James Clavell

by Asian Saga 03 - Shogun (v5)

  “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 piss-cutter 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-sarna, iyé!” Rodrigues repeated more sharply. “Watashiyujin 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, che cabron!”

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