Shogun (The Asian Saga Chronology) (29 page)

The next day a maid came for him.  The clothes that Rodrigues had given him were laundered.  She watched while he dressed, and helped him into new tabi sock-shoes.  Outside was a new pair of thongs.  His boots were missing.  She shook her head and pointed at the thongs and then at the curtained palanquin.  A phalanx of samurai surrounded it.  The leader motioned him to hurry up and get in.

They moved off immediately.  The curtains were tight closed.  After an age, the palanquin stopped.

"You will not be afraid," he said aloud, and got out.

The gigantic stone gate of the castle was in front of him.  It was set into a thirty-foot wall with interlocking battlements, bastions, and outworks.  The door was huge and iron plated and open, the forged iron portcullis up.  Beyond was a wooden bridge, twenty paces wide and two hundred long, that spanned the moat and ended at an enormous drawbridge, and another gate that was set into the second wall, equally vast.

Hundreds of samurai were everywhere.  All wore the same somber gray uniform—belted kimonos, each with five small circular insignias, one on each arm, on each breast, and one in the center of the back.  The insignia was blue, seemingly a flower or flowers.

"Anjin-san!"

Hiro-matsu was seated stiffly on an open palanquin carried by four liveried bearers.  His kimono was brown and stark, his belt black, the same as the fifty samurai that surrounded him.  Their kimonos, too, had five insignias, but these were scarlet, the same that had fluttered at the mast head, Toranaga's cipher.  These samurai carried long gleaming spears with tiny flags at their heads.

Blackthorne bowed without thinking, taken by Hiro-matsu's majesty.  The old man bowed back formally, his long sword loose in his lap, and signed for him to follow.

The officer at the gate came forward.  There was a ceremonial reading of the paper that Hiro-matsu offered and many bows and looks toward Blackthorne and then they were passed on to the bridge, an escort of the Grays falling in beside them.

The surface of the deep moat was fifty feet below and stretched about three hundred paces on either side, then followed the walls as they turned north and Blackthorne thought, Lord God, I'd hate to have to try to mount an attack here.  The defenders could let the outerwall garrison perish and burn the bridge, then they're safe inside.  Jesus God, the outer wall must be nearly a mile square and look, it must be twenty, thirty feet thick—the inner one, too.  And it's made out of huge blocks of stone.  Each one must be ten feet by ten feet!  At least!  And cut perfectly and set into place without mortar.  They must weigh fifty tons at least.  Better than any we could make.  Siege guns?  Certainly they could batter the outer walls, but the guns defending would give as good as they got.  It'd be hard to get them up here, and there's no higher point from which to lob fireballs into the castle.  If the outer wall was taken, the defenders could still blast the attackers off the battlements.  But even if siege guns could be mounted there and they were turned on the next wall and battered it, they wouldn't hurt it.  They could damage the far gate, but what would that accomplish?  How could the moat be crossed?  It's too vast for the normal methods.  The castle must be impregnable—with enough soldiers.  How many soldiers are here?  How many townspeople would have sanctuary inside?

It makes the Tower of London like a pigsty.  And the whole of Hampton Court would fit into one corner!

At the next gate there was another ceremonial checking of papers and the road turned left immediately, down a vast avenue lined with heavily fortified houses behind easily defended greater walls and lesser walls, then doubled on itself into a labyrinth of steps and roads.  Then there was another gate and more checking, another portcullis and another vast moat and new twistings and turnings until Blackthorne, who was an acute observer with an extraordinary memory and sense of direction, was lost in the deliberate maze.  And all the time numberless Grays stared down at them from escarpments and ramparts and battlements and parapets and bastions.  And there were more on foot, guarding, marching, training or tending horses in open stables.  Soldiers everywhere, by the thousand.  All well armed and meticulously clothed.

He cursed himself for not being clever enough to get more out of Rodrigues.  Apart from the information about the Taikō and the converts, which was staggering enough, Rodrigues had been as closemouthed as a man should be—as you were, avoiding his questions.

Concentrate.  Look for clues.  What's special about this castle?  It's the biggest.  No, something's different.  What?

Are the Grays hostile to the Browns?  I can't tell, they're all so serious.

