Shōgun

Blackthorne saw the taut little breasts and tiny waist, flat stomach and curving legs. A flicker of pain went across her face as she lifted her arms above her head. But she held herself like an arrow and fell bravely outward. She speared the water cleanly. Almost no one except him noticed.

“That was a fine dive. Really fine,” he said, giving her a hand to lift her easily out of the water onto the gangway platform. “You should stop now. You might open up the cut on your arm.”

“Yes, thank you, Anjin-san.” She stood beside him, barely reaching his shoulder, very pleased with herself. “That’s a rare sensation, the falling outward and the having to stay stiff, and most of all, the having to dominate your fear. Yes, that was a very rare sensation indeed.” She walked up the companionway and put on the kimono that the maid held out for her. Then, drying her face delicately, she went below.

Christ Jesus, that’s much woman, he thought.

That sunset Toranaga sent for Blackthorne. He was sitting on the poopdeck on clean futons near a small charcoal brazier upon which small pieces of aromatic wood were smoking. They were used to perfume the air and keep away the dusk gnats and mosquitoes. His kimono was pressed and neat, and the huge, winglike shoulders of the starched overmantle gave him a formidable presence. Yabu, too, was formally dressed, and Mariko. Fujiko was also there. Twenty samurai sat silently on guard. Flares were set into stands and the galley still swung calmly at anchor in the bay.

“Saké, Anjin-san?”

“Domo, Toranaga-sama.” Blackthorne bowed and accepted the small cup from Fujiko, lifted it in toast to Toranaga and drained it. The cup was immediately refilled. Blackthorne was wearing a Brown uniform kimono and it felt easier and freer than his own clothes.

“Lord Toranaga says we’re staying here tonight. Tomorrow we arrive at Anjiro. He would like to hear more about your country and the world outside.”

“Of course. What would he like to know? It’s a lovely night, isn’t it?” Blackthorne settled himself comfortably, aware of her femininity. Too aware. Strange, I’m more conscious of her now that she’s clothed than when she wore nothing.

“Yes, very. Soon it will be humid, Anjin-san. Summer is not a good time.” She told Toranaga what she had said. “My Master says to tell you that Yedo is marshy. The mosquitoes are bad in summer, but spring and autumn are beautiful—yes, truly the birth and the dying seasons of the year are beautiful.”

“England’s temperate. The winter’s bad perhaps one winter in seven. And the summer also. Famine about once in six years, though sometimes we get two bad years in a row.”

“We have famine too. All famine is bad. How is it in your country now?”

“We’ve had bad harvests three times in the last ten years and no sun to ripen the corn. But that’s the Hand of the Almighty. Now England’s very strong. We’re prosperous. Our people work hard. We make all our own cloth, all arms—most of the woolen cloth of Europe. A few silks come from France but the quality’s poor and they’re only for the very rich.”

Blackthorne decided not to tell them about plague or the riots or insurrections caused by enclosing the common lands, and the drift of peasants to towns and to cities. Instead he told them about the good kings and queens, sound leaders and wise parliaments and successful wars.

“Lord Toranaga wants to be quite clear. You claim only sea power protects you from Spain and Portugal?”

“Yes. That alone. Command of our seas keeps us free. You’re an island nation too, just like us. Without command of your seas, aren’t you also defenseless against an outside enemy?”

“My Master agrees with you.”

“Ah, you’ve been invaded too?” Blackthorne saw a slight frown as she turned to Toranaga and he reminded himself to confine himself to answers and not questions.