Shogun

“Ah, it’s all right. I’ve got it. I was lying on it.”

“Oh. You’re—you’re sure you don’t mind?”

“No, but it’s a bit, well, not exactly uplifting, all this talking about it and having to wait. Is it?”

“Oh, I don’t mind. It was my fault for laughing. Oh, Anjin-san, I love you so, please excuse me.”

“You’re excused.”

“I love to touch thee.”

“I’ve never known anything like your touch.”

“What are you doing, Anjin-san?”

“I’m putting it on.”

“Is it difficult?”

“Yes. Stop laughing!”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, perhaps you—”

“Stop laughing!”

“Please forgive me.?.?.?.”

Afterwards she went to sleep instantly, totally spent. He did not. For him it had been fine, but not perfect. He’d been too worried about her. He’d decided this time was for her pleasure, and not his.

Yes, that was for her, he thought, loving her. But one thing was perfect: I know I’ve truly satisfied her. For once I’m absolutely sure.

He slept. Later the sound of voices and quarreling, and, mixed with it, Portuguese, began to filter through his slumber. For a moment he thought he was dreaming, then he recognized the voice. “Rodrigues!”

Mariko murmured, still locked in sleep.

At the sound of footsteps on the path he lurched to his knees in controlled panic. He lifted her as if she were a doll, went for the shoji, and stopped just as it was opened from the outside. It was Chimmoko. The maid’s head was lowered and her eyes discreetly closed. He rushed past her with Mariko in his arms and laid her gently in her own quilts, still half asleep, and ran silently for his own room again, the sweat chill on him though the night was warm. He groped into a kimono and hurried out again to the veranda. Yoshinaka had reached the second step.

“Nan desu ka, Yoshinaka-san?”

“Gomen nasai, Anjin-san,” Yoshinaka said. He pointed to the flares at the far gate of the inn, adding many words that Blackthorne did not understand. But the gist of it was that that man there, the barbarian, he wants to see you and I told him to wait and he said he wouldn’t wait, acting like a daimyo, which he isn’t, and tried to push past, which I stopped. He said he was your friend. Is he?

“Heya, Ingeles! It’s me, Vasco Rodrigues!”

“Hey, Rodrigues!” Blackthorne shouted back happily. “Be right with you. Hai, Yoshinaka-san. Kare wa watashi no ichi yujin desu.” He’s my friend.

“Ah so desu!”

“Hai. Domo.”

Blackthorne ran down the steps to go to the gateway. Behind him he heard Mariko’s voice, “Nan ja, Chimmoko?” and a whisper back and then she called out with authority, “Yoshinaka-san!”

“Hai, Toda-sama!”

Blackthorne glanced around. The samurai walked up the steps and crossed toward Mariko’s room. Her door was closed. Chimmoko stood outside it. Now her own crumpled bedding was near the door where she would always sleep, correctly, should her mistress not wish her to be in the room with her. Yoshinaka bowed to the door and began to report. Blackthorne walked along the path with growing elation, barefoot, his eyes on the Portuguese, the width of the welcoming smile, the light from the flares dancing off his earrings and the buckle of his jaunty hat.

“Hey, Rodrigues! It’s great to see you. How’s your leg? How’d you find me?”

“Madonna, you’ve grown, Ingeles, filled out! Yes, fit and healthy and acting like a piss-cutting daimyo!” Rodrigues gave him a bear hug and he returned it.

“How’s your leg?”

“Hurts like shit but it works and I found you by asking where the great Anjin-san was—the big barbarian bandit bastard with the blue eyes!”

They laughed together, swapping obscenities, careless of the samurai and servants that surrounded them. In a moment Blackthorne sent a servant for sake and led the way back. Both strolled with their sailor’s gait, Rodrigues’ right hand, by habit, on his rapier’s hilt, the other thumb hooked into his wide belt near his pistol. Blackthorne was a few inches taller but the Portuguese had even wider shoulders and a barrel-chested power to him.

Yoshinaka was waiting on the veranda.

“Domo arigato, Yoshinaka-san,” Blackthorne said, thanking the samurai again, and motioned Rodrigues to one of the cushions. “Let’s talk here.”

Rodrigues put a foot on the steps but stopped as Yoshinaka moved in front of him, pointed at the rapier and the pistol, then held out his left hand, palm upwards. “Dozo!”

The Portuguese frowned up at him. “Iye, samurai-sama, domo ari— ”

“Dozo!”

“Iye, samurai-sama, iye!” Rodrigues repeated more sharply. “Watashi yujin Anjin-san, neh?”

Blackthorne moved forward a step, still amazed at the suddenness of the confrontation. “Yoshinaka-san, shigata ga nai, neh?” he said with a smile. “Rodrigues yujin, wata— ”

“Gomen nasai, Anjin-san. Kinjiru!” Yoshinaka rapped an order. Instantly samurai leapt forward, surrounding Rodrigues threateningly, and again he held out his hand. “Dozo!”

“These shit-filled whores’re touchy, Ingeles,” Rodrigues said through a toothy smile. “Call ’em off, eh? I’ve never had to give up my arms before.”

“Don’t, Rodrigues!” he said quickly, sensing his friend’s imminent decision, then to Yoshinaka, “Domo, gomen nasai, Rodrigues yujin, watash—”

“Gomen nasai, Anjin-san. Kinjiru.” Then roughly to the Portuguese, “Ima!”

Rodrigues snarled back, “Iye! Wakarimasu ka?”

Blackthorne hastily stepped between them. “Hey, Rodrigues, what does it matter, neh? Let Yoshinaka-san have them. It’s nothing to do with you or me. It’s because of the lady, Toda Mariko-sama. She’s in there. You know how touchy they are about weapons near daimyos or their wives. We’ll argue all night, you know how they are, eh? What’s the difference?”

The Portuguese forced a smile back on his face. “Sure. Why not? Hai. Shigata ga nai, samurai-sama. So desu!”

He bowed like a courtier without sincerity, slid his rapier and scabbard from its clasp and took out his pistol, and offered them. Yoshinaka motioned to a samurai, who took the weapons and ran off to the gateway, where he put them down and stood guard over them. Rodrigues started to mount the steps, but again Yoshinaka politely and firmly asked him to stop. Other samurai came forward to search him. Furious, Rodrigues leaped back. “IYE! Kinjiru, by God! What the—”

The samurai fell on him, pinned his arms tight, and searched him thoroughly. They found two knives in the tops of his boots, another strapped to his left forearm, two small pistols—one concealed in the lining of his coat, one under his shirt—and a small pewter hip flask.

Blackthorne examined the pistols. Both were primed. “Was the other primed too?”

“Yes. Of course. This land’s hostile, haven’t you noticed, Ingeles? Tell them to let go of me!”

“This isn’t the usual way to visit a friend by night. Neh?”

“I tell you this land’s hostile. I’m always armed like this. Aren’t you normally? Madonna, tell these bastards to let me go.”