Shōgun

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Once more in the crowded Osaka sea roads after the long journey by galley, Blackthorne again felt the same crushing weight of the city as when he had first seen it. Great swathes had been laid waste by the tai-fun and some areas were still fire-blackened, but its immensity was almost untouched and still dominated by the castle. Even from this distance, more than a league, he could see the colossal girth of the first great wall, the towering battlements, all dwarfed by the brooding malevolence of the donjon.

“Christ,” Vinck said nervously, standing beside him on the prow, “doesn’t seem possible to be so big. Amsterdam’d be a flyspeck alongside it.”

“Yes. The storm’s hurt the city but not that badly. Nothing could touch the castle.”

The tai-fun had slammed out of the southwest two weeks ago. They had had plenty of warning, with lowering skies and squalls and rain, and had rushed the galley into a safe harbor to wait out the tempest. They had waited five days. Beyond the harbor the ocean had been whipped to froth and the winds were more violent and stronger than anything Blackthorne had ever experienced.

“Christ,” Vinck said again. “Wish we were home. We should’ve been home a year ago.”

Blackthorne had brought Vinck with him from Yokohama and sent the others back to Yedo, leaving Erasmus safely harbored and guarded under Naga’s command. His crew had been happy to go—as he had been happy to see the last of them. There had been more quarreling that night and a violent argument over the ship’s bullion. The money was company money, not his. Van Nekk was treasurer of the expedition and chief merchant and, jointly with the Captain-General, had legal jurisdiction over it. After it had been counted and recounted and found correct, less a thousand coins, van Nekk supported by Jan Roper had argued about the amount that he could take with him to get new men.

“You want far too much, Pilot! You’ll have to offer them less!”

“Christ Jesus! Whatever it takes we have to pay. I must have seamen and gunners.” He had slammed his fist on the table of the great cabin. “How else are we going to get home?”

Eventually he had persuaded them to let him take enough, and was disgusted that they had made him lose his temper with their pettifogging. The next day he had shipped them back to Yedo, a tenth of the treasure split up among them as back pay, the rest under guard on the ship.

“How do we know it’ll be safe here?” Jan Roper asked, scowling.

“Stay and guard it yourself then!”

But none of them had wanted to stay aboard. Vinck had agreed to come with him.

“Why him, Pilot?” van Nekk had asked.

“Because he’s a seaman and I’ll need help.”

Blackthorne had been glad to see the last of them. Once at sea he began to change Vinck to Japanese ways. Vinck was stoic about it, trusting Blackthorne, having sailed too many years with him not to know his measure. “Pilot, for you I’ll bathe and wash every day but I’ll be God-cursed afore I wear a poxy nighty!”

Within ten days Vinck was happily swinging the lead half-naked, his wide leather belt over his paunch, a dagger stuck in a sheath at his back and one of Blackthorne’s pistols safely within his clean though ragged shirt.

“We don’t have to go to the castle, do we, Pilot?”

“No.”

“Christ Jesus—I’d rather stay away from there.”

The day was fine, a high sun shimmering off the calm sea. The rowers were still strong and disciplined.

“Vinck—that’s where the ambush was!”

“Christ Jesus, look at those shoals!”

Blackthorne had told Vinck about the narrowness of his escape, the signal fires on those battlements, the piles of dead ashore, the enemy frigate bearing down on him.

“Ah, Anjin-san.” Yabu came to join them. “Good, neh?” He motioned at the devastation.

“Bad, Yabu-sama.”

“It’s enemy, neh?”

“People are not enemy. Only Ishido and samurai enemy, neh?”

“The castle is enemy,” Yabu replied, reflecting his disquiet, and that of all those aboard. “Here everything is enemy.”

Blackthorne watched Yabu move to the bow, the wind whipping his kimono away from his hard torso.

Vinck dropped his voice. “I want to kill that bastard, Pilot.”

“Yes. I’ve not forgotten about old Pieterzoon either, don’t worry.”

“Nor me, God be my judge! Beats me how you talk their talk. What’d he say?”

“He was just being polite.”

“What’s the plan?”

“We dock and wait. He goes off for a day or two and we keep our heads down and wait. Toranaga said he’d send messages for the safe conducts we’d need but even so, we’re going to keep our heads down and stay aboard.” Blackthorne scanned the shipping and the waters for dangers but found none. Still, he said to Vinck, “Better call the fathoms now, just in case!”

“Aye!”

Yabu watched Vinck swinging the lead for a moment, then strolled back to Blackthorne. “Anjin-san, perhaps you’d better take the galley and go on to Nagasaki. Don’t wait, eh?”

“All right,” Blackthorne said agreeably, not rising to the bait.

Yabu laughed. “I like you, Anjin-san! But so sorry, alone you’ll soon die. Nagasaki’s very bad for you.”

“Osaka bad—everywhere bad!”

“Karma.” Yabu smiled again. Blackthorne pretended to share the joke.

They had had variations of the same conversation many times during the voyage. Blackthorne had learned much about Yabu. He hated him even more, distrusted him even more, respected him more, and knew their karmas were interlocked.

“Yabu-san’s right, Anjin-san,” Uraga had said. “He can protect you at Nagasaki, I cannot.”

“Because of your uncle, Lord Harima?”

“Yes. Perhaps I’m already declared outlaw, neh? My uncle’s Christian—though I think a rice Christian.”

“What’s that?”

“Nagasaki is his fief. Nagasaki has great harbor on the coast of Kyushu but not the best. So he quickly sees the light, neh? He becomes Christian, and orders all his vassals Christian. He ordered me Christian and into the Jesuit School, and then had me sent as one of the Christian envoys to the Pope. He gave land to the Jesuits and—how would you say it—fawns on them. But his heart is only Japanese.”

“Do the Jesuits know what you think?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Do they believe that about rice Christians?”

“They don’t tell us, their converts, what they truly believe, Anjin-san. Or even themselves most times. They are trained to have secrets, to use secrets, to welcome them, but never to reveal them. In that they’re very Japanese.”

“You’d better stay here in Osaka, Uraga-san.”

“Please excuse me, Sire, I am your vassal. If you go to Nagasaki, I go.”

Blackthorne knew that Uraga was becoming an invaluable aid. The man was revealing so many Jesuit secrets: the how and why and when of their trade negotiations, their internal workings and incredible international machinations. And he was equally informative about Harima and Kiyama and how the Christian daimyos thought, and why, probably, they would stay sided with Ishido. God, I know so much now that’d be priceless in London, he thought, and so much still to learn. How can I pass on the knowledge? For instance that China’s trade, just in silk to Japan, is worth ten million in gold a year, and that, even now, the Jesuits have one of their professed priests at the Court of the Emperor of China in Peking, honored with courtly rank, a confidant of the rulers, speaking Chinese perfectly. If only I could send a letter—if only I had an envoy.

In return for all the knowledge Blackthorne began to teach Uraga about navigation, about the great religious schism, and about Parliament. Also he taught him and Yabu how to fire a gun. Both were apt pupils. Uraga’s a good man, he thought. No problem. Except he’s ashamed of his lack of a samurai queue. That’ll soon grow.

There was a warning shout from the forepoop lookout.

“Anjin-san!” The Japanese captain was pointing ahead at an elegant cutter, oared by twenty men, that approached from the starboard quarter. At the masthead was Ishido’s cipher. Alongside it was the cipher of the Council of Regents, the same that Nebara Jozen and his men had traveled under to Anjiro, to their deaths.

“Who is it?” Blackthorne asked, feeling a tension throughout the ship, all eyes straining into the distance.

“I can’t see yet, so sorry,” the captain said.

“Yabu-san?”

Yabu shrugged. “An official.”

As the cutter came closer, Blackthorne saw an elderly man sitting under the aft canopy, wearing ornate ceremonial dress with the winged overmantle. He wore no swords. Surrounding him were Ishido’s Grays.

The drum master ceased the beat to allow the cutter to come alongside. Men rushed to help the official aboard. A Japanese pilot jumped after him and after numerous bows took formal charge of the galley.

Yabu and the elderly man were also formal and painstaking. At length they were seated on cushions of unequal rank, the official taking the most favored position on the poop. Samurai, Yabu’s and Grays, sat cross-legged or knelt on the main deck surrounding them in even lesser places. “The Council welcomes you, Kasigi Yabu, in the name of His Imperial Highness,” the man said. He was small and stocky, somewhat effete, a senior adviser to the Regents on protocol who also had Imperial Court rank. His name was Ogaki Takamoto, he was a Prince of the Seventh Rank, and his function was to act as one of the intermediaries between the Court of His Imperial Highness, the Son of Heaven, and the Regents. His teeth were dyed black in the manner that all courtiers of the Imperial Court had, by custom, affected for centuries.

“Thank you, Prince Ogaki. It’s a privilege to be here on Lord Toranaga’s behalf,” Yabu said, vastly impressed with the honor being done to him.

“Yes, I’m sure it is. Of course, you’re here on your own behalf also, neh?” Ogaki said dryly.

“Of course,” Yabu replied. “When does Lord Toranaga arrive? So sorry, but the tai-fun. delayed me for five days and I’ve had no news since I left.”

“Ah, yes, the tai-fun. Yes, the Council were so happy to hear that the storm did not touch you.” Ogaki coughed. “As to your master, I regret to tell you that he hasn’t even reached Odawara yet. There have been interminable delays, and some sickness. Regrettable, neh?”

“Oh yes, very—nothing serious, I trust?” Yabu asked quickly, immensely glad to be party to Toranaga’s secret.

“No, fortunately nothing serious.” Again the dry cough. “Lord Ishido understands that your master reaches Odawara tomorrow.”

Yabu was suitably surprised. “When I left, twenty-one days ago, everything was ready for his immediate departure, then Lord Hiro-matsu became sick. I know Lord Toranaga was gravely concerned but anxious to begin his journey—as I’m anxious to begin preparations for his arrival.”

“Everything’s prepared,” the small man said.

“Of course the Council will have no objections if I check the arrangements, neh?” Yabu was expansive. “It’s essential the ceremony be worthy of the Council and occasion, neh?”

“Worthy of His Imperial Majesty, the Son of Heaven. It’s his summons now.”

“Of course but . . .” Yabu’s sense of well-being died. “You mean . . . you mean His Imperial Highness will be there?”

“The Exalted has agreed to the Regents’ humble request to accept personally the obeisance of the new Council, all major daimyos, including Lord Toranaga, his family, and vassals. The senior advisers of His Imperial Highness were asked to choose an auspicious day for such a—such a ritual. The twenty-second day of this month, in this, the fifth year of the era Keichō.”

Yabu was stupefied. “In—in nineteen days?”

“At noon.” Fastidiously Ogaki took out a paper kerchief from his sleeve and delicately blew his nose. “Please excuse me. Yes, at noon. The omens were perfect. Lord Toranaga was informed by Imperial messenger fourteen days ago. His immediate humble acceptance reached the Regents three days ago.” Ogaki took out a small scroll. “Here is your invitation, Lord Kasigi Yabu, to the ceremony.”

Yabu quailed as he saw the Imperial seal of the sixteen-petal chrysanthemum and knew that no one, not even Toranaga, could possibly refuse such a summons. A refusal would be an unthinkable insult to the Divinity, an open rebellion, and as all land belonged to the reigning Emperor, would result in immediate forfeiture of all land, coupled with an Imperial invitation to commit seppuku at once, issued on his behalf by the Regents, also sealed with the Great Seal. Such an invitation would be absolute and would have to be obeyed.

Yabu frantically tried to recover his composure.

“So sorry, are you unwell?” Ogaki asked solicitously.

“So sorry,” Yabu stuttered, “but never in my wildest dreams . . . No one could have imagined the Exalted would—would so honor us, neh?”

“I agree, oh yes. Extraordinary!”

“Astonishing . . . that His Imperial Highness would—would consider leaving Kyoto and—and come to Osaka.”

“I agree. Even so, on the twenty-second day, the Exalted and the Imperial Regalia will be here.” The Imperial Regalia, without which no succession was valid, were the Three Sacred Treasures, considered divine, that all believed had been brought to earth by the god Ninigi-noh-Mikoto and passed on by him personally to his grandson, Jimmu Tenno, the first human Emperor, and by him personally to his successor down to the present holder, the Emperor Go-Nijo: the Sword, the Jewel, and the Mirror. The Sacred Sword and the Jewel always traveled in state with the Emperor whenever he had to stay overnight away from the palace; the Mirror was kept within the inner sanctuary at the great Shinto shrine of Ise. The Sword, the Mirror, and the Jewel belonged to the Son of Heaven. They were divine symbols of legitimate authority, of his divinity, that when he was on the move, the divine throne moved with him. And thus that with him went all power.

Yabu croaked, “It’s almost impossible to believe that preparations for his arrival could be made in time.”

“Oh, the Lord General Ishido, on behalf of the Regents, petitioned the Exalted the moment he first heard from Lord Zataki at Yokosé that Lord Toranaga had agreed, equally astonishingly, to come to Osaka and bow to the inevitable. Only the great honor that your master does the Regents prompted them to petition the Son of Heaven to grace the occasion with the Presence.” Again the dry cough. “Please excuse me, you would perhaps give me your formal acceptance in writing as soon as is convenient?”

“May I do it at once?” Yabu asked, feeling very weak.

“I’m sure the Regents would appreciate that.”

Feebly Yabu sent for writing materials. Nineteen kept pounding in his brain. Nineteen days! Toranaga can delay only nineteen days and then he must be here too. Time enough for me to get to Nagasaki and safely back to Osaka, but not time enough to launch the seaborne attack on the Black Ship and take it, so not time enough to pressure Harima, Kiyama, or Onoshi, or the Christian priests, therefore not time enough to launch Crimson Sky, therefore Toranaga’s whole scheme is just another illusion . . . oh oh oh!

Toranaga’s failed. I should have known that he would. The answer to my dilemma is clear: Either I blindly trust Toranaga to squeeze out of this net and I help the Anjin-san as planned to get the men to take the Black Ship even more rapidly, or I’ve got to go to Ishido and tell him everything I know and try to barter for my life and for Izu.

Which?

Paper and brush and ink arrived. Yabu put his anguish aside for a moment and concentrated on writing as perfectly and beautifully as he could. It was unthinkable to reply to the Presence with a cluttered mind. When he had finished his acceptance, he had made the critical decision: He would follow Yuriko’s advice completely. At once the weight tumbled off his wa and he felt greatly cleansed. He signed his name with an arrogant flourish.

How to be Toranaga’s best vassal? So simple: Remove Ishido from this earth.

How to do that, yet leave enough time to escape?

Then he heard Ogaki say, “Tomorrow you are invited to a formal reception given by the General Lord Ishido to honor the birthday of the Lady Ochiba.”

Still travel-worn, Mariko embraced Kiri first, then hugged the Lady Sazuko, admired the baby, and hugged Kiri again. Personal maids fussed and bustled around them, bringing cha and saké and taking away the trays again, hurrying in and out with cushions and sweet-smelling herbs, opening and closing the shojis overlooking the inner garden in their section of Osaka Castle, waving fans, chattering, and weeping also.

At length Kiri clapped her hands, dismissed the maids, and groped heavily for her special cushion, overcome with excitement and happiness. She was very flushed. Hastily Mariko and the Lady Sazuko fanned her and ministered to her, and only after three large cups of saké was she able to catch her breath again.

“Oh, that’s better,” she said. “Yes, thank you child, yes, I’ll have some more! Oh, Mariko-chan, you’re really here?”

“Yes, yes. Really here, Kiri-san.”

Sazuko, looking much younger than her seventeen years, said, “Oh, we’ve been so worried with only rumors and—”

“Yes, nothing but rumors, Mariko-chan,” Kiri interrupted. “Oh, there’s so much I want to know, I feel faint.”

“Poor Kiri-san, here, have some saké,” Sazuko said solicitously. “Perhaps you should loosen your obi and—”

“I’m perfectly all right now! Please don’t fuss, child.” Kiri exhaled and folded her hands over her ample stomach. “Oh Mariko-san, it’s so good to see a friendly face again from outside Osaka Castle.”

“Yes,” Sazuko echoed, nestling closer to Mariko, and said in a torrent, “whenever we go out of our gate Grays swarm around us like we were queen bees. We’re not allowed to leave the castle, except with the Council’s permission—none of the ladies are, even Lord Kiyama’s—and the Council almost never meets and they hem and haw so there’s never any permission and the doctor still says I’m not to travel yet but I’m fine and the baby’s fine and . . . But first tell us—”

Kiri interrupted, “First tell us how our Master is.”

The girl laughed, her vivacity undiminished. “I was going to ask that, Kiri-san!”

Mariko replied as Toranaga had ordered. “He’s committed to his course—he’s confident and content with his decision.” She had rehearsed herself many times during her journey. Even so the strength of the gloom she created almost made her want to blurt out the truth. “So sorry,” she said.

“Oh!” Sazuko tried not to sound frightened.

Kiri heaved herself to a more comfortable position. “Karma is karma, neh?”

“Then—then there’s no change—no hope?” the girl asked.

Kiri patted her hand. “Believe that karma is karma, child, and Lord Toranaga is the greatest, wisest man alive. That is enough, the rest is illusion. Mariko-chan, do you have messages for us?”

“Oh, so sorry. Yes, here.” Mariko took the three scrolls from her sleeve. “Two for you, Kiri-chan—one from our Master, one from Lord Hiro-matsu. This is for you, Sazuko, from your Lord, but he told me to tell you he misses you and wants to see his newest son. He made me remember to tell you three times. He misses you very much and oh so wants to see his youngest son. He misses you very . . .”

Tears were spilling down the girl’s cheeks. She mumbled an apology and ran out of the room clutching the scroll.

“Poor child. It’s so very hard for her here.” Kiri did not break the seals of her scrolls. “You know about His Imperial Majesty being present?”

“Yes.” Mariko was equally grave. “A courier from Lord Toranaga caught up with me a week ago. The message gave no details other than that, and named the day he will arrive here. Have you heard from him?”

“Not directly—nothing private—not for a month now. How is he? Really?”

“Confident.” She sipped some saké. “Oh, may I pour for you?”

“Thank you.”

“Nineteen days isn’t much time, is it, Kiri-chan?”

“It’s time enough to go to Yedo and back again if you hurry, time enough to live a lifetime if you want, more than enough time to fight a battle or lose an Empire—time for a million things, but not enough time to eat all the rare dishes or drink all the saké. . . .” Kiri smiled faintly. “I’m certainly not going to diet for the next twenty days. I’m—” She stopped. “Oh, please excuse me—listen to me prattling on and you haven’t even changed or bathed. There’ll be plenty of time to talk later.”

“Oh, please don’t concern yourself. I’m not tired.”

“But you must be. You’ll stay at your house?”

“Yes. That’s where the General Lord Ishido’s pass permits me to go.” Mariko smiled wryly. “His welcome was flowery!”

Kiri scowled. “I doubt if he’d be welcome even in hell.”

“Oh? So sorry, what now?”

“Nothing more than before. I know he ordered the Lord Sugiyama murders and tortures though I’ve no proof. Last week one of Lord Oda’s consorts tried to sneak out with her children, disguised as a street cleaner. Sentries shot them ‘by mistake.’ ”

“How terrible!”

“Of course, great ‘apologies’! Ishido claims security is all important. There was a trumped-up assassination attempt on the Heir—that’s his excuse.”

“Why don’t the ladies leave openly?”

“The Council has ordered wives and families to wait for their husbands, who must return for the Ceremony. The great Lord General feels ‘the responsibility of their safety too gravely to allow them to wander.’ The castle’s locked tighter than an old oyster.”

“So is the outside, Kiri-san. There are many more barriers than before on the Tokaidō, and Ishido’s security’s very strong within fifty ri. Patrols everywhere.”

“Everyone’s frightened of him, except us and our few samurai, and we’re no more trouble to him than a pimple on a dragon’s rump.”

“Even our doctors?”

“Them too. Yes, they still advise us not to travel, even if it were permitted, which it will never be.”

“Is the Lady Sazuko fit—is the baby fit, Kiri-san?”

“Yes, you can see that for yourself. And so am I.” Kiri sighed, the strain showing now, and Mariko noticed there was much more gray in her hair than before. “Nothing’s changed since I wrote to Lord Toranaga at Anjiro. We’re hostages and we’ll stay hostages with all the rest until The Day. Then there’ll be a resolution.”

“Now that His Imperial Highness is arriving . . . that makes everything final, neh?”

“Yes. It would seem so. Go and rest, Mariko-chan, but eat with us tonight. Then we can talk, neh? Oh, by the way, one piece of news for you. Your famous barbarian hatamoto—bless him for saving our Master, we heard about that—he docked safely this morning, with Kasigi Yabu-san.”

“Oh! I was so worried about them. They left the day before I did by sea. We were also caught in part of the tai-fun, near Nagoya, but it wasn’t that bad for us. I was afraid at sea . . . Oh, that’s a relief.”

“It wasn’t too bad here except for the fires. Many thousands of homes burned but barely two thousand dead. We heard today that the main force of the storm hit Kyushu, on the east coast, and part of Shikoku. Tens of thousands died. No one yet knows the full extent of the damage.”

“But the harvest?” Mariko asked quickly.

“Much of it’s flattened here—fields upon fields. The farmers hope that it will recover but who knows? If there’s no damage to the Kwanto during the season, their rice may have to support the whole Empire this year and next.”

“It would be far better if Lord Toranaga controlled such a harvest than Ishido. Neh?”

“Yes. But, so sorry, nineteen days is not time enough to take in a harvest, with all the prayers in the world.”

Mariko finished her saké. “Yes.”

Kiri said, “If their ship left the day before you, you must have hurried.”

“I thought it best not to dawdle, Kiri-chan. It’s no pleasure for me to travel.”

“And Buntaro-san? He’s well?”

“Yes. He’s in charge of Mishima and all the border at the moment. I saw him briefly coming here. Do you know where Kasigi Yabu-sama’s staying? I have a message for him.”

“In one of the guest houses. I’ll find out which and send you word at once.” Kiri accepted more wine. “Thank you, Mariko-chan. I heard the Anjin-san’s still on the galley.”

“He’s a very interesting man, Kiri-san. He’s become more than a little useful to our Master.”

“I heard that. I want to hear everything about him and the earthquake and all your news. Oh yes, there’s a formal reception tomorrow evening for Lady Ochiba’s birthday, given by Lord Ishido. Of course you’ll be invited. I heard that the Anjin-san’s going to be invited too. The Lady Ochiba wanted to see what he looks like. You remember the Heir met him once. Wasn’t that the first time you saw him too?”

“Yes. Poor man, so he’s to be shown off, like a captive whale?”

“Yes.” Kiri added placidly, “With all of us. We’re all captives, Mariko-chan, whether we like it or not.”

Uraga hurried furtively down the alley toward the shore, the night dark, the sky clear and starlit, the air pleasant. He was dressed in the flowing orange robe of a Buddhist priest, his inevitable hat, and cheap straw sandals. Behind him were warehouses and the tall, almost European bulk of the Jesuit Mission. He turned a corner and redoubled his pace. Few people were about. A company of Grays carrying flares patrolled the shore. He slowed as he passed them courteously, though with a priest’s arrogance. The samurai hardly noticed him.

He went unerringly along the foreshore, past beached fishing boats, the smells of the sea and shore heavy on the slight breeze. It was low tide. Scattered over the bay and sandy shelves were night fishermen, like so many fireflies, hunting with spears under their flares. Ahead two hundred paces were the wharves and jetties, barnacle encrusted. Moored to one of them was a Jesuit lorcha, the flags of Portugal and the Company of Jesus fluttering, flares and more Grays near the gangway. He changed direction to skirt the ship, heading back into the city a few blocks, then cut down Nineteenth Street, turned into twisting alleys, and came out onto the road that followed the wharves once more.

“You! Halt!”

The order came out of the darkness. Uraga stopped in sudden panic. Grays came forward into the light and surrounded him. “Where’re you going, priest?”

“To the east of the city,” Uraga said haltingly, his mouth dry. “To our Nichiren shrine.”

“Ah, you’re Nichiren, neh?”

Another samurai said roughly, “I’m not one of those. I’m Zen Buddhist like the Lord General.”

“Zen—ah yes, Zen’s the best,” another said. “Wish I could understand that. It’s too hard for my old head.”

“He’s sweating a lot for a priest, isn’t he? Why are you sweating?”

“You mean priests don’t sweat?”

A few laughed and someone held a flare closer.

“Why should they sweat?” the rough man said. “All they do is sleep all day and pillow all night—nuns, boys, dogs, themselves, anything they can get—and all the time stuff themselves with food they’ve never labored for. Priests are parasites, like fleas.”

“Eh, leave him alone, he’s just—”

“Take off your hat, priest.”

Uraga stiffened. “Why? And why taunt a man who serves Buddha? Buddha’s doing you no—”

The samurai stepped forward pugnaciously. “I said take off your hat!”

Uraga obeyed. His head was newly shaven as a priest’s should be and he blessed whatever kami or spirit or gift from Buddha had prompted him to take that added precaution in case he was caught breaking curfew. All the Anjin-san’s samurai had been ordered confined to the vessel by the port authorities, pending instructions from higher up. “There’s no cause to have foul manners,” he flared with a Jesuit’s unconscious authority. “Serving Buddha’s an honorable life, and becoming a priest is honorable and should be the final part of every samurai’s old age. Or do you know nothing of bushido? Where are your manners?”

“What? You’re samurai?”

“Of course I’m samurai. How else would I dare to talk to samurai about bad manners?” Uraga put on his hat. “It would be better for you to be patrolling than accosting and insulting innocent priests!” He walked off haughtily, his knees weak.

The samurai watched him for a time, then one spat. “Priests!”

“He was right,” the senior samurai said sourly. “Where are your manners?”

“So sorry. Please excuse me.”

Uraga walked along the road, very proud of himself. Nearer the galley he became wary again and waited a moment in the lee of a building. Then, gathering himself together, he walked into the flare-lit area.

“Good evening,” he said politely to the Grays who lolled beside the gangplank, then added the religious blessing, “Namu Amida Butsu,” In the Name of the Buddha Amida.

“Thank you. Namu Amida Butsu.” The Grays let him pass without hindrance. Their orders were that the barbarian and all samurai were forbidden ashore except for Yabu and his honor guard. No one had said anything about the Buddhist priest who traveled with the ship.

Greatly tired now, Uraga came onto the main deck.

“Uraga-san,” Blackthorne called out softly from the quarterdeck. “Over here.”

Uraga squinted to adjust his eyes to the darkness. He saw Blackthorne and he smelt the stale, brassy body aroma and knew that the second shadow there had to be the other barbarian with the unpronounceable name who could also speak Portuguese. He had almost forgotten what it was like to be away from the barbarian odor that was part of his life. The Anjin-san was the only one he had met who did not reek, which was one reason why he could serve him.

“Ah, Anjin-san,” he whispered and picked his way over to him, briefly greeting the ten guards who were scattered around the deck.

He waited at the foot of the gangway until Blackthorne motioned him up onto the quarterdeck. “It went very—”

“Wait,” Blackthorne cautioned him as softly and pointed. “Look ashore. Over there, near the warehouse. See him? No, north a little—there, you see him now?” A shadow moved briefly, then merged into the darkness again.

“Who was it?”

“I’ve been watching you ever since you came into the road. He’s been dogging you. You never saw him?”

“No, Sire,” Uraga replied, his foreboding returning to him. “I saw no one, felt no one.”

“He didn’t have swords, so he wasn’t samurai. A Jesuit?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so—I was most careful there. Please excuse me that I didn’t see him.”

“Never mind.” Blackthorne glanced at Vinck. “Go below now, Johann. I’ll finish this watch and wake you at dawn. Thanks for waiting.”

Vinck touched his forelock and went below. The dank smell left with him. “I was getting worried about you,” Blackthorne said. “What happened?”

“Yabu-sama’s messenger was slow, Anjin-san. Here is my report: I went with Yabu-sama and waited outside the castle from noon till just after dark when—”

“What were you doing all that time? Exactly?”

“Exactly, Sire? I chose a quiet place near the marketplace in sight of First Bridge, and I put my mind into meditation—the Jesuit practice, Anjin-san, but not about God, only about you and Yabu-sama and your future, Sire.” Uraga smiled. “Many passersby put coins into my begging bowl. I let my body rest and my mind roam, though I watched the First Bridge all the time. Yabu-sama’s messenger came after dark and pretended to pray with me until we were quite alone. The messenger whispered this: ‘Yabu-sama says that he will be staying in the castle tonight and that he will return tomorrow morning. There is to be an official function in the castle tomorrow night that you will be invited to, given by General Lord Ishido. Finally, you should consider seventy.’ ” Uraga peered at him. “The samurai repeated that twice, so I presume it’s private code, Sire.”

Blackthorne nodded but did not volunteer that this was one of many prearranged signals between Yabu and himself. “Seventy” meant that he should ensure the ship was prepared for an instant retreat to sea. But with all his samurai, seamen, and rowers confined aboard, the ship was ready. And as everyone was very aware they were in enemy waters and all were greatly troubled, Blackthorne knew it would require no effort to get the ship headed out to sea.

“Go on, Uraga-san.”

“That was all except I was to tell you Toda Mariko-san arrived today.”

“Ah! Did she . . . Isn’t that a very fast time to make the land journey here from Yedo?”

“Yes, Sire. Actually, while I was waiting, I saw her company go across the bridge. It was in the afternoon, the middle of the Hour of the Goat. The horses were lathered and muddy and the bearers very tired. Yoshinaka-san led them.”

“Did any of them see you?”

“No, Sire. No, I don’t think so.”

“How many were there?”

“About two hundred samurai, with porters and baggage horses. Twice that number of Grays escorting them. One of the baggage horses had panniers of carrier pigeons.”

“Good. Next?”

“As soon as I was able, I left. There’s a noodle shop near the Mission that many merchants, rice and silk brokers, Mission people use. I—I went there and ate and listened. The Father-Visitor is again in residence here. Many more converts in Osaka area. Permission has been granted for a huge Mass in twenty days, in honor of Lords Kiyama and Onoshi.”

“Is that important?”

“Yes, and astonishing for such a service to be permitted openly. It is to celebrate the Feast of Saint Bernard. Twenty days is the day after the Obeisance Ceremony before the Exalted.”

Yabu had told Blackthorne about the Emperor through Uraga. The news had swept through the whole ship, increasing everyone’s premonition of disaster.

“What else?”

“In the marketplace many rumors. Most ill-omened. Yodoko-sama, the Taikō’s widow, is very sick. That’s bad, Anjin-san, because her counsel is always listened to and always reasonable. Some say Lord Toranaga is already near Nagoya, others say he’s not yet reached Odawara, so no one knows what to believe. All agree the harvest will be terrible this year, here in Osaka, which means the Kwanto becomes even more greatly important. Most people think civil war will begin as soon as Lord Toranaga’s dead, at which time the great daimyos will begin to fight among themselves. The price of gold is very high and interest rates up to seventy percent which—”

“That’s impossibly high, you must be mistaken.” Blackthorne got up and eased his back, then leaned wearily against the gunwale. Politely Uraga and all samurai got up too. It would have been bad manners for them to sit while their master stood.

“Please excuse me, Anjin-san,” Uraga was saying, “it’s never less than fifty percent, and usually sixty-five to seventy, even eighty. Almost twenty years ago the Father-Visitor petitioned the Holy Fa—petitioned the Pope, to allow us—to allow the Society to lend at ten percentage. He was right that his suggestion—it was approved, Anjin-san—would bring lusters to Christianity and many converts for, of course, only Christians could get loans, which were always modest. You don’t pay such highs in your country?”

“Rarely. That’s usury! You understand ‘usury’?”

“I understand the word, yes. But usury would not begin for us under one hundred percentage. I was going to tell you also now rice is very expensive and that’s a bad omen—it’s double what it was when I was here a few weeks ago. Land is cheap. Now would be a good time to buy land here. Or a house. In the tai-fun and fires perhaps ten thousand homes die, and two, three thousand people. That’s all, Anjin-san.”

“That’s very good. You’ve done very well. You’ve missed your real vocation!”

“Sire?”

“Nothing,” Blackthorne said, not yet knowing how far he could tease Uraga. “You’ve done very well.”

“Thank you, Sire.”

Blackthorne thought a moment, then asked him about the function tomorrow and Uraga advised him as best he could. Finally Uraga told him about his escape from the patrol.

“Would your hair have given you away?” Blackthorne asked.

“Oh yes. Enough for them to take me to their officer.” Uraga wiped the sweat off his forehead. “So sorry, it’s hot, neh?”

“Very,” Blackthorne agreed politely, and let his mind sift the information. He glanced seaward, unconsciously checking the sky and sea and wind. Everything was fine and orderly, the fishing boats complacently drifting with the tide, near and far, a spearman in the prow of each under a lantern stabbing down from time to time, and most always bringing up a fine bream or mullet or red snapper that curled and twisted on the spike.

“One last thing, Sire. I went to the Mission—all around the Mission. The guards were very alert and I could never get in there—at least, I don’t think so, not unless I went past one of them. I watched for a while, but before I left I saw Chimmoko, Lady Toda’s maid, go in.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. Another maid was with her. I think—”

“Lady Mariko? Disguised?”

“No, Sire. I’m sure it was not—this second maid was too tall.”

Blackthorne looked seaward again and murmured, half to himself, “What’s the significance of that?”

“Lady Mariko is Chris—she’s Catholic, neh? She knows the Father-Visitor very well. It was he who converted her. Lady Mariko is the most very important Lady, the most famous in the realm, after the three highest nobility: the Lady Ochiba, the Lady Genjiko, and Yodoko-sama, the wife of the Taikō.”

“Mariko-san might want Confession? Or a Mass? Or a conference? She sent Chimmoko to arrange them?”

“Any or all, Anjin-san. All ladies of the daimyos, both of friends to the Lord General and of those who might oppose him, are confined very much to the castle, neh? Once in, they stay in, like fish in a golden bowl, waiting to be speared.”

“Leave it! Enough of your doom talk.”

“So sorry. Even so, Anjin-san, I think now the Lady Toda will come out no more. Until the nineteenth day.”

“I told you to leave it! I understand about hostages and a last day.” It was quiet on deck, all their voices muted. The guard was resting easily, waiting out their watch. Small water lapped the hull and the ropes creaked pleasantly.

After a moment, Uraga said, “Perhaps Chimmoko brought a summons—a request for the Father-Visitor to go to her. She was surely under guard when she crossed First Bridge. Surely Toda Mariko-noh-Buntaro-noh-Jinsai was under guard from the first moments she crossed from Lord Toranaga’s borders. Neh?”

“Can we know if the Father-Visitor goes to the castle?”

“Yes. That is easy.”

“How to know what’s said—or what’s done?”

“That is very hard. Very sorry, but they would speak Portuguese or Latin, neh? And who speaks both but you and me? I would be recognized by both.” Uraga motioned at the castle and at the city. “There are many Christians there. Any would gain great favor by removing you, or me—neh?”

Blackthorne did not answer. No answer was needed. He was seeing the donjon etched against the stars and he remembered Uraga telling him about the legendary, limitless treasure it protected, the Taikō’s plunder-levy of the Empire. But now his mind was on what Toranaga might be doing and thinking and planning, and exactly where Mariko was and what was the use of going on to Nagasaki. ‘Then you’re saying the nineteenth day is the last day, a death day, Yabu-san?’ he had repeated, almost nauseated by the knowledge that the trap was sprung on Toranaga. And therefore on him and Erasmus.

“Shigata ga nai! We go quickly Nagasaki and back again. Quick, understand? Only four days to get men. Then come back.’

‘But why? When Toranaga here, all die, neh?’ he had said. But Yabu had gone ashore, telling him that the day after tomorrow they would leave. In a ferment he had watched him go, wishing that he had brought Erasmus and not the galley. If he had had Erasmus he knew that he would have somehow bypassed Osaka and headed straight for Nagasaki, or even more probably, he would have limped off over the horizon to find some snug harbor and taken time out from eternity to train his vassals to work the ship.

You’re a fool, he flayed himself. With the few crew you’ve got now you couldn’t have docked her here, let alone found that harbor to wait out the devil storm. You’d be dead already.

“No worry, Sire. Karma,” Uraga was saying.

“Aye. Karma.” Then Blackthorne heard danger seaward and his body moved before his mind ordered it and he was twisting as the arrow swooshed past, missed him fractionally to shudder into the bulkhead. He lunged at Uraga to pull him down to safety as another arrow of the same volley hissed into Uraga’s throat, impaling him, and then they were both cowering in safety on the deck, Uraga shrieking and samurai shouting and peering over the gunwale out to sea. Grays from the shore guard poured aboard. Another volley came out of the night from the sea and everyone scattered for cover. Blackthorne crawled to the gunwale and peeped through a scupper and saw a nearby fishing boat dousing its flare to vanish into the darkness. All the boats were doing the same, and for a split second he saw scullers pulling away frantically, light glinting off swords and bows.

Uraga’s shrieking subsided into a burbling, gut-shattering agony as Grays rushed onto the quarterdeck, bows ready, the whole ship now in an uproar. Vinck came on deck fast, pistol ready, ducked over as he ran. “Christ, what’s going on—you all right, Pilot?”

“Yes. Watch out—they’re in the fishing boats!” Blackthorne slithered back to Uraga, who was clawing at the shaft, blood seeping from his nose and mouth and ears.

“Jesus,” Vinck gasped.

Blackthorne took hold of the arrow’s barb with one hand and put his other on the warm, pulsing flesh and pulled with all his strength. The arrow came out cleanly but in its wake blood gushed in a pumping stream. Uraga began to choke.

Now Grays and Blackthorne’s own samurai surrounded them. Some had brought shields and they covered Blackthorne, heedless of their own safety. Others quaked in safety though the danger was over. Others were raging at the night, firing at the night, ordering the vanished fishing boats back.

Blackthorne held Uraga in his arms helplessly, knowing there was something he should do but not knowing what, knowing nothing could be done, the frantic sick-sweet-death smell clogging his nostrils, his brain shrieking as always, ‘Christ Jesus, thank God it’s not my blood, not mine, thank God.’

