Shōgun

The falcon was a peregrine and she was in her prime. The handler, a gnarled old samurai, knelt in front of Toranaga and held her as though she were spun glass. Toranaga cut the broken quill, dipped the tiny bamboo imping needle into the glue and inserted it into the haft of the feather, then delicately slipped the new cut feather over the other end. He adjusted the angle until it was perfect and bound it with a silken thread. The tiny bells on her feet jingled, and he gentled the fear out of her.

Yoshi Toranaga, Lord of the Kwanto—the Eight Provinces—head of the clan Yoshi, Chief General of the Armies of the East, President of the Council of Regents, was a short man with a big belly and large nose. His eyebrows were thick and dark and his mustache and beard gray-flecked and sparse. Eyes dominated his face. He was fifty-eight and strong for his age. His kimono was simple, an ordinary Brown uniform, his sash belt cotton. But his swords were the best in the world.

“There, my beauty,” he said with a lover’s tenderness. “Now you are whole again.” He caressed the bird with a feather as she sat hooded on the handler’s gauntleted fist. She shivered and preened herself contentedly. “We’ll fly her within the week.”

The handler bowed and left.

Toranaga turned his eyes on the two men at the door. “Welcome, Iron Fist, I’m pleased to see you,” he said. “So this is your famous barbarian?”

“Yes, Lord.” Hiro-matsu came closer, leaving his swords at the doorway as was custom, but Toranaga insisted he bring them with him.

“I would feel uncomfortable if you didn’t have them in your hands,” he said.

Hiro-matsu thanked him. Even so, he sat five paces away. By custom, no one armed could safely come closer to Toranaga. In the front rank of the guards was Usagi, Hiro-matsu’s favorite grandson-in-law, and he nodded to him briefly. The youth bowed deeply, honored and pleased to be noticed. Perhaps I should adopt him formally, Hiro-matsu told himself happily, warmed by the thought of his favorite granddaughter and his first great-grandson that they had presented him with last year.

“How is your back?” Toranaga asked solicitously.

“All right, thank you, Lord. But I must tell you I’m glad to be off that ship and on land again.”

“I hear you’ve a new toy here to idle away the hours with, neh?”

The old man guffawed. “I can only tell you. Lord, the hours weren’t idle. I haven’t been so hard in years.”

Toranaga laughed with him. “Then we should reward her. Your health is important to me. May I send her a token of my thanks?”

“Ah, Toranaga-sama, you’re so kind.” Hiro-matsu became serious. “You could reward all of us, Sire, by leaving this hornet’s nest at once, and going back to your castle at Yedo where your vassals can protect you. Here we’re naked. Any moment Ishido could—”

“I will. As soon as the Council of Regents meeting is concluded.” Toranaga turned and beckoned the lean-faced Portuguese who was sitting patiently in his shadow. “Will you interpret for me now, my friend?”

“Certainly, Sire.” The tonsured priest came forward, with practiced grace kneeled in Japanese style close to the dais, his body as spare as his face, his eyes dark and liquid, an air of serene concentration about him. He wore tabi socks and a flowing kimono that seemed, on him, to belong. A rosary and a carved golden cross hung at his belt. He greeted Hiro-matsu as an equal, then glanced pleasantly at Blackthorne.

“My name is Martin Alvito of the Society of Jesus, Captain-Pilot. Lord Toranaga has asked me to interpret for him.”

“First tell him that we’re enemies and that—”

“All in good time,” Father Alvito interrupted smoothly. Then he added, “We can speak Portuguese, Spanish, or, of course, Latin—whichever you prefer.”

Blackthorne had not seen the priest until the man came forward. The dais had hidden him, and the other samurai. But he had been expecting him, forewarned by Rodrigues, and loathed what he saw: the easy elegance, the aura of strength and natural power of the Jesuits. He had assumed the priest would be much older, considering his influential position and the way Rodrigues had talked about him. But they were practically of an age, he and the Jesuit. Perhaps the priest was a few years older.

“Portuguese,” he said, grimly hoping that this might give him a slight advantage. “You’re Portuguese?”

“I have that privilege.”

“You’re younger than I expected.”

“Senhor Rodrigues is very kind. He gives me more credit than I deserve. He described you perfectly. Also your bravery.”

Blackthorne saw him turn and talk fluently and affably to Toranaga for a while, and this further perturbed him. Hiro-matsu alone, of all the men in the room, listened and watched attentively. The rest stared stonily into space.

“Now, Captain-Pilot, we will begin. You will please listen to everything that Lord Toranaga says, without interruption,” Father Alvito began. “Then you will answer. From now on I will be translating what you say almost simultaneously, so please answer with great care.”