Gai-Jin (79 page)

Seratard laughed. “Twenty guineas says they’ll pay”

“Done! Will you dine with us at the Legation?” They began walking out, careless of the arrogant, bellicose stares.

“Thank you, no. As we’ve concluded our business I think I’ll start back
for Yokohama now instead of tomorrow, there’s time enough and the sea’s calm. Why wait for
Pearl
, join us aboard my flagship, we can dine en route, eh?”

“Thanks but I’ll wait till tomorrow. I want to make sure all our lads are back safely on our transports.”

Behind them, unnoticed in the throng, Tyrer had waited for André who had knelt to adjust a shoe buckle, who then, not realizing Tyrer was watching, began a whispered conversation with the Japanese interpreter. The man hesitated, then nodded and bowed.
“Domo.”

André turned, saw Phillip scrutinizing him. For a split second he was nonplussed, then smiled as he joined him. “Well, Phillip, that went very well, didn’t it? I thought you were excellent, and we certainly made the points.”

“I wasn’t and you saved the day. And my face, for which many thanks.” Tyrer frowned, unsettled, following the procession. “Even so, though you brilliantly solved the impasse, what you said in English and what was said in Japanese was different, wasn’t it?”

“Not that different,
mon ami
, not enough to matter.”

“I don’t think Sir William would agree.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. Perhaps you were mistaken.” André forced a laugh. “It’s never wise to agitate a Minister, eh? A closed mouth catches no nasties.”

“Most times, yes. What did you say to that interpreter?”

“I thanked him.
Mon Dieu
, my bladder’s killing me—how’s yours?”

“Same,” Tyrer agreed, sure that André was lying about the interpreter. But then why shouldn’t he? he was thinking with his newfound point of view. André is enemy, if not enemy, the opposition, and every nuance was to benefit and ingratiate Seratard, France and André. Fair enough. What would he ask for secretly? To pass on a message, yes, but what? What secret message? What would I ask for secretly? “You asked for a private meeting with Lord Yoshi, eh?” he said, gambling. “For you and Monsieur Seratard.”

André Poncin’s expression did not change but Tyrer noticed his right hand on his ceremonial sword became white-knuckled. “Phillip,” he said thinly, “I’ve been a good friend to you since you arrived, helping you begin Japanese, introducing you around, eh? I haven’t interfered with your private samurai—Nakama, eh, though I’ve heard, secretly, he’s got other names. Haven’t …”

“What other names?” Tyrer asked, suddenly nervous and not knowing why. “What do you know about him?”

André went on as though Tyrer had not spoken: “Haven’t tried to question him or you about him though I did warn you about Japanese, all of them, time enough for you to tell me about him if you want to, as a friend. Remember we’re on the same side, Phillip, we’re servants not masters,
we’re friends, we’re in Japan where gai-jin really have to help each other-like I did introducing you to Raiko who led to Fujiko, eh? Nice girl, Fujiko. Best to have a little Gallic realism, Phillip, best keep private information private, best beware of your Nakama and remember what I’ve said a dozen times: In Japan there are only Japanese solutions.”

Near sunset the same day, Yoshi hurried along a somber, drafty stone corridor in the castle keep. Now he wore his characteristic kimono with two swords, a cowled riding cloak over them. Every twenty paces were flickering oil torches, set into iron brackets beside bowman emplacements that also served as windows. Outside the air was cool. Ahead was a circular staircase. It led to his private stables below. He ran down the steps.

“Halt! Who … ah, so sorry, Lord!” The sentry bowed.

Yoshi nodded and went on. Throughout the castle soldiers, stablemen, servants were preparing for bed or for night duties, following the universal, worldwide custom of bedding down at nightfall. Only the well-to-do had light by night, to see, to read or to play.

“Halt! Ah, so sorry Lord.” This sentry bowed, and the next, and the next.

In the stable courtyard a personal guard of twenty men was assembled at the heads of their ponies. Amongst them was Misamoto, the fisherman, the make-believe samurai and Elder. Now he was poorly clad as a common foot soldier, unarmed, and frightened. Two small enclosed palanquins, especially light and designed for rapid transport, were there. Each was slotted onto two shafts that fitted into a harness for two saddle ponies ahead and behind. All hooves were muffled and all this part of a plan he had devised with Hosaki days ago.

