“Good. Has anyone else read it?”
“Not to my knowledge.” She used her fan to cool herself. “The Anjin-san’s consort and servants have seen me writing it, but I’ve kept it locked away.”
“What are your conclusions?”
Mariko hesitated. She glanced at the cabin door and at the closed porthole.
Toranaga said, “Only my men are aboard and no one’s below decks. Except us.”
“Yes, Sire. I just remembered the Anjin-san saying there are no secrets aboard a ship. So sorry.” She thought a moment, then said confidently, “The Musket Regiment will win one battle. Barbarians could destroy us if they landed in force with guns and cannon. You must have a barbarian navy. Thus far, the Anjin-san’s knowledge has been enormously valuable to you, so much so it should be kept secret, only for your ears. In the wrong hands his knowledge would be lethal to you.”
“Who shares his knowledge now?”
“Yabu-san knows much but Omi-san more—he’s the most intuitive. Igurashi-san, Naga-san, and the troops—the troops of course understand the strategy, not the finer details and none of the Anjin-san’s political and general knowledge. Me, more than any. I’ve written down everything he’s said, asked, or commented on, Sire. As best I can. Of course he has only told us about certain things, but his range is vast and his memory near perfect. With patience he can provide you with an accurate picture of the world, its customs and dangers. If he’s telling the truth.”
“Is he?”
“I believe so.”
“What’s your opinion of Yabu?”
“Yabu-san’s a violent man with no scruples whatsoever. He honors nothing but his own interests. Duty, loyalty, tradition, mean nothing to him. His mind has flashes of great cunning, even brilliance. He’s equally dangerous as ally or enemy.”
“All commendable virtues. What’s to be said against him?”
“A bad administrator. His peasants would revolt if they had weapons.”
“Why?”
“Extortionate taxes. Illegal taxes. He takes seventy-five parts from every hundred of all rice, fish, and produce. He’s begun a head tax, land tax, boat tax—every sale, every barrel of saké, everything’s taxed in Izu.”
“Perhaps I should employ him or his quartermaster for the Kwanto. Well, what he does here’s his own business, his peasants’ll never get weapons so we’ve nothing to worry about. I could still use this as a base if need be.”
“But Sire, sixty parts is the legal limit.”
“It was the legal limit. The Taikō made it legal but he’s dead. What else about Yabu?”
“He eats little, his health appears good, but Suwo, the masseur, thinks he has kidney trouble. He has some curious habits.”
“What?”
She told him about the Night of the Screams.
“Who told you about that?”
“Suwo. Also Omi-san’s wife and mother.”
“Yabu’s father used to boil his enemies too. Waste of time. But I can understand his need to do it occasionally. His nephew, Omi?”
“Very shrewd. Very wise. Completely loyal to his uncle. A very capable, impressive vassal.”
“Omi’s family?”
“His mother is—is suitably firm with Midori, his wife. The wife is samurai, gentle, strong, and very good. All are loyal vassals of Yabu-san. Presently Omi-san has no consorts though Kiku, the most famous courtesan in Izu, is almost like a consort. If he could buy her contract I think he’d bring her into his house.”
“Would he help me against Yabu if I wanted him to?”
She pondered that. Then shook her head. “No, Sire. I don’t think so. I think he’s his uncle’s vassal.”
“Naga?”
“As good a samurai as a man could be. He saw at once the danger of Jozen-san and his men to you, and locked things up until you could be consulted. As much as he detests the Musket Battalion he trains the companies hard to make them perfect.”
“I think he was very stupid—to be Yabu’s puppet.”
She adjusted a fold in her kimono, saying nothing.
Toranaga fanned himself. “Now the Anjin-san?”
She had been expecting this question and now that it had come, all the clever observations she was going to make vanished from her head.
“Well?”
“You must judge from the scroll, Sire. In certain areas he’s impossible to explain. Of course, his training and heritage have nothing in common with ours. He’s very complex and beyond our—beyond my understanding. He used to be very open. But since his attempted seppuku, he’s changed. He’s more secretive.” She told him what Omi had said and had done on that first night. And about Yabu’s promise.
