Shōgun

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Erasmus glittered in the high noon sun beside the Yedo wharf, resplendent.

“Jesus God in Heaven, Mariko, look at her! Have you ever seen anything like her? Look at her lines!”

His ship was beyond the closed, encircling barriers a hundred paces away, moored to the dock with new ropes. The whole area was heavily guarded, more samurai were on deck, and signs everywhere said this was a forbidden area except with Lord Toranaga’s personal permission.

Erasmus had been freshly painted and tarred, her decks were spotless, her hull caulked and her rigging repaired. Even the foremast that had been carried away in the storm had been replaced with the last of the spares she carried in her hold, and stepped to a perfect angle. All rope ends were neatly coiled, all cannon gleaming under a protective sheen of oil behind their gun ports. And the ragged Lion of England fluttered proudly over all.

“Ahoy!” he shouted joyfully from outside the barriers, but there was no answering call. One of the sentries told him there were no barbarians aboard today.

“Shigata ga nai,” Blackthorne said. “Domo.” He curbed his soaring impatience to go aboard at once and beamed at Mariko. “It’s as if she’s just come out of a refit at Portsmouth dockyard, Mariko-san. Look at her cannon—the lads must’ve worked like dogs. She’s beautiful, neh? Can’t wait to see Baccus and Vinck and the others. Never thought I’d find her like that. Christ Jesus, she looks so pretty, neh?”

Mariko was watching him and not the ship. She knew she was forgotten now. And replaced.

Never mind, she told herself. Our journey’s over.

This morning they had arrived at the last of the turnpikes on the outskirts of Yedo. Once more their travel papers were checked. Once more they were passed through with politeness, but this time a new honor guard was waiting for them.

“They’re to take us to the castle, Anjin-san. You’ll stay there, and this evening we’re to meet Lord Toranaga.”

“Good, then there’s plenty of time. Look, Mariko-san, the docks aren’t more than a mile off, neh? My ship’s there somewhere. Would you ask Captain Yoshinaka if we can go there, please?”

“He says, so sorry, but he has no instructions to do that, Anjin-san. He is to take us to the castle.”

“Please tell him . . . perhaps I’d better try. Taicho-san! Okashira, sukoshi no aida watakushi wa ikitai no desu. Watakushi no fune ga asoko ni arimasu.” Captain, I want to go there now for a little while. My ship’s there.

“Iyé, Anjin-san, gomen nasai. Ima . . .”

Mariko had listened approvingly and with amusement as Blackthorne had argued courteously and insisted firmly, and then, reluctantly, Yoshinaka had allowed them to detour, but just for a moment, neh? and only because the Anjin-san claimed hatamoto status, which gave certain inalienable rights, and had pointed out that a quick examination was important to Lord Toranaga, that it would certainly save their lord’s immensely valuable time and was vital to his meeting tonight. Yes, the Anjin-san may look for a moment, but so sorry, it is of course forbidden to go on the ship without papers signed personally by Lord Toranaga, and it must only be for a moment because we are expected, so sorry.

“Domo, Taicho-san,” Blackthorne had said expansively, more than a little pleased with his increased understanding of the correct ways to persuade and his growing command of the language.

Last night and most of yesterday they had spent at an inn barely two ri southward down the road, Yoshinaka allowing them to dawdle as before.

Oh, that was such a lovely night, she thought.

There had been so many lovely days and nights. All perfect except the first day after leaving Mishima, when Father Tsukku-san caught up with them again and the precarious truce between the two men was ripped asunder. Their quarrel had been sudden, vicious, fueled by the Rodrigues incident and too much brandy. Threat and counterthreat and curses and then Father Alvito had spurred on ahead for Yedo, leaving disaster in his wake, the joy of the journey ruined.

“We must not let this happen, Anjin-san.”

“But that man had no right—”

“Oh yes, I agree. And of course you’re correct. But please, if you let this incident destroy your harmony, you will be lost and so will I. Please, I implore you to be Japanese. Put this incident away—that’s all it is, one incident in ten thousand. You must not allow it to wreck your harmony. Put it away into a compartment.”

“How? How can I do that? Look at my hands! I’m so God-cursed angry I can’t stop them shaking!”

“Look at this rock, Anjin-san. Listen to it growing.”

“What?”

“Listen to the rock grow, Anjin-san. Put your mind on that, on the harmony of the rock. Listen to the kami of the rock. Listen, my love, for thy life’s sake. And for mine.”

So he had tried and had succeeded just a little and the next day, friends again, lovers again, at peace again, she continued to teach, trying to mold him—without his knowing he was being molded—to the Eightfold Fence, building inner walls and defenses that were his only path to harmony. And to survival.

“I’m so glad the priest has gone and won’t come back, Anjin-san.”

“Yes.”

“It would have been better if there had been no quarrel. I’m afraid for you.”

“Nothing’s different—he always was my enemy, always will be. Karma is karma. But don’t forget nothing exists outside us. Not yet. Not him or anyone. Not until Yedo. Neh?”

“Yes. You are so wise. And right again. I’m so happy to be with thee. . . .”

Their road from Mishima left the flat lands quickly and wound up the mountain to Hakoné Pass. They rested there two days atop the mountain, joyous and content, Mount Fuji glorious at sunrise and sunset, her peak obscured by a wreath of clouds.

“Is the mountain always like that?”

“Yes, Anjin-san, most always shrouded. But that makes the sight of Fuji-san, clear and clean, so much more exquisite, neh? You can climb all the way to the top if you wish.”

“Let’s do that now!”

“Not now, Anjin-san. One day we will. We must leave something to the future, neh? We’ll climb Fuji-san in autumn. . . .”

Always there were pretty, private inns down to the Kwanto plains. And always rivers and streams and rivulets to cross, the sea on the right now. Their party had meandered northward along the busy, bustling Tokaidō, across the greatest rice bowl in the Empire. The flat alluvial plains were rich with water, every inch cultivated. The air was hot and humid now, heavy with the stench of human manure that the farmers moistened with water and ladled onto the plants with loving care.

“Rice gives us food to eat, Anjin-san, tatamis to sleep on, sandals to walk with, clothes to shut out the rain and the cold, thatch to keep our houses warm, paper for writing. Without rice we cannot exist.”

“But the stink, Mariko-san!”

“That’s a small price to pay for so much bounty, neh? Just do as we do, open your eyes and ears and mind. Hear the wind and the rain, the insects and the birds, listen to the plants growing, and in your mind, see your generations following unto the end of time. If you do that, Anjin-san, soon you smell only the loveliness of life. It requires practice . . . but you become very Japanese, neh?”

“Ah, thank you, m’lady! But I do confess I’m beginning to like rice. Yes. I certainly prefer it to potatoes, and you know another thing—I don’t miss meat as much as I did. Isn’t that strange? And I’m not as hungry as I was.”

“I am more hungry than I’ve ever been.”

“Ah, I was talking about food.”

“Ah, so was I. . . .”

Three days away from Hakoné Pass her monthly time began and she had asked him to take one of the maids of the inn. “It would be wise, Anjin-san.”

“I’d prefer not to, so sorry.”

“Please, I ask thee. It is a safeguard. A discretion.”

“Because you ask, then yes. But tomorrow, not tonight. Tonight let us sleep in peace.”

Yes, Mariko thought, that night we slept peacefully and the next dawn was so lovely that I left his warmth and sat on the veranda with Chimmoko and watched the birth of another day.

“Ah, good morning, Lady Toda.” Gyoko had been standing at the garden entrance, bowing to her. “A gorgeous dawn, neh?”

“Yes, beautiful.”

“Please may I interrupt you? Could I speak to you privately—alone? About a business matter.”

“Of course.” Mariko had left the veranda, not wishing to disturb the Anjin-san’s sleep. She sent Chimmoko for cha and ordered blankets to be put on the grass, near the little waterfall.

When it was correct to begin and they were alone, Gyoko said, “I was considering how I could be of the most help to Toranaga-sama.”

“The thousand koku would be more than generous.”

“Three secrets might be more generous.”

“One might be, Gyoko-san, if it was the right one.”

“The Anjin-san is a good man, neh? His future must be helped too, neh?”

“The Anjin-san has his own karma,” she replied, knowing that the time of bargaining had come, wondering what she must concede, if she dared to concede anything. “We were talking about Lord Toranaga, neh? Or is one of the secrets about the Anjin-san?”

“Oh no, Lady. It’s as you say. The Anjin-san has his own karma, as I’m sure he has his own secrets. It’s just occurred to me that the Anjin-san is one of Lord Toranaga’s favored vassals, so any protection our Lord has in a way helps his vassals, neh?”

“I agree. Of course, it’s the duty of vassals to pass on any information that could help their lord.”

“True, Lady, very true. Ah, it’s such an honor for me to serve you. Honto. May I tell you how honored I am to have been allowed to travel with you, to talk with you, and eat and laugh with you, and occasionally to act as a modest counselor, however ill-equipped I am, for which I apologize. And finally to say that your wisdom is as great as your beauty, and your bravery as vast as your rank.”

“Ah, Gyoko-san, please excuse me, you’re too kind, too thoughtful. I am just a wife of one of my Lord’s generals. You were saying? Four secrets?”

“Three, Lady. I was wondering if you’d intercede with Lord Toranaga for me. It would be unthinkable for me to whisper directly to him what I know to be true. That would be very bad manners because I wouldn’t know the right words to choose, or how to put the information before him, and in any event, in a matter of any importance, our custom to use a go-between is so much better, neh?”

“Surely Kiku-san would be a better choice? I’ve no way of knowing when I’ll be sent for or how long it would be before I’ll have an audience with him, or even if he’d be interested in listening to anything I might have to tell him.”

“Please excuse me, Lady, but you would be extraordinarily better. You could judge the value of the information, she couldn’t. You possess his ear, she other things.”

“I’m not a counselor, Gyoko-san. Nor a valuer.”

“I’d say they’re worth a thousand koku.”

“So desu ka?”

Gyoko made perfectly sure no one was listening, then told Mariko what the renegade Christian priest had muttered aloud that the Lord Onoshi had whispered to him in the confessional that he had related to his uncle, Lord Harima; then what Omi’s second cook had overheard of Omi’s and his mother’s plot against Yabu; and lastly, all she knew about Zataki, his apparent lust for the Lady Ochiba, and about Ishido and Lady Ochiba.

Mariko had listened intently without comment—although breaking the secrecy of the confessional shocked her greatly—her mind hopping at the swarm of possibilities this information unlocked. Then she cross-questioned Gyoko carefully, to make sure she understood clearly what she was being told and to etch it completely in her own memory.

When she was satisfied that she knew everything that Gyoko was prepared to divulge at the moment—for, obviously, so shrewd a bargainer would always hold much in reserve—she sent for fresh cha.

She poured Gyoko’s cup herself, and they sipped demurely. Both wary, both confident.

“I’ve no way of knowing how valuable this information is, Gyoko-san.”

“Of course, Mariko-sama.”

“I imagine this information—and the thousand koku—would please Lord Toranaga greatly.”

Gyoko bit back the obscenity that flared behind her lips. She had expected a substantial reduction in the beginning bid. “So sorry, but money has no significance to such a daimyo, though it is a heritage to a peasant like myself—a thousand koku makes me an ancestress, neh? One must always know what one is, Lady Toda. Neh?” Her tone was barbed.

“Yes. It’s good to know what you are, and who you are, Gyoko-san. That is one of the rare gifts a woman has over a man. A woman always knows. Fortunately I know what I am. Oh very yes. Please come to the point.”

Gyoko did not flinch under the threat but slammed back into attack with corresponding impolite brevity. “The point is we both know life and understand death—and both believe treatment in hell and everywhere else depends on money.”

“Do we?”

“Yes. So sorry, I believe a thousand koku is too much.”

“Death is preferable?”

“I’ve already written my death poem, Lady:

“That could be arranged. Easily.”

“Yes. But I’ve long ears and a safe tongue, which could be more important.”

Mariko poured more cha. For herself. “So sorry, have you?”

“Oh yes, oh very yes. Please excuse me but it’s no boast that I was trained well, Lady, in that and many other things. I’m not afraid to die. I’ve written my will, and detailed instructions to my kin in case of a sudden death. I’ve made my peace with the gods long since and forty days after I’m dead I know I’ll be reborn. And if I’m not”—the woman shrugged—“then I’m a kami.” Her fan was stationary. “So I can afford to reach for the moon, neh? Please excuse me for mentioning it but I’m like you: I fear nothing. But unlike you in this life—I’ve nothing to lose.”

“So much talk of evil things, Gyoko-san, on such a pleasant morning. It is pleasant, neh?” Mariko readied to bury her fangs. “I’d much prefer to see you alive, living into honored old age, one of the pillars of your new guild. Ah, that was a very tender idea. A good one, Gyoko-san.”

“Thank you, Lady. Equally I’d like you safe and happy and prospering in the way that you’d wish. With all the toys and honors you’d require.”

“Toys?” Mariko repeated, dangerous now.

Gyoko was like a trained dog on the scent near the kill. “I’m only a peasant, Lady, so I wouldn’t know what honors you wish, what toys would please you. Or your son.”

Unnoticed by either of them the slim wooden haft of Mariko’s fan snapped between her fingers. The breeze had died. Now the hot wet air hung in the garden that looked out on a waveless sea. Flies swarmed and settled and swarmed again.

“What—what honors or toys would you wish? For yourself?” Mariko stared with malevolent fascination at the older woman, clearly aware now that she must destroy this woman or her son would perish.

“Nothing for myself. Lord Toranaga’s given me honors and riches beyond my dreams. But for my son? Ah yes, he could be given a helping hand.”

“What help?”

“Two swords.”

“Impossible.”

“I know, Lady. So sorry. So easy to grant, yet so impossible. War’s coming. Many will be needed to fight.”

“There’ll be no war now. Lord Toranaga’s going to Osaka.”

“Two swords. That’s not much to ask.”

“That’s impossible. So sorry, that’s not mine to give.”

“So sorry, but I haven’t asked you for anything. But that’s the only thing that would please me. Yes. Nothing else.” A dribble of sweat fell from Gyoko’s face onto her lap. “I’d like to offer Lord Toranaga five hundred koku from the contract price, as a token of my esteem in these hard times. The other five hundred will go to my son. A samurai needs a heritage, neh?”

“You sentence your son to death. All Toranaga samurai will die or become ronin very soon.”

“Karma. My son already has sons, Lady. They will tell their sons that once we were samurai. That’s all that matters, neh?”

“It’s not mine to give.”

“True. So sorry. But that’s all that would satisfy me.”

Irritably, Toranaga shook his head. “Her information’s interesting—perhaps—but not worth making her son samurai.”

Mariko replied, “She seems to be a loyal vassal, Sire. She said she’d be honored if you’d deduct a further five hundred koku from the contract fee for some needy samurai.”

“That’s not generosity. No, not at all. That’s merely guilt over the original usurious asking price.”

“Perhaps it’s worth considering, Sire. Her idea about the guild, about gei-sha and the new classes of courtesans, will have far-reaching effects, neh? It would do no harm, perhaps.”

“I don’t agree. No. Why should she be rewarded? There’s no reason for granting her that honor. Ridiculous! She surely didn’t ask you for it, did she?”

“It would have been more than a little impertinent for her to do that, Sire. I have made the suggestion because I believe she could be very valuable to you.”

“She’d better be more valuable. Her secrets are probably lies too. These days I get nothing but lies.” Toranaga rang a small bell and an equerry appeared instantly at the far door.

“Sire?”

“Where’s the courtesan Kiku?”

“In your quarters, Sire.”

“Is the Gyoko woman with her?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Send them both out of the castle. At once! Send them back to . . . No, lodge them at an inn—a third-class inn—and tell them to wait there until I send for them.” Toranaga said testily, as the man vanished, “Disgusting! Pimps wanting to be samurai? Filthy peasants don’t know their place anymore!”

Mariko watched him sitting on his cushion, his fan waving desultorily. She was jarred by the change in him. Gloom, irritation, and petulance, where before there had always been only buoyant confidence. He had listened to the secrets with interest, but not with the excitement she had expected. Poor man, she thought with pity, he’s given up. What’s the good of any information to him? Perhaps he’s wise to cast things of the world aside and prepare for the unknown. Better you should do that yourself too, she thought, dying inside a bit more. Yes, but you can’t, not yet, somehow you’ve got to protect your son.

They were on the sixth floor of the tall fortified donjon and the windows overlooked the whole city on three quarters of the compass. Sunset was dark tonight, the thread of moon low on the horizon, the dank air stifling, though here, almost a hundred feet above the floor of the castle battlements, the room gathered every breath of wind. The room was low and fortified and took up half the whole floor, other rooms beyond.

Toranaga picked up the dispatch that Hiro-matsu had sent with Mariko and read it again. She noticed his hand tremble.

“What’s he want to come to Yedo for?” Impatiently Toranaga tossed the scroll aside.

“I don’t know, Sire, so sorry. He just asked me to give you this dispatch.”

“Did you talk to the Christian renegade?”

“No, Sire. Yoshinaka-san said you’d given orders against anyone doing that.”

“How was Yoshinaka on the journey?”

“Very capable, Sire,” she said, patiently answering the question for a second time. “Very efficient. He guarded us very well and delivered us on time exactly.”

“Why didn’t the priest Tsukku-san come back with you all the way?”

“On the road from Mishima, Sire, he and the Anjin-san quarreled,” Mariko told him, not knowing what Father Alvito might have already told Toranaga, if in fact Toranaga had sent for him yet. “The Father decided to travel on alone.”

“What was the quarrel about?”

“Partially over me, my soul, Sire. Mostly because of their religious enmity and because of the war between their rulers.”

“Who started it?”

“They were equally to blame. It began over a flask of liquor.” Mariko told him what had passed with Rodrigues, then continued, “The Tsukku-san had brought a second flask as a gift, wanting, so he said, to intercede for Rodrigues-san, but the Anjin-san said, shockingly bluntly, that he didn’t want any ‘Papist liquor,’ preferred saké, and he didn’t trust priests. The—the Holy Father flared up, was equally shockingly blunt, saying he had never dealt in poison, never would, and could never condone such a thing.”

“Ah, poison? Do they use poison as a weapon?”

“The Anjin-san told me some of them do, Sire. This led to more violent words and then they were hacking at each other over religion, my soul, about Catholics and Protestants . . . I left to fetch Yoshinaka-san as soon as I could and he stopped the quarrel.”

“Barbarians cause nothing but trouble. Christians cause nothing but trouble. Neh?”

She did not answer him. His petulance unsettled her. It was so unlike him and there seemed to be no reason for such a breakdown in his legendary self-control. Perhaps the shock of being beaten is too much for him, she thought. Without him we’re all finished, my son’s finished, and the Kwanto will soon be in other hands. His gloom was infecting her. She had noticed in the streets and in the castle the pall that seemed to hang over the whole city—a city that was famous for its gaiety, brash good humor, and delight with life.

“I was born the year the first Christians arrived and they’ve bedeviled the land ever since,” Toranaga said. “For fifty-eight years nothing but trouble. Neh?”

“I’m sorry they offend you, Sire. Was there anything else? With your permi—”

“Sit down. I haven’t finished yet.” Toranaga rang the bell again. The door opened. “Send Buntaro-san in.”

Buntaro walked in. Grim-faced, he knelt and bowed. She bowed to him, numb, but he did not acknowledge her.

A while ago Buntaro had met their cortege at the castle gate. After a brief greeting, he had told her she was to go at once to Lord Toranaga. The Anjin-san would be sent for later.

“Buntaro-san, you asked to see me in your wife’s presence as soon as possible?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“What is it you want?”

“I humbly beg permission to take the Anjin-san’s head,” Buntaro said.

“Why?”

“Please excuse me but I . . . I don’t like the way he looks at my wife. I wanted . . . I wanted to say it in front of her, the first time, before you. Also, he insulted me at Anjiro and I can no longer live with this shame.”

Toranaga glanced at Mariko, who seemed to be frozen in time. “You accuse her of encouraging him?”

“I . . . I ask permission to take his head.”

“You accuse her of encouraging him? Answer the question!”

“Please excuse me, Sire, but if I thought that I’d be duty bound to take her head the same instant,” Buntaro replied stonily, his eyes on the tatamis. “The barbarian’s a constant irritation to my harmony. I believe he’s a harassment to you. Let me remove his head, I beg you.” He looked up, his heavy jowls unshaven, eyes deeply shadowed. “Or let me take my wife now and tonight we’ll go before you—to prepare the way.”

“What do you say to that, Mariko-san?”

“He is my husband. Whatever he decides, that will I do—unless you overrule him, Sire. This is my duty.”

Toranaga looked from man to woman. Then his voice hardened, and for a moment he was like the Toranaga of old. “Mariko-san, you will leave in three days for Osaka. You will prepare that way for me, and wait for me there. Buntaro-san, you will accompany me as commander of my escort when I leave. After you have acted as my second, you or one of your men may do the same with the Anjin-san—with or without his approval.”

Buntaro cleared his throat. “Sire, please order Crim—”

“Hold your tongue! You forget yourself! I’ve told you no three times! The next time you have the impertinence to offer unwanted advice you will slit your belly in a Yedo cesspool!”

Buntaro’s head was on the tatamis. “I apologize, Sire. I apologize for my impertinence.”

Mariko was equally appalled by Toranaga’s ill-mannered, shameful outburst, and she bowed low also, to hide her own embarrassment. In a moment Toranaga said, “Please excuse my temper. Your plea is granted, Buntaro-san, but only after you’ve acted as my second.”

“Thank you, Sire. Please excuse me for offending you.”

“I ordered you both to make peace with one another. Have you done so?”

Buntaro nodded shortly. Mariko too.

“Good. Mariko-san, you will come back with the Anjin-san tonight, in the Hour of the Dog. You may go now.”

She bowed and left them.

Toranaga stared at Buntaro. “Well? Do you accuse her?”

“It . . . it is unthinkable she’d betray me, Sire,” Buntaro answered sullenly.

“I agree.” Toranaga waved a fly away with his fan, seeming very tired. “Well, you may have the Anjin-san’s head soon. I need it on his shoulders a little longer.”

“Thank you, Sire. Again please excuse me for irritating you.”

“These are irritating times. Foul times.” Toranaga leaned forward. “Listen, I want you to go to Mishima at once to relieve your father for a few days. He asks permission to come here to consult with me. I don’t know what . . . Anyway, I must have someone in Mishima I can trust. Would you please leave at dawn—but by way of Takato.”

“Sire?” Buntaro saw that Toranaga was keeping calm only with an enormous effort, and in spite of his will, his voice was trembling.

“I’ve a private message for my mother in Takato. You’re to tell no one you’re going there. But once you’re clear of the city, cut north.”

“I understand.”

“Lord Zataki may prevent you from delivering it—may try to. You are to give it only into her hands. You understand? To her alone. Take twenty men and gallop there. I’ll send a carrier pigeon to ask safe conduct from him.”

“Your message will be verbal or in writing, Lord?”

“In writing.”

“And if I can’t deliver it?”

“You must deliver it, of course you must. That’s why I picked you! But . . . if you’re betrayed like I’ve . . . if you’re betrayed, destroy it before you commit suicide. The moment I hear such evil news, the Anjin-san’s head is off his shoulders. And if . . . what about Mariko-san? What about your wife, if something goes wrong?”

“Please dispatch her, Sire, before you die. I would be honored if . . . She merits a worthy second.”

“She won’t die dishonorably, you have my promise. I’ll see to it. Personally. Now please come back at dawn for the dispatch. Don’t fail me. Only into my mother’s hands.”

Buntaro thanked him again and left, ashamed of Toranaga’s outward show of fear.

Now alone, Toranaga took out a kerchief and wiped the sweat off his face. His fingers were trembling. He tried to control them but couldn’t. It had taken all his strength to continue acting the stupid dullard, to hide his unbounding excitement over the secrets, which, fantastically, promised the long-hoped-for reprieve.

“A possible reprieve, only possible—if they’re true,” he said aloud, hardly able to think, the astoundingly welcome information that Mariko had brought from the Gyoko woman still shrieking in his brain.

Ochiba, he was gloating, . . . so that harpy’s the lure to bring my brother tumbling out of his mountain eyrie. My brother wants Ochiba. But now it’s equally obvious he wants more than her, and more than just the Kwanto. He wants the realm. He detests Ishido, loathes Christians, and is now sick with jealousy over Ishido’s well-known lust for Ochiba. So he’ll fall out with Ishido, Kiyama, and Onoshi. Because what my treacherous brother really wants is to be Shōgun. He’s Minowara, with all the lineage necessary, all the ambition, but not the mandate. Or the Kwanto. First he must get the Kwanto to get the rest.

Toranaga rubbed his hands with glee at all the wonderful new possible ploys this newfound knowledge gave him against his brother.

And Onoshi the leper! A drop of honey in Kiyama’s ear at the right time, he thought, and the guts of the renegade’s treason twisted a little, improved modestly, and Kiyama might gather his legions and go after Onoshi with fire and sword at once. ‘Gyoko’s quite sure, Sire. The acolyte Brother Joseph said Lord Onoshi had whispered in the confessional that he had made a secret treaty with Ishido against a fellow Christian daimyo and wanted absolution. The treaty solemnly agreed that in return for support now, Ishido promised the day you are dead that this fellow Christian would be impeached for treason and invited into the Void, the same day, forcibly if necessary, and Onoshi’s son and heir would inherit all lands. The Christian was not named, Sire.’

Kiyama or Harima of Nagasaki? Toranaga asked himself. It doesn’t matter. For me it must be Kiyama.

He got up shakily, in spite of his jubilation, and groped to one of the windows, leaned heavily on the wooden sill. He peered at the moon, and the sky beyond. The stars were dull. Rain clouds were building.

“Buddha, all gods, any gods, let my brother take the bait—and let that woman’s whisperings be true!”

No shooting star appeared to show the message was acknowledged by the gods. No wind sprang up, no sudden cloud blanketed the crescent moon. Even if there had been a heavenly sign he would have dismissed it as a coincidence.

Be patient. Consider facts only. Sit down and think, he told himself.

He knew the strain was beginning to tell on him but it was vital that none of his intimates or vassals—thus none of the legion of loose-mouthed fools or spies of Yedo—suspect for an instant that he was only feigning capitulation and play-acting the role of a beaten man. At Yokosé he had realized at once that to accept the second scroll from his brother was his death knell. He had decided his only tiny chance of survival was to convince everyone, even himself, that he had absolutely accepted defeat, though in reality it was only a cover to gain time, continuing his lifelong pattern of negotiation, delay, and seeming retreat, always waiting patiently until a chink in the armor appeared over a jugular, then stabbing home viciously, without hesitation.

Since Yokosé he had waited out the lonely watches of the nights and the days, each one harder to bear. No hunting or laughing, no plotting or planning or swimming or banter or dancing and singing in Nōh plays that had delighted him all his life. Only the same lonely role, the most difficult in his life: gloom, surrender, indecision, apparent helplessness, with self-imposed semistarvation.

To help pass the time he had continued to refine the Legacy. This was a series of private secret instructions to his successors that he had formulated over the years on how best to rule after him. Sudara had already sworn to abide by the Legacy, as every heir to the mantle would be required to do. In this way the future of the clan would be assured—may be assured, Toranaga reminded himself as he changed a word or added a sentence or eliminated a paragraph, providing I escape this present trap.

The Legacy began: “The duty of a lord of a province is to give peace and security to the people and does not consist of shedding luster on his ancestors or working for the prosperity of his descendants. . . .”

One of the maxims was: “Remember that fortune and misfortune should be left to heaven and natural law. They are not to be bought by prayer or any cunning device to be thought of by any man or self-styled saint.”

Toranaga eliminated “. . . or self-styled saint,” and changed the sentence to end “. . . by any man whatsoever.”

Normally he would enjoy stretching his mind to write clearly and succinctly, but during the long days and nights it had taken all of his self-discipline to continue playing such an alien role.

That he had succeeded so well pleased him yet dismayed him. How could people be so gullible?

Thank the gods they are, he answered himself for the millionth time. By accepting “defeat” you have twice avoided war. You’re still trapped, but now, at long last, your patience has brought its reward and you have a new chance.

Perhaps you’ve got a chance, he corrected himself. Unless the secrets are false and given by an enemy to enmesh you further.

His chest began to ache, he became weak and dizzy, so he sat down and breathed deeply as the Zen teachers had taught him years ago. ‘Ten deep, ten slow, ten deep, ten slow, send your mind into the Void. There is no past or future, hot or cold, pain or joy—from nothing, into nothing. . . .’

Soon he started to think clearly again. Then he went to his desk and began to write. He asked his mother to act as intermediary between himself and his half-brother and to present an offer for the future of their clan. First, he petitioned his brother to consider a marriage with the Lady Ochiba: “. . . of course it would be unthinkable for me to do this, brother. Too many daimyos would be enraged at my ‘vaulting ambition.’ But such a liaison with you would cement the peace of the realm, and confirm the succession of Yaemon—no one doubting your loyalty, though some in error doubt mine. You could certainly get a more eligible wife, but she could hardly get a better husband. Once the traitors to His Imperial Highness are removed, and I resume my rightful place as President of the Council of Regents, I will invite the Son of Heaven to request the marriage if you will agree to take on such a burden. I sincerely feel this sacrifice is the only way we can both secure the succession and do our sworn duty to the Taikō. Second, you’re offered all the domains of the Christian traitors Kiyama and Onoshi, who are presently plotting, with the barbarian priests, a treasonous war against all non-Christian daimyos, supported by a musket-armed invasion of barbarians as they did before against our liege lord, the Taikō. Further, you’re offered all the lands of any other Kyushu Christians who side with the traitor Ishido against me in the final battle. (Did you know that upstart peasant has had the impertinence to let it be known that once I am dead and he rules the Regents, he plans to dissolve the Council and marry the mother of the Heir himself?)

