Shōgun

“Thank you, Anjin-san,” she replied in Japanese, her cheeks coloring. She walked up to the platform, but the youth stayed within the circle of onlookers. Mariko bowed to Ochiba. “I have done little, Ochiba-sama. It’s all the Anjin-san’s work and the word book that the Christian Fathers gave him.”

“Ah yes, the word book!” Ochiba made Blackthorne show it to her and, with Mariko’s help, explain it elaborately. She was fascinated. So was Ishido. “We must get copies, Lord General. Please order them to give us a hundred of the books. With these, our young men could soon learn barbarian, neh?”

“Yes. It’s a good idea, Lady. The sooner we have our own interpreters, the better.” Ishido laughed. “Let Christians break their own monopoly, neh?”

An iron-gray samurai in his sixties who stood in the front of the guests said, “Christians own no monopoly, Lord General. We ask the Christian Fathers—in fact we insist that they be interpreters and negotiators because they’re the only ones who can talk to both sides and are trusted by both sides. Lord Goroda began the custom, neh? And then the Taikō continued it.”

“Of course, Lord Kiyama, I meant no disrespect to daimyos or samurai who have become Christian. I referred only to the monopoly of the Christian priests,” Ishido said. “It would be better for us if our people and not foreign priests—any priests for that matter—controlled our trade with China.”

Kiyama said, “There’s never been a case of fraud, Lord General. Prices are fair, the trade is easy and efficient, and the Fathers control their own people. Without the Southern Barbarians there’s no silk, no China trade. Without the Fathers we could have much trouble. Very much trouble, so sorry. Please excuse me for mentioning it.”

“Ah, Lord Kiyama,” the Lady Ochiba said, “I’m sure Lord Ishido is honored that you correct him, isn’t that so, Lord General? What would the Council be without Lord Kiyama’s advice?”

“Of course,” Ishido said.

Kiyama bowed stiffly, not unpleased. Ochiba glanced at the youth and fluttered her fan. “How about you, Saruji-san? Perhaps you would like to learn barbarian?”

The boy blushed under their scrutiny. He was slim and handsome and tried hard to be more manly than his almost fifteen years. “Oh, I hope I wouldn’t have to do that, Ochiba-sama, oh no—but if it is ordered I will try. Yes, I’d try very hard.”

They laughed at his ingenuousness. Mariko said proudly in Japanese, “Anjin-san, this is my son, Saruji.” Blackthorne had been concentrating on their conversation, most of which was too fast and too vernacular for him to comprehend. But he had heard “Kiyama,” and an alarm went off. He bowed to Saruji and the bow was formally returned. “He’s a very fine man, neh? Lucky have such a fine son, Mariko-sama.” His veiled eyes were looking at the youth’s right hand. It was permanently twisted. Then he remembered that once Mariko had told him her son’s birth had been prolonged and difficult. Poor lad, he thought. How can he use a sword? He took his eyes away. No one had noticed the direction of his glance except Saruji. He saw embarrassment and pain in the youth’s face.

“Lucky have fine son,” he said to Mariko. “But surely impossible, Mariko-sama, you have such big son—not enough years, neh?”

Ochiba said, “Are you always so gallant, Anjin-san? Do you always say such clever things?”

“Please?”

“Ah, always so clever? Compliments? Do you understand?”

“No, so sorry, please excuse me.” Blackthorne’s head was aching from concentration. Even so, when Mariko told him what had been said he replied with mock gravity, “Ah, so sorry, Mariko-sama. If Saruji-san is truly your son, please tell the Lady Ochiba I did not know that ladies here were married at ten.”

She translated. Then added something that made them laugh.

“What did you say?”

“Ah!” Mariko noticed Kiyama’s baleful eyes on Blackthorne. “Please excuse me, Lord Kiyama, may I introduce the Anjin-san to you?”

Kiyama acknowledged Blackthorne’s very correct bow politely. “They say you claim to be a Christian?”

“Please?”

Kiyama did not deign to repeat it so Mariko translated.

“Ah, so sorry, Lord Kiyama,” Blackthorne said in Japanese. “Yes. I’m Christian—but different sect.”

“Your sect is not welcome in my lands. Nor in Nagasaki—or Kyushu, I’d imagine—or in any lands of any Christian daimyos.”

Mariko kept her smile in place. She was wondering if Kiyama had personally ordered the Amida assassin, and also the attack last night. She translated, taking the edge off Kiyama’s discourtesy, everyone in the room listening intently.

“I’m not a priest, Lord,” Blackthorne said, direct to Kiyama. “If I in your land—only trade. No priest talk or teach. Respectfully ask trade only.”

“I do not want your trade. I do not want you in my lands. You are forbidden my lands on pain of death. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand,” Blackthorne said. “So sorry.”