Shogun (176 page)

Toranaga toyed with the idea. I’ve certainly got to keep Omi off balance, he told himself. Young Omi can become a thorn in my side too easily. Well, I won’t have to do anything to get Midori divorced. Omi’s father will absolutely have definite last wishes before he commits seppuku and his wife will certainly insist the most important last thing he does on this earth will be to get their son married correctly. So Midori will be divorced within a few days anyway. Yes, she’d be a very good wife.

“If not her, Fujiko-san what about Kiku? Kiku-san?”

Fujiko gaped at him. “Oh, so sorry, Sire, you’re going to relinquish her?”

“I might. Well?”

“I would have thought Kiku-san would be a perfect unofficial consort, Sire. She’s so brilliant and wonderful. Though I can see she would be an enormous distraction for an ordinary man, and, so sorry, it would be years before the Anjin-san would be able to appreciate the rare quality of her singing or dancing or wit. As wife?” she asked, with just enough emphasis to indicate absolute disapproval. “Ladies of the Willow World aren’t usually trained the same as … as others are, Sire. Their talents lie elsewhere. To be responsible for the finances and the affairs of a samurai house is different from the Floating World.”

“Could she learn?”

Fujiko hesitated a long while. “The perfect thing for the Anjin-san would be Midori-san for wife, Kiku-san as consort.”

“Could they learn to live with all his—er—
different
attitudes?”

“Midori-san’s samurai, Sire. It would be her duty. You would order her. Kiku-san also.”

“But not the Anjin-san?”

“You know him better than I, Sire. But in pillow things and … it would be better for him to, well, think of it himself.”

“Toda Mariko-sama would have made a perfect wife for him.
Neh?”

“That’s an extraordinary idea, Sire,” Fujiko replied, without blinking. “Certainly both had an enormous respect for each other.”

“Yes,” he said dryly. “Well, thank you, Fujiko-san. I’ll consider what you said. He’ll be at Anjiro in about ten days.”

“Thank you, Sire. If I might suggest, the port of Ito and the Yokosé Spa should be included within the Anjin-san’s fief.”

“Why?”

“Ito just in case Anjiro is not big enough. Perhaps bigger slipways would be necessary for such a big ship. Perhaps they’re available there. Yokosé be—”

“Are they?”

“Yes, Sire. An—”

“Have you been there?”

“No, Sire. But the Anjin-san’s interested in the sea. So are you. It was my duty to try to learn about ships and shipping, and when we heard the Anjin-san’s ship was burned I wondered if it would be possible to build another, and if so, where and how. Izu is a perfect choice, Sire. It will be easy to keep Ishido’s armies out.”

“And why Yokosé?”

“And Yokosé because a hatamoto should have a place in the mountains where you could be entertained in the style you have a right to expect.”

Toranaga was watching her closely. Fujiko appeared so docile and demure but he knew she was as inflexible as he was and not ready to concede either point unless he ordered it. “I agree. And I’ll consider what you said about Midori-san and Kiku-san.”

“Thank you, Sire,” she said humbly, glad that she had done her duty to her master and repaid her debt to Mariko. Ito for its slipways, and Yokosé where Mariko had said their “love” had really begun.

‘I’m so lucky, Fujiko-chan,’ Mariko had told her at Yedo. ‘Our journey here has brought me more joy than I have the right to expect in twenty lifetimes.’

‘I beg you to protect him in Osaka, Mariko-san. So sorry, he’s not like us, not civilized like us, poor man. His nirvana is life and not death.’

That’s still true, Fujiko thought again, blessing Mariko’s memory. Mariko had saved the Anjin-san, no one else—not the Christian God or any gods, not the Anjin-san himself, not even Toranaga, no one—only Mariko alone. Toda Mariko-noh-Akechi Jinsai had saved him.

Before I die I will put up a shrine at Yokosé and leave a bequest for another at Osaka and another at Yedo. That’s going to be one of my death wishes, Toranaga-sama, she promised herself, looking back at him so patiently, warmed by all the other lovely things yet to be done on the Anjin-san’s behalf. Midori to wife certainly,
never
Kiku as wife but
only
a consort and not necessarily chief consort, and the fief extended to Shimoda on the very south coast of Izu. “Do you want me to leave at once, Sire?”

“Stay here tonight, then go direct tomorrow. Not via Yokohama.”

