Shogun

length, all pink and white fleshed, the shells crisped to perfection. “Some of those.” He could not tear his eyes off them. “Please tell the officer I haven’t eaten for almost two days and I’m suddenly famished. So sorry.”

The fish seller was an old man with three teeth and leathery skin and he wore only a loincloth. He was puffed with pride that his stall had been chosen and he picked out the five best prawns with nimble chopsticks and laid them neatly on a bamboo tray and set others to sizzle.

“Dozo, Anjin-sama!”

“Domo.” Blackthorne felt his stomach growling. He wanted to gorge. Instead he picked one up with the fresh wooden chopsticks, dipped it in the sauce, and ate with relish. It was delicious.

“Brother Michael?” he asked, offering the plate. Michael took one, but only for good manners. The officer refused, though he thanked him.

Blackthorne finished that plate and had two more. He could have eaten another two but decided not to for good manners and also because he didn’t want to strain his stomach.

“Domo,” he said, setting down the plate with a polite obligatory belch. “Bimi desu!” Delicious.

The man beamed and bowed and the stallkeepers nearby bowed and then Blackthorne realized to his horror that he had no money. He reddened.

“What is it?” Michael asked.

“I, er, I haven’t any money with me—or, er, anything to give the man. I’ve—could you lend me some please?”

“I haven’t any money, Anjin-san. We don’t carry money.”

There was an embarrassed silence. The seller grinned, waiting patiently. Then, with equal embarrassment, Michael turned to the officer and quietly asked him for money. The officer was coldly furious with Blackthorne. He spoke brusquely to one of his men who came forward and paid the stallkeeper handsomely, to be thanked profusely, as, pink and sweating, Michael turned and led again. Blackthorne caught up with him. “Sorry about that but it .?.?. it never occurred to me! That’s the first time I’ve bought anything here. I’ve never had money, as crazy as it sounds, and I never thought .?.?. I’ve never used money.?.?.?.”

“Please, forget it, Anjin-san. It was nothing.”

“Please tell the officer I’ll pay him when I get to the ship.”

Michael did as he was asked. They walked in silence for a while, Blackthorne getting his bearings. At the end of this street was the beach, the sea calm and dullish under the sunset light. Then he saw where they were and pointed left, to a wide street that ran east-west. “Let’s go that way.”

“This way is quicker, Anjin-san.”

“Yes, but your way we’ve got to pass the Jesuit Mission and the Portuguese lorcha. I’d rather make a detour and go the long way round.”

“I was told to go this way.”

“Let’s go the other way.” Blackthorne stopped. The officer asked what was the matter and Michael explained. The officer waved them onward—Michael’s way.

Blackthorne weighed the results of refusing. He would be forced, or bound and carried, or dragged. None of these suited him, so he shrugged and strode on.

They came out onto the wide road that skirted the beach. Half a ri ahead were the Jesuit wharves and warehouses and a hundred paces farther he could see the Portuguese ship. Beyond that, another two hundred paces, was his galley. It was too far away to see men aboard yet.

Blackthorne picked up a stone and sent it whistling out to sea. “Let’s walk along the beach for a while.”

“Certainly, Anjin-san.” Michael went down the sand. Blackthorne walked in the shallows, enjoying the cool of the sea, the soughing of the slight surf.

“It’s a fine time of the day, neh?”

“Ah, Anjin-san,” Michael said with sudden, open friendliness, “there are many times, Madonna forgive me, I wish I wasn’t a priest but just the son of my father, and this is one of them.”

“Why?”

“I’d like to spirit you away, you and your strange ship at Yokohama, to Hizen, to our great harbor of Sasebo. Then I would ask you to barter with me—I’d ask you to show me and our sea captains the ways of your ship and your ways of the sea. In return I’d offer you the best teachers in the realm, teachers of bushido, cha- no-yu, hara-gei, ki, zazen meditation, flower arranging, and all the special unique knowledges that we possess.”

“I’d like that. Why don’t we do it now?”

“It’s not possible today. But you already know so much and in such a short time, neh? Mariko-sama was a great teacher. You are a worthy samurai. And you have a quality that’s rare here: unpredictability. The Taiko had it, Toranaga-sama has it too. You see, usually we’re a very predictable people.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“Then predict a way I can escape the trap I’m in.”

“So sorry, there isn’t one, Anjin-san,” Michael said.

“I don’t believe that. How did you know my ship is at Yokohama?”

“That’s common knowledge.”

“Is it?”

“Almost everything about you—and your defense of Lord Toranaga, and the Lady Maria, Lady Toda—is well known. And honored.”

“I don’t believe that either.” Blackthorne picked up another flat stone and sent it skimming over the waves. They went on, Blackthorne humming a sea shanty, liking Michael very much. Soon their way was blocked by a breakwater. They skirted it and came up onto the road once more. The Jesuit warehouse and Mission were tall and brooding now under the reddening sky. He saw the orange-robed Lay Brothers guarding the arched stone gateway and sensed their hostility. But it did not touch him. His head began to ache again.

As he had expected, Michael headed for the Mission gates. He readied himself, resolved that they would have to beat him into unconsciousness before he went inside and they forced him to give up his weapons.

“You’re just guiding me to my galley, eh?”

“Yes, Anjin-san.” To his astonishment Michael motioned him to stop outside the gateway. “Nothing’s changed. I was told to inform the Father-Visitor as we passed. So sorry, but you’ll have to wait a moment.”

Thrown off guard, Blackthorne watched him enter the gates alone. He had expected that the Mission was to be the end of his journey. First an Inquisition and trial, with torture, then handed over to the Captain-General. He looked at the lorcha a hundred paces away. Ferriera and Rodrigues were on the poop and armed seamen crowded the main deck. Past the ship, the wharf road curled slightly and he could just see his galley. Men were watching from the gunwales and he thought he recognized Yabu and Vinck among them but could not be sure. There seemed to be a few women aboard also but who they were he did not know. Surrounding the galley were Grays. Many Grays.

His eyes returned to Ferriera and Rodrigues. Both were heavily armed. So were the seamen. Gun crews lounged near the two small shore-side cannon, but in reality they were manning them. He recognized the great bulk of Pesaro, the bosun, moving down the companionway with a group of men. His eyes followed them, then his blood chilled. A tall stake was driven into the packed earth on the farside wharf. Wood was piled around the base.

“Ah, Captain-Pilot, how are you?”

Dell’Aqua was coming through the gates, dwarfing Michael beside him. Today the Father-Visitor was wearing a Jesuit robe, his great height and luxuriant gray-white beard giving him the ominous regality of a biblical patriarch, every inch an Inquisitor, outwardly benign, Blackthorne thought. He stared up into the brown eyes, finding it strange to look up at any man, and even stranger to see compassion in the eyes. But he knew there would be no pity behind the eyes and he expected none. “Ah, Father-Visitor, how are you?” he replied, the prawns now leaden in his stomach, sickening him.

“Shall we go on?”

“Why not?”

So the Inquisition’s to be aboard, Blackthorne thought, desperately afraid, wishing he had pistols in his belt.