Shōgun

“They don’t tell us, their converts, what they truly believe, Anjin-san. Or even themselves most times. They are trained to have secrets, to use secrets, to welcome them, but never to reveal them. In that they’re very Japanese.”

“You’d better stay here in Osaka, Uraga-san.”

“Please excuse me, Sire, I am your vassal. If you go to Nagasaki, I go.”

Blackthorne knew that Uraga was becoming an invaluable aid. The man was revealing so many Jesuit secrets: the how and why and when of their trade negotiations, their internal workings and incredible international machinations. And he was equally informative about Harima and Kiyama and how the Christian daimyos thought, and why, probably, they would stay sided with Ishido. God, I know so much now that’d be priceless in London, he thought, and so much still to learn. How can I pass on the knowledge? For instance that China’s trade, just in silk to Japan, is worth ten million in gold a year, and that, even now, the Jesuits have one of their professed priests at the Court of the Emperor of China in Peking, honored with courtly rank, a confidant of the rulers, speaking Chinese perfectly. If only I could send a letter—if only I had an envoy.

In return for all the knowledge Blackthorne began to teach Uraga about navigation, about the great religious schism, and about Parliament. Also he taught him and Yabu how to fire a gun. Both were apt pupils. Uraga’s a good man, he thought. No problem. Except he’s ashamed of his lack of a samurai queue. That’ll soon grow.

There was a warning shout from the forepoop lookout.

“Anjin-san!” The Japanese captain was pointing ahead at an elegant cutter, oared by twenty men, that approached from the starboard quarter. At the masthead was Ishido’s cipher. Alongside it was the cipher of the Council of Regents, the same that Nebara Jozen and his men had traveled under to Anjiro, to their deaths.

“Who is it?” Blackthorne asked, feeling a tension throughout the ship, all eyes straining into the distance.

“I can’t see yet, so sorry,” the captain said.

“Yabu-san?”

Yabu shrugged. “An official.”

As the cutter came closer, Blackthorne saw an elderly man sitting under the aft canopy, wearing ornate ceremonial dress with the winged overmantle. He wore no swords. Surrounding him were Ishido’s Grays.

The drum master ceased the beat to allow the cutter to come alongside. Men rushed to help the official aboard. A Japanese pilot jumped after him and after numerous bows took formal charge of the galley.

Yabu and the elderly man were also formal and painstaking. At length they were seated on cushions of unequal rank, the official taking the most favored position on the poop. Samurai, Yabu’s and Grays, sat cross-legged or knelt on the main deck surrounding them in even lesser places. “The Council welcomes you, Kasigi Yabu, in the name of His Imperial Highness,” the man said. He was small and stocky, somewhat effete, a senior adviser to the Regents on protocol who also had Imperial Court rank. His name was Ogaki Takamoto, he was a Prince of the Seventh Rank, and his function was to act as one of the intermediaries between the Court of His Imperial Highness, the Son of Heaven, and the Regents. His teeth were dyed black in the manner that all courtiers of the Imperial Court had, by custom, affected for centuries.

“Thank you, Prince Ogaki. It’s a privilege to be here on Lord Toranaga’s behalf,” Yabu said, vastly impressed with the honor being done to him.

“Yes, I’m sure it is. Of course, you’re here on your own behalf also, neh?” Ogaki said dryly.

“Of course,” Yabu replied. “When does Lord Toranaga arrive? So sorry, but the tai-fun. delayed me for five days and I’ve had no news since I left.”

“Ah, yes, the tai-fun. Yes, the Council were so happy to hear that the storm did not touch you.” Ogaki coughed. “As to your master, I regret to tell you that he hasn’t even reached Odawara yet. There have been interminable delays, and some sickness. Regrettable, neh?”

“Oh yes, very—nothing serious, I trust?” Yabu asked quickly, immensely glad to be party to Toranaga’s secret.

“No, fortunately nothing serious.” Again the dry cough. “Lord Ishido understands that your master reaches Odawara tomorrow.”

Yabu was suitably surprised. “When I left, twenty-one days ago, everything was ready for his immediate departure, then Lord Hiro-matsu became sick. I know Lord Toranaga was gravely concerned but anxious to begin his journey—as I’m anxious to begin preparations for his arrival.”

“Everything’s prepared,” the small man said.

“Of course the Council will have no objections if I check the arrangements, neh?” Yabu was expansive. “It’s essential the ceremony be worthy of the Council and occasion, neh?”

“Worthy of His Imperial Majesty, the Son of Heaven. It’s his summons now.”

“Of course but . . .” Yabu’s sense of well-being died. “You mean . . . you mean His Imperial Highness will be there?”