Cloud of Sparrows (4 page)

“Amen,” Emily said. She heard Brother Matthew’s echoed amen behind her.

“He will not fail thee,” Zephaniah said, his voice growing louder, his face redder, “nor forsake thee!”

“Amen,” Emily and Brother Matthew said.

Zephaniah’s near hand rose, as if to touch her, then he blinked and drew his bulging eyes back into his head. His hand dropped down onto his own thigh. He looked across the bow to the approaching pier. Gospel came from his throat in a choked whisper. “Be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.”

“Amen,” Emily said.

In truth, she feared what was behind her more than what was ahead. Whatever dread she felt at the approach of the unknown had been polished and honed so much by anticipation, it had turned into hope long ago.

Japan. A land as unlike her own as any could be and still be of God’s green earth. Religion, language, history, art—Japan and America held nothing in common. She had never even seen a Japanese man or woman, except in those museum daguerreotypes. And the Japanese, Zephaniah had told her, had seen almost no outsiders for nearly three hundred years. They had become incestuously ingrown, he said, feeling with hearts twisted by isolation, hearing with ears deafened by demonic gongs, seeing with eyes clouded by pagan delusions. We and they will look upon the same scene and see entirely different landscapes. Be prepared for this, he said. Guard yourself from disappointment. Abandon all that you have long taken for granted. You will be cleansed, he said, of all vanity.

She felt no fear, only anticipation. Japan. She had dreamed of it for so long. If there was a place where her infernal curse might be lifted from her, it was Japan. Let the past truly be past. That was her most fervent prayer.

The landing dock neared. Emily could see two dozen Japanese there, wharfmen and officials. In another minute, she would see their faces, and they would see hers. When they looked at her, what would they see?

Her blood thundered in her veins.

While elaborate, his overall appearance was at the same time extremely conservative, more appropriate for an elderly man than for a youth of twenty-four. This was because the clothing he wore had in fact belonged to an elderly man, his grandfather, the late Lord Kiyori, who had died three weeks earlier at the age of seventy-nine. The black-and-gray outer kimono, without adornment of any kind, radiated a kind of warlike austerity. Over this, the stiffly winged black jacket was likewise plain, lacking even the crest of his house, a stylized sparrow dodging arrows from the four directions.

This last omission did not find favor with Saiki, the chamberlain he had inherited from his grandfather. “Lord, is there a reason for you to be incognito?”

“Incognito?” The suggestion amused Genji. “I am about to go into the street in a formal procession surrounded by a company of samurai, all wearing the sparrow-and-arrows crest. Do you really think anyone will fail to recognize me?”

“Lord, you give your enemies an excuse to pretend they don’t, and thus the freedom to insult you and instigate a crisis.”

“I will refuse to be insulted,” Genji said, “and you will prevent any instigation.”

“They may not permit you to refuse,” Saiki said, “and I may be unable to prevent.”

Genji smiled. “In such case, I am confident you will proceed to kill them all.”

Kudo, the security chief, bowed and entered the room. “Lord, your guest will leave the compound after you depart. Would it not be advisable to have her followed?”

“For what purpose?” Genji said. “We know where she lives.”

“A simple precautionary measure,” Kudo said. “Outside your presence, she may let down her guard. We may learn something of value.”

Genji smiled. He had known Heiko for less than a month, and he already knew she never let down her guard.

“We should do as Kudo suggests,” Saiki said. “We have never looked into the woman’s background and past associations as thoroughly as we should have.” What he meant, but did not say, was that Genji had forbidden any such inquiries. “Some rudimentary surveillance would surely be appropriate.”

“Don’t worry,” Genji said, “I myself have investigated Heiko thoroughly, and find nothing to doubt.”

“That is not the kind of investigation we need,” Saiki said, a sour expression on his face. He found playful references to sex distasteful in the extreme. During two hundred fifty debilitating years of peace, many clans had crumbled because their leaders had allowed themselves to be distracted by prurient impulses. “We know nothing of substance about her. Not prudent.”

“We know she is the most celebrated geisha in Edo,” Genji said. “What else do we need to know?” He held up his hand to cut off Saiki’s response. “I have psychically examined her in the four directions of time and space. Rest assured, she is completely above suspicion.”

“Lord,” Saiki said, his face full of reproach, “this is not a matter for jest. Your life could very well be at risk.”