“Ah, Omi stopped him—not Yabu-san?”
“Yes.”
“And Yabu followed Omi’s advice?”
“Exactly, Sire.”
“So Omi’s the adviser. Interesting. But surely the Anjin-san doesn’t expect Yabu to keep the promise?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
Toranaga laughed. “How childish!”
“Christian ‘conscience’ is deeply set in him, so sorry. He cannot avoid his karma, one part of which is that he’s totally to be governed through this hatred of a death, or deaths, of what he calls ‘innocents.’ Even Jozen’s death affected him deeply. For many nights his sleep was disturbed and for days he hardly talked to anyone.”
“Would this ‘conscience’ apply to all barbarians?”
“No, though it should to all Christian barbarians.”
“Will he lose this ‘conscience’?”
“I don’t think so. But he’s as defenseless as a doll until he does.”
“His consort?”
She told him everything.
“Good.” He was pleased that his choice of Fujiko and his plan had worked so well. “Very good. She did very well over the guns. What about his habits?”
“Mostly normal, except for an astounding embarrassment over pillow matters and a curious reluctance to discuss the most normal functions.” She also described his unusual need for solitude, and his abominable taste in food. “In most other things he’s attentive, reasonable, sharp, an adept pupil, and very curious about us and our customs. It’s all in my report, but briefly, I’ve explained something of our way of life, a little of us and our history, about the Taikō and the problems besetting our Realm now.”
“Ah, about the Heir?”
“Yes, Sire. Was that wrong?”
“No. You were told to educate him. How’s his Japanese?”
“Very good, considering. In time he’ll speak our language quite well. He’s a good pupil, Sire.”
“Pillowing?”
“One of the maids,” she said at once.
“He chose her?”
“His consort sent her to him.”
“And?”
“It was mutually satisfactory, I understand.”
“Ah! Then she had no difficulty.”
“No, Sire.”
“But he’s in proportion?”
“The girl said, ‘Oh very yes.’ ‘Lavish’ was the word she used.”
“Excellent. At least in that his karma’s good. That’s the trouble with a lot of men—Yabu for one, Kiyama for another. Small shafts. Unfortunate to be born with a small shaft. Very. Yes.” He glanced at the scroll, then closed his fan with a snap. “And you, Mariko-san? What about you?”
“Good, thank you, Sire. I’m very pleased to see you looking so well. May I offer you congratulations on the birth of your grandson.”
“Thank you, yes. Yes, I’m pleased. The boy’s well formed and appears healthy.”
“And the Lady Genjiko?”
Toranaga grunted. “She’s as strong as always. Yes.” He pursed his lips, brooding for a moment. “Perhaps you could recommend a foster mother for the child.” It was custom for sons of important samurai to have foster mothers so that the natural mother could attend to her husband and to the running of his house, leaving the fos
ter mother to concentrate on the child’s upbringing, making him strong and a credit to the parents. “I’m afraid it won’t be easy to find the right person. The Lady Genjiko’s not the easiest mistress to work for, neh?”
“I’m sure you’ll find the perfect person, Sire. I’ll certainly give it some thought,” Mariko replied, knowing that to offer such advice would be foolish, for no woman born could possibly satisfy both Toranaga and his daughter-in-law.
“Thank you. But you, Mariko-san, what about you?”
“Good, Sire, thank you.”
“And your Christian conscience?”
“There’s no conflict, Sire. None. I’ve done everything you would wish. Truly.”
“Have any priests been here?”
“No, Sire.”
“You have need of one?”
“It would be good to confess and take the Sacrament and be blessed. Yes, truthfully, I would like that—to confess the things permitted and to be blessed.”
Toranaga studied her closely. Her eyes were guileless. “You’ve done well, Mariko-san. Please continue as before.”
“Yes, Sire, thank you. One thing—the Anjin-san needs a grammar book and dictionary badly.”
