Gai-Jin (81 page)

“Then why’s yous pissing in yor pants?”

“Piss off yorself. I’m … I’m to be in charge, so mind yor goddam manners.”

“Best watch yors or when we’s alone we’s feeding you yor balls. Where’s the piss-arsed grub and where’s the booze an’ where’s the doxies we’s promised?”

“You be getting it soon enough, and best be polite around these … guys,” Misamoto said cautiously. “They’s like a cat with a bee up its ass. And the Boss says best find the gold right smartly too.”

“If there’s gold we’s kin find it, Wotinabey, old cock. If it ain’t there it ain’t there, right, Charlie?”

“Excuse me, Lord, they thank you for your kindness,” Misamoto said, not quite so frightened. He had suddenly realized that if he was to accompany them he would be the first to know about a strike. “They promise to try to find treasure as quick as possible. They respectfully ask if they could have some food and drink and when can they begin.”

“Impress it on them it pays to be patient, pays to be polite and to be diligent. Teach them correct manners, how to bow and so on. You are responsible.”

As Misamoto obeyed, Yoshi motioned to his aide, who brought out the two short overmantles that Hosaki had had especially made, like waistcoats with ties on them. On the front and back were panels of inked characters on pale silk that read:
This gai-jin is a personal retainer and prospector, under my protection, who is allowed, provided he has official guides with correct papers, to prospect anywhere within my domain. All are ordered to assist in this work
.
Each panel bore his seal. “Tell them they are to wear it always and it will give them safe passage—explain what the writing says.”

Again Misamoto obeyed without thought and showed the two men how to wear them. Cautiously now, they pretended a patience and humility alien to their nature and upbringing. “Charlie,” the Cornishman whispered, adjusting the tie strings, hardly moving his lips to speak like most ex-cons—he had had four years’ hard labor in the Australian outback for claim jumping: “In for a penny, in for a fuckin’ quid.”

The American grinned suddenly, more at ease. “I hope there’s more than a quid’s worth, old buddy ….”

Yoshi watched them. When he was satisfied he motioned to Misamoto. “Take them with you and wait in the courtyard.”

Once they had gone, after bowing correctly without assistance this time, he sent everyone out of hearing range, except Inejin. “Sit down, old friend.” He motioned to the steps where the old man could sit comfortably—his left hip crushed in a fall from a horse, making it impossible for him to kneel. “Good. Now, what news?”

“Everything and nothing, Lord.” For three centuries Inejin and his forefathers had served this branch of the Toranagas. As a hatomoto he had no fear of speaking the truth but the obligation to do so: “The land has been worked diligently and manured properly, crops grow, but farmers say this year there will be famine even here in the Kwanto.”

“How bad will the famine be?”

“This year we will need rice from elsewhere to be safe, and elsewhere will be far worse.”

Yoshi remembered what Hosaki had already told him, and was very glad with her foresight and prudence. And also glad to have a vassal like Inejin—rare to find a man who could be trusted implicitly, even rarer to find one who would speak truthfully, the truth based on real knowledge and not for reasons of personal aggrandizement. “Next?”

“All loyal samurai are seething with impatience at the impasse between Bakufu and the rebellious Outside Lords of Satsuma, Choshu and Tosa, their samurai equally discontented, mostly because of the usual problem: rates of pay fixed a century ago are causing ever greater hardship, it being ever more difficult to pay the interest on ever-increasing debts, and to buy rice and food at ever-increasing prices.” Inejin was deeply aware of the problem, as the majority of his widespread family, still samurai class, were suffering badly. “Daily the shishi gather adherents, if not openly, certainly undercover. Peasants are correctly docile, merchants not so, but all, except most merchants in Yokohama and Nagasaki, would like the gai-jin expelled.”

“And
sonno-joi
?”

After a pause the old man said, “Like many things on earth, Lord, that
battle cry is part right, part wrong. All Japanese detest gai-jin—worse than Chinese, worse than Koreans—all want them gone, all revere the Son of Heaven and believe His wish to expel them correct policy. Of your twenty men here tonight, I believe twenty would support that part of
sonno-joi
. As you yourself do, providing it is the Shōgunate who wield the temporal power to effect His wishes, according to procedures laid down by Shōgun Toranaga.”

“Quite correct,” Yoshi agreed, but in his innermost heart he knew that if he had had the power he would never have allowed the first Treaty, so never a need for the Emperor to interfere in Shōgunate matters, and would never have allowed mean-minded men surrounding the Son of Heaven to misguide Him.