“Yes. I understand. So sorry, I can take possession of my Master’s new fief on his behalf—and all it contains—the moment I arrive?”

“Kawanabi-san will give you the necessary documents before you leave here. Now, please send Kiku-san to me.”

Fujiko bowed and left.

Toranaga grunted. Pity that woman’s going to end herself. She’s almost too valuable to lose, and much too smart. Ito and Yokosé? Ito understandable. Why Yokosé? And what else was in her mind?

He saw Kiku coming across the sun-baked courtyard, her little feet in white tabi, almost dancing, so sweet and elegant with her silks and crimson sunshade, the envy of every man in sight. Ah, Kiku, he
thought, I can’t afford that envy, so sorry. I can’t afford you in this life, so sorry. You should have remained where you were in the Floating World, courtesan of the First Class. Or even better,
gei-sha
. What a fine idea that old hag came up with! Then you’d be safe, the property of many, the adored of many, the central point of tragic suicides and violent quarrels and wonderful assignations, fawned on and feared, showered with money that you’d treat with disdain, a legend—while your beauty lasts. But now? Now I can’t keep you, so sorry. Any samurai I give you to as consort takes to his bed a double-edged knife: a complete distraction and the envy of every other man.
Neh?
Few would agree to marry you, so sorry, but that’s the truth and this is a day for truths. Fujiko was right. You’re not trained to run a samurai household, so sorry. As soon as your beauty goes—oh, your voice will last, child, and your wit, but soon you’ll still be cast out on to the dung heap of the world. So sorry, but that’s also the truth. Another is that the highest Ladies of the Floating World are best left in their Floating World to run other houses when age is upon them, even the most famous, to weep over lost lovers and lost youth in barrels of saké, watered with your tears. The lesser ones at best to be wife to a farmer or fisherman or merchant, or rice seller or craftsman, from which life you were born—the rare, sudden flower that appears in the wilderness for no reason other than
karma
, to blossom quickly and to vanish quickly.

So sad, so very sad. How do I give you samurai children?

You keep her for the rest of your time, his secret heart told him. She merits it. Don’t fool yourself like you fool others. The truth is you could keep her easily, taking her a little, leaving her a lot, just like your favorite Tetsu-ko, or Kogo. Isn’t Kiku just a falcon to you? Prized yes, unique yes, but just a falcon that you feed from your fist, to fly at a prey and call back with a lure, to cast adrift after a season or two, to vanish forever? Don’t lie to yourself, that’s fatal. Why not keep her? She’s only just another falcon, though very special, very high-flying, very beautiful to watch, but nothing more, rare certainly, unique certainly, and, oh, so pillowable….

“Why do you laugh? Why are you so happy, Sire?”

“Because you are a joy to see, Lady.”

Blackthorne leaned his weight on one of the three hawsers that were attached to the keel plate of the wreck. “
Hipparuuuu!”
he called out. Puuuulll!

There were a hundred samurai naked to their loincloths hauling lustily on each rope. It was afternoon now and low tide, and Blackthorne hoped to be able to shift the wreck and drag her ashore to salvage everything. He had adapted his first plan when he had found to his glee that all the cannon had been fished out of the sea thè day after the holocaust and were almost as perfect as the day they had left their foundry near Chatham in his home county of Kent. As well, almost a thousand cannonballs, some grape and chain and many metal things had been recovered. Most were twisted and scored but he had the makings of a ship, better than he had dreamed possible.

“Marvelous, Naga-san! Marvelous!” he had congratulated him when he had discovered the true extent of the salvage.

“Oh, thank you, Anjin-san. Try hard, so sorry.”

“Never mind so sorry. All good now!”

Yes, he had rejoiced. Now
The Lady
can be just a mite longer and a mite more abeam, but she’ll still have her greyhound look and she’ll be a piss-cutter to end all piss-cutters.

Ah, Rodrigues, he had thought without rancor, I’m glad you’re safe and away this year and there’ll be another man to sink next year. If Ferriera’s Captain-General again, that would be a gift from heaven, but I won’t count on it and I’m glad you’re safe away. I owe you my life and you were a great pilot.

“
Hipparuuuuuuu!”
he shouted again and hawsers jerked, the sea dripping off them like sweat, but the wreck did not budge.

