Shōgun (The Asian Saga Book 1)

General Toda Hiro-matsu accepted the private dispatch that Mariko offered.  He broke Toranaga’s seals.  The scroll told briefly what had happened at Yokosé, confirmed Toranaga’s decision to submit, ordered Hiro-matsu to hold the frontier and the passes to the Kwanto against any intruder until he arrived (but to expedite any messenger from Ishido or from the east) and gave instructions about the renegade Christian and about the Anjin-san.  Wearily the old soldier read the message a second time.  ‘Now tell me everything you saw at Yokosé, or heard, affecting Lord Toranaga.’  Mariko obeyed.

‘Now tell me what you think happened.’

Again she obeyed.

‘What occurred at the cha-no-yu between you and my son?’

She told him everything, exactly as it happened.

‘My son said our Master would lose?  Before the second meeting with Lord Zataki?’

‘Yes, Sire.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Oh, yes, Sire.’

There was a long silence in the room high up in the castle donjon that dominated the city.  Hiro-matsu got to his feet and went to the arrow embrasure in the thick stone wall, his back and joints aching, his sword loose in his hands.  ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Sire?’

‘Neither my son, nor our Master.  We can smash through any armies Ishido puts into the field.  And as to the decision to submit. . . .’

She toyed with her fan, watching the evening sky, star-filled and pleasing.

Hiro-matsu studied her.  ‘You’re looking very well, Mariko-san, younger than ever.  What’s your secret?’

‘I haven’t one, Sire,’ she replied, her throat suddenly dry.  She waited for her world to shatter but the moment passed and the old man turned his shrewd eyes back to the city below.

‘Now tell me what happened since you left Osaka.  Everything you saw or heard or were part of,’ he said.

It was far into the night by the time she had finished.  She related everything clearly, except the extent of her intimacy with the Anjin-san.  Even here she was careful not to hide her liking for him, her respect for his intelligence and bravery.  Or Toranaga’s admiration for his value.

For a while Hiro-matsu continued to wander up and down, the movement easing his pain.  Everything dovetailed with Yoshinaka’s report and Omi’s report—and even Zataki’s tirade before that daimyo had stormed off to Shinano.  Now he understood many things that had been unclear and had enough information to make a calculated decision.  Some of what she related disgusted him.  Some made him hate his son even more; he could understand his son’s motives, but that made no difference.  The rest of what she said forced him to resent the barbarian and sometimes to admire him.  ‘You saw him pull our Lord to safety?’

‘Yes.  Lord Toranaga would be dead now, Sire, but for him.  I’m quite certain.  Three times he has saved our Master:  escaping from Osaka Castle, aboard the galley in Osaka harbor, and absolutely at the earthquake.  I saw the swords Omi-san had dug up.  They were twisted like noodle dough and just as useless.’

‘You think the Anjin-san really meant to commit seppuku?’

‘Yes.  By the Lord God of the Christians, I believe he made that commitment.  Only Omi-san prevented it.  And, Sire, I believe totally he’s worthy to be samurai, worthy to be hatamoto.’

‘I didn’t ask for that opinion.’

‘Please excuse me, Sire, truly you didn’t.  But that question was still in the front of your mind.’

‘You’ve become a thought reader as well as barbarian trainer?’

‘Oh, no, please excuse me, Sire, of course not,’ she said in her nicest voice.  ‘I merely answer the leader of my clan to the best of my very poor ability.  Our Master’s interests are first in my mind.  Your interests are second only to his.’

‘Are they?’

‘Please excuse me, but that shouldn’t be necessary to ask.  Command me, Sire.  I’ll do your bidding.’

‘Why so proud, Mariko-san?’ he asked testily.  ‘And so right?  Eh?’

‘Please excuse me, Sire.  I was rude.  I don’t deserve such—’

‘I know!  No woman does!’  Hiro-matsu laughed.  ‘But even so, there are times when we need a woman’s cold, cruel, vicious, cunning, practical wisdom.  They’re so much cleverer than we are, neh?‘

‘Oh, no, Sire,’ she said, wondering what was really in his mind.

‘It’s just as well we’re alone.  If that was repeated in public they’d say old Iron Fist’s overripe, that it’s time for him to put down his sword, shave his head, and begin to say prayers to Buddha for the souls of the men he’s sent into the Void.  And they’d be right.’

‘No, Sire.  It’s as the Lord, your son, said.  Until our Master’s fate is set, you may not retreat.  Neither you, nor the Lord my husband.  Nor I.’

‘Yes.  Even so, I’d be very pleased to lay down my sword and seek the peace of Buddha for myself and those I have killed.’

He stared at the night for a time, feeling his age, then looked at her.  She was pleasing to see, more than any woman he had ever known.

‘Sire?’

‘Nothing, Mariko-san.  I was remembering the first time I saw you.’

That was when Hiro-matsu had secretly mortgaged his soul to Goroda to obtain this slip of a girl for his own son, the same son who had slaughtered his own mother, the one woman Hiro-matsu had ever really adored.  Why did I get Mariko for him?  Because I wanted to spite the Taikō, who desired her also.  To spite a rival, nothing more.

Was my consort truly unfaithful? the old man asked himself, reopening the perpetual sore.  Oh gods, when I look you in the face I’ll demand an answer to that question.  I want a yes or no!  I demand the truth!  I think it’s a lie, but Buntaro said she was alone with that man in the room, disheveled, her kimono loose, and it was months before I returned.  It could be a lie, neh?  Or the truth, neh?  It must be the truth—surely no son would behead his own mother without being sure?

Mariko was observing the lines of Hiro-matsu’s face, his skin stretched and scaled with age, and the ancient muscular strength of his arms and shoulders.  What are you thinking? she wondered, liking him.  Have you seen through me yet?  Do you know about me and the Anjin-san now?  Do you know I quiver with love for him?  That when I have to choose between him and thee and Toranaga, I will choose him?

Hiro-matsu stood near the embrasure looking down at the city below, his fingers kneading the scabbard and the haft of his sword, oblivious of her.  He was brooding about Toranaga and what Zataki had said a few days ago in bitter disgust, disgust that he had shared.

‘Yes, of course I want to conquer the Kwanto and plant my standard on the walls of Yedo Castle now and make it my own.  I never did before but now I do,’ Zataki had told him.  ‘But this way?  There’s no honor in it!  No honor for my brother or you or me!  Or anyone!  Except Ishido, and that peasant doesn’t know any better.’

‘Then support Lord Toranaga!  With your help Tora—’

‘For what?  So my brother can become Shōgun and stamp out the Heir?’