Even so, contrary to
sonno-joi
, if he had power, now he would invite some of the gai-jin in while he had time. But only on his terms. And only for the trade he desired. It is only with fleets and guns like theirs, he thought, that we can deny them our land, expel them from our seas, and at last fulfill our historic destiny to place the Emperor on the Dragon Throne of China. And then, with their millions and our bushido, the whole gai-jin world will obey. “Go on, Inejin.”

“There’s not much more that you do not already know, Lord. Many fear the boy Shōgun will never be a man, many are disturbed by the less than wise Council, many are shocked that your prudent advice against his journey to Kyōto as a supplicant was overridden, many regret that you do not control the
roju
to force necessary changes: the Bakufu made corruptless, clever—and to stop the rot.”

“The Shōgun is the Shōgun,” Yoshi said curtly, “and all must support him and his Council. He is our liege Lord and must be supported as such.”

“I completely agree, Sire, I merely report samurai opinion as best I can. Few want the Bakufu and Shōgunate cast out. Only a handful of numbskulls believe the Emperor could rule Nippon without the Shōgunate. Even amongst shishi few really believe the Shōgunate should be ended.”

“So?”

“The solution is obvious: somehow a strong hand must take control and rule as Shōgun Toranaga ruled.” Inejin eased his leg more comfortably. “Please excuse me for being long-winded. May I say how honored I am by your visit.”

“Thank you, Inejin,” Yoshi said thoughtfully. “No news of any daimyos collecting forces against us?”

“Not mobilizing, Lord, not in this area, though I hear Sanjiro has all Satsuma on a war footing.”

“And Choshu?”

“Not yet, but Ogama has again reinforced his garrison troops holding
the Gates, and increased the number of shore batteries on the Shimonoseki.”

“Ah! His Dutch armorers?”

Inejin nodded. “Spies tell me they train his gunners, and make four cannon a month in the new Choshu arsenal. These are rushed to redoubts. Soon the Straits will be impregnable.”

That’s good and bad, Yoshi thought—good to have that option, bad that it is in enemy hands. “Ogama plans to step up attacks on shipping?”

“I am told for the moment, no. But he has ordered his batteries to destroy all gai-jin shipping and close the Straits permanently when he sends them a code word.” Inejin bent forward and said softly, “‘Crimson Sky.’”

Yoshi gasped. “The same that Shōgun Toranaga used?”

“That’s what was whispered.”

Yoshi’s mind was in a whirl. Does that mean, like my forebear, Ogama is going to launch an equally sudden and all embracing surprise attack—supreme power again being the prize? “Can you get proof?”

“In time. But that is the present code word. As to Ogama’s real plan …” Inejin shrugged. “He has the Gates now. If he could persuade Sanjiro to pledge allegiance to him …”

The silence grew. “You’ve done very well.”

“Another interesting fact, Sire. Lord Anjo has a disease of the stomach.” Inejin’s eyes lit up even more seeing Yoshi’s immediate interest. “A friend of a friend who I trust tells me he has secretly consulted a Chinese doctor. The disease is the decaying disease and cannot be cured.”

Yoshi grunted, part from pleasure, part from an ice pick of anxiety that he might contract the same—who knows how or from where—or have it already in his innards, waiting to fell him. “How long will he live?”

“Months, perhaps a year, not more. But you should be doubly on guard, Sire, because my informant says that while the body rots with no outward blemishes, the mind does not, just twists into dangerously implacable routes.”

Like the stupid decision to permit the Princess to dominate, Yoshi thought, his head buzzing with what he had been told. “Next?”

“Next, Sire, about the shishi who attacked and assassinated Lord Utani and his paramour. They were led by the same Choshu shishi who attacked Lord Anjo—Hiraga.”

“The one whose likeness was sent to all barriers?”

“Yes, Sire, Rezan Hiraga, at least that’s what the captured shishi said the man’s name was before dying. It is probably false. Another of his aliases is Otami.”

“You have caught him?” Yoshi said hopefully.

“No, Sire, not yet, and unfortunately we have lost all trace of him so he
must be elsewhere. Possibly Kyōto.” Inejin dropped his voice even more. “Rumor has it there is going to be another shishi attack in Kyōto. Many are believed to be collecting there. Many of them.”

“What sort of attack? An assassination?”