He saw Uraga’s eyes begging, the mouth working with no sound but choking, the chest heaving, then he saw his own fingers move of themselves and they made the sign of the cross before the eyes and he felt Uraga’s body shuddering, fluttering, the mouth howling soundlessly, reminding him of any one of the impaled fish.

It took Uraga a hideous time to die.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Now Blackthorne was walking in the castle with his honor guard of twenty vassals surrounded by ten times that number of escorting Grays. Proudly he wore a new uniform, Brown kimono with the five Toranaga ciphers and, for the first time, a formal, huge-winged over-mantle. His golden wavy hair was tied in a neat queue. The swords that Toranaga had given him jutted from his sash correctly. His feet were encased in new tabi and thonged sandals.

Grays in abundance were at every intersection, covering every battlement, in a vast show of Ishido strength, for every daimyo and general and every samurai officer of importance in Osaka had been invited tonight to the Great Hall that the Taikō had built within the inner ring of fortifications. The sun was down and night arriving quickly.

It’s terrible luck to lose Uraga, Blackthorne was thinking, still not knowing if the attack had been against Uraga or himself. I’ve lost the best source of knowledge I could ever have.

“At noon you go castle, Anjin-san,” Yabu had said this morning, when he had returned to the galley. “Grays come for you. You understand?”

“Yes, Yabu-sama.”

“Quite safe now. Sorry about attack. Shigata ga nai! Grays take you safe place. Tonight you stay in castle. Toranaga part of castle. Also next day we go Nagasaki.”

“We have permission?” he had asked.

Yabu shook his head with exasperation. “Pretend go Mishima to collect Lord Hiro-matsu. Also Lord Sudara and family. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Sleep now, Anjin-san. Don’t worry about attack. Now all boats ordered stay away from here. It’s kinjiru here now.”

“I understand. Please excuse me, what happens tonight? Why me to castle?”

Yabu had smiled his twisted smile and told him he was on show, that Ishido was curious to see him again. “As a guest you’ll be safe,” and he had left the galley once more.

Blackthorne had gone below, leaving Vinck on watch, but the moment he was deeply asleep Vinck was tugging him awake and he rushed on deck again.

A small Portuguese twenty-cannon frigate was barreling into harbor, the bit between her teeth, heeled over under a full press of canvas.

“Bastard’s in a hurry,” Vinck said, quaking.

“Got to be Rodrigues. No one else’d come in with all that sail.”

“If I was you, Pilot, I’d get us the hell away from here on the tide, or without the tide. Christ Jesus, we’re like moths in a grog bottle. Let’s get out—”

“We stay! Can’t you get it through your head? We stay until we’re allowed to leave. We stay until Ishido says we can go even if the Pope and the King of Spain come ashore together with the whole God-cursed Armada!”

Again he had gone below but sleep had avoided him. At noon, Grays arrived. Heavily escorted, he went with them to the castle. They wound through the city passing the execution ground, the five crosses still there, figures still being tied up and taken down, each cross with its two spears-men, the crowd watching. He had relived that agony and the terror of the ambush, and the feel of his hand on the hilt of his sword, the kimono about him, his own vassals with him, did not lessen his dread.

The Grays had guided him to Toranaga’s part of the castle that he had visited the first time, where Kiritsubo and the Lady Sazuko and her child were still ensconced, along with the remainder of Toranaga’s samurai. There he had had a bath and found the new clothes that had been laid out for him.

“Is Lady Mariko here?”

“No, Sire, so sorry,” the servant had told him.

“Then where can I find her, please? I have urgent message.”

“So sorry, Anjin-san, I don’t know. Please excuse me.”

None of the servants would help him. All said, “So sorry, I don’t know.”

He had dressed, then referred to his dictionary, remembering key words that he would need and prepared as best he could. Then he went into the garden to watch the rocks growing. But they never grew.

Now he was walking across the innermost moat. Flares were everywhere.

He shook off his anxiety and stepped out onto the wooden bridge. Other guests with Grays were all around heading the same way. He could feel them watching him covertly.

His feet took him under the final portcullis and his Grays led through the maze again up to the huge door. Here they left him. So did his own men. They went to one side with other samurai to await him. He went forward into the flare-lit maw.

It was an immense, high-raftered room with a golden ornamented ceiling. Gold-paneled columns supported the rafters, which were made of rare and polished woods and cherished like the hangings on the walls. Five hundred samurai and their ladies were there, wearing all the colors of the rainbow, their fragrances mingling with incense perfume from the precious woods that smoked on tiny wall braziers. Blackthorne’s eyes raced over the crowd to find Mariko, or Yabu, or any friendly face. But he found none. To one side was a line of guests who waited to bow before the raised platform at the far end. The courtier, Prince Ogaki Takamoto, was standing there. Blackthorne recognized Ishido—tall, lean, and autocratic—also beside the platform, and he remembered vividly the blinding power of the man’s blow on his face, and then his own fingers knotting around the man’s throat.

On the platform, alone, was the Lady Ochiba. She sat comfortably on a cushion. Even from this distance he could see the exquisite richness of her kimono, gold threads on the rarest blue-black silk. “The Most High,” Uraga had called her in awe, telling him much about her and her history during their journey.

She was slight, almost girlish in build, with a luminous glow to her fair skin. Her sloe eyes were large under painted, arched brows, her hair set like a winged helmet.

The procession of guests crept forward. Blackthorne was standing to one side in a pool of light, a head taller than those nearby. Politely he stepped aside to get out of the way of some passing guests and saw Ochiba’s eyes turn to him. Now Ishido was looking at him too. They said something to each other and her fan moved. Their eyes returned to him. Uneasily he went toward a wall to become less conspicuous but a Gray barred his way. “Dozo,” this samurai said politely, motioning at the line.

“Hai, domo,” Blackthorne said and joined it.

Those in front bowed and others that came after him bowed. He returned their bows. Soon all conversation died. Everyone was looking at him.

Embarrassed, the men and women ahead in the line moved out of his way. Now no one was between him and the platform. He stood rigid momentarily. Then, in the utter silence, he walked forward.

In front of the platform he knelt and bowed formally, once to her and once to Ishido as he had seen others do. He got up again, petrified that his swords would fall or that he would slip and be disgraced, but everything went satisfactorily and he began to back away.

“Please wait, Anjin-san,” she said.

He waited. Her luminosity seemed to have increased, and her femininity. He felt the extraordinary sensuality that surrounded her, without conscious effort on her part.

“It is said that you speak our language?” Her voice was unaccountably personal.

“Please excuse me, Highness,” Blackthorne began, using his time-tried stock phrase, stumbling slightly in his nervousness. “So sorry, but I have to use short words and respectfully ask you to use very simple words to me so that I may have the honor of understanding you.” He knew that without doubt his life could easily depend on his answers. All attention in the room was on them now. Then he noticed Yabu moving carefully through the throng, coming closer. “May I respectfully congratulate you on your birthday and pray that you live to enjoy a thousand more.”

“These are hardly simple words, Anjin-san,” Lady Ochiba said, very impressed.

“Please excuse me, Highness. I learn that last night. The right way to say, neh?”

“Who taught you that?”

“Uraga-noh-Tadamasa, my vassal.”

She frowned, then glanced at Ishido, who bent forward and spoke, too rapidly for Blackthorne to catch anything other than the word “arrows.”

“Ah, the renegade Christian priest who was killed last night on your ship?”

“Highness?”

“The man—samurai who was killed, neh? Last night on ship. You understand?”

“Ah, so sorry. Yes, him.” Blackthorne glanced at Ishido, then back at her. “Please excuse me, Highness, your permission greet the Lord General?”

“Yes, you have that permission.”

“Good evening, Lord General,” Blackthorne said with studied politeness. “Last time meet, I very terrible mad. So sorry.”

Ishido returned the bow perfunctorily. “Yes, you were. And very impolite. I hope you won’t get mad tonight or any other night.”

“Very mad that night, please excuse me.”

“That madness is usual among barbarians, neh?”

Such public rudeness to a guest was very bad. Blackthorne’s eyes flashed to Lady Ochiba for an instant and he discerned surprise in her too. So he gambled. “Ah, Lord General, you are most very right. Barbarian always same madness. But, so sorry, now I am samurai—hatamoto—this great, so very great honor to me. I am no longer barbarian.” He used his quarterdeck voice which carried without shouting and filled all the corners of the room. “Now I understand samurai manners—and little bushido. And wa. I am no longer barbarian, please excuse. Neh?” He spoke the last word as a challenge, unafraid. He knew that Japanese understood masculinity and pride, and honored them.

Ishido laughed. “So, samurai Anjin-san,” he said, jovial now. “Yes, I accept your apology. Rumors about your courage are true. Good, very good. I should apologize also. Terrible that filthy ronin could do such a thing, you understand? Attack in night?”

“Yes, I understand, Sire. Very bad. Four men dead. One of my, three Grays.”

“Listen, bad, very bad. Don’t worry, Anjin-san. No more.” Thoughtfully Ishido glanced at the room. Everyone understood him very clearly. “Now I order guards. Understand? Very careful guards. No more assassin attacks. None. You very carefully guarded now. Quite safe in castle.”

“Thank you. So sorry for trouble.”

“No trouble. You important, neh? You samurai. You have special samurai place with Lord Toranaga. I don’t forget—never fear.”

Blackthorne thanked Ishido again and turned to the Lady Ochiba. “Highness, in my land we has Queen—have Queen. Please excuse my bad Japanese. . . . Yes, my land rule by Queen. In my land we have custom always must give lady birthday gift. Even Queen.” From the pocket in his sleeve he took out the pink camellia blossom that he had cut off a tree in the garden. He laid it in front of her, fearful he was overreaching himself. “Please excuse me if not good manners to give.”

She looked at the flower. Five hundred people waited breathlessly to see how she would respond to the daring and the gallantry of the barbarian—and the trap he had, perhaps, unwittingly placed her in.

“I am not a Queen, Anjin-san,” she said slowly. “Only the mother of the Heir and widow of the Lord Taikō. I cannot accept your gift as a Queen for I am not a Queen, could never be a Queen, do not pretend to be a Queen, and do not wish to be a Queen.” Then she smiled at the room and said to everyone, “But as a lady on her birthday, perhaps I may have your permission to accept the Anjin-san’s gift?”

The room burst into applause. Blackthorne bowed and thanked her, having understood only that the gift was accepted. When the crowd was silent again, Lady Ochiba called out, “Mariko-san, your pupil does you credit, neh?”

Mariko was coming through the guests, a youth beside her. Near them he recognized Kiritsubo and the Lady Sazuko. He saw the youth smile at a young girl then, self-consciously, catch up with Mariko. “Good evening, Lady Toda,” Blackthorne said, then added dangerously in Latin, intoxicated by his success, “The evening is more beautiful because of thy presence.”

“Thank you, Anjin-san,” she replied in Japanese, her cheeks coloring. She walked up to the platform, but the youth stayed within the circle of onlookers. Mariko bowed to Ochiba. “I have done little, Ochiba-sama. It’s all the Anjin-san’s work and the word book that the Christian Fathers gave him.”

“Ah yes, the word book!” Ochiba made Blackthorne show it to her and, with Mariko’s help, explain it elaborately. She was fascinated. So was Ishido. “We must get copies, Lord General. Please order them to give us a hundred of the books. With these, our young men could soon learn barbarian, neh?”

“Yes. It’s a good idea, Lady. The sooner we have our own interpreters, the better.” Ishido laughed. “Let Christians break their own monopoly, neh?”

An iron-gray samurai in his sixties who stood in the front of the guests said, “Christians own no monopoly, Lord General. We ask the Christian Fathers—in fact we insist that they be interpreters and negotiators because they’re the only ones who can talk to both sides and are trusted by both sides. Lord Goroda began the custom, neh? And then the Taikō continued it.”

“Of course, Lord Kiyama, I meant no disrespect to daimyos or samurai who have become Christian. I referred only to the monopoly of the Christian priests,” Ishido said. “It would be better for us if our people and not foreign priests—any priests for that matter—controlled our trade with China.”

Kiyama said, “There’s never been a case of fraud, Lord General. Prices are fair, the trade is easy and efficient, and the Fathers control their own people. Without the Southern Barbarians there’s no silk, no China trade. Without the Fathers we could have much trouble. Very much trouble, so sorry. Please excuse me for mentioning it.”

“Ah, Lord Kiyama,” the Lady Ochiba said, “I’m sure Lord Ishido is honored that you correct him, isn’t that so, Lord General? What would the Council be without Lord Kiyama’s advice?”

“Of course,” Ishido said.

Kiyama bowed stiffly, not unpleased. Ochiba glanced at the youth and fluttered her fan. “How about you, Saruji-san? Perhaps you would like to learn barbarian?”

The boy blushed under their scrutiny. He was slim and handsome and tried hard to be more manly than his almost fifteen years. “Oh, I hope I wouldn’t have to do that, Ochiba-sama, oh no—but if it is ordered I will try. Yes, I’d try very hard.”

They laughed at his ingenuousness. Mariko said proudly in Japanese, “Anjin-san, this is my son, Saruji.” Blackthorne had been concentrating on their conversation, most of which was too fast and too vernacular for him to comprehend. But he had heard “Kiyama,” and an alarm went off. He bowed to Saruji and the bow was formally returned. “He’s a very fine man, neh? Lucky have such a fine son, Mariko-sama.” His veiled eyes were looking at the youth’s right hand. It was permanently twisted. Then he remembered that once Mariko had told him her son’s birth had been prolonged and difficult. Poor lad, he thought. How can he use a sword? He took his eyes away. No one had noticed the direction of his glance except Saruji. He saw embarrassment and pain in the youth’s face.

“Lucky have fine son,” he said to Mariko. “But surely impossible, Mariko-sama, you have such big son—not enough years, neh?”

Ochiba said, “Are you always so gallant, Anjin-san? Do you always say such clever things?”

“Please?”

“Ah, always so clever? Compliments? Do you understand?”

“No, so sorry, please excuse me.” Blackthorne’s head was aching from concentration. Even so, when Mariko told him what had been said he replied with mock gravity, “Ah, so sorry, Mariko-sama. If Saruji-san is truly your son, please tell the Lady Ochiba I did not know that ladies here were married at ten.”

She translated. Then added something that made them laugh.

“What did you say?”

“Ah!” Mariko noticed Kiyama’s baleful eyes on Blackthorne. “Please excuse me, Lord Kiyama, may I introduce the Anjin-san to you?”

Kiyama acknowledged Blackthorne’s very correct bow politely. “They say you claim to be a Christian?”

“Please?”

Kiyama did not deign to repeat it so Mariko translated.

“Ah, so sorry, Lord Kiyama,” Blackthorne said in Japanese. “Yes. I’m Christian—but different sect.”

“Your sect is not welcome in my lands. Nor in Nagasaki—or Kyushu, I’d imagine—or in any lands of any Christian daimyos.”

Mariko kept her smile in place. She was wondering if Kiyama had personally ordered the Amida assassin, and also the attack last night. She translated, taking the edge off Kiyama’s discourtesy, everyone in the room listening intently.

“I’m not a priest, Lord,” Blackthorne said, direct to Kiyama. “If I in your land—only trade. No priest talk or teach. Respectfully ask trade only.”

“I do not want your trade. I do not want you in my lands. You are forbidden my lands on pain of death. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand,” Blackthorne said. “So sorry.”

“Good.” Kiyama haughtily turned to Ishido. “We should exclude this sect and these barbarians completely from the Empire. I will propose this at the Council’s next meeting. I must say openly that I think Lord Toranaga was ill-advised to make any foreigner, particularly this man, samurai. It’s a very dangerous precedent.”

“Surely that’s unimportant! All the mistakes of the present Lord of the Kwanto will be corrected very soon. Neh?”

“Everyone makes mistakes, Lord General,” Kiyama said pointedly. “Only God is all-seeing and perfect. The only real mistake Lord Toranaga has ever made is to put his own interests before those of the Heir.”

“Yes,” Ishido said.

“Please excuse me,” Mariko said. “But that’s not true. I’m sorry, but you’re both mistaken about my Master.”

Kiyama turned on her. Politely. “It’s perfectly correct for you to take that position, Mariko-san. But, please let’s not discuss that tonight. So, Lord General, where is Lord Toranaga now? What’s your latest news?”

“By yesterday’s carrier pigeon, I heard he was at Mishima. Now I’m getting daily reports on his progress.”

“Good. Then in two days he’ll leave his own borders?” Kiyama asked.

“Yes. Lord Ikawa Jikkyu is ready to welcome him as his position merits.”

“Good.” Kiyama smiled at Ochiba. He was very fond of her. “On that day, Lady, in honor of the occasion, perhaps you would ask the Heir if he would allow the Regents to bow before him?”

“The Heir would be honored, Sire,” she replied, to applause. “And afterwards perhaps, you and everyone here would be his guests at a poetry competition. Perhaps the Regents would be the judges?”

There was more applause.

“Thank you, but please, perhaps you and Prince Ogaki and some of the ladies would be the judges.”

“Very well, if you wish.”

“Now, Lady, what’s the theme to be? And the first line of the poem?” Kiyama asked, very pleased, for he was renowned for his poetry as well as his swordsmanship and ferocity in war.

“Please, Mariko-san, would you answer Lord Kiyama?” Ochiba said, and again many there admired her adroitness—she was an indifferent poetess where Mariko was renowned.

Mariko was glad the time had come to begin. She thought a moment. Then she said, “It should be about today, Lady Ochiba, and the first line: ‘On a leafless branch . . .’ ”

Ochiba and all of them complimented her on her choice. Kiyama was genial now, and said, “Excellent, but we’ll have to be very good to compete with you, Mariko-san.”

“I hope you will excuse me, Sire, but I won’t be competing.”

“Of course you’ll compete!” Kiyama laughed. “You’re one of the best in the realm! It wouldn’t be the same if you didn’t.”

“So sorry, Sire, please excuse me, but I will not be here.”

“I don’t understand.”

Ochiba said, “What do you mean, Mariko-chan?”

“Oh, please excuse me, Lady,” Mariko said, “but I’m leaving Osaka tomorrow—with the Lady Kiritsubo and the Lady Sazuko.”

Ishido’s smile vanished. “Leaving for where?”

“To meet our liege Lord, Sire.”

“He—Lord Toranaga will be here in a few days, neh?”

“It’s months since the Lady Sazuko has seen her husband, and my Lord Toranaga hasn’t yet had the pleasure of seeing his newest son. Naturally the Lady Kiritsubo will accompany us. It’s been equally long since he’s seen the Mistress of his Ladies, neh?”

“Lord Toranaga will be here so soon that to go to meet him isn’t necessary.”

“But I think it is necessary, Lord General.”

Ishido said crisply, “You’ve only just arrived and we’ve been looking forward to your company, Mariko-san. The Lady Ochiba particularly. I agree again with Lord Kiyama, of course you must compete.”

“So sorry, but I will not be here.”

“Obviously you’re tired, Lady. You’ve just arrived. Certainly this is hardly the time to discuss such a private matter.” Ishido turned to Ochiba. “Perhaps, Lady Ochiba, you should greet the remainder of the guests?”

“Yes—yes, of course,” Ochiba said, flustered. At once the line began to form up obediently and nervous conversation began, but the silence fell again as Mariko said, “Thank you, Lord General. I agree, but this isn’t a private matter and there’s nothing to discuss. I am leaving tomorrow to pay my respects to my liege Lord, with his ladies.”

Ishido said coldly, “You are here, Lady, at the personal invitation of the Son of Heaven, together with the welcome of the Regents. Please be patient. Your lord will be here very soon now.”

“I agree, Sire. But His Imperial Majesty’s invitation is for the twenty-second day. It does not order me—or anyone—confined to Osaka until that time. Or does it?”

“You forget your manners, Lady Toda.”

“Please excuse me, that was the last thing I intended. So sorry, I apologize.” Mariko turned to Ogaki, the courtier. “Lord, does the Exalted’s invitation require me to stay here until He arrives?”

Ogaki’s smile was set. “The invitation is for the twenty-second day of this month, Lady. It requires your presence then.”

“Thank you, Sire.” Mariko bowed and faced the platform again. “It requires my presence then, Lord General. Not before. So I shall leave tomorrow.”

“Please be patient, Lady. The Regents have welcomed you and there are many preparations on which they’ll need your assistance, against the Exalted’s arrival. Now, Lady Ochi—”

“So sorry, Sire, but the orders of my liege Lord take precedence. I must leave tomorrow.”

“You will not leave tomorrow and you are asked, no, begged, Mariko-san, to take part in the Lady Ochiba’s competition. Now, Lady—”

“Then I am confined here—against my will?”

Ochiba said, “Mariko-san, let’s leave the matter now, please?”

“So sorry, Ochiba-sama, but I am a simple person. I’ve said openly I have orders from my liege Lord. If I cannot obey them I must know why. Lord General, am I confined here until the twenty-second day? If so, by whose orders?”

“You are an honored guest,” Ishido told her carefully, willing her to submit. “I repeat, Lady, your lord will be here soon enough.”

Mariko felt his power and she fought to resist it. “Yes, but so sorry, again I respectfully ask: Am I confined to Osaka for the next eighteen days and if so, on whose orders?”

Ishido kept his eyes riveted on her. “No, you are not confined.”

“Thank you, Sire. Please excuse me for speaking so directly,” Mariko said. Many of the ladies in the room turned to their neighbors, and some whispered openly what all those held against their will in Osaka were thinking: ‘If she can go, so can I, neh? So can you, neh? I’m going tomorrow—oh, how wonderful!’

Ishido’s voice cut through the undercurrent of whispering. “But, Lady Toda, since you’ve chosen to speak in this presumptuous fashion, I feel it is my duty to ask the Regents for a formal rejection—in case others might share your misunderstanding.” He smiled mirthlessly in the frozen hush. “Until that time you will hold yourself in readiness to answer their questions and receive the ruling.”

Mariko said, “I would be honored, Sire, but my duty is to my liege Lord.”

“Of course. But this will only be for a few days.”

“So sorry, Sire, but my duty is to my liege Lord for the next few days.”

“You will possess yourself with patience, Lady. It will take but a little time. This matter is ended. Now, Lord Ki—”

“So sorry, but I cannot delay my departure for a little time.”

Ishido bellowed, “You refuse to obey the Council of Regents?”

“No, Sire,” Mariko said proudly. “Not unless they trespass on my duty to my liege Lord, which is a samurai’s paramount duty!”

“You-will-hold-yourself-ready-to-meet-the-Regents-with-filial-patience!”

“So sorry, I am ordered by my liege Lord to escort his ladies to meet him. At once.” She took a scroll out of her sleeve and handed it to Ishido formally.

He tore it open and scanned it. Then he looked up and said, “Even so, you will wait for a ruling from the Regents.”

Mariko looked hopefully to Ochiba but there was only bleak disapproval there. She turned to Kiyama. Kiyama was equally silent, equally unmoved.

“Please excuse me, Lord General, but there’s no war,” she began. “My Master’s obeying the Regents, so for the next eighteen—”

“This matter is closed!”

“This matter is closed, Lord General, when you have the manners to let me finish! I’m no peasant to be trodden on. I’m Toda Mariko-noh-Buntaro-noh-Hiro-matsu, daughter of the Lord Akechi Jinsai, my line’s Takashima and we’ve been samurai for a thousand years and I say I will never be captive or hostage or confined. For the next eighteen days and until the day, by fiat of the Exalted, I am free to go as I please—as is anyone.”

“Our—our Master, the Taikō, was once a peasant. Many—many samurai are peasants, were peasants. Every daimyo was, once, in the past, peasant. Even the first Takashima. Everyone was peasant once. Listen carefully: You-will-await the-pleasure-of-the-Regents.”

“No. So sorry, my first duty is obedience to my liege Lord.”

Enraged, Ishido began to walk toward her.

Although Blackthorne had understood almost nothing of what had been said, his right hand slid unnoticed into his left sleeve to prepare the concealed throwing knife.

Ishido stood over her. “You-will—”

At that moment there was a movement at the doorway. A tearstained maid weaved through the throng and ran up to Ochiba. “Please excuse me, Mistress,” she whimpered, “but it’s Yodoko-sama—she’s asking for you, she’s . . . You must hurry, the Heir’s already there. . . .”

Worriedly Ochiba looked back at Mariko and at Ishido, then at the faces staring up at her. She half bowed to her guests and hurried away. Ishido hesitated. “I’ll deal with you later, Mariko-san,” he said, then followed Ochiba, his footsteps heavy on the tatamis.

In his wake the whispering began to ebb and flow again. Bells tolled the hour change.

Blackthorne walked over to Mariko. “Mariko-san,” he asked, “what’s happening?”

She continued to stare sightlessly at the platform. Kiyama took his cramped hand off his sword hilt and flexed it. “Mariko-san!”

“Yes? Yes, Sire?”

“May I suggest you go back to your house. Perhaps I may be permitted to talk to you later—say, at the Hour of the Boar?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Please—please excuse me but I had to . . .” Her words trailed away.

“This is an ill-omened day, Mariko-san. May God take you into His keeping.” Kiyama turned his back on her and spoke to the room with authority. “I suggest we return to our homes to wait . . . to wait and to pray that the Infinite may take the Lady Yodoko quickly and easily and with honor into His peace, if her time has come.” He glanced at Saruji, who was still transfixed. “You come with me.” He walked out. Saruji began to follow, not wanting to leave his mother, but impelled by the order and intimidated by the attention on him.

Mariko made a half bow to the room and started to leave. Kiri licked her dry lips. Lady Sazuko was beside her, tremulously apprehensive. Kiri took the Lady Sazuko’s hand and together the two women followed Mariko. Yabu stepped forward with Blackthorne and they strode out behind them, very conscious that they were the only samurai present wearing Toranaga’s uniform.

Outside, Grays awaited them.

“But what in the name of all gods possessed you to take such a stand? Stupid, neh?” Yabu stormed at her.

“So sorry,” Mariko said, hiding the true reason, wishing Yabu would leave her in peace, furious at his foul manners. “It just happened, Sire. One moment it was a birthday celebration and then . . . I don’t know. Please excuse me, Yabu-sama. Please excuse me, Anjin-san.”

Again Blackthorne began to say something but once more Yabu overrode him and he leaned back against the window post, completely aggravated, his head throbbing from the effort of trying to understand.

“So sorry, Yabu-sama,” Mariko said, and thought, how tiresome men are, they need everything explained in such detail. They can’t even see the hairs on their own eyelids.

“You’ve started a storm that’ll swallow us all! Stupid, neh?”

“Yes, but it’s not right we should be locked up and Lord Toranaga did give me orders that—”

“Those orders are mad! Devils must have taken possession of his head! You’ll have to apologize and back down. Now security’s going to be tighter than a gnat’s arsehole. Ishido will certainly cancel our permits to leave and you’ve ruined everything.” He looked across at Blackthorne. “Now what do we do?”

“Please?”

The three of them had just arrived in the main reception room of Mariko’s house that was within the outermost ring of fortifications. Grays had escorted them there and many more than usual were now stationed outside her gate. Kiri and the Lady Sazuko had gone to their own quarters with another “honor” guard of Grays, and Mariko had promised to join them after her meeting with Kiyama.

“But the guards won’t let you, Mariko-san,” Sazuko had said, distraught.

“Don’t worry,” she had said. “Nothing’s changed. Inside the castle we can move freely, though with escorts.”

“They’ll stop you! Oh, why did you—”

“Mariko-san’s right, child,” Kiri had said, unafraid. “Nothing’s changed. We’ll see you soon, Mariko-chan.” Then Kiri had led the way inside their castle wing and Browns had closed the fortified gate and Mariko had breathed again and come to her own house with Yabu and Blackthorne.

Now she was remembering how, when she was standing there alone, carrying the banner alone, she had seen Blackthorne’s right hand readying the throwing knife and she had become stronger because of it. Yes, Anjin-san, she thought. You’re the only one I knew I could count on. You were there when I needed you.

Her eyes went to Yabu, who sat cross-legged opposite her, grinding his teeth. That Yabu had taken a public stand in her support by following her out had surprised her. Because of his support, and because losing her own temper with him would achieve nothing, she dismissed his truculent insolence and began to play him. “Please excuse my stupidity, Yabu-sama,” she said, her voice now penitent and overlaid with tears. “Of course you’re right. So sorry, I’m just a stupid woman.”

“I agree! Stupid to oppose Ishido in his own nest, neh?”

“Yes, so sorry, please excuse me. May I offer you saké or cha?” Mariko clapped her hands. At once the inner door opened and Chimmoko appeared, her hair disheveled, her face frightened and puffed from weeping. “Bring cha and saké for my guests. And food. And make yourself presentable! How dare you appear like that! What do you think this is, a peasant cottage? You shame me before Lord Kasigi!”

Chimmoko fled in tears.

“So sorry, Sire. Please excuse her insolence.”

“Eh, that’s unimportant, neh? What about Ishido? Eeeee Lady . . . your shaft about ‘peasant,’ that hit the mark, that hurt the mighty Lord General. You’ve made such an enemy there now! Eeeeee, that took his Fruit and squeezed them before everyone!”

“Oh, do you think so? Oh, please excuse me, I didn’t mean to insult him.”

“Eh, he is a peasant, always has been, always will be, and he’s always hated those of us who are real samurai.”

“Oh, how clever of you, Lord, to know that. Oh, thank you for telling me.” Mariko bowed and appeared to brush away a tear and added, “May I please say that I feel so protected now—your strength . . . If it hadn’t been for you, Lord Kasigi, I think I would have fainted.”

“Stupid to attack Ishido in front of everyone,” Yabu said, slightly mollified.

“Yes. You’re right. It’s such a pity all our leaders aren’t as strong and as clever as you, Sire, then Lord Toranaga wouldn’t be in such trouble.”

“I agree. But you’ve still put us into a latrine up to our noses.”

“Please excuse me. Yes, it’s all my fault.” Mariko pretended to hold back tears bravely. She looked down and whispered, “Thank you, Sire, for accepting my apologies. You’re so generous.”

Yabu nodded, believing the praise merited, her servility necessary, and himself peerless. She apologized again, and soothed and cajoled him. Soon he was pliant. “May I please explain my stupidity to the Anjin-san? Perhaps he can suggest a way out of . . .” She let her words fade away penitently.

“Yes. Very well.”

Mariko bowed her grateful thanks, turned to Blackthorne, and spoke in Portuguese. “Please listen, Anjin-san, listen and don’t ask questions for the moment. So sorry, but first I had to calm this ill-tempered bastard—is that how you say it?” Quickly she told him what had been said, and why Ochiba had hurried off.

“That’s bad,” he said, his gaze searching her. “Neh?”

“Yes. Lord Yabu asks for your counsel. What should be done to overcome the mess my stupidity’s put you both into?”

“What stupidity?” Blackthorne was watching her and her disquiet increased. She looked down at the mats. He spoke directly to Yabu. “Don’t know yet, Sire. Now understand—now think.”

Yabu replied sourly, “What’s there to think about? We’re locked in.”

Mariko translated without looking up.

“That’s true, isn’t it, Mariko-san?” Blackthorne said. “That’s always been true.”

“Yes, so sorry.”

He turned away to stare into the night. Flares were placed in brackets on the stone walls that surrounded the front garden. Light flickered off the leaves and plants that had been watered for just that purpose. Westward was the iron-banded gate, guarded by a few Browns.

“Thou,” she heard him say, without turning back. “I must speak with thee in private.”

“Thou. Yes and I to thee,” she replied, keeping her face from Yabu, also not trusting herself. “Tonight I will find thee.” She looked up at Yabu. “The Anjin-san agrees with you, Sire, about my stupidity, so sorry.”

“But what’s the good of that now?”

“Anjin-san,” she said, her voice matter-of-fact, “later tonight I’m going to Kiritsubo-san. I know where your quarters are. I’ll find you.”

“Yes. Thank you.” He still kept his back to her.

“Yabu-sama,” she said humbly, “tonight I’m going to Kiritsubo-san. She’s wise—perhaps she’ll have a solution.”

“There’s only one solution,” Yabu said with a finality that unnerved her, his eyes coals. “Tomorrow you will apologize. And you will stay.”

Kiyama arrived punctually. Saruji was with him and her heart sank.

When the formal greetings were completed, Kiyama said gravely, “Now, please explain why, Mariko-chan.”

“There’s no war, Sire. We shouldn’t be confined—nor treated as hostages—so I can go as I please.”

“You don’t have to be at war to have hostages. You know that. The Lady Ochiba was hostage in Yedo against your master’s safety here and no one was at war. Lord Sudara and his family are hostage with his brother today, and they’re not at war. Neh?”

She kept her eyes lowered.

“There are many here who are hostages against the dutiful obedience of their lords to the Council of Regents, the legal rulers of the realm. That’s wise. It’s an ordinary custom. Neh?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Good. Now please tell me the real reason.”

“Sire?”

Kiyama said testily. “Don’t play games with me! I’m no peasant either! I want to know why you did what you did tonight.”

Mariko raised her eyes. “So sorry, but the Lord General simply annoyed me with his arrogance, Sire. I do have orders. There’s no harm in taking Kiri and Lady Sazuko away for a few days to meet our Master.”

“You know very well that’s impossible. Lord Toranaga must know that as well.”

“So sorry, but my Master gave me orders. A samurai doesn’t question his lord’s orders.”

“Yes. But I question them because they’re nonsense. Your master doesn’t deal in nonsense, or make mistakes. And I insist I have the right to question you as well.”

“Please excuse me, Sire, there’s nothing to discuss.”

“But there is. There’s Saruji to discuss. Also the fact that I’ve known you all your life, have honored you all your life. Hiro-matsu-sama is my oldest living friend and your father was a cherished friend and an honored ally of mine, until the last fourteen days of his life.”

“A samurai doesn’t question the orders of a liege lord.”

“Now you can do only one of two things, Mariko-chan. You apologize and stay, or you try to leave. If you try to leave you will be stopped.”

“Yes. I understand.”

“You will apologize tomorrow. I will call a meeting of the Regents and they will give a ruling about this whole matter. Then you will be allowed to go with Kiritsubo and the Lady Sazuko.”

“Please excuse me, how long will that take?”

“I don’t know. A few days.”

“So sorry, I don’t have a few days, I am ordered to leave at once.”

“Look at me!” She obeyed. “I, Kiyama Ukon-noh-Odanaga, Lord of Higo, Satsuma, and Osumi, a Regent of Japan, from the line Fujimoto, chief Christian daimyo of Japan, I ask you to stay.”

“So sorry. My liege Lord forbids me to stay.”

“Don’t you understand what I’m telling you?”

“Yes, Sire. But I have no choice, please excuse me.”

He motioned toward her son. “The betrothal between my granddaughter and Saruji . . . I can hardly allow this to go forward if you’re disgraced.”

“Yes, yes, Sire,” Mariko replied, misery in her eyes. “I understand that.” She saw the desperation in the boy. “So sorry, my son. But I must do my duty.”

Saruji started to say something but changed his mind and then, after a moment, he said, “Please excuse me, Mother, but isn’t . . . isn’t your duty to the Heir more important than your duty to Lord Toranaga? The Heir’s our real liege lord, neh?”

She thought about that. “Yes, my son. And no. Lord Toranaga has jurisdiction over me, the Heir does not.”

“Then doesn’t that mean Lord Toranaga has jurisdiction over the Heir, too?”

“No, so sorry.”

“Please excuse me, Mother, I don’t understand, but it seems to me if the Heir gives an order, he must overrule our Lord Toranaga.”

She did not reply.

“Answer him,” Kiyama barked.

“Was that your thought, my son? Or did someone put it into your head?”

Saruji frowned, trying to remember. “We—Lord Kiyama and—and his Lady—we discussed it. And the Father-Visitor. I don’t remember. I think I thought of it myself. The Father-Visitor said I was correct, didn’t he, Sire?”

“He said the Heir is more important than Lord Toranaga in the realm. Legally. Please answer him directly, Mariko-san.”

Mariko said, “If the Heir was a man, of age, Kwampaku, legal ruler of this realm like the Taikō, his father, was, then I would obey him over Lord Toranaga in this. But Yaemon’s a child, actually and legally, and therefore not capable. Legally. Does that answer you?”

“But—but he’s still the Heir, neh? The Regents listen to him—Lord Toranaga honors him. What’s . . . what’s a year, a few years, mean, Mother? If you don’t apol—Please excuse me, but I’m afraid for you.” The youth’s mouth was trembling.

Mariko wanted to reach out and embrace him and protect him. But she did not. “I’m not afraid, my son. I fear nothing on this earth. I fear only God’s judgment,” she said, turning to Kiyama.

“Yes,” Kiyama said. “I know that. May the Madonna bless you for it.” He paused. “Mariko-san, will you apologize publicly to the Lord General?”

“Yes, gladly, providing he publicly withdraws all troops from my path and gives me, the Lady Kiritsubo, and the Lady Sazuko written permission to leave tomorrow.”

“Will you obey an order from the Regents?”

“Please excuse me, Sire, in this matter, no.”

“Will you honor a request from them?”

“Please excuse me, in this matter, no.”

“Will you agree to a request from the Heir and the Lady Ochiba?”

“Please excuse me, what request?”

“To visit them, to stay with them for a few days, while we resolve this affair.”

“Please excuse me, Sire, but what is there to resolve?”

Kiyama’s restraint broke and he shouted, “The future and good order of the realm for one thing, the future of the Mother Church for another, and you for another! It’s clear your close contact with the barbarian has infected you and addled your brain as I knew it would!”

Mariko said nothing, just stared back at him.

With an effort Kiyama brought himself back into control.

“Please excuse my . . . my temper. And my bad manners,” he said stiffly. “My only excuse is that I’m gravely concerned.” He bowed with dignity. “I apologize.”

“It was my fault, Sire. Please excuse me for destroying your harmony and causing you trouble. But I have no alternative.”

“Your son’s given you one, I’ve given you several.”

She did not answer him.

The air in the room had become stifling for all of them although the night was cool and a breeze fanned the flares.

“You’re resolved then?”

“I have no choice, Sire.”

“Very well, Mariko-san. There’s nothing more to be said. Other than to say again I order you not to force the issue—and I ask it.”

She bowed her head.

“Saruji-san, please wait for me outside,” Kiyama ordered.

