Shogun (116 page)

With an effort Omi dragged himself back from the brink.

Everything’s gone wrong, he thought. No peace in my house, always anger and quarreling, and Midori always in tears. No nearer my revenge on Yabu. No private, secret arrangement with Zataki, with or without Yabu, negotiated over the hours last night. No deal of any kind. Nothing right anymore. Even when Mura found the swords, both were so mutilated by the earth’s force that I know Toranaga hated me for showing them to him. And now finally this—this cowardly, traitorous surrender!

It’s almost as though I’m bedeviled—in an evil spell. Cast by the
Anjin-san? Perhaps. But everything’s still lost. No swords and no revenge and no secret escape route and no Kiku and no future. Wait. There’s a future with her. Death’s a future and past and present and it’ll be so clean and simple….

“You’re giving up? We’re not going to war?” Yabu bellowed, aware that his death and the death of his line were now guaranteed.

“I accept the Council’s invitation,” Toranaga replied. “As you will accept the Council’s invitation!”

“I won’t do—”

Omi came out of his reverie with enough presence of mind to know that he had to interrupt Yabu and protect him from the instant death that any confrontation with Toranaga would bring. But he deliberately froze his lips, shouting to himself with glee at this heaven-sent gift, and waited for Yabu’s disaster to overtake him.

“You won’t do what?” Toranaga asked.

Yabu’s soul shrieked danger. He managed to croak, “I—I—of course your vassals will obey. Yes—if you decide—whatever you decide I—I will do.”

Omi cursed and allowed the glazed expression to return, his mind still withered by Toranaga’s totally unexpected capitulation.

Angrily Toranaga let Yabu stutter on, increasing the strength of the apology. Then contemptuously he cut him short. “Good.” He turned back to Zataki but he did not relax his vigil. “So, Brother, you can put away the second scroll. There’s nothing more—” From the corner of his eye he saw Naga’s face change and he wheeled on him. “Naga!”

The youth almost leapt out of his skin, but his hand left his sword. “Yes, Father?” he stammered.

“Go and fetch my writing materials! Now!” When Naga was well out of sword range Toranaga exhaled, relieved that he had prevented the attack on Zataki before it had begun. His eyes studied Buntaro carefully. Then Omi. And last Yabu. He thought the three of them were now sufficiently controlled not to make any foolish move that would precipitate an immediate riot and a great killing.

Once again he addressed Zataki. “I’ll give you my formal written acceptance at once. This will prepare the Council for my state visit.” He lowered his voice and spoke for Zataki’s ears alone. “Inside Izu you’re safe, Regent. Outside it you’re safe. Until my mother’s out of your grasp you’re safe. Only until then. This meeting is over.”

“Good. ‘State visit’?” Zataki was openly contemptuous. “What
hypocrisy! I never thought I’d see the day when Yoshi Toranaga-noh-Minowara would kowtow to General Ishido. You’re just—”

“Which is more important, Brother?” Toranaga said. “The continuity of my line—or the continuity of the realm?”

Gloom hung over the valley. It was pouring now, the base of the clouds barely three hundred feet from the ground, obscuring completely the way back up the pass. The clearing and the inn’s forecourt were filled with shoving, ill-tempered samurai. Horses stamped their feet irritably. Officers were shouting orders with unnecessary harshness. Frightened porters were rushing about readying the departing column. Barely an hour remained to darkness.

Toranaga had written the flowery message and signed it, sending it by messenger to Zataki, over the entreaties of Buntaro, Omi, and Yabu, in private conference. He had listened to their arguments silently.

When they had finished, he said, “I want no more talk. I’ve decided my path. Obey!”

He had told them he was returning to Anjiro immediately to collect the rest of his men. Tomorrow he would head up the east coast road toward Atami and Odawara, thence over the mountain passes to Yedo. Buntaro would command his escort. Tomorrow the Musket Regiment was to embark on the galleys at Anjiro and put to sea to await him at Yedo, Yabu in command. The following day Omi was ordered to the frontier via the central road with all available Izu warriors. He was to assist Hiro-matsu, who was in overall command, and was to make sure that the enemy, Ikawa Jikkyu, did nothing to interfere with normal traffic. Omi was to base himself in Mishima for the time being, to guard that section of the Tokaidō Road, and to prepare palanquins and horses in sufficient quantity for Toranaga and the considerable entourage that was necessary to a formal state visit. “Alert all stations along the road and prepare them equally. You understand?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Make sure that everything’s perfect!”

