Clockwork Samurai (6 page)

Chang-wei was always calmest when the danger was greatest. One of the defining characteristics I'd come to know about him.

“Are the Japanese hostile toward our empire?” I asked. From where we stood, we could be approaching one of our own ports.

“They have no reason to be. I have more to fear from my own countrymen.”

I pondered his remark as I watched the coast come in closer. At first I thought he must have been speaking of the rebels, but it was odd for Chang-wei to refer to himself so personally.

We passed over Dejima, and I strained to catch a glimpse of the Dutch traders, but everything looked like miniature models from this vantage point. The people were as small as mice.

I had seen Western foreigners for the first time in the Shanghai settlement, even spoken to one who had taken the time to learn the Canton dialect, a trading language, common to many of the treaty ports.

Though they were pale skinned and lighter haired, I had to admit they were hardly devils. The differences in appearance were hard to focus on exactly. Some features such as the nose or mouth were larger . . . and . . . I couldn't find the right word.
Coarser
in appearance.

Chang-wei was more familiar with the foreigners than most of our countrymen. He had been taken aboard a Western ship after the first conflict. They'd forced him into service, and he'd even sailed all the way to their capital, a place called London, where he'd settled for several years.

I couldn't imagine it, living so far away in a strange land. The islands of Japan seemed a far-off and exotic place.

The landing field was marked by flags raised onto bamboo poles. It was located inland from the shore. Captain Zhao navigated the airship between the watchtowers and positioned it over the clearing. Air hissed from the jets as the balloon was depressurized, reducing the ship's buoyancy until it touched down on the airfield.

The airship rumbled as the captain cut the engines. The rotors wound down and went still. Down below, a Japanese entourage made its way toward us. They looked to be at least twenty men strong with swords that were sheathed, yet prominently displayed.

“Ready?” Chang-wei asked.

The look on his face was one of excitement. He was fully suited toward such adventure. The rest of our much smaller escort formed around us as the crew lowered the gangplank. I prepared to set foot down on the land of the rising sun.

Captain Zhao took the lead, having made several landings in Nagasaki. “No political envoys or ambassadors are allowed to accompany the merchant ships,” he reminded us as the port officials approached. They were escorted by armed swordsmen in case we presented any threat.

The captain greeted the landing party and explained our purpose, which was trade and nothing but trade.

Chang-wei briefed me on the details as we waited. Our cargo held ginseng and various other medicines and remedies. The landing party had been sent by the Saga domain, whose daimyo, the feudal lord, was charged with defense of the coast. I knew little of the samurai warriors of the Japanese aside from their legendary reputations for upholding honor until death.

As I glanced upon them now, I had the same sense of foreboding I felt among the
Jin Jun
, the Forbidden Guard that protected our Emperor. Among samurai, apparently one sword was not enough. Each man was armed with two. I supposed so they could kill a man twice, if needed. I kept my gaze directed downward.

Zhao provided papers and a circular jade seal that had been broken in half.

The samurai glanced at the papers and then back to the airship as if scanning it for weapons. He replied to the captain, and I found myself straining to understand, even though I knew nothing of the Japanese language. The sound of it was harsh to the ear, lacking the fluid tones of our tongue. He seemed to speak at great length, after which Zhao relayed a simple message.

“We will be escorted directly to the custom house.”

Captain Zhao brought two of his men, leaving the rest on board. Our party was five in number compared to twenty samurai who looked like they could cut us in half.

The foreign settlement was located along the shore. A stone wall delineated the foreign area, but the true boundary between Nagasaki and the trading post was enforced by the watchtowers that lined the coast.

“Separated by the distance it takes to fire an arrow,” Chang-wei said beneath his breath.

We were allowed through the checkpoint with little incident given our armed escort. Once inside the trading post, the escort led us to an official-looking building set apart from the shops and stalls. The structure rose two stories high, and there were more guards at the front entrance.

It was the custom house, and we were brought inside to be presented to the presiding official who sat behind a desk in the main room. Captain Zhao stepped forward with his seal. The official opened a box lying beside his papers and lifted another half seal, which he held against the captain's counterpart.

Once satisfied that the two halves fit together, the official gave a nod and pushed a ledger book forward. Zhao was familiar with the routine. He bowed once and bent to sign the book before gesturing to Chang-wei.

“Every foreigner registered and accounted for,” Zhao remarked.

Chang-wei took the brush to enter his name into the ledger. As I wasn't asked to do the same, I assumed I had taken on the identity of his wife. It made us appear more respectable.