“And in return for the above, just this, brother: a secret treaty of alliance now, guaranteed safe passage for my armies through the Shinano mountains, a joint attack under my generalship against Ishido at a time and manner of my choosing. Last, as a measure of my trust I will at once send my son Sudara, his wife the Lady Genjiko, and their children, including my only grandson, to you in Takato. . . .”

This isn’t the work of a defeated man, Toranaga told himself as he sealed the scroll. Zataki will know that instantly. Yes, but now the trap’s baited. Shinano’s athwart my only road, and Zataki’s the initial key to the Osaka plains.

Is it true that Zataki wants Ochiba? I risk so much over the supposed whispers of a straddled maid and grunting man. Could Gyoko be lying for her own advantage, that impertinent bloodsucker! Samurai? So that’s the real key to unlock all her secrets.

She must have proof about Mariko and the Anjin-san. Why else would Mariko put such a request to me? Toda Mariko and the barbarian! The barbarian and Buntaro! Eeeee, life is strange.

Another twinge over his heart wracked him. After a moment he wrote the message for a carrier pigeon and plodded up the stairs to the loft above. Carefully he selected a Takato pigeon from one of the many panniers and slid the tiny cylinder home. Then he put the pigeon on the perch in the open box that would allow her to fly off at first light.

The message asked his mother to request safe passage for Buntaro, who had an important dispatch for her and his brother. And he had signed it like the offer, Yoshi Toranaga-noh-Minowara, claiming that mantle for the first time in his life.

“Fly safe and true, little bird,” he said, caressing her with a fallen feather. “You carry a heritage of ten thousand years.”

Once more his eyes went to the city below. The smallest bar of light appeared on the west horizon. Down by the docks he could see the pinpricks of flares that surrounded the barbarian ship.

There’s another key, he thought, and he began to rethink the three secrets. He knew he had missed something.

“I wish Kiri were here,” he said to the night.

Mariko was kneeling in front of her polished metal mirror. She looked away from her face. In her hands was the dagger, catching the flickering oil light.

“I should use thee,” she said, filled with grief. Her eyes sought the Madonna and Child in the niche beside the lovely spray of flowers, and filled with tears. “I know suicide’s a mortal sin, but what can I do? How can I live with this shame? It’s better for me to do it before I’m betrayed.”

The room was quiet like the house. This was their family house, built within the innermost ring of defenses and the wide moat around the castle, where only the most favored and trusted hatamoto were allowed to live. Circling the house was a bamboo-walled garden and a tiny stream ran through it, tapped from the abundance of waters surrounding the castle.

She heard footsteps. The front gate creaked open and there was the sound of servants rushing to greet the master. Quickly she put the knife away in her obi and dried her tears. Soon there were footsteps and she opened her door, bowing politely.

In ill humor, Buntaro told her Toranaga had changed his mind again, that now he was ordered to Mishima temporarily. “I’ll leave at dawn. I wanted to wish you a safe journey—” He stopped and peered at her. “Why are you crying?”

“Please excuse me, Sire. It’s just because I’m a woman and life seems so difficult for me. And because of Toranaga-sama.”

“He’s a broken reed. I’m ashamed to say it. Terrible, but that’s what he’s become. We should go to war. Far better to go to war than to know the only future I’ve got is to see Ishido’s filthy face laughing at my karma!”

“Yes, so sorry. I wish there was something I could do to help. Would you like saké or cha?”

Buntaro turned and bellowed at a servant who was waiting in the passageway. “Get saké! Hurry up!”

Buntaro walked into her room. Mariko closed the door. Now he stood at the window looking up at the castle walls and the donjon beyond.

“Please don’t worry, Sire,” she said placatingly. “The bath’s ready and I’ve sent for your favorite.”

He kept his eyes on the donjon, seething. Then he said, “He should resign in Lord Sudara’s favor if he’s not got the stomach for leadership anymore. Lord Sudara’s his son and legal heir, neh? Neh?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Yes. Or even better, he should do as Zataki suggested. Commit seppuku. Then we’d have Zataki and his armies fighting with us. With them and the muskets we could smash through to Kyoto, I know we could. Even if we failed, better that than give up like filthy, cowardly Garlic Eaters! Our Master’s forfeited all rights. Neh? NEH?” He whirled on her.

“Please excuse me—it’s not for me to say. He’s our liege lord.”

Buntaro turned back again, brooding, to stare at the donjon. Lights flickered on all levels. Particularly the sixth. “My advice to his Council is to invite him to depart, and if he won’t—to help him. There’s precedent enough! There are many who share my opinion, but not Lord Sudara, not yet. Maybe he does secretly, who knows about him, what he’s really thinking? When you meet his wife, when you meet Lady Genjiko, talk to her, persuade her. Then she’ll persuade him—she leads him by the nose, neh? You’re friends, she’ll listen to you. Persuade her.”

“I think that would be very bad to do, Sire. That’s treason.”

“I order you to talk to her!”

“I will obey you.”

“Yes, you’ll obey an order, won’t you?” he snarled. “Obey? Why are you always so cold and bitter? Eh?” He picked up her mirror and shoved it up to her face. “Look at yourself!”

“Please excuse me if I displease you, Sire.” Her voice was level and she stared past the mirror to his face. “I don’t wish to anger you.”

He watched her for a moment then sullenly tossed the mirror back onto the lacquered table. “I didn’t accuse you. If I thought that I’d . . . I wouldn’t hesitate.”

Mariko heard herself spit back, unforgivably, “Wouldn’t hesitate to do what? Kill me, Sire? Or leave me alive to shame me more?”

“I didn’t accuse you, only him!” Buntaro bellowed.

“But I accuse you!” she shrieked in return. “And you did accuse me!”

“Hold your tongue!”

“You shamed me in front of our lord! You accused me and you won’t do your duty! You’re afraid! You’re a coward! A filthy, garlic-eating coward!”

His sword came out of its scabbard, and she gloried in the fact that at least she had dared to push him over the brink.

But the sword remained poised in the air. “I . . . have your . . . I have your promise before your . . . your God, in Osaka. Before we . . . we go into death . . . I have your promise and I . . . I hold you to that!”

Her baiting laugh was shrill and vicious. “Oh yes, mighty Lord. I’ll be your cushion just once more, but your welcome will be dry, bitter, and rancid!”

He hacked blindly with all his two-handed strength at a corner post and the blade sliced almost totally through the foot-thick seasoned beam. He tugged but the sword held fast. Almost berserk, he twisted it and fought it and then the blade snapped. With a final curse he hurled the broken haft through the flimsy wall and staggered drunkenly for the door. The quavering servant stood there with the tray and saké. Buntaro smashed it out of his hands. Instantly the servant knelt, put his head on the floor, and froze.

Buntaro leaned on the shattered door frame. “Wait . . . wait till Osaka.”

He groped out of the house.

For a time, Mariko remained immobile, seemingly in a trance. Then the color began to return to her cheeks. Her eyes focused. Silently she returned to her mirror. She studied her reflection for a moment. Then, quite calmly, she finished applying her makeup.

Blackthorne ran up the stairs two at a time, his guard with him. They were on the main staircase within the donjon and he was glad to be unencumbered by his swords. He had formally surrendered them in the courtyard to the first guards, who had also searched him politely but thoroughly. Torches lit the staircase and the landings. On the fourth landing he stopped, almost bursting with pent-up excitement, and called back, “Mariko-san, are you all right?”

“Yes—yes. I’m fine, thank you, Anjin-san.”

He began to climb again, feeling light and very strong, until he reached the final landing on the sixth floor. This level was heavily guarded like all the others. His escorting samurai went over to those clustering at the final iron-fortified door and bowed. They bowed back and motioned Blackthorne to wait.

The ironwork and woodwork in the entire castle were excellent. Here in the donjon all the windows, though delicate and soaring, doubled as stations for bowmen, and there were heavy, iron-covered shutters ready to swing into place for further protection.

Mariko rounded the last angle of the easily defensible staircase and reached him.

“You all right?” he asked.

“Oh yes, thank you,” she answered, slightly out of breath. But she still possessed the same curious serenity and detachment that he had at once noticed when he had met her in the courtyard but had never seen before.

Never mind, he thought confidently, it’s just the castle and Toranaga and Buntaro and being here in Yedo. I know what to do now.

Ever since he had seen Erasmus he had been filled with an immense joy. He had truly never expected to find his ship so perfect, so clean and cared for, and ready. There’s hardly reason to stay in Yedo now, he had thought. I’ll just take a quick look below to test the bilges, an easy dive over the side to check the keel, then guns, powder room, ammunition and shot and sails. During the journey to Yedo he’d planned how to use heavy silk or cotton cloth for sails; Mariko had told him that canvas did not exist in Japan. Just get the sails commissioned, he chortled, and any other spares we need, then off to Nagasaki like a lightning bolt.

“Anjin-san!” The samurai was back.

“Hai?”

“Dozo.”

The fortified door swung open silently. Toranaga was seated at the far end of the square room on a section of raised tatamis. Alone.

Blackthorne knelt and bowed low, his hands flat. “Konbanwa, Toranaga-sama. Ikaga desu ka?”

“Okagesama de genki desu. Anata wa?”

Toranaga seemed older and lackluster, and much thinner than before. Shigata ga nai, Blackthorne told himself. Toranaga’s karma won’t touch Erasmus—she’s going to be his savior, by God.

He answered Toranaga’s standard inquiries in simple but well-accented Japanese, using a simplified technique he had developed with Alvito’s help. Toranaga complimented him on the improvement and began to speak faster.

Blackthorne used one of the stock phrases he had worked out with Alvito and Mariko: “Please excuse me, Lord, as my Japanese is not good, would you please speak slower and use simple words, as I have to use simple words—please excuse me for putting you to so much trouble.”

“All right. Yes, certainly. Tell me, how did you like Yokosé?”

Blackthorne replied, keeping up with Toranaga, his answers halting, his vocabulary still very limited, until Toranaga asked a question, the key words of which he missed entirely. “Dozo? Gomen nasai, Toranaga-sama,” he said apologetically. “Wakarimasen.” I don’t understand.

Toranaga repeated what he had said, in simpler language. Blackthorne glanced at Mariko. “So sorry, Mariko-san, what’s ‘sonkei su beki umi’?”

“ ‘Seaworthy,’ Anjin-san.”

“Ah! Domo.” Blackthorne turned back. The daimyo had asked if he could quickly make sure whether his ship was completely seaworthy, and how long that would take. He replied, “Yes, easy. Half day, Lord.”

Toranaga thought a moment, then told him to do that tomorrow and report back in the afternoon, during the Hour of the Goat. “Wakarimasu?”

“Hai.”

“Then you can see your men,” Toranaga added.

“Sire?”

“Your vassals. I sent for you to tell you tomorrow you’ll have your vassals.”

“Ah, so sorry. I understand. Samurai vassals. Two hundred men.”

“Yes. Good night, Anjin-san. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Please excuse me, Lord, may I respectfully ask three things?”

“What?”

“First: Possible see my crew now please? Save time, neh? Please.”

Toranaga agreed and gave a curt order to one of the samurai to guide Blackthorne. “Take a ten-man guard with you. Take the Anjin-san there and bring him back to the castle.”

“Yes, Lord.”

“Next, Anjin-san?”

“Please possible talk alone? Little time. Please excuse my rudeness.” Blackthorne tried not to show his anxiety as Toranaga asked Mariko what this was all about. She replied truthfully that she only knew the Anjin-san had something private to say but she had not asked him what it was.

“You’re certain it’ll be all right for me to ask him, Mariko-san?” Blackthorne had said as they began to climb the stairs.

“Oh yes. Providing you wait till he’s finished. But be sure you know exactly what you’re going to say, Anjin-san. He’s . . . he’s not as patient as he is normally.” She had not asked him what he had wanted to ask, and he had not volunteered anything.

“Very well, Anjin-san,” Toranaga was saying. “Please wait outside, Mariko-san.” She bowed and left. “Yes?”

“So sorry, hear Lord Harima of Nagasaki now enemy.”

Toranaga was startled for he had heard about Harima’s public commitment to Ishido’s standard only when he himself had reached Yedo. “Where did you get that information?”

“Please?”

Toranaga repeated the question slower.

“Ah! Understand. Hear about Lord Harima at Hakoné. Gyoko-san tell us. Gyoko-san hear in Mishima.”

“That woman’s well informed. Perhaps too well informed.”

“Sire?”

“Nothing. Go on. What about Lord Harima?”

“Sire, may I respectfully say: my ship, big weapon over Black Ship, neh? If I take Black Ship very quick—priests very anger because no money Christian work here—no money also Portuguese other lands. Last year no Black Ship here, so no money, neh? If now take Black Ship quick, very quick, and also next year, all priest has great fear. That’s the truth, Sire. Think priests must bend if threatens. Priests like this for Toranaga-sama!” Blackthorne snapped his hand shut to make his point.

Toranaga had listened intently, watching his lips as he was doing the same. “I follow you, but to what end, Anjin-san?”

“Sire?”

Toranaga fell into the same pattern of using few words. “To obtain what? To catch what? To get what?”

“Lord Onoshi, Lord Kiyama, and Lord Harima.”

“So you want to interfere in our politics like the priests? You think you know how to rule us as well, Anjin-san?”

“So sorry, please excuse me, I don’t understand.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Toranaga thought for a long time, then said, “Priests say they’ve no power to order Christian daimyos.”

“No true, Sire, please excuse me. Money big power over priests. It’s the truth, Sire. If no Black Ship this year, and also next year no Black Ship, ruin. Very, very bad for priests. It’s the truth, Sire. Money is power. Please consider: If Crimson Sky at same time or before, I attack Nagasaki. Nagasaki enemy now, neh? I take Black Ship and attack sea roads between Kyushu and Honshu. Maybe threat enough to make enemy into friend?”

“No. The priests will stop trade. I am not at war with the priests or Nagasaki. Or anyone. I am going to Osaka. There will be no Crimson Sky. Wakarimasu?”

“Hai.” Blackthorne was not perturbed. He knew that now Toranaga clearly understood that this possible tactic would certainly draw off a large proportion of Kiyama-Onoshi-Harima forces, all of whom were Kyushu-based. And Erasmus could certainly wreck any large-scale seaborne transfer of troops from that island to the main one. Be patient, he cautioned himself. Let Toranaga consider it. Maybe it’ll be as Mariko says: There is a long time between now and Osaka, and who knows what might happen? Prepare for the best but do not fear the worst.

“Anjin-san, why not say this in front of Mariko-san? She will tell priests? You think that?”

“No, Sire. Only want to try talk direct. Not woman’s business to war. One last ask, Toranaga-sama.” Blackthorne launched himself on a chosen course. “Custom hatamoto ask favor, sometimes. Please excuse me, Sire, may I respectfully say now possible ask?”

Toranaga’s fan stopped waving. “What favor?”

“Know divorce easy if lord say. Ask Toda Mariko-sama wife.” Toranaga was dumbstruck and Blackthorne was afraid he’d gone too far. “Please excuse me for my rudeness,” he added.

Toranaga recovered quickly. “Mariko-san agrees?”

“No, Toranaga-sama. Secret my. Never say to her, anyone. Secret my only. Not say to Toda Mariko-san. Never. Kinjiru, neh? But know angers between husband wife. Divorce easy in Japan. This my secret only. Ask Lord Toranaga only. Very secret. Never Mariko-san. Please excuse me if I’ve offended you.”

“That’s a presumptuous request for a stranger. Unheard of! Because you’re hatamoto I’m duty bound to consider it, though you’re forbidden to mention it to her under any circumstances, either to her or to her husband. Is that clear?”

“Please?” Blackthorne asked, not understanding at all, hardly able to think.

“Very bad ask and thought, Anjin-san. Understand?”

“Yes Sire, so sor—”

“Because Anjin-san hatamoto I’m not angry. Will consider. Understand?”

“Yes, I think so. Thank you. Please excuse my bad Japanese, so sorry.”

“No talk to her, Anjin-san, about divorce. Mariko-san or Buntaro-san. Kinjiru, wakarimasu?”

“Yes, Lord. Understand. Only secret you, I. Secret. Thank you. Please excuse my rudeness and thank you for your patience.” Blackthorne bowed perfectly and, almost in a dream, he walked out. The door closed behind him. On the landing everyone was watching him quizzically.

He wanted to share his victory with Mariko. But he was inhibited by her distracted serenity and the presence of the guards. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting” was all he said.

“It was my pleasure,” she answered, as noncommittal.

They started down the staircase again. Then, after a flight of stairs, she said, “Your simple way of talking is strange though quite understandable, Anjin-san.”

“I was lost too many times. Knowing you were there helped me tremendously.”

“I did nothing.”

In the silence they walked on, Mariko behind him slightly as was correct custom. At each level they passed through a samurai cordon, then, rounding a bend in the stairs, the trailing hem of her kimono caught in the railings and she stumbled. He caught her, steadying her, and the sudden close touch pleased both of them. “Thank you,” she said, flustered, as he put her down again.

They continued on, much closer than they had been tonight.

Outside in the torchlit forecourt, samurai were everywhere. Once more their passes were checked and now they were escorted with their flare-carrying porters through the donjon main gate, along a passage that meandered, mazelike, between high, battlemented stone walls to the next gate that led to the moat and the innermost wooden bridge. In all, there were seven rings of moats within the castle complex. Some were man-made, some adapted from the streams and rivers that abounded. While they headed for the main gate, the south gate, Mariko told him that, when the fortress was completed the year after next, it would house a hundred thousand samurai and twenty thousand horses, with all necessary provisions for one year.

“Then it will be the biggest in the world,” Blackthorne said.

“That was Lord Toranaga’s plan.” Her voice was grave. “Shigata ga nai, neh?” At last they came to the final bridge. “There, Anjin-san, you can see the castle’s the hub of Yedo, neh? The center of a web of streets that angle out to become the city. Ten years ago there was only a little fishing village here. Now, who knows? Three hundred thousand? Two? Four? Lord Toranaga hasn’t counted his people yet. But they’re all here for one purpose only: to serve the castle that protects the port and the plains that feed the armies.”

“Nothing else?” he asked.

“No.”

There’s no need to be worried, Mariko, and look so solemn, he thought happily. I’ve solved all that. Toranaga will grant all my requests.

At the far side of the flare-lit Ichi-bashi—First Bridge—that led to the city proper, she stopped. “I must leave you now, Anjin-san.”

“When can I see you?”

“Tomorrow. At the Hour of the Goat. I’ll wait in the forecourt for you.”

“I can’t see you tonight? If I’m back early?”

“No, so sorry, please excuse me. Not tonight.” Then she bowed formally. “Konbanwa, Anjin-san.”

He bowed. As a samurai. He watched her going back across the bridge, some of the flare-carriers going with her, insects milling the stationary flares that were stuck in holders on stanchions. Soon she was swallowed up by the crowds and the night.

Then, his excitement increasing, he put his back to the castle and set off after the guide.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

“The barbarians live there, Anjin-san.” The samurai motioned ahead.

Ill at ease, Blackthorne squinted into the darkness, the air breathless and sultry. “Where? That house? There?”

“Yes. That’s right, so sorry. You see it?”

Another nest of hovels and alleys was a hundred paces ahead, beyond this bare patch of marshy ground, and dominating them was a large house etched vaguely against the jet sky.

Blackthorne looked around for a moment to get his approximate bearings, using his fan against the encroaching bugs. Very soon, once they had left First Bridge, he had become lost in the maze.

Their way had led through innumerable streets and alleys, initially toward the shore, skirting it eastward for a time, over bridges and lesser bridges, then northward again along the bank of another stream which meandered through the outskirts, the land low-lying and moist. The farther from the castle, the meaner were the roads, the poorer the dwellings. The people were more obsequious, and fewer glimmers of light came from the shojis. Yedo was a sprawling mass which seemed to him to be made up of hamlets separated merely by roads or streams.

Here on the southeastern edge of the city it was quite marshy and the road oozed putridly. For some time the stench had been thickening perceptibly, a miasma of seaweed and feces and mud flats, and overlying these an acrid sweet smell he could not place, but that seemed familiar.

“Stinks like Billingsgate at low tide,” he muttered, killing another night pest that had landed on his cheek. His whole body was clammy with sweat.

Then he heard the faintest snatch of a rollicking sea shanty in Dutch and all discomfort was forgotten. “Is that Vinck?”

Elated, he hurried toward the sound, porters lighting his way carefully, samurai following.

Now, nearer, he saw that the single-story building was part Japanese, part European. It was raised on pilings and surrounded by a high rickety bamboo fence in a plot of its own, and much newer than the hovels that clustered near. There was no gate in the fence, just a hole. The roof was thatch, the front door stout, the walls rough-boarded, and the windows covered with Dutch-style shutters. Here and there were flecks of light from the cracks. The singing and banter increased but he could not recognize any voices yet. Flagstones led straight to the steps of the veranda through an unkempt garden. A short flagpole was roped to the gateway. He stopped and stared up at it. A limp, makeshift Dutch flag hung there listlessly and his pulse quickened at the sight of it.

The front door was thrown open. A shaft of light spilled onto the veranda. Baccus van Nekk stumbled drunkenly to the edge, eyes half shut, pulled his codpiece aside, and urinated in a high, curving jet.

“Ahhhhh,” he murmured with a groaning ecstasy. “Nothing like a piss.”

“Isn’t there?” Blackthorne called out in Dutch from the gateway. “Why don’t you use a bucket?”

“Eh?” Van Nekk blinked myopically into the darkness at Blackthorne, who stood with the samurai under the flares. “JesusGodinheavensamurai!” He gathered himself with a grunt and bowed awkwardly from the waist. “Gomen nasai, samurai-sama. Ichiban gomen nasai to all monkey-samas.” He straightened, forced a painful smile, and muttered half to himself, “I’m drunker’n I thought. Thought the bastard sonofawhore spoke Dutch! Gomen nasai, neh?” he called out again, reeling off toward the back of the house, scratching and groping at the codpiece.

“Hey, Baccus, don’t you know better than to foul your own nest?”

“What?” Van Nekk jerked around and stared blindly toward the flares, desperately trying to see clearly. “Pilot?” he choked out. “Is that you, Pilot? God damn my eyes, I can’t see. Pilot, for the love of God, is that you?”

Blackthorne laughed. His old friend looked so naked there, so foolish, his penis hanging out. “Yes, it’s me!” Then to the samurai who watched with thinly covered contempt, “Matte kudasai.” Wait for me, please.

“Hai, Anjin-san.”

Blackthorne came forward and now in the shaft of light he could see the litter of garbage everywhere in the garden. Distastefully he stepped out of the clogs and ran up the steps. “Hello, Baccus, you’re fatter than when we left Rotterdam, neh?” He clapped him warmly on the shoulders.

“Lord Jesus Christ, is that truly you?”

“Yes, of course it’s me.”

“We’d given you up for dead, long ago.” Van Nekk reached out and touched Blackthorne to make sure he was not dreaming. “Lord Jesus, my prayers are answered. Pilot, what happened to you, where’ve you come from? It’s a miracle! Is it truly you?”

“Yes. Now please put your cod in place and let’s go inside,” Blackthorne told him, conscious of his samurai.

“What? Oh! Oh sorry, I . . .” Van Nekk hastily complied and tears began to run down his cheeks. “Oh Jesus, Pilot . . . I thought the gin devils were playing me tricks again. Come on, but let me announce you, hey?”

He led the way back, weaving a little, much of his drunkenness evaporated with his joy. Blackthorne followed. Van Nekk held the door open for him, then shouted over the raucous singing, “Lads! Look what Father Christmas’s brought us!” He slammed the door shut after Blackthorne for added effect.

Silence was instantaneous.

It took a moment for Blackthorne’s eyes to adjust to the light. The fetid air was almost choking him. He saw them all gaping at him as though he were a devil-wraith. Then the spell broke and there were shouts of welcome and joy and everyone was squeezing and punching him on the back, all talking at the same time. “Pilot, where’ve you come from—Have a drink—Christ, is it possible—Piss in my hat, it’s great to see you—We’d given you up for dead—No, we’re all right at least mostly all right—Get out of the chair, you whore, the Pilot-sama’s to sit in the best sodding chair—Hey, grog, neh, quickGodcursed quick! Goddamn my eyes get out of the way I want to shake his hand. . . .”

Finally Vinck hollered, “One at a time, lads! Give him a chance! Give the Pilot the chair and a drink, for God’s sake! Yes, I thought he was samurai too. . . .”

Someone shoved a wooden goblet into Blackthorne’s hand. He sat in the rickety chair and they all raised their cups and the flood of questions began again.

Blackthorne looked around. The room was furnished with benches and a few crude chairs and tables and illuminated by candles and oil lamps. A huge saké keg stood on the filthy floor. One of the tables was covered with dirty plates and a haunch of half-roasted meat, crusted with flies.

Six bedraggled women cowered on their knees, bowing to him, backed against a wall.

His men, all beaming, waited for him to start: Sonk the cook, Johann Vinck the bosun’s mate and chief gunner, Salamon the mute, Croocq the boy, Ginsel the sailmaker, Baccus van Nekk the chief merchant and treasurer, and last Jan Roper, the other merchant, who sat apart as always, with the same sour smile on his thin, taut face.

“Where’s the Captain-General?” Blackthorne asked.

“Dead, Pilot, he’s dead. . . .” Six voices answered and overrode each other, jumbling the tale until Blackthorne held up his hand. “Baccus?”

“He’s dead, Pilot. He never came out of the pit. Remember he was sick, eh? After they took you away, well, that night we heard him choking in the darkness. Isn’t that right, lads?”

A chorus of yesses, and van Nekk added, “I was sitting beside him, Pilot. He was trying to get the water but there wasn’t any and he was choking and moaning. I’m not too clear about the time—we were all frightened to death—but eventually he choked and then, well, the death rattle. It was bad, Pilot.”

Jan Roper added, “It was terrible, yes. But it was God’s punishment.”

Blackthorne looked from face to face. “Anybody hit him? To quieten him?”

“No—no, oh no,” van Nekk answered. “He just croaked. He was left in the pit with the other one—the Japper, you remember him, the one who tried to drown himself in the bucket of piss? Then the Lord Omi had them bring Spillbergen’s body out and they burned it. But that other poor bugger got left below. Lord Omi just gave him a knife and he slit his own God-cursed belly and they filled in the pit. You remember him, Pilot?”

“Yes. What about Maetsukker?”

“Best you tell that, Vinck.”

“Little Rat Face rotted, Pilot,” Vinck began, and the others started shouting details and telling the tale until Vinck bellowed, “Baccus asked me, for Chrissake! You’ll all get your turn!”

The voices died down and Sonk said helpfully, “You tell it, Johann.”

“Pilot, it was his arm started rotting. He got nicked in the fight—you remember the fight when you got knocked out? Christ Jesus, that seems so long ago! Anyway, his arm festered. I bled him the next day and the next, then it started going black. I told him I’d better lance it or the whole arm’d have to come off—told him a dozen times, we all did, but he wouldn’t. On the fifth day the wound was stinking. We held him down and I sliced off most of the rot but it weren’t no good. I knew it wasn’t no good but some of us thought it worth a try. The yellow bastard doctor came a few times but he couldn’t do nothing either. Rat Face lasted a day or two, but the rot was too deep and he raved a lot. We had to tie him up toward the end.”

“That’s right, Pilot,” Sonk said, scratching comfortably. “We had to tie him up.”

“What happened to his body?” Blackthorne asked.

“They took it up the hill and burned it, too. We wanted to give him and the Captain-General a proper Christian burial but they wouldn’t let us. They just burned them.”

A silence gathered. “You haven’t touched your drink, Pilot!”

Blackthorne raised it to his lips and tasted. The cup was filthy and he almost retched. The raw spirit seared his throat. The stench of unbathed bodies and rancid, unwashed clothing almost overpowered him.

“How’s the grog, Pilot?” van Nekk asked.

“Fine, fine.”

“Tell him about it, Baccus, go on!”

“Hey! I made a still, Pilot.” Van Nekk was very proud and the others were beaming too. “We make it by the barrel now. Rice and fruit and water and let it ferment, wait a week or so and then, with the help of a little magic. . . .” The rotund man laughed and scratched happily. “ ’Course it’d be better to keep it a year or so to mellow, but we drink it faster than . . .” His words trailed off. “You don’t like it?”

“Oh, sorry, it’s fine—fine.” Blackthorne saw lice in van Nekk’s sparse hair.

Jan Roper said challengingly, “And you, Pilot? You’re fine, aren’t you? What about you?”

Another flood of questions which died as Vinck shouted, “Give him a chance!” Then the leathery-faced man burst out happily, “Christ, when I saw you standing at the door I thought you was one of the monkeys, honest—honest!”

