Gai-Jin (45 page)

Along the pathway. Up the steps. The Sergeant hauled the shoji open. The room was empty. Without hesitation he led the way into the next room and the next. No sign of anyone in any of the five interconnecting rooms or kitchen or little wooden outhouse. Out again into the garden.

“Spread out, lads, Jones and Berk go that way, you two over there, you two that way and you two guard here, and for Chrissake, keep your ’kin eyes open.” They went deeper into the garden in pairs, one guarding the other, the lesson of the first assassin well learned. Into every nook. Around all the perimeter, safety catches off.

Nothing. When the Sergeant came back he was sweating. “Sweet fanny adams, sir! Not a bloody whisper, nothing. You sure this is the right place, sir?”

Hoag pointed to a dark patch on the veranda. “That’s where I operated.”

Babcott cursed and looked around. This house was surrounded by others
but only roofs showed above the fence and no windows overlooked this way. Nowhere else to hide. “They must have left the moment you did.”

Hoag wiped the sweat off his brow, secretly glad that she had slipped away and was not trapped. After he had left for the bath he had, regretfully, not seen her again. The maid had given him the money and scroll, both neatly wrapped, and the cask and told him her mistress would send a guide for him tomorrow morning and thanked him.

About her brother, now, he was ambivalent. The youth was just a patient, he was a doctor and wanted his work to succeed. “Never occurred to me the youth might have been one of the assassins. It wouldn’t have made any difference, not to the operation. At least now we know his name.”

“A thousand oban to a bent button it was false, we don’t even know if the youth was her brother. If he was shishi as the scroll said, it’s bound to be false and anyway, being devious is an old Japanese custom.” Babcott sighed. “I can’t be certain either it was the Tokaidō devil. Just a hunch. What are his chances?”

“The move wouldn’t have helped.” Hoag thought a moment, so squat and froglike against the immense height of Babcott, neither of them conscious of the difference. “I checked him just before I left. His pulse was weak but steady, I think I got most of the dead tissue away but …” He shrugged. “You know how it is: ‘You pays your money and you takes your chances.’ I wouldn’t bet much money he’ll live. But then, who knows, eh? Now, tell me about the attack, the details.”

On the way back Babcott related all that had happened. And about Malcolm Struan. “He worries me, but Angelique’s just about the best nurse he could have.”

“Jamie said the same. I agree there’s nothing like a beautiful young lady in a sickroom. Malcolm’s lost a devilish lot of weight—and spirit—but he’s young and he’s always been the strong one in the family, after his mother. He should be all right so long as the stitches hold. I’ve every confidence in your work, George, though it’ll be a long haul for him, poor lad. He’s very taken with the girl, isn’t he?”

“Yes. And reciprocated. Lucky fellow.”

They walked in silence a moment. Hoag said hesitantly, “I, well, I presume you know his mother is completely opposed to any form of liaison with the young lady.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that. That creates a problem.”

“Then you think Malcolm’s serious?”

“Head-over-heels serious. She’s quite a girl.”

“You know her?”

“Angelique? Not really, not as a patient, though, as I said, I’ve seen her under terrible stress. You?”

Hoag shook his head. “Just at parties, the races, socially. Since she arrived three or four months ago she’s been the toast of every ball, and rightly so. Never as a patient, there’s a French doctor in Hong Kong now—imagine that! But I agree she’s stunning. Not necessarily an ideal wife for Malcolm, if that’s his bent.”

“Because she’s not English? And not wealthy?”

“Both of those and more. Sorry, but I just can’t trust the French—bad stock—it’s in their makeup. Her father’s a perfect example, charming, gallant on the surface and scallywag just below and through and through. Sorry, but I wouldn’t select his daughter for my son when he’s of age.”

Babcott wondered if Hoag knew that he was aware of the scandal: while young Doctor Hoag was with the East India Company twenty-five-odd years ago in Bengal, he had married an Indian girl, against convention and the open advice of his superiors and had consequently been dismissed and sent home in disgrace. They had had a daughter and a son and then she had died—the London cold and fog and damp almost a death sentence to someone of Indian heritage.

People are so strange, Babcott thought. Here’s a fine, brave, upstanding Englishman, a great surgeon, with children who are half Indian—so socially not acceptable in England—complaining about Angelique’s heritage. How stupid, and even more stupid to hide from the truth.