Blackthorne watched them carefully and focused on details.  To the left was a carefully tended, multicolored garden, with little bridges and a tiny stream.  The walls were now spaced closer together, the roads narrower.  They were nearing the donjon.  There were no towns people inside but hundreds of servants and—
There are no cannon!
  That's what's different!

You haven't seen any cannon.  Not one.

Lord God in Heaven, no cannon—therefore no siege guns!

If you had modern weapons and the defenders none, could you blow the walls down, the doors down, rain fireballs on the castle, set it afire and take it?

You couldn't get across the first moat.

With siege guns you could make it difficult for the defenders but they could hold out forever—if the garrison was determined, if there were enough of them, with enough food, water, and ammunition.

How to cross the moats?  By boat?  Rafts with towers?

His mind was trying to devise a plan when the palanquin stopped.  Hiro-matsu got down.  They were in a narrow cul-desac.  A huge iron-fortified timber gate was let into the twenty-foot wall which melted into the outworks of the fortified strongpoint above, still distant from the donjon, which from here was mostly obscured.  Unlike all other gateways this was guarded by Browns, the only ones Blackthorne had seen within the castle.  It was clear that they were more than a little pleased to see Hiro-matsu.

The Grays turned and left.  Blackthorne noted the hostile looks they had received from the Browns.

So they're enemies!

The gate swung open and he followed the old man inside.  Alone.  The other samurai stayed outside.

The inner courtyard was guarded by more Browns and so was the garden beyond.  They crossed the garden and entered the fort.  Hiro-matsu kicked off his thongs and Blackthorne did likewise.

The corridor inside was richly carpeted with tatamis, the same rush mats, clean and kind to the feet, that were set into the floors of all but the poorest houses.  Blackthorne had noticed before that they were all the same size, about six feet by three feet.  Come to think of it, he told himself, I've never seen any mats shaped or cut to size.  And there's never been an odd-shaped room!  Haven't all the rooms been exactly square or rectangular?  Of course!  That means that all houses—or rooms—must be constructed to fit an exact number of mats.  So they're all standard!  How very odd!

They climbed winding, defendable stairs, and went along additional corridors and more stairs.  There were many guards, always Browns.  Shafts of sunlight from the wall embrasures cast intricate patterns.  Blackthorne could see that now they were high over the three encircling main walls.  The city and the harbor were a patterned quilt below.

The corridor turned a sharp corner and ended fifty paces away.

Blackthorne tasted bile in his mouth.  Don't worry, he told himself, you've decided what to do.  You're committed.

Massed samurai, their young officer in front of them, protected the last door—each with right hand on the sword hilt, left on the scabbard, motionless and ready, staring toward the two men who approached.

Hiro-matsu was reassured by their readiness.  He had personally selected these guards.  He hated the castle and thought again how dangerous it had been for Toranaga to put himself into the enemy's power.  Directly he had landed yesterday he had rushed to Toranaga, to tell him what had happened and to find out if anything untoward had occurred in his absence.  But all was still quiet though their spies whispered about dangerous enemy buildups to the north and east, and that their main allies, the Regents, Onoshi and Kiyama, the greatest of the Christian
daimyos,
were going to defect to Ishido.  He had changed the guard and the passwords and had again begged Toranaga to leave, to no avail.

Ten paces from the officer he stopped.

CHAPTER 11

Yoshi Naga, officer of the watch, was a mean-tempered, dangerous youth of seventeen.  "Good morning, Sire.  Welcome back."

"Thank you.  Lord Toranaga's expecting me."

"Yes."  Even if Hiro-matsu had not been expected, Naga would still have admitted him.  Toda Hiro-matsu was one of only three persons in the world who were to be allowed into Toranaga's presence by day or by night, without appointment.

"Search the barbarian," Naga said.  He was Toranaga's fifth son by one of his consorts, and he worshiped his father.

Blackthorne submitted quietly, realizing what they were doing.  The two samurai were very expert.  Nothing would have escaped them.

Naga motioned to the rest of his men.  They moved aside.  He opened the thick door himself.

Hiro-matsu entered the immense audience room.  Just beyond the doorway he knelt, put his swords on the floor in front of him, placed his hands flat on the floor beside them and bowed his head low, waiting in that abject position.