The youth was distraught, barely able to speak. “Yes, Sire.” He bowed to Mariko. “Please excuse me, Mother.”

“May God keep you in His hands for all eternity.”

“And thou.”

“Amen to that,” Kiyama said.

“Good night, my son.”

“Good night, Mother.”

When they were alone Kiyama said, “The Father-Visitor’s very worried.”

“About me, Sire?”

“Yes. And about the Holy Church—and the barbarian. And about the barbarian ship. First tell me about him.”

“He’s a unique man, very strong and very intelligent. At sea he’s . . . he belongs there. He seems to become part of a ship and the sea, and, out to sea, there’s no man who can approach him in bravery and cunning.”

“Even the Rodrigues-san?”

“The Anjin-san overcame him twice. Once here and once on our way to Yedo.” She told him about Rodrigues arriving in the night during their stay near Mishima and about the concealed weapons and all that she had overheard. “If their ships were equal, the Anjin-san would win. Even if they were not, I think he’d win.”

“Tell me about his ship.”

She obeyed.

“Tell me about his vassals.”

She told him as it had happened.

“Why would Lord Toranaga give him his ship, money, vassals, and freedom?”

“My Master never told me, Sire.”

“Please give me your opinion.”

“So that he can loose the Anjin-san against his enemies,” Mariko said at once, then added without apology, “Since you ask me, in this case the Anjin-san’s particular enemies are the same as my Lord’s: the Portuguese, the Holy Fathers prompting the Portuguese, and the Lords Harima, Onoshi, and yourself, Sire.”

“Why should the Anjin-san consider us his special enemies?”

“Nagasaki, trade, and your coastal control of Kyushu, Sire. And because you are the chief Catholic daimyos.”

“The Church isn’t Lord Toranaga’s enemy. Nor the Holy Fathers.”

“So sorry, but I think Lord Toranaga believes the Holy Fathers support the Lord General Ishido, as you do.”

“I support the Heir. I’m against your Master because he does not and he will ruin our Church.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s not true. Sire, my Master’s so superior to the Lord General. You’ve fought twenty more times as his ally than against him, you know he can be trusted. Why side with his avowed enemy? Lord Toranaga’s always wanted trade, and he’s simply not anti-Christian like the Lord General and the Lady Ochiba.”

“Please excuse me, Mariko-san, but before God, I believe Lord Toranaga secretly detests our Christian Faith, secretly loathes our Church, and secretly is committed to destroying the succession and obliterating the Heir and the Lady Ochiba. His lodestone is the Shōgunate—only that! He secretly wants to be Shōgun, is planning to become Shōgun, and everything is pointed to that sole end.”

“Before God, Sire, I do not believe it.”

“I know—but that doesn’t make you right.” He watched her a moment, then said, “By your own admission this Anjin-san and his ship are very dangerous to the Church, neh? The Rodrigues agrees with you that if the Anjin-san caught the Black Ship at sea it would be very bad.”

“Yes, I believe that too, Sire.”

“That would hurt our Mother Church very much, neh?”

“Yes.”

“But you still won’t help the Church against this man?”

“He is not against the Church, Sire, not really against the Fathers, though he distrusts them. He’s only against the enemies of his Queen. And the Black Ship is his goal—for profit.”

“But he opposes the True Faith and is therefore a heretic. Neh?”

“Yes. But I don’t believe everything we’ve been told by the Fathers is true. And much has never been told to us. Tsukku-san admitted many things. My liege Lord ordered me to become the Anjin-san’s confidant and friend, to teach him our language and customs, to learn from him what could be of value to us. And I’ve found—”

“You mean valuable to Toranaga. Neh?”

“Sire, obedience to a liege lord is the pinnacle of a samurai’s life. Isn’t obedience what you require from all your vassals?”

“Yes. But heresy is terrible and it seems you are allied with the barbarian against your Church and infected by him. I pray God will open your eyes, Mariko-san, before you lose your own salvation. Now, last, the Father-Visitor said you have some private information for me.”

“Sire?” This was completely unexpected.

“He said there was a message from the Tsukku-san a few days ago. A special messenger from Yedo. You have some information about—about my allies.”

“I asked to see the Father-Visitor tomorrow morning.”

“Yes. He told me. Well?”

“Please excuse me, after I’ve seen him tomorrow, I—”

“Not tomorrow, now! The Father-Visitor said it had to do with Lord Onoshi and concerned the Church and you were to tell me at once. Before God that’s what he said. Have things come to such a filthy pass that you won’t even trust me?”

“So sorry. I made an agreement with the Tsukku-san. He asked me to speak openly to the Father-Visitor, that’s all, Sire.”

“The Father-Visitor said you were to tell me now.”

Mariko realized she had no alternative. The die was cast. She told him about the plot against his life. All that she knew. He, too, scoffed at the rumor until she told him exactly where the information had come from.

“His confessor? Him?”

“Yes. So sorry.”

“I regret Uraga’s dead,” Kiyama said, even more mortified that the night attack on the Anjin-san had been such a fiasco—as the other ambush had been—and now had killed the one man who could prove his enemy Onoshi was a traitor. “Uraga will burn in hellfire forever for that sacrilege. Terrible what he did. He deserves excommunication and hellfire, but even so, he did me a service by telling it—if it’s true.” Kiyama looked at her, an old man suddenly. “I can’t believe Onoshi would do that. Or that Lord Harima would be a party to it.”

“Yes. Could you—could you ask Lord Harima if it’s true?”

“Yes, but he’d never reveal something like that. I wouldn’t, would you? So sad, neh? So terrible are the ways of man.”

“Yes.”

“I will not believe it, Mariko-san. Uraga’s dead so we can never get proof. I will take precautions but . . . but I cannot believe it.”

“Yes. One thought, Sire. Isn’t it very strange, the Lord General putting a guard on the Anjin-san?”

“Why strange?”

“Why protect him? When he detests him? Very strange, neh? Could it be that now the Lord General also sees the Anjin-san as a possible weapon against the Catholic daimyos?”

“I don’t follow you.”

“If, God forbid, you died, Sire, Lord Onoshi becomes supreme in Kyushu, neh? What could the Lord General do to curb Onoshi? Nothing—except, perhaps, use the Anjin-san.”

“It’s possible,” Kiyama said slowly.

“There’s only one reason to protect the Anjin-san—to use him. Where? Only against the Portuguese—and thus the Kyushu Christian daimyos. Neh?”

“It’s possible.”

“I believe the Anjin-san’s as valuable to you as to Onoshi or Ishido or my Master. Alive. His knowledge is enormous. Only knowledge can protect us from barbarians, even Portuguese.”

Kiyama said scornfully, “We can crush them, expel them any time we like. They’re gnats on a horse, nothing more.”

“If the Holy Mother Church conquers and all the land becomes Christian as we pray it will, what then? Will our laws survive? Will bushido survive? Against the Commandments? I suggest it won’t—like elsewhere in the Catholic world—not when the Holy Fathers are supreme, not unless we are prepared.”

He did not answer her.

Then she said, “Sire, I beg you, ask the Anjin-san what has happened elsewhere in the world.”

“I will not. I think he’s bewitched you, Mariko-san. I believe the Holy Fathers. I think your Anjin-san is taught by Satan, and I beg you to realize his heresy has already infected you. Three times you used ‘Catholic’ when you meant Christian. Doesn’t that imply you agree with him there are two Faiths, two equally true versions of the True Faith? Isn’t your threat tonight a knife in the belly of the Heir? And against the interests of the Church?” He got up. “Thank you for your information. Go with God.”

Mariko took a small, thin, sealed scroll of paper from her sleeve. “Lord Toranaga asked me to give you this.”

Kiyama looked at the unbroken seal. “Do you know what’s in it, Mariko-san?”

“Yes. I was ordered to destroy it and pass on the message verbally if I was intercepted.”

Kiyama broke the seal. The message reiterated Toranaga’s wish for peace between them, his complete support of the Heir and the succession, and briefly gave the information about Onoshi. It ended, “I don’t have proof about Lord Onoshi but Uraga-noh-Tadamasa will have that and, deliberately, he has been made available to you in Osaka for questioning if you wish. However I do have proof that Ishido has also betrayed the secret agreement between you and him giving the Kwanto to your descendants, once I am dead. The Kwanto has been secretly promised to my brother, Zataki, in return for betraying me, as he has already done. Please excuse me, old comrade, but you have been betrayed too. Once I am dead, you and your line will be isolated and destroyed, as will the whole Christian Church. I beg you to reconsider. Soon you will have proof of my sincerity.”

Kiyama reread the message and she watched him as she had been ordered. ‘Watch him so carefully, Mariko-san,’ Toranaga had told her. ‘I’m not sure of his agreement with Ishido about the Kwanto. Spies have reported it but I’m not sure. You’ll know from what he does—or doesn’t do—if you give him the message at the right time.’

She had seen Kiyama react. So that’s also true, she thought.

The old daimyo looked up and said flatly, “And you are the proof of his sincerity, neh? The burnt offering, the sacrificial lamb?”

“No, Sire.”

“I don’t believe you. And I don’t believe him. The Onoshi treason, perhaps. But the rest . . . Lord Toranaga’s just up to his old tricks of mixing half-truths and honey and poison. I’m afraid it’s you who’ve been betrayed, Mariko-san.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

“We’ll leave at noon.”

“No, Mariko-san.” Lady Sazuko was almost in tears.

“Yes,” Kiri said. “Yes, we’ll leave as you say.”

“But they’ll stop us,” the young girl burst out. “It’s all so useless.”

“No,” Mariko told her, “you’re wrong, Sazuko-chan, it’s very necessary.”

Kiri said, “Mariko-san’s right. We have orders.” She suggested details of their leaving. “We could easily be ready by dawn if you want.”

“Noon is when we should leave. That’s what he said, Kiri-chan,” Mariko replied.

“We’ll need very few things, neh?”

“Yes.”

Sazuko said, “Very few! So sorry, but it’s all so silly, they’ll stop us!”

“Perhaps they won’t, child,” Kiri said. “Mariko says they’ll let us go. Lord Toranaga thinks they’ll let us go. So presume that they will. Go and rest. Go on. I must talk to Mariko-san.”

The girl went away, greatly troubled.

Kiri folded her hands. “Yes, Mariko-san?”

“I’m sending a cipher by carrier pigeon telling Lord Toranaga what happened tonight. It will go at first light. Ishido’s men will certainly try to destroy the rest of my carrier birds tomorrow if there’s trouble and I can’t bring them here. Is there any message you want to send at once?”

“Yes. I’ll write it now. What do you think’s going to happen?”

“Lord Toranaga’s sure they’ll let us go, if I’m strong.”

“I don’t agree. And, please excuse me, I don’t think you put much faith in the attempt either.”

“You’re wrong. Oh, of course they may stop us tomorrow and if they do there’ll be the most terrible quarrel and threats but they’ll all mean nothing.” Mariko laughed. “Oh, such threats, Kiri-san, and they’ll go on all day and all night. But at noon the next day we’ll be allowed to go.”

Kiri shook her head. “If we’re allowed to escape, every other hostage in Osaka will leave too. Ishido will be weakened badly and he’ll lose face. He can’t afford that.”

“Yes.” Mariko was very satisfied. “Even so, he’s trapped.”

Kiri watched her. “In eighteen days our Master’ll be here, neh? He must be here.”

“Yes.”

“So sorry, then why is it so important for us to leave at once?”

“He thinks it important enough, Kiri-san. Enough to order it.”

“Ah, then he has a plan?”

“Doesn’t he always have many plans?”

“Once the Exalted One agreed to be present, then our Master was trapped, neh?”

“Yes.”

Kiri glanced at the shoji door. It was closed. She leaned forward and said softly, “Then why did he ask me secretly to put that thought into the Lady Ochiba’s head?”

Mariko’s confidence began to fade. “He told you to do that?”

“Yes. From Yokosé, after he’d seen Lord Zataki for the first time. Why did he spring the trap himself?”

“I don’t know.”

Kiri bit her lips. “I wish I knew. We’ll soon know, but I don’t think you’re telling me everything you know, Mariko-chan.”

Mariko began to bridle but Kiri touched her, again cautioning her to silence, and whispered. “His dispatch to me told me to trust you completely so let’s say no more than that. I do trust you, Mariko-chan, but that doesn’t stop my mind from working. Neh?”

“Please excuse me.”

“I’m so proud of you,” Kiri said in a normal voice. “Yes, standing up like that to Ishido and all of them. I wish I had your courage.”

“It is easy for me. Our Master said we were to leave.”

“It’s very dangerous, what we do, I think. Even so, how can I help?”

“Give me your support.”

“You have that. You’ve always had that.”

“I’ll stay here with you till dawn, Kiri. But first I have to talk to the Anjin-san.”

“Yes. I’d better go with you.”

The two women left Kiri’s apartments, an escort of Browns with them, passing other Browns who bowed, clearly enormously proud of Mariko. Kiri led down corridors, across the expanse of the great audience room, and into the corridor beyond. Browns were on guard here, and Grays. When they saw Mariko, all bowed, Browns and Grays equally honoring her. Both Kiri and Mariko were taken aback to find Grays in their domain. They hid their discomfiture and said nothing.

Kiri motioned at a door.

“Anjin-san?” Mariko called out.

“Hai?” The door opened. Blackthorne stood there. Behind him in the room were two more Grays. “Hello, Mariko-san.”

“Hello.” Mariko glanced at the Grays. “I have to talk to the Anjin-san privately.”

“Please talk to him, Lady,” their captain said with great deference. “Unfortunately we are ordered by Lord Ishido personally on pain of immediate death not to leave him alone.”

Yoshinaka, tonight’s officer-of-the-watch, strode up. “Excuse me, Lady Toda, I had to agree to these twenty guards for the Anjin-san. It was Lord Ishido’s personal request. So sorry.”

“As Lord Ishido is only concerned with the Anjin-san’s safety, they’re welcome,” she said, not at all pleased inside.

Yoshinaka said to the captain of the Grays, “I will be responsible for him while the Lady Toda’s with him. You can wait outside.”

“So sorry,” this samurai said firmly. “I and my men have no alternative but to watch with our own eyes.”

Kiri said, “I will be glad to stay. Of course someone’s necessary.”

“So sorry, Kiritsubo-san, we must be present. Please excuse me, Lady Toda,” the captain continued uncomfortably, “but none of us speaks the barbarian.”

“No one suggests you would be so impolite as to listen,” said Mariko, near anger. “But barbarian customs are different from ours.”

Yoshinaka said, “Obviously the Grays must obey their lord. You were totally correct tonight that a samurai’s first duty is to his liege lord, Lady Toda, and totally correct to point it out in public.”

“Perfectly correct, Lady,” the captain of the Grays agreed with the same measure of pride. “There’s no other reason for a samurai’s life, neh?”

“Thank you,” she said, warmed by their respect.

“We should also honor the Anjin-san’s customs if we can, Captain,” Yoshinaka said. “Perhaps I have a solution. Please follow me.” He led the way back to the audience room. “Please, Lady, would you take the Anjin-san and sit there.” He pointed to the far dais. “The Anjin-san’s guards can stay by the doors and do their duty to their liege lord, we can do ours, and you may talk as you wish, according to the Anjin-san’s customs. Neh?”

Mariko explained to Blackthorne what Yoshinaka had said, then continued prudently in Latin, “They will never leave thee tonight. We have no alternative—except I can order them killed at once if that is thy wish.”

“My wish is to talk to thee privately,” Blackthorne replied. “But not at the cost of lives. I thank thee for asking me.”

Mariko turned to Yoshinaka. “Very well, thank you, Yoshinaka-san. Would you please send someone for incense braziers to keep away the mosquitoes.”

“Of course. Please excuse me, Lady, is there any further news of the Lady Yodoko?”

“No, Yoshinaka-san. We heard she’s still resting easily, without pain.” Mariko smiled at Blackthorne. “Shall we go and sit there, Anjin-san?”

He followed her. Kiri went back to her own quarters and the Grays stood at the doors of the audience room. The captain of the Grays was near Yoshinaka, a few paces away from the others. “I don’t like this,” he whispered roughly.

“Is the Lady Toda going to pull out his sword and kill him? No offense, but where are your wits?”

Yoshinaka limped away to check the other posts. The captain looked at the dais. Mariko and the Anjin-san were seated opposite each other, well lit by flares. He could not hear what they were saying. He focused on their lips but was still no wiser, though his eyes were very good and he could speak Portuguese. I suppose they’re talking the Holy Fathers’ language again, he told himself. Hideous language, impossible to learn.

Still, what does it matter? Why shouldn’t she talk to the heretic in private if that’s her pleasure? Neither are long for this earth. So very sad. Oh, Blessed Madonna, take her forever into thy keeping for her bravery.

“Latin is safer, Anjin-san.” Her fan sent a droning mosquito skittering.

“They can hear us from here?”

“No, I do not believe so, not if we keep our voices softened and talk as thou hast taught me with so little movement of the mouth.”

“Good. What occurred with Kiyama?”

“I love thee.”

“Thou . . .”

“I have missed thee.”

“And I thee. How can we meet alone?”

“Tonight it is not possible. Tomorrow night will be possible, my love. I have a plan.”

“Tomorrow? But what about thy departure?”

“Tomorrow they may stop me, Anjin-san—please do not worry. The next day we will all be free to leave as we wish. Tomorrow night, if I am stopped, I will be with thee.”

“How?”

“Kiri will help me. Do not ask me how or what or why. It will be easy—” She stopped as maids brought the little braziers. Soon the curling threads of smoke repelled the night creatures. When they were safe again they talked about their journey, content just being together, loving without touching, always skirting Toranaga and the importance of tomorrow. Then he said, “Ishido’s my enemy. Why are there so many guards around me?”

“To protect thee. But also to hold thee tight. I think Ishido might also want to use thee against the Black Ship, and Nagasaki and the Lord Kiyama and Lord Onoshi.”

“Ah, yes, I had thought that too.”

She saw his eyes searching her. “What is it, Anjin-san?”

“Contrary to what Yabu believes, I believe thou art not stupid, that everything tonight was said deliberately, planned deliberately—on Toranaga’s orders.”

She smoothed a crease in her brocade kimono. “He gave me orders. Yes.”

Blackthorne turned to Portuguese, “He’s betrayed you. You’re a decoy. Do you know that? You’re just bait for one of his traps.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You’re the bait. So am I. It’s obvious, isn’t it? Yabu’s bait. Toranaga sent us all here as a sacrifice.”

“No, you’re wrong, Anjin-san. So sorry, but you’re wrong.”

In Latin he said, “I tell thee that thou art beautiful and I love thee, but thou art a liar.”

“No one has ever said that to me before.”

“Thou hast also said no one ever said ‘I love thee’ before.”

She looked down at her fan. “Let us talk of other things.”

“What does Toranaga gain by sacrificing us?”

She did not answer.

“Mariko-san, I have the right to ask thee. I’m not afraid. I just want to know what he gains.”

“I don’t know.”

“Thou! Swear by thy love and thy God.”

“Even thee?” she replied bitterly in Latin. “Thou also with thy ‘Swear before God’ and questions and questions and questions?”

“It is thy life and my life and I cherish both. Again, what does he gain?”

Her voice became louder. “Listen thou, yes, I chose the time and yes, I am not a stupid woman and—”

“Be cautious, Mariko-chan, please keep thy voice down or that would be very stupid.”

“So sorry. Yes, it was done deliberately and in public as Toranaga wished.”

“Why?”

“Because Ishido’s a peasant and he must let us go. The challenge had to be before his peers. The Lady Ochiba approves our going to meet Lord Toranaga. I talked to her and she is not opposed. There’s nothing to trouble thyself about.”

“I do not like to see fire in thee. Or venom. Or crossness. Where is thy tranquillity? And where are thy manners? Perhaps thou should learn to watch the rocks growing. Neh?”

Mariko’s anger vanished and she laughed. “Ah, thee! Thou art right. Please forgive me.” She felt refreshed, herself again. “Oh, how I love thee, and honor thee, and I was so proud of thee tonight I almost kissed thee, there in front of them as is thy custom.”

“Madonna, that would have set fire in their tinderboxes, neh?”

“If I were alone with thee I would kiss thee until thy cries for mercy filled the universe.”

“I thank thee, Lady, but thou art there and I am here and the world’s between us.”

“Ah, but there’s no world between us. My life is full because of thee.”

In a moment he said, “And Yabu’s orders to you—to apologize and stay?”

“They may not be obeyed, so sorry.”

“Because of Toranaga’s orders?”

“Yes. But not his orders truly—it is also my wish. All this was my suggestion to him. It is I who begged to be allowed to come here, my darling. Before God that is the truth.”

“What will happen tomorrow?”

She told him what she had told Kiri, adding, “Everything is going to be better than planned. Isn’t Ishido already thy patron? I swear I do not know how Lord Toranaga can be so clever. Before I left he told me that would happen, might happen. He knew that Yabu has no power in Kyushu. Only Ishido or Kiyama could protect thee there. We are not decoys. We are in his protection. We’re quite safe.”

“What about the nineteen days—eighteen now? Toranaga must be here, neh?”

“Yes.”

“Then isn’t this as Ishido says, a waste of time?”

“Truly I don’t know. I only know that nineteen, eighteen, or even three days can be an eternity.”

“Or tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow also. Or the next day.”

“And if Ishido will not let thee go tomorrow?”

“This is the only chance we have. All of us. Ishido must be humbled.”

“Thou art certain?”

“Yes, before God, Anjin-san.”

Blackthorne clawed out of a nightmare again but the moment he was truly awake the dream vanished. Grays were staring at him through the mosquito net in the light of early dawn.

“Good morning,” he said to them, hating to have been watched while he slept.

He came from under the net and went out into the corridor, down staircases, until he came to the garden toilet. Guards, both Browns and Grays, accompanied him. He hardly noticed them.

The dawn was smoky. The sky to the east was already burnt clean of the haze. The air smelled salt and wet from the sea. Flies already swarmed. It’ll be hot today, he thought.

Footsteps approached. Through the door opening he saw Chimmoko. She waited patiently, chatting with the guards, and when he came out she bowed and greeted him.

“Where Mariko-san?” he asked.

“With Kiritsubo-san, Anjin-san.”

“Thank you. When leave?”

“Soon, Sire.”

“Say to Mariko-san like say good morning before leave.” He said it again although Mariko had already promised to find him before she went back to her home to collect her belongings.

“Yes, Anjin-san.”

He nodded as a samurai should and left her and went to wash and bathe. It was not custom to have a hot bath in the morning. But every morning he would always go there and pour cold water all over himself. “Eeeee, Anjin-san,” his guards or watchers would always say, “that surely is most very good for your health.”

He dressed and went to the battlements that overlooked the forecourt of this castle wing. He wore a Brown kimono and swords, his pistol concealed under his sash. Browns on sentry duty welcomed him as one of them, though very disquieted by his Grays. Other Grays teemed on the battlements opposite, overlooking them, and outside their gate.

“Many Grays, many more than usual. Understand, Anjin-san?” Yoshinaka said, coming out onto the balcony.

“Yes.”

The captain of the Grays moved up to them. “Please don’t go too near the edge, Anjin-san. So sorry.”

The sun was on the horizon. Its warmth felt good on Blackthorne’s skin. There were no clouds in the sky and the breeze was dying.

The captain of the Grays pointed at Blackthorne’s sword. “Is that Oil Seller, Anjin-san?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“May I be allowed to see the blade?”

Blackthorne drew the sword part way from its scabbard. Custom decreed a sword should not be totally drawn unless it was to be used.

“Eeee, beautiful, neh?” the captain said. The others, Browns and Grays, crowded round, equally impressed.

Blackthorne shoved the sword back, not displeased. “Honor to wear Oil Seller.”

“Can you use a sword, Anjin-san?” the captain asked.

“No, Captain. Not as samurai. But I learn.”

“Ah, yes. That’s very good.”

In the forecourt two stories below, Browns were exercising, still in shadow. Blackthorne watched them. “How many samurai here, Yoshinaka-san?”

“Four hundred and three, Anjin-san, including two hundred that came with me.”

“And out there?”

“Grays?” Yoshinaka laughed. “Lots—very many.”

The Grays’ captain showed his teeth with his grin. “Almost one hundred thousand. You understand, Anjin-san, ‘one hundred thousand’?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

They all looked away as a phalanx of porters and pack horses and three palanquins rounded the far corner and approached under guard from the end of the access to this cul-de-sac. The avenue was still deeply shadowed and dark between the tall guarded walls. Flares still burned in wall sockets. Even from this distance they could see the nervousness of the porters. Grays across from them seemed more hushed and attentive, and so did the Browns on guard.

The tall gates opened to admit the party, their escorting Grays staying outside with their comrades, then closed again. The great iron bar clanged back into the large brackets that were set deep into the granite walls. No portcullis guarded this gateway.

Yoshinaka said, “Anjin-san, please excuse me. I must see all is well. All ready, neh?”

“I wait here.”

“Yes.” Yoshinaka left.

The Grays’ captain went to the parapet and watched below. Christ Jesus, Blackthorne was thinking, I hope she’s right and Toranaga’s right. Not long now, eh? He measured the sun and muttered vaguely to himself in Portuguese, “Not long to go.”

Unconsciously the captain grunted his agreement and Blackthorne realized the man understood him clearly in Portuguese, was therefore Catholic and another possible assassin. His mind rushed back to last night, and he remembered that everything he had said to Mariko had been in Latin. Was it all in Latin? Mother of God, what about her saying “. . . I can order them killed?” Was that in Latin? Does he speak Latin, too, like that other captain, the one who was killed during the first escape from Osaka?

The sun was gathering strength now and Blackthorne took his eyes off the captain of Grays. If you didn’t murder me in the night maybe you’ll never do it, he thought, putting this Catholic into a compartment.

He saw Kiri come out into the forecourt below. She was supervising maids bearing panniers and chests for the pack horses. She looked tiny, standing on the main steps where Sazuko had pretended to slip, initiating Toranaga’s escape. Just to the north was the lovely garden and tiny rustic house where he’d first seen Mariko and Yaemon, the Heir. His mind journeyed with the noon cortege out of the castle, curling through the maze, then safely out, through the woods, and down to the sea. He prayed that she would be safe and everyone safe. Once they were away, Yabu and he would leave and go to the galley and out to sea.

From here on the battlements the sea seemed so near. The sea beckoned. And the horizon.

“Konbanwa, Anjin-san.”

“Mariko-san!” She was as radiant as ever.

“Konbanwa,” he said, then in Latin, nonchalantly, “Beware of this Gray man—he understands,” continuing instantly in Portuguese to give her time to cover, “yes, I don’t understand how you can be so beautiful after so little sleep.” He took her arm and put her back to the captain, guiding her nearer the parapet. “Look, there’s Kiritsubo-san!”

“Thank you. Yes—yes, I’m . . . thank you.”

“Why don’t you wave to Kiritsubo-san?”

She did as she was asked and called out her name. Kiri saw them and waved back.

After a moment, relaxed again and in control, Mariko said, “Thank you, Anjin-san. You’re very clever and very wise.” She greeted the captain casually and wandered to a ledge and sat down, first making sure that the seat was clean. “It’s going to be a fine day, neh?”

“Yes. How did you sleep?”

“I didn’t, Anjin-san. Kiri and I chatted the last of the night away and I saw the dawn come. I love dawns. You?”

“My rest was disturbed but—”

“Oh, so sorry.”

“I’m fine now—really. You’re leaving now?”

“Yes, but I’ll be back at noon to collect Kiri-san and the Lady Sazuko.” She turned her face away from the captain and said in Latin, “Thou. Remember the Inn of the Blossoms?”

“Assuredly. How could I forget?”

“If there is a delay . . . tonight will be thus—as perfect and as peace-filled.”

“Ah, that that could be possible. But I would prefer thee safely on thy way.”

Mariko continued in Portuguese. “Now I must go, Anjin-san. You will please excuse me?”

“I’ll take you to the gate.”

“No, please. Watch me from here. You and the captain can watch from here, neh?”

“Of course,” Blackthorne said at once, understanding. “Go with God.”

“And thee.”

He stayed on the parapet. While he waited sunlight fell into the forecourt, thrusting the shadows away. Mariko appeared below. He saw her greet Kiri and Yoshinaka and they chatted together, no enemy Grays near them. Then they bowed. She looked up at him, shading her eyes, and waved gaily. He waved back. The gates were pushed aside and, with Chimmoko a few discreet paces behind her, she walked out, accompanied by her escort of ten Browns. The gates swung closed once more. For a moment she was lost from view. When she reappeared, fifty Grays from the swarm outside their walls had surrounded them as a further honor guard. The cortege marched away down the sunless avenue. He watched her until she had turned the far corner. She never looked back.

“Go eat now, Captain,” he said.

“Yes, of course, Anjin-san.”

Blackthorne went to his own quarters and ate rice, pickled vegetables, and broiled chunks of fish, followed by early fruit from Kyushu—crisp small apples, apricots, and hard-fleshed plums. He savored the tart fruit and the cha.

“More, Anjin-san?” the servant asked.

“No, thank you.” He offered fruits to his guards and they were accepted gratefully, and when they had finished, he went back to the sunny battlements again. He would have liked to examine the priming of his concealed pistol but he thought it better not to draw attention to it. He had checked it once in the night as best he could under the sheet, under the mosquito net. But without actually seeing, he could not be sure of the tamping or the flint.

There’s nothing more you can do, he thought. You’re a puppet. Be patient, Anjin-san, your watch ends at noon.

He gauged the height of the sun. It will be the beginning of the two-hour period of the Snake. After the Snake comes the Horse. In the middle of the Horse is high noon.

Temple bells throughout the castle and the city tolled the beginning of the Snake and he was pleased with his accuracy. He noticed a small stone on the battlement floor. He went forward and picked up the stone and placed it carefully on a ledge of an embrasure in the sun, then leaned back once more, propping his feet comfortably, and stared at it.

Grays were watching his every movement. The captain frowned. After a while he said, “Anjin-san, what’s the significance of the stone?”

“Please?”

“The stone. Why stone, Anjin-san?”

“Ah! I watch stone grow.”

“Oh so sorry, I understand,” the captain replied apologetically. “Please excuse me for disturbing you.”

Blackthorne laughed to himself, and turned his gaze back to the stone. “Grow, you bastard,” he said. But as much as he cursed it, ordered it, or cajoled it, it would not grow.

Do you really expect to see a rock growing? he asked himself. No, of course not, but it passes the time and promotes tranquillity. You can’t have enough wa. Neh?

Eeeeee, where’s the next attack coming from? There’s no defense against an assassin if the assassin is prepared to die. Is there?

Rodrigues checked the priming of a musket he had taken at random from the rack beside the stern cannon. He found the flint was worn and pitted and therefore dangerous. Without a word he hurled the musket at the gunner. The man just managed to catch it before the stock smashed into his face.

“Madonna, Senhor Pilot,” the man cried out, “there’s no need—”

“Listen, you motherless turd, the next time I find anything wrong with a musket or cannon during your watch, you’ll get fifty lashes and lose three months’ pay. Bosun!”

“Yes, Pilot?” Pesaro, the bosun, heaved his bulk nearer and scowled at the young gunner.

“Turn out both watches! Check every musket and cannon, everything. Only God knows when we’ll need ’em.”

“I’ll see to it, Pilot.” The bosun shoved his face at the gunner.

“I’ll piss in your grog tonight, Gomez, for all the extra work an’ you’d better lap it up with a smile. Get to work!”

There were eight small cannon amidships on the main deck, four port and four starboard and a bowchaser. Enough to beat off any uncannoned pirates but not enough to press home an attack. The small frigate was two-masted, called the Santa Luz.

Rodrigues waited until the crews were at their tasks, then turned away and leaned on the gunwale. The castle glinted dully in the sun, the color of old pewter, except for the donjon with its blue and white walls and golden roofs. He spat into the water and watched the spittle to see if it would reach the jetty pilings as he hoped or go into the sea. It went into the sea. “Piss,” he muttered to no one, wishing he had his own frigate, the Santa Maria, under him right now. God-cursed bad luck that she’s in Macao just when we need her.

“What’s amiss, Captain-General?” he had asked a few days ago at Nagasaki when he’d been routed out of his warm bed in his house that overlooked the city and the harbor.

“I’ve got to get to Osaka at once,” Ferriera had said, plumed and arrogant as any bantam cock, even at this early hour. “An urgent signal’s arrived from dell’Aqua.”

“What’s the matter now?”

“He didn’t say—just that it was vital to the future of the Black Ship.”

“Madonna, what mischief’re they up to now? What’s vital? Our ship’s as sound as any ship afloat, her bottom’s clean and rigging perfect. Trade’s better than we ever imagined and on time, the monkeys’re behaving themselves, pigarse Harima’s confident, and—” He stopped as the thought exploded in his brain. “The Ingeles! He’s put to sea?”

“I don’t know. But if he has . . .”

Rodrigues had stared out of the great harbor mouth, half expecting to see Erasmus already blockading there, showing the hated flag of England, waiting there like a rabid dog against the day they’d have to put to sea for Macao and home. “Jesu, Mother of God and all saints, let that not happen!”

“What’s our fastest way? Lorcha?”

“The Santa Luz, Captain-General. We can sail within the hour. Listen, the Ingeles can do nothing without men. Don’t forget—”

“Madonna, you listen, he can speak their jibberish now, eh? Why can’t he use monkeys, eh? There are enough Jappo pirates to crew him twenty times over.”

“Yes, but not gunners and not sailors as he’d need ’em—he’s not got time to train Jappos. By next year maybe, but not against us.”

“Why in the name of the Madonna and the saints the priests gave him one of their dictionaries I’ll never know. Meddling bastards! They must’ve been possessed by the Devil! It’s almost as though the Ingeles is protected by the Devil!”

“I tell you he’s just clever!”

“There are many who’ve been here for twenty years and can’t speak a word of Jappo gibberish, but the Ingeles can, eh? I tell you he’s given his soul to Satan, and in return for the black arts he’s protected. How else do you explain it? How many years’ve you been trying to talk their tongue and you even live with one? Leche, he could easily use Jappo pirates.”

“No, Captain-General, he’s got to get men from here and we’re waiting for him and you’ve already put anyone suspect in irons.”

“With twenty thousand cruzados in silver and a promise about the Black Ship, he can buy all the men he needs, including the jailers and the God-cursed jail around them. Cabron! Perhaps he can buy you, too.”

“Watch your tongue!”

“You’re the motherless, milkless Spaniard, Rodrigues! It’s your fault he’s alive, you’re responsible. Twice you let him escape!” The Captain-General had squared up to him in rage. “You should have killed him when he was in your power.”

“Perhaps, but that’s froth on my life’s wake,” Rodrigues had said bitterly. “I went to kill him when I could.”

“Did you?”

“I’ve told you twenty times. Have you no ears! Or is Spanish dung as usual in your ears as well as in your mouth!” His hand had reached for his pistol and the Captain-General had drawn his sword, then the frightened Japanese girl was between them. “Prees, Rod-san, no angers—no quarre’, prees! Christian, prees!”

The blinding rage had fallen off both of them, and Ferriera had said, “I tell you before God, the Ingeles must be Devil-spawned—I almost killed you, and you me, Rodrigues. I see it clearly now. He’s put a spell on all of us—particularly you!”

Now in the sunshine at Osaka, Rodrigues reached for the crucifix he wore around his neck and he prayed a desperate prayer that he be protected from all warlocks and his immortal soul kept safe from Satan.

Isn’t the Captain-General right, isn’t that the only answer? he reasoned again, filled with foreboding. The Ingeles’ life is charmed. Now he’s an intimate of the archfiend Toranaga, now he’s got his ship back and the money back and wako, in spite of everything, and he does speak like one of them and that’s impossible so quickly even with the dictionary, but he did get the dictionary and priceless help. Jesus God and Madonna, take the Evil Eye off me!

“Why’d you give the Ingeles the dictionary, Father?” he had asked Alvito at Mishima. “Surely you should have delayed that?”

“Yes, Rodrigues,” Father Alvito had told him confidently, “and I needn’t have gone out of my way to help him. But I’m convinced there’s a chance of converting him. I’m so sure. Toranaga’s finished now. . . . It’s just one man and a soul. I have to try to save him.”

Priests, Rodrigues thought. Leche on all priests. But not on dell’Aqua and Alvito. Oh, Madonna, I apologize for all my evil thoughts about him and the Father Alvito. Forgive me and bury the Ingeles somehow before I have him in my sights. I do not wish to kill him because of my Holy Oath, even though, before Thee, I know he must die quickly. . . .

The duty helmsman turned the hourglass and rang eight bells. It was high noon.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Mariko was walking up the crowded sunlit avenue toward the gates in the cul-de-sac. Behind her was a body guard of ten Browns. She wore a pale green kimono and white gloves and a wide-brimmed dark green traveling hat tied with a golden net scarf under her chin, and she shaded herself with an iridescent sunshade. The gates swung open and stayed open.

It was very quiet in the avenue. Grays lined both sides and all the battlements. She could see the Anjin-san on their own battlements, Yabu beside him, and in the courtyard the waiting column with Kiri there, and the Lady Sazuko. All the Browns were in full ceremonials in the forecourt under Yoshinaka, except twenty who stood on the battlements with Blackthorne and two to each window overlooking the forecourt.

Unlike the Grays, none of the Browns had armor or carried bows. Swords were their only weapons.

Many women, samurai women, were also watching, some from the windows of other fortified houses that lined the avenue, and some from battlements. Others stood in the avenue among the Grays, a few gaily dressed children with them. All of the women carried sunshades though some wore samurai swords, as was their right if they wished.

Kiyama was near the gate with half a hundred of his own men, not Grays.

“Good day, Sire,” Mariko said to him, and bowed. He bowed back and she passed through the archway.

“Hello, Kiri-chan, Sazuko-chan. How pretty you both look! Is everything ready?”

“Yes,” they replied with false cheeriness.

“Good.” Mariko got into her open palanquin and sat, stiff-backed. “Yoshinaka-san! Please begin.”

At once the captain limped forward and shouted the orders. Twenty Browns formed up as a vanguard and moved off. Porters picked up Mariko’s curtainless palanquin and followed the Browns through the gate, Kiri’s and Lady Sazuko’s close behind, the young girl holding her infant in her arms.