Another chorus of agreement and van Nekk broke in, “That’s right. Damned silly kimonos—you look like a woman, Pilot—or one of those half-men! God-cursed fags, eh! Lot of Jappers are fags, by God! One was after Croocq . . .” There was much shouting and obscene banter, then van Nekk continued, “You’ll want your proper clothes, Pilot. Listen, we’ve got yours here. We came to Yedo with Erasmus. They towed her here and we were allowed to bring our clothes ashore with us, nothing else. We brought yours—they allowed us to do that, to keep for you. We brought a kit bag—all your sea clothes. Sonk, fetch ’em, hey?”

“Sure I’ll fetch them, but later, eh, Baccus? I don’t want to miss nothing.”

“All right.”

Jan Roper’s thin smile was taunting. “Swords and kimonos—like a real heathen! Perhaps you prefer heathen ways now, Pilot?”

“The clothes are cool, better than ours,” Blackthorne replied uneasily. “I’d forgotten I was dressed differently. So much has happened. These were all I had so I got used to wearing them. I never thought much about it. They’re certainly more comfortable.”

“Are those real swords?”

“Yes, of course, why?”

“We’re not allowed weapons. Any weapons!” Jan Roper scowled. “Why do they allow you to have ’em? Just like any heathen samurai?”

Blackthorne laughed shortly. “You haven’t changed, Jan Roper, have you? Still holier than thou? Well, all in good time about my swords, but first the best news of all. Listen, in a month or so we’ll be on the high seas again.”

“Jesus God, you mean it, Pilot?” Vinck said.

“Yes.”

There was a great roaring cheer and another welter of questions and answers. “I told you we’d get away—I told you God was on our side! Let him talk—let the Pilot talk . . .” Finally Blackthorne held up his hand.

He motioned at the women, who still knelt motionless, more abject now under his attention. “Who’re they?”

Sonk laughed. “Them’s our doxies, Pilot. Our whores, and cheap, Christ Jesus, they hardly cost a button a week. We got a whole house of ’em next door—and there’s plenty more in the village—”

“They rattle like stoats,” Croocq butted in, and Sonk said, “That’s right, Pilot. ’Course they’re squat and bandy but they’ve lots of vigor and no pox. You want one, Pilot? We’ve our own bunks, we’re not like the monkeys, we’ve all our own bunks and rooms—”

“You try Big-Arse Mary, Pilot, she’s the one for you,” Croocq said.

Jan Roper’s voice overrode them. “The Pilot doesn’t want one of our harlots. He’s got his own. Eh, Pilot?”

Their faces glowed. “Is that true, Pilot? You got women? Hey, tell us, eh? These monkeys’re the best that’s ever been, eh?”

“Tell us about your doxies, Pilot!” Sonk scratched at his lice again.

“There’s a lot to tell,” Blackthorne said. “But it should be private. Less ears the better, neh? Send the women away, then we can talk privately.”

Vinck jerked a thumb at them. “Piss off, hai?”

The women bowed and mumbled thanks and apologies and fled, closing the door quietly.

“First about the ship. It’s unbelievable. I want to thank you and congratulate you—all the work. When we get home I’m going to insist you get triple shares of all the prize money for all that work and there’s going to be a prize beyond . . .” He saw the men look at each other, embarrassed. “What’s the matter?”

Van Nekk said uncomfortably, “It wasn’t us, Pilot. It was King Toranaga’s men. They did it. Vinck showed ’em how, but we didn’t do anything.”

“What?”

“We weren’t allowed back aboard after the first time. None of us has been aboard except Vinck, and he goes once every ten days or so. We did nothing.”

“He’s the only one,” Sonk said. “Johann showed ’em.”

“But how’d you talk to them, Johann?”

“There’s one of the samurai who talks Portuguese and we talk in that—enough to understand each other. This samurai, his name’s Sato-sama, he was put in charge when we came here. He asked who were officers or seamen among us. We said that’d be Ginsel, but he’s a gunner mostly, me and Sonk who—”

“Who’s the worst pissing cook that—”

“Shut your God-cursed mouth, Croocq!”

“Shit, you can’t cook ashore let alone afloat, by God!”

“Please be quiet, you two!” Blackthorne said. “Go on, Johann.”

Vinck continued. “Sato-sama asked me what was wrong with the ship and I told him she had to be careened and scraped and repaired all over. Well, I told him all I knew and they got on with it. They careened her good and cleaned the bilges, scrubbed them like a prince’s shit house—at least, samurai were bosses and other monkeys worked like demons, hundreds of the buggers. Shit, Pilot, you’ve never seen workers like ’em!”

“That’s true,” Sonk said. “Like demons!”

“I did everything the best I could against the day. . . . Jesus, Pilot, you really think we can get away?”

“Yes, if we’re patient and if we—”

“If God wills it, Pilot. Only then.”

“Yes. Perhaps you’re right,” Blackthorne replied, thinking, what’s it matter that Roper’s a fanatic? I need him—all of them. And the help of God. “Yes. We need the help of God,” he said and turned back to Vinck. “How’s her keel?”

“Clean and sound, Pilot. They’ve done her better’n I’d’ve thought possible. Those bastards are as clever as any carpenters, shipwrights, and rope-makers in all Holland. Rigging’s perfect—everything.”

“Sails?”

“They made a set out of silk—tough as canvas. With a spare set. They took ours down and copied ’em exact, Pilot. Cannon are perfect as possible—all back aboard and there’s powder and shot a-plenty. She’s ready to sail on the tide, tonight if need be. ’Course she hasn’t been to sea so we won’t know about the sails till we’re in a gale, but I’ll bet my life her seams’re as tight as when she was first slipped into the Zuider Zee—better ’cause the timbers’re seasoned now, thanks be to God!” Vinck paused for breath. “When are we off?”

“A month. About.”

They nudged each other, brimming with elation, and loudly toasted the Pilot and the ship.

“How about enemy shipping? There any hereabouts? What about prizes, Pilot?” Ginsel asked.

“Plenty—beyond your dreams. We’re all rich.”

Another shout of glee. “It’s about time.”

“Rich, eh? I’ll buy me a castle.”

“Lord God Almighty, when I get home . . .”

“Rich! Hurrah for the Pilot!”

“Plenty of Papists to kill? Good,” Jan Roper said softly. “Very good.”

“What’s the plan, Pilot?” van Nekk asked, and they all stopped talking.

“I’ll come to that in a minute. Do you have guards? Can you move around freely, when you want? How often—”

Vinck said quickly, “We can move anywheres in the village area, perhaps as much as half a league around here. But we’re not allowed in Yedo and not—”

“Not across the bridge,” Sonk broke in happily. “Tell him about the bridge, Johann!”

“Oh, for the love of God, I was coming to the bridge, Sonk. For God’s sake, don’t keep interrupting. Pilot, there’s a bridge about half a mile southwest. There’re a lot of signs on it. That’s as far as we’re allowed. We’re not to go over that. ‘Kinjiru,’ by God, the samurai say. You understand kinjiru, Pilot?”

Blackthorne nodded and said nothing.

“Apart from that we can go where we like. But only up to the barriers. There’s barriers all around about half a league away. Lord God . . . can you believe it, home soon!”

“Tell him about the doc, eh, and about the—”

“The samurai send a doctor once in a while, Pilot, and we have to take our clothes off and he looks at us. . . .”

“Yes. Enough to make a man shit to have a bastard heathen monkey look at you naked like that.”

“Apart from that, Pilot, they don’t bother us except—”

“Hey, don’t forget the doc gives us some God-rotting filthy powdered ‘char’ herbs we’re supposed to steep in hot water but we toss ’em out. When we’re sick, good old Johann bleeds us and we’re fit.”

“Yes,” Sonk said. “We throw the char out.”

“Apart from that, except for—”

“We’re lucky here, Pilot, not like at first.”

“That’s right. At first—”

“Tell him about the inspection, Baccus!”

“I was coming to that—for God’s sake, be patient—give a fellow a chance. How can I tell him anything with you all gabbing. Pour me a drink!” van Nekk said thirstily and continued. “Every ten days a few samurai come here and we line up outside and he counts us. Then they give us sacks of rice and cash, copper cash. It’s plenty for everything, Pilot. We swap rice for meat and stuff—fruit or whatever. There’s plenty of everything and the women do whatever we want. At first we—”

“But it wasn’t like that at first. Tell him about that, Baccus!”

Van Nekk sat on the floor. “God give me strength!”

“You feeling sick, poor old lad?” Sonk asked solicitously. “Best not drink any more or you’ll get the devils back, hey? He gets the devils, Pilot, once a week. We all do.”

“Are you going to keep quiet while I tell the Pilot?”

“Who, me? I haven’t said a thing. I’m not stopping you. Here, here’s your drink!”

“Thanks, Sonk. Well, Pilot, first they put us in a house to the west of the city—”

“Down near the fields it was.”

“Damnit, then you tell the story, Johann!”

“All right. Christ, Pilot, it was terrible. No grub or liquor and those God-cursed paper houses’re like living in a field—a man can’t take a piss or pick his nose, nothing without someone watching, eh? Yes, and the slightest noise’d bring the neighbors down on us, and samurai’d be at the stoop and who wants those bastards around, eh? They’d be shaking their God-cursed swords at us, shouting and hollering, telling us to keep quiet. Well, one night someone knocked over a candle and the monkeys were all pissed off to hell with us! Jesus God, you should’ve heard them! They came swarming out of the woodwork with buckets of water, God-cursed mad, hissing and bowing and cursing. . . . It was only one poxy wall that got burned down. . . . Hundreds of ’em swarmed over the house like cockroaches. Bastards! You’ve—”

“Get on with it!”

“You want to tell it?”

“Go on, Johann, don’t pay any attention to him. He’s only a shit-filled cook.”

“What!”

“Oh, shut up! For God’s sake!” Van Nekk hurriedly took up the tale once more. “The next day, Pilot, they marched us out of there and put us into another house in the wharf area. That was just as bad. Then some weeks later, Johann stumbled onto this place. He was the only one of us allowed out, because of the ship, at that time. They’d collect him daily and bring him back at sunset. He was out fishing—we’re only a few hundred yards upstream from the sea. . . . Best you tell it, Johann.”

Blackthorne felt an itch on his bare leg and he rubbed it without thinking. The irritation got worse. Then he saw the mottled lump of a flea bite as Vinck continued proudly, “It’s like Baccus said, Pilot. I asked Sato-sama if we could move and he said, yes, why not. They’d usually let me fish from one of their little skiffs to pass the time. It was my nose that led me here, Pilot. The old nose led me: blood!”

Blackthorne said, “A slaughterhouse! A slaughterhouse and tanning! That’s . . .” He stopped and blanched.

“What’s up? What is it?”

“This is an eta village? Jesus Christ, these people’re eta?”

“What’s wrong with eters?” van Nekk asked. “Of course they’re eters.”

Blackthorne waved at the mosquitoes that infested the air, his skin crawling. “Damn bugs. They’re—they’re rotten, aren’t they? There’s a tannery here, isn’t there?”

“Yes. A few streets up, why?”

“Nothing. I didn’t recognize the smell, that’s all.”

“What about eters?”

“I . . . I didn’t realize, stupid of me. If I’d seen one of the men I’d’ve known from their short hairstyle. With the women you’d never know. Sorry. Go on with the story, Vinck.”

“Well, then they said—”

Jan Roper interrupted, “Wait a minute, Vinck! What’s wrong, Pilot? What about eters?”

“It’s just that Japanese think of them as different. They’re the executioners, and work the hides and handle corpses.” He felt their eyes, Jan Roper’s particularly. “Eta work hides,” he said, trying to keep his voice careless, “and kill all the old horses and oxen and handle dead bodies.”

“But what’s wrong with that, Pilot? You’ve buried a dozen yourself, put ’em in shrouds, washed ’em—we all have, eh? We butcher our own meat, always have. Ginsel here’s been hangman. . . . What’s wrong with all that?”

“Nothing,” Blackthorne said, knowing it to be true yet feeling befouled even so.

Vinck snorted. “Eters’re the best heathen we’ve seen here. More like us than the other bastards. We’re God-cursed lucky to be here, Pilot, fresh meat’s no problem, or tallow—they give us no trouble.”

“That’s right. If you’ve lived with eters, Pilot . . .”

“Jesus Christ, the Pilot’s had to live with the other bastards all the time! He doesn’t know any better. How about fetching Big-Arse Mary, Sonk?”

“Or Twicklebum?”

“Shit, not her, not that old whore. The Pilot’ll want a special. Let’s ask mama-san. . . .”

“I bet he’s starving for real grub! Hey, Sonk, cut him a slice of meat.”

“Have some more grog . . .”

“Three cheers for the Pilot . . .”

In the happy uproar van Nekk clapped Blackthorne on the shoulders. “You’re home, old friend. Now you’re back, our prayers ’re answered and all’s well in the world. You’re home, old friend. Listen, take my bunk. I insist. . . .”

Cheerily Blackthorne waved a last time. There was an answering shout from the darkness the far side of the little bridge. Then he turned away, his forced heartiness evaporated, and he walked around the corner, the samurai guard of ten men surrounding him.

On the way back to the castle his mind was locked in confusion. Nothing was wrong with eta and everything was wrong with eta, those are my crew there, my own people, and these are heathen and foreign and enemy. . . .

Streets and alleys and bridges passed in a blur. Then he noticed that his own hand was inside his kimono and he was scratching and he stopped in his tracks.

“Those goddamned filthy . . .” He undid his sash and ripped off his sopping kimono and, as though it were defiled, hurled it in a ditch.

“Dozo, nan desu ka, Anjin-san?” one of the samurai asked.

“Nani mo!” Nothing, by God! Blackthorne walked on, carrying his swords.

“Ah! Eta! Wakarimasu! Gomen nasai!” The samurai chatted among themselves but he paid them no attention.

That’s better, he was thinking with utter relief, not noticing that he was almost naked, only that his skin had stopped crawling now that the flea-infested kimono was off.

Jesus God, I’d love a bath right now!

He had told the crew about his adventures, but not that he was samurai and hatamoto, or that he was one of Toranaga’s protégés, or about Fujiko. Or Mariko. And he had not told them that they were going to land in force at Nagasaki and take the Black Ship by storm, or that he would be at the head of the samurai. That can come later, he thought wearily. And all the rest.

Could I ever tell them about Mariko-san?

His wooden clogs clattered on the wooden slats of First Bridge. Samurai sentries, also half-naked, lolled until they saw him, then they bowed politely as he passed, watching him intently, because this was the incredible barbarian who was astonishingly favored by Lord Toranaga, to whom Toranaga had, unbelievably, granted the never-given-before-to-a-barbarian honor of hatamoto and samurai.

At the main south gate of the castle another guide waited for him. He was escorted to his quarters within the inner ring. He had been allocated a room in one of the fortified though attractive guest houses, but he politely refused to go back there at once. “First bath please,” he told the samurai.

“Ah, I understand. That’s very considerate of you. The bath house is this way, Anjin-san. Yes, it’s a hot night, neh? And I hear you’ve been down to the Filthy Ones. The other guests in the house will appreciate your thoughtfulness. I thank you on their behalf.”

Blackthorne did not understand all the words but he gathered the meaning. ‘Filthy Ones.’ That describes my people and me—us, not them, poor people.

“Good evening, Anjin-san,” the chief bath attendant said. He was a vast, middle-aged man with immense belly and biceps. A maid had just awakened him to announce another late customer was arriving. He clapped his hands. Bath maids arrived. Blackthorne followed them into the scrubbing room and they cleansed him and shampooed him and he made them do it a second time. Then he walked through to the sunken bath, stepped into the piping-hot water and fought the heat, then gave himself to its mind-consuming embrace.

In time strong hands helped him out and molded fragrant oil into his skin and untwisted his muscles and his neck, then led him to a resting room, and gave him a laundered, sun-fresh cotton kimono. With a long-drawn-out sigh of pleasure, he lay down.

“Dozo gomen nasai—cha, Anjin-san?”

“Hai. Domo.”

The cha arrived. He told the maid he would stay here tonight and not trouble to go to his own quarters. Then, alone and at peace, he sipped the cha, feeling it purify him; ‘. . . filthy-looking char herbs . . .” he thought disgustedly.

“Be patient, don’t let it disturb your harmony,” he said aloud. “They’re just poor ignorant fools who don’t know any better. You were the same once. Never mind, now you can show them, neh?”

He put them out of his mind and reached for his dictionary. But tonight, for the first night since he had possessed the book, he laid it carefully aside and blew out the candle. I’m too tired, he told himself.

But not too tired to answer a simple question, his mind said: Are they really ignorant fools, or is it you who are fooling yourself?

I’ll answer that later, when it’s time. Now the answer’s unimportant. Now I only know I don’t want them near me.

He turned over and put that problem into a compartment and went to sleep.

He awoke refreshed. A clean kimono and loincloth and tabi were laid out. The scabbards of his swords had been polished. He dressed quickly. Outside the house samurai were waiting. They got off their haunches and bowed.

“We’re your guard today, Anjin-san.”

“Thank you. Go ship now?”

“Yes. Here’s your pass.”

“Good. Thank you. May I ask your name please?”

“Musashi Mitsutoki.”

“Thank you, Musashi-san. Go now?”

They went down to the wharves. Erasmus was moored tightly in three fathoms over a sanding bottom. The bilges were sweet. He dived over the side and swam under the keel. Seaweed was minimal and there were only a few barnacles. The rudder was sound. In the magazine, which was dry and spotless, he found a flint and struck a spark to a tiny test mound of gunpowder. It burned instantly, in perfect condition.

Aloft at the foremast peak he looked for telltale cracks. None there or on the climb up, or around any of the spars that he could see. Many of the ropes and halyards and shrouds were joined incorrectly, but that would only take half a watch to change.

Once more on the quarterdeck he allowed himself a great smile. “You’re sound as a . . . as a what?” He could not think of a sufficiently great ‘what’ so he just laughed and went below again. In his cabin he felt alien. And very alone. His swords were on the bunk. He touched them, then slid Oil Seller out of its scabbard. The workmanship was marvelous and the edge perfect. Looking at the sword gave him pleasure, for it was truly a work of art. But a deadly one, he thought as always, twisting it in the light.

How many deaths have you caused in your life of two hundred years? How many more before you die yourself? Do some swords have a life of their own as Mariko says? Mariko. What about her. . . .

Then he caught sight of his sea chest reflected in the steel and this took him out of his sudden melancholy.

He sheathed Oil Seller, careful to avoid fingering the blade, for custom said that even a single touch might mar such perfection.

As he leaned against the bunk, his eyes went to his empty sea chest.

“What about rutters? And navigation instruments?” he asked his image in the copper sea lamp that had been scrupulously polished like everything else. He saw himself answer, “You buy them at Nagasaki, along with your crew. And you snatch Rodrigues. Yes. You snatch him before the attack. Neh?”

He watched his smile grow. “You’re very sure Toranaga will let you go, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he answered with complete confidence. “If he goes to Osaka or not, I’ll get what I want. And I’ll get Mariko too.”

Satisfied, he stuck his swords in his sash and walked up on deck and waited until the doors were resealed.

When he got back to the castle it was not yet noon so he went to his own quarters to eat. He had rice and two helpings of fish that had been broiled over charcoal with soya by his own cook as he had taught the man. A small flask of saké, then cha.

“Anjin-san?”

“Hai?”

The shoji opened. Fujiko smiled shyly and bowed.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

“I’d forgotten about you,” he said in English. “I was afraid you were dead.”

“Dozo gozaimashita, Anjin-san, nan desu ka?”

“Nani mo, Fujiko-san,” he told her, ashamed of himself. “Gomen nasai. Hai. Gomen nasai. Ma-suware odoroita honto ni mata aete ureshi.” Please excuse me . . . a surprise, neh? Good to see you. Please sit down.

“Domo arigato gozaimashita,” she said, and told him in her thin, high voice how pleased she was to see him, how much his Japanese had improved, how well he looked, and how most very glad she was to be here.

He watched her kneel awkwardly on the cushion opposite. “Legs . . .” He sought the word “burns” but couldn’t remember it, so he said instead, “Legs fire hurt. Bad?”

“No. So sorry. But it still hurts a little to sit,” Fujiko said, concentrating, watching his lips. “Legs hurt, so sorry.”

“Please show me.”

“So sorry, please, Anjin-san, I don’t wish to trouble you. You have other problems. I’m—”

“Don’t understand. Too fast, sorry.”

“Ah, sorry. Legs all right. No trouble,” she pleaded.

“Trouble. You are consort, neh? No shame. Show now!”

Obediently she got up. Clearly she was uncomfortable, but once she was upright, she began to untie the strings of her obi.

“Please call maid,” he ordered.

She obeyed. At once the shoji slid open and a woman he did not recognize rushed to assist her.

First the stiff obi was unwound. The maid put Fujiko’s sheathed dagger and obi to one side.

“What’s your name?” he asked the maid brusquely, as a samurai should.

“Oh, please excuse me, Sire, so very sorry. My name is Hana-ichi.”

He grunted an acknowledgment. Miss First Blossom, now there’s a fine name! All maids, by custom, were called Miss Brush or Crane or Fish or Second Broom or Fourth Moon or Star or Tree or Branch, and so on.

Hana-ichi was middle-aged and very concerned. I’ll bet she’s a family retainer, he told himself. Perhaps a vassal of Fujiko’s late husband. Husband! I’d forgotten about him as well, and the child who was murdered—as the husband was murdered by fiend Toranaga who’s not a fiend but a daimyo and a good, perhaps great leader. Yes. Probably the husband deserved his fate if the real truth were known, neh? But not the child, he thought. There’s no excuse for that.

Fujiko allowed her green patterned outer kimono to fall aside loosely. Her fingers trembled as she untied the thin silken sash of the yellow under-kimono and let that fall aside also. Her skin was light and the part of her breasts he could see within the folds of silk showed that they were flat and small. Hana-ichi knelt and untied the strings of the underskirt that reached from her waist to the floor to enable her mistress to step out of it.

“Iyé,” he ordered. He walked over and lifted the hem. The burns began at the backs of her calves. “Gomen nasai,” he said.

She stood motionless. A tear of sweat trickled down her cheek, spoiling her makeup. He pulled the skirt higher. The skin was burned all up the backs of her legs but it seemed to be healing perfectly. Scar tissue had formed already and there was no infection, and no suppurations, only a little clean blood where the new scar tissue had broken at the backs of her knees as she had knelt.

He moved her kimonos aside and loosed the underskirt waist band. The burns stopped at the top of her legs, bypassed her rump where the beam had pinned her down and protected her, then began again in the small of her back. A swathe of burn, half a hand span, girdled her waist. Scar tissue was already settling into permanent crinkles. Unsightly, but healing perfectly.

“Doctor very good. Best I ever see!” He let her kimonos fall back. “Best, Fujiko-san! The scars, what does it matter, neh? Nothing. I see many fire hurts, understand? Want see, then sure good or not good. Doctor very good. Buddha watch Fujiko-san.” He put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes.

“No worry now. Shigata ga nai, neh? You understand?”

Her tears spilled. “Please excuse me, Anjin-san. I’m so embarrassed. Please excuse my stupidity for being there, caught there like a half-witted eta. I should have been with you, guarding you—not stuck with servants in the house. There’s nothing for me in the house, nothing, no reason to be in a house. . . .”

He let her talk on though he understood almost nothing of what she said, holding her compassionately. I’ve got to find out what the doctor used, he thought excitedly. That’s the quickest and the best healing I’ve ever seen. Every master of every one of Her Majesty’s ships should know that secret—yes, and truly, every captain of every ship in Europe. Wait a moment, wouldn’t every master pay golden guineas for that secret? You could make a fortune! Yes. But not that way, he told himself, never that. Never out of a sailor’s agony.

She’s lucky though that it was only the backs of her legs and her back and not her face. He looked down at her face. It was still as square and flat as ever, her teeth just as sharp and ferretlike, but the warmth that flowed from her eyes compensated for the ugliness. He gave her another hug. “Now. No weep. Order!”

He sent the maid for fresh cha and saké and many cushions and helped her recline on them, as much as at first it embarrassed her to obey. “How can I ever thank you?” she said.

“No thanks. Give back—” Blackthorne thought a moment but he couldn’t remember the Japanese words for “favor” or “remember,” so he pulled out the dictionary and looked them up. “Favor: o-negai” . . . “remember: omoi dasu.”

“Hai, mondoso o-negai! Omoi dasu ka?” Give back favor. Remember? He held up his fists mimicking pistols and pointing them. “Omi-san, remember?”

“Oh, of course,” she cried out. Then, in wonder, she asked to look at the book. She had never seen Roman writing before, and the column of Japanese words into Latin and into Portuguese and vice versa were meaningless to her, but she quickly grasped its purpose. “It’s a book of all our . . . so sorry. Word book, neh?”

“Hai.”

“ ‘Hombun’?” she asked.

He showed her how to find the word in Latin and in Portuguese. “Hombun: duty.” Then added in Japanese, “I understand duty. Samurai duty, neh?”

“Hai.” She clapped her hands as if she had been shown a magic toy. But it is magic, isn’t it, he told himself, a gift from God. This unlocks her mind and Toranaga’s mind and soon I’ll speak perfectly.

She gave him other words and he told her English or Latin or Portuguese, always understanding the words she chose and always finding them. The dictionary never failed.

He looked up a word. “Majutsu desu, neh?” It’s magic, isn’t it?

“Yes, Anjin-san. The book’s magic.” She sipped her cha. “Now I can talk to you. Really talk to you.”

“Little. Only slow, understand?”

“Yes. Please be patient with me. Please excuse me.”

The huge donjon bell sounded the Hour of the Goat and the temples in Yedo echoed the time change.

“I go now. Go Lord Toranaga.” He put the book into his sleeve.

“I’ll wait here please, if I may.”

“Where stay?”

She pointed. “Oh, there, my room’s next door. Please excuse my abruptness—”

“Slowly. Talk slowly. Talk simply!”

She repeated it slowly, with more apologies. “Good,” he said. “Good. I’ll see you later.”

She began to get up but he shook his head and went into the courtyard. The day was overcast now, the air suffocating. Guards awaited him. Soon he was in the donjon forecourt. Mariko was there, more slender than ever, more ethereal, her face alabaster under her rust-gold parasol. She wore somber brown, edged with green.

“Ohayo, Anjin-san. Ikaga desu ka?” she asked, bowing formally.

He told her that he was fine, happily keeping up their custom of talking in Japanese for as long as he could, turning to Portuguese only when he was tired or when they wished to be more secretive.

“Thou . . .” he said cautiously as they walked up the stairs of the donjon.

“Thou,” Mariko echoed, and went immediately into Portuguese with the same gravity as last night. “So sorry, please, no Latin today, Anjin-san, today Latin cannot sit well—Latin cannot serve the purpose it was made for, neh?”

“When can I talk to you?”

“That’s very difficult, so sorry. I have duties. . . .”

“There’s nothing wrong, is there?”

“Oh no,” she replied. “Please excuse me, what could be wrong? Nothing’s wrong.”

They climbed another flight in silence. On the next level their passes were checked as always, guards leading and following them. Rain began heavily and this eased the humidity.

“It’ll rain for hours,” he said.

“Yes. But without the rains there’s no rice. Soon the rains will stop altogether, in two or three weeks, then it will be hot and humid until the autumn.” She looked out of the windows at the enveloping cloudburst. “You’ll enjoy the autumn, Anjin-san.”

“Yes.” He was watching Erasmus, far distant, down beside the wharf. Then the rains obscured his ship and he climbed a little way. “After we’ve talked with Lord Toranaga we’ll have to wait till this has passed. Perhaps there’d be somewhere here we could talk?”

“That might be difficult,” she said vaguely, and he found this odd. She was usually decisive and implemented his polite “suggestions” as the orders they would normally be considered. “Please excuse me, Anjin-san, but things are difficult for me at the moment, and there are many things I have to do.” She stopped momentarily and shifted her parasol to her other hand, holding the hem of her skirt. “How was your evening? How were your friends, your crew?”

“Fine. Everything was fine,” he said.

“But not ‘fine’?” she asked.

“Fine—but very strange.” He looked back at her. “You notice everything, don’t you?”

“No, Anjin-san. But you didn’t mention them and you’ve been thinking about them greatly this last week or so. I’m no magician. So sorry.”

After a pause, he said, “You’re sure you’re all right? There’s no problem with Buntaro-san, is there?”

He had never discussed Buntaro with her or mentioned his name since Yokosé. By agreement that specter was never conjured up by either of them since the first moment. “This is my only request, Anjin-san,” she had whispered the first night. “Whatever happens during our journey to Mishima or, Madonna willing, to Yedo, this has nothing to do with anyone but us, neh? Nothing is to be mentioned between us about what really is. Neh? Nothing. Please?”

“I agree. I swear it.”

“And I do likewise. Finally, our journey ends at Yedo’s First Bridge.”

“No.”

“There must be an ending, my darling. At First Bridge our journey ends. Please, or I will die with agony over fear for you and the danger I have put you in. . . .”

Yesterday morning he had stood at the threshold of First Bridge, a sudden weight on his spirit, in spite of his elation over Erasmus.

