Ten paces from the officer he stopped.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
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 cross-legged 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 grandson-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?”
“Ah, Toranaga-sama, you’re so kind.” Hiro-matsu became serious. “You could reward all of us, Sire, by leaving this hornet’s nest at once, and going back to your castle at Yedo where your vassals can protect you. Here we’re naked. Any moment Ishido could—”
“I will. As soon as the Council of Regents meeting is concluded.” Toranaga turned and beckoned the lean-faced Portuguese who was sitting patiently in his shadow. “Will you interpret for me now, my friend?”
“Certainly, Sire.” The tonsured priest came forward, with practiced grace kneeled in Japanese style close to the dais, his body as spare as his face, his eyes dark and liquid, an air of serene concentration about him. He wore tabi socks and a flowing kimono that seemed, on him, to belong. A rosary and a carved golden cross hung at his belt. He greeted Hiro-matsu as an equal, then glanced pleasantly at Blackthorne.
“My name is Martin Alvito of the Society of Jesus, Captain-Pilot. Lord Toranaga has asked me to interpret for him.”
“First tell him that we’re enemies and that—”
“All in good time,” Father Alvito interrupted smoothly. Then he added, “We can speak Portuguese, Spanish, or, of course, Latin—whichever you prefer.”
Blackthorne had not seen the priest until the man came forward. The dais had hidden him, and the other samurai. But he had been expecting him, forewarned by Rodrigues, and loathed what he saw: the easy elegance, the aura of strength and natural power of the Jesuits. He had assumed the priest would be much older, considering his influential position and the way Rodrigues had talked about him. But they were practically of an age, he and the Jesuit. Perhaps the priest was a few years older.