‘He’s said a hundred times he supports the Heir.  I believe he does.  And we’d have a Minowara to lead us, not an upstart peasant and the hellcat Ochiba, neh?  Those incompetents will have eight years of rule before Yaemon’s of age if Lord Toranaga dies.  Why not give Lord Toranaga the eight years—he’s Minowara!  He’s said a thousand times he’ll hand over power to Yaemon.  Is your brain in your arse?  Toranaga’s not Yaemon’s enemy or yours!’

‘No Minowara would kneel to that peasant!  He’s pissed on his honor and all of ours.  Yours and mine!’

They had argued, and cursed each other, and in privacy, had almost come to blows.  ‘Go on,’ he had taunted Zataki, ‘draw your sword, traitor!  You’re traitor to your brother who’s head of your clan!’

‘I’m head of my own clan.  We share the same mother, but not father.  Toranaga’s father sent my mother away in disgrace.  I’ll not help Toranaga—but if he abdicates and slits his belly I’ll support Sudara. . . .’

There’s no need to do that, Hiro-matsu told the night, still enraged.  There’s no need to do that while I’m alive, or meekly to submit.  I’m General-in-Chief.  It’s my duty to protect my Master’s honor and house, even from himself.  So now I decide:

Listen, Sire, please excuse me, but this time I disobey.  With pride.  This time I betray you.  Now I’m going to co-opt your son and heir, the Lord Sudara, and his wife, the Lady Genjiko, and together we’ll order Crimson Sky when the rains cease, and then war begins.  And until the last man in the Kwanto dies, facing the enemy, I’ll hold you safe in Yedo Castle, whatever you say, whatever the cost.

Gyoko was delighted to be home again in Mishima among her girls and ledgers and bills of lading, her debts receivable, mortgage deeds, and promissory notes.

‘You’ve done quite well,’ she told her chief accountant.

The wizened little man bobbed a thank you and hobbled away.  Balefully she turned to her chief cook.  ‘Thirteen silver chogin, two hundred copper momne for one week’s food?’

‘Oh, please excuse me, Mistress, but rumors of war have sent prices soaring to the sky,’ the fat man said truculently.  ‘Everything.  Fish and rice and vegetables—even soya sauce has doubled since last month and saké’s worse.  Work work work in that hot, airless kitchen that must certainly be improved.  Expensive!  Ha!  In one week I’ve served one hundred and seventy-two guests, fed ten courtesans, eleven hungry apprentice courtesans, four cooks, sixteen maids, and fourteen men servants!  Please excuse me, Mistress, so sorry, but my grandmother’s very sick so I must ask for ten days’ leave to . . .’

Gyoko rent her hair just enough to make her point but not enough to mar her appearance and sent him away saying she was ruined, ruined, that she’d have to close the most famous Tea House in Mishima without such a perfect head cook and that it would all be his fault—his fault that she’d have to cast all her devoted girls and faithful but unfortunate retainers into the snow.  ‘Don’t forget winter’s coming,’ she wailed as a parting shot.

Then contentedly alone, she added up the profits against the losses and the profits were twice what she expected.  Her saké tasted better than ever and if food prices were up, so was the cost of saké.  At once she wrote to her son in Odawara, the site of their saké factory, telling him to double their output.  Then she sorted out the inevitable quarrels of the maids, sacked three, hired four more, sent for her courtesan broker, and bid heavily for the contracts of seven more courtesans she admired.

‘And when would you like the honored ladies to arrive, Gyoko-san?’ the old woman simpered, her own commission considerable.

‘At once.  At once.  Go on, run along.’

Next she summoned her carpenter and settled plans for the extension of this tea house, for the extra rooms for the extra ladies.

‘At long last the site on Sixth Street’s up for sale, Mistress.  Do you want me to close on that now?’

For months she had been waiting for that particular corner location.  But now she shook her head and sent him away with instructions to option four hectares of wasteland on the hill, north of the city.  ‘But don’t do it all yourself.  Use intermediaries.  Don’t be greedy.  And I don’t want it aired that you’re buying for me.’

‘But four hectares?  That’s—’

‘At least four, perhaps five, over the next five months.  But options only—understand?  They’re all to be put in these names.’

She handed him the list of safe appointees and hurried him off, in her mind’s eye seeing the walled city within a city already thriving.  She chortled with glee.

Next every courtesan was sent for and complimented or chided or howled at or wept with.  Some were promoted, some degraded, pillow prices increased or decreased.  Then, in the midst of everything, Omi was announced.

‘So sorry, but Kiku-san’s not well,’ she told him.  ‘Nothing serious!  It’s just the change of weather, poor child.’

‘I insist on seeing her.’

‘So sorry, Omi-san, but surely you don’t insist?  Kiku-san belongs to your liege Lord, neh?‘

‘I know whom she belongs to,’ Omi shouted.  ‘I want to see her, that’s all.’

‘Oh, so sorry, of course, you have every right to shout and curse, so sorry, please excuse me.  But, so sorry, she’s not well.  This evening—or perhaps later—or tomorrow—what can I do, Omi-san?  If she becomes well enough perhaps I could send word if you’ll tell me where you’re staying.’

He told her, knowing that there was nothing he could do, and stormed off wanting to hack all Mishima to pieces.

Gyoko thought about Omi.  Then she sent for Kiku and told her the program she’d arranged for her two nights in Mishima.  ‘Perhaps we can persuade our Lady Toda to delay four or five nights, child.  I know half a dozen here who’ll pay a father’s ransom to have you entertain them at private parties.  Ha!  Now that the great daimyo’s bought you, none can touch you, not ever again, so you can sing and dance and mime and be our first gei-sha!‘

‘And poor Omi-san, Mistress?  I’ve never heard him so cross before, so sorry he shouted, at you.’

‘Ha!  What’s a shout or two when we consort with daimyos and the richest of the rich rice and silk brokers at long last.  Tonight I’ll tell Omi-san where you’ll be the last time you sing, but much too soon so he’ll have to wait.  I’ll arrange a nearby room.  Meanwhile he’ll have lots of saké . . . and Akiko to serve him.  It won’t hurt to sing a sad song or two to him afterwards—we’re still not sure about Toranaga-sama, neh?  We still haven’t had a down payment, let alone the balance.’

‘Please excuse me, wouldn’t Choko be a better choice?  She’s prettier and younger and sweeter.  I’m sure he would enjoy her more.’

‘Yes, child.  But Akiko’s strong and very experienced.  When this sort of madness is on men they’re inclined to be rough.  Rougher than you’d imagine.  Even Omi-san.  I don’t want Choko damaged.  Akiko likes danger and needs some violence to perform well.  She’ll take the sting out of his Beauteous Barb.  Run along now, your prettiest kimono and best perfumes. . . .’

