Shogun (21 page)

“Yes, thank you. A bit weak but all right.”

“How was your voyage?”

“Rough. About them—the samurai—how do they get to be one? Do they just pick up the two swords and get that haircut?”

“You’ve got to be born one. Of course, there are all ranks of
samurai from
daimyos
at the top of the muckheap to what we’d call a foot soldier at the bottom. It’s hereditary mostly, like with us. In the olden days, so I was told, it was the same as in Europe today—peasants could be soldiers and soldiers peasants, with hereditary knights and nobles up to kings. Some peasant soldiers rose to the highest rank. The Taikō was one.”

“Who’s he?”

“The Great Despot, the ruler of all Japan, the Great Murderer of all times—I’ll tell you about him one day. He died a year ago and now he’s burning in hell.” Rodrigues spat overboard. “Nowadays you’ve got to be born samurai to be one. It’s all hereditary, Ingeles. Madonna, you’ve no idea how much store they put on heritage, on family, rank, and the like—you saw how Omi bows to that devil Yabu and they both grovel to old Toady-sama. ‘Samurai’ comes from a Jappo word meaning ‘to serve.’ But while they’ll all bow and scrape to the man above, they’re all samurai equally, with a samurai’s special privileges. What’s happening aboard?”

“The captain’s jabbering away at another samurai and pointing at us. What’s special about them?”

“Here samurai rule everything, own everything. They’ve their own code of honor and sets of rules. Arrogant? Madonna, you’ve no idea! The lowest of them can legally kill any non-samurai,
any
man, woman, or child, for any reason or for no reason. They can kill, legally, just to test the edge of their piss-cutting swords—I’ve seen ’em do it—and they have the best swords in the world. Better’n Damascus steel. What’s that fornicator doing now?”

“Just watching us. His bow’s on his back now.” Blackthorne shuddered. “I hate those bastards more than Spaniards.”

Again Rodrigues laughed as he sculled. “If the truth’s known, they curdle my piss too! But if you want to get rich quick you’ve got to work with them because they own everything. You sure you’re all right?”

“Yes. Thanks. You were saying? Samurai own everything?”

“Yes. Whole country’s split up into castes, like in India. Samurai at the top, peasants next important.” Rodrigues spat overboard. “Only peasants can
own
land. Understand? But samurai own all the produce. They own all the rice and that’s the only important crop, and they give back part to the peasants. Only samurai’re allowed to carry arms. For anyone except a samurai to attack a samurai is rebellion, punishable by instant death. And anyone who sees such an attack and doesn’t report it at once is equally liable, and so are their wives, and
even their kids. The whole family’s put to death if one doesn’t report it. By the Madonna, they’re Satan’s whelps, samurai! I’ve seen kids chopped into mincemeat.” Rodrigues hawked and spat. “Even so, if you know a thing or two this place is heaven on earth.” He glanced back at the galley to reassure himself, then he grinned. “Well, Ingeles, nothing like a boat ride around the harbor, eh?”

Blackthorne laughed. The years dropped off him as he reveled in the familiar dip of the waves, the smell of the sea salt, gulls calling and playing overhead, the sense of freedom, the sense of arriving after so very long. “I thought you weren’t going to help me get to
Erasmus!”

“That’s the trouble with all Ingeles. No patience. Listen, here you don’t
ask
Japmen anything—samurai or others, they’re all the same. If you do, they’ll hesitate, then ask the man above for the decision. Here you have to
act
. Of course”—his hearty laugh ran across the waves—“sometimes you get killed if you act wrong.”

“You scull very well. I was wondering how to use the oars when you came.”

“You don’t think I’d let you go alone, do you? What’s your name?”

“Blackthorne. John Blackthorne.”

“Have you ever been north, Ingeles? Into the far north?”

“I was with Kees Veerman in
Der Lifle
. Eight years ago. It was his second voyage to find the Northeast Passage. Why?”

“I’d like to hear about that—and all the places you’ve been. Do you think they’ll ever find the way? The northern way to Asia, east or west?”

“Yes. You and the Spanish block both southern routes, so we’ll have to. Yes, we will. Or the Dutch. Why?”

“And you’ve piloted the Barbary Coast, eh?”

“Yes. Why?”

“And you know Tripoli?”

“Most pilots have been there. Why?”

“I thought I’d seen you once. Yes, it was Tripoli. You were pointed out to me. The famous Ingeles pilot. Who went with the Dutch explorer, Kees Veerman, into the Ice Seas—and was once a captain with Drake, eh? At the Armada? How old were you then?”

