“What enemy? What way destroy ship?”
“Not say who—or how, Sire. Nothing clear. Just sorry if. Mariko-sama say sayonara. Hope seppuku serves Lord Toranaga.”
“Ah yes, serves greatly, neh?”
“Yes.”
Toranaga smiled at him. “Glad all good now, Anjin-san. Eeeeee, Mariko-sama was right. Don’t worry about that!” Toranaga pointed at the hulk. “Build new ship at once. A fighting ship, neh? You understand?”
“Understand very much.”
“This new ship . . . could this new ship fight the Black Ship?”
“Yes.”
“Ah! Next year’s Black Ship?”
“Possible.”
“What about crew?”
“Please?”
“Seamen—gunners?”
“Ah! By next year can train my vassals as gunners. Not seamen.”
“You can have the pick of all the seamen in the Kwanto.”
“Then next year possible.” Blackthorne grinned. “Is next year possible? War? What about war?”
Toranaga shrugged. “War or no war—still try, neh? That’s your prey—understand ‘prey’? And our secret. Between you and me only, neh? The Black Ship.”
“Priests will soon break secret.”
“Perhaps. But this time no tidal wave or tai-fun, my friend. You will watch and I will watch.”
“Yes.”
“First Black Ship, then go home. Bring me back a navy. Understand?”
“Oh yes.”
“If I lose—karma. If not, then everything, Anjin-san. Everything as you said. Everything—Black Ship, ambassador, treaty, ships! Understand?”
“Yes. Oh yes! Thank you.”
“Thank Mariko-sama. Without her . . .” Toranaga saluted him warmly, for the first time as an equal, and went away with his guards. Blackthorne’s vassals bowed, completely impressed with the honor done to their master.
Blackthorne watched Toranaga leave, exulting, then he saw the food. The servants were beginning to pack up the remains. “Wait. Now food, please.”
He ate carefully, slowly and with good manners, his own men quarreling for the privilege of serving him, his mind roving over all the vast possibilities that Toranaga had opened up for him. You’ve won, he told himself, wanting to dance a hornpipe with glee. But he did not. He reread her letter once more. And blessed her again.
“Follow me,” he ordered, and led the way toward the camp, his brain already designing the ship and her gunports. Jesus God in heaven, help Toranaga to keep Ishido out of the Kwanto and Izu and please bless Mariko, wherever she is, and let the cannon not be rusted up too much. Mariko was right: Erasmus was doomed, with or without me. She’s given