Gyoko shooed Kiku away to get ready and once more hurled herself into finishing the management of her house.  Then, everything completed—even the formal cha invitation tomorrow to the eight most influential Mama-sans in Mishima to discuss a matter of great import—she sank gratefully into a perfect bath, ‘Ahhhhhhhhh!’

At the perfect time, a perfect massage.  Perfume and powder and makeup and coiffure.  New loose kimono of rare frothy silk.  Then, at the perfect moment, her favorite arrived.  He was eighteen, a student, son of an impoverished samurai, his name Inari.

‘Oh, how lovely you are—I rushed here the moment your poem arrived,’ he said breathlessly.  ‘Did you have a pleasant journey?  I’m so happy to welcome you back!  Thank you, thank you for the presents—the sword is perfect and the kimono!  Oh, how good you are to me!’

Yes, I am, she told herself, though she stoutly denied it to his face.  Soon she was lying beside him, sweaty and languorous.  Ah, Inari, she thought bemused, your Pellucid Pestle’s not built like the Anjin-san’s but what you lack in size you surely make up with cataclysmic vigor!

‘Why do you laugh?’ he asked sleepily.

‘Because you make me happy,’ she sighed, delighted that she’d had the great good fortune to be educated.  She chatted easily, complimented him extravagantly, and petted him to sleep, her hands and voice out of long habit smoothly achieving all that was necessary of their own volition.  Her mind was far away.  She was wondering about Mariko and her paramour, rethinking the alternatives.  How far dare she press Mariko?  Or whom should she give them away to, or threaten her with, subtly of course—Toranaga, Buntaro, or whom?  The Christian priest?  Would there be any profit in that?  Or Lord Kiyama—certainly any scandal connecting the great Lady Toda with the barbarian would ruin her son’s chance of marrying Kiyama’s granddaughter.  Would that threat bend her to my will?  Or should I do nothing—is there more profit in that somehow?

Pity about Mariko.  Such a lovely lady!  My, but she’d make a sensational courtesan!  Pity about the Anjin-san.  My, but he’s a clever one—I could make a fortune out of him too.

How can I best use this secret, most profitably, before it’s no longer a secret and those two are destroyed?

Be careful, Gyoko, she admonished herself.  There’s not much time left to decide about this, or about the other new secrets:  about the guns and arms hidden by the peasants in Anjiro for instance, or about the new Musket Regiment—its numbers, officers, organization, and number of guns.  Or about Toranaga, who, the last night in Yokosé, pillowed Kiku pleasantly, using a classic ‘six shallow and five deep’ rhythm for the hundred thrusts with the strength of a thirty year-old and slept till dawn like a babe.  That’s not the pattern of a man distraught with worry, neh?

What about the agony of the tonsured virgin priest who, naked and on his knees, prayed first to his bigot Christian God, begging forgiveness for the sin he was about to commit with the girl, and the other sin, a real one, that he had done in Osaka—strange secret things of the ‘confessional’ that were whispered to him by a leper, then treacherously passed on by him to Lord Harima.  What would Toranaga make of that?  Endlessly pouring out what was whispered and passed onward, and then the praying with tight-closed eyes—before the poor demented fool spread the girl wide with no finesse and, later, slunk off like a foul night creature.  So much hatred and agony and twisted shame.

What about Omi’s second cook, who whispered to a maid who whispered to her paramour who whispered to Akiko that he’d overheard Omi and his mother plotting the death of Kasigi Yabu, their liege lord?  Ha!  That knowledge made public would set a cat among all the Kasigi pigeons!  So would Omi’s and Yabu’s secret offer to Zataki if whispered into Toranaga’s ear—or the words Zataki muttered in his sleep that his pillow partner memorized and sold to me the next day for a whole silver chojin, words that implied General Ishido and Lady Ochiba ate together, slept together, and that Zataki himself had heard them grunting and groaning and crying out as Yang pierced Yin even up to the Far Field!  Gyoko smiled to herself smugly.  Shocking, neh, people in such high places!

What about the other strange fact that at the moment of the Clouds and the Rain, and a few times before, the Lord Zataki had unconsciously called his pillow partner ‘Ochiba.’  Curious, neh?

Would the oh-so-necessary-to-both-sides Zataki change his song if Toranaga offered him Ochiba as bait?  Gyoko chuckled, warmed by all the lovely secrets, all so valuable in the right ears, that men had spilled out with their Joyful Juice.  ‘He’d change,’ she murmured confidently.  ‘Oh, very yes.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing, nothing Inari-chan.  Did you sleep well?’

‘What?’

She smiled and let him slide back into sleep.  Then, when he was ready, she put her hands and lips on him for his pleasure.  And for hers.

‘Where’s the Ingeles now, Father?’

‘I don’t know exactly, Rodrigues.  Yet.  It would be one of the inns south of Mishima.  I left a servant to find out which.’  Alvito gathered up the last of the gravy with a crust of new bread.

‘When will you know?’

‘Tomorrow, without fail.’

‘Que va, I’d like to see him again.  Is he fit?’ Rodrigues asked levelly.

‘Yes.’  The ship’s bell sounded six times.  Three o’clock in the afternoon.

‘Did he tell you what happened to him since he left Osaka?’

‘I know parts of it.  From him and others.  It’s a long story and there’s much to tell.  First I’ll deal with my dispatches, then we’ll talk.’

Rodrigues leaned back in his chair in the small stern cabin.  ‘Good.  That’d be very good.’  He saw the sharp features of the Jesuit, the sharp brown eyes flecked with yellow.  Cat’s eyes.  ‘Listen, Father,’ he said, ‘the Ingeles saved my ship and my life.  Sure he’s enemy, sure he’s heretic, but he’s a pilot, one of the best that’s ever been.  It’s not wrong to respect an enemy, even to like one.’

‘The Lord Jesus forgave his enemies but they still crucified Him.’  Calmly Alvito returned the pilot’s gaze.  ‘But I like him too.  At least, I understand him better.  Let’s leave him for the moment.’

Rodrigues nodded agreeably.  He noticed the priest’s plate was empty so he reached across the table and moved the platter closer.  ‘Here, Father, have some more capon.  Bread?’

‘Thank you.  Yes, I will.  I didn’t realize how hungry I was.’  The priest gratefully tore off another leg and took more sage and onion and bread stuffing, then poured the last of the rich gravy over it.

‘Wine?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘Where are the rest of your people, Father?’

‘I left them at an inn near the wharf.’

Rodrigues glanced out of the stern bay windows that overlooked Nimazu, the wharfs and the port and, just to starboard, the mouth of the Kano, where the water was darker than the rest of the sea.  Many fishing boats were plying back and forth.  ‘This servant you left, Father—you can trust him?  You’re sure he’ll find us?’