“Twenty-four. What were you doing in Tripoli?”

“I was piloting an Ingeles privateer. My ship’d got taken in the Indies by this pirate, Morrow—Henry Morrow was his name. He burned my ship to the waterline after he’d sacked her and offered me
the pilot’s job—his man was useless, so he said—you know how it is. He wanted to go from there—we were watering off Hispaniola when he caught us—south along the Main, then back across the Atlantic to try to intercept the annual Spanish gold ship near the Canaries, then on through the Straits to Tripoli if we missed her to try for other prizes, then north again to England. He made the usual offer to free my comrades, give them food and boats in return if I joined them. I said, ‘Sure, why not? Providing we don’t take any Portuguese shipping and you put me ashore near Lisbon and don’t steal my rutters.’ We argued back and forth as usual—you know how it is. Then I swore by the Madonna and we both swore on the Cross and that was that. We had a good voyage and some fat Spanish merchantmen fell into our wake. When we were off Lisbon he asked me to stay aboard, gave me the usual message from Good Queen Bess, how she’d pay a princely bounty to any Portuguese pilot who’d join her and teach others the skill at Trinity House, and give five thousand guineas for the rutter of Magellan’s Pass, or the Cape of Good Hope.” His smile was broad, his teeth white and strong, and his dark mustache and beard well groomed: “I didn’t have them. At least that’s what I told him. Morrow kept his word, like all pirates should. He put me ashore with my rutters—of course he’d had them copied though he himself couldn’t read or write, and he even gave me my share of the prize money. You ever sail with him, Ingeles?”

“No. The Queen knighted him a few years ago. I’ve never served on one of his ships. I’m glad he was fair with you.”

They were nearing
Erasmus
. Samurai were peering down at them quizzically.

“That was the second time I’d piloted for heretics. The first time I wasn’t so lucky.”

“Oh?”

Rodrigues shipped his oars and the boat swerved neatly to the side and he hung onto the boarding ropes. “Go aloft but leave the talking to me.”

Blackthorne began to climb while the other pilot tied the boat safely. Rodrigues was the first on deck. He bowed like a courtier.
“Konnichi wa
to all sod-eating samas!”

There were four samurai on deck. Blackthorne recognized one of them as a guard of the trapdoor. Nonplussed, they bowed stiffly to the Portuguese. Blackthorne aped him, feeling awkward, and would have preferred to bow correctly.

Rodrigues walked straight for the companionway. The seals were neatly in place. One of the samurai intercepted him.

“Kinjiru, gomen nasai.”
It’s forbidden, so sorry.

“Kinjiru
, eh?” the Portuguese said, openly unimpressed. “I’m Rodrigu-san, anjin for Toda Hiro-matsu-sama. This seal,” he said, pointing to the red stamp with the odd writing on it, “Toda Hiro-matsu-sama,
ka?”

“Iyé,”
the samurai said, shaking his head. “Kasigi Yabu-sama!”

“IYÉ?”
Rodrigues said. “Kasigi Yabu-sama? I’m from Toda Hiro-matsu-sama, who’s a bigger king than your bugger and Toady-sama’s from Toranaga-sama, who’s the biggest bugger-sama in this whole world.
Neh?”
He ripped the seal off the door, dropped a hand to one of his pistols. The swords were half out of their scabbards and he said quietly to Blackthorne, “Get ready to abandon ship,” and to the samurai he said gruffly, “Toranaga-sama!” He pointed with his left hand at the flag which fluttered at his own masthead.
“Wakarimasu ka?”

The samurai hesitated, their swords ready. Blackthorne prepared to dive over the side.

“Toranaga-sama!” Rodrigues crashed his foot against the door, the latch snapped and the door burst open.
“WAKARIMASU KA?”

“Wakarimasu
, Anjin-san.” The samurai quickly put their swords away and bowed and apologized and bowed again and Rodrigues said hoarsely, “That’s better,” and led the way below.

“Christ Jesus, Rodrigues,” Blackthorne said when they were on the lower deck. “Do you do this all the time and get away with it?”

“I do it very seldom,” the Portuguese said, wiping the sweat from his brow, “and even then I wish I’d never started it.”

Blackthorne leaned against the bulkhead. “I feel as if someone’s kicked me in the stomach.”

“It’s the only way. You’ve got to act like a king. Even so, you can never tell with a samurai. They’re as dangerous as a pissed priest with a candle in his arse sitting on a half-full powder keg.”