The spy window of one palanquin slid aside. He saw Koiko peer out. She smiled, nodding a greeting. The window closed. His hand tightened on his sword. Ready, he slid her door open enough to ensure she was who he thought she was and that she was alone. When he was very young his father had beaten the first law of survival into him, word by word: “If you are caught unawares, betrayed unawares, killed unawares, you failed in your duty to me and to yourself. The fault will be yours alone because you failed to check personally and to plan against any eventuality. There is no excuse for failure except karma—and gods do not exist!”

A quick reassuring smile to her. He slid the door home and checked that the other palanquin was unoccupied and available for his use if he needed it. Satisfied, he gave the signal to mount. This was done in almost complete silence which again pleased him—he had ordered all armor and harnesses to be muffled. A last silent check but he could sense no danger. The new rifle was in a saddle holster, the ammunition pouch full, the other four guns slung over the shoulders of his most trusted marksmen.
Noiselessly he swung into his saddle. Another signal. His advance guard and banner man carrying his personal standard led off. He followed, then the two palanquins and the rest fell into place as rear guard.

Their progress was quick and almost soundless. Up the passageway into the next fortification, directly away from the main gate and main thoroughfares. At each checkpoint they were motioned through without challenge. Instead of turning into the maze of the castle proper, they made for a large building on the north side set against one of the major fortifications. Outside it was heavily guarded. The moment Yoshi was recognized, tall doors swung open to let them ride through. Inside was a large enclosed and packed-earth practice riding ring with a high vaulted ceiling and a second tier for viewing. A few torches, here and there. The doors closed behind them.

Yoshi cantered to the head and led briskly through the far archway, past stables and harness rooms. All were empty. This area was cobbled, the air heavy with the smell of dung and urine and sweat. Beyond, the hard-packed earth began again and another arch let out to an inner, smaller ring. Across it was an archway, dimly lit. Yoshi heeled his surefooted pony faster, then reined in suddenly.

The surrounding upper tier was packed with silent bowmen. None had arrows in their bows but all those in the ring knew they were dead men—if the order was given.

“Ah, Yoshi-sama.” Nori Anjo’s harsh voice came out of the semi-darkness above and Yoshi had difficulty for a moment picking him out. Then he saw him. Armorless, he was sitting at the back of the tier beside the staircase. “At this afternoon’s meeting you didn’t tell us you were going to leave the castle with armed men like … like what? Like ninja?”

A rustle of anger spread through Yoshi’s men but he laughed and this broke the tension, below and above. “Not ninja, Anjo-sama, though certainly as quietly as possible. It’s a good idea to test defenses, without warning. I’m Guardian of the castle, as well as Guardian of the Shōgun. And you? To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“You are just testing our defenses?”

“I am killing three doves with one arrow, yes.” The humor had left Yoshi’s voice and all were chilled, wondering why three and what did he mean. “And you? Why so many bowmen? For an ambush perhaps?”

The coarse laugh pealed among the rafters, edging everyone further. Hands tightened on weapons though no one made an overt move. “Ambush? Oh no, not an ambush—an honor guard. The moment I heard you planned a patrol with muffled hooves … these men are just to honor you, and to show you not all of us are sleeping, that the castle is in good hands and a Guardian not needed.” He barked a command. At once all bowmen hurried down the stairs and formed two lines the length of the ring,
Yoshi and his men between them. They bowed formally. Yoshi and his men bowed back, formally. But nothing had changed, the trap was still ready to be sprung. “You need guns to test defenses?”

“Our Council advised all daimyos to arm with modern weapons,” Yoshi said, his voice outwardly calm, inwardly furious that his plan had been betrayed and that he had not foreseen an ambush. “These are the first of my new rifles. I wish to accustom my men to carry them.”

“Wise, yes, very wise. I see you carry one too. Lord Yoshi has to carry a gun himself?”

Seething at the jeer, Yoshi glanced down at the rifle in its holster, hating all guns and blessing the wisdom of his namesake in outlawing their manufacture or importation the day he became Shōgun. Hasn’t that more than anything ensured our peace for two and a half centuries, he thought grimly. Guns are vile, cowardly weapons, worthy only of stinking gai-jin, weapons that can kill at a thousand paces so you may never see who you kill or who has killed you, weapons that any simpleton, low person, maniac, filthy robber, man or woman can use against anyone, even the highest lord with impunity, or most perfectly schooled swordsman. Yes, and now even I have to carry a gun—the gai-jin have forced us into it.