‘Oh, yes.  They’ll certainly not move for two days at least.’  Alvito had already decided not to mention what he, or more truthfully he reminded himself, what Brother Michael suspected, so he just added, ‘Don’t forget they’re traveling in state.  With Toda Mariko’s rank, and Toranaga’s banners, they’re very much in state.  Everyone within four leagues would know about them and where they’re staying.’

Rodrigues laughed.  ‘The Ingeles in state?  Who’d have believed that?  Like a poxy daimyo!‘

‘That’s not the half of it, Pilot.  Toranaga’s made him samurai and hatamoto.’

‘What?’

‘Now Pilot-Major Blackthorne wears the two swords.  With his pistols.  And now he’s Toranaga’s confidant, to a certain extent, and protége.’

‘The Ingeles?‘

‘Yes.’  Alvito let the silence hang in the cabin and went back to eating.

‘Do you know the why of it?’ Rodrigues asked.

‘Yes, in part.  All in good time, Pilot.’

‘Just tell me the why.  Briefly.  Details later, please.’

‘The Anjin-san saved Toranaga’s life for the third time.  Twice during the escape from Osaka, the last in Izu during an earthquake.’  Alvito chomped lustily on the thigh meat.  A thread of juice ran into his black beard.

Rodrigues waited but the priest said no more.  Thoughtfully his eyes dropped to the goblet cradled in his hands.  The surface of the deep red wine caught the light.  After a long pause, he said, ‘It wouldn’t be good for us, that piss-cutting Ingeles close to Toranaga.  Not at all.  Not him.  Eh?’

‘I agree.’

‘Even so, I’d like to see him.’  The priest said nothing.  Rodrigues let him clean his plate in silence, then offered more, the joy gone out of him.  The last of the carcass and the final wing were accepted, and another goblet of wine.  Then, to finish, some fine French cognac that Father Alvito got from a cupboard.

‘Rodrigues?  Would you care for a glass?’

‘Thank you.’  The seaman watched Alvito pour the nut-brown liquor into the crystal glass.  All the wine and cognac had come from the Father-Visitor’s private stock as a parting gift to his Jesuit friend.

‘Of course, Rodrigues, you’re welcome to share it with the Father,’ dell’Aqua had said.  ‘Go with God, may He watch over you and bring you safely to port and home again.’

‘Thank you, Eminence.’

Yes, thank you, Eminence, but no God-cursed thanks, Rodrigues told himself bitterly, no thanks for getting my Captain-General to order me aboard this pigboat under this Jesuit’s command and out of my Gracia’s arms, poor darling.  Madonna, life’s so short, too short and too treacherous to waste being chaperone to gut-stinking priests, even Alvito who’s more of a man than any and, because of that, more dangerous.  Madonna, give me some help!

‘Oh! You reave, Rod-san?  Reave so soon?  Oh, so sorry. . . .’

‘Soon come back, my darling.’

‘Oh, so sorry . . . we miss, ritt’e one and I.’

For a moment he had considered taking her aboard the Santa Filipa, but instantly dismissed the thought, knowing it to be perilous for her and for him and for the ship.  ‘So sorry, back soon.’

‘We wait, Rod-san.  Please excuse my sad, so sorry.’

Always the hesitant, heavily accented Portuguese she tried so hard to speak, insisting that she be called by her baptismal name Gracia and not by the lovely-sounding Nyan-nyan, which meant Kitten and suited her so well and pleased him better.

He had sailed away from Nagasaki, hating to leave, cursing all priests and captain-generals, wanting an end to summer and autumn so he could up-anchor the Black Ship, her holds weighed now with bullion, to head for home at long last, rich and independent.  But then what?  The perpetual question swamped him.  What about her—and the child?  Madonna, help me to answer that with peace.

‘An excellent meal, Rodrigues,’ Alvito said, toying with a crumb on the table.  ‘Thank you.’

‘Good.’  Rodrigues was serious now.  ‘What’s your plan, Father?  We should—’  He stopped in mid-sentence and glanced out of the windows.  Then, dissatisfied, he got up from the table and limped painfully over to a land side porthole and peered out.

‘What is it, Rodrigues?’

‘Thought I felt the tide change.  Just want to check our sea room.’  He opened the cover further and leaned out, but still couldn’t see the bow anchor.  ‘Excuse me a moment, Father.’

He went on deck.  Water lapped the anchor chain that angled into the muddy water.  No movement.  Then a thread of wake appeared and the ship began to ease off safely, to take up her new station with the ebb.  He checked her lie, then the lookouts.  Everything was perfect.  No other boats were near.  The afternoon was fine, the mist long since gone.  They were a cable or so offshore, far enough out to preclude a sudden boarding, and well away from the sea lanes that fed the wharves.

His ship was a lorcha, a Japanese hull adapted to modern Portuguese sails and rigging:  swift, two-masted, and slooprigged.  It had four cannon amidships, two small bow chasers and two stern chasers.  Her name was the Santa Filipa and she carried a crew of thirty.

His eyes went to the city, and to the hills beyond.  ‘Pesaro!’

‘Yes, senhor?’

‘Get the longboat ready.  I’m going ashore before dusk.’

‘Good. She’ll be ready.  When’re you back?’

‘Dawn.’

‘Even better!  I’ll lead the shore party—ten men.’

‘No shore leave, Pesaro.  It’s kinjiru!  Madonna, is your brain addled?’  Rodrigues straddled the quarterdeck and leaned against the gunwale.

‘Not right that all should suffer,’ said the bosun, Pesaro, his great calloused hands flexing.  ‘I’ll lead the party and promise there’ll be no trouble.  We’ve been cooped up for two weeks now.’

‘The port authorities here said kinjiru, so sorry, but still goddamned kinjiru!  Remember?  This isn’t Nagasaki!’

‘Yes, by the blood of Christ Jesus, and more’s the pity!’  The heavy-set man scowled.  ‘It was only one Jappo that got chopped.’

‘One chopped dead, two knifed badly, a lot of wounded, and a girl hurt before the samurai stopped the riot.  I warned you all before you went ashore:  ‘Nimazu’s not Nagasaki—so behave yourselves!’  Madonna!  We were lucky to get away with just one of our seamen dead.  They’d have been within the law to chop all five of you.’

‘Their law, Pilot, not ours.  God-cursed monkeys!  It was only a whorehouse brawl.’

‘Yes, but your men started it, the authorities have quarantined my ship, and you’re all benched.  You included!’  Rodrigues moved his leg to ease the pain.  ‘Be patient, Pesaro.  Now that the Father’s back we’ll be off.’

‘On the tide?  At dawn?  Is that an order?’

‘No, not yet.  Just get the longboat ready.  Gomez will come with me.’

