Shogun

Blackthorne thought a moment, trying to still his heart. “There’s no need. Of course he hit the target.”

“He says he would like you to be sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“Please, Anjin-san. You would honor him.”

“I don’t need to honor him.”

“Yes. But may I please quietly add my request.”

Again the plea was in her eyes.

“How do I say, ‘That was marvelous to watch’?”

She told him. He said the words and bowed. Buntaro bowed perfunctorily in return.

“Ask him please to come with me to see the arrows.”

“He says that he would like you to go by yourself. He does not wish to go, Anjin-san.”

“Why?”

“If he has been accurate, senhor, you should see that by yourself. If not, you should see that alone too. Then neither you nor he can be embarrassed.”

“And if he’s missed?”

“He hasn’t. But by our custom accuracy under such impossible circumstances is unimportant compared to the grace that the archer shows, the nobility of movement, his strength to shoot sitting, or the detachment about the winning or losing.”

The arrows were within an inch of each other in the middle of the left post. Blackthorne looked back at the house and he could see, forty-odd paces away, the small neat hole in the paper wall that was a spark of light in the darkness.

It’s almost impossible to be so accurate, he thought. From where Buntaro was sitting he couldn’t see the garden or the gate, and it was black night outside. Blackthorne turned back to the post and raised the lantern higher. With one hand he tried to pull out an arrow. The steel head was buried too deep. He could have snapped the wooden shaft but he did not wish to.

The guard was watching.

Blackthorne hesitated. The guard came forward to help but he shook his head, “Iye, domo,” and went back inside.

“Mariko-san, please tell my consort that I would like the arrows left in the post forever. All of them. To remind me of a master archer. I’ve never seen such shooting.” He bowed to Buntaro.

“Thank you, Anjin-san.” She translated and Buntaro bowed and thanked him for the compliment.

“Sake!” Blackthorne ordered.

They drank more. Much more. Buntaro quaffed his carelessly now, the wine taking him. Blackthorne watched him covertly then let his attention wander away as he wondered how the man had managed to line up and fire the arrows with such incredible accuracy. It’s impossible, he thought, yet I saw him do it. Wonder what Vinck and Baccus and the rest are doing right now. Toranaga had told him the crew were now settled in Yedo, near Erasmus. Christ Jesus, I’d like to see them and get back aboard.

He glanced across at Mariko, who was saying something to her husband. Buntaro listened, then to Blackthorne’s surprise, he saw the samurai’s face become contorted with loathing. Before he could avert his eyes Buntaro had looked at him.

“Nan desu ka?” Buntaro’s words sounded almost like an accusation.

“Nani-mo, Buntaro-san.” Nothing. Blackthorne offered everyone sake, hoping to cover his lapse. Again the women accepted, but just sipped their wine sparingly. Buntaro finished his cup at once, his mood ugly. Then he harangued Mariko lengthily.

In spite of himself, Blackthorne spoke out. “What’s the matter with him? What’s he saying?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Anjin-san. My husband was asking about you, about your wife and consorts. And about your children. And about what happened since we left Osaka. He—” She stopped, changing her mind, and added in a different voice, “He’s most interested in you and your views.”

“I’m interested in him and his views, Mariko-san. How did you meet, you and he? When were you married? Did—” Buntaro overrode him with a flurry of impatient Japanese.

At once Mariko translated what had been said. Buntaro reached over and sloshed two teacups full of sake, offered one to Blackthorne and waved at the women to take the others.

“He—my husband says sometimes sake cups are too small.” Mariko poured the other teacups full. She sipped one, Fujiko the other. There was another, more bellicose harangue and Mariko’s smile froze on her face, Fujiko’s also.

“Iye, dozo gomen nasai, Buntaro-sama,” Mariko began.

“Ima!” Buntaro ordered.

Nervously Fujiko started to talk but Buntaro shut her up with one look.

“Gomen nasai,” Fujiko whispered in apology. “Dozo gomen nasai.”

“What did he say, Mariko-san?”

She appeared not to hear Blackthorne. “Dozo gomen nasai, Buntaro-sama, watashi—”

Her husband’s face reddened. “IMA!”

“So sorry, Anjin-san, but my husband orders me to tell—to answer your questions—to tell you about myself. I told him that I did not think that family matters should be discussed so late at night, but he orders it. Please be patient.” She took a large sip of the sake. Then another. The strands of hair that were loose over her ears waved in the slight current made by Fujiko’s fan. She drained the cup and put it down. “My maiden name is Akechi. I am the daughter of General Lord Akechi Jinsai, the assassin. My father treacherously assassinated his liege lord, the Dictator Lord Goroda.”

“God in heaven! Why’d he do that?”

“Whatever the reason, Anjin-san, it is insufficient. My father committed the worst crime in our world. My blood’s tainted, as is the blood of my son.”

“Then why—” He stopped.

“Yes, Anjin-san?”

“I was only going to say that I understand what that means .?.?. to kill a liege lord. I’m surprised that you were left alive.”

“My husband honored me—”

Again Buntaro viciously interrupted her and she apologized and explained what Blackthorne had asked. Contemptuously Buntaro waved her on.

“My husband honored me by sending me away,” she continued in the same gentle way. “I begged to be allowed to commit seppuku but he denied me that privilege. It was .?.?. I must explain, seppuku is his privilege to give, or Lord Toranaga’s. I still humbly ask it once a year on the anniversary of the day of the treachery. But in his wisdom, my husband has always refused me.” Her smile was lovely. “My husband honors me every day, every moment, Anjin-san. If I were he I would not be able to even talk to such a .?.?. befouled person.”

“That’s why—that’s why you’re the last of your line?” he asked, remembering what she had said about a catastrophe on the march from Osaka Castle.

Mariko translated the question for Buntaro and then turned back again. “Hai, Anjin-san. But it wasn’t a catastrophe, not for them. They were caught in the hills, my father and his family, by Nakamura, the general who became the Taiko. It was Nakamura who led the armies of vengeance and slaughtered all my father’s forces, twenty thousand men, every one. My father and his family were trapped, but my father had time to help them all, my four brothers and three sisters, my—my mother and his two consorts. Then he committed seppuku. In that he was samurai and they were samurai,” she said. “They knelt bravely before him, one by one, and he slew them one by one. They died honorably. And he died honorably. My father’s two brothers and one uncle had sided with him in his treachery against their liege lord. They were also trapped. And they died with equal honor. Not one Akechi was left alive to face the hate and derision of the enemy except me—no, please forgive me, Anjin-san, I’m wrong—my father and his brothers and uncle, they were the real enemy. Of the enemy, only I am left alive, a living witness to filthy treachery. I, Akechi Mariko, was left alive because I was married and so belonged to my husband’s family. We lived at Kyoto then. I was at Kyoto when my father died. His treachery and rebellion lasted