“No one knows yet. Possibly another coup attempt. The shishi leader with a code name, ‘the Raven,’ is said to have issued the summons. I am trying to find out who he is.”

“Good. One way or another shishi must be wiped out.” Yoshi thought a moment. “Could their venom be directed against Ogama, or Sanjiro, the Emperor’s real enemies?”

“Difficult, Sire.”

“Have you discovered who told the shishi about Utani? About his secret tryst?”

After a pause Inejin said, “It was the Lady’s maid, Sire, who whispered to the mama-san who whispered to them.”

Yoshi sighed. “And the Lady?”

“The Lady appears to be blameless, Sire.”

Yoshi sighed again, pleased that Koiko was not involved, but deep inside, he was unconvinced. “The maid is with us now—I will deal with her. Make sure the mama-san suspects nothing, she will be dealt with when I return. Have you discovered the other spy, the one feeding gai-jin with information?”

“Not for certain, Sire. I’m told the traitor is, or his alias is, Ori. I don’t know his full name but he’s a Satsuma shishi, one of Sanjiro’s men, one of the two Tokaidō killers.”

“Inept to kill one when four were such easy targets. Where is the traitor now?”

“Somewhere in the Yokohama Settlement, Sire. He has become a secret confidant of both the young English interpreter and the Frenchman you told me about.”

“Ah, him too.” Yoshi thought a moment. “Silence this Ori at once.” Inejin bowed, accepting the order. “Next?”

“That ends my report.”

“Thank you. You have done well.” Yoshi finished the tea, deep in thought. Moonlight cast strange shadows.

The old man broke the silence. “Your bath is prepared, Sire, and you must be hungry. Everything is ready.”

“Thank you, but the night is good so I will go on at once. There’s much to do at Dragon’s Tooth. Captain!”

Quickly everyone assembled—Koiko and her maid hastily changed back into travelling clothes and she reentered her palanquin. With due deference, Inejin, his household, maids and servants bowed their guest on his way.

“What about all the food we prepared?” his wife, a round-faced, tiny
woman, also of samurai descent, asked hesitantly, delicacies she had hastily but correctly bought at vast cost to tempt their liege lord on this sudden visit—more than three months of their profit for the single meal.

“We will eat it.” Inejin watched the cortege trotting away through the sleeping village until it was gone. “It was good to see him, a great honor.”

“Yes,” she said, and dutifully followed him back inside.

The night was gentle, enough moonlight to see by. Beyond the village the dirt road twisted northwards through the trees, villages every few miles, all the land around well explored by Yoshi since childhood. It was quiet. No one journeyed at this time of night, except robbers, ronin or elite. They forded a brook, the land more open here. On the other side he called a halt, beckoning the Captain.

“Sire?” the Captain asked.

To their growing excitement, Yoshi twisted in his saddle and pointed east and south, back towards the coast. “I am changing my plan,” he said as though it were a sudden decision and not one planned over many days. “Now we go that way, to the Tokaidō, but we bypass the first three barriers, then cut back onto the road just after dawn.”

There was no need to ask where they were heading. “Forced march, Sire?”

“Yes. No further talking. Lead off!” A hundred and twenty leagues, ten or eleven days, he thought. Then Kyōto and the Gates. My Gates.

In the late afternoon of the same day Hiraga ducked into the lee of a shack on the edge of Drunk Town where a small, grimy sailor waited nervously. “Gimme the money, mate,” the man said. “You got it, eh?”

“Yes. Gun, p’rease?”

“One day you’s a toff, now you’s a poxy nuffink.” The man was grizzly-faced and suspicious, a wicked knife in his belt, another in a forearm holster. When Hiraga had first talked to him on the beach, he had been wearing his Tyrer-arranged clothes. Today he wore a dirty laborer’s woolen smock, coarse trousers and scuffed boots. “Wot’s yor game?”

Hiraga shrugged, not understanding him. “Gun, p’rease.”

“Gun, is it? I’s the gun right enough.” The shifty little eyes darted around, across the weed-infested, scrap heap strewn area between Drunk Town and the Japanese village—called No Man’s Land by the locals—but could sense no alien watchers. “Where’s brass?” he said sullenly. “The money, for crissake, the Mex!”

Hiraga reached into the pocket of the smock, everything feeling uncomfortable and outlandish, the clothes bought especially for today. Three Mexican silver dollars glittered in his hand. “Gun, p’rease.”