‘Let me come as well, eh?  Per favor, Pilot.  I’m sick to death of being stuck in this pox-cursed bucket.’

‘No.  And you’d better not go ashore tonight.  You or any.’

‘And if you’re not back by dawn?’

‘You rot here at anchor till I do.  Clear?’

The bosun’s scowl deepened.  He hesitated, then backed down.  ‘Yes, yes, that’s clear, by God.’

‘Good.’  Rodrigues went below.

Alvito was asleep but he awoke the moment the pilot opened the cabin door.  ‘Ah, all’s well?’ he asked, replete now in mind and body.

‘Yes.  It was just the turn.’  Rodrigues gulped some wine to take the foul taste out of his mouth.  It was always like that after a near mutiny.  If Pesaro had not yielded instantly, once again Rodrigues would have had to blow a hole in a man’s face or put him in irons or order fifty lashes or keelhaul the man or perform any one of a hundred obscenities essential by sea law to maintain discipline.  Without discipline any ship was lost.  ‘What’s the plan now, Father?  We sail at dawn?’

‘How are the carrier pigeons?’

‘In good health.  We’ve still six—four Nagasakis, two Osakas.’

The priest checked the angle of the sun.  Four or five hours to sunset.  Plenty of time to launch the birds with the first coded message long since planned:  ‘Toranaga surrenders to Regents’ order.  I’m going first to Yedo, then Osaka.  I will accompany Toranaga to Osaka.  He says we can still build the cathedral at Yedo.  Detailed dispatch with Rodrigues.’

‘Would you please ask the handler to prepare two Nagasakis and one Osaka immediately,’ Alvito said.  ‘Then we’ll talk.  I won’t be sailing back with you.  I’m going on to Yedo by road.  It’ll take me most of the night and tomorrow to write a detailed dispatch which you’ll carry to the Father-Visitor, for his hands only.  Will you sail as soon as I’ve finished?’

‘All right.  If it’s too near dusk I’ll wait till dawn.  There are shoals and shifting sands for ten leagues.’

Alvito assented.  The twelve extra hours would make no difference.  He knew it would have been far better if he’d been able to send off the news from Yokosé, God curse the heathen devil who destroyed my birds there!  Be patient, he told himself.  What’s the hurry?  Isn’t that a vital rule of our Order?  Patience.  All comes to him who waits—and works.  What does twelve hours matter, or even eight days?  Those won’t change the course of history.  The die was cast in Yokosé.

‘You’ll travel with the Ingeles?’ Rodrigues was asking.  ‘Like before?’

‘Yes.  From Yedo I’ll make my own way back to Osaka.  I’ll accompany Toranaga.  I’d like you to stop at Osaka with a copy of my dispatch, in case the Father-Visitor’s there, or has left Nagasaki before you arrive and is on the way there.  You can give it to Father Soldi, his secretary—only him.’

‘All right.  I’ll be glad to leave.  We’re hated here.’

‘With God’s mercy we can change all that, Rodrigues.  With God’s good grace we’ll convert all the heathens here.’

‘Amen to that.  Yes.’  The tall man eased his leg with the throb lessened momentarily.  He stared out of the windows.  Then he got up impatiently.  ‘I’ll fetch the pigeons myself.  Write your message, then we’ll talk.  About the Ingeles.’  He went to the deck and selected the birds from the panniers.  When he returned the priest had already used the special needle-sharp quill and ink to inscribe the same coded message on the tiny slivers of paper.  Alvito armed the tiny cylinders, sealed them, and launched the birds.  The three circled once, then headed westward in convoy into the afternoon sun.

‘Shall we talk here or below?’

‘Here.  It’s cooler.’  Rodrigues motioned the quarterdeck watch amidships out of earshot.

Alvito sat on the seachair.  ‘First about Toranaga.’

He told the Pilot briefly what had happened in Yokosé, omitting the incident with Brother Joseph and his suspicions about Mariko and Blackthorne.  Rodrigues was as stunned by the surrender as he had been.  ‘No war?  It’s a miracle!  Now we’re truly safe, our Black Ship’s safe, the Church is rich, we’re rich . . . thanks be to God, the saints, and the Madonna!  That’s the best news you could’ve brought, Father.  We’re safe!’

‘If God wills it.  One thing Toranaga said disturbed me.  He put it this way:  ‘I can order my Christian freed—the Anjin-san.  With his ship, and with his cannon.”

Rodrigues’ vast good humor left him.  ‘Erasmus is still in Yedo?  She’s still in Toranaga’s control?’

‘Yes.  Would it be serious if the Ingeles were loosed?’

‘Serious?  That ship would blast hell out of us if she caught our Black Ship twixt here and Macao with him aboard, armed, with a half-decent crew.  We’ve only the small frigate to run interference and she’s no match for Erasmus!  Nor are we.  She could dance around us and we’d have to strike our colors.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘Yes.  Before God—she’d be a killer.’  Angrily Rodrigues bunched a fist.  ‘But wait a moment—the Ingeles said he’d arrived here with no more than twelve men, and not all seamen, many of them merchants and most sick.  That few couldn’t handle her.  The only place he could get a crew would be at Nagasaki—or Macao.  He might get enough at Nagasaki!  There’re those who’d . . . he’d better be kept away from there, and Macao!’

‘Say he had a native crew?’

‘You mean some of Toranaga’s cutthroats?  Or wako?  You mean if Toranaga’s surrendered, all his men become ronin, neh?  If the Ingeles had enough time he could train ’em.  Easy.  Christ Jesus . . . please excuse me, Father, but if the Ingeles got samurai or wako. . . . Can’t risk that—he’s too good.  We all saw that in Osaka!  Him loose in that pisscutter in Asia with a samurai crew. . . .’

Alvito watched him, even more concerned now.  ‘I think I’d better send another message to the Father-Visitor.  He should be informed if it’s this urgent.  He’ll know what to do.’

‘I know what to do!’ Rodrigues’ fist smashed down on the gunwale.  He got to his feet and turned his back.  ‘Listen, Father, hear my confession:  The first night—the very first time he stood alongside me on the galley out to sea, when we were going from Anjiro—my heart told me to kill him, then again during the storm.  The Lord Jesus help me, that was the time I sent him for’ard and deliberately swerved into the wind without warning, him without a lifeline, to murder him, but the Ingeles didn’t go overboard like anyone else would’ve done.  I thought that was the Hand of God, and knew it for certain when later he overruled me and saved my ship, and then when my ship was safe and the wave took me and I was drowning, my last thought was that that also was God’s punishment on me for an attempted murder.  You don’t do that to a pilot—he’d never do that to me!  I deserved it that time and then, when I found myself alive and him bending over me, helping me drink, I was so ashamed and again I begged God’s forgiveness and swore a Holy oath to try to make it up to him.  Madonna!’ he burst out in torment, ‘that man saved me though he knew I tried to murder him.  I saw it in his eyes.  He saved me and helped me live and now I’ve got to kill him.’