With Anjo’s sneering jibe ringing in his ears, he jerked the rifle out of the holster, pushed the safety off as Misamoto had shown him, pointed it, pulled the trigger, immediately pumped shells into the breech, blasting five bullets deafeningly into the rafters, the rifle almost twisting out of his hands with unexpected force. Everyone scattered, even his own men, a few unseated by frightened rearing ponies. Anjo and his guards dived for the floor anticipating more firing, lethal this time, every man in the room unnerved by the rapidity of firing.

In utter silence all waited breathlessly and then, because there was no follow-up and they realized Yoshi was just demonstrating the rifle, the two ranks of archers hastily but warily re-formed around his own men who were sorting themselves into order. Anjo and his guards scrambled to their feet. “What was the meaning of that?” he shouted.

As nonchalantly as he could, his own heart pounding, Yoshi continued to gentle his pony and quietly pushed the safety catch on and laid the gun across his lap, concealing his delight with the success of his action and that he was as impressed as anyone with the rifle’s power—he had fired muzzle loaders before and some old-fashioned duelling pistols at targets, but never a breech-loader with cartridges. “I wanted to show you the value of one of these. In certain circumstances they’re better than a sword, particularly for daimyos.” He was glad to hear that his voice sounded calm. “For instance, when you were ambushed a few weeks ago, you could have used one,
neh?”

Shakily Anjo was controlling his wrath, quite sure that now he was in
great danger, his life under immediate threat, and equally certain if he ordered Toranaga’s arrest as he had planned bullets would pepper him—in the name of all gods where and how did that dog learn to shoot and why was I not informed he had become an expert?

And being reminded of the shishi incident was an added public insult, for it was well known he had not been brave but had had to scramble to safety, never duelling once with his assailants and then, after the wounded were captured, had ordered them to be killed in a dishonorable fashion. “Under some circumstances, Yoshi-sama, some, but I doubt if your gun or any others have value tonight. I doubt that. May I ask your purpose tonight? Is it to visit our outside defenses and return? Or is one of your ‘doves’ a departure for elsewhere?”

Both knew Yoshi was not answerable for his movements in or out of the castle precincts. “That depends on what I see outside,” he said curtly. “I may decide to return to my own domain for a day or so, perhaps not—of course I would keep you closely informed.”

“The Council would miss your presence, if only for a few days. There’s much to be done. If you’re absent, we will have to make the decisions ourselves.”

“As we decided this afternoon, there’s nothing major to be decided, fortunately without five Elders nothing of major importance can be settled.”

“There is the matter of the gai-jin agreement.”

“That was also decided this afternoon.”

The meeting of the Council after the gai-jin had departed, for once, had been happy and filled with laughter at the enemy’s loss of face, that once again the gai-jin had been outsmarted, Anjo, Toyama, and Adachi congratulating him for his expert handling of the confrontation and understanding of gai-jin, Zukumura saying little except muttering feeblemindedly from time to time.

Anjo had chortled, “Agreeing to advance a pittance to get rid of them and their ships from Yedo while we bring Satsuma to heel was very clever, Yoshi-sama. Very. At the same time we’ve indefinitely postponed their threat to go to Kyōto, and they agree that Satsuma is completely to blame.”

Toyama said, “Then we declare war on Satsuma? Good!”

“No, not war, there are other ways to curb that dog.” Anjo was very confident with his newfound knowledge. “You were right about the gai-jin, Yoshi-sama. It was vastly interesting to see how enmity among them all is so close to their revolting surfaces.” He and Toyama had witnessed the meeting from behind the dais, the wall there deliberately made see-through from the inner side. “Revolting. We could even smell them through the screen. Disgusting. I’ve ordered that audience room washed out and the seats they sat in destroyed.”

“Excellent,” Adachi said. “My skin crawled all the time I was there.
Yoshi-sama, may I ask about that monkey Misamoto, did he really tell you what the gai-jin said, everything? I couldn’t hear a word.”

“Not all of it,” he had told them, “enough to give me some advance clues but only when they were speaking English. Misamoto said much of the time they were speaking another language, he thought French. This proves another point: we must have trusted interpreters. I propose we start a language school for our brightest sons at once.”