Naga-san!” he called out. “For the last time, I order you to let them all go!”

“Please excuse me but I must refuse.”

“Very well. When it is finished, report to me.”

“Yes. There should be an official witness, Yabu-sama. For Lord Toranaga and for Lord Ishido.”

“Omi-san, you will stay. You will sign the death certification and make out the dispatch. Naga-san and I will countersign it.”

Naga pointed at Blackthorne. “Let him stay too. Also as witness. He’s responsible for their deaths. He should witness them.”

“Anjin-san, go up there! To Naga-san! Do you understand?”

“Yes, Yabu-san. I understand, but why, please?”

“To be a witness.”

“Sorry, don’t understand.”

“Mariko-san, explain ‘witness’ to him, that he’s to witness what’s going to happen—then you follow me.” Hiding his vast satisfaction, Yabu turned and left.

Jozen shrieked, “Yabu-sama! Please! Yabuuuuu-samaaaa!”

Blackthorne watched. When it was finished he went home. There was silence in his house and a pall over the village. A bath did not make him feel clean. Saké did not take away the foulness from his mouth. Incense did not unclog the stench from his nostrils.

Later Yabu sent for him. The attack was dissected, moment by moment. Omi and Naga were there with Mariko—Naga as always cold, listening, rarely commenting, still second-in-command. None of them seemed touched by what had happened.

They worked till after sunset. Yabu ordered the tempo of training stepped up. A second five hundred was to be formed at once. In one week another.

Blackthorne walked home alone, and ate alone, beset by his ghastly discovery: that they had no sense of sin, they were all conscienceless—even Mariko.

That night he couldn’t sleep. He left the house, the wind tugging at him. Gusts were frothing the waves. A stronger squall sent debris clattering against a village hovel. Dogs howled at the sky and foraged. The rice-thatched roofs moved like living things. Shutters were banging and men and women, silent wraiths, fought them closed and barred them. The tide came in heavily. All the fishing boats had been hauled to safety much farther up the beach than usual. Everything was battened down.

He walked the shore then returned to his house, leaning against the press of the wind. He had met no one. Rain squalled and he was soon drenched.

Fujiko waited for him on the veranda, the wind ripping at her, guttering the shielded oil lamp. Everyone was awake. Servants carried valuables to the squat adobe and stone storage building in the back of the garden.

The gale was not menacing yet.

A roof tile twisted loose as the wind squeezed under an eave and the whole roof shuddered. The tile fell and shattered loudly. Servants hurried about, some readying buckets of water, others trying to repair the roof. The old gardener, Ueki-ya, helped by children, was lashing the tender bushes and trees to bamboo stakes.

Another gust rocked the house.

“It’s going to blow down, Mariko-san.”

She said nothing, the wind clawing at her and Fujiko, wind tears in the corners of their eyes. He looked at the village. Now debris was blowing everywhere. Then the wind poured through a rip in the paper shoji of one dwelling and the whole wall vanished, leaving only a latticed skeleton. The opposite wall crumbled and the roof collapsed.

Blackthorne turned helplessly as the shoji of his room blew out. That wall vanished and so did the opposite one. Soon all the walls were in shreds. He could see throughout the house. But the roof supports held and the tiled roof did not shift. Bedding and lanterns and mats skittered away, servants chasing them.

The storm demolished the walls of all the houses in the village. And some dwellings were obliterated completely. No one was badly hurt. At dawn the wind subsided and men and women began to rebuild their homes.

By noon the walls of Blackthorne’s house were remade and half the village was back to normal. The light lattice walls required little work to put up once more, only wooden pegs and lashings for joints that were always morticed and carpentered with great skill. Tiled and thatched roofs were more difficult but he saw that people helped each other, smiling and quick and very practiced. Mura hurried through the village, advising, guiding, chivying, and supervising. He came up the hill to inspect progress.

“Mura, you made . . .” Blackthorne sought the words. “You make it look easy.”

“Ah, thank you, Anjin-san. Yes, thank you, but we were fortunate there were no fires.”

“You fires oftens?”

“So sorry, ‘Do you have fires often?’ ”

“Do you have fires often?” Blackthorne repeated.

“Yes. But I’d ordered the village prepared. Prepared, you understand?”

“Yes.”

“When these storms come—” Mura stiffened and glanced over Blackthorne’s shoulder. His bow was low.

Omi was approaching in his bouncing easy stride, his friendly eyes only on Blackthorne, as though Mura did not exist. “Morning, Anjin-san,” he said.

“Morning, Omi-san. Your house is good?”

“All right. Thank you.” Omi looked at Mura and said brusquely, “The men should be fishing, or working the fields. The women too. Yabu-sama wants his taxes. Are you trying to shame me in front of him with laziness?”

“No, Omi-sama. Please excuse me. I will see to it at once.”

“It shouldn’t be necessary to tell you. I won’t tell you next time.”

“I apologize for my stupidity.” Mura hurried away.

“You’re all right today,” Omi said to Blackthorne. “No troubles in the night?”

“Good today, thank you. And you?”

Omi spoke at length. Blackthorne did not catch all of it, as he had not understood all of what Omi had said to Mura, only a few words here, a few there.

“So sorry. I don’t understand.”

“Enjoy? How did you like yesterday? The attack? The ‘pretend’ battle?”

“Ah, I understand. Yes, I think good.”

“And the witnessing?”

“Please?”

“Witnessing! The ronin Nebara Jozen and his men?” Omi imitated the bayonet lunge with a laugh. “You witnessed their deaths. Deaths! You understand?”

“Ah, yes. The truth, Omi-san, not like killings.”

“Karma, Anjin-san.”

“Karma. Today trainings?”

“Yes. But Yabu-sama wants to talk only. Later. Understand, Anjin-san? Talk only, later,” Omi repeatedly patiently.

“Talk only. Understand.”

“You’re beginning to speak our language very well. Yes. Very well.”

“Thank you. Difficult. Small time.”

“Yes. But you’re a good man and you try very hard. That’s important. We’ll get you time, Anjin-san, don’t worry—I’ll help you.” Omi could see that most of what he was saying was lost, but he didn’t mind, so long as the Anjin-san got the gist. “I want to be your friend,” he said, then repeated it very clearly. “Do you understand?”

“Friend? I understand ‘friend.’ ”

Omi pointed at himself then at Blackthorne. “I want to be your friend.”

“Ah! Thank you. Honored.”

Omi smiled again and bowed, equal to equal, and walked away.

“Friends with him?” Blackthorne muttered. “Has he forgotten? I haven’t.”

“Ah, Anjin-san,” Fujiko said, hurrying up to him. “Would you like to eat? Yabu-sama is going to send for you soon.”

“Yes, thank you. Many breakings?” he asked, pointing at the house.

“Excuse me, so sorry, but you should say, ‘Was there much breakage?’ ”

“Was there much breakage?”

“No real damage, Anjin-san.”

“Good. No hurtings?”

“Excuse me, so sorry, you should say, ‘No one was hurt?’ ”

“Thank you. No one was hurt?”

“No, Anjin-san. No one was hurt.”

Suddenly Blackthorne was sick of being continually corrected, so he terminated the conversation with an order. “I’m hunger. Food!”

“Yes, immediately. So sorry, but you should say, ‘I’m hungry.’ A person has hunger, but is hungry.” She waited until he had said it correctly, then went away.

He sat on the veranda and watched Ueki-ya, the old gardener, tidying up the damage and the scattered leaves. He could see women and children repairing the village, and boats going to sea through the chop. Other villagers trudged off to the fields, the wind abating now. I wonder what taxes they have to pay, he asked himself. I’d hate to be a peasant here. Not only here—anywhere.

At first light he had been distressed by the apparent devastation of the village. “That storm’d hardly touch an English house,” he had said to Mariko. “Oh, it was a gale all right, but not a bad one. Why don’t you build out of stone or bricks?”

“Because of the earthquakes, Anjin-san. Any stone building would, of course, split and collapse and probably hurt or kill the inhabitants. With our style of building there’s little damage. You’ll see how quickly everything’s put back together.”

“Yes, but you’ve fire hazards. And what happens when the Great Winds come? The tai-funs?”

“It is very bad then.”

She had explained about the tai-funs and their seasons—from June until September, sometimes earlier, sometimes later. And about the other natural catastrophes.

A few days ago there had been another tremor. It was slight. A kettle had fallen off the brazier and overturned it. Fortunately the coals had been smothered. One house in the village had caught fire but the fire did not spread. Blackthorne had never seen such efficient fire fighting. Apart from that, no one in the village had paid much attention. They had merely laughed and gone on with their lives.

“Why do people laugh?”

“We consider it very shameful and impolite to show strong feelings, particularly fear, so we hide them with a laugh or a smile. Of course we’re all afraid, though we must never show it.”

Some of you show it, Blackthorne thought.

Nebara Jozen had shown it. He had died badly, weeping with fear, begging for mercy, the killing slow and cruel. He had been allowed to run, then bayoneted carefully amidst laughter, then forced to run again, and hamstrung. Then he had been allowed to crawl away, then gutted slowly while he screamed, his blood dribbling with the phlegm, then left to die.

Next Naga had turned his attention to the other samurai. At once three of Jozen’s men knelt and bared their bellies and put their short knives in front of them to commit ritual seppuku. Three of their comrades stood behind them as their seconds, long swords out and raised, two-handed, all of them now unmolested by Naga and his men. As the samurai who knelt reached out for their knives, they stretched their necks and the three swords flashed down and decapitated them with the single blow. Teeth chattered in the fallen heads, then were still. Flies swarmed.

Then two samurai knelt, the last man standing ready as second. The first of those kneeling was decapitated in the manner of his comrades as he reached for the knife. The other said, “No. I, Hirasaki Kenko, I know how to die—how a samurai should die.”

Kenko was a lithe young man, perfumed and almost pretty, paleskinned, his hair well oiled and very neat. He picked up his knife reverently and partially wrapped the blade with his sash to improve his grip.

“I protest Nebara Jozen-san’s death and those of his men,” he said firmly, bowing to Naga. He took a last look at the sky and gave his second a last reassuring smile. “Sayonara, Tadeo.” Then he slid the knife deep into the left side of his stomach. He ripped it full across with both hands and took it out and plunged it deep again, just above his groin, and jerked it up in silence. His lacerated bowels spilled into his lap and as his hideously contorted, agonized face pitched forward, his second brought the sword down in a single slashing arc.

Naga personally picked up this head by the hair knot and wiped off the dirt and closed the eyes. Then he told his men to see that the head was washed, wrapped, and sent to Ishido with full honors, with a complete report on Hirasaki Kenko’s bravery.

The last samurai knelt. There was no one left to second him. He too was young. His fingers trembled and fear consumed him. Twice he had done his duty to his comrades, twice cut cleanly, honorably, saving them the trial of pain and the shame of fear. And once he had waited for his dearest friend to die as a samurai should die, self-immolated in pride-filled silence, then again cut cleanly with perfect skill. He had never killed before.

His eyes focused on his own knife. He bared his stomach and prayed for his lover’s courage. Tears were gathering but he willed his face into a frozen, smiling mask. He unwound his sash and partially wrapped the blade. Then, because the youth had done his duty well, Naga signaled to his lieutenant.

This samurai came forward and bowed, introducing himself formally. “Osaragi Nampo, Captain of Lord Toranaga’s Ninth Legion. I would be honored to act as your second.”

“Ikomo Tadeo, First Officer, vassal of Lord Ishido,” the youth replied. “Thank you. I would be honored to accept you as my second.”

His death was quick, painless, and honorable.

The heads were collected. Later Jozen shrieked into life again. His frantic hands tried helplessly to remake his belly.

They left him to the dogs that had come up from the village.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

At the Hour of the Horse, eleven o’clock in the morning, ten days after the death of Jozen and all his men, a convoy of three galleys rounded the headland at Anjiro. They were crammed with troops. Toranaga came ashore. Beside him was Buntaro.

“First I wish to see an attack exercise, Yabu-san, with the original five hundred,” Toranaga said. “At once.”

“Could it be tomorrow? That would give me time to prepare,” Yabu said affably, but inwardly he was furious at the suddenness of Toranaga’s arrival and incensed with his spies for not forewarning him. He had had barely enough time to hurry to the shore with a guard of honor. “You must be tired—”

“I’m not tired, thank you,” Toranaga said, intentionally brusque. “I don’t need ‘defenders’ or an elaborate setting or screams or pretended deaths. You forget, old friend, I’ve acted in enough Nōh plays and staged enough to be able to use my imagination. I’m not a ronin-peasant! Please order it mounted at once.”

They were on the beach beside the wharf. Toranaga was surrounded by elite guards, and more were pouring off the moored galley. Another thousand heavily armed samurai were crammed into the two galleys that waited just offshore. It was a warm day, the sky cloudless, with a light surf and heat haze on the horizon.

“Igurashi, see to it!” Yabu bottled his rage. Since the first message he had sent concerning Jozen’s arrival eleven days ago, there had been the merest trickle of noncommittal reports from Yedo from his own espionage network, and nothing but sporadic and infuriatingly inconclusive replies from Toranaga to his ever more urgent signals: “Your message received and under serious study.” “Shocked by your news about my son. Please wait for further instructions.” Then, four days ago: “Those responsible for Jozen’s death will be punished. They are to remain at their posts but to continue under arrest until I can consult with Lord Ishido.” And yesterday, the bombshell: “Today I received the new Council of Regents’ formal invitation to the Osaka Flower-Viewing Ceremony. When do you plan to leave? Advise immediately.”

“Surely that doesn’t mean Toranaga’s actually going?” Yabu had asked, baffled.

“He’s forcing you to commit yourself,” Igurashi had replied. “Whatever you say traps you.”

“I agree,” Omi had said.

“Why aren’t we getting news from Yedo? What’s happened to our spies?”

“It’s almost as though Toranaga’s put a blanket over the whole Kwanto,” Omi had told him. “Perhaps he knows who your spies are!”

“Today’s the tenth day, Sire,” Igurashi had reminded Yabu. “Everything’s ready for your departure to Osaka. Do you want to leave or not?”

Now, here on the beach, Yabu blessed his guardian kami who had persuaded him to accept Omi’s advice to stay until the last possible day, three days hence.

“About your final message, Toranaga-sama, the one that arrived yesterday,” he said. “You’re surely not going to Osaka?”

“Are you?”

“I acknowledge you as leader. Of course, I’ve been waiting for your decision.”

“My decision is easy, Yabu-sama. But yours is hard. If you go, the Regents will certainly chop you for destroying Jozen and his men. And Ishido is really very angry—and rightly so. Neh?”

“I didn’t do it, Lord Toranaga. Jozen’s destruction—however merited—was against my orders.”

“It was just as well Naga-san did it, neh? Otherwise you’d certainly have had to do it yourself. I’ll discuss Naga-san later, but come along, we’ll talk as we walk up to the training ground. No need to waste time.” Toranaga set off at his brisk pace, his guards following closely. “Yes, you really are in a dilemma, old friend. If you go, you lose your head, you lose Izu, and of course your whole Kasigi family goes to the execution ground. If you stay, the Council will order the same thing.” He looked across at him. “Perhaps you should do what you suggested I do the last time I was in Anjiro. I’ll be happy to be your second. Perhaps your head will ease Ishido’s ill humor when I meet him.”

“My head’s of no value to Ishido.”

“I don’t agree.”

Buntaro intercepted them. “Excuse me, Sire. Where do you want the men billeted?”

“On the plateau. Make your permanent camp there. Two hundred guards will stay with me at the fortress. When you’ve made the arrangements join me. I’ll want you to see the training exercise.” Buntaro hurried off.

“Permanent camp? You’re staying here?” Yabu asked.

“No, only my men. If the attack’s as good as I hear, we’ll be forming nine assault battalions of five hundred samurai each.”

“What?”

“Yes. I’ve brought another thousand selected samurai for you now. You’ll provide the other thousand.”

“But there aren’t enough guns and the train—”

“So sorry, you’re wrong. I’ve brought a thousand muskets and plenty of powder and shot. The rest will arrive within a week with another thousand men.”

“We’ll have nine assault battalions?”

“Yes. They’ll be one regiment. Buntaro will command.”

“Perhaps it would be better if I did that. He’ll be—”

“Oh, but you forget the Council meets in a few days. How can you command a regiment if you’re going to Osaka? Haven’t you prepared to leave?”

Yabu stopped. “We’re allies. We agreed you’re the leader and we pissed on the bargain. I’ve kept it, and I’m keeping it. Now I ask, what’s your plan? Do we war or don’t we?”

“No one’s declared war on me. Yet.”

Yabu craved to unsheath the Yoshitomo blade and splash Toranaga’s blood on the dirt, once and for all, whatever the cost. He could feel the breath of the Toranaga guards all around him but he was beyond caring now. “Isn’t the Council your death knell too? You said that yourself. Once they’ve met, you have to obey. Neh?”

“Of course.” Toranaga waved his guards back, leaning easily on his sword, his stocky legs wide and firm.

“Then what’s your decision? What do you propose?”

“First to see an attack.”

“Then?”

“Then to go hunting.”

“Are you going to Osaka?”

“Of course.”

“When?”

“When it pleases me.”

“You mean, not when it pleases Ishido.”

“I mean when it pleases me.”

“We’ll be isolated,” Yabu said. “We can’t fight all Japan, even with an assault regiment, and we can’t possibly train it in ten days.”

“Yes.”

“Then what’s the plan?”

“What exactly happened with Jozen and Naga-san?”

Yabu told it truly, omitting only the fact that Naga had been manipulated by Omi.

“And my barbarian? How’s the Anjin-san behaving?”

“Good. Very good.” Yabu told him about the attempted seppuku on the first night, and how he had neatly bent the Anjin-san to their mutual advantage.

“That was clever,” Toranaga said slowly. “I’d never have guessed he’d try seppuku. Interesting.”

“It was fortunate I told Omi to be ready.”

“Yes.”

Impatiently Yabu waited for more but Toranaga remained silent. “This news I sent about Lord Ito becoming a Regent,” Yabu said at last. “Did you know about it before I sent word?”

Toranaga did not answer for a moment. “I’d heard rumors. Lord Ito’s a perfect choice for Ishido. The poor fool’s always enjoyed being shafted while he has his nose up another man’s anus. They’ll make good bedfellows.”

“His vote will destroy you, even so.”

“Providing there’s a Council.”

“Ah, then you do have a plan?”

“I always have a plan—or plans—didn’t you know? But you, what’s your plan, Ally? If you want to leave, leave. If you want to stay, stay. Choose!” He walked on.

Mariko handed Toranaga a scroll of closely written characters.

“Is this everything?” he asked.

“Yes, Sire,” she replied, not liking the stuffiness of the cabin or being aboard the galley again, even moored at the dock. “A lot of what’s in the War Manual will be repeated, but I made notes every night and wrote down everything as it happened—or tried to. It’s almost like a diary of what was said and happened since you left.”

“Good. Has anyone else read it?”

“Not to my knowledge.” She used her fan to cool herself. “The Anjin-san’s consort and servants have seen me writing it, but I’ve kept it locked away.”

“What are your conclusions?”

Mariko hesitated. She glanced at the cabin door and at the closed porthole.

Toranaga said, “Only my men are aboard and no one’s below decks. Except us.”

“Yes, Sire. I just remembered the Anjin-san saying there are no secrets aboard a ship. So sorry.” She thought a moment, then said confidently, “The Musket Regiment will win one battle. Barbarians could destroy us if they landed in force with guns and cannon. You must have a barbarian navy. Thus far, the Anjin-san’s knowledge has been enormously valuable to you, so much so it should be kept secret, only for your ears. In the wrong hands his knowledge would be lethal to you.”

“Who shares his knowledge now?”

“Yabu-san knows much but Omi-san more—he’s the most intuitive. Igurashi-san, Naga-san, and the troops—the troops of course understand the strategy, not the finer details and none of the Anjin-san’s political and general knowledge. Me, more than any. I’ve written down everything he’s said, asked, or commented on, Sire. As best I can. Of course he has only told us about certain things, but his range is vast and his memory near perfect. With patience he can provide you with an accurate picture of the world, its customs and dangers. If he’s telling the truth.”

“Is he?”

“I believe so.”

“What’s your opinion of Yabu?”

“Yabu-san’s a violent man with no scruples whatsoever. He honors nothing but his own interests. Duty, loyalty, tradition, mean nothing to him. His mind has flashes of great cunning, even brilliance. He’s equally dangerous as ally or enemy.”

“All commendable virtues. What’s to be said against him?”

“A bad administrator. His peasants would revolt if they had weapons.”

“Why?”

“Extortionate taxes. Illegal taxes. He takes seventy-five parts from every hundred of all rice, fish, and produce. He’s begun a head tax, land tax, boat tax—every sale, every barrel of saké, everything’s taxed in Izu.”

“Perhaps I should employ him or his quartermaster for the Kwanto. Well, what he does here’s his own business, his peasants’ll never get weapons so we’ve nothing to worry about. I could still use this as a base if need be.”

“But Sire, sixty parts is the legal limit.”

“It was the legal limit. The Taikō made it legal but he’s dead. What else about Yabu?”

“He eats little, his health appears good, but Suwo, the masseur, thinks he has kidney trouble. He has some curious habits.”

“What?”

She told him about the Night of the Screams.

“Who told you about that?”

“Suwo. Also Omi-san’s wife and mother.”

“Yabu’s father used to boil his enemies too. Waste of time. But I can understand his need to do it occasionally. His nephew, Omi?”

“Very shrewd. Very wise. Completely loyal to his uncle. A very capable, impressive vassal.”

“Omi’s family?”

“His mother is—is suitably firm with Midori, his wife. The wife is samurai, gentle, strong, and very good. All are loyal vassals of Yabu-san. Presently Omi-san has no consorts though Kiku, the most famous courtesan in Izu, is almost like a consort. If he could buy her contract I think he’d bring her into his house.”

“Would he help me against Yabu if I wanted him to?”

She pondered that. Then shook her head. “No, Sire. I don’t think so. I think he’s his uncle’s vassal.”

“Naga?”

“As good a samurai as a man could be. He saw at once the danger of Jozen-san and his men to you, and locked things up until you could be consulted. As much as he detests the Musket Battalion he trains the companies hard to make them perfect.”

“I think he was very stupid—to be Yabu’s puppet.”

She adjusted a fold in her kimono, saying nothing.

Toranaga fanned himself. “Now the Anjin-san?”

She had been expecting this question and now that it had come, all the clever observations she was going to make vanished from her head.

“Well?”

“You must judge from the scroll, Sire. In certain areas he’s impossible to explain. Of course, his training and heritage have nothing in common with ours. He’s very complex and beyond our—beyond my understanding. He used to be very open. But since his attempted seppuku, he’s changed. He’s more secretive.” She told him what Omi had said and had done on that first night. And about Yabu’s promise.

“Ah, Omi stopped him—not Yabu-san?”

“Yes.”

“And Yabu followed Omi’s advice?”

“Exactly, Sire.”

“So Omi’s the adviser. Interesting. But surely the Anjin-san doesn’t expect Yabu to keep the promise?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

Toranaga laughed. “How childish!”

“Christian ‘conscience’ is deeply set in him, so sorry. He cannot avoid his karma, one part of which is that he’s totally to be governed through this hatred of a death, or deaths, of what he calls ‘innocents.’ Even Jozen’s death affected him deeply. For many nights his sleep was disturbed and for days he hardly talked to anyone.”

“Would this ‘conscience’ apply to all barbarians?”

“No, though it should to all Christian barbarians.”

“Will he lose this ‘conscience’?”

“I don’t think so. But he’s as defenseless as a doll until he does.”

“His consort?”

She told him everything.

“Good.” He was pleased that his choice of Fujiko and his plan had worked so well. “Very good. She did very well over the guns. What about his habits?”

“Mostly normal, except for an astounding embarrassment over pillow matters and a curious reluctance to discuss the most normal functions.” She also described his unusual need for solitude, and his abominable taste in food. “In most other things he’s attentive, reasonable, sharp, an adept pupil, and very curious about us and our customs. It’s all in my report, but briefly, I’ve explained something of our way of life, a little of us and our history, about the Taikō and the problems besetting our Realm now.”

“Ah, about the Heir?”

“Yes, Sire. Was that wrong?”

“No. You were told to educate him. How’s his Japanese?”

“Very good, considering. In time he’ll speak our language quite well. He’s a good pupil, Sire.”

“Pillowing?”

“One of the maids,” she said at once.

“He chose her?”

“His consort sent her to him.”

“And?”

“It was mutually satisfactory, I understand.”

“Ah! Then she had no difficulty.”

“No, Sire.”

“But he’s in proportion?”

“The girl said, ‘Oh very yes.’ ‘Lavish’ was the word she used.”

“Excellent. At least in that his karma’s good. That’s the trouble with a lot of men—Yabu for one, Kiyama for another. Small shafts. Unfortunate to be born with a small shaft. Very. Yes.” He glanced at the scroll, then closed his fan with a snap. “And you, Mariko-san? What about you?”

“Good, thank you, Sire. I’m very pleased to see you looking so well. May I offer you congratulations on the birth of your grandson.”

“Thank you, yes. Yes, I’m pleased. The boy’s well formed and appears healthy.”

“And the Lady Genjiko?”

Toranaga grunted. “She’s as strong as always. Yes.” He pursed his lips, brooding for a moment. “Perhaps you could recommend a foster mother for the child.” It was custom for sons of important samurai to have foster mothers so that the natural mother could attend to her husband and to the running of his house, leaving the foster mother to concentrate on the child’s upbringing, making him strong and a credit to the parents. “I’m afraid it won’t be easy to find the right person. The Lady Genjiko’s not the easiest mistress to work for, neh?”

“I’m sure you’ll find the perfect person, Sire. I’ll certainly give it some thought,” Mariko replied, knowing that to offer such advice would be foolish, for no woman born could possibly satisfy both Toranaga and his daughter-in-law.

“Thank you. But you, Mariko-san, what about you?”

“Good, Sire, thank you.”

“And your Christian conscience?”

“There’s no conflict, Sire. None. I’ve done everything you would wish. Truly.”

“Have any priests been here?”

“No, Sire.”

“You have need of one?”

“It would be good to confess and take the Sacrament and be blessed. Yes, truthfully, I would like that—to confess the things permitted and to be blessed.”

Toranaga studied her closely. Her eyes were guileless. “You’ve done well, Mariko-san. Please continue as before.”

“Yes, Sire, thank you. One thing—the Anjin-san needs a grammar book and dictionary badly.”

“I’ve sent to Tsukku-san for them.” He noticed her frown. “You don’t think he’ll send them?”

“He would obey, of course. Perhaps not with the speed you’d like.”

“I’ll soon know that.” Toranaga added ominously, “He has only thirteen days left.”

Mariko was startled. “Sire?” she asked, not understanding.

“Thirteen? Ah,” Toranaga said nonchalantly, covering his momentary lapse, “when we were aboard the Portuguese ship he asked permission to visit Yedo. I agreed, providing it was within forty days. There are thirteen left. Wasn’t forty days the time this bonze, this prophet, this Moses spent on the mountain collecting the commands of ‘God’ that were etched in stone?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Do you believe that happened?”

“Yes. But I don’t understand how or why.”

“A waste of time discussing ‘God-things.’ Neh?”

“If you seek facts, yes, Sire.”

“While you were waiting for this dictionary, have you tried to make one?”

“Yes, Toranaga-sama. I’m afraid it’s not very good. Unfortunately there seems to be so little time, so many problems. Here—everywhere,” she added pointedly.

He nodded agreement, knowing that she would dearly like to ask many things: about the new Council and Lord Ito’s appointment and Naga’s sentence and if war would be immediate. “We’re fortunate to have your husband back with us, neh?”

Her fan stopped. “I never thought he’d escape alive. Never. I’ve said a prayer and burnt incense to his memory daily.” Buntaro had told her this morning how another contingent of Toranaga samurai had covered his retreat from the beach and he had made the outskirts of Osaka without trouble. Then, with fifty picked men and spare horses, disguised as bandits, he hastily took to the hills and lesser paths in a headlong dash for Yedo. Twice his pursuers caught up with him but there were not enough of the enemy to contain him and he fought his way through. Once he was ambushed and lost all but four men, and escaped again and went deeper into the forest, traveling by night, sleeping during the day. Berries and spring water, a little rice snatched from lonely farmhouses, then galloping on again, hunters always at his heels. It had taken him twenty days to reach Yedo. Two men had survived with him.

“It was almost a miracle,” she said. “I thought I was possessed by a kami when I saw him here beside you on the beach.”

“He’s clever. Very strong and very clever.”

“May I ask what news of Lord Hiro-matsu, Sire? And Osaka? Lady Kiritsubo and the Lady Sazuko?”

Noncommittal, Toranaga informed her that Hiro-matsu had arrived back at Yedo the day before he had left, though his ladies had decided to stay at Osaka, the Lady Sazuko’s health being the reason for their delay. There was no need to elaborate. Both he and Mariko knew that this was merely a face-saving formula and that General Ishido would never allow two such valuable hostages to leave now that Toranaga was out of his grasp.

“Shigata ga nai,” he said. “Karma, neh?” There’s nothing that can be done. That’s karma, isn’t it?

“Yes.”

He picked up the scroll. “Now I must read this. Thank you, Mariko-san. You’ve done very well. Please bring the Anjin-san to the fortress at dawn.”

“Sire, now that my Master is here, I will have—”

“Your husband has already agreed that while I’m here you’re to remain where you are and act as interpreter, your prime duty being to the Anjin-san for the next few days.”

“But Sire, I must set up house for my Lord. He’ll need servants and a house.”

“That will be a waste of money, time, and effort at the moment. He’ll stay with the troops—or at the Anjin-san’s house—whichever pleases him.” He noticed a flash of irritation. “Nan ja?”

“My place should be with my Master. To serve him.”

“Your place is where I want it to be. Neh?”

“Yes, please excuse me. Of course.”

“Of course.”

She left.

He read the scroll carefully. And the War Manual. Then he reread parts of the scroll. He put them both away safely and posted guards on the cabin and went aloft.

It was dawn. The day promised warmth and overcast. He canceled the meeting with the Anjin-san, as he had intended, and rode to the plateau with a hundred guards. There he collected his falconers and three hawks and hunted for twenty ri. By noon he had bagged three pheasants, two large woodcock, a hare, and a brace of quail. He sent one pheasant and the hare to the Anjin-san, the rest to the fortress. Some of his samurai were not Buddhists and he was tolerant of their eating habits. For himself he ate a little cold rice with fish paste, some pickled seaweed with slivers of ginger. Then he curled up on the ground and slept.

Now it was late afternoon and Blackthorne was in the kitchen, whistling merrily. Around him were the chief cook, assistant cook, the vegetable preparer, fish preparer, and their assistants, all smiling but inwardly mortified because their master was here in their kitchen with their mistress, also because she had told them he was going to honor them by showing them how to prepare and cook in his style. And last because of the hare.

He had already hung the pheasant under the eaves of an outhouse with careful instructions that no one, no one was to touch it but him. “Do they understand, Fujiko-san? No touching but me?” he asked with mock gravity.

“Oh, yes, Anjin-san. They all understand. So sorry, excuse me, but you should say ‘No one’s to touch it except me.’ ”

“Now,” he was saying to no one in particular, “the gentle art of cooking. Lesson One.”

“Dozo gomen nasai?” Fujiko asked.

“Miru!” Watch.

Feeling young again—for one of his first chores had been to clean the game he and his brother poached at such huge risk from the estates around Chatham—he selected a long, curving knife. The sushi chef blanched. This was his favorite knife, with an especially honed edge to ensure that the slivers of raw fish were always sliced to perfection. All the staff knew this and they sucked in their breaths, smiling even more to hide their embarrassment for him, as he increased the size of his smile to hide his own shame.

Blackthorne slit the hare’s belly and neatly turned out the stomach sac and entrails. One of the younger maids heaved and fled silently. Fujiko resolved to fine her a month’s wages, wishing at the same time that she too could be a peasant and so flee with honor.

They watched, glazed, as he cut off the paws and feet, then pushed the forelegs back into the pelt, easing the skin off the legs. He did the same with the back legs and worked the pelt around to bring the naked back legs out through the belly slit, and then, with a deft jerk, he pulled the pelt over the head like a discarded winter coat. He lay the almost skinned animal on the chopping table and decapitated it, leaving the head with its staring, pathetic eyes still attached to the pelt. He turned the pelt right side out again, and put it aside. A sigh went through the kitchen. He did not hear it as he concentrated on slicing off the legs into joints and quartering the carcass. Another maid fled unnoticed.

“Now I want a pot,” Blackthorne said with a hearty grin.

No one answered him. They just stared with the same fixed smiles. He saw a large iron cauldron. It was spotless. He picked it up with bloody hands and filled it with water from a wooden container, then hung the pot over the brazier, which was set into the earthen floor in a pit surrounded by stone. He added the pieces of meat.

“Now some vegetables and spices,” he said.

“Dozo?” Fujiko asked throatily.

He did not know the Japanese words so he looked around. There were some carrots, and some roots that looked like turnips in a wooden basket. These he cleaned and cut up and added to the soup with salt and some of the dark soya sauce.

“We should have some onions and garlic and port wine.”

“Dozo?” Fujiko asked again helplessly.

“Kotoba shirimasen.” I don’t know the words.

She did not correct him, just picked up a spoon and offered it. He shook his head. “Saké,” he ordered. The assistant cook jerked into life and gave him the small wooden barrel.

“Domo.” Blackthorne poured in a cupful, then added another for good measure. He would have drunk some from the barrel but he knew that it would be bad manners, to drink it cold and without ceremony, and certainly not here in the kitchen.

“Christ Jesus, I’d love a beer,” he said.

“Dozo gozaimashita, Anjin-san?”

“Kotoba shirimasen—but this stew’s going to be great. Ichi-ban, neh?” He pointed at the hissing pot.

“Hai,” she said without conviction.

“Okuru tsukai arigato Toranaga-sama,” Blackthorne said. Send a messenger to thank Lord Toranaga. No one corrected the bad Japanese.

“Hai.” Once outside Fujiko rushed for the privy, the little hut that stood in solitary splendor near the front door in the garden. She was very sick.

“Are you all right, Mistress?” her maid, Nigatsu, said. She was middle-aged, roly-poly, and had looked after Fujiko all her life.

“Go away! But first bring me some cha. No—you’ll have to go into the kitchen . . . oh oh oh!”

“I have cha here, Mistress. We thought you’d need some so we boiled the water on another brazier. Here!”

“Oh, you’re so clever!” Fujiko pinched Nigatsu’s round cheek affectionately as another maid came to fan her. She wiped her mouth on the paper towel and sat gratefully on cushions on the veranda. “Oh, that’s better!” And it was better in the open air, in the shade, the good afternoon sun casting dark shadows and butterflies foraging, the sea far below, calm and iridescent.

“What’s going on, Mistress? We didn’t dare even to peek.”

“Never mind. The Master’s—the Master’s—never mind. His customs are weird but that’s our karma.”

She glanced away as her chief cook came unctuously through the garden and her heart sank a little more. He bowed formally, a taut, thin little man with large feet and very buck teeth. Before he could utter a word Fujiko said through a flat smile, “Order new knives from the village. A new rice-cooking pot. A new chopping board, new water containers—all utensils you think necessary. Those that the Master used are to be kept for his private purposes. You will set aside a special area, construct another kitchen if you wish, where the Master can cook if he so desires—until you are proficient.”

“Thank you, Fujiko-sama,” the cook said. “Excuse me for interrupting you, but, so sorry, please excuse me, I know a fine cook in the next village. He’s not a Buddhist and he’s even been with the army in Korea so he’d know all about the—how to—how to cook for the Master so much better than I.”

“When I want another cook I will tell you. When I consider you inept or malingering I will tell you. Until that time you will be chief cook here. You accepted the post for six months,” she said.

“Yes, Mistress,” the cook said with outward dignity, though quaking inside, for Fujiko-noh-Anjin was no mistress to trifle with. “Please excuse me, but I was engaged to cook. I am proud to cook. But I never accepted to—to be butcher. Eta are butchers. Of course we can’t have an eta here but this other cook isn’t a Buddhist like me, my father, his father before him and his before him, Mistress, and they never, never . . . Please, this new cook will—”

“You will cook here as you’ve always cooked. I find your cooking excellent, worthy of a master cook in Yedo. I even sent one of your recipes to the Lady Kiritsubo in Osaka.”

“Oh? Thank you. You do me too much honor. Which one, Mistress?”

“The tiny, fresh eels and jellyfish and sliced oysters, with just the right touch of soya, that you make so well. Excellent! The best I’ve ever tasted.”

“Oh, thank you, Mistress,” he groveled.

“Of course your soups leave much to be desired.”

“Oh, so sorry!”

“I’ll discuss those with you later. Thank you, cook,” she said, experimenting with a dismissal.

The little man stood his ground gamely. “Please excuse me, Mistress, but oh ko, with complete humbleness, if the Master—when the Master—”

“When the Master tells you to cook or to butcher or whatever, you will rush to do it. Instantly. As any loyal servant should. Meanwhile, it may take you a great deal of time to become proficient so perhaps you’d better make temporary arrangements with this other cook to visit you on the rare days the Master might wish to eat in his own fashion.”

His honor satisfied, the cook smiled and bowed. “Thank you. Please excuse my asking for enlightenment.”

“Of course you pay for the substitute cook from your own salary.”

When they were alone again, Nigatsu chortled behind her hand. “Oh, Mistress-chan, may I compliment you on your total victory and your wisdom? Chief cook almost broke wind when you said that he was going to have to pay too!”

“Thank you, Nanny-san.” Fujiko could smell the hare beginning to cook. What if he asks me to eat it with him, she was thinking, and almost wilted. Even if he doesn’t I’ll still have to serve it. How can I avoid being sick? You will not be sick, she ordered herself. It’s your karma. You must have been completely dreadful in your previous life. Yes. But remember everything is fine now. Only five months and six days more. Don’t think of that, just think about your Master, who is a brave, strong man, though one with ghastly eating habits. . . .

Horses clattered up to the gate. Buntaro dismounted and waved the rest of his men away. Then, accompanied only by his personal guard, he strode through the garden, dusty and sweat-soiled. He carried his huge bow and on his back was his quiver. Fujiko and her maid bowed warmly, hating him. Her uncle was famous for his wild, uncontrollable rages which made him lash out without warning or pick a quarrel with almost anyone. Most of the time only his servants suffered, or his women. “Please come in, Uncle. How kind of you to visit us so soon,” Fujiko said.

“Ah, Fujiko-san. Do—What’s that stench?”

“My Master’s cooking some game Lord Toranaga sent him—he’s showing my miserable servants how to cook.”

“If he wants to cook, I suppose he can, though . . .” Buntaro wrinkled his nose distastefully. “Yes, a master can do anything in his own house, within the law, unless it disturbs the neighbors.”

Legally such a smell could be cause for complaint and it could be very bad to inconvenience neighbors. Inferiors never did anything to disturb their superiors. Otherwise heads would fall. That was why, throughout the land, samurai lived cautiously and courteously near samurai of equal rank if possible, peasants next to peasants, merchants in their own streets, and eta isolated outside. Omi was their immediate neighbor. He’s superior, she thought. “I hope sincerely no one’s disturbed,” she told Buntaro uneasily, wondering what new evil he was concocting. “You wanted to see my Master?” She began to get up but he stopped her.

“No, please don’t disturb him, I’ll wait,” he said formally and her heart sank. Buntaro was not known for his manners and politeness from him was very dangerous.

“I apologize for arriving like this without first sending a messenger to request an appointment,” he was saying, “but Lord Toranaga told me I might perhaps be allowed to use the bath and have quarters here. From time to time. Would you ask the Anjin-san later, if he would give his permission?”

“Of course,” she said, continuing the usual pattern of etiquette, loathing the idea of having Buntaro in her house. “I’m sure he will be honored, Uncle. May I offer you cha or saké while you wait?”

“Saké, thank you.”

Nigatsu hurriedly set a cushion on the veranda and fled for the saké, as much as she would have liked to stay.

Buntaro handed his bow and quiver to his guard, kicked off his dusty sandals, and stomped onto the veranda. He pulled his killing sword out of his sash, sat cross-legged, and laid the sword on his knees.

“Where’s my wife? With the Anjin-san?”

“No, Buntaro-sama, so sorry, she was ordered to the fortress where—”

“Ordered? By whom? By Kasigi Yabu?”

“Oh, no, by Lord Toranaga, Sire, when he came back from hunting this afternoon.”

“Oh, Lord Toranaga?” Buntaro simmered down and scowled across the bay at the fortress. Toranaga’s standard flew beside Yabu’s.

“Would you like me to send someone for her?”

He shook his head. “There’s time enough for her.” He exhaled, looked across at his niece, daughter of his youngest sister. “I’m fortunate to have such an accomplished wife, neh?”

“Yes, Sire. Yes you are. She’s been enormously valuable to interpret the Anjin-san’s knowledge.”

Buntaro stared at the fortress, then sniffed the wind as the smell of the cooking wafted up again. “It’s like being at Nagasaki, or back in Korea. They cook meat all the time there, boil it or roast it. Stink—you’ve never smelled anything like it. Koreans’re animals, like cannibals. The garlic stench even gets into your clothes and hair.”

“It must have been terrible.”

“The war was good. We could have won easily. And smashed through to China. And civilized both countries.” Buntaro flushed and his voice rasped. “But we didn’t. We failed and had to come back with our shame because we were betrayed. Betrayed by filthy traitors in high places.”

“Yes, that’s so sad, but you’re right. Very right, Buntaro-sama,” she said soothingly, telling the lie easily, knowing no nation on earth could conquer China, and no one could civilize China, which had been civilized since ancient times.

The vein on Buntaro’s forehead was throbbing and he was talking almost to himself. “They’ll pay. All of them. The traitors. It’s only a matter of waiting beside a river long enough for the bodies of your enemies to float by, neh? I’ll wait and I’ll spit on their heads soon, very soon. I’ve promised myself that.” He looked at her. “I hate traitors and adulterers. And all liars!”

“Yes, I agree. You’re so right, Buntaro-sama,” she said, chilled, knowing there was no limit to his ferocity. When Buntaro was sixteen he had executed his own mother, one of Hiro-matsu’s lesser consorts, for her supposed infidelity while his father, Hiro-matsu, was at war fighting for the Dictator, Lord Goroda. Then, years later, he had killed his own eldest son by his first wife for supposed insults and sent her back to her family, where she died by her own hand, unable to bear the shame. He had done terrible things to his consorts and to Mariko. And he had quarreled violently with Fujiko’s father and had accused him of cowardice in Korea, discrediting him to the Taikō, who had at once ordered him to shave his head and become a monk, to die debauched, so soon, eaten up by his own shame.

It took all of Fujiko’s will to appear tranquil. “We were so proud to hear that you had escaped the enemy,” she said.

The saké arrived. Buntaro began to drink heavily.

When there had been the correct amount of waiting, Fujiko got up. “Please excuse me for a moment.” She went to the kitchen to warn Blackthorne, to ask his permission for Buntaro to be quartered in the house, and to tell him and the servants what had to be done.

“Why here?” Blackthorne asked irritably. “Why to stay here? Is necessary?”

Fujiko apologized and tried to explain that, of course, Buntaro could not be refused. Blackthorne returned moodily to his cooking and she came back to Buntaro, her chest aching.

“My Master says he’s honored to have you here. His house is your house.”

“What’s it like being consort to a barbarian?”

“I would imagine horrible. But to the Anjin-san, who is hatamoto and therefore samurai? I suppose like to other men. This is the first time I’ve been consort. I prefer to be a wife. The Anjin-san’s like other men, though yes, some of his ways are very strange.”

“Who’d have thought one of our house would be consort to a barbarian—even a hatamoto.”

“I had no choice. I merely obeyed Lord Toranaga, and grandfather, the leader of our clan. It’s a woman’s place to obey.”

“Yes.” Buntaro finished his cup of saké and she refilled it. “Obedience’s important for a woman. And Mariko-san’s obedient, isn’t she?”

“Yes, Lord.” She looked into his ugly, apelike face. “She’s brought you nothing but honor, Sire. Without the Lady, your wife, Lord Toranaga could never have got the Anjin-san’s knowledge.”

He smiled crookedly. “I hear you stuck pistols in Omi-san’s face.”

“I was only doing my duty, Sire.”

“Where did you learn to use guns?”

“I had never handled a gun until then. I didn’t know if the pistols were loaded. But I would have pulled the triggers.”

Buntaro laughed. “Omi-san thought that too.”

She refilled his cup. “I never understood why Omi-san didn’t try to take them away from me. His lord had ordered him to take them, but he didn’t.”

“I would have.”

“Yes, Uncle. I know. Please excuse me, I would still have pulled the triggers.”

“Yes. But you would have missed!”

“Yes, probably. Since then I’ve learned how to shoot.”

“He taught you?”

“No. One of Lord Naga’s officers.”

“Why?”

“My father would never allow his daughters to learn sword or spear. He thought, wisely I believe, we should devote our time to learning gentler things. But sometimes a woman needs to protect her master and his house. The pistol’s a good weapon for a woman, very good. It requires no strength and little practice. So now I can perhaps be a little more use to my Master, for I will surely blow any man’s head off to protect him, and for the honor of our house.”

Buntaro drained his cup. “I was proud when I heard you’d opposed Omi-san as you did. You were correct. Lord Hiro-matsu will be proud too.”

“Thank you, Uncle. But I was only doing an ordinary duty.” She bowed formally. “My Master asks if you would allow him the honor of talking with you now, if it pleases you.”

He continued the ritual. “Please thank him but first may I bathe? If it pleases him, I’ll see him when my wife returns.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Blackthorne waited in the garden. Now he wore the Brown uniform kimono that Toranaga had given him with swords in his sash and a loaded pistol hidden under the sash. From Fujiko’s hurried explanations and subsequently from the servants, he had gathered that he had to receive Buntaro formally, because the samurai was an important general and hatamoto, and was the first guest in the house. So he had bathed and changed quickly and had gone to the place that had been prepared.

He had seen Buntaro briefly yesterday, when he arrived. Buntaro had been busy with Toranaga and Yabu the rest of the day, together with Mariko, and Blackthorne had been left alone to organize the hurried attack demonstration with Omi and Naga. The attack was satisfactory.

Mariko had returned to the house very late. She had told him briefly about Buntaro’s escape, the days of being hunted by Ishido’s men, eluding them, and at last breaking through the hostile provinces to reach the Kwanto. “It was very difficult, but perhaps not too difficult, Anjin-san. My husband is very strong and very brave.”

“What’s going to happen now? Are you leaving?”

“Lord Toranaga orders that everything’s to remain as it was. Nothing’s to be changed.”

“You’re changed, Mariko. A spark’s gone out of you.”

“No. That’s your imagination, Anjin-san. It’s just my relief that he’s alive when I was certain he was dead.”

“Yes. But it’s made a difference, hasn’t it?”

“Of course. I thank God my Master wasn’t captured—that he lived to obey Lord Toranaga. Will you excuse me, Anjin-san. I’m tired now. I’m sorry, I’m very very tired.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“What should you do, Anjin-san? Except to be happy for me and for him. Nothing’s changed, really. Nothing is finished because nothing began. Everything’s as it was. My husband’s alive.”

Don’t you wish he were dead? Blackthorne asked himself in the garden. No.

Then why the hidden pistol? Are you filled with guilt?

No. Nothing began.

Didn’t it?

No.

You thought you were taking her. Isn’t that the same as taking her in fact?

He saw Mariko walk into the garden from the house. She looked like a porcelain miniature following half a pace behind Buntaro, his burliness seeming even greater by comparison. Fujiko was with her, and the maids.

He bowed. “Yokoso oide kudasareta, Buntaro-san.” Welcome to my house, Buntaro-san.

They all bowed. Buntaro and Mariko sat on the cushions opposite him. Fujiko seated herself behind him. Nigatsu and the maid, Koi, began to serve cha and saké. Buntaro took saké. So did Blackthorne.

“Domo, Anjin-san. Ikaga desu ka?”

“Ii. Ikaga desu ka?”

“Ii. Kowa jozuni shabereru yoni natta na.” Good. You’re beginning to speak Japanese very well.

Soon Blackthorne became lost in the conversation, for Buntaro was slurring his words, speaking carelessly and rapidly.

“Sorry, Mariko-san, I didn’t understand that.”

“My husband wishes to thank you for trying to save him. With the oar. You remember? When we were escaping from Osaka.”

“Ah, so desu! Domo. Please tell him I still think we should have put back to shore. There was time enough. The maid drowned unnecessarily.”

“He says that was karma.”

“That was a wasted death,” Blackthorne replied, and regretted the rudeness. He noticed that she did not translate it.

“My husband says that the assault strategy is very good, very good indeed.”

“Domo. Tell him I’m glad he escaped unharmed. And that he’s to command the regiment. And of course, that he’s welcome to stay here.”

“Domo, Anjin-san. Buntaro-sama says, yes, the assault plan is very good. But for himself he will always carry his bow and swords. He can kill at a much greater range, with great accuracy, and faster than a musket.”

“Tomorrow I will shoot against him and we will see, if he likes.”

“You will lose, Anjin-san, so sorry. May I caution you not to attempt that,” she said.

Blackthorne saw Buntaro’s eyes flick from Mariko to him and back again. “Thank you, Mariko-san. Say to him that I would like to see him shoot.”

“He asks, can you use a bow?”

“Yes, but not as a proper bowman. Bows are pretty much out of date with us. Except the crossbow. I was trained for the sea. There we use only cannon, musket, or cutlass. Sometimes we use fire arrows but only for enemy sails in close quarters.”

“He asks, how are they used, how do you make them, these fire arrows? Are they different from ours, like the ones used against the galley at Osaka?”

Blackthorne began to explain and there were the usual tiring interruptions and probing requestionings. By now he was used to their incredibly inquisitive minds about any aspect of war, but found it exhausting to talk through an interpreter. Even though Mariko was excellent, what she actually said was rarely exact. A long reply would always be shortened, some of what was spoken would, of course, be changed slightly, and misunderstandings occurred. So explanations had to be repeated unnecessarily.

But without Mariko, he knew that he could never have become so valuable. It’s only knowledge that keeps me from the pit, he reminded himself. But that’s no problem, because there’s much to tell yet and a battle to win. A real battle to win. You’re safe till then. You’ve a navy to plan. And then home. Safe.

He saw Buntaro’s swords and the guard’s swords and he felt his own and the oiled warmth of his pistol and he knew, truthfully, he would never be safe in this land. Neither he nor anyone was safe, not even Toranaga.

“Anjin-san, Buntaro-sama asks if he sends you men tomorrow, could you show them how to make these arrows?”

“Where can we get pitch?”

“I don’t know.” Mariko cross-questioned him on where it was usually found and what it looked like or smelled like, and on possible alternatives. Then she spoke to Buntaro at length. Fujiko had been silent all the while, her eyes and ears trained, missing nothing. The maids, well commanded by a slight motion of Fujiko’s fan to an empty cup, constantly replenished the saké flasks.

“My husband says he will discuss this with Lord Toranaga. Perhaps pitch exists somewhere in the Kwanto. We’ve never heard of it before. If not pitch, we have thick oils—whale oils—which might substitute. He asks do you sometimes use war rockets, like the Chinese?”

“Yes. But they’re not considered of much value except in siege. The Turks used them when they came against the Knights of St. John in Malta. Rockets are used mostly to cause fire and panic.”

“He asks please give him details about this battle.”

“It was forty years ago, in the greatest—” Blackthorne stopped, his mind racing. This had been the most vital siege in Europe. Sixty thousand Islamic Turks, the cream of the Ottoman Empire, had come against six hundred Christian knights supported by a few thousand Maltese auxiliaries, at bay in their vast castle complex at St. Elmo on the tiny island of Malta in the Mediterranean. The knights had successfully withstood the six-month siege and, incredibly, had forced the enemy to retreat in shame. This victory had saved the whole Mediterranean seaboard, and thus Christendom, from being ravaged at whim by the infidel hordes.

Blackthorne had suddenly realized that this battle gave him one of the keys to Osaka Castle: how to invest it, how to harry it, how to break through the gates, and how to conquer it.

“You were saying, senhor?”

“It was forty years ago, in the greatest inland sea we have in Europe, Mariko-san. The Mediterranean. It was just a siege, like any siege, not worth talking about,” he lied. Such knowledge was priceless, certainly not to be given away lightly and absolutely not now. Mariko had explained many times that Osaka Castle stood inexorably between Toranaga and victory. Blackthorne was certain that the solution to Osaka might well be his passport out of the Empire, with all the riches he would need in this life.

He noticed that Mariko seemed troubled. “Senhora?”

“Nothing, senhor.” She began to translate what he had said. But he knew that she knew he was hiding something. The smell of the stew distracted him.

“Fujiko-san!”

“Hai, Anjin-san?”

“Shokuji wa madaka? Kyaku wa . . . sazo kufuku de oro, neh?” When’s dinner? The guests may be hungry.

“Ah, gomen nasai, hi ga kurete kara ni itashimasu.”

Blackthorne saw her point at the sun and realized that she had said “after sunset.” He nodded and grunted, which passed in Japan for a polite “thank you, I understand.”

Mariko turned again to Blackthorne. “My husband would like you to tell him about a battle you’ve been in.”

“They’re all in the War Manual, Mariko-san.”

“He says he’s read it with great interest, but it contains only brief details. Over the next days he wishes to learn everything about all your battles. One now, if it pleases you.”

“They’re all in the War Manual. Perhaps tomorrow, Mariko-san.” He wanted time to examine his blinding new thought about Osaka Castle and that battle, and he was tired of talking, tired of being cross-questioned, but most of all he wanted to eat.

“Please, Anjin-san, would you tell it again, just once, for my husband?”

He heard the careful pleading under her voice so he relented. “Of course. Which do you think he’d like?”

“The one in the Netherlands. Near ‘Zeeland’—is that how you pronounce it?”

“Yes,” he said.

So he began to tell the story of this battle which was like almost every other battle in which men died, most of the time because of the mistakes and stupidity of the officers in command.

“My husband says it’s not so here, Anjin-san. Here the commanding officers have to be very good or they die very quickly.”

“Of course, my criticisms applied to European leaders only.”

“Buntaro-sama says he will tell you about our wars and our leaders, particularly the Lord Taikō, over the days. A fair exchange for your information,” she said noncommittally.

“Domo.” Blackthorne bowed slightly, feeling Buntaro’s eyes grind into him.

What do you really want from me, you son of a bitch?

Dinner was a disaster. For everyone.

Even before they had left the garden to go to the veranda to eat, the day had become ill-omened.

“Excuse me, Anjin-san, but what’s that?” Mariko pointed. “Over there. My husband asks, what’s that?”

“Where? Oh, there! That’s a pheasant,” Blackthorne said. “Lord Toranaga sent it to me, along with a hare. We’re having that for dinner, English-style—at least I am, though there’d be enough for everyone.”

“Thank you, but . . . we, my husband and I, we don’t eat meat. But why is the pheasant hanging there? In this heat, shouldn’t it be put away and prepared?”

“That’s the way you prepare pheasant. You hang it to mature the meat.”

“What? Just like that? Excuse me, Anjin-san,” she said, flustered, “so sorry. But it’ll go rotten quickly. It still has its feathers and it’s not been . . . cleaned.”

“Pheasant meat’s dry, Mariko-san, so you hang it for a few days, perhaps a couple of weeks, depending on the weather. Then you pluck it, clean it, and cook it.”

“You—you leave it in the air? To rot? Just like—”

“Nan ja?” Buntaro asked impatiently.

She spoke to him apologetically and he sucked in his breath, then got up and peered at it and prodded it. A few flies buzzed, then settled back again. Hesitantly Fujiko spoke to Buntaro and he flushed.

“Your consort said you ordered that no one was to touch it but you?” Mariko asked.

“Yes. Don’t you hang game here? Not everyone’s Buddhist.”

“No, Anjin-san. I don’t think so.”

“Some people believe you should hang a pheasant by the tail feathers until it drops off, but that’s an old wives’ tale,” Blackthorne said. “By the neck’s the right way, then the juices stay where they belong. Some people let it hang until it drops off the neck but personally, I don’t like meat that gamy. We used to—” He stopped for she had gone a slight shade of green.

“Nan desu ka, Mariko-san?” Fujiko asked quickly.

Mariko explained. They all laughed nervously and Mariko got up, weakly patting the sheen off her forehead. “I’m sorry, Anjin-san, would you excuse me a moment . . .”

Your food’s just as strange, he wanted to say. What about yesterday, the raw squid—white, slimy, almost tasteless chewy meat with nothing but soya sauce to wash it down? Or the chopped octopus tentacles, again raw, with cold rice and seaweed? How about fresh jellyfish with yellow-brown, souped tofu—fermented beancurds—that looked like a bowl of dog puke? Oh yes, served beautifully in a fragile, attractive bowl, but still looking like puke! Yes, by God, enough to make any man sick!

Eventually they went to the veranda room and, after the usual interminable bowings and small talk and cha and saké, the food began to arrive. Small trays of clear fish soup and rice and raw fish, as always. And then his stew.

He lifted the lid of the pot. The steam rose and golden globules of fat danced on the shimmering surface. The rich, mouth-watering gravy-soup was heavy with meat juices and tender chunks of flesh. Proudly he offered it but they all shook their heads and begged him to eat.

“Domo,” he said.

It was good manners to drink soup directly from the small lacquered bowls and to eat anything solid in the soup with chopsticks. A ladle was on the tray. Hard put to stop his hunger, he filled the bowl and began to eat. Then he saw their eyes.

They were watching with nauseated fascination which they unsuccessfully tried to hide. His appetite began to slip away. He tried to dismiss them but could not, his stomach growling. Hiding his irritation, he put down the bowl and replaced the lid and told them gruffly it was not to his taste. He ordered Nigatsu to take it away.

“Should it be thrown away then, Fujiko asks,” Mariko said hopefully.

“Yes.”

Fujiko and Buntaro relaxed.

“Would you like more rice?” Fujiko asked.

“No, thank you.”

Mariko waved her fan, smiled encouragingly, and refilled his saké cup. But Blackthorne was not soothed and he resolved in the future to cook in the hills in private, to eat in private, and to hunt openly.

To hell with them, he thought. If Toranaga can hunt, so can I. When am I going to see him? How long do I have to wait?

“The pox on waiting and the pox on Toranaga!” he said aloud in English and felt better.

“What, Anjin-san?” Mariko asked in Portuguese.

“Nothing,” he replied. “I was just wondering when I’d see Lord Toranaga.”

“He didn’t tell me. Very soon, I imagine.”

Buntaro was slurping his saké and soup loudly as was custom. This began to annoy Blackthorne. Mariko talked cheerfully with her husband, who grunted, hardly acknowledging her. She was not eating, and it further irked him that both she and Fujiko were almost fawning on Buntaro and also that he himself had to put up with this unwanted guest.

“Tell Buntaro-sama that in my country a host toasts the honored guest.” He lifted his cup with a grim smile. “Long life and happiness!” He drank.

Buntaro listened to Mariko’s explanation. He nodded in agreement, lifted his cup in return, smiled through his teeth, and drained it.

“Health!” Blackthorne toasted again.

And again.

And again.

“Health!”

This time Buntaro did not drink. He put down the full cup and looked at Blackthorne out of his small eyes. Then Buntaro called to someone outside. The shoji slid open at once. His guard, ever present, bowed and handed him the immense bow and quiver. Buntaro took it and spoke vehemently and rapidly to Blackthorne.

“My husband—my husband says you wanted to see him shoot, Anjin-san. He thinks tomorrow is too far away. Now is a good time. The gateway of your house, Anjin-san. He asks which post do you choose?”

“I don’t understand,” Blackthorne said. The main gate would be forty paces away, somewhere across the garden, but now completely masked by the closed shoji wall to his right.

“The left or the right post? Please choose.” Her manner was urgent.

Warned, he looked at Buntaro. The man seemed detached, oblivious of them, a squat ugly troll who sat gazing into the distance.

“Left,” he said, fascinated.

“Hidari!” she said.

At once Buntaro slid an arrow from the quiver and, still sitting, set up the bow, raised it, drew back the bowstring to eye level and released the shaft with savage, almost poetic liquidity. The arrow slashed toward Mariko’s face, touched a strand of her hair in passing, and disappeared through the shoji paper wall. Another arrow was launched almost before the first had vanished, and then another, each one coming within an inch of impaling Mariko. She remained calm and motionless, kneeling as she had always been.

A fourth arrow and then a last. The silence was filled with the echo of the twanging bowstring. Buntaro sighed and came back slowly. He put the bow across his knees. Mariko and Fujiko sucked in their breaths and smiled and bowed and complimented Buntaro and he nodded and bowed slightly. They looked at Blackthorne. He knew that what he had witnessed was almost magical. All the arrows had gone through the same hole in the shoji.

Buntaro handed the bow back to his guard and picked up his tiny cup. He stared at it a moment, then raised it to Blackthorne, drained it and spoke harshly, his brutish self again.

“He—my husband asks, politely, please go and look.”

Blackthorne thought a moment, trying to still his heart. “There’s no need. Of course he hit the target.”

“He says he would like you to be sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“Please, Anjin-san. You would honor him.”

“I don’t need to honor him.”

“Yes. But may I please quietly add my request.”

Again the plea was in her eyes.

“How do I say, ‘That was marvelous to watch’?”

She told him. He said the words and bowed. Buntaro bowed perfunctorily in return.

“Ask him please to come with me to see the arrows.”

“He says that he would like you to go by yourself. He does not wish to go, Anjin-san.”

“Why?”

“If he has been accurate, senhor, you should see that by yourself. If not, you should see that alone too. Then neither you nor he can be embarrassed.”

“And if he’s missed?”

“He hasn’t. But by our custom accuracy under such impossible circumstances is unimportant compared to the grace that the archer shows, the nobility of movement, his strength to shoot sitting, or the detachment about the winning or losing.”

The arrows were within an inch of each other in the middle of the left post. Blackthorne looked back at the house and he could see, forty-odd paces away, the small neat hole in the paper wall that was a spark of light in the darkness.

It’s almost impossible to be so accurate, he thought. From where Buntaro was sitting he couldn’t see the garden or the gate, and it was black night outside. Blackthorne turned back to the post and raised the lantern higher. With one hand he tried to pull out an arrow. The steel head was buried too deep. He could have snapped the wooden shaft but he did not wish to.

The guard was watching.

Blackthorne hesitated. The guard came forward to help but he shook his head, “Iyé, domo,” and went back inside.