“I’ve sent to Tsukku-san for them.” He noticed her frown. “You don’t think he’ll send them?”
“He would obey, of course. Perhaps not with the speed you’d like.”
“I’ll soon know that.” Toranaga added ominously, “He has only thirteen days left.”
Mariko was startled. “Sire?” she asked, not understanding.
“Thirteen? Ah,” Toranaga said nonchalantly, covering his momentary lapse, “when we were aboard the Portuguese ship he asked permission to visit Yedo. I agreed, providing it was within forty days. There are thirteen left. Wasn’t forty days the time this bonze, this prophet, this Moses spent on the mountain collecting the commands of ‘God’ that were etched in stone?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Do you believe that happened?”
“Yes. But I don’t understand how or why.”
“A waste of time discussing ‘God-things.’ Neh?”
“If you seek facts, yes, Sire.”
“While you were waiting for this dictionary, have you tried to make one?”
“Yes, Toranaga-sama. I’m afraid it’s not very good. Unfortunately there seems to be so little time, so many problems. Here—everywhere,” she added pointedly.
He nodded agreement, knowing that she would dearly like to ask many things: about the new Council and Lord Ito’s appointment and Naga’s sentence and if war would be immediate. “We’re fortunate to have your husband back with us, neh?”
Her fan stopped. “I never thought he’d escape alive. Never. I’ve said a prayer and burnt incense to his memory daily.” Buntaro had told her this morning how another contingent of Toranaga samurai had covered his retreat from the beach and he had made the outskirts of Osaka without trouble. Then, with fifty picked men and spare horses, disguised as bandits, he hastily took to the hills and lesser paths in a headlong dash for Yedo. Twice his pursuers caught up with him but there were not enough of the enemy to contain him and he fought his way through. Once he was ambushed and lost all but four men, and escaped again and went deeper into the forest, traveling by night, sleeping during the day. Berries and spring water, a little rice snatched from lonely farmhouses, then galloping on again, hunters always at his heels. It had taken him twenty days to reach Yedo. Two men had survived with him.
“It was almost a miracle,” she said. “I thought I was possessed by a kami when I saw him here beside you on the beach.”
“He’s clever. Very strong and very clever.”
“May I ask what news of Lord Hiro-matsu, Sire? And Osaka? Lady Kiritsubo and the Lady Sazuko?”
Noncommittal, Toranaga informed her that Hiro-matsu had arrived back at Yedo the day before he had left, though his ladies had decided to stay at Osaka, the Lady Sazuko’s health being the reason for their delay. There was no need to elaborate. Both he and Mariko knew that this was merely a face-saving formula and that General Ishido would never allow two such valuable hostages to leave now that Toranaga was out of his grasp.
“Shigata ga nai,” he said. “Karma, neh?” There’s nothing that can be done. That’s karma, isn’t it?
“Yes.”
He picked up the scroll. “Now I must read this. Thank you, Mariko-san. You’ve done very well. Please bring the Anjin-san to the fortress at dawn.”
“Sire, now that my Master is here, I will have—”
“Your husband has already agreed that while I’m here you’re to remain where you are and act as interpreter, your prime duty being to the Anjin-san for the next few days.”
“But Sire, I must set up house for my Lord. He’ll need servants and a house.”
“That will be a waste of money, time, and effort at the moment. He’ll stay with the troops—or at the Anjin-san’s house—whichever pleases him.” He noticed a flash of irritation. “Nan ja?”
“My place should be with my Master. To serve him.”
“Your place is where I want it to be. Neh?”
“Yes, please excuse me. Of course.”
“Of course.”
She left.
He read the scroll carefully. And the War Manual. Then he reread parts of the scroll. He put them both away safely and posted guards on the cabin and went aloft.