When Mariko’s palanquin came into the sunlight outside their walls, a captain of Grays stepped forward between the vanguard and the palanquin, and stood directly in her way. The vanguard stopped abruptly. So did the porters.

“Please excuse me,” he said to Yoshinaka, “but may I see your papers?”

“So sorry, Captain, but we require none,” Yoshinaka replied in the great silence.

“So sorry, but the Lord General Ishido, Governor of the Castle, Captain of the Heir’s Bodyguard, with the approval of the Regents, has instituted orders throughout the castle which have to be complied with.”

Mariko said formally, “I am Toda Mariko-noh-Buntaro and I have been ordered by my liege Lord, Lord Toranaga, to escort his ladies to meet him. Kindly let us pass.”

“I would be glad to, Lady,” the samurai said proudly, planting his feet, “but without papers our liege Lord says no one may leave Osaka Castle. Please excuse me.”

Mariko said, “Captain, what is your name please?”

“Sumiyori Danzenji, Lady, Captain of the Fourth Legion, and my line is as ancient as your own.”

“So sorry, Captain Sumiyori, but if you do not move out of the way I will order you killed.”

“You will not pass without papers!”

“Please kill him, Yoshinaka-san.”

Yoshinaka leaped forward without hesitation, his sword a whirling arc, and he struck at the off-balanced Gray. His blade bit deep into the man’s side and was jerked out instantly, and the second more vicious blow took off the man’s head, which rolled in the dust a little way before stopping.

Yoshinaka wiped his blade clean and sheathed it. “Lead on!” he ordered the vanguard. “Hurry up!” The vanguard formed up again and, their footsteps echoing, they marched off. Then, out of nowhere, an arrow thwanged into Yoshinaka’s chest. The cortege lurched to a stop. Yoshinaka tore at the shaft silently for a moment, then his eyes glazed and he toppled.

A small moan broke from Kiri’s lips. A puff of air tugged at the ends of Mariko’s gossamer scarf. Somewhere in the avenue a child’s cries were hushed. Everyone waited breathlessly.

“Miyai Kazuko-san,” Mariko called out. “Please take charge.”

Kazuko was young and tall and very proud, clean-shaven, with deep-set cheeks, and he came from the grouped Browns near Kiyama who stood beside the gateway. He strode past Kiri’s and Sazuko’s litters to stand beside Mariko’s and bowed formally. “Yes, Lady. Thank you.”

“You!” He shouted to the men ahead. “Move off!” Taut, some fearful, all frantic, they obeyed and once again the procession began, Kazuko walking beside Mariko’s litter. Then, a hundred paces in front of them, twenty Grays moved out of the massed ranks of samurai and stood silently across the roadway. The twenty Browns closed the gap. Then someone faltered and the vanguard trickled to a stop.

“Clear them out of the way!” Kazuko shouted.

Immediately one Brown leaped forward, and the others followed and the killing became swift and cruel. Each time a Gray fell, another would calmly walk out of the waiting pack to join his comrades in the killing. It was always fair, always evenly matched, man to man, now fifteen against fifteen, now eight against eight, a few wounded Grays thrashing in the dirt, now three Browns against two Grays and another Gray strode out, and soon it was one to one, the last Brown, blood-stained and wounded, already victor of four duels. The last Gray dispatched him easily and stood alone among the bodies and looked at Miyai Kazuko.

All the Browns were dead. Four Grays lay wounded, eighteen dead.

Kazuko went forward, unsheathing his sword in the enormous hush.

“Wait,” Mariko said. “Please wait, Kazuko-san.”

He stopped but kept his eyes on the Gray, spoiling for the fight. Mariko stepped out of the palanquin and went back to Kiyama. “Lord Kiyama, I formally ask you please to order those men out of the way.”

“So sorry, Toda-sama, the castle orders must be obeyed. The orders are legal. But if you wish, I will call a meeting of the Regents and ask for a ruling.”

“I am samurai. My orders are clear, in keeping with bushido and sanctified by our code. They must be obeyed and overrule legally any man-made ordinance. The law may upset reason, but reason may not overthrow the law. If I am not permitted to obey, I will not be able to live with that shame.”

“I will call an immediate meeting.”

“Please excuse me, Sire, what you do is your own business. I am concerned only with my Lord’s orders and my own shame.” She turned and went quietly back to the head of the column. “Kazuko-san! I order you please to lead us out of the castle!”

He walked forward. “I am Miyai Kazuko, Captain, from the line Serata, of Lord Toranaga’s Third Army. Please get out of the way.”

“I am Biwa Jiro, Captain, of Lord General Ishido’s garrison. My life is worthless, even so you will not pass,” the Gray said.

With the sudden roaring battle cry of “Toranagaaaaaa!” Kazuko rushed to the fray. Their swords shrieked as the blows and counterblows were parried. The two men circled. The Gray was good, very good, and so was Kazuko. Their swords rang out in the clash. No one else moved.

Kazuko conquered but he was very badly wounded and he stood over his enemy, swaying on his feet, and with his good arm he shook his sword at the sky, bellowing his war cry, gloating in his victory, “Toranagaaaaa!” There was no cheering at his conquest. All knew it would be unseemly in the ritual that enveloped them now.

Kazuko forced one foot forward, then another, and, stumbling, he ordered, “Follow me!” his voice crumbling.

No one saw where the arrows came from but they slaughtered him. And the mood of the Browns changed from fatalism to ferocity at this insult to Kazuko’s manhood. He was already dying fast, and would have fallen soon, alone, still doing his duty, still leading them out of the castle. Another officer of the Browns ran forward with twenty men to form a new vanguard and the rest swarmed around Mariko, Kiri, and Lady Sazuko.

“Forward!” the officer snarled.

He stepped off and the twenty silent samurai came after him. Like somnambulists, the porters picked up their burdens and stumbled around the bodies. Then ahead, a hundred paces, twenty more Grays with an officer moved silently from the hundreds that waited. The porters stopped. The vanguard quickened their pace.

“Halt!” The officers bowed curtly to each other and said their lineage.

“Please get out of the way.”

“Please show me your papers.”

This time the Browns hurtled forward at once with cries of “Toranagaaaaaa!” to be answered by “Yaemooooonn!” and the carnage began. And each time a Gray fell, another would walk out coolly until all the Browns were dead.

The last Gray wiped his blade clean and sheathed it and stood alone barring the path. Another officer came forward with twenty Browns from the company behind the litters.

“Wait,” Mariko ordered. Ashen, she stepped out of her palanquin and put her sunshade aside and picked up Yoshinaka’s sword, unsheathed it, and walked forward alone.

“You know who I am. Please get out of my way.”

“I am Kojima Harutomo, Sixth Legion, Captain. Please excuse me, you may not pass, Lady,” the Gray said with pride.

She darted forward but her blow was contained. The Gray backed and stayed on the defensive though he could have killed her without effort. He retreated slowly down the avenue, she following, but he made her work for every foot. Hesitantly the column started after her. Again she tried to bring the Gray to battle, cutting, thrusting, always attacking fiercely, but the samurai slid away, avoiding her blows, holding her off, not attacking, allowing her to exhaust herself. But he did this gravely, with dignity, giving her every courtesy, giving her the honor that was her due. She attacked again but he parried the onslaught that would have overcome a lesser swordsman, and backed another pace. The perspiration streamed from her. A Brown started forward to help but his officer quietly ordered him to stop, knowing that no one could interefere. Samurai on both sides waited for the signal, craving the release to kill.

In the crowd, a child was hiding his eyes in his mother’s skirts. Gently she pried him away and knelt. “Please watch, my son,” she murmured. “You are samurai.”

Mariko knew she could not last much longer. She was panting now from her exertions and could feel the brooding malevolence surrounding her. Then ahead and all around, Grays began to ease away from the walls and the noose around the column quickly tightened. A few Grays walked out to try to surround her and she stopped advancing, knowing that she could, too easily, be trapped and disarmed and captured, which would destroy everything at once. Now Browns moved up to assist her and the rest took positions around the litters. The mood in the avenue was ominous now, every man committed, the sweet smell of blood in their nostrils. The column was strung out from the gateway and Mariko saw how easy it would be for the Grays to cut them all off if they wished and leave them stranded in the roadway.

“Wait!” she called out. Everyone stopped. She half-bowed to her assailant, then, head high, turned her back on him and walked back to Kiri. “So . . . so sorry, but it is not possible to fight through these men, at the moment,” she said, her chest heaving. “We . . . we must go back for a moment.” Sweat was streaking her face as she went down the line of men. When she came to Kiyama, she stopped and bowed. “Those men have prevented me from doing my duty, from obeying my liege Lord. I cannot live with shame, Sire. I will commit seppuku at sunset. I formally beg you to be my second.”

“No. You will not do this.”

Her eyes flashed and her voice rang out fearlessly. “Unless we are allowed to obey our liege Lord, as is our right, I will commit seppuku at sunset!”

She bowed and walked toward the gateway. Kiyama bowed to her and his men did likewise. Then all in the avenue and on the battlements and at the windows, all bowed to her in homage. She went through the archway, across the forecourt into the garden. Her footsteps took her to the secluded, rustic little cha house. She went inside and, once alone, she wept silently for all the men who had died.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

“Beautiful, neh?” Yabu pointed below at the dead.

“Please?” Blackthorne asked.

“It was a poem. You understand ‘poem’?”

“I understand word, yes.”

“It was a poem, Anjin-san. Don’t you see that?”

If Blackthorne had had the words he would have said, No, Yabu-san. But I did see clearly for the first time what was really in her mind, the moment she gave the first order and Yoshinaka killed the first man. Poem? It was a hideous, courageous, senseless, extraordinary ritual, where death’s as formalized and inevitable as at a Spanish Inquisition, and all the deaths merely a prelude to Mariko’s. Everyone’s committed now, Yabu-san—you, me, the castle, Kiri, Ochiba, Ishido, everyone—all because she decided to do what she decided was necessary. And when did she decide? Long ago, neh? Or, more correctly, Toranaga made the decision for her. “So sorry, Yabu-san, not words enough,” he said.

Yabu hardly heard him. There was quiet on the battlements and in the avenue, everyone as motionless as statues. Then the avenue began to come alive, voices hushed, movements subdued, the sun beating down, as each came out of his trance.

Yabu sighed, filled with melancholia. “It was a poem, Anjin-san,” he said again, and left the battlements.

When Mariko had picked up the sword and gone forward alone, Blackthorne had wanted to leap down into the arena and rush at her assailant to protect her, to blow the Gray’s head off before she was slain. But, with everyone, he had done nothing. Not because he was afraid. He was no longer afraid to die. Her courage had shown him the uselessness of that fear and he had come to terms with himself long ago, on that night in the village with the knife.

I meant to drive the knife into my heart that night.

Since then my fear of death’s been obliterated, just as she said it would be. ‘Only by living at the edge of death can you understand the indescribable joy of life.’ I don’t remember Omi stopping the thrust, only feeling reborn when I awoke the next dawn.

His eyes watched the dead, there in the avenue. I could have killed that Gray for her, he thought, and perhaps another and perhaps several, but there would always have been another and my death would not have tipped the scale a fraction. I’m not afraid to die, he told himself. I’m only appalled there’s nothing I can do to protect her.

Grays were picking up bodies now, Browns and Grays treated with equal dignity. Other Grays were streaming away, Kiyama and his men among them, women and children and maids all leaving, dust in the avenue rising under their feet. He smelled the acrid, slightly fetid death-smell mixed with the salt breeze, his mind eclipsed by her, the courage of her, the indefinable warmth that her fearless courage had given him. He looked up at the sun and measured it. Six hours to sunset.

He headed for the steps that led below.

“Anjin-san? Where go, please?”

He turned back, his own Grays forgotten. The captain was staring at him. “Ah, so sorry. Go there!” He pointed to the forecourt.

The captain of Grays thought a moment, then reluctantly agreed. “All right. Please you follow me.”

In the forecourt Blackthorne felt the Browns’ hostility towards his Grays. Yabu was standing beside the gates watching the men come back. Kiri and the Lady Sazuko were fanning themselves, a wet nurse feeding the infant. They were sitting on hastily laid out coverlets and cushions that had been placed in the shade on a veranda. Porters were huddled to one side, squatting in a tight, frightened group around the baggage and pack horses. He headed for the garden but the guards shook their heads. “So sorry, this is out of bounds for the moment, Anjin-san.”

“Yes, of course,” he said, turning away. The avenue was clearing now, though five-hundred-odd Grays still stayed, settling themselves, squatting or sitting cross-legged in a wide semicircle, facing the gates. The last of the Browns stalked back under the arch.

Yabu called out, “Close the gates and bar them.”

“Please excuse me, Yabu-san,” the officer said, “but the Lady Toda said they were to be left open. We are to guard them against all men but the gates are to be left open.”

“You’re sure?”

The officer bridled. He was a neat, bent-faced man in his thirties with a jutting chin, mustached and bearded. “Please excuse me—of course I am sure.”

“Thank you. I meant no offense, neh? Are you the senior officer here?”

“The Lady Toda honored me with her confidence, yes. Of course, you are senior to me.”

“I am in command but you are in charge.”

“Thank you, Yabu-san, but the Lady Toda commands here. You are senior officer. I would be honored to be second to you. If you will permit it.”

Yabu said balefully, “It’s permitted, Captain. I know very well who commands us here. Your name, please?”

“Sumiyori Tabito.”

“Wasn’t the first Gray ‘Sumiyori’ also?”

“Yes, Yabu-san. He was my cousin.”

“When you are ready, Captain Sumiyori, please call a meeting of all officers.”

“Certainly, Sire. With her permission.”

Both men looked away as a lady hobbled into the forecourt. She was elderly and samurai and leaned painfully on a cane. Her hair was white but her back was straight and she went over to Kiritsubo, her maid holding a sunshade over her.

“Ah, Kiritsubo-san,” she said formally. “I am Maeda Etsu, Lord Maeda’s mother, and I share the Lady Toda’s views. With her permission I would like to have the honor of waiting with her.”

“Please sit down, you’re welcome,” Kiri said. A maid brought another cushion and both maids helped the old lady to sit.

“Ah, that’s better—so much better,” Lady Etsu said, biting back a groan of pain. “It’s my joints, they get worse every day. Ah, that’s a relief. Thank you.”

“Would you like cha?”

“First cha, then saké, Kiritsubo-san. Lots of saké. Such excitement’s thirsty work, neh?”

Other samurai women were detaching themselves from the crowds that were leaving and they came back through the ranks of the Grays into the pleasing shade. A few hesitated and three changed their minds, but soon there were fourteen ladies on the veranda and two had brought children with them.

“Please excuse me, but I am Achiko, Kiyama Nagamasa’s wife, and I want to go home too,” a young girl was saying timidly, holding her little son’s hand. “I want to go home to my husband. May I beg permission to wait too, please?”

“But Lord Kiyama will be furious with you, Lady, if you stay here.”

“Oh, so sorry, Kiritsubo-san, but Grandfather hardly knows me. I’m only wife to a very minor grandson. I’m sure he won’t care and I haven’t seen my husband for months and I don’t care either what they say. Our Lady’s right, neh?”

“Quite right, Achiko-san,” old Lady Etsu said, firmly taking charge. “Of course you’re welcome, child. Come and sit by me. What’s your son’s name? What a fine boy you’ve got.”

The ladies chorused their agreement and another boy who was four piped up plaintively, “Please, I’m a fine boy too, neh?” Someone laughed and all the ladies joined in.

“You are indeed,” Lady Etsu said and laughed again.

Kiri wiped away a tear. “There, that’s better, I was getting far too serious, neh?” She chuckled. “Ah, Ladies, I’m so honored to be allowed to greet you in her name. You must all be starving, and you’re so right, Lady Etsu, this is all thirsty work!” She sent maids for food and drink and introduced those ladies who needed introducing, admiring a fine kimono here or a special parasol there. Soon they were all chattering and happy and fluttering like so many parakeets.

“How can a man understand women?” Sumiyori said blankly.

“Impossible!” Yabu agreed.

“One moment they’re frightened and in tears and the next . . . When I saw the Lady Mariko pick up Yoshinaka’s sword, I thought I’d die with pride.”

“Yes. Pity that last Gray was so good. I’d like to have seen her kill. She’d have killed a lesser man.”

Sumiyori rubbed his beard where the drying sweat irritated him. “What would you have done if you’d been him?”

“I would have killed her then charged the Browns. Too much blood there. It was all I could do not to slaughter all the Grays near me on the battlement.”

“It’s good to kill sometimes. Very good. Sometimes it’s very special and then it’s better than a lusting woman.”

There was a burst of laughter from the ladies as the two little boys started strutting up and down importantly, their scarlet kimonos dancing. “It’s good to have children here again. I thank all gods mine are at Yedo.”

“Yes.” Yabu was looking at the women speculatively.

“I was wondering the same,” Sumiyori said quietly.

“What’s your answer?”

“There’s only one now. If Ishido lets us go, fine. If Lady Mariko’s seppuku is wasted, then . . . then we’ll help those ladies into the Void and begin the killing. They won’t want to live.”

Yabu said, “Some may want to.”

“You can decide that later, Yabu-san. It would benefit our Master if they all commit seppuku here. And the children.”

“Yes.”

“Afterward we’ll man the walls and then open the gates at dawn. We’ll fight till noon. That’ll be enough. Then those who are left will come back inside and set fire to this part of the castle. If I’m alive then I’d be honored if you’d be my second.”

“Of course.”

Sumiyori grinned. “This’s going to blow the realm apart, neh? All this killing and her seppuku. It’ll spread like fire—it’ll eat up Osaka, neh? You think that’ll delay the Exalted? Would that be our Master’s plan?”

“I don’t know. Listen, Sumiyori-san, I’m going back to my house for a moment. Fetch me as soon as the Lady comes back.” He walked over to Blackthorne, who sat musing on the main steps. “Listen, Anjin-san,” Yabu said furtively, “perhaps I have a plan. Secret, neh? ‘Secret,’ you understand?”

“Yes. Understand.” Bells tolled the hour change. The time rang in all their heads, the beginning of the Hour of the Monkey, six bells of the afternoon watch, three of the clock. Many turned to the sun and, without thinking, measured it.

“What plan?” Blackthorne asked.

“Talk later. Stay close by. Say nothing, understand?”

“Yes.”

Yabu stalked out of the gateway with ten Browns. Twenty Grays attached themselves and together they went down the avenue. His guest house was not far around the first corner. The Grays stayed outside his gate. Yabu motioned the Browns to wait in the garden and he went inside alone.

“It’s impossible. Lord General,” Ochiba said. “You can’t let a lady of her rank commit seppuku. So sorry, but you’ve been trapped.”

“I agree,” Lord Kiyama said forcefully.

“With due humility, Lady,” Ishido said, “whatever I said or didn’t say, doesn’t matter an eta’s turd to her. She’d already decided, at least Toranaga had.”

“Of course he’s behind it,” Kiyama said as Ochiba recoiled at Ishido’s uncouthness. “So sorry, but he’s outsmarted you again. Even so you can’t let her commit seppuku!”

“Why?”

“Please, so sorry, Lord General, we must keep our voices down,” Ochiba said. They were waiting in the spacious antechamber of Lady Yodoko’s sick room in the inner quarters of the donjon, on the second floor. “I’m sure it wasn’t your fault and there must be a solution.”

Kiyama said quietly, “You cannot let her continue her plan, Lord General, because that will inflame every lady in the castle.”

Ishido glared at him. “You seem to forget a couple were shot by mistake and that didn’t create a ripple among them—except to stop any more escape attempts.”

“That was a terrible mistake, Lord General,” Ochiba said.

“I agree. But we are at war, Toranaga’s not yet in our hands, and until he’s dead you and the Heir are in total danger.”

“So sorry—I’m not worried for myself—only for my son,” Ochiba said. “They’ve all got to be back here in eighteen days. I advise you to let them all go.”

“That’s an unnecessary risk. So sorry. We’re not certain she means it.”

“She does,” Kiyama told him contemptuously, despising Ishido’s truculent presence in the opulent, overrich quarters that reminded him so clearly of the Taikō, his friend and revered patron. “She’s samurai.”

“Yes,” Ochiba said. “So sorry, but I agree with Lord Kiyama. Mariko-san will do what she says. Then there’s that hag Etsu! Those Maedas are a proud lot, neh?”

Ishido walked over to the window and looked out. “They can all burn as far as I’m concerned. The Toda woman’s Christian, neh? Isn’t suicide against her religion? A special sin?”

“Yes, but she’ll have a second—so it won’t be suicide.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“What?”

“Say she’s disarmed and has no second?”

“How could you do that?”

“Capture her. Confine her with carefully chosen maids until Toranaga’s across our borders.” Ishido smiled. “Then she can do what she wants. I’d be even delighted to help her.”

“How could you capture her?” Kiyama asked. “She’d always have time to commit seppuku, or to use her knife.”

“Perhaps. But say she could be captured and disarmed and held for a few days. Isn’t the ‘few days’ vital? Isn’t that why she’s insisting on going today, before Toranaga crosses over our borders and castrates himself?”

“Could it be done?” Lady Ochiba asked.

“Possibly,” Ishido said.

Kiyama pondered this. “In eighteen days Toranaga must be here. He could delay at the border for at the most another four days. She would have to be held for a week at the most.”

“Or forever,” Ochiba said. “Toranaga’s delayed so much, I sometimes think he’ll never come.”

“He has to by the twenty-second day,” Ishido said. “Ah, Lady, that was a brilliant, brilliant idea.”

“Surely that was your idea, Lord General?” Ochiba’s voice was soothing though she was very tired from a sleepless night. “What about Lord Sudara and my sister? Are they with Toranaga now?”

“No, Lady. Not yet. They will be brought here by sea.”

“She is not to be touched,” Ochiba said. “Or her child.”

“Her child is direct heir of Toranaga, who’s heir to the Minowaras. My duty to the Heir, Lady, makes me point this out again.”

“My sister is not to be touched. Nor is her son.”

“As you wish.”

She said to Kiyama, “Sire, how good a Christian is Mariko-san?”

“Pure,” Kiyama replied at once. “You mean about suicide being a sin? I—I think she would honor that or her eternal soul is forfeit, Lady. But I don’t know if . . .”

“Then there’s a simpler solution,” Ishido said without thinking. “Command the High Priest of the Christians to order her to stop harassing the legal rulers of the Empire!”

“He doesn’t have the power,” Kiyama said. Then he added, his voice even more barbed, “That’s political interference—something you’ve always been bitterly against, and rightly.”

“It seems Christians interfere only when it suits them,” Ishido said. “It was only a suggestion.”

The inner door opened and a doctor stood there. His face was grave and exhaustion aged him. “So sorry, Lady, she’s asking for you.”

“Is she dying?” Ishido asked.

“She’s near death, Lord General, yes, but when, I don’t know.”

Ochiba hurried across the large room and through the inner door, her blue kimono clinging, the skirts swaying gracefully. Both men watched her. The door closed. For a moment the two men avoided each other’s eyes, then Kiyama said, “You really think Lady Toda could be captured?”

“Yes,” Ishido told him, watching the door.

Ochiba crossed this even more opulent room and knelt beside the futons. Maids and doctors surrounded them. Sunlight seeped through the bamboo shutters and skittered off the gold and red inlaid carvings of the beams and posts and doors. Yodoko’s bed was surrounded by decorative inlaid screens. She seemed to be sleeping, her bloodless face settled within the hood of her Buddhist robe, her wrists thin, the veins knotted, and Ochiba thought how sad it was to become old. Age was so unfair to women. Not to men, only to women. Gods protect me from old age, she prayed. Buddha protect my son and put him safely into power and protect me only as long as I’m capable of protecting him and helping him.

She took Yodoko’s hand, honoring her. “Lady?”

“O-chan?” Yodoko whispered, using her nickname.

“Yes, Lady?”

“Ah, how pretty you are, so pretty, you always were.” The hand went up and caressed the beautiful hair and Ochiba was not offended by the touch but pleased as always, liking her greatly. “So young and beautiful and sweet-smelling. How lucky the Taikō was.”

“Are you in pain, Lady? Can I get you something?”

“Nothing—nothing, I just wanted to talk.” The old eyes were sunken but had lost none of their shrewdness. “Send the others away.”

Ochiba motioned them to leave and when they were alone she said, “Yes, Lady?”

“Listen, my darling, make the Lord General let her go.”

“He can’t, Lady, or all the other hostages will leave and we’ll lose strength. The Regents all agree,” Ochiba said.

“Regents!” Yodoko said with a thread of scorn. “Do you agree?”

“Yes, Lady, and last night you said she was not to go.”

“Now you must let her go or others will follow her seppuku and you and our son will be befouled because of Ishido’s mistake.”

“The Lord General’s loyal, Lady. Toranaga isn’t, so sorry.”

“You can trust Lord Toranaga—not him.”

Ochiba shook her head. “So sorry, but I’m convinced Toranaga’s committed to become Shōgun and will destroy our son.”

“You’re wrong. He’s said it a thousand times. Other daimyos are trying to use him for their own ambitions. They always have. Toranaga was the Taikō’s favorite. Toranaga has always honored the Heir. Toranaga’s Minowara. Don’t be swayed by Ishido, or the Regents. They’ve their own karmas, their own secrets, O-chan. Why not let her go? It’s all so simple. Forbid her the sea, then she can always be delayed somewhere inside our borders. She’s still in your General’s net, and Kiri and all the others, neh? She’ll be surrounded by Grays. Think like the Taikō would or like Toranaga would. You and our son are being pulled into . . .” The words trailed off and her eyelids began to flutter. The old lady gathered her remaining strength and continued, “Mariko-san could never object to guards. I know she means what she says. Let her go.”

“Of course that was considered, Lady,” Ochiba said, her voice gentle and patient, “but outside the castle Toranaga has secret bands of samurai, hidden in and around Osaka, we don’t know how many, and he has allies—we’re not sure who. She might escape. Once she goes, all the others would follow her at once and we’d lose a great security. You agreed, Yodoko-chan, don’t you remember? So sorry, but I asked you last night, don’t you remember?”

“Yes, I remember, child,” Yodoko said, her mind wandering. “Oh, how I wish the Lord Taikō were here again to guide you.” The old lady’s breathing was becoming labored.

“Can I give you some cha or saké?”

“Cha, yes please, some cha.”

She helped the old one to drink. “Thank you, child.” The voice was feebler now, the strain of conversation speeding the dying. “Listen, child, you must trust Toranaga. Marry him, barter with him for the succession.”

“No—no,” Ochiba said, shocked.

“Yaemon could rule after him, then the fruit of your new marriage after our son. The sons of our son will honorably swear eternal fidelity to this new Toranaga line.”

“Toranaga’s always hated the Taikō. You know that, Lady. Toranaga is the source of all the trouble. For years, neh? Him!”

“And you? What about your pride, child?”

“He’s the enemy, our enemy.”

“You’ve two enemies, child. Your pride and the need to have a man to compare to our husband. Please be patient with me, you’re young and beautiful and fruitful and deserve a husband. Toranaga’s worthy of you, you of him. Toranaga is the only chance Yaemon has.”

“No, he’s the enemy.”

“He was our husband’s greatest friend and most loyal vassal. Without . . . without Toranaga . . . don’t you see . . . it was Toranaga’s help . . . don’t you see? You could manage . . . manage him. . . .”

“So sorry, but I hate him—he disgusts me, Yodoko-chan.”

“Many women . . . What was I saying? Oh yes, many women marry men who disgust them. Praise be to Buddha I never had to suffer that. . . .” The old woman smiled briefly. Then she sighed. It was a long, serious sigh and went on for too long and Ochiba thought the end had come. But the eyes opened a little and a tiny smile appeared again. “Neh?”

“Yes.”

“Will you. Please?”

“I will think about it.”

The old fingers tried to tighten. “I beg you, promise me you’ll marry Toranaga and I will go to Buddha knowing that the Taikō’s line will live forever, like his name . . . his name will live for . . .”

The tears ran freely down Ochiba’s face as she cradled the listless hand.

Later the eyes trembled and the old woman whispered, “You must let Akechi Mariko go. Don’t . . . don’t let her reap vengeance on us for what the Taikō did . . . did to . . . to her . . . to her father. . . .”

Ochiba was caught unaware. “What?”

There was no answer. Later Yodoko began mumbling, “. . . Dear Yaemon, hello, my darling son, how . . . you’re such a fine boy, but you’ve so many enemies, so foolish so . . . Aren’t you just an illusion too, isn’t . . .”

A spasm racked her. Ochiba held on to the hand and caressed it. “Namu Amida Butsu,” she whispered in homage.

There was another spasm, then the old woman said clearly, “Forgive me, O-chan.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Lady.”

“So much to forgive. . . .” The voice became fainter, and the light began to fade from her face. “Listen . . . prom—promise about . . . about Toranaga, Ochiba-sama . . . important . . . please . . . you can trust him. . . .” The old eyes were beseeching her, willing her.

Ochiba did not want to obey yet knew that she should obey. Her mind was unsettled by what had been said about Akechi Mariko, and still resounded with the Taikō’s words, repeated ten thousand times, “You can trust Yodoko-sama, O-chan. She’s the Wise One—never forget it. She’s right most times and you can always trust her with your life, and my son’s life and mine. . . .”

Ochiba conceded. “I prom—” She stopped abruptly.

The light of Yodoko-sama flickered a final time and went out.

“Namu Amida Butsu.” Ochiba touched the hand to her lips, and she bowed and laid the hand back on the coverlet and closed the eyes, thinking about the Taikō’s death, the only other death she had witnessed so closely. That time Lady Yodoko had closed the eyes as was a wife’s privilege and it had been in this same room, Toranaga waiting outside, as Ishido and Kiyama were now outside, continuing a vigil that had begun the day before.

“But why send for Toranaga, Lord?” she had asked. “You should rest.”

“I’ll rest when I’m dead, O-chan,” the Taikō had said. “I must settle the succession. Finally. While I’ve the strength.”

So Toranaga had arrived, strong, vital, exuding power. The four of them were alone then, Ochiba, Yodoko, Toranaga and Nakamura, the Taikō, the Lord of Japan lying on his deathbed, all of them waiting for the orders that would be obeyed.

“So, Tora-san,” the Taikō had said, welcoming him with the nickname Goroda had given Toranaga long ago, the deep-set eyes peering up out of the tiny, withered simian face that was set on an equally tiny body—a body that had had the strength of steel until a few months ago when the wasting began. “I’m dying. From nothing, into nothing, but you’ll be alive and my son’s helpless.”

“Not helpless, Sire. All the daimyos will honor your son as they honor you.”

The Taikō laughed. “Yes, they will. Today. While I’m alive—ah yes! But how do I make sure Yaemon will rule after me?”

“Appoint a Council of Regents, Sire.”

“Regents!” the Taikō said scornfully. “Perhaps I should make you my heir and let you judge if Yaemon’s worthy to follow you.”

“I would not be worthy to do that. Your son should follow you.”

“Yes, and Goroda’s sons should have followed him.”

“No. They broke the peace.”

“And you stamped them out on my orders.”

“You held the Emperor’s mandate. They rebelled against your lawful mandate, Sire. Give me your orders now, and I will obey them.”

“That’s why I called you here.”

Then the Taikō said, “It’s a rare thing to have a son at fifty-seven and a foul thing to die at sixty-three—if he’s an only son and you’ve got no kin and you’re Lord of Japan. Neh?”

“Yes,” Toranaga said.

“Perhaps it would’ve been better if I’d never had a son, then I could pass the realm on to you as we agreed. You’ve more sons than a Portugee’s got lice.”

“Karma.”

The Taikō had laughed and a string of spittle, flecked with blood, seeped out of his mouth. With great care Yodoko wiped the spittle away and he smiled up at his wife. “Thank you, Yo-chan, thank you.” Then the eyes turned onto Ochiba herself and Ochiba had smiled back but his eyes weren’t smiling now, just probing, wondering, pondering the never-dared-to-be-asked question that she was sure was forever in his mind: Is Yaemon really my son?

“Karma, O-chan. Neh?” It was gently said but Ochiba’s fear that he would ask her directly racked her and tears glistened in her eyes.

“No need for tears, O-chan. Life’s only a dream within a dream,” the old man said. He lay for a moment musing, then he peered at Toranaga again, and with a sudden, unexpected warmth for which he was famous, said, “Eeeeee, old friend, what a life we’ve had, neh? All the battles? Fighting side by side—together unbeatable. We did the impossible, neh? Together we humbled the mighty and spat on their upturned arses while they groveled for more. Us—we did it, a peasant and a Minowara!” The old man chuckled. “Listen, a few more years and I’d have smashed the Garlic Eaters properly. Then with Korean legions and our own Japanese legions, a sharp thrust up to Peking and me on the Dragon Throne of China. Then I’d have given you Japan, which you want, and I’d have what I want.” The voice was strong, belying the inner fragility. “A peasant can straddle the Dragon Throne with face and honor—not like here. Neh?”

“China and Japan are different, yes, Sire.”

“Yes. They’re wise in China. There the first of a dynasty’s always a peasant or the son of a peasant, and the throne’s always taken by force with bloody hands. No hereditary caste there—isn’t that China’s strength?” Again the laugh. “Force and bloody hands and peasant—that’s me. Neh?”

“Yes. But you’re also samurai. You changed the rules here. You’re first of a dynasty.”

“I always liked you, Tora-san.” The old man sipped cha contentedly. “Yes—think of it, me on the Dragon Throne—think of that! Emperor of China, Yodoko Empress, and after her Ochiba the Fair, and after me Yaemon, and China and Japan forever joined together as they should be. Ah, it would have been so easy! Then with our legions and Chinese hordes I’d stab northwest and south and, like tenth-class whores, the empires of all the earth would lie panting in the dirt, their legs spread wide for us to take what we want. We’re unbeatable—you and I were unbeatable—Japanese’re unbeatable, of course we are—we know the whole point of life. Neh?”

“Yes.”

The eyes glittered strangely. “What is it?”

“Duty, discipline, and death,” Toranaga replied.

Again a chuckle, the old man seemingly tinier than ever, more wizened than ever, and then, with an equal suddenness for which he was also famous, all the warmth left him. “The Regents?” he asked, his voice venomous and firm. “Whom would you pick?”

“Lords Kiyama, Ishido, Onoshi, Toda Hiro-matsu, and Sugiyama.”

The Taikō’s face twisted with a malicious grin. “You are the cleverest man in the Empire—after me! Explain to my ladies why you’d pick those five.”

“Because they all hate each other, but combined, they can rule effectively and stamp out any opposition.”

“Even you?”

“No, not me, Sire.” Then Toranaga looked at Ochiba and spoke directly to her. “For Yaemon to inherit power you have to weather another nine years. To do that, above all else, you must maintain the Taikō’s peace. I pick Kiyama because he’s the chief Christian daimyo, a great general, and a most loyal vassal. Next, Sugiyama because he’s the richest daimyo in the land, his family ancient, he heartily detests Christians, and has the most to gain if Yaemon gets power. Onoshi because he detests Kiyama, offsets his power, is also Christian, but a leper who grasps at life, will live for twenty years and hates all the others with a monstrous violence, particularly Ishido. Ishido because he’ll be sniffing out plots—because he’s a peasant, detests hereditary samurai, and is violently opposed to Christians. Toda Hiro-matsu because he’s honest, obedient, and faithful, as constant as the sun and like the sudden best sword of a master sword-smith. He should be president of the Council.”

“And you?”

“I will commit seppuku with my eldest son, Noboru. My son Sudara’s married to the Lady Ochiba’s sister, so he’s no threat, could never be a threat. He could inherit the Kwanto, if it pleases you, providing he swears perpetual allegiance to your house.”

No one was surprised that Toranaga had offered to do what was obviously in the Taikō’s mind, for Toranaga alone among the daimyos was the real threat. Then she had heard her husband say, “O-chan, what is your counsel?”

“Everything that the Lord Toranaga has said, Sire,” she had answered at once, “except that you should order my sister divorced from Sudara who should commit seppuku. The Lord Noboru should be Lord Toranaga’s heir and should inherit the two provinces of Musashi and Shimosa, and the rest of the Kwanto should go to your heir, Yaemon. I counsel this to be ordered today.”

“Yodoko-sama?”

To her astonishment, Yodoko had said, “Ah, Tokichi, you know I adore you with all my heart and the O-chan, and Yaemon as my own son. I say make Toranaga sole Regent.”

“What?”

“If you order him to die, I think you kill our son. Only Lord Toranaga has skill enough, prestige enough, cunning enough to inherit now. Put Yaemon into his keeping until he’s of age. Order Lord Toranaga to adopt our son formally. Let Yaemon be coached by Lord Toranaga and inherit after Toranaga.”

“No—this must not be done,” Ochiba had protested.

“What do you say to that, Tora-san?” the Taikō asked.

“With humility I must refuse, Sire. I cannot accept that and beg to be allowed to commit seppuku and go before you.”

“You will be sole Regent.”

“I’ve never refused to obey you since we made our bargain. But this order I refuse.”

Ochiba remembered how she had tried to will the Taikō to let Toranaga obliterate himself as she knew the Taikō had already decided. But the Taikō had changed his mind and, at length, had accepted part of what Yodoko had advised, and made the compromise that Toranaga would be a Regent and President of the Regents. Toranaga had sworn eternal faith to Yaemon but now he was still spinning the web that embroiled them all, like this crisis Mariko had precipitated. “I know it was on his orders,” Ochiba muttered, and now Lady Yodoko had wanted her to submit to him totally.

Marry Toranaga? Buddha protect me from that shame, from having to welcome him and feel his weight and his spurting life.

Shame?

Ochiba, what is the truth? she asked herself. The truth is that you wanted him once—before the Taikō, neh? Even during, neh? Many times in your secret heart. Neh? The Wise One was right again about pride being your enemy and about needing a man, a husband. Why not accept Ishido? He honors you and wants you and he’s going to win. He would be easy to manage. Neh? No, not that uncouth bog trotter! Oh, I know the filthy rumors spread by enemies—filthy impertinence! I swear I’d rather lie with my maids and put my faith in a harigata for another thousand lifetimes than abuse my Lord’s memory with Ishido. Be honest, Ochiba. Consider Toranaga. Don’t you really hate him just because he might have seen you on that dream day?