“Mariko-san, please tell my consort that I would like the arrows left in the post forever. All of them. To remind me of a master archer. I’ve never seen such shooting.” He bowed to Buntaro.

“Thank you, Anjin-san.” She translated and Buntaro bowed and thanked him for the compliment.

“Saké!” Blackthorne ordered.

They drank more. Much more. Buntaro quaffed his carelessly now, the wine taking him. Blackthorne watched him covertly then let his attention wander away as he wondered how the man had managed to line up and fire the arrows with such incredible accuracy. It’s impossible, he thought, yet I saw him do it. Wonder what Vinck and Baccus and the rest are doing right now. Toranaga had told him the crew were now settled in Yedo, near Erasmus. Christ Jesus, I’d like to see them and get back aboard.

He glanced across at Mariko, who was saying something to her husband. Buntaro listened, then to Blackthorne’s surprise, he saw the samurai’s face become contorted with loathing. Before he could avert his eyes Buntaro had looked at him.

“Nan desu ka?” Buntaro’s words sounded almost like an accusation.

“Nani-mo, Buntaro-san.” Nothing. Blackthorne offered everyone saké, hoping to cover his lapse. Again the women accepted, but just sipped their wine sparingly. Buntaro finished his cup at once, his mood ugly. Then he harangued Mariko lengthily.

In spite of himself, Blackthorne spoke out. “What’s the matter with him? What’s he saying?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Anjin-san. My husband was asking about you, about your wife and consorts. And about your children. And about what happened since we left Osaka. He—” She stopped, changing her mind, and added in a different voice, “He’s most interested in you and your views.”

“I’m interested in him and his views, Mariko-san. How did you meet, you and he? When were you married? Did—” Buntaro overrode him with a flurry of impatient Japanese.

At once Mariko translated what had been said. Buntaro reached over and sloshed two teacups full of saké, offered one to Blackthorne and waved at the women to take the others.

“He—my husband says sometimes saké cups are too small.” Mariko poured the other teacups full. She sipped one, Fujiko the other. There was another, more bellicose harangue and Mariko’s smile froze on her face, Fujiko’s also.

“Iyé, dozo gomen nasai, Buntaro-sama,” Mariko began.

“Ima!” Buntaro ordered.

Nervously Fujiko started to talk but Buntaro shut her up with one look.

“Gomen nasai,” Fujiko whispered in apology. “Dozo gomen nasai.”

“What did he say, Mariko-san?”

She appeared not to hear Blackthorne. “Dozo gomen nasai, Buntaro-sama, watashi—”

Her husband’s face reddened. “IMA!”

“So sorry, Anjin-san, but my husband orders me to tell—to answer your questions—to tell you about myself. I told him that I did not think that family matters should be discussed so late at night, but he orders it. Please be patient.” She took a large sip of the saké. Then another. The strands of hair that were loose over her ears waved in the slight current made by Fujiko’s fan. She drained the cup and put it down. “My maiden name is Akechi. I am the daughter of General Lord Akechi Jinsai, the assassin. My father treacherously assassinated his liege lord, the Dictator Lord Goroda.”

“God in heaven! Why’d he do that?”

“Whatever the reason, Anjin-san, it is insufficient. My father committed the worst crime in our world. My blood’s tainted, as is the blood of my son.”

“Then why—” He stopped.

“Yes, Anjin-san?”

“I was only going to say that I understand what that means . . . to kill a liege lord. I’m surprised that you were left alive.”

“My husband honored me—”

Again Buntaro viciously interrupted her and she apologized and explained what Blackthorne had asked. Contemptuously Buntaro waved her on.

“My husband honored me by sending me away,” she continued in the same gentle way. “I begged to be allowed to commit seppuku but he denied me that privilege. It was . . . I must explain, seppuku is his privilege to give, or Lord Toranaga’s. I still humbly ask it once a year on the anniversary of the day of the treachery. But in his wisdom, my husband has always refused me.” Her smile was lovely. “My husband honors me every day, every moment, Anjin-san. If I were he I would not be able to even talk to such a . . . befouled person.”

“That’s why—that’s why you’re the last of your line?” he asked, remembering what she had said about a catastrophe on the march from Osaka Castle.

Mariko translated the question for Buntaro and then turned back again. “Hai, Anjin-san. But it wasn’t a catastrophe, not for them. They were caught in the hills, my father and his family, by Nakamura, the general who became the Taikō. It was Nakamura who led the armies of vengeance and slaughtered all my father’s forces, twenty thousand men, every one. My father and his family were trapped, but my father had time to help them all, my four brothers and three sisters, my—my mother and his two consorts. Then he committed seppuku. In that he was samurai and they were samurai,” she said. “They knelt bravely before him, one by one, and he slew them one by one. They died honorably. And he died honorably. My father’s two brothers and one uncle had sided with him in his treachery against their liege lord. They were also trapped. And they died with equal honor. Not one Akechi was left alive to face the hate and derision of the enemy except me—no, please forgive me, Anjin-san, I’m wrong—my father and his brothers and uncle, they were the real enemy. Of the enemy, only I am left alive, a living witness to filthy treachery. I, Akechi Mariko, was left alive because I was married and so belonged to my husband’s family. We lived at Kyoto then. I was at Kyoto when my father died. His treachery and rebellion lasted only thirteen days, Anjin-san. But as long as men live in these islands, the name Akechi will be foul.”

“How long had you been married when that happened?”

“Two months and three days, Anjin-san.”

“And you were fifteen then?”

“Yes. My husband honored me by not divorcing me or casting me out as he should have done. I was sent away. To a village in the north. It was cold there, Anjin-san, in Shonai Province. So cold.”

“How long were you there?”

“Eight years. The Lord Goroda was forty-nine when he committed seppuku to prevent capture. That was almost sixteen years ago, Anjin-san, and most of his descen—”

Buntaro interrupted again, his tongue a whip.

“Please excuse me, Anjin-san,” Mariko said. “My husband correctly points out it should have been enough for me to say that I am the daughter of a traitor, that long explanations are unnecessary. Of course some explanations are necessary,” she added carefully. “Please excuse my husband’s bad manners and I beg you to remember what I said about ears to hear with and the Eightfold Fence. Forgive me, Anjin-san, I am ordered away. You may not leave until he leaves, or passes out with drink. Do not interfere.” She bowed to Fujiko. “Dozo gomen nasai.”

“Do itashimashité.”

Mariko bowed her head to Buntaro and left. Her perfume lingered.

“Saké!” Buntaro said and smiled evilly.

Fujiko filled the teacup.

“Health,” Blackthorne said, in turmoil.

For more than an hour he toasted Buntaro until he felt his own head swimming. Then Buntaro passed out and lay in the shattered mess of the teacups. The shoji opened instantly. The guard came in with Mariko. They lifted Buntaro, helped by servants who seemed to appear out of nowhere, and carried him to the room opposite. Mariko’s room. Assisted by the maid, Koi, she began to undress him. The guard slid the shoji closed and sat outside it, his hand on the haft of his loosened sword.

Fujiko waited, watching Blackthorne. Maids came and tidied up the disorder. Wearily Blackthorne ran his hands through his long hair and retied the ribbon of his queue. Then he lurched up and went out onto the veranda, his consort following.

The air smelled good and cleansed him. But not enough. He sat ponderously on the stoop and drank in the night.

Fujiko knelt behind him and leaned forward. “Gomen nasai, Anjin-san,” she whispered, nodding back at the house. “Wakarimasu ka?” Do you understand?

“Wakarimasu, shigata ga nai.” Then, seeing her untoward fear, he stroked her hair.

“Arigato, arigato, Anjin-sama.”

“Anatawa suimin ima, Fujiko-san,” he said, finding the words with difficulty. You sleep now.

“Dozo gomen nasai, Anjin-sama, suimin, neh?” she said, motioning him toward his own room, her eyes pleading.

“Iyé. Watashi oyogu ima.” No, I’m going for a swim.

“Hai, Anjin-sama.” Obediently she turned and called out. Two of the servants came running. Both were young men from the village, strong and known to be good swimmers.

Blackthorne did not object. Tonight he knew his objections would be meaningless.

“Well, anyway,” he said aloud as he lurched down the hill, the men following, his brain dulled with drink, “anyway, I’ve put him to sleep. He can’t hurt her now.”

Blackthorne swam for an hour and felt better. When he came back Fujiko was waiting on the veranda with a pot of fresh cha. He accepted some, then went to bed and was instantly asleep.

The sound of Buntaro’s voice, teeming with malice, awoke him. His right hand was already grasping the hilt of the loaded pistol he always kept under the futon, and his heart was thundering in his chest from the suddenness of his waking.

Buntaro’s voice stopped. Mariko began to talk. Blackthorne could only catch a few words but he could feel the reasonableness and the pleading, not abject or whining or even near tears, just her usual firm serenity. Again Buntaro erupted.

Blackthorne tried not to listen.

“Don’t interfere,” she had told him and she was wise. He had no rights, but Buntaro had many. “I beg you to be careful, Anjin-san. Remember what I told you about ears to hear with and the Eightfold Fence.”

Obediently he lay back, his skin chilled with sweat, and forced himself to think about what she had said.

“You see, Anjin-san,” she had told him that very special evening when they were finishing the last of many last flasks of saké and he had been joking about the lack of privacy everywhere—people always around and paper walls, ears and eyes always prying, “here you have to learn to create your own privacy. We’re taught from childhood to disappear within ourselves, to grow impenetrable walls behind which we live. If we couldn’t, we’d all certainly go mad and kill each other and ourselves.”

“What walls?”

“Oh, we’ve a limitless maze to hide in, Anjin-san. Rituals and customs, taboos of all kinds, oh yes. Even our language has nuances you don’t have which allow us to avoid, politely, any question if we don’t want to answer it.”

“But how do you close your ears, Mariko-san? That’s impossible.”

“Oh, very easy, with training. Of course, training begins as soon as a child can talk, so very soon it’s second nature to us—how else could we survive? First you begin by cleansing your mind of people, to put yourself on a different plane. Sunset watching is a great help or listening to the rain—Anjin-san, have you noticed the different sounds of rain? If you really listen, then the present vanishes, neh? Listening to blossoms falling and to rocks growing are exceptionally good exercises. Of course, you’re not supposed to see the things, they’re only signs, messages to your hara, your center, to remind you of the transience of life, to help you gain wa, harmony, Anjin-san, perfect harmony, which is the most sought-after quality in all Japanese life, all art, all . . .” She had laughed. “There, you see what so much saké does to me.” The tip of her tongue touched her lips so enticingly. “I will whisper a secret to you: Don’t be fooled by our smiles and gentleness, our ceremonial and our bowing and sweetnesses and attentions. Beneath them all we can be a million ri away, safe and alone. For that’s what we seek—oblivion. One of our first poems ever written—it’s in the Kojiki, our first history book that was written down about a thousand years ago—perhaps that will explain what I’m saying:

We would certainly go mad if we didn’t have an Eightfold Fence, oh very yes!”

Remember the Eightfold Fence, he told himself, as the hissing fury of Buntaro continued. I don’t know anything about her. Or him, really. Think about the Musket Regiment or home or Felicity or how to get the ship or about Baccus or Toranaga or Omi-san. What about Omi? Do I need revenge? He wants to be my friend and he’s been good and kind since the pistols and . . .

The sound of the blow tore into his head. Then Mariko’s voice began again, and there was a second blow and Blackthorne was on his feet in an instant, the shoji open. The guard stood facing him balefully in the corridor outside Mariko’s door, sword ready.

Blackthorne was preparing to launch himself at the samurai when the door at the far end of the corridor opened. Fujiko, her hair loose and flowing over the sleeping kimono, approached, the sound of ripping cloth and another clout seemingly not touching her at all. She bowed politely to the guard and stood between them, then bowed meekly to Blackthorne and took his arm, motioning him back into the room. He saw the taut readiness of the samurai. He had only one pistol and one bullet at the moment so he retreated. Fujiko followed and shut the shoji behind her. Then, very afraid, she shook her head warningly, and touched a finger to her lips and shook her head again, her eyes pleading with him.

“Gomen nasai, wakarimasu ka?” she breathed.

But he was concentrating on the wall of the adjoining room that he could smash in so easily.

She looked at the wall also, then put herself between him and the wall, and sat, motioning him to do the same.

But he could not. He stood readying himself for the charge that would destroy them all, goaded by a whimper that followed another blow.

“Iyé!” Fujiko shook in terror.

He waved her out of the way.

“Iyé, iyé,” she begged again.

“IMA!”

At once Fujiko got up and motioned him to wait as she rushed noiselessly for the swords that lay in front of the tokonama, the little alcove of honor. She picked up the long sword, her hands shaking, drew it out of the scabbard, and prepared to follow him through the wall. At that instant there was a final blow and a rising torrent of rage. The other shoji slammed open, and unseen, Buntaro stamped away, followed by the guard. There was silence in the house for a moment, then the sound of the garden gate crashing closed.

Blackthorne went for his door. Fujiko darted in the way but he shoved her aside and pulled it open.

Mariko was still on her knees in one corner of the next room, a livid welt on her cheek, her hair disheveled, her kimono in tatters, bad bruises on her thighs and lower back.

He rushed over to pick her up but she cried out, “Go away, please go away, Anjin-san!”

He saw the trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth. “Jesus, how bad are you—”

“I told you not to interfere. Please go away,” she said in the same calm voice that belied the violence in her eyes. Then she saw Fujiko, who had stayed at the doorway. She spoke to her. Fujiko obediently took Blackthorne’s arm to lead him away but he tore out of her grasp. “Don’t! Iyé!”

Mariko said, “Your presence here takes away my face and gives me no peace or comfort and shames me. Go away!”

“I want to help. Don’t you understand?”

“Don’t you understand? You have no rights in this. This is a private quarrel between husband and wife.”

“That’s no excuse for hitting—”

“Why don’t you listen, Anjin-san? He can beat me to death if he wishes. He has the right and I wish he would—even that! Then I wouldn’t have to endure the shame. You think it’s easy to live with my shame? Didn’t you hear what I told you? I’m Akechi Jinsai’s daughter!”

“That’s not your fault. You did nothing!”

“It is my fault and I am my father’s daughter.” Mariko would have stopped there. But, looking up and seeing his compassion, his concern, and his love, and knowing how he so honored truth, she allowed some of her veils to fall.

“Tonight was my fault, Anjin-san,” she said. “If I would weep as he wants, beg forgiveness as he wants, cringe and be petrified and fawn as he wants, open my legs in pretended terror as he desires, do all these womanly things that my duty demands, then he’d be like a child in my hand. But I will not.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s my revenge. To repay him for leaving me alive after the treachery. To repay him for sending me away for eight years and leaving me alive all that time. And to repay him for ordering me back into life and leaving me alive.” She sat back painfully and arranged her tattered kimono closer around her. “I’ll never give myself to him again. Once I did, freely, even though I detested him from the first moment I saw him.”

“Then why did you marry him? You’ve said women here have rights of refusal, that they don’t have to marry against their wishes.”

“I married him to please Lord Goroda, and to please my father. I was so young I didn’t know about Goroda then, but if you want the truth, Goroda was the cruelest, most loathsome man that was ever born. He drove my father to treachery. That’s the real truth! Goroda!” She spat the name. “But for him we’d all be alive and honored. I pray God that Goroda’s committed to hell for all eternity.” She moved carefully, trying to ease the agony in her side. “There’s only hatred between my husband and me, that’s our karma. It would be so easy for him to allow me to climb into the small place of death.”

“Why doesn’t he let you go? Divorce you? Even grant you what you want?”

“Because he’s a man.” A ripple of pain went through her and she grimaced. Blackthorne was on his knees beside her, cradling her. She pushed him away, fought for control. Fujiko, at the doorway, watched stoically.

“I’m all right, Anjin-san. Please leave me alone. You mustn’t. You must be careful.”

“I’m not afraid of him.”

Wearily she pushed the hair out of her eyes and stared up searchingly. Why not let the Anjin-san go to meet his karma, Mariko asked herself. He’s not of our world. Buntaro will kill him so easily. Only Toranaga’s personal protection has shielded him so far. Yabu, Omi, Naga, Buntaro—any one of them could be provoked so easily into killing him.

He’s caused nothing but trouble since he arrived, neh? So has his knowledge. Naga’s right: the Anjin-san can destroy our world unless he’s bottled up.

What if Buntaro knew the truth? Or Toranaga? About the pillowing. . . .

“Are you insane?” Fujiko had said that first night.

“No.”

“Then why are you going to take the maid’s place?”

“Because of the saké and for amusement, Fujiko-chan, and for curiosity,” she had lied, hiding the real reason: because he excited her, she wanted him, she had never had a lover. If it was not tonight it would never be, and it had to be the Anjin-san and only the Anjin-san.

So she had gone to him and had been transported and then, yesterday, when the galley arrived, Fujiko had said privately, “Would you have gone if you’d known your husband was alive?”

“No. Of course not,” she had lied.

“But now you’re going to tell Buntaro-sama, neh? About pillowing with the Anjin-san?”

“Why should I do that?”

“I thought that might be your plan. If you tell Buntaro-sama at the right time his rage will burst over you and you’ll be gratefully dead before he knows what he’s done.”

“No, Fujiko-san, he’ll never kill me. Unfortunately. He’ll send me to the eta if he has excuse enough—if he could get Lord Toranaga’s approval—but he’ll never kill me.”

“Adultery with the Anjin-san—would that be enough?”

“Oh yes.”

“What would happen to your son?”

“He would inherit my disgrace, if I am disgraced, neh?”

“Please tell me if you ever think Buntaro-sama suspects what happened. While I’m consort, it’s my duty to protect the Anjin-san.”

Yes, it is, Fujiko, Mariko had thought then. And that would give you the excuse to take open vengeance on your father’s accuser that you are desperate for. But your father was a coward, so sorry, poor Fujiko. Hiro-matsu was there, otherwise your father would be alive now and Buntaro dead, for Buntaro is hated far more than they ever despised your father. Even the swords you prize so much, they were never given as a battle honor, they were bought from a wounded samurai. So sorry, but I’ll never be the one to tell you, even though that also is the truth.

“I’m not afraid of him,” Blackthorne was saying again.

“I know,” she said, the pain taking her. “But please, I beg you, be afraid of him for me.”

Blackthorne went for the door.

Buntaro was waiting for him a hundred paces away in the center of the path that led down to the village—squat, immense, and deadly. The guard stood beside him. It was an overcast dawn. Fishing boats were already working the shoals, the sea calm.

Blackthorne saw the bow loose in Buntaro’s hands, and the swords, and the guard’s swords. Buntaro was swaying slightly and this gave him hope that the man’s aim would be off, which might give him time to get close enough. There was no cover beside the path. Beyond caring, he cocked both pistols and bore down on the two men.

To hell with cover, he thought through the haze of his blood lust, knowing at the same time that what he was doing was insane, that he had no chance against the two samurai or the long-range bow, that he had no rights whatsoever to interfere. And then, while he was still out of pistol range, Buntaro bowed low, and so did the guard. Blackthorne stopped, sensing a trap. He looked all around but there was no one near. As though in a dream, he saw Buntaro sink heavily onto his knees, put his bow aside, his hands flat on the ground, and bow to him as a peasant would bow to his lord. The guard did likewise.

Blackthorne stared at them, dazed. When he was sure his eyes were not tricking him, he came forward slowly, pistols ready but not leveled, expecting treachery. Within easy range he stopped. Buntaro had not moved. Custom dictated that he should kneel and return the salutation because they were equals or near equals but he could not understand why there should be such unbelievable deferential ceremony in a situation like this where blood was going to flow.

“Get up, you son of a bitch!” Blackthorne readied to pull both triggers.

Buntaro said nothing, did nothing, but kept his head bowed, his hands flat. The back of his kimono was soaked with sweat.

“Nan ja?” Blackthorne deliberately used the most insulting way of asking “What is it?” wanting to bait Buntaro into getting up, into beginning, knowing that he could not shoot him like this, with his head down and almost in the dust.

Then, conscious that it was rude to stand while they were kneeling and that the “nan ja” was an almost intolerable and certainly unnecessary insult, Blackthorne knelt and, holding on to the pistols, put both hands on the ground and bowed in return.

He sat back on his heels. “Hai?” he asked with forced politeness.

At once Buntaro began mumbling. Abjectly. Apologizing. For what and exactly why, Blackthorne did not know. He could only catch a word here and another there and saké many times, but clearly it was an apology and a humble plea for forgiveness. Buntaro went on and on. Then he ceased and put his head down into the dust again.

Blackthorne’s blinding rage had vanished by now. “Shigata ga nai,” he said huskily, which meant, “it can’t be helped,” or “there’s nothing to be done,” or “what could you do?” not knowing yet if the apology was merely ritual, prior to attack. “Shigata ga nai. Hakkiri wakaranu ga shinpai suruko-towanai.” It can’t be helped. I don’t understand exactly—but don’t worry.

Buntaro looked up and sat back. “Arigato—arigato, Anjin-sama. Domo gomen nasai.”

“Shigata ga nai,” Blackthorne repeated and, now that it was clear the apology was genuine, he thanked God for giving him the miraculous opportunity to call off the duel. He knew that he had no rights, he had acted like a madman, and that the only way to resolve the crisis with Buntaro was according to rules. And that meant Toranaga.

But why the apology, he was asking himself frantically. Think! You’ve got to learn to think like them.

Then the solution rushed into his brain. It must be because I’m hatamoto, and Buntaro, the guest, disturbed the wa, the harmony of my house. By having a violent open quarrel with his wife in my house, he insulted me, therefore he’s totally in the wrong and he has to apologize whether he means it or not. An apology’s obligatory from one samurai to another, from a guest to a host. . . .

Wait! And don’t forget that by their custom, all men are allowed to get drunk, are expected to get drunk sometimes, and when drunk they are not, within reason, responsible for their actions. Don’t forget there’s no loss of face if you get stinking drunk. Remember how unconcerned Mariko and Toranaga were on the ship when I was stupefied. They were amused and not disgusted, as we’d be.

And aren’t you really to blame? Didn’t you start the drinking bout? Wasn’t it your challenge?

“Yes,” he said aloud.

“Nan desu ka, Anjin-san?” Buntaro asked, his eyes bloodshot.

“Nani mo. Watashi no kashitsu desu.” Nothing. It was my fault.

Buntaro shook his head and said that no, it was only his fault and he bowed and apologized again.

“Saké,” Blackthorne said with finality and shrugged. “Shigata ga nai. Saké!”

Buntaro bowed and thanked him again. Blackthorne returned it and got up. Buntaro followed, and the guard. Both bowed once more. Again it was returned.

At length Buntaro turned and reeled away. Blackthorne waited until he was out of arrow range, wondering if the man was as drunk as he appeared to be. Then he went back to his own house.

Fujiko was on the veranda, once more within her polite, smiling shell. What are you really thinking, he asked himself as he greeted her, and was welcomed back.

Mariko’s door was closed. Her maid stood beside it.

“Mariko-san?”

“Yes, Anjin-san?”

He waited but the door stayed closed. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, thank you.” He heard her clear her throat, then the weak voice continued. “Fujiko has sent word to Yabu-san and to Lord Toranaga that I’m indisposed today and won’t be able to interpret.”

“You’d better see a doctor.”

“Oh, thank you, but Suwo will be very good. I’ve sent for him. I’ve . . . I’ve just twisted my side. Truly I’m all right, there’s no need for you to worry.”

“Look, I know a little about doctoring. You’re not coughing up blood, are you?”

“Oh, no. When I slipped I just knocked my cheek. Really, I’m quite all right.”

After a pause, he said, “Buntaro apologized.”

“Yes. Fujiko watched from the gate. I thank you humbly for accepting his apology. Thank you. And Anjin-san, I’m so sorry that you were disturbed . . . it’s unforgivable that your harmony . . . please accept my apologies too. I should never have let my mouth run away with me. It was very impolite—please forgive me also. The quarrel was my fault. Please accept my apology.”

“For being beaten?”

“For failing to obey my husband, for failing to help him to sleep contentedly, for failing him, and my host. Also for what I said.”

“You’re sure there’s nothing I can do?”

“No—no, thank you, Anjin-san. It’s just for today.”

But Blackthorne did not see her for eight days.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

“I invited you to hunt, Naga-san, not to repeat views I’ve already heard,” Toranaga said.

“I beg you, Father, for the last time: stop the training, outlaw guns, destroy the barbarian, declare the experiment a failure and have done with this obscenity.”

“No. For the last time.” The hooded falcon on Toranaga’s gloved hand shifted uneasily at the unaccustomed menace in her master’s voice and she hissed irritably. They were in the brush, beaters and guards well out of earshot, the day sweltering and dank and overcast.

Naga’s chin jutted. “Very well. But it’s still my duty to remind you that you’re in danger here, and to demand again, with due politeness, now for the last time, that you leave Anjiro today.”

“No. Also for the last time.”

“Then take my head!”

“I already have your head!”

“Then take it today, now, or let me end my life, since you won’t take good advice.”

“Learn patience, puppy!”

“How can I be patient when I see you destroying yourself? It’s my duty to point it out to you. You stay here hunting and wasting time while your enemies are pulling the whole world down on you. The Regents meet tomorrow. Four-fifths of all daimyos in Japan are either at Osaka already or on the way there. You’re the only important one to refuse. Now you’ll be impeached. Then nothing can save you. At the very least you should be home at Yedo surrounded by the legions. Here you’re naked. We can’t protect you. We’ve barely a thousand men, and hasn’t Yabu-san mobilized all Izu? He’s got more than eight thousand men within twenty ri, another six closing his borders. You know spies say he has a fleet waiting northward to sink you if you try to escape by galley! You’re his prisoner again, don’t you see that? One carrier pigeon from Ishido and Yabu can destroy you, whenever he wants. How do you know he isn’t planning treachery with Ishido?”

“I’m sure he’s considering it. I would if I were he, wouldn’t you?”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Then you’d soon be dead, which would be absolutely merited, but so would all your family, all your clan and all your vassals, which would be absolutely unforgivable. You’re a stupid, truculent fool! You won’t use your mind, you won’t listen, you won’t learn, you won’t curb your tongue or your temper! You let yourself be manipulated in the most childish way and believe that everything can be solved with the edge of your sword. The only reason I don’t take your stupid head or let you end your present worthless life is because you’re young, because I used to think you had some possibilities, your mistakes are not malicious, there’s no guile in you and your loyalty’s unquestioned. But if you don’t quickly learn patience and self-discipline, I’ll take away your samurai status and order you and all your generations into the peasant class!” Toranaga’s right fist slammed his saddle and the falcon let out a piercing, nervous scream. “Do you understand?”

Naga was in shock. In his whole life Naga had never seen his father shout with rage or lose his temper, or even heard of him doing so. Many times he had felt the bite of his tongue but with justification. Naga knew he made many mistakes, but always his father had turned it so that what he’d done no longer seemed as stupid as it had at first. For instance, when Toranaga had shown him how he had fallen into Omi’s—or Yabu’s—trap about Jozen, he had had to be physically stopped from charging off at once to murder them both. But Toranaga had ordered his private guards to pour cold water over Naga until he was rational, and had calmly explained that he, Naga, had helped his father immeasurably by eliminating Jozen’s menace. ‘But it would have been better if you’d known you were being manipulated into the action. Be patient, my son, everything comes with patience,’ Toranaga had counseled. ‘Soon you’ll be able to manipulate them. What you did was very good. But you must learn to reason what’s in a man’s mind if you’re to be of any use to yourself—or to your lord. I need leaders. I’ve fanatics enough.’

Always his father had been reasonable and forgiving but today . . . Naga leapt off his horse and knelt abjectly. “Please forgive me, Father. I never meant to make you angry . . . it’s only because I’m frantic with worry over your safety. Please excuse me for disturbing the harmony—”

“Hold your tongue!” Toranaga bellowed, causing his horse to shy.

Frantically Toranaga held on with his knees and pulled the reins tighter in his right hand, the horse skittering. Off balance, his falcon began to bate—to jump off his fist, her wings fluttering wildly, screaming her ear-shattering hek-ekek-ek-ek—infuriated by the unaccustomed and unwelcome agitation surrounding her. “There, my beauty, there . . .” Toranaga desperately tried to settle her and gain control of the horse as Naga jumped for the horse’s head. He caught the bridle and just managed to stop the horse from bolting. The falcon was screaming furiously. At length, reluctantly, she settled back on Toranaga’s expert glove, held firmly by her thong jesses. But her wings still pulsated nervously, the bells on her feet jangling shrilly. “Hek-ek-ek-ek-eeeeekk!” she shrieked a final time.

“There, there, my beauty. There, everything’s all right,” Toranaga said soothingly, his face still mottled with rage, then turned on Naga, trying to keep the animosity out of his tone for the falcon’s sake. “If you’ve ruined her condition today, I’ll—I’ll—”

At that instant one of the beaters hallooed warningly. Immediately Toranaga slipped off the falcon’s hood with his right hand, gave her a moment to adjust to her surroundings, then launched her.

She was long-winged, a peregrine, her name Tetsu-ko—Lady of Steel—and she whooshed up into the sky, circling to her station six hundred feet above Toranaga, waiting for her prey to be flushed, her nervousness forgotten. Then, turning on the downwind pass, she saw the dogs sent in and the covey of pheasant scattered in a wild flurry of wing beatings. She marked her prey, heeled over and stooped—closed her wings and dived relentlessly—her talons ready to hack.

She came hurtling down but the old cock pheasant, twice her size, side-slipped and, in panic, tore arrow-straight for the safety of a copse of trees, two hundred paces away. Tetsu-ko recovered, opened her wings, charging headlong after her quarry. She gained altitude and then, once more vertically above the cock, again stooped, hacked viciously, and again missed. Toranaga excitedly shouted encouragement, warning of the danger ahead, Naga forgotten.

With a frantic clattering of wings, the cock was streaking for the protection of the trees. The peregrine, again whirling high above, stooped and came slashing down. But she was too late. The wily pheasant vanished. Careless of her own safety, the falcon crashed through the leaves and branches, ferociously seeking her victim, then recovered and flashed into the open once more, screeching with rage, to rush high above the copse.

At that moment, a covey of partridge was flushed and whirred away, staying close to the ground seeking safety, darting this way and that, cunningly following the contours of the earth. Tetsu-ko marked one, folded her wings, and fell like a stone. This time she did not miss. One vicious hack of her hind talons as she passed broke the partridge’s neck. The bird crashed to the ground in a bursting cloud of feathers. But instead of following her kill to the earth or binding it to her and landing with it, she soared screaming into the sky, climbing higher and ever higher.

Anxiously Toranaga took out the lure, a small dead bird tied to a thin rope, and whirred it around his head. But Tetsu-ko was not tempted back. Now she was a tiny speck in the sky and Toranaga was sure that he had lost her, that she had decided to leave him, to go back to the wilds, to kill at her whim and not at his whim, to eat when she wanted and not when he decided, and to fly where the winds bore her or fancy took her, masterless and forever free.

Toranaga watched her, not sad, but just a little lonely. She was a wild creature and Toranaga, like all falconers, knew he was only a temporary earthbound master. Alone he had climbed to her eyrie in the Hakoné mountains and taken her from the nest as a fledgling, and trained her, cherished her, and given her her first kill. Now he could hardly see her circling there, riding the thermals so gloriously, and he wished, achingly, that he too could ride the empyrean, away from the iniquities of earth.

Then the old cock pheasant casually broke from the trees to feed once more. And Tetsu-ko stooped, plummeting from the heavens, a tiny streamlined weapon of death, her claws ready for the coup de grace.

The cock pheasant died instantly, feathers bursting from him on impact, but she held on, falling with him to let go, her wings slashing the air to brake violently at the very last second. Then she closed her wings and settled on her kill.

She held it in her claws and began to pluck it with her beak prior to eating. But before she could eat Toranaga rode up. She stopped, distracted. Her merciless brown eyes, ringed with yellow ceres, watched as he dismounted, her ears listening to his cooing praise of her skill and bravery, and then, because she was hungry and he the giver of food and also because he was patient and made no sudden movement but knelt gently, she allowed him to come closer.

Toranaga was complimenting her softly. He took out his hunting knife and split the pheasant’s head to allow Tetsu-ko to feed on the brains. As she began to feast on this tidbit, at his whim, he cut off the head and she came effortlessly onto his fist, where she was accustomed to feed.

All the time Toranaga praised her and when she’d finished this morsel he stroked her gently and complimented her lavishly. She bobbed and hissed her contentment, glad to be safely back on the fist once more where she could eat, for of course, ever since she had been taken from the nest, the fist was the only place she had ever been allowed to feed, her food always given to her by Toranaga personally. She began to preen herself, ready for another death.

Because Tetsu-ko had flown so well, Toranaga decided to let her gorge and fly her no more today. He gave her a small bird that he had already plucked and opened for her. When she was halfway through her meal he slipped on her hood. She continued to feed contentedly through the hood. When she had finished and began to preen herself again, he picked up the cock pheasant, bagged it, and beckoned his falconer, who had waited with the beaters. Exhilarated, they discussed the glory of the kill and counted the bag. There was a hare, a brace of quail, and the cock pheasant. Toranaga dismissed the falconer and the beaters, sending them back to camp with all the falcons. His guards waited downwind.

Now he turned his attention to Naga. “So?”

Naga knelt beside his horse, bowed. “You’re completely correct, Sire—what you said about me. I apologize for offending you.”

“But not for giving me bad advice?”

“I—I beg you to put me with someone who can teach me so that I’ll never do that. I never want to give you bad advice, never.”

“Good. You’ll spend part of every day talking with the Anjin-san, learning what he knows. He can be one of your teachers.”

“Him?”

“Yes. That may teach you some discipline. And if you can get it through that rock you have between your ears to listen, you’ll certainly learn things of value to you. You might even learn something of value to me.”

Naga stared sullenly at the ground.

“I want you to know everything he knows about guns, cannon, and warfare. You’ll become my expert. Yes. And I want you to be very expert.”

Naga said nothing.

“And I want you to become his friend.”

“How can I do that, Sire?”

“Why don’t you think of a way? Why don’t you use your head?”

“I’ll try. I swear I’ll try.”

“I want you to do better than that. You’re ordered to succeed. Use some ‘Christian charity.’ You should’ve learned enough to do that. Neh?”

Naga scowled. “That’s impossible to learn, much as I tried. It’s the truth! All Tsukku-san talked was dogma and nonsense that would make any man vomit. Christian’s for peasants, not samurai. Don’t kill, don’t take more than one woman, and fifty other stupidities! I obeyed you then and I’ll obey you now—I always obey! Why not just let me do the things I can, Sire? I’ll become Christian if that’s what you want but I can’t believe it—it’s all manure and . . . I apologize for speaking. I’ll become the Anjin-san’s friend. I will.”

“Good. And remember he’s worth twenty thousand times his own weight in raw silk and he’s got more knowledge than you’ll have in twenty lifetimes.”

Naga held himself in check and nodded dutifully in agreement.

“Good. You’ll be leading two of the battalions, Omi-san two, and one will be held in reserve under Buntaro.”

“And the other four, Sire?”

“We haven’t guns enough for them. That was a feint to put Yabu off the scent,” Toranaga said, throwing his son a morsel.

“Sire?”

“That was just an excuse to bring another thousand men here. Don’t they arrive tomorrow? With two thousand men I can hold Anjiro and escape, if need be. Neh?”

“But Yabu-san can still—” Naga bit back the comment, knowing that once more he was sure to make a mistaken judgment. “Why is it I’m so stupid?” he asked bitterly. “Why can’t I see things like you do? Or like Sudara-san? I want to help, to be of use. I don’t want to provoke you all the time.”

“Then learn patience, my son, and curb your temper. Your time will come soon enough.”

“Sire?”

Toranaga was suddenly weary of being patient. He looked up at the sky. “I think I’ll sleep for a while.”

At once Naga took off the saddle and the horse blanket and laid them on the ground as a samurai bed. Toranaga thanked him and watched him place sentries. When he was sure that everything was correct and safe, he lay down and closed his eyes.

But he did not want to sleep, only to think. He knew it was an extremely bad sign that he had lost his temper. You’re fortunate it was only in front of Naga, who doesn’t know any better, he told himself. If that had happened near Omi, or Yabu, they’d have realized at once that you’re almost frantic with worry. And such knowledge might easily inspire them to treachery. You were fortunate this time. Tetsu-ko put everything into proportion. But for her you might have let others see your rage and that would have been insanity.

What a beautiful flight! Learn from her: Naga’s got to be treated like a falcon. Doesn’t he scream and bate like the best of them? Naga’s only problem is that he’s being flown at the wrong game. His game is combat and sudden death, and he’ll have that soon enough.

Toranaga’s anxiety began to return. What’s going on in Osaka? I miscalculated badly about the daimyos—who would accept and who would reject the summons. Why haven’t I heard? Am I betrayed? So many dangers around me. . . .

What about the Anjin-san? He’s a falcon too. But he isn’t broken to the fist yet, as Yabu and Mariko claim. What’s his prey? His prey is the Black Ship and the Rodrigues-anjin and the ugly, arrogant little Captain-General who’s not long for this earth, and all the Black Robe priests and all the Stinking Hairy priests, all Portuguese and all Spaniards and Turkmen, whoever they are, and Islamers, whoever they are, not forgetting Omi and Yabu and Buntaro and Ishido and me.

Toranaga turned over to get more comfortable and smiled to himself. But the Anjin-san’s not a long-winged falcon, a hawk of the lure, that you fly free above you to stoop at a particular quarry. He’s more like a short-winged hawk, a hawk of the fist, that you fly direct from the fist to kill anything that moves, say a goshawk that’ll take partridge or a hare three times her own weight, rats, cats, dogs, woodcock, starlings, rooks, overtaking them with fantastic short bursts of speed to kill with a single crush of her talons; the hawk that detests the hood and won’t accept it, just sits on your wrist, arrogant, dangerous, self-sufficient, pitiless, yellow-eyed, a fine friend and foul-tempered if the mood’s on her.

Yes, the Anjin-san’s a short-wing. Whom do I fly him at?

Omi? Not yet.

Yabu? Not yet.

Buntaro?

Why did the Anjin-san really go after Buntaro with pistols? Because of Mariko, of course. But have they pillowed? They’ve had plenty of opportunity. I think yes. “Lavish” she said that first day. Good. Nothing wrong in their pillowing—Buntaro was believed dead—providing it’s a perpetual secret. But the Anjin-san was stupid to risk so much over another man’s woman. Aren’t there always a thousand other, free and unattached, equally pretty, equally small or big or fine or tight or highborn or whatever, without the hazard of belonging elsewhere? He acted like a stupid, jealous barbarian. Remember the Rodrigues-anjin? Didn’t he duel and kill another barbarian according to their custom, just to take a low-class merchant’s daughter that he then married in Nagasaki? Didn’t the Taikō let this murder go unavenged, against my advice, because it was only a barbarian death and not one of ours? Stupid to have two laws, one for us, one for them. There should be only one. There must be only one law.

No, I won’t fly the Anjin-san at Buntaro, I need that fool. But whether those two pillowed or not, I hope the thought never occurs to Buntaro. Then I would have to kill Buntaro quickly, for no force on earth would stop him from killing the Anjin-san and Mariko-san and I need them more than Buntaro. Should I eliminate Buntaro now?

The moment Buntaro had sobered up, Toranaga had sent for him. “How dare you put your interest in front of mine! How long will Mariko-san be unable to interpret?”

“The doctor said a few days, Sire. I apologize for all the trouble!”

“I made it very clear I needed her services for another twenty days. Don’t you remember?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“If she’d displeased you, a few slaps on the buttocks would’ve been more than enough. All women need that from time to time, but more is loutish. You’ve selfishly jeopardized the training and acted like a bovine peasant. Without her I can’t talk to the Anjin-san!”

“Yes. I know, Lord, I’m sorry. It’s the first time I’ve hit her. It’s just—sometimes she drives me insane, so much that—that I can’t seem to see.”

“Why don’t you divorce her then? Or send her away? Or kill her, or order her to cut her throat when I’ve no further use for her?”

“I can’t. I can’t, Lord,” Buntaro had said. “She’s—I’ve wanted her from the first moment I saw her. When we were married, the first time, she was everything a man could want. I thought I was blessed—you remember how every daimyo in the realm wanted her! Then . . . then I sent her away to protect her after the filthy assassination, pretending to be disgusted with her for her safety, and then, when the Taikō told me to bring her back years later, she excited me even more. The truth is I expected her to be grateful, and took her as a man will, and didn’t care about the little things a woman wants, like poems and flowers. But she’d changed. She was as faithful as ever, but just ice, always asking for death, for me to kill her.” Buntaro was frantic. “I can’t kill her or allow her to kill herself. She’s tainted my son and makes me detest other women but I can’t rid myself of her. I’ve . . . I’ve tried being kind but always the ice is there and it drives me mad. When I came back from Korea and heard she’d converted to this nonsense Christian religion I was amused, for what does any stupid religion matter? I was going to tease her about it but before I knew what was happening, I had my knife at her throat and swore I’d cut her if she didn’t renounce it. Of course she wouldn’t renounce it, what samurai would under such a threat, neh? She just looked up at me with those eyes of hers and told me to go on. ‘Please cut me, Lord,’ she said. ‘Here, let me hold my head back for you. I pray God I’ll bleed to death,’ she said. I didn’t cut her, Sire. I took her. But I did cut off the hair and ears of some of her ladies who had encouraged her to become Christian and turned them out of the castle. And I did the same to her foster mother, and cut off her nose as well, vile-tempered old hag! And then Mariko said, because . . . because I’d punished her ladies, the next time I came to her bed uninvited she’d commit seppuku, in any way she could, at once . . . in spite of her duty to you, in spite of her duty to the family, even in spite of the—the commandments of her Christian God!” Tears of rage were running down his cheeks unheeded. “I can’t kill her, much as I want to. I can’t kill Akechi Jinsai’s daughter, much as she deserves it. . . .”

Toranaga had let Buntaro rant on until he was spent, then dismissed him, ordering him to stay totally away from Mariko until he considered what was to be done. He dispatched his own doctor to examine her. The report was favorable: bruises but no internal damage.

For his own safety, because he expected treachery and the sand of time was running out, Toranaga decided to increase the pressure on all of them. He ordered Mariko into Omi’s house with instructions to rest, to stay within the confines of the house and completely out of the Anjin-san’s way. Next he had summoned the Anjin-san and pretended irritation when it was clear they could hardly converse at all, dismissing him peremptorily. All training was intensified. Cadres were sent on forced marches. Naga was ordered to take the Anjin-san along and walk him into the ground. But Naga didn’t walk the Anjin-san into the ground.

So he tried himself. He led a battalion eleven hours over the hills. The Anjin-san kept up, not with the front rank, but still he kept up. Back again at Anjiro, the Anjin-san said in his almost incomprehensible gibberish, hardly able to stand, “Toranaga-sama, I walk can. I guns training can. So sorry, no possibles two at same timings, neh?”

Toranaga smiled now, lying under the overcast waiting for the rain, warmed by the game of breaking Blackthorne to the fist. He’s a short-wing all right. Mariko’s equally tough, equally intelligent, but more brilliant, and she’s got a ruthlessness that he’ll never have. She’s like a peregrine, like Tetsu-ko. The best. Why is it the female hawk, the falcon, is always bigger and faster and stronger than the male, always better than the male?

They’re all hawks—she, Buntaro, Yabu, Omi, Fujiko, Ochiba, Naga and all my sons and my daughters and women and vassals, and all my enemies—all hawks, or prey for hawks.

I must get Naga into position high over his quarry and let him stoop. Who should it be? Omi or Yabu?

What Naga had said about Yabu was true.

“So, Yabu-san, what have you decided?” he had asked, the second day.

“I’m not going to Osaka until you go, Sire. I’ve ordered all Izu mobilized.”

“Ishido will impeach you.”

“He’ll impeach you first, Sire, and if the Kwanto falls, Izu falls. I made a solemn bargain with you. I’m on your side. The Kasigi honor their bargains.”

“I’m equally honored to have you as an ally,” he had lied, pleased that Yabu had once more done what he had planned for him to do. The next day Yabu had assembled a host and asked him to review it and then, in front of all his men, knelt formally and offered himself as vassal.

“You acknowledge me your feudal lord?” Toranaga had said.

“Yes. And all the men of Izu. And Lord, please accept this gift as a token of filial duty.” Still on his knees, Yabu had offered his Murasama sword. “This is the sword that murdered your grandfather.”

“That’s not possible!”

Yabu had told him the history of the sword, how it had come down to him over the years and how, only recently, he had learned of its true identity. He summoned Suwo. The old man told what he had witnessed when he himself was little more than a boy.

“It’s true, Lord,” Suwo had said proudly. “No man saw Obata’s father break the sword or cast it into the sea. And I swear by my hope of samurai rebirth that I served your grandfather, Lord Chikitada. I served him faithfully until that day he died. I was there, I swear it.”

Toranaga had accepted the sword. It seemed to quiver with malevolence in his hand. He had always scoffed at the legend that certain swords possessed a killing urge of their own, that some swords needed to leap out of the scabbard to drink blood, but now Toranaga believed it.

He shuddered, remembering that day. Why do Murasama blades hate us? One killed my grandfather. Another almost cut off my arm when I was six, an unexplained accident, no one near but still my sword arm was slashed and I nearly bled to death. A third decapitated my first-born son.

“Sire,” Yabu had said, “such a befouled blade shouldn’t be allowed to live, neh? Let me take it out to sea and drown it so that this sword at least can never threaten you or your descendants.”

“Yes—yes,” he had muttered, thankful that Yabu had made the suggestion. “Do it now!” And only when the sword had sunk out of sight, into the very deep, witnessed by his own men, had his heart begun to pump normally. He had thanked Yabu, ordered taxes to be stabilized at sixty parts for peasants, forty for their lords, and had given him Izu as his fief. So everything was as before, except that now all power in Izu belonged to Toranaga, if he wished to take it back.

Toranaga turned over to ease the ache in his sword arm and settled again more comfortably, enjoying the nearness of the earth, gaining strength from it as always.

That blade’s gone, never to return. Good, but remember what the old Chinese soothsayer foretold, he thought: that you would die by the sword. But whose sword and is it to be by my own hand or another’s?

I’ll know when I know, he told himself without fear.

Now sleep. Karma is karma. Be thou of Zen. Remember, in tranquillity, that the Absolute, the Tao, is within thee, that no priest or cult or dogma or book or saying or teaching or teacher stands between Thou and It. Know that Good and Evil are irrelevant, I and Thou irrelevant, Inside and Outside irrelevant as are Life and Death. Enter into the Sphere where there is no fear of death nor hope of afterlife, where thou art free of the impediments of life or the needs of salvation. Thou art thyself the Tao. Be thou, now, a rock against which the waves of life rush in vain. . . .

The faint shout brought Toranaga out of his meditation and he leaped to his feet. Naga was excitedly pointing westward. All eyes followed his point.

The carrier pigeon was flying in a direct line for Anjiro from the west. She fluttered into a distant tree to rest for a moment, then took off once more as rain began to fall.

Far to the west, in her wake, was Osaka.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

The handler at the pigeon coop held the bird gently but firmly as Toranaga stripped off his sodden clothes. He had galloped back through the downpour. Naga and other samurai anxiously crowded the small doorway, careless of the warm rain which still fell in torrents, drumming on the tiled roof.

Carefully Toranaga dried his hands. The man offered the pigeon. Two tiny, beaten-silver cylinders were attached to each of her legs. One would have been usual. Toranaga had to work hard to keep the nervous tremble out of his fingers. He untied the cylinders and took them over to the light of the window opening to examine the minute seals. He recognized Kiri’s secret cipher. Naga and the others were watching tensely. His face revealed nothing.

Toranaga did not break the seals at once, much as he wanted to. Patiently he waited until a dry kimono was brought. A servant held a large oiled-paper umbrella for him and he walked to his own quarters in the fortress. Soup and cha were waiting. He sipped them and listened to the rain. When he felt calm, he posted guards and went into an inner room. In privacy he broke the seals. The paper of the four scrolls was very thin, the characters tiny, the message long and in code. Decoding was laborious. When it was completed, he read the message and then reread it twice. Then he let his mind range.

Night came. The rain stopped. Oh, Buddha, let the harvest be good, he prayed. This was the season when the paddy fields were being flooded and, throughout the land, the pale green rice seedlings were being planted into the weedless, almost liquid fields to be harvested in four or five months, depending on the weather. And, throughout the land, the poor and the rich, eta and emperor, servant and samurai, all prayed that just the right amount of rain and sun and humidity came correctly in its season. And every man, woman, and child counted the days to harvest.

We’ll need a great harvest this year, thought Toranaga.

“Naga! Naga-san!”

His son came running. “Yes, Father?”

“At the first hour after dawn fetch Yabu-san and his chief advisers to the plateau. Also Buntaro and our three senior captains. And Mariko-san. Bring them all to the plateau at dawn. Mariko-san can serve cha. Yes. And I want the Anjin-san standing by at the camp. Guards to ring us at two hundred paces.”

“Yes, Father.” Naga turned to obey. Unable to contain himself he blurted out, “Is it war? Is it?”

Because Toranaga needed a harbinger of optimism throughout the fortress, he did not berate his son for the ill-disciplined impertinence.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes—but on my terms.”

Naga closed the shoji and rushed off. Toranaga knew that, although Naga’s face and manner would now be outwardly composed, nothing would disguise the excitement in his walk or the fire behind his eyes. So rumor and counterrumor would rush through Anjiro to spread quickly throughout Izu and beyond, if the fires were fed properly.

“I’m committed now,” he said aloud to the flowers that stood serenely in the tokonama, shadows flickering in the pleasant candlelight.

Kiri had written: “Sire, I pray Buddha you are well and safe. This is our last carrier pigeon so I also pray Buddha guides her to you—traitors killed all the others last night by firing the coop and this one escaped only because she’s been sick and I was nursing her privately.

“Yesterday morning Lord Sugiyama suddenly resigned, exactly as planned. But before he could make good his escape, he was trapped on the outskirts of Osaka by Ishido’s ronin. Unhappily some of Sugiyama’s family were also caught with him—I heard he was betrayed by one of his people. Rumor has it that Ishido offered him a compromise: that if Lord Sugiyama delayed his resignation until after the Council of Regents convened (tomorrow), so that you could be legally impeached, in return Ishido guaranteed that the Council would formally give Sugiyama the whole of the Kwanto and, as a measure of good faith, Ishido would release him and his family at once. Sugiyama refused to betray you. Immediately Ishido ordered eta to convince him. They tortured Sugiyama’s children, then his consort, in front of him, but he still would not abandon you. They were all given bad deaths. His, the final one, was very bad.

“Of course, there were no witnesses to this treachery and it’s all hearsay but I believe it. Of course Ishido disclaimed any knowledge of the murders or participation in them, vowing that he’ll hunt down the ‘murderers.’ At first Ishido claimed that Sugiyama had never actually resigned, therefore, in his opinion, the Council could still meet. I sent copies of Sugiyama’s resignation to the other Regents, Kiyama, Ito, and Onoshi, and sent another openly to Ishido and circulated four more copies among the daimyos. (How clever of you, Tora-chan, to have known that extra copies would be necessary.) So, from yesterday, exactly as you planned with Sugiyama, the Council is legally no more—in this you’ve succeeded completely.

“Good news: Lord Mogami safely turned back outside the city with all his family and samurai. Now he’s openly your ally, so your far-northern flank is secure. The Lords Maeda, Kukushima, Asano, Ikeda, and Okudaira all quietly slipped out of Osaka last night to safety—also the Christian Lord Oda.

“Bad news is that the families of Maeda, Ikeda, and Oda and a dozen other important daimyos did not escape and are now hostage here, as are those of fifty or sixty lesser uncommitted lords.

“Bad news is that yesterday your half brother, Zataki, Lord of Shinano, publicly declared for the Heir, Yaemon, against you, accusing you of plotting with Sugiyama to overthrow the Council of Regents by creating chaos, so now your northeastern border is breached and Zataki and his fifty thousand fanatics will oppose you.

“Bad news is that almost every daimyo accepted the Emperor’s ‘invitation.’

“Bad news is that not a few of your friends and allies here are incensed that you did not give them prior knowledge of your strategy so they could prepare a line of retreat. Your old friend, the great Lord Shimazu, is one. I heard this afternoon that he’s openly demanded that all lords should be ordered by the Emperor to kneel before the boy, Yaemon, now.

“Bad news is that that Lady Ochiba is brilliantly spinning her web, promising fiefs and titles and court rank to the uncommitted. Tora-chan, it’s a great pity she’s not on your side, she’s a worthy enemy. The Lady Yodoko alone advocates prayer and calm but no one listens, and the Lady Ochiba wants to precipitate war now while she feels you’re weak and isolated. So sorry, my Lord, but you’re isolated and, I think, betrayed.

“Worst of all is that now the Christian Regents, Kiyama and Onoshi, are openly together and violently opposed to you. They issued a joint statement this morning deploring Sugiyama’s ‘defection,’ saying that his action has put the realm into confusion, that ‘we must all be strong for the sake of the Empire. The Regents have supreme responsibility. We must be ready to stamp out, together, any lord or group of lords who wish to overthrow the Taikō’s will, or the legal succession.’ (Does this mean they plan to meet as a Council of four Regents?) One of our Christian spies in the Black Robes’ headquarters here whispered that the priest Tsukku-san secretly left Osaka five days ago, but we don’t know if he went to Yedo or to Nagasaki, where the Black Ship is expected. Did you know it will be very early this season? Perhaps within twenty or thirty days?

“Sire: I’ve always hesitated about giving quick opinions based on hearsay, rumors, spies, or a woman’s intuition (there, you see, Tora-chan, I have learned from you!) but time is short and I may not be able to speak to you again: First, too many families are trapped here. Ishido will never let them go (as he will never let us go). These hostages are an immense danger to you. Few lords have Sugiyama’s sense of duty or fortitude. Very many, I think, will now go with Ishido, however reluctantly, because of these hostages. Next, I think that Maeda will betray you, also probably Asano. I tally of all two hundred and sixty-four daimyos in our land, only twenty-four who are certain to follow you, another fifty possibly. That’s not nearly enough. Kiyama and Onoshi will sway all or most of the Christian daimyos and I believe they will not join you now. Lord Mori, the richest and greatest of all, is against you personally, as always, and he’ll pull Asano, Kobayakawa, and perhaps Oda into his net. With your half brother Lord Zataki against you, your position is terribly precarious. I counsel you to declare Crimson Sky at once and rush for Kyoto. It’s your only hope.

“As to the Lady Sazuko and myself, we’re well and content. The child quickens nicely and if it’s the child’s karma to be born, thus will it happen. We’re safe in our corner of the castle, the door tightly locked, the portcullis down. Our samurai are filled with devotion to you and to your cause and if it is our karma to depart this life then we will depart serenely. Your Lady misses you greatly, very greatly. For myself, Tora-chan, I long to see you, to laugh with you, and to see your smile. My only regret in death would be that I could no longer do these things, and watch over you. If there is an afterlife and God or Buddha or kami exist, I promise I will somehow bend them all to your side . . . though first I may beseech them to make me slender and young and fruitful for you, yet leave me my enjoyment of food. Ah, that would indeed be heaven, to be able to eat and eat and yet be perpetually young and thin!

“I send you my laughter. May Buddha bless thee and thine.”

Toranaga read them the message, except the private part about Kiri and the Lady Sazuko. When he had finished they looked at him and each other incredulously, not only because of what the message said but also because he was so openly taking them all into his confidence.

They were seated on mats set in a semicircle around him in the center of the plateau, without guards, safe from eavesdroppers. Buntaro, Yabu, Igurashi, Omi, Naga, the captains, and Mariko. Guards were posted two hundred paces away.

“I want some advice,” Toranaga said. “My counselors are in Yedo. This matter is urgent and I want all of you to act in their place. What’s going to happen and what I should do. Yabu-san?”

Yabu was in turmoil. Every path seemed to lead to disaster. “First, Sire, just exactly what is ‘Crimson Sky’?”

“It’s the code name for my final battle plan, a single violent rush at Kyoto with all my legions, relying on mobility and surprise, to take possession of the capital from the evil forces that now surround it, to wrest the person of the Emperor from the filthy grasp of those who’ve duped him, led by Ishido. Once the Son of Heaven’s safely released from their clutches, then to petition him to revoke the mandate granted the present Council, who are clearly traitorous, or dominated by traitors, and grant me his mandate to form a new Council which would put the interests of the realm and the Heir before personal ambition. I would lead eighty to one hundred thousand men, leaving my lands unprotected, my flanks unguarded, and a retreat unsecured.” Toranaga saw them staring at him flabbergasted. He did not mention the cadres of elite samurai who had been so furtively planted in many of the important castles and provinces over the years, and who were to explode simultaneously into revolt to create the chaos essential to the plan.

Yabu burst out, “But you’d have to fight every pace of the way. Ikawa Jikkyu strangles the Tokaidō for a hundred ri. Then more Ishido strongholds straddle the rest!”

“Yes. But I plan to rush northwest along the Koshu-kaidō, then stab down on Kyoto and stay away from the coast lands.”

At once many shook their heads and began to speak but Yabu overrode them. “But, Sire, the message said your kinsman Zataki-san’s already gone over to the enemy! Now your road north is blocked too. His province is athwart the Koshu-kaidō. You’ll have to fight through all Shinano—that’s mountainous and very hard, and his men are fanatically loyal. You’ll be carved to pieces in those mountains.”

“That’s the only way, the only way I have a chance. I agree there are too many hostiles on the coastal road.”

Yabu glanced at Omi, wishing he could consult with him, loathing the message and the whole Osaka mess, hating being first to speak, and utterly detesting the vassal status he had accepted at Omi’s pleading.

“It’s your only chance, Yabu-sama,” Omi had urged. “The only way you’ll avoid Toranaga’s trap and leave yourself room to maneuver—”

Igurashi had interrupted furiously. “Better to fall on Toranaga today while he’s got few men here! Better to kill him and take his head to Ishido while there’s time.”

“Better to wait, better to be patient—”

“What happens if Toranaga orders our Master to give up Izu?” Igurashi had shouted. “As liege lord to vassal, Toranaga has that right!”

“He’ll never do it. He needs our Master more than ever now. Izu guards his southern door. He can’t have Izu hostile! He must have our Master on his—”

“What if he orders Lord Yabu out?”

“We rebel! We kill Toranaga if he’s here or fight any army he sends against us. But he’ll never do that, don’t you see? As his vassal, Toranaga must protect—”

Yabu had let them argue and then at length he had seen Omi’s wisdom. “Very well. I agree! And offering him my Murasama sword to fix the bargain’s genius, Omi-san,” he had gloated, taken wholeheartedly by the cunning of the plan. “Yes. Genius. His Yoshitomo blade more than takes its place. And of course, I’m more valuable to Toranaga now than ever before. Omi’s right, Igurashi. I’ve no choice. I’m committed to Toranaga from now on. A vassal!”

“Until war comes,” Omi had said deliberately.

“Of course. Of course only until war comes! Then I can change sides—or do a dozen things. You’re right, Omi-san, again!”

Omi’s the best counselor I’ve ever had, he told himself. But the most dangerous. Omi’s clever enough to take Izu if I die. But what does that matter. We’re all dead.

“You’re blocked completely,” he told Toranaga. “You’re isolated.”

“Is there any alternative?” Toranaga asked.

“Excuse me, Sire,” Omi said, “but how long would it take to ready this attack?”

“It’s ready now.”

“Izu’s ready too, Sire,” Yabu said. “Your hundred and my sixteen thousand and the Musket Regiment—is that enough?”

“No. Crimson Sky’s a desperation plan—everything risked on one attack.”

“You have to risk it, as soon as the rains cease and we can war,” Yabu insisted. “What choice have you got? Ishido will form a new Council at once, they still have the mandate. So you’ll be impeached, today or tomorrow or the next day. Why wait to be eaten up? Listen, maybe the Regiment could blast a way through the mountains! Let it be Crimson Sky! All men thrown into one great attack. It’s the Way of the Warrior—it’s worthy of samurai, Toranaga-sama. The guns, our guns, will blow Zataki out of our way and if you succeed or fail, what does it matter? The try will live forever!”

Naga said, “Yes. But we’ll win—we will!” A few of the captains nodded their agreement, relieved that war had come. Omi said nothing.

Toranaga was looking at Buntaro. “Well?”

“Lord, I beg you to excuse me from giving an opinion. I and my men do whatever you decide. That’s my only duty. My opinion is no value to you because I do what you alone decide.”

“Normally I’d accept that but not today!”

“War then. What Yabu-san says is right. Let’s go to Kyoto. Today, tomorrow, or when the rains stop. Crimson Sky! I’m tired of waiting.”

“Omi-san?” Toranaga asked.

“Yabu-sama is correct, Sire. Ishido will bend the Taikō’s will to appoint a new Council very soon. The new Council will have the Emperor’s mandate. Your enemies will applaud and most of your friends will hesitate and so betray you. The new Council will impeach you at once. Then—”

“Then it’s Crimson Sky?” Yabu interrupted.

“If Lord Toranaga orders it, then it is. But I don’t think the impeachment order has any value at all. You can forget it!”

“Why?” Toranaga asked, as all attention went to Omi.

“I agree with you, Sire. Ishido’s evil, neh? Any daimyos who agree to serve him are equally evil. True men know Ishido for what he is, and also know that the Emperor’s been duped again.” Omi was prudently treading through the quicksands that he knew could swallow him. “I think he made a lasting mistake murdering Lord Sugiyama. Because of those foul murders, I think now all daimyos will suspect treachery from Ishido, and very few outside of Ishido’s immediate grasp will bow to the orders of his ‘Council.’ You’re safe. For a time.”

“For how much time?”

“The rains are with us for two months, about. When the rains cease Ishido will plan to send Ikawa Jikkyu and Lord Zataki against you simultaneously, to catch you in a pincer, and Ishido’s main army will support them over the Tokaidō Road. Meanwhile, until the rains stop, every daimyo who bears a grudge against any other daimyo will only pay Ishido lip service until he makes the first move, then I think they’ll forget him and they’ll all take revenge or grab territory at their whim. The Empire will be torn as it was before the Taikō. But you, Sire, between Yabu-sama and yourself, jointly, with luck you have enough strength to hold the passes to the Kwanto and to Izu against the first wave and beat it off. I don’t think Ishido could mount another attack—not a great one. When Ishido and the others have expended their energies, together you and Lord Yabu can cautiously come from behind our mountains and gradually take the Empire into your own hands.”