“What makes you think I’m jesting? Surely you have heard the rumors. I have but to touch a person and I know their destiny.” He could see by the way that Kudo and Saiki looked at each other that they had indeed heard the rumors. With a last dissatisfied glance in the mirror, Genji turned and left the room.

His two advisors followed him down the hall to the outer courtyard. Two dozen samurai awaited his presence, a palanquin and four bearers in their midst. Members of the household staff lined the way to the gate, ready to bow as he departed. They would be there, bowing again, when he returned. It was, all in all, a tremendous waste of human energy. His destination was only a few hundred yards away, and he would be back within minutes. Yet a rigid and ancient protocol of rank demanded that his every departure and arrival be treated with ceremonial seriousness.

He turned to Saiki. “No wonder Japan has fallen so far behind the outsider nations. They have science and industry. They produce cannons, steamships, and railroads. We, in pathetic contrast, have a superabundance of empty ceremony. We produce bows, kneelings, and more bows.”

“Lord?” Saiki’s expression was clouded with confusion.

“I could saddle a horse, ride there on my own, and be back in less time than it took to assemble this unnecessary crowd.”

“Lord!” Saiki and Kudo both dropped to their knees on the hallway floor. Saiki said, “I beg you, do not even consider such a thing.”

Kudo said, “You have enemies among both supporters and opponents of the Shogun. Going out without an escort is tantamount to suicide.”

Genji gestured for them to rise. “I said I could. I didn’t say I would.” He sighed and went down the steps into the sandals that had been placed on the ground for him. He took five steps to the palanquin (which had by now been raised three feet by the bearers, making it possible for him to enter with a minimum of effort), removed the two swords (which he had just a minute earlier placed in his sash), and put them inside the palanquin, stepped out of the sandals (which the sandal bearer now bowed to before placing in the sandal compartment under the entrance of the palanquin), and seated himself within. He looked out at Saiki and said, “Do you see what I mean about empty ceremony?”

Saiki bowed. “Lord, it is my failing that I do not. I will study the matter.”

Genji let out an exasperated sigh. “Let us proceed, then, before the sun sets.”

“My lord jests again,” Saiki said. “The sun has only just risen.” He stepped forward, bowed, and slid the door of the palanquin shut. The bearers rose. The procession moved forward.

Through the front window, Genji could see eight samurai in a double column. If he cared to look behind, he would see twelve more. Two were to his left, and two, including Saiki, to his right. Twenty-four men, twenty-eight counting the bearers, were prepared to give their lives to preserve his. Such martial dedication imbued every act of a Great Lord, no matter how mundane and insignificant, with altogether too much drama. No wonder Japan’s past was so bloody and its future so wrought with danger.

Genji’s contemplation moved in another direction when he saw an elaborate coiffure among the bowing heads of the household staff. It was formed by the same lustrous hair that had so recently decorated his pillow like night itself spilling from the sky. Her kimono was one he had never seen before. He knew she wore it now for the sole purpose of bidding him farewell. It depicted dozens of pink roses cast about by white foam on a sea of deepest blue. Her white overcoat had exactly the same design, but without any additional colors. Three different textures of silk for white roses on white foam on a sea of white. It was evocative, daring, and extremely dangerous. Heiko’s roses were of the variety sometimes referred to as American Beauty. The most rabid antiforeign samurai among the reactionary clans took offense at everything that came from outside. With the same simplistic arrogance that enabled them to style themselves Men of Virtue, it was entirely possible that one of them might think to kill her merely for wearing this design. Against such an attack, her only defense was her courage, her fame, her incredible beauty.

“Stop,” Genji said.

Immediately, Saiki cried out the order. “Halt!” The leading contingent of samurai had passed through the front gate of the compound and was now stopped in the street. Genji’s palanquin was just inside the gate. The rest of the bodyguard corps was still in the courtyard behind him. Saiki grimaced. “This position invites ambush, lord. We enjoy neither the protection within nor the freedom of movement without.”

Genji opened the sliding door. “I have complete confidence in your ability to defend me at all times, in all circumstances.” Heiko was still bowing deeply, like everyone else.

“Lady Mayonaka no Heiko,” he said, using her full geisha name. Midnight Equilibrium.

“Lord Genji,” she replied, bowing even lower.

How was it, he wondered, that her voice could be so soft and so clear at the same time? Were it as fragile as it seemed, he should not be able to hear her at all. The illusion was tantalizing. Everything about her was tantalizing.

“Such a provocative kimono.”