“We should cross the bridge now, Anjin-san,” she had said.

“Yes. But it is only a bridge. One of many. Come along, Mariko-san. Walk beside me across this bridge. Beside me, please. Let us walk together,” then added in Latin, “and believe that thou art carried and that we go hand in hand into a new beginning.”

She stepped out of her palanquin and walked beside him until they reached the other side. There she got back into the curtained litter and they went up the slight rise. Buntaro was waiting at the castle gate.

Blackthorne remembered how he had prayed for a lightning bolt to come out of the sky.

“There’s no problem with him, is there?” he asked again as they came to the final landing.

She shook her head.

Toranaga said, “Ship very ready, Anjin-san? No mistake?”

“No mistake, Sire. Ship perfect.”

“How many extra men—how many more want for ship . . .” Toranaga glanced at Mariko. “Please ask him how many extra crew he’ll need to sail the ship properly. I want to be quite sure he understands what I want to know.”

“The Anjin-san says, to sail her a minimum of thirty seamen and twenty gunners. His original crew was one hundred and seven, including cooks and merchants. To sail and fight in these waters, the complement of two hundred samurai would be enough.”

“And he believes the other men he needs could be hired in Nagasaki?”

“Yes, Sire.”

Toranaga said distastefully, “I certainly wouldn’t trust mercenaries.”

“Please excuse me, do you wish me to translate that, Sire?”

“What? Oh no, never mind that.”

Toranaga got up, still pretending peevishness, and looked out of the windows at the rain. The whole city was obscured by the downpour. Let it rain for months, he thought. All gods, make the rain last until New Year. When will Buntaro see my brother? “Tell the Anjin-san I’ll give him his vassals tomorrow. Today’s terrible. This rain will go on all day. There’s no point in getting soaked.”

“Yes, Sire,” he heard her say and smiled ironically to himself. Never in his whole life had weather prevented him from doing anything. That should certainly convince her, or any other doubters, that I’ve changed permanently for the worse, he thought, knowing he could not yet diverge from his chosen course. “Tomorrow or the next day, what does it matter? Tell him when I’m ready I’ll send for him. Until then he’s to wait in the castle.”

He heard her pass on the orders to the Anjin-san.

“Yes, Lord Toranaga, I understand,” Blackthorne replied for himself. “But may I respectfully ask: Possible go Nagasaki quick? Think important. So sorry.”

“I’ll decide that later,” Toranaga said brusquely, not making it easy for him. He motioned him to leave. “Good-by, Anjin-san. I’ll decide your future soon.” He saw that the man wanted to press the point but politely didn’t. Good, he thought, at least he’s learning some manners! “Tell the Anjin-san there’s no need for him to wait for you, Mariko-san. Good-by, Anjin-san.”

Mariko did as she was ordered. Toranaga turned back to contemplate the city and the cloudburst. He listened to the sound of the rain. The door closed behind the Anjin-san. “What was the quarrel about?” Toranaga asked, not looking at her.

“Sire?”

His ears, carefully tuned, had caught the slightest tremble in her voice. “Of course between Buntaro and yourself, or have you had another quarrel that concerns me?” he added with biting sarcasm, needing to precipitate the matter quickly. “With the Anjin-san perhaps, or my Christian enemies, or the Tsukku-san?”

“No, Sire. Please excuse me. It began as always, like most quarrels, Sire, between husband and wife. Really over nothing. Then suddenly, as always, all the past gets spewed up and it infects the man and the woman if the mood’s on them.”

“And the mood was on you?”

“Yes. Please excuse me. I provoked my husband unmercifully. It was my fault entirely. I regret, Sire, in those times, so sorry, people say wild things.”

“Come on, hurry up, what wild things?” She was like a doe at bay. Her face was chalky. She knew that spies must have already whispered to him what was shouted in the quiet of their house.

She told him everything that had been said as best she could remember it. Then she added, “I believe my husband’s words were spoken in wild rage which I provoked. He’s loyal—I know he’s loyal. If anyone is to be punished it’s me, Sire. I did provoke the madness.”

Toranaga sat again on the cushion, his back ramrod, his face granite. “What did the Lady Genjiko say?”

“I haven’t spoken to her, Sire.”

“But you intend to, or intended to, neh?”

“No, Sire. With your permission I intend to leave at once for Osaka.”

“You will leave when I say and not before and treason is a foul beast wherever it’s to be found!”

She bowed under the whiplash of his tongue. “Yes, Sire. Please forgive me. The fault is mine.”

He rang a small hand bell. The door opened. Naga stood there. “Yes, Sire?”

“Order the Lord Sudara here with the Lady Genjiko at once.”

“Yes, Sire.” Naga turned to go.

“Wait! Then summon my Council, Yabu and all—and all senior generals. They’re to be here at midnight. And clear this floor. All guards! You come back with Sudara!”

“Yes, Sire.” Whitefaced, Naga closed the door after him.

Toranaga heard men clattering down the stairs. He went to the door and opened it. The landing was clear. He slammed the door and bolted it. He picked up another bell and rang it. An inner door at the far end of the room opened. This door was hardly noticeable, so cleverly had it been melded with the woodwork. A middle-aged heavy-set woman stood there. She wore a cowled Buddhist nun’s habit. “Yes, Great Lord?”

“Cha please, Chano-chan,” he said. The door closed. Toranaga’s eyes went back to Mariko. “So you think he’s loyal?”

“I know it, Sire. Please forgive me, it was my fault, not his,” she said, desperate to please. “I provoked him.”

“Yes, you did that. Disgusting. Terrible. Unforgivable!” Toranaga took out a paper kerchief and wiped his brow. “But fortunate,” he said.

“Sire?”

“If you hadn’t provoked him, perhaps I might never have learned of any treason. And if he’d said all that without provocation, there’d be only one course of action. As it is,” he continued, “you give me an alternative.”

“Sire?”

He did not answer. He was thinking, I wish Hiro-matsu were here, then there’d be at least one man I could trust completely. “What about you? What about your loyalty?”

“Please, Sire, you must know you have that.”

He did not reply. His eyes were unrelenting.

The inner door opened and Chano, the nun, came confidently into the room without knocking, a tray in her hands. “Here you are, Great Lord, it was ready for you.” She knelt as a peasant, her hands were rough like a peasant’s, but her self-assurance was enormous and her inner contentment obvious. “May Buddha bless you with his peace.” Then she turned to Mariko, bowed as a peasant would bow, and settled back comfortably. “Perhaps you’d honor me by pouring, Lady. You’ll do it prettily without spilling it, neh?” Her eyes gleamed with private amusement.

“With pleasure, Oku-san,” Mariko said, giving her the religious Mother title, hiding her surprise. She had never seen Naga’s mother before. She knew most of Toranaga’s other official ladies, having seen them at official ceremonies, but she was on good terms only with Kiritsubo and Lady Sazuko.

Toranaga said, “Chano-chan, this is the Lady Toda Mariko-noh-Buntaro.”

“Ah, so desu, so sorry, I thought you were one of my Great Lord’s honored ladies. Please excuse me, Lady Toda, may the blessings of Buddha be upon thee.”

“Thank you,” Mariko said. She offered the cup to Toranaga. He accepted it and sipped.

“Pour for Chano-san and yourself,” he said.

“So sorry, not for me, Great Lord, with your permission, but my back teeth’re floating from so much cha and the bucket’s a long way away for these old bones.”

“The exercise would do you good,” Toranaga said, glad that he had sent for her when he returned to Yedo.

“Yes, Great Lord. You’re right—as you always were.” Chano turned her genial attention again to Mariko. “So you’re Lord Akechi Jinsai’s daughter.”

Mariko’s cup hesitated in the air. “Yes. Please excuse me . . .”

“Oh, that’s nothing to wish to be excused about, child.” Chano laughed kindly, and her stomach heaved up and down. “I didn’t place you without your name, please excuse me, but the last time I saw you was at your wedding.”

“Oh?”

“Oh, yes, I saw you at your wedding, but you didn’t see me. I spied you from behind a screen. Yes, you and all the great ones, the Dictator, and Nakamura, the Taikō-to-be, and all the nobles. Oh, I was much too shy to mix in that company. But that was such a good time for me. The best of my life. That was the second year my Great Lord favored me and I was heavy with child—though still the peasant I’ve always been.” Her eyes crinkled and she added, “You’re very little different from those days, still one of Buddha’s chosen.”

“Ah, I wish that were true, Oku-san.”

“It’s true. Did you know you were one of Buddha’s chosen?”

“I’m not, Oku-san, much as I would like to be.” Toranaga said, “She’s Christian.”

“Ah, Christian—what does that matter to a woman, Christian or Buddha, Great Lord? Not a lot sometimes, though some god’s necessary to a woman.” Chano chuckled gleefully. “We women need a god, Great Lord, to help us deal with men, neh?”

“And we men need patience, godlike patience, to deal with women, neh?”

The woman laughed, and it warmed the room and, for an instant, lessened some of Mariko’s foreboding. “Yes, Great Lord,” Chano continued, “and all because of a Heavenly Pavilion that has no future, little warmth, and a sufficiency of hell.”

Toranaga grunted. “What do you say to that, Mariko-san?”

“The Lady Chano is wise beyond her youth,” Mariko said.

“Ah, Lady, you say pretty things to an old fool,” the nun told her. “I remember you so well. Your kimono was blue with the loveliest pattern of cranes on it I’ve ever seen. In silver.” Her eyes went back to Toranaga. “Well, Great Lord, I just wanted to sit for a moment. Please excuse me now.”

“There’s time yet. Stay where you are.”

“Yes, Great Lord,” Chano said, ponderously getting to her feet, “I would obey as always but nature calls. So please be kind to an old peasant, I’d hate to disgrace you. It’s time to go. Everything’s ready, there’s food and saké when you wish it, Great Lord.”

“Thank you.”

The door closed noiselessly behind her. Mariko waited until Toranaga’s cup was empty, then she filled it again.

“What are you thinking?”

“I was waiting, Sire.”

“For what, Mariko-san?”

“Lord, I’m hatamoto. I’ve never asked a favor before. I wish to ask a favor as a hata—”

“I don’t wish you to ask any favor as a hatamoto,” Toranaga said.

“Then a lifetime wish.”

“I’m not a husband to grant that.”

“Sometimes a vassal may ask a liege—”

“Yes, sometimes, but not now! Now you will hold your tongue about any lifetime wish or favor or request or whatever.” A lifetime wish was a favor that, by ancient custom, a wife might ask of her husband, or a son of a father—and occasionally a husband of a wife—without loss of face, on the condition that if the wish was granted, the person agreed never again to ask another favor in this life. By custom, no questions about the favor might be asked, nor was it ever to be mentioned again.

There was a polite knock at the door.

“Unbolt it,” Toranaga said.

She obeyed. Sudara entered, followed by his wife, the Lady Genjiko, and Naga.

“Naga-san. Go down to the second landing below and prevent anyone from coming up without my orders.”

Naga stalked off.

“Mariko-san, shut the door and sit down there.” Toranaga pointed at a spot slightly in front of him facing the others.

“I’ve ordered you both here because there are private, urgent family matters to discuss.”

Sudara’s eyes involuntarily went to Mariko, then back to his father. The Lady Genjiko’s did not waver.

Toranaga said roughly, “She’s here, my son, for two reasons: the first is because I want her here and the second because I want her here!”

“Yes, Father,” Sudara replied, ashamed of his father’s discourtesy to all of them. “May I please ask why I have offended you?”

“Is there any reason why I should be offended?”

“No, Sire, unless my zeal for your safety and my reluctance to allow you to depart this earth is cause for offense.”

“What about treason? I hear you’re daring to assume my place as leader of our clan!”

Sudara’s face blanched. So did the Lady Genjiko’s. “I have never done that in thought or word or deed. Neither has any member of my family or anyone in my presence.”

“That is true, Sire,” Lady Genjiko said with equal strength.

Sudara was a proud, lean man with cold, narrow eyes and thin lips that never smiled. He was twenty-four years old, a fine general and the second of Toranaga’s five living sons. He adored his children, had no consorts, and was devoted to his wife.

Genjiko was short, three years older than her husband, and dumpy from the four children she had already borne him. But she had a straight back and all of her sister Ochiba’s proud, ruthless protectiveness over her own brood, together with the same latent ferocity inherited from their grandfather, Goroda.

“Whoever accused my husband is a liar,” she said.

“Mariko-san,” Toranaga said, “ask the Lady Genjiko what your husband ordered you to say!”

“My Lord Buntaro asked me, ordered me, to persuade you that the time had come for Lord Sudara to assume power, that others in the Council shared my husband’s opinion, that if our Lord Toranaga did not wish to give over power, it—it should be taken from him forcibly.”

“Never has either of us entertained that thought, Father,” Sudara said. “We’re loyal and I would never con—”

“If I gave you power what would you do?” Toranaga asked.

Genjiko replied at once, “How can Lord Sudara know when he has never considered such an unholy possibility? So sorry, Sire, but it’s not possible for him to answer because that’s never been in his mind. How could it be in his mind? And as to Buntaro-san, obviously the kami have taken possession of him.”

“Buntaro claimed that others share his opinion.”

“Who?” Sudara asked venomously. “Tell me who and they’ll die within moments.”

“You tell me who!”

“I don’t know any, Sire, or I’d have reported it to you.”

“You wouldn’t have killed them first?”

“Your first law is to be patient, your second is to be patient. I’ve always followed your orders. I would have waited and reported it. If I’ve offended you, order me to commit seppuku. I do not merit your anger, Lord, I’ve committed no treason. I cannot bear your anger washing over me.”

The Lady Genjiko concurred. “Yes, Sire. Please excuse me but I humbly agree with my husband. He is blameless and so are all our people. We’re faithful—whatever we have is yours, whatever we are you’ve made, whatever you order we’ll do.”

“So! You’re loyal vassals, are you? Obedient? You always obey orders?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Good. Then go and put your children to death. Now.”

Sudara took his eyes off his father and looked at his wife.

Her head moved slightly and she nodded her agreement.

Sudara bowed to Toranaga. His hand tightened on his sword hilt and he got up. He closed the door quietly behind him. There was a great silence in his wake. Genjiko looked once at Mariko, then stared at the floor.

Bells tolled the middle of the Hour of the Goat. The air in the room seemed to thicken. Rain stopped briefly then began again, heavier than before.

Just after the bells tolled the next hour there was a knock. “Yes?”

The door opened. Naga said, “Please excuse me, Sire, my brother . . . Lord Sudara wants to come up again.”

“Let him—then return to your post.”

Sudara came in and knelt and bowed. He was soaking, his hair matted from the rain. His shoulders shook slightly. “My—my children are . . . You’ve already taken my children, Sire.”

Genjiko wavered and almost pitched forward. But she dominated her weakness and stared at her husband. “You—you didn’t kill them?”

Sudara shook his head and Toranaga said grimly, “Your children are in my quarters, on the floor below. I ordered Chano-san to fetch them after you’d been ordered here. I needed to be sure of you both. Foul times require foul tests.” He rang the hand bell.

“You—you withdraw your or—your order, Sire?” Genjiko asked, desperately trying to maintain a cold dignity.

“Yes. My order’s withdrawn. This time. It was necessary to know you. And my heir.”

“Thank you, thank you, Sire.” Sudara lowered his head abjectly.

The inner door opened. “Chano-san, bring my grandchildren here for a moment,” Toranaga said.

Soon three somberly clad foster mothers and the wet nurse brought the children. The girls were four, three, and two, and the infant son, a few weeks old, was asleep in the arms of his wet nurse. All the girls wore scarlet kimonos with scarlet ribbons in their hair. The foster mothers knelt and bowed to Toranaga and their wards copied them importantly and put their heads to the tatamis—except the youngest girl, whose head needed assistance from a gentle though firm hand.

Toranaga bowed back gravely. Then, their duty done, the children rushed into his embrace—except the littlest one, who toddled into her mother’s arms.

At midnight Yabu strutted arrogantly across the flare-lit donjon forecourt. Toranaga’s elite corps of personal guards were everywhere. The moon was vague and misted and the stars barely visible.

“Ah, Naga-san, what’s the reason for all this?”

“I don’t know, Lord, but everyone’s ordered to the conference chamber. Please excuse me, but you must leave your swords with me.”

Yabu flushed at this unheard-of breach of etiquette. “Are you—” He changed his mind, sensing the youth’s chilling tenseness and the restless nervousness of the nearby guards. “On whose orders please, Naga-san?”

“My father’s, Lord. So sorry, you can please yourself if you don’t wish to go to the conference, but I have to advise you that you are ordered there without swords and, so sorry, that is the way you will appear. Please excuse me, but I have no choice.”

Yabu saw the pile of swords already in the lee of the guardhouse beside the huge main gate. He weighed the dangers of a refusal and found them formidable. Reluctantly he relinquished his arms. Naga bowed politely, equally embarrassed, as he accepted them. Yabu went inside. The huge room was embrasured, stone floored, and wooden beamed.

Soon the fifty senior generals were gathered, twenty-three counselors, and seven friendly daimyos from minor northern provinces. All were keyed up and fidgeted uncomfortably.

“What’s all this about?” Yabu asked as he sourly took his place.

A general shrugged. “It’s probably about the trek to Osaka.”

Another looked around hopefully. “Perhaps it’s a change of plan, neh? He’s going to order Crimson—”

“So sorry, but your head’s in the clouds. He’s decided. Our Lord’s decided—it’s Osaka and nothing else! Hey, Yabu-sama, when did you get here?”

“Yesterday. I’ve been stuck at a filthy little fishing village called Yokohama for more than two weeks, south of here, with my troops. The port’s fine but the bugs! Stinking mosquitoes and bugs—they were never so bad in Izu.”

“You’re up to date with all the news?”

“You mean all the bad news? The move’s still in six days, neh?”

“Yes, terrible. Shameful!”

“True, but tonight’s worse,” another general said grimly. “I’ve never been without swords before. Never.”

“It’s an insult,” Yabu said deliberately. All those nearby looked at him.

“I agree,” General Kiyoshio replied, breaking the silence. Serata Kiyoshio was the grizzled, tough Commander of the Seventh Army. “I’ve never been without swords in public before. Makes me feel like a stinking merchant! I think . . . eeeeee, orders are orders but some orders should not be given.”

“That’s quite right,” someone said. “What would old Iron Fist have done if he’d been here?”

“He’d have slit his belly before he gave up his swords! He’d have done it tonight in the forecourt!” a young man said. He was Serata Tomo, the general’s eldest son, second-in-command of the Fourth Army. “I wish Iron Fist were here! He could get sense . . . he’d have slit his belly first.”

“I considered it.” General Kiyoshio cleared his throat harshly. “Someone has to be responsible—and do his duty! Someone has to make the point that liege lord means responsibility and duty!”

“So sorry, but you’d better watch your tongue,” Yabu advised.

“What’s the use of a tongue in a samurai’s mouth if he’s forbidden to be samurai?”

“None,” Isamu, an old counselor, replied. “I agree. Better to be dead.”

“So sorry, Isamu-san, but that’s our immediate future anyway,” the young Serata Tomo said. “We’re staked pigeons to a certain dishonored hawk!”

“Please hold your tongues!” Yabu said, hiding his own satisfaction. Then he added carefully, “He’s our liege lord and until Lord Sudara or the Council takes open responsibility he stays liege lord and he is to be obeyed. Neh?”

General Kiyoshio studied him, his hand unconsciously feeling for his sword hilt. “What have you heard, Yabu-sama?”

“Nothing.”

“Buntaro-san said that—” the counselor began.

General Kiyoshio interrupted thinly. “Please excuse me, Isamu-san, but what General Buntaro said or what he didn’t say is unimportant. What Yabu-sama says is true. A liege lord is a liege lord. Even so, a samurai has rights, a vassal has rights. Even daimyos. Neh?”

Yabu looked back at him, gauging the depth of that invitation. “Izu is Lord Toranaga’s province. I’m no longer daimyo of Izu—only overlord for him.” He glanced around the huge room. “Everyone’s here, neh?”

“Except Lord Noboru,” a general said, mentioning Toranaga’s eldest son, who was universally loathed.

“Yes. Just as well. Never mind, General, the Chinese sickness’ll finish him soon and we’ll be done with his foul humor forever,” someone said.

“And stench.”

“When’s he coming back?”

“Who knows? We don’t even know why Toranaga-sama sent him north. Better he stays there, neh?”

“If you had that sickness, you’d be as foul-humored as he is, neh?”

“Yes, Yabu-san. Yes, I would. Pity he’s poxed, he’s a good general—better than the Cold Fish,” General Kiyoshio added, using Sudara’s private nickname.

“Eeeee,” the counselor whistled. “There’re devils in the air tonight to make you so careless with your tongue. Or is it saké?”

“Perhaps it’s the Chinese sickness,” General Kiyoshio replied with a bitter laugh.

“Buddha protect me from that!” Yabu said. “If only Lord Toranaga would change his mind about Osaka!”

“I’d slit my belly now if that’d convince him,” the young man said.

“No offense, my son, but your head’s in the clouds. He’ll never change.”

“Yes, Father. But I just don’t understand him. . . .”

“We’re all to go with him? In the same contingent?” Yabu asked after a moment.

Isamu, the old counselor, said, “Yes. We’re to go as an escort. With two thousand men with full ceremonial equipment and trappings. It’ll take us thirty days to get there. We’ve six days left.”

General Kiyoshio said, “That’s not much time. Is it, Yabu-sama?”

Yabu did not reply. There was no need. The general did not require an answer. They settled into their own thoughts.

A side door opened. Toranaga came in. Sudara followed. Everyone bowed stiffly. Toranaga bowed back and sat facing them, Sudara as heir presumptive slightly in front of him, also facing the others. Naga came in from the main door and closed it.

Only Toranaga wore swords.

“It’s been reported that some of you speak treason, think treason, and plan treason,” he said coldly. No one answered or moved. Slowly, relentlessly, Toranaga looked from face to face.

Still no movement. Then General Kiyoshio spoke. “May I respectfully ask, Sire, what do you mean by ‘treason’?”

“Any questioning of an order, or a decision, or a position of any liege lord, at any time, is treason,” Toranaga slammed back at him.

The general’s back stiffened. “Then I’m guilty of treason.”

“Then go out and commit seppuku at once.”

“I will, Sire,” the soldier said proudly, “but first I claim the right of free speech before your loyal vassals, officers, and coun—”

“You’ve forfeited all rights!”

“Very well. Then I claim it as a dying wish—as hatamoto—and in return for twenty-eight years of faithful service!”

“Make it very short.”

“I will, Sire,” General Kiyoshio replied icily. “I beg to say, first: Going to Osaka and bowing to the peasant Ishido is treason against your honor, the honor of your clan, the honor of your faithful vassals, your special heritage, and totally against bushido. Second: I indict you for this treason and say you’ve therefore forfeited your right to be our liege lord. Third: I petition that you immediately abdicate in Lord Sudara’s favor and honorably depart this life—or shave your head and retire to a monastery, whichever you prefer.”

The general bowed stiffly, then sat back on his haunches. Everyone waited, hardly breathing now that the unbelievable had become a reality.

Abruptly Toranaga hissed, “What are you waiting for?”

General Kiyoshio stared back at him. “Nothing, Sire. Please excuse me.” His son began to get up.

“No. You’re ordered to stay here!” he said.

The general bowed a last time to Toranaga, got up, and walked out with immense dignity. Some stirred nervously and a swell moved through the room but Toranaga’s harshness dominated again: “Is there anyone else who admits treason? Anyone else who dares to break bushido, anyone who dares to accuse his liege lord of treason?”

“Please excuse me, Sire,” Isamu, the old counselor, said calmly. “But I regret to say that if you go to Osaka it is treason against your heritage.”

“The day I go to Osaka you will depart this earth.”

The gray-haired man bowed politely. “Yes, Sire.”

Toranaga looked them over. Pitilessly. Someone shifted uneasily and eyes snapped onto him. The samurai, a warrior who years ago had lost his wish to fight and had shaved his head to become a Buddhist monk and was now a member of Toranaga’s civil administration, said nothing, almost wilting with an untoward fear he tried desperately to hide.

“What’re you afraid of, Numata-san?”

“Nothing, Sire,” the man said, his eyes downcast.

“Good. Then go and commit seppuku because you’re a liar and your fear’s an infectious stench.”

The man whimpered and stumbled out. Dread stalked them all now. Toranaga watched. And waited.

The air became oppressive, the slight crackling of the torch flames seemed strangely loud. Then, knowing it was his duty and responsibility, Sudara turned and bowed. “Please, Sire, may I respectfully make a statement?”

“What statement?”

“Sire, I believe there is no . . . no more treason here, and that there will be no more trea—”

“I don’t share your opinion.”

“Please excuse me, Sire, you know I will obey you. We will all obey you. We seek only the best for your—”

“The best is my decision. What I decide is best.”

Helplessly Sudara bowed his acquiescence and became silent. Toranaga did not look away from him. His gaze was remorseless. “You are no longer my heir.”

Sudara paled. Then Toranaga shattered the tension in the room: “I am liege lord here.”

He waited a moment, then, in utter silence, he got up and arrogantly marched out. The door closed behind him. A great sigh went through the room. Hands sought sword hilts impotently. But no one left his place.

“This . . . this morning I . . . I heard from our commander-in-chief,” Sudara began at last. “Lord Hiro-matsu will be here in a few days. I will . . . talk to him. Be silent, be patient, be loyal to our liege Lord. Let us go and pay our respects to General Serata Kiyoshio. . . .”

Toranaga was climbing the stairs, a great loneliness upon him, his footsteps reverberating in the emptiness of the tower. Near the top he stopped and leaned momentarily against the wall, his breathing heavy. The ache was gripping his chest again and he tried to rub it away. “It’s just lack of exercise,” he muttered. “That’s all, just lack of exercise.”

He went on. He knew he was in great jeopardy. Treason and fear were contagious and both had to be cauterized without pity the moment they appeared. Even then you could never be sure they were eradicated. The struggle he was locked into was not a child’s game. The weak had to be food for the strong, the strong pawns for the very strong. If Sudara publicly claimed his mantle he was powerless to prevent it. Until Zataki answered, he had to wait.

Toranaga shut and bolted his door and walked to a window. Below, he could see his generals and counselors silently streaming away to their homes outside the donjon walls. Beyond the castle walls, the city lay in almost total darkness. Above, the moon was pallid and misted. It was a brooding, darkling night. And, it seemed to him, doom walked the heavens.

CHAPTER FIFTY

Blackthorne was sitting alone in the morning sun in a corner of the garden outside his guest house daydreaming, his dictionary in his hand. It was a fine cloudless day—the first for many weeks—and the fifth day since he had last seen Toranaga. All that time he had been confined to the castle, unable to see Mariko or visit his ship or crew, or explore the city, or go hunting or riding. Once a day he went swimming in one of the moats with other samurai, and to pass the time he taught some to swim and some to dive. But this did not make the waiting easier.

“So sorry, Anjin-san, but it’s the same for everyone,” Mariko had said yesterday when he met her by chance in his section of the castle. “Even Lord Hiro-matsu’s been kept waiting. It’s two days since he arrived and he still hasn’t seen Lord Toranaga. No one has.”

“But this is important, Mariko-chan. I thought he understood every day’s vital. Isn’t there some way I can get a message to him?”

“Oh yes, Anjin-san. That’s simple. You just write. If you tell me what you want to say I’ll write it for you. Everyone has to write for an interview, those are his present orders. Please be patient, that’s all we can do.”

“Then please ask for an interview. I’d appreciate it. . . .”

“That’s no trouble, it’s my pleasure.”

“Where have you been? It’s four days since I saw you.”

“Please excuse me but I’ve had to do so many things. It’s—it’s a little difficult for me, so many preparations. . . .”

“What’s going on? This whole castle’s been like a hive about to swarm for almost a week now.”

“Oh, so sorry. Everything’s fine, Anjin-san.”

“Is it? So sorry, a general and a senior administrator commit seppuku in the donjon forecourt. That’s usual? Lord Toranaga locks himself away in the ivory tower, keeping people waiting without apparent reason—that’s also usual? What about Lord Hiro-matsu?”

“Lord Toranaga is our lord. Whatever he does is right.”

“And you, Mariko-san? Why haven’t I seen you?”

“Please excuse me, so sorry, but Lord Toranaga ordered me to leave you to your studies. I’m visiting your consort now, Anjin-san. I’m not supposed to visit you.”

“Why should he object to that?”

“Merely, I suppose, so that you are obliged to speak our tongue. It’s only been a few days, neh?”

“When are you leaving for Osaka?”

“I don’t know. I expected to go three days ago but Lord Toranaga hasn’t signed my pass yet. I’ve arranged everything—porters and horses—and daily I submit my travel papers to his secretary for signing, but they’re always sent back. ‘Submit them tomorrow.’ ”

“I thought I was going to take you to Osaka by sea. Didn’t he say I was to take you by sea?”

“Yes. Yes, he did, but—well, Anjin-san, you never know with our liege Lord. He changes plans.”

“Has he always been like that?”

“Yes and no. Since Yokosé he’s been filled with—how do you say it—melancholy, neh?—yes, melancholy, and very different. He—yes, he’s different now.”

“Since First Bridge you’ve been filled with melancholy and very different. Yes, you’re different now.”