“When will that be?”

“In the time of your children, Sire.”

“You say fight a defensive battle?” Yabu asked scornfully.

“I think jointly you’re both safe behind the mountains. You wait, Toranaga-sama. You wait until you have more allies. You hold the passes. This can be done! General Ishido’s evil, but not stupid enough to commit all his force to one battle. He’ll stay skulking inside Osaka. So for the time being, we mustn’t use our regiment. We must tighten security and keep them as a secret weapon, poised and ever ready, until you come from behind your mountains—but now I don’t think I will ever see them used.” Omi was conscious of the eyes watching him. He bowed to Toranaga. “Please excuse me for talking at length, Sire.”

Toranaga studied him, then glanced at his son. He saw the youth’s pent-up excitement and knew it was time to cast him at his prey. “Naga-san?”

“What Omi-san said is true,” Naga told him at once, exultantly. “Most of it. But I say use the two months to gather allies, to isolate Ishido even more, and when the rains cease, attack without warning—Crimson Sky.”

Toranaga asked, “You disagree with Omi-san’s opinion about a lengthy war?”

“No. But isn’t this—” Naga stopped.

“Go on, Naga-san. Speak openly!” Naga held his tongue, his face white. “You’re ordered to continue!”

“Well, Sire, it occurred to me that—” Again he stopped, then said in a gush, “Isn’t this your great opportunity to become Shōgun? If you succeed in taking Kyoto and get the mandate, why form a Council? Why not petition the Emperor to make you Shōgun? It would be best for you and best for the realm.” Naga tried to keep the fear out of his voice for he was speaking treason against Yaemon and most samurai here—Yabu, Omi, Igurashi, and Buntaro particularly—were open loyalists. “I say you should be Shōgun!” He turned defensively on the others. “If this opportunity is let go . . . Omi-san, you’re right about a long war, but I say Lord Toranaga must take power, to give power! A long war will ruin the Empire, split it into a thousand fragments again! Who wants that? Lord Toranaga must be Shōgun. To gift the Empire on to Yaemon, to Lord Yaemon, the realm must be secured first! There’ll never be another opportunity. . . .” His words trailed off. He squared his back, frightened because he had said it, glad that he had said publicly what he had been thinking forever.

Toranaga sighed. “I have never sought to become Shōgun. How many times do I have to say it? I support my nephew Yaemon and the Taikō’s will.” He looked at them all, one by one. Lastly at Naga. The youth winced. But Toranaga said kindly, calling him back to the lure, “Your zeal and youth alone excuse you. Unfortunately, many much older and wiser than you think that’s my ambition. It isn’t. There’s only one way to settle that nonsense and that’s put Lord Yaemon into power. And that I intend to do.”

“Yes, Father. Thank you. Thank you,” Naga replied in despair.

Toranaga shifted his eyes to Igurashi. “What’s your counsel?”

The one-eyed samurai scratched. “Me, I’m only a soldier, not a counselor, but I wouldn’t advise Crimson Sky, not if we can war on our terms like Omi-san says. I fought in Shinano years ago. That’s bad country, and then Lord Zataki was with us. I wouldn’t want to war in Shinano again and never if Zataki was hostile. And if Lord Maeda’s suspect, well, how can you plan a battle if your biggest ally may betray you? Lord Ishido’ll put two, three hundred thousand men against you and still keep a hundred holding Osaka. Even with the guns we’ve not enough men to attack. But behind the mountains using the guns, you could hold out forever if it happens like Omi-san says. We could hold the passes. You’ve enough rice—doesn’t the Kwanto supply half the Empire? Well, a third at least—and we could send you all the fish you need. You’d be safe. Let Lord Ishido and devil Jikkyu come at us if it’s to happen like Omi-san said, that soon the enemy’ll be feeding on each other. If not, keep Crimson Sky ready. A man can die for his lord only once in this life.”

“Has anyone anything to add?” Toranaga asked. No one answered him.

“Mariko-san?”

“It’s not my place to speak here, Sire,” she replied. “I’m sure everything has been said that should have been said. But may I be allowed to ask for all your counselors here, what do you think will happen?”

Toranaga chose his words deliberately. “I believe that what Omi-san forecast will happen. With one exception: the Council won’t be impotent. The Council will wield enough influence to gather an invincible allied force. When the rains cease it will be thrown against the Kwanto, bypassing Izu. The Kwanto will be gobbled up, then Izu. Only after I’m dead will the daimyos fight among themselves.”

“But why, Sire?” Omi ventured.

“Because I’ve too many enemies, I own the Kwanto, I’ve warred for more than forty years and never lost a battle. They’re all afraid of me. I know that first the vultures will pack together to destroy me. Later they’ll destroy themselves, but first they’ll join to destroy me if they can. Know very clearly, all of you, I’m the only real threat to Yaemon, even though I’m no threat at all. That’s the irony of it. They all believe I want to be Shōgun. I don’t. This is another war that’s not necessary at all!”

Naga broke the silence. “Then what are you going to do, Sire?”

“Eh?”

“What are you going to do?”

“Obviously, Crimson Sky,” Toranaga said.

“But you said they’d eat us up?”

“They would—if I gave them any time. But I’m not going to give them any time. We go to war at once!”

“But the rains—what about the rains?”

“We will arrive in Kyoto wet. Hot and stinking and wet. Surprise, mobility, audacity, and timing win wars, neh? Yabu-san was right. The guns will blast a way through the mountains.”

For an hour they discussed plans and the feasibility of large-scale war in the rainy season—an unheard-of strategy. Then Toranaga sent them away, except Mariko, telling Naga to order the Anjin-san here. He watched them walk off. They had all been outwardly enthusiastic once the decision had been announced, Naga and Buntaro particularly. Only Omi had been reserved and thoughtful and unconvinced. Toranaga discounted Igurashi for he knew that, rightly, the soldier would do only what Yabu ordered, and he dismissed Yabu as a pawn, treacherous certainly, but still a pawn. Omi’s the only one worthwhile, he thought. I wonder if he’s worked out yet what I’m really going to do?

“Mariko-san. Find out, tactfully, how much the courtesan’s contract would cost.”

She blinked. “Kiku-san, Sire?”

“Yes.”

“Now, Sire? At once?”

“Tonight would do excellently.” He looked at her blandly. “Her contract’s not necessarily for me, perhaps for one of my officers.”

“I would imagine the price would depend on whom, Sire.”

“I imagine it will. But set a price. The girl of course has the right of refusal, if she wishes, when the samurai’s named, but tell her mama-san owner that I don’t expect the girl will have the bad manners to mistrust my choice for her. Tell the owner also that Kiku is a Lady of the First Class of Mishima and not Yedo or Osaka or Kyoto,” Toranaga added genially, “so I expect to pay Mishima prices and not Yedo or Osaka or Kyoto prices.”

“Yes, Sire, of course.”

Toranaga moved his shoulder to ease the ache, shifting his swords.

“May I massage it for you, Sire? Or send for Suwo?”

“No, thank you. I’ll see Suwo later.” Toranaga got up and relieved himself with great pleasure, then sat down again. He wore a short, light silk kimono, blue patterned, and the simple straw sandals. His fan was blue and decorated with his crest.

The sun was low, rain clouds building heavily.

“It’s vast to be alive,” he said happily. “I can almost hear the rain waiting to be born.”

“Yes,” she said.

Toranaga thought a moment. Then he said as a poem:

Mariko obediently put her mind to work to play the poem game with him, so popular with most samurai, spontaneously twisting the words of the poem that he had made up, adapting them, making another from his. After a moment she replied:

“Well said! Yes, very well said!” Toranaga looked at her contentedly, enjoying what he saw. She was dressed in a pale green kimono with patterns of bamboo, a dark green obi and orange sunshade. There was a marvelous sheen to the blue-black hair, which was piled high under her wide-brimmed hat. He remembered nostalgically how they had all—even the Dictator Goroda himself—wanted her when she was thirteen and her father, Akechi Jinsai, had first presented this, his eldest daughter, at Goroda’s court. And how Nakamura, the Taikō-to-be, had begged the Dictator to give her to him, and then how Goroda had laughed, and publicly called him his randy little monkey general, and told him to “stick to fighting battles, peasant, don’t fight to stick patrician holes!” Akechi Jinsai had openly scorned Nakamura, his rival for Goroda’s favor, the main reason why Nakamura had delighted in smashing him. And why also Nakamura had delighted in watching Buntaro squirm for years, Buntaro who had been given the girl to cement an alliance between Goroda and Toda Hiro-matsu. I wonder, Toranaga asked himself mischievously, looking at her, I wonder if Buntaro were dead, would she consent to be one of my consorts? Toranaga had always preferred experienced women, widows or divorced wives, but never too pretty or too wise or too young or too well-born, so never too much trouble and always grateful.

He chuckled to himself. I’d never ask her because she’s everything I don’t want in a consort—except that her age is perfect.

“Sire?” she asked.

“I was thinking about your poem, Mariko-san,” he said, even more blandly. Then added:

She said in answer:

He laughed and bowed with mock humility. “I concede victory, Mariko-sama. What will the favor be? A fan? Or a scarf for your hair?”

“Thank you, Sire,” she replied. “Yes, whatever pleases you.”

“Ten thousand koku yearly to your son.”

“Oh, Sire, we don’t deserve such favor!”

“You won a victory. Victory and duty must be rewarded. How old is Saruji now?”

“Fifteen—almost fifteen.”

“Ah, yes—he was betrothed to one of Lord Kiyama’s granddaughters recently, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, Sire. It was in the eleventh month last year, the Month of the White Frost. He’s presently at Osaka with Lord Kiyama.”

“Good. Ten thousand koku, beginning at once. I will send the authority with tomorrow’s mail. Now, enough of poems, please give me your opinion.”

“My opinion, Sire, is that we are all safe in your hands, as the land is safe in your hands.”

“I want you to be serious.”

“Oh, but I am, Sire. I thank you for the favor to my son. That makes everything perfect. I believe whatever you do will be right. By the Madon—yes, by the Madonna, I swear I believe that.”

“Good. But I still want your opinion.”

Immediately she replied, without a care in the world, as an equal to an equal. “First, you should bring Lord Zataki secretly back to your side. I’d surmise you either know how to do this already, or more probably, you have a secret agreement with your half brother, and you prompted his mythical ‘defection’ in the first place to lull Ishido into a false position. Next: You’ll never attack first. You never have, you’ve always counseled patience, and you only attack when you’re sure to win, so publicly ordering Crimson Sky at once is only another diversion. Next, timing: My opinion is you should do what you will do, pretend to order Crimson Sky but never commit it. This will throw Ishido into confusion because, obviously, spies here and in Yedo will report your plan, and he’ll have to scatter his force like a covey of partridge, in filthy weather, to prepare for a threat that’ll never materialize. Meanwhile you’ll spend the next two months gathering allies, to undermine Ishido’s alliances and break up his coalition, which you must do by any means. And of course, you must tempt Ishido out of Osaka Castle. If you don’t, Sire, he will win, or at least, you will lose the Shōgunate. You—”

“I’ve already made my position clear on that,” Toranaga rapped, no longer amused. “And you forget yourself.”

Mariko said carelessly and happily, “I have to talk secrets today, Sire, because of the hostages. They’re a knife in your heart.”

“What about them?”

“Be patient with me please, Sire. I may never be able to talk to you in what the Anjin-san would call an ‘open English private way’ ever again—you’re never alone like we’re alone now. I beg you to excuse my bad manners.” Mariko gathered her wits and, astoundingly, continued to speak as an equal. “My absolute opinion is that Naga-san was right. You must become Shōgun, or you will have failed in your duty to the Empire and to the Minowara.”

“How dare you say such a thing!”

Mariko remained quite serene, his open anger touching her not at all. “I counsel you to marry the Lady Ochiba. It’s eight years before Yaemon’s old enough, legally, to inherit—that’s an eternity! Who knows what could happen in eight months, let alone eight years.”

“Your whole family can be obliterated in eight days!”

“Yes, Sire. But that has nothing to do with you and your duty, and the realm. Naga-san’s right. You must take the power to give power.” With mock gravity she added breathlessly, “And now may your faithful counselor commit seppuku or should I do it later?” and she pretended to swoon.

Toranaga gawked at her incredible effrontery, then he roared with laughter and pounded his fist on the ground. When he could talk, he choked out, “I’ll never understand you, Mariko-san.”

“Ah, but you do, Sire,” she said, patting the perspiration off her forehead. “You’re kind to let this devoted vassal make you laugh, to listen to her requests, to say what must be said, had to be said. Forgive me my impertinence, please.”

“Why should I, eh? Why?” Toranaga smiled, genial now.

“Because of the hostages, Sire,” she said simply.

“Ah, them!” He too became serious.

“Yes. I must go to Osaka.”

“Yes,” he said. “I know.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Accompanied by Naga, Blackthorne trudged disconsolately down the hill toward the two figures who sat on the futons in the center of the ring of guards. Beyond the guards were the rising foothills of the mountains that soared to a clouded sky. The day was sultry. His head was aching from the grief of the last few days, from worrying about Mariko, and from being unable to talk except in Japanese for so long. Now he recognized her and some of his misery left him.

Many times he had gone to Omi’s house to see Mariko or to inquire about her. Samurai had always turned him away, politely but firmly. Omi had told him as a tomodachi, a friend, that she was all right. Don’t worry, Anjin-san. Do you understand? Yes, he had said, understanding only that he could not see her.

Then he had been sent for by Toranaga and had wanted to tell him so much but because of his lack of words had failed to do anything other than irritate him. Fujiko had gone several times to see Mariko. When she came back she always said that Mariko was well, adding the inevitable, “Shinpai suruna, Anjin-san. Wakarimasu?” Don’t worry—do you understand?

With Buntaro it had been as though nothing had ever happened. They mouthed polite greetings when they met during the day. Apart from occasionally using the bath house, Buntaro was like any other samurai in Anjiro, neither friendly nor unfriendly.

From dawn to dusk Blackthorne had been chased by the accelerated training. He had had to suppress his frustration as he tried to teach, and strove to learn the language. By nightfall he was always exhausted. Hot and sweating and rain-soaked. And alone. Never had he felt so alone, so aware of not belonging in this alien world.

Then there was the horror that began three days ago. It had been a very long humid day. At sunset he had wearily ridden home and had instantly felt trouble permeating his house. Fujiko had greeted him nervously.

“Nan desu ka?”

She had replied quietly, at length, eyes lowered.

“Wakarimasen.” I don’t understand. “Nan desu ka?” he asked again, impatiently, his fatigue making him irritable.

Then she had beckoned him into the garden. She pointed at the eaves but the roof seemed sound enough to him. More words and signs and it finally dawned on him that she was pointing to where he had hung the pheasant.

“Oh, I’d forgotten about that! Watashi . . .” But he couldn’t remember how to say it so he just shrugged wearily. “Wakarimasu. Nan desu kiji ka?” I understand. What about the pheasant?

Servants were peering at him from doors and windows, clearly petrified. She spoke again. He concentrated but her words did not make sense.

“Wakarimasen, Fujiko-san.” I don’t understand, Fujiko-san.

She took a deep breath, then shakily imitated someone removing the pheasant, carrying it away, and burying it.

“Ahhhh! Wakarimasu, Fujiko-san. Wakarimasu! Was it getting high?” he asked. As he did not know the Japanese word he held his nose and pantomimed stench.

“Hai, hai, Anjin-san. Dozo gomen nasai, gomen nasai.” She made the sound of flies and, with her hands, painted a picture of a buzzing cloud.

“Ah so desu! Wakarimasu.” Once upon a time he would have apologized and, if he had known the words, he would have said, I’m so sorry for the inconvenience. Instead he just shrugged, eased the ache in his back, and mumbled, “Shigata ga nai,” wanting only to slide into the ecstasy of the bath and massage, the only joy that made life possible. “The hell with it,” he said in English, turning away. “If I’d been here during the day I’d’ve noticed it. The hell with it!”

“Dozo, Anjin-san?”

“Shigata ga nai,” he repeated louder.

“Ah so desu, arigato gozaimashita.”

“Dare toru desu ka?” Who took it?

“Ueki-ya.”

“Oh, that old bugger!” Ueki-ya, the gardener, the kind, toothless old man who tended the plants with loving hands and made his garden beautiful. “Yoi. Motte kuru Ueki-ya.” Good, fetch him.

Fujiko shook her head. Her face had become chalky white.

“Ueki-ya shinda desu, shinda desu!” she whispered.

“Ueki-ya ga shindato? Donoyoni? Doshité? Doshité shindanoda?” How? Why? How did he die?

Her hand pointed at the place where the pheasant had been and she spoke many gentle incomprehensible words. Then she mimed the single cut of a sword.

“Jesus Christ God! You put that old man to death over a stinking, God-cursed pheasant?”

At once all the servants rushed to the garden and fell on their knees. They put their heads into the dirt and froze, even the children of the cook.

“What the piss-hell’s going on?” Blackthorne was almost berserk.

Fujiko waited stoically until they were all there, then she too went down on her knees and bowed, as a samurai and not as a peasant. “Gomen nasai, dozo gomen na—”

“The pox on your gomen nasai! What right’ve you to do that? Ehhhhh?” and he began to swear at her foully. “Why in the name of Christ didn’t you ask me first? Eh?”

He fought for control, aware that all of his servants knew he legally could hack Fujiko and all of them to pieces here in the garden for causing him so much displeasure, or for no reason at all, and that not even Toranaga himself could interfere with his handling of his own household.

He saw one of the children was trembling with terror and panic. “Jesus Christ in heaven, give me strength. . . .” He held on to one of the posts to steady himself. “It’s not your fault,” he choked out, not realizing he wasn’t speaking Japanese. “It’s hers! It’s you! You murdering bitch!”

Fujiko looked up slowly. She saw the accusing finger and the hatred on his face. She whispered a command to her maid, Nigatsu.

Nigatsu shook her head and began to beg.

“Ima!”

The maid fled. She returned with the killing sword, tears streaming her face. Fujiko took the sword and offered it to Blackthorne with both hands. She spoke and though he did not know all the words he knew that she was saying, “I’m responsible, please take my life because I’ve displeasured you.”

“IYÉ!” He grabbed the sword and threw it away. “You think that’ll bring Ueki-ya back to life?”

Then, suddenly, he realized what he had done, and what he was doing now. “Oh, Jesus God . . .”

He left them. In despair he went to the outcrop above the village near the shrine that was beside the ancient gnarled cypress tree and he wept.

He wept because a good man was dead unnecessarily and because he knew now that he had murdered him. “Lord God forgive me. I’m responsible—not Fujiko. I killed him. I ordered that no one was to touch the pheasant but me. I asked her if everyone understood and she said yes. I ordered it with mock gravity but that doesn’t matter now. I gave the orders, knowing their law and knowing their customs. The old man broke my stupid order so what else could Fujiko-san do? I’m to blame.”

In time the tears were spent. It was deep night now. He returned to his house.

Fujiko was waiting for him as always, but alone. The sword was across her lap. She offered it to him. “Dozo—dozo, Anjin-san.”

“Iyé,” he said, taking the sword as a sword should be taken. “Iyé, Fujiko-san. Shigata ga nai, neh? Karma, neh?” His hand touched her in apology. He knew that she had had to bear all the worst of his stupidity.

Her tears spilled. “Arigato, arigato go—gozaimashita, Anjin-san,” she said brokenly. “Gomen nasai . . .”

His heart went out to her.

Yes, Blackthorne thought with great sadness, yes it did, but that doesn’t excuse you or take away her humiliation—or bring Ueki-ya back to life. You were to blame. You should have known better. . . .

“Anjin-san!” Naga said.

“Yes? Yes, Naga-san?” He pulled himself out of his remorse and looked down at the youth who walked beside him. “Sorry, what you say?”

“I said I hoped to be your friend.”

“Ah, thank you.”

“Yes, and perhaps you’d—” There was a jumble of words Blackthorne did not understand.

“Please?”

“Teach, neh? Understand ‘teach’? Teach about world?”

“Ah, yes, so sorry. Teach what, please?”

“About foreign lands—outside lands. The world, neh?”

“Ah, understand now. Yes, try.”

They were near the guards now. “Begin tomorrow, Anjin-san. Friends, neh?”

“Yes, Naga-san. Try.”

“Good.” Very satisfied, Naga nodded. When they came up to the samurai Naga ordered them out of the way, motioning Blackthorne to go on alone. He obeyed, feeling very alone in the circle of men.

“Ohayo, Toranaga-sama. Ohayo, Mariko-san,” he said, joining them.

“Ohayo, Anjin-san. Dozo suwaru.” Good day, Anjin-san, please sit down.

Mariko smiled at him. “Ohayo, Anjin-san. Ikaga desu ka?”

“Yoi, domo.” Blackthorne looked back at her, so glad to see her. “Thy presence fills me with joy, great joy,” he said in Latin.

“And thine—it is so good to see thee. But there is a shadow on thee. Why?”

“Nan ja?” Toranaga asked.

She told him what had been said. Toranaga grunted, then spoke.

“My Master says you’re looking careworn, Anjin-san. I must agree too. He asks what’s troubling you.”

“It’s nothing. Domo, Toranaga-sama. Nani mo.” It’s nothing.

“Nan ja?” Toranaga asked directly. “Nan ja?”

Obediently Blackthorne replied at once. “Ueki-ya,” he said helplessly. “Hai, Ueki-ya.”

“Ah so desu!” Toranaga spoke at length to Mariko.

“My Master says there is no need to be sad about Old Gardener. He asks me to tell you that it was all officially dealt with. Old Gardener understood completely what he was doing.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Yes, it would be very difficult for you, but you see, Anjin-san, the pheasant was rotting in the sun. Flies were swarming terribly. Your health, your consort’s health, and that of your whole house was being threatened. Also, so sorry, there had been some very private, cautious complaints from Omi-san’s head servant—and others. One of our most important rules is that the individual may never disturb the wa, the harmony of the group, remember? So something had to be done. You see, decay, the stench of decay, is revolting to us. It’s the worst smell in the world to us, so sorry. I tried to tell you but—well, it’s one of the things that sends us all a little mad. Your head servant—”

“Why didn’t someone come to me at once? Why didn’t someone just tell me?” Blackthorne asked. “The pheasant was meaningless to me.”

“What was there to tell? You’d given orders. You are head of the house. They didn’t know your customs or what to do, other than to solve the dilemma according to our custom.” She spoke to Toranaga for a moment, explaining what Blackthorne had said, then turned back again. “Is this distressing you? Do you wish me to continue?”

“Yes, please, Mariko-san.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, your head servant, Small Tooth Cook, called a meeting of your servants, Anjin-san. Mura, the village headman, was asked to attend officially. It was decided that village eta could not be asked to take it away. This was only a house problem. One of the servants had to take it and bury it, even though you’d given absolute orders it was not to be moved. Obviously your consort was duty bound to see your orders were obeyed. Old Gardener asked to be allowed to carry it away. Lately he’d been living and sleeping in great pain from his abdomen and he found kneeling and weeding and planting very tiring, and could not do his work to his own satisfaction. Third Cook Assistant also offered, saying he was very young and stupid and he was sure his life counted for nothing against such a grave matter. At length Old Gardener was allowed the honor. Truly it was a great honor, Anjin-san. With great solemnity they all bowed to him and he to them and happily he took the thing away and buried it to the great relief of all.

“When he came back he went directly to Fujiko-san and told her what he’d done, that he’d disobeyed your law, neh? She thanked him for removing the hazard, then told him to wait. She came to me for advice and asked me what she should do. The matter had been done formally so it would have to be dealt with formally. I told her I didn’t know, Anjin-san. I asked Buntaro-san but he didn’t know either. It was complicated, because of you. So he asked Lord Toranaga. Lord Toranaga saw your consort himself.” Mariko turned back to Toranaga and told him where she had reached in the story, as he had requested.

Toranaga spoke rapidly. Blackthorne watched them, the woman so petite and lovely and attentive, the man compact, rock-hard, his sash tight over his large belly. Toranaga did not talk with his hands like many, but kept them still, his left hand propped on his thigh, the other always on his sword hilt.

“Hai, Toranaga-sama. Hai.” Mariko glanced at Blackthorne and continued as formally. “Our Master asks me to explain that, so sorry, if you’d been Japanese there would have been no difficulty, Anjin-san. Old Gardener would simply have gone to the burial ground to receive his release. But, please excuse me, you’re a foreigner, even though Lord Toranaga made you hatamoto—one of his personal vassals—and it was a matter of deciding whether you were legally samurai or not. I’m honored to tell you that he ruled you are samurai and you do have samurai rights. So everything was resolved at once and made easy. A crime had been committed. Your orders had been deliberately disobeyed. The law is clear. There is no option.” She was grave now. “But Lord Toranaga knows of your sensitivity to killing, so to save you pain, he personally ordered one of his samurai to send Old Gardener into the Void.”

“But why didn’t someone ask me first? That pheasant meant nothing to me.”

“The pheasant has nothing do with it, Anjin-san,” she explained. “You’re head of a house. The law says no member of your house may disobey you. Old Gardener deliberately broke the law. The whole world would fall to pieces if people were allowed to flout the law. Your—”

Toranaga broke in and spoke to her. She listened, answered some questions, then again he motioned her to continue.

“Hai. Lord Toranaga wants me to assure you that he personally saw that Old Gardener got the quick, painless, and honorable death he merited. He even loaned the samurai his own sword, which is very sharp. And I should tell you that Old Gardener was very proud that in his failing days he was able to help your house, Anjin-san, proud that he helped to establish your samurai status before all. Most of all he was proud of the honor being paid to him. Public executioners were not used, Anjin-san. Lord Toranaga wants me to make that very clear to you.”

“Thank you, Mariko-san. Thank you for making it clear.” Blackthorne turned to Toranaga, bowed most correctly. “Domo, Toranaga-sama, domo arigato. Wakarimasu. Domo.”

Toranaga bowed back agreeably. “Yoi, Anjin-san. Shinpai suru monojanai, neh? Shigata ga nai, neh?” Good. Now don’t worry, eh? What could you do, eh?

“Nani mo.” Nothing. Blackthorne answered the questions Toranaga put to him about the musket training, but nothing that they were saying reached him. His mind was tottering under the impact of what he had been told. He had abused Fujiko before all his servants and abused the trust of all his household, when Fujiko had done only what was correct and so had they.

Fujiko was blameless. They’re all blameless. Except me.

I cannot undo what’s been done. Neither to Ueki-ya nor to her. Or to them.

How can I live with this shame?

He sat cross-legged in front of Toranaga, the slight sea breeze tugging at his kimono, swords in his sash. Dully he listened and answered and nothing was important. War is coming, she was saying. When? he was asking. Very soon, she was saying, so you are to leave at once with me, you are to accompany me part of the way, Anjin-san, because I’m going to Osaka, but you’re going on to Yedo by land to prepare your ship for war. . . .

Suddenly the silence was colossal.

Then the earth began to shake.

He felt his lungs about to burst, and every fiber of his being screamed panic. He tried to stand but could not and saw all the guards were equally helpless. Toranaga and Mariko desperately held on to the ground with their hands and feet. The rumbling, catastrophic roar was coming from earth and sky. It surrounded them, building and building until their eardrums were ready to split. They became part of the frenzy. For an instant the frenzy stopped, the shock continuing. He felt his vomit rising, his unbelieving mind shrieking that this was land where it was firm and safe and not sea where the world tilted every moment. He spat to clear the foul taste away, clutching the trembling earth, retching again and again.

An avalanche of rocks started from the mountain to the north and howled down into the valley below, adding to the tumult. Part of the samurai camp vanished. He groped to his hands and knees, Toranaga and Mariko doing the same. He heard himself shouting but no sound seemed to be coming from his lips or from theirs.

The tremor stopped.

The earth was firm again, firm as it had always been, firm as it always should be. His hands and knees and body were trembling uncontrollably. He tried to still them and catch his breath.

Then again the earth cried out. The second quake began. It was more violent. Then the earth ripped open at the far end of the plateau. This gaping fissure rushed toward them at an incredible speed, passed five paces away, and tore onward. His disbelieving eyes saw Toranaga and Mariko teetering on the brink of the cleft where there should have been solid ground. As though in a nightmare he saw Toranaga, nearest to the maw, begin to topple into it. He came out of his stupor, lunged forward. His right hand grabbed Toranaga’s sash, the earth trembling like a leaf in the wind.

The cleft was twenty paces deep and ten across and stank of death. Mud and rocks poured down, dragging Toranaga and him with it. Blackthorne fought for handhold and foothold, raving at Toranaga to help, almost pulled down into the abyss. Still partially stunned, Toranaga hacked his toes into the face of the wall and, half dragged and half carried by Blackthorne, clawed his way out. They both lay gasping in safety.

At that moment there was another shock.

The earth split again. Mariko screamed. She tried to scramble out of the way but this new fissure swallowed her. Frantically Blackthorne crawled for the edge, the after-shocks throwing him off balance. On the brink he stared down. She shivered on a ledge a few feet below as the ground reeled and the sky looked down. The chasm was thirty paces deep, ten wide. The lip crumbled away under him sickeningly. He let himself slide down, mud and stones almost blinding him, and caught hold of her, pulling her to the safety of another ledge. Together they fought for balance. A new shock. The ledge mostly gave way and they were lost. Then Toranaga’s iron hand caught his sash, stopping their slide into hell.

“For Christ’s sake . . .” Blackthorne cried, his arms almost torn from their sockets as he held on to her and fought for holds with his feet and free hand. Toranaga grappled him until they were on a narrow shelf again, then the sash broke. A moment’s respite from the tremors gave Blackthorne time to get her onto the shelf, debris raining on them. Toranaga leapt to safety, shouting for him to hurry. The chasm howled and began to close, Blackthorne and Mariko still deep in its gullet. Toranaga could no longer help. Blackthorne’s terror lent him inhuman strength and somehow he managed to rip Mariko out of the tomb and shove her upward. Toranaga clutched her wrist and hauled her over the lip. Blackthorne scrambled after her but reeled backward as part of his wall fell away. The far wall screeched sickeningly as it approached. Mud and stones tumbled off it. For a moment he thought he was trapped but he tore himself free and groped half out of his grave. He lay on the shuddering brink, his lungs gulping air, unable to crawl away, legs in the cleft. The gap was closing. Then it stopped—six paces across the mouth, eight deep.

All rumbling ceased. The earth firmed. The silence gathered.

On their hands and knees, helpless, they waited for the horror to begin again. Blackthorne started to get up, sweat dripping.

“Iyé.” Toranaga motioned him to stay down, his face a mess, a cruel gash on his temple where his head had smashed against a rock.

They were all panting, their chests heaving, bile in their mouths. Guards were picking themselves up. Some began running toward Toranaga.

“Iyé!” he shouted. “Matté!” Wait!

They obeyed and went down on their hands and knees again. The waiting seemed to go on forever. Then a bird screeched out of a tree and took to the air screaming. Another bird followed. Blackthorne shook his head to clear the sweat from his eyes. He was seeing his broken, bleeding fingernails gripping the tufts of grass. Then in the grass an ant moved. Another and another. They began to forage.

Still frightened he sat back on his heels. “When’s it safe?”

Mariko did not answer. She was mesmerized by the cleft in the ground. He scrambled over to her. “Are you all right?”

“Yes—yes,” she said breathlessly. Her face was daubed with mud. Her kimono was ripped and filthy. Both sandals and one tabi were missing. And her parasol. He helped her away from the lip. She was still numbed.

Then he looked at Toranaga. “Ikaga desu ka?”

Toranaga was unable to speak, his chest grinding, his arms and legs raw with abrasions. He pointed. The fissure which had almost swallowed him now was just a narrow ditch in the soil. Northward the ditch yawned into a ravine again but it was not as wide as it once had been, nor as deep.

Blackthorne shrugged. “Karma.”

Toranaga belched loudly, then hawked and spat and belched again. This helped his voice to work and a torrent of abuse poured over the ditch, his blunt fingers stabbed at it, and though Blackthorne could not understand all the words, Toranaga was clearly saying as a Japanese would, “The pox on the karma, the pox on the quake, the pox on the ditch—I’ve lost my swords and the pox on that!”

Blackthorne burst into laughter, his relief at being alive and the stupidity of it all consuming him. A moment, then Toranaga laughed too, and their hilarity swept into Mariko.

Toranaga got to his feet. Gingerly. Then, warmed by the joy of life, he began clowning on the ditch, burlesquing himself and the quake. He stopped and beckoned Blackthorne to join him and straddled the ditch, opened his loincloth and, laughter taking him again, told Blackthorne to do the same. Blackthorne obeyed and both men tried to urinate into the ditch. But nothing came, not even a dribble. They tried very hard, which increased their laughter and blocked them even more. At length they succeeded and Blackthorne sat down to collect his strength, leaning back on his hands. When he had recovered a little he turned to Mariko. “Is the earthquake over for good, Mariko-san?”

“Until the next shock, yes.” She continued to brush the mud off her hands and kimono.

“Is it always like that?”

“No. Sometimes it’s very slight. Sometimes there’s another series of shocks after a stick of time or a day or half a stick or half a day. Sometimes there’s only one shock—you never know, Anjin-san. It’s over until it begins again. Karma, neh?”

Guards were watching them without moving, waiting for Toranaga’s order. To the north fires were raging in the crude lean- to bivouac. Samurai were fighting the fires and digging at the rock avalanche to find the buried. To the east, Yabu, Omi, and Buntaro stood with other guards beside the far end of the fissure, untouched except for bruises, also waiting to be Summoned. Igurashi had vanished. The earth had gorged on him.

Blackthorne let himself drift. His self-contempt had vanished and he felt utterly serene and whole. Now his mind dwelt proudly on being samurai, and going to Yedo, and his ship, and war, and the Black Ship, and back to samurai again. He glanced at Toranaga and would have liked to ask him a dozen questions, but he noticed that the daimyo was lost in his own thoughts and he knew it would be impolite to disturb him. There’s plenty of time, he thought contentedly, and looked over at Mariko. She was tending her hair and face, so he did not watch. He lay full length and looked up at the sky, the earth feeling warm on his back, waiting patiently.

Toranaga spoke, serious now. “Domo, Anjin-san, neh? Domo.”

“Dozo, Toranaga-sama. Nani mo. Hombun, neh?” Please, Toranaga-sama, it was nothing. Duty.

Then, not knowing enough words and wanting it accurate, Blackthorne said, “Mariko-san, would you explain for me: I seem to understand now what you meant and Lord Toranaga meant about karma and the stupidity of worrying about what is. A lot seems clearer. I don’t know why—perhaps it’s because I’ve never been so terrified, maybe that’s cleaned my head, but I seem to think clearer. It’s—well, like Old Gardener. Yes, that was all my fault and I’m truly sorry, but that was a mistake, not a deliberate choice on my part. It is. So nothing can be done about it. A moment ago we were all almost dead. So all that worry and heartache was a waste, wasn’t it? Karma. Yes, I know karma now. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” She translated to Toranaga.

“He says, ‘Good, Anjin-san. Karma is the beginning of knowledge. Next is patience. Patience is very important. The strong are the patient ones, Anjin-san. Patience means holding back your inclination to the seven emotions: hate, adoration, joy, anxiety, anger, grief, fear. If you don’t give way to the seven, you’re patient, then you’ll soon understand all manner of things and be in harmony with Eternity.’ ”

“You believe that, Mariko-san?”

“Yes. Very much. I try, also, to be patient, but it’s hard.”

“I agree. That’s also wa, your harmony, your ‘tranquillity,’ neh?”

“Yes.”

“Tell him I thank him truly for what he did for Old Gardener. I didn’t before, not from my heart. Tell him that.”

“There’s no need, Anjin-san. He knew before that you were just being polite.”

“How did he know?”

“I told you he is the wisest man in the world.”

He grinned.

“There,” she said, “your age has fallen off you again,” and added in Latin, “Thou art thyself again, and better than before!”

“But thou art beautiful, as always.”

Her eyes warmed and she averted them from Toranaga. Blackthorne saw this and marked her caution. He got to his feet and stared down into the jagged cleft. Carefully he jumped into it and disappeared.

Mariko scrambled up, momentarily afraid, but Blackthorne quickly came back to the surface. In his hands was Fujiko’s sword. It was still scabbarded, though muddied and scarred. His short stabbing sword had disappeared.

He knelt in front of Toranaga and offered his sword as a sword should be offered. “Dozo, Toranaga-sama,” he said simply. “Kara samurai ni samurai, neh?” Please, Lord Toranaga, from a samurai to a samurai, eh?

“Domo, Anjin-san.” The Lord of the Kwanto accepted the sword and shoved it into his sash. Then he smiled, leaned forward, and clapped Blackthorne once on the shoulder, hard. “Tomo, neh?” Friend, eh?

“Domo.” Blackthorne glanced away. His smile faded. A cloud of smoke was drifting over the rise above where the village would be. At once he asked Toranaga if he could leave, to make sure Fujiko was all right.

“He says, yes, Anjin-san. And we are to see him at the fortress at sunset for the evening meal. There are some things he wishes to discuss with you.”

Blackthorne went back to the village. It was devastated, the course of the road bent out of recognition, the surface shattered. But the boats were safe. Many fires still burned. Villagers were carrying buckets of sand and buckets of water. He turned the corner. Omi’s house was tilted drunkenly on its side. His own was a burnt-out ruin.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Fujiko had been injured. Nigatsu, her maid, was dead. The first shock had collapsed the central pillars of the house, scattering the coals of the kitchen fire. Fujiko and Nigatsu had been trapped by one of the fallen beams and the flames had turned Nigatsu into a torch. Fujiko had been pulled free. One of the cook’s children had also been killed, but the rest of his servants had suffered only bruises and some twisted limbs. They all were overjoyed to find that Blackthorne was alive and unhurt.

Fujiko was lying on a salvaged futon near the undamaged garden fence, half conscious. When she saw also that Blackthorne was unscathed she almost wept. “I thank Buddha you’re not hurt, Anjin-san,” she said weakly.

Still partially in shock, she tried to get up but he bade her not to move. Her legs and lower back were badly burned. A doctor was already tending her, wrapping bandages soaked in cha and other herbs around her limbs to soothe them. Blackthorne hid his concern and waited until the doctor had finished, then said privately, “Fujiko-san, yoi ka?” Lady Fujiko will be all right?

The doctor shrugged. “Hai.” His lips came back from his protruding teeth again. “Karma, neh?”

“Hai.” Blackthorne had seen enough burned seamen die to know that any bad burn was dangerous, the open wound almost always rotting within a few days and nothing to stop the infection spreading. “I don’t want her to die.”

“Dozo?”

He said it in Japanese and the doctor shook his head and told him that the Lady would surely be all right. She was young and strong.

“Shigata ga nai,” the doctor said and ordered maids to keep her bandages moist, gave Blackthorne herbs for his own abrasions, told him he would return soon, then scuttled up the hill toward Omi’s wrecked house above.

Blackthorne stood at his main gate, which was unharmed. Buntaro’s arrows were still embedded in the left post. Absently he touched one. Karma that she was burned, he thought sadly.

He went back to Fujiko and ordered a maid to bring cha. He helped her to drink and held her hand until she slept, or appeared to sleep. His servants were salvaging whatever they could, working quickly, helped by a few villagers. They knew the rains would be coming soon. Four men were trying to erect a temporary shelter.

“Dozo, Anjin-san.” The cook was offering him fresh tea, trying to keep the misery off his face. The little girl had been his favorite daughter.

“Domo,” Blackthorne replied. “Sumimasen.” I’m sorry.

“Arigato, Anjin-san. Karma, neh?”

Blackthorne nodded, accepted the tea, and pretended not to notice the cook’s grief, lest he shame him. Later a samurai came up the hill bringing word from Toranaga that Blackthorne and Fujiko were to sleep in the fortress until the house was rebuilt. Two palanquins arrived. Blackthorne lifted her gently into one of them and sent her with maids. He dismissed his own palanquin, telling her he’d follow soon.

The rain began but he paid it no heed. He sat on a stone in the garden that had given him so much pleasure. Now it was a shambles. The little bridge was broken, the pond shattered, and the streamlet had vanished.

“Never mind,” he said to no one. “The rocks aren’t dead.”

Ueki-ya had told him that a garden must be settled around its rocks, that without them a garden is empty, merely a place of growing.

One of the rocks was jagged and ordinary but Ueki-ya had planted it so that if you looked at it long and hard near sunset, the reddish glow glinting off the veins and crystal buried within, you could see a whole range of mountains with lingering valleys and deep lakes and, far off, a greening horizon, night gathering there.

Blackthorne touched the rock. “I name you Ueki-ya-sama,” he said. This pleased him and he knew that if Ueki-ya were alive, the old man would have been very pleased also. Even though he’s dead, perhaps he’ll know, Blackthorne told himself, perhaps his kami is here now. Shintoists believed that when they died they became a kami. . . .

“What is a kami, Mariko-san?”

“Kami is inexplicable, Anjin-san. It is like a spirit but not, like a soul but not. Perhaps it is the insubstantial essence of a thing or person . . . you should know a human becomes a kami after death but a tree or rock or plant or painting is equally a kami. Kami are venerated, never worshiped. They exist between heaven and earth and visit this Land of the Gods or leave it, all at the same time.”

“And Shinto? What’s Shinto?”

“Ah, that is inexplicable too, so sorry. It’s like a religion, but isn’t. At first it even had no name—we only called it Shinto, the Way of the Kami, a thousand years ago, to distinguish it from Butsudo, the Way of Buddha. But though it’s indefinable Shinto is the essence of Japan and the Japanese, and though it possesses neither theology nor godhead nor faith nor system of ethics, it is our justification for existence. Shinto is a nature cult of myths and legends in which no one believes wholeheartedly, yet everyone venerates totally. A person is Shinto in the same way he is born Japanese.”

“Are you Shinto too—as well as Christian?”

“Oh yes, oh very yes, of course. . . .”

Blackthorne touched the stone again. “Please, kami of Ueki-ya, please stay in my garden.”

Then, careless of the rain, he let his eyes take him into the rock, past the lush valleys and serene lake and to the greening horizon, darkness gathering there.

His ears told him to come back. He looked up. Omi was watching him, squatting patiently on his haunches. It was still raining and Omi wore a newly pressed kimono under his rice-straw raincoat, and a wide, conical bamboo hat. His hair was freshly shampooed.

“Karma, Anjin-san,” he said, motioning at the smoldering ruins.

“Hai. Ikaga desu ka?” Blackthorne wiped the rain off his face.

“Yoi.” Omi pointed up at his house. “Watakushi no yuya wa hakaisarete imasen ostukai ni narimasen-ka?” My bath wasn’t damaged. Would you care to use it?

“Ah so desu! Domo, Omi-san, hai, domo.” Gratefully Blackthorne followed Omi up the winding path, into his courtyard. Servants and village artisans under Mura’s supervision were already hammering and sawing and repairing. The central posts were already back in place and the roof almost resettled.

With signs and simple words and much patience, Omi explained that his servants had managed to douse the fires in time. Within a day or two, he told Blackthorne, the house would be up again, as good as it was, so not to worry. Yours will take longer, a week, Anjin-san. Don’t worry, Fujiko-san is a fine manager. She’ll have all costs arranged with Mura in no time and your house’ll be better than ever. I hear she was burned? Well, this happens sometimes, but not to worry, our doctors are very expert with burns—they have to be, neh? Yes, Anjin-san, it was a bad quake, but not that bad. The rice fields were hardly touched and the so essential irrigation system was undamaged. And the boats weren’t damaged and that’s very important too. Only a hundred and fifty-four samurai were killed in the avalanche, that’s not many, neh? As to the village, a week and you’ll hardly know there was a quake. Five peasants were killed and a few children—nothing! Anjiro was very lucky, neh? I hear you pulled Toranaga-sama out of a death trap. We’re all grateful to you, Anjin-san. Very. If we’d lost him . . . Lord Toranaga said he accepted your sword—you’re lucky, that’s a great honor. Yes. Your karma’s strong, very good, very rich. Yes, we thank you very much. Listen, we’ll talk more after you’ve bathed. I’m glad to have you as a friend.

Omi called out for the bath attendants. “Isogi!” Hurry up!

The servants escorted Blackthorne to the bath house, which was set within a tiny maple grove and joined to the main house by a neat winding walk, usually roofed. The bath was much more luxurious than his own. One wall was cracked badly but villagers were already replastering it. The roof was sound although a few tiles were missing and rain leaked in here and there, but that did not matter.

Blackthorne stripped and sat on the tiny seat. The servants lathered him and shampooed him in the rain. When he was cleansed he went inside and immersed himself in the steaming bath. All his troubles melted away.

Fujiko’s going to be all right. I’m a lucky man—lucky I was there to pull Toranaga out, lucky to save Mariko, and lucky he was there to pull us out.

Suwo’s magic renewed him as usual. Later he let Suwo dress his bruises and cuts and put on the clean loincloth and kimono and tabi that had been left for him, and went out. The rain had stopped.

A temporary lean-to had been erected in one corner of the garden. It had a neat raised floor and was furnished with clean futons and a little vase with a flower arrangement. Omi was waiting for him and in attendance was a toothless, hard-faced old woman.

“Please sit down, Anjin-san,” Omi said.

“Thank you, and thanks for the clothes,” he replied in halting Japanese.

“Please don’t mention it. Would you like cha or saké?”

“Cha,” Blackthorne decided, thinking that he had better keep his head clear for his interview with Toranaga. “Thank you.”

“This is my mother,” Omi said formally, clearly idolizing her.

Blackthorne bowed. The old woman simpered and sucked in her breath.

“It’s my honor, Anjin-san,” she said.

“Thank you, but I’m honored.” Blackthorne repeated automatically the succession of formal politenesses that Mariko had taught him.

“Anjin-san, we were so sorry to see your house in flames.”

“What could one do? That’s karma, neh?”

“Yes, karma.” The old woman looked away and scowled. “Hurry up! The Anjin-san wants his cha warm!”

The girl standing beside the maid who carried the tray took Blackthorne’s breath away. Then he remembered her. Wasn’t this the girl he’d seen with Omi, the first time, when he was passing through the village square on his way to the galley?

“This is my wife,” Omi said tersely.

“I’m honored,” Blackthorne said as she took her place, knelt, and bowed.

“You must forgive her slowness,” Omi’s mother said. “Is the cha warm enough for you?”

“Thank you, it’s very good.” Blackthorne had noted that the old woman had not used the wife’s name as she should have. But then, he was not surprised because Mariko had told him already about the dominating position of a girl’s mother-in-law in Japanese society.

“Thank God it’s not the same in Europe,” he had told her.

“A wife’s mother-in-law can do no wrong—after all, Anjin-san, the parents choose the wife in the first place and what father would choose without first consulting his own wife? Of course, the daughter-in-law has to obey, and the son always does what his mother and father want.”

“Always?”

“Always.”

“What if the son refuses?”

“That’s not possible. Everyone has to obey the head of the house. A son’s first duty is to his parents. Of course. Sons are given everything by their mothers—life, food, tenderness, protection. She succors them all their lives. So of course it’s right that a son should heed his mother’s wishes. The daughter-in-law—she has to obey. That’s her duty.”

“It’s not the same with us.”

“It’s hard to be a good daughter-in-law, very hard. You just have to hope that you live long enough to have sons to become one yourself.”

“And your mother-in-law?”

“Ah, she’s dead, Anjin-san. She died many years ago. I never knew her. Lord Hiro-matsu, in his wisdom, never took another wife.”

“Buntaro-san’s his only son?”

“Yes. My husband has five living sisters, but no brothers.” She had joked, “In a way we’re related now, Anjin-san. Fujiko’s my husband’s niece. What’s the matter?”

“I’m surprised you never told me, that’s all.”

“Well, it’s complicated, Anjin-san.” Then Mariko had explained that Fujiko was actually an adopted daughter of Numata Akinori, who had married Buntaro’s youngest sister, and that Fujiko’s real father was a grandson of the Dictator Goroda by his eighth consort, that Fujiko had been adopted by Numata when an infant at the Taikō’s orders because the Taikō wanted closer ties between the descendants of Hiro-matsu and Goroda. . . .

“What?”

Mariko had laughed, telling him that, yes, Japanese family relationships were very complicated because adoption was normal, that families exchanged sons and daughters often, and divorced and remarried and intermarried all the time. With so many legal consorts and the ease of divorce—particularly if at the order of a liege lord—all families soon become incredibly tangled.

“To unravel Lord Toranaga’s family links accurately would take days, Anjin-san. Just think of the complications: Presently he has seven official consorts living, who have given him five sons and three daughters. Some of the consorts were widows or previously married with other sons and daughters—some of these Toranaga adopted, some he did not. In Japan you don’t ask if a person is adopted or natural. Truly, what does it matter? Inheritance is always at the whim of the head of the house, so adopted or not it is the same, neh? Even Toranaga’s mother was divorced. Later she remarried and had three more sons and two daughters by her second husband, all of whom are also now married! Her eldest son from her second marriage is Zataki, Lord of Shinano.”

Blackthorne had mulled that. Then he had said, “Divorce isn’t possible for us. Not possible.”

“So the Holy Fathers tell us. So sorry, but that’s not very sensible, Anjin-san. Mistakes happen, people change, that’s karma, neh? Why should a man have to bear a foul wife, or a wife a foul man? Foolish to be stuck forever, man or woman, neh?”

“Yes.”

“In this we are very wise and the Holy Fathers unwise. This was one of the two great reasons the Taikō would not embrace Christianity, this foolishness about divorce—and the sixth Commandment, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ The Father-Visitor sent all the way to Rome begging dispensation for Japanese about divorce. But His Holiness the Pope, in his wisdom, said no. If His Holiness had said yes, I believe the Taikō would have converted, the daimyos would be following the True Faith now, and the land would be Christian. The matter of ‘killing’ would have been unimportant because no one pays any attention to that really, Christians least of all. Such a little concession, for so much, neh?”

“Yes,” Blackthorne had said. How sensible divorce seemed here. Why was it a mortal sin at home, opposed by every priest in Christendom, Catholic or Protestant, in the name of God?

“What’s Toranaga’s wife like?” he had asked, wanting to keep her talking. Most of the time she avoided the subject of Toranaga and his family history and it was important for Blackthorne to know everything.

A shadow had crossed Mariko’s face. “She’s dead. She was his second wife and she died ten or eleven years ago. She was the Taikō’s stepsister. Lord Toranaga was never successful with his wives, Anjin-san.”

“Why?”

“Oh, the second was old and tired and grasping, worshiping gold, though pretending not to, like her brother, the Taikō himself. Barren and bad-tempered. It was a political marriage, of course. I had to be one of her ladies-in-waiting for a time. Nothing would please her and none of the youths or men could unwind the knot in her Golden Pavilion.”

“What?”

“Her Jade Gate, Anjin-san. With their Turtle Heads—their Steaming Shafts. Don’t you understand? Her . . . thing.”

“Oh! I understand. Yes.”

“No one could unwind her knot . . . could satisfy her.”

“Not even Toranaga?”

“He never pillowed her, Anjin-san,” she had said, quite shocked. “Of course, after the marriage he had nothing to do with her, other than give her a castle and retainers and the keys to his treasure house—why should he? She was quite old, she’d been married twice before, but her brother, the Taikō, had dissolved the marriages. A most unpleasant woman—everyone was most relieved when she went into the Great Void, even the Taikō, and all her stepdaughters-in-law and all of Toranaga’s consorts secretly burnt incense with great joy.”

“And Toranaga’s first wife?”

“Ah, the Lady Tachibana. That was another political marriage. Lord Toranaga was eighteen, she fifteen. She grew up to be a terrible woman. Twenty years ago Toranaga had her put to death because he discovered she was secretly plotting to assassinate their liege lord, the Dictator Goroda, whom she hated. My father often told me he thought they were all lucky to retain their heads—he, Toranaga, Nakamura, and all the generals—because Goroda was merciless, relentless, and particularly suspicious of those closest to him. That woman could have ruined them all, however innocent they were. Because of her plot against Lord Goroda, her only son, Nobunaga, was also put to death, Anjin-san. She killed her own son. Think of that, so sad, so terrible. Poor Nobunaga—he was Toranaga’s favorite son and his official heir—brave, a general in his own right, and totally loyal. He was innocent but she still embroiled him in her plot. He was only nineteen when Toranaga ordered him to commit seppuku.”

“Toranaga killed his own son? And his wife?”

“Yes, he ordered them onward, but he had no choice, Anjin-san. If he hadn’t, Lord Goroda would correctly have presumed Toranaga to be part of the plot himself and would have ordered him instantly to slit his belly. Oh yes, Toranaga was lucky to escape Goroda’s wrath and wise to send her onward quickly. When she was dead her daughter-in-law and all Toranaga’s consorts were very much ecstatic. Her son had had to send his first wife home in disgrace on her orders for some imagined slight—after bearing him two children. The girl committed seppuku—did I tell you ladies commit seppuku by slitting their throats, Anjin-san, and not their stomachs like men?—but she went to death gratefully, glad to be freed from a life of tears, as the next wife prayed for death, her life made equally miserable by her mother-in-law. . . .”

Now, looking at Midori’s mother-in-law, the tea dribbling down her chin, Blackthorne knew that this old hag had power of life or death, divorce or degradation over Midori, provided her husband, the head of their house, agreed. And, whatever they decided, Omi would obey. How terrible, he told himself.

Midori was as graceful and youthful as the old woman was not, her face oval, her hair rich. She was more beautiful than Mariko, but without her fire and strength, pliant as a fern and fragile as gossamer.

“Where are the small foods? Of course the Anjin-san must be hungry, neh?” the old woman said.

“Oh, so sorry,” Midori replied at once. “Fetch some instantly,” she said to the maid. “Hurry! So sorry, Anjin-san!”

“So sorry, Anjin-san,” the old woman said.

“Please don’t apologize,” Blackthorne said to Midori, and instantly knew that it was a mistake. Good manners decreed that he should acknowledge only the mother-in-law, particularly if she had an evil reputation. “So sorry,” he said. “I not hungry. Tonight I eat must with Lord Toranaga.”

“Ah so desu! We heard you saved his life. You should know how grateful we are—all his vassals!” the old woman said.

“It was duty. I did nothing.”

“You did everything, Anjin-san. Omi-san and Lord Yabu appreciate your action as much as all of us.”

Blackthorne saw the old woman looking at her son. I wish I could fathom you, you old bitch, he thought. Are you as evil as that other one, Tachibana?

Omi said, “Mother, I’m fortunate to have the Anjin-san as a friend.”

“We’re all fortunate,” she said.

“No, I’m fortunate,” Blackthorne replied. “I fortunate have friends as family of Kasigi Omi-san.” We’re all lying, Blackthorne thought, but I don’t know why you are. I’m lying for self-protection and because it’s custom. But I’ve never forgotten. . . . Wait a moment. In all honesty, wasn’t that karma?

Wouldn’t you have done what Omi did? That was long ago—in a previous life, neh? It’s meaningless now.

A group of horsemen clattered up the rise, Naga at their head. He dismounted and strode into the garden. All the villagers stopped working and went onto their knees. He motioned them to continue.

“So sorry to disturb you, Omi-san, but Lord Toranaga sent me.”

“Please, you’re not disturbing me. Please join us,” Omi said. Midori at once gave up her cushion, bowing very low. “Would you like cha or saké, Naga-sama?”

Naga sat. “Neither, thank you. I’m not thirsty.”

Omi pressed him politely, going through the interminable necessary ritual, even though it was obvious that Naga was in a hurry. “How is the Lord Toranaga?”

“Very good. Anjin-san, you did us a great service. Yes. I thank you personally.”

“It was duty, Naga-san. But I did little. Lord Toranaga pulled me from—pulled me from earth also.”

“Yes. But that was afterward. I thank you very much.”

“Naga-san, is there something I can do for Lord Toranaga?” Omi asked, etiquette finally allowing him to come to the point.

“He would like to see you after the evening meal. There is to be a full conference of all officers.”

“I would be honored.”

“Anjin-san, you are to come with me now, if it pleases you.”

“Of course. It is my honor.”

More bows and salutations and then Blackthorne was on a horse and they were cantering down the hill. When the phalanx of samurai came to the square, Naga reined in.

“Anjin-san!”

“Hai?”

“I thank you with all my heart for saving Lord Toranaga. Allow me to be your friend . . .” and some words Blackthorne did not catch.

“So sorry, I don’t understand. ‘Karite iru’?”

“Ah, so sorry. ‘Karite iru’—one man karite iru another man things—like ‘debt.’ You understand ‘debt’?”

“Owe” jumped into Blackthorne’s head. “Ah so desu! Wakarimasu.”

“Good. I only said that I owed you a debt.”

“It was my duty, neh?”

“Yes. Even so, I owe you a life.”

“Toranaga-sama says all cannon powder and shot were put back on your ship, Anjin-san, here at Anjiro before it left for Yedo. He asks you how long would it take you to get ready for sea?”

“That depends on her state, if the men’ve careened her and cared for her, the mast replaced and so on. Does Lord Toranaga know how she is?”

“The ship seems in order, he says, but he’s not a seaman so he couldn’t be sure. He has not been on it since it was first towed into Yedo harbor when he gave instructions for it to be cared for. Presuming the ship is seaworthy, neh, he asks how long would it take you to ready for war?”

Blackthorne’s heart missed a beat. “On whom do I war, Mariko-san?”

“He asks, on whom would you wish to war?”

“This year’s Black Ship,” Blackthorne replied at once, making a sudden decision, desperately hoping that this was the correct moment to place before Toranaga the plan he’d secretly developed over the days. He was gambling that saving Toranaga’s life this morning gave him a special privilege that would help him over the rough spots.

Mariko was taken by surprise. “What?”

“The Black Ship. Tell Lord Toranaga that all he has to do is give me his letters of marque. I’ll do the rest. With my ship and just a little help . . . we split the cargo, all silks and bullion.”

She laughed. Toranaga did not.

“My—my Master says that would be an unforgivable act of war against a friendly nation. The Portuguese are essential to Japan.”

“Yes, they are—at the moment. But I believe they’re his enemy as well as mine and whatever service they provide, we can do better. At less cost.”

“He says, perhaps. But he does not believe China will trade with you. Neither the English nor the Netherlanders are in strength in Asia yet and we need the silks now and a continuing supply.”

“He’s right, of course. But in a year or two that will change and he’ll have his proof then. So here’s another suggestion. I’m already at war with the Portuguese. Outside the three-mile limit are international waters. Legally, with my present letters of marque, I can take her as a prize and I can sail her to any port and sell her and her cargo. With my ship and a crew it’ll be easy. In a few weeks or months I could deliver the Black Ship and all she contains to Yedo. I could sell her in Yedo. Half the value’ll be his—a port tax.”

“He says what happens at sea between you and your enemies is of little concern to him. The sea belongs to all. But this land is ours, and here our laws govern and our laws may not be broken.”

“Yes.” Blackthorne knew his course was dangerous, but his intuition told him the timing was perfect and that Toranaga would take the bait. And Mariko. “It was only a suggestion. He asked me on whom I’d like to war. Please excuse me but sometimes it’s good to plan against any eventuality. In this I believe Lord Toranaga’s interests are mine.”

Mariko translated this. Toranaga grunted and spoke shortly.

“Lord Toranaga values sensible suggestions, Anjin-san, like your point about a navy, but this is ludicrous. Even if both your interests were the same, which they’re not, how could you and nine men attack such a huge vessel with nearly a thousand persons aboard?”

“I wouldn’t. I have to get a new crew, Mariko-san. Eighty or ninety men, trained seamen and gunners. I’ll find them at Nagasaki on Portuguese ships.” Blackthorne pretended not to notice her intake of breath or the way her fan stopped. “There’ve got to be a few Frenchies, an Englishman or two if I’m lucky, some Germans or Hollanders—they’ll be renegades mostly, or pressed aboard. I’d need a safe conduct to Nagasaki, some protection, and a little silver or gold. There are always seamen in enemy fleets who’ll sign on for ready cash and a share of prize money.”

“My Master says anyone in command who’d trust such carrion in an attack would be mad.”

Blackthorne said, “I agree. But I have to have a crew to put to sea.”

“He asks if it would be possible to train samurai and our seamen to be gunners and sailors?”

“Easily. In time. But that could take months. They’d certainly be ready by next year. There’d be no chance to go against this year’s Black Ship.”

“Lord Toranaga says, ‘I don’t plan to attack the Black Ship of the Portuguese, this year or next. They’re not my enemies and I am not at war with them.’ ”

“I know. But I am at war with them. Please excuse me. Of course, this is only a discussion, but I’ll have to get some men to put to sea, to be of service to Lord Toranaga if he wishes.”

They were sitting in Toranaga’s private quarters that overlooked the garden. The fortress had hardly been touched by the quake. The night was humid and airless and the smoke from the coils of incense rose lazily to banish the mosquitoes.

“My Master wants to know,” Mariko was saying, “if you had your ship now, and the few crew members that arrived with you, would you sail it to Nagasaki to get these further men you require?”

“No. That would be too dangerous. I’d be so hopelessly undermanned that the Portuguese would capture me. It would be much better to get the men first, bring them back to home waters, to Yedo, neh? Once I’m full-crewed and armed, the enemy’s got nothing in these seas to touch me.”

“He does not think you and ninety men could take the Black Ship.”

“I can outsail her and sink her with Erasmus. Of course, Mariko-san, I know this is all conjecture, but if I was permitted to attack my enemy, the moment I was crewed I’d sail on the tide for Nagasaki. If the Black Ship was already in port, I’d show my battle flags and stand out to sea to blockade her. I’d let her finish trading and then, when the wind was ripe for her homeward voyage, I’d pretend to need supplies and let her slip out of port. I’d catch her a few leagues out because we’ve the speed on her and my cannon would do the rest. Once she’s struck her colors I put a prize crew aboard and bring her back to Yedo. She’ll have upwards of three, almost four hundred tons of gold bullion aboard.”

“But why won’t her captain scuttle his ship once you’ve beaten him, if you beat him, before you can go aboard?”

“Usually . . .” Blackthorne was going to say, “Usually the crew mutiny if the captain’s a fanatic, but I’ve never known one that mad. Most times you make a deal with the captain—spare their lives, give them a small share and safe berth to the nearest port. But this time I’ll have Rodrigues to deal with and I know him and know what he’ll do.” But he thought better about that, or about revealing his whole plan. Best to leave barbarian ways to barbarians, he told himself. “Usually the defeated ship gives up, Mariko-san,” he said instead. “It’s a custom—one of our customs of war at sea—saving unnecessary loss of life.”