After registering at the custom house, we were set free to roam the confines of the Chinese section. The settlement was filled with merchants' shops and stalls, not unlike the markets of Canton or Shanghai, but without the same crowded streets. There were fewer inhabitants here than on the mainland.

The buildings were constructed with two levels and inclined rooftops. Dwellings and shop spaces merged seamlessly together, and I watched traders haggling over prices in one shop while others sat down for steaming bowls of bone soup in the next. In the distance, I could see the curving rooftop of a temple, painted auspiciously red and rising above the clutter of the marketplace.

We walked along the main lane, feeling like strangers in this land despite the familiar sights. Stacks of porcelain ware filled one shop while another displayed bolts of dyed cloth. The language that flowed from the stalls was a mix of Chinese dialects and Japanese, reduced down to haggling terms and numbers. I saw a glimpse of silver change hands.

“The shogunate keeps careful control on who is allowed in and out of the country,” Captain Zhao explained. “There is a strict number of ships from each foreign government and tight control over what goods are brought in. Custom house officials are completing an inspection and inventory of our cargo at this moment.”

“What of the opium trade?” I had to ask. So many of the ships leaving our ports were opium runners.

“Opium trade is banned by the Tokugawa shogunate and punishable by death.”

“They must have taken warning from our struggles,” Chang-wei remarked grimly.

Our empire would have been wise to do the same. If we had shut out the foreigners and executed the drug runners, we would be a different empire. Instead, the drug had flooded onto our shores in a black wave. Thousands upon thousands of chests of it. When we tried to close the gates, it was too late.

“Our ministry made contact with a foreign studies scholar ten years ago when we last visited,” Chang-wei said. “He lives in Nagasaki city. Is there any way we can locate him?”

Zhao ran a hand over his beard. “I can make a request to the
bugyō
for a special pass outside of the Chinese settlement
.
But foreign merchants are low on the city administrator's list of concerns.”

“I do appreciate your assistance, Captain.”

With that, Captain Zhao left to oversee his business affairs. I watched him disappear into the market lane. “It may take a while before we can get the required passes.”

Chang-wei frowned. “Hopefully there won't be too much of a delay. We don't have much time.”

We went in search of lodgings and were quickly directed toward an establishment near the docks. There was a blacksmith's forge nearby and a busy stable house. Though the inhabitants were in constant transition with traders coming and going, a permanent settlement had grown up around the port. To these people, the Chinese quarter, or the
tōjin yashiki
, as the Japanese called it, was home. The rest of us were strangers.

Chang-wei negotiated for rooms, and the only ones available were tucked in the back. They were small spaces stacked together with thin walls between them. Zhao and his crewmen took rooms in the north wing while Chang-wei and I occupied a separate apartment across the walkway.

I surveyed our chamber, which didn't take long. There was a bamboo mat laid down as bedding and a chamber pot for use at night. A screen separated out a private sleeping area.

There was a time I would have blushed to be in such close, intimate quarters with Chang-wei, but this wasn't our first adventure together.

He thought nothing of it, either. Putting on a pair of spectacles, Chang-wei slipped a tiny book into his palm. It was how he kept notes, using a trick from his student days of using a needle to write impossibly small.

“I imagine Captain Zhao's petition will gather dust on an administrator's desk,” he said, flipping through the pages. “But the Chinese quarter isn't nearly as tightly controlled as the shogunate would have us believe.”

“What if we get caught sneaking out?”

He was absorbed in his notes. “Probably tried as smugglers.”

I shuddered, thinking of how sharp those blades looked and how the Japanese favored beheading as punishment.

“Perhaps there's another way,” I suggested. “A safer one.”

Chang-wei flipped through the pages. “I plan to send a message to a contact of your father's by the name of”—he squinted to read the characters—“Sagara. He's an aristocrat and a man of science. Reportedly supportive of an open exchange of ideas between our empires. He might make an effort to come meet us.”

“How do we reach him?”

He consulted the notebook once more before snapping it shut. “Teahouse.”

* * *

Chang-wei bypassed several large and busy teahouses near the inn, instead searching out an establishment in a quieter part of the quarter, down behind a row of warehouses. On the other side of the lane, I had seen dockworkers transporting crates, but as soon as we disappeared into the far side of the lane, the area became quiet.

“There's a proprietor by the name of Yelu with a modest teahouse in the warehouse section,” Chang-wei explained.

“Do you think he'll still be there a decade later?”

“We'll soon find out.”