Naga, ever watchful, indicated to Blackthorne to do the same.

Blackthorne walked in.  The room was forty paces square and ten high, the tatami mats the best quality, four fingers thick and impeccable.  There were two doors in the far wall.  Near the dais, in a niche, was a small earthenware vase with a single spray of cherry blossom and this filled the room with color and fragrance.

Both doors were guarded.  Ten paces from the dais, circling it, were twenty more samurai, seated cross-legged and facing outward.

Toranaga sat on a single cushion on the dais.  He was repairing a broken wing feather of a hooded falcon as delicately as any ivory carver.

Neither he nor anyone in the room had acknowledged Hiro-matsu or paid any attention to Blackthorne as he walked in and stopped beside the old man.  But unlike Hiro-matsu, Blackthorne bowed as Rodrigues had shown him, then, taking a deep breath, he sat crosslegged and stared at Toranaga.

All eyes flashed to Blackthorne.

In the doorway Naga's hand was on his sword.  Hiro-matsu had already grasped his, though his head was still bent.

Blackthorne felt naked but he had committed himself and now he could only wait.  Rodrigues had said, 'With Japmen you've got to act like a king,' and though this wasn't acting like a king, it was more than enough.

Toranaga looked up slowly.

A bead of sweat started at Blackthorne's temple as everything Rodrigues had told him about samurai seemed to crystalize in this one man.  He felt the sweat trickle down his cheek to his chin.  He willed his blue eyes firm and unblinking, his face calm.

Toranaga's gaze was equally steady.

Blackthorne felt the almost overwhelming power of the man reach out to him.  He forced himself to count slowly to six, and then he inclined his head and bowed slightly again and formed a small, calm smile.

Toranaga watched him briefly, his face impassive, then looked down and concentrated on his work again.  Tension subsided in the room.

The falcon was a peregrine and she was in her prime.  The handler, a gnarled old samurai, knelt in front of Toranaga and held her as though she were spun glass.  Toranaga cut the broken quill, dipped the tiny bamboo imping needle into the glue and inserted it into the haft of the feather, then delicately slipped the new cut feather over the other end.  He adjusted the angle until it was perfect and bound it with a silken thread.  The tiny bells on her feet jingled, and he gentled the fear out of her.

Yoshi Toranaga, Lord of the Kwanto—the Eight Provinces—head of the clan Yoshi, Chief General of the Armies of the East, President of the Council of Regents, was a short man with a big belly and large nose.  His eyebrows were thick and dark and his mustache and beard gray-flecked and sparse.  Eyes dominated his face.  He was fifty-eight and strong for his age.  His kimono was simple, an ordinary Brown uniform, his sash belt cotton.  But his swords were the best in the world.

"There, my beauty," he said with a lover's tenderness.  "Now you are whole again."  He caressed the bird with a feather as she sat hooded on the handler's gauntleted fist.  She shivered and preened herself contentedly.  "We'll fly her within the week."

The handler bowed and left.

Toranaga turned his eyes on the two men at the door.  "Welcome, Iron Fist, I'm pleased to see you," he said.  "So this is your famous barbarian?"

"Yes, Lord."  Hiro-matsu came closer, leaving his swords at the doorway as was custom, but Toranaga insisted he bring them with him.

"I would feel uncomfortable if you didn't have them in your hands," he said.

Hiro-matsu thanked him.  Even so, he sat five paces away.  By custom, no one armed could safely come closer to Toranaga.  In the front rank of the guards was Usagi, Hiro-matsu's favorite grand-son-in-law, and he nodded to him briefly.  The youth bowed deeply, honored and pleased to be noticed.  Perhaps I should adopt him formally, Hiro-matsu told himself happily, warmed by the thought of his favorite granddaughter and his first great-grandson that they had presented him with last year.

"How is your back?" Toranaga asked solicitously.

"All right, thank you, Lord.  But I must tell you I'm glad to be off that ship and on land again."

"I hear you've a new toy here to idle away the hours with,
neh?
"

The old man guffawed.  "I can only tell you, Lord, the hours weren't idle.  I haven't been so hard in years."

Toranaga laughed with him.  "Then we should reward her.  Your health is important to me.  May I send her a token of my thanks?"