“Lord Toranaga says, so sorry Anjin-san, that’s a disgusting custom. If he had ships there would be no surrender.” Mariko sipped some cha, then continued, “And if the ship is not yet in port?”

“Then I sweep the sea lanes to catch her a few leagues out in international waters. She’ll be easier to take heavy laden and wallowing, but harder to bring into Yedo. When’s she expected to dock?”

“My Lord does not know. Perhaps within thirty days, he says. The ship will be early this year.”

Blackthorne knew he was so near the prize, so very near. “Then it’s blockade her and take her at the end of the season.” She translated and Blackthorne thought he saw disappointment momentarily cross Toranaga’s face. He paused, as though he were considering alternatives, then he said, “If this was Europe, there’d be another way. You could sail in by night and take her by force. A surprise attack.”

Toranaga’s grip tightened on his sword hilt.

“He says you’d dare to war on our land against your enemies?”

Blackthorne’s lips were dry. “No. Of course this is still surmise, but if a state of war existed between him and the Portuguese, and Lord Toranaga wanted them hurt, this would be the way to do it. If I had two or three hundred well-disciplined fighters, a good crew, and Erasmus, it would be easy to go alongside the Black Ship and board her, drag her out to sea. He could choose the time of the surprise attack—if this was Europe.”

There was a long silence.

“Lord Toranaga says, this is not Europe and no state of war exists or will ever exist between him and the Portuguese.”

“Of course. One last point, Mariko-san: Nagasaki is not within Lord Toranaga’s control, is it?”

“No, Anjin-san. Lord Harima owns the port and the hinterland.”

“But don’t the Jesuits in practice control the port and all trade?” Blackthorne marked her reluctance to translate but kept up the pressure. “Isn’t that the honto, Mariko-san? And isn’t Lord Harima Catholic? Isn’t most of Kyushu Catholic? And therefore don’t the Jesuits in some measure control the whole island?”

“Christianity’s a religion. The daimyos control their own lands, Anjin-san,” Mariko said for herself.

“But I was told Nagasaki’s really Portuguese soil. I’m told they act as though it is. Didn’t Lord Harima’s father sell the land to the Jesuits?”

Mariko’s voice sharpened. “Yes. But the Taikō took the land back. No foreigner’s allowed to own land here now.”

“But didn’t the Taikō allow his Edicts to lapse, so today nothing happens there without Jesuit approval? Don’t Jesuits control all shipping in Nagasaki and all trade? Don’t Jesuits negotiate all trade for you and act as intermediaries?”

“You’re very well informed about Nagasaki, Anjin-san,” she said pointedly.

“Perhaps Lord Toranaga should take control of the port from the enemy. Perhaps—”

“They’re your enemy, Anjin-san, not ours,” she said, taking the bait at last. “The Jesuits are—”

“Nan ja?”

She turned apologetically to Toranaga and explained what had been said between them. When she had finished he spoke severely, a clear reprimand. “Hai,” she said several times and bowed, chastened.

Mariko said, “Lord Toranaga reminds me my opinions are valueless and that an interpreter should interpret only, neh? Please excuse me.”

Once Blackthorne would have apologized for trapping her. Now it did not occur to him. But since he had made his point, he laughed and said, “Hai, kawaii Tsukkuko-sama!” Yes, pretty Lady Interpreter!

Mariko smiled wryly, furious at herself for being trapped, her mind in conflict over her divided loyalties.

“Yoi, Anjin-san,” Toranaga said, once more genial.

“Mariko-san kawaii desu yori Tsukku-san anamsu ka nori masen, neh?” And Mariko’s much prettier than old Mr. Tsukku, isn’t she, and so much more fragrant?

Toranaga laughed. “Hai.”

Mariko blushed and poured tea, a little mollified. Then Toranaga spoke. Seriously.

“Our Master says, why were you asking so many questions—or making statements—about Lord Harima and Nagasaki?”

“Only to show that the port of Nagasaki is in fact controlled by foreigners. By the Portuguese. And by my law, I have the legal right to attack the enemy anywhere.”

“But this is not ‘anywhere,’ he says. This is the Land of the Gods and such an attack is unthinkable.”

“I agree wholeheartedly. But if ever Lord Harima became hostile, or the Jesuits who lead the Portuguese become hostile, this is the way to hurt them.”

“Lord Toranaga says neither he nor any daimyo would ever permit an attack by one foreign nation on another on Japanese soil, or the killing by them of any of our people. Against enemies of the Emperor, that is a different matter. As to getting fighters and crew, it would be easy for a man to get any number if he spoke Japanese. There are many wako in Kyushu.”

“Wako, Mariko-san?”

“Oh, so sorry. We call corsairs ‘wako,’ Anjin-san. They used to have many lairs around Kyushu but they were mostly stamped out by the Taikō. Survivors can still be found, unfortunately. Wako terrorized the coasts of China for centuries. It was because of them that China closed her ports to us.” She explained to Toranaga what had been said. He spoke again, more emphatically. “He says he will never allow or plan or permit you to make a land attack, though it would be correct for you to harry your Queen’s enemy on the high seas. He repeats, this is not anywhere. This is the Land of the Gods. You should be patient as he told you before.”

“Yes. I intend to try to be patient in his fashion. I only want to hit the enemy because they are the enemy. I believe with all my heart they’re his enemy too.”

“Lord Toranaga says the Portuguese tell him you are his enemy, and Tsukku-san and the Visitor-General are absolutely sure of it.”

“If I were able to capture the Black Ship at sea and bring her as a legal prize into Yedo, under the flag of England, would I be permitted to sell her and all she contains in Yedo, according to our custom?”

“Lord Toranaga says that depends.”

“If war comes may I be allowed to attack the enemy, Lord Toranaga’s enemy, in the best way that I can?”

“He says that is the duty of a hatamoto. A hatamoto is, of course, under his personal orders at all times. My Master wants me to make clear that things in Japan will never be solved by any method other than by Japanese method.”

“Yes. I understand completely. With due humility I’d like to point out the more I know about his problems, the more I might be able to help.”

“He says a hatamoto’s duty is always to help his lord, Anjin-san. He says I am to answer any reasonable questions you have later.”

“Thank you. May I ask him, would he like to have a navy of his own? As I suggested on the galley?”

“He has already said he would like a navy, a modern navy, Anjin-san, manned by his own men. What daimyo wouldn’t?”

“Then say this: If I were lucky enough to take the enemy ship, I’d bring her to Yedo to refit and count the prize. Then I’d transship my half of the bullion to Erasmus and sell the Black Ship back to the Portuguese, or offer her to Toranaga-sama as a gift, or burn her, whatever he wishes. Then I’d sail home. Within a year I’d turn around and bring back four warships, as a gift from the Queen of England to Lord Toranaga.”

“He asks where would be your profit in this?”

“The honto is, there would be plenty left over for me, Mariko-san, after the ships were paid for by Her Majesty. Further, I’d like to take one of his most trusted counselors with me as an Ambassador to my Queen. A treaty of friendship between our countries might be of interest to him.”

“Lord Toranaga says that would be much too generous of your Queen. He adds, but if such a thing miraculously happened and you came back with the new ships, who would train his sailors and samurai and captains to man them?”

“I will, initially, if that pleases him. I’d be honored, then others could follow.”

“He says what is ‘initially’?”

“Two years.”

Toranaga smiled fleetingly.

“Our Master says two years would not be enough ‘initially.’ However, he adds, it’s all an illusion. He’s not at war with the Portuguese or Lord Harima of Nagasaki. He repeats, what you do outside Japanese waters in your own ship with your own crew is your own karma.” Mariko seemed disturbed. “Outside our waters you are foreigner, he says. But here you are samurai.”

“Yes. I know the honor he has done to me. May I ask how a samurai borrows money, Mariko-san?”

“From a moneylender, Anjin-san. Where else? From a filthy merchant moneylender.” She translated for Toranaga. “Why should you need money?”

“Are there moneylenders in Yedo?”

“Oh yes. Moneylenders are everywhere, neh? Isn’t it the same in your country? Ask your consort, Anjin-san, perhaps she would be able to help you. That is part of her duty.”

“You said we’re leaving for Yedo tomorrow?”

“Yes, tomorrow.”

“Unfortunately Fujiko-san won’t be able to travel then.”

Mariko talked with Toranaga.

“Lord Toranaga says he will send her by galley, when it leaves. He says what do you need to borrow money for?”

“I’ll have to get a new crew, Mariko-san—to sail anywhere, to serve Lord Toranaga, however he’d wish it. Is that permitted?”

“A crew from Nagasaki?”

“Yes.”

“He will give you an answer when you reach Yedo.”

“Domo, Toranaga-sama. Mariko-san, when I get to Yedo where do I go? Will there be someone to guide me?”

“Oh, you must never worry about things like that, Anjin-san. You are one of Lord Toranaga’s hatamoto.” There was a knock on the inner door.

“Come in.”

Naga opened the shoji and bowed. “Excuse me, Father, but you wanted to be told when all your officers were present.”

“Thank you, I’ll be there shortly.” Toranaga thought a moment, then motioned to Blackthorne, his manner friendly. “Anjin-san, go with Naga-san. He will show you to your place. Thank you for your views.”

“Yes, Sire. Thank you for listen. Thank you for your words. Yes. I try hard be patient and perfect.”

“Thank you, Anjin-san.” Toranaga watched him bow and go away. When they were alone, he turned to Mariko. “Well, what do you think?”

“Two things, Sire. First, his hatred of Jesuits is measureless, even surpassing his loathing of Portuguese, so he is a scourge for you to use against either or both, if you want a scourge. We know he is brave, so he would boldly press home any attack from the sea. Second, money is still his goal. In his defense, from what I’ve learned, money is the only real means the barbarians have to lasting power. They buy lands and position—even their Queen’s a merchant and ‘sells’ land to her lords, and buys ships and lands, probably. They’re not so different from us, Lord, except in that. And also in that they do not understand power, or that war is life and life is death.”

“Are the Jesuits my enemy?”

“I do not believe so.”

“The Portuguese?”

“I believe they’re concerned only with profits, land, and spreading the word of God.”

“Are Christians my enemy?”

“No, Sire. Though some of your enemies may be Christian—Catholic or Protestant.”

“Ah, you think the Anjin-san’s my enemy?”

“No, Sire. No, I believe he honors you and, in time, will become a real vassal.”

“What about our Christians? Who are enemy?”

“Lords Harima, Kiyama, Onoshi, and any other samurai who turns against you.”

Toranaga laughed. “Yes, but do the priests control them, as the Anjin-san implies?”

“I do not think so.”

“Will those three go against me?”

“I don’t know, Sire. In the past, they’ve all been both hostile and friendly to you. But if they side with Ishido it would be very bad.”

“I agree. Yes. You’re a valued counselor. It’s difficult for you being Catholic Christian, being friends with an enemy, listening to enemy ideas.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“He trapped you, neh?”

“Yes. But in truth he had the right. I was not doing what you had ordered. I was putting myself between his pure thoughts and you. Please accept my apologies.”

“It will continue to be difficult. Perhaps even more so.”

“Yes, Sire. But it’s better to know both sides of the coin. Much of what he said has been found to be true—for instance, about the world being split by Spaniards and Portuguese, about the priests smuggling guns—however impossible it is to believe. You need never fear about my loyalty, Sire. However bad it becomes, I will always do my duty to you.”

“Thank you. Well, it’s been very interesting, what the Anjin-san said, neh? Interesting but nonsense. Yes, thank you, Mariko-san, you’re a valued counselor. Shall I order you divorced from Buntaro?”

“Sire?”

“Well?”

Oh to be free, her spirit sang. Oh, Madonna, to be free!

Remember who you are, Mariko, remember what you are. And remember that “love” is a barbarian word.

Toranaga was watching her in the great silence. Outside, mosquitoes strayed into the spirals of incense smoke to dart away to safety. Yes, he brooded, she’s a falcon. But what prey do I cast her against?

“No, Sire,” Mariko said at last. “Thank you, Sire, but no.”

“The Anjin-san’s a strange man, neh? His head is filled with dreams. Ridiculous to consider attacking our friends the Portuguese, or their Black Ship. Nonsense to believe what he says about four ships or twenty.”

Mariko hesitated. “If he says a navy is possible, Sire, then I believe it’s possible.”

“I don’t agree,” Toranaga said emphatically. “But you’re right that he’s a balance against the others, him and his fighting ship. How curious—but how illuminating! It’s as Omi said: At the moment we need the barbarians, to learn from them. And there’s much yet to learn, particularly from him, neh?”

“Yes.”

“It’s time to open up the Empire, Mariko-san. Ishido will close it as tight as an oyster. If I were President of the Regents again, I’d make treaties with any nation, so long as it’s friendly. I’d send men to learn from other nations, yes and I’d send ambassadors. This man’s queen would be a good beginning. For a queen perhaps I should send a woman ambassador, if she were clever enough.”

“She would have to be very strong and very clever, Sire.”

“Yes. It would be a dangerous journey.”

“All journeys are dangerous, Sire,” Mariko said.

“Yes.” Again Toranaga switched without warning. “If the Anjin-san sailed away with his ship weighed with gold, would he come back? He himself?”

After a long time she said, “I don’t know.”

Toranaga decided not to press her now. “Thank you, Mariko-san,” he said in friendly dismissal. “I want you to be present at the meeting, to translate what I say for the Anjin-san.”

“Everything, Sire?”

“Yes. And tonight when you go to the Tea House to buy Kiku’s contract, take the Anjin-san with you. Tell his consort to make the arrangements. He needs rewarding, neh?”

“Hai.”

When she was at the shoji Toranaga said, “Once the issue between Ishido and myself is settled, I will order you divorced.”

Her hand tightened on the screen. She nodded slightly in acknowledgment. But she did not look back. The door closed after her.

Toranaga watched the smoke for a moment, then got up and walked into the garden to the privy and squatted. When he had finished and had used the paper, he heard a servant slide the container away from beneath the hole to replace it with a clean one. The mosquitoes were droning and he slapped them absently. He was thinking of falcons and hawks, knowing that even the greatest falcons make mistakes, as Ishido had made a mistake, and Kiri, and Mariko, and Omi, and even the Anjin-san.

The hundred and fifty officers were aligned in neat rows, Yabu, Omi, and Buntaro in front. Mariko knelt near Blackthorne to the side. Toranaga marched in with his personal guards and sat on the lonely cushion, facing them. He acknowledged their bows, then informed them briefly of the essence of the dispatch and laid before them, for the first time publicly, his ultimate battle plan. Again he withheld the part that related to the secret and carefully planned insurrections, and also the fact that the attack would take the northern and not the southern coastal road. And, to general acclaim—for all his warriors were glad that at last there was an end to uncertainty—he told them that when the rains ceased he would issue the code words “Crimson Sky” which would launch them on their attack. “Meanwhile I expect Ishido illegally to convene a new Council of Regents. I expect to be falsely impeached. I expect war to be declared on me, against the law.” He leaned forward, his left fist characteristically bunched on his thigh, the other tight on his sword. “Listen. I uphold the Taikō’s testament and acknowledge my nephew Yaemon as Kwampaku and heir to the Taikō. I desire no other lands. I want no other honors. But if traitors attack me I must defend myself. If traitors dupe His Imperial Highness and attempt to assume power in the land, it is my duty to defend the Emperor and banish evil. Neh?”

A roar of approval greeted this. Battle cries of “Kasigi” and “Toranaga” poured through the room to be echoed throughout the fortress.

“The Attack Regiment will be prepared to embark on the galleys for Yedo, Toda Buntaro-san commanding, Kasigi Omi-san second-in-command, within five days. Lord Kasigi Yabu, you will please mobilize Izu and order six thousand men to the frontier passes in case the traitor Ikawa Jikkyu swoops south to cut our lines of communication. When the rains cease, Ishido will attack the Kwanto. . . .”

Omi, Yabu, and Buntaro all silently agreed with Toranaga’s wisdom of withholding information about this afternoon’s decision to launch the attack in the rainy season, at once.

That will create a sensation, Omi told himself, his bowels churning at the thought of warring in the rains through the mountains of Shinano.

“Our guns will force a way through,” Yabu had said so enthusiastically this afternoon.

“Yes,” Omi had agreed, having no confidence in the plan but no alternative to offer. It’s madness, he told himself, though he was delighted that he had been promoted to second-in-command. I don’t understand how Toranaga can conceive that there’s any chance of success in the northern route.

There isn’t any, he told himself again, and half closed his ears to Toranaga’s stirring exhortation in order to allow himself to concentrate once more on the problem of his revenge. Certainly the attack on Shinano will give you a dozen opportunities to manipulate Yabu into the front line at no risk to yourself. War, any war, will be to your advantage, provided the war’s not lost. . . .

Then he heard Toranaga say, “Today I was almost killed. Today the Anjin-san pulled me out of the earth. That’s the second time, perhaps even the third, that he’s saved my life. My life is nothing against the future of my clan, and who is to say whether I would have lived or died without his help? But though it is bushido that vassals should never expect a reward for any service, it is the duty of a liege lord to grant favors from time to time.”

Amid general acclaim, Toranaga said, “Anjin-san, sit here! Mariko-san, you as well.”

Jealously Omi watched the towering man rise and kneel at the spot to which Toranaga had motioned, beside him, and there was not a man in the room who did not wish that he himself had had the good fortune to have done what the barbarian had done.

“The Anjin-san is given a fief near the fishing village of Yokohama to the south of Yedo worth two thousand koku yearly, the right to recruit two hundred samurai retainers, full rights as samurai and hatamoto to the house of Yoshi Toranaga-noh-Chikitada-Minowara. Further, he is to receive ten horses, twenty kimonos, together with full battle equipment for his vassals—the rank of Chief Admiral and Pilot of the Kwanto.” Toranaga waited until Mariko had translated, then he called out, “Naga-san!”

Obediently Naga brought the silk-covered package to Toranaga. Toranaga threw off the cover. There were two matching swords, one short, the other a killing sword. “Noticing that the earth had swallowed my swords and that I was unarmed, the Anjin-san went down into the crevasse again to find his own to give to me. Anjin-san, I give these in return. They were made by the master craftsman, Yoriya. Remember, the sword is the soul of the samurai. If he forgets it, or loses it, he will never be excused.”

To even greater acclaim and private envy Blackthorne took the swords, bowed correctly, and put them in his sash, then bowed again.

“Thank you, Toranaga-sama. You do me too much honor. Thank you.”

He began to move away but Toranaga bade him stay. “No, sit down here, beside me, Anjin-san.” Toranaga looked back at the militant, fanatic faces of his officers.

‘Fools!’ he wanted to shout. ‘Don’t you understand that war, whether now or after the rains, would only be disastrous? Any war with Ishido-Ochiba-Yaemon and their present allies must end in slaughter of all my armies, all of you, and the obliteration of me and all my line? Don’t you understand I’ve no chance except to wait and hope that Ishido strangles himself?’

Instead he incited them even more, for it was essential to throw his enemy off balance.

“Listen, samurai: Soon you’ll be able to prove your valor, man to man, as our forefathers proved theirs. I will destroy Ishido and all his traitors and first will be Ikawa Jikkyu. I hereby give all his lands, both provinces of Suruga and Totomi worth three hundred thousand koku, to my faithful vassal Lord Kasigi Yabu, and, with Izu, confirm him and his line as their overlords.”

A thunderous acclamation. Yabu was flushed with elation. Omi was banging the floor, shouting just as ecstatically. Now his prize was limitless, for by custom, Yabu’s heir would inherit all his lands. How to kill Yabu without waiting for war?

Then his eyes fixed on the Anjin-san, who was cheering lustily. Why not let the Anjin-san do it for you, he asked himself, and laughed aloud at the idiotic thought. Buntaro leaned over and clapped him on the shoulder, amiably misinterpreting the laughter as happiness for Yabu. “Soon you’ll get the fief you merit, neh?” Buntaro shouted over the tumult. “You deserve recognition too. Your ideas and counsel are valuable.”

“Thank you, Buntaro-san.”

“Don’t worry—we can get through any mountains.”

“Yes.” Buntaro was a ferocious battle general and Omi knew they were well matched: Omi the bold strategist, Buntaro the fearless attack leader.

If anyone can get us through the mountains, he can.

There was another burst of cheering as Toranaga ordered saké to be brought, ending the formal meeting.

Omi drank his saké and watched Blackthorne drain another cup, his kimono neat, swords correct, Mariko still talking. You’ve changed very much, Anjin-san, since that first day, he thought contentedly. Many of your alien ideas are still set firm, but you’re almost becoming civilized—

“What’s the matter, Omi-san?”

“Nothing—nothing, Buntaro-san . . .”

“You looked as though an eta had shoved his buttocks in your face.”

“Nothing like that—not at all! Eeeee, just the opposite. I had the beginnings of an idea. Drink up! Hey, Peach-Blossom, bring more saké, my Lord Buntaro’s cup is empty!”

CHAPTER FORTY

“I am instructed to inquire if Kiku-san would be free this evening,” Mariko said.

“Oh, so sorry, Lady Toda, but I’m not sure,” Gyoko, the Mama-san, said ingratiatingly. “May I ask if the honored client would require Lady Kiku for the evening or part of it, or perhaps until tomorrow, if she’s not already engaged?”

The Mama-san was a tall, elegant woman in her early fifties with a lovely smile. But she drank too much saké, her heart was an abacus, and she possessed a nose that could smell a single piece of silver from fifty ri.

The two women were in an eight-mat room adjoining Toranaga’s private quarters. It had been set aside for Mariko, and overlooked, on the other side, a small garden which was enclosed by the first of the inner wall defenses. It was raining again and the droplets sparkled in the flares.

Mariko said genteelly, “That would be a matter for the client to decide. Perhaps an arrangement could be made now which would cover every eventuality.”

“So sorry, please excuse me that I don’t know her availability at once. She’s so sought after, Lady Toda. I’m sure you understand.”

“Oh, yes, of course. We’re really very fortunate to have such a lady of quality here in Anjiro.” Mariko had accented the “Anjiro.” She had sent for Gyoko instead of visiting her, as she might possibly have done. And when the woman had arrived, just late enough to make a distinct point, but not enough to be rude, Mariko had been glad of the opportunity to lock horns with so worthy an adversary.

“Was the Tea House damaged very much?” she asked.

“No, fortunately, apart from some valuable pottery and clothes, though it will cost a small fortune to repair the roof and resettle the garden. It’s always so expensive to get things done quickly, don’t you find?”

“Yes. It’s very trying. In Yedo, Mishima, or even in this village.”

“It’s so important to have tranquil surroundings, neh? Would the client perhaps honor us at the Tea House? Or would he wish Kiku-san to visit him here, if she is available?”

Mariko pursed her lips, thinking. “The Tea House.”

“Ah, so desu!” The Mama-san’s real name was Heiko-ichi—First Daughter of the Wall Maker. Her father and his before him had been specialists in making garden walls. For many years she had been a courtesan in Mishima, the capital of Izu, attaining Second Class Rank. But the gods had smiled upon her and, with gifts from her patron, coupled with an astute business sense, she had made enough money to buy her own contract in good time, and so become a manager of ladies with a Tea House of her own when she was no longer sought after for the fine body and saucy wit with which the gods had endowed her. Now she called herself Gyoko-san, Lady Luck. When she was a fledgling courtesan of fourteen, she had been given the name Tsukaiko—Lady Snake Charmer. Her owner had explained to her that that special part of man could be likened to a snake, that a snake was lucky, and if she could become a snake charmer in that sense, then she would be hugely successful. Also the name would make clients laugh, and laughter was essential to this business. Gyoko had never forgotten about laughter. “Saké, Gyoko-san?”

“Thank you, yes, thank you, Lady Toda.”

The maid poured. Then Mariko dismissed her.

They drank silently for a moment. Mariko refilled the cups.

“Such lovely pottery. So elegant,” Gyoko said.

“It’s very poor. I’m so sorry we have to use it.”

“If I can make her available, would five koban be acceptable?” A koban was a gold coin that weighed eighteen grams. One koban equaled three koku of rice.

“So sorry, perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. I didn’t wish to buy all the Tea House in Mishima, only the lady’s services for an evening.”

Gyoko laughed. “Ah, Lady Toda, your reputation is well merited. But may I point out that Kiku-san is of the First Class Rank. The Guild gave her that honor last year.”

“True, and I’m sure that rank is merited. But that was in Mishima. Even in Kyoto—but of course you were making a joke, so sorry.”

Gyoko swallowed the vulgarity that was on her tongue and smiled benignly. “Unfortunately I would have to reimburse clients who, I seem to remember, have already booked her. Poor child, four of her kimonos were ruined when water doused the fires. Hard times are coming to the land, Lady, I’m sure you understand. Five would not be unreasonable.”

“Of course not. Five would be fair in Kyoto, for a week of carousing, with two ladies of First Rank. But these are not normal times and one must make allowances. Half a koban. Saké, Gyoko-san?”

“Thank you, thank you. The saké’s so good—the quality is so good, so very good. Just one more if you please, then I must be off. If Kiku-san is not free this evening I’d be delighted to arrange one of the other ladies—Akeko perhaps. Or perhaps another day would be satisfactory? The day after tomorrow perhaps?”

Mariko did not answer for a moment. Five koban was outrageous—as much as you’d pay for a famous courtesan of First Class in Yedo. Half a koban would be more than reasonable for Kiku. Mariko knew prices of courtesans because Buntaro used courtesans from time to time and had even bought the contract of one, and she had had to pay the bills, which had, of course, rightly come to her. Her eyes gauged Gyoko. The woman was sipping her saké calmly, her hand steady.

“Perhaps,” Mariko said. “But I don’t think so, neither another lady nor another night. . . . No, if tonight cannot be arranged I’m afraid that the day after tomorrow would be too late, so sorry. And as to another of the ladies . . .” Mariko smiled and shrugged.

Gyoko set her cup down sadly. “I did hear that our glorious samurai would be leaving us. Such a pity! The nights are so pleasant here. In Mishima we do not get the sea breeze as you do here. I shall be sorry to leave too.”

“Perhaps one koban. If this arrangement is satisfactory I would then like to discuss how much her contract would cost.”

“Her contract!”

“Yes. Saké?”

“Thank you, yes. Contract—her contract? Well, that’s another thing. Five thousand koku.”

“That’s impossible!”

“Yes,” Gyoko agreed, “but Kiku-san’s like my own daughter. She is my own daughter, better than my own daughter. I’ve trained her since she was six. She’s the most accomplished Lady of the Willow World in all Izu. Oh, I know, in Yedo you have greater ladies, more witty, more wordly, but that’s only because Kiku-san hasn’t had the good fortune to mix with the same quality of persons. But even now, none can match her singing or her samisen playing. I swear it by all the gods. Give her a year in Yedo, with the right patron and correct sources of knowledge, and she’ll compete satisfactorily with any courtesan in the Empire. Five thousand koku is a small sum to pay for such a flower.” Perspiration beaded the woman’s forehead. “You must excuse me, but I’ve never considered selling her contract before. She’s barely eighteen, blemishless, the only Lady of First Class Rank that I’ve been privileged to manage. I really don’t think I could ever sell her contract even at the price mentioned. No, I think I will have to reconsider, so sorry. Perhaps we could discuss this tomorrow. Lose Kiku-san? My little Kiku-chan?” Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes and Mariko thought, if those are real tears, then you, Gyoko, you’ve never spread yourself open to a Princely Pestle.

“So sorry. Shigata ga nai, neh?” Mariko said courteously and let the woman moan and weep and refilled her cup every so often and then again. How much is the contract really worth? she was asking herself. Five hundred koku would be fantastically more than fair. It depends on the anxiety of the man, who’s not anxious in this case. Certainly Lord Toranaga isn’t. Who’s he buying for? Omi? Probably. But why did Toranaga order the Anjin-san here?

“You agree, Anjin-san?” she had asked him earlier with a nervous laugh, over the boisterousness of the drunken officers.

“You’re saying that Lord Toranaga’s arranged a lady for me? Part of my reward?”

“Yes. Kiku-san. You can hardly refuse. I—I am ordered to interpret.”

“Ordered?”

“Oh, I’ll be happy to interpret for you. But, Anjin-san, you really can’t refuse. It would be terribly impolite after so many honors, neh?” She had smiled up at him, daring him, so proud and delighted with Toranaga’s incredible generosity. “Please. I’ve never seen the inside of a Tea House before—I’d adore to look myself and talk with a real Lady of the Willow World.”

“What?”

“Oh, they’re called that because the ladies are supposed to be as graceful as willows. Sometimes it’s the Floating World, because they’re likened to lilies floating in a lake. Go on, Anjin-san, please agree.”

“What about Buntaro-sama?”

“Oh, he knows I’m to arrange it for you. Lord Toranaga told him. It’s all very official of course. I’m ordered. So are you! Please!” Then she had said in Latin, so glad that no one else in Anjiro spoke the language, “There is another reason that I will tell thee later.”

“Ah—tell it to me now.”

“Later. But agree, with amusement. Because I ask thee.”

“Thou—how can I refuse thee?”

“But with amusement. It must be with amusement. Thy promise!”

“With laughter. I promise. I will attempt it. I promise thee nothing other than I will attempt the crest.”

Then she had left him to make the arrangements.

“Oh, I’m distraught at the very thought of selling my beauty’s contract,” Gyoko was groaning. “Yes, thank you, just a little more saké, then I really must go.” She drained the cup and held it out wearily for an immediate refill. “Shall we say two koban for this evening—a measure of my desire to please a Lady of such merit?”

“One. If this is agreed, perhaps we could talk more about the contract this evening, at the Tea House. So sorry to be precipitous, but time, you understand . . .” Mariko waved a hand vaguely toward the conference room. “Affairs of state—Lord Toranaga—the future of the realm—you understand, Gyoko-san.”

“Oh, yes, Lady Toda, of course.” Gyoko began to get up. “Shall we agree to one and a half for the evening? Good, then that’s set—”

“One.”

“Oh ko, Lady, the half is a mere token and hardly merits discussion,” Gyoko wailed, thanking the gods for her acumen and keeping feigned anguish on her face. One and a half koban would be a triple fee. But, more than the money, this was, at long last, the first invitation from one of the real nobility of all Japan for which she had been angling, for which she would gladly have advised Kiku-san to do everything for nothing, twice. “By all the gods, Lady Toda, I throw myself on your mercy, one and a half koban. Please, think of my other children who have to be clothed and trained and fed for years, who do not become as priceless as Kiku-san but have to be cherished as much as she.”

“One koban, in gold, tomorrow. Neh?”

Gyoko lifted the porcelain flask and poured two cups. She offered one to Mariko, drained the other, and refilled her own immediately. “One,” she said, almost gagging.

“Thank you, you’re so kind and thoughtful. Yes, times are hard.” Mariko sipped her wine demurely. “The Anjin-san and I will be at the Tea House shortly.”

“Eh? Whatwasthatyousaid?”

“That the Anjin-san and I will be at the Tea House shortly. I am to interpret for him.”

“The barbarian?” Kiku gasped.

“The barbarian. And he’ll be here any moment unless we stop him—with her, the cruelest, most grasping harpy I’ve ever met, may she be reborn a back-passage whore of the Fifteenth Rank.”

In spite of her fear, Kiku laughed outright. “Oh, Mama-san, please don’t fret so! She seemed such a lovely lady and one whole koban—you really made a marvelous arrangement! There, there, we’ve lots of time. First some saké will take away all your heartburn. Ako, quick as a hummingbird!”

Ako vanished.

“Yes, the client’s the Anjin-san.” Gyoko almost choked again.

Kiku fanned her and Hana, the little apprentice, fanned her and held sweet-smelling herbs near her nose. “I thought she was negotiating for Lord Buntaro—or Lord Toranaga himself. Of course when she said the Anjin-san I asked her at once why didn’t his own consort, Lady Fujiko, negotiate as correct manners insisted, but all she said was that his Lady was badly sick with burns and she herself had been ordered to talk to me by Lord Toranaga himself.”

“Oh! Oh, that I should be so fortunate to serve the great Lord!”

“You will, child, you will if we scheme. But the barbarian! What will all your other customers think? What will they say? Of course I left it undecided, telling Lady Toda that I didn’t know if you were free, so you can still refuse if you wish, without offense.”

“What can other customers say? Lord Toranaga ordered this. There’s nothing to be done, neh?” Kiku concealed her apprehension.

“Oh, you can easily refuse. But you must be quick, Kiku-chan. Oh ko, I should have been more clever—I should have.”

“Don’t worry, Gyoko-sama. Everything will be all right. But we must think clearly. It’s a big risk, neh?”

“Yes. Very.”

“We can never turn back if we accept.”

“Yes. I know.”

“Advise me.”

“I cannot, Kiku-chan. I feel I was trapped by kami. This must be your decision.”

Kiku weighed all the horrors. Then weighed the good. “Let us gamble. Let us accept him. After all he is samurai, and hatamoto, and Lord Toranaga’s favored vassal. Don’t forget what the fortune-teller said: that I would help you to become rich and famous forever. I pray I may be allowed to do that to repay all your kindnesses.”

Gyoko stroked Kiku’s lovely hair. “Oh, child, you’re so good, thank you, thank you. Yes, I think you’re wise. I agree. Let him visit us.” She pinched her cheek affectionately. “You always were my favorite! But I would have demanded double for the barbarian admiral if I’d known.”

“But we got double, Mama-san.”

“We should have had triple!”

Kiku patted Gyoko’s hand. “Don’t worry—this is the beginning of your good fortune.”

“Yes, and it’s true the Anjin-san is no ordinary barbarian but a samurai and hatamoto barbarian. Lady Toda told me he’s been given a fief of two thousand koku and made Admiral of all Toranaga’s ships and he bathes like a civilized person and no longer stinks. . . .”

Ako arrived breathlessly and poured the wine without spilling a drop. Four cups disappeared in quick succession. Gyoko began to feel better. “Tonight must be perfect. Yes. If Lord Toranaga ordered it, of course it has to be. He wouldn’t order it personally unless it was important to him personally, neh? And the Anjin-san’s really like a daimyo. Two thousand koku yearly—by all kami, we should have so much good fortune! Kiku-san, listen!” She leaned closer and Ako leaned closer, all eyes. “I asked the Lady Toda, seeing that she spoke their vile language, if she knew of any strange customs or ways, stories or dances or positions or songs or instruments or potents that the Anjin-san would prefer.”

“Ah, that would be very helpful, very,” Kiku said, frightened that she had agreed, wishing that she had had the wisdom to refuse.

“She told me nothing! She speaks their language but knows nothing about their pillow habits. I asked her if she’d ever asked him about that and she said yes, but with disastrous results.” Gyoko related the occurrence in Osaka Castle. “Can you imagine how embarrassing that must have been!”

“At least, we know not to suggest boys to him—that’s something.”

“Apart from that, there’s only the maid in his household to go by!”

“Do we have time to send for the maid?”

“I went there myself. Straight from the fortress. Not even a month’s salary opened the girl’s mouth, stupid little weevil!”

“Was she presentable?”

“Oh yes, for an untrained servant amateur. All she would add was that the Master was virile and not heavy, that he pillowed most abundantly in the most ordinary position. And that he was generously endowed.”

“That doesn’t help much, Mama-san.”

“I know. Perhaps the best thing to do is to have everything ready, just in case, neh? Everything.”

“Yes. I’ll just have to be most cautious. It’s very important that everything should be perfect. It will be very difficult—if not impossible—to entertain him correctly if I can’t talk to him.”

“Lady Toda said she’d interpret for you and for him.”

“Ah, how kind of her. That will help greatly, though it’s certainly not the same.”

“True, true. More saké, Ako—gracefully, child, pour it gracefully. But Kiku-san, you’re a courtesan of the First Rank. Improvise. The barbarian admiral saved Lord Toranaga’s life today, and sits in his shadow. Our future depends on you! I know you will succeed beautifully. Ako!”

“Yes, Mistress!”

“Make sure that the futons are perfect, that everything’s perfect. See that the flowers—no. I’ll do the flowers myself! And Cook, where’s Cook?” She patted Kiku on the knee. “Wear the golden kimono, with the green one under it. We must impress the Lady Toda tonight very much.” She rushed off to begin to get the house in order, all the Ladies and maids and apprentices and servants happily bustling, cleaning and helping, so proud of the good fortune that had come to their house.

When all was settled, the schedule of the other girls rearranged, Gyoko went to her own room and lay down for a moment to gather her strength. She had not told Kiku yet about the offer of the contract.

I will wait and see, she thought. If I can make the arrangement I require, then perhaps I will let my lovely Kiku go. But never before I know to whom. I’m glad I had the foresight to make that clear to Lady Toda before I left. Why are you crying, you silly old woman? Are you drunk again? Get your wits about you! What’s the value of unhappiness to you?

“Hana-chan!”

“Yes, Mother-sama?” The child came running to her. Just turned six, with big brown eyes and long, lovely hair, she wore a new scarlet silk kimono. Gyoko had bought her two days ago through the local child broker and Mura.

“How do you like your new name, child?”

“Oh, very much, very much. I’m honored, Mother-sama!”

The name meant “Little Blossom”—as Kiku meant “Chrysanthemum”—and Gyoko had given it to her on the first day. “I’m your mother now,” Gyoko had told her kindly but firmly when she paid the price and took possession, marveling that such a potential beauty could come out of such crude fisherfolk as the rotund Tamasaki woman. After four days of intense bargaining, she had paid a koban for the child’s services until the age of twenty, enough to feed the Tamasaki family for two years. “Fetch me some cha, then my comb and some fragrant tea leaves to take the saké off my breath.”

“Yes, Mother-sama.” She rushed off blindly, breathlessly, anxious to please, and collided into Kiku’s gossamer skirts at the doorway. “Oh, oh, oh, so sorryyyy . . .”

“You must be careful, Hana-chan.”

“So sorry, so sorry, Elder Sister . . .” Hana-chan was almost in tears.

“Why are you sad, Little Blossom? There, there,” Kiku said, brushing away the tears tenderly. “We put away sadness in this house. Remember, we of the Willow World, we never need sadness, child, for what good would that do? Sadness never pleases. Our duty is to please and to be gay. Run along, child, but gently, gently, be graceful.” Kiku turned and showed herself to the older woman, her smile radiant. “Does this please you, Mistress-san?”

Blackthorne looked at her and muttered, “Hallelujah!”

“This is Kiku-san,” Mariko said formally, elated by Blackthorne’s reaction.

The girl came into the room with a swish of silk and knelt and bowed and said something Blackthorne did not catch.

“She says that you are welcome, that you honor this house.”

“Domo,” he said.

“Do itashimasite. Saké, Anjin-san?” Kiku said.

“Hai, domo.”

He watched her perfect hands find the flask unerringly, make sure the temperature was correct, then pour into the cup that he lifted toward her, as Mariko had shown him, with more grace than he thought possible.

“You promise you will behave like a Japanese, truly?” Mariko had asked as they set out from the fortress, she riding the palanquin, he walking beside, down the track that curled to the village and to the square that fronted the sea. Torchbearers strode ahead and behind. Ten samurai accompanied them as an honor guard.

“I’ll try, yes,” Blackthorne said. “What do I have to do?”

“The first thing you must do is to forget what you have to do and merely remember that this night is only for your pleasure.”

Today has been the best day of my life, he was thinking. And tonight—what about tonight? He was excited by the challenge and determined to try to be Japanese and enjoy everything and not be embarrassed.

“What—what does the evening—well—cost?” he had asked.

“That’s very un-Japanese, Anjin-san,” she had chided him. “What has that to do with anything? Fujiko-san agreed that the arrangement was satisfactory.”

He had seen Fujiko before he left. The doctor had visited her and had changed the bandages and given her herb medicines. She was proud of the honors and new fief and had rattled on nicely, showing no pain, glad that he was going to the Tea House—of course, Mariko-san had consulted her and everything had been arranged, how good Mariko-san was! How sorry she was to have the burns so that she couldn’t make the arrangements for him herself. He had touched Fujiko’s hand before he left, liking her. She had thanked him and apologized again, and sent him on his way hoping that he would have a wonderful evening.

Gyoko and maids had been waiting ceremoniously at the gate of the Tea House to greet them.

“This is Gyoko-san, she’s the Mama-san here.”

“So honored, Anjin-san, so honored.”

“Mama-san? You mean mama? Mother? That’s the same in English, Mariko-san. Mama—mommy—mother.”

“Oh! It’s almost the same, but, so sorry, ‘mama-san’ just means ‘stepmother’ or ‘foster parent,’ Anjin-san. Mother is ‘haha-san’ or ‘oba-san.’ ”

In a moment Gyoko excused herself and hurried away. Blackthorne smiled at Mariko. She had been like a child, gazing at everything. “Oh, Anjin-san, I’ve always wanted to see the inside of one of these places. Men are so very lucky! Isn’t it beautiful? Isn’t it marvelous, even in a tiny village? Gyoko-san must have had it refurbished completely by master craftsmen! Look at the quality of the woods and—oh, you’re so kind to allow me to be with you. I’ll never have another opportunity . . . look at the flowers . . . what an exquisite arrangement . . . and oh, look out into the garden. . . .”

Blackthorne was very glad and very sorry that a maid was in the room and the shoji door open, for even here in a tea house it would be unthinkable and lethal for Mariko to be alone with him in a room.

“Thou art beautiful,” he said in Latin.

“And thou.” Her face was dancing. “I am very proud of thee, Admiral of Ships. And Fujiko—oh, she was so proud she could hardly lie still!”

“Her burns seemed bad.”

“Have no fear. The doctors are well practiced and she is young and strong and confident. Tonight put everything from thy mind. No more questions about Ishido or Ikawa Jikkyu, or battles or codewords or fiefs or ships. Tonight no cares—tonight only magic things for thee.”

“Thou art magic for me.”

She fluttered her fan and poured the wine and said nothing. He watched her, then they smiled together. “Because others are here and tongues wag, we must still be cautious. But oh, I am so happy for thee,” she said.

“Thou. What was the other reason? You said there was another reason you wanted me to be here tonight?”

“Ah yes, the other reason.” The same heavy perfume drifted around him. “It is an ancient custom we have, Anjin-san. When a lady who belongs to someone else cares for another man, and wishes to give him something of consequence that it is forbidden to give, then she will arrange for another to take her place—a gift—the most perfect courtesan that she can afford.”

“You said ‘when a lady cares for someone else.’ Do you mean ‘love’?”

“Yes. But only for tonight.”

“Thou.”

“Thou, Anjin-san.”

“Why tonight, Mariko-san, why not before?”

“Tonight is a magic night and kami walk with us. I desire thee.”

Then Kiku was at the doorway. “Hallelujah!” And he was welcomed and served saké.

“How do I say that the Lady’s especially pretty?”

Mariko told him and he repeated the words. The girl laughed gaily, accepted the compliment, and returned it.

“Kiku-san asks if you would like her to sing or dance for you.”

“What is thy preference?”

“This Lady is here for thy pleasure, samurai, not mine.”

“And thou? Thou art here also for my pleasure?”

“Yes, in a way—in a very private way.”

“Then please ask her to sing.”

Kiku clapped her hands gently and Ako brought the samisen. It was long, shaped something like a guitar, and three-stringed. Ako set it in position on the floor and gave the ivory plectrum to Kiku.

Kiku said, “Lady Toda, please tell our honored guest that first I will sing ‘The Song of the Dragonfly.’ ”

“Kiku-san, I would be honored if tonight, here, you would call me Mariko-san.”

“You are too kind to me, Madam. Please excuse me. I could not possibly be so impolite.”

“Please.”

“I will if it pleases you, though. . . .” Her smile was lovely. “Thank you, Mariko-sama.”

She strummed a chord. From the moment that the guests had walked through the gateway into her world, all her senses had been tuned. She had secretly watched them while they were with Gyoko-san and when they were alone, searching for any clue how to pleasure him or to impress the Lady Toda.

She had not been prepared for what soon became obvious: clearly the Anjin-san desired the Lady Toda, though he hid it as well as any civilized person could hide it. This in itself was not surprising, for the Lady Toda was most beautiful and accomplished and, most important, she alone could talk with him. What astounded her was that she was certain the Lady Toda desired him equally, if not more.

The barbarian samurai and the Lady samurai, patrician daughter of the assassin Akechi Jinsai, wife of Lord Buntaro! Eeeee! Poor man, poor woman. So sad. Surely this must end in tragedy.

Kiku felt near to tears as she thought of the sadness of life, the unfairness. Oh, how I wish I were born samurai and not a peasant so that I could become even a consort to Omi-sama, not just a temporary toy. I would gladly give my hope of rebirth in return for that.

Put away sadness. Give pleasure, that is your duty.

Her fingers strummed a second chord, a chord filled with melancholy. Then she noticed that though Mariko was beguiled by her music the Anjin-san was not.

Why? Kiku knew that it was not her playing, for she was sure that it was almost perfect. Such mastery as hers was given to few.

A third, more beautiful chord, experimentally. There’s no doubt, she told herself hastily, it doesn’t please him. She allowed the chord to die away and began to sing unaccompanied, her voice soaring with the sudden changes of tempo that took years to perfect. Again Mariko was entranced, he was not, so at once Kiku stopped. “Tonight is not for music or singing,” she announced. “Tonight is for happiness. Mariko-san, how do I say, ‘please excuse me’ in his language?”

“Per favor.”

“Per favor, Anjin-san, tonight we must laugh only, neh?”

“Domo, Kiku-san. Hai.”

“It’s difficult to entertain without words, but not impossible, neh? Ah, I know!” She jumped up and began to do comic pantomimes—daimyo, kaga-man, fisherman, hawker, pompous samurai, even an old farmer collecting a full pail—and she did them all so well and so humorously that soon Mariko and Blackthorne were laughing and clapping. Then she held up her hand. Mischievously she began to mimic a man peeing, holding himself or missing, grabbing, searching for the insignificant or weighed down by the incredible, through all the stages of his life, beginning first as a child just wetting the bed and howling, to a young man in a hurry, to another having to hold back, another with size, another with smallness to the point of “where has it gone,” and at length to a very old man groaning in ecstasy at being able to pee at all.

Kiku bowed to their applause and sipped cha, patting the sheen from her forehead. She noticed that he was easing his shoulders and back. “Oh, per favor, senhor!” and she knelt behind him and began to massage his neck.

Her knowing fingers instantly found the pleasure points. “Oh God, that’s . . . hai . . . just there!”

She did as he asked. “Your neck will be better soon. Too much sitting, Anjin-san!”

“That very good, Kiku-san. Make Suwo almost bad!”

“Ah, thank you. Mariko-san, the Anjin-san’s shoulders are so vast, would you help me? Just do his left shoulder while I do his right? So sorry, but hands are not strong enough.”

Mariko allowed herself to be persuaded and did as she was asked. Kiku hid her smile as she felt him tighten under Mariko’s fingers and she was very pleased with her improvisations. Now the client was being pleasured through her artistry and knowledge, and being maneuvered as he should be maneuvered.

“Is that better, Anjin-san?”

“Good, very good, thank you.”

“Oh, you’re very welcome. It’s my pleasure. But the Lady Toda is so much more deft than I.” Kiku could feel the attraction between them though they tried to conceal it. “Now a little food perhaps?” It came at once.

“For you, Anjin-san,” she said proudly. The dish contained a small pheasant, cut into tiny pieces, barbecued over charcoal with a sweet soya sauce. She helped him.

“It delicious, delicious,” he said. And it was.

“Mariko-san?”

“Thank you.” Mariko took a token piece but did not eat it.

Kiku took a fragment in her chopsticks and chewed it with relish. “It’s good, neh?”

“No, Kiku-san, it very good! Very good.”

“Please, Anjin-san, have some more.” She took a second morsel. “There’s plenty.”

“Thank you. Please. How did—how this?” He pointed to the thick brown sauce.

Mariko interpreted for her. “Kiku says it’s sugar and soya with a little ginger. She asks do you have sugar and soya in your country?”

“Sugar in beet, yes, soya no, Kiku-san.”

“Oh! How can one live without soya?” Kiku became solemn. “Please tell the Anjin-san that we have had sugar here since one thousand years. The Buddhist monk Ganjin brought it to us from China. All our best things have come from China, Anjin-san. Cha came to us about five hundred years ago. The Buddhist monk Eisai brought some seeds and planted them in Chikuzen Province, where I was born. He also brought us Zen Buddhism.”

Mariko translated with equal formality, then Kiku let out a peal of laughter. “Oh so sorry, Mariko-sama, but you both looked so grave. I was just pretending to be solemn about cha—as if it mattered! It was only to amuse you.”

They watched Blackthorne finish the pheasant. “Good,” he said. “Very good. Please thank Gyoko-san.”

“She will be honored.” Kiku poured more saké for both of them. Then, knowing it was time, she said innocently, “May I ask what happened today at the earthquake? I hear the Anjin-san saved the life of Lord Toranaga? I would consider it an honor to know firsthand.”

She settled back patiently, letting Blackthorne and Mariko enjoy the telling, adding an “oh,” or “what happened then?” or pouring saké, never interrupting, being the perfect listener.

And, when they finished, Kiku marveled at their bravery and at Lord Toranaga’s good fortune. They talked for a while, then Blackthorne got up and the maid was told to show him the way.

Mariko broke a silence. “You’ve never eaten meat before, Kiku-san, have you?”

“It is my duty to do whatever I can to please him, for just a little while, neh?”

“I never knew how perfect a lady could be. I understand now why there must always be a Floating World, a Willow World, and how lucky men are, how inadequate I am.”

“Oh, that was never my purpose, never, Mariko-sama. And not our purpose. We are here only to please, for a fleeting moment.”

“Yes. I just meant I admire you so much. I would like you for my sister.”

Kiku bowed. “I would not be worthy of that honor.” There was warmth between them. Then she said, “This is a very secret place and everyone is to be trusted, there are no prying eyes. The pleasure room in the garden is very dark if one wants it dark. And darkness keeps all secrets.”

“The only way to keep a secret is to be alone and whisper it down an empty well at high noon, neh?” Mariko said lightly, needing time to decide.

“Between sisters there’s no need for wells. I have dismissed my maid until the dawn. Our pleasure room is a very private place.”

“There you must be alone with him.”

“I can always be alone, always.”

“You’re so kind to me, Kiku-chan, so very thoughtful.”

“It is a magic night, neh? And very special.”

“Magic nights end too soon, Little Sister. Magic nights are for children, neh? I am not a child.”

“Who knows what happens on a magic night? Darkness contains everything.”

Mariko shook her head sadly and touched her tenderly. “Yes. But for him, if it contained you that would be everything.”

Kiku let the matter rest. Then she said, “I am a gift to the Anjin-san? He did not ask for me himself?”

“If he had seen you, how could he not ask for you? Truthfully, it’s his honor that you welcome him. I understand that now.”

“But he did see me once, Mariko-san. I was with Omi-san when he passed on his way to the ship to go to Osaka the first time.”

“Oh, but the Anjin-san said that he saw Midori-san with Omi-san. It was you? Beside the palanquin?”

“Yes, in the square. Oh yes, it was me, Mariko-san, not the Lady, the wife of Omi-sama. He said ‘konnichi wa’ to me. But of course, he would not remember. How could he remember? That was during a previous life, neh?”

“Oh, he remembered her—the beautiful girl with the green parasol. He said the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. He told me about her many times.” Mariko studied her even more closely. “Yes, Kiku-san, you could easily be mistaken for her on such a day, under a parasol.”

Kiku poured saké and Mariko was entranced by her unconscious elegance. “My parasol was sea green,” she said, very pleased that he had remembered.

“How did the Anjin-san look then? Very different? The Night of the Screams must have been terrible.”

“Yes, yes it was. And he was older then, the skin of his face stretched. . . . But we become too serious, Elder Sister. Ah, you don’t know how honored I am to be allowed to call you that. Tonight is a night of pleasure only. No more seriousness, neh?”

“Yes. I agree. Please forgive me.”

“Now, to more practical matters, would you please give me some advice?”

“Anything,” Mariko said, as friendly.

“In this matter of the pillow, do people of his nation prefer any instruments or positions that you are aware of? So sorry to ask, but perhaps you might be able to guide me.”

It took all of Mariko’s training to remain unabashed. “No, not that I know. The Anjin-san is very sensitive about anything to do with pillowing.”

“Could he be asked in an oblique way?”

“I don’t think you can ask a foreign person like that. Certainly not the Anjin-san. And—so sorry, I don’t know what the, er, instruments are—except, of course, a harigata.”

“Ah!” Again Kiku’s intuition guided her and she asked artlessly, “Would you care to see them? I could show them all to you, perhaps with him there, then he need not be asked. We can see from his reaction.”

Mariko hesitated, her own curiosity swamping her judgment. “If it could be done with humor . . .”

They heard Blackthorne approaching. Kiku welcomed him back and poured wine. Mariko quaffed hers, glad that she was no longer alone, uneasily sure that Kiku could read her thoughts.

They chatted and played silly games and then, when Kiku judged that the time was correct, she asked them if they would like to see the garden and the pleasure rooms.

They walked out into the night. The garden sparkled in the torchlights where the raindrops still lingered. The path meandered beside a tiny pool and gurgling waterfall. At the end of the path was the small isolated house in the center of the bamboo grove. It was raised off manicured ground and had four steps up to the encircling veranda. Everything about the two-roomed dwelling was tasteful and expensive. The best woods, best carpentry, best tatami, best silk cushions, most elegant hangings in the tokonoma.

“It’s so lovely, Kiku-san,” Mariko said.

“The Tea House in Mishima is much nicer, Mariko-san. Please be comfortable, Anjin-san! Per favor, does this please you, Anjin-san?”

“Yes, very much.”

Kiku saw that he was still bemused with the night and the saké but totally conscious of Mariko. She was very tempted to get up and go into the inner room where the futons were turned back and step out onto the veranda again and leave. But if she did, she knew that she would be in violation of the law. More than that, she felt that such an action would be irresponsible, for she knew in her heart Mariko was ready and almost beyond caring.

No, she thought, I mustn’t push her into such a tragic indiscretion, much as it might be valuable to my future. I offered but Mariko-san willed herself to refuse. Wisely. Are they lovers? I do not know. That is their karma.

She leaned forward and laughed conspiratorially. “Listen, Elder Sister, please tell the Anjin-san that there are some pillow instruments here. Does he have them in his country?”

“He says, no, Kiku-san. So sorry, he’s never heard of any.”

“Oh! Would it amuse him to see them? They’re in the next room, I can fetch them—they’re really very exciting.”

“Would you like to see them, Anjin-san? She says they’re really very funny.” Mariko deliberately changed the word.

“Why not,” Blackthorne said, his throat constricted, his whole being charged with an awareness of their perfume and their femininity. “You—you use instruments to pillow with?” he asked.

“Kiku-san says sometimes, Anjin-san. She says—and this is true—it’s our custom always to try to prolong the moment of the ‘Clouds and the Rain’ because we believe for that brief instant we mortals are one with the gods.” Mariko watched him. “So it’s very important to make it last as long as possible, neh? Almost a duty, neh?”

“Yes.”

“Yes. She says to be one with the gods is very essential. It’s a good belief and very possible, don’t you think, to believe that? The Cloudburst feeling is so unearthly and godlike. Isn’t it? So any means to stay one with the gods for as long as possible is our duty, neh?”

“Very. Oh, yes.”

“Would you like saké, Anjin-san?”

“Thank you.”

She fanned herself. “This about the Cloudburst and the Clouds and the Rain or the Fire and the Torrent, as we sometimes call it, is very Japanese, Anjin-san. Very important to be Japanese in pillow things, neh?”

To her relief, he grinned and bowed to her like a courtier. “Yes. Very. I’m Japanese, Mariko-san. Honto!”

Kiku returned with the silk-lined case. She opened it and took out a substantial life-size penis made of ivory, and another made of softer material, elastic, that Blackthorne had never seen before. Carelessly she set them aside.

“These of course, are ordinary harigata, Anjin-san,” Mariko said unconcernedly, her eyes glued on the other objects.

“Is that a fact?” Blackthorne said, not knowing what else to say. “Mother of God!”

“But it’s just an ordinary harigata, Anjin-san. Surely your women have them!”

“Certainly not! No, they don’t,” he added, trying to remember about the humor.

Mariko couldn’t believe it. She explained to Kiku, who was equally surprised. Kiku spoke at length, Mariko agreeing.

“Kiku-san says that’s very strange. I must agree, Anjin-san. Here almost every girl uses one for ordinary relief without a second thought. How else can a girl stay healthy when she’s restricted where a man is not? Are you sure, Anjin-san? You’re not teasing?”

“No—I’m, er, sure our women don’t have them. That would be—Jesus, that—well, no, we—they—don’t have them.”

“Without them life must be very difficult. We have a saying that a harigata’s like a man but better because it’s exactly like his best part but without his worst parts. Neh? And it’s also better because all men aren’t—don’t have a sufficiency, as harigatas do. Also they’re devoted, Anjin-san, and they’ll never tire of you, like a man does. And too, they can be as rough or smooth—Anjin-san, you promised, remember? With humor!”

“You’re right!” Blackthorne grinned. “By God, you’re right. Please excuse me.” He picked up the harigata and studied it closely, whistling tonelessly. Then he held it up. “You were saying, Teacher-san? It can be rough?”

“Yes,” she said cheerfully. “It can be as rough or as smooth as you desire, and harigatas very particularly have far more endurance than any man and they never wear out!”

“Oh, that’s a point!”

“Yes. Don’t forget, not every woman is fortunate enough to belong to a virile man. Without one of these to help release ordinary passions and normal needs, an ordinary woman soon becomes poisoned in body, and that will certainly very soon destroy her harmony, thus hurt her and those around her. Women don’t have the freedom men have—to a greater or lesser degree, and rightly, neh? The world belongs to men, and rightly, neh?”

“Yes.” He smiled. “And no.”

“I pity your women, so sorry. They must be the same as ours. When you go home you must instruct them, Anjin-san. Ah, yes, tell your Queen, she will understand. We are very sensible in matters of the pillow.”

“I’ll mention it to Her Majesty.” Blackthorne put the harigata aside with feigned reluctance. “What’s next?”

Kiku produced a string of four large round beads of white jade that were spaced along a strong silken thread. Mariko listened intently to Kiku’s explanation, her eyes getting wider than ever before, her fan fluttering, and looked down at the beads in wonder as Kiku came to an end. “Ah so desu! Well, Anjin-san,” she began firmly, “these are called konomi-shinju, Pleasure Pearls, and the senhor or senhora may use them. Saké, Anjin-san?”

“Thank you.”

“Yes. Either the lady or the man may use them and the beads are carefully placed in the back passage and then, at the moment of the Clouds and the Rain, the beads are pulled out slowly, one by one.”

“What?”

“Yes.” Mariko laid the beads on the cushion in front of him. “The Lady Kiku says the timing’s very important, and that always a . . . I don’t know what you would call it, ah yes, always an oily salve should be used . . . for comfort, Anjin-san.” She looked up at him and added, “She says also that Pleasure Pearls can be found in many sizes and that, if used correctly, they can precipitate a very considerable result indeed.”

He laughed uproariously and spluttered in English, “I’ll bet a barrel of doubloons against a piece of pig shit you can believe that!”

“So sorry, I didn’t understand, Anjin-san.”

When he could talk, he said in Portuguese, “I’ll bet a mountain of gold to a blade of grass, Mariko-san, the result is very considerable indeed.” He picked up the beads and examined them, whistling without noticing it. “Pleasure Pearls, eh?” After a moment he put them down. “What else is there?”

Kiku was pleased that her experiment was succeeding. Next she showed them a himitsu-kawa, the Secret Skin. “It’s a pleasure ring, Anjin-san, that the man wears to keep himself erect when he’s depleted. With this, Kiku-san says, the man can gratify the woman after he’s passed his pinnacle, or his desire has flagged.” Mariko watched him. “Neh?”

“Absolutely.” Blackthorne beamed. “The Good Lord protect me from either, and from not giving gratification. Please ask Kiku-san to buy me three—just in case!”

Next he was shown the hiro-gumbi, Weary Armaments, thin dried stalks of a plant that, when soaked and wrapped around the Peerless Part, swell up and make it appear strong. Then there were all kinds of potents—potents to excite or increase excitement—and all kinds of salves—salves to moisten, to swell, to strengthen.

“Never to weaken?” he asked, to more hilarity.

“Oh no, Anjin-san, that would be unearthly!”

Then Kiku laid out other rings for the man to wear, ivory or elastic or silken rings with nodules or bristles or ribbons or attachments and appendages of every kind, made of ivory or horsehair or seeds or even tiny bells.

“Kiku-san says almost any of these will turn the shyest lady wanton.”

Oh God, how I would like thee wanton, he thought. “But these’re only for the man to wear, neh?” he asked.

“The more excited the lady is, the more the man’s enjoyment, neh?” Mariko was saying. “Of course, giving pleasure to the woman is equally the man’s duty, isn’t it, and with one of these, if, unhappily, he’s small or weak or old or tired, he can still pleasure her with honor.”

“You’ve used them, Mariko-san?”

“No, Anjin-san, I’ve never seen them before. These are . . . wives are not for pleasure but for childbearing and for looking after the house and the home.”

“Wives don’t expect to be pleasured?”

“No. It would not be usual. That is for the Ladies of the Willow World.” Mariko fanned herself and explained to Kiku what had been said. “She says, surely it’s the same in your world? That the man’s duty is to pleasure the lady as it is her duty to pleasure him?”

“Please tell her, so sorry, but it’s not the same, just about the opposite.”

“She says that is very bad. Saké?”

“Please tell her we’re taught to be ashamed of our bodies and pillowing and nakedness and . . . and all sorts of stupidities. It’s only being here that’s made me realize it. Now that I’m a little civilized I know better.”

Mariko translated. He drained his cup. It was refilled immediately by Kiku, who leaned over and held her long sleeve with her left hand so that it would not touch the low lacquered table as she poured with her right.

“Domo.”

“Do itashimashite, Anjin-san.”

“Kiku-san says we should all be honored that you say such things. I agree, Anjin-san. You make me feel very proud. I was very proud of you today. But surely it’s not as bad as you say.”