Yes, but don’t you hide from it either. You’re twenty-eight, lots of time to get married, but will you ever find a more exciting woman than Angelique anywhere, let alone in Asia where you will spend your working life?

I won’t, I know. Fortunately Struan will probably marry her, so that’s that. And I will support him, by God! “Perhaps Mrs. Struan is just being protective, like any mother,” he said, knowing how important Hoag’s influence was with the Struans, “and just opposed to him getting entangled too young. That’s understandable. He’s tai-pan now and that will take all of his energies. But don’t mistake me, I think Angelique is quite a young lady, as courageous and fine a mate as anyone could want—and to do a good job Malcolm will need all the support he can get.”

Hoag heard the underlying passion, docketed it and left the matter there, his mind suddenly back in London where his sister and her husband were bringing up his son and daughter, as always hating himself for leaving India, bowing to convention and so killing her, Arjumand the lovely.

I must have been mad to take my darling into those foul winters, dismissed, broke, with no job and having to start all over again. Christ, I should have stayed and battled the Company, eventually my surgical skills would have forced them, forced them to accept me and would have saved us …

The two sentries left on guard saluted as they passed. In the dining
room dinner was laid for two. “Scotch or champagne?” Babcott asked, then called out, “Lun!”

“Champers. Shall I?”

“I’ve got it.” Babcott opened the wine that waited in the Georgian silver ice bucket. “Health!
LUN!
”

“And happiness!” They clinked glasses. “Perfect! How’s your chef?”

“Fair to awful but the quality of our seafood is good: shrimps, prawns, oysters and dozens of different kinds of fish. Where the devil’s Lun?” Babcott sighed. “That bugger needs stick. Swear at him, will you?”

But the butler’s pantry was empty. Lun was not in the kitchen. Eventually they found him in the garden beside a pathway. He had been decapitated, his head tossed aside. In its place was the head of a monkey.

“No, Lady,” the mama-san said, very afraid. “You cannot leave Ori-san here tomorrow, you must leave at dawn.”

Sumomo said, “So sorry, Ori-san will stay until—”

“So sorry, since the attack on Chief Minister Anjo, the hunt for shishi is intense, rewards for information are to the sky, with death for anyone,
anyone in a house harboring them.”

“That order’s for Yedo, not here in Kanagawa,” Sumomo said.

“So sorry, someone has talked,” the mama-san said, lips tight. Her name was Noriko and they were alone in her private quarters in her Inn of the Midnight Blossoms, both kneeling on purple cushions, the room candle-lit, a low table with tea on it between them and she had just returned from an angry meeting with the rice merchant moneylender who had raised the interest rate on her mortgage from thirty to thirty-five percent, pleading the dangerous state of the realm. Motherless dog, she thought, seething, then compartmentalized that problem to deal with the more dangerous one before her. “This morning we heard that Enforcers are—”

“Who?”

“Enforcers? They’re special, interrogating Bakufu patrols, men without mercy. They arrived in the night. I expect to be visited. So sorry, at dawn he must go.”

“So sorry, you will keep him until he is well.”

“I-dare-not! Not after the Inn of the Forty-seven Ronin. Enforcers know no mercy. I don’t want this head spiked.”

“That was in Yedo, this is Kanagawa. This is the Inn of the Midnight Blossoms. So sorry, Hiraga-san would insist.”

“No one insists here, Lady,” Noriko said sharply. “Even Hiraga-san. I have my own son to think of, and my House.”

“Correctly. And I have my brother’s friend and Hiraga’s ally to think of.
Also the face of my brother to remember. I am empowered to settle his debts.”

Noriko gaped at her. “All Shorin’s debts?”

“Half now, half when
sonno-joi
rules.”

“Done,” Noriko said, so unbalanced with the windfall she never expected to collect that she failed to bargain. “But no gai-jin doctors, and only a week.”

“Agreed.” At once the girl reached into her sleeve for the purse in a secret pocket. Noriko sucked in her breath seeing the gold coins. “Here are ten oban. You will give me a receipt and his detailed account, the balance of the half we have agreed, when we leave. Where can Ori-san be safe?”

Noriko cursed herself for being so hasty, but having agreed, now it was a matter of face. As she considered what to do she studied the girl in front of her, Sumomo Anato, younger sister of Shorin Anato, the shishi, the Wild One—the boy she had initiated into the world of men so many years ago. Eeee, what lust, what vigor for one so young, she thought with a pleasant though untoward ache. And what a memorable courtesan this girl would make. Together we could earn a fortune, in a year or two she would marry a daimyo, and if she’s still virgin what a pillow price I could get! She’s every bit as beautiful as Shorin had said, classical Satsuma—according to him samurai in every way. Every bit as beautiful. “How old are you, Lady?”