‘Why?’

‘The Captain-General was right:  God help us all if the Ingeles puts to sea in Erasmus, armed, with a half-decent crew.’

Blackthorne and Mariko were sleeping in the nocturnal peace of their little house, one of a cluster that made up the Inn of the Camellias, which was on 9th Street South.  There were three rooms in each.  Mariko had taken one room for herself and Chimmoko, Blackthorne another, and the third that let onto the front door and veranda had been left empty for living and eating and talking.

‘You think this is safe?’ Blackthorne had asked anxiously.  ‘Not to have Yoshinaka, or more maids or guards sleeping there?’

‘No, Anjin-san.  Nothing’s truly safe.  But it will be pleasant to be alone.  This inn’s thought to be the prettiest and most famous in Izu.  It is pretty, neh?‘

And it was.  Each tiny house was set on elegant pilings with circling verandas and four steps up, made from the finest woods, everything polished and gleaming.  Each was separate, fifty paces from its neighbors and surrounded by manicured gardens within the greater garden within the high bamboo wall.  There were streamlets, and lily ponds and waterfalls and blossom trees in abundance with day perfumes and night perfumes, sweet smelling and luxurious.  Clean stone footpaths, delicately roofed, led to the central baths, cold and hot and very hot, fed by natural springs.  Multicolored lanterns and happy servants and maids and never a cross word to disturb the tree bells and bubbling water and singing birds in their aviaries.

‘Of course I did ask for two houses, Anjin-san, one for you and one for me.  Unfortunately, only one was available, so sorry.  But Yoshinaka-san isn’t displeased.  On the contrary, he was relieved as he wouldn’t have to split his men.  He has posted sentries on every path so we are quite safe and can’t be disturbed as in other places.  Why should we be disturbed?  What could possibly be wrong with a room here and a room there and Chimmoko to share my bed?’

‘Nothing.  I’ve never seen such a beautiful place.  How clever you are, and how beautiful.’

‘Ah, how kind you are to me, Anjin-san.  First bathe, then the evening food and lots of saké.’

‘Good.  Very good.’

‘Put down your dictionary, Anjin-san, please.’

‘But you’re always encouraging me.’

‘If you put your book down I—I’ll tell you a secret.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve invited Yoshinaka-san to eat with us.  And some ladies.  To entertain us.’

‘Ah!’

‘Yes.  After I leave you, you will select one, neh?‘

‘But that might disturb your sleep, so sorry.’

‘I promise I will sleep very heavily, my love.  Seriously, a change. might be good for thee.’

‘Yes, but next year, not now.’

‘Be serious.’

‘I am.’

‘Ah, then in that case, if by chance you politely changed your mind and sent her away soon—after Yoshinaka-san has left with his partner—ah, who knows what the night kami might find for thee then?’

‘What?’

‘I went shopping today.’

‘Oh?  And what did you buy?’

‘Ah!’

She had bought an assortment of the pillow devices that Kiku had shown them, and much later, when Yoshinaka had left and Chimmoko was guarding on the veranda, she offered them to him with a deep bow.  Half in jest. he accepted with equal formality, and together they selected a pleasure ring.

‘That looks very prickly, Anjin-san, neh?  Are you sure you don’t mind?’

‘No, not if you don’t, but stop laughing or you’ll ruin everything.  Put out the candles.’

‘Oh no, please, I want to watch.’

‘For the love of God, stop laughing, Mariko!’

‘But you’re laughing too.’

‘Never mind, put the light out or. . . . There, now look what you’ve done.’

‘Oh!’

‘Stop laughing!  It’s no good putting your head in the futons. . . .’

Then later, trouble.

‘Mariko . . .

‘Yes, my love?’

‘I can’t find it.’

‘Oh!  Let me help you.’

‘Ah, it’s all right.  I’ve got it.  I was lying on it.’

‘Oh.  You’re—you’re sure you don’t mind?’

‘No, but it’s a bit, well, not exactly uplifting, all this talking about it and having to wait.  Is it?’

‘Oh, I don’t mind.  It was my fault for laughing.  Oh, Anjin-san, I love you so, please excuse me.’

‘You’re excused.’

‘I love to touch thee.’

‘I’ve never known anything like your touch.’

‘What are you doing, Anjin-san?’

‘I’m putting it on.’

‘Is it difficult?’

‘Yes.  Stop laughing!’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry, perhaps you—’

‘Stop laughing!’

‘Please forgive me. . . .’

Afterwards she went to sleep instantly, totally spent.  He did not.  For him it had been fine, but not perfect.  He’d been too worried about her.  He’d decided this time was for her pleasure, and not his.

Yes, that was for her, he thought, loving her.  But one thing was perfect:  I know I’ve truly satisfied her.  For once I’m absolutely sure.

He slept.  Later the sound of voices and quarreling, and, mixed with it, Portuguese, began to filter through his slumber.  For a moment he thought he was dreaming, then he recognized the voice.  ‘Rodrigues!’

Mariko murmured, still locked in sleep.

At the sound of footsteps on the path he lurched to his knees in controlled panic.  He lifted her as if she were a doll, went for the shoji, and stopped just as it was opened from the outside.  It was Chimmoko.  The maid’s head was lowered and her eyes discreetly closed.  He rushed past her with Mariko in his arms and laid her gently in her own quilts, still half asleep, and ran silently for his own room again, the sweat chill on him though the night was warm.  He groped into a kimono and hurried out again to the veranda.  Yoshinaka had reached the second step.

‘Nan desu ka, Yoshinaka-san?’

‘Gomen nasai, Anjin-san,’ Yoshinaka said.  He pointed to the flares at the far gate of the inn, adding many words that Blackthorne did not understand.  But the gist of it was that that man there, the barbarian, he wants to see you and I told him to wait and he said he wouldn’t wait, acting like a daimyo which he isn’t, and tried to push past, which I stopped.  He said he was your friend.  Is he?

‘Heya, Ingeles!  It’s me, Vasco Rodrigues!’

‘Hey, Rodrigues!’ Blackthorne shouted back happily.  ‘Be right with you. Hai, Yoshinaka-san.  Kare wa watashi no ichi yujin desu.‘  He’s my friend.

‘Ah so desu!‘

‘Hai.  Domo.‘

Blackthorne ran down the steps to go to the gateway.  Behind him he heard Mariko’s voice, ‘Nan ja, Chimmoko?’ and a whisper back and then she called out with authority, ‘Yoshinaka-san!’

‘Hai, Toda-sama!’