“It’s worse. It’s difficult to understand, let alone explain, if you’ve never been there or weren’t brought up there. You see—in truth . . .” Blackthorne saw them watching him, waiting patiently, multihued, so lovely and clean, the room so stark and uncluttered and tranquil. All at once his mind began to contrast it with the warm, friendly stench of his English home, rushes on the earth floor, smoke from the open brick fire rising to the roof hole—only three of the new fireplaces with chimneys in his whole village, and those only for the very wealthy. Two small bedrooms and then the one large untidy room of the cottage for eating, living, cooking, and talking. You walked into the cottage in your seaboots, summer or winter, mud unnoticed, dung unnoticed, and sat on a chair or bench, the oak table cluttered like the room, three or four dogs and the two children—his son and his dead brother Arthur’s girl—climbing and falling and playing higgledy piggledy, Felicity cooking, her long dress trailing in the rushes and dirt, the skivvy maid sniffing and getting in the way and Mary, Arthur’s widow, coughing in the next room he’d built for her, near death as always, but never dying.

Felicity. Dear Felicity. A bath once a month perhaps, and then in summer, very private, in the copper tub, but washing her face and hands and feet every day, always hidden to the neck and wrists, swathed in layers of heavy woolens all year long that were unwashed for months or years, reeking like everyone, lice-infested like everyone, scratching like everyone.

And all the other stupid beliefs and superstitions, that cleanliness could kill, open windows could kill, water could kill and encourage flux or bring in the plague, that lice and fleas and flies and dirt and disease were God’s punishments for sins on earth.

Fleas, flies, and fresh rushes every spring, but every day to church and twice on Sundays to hear the Word pounded into you: Nothing matters, only God and salvation.

Born in sin, living in shame, Devil’s brood, condemned to Hell, praying for salvation and forgiveness, Felicity so devout and filled with fear of the Lord and terror of the Devil, desperate for Heaven. Then going home to food. A haunch of meat from the spit and if a piece fell on the floor you’d pick it up and brush the dirt off and eat it if the dogs didn’t get it first, but you’d throw them the bones anyway. Castings on the floor. Leavings pushed onto the floor to be swept up perhaps and thrown into the road perhaps. Sleeping most of the time in your dayclothes and scratching like a contented dog, always scratching. Old so young and ugly so young and dying so young. Felicity. Now twenty-nine, gray, few teeth left, old, lined, and dried up.

“Before her time, poor bloody woman. My God, how unnecessary!” he cried out in rage. “What a stinking bloody waste!”

“Nan desu ka, Anjin-san?” both women said in the same breath, their contentment vanishing.

“So sorry . . . it was just . . . you’re all so clean and we’re filthy and it’s all such a waste, countless millions, me too, all my life . . . and only because we don’t know any better! Christ Jesus, what a waste! It’s the priests—they’re the educated and the educators, priests own all the schools, do all the teaching, always in the name of God, filth in the name of God. . . . It’s the truth!”

“Oh yes, of course,” Mariko said soothingly, touched by his pain. “Please don’t concern yourself now, Anjin-san. That’s for tomorrow. . . .”

Kiku wore a smile but she was furious with herself. You should have been more careful, she told herself. Stupid stupid stupid! Mariko-san warned you! Now you’ve allowed the evening to be ruined, and the magic’s gone gone gone!

In truth, the heavy, almost tangible sexuality that had touched all of them had disappeared. Perhaps that’s just as well, she thought. At least Mariko and the Anjin-san are protected for one more night.

Poor man, poor lady. So sad. She watched them talking, then sensed a change in tone between them.

“Now I must leave thee,” Mariko was saying in Latin.

“Let us leave together.”

“I beg thee stay. For thy honor and hers. And mine, Anjin-san.”

“I do not want this thy gift,” he said. “I want thee.”

“I am thine, believe it, Anjin-san. Please stay, I beg thee, and know that tonight I am thine.”

He did not insist that she stay.

After she had gone he lay back and put his arms under his head and stared out of the window at the night. Rain splattered the tiles, the wind gusted caressingly from the sea.

Kiku was kneeling motionless in front of him. Her legs were stiff. She would have liked to lie down herself but she did not wish to break his mood by the slightest movement. You are not tired. Your legs do not ache, she told herself. Listen to the rain and think of lovely things. Think of Omi-san and the Tea House in Mishima, and that you’re alive and that yesterday’s earthquake was just another earthquake. Think of Toranaga-sama and the incredibly extravagant price that Gyoko-san had dared to ask initially for your contract. The soothsayer was right, it is your good fortune to make her rich beyond dreams. And if that part is true, why not all the rest? That one day you will marry a samurai you honor and have a son by him, that you will live and die in old age, part of his household, wealthy and honored, and that, miracle of miracles, your son will grow to equal estate—samurai—as will his sons.

Kiku began to glow at her incredible, wonderful future.

After a time Blackthorne stretched luxuriously, a pleasing weariness upon him. He saw her and smiled.

“Nan desu ka, Anjin-san?”

He shook his head kindly, got up and opened the shoji to the next room. There was no maid kneeling beside the netted futons. He and Kiku were alone in the exquisite little house.

He went into the sleeping room and began to take off his kimono. She hurried to help. He undressed completely, then put on the light silk sleeping kimono she held out for him. She opened the mosquito netting and he lay down.

Then Kiku changed also. He saw her take off the obi and the outer kimono and the scarlet-edged lesser kimono of palest green, and finally the underskirt. She put on her peach-colored sleeping kimono, then removed the elaborate formal wig and loosed her hair. It was blue-black and fine and very long.

She knelt outside the net. “Dozo, Anjin-san?”

“Domo,” he said.

“Domo arigato gozaimashita,” she whispered.

She slipped under the net and lay beside him. The candles and oil lamps burned brightly. He was glad of the light because she was so beautiful.

His desperate need had vanished, though the ache remained. I don’t desire you, Kiku-chan, he thought. Even if you were Mariko it would be the same. Even though you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, more beautiful even than Midori-san, who I thought was more beautiful than any goddess. I don’t desire you. Later perhaps but not now, so sorry.

Her hand reached out and touched him. “Dozo?”

“Iyé,” he said gently, shaking his head. He held her hand, then slipped an arm under her shoulders. Obediently she nestled against him, understanding at once. Her perfume mingled with the fragrance of the sheets and futons. So clean, he thought, everything’s so incredibly clean.

What was it Rodrigues had said? ‘The Japans’re heaven on earth, Ingeles, if you know where to look,’ or ‘This is paradise, Ingeles.’ I don’t remember. I only know it’s not there, across the sea, where I thought it was. It’s not there.

Heaven on earth is here.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The courier galloped down the road in darkness toward the sleeping village. The sky was tinged with dawn and the night fishing boats that had been netting near the shoals were just coming in. He had ridden without rest from Mishima over the mountain passes and bad roads, commandeering fresh horses wherever he could.

His horse pounded through the village streets—covert eyes watching him now—across the square and up the road to the fortress. His standard carried Toranaga’s cipher and he knew the current password. Nevertheless he was challenged and identified four times before he was allowed entrance and audience with the officer of the watch.

“Urgent dispatches from Mishima, Naga-san, from Lord Hiro-matsu.”

Naga took the scroll and hurried inside. At the heavily guarded shoji he stopped. “Father?”

“Yes?”

Naga slid back the door and waited. Toranaga’s sword slipped back into its scabbard. One of the guards brought an oil lamp.

Toranaga sat up in his mosquito net and broke the seal. Two weeks ago he had ordered Hiro-matsu with an elite regiment secretly to Mishima, the castle city on the Tokaidō Road that guarded the entrance to the pass leading across the mountains to the cities of Atami and Odawara on the east coast of Izu. Atami was the gateway to Odawara to the north. Odawara was the key to the defense of the whole Kwanto.

Hiro-matsu wrote: “Sire, your half brother, Zataki, Lord of Shinano, arrived here today from Osaka asking for safe conduct to see you at Anjiro. He travels formally with a hundred samurai and bearers, under the cipher of the ‘new’ Council of Regents. I regret to tell you the Lady Kiritsubo’s news is correct. Zataki’s turned traitor and is openly flaunting his allegiance to Ishido. What she did not know is that Zataki is now a Regent in place of Lord Sugiyama. He showed me his official appointment, correctly signed by Ishido, Kiyama, Onoshi, and Ito. It was all I could do to restrain my men at his arrogance and obey your orders to let any messenger from Ishido pass. I wanted to kill this dung eater myself. Traveling with him is the barbarian priest, Tsukku-san, who arrived by sea at the port of Numazu, coming from Nagasaki. He asked permission to visit you so I sent him with the same party. I’ve sent two hundred of my men to escort them. They’ll arrive within two days at Anjiro. When do you return to Yedo? Spies say Jikkyu’s mobilizing secretly and news comes from Yedo that the northern clans are ready to throw in with Ishido now that Zataki’s Shinano is against you. I beg you to leave Anjiro at once—retreat by sea. Let Zataki follow you to Yedo, where we can deal with him properly.”

Toranaga slammed his fist against the floor.

“Naga-san. Fetch Buntaro-san, Yabu-san, and Omi-san here at once.”

They arrived very quickly. Toranaga read them the message. “We’d better cancel all training. Send the Musket Regiment, every man, into the mountains. We don’t want any security leaks now.”

Omi said, “Please excuse me, Sire, but you might consider intercepting the party over the mountains. Say at Yokosé. Invite Lord Zataki”—he chose the title carefully—“to take the waters at one of the nearby spas, but have the meeting at Yokosé. Then, after he’s delivered his message, he and all his men can be turned back, escorted to the frontier, or destroyed, just as you wish.”

“I don’t know Yokosé.”

Yabu said importantly, “It’s beautiful, almost in the center of Izu, Sire, over the mountains in a valley cleft. It’s beside the river Kano. The Kano flows north, eventually through Mishima and Numazu to the sea, neh? Yokosé’s at a crossroads—the roads go north-south and east-west. Yes, Yokosé’d be a good place to meet, Sire. Shuzenji Spa’s nearby—very hot, very good—one of our best. You should visit it, Sire. I think Omi-san’s made a good suggestion.”

“Could we defend it easily?”

Omi said quickly, “Yes, Sire. There’s a bridge. The land falls steeply from the mountains. Any attackers would have to fight up a snaking road. Both passes can be held with few men. You could never be ambushed. We have more than enough men to defend you and butcher ten times their number—if need be.”

“We butcher them whatever happens, neh?” Buntaro said with contempt. “But better there than here. Sire, please let me make the place safe. Five hundred archers, no musketeers—all horsemen. Added to the men my father sent, we’ll have more than enough.”

Toranaga checked the date on the dispatch. “They’ll reach the crossroads when?”

Yabu looked at Omi for confirmation. “Tonight at the earliest?”

“Yes. Perhaps not until dawn tomorrow.”

“Buntaro-san, leave at once,” Toranaga said. “Contain them at Yokosé but keep them the other side of the river. I’ll leave at dawn tomorrow with another hundred men. We should be there by noon. Yabu-san, you take charge of our Musket Regiment for the moment and guard our retreat. Put it in ambush across the Heikawa Road, on the skyline, so we can fall back through you if necessary.”

Buntaro started to leave but stopped as Yabu said uneasily, “How can there be treachery, Sire? They’ve only a hundred men.”

“I expect treachery. Lord Zataki wouldn’t put his head into my hands without a plan, for, of course, I’ll take his head if I can,” Toranaga said. “Without him to lead his fanatics we’ll have a far better chance to get through his mountains. But why’s he risking everything? Why?”

Omi said tentatively, “Could he be ready to turn ally again?”

They all knew the longstanding rivalry that had existed between the half brothers. A friendly rivalry up till now.

“No, not him. I never trusted him before. Would any of you trust him now?”

They shook their heads.

Yabu said, “Surely there’s nothing to disturb you, Sire. Lord Zataki’s a Regent, yes, but he’s only a messenger, neh?”

Fool, Toranaga wanted to shout, don’t you understand anything? “We’ll soon know. Buntaro-san, go at once.”

“Yes, Sire. I’ll choose the meeting place carefully, but don’t let him within ten paces. I was with him in Korea. He’s too quick with his sword.”

“Yes.”

Buntaro hurried away. Yabu said, “Perhaps Zataki can be tempted to betray Ishido—some prize perhaps? What’s his bait? Even without his leadership the Shinano mountains are cruel.”

“The bait’s obvious,” Toranaga said. “The Kwanto. Isn’t that what he wants, has always wanted? Isn’t that what all my enemies want? Isn’t that what Ishido himself wants?”

They did not answer him. There was no need.

Toranaga said gravely, “May Buddha help us. The Taikō’s peace has ended. War is beginning.”

Blackthorne’s sea ears had heard the urgency in the approaching hoofs and they had whispered danger. He had come out of sleep instantly, ready to attack or retreat, all his senses tuned. The hoofs passed, then headed up the hill toward the fortress, to die away again.

He waited. No sound of a following escort. Probably a lone messenger, he thought. From where? Is it war already?

Dawn was imminent. Now Blackthorne could see a small part of the sky. It was overcast and laden with rain, the air warm with a tang of salt in it, billowing the net from time to time. A mosquito whined faintly outside. He was very pleased to be within, safe for the moment. Enjoy the safety and the tranquillity while it lasts, he told himself.

Kiku was sleeping next to him, curled up like a kitten. Sleep-tousled, she seemed more beautiful to him. He carefully relaxed back into the softness of the quilts on the tatami floor.

This is so much better than a bed. Better than any bunk—my God, how much better! But soon to be back aboard, neh? Soon to fall on the Black Ship and take her, neh? I think Toranaga’s agreed even though he hasn’t said so openly. Hasn’t he just agreed in Japanese fashion? “Nothing can ever be solved in Japan except by Japanese methods.” Yes, I believe that’s the truth.

I wanted to be better informed. Didn’t he tell Mariko to translate everything and explain about his political problems?

I wanted money to buy my new crew. Didn’t he give me two thousand koku?

I asked for two or three hundred corsairs. Hasn’t he given me two hundred samurai with all the power and rank I need? Will they obey me? Of course. He made me samurai and hatamoto. So they’ll obey to the death and I’ll bring them aboard Erasmus, they’ll be my boarding party and I will lead the attack.

How unbelievably lucky I am! I’ve everything I want. Except Mariko. But I even have her. I have her secret spirit and her love. And I possessed her body last night, the magic night that never existed. We loved without loving. Is that so different?

There’s no love between Kiku and me, just a desire that blossomed. It was grand for me. I hope it was also grand for her. I tried to be Japanese wholely and do my duty, to please her as she pleased me.

He remembered how he had used a pleasure ring. He had felt most awkward and shy and had turned away to put it on, petrified that his strength would vanish, but it had not. And then, when it was in place, they had pillowed again. Her body shuddered and twisted and the tremoring had lifted him to a more urgent plane than any he had ever known.

Afterwards, when he could breathe again, he began to laugh and she had whispered, Why do you laugh, and he had answered, I don’t know except you make me happy.

I’ve never laughed at that moment, ever before. It made everything perfect. I do not love Kiku-san—I cherish her. I love Mariko-san without reservation and I like Fujiko-san completely.

Would you pillow with Fujiko? No. At least, I don’t think I could.

Isn’t that your duty? If you accept the privileges of samurai and require others to treat you totally as samurai with all that that means, you must accept the responsibilities and duties, neh? That’s only fair, neh? And honorable, neh? It’s your duty to give Fujiko a son.

And Felicity. What would she say to that?

And when you sail away, what about Fujiko-san and what about Mariko-san? Will you truly return here, leaving the knighthood and the even greater honors that you’ll surely be granted, provided you come back laden with treasure? Will you sail outward bound once more into the hostile deep, to smash through the freezing horror of Magellan’s Pass, to endure storm and sea and scurvy and mutiny for another six hundred and ninety-eight days to make a second landfall here? To take up this life again? Decide!

Then he remembered what Mariko had told him about compartments of the mind: ‘Be Japanese, Anjin-san, you must, to survive. Do what we do, surrender yourself to the rhythm of karma unashamed. Be content with the forces beyond your control. Put all things into their own separate compartments and yield to wa, the harmony of life. Yield, Anjin-san, karma is karma, neh?’

Yes. I’ll decide when the time comes.

First I have to get the crew. Next I capture the Black Ship. Then I sail halfway around the earth to England. Then I’ll buy and equip the warships. And then I’ll decide. Karma is karma.

Kiku stirred, then buried herself deeper into the quilts, nestling closer. He felt the warmth of her through their silk kimonos. And he was kindled.

“Anjin-chan,” she murmured, still in sleep.

“Hai?”

He did not awaken her. He was content to cradle her and rest, enraptured by the serenity that the yielding had given him. But before he went into sleep, he blessed Mariko for teaching him.

“Yes, Omi-sama, certainly,” Gyoko said. “I’ll fetch the Anjin-san at once. Please excuse me. Ako, come with me.” Gyoko sent Ako for tea, then bustled out into the garden wondering what vital news the galloping night messenger had brought, for she too had heard the hoofs. And why is Omi so strange today? she asked herself. Why so cold, rough, and dangerous? And why did he come himself on so menial a task? Why not send any samurai?

Ah, who knows? Omi’s a man. How can you understand them, particularly samurai? But something’s wrong, terribly wrong. Did the messenger bring a declaration of war? I suppose so. If it’s war, then it’s war and war never hurt our business. Daimyos and samurai will still need entertaining, as always—more so in war—and in war, money means less than ever to them. Good good good.

She smiled to herself. Remember the war days forty-odd years ago when you were seventeen and the toast of Mishima? Remember all the laughter and pillowing and proud nights that melted into days? Remember serving Old Baldy himself, Yabu’s father, the nice old gentleman who boiled criminals like his son after him? Remember how hard you had to work to make him soft—unlike the son! Gyoko chuckled. We pillowed three days and three nights, then he became my patron for a whole year. Good times—a good man. Oh, how we pillowed!

War or peace, never mind! Shigata ga nai! There’s enough invested with the moneylenders and rice merchants, a little here, a little there. Then there’s the saké factory in Odawara, the Tea House in Mishima’s thriving, and today Lord Toranaga’s going to buy Kiku’s contract!

Yes, interesting times ahead, and how fantastically interesting the previous night had been. Kiku had been brilliant, the Anjin-san’s outburst mortifying. Kiku had made as deft a recovery as any courtesan in the land. And then, when the Lady Toda had left them, Kiku’s artistry had made everything perfect and the night blissful.

Ah, men and women. So predictable. Especially men.

Babies always. Vain, difficult, terrible, petulant, pliant, horrible—marvelous most rarely—but all born with that single incredible redeeming feature that we in the trade refer to as the Jade Root, Turtle Head, Yang Peak, Steaming Shaft, Male Thruster, or simply Piece of Meat.

How insulting! Yet how apt!

Gyoko chuckled and asked herself for the ten thousandth time, by all gods living and dead and yet to be born, what in the world would we do in this world without the Piece of Meat?

She hurried on again, her footsteps just loud enough to announce her presence. She mounted the polished cedar steps. Her knock was practiced.

“Anjin-san—Anjin-san, so sorry but Lord Toranaga’s sent for you. You’re ordered to the fortress at once.”

“What? What did you say?”

She repeated it in simpler language.

“Ah! Understand! All right—I there quick,” she heard him say, with his funny accent.

“So sorry, please excuse me. Kiku-san?”

“Yes, Mama-san?” In a moment the shoji slid open. Kiku smiled at her, the kimono clinging and her hair prettily disarrayed. “Good morning, Mama-san, did you have pleasant dreams?”

“Yes, yes, thank you. So sorry to disturb you. Kiku-chan, do you wish for fresh cha?”

“Oh!” Kiku’s smile disappeared. This was the code sentence that Gyoko could freely use in front of any client which told Kiku that her most special client, Omi-san, was in the Tea House. Then Kiku could always finish her story or song or dance more quickly, and go to Omi-san, if she wished. Kiku pillowed with very few, though she entertained many—if they paid the fee. Very, very few could afford all her services.

“What is it?” Gyoko asked narrowly.

“Nothing, Mama-san. Anjin-san,” Kiku called out gaily, “so sorry, would you like cha?”

“Yes, please.”

“It will be here at once,” Gyoko said. “Ako! Hurry up, child.”

“Yes, Mistress.” Ako brought in the tray of tea and two cups and poured, and Gyoko left, again apologizing for disturbing him.

Kiku gave Blackthorne the cup herself. He drank it thirstily, then she helped him to dress. Ako laid out a fresh kimono for her. Kiku was most attentive but she was consumed with the knowledge that soon she would have to accompany the Anjin-san outside the gateway to bow him homeward. It was good manners. More than that, it was her privilege and duty. Only courtesans of the First Rank were ever allowed to go beyond the threshold to bestow that rare honor; all others had to stay within the courtyard. It was unthinkable for her not to finish the night as was expected—that would be a terrible insult to her guest and yet . . .

For the first time in her life, Kiku did not wish to bow one guest homeward in front of another guest.

I can’t, not the Anjin-san in front of Omi-san.

Why? she asked herself. Is it because the Anjin-san’s barbarian and you’re ashamed that all the world will know you’ve been possessed by a barbarian? No. All Anjiro knows already and a man is like any other, most of the time. This man is samurai, hatamoto, and Admiral of Lord Toranaga’s ships! No, nothing like that.

What is it then?

It’s because I found in the night that I was shamed by what Omi-san did to him. As we should all be shamed. Omi-san should never have done that. The Anjin-san is branded and my fingers seemed to feel the brand through the silk of his kimono. I burn with shame for him, a good man to whom that should not have been done.

Am I defiled?

No, of course not, just shamed before him. And shamed before Omi-san for being ashamed.

Then in the reaches of her mind she heard Mama-san saying again, ‘Child, child, leave man things to men. Laughter is our balm against them, and the world and the gods and even old age.’

“Kiku-san?”

“Yes, Anjin-san?”

“Now I go.”

“Yes. Let us go together,” she said.

He took her face tenderly in his rough hands and kissed her. “Thank you. No words enough to thank.”

“It is I who should thank you. Please allow me to thank you, Anjin-san. Let us leave now.”

She allowed Ako to put the finishing touches to her hair, which she left hanging loosely, tied the sash of the fresh kimono, and went with him.

Kiku walked beside him as was her privilege, not a few steps behind as a wife or consort or daughter or servant was obliged to. He put his hand on her shoulder momentarily and this was distasteful to her for they were not in the privacy of a room. Then she had a sudden, horrible premonition that he would kiss her publicly—which Mariko had mentioned was barbarian custom—at the gate. Oh, Buddha let that not happen, she thought, almost faint with fright.

His swords were in the reception room. By custom, all weapons were left under guard, outside the pleasure rooms, to avoid lethal quarrels with other clients, and also to prevent any lady from ending her life. Not all Ladies of the Willow World were happy or fortunate.

Blackthorne put his swords into his sash. Kiku bowed him through to the veranda, where he stepped into his thongs, Gyoko and others assembled to bow him away, an honored guest. Beyond the gateway was the village square and the sea. Many samurai were there milling about, Buntaro among them. Kiku could not see Omi, though she was certain he would be watching somewhere.

The Anjin-san seemed immensely tall, she so small beside him. Now they were crossing the courtyard. Both saw Omi at the same time. He was standing near the gateway.

Blackthorne stopped. “Morning, Omi-san,” he said as a friend and bowed as a friend, not knowing that Omi and Kiku were more than friends. How could he know? she thought. No one has told him—why should they tell him? And what does that matter anyway?

“Good morning, Anjin-san.” Omi’s voice was friendly too, but she saw him bow with only sufficient politeness. Then his jet eyes turned to her again and she bowed, her smile perfect. “Good morning, Omi-san. This house is honored.”

“Thank you, Kiku-san. Thank you.”

She felt his searching gaze but pretended not to notice, keeping her eyes demurely lowered. Gyoko and the maids and the courtesans who were free watched from the veranda.

“I go fortress, Omi-san,” Blackthorne was saying. “All’s well?”

“Yes. Lord Toranaga’s sent for you.”

“Go now. Hope see you soon.”

“Yes.”

Kiku glanced up. Omi was still staring at her. She smiled her best smile and looked at the Anjin-san. He was watching Omi intently; then feeling her eyes, he turned to her and smiled back. It seemed to her a strained smile. “So sorry, Kiku-san, Omi-san, must go now.” He bowed to Omi. It was returned. He went through the gate. She followed, hardly breathing. Movement stopped in the square. In the silence she saw him turn back, and for a hideous moment, she knew he was going to embrace her. But to her enormous relief he did not, and just stood there waiting as a civilized person would wait.

She bowed with all the tenderness she could muster, Omi’s gaze boring into her.

“Thank you, Anjin-san,” she said and smiled at him alone. A sigh went through the square. “Thank you,” then added the time-honored, “Please visit us again. I will count the moments until we meet again.”

He bowed with just the right amount of carelessness, strode off arrogantly as a samurai of quality would. Then, because he had treated her very correctly, and to repay Omi for the unnecessary coldness in his bow, instead of going back into her house at once, she stayed where she was and looked after the Anjin-san to give him greater honor. She waited until he was at the last corner. She saw him look back. He waved once. She bowed very low, now delighted with the attention in the square, pretending not to notice it. And only when he was truly gone did she walk back. With pride and with great elegance. And until the gate was closed every man watched her, feeding on such beauty, envious of the Anjin-san, who must be much man for her to wait like that.

“You’re so pretty,” Omi said.

“I wish that were true, Omi-san,” she said with a second-best smile. “Would you like some cha, Omi-sama? Or food?”

“With you, yes.”

Gyoko joined them unctuously. “Please excuse my bad manners, Omi-sama. Do take food with us now, please. Have you had a first meal?”

“No—not yet, but I’m not hungry.” Omi glanced across at Kiku. “Have you eaten yet?”

Gyoko interrupted expansively, “Allow us to bring you something that won’t be too inadequate, Omi-sama. Kiku-san, when you’ve changed you will join us, neh?”

“Of course, please excuse me, Omi-sama, for appearing like this. So sorry.” The girl ran off, pretending a happiness she did not feel, Ako in tow.

Omi said shortly, “I would like to be with her tonight, for food and entertainment.”

“Of course, Omi-sama,” Gyoko replied with a low bow, knowing that she would not be free. “You honor my house and do us too much honor. Kiku-san is so fortunate that you favor her.”

Three thousand koku? Toranaga was scandalized.

“Yes, Sire,” Mariko said. They were on the private veranda in the fortress. Rain had begun already but did not reduce the heat of the day. She felt listless and very tired and longed for autumn coolness. “I’m sorry, but I could not negotiate the woman down any further. I talked until just before dawn. So sorry, Sire, but you did order me to conclude an arrangement last night.”

“But three thousand, Mariko-san! That’s usury!” Actually, Toranaga was glad to have a new problem to take his mind away from the worry that beset him. The Christian priest Tsukku-san traveling with Zataki, the upstart Regent, augured nothing but trouble. He had examined every avenue of escape, every route of retreat and attack that any man could imagine and the answer was always the same: If Ishido moves quickly, I’m lost.

I’ve got to find time. But how?

If I were Ishido I’d start now, before the rains stop.

I’d get men into position just as the Taikō and I did to destroy the Beppu. The same plan will always win—it’s so simple! Ishido can’t be so stupid as not to see that the only real way to defend the Kwanto is to own Osaka, and all the lands between Yedo and Osaka. As long as Osaka’s unfriendly, the Kwanto’s in danger. The Taikō knew it, why else did he give it to me? Without Kiyama, Onoshi, and the barbarian priests. . . .

With an effort Toranaga put tomorrow into its own compartment and concentrated totally on this impossible amount of money. “Three thousand koku’s out of the question!”

“I agree, Sire. You’re correct. It’s my fault entirely. I thought even five hundred would be excessive but the Gyoko woman would come no lower. There is one concession though.”

“What?”

“Gyoko begged the honor of reducing the price to two thousand five hundred koku if you would honor her by agreeing to see her privately for one stick of time.”

“A Mama-san would give up five hundred koku just to speak to me?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Why?” he asked suspiciously.

“She told me her reason, Sire, but humbly begged that she be allowed to explain to you herself. I believe her proposal would be interesting to you, Sire. And five hundred koku . . . it would be a saving. I’m appalled that I couldn’t make a better arrangement, even though Kiku-san is of the First Rank and completely merits that status. I know I’ve failed you.”

“I agree,” Toranaga said sourly. “Even one thousand would be too much. This is Izu not Kyoto!”

“You’re quite right, Sire. I told the woman that the price was so ridiculous I could not possibly agree to it myself, even though you’d given me direct orders to complete the bargain last night. I hope you will forgive my disobedience, but I said that I would first have to consult with Lady Kasigi, Omi-san’s mother, who’s the most senior lady here, before the arrangement was confirmed.”

Toranaga brightened, his other worries forgotten. “Ah, so it’s arranged but not arranged?”

“Yes, Sire. Nothing is binding until I can consult with the Lady. I said I’d give an answer at noon today. Please forgive my disobedience.”

“You should have concluded the arrangement as I ordered!” Toranaga was secretly delighted that Mariko had cleverly given him the opportunity to agree or disagree without any loss of face. It would have been unthinkable for him personally to quibble over a mere matter of money. But oh ko, three thousand koku. . . . “You say the girl’s contract’s worth enough rice to feed a thousand families for three years?”

“Worth every grain of rice, to the right man.”

Toranaga eyed her shrewdly. “Oh? Tell me about her and what happened.”

She told him everything—except her feeling for the Anjin-san and the depth of his feeling toward her. Or about Kiku’s offer to her.

“Good. Yes, very good. That was clever. Yes,” Toranaga said. “He must have pleased her very much for her to stand at the gateway like that the first time.” Most of Anjiro had been waiting for that moment, to see how the two of them would act, the barbarian and the Willow Lady of the First Rank.

“Yes.”

“The three koku invested was well worth it for him. His fame will run before him now.”

“Yes,” Mariko agreed, more than a little proud of Blackthorne’s success. “She’s an exceptional lady, Sire.”

Toranaga was intrigued by Mariko’s confidence in her arrangement. But five hundred koku for the contract would have been more fair. Five hundred koku was more than most Mama-sans made in a lifetime, so for one of them even to consider giving away five hundred. . . . “Worth every grain, you say? I can hardly believe that.”

“To the right man, Sire. I believe that. But I could not judge who would be the right man.”

There was a knock on the shoji.

“Yes?”

“The Anjin-san’s at the main gate, Sire.”

“Bring him here.”

“Yes, Sire.”

Toranaga fanned himself. He had been watching Mariko covertly and had seen the momentary light in her face. He had deliberately not warned her that he had sent for him.

What to do? Everything that is planned still applies. But now I need Buntaro and the Anjin-san and Omi-san more than ever. And Mariko, very much.

“Good morning, Toranaga-sama.”

He returned Blackthorne’s bow and noted the sudden warmth when the man saw Mariko. There were formal greetings and replies, then he said, “Mariko-san, tell him that he is to leave with me at dawn. You also. You will continue on to Osaka.”

A chill went through her. “Yes, Sire.”

“I go Osaka, Toranaga-sama?” Blackthorne asked.

“No, Anjin-san. Mariko-san, tell him I’m going to the Shuzenji Spa for a day or two. You both will accompany me there. You’ll go on to Osaka. He will journey with you to the border, then go on to Yedo alone.”

He watched them narrowly as Blackthorne spoke to her, rapidly and urgently.

“So sorry, Toranaga-sama, but the Anjin-san humbly asks if he could borrow me for a few more days. He says, please excuse me, that my presence with him would greatly speed up the matter of his ship. Then, if it pleases you, he would immediately take one of your coastal ships and ferry me to Osaka, going on to Nagasaki himself. He suggests this might save time.”

“I haven’t decided anything about his ship, yet. Or about a crew. He may not need to go to Nagasaki. Make that very clear. No, nothing is decided. But I’ll consider the request about you. You’ll get my decision tomorrow. You can go now. . . . Oh yes, lastly, Mariko-san, tell him that I want his genealogy. He can write it down and you’ll translate it, affirming its correctness.”

“Yes, Sire. Do you want it at once?”

“No. When he arrives at Yedo will be time enough.”

Mariko explained to Blackthorne.

“Why does he want that?” he asked.

Mariko stared at him. “Of course all samurai have to have their births and deaths recorded, Anjin-san, as well as their fiefs and land grants. How else can a liege lord keep everything balanced? Isn’t it the same in your country? Here, by law, all our citizens are in official records, even eta: births, deaths, marriages. Every hamlet or village or city street has its official scroll. How else can you be sure where and to whom you belong?”

“We don’t write it down. Not always. And not officially. Everyone’s recorded? Everyone?”

“Oh yes, even eta, Anjin-san. It’s important, neh? Then no one can pretend to be what he is not, wrongdoers can be caught more easily, and men and women or parents can’t cheat in marriage, neh?”

Blackthorne put that aside for later consideration and played another card in the game he had joined with Toranaga that he hoped would lead to the death of the Black Ship.

Mariko listened attentively, questioned him a moment, then turned to Toranaga. “Sire, the Anjin-san thanks you for your favor and your many gifts. He asks if you would honor him by choosing his two hundred vassals for him. He says your guidance in this would be worth anything.”

“Is it worth a thousand koku?” Toranaga asked at once. He saw her surprise and the Anjin-san’s. I’m glad you’re still transparent, Anjin-san, for all your veneer of civilization, he thought. If I were a gambling person, I’d wager that that wasn’t your idea—to ask for my guidance.

“Hai,” he heard Blackthorne say firmly.

“Good,” he replied crisply. “Since the Anjin-san’s so generous, I’ll accept his offer. One thousand koku. That will help some other needy samurai. Tell him his men will be waiting for him in Yedo. I’ll see you at dawn tomorrow, Anjin-san.”

“Yes. Thank you, Toranaga-sama.”

“Mariko-san, consult with the Lady Kasigi at once. Since you approved the amount I imagine she’ll agree to your arrangement however hideous it seems, though I’d suppose she’ll need until dawn tomorrow to give such a ridiculous sum her full consideration. Send some menial to order the Gyoko woman here at sunset. She can bring the courtesan with her. Kiku-san can sing while we talk, neh?”

He dismissed them, delighted to have saved fifteen hundred koku. People are so extravagant, he thought benignly.

“Will that leave me enough to get a crew?” Blackthorne asked.

“Oh, yes, Anjin-san. But he hasn’t agreed to allow you to go to Nagasaki yet,” Mariko said. “Five hundred koku would be more than enough to live on for a year, and the other five hundred will give you about one hundred and eighty koban in gold to buy seamen. That’s a very great deal of money.”

Fujiko lifted herself painfully and spoke to Mariko.

“Your consort says that you shouldn’t worry, Anjin-san. She can give you letters of credit to certain moneylenders who will advance you all that you’ll need. She’ll arrange everything.”

“Yes, but haven’t I got to pay all my retainers? How do I pay for a house, Fujiko-san, my household?”

Mariko was shocked. “Please, so sorry, but this is of course not your worry. Your consort has told you that she will take care of everything. She—”

Fujiko interrupted and the two women spoke together for a moment.

“Ah so desu, Fujiko-san!” Mariko turned back to Blackthorne. “She says you must not waste time thinking about it. She begs you please to spend your time worrying only about Lord Toranaga’s problems. She has money of her own which she can draw upon, should it be necessary.”

Blackthorne blinked. “She’ll lend me her own money?”

“Oh, no, Anjin-san, of course she’ll give it to you, if you need it, Anjin-san. Don’t forget your problem’s only this year,” Mariko explained. “Next year you’re rich, Anjin-san. As to your retainers, for one year they’ll get two koku each. Don’t forget Toranaga-sama’s giving you all their arms and horses, and two koku’s enough to feed them and their horses and families. And don’t forget, too, you gave Lord Toranaga half your year’s income to ensure that they would be chosen by him personally. That’s a tremendous honor, Anjin-san.”

“You think so?”

“Oh certainly. Fujiko-san agrees wholeheartedly. You were most shrewd to think of that.”

“Thank you.” Blackthorne allowed a little of his pleasure to show. You’re getting your wits back again and you’re beginning to think like them, he told himself happily. Yes, that was clever to co-opt Toranaga. Now you’ll get the best men possible, and you could never have done it alone. What’s a thousand koku against the Black Ship? So yet another of the things Mariko had said was true: that one of Toranaga’s weaknesses was that he was a miser. Of course, she had not said so directly, only that Toranaga made all his incredible wealth go further than any daimyo in the kingdom. This clue, added to his own observations—that Toranaga’s clothes were as simple as his food, and his style of living little different from that of an ordinary samurai—had given him another key to unlock Toranaga.

Thank God for Mariko and old Friar Domingo!

Blackthorne’s memory took him back to the jail and he thought how close he had been to death then, and how close he was to death now, even with all his honors. What Toranaga gives, he can take away. You think he’s your friend, but if he’ll assassinate a wife and murder a favorite son, how would you value his friendship or your life? I don’t, Blackthorne told himself, renewing his pledge. That’s karma. I can do nothing about karma and I’ve been living near death all my life, so nothing’s new. I yield to karma in all its beauty. I accept karma in all its majesty. I trust karma to get me through the next six months. Then, by this time next year, I’ll be scudding through Magellan’s Pass, bound for London Town, out of his reach. . . .

Fujiko was talking. He watched her. The bandages were still discolored. She was lying painfully on the futons, a maid fanning her.

“She’ll arrange everything for you by dawn, Anjin-san,” Mariko said. “Your consort suggests you take two horses and a baggage horse. One man servant and one maid—”

“A man servant’ll be enough.”

“So sorry, the maid servant must go to serve you. And of course a cook and a cook helper.”

“Won’t there be kitchens that we—I can use?”

“Oh, yes. But you still have to have your own cooks, Anjin-san. You’re a hatamoto.”

He knew there was no point in arguing. “I’ll leave everything to you.”

“Oh, that’s so wise of you, Anjin-san, very wise. Now I must go and pack, please excuse me.” Mariko left happily. They had not talked much, just enough in Latin for each to know that though the magic night had never come to pass and was, like the other night, never to be discussed, both would live in their imaginations forever.

“Thou.”

“Thou.”

“I was so proud when I heard she stood at the gate for such a long time. Thy face is immense now, Anjin-san.”

“For a moment I almost forgot what thou hadst told me. Involuntarily I was within a hair’s distance of kissing her in public.”

“Oh ko, Anjin-san, that would have been terrible!”

“Oh ko, thou art right! If it had not been for thee I would be faceless—a worm wriggling in the dust.”

“Instead, thou art vast and famous and thy prowess undoubted. Didst thou enjoy one of those curious devices?”

“Ah, fair Lady, in my land we have an ancient custom: A man does not discuss the intimate habits of one lady with another.”

“We have the same custom. But I asked if it was enjoyed, not used. Yes, we very much have the same custom. I am glad that the evening was to thy liking.” Her smile was warming. “To be Japanese in Japan is wise, neh?”

“I cannot thank thee enough for teaching me, for guiding me, for opening my eyes,” he said. “For—” He was going to say, for loving me. Instead he added, “for being.”

“I have done nothing. Thou art thyself.”

“I thank thee, for everything—and thy gift.”

“I am glad thy pleasure was great.”

“I am sad thy pleasure was nil. I am so glad that thou art also ordered to the Spa. But why to Osaka?”

“Oh, I am not ordered to Osaka. Lord Toranaga allows me to go. We have property and family business matters that must be seen to. Also, my son is there now. Then too, I can carry private messages to Kiritsubo-san and the Lady Sazuko.”

“Isn’t that dangerous? Remember thy words—war is coming and Ishido is the enemy. Did not Lord Toranaga say the same?”

“Yes. But there is no war yet, Anjin-san. And samurai do not war on their women, unless women war on them.”

“But thou? What about the bridge at Osaka, across the moat? Did thou not go with me to dupe Ishido? He would have killed me. And remember thy sword at the fight on the ship.”

“Ah, that was only to protect the life of my liege Lord, and my own life, when it was threatened. That was my duty, Anjin-san, nothing more. There is no danger for me. I have been lady-in-waiting to Lady Yodoko, the Taikō’s widow, even the Lady Ochiba, mother of the Heir. I’m honored to be their friend. I’m quite safe. That’s why Toranaga-sama allows me to go. But for thee in Osaka there is no safety, because of Lord Toranaga’s escape, and of what was done to Lord Ishido. So thou must never land there. Nagasaki will be safe for thee.”

“Then he has agreed that I may go?”

“No. Not yet. But when he does it will be safe. He has power in Nagasaki.”

He wanted to ask, greater than the Jesuits’? Instead he said only, “I pray Lord Toranaga orders thee by ship to Osaka.” He saw her tremble slightly. “What troubles thee?”

“Nothing, except . . . except that the sea does not please me.”

“Will he order it thus?”

“I don’t know. But . . .” She changed back into the mischievous teaser, and into Portuguese. “But for your health we should bring Kiku-san along with us, neh? Tonight, are you going again into her Vermilion Chamber?”

He laughed with her. “That’d be fine, though—” Then he stopped, as with sudden clarity he remembered Omi’s look. “You know, Mariko-san, when I was at the gate I’m sure I saw Omi-san looking at her in a very special way, as a lover would look. A jealous lover. I didn’t know they were lovers.”

“I understand he’s one of her customers, a favored customer, yes. But why should that concern you?”

“Because it was a very private look. Very special.”

“He has no special claim on her, Anjin-san. She’s a courtesan of the First Rank. She’s free to accept or reject whom she pleases.”

“If we were in Europe, and I pillowed his girl—you understand, Mariko-san?”

“I think I understand, Anjin-san, but why should that concern you? You’re not in Europe, Anjin-san, he has no formal claim on her. If she wants to accept you and him, or even reject you or reject him, what has that to do with anything?”

“I’d say he was her lover, in our sense of the word. That’s got everything to do with it, neh?”

“But what has that to do with her profession, or pillowing?”

Eventually he had thanked her again and left it at that. But his head and his heart told him to beware. It’s not as simple as you think, Mariko-san, even here. Omi believes Kiku-san’s more than special, even if she doesn’t feel the same. Wish I’d known he was her lover. I’d rather have Omi a friend than an enemy. Could Mariko be right again? That pillowing has nothing to do with loving for them?

God help me, I’m so mixed up. Part Eastern now, mostly Western. I’ve got to act like them and think like them to stay alive. And much of what they believe is so much better than our way that it’s tempting to want to become one of them totally, and yet . . . home is there, across the sea, where my ancestors were birthed, where my family lives, Felicity and Tudor and Elizabeth. Neh?

“Anjin-san?”

“Yes, Fujiko-san?”

“Please don’t worry about money. I can’t bear to see you worried. I’m so sorry that I cannot go to Yedo with you.”

“Soon see in Yedo, neh?”

“Yes. The doctor says I’m healing well and Omi’s mother agrees.”

“When doctor here?”

“Sunset. So sorry I cannot go with you tomorrow. Please excuse me.”

He wondered again about his duty to his consort. Then he put that thought back into its compartment as a new one rushed forward. He examined this idea and found it fine. And urgent. “I go now, come back soon. You rest—understand?”

“Yes. Please excuse me for not getting up, and for . . . so sorry.”

He left her and went to his own room. He took a pistol out of its hiding place, checked the priming, and stuck it under his kimono. Then he walked alone to Omi’s house. Omi was not there. Midori welcomed him and offered cha, which he politely refused. Her two-year-old infant was in her arms. She said, so sorry, but Omi would return soon. Would the Anjin-san like to wait? She seemed ill at ease, though polite and attentive. Again he refused and thanked her, saying he would come back later, then he went below to his own house.

Villagers had already cleared the ground, preparing to rebuild everything. Nothing had been salvaged from the fire except cooking utensils. Fujiko would not tell him the cost of rebuilding. It was very cheap, she had said. Please don’t concern yourself.

“Karma, Anjin-sama,” one of the villagers said.

“Yes.”

“What could one do? Don’t worry, your house will soon be ready—better than before.”

Blackthorne saw Omi walking up the hill, taut and stern. He went to meet him. When Omi saw him, he seemed to lose some of his fury. “Ah, Anjin-san,” he said cordially. “I hear you’re also leaving with Toranaga-sama at dawn. Very good, we can ride together.”

Despite Omi’s apparent friendliness, Blackthorne was very much on guard.

“Listen, Omi-san, now I go there.” He pointed toward the plateau. “Please you go with me, yes?”

“There’s no training today.”

“Understand. Please you go with me, yes?”

Omi saw that Blackthorne’s hand was on the hilt of his killing sword in the characteristic way, steadying it. Then his sharp eyes noticed the bulge under the sash and he realized at once from its partially outlined shape that it was a concealed pistol. “A man who’s allowed the two swords should be able to use them, not just wear them, neh?” he asked thinly.

“Please? I don’t understand.”

Omi said it again, more simply.

“Ah, understand. Yes. It better.”

“Yes. Lord Yabu said—now that you’re completely samurai—that you should begin to learn much that we take for granted. How to act as a second at a seppuku, for example—even to prepare for your own seppuku as we’re all obliged to do. Yes, Anjin-san, you should learn to use the swords. Very necessary for a samurai to know how to use and honor his sword, neh?”

Blackthorne did not understand half the words. But he knew what Omi was saying. At least, he corrected himself uneasily, I know what he’s saying on the surface.

“Yes. True. Important,” he told him. “Please, one day you teaches—sorry, you teach perhaps? Please? I honored.”

“Yes—I’d like to teach you, Anjin-san.”

Blackthorne’s hackles rose at the implied threat in Omi’s voice. Watch it, he admonished himself. Don’t start imagining things. “Thank you. Now walk there, please? Little time. You go with? Yes?”

“Very well, Anjin-san. But we’ll ride. I’ll join you shortly.” Omi walked off up the hill, into his own courtyard.

Blackthorne ordered a servant to saddle his horse and mounted awkwardly from the right side, as was custom in Japan and China. Don’t think there’d be much future in letting him teach me swordsmanship, he told himself, his right hand nudging the concealed pistol safer, its pleasing warmth reassuring. This confidence vanished when Omi reappeared. With him were four mounted samurai.

Together they all cantered up the broken road toward the plateau. They passed many samurai companies in full marching gear, armed, under their officers, spear pennants fluttering. When they crested the rise, they saw that the entire Musket Regiment was drawn up outside the camp in route order, each man standing beside his armed horse, a baggage train in the rear, Yabu, Naga, and their officers in the van. The rain began to fall heavily.

“All troops go?” Blackthorne asked, perturbed, and reined in his horse.

“Yes.”

“Go Spa with Toranaga-sama, Omi-san?”

“I don’t know.”

Blackthorne’s sense of survival warned him to ask no more questions. But one needed to be answered. “And Buntaro-sama?” he asked indifferently. “He with us tomorrow, Omi-san?”

“No. He’s already gone. This morning he was in the square when you left the Tea House. Didn’t you see him, near the Tea House?”

Blackthorne could read nothing untoward in Omi’s face. “No. Not see, so sorry. He go Spa too?”

“I suppose so. I’m not sure.” The rain dripped off Omi’s conical hat, which was tied under his chin. His eyes were almost hidden. “Now, why did you want me to come here with you?”

“Show place, like I say.” Before Omi could say anything more, Blackthorne spurred his horse forward. With his most careful sea sense he took accurate bearings from memory and went quickly to the exact point over the crevasse. He dismounted and beckoned Omi. “Please.”

“What is it, eh?” Omi’s voice was edged.

“Please, here Omi-san. Alone.”

Omi waved his guards away and spurred forward until he towered over Blackthorne. “Nan desu ka?” he asked, his hand seemingly tightening on his sword.

“This place Toranaga-sama . . .” Blackthorne could not think of the words, so explained partially with his hands. “Understand?”

“Here you pulled him out of the earth, neh? So?”

Blackthorne looked at him, then deliberately down at his sword, then stared up at him again saying nothing more. He wiped the rain out of his face.

“Nan desu ka?” Omi repeated more irritably.

Still Blackthorne didn’t answer. Omi stared down at the crevasse and again at Blackthorne’s face. Then his eyes lit up. “Ah, so desu! Wakarimasu!” Omi thought a moment then called out to one of the guards, “Get Mura here at once. With twenty men and shovels!”

The samurai galloped off. Omi sent the others back to the village, then dismounted and stood beside Blackthorne. “Yes, Anjin-san,” he said, “that’s an excellent thought. A good idea.”

“Idea? What idea?” Blackthorne asked innocently. “Just show place—think you want know place, neh? So sorry—don’t understand.”

Omi said, “Toranaga-sama lost his swords here. Swords very valuable. He’ll be happy to get them back. Very happy, neh?”

“Ah so! No my idea, Omi-san,” Blackthorne said. “Omi-san idea.”

“Of course. Thank you, Anjin-san. You’re a good friend and your mind’s fast. I should have thought of that myself. Yes, you’re a good friend and we’ll all need friends for the next few months. War’s with us now whether we want it or not.”

“Please? So sorry. I don’t understand, speak too fast. Please excuse.”

“Glad we’re friends—you and me. Understand?”

“Hai. You say war? War now?”

“Soon. What can we do? Nothing. Don’t worry, Toranaga-sama will conquer Ishido and his traitors. That’s the truth, understand? No worry, neh?”

“Understand. I go now, my house. All right?”

“Yes. See you at dawn. Again thank you.”

Blackthorne nodded. But he did not leave. “She’s pretty, neh?”

“What?”

“Kiku-san.” Blackthorne’s legs were slightly apart and he was poised to jump back and pull out the pistol, and aim it and fire it. He remembered with total clarity the unbelievable, effortless speed that Omi had used to decapitate the first villager so long ago, and he was ready as best he could be. He reasoned his only safety was to precipitate the matter of Kiku. Omi would never do it. Omi would consider such bad manners unthinkable. And, filled with shame at his own weakness, Omi would lock his very un-Japanese jealousy away into a secret compartment. Because it was so alien and shame-filled, this jealousy would fester until, when it was least expected, Omi would explode blindly and ferociously.

“Kiku-san?” Omi said.

“Hai.” Blackthorne could see that Omi was rocked. Even so he was glad he had chosen the time and the place. “She’s pretty, neh?”

“Pretty?”

“Hai.”

The rain increased. The heavy drops spattered the mud. Their horses shivered uncomfortably. Both men were soaked but the rain was warm and it ran off them.

“Yes,” Omi said. “Kiku-san is very pretty,” and followed it with a torrent of words Blackthorne did not fathom.

“No words enough now, Omi-san—not enough to speak clear now,” Blackthorne said. “Later yes. Not now. Understand?”

Omi seemed not to hear. Then he said, “There’s plenty of time, Anjin-san, plenty of time to talk about her, and about you and me and karma. But I agree, now is not the time, neh?”

“Think understand. Yes. Yesterday not know Omi-san and Kiku-san good friends,” he said, pressing the attack.

“She’s not my property.”

“Now know you and her very friends. Now—”

“Now leave. This matter is closed. The woman is nothing. Nothing.”

Stubbornly Blackthorne stayed where he was. “Next time I—”

“This conversation is over! Didn’t you hear? Finished!”

“Iyé! Iyé, by God!”

Omi’s hand went for his sword. Blackthorne leaped back two paces without realizing it. But Omi did not draw his sword and Blackthorne did not pull out his pistol. Both men readied, though neither wanted to begin. “What do you want to say, Anjin-san?”

“Next time, first I ask—about Kiku-san. If Omi-san say yes—yes. If no—no! Understand? Friend to friend, neh?”

Omi relaxed his sword hand slightly. “I repeat—she’s not my property. Thank you for showing me this place, Anjin-san. Good-by.”

“Friend?”

“Of course.” Omi walked over to Blackthorne’s horse and held the bridle. Blackthorne swung into the saddle.

He looked down at Omi. If he could have got away with it he knew he would have blown the samurai’s head off right now. That would be his safest course. “Good-by, Omi-san, and thank you.”

“Good-by, Anjin-san.” Omi watched Blackthorne ride off and did not turn his back until he was over the rise. He marked the exact place in the crevasse with some stones and then, in turmoil, squatted on his haunches to wait, oblivious of the deluge.

Soon Mura and the peasants arrived, bespattered with mud.

“Toranaga-sama fell into the crevasse exactly at this point, Mura. His swords are buried here. Bring them to me before sunset.”

“Yes, Omi-sama.”

“If you’d had any brains, if you were interested in me, your liege Lord, you would have done it already.”

“Please excuse my stupidity.”

Omi rode off. They watched him briefly, then spread themselves out in a circle around the stones, and began to dig.

Mura dropped his voice. “Uo, you’ll go with the baggage train.”

“Yes, Mura-san. But how?”

“I’ll offer you to the Anjin-san. He won’t know any different.”

“But his consort, oh ko, she will,” Uo whispered back.

“She’s not going with him. I hear her burns are bad. She’s to go by ship to Yedo later. You know what to do?”

“Seek out the Holy Father privately, answer any questions.”

“Yes.” Mura relaxed and began to talk normally. “You can go with the Anjin-san, Uo, he’ll pay well. Make yourself useful, but not too useful or he’ll take you all the way to Yedo.”

Uo laughed. “Hey, I hear Yedo’s so rich everyone pisses into silver pots—even eta. And the women have skins like sea foam with no pubics at all.”

“Is that true, Mura-san?” another villager asked. “They’ve no short hair?”

“Yedo was just a stinking little fishing village, nothing as good as Anjiro, when I was there the first time,” Mura told them, without stopping digging. “That was with Toranaga-sama when we were all hunting down the Beppu. We took more than three thousand heads between us. As to pubics, all the girls I’ve known had them, except one from Korea, but she said she’d had them plucked, one by one.”

“What some women will do to attract us, heh?” someone said.

“Yes. But I’d like to see that,” Ninjin said toothlessly. “Yes, I’d like to see a Jade Gate without a bush.”

“I’d gamble a boatload of fish against a bucket of shit that it hurt to pull out those hairs.” Uo whistled.

“When I’m a kami I’m going to inhabit Kiku-san’s Heavenly Pavilion! They say she was born perfumed and hairless!”

Amid laughter, Uo asked, “Did it make any difference, Mura-san, to attack the Jade Gate without the bush?”

“It was the nearest I ever got. Eeeeh! I got closer and deeper than ever before and that’s important, neh? So I know it’s always better for the girl to take off the bush though some are superstitious about it and some complain of the itch. It’s still closer for you and so closer for her—and getting close makes all the difference, neh?” They laughed and put their backs into the digging. The pit grew under the rain.

“I’ll wager the Anjin-san got plenty close last night for her to stand at the gateway like that! Eeee, what wouldn’t I give to have been him.” Uo wiped the sweat off his brow. Like all of them he wore only a loincloth and a bamboo, conical hat, and was barefoot.

“Eeee! I was there, Uo, in the square, and I saw it all. I saw her smile and I felt it down through my Fruit and into my toes.”

“Yes,” another said. “I have to admit just her smile made me stiff as an oar.”

“But not as big as the Anjin-san, eh, Mura-san?” Uo chuckled. “Go on, please tell us the story again.”

Happily Mura obliged and told about the first night and the bath house. His story had improved in the many tellings, but none of them minded.

“Oh, to be so vast!” Uo mimed carrying a giant erection before him, and laughed so much he slipped in the mud.

“Who’d have thought the barbarian stranger’d ever get from the pit to paradise?” Mura leaned on his shovel a moment, collecting his breath. “I’d never have believed it—like an ancient legend. Karma, neh?”

“Perhaps he was one of us—in a previous life—and he’s come back with the same mind but a different skin.”

Ninjin nodded. “That’s possible. Must be—because from what the Holy Father said I thought he’d be burning in the Devil’s Hell Furnace long since. Didn’t the Father say he’d put a special curse on him? I heard him bring down the vengeance of the great Jesus kami himself on the Anjin-san and, oh ko, even I was very frightened.” He crossed himself and the others hardly noticed. “But the Jesus Christ Madonna God punishes His enemies very strangely if you ask me.”

Uo said, “Well, I’m not a Christian, as well you know, but, so sorry, it seems to me the Anjin-san’s a good man, please excuse me, and better than the Christian Father who stank and cursed and frightened everyone. And he’s been good to us, neh? He treats his people well—some say he’s Lord Toranaga’s friend, must be with all his honors, neh? And don’t forget Kiku-san honored him with her Golden Gully.”

“It’s golden all right. I heard the night cost him five koban!”

“Fifteen koku for one night?” Ninjin spluttered. “Eeeeeee, how lucky the Anjin-san is! His karma’s vast for an enemy of God the Father, Son, and Madonna.”

Mura said, “He paid one koban—three koku. But if you think that’s a lot . . .” He stopped and looked around conspiratorially to make sure there were no eavesdroppers, though of course in this rain he knew there would be none—and even if there were, what did that matter?

They all stopped and moved closer. “Yes, Mura-san?”

“I just had it whispered to me she’s going to be Lord Toranaga’s consort. He bought her contract this morning. Three thousand koku.”

It was a mind-boggling figure, more than their whole village earned in fish and rice in twenty years. Their respect for her increased, if that were possible. And for the Anjin-san, who was therefore the last man on earth to enjoy her as a courtesan of the First Rank.

“Eeee!” Uo mumbled, hard put to talk. “So much money—I don’t know whether I want to vomit or piss or fart.”

“Do none,” said Mura laconically. “Dig. Let’s find the swords.”

They obeyed, each lost in his own thoughts. Inexorably, the pit was deepening.

Soon Ninjin, whipped by worry, could contain himself no longer, and he stopped digging. “Mura-san, please excuse me, but what have you decided about the new taxes?” he asked. The others stopped.

Mura kept on digging at his methodical, grinding pace. “What’s there to decide? Yabu-sama says pay, so we pay, neh?”

“But Toranaga-sama cut our taxes to four parts out of ten and he’s our liege Lord now.”

“True. But Lord Yabu was given back Izu—and Suruga and Totomi as well—and made overlord again, so who is our liege Lord?”

“Toranaga-sama. Surely, Mura-san, Tora—”

“Are you going to complain to him, Ninjin? Eh? Wake up, Yabu-sama’s overlord as he always was. Nothing’s changed. And if he puts up taxes we pay more taxes. Finish!”

“But that’ll take all our winter stocks. All of them.” Ninjin’s voice was an infuriating whine but all knew the truth of what he said. “Even with the rice we stole—”

“The rice we’ve saved,” Uo hissed at him, correcting him.

“Even with that, there won’t be enough to last through winter. We’ll have to sell a boat or two—”

“We sell no boats,” Mura said. He jabbed his shovel into the mud and wiped the sweat out of his eyes, retied the string of his hat more firmly. Then he began to dig again. “Work, Ninjin. That will take your mind off tomorrow.”

“How do we last the winter, Mura-san?”

“We still have to get through the summer.”

“Yes,” Ninjin agreed bitterly. “We’ve paid more than two years’ taxes in advance, and still it’s not enough.”

“Karma, Ninjin,” Uo said.

“War’s coming. Perhaps we’ll get a new lord who’ll be fairer, neh?” another said.

“He can’t be worse—no one can be worse.”

“Don’t wager on that,” Mura told them all. “You’re alive—you can be very dead very quickly and then no more Golden Gullies, with or without the forest.” His shovel hit a rock and he stopped. “Give me a hand, Uo, old friend.”

Together they fought the rock out of the mud. Uo whispered anxiously, “Mura-san, what if the Holy Father asks about the weapons?”

“Tell him. And tell him we’re ready—that Anjiro’s ready.”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

They came to Yokosé by noon. Buntaro had already intercepted Zataki the previous evening and, as Toranaga had ordered, had welcomed him with great formality. “I asked him to camp outside the village, to the north, Sire, until the meeting place could be prepared,” Buntaro said. “The formal meeting’s to take place here this afternoon, if it pleases you.” He added humorlessly, “I thought the Hour of the Goat would be auspicious.”

“Good.”

“He wanted to meet you tonight but I overruled that. I told him you’d be ‘honored’ to meet today or tomorrow, whichever he wished, but not after dark.”

Toranaga grunted approval but did not yet dismount from his lathered horse. He wore a breastplate, helmet, and light bamboo armor, like his equally travel-stained escort. Again he looked around carefully. The clearing had been well chosen with no chance for ambush. There were no trees or houses within range that could hide archers or musketeers. Just east of the village the land was flat and somewhat higher. North, west, and south were guarded by the village and by the wooden bridge that spanned the fast-flowing river. Here at the narrows the water was swirling and rock-infested. Eastward, behind him and his weary, sweated riders, the track climbed steeply up the pass to the misted crest, five ri away. Mountains towered all around, many volcanic, and most with their peaks sleeping in the overcast. In the center of the clearing a twelve-mat dais had been especially erected on low pilings. A tall rush canopy covered it. Haste did not show in the craftsmanship. Two brocade cushions faced each other on the tatamis.

“I’ve men there, there, and there,” Buntaro continued, pointing with his bow at all the overlooking outcrops. “You can see for many ri in all directions, Sire. Good defensive positions—the bridge and the whole village are covered. Eastward your retreat’s secured by more men. Of course, the bridge is locked tight with sentries and I’ve left an ‘honor guard’ of a hundred men at his camp.”

“Lord Zataki’s there now?”

“No, Sire. I selected an inn for him and his equerries on the outskirts of the village, to the north, worthy of his rank, and invited him to enjoy the baths there. That inn’s isolated and secured. I implied you’d be going on to Shuzenji Spa tomorrow and he’d be your guest.” Buntaro indicated a neat, single-story inn on the edge of the clearing that faced the best view, near to a hot spring that bubbled from the rock into a natural bath. “That inn’s yours, Sire.” In front of the inn was a group of men, all on their knees, their heads very low, bowing motionlessly toward them. “They’re the headman and village elders. I didn’t know if you wanted to see them at once.”

“Later.” Toranaga’s horse neighed wearily and cast its head about, the bridles jingling. He gentled him, and now completely satisfied with the security, he signed to his men and dismounted. One of Buntaro’s samurai caught his reins—the samurai, like Buntaro and all of them, armored, battle-armed, and ready.

Toranaga stretched gratefully and limbered up to ease the cramped muscles in his back and legs. He had led the way from Anjiro in a single forced march, stopping only to change mounts. The rest of the baggage train under Omi’s command—palanquins and bearers—was still far behind, strung out on the road that came down from the crest. The road from Anjiro had snaked along the coast, then branched. They had taken the west road inland and climbed steadily through luxuriant forests teeming with game, Mount Omura to their right, the peaks of the volcanic Amagi Range on their left soaring almost five thousand feet. The ride had exhilarated him—at last some action! Part of the journey had been through such good hawking country that he promised himself, one day, he would hunt all Izu.

“Good. Yes, very good,” he said over the bustle of his men dismounting and chattering and sorting themselves out. “You’ve done well.”

“If you want to honor me, Sire, I beg you to allow me to obliterate Lord Zataki and his men at once.”

“He insulted you?”

“No—on the contrary—his manners were worthy of a courtier, but the flag he travels under’s a treason against you.”