“First Bridge was an end and a beginning, Anjin-san, and our promise. Neh?”

“Yes. Please excuse me.”

She had bowed sadly and left, and then, once safely away, not turning back, she had whispered, “Thou . . .” The word lingered in the corridor with her perfume.

At the evening meal he had tried to question Fujiko. But she also knew nothing of importance or would not, or could not, explain what was amiss at the castle.

“Dozo gomen nasai, Anjin-san.”

He went to bed seething. Seething with frustration over the delays, and the nights without Mariko. It was always bad knowing she was so near, that Buntaro was gone from the city, and now, because of the “Thou . . .” that her desire was still as intense as his. A few days ago he had gone to her house on the pretext that he needed help with Japanese. The samurai guard had told him, so sorry, she was not at home. He had thanked them, then wandered listlessly to the main south gate. He could see the ocean. Because the land was so flat, he could see nothing of the wharves or docks though he thought he could distinguish the tall masts of his ship in the distance.

The ocean beckoned him. It was the horizon more than the deep, the need for a fair wind washing him, eyes squinting against its strength, tongue tasting its salt, the deck heeled over, and aloft the spars and rigging and halyards creaking and groaning under the press of sails that, from time to time, would cackle with glee as the stalwart breeze shifted a point or two.

And it was freedom more than the horizon. Freedom to go to any quarter in any weather at any whim. To stand on his quarterdeck and to be arbiter, as here Toranaga alone was arbiter.

Blackthorne looked up at the topmost part of the donjon. Sun glinted off its shapely tiled curves. He had never seen movement there, though he knew that every window below the topmost floor was guarded.

Gongs sounded the hour change. For the first time his mind told him this was the middle of the Hour of the Horse, and not eight bells of this watch—high noon.

He put his dictionary into his sleeve, glad that it was time for the first real meal.

Today it was rice and quick-broiled prawns and fish soup and pickled vegetables.

“Would you like some more, Anjin-san?”

“Thank you, Fujiko. Yes. Rice, please. And some fish. Good—very . . .” He looked up the word for “delicious” and said it several times to memorize it. “Yes, delicious, neh?”

Fujiko was pleased. “Thank you. This fish from north. Water colder north, understand? Its name is ‘kuruma-ebi.’ ”

He repeated the name and put it into his memory. When he had finished and their trays were taken away, she poured more cha and took a package out of her sleeve.

“Here money, Anjin-san.” She showed him the gold coins. “Fifty koban. Worth one hundred fifty koku. You want it, neh? For sailors. Please excuse me, do you understand?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Enough?”

“Yes. Think so. Where get?”

“Toranaga-sama’s chief . . .” Fujiko sought a simple way to say it. “I go important Toranaga man. Headman. Like Mura, neh? Not samurai—only moneyman. Sign my name for you.”

“Ah, understand. Thank you. My money? My koku?”

“Oh, yes.”

“This house. Food. Servants. Who pay?”

“Oh, I pay. From your—from koku one year.”

“Is that enough, please? Enough koku?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, I believe so,” she said.

“Why worry? Worry in face?”

“Oh, please excuse me, Anjin-san. I’m not worried. No worry . . .”

“Pain? Burn pain?”

“No pain. See.” Fujiko carefully got off the thick cushions he insisted she use. She knelt directly onto the tatamis with no sign of discomfort, then sat back on her heels and settled herself. “There, all better.”

“Eeeee, very good,” he said, pleased for her. “Show, eh?”

She got up carefully and lifted the hem of her skirts and allowed him to look at the backs of her legs. The scar tissue had not split and there were no suppurations. “Very good,” he said. “Yes, soon like baby skin, neh?”

“Thank you, yes. Soft. Thank you, Anjin-san.”

He noticed the slight change in her voice but did not comment. That night he did not dismiss her.

The pillowing was satisfactory. No more. For him there was no afterglow, no joyous lassitude. It was just a mating. So wrong, he thought, yet not wrong, neh?

Before she left him she knelt and bowed again to him and put her hands on his forehead. “I thank you with all my heart. Please sleep now, Anjin-san.”

“Thank you, Fujiko-san. I sleep later.”

“Please sleep now. It is my duty and would give me great pleasure.”

The touch of her hand was warm and dry and not pleasing. Nonetheless he pretended to sleep. She caressed him ineptly though with great patience. Then, quietly, she went back to her own room. Now alone again, glad to be alone, Blackthorne propped his head on his arms and looked up into the darkness.

He had decided about Fujiko during the journey from Yokosé to Yedo. “It is your duty,” Mariko had told him, lying in his arms.

“I think that’d be a mistake, neh? If she gets with child, well, it’ll take me four years to sail home and come back again and, in that time, God knows what could happen.” He remembered how Mariko had trembled then.

“Oh, Anjin-san, that is very much time.”

“Three then. But you’ll be aboard with me. I’ll take you back with—”

“Thy promise, my darling! Nothing that is, neh?”

“Thou art right. Yes. But with Fujiko, so many bad things could happen. I don’t think she would want my child.”

“You do not know that. I do not understand you, Anjin-san. It is your duty. She could always prevent a child, neh? Don’t forget, she is your consort. In truth, you take away her face if you don’t invite her to the pillow. After all, Toranaga himself ordered her into your house.”

“Why did he do that?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. He ordered it, therefore it is the best for you and best for her. It has been good, neh? She’s done her duty as best she can, neh? Please excuse me, but don’t you think you should do yours?”

“Enough of your lectures! Love me and do not talk anymore.”

“How should I love thee? Ah, like Kiku-san told me today?”

“How is that?”

“Like this.”

“That is very good—so very good.”

“Oh, I forgot, please light the lamp, Anjin-san. I have something to show thee.”

“Later, now I—”

“Oh, please excuse me, it should be now. I bought it for you. It’s a pillow book. The pictures are very funny.”

“I don’t want to look at a pillow book now.”

“But, so sorry, Anjin-san, perhaps one of the pictures would excite you. How can you learn about pillowing without a pillow book?”

“I’m excited already.”

“But Kiku-san said it’s a very first best way of choosing positions. There are forty-seven. Some of them look astonishing and very difficult, but she said it was important to try all. . . . Why do you laugh?”

“You’re laughing—why shouldn’t I laugh too?”

“But I was laughing because you were chuckling and I felt your stomach shaking and you won’t let me up. Please let me up, Anjin-san!”

“Ah, but you can’t be cross, Mariko my darling. There’s no woman in the world who can be really even a little cross like this. . . .”

“But Anjin-san, please, you must let me up. I want to show you.”

“All right. If that—”

“Oh, no, Anjin-san, I didn’t want—you mustn’t—can’t you just reach out—please not yet—oh, please don’t leave me—oh, how I love thee like This. . . .”

Blackthorne remembered that loving. Mariko excited him more than Kiku had, and Fujiko was nothing compared to either. And Felicity?

Ah, Felicity, he thought, focusing on his great problem. I must be mad to love Mariko, and Kiku. And yet . . . the truth about Felicity is that now she can’t compare even with Fujiko. Fujiko was clean. Poor Felicity. I’ll never be able to tell her, but the memory of her and me rutting like a pair of stoats in the hay or under rancid covers makes my skin crawl now. Now I know better. Now I could teach her but would she wish to learn? And how could we ever get clean and stay clean and live clean?

Home is filth piled on filth, but that’s where my wife is and where my children are and where I belong.

“Don’t think about that home, Anjin-san,” Mariko had once said when the dark mists were on him. “Real home is here—the other’s ten million times ten million sticks away. Here is reality. You’ll send yourself mad if you try to get wa out of such impossibilities. Listen, if you want peace you must learn to drink cha from an empty cup.”

She had shown him how. “You think reality into the cup, you think the cha there—the warm, pale-green drink of the gods. If you concentrate hard . . . Oh, a Zen teacher could show you, Anjin-san. It is most difficult but so easy. How I wish I was clever enough to show it to you, for then all things in the world can be yours for the asking . . . even the most unobtainable gift—perfect tranquillity.”

He had tried many times, but he could never sip the drink when it wasn’t there.

“Never mind, Anjin-san. It takes such a long time to learn but you will, sometime.”

“Can you?”

“Rarely. Only in moments of great sadness or loneliness. But the taste of the unreal cha seems to give a meaning to life. It is hard to explain. I’ve done it once or twice. Sometimes you gain wa just by trying.”

Now, lying in the dark of the castle, sleep so far away, he lit the candle with the flint and concentrated on the little porcelain cup that Mariko had given him which now he always kept beside his bed. For an hour he tried. But he could not purify his mind. Inevitably the same thoughts kept chasing each other: I want to leave, I want to stay. I’m afraid of going back, I’m afraid to remain. I hate both and want both. And then there are the “eters.”

If it was up to me alone I wouldn’t leave, not yet. But others are involved and they’re not eters and I signed on as Pilot: ‘By the Lord God I promise to take the fleet out and through the Grace of God bring her home again.’ I want Mariko. I want to see the land Toranaga’s given me and I need to stay here, to enjoy the fruit of my great luck for just a little longer. Yes. But also duty’s involved and that transcends everything, neh?

With the dawn Blackthorne knew that though he pretended he had put off the decision again, in reality, he had decided. Irrevocably.

God help me, first and last I’m Pilot.

Toranaga uncurled the tiny slip of paper that arrived two hours after dawn. The message from his mother said simply: “Your brother agrees, my son. His letter of confirmation will leave today by hand. The state visit of Lord Sudara and his family must begin within ten days.”

Toranaga sat down weakly. The pigeons fluttered in their roosts then settled back once more. Morning sun filtered into the loft pleasingly though rain clouds were building. Gathering his strength, he hurried down the steps into his quarters below to begin.

“Naga-san!”

“Yes, Father?”

“Send Hiro-matsu-san here. After him, my secretary.”

“Yes, Father.”

The old general came quickly. His joints were creaking from the climb and he bowed low, his sword loose in his hands as ever, his face fiercer than ever, older than ever, and even more resolute.

“You’re welcome, old friend.”

“Thank you, Lord.” Hiro-matsu looked up. “I’m saddened to see the cares of the world are in your face.”

“And I’m saddened to see and hear so much treason.”

“Yes. Treason is a terrible thing.”

Toranaga saw the firm old eyes measuring him. “You can speak freely.”

“Have you ever known me not to, Sire?” The old man was grave.

“Please excuse me for keeping you waiting.”

“Please excuse me for troubling you. What is your pleasure, Sire? Please give me your decision about the future of your house. Is it finally Osaka—bending to that manure pile?”

“Have you ever known me to make a final decision about anything?”

Hiro-matsu frowned, then thoughtfully straightened his back to ease the ache in his shoulders. “I’ve always known you to be patient and decisive and you’ve always won. That’s why I can’t understand you now. It’s not like you to give up.”

“Isn’t the realm more important than my future?”

“No.”

“Ishido and the other Regents are still legal rulers according to the Taikō’s will.”

“I am the vassal of Yoshi Toranaga-noh-Minowara and I acknowledge no one else.”

“Good. The day after tomorrow is my chosen day to leave for Osaka.”

“Yes. I’ve heard that.”

“You’ll be in command of the escort, Buntaro second-in-command.”

The old general sighed. “I know that too, Sire. But since I’ve been back, Sire, I’ve talked to your senior advisers and gener—”

“Yes. I know. And what is their opinion?”

“That you should not leave Yedo. That your orders should be temporarily overruled.”

“By whom?”

“By me. By my orders.”

“That’s what they wish? Or that is what you’ve decided?”

Hiro-matsu put his sword on the floor nearer to Toranaga and, now defenseless, looked directly at him. “Please excuse me, Sire, I wish to ask you what I should do. My duty seems to tell me I should take command and prevent your leaving. This will at once force Ishido to come against us. Yes, of course we will lose, but that seems to be the only honorable way.”

“But stupid, neh?”

The general’s iron-gray brows knotted. “No. We die in battle, with honor. We regain wa. The Kwanto is a spoil of war, but we’ll not see the new master in this life. Shigata ga nai.”

“I’ve never enjoyed expending men uselessly. I’ve never lost a battle and see no reason why I should begin now.”

“Losing one battle is no dishonor, Sire. Is surrender honorable?”

“You are all agreed in this treason?”

“Sire, please excuse me, I asked individuals for a military opinion only. There’s no treason or plot.”

“You still listened to treason.”

“Please excuse me, but if I agree, as your commander-in-chief, then it no longer becomes treason but legal state policy.”

“Taking decisions away from your liege lord is treason.”

“Sire, there are too many precedents for deposing a lord. You’ve done it, Goroda did it, the Taikō—we’ve all done that and worse. A victor never commits treason.”

“You’ve decided to depose me?”

“I ask for your help in the decision.”

“You’re the one person I thought I could trust!”

“By all gods I only wish to be your most devoted vassal. I’m only a soldier. I wish to do my duty to you. I think only of you. I merit your trust. If it will help, take my head. If it will convince you to fight, I gladly give you my life, my clan’s life blood, today—in public or private or whatever way you wish—isn’t that what our friend General Kiyoshio did? I’m sorry but I do not understand why I should permit you to throw away a lifetime of effort.”

“Then you refuse to obey my orders to head the escort that will leave for Osaka the day after tomorrow?”

A cloud passed over the sun and both men looked out of the windows. “It’ll rain again soon,” Toranaga said.

“Yes. There’s been too much rain this year, neh? The rains must stop soon or the harvest’ll be ruined.”

They looked at each other.

“Well?”

Iron Fist said simply, “I formally ask you, Sire, do you order me to escort you from Yedo, the day after tomorrow, to begin the trek to Osaka?”

“As there seems to be advice from all my counselors to the contrary, I’ll accept their opinion, and yours, and delay my departure.”

Hiro-matsu was totally unprepared for this. “Eh? You won’t be leaving?”

Toranaga laughed, the mask fell off, and he was the old Toranaga again. “I never intended to go to Osaka. Why should I be so stupid?”

“What?”

“My agreement at Yokosé was nothing more than a trick to gain time,” Toranaga said affably. “Ishido took the bait. The fool expects me in Osaka within a few weeks. Zataki also took that bait. And you and all my valiant, untrusting vassals also took the bait. With no real concession whatsoever I’ve gained a month, put Ishido and his filthy allies in turmoil. I hear they’re already scrambling for the Kwanto. Kiyama’s been promised it as well as Zataki.”

“You never intended to go?” Hiro-matsu shook his head, then as the clarity of the idea suddenly hit him, his face broke into a delighted grin. “It’s all a ruse?”

“Of course. Listen, everyone had to be taken in, neh? Zataki, everyone, even you! Or spies would have told Ishido and he would have moved against us at once and no good fortune on earth or gods in heaven could have prevented disaster to me.”

“That’s true . . . ah, Lord, forgive me. I’m so stupid. I deserve to lose my head! So it was all nonsense, always nonsense. But . . . but what about General Kiyoshio?”

“He said he was guilty of treason. I don’t need treasonous generals, only obedient vassals.”

“But why attack Lord Sudara? Why withdraw your favor from him?”

“Because it pleases me to do so,” Toranaga said harshly.

“Yes. Please excuse me. That’s your sole privilege. I beg you to forgive me for doubting you.”

“Why should I forgive you for being you, old friend? I needed you to do what you did and say what you said. Now I need you more than ever. I must have someone I can trust. That’s why I’m taking you into my confidence. This has got to be secret between us.”

“Oh Sire. You make me so happy. . . .”

“Yes,” Toranaga said. “That’s the only thing I’m afraid of.”

“Sire?”

“You’re commander-in-chief. You alone can neutralize this stupid, brooding mutiny while I’m waiting. I trust you and must trust you. My son can’t hold my generals in check, though he’d never show outward joy at the secret—if he knew it—but your face is the gateway to your soul, old friend.”

“Then let me take my life after I’ve settled the generals.”

“That’s no help. You must hold them together pending my pretended departure, neh? You’ll just have to guard your face and your sleep like never before. You’re the only one in all the world who knows—you’re the only one I must trust, neh?”

“Forgive me for my stupidity. I won’t fail. Explain to me what I must do.”

“Say to my generals what’s true—that you persuaded me to take your advice, which is also theirs, neh? I formally order my departure postponed for seven days. Later I’ll postpone it again. Sickness, this time. You’re the only one to know.”

“Then? Then it will be Crimson Sky?”

“Not as originally planned. Crimson Sky was always a last plan, neh?”

“Yes. What about the Musket Regiment? Could it blast a path through the mountains?”

“Part of the way. But not all the way to Kyoto.”

“Have Zataki assassinated.”

“That might be possible. But Ishido and his allies are still invincible.” Toranaga told him the arguments of Omi, Yabu, Igurashi, and Buntaro the day of the earthquake. “At that time I ordered Crimson Sky as another feint to throw Ishido into confusion . . . and also had the right parts of the discussion whispered into the wrong ears. But the fact is, Ishido’s force is still invincible.”

“How can we split them up? What about Kiyama and Onoshi?”

“No, those two are implacably against me. All the Christians will be against me—except my Christian, and I will soon put him and his ship to very good use. Time is what I need most. I’ve allies and secret friends throughout the Empire and if I have time . . . Every day I gain weakens Ishido further. That’s my battle plan. Every day of delay is important. Listen, after the rains, Ishido will come against the Kwanto, a simultaneous pincer, Ikawa Jikkyu spearheading the south, Zataki in the north. We contain Jikkyu at Mishima, then fall back to the Hakoné Pass and Odawara, where we make our final stand. In the north we’ll hold Zataki fast in the mountains along the Hosho-kaidō Road somewhere near Mikawa. It’s true what Omi and Igurashi said: We can hold off the first attack and there shouldn’t be another great invasion. We fight and we wait behind our mountains. We fight and delay and wait and then when the fruit is ripe for plucking—Crimson Sky.”

“Eeeeee, let that day be soon!”

“Listen, old friend, only you can hold my generals in check. With time and the Kwanto secure, completely secure, we can weather the first attack and then Ishido’s alliances will begin to break up. Once that happens Yaemon’s future is assured and the Taikō’s testament inviolate.”

“You will not take sole power, Sire?”

“For the last time: ‘The law may upset reason but reason may never upset the law, or our whole society will shred like an old tatami. The law may be used to confound reason, reason must certainly not be used to overthrow the law.’ The Taikō’s will is law.”

Hiro-matsu bowed an acceptance. “Very well, Sire. I will never mention it again. Please excuse me. Now—” He let his smile show. “Now, what must I do?”

“Pretend that you’ve persuaded me to delay. Just keep them all in your iron fist.”

“How long must I keep up the pretense?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t trust myself, Sire. I may make a mistake, not meaning to. I think I can keep the joy off my face for a few days. With your permission my ‘aches’ should become so bad that I’ll be confined to bed—no visitors, neh?”

“Good. Do that in four days. Let some of the pain show from today on. That won’t be difficult, neh?”

“No, Sire. So sorry. I’m glad the battle begins this year. Next . . . I may not be able to help.”

“Nonsense. But it will be this year whether I say yes or no. In sixteen days I will leave Yedo for Osaka. By that time you will have given your ‘reluctant approval’ and you will lead the march. Only you and I know there will be further delays and that long before I reach my borders I’ll turn back to Yedo.”

“Please forgive me for doubting you. If it wasn’t that I must remain alive to help your plans I could not live with my shame.”

“No need for shame, old friend. If you hadn’t been convinced, Ishido and Zataki would have seen through the trick. Oh, by the way, how was Buntaro-san when you saw him?”

“Seething, Sire. It will be good to have a battle for him to fight.”

“He suggested removing me as liege lord?”

“If he’d said that to me I would have removed his head! At once!”

“I’ll send for you in three days. Ask to see me daily but I’ll refuse until then.”

“Yes, Sire.” The old general bowed abjectly. “Please forgive this old fool. You’ve given my life purpose again. Thank you.” He left.

Toranaga took out the little slip of paper from his sleeve and reread the message from his mother with enormous satisfaction. With the northern route possibly open and Ishido possibly betrayed there, his odds had enormously improved. He put the message to the flame. The paper curled into ash. Contentedly, he pounded the ash to dust. Now, who should be the new commander-in-chief? he asked himself.

At noon, Mariko walked across the donjon forecourt, through the silent ranks of brooding guards, and went inside. Toranaga’s secretary was waiting for her in one of the anterooms on the ground floor. “So sorry to send for you, Lady Toda,” he said listlessly.

“It’s my pleasure, Kawanabi-san.”

Kawanabi was a sharp-featured, elderly samurai with a shaven head. Once he had been a Buddhist priest. For years now he had handled all of Toranaga’s correspondence. Normally he was bright and enthusiastic. Today, like most people in the castle, he was greatly unsettled. He handed her a small scroll. “Here are your travel documents for Osaka, duly signed. You are to leave tomorrow and get there as soon as possible.”

“Thank you.” Her voice sounded tiny to her.

“Lord Toranaga says he may have some private dispatches for you to take to Lady Kiritsubo and Lady Koto. Also for General Lord Ishido and Lady Ochiba. They’ll be delivered to you tomorrow at dawn if . . . so sorry, if they’re ready, I’ll see they’re delivered to you.”

“Thank you.”

From a number of scrolls that were stacked with pedantic neatness on his low desk, Kawanabi selected an official document. “I’m directed to give you this. It is the increase in your son’s fief as promised by Lord Toranaga. Ten thousand koku yearly. It’s dated from the last day of last month and . . . well, here it is.”

She accepted it, read it, and checked the official chops. Everything was perfect. But it gave her no happiness. Both believed it was an empty paper now. If her son’s life was spared he would become ronin. “Thank you. Please thank Lord Toranaga for the honor he does us. May I be allowed to see him before I go?”

“Oh, yes. When you leave here now you’re asked to go to the barbarian ship. You’re requested to wait for him there.”

“I’m—I’m to interpret?”

“He didn’t say. I would presume so, Lady Toda.” The secretary squinted at a list in his hand. “Captain Yoshinaka’s been ordered to lead your escort to Osaka, if it pleases you.”

“I would be honored to be in his charge again. Thank you. May I ask how Lord Toranaga is?”

“He seems well enough, but for an active man like him to coop himself up for days on end . . . What can I say?” He spread his hands helplessly. “So sorry. At least today he saw Lord Hiro-matsu and agreed to a delay. He’s also agreed to deal with a few other things . . . rice prices must be stabilized now in case of a bad harvest. . . . But there’s so much to do and . . . it’s just not like him, Lady Toda. These are terrible times, neh? And terrible omens: The soothsayers say the harvest will be ruined this year.”

“I will not believe them—until harvest time.”

“Wise, very wise. But not many of us will see harvest time. I’m to go with him to Osaka.” Kawanabi shivered and leaned forward nervously. “I heard a rumor that the plague’s begun again between Kyoto and Osaka—smallpox. Is that another heavenly sign that the gods are turning their faces from us?”

“It’s not like you to believe rumors or heavenly signs, Kawanabi-san, or to pass on rumors. You know what Lord Toranaga thinks of that.”

“I know. So sorry. But, well . . . no one seems to be normal these days, neh?”

“Perhaps the rumor’s not true—I pray it’s not true.” She shook off her foreboding. “Has the new date for the departure been set?”

“I understood Lord Hiro-matsu to say that it was postponed for seven days. I’m so glad our commander-in-chief returned and so glad he persuaded . . . I wish the whole departure was put off forever. Better fight here than be dishonored there, neh?”

“Yes,” she agreed, knowing there was no point any longer in pretending that this was not foremost in everyone’s mind. “Now that Lord Hiro-matsu’s back, perhaps our Lord will see that surrender’s not the best course.”

“Lady, for your ears alone. Lord Hiro-matsu—” He stopped, looked up, and put a smile on his face. Yabu strode into the room, swords jingling. “Ah, Lord Kasigi Yabu, how nice to see you.” He bowed and Mariko bowed and there were pleasantries and then he said, “Lord Toranaga’s expecting you, Sire. Please go up at once.”

“Good. What does he want to see me about?”

“So sorry, Sire, he didn’t tell me—only that he wished to see you.”

“How is he?”

Kawanabi hesitated. “No change, Sire.”

“His departure—has a new date been fixed?”

“I understand it’ll be in seven days.”

“Perhaps Lord Hiro-matsu’ll put it off even more, neh?”

“That would be up to our Lord, Sire.”

“Of course.” Yabu walked out.

“You were saying about Lord Hiro-matsu?”

“Only for your ears, Lady—as Buntaro-san’s not here,” the secretary whispered. “When old Iron Fist came from seeing Lord Toranaga, he had to rest for the best part of an hour. He was in very great pain, Lady.”

“Oh! It would be terrible if something happened to him now!”

“Yes. Without him there’d be a revolt, neh? This delay solves nothing, does it? It’s only a truce. The real problem—I’m—I’m afraid since Lord Sudara acted as formal second to General Kiyoshio, every time Lord Sudara’s name has been mentioned our Lord gets very angry. . . . It’s only Lord Hiro-matsu who’s persuaded him to delay and that’s the only thing that . . .” Tears started running down the secretary’s cheeks. “What’s happening, Lady? He’s lost control, neh?”

“No,” she said firmly, without conviction. “I’m sure everything will be all right. Thank you for telling me. I’ll try to see Lord Hiro-matsu before I leave.”

“Go with God, Lady.”

She was startled. “I didn’t know you were Christian, Kawanabi-san.”

“I’m not, Lady. But I know it is your custom.”

She walked out into the sun, greatly concerned over Hiro-matsu, at the same time blessing God that her waiting was over and tomorrow she would escape. She went toward the palanquin and escort waiting for her.

“Ah, Lady Toda,” Gyoko said, stepping out of the shadows, intercepting her.

“Ah, good morning, Gyoko-san, how nice to see you. I hope you’re well?” she said pleasantly, a sudden chill rushing through her.

“Not well at all, I’m afraid, so sorry. So very sad. It seems we’re not in our Lord’s favor, Kiku-san and I. Ever since we got here we’ve been confined to a filthy third-class hotel I wouldn’t put an eighth-class male courtesan in.”

“Oh, so sorry. I’m sure there must be some mistake.”

“Ah yes, a mistake. I certainly hope so, Lady. At long last today I’ve been given permission to come to the castle, at long last there’s an answer to my petition to see the Great Lord, at long last I’m permitted to bow before the Great Lord again—later today.” Gyoko smiled at her crookedly. “I heard you were also coming to see the lord-secretary, so I thought I’d wait to greet you. I hope you don’t mind.”

“It’s a pleasure to see you, Gyoko-san. I would have visited you and Kiku-san, or asked you both to visit me, but unfortunately that hasn’t been possible.”

“Yes—so sad. These are sad times. Difficult for nobles. Difficult for peasants. Poor Kiku-san’s quite sick with worry to be out of our Lord’s favor.”

“I’m sure she’s not, Gyoko-san. He—Lord Toranaga has many pressing problems, neh?”

“True—true. Perhaps we could take some cha now, Lady Toda. I would be honored to be allowed to talk to you for a moment.”

“Ah, so sorry, but I’m ordered to go on official business. Otherwise I would have been honored.”

“Ah yes, you’ve to go to the Anjin-san’s ship now. Ah, I forgot, so sorry. How is the Anjin-san?”

“I believe he is well,” Mariko said, furious that Gyoko knew her private business. “I’ve seen him only once—and then just for a few moments—since we arrived.”

“An interesting man. Yes, very. Sad not to see one’s friends, neh?”

Both women wore smiles, their voices polite and carefree, both conscious of the impatient samurai watching and listening to them.

“I heard the Anjin-san visited his friends—his crew. How did he find them?”

“He never told me, Gyoko-san. As I said, I only saw him for a moment. So sorry, but I must go . . .”

“Sad not to see one’s friends. Perhaps I could tell you about them. For instance, that they live in an eta village.”

“What?”

“Yes. It seems his friends asked permission to live there, preferring it to civilized areas. Curious, neh? Not like the Anjin-san, who’s different. The rumor is they say it’s more like home to them—the eta village. Curious, neh . . .”

Mariko was remembering how strange the Anjin-san had been on the stairs that day. That explains it, she thought. Eta! Madonna, poor man. How ashamed he must have been. “I’m sorry, Gyoko-san, what did you say?”

“Just that it’s curious the Anjin-san’s so different from the others.”

“What’re they like? Have you seen them? The others?”

“No, Lady. I wouldn’t go there. What should I have to do with them? Or with eta? I must think of my clients and my Kiku-san. And my son.”

“Ah yes, your son.”

Gyoko’s face saddened under her parasol but her eyes remained flinty brown like her kimono. “Please excuse me, but I suppose you’ve no idea why we should be out of favor with Lord Toranaga?”

“No. I’m sure you’re mistaken. The contract was settled, neh? According to the agreement?”

“Oh yes, thank you. I’ve a letter of credit on the Mishima rice merchants, payable on demand. Less the amount we agreed. But money was furthest from my mind. What’s money when you’ve lost the favor of your patron—whoever he or she is. Neh?”

“I’m sure you retain his favor.”

“Ah, favors! I was worried about your favor, too, Lady Toda.”

“You always have my goodwill. And friendship, Gyoko-san. Perhaps we could talk another time, I really must go now, so sorry. . . .”