“What did you say to them?”

“Toda Hiro-matsu is Toranaga’s chief adviser—he’s a bigger
daimyo
than this local one. That’s why they gave in.”

“What’s he like, Toranaga?”

“Long story, Ingeles.” Rodrigues sat on the step, pulled his boot off, and rubbed his ankle. “I nearly broke my foot on your lice-eaten door.”

“It wasn’t locked. You could have just opened it.”

“I know. But that wouldn’t have been as effective. By the Blessed Virgin, you’ve got a lot to learn!”

“Will you teach me?”

Rodrigues pulled his boot back on. “That depends,” he said.

“On what?”

“We’ll have to see, won’t we? I’ve done all the talking so far, which is fair—I’m fit, you’re not. Soon it’ll be your turn. Which is your cabin?”

Blackthorne studied him for a moment. The smell below decks was stiff and weathered. “Thanks for helping me come aboard.”

He led the way aft. His door was unlocked. The cabin had been ransacked and everything removable had been taken. There were no books or clothes or instruments or quills. His sea chest too was unlocked. And empty.

White with rage, he walked into the Great Cabin, Rodrigues watching intently. Even the secret compartment had been found and looted.

“They’ve taken everything. The sons of plague-infested lice!”

“What did you expect?”

“I don’t know. I thought—with the seals—” Blackthorne went to the strong room. It was bare. So was the magazine. The holds contained only the bales of woolen cloth. “God curse all Jappers!” He went back to his cabin and slammed his sea chest closed.

“Where are they?” Rodrigues asked.

“What?”

“Your rutters. Where are your rutters?”

Blackthorne looked at him sharply.

“No pilot’d worry about clothes. You came for the rutters. Didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Why’re you so surprised, Ingeles? Why do you think I came aboard? To help you get more rags? They’re threadbare as it is and you’ll need others. I’ve plenty for you. But where are the rutters?”

“They’ve gone. They were in my sea chest.”

“I’m not going to steal them, Ingeles. I just want to read them. And copy them, if need be. I’ll cherish them like my own, so you’ve no need to worry.” His voice hardened. “Please get them, Ingeles, we’ve little time left.”

“I can’t. They’ve gone. They were in my sea chest.”

“You wouldn’t have left them there—not coming into a foreign
port. You wouldn’t forget a pilot’s first rule—to hide them carefully, and leave only false ones unprotected. Hurry up!”

“They’re stolen!”

“I don’t believe you. But I’ll admit you’ve hidden them very well. I searched for two hours and didn’t get a fornicating whiff.”

“What?”

“Why are you so surprised, Ingeles? Is your head up your arse? Naturally I came here from Osaka to investigate your rutters!”

“You’ve already been aboard?”

“Madonna!” Rodrigues said impatiently. “Yes, of course, two or three hours ago with Hiro-matsu, who wanted to look around. He broke the seals and then, when we left, this local
daimyo
sealed her up again. Hurry up, by God,” he added. “The sand’s running out.”

“They’re stolen!”
Blackthorne told him how they had arrived and how he had awakened ashore. Then he kicked his sea chest across the room, infuriated at the men who had looted his ship. “They’re stolen! All my charts! All my rutters! I’ve copies of some in England, but my rutter of this voyage’s gone and the—” He stopped.

“And the Portuguese rutter? Come on, Ingeles, it had to be Portuguese.”

“Yes, and the Portuguese one, it’s gone too.” Get hold of yourself, he thought. They’re gone and that’s the end. Who has them? The Japanese? Or did they give them to the priest? Without the rutters and the charts you can’t pilot your way home. You’ll never get home…. That’s not true. You can pilot your way home, with care, and enormous luck…. Don’t be ridiculous! You’re half-way around the earth, in enemy land, in enemy hands, and you’ve neither rutter nor charts. “Oh, Lord Jesus, give me strength!”

Rodrigues was watching him intently. At length he said, “I’m sorry for you, Ingeles. I know how you feel—it happened to me once. He was an Ingeles too, the thief, may his ship drown and he burn in hell forever. Come on, let’s go back aboard.”

Omi and the others waited on the jetty until the galley rounded the headland and vanished. To the west layers of night already etched the crimson sky. To the east, night joined the sky and the sea together, horizonless.

“Mura, how long will it take to get all the cannon back on the ship?”

“If we work through the night, by midday tomorrow, Omi-san. If we begin at dawn, we’ll be finished well before sunset. It would be safer to work during the day.”