“Patience. How often do I have to tell you?” Toranaga said, not unkindly.

“I’m afraid forever, Sire,” Buntaro replied gruffly. “Please excuse me.”

“You used to be his friend.”

“He used to be your ally.”

“He saved your life at Odawara.”

“We were on the same side at Odawara,” Buntaro said bleakly, then burst out, “How can he do this to you, Sire? Your own brother! Haven’t you favored him, fought on the same side—all his life?”

“People change.” Toranaga put his full attention on the dais. Delicate silk curtains had been hung from the rafters over the platform for decoration. Ornamental brocade tassels that matched the cushions made a pleasing frieze and larger ones were on the four corner posts. “It’s much too rich and gives the meeting too much importance,” he said. “Make it simple. Remove the curtains, all the tassels and cushions, return them to the merchants, and if they won’t give the quartermaster back the money, tell him to sell them. Get four cushions, not two—simple, chaff-filled.”

“Yes, Sire.”

Toranaga’s gaze fell on the spring and he wandered over to it. The water, steaming and sulphurous, hissed as it came from a cleft in the rocks. His body ached for a bath. “And the Christian?” he asked.

“Sire?”

“Tsukku-san, the Christian priest?”

“Oh him! He’s somewhere in the village, but the other side of the bridge. He’s forbidden this side without your permission. Why? Is it important? He said something about how he’d be honored to see you, when convenient. Do you want him here now?”

“Was he alone?”

Buntaro’s lip curled. “No. He had an escort of twenty acolytes, all tonsured like him—all Kyushu men, Sire, all well-born and all samurai. All well mounted but no weapons. I had them searched. Thoroughly.”

“And him?”

“Of course him—him more than any. There were four carrier pigeons among his luggage. I confiscated them.”

“Good. Destroy them. . . . Some fool did it in error, so sorry, neh?”

“I understand. You want me to send for him now?”

“Later. I’ll see him later.”

Buntaro frowned. “Was it wrong to search him?”

Toranaga shook his head, and absently looked back at the crest, lost in thought. Then he said, “Send a couple of men we can trust to watch the Musket Regiment.”

“I’ve already done that, Sire.” Buntaro’s face lit up with grim satisfaction. “And Lord Yabu’s personal guards contain some of our ears and eyes. He won’t be able to fart without your knowing it, if that’s your wish.”

“Good.” The head of the baggage train, still far distant, rounded a bend in the curling track. Toranaga could see the three palanquins, Omi mounted in the lead as ordered, the Anjin-san beside him now, also riding easily.

He turned his back on them. “I’ve brought your wife with me.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“She’s asking my permission to go to Osaka.”

Buntaro stared at him, but said nothing. Then he squinted back at the barely discernible figures.

“I gave her my approval—providing, of course, that you also approve.”

“Whatever you approve, Sire, I approve,” Buntaro said.

“I can allow her to go by land from Mishima or she can accompany the Anjin-san to Yedo, and go by sea to Osaka from there. The Anjin-san’s agreed to be responsible for her—if you approve.”

“It would be safer by sea.” Buntaro was smoldering.

“This all depends on Lord Zataki’s message. If Ishido’s formally declared war on me, then of course I must forbid it. If not, your wife can go on tomorrow or the day after, if you approve.”

“Whatever you decide I agree to.”

“This afternoon pass over your duties to Naga-san. This is a good moment to make peace between you and your wife.”

“Please excuse me, Sire. I should stay with my men. I beg you to leave me with my men. Until you’re safely away.”

“Tonight you will pass over your duties to my son. You and your wife will join me at my evening meal. You will stay at the inn. You will make a peace.”

Buntaro stared at the ground. Then he said, even more stonily, “Yes, Sire.”

“You’re ordered to attempt a peace,” said Toranaga. He was in a mind to add “an honorable peace is better than war, neh?” But that wasn’t true and might have begun a philosophic argument and he was tired and wanted no arguments, just a bath and a rest. “Now fetch the headman!”

The headman and elders fell over themselves in their haste to bow before him, welcoming him in the most extravagant way. Toranaga told them bluntly that the bill they would present to his quartermaster when he left would of course be fair and reasonable. “Neh?”

“Hai,” they chorused humbly, blessing the gods for their unexpected good fortune and the fat pickings that this visit would inevitably bring them. With many more bows and compliments, saying how proud and honored they were to be allowed to serve the greatest daimyo in the Empire, the sprightly old headman ushered him into the inn.

Toranaga inspected it completely through coveys of bowing, smiling maids of all ages, the pick of the village. There were ten rooms around a nondescript garden with a small cha house in the center, kitchens in the back, and to the west, nestling the rocks, a large bath house fed from the living springs. The whole inn was neatly fenced—a covered walk led to the bath—and it was easy to defend.

“I don’t need the whole inn, Buntaro-san,” he said, standing again on the veranda. “Three rooms will be sufficient—one for myself, one for the Anjin-san, and one for the women. You take a fourth. There’s no need to pay for the rest.”

“My quartermaster tells me he made a very good arrangement for the whole inn, Sire, day by day, better than half price, and it’s still out of season. I approved the cost because of your security.”

“Very well,” Toranaga agreed reluctantly. “But I want to see the bill before we leave. There’s no need to waste money. You’d better fill the rooms with guards, four to a room.”

“Yes, Sire.” Buntaro had already decided to do that. He watched Toranaga stride off with two personal guards, surrounded by four of the prettiest maids, to go to his room in the east wing. Dully, he was wondering, what women? What women needed the room? Fujiko? Never mind, he thought tiredly, I’ll know soon enough.

A maid fluttered past. She smiled brightly at him and he smiled back mechanically. She was young and pretty and soft-skinned and he had pillowed with her last night. But the joining had given him no pleasure and though she was deft and enthusiastic and well-trained, his lust soon vanished—he had never felt desire for her. Eventually, for the sake of good manners, he had pretended to reach the pinnacle, as she had pretended, and then she had left him.

Still brooding, he walked out of the courtyard to stare up at the road.

Why Osaka?

At the Hour of the Goat the sentries on the bridge stood aside. The cortege began to cross. First were heralds carrying banners bedecked with the all-powerful cipher of the Regents, then the rich palanquin, and finally more guards.

Villagers bowed. All were on their knees, secretly agog at such richness and pomp. The headman had cautiously asked if he should assemble all their people to honor the occasion. Toranaga had sent a message that those who were not working could watch, with their masters’ permission. So the headman, with even more care, had selected a deputation that included mostly the old and the obedient young, just enough to make a show—though every adult would have liked to be present—but not enough to go against the great daimyo’s orders. All who could were watching surreptitiously from vantage points in windows and doors.

Saigawa Zataki, Lord of Shinano, was taller than Toranaga, and younger by five years, with the same breadth of shoulders and prominent nose. But his stomach was flat, the stubble of his beard black and heavy, his eyes mere slits in his face. Though there seemed to be an uncanny resemblance between the half brothers when they were apart, now that they were together they were quite dissimilar. Zataki’s kimono was rich, his armor glittering and ceremonial, his swords well used.

“Welcome, brother.” Toranaga stepped off the dais and bowed. He wore the simplest of kimonos and soldier’s straw sandals. And swords. “Please excuse me for receiving you so informally, but I came as quickly as I could.”

“Please excuse me for disturbing you. You look well, brother. Very well.” Zataki got out of the palanquin and bowed in return, beginning the interminable, meticulous formalities of the ceremonial that now ruled both of them.

“Please take this cushion, Lord Zataki.”

“Please excuse me, I would be honored if you would be seated first, Lord Toranaga.”

“You’re so kind. But please, honor me by sitting first.”

They continued playing the game that they had played so many times before, with each other and with friends and enemies, climbing the ladder of power, enjoying the rules that governed each movement and each phrase, that protected their individual honor so that neither could ever make a mistake and endanger himself or his mission.

At length they were seated opposite each other on the cushions, two sword lengths away. Buntaro was behind and to the left of Toranaga. Zataki’s chief aide, an elderly gray-haired samurai, was behind and to his left. Around the dais, twenty paces away, were seated ranks of Toranaga samurai, all deliberately still costumed in the clothing they’d journeyed in, but their weapons in perfect condition. Omi was seated on the earth at the edge of the dais, Naga at the opposite side. Zataki’s men were dressed formally and richly, their vast, wing-shouldered overmantles belted with silver buckles. But they were equally well armed. They settled themselves, also twenty paces away.

Mariko served ceremonial cha and there was innocuous, formal conversation between the two brothers. At the correct time Mariko bowed and left, Buntaro achingly aware of her and vastly proud of her grace and beauty. And then, too soon, Zataki said brusquely, “I bring orders from the Council of Regents.”

A sudden hush fell on the square. Everyone, even his own men, was aghast at Zataki’s lack of manners, at the insolent way he had said “orders” and not “message,” and at his failure to wait for Toranaga to ask, “How can I be of service?” as ceremony demanded.

Naga shot a quick glance away from Zataki’s sword arm to his father. He saw the flush on Toranaga’s neck that was an infallible sign of impending explosion. But Toranaga’s face was tranquil, and Naga was amazed as he heard the controlled reply: “So sorry, you have orders? For whom, Brother? Surely you have a message?”

Zataki ripped two small scrolls out of his sleeve. Buntaro’s hand almost flashed for his waiting sword at the unexpected suddenness, for ritual called for all movements to be slow and deliberate. Toranaga had not moved.

Zataki broke the seal of the first scroll and read in a loud, chilling voice: “By order of the Council of Regents, in the name of Emperor Go-Nijo, the Son of Heaven: We greet our illustrious vassal Yoshi Toranaga-noh-Minowara and invite him to make obeisance before us in Osaka forthwith, and invite him to inform our illustrious ambassador, the Regent, Lord Saigawa Zataki, if our invitation is accepted or refused—forthwith.”

He looked up and in an equally loud voice continued, “It’s signed by all Regents and sealed with the Great Seal of the Realm.” Haughtily he placed the scroll in front of him. Toranaga signaled to Buntaro, who went forward, bowed low to Zataki, picked up the scroll, turned to Toranaga, bowed again. Toranaga accepted the scroll, and motioned Buntaro back to his place.

Toranaga studied the scroll interminably.

“All the signatures are genuine,” Zataki said. “Do you accept or refuse?”

In a subdued voice, so that only those on the dais and Omi and Naga could hear him, Toranaga said, “Why shouldn’t I take your head for your foul manners?”

“Because I’m my mother’s son,” Zataki replied.

“That won’t protect you if you continue this way.”

“Then she’ll die before her time.”

“What?”

“The Lady, our mother, is in Takato.” Takato was the landlocked, impregnable fortress and capital city of Shinano, Zataki’s province. “I regret her body will stay there forever.”

“Bluff! You honor her as much as I do.”

“On her immortal spirit, Brother, as much as I honor her, I detest what you’re doing to the realm even more.”

“I seek no more territory and no—”

“You seek to overthrow the succession.”

“Wrong again, and I’ll always protect my nephew from traitors.”

“You seek the Heir’s downfall, that is what I believe, so I’ve decided to stay alive and lock Shinano and the northern route against you, whatever the cost, and I’ll continue to do that until the Kwanto’s in friendly hands—whatever the cost.”

“In your hands, Brother?”

“Any safe hands—which excludes yours. Brother.”

“You trust Ishido?”

“I trust no one, you’ve taught me that. Ishido’s Ishido, but his loyalty’s unquestioned. Even you’ll admit that.”

“I’ll admit that Ishido’s trying to destroy me and split the realm, that he’s usurped power and that he’s breaking the Taikō’s will.”

“But you did plot with Lord Sugiyama to wreck the Council of Regents. Neh?”

The vein in Zataki’s forehead was throbbing like a black worm. “What can you say? One of his counselors admitted the treason: that you plotted with Sugiyama for him to accept Lord Ito in your place, then to resign the day before the first meeting and escape by night, and so throw the realm into confusion. I heard the confession—Brother.”

“Were you one of the murderers?”

Zataki flushed. “Overzealous ronin killed Sugiyama, not I, nor any of Ishido’s men!”

“Curious that you took his place as Regent so quickly, neh?”

“No. My lineage is as ancient as yours. But I didn’t order the death, nor did Ishido—he swore it on his honor as a samurai. So do I. Ronin killed Sugiyama, but he deserved to die.”

“By torture, dishonored in a filthy cellar, his children and consorts hacked up in front of him?”

“That’s a rumor spread by filthy malcontents—perhaps by your spies—to discredit Lord Ishido and through him the Lady Ochiba and the Heir. There’s no proof of that.”

“Look at their bodies.”

“The ronin set fire to the house. There are no bodies.”

“So convenient, neh? How can you be so gullible? You’re not a stupid peasant!”

“I refuse to sit here and listen to this manure. Give me your answer now. And then either take my head and she dies or let me go.” Zataki leaned forward. “Within moments of my head leaving my shoulders, ten carrier pigeons will be racing north for Takato. I have trustworthy men north, east, and west, a day’s march away, out of your reach, and if they fail there are more in safety across your borders. If you take my head or have me assassinated or if I die in Izu—whatever the reason—she dies also. Now, either take my head or let’s finish the giving of the scrolls and I’ll leave Izu at once. Choose!”

“Ishido murdered Lord Sugiyama. In time I can get you proof. That’s important, neh? I only need a little—”

“You’ve no more time! Forthwith, the message said. Of course you refuse to obey, good, so it’s done. Here.” Zataki put the second scroll on the tatamis. “Here’s your formal impeachment and order to commit seppuku, which you’ll treat with equal contempt—may Lord Buddha forgive you! Now everything’s done. I’ll leave at once, and the next time we meet will be on a battlefield and by the Lord Buddha, before sunset on the same day, I’ve promised myself I’ll see your head on a spike.”

Toranaga kept his eyes on his adversary. “Lord Sugiyama was your friend and mine. Our comrade, as honorable a samurai as ever lived. The truth about his death should be of importance to you.”

“Yours has more importance, Brother.”

“Ishido’s sucked you in like a starving infant at its mother’s tit.”

Zataki turned to his counselor. “On your honor as a samurai, have I posted men and what is the message?”

The gray-haired, dignified old samurai, chief of Zataki’s confidants and well known to Toranaga as an honorable man, felt sickened and ashamed by the blatant display of hatred, as was everyone within hearing. “So sorry, Lord,” he said in a choked whisper, bowing to Toranaga, “but my Master is of course telling the truth. How could this be questioned? And, please excuse me, but it is my duty, with all honor and humility, to point out to both of you that such . . . such astonishing and shameful lack of politeness between you is not worthy of your rank or the solemnity of this occasion. If your vassals—if they could have heard—I doubt if either of you could have held them back. You forget your duty as samurai and your duty to your men. Please excuse me”—he bowed to both of them—“but it had to be said.” Then he added, “All messages were the same, Lord Toranaga, and under the official seal of Lord Zataki: ‘Put the Lady, my mother, to death at once.’ ”

“How can I prove I’m not trying to overthrow the Heir?” Toranaga asked his brother.

“Immediately abdicate all your titles and power to your son and heir, Lord Sudara, and commit seppuku today. Then I and all my men—to the last man—will support Sudara as Lord of the Kwanto.”

“I’ll consider what you’ve said.”

“Eh?”

“I’ll consider what you’ve said.” Toranaga repeated it more firmly. “We’ll meet tomorrow at this time, if it pleases you.”

Zataki’s face twisted. “Is this another of your tricks? What’s there to meet about?”

“About what you said, and about this.” Toranaga held up the scroll that was in his hand. “I’ll give you my answer tomorrow.”

“Buntaro-san!” Zataki motioned at the second scroll. “Please give this to your master.”

“No!” Toranaga’s voice reverberated around the clearing. Then, with great ceremony, he added loudly, “I am honored formally to accept the Council’s message and will submit my answer to their illustrious ambassador, my brother, the Lord of Shinano, tomorrow at this time.”

Zataki stared at him suspiciously. “What possible ans—”

“Please excuse me, Lord,” the old samurai interrupted quietly with grave dignity, again keeping the conversation private, “so sorry, but Lord Toranaga is perfectly correct to suggest this. It is a solemn choice you have given him, a choice not contained in the scrolls. It is fair and honorable that he should be given the time he requires.”

Zataki picked up the second scroll and shoved it back into his sleeve. “Very well. I agree. Lord Toranaga, please excuse my bad manners. Lastly, please tell me where Kasigi Yabu is? I’ve a scroll for him. Only one in his case.”

“I’ll send him to you.”

The falcon closed her wings and fell a thousand feet out of the evening sky and smashed into the fleeing pigeon with a burst of feathers, then caught it in her talons and carried it earthward, still falling like a stone, and then, a few feet off the ground, she released her now dead prey, braked frantically and landed on it perfectly. “Ek-ek-ek-eeekk!” she shrieked, fluttering her neck feathers in pride, her talons ripping off the pigeon’s head in her ecstasy of conquest.

Toranaga, with Naga as his equerry, galloped up. The daimyo slid off his horse. He called her gently to fist. Obediently she stepped up onto his glove. At once she was rewarded with a morsel of flesh from a previous kill. He slipped on her hood, tightening the thongs with his teeth. Naga picked up the pigeon and put it into the half-full game bag that hung from his father’s saddle, then turned and beckoned to the distant beaters and guards.

Toranaga got back into the saddle, the falcon comfortably on his glove, held by her thin leather jesses. He looked up into the sky, measuring the light still remaining.

In the late afternoon the sun had broken through, and now in the valley, the day dying fast, the sun long since bedded by the western crest, it was cool and pleasant. The clouds were northward, pushed there by the dominant wind, hovering over the mountain peaks and hiding many. At this altitude, land-locked, the air was clean and sweet.

“We should have a good day tomorrow, Naga-san. Cloudless, I’d imagine. I think I’ll hunt with the dawn.”

“Yes, Father.” Naga watched him, perplexed, afraid to ask questions as always, yet wanting to know everything. He could not fathom how his father could be so detached after such a hideous meeting. To bow Zataki away with the due ceremony then, at once, to summon his hawks and beaters and guards and halloo them away to the rolling hills beyond the forest, seemed to Naga to be an unearthly display of self-control. Just the thought of Zataki made Naga’s flesh crawl now, and he knew that the old counselor was right: if one tenth of the conversation had been overheard, samurai would have leapt to defend their lord’s honor. If it weren’t for the threat that hung over his revered grandmother’s head, he would have rushed at Zataki himself. I suppose that’s why my father is what he is, and is where he is, he thought. . . .

His eyes picked out horsemen breaking from the forest below and galloping up toward them over the rolling foothills. Beyond the dark green of the forest, the river was a twisted ribbon of black. The lights in the inns blinked like fireflies. “Father!”

“Eh? Ah yes, I see them now. Who are they?”

“Yabu-san, Omi-san and . . . eight guards.”

“Your eyes are better than mine. Ah yes, now I recognize them.”

Naga said without thinking, “I wouldn’t have let Yabu-san go alone to Lord Zataki without—” He stopped and stuttered, “Please excuse me.”

“Why wouldn’t you have sent Yabu-san alone?”

Naga cursed himself for opening his mouth and quailed under Toranaga’s gaze. “Please excuse me, because then I’d never know what secret arrangement they would have made. He could, Father, easily. I would have kept them apart—please excuse me. I don’t trust him.”

“If Yabu-san and Zataki-san plan treachery behind my back, they’ll do it whether I send a witness or not. Sometimes it’s wiser to give a quarry extra line—that’s how to catch a fish, neh?”

“Yes, please excuse me.”

Toranaga realized that his son didn’t understand, would never understand, would always be merely a hawk to hurl at an enemy, swift, sharp, and deadly.

“I’m glad you understand, my son,” he said to encourage him, knowing his good qualities, and valuing them. “You’re a good son,” he added, meaning it.

“Thank you, Father,” Naga said, filled with pride at the rare compliment. “I only hope you’ll forgive my stupidities and teach me to serve you better.”

“You’re not stupid.” Yabu’s stupid, Toranaga almost added. The less people know the better, and it’s not necessary to stretch your mind, Naga. You’re so young—my youngest but for your half brother, Tadateru. How old is he? Ah, seven, yes, he’d be seven.

He watched the approaching horsemen a moment. “How’s your mother, Naga?”

“As always, the happiest lady in the world. She’ll still only let me see her once a year. Can’t you persuade her to change?”

“No,” said Toranaga. “She’ll never change.”

Toranaga always felt a glow when he thought of Chano-Tsuboné, his eighth official consort and Naga’s mother. He laughed to himself as he remembered her earthy humor, her dimpled cheeks and saucy bottom, the way she wriggled and the enthusiasm of her pillowing.

She had been the widow of a farmer near Yedo who had attracted him twenty years ago. She had stayed with him three years, then asked to be allowed to return to the land. He had allowed her to go. Now she lived on a good farm near where she was born—fat and content, a dowager Buddhist nun honored by all and beholden to none. Once in a while he would go to see her and they would laugh together, without reason, friends.

“Ah, she’s a good woman,” Toranaga said.

Yabu and Omi rode up and dismounted. Ten paces away they stopped and bowed.

“He gave me a scroll,” Yabu said, enraged, brandishing it. “ ‘. . . We invite you to leave Izu at once for Osaka, today, and present yourself at Osaka Castle for an audience, or all your lands are now forfeit and you are hereby declared outlaw.’ ” He crushed the scroll in his fist and threw it on the ground. “Today!”

“Then you’d better leave at once,” Toranaga said, suddenly in a foul humor at Yabu’s truculence and stupidity.

“Sire, I beg you,” Omi began hastily, dropping abjectly to his knees, “Lord Yabu’s your devoted vassal and I beg you humbly not to taunt him. Forgive me for being so rude, but Lord Zataki . . . Forgive me for being so rude.”

“Yabu-san, please excuse the remark—it was meant kindly,” Toranaga said, cursing his lapse. “We should all have a sense of humor about such messages, neh?” He called up his falconer, gave him the bird from his fist, dismissed him and the beaters. Then he waved all samurai except Naga out of earshot, squatting on his haunches, and bade them do the same. “Perhaps you’d better tell me what happened.”

Yabu said, “There’s almost nothing to tell. I went to see him. He received me with the barest minimum of courtesy. First there were ‘greetings’ from Lord Ishido and a blunt invitation to ally myself secretly with him, to plan your immediate assassination, and to murder every Toranaga samurai in Izu. Of course I refused to listen, and at once—at once—without any courtesy whatsoever, he handed me that!” His finger stabbed belligerently toward the scroll. “If it hadn’t been for your direct order protecting him I’d have hacked him to pieces at once! I demand you rescind that order. I cannot live with this shame. I must have revenge!”

“Is that everything that happened?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

Toranaga passed over Yabu’s rudeness and scowled at Omi. “You’re to blame, neh? Why didn’t you have the intelligence to protect your Lord better? You’re supposed to be an adviser. You should have been his shield. You should have drawn Lord Zataki into the open, tried to find out what Ishido had in mind, what the bribe was, what plans they had. You’re supposed to be a valued counselor. You’re given a perfect opportunity and you waste it like an unpracticed dullard!”

Omi bent his head. “Please excuse me, Sire.”

“I might, but I don’t see why Lord Yabu should. Now your lord’s accepted the scroll. Now he’s committed. Now he has to act one way or the other.”

“What?” said Yabu.

“Why else do you think I did what I did? To delay—of course, to delay,” said Toranaga.

“But one day? What’s the value of one day?” Yabu asked.

“Who knows? A day for you is one less for the enemy.” Toranaga’s eyes snapped back to Omi. “Was the message from Ishido verbal or in writing?”

Yabu answered instead. “Verbal, of course.”

Toranaga kept his penetrating gaze on Omi. “You’ve failed in your duty to your lord and to me.”

“Please excuse—”

“What exactly did you say?”

Omi did not reply.

“Have you forgotten your manners as well? What did you say?”

“Nothing, Sire. I said nothing.”

“What?”

Yabu blustered, “He said nothing to Zataki because he wasn’t present. Zataki asked to speak to me alone.”

“Oh?” Toranaga hid his glee that Yabu had had to admit what he had already surmised and that part of the truth was now in the open. “Please excuse me, Omi-san. I naturally presumed you were present.”

“It was my error, Sire. I should have insisted. You’re correct, I failed to protect my Lord,” Omi said. “I should have been more forceful. Please excuse me. Yabu-sama, please excuse me.”

Before Yabu could answer, Toranaga said, “Of course you’re forgiven, Omi-san. If your lord overruled you, that’s his privilege. You did overrule him, Yabu-sama?”

“Yes—yes, but I didn’t think it mattered. You think I . . .”

“Well, the harm’s done now. What do you plan to do?”

“Of course, dismiss the message for what is it, Sire.” Yabu was disquieted. “You think I could have avoided taking it?”

“Of course. You could have negotiated with him for a day. Maybe more. Weeks even,” Toranaga added, turning the knife deeper into the wound, maliciously delighted that Yabu’s own stupidity had thrust him onto the hook, and not at all concerned with the treachery Yabu had undoubtedly been bribed into, cajoled into, flattered into, or frightened into. “So sorry, but you’re committed. Never mind, it’s as you said, ‘The sooner everyone chooses sides the better.’ ” He got up. “There’s no need to go back to the regiment tonight. Both of you join me at the evening meal. I’ve arranged an entertainment.” For everyone, he added under his breath, with a great deal of satisfaction.

Kiku’s skillful fingers strummed a chord, the plectrum held firmly. Then she began to sing and the purity of her voice filled the hushed night. They sat spellbound in the large room that was open to the veranda and the garden beyond, entranced by the extraordinary effect she made under the flickering torches, the gold threads of her kimono catching the light as she leaned over the samisen.

Toranaga glanced around momentarily, aware of the night currents. On one side of him, Mariko sat between Blackthorne and Buntaro. On the other, Omi and Yabu, side by side. The place of honor was still empty. Zataki had been invited, but of course he had regretfully declined due to ill health, though he had been seen galloping the northern hills and was presently pillowing with his legendary strength. Naga and very carefully chosen guards were all around, Gyoko hovering somewhere in the background. Kiku-san knelt on the veranda facing them, her back to the garden—tiny, alone, and very rare.

Mariko was right, Toranaga thought. The courtesan’s worth the money. His spirit was beguiled by her, his anxiety about Zataki lessened. Shall I send for her again tonight or shall I sleep alone? His manhood stirred as he remembered last night.

“So, Gyoko-san, you wished to see me?” he had asked in his private quarters at the fortress.

“Yes, Sire.”

He lit the measured length of incense. “Please proceed.”

Gyoko had bowed, but he hardly had eyes for her. This was the first time he had seen Kiku closely. Nearness improved her exquisite features, as yet unmarked by the rigors of her profession. “Please play some music while we talk,” he said, surprised that Gyoko was prepared to talk in front of her.

Kiku had obeyed at once, but her music then was nothing like tonight. Last night it was to soothe, an accompaniment to the business at hand. Tonight was to excite, to awe, and to promise.

“Sire,” Gyoko had begun formally, “first may I humbly thank you for the honor you do me, my poor house, and Kiku-san, the first of my Ladies of the Willow World. The price I have asked for the contract is insolent I know, impossible I am sure, not agreed to until dawn tomorrow when both the Lady Kasigi and the Lady Toda in their wisdom will decide. If it were a matter for you, you would have decided long ago, for what is contemptible money to any samurai, let alone to the greatest daimyo in the world?”

Gyoko had paused for effect. He had not taken the bait, but moved his fan slightly, which could be interpreted as irritation at her expansiveness, acceptance of the compliment, or an absolute rejection of the asking price, depending on her inner mood. Both knew very clearly who really approved the amount.

“What is money? Nothing but a means of communication,” she continued, “like Kiku-san’s music. What in fact do we of the Willow World do but communicate and entertain, to enlighten the soul of man, to lighten his burden. . . .” Toranaga had stifled a caustic response, reminding himself the woman had bought one stick of time for five hundred koku and five hundred koku merited an attentive audience. So he let her continue and listened with one ear, and let the other enjoy the flow of perfect music that tugged at his innermost being, gentling him into a sense of euphoria. Then he was rudely yanked back into the world of reality by something Gyoko had just said. “What?”

“I was merely suggesting that you should take the Willow World under your protection and change the course of history.”

“How?”

“By doing what you have always done, Sire, by concerning yourself with the future of the whole Empire—before your own.”

He let the ludicrous exaggeration pass and told himself to close his ears to the music—that he had fallen into the first trap by telling Gyoko to bring the girl, the second by letting himself feast on her beauty and perfume, and the third by allowing her to play seductively while the mistress talked.

“The Willow World? What about the Willow World?”

“Two things, Sire. First, the Willow World is presently intermingled with the real world to the detraction of both. Second, our ladies cannot truly rise to the perfection all men have the right to expect.”

“Oh?” A thread of Kiku’s perfume, one he had never known before, wafted across him. It was perfectly chosen. Involuntarily he looked at her. A half-smile was on her lips for him alone. Languidly she dropped her eyes and her fingers stroked the strings and he felt them on him intimately.

He tried to concentrate. “So sorry, Gyoko-san. You were saying?”

“Please excuse me for not being clear, Sire. First: The Willow World should be separate from the real one. My Tea House in Mishima is on one street in the south, others are scattered over the whole city. It is the same in Kyoto and Nara, and the same throughout all the Empire. Even in Yedo. But I thought that Yedo could set the pattern of the world.”

“How?” His heart missed a beat as a perfect chord fell into place.

“All other crafts wisely have streets of their own, areas of their own. We should be allowed our own place, Sire. Yedo is a new city; you might consider setting aside a special section for your Willow World. Bring all Tea Houses within the walls of this area and forbid any Tea Houses, however modest, outside.”

Now his mind concentrated totally, for here was a vast idea. It was so good that he berated himself for not thinking of it himself. All Tea Houses and all courtesans within a fence, and therefore remarkably easy to police, to watch, and to tax, and all their customers equally easy to police, to watch, and to spy upon. The simplicity staggered him. He knew also the powerful influence wielded by the Ladies of the First Rank.

But his face betrayed none of his enthusiasm. “What’s the advantage in that, Gyoko-san?”

“We would have our own guild, Sire, with all the protection that a guild means, a real guild in one place, not spread out, so to speak, a guild that all would obey. . . .”

“Must obey?”

“Yes, Sire. Must obey, for the good of all. The guild would be responsible that prices were fair and that standards were maintained. Why, in a few years, a Lady of the Second Class in Yedo would equal one in Kyoto and so on. If the scheme was valuable in Yedo why not in every city in your domain?”

“But those owners who are within the fence dominate everything. They’re monopolists, neh? They can charge usurious entrance fees, neh, can lock the doors against many who have an equal right to work in the Willow World, neh?”

“Yes, it could be so, Sire. And it will happen in some places, and in some times. But strict laws can easily be made to ensure fairness, and it would seem the good outweighs the bad, for us and for our honored customers and clients. Second: Ladies of—”

“Let us finish your first point, Gyoko-san,” Toranaga said dryly. “So that’s a point against your suggestion, neh?”

“Yes, Sire. It’s possible. But any daimyo could easily order it otherwise. And he has to deal with only one guild in one place. You, Sire, you would have no trouble. Each area would of course be responsible for the peace of the area. And for taxes.”

“Ah yes, taxes! It would certainly be much easier to collect taxes. That’s a very good point in its favor.”

Gyoko’s eyes were on the incense stick. More than half had vanished. “You, in your wisdom, might decree that our Willow World should be the only world, within the whole world, that is never to be taxed, for all time. Never, never, never.” She looked up at him clearly, her voice guileless. “After all, Sire, isn’t our world also called the ‘Floating World,’ isn’t our only offering beauty, isn’t a large part of beauty youth? Isn’t something so fleeting and transient as youth a gift from the gods, and sacred? Of all men, Sire, you must know how rare and fleeting youth is, a woman is.”

The music died. His eyes were pulled to Kiku-san. She was watching him intently, a small frown on her brow.

“Yes,” he said honestly. “I know how fleeting that can be.” He sipped his cha. “I will consider what you’ve said. Second?”

“Second.” Gyoko collected her wits. “Second and last, Sire, you could put your chop on the Willow World forever. Consider some of our Ladies: Kiku-san, for instance, has studied singing and dancing and the samisen since she was six. Every waking moment she was working very hard to perfect her art. Admittedly she’s rightfully become a Lady of the First Class, as her unique artistry merits. But she’s still a courtesan and some clients expect to enjoy her on the pillow as well as through her art. I believe two classes of Ladies should be created. First, courtesans, as always—amusing, happy, physical. Second, a new class, perhaps gei-sha could describe them: Art Persons—persons dedicated solely to art. Gei-shas would not be expected to go to the pillow as part of their duty. They would solely be entertainers, dancers, singers, musicians—specialists—and so give themselves exclusively to this profession. Let gei-shas entertain the minds and spirits of men with their beauty and grace and their artistry. Let courtesans satisfy the body with beauty, grace, and equal artistry.”

Again he was struck by the simplicity and the far-reaching possibilities of her idea. “How would you select a gei-sha?”

“By her aptitude. At puberty her owner would decide the way of her future. And the guild could approve, or reject, the apprentice, neh?”

“It is an extraordinary idea, Gyoko-san.”

The woman bowed and shivered. “Please excuse my long-windedness, Sire, but this way, when beauty fades and the body thickens, still the girl can have a rare future and a real value. She won’t have to go down the road that all courtesans today must travel. I plead for the artists among them, my Kiku-san for one. I petition you to grant the favored few a future and the position they merit in the land. To learn to sing and to dance and to play requires practice and practice over the years. The pillow needs youth and there is no aphrodisiac like youth. Neh?”

“No.” Toranaga watched her. “Gei-shas may not pillow?”

“That would not be part of a gei-sha’s duty, whatever the money offered. Gei-shas would never be obliged to pillow, Sire. If a gei-sha wished to pillow with a particular man, it would be her private concern—or perhaps it should be arranged with the permission of her mistress, the price to be only as high as that man can afford. A courtesan’s duty would be to pillow with artistry—gei-shas and the apprentice gei-shas would be untouchable. Please excuse me for talking so long.” Gyoko bowed and Kiku bowed. The barest fraction of incense remained.

Toranaga questioned them for twice the allotted time, pleased with the opportunity to learn about their world, probing their ideas and hopes and fears. What he learned excited him. He docketed the information for future use, then he sent Kiku into the garden. “Tonight, Gyoko-san, I would like her to stay, if she would care to, until dawn—if she’s free. Would you please ask her? Of course I realize that she may be tired now. After all, she’s played so superbly for such a long time and I’ll quite understand. But perhaps she would consider it. I’d be grateful if you would ask her.”

“Of course, Sire, but I know she would be honored by your invitation. It’s our duty to serve in any way we can, neh?”

“Yes. But she is, as you so rightly point out, most special. I’ll quite understand if she’s too tired. Please ask her in a moment.” He gave Gyoko a small leather bag containing ten koban, regretting the ostentation, but knowing his position demanded it, “Perhaps this would compensate you for such an exhausting evening, and be a small token of my thanks for your ideas.”

“It’s our duty to serve, Sire,” Gyoko said. He saw her trying to stop her fingers from counting through the soft leather, and fail. “Thank you, Sire. Please excuse me, I will ask her.” Then, strangely and unexpectedly, tears filled her eyes. “Please accept the thanks of a vulgar old woman for your courtesy and for listening. It’s just that for all the giving of pleasure, our only reward is a river of tears. In truth, Lord, it is difficult to explain how a woman feels . . . please excuse me. . . .”

“Listen, Gyoko-san, I understand. Don’t worry. I’ll consider everything you’ve said. Oh yes, you’ll both leave with me shortly after dawn. A few days in the mountains will make a pleasant change. I would imagine the contract price will be approved, neh?”

Gyoko bowed her thanks, then she brushed her tears away and said firmly, “May I therefore ask the name of the honored person for whom her contract will be bought?”

“Yoshi Toranaga-noh-Minowara.”

Now under the Yokosé night, the air sweetly cool, Kiku-san’s music and voice possessing their minds and hearts, Toranaga let his mind wander. He remembered the pride-filled glow that had swamped Gyoko’s face and he wondered again at the bewildering gullibility of people. How baffling it was that even the most cunning and clever people would frequently see only what they wanted to see, and would rarely look beyond the thinnest of facades. Or they would ignore reality, dismissing it as the facade. And then, when their whole world fell to pieces and they were on their knees slitting their bellies or cutting their throats, or cast out into the freezing world, they would tear their topknots or rend their clothes and bewail their karma, blaming gods or kami or luck or their lords or husbands or vassals—anything or anyone—but never themselves.

So very strange.

He looked at his guests and saw they were still watching the girl, locked in their secrets, their minds expanded by her artistry—all except the Anjin-san, who was edgy and fidgeting. Never mind, Anjin-san, Toranaga thought with amusement, it’s only your lack of civilization. Yes, never mind, that will come in time, and even that doesn’t matter so long as you obey. At the moment I need your touchiness and your anger and your violence.

Yes, you’re all here. You Omi, and Yabu and Naga and Buntaro, and you Mariko and Kiku-san and even Gyoko, all my Izu hawks and falcons, all trained and very ready. All here except one—the Christian priest. And soon it’ll be your turn, Tsukku-san. Or perhaps mine.

Father Martin Alvito of the Society of Jesus was enraged. Just when he knew he should be preparing for his meeting with Toranaga, at which he would need all his wits, he was faced with this new abomination that could not wait. “What have you got to say for yourself?” he lashed out at the cowled Japanese acolyte who knelt abjectly in front of him. The other Brothers stood around the small room in a semicircle.

“Please forgive me, Father. I have sinned,” the man stammered in complete misery. “Please forgive—”

“I repeat: It is for Almighty God in His wisdom to forgive, not me. You’ve committed a mortal sin. You’ve broken your Holy Oath. Well?”

The reply was barely audible. “I’m sorry, Father.” The man was thin and frail. His baptismal name was Joseph and he was thirty. His fellow acolytes, all Brothers of the Society, ranged from eighteen to forty. All were tonsured, all of noble samurai birth from provinces in Kyushu, all rigorously trained for the priesthood though none yet ordained.

“I confessed, Father,” Brother Joseph said, keeping his head bowed.

“You think that’s enough?” Impatiently Alvito turned away and walked to the window. The room was ordinary, the mats fair, the paper shoji screens poorly repaired. The inn was seedy and third class but the best that he could find in Yokosé, the rest taken by samurai. He stared out into the night, half listening to Kiku’s distant voice soaring over the noise of the river. Until the courtesan finished Alvito knew he would not be sent for by Toranaga. “Filthy whore,” he said, half to himself, the wailing discordance of Japanese singing annoying him more than usual, intensifying his anger at Joseph’s betrayal.

“Listen, Brothers,” Alvito said to the rest, turning back to them. “We are in judgment over Brother Joseph, who went with a whore of this town last night, breaking his Holy Oath of chastity, breaking his Holy Oath of obedience, desecrating his immortal soul, his position as a Jesuit, his place in the Church and all that that stands for. Before God I ask each of you—have you done likewise?”

They all shook their heads.

“Have you ever done likewise?”

“No, Father.”

“You, sinner! Before God, you admit your sin?”

“Yes, Father, I’ve already con—”

“Before God, is this the first time?”

“No, this was not the first time,” Joseph said. “I—I went with another four nights ago—in Mishima.”

“But . . . but yesterday we said Mass! What about your confession yesterday and the night before and the one before that, you didn’t—Yesterday we said Mass! For the love of God, you took the Eucharist unconfessed, with full knowledge of a mortal sin?”

Brother Joseph was gray with shame. He had been with the Jesuits since he was eight. “It was the—it was the first time, Father. Only four days ago. I’ve been sinless all my life. Again I was tempted—and, the Blessed Madonna forgive me, this time I failed. I’m thirty. I’m a man—we’re all men. Please, the Lord Jesus Father forgave sinners—why can’t you forgive me? We’re all men—”

“We’re all priests!”

“We’re not real priests! We’re not professed—we’re not even ordained! We’re not real Jesuits. We can’t take the fourth vow like you, Father,” Joseph said sullenly. “Other Orders ordain their brethren but not the Jesuits. Why shouldn’t—”

“Hold your tongue!”

“I won’t!” Joseph flared. “Please excuse me, Father, but why shouldn’t some of us be ordained?” He pointed at one of the Brothers, a tall, round-faced man who watched serenely. “Why shouldn’t Brother Michael be ordained? He’s studied since he was twelve. Now he’s thirty-six and a perfect Christian, almost a saint. He’s converted thousands but he’s still not been ordained though—”

“In the name of God, you will—”

“In the name of God, Father, why can’t one of us be ordained? Someone has to dare to ask you!” Joseph was on his feet now. “I’ve been training for sixteen years, Brother Matteo for twenty-three, Juliao more, all our lives—countless years. We know the prayers and catechisms and hymns better than you, and Michael and I even speak Latin as well as Portu—”

“Stop!”

“—Portuguese, and we do most of the preaching and debating with the Buddhists and all the other idolaters and do most of the converting. We do! In the name of God and the Madonna, what’s wrong with us? Why aren’t we good enough for Jesuits? Is it just because we’re not Portuguese or Spanish, or because we’re not hairy or round-eyed? In the name of God, Father, why isn’t there an ordained Japanese Jesuit?”

“Now you will hold your tongue!”

“We’ve even been to Rome, Michael, Juliao, and me,” Joseph burst out. “You’ve never been to Rome or met the Father-General or His Holiness the Pope as we’ve done—”

“Which is another reason you should know better than to argue. You’re vowed to chastity, poverty, and obedience. You were chosen among the many, favored out of the many, and now you’ve let your soul get so corrupted that—”

“So sorry, Father, but I don’t think we were favored to spend eight years going there and coming back if after all our learning and praying and preaching and waiting not one of us is ordained even though it’s been promised. I was twelve when I left. Juliao was elev—”

“I forbid you to say any more! I order you to stop.” Then in the awful silence Alvito looked at the others, who lined the walls, watching and listening closely. “You will all be ordained in time. But you, Joseph, before God you will—”

“Before God,” Joseph erupted, “in whose time?”

“In God’s time,” Alvito slammed back, stunned by the open rebellion, his zeal blazing. “Get-down-on-your-knees!”

Brother Joseph tried to stare him down but he could not, then his fit passing, he exhaled, sank to his knees, and bowed his head.

“May God have mercy on you. You are self-confessed to hideous mortal sin, guilty of breaking your Holy vow of chastity, your Holy vow of obedience to your superiors. And guilty of unbelievable insolence. How dare you question our General’s orders or the policy of the Church? You have jeopardized your immortal soul. You are a disgrace to your God, your Company, your Church, your family, and your friends. Your case is so serious it will have to be dealt with by the Visitor-General himself. Until that time you will not take communion, you will not be confessed or hear confession or any part in any service. . . .” Joseph’s shoulders began shaking with the agony of remorse that possessed him. “As initial penance you are forbidden to talk, you will have only rice and water for thirty days, you will spend every night for the next thirty nights on your knees in prayer to the Blessed Madonna for forgiveness for your hideous sins, and further you will be scourged. Thirty lashes. Take off your cassock.”

The shoulders stopped trembling. Joseph looked up. “I accept everything you’ve ordered, Father,” he said, “and I apologize with all my heart, with all my soul. I beg your forgiveness as I will beg His forgiveness forever. But I will not be lashed like a common criminal.”

“You-will-be-scourged!”

“Please excuse me, Father,” Joseph said. “In the name of the Blessed Madonna, it’s not the pain. Pain is nothing to me, death is nothing to me. That I’m damned and will burn in hellfire for all eternity may be my karma, and I will endure it. But I’m samurai. I’m of Lord Harima’s family.”

“Your pride sickens me. It’s not for the pain you’re to be punished, but to remove your disgusting pride. Common criminal? Where is your humility? Our Lord Jesus Christ endured mortification. And he died with common criminals.”

“Yes. That’s our major problem here, Father.”

“What?”

“Please excuse my bluntness, Father, but if the King of Kings had not died like a common criminal on the cross, samurai could accept—”

“Stop!”

“—Christianity more easily. The Society’s wise to avoid preaching Christ crucified like the other Orders—”

Like an avenging angel, Alvito held up his cross as a shield in front of him. “In the name of God, keep silent and obey or-you-are-excommunicated! Seize him and strip him!”

The others came to life and moved forward, but Joseph sprang to his feet. A knife appeared in his hand from under his robes. He put his back to the wall. Everyone stopped in his tracks. Except Brother Michael. Brother Michael came forward slowly and calmly, his hand outstretched. “Please give me the knife, Brother,” he said gently.

“No. Please excuse me.”

“Then pray for me, Brother, as I pray for you.” Michael quietly reached up for the weapon.

Joseph darted a few paces back, then readied for a death thrust. “Forgive me, Michael.”

Michael continued to approach.

“Michael, stop! Leave him alone,” Alvito commanded.

Michael obeyed, inches from the hovering blade.

Then Alvito said, ashen, “God have mercy on you, Joseph. You are excommunicated. Satan has possessed your soul on earth as he will possess it after death. Get thee gone!”

“I renounce the Christian God! I’m Japanese—I’m Shinto. My soul’s my own now. I’m not afraid,” Joseph shouted. “Yes, we’ve pride—unlike barbarians. We’re Japanese, we’re not barbarians. Even our peasants are not barbarians.”

Gravely Alvito made the sign of the cross as protection for all of them and fearlessly turned his back on the knife. “Let us pray together, Brothers. Satan is in our midst.”

The others also turned away, many sadly, some still in shock. Only Michael remained where he was, looking at Joseph. Joseph ripped off his rosary and cross. He was going to hurl it away but Michael held out his hand again. “Please, Brother, please give it to me—it is such a simple gift,” he said.

Joseph looked at him a long moment, then he gave it to him. “Please excuse me.”

“I will pray for you,” Michael said.

“Didn’t you hear? I’ve renounced God!”

“I will pray that God will not renounce you, Uraga-noh-Tadamasa-san.”

“Forgive me, Brother,” Joseph said. He stuck the knife in his sash, jerked the door open, and walked blindly along the corridor out onto the veranda. People watched him curiously, among them Uo the fisherman, who was waiting patiently in the shadows. Joseph crossed the courtyard and went toward the gate. A samurai stood in his way.

“Halt!”

Joseph stopped.

“Where are you going, please?”

“I’m sorry, please excuse me, I—I don’t know.”

“I serve Lord Toranaga. So sorry, I couldn’t help hearing what went on in there. The whole inn must have heard. Shocking bad manners . . . shocking for your leader to shout like that and disturb the peace. And you too. I’m on duty here. I think it’s best you see the officer of my watch.”

“I think—thank you, I’ll go the other way. Please excuse—”

“You’ll go nowhere, so sorry. Except to see my officer.”

“What? Oh—yes. Yes, I’m sorry, of course.” Joseph tried to make his brain work.

“Good. Thank you.” The samurai turned as another samurai approached from the bridge and saluted.

“I’m to fetch the Tsukku-san for Lord Toranaga.”

“Good. You’re expected.”

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Toranaga watched the tall priest approach across the clearing, the flickering light of the torches making the lean face starker than usual above the blackness of his beard. The priest’s orange Buddhist robe was elegant and a rosary and cross hung at his waist.

Ten paces away Father Alvito stopped, knelt, and bowed deferentially, beginning the customary formalities.

Toranaga was sitting alone on the dais, guards in a semicircle around him, well out of hearing. Only Blackthorne was nearby and he lolled against the platform as he had been ordered, his eyes boring into the priest. Alvito appeared not to notice him.

“It is good to see you, Sire,” Father Alvito said when it was polite to do so.

“And to see you, Tsukku-san.” Toranaga motioned the priest to make himself comfortable on the cushion that had been placed on a tatami on the ground in front of the platform. “It’s a long time since I saw you.”

“Yes, Sire, there’s much to tell.” Alvito was deeply conscious that the cushion was on the earth and not on the dais. Also, he was acutely aware of the samurai swords that Blackthorne now wore so near to Toranaga and the way he slouched with such indifference. “I bring a confidential message from my superior, the Father-Visitor, who greets you with deference.”

“Thank you. But first, tell me about you.”

“Ah, Sire,” Alvito said, knowing that Toranaga was far too discerning not to have noticed the remorse that beset him, much as he had tried to throw it off. “Tonight I’m too aware of my own failings. Tonight I’d like to be allowed to put off my earthly duties and go into a retreat to pray, to beg for God’s favor.” He was shamed by his own lack of humility. Although Joseph’s sin had been terrible, Alvito had acted with haste and anger and stupidity. It was his fault that a soul had been outcast, to be lost forever. “Our Lord once said, ‘Please, Father, let this cup pass from me.’ But even He had to retain the cup. We, in the world, we have to try to follow in His footsteps as best we can. Please excuse me for allowing my problem to show.”

“What was your ‘cup,’ old friend?”

Alvito told him. He knew there was no reason to hide the facts for, of course, Toranaga would hear them very soon if he did not already know them, and it was much better to hear the truth than a garbled version. “It’s so very sad to lose a Brother, terrible to make one an outcast, however terrible the crime. I should have been more patient. It was my fault.”

“Where is he now?”

“I don’t know, Sire.”

Toranaga called a guard. “Find the renegade Christian and bring him to me at noon tomorrow.” The samurai hurried away.

“I beg mercy for him, Sire,” Alvito said quickly, meaning it. But he knew whatever he said would do little to dissuade Toranaga from a path already chosen. Again he wished the Society had its own secular arm empowered to arrest and punish apostates, like elsewhere in the world. He had repeatedly recommended that this be created but he had always been overruled, here in Japan, and also in Rome by the General of the Order. Yet without our own secular arm, he thought tiredly, we’ll never be able to exercise real discipline over our Brethren and our flock.

“Why aren’t there ordained priests within your Society, Tsukku-san?”

“Because, Sire, not one of our acolytes is yet sufficiently well trained. For instance, Latin is an absolute necessity because our Order requires any Brother to travel anywhere in the world at any time, and Latin, unfortunately, is very difficult to learn. Not one is trained yet, or ready.”

Alvito believed this with all his heart. He was also bitterly opposed to a Japanese-ordained Jesuit clergy, in opposition to the Father-Visitor. ‘Eminence,’ he had always said, ‘I beg you, don’t be fooled by their modest and decorous exterior. Underneath they’re all unreliable characters, and their pride and Japaneseness will always dominate in the end. They’ll never be true servants of the Society, or reliable soldiers of His Holiness, the Vicar of Christ on earth, obedient to him alone. Never.’

Alvito glanced momentarily at Blackthorne then back to Toranaga, who said, “But two or three of these apprentice priests speak Latin, neh, and Portuguese? It’s true what that man said, neh? Why haven’t they been chosen?”

“So sorry, but the General of our Society doesn’t consider them sufficiently prepared. Perhaps Joseph’s tragic fall is an example.”

“Bad to break a solemn oath,” Toranaga said. He remembered the year the three boys had sailed off from Nagasaki in a Black Ship to be feted in the court of the Spanish king and the court of the High Priest of the Christians, the same year Goroda had been assassinated. Nine years later they had returned but all their time away had been carefully controlled and monitored. They had left as naïve, youthful Christian zealots and returned just as narrow-minded and almost as ill-informed as when they had left. Stupid waste, Toranaga thought, waste of an incredible opportunity which Goroda had refused to take advantage of, as much as he had advised it.

“No, Tora-san, we need the Christians against the Buddhists,” Goroda had said. “Many Buddhist priests and monks are soldiers, neh? Most of them are. The Christians aren’t, neh? Let the Giant Priest have the three youths he wants—they’re only Kyushu stumble-heads, neh? I tell you to encourage Christians. Don’t bother me with a ten-year plan, but burn every Buddhist monastery within reach. Buddhists are like flies on carrion, and Christians nothing but a bag of fart.”

Now they’re not, Toranaga thought with growing irritation. Now they’re hornets.

“Yes,” he said aloud. “Very bad to break an oath and shout and disturb the harmony of an inn.”

“Please excuse me, Sire, and forgive me for mentioning my problems. Thank you for listening. As always your concern makes me feel better. May I be permitted to greet the pilot?”

Toranaga assented.

“I must congratulate you, Pilot,” Alvito said in Portuguese. “Your swords suit you.”

“Thank you, Father, I’m learning to use them,” Blackthorne replied. “But, sorry to say, I’m not very good with them yet. I’ll stick to pistols or cutlasses or cannon when I have to fight.”

“I pray that you may never have to fight again, Pilot, and that your eyes will be opened to God’s infinite mercy.”

“Mine are open. Yours are fogged.”

“For your own soul’s sake, Pilot, keep your eyes open, and your mind open. Perhaps you may be mistaken. Even so, I must thank you for saving Lord Toranaga’s life.”

“Who told you that?”

Alvito did not reply. He turned back to Toranaga.

“What was said?” Toranaga asked, breaking a silence.

Alvito told him, adding, “Though he’s the enemy of my faith and a pirate, I’m glad he saved you, Sire. God moves in mysterious ways. You’ve honored him greatly by making him samurai.”

“He’s hatamoto also.” Toranaga was pleasured by the priest’s fleeting amazement. “Did you bring a dictionary?”

“Yes, Sire, with several of the maps you wanted, showing some of the Portuguese bases en route from Goa. The book’s in my luggage. May I send someone for it, or may I give it to him later myself?”

“Give it to him later. Tonight, or tomorrow. Did you also bring the report?”

“About the alleged guns that were supposed to be brought from Macao? The Father-Visitor is preparing it, Sire.”

“And the numbers of Japanese mercenaries employed at each of your new bases?”

“The Father-Visitor has requested an up-to-date report from all of them, Sire, which he will give you as soon as they’re complete.”

“Good. Now tell me, how did you know about my rescue?”

“Hardly a thing that happens to Toranaga-noh-Minowara is not the subject of rumor and legend. Coming from Mishima we heard that you were almost swallowed up in an earthquake, Sire, but that the ‘Golden Barbarian’ had pulled you out. Also, that you’d done the same for him and a lady—I presume the Lady Mariko?”

Toranaga nodded briefly. “Yes. She’s here in Yokosé.” He thought a moment, then said, “Tomorrow she would like to be confessed, according to your customs. But only those things that are nonpolitical. I would imagine that excludes everything to do with me, and my various hatamoto, neh? I explained that to her also.”

Alvito bowed his understanding. “With your permission, could I say Mass for all the Christians here, Sire? It would be very discreet, of course. Tomorrow?”

“I’ll consider it.” Toranaga continued to talk about inconsequential matters for a while, then he said, “You have a message for me? From your Chief Priest?”

“With humility, Sire, I beg to say that it was a private message.”

Toranaga pretended to think about that, even though he had determined exactly how the meeting would proceed and had already given the Anjin-san specific instructions how to act and what to say. “Very well.” He turned to Blackthorne, “Anjin-san, you can go now and we’ll talk more later.”

“Yes, Sire,” Blackthorne replied. “So sorry, the Black Ship. Arrive Nagasaki?”

“Ah, yes. Thank you,” he replied, pleased that the Anjin-san’s question didn’t sound rehearsed. “Well, Tsukku-san, has it docked yet?”

Alvito was startled by Blackthorne’s Japanese and greatly perturbed by the question. “Yes, Sire. It docked fourteen days ago.”

“Ah, fourteen?” said Toranaga. “You understand, Anjin-san?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Good. Anything else you can ask Tsukku-san later, neh?”

“Yes, Sire. Please excuse me.” Blackthorne got up and bowed and wandered off.

Toranaga watched him go. “A most interesting man—for a pirate. Now, first tell me about the Black Ship.”

“It arrived safely, Sire, with the greatest cargo of silk that has ever been.” Alvito tried to sound enthusiastic. “The arrangement made between the Lords Harima, Kiyama, Onoshi, and yourself is in effect. Your treasury will be richer with tens of thousands of koban by this time next year. The quality of silks is the finest, Sire. I’ve brought a copy of the manifest for your quartermaster. The Captain-General Ferriera sends his respects, hoping to see you in person soon. That was the reason for my delay in coming to see you. The Visitor-General sent me post haste from Osaka to Nagasaki to make certain everything was perfect. Just as I was leaving Nagasaki we heard you’d left Yedo for Izu, so I came here as quickly as I could, by ship to Port Numazu with one of our fastest cutters, then by road. At Mishima I fell in with Lord Zataki and asked permission to join him.”

“Your ship’s still at Numazu?”

“Yes, Sire. It will wait for me there.”

“Good.” For a moment Toranaga wondered whether or not to send Mariko by that ship to Osaka, then decided to deal with that later. “Please give the manifest to the quartermaster tonight.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“And the arrangement about this year’s cargo is sealed?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Good. Now the other part. The important part.”

Alvito’s hands went dry. “Neither Lord Kiyama nor Lord Onoshi will agree to forsake General Ishido. I’m sorry. They will not agree to join your banner now in spite of our strongest suggestion.”

Toranaga’s voice became low and cruel. “I already pointed out I required more than suggestions!”

“I’m sorry to bring bad news in this part, Sire, but neither would agree to publicly come over to—”

“Ah, publicly, you say? What about privately—secretly?”

“Privately they were both as adamant as pub—”

“You talked to them separately or together?”

“Of course together, and separately, most confidentially, but nothing we suggested would—”

“You only ‘suggested’ a course of action? Why didn’t you order them?”

“It’s as the Father-Visitor said, Sire, we can’t order any daimyo or any—”

“Ah, but you can order one of your Brethren? Neh?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Did you threaten to make them outcast, too?”

“No, Sire.”

“Why?”

“Because they’ve committed no mortal sin.” Alvito said it firmly, as he and dell’Aqua had agreed, but his heart was fluttering and he hated to be the bearer of terrible tidings, which were even worse now because the Lord Harima, who legally owned Nagasaki, had told them privately that all his immense wealth and influence were going to Ishido. “Please excuse me, Sire, but I don’t make divine rules, any more than you made the code of bushido, the Way of the Warrior. We, we have to comply with what—”

“You make a poor fool outcast for a natural act like pillowing, but when two of your converts behave unnaturally—yes, even treacherously—when I seek your help, urgent help—and I’m your friend—you only make ‘suggestions.’ You understand the seriousness of this, neh?”

“I’m sorry, Lord. Please excuse me but—”

“Perhaps I won’t excuse you, Tsukku-san. It’s been said before: Now everyone has to choose a side,” Toranaga said.

“Of course we are on your side, Sire. But we cannot order Lord Kiyama or Lord Onoshi to do anything—”

“Fortunately I can order my Christian.”

“Sire?”

“I can order the Anjin-san freed. With his ship. With his cannon.”

“Beware of him, Sire. The Pilot’s diabolically clever, but he’s a heretic, a pirate and not to be trust—”

“Here the Anjin-san’s a samurai and hatamoto. At sea perhaps he’s a pirate. If he’s a pirate, I imagine he’ll attract many other corsairs and wako to him—many of them. What a foreigner does on the open sea’s his own business, neh? That’s always been our policy. Neh?”

Alvito kept quiet and tried to make his brain function. No one had planned on the Ingeles’ becoming so close to Toranaga.

“Those two Christian daimyos will make no commitments, not even a secret one?”

“No, Sire. We tried ev—”

“No concession, none?”

“No, Sire—”

“No barter, no arrangement, no compromise, nothing?”

“No, Sire. We tried every inducement and persuasion. Please believe me.” Alvito knew he was in the trap and some of his desperation showed. “If it were me, yes, I would threaten them with excommunication, though it would be a false threat because I’d never carry it through, not unless they had committed a mortal sin and wouldn’t confess or be penitent and submit. But even a threat for temporal gain would be very wrong of me, Sire, a mortal sin. I’d risk eternal damnation.”

“Are you saying if they sinned against your creed, then you’d cast them out?”

“Yes. But I’m not suggesting that could be used to bring them to your side, Sire. Please excuse me but they . . . they’re totally opposed to you at the moment. I’m sorry but that’s the truth. They both made it very clear, together and in private. Before God I pray they change their minds. We gave you our words to try, before God, the Father-Visitor and I. We fulfilled our promise. Before God we failed.”

“Then I shall lose,” Toranaga said. “You know that, don’t you? If they stand allied with Ishido, all the Christian daimyos will side with him. Then I have to lose. Twenty samurai against one of mine. Neh?”

“Yes.”

“What’s their plan? When will they attack me?”

“I don’t know, Sire.”

“Would you tell me if you did?”

“Yes—yes I would.”

I doubt it, Toranaga thought, and looked away into the night, the burden of his worry almost crushing him. Is it to be Crimson Sky after all? he asked himself helplessly. The stupid, bound-to-fail lunge at Kyoto?

He hated the shameful cage that he was in. Like the Taikō and Goroda before him, he had to tolerate the Christian priests because the priests were as inseparable from the Portuguese traders as flies from a horse, holding absolute temporal and spiritual power over their unruly flock. Without the priests there was no trade. Their good will as negotiators and middle men in the Black Ship operation was vital because they spoke the language and were trusted by both sides, and, if ever the priests were completely forbidden the Empire, all barbarians would obediently sail away, never to return. He remembered the one time the Taikō had tried to get rid of the priests yet still encourage trade. For two years there was no Black Ship. Spies reported how the giant chief of the priests, sitting like a poisonous black spider in Macao, had ordered no more trade in reprisal for the Taikō’s Expulsion Edicts, knowing that at length the Taikō must humble himself. In the third year he had bowed to the inevitable and invited the priests back, turning a blind eye to his own Edicts and to the treason and rebellion the priests had advocated.

There’s no escape from that reality, Toranaga thought. None. I don’t believe what the Anjin-san says—that trade is as essential to barbarians as it is to us, that their greed will make them trade, no matter what we do to the priests. The risk is too great to experiment and there’s no time and I don’t have the power. We experimented once and failed. Who knows? Perhaps the priests could wait us out ten years; they’re ruthless enough. If the priests order no trade, I believe there will be no trade. We could not wait ten years. Even five years. And if we expel all barbarians it must take twenty years for the English barbarian to fill up the gap, if the Anjin-san is telling the whole truth and if—and it is an immense if—if the Chinese would agree to trade with them against the Southern Barbarians. I don’t believe the Chinese will change their pattern. They never have. Twenty years is too long. Ten years is too long.

There’s no escape from that reality. Or the worst reality of all, the specter that secretly petrified Goroda and the Taikō and is now rearing its foul head again: that the fanatical, fearless Christian priests, if pushed too far, will put all their influence and their trading power and sea power behind one of the great Christian daimyos. Further, they would engineer an invasion force of iron-clad, equally fanatic conquistadores armed with the latest muskets to support this one Christian daimyo—like they almost did the last time. By themselves, any number of invading barbarians and their priests are no threat against our overwhelming joint forces. We smashed the hordes of Kublai Khan and we can deal with any invader. But allied to one of our own, a great Christian daimyo with armies of samurai, and given civil wars throughout the realm, this could, ultimately, give this one daimyo absolute power over all of us.