“Ah yes, how kind you are. I’d enjoy that.” Gyoko added in her most honeyed voice as Mariko began to turn away, “But will you have time? You go tomorrow, neh? To Osaka?”

Mariko felt a sudden ice barb in her chest as the trap closed.

“Is there anything wrong, Lady?”

“No . . . no, Gyoko-san. Will . . . during the Hour of the Dog tonight . . . would that be convenient?”

“You’re too kind, Lady. Oh, yes, as you’re going to see our Master now, before me, would you intercede for us? We need such a little favor. Neh?”

“I would be glad to.” Mariko thought a moment. “Some favors can be asked but, even so, are not granted.”

Gyoko stiffened slightly. “Ah! You’ve already asked him the . . . asked him to favor us?”

“Of course—why shouldn’t I?” Mariko said carefully. “Isn’t Kiku-san a favorite? And aren’t you a devoted vassal? Haven’t you been granted favors in the past?”

“My requests are always so little. Everything I said before still applies, Lady. Perhaps more so.”

“About empty-bellied dogs?”

“About long ears and safe tongues.”

“Ah yes. And secrets.”

“It would be so easy to satisfy me. My Lord’s favor—and my Lady’s—is not much to ask, neh?”

“No. If an opportunity occurs . . . I can promise nothing.”

“Until this evening, Lady.”

They bowed to each other and no samurai was any the wiser. Mariko got into the palanquin to more bows, hiding the trembles that beset her, and the cortege left. Gyoko stared after her.

“You, woman,” a young samurai said roughly as he passed. “What’re you waiting for? Go about your business.”

“Ha!” Gyoko said disdainfully to the amusement of others. “Woman, is it, puppy? If I went about your business I might have a very hard time finding it, hey, even though you’re not yet man enough to have thatch!”

The others laughed. With a toss of her head she walked on fearlessly.

“Hello,” Blackthorne said.

“Good afternoon, Anjin-san. You look happy!”

“Thank you. It’s the sight of such a lovely lady, neh?”

“Ah, thank you,” Mariko replied. “How is your ship?”

“First class. Would you like to come aboard? I’d like to show you around.”

“Is that permitted? I was ordered here to meet Lord Toranaga.”

“Yes. We’re all waiting for him now.” Blackthorne turned and spoke to the senior samurai on the wharf. “Captain, I take Lady Toda there. Show ship. When Lord Toranaga arrive—you call, neh?”

“As you wish, Anjin-san.”

Blackthorne led the way off the jetty. Samurai were manning the barriers and security was tighter than ever, ashore and on deck. First he went to the quarterdeck. “This is mine, all mine,” he said with pride.

“Are any of your crew here?”

“No—none. Not today, Mariko-san.” He pointed out everything as quickly as he could, then guided her below. “This is the main cabin.” The aft bay windows overlooked the foreshore. He closed the door. Now they were totally alone.

“This is your cabin?” she asked.

He shook his head, watching her. She went into his arms. He held her tight. “Oh, how I have missed thee.”

“And I have missed thee. . . .”

“There’s so much to tell thee. And to ask thee,” he said.

“I’ve nothing to tell thee. Except that I love thee with all my heart.” She shivered in his arms, trying to throw off her terror that Gyoko or someone would denounce them. “I’m so afraid for thee.”

“Don’t be afraid, Mariko my darling. Everything’s going to be all right.”

“That’s what I tell myself. But today it’s impossible to accept karma and the will of God.”

“You were so distant the last time.”

“This is Yedo, my love. And beyond First Bridge.”

“It was because of Buntaro-san. Wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” she said simply. “That and Toranaga’s decision to surrender. It’s such a dishonorable uselessness. . . . I never thought I’d ever say that out loud but I have to say it. So sorry.” She nestled closer into the protection of his shoulder.

“When he goes to Osaka, you’re finished, too?”

“Yes. The Toda clan are too powerful and important. In any event I would not be left alive.”

“Then you must come with me. We’ll escape. We’ll—”

“So sorry, but there’s no escape.”

“Unless Toranaga allows it, neh?”

“Why should he allow it?”

Quickly Blackthorne told her what he had said to Toranaga, but not that he had also asked for her. “I know I can force the priests to bring Kiyama or Onoshi to his side, if he’ll allow me to take this Black Ship,” he finished excitedly, “and I know I can do that!”

“Yes,” she said, glad for the sake of the Church that he was hobbled by Toranaga’s decision. Again she examined the logic of his plan and found it flawless. “It should work, Anjin-san. Now that Harima’s hostile, there would be no reason why Toranaga-sama shouldn’t order an attack if he were going to war, and not surrendering.”

“If Lord Kiyama or Lord Onoshi, or both of them, joined him, would that tip the scale toward him?”

“Yes,” she said. “With Zataki and time.” She had already explained the strategic importance of Zataki’s control of the northern route. “But Zataki’s opposed to Toranaga-sama.”

“Listen, I can strangle the priests. So sorry, but they are my enemy though they are your priests. I can dominate them on his behalf—on mine too. Will you help me to help him?”

She stared up at him. “How?”

“Help me to persuade him to give me the chance, and persuade him to delay going to Osaka.”

There was the sound of horses and voices raised on the jetty. Distracted, they went to the windows. Samurai were pulling aside one of the barriers. Father Alvito spurred forward into the clearing.

“What does he want?” Blackthorne muttered sourly.

They watched the priest as he dismounted and pulled out a scroll from his sleeve and gave it to the senior samurai. The man read it. Alvito looked up at the ship.

“Whatever it is, is official,” she said in a small voice.

“Listen, Mariko-san, I’m not against the Church. The Church isn’t evil, it’s the priests. And they’re not all bad. Alvito isn’t, though he’s fanatic. I swear to God I believe the Jesuits will bow to Lord Toranaga if I get their Black Ship and threaten next year’s, because they’ve got to have money—Portugal and Spain have got to have money. Toranaga’s more important. Will you help me?”

“Yes. Yes, I’ll help you, Anjin-san. But, please excuse me, I cannot betray the Church.”

“All I ask is that you talk to Toranaga, or help me to talk to him if you think that’s better.”

A distant bugle sounded. They looked out of the windows again. Everyone was staring west. The head of a procession of samurai around a curtained litter approached from the direction of the castle.

The cabin door opened. “Anjin-san, you will come now, please,” the samurai said.

Blackthorne led the way on deck and down to the jetty. His nod to Alvito was coldly polite. The priest was equally glacial.

To Mariko, Alvito was kind. “Hello, Mariko-san. How nice to see you.”

“Thank you, Father,” she said, bowing low.

“May the blessings of God be upon you.” He made the sign of the cross over her. “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.”

“Thank you, Father.”

Alvito glanced at Blackthorne. “So, Pilot? How is your ship?”

“I’m sure you already know.”

“Yes, I know.” Alvito looked Erasmus over, his face taut. “May God curse her and all who sail in her if she’s used against Faith and Portugal.”

“Is that why you came here? To spread more venom?”

“No, Pilot,” Alvito said. “I was asked here to meet Lord Toranaga. I find your presence as distasteful as you find mine.”

“Your presence isn’t distasteful, Father. It’s just the evil you represent.”

Alvito flushed and Mariko said quickly, “Please. It is bad to quarrel this way in public. I beg you both to be more circumspect.”

“Yes, please excuse me. I apologize, Mariko-san.” Father Alvito turned away and looked at the curtained litter coming through the barrier, Toranaga’s pennant fluttering, and uniformed samurai before and after, hemming in a straggling, motley group of samurai.

The palanquin stopped. The curtains parted. Yabu stepped out. Everyone was startled. Nonetheless they bowed. Yabu returned the salutation arrogantly.

“Ah, Anjin-san,” Yabu said. “How are you?”

“Good, thank you, Sire. And you?”

“Good, thank you. Lord Toranaga’s sick. He asked me to come in his place. You understand?”

“Yes. Understand,” Blackthorne replied, trying to cover his disappointment at Toranaga’s nonarrival. “So sorry Lord Toranaga sick.”

Yabu shrugged, acknowledged Mariko deferentially, pretended not to notice Alvito, and studied the ship for a moment. His smile was twisted as he turned back to Blackthorne. “So desu, Anjin-san. Your ship’s different from the last time I saw it, neh? Yes, the ship’s different, you’re different, everything’s different—even our world’s different! Neh?”

“So sorry, I don’t understand, Sire. Please excuse me but your words very fast. As my—” Blackthorne began the stock phrase but Yabu interrupted gutturally, “Mariko-san, please translate for me.”

She did so.

Blackthorne nodded and said slowly, “Yes. Different, Yabu-sama.”

“Yes, very different—you’re no longer barbarian but samurai, and so is your ship, neh?”

Blackthorne saw the smile on the thick lips, the pugnacious stance, and suddenly he was back at Anjiro, back on the beach on his knees, Croocq in the cauldron, Pieterzoon’s screams ringing in his ears, the stench of the pit in his nostrils, and his mind was shouting, ‘So unnecessary all that—all the suffering and terror and Pieterzoon and Spillbergen and Maetsukker and the jail and eta and trapped and all your fault!’

“Are you all right, Anjin-san?” Mariko asked, apprehensive at the look in his eyes.

“What? Oh—oh, yes. Yes, I’m all right.”

“What’s the matter with him?” Yabu said.

Blackthorne shook his head, trying to clear it and wash the hatred off his face. “So sorry. Please excuse me. I’m—I—it’s nothing. Head bad—no sleep. So sorry.” He stared back into Yabu’s eyes, hoping he had covered his dangerous lapse. “Sorry Toranaga-sama sick—hope no trouble Yabu-sama.”

“No, no trouble.” Yabu was thinking, yes trouble, you’re nothing but trouble and I’ve had nothing but trouble ever since you and your filthy ship arrived on my shores. Izu gone, my guns gone, all honor gone, and now my head forfeit because of a coward. “No trouble, Anjin-san,” he said so nicely. “Toranaga-sama asked me to hand over your vassals to you as he promised.” His eyes fell on Alvito. “So, Tsukku-san! Why are you enemy to Toranaga-sama?”

“I’m not, Kasigi Yabu-sama.”

“Your Christian daimyos are, neh?”

“Please excuse me, Sire, but we are priests only, we’re not responsible for the political views of those who worship the True Faith, nor do we exercise control over those daimyos who—”

“The True Faith of this Land of the Gods is Shinto, together with the Tao, the Way of Buddha!”

Alvito did not answer. Yabu turned contemptuously away and snapped an order. The ragged group of samurai began to line up in front of the ship. Not one was armed. Some had their hands bound.

Alvito stepped forward and bowed. “Perhaps you will excuse me, Sire. I was to see Lord Toranaga. As he isn’t coming—”

“Lord Toranaga wanted you here to interpret for him with the Anjin-san,” Yabu interrupted with deliberate bad manners, as Toranaga had told him to do. “Yes, to interpret as you alone can do so cleverly, speaking directly and at once, neh? Of course you have no objection to doing for me what Lord Toranaga required, before you go?”

“No, of course not, Sire.”

“Good. Mariko-san! Lord Toranaga asks that you see the Anjin-san’s responses are equally correctly translated.” Alvito reddened but held on to his temper.

“Yes, Sire,” Mariko said, hating Yabu.

Yabu snapped another order. Two samurai went to the litter and returned with the ship’s strongbox, heavy between them. “Tsukku-san, now you will begin: Listen, Anjin-san, firstly, Lord Toranaga’s asked me to return this. It’s your property, neh? Open it,” he ordered the samurai. The box was brimful with silver coins. “This is as it was taken off the ship.”

“Thank you.” Blackthorne was hardly able to believe his eyes, for this gave him power to buy the very best crew, without promises.

“It is to be put in the ship’s strong room.”

“Yes, of course.”

Yabu waved those samurai aboard. Then, to Alvito’s growing fury as he continued with the almost simultaneous translating, Yabu said, “Next: Lord Toranaga says you are free to go, or to stay. When you are in our land you are samurai, hatamoto, and governed by samurai law. At sea, beyond our shores, you are as you were before you came here and governed by barbarian laws. You are granted the right for your lifetime to dock at any port in Lord Toranaga’s control without search by port authorities. Last, these two hundred men are your vassals. He asked me to formally hand them over, with arms, as he promised.”

“I can leave when and how I want?” Blackthorne asked with disbelief.

“Yes, Anjin-san, you can leave as Lord Toranaga has agreed.”

Blackthorne stared at Mariko but she avoided his eyes, so he looked again at Yabu. “Could I leave tomorrow?”

“Yes, if you want to.” Yabu added, “About these men. They’re all ronin. All from the northern provinces. They’ve all agreed to swear eternal allegiance to you and your seed. All are good warriors. None has committed a crime that could be proved. All became ronin because their liege lords were killed, died, or were deposed. Many fought on ships against wako.” Yabu smiled in his vicious way. “Some may have been wako—you understand ‘wako’?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Those who are bound are probably bandits or wako. They came forward as a band and volunteered to serve you fearlessly in return for a pardon for any past crimes. They’ve sworn to Lord Noboru—who handpicked all these men for you on Lord Toranaga’s orders—that they’ve never committed any crime against Lord Toranaga or any of his samurai. You can accept them individually, or as a group, or refuse them. You understand?”

“I can refuse any of them?”

“Why should you do that?” Yabu asked. “Lord Noboru picked them carefully.”

“Of course, so sorry,” Blackthorne told Yabu wearily, conscious of the daimyo’s growing ill humor. “I quite understand. But those who are bound—what happens if I refuse them?”

“Their heads will be hacked off. Of course. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Nothing. So sorry.”

“Follow me.” Yabu stalked over to the litter.

Blackthorne glanced at Mariko. “I can leave. You heard it!”

“Yes.”

“That means . . . It’s almost like a dream. He said—”

“Anjin-san!”

Obediently Blackthorne hurried over to Yabu. Now the litter served as a dais. A clerk had set up a low table on which were scrolls. A little farther off, samurai guarded a pile of short swords and long swords, spears, shields, axes, bows and arrows, that porters were unloading from pack horses. Yabu motioned Blackthorne to sit beside him, Alvito just in front and Mariko on his other side. The clerk called out names. Each man came forward, bowed with great formality, gave his name and lineage, swore allegiance, signed his scroll, and sealed it with a drop of blood that the clerk ritually pricked from his finger. Each knelt to Blackthorne a final time, then got up and hurried to the armorer. First he was handed a killing sword, then the short one. Each accepted both blades with reverence and examined them meticulously, expressing pride at their quality, and shoved them into his sash with savage glee. Then he was issued other weapons and a war shield. When the men took up their new places, fully armed now, samurai again and no longer ronin, they were stronger and straighter and looked even more fierce.

Last were the thirty bound ronin. Blackthorne insisted on personally cutting the bonds of each. One by one they swore allegiance as had all the others: “On my honor as a samurai, I swear your enemies are my enemies, and total obedience.”

After each man had sworn, he collected his weapons.

Yabu called out, “Uraga-noh-Tadamasa!”

The man stepped forward. Alvito was heartsick. Uraga—Brother Joseph—had been standing unnoticed among the samurai grouped nearby. He was unarmed and wore a simple kimono and bamboo hat. Yabu smirked at Alvito’s discomposure and turned to Blackthorne.

“Anjin-san. This is Uraga-noh-Tadamasa. Samurai, now ronin. You recognize him? Understand ‘recognize’?”

“Yes. Understand. Yes, recognize.”

“Good. Once Christian priest, neh?”

“Yes.”

“Now not. Understand? Now ronin.”

“Understand, Yabu-sama.”

Yabu watched Alvito. Alvito was staring fixedly at the apostate, who stared back with hatred. “Ah, Tsukku-san, you recognize him too?”

“Yes. I recognize him, Sire.”

“Are you ready to translate again—or haven’t you any stomach for it anymore?”

“Please continue, Sire.”

“Good.” Yabu waved a hand at Uraga. “Listen, Anjin-san, Lord Toranaga gives this man to you, if you want him. Once he was a Christian priest—a novice priest. Now he’s not. Now he’s denounced the false foreign god and has reverted to the True Faith of Shinto and—” He stopped as the Father stopped. “Did you say it exactly, Tsukku-san? True Faith of Shinto?”

The priest did not answer. He exhaled, then said it exactly, adding, “That’s what he said, Anjin-san, may God forgive him.” Mariko let that pass without comment, hating Yabu even more, promising herself vengeance on him one day soon.

Yabu watched them, then he continued, “So Uraga-san’s a Christian that was. Now he’s prepared to serve you. He can speak barbarian and the private tongue of the priests and he was one of the four samurai youths sent to your lands. He even met the chief Christian of all the Christians, so they say—but now he hates them all, just like you, neh?” Yabu was watching Alvito, baiting him, his eyes flicking back and forth to Mariko, who was listening as intently. “You hate Christians, Anjin-san, neh?”

“Most Catholics are my enemy, yes,” he answered, completely aware of Mariko, who was staring stonily into the distance. “Spain and Portugal are enemies of my country, yes.”

“Christians are our enemies too. Eh, Tsukku-san?”

“No, Sire. And Christianity gives you the key to immortal life.”

“Does it, Uraga-san?” Yabu said.

Uraga shook his head. His voice was raw. “I no longer think so, Sire. No.”

“Tell the Anjin-san.”

“Senhor Anjin-san,” Uraga said, his accent thick but his Portuguese words correct and easily understandable, “I do not think this Catholicism is the lock—so sorry, is the key to immortality.”

“Yes,” Blackthorne said. “I agree.”

“Good,” Yabu continued. “So Lord Toranaga offers this ronin to you, Anjin-san. He’s renegade but from good samurai family. Uraga swears, if you’ll accept him, he’ll be your secretary, translator, and do anything you want. You’ll have to give him swords. What else, Uraga? Tell him.”

“Senhor, please excuse me. First . . .” Uraga took off his hat. His hair was a stubble now, his pate shaven in samurai style, but he had no queue yet. “First, I’m shamed my hair is not correct and I have no queue as a samurai should have. But my hair will grow and I am not less samurai for that.” He put his hat back on his head. He told Yabu what he had said, and those ronin who were near and could hear also listened attentively as he continued, “Second, please excuse me greatly but I cannot use swords—or any weapons. I’ve—I’ve never been trained in them. But I will learn, believe me I will learn. Please excuse my shame. I swear absolute allegiance to you and beg you to accept me. . . .” Sweat trickled down his face and back.

Blackthorne said compassionately, “Shigata ga nai, neh? Ukeru anatawa desu, Uraga-san.” What does that matter? I accept you, Uraga-san.

Uraga bowed, then explained to Yabu what he had said. No one laughed. Except Yabu. But his laughter was cut short by the beginning of an altercation between the last two ronin over the selection of the remaining swords. “You two, shut up,” he shouted.

Both men spun around and one snarled, “You’re not my master! Where are your manners? Say please, or shut up yourself!”

Instantly Yabu leaped to his feet and rushed the offending ronin, his sword on high. Men scattered, and the ronin fled. Near the side of the wharf the man jerked out his sword and abruptly turned to the attack with a fiendish battle cry. At once all his friends darted to his rescue, swords ready, and Yabu was trapped. The man charged. Yabu avoided a violent sword thrust, hacked back, and missed as the pack surged forward for the kill. Too late Toranaga samurai rushed forward, knowing Yabu was a dead man.

“Stop!” Blackthorne shouted in Japanese. Everyone froze at the power of his voice. “Go there!” He pointed to where the men had been lined up before. “Now! Order!”

For a moment all the men on the wharf remained motionless. Then they started to move. The spell broke. Yabu darted at the man who had insulted him. The ronin jumped back, sidestepped, his sword held violently above his head, two-handed, waiting fearlessly for the next attack. His friends hesitated.

“Go there! Now! Order!”

Reluctantly but obediently, the rest of the men backed out of the way, sheathed their swords. Yabu and the man circled each other slowly.

“You!” Blackthorne shouted. “Stop! Sword down! I order!”

The man kept his furious eyes on Yabu but he heard the order and wet his lips. He feinted left, then right. Yabu retreated and the man slipped out of his grasp and rushed nearer to Blackthorne and put his sword down in front of him. “I obey, Anjin-san. I didn’t attack him.” As Yabu charged, he leaped out of the way and retreated fearlessly, more fleet than Yabu, younger than Yabu, taunting him.

“Yabu-san,” Blackthorne called out. “So sorry—think mistake, neh? Perhaps—”

But Yabu spouted a flood of Japanese and rushed the man, who fled again without fear.

Alvito was now coldly amused. “Yabu-san said there’s no mistake, Anjin-san. This cabron has to die, he says. No samurai could accept such an insult!”

Blackthorne felt all their eyes on him as he desperately tried to decide what to do. He watched Yabu stalk the man. Just to the left a Toranaga samurai aimed his bow. The only noise was that of the two men panting and running and shouting at one another. The ronin backed, then turned and ran away, around the clearing, sidestepping, weaving, all the time keeping up a guttural hissing flood of invective.

Alvito said, “He’s baiting Yabu, Anjin-san. He says: ‘I’m samurai—I don’t kill unarmed men like you—you’re not a samurai, you’re a manure-stinking peasant—ah, so that’s it, you’re not samurai, you’re eta, neh? Your mother was eta, your father was eta, and—’ ” The Jesuit stopped as Yabu let out a bellow of rage and pointed at one of the men and shouted something. “Yabu says: ‘You! Give him his sword.’ ”

The ronin hesitated and looked at Blackthorne for the order.

Yabu turned to Blackthorne and shouted, “Give him his sword!”

Blackthorne picked up the sword. “Yabu-san, ask not fight,” he said, wishing him dead. “Please ask not fight—”

“Give him the sword!”

An angry murmur went through Blackthorne’s men. He held up his hand. “Silence!” He looked at his ronin vassal. “Come here. Please!” The man watched Yabu, feinted left then right, and each time Yabu hacked at him in wild rage but the man managed to slip away and race to Blackthorne. This time Yabu did not follow. He just waited and watched like a mad bull readying his charge. The man bowed to Blackthorne and took the sword. Then he turned on Yabu and, with a howling battle cry, flung himself to the attack. Swords clashed and clashed again. Now the two men circled in the silence. There was another frantic exchange, the swords singing. Then Yabu stumbled and the ronin charged in for the easy kill. But Yabu neatly sidestepped and struck. The man’s hands, still gripping the sword, were sliced off. For a moment the ronin stood there howling, staring at his stumps, then Yabu hacked off his head.

There was silence. Then a roar of applause surrounded Yabu. Yabu slashed once more at the twitching corpse. Then, honor vindicated, he picked up the head by the topknot, spat carefully in the face, and tossed it aside. Quietly he walked back to Blackthorne and bowed.

“Please excuse my bad manners, Anjin-san. Thank you for giving him his sword,” he said, his voice polite, Alvito translating. “I apologize for shouting. Thank you for allowing me to blood my sword honorably.” His eyes dropped to the heirloom Toranaga had given him. Carefully he examined its edge. It was still perfect. He undid his silk sash to cleanse the blood away. “Never touch a blade with your fingers, Anjin-san, that will ruin it. A blade must feel only silk or the body of an enemy.” He stopped and looked up. “May I politely suggest you allow your vassals to test their blades? It will be a good omen for them.”

Blackthorne turned to Uraga. “Tell them.”

When Yabu returned to his house it was late in the day. Servants took his sweat-soiled clothes and gave him a fresh lounging kimono and put his feet into clean tabi. Yuriko, his wife, was waiting for him in the cool of the veranda with cha and saké, piping hot, the way he liked to drink it.

“Saké, Yabu-san?” Yuriko was a tall thin woman with gray-streaked hair. Her dark kimono of poor quality set off her fair skin nicely.

“Thank you, Yuriko-san.” Yabu drank the wine gratefully, enjoying the sweet, harsh rasp as it slid down his parched throat.

“It went well, I hear.”

“Yes.”

“How impertinent of that ronin!”

“He served me well, Lady, very well. I feel fine now. I’ve blooded Toranaga’s sword and made it really mine.” Yabu finished the cup and she refilled it. His hand fondled his sword hilt. “But you wouldn’t have enjoyed the fight. He was a child—he fell into the first trap.”

She touched him tenderly. “I’m glad he did, husband.”

“Thank you, but I hardly got up a sweat.” Yabu laughed. “You should have seen the priest though! It would have made you warm to see that barbarian sweating—I’ve never seen him so angry. He was so angry it almost choked him to hold it in. Cannibal! They’re all cannibals. Pity there’s no way to stamp them out before we depart this earth.”

“Do you think the Anjin-san could?”

“He’s going to try. With ten of those ships and ten of him, I could control the seas from here to Kyushu. With only him I could hurt Kiyama, Onoshi, and Harima and smash Jikkyu and keep Izu! We only need a little time and every daimyo’ll be fighting his own special enemy. Izu would be safe and mine again! I don’t understand why Toranaga’s going to let the Anjin-san go. That’s another stupid waste!” He bunched his fist and slammed it on the tatamis. The maid flinched but said nothing. Yuriko did not make the slightest move. A smile flickered across her face.

“How did the Anjin-san take his freedom, and his vassals?” she asked.

“He was so happy he was like an old man dreaming he had a four-pronged Yang. He—oh yes . . .” Yabu frowned, remembering. “But there was one thing I still don’t understand. When those wako first surrounded me I was a dead man. No doubt about it. But the Anjin-san stopped them and gave me back my life. No reason for him to do that, neh? Just before, I’d seen the hate written all over him. So naïve to pretend otherwise—as if I’d trust him.”

“He gave you your life?”

“Oh yes. Strange, neh?”

“Yes. Many strange things are going on, husband.” She dismissed the maid, then asked quietly, “What did Toranaga really want?”

Yabu bent forward and whispered, “I think he wants me to become commander-in-chief.”

“Why should he do that? Is Iron Fist dying?” Yuriko asked. “What about Lord Sudara? Or Buntaro? Or Lord Noboru?”

“Who knows, Lady? They’re all out of favor, neh? Toranaga changes his mind so often no one can predict what he’ll do now. First he asked me to go in his place to the wharf and told how he wanted everything said, then he talked about Hiro-matsu, how old he was getting, and asked what I really thought about the Musket Regiment.”

“Could he be readying Crimson Sky again?”

“That’s always ready. But he hasn’t got the Fruit for it. That will need leadership and skill. Once he had it, not now. Now he’s a shadow of the Minowara he was. I was shocked at how he looked. So sorry, I made a mistake. I should have gone with Ishido.”

“I think you chose correctly.”

“What?”

“First have your bath, then I think I have a present for you.”

“What present?”

“Your brother Mizuno is coming after the evening meal.”

“That’s a present?” Yabu bristled. “What would I want with that fool?”

“Special information or wisdom, even from a fool, can be just as valuable as from a counselor, neh? Sometimes more so.”

“What information?”

“First your bath. And food. You’ll need a cool head tonight, Yabu-chan.”

Yabu would have pressed her but the bath tempted him, and in truth, he was filled with a pleasing lassitude he had not felt in many a day. Part of it was due to Toranaga’s deference this morning, part to the generals’ deference over the last few days. But most of it was due to the killing, the ripple of joy that had rushed from sword to arm to head. Ah, to kill so cleanly, man to man—in front of men—that’s a joy given to so few, so rarely. Rare enough to be appreciated and savored.

So he left his wife and relaxed further into his joy. He allowed hands to tend his body and then, refreshed and renewed, he went to a veranda room. The last rays of sunset bedecked the sky. The moon was low, crescent, and thin. One of his personal maids served his evening meal delicately. He ate sparingly and in silence. A little soup and fish and pickled vegetables.

The girl smiled invitingly. “Shall I turn down the futons now, Sire?”

Yabu shook his head. “Later. First tell my wife I wish to see her.”

Yuriko arrived, wearing a neat but old kimono.

“So desu ka?”

“Your brother’s waiting. We should see him alone. See him first, Sire, then we’ll talk, you and I—also alone. Please be patient, neh?”

Kasigi Mizuno, Yabu’s younger brother and Omi’s father, was a small man with bulbous eyes, high forehead, and thin hair. His swords did not seem to suit him and he could barely handle them. Even with bow and arrow he was not much better.

Mizuno bowed and complimented Yabu on his skill this afternoon, for the news of the exploit had quickly spread around the castle, further enhancing Yabu’s reputation as a fighter. Then, anxious to please, he came to the point. “I received a coded letter today from my son, Sire. The Lady Yuriko thought I’d better give it to you personally.” He handed the scroll to Yabu, with the decoding. The message from Omi read: “Father, please tell Lord Yabu quickly and privately: first Lord Buntaro came to Mishima, secretly via Takato. One of his men let this slip during a drunken evening that I’d arranged in their honor. Second: During this secret visit at Takato, which lasted three days, Buntaro saw Lord Zataki twice and the Lady, Zataki’s mother, three times. Third: Before Lord Hiro-matsu left Mishima he told his new consort, the Lady Oko, not to worry because ‘while I’m alive Lord Toranaga will never leave the Kwanto.’ Fourth: that . . .”

Yabu looked up. “How can Omi-san possibly know what Iron Fist said privately to his consort? We don’t have spies in his house.”

“We have now, Sire. Please read on.”