“Yes, Sire. You may rely on me.” Even Omi had winced under the baleful glare.

When everything was ready for his departure, Toranaga came out from his rooms onto the veranda. Everyone bowed. Sourly he motioned them to continue and sent for the innkeeper. The man fawned
as he presented the bill on his knees. Toranaga checked it item by item. The bill was very fair. He nodded and threw it at his paymaster for payment, then summoned Mariko and the Anjin-san. Mariko was given permission to go to Osaka. “But first you’ll go directly from here to Mishima. Give this private dispatch to Hiro-matsu-san, then continue on to Yedo with the Anjin-san. You’re responsible for him until you arrive. You’ll probably go by sea to Osaka—I’ll decide that later. Anjin-san! Did you get the dictionary from the priest-san?”

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

Mariko had translated.

“Sorry. Yes, I book got.”

“When we meet in Yedo, you’ll speak better Japanese than you do now.
Wakarimasu ka?”

“
Hai. Gomen nasai.”

Despondently Toranaga stomped out of the courtyard, a samurai holding a large umbrella for him against the rain. As one, all samurai, porters, and villagers again bowed. Toranaga paid no attention to them, just got into his roofed palanquin at the head of the column and closed the curtains.

At once, the six seminaked bearers raised the litter and started off at a loping trot, their horny bare feet splashing the puddles. Mounted escorting samurai rode ahead, and another mounted guard surrounded the palanquin. Spare porters and the baggage train followed, all hurrying, all tense and filled with dread. Omi led the van. Buntaro was to command the rearguard. Yabu and Naga had already left for the Musket Regiment that was still athwart the road in ambush to await Toranaga at the crest; it would fall in behind to form a rearguard. “Rearguard against whom?” Yabu had snarled at Omi in the few moments of privacy they had had before he galloped off.

Buntaro strode back to the high, curved gateway of the inn, careless of the downpour. “Mariko-san!”

Obediently she hurried to him, her orange oiled-paper umbrella beaten by the heavy drops. “Yes, Sire?”

His eyes raced over her under the brim of his bamboo hat, then went to Blackthorne, who watched from the veranda. “Tell him …” He stopped.

“Sire?”

He stared down at her. “Tell him I hold him responsible for you.”

“Yes, Sire,” she said. “But, please excuse me, I am responsible for me.”

Buntaro turned and measured the distance to the head of the column. When he glanced back his face showed a trace of his torment. “Now there’ll be no falling leaves for our eyes,
neh?”

“That is in the hands of God, Sire.”

“No, that’s in Lord Toranaga’s hands,” he said with disdain.

She looked up at him without wavering under his stare. The rain beat down. Droplets fell from the rim of her umbrella like a curtain of tears. Mud splattered the hem of her kimono. Then he said, “
Sayonara
—until I see you at Osaka.”

She was startled. “Oh, so sorry, won’t I see you at Yedo? Surely you’ll be there with Lord Toranaga, you’ll arrive about the same time,
neh?
I’ll see you then.”

“Yes. But at Osaka, when we meet there or when you return from there, then we begin again. That’s when I’ll truly see you,
neh?”

“Ah, I understand. So sorry.”

“
Sayonara
, Mariko-san,” he said.

“
Sayonara
, my Lord.” Mariko bowed. He returned her obeisance peremptorily and strode through the quagmire to his horse. He swung into the saddle and galloped away without looking back.

“Go with God,” she said, staring after him.

Blackthorne saw her eyes following Buntaro. He waited in the lee of the roof, the rain lessening. Soon the head of the column vanished into the clouds, then Toranaga’s palanquin, and he breathed easier, still shattered by Toranaga and the whole ill-omened day.

This morning the hawking had begun so well. He had chosen a tiny, long-wing falcon, like a merlin, and flew her very successfully at a lark, the stoop and soaring chase blown southward beyond a belt of trees by the freshening wind. Leading the charge as was his privilege, he careered through the forest along a well-beaten path, itinerant peddlers and farmers scattering. But a weather-beaten oil seller with an equally threadbare horse blocked the way and cantankerously wouldn’t budge. In the excitement of the chase Blackthorne had shouted at the man to move, but the peddler would not, so he cursed him roundly. The oil seller replied rudely and shouted back and then Toranaga was there and Toranaga pointed at his own bodyguard and said, “Anjin-san, give him your sword a moment,” and some other words he did not understand. Blackthorne obeyed at once. Before he realized what was happening, the samurai lunged at the peddler. His blow was so
savage and so perfect that the oil seller had walked on a pace before falling, divided in two at the waist.

