Shōgun

He stayed on the parapet. While he waited sunlight fell into the forecourt, thrusting the shadows away. Mariko appeared below. He saw her greet Kiri and Yoshinaka and they chatted together, no enemy Grays near them. Then they bowed. She looked up at him, shading her eyes, and waved gaily. He waved back. The gates were pushed aside and, with Chimmoko a few discreet paces behind her, she walked out, accompanied by her escort of ten Browns. The gates swung closed once more. For a moment she was lost from view. When she reappeared, fifty Grays from the swarm outside their walls had surrounded them as a further honor guard. The cortege marched away down the sunless avenue. He watched her until she had turned the far corner. She never looked back.

“Go eat now, Captain,” he said.

“Yes, of course, Anjin-san.”

Blackthorne went to his own quarters and ate rice, pickled vegetables, and broiled chunks of fish, followed by early fruit from Kyushu—crisp small apples, apricots, and hard-fleshed plums. He savored the tart fruit and the cha.

“More, Anjin-san?” the servant asked.

“No, thank you.” He offered fruits to his guards and they were accepted gratefully, and when they had finished, he went back to the sunny battlements again. He would have liked to examine the priming of his concealed pistol but he thought it better not to draw attention to it. He had checked it once in the night as best he could under the sheet, under the mosquito net. But without actually seeing, he could not be sure of the tamping or the flint.

There’s nothing more you can do, he thought. You’re a puppet. Be patient, Anjin-san, your watch ends at noon.

He gauged the height of the sun. It will be the beginning of the two-hour period of the Snake. After the Snake comes the Horse. In the middle of the Horse is high noon.

Temple bells throughout the castle and the city tolled the beginning of the Snake and he was pleased with his accuracy. He noticed a small stone on the battlement floor. He went forward and picked up the stone and placed it carefully on a ledge of an embrasure in the sun, then leaned back once more, propping his feet comfortably, and stared at it.

Grays were watching his every movement. The captain frowned. After a while he said, “Anjin-san, what’s the significance of the stone?”

“Please?”

“The stone. Why stone, Anjin-san?”

“Ah! I watch stone grow.”

“Oh so sorry, I understand,” the captain replied apologetically. “Please excuse me for disturbing you.”

Blackthorne laughed to himself, and turned his gaze back to the stone. “Grow, you bastard,” he said. But as much as he cursed it, ordered it, or cajoled it, it would not grow.

Do you really expect to see a rock growing? he asked himself. No, of course not, but it passes the time and promotes tranquillity. You can’t have enough wa. Neh?

Eeeeee, where’s the next attack coming from? There’s no defense against an assassin if the assassin is prepared to die. Is there?

Rodrigues checked the priming of a musket he had taken at random from the rack beside the stern cannon. He found the flint was worn and pitted and therefore dangerous. Without a word he hurled the musket at the gunner. The man just managed to catch it before the stock smashed into his face.

“Madonna, Senhor Pilot,” the man cried out, “there’s no need—”

“Listen, you motherless turd, the next time I find anything wrong with a musket or cannon during your watch, you’ll get fifty lashes and lose three months’ pay. Bosun!”

“Yes, Pilot?” Pesaro, the bosun, heaved his bulk nearer and scowled at the young gunner.

“Turn out both watches! Check every musket and cannon, everything. Only God knows when we’ll need ’em.”

“I’ll see to it, Pilot.” The bosun shoved his face at the gunner.

“I’ll piss in your grog tonight, Gomez, for all the extra work an’ you’d better lap it up with a smile. Get to work!”

There were eight small cannon amidships on the main deck, four port and four starboard and a bowchaser. Enough to beat off any uncannoned pirates but not enough to press home an attack. The small frigate was two-masted, called the Santa Luz.

Rodrigues waited until the crews were at their tasks, then turned away and leaned on the gunwale. The castle glinted dully in the sun, the color of old pewter, except for the donjon with its blue and white walls and golden roofs. He spat into the water and watched the spittle to see if it would reach the jetty pilings as he hoped or go into the sea. It went into the sea. “Piss,” he muttered to no one, wishing he had his own frigate, the Santa Maria, under him right now. God-cursed bad luck that she’s in Macao just when we need her.

“What’s amiss, Captain-General?” he had asked a few days ago at Nagasaki when he’d been routed out of his warm bed in his house that overlooked the city and the harbor.

“I’ve got to get to Osaka at once,” Ferriera had said, plumed and arrogant as any bantam cock, even at this early hour. “An urgent signal’s arrived from dell’Aqua.”

“What’s the matter now?”