She came out of her bow, smiling, and slightly spread her arms. The wide sleeves of her kimono opened like the wings of a bird about to take flight. “I am sure I don’t know what Lord Genji means,” she said. “These colors are so common I border on visual cliché. Surely only the most hopeless of idiots could be provoked by it.”

Genji laughed. Even the steadfastly dour Saiki was unable to suppress a short chuckle, though he did a fair job of disguising it as a cough. Genji said, “The most hopeless of idiots are precisely the ones who worry me. But perhaps you are right. Perhaps the traditional colors will blind them to the foreign roses.”

“Foreign?” A most beguiling look of query widened her eyes and caused her head to tilt. “I have been told roses, pink, white, and red, blossom every spring in the innermost garden of the famous castle, Cloud of Sparrows.” She added pointedly, “I have been told, though I have never been invited to see for myself.”

Genji bowed, not too deeply. Protocol forbade a Great Lord from bowing low to anyone below him in rank, which was practically everyone but the members of the Imperial Family in Kyoto and the Shogunal Family in the great castle that towered over Edo. With a smile, he said, “I am certain that oversight will be remedied in a day not distant.”

“I am less certain,” she said, “but I am heartened by your confidence. In any case, is that castle not one of the most ancient in all of Japan?”

“Yes,” Genji said, playing along with her. “It is.”

“Then how can these flowers be foreign? By definition, what blooms in an ancient Japanese castle must be Japanese, must it not, Lord Genji?”

“It is obvious I was wrong to worry about you, Lady Heiko,” Genji said. “Your logic is certain to deflect all criticism.”

The household staff was still bowing. Outside the gate, passersby who had dropped to their knees at the appearance of a Great Lord’s procession remained on their knees, their heads pressed to the ground. This was less out of respect than out of fear. A samurai could cut down any commoner who failed, in the samurai’s opinion, to display the proper humility, which generally meant groveling until the samurai and his lord had passed by. During the entire conversation, all activity in the vicinity had come to a halt. Seeing Heiko, Genji had forgotten about everyone else. His lack of consideration embarrassed him now. With a quick farewell bow to her, he gave the signal to proceed.

“Forward!” Saiki ordered. As the procession finally departed, Saiki shot a glance at Kudo, who remained behind.

Genji observed this exchange and knew right away what it meant. The two were disobeying his order to let Heiko be. When she left the compound minutes later, she would be accompanied by her maidservant at her side, and behind her at a discreet distance, Kudo, the surveillance specialist among his senior advisors. There was nothing he could do about that now. Nor was there much reason for concern. Events had not yet taken such a turn that he had to worry about his bodyguards killing his mistress. The situation would deteriorate soon enough. He would worry about it then.

“Saiki.”

“Lord.”

“What transportation awaits our guests?”

“Rickshaws, lord.”

Genji said nothing more. Rickshaws. Saiki knew they would be more comfortable in carriages, so he had arranged for rickshaws instead. This clear signal of his vassal’s disapproval didn’t upset Genji. He understood the dilemma.

Saiki was bound to him by honor, history, and tradition. Yet the code history and tradition had created, the code from which all honor flowed, was itself under attack by the very actions Genji now took. Foreigners threatened the hierarchical order of lord and vassal upon which their society was built. While the most decisive lords sought their expulsion, his own lord went out of his way to befriend them. And not just any foreigners, but Christian missionaries, the most politically provocative and practically useless of them all.

Genji knew Saiki was not alone among his tradition-bound vassals in doubting his judgment. Indeed, of the three generals he had inherited from his grandfather—Saiki, Kudo, and Sohaku—there wasn’t one whose adherence was utterly certain. Loyalties were coming into conflict in a way never foreseen. When those loyalties could no longer be reconciled, would they follow Genji, or would they turn against him?

Even with prophecy as a guide, the road ahead was uncertain.

A dozen roughly dressed Japanese dockworkers awaited the arrival of their longboat. At the base of the pier, three men in much more elaborate attire sat at a table. Stark could see that all three wore two swords in their sashes. They must be what Zephaniah had said were samurai, the warrior caste that ruled Japan. All of the Japanese regarded their approach without expression of any kind.

“May God in heaven watch over you,” Captain McCain said, “because it’s for certain He’s not anywhere ashore.” The skipper of the
Star of Bethlehem
went with them to arrange for his ship’s provisions. Unlike his passengers, he had been to Japan before, and his opinion of the place and its inhabitants was not high.