Blackthorne glanced around.  The samurai walked up the steps and crossed toward Mariko’s room.  Her door was closed.  Chimmoko stood outside it.  Now her own crumpled bedding was near the door where she would always sleep, correctly, should her mistress not wish her to be in the room with her.  Yoshinaka bowed to the door and began to report.  Blackthorne walked along the path with growing elation, barefoot, his eyes on the Portuguese, the width of the welcoming smile, the light from the flares dancing off his earrings and the buckle of his jaunty hat.

‘Hey, Rodrigues!  It’s great to see you.  How’s your leg?  How’d you find me?’

‘Madonna, you’ve grown, Ingeles, filled out!  Yes, fit and healthy and acting like a piss-cutting daimyo!‘  Rodrigues gave him a bear hug and he returned it.

‘How’s your leg?’

‘Hurts like shit but it works and I found you by asking where the great Anjin-san was—the big barbarian bandit bastard with the blue eyes!’

They laughed together, swapping obscenities, careless of the samurai and servants that surrounded them.  In a moment Blackthorne sent a servant for saké and led the way back.  Both strolled with their sailor’s gait, Rodrigues’ right hand, by habit, on his rapier’s hilt, the other thumb hooked into his wide belt near his pistol.  Blackthorne was a few inches taller but the Portuguese had even wider shoulders and a barrel-chested power to him.

Yoshinaka was waiting on the veranda.

‘Domo arigato, Yoshinaka-san,’ Blackthorne said, thanking the samurai again, and motioned Rodrigues to one of the cushions.  ‘Let’s talk here.’

Rodrigues put a foot on the steps but stopped as Yoshinaka moved in front of him, pointed at the rapier and the pistol, then held out his left hand, palm upwards.  ‘Dozo!‘

The Portuguese frowned up at him. ‘Iyé samurai-sama, domo ari—’

‘Dozo!‘

‘Iyé samurai-sama, iyé!‘ Rodrigues repeated more sharply.  ‘Watashi yujin Anjin-san, neh?‘

Blackthorne moved forward a step, still amazed at the suddenness of the confrontation.  ‘Yoshinaka-san, shigata ga nai, neh?‘ he said with a smile.  ‘Rodrigues yujin, wata—’

‘Gomen nasai, Anjin-san.  Kinjiru!‘  Yoshinaka rapped an order.  Instantly samurai leapt forward, surrounding Rodrigues threateningly, and again he held out his hand.  ‘Dozo!‘

‘These shit-filled whores’re touchy, Ingeles,’ Rodrigues said through a toothy smile.  ‘Call’em off, eh?  I’ve never had to give up my arms before.’

‘Don’t, Rodrigues! ‘ he said quickly, sensing his friend’s imminent decision, then to Yoshinaka, ‘Domo, gomen nasai, Rodrigues yujin, watash—’

‘Gomen nasai, Anjin-san.  Kinjiru.‘  Then roughly to the Portuguese, ‘Ima!‘

Rodrigues snarled back, ‘Iyé!  Wakarimasu ka?‘

Blackthorne hastily stepped between them.  ‘Hey, Rodrigues, what does it matter, neh?  Let Yoshinaka-san have them.  It’s nothing to do with you or me.  It’s because of the lady, Toda Mariko-sama.  She’s in there.  You know how touchy they are about weapons near daimyos or their wives.  We’ll argue all night, you know how they are, eh?  What’s the difference?’

The Portuguese forced a smile back on his face.  ‘Sure.  Why not?  Hai.  Shigata ga nai, samurai-sama.  So desu!‘

He bowed like a courtier without sincerity, slid his rapier and scabbard from its clasp and took out his pistol, and offered them.  Yoshinaka motioned to a samurai, who took the weapons and ran off to the gateway, where he put them down and stood guard over them.  Rodrigues started to mount the steps, but again Yoshinaka politely and firmly asked him to stop.  Other samurai came forward to search him.  Furious, Rodrigues leaped back. ‘IYÉ!  Kinjiru, by God!  What the—’

The samurai fell on him, pinned his arms tight, and searched him thoroughly.  They found two knives in the tops of his boots, another strapped to his left forearm, two small pistols—one concealed in the lining of his coat, one under his shirt—and a small pewter hip flask.

Blackthorne examined the pistols.  Both were primed.  ‘Was the other primed too?’

‘Yes.  Of course.  This land’s hostile, haven’t you noticed, Ingeles?  Tell them to let go of me!’

‘This isn’t the usual way to visit a friend by night.  Neh?‘

‘I tell you this land’s hostile.  I’m always armed like this.  Aren’t you normally?  Madonna, tell these bastards to let me go.’

‘Is that the lot?  Everything?’

‘Of course—tell ’em to let me go, Ingeles!’

Blackthorne gave the pistols to a samurai and stepped forward.  His fingers felt carefully around the inside of Rodrigues’ wide leather belt.  A stiletto slid from its secret sheath, very thin, very springy, made of the best Damascus steel.  Yoshinaka swore at the samurai who had made the search.  They apologized but Blackthorne only watched Rodrigues.

‘Any more?’ he asked, the stiletto loose in his hand.

Rodrigues stared back at him stonily.

‘I’ll tell ’em where to look—and how to look, Rodrigues.  How a Spaniard would—some of them.  Eh?’

‘Me cago en la leche, the cabron!‘

‘Que va, leche!  Hurry up!’  Still no answer.  Blackthorne went forward with the knife.  ‘Dozo, Yoshinaka-san.  Watash—’

Rodrigues said hoarsely, ‘In my hat band,’ and Blackthorne stopped.

‘Good,’ he said and reached for the wide-brimmed hat.

‘You would, wouldn’t you—teach them?’

‘Wouldn’t you?’

‘Be careful of the feather, Ingeles, I cherish that.’

The band was wide and stiff, the feather jaunty like the hat.  Inside the band was a thin stiletto, smaller, specially designed, the fine steel easily molding the curve.  Yoshinaka barked out another vicious reprimand to the samurai.

‘Before God, that’s all, Rodrigues?’

‘Madonna—I told you.’

‘Swear it.’

Rodrigues complied.

‘Yoshinaka-san, ima ichi-ban.  Domo,‘ Blackthorne said.  He’s all right now.  Thank you.

Yoshinaka gave the order.  His men released the Portuguese.  Rodrigues rubbed his limbs to ease the pain.  ‘Is it all right to sit down, Ingeles?’

‘Yes.’

Rodrigues wiped off the sweat with a red kerchief, then picked up the pewter flask and sat cross-legged on one of the cushions.  Yoshinaka remained nearby on the veranda.  All but four samurai went back to their posts.  ‘Why are they so touchy?  Why are you so touchy, Ingeles?  I’ve never had to give up my weapons before.  Am I an assassin?’