It had been more than six years ago in Kyushu when she and her ladies had been out hawking with the Taikō and Toranaga. Their party was spread over a wide area and she had been galloping after one of her falcons, separated from the others. She was in the hills in a wood and she’d suddenly come upon this peasant gathering berries beside the lonely path. Her first weakling son had been dead almost two years and there were no more stirrings in her womb, though she had tried every position or trick or regimen, every superstition or potion or prayer, desperate to satisfy her lord’s obsession for an heir.

The meeting with the peasant had been so sudden. He gawked up at her as though she were a kami and she at him because he was the image of the Taikō, small and monkeylike, but he had youth.

Her mind had shouted that here was the gift from the gods she had prayed for, and she had dismounted and taken his hand and together they went a few paces into the wood and she became like a bitch in heat.

Everything had had a dreamlike quality to it, the frenzy and lust and coarseness, lying on the earth, and even today she could still feel his gushing liquid fire, his sweet breath, his hands clutching her marvelously. Then she had felt his full dead weight and abruptly his breath became putrid and everything about him vile except the wetness, so she had pushed him off. He had wanted more but she had hit him and cursed him and told him to thank the gods she did not turn him into a tree for his insolence, and the poor superstitious fool had cowered on his knees begging her forgiveness—of course she was a kami, why else would such beauty squirm in the dirt for such as him?

Weakly she had climbed into the saddle and walked the horse away, dazed, the man and the clearing soon lost, half wondering if all had been a dream and the peasant a real kami, praying that he was a kami, his essence god-given, that it would make another son for the glory of her Lord and give him the peace that he deserved. Then, just the other side of the wood, Toranaga had been waiting for her. Had he seen her? she wondered in panic.

“I was worried about you, Lady,” he had said.

“I’m—I’m perfectly all right, thank you.”

“But your kimono’s all torn—there’s bracken down your back and in your hair. . . .”

“My horse threw me—it’s nothing.” Then she had challenged him to a race home to prove that nothing was wrong, and had set off like the wild wind, her back still smarting from the brambles that sweet oils soon soothed and, the same night, she had pillowed with her Lord and Master and, nine months later, she had birthed Yaemon to his eternal joy. And hers.

“Of course our husband is Yaemon’s father,” Ochiba said with complete certainty to the husk of Yodoko. “He fathered both my children—the other was a dream.”

Why delude yourself? It was not a dream, she thought. It happened. That man was not a kami. You rutted with a peasant in the dirt to sire a son you needed as desperately as the Taikō to bind him to you. He would have taken another consort, neh?

What about your first-born?

“Karma,” Ochiba said, dismissing that latent agony as well.

“Drink this, child,” Yodoko had said to her when she was sixteen, a year after she had become the Taikō’s formal consort. And she had drunk the strange, warming herb cha and felt so sleepy and the next evening when she awoke again she remembered only strange erotic dreams and bizarre colors and an eerie timelessness. Yodoko had been there when she awakened, as when she had gone to sleep, so considerate, and as worried over the harmony of their lord as she had been. Nine months later she had birthed, the first of all the Taikō’s women to do so. But the child was sickly and that child died in infancy.

Karma, she thought.

Nothing had ever been said between herself and Yodoko. About what had happened, or what might have happened, during that vast deep sleep. Nothing, except “Forgive me . . .” a few moments ago, and, “There is nothing to forgive.”

You’re blameless, Yodoko-sama, and nothing occurred, no secret act or anything. And if there did, rest in peace, Old One, now that secret lies buried with you. Her eyes were on the empty face, so frail and pathetic now, just as the Taikō had been so frail and pathetic at his ending, his question also never asked. Karma that he died, she thought dispassionately. If he’d lived another ten years I’d be Empress of China, but now . . . now I’m alone.

“Strange that you died before I could promise, Lady,” she said, the smell of incense and the musk of death surrounding her. “I would have promised but you died before I promised. Is that my karma too? Do I obey a request and an unspoken promise? What should I do?”

My son, my son, I feel so helpless.

Then she remembered something the Wise One had said: “Think like the Taikō would—or Toranaga would.”

Ochiba felt new strength pour through her. She sat back in the stillness and, coldly, began to obey.

In a sudden hush, Chimmoko came out of the small gates to the garden and walked over to Blackthorne and bowed. “Anjin-san, please excuse me, my Mistress wishes to see you. If you will wait a moment I will escort you.”

“All right. Thank you.” Blackthorne got up, still deep in his reverie and his overpowering sense of doom. The shadows were long now. Already part of the forecourt was sunless. The Grays prepared to move with him.

Chimmoko went over to Sumiyori. “Please excuse me, Captain, but my Lady asks you to please prepare everything.”

“Where does she want it done?”

The maid pointed at the space in front of the arch. “There, Sire.”

Sumiyori was startled. “It’s to be public? Not in private with just a few witnesses? She’s doing it for all to see?”

“Yes.”

“But, well . . . if it’s to be here . . . Her—her . . . what about her second?”

“She believes the Lord Kiyama will honor her.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“I don’t know, Captain. She—she hasn’t told me.” Chimmoko bowed and walked across to the veranda to bow again. “Kiritsubo-san, my Mistress says, so sorry, she’ll return shortly.”

“Is she all right?”

“Oh yes,” Chimmoko said proudly.

Kiri and the others were composed now. When they had heard what had been said to the captain they had been equally perturbed. “Does she know other ladies are waiting to greet her?”

“Oh yes, Kiritsubo-san. I—I was watching, and I told her. She said that she’s so honored by their presence and she will thank them in person soon. Please excuse me.”

They all watched her go back to the gates and beckon Blackthorne. The Grays began to follow but Chimmoko shook her head and said her mistress had not bidden them. The captain allowed Blackthorne to leave.

It was like a different world beyond the garden gates, verdant and serene, the sun on the treetops, birds chattering and insects foraging, the brook falling sweetly into the lily pond. But he could not shake off his gloom.

Chimmoko stopped and pointed at the little cha-no-yu house. He went forward alone. He slipped his feet out of his thongs and walked up the three steps. He had to stoop, almost to his knees, to go through the tiny screened doorway. Then he was inside.

“Thou,” she said.

“Thou,” he said.

She was kneeling, facing the doorway, freshly made up, lips crimson, immaculately coiffured, wearing a fresh kimono of somber blue edged with green, with a lighter green obi and a thin green ribbon for her hair.

“Thou art beautiful.”

“And thou.” A tentative smile. “So sorry it was necessary for thee to watch.”

“It was my duty.”

“Not duty,” she said. “I did not expect—or plan for—so much killing.”

“Karma.” Blackthorne pulled himself out of his trance and stopped talking Latin. “You’ve been planning all this for a long time—your suicide. Neh?”

“My life’s never been my own, Anjin-san. It’s always belonged to my liege Lord, and, after him, to my Master. That’s our law.”

“It’s a bad law.”

“Yes. And no.” She looked up from the mats. “Are we going to quarrel about things that may not be changed?”

“No. Please excuse me.”

“I love thee,” she said in Latin.

“Yes. I know that now. And I love thee. But death is thy aim, Mariko-san.”

“Thou art wrong, my darling. The life of my Master is my aim. And thy life. And truly, Madonna forgive me, or bless me for it, there are times when thy life is more important.”

“There’s no escape now. For anyone.”

“Be patient. The sun has not yet set.”

“I have no confidence in this sun, Mariko-san.” He reached out and touched her face. “Gomen nasai.”

“I promised thee tonight would be like the Inn of the Blossoms. Be patient. I know Ishido and Ochiba and the others.”

“Que va on the others,” he said in Portuguese, his mood changing. “You mean that you’re gambling that Toranaga knows what he’s doing. Neh?”

“Que va on thy ill humor,” she replied gently. “This day’s too short.”

“Sorry—you’re right again. Today’s no time for ill humor.” He watched her. Her face was streaked with shadow bars cast by the sun through the bamboo slats. The shadows climbed and vanished as the sun sank behind a battlement.

“What can I do to help thee?” he asked.

“Believe there is a tomorrow.”

For a moment he caught a glimpse of her terror. His arms went out to her and he held her and the waiting was no longer terrible.

Footsteps approached.

“Yes, Chimmoko?”

“It’s time, Mistress.”

“Is everything ready?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Wait for me beside the lily pond.” The footsteps went away. Mariko turned back to Blackthorne and kissed him gently.

“I love thee,” she said.

“I love thee,” he said.

She bowed to him and went through the doorway. He followed.

Mariko stopped by the lily pond and undid her obi and let it fall. Chimmoko helped her out of her blue kimono. Beneath it Mariko wore the most brilliant white kimono and obi Blackthorne had ever seen. It was a formal death kimono. She untied the green ribbon from her hair and cast it aside, then, completely in white, she walked on and did not look at Blackthorne.

Beyond the garden, all the Browns were drawn up in a formal three-sided square around eight tatamis that had been laid out in the center of the main gateway. Yabu and Kiri and the rest of the ladies were seated in a line in the place of honor, facing south. In the avenue the Grays were also drawn up ceremoniously, and mingling with them were other samurai and samurai women. At a sign from Sumiyori everyone bowed. She bowed to them. Four samurai came forward and spread a crimson coverlet over the tatamis.

Mariko walked to Kiritsubo and greeted her and Sazuko and all the ladies. They returned her bow and spoke the most formal of greetings. Blackthorne waited at the gates. He watched her leave the ladies and go to the crimson square and kneel in the center, in front of the tiny white cushion. Her right hand brought out her stiletto dagger from her white obi and she placed it on the cushion in front of her. Chimmoko came forward and, kneeling too, offered her a small, pure white blanket and cord. Mariko arranged the skirts of her kimono perfectly, the maid helping her, then tied the blanket around her waist with the cord. Blackthorne knew this was to prevent her skirts being blooded and disarranged by her death throes.

Then, serene and prepared, Mariko looked up at the castle donjon. Sun still illuminated the upper story, glittering off the golden tiles. Rapidly the flaming light was mounting the spire. Then it disappeared.

She looked so tiny sitting there motionless, a splash of white on the square of crimson.

Already the avenue was dark and servants were lighting flares. When they finished, they fled as quickly and as silently as they had arrived.

She reached forward and touched the knife and straightened it. Then she gazed once more through the gateway to the far end of the avenue but it was as still and as empty as it had ever been. She looked back at the knife.

“Kasigi Yabu-sama!”

“Yes, Toda-sama?”

“It seems Lord Kiyama has declined to assist me. Please, I would be honored if you would be my second.”

“It is my honor,” Yabu said. He bowed and got to his feet and stood behind her, to her left. His sword sang as it slid from its scabbard. He set his feet firmly and with two hands raised the sword. “I am ready, Lady,” he said.

“Please wait until I have made the second cut.”

Her eyes were on the knife. With her right hand she made the sign of the cross over her breast, then leaned forward and took up the knife without trembling and touched it to her lips as though to taste the polished steel. Then she changed her grip and held the knife firmly with her right hand under the left side of her throat. At that moment flares rounded the far end of the avenue. A retinue approached. Ishido was at their head.

She did not move the knife.

Yabu was still a coiled spring, concentrated on the mark. “Lady,” he said, “do you wait or are you continuing? I wish to be perfect for you.”

Mariko forced herself back from the brink. “I—we wait . . . we . . . I . . .” Her hand lowered the knife. It was shaking now. As slowly, Yabu released himself. His sword hissed back into the scabbard and he wiped his hands on his sides.

Ishido stood at the gateway. “It’s not sunset yet, Lady. The sun’s still on the horizon. Are you so keen to die?”

“No, Lord General. Just to obey my Lord. . . .” She held her hands together to stop their shaking.

A rumble of anger went through the Browns at Ishido’s arrogant rudeness and Yabu readied to leap at him, but stopped as Ishido said loudly, “The Lady Ochiba begged the Regents on behalf of the Heir to make an exception in your case. We agreed to her request. Here are permits for you to leave at dawn tomorrow.” He shoved them into the hands of Sumiyori, who was nearby.

“Sire?” Mariko said, without understanding, her voice threadbare.

“You are free to leave. At dawn.”

“And—and Kiritsubo-san and the Lady Sazuko?”

“Isn’t that also part of your ‘duty’? Their permits are there also.”

Mariko tried to concentrate. “And . . . and her son?”

“Him too, Lady,” Ishido’s scornful laugh echoed. “And all your men.”

Yabu stammered, “Everyone has safe conducts?”

“Yes, Kasigi Yabu-san,” Ishido said. “You’re senior officer, neh? Please go at once to my secretary. He is completing all your passes, though why honored guests would wish to leave I don’t know. It’s hardly worth it for seventeen days. Neh?”

“And me, Lord General?” old Lady Etsu asked weakly, daring to test the totality of Mariko’s victory, her heart racing and painful. “May—may I please leave also?”

“Of course, Lady Maeda. Why should we keep anyone against her will? Are we jailers? Of course not! If the Heir’s welcome is so offensive that you wish to leave, then leave, though how you intend to travel four hundred ri home and another four hundred ri here in seventeen days I don’t understand.”

“Please ex—excuse me, the—the Heir’s welcome isn’t offen—”

Ishido interrupted icily. “If you wish to leave, apply for a permit in the normal way. It’ll take a day or so but we’ll see you safely on your way.” He addressed the others: “Any ladies may apply, any samurai. I’ve said before, it’s stupid to leave for seventeen days, it’s insulting to flout the Heir’s welcome, the Lady Ochiba’s welcome, and the Regents’ welcome . . .”—his ruthless gaze went back to Mariko—“or to pressure them with threats of seppuku, which for a lady should be done in private and not as an arrogant public spectacle. Neh? I don’t seek the death of women, only enemies of the Heir, but if women are openly his enemy, then I’ll soon spit on their corpses too.”

Ishido turned on his heel, shouted an order at the Grays, and walked off. At once captains echoed the order and all the Grays began to form up and move off from the gateway, except for a token few who stayed in honor of the Browns.

“Lady,” Yabu said huskily, wiping his damp hands again, a bitter vomit taste in his mouth from the lack of fulfillment, “Lady, it’s over now. You’ve . . . you’ve won. You’ve won.”

“Yes—yes,” she said. Her strengthless hands sought the knots of the white cord. Chimmoko went forward and undid the knots and took away the white blanket, then stepped away from the crimson square. Everyone watched Mariko, waiting to see if she could walk away.

Mariko was trying to grope to her feet. She failed. She tried a second time. Again she failed. Impulsively Kiri moved to help her but Yabu shook his head and said, “No, it’s her privilege,” so Kiri sat back, hardly breathing.

Blackthorne, beside the gates, was still turmoiled by his boundless joy at her reprieve and he remembered how his own will had been stretched that night of his near-seppuku, when he had had to get up as a man and walk home as a man unsupported, and became samurai. And he watched her, despising the need for this courage, yet understanding it, even honoring it.

He saw her hands go to the crimson again, and again she pushed and this time Mariko forced herself upright. She wavered and almost fell, then her feet moved and slowly she tottered across the crimson and reeled helplessly toward the main door. Blackthorne decided that she had done enough, had endured enough, had proved enough, so he came forward and caught her in his arms and lifted her up just as her mind left her.

For a moment he stood there in the arena alone, proud that he was alone and that he had decided. She lay like a broken doll in his arms. Then he carried her inside and no one moved or barred his path.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

The attack on the Browns’ stronghold began in the darkest reaches of the night, two or three hours before dawn. The first wave of ten ninja—the infamous Stealthy Ones—came over the roofs of the battlements opposite, now unguarded by Grays. They threw cloth-covered grappling hooks on ropes over to the other roof and swung across the chasm like so many spiders. They wore tight-fitting clothes of black and black tabi and black masks. Their hands and faces were also blackened. These men were lightly armed with chain knives and shuriken—small, star-shaped, needle-sharp, poison-tipped throwing barbs and discs that were the size of a man’s palm. On their backs were slung haversacks and short thin poles.

Ninja were mercenaries. They were artists in stealth, specialists in the disreputable—in espionage, infiltration, and sudden death.

The ten men landed noiselessly. They re-coiled the grapples, and four of them hooked the grapples again onto a projection and immediately swung downward to a veranda twenty feet below. Once they had reached it, as noiselessly, their comrades unhooked the grapples, dropped them down, and moved across the tiles to infiltrate another area.

A tile cracked under one man’s foot and they all froze. In the forecourt, three stories and sixty feet below, Sumiyori stopped on his rounds and looked up. His eyes squinted into the darkness. He waited without moving, his mouth open a fraction to improve his hearing, his eyes sweeping slowly. The roof with the ninja was in shadow, the moon faint, the stars heavy in the thick humid air. The men stayed absolutely still, even their breathing controlled and imperceptible, seemingly as inanimate as the tiles upon which they stood.

Sumiyori made another circuit with his eyes and with his ears, and then another, and, still not sure, he walked out into the forecourt to see more clearly. Now the four ninja on the veranda were also within his field of vision but they were as motionless as the others and he did not notice them either.

“Hey,” he called to the guards on the gateway, the doors tight barred now, “you see anything—hear anything?”

“No, Captain,” the alert sentries said. “The roof tiles are always chattering, shifting a bit—it’s the damp or the heat, perhaps.”

Sumiyori said to one of them, “Go up there and have a look. Better still, tell the top-floor guards to make a search just in case.”

The soldier hurried off. Sumiyori stared up again, then half shrugged and, reassured, continued his patrol. The other samurai went back to their posts, watching outward.

On the rooftop and on the veranda the ninja waited in their frozen positions. Not even their eyes moved. They were schooled to remain immobile for hours if need be—just one part of their perpetual training. Then the leader motioned to them and at once they again moved to the attack. Their grapples and ropes took them quietly to another veranda where they could slide through the narrow windows in the granite walls. Below this top floor, all other windows—defense positions for bowmen—were so narrow that they could not be entered from outside. At another signal the two groups entered simultaneously.

Both rooms were in darkness, with ten Browns sleeping in neat lines. They were put to death quickly and almost noiselessly, a single knife thrust in the throat for most, the raiders’ trained senses taking them unerringly to their targets, and in moments the last of the Browns was thrashing desperately, his warning shout garroted just as it had begun. Then, the rooms secured, the doors secured, the leader took out a flint and tinder and lit a candle and carried it, cupped carefully, to the window and signaled three times into the night. Behind him his men were making doubly sure that every Brown was quite dead. The leader repeated the signal, then came away from the window and motioned with his hand, speaking to them in sign language with his fingers.

At once the raiders undid their haversacks and readied their attack weapons—short, sickle-shaped, double-edged knives with a chain attached to the haft, weighted at the end of the chain, and shuriken and throwing knives. At another order, selected men unsheathed the short poles. These were telescoped spears and blow pipes that sprang into full length with startling speed. And as each man completed his preparations he knelt, settled himself facing the door, and, seemingly without conscious effort, became totally motionless. Now the last man was ready. The leader blew out the candle.

When the city bells toned the middle of the Hour of the Tiger—four of the clock, an hour before dawn—the second wave of ninja infiltrated. Twenty slid silently out of a large, disused culvert that once had serviced the rivulets of the garden. All these men wore swords. Like so many shadows, they swarmed into position among the shrubs and bushes, became motionless and almost invisible. At the same time another group of twenty came up from the ground by ropes and grapples to attack the battlement that overlooked the forecourt and garden.

Two Browns were on the battlements, carefully watching the empty roofs across the avenue. Then one of the Browns glanced around and saw the grapples behind them and he began to point in alarm. His comrade opened his mouth to shout a warning when the first ninja made the embrasure and, with a whipping snap of his wrist, sent a barbed shuriken whirling into this samurai’s face and mouth, hideously strangling the shout, and hurled himself forward at the other samurai, his outstretched hand now a lethal weapon, the thumb and forefinger extended, and he stabbed for the jugular. The impact paralyzed the samurai, another vicious blow broke his neck with a dry crack, and the ninja jumped at the first agonized samurai, who was clawing at the barbs embedded deeply in his mouth and face, the poison already working.

With a final supreme effort, the dying samurai ripped out his short stabbing sword and struck. His blow sliced deep and the ninja gasped but this did not stop the rush and his hand slammed into the Brown’s throat, snapping the man’s head back and dislocating his spine. The samurai was dead on his feet.

The ninja was bleeding badly but he made no sound and still held on to the dead Brown, lowering him carefully to the stone flags, sinking to his knees beside him. All the ninja had climbed up the ropes now and stood on the battlement. They bypassed their wounded comrade until the battlement was secured. The wounded man was still on his knees beside the dead Browns, holding his side. The leader examined the wound. Blood was spurting in a steady stream. He shook his head and spoke with his fingers and the man nodded and dragged himself painfully to a corner, the blood leaving a wide trail. He made himself comfortable, leaning against the stone, and took out a shuriken. He scratched the back of one hand several times with the poison barbs, then found his stiletto, put the point at the base of his throat and, two-handed, with all his strength, he thrust upward.

The leader made sure this man was dead then went back to the fortified door that led inside. He opened it cautiously. At that moment they heard footsteps approaching and at once melted back into ambush position.

In the corridor of this, the west wing, Sumiyori was approaching with ten Browns. He dropped two off near the battlement door and, not stopping, walked on. These two reliefs went out onto the battlement as Sumiyori turned the far corner and went down a flight of circular steps. At the bottom was another checkpoint and the two tired samurai bowed and were replaced.

“Pick up the others and go back to your quarters. You’ll be wakened at dawn,” Sumiyori said.

“Yes, Captain.”

The two samurai walked back up the steps, glad to be off duty. Sumiyori continued on down the next corridor, replacing sentries. At length he stopped outside a door and knocked, the last two guards with him.

“Yabu-san?”

“Yes?” The voice was sleepy.

“So sorry, it’s the change of the guard.”

“Ah, thank you. Please come in.”

Sumiyori opened the door but warily stayed on the threshold. Yabu was touseled, propped in the coverlets on one elbow, his other hand on his sword. When he was sure it was Sumiyori he relaxed and yawned. “Anything new, Captain?”

Sumiyori relaxed also and shook his head, came in and closed the door. The room was large and neat and another bed of futons was laid and turned back invitingly. Arrow slit windows overlooked the avenue and city, a sheer drop of thirty feet below. “Everything’s quiet. She’s sleeping now. . . . At least her maid, Chimmoko, said she was.” He went to the low bureau where an oil lamp spluttered and poured himself cold cha from a pot. Beside it was their pass, formally stamped, that Yabu had brought back from Ishido’s office.

Yabu yawned again and stretched luxuriously. “The Anjin-san?”

“He was awake the last time I checked. That was at midnight. He asked me not to check again until just before dawn—something about his customs. I didn’t understand clearly everything he said, but there’s no harm, there’s very tight security everywhere, neh? Kiritsubo-san and the other ladies are quiet, though she’s been up, Kiritsubo-san, most of the night.”

Yabu got out of bed. He wore only a loincloth. “Doing what?”

“Just sitting at a window, staring out. Nothing to see out there. I suggested she’d better get some sleep. She thanked me politely and agreed and stayed where she was. Women, neh?”

Yabu flexed his shoulders and elbows and scratched vigorously to get his blood flowing. He began to dress. “She should rest. She’s got a long way to go today.”

Sumiyori set the cup down. “I think it’s all a trick.”

“What?”

“I don’t think Ishido means it.”

“We have signed permits. There they are. Every man’s listed. You checked the names. How can he go back on a public commitment to us or to Lady Toda? Impossible, neh?”

“I don’t know. Your pardon, Yabu-san, but I still think it’s a trick.”

Yabu knotted his sash slowly. “What kind of trick?”

“We’ll be ambushed.”

“Outside the castle?”

Sumiyori nodded. “Yes, that’s what I think.”

“He wouldn’t dare.”

“He’ll dare. He’ll ambush us or delay us. I can’t see him letting her go, or Lady Kiritsubo, or Lady Sazuko or the babe. Even old Lady Etsu and the others.”

“No, you’re wrong.”

Sumiyori shook his head sadly. “I think it would’ve been better if she’d cut deep and you’d struck. This way nothing’s resolved.”

Yabu picked up his swords and stuck them in his belt. Yes, he was thinking, I agree with you. Nothing’s resolved and she failed in her duty. You know it, I know it, and so does Ishido. Disgraceful! If she’d cut, then we would have all lived forever. As it is now . . . she came back from the brink and dishonored us and dishonored herself. Shigata ga nai, neh? Stupid woman!

But to Sumiyori he said, “I think you’re wrong. She conquered Ishido. Lady Toda won. Ishido won’t dare to ambush us. Go to sleep, I’ll wake you at dawn.”

Again Sumiyori shook his head. “No, thank you, Yabu-san, I think I’ll go the rounds again.” He went to a window and peered out. “Something’s not right.”

“Everything’s fine. Get some—wait a moment! What was that? Did you hear something?”

Yabu came up to Sumiyori and pretended to search the darkness, listening intently, and then, without warning, he whipped out his short sword and with the same flashing, spontaneous movement, buried the blade into Sumiyori’s back, clapping his other hand over the man’s mouth to stop the shriek. The captain died instantly. Yabu held him carefully at arm’s length with immense strength so that none of the blood stained him, and carried the body over to the futons, arranging it in a sleeping position. Then he pulled out his sword and began to clean it, furious that Sumiyori’s intuition had forced the unplanned killing. Even so, Yabu thought, I can’t have him prowling around now.

Earlier, when Yabu was returning from Ishido’s office with their safe conduct pass, he had been waylaid privately by a samurai he had never seen before.

“Your co-operation’s invited, Yabu-san.”

“To what and by whom?”

“By someone you made an offer to yesterday.”

“What offer?”

“In return for safe conducts for you and the Anjin-san, you’d see she was disarmed during the ambush on your journey. . . . Please don’t touch your sword, Yabu-san, there are four archers waiting for an invitation!”

“How dare you challenge me? What ambush?” he had bluffed, feeling weak at the knees, for there was no doubt now that the man was Ishido’s intermediary. Yesterday afternoon he had made the secret offer through his own intermediaries, in a desperate attempt to salvage something from the wreckage Mariko had caused to his plans for the Black Ship and the future. At the time he had known that it was a wild idea. It would have been difficult, if not impossible, to disarm her and stay alive, therefore fraught with danger to both sides, and when Ishido, through intermediaries, had turned it down he was not surprised.

“I know nothing of any ambush,” he had blustered, wishing that Yuriko were there to help him out of the morass.

“Even so, you’re invited to one, though not the way you planned it.”

“Who are you?”

“In return you get Izu, the barbarian and his ship—the moment the chief enemy’s head is in the dust. Providing, of course, she’s captured alive and you stay in Osaka until the day and swear allegiance.”

“Whose head?” Yabu had said, trying to get his brain working, realizing only now that Ishido had used the request for him to fetch the safe conducts merely as a ruse so the secret offer could be made safely and negotiated.

“Is it yes or no?” the samurai asked.

“Who are you and what are you talking about?” He had held up the scroll. “Here’s Lord Ishido’s safe conduct. Not even the Lord General can cancel these after what’s happened.”

“That’s what many say. But, so sorry, bullocks will shit gold dust before you or any are allowed to insult the Lord Yaemon. . . . Please take your hand away from your sword!”

“Then watch your tongue!”

“Of course, so sorry. You agree?”

“I’m overlord of Izu now, and promised Totomi and Suruga,” Yabu had said, beginning to bargain. He knew that though he was trapped, as Mariko was trapped, so equally was Ishido trapped, because the dilemma Mariko had precipitated still existed.

“Yes, so you are,” the samurai had said. “But I’m not permitted to negotiate. Those are the terms. Is it yes or no? . . .”

Yabu finished cleaning his sword and arranged the sheet over the seemingly sleeping figure of Sumiyori. Then he toweled the sweat off his face and hands, composed his rage, blew out the candle, and opened the door. The two Browns were waiting some paces down the corridor. They bowed.

“I’ll wake you at dawn, Sumiyori-san,” Yabu said to the darkness. Then, to one of the samurai, “You stand guard here. No one’s to go in. No one! Make sure the captain’s not disturbed—he needs rest.”

“Yes, Sire.”

The samurai took up his new post and Yabu strode off down the corridor with the other guard, went up a flight of steps to the main central section of this floor and crossed it, heading for the audience room and inner apartments that were in the east wing. Soon he came to the cul-de-sac corridor of the audience room. Guards bowed and allowed him to enter. Other samurai opened the door to the corridor and complex of private quarters. He knocked at a door.

“Anjin-san?” he said quietly.

There was no answer. He pulled the shoji open. The room was empty, the inner shoji ajar. He frowned, then motioned to his accompanying guard to wait, and hurried across the room into the dimly lit inner corridor. Chimmoko intercepted him, a knife in her hand. Her rumpled bed was in this passageway outside one of the rooms.

“Oh, so sorry, Sire, I was dozing,” she said apologetically, lowering her knife. But she did not move out of his path.

“I was looking for the Anjin-san.”

“He and my Mistress are talking, Sire, with Kiritsubo-san and the Lady Achiko.”

“Please ask him if I could see him a moment.”

“Certainly, Sire.” Chimmoko politely motioned Yabu back into the other room, waited until he was there, and pulled the inner shoji closed. The guard in the main corridor watched inquisitively.

In a moment the shoji opened again and Blackthorne came in. He was dressed and wore a short sword.

“Good evening, Yabu-san,” he said.

“So sorry to disturb you, Anjin-san. I just want see—make sure all right, understand?”

“Yes, thank you. No worry.”

“Lady Toda all right? Not sick?”

“Fine now. Very tired but fine. Soon dawn, neh?”

Yabu nodded. “Yes. Just want make sure all right. Understand?”

“Yes. This afternoon you say ‘plan,’ Yabu-san. Remember? Please what secret plan?”

“No secret, Anjin-san,” Yabu said, regretting that he had been so open at that time. “You misunderstood. Say only must have plan . . . very difficult escape Osaka, neh? Must escape or . . .” Yabu drew a knife across his throat. “Understand?”

“Yes. But now have pass, neh? Now safe go out Osaka. Neh?”

“Yes. Soon leave. On boat very good. Soon get men at Nagasaki. Understand?”

“Yes.”

Very friendly, Yabu went away. Blackthorne closed the door after him and walked back to the inner passageway, leaving his inner door ajar. He passed Chimmoko and went into the other room. Mariko was propped in futons, appearing more diminutive than ever, more delicate and more beautiful. Kiri was kneeling on a cushion. Achiko was curled up asleep to one side.

“What did he want, Anjin-san?” Mariko said.

“Just to see we were all right.”

Mariko translated for Kiri.

“Kiri says, did you ask him about the ‘plan’?”

“Yes. But he shrugged the question off. Perhaps he changed his mind. I don’t know. Perhaps I was mistaken but I thought this afternoon he had something planned, or was planning something.”

“To betray us?”

“Of course. But I don’t know how.”

Mariko smiled at him. “Perhaps you were mistaken. We’re safe now.”

The young girl, Achiko, mumbled in her sleep and they glanced at her. She had asked to stay with Mariko, as had old Lady Etsu, who was sleeping soundly in an adjoining room. The other ladies had left at sunset to go to their own homes. All had sent formal requests for permission to depart at once. With the failing light, rumors had rushed through the castle that nearly one hundred and five would also apply tomorrow. Kiyama had sent for Achiko, his granddaughter-in-law, but she refused to leave Mariko. At once the daimyo had disowned her and demanded possession of the child. She had given up her child. Now the girl was in the midst of a nightmare but it passed and she slept peacefully again.

Mariko looked at Blackthorne. “It’s so wonderful to be at peace, neh?”

“Yes,” he said. Since she had awakened and found herself alive and not dead, her spirit had clung to his. For the first hour they had been alone, she lying in his arms.

“I’m so glad thou art alive, Mariko. I saw thee dead.”

“I thought I was. I still cannot believe Ishido gave in. Never in twenty lifetimes . . . Oh, how I love thy arms about me, and thy strength.”

“I was thinking that this afternoon from the first moment of Yoshinaka’s challenge I saw nothing but death—yours, mine, everyone’s. I saw into your plan, so long in the making, neh?”

“Yes. Since the day of the earthquake, Anjin-san. Please forgive me but I didn’t—I didn’t want to frighten you. I was afraid you wouldn’t understand. Yes, from that day I knew it was my karma to bring the hostages out of Osaka. Only I could do that for Lord Toranaga. And now it’s done. But at what a cost, neh? Madonna forgive me.”

Then Kiri had arrived and they had had to sit apart but that had not mattered to either of them. A smile or a look or word was enough.

Kiri went over to the slit windows. Out to sea were flecks of light from the inshore fishing boats. “Dawn soon,” she said.

“Yes,” Mariko said. “I’ll get up now.”

“Soon. Not yet, Mariko-sama,” Kiri told her. “Please rest. You need to gather your strength.”

“I wish Lord Toranaga was here.”

“Yes.”

“Have you prepared another message about . . . about our leaving?”

“Yes, Mariko-sama, another pigeon will leave with the dawn. Lord Toranaga will hear of your victory today,” Kiri said. “He’ll be so proud of you.”

“I’m so glad he was right.”

“Yes,” Kiri said. “Please forgive me for doubting you and doubting him.”

“In my secret heart I doubted him too. So sorry.”

Kiri turned back to the window and looked out over the city. Toranaga’s wrong, she wanted to shriek. We’ll never leave Osaka, however much we pretend. It’s our karma to stay—his karma to lose.

In the west wing Yabu stopped at the guardroom. The replacement sentries were ready. “I’m going to make a snap inspection.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“The rest of you wait for me here. You, come with me.”

He went down the main staircase followed by a single guard. At the foot of the staircase in the main foyer were other guards, and outside was the forecourt and garden. A cursory look showed all in order. Then he came back into the fortress, and after a moment, changed direction. To his guard’s surprise, he went down the steps into the servants’ quarters. The servants dragged themselves out of sleep, hastily putting their heads onto the flagstones. Yabu hardly noticed them. He led the way deeper into the bowels of the fortress, down steps, along little-used arched corridors, the stone sides damp now and mildewed, though well lit. There were no guards here in the cellars for there was nothing to protect. Soon they began to climb again, nearing the outer walls.

Yabu halted suddenly. “What was that?”

The Brown samurai stopped, and listened, and died. Yabu cleaned his sword and pulled the crumpled body into a dark corner, then rushed for a hardly noticed, heavily barred, small iron door set into one of the walls that Ishido’s intermediary had told him about. He fought back the rusted bolts. The last one clanged free. The door swung open. A draught of cool air from outside, then a spear stabbed for his throat and stopped just in time. Yabu didn’t move, almost paralyzed. Ninja stared back at him from the inky darkness beyond the door, weapons poised.

Yabu held up a shaky hand and made a sign as he had been told to do. “I’m Kasigi Yabu,” he said.

The black-garbed, hooded, almost invisible leader nodded but kept the spear ready for the lunge. He motioned to Yabu. Yabu obediently backed off a pace. Then, very warily, the leader walked into the center of the corridor. He was tall and heavyset, with wide flat eyes behind his mask. He saw the dead Brown and with a flick of his wrist he sent his spear flashing into the corpse, then retrieved it with the light chain attached to the end. Silently he re-coiled the chain, waiting, listening intently for any danger.

At length satisfied, he motioned at the darkness. Instantly twenty men poured out and rushed for the flight of steps, the long-forgotten back way to the floors above. These men carried assault tools. They were armed with chain knives, swords, and shuriken. And in the center of their black hoods was a red spot.

The leader did not watch them go, but kept his eyes on Yabu and began a slow finger count with his left hand. “One . . . two . . . three . . .” Yabu felt many men watching him from the passage beyond the door. He could see no one.

Now the red-spot attackers were going up the stairs two at a time, and at the top of this flight they stopped. A door barred their path. They waited a moment then cautiously tried to open it. It was stuck. A man with an assault tool, a short steel bar, hooked at one end and chiseled at the other, came forward and jimmied it open. Beyond was another mildewed passage and they hurried along it silently. At the next corner they stopped. The first man peered around, then beckoned the others into another corridor. At the far end a sliver of light shone through a spyhole in the heavy wooden paneling that covered this secret door. He put an eye to it. He could see the breadth of the audience chamber, two Browns and two Grays wearily on sentry duty, guarding the door to the complex of quarters. He looked around, nodded to the others. One of the men was still counting with his fingers, timed to the leader’s count two floors below. All their eyes went to the count.

Below in the cellar, the leader’s fingers still continued in tempo, ticking off the moments, his eyes never wavering from Yabu. Yabu was watching and waiting, the smell of his own fear-sweat dank in his nostrils. The fingers stopped and the leader’s fist closed up sharply. He pointed down the corridor. Yabu nodded and turned and went back the way he had come, walking slowly. Behind him the inexorable count began again. “One . . . two . . . three . . .”

Yabu knew the terrible risk he was taking but he had had no alternative and he cursed Mariko once more for forcing him onto Ishido’s side. Part of his bargain was that he had to open this secret door.

“What’s behind the door?” he had asked supiciously.

“Friends. This is the sign and the password is to say your name.”

“Then they kill me, neh?”

“No. You’re too valuable, Yabu-san. You’ve got to make sure the infiltration is covered. . . .”

He had agreed but he had never bargained for ninja, the hated and feared semilegendary mercenaries who owed allegiance only to their secret, closely knit family units, who handed down their secrets only to blood kin—how to swim vast distances under water and scale almost smooth walls, how to make themselves invisible and stand for a day and a night without moving, and how to kill with their hands or feet or any and all weapons including poison, fire, and explosives. To ninja, violent death for pay was their only purpose in life.

Yabu managed to keep his pace measured as he walked away from the ninja leader along the corridor, his chest still hurting from the shock that the attack force was ninja and not ronin. Ishido must be mad, he told himself, all his senses teetering, expecting a spear or arrow or garrote any moment. Now he was almost at the corner. Then he turned it and, safe once more, he took to his heels and bounded up the stairs, three at a time. At the top, he raced down the arched corridor, then turned the corner heading toward the servants’ quarters.

The leader’s fingers still ticked off the moments, then the count stopped. He made a more urgent sign to the darkness, and rushed after Yabu. Twenty ninja followed him from the darkness and another fifteen took up defensive positions at both ends of the corridor to guard this escape route that led through a maze of forgotten cellars and passages honeycombing the castle to one of Ishido’s secret bolt holes under the moat, thence to the city.