Since that dawn on the beach with Toranaga, Mariko’s letter in his hands, the cannon discovered so soon afterward, there had not been enough hours in the day. He had drawn beginning plans and made and remade lists and changed plans and very carefully offered up lists of men and materials needed, not wanting any mistakes. And after the day, he worked at the dictionary long into the night to learn the new words he would need to tell the craftsmen what he wanted, to find out what they had already and could do already. Many times, in desperation, he had wanted to ask the priest to help but he knew there was no help there now that their enmity was inexorably fixed.

Karma
, he had told himself without pain, pitying the priest for his misbegotten fanaticism.

“
Hipparuuuuuuuu!”

Again the samurai strained against the hold of the sand and the sea, then a chant sprang up and they tugged in unison. The wreck shifted a fraction and they redoubled their efforts, then it jerked loose and
they sprawled in the sand. They picked themselves up, laughing, congratulating themselves, and leaned on the ropes again. But now the wreck was stuck firm once more.

Blackthorne showed them how to take the ropes to one side, then to the other, trying to ease the wreck to port or starboard but it was as fixed as though anchored.

“I’ll have to buoy it, then the tide’ll do the work and lift it,” he said aloud in English.

“
Dozo?”
Naga said, puzzled.

“
Ah, gomen nasai
, Naga-san.” With signs and pictures in the sand he explained, damning his lack of words, how to make a raft and tie it to the spines at low tide; then the next high tide would float the wreck and they could pull it ashore and beach it. At the next low tide it would be easy to manage because they would have laid rollers for it to rest on.

“
Ah so desu!”
Naga said, impressed. When he explained to the other officers, they also were filled with admiration and Blackthorne’s own vassals were puffed with implied importance.

Blackthorne noticed this and he pointed a finger at one. “Where are your manners?”

“What? Oh, so sorry, Sire, please excuse me for offending you.”

“Today I will, tomorrow no. Swim out to ship—untie this rope.”

The ronin-samurai quailed and rolled his eyes. “So sorry, Sire, I can’t swim.”

Now it was silent on the beach and Blackthorne knew all were waiting to see what would happen. He was furious with himself, for an order was an order and involuntarily he had given a death sentence that was not merited this time. He thought a moment. “Toranaga-sama’s orders, all men learn swim.
Neh?
All my vassals swim within thirty days. Better swim in thirty days. You, in water—get first lesson now.”

Fearfully the samurai began to walk into the sea, knowing he was a dead man. Blackthorne joined him and when the man’s head went under he pulled him up, none too kindly, and made him swim, letting him flounder but never dangerously all the way out to the wreck, the man coughing and retching and holding on. Then he pulled him ashore again and twenty yards from the shallows he shoved him off. “Swim!”

The man made it like a half-drowned cat. Never again would he act self-important in front of his master. His fellows cheered and the men on the beach were rolling in the sand with laughter, those who could swim.

“Very good, Anjin-san,” Naga said. “Very wise.” He laughed again, then said, “Please, I send men for bamboo. For raft,
neh?
Tomorrow try to get all here.”

“Thank you.”

“More pull today?”

“No, no thank—” Blackthorne stopped and shaded his eyes. Father Alvito was standing on a dune, watching them.

“No, thank you, Naga-san,” Blackthorne said. “All finish here today. Please excuse me a moment.” He went to get his clothes and swords but his men brought them to him quickly. Unhurriedly, he dressed and stuck his swords in his sash.

“Good afternoon,” Blackthorne said, going over to Alvito. The priest looked drawn but there was friendliness in his face, as there had been before their violent quarrel outside Mishima. Blackthorne’s caution increased.

“And to you, Captain-Pilot. I’m leaving this morning. I just wanted to talk a moment. Do you mind?”

“No, not at all.”

“What are you going to do, try to float the hulk?”

“Yes.”

“It won’t help you, I’m afraid.”

“Never mind. I’m going to try.”

“You really believe you can build another ship?”

“Oh, yes,” Blackthorne said patiently, wondering what was in Alvito’s mind.

“Are you going to bring the rest of your crew here to help you?”

“No,” Blackthorne said, after a moment. “They’d rather be in Yedo. When the ship’s near completion … there’s plenty of time to bring them here.”

“They live with
eta
, don’t they?”

“Yes.”

“Is that the reason you don’t want them here?”

“One reason.”

“I don’t blame you. I heard they’re all very quarrelsome now and drunk most of the time. Did you know a week or so ago there was a small riot among them and their house burned down, so the story goes?”