Kiyama or Onoshi? It’s obvious now, that has to be the priest’s scheme. The timing’s perfect. But which daimyo?

Both, initially, helped by Harima of Nagasaki. But who’ll carry the final banner? Kiyama—because Onoshi the leper’s not long for this earth and Onoshi’s obvious reward for supporting his hated enemy and rival, Kiyama, would be a guaranteed, painless, everlasting life in the Christian heaven with a permanent seat at the right hand of the Christian God.

They’ve four hundred thousand samurai between them now. Their base is Kyushu and that island’s safe from my grasp. Together those two could easily subjugate the whole island, then they have limitless troops, limitless food, all the ships necessary for an invasion, all the silk, and Nagasaki. Throughout the land there are perhaps another five or six hundred thousand Christians. Of these, more than half—the Jesuit Christian converts—are samurai, all salted nicely among the forces of all daimyos, a vast pool of potential traitors, spies, or assassins—should the priests order it. And why shouldn’t they? They’d get what they want above life itself: absolute power over all our souls, thus over the soul of this Land of the Gods—to inherit our earth and all that it contains—just as the Anjin-san has explained has already happened fifty times in this New World of theirs. . . . They convert a king, then use him against his own kind, until all the land is swallowed up.

It’s so easy for them to conquer us, this tiny band of barbarian priests. How many are there in all Japan? Fifty or sixty? But they’ve the power. And they believe. They’re prepared to die gladly for their beliefs, with pride and with bravery, with the name of their God on their lips. We saw that at Nagasaki when the Taikō’s experiment proved a disastrous mistake. Not one of the priests recanted, tens of thousands witnessed the burnings, tens of thousands were converted, and this “martyrdom” gave the Christian religion immense prestige that Christian priests have fed on ever since.

For me, the priests have failed, but that won’t deter them from their relentless course. That’s reality, too.

So, it’s Kiyama.

Is the plan already settled, with Ishido a dupe and the Lady Ochiba and Yaemon also? Has Harima already thrown in with them secretly? Should I launch the Anjin-san at the Black Ship and Nagasaki immediately?

What shall I do?

Nothing more than usual. Be patient, seek harmony, put aside all worries about I or Thou, Life or Death, Oblivion or Afterlife, Now or Then, and set a new plan into motion. What plan? he wanted to shout in desperation. There isn’t one!

“It saddens me that those two stay with the real enemy.”

“I swear we tried, Sire.” Alvito watched him compassionately, seeing the heaviness of his spirit.

“Yes. I believe that. I believe you and the Father-Visitor kept your solemn promise, so I will keep mine. You may begin to build your temple at Yedo at once. The land has been set aside. I cannot forbid the priests, the other Hairies, entrance to the Empire, but at least I can make them unwelcome in my domain. The new barbarians will be equally unwelcome, if they ever arrive. As to the Anjin-san . . .” Toranaga shrugged. “But how long all this . . . well, that’s karma, neh?”

Alvito was thanking God fervently for His mercy and favor at the unexpected reprieve. “Thank you, Sire,” he said, hardly able to talk. “I know you’ll not regret it. I pray that your enemies will be scattered like chaff and that you may reap the rewards of Heaven.”

“I’m sorry for my harsh words. They were spoken in anger. There’s so much . . .” Toranaga got up ponderously. “You have my permission to say your service tomorrow, old friend.”

“Thank you, Sire,” Alvito said, bowing low, pitying the normally majestic man. “Thank you with all my heart. May the Divinity bless you and take you into His keeping.”

Toranaga trudged into the inn, his guards following. “Naga-san!”

“Yes, Father,” the youth said, hurrying up.

“Where’s the Lady Mariko?”

“There, Sire, with Buntaro-san.” Naga pointed to the small, lantern-lit cha house inside its enclosure in the garden, the shadowed figures within. “Shall I interrupt the cha-no-yu?” A cha-no-yu was a formal, extremely ritualized Tea Ceremony.

“No. That must never be interfered with. Where are Omi and Yabu-san?”

“They’re at their inn, Sire.” Naga indicated the sprawling low building on the other side of the river, near the far bank.

“Who chose that one?”

“I did, Sire. Please excuse me, you asked me to find them an inn on the other side of the bridge. Did I misunderstand you?”

“The Anjin-san?”

“He’s in his room, Sire. He’s waiting in case you want him.”

Again Toranaga shook his head. “I’ll see him tomorrow.” After a pause, he said in the same faraway voice, “I’m going to take a bath now. Then I don’t wish to be disturbed till dawn except . . .”

Naga waited uneasily, watching his father stare sightlessly into space, greatly disconcerted by his manner. “Are you all right, Father?”

“What? Oh, yes—yes, I’m all right. Why?”

“Nothing—please excuse me. Do you still want to hunt at dawn?”

“Hunt? Ah yes, that’s a good idea. Thank you for suggesting it, yes, that would be very good. See to it. Well, good night . . . Oh yes, the Tsukku-san has my permission to give a private service tomorrow. All Christians may go. You go also.”

“Sire?”

“On the first day of the New Year you will become a Christian.”

“Me!”

“Yes. Of your own free will. Tell Tsukku-san privately.”

“Sire?”

Toranaga wheeled on him. “Are you deaf? Don’t you understand the simplest thing anymore?”

“Please excuse me. Yes, Father. I understand.”

“Good.” Toranaga fell back into his distracted attitude, then wandered off, his personal bodyguard in tow. All samurai bowed stiffly, but he took no notice of them.

An officer came up to Naga, equally apprehensive. “What’s the matter with our Lord?”

“I don’t know, Yoshinaka-san.” Naga looked back at the clearing. Alvito was just leaving, heading toward the bridge, a single samurai escorting him. “Must be something to do with him.”

“I’ve never seen Lord Toranaga walk so heavily. Never. They say—they say that barbarian priest’s a magician, a wizard. He must be to speak our tongue so well, neh? Could he have put a spell on our Lord?”

“No. Never. Not my father.”

“Barbarians make my spine shake too, Naga-san. Did you hear about the row—Tsukku-san and his band shouting and quarreling like ill-mannered eta?”

“Yes. Disgusting. I’m sure that man must have destroyed my father’s harmony.”

“If you ask me, an arrow in that priest’s throat would save our Master a lot of trouble.”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps we should tell Buntaro-san about Lord Toranaga? He’s our senior officer.”

“I agree—but later. My father said clearly I was not to interrupt the cha-no-yu. I’ll wait till he’s finished.”

In the peace and quiet of the little house, Buntaro fastidiously opened the small earthenware tea caddy of the T’ang Dynasty and, with equal care, took up the bamboo spoon, beginning the final part of the ceremony. Deftly he spooned up exactly the right amount of green powder and put it into the handleless porcelain cup. An ancient cast-iron kettle was singing over the charcoal. With the same tranquil grace Buntaro poured the bubbling water into the cup, replaced the kettle on its tripod, then gently beat the powder and water with the bamboo whisk to blend it perfectly.

He added a spoonful of cool water, bowed to Mariko, who knelt opposite him, and offered the cup. She bowed and took it with equal refinement, admiring the green liquid, and sipped three times, rested, then sipped again, finishing it. She offered the cup back. He repeated the symmetry of the formal cha-making and again offered it. She begged him to taste the cha himself, as was expected of her. He sipped, and then again, and finished it. Then he made a third cup and a fourth. More was politely refused.

With great care, ritually he washed and dried the cup, using the peerless cotton cloth, and laid both in their places. He bowed to her and she to him. The cha-no-yu was finished.

Buntaro was content that he had done his best and that now, at least for the moment, there was peace between them. This afternoon there had been none.

He had met her palanquin. At once, as always, he had felt coarse and uncouth in contrast to her fragile perfection—like one of the wild, despised, barbaric Hairy Ainu tribesmen that once inhabited the land but were now driven to the far north, across the straits, to the unexplored island of Hokkaido. All of his well-thought-out words had left him and he clumsily invited her to the cha-no-yu, adding, “It’s years since we . . . I’ve never given one for you but tonight will be convenient.” Then he had blurted out, never meaning to say it, knowing that it was stupid, inelegant, and a vast mistake, “Lord Toranaga said it was time for us to talk.”

“But you do not, Sire?”

In spite of his resolve he flushed and his voice rasped, “I’d like harmony between us, yes, and more. I’ve never changed, neh?”

“Of course, Sire, and why should you? If there’s any fault it’s not your place to change but mine. If any fault exists, it’s because of me, please excuse me.”

“I’ll excuse you,” he said, towering over her there beside the palanquin, deeply conscious that others were watching, the Anjin-san and Omi among them. She was so lovely and tiny and unique, her hair piled high, her lowered eyes seemingly so demure, yet for him filled now with that same black ice that always sent him into a blind, impotent frenzy, making him want to kill and shout and mutilate and smash and behave the way a samurai never should behave.

“I’ve reserved the cha house for tonight,” he told her. “For tonight, after the evening meal. We’re ordered to eat the evening meal with Lord Toranaga. I would be honored if you would be my guest afterwards.”

“It’s I who am honored.” She bowed and waited with the same lowered eyes and he wanted to smash her to death into the ground, then go off and plunge his knife crisscross into his belly and let the eternal pain cleanse the torment from his soul.

He saw her look up at him discerningly.

“Was there anything else, Sire?” she asked, so softly.

The sweat was running down his back and thighs, staining his kimono, his chest hurting like his head. “You’re—you’re staying at the inn tonight.” Then he had left her and made careful dispositions for the whole baggage train. As soon as he could, he had handed his duties over to Naga and strode off with a pretended truculence down the river bank, and when he was alone, he had plunged naked into the torrent, careless of his safety, and fought the river until his head had cleared and the pounding ache had gone.

He had lain on the bank collecting himself. Now that she had accepted he had to begin. There was little time. He summoned his strength and walked back to the rough garden gate that was within the mother garden and stood there for a moment rethinking his plan. Tonight he wanted everything to be perfect. Obviously the hut was imperfect, like its garden—an uncouth provincial attempt at a real cha house. Never mind, he thought, now completely absorbed in his task, it will have to do. Night will hide many faults and lights will have to create the form it lacks.

Servants had already brought the things he had ordered earlier—tatamis, pottery oil lamps, and cleaning utensils—the very best in Yokosé, everything brand-new but modest, discreet and unpretentious.

He stripped off his kimono, laid down his swords, and began to clean. First the tiny reception room and kitchen and veranda. Then the winding path and the flagstones that were let into the moss, and finally the rocks and skirting garden. He scrubbed and broomed and brushed until everything was spotless, letting himself swoop into the humility of manual labor that was the beginning of the cha-no-yu, where the host alone was required to make everything faultless. The first perfection was absolute cleanliness.

By dusk he had finished most of the preparations. Then he had bathed meticulously, endured the evening meal, and the singing. As soon as he could he had changed again into more somber clothes and hurried back to the garden. He latched the gate. First he put the taper to the oil lamps. Then, carefully, he sprinkled water on the flagstones and the trees that were now splashed here and there with flickering light, until the tiny garden was a fairyland of dewdrops dancing in the warmth of the summer’s breeze. He repositioned some of the lanterns. Finally satisfied, he unlatched the gate and went to the vestibule. The carefully selected pieces of charcoal that had been placed punctiliously in a pyramid on white sand were burning correctly. The flowers seemed correct in the tokonoma. Once more he cleaned the already impeccable utensils. The kettle began to sing and he was pleased with the sound that was enriched by the little pieces of iron he had placed so diligently in the bottom.

All was ready. The first perfection of the cha-no-yu was cleanliness, the second, complete simplicity. The last and greatest, suitability to the particular guest or guests.

He heard her footsteps on the flagstones, the sound of her dipping her hands ritually in the cistern of fresh river water and drying them. Three soft steps up to the veranda. Two more to the curtained doorway. Even she had to bend to come through the tiny door that was made deliberately small to humble everyone. At a cha-no-yu all were equal, host and guest, the most high daimyo and merest samurai. Even a peasant if he was invited.

First she studied her husband’s flower arrangement. He had chosen the blossom of a single white wild rose and put a single pearl of water on the green leaf, and set it on red stones. Autumn is coming, he was suggesting with the flower, talking through the flower, do not weep for the time of fall, the time of dying when the earth begins to sleep; enjoy the time of beginning again and experience the glorious cool of the autumn air on this summer evening . . . soon the tear will vanish and the rose, only the stones will remain—soon you and I will vanish and only the stones will remain.

He watched her, apart from himself, now deep in the near trance that a cha-master sometimes was fortunate enough to experience, completely in harmony with his surroundings. She bowed to the flower in homage and came and knelt opposite him. Her kimono was dark brown, a thread of burnt gold at the seams enhancing the white column of her throat and face; her obi the darkest of greens that matched the underkimono; her hair simple and upswept and unadorned.

“You are welcome,” he said with a bow, beginning the ritual.

“It is my honor,” she replied, accepting her role.

He served the tiny repast on a blemishless lacquered tray, the chopsticks placed just so, the slivers of fish on rice that he had prepared a part of the pattern, and to complete the effect, a few wild flowers that he had found near the river bank scattered in perfect disarray. When she had finished eating and he, in his turn, had finished eating, he lifted the tray, every movement formalized—to be observed and judged and recorded—and took it through the low doorway into the kitchen.

Then alone, at rest, Mariko watched the fire critically, the coals a glowing mountain on a sea of stark white sand below the tripod, her ears listening to the hissing sound of the fire melding with the sighing of the barely simmering kettle above, and, from the unseen kitchen, the sibilance of cloth on porcelain and water cleaning the already clean. In time her eyes wandered to the raw twisted rafters and to the bamboos and the reeds that formed the thatch. The shadows cast by the few lamps he had placed seemingly at random made the small large and the insignificant rare, and the whole a perfect harmony. After she had seen everything and measured her soul against it, she went again into the garden, to the shallow basin that, over eons, nature had formed in the rock. Once more she purified her hands and mouth with the cool, fresh water, drying them on a new towel.

When she had settled back into her place he said, “Perhaps now you would take cha?”

“It would be my honor. But please do not put yourself to so much trouble on my account.”

“It is my honor. You are my guest.”

So he had served her. And now there was the ending.

In the silence, Mariko did not move for a moment, but stayed in her tranquillity, not wishing yet to acknowledge the ending or disturb the peace surrounding her. But she felt the growing strength of his eyes. The cha-no-yu was ended. Now life must begin again.

“You did it perfectly,” she whispered, her sadness overwhelming her. A tear slid from her eyes and the falling ripped the heart from his chest.

“No—no. Please excuse me . . . you are perfect . . . it was ordinary,” he said, startled by such unexpected praise.

“It was the best I’ve ever seen,” she said, moved by the stark honesty in his voice.

“No. No, please excuse me, if it was fair it was because of you, Mariko-san. It was only fair—you made it better.”

“For me it was flawless. Everything. How sad that others, more worthy than I, couldn’t have witnessed it also!” Her eyes glistened in the flickering light.

“You witnessed it. That is everything. It was only for you. Others wouldn’t have understood.”

She felt the hot tears now on her cheeks. Normally she would have been ashamed of them but now they did not trouble her. “Thank you, how can I thank you?”

He picked up a sprig of wild thyme and, his fingers trembling, leaned over and gently caught one of her tears. Silently he looked down at the tear and the branchlet dwarfed by his huge fist. “My work—any work—is inadequate against the beauty of this. Thank you.”

He watched the tear on the leaf. A piece of charcoal fell down the mountain and, without thinking, he picked up the tongs and replaced it. A few sparks danced into the air from the mountaintop and it became an erupting volcano.

Both drifted into a sweet melancholia, joined by the simplicity of the single tear, content together in the quiet, joined in humility, knowing that what had been given had been returned in purity.

Later he said, “If our duty did not forbid it, I would ask you to join me in death. Now.”

“I would go with you. Gladly,” she answered at once. “Let us go to death. Now.”

“We can’t. Our duty is to Lord Toranaga.”

She took out the stiletto that was in her obi and reverently placed it on the tatami. “Then please allow me to prepare the way.”

“No. That would be failing in our duty.”

“What is to be, will be. You and I cannot turn the scale.”

“Yes. But we may not go before our Master. Neither you nor I. He needs every trustworthy vassal for a little longer. Please excuse me, I must forbid it.”

“I would be pleased to go tonight. I’m prepared. More than that, I totally desire to go beyond. Yes. My soul is brimming with joy.” A hesitant smile. “Please excuse me for being selfish. You’re perfectly right about our duty.”

The razor-sharp blade glistened in the candlelight. They watched it, lost in contemplation. Then he broke the spell.

“Why Osaka, Mariko-san?”

“There are things to be done there which only I can do.”

His frown deepened as he watched the light from a guttering wick catch the tear and become refracted into a billion colors.

“What things?”

“Things that concern the future of our house which must be done by me.”

“In that case you must go.” He looked at her searchingly. “But you alone?”

“Yes. I wish to make sure all family arrangements are perfect between us and Lord Kiyama for Saruji’s marriage. Money and dowry and lands and so on. There’s his increased fief to formalize. Lord Hiro-matsu and Lord Toranaga require it done. I am responsible for the house.”

“Yes,” he said slowly, “that’s your duty.” His eyes held hers. “If Lord Toranaga says you can go, then go, but it’s not likely you’ll be permitted there. Even so . . . you must return quickly. Very quickly. It would be unwise to stay in Osaka a moment longer than necessary.”

“Yes.”

“By sea would be quicker than by road. But you’ve always hated the sea.”

“I still hate the sea.”

“Do you have to be there quickly?”

“I don’t think half a month or a month would matter. Perhaps, I don’t know. I just feel I should go at once.”

“Then we will leave the time and the matter of the going to Lord Toranaga—if he permits you to go at all. With Lord Zataki here, and the two scrolls, that can only mean war. It will be too dangerous to go.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Glad that that was now finished, he looked around the little room contentedly, unconcerned now that his ugly bulk dominated the space, each of his thighs broader than her waist, his arms thicker than her neck. “This has been a fine room, better than I’d dared to hope. I’ve enjoyed being here. I’m reminded again that a body’s nothing but a hut in the wilderness. Thank you for being here. I’m so glad you came to Yokosé, Mariko-san. If it hadn’t been for you I would never have given a cha-no-yu here and never felt so one with eternity.”

She hesitated, then shyly picked up the T’ang cha caddy. It was a simple, covered jar without adornment. The orange-brown glaze had run just short, leaving an uneven rim of bare porcelain at the bottom, dramatizing the spontaneity of the potter and his unwillingness to disguise the simplicity of his materials. Buntaro had bought it from Sen-Nakada, the most famous cha-master who had ever lived, for twenty thousand koku. “It’s so beautiful,” she murmured, enjoying the touch of it. “So perfect for the ceremony.”

“Yes.”

“You were truly a master tonight, Buntaro-san. You gave me so much happiness.” Her voice was low and intent and she leaned forward a little. “Everything was perfect for me, the garden and how you used artistry to overcome the flaws with light and shadow. And this”—again she touched the cha caddy. “Everything perfect, even the character you’d written on the towel, ai—affection. For me tonight, affection was the perfect word.” Again tears spilled down her cheeks. “Please excuse me,” she said, brushing them away.

He bowed, embarrassed by such praise. To hide it he began to wrap the caddy in its silken sheaths. When he had finished, he set it into its box and placed it carefully in front of her. “Mariko-san, if our house has money problems, take this. Sell it.”

“Never!” It was the only possession, apart from his swords and longbow, that he prized in life. “That would be the last thing I would ever sell.”

“Please excuse me, but if pay for my vassals is a problem, take it.”

“There’s enough for all of them, with care. And the best weapons and the best horses. In that, our house is strong. No, Buntaro-san, the T’ang is yours.”

“We’ve not much time left to us. Who should I will it to? Saruji?”

She looked at the coals and the fire consuming the volcano, humbling it. “No. Not until he’s a worthy cha-master, equaling his father. I counsel you to leave the T’ang to Lord Toranaga, who’s worthy of it, and ask him before he dies to judge if our son will ever merit receiving it.”

“And if Lord Toranaga loses and dies before winter, as I’m certain he’ll lose?”

“What?”

“Here in this privacy I can tell you quietly that truth, without pretense. Isn’t an important part of the cha-no-yu to be without pretense? Yes, he will lose, unless he gets Kiyama and Onoshi—and Zataki.”

“In that case, set down in your will that the T’ang should be sent with a cortege to His Imperial Highness, petition him to accept it. Certainly the T’ang merits divinity.”

“Yes. That would be the perfect choice.” He studied the knife then added gloomily, “Ah, Mariko-san, there’s nothing to be done for Lord Toranaga. His karma’s written. He wins or he loses. And if he wins or loses there’ll be a great killing.”

“Yes.”

Brooding, he took his eyes off her knife and contemplated the wild thyme sprig, the tear still pure. Later he said, “If he loses, before I die—or if I’m dead—I or one of my men will kill the Anjin-san.”

Her face was ethereal against the darkness. The soft breeze moved threads of her hair, making her seem even more statuelike. “Please excuse me, may I ask why?”

“He’s too dangerous to leave alive. His knowledge, his ideas that I’ve heard even fifth hand . . . he’ll infect the realm, even Lord Yaemon. Lord Toranaga’s already under his spell, neh?”

“Lord Toranaga enjoys his knowledge,” Mariko said.

“The moment Lord Toranaga dies, that also is the Anjin-san’s death order. But I hope our Lord’s eyes are opened before that time.” The guttering lamp spluttered and went out. He glanced up at her. “Are you under his spell?”

“He’s a fascinating man. But his mind’s so different from ours . . . his values . . . yes, so different in so many ways that it’s almost impossible to understand him at times. Once I tried to explain a cha-no-yu to him, but it was beyond him.”

“It must be terrible to be born barbarian—terrible,” Buntaro said. “Yes.”

His eyes dropped to the blade of her stiletto. “Some people think the Anjin-san was Japanese in a previous life. He’s not like other barbarians and he . . . he tries hard to speak and act like one of us though he fails, neh?”

“I wish you’d seen him almost commit seppuku, Buntaro-san. I . . . it was extraordinary. I saw death visit him, to be turned away by Omi’s hand. If he was Japanese previously, I think that would explain many things. Lord Toranaga thinks he’s very valuable to us now.”

“It’s time you stopped training him and became Japanese again.”

“Sire?”

“I think Lord Toranaga’s under his spell. And you.”

“Please excuse me, but I don’t think I am.”

“That other night in Anjiro, the one that went bad, on that night I felt you were with him, against me. Of course it was an evil thought, but I felt it.”

Her gaze left the blade. She looked at him steadily and did not reply. Another lamp spluttered briefly and went out. Now only one light remained in the room.

“Yes, I hated him that night,” Buntaro continued in the same calm voice, “and wanted him dead—and you and Fujiko-san. My bow whispered to me, like it does sometimes, asking for a killing. And when, the next dawn, I saw him coming down the hill with those cowardly little pistols in his hands, my arrows begged to drink his blood. But I put his killing off and humbled myself, hating my bad manners more than him, shamed by my bad manners and the saké.” His tiredness showed now. “So many shames to bear, you and I. Neh?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t want me to kill him?”

“You must do what you know to be your duty,” she said. “As I will always do mine.”

“We stay at the inn tonight,” he said.

“Yes.”

And then, because she had been a perfect guest and the cha-no-yu the best he had ever achieved, he changed his mind and gave her back time and peace in equal measure that he had received from her. “Go to the inn. Sleep,” he said. His hand picked up the stiletto and offered it. “When the maples are bare of leaves—or when you return from Osaka—we will begin again. As husband and wife.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Do you agree freely, Mariko-san?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Before your God?”

“Yes. Before God.”

Mariko bowed and accepted the knife, replaced it in its hiding place, bowed again and left.

Her footsteps died away. Buntaro looked down at the branchlet still in his fist, the tear still trapped in a tiny leaf. His fingers trembled as they gently laid the sprig on the last of the coals. The pure green leaves began to twist and char. The tear vanished with a hiss.

Then, in silence, he began to weep with rage, suddenly sure in his innermost being that she had betrayed him with the Anjin-san.

Blackthorne saw her come out of the garden and walk across the well-lit courtyard. He caught his breath at the whiteness of her beauty. Dawn was creeping into the eastern sky.

“Hello, Mariko-san.”

“Oh—hello, Anjin-san! You—so sorry, you startled me—I didn’t see you there. You’re up late.”

“No. Gomen nasai, I’m on time.” He smiled and motioned to the morning that was not far off. “It’s a habit I picked up at sea, to wake just before dawn, in good time to go aloft to get ready to shoot the sun.” His smile deepened. “It’s you who’re up late!”

“I didn’t realize that it was . . . that night was gone.” Samurai were posted at the gates and all doorways, watching curiously, Naga among them. Her voice became almost imperceptible as she switched to Latin. “Guard thine eyes, I beg thee. Even the darkness of night contains harbingers of doom.”

“I beg forgiveness.”

They glanced away as horses clattered up to the main gate. Falconers and the hunting party and guards. Dispiritedly Toranaga came from within.

“Everything’s ready, Sire,” Naga said. “May I come with you?”

“No, no, thank you. You get some rest. Mariko-san, how was the cha-no-yu?”

“Most beautiful, Sire. Most very beautiful.”

“Buntaro-san’s a master. You’re fortunate.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Anjin-san! Would you like to go hunting? I’d like to learn how you fly a falcon.”

“Sire?”

Mariko translated at once.

“Yes, thank you,” Blackthorne said.

“Good.” Toranaga waved him to a horse. “You come with me.”

“Yes, Sire.”

Mariko watched them leave. When they had trotted up the path, she went to her room. Her maid helped her undress, remove her makeup, and take down her hair. Then she told the maid to stay in the room, that she was not to be disturbed until noon.

“Yes, mistress.”

Mariko lay down and closed her eyes and allowed her body to fall into the exquisite softness of the down quilts. She was exhausted and elated. The cha-no-yu had pushed her to a strange height of peacefulness, cleansing her, and from there, the sublime, joy-filled decision to go into death had sent her to a further pinnacle never attained before. Returning from the summit into life once more had left her with an eerie, unbelievable awareness of the beauty of being alive. She had seemed to be outside herself as she answered Buntaro patiently, sure her answers and her performance had been equally perfect. She curled up in the bed, so glad that peace existed now . . . until the leaves fell.

Oh, Madonna, she prayed fervently, I thank thee for thy mercy in granting me my glorious reprieve. I thank thee and worship thee with all my heart and with all my soul and for all eternity.

She repeated an Ave Maria in humility and then, asking forgiveness, in accordance to her custom and in obedience to her liege lord, for another day she put her God into a compartment of her mind.

What would I have done, she mused just before sleep took her, if Buntaro had asked to share my bed?

I would have refused.

And then, if he had insisted, as is his right?

I would have kept my promise to him. Oh, yes. Nothing’s changed.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

At the Hour of the Goat the cortege crossed the bridge again. Everything was as before, except that now Zataki and his men were lightly dressed for traveling—or skirmishing. They were all heavily armed and, though very well disciplined, all were spoiling for the death fight, if it came. They seated themselves neatly opposite Toranaga’s forces, which heavily outnumbered them. Father Alvito was to one side among the onlookers. And Blackthorne.

Toranaga welcomed Zataki with the same calm formality, prolonging the ceremonious seating. Today the two daimyos were alone on the dais, the cushions farther apart under a lower sky. Yabu, Omi, Naga, and Buntaro were on the earth surrounding Toranaga and four of Zataki’s fighting counselors spaced themselves behind him.

At the correct time, Zataki took out the second scroll. “I’ve come for your formal answer.”

“I agree to go to Osaka and to submit to the will of the Council,” replied Toranaga evenly, and bowed.

“You’re going to submit?” Zataki began, his face twisting with disbelief. “You, Toranaga-noh-Minowara, you’re going—”

“Listen,” Toranaga interrupted in his resonant commanding voice that richocheted around the clearing without seeming to be loud. “The Council of Regents should be obeyed! Even though it’s illegal, it is constituted and no single daimyo has the right to tear the realm apart, however much truth is on his side. The realm takes precedence. If one daimyo revolts, it is the duty of all to stamp him out. I swore to the Taikō I’d never be the first to break the peace, and I won’t, even though evil is in the land. I accept the invitation. I will leave today.”

Aghast, each samurai was trying to foretell what this unbelievable about-face would mean. All were achingly certain that most, if not all, would be forced to become ronin, with all that that implied—loss of honor, of revenue, of family, of future.

Buntaro knew that he would accompany Toranaga on his last journey and share his fate—death with all his family, of all generations. Ishido was too much his own personal enemy to forgive, and anyway, who would want to stay alive when his own lord gave up the true fight in such cowardly fashion. Karma, Buntaro thought bitterly. Buddha give me strength! Now I’m committed to take Mariko’s life and our son’s life before I take my own. When? When my duty’s done and our lord is safely and honorably gone into the Void. He will need a faithful second, neh? All gone, like autumn leaves, all the future and the present, Crimson Sky and destiny. It’s just as well, neh? Now Lord Yaemon will surely inherit. Lord Toranaga must be secretly tempted in his most private heart to take power, however much he denies it. Perhaps the Taikō will live again through his son and, in time, we’ll war on China again and win this time, to stand at the summit of the world as is our divine duty. Yes, the Lady Ochiba and Yaemon won’t sell us out next time as Ishido and his cowardly supporters did the last. . . .

Naga was bewildered. No Crimson Sky? No honorable war? No fighting to the death in the Shinano mountains or on the Kyoto plains? No honorable death in battle heroically defending the standard of his father, no mounds of enemy dead to straddle in a last glorious stand, or in a divine victory? No charge even with the filthy guns? None of that—just a seppuku, probably hurried, without pomp or ceremony or honor and his head stuck on a spike for common people to jeer at. Just a death and the end of the Yoshi line. For of course every one of them would die, his father, all his brothers and sisters and cousins, nephews and nieces and aunts and uncles. His eyes focused on Zataki. Blood lust began to flood his brain. . . .

Omi was watching Toranaga with half-seeing eyes, hatred devouring him. Our Master’s gone mad, he thought. How can he be so stupid? We’ve a hundred thousand men and the Musket Regiment and fifty thousand more around Osaka! Crimson Sky’s a million times better than a lonely stinking grave!

His hand was heavy on his sword hilt and, for an ecstatic moment, he imagined himself leaping forward to decapitate Toranaga, to hand the head to the Regent Zataki and so end the contemptuous charade. Then to die by his own hand with honor, here, before everyone. For what was the point of living now? Now Kiku was beyond his reach, her contract bought and owned by Toranaga who had betrayed them all. Last night his body had been on fire during her singing and he knew her song had been secretly for him, and him alone. Unrequited fire—him and her. Wait—why not a suicide together? To die beautifully together, to be together for all eternity. Oh, how wonderful that would be! To mix our souls in death as a never-ending witness to our adoration of life. But first the traitor Toranaga, neh?

With an effort Omi dragged himself back from the brink.

Everything’s gone wrong, he thought. No peace in my house, always anger and quarreling, and Midori always in tears. No nearer my revenge on Yabu. No private, secret arrangement with Zataki, with or without Yabu, negotiated over the hours last night. No deal of any kind. Nothing right anymore. Even when Mura found the swords, both were so mutilated by the earth’s force that I know Toranaga hated me for showing them to him. And now finally this—this cowardly, traitorous surrender!

It’s almost as though I’m bedeviled—in an evil spell. Cast by the Anjin-san? Perhaps. But everything’s still lost. No swords and no revenge and no secret escape route and no Kiku and no future. Wait. There’s a future with her. Death’s a future and past and present and it’ll be so clean and simple. . . .

“You’re giving up? We’re not going to war?” Yabu bellowed, aware that his death and the death of his line were now guaranteed.

“I accept the Council’s invitation,” Toranaga replied. “As you will accept the Council’s invitation!”

“I won’t do—”

Omi came out of his reverie with enough presence of mind to know that he had to interrupt Yabu and protect him from the instant death that any confrontation with Toranaga would bring. But he deliberately froze his lips, shouting to himself with glee at this heaven-sent gift, and waited for Yabu’s disaster to overtake him.

“You won’t do what?” Toranaga asked.

Yabu’s soul shrieked danger. He managed to croak, “I—I—of course your vassals will obey. Yes—if you decide—whatever you decide I—I will do.”

Omi cursed and allowed the glazed expression to return, his mind still withered by Toranaga’s totally unexpected capitulation.

Angrily Toranaga let Yabu stutter on, increasing the strength of the apology. Then contemptuously he cut him short. “Good.” He turned back to Zataki but he did not relax his vigil. “So, Brother, you can put away the second scroll. There’s nothing more—” From the corner of his eye he saw Naga’s face change and he wheeled on him. “Naga!”

The youth almost leapt out of his skin, but his hand left his sword. “Yes, Father?” he stammered.

“Go and fetch my writing materials! Now!” When Naga was well out of sword range Toranaga exhaled, relieved that he had prevented the attack on Zataki before it had begun. His eyes studied Buntaro carefully. Then Omi. And last Yabu. He thought the three of them were now sufficiently controlled not to make any foolish move that would precipitate an immediate riot and a great killing.

Once again he addressed Zataki. “I’ll give you my formal written acceptance at once. This will prepare the Council for my state visit.” He lowered his voice and spoke for Zataki’s ears alone. “Inside Izu you’re safe, Regent. Outside it you’re safe. Until my mother’s out of your grasp you’re safe. Only until then. This meeting is over.”

“Good. ‘State visit’?” Zataki was openly contemptuous. “What hypocrisy! I never thought I’d see the day when Yoshi Toranaga-noh-Minowara would kowtow to General Ishido. You’re just—”

“Which is more important, Brother?” Toranaga said. “The continuity of my line—or the continuity of the realm?”

Gloom hung over the valley. It was pouring now, the base of the clouds barely three hundred feet from the ground, obscuring completely the way back up the pass. The clearing and the inn’s forecourt were filled with shoving, ill-tempered samurai. Horses stamped their feet irritably. Officers were shouting orders with unnecessary harshness. Frightened porters were rushing about readying the departing column. Barely an hour remained to darkness.

Toranaga had written the flowery message and signed it, sending it by messenger to Zataki, over the entreaties of Buntaro, Omi, and Yabu, in private conference. He had listened to their arguments silently.

When they had finished, he said, “I want no more talk. I’ve decided my path. Obey!”

He had told them he was returning to Anjiro immediately to collect the rest of his men. Tomorrow he would head up the east coast road toward Atami and Odawara, thence over the mountain passes to Yedo. Buntaro would command his escort. Tomorrow the Musket Regiment was to embark on the galleys at Anjiro and put to sea to await him at Yedo, Yabu in command. The following day Omi was ordered to the frontier via the central road with all available Izu warriors. He was to assist Hiro-matsu, who was in overall command, and was to make sure that the enemy, Ikawa Jikkyu, did nothing to interfere with normal traffic. Omi was to base himself in Mishima for the time being, to guard that section of the Tokaidō Road, and to prepare palanquins and horses in sufficient quantity for Toranaga and the considerable entourage that was necessary to a formal state visit. “Alert all stations along the road and prepare them equally. You understand?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Make sure that everything’s perfect!”

“Yes, Sire. You may rely on me.” Even Omi had winced under the baleful glare.

When everything was ready for his departure, Toranaga came out from his rooms onto the veranda. Everyone bowed. Sourly he motioned them to continue and sent for the innkeeper. The man fawned as he presented the bill on his knees. Toranaga checked it item by item. The bill was very fair. He nodded and threw it at his paymaster for payment, then summoned Mariko and the Anjin-san. Mariko was given permission to go to Osaka. “But first you’ll go directly from here to Mishima. Give this private dispatch to Hiro-matsu-san, then continue on to Yedo with the Anjin-san. You’re responsible for him until you arrive. You’ll probably go by sea to Osaka—I’ll decide that later. Anjin-san! Did you get the dictionary from the priest-san?”

“Please? So sorry, I don’t understand.”

Mariko translated.

“Sorry. Yes, I book got.”

“When we meet in Yedo, you’ll speak better Japanese than you do now. Wakarimasu ka?”

“Hai. Gomen nasai.”

Despondently Toranaga stomped out of the courtyard, a samurai holding a large umbrella for him against the rain. As one, all samurai, porters, and villagers again bowed. Toranaga paid no attention to them, just got into his roofed palanquin at the head of the column and closed the curtains.

At once, the six seminaked bearers raised the litter and started off at a loping trot, their horny bare feet splashing the puddles. Mounted escorting samurai rode ahead, and another mounted guard surrounded the palanquin. Spare porters and the baggage train followed, all hurrying, all tense and filled with dread. Omi led the van. Buntaro was to command the rearguard. Yabu and Naga had already left for the Musket Regiment that was still athwart the road in ambush to await Toranaga at the crest; it would fall in behind to form a rearguard. “Rearguard against whom?” Yabu had snarled at Omi in the few moments of privacy they had had before he galloped off.

Buntaro strode back to the high, curved gateway of the inn, careless of the downpour. “Mariko-san!”

Obediently she hurried to him, her orange oiled-paper umbrella beaten by the heavy drops. “Yes, Sire?”

His eyes raced over her under the brim of his bamboo hat, then went to Blackthorne, who watched from the veranda. “Tell him . . .” He stopped.

“Sire?”

He stared down at her. “Tell him I hold him responsible for you.”

“Yes, Sire,” she said. “But, please excuse me, I am responsible for me.”

Buntaro turned and measured the distance to the head of the column.

When he glanced back his face showed a trace of his torment. “Now there’ll be no falling leaves for our eyes, neh?”

“That is in the hands of God, Sire.”

“No, that’s in Lord Toranaga’s hands,” he said with disdain.

She looked up at him without wavering under his stare. The rain beat down. Droplets fell from the rim of her umbrella like a curtain of tears. Mud splattered the hem of her kimono. Then he said, “Sayonara—until I see you at Osaka.”

She was startled. “Oh, so sorry, won’t I see you at Yedo? Surely you’ll be there with Lord Toranaga, you’ll arrive about the same time, neh? I’ll see you then.”

“Yes. But at Osaka, when we meet there or when you return from there, then we begin again. That’s when I’ll truly see you, neh?”

“Ah, I understand. So sorry.”

“Sayonara, Mariko-san,” he said.

“Sayonara, my Lord.” Mariko bowed. He returned her obeisance peremptorily and strode through the quagmire to his horse. He swung into the saddle and galloped away without looking back.

“Go with God,” she said, staring after him.

Blackthorne saw her eyes following Buntaro. He waited in the lee of the roof, the rain lessening. Soon the head of the column vanished into the clouds, then Toranaga’s palanquin, and he breathed easier, still shattered by Toranaga and the whole ill-omened day.

This morning the hawking had begun so well. He had chosen a tiny, long-wing falcon, like a merlin, and flew her very successfully at a lark, the stoop and soaring chase blown southward beyond a belt of trees by the freshening wind. Leading the charge as was his privilege, he careered through the forest along a well-beaten path, itinerant peddlers and farmers scattering. But a weather-beaten oil seller with an equally threadbare horse blocked the way and cantankerously wouldn’t budge. In the excitement of the chase Blackthorne had shouted at the man to move, but the peddler would not, so he cursed him roundly. The oil seller replied rudely and shouted back and then Toranaga was there and Toranaga pointed at his own bodyguard and said, “Anjin-san, give him your sword a moment,” and some other words he did not understand. Blackthorne obeyed at once. Before he realized what was happening, the samurai lunged at the peddler. His blow was so savage and so perfect that the oil seller had walked on a pace before falling, divided in two at the waist.

Toranaga had pounded his pommel with momentary delight, then fell back into his melancholy as the other samurai had cheered. The bodyguard cleansed the blade carefully, using his silken sash to protect the steel. He sheathed the sword with satisfaction and returned it, saying something that Mariko explained later. “He just said, Anjin-san, that he was proud to be allowed to test such a blade. Lord Toranaga is suggesting you should nickname the sword ‘Oil Seller,’ because such a blow and such sharpness should be remembered with honor. Your sword has now become legend, neh?”

Blackthorne recalled how he had nodded, hiding his anguish. He was wearing “Oil Seller” now—Oil Seller it would be forevermore—the same sword that Toranaga had presented to him. I wish he’d never given it to me, he thought. But it wasn’t all their fault, it was mine too. I shouted at the man, he was rude in return, and samurai may not be treated rudely. What other course was there? Blackthorne knew there was none. Even so, the killing had taken the joy out of the hunt for him, though he had to hide that carefully because Toranaga had been moody and difficult all day.

Just before noon, they had returned to Yokosé, then there was Toranaga’s meeting with Zataki and then after a steaming bath and massage, suddenly Father Alvito was standing in his way like a vengeful wraith, two hostile acolytes in attendance. “Christ Jesus, get away from me!”

“There’s no need to be afraid, or to blaspheme,” Alvito had said.

“God curse you and all priests!” Blackthorne said, trying to get hold of himself, knowing that he was deep in enemy territory. Earlier he’d seen half a hundred Catholic samurai trickling over the bridge to the Mass that Mariko had told him was being held in the forecourt of Alvito’s inn. His hand sought the hilt of his sword, but he was not wearing it with his bathrobe, or carrying it as was customary, and he cursed his stupidity, hating to be unarmed.

“May God forgive you your blasphemy, Pilot. Yes. May He forgive you and open your eyes. I bear you no malice. I came to bring you a gift. Here, here’s a gift from God, Pilot.”

Blackthorne took the package suspiciously. When he opened it and saw the Portuguese-Latin-Japanese dictionary/grammar, a thrill rushed through him. He leafed through a few pages. The printing was certainly the best he had ever seen, the quality and detail of the information staggering. “Yes, this is a gift from God all right, but Lord Toranaga ordered you to give it to me.”

“We obey only God’s orders.”

“Toranaga asked you to give it to me?”

“Yes. It was his request.”

“And a Toranaga ‘request’ isn’t an order?”

“That depends, Captain-Pilot, on who you are, what you are, and how great your faith.” Alvito motioned at the book. “Three of our Brethren spent twenty-seven years preparing that.”

“Why are you giving it to me?”

“We were asked to.”

“Why didn’t you avoid Lord Toranaga’s request? You’re more than cunning enough to do that.”

Alvito shrugged. Quickly Blackthorne flicked through all the pages, checking. Excellent paper, the printing very clear. The numbers of the pages were in sequence.

“It’s complete,” Alvito said, amused. “We don’t deal with half books.”

“This is much too valuable to give away. What do you want in return?”

“He asked us to give it to you. The Father-Visitor agreed. So you are given it. It was only printed this year, at long last. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? We only ask you to cherish it, to treat the book well. It’s worth treating well.”

“It’s worth guarding with a life. This is priceless knowledge, like one of your rutters. But this is better. What do you want for it?”

“We ask nothing in return.”

“I don’t believe you.” Blackthorne weighed it in his hand, even more suspiciously. “You must know this makes me equal to you. It gives me all your knowledge and saves us ten, maybe twenty years. With this I’ll soon be speaking as well as you. Once I can do that, I can teach others. This is the key to Japan, neh? Language is the key to anywhere foreign, neh? In six months I’ll be able to talk direct to Toranaga-sama.”

“Yes, perhaps you will. If you have six months.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing more than what you already know. Lord Toranaga will be dead long before six months is up.”

“Why? What news did you bring him? Ever since he talked with you he’s been like a bull with half its throat ripped out. What did you say, eh?”

“My message was private, from his Eminence to Lord Toranaga. I’m sorry—I’m merely a messenger. But General Ishido controls Osaka, as you surely know, and when Toranaga-sama goes to Osaka everything is finished for him. And for you.”

Blackthorne felt ice in his marrow. “Why me?”

“You can’t escape your fate, Pilot. You helped Toranaga against Ishido. Have you forgotten? You put your hands violently on Ishido. You led the dash out of Osaka harbor. I’m sorry, but being able to speak Japanese, or your swords and samurai status, won’t help you at all. Perhaps it’s worse now that you’re samurai. Now you’ll be ordered to commit seppuku and if you refuse . . .” Alvito had added in the same gentle voice, “I told you before, they are a simple people.”

“We English are simple people, too,” he said, with no little bravado. “When we’re dead we’re dead, but before that we put our trust in God and keep our powder dry. I’ve a few tricks left, never fear.”

“Oh, I don’t fear, Pilot. I fear nothing, not you nor your heresy, nor your guns. They’re all spiked—as you’re spiked.”

“That’s karma—in the hands of God—call it what you will,” Blackthorne told him, rattled. “But by the Lord God, I’ll get my ship back and then, in a couple of years, I’ll lead a squadron of English ships out here and blow you all to hell out of Asia.”

Alvito spoke again with his vast unnerving calm. “That’s in the hands of God, Pilot. But here the die is cast and nothing of what you say will happen. Nothing.” Alvito had looked at him as though he were already dead. “May God have mercy on you, for as God is my judge, Pilot, I believe you’ll never leave these islands.”

Blackthorne shivered, remembering the total conviction with which Alvito had said that.

“You’re cold, Anjin-san?”

Mariko was standing beside him on the veranda now, shaking out her umbrella in the dusk. “Oh, sorry, no, I’m not cold—I was just wandering.” He glanced up at the pass. The whole column had vanished into the cloud bank. The rain had abated a little and had become mild and soft. Some villagers and servants splashed through the puddles, homeward bound. The forecourt was empty, the garden water-logged. Oil lanterns were coming on throughout the village. No longer were there sentries on the gateway, or at both sides of the bridge. A great emptiness seemed to dominate the twilight.

“It’s much prettier at night, isn’t it?” she said.

“Yes,” he replied, totally aware that they were alone together, and safe, if they were careful and if she wanted as he wanted.

A maid came and took her umbrella, bringing dry tabi socks. She knelt and began to towel Mariko’s feet dry.

“Tomorrow at dawn we’ll begin our journey, Anjin-san.”

“How long will it take us?”

“A number of days, Anjin-san. Lord Toranaga said—” Mariko glanced off as Gyoko padded obsequiously from inside the inn. “Lord Toranaga told me there was plenty of time.”

Gyoko bowed low. “Good evening, Lady Toda, please excuse me for interrupting you.”

“How are you, Gyoko-san?”

“Fine, thank you, though I wish this rain would stop. I don’t like this mugginess. But then, when the rains stop, we have the heat and that’s so much worse, neh? But the autumn’s not far away. . . . Ah, we’re so lucky to have autumn to look forward to, and heavenly spring, neh?”

Mariko did not answer. The maid fastened the tabi for her and got up. “Thank you,” Mariko said, dismissing her. “So, Gyoko-san? There’s something I can do for you?”

“Kiku-san asked if you would like her to serve you at dinner, or to dance or sing for you tonight. Lord Toranaga left instructions for her to entertain you, if you wished.”

“Yes, he told me, Gyoko-san. That would be very nice, but perhaps not tonight. We have to leave at dawn and I’m very tired. There’ll be other nights, neh? Please give her my apologies, and, oh yes, please tell her I’m delighted to have the company of you both on the road.” Toranaga had ordered Mariko to take the two women with her, and she had thanked him, pleased to have them as a formal chaperone.

“You’re too kind,” Gyoko said with honey on her tongue. “But it’s our honor. We’re still to go to Yedo?”

“Yes. Of course. Why?”

“Nothing, Lady Toda. But, in that case, perhaps we could stop in Mishima for a day or two? Kiku-san would like to gather up some clothes—she doesn’t feel adequately gowned for Lord Toranaga, and I hear the Yedo summer’s very sultry and mosquitoed. We should collect her wardrobe, bad as it is.”

“Yes. Of course. You’ll both have more than enough time.”

Gyoko did not look at Blackthorne, though both were very conscious of him. “It’s—it’s tragic about our Master, neh?”

“Karma,” Mariko replied evenly. Then she added with a woman’s sweet viciousness, “But nothing’s changed, Gyoko-san. You’ll be paid the day you arrive, in silver, as the contract says.”

“Oh, so sorry,” the older woman told her, pretending to be shocked. “So sorry, Lady Toda, but money? That was farthest from my mind. Never! I was only concerned with our Master’s future.”

“He’s master of his own future,” Mariko said easily, believing it no more. “But your future’s good, isn’t it—whatever happens. You’re rich now. All your worldly troubles are over. Soon you’ll be a power in Yedo with your new guild of courtesans, whoever rules the Kwanto. Soon you’ll be the greatest of all Mama-sans, and whatever happens, well, Kiku-san’s still your protégée and her youth’s not touched, neither is her karma. Neh?”

“My only concern is for Lord Toranaga,” Gyoko answered with practiced gravity, her anus twitching at the thought of two thousand five hundred koku so nearly in her strong room. “If there is any way I could help him I would—”

“How generous of you, Gyoko-san! I’ll tell him of your offer. Yes, a thousand koku off the price would help very much. I accept on his behalf.”

Gyoko fluttered her fan, put a gracious smile on her face, and just managed not to wail aloud at her imbecility for jumping into a trap like a saké-besotted novice. “Oh no, Lady Toda, how could money help so generous a patron? No, clearly money’s no help to him,” she babbled, trying to recover. “No, money’s no help. Better information or a service or—”

“Please excuse me, what information?”

“None, none at the moment. I was just using that as a figure of speech, so sorry. But money—”

“Ah, so sorry, yes. Well, I’ll tell him of your offer. And of your generosity. On his behalf, thank you.”

Gyoko bowed at the dismissal and scuttled back into the inn. Mariko’s little laugh trickled out. “What are you laughing at, Mariko-san?”

She told him what had been said. “Mama-sans must be the same the world over. She’s just worried about her money.”

“Will Lord Toranaga pay even though . . .” Blackthorne stopped. Mariko waited guilelessly. Then, under her gaze, he continued, “Father Alvito said when Lord Toranaga goes to Osaka, he’s finished.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, Anjin-san, that’s most very true,” Mariko said with a brightness she did not feel. Then she put Toranaga and Osaka into their compartments and was tranquil again. “But Osaka’s many leagues away and countless sticks of time in the future, and until that time when what is to be is, Ishido doesn’t know, the good Father doesn’t truly know, we don’t know, no one knows what will truly happen. Neh? Except the Lord God. But He won’t tell us, will He? Until perhaps it has already come to pass. Neh?”

“Hai!” He laughed with her. “Ah, you’re so wise.”

“Thank you. I have a suggestion, Anjin-san. During the journey time, let us forget all outside problems. All of them.”

“Thou,” he said in Latin. “It is good to see thee.”

“And thee. Extraordinary care in front of both women during our journey is very necessary, neh?”

“Depend on it, Lady.”

“I do. In truth I do very much.”

“Now we are almost alone, neh? Thou and I.”

“Yes. But what was is not and never happened.”

“True. Yes. Thou art correct again. And beautiful.”

A samurai strode through the gateway and saluted her. He was middle-aged with graying hair, his face pitted, and he walked with a slight limp. “Please excuse me, Lady Toda, but we’ll leave at dawn, neh?”

“Yes, Yoshinaka-san. But it doesn’t matter if we’re delayed till noon, if you wish. We’ve plenty of time.”

“Yes. As you prefer, let us leave at noon. Good evening, Anjin-san. Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m Akira Yoshinaka, captain of your escort.”

“Good evening, Captain.”

Yoshinaka turned back to Mariko. “I’m responsible for you and him, Lady, so please tell him I’ve ordered two men to sleep in his room by night as his personal guards. Then there’ll be ten sentries on duty nightly. They’ll be all around you. I’ve a hundred men in all.”

“Very well, Captain. But, so sorry, it would be better not to station any men in the Anjin-san’s room. It’s a very serious custom of theirs to sleep alone, or alone with one lady. My maid will probably be with him, so he’ll be protected. Please keep the guards around but not too close, then he won’t be unsettled.”

Yoshinaka scratched his head and frowned. “Very well, Lady. Yes, I’ll agree to that, though my way’s more sensible. Then, so sorry, then please ask him not to go on any of these night walks of his. Until we get to Yedo I’m responsible and when I’m responsible for very important persons I get very nervous.” He bowed stiffly and went away.

“The Captain asks you not to walk off by yourself during our journey. If you get up at night, always take a samurai with you, Anjin-san. He says this would help him.”

“All right. Yes, I’ll do that.” Blackthorne was watching him leave. “What else did he say? I caught something about sleeping? I couldn’t understand him very—” He stopped. Kiku came from within. She wore a bathrobe with a towel decorously swathed around her hair. Barefoot, she sauntered toward the hot-spring bath house, half bowed to them, and waved gaily. They returned her salutation.

Blackthorne took in her long legs and the sinuousness of her walk until she disappeared. He felt Mariko’s eyes watching him closely and looked back at her. “No,” he said blandly and shook his head.

She laughed. “I thought it might be difficult—might be uncomfortable for you, to have her just as a traveling companion after such a special pillowing.”

“Uncomfortable, no. On the contrary, very pleasant. I’ve very pleasant memories. I’m glad she belongs to Lord Toranaga now. That makes everything easy, for her and for him. And everyone.” He was going to add, everyone except Omi, but thought better of it. “After all, to me she was only a very special, glorious gift. Nothing more. Neh?”

“She was a gift, yes.”

He wanted to touch Mariko. But he did not. Instead he turned and stared up at the pass, not sure what he read behind her eyes. Night obscured the pass now. And the clouds. Water dripped nicely from the roof. “What else did the Captain say?”

“Nothing of importance, Anjin-san.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Their journey to Mishima took nine days, and every night, for part of the night, they were together. Secretly. Unwittingly Yoshinaka assisted them. At each inn he would naturally choose adjacent rooms for all of them. “I hope you do not object, Lady, but this will make security much easier,” he would always say, and Mariko would agree and take the center room, Kiku and Gyoko to one side, Blackthorne to the other. Then, in the dark of the night she would leave her maid, Chimmoko, and go to him. With adjoining rooms, coupled with the usual chatter and night sounds and singing and carousing of other travelers with their swarms of ever-present, anxious-to-please maids, the alert outward-guarding sentries were none the wiser. Only Chimmoko was privy to the secret.

Mariko was aware that eventually Gyoko, Kiku, and all the women in their party would know. But this did not worry her. She was samurai and they were not. Her word would carry against theirs, unless she was caught blatantly, and no samurai, not even Yoshinaka, would normally dare to open her door by night, uninvited. As far as everyone was concerned Blackthorne shared his bed with Chimmoko, or one of the maids in the inn. It was no one’s business but his. So only a woman could betray her, and if she was betrayed, her betrayer and all the women of the party would die an even more vulgar and more lingering death than hers for so disgusting a betrayal. Then too, if she wished, before they reached Mishima or Yedo, all knew she could have them put to death at her whim for the slightest indiscretion, real or alleged. Mariko was sure Toranaga would not object to a killing. Certainly he would applaud Gyoko’s and, in her private heart, Mariko was sure he would not object even to Kiku’s. Two and a half thousand koku could buy many a courtesan of the First Rank.

So she felt safe from the women. But not from Blackthorne, much as she loved him now. He was not Japanese. He had not been trained from birth to build the inner, impenetrable fences behind which to hide. His face or manner or pride would betray them. She was not afraid for herself. Only for him.

“At long last I know what love means,” she murmured the first night. And because she no longer fought against love’s onslaught but yielded to its irresistibility, her terror for his safety consumed her. “I love thee, so I’m afraid for thee,” she whispered, holding on to him, using Latin, the language of lovers.

“I love thee. Oh, how I love thee.”

“I’ve destroyed thee, my love, by beginning. We’re doomed now. I’ve destroyed thee—that is the truth.”

“No, Mariko, somehow something will happen to make everything right.”

“I should never have begun. The fault is mine.”

“Do not worry, I beg thee. Karma is karma.”

At length she pretended to be persuaded and melted into his arms. But she was sure he would be his own nemesis. For herself she was not afraid.

The nights were joyous. Tender and each one better than before. The days were easy for her, difficult for him. He was constantly on guard, determined for her sake not to make a mistake. “There will be no mistake,” she said while they were riding together, safely apart from the rest, now keeping up a pretense of absolute confidence after her lapse of the first night. “Thou art strong. Thou art samurai and there will be no mistake.”

“And when we get to Yedo?”

“Let Yedo take care of Yedo. I love thee.”

“Yes. I love thee too.”

“Then why so sad?”

“Not sad, Lady. Just that silence is painful. I wish to shout my love from the mountaintops.”

They delighted in their privacy and their certainty they were still safe from prying eyes.

“What will happen to them, Gyoko-san?” Kiku asked softly in their palanquin on the first day of the journey.

“Disaster, Kiku-san. There’s no hope for their future. He hides it well, but she . . . ! Her adoration shouts from her face. Look at her! Like a young girl! Oh, how foolish she is!”

“But oh, how beautiful, neh? How lucky to be so fulfilled, neh?”

“Yes, but even so I wouldn’t wish their deaths on anyone.”

“What will Yoshinaka do when he discovers them?” Kiku asked.

“Perhaps he won’t. I pray he won’t. Men are such fools and so stupid. They can’t see the simplest things about women, thanks be to Buddha, bless his name. Let’s pray they’re not discovered until we’ve gone about our business in Yedo. Let’s pray we’re not held responsible. Oh very yes! And this afternoon when we stop, let’s find the nearest shrine and I’ll light ten incense sticks as a god-favor. By all gods I’ll even endow a temple to all gods with three koku yearly for ten years if we escape and if I get my money.”

“But they’re so beautiful together, neh? I’ve never seen a woman blossom so.”

“Yes, but she’ll wither like a broken camellia when she’s accused before Buntaro-san. Their karma is their karma and there’s nothing we can do about them. Or about Lord Toranaga—or even Omi-san. Don’t cry, child.”

“Poor Omi-san.”

Omi had overtaken them on the third day. He had stayed at their inn, and after the evening meal he had spoken privately to Kiku, asking her formally to join him for all eternity.

“Willingly, Omi-san, willingly,” she had answered at once, allowing herself to cry, for she liked him very much. “But my duty to Lord Toranaga who favored me, and to Gyoko-san who formed me, forbids it.”

“But Lord Toranaga’s forfeited his rights to you. He’s surrendered. He’s finished.”

“But his contract isn’t, Omi-san, much as I wish it. His contract’s legal and binding. Please excuse me, I must refuse—”

“Don’t answer now, Kiku-san. Think about it. Please, I beg you. Tomorrow give me your answer,” he said and left her.

But her tearful answer had been the same. “I can’t be so selfish, Omi-san. Please forgive me. My duty to Lord Toranaga and to Gyoko-san—I can’t, much as I’d wish it. Please forgive me.”

He had argued. More private tears flowed. They had sworn perpetual adoration and then she had sent him away with a promise: “If the contract’s broken, or Lord Toranaga dies and I’m freed, then I’ll do whatever you want, I’ll obey whatever you order.” And so he had left the inn and rode on ahead to Mishima filled with foreboding, and she had dried her tears and repaired her makeup. Gyoko complimented her. “You’re so wise, child. Oh, how I wish the Lady Toda had half your wisdom.”

Yoshinaka led leisurely from inn to inn along the course of the river Kano as it meandered northward to the sea, falling in with the delays that always seemed to happen, not caring about time. Toranaga had told him privately there was no need to hurry, providing he delivered his charges safely to Yedo by the new moon. “I’d prefer them there later than sooner, Yoshinaka-san. You understand?”

“Yes, Sire,” he had replied. Now he blessed his guarding kami for giving him the respite. At Mishima with Lord Hiro-matsu—or at Yedo with Lord Toranaga—he would have to make his obligatory report, verbally and in writing. Then he would have to decide whether he should tell what he thought, not what he had been so careful not to see. Eeeeee, he told himself, appalled, surely I’m mistaken. The Lady Toda? Her and any man, let alone the barbarian!

Isn’t it your duty to see? he asked himself. To obtain proof. To catch them behind closed doors, bedded together. You’ll be condemned yourself for collusion if you don’t, neh? It’d be so easy, even though they’re very careful.

Yes, but only a fool would bring such tidings, he thought. Isn’t it better to play the dullard and pray no one betrays them and so betrays you? Her life’s ended, we’re all doomed, so what does it matter? Turn your eyes away. Leave them to their karma. What does it matter?

With all his soul, the samurai knew it mattered very much.

“Ah, good morning, Mariko-san. How beautiful the day is,” Father Alvito said, walking up to them. They were outside the inn, ready to start the day’s journey. He made the sign of the cross over her. “May God bless you and keep you in His hands forever.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“Good morning, Pilot. How are you today?”

“Good, thank you. And you?”

Their party and the Jesuits had leapfrogged each other on the march. Sometimes they had stayed at the same inn. Sometimes they journeyed together.

“Would you like me to ride with you this morning, Pilot? I’d be happy to continue the Japanese lessons, if you’ve a mind.”

“Thank you. Yes, I’d like that.”

On the first day, Alvito had offered to try to teach Blackthorne the language.

“In return for what?” Blackthorne had asked warily.

“Nothing. It would help me pass the time, and to tell you the truth, at the moment I’m saddened by life and feel old. Also perhaps to apologize for my harsh words.”

“I expect no apology from you. You’ve your way, I’ve mine. We can never meet.”

“Perhaps—but on our journey we could share things, neh? We’re travelers on the same road. I’d like to help you.”

“Why?”

“Knowledge belongs to God. Not to man. I’d like to help you as a gift—nothing in return.”

“Thanks, but I don’t trust you.”

“Then, if you insist, in return tell me about your world, what you’ve seen and where you’ve been. Anything you like, but only what you like. The real truth. Truly, it would fascinate me and it would be a fair exchange. I came to Japan when I was thirteen or fourteen, and I’ve seen nothing of the world. We could even agree to a truce for the journey, if you wish.”

“But no religion or politics and no Papist doctrines?”

“I am what I am, Pilot, but I will try.”

So they began to exchange knowledge cautiously. For Blackthorne it seemed an unfair trade. Alvito’s erudition was enormous, he was a masterly teacher, whereas Blackthorne thought he related only things that any pilot would know. “But that’s not true,” Alvito had said. “You’re a unique pilot, you’ve done incredible things. One of half a dozen on earth, neh?”

Gradually a truce did happen between them and this pleased Mariko.

“This is friendship, Anjin-san, or the beginning of it,” Mariko said.

“No. Not friendship. I distrust him as much as ever, as he does me. We’re perpetual enemies. I’ve forgotten nothing, nor has he. This is a respite, temporary, probably for a special purpose he’d never tell if I were to ask. I understand him and there’s no harm, so long as I don’t drop my guard.”