Yabu was running fast now and he stumbled in the passageway, just managing to keep his footing, and burst through the servants’ quarters, scattering pots and pans and gourds and casks.

“Ninjaaaaaa!” he bellowed, which was not part of his agreement, but his own ruse to protect himself should he be betrayed. Hysterically the men and women scattered and took up the shout and tried to vanish under benches and tables as he raced across and out the other side, up more steps into one of the main corridors to meet the first of the Browns’ guards, who already had out their swords.

“Sound the alarm!” Yabu shouted. “Ninja—there are ninja among the servants!”

One samurai fled for the main staircase, the second rushed forward bravely to stand alone at the top of the winding steps that led below, sword raised. Seeing him, the servants came to a halt, then, moaning with terror, blindly huddled into the stones, their arms over their heads. Yabu ran on toward the main doorway and through it to stand on the steps. “Sound the alarm! We’re under attack!” he shouted as he had agreed to do, to signal the diversion outside which would cover the main attack through the secret door into the audience chamber, to kidnap Mariko and hurry her away before anyone was wiser.

Samurai on the gates and in the forecourt whirled around, not knowing where to guard, and at that moment the raiders in the garden swarmed out of their hiding places and engulfed the Browns outside. Yabu retreated into the foyer as other Browns came rushing down from the guardroom above to support the men outside.

A captain raced up to him. “What’s going on?”

“Ninja—outside and among the servants. Where’s Sumiyori?”

“I don’t know—in his room.”

Yabu leapt for the stairs as other men poured down. At that moment the first of the ninja from the cellars dashed past the servants to the attack. Barbed shuriken disposed of the lone defender, spears killed the servants. Then this force of raiders was in the main corridor, creating a violent shouting diversion, the milling frantic Browns not knowing where the next attack would spring from.

On the top floor the waiting ninja had ripped open their doors at the first alarm and rushed the last of the Browns who were hurrying below, killing them. With poison darts and shuriken, the ninja pressed their onslaught. The Browns were quickly overwhelmed, and the attackers jumped over the corpses to reach the main corridor on the floor below. A furious charge of Brown reinforcements was repulsed by the ninja, who whirled their weighted chains and cast them at the samurai, either strangling them or entangling their swords to make it easier to impale them with the double-edged knife. Shuriken flashed through the air and the Browns here were decimated. A few ninja were cut down but they crawled on like rabid animals and stopped attacking only when death took them completely.

In the garden the first rush of the defending reinforcements was easily thwarted as Browns poured from the main doorway. But another wave of Browns courageously mounted a second charge and swept the invaders back by sheer force of numbers. At a shouted order the raiders retreated, their jet-black clothes making them difficult targets. Exultantly the Browns rushed after them, into ambush, and were slaughtered.

The red-spot attackers were still lying in wait outside the audience room, their leader’s eye to the spyhole. He could see the anxious Browns and Blackthorne’s Grays, who were guarding the fortified door to the corridor, listening anxiously to the mounting holocaust below. The door opened and other guards, Browns and Grays, crowded the opening and then, no longer able to stand the waiting, officers of both groups ordered all their men out of the audience room to take up defensive positions at the far end of the corridor. Now the way was clear, the door of the inner corridor open, only the captain of Grays beside it, and he also was leaving. The red-spot leader saw a woman hurry up to the threshold, the tall barbarian with her, and he recognized his prey, other women collecting behind them.

Impatient to complete the mission and so relieve the pressure on his clansmen below, and whipped by his killing lust, the red-spot leader gave the signal and burst through his door an instant too soon.

Blackthorne saw him coming and automatically drew his pistol from under his kimono and fired. The back of the leader’s head disappeared, momentarily stopping the charge. Simultaneously, the captain of Grays rushed back and attacked with a mindless ferocity and cut down one ninja. Then the pack fell on the Gray and he died but these few seconds gave Blackthorne enough time to pull Mariko to safety and slam the door. Frantically he grabbed the iron bar and slid it into place just as ninja hurled themselves against it and others fanned out to hold the main doorway.

“Christ Jesus! What’s go—”

“Ninjaaaaaa!” Mariko shouted as Kiri and Lady Sazuko and Lady Etsu and Chimmoko and Achiko and the other maids poured hysterically from their rooms, blows hammering on the door.

“Quick, this way!” Kiri screamed over the uproar and fled into the interior.

The women followed, helter-skelter, two of them helping old Lady Etsu. Blackthorne saw the door rocking under the furious blows of the assault jimmies. Now the wood was splintering. Blackthorne ran back into his room for his powder horn and swords.

In the audience room the ninja had already disposed of the six Browns and Grays at the main outer door and had overwhelmed the rest in the corridor beyond. But they had lost two dead, and two were wounded before the fight was complete, the outer doors closed and barred, and this whole section secure.

“Hurry up,” the new red-spot leader snarled. The men with the crowbars needed no urging as they ripped at the door. For a moment the leader stood over the corpse of his brother, then kicked it furiously, knowing his brother’s impatience had destroyed their surprise attack. He rejoined his men, who circled the door.

In the corridor Blackthorne was reloading rapidly, the door shrieking under the blows. First the powder, tamp it carefully . . . one of the door panels cracked . . . next the paper plug to hold the charge tight and next the lead ball and another plug . . . one of the door hinges snapped and the tip of the jimmy came through . . . next, blow the dust carefully away from the flint. . . .

“Anjin-san!” Mariko cried out from somewhere in the inner rooms. “Hurry!”

But Blackthorne paid no attention. He walked up to the door and put the nozzle to a splintered crack, stomach high, and pulled the trigger. From the other side of the door there was a scream and the assault on the door ceased. He retreated and began to reload. First powder, tamp it carefully . . . again the whole door shook as men tore at it with shoulders and raging fists and feet and weapons . . . next the holding paper and next the ball and next another paper . . . the door bellowed and shuddered and one of the bolts sprang away and clattered to the floor. . . .

Kiri was hurrying down an inner passageway, gasping for breath, the others half-dragging Lady Etsu with them, Sazuko crying, “What’s the point, there’s nowhere to go . . .” but Kiri ran on, stumbling into another room and across it and she pulled a section of the shoji wall aside. A hidden iron-fortified door was set into the stone wall beyond. She pulled it open. The hinges were well oiled.

“This . . . this is my Master’s sec—secret haven,” she panted and started to go inside but stopped. “Where’s Mariko?”

Chimmoko turned and rushed back.

In the first corridor Blackthorne blew the dust carefully away from the flint and walked forward again. The door was near collapsing but still offered cover. Again he pulled the trigger. Again a scream and a moment’s respite, then the blows commenced, another bolt flew off and the whole door teetered. He began to reload.

“Anjin-san!” Mariko was there at the far end beckoning him frantically so he snatched up his weapons and rushed toward her. She turned and fled, guiding him. The door shattered and the ninja tore after them.

Mariko was running fast, Blackthorne on her heels. She sped across a room, tripped over her skirts and fell. He grabbed her up and together they bolted across another room. Chimmoko ran up to them. “Hurry!” she shrieked, waiting for them to pass. She followed for a moment, then, unnoticed, she turned back and stood in the path, her knife out.

Ninja came rushing into the room. Chimmoko hurled herself, knife outstretched, at the first man. He parried the blow and flung her aside like a toy, charging after Blackthorne and Mariko. The last man broke Chimmoko’s neck with his foot and rushed on.

Mariko was running fast but not fast enough, her skirts inhibiting her, Blackthorne trying to help. They crossed a room, then turned right, into another, and he saw the doorway, Kiri and Sazuko waiting there terrified, Achiko and maids succoring the old women in the room behind them. He shoved Mariko to safety. Then he turned at bay, his uncharged pistol in one hand, sword in the other, expecting Chimmoko. When she didn’t appear at once, he began to go back but heard the approaching charge of the ninja. He stopped and leaped backward into the room as the first ninja appeared. He slammed the door, and spears and shuriken screeched off the iron. Again he barely had time to shove the bolts home before the attackers hurtled against it.

Numbly he thanked God for their escape and then, when he saw the strength of the door and knew that jimmies could not break it easily and that they were safe for the moment, he thanked God again. Trying to catch his breath, he looked around. Mariko was on her knees gulping for air. There were six maids, Achiko, Kiri and Sazuko, and the old lady, who lay gray-faced, almost unconscious. The room was small and stone-walled and another side door let out onto a small battlement veranda. He groped over to a window and looked out. This corner abutment overhung the avenue and forecourt, and he could hear sounds of the battle wafting up from below, screams and shouts and a few hysterical battle cries. Several Grays and unattached samurai were already beginning to collect in the avenue and on the opposite battlements. The gates below were locked against them and held by the ninja.

“What the hell’s going on?” Blackthorne said, his chest aching.

No one answered him and he went back and knelt beside Mariko and shook her gently. “What’s going on?” But she could not answer yet.

Yabu was running down a wide corridor in the west wing toward his sleeping quarters. He turned a corner and skidded to a stop. Ahead a large number of samurai were being pressed back by a ferocious counterattack of raiders who had rushed down from the top floor.

“What’s going on?” Yabu shouted over the din, for no raiders were supposed to be here, only below.

“They’re all over us,” a samurai panted. “These came from above. . . .”

Yabu cursed, realizing he had been duped and not told the whole of the attack plan. “Where’s Sumiyori?”

“He must be dead. They’ve overwhelmed that section, Sire. You were lucky to escape yourself. They must have struck shortly after you left. What are ninja attacking for?”

A flurry of shouts distracted them. At the far end, Browns launched another counterattack around a corner, covering samurai who fought with spears. The spearmen drove the ninja back, and the Browns charged in pursuit. But a cloud of shuriken enveloped this wave and soon they were screaming and dying, blocking the passageway, the poison convulsing them. Momentarily the rest of the Browns retreated out of range to regroup.

Yabu, unendangered, shouted, “Get bowmen!” Men rushed off to obey.

“What’s the attack all about? Why are they in force?” the samurai asked again, blood streaking his face from a cheek wound. Normally the detested ninja attacked singly or in small groups, to vanish as quickly as they appeared once their mission was accomplished.

“I don’t know,” Yabu said, this whole section of the castle now in uproar, the Browns still uncoordinated, still off-balance from the terrifying swiftness of the onslaught.

“If—if Toranaga-sama were here I could understand Ishido ordering a sudden attack but—but why now?” the samurai said. “There’s no one or noth—” He stopped as the realization struck him. “Lady Toda!”

Yabu tried to override him, but the man bellowed, “They’re after her, Yabu-san! They must be after Lady Toda!” He led a rush for the east wing. Yabu hesitated, then followed.

To get to the east wing they had to cross the central landing that the ninja now held in strength. Samurai dead were everywhere. Goaded by the knowledge that their revered leader was in danger, the first impetuous charge broke through the cordon. But these men were cut down swiftly. Now more of their comrades had taken up the shouts and the news spread rapidly and the Browns redoubled their efforts. Yabu rushed up to direct the fight, staying in safety as much as he dared. A ninja ripped open his haversack and lit a fused gourd from a wall flare and hurled it over the Browns. It shattered against a wall and exploded, scattering fire and smoke, and at once this ninja led a counterattack that threw the Browns into a burning, disordered rout. Under cover of the smoke ninja reinforcements poured up from the floor below.

“Retreat and regroup!” Yabu shouted in one of the corridors leading off the main landing, wanting to delay as much as he dared, presuming that Mariko was already captured and being carried to the cellar escape below, expecting at any moment the overdue clarion call that signaled success and ordered all ninja to break off the attack and retreat. Then a force of Browns from above hurtled in a suicidal attack from a staircase and broke the cordon. They died but others also disobeyed Yabu and charged. More bombs were thrown, setting fire to the wall hangings. Flames began to lick the walls, sparks ignited the tatamis. A sudden gush of fire trapped one of the ninja, turning him into a screaming human torch. Then a samurai’s kimono caught and he threw himself onto another ninja and they burned together. A blazing samurai was using his sword like a battle-ax to cut a way through the ambushers. Ten samurai followed and, though two died in their tracks and three fell mortally wounded, the rest broke out and tore for the east wing. Soon another ten followed. Yabu led the next charge safely as the remaining ninja made an orderly retreat to the ground floor and their escape route below. The battle for possession of the cul-de-sac in the east wing began.

In the small room they were staring at the door. They could hear the attackers scraping at the hinges and at the floor. Then there was a sudden hammering and a harsh, muffled voice from outside.

Two of the maids began to sob.

“What did he say?” Blackthorne asked.

Mariko licked her dry lips. “He—he said, to open the door and surrender or he’d—he’d blow it up.”

“Can they do that, Mariko-san?”

“I don’t know. They . . . they can use gunpowder, of course, and—” Mariko’s hand went to her sash but came out empty. “Where’s my knife?”

All the women went for their daggers. Kiri had none. Sazuko none. Nor Achiko or Lady Etsu. Blackthorne had armed his pistol and had his long sword. The short sword had fallen during his frantic dash for safety.

The muffled voice became angrier and more demanding, and all eyes in the room looked at Blackthorne. But Mariko knew she was betrayed and her time had come.

“He said, if we open the door and surrender, everyone will go free except you.” Mariko brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “He said they want you as a hostage, Anjin-san. That’s all they want. . . .”

Blackthorne walked forward to open the door, but Mariko stood pathetically in his way.

“No, Anjin-san, it’s a trick,” she said. “So sorry, they don’t want you, they want me! Don’t believe them, I don’t believe them.”

He smiled at her and touched her briefly and reached for one of the bolts.

“It’s not you, it’s me—it’s a trick! I swear it! Don’t believe them, please,” she said, and grabbed his sword. It was half out of its scabbard before he realized what she was doing and had caught her hand.

“No!” he ordered. “Stop it!”

“Don’t give me into their hands! I’ve no knife! Please, Anjin-san!” She tried to fight out of his grasp but he lifted her out of the way and put his hand on the top bolt. “Dozo,” he said to the others as Mariko desperately tried to stop him. Achiko came forward, pleading with her, and Mariko tried to push her away and cried out, “Please, Anjin-san, it’s a trick—for the love of God!”

His hand jerked the top bolt open.

“They want me alive,” Mariko shouted wildly. “Don’t you see? To capture me, don’t you see? They want me alive and then it’s all for nothing—tomorrow Toranaga’s got to cross the border—I beg you, it’s a trick, before God. . . .”

Achiko had her arms around Mariko, pleading with her, pulling her away, and she motioned him to open the door. “Isogi, isogi, Anjin-san. . . .”

Blackthorne opened the central bolt.

“For the love of God, don’t make all the dying useless! Help me! Remember your vow!”

Now the reality of what she was saying reached him, and in panic he shoved home the bolts. “Why should—”

A ferocious pounding on the door interrupted him, iron clanging on iron, then the voice began, a short violent crescendo. All sound outside ceased. The women fled for the far wall and cowered against it.

“Get away from the door,” Mariko shouted, rushing after them. “He’s going to explode the door!”

“Delay him, Mariko-san,” Blackthorne said and leaped for the side door that led to the battlements. “Our men’ll be here soon. Work the bolts, say they’re stuck—anything.” He strained at the top bolt on the side door but it was rusted tight. Obediently Mariko ran to the door and pretended feeble attempts to shift the central bolt, pleading with the ninja outside. Then she began to rattle the lower bolt. Again the voice, more insistent, and Mariko redoubled her weeping pleas.

Blackthorne smashed the butt of his hand against the top catch again and again but it would not shift. The women watched helplessly. Finally this bolt clanged open noisily. Mariko tried to cover the sound and Blackthorne attacked the final bolt. His hands were raw and bloody now. The ninja leader outside renewed his fiery warning. In desperation Blackthorne grabbed his sword and used the haft as a cudgel, careless of the noise now. Mariko drowned the sounds as best she could. The bolt seemed welded shut.

Outside the door, the red-spot leader was almost mad with rage. This secret refuge was totally unexpected. His orders from the clan leader were to capture Toda Mariko alive, make sure she was weaponless, and hand her over to Grays who were waiting at the end of the tunnel from the cellars. He knew that time was running out. He could hear the raging battle in the corridor, outside the audience room, and knew disgustedly that they would have been safe below, their mission accomplished, but for this secret rat hole and his overanxious fool of a brother who had begun the rush prematurely.

Karma to have such a brother!

He held a lighted candle in his hand and he had laid a trail of powder to the small kegs they had brought in their haversacks to blow up the secret entrance to the cellars to secure their retreat. But he was in a dilemma. To blow the door was the only way to get through. But the Toda woman was just on the other side of the door and the explosion would surely kill everyone inside and spoil his mission, making all their losses futile.

Footsteps raced toward him. It was one of his own men. “Be quick!” the man whispered. “We can’t hold them off much longer!” He raced away.

The red-spot leader decided. He waved his men to cover and shouted a warning through the door. “Get away! I’m blowing the door!” He put the candle to the trail and jumped to safety. The powder spluttered, caught, and snaked for the kegs.

Blackthorne yanked the side door open. Sweet night air rushed in. The women poured onto the veranda. Old Lady Etsu fell but he caught her and pushed her through, whirled for Mariko, but she had pressed back against the iron and called out firmly, “I, Toda Mariko, protest this shameful attack and by my death—”

He lunged for her but the explosion blew him aside as the door wrenched loose from its hinges and blasted into the room and shrieked off a far wall. The detonation knocked Kiri and the others off their feet outside on the battlement, but they were mostly unhurt. Smoke gushed into the room, the ninja following instantly. The buckled iron door came to rest in a corner.

The red-spot leader was on his knees beside Mariko as others fanned out protectively. He saw at once that she was broken and dying fast. Karma, he thought and jumped to his feet again. Blackthorne was lying stunned, a trickle of blood seeping from his ears and nose, trying to grope back into life. His pistol, bent and useless, was in a corner.

The red-spot leader went forward a pace and stopped. Achiko moved into the doorway.

The ninja looked at her, recognizing her. Then he stared down at Blackthorne, despising him for the gun and the cowardice in shooting blindly through the door, killing one of his men and wounding another. He looked back at Achiko and reached for his knife. She charged blindly. His knife took her in the left breast. She was dead as she crumpled and he went forward without anger and withdrew his knife from the twitching body, fulfilling the last part of his orders from above—he presumed from Ishido, though it could never be proved—that if they failed and the Lady Toda managed to kill herself, he was to leave her untouched and not take her head; he was to protect the barbarian and leave all the other women unharmed, except for Kiyama Achiko. He did not know why he had been ordered to kill her, but it had been ordered and paid for, so she was dead.

He signaled the retreat. One of his men put a curved horn to his lips and blew a strident call that echoed through the castle and through the night. The leader made a last check on Mariko. A last check on the girl. And a last check on the barbarian he wanted dead so much. Then he turned on his heel and led the retreat through the rooms and passageways into the audience room. Ninja defending the main doorway waited till all the red-spot raiders were through the escape route, then they hurled more smoke and fire bombs into the corridor and rushed for safety. The leader of the red-spots covered them. He waited until all were safe, then scattered handfuls of hardly noticeable deadly caltrops on the floor—small, spiked metal balls tipped with poison. He fled as Browns burst through the smoke into the audience room. Some charged after him and another phalanx hurtled for the corridor. His pursuers screamed as the caltrop needles ripped into the soles of their feet and they began to die.

In the small room, the only sound was Blackthorne’s lungs struggling for air. On the battlement Kiri lurched to her feet, her kimono torn and her hands and arms raw with abrasions. She stumbled back and saw Achiko and cried out, then reeled for Mariko and sank to her knees beside her. Another explosion somewhere in the castle rocked the dust a fraction, and there were more screams and distant shouts of “Fire.” Smoke billowed into the room. Sazuko and some of the maids got to their feet. Sazuko was bruised about the face and shoulders and her wrist was broken. She saw Achiko, eyes and mouth open in death terror, and she whimpered.

Numbly, Kiri looked across at her and motioned at Blackthorne. The young girl stumbled toward Kiri and saw Mariko. She began to cry. Then she got control of herself and went back to Blackthorne and tried to help him up. Maids rushed to assist her. He held on to them and fought to his feet, then swayed and fell, coughing and retching, the blood still oozing from his ears. Browns burst into the room. They looked around, aghast.

Kiri stayed on her knees beside Mariko. A samurai lifted her up. Others crowded around. They parted as Yabu came into the room, his face ashen. When he saw Blackthorne was still alive, much of his anxiety left him.

“Get a doctor! Quick!” he ordered and knelt beside Mariko. She was still alive, but fading rapidly. Her face was hardly touched but her body was terribly mutilated. Yabu ripped off his kimono and covered her to the neck.

“Hurry the doctor,” he rasped, then went over to Blackthorne. He helped him sit against the wall.

“Anjin-san! Anjin-san!”

Blackthorne was still in shock, his ears ringing, eyes hardly seeing, his face a mass of bruises and powder burns. Then his eyes cleared and he saw Yabu, the image twisting drunkenly, the smell of gun-smoke choking him and he didn’t know where he was or who he was, only that he was aboard ship in battle and his ship was hurt and needed him. Then he saw Mariko and he remembered.

He lurched up, Yabu helping him, and tottered over to her.

She seemed at peace, sleeping. He knelt heavily and moved the kimono aside. Then he put it back again. Her pulse was almost imperceptible. Then it ceased.

He stayed looking at her, swaying, almost falling, then a doctor was there and the doctor shook his head and said something but Blackthorne could not hear or understand. He only knew that death had come to her, and that he too was dead.

He made the sign of the cross over her and said the sacred Latin words that were necessary to bless her and he prayed for her though no sound came from his mouth. The others watched him. When he had done what he had to do, he fought to his feet again and stood upright. Then his head seemed to burst with red and purple light and he collapsed. Kind hands caught him and helped him to the floor and let him rest.

“Is he dead?” Yabu asked.

“Almost. I don’t know about his ears, Yabu-sama,” the doctor said. “He may be bleeding inside.”

A samurai said nervously, “We’d better hurry, get them out of here. The fire may spread and we’ll be trapped.”

“Yes,” Yabu said. Another samurai called him urgently from the battlements and he went outside.

Old Lady Etsu was lying against the battlement, cradled by her maid, her face gray, eyes rheumy. She peered up at Yabu, focusing with difficulty. “Kasigi Yabu-san?”

“Yes, Lady.”

“Are you senior officer here?”

“Yes, Lady.”

The old woman said to the maid. “Please help me up.”

“But you should wait, the doc—”

“Help me up!”

Samurai on the battlement veranda watched her stand, supported by the maid. “Listen,” she said, her voice hoarse and frail in the silence. “I, Maeda Etsu, wife of Maeda Arinosi, Lord of Nagato, Iwami, and Aki, I attest that Toda Mariko-sama cast away her life to save herself from dishonorable capture by these hideous and shameful men. I attest that . . . that Kiyama Achiko chose to attack the ninja, casting away her life rather than risk the dishonor of being captured . . . that but for the barbarian samurai’s bravery Lady Toda would have been captured and dishonored, and all of us, and we who are alive owe him gratitude, and also our Lords owe him gratitude for protecting us from that shame. . . . I accuse the Lord General Ishido of mounting this dishonorable attack . . . and of betraying the Heir and the Lady Ochiba . . .” The old lady wavered and almost fell, and the maid sobbed and held her more strongly. “And . . . and Lord Ishido has betrayed them and the Council of Regents. I ask you all to bear witness that I can no longer live with this shame. . . .”

“No—no mistress,” the maid wept, “I won’t let you—”

“Go away! Kasigi Yabu-san, please help me. Go away, woman!”

Yabu took Lady Etsu’s weight, which was negligible, and ordered the maid away. She obeyed.

Lady Etsu was in great pain and breathing heavily. “I attest to the truth of this by my own death,” she said in a small voice and looked up at Yabu. “I would be honored if . . . if you would be my second. Please help me onto the battlements.”

“No, Lady. There’s no need to die.”

She turned her face away from the others and whispered to him, “I’m dying already, Yabu-sama. I’m bleeding from inside—something’s broken inside—the explosion. . . . Help me to do my duty. . . . I’m old and useless and pain’s been my bedfellow for twenty years. Let my death also help our Master, neh?” There was a glint in the old eyes. “Neh?”

Gently he lifted her and stood proudly beside her on the abutment, the forecourt far below. He helped her to stand. Everyone bowed to her.

“I have told the truth. I attest to it by my death,” she said, standing alone, her voice quavering. Then she closed her eyes thankfully and let herself fall forward to welcome death.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

The Regents were meeting in the Great Room on the second level of the donjon. Ishido, Kiyama, Zataki, Ito, and Onoshi. The dawn sun cast long shadows and the smell of fire still hung heavy in the air. Lady Ochiba was present, also greatly perturbed.

“So sorry, Lord General, I disagree,” Kiyama was saying in his tight brittle voice. “It’s impossible to dismiss Lady Toda’s seppuku and my granddaughter’s bravery and Lady Maeda’s testimony and formal death—along with one hundred and forty-seven Toranaga dead and that part of the castle almost gutted! It just can’t be dismissed.”

“I agree,” Zataki said. He had arrived yesterday morning from Takato and when he had the details of Mariko’s confrontation with Ishido he had been secretly delighted. “If she’d been allowed to go yesterday as I advised, we wouldn’t be in this snare now.”

“It’s not as serious as you think.” Ishido’s mouth was a hard line and Ochiba loathed him at that moment, loathed him for failing and for trapping them all in this crisis. “The ninja were only after loot,” Ishido said.

“The barbarian is loot?” Kiyama scoffed. “They’d mount such a vast attack for one barbarian?”

“Why not? He could be ransomed, neh?” Ishido stared back at the daimyo, who was flanked by Ito Teruzumi and Zataki. “Christians in Nagasaki would pay highly for him, dead or alive. Neh?”

“That’s possible,” Zataki agreed. “That’s the way barbarians fight.”

Kiyama said tightly, “Are you suggesting, formally, that Christians planned and paid for this foul attack?”

“I said it was possible. And it is possible.”

“Yes. But unlikely,” Ishido interposed, not wanting the precarious balance of the Regents wrecked by an open quarrel now. He was still apoplectic that spies had not forewarned him about Toranaga’s secret lair, and still did not understand how it could have been constructed with such secrecy and not a breath of rumor about it. “I suggest ninja were after loot.”

“That’s very sensible and most correct,” Ito said with a malicious glint in his eyes. He was a small, middle-aged man, resplendently attired with ornamental swords, even though he had been routed out of bed like all of them. He was made up like a woman and his teeth were blackened. “Yes, Lord General. But perhaps the ninja didn’t mean to ransom him in Nagasaki but in Yedo, to Lord Toranaga. Isn’t he still his lackey?”

Ishido’s brow darkened at the mention of the name. “I agree we should spend our time discussing Lord Toranaga and not ninja. Probably he ordered the attack, neh? He’s treacherous enough to do that.”

“No, he’d never use ninja,” Zataki said. “Treachery yes, but not those filth. Merchants would do that—or barbarians. Not Lord Toranaga.”

Kiyama watched Zataki, hating him. “Our Portuguese friends could not, would not, instigate such an interference in our affairs. Never!”

“Would you believe they and or their priests would conspire with one of the Christian Kyushu daimyos to war on non-Christians—the war supported by a foreign invasion?”

“Who? Tell me. Do you have proof?”

“Not yet, Lord Kiyama. But the rumors are still there and one day I’ll get proof.” Zataki turned back to Ishido. “What can we do about this attack? What’s the way out of the dilemma?” he asked, then glanced at Ochiba. She was watching Kiyama, then her eyes moved to Ishido, then back to Kiyama again, and he had never seen her more desirable.

Kiyama said, “We’re all agreed it’s evident Lord Toranaga plotted that we should be snared by Toda Mariko-sama, however brave she was, however duty bound and honorable, God have mercy on her.”

Ito adjusted a fold in the skirts of his impeccable kimono. “But don’t you agree this would be a perfect stratagem for Lord Toranaga, to attack his own vassals like that? Oh, Lord Zataki, I know he’d never use ninja, but he is very clever at getting others to take his ideas and believe them as their own. Neh?”

“Anything’s possible. But ninja wouldn’t be like him. He’s too clever to use them. Or get anyone to do that. They’re not to be trusted. And why force Mariko-sama? Far better to wait and let us make the mistake. We were trapped. Neh?”

“Yes. We’re still trapped.” Kiyama looked at Ishido. “And whoever ordered the attack was a fool, and did us no service.”

“Perhaps the Lord General’s correct, that it’s not as serious as we think,” Ito said. “But so sad—not an elegant death for her, poor lady.”

“That was her karma and we’re not trapped.” Ishido stared back at Kiyama. “It was fortunate she had that bolt hole to run to, otherwise those vermin would have captured her.”

“But they didn’t capture her, Lord General, and she committed a form of seppuku and so did the others and now, if we don’t let everyone go, there’ll be more protest deaths and we cannot afford that,” Kiyama said.

“I don’t agree. Everyone should stay here—at least until Toranaga-sama crosses into our domains.”

Ito smiled. “That will be a memorable day.”

“You don’t think he will?” Zataki asked.

“What I think has no value, Lord Zataki. We’ll soon know what he’s going to do. Whatever it is makes no difference. Toranaga must die, if the Heir is to inherit.” Ito looked at Ishido. “Is the barbarian dead yet, Lord General?”

Ishido shook his head and watched Kiyama. “It would be bad luck for him to die now, or to be maimed—a brave man like that. Neh?”

“I think he’s a plague and the sooner he dies the better. Have you forgotten?”

“He could be useful to us. I agree with Lord Zataki—and you—Toranaga’s no fool. There’s got to be a good reason for Toranaga’s cherishing him. Neh?”

“Yes, you’re right again,” Ito said. “The Anjin-san did well for a barbarian, didn’t he? Toranaga was right to make him samurai.” He looked at Ochiba. “When he gave you the flower, Lady, I thought that was a poetic gesture worthy of a courtier.”

There was general agreement.

“What about the poetry competition now, Lady?” Ito asked.

“It should be canceled, so sorry,” Ochiba said.

“Yes,” Kiyama agreed.

“Had you decided on your entry, Sire?” she asked.

“No,” he answered.” But now I could say:

“Let it be her epitaph. She was samurai,” Ito said quietly. “I share this summer’s tears.”

“For me,” Ochiba said, “for me I would have preferred a different ending:

But I agree, Lord Ito. I too think we will all share in this dark summer’s tears.”

“No, so sorry, Lady, but you’re wrong,” Ishido said. “There will be tears all right, but Toranaga and his allies will shed them.” He began to bring the meeting to a close. “I’ll start an inquiry into the ninja attack at once. I doubt if we’ll ever discover the truth. Meanwhile, for security and personal safety, all passes will regretfully be canceled and everyone regretfully forbidden to leave until the twenty-second day.”

“No,” Onoshi the leper, the last of the Regents, said from his lonely place across the room where he lay, unseen, behind the opaque curtains of his litter. “So sorry, but that’s exactly what you can’t do. Now you must let everyone go. Everyone.”

“Why?”

Onoshi’s voice was malevolent and unafraid. “If you don’t, you dishonor the bravest Lady in the realm, you dishonor the Lady Kiyama Achiko and the Lady Maeda, God have mercy on their souls. When this filthy act is common knowledge, only God the Father knows what damage it will cause the Heir—and all of us, if we’re not careful.”

Ochiba felt a chill rush through her. A year ago, when Onoshi had come to pay his respects to the dying Taikō, the guards had insisted the litter curtains be opened in case Onoshi had weapons concealed, and she had seen the ravaged half-face—noseless, earless, scabbed—the burning, fanatic eyes, the stump of the left hand and the good right hand grasping the short stabbing sword.

Lady Ochiba prayed that neither she nor Yaemon would ever catch leprosy. She, too, wanted an end to this conference, for she had to decide now what to do—what to do about Toranaga and what to do about Ishido.

“Second,” Onoshi was saying, “if you use this filthy attack as an excuse to hold anyone here, you imply you never intended to let them go even though you gave your solemn written undertaking. Third: you—”

Ishido interrupted, “The whole Council agreed to issue the safe conducts!”

“So sorry, the whole Council agreed to the wise suggestion of the Lady Ochiba to offer safe conducts, presuming, with her, that few would take advantage of the opportunity to leave, and even if they did delays would occur.”

“You suggest Toranaga’s women and Toda Mariko wouldn’t have left and that others wouldn’t have followed?”

“What happened to those women wouldn’t swerve Lord Toranaga a jot from his purpose. We’ve got to worry about our allies! Without the ninja attack and the three seppukus this whole nonsense would have been stillborn!”

“I don’t agree.”

“Third and last: If you don’t let everyone go now, after what Lady Etsu said publicly, you’ll be convicted by most daimyos of ordering the attack—though not publicly—and we all risk the same fate, and then there’ll be lots of tears.”

“I don’t need to rely on ninja.”

“Of course,” Onoshi agreed, his voice poisonous. “Neither do I, nor does anyone here. But I feel it is my duty to remind you that there are two hundred and sixty-four daimyos, that the Heir’s strength lies on a coalition of perhaps two hundred, and that the Heir cannot afford to have you, his most loyal standard-bearer and commander-in-chief, presumed guilty of such filthy methods and such monstrous inefficiency as the attack failed.”

“You say I ordered that attack?”

“Of course not, so sorry. I merely said you will be convicted by default if you don’t let everyone leave.”

“Is there anyone here who thinks I ordered it?” No one challenged Ishido openly. There was no proof. Correctly, he had not consulted them and had talked only in vague innuendos, even to Kiyama and Ochiba. But they all knew and all were equally furious that he had had the stupidity to fail—all except Zataki. Even so, Ishido was still master of Osaka, and governor of the Taikō’s treasure, so he could not be touched or removed.

“Good,” Ishido said with finality. “The ninja were after loot. We’ll vote on the safe conducts. I vote they be canceled.”

“I disagree,” Zataki said.

“So sorry, I oppose also,” said Onoshi.

Ito reddened under their scrutiny. “I have to agree with Lord Onoshi, at the same time, well . . . it’s all very difficult, neh?”

“Vote,” Ishido said grimly.

“I agree with you, Lord General.”

Kiyama said, “So sorry, I don’t.”

“Good,” Onoshi said. “That’s settled, but I agree with you, Lord General, we’ve other pressing problems. We have to know what Lord Toranaga will do now. What’s your opinion?”

Ishido was staring at Kiyama, his face set. Then he said, “What’s your answer to that?”

Kiyama was trying to clear his head of all his hates and fears and worries, to make a final choice—Ishido or Toranaga. This had to be the time. He remembered vividly Mariko talking about Onoshi’s supposed treachery, about Ishido’s supposed betrayal and Toranaga’s supposed proof of that betrayal, about the barbarian and his ship—and about what might happen to the Heir and the Church if Toranaga dominated the land and what might happen to their law if the Holy Fathers dominated the land. And overlaying that was the Father-Visitor’s anguish about the heretic and his ship, and what would happen if the Black Ship was lost, and the Captain-General’s God-sworn conviction that the Anjin-san was Satan spawned, Mariko bewitched as the Rodrigues was bewitched. Poor Mariko, he thought sadly, to die like that after so much suffering, without absolution, without last rites, without a priest, to spend eternity away from God’s sweet heavenly grace. Madonna have mercy on her. So many summer’s tears.

And what about Achiko? Did the ninja leader single her out or was that just another killing? How brave she was to charge and not to cringe, poor child. Why is the barbarian still alive? Why didn’t the ninja kill him? They should have been ordered to, if this filthy attack was conceived by Ishido, as of course it must have been. Shameful of Ishido to fail—disgusting to fail. Ah, but what courage Mariko had, how clever she was to ensnare us in her courageous web! And the barbarian.

If I’d been he I would never have been able to delay the ninja with so much courage, or to protect Mariko from the hideous shame of capture—and Kiritsubo and Sazuko and the Lady Etsu, yes, and even Achiko. But for him and the secret sanctuary, Lady Mariko would have been captured. And all of them. It’s my samurai duty to honor the Anjin-san for being samurai. Neh?

God forgive me, I did not go to Mariko-chan to be her second, which was my Christian duty. The heretic helped her and lifted her up as the Christ Jesus helped others and lifted them up, but I, I forsook her. Who’s the Christian?

I don’t know. Even so, he has to die.

“What about Toranaga, Lord Kiyama?” Ishido said again. “What about the enemy?”

“What about the Kwanto?” Kiyama asked, watching him.

“When Toranaga’s destroyed I propose that the Kwanto be given to one of the Regents.”

“Which Regent?”

“You,” Ishido answered blandly, then added, “or perhaps Zataki, Lord of Shinano.” This Kiyama thought wise, for Zataki was needed very much while Toranaga was alive and Ishido had already told him, a month ago, that Zataki had demanded the Kwanto as payment for opposing Toranaga. Together they had agreed Ishido should promise it to him, both knowing this to be an empty promise. Both were agreed Zataki should forfeit his life and his province for such impertinence, as soon as convenient.

“Of course I’m hardly the right choice for that honor,” Kiyama said, carefully assessing who in the room were for him and who against.

Onoshi tried to conceal his disapproval. “That suggestion’s certainly a valuable one, worthy of discussion, neh? But that’s for the future. What’s the present Lord of the Kwanto going to do now?”

Ishido was still looking at Kiyama. “Well?”

Kiyama felt Zataki’s hostility though nothing showed on his enemy’s face. Two against me, he thought, and Ochiba, but she has no vote. Ito will always vote with Ishido, so I win—if Ishido means what he says. Does he? he asked himself, studying the hard face in front of him, probing for the truth. Then he decided and he said openly what he had concluded. “Lord Toranaga will never come to Osaka.”

“Good,” Ishido said. “Then he’s isolated, outlawed, and the Imperial invitation to commit seppuku is already prepared for the Exalted’s signature. And that’s the end of Toranaga and all his line. Forever.”

“Yes. If the Son of Heaven comes to Osaka.”

“What?”

“I agree with Lord Ito,” Kiyama continued, preferring him as an ally and not an enemy. “Lord Toranaga is the wiliest of men. I think he’s even cunning enough to stop the Exalted’s arrival.”

“Impossible!”

