Shogun

only thirteen days, Anjin-san. But as long as men live in these islands, the name Akechi will be foul.”

“How long had you been married when that happened?”

“Two months and three days, Anjin-san.”

“And you were fifteen then?”

“Yes. My husband honored me by not divorcing me or casting me out as he should have done. I was sent away. To a village in the north. It was cold there, Anjin-san, in Shonai Province. So cold.”

“How long were you there?”

“Eight years. The Lord Goroda was forty-nine when he committed seppuku to prevent capture. That was almost sixteen years ago, Anjin-san, and most of his descen—”

Buntaro interrupted again, his tongue a whip.

“Please excuse me, Anjin-san,” Mariko said. “My husband correctly points out it should have been enough for me to say that I am the daughter of a traitor, that long explanations are unnecessary. Of course some explanations are necessary,” she added carefully. “Please excuse my husband’s bad manners and I beg you to remember what I said about ears to hear with and the Eightfold Fence. Forgive me, Anjin-san, I am ordered away. You may not leave until he leaves, or passes out with drink. Do not interfere.” She bowed to Fujiko. “Dozo gomen nasai.”

“Do itashimashite.”

Mariko bowed her head to Buntaro and left. Her perfume lingered.

“Sake!” Buntaro said and smiled evilly.

Fujiko filled the teacup.

“Health,” Blackthorne said, in turmoil.

For more than an hour he toasted Buntaro until he felt his own head swimming. Then Buntaro passed out and lay in the shattered mess of the teacups. The shoji opened instantly. The guard came in with Mariko. They lifted Buntaro, helped by servants who seemed to appear out of nowhere, and carried him to the room opposite. Mariko’s room. Assisted by the maid, Koi, she began to undress him. The guard slid the shoji closed and sat outside it, his hand on the haft of his loosened sword.

Fujiko waited, watching Blackthorne. Maids came and tidied up the disorder. Wearily Blackthorne ran his hands through his long hair and retied the ribbon of his queue. Then he lurched up and went out onto the veranda, his consort following.

The air smelled good and cleansed him. But not enough. He sat ponderously on the stoop and drank in the night.

Fujiko knelt behind him and leaned forward. “Gomen nasai, Anjin-san,” she whispered, nodding back at the house. “Wakarimasu ka?” Do you understand?

“Wakarimasu, shigata ga nai.” Then, seeing her untoward fear, he stroked her hair.

“Arigato, arigato, Anjin-sama.”

“Anatawa suimin ima, Fujiko-san,” he said, finding the words with difficulty. You sleep now.

“Dozo gomen nasai, Anjin-sama, suimin, neh?” she said, motioning him toward his own room, her eyes pleading.

“Iye. Watashi oyogu ima.” No, I’m going for a swim.

“Hai, Anjin-sama.” Obediently she turned and called out. Two of the servants came running. Both were young men from the village, strong and known to be good swimmers.

Blackthorne did not object. Tonight he knew his objections would be meaningless.

“Well, anyway,” he said aloud as he lurched down the hill, the men following, his brain dulled with drink, “anyway, I’ve put him to sleep. He can’t hurt her now.”

Blackthorne swam for an hour and felt better. When he came back Fujiko was waiting on the veranda with a pot of fresh cha. He accepted some, then went to bed and was instantly asleep.

The sound of Buntaro’s voice, teeming with malice, awoke him. His right hand was already grasping the hilt of the loaded pistol he always kept under the futon, and his heart was thundering in his chest from the suddenness of his waking.

Buntaro’s voice stopped. Mariko began to talk. Blackthorne could only catch a few words but he could feel the reasonableness and the pleading, not abject or whining or even near tears, just her usual firm serenity. Again Buntaro erupted.

Blackthorne tried not to listen.

“Don’t interfere,” she had told him and she was wise. He had no rights, but Buntaro had many. “I beg you to be careful, Anjin-san. Remember what I told you about ears to hear with and the Eightfold Fence.”

Obediently he lay back, his skin chilled with sweat, and forced himself to think about what she had said.

“You see, Anjin-san,” she had told him that very special evening when they were finishing the last of many last flasks of sake and he had been joking about the lack of privacy everywhere—people always around and paper walls, ears and eyes always prying, “here you have to learn to create your own privacy. We’re taught from childhood to disappear within ourselves, to grow impenetrable walls behind which we live. If we couldn’t, we’d all certainly go mad and kill each other and ourselves.”

“What walls?”

“Oh, we’ve a limitless maze to hide in, Anjin-san. Rituals and customs, taboos of all kinds, oh yes. Even our language has nuances you don’t have which allow us to avoid, politely, any question if we don’t want to answer it.”

“But how do you close your ears, Mariko-san? That’s impossible.”

“Oh, very easy, with training. Of course, training begins as soon as a child can talk, so very soon it’s second nature to us—how else could we survive? First you begin by cleansing your mind of people, to put yourself on a different plane. Sunset watching is a great help or listening to the rain—Anjin-san, have you noticed the different sounds of rain? If you really listen, then the present vanishes, neh? Listening to blossoms falling and to rocks growing are exceptionally good exercises. Of course, you’re not supposed to see the things, they’re only signs, messages to your hara, your center, to remind you of the transience of life, to help you gain wa, harmony, Anjin-san, perfect harmony, which is the most sought-after quality in all Japanese life, all art, all?.?.?.” She had laughed. “There, you see what so much sake does to me.” The tip of her tongue touched her lips so enticingly. “I will whisper a secret to you: Don’t be fooled by our smiles and gentleness, our ceremonial and our bowing and sweetnesses and attentions. Beneath them all we can be a million ri away, safe and alone. For that’s what we seek—oblivion. One of our first poems ever written—it’s in the Kojiki, our first history book that was written down about a thousand years ago—perhaps that will explain what I’m saying:

“Eight cumulus arise
For the lovers to hide within.
The Eightfold Fence of Izumo Province
Enclose those Eightfold clouds—
Oh how marvelous, that Eightfold Fence!

We would certainly go mad if we didn’t have an Eightfold Fence, oh very yes!”

Remember the Eightfold Fence, he told himself, as the hissing fury of Buntaro continued. I don’t know anything about her. Or him, really. Think about the Musket Regiment or home or Felicity or how to get the ship or about Baccus or Toranaga or Omi-san. What about Omi? Do I need revenge? He wants to be my friend and he’s been good and kind since the pistols and?.?.?.

The sound of the blow tore into his head. Then Mariko’s voice began again, and there was a second blow