“Fourth: that Hiro-matsu is resolved to commit treason, if necessary, and will confine Toranaga in Yedo, if necessary, and will order Crimson Sky over Toranaga’s refusal with or without Lord Sudara’s assent, if necessary. Fifth: that these are truths that can be believed. Lady Oko’s personal maid is the daughter of my wife’s foster mother and was introduced into the Lady Oko’s service here at Mishima when, regrettably, her own maid curiously acquired a wasting malaise. Sixth: Buntaro-san is like a madman, brooding and angry—today he challenged and slaughtered a samurai purposelessly, cursing the name of the Anjin-san. Last: Spies report that Ikawa Jikkyu has massed ten thousand men in Suruga, ready to sweep across our borders. Please give Lord Yabu my greetings. . . .” The rest of the message was inconsequential.

“Jikkyu, eh! Must I go to my death with that devil unrevenged!”

“Please be patient, Sire,” Yuriko said. “Tell him, Mizuno-san.”

“Sire,” the little man began. “For months we’ve tried to put your plan into effect, the one you suggested when the barbarian first arrived. You remember, with all those silver coins, you mentioned that a hundred or even five hundred in the hands of the right cook would eliminate Ikawa Jikkyu once and for all.” Mizuno’s eyes seemed to grow even more froglike. “It seems that Mura, headman of Anjiro, has a cousin who has a cousin whose brother now is the best cook in Suruga. I heard today he’s been accepted into Jikkyu’s household. He’s been given two hundred on account and the whole price is five hun—”

“We haven’t got that money! Impossible! How can I raise five hundred—I’m so in debt now I can’t even raise one hundred!”

“Please excuse me, Sire. So sorry, but the money’s already set aside. Not all the barbarian coins remained in the strongbox. A thousand coins strayed before it was officially counted. So sorry.”

Yabu gawked at him. “How?”

“It seems Omi-san was ordered to do that in your name. The money was brought here secretly to the Lady Yuriko, from whom permission was asked and granted before risking your displeasure.”

Yabu thought about that a long time. “Who ordered it?”

“I did. After seeking permission.”

“Thank you, Mizuno-san. And thank you, Yuriko-san.” Yabu bowed to both. “So! Jikkyu, eh? At long last!” He clapped his brother warmly on the shoulder and the smaller man was almost pathetic in his fawning pleasure. “You did very well, brother. I’ll send you some bolts of silk from the treasury. How is the lady, your wife?”

“Well, Sire, very well. She asked you to accept her best wishes.”

“We must have food together. Good—good. Now about the rest of the report—what are your views?”

“Nothing, Sire. I would be most interested in what you think it means.”

“First—” Yabu stopped as he caught his wife’s look, cautioning him, and changed what he was going to say. “First and last, it means that Omi-san, your son, is loyal and an excellent vassal. If I had control of the future I’d promote him—yes, he deserves promotion, neh?”

Mizuno was unctuously delighted. Yabu was patient with him, chatting with him, again complimenting him and, as soon as was polite, he dismissed him.

Yuriko sent for cha. When they were quite alone again he said, “What does the rest mean?”

Her face mirrored her excitement now, “Please excuse me, Sire, but I want to give you a new idea: Toranaga is playing us all for fools and has no intention, and never had any intention, of going to Osaka to surrender.”

“Nonsense!”

“Let me give you facts. . . . Oh, Sire, you don’t know how fortunate you are in your vassal Omi and that stupid brother who stole a thousand coins. Proof of my theory could be as follows: Buntaro-san, a trusted intimate, is sent to Zataki secretly. Why? Obviously to carry a new offer. What would tempt Zataki? The Kwanto—only that. So the offer is the Kwanto—in return for allegiance, once Toranaga is again President of the Council of Regents—a new one with the new mandate. He can afford to give it then, neh?” She waited, then went on painstakingly. “If he persuades Zataki to betray Ishido, he’s a quarter of the way to the capital, Kyoto. How can the pact with his brother be cemented? Hostages! I heard this afternoon Lord Sudara, the Lady Genjiko, and their daughters and their son are going to visit their revered grandmother at Takato within ten days.”

“All of them?”

“Yes. Next Toranaga gives the Anjin-san back his ship, as good as new, with all the cannon and powder, two hundred fanatics and all that money, surely enough to buy more barbarian mercenaries, wako scum out of Nagasaki. Why? To allow him to attack and take the Black Ship of the barbarians. No Black Ship, no money, and immense trouble for the Christian priests who control Kiyama, Onoshi, and all traitorous Christian daimyos.”

“Toranaga’d never dare to do that! The Taikō tried and failed and he was all powerful. The barbarians will sail away in fury. We’ll never trade again.”

“Yes. If we did it. But this time it’s barbarian against barbarian, neh? It’s nothing to do with us. And say the Anjin-san attacks Nagasaki and puts it to the torch—isn’t Harima now hostile, and Kiyama and Onoshi, and, because of them, most Kyushu daimyos? Say the Anjin-san burns a few of their other ports, harries their shipping, and at the same time—”

“And at the same time Toranaga launches Crimson Sky!” Yabu exploded.

“Yes. Oh yes,” Yuriko agreed happily. “Doesn’t this explain Toranaga? Doesn’t this intrigue fit him like a skin? Isn’t he doing what he’s always done, just waiting like always, playing for time like always, a day here a day there and soon a month has passed and again he has an overwhelming force to sweep all opposition aside? He’s gained almost a month since Zataki brought the summons to Yokosé.”

Yabu could feel his pulse roaring in his ears. “Then we’re safe?”

“No, but we’re not lost. I believe it’s no surrender.” She hesitated. “But everyone was deceived. Oh, he’s so clever, neh? Everyone fooled like us. Until tonight. Omi gave me the clues. We all forgot Toranaga is a great Nōh actor who can wear his own face as a mask if need be. Neh?”

Yabu tried to marshal his thoughts but could not. “But Ishido still has all Japan against us!”

“Yes. Less Zataki. And there must be other secret alliances. Toranaga and you can hold the passes until the time.”

“Ishido has Osaka Castle and the Heir and the Taikō’s wealth.”

“Yes. But he’ll stay skulking inside. Someone will betray him.”

“What should I do?”

“The opposite to Toranaga. Let him do the waiting, you must force the pace.”

“How?”

“The first thing, Sire, is this: Toranaga’s forgotten the one thing you noticed this afternoon. The Tsukku-san’s total fury. Why? Because the Anjin-san threatens the Christian future, neh? So you’ve got to put the Anjin-san under your protection at once, because those priests or their puppets will murder him within hours. Next: The Anjin-san needs you to protect and guide him, to help him get his new crew at Nagasaki. Without you and your men he has to fail. Without him and his ship and his cannon and more barbarians, Nagasaki won’t burn, and that must happen or Kiyama, Onoshi, and Harima and the filthy priests won’t be distracted enough to temporarily withdraw their support from Ishido. Meanwhile, Toranaga, now miraculously supported by Zataki and his fanatics, with you leading the Musket Regiment, sweeps through the Shinano passes down to the Kyoto plains.”

“Yes. Yes, you are right, Yuriko-chan! It has to be that way. Oh, you are so clever, so wise!”

“Wisdom and Luck are no good without the means to put a plan into effect, Sire. You alone can do that—you’re the leader, the fighter, the battle-general that Toranaga must have. You must see him tonight.”

“I can’t go to Toranaga and tell him I’ve seen through his ruse, neh?”

“No, but you’ll beg him to allow you to go with the Anjin-san, that you must leave at once. We can think of a plausible reason.”

“But if the Anjin-san attacks Nagasaki and the Black Ship, won’t they stop trading and sail away?”

“Yes. Possibly. But that’s next year. By next year Toranaga will be a Regent, President of the Regents. And you his commander-in-chief.”

Yabu came down from the clouds. “No,” he said firmly. “Once he has power he’ll order me to commit seppuku.”

“Long before that you will have the Kwanto.”

His eyes blinked. “How?”

“Toranaga will never actually give his half brother the Kwanto. Zataki’s a perpetual threat. Zataki’s a wild man, pride-filled, neh? It will be so easy for Toranaga to maneuver Zataki into begging for the foremost place in the battle. If Zataki doesn’t get killed . . . perhaps a stray bullet or arrow? Probably a bullet. You must lead the Musket Regiment in the battle, Sire.”

“Why shouldn’t I receive a stray bullet equally?”

“You may, Sire. But you’re not Toranaga’s kinsman and therefore no threat to his power. You will become his most devoted vassal. He needs fighting generals. You’ll earn the Kwanto, and that should be your only goal. He’ll give it to you when Ishido’s betrayed because he’ll take Osaka for himself.”

“Vassal? But you said to wait and soon I’d nev—”

“Now I counsel you to support him with all your strength. Not to follow his orders blindly like old Iron Fist, but cleverly. Don’t forget, Yabu-chan, during battle, as in any battle, soldiers make mistakes, stray bullets do happen. So long as you lead the Regiment, you can choose, too—any time, neh?”

“Yes,” he said, awed by her.

“Remember, Toranaga’s worth following. He’s Minowara, Ishido’s a peasant. Ishido’s the fool. I can see that now. Ishido should be hammering at the gates of Odawara right now, rain or no rains. Didn’t Omi-san say that months ago too? Isn’t Odawara undermanned? Isn’t Toranaga isolated?”

Yabu pounded his fist on the floor with delight. “Then it’s war after all! How clever you are to have seen through him! Ah, so he’s been playing the fox all the time, neh?”

“Yes,” she said, greatly satisfied.

Mariko had come to the same astonishing conclusion, though not from all the same facts. Toranaga must be pretending, playing a secret game, she reasoned. That’s the only possible explanation for his incredible conduct—giving the Anjin-san the ship, the money, all the cannon, and freedom in front of Tsukku-san. Now the Anjin-san will absolutely go against the Black Ship. He will take it, and threaten the one next year, and therefore he’ll maul the Holy Church terribly and force the Holy Fathers to compel Kiyama and Onoshi to betray Ishido. . . .

But why? If that’s true, she thought, perplexed, and Toranaga’s considering such a long-range plan, then of course he can’t go to Osaka and bow before Ishido, neh? He must . . . Ah! What about today’s delay that Hiro-matsu persuaded Toranaga to make? Oh, Madonna on high, Toranaga never intended to surrender! It’s all a trick.

Why? To gain time.

To accomplish what? To wait and weave a thousand more tricks, and it doesn’t matter what, only that Toranaga’s once more what he always was, the almighty puppeteer.

How long before Ishido’s impatience shatters and he raises the battle standard and moves against us? One month—at the most two. No more. So by the ninth month of this Fifth Year of Keichō, the battle for the Kwanto begins!

But what’s Toranaga gained in two months? I don’t know—I only know that now my son has a chance to inherit his ten thousand koku, and to live and breed, and that now perhaps my father’s line will not perish from the earth.

She relished her newfound knowledge, toying with it, examining it, finding her logic flawless. But what to do between now and then? she asked herself. Nothing more than you’ve already done—and decided to do. Neh?

“Mistress?”

“Yes, Chimmoko?”

“Gyoko-san is here. She has an appointment, she says.”

“Ah yes. I forget to tell you. First heat saké, then bring it, and her, here.”

Mariko reflected on the afternoon. She remembered his arms around her, so safe and warm and strong. ‘Can I see you tonight?’ he had asked very cautiously, after Yabu and Tsukku-san had left.

‘Yes,’ she had said impulsively. ‘Yes, my darling. Oh, how happy I am for thee. Tell Fujiko-san . . . ask her to send for me after the Hour of the Boar.’

In the quiet of her house her throat tightened. So much foolishness and danger.

She checked her makeup and coiffure in her mirror and tried to compose herself. Footsteps approached. The shoji slid open. “Ah, Lady,” Gyoko said, bowing deeply. “How kind of you to see me.”

“You’re welcome, Gyoko-san.”

They drank saké, Chimmoko pouring for them.

“Such lovely pottery, Lady. So beautiful.”

They made polite conversation, then Chimmoko was sent away.

“So sorry, Gyoko-san, but our Master did not arrive this afternoon. I haven’t seen him, though I hope to before I leave.”

“Yes, I heard Yabu-san went to the jetty in his place.”

“When I see Toranaga-sama I will ask him once more. But I expect his answer will be the same.” Mariko poured saké for both of them.

“So sorry, he will not grant my request.”

“Yes, I believe you. Not unless there is great pressure.”

“There’s no pressure that I can use. So sorry.”

“So sorry too, Lady.”

Mariko put down her cup. “Then you’ve decided that some tongues are not safe.”

Gyoko said harshly, “If I were going to whisper secrets about you, would I tell you to your face? Do you think I’d be so naïve?”

“Perhaps you’d better go, so sorry, but I have so much to do.”

“Yes, Lady, and so have I!” Gyoko replied, her voice rough. “Lord Toranaga asked me, to my face, what I knew about you and the Anjin-san. This afternoon. I told him there was nothing between you. I said, ‘Oh yes, Sire, I’ve heard the foul rumors too, but there’s no truth in them. I swear it on the head of my son, Sire, and his sons. If anyone would know, surely it would be me. You may believe it’s all a malicious lie—gossip, jealous gossip, Sire. . . .’ Oh yes, Lady, you may believe I was suitably shocked, my acting perfect, and he was convinced.” Gyoko quaffed the saké, and added bitterly, “Now we are all ruined if he gets proof—which wouldn’t be difficult to get. Neh?”

“How?”

“Put the Anjin-san to the test—Chinese methods. Chimmoko—Chinese methods. Me—Kiku-san—Yoshinaka . . . so sorry, even you, Lady—Chinese methods.”

Mariko took a deep breath. “May—may I ask you—why you took such a risk?”

“Because in certain situations women must protect each other against men. Because I actually saw nothing. Because you’ve done me no harm. Because I like you and the Anjin-san and believe you both have your own karmas. And because I’d rather have you alive and a friend than dead, and it’s exciting to watch you three moths circling the flame of life.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Gyoko laughed softly. “Thank you, Lady.” Controlled now, she said with complete sincerity, “Very well, I’ll tell you the real reason. I need your help. Yes, Toranaga-sama won’t grant my request but perhaps you can think of a way. You’re the only chance I’ve ever had, that I’ll ever have in this lifetime, and I can’t release it lightly. There, now you know. Please, I humbly beg you to help me with my request.” She put both hands on the futons and bowed low. “Please excuse my impertinence, Lady Toda, but all that I have will be put at your side if you will help me.” Then she settled back on her heels, adjusted the folds of her kimono, and finished the saké.

Mariko tried to think straight. Her intuition told her to trust the woman but her mind was still partially befogged with her newfound insight into Toranaga and her relief that Gyoko had not denounced her as she had expected, so she decided to put that decision aside for later consideration. “Yes, I will try. You must give me time, please.”

“I can give you better than that. Here’s a fact: You know Amida Tong? The assassins?”

“What about them?”

“Remember the one in Osaka Castle, Lady? He went against the Anjin-san—not Toranaga-sama. Lord Kiyama’s chief steward gave two thousand koku for that attempt.”

“Kiyama? But why?”

“He’s Christian, neh? The Anjin-san was the enemy even then, neh? If then, what about now? Now that the Anjin-san’s samurai, and free, with his ship.”

“Another Amida? Here?”

Gyoko shrugged. “Who knows? But I wouldn’t give an eta’s loincloth for the Anjin-san’s life if he’s careless outside the castle.”

“Where is he now?”

“In his quarters, Lady. You’re going to visit him soon, neh? Perhaps it’d be as well to warn him.”

“You seem to know everything that’s going on, Gyoko-san!”

“I keep my ears open, Lady, and my eyes.”

Mariko curbed her anxiety over Blackthorne. “Did you tell Toranaga-sama?”

“Oh yes, I told him that.” The corners of Gyoko’s eyes crinkled and she sipped her saké. “As a matter of fact, I don’t think he was surprised. That’s interesting, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps you were mistaken.”

“Perhaps. In Mishima I heard a rumor that there was a poison plot against Lord Kiyama. Terrible, neh?”

“What plot?”

Gyoko told her the details.

“Impossible! One Christian daimyo would never do that to another!”

Mariko filled the cups.

“May I ask what else was said, by you and by him?”

“Part of it, Lady, was my plea to get back into his favor and out of that flea-sack inn, and to that he agreed. Now we’re to have proper quarters within the castle, near the Anjin-san, in one of the guest houses and I may come and go as I wish. He asked Kiku-san to entertain him tonight and that’s another improvement, though nothing will get him out of his melancholia. Neh?” Gyoko was watching Mariko speculatively. Mariko kept her face guileless, and merely nodded. The other woman sighed and continued, “Yes, he’s very sad. Pity. Part of the time was spent on the three secrets. He asked me to repeat what I knew, what I’d told you.”

Ah, Mariko thought, as another clue fell neatly into its slot. Ochiba? So that was Zataki’s bait. And Toranaga’s also got a cudgel over Omi’s head if needed, and a weapon to use against Onoshi with Harima, or even Kiyama.

“You smile, Lady?”

Oh yes, Mariko wanted to say, wanting to share her elation with Gyoko. How valuable your information must have been to our Master, she wanted to tell Gyoko. How he should reward you! You should be made a daimyo yourself! And how fantastic Toranaga-sama is to have listened, apparently so unconcernedly. How marvelous he is!

But Toda Mariko-noh-Buntaro only shook her head and said calmly, “I’m sorry your information didn’t cheer him up.”

“Nothing I said improved his humor, which was dull and defeated. Sad, neh?”

“Yes, so sorry.”

“Yes.” Gyoko sniffed. “Another piece of information before I go, to interest you, Lady, to cement our friendship. It’s very possible the Anjin-san is very fertile.”

“What?”

“Kiku-san’s with child.”

“The Anjin-san?”

“Yes. Or Lord Toranaga. Possibly Omi-san. All were within the correct time span. Of course she took precautions after Omi-san as usual, but as you know, no method is perfect, nothing is ever guaranteed, mistakes happen, neh? She believes she forgot after the Anjin-san but she’s not sure. That was the day the courier arrived at Anjiro, and in the excitement of leaving for Yokosé and of Lord Toranaga’s buying her contract—it’s understandable, neh?” Gyoko lifted her hands, greatly perturbed. “After Lord Toranaga, at my suggestion, she did the reverse. Also we both lit incense sticks and prayed for a boy.”

Mariko studied the pattern on her fan. “Who? Who do you think?”

“That’s the trouble, Lady. I don’t know. I’d be grateful for your advice.”

“This beginning must be stopped. Of course. There’s no risk to her.”

“I agree. Unfortunately, Kiku-san does not agree.”

“What? I’m astonished, Gyoko-san! Of course she must. Or Lord Toranaga must be told. After all, it happened before he—”

“Perhaps it happened before him, Lady.”

“Lord Toranaga will have to be told. Why is Kiku-san so disobedient and foolish?”

“Karma, Lady. She wants a child.”

“Whose child?”

“She won’t say. All she said was that any one of the three had advantages.”

“She’d be wise to let this one go and be sure next time.”

“I agree. I thought you should know in case . . . There are many, many days before anything shows or before a miscarriage would be a danger to her. Perhaps she will change her mind. In this I cannot force her. She’s no longer my property, though for the time being I’m trying to look after her. It would be splendid if the child was Lord Toranaga’s. But say it had blue eyes. . . . A last piece of advice, Lady: Tell the Anjin-san to trust this Uraga-noh-Tadamasa only so far, and never in Nagasaki. Never there. That man’s final allegiance will always be to his uncle, Lord Harima.”

“How do you find out these things, Gyoko-san?”

“Men need to whisper secrets, Lady. That’s what makes them different from us—they need to share secrets, but we women only reveal them to gain an advantage. With a little silver and a ready ear—and I have both—it’s all so easy. Yes. Men need to share secrets. That’s why we’re superior to them and they’ll always be in our power.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

In the darkness just before dawn, the portcullis of a side gate lifted noiselessly and ten men hurried out across the narrow drawbridge of the innermost moat. The iron grille closed after them. At the far side of the bridge the alert sentries deliberately turned their backs and allowed the men to pass unchallenged. All wore dark kimonos and conical hats and held their swords tightly: Naga, Yabu, Blackthorne, Uraga-noh-Tadamasa, and six samurai. Naga led, Yabu beside him, and he took them unerringly through a maze of side turnings, up and down staircases and along little-used passages. Whenever they met patrols or sentries—ever alert—Naga held up a silver cipher and the party was allowed to pass unhindered and unquestioned.

By devious byways he brought them to the main south gate, which was the sole way across the castle’s first great moat. Here a company of samurai awaited them. Silently these men surrounded Naga’s party, screening them, and they all hurried across the bridge. Still they were not challenged. They continued on, down the slight rise toward First Bridge, keeping as close as they could to the shadows of the flares that abounded near the castle. Once across First Bridge they turned south and vanished into the labyrinth of alleys, heading for the sea.

Just outside the cordon surrounding the Erasmus wharf the accompanying samurai stopped and motioned the ten forward, then saluted and turned about and melted into the darkness again.

Naga led the way through the barriers. They were admitted onto the jetty without comment. There were more flares and guards here than before.

“Everything’s ready?” Yabu asked, taking charge now.

“Yes, Sire,” the senior samurai replied.

“Good. Anjin-san, did you understand?”

“Yes, thank you, Yabu-san.”

“Good. You’d better hurry.”

Blackthorne saw his own samurai drawn up in a loose square to one side, and he waved Uraga across to them as had been prearranged. His eyes raced over his ship, checking and rechecking as he hurried aboard and jubilantly stood on his quarterdeck. The sky was still dark with no sign of dawn yet. All signs indicated a fair day with calm seas.

He looked back at the wharf. Yabu and Naga were deep in conversation. Uraga was explaining to his vassals what was going on. Then the barriers were opening again and Baccus van Nekk and the rest of the crew, all obviously apprehensive, stumbled into the clearing, surrounded by caustic guards.

Blackthorne went to the gunwale and called out, “Hey! Come aboard!”

When his men saw him they seemed less fearful, and began to hurry, but their guards cursed them and they stopped in their tracks.

“Uraga-san!” Blackthorne shouted. “Tell them to let my men aboard. At once.” Uraga obeyed with alacrity. The samurai listened and bowed toward the ship and released the crew.

Vinck was first aboard, Baccus groping his way last. The men were still frightened, but none came up onto the quarterdeck which was Blackthorne’s domain alone.

“Great Jesus, Pilot,” Baccus panted, above the hubbub of questions. “What’s going on?”

“What’s amiss, Pilot?” Vinck echoed with the others. “Christ, one moment we was asleep, then all hell broke loose, the door burst open an’ the monkeys were marching us here. . . .”

Blackthorne held up his hand. “Listen!” When there was silence he began quietly, “We’re taking Erasmus to a safe harbor across the—”

“We’ve not men enough, Pilot,” Vinck broke in anxiously. “We’ll nev—”

“Listen, Johann! We’re going to be towed. The other ship’ll be here any moment. Ginsel, go for’ard—you’ll swing the lead. Vinck, take the helm, Jan Roper and Baccus stand by the forewinch, Salamon and Croocq aft. Sonk—go below and check our stores. Break out some grog if you can find any. Lay to!”

“Wait a minute, Pilot!” Jan Roper said. “What’s all the hurry? Where’re we going and why?”

Blackthorne felt a surge of indignation at being questioned, but he reminded himself that they were entitled to know, they were not vassals and not eta but his crew, his shipmates, and, in some respects, almost partners. “This is the beginning of the storm season. Tai-funs they call them—Great Storms. This berth isn’t safe. Across the harbor, a few leagues south, is their best and safest anchorage. It’s near a village called Yokohama. Erasmus will be safe there and can ride out any storm. Now lay to!”

No one moved.

Van Nekk said, “Only a few leagues, Pilot?”

“Yes.”

“What then? And, well, what’s the hurry?”

“Lord Toranaga agreed to let me do it now,” Blackthorne answered, telling half the truth. “The sooner the better, I thought. He might change his mind again, neh? At Yokohama . . .” He looked away as Yabu came stomping aboard with his six guards. The men fled out of his way.

“Jesus,” Vinck choked out. “It’s him! It’s the bastard who gave Pieterzoon his!”

Yabu came up near to the quarterdeck, smiling broadly, oblivious of the terror that infected the crew as they recognized him. He pointed out to sea. “Anjin-san, look! There! Everything’s perfect, neh?”

A galley like some monstrous sea caterpillar was sweeping silently toward them from the western darkness.

“Good, Yabu-sama! You want stand here?”

“Later, Anjin-san.” Yabu walked off to the head of the gangway.

Blackthorne turned back to his men. “Lay for’ard. On the double—and watch your tongues. Speak only gutter Dutch—there’s one aboard who understands Portuguese! I’ll talk to you when we’re under way! Move!”

The men scattered, glad to get away from Yabu’s presence. Uraga and twenty of Blackthorne’s samurai loped aboard. The others were forming up on the jetty to board the galley.

Uraga said, “These your personal guards, if it pleases you, senhor.”

“My name’s Anjin-san, not senhor,” Blackthorne said.

“Please excuse me, Anjin-san.” Uraga began to come up the steps.

“Stop! Stay below! No one ever comes onto the quarterdeck without my permission! Tell them.”

“Yes, Anjin-san. Please excuse me.”

Blackthorne went to the side to watch the galley docking, just to the west of them. “Ginsel! Go ashore and watch ’em take our hawsers! See they’re secured properly. Look lively now!”

Then, his ship in control, Blackthorne scrutinized the twenty men. “Why are they all chosen from the bound group, Uraga-san?”

“They’re a clan, sen—Anjin-san. Like brothers, Sire. They beg for the honors of defending you.”

“Anatawa—anatawa—anatawa—” Blackthorne pointed out ten men at random and ordered them ashore, to be replaced from his other vassals, also to be selected by Uraga at random. And he told Uraga to make it clear all his vassals were to be like brothers or they could commit seppuku now.

“Wakarimasu?”

“Hai, Anjin-san. Gomen nasai.”

Soon the bow hawsers were secured aboard the other craft. Blackthorne inspected everything, checked the wind again using all his sea sense, knowing that even within the benign waters of the vast Yedo harbor, their journey could be dangerous if a sudden squall began.

“Cast off!” he shouted. “Ima, Captain-san!”

The other captain waved and let his galley ease away from the jetty. Naga was aboard the craft, which was packed with samurai and the rest of Blackthorne’s vassals. Yabu stood beside Blackthorne on the quarterdeck of Erasmus. She heeled slightly and a tremor went through her as she was taken by the weight of a current. Blackthorne and all the crew were filled with jubilation, their excitement at being once more at sea overriding their anxieties. Ginsel was leaning over the side of the tiny, roped starboard platform, swinging the lead, calling out the fathoms. The jetty began to fall away.

“Ahoy ahead, Yukkuri sei!” Slow down!

“Hai, Anjin-san,” came the answering shout. Together the two ships felt their way out into the harbor stream, riding lights at their mastheads.

“Good, Anjin-san,” Yabu said. “Very good!”

Yabu waited until they were well out to sea, then he took Blackthorne aside. “Anjin-san,” he said warily. “You saved my life yesterday. Understand? Calling off those ronin. Remember?”

“Yes. Only my duty.”

“No, not duty. At Anjiro, you remember that other man, the seaman . . . remember?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Shigata ga nai, neh? Karma, neh? That was before samurai or hatamoto. . . .” Yabu’s eyes were glittering in the light of the sea lantern and he touched Blackthorne’s sword and spoke softly and clearly. “. . . Before Oil Seller, neh? As samurai to samurai ask forget all before. Start new. Tonight. Please? Understand?”

“Yes, understand.”

“You need me, Anjin-san. Without me, no barbarian wako. You can’t get them alone. Not from Nagasaki. Never. I can get them—help you get them. Now we fight same side. Toranaga’s side. Same side. Without me, no wako, understand?”

Blackthorne watched the galley ahead for a moment and checked the deck and his seamen. Then he looked down on Yabu. “Yes. Understand.”

“You understand ‘hate’—the word ‘hate’?”

“Yes.”

“Hate comes from fear. I do not fear you. You need not fear me. Never again. I want what you want: your new ships here, you here, captain of new ships. I can help you very much. First the Black Ship . . . ah yes, Anjin-san,” he said, seeing the joy flood across Blackthorne’s face, “I will persuade Lord Toranaga. You know I’m a fighter, neh? I’ll lead the charge. I’ll take the Black Ship for you on land. Together you and I are stronger than one. Neh?”

“Yes. Possible get more men? More than two hundred my?”

“If you need two thousand men . . . five thousand! Don’t worry, you lead ship—I’ll lead the fight. Agree?”

“Yes. Fair trade. Thank you. I agree.”

“Good, very good, Anjin-san,” Yabu said contentedly. He knew this mutual partnership would benefit them both however much the barbarian hated him. Again Yuriko’s logic had been flawless.

Earlier that evening he had seen Toranaga and asked permission to go at once to Osaka to prepare the way for him. “Please excuse me but I thought the matter urgent enough. After all, Sire,” Yabu had said deferentially as he and his wife had planned, “you should have someone of rank there to make sure that all your arrangements are perfect. Ishido’s a peasant and doesn’t understand ceremony, neh? The arrangement must be perfect or you should not go, neh? It could take weeks, neh?”

He had been delighted with the ease with which Toranaga had been persuaded. “Then there’s also the barbarian ship, Sire. Better to put it at Yokohama at once in case of tai-fun. I’ll supervise that myself, with your permission, before I go. The Musket Regiment can be its guards, give them something to do. Then I’ll go on directly to Osaka with the galley. By sea’d be better and quicker, neh?”

“Very well, yes, if you think that wise, Yabu-san, do it. But take Naga-san with you. Leave him in charge at Yokohama.”

“Yes, Sire.” Then Yabu had told Toranaga about Tsukku-san’s anger; how, if Lord Toranaga wanted the Anjin-san to live long enough to obtain men at Nagasaki in case Toranaga wanted the ship to put to sea, then perhaps this should be done at once without hesitation. “The priest was very angry—I think angry enough to set his converts against the Anjin-san!”

“You’re sure?”

“Oh yes, Sire. Perhaps I should put the Anjin-san under my protection for the moment.” Then, as though it were a sudden thought, Yabu added, “The simplest thing would be to take the Anjin-san with me. I can start arrangements at Osaka—continue to Nagasaki, get the new barbarians, then complete the arrangements on my return.”

“Do whatever you think fit,” Toranaga had said. “I’ll leave it to you to decide, my friend. What does it matter, neh? What does anything matter?”

Yabu was happy that, at long last, he could act. Only Naga’s presence had not been planned, but that did not matter, and truly, it would be wise to have him at Yokohama.

Yabu was watching the Anjin-san—the tall, arrogant stance, feet slightly apart, swaying so easily with the pitch and toss of the waves, seemingly part of the ship, so huge and strong and different. So different from when ashore. Consciously Yabu began to take up a similar stance, aping him carefully.

‘I want more than the Kwanto, Yuriko-san,’ he had whispered to his wife just before he had left their house. ‘Just one more thing. I want command of the sea. I want to be Lord High Admiral. We’ll put the whole revenue of the Kwanto behind Omi’s plan to escort the barbarian to his home, to buy more ships and bring them back again. Omi will go with him, neh?’

‘Yes,’ she had said, as happily. ‘We can trust him.’

The wharf at Yedo was deserted now. The last of the samurai guards were disappearing into the byways heading back toward the castle. Father Alvito came out of the shadows, Brother Michael beside him. Alvito looked seaward. “May God curse her and all who sail in her.”

“Except one, Father. One of our people sails with the ship. And Naga-san. Naga-san’s sworn to become Christian in the first month of next year.”

“If there even is a next year for him,” Alvito said, filled with gloom. “I don’t know about Naga, perhaps he means it, perhaps not. That ship’s going to destroy us and there’s nothing we can do.”

“God will help us.”

“Yes, but meanwhile we’re Soldiers of God and we have to help Him. The Father-Visitor must be warned at once, and the Captain-General. Have you found a carrier pigeon for Osaka yet?”

“No, Father, not for any amount of money. Nor even one for Nagasaki. Months ago Toranaga-sama ordered them all into his keeping.”

Alvito’s gloom deepened. “There must be someone with one! Pay anything that’s necessary. The heretic will wound us terribly, Michael.”

“Perhaps not, Father.”

“Why are they moving the ship? Of course for safety, but more to put it out of our reach. Why has Toranaga given the heretic two hundred wako and his bullion back? Of course to use as a strike force, and the specie’s to buy more pirates—gunners and seamen. Why give Blackthorne freedom? To harry us through the Black Ship. God help us, Toranaga’s forsaken us too!”

“We’ve forsaken him, Father.”

“There’s nothing we can do to help him! We’ve tried everything with the daimyos. We’re helpless.”

“Perhaps if we prayed harder, perhaps God would show us a way.”

“I pray and pray, but . . . perhaps God has forsaken us, Michael, rightly. Perhaps we’re not worthy of His mercy. I know I’m not.”

“Perhaps the Anjin-san won’t find gunners or seamen. Perhaps he’ll never arrive at Nagasaki.”

“His silver will buy him all the men he needs. Even Catholics—even Portuguese. Men foolishly think more about this world than the next. They won’t open their eyes. They sell their souls all too easily. Yes. I pray Blackthorne never arrives there. Or his emissaries. Don’t forget, there’s no need at all for him to go there. The men could be bought and brought to him. Come along, let’s go home now.” Dispiritedly, Alvito led the way toward the Jesuit Mission which was a mile or so westward, near the docks, behind one of the large warehouses that normally housed the season’s silks and rice and formed part of the market complex the Jesuits governed on behalf of buyer and seller.

They walked awhile along the shore, then Alvito stopped and looked seaward again. Dawn was breaking. He could see nothing of the ships. “What chance of our message being delivered?” Yesterday, Michael had discovered that one of Blackthorne’s new vassals was a Christian. When the news had flared through the underground network of Yedo last night that something was going to happen with the Anjin-san and his ship, Alvito had hastily scrawled a ciphered message for dell’Aqua, giving all the latest news, and had begged the man to deliver it secretly if ever he reached Osaka.

“The message will arrive.” Brother Michael added quietly, “Our man knows he sails with the enemy.”

“May God watch him and give him strength and curse Uraga.” Alvito looked across at the younger man. “Why? Why did he become apostate?”

“He told you, Father,” Brother Michael said. “He wanted to be a priest—ordained in our Society. That wasn’t much to ask, for a proud servant of God.”

“He was too proud, Brother. God in His wisdom tempted him and found him wanting.”

“Yes. I pray I am not found wanting when my turn comes.”

Alvito wandered past their Mission toward the large plot of land that had been set aside by Toranaga for the cathedral that should soon rise from the earth to the glory of God. The Jesuit could already see it in his mind, tall, majestic yet delicate, dominating the city, peerless bells cast in Macao or Goa or even Portugal ringing the changes, the vast bronze doors ever wide to the faithful nobility. He could smell the incense and hear the sound of the Latin chants.

But war will destroy that dream, he told himself. War will come again to plague this land and it will be as it ever was.

“Father!” Brother Michael whispered, cautioning him.

A woman was ahead of them, looking at the beginning foundations that already were marked out and partially dug. Beside her were two maids. Alvito waited motionlessly, peering in the half-light. The woman was veiled and richly dressed. Then Brother Michael moved slightly. His foot touched a stone and sent it clattering against an iron shovel, unseen in the gloaming. The woman turned, startled. Alvito recognized her.

“Mariko-san? It’s me—Father Alvito.”

“Father? Oh, I was—I was just coming to see you. I’m leaving shortly but I wanted to talk to you before I left.”

Alvito came up to her. “I’m so glad to see you, Mariko-san. Yes. I heard you were leaving. I tried to see you several times but, at the moment, I’m still forbidden the castle.” Wordlessly, Mariko looked back at the beginnings of the cathedral. Alvito glanced at Brother Michael, who was also bewildered that a lady of such importance would be so scantily attended, wandering here so early and unannounced.

“You’re here just to see me, Mariko-san?”

“Yes. And to see the ship leave.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I wish to be confessed.”

“Then let it be here,” he said. “Let yours be the first in this place though the ground is barely hallowed.”

“Please excuse me, but could you say Mass here, Father?”

“There’s no church or altar or vestments or the Eucharist. I could do that in our chapel if you’ll foll—”

“Could we drink cha from an empty cup, Father? Please,” she asked in a tiny voice. “So sorry to ask. There’s so little time.”

“Yes,” he agreed, at once understanding her.

So he walked to where the altar perhaps would be one day within the magnificent nave, under a vaulting roof. Today, the lightening sky was the roof, and birds and the sound of the surf the majestic choir. He began to chant the solemn beauty of the Mass and Brother Michael helped, and together they brought the Infinite to earth.

But before the giving of the make-believe Sacrament he stopped and said, “Now I must hear thy confession, Maria.” He motioned Brother Michael away and sat on a rock within an imaginary confessional and closed his eyes. She knelt. “Before God, do—”

“Before I begin, Father, I beg a favor.”

“From me or from God, Maria?”

“I beg a favor, before God.”

“What is thy favor?”

“The Anjin-san’s life in return for knowledge.”

“His life is not mine to give or to withhold.”

“Yes. So sorry, but an order could be spread among all Christians that his life is not to be taken as a sacrifice to God.”

“The Anjin-san is the enemy. A terrible enemy of our Faith.”

“Yes. Even so I beg for his life. In return—in return perhaps I can be of great help.”

“How?”

“Is my favor granted, Father? Before God?”

“I cannot grant such a favor. It’s not mine to give or to withhold. You cannot barter with God.”

Mariko hesitated, kneeling on the hard earth before him. Then she bowed and began to get up. “Very well. Then please excuse—”

Alvito said, “I will put the request before the Father-Visitor.”

“That’s not enough, Father, please excuse me.”

“I will put it before him and beg him in God’s name to consider your petition.”

“If what I tell you is very valuable, will you, before God, swear that you will do everything in your power, everything to succor him and guard him, providing it is not directly against the Church?”

“Yes. If it is not against the Church.”

“And, so sorry, you agree to put my request before the Father-Visitor?”

“Before God, yes.”

“Thank you, Father. Listen then. . . .” She told him her reasoning about Toranaga and the hoax.

Suddenly everything was falling into place for Alvito. “You’re right, you must be right! God forgive me, how could I have been so stupid?”

“Please listen again, Father, here are more facts.” She whispered the secrets about Zataki and Onoshi.

“It’s not possible!”

“There’s also a rumor that Lord Onoshi plans to poison Lord Kiyama.”

“Impossible!”

“Please excuse me, very possible. They’re ancient enemies.”

“Who told you all this, Maria?”

“The rumor is that Onoshi will poison Lord Kiyama during the Feast of the Blessed Saint Bernard this year,” Mariko said tiredly, deliberately not answering the question. “Onoshi’s son will be the new lord of all Kiyama’s lands. General Ishido has agreed to this, providing my Master has already gone into the Great Void.”

“Proof, Mariko-san? Where’s the proof?”

“So sorry, I have none. But Lord Harima’s party to the knowledge.”

“How do you know this? How does Harima know? You say he’s part of the plot?”

“No, Father. Just party to the secret.”

“Impossible! Onoshi’s too close-mouthed and much too clever. If he’d planned that, no one would ever know. You must be mistaken. Who gave you this information?”

“I cannot tell you, so sorry, please excuse me. But I believe it to be true.”

Alvito let his mind rush over the possibilities. And then: “Uraga! Uraga was Onoshi’s confessor! Oh, Mother of God, Uraga broke the sanctity of the confessional and told his liege lord. . . .”

“Perhaps this secret’s not true, Father. But I believe it to be true. Only God knows the real truth, neh?”

Mariko had not put her veils aside and Alvito could see nothing of her face. Above, dawn was spreading over the sky. He looked seaward. Now he could see the two ships on the horizon heading southwest, the galley’s oars dipping in unison, the wind fair and the sea calm. His chest hurt and his head echoed with the enormity of what he had been told. He prayed for help and tried to sort fact from fancy. In his heart he knew the secrets were true and her reasoning flawless.

“You’re saying that Lord Toranaga will outmaneuver Ishido—that he’ll win?”

“No, Father. No one will win, but without your help Lord Toranaga will lose. Lord Zataki’s not to be trusted. Zataki must always be a major threat to my Lord. Zataki will know this and that all Toranaga’s promises are empty because Toranaga must try to eliminate him eventually. If I were Zataki I’d destroy Sudara and the Lady Genjiko and all their children the moment they gave themselves into my hands, and at once I’d move against Toranaga’s northern defenses. I’d hurl my legions against the north, which would pull Ishido, Ikawa Jikkyu, and all the others out of their stupid lethargy. Toranaga can be eaten up too easily, Father.”

Alvito waited a moment, then he said, “Lift your veils, Maria.”

He saw that her face was stark. “Why have you told me all this?”

“To save the Anjin-san’s life.”

“You commit treason for him, Maria? You, Toda Mariko-noh-Buntaro, daughter of the General Lord Akechi Jinsai, you commit treason because of a foreigner? You ask me to believe that?”

“No, so sorry, also—also to protect the Church. First to protect the Church, Father. . . . I don’t know what to do. I thought you might. . . . Lord Toranaga is the Church’s only hope. Perhaps you can somehow help him . . . to protect the Church. Lord Toranaga must have help now, he’s a good and wise man and the Church will prosper with him. I know Ishido’s the real enemy.”

“Most Christian daimyos believe Toranaga will obliterate the Church and the Heir if ever he conquers Ishido and gets power.”

“He may, but I doubt it. He will treat the Church fairly. He always has. Ishido is violently anti-Christian. So is the Lady Ochiba.”

“All the great Christians are against Toranaga.”

“Ishido’s a peasant. Toranaga-sama is fair and wise and wants trade.”

“There has to be trade, whoever rules.”

“Lord Toranaga has always been your friend, and if you’re honest with him, he always will be with you.” She pointed to the foundations. “Isn’t this a measure of his fairness? He gave this land freely—even when you failed him and he’d lost everything—even your friendship.”

“Perhaps.”

“Last, Father, only Toranaga-sama can prevent perpetual war, you must know that. As a woman I ask that there be no everlasting war.”

“Yes, Maria. He’s the only one who could do that, perhaps.”

His eyes drifted away from her. Brother Michael was kneeling, lost in prayer, the two servants nearer the shore, waiting patiently. The Jesuit felt overwhelmed yet uplifted, exhausted yet filled with strength. “I’m glad that you have come here and told me this. I thank thee. For the Church and for me, a servant of the Church, I will do everything that I have agreed.”

She bowed her head and said nothing.

“Will you carry a dispatch, Mariko-san? To the Father-Visitor.”

“Yes. If he is at Osaka.”

“A private dispatch?”

“Yes.”

“The dispatch is verbal. You will tell him everything you said to me and what I said to you. Everything.”

“Very well.”

“I have your promise? Before God?”

“You have no need to say that to me, Father. I have agreed.”

He looked into her eyes, firm and strong and committed. “Please excuse me, Maria. Now let me hear thy confession.”

She dropped her veils again. “Please excuse me, Father, I’m not worthy even to confess.”

“Everyone is worthy in the sight of God.”

“Except me. I’m not worthy, Father.”

“You must confess, Maria. I cannot go on with your Mass—you must come before Him cleansed.”

She knelt. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned but I can only confess that I am not worthy to confess,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

Compassionately Father Alvito put his hand lightly on her head. “Daughter of God, let me beg God’s forgiveness for thy sins. Let me in His name absolve thee and make thee whole in His sight.” He blessed her, and then he continued her Mass in this imaginary cathedral, under the breaking sky . . . the service more real and more beautiful than it had ever been, for him and for her.

Erasmus was anchored in the best storm harbor Blackthorne had ever seen, far enough from shore to give her plenty of sea room, yet close enough for safety. Six fathoms of clear water over a strong seabed were below, and except for the narrow neck of the entrance, high land all around that would keep any fleet snug from the ocean’s wrath.

The day’s journey from Yedo had been uneventful though tiring. Half a ri northward the galley was moored to a pier near Yokohama fishing village, and now they were alone aboard, Blackthorne and all his men, both Dutch and Japanese. Yabu and Naga were ashore inspecting the Musket Regiment and he had been told to join them shortly. Westward the sun was low on the horizon and the red sky promised another fine day tomorrow.

“Why now, Uraga-san?” Blackthorne was asking from the quarterdeck, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep. He had just ordered the crew and everyone to stand down, and Uraga had asked him to delay for a moment to find out if there were any Christians among the vassals. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

“No, Sire, so sorry.” Uraga was looking up at him in front of the assembled samurai vassals, the Dutch crew gathering into a nervous knot near the quarterdeck railing. “Please excuse me, but it is most important you find out at once. You are their most enemy. Therefore you must know, for your protection. I only wish to protect you. Not take long, neh?”

“Are they all on deck?”

“Yes, Sire.”

Blackthorne went closer to the railing and called out in Japanese, “Is anyone Christian?” There was no answer. “I order any Christian come forward.” No one moved. So he turned back to Uraga. “Set ten deck guards, then dismiss them.”

“With your permission, Anjin-san.” From under his kimono Uraga brought out a small painted icon that he had brought from Yedo and threw it face upward on the deck. Then, deliberately, he stamped on it. Blackthorne and the crew were greatly disquieted by the desecration. Except Jan Roper. “Please. Make every vassal do same,” Uraga said.

“Why?”

“I know Christians.” Uraga’s eyes were half hidden by the brim of his hat. “Please, Sire. Important every man do same. Now, tonight.”

“All right,” Blackthorne agreed reluctantly.

Uraga turned to the assembled vassals. “At my suggestion our Master requires each of us to do this.”

The samurai were grumbling among themselves and one interrupted, “We’ve already said that we’re not Christians, neh? What does stamping on a barbarian god picture prove? Nothing!”

“Christians are our Master’s enemy. Christians are treacherous—but Christians are Christian. Please excuse me, I know Christians—to my shame I forsook our real gods. So sorry, but I believe this is necessary for our Master’s safety.”

At once a samurai in front declared, “In that case, there’s nothing more to be said.” He came forward and stamped on the picture. “I worship no barbarian religion! Come on, the rest of you, do what’s asked!”

They came forward one by one. Blackthorne watched, despising the ceremony.

Van Nekk said worriedly, “Doesn’t seem right.”

Vinck looked up at the quarterdeck. “Sodding bastards. They’ll all cut our throats with never a thought. You sure you can trust ’em, Pilot?”

“Yes.”

Ginsel said, “No Catholic’d ever do that, eh, Johann? That Uraga-sama’s clever.”

“What’s it matter if those buggers’re Papist or not, they’re all shit-filled samurai.”

“Yes,” Croocq said.

“Even so, it’s not right to do that,” van Nekk repeated.

The samurai continued to stamp the icon into the deck one by one, and moved into loose groups. It was a tedious affair and Blackthorne was sorry he had agreed to it, for there were more important things to do before dusk. His eyes went to the village and the headlands. Hundreds of the thatch lean-tos of the Musket Regiment camp spotted the foothills. So much to do, he thought, anxious to go ashore, wanting to see the land, glorying in the fief Toranaga had given him which contained Yokohama. Lord God on high, he told himself, I’m lord of one of the greatest harbors in the world.

Abruptly a man bypassed the icon, tore out his sword, and leaped at Blackthorne. A dozen startled samurai jumped courageously in his way, screening the quarterdeck as Blackthorne spun around, a pistol cocked and aimed. Others scattered, shoving, stumbling, milling in the uproar. The samurai skidded to a halt, howling with rage, then changed direction and hacked at Uraga, who somehow managed to avoid the thrust. The man whirled as other samurai lunged at him, fought them off ferociously for a moment, then rushed for the side and threw himself overboard.

Four who could swim dropped their killing swords, put their short stabbing knives in their mouths, and jumped after him, the rest and the Dutchmen crowding the side.

Blackthorne jumped for the gunwale. He could see nothing below; then he caught sight of swirling shadows in the water. A man came up for air and went down again. Soon four heads surfaced. Between them was the corpse, a knife in his throat.

“So sorry, Anjin-san, it was his own knife,” one called up over the roars of the others.

“Uraga-san, tell them to search him, then leave him to the fish.”

The search revealed nothing. When all were back on deck, Blackthorne pointed at the icon with his cocked pistol. “All samurai—once more!” He was obeyed instantly and he made sure that every man passed the test. Then, because of Uraga, and to praise him, he ordered his crew to do the same. There was the beginning of a protest.

“Come on,” Blackthorne snarled. “Hurry up, or I’ll put my foot on your backs!”

“No need to say that, Pilot,” van Nekk said. “We’re not stinky pagan wogs!”

“They’re not stinky pagan wogs! They’re samurai, by God!”

They stared up at him. Anger, whipped by fear, rippled through them. Van Nekk began to say something but Ginsel butted in.

“Samurai’re heathen bastards and they—or men like ’em—murdered Pieterzoon, our Captain-General, and Maetsukker!”

“Yes, but without these samurai we’ll never get home—understand?”

Now all the samurai were watching. Ominously they moved nearer Blackthorne protectively. Van Nekk said, “Let it rest, eh? We’re all a bit touchy and overtired. It was a long night. We’re not our own masters here, none of us. Nor’s the Pilot. The Pilot knows what he’s doing—he’s the leader, he’s Captain-General now.”

“Yes, he is. But it’s not right for him to take their side over us, and by the Lord God, he’s not a king—we’re equal to him,” Jan Roper hissed. “Just because he’s armed like them and dressed like them and can talk to the sods doesn’t make him king over us. We’ve rights and that’s our law and his law, by the Lord God, even though he’s English. He swore Holy Oaths to abide by the rules—didn’t you, Pilot!”

“Yes,” Blackthorne said. “It’s our law in our seas—where we’re masters and in the majority. Now we’re not. So do what I tell you to do and do it fast.”

Muttering, they obeyed. “Sonk! Did you find any grog?”

“Nosirnotagodcurseddribble!”

“I’ll get saké sent aboard.” Then, in Portuguese, Blackthorne added, “Uraga-san, you’ll come ashore with me and bring someone to scull. You four,” he said in Japanese, pointing at the men who had dived over the side, “you four now captains. Understand? Take fifty men each.”

“Hai, Anjin-san.”

“What’s your name?” he asked one of them, a tall, quiet man with a scarred cheek.

“Nawa Chisato, Lord.”

“You’re captain today. All ship. Until I return.”

“Yes, Lord.”

Blackthorne went to the gangway. A skiff was tied below.

“Where’re you going, Pilot?” van Nekk said anxiously.

“Ashore. I’ll be back later.”

“Good, we’ll all go!”

“By God I’ll come with—”

“And me. I’m go—”

“Christ Jesus, don’t leave me be—”

“No! I’m going alone!”

“But for God’s sake what about us?” van Nekk cried out. “What are we going to do? Don’t leave us, Pilot. What are—”

“You just wait!” Blackthorne told them. “I’ll see food and drink’s sent aboard.”

Ginsel squared up to Blackthorne. “I thought we were going back tonight. Why aren’t we going back tonight?”

“How long we going to stay here, Pilot, and how long—”

“Pilot, what about Yedo?” Ginsel asked louder. “How long we going to stay here, with these God-cursed monkeys?”

“Yes, monkeys, by God,” Sonk said happily. “What about our gear and our own folk?”

“Yes, what about our eters, Pilot? Our people and our doxies?”

“They’ll be there tomorrow.” Blackthorne pushed down his loathing. “Be patient, I’ll be back as soon as I can. Baccus, you’re in charge.” He turned to go.

“I’m going with you,” Jan Roper said truculently, following him. “We’re in harbor so we take precedence and I want some arms.”

Blackthorne turned on him and a dozen swords left their scabbards, ready to kill Jan Roper. “One more word out of you and you’re a dead man.” The tall, lean merchant flushed and came to a halt. “You curb your tongue near these samurai because any one of them’ll take your head before I can stop them just because of your goddamned bad manners—let alone anything else! They’re touchy, and near you I’m getting touchy, and you’ll get arms when you need them. Understand?”

Jan Roper nodded sullenly and backed off. The samurai were still menacing but Blackthorne quieted them, and ordered them, on pain of death, to leave his crew alone. “I’ll be back soon.” He walked down the gangway and got into the skiff, Uraga and another samurai following. Chisato, the captain, went up to Jan Roper, who quailed under the menace, bowed, and backed away.

When they were well away from the ship Blackthorne thanked Uraga for catching the traitor.

“Please, no thanks. It was only duty.”

Blackthorne said in Japanese so that the other man could understand, “Yes, duty. But your koku change now. Now not twenty, now one hundred a year.”

“Oh, Sire, thank you. I don’t deserve it. I was only doing my duty and I must—”

“Speak slowly. Don’t understand.”

Uraga apologized and said it slower.

Blackthorne praised him again, then settled more comfortably in the stern of the boat, his exhaustion overcoming him. He forced his eyes open and glanced back at his ship to reassure himself she was well placed. Van Nekk and the others were at the gunwale and he was sorry that he had brought them aboard though he knew he had had no option. Without them the journey would not have been safe.

Mutinous scum, he thought. What the hell do I do about them? All my vassals know about the eta village and they’re all as disgusted as . . . Christ Jesus, what a mess! Karma, neh?

He slept. As the skiff nosed into the shore near the pier he awoke. At first he could not remember where he was. He had been dreaming he was back in the castle in Mariko’s arms, just like last night.

Last night they had been lying in half-sleep after loving, Fujiko a party to the loving, Chimmoko on guard, when Yabu and his samurai had pounded on the door post. The evening had begun so pleasingly. Fujiko had also discreetly invited Kiku, and never had he seen her more beautiful and exuberant. As bells ended the Hour of the Boar, Mariko had punctually arrived. There had been merriment and saké but soon Mariko had shattered the spell.

“So sorry, but you’re in great danger, Anjin-san.” She explained, and when she had added what Gyoko had said about not trusting Uraga, both Kiku and Fujiko were equally perturbed.

“Please don’t worry. I’ll watch him, never fear,” he had reassured them.

Mariko had continued, “Perhaps you should watch Yabu-sama too, Anjin-san.”

“What?”

“This afternoon I saw the hatred in your face. So did he.”

“Never mind,” he had said. “Shigata ga nai, neh?”

“No. So sorry, it was a mistake. Why did you call your men off when they had Yabu-sama surrounded at first? Surely that was a bad mistake too. They would have killed him quickly and your enemy would have been dead without risk to you.”

“That wouldn’t have been right, Mariko-san. So many men against one. Not fair.”

Mariko had explained to Fujiko and Kiku what he had said. “Please excuse me, Anjin-san, but we all believe that is a very dangerous way of thinking and beg you to forsake it. It’s quite wrong and very naïve. Please excuse me for being so blunt. Yabu-san will destroy you.”

“No. Not yet. I’m still too important to him. And to Omi-san.”

“Kiku-san says, please tell the Anjin-san to beware of Yabu—and this Uraga. The Anjin-san may find it difficult to judge ‘importance’ here, neh?”

“Yes, I agree with Kiku-san,” Fujiko had said.

Later Kiku had left to go and entertain Toranaga. Then Mariko broke the peace in the room again. “Tonight I must say sayonara, Anjin-san. I am leaving at dawn.”

“No, there’s no need now,” he had said. “That can all be changed now. I’ll see Toranaga tomorrow. Now that I’ve permission to leave, I’ll take you to Osaka. I’ll get a galley, or coastal boat. At Nagasa—”

“No, Anjin-san. So sorry, I must leave as ordered.” No amount of persuasion would touch her.

He had felt Fujiko watching him in the silence, his heart aching with the thought of Mariko leaving. He had looked across at Fujiko. She asked them to excuse her for a moment. She closed the shoji behind her and they were alone and they knew that Fujiko would not return, that they were safe for a little time. Their loving was urgent and violent. Then there were voices and footsteps and barely enough time to become composed before Fujiko joined them through the inner door and Yabu strode in, bringing Toranaga’s orders for an immediate, secret departure. “. . . Yokohama, then Osaka for a brief stop, Anjin-san, on again to Nagasaki, back to Osaka, and home here again! I’ve sent for your crew to report to the ship.”

Excitement had rushed through him at this heaven-sent victory. “Yes, Yabu-san. But Mariko-san—Mariko-san go Osaka also, neh? Better with us—quicker, safer, neh?”

“Not possible, so sorry. Must hurry. Come along! Tide—understand ‘tide,’ Anjin-san?”

“Hai, Yabu-san. But Mariko-san go Osaka—”

“So sorry, she has orders like we have orders. Mariko-san! Explain to him. Tell him to hurry!”

Yabu had been inflexible, and so late at night it was impossible to go to Toranaga to ask him to rescind the order. There had been no time or privacy to talk any more with Mariko or Fujiko, other than to say formal good-bys. But they would meet soon in Osaka. “Very soon, Anjin-san,” Mariko had said. . . .

“Lord God, don’t let me lose her,” Blackthorne said, the sea gulls cawing above the beach, their cries intensifying his loneliness.

“Lose who, Sire?”

Blackthorne came back into reality. He pointed at the distant ship. “We call ships her—we think of ships as female, not male. Wakarimasu ka?”

“Hai.”

Blackthorne could still see the tiny figures of his crew and his insoluble dilemma confronted him once more. You’ve got to have them aboard, he said to himself, and more like them. And the new men’ll not take kindly to samurai either, and they’ll be Catholic as well, most of them. God in heaven, how to control them all? Mariko was right. Near Catholics I’m a dead man.

“Even me, Anjin-san,” she had said last night.

“No, Mariko-chan. Not you.”

“You said we’re your enemy, this afternoon.”

“I said most Catholics are my enemies.”

“They will kill you if they can.”

“Yes. But thou . . . will we truly meet in Osaka?”

“Yes. I love thee. Anjin-san, remember, beware of Yabu-san. . . .”

They were all right about Yabu, Blackthorne thought, whatever he says, whatever he promises. I made a bad mistake calling my men off when he was trapped. That bastard’ll cut my throat as soon as I’ve outlived my usefulness, however much he pretends otherwise. And yet Yabu’s right too: I need him. I’ll never get into Nagasaki and out again without protection. He could surely help to persuade Toranaga. With him leading two thousand more fanatics, we could lay waste all Nagasaki and maybe even Macao. . . .

Madonna! Alone I’m helpless.

Then he remembered what Gyoko had told Mariko about Uraga, about not trusting him. Gyoko was wrong about him, he thought. What else is she wrong about?