Sumomo was startled. “Sixteen.”

“Do you know how Shorin died?”

“Yes. I will be revenged.”

“Hiraga told you?”

“You ask too many questions,” Sumomo said sharply.

Noriko was amused. “In the game we play, you and I, though you are samurai and me mama-san, we’re sisters.”

“Oh?”

“Oh, yes, so sorry, the very serious game of trying to cover for our men, to shield them from their bravery, or stupidity, depending on which side you are, risking our lives to protect them from themselves merits trust on both sides. Trust of blood sisters. So, Hiraga told you about Shorin?”

Sumomo knew that her position was tenuous. “Yes.”

“Hiraga is your lover?”

Sumomo’s eyes slitted. “Hiraga is … was affianced to me before he … before he left to serve
sonno-joi.”

The mama-san blinked. “A Satsuma samurai allows his daughter to be betrothed to a Choshu samurai—whether shishi or not, ronin or not?”

“My father … my father did not approve. Nor my mother, though Shorin did. I did not approve their choice for me.”

“Ah, so sorry.” Noriko was saddened, knowing too well that that meant continual pressure, confinement in their house, or even worse: “Are you outcast from your family?”

Sumomo stayed motionless, her voice remained calm. “A few months ago I decided to follow my brother, and Hiraga-san, to spare my father that shame. Now I am ronin.”

“Are you mad? Women cannot become ronin.”

“Noriko,” Sumomo said, gambling. “I agree we should be blood sisters.” A stiletto appeared in her hand.

Noriko blinked, not having seen where it had appeared from. She watched as Sumomo pricked her finger and offered her the knife. Without hesitation she did the same and they touched fingers, mixing their blood, then bowed gravely. “I am honored. Thank you, Sumomo-san.” Smiling, the mama-san returned the knife. “Now I am a tiny bit samurai, yes?”

The knife slid back into the sleeve sheath. “When the Emperor regains all his power, he will make those deserving it, samurai. We will petition for you, Hiraga-san, Ori and I.”

Again Noriko bowed her thanks, loving that idea but sure it was beyond possibility and that she would never live to see the unthinkable happen: the day the Toranaga Shōgunate ceased to be. “On behalf of all my line, thank you. Now saké!”

“No, thank you, so sorry, but Sensei Katsumata made women in his class forswear saké, telling us it would forever blunt our skills and spoil our aim. Please, where is Hiraga-san?”

Noriko watched her, hiding her smile. “Katsumata, the great Sensei? You studied under him? Shorin told us you could use sword, knife and
shuriken
. Is that true?”

With dazzling speed Sumomo’s hand went into her obi, came out with a shuriken and hurtled the small, razor-sharp, five-bladed circle of steel across the room to
thwakkk
viciously into the exact center of a post. She had hardly moved.

“Please, where is Hiraga-san?” she asked gently.

That night Hiraga led the silent charge up and over the stockade of a daimyo’s palace in the second ring outside the castle walls and rushed through the gardens for the back entrance of the mansion, the night lit by a halfhearted moon. All six men wore the same short, black, night-fighting
kimonos without armor for speed and quiet. All had swords, knives and garrotes. All were Choshu ronin Hiraga had summoned urgently from Kanagawa for tonight’s raid.

Around the mansion the sprawling compound of barracks, stables and servants’ quarters that would normally house five hundred warriors and the daimyo’s family and servants was eerily empty. Only two sleepy sentries were at the back door. These men saw the raiders too late to sound an alarm and died. Akimoto stripped one of his uniform and put it on, then dragged the bodies into the undergrowth and rejoined the others on the veranda. They waited, motionless, listening intently. No warning shouts or they would have abandoned the attack at once.

“If we have to retreat, never mind,” Hiraga had said at dusk when the others had arrived in Yedo. “It’s enough that we can penetrate so close to the castle. Tonight’s purpose is terror, to kill and spread terror, to make them believe no one and no place is beyond reach of us or our spies. Terror, in and out quickly, maximum surprise and no casualties. Tonight’s a rare opportunity.” He smiled. “When Anjo and the Elders cancelled
sankin-kotai
, they dug the Shōgunate’s grave.”