We found the place. There was a lantern hung out front with a painted signboard with a fish on it. We entered through the thin curtain and found the main room empty of any customers. There were no hostesses or servers, either. Curiously, a set of dolls lined the walls of the room, each dressed in a differently colored kimono. Their faces were childlike, with pleasantly painted smiles. Each doll balanced an empty tray across its arms.

Chang-wei and I exchanged glances before seating ourselves, and it took me a moment to find a comfortable position
on the floor. I had to shift this way and that and still didn't feel as if I was doing it right.

Tea came a moment later, but not from any human hand. A panel opened in the wall, and one of the dolls turned to receive a ceramic teapot onto its tray. The mechanical tea server then came toward us in tiny steps, stopping before our table.

Chang-wei lifted the teapot himself, at which point the server bowed, gears whirring.

“A windup toy.” My father's colleagues from the Ministry had often given me such devices as gifts when I was a child. It was one of my fondest memories.

“Clockwork dolls,” Chang-wei concurred.

As Chang-wei started pouring tea, a hostess finally entered the room. She wore a floral print kimono, and her hair was styled in an elaborate bun. In her hands, she held a stringed instrument. With a bow, she seated herself on the mat and prepared to play.

“Your doll is very charming,” I told her.

“
Karakuri
,” she replied. I didn't recognize the Japanese word.

The hostess was younger than I was by a few years, which would make her around sixteen or seventeen. I was enthralled by the vibrant pattern on her kimono, pale blossoms on a yellow springtime background. There was something both elegant and extravagant about wearing so much silk.

“I didn't realize there were Japanese women in the Chinese quarter.” I took a sip from my tea and spoke in a lowered tone.

There weren't many women in the settlement. Most of the shop owners and traders had been men, which was probably typical of most ports. Traders left their families behind to make their fortune, coming home when business allowed it.

“The man we're looking for is named Lord Sagara. Yelu, the teahouse owner, was supposed to be able to get a message to him,” Chang-wei reported.

“You've mentioned two men by name, and you were able to find this place despite its remote location. How is that possible when you've never been here?”

“Your father kept a journal of his visit to Japan.” He looked almost apologetic. “I've read the entries.”

My pulse quickened. When my family was exiled from Peking, the imperial authorities had confiscated all of Father's documents. But they hadn't destroyed his research as we originally assumed. Instead Yizhu, then crown prince and now emperor, had studied it to search for a way to fight back against the Western invaders.

“I would return it to you if I could, but the journal belongs to the Emperor's imperial archives.”

“Don't trouble yourself over it.” I looked at Chang-wei. My father had chosen him to be my husband, but that was in a past life that was long gone.

“I could get permission for you to read it, if you'd like.”

My chest hitched. He was trying so hard to be kind. “No, that won't be necessary.”

Father's writings would be full of mechanical drawings and scientific observations. There wouldn't be any mention of
me or our family. Though he had always cherished Tian and I, work was work. It was enough to see that a man like Chang-wei still honored his memory. Father continued to serve the empire, even in death.

During our brief exchange, the mysterious proprietor finally arrived. He appeared to be fifty years of age, with a face that was plump, pleasant and easy to forget. His jacket was fashioned from dark, high-quality silk.

He lowered himself onto the mat to address us face-to-face. I could see how this custom of sitting on the floor created a more casual, intimate atmosphere for conversation.

“Welcome, precious guests! Newly arrived, I see.”

“Master Yelu?”

The proprietor bowed to acknowledge that that was indeed his name.

“I hear this is the best tea in the quarter. Zhejiang tea.”

Yelu's gaze flickered before being replaced with his previous affable expression. “The best. Dragon well tea.”

“I prefer Dragon Mountain. But this is very good.”

I could only imagine this banter was part of some coded exchange.

“I'm curious about the city beyond these walls,” Chang-wei said.

“Ah yes. Nagasaki holds many wonders, friend. But the domain has become strict about who is allowed outside, or inside for that matter. The
yujo
I employ have work permits. Every night they are required to leave the settlement and return to the Japanese city.”

The young hostess returned to place a plate of rice flour cakes onto the table before slipping silently away.

“The
yujo
are very good for business,” Yelu remarked. “With many talents.”

It was easy to assume he was speaking of their bedroom skills. I spared our Japanese hostess a closer look. The voluminous sleeves and wide sash around her waist could easily serve another purpose—smuggling items out of the quarter.

While the
yujo
played, Chang-wei and the proprietor continued to speak in a low tone, too quiet for me to hear. At some point, a folded paper appeared in Chang-wei's hand and promptly disappeared into Yelu's sleeve.