While he spent time with Alvito, she would ride lazily with Kiku and Gyoko and talk about pillowing and about ways to please men and about the Willow World. In return she told them about her world, sharing what she had witnessed or been part of or learned, about the Dictator Goroda, the Taikō, and even Lord Toranaga, judicious stories about the majestic ones that no commoner would ever know.

A few leagues south of Mishima the river curled away to the west, to fall placidly to the coast and the large port of Numazu, and they left the ravinelike country and pushed across the flat rice paddy plains along the wide busy road that headed northward. There were many streams and tributaries to ford. Some were shallow. Some were deep and very wide and they had to be poled across in flat barges. Very few were spanned. Usually they were all carried across on the shoulders of porters from the plenty that were always stationed nearby for this special purpose, chattering and bidding for that privilege.

This was the seventh day from Yokosé. The road forked and here Father Alvito said he had to leave them. He would take the west path, to return to his ship for a day or so, but he would catch them up and join them again on the road from Mishima to Yedo, if that was permitted. “Of course, you’re both welcome to come with me if you wish.”

“Thank you but, so sorry, there are things I must do in Mishima,” Mariko said.

“Anjin-san? If Lady Mariko’s going to be busy, you’d be welcome by yourself. Our cook’s very good, the wine’s fair. As God is my judge, you’d be safe, and free to come and go as you wish. Rodrigues is aboard.”

Mariko saw that Blackthorne wanted to leave her. How can he? she asked herself with a great sadness. How can he want to leave me when time is so short? “Please go, Anjin-san,” she said. “It would be nice for you—and good to see the Rodrigues, neh?”

But Blackthorne did not go, much as he wanted to. He didn’t trust the priest. Not even for Rodrigues would he put his head in that trap. He thanked Alvito and they watched him ride away.

“Let’s stop now, Anjin-san,” Mariko said, even though it was barely noon. “There’s no hurry, neh?”

“Excellent. Yes, I’d like that.”

“The Father’s a good man but I’m glad he’s gone.”

“So am I. But he’s not a good man. He’s a priest.”

She was taken aback by his vehemence. “Oh, so sorry, Anjin-san, please excuse me for say—”

“It’s not important, Mariko-chan. I told you—nothing’s forgotten. He’ll always be after my hide.” Blackthorne went to find Captain Yoshinaka.

Troubled, she looked down the western fork.

The horses of Father Alvito’s party moved through the other travelers unhurriedly. Some passersby bowed to the small cortege, some knelt in humility, many were curious, many hard-faced. But all moved politely out of the way. Except even the lowest samurai. When Father Alvito met a samurai he moved to the left or to the right and his acolytes followed him.

He was glad to be leaving Mariko and Blackthorne, glad of the break. He had urgent dispatches to send to the Father-Visitor that he had been unable to send because his carrier pigeons had been destroyed in Yokosé. There were so many problems to solve: Toranaga, Uo the fisherman, Mariko, and the pirate. And Joseph, who continued to dog his footsteps.

“What’s he doing there, Captain Yoshinaka?” he had blurted out the first day, when he noticed Joseph among the guards, wearing a military kimono and, awkwardly, swords.

“Lord Toranaga ordered me to take him to Mishima, Tsukku-san. There I’m to turn him over to Lord Hiro-matsu. Oh, so sorry, does the sight of him offend you?”

“No—no,” he had said unconvincingly.

“Ah, you’re looking at his swords? There’s no need to worry. They’re only hilts, they’ve no blades. It’s Lord Toranaga’s orders. Seems as the man was ordered into your Order so young it’s not clear if he should have real swords or not, much as he’s entitled to wear them, much as he wants them. Seems he joined your Order as a child, Tsukku-san. Even so, of course we can’t have a samurai without swords, neh? Uraga-noh-Tadamasa’s certainly samurai though he’s been a barbarian priest for twenty years. Our Master’s wisely made this compromise.”

“What’s going to happen to him?”

“I’m to hand him over to Lord Hiro-matsu. Maybe he’ll be sent back to his uncle for judgment, maybe he’ll stay with us. I only obey orders, Tsukku-san.”

Father Alvito went to speak with Joseph but Yoshinaka had stopped him politely. “So sorry, but my Master also ordered him kept to himself. Away from everyone. Particularly Christians. Until Lord Harima gives a judgment, my Master said. Uraga-san’s Lord Harima’s vassal, neh? Lord Harima’s Christian too. Neh? Lord Toranaga says a Christian daimyo should deal with the Christian renegade. After all, Lord Harima’s his uncle and leader of the house and it was he who ordered him into your keeping in the first place.”

Though it was forbidden, Alvito had tried again that night to talk to Joseph privately, to beg him to withdraw his sacrilege and kneel in penance to the Father-Visitor, but the youth had coldly walked away, without listening, and after that, Joseph was always sent far ahead.

Somehow, Holy Madonna, we’ve got to bring him back to the mercy of God, Alvito thought in anguish. What can I do? Perhaps the Father-Visitor will know how to handle Joseph. Yes, and he’ll know what to do about Toranaga’s incredible decision to submit, which in their secret conferences they had discarded as an impossibility. “No—that’s totally against Toranaga’s character,” dell’Aqua had said. “He’ll go to war. When the rains cease, perhaps before, if he can get Zataki to recant and betray Ishido. My forecast is he’ll wait as long as he can and try to force Ishido to make the first move—his usual waiting game. Whatever happens, so long as Kiyama and Onoshi support Ishido and Osaka, the Kwanto will be overrun and Toranaga destroyed.”

“And Kiyama and Onoshi? They’ll keep their enmity buried, for the common good?”

“Yes. They’re totally convinced a Toranaga victory would be the Holy Church’s death knell. Now that Harima will side with Ishido, I’m afraid Toranaga’s a broken dream.”

Civil war again, Alvito thought. Brother against brother, father against son, village against village. Anjiro ready to revolt, armed with stolen muskets, so Uo the fisherman had whispered. And the other frightening news: a secret Musket Regiment almost ready! A modern, European-style cavalry unit of more than two thousand muskets, adapted to Japanese warfare. Oh, Madonna, protect the faithful and curse that heretic. . . .

Such a pity Blackthorne is twisted and mind-deformed. He could be such a valuable ally. I never would have thought that but it’s true. He’s incredibly wise in the ways of the sea and the world. Brave and cunning, honest within his heresy, straight and guileless. Never needs to be told something twice, his memory astonishing. He’s taught me so much about the world. And about himself. Is that wrong? Alvito wondered sadly as he turned to wave at Mariko a last time. Is it wrong to learn about your enemy, and in return, to teach? No. Is it wrong to turn a blind eye to mortal sin?

Three days out from Yokosé, Brother Michael’s observation had shattered him.

“You believe they’re lovers?”

“What is God but love? Isn’t that the Lord Jesus’ word?” Michael had replied. “I only mentioned I saw their eyes touching each other and that it was so beautiful to see. About their bodies I don’t know, Father, and in truth I don’t care. Their souls touch and I seem to be more aware of God because of it.”

“You must be mistaken about them. She’d never do that! It’s against her whole heritage, against her law and the law of God. She’s a devout Christian. She knows adultery’s a hideous sin.”

“Yes, that is what we teach. But her marriage was Shinto, not consecrated before the Lord our God, so is it adultery?”

“Do you also question the Word? Are you infected by Joseph’s heresy?”

“No, Father, please excuse me, never the Word. Only what man has made of it.”

From then on he had watched more closely. Clearly the man and woman liked each other greatly. Why shouldn’t they? Nothing wrong in that! Constantly thrown together, each learning from the other, the woman ordered to put away her religion, the man having none, or only a patina of the Lutheran heresy as dell’Aqua had said was true of all Englishmen. Both strong, vital people, however ill-matched.

At confession she said nothing. He did not press her. Her eyes told him nothing and everything, but never was there anything real to judge. He could hear himself explaining to dell’Aqua, ‘Michael must have been mistaken, Eminence.’

‘But did she commit adultery? Was there any proof?’

‘Thankfully, no proof.’

Alvito reined in and turned back momentarily. He saw her standing on the slight rise, the Pilot talking to Yoshinaka, the old madam and her painted whore lying in their palanquin. He was tormented by the fanatic zeal welling up inside him. For the first time he dared to ask, Have you whored with the Pilot, Mariko-san? Has the heretic damned your soul for all eternity? You, who were chosen in life to be a nun and probably our first native abbess? Are you living in foul sin, unconfessed, desecrated, hiding your sacrilege from your confessor, and thus are you too befouled before God?

He saw her wave. This time he did not acknowledge it but turned his back, jabbed his spurs into his horse’s flanks, and hurried away.

That night their sleep was disturbed.

“What is it, my love?”

“Nothing, Mariko-chan. Go back to sleep.”

But she did not. Nor did he. Long before she had to, she slipped back into her own room, and he got up and sat in the courtyard studying the dictionary under candlelight until dawn. When the sun came and the day warmed, their night cares vanished and they continued their journey peacefully. Soon they reached the great trunk road, the Tokaidō, just east of Mishima, and travelers became more numerous. The vast majority were, as always, on foot, their belongings on their backs. There were a few pack horses on the road and no carriages at all.

“Oh, carriage—that’s something with wheels, neh? They’re of no use in Japan, Anjin-san. Our roads are too steep and always crisscrossed with rivers and streams. Wheels would also ruin the surface of the roads, so they are forbidden to everyone except the Emperor, and he travels a few ceremonial ri in Kyoto on a special road. We don’t need wheels. How can you carry vehicles over a river or stream—and there are too many, far too many to bridge. There are perhaps sixty streams to cross between here and Yedo, Anjin-san. How many have we already had to cross? Dozens, neh? No, we all walk or ride horseback. Of course horses and palanquins particularly are allowed only for important persons, daimyos and samurai, and not even all samurai.”

“What? Even if you can afford one you can’t hire one?”

“Not unless you’ve the correct rank, Anjin-san. That’s very wise, don’t you think? Doctors and the very old can travel by horse or palanquin, or the very sick, if they get permission in writing from their liege lord. Palanquins or horses wouldn’t be right for peasants and commoners, Anjin-san. That could teach them lazy habits, neh? It’s much more healthy for them to walk.”

“Also it keeps them in their place. Neh?”

“Oh, yes. But that all makes for peace and orderliness and wa. Only merchants have money to waste, and what are they but parasites who create nothing, grow nothing, make nothing but feed off another’s labor? Definitely they should all walk, neh? In this we are very wise.”

“I’ve never seen so many people on the move,” Blackthorne said.

“Oh, this is nothing. Wait till we get nearer Yedo. We adore to travel, Anjin-san, but rarely alone. We like to travel in groups.”

But the crowds did not inhibit their progress. The Toranaga cipher that their standards carried, Toda Mariko’s personal rank, and the brusque efficiency of Akira Yoshinaka and the runners he sent ahead to proclaim who followed ensured the best private rooms every night at the best inn, and an uninterrupted passage. All other travelers and samurai quickly stood aside and bowed very low, waiting until they had passed.

“Do they all have to stop and kneel like that to everyone?”

“Oh, no, Anjin-san. Only to daimyos and important persons. And to most samurai—yes, that would be a very wise practice for any commoner. It’s polite to do so, Anjin-san, and necessary, neh? Unless the common people respect the samurai and themselves, how can the law be upheld and the realm be governed? Then too, it’s the same for everyone. We stopped and bowed and allowed the Imperial messenger to pass, didn’t we? Everyone must be polite, neh? Lesser daimyos have to dismount and bow to more important ones. Ritual governs our lives, but the realm is obedient.”

“Say two daimyos are equal and they meet?”

“Then both would dismount and bow equally and go their separate ways.”

“Say Lord Toranaga and General Ishido met?”

Mariko turned smoothly to Latin. “Who are they, Anjin-san? Those names I know not, not today, not between thee and me.”

“Thou art correct. Please excuse me.”

“Listen, my love, let us make a promise that if the Madonna smiles on us and we escape from Mishima, only at Yedo, at First Bridge, only when it is completely forced upon us let us leave our private world. Please?”

“What special danger’s in Mishima?”

“There our Captain must submit a report to the Lord Hiro-matsu. There I must see him also. He is a wise man, very vigilant. It would be easy for us to be betrayed.”

“We have been cautious. Let us petition God that thy fears are without merit.”

“For myself I am not concerned—only for thee.”

“And I for thee.”

“Then do we promise, one to another, to stay within our private world?”

“Yes. Let us pretend it is the real world—our only world.”

“There’s Mishima, Anjin-san.” Mariko pointed across the last stream.

The sprawling castle city which housed nearly sixty thousand people was mostly obscured by morning’s low-lying mist. Only a few house tops and the stone castle were discernible. Beyond were mountains that ran down to the western sea. Far to the northwest was the glory of Mount Fuji. North and east the mountain range encroached on the sky. “What now?”

“Now Yoshinaka’s been asked to find the liveliest inn within ten ri. We’ll stay there two days. It will take me at least that to complete my business. Gyoko and Kiku-san will be leaving us for that time.”

“Then?”

“Then we go on. What does your weather sense tell you about Mishima?”

“That it’s friendly and safe,” he replied. “After Mishima, what then?”

She pointed northeast, unconvinced. “Then we’ll go that way. There’s a pass that curls up through the mountains toward Hakoné. It’s the most grueling part of the whole Tokaidō Road. After that the road falls away to the city of Odawara, which is much bigger than Mishima, Anjin-san. It’s on the coast. From there to Yedo is only a matter of time.”

“How much time?”

“Not enough.”

“You’re wrong, my love, so sorry,” he said. “There’s all the time in the world.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

General Toda Hiro-matsu accepted the private dispatch that Mariko offered. He broke Toranaga’s seals. The scroll told briefly what had happened at Yokosé, confirmed Toranaga’s decision to submit, ordered Hiro-matsu to hold the frontier and the passes to the Kwanto against any intruder until he arrived (but to expedite any messenger from Ishido or from the east) and gave instructions about the renegade Christian and about the Anjin-san.

Wearily the old soldier read the message a second time. “Now tell me everything you saw at Yokosé, or heard, affecting Lord Toranaga.”

Mariko obeyed.

“Now tell me what you think happened.”

Again she obeyed.

“What occurred at the cha-no-yu between you and my son?”

She told him everything, exactly as it happened.

“My son said our Master would lose? Before the second meeting with Lord Zataki?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“You’re sure?”

“Oh, yes, Sire.”

There was a long silence in the room high up in the castle donjon that dominated the city. Hiro-matsu got to his feet and went to the arrow embrasure in the thick stone wall, his back and joints aching, his sword loose in his hands. “I don’t understand.”

“Sire?”

“Neither my son, nor our Master. We can smash through any armies Ishido puts into the field. And as to the decision to submit . . .”

She toyed with her fan, watching the evening sky, star-filled and pleasing.

Hiro-matsu studied her. “You’re looking very well, Mariko-san, younger than ever. What’s your secret?”

“I haven’t one, Sire,” she replied, her throat suddenly dry. She waited for her world to shatter but the moment passed and the old man turned his shrewd eyes back to the city below.

“Now tell me what happened since you left Osaka. Everything you saw or heard or were part of,” he said.

It was far into the night by the time she had finished. She related everything clearly, except the extent of her intimacy with the Anjin-san. Even here she was careful not to hide her liking for him, her respect for his intelligence and bravery. Or Toranaga’s admiration for his value.

For a while Hiro-matsu continued to wander up and down, the movement easing his pain. Everything dovetailed with Yoshinaka’s report and Omi’s report—and even Zataki’s tirade before that daimyo had stormed off to Shinano. Now he understood many things that had been unclear and had enough information to make a calculated decision. Some of what she related disgusted him. Some made him hate his son even more; he could understand his son’s motives, but that made no difference. The rest of what she said forced him to resent the barbarian and sometimes to admire him. “You saw him pull our Lord to safety?”

“Yes. Lord Toranaga would be dead now, Sire, but for him. I’m quite certain. Three times he has saved our Master: escaping from Osaka Castle, aboard the galley in Osaka harbor, and absolutely at the earthquake. I saw the swords Omi-san had dug up. They were twisted like noodle dough and just as useless.”

“You think the Anjin-san really meant to commit seppuku?”

“Yes. By the Lord God of the Christians, I believe he made that commitment. Only Omi-san prevented it. And, Sire, I believe totally he’s worthy to be samurai, worthy to be hatamoto.”

“I didn’t ask for that opinion.”

“Please excuse me, Sire, truly you didn’t. But that question was still in the front of your mind.”

“You’ve become a thought reader as well as barbarian trainer?”

“Oh, no, please excuse me, Sire, of course not,” she said in her nicest voice. “I merely answer the leader of my clan to the best of my very poor ability. Our Master’s interests are first in my mind. Your interests are second only to his.”

“Are they?”

“Please excuse me, but that shouldn’t be necessary to ask. Command me, Sire. I’ll do your bidding.”

“Why so proud, Mariko-san?” he asked testily. “And so right? Eh?”

“Please excuse me, Sire. I was rude. I don’t deserve such—”

“I know! No woman does!” Hiro-matsu laughed. “But even so, there are times when we need a woman’s cold, cruel, vicious, cunning, practical wisdom. They’re so much cleverer than we are, neh?”

“Oh, no, Sire,” she said, wondering what was really in his mind.

“It’s just as well we’re alone. If that was repeated in public they’d say old Iron Fist’s overripe, that it’s time for him to put down his sword, shave his head, and begin to say prayers to Buddha for the souls of the men he’s sent into the Void. And they’d be right.”

“No, Sire. It’s as the Lord, your son, said. Until our Master’s fate is set, you may not retreat. Neither you, nor the Lord my husband. Nor I.”

“Yes. Even so, I’d be very pleased to lay down my sword and seek the peace of Buddha for myself and those I have killed.”

He stared at the night for a time, feeling his age, then looked at her. She was pleasing to see, more than any woman he had ever known.

“Sire?”

“Nothing, Mariko-san. I was remembering the first time I saw you.”

That was when Hiro-matsu had secretly mortgaged his soul to Goroda to obtain this slip of a girl for his own son, the same son who had slaughtered his own mother, the one woman Hiro-matsu had ever really adored. Why did I get Mariko for him? Because I wanted to spite the Taikō, who desired her also. To spite a rival, nothing more.

Was my consort truly unfaithful? the old man asked himself, reopening the perpetual sore. Oh gods, when I look you in the face I’ll demand an answer to that question. I want a yes or no! I demand the truth! I think it’s a lie, but Buntaro said she was alone with that man in the room, disheveled, her kimono loose, and it was months before I returned. It could be a lie, neh? Or the truth, neh? It must be the truth—surely no son would behead his own mother without being sure?

Mariko was observing the lines of Hiro-matsu’s face, his skin stretched and scaled with age, and the ancient muscular strength of his arms and shoulders. What are you thinking? she wondered, liking him. Have you seen through me yet? Do you know about me and the Anjin-san now? Do you know I quiver with love for him? That when I have to choose between him and thee and Toranaga, I will choose him?

Hiro-matsu stood near the embrasure looking down at the city below, his fingers kneading the scabbard and the haft of his sword, oblivious of her. He was brooding about Toranaga and what Zataki had said a few days ago in bitter disgust, disgust that he had shared.

“Yes, of course I want to conquer the Kwanto and plant my standard on the walls of Yedo Castle now and make it my own. I never did before but now I do,” Zataki had told him. “But this way? There’s no honor in it! No honor for my brother or you or me! Or anyone! Except Ishido, and that peasant doesn’t know any better.”

“Then support Lord Toranaga! With your help Tora—”

“For what? So my brother can become Shōgun and stamp out the Heir?”

“He’s said a hundred times he supports the Heir. I believe he does. And we’d have a Minowara to lead us, not an upstart peasant and the hellcat Ochiba, neh? Those incompetents will have eight years of rule before Yaemon’s of age if Lord Toranaga dies. Why not give Lord Toranaga the eight years—he’s Minowara! He’s said a thousand times he’ll hand over power to Yaemon. Is your brain in your arse? Toranaga’s not Yaemon’s enemy or yours!”

“No Minowara would kneel to that peasant! He’s pissed on his honor and all of ours. Yours and mine!”

They had argued, and cursed each other, and, in privacy, had almost come to blows. “Go on,” he had taunted Zataki, “draw your sword, traitor! You’re traitor to your brother who’s head of your clan!”

“I’m head of my own clan. We share the same mother, but not father. Toranaga’s father sent my mother away in disgrace. I’ll not help Toranaga—but if he abdicates and slits his belly I’ll support Sudara. . . .”

There’s no need to do that, Hiro-matsu told the night, still enraged. There’s no need to do that while I’m alive, or meekly to submit. I’m General-in-Chief. It’s my duty to protect my Master’s honor and house, even from himself. So now I decide:

Listen, Sire, please excuse me, but this time I disobey. With pride. This time I betray you. Now I’m going to co-opt your son and heir, the Lord Sudara, and his wife, the Lady Genjiko, and together we’ll order Crimson Sky when the rains cease, and then war begins. And until the last man in the Kwanto dies, facing the enemy, I’ll hold you safe in Yedo Castle, whatever you say, whatever the cost.

Gyoko was delighted to be home again in Mishima among her girls and ledgers and bills of lading, her debts receivable, mortgage deeds, and promissory notes.

“You’ve done quite well,” she told her chief accountant.

The wizened little man bobbed a thank you and hobbled away. Balefully she turned to her chief cook. “Thirteen silver chogin, two hundred copper monme for one week’s food?”

“Oh, please excuse me, Mistress, but rumors of war have sent prices soaring to the sky,” the fat man said truculently. “Everything. Fish and rice and vegetables—even soya sauce has doubled since last month and saké’s worse. Work work work in that hot, airless kitchen that must certainly be improved. Expensive! Ha! In one week I’ve served one hundred and seventy-two guests, fed ten courtesans, eleven hungry apprentice courtesans, four cooks, sixteen maids, and fourteen men servants! Please excuse me, Mistress, so sorry, but my grandmother’s very sick so I must ask for ten days’ leave to . . .”

Gyoko rent her hair just enough to make her point but not enough to mar her appearance and sent him away saying she was ruined, ruined, that she’d have to close the most famous Tea House in Mishima without such a perfect head cook and that it would all be his fault—his fault that she’d have to cast all her devoted girls and faithful but unfortunate retainers into the snow. “Don’t forget winter’s coming,” she wailed as a parting shot.

Then contentedly alone, she added up the profits against the losses and the profits were twice what she expected. Her saké tasted better than ever and if food prices were up, so was the cost of saké. At once she wrote to her son in Odawara, the site of their saké factory, telling him to double their output. Then she sorted out the inevitable quarrels of the maids, sacked three, hired four more, sent for her courtesan broker, and bid heavily for the contracts of seven more courtesans she admired.

“And when would you like the honored ladies to arrive, Gyoko-san?” the old woman simpered, her own commission considerable.

“At once. At once. Go on, run along.”

Next she summoned her carpenter and settled plans for the extension of this tea house, for the extra rooms for the extra ladies.

“At long last the site on Sixth Street’s up for sale, Mistress. Do you want me to close on that now?”

For months she had been waiting for that particular corner location. But now she shook her head and sent him away with instructions to option four hectares of wasteland on the hill, north of the city. “But don’t do it all yourself. Use intermediaries. Don’t be greedy. And I don’t want it aired that you’re buying for me.”

“But four hectares? That’s—”

“At least four, perhaps five, over the next five months. But options only—understand? They’re all to be put in these names.”

She handed him the list of safe appointees and hurried him off, in her mind’s eye seeing the walled city within a city already thriving. She chortled with glee.

Next every courtesan was sent for and complimented or chided or howled at or wept with. Some were promoted, some degraded, pillow prices increased or decreased. Then, in the midst of everything, Omi was announced.

“So sorry, but Kiku-san’s not well,” she told him. “Nothing serious! It’s just the change of weather, poor child.”

“I insist on seeing her.”

“So sorry, Omi-san, but surely you don’t insist? Kiku-san belongs to your liege Lord, neh?”

“I know whom she belongs to,” Omi shouted. “I want to see her, that’s all.”

“Oh, so sorry, of course, you have every right to shout and curse, so sorry, please excuse me. But, so sorry, she’s not well. This evening—or perhaps later—or tomorrow—what can I do, Omi-san? If she becomes well enough perhaps I could send word if you’ll tell me where you’re staying. . . .”

He told her, knowing that there was nothing he could do, and stormed off wanting to hack all Mishima to pieces.

Gyoko thought about Omi. Then she sent for Kiku and told her the program she’d arranged for her two nights in Mishima. “Perhaps we can persuade our Lady Toda to delay four or five nights, child. I know half a dozen here who’ll pay a father’s ransom to have you entertain them at private parties. Ha! Now that the great daimyo’s bought you, none can touch you, not ever again, so you can sing and dance and mime and be our first gei-sha!”

“And poor Omi-san, Mistress? I’ve never heard him so cross before, so sorry he shouted at you.”

“Ha! What’s a shout or two when we consort with daimyos and the richest of the rich rice and silk brokers at long last. Tonight I’ll tell Omi-san where you’ll be the last time you sing, but much too soon so he’ll have to wait. I’ll arrange a nearby room. Meanwhile he’ll have lots of saké . . . and Akiko to serve him. It won’t hurt to sing a sad song or two to him afterwards—we’re still not sure about Toranaga-sama, neh? We still haven’t had a down payment, let alone the balance.”

“Please excuse me, wouldn’t Choko be a better choice? She’s prettier and younger and sweeter. I’m sure he would enjoy her more.”

“Yes, child. But Akiko’s strong and very experienced. When this sort of madness is on men they’re inclined to be rough. Rougher than you’d imagine. Even Omi-san. I don’t want Choko damaged. Akiko likes danger and needs some violence to perform well. She’ll take the sting out of his Beauteous Barb. Run along now, your prettiest kimono and best perfumes . . .”

Gyoko shooed Kiku away to get ready and once more hurled herself into finishing the management of her house. Then, everything completed—even the formal cha invitation tomorrow to the eight most influential Mama-sans in Mishima to discuss a matter of great import—she sank gratefully into a perfect bath, “Ahhhhhhhhh!”

At the perfect time, a perfect massage. Perfume and powder and makeup and coiffure. New loose kimono of rare frothy silk. Then, at the perfect moment, her favorite arrived. He was eighteen, a student, son of an impoverished samurai, his name Inari.

“Oh, how lovely you are—I rushed here the moment your poem arrived,” he said breathlessly. “Did you have a pleasant journey? I’m so happy to welcome you back! Thank you, thank you for the presents—the sword is perfect and the kimono! Oh, how good you are to me!”

Yes, I am, she told herself, though she stoutly denied it to his face. Soon she was lying beside him, sweaty and languorous. Ah, Inari, she thought bemused, your Pellucid Pestle’s not built like the Anjin-san’s but what you lack in size you surely make up with cataclysmic vigor!

“Why do you laugh?” he asked sleepily.

“Because you make me happy,” she sighed, delighted that she’d had the great good fortune to be educated. She chatted easily, complimented him extravagantly, and petted him to sleep, her hands and voice out of long habit smoothly achieving all that was necessary of their own volition. Her mind was far away. She was wondering about Mariko and her paramour, rethinking the alternatives. How far dare she press Mariko? Or whom should she give them away to, or threaten her with, subtly of course—Toranaga, Buntaro, or whom? The Christian priest? Would there be any profit in that? Or Lord Kiyama—certainly any scandal connecting the great Lady Toda with the barbarian would ruin her son’s chance of marrying Kiyama’s granddaughter. Would that threat bend her to my will? Or should I do nothing—is there more profit in that somehow?

Pity about Mariko. Such a lovely lady! My, but she’d make a sensational courtesan! Pity about the Anjin-san. My, but he’s a clever one—I could make a fortune out of him too.

How can I best use this secret, most profitably, before it’s no longer a secret and those two are destroyed?

Be careful, Gyoko, she admonished herself. There’s not much time left to decide about this, or about the other new secrets: about the guns and arms hidden by the peasants in Anjiro for instance, or about the new Musket Regiment—its numbers, officers, organization, and number of guns. Or about Toranaga, who, the last night in Yokosé, pillowed Kiku pleasantly, using a classic “six shallow and five deep” rhythm for the hundred thrusts with the strength of a thirty-year-old and slept till dawn like a babe. That’s not the pattern of a man distraught with worry, neh?

What about the agony of the tonsured virgin priest who, naked and on his knees, prayed first to his bigot Christian God, begging forgiveness for the sin he was about to commit with the girl, and the other sin, a real one, that he had done in Osaka—strange secret things of the “confessional” that were whispered to him by a leper, then treacherously passed on by him to Lord Harima. What would Toranaga make of that? Endlessly pouring out what was whispered and passed onward, and then the praying with tight-closed eyes—before the poor demented fool spread the girl wide with no finesse and, later, slunk off like a foul night creature. So much hatred and agony and twisted shame.

What about Omi’s second cook, who whispered to a maid who whispered to her paramour who whispered to Akiko that he’d overheard Omi and his mother plotting the death of Kasigi Yabu, their liege lord? Ha! That knowledge made public would set a cat among all the Kasigi pigeons! So would Omi’s and Yabu’s secret offer to Zataki if whispered into Toranaga’s ear—or the words Zataki muttered in his sleep that his pillow partner memorized and sold to me the next day for a whole silver chojin, words that implied General Ishido and Lady Ochiba ate together, slept together, and that Zataki himself had heard them grunting and groaning and crying out as Yang pierced Yin even up to the Far Field! Gyoko smiled to herself smugly. Shocking, neh, people in such high places!

What about the other strange fact that at the moment of the Clouds and the Rain, and a few times before, the Lord Zataki had unconsciously called his pillow partner “Ochiba.” Curious, neh?

Would the oh-so-necessary-to-both-sides Zataki change his song if Toranaga offered him Ochiba as bait? Gyoko chuckled, warmed by all the lovely secrets, all so valuable in the right ears, that men had spilled out with their Joyful Juice. “He’d change,” she murmured confidently. “Oh, very yes.”

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing, Inari-chan. Did you sleep well?”

“What?”

She smiled and let him slide back into sleep. Then, when he was ready, she put her hands and lips on him for his pleasure. And for hers.

“Where’s the Ingeles now, Father?”

“I don’t know exactly, Rodrigues. Yet. It would be one of the inns south of Mishima. I left a servant to find out which.” Alvito gathered up the last of the gravy with a crust of new bread.

“When will you know?”

“Tomorrow, without fail.”

“Que va, I’d like to see him again. Is he fit?” Rodrigues asked levelly.

“Yes.” The ship’s bell sounded six times. Three o’clock in the afternoon.

“Did he tell you what happened to him since he left Osaka?”

“I know parts of it. From him and others. It’s a long story and there’s much to tell. First I’ll deal with my dispatches, then we’ll talk.”

Rodrigues leaned back in his chair in the small stern cabin. “Good. That’d be very good.” He saw the sharp features of the Jesuit, the sharp brown eyes flecked with yellow. Cat’s eyes. “Listen, Father,” he said, “the Ingeles saved my ship and my life. Sure he’s enemy, sure he’s heretic, but he’s a pilot, one of the best that’s ever been. It’s not wrong to respect an enemy, even to like one.”

“The Lord Jesus forgave his enemies but they still crucified Him.” Calmly Alvito returned the pilot’s gaze. “But I like him too. At least, I understand him better. Let’s leave him for the moment.”

Rodrigues nodded agreeably. He noticed the priest’s plate was empty so he reached across the table and moved the platter closer. “Here, Father, have some more capon. Bread?”

“Thank you. Yes, I will. I didn’t realize how hungry I was.” The priest gratefully tore off another leg and took more sage and onion and bread stuffing, then poured the last of the rich gravy over it.

“Wine?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Where are the rest of your people, Father?”

“I left them at an inn near the wharf.”

Rodrigues glanced out of the stern bay windows that overlooked Numazu, the wharfs and the port and, just to starboard, the mouth of the Kano, where the water was darker than the rest of the sea. Many fishing boats were plying back and forth. “This servant you left, Father—you can trust him? You’re sure he’ll find us?”

“Oh, yes. They’ll certainly not move for two days at least.” Alvito had already decided not to mention what he or, more truthfully he reminded himself, what Brother Michael suspected, so he just added, “Don’t forget they’re traveling in state. With Toda Mariko’s rank, and Toranaga’s banners, they’re very much in state. Everyone within four leagues would know about them and where they’re staying.”

Rodrigues laughed. “The Ingeles in state? Who’d have believed that? Like a poxy daimyo!”

“That’s not the half of it, Pilot. Toranaga’s made him samurai and hatamoto.”

“What?”

“Now Pilot-Major Blackthorne wears the two swords. With his pistols. And now he’s Toranaga’s confidant, to a certain extent, and protégé.”

“The Ingeles?”

“Yes.” Alvito let the silence hang in the cabin and went back to eating.

“Do you know the why of it?” Rodrigues asked.

“Yes, in part. All in good time, Pilot.”

“Just tell me the why. Briefly. Details later, please.”

“The Anjin-san saved Toranaga’s life for the third time. Twice during the escape from Osaka, the last in Izu during an earthquake.” Alvito chomped lustily on the thigh meat. A thread of juice ran into his black beard.

Rodrigues waited but the priest said no more. Thoughtfully his eyes dropped to the goblet cradled in his hands. The surface of the deep red wine caught the light. After a long pause, he said, “It wouldn’t be good for us, that piss-cutting Ingeles close to Toranaga. Not at all. Not him. Eh?”

“I agree.”

“Even so, I’d like to see him.” The priest said nothing. Rodrigues let him clean his plate in silence, then offered more, the joy gone out of him. The last of the carcass and the final wing were accepted, and another goblet of wine. Then, to finish, some fine French cognac that Father Alvito got from a cupboard.

“Rodrigues? Would you care for a glass?”

“Thank you.” The seaman watched Alvito pour the nut-brown liquor into the crystal glass. All the wine and cognac had come from the Father-Visitor’s private stock as a parting gift to his Jesuit friend.

“Of course, Rodrigues, you’re welcome to share it with the Father,” dell’Aqua had said. “Go with God, may He watch over you and bring you safely to port and home again.”

“Thank you, Eminence.”

Yes, thank you, Eminence, but no God-cursed thanks, Rodrigues told himself bitterly, no thanks for getting my Captain-General to order me aboard this pigboat under this Jesuit’s command and out of my Gracia’s arms, poor darling. Madonna, life’s so short, too short and too treacherous to waste being chaperone to gut-stinking priests, even Alvito who’s more of a man than any and, because of that, more dangerous. Madonna, give me some help!

“Oh! You reave, Rod-san? Reave so soon? Oh, so sorry. . . .”

“Soon come back, my darling.”

“Oh, so sorry . . . we miss, ritt’e one and I.”

For a moment he had considered taking her aboard the Santa Filipa, but instantly dismissed the thought, knowing it to be perilous for her and for him and for the ship. “So sorry, back soon.”

“We wait, Rod-san. Please excuse my sad, so sorry.”

Always the hesitant, heavily accented Portuguese she tried so hard to speak, insisting that she be called by her baptismal name Gracia and not by the lovely-sounding Nyan-nyan, which meant Kitten and suited her so well and pleased him better.

He had sailed away from Nagasaki, hating to leave, cursing all priests and captain-generals, wanting an end to summer and autumn so he could up-anchor the Black Ship, her holds weighed now with bullion, to head for home at long last, rich and independent. But then what? The perpetual question swamped him. What about her—and the child? Madonna, help me to answer that with peace.

“An excellent meal, Rodrigues,” Alvito said, toying with a crumb on the table. “Thank you.”

“Good.” Rodrigues was serious now. “What’s your plan, Father? We should—” He stopped in mid-sentence and glanced out of the windows. Then, dissatisfied, he got up from the table and limped painfully over to a land side porthole and peered out.

“What is it, Rodrigues?”

“Thought I felt the tide change. Just want to check our sea room.” He opened the cover further and leaned out, but still couldn’t see the bow anchor. “Excuse me a moment, Father.”

He went on deck. Water lapped the anchor chain that angled into the muddy water. No movement. Then a thread of wake appeared and the ship began to ease off safely, to take up her new station with the ebb. He checked her lie, then the lookouts. Everything was perfect. No other boats were near. The afternoon was fine, the mist long since gone. They were a cable or so offshore, far enough out to preclude a sudden boarding, and well away from the sea lanes that fed the wharves.

His ship was a lorcha, a Japanese hull adapted to modern Portuguese sails and rigging: swift, two-masted, and sloop-rigged. It had four cannon amidships, two small bow chasers and two stern chasers. Her name was the Santa Filipa and she carried a crew of thirty.

His eyes went to the city, and to the hills beyond. “Pesaro!”

“Yes, senhor?”

“Get the longboat ready. I’m going ashore before dusk.”

“Good. She’ll be ready. When’re you back?”

“Dawn.”

“Even better! I’ll lead the shore party—ten men.”

“No shore leave, Pesaro. It’s kinjiru! Madonna, is your brain addled?” Rodrigues straddled the quarterdeck and leaned against the gunwale.

“Not right that all should suffer,” said the bosun, Pesaro, his great calloused hands flexing. “I’ll lead the party and promise there’ll be no trouble. We’ve been cooped up for two weeks now.”

“The port authorities here said kinjiru, so sorry, but still goddamned kinjiru! Remember? This isn’t Nagasaki!”

“Yes, by the blood of Christ Jesus, and more’s the pity!” The heavy-set man scowled. “It was only one Jappo that got chopped.”

“One chopped dead, two knifed badly, a lot of wounded, and a girl hurt before the samurai stopped the riot. I warned you all before you went ashore: ‘Numazu’s not Nagasaki—so behave yourselves!’ Madonna! We were lucky to get away with just one of our seamen dead. They’d have been within the law to chop all five of you.”

“Their law, Pilot, not ours. God-cursed monkeys! It was only a whorehouse brawl.”

“Yes, but your men started it, the authorities have quarantined my ship, and you’re all benched. You included!” Rodrigues moved his leg to ease the pain. “Be patient, Pesaro. Now that the Father’s back we’ll be off.”

“On the tide? At dawn? Is that an order?”

“No, not yet. Just get the longboat ready. Gomez will come with me.”

“Let me come as well, eh? Per favor, Pilot. I’m sick to death of being stuck in this pox-cursed bucket.”

“No. And you’d better not go ashore tonight. You or any.”

“And if you’re not back by dawn?”

“You rot here at anchor till I do. Clear?”

The bosun’s scowl deepened. He hesitated, then backed down. “Yes, yes, that’s clear, by God.”

“Good.” Rodrigues went below.

Alvito was asleep but he awoke the moment the pilot opened the cabin door. “Ah, all’s well?” he asked, replete now in mind and body.

“Yes. It was just the turn.” Rodrigues gulped some wine to take the foul taste out of his mouth. It was always like that after a near-mutiny. If Pesaro had not yielded instantly, once again Rodrigues would have had to blow a hole in a man’s face or put him in irons or order fifty lashes or keelhaul the man or perform any one of a hundred obscenities essential by sea law to maintain discipline. Without discipline any ship was lost. “What’s the plan now, Father? We sail at dawn?”

“How are the carrier pigeons?”

“In good health. We’ve still six—four Nagasakis, two Osakas.”

The priest checked the angle of the sun. Four or five hours to sunset. Plenty of time to launch the birds with the first coded message long since planned: “Toranaga surrenders to Regents’ order. I’m going first to Yedo, then Osaka. I will accompany Toranaga to Osaka. He says we can still build the cathedral at Yedo. Detailed dispatch with Rodrigues.”

“Would you please ask the handler to prepare two Nagasakis and one Osaka immediately,” Alvito said. “Then we’ll talk. I won’t be sailing back with you. I’m going on to Yedo by road. It’ll take me most of the night and tomorrow to write a detailed dispatch which you’ll carry to the Father-Visitor, for his hands only. Will you sail as soon as I’ve finished?”

“All right. If it’s too near dusk I’ll wait till dawn. There are shoals and shifting sands for ten leagues.”

Alvito assented. The twelve extra hours would make no difference. He knew it would have been far better if he’d been able to send off the news from Yokosé, God curse the heathen devil who destroyed my birds there! Be patient, he told himself. What’s the hurry? Isn’t that a vital rule of our Order? Patience. All comes to him who waits—and works. What does twelve hours matter, or even eight days? Those won’t change the course of history. The die was cast in Yokosé.

“You’ll travel with the Ingeles?” Rodrigues was asking. “Like before?”

“Yes. From Yedo I’ll make my own way back to Osaka. I’ll accompany Toranaga. I’d like you to stop at Osaka with a copy of my dispatch, in case the Father-Visitor’s there, or has left Nagasaki before you arrive and is on the way there. You can give it to Father Soldi, his secretary—only him.”

“All right. I’ll be glad to leave. We’re hated here.”

“With God’s mercy we can change all that, Rodrigues. With God’s good grace we’ll convert all the heathens here.”

“Amen to that. Yes.” The tall man eased his leg with the throb lessened momentarily. He stared out of the windows. Then he got up impatiently. “I’ll fetch the pigeons myself. Write your message, then we’ll talk. About the Ingeles.” He went to the deck and selected the birds from the panniers. When he returned the priest had already used the special needle-sharp quill and ink to inscribe the same coded message on the tiny slivers of paper. Alvito armed the tiny cylinders, sealed them, and launched the birds. The three circled once, then headed westward in convoy into the afternoon sun.

“Shall we talk here or below?”

“Here. It’s cooler.” Rodrigues motioned the quarterdeck watch amidships out of earshot.

Alvito sat on the seachair. “First about Toranaga.”

He told the Pilot briefly what had happened in Yokosé, omitting the incident with Brother Joseph and his suspicions about Mariko and Blackthorne. Rodrigues was as stunned by the surrender as he had been. “No war? It’s a miracle! Now we’re truly safe, our Black Ship’s safe, the Church is rich, we’re rich . . . thanks be to God, the saints, and the Madonna! That’s the best news you could’ve brought, Father. We’re safe!”

“If God wills it. One thing Toranaga said disturbed me. He put it this way: ‘I can order my Christian freed—the Anjin-san. With his ship, and with his cannon.’ ”

Rodrigues’ vast good humor left him. “Erasmus is still in Yedo? She’s still in Toranaga’s control?”

“Yes. Would it be serious if the Ingeles were loosed?”

“Serious? That ship would blast hell out of us if she caught our Black Ship twixt here and Macao with him aboard, armed, with a half-decent crew. We’ve only the small frigate to run interference and she’s no match for Erasmus! Nor are we. She could dance around us and we’d have to strike our colors.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes. Before God—she’d be a killer.” Angrily Rodrigues bunched a fist. “But wait a moment—the Ingeles said he’d arrived here with no more than twelve men, and not all seamen, many of them merchants and most sick. That few couldn’t handle her. The only place he could get a crew would be at Nagasaki—or Macao. He might get enough at Nagasaki! There’re those who’d . . . he’d better be kept away from there, and Macao!”

“Say he had a native crew?”

“You mean some of Toranaga’s cutthroats? Or wako? You mean if Toranaga’s surrendered, all his men become ronin, neh? If the Ingeles had enough time he could train ’em. Easy. Christ Jesus . . . please excuse me, Father, but if the Ingeles got samurai or wako . . . Can’t risk that—he’s too good. We all saw that in Osaka! Him loose in that piss-cutter in Asia with a samurai crew. . . .”

Alvito watched him, even more concerned now. “I think I’d better send another message to the Father-Visitor. He should be informed if it’s this urgent. He’ll know what to do.”

“I know what to do!” Rodrigues’ fist smashed down on the gunwale. He got to his feet and turned his back. “Listen, Father, hear my confession: The first night—the very first time he stood alongside me on the galley out to sea, when we were going from Anjiro—my heart told me to kill him, then again during the storm. The Lord Jesus help me, that was the time I sent him for’ard and deliberately swerved into the wind without warning, him without a lifeline, to murder him, but the Ingeles didn’t go overboard like anyone else would’ve done. I thought that was the Hand of God, and knew it for certain when later he overruled me and saved my ship, and then when my ship was safe and the wave took me and I was drowning, my last thought was that that also was God’s punishment on me for an attempted murder. You don’t do that to a pilot—he’d never do that to me! I deserved it that time and then, when I found myself alive and him bending over me, helping me drink, I was so ashamed and again I begged God’s forgiveness and swore a Holy oath to try to make it up to him. Madonna!” he burst out in torment, “that man saved me though he knew I tried to murder him. I saw it in his eyes. He saved me and helped me live and now I’ve got to kill him.”

“Why?”

“The Captain-General was right: God help us all if the Ingeles puts to sea in Erasmus, armed, with a half-decent crew.”

Blackthorne and Mariko were sleeping in the nocturnal peace of their little house, one of a cluster that made up the Inn of the Camellias, which was on 9th Street South. There were three rooms in each. Mariko had taken one room for herself and Chimmoko, Blackthorne another, and the third that let on to the front door and veranda had been left empty for living and eating and talking.

“You think this is safe?” Blackthorne had asked anxiously. “Not to have Yoshinaka, or more maids or guards sleeping there?”

“No, Anjin-san. Nothing’s truly safe. But it will be pleasant to be alone. This inn’s thought to be the prettiest and most famous in Izu. It is pretty, neh?”

And it was. Each tiny house was set on elegant pilings with circling verandas and four steps up, made from the finest woods, everything polished and gleaming. Each was separate, fifty paces from its neighbors and surrounded by manicured gardens within the greater garden within the high bamboo wall. There were streamlets, and lily ponds and waterfalls and blossom trees in abundance with day perfumes and night perfumes, sweet smelling and luxurious. Clean stone footpaths, delicately roofed, led to the central baths, cold and hot and very hot, fed by natural springs. Multicolored lanterns and happy servants and maids and never a cross word to disturb the tree bells and bubbling water and singing birds in their aviaries.

“Of course I did ask for two houses, Anjin-san, one for you and one for me. Unfortunately, only one was available, so sorry. But Yoshinaka-san isn’t displeased. On the contrary, he was relieved as he wouldn’t have to split his men. He has posted sentries on every path so we are quite safe and can’t be disturbed as in other places. Why should we be disturbed? What could possibly be wrong with a room here and a room there and Chimmoko to share my bed?”

“Nothing. I’ve never seen such a beautiful place. How clever you are, and how beautiful.”

“Ah, how kind you are to me, Anjin-san. First bathe, then the evening food and lots of saké.”

“Good. Very good.”

“Put down your dictionary, Anjin-san, please.”

“But you’re always encouraging me.”

“If you put your book down I—I’ll tell you a secret.”

“What?”

“I’ve invited Yoshinaka-san to eat with us. And some ladies. To entertain us.”

“Ah!”

“Yes. After I leave you, you will select one, neh?”

“But that might disturb your sleep, so sorry.”

“I promise I will sleep very heavily, my love. Seriously, a change might be good for thee.”

“Yes, but next year, not now.”

“Be serious.”

“I am.”

“Ah, then in that case, if by chance you politely changed your mind and sent her away soon—after Yoshinaka-san has left with his partner—ah, who knows what the night kami might find for thee then?”

“What?”

“I went shopping today.”

“Oh? And what did you buy?”

“Ah!”

She had bought an assortment of the pillow devices that Kiku had shown them, and much later, when Yoshinaka had left and Chimmoko was guarding on the veranda, she offered them to him with a deep bow. Half in jest, he accepted with equal formality, and together they selected a pleasure ring.

“That looks very prickly, Anjin-san, neh? Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“No, not if you don’t, but stop laughing or you’ll ruin everything. Put out the candles.”

“Oh no, please, I want to watch.”

“For the love of God, stop laughing, Mariko!”

“But you’re laughing too.”

“Never mind, put the light out or . . . There, now look what you’ve done.”

“Oh!”

“Stop laughing! It’s no good putting your head in the futons. . . .”

Then later, trouble.

“Mariko . . .”

“Yes, my love?”

“I can’t find it.”

“Oh! Let me help you.”

“Ah, it’s all right. I’ve got it. I was lying on it.”

“Oh. You’re—you’re sure you don’t mind?”

“No, but it’s a bit, well, not exactly uplifting, all this talking about it and having to wait. Is it?”

“Oh, I don’t mind. It was my fault for laughing. Oh, Anjin-san, I love you so, please excuse me.”

“You’re excused.”

“I love to touch thee.”

“I’ve never known anything like your touch.”

“What are you doing, Anjin-san?”

“I’m putting it on.”

“Is it difficult?”

“Yes. Stop laughing!”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, perhaps you—”

“Stop laughing!”

“Please forgive me. . . .”

Afterwards she went to sleep instantly, totally spent. He did not. For him it had been fine, but not perfect. He’d been too worried about her. He’d decided this time was for her pleasure, and not his.

Yes, that was for her, he thought, loving her. But one thing was perfect: I know I’ve truly satisfied her. For once I’m absolutely sure.

He slept. Later the sound of voices and quarreling, and, mixed with it, Portuguese, began to filter through his slumber. For a moment he thought he was dreaming, then he recognized the voice. “Rodrigues!”

Mariko murmured, still locked in sleep.

At the sound of footsteps on the path he lurched to his knees in controlled panic. He lifted her as if she were a doll, went for the shoji, and stopped just as it was opened from the outside. It was Chimmoko. The maid’s head was lowered and her eyes discreetly closed. He rushed past her with Mariko in his arms and laid her gently in her own quilts, still half asleep, and ran silently for his own room again, the sweat chill on him though the night was warm. He groped into a kimono and hurried out again to the veranda. Yoshinaka had reached the second step.

“Nan desu ka, Yoshinaka-san?”

“Gomen nasai, Anjin-san,” Yoshinaka said. He pointed to the flares at the far gate of the inn, adding many words that Blackthorne did not understand. But the gist of it was that that man there, the barbarian, he wants to see you and I told him to wait and he said he wouldn’t wait, acting like a daimyo, which he isn’t, and tried to push past, which I stopped. He said he was your friend. Is he?

“Heya, Ingeles! It’s me, Vasco Rodrigues!”

“Hey, Rodrigues!” Blackthorne shouted back happily. “Be right with you. Hai, Yoshinaka-san. Kare wa watashi no ichi yujin desu.” He’s my friend.

“Ah so desu!”

“Hai. Domo.”

Blackthorne ran down the steps to go to the gateway. Behind him he heard Mariko’s voice, “Nan ja, Chimmoko?” and a whisper back and then she called out with authority, “Yoshinaka-san!”

“Hai, Toda-sama!”

Blackthorne glanced around. The samurai walked up the steps and crossed toward Mariko’s room. Her door was closed. Chimmoko stood outside it. Now her own crumpled bedding was near the door where she would always sleep, correctly, should her mistress not wish her to be in the room with her. Yoshinaka bowed to the door and began to report. Blackthorne walked along the path with growing elation, barefoot, his eyes on the Portuguese, the width of the welcoming smile, the light from the flares dancing off his earrings and the buckle of his jaunty hat.

“Hey, Rodrigues! It’s great to see you. How’s your leg? How’d you find me?”

“Madonna, you’ve grown, Ingeles, filled out! Yes, fit and healthy and acting like a piss-cutting daimyo!” Rodrigues gave him a bear hug and he returned it.

“How’s your leg?”

“Hurts like shit but it works and I found you by asking where the great Anjin-san was—the big barbarian bandit bastard with the blue eyes!”

They laughed together, swapping obscenities, careless of the samurai and servants that surrounded them. In a moment Blackthorne sent a servant for saké and led the way back. Both strolled with their sailor’s gait, Rodrigues’ right hand, by habit, on his rapier’s hilt, the other thumb hooked into his wide belt near his pistol. Blackthorne was a few inches taller but the Portuguese had even wider shoulders and a barrel-chested power to him.

Yoshinaka was waiting on the veranda.

“Domo arigato, Yoshinaka-san,” Blackthorne said, thanking the samurai again, and motioned Rodrigues to one of the cushions. “Let’s talk here.”

Rodrigues put a foot on the steps but stopped as Yoshinaka moved in front of him, pointed at the rapier and the pistol, then held out his left hand, palm upwards. “Dozo!”

The Portuguese frowned up at him. “Iyé, samurai-sama, domo ari—”

“Dozo!”

“Iyé, samurai-sama, iyé!” Rodrigues repeated more sharply. “Watashi yujin Anjin-san, neh?”

Blackthorne moved forward a step, still amazed at the suddenness of the confrontation. “Yoshinaka-san, shigata ga nai, neh?” he said with a smile. “Rodrigues yujin, wata—”

“Gomen nasai, Anjin-san. Kinjiru!” Yoshinaka rapped an order. Instantly samurai leapt forward, surrounding Rodrigues threateningly, and again he held out his hand. “Dozo!”

“These shit-filled whores’re touchy, Ingeles,” Rodrigues said through a toothy smile. “Call ’em off, eh? I’ve never had to give up my arms before.”

“Don’t, Rodrigues!” he said quickly, sensing his friend’s imminent decision, then to Yoshinaka, “Domo, gomen nasai, Rodrigues yujin, watash—”

“Gomen nasai, Anjin-san. Kinjiru.” Then roughly to the Portuguese, “Ima!”

Rodrigues snarled back, “Iyé! Wakarimasu ka?”

Blackthorne hastily stepped between them. “Hey, Rodrigues, what does it matter, neh? Let Yoshinaka-san have them. It’s nothing to do with you or me. It’s because of the lady, Toda Mariko-sama. She’s in there. You know how touchy they are about weapons near daimyos or their wives. We’ll argue all night, you know how they are, eh? What’s the difference?”

The Portuguese forced a smile back on his face. “Sure. Why not? Hai. Shigata ga nai, samurai-sama. So desu!”

He bowed like a courtier without sincerity, slid his rapier and scabbard from its clasp and took out his pistol, and offered them. Yoshinaka motioned to a samurai, who took the weapons and ran off to the gateway, where he put them down and stood guard over them. Rodrigues started to mount the steps, but again Yoshinaka politely and firmly asked him to stop. Other samurai came forward to search him. Furious, Rodrigues leaped back. “IYÉ! Kinjiru, by God! What the—”

The samurai fell on him, pinned his arms tight, and searched him thoroughly. They found two knives in the tops of his boots, another strapped to his left forearm, two small pistols—one concealed in the lining of his coat, one under his shirt—and a small pewter hip flask.

Blackthorne examined the pistols. Both were primed. “Was the other primed too?”

“Yes. Of course. This land’s hostile, haven’t you noticed, Ingeles? Tell them to let go of me!”

“This isn’t the usual way to visit a friend by night. Neh?”

“I tell you this land’s hostile. I’m always armed like this. Aren’t you normally? Madonna, tell these bastards to let me go.”

“Is that the lot? Everything?”

“Of course—tell ’em to let me go, Ingeles!”

Blackthorne gave the pistols to a samurai and stepped forward. His fingers felt carefully around the inside of Rodrigues’ wide leather belt. A stiletto slid from its secret sheath, very thin, very springy, made of the best Damascus steel. Yoshinaka swore at the samurai who had made the search. They apologized but Blackthorne only watched Rodrigues.

“Any more?” he asked, the stiletto loose in his hand.

Rodrigues stared back at him stonily.

“I’ll tell ’em where to look—and how to look, Rodrigues. How a Spaniard would—some of them. Eh?”

“Me cago en la leche, che cabron!”

“Que va, leche! Hurry up!” Still no answer. Blackthorne went forward with the knife. “Dozo, Yoshinaka-san. Watash—”

Rodrigues said hoarsely, “In my hat band,” and Blackthorne stopped.

“Good,” he said and reached for the wide-brimmed hat.

“You would, wouldn’t you—teach them?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Be careful of the feather, Ingeles, I cherish that.”

The band was wide and stiff, the feather jaunty like the hat. Inside the band was a thin stiletto, smaller, specially designed, the fine steel easily molding the curve. Yoshinaka barked out another vicious reprimand to the samurai.

“Before God, that’s all, Rodrigues?”

“Madonna—I told you.”

“Swear it.”

Rodrigues complied.

“Yoshinaka-san, ima ichi-ban. Domo,” Blackthorne said. He’s all right now. Thank you.

Yoshinaka gave the order. His men released the Portuguese. Rodrigues rubbed his limbs to ease the pain. “Is it all right to sit down, Ingeles?”

“Yes.”

Rodrigues wiped off the sweat with a red kerchief, then picked up the pewter flask and sat cross-legged on one of the cushions. Yoshinaka remained nearby on the veranda. All but four samurai went back to their posts. “Why are they so touchy? Why are you so touchy, Ingeles? I’ve never had to give up my weapons before. Am I an assassin?”

“I asked you if that was all your weapons and you lied.”

“I wasn’t listening. Madonna! Would you—held like a common criminal?” Rodrigues added sourly, “Eh, what’s it matter, Ingeles, what’s anything matter? The night’s spoiled. . . . Hey, but wait, Ingeles! Why should anything be allowed to spoil a great evening? I forgive them. And I forgive you, Ingeles. You were right and I was wrong. I apologize. It’s good to see you.” He unscrewed the stopper and offered the flask. “Here—here’s some fine brandy.”

“You first.”

Rodrigues’ face became ashen. “Madonna—do you think I bring poison?”

“No. You drink first.”

Rodrigues drank.

“Again!”

The Portuguese obeyed, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Blackthorne accepted the flask. “Salud!” He tipped it back and pretended to swallow, secretly keeping his tongue over the opening to prevent the liquor from going into his mouth, much as he wanted the drink. “Ah!” he said. “That was good. Here!”

“Keep it, Ingeles. It’s a present.”

“From the good Father? Or from you?”

“From me.”

“Before God?”

“God and the Virgin, thou and thy ‘before God’!” Rodrigues said. “It was a gift from me and the Father! He owns all the liquor aboard the Santa Filipa but the Eminence said I could share it and the flask’s one of a dozen aboard. It’s a gift. Where are your manners?”

Blackthorne pretended to drink again and offered it back. “Here, have another.”

Rodrigues felt the liquor all the way to his toes and was glad that, after accepting the full flask from Alvito, he had privately emptied it and washed it out carefully and refilled it with brandy from his own bottle. Madonna, forgive me, he prayed, forgive me for doubting the Holy Father. Oh, Madonna, God, and Lord Jesus, for the love of God, come to earth again and change this world where sometimes we dare not even trust priests.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, Ingeles. I was just thinking that this world’s a foul piss-cutter when you can’t trust anyone nowadays. I came in friendship and now there’s a hole in the world.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

“Armed like that?”

“I’m always armed like that. That’s why I’m alive. Salud!” The big man raised the flask gloomily and sipped again. “Piss on the world, piss on everything.”

“Are you saying, piss on me?”

“Ingeles, this is me, Vasco Rodrigues, Pilot of the Portuguese Navy, not a flyblown samurai. I’ve exchanged many insults with you, all in friendship. Tonight I came to see my friend and now I have no friend. So sad.”

“Yes.”

“I shouldn’t be sad but I am. Being friends with thee complicated my life extraordinarily.” Rodrigues got up and eased his back, then sat down again. “I hate sitting on these God-cursed cushions! Chairs are for me. Aboard. Well, salud, Ingeles.”

“When you swerved into wind and I was amidships, that was to put me overboard. Wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Rodrigues answered at once. He got to his feet. “Yes, I’m glad you asked me for that is on my conscience terribly. I’m glad to apologize to you in life for I could not bring myself to confess it to you. Yes, Ingeles. I don’t ask forgiveness or understanding or anything. But I am glad to confess that shame to your face.”

“You think I’d do that to you?”

“No. But then if the time came . . . You never know till your own time of trial.”

“You came here to kill me?”

“No. I don’t think so. I don’t think that was first in my mind, though for my people and my country we both know it would be better for you to be dead. So sad, but so true. How foolish is life, eh, Ingeles?”

“I don’t want you dead, Pilot. Just your Black Ship.”

“Listen, Ingeles,” said Rodrigues without anger. “If we meet at sea, you in your ship, armed, me in mine, look to your life. That’s all I came to promise you—only that. I thought it would be possible to tell you that as a friend and still remain your friend. Except for a sea meeting, I am forever in your debt. Salud!”

“I hope to catch your Black Ship at sea. Salud, Pilot.”

Rodrigues stalked off. Yoshinaka and the samurai followed him. At the gateway the Portuguese collected his arms. Soon he was swallowed by the night.

Yoshinaka waited until the sentries sorted themselves out. When he was satisfied that all was secure he limped off to his own quarters. Blackthorne sat back on one of the cushions and in a moment the maid that he had sent for saké happily padded up with the tray. She poured one cup and would have stayed to serve him but he dismissed her. Now he was alone. The night sounds surrounded him again, the rustling and the waterfall and the movements of the night birds.

Everything was as before, but everything had changed.

Sadly he reached out to refill his cup but there was a sibilance of silk and Mariko’s hand held the flask. She poured for him, the other cup for herself.

“Domo, Mariko-san.”

“Do itashimashité, Anjin-san.” She settled herself on the other cushion. They sipped the hot wine.

“He was going to kill you, neh?”

“I don’t know, not for sure.”

“What did it mean—to search like a Spaniard?”

“Some of them strip their prisoners then probe in private places. And not gently. They call it to search con significa, with significance. Sometimes they use knives.”

“Oh.” She sipped and listened to the water among the stones. “It’s the same here, Anjin-san. Sometimes. That’s why it’s never wise to be captured. If you’re captured you’ve dishonored yourself so completely that anything the captor does . . . It’s best not to be captured. Neh?”

He stared at the lanterns moving in the cool sweet breeze. “Yoshinaka was right—I was wrong. The search was necessary. It was your idea, neh? You told Yoshinaka to search him?”

“Please excuse me, Anjin-san, I hope that didn’t create an embarrassment for you. It was just that I was afraid for you.”

“I thank thee,” he said, using Latin again, though he was sorry there had been a search. Without the search he would still have a friend. Perhaps, he cautioned himself.

“Thou art welcome,” she said. “But it was only my duty.”

Mariko was wearing a night kimono and overkimono of blue, her hair braided loosely, falling to her waist. She looked back at the far gateway which could be seen through the trees. “You were very clever about the liquor, Anjin-san. I almost pinched myself with anger at forgetting to warn Yoshinaka about that. You were most shrewd to make him drink twice. Do you use poison a lot in your countries?”

“Sometimes. Some people do. It’s a filthy way.”

“Yes, but very effective. It happens here too.”

“Terrible, isn’t it, not being able to trust anyone.”

“Oh, no, Anjin-san, so sorry,” she answered. “That’s just one of life’s most important rules—no more, no less.”