It was dawn. The day promised warmth and overcast. He canceled the meeting with the Anjin-san, as he had intended, and rode to the plateau with a hundred guards. There he collected his falconers and three hawks and hunted for twenty ri. By noon he had bagged three pheasants, two large woodcock, a hare, and a brace of quail. He sent one pheasant and the hare to the Anjin-san, the rest to the fortress. Some of his samurai were not Buddhists and he was tolerant of their eating habits. For himself he ate a little cold rice with fish paste, some pickled seaweed with slivers of ginger. Then he curled up on the ground and slept.
Now it was late afternoon and Blackthorne was in the kitchen, whistling merrily. Around him were the chief cook, assistant cook, the vegetable preparer, fish preparer, and their assistants, all smiling but inwardly mortified because their master was here in their kitchen with their mistress, also because she had told them he was going to honor them by showing them how to prepare and cook in his style. And last because of the hare.
He had already hung the pheasant under the eaves of an outhouse with careful instructions that no one, no one was to touch it but him. “Do they understand, Fujiko-san? No touching but me?” he asked with mock gravity.
“Oh, yes, Anjin-san. They all understand. So sorry, excuse me, but you should say ‘No one’s to touch it except me.’”
“Now,” he was saying to no one in particular, “the gentle art of cooking. Lesson One.”
“Dozo gomen nasai?” Fujiko asked.
“Miru!” Watch.
Feeling young again—for one of his first chores had been to clean the game he and his brother poached at such huge risk from the estates around Chatham—he selected a long, curving knife. The sushi chef blanched. This was his favorite knife, with an especially honed edge to ensure that the slivers of raw fish were always sliced to perfection. All the staff knew this and they sucked in their breaths, smiling even more to hide their embarrassment for him, as he increased the size of his smile to hide his own shame.
Blackthorne slit the hare’s belly and neatly turned out the stomach sac and entrails. One of the younger maids heaved and fled silently. Fujiko resolved to fine her a month’s wages, wishing at the same time that she too could be a peasant and so flee with honor.
They watched, glazed, as he cut off the paws and feet, then pushed the forelegs back into the pelt, easing the skin off the legs. He did the same with the back legs and worked the pelt around to bring the naked back legs out through the belly slit, and then, with a deft jerk, he pulled the pelt over the head like a discarded winter coat. He lay the almost skinned animal
on the chopping table and decapitated it, leaving the head with its staring, pathetic eyes still attached to the pelt. He turned the pelt right side out again, and put it aside. A sigh went through the kitchen. He did not hear it as he concentrated on slicing off the legs into joints and quartering the carcass. Another maid fled unnoticed.
“Now I want a pot,” Blackthorne said with a hearty grin.
No one answered him. They just stared with the same fixed smiles. He saw a large iron cauldron. It was spotless. He picked it up with bloody hands and filled it with water from a wooden container, then hung the pot over the brazier, which was set into the earthen floor in a pit surrounded by stone. He added the pieces of meat.
“Now some vegetables and spices,” he said.
“Dozo?” Fujiko asked throatily.
He did not know the Japanese words so he looked around. There were some carrots, and some roots that looked like turnips in a wooden basket. These he cleaned and cut up and added to the soup with salt and some of the dark soya sauce.
“We should have some onions and garlic and port wine.”
“Dozo?” Fujiko asked again helplessly.
“Kotaba shirimasen.” I don’t know the words.
She did not correct him, just picked up a spoon and offered it. He shook his head. “Saké,” he ordered. The assistant cook jerked into life and gave him the small wooden barrel.
“Domo.” Blackthorne poured in a cupful, then added another for good measure. He would have drunk some from the barrel but he knew that it would be bad manners, to drink it cold and without ceremony, and certainly not here in the kitchen.
“Christ Jesus, I’d love a beer,” he said.
“Dozo goziemashita, Anjin-san?”
“Kotaba shirimasen—but this stew’s going to be great. Ichi-ban, neh?” He pointed at the hissing pot.
“Hai,” she said without conviction.
“Okuru tsukai arigato Toranaga-sama,” Blackthorne said. Send a messenger to thank Lord Toranaga. No one corrected the bad Japanese.