‘I asked you if that was all your weapons and you lied.’

‘I wasn’t listening.  Madonna!  Would you—held like a common criminal?’  Rodrigues added sourly, ‘Eh, what’s it matter, Ingeles, what’s anything matter?  The night’s spoiled. . . . Hey, but wait, Ingeles!  Why should anything be allowed to spoil a great evening?  I forgive them.  And I forgive you, Ingeles.  You were right and I was wrong.  I apologize.  It’s good to see you.’  He unscrewed the stopper and offered the flask.  ‘Here—here’s some fine brandy.’

‘You first.’

Rodrigues’ face became ashen.  ‘Madonna—do you think I bring poison?’

‘No.  You drink first.’

Rodrigues drank.

‘Again!’

The Portuguese obeyed, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.  Blackthorne accepted the flask.  ‘Salud!‘  He tipped it back and pretended to swallow, secretly keeping his tongue over the opening to prevent the liquor from going into his mouth, much as he wanted the drink.  ‘Ah!’ he said.  ‘That was good.  Here!’

‘Keep it, Ingeles.  It’s a present.’

‘From the good Father?  Or from you?’

‘From me.’

‘Before God?’

‘God and the Virgin, thou and thy ‘before God’!’ Rodrigues said.  ‘It was a gift from me and the Father!  He owns all the liquor aboard the Santa Filipa but the Eminence said I could share it and the flask’s one of a dozen aboard.  It’s a gift.  Where are your manners?’

Blackthorne pretended to drink again and offered it back.  ‘Here, have another.’

Rodrigues felt the liquor all the way to his toes and was glad that, after accepting the full flask from Alvito, he had privately emptied it and washed it out carefully and refilled it with brandy from his own bottle.  Madonna, forgive me, he prayed, forgive me for doubting the Holy Father.  Oh, Madonna, God, and Lord Jesus, for the love of God, come to earth again and change this world where sometimes we dare not even trust priests.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing, Ingeles.  I was just thinking that this world’s a foul pisscutter when you can’t trust anyone nowadays.  I came in friendship and now there’s a hole in the world.’

‘Did you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Armed like that?’

‘I’m always armed like that.  That’s why I’m alive.  Salud!‘  The big man raised the flask gloomily and sipped again.  ‘Piss on the world, piss on everything.’

‘Are you saying, piss on me?’

‘Ingeles, this is me, Vasco Rodrigues, Pilot of the Portuguese Navy, not a flyblown samurai.  I’ve exchanged many insults with you, all in friendship.  Tonight I came to see my friend and now I have no friend.  So sad.’

‘Yes.’

‘I shouldn’t be sad but I am.  Being friends with thee complicated my life extraordinarily.’  Rodrigues got up and eased his back, then sat down again.  ‘I hate sitting on these God-cursed cushions!  Chairs are for me.  Aboard.  Well, salud, Ingeles.’

‘When you swerved into wind and I was amidships, that was to put me overboard.  Wasn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Rodrigues answered at once.  He got to his feet.  ‘Yes, I’m glad you asked me for that is on my conscience terribly.  I’m glad to apologize to you in life for I could not bring myself to confess it to you.  Yes, Ingeles.  I don’t ask forgiveness or understanding or anything.  But I am glad to confess that shame to your face.’

‘You think I’d do that to you?’

‘No.  But then if the time came. . . . You never know till your own time of trial.’

‘You came here to kill me?’

‘No.  I don’t think so.  I don’t think that was first in my mind, though for my people and my country we both know it would be better for you to be dead.  So sad, but so true.  How foolish is life, eh, Ingeles?’

‘I don’t want you dead, Pilot.  Just your Black Ship.’

‘Listen, Ingeles,’ said Rodrigues without anger.  ‘If we meet at sea, you in your ship, armed, me in mine, look to your life.  That’s all I came to promise you—only that.  I thought it would be possible to tell you that as a friend and still remain your friend.  Except for a sea meeting, I am forever in your debt.  Salud!‘

‘I hope to catch your Black Ship at sea.  Salud, Pilot.’

Rodrigues stalked off.  Yoshinaka and the samurai followed him.  At the gateway the Portuguese collected his arms.  Soon he was swallowed by the night.

Yoshinaka waited until the sentries sorted themselves out.  When he was satisfied that all was secure he limped off to his own quarters.  Blackthorne sat back on one of the cushions and in a moment the maid that he had sent for saké happily padded up with the tray.  She poured one cup and would have stayed to serve him but he dismissed her.  Now he was alone.  The night sounds surrounded him again, the rustling and the waterfall and the movements of the night birds.  Everything was as before, but everything had changed.

Sadly he reached out to refill his cup but there was a sibilance of silk and Mariko’s hand held the flask.  She poured for him, the other cup for herself.

‘Domo, Mariko-san.’

‘Do itashimashité, Anjin-san.’  She settled herself on the other cushion.  They sipped the hot wine.

‘He was going to kill you, neh?‘

‘I don’t know, not for sure.’

‘What did it mean—to search like a Spaniard?’

‘Some of them strip their prisoners then probe in private places.  And not gently.  They call it to search con significa, with significance.  Sometimes they use knives.’

‘Oh.’  She sipped and listened to the water among the stones.  ‘It’s the same here, Anjin-san.  Sometimes.  That’s why it’s never wise to be captured.  If you’re captured you’ve dishonored yourself so completely that anything the captor does. . . . It’s best not to be captured.  Neh?‘

He stared at the lanterns moving in the cool sweet breeze.  ‘Yoshinaka was right—I was wrong.  The search was necessary.  It was your idea, neh?  You told Yoshinaka to search him?’

‘Please excuse me, Anjin-san, I hope that didn’t create an embarrassment for you.  It was just that I was afraid for you.’

‘I thank thee,’ he said, using Latin again, though he was sorry there had been a search.  Without the search he would still have a friend.  Perhaps, he cautioned himself.

‘Thou art welcome,’ she said.  ‘But it was only my duty.’

Mariko was wearing a night kimono and overkimono of blue, her hair braided loosely, falling to her waist.  She looked back at the far gateway which could be seen through the trees.  ‘You were very clever about the liquor, Anjin-san.  I almost pinched myself with anger at forgetting to warn Yoshinaka about that.  You were most shrewd to make him drink twice.  Do you use poison a lot in your countries?’

‘Sometimes.  Some people do.  It’s a filthy way.’

‘Yes, but very effective.  It happens here too.’

‘Terrible, isn’t it, not being able to trust anyone.’

‘Oh, no, Anjin-san, so sorry,’ she answered.  ‘That’s just one of life’s most important rules—no more, no less.’