Toranaga had pounded his pommel with momentary delight, then fell back into his melancholy as the other samurai had cheered. The bodyguard cleansed the blade carefully, using his silken sash to protect the steel. He sheathed the sword with satisfaction and returned it, saying something that Mariko explained later. “He just said, Anjin-san, that he was proud to be allowed to test such a blade. Lord Toranaga is suggesting you should nickname the sword ‘Oil Seller,’ because such a blow and such sharpness should be remembered with honor. Your sword has now become legend,
neh?”

Blackthorne recalled how he had nodded, hiding his anguish. He was wearing “Oil Seller” now—Oil Seller it would be forevermore—the same sword that Toranaga had presented to him. I wish he’d never given it to me, he thought. But it wasn’t all their fault, it was mine too. I shouted at the man, he was rude in return, and samurai
may not
be treated rudely. What other course was there? Blackthorne knew there was none. Even so, the killing had taken the joy out of the hunt for him, though he had to hide that carefully because Toranaga had been moody and difficult all day.

Just before noon, they had returned to Yokosé, then there was Toranaga’s meeting with Zataki and then after a steaming bath and massage, suddenly Father Alvito was standing in his way like a vengeful wraith, two hostile acolytes in attendance. “Christ Jesus, get away from me!”

“There’s no need to be afraid, or to blaspheme.” Alvito had said.

“God curse you and all priests!” Blackthorne said, trying to get hold of himself, knowing that he was deep in enemy territory. Earlier he’d seen half a hundred Catholic samurai trickling over the bridge to the Mass that Mariko had told him was being held in the forecourt of Alvito’s inn. His hand sought the hilt of his sword, but he was not wearing it with his bathrobe, or carrying it as was customary, and he cursed his stupidity, hating to be unarmed.

“May God forgive you your blasphemy, Pilot. Yes. May He forgive you and open your eyes. I bear you no malice. I came to bring you a gift. Here, here’s a gift from God, Pilot.”

Blackthorne took the package suspiciously. When he opened it and saw the Portuguese-Latin-Japanese dictionary/grammar, a thrill rushed through him. He leafed through a few pages. The printing was certainly
the best he had ever seen, the quality and detail of the information staggering. “Yes, this is a gift from God all right, but Lord Toranaga ordered you to give it to me.”

“We obey only God’s orders.”

“Toranaga asked you to give it to me?”

“Yes. It was his request.”

“And a Toranaga ‘request’ isn’t an order?”

“That depends, Captain-Pilot, on who you are, what you are, and how great your faith.” Alvito motioned at the book. “Three of our Brethren spent twenty-seven years preparing that.”

“Why are you giving it to me?”

“We were asked to.”

“Why didn’t you avoid Lord Toranaga’s request? You’re more than cunning enough to do that.”

Alvito shrugged. Quickly Blackthorne flicked through all the pages, checking. Excellent paper, the printing very clear. The numbers of the pages were in sequence.

“It’s complete,” Alvito said, amused. “We don’t deal with half books.”

“This is much too valuable to give away. What do you want in return?”

“He asked us to give it to you. The Father-Visitor agreed. So you are given it. It was only printed this year, at long last. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? We only ask you to cherish it, to treat the book well. It’s worth treating well.”

“It’s worth guarding with a life. This is priceless knowledge, like one of your rutters. But this is better. What do you want for it?”

“We ask nothing in return.”

“I don’t believe you.” Blackthorne weighed it in his hand, even more suspiciously. “You must know this makes me equal to you. It gives me all your knowledge and saves us ten, maybe twenty years. With this I’ll soon be speaking as well as you. Once I can do that, I can teach others. This is the key to Japan,
neh?
Language is the key to anywhere foreign,
neh?
In six months I’ll be able to talk direct to Toranaga-sama.”

“Yes, perhaps you will. If you have six months.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing more than what you already know. Lord Toranaga will be dead long before six months is up.”