“What if the visit’s postponed?” Kiyama asked, suddenly enjoying Ishido’s discomfort, detesting him for failing.

“The Son of Heaven will be here as planned!”

“And if the Son of Heaven isn’t?”

“I tell you He will be!”

“And if He isn’t?”

Lady Ochiba asked, “How could Lord Toranaga do that?”

“I don’t know. But if the Exalted wanted his visit delayed for a month . . . there’s nothing we could do. Isn’t Lord Toranaga a past master at subversion? I’d put nothing past him—even subverting the Son of Heaven.”

There was dead silence in the room. The enormity of that thought, and its repercussions, enveloped them.

“Please excuse me but . . . but what’s the answer then?” Ochiba spoke for them all.

“War!” Kiyama said. “We mobilize today—secretly. We wait until the visit’s postponed, as it will be. That’s our signal that Toranaga has subverted the Most High. The same day we march against the Kwanto, during the rainy season.”

Suddenly the floor began to quiver.

The first earthquake was slight and lasted only for a few moments but it made the timbers cry out.

Now there was another tremor. Stronger. A fissure ripped up a stone wall and stopped. Dust pattered down from the rafters. Joists and beams and tiles shrieked and tiles scattered off a roof and pitched into the forecourt below.

Ochiba felt faint and nauseous and she wondered if it was her karma to be buried in the rubble today. She hung on to the trembling floor and waited with everyone in the castle, and with all the city and the ships in the harbor, for the real shock to come.

But it did not come. The quake ended. Life began again. The joy of living rushed back into them, and their laughter echoed through the castle. Everyone seemed to know that this time—for this hour, for this day—the holocaust would pass them by.

“Shigata ga nai,” Ishido said, still convulsed. “Neh?”

“Yes,” Ochiba said gloriously.

“Let’s vote,” Ishido said, relishing his existence. “I vote for war!”

“And I!”

“And I!”

“And I!”

“And I!”

When Blackthorne regained consciousness he knew that Mariko was dead, and he knew how she had died and why she had died. He was lying on futons, Grays guarding him, a raftered ceiling overhead, dazzling sunshine hurting him, the silence weird. A doctor was studying him. The first of his great fears left him.

I can see.

The doctor smiled and said something, but Blackthorne could not hear him. He started to get up but a blinding pain set off a violent ringing in his ears. The acrid taste of gunpowder was still in his mouth and his entire body was hurting.

For a moment he lost consciousness again, then he felt gentle hands lift his head and put a cup to his lips and the bitter-sweet tang of the jasmine-scented herb cha took away the taste of gunpowder. He forced his eyes open. Again the doctor said something and again he could not hear and again terror began to well, but he stopped it, his mind remembering the explosion and seeing her dead and, before she had died, giving her an absolution he was not qualified to give. Deliberately he pushed that memory away and made himself dwell on the other explosion—the time he was blown overboard after old Alban Caradoc had lost his legs. That time he had also had the same ringing in his ears and the same pain and soundlessness, but his hearing had returned after a few days.

There’s no need to worry, he told himself. Not yet.

He could see the length of the sun’s shadows and the color of the light. It’s a little after dawn, he thought, and blessed God again that his sight was undamaged.

He saw the doctor’s lips move but no sound came through the ringing turbulence.

Carefully he felt his face and mouth and jaws. No pain there and no wounds. Next his throat and arms and chest. No wounds yet. Now he willed his hands lower, over his loins, to his manhood. But he was not mutilated there as Alban Caradoc had been, and he blessed God that he had not been harmed there and left alive to know, as poor Alban Caradoc had known.

He rested a moment, his head aching abominably. Then he felt his legs and feet. Everything seemed all right. Cautiously he put his hands over his ears and pressed, then half opened his mouth and swallowed and half yawned to try to clear his ears. But this only increased the pain.

You will wait a day and half a day, he ordered himself, and ten times that time if need be and, until then, you will not be afraid.

The doctor touched him, his lips moving.

“Can’t hear, so sorry,” Blackthorne said calmly, hearing his words only in his head.

The doctor nodded and spoke again. Now Blackthorne read on the man’s lips, I understand. Please sleep now.

But Blackthorne knew that he would not sleep. He had to plan. He had to get up and leave Osaka and go to Nagasaki—to get gunners and seamen to take the Black Ship. There was nothing more to think about, nothing more to remember. There was no more reason to play at being samurai or Japanese. Now he was released, all debts and friendships were canceled. Because she was gone.

Again he lifted his head and again the blinding pain. He dominated it and sat up. The room spun and he vaguely remembered that in his dreams he had been back at Anjiro in the earthquake when the earth had twisted and he leaped into it to save Toranaga and her from being swallowed by the earth. He could still feel the cold, clammy wetness and smell the death stench coming from the fissure, Toranaga huge and monstrous and laughing in his dream.

He forced his eyes to see. The room stopped spinning and the nausea passed. “Cha, dozo,” he said, the taste of gunpowder back again. Hands helped him to drink and then he held out his arms and they helped him to stand. Without them he would have fallen. His body was one great hurt, but now he was sure that nothing was broken inside or out, except his ears, and that rest and massage and time would cure him. He thanked God again that he was not blinded or mutilated and left alive. The Grays helped him to sit again and he lay back a moment. He did not notice that the sun moved a quadrant from the time he lay back to the time he opened his eyes.

Curious, he thought, measuring the sun’s shadow, not realizing he had slept. I could have sworn it was near dawn. My eyes are playing me tricks. It’s nearer the end of the forenoon watch now. That reminded him of Alban Caradoc and his hands moved over himself once more to make sure he had not dreamed that he was unhurt.

Someone touched him and he looked up. Yabu was peering down at him and speaking.

“So sorry,” Blackthorne said slowly. “Can’t hear yet, Yabu-san. Soon all right. Ears hurt, do you understand?”

He saw Yabu nod and frown. Yabu and the doctor talked together and then, with signs, Yabu made Blackthorne understand that he would return soon and to rest until he did. He left.

“Bath, please, and massage,” Blackthorne said.

Hands lifted him and took him there. He slept under the soothing fingers, his body wallowing in the ecstasy of warmth and tenderness and the sweet-smelling oils that were rubbed into his flesh. And all the while his mind planned.

While he slept Grays came and lifted the litter bed and carried it to the inner quarters of the donjon, but he did not awaken, drugged with fatigue and by the healing, sleep-filled potion.

“He’ll be safe now, Lady,” Ishido said.

“From Kiyama?” Ochiba asked.

“From all Christians.” Ishido motioned to the guards to be very alert and led the way out of the room to the hallway, thence to a garden basking in the sun.

“Is that why the Lady Achiko was killed? Because she was Christian?”

Ishido had ordered it in case she was an assassin planted by her grandfather Kiyama to kill Blackthorne. “I’ve no idea,” he said.

“They hang together like bees in a swarm. How can anyone believe their religious nonsense?”

“I don’t know. But they’ll all be stamped out soon enough.”

“How, Lord General? How do you do that when so much depends on their goodwill?”

“Promises—until Toranaga’s dead. Then they’ll fall on each other. We divide and rule. Isn’t that what Toranaga does, what the Lord Taikō did? Kiyama wants the Kwanto, neh? For the Kwanto he’ll obey. So he’s promised it, in a future time. Onoshi? Who knows what that madman wants . . . except to spit on Toranaga’s head and Kiyama’s before he dies.”

“And what if Kiyama finds out about your promise to Onoshi—that all Kiyama lands are his—or that you mean to keep your promise to Zataki and not to him?”

“Lies, Lady, spread by enemies.” Ishido looked at her. “Onoshi wants Kiyama’s head. Kiyama wants the Kwanto. So does Zataki.”

“And you, Lord General? What is it you want?”

“First the Heir safely fifteen, then safely ruler of the realm. And you and him safe and protected until that time. Nothing more.”

“Nothing?”

“No, Lady.”

Liar, Ochiba thought. She broke off a fragrant flower and smelled the perfume, and, pleased by it, offered it to him. “Lovely, neh?”

“Yes, lovely,” Ishido said, taking it. “Thank you.”

“Yodoko-sama’s funeral was beautiful. You’re to be congratulated, Lord General.”

“I’m sorry she’s dead,” Ishido said politely. “Her counsel was always valuable.”

They strolled awhile. “Have they left yet? Kiritsubo-san and the Lady Sazuko and her son?” Ochiba asked.

“No. They’ll leave tomorrow. After Lady Toda’s funeral. Many will leave tomorrow, which is bad.”

“So sorry, but does it matter? Now that we all agree Toranaga-sama’s not coming here?”

“I think so. But it’s not important, not while we hold Osaka Castle. No, Lady, we have to be patient as Kiyama suggested. We wait until the day. Then we march.”

“Why wait? Can’t you march now?”

“It will take time to gather our hosts.”

“How many will oppose Toranaga?”

“Three hundred thousand men. At least three times Toranaga’s number.”

“And my garrison?”

“I’ll leave eighty thousand elite within the walls, another fifty at the passes.”

“And Zataki?”

“He’ll betray Toranaga. In the end he’ll betray him.”

“You don’t find it curious that Lord Sudara, my sister, and all her children are visiting Takato?”

“No. Of course Zataki’s pretended to make some secret arrangement with his half brother. But it’s only a trick, nothing more. He will betray him.”

“He should—he has the same rotten bloodline,” she said with distaste. “But I would be most upset if anything happened to my sister and her children.”

“Nothing will, Lady. I’m sure.”

“If Zataki was prepared to assassinate his own mother . . . neh? You’re certain he won’t betray you?”

“No. Not in the end. Because he hates Toranaga more than he does me, Lady, and he honors you and desires the Kwanto above all else.” Ishido smiled at the floors soaring above them. “As long as the castle’s ours and the Kwanto exists to give away, there’s nothing to fear.”

“This morning I was afraid,” she said, holding a flower to her nose, enjoying the perfume, wanting it to erase the aftertaste of fear that still lingered. “I wanted to rush away but then I remembered the soothsayer.”

“Eh? Oh, him. I’d forgotten about him,” Ishido said with grim amusement. This was the soothsayer, the Chinese envoy, who had foretold that the Taikō would die in his bed leaving a healthy son after him, that Toranaga would die by the sword in middle age, that Ishido would die in old age, the most famous general in the realm, his feet firm in the earth. And that the Lady Ochiba would end her days at Osaka Castle, surrounded by the greatest nobles in the Empire.

“Yes,” Ishido said again, “I’d forgotten about him. Toranaga’s middle-aged, neh?”

“Yes.” Again Ochiba felt the depth of his look and her loins melted at the thought of a real man on her, in her, surrounding her, taking her, giving her a new life within. This time an honorable birthing, not like the last one, when she had wondered in horror what the child would be like and look like.

How foolish you are, Ochiba, she told herself, as they walked the shaded, fragrant paths. Put away those silly nightmares—that’s all they ever were. You were thinking about a man.

Suddenly Ochiba wished that Toranaga was here beside her and not Ishido, that Toranaga was master of Osaka Castle and master of the Taikō’s treasure, Protector of the Heir and Chief General of the Armies of the West, and not Ishido. Then there would be no problems. Together they would possess the realm, all of it, and now, today, at this moment, she would beckon him to bed or to an inviting glade and tomorrow or the next day they would marry, and whatever happened in the future, today she would possess and be possessed and be at peace.

Her hand reached out and she pulled a branchlet toward her, breathing the sweet, rich gardenia fragrance.

Put away dreams, Ochiba, she told herself. Be a realist like the Taikō—or Toranaga.

“What are you going to do with the Anjin-san?” she asked.

Ishido laughed. “Hold him safe—let him take the Black Ship perhaps, or use him as a threat against Kiyama and Onoshi if need be. They both hate him, neh? Oh yes, he’s a sword at their throats—and at their filthy Church.”

“In the chess game of the Heir against Toranaga, how would you judge the Anjin-san’s value, Lord General? A pawn? A knight, perhaps?”

“Ah, Lady, in the Great Game barely a pawn,” Ishido said at once. “But in the game of the Heir against the Christians, a castle, easily a castle, perhaps two.”

“You don’t think the games are interlocked?”

“Yes, interlocked, but the Great Game will be settled by daimyo against daimyo, samurai against samurai, and sword against sword. Of course, in both games, you’re the queen.”

“No, Lord General, please excuse me, not a queen,” she said, glad that he realized it. Then, to be safe, she changed the subject. “Rumor has it that the Anjin-san and Mariko-san pillowed together.”

“Yes. Yes, I heard that too. You wish to know the truth about it?”

Ochiba shook her head. “It would be unthinkable that that had happened.”

Ishido was watching her narrowly. “You think there’d be a value in destroying her honor? Now? And along with her, Buntaro-san?”

“I meant nothing, Lord General, nothing like that. I was just wondering—just a woman’s foolishness. But it’s as Lord Kiyama said this morning—dark summer’s tears, sad, so sad, neh?”

“I preferred your poem, Lady. I promise you Toranaga’s side will have the tears.”

“As to Buntaro-san, perhaps neither he nor Lord Hiro-matsu will fight for Lord Toranaga at the battle.”

“That’s fact?”

“No, Lord General, not fact, but possible.”

“But there’s something you can do perhaps?”

“Nothing, except petition their support for the Heir—and all Toranaga’s generals, once the battle is committed.”

“It’s committed now, a north-south pincer movement and the final onslaught at Odawara.”

“Yes, but not actually. Not until army opposes army on the battlefield.” Then she asked, “So sorry, but are you sure it’s wise for the Heir to lead the armies?”

“I will lead the armies, but the Heir must be present. Then Toranaga cannot win. Even Toranaga will never attack the Heir’s standard.”

“Wouldn’t it be safer for the Heir to stay here—because of assassins, the Amidas. . . . We can’t risk his life. Toranaga has a long arm, neh?”

“Yes. But not that long and the Heir’s personal standard makes our side lawful and Toranaga’s unlawful. I know Toranaga. In the end he’ll respect the law. And that alone will put his head on a spike. He’s dead, Lady. Once he’s dead I will stamp out the Christian Church—all of it. Then you and the Heir will be safe.”

Ochiba looked up at him, an unspoken promise in her eyes. “I will pray for success—and your safe return.”

His chest tightened. He had waited so long. “Thank you, Lady, thank you,” he said, understanding her. “I will not fail you.”

She bowed and turned away. What impertinence, she was thinking. As if I’d take a peasant to husband. Now, should I really discard Toranaga?

Dell’Aqua was kneeling at prayer in front of the altar in the ruins of the little chapel. Most of the roof was caved in and part of one wall, but the earthquake had not damaged the chancel and nothing had touched the lovely stained glass window, or the carved Madonna that was his pride.

The afternoon sun was slanting through the broken rafters. Outside, workmen were already shifting rubble from the garden, repairing and talking and, mixed with their chattering, dell’Aqua could hear the cries of the gulls coming ashore and he smelled a tang to the breeze, part salt and part smoke, seaweed and mud flats. The scent bore him home to his estate outside Naples where, mixed with sea smells, would be the perfume of lemons and oranges and warm new breads cooking, and pasta and garlic and abbacchio roasting over the coals, and, in the great villa, the voices of his mother and brothers and sisters and their children, all happy and jolly and alive, basking in golden sunshine.

Oh, Madonna, let me go home soon, he prayed. I’ve been away too long. From home and from the Vatican. Madonna, take Thy burden off me. Forgive me but I’m sick to death of Japanese and Ishido and killing and raw fish and Toranaga and Kiyama and rice Christians and trying to keep Thy Church alive. Give me Thy strength.

And protect us from Spanish bishops. Spaniards do not understand Japan or Japanese. They will destroy what we have begun for Thy glory. And forgive Thy servant, the Lady Maria, and take her into Thy keeping. Watch over . . .

He heard someone come into the nave. When he had finished his prayers, he got up and turned around.

“So sorry to interrupt you, Eminence,” Father Soldi said, “but you wanted to know at once. There’s an express cipher from Father Alvito. From Mishima. The pigeon’s just arrived.”

“And?”

“He just says he’ll see Toranaga today. Last night was impossible because Toranaga was away from Mishima but he’s supposed to return at noon today. The cipher’s dated dawn this morning.”

Dell’Aqua tried to stifle his disappointment, then looked at the clouds and the weather, seeking reassurance. News of the ninja attack and Mariko’s death had been sent off to Alvito at dawn, the same message by two pigeons for safety.

“The news will be there by now,” Soldi said.

“Yes. Yes, I hope so.”

Dell’Aqua led the way out of the chapel, along the cloisters, toward his offices. Soldi, small and birdlike, had to hurry to keep up with the Father-Visitor’s great strides. “There’s something else of extreme importance, Eminence,” Soldi said. “Our informants report that just after dawn the Regents voted for war.”

Dell’Aqua stopped. “War?”

“It seems they’re convinced now Toranaga will never come to Osaka, or the Emperor. So they’ve decided jointly to go against the Kwanto.”

“No mistake?”

“No, Eminence. It’s war. Kiyama has just sent word through Brother Michael which confirms our other source. Michael’s just come back from the castle. The vote was unanimous.”

“How soon?”

“The moment they know for certain that the Emperor’s not coming here.”

“The war will never stop. God have mercy on us! And bless Mariko—at least Kiyama and Onoshi were forewarned of Toranaga’s perfidy.”

“What about Onoshi, Eminence? What about his perfidy against Kiyama?”

“I’ve no proof of that, Soldi. It’s too farfetched. I can’t believe Onoshi would do that.”

“But if he does, Eminence?”

“It’s not possible just now, even if it was planned. Now they need each other.”

“Until the demise of Lord Toranaga. . . .”

“You don’t have to remind me about the enmity of those two, or the lengths they’ll go to—God forgive both of them.” He walked on again.

Soldi caught up with him. “Should I send this information to Father Alvito?”

“No. Not yet. First I have to decide what to do. Toranaga will learn of it soon enough from his own sources. God take this land into His keeping and have mercy on all of us.”

Soldi opened the door for the Father-Visitor. “The only other matter of importance is that the Council has formally refused to let us have the Lady Maria’s body. She’s to have a state funeral tomorrow and we are not invited.”

“That’s to be expected, but it’s splendid that they want to honor her like that. Send one of our people to fetch part of her ashes—that will be allowed. The ashes will be buried in hallowed ground at Nagasaki.” He straightened a picture automatically and sat behind his desk. “I’ll say a Requiem for her here—the full Requiem there with all the pomp and ceremony we can muster when her remains are formally interred. She’ll be buried in cathedral grounds as a most blessed daughter of the Church. Arrange a plaque, employ the finest artists, calligrapher—everything must be perfect.”

“Yes, Eminence.”

“Her blessed courage and self-sacrifice will be an enormous encouragement to our flock. Very important, Soldi.”

“And Kiyama’s granddaughter, Sire? The authorities will let us have her body. He insisted.”

“Good. Then her remains should be sent to Nagasaki at once. I’ll consult Kiyama about how important he wishes to make her funeral.”

“You will conduct the service, Eminence?”

“Yes, providing it’s possible for me to leave here.”

“Lord Kiyama would be very pleased with that honor.”

“Yes—but we must make sure her service doesn’t detract from the Lady Maria’s. Maria’s is politically very, very important.”

“Of course, Eminence. I quite understand.”

Dell’Aqua studied his secretary. “Why don’t you trust Onoshi?”

“Sorry, Eminence—probably it’s because he’s a leper and petrifies me. I apologize.”

“Apologize to him, Soldi, he’s not to blame for his disease,” dell’Aqua said. “We’ve no proof about the plot.”

“The other things the Lady said were true. Why not this?”

“We have no proof. It’s all surmise.”

“Yes, surmise.”

Dell’Aqua moved the glass decanter, watching the refracting light. “At my prayers I smelled the orange blossoms and new breads and, oh, how I wanted to go home.”

Soldi sighed. “I dream of abbacchio, Eminence, and of meats pizzaiola and a flagon of Lacrima Christi and . . . God forgive me the hungers of hunger! Soon we can go home, Eminence. Next year. By next year everything will be settled here.”

“Nothing will be settled by next year. This war will hurt us. It will hurt the Church and the faithful terribly.”

“No, Eminence. Kyushu will be Christian whoever wins,” Soldi said confidently, wanting to cheer up his superior. “This island can wait for God’s good time. There’s more than enough to do in Kyushu, Eminence, isn’t there? Three million souls to convert, half a million of the faithful to minister to. Then there’s Nagasaki and trade. They must have trade. Ishido and Toranaga will tear themselves to pieces. What does that matter? They’re both anti-Christ, pagans and murderers.”

“Yes. But unfortunately what happens in Osaka and Yedo controls Kyushu. What to do, what to do?” Dell’Aqua pushed his melancholy away. “What about the Ingeles? Where’s he now?”

“Still under guard in the donjon.”

“Leave me for a while, old friend, I have to think. I have to decide what to do. Finally. The Church is in great danger.” Dell’Aqua looked out the windows into the forecourt. Then he saw Friar Perez approaching.

Soldi went to the door to intercept the monk. “No,” the Father-Visitor said. “I’ll see him now.”

“Ah, Eminence, good afternoon,” Friar Perez said, scratching unconsciously. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes. Please fetch the letter, Soldi.”

“I heard your chapel was destroyed,” the monk said.

“Damaged. Please sit down.” Dell’Aqua sat in his high-backed chair behind the desk, the monk opposite him. “No one was hurt, thanks be to God. Within a few days it’ll be new again. What about your Mission?”

“Untouched,” the monk said with open satisfaction. “There were fires all around us after the tremors and many died but we weren’t touched. The Eye of God watches over us.” Then he added cryptically, “I hear heathens were murdering heathens in the castle last night.”

“Yes. One of our most important converts, the Lady Maria, was killed in the melee.”

“Ah yes, I got reports too. ‘Kill him, Yoshinaka,’ the Lady Maria said, and started the bloodbath. I heard she even tried to kill a few herself, before she committed suicide.”

Dell’Aqua flushed. “You don’t understand anything about the Japanese after all this time, and you even speak a little of their language.”

“I understand heresy, stupidity, killing, and political interference, and I speak the pagan tongue very well. I understand a lot about these heathens.”

“But not about manners.”

“The Word of God requires none. It is the Word. Oh, yes. I also understand about adultery. What do you think of adultery—and harlots, Eminence?”

The door opened. Soldi offered dell’Aqua the Pope’s letter, then left them.

The Father-Visitor gave the paper to the monk, savoring his victory. “This is from His Holiness. It arrived yesterday by special messenger from Macao.”

The monk took the Papal Order and read it. This commanded, with the formal agreement of the King of Spain, that all priests of all religious orders were in future to travel to Japan only via Lisbon, Goa, and Macao, that all were forbidden on pain of immediate excommunication to go from Manila direct to Japan, and that lastly, all priests, other than Jesuits, were to leave Japan at once for Manila whence they could, if their superiors wished, return to Japan, but only via Lisbon, Goa, and Macao.

Friar Perez scrutinized the seal and the signature and the date, reread the Order carefully, then laughed derisively and shoved the letter on the desk. “I don’t believe it!”

“That’s an Order from His Holiness the—”

“It’s another heresy against the Brethren of God, against us, or any mendicants who carry the Word to the heathen. With this device we’re forbidden Japan forever, because the Portuguese, abetted by certain people, will prevaricate forever and never grant us passage or visas. If this is genuine it only proves what we’ve been saying for years: Jesuits can subvert even the Vicar of Christ in Rome!”

Dell’Aqua held on to his temper. “You’re ordered to leave. Or you will be excommunicated.”

“Jesuit threats are meaningless, Eminence. You don’t speak with the Tongue of God, you never have, you never will. You’re not soldiers of Christ. You serve a Pope, Eminence, a man. You’re politicians, men of the earth, men of the fleshpots with your pagan silks and lands and power and riches and influence. The Lord Jesus Christ came to earth in the guise of a simple man who scratched and went barefoot and stank. I will never leave—nor will my Brothers!”

Dell’Aqua had never been so angry in his life. “You-will-leave-Japan!”

“Before God, I won’t! But this is the last time I’ll come here. If you want me in future, come to our Holy Mission, come and minister to the poor and the sick and the unwanted, like Christ did. Wash their feet like Christ did, and save your own soul before it’s too late.”

“You are commanded on pain of excommunication to leave Japan at once.”

“Come now, Eminence, I’m not excommunicated and never will be. Of course I accept the document, unless it’s out of date. This is dated September 16, 1598, almost two years ago. It must be checked, it’s far too important to accept at once—and that will take four years at least.”

“Of course it’s not out of date!”

“You’re wrong. As God is my judge, I believe it is. In a few weeks, at the most a few months, we’ll have an Archbishop of Japan at long last. A Spanish Bishop! The letters I have from Manila report the Royal Warrant’s expected by every mail.”

“Impossible! This is Portuguese territory and our province!”

“It was Portuguese. It was Jesuit. But that’s all changed now. With the help of our Brothers and Divine Guidance, the King of Spain has overthrown your General in Rome.”

“That’s nonsense. Lies and rumors. On your immortal soul, obey the commands of the Vicar of Christ.”

“I will. I will write to him today, I promise you. Meanwhile, expect a Spanish Bishop, a Spanish Viceroy, and a new Captain of the Black Ship—also a Spaniard! That’s also to be part of the Royal Warrant. We have friends in high places too and, at long last, they have vanquished the Jesuits, once and for all! Go with God, Eminence.” Friar Perez got up, opened the door, and went away.

In the outer office Soldi watched him leave, then hastily came back into the room. Frightened by dell’Aqua’s color, he hurried to the decanter and poured some brandy. “Eminence?”

Dell’Aqua shook his head and continued to stare sightlessly into the distance. For the past year there had been disquieting news from their delegates to the Court of Philip of Spain at Madrid about the growing influence of the enemies of the Society.

“It’s not true, Eminence. Spaniards can’t come here. It can’t be true.”

“It can be true, easily. Too easily.” Dell’Aqua touched the Papal Order. “This Pope may be dead, our General dead . . . even the King of Spain. Meanwhile . . .” He got to his feet and stood at his full height. “Meanwhile we’ll prepare for the worst and pray for help and do the best we can. Send Brother Michael to fetch Kiyama here at once.”

“Yes, Eminence. But Kiyama’s never been here before. Surely it’s unlikely he would come now?”

“Tell Michael to use any words necessary, but he’s to bring Kiyama here before sunset. Next, send the war news to Martin at once, to be passed to Toranaga at once. You write the details but I want to send a private cipher with it. Next, send someone to fetch Ferriera here.”

“Yes, Eminence. But about Kiyama, surely Michael won’t be able—”

“Tell Michael to order him here, in God’s name if necessary! We’re Soldiers of Christ, we’re going to war—to God’s war! Hurry up!”

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

“Anjin-san?”

Blackthorne heard his name in his dream. It came from very far away, echoing forever. “Hai?” he answered.

Then he heard the name repeated and a hand touched him, his eyes opened and focused in the half-light of dawn, his consciousness flooded back and he sat upright. The doctor was again kneeling beside his bed. Kiritsubo and the Lady Ochiba stood nearby, staring down at him. Grays were all around the large room. Oil lanterns flickered warmly.

The doctor spoke to him again. The ringing was still in his ears and the voice faint, but there was no mistake now. He could hear once more. Involuntarily his hands went to his ears and he pressed them to clear them. At once pain exploded in his head and set off sparks and colored lights and a violent throbbing.

“Sorry,” he muttered, waiting for the agony to lessen, willing it to lessen. “Sorry, ears hurt, neh? But I hear now—understand, Doctor-san? Hear now—little. Sorry, what say?” He watched the man’s lips to help himself hear.

“The Lady Ochiba and Kiritsubo-sama want to know how you are.”

“Ah!” Blackthorne looked at them. Now he noticed that they were formally dressed. Kiritsubo wore all white, except for a green head scarf. Ochiba’s kimono was dark green, without pattern or adornment, her long shawl white gossamer. “Better, thank you,” he said, his soul disquieted by the white. “Yes, better.” Then he saw the quality of the light outside and realized that it was near dawn and not twilight. “Doctor-san, please I sleep a day and night?”

“Yes, Anjin-san. A day and a night. Lie back, please.” The doctor took Blackthorne’s wrist with his long fingers and pressed them against the pulse, listening with his fingertips to the nine pulses, three on the surface, three in the middle, and three deep down, as Chinese medicine taught from time immemorial.

All in the room waited for the diagnosis. Then the doctor nodded, satisfied. “Everything seems good, Anjin-san. No bad hurt, understand? Much head pain, neh?” He turned and explained in more detail to the Lady Ochiba and Kiritsubo.

“Anjin-san,” Ochiba said. “Today Mariko-sama’s funeral. You understand ‘funeral’?”

“Yes, Lady.”

“Good. Her funeral’s just after dawn. It is your privilege to go if you wish. You understand?”

“Yes. Think so. Yes, please, I go also.”

“Very well.” Ochiba spoke to the doctor, telling him to look after his patient very carefully. Then, with a polite bow to Kiritsubo and a smile at Blackthorne, she left.

Kiri waited till she was gone. “All right, Anjin-san?”

“Head bad, Lady. So sorry.”

“Please excuse me, I wanted to say thank you. Do you understand?”

“Duty. Only duty. Fail. Mariko-sama dead, neh?”

Kiri bowed to him in homage. “Not fail. Oh, no, not fail. Thank you, Anjin-san. For her and me and for the others. Say more later. Thank you.” Then she too went away.

Blackthorne took hold of himself and got to his feet. The pain in his head was monstrous, making him want to cry out. He forced his lips into a tight line, his chest aching badly, his stomach churning. In a moment the nausea passed but left a filthy taste in his mouth. He eased his feet forward and walked over to the window and held on to the sill, fighting not to retch. He waited, then walked up and down, but this did not take away the pain in his head or the nausea.

“I all right, thank you,” he said, and sat again gratefully.

“Here, drink this. Make better. Settle hara.” The doctor had a benign smile. Blackthorne drank and gagged on the brew that smelled like ancient bird droppings and mildewed kelp mixed with fermenting leaves on a hot summer’s day. The taste was worse.

“Drink. Better soon, so sorry.”

Blackthorne gagged again but forced it down.

“Soon better, so sorry.”

Women servants came and combed and dressed his hair. A barber shaved him. Hot towels were brought for his hands and face, and he felt much better. But the pain in his head remained. Other servants helped him to dress in the formal kimono and winged overmantle. There was a new short stabbing sword. “Gift, Master. Gift from Kiritsubo-sama,” a woman servant said.

Blackthorne accepted it and stuck it in his belt with his killing sword, the one Toranaga had given him, its haft chipped and almost broken where he had smashed at the bolt. He remembered Mariko standing with her back against the door, then nothing till he was kneeling over her and watching her die. Then nothing until now.

“So sorry, this is the donjon, neh?” he said to the captain of Grays.

“Yes, Anjin-san.” The captain bowed deferentially, squat like an ape and just as dangerous.

“Why am I here, please?”

The captain smiled and sucked in his breath politely. “The Lord General ordered it.”

“But why here?”

The samurai said, “It was the Lord General’s orders. Please excuse me, you understand?”

“Yes, thank you,” Blackthorne said wearily.

When he was finally ready he felt dreadful. Some cha helped him for a while, then sickness swept through him and he vomited into the bowl a servant held for him, his chest and head pierced with red hot needles at every spasm.

“So sorry,” the doctor said patiently. “Here, please drink.”

He drank more of the brew but it did not help him.

By now dawn was spreading across the sky. Servants beckoned him and helped him to walk out of the large room, his guards going in front, the remainder following. They went down the staircase and out into the forecourt. A palanquin was waiting with more guards. He got into it thankfully. At an order from his captain of Grays the porters picked up the shafts and, the guards hovering protectively, they joined the procession of litters and samurai and ladies on foot, winding through the maze, out of the castle. All were dressed in their best. Some of the women wore somber kimonos with white head scarves, others wore all white except for a colored scarf.

Blackthorne was aware that he was being watched. He pretended not to notice and tried to keep his back stiff and his face emotionless, and prayed that the sickness would not return to shame him. His pain increased.

The cortege wound through the castle strongpoints, past thousands of samurai drawn up in silent ranks. No one was challenged, no papers demanded. The mourners went through checkpoint after checkpoint, under portcullises and across the five moats without stopping. Once through the main gate, outside the main fortifications, he noticed his Grays become more wary, their eyes watching everyone nearby, keeping close to him, guarding him very carefully. This lessened his anxiety. He had not forgotten that he was a marked man. The procession curled across a clear space, went over a bridge, then took up station in the square beside the river bank.

This space was three hundred paces by five hundred paces. In the center was a pit fifteen paces square and five deep, filled with wood. Over the pit was a high matted roof dressed with white silk and surrounding it were walls of white linen sheets, hung from bamboos, that pointed exactly East, North, West, and South, a small wooden gate in the middle of each wall.

“The gates are for the soul to go through, Anjin-san, in its flight to heaven,” Mariko had told him at Hakoné.

“Let’s go for a swim or talk of other things. Happy things.”

“Yes, of course, but first please may I finish because this is a very happy thing. Our funeral is most very important to us so you should learn about it, Anjin-san, neh? Please?”

“All right. But why have four gates? Why not just one?”

“The soul must have a choice. That’s wise—oh, we are very wise, neh? Did I tell thee today that I love thee?” she had said. “We are a very wise nation to allow the soul a choice. Most souls choose the south gate, Anjin-san. That’s the important one, where there are tables with dried figs and fresh pomegranates and other fruits, radishes and other vegetables, and the sheaves of rice plantlets if the season is correct. And always a bowl of fresh cooked rice, Anjin-san, that’s most important. You see, the soul might want to eat before leaving.”

“If it’s me, put a roast pheasant or—”

“So sorry, no flesh—not even fish. We’re serious about that, Anjin-san. Also on the table there’ll be a small brazier with coals burning nicely with precious woods and oils in it to make everything smell sweet. . . .”

Blackthorne felt his eyes fill with tears.

“I want my funeral to be near dawn,” she had always said so serenely. “I love the dawn most of all. And, if it could also be in the autumn . . .”

My poor darling, he thought. You knew all along there’d never be an autumn.

His litter stopped in a place of honor in the front rank, near the center, and he was close enough to see tears on the water-sprinkled fruits. Everything was there as she had said. Around were hundreds of palanquins and the square was packed with a thousand samurai and their ladies on foot, all silent and motionless. He recognized Ishido and, beside him, Ochiba. Neither looked at him. They sat on their sumptuous litters and stared at the white linen walls that rustled in the gentling breeze. Kiyama was on the other side of Ochiba, Zataki nearby, with Ito. Onoshi’s closed litter was also there. All had echelons of guards. Kiyama’s samurai wore crosses. And Onoshi’s.

Blackthorne looked around, seeking Yabu, but he could find him nowhere, nor were there any Browns or a friendly face. Now Kiyama was gazing at him stonily and when he saw the look in the eyes he was glad for his guards. Nonetheless he bowed slightly. But Kiyama’s gaze never altered, nor was his politeness acknowledged. After a moment, Kiyama looked away and Blackthorne breathed easier.

The sound of drums and bells and metal beating on metal tore the air. Discordant. Piercing. All eyes went to the main gateway to the castle. Then, out of the maw came an ornate roofed palanquin, borne by eight Shinto priests, a high priest sitting on it like a graven Buddha. Other priests beat metal drums before and after this litter, and then came two hundred orange-robed Buddhist priests and more white-clad Shinto priests, and then her bier.

The bier was rich and roofed, all in white, and she was dressed in white and propped sitting, her head slightly forward, her face made up and hair meticulous. Ten Browns were her pallbearers. Before the bier two priestlings strew tiny paper rose petals that the wind took and scattered, signifying that life was as ephemeral as a flower, and after them two priests dragged two spears backwards, indicating that she was samurai and duty strong as the steel blades were strong. After them came four priests with unlit torches. Saruji, her son, followed next, his face as white as his kimono. Then Kiritsubo and the Lady Sazuko, both in white, their hair loosed but draped in gossamer green. The girl’s hair fell below her waist, Kiri’s was longer. Then there was a space, and last was the remainder of the Toranaga garrison. Some of the Browns were wounded and many limped.

Blackthorne saw only her. She seemed to be in prayer and there was not a mark on her. He kept himself rigid, knowing what an honor this public ceremony, with Ishido and Ochiba as chief witnesses, was for her. But that did not lighten his misery.

For more than an hour, the high priest chanted incantations and the drums clamored. Then in a sudden silence, Saruji stepped forward and took an unlit torch and went to each of the four gates, East, North, West, and South, to make sure they were unobstructed.

Blackthorne saw that the boy was trembling, his eyes downcast as he came back to the bier. Then he lifted the white cord attached to it and guided the pallbearers through the south gate. The whole litter was placed carefully on the wood. Another solemn incantation, then Saruji touched the oil-soaked torch to the coals of the brazier. It blazed at once. He hesitated, then went back through the south gate alone and cast the torch into the pyre. The oil-impregnated wood caught. Quickly it became a furnace. Soon the flames were ten feet high. Saruji was forced back by the heat, then he fetched sweet-scented woods and oils and threw them into the fire. The tinder-dry roof exploded. The linen walls caught. Now the whole pit area was a raging, pyrogenic mass—swirling, crackling, unquenchable.

The roof posts collapsed. A sigh went through the onlookers. Priests came forward and put more wood onto the pyre and the flames rose farther, the smoke billowing. Now only the four small gates remained. Blackthorne saw the heat scorching them. Then they too burst into flames.

Then Ishido, the chief witness, got out of his palanquin and walked forward and made the ritual offering of precious wood. He bowed formally and sat again in his litter. At his order, the porters lifted him and he went back to the castle. Ochiba followed him. Others began to leave.

Saruji bowed to the flames a last time. He turned and walked over to Blackthorne. He stood in front of him and bowed. “Thank you, Anjin-san,” he said. Then he went away with Kiri and Lady Sazuko.

“All finished, Anjin-san,” the captain of Grays said with a grin. “Kami safe now. We go castle.”

“Wait. Please.”

“So sorry, orders, neh?” the captain said anxiously, the others guarding closely.

“Please wait.”

Careless of their anxiety, Blackthorne got out of the litter, the pain almost blinding him. The samurai spread out, covering him. He walked to the table and picked up some of the small pieces of camphor wood and threw them into the furnace. He could see nothing through the curtain of flames.

“In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti,” he muttered in benediction and made a small sign of the cross. Then he turned and left the fire.

When he awoke his head was much better but he felt drained, the dull ache still throbbing behind his temples and across the front of his head.

“How feel, Anjin-san?” the doctor said with his toothy smile, the voice still faint. “Sleep long time.”

Blackthorne lifted himself on an elbow and gazed sleepily at the sun’s shadows. Must be almost five of the clock in the afternoon now, he thought. I’ve slept better than six hours. “Sleep all day, neh?”

The doctor smiled. “All yesterday and night and most of today. Understand?”

“Understand. Yes.” Blackthorne lay back, a sheen of sweat on his skin. Good, he thought. The best thing I could have done, no wonder I feel better.

His bed of soft quilts was screened now on three sides with exquisite movable partitions, their panel paintings landscapes and seascapes, and inlaid with ivory. Sunlight came through windows opposite and flies swarmed, the room vast and pleasant and quiet. Outside were castle sounds, now mixed with horses trotting past, bridles jingling, their hoofs unshod. The slight breeze bore the aroma of smoke. Don’t know if I’d want to be burned, he thought. But wait a minute, isn’t that better than being put in a box and buried and then the worms . . . Stop it, he ordered himself, feeling himself drifting into a downward spiral. There’s nothing to worry about, karma is karma and when you’re dead, you’re dead, and you never know anything then—and anything’s better than drowning, water filling you, your body becoming foul and blotted, the crabs . . . Stop it!

“Drink, please.” The doctor gave him more of the foul brew. He gagged but kept it down.

“Cha, please.” The woman servant poured it for him and he thanked her. She was a moon-faced woman of middle age, slits for eyes and a fixed empty smile. After three cups his mouth was bearable.

“Please, Anjin-san, how ears?”

“Same. Still distance . . . distance, understand? Very distance.”

“Understand. Eat, Anjin-san?”

A small tray was set with rice and soup and charcoaled fish. His stomach was queasy but he remembered that he had hardly eaten for two days so he sat up and forced himself to take some rice and he drank the fish soup. This settled his stomach so he ate more and finished it all, using the chopsticks now as extensions of his fingers, without conscious effort. “Thank you. Hungry.”

“Yes,” the doctor said. He put a linen bag of herbs on the low table beside the bed. “Make cha with this, Anjin-san. Once every day until all gone. Understand?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“It has been an honor to serve you.” The old man motioned to the servant, who took away the empty tray, and after another bow followed her and left by the same inner door. Now Blackthorne was alone. He lay back on the futons feeling much better.

“I was just hungry,” he said aloud. He was wearing only a loincloth. His formal clothes were in a careless pile where he had left them and this surprised him, though a clean Brown kimono was beside his swords. He let himself drift, then suddenly he felt an alien presence. Uneasily he sat up and glanced around. Then he got onto his knees and looked over the screens, and before he knew it, he was standing, his head splitting from the sudden panicked movement as he saw the tonsured Japanese Jesuit staring at him, kneeling motionlessly beside the main doorway, a crucifix and rosary in his hand.

“Who are you?” he asked through his pain.

“I’m Brother Michael, senhor.” The coal-dark eyes never wavered.

Blackthorne moved from the screens and stood over his swords. “What d’you want with me?”

“I was sent to ask how you are,” Michael said quietly in clear though accented Portuguese.

“By whom?”

“By the Lord Kiyama.”

Suddenly Blackthorne realized they were totally alone. “Where are my guards?”

“You don’t have any, senhor.”

“Of course I’ve guards! I’ve twenty Grays. Where are my Grays?”

“There were none here when I arrived, senhor. So sorry. You were still sleeping then.” Michael motioned gravely outside the door. “Perhaps you should ask those samurai.”

Blackthorne picked up his sword. “Please get away from the door.”

“I’m not armed, Anjin-san.”

“Even so, don’t come near me. Priests make me nervous.” Obediently Michael got to his feet and moved away with the same unnerving calm. Outside two Grays lolled against the balustrade of the landing. “Afternoon,” Blackthorne said politely, not recognizing either of them. Neither bowed. “Afternoon, Anjin-san,” one replied. “Please, where my other guards?”

“All guards taken away Hour of the Hare, this morning. Understand Hour of Hare? We’re not your guards, Anjin-san. This is our ordinary post.”

Blackthorne felt the cold sweat trickling down his back. “Guards taken away—who order?”

Both samurai laughed. The tall one said, “Here, inside the donjon, Anjin-san, only the Lord General gives orders—or the Lady Ochiba. How do you feel now?”

“Better, thank you.”

The taller samurai called out down the hall. In a few moments an officer came out of a room with four samurai. He was young and taut. When he saw Blackthorne his eyes lit up. “Ah, Anjin-san. How do you feel?”

“Better, thank you. Please excuse me, but where my guards?”

“I am ordered to tell you, when you wake up, that you’re to go back to your ship. Here’s your pass.” The captain took the paper from his sleeve and gave it to him and pointed contemptuously at Michael. “This fellow’s to be your guide.”

Blackthorne tried to get his head working, his brain screeching danger. “Yes. Thank you. But first, please must see Lord Ishido. Very important.”

“So sorry. Your orders are to go back to the ship as soon as you wake up. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Please excuse me, but very important I see Lord Ishido. Please tell your captain. Now. Must see Lord Ishido before leave. Very important, so sorry.”

The samurai scratched at the pockmarks on his chin. “I will ask. Please dress.” He strode off importantly to Blackthorne’s relief. The four samurai remained. Blackthorne went back and dressed quickly. They watched him. The priest waited in the corridor.

Be patient, he told himself. Don’t think and don’t worry. It’s a mistake. Nothing’s changed. You’ve still the power you always had.

He put both swords in his sash and drank the rest of the cha. Then he saw the pass. The paper was stamped and covered with characters. There’s no mistake about that, he thought, the fresh kimono already sticking to him.

“Hey, Anjin-san,” one of the samurai said, “hear you kill five ninja. Very, very good, neh?”

“So sorry, two only. Perhaps three.” Blackthorne twisted his head from side to side to ease the ache and dizziness.

“I heard there were fifty-seven ninja dead—one hundred and sixteen Browns. Is that right?”

“I don’t know. So sorry.”

The captain came back into the room. “Your orders are to go to your ship, Anjin-san. This priest is your guide.”

“Yes. Thank you. But first, so sorry, must see Lady Ochiba. Very, very important. Please ask your—”

The captain spun on Michael and spoke gutturally and very fast. “Neh?” Michael bowed, unperturbed, and turned to Blackthorne. “So sorry, senhor. He says his superior is asking his superior, but meanwhile you are to leave at once and follow me—to the galley.”

“Ima!” the captain added for emphasis.

Blackthorne knew he was a dead man. He heard himself say, “Thank you, Captain. Where my guards, please?”

“You haven’t any guards.”

“Please send my ship. Please fetch my own vassals from—”

“Order go ship now! Understand, neh?” The words were impolite and very final. “Go ship!” the captain added with a crooked smile, waiting for Blackthorne to bow first.

Blackthorne noticed this and it all became a nightmare, everything slowed and fogged, and he desperately wanted to empty himself and wipe the sweat off his face and bow, but he was sure that the captain would hardly bow back, perhaps not even politely and never as an equal, so he would be shamed before all of them. It was clear that he had been betrayed and sold out to the Christian enemy, that Kiyama and Ishido and the priests were part of the betrayal, and for whatever reason, whatever the price, there was nothing now that he could do except wipe off the sweat and bow and leave and they would be waiting for him.

Then Mariko was with him and he remembered her terror and all that she had meant and all that she had done and all that she had taught him. He forced his hand onto the broken hilt of his sword and set his feet truculently apart, knowing that his fate was decided, his karma fixed, and that if he had to die he preferred to die now with pride than later.

“I’m John Blackthorne, Anjin-san,” he said, his absolute commitment lending him a strange power and perfect rudeness. “General of Lord Toranaga ship. All ship. Samurai and hatamoto! Who are you?”

The captain flushed. “Saigo Masakatsu of Kaga, Captain, of Lord Ishido’s garrison.”

“I’m hatamoto—are you hatamoto?” Blackthorne asked, even more rudely, not even acknowledging the name of his opponent, only seeing him with an enormous, unreal clarity—seeing every pore, every stubbled whisker, every fleck of color in the hostile brown eyes, every hair on the back of the man’s hand gripping the sword hilt.

“No, not hatamoto.”

“Are you samurai—or ronin?” The last word hissed out and Blackthorne felt men behind him but he did not care. He was only watching the captain, waiting for the sudden, death-dealing blow that summoned up all hara-gei, all the innermost source of energy, and he readied to return the blow with equal blinding force in a mutual, honorable death, and so defeat his enemy.

To his astonishment he saw the captain’s eyes change, and the man shriveled and bowed, low and humble. The man held the bow, leaving himself defenseless. “Please—please excuse my bad manners. I—I was ronin but—but the Lord General gave me a second chance. Please excuse my bad manners, Anjin-san.” The voice was laced with shame.

It was all unreal and Blackthorne was still ready to strike, expecting to strike, expecting death and not a conquest. He looked at the other samurai. As one man they bowed and held the bow with their captain, granting him victory.

After a moment Blackthorne bowed stiffly. But not as an equal. They held their bow until he turned and walked along the corridor, Michael following, out onto the main steps, down the steps into the forecourt. He could feel no pain now. He was filled only with an enormous glow. Grays were watching him, and the group of samurai that escorted him and Michael to the first checkpoint kept carefully out of his sword range. One man was hurriedly sent ahead.

At the next checkpoint the new officer bowed politely as an equal and he bowed back. The pass was examined meticulously but correctly. Another escort took them to the next checkpoint where everything was repeated. Thence over the innermost moat, and the next. No one interfered with them. Hardly any samurai paid attention to him.

Gradually he noticed his head was scarcely aching. His sweat had dried. He unknotted his fingers from his sword hilt and flexed them a moment. He stopped at a fountain which was set in a wall and drank and splashed water on his head.

The escorting Grays stopped and waited politely, and all the time he was trying to work out why he had lost favor and the protection of Ishido and Lady Ochiba. Nothing’s changed, he thought frantically. He looked up and saw Michael staring at him. “What do you want?”

“Nothing, senhor,” Michael said politely. Then a smile spread and it was filled with warmth. “Ah, senhor, you did me a great service back there, making that foul-mannered cabron drink his own urine. Oh, that was good to see! Thou,” he added in Latin. “I thank thee.”

“I did nothing for you,” Blackthorne said in Portuguese, not wanting to talk Latin.

“Yes. But peace be upon you, senhor. Know that God moves in mysterious ways. It was a service for all men. That ronin was shamed and he deserved it. It is a filthy thing to abuse bushido.”

“You’re samurai too?”

“Yes, senhor, I have that honor,” Michael said. “My father is cousin to Lord Kiyama and my clan is of Hizen Province in Kyushu. How did you know he was ronin?”

Blackthorne tried to remember. “I’m not sure. Perhaps because he said he was from Kaga and that’s a long way off and Mariko—Lady Toda said Kaga’s far north. I don’t know—I don’t remember really what I said.”

The officer of the escort came back to them. “Please excuse me, Anjin-san, but is this fellow bothering you?”

“No. No, thank you.” Blackthorne set off again. The pass was checked again, with courtesy, and they went on.

The sun was lowering now, still a few hours to sunset, and dust devils whirled in tiny spirals in the heated air currents. They passed many stables, all horses facing out—lances and spears and saddles ready for instant departure, samurai grooming the horses and cleaning equipment. Blackthorne was astounded by their number.

“How many horse, Captain?” he asked.

“Thousands, Anjin-san. Ten, twenty, thirty thousand here and elsewhere in the castle.”

When they were crossing the next to last moat, Blackthorne beckoned Michael. “You’re guiding me to the galley?”

“Yes. That’s what I was told to do, senhor.”

“Nowhere else?”

“No, senhor.”

“By whom?”

“Lord Kiyama. And the Father-Visitor, senhor.”

“Ah, him! I prefer Anjin-san, not senhor—Father.”

“Please excuse me, Anjin-san, but I’m not a Father. I’m not ordained.”

“When does that happen?”

“In God’s time,” Michael said confidently.

“Where’s Yabu-san?”

“I don’t know, so sorry.”

“You’re just taking me to my ship, nowhere else?”

“Yes, Anjin-san.”

“And then I’m free? Free to go where I want?”

“I was told to ask how you were, then to guide you to the ship, nothing more. I’m just a messenger, a guide.”

“Before God?”

“I’m just a guide, Anjin-san.”

“Where did you learn to speak Portuguese so well? And Latin?”

“I was one of the four . . . the four acolytes sent by the Father-Visitor to Rome. I was thirteen, Uraga-noh-Tadamasa twelve.”

“Ah! Now I remember. Uraga-san told me you were one of them. You were his friend. You know he’s dead?”

“Yes. I was sickened to hear about it.”

“Christians did that.”

“Murderers did that, Anjin-san. Assassins. They will be judged, never fear.”

After a moment, Blackthorne said, “How did you like Rome?”

“I detested it. We all did. Everything about it—the food and the filth and ugliness. They’re all eta there—unbelievable! It took us eight years to get there and back and oh how I blessed the Madonna when at last I got back.”

“And the Church? The Fathers?”

“Detestable. Many of them,” Michael said calmly. “I was shocked with their morals and mistresses and greed and pomp and hypocrisy and lack of manners—and their two standards, one for the flock and one for the shepherds. It was all hateful . . . and yet I found God among some of them, Anjin-san. So strange. I found the Truth, in the cathedrals and cloisters and among the Fathers.” Michael looked at him guilelessly, a tenderness permeating him. “It was rare, Anjin-san, very rarely that I found a glimmer—that’s true. But I did find the Truth and God and know that Christianity is the only path to life everlasting . . . please excuse me, Catholic Christianity.”

“Did you see the auto-da-fé—or Inquisition—or jails—witch trials?”

“I saw many terrible things. Very few men are wise—most are sinners and great evil happens on earth in God’s name. But not of God. This world is a vale of tears and only a preparation for Everlasting Peace.” He prayed silently for a moment, then, refreshed, he looked up. “Even some heretics can be good, neh?”

“Maybe,” Blackthorne replied, liking him.

The last moat and last gate, the main south gate. The last checkpoint, and his paper was taken away. Michael walked under the last portcullis. Blackthorne followed. Outside the castle a hundred samurai were waiting. Kiyama’s men. He saw their crucifixes and their hostility and he stopped. Michael did not. The officer motioned Blackthorne onward. He obeyed. The samurai closed up behind him and around him, locking him in their midst. Porters and tradesmen on this main road scattered and bowed and groveled until they were passed. A few held up pathetic crosses and Michael blessed them, leading the way down the slight slope, past the burial ground where the pit no longer smoked, across a bridge and into the city, heading for the sea. Grays and other samurai were coming up from the city among the pedestrians. When they saw Michael they scowled and would have forced him onto the side if it hadn’t been for the mass of Kiyama samurai.

Blackthorne followed Michael. He was beyond fear, though not beyond wishing to escape. But there was no place to run, or to hide. On land. His only safety was aboard Erasmus, beating out to sea, a full crew with him, provisioned and armed.

“What happens at the galley, Brother?”

“I don’t know, Anjin-san.”

Now they were in the city streets, nearing the sea. Michael turned a corner and came into an open fish market. Pretty maids and fat maids and old ladies and youths and men and buyers and sellers and children all gaped at him, then began bowing hastily. Blackthorne followed the samurai through the stalls and panniers and bamboo trays of all kinds of fish, sea-sparkling fresh, laid out so cleanly—many swimming in tanks, prawns and shrimps, lobster and crabs and crayfish. Never so clean in London, he thought absently, neither the fish nor those who sold them. Then he saw a row of food stalls to one side, each with a small charcoal brazier, and he caught the full perfume of broiling crayfish.

“Jesus!” Without thinking, he changed direction. Immediately the samurai barred his way. “Gomen nasai, kinjiru,” one of them said.

“Iyé!” Blackthorne replied as roughly. “Watashi tabetai desu, neh? Watashi Anjin-san, neh?” I’m hungry. I’m the Anjin-san!

Blackthorne began to push through them. The senior officer hurried to intercept. Quickly Michael stepped back and talked placatingly, though with authority, and asked permission and, reluctantly, it was granted.

“Please, Anjin-san,” he said, “the officer says eat if you wish. What would you like?”

“Some of those, please.” Blackthorne pointed at the giant prawns that were headless and split down their length, all pink and white fleshed, the shells crisped to perfection. “Some of those.” He could not tear his eyes off them. “Please tell the officer I haven’t eaten for almost two days and I’m suddenly famished. So sorry.”

The fish seller was an old man with three teeth and leathery skin and he wore only a loincloth. He was puffed with pride that his stall had been chosen and he picked out the five best prawns with nimble chopsticks and laid them neatly on a bamboo tray and set others to sizzle.

“Dozo, Anjin-sama!”

“Domo.” Blackthorne felt his stomach growling. He wanted to gorge. Instead he picked one up with the fresh wooden chopsticks, dipped it in the sauce, and ate with relish. It was delicious.

“Brother Michael?” he asked, offering the plate. Michael took one, but only for good manners. The officer refused, though he thanked him.

Blackthorne finished that plate and had two more. He could have eaten another two but decided not to for good manners and also because he didn’t want to strain his stomach.

“Domo,” he said, setting down the plate with a polite obligatory belch. “Bimi desu!” Delicious.

The man beamed and bowed and the stallkeepers nearby bowed and then Blackthorne realized to his horror that he had no money. He reddened.

“What is it?” Michael asked.

“I, er, I haven’t any money with me—or, er, anything to give the man. I’ve—could you lend me some please?”

“I haven’t any money, Anjin-san. We don’t carry money.”

There was an embarrassed silence. The seller grinned, waiting patiently. Then, with equal embarrassment, Michael turned to the officer and quietly asked him for money. The officer was coldly furious with Blackthorne. He spoke brusquely to one of his men who came forward and paid the stallkeeper handsomely, to be thanked profusely, as, pink and sweating, Michael turned and led again. Blackthorne caught up with him. “Sorry about that but it . . . it never occurred to me! That’s the first time I’ve bought anything here. I’ve never had money, as crazy as it sounds, and I never thought . . . I’ve never used money. . . .”

“Please, forget it, Anjin-san. It was nothing.”

“Please tell the officer I’ll pay him when I get to the ship.”

Michael did as he was asked. They walked in silence for a while, Blackthorne getting his bearings. At the end of this street was the beach, the sea calm and dullish under the sunset light. Then he saw where they were and pointed left, to a wide street that ran east-west. “Let’s go that way.”

“This way is quicker, Anjin-san.”

“Yes, but your way we’ve got to pass the Jesuit Mission and the Portuguese lorcha. I’d rather make a detour and go the long way round.”

“I was told to go this way.”

“Let’s go the other way.” Blackthorne stopped. The officer asked what was the matter and Michael explained. The officer waved them onward—Michael’s way.

Blackthorne weighed the results of refusing. He would be forced, or bound and carried, or dragged. None of these suited him, so he shrugged and strode on.

They came out onto the wide road that skirted the beach. Half a ri ahead were the Jesuit wharves and warehouses and a hundred paces farther he could see the Portuguese ship. Beyond that, another two hundred paces, was his galley. It was too far away to see men aboard yet.

Blackthorne picked up a stone and sent it whistling out to sea. “Let’s walk along the beach for a while.”

“Certainly, Anjin-san.” Michael went down the sand. Blackthorne walked in the shallows, enjoying the cool of the sea, the soughing of the slight surf.

“It’s a fine time of the day, neh?”

“Ah, Anjin-san,” Michael said with sudden, open friendliness, “there are many times, Madonna forgive me, I wish I wasn’t a priest but just the son of my father, and this is one of them.”

“Why?”

“I’d like to spirit you away, you and your strange ship at Yokohama, to Hizen, to our great harbor of Sasebo. Then I would ask you to barter with me—I’d ask you to show me and our sea captains the ways of your ship and your ways of the sea. In return I’d offer you the best teachers in the realm, teachers of bushido, cha-no-yu, hara-gei, ki, zazen meditation, flower arranging, and all the special unique knowledges that we possess.”

“I’d like that. Why don’t we do it now?”

“It’s not possible today. But you already know so much and in such a short time, neh? Mariko-sama was a great teacher. You are a worthy samurai. And you have a quality that’s rare here: unpredictability. The Taikō had it, Toranaga-sama has it too. You see, usually we’re a very predictable people.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“Then predict a way I can escape the trap I’m in.”

“So sorry, there isn’t one, Anjin-san,” Michael said.

“I don’t believe that. How did you know my ship is at Yokohama?”

“That’s common knowledge.”

“Is it?”

“Almost everything about you—and your defense of Lord Toranaga, and the Lady Maria, Lady Toda—is well known. And honored.”

“I don’t believe that either.” Blackthorne picked up another flat stone and sent it skimming over the waves. They went on, Blackthorne humming a sea shanty, liking Michael very much. Soon their way was blocked by a breakwater. They skirted it and came up onto the road once more. The Jesuit warehouse and Mission were tall and brooding now under the reddening sky. He saw the orange-robed Lay Brothers guarding the arched stone gateway and sensed their hostility. But it did not touch him. His head began to ache again.

As he had expected, Michael headed for the Mission gates. He readied himself, resolved that they would have to beat him into unconsciousness before he went inside and they forced him to give up his weapons.

“You’re just guiding me to my galley, eh?”

“Yes, Anjin-san.” To his astonishment Michael motioned him to stop outside the gateway. “Nothing’s changed. I was told to inform the Father-Visitor as we passed. So sorry, but you’ll have to wait a moment.”

Thrown off guard, Blackthorne watched him enter the gates alone. He had expected that the Mission was to be the end of his journey. First an Inquisition and trial, with torture, then handed over to the Captain-General. He looked at the lorcha a hundred paces away. Ferriera and Rodrigues were on the poop and armed seamen crowded the main deck. Past the ship, the wharf road curled slightly and he could just see his galley. Men were watching from the gunwales and he thought he recognized Yabu and Vinck among them but could not be sure. There seemed to be a few women aboard also but who they were he did not know. Surrounding the galley were Grays. Many Grays.

His eyes returned to Ferriera and Rodrigues. Both were heavily armed. So were the seamen. Gun crews lounged near the two small shore-side cannon, but in reality they were manning them. He recognized the great bulk of Pesaro, the bosun, moving down the companionway with a group of men. His eyes followed them, then his blood chilled. A tall stake was driven into the packed earth on the farside wharf. Wood was piled around the base.

“Ah, Captain-Pilot, how are you?”

Dell’Aqua was coming through the gates, dwarfing Michael beside him. Today the Father-Visitor was wearing a Jesuit robe, his great height and luxuriant gray-white beard giving him the ominous regality of a biblical patriarch, every inch an Inquisitor, outwardly benign, Blackthorne thought. He stared up into the brown eyes, finding it strange to look up at any man, and even stranger to see compassion in the eyes. But he knew there would be no pity behind the eyes and he expected none. “Ah, Father-Visitor, how are you?” he replied, the prawns now leaden in his stomach, sickening him.

“Shall we go on?”

“Why not?”

So the Inquisition’s to be aboard, Blackthorne thought, desperately afraid, wishing he had pistols in his belt. You’d be the first to die, Eminence.

“You stay here, Michael,” dell’Aqua said. Then he glanced toward the Portuguese frigate. His face hardened and he set off.

Blackthorne hesitated. Michael and the surrounding samurai were watching him oddly.

“Sayonara, Anjin-san,” Michael said. “Go with God.”

Blackthorne nodded briefly and started to walk through the samurai, waiting for them to fall on him to take away his swords. But they let him through unmolested. He stopped and looked back, his heart racing.

For a moment he was tempted to draw his sword and charge. But there was no escape that way. They wouldn’t fight him. Many had spears so they would catch him and disarm him, and bind him and hand him on. I won’t go bound, he promised himself. His only path was forward and there his swords were helpless against guns. He would charge the guns but they would just maim him in the knees and bind him. . . .

“Captain Blackthorne, come along,” dell’Aqua called out.

“Yes, just a moment please.” Blackthorne beckoned Michael. “Listen, Brother, down by the beach you said I was a worthy samurai. Did you mean it?”

“Yes, Anjin-san. That and everything.”

“Then I beg a favor, as a samurai,” he said quietly but urgently.

“What favor?”

“To die as a samurai.”

“Your death isn’t in my hands. It’s in the Hand of God, Anjin-san.”

“Yes. But I ask that favor of you.” Blackthorne waved at the distant stake. “That’s no way. That’s filthy.”

Perplexed, Michael peered toward the lorcha. Then he saw the stake for the first time. “Blessed Mother of God . . .”

“Captain Blackthorne, please come along,” dell’Aqua called again.

Blackthorne said, more urgently, “Explain to the officer. He’s got enough samurai here to insist, neh? Explain to him. You’ve been to Europe. You know how it is there. It’s not much to ask, neh? Please, I’m samurai. One of them could be my second.”

“I . . . I will ask.” Michael went back to the officer and began to talk softly and urgently.

Blackthorne turned and centered his attention on the ship. He walked forward. Dell’Aqua waited till he was alongside and set off again.

Ahead, Blackthorne saw Ferriera strut off the poop, down along the main deck, pistols in his belt, rapier at his side. Rodrigues was watching him, right hand on the butt of a long-barreled dueling piece. Pesaro and ten seamen were already on the jetty, leaning on bayoneted muskets. And the long shadow of the stake reached out toward him.

Oh, God, for a brace of pistols and ten jolly Jack Tars and one cannon, he thought, as the gap closed inexorably. Oh, God, let me not be shamed. . . .

“Good evening, Eminence,” Ferriera said, his eyes seeing only Blackthorne. “So, Inge—”

“Good evening, Captain-General.” Dell’Aqua pointed angrily at the stake. “Is this your idea?”

“Yes, Eminence.”

“Go back aboard your ship!”

“This is a military decision.”

“Go aboard your ship!”

“No! Pesaro!” At once the bosun and the bayoneted shore party came on guard and advanced toward Blackthorne. Ferriera slid out the pistol. “So, Ingeles, we meet again.”

“That’s something that pleases me not at all.” Blackthorne’s sword came out of its scabbard. He held it awkwardly with two hands, the broken haft hurting him.

“Tonight you will be pleased in hell,” Ferriera said thickly.

“If you had any courage you’d fight—man to man. But you’re not a man, you’re a coward, a Spanish coward without balls.”

“Disarm him!” Ferriera ordered.

At once the ten men went forward, bayonets leveled. Blackthorne backed away but he was surrounded. Bayonets stabbed for his legs and he slashed at an assailant, but as the man retreated another attacked from behind. Then dell’Aqua came to his senses and shouted, “Put down your guns! Before God, I order you to stop!”

The seamen were flustered. All muskets were zeroed in on Blackthorne, who stood helplessly at bay, sword high.

“Get back, all of you,” dell’Aqua called out. “Get back! Before God, get back! Are you animals?”

Ferriera said, “I want that man!”

“I know, and I’ve already told you you can’t have him! Yesterday and today! Are you deaf? God give me patience! Order your men aboard!”

“I order you to turn around and go away!”

“You order me?”

“Yes, I order you! I’m Captain-General, Governor of Macao, Chief Officer of Portugal in Asia, and that man’s a threat to the State, the Church, the Black Ship, and Macao!”

“Before God, I’ll excommunicate you and all your crew if this man’s harmed. You hear?” Dell’Aqua spun on the musketeers, who backed off, frightened. Except Pesaro. Pesaro stood his ground defiantly, his pistol loose in his hand, waiting for Ferriera’s order. “Get on that ship and out of the way!”

“You’re making a mistake,” Ferriera stormed. “He’s a threat! I’m Military Commander in Asia and I say—”

“This is a Church matter, not a military de—”

Blackthorne was dazed, hardly able to think or to see, his head once more exploding with pain. Everything had happened so fast, one moment guarded, the next not, one moment betrayed to the Inquisition, the next escaped, then to be betrayed again and now defended by the Chief Inquisitor. Nothing made sense.

Ferriera was shouting, “I caution you again! As God’s my judge, you’re making a mistake and I’ll inform Lisbon!”

“Meanwhile order your men aboard or I’ll remove you as Captain-General of the Black Ship!”

“You don’t have that power!”

“Unless you order your men aboard and order the Ingeles unharmed at once, I declare you excommunicated—and any man who serves under you, in any command, excommunicated, and curse you and all who serve you, in the Name of God!”

“By the Madonna—” Ferriera stopped. He was not afraid for himself but now his Black Ship was jeopardized and he knew most of his crew would desert him unless he obeyed. For a moment he contemplated shooting the priest, but that would not take away the curse. So he conceded. “Very well—back aboard, everyone! Stand down!”

Obediently the men scattered, glad to be away from the priest’s wrath. Blackthorne was still bewildered, half wondering if his head was tricking him. Then, in the melee, Pesaro’s hatred burst. He aimed. Dell’Aqua saw the covert movement and leaped forward to protect Blackthorne with his own bulk. Pesaro pulled the trigger but at that moment arrows impaled him, the pistol fired harmlessly, and he collapsed screaming.

Blackthorne spun around and saw six Kiyama archers, fresh arrows already in their bows. Standing near them was Michael. The officer spoke harshly. Pesaro gave a last shriek, his limbs contorted, and he died.

Michael trembled as he broke the silence. “The officer says, so sorry, but he was afraid for the Father-Visitor’s life.” Michael was begging God to forgive him for giving the signal to fire. But Pesaro had been warned, he reasoned. And it is my duty to see the Father-Visitor’s orders are obeyed, that his life is protected, that assassins are stamped out and no one excommunicated.

Dell’Aqua was on his knees beside the corpse of Pesaro. He made the sign of the cross and said the sacred words. The Portuguese around him were watching the samurai, craving the order to kill the murderers. The rest of Kiyama’s men were hastening from the Mission gate where they had remained, and a number of Grays were streaming back from the galley area to investigate. Through his almost blinding rage Ferriera knew he could not afford a fight here and now. “Everyone back aboard! Bring Pesaro’s body!” Sullenly the shore party began to obey.

Blackthorne lowered his sword but did not sheathe it. He waited stupefied, expecting a trick, expecting to be captured and dragged aboard.

On the quarterdeck Rodrigues said quietly, “Stand by to repel boarders, but carefully, by God!” Instantly men slipped to action stations. “Cover the Captain-General! Prepare the longboat. . . .”

Dell’Aqua got up and turned on Ferriera, who stood arrogantly at the companionway, prepared to defend his ship. “You’re responsible for that man’s death!” the Father-Visitor hissed. “Your fanatic, vengeful lust and unho—”

“Before you say something publicly you may regret, Eminence, you’d better think carefully,” Ferriera interrupted. “I bowed to your order even though I knew, before God, you were making a terrible mistake. You heard me order my men back! Pesaro disobeyed you, not me, and the truth is you’re responsible if anyone is. You prevented him and us from doing our duty. That Ingeles is the enemy! It was a military decision, by God! I’ll inform Lisbon.” His eyes checked the battle readiness of his ship and the approaching samurai.

Rodrigues had moved to the main deck gangway. “Captain-General, I can’t get out to sea with this wind and this tide.”

“Get a longboat ready to haul us out if need be.”

“It’s being done.”

Ferriera shouted at the seamen carrying Pesaro, telling them to hurry. Quickly all were back aboard. The cannon were manned, though discreetly, and everyone had two muskets nearby. Left and right, samurai were massing on the wharf but they made no overt move to interfere.

Still on the dock Ferriera said peremptorily to Michael, “Tell them all to disperse! There’s no trouble here—nothing for them to do. There was a mistake, a bad one, but they were right to shoot the bosun. Tell them to disperse.” He hated to say it and wanted to kill them all but he could almost smell the peril on the wharf and he had no option now but to retreat.

Michael did as he was ordered. The officers did not move.

“You’d better go on, Eminence,” Ferriera said bitterly. “But this is not the last of it—you’ll regret saving him!”

Dell’Aqua too felt the explosiveness surrounding them. But it did not touch him. He made the sign of the cross and said a small benediction, then he turned away. “Come along, Pilot.”

“Why are you letting me go?” Blackthorne asked, the pain in his head agonizing, still not daring to believe it.

“Come along, Pilot!”

“But why are you letting me go? I don’t understand.”

“Nor do I,” Ferriera said. “I’d like to know the real reason too, Eminence. Isn’t he still a threat to us and the Church?”

Dell’Aqua stared at him. Yes, he wanted to say, to wipe the arrogance off the popinjay’s face in front of him. But the bigger threat is the immediate war and how to buy time for you and fifty years of Black Ships, and whom to choose: Toranaga or Ishido. You understand nothing of our problems, Ferriera, or the stakes involved, or the delicacy of our position here or the dangers.

“Please Lord Kiyama, reconsider. I suggest you should choose Lord Toranaga,” he had told the daimyo yesterday, through Michael as interpreter, not trusting his own Japanese, which was only fair.

“This is unwarranted interference in Japanese affairs and outside your jurisdiction. And, too, the barbarian must die.”

Dell’Aqua had used all his diplomatic skill but Kiyama had been adamant and had refused to commit himself or change his position. Then, this morning, when he had gone to Kiyama to tell him that, through God’s will, the Ingeles was neutralized, there had been a glimmer of hope.

“I’ve considered what you said,” Kiyama had told him. “I will not ally myself with Toranaga. Between now and the battle I will watch both contenders very carefully. At the correct time I will choose. And now I consent to let the barbarian go . . . not because of what you’ve told me but because of the Lady Mariko, to honor her . . . and because the Anjin-san is samurai. . . .”

Ferriera was still staring back at him. “Isn’t the Ingeles still a threat?”

“Have a safe journey, Captain-General, and Godspeed. Pilot, I’m taking you to your galley. . . . Are you all right?”

“It’s . . . my head it’s . . . I think the explosion. . . . You’re really letting me go? Why?”

“Because the Lady Maria, the Lady Mariko, asked us to protect you.” Dell’Aqua started off again.

“But that’s no reason! You wouldn’t do that just because she asked you.”

“I agree,” Ferriera said. Then he called out, “Eminence, why not tell him the whole truth?”

Dell’Aqua did not stop. Blackthorne began to follow but he did not turn his back to the ship, still expecting treachery. “Doesn’t make sense. You know I’m going to destroy you. I’ll take your Black Ship.”

Ferriera laughed scornfully. “With what, Ingeles? You have no ship!”

“What do you mean?”

“You have no ship. She’s dead. If she wasn’t, I’d never let you go, whatever his Eminence threatened.”

“It’s not true . . .”

Through the fog in his head Blackthorne heard Ferriera say it again and laugh louder, and add something about an accident and the Hand of God and your ship’s burned to her spine, so you’ll never harm my ship now, though you’re still heretic and enemy, and still a threat to the Faith. Then he saw Rodrigues clearly, pity on his face, and the lips spelled out, Yes, it’s true, Ingeles.

“It’s not true, can’t be true.”

Then the Inquisitor priest was saying from a million leagues away, “I received a message this morning from Father Alvito. It seems an earthquake caused a tidal wave, the wave . . .”

But Blackthorne was not listening. His mind was crying out, Your ship’s dead, you’ve let her down, your ship’s dead, you’ve no ship no ship no ship. . . .

“It’s not true! You’re lying, my ship’s in a safe harbor and guarded by four thousand men. She’s safe!”

Someone said, “But not from God,” and then the Inquisitor was talking again, “The tidal wave heeled your ship. They say that oil lamps on deck were upset and the fire spread. Your ship’s gutted. . . .”

“Lies! What about the deck watch? There’s always a deck watch! It’s impossible,” he shouted, but he knew that somehow the price for his life had been his ship.

“You’re beached, Ingeles,” Ferriera was goading him. “You’re marooned. You’re here forever, you’ll never get passage on one of our ships. You’re beached forever. . . .”

It went on and on and he was drowning. Then his eyes cleared. He heard the cry of the gulls and smelled the stink of the shore and saw Ferriera, he saw his enemy and knew it was all a lie to drive him mad. He knew it absolutely and that the priests were part of the plot. “God take you to hell!” he shouted and rushed at Ferriera, his sword raised high. But only in his dream was it a rush. Hands caught him easily and took his swords away and set him walking between two Grays, through all the others, until he was at the companionway of the galley and they gave him back his swords and let him go.

It was difficult for him to see or to hear, his brain hardly working now in the pain, but he was certain it was all a trick to drive him mad and that it would succeed if he did not make a great effort. Help me, he prayed, someone help me, then Yabu was beside him and Vinck and his vassals and he could not distinguish the languages. They guided him aboard, Kiri there somewhere and Sazuko, a child crying in a maid’s arms, the remnants of the Browns’ garrison crowding the deck, rowers and seamen.

Smell of sweat, fear sweat. Yabu was talking at him. And Vinck. It took a long time to concentrate. “Pilot, why in Christ’s name did they let you go?”

“I . . . they . . .” He could not say the words.

Then somehow he found himself on the quarterdeck and Yabu was ordering the Captain-san to put to sea before Ishido changed his mind about letting them all leave, and before the Grays on the dock changed their minds about permitting the galley to go, telling the captain full speed for Nagasaki . . . Kiri saying, so sorry, Yabu-sama, please first Yedo, we must go to Yedo. . . .

The oars of the shallow draft vessel eased off the wharf, against the tide and against the wind, and went out into the stream, gulls crying in the wake, and Blackthorne pulled himself out of his daze enough to say coherently, “No. So sorry. Go Yokohama. Must Yokohama.”

“First get men at Nagasaki, Anjin-san, understand? Important. First men! Have plan,” Yabu said.

“No. Go Yokohama. My ship . . . my ship danger.”

“What danger?” Yabu demanded.

“Christians say . . . say fire!”

“What!!”

“For the love of Christ, Pilot, what’s amiss?” Vinck cried out.

Blackthorne pointed shakily toward the lorcha. “They told me . . . they told me Erasmus is lost, Johann. Our ship’s lost . . . fired.” Then he burst out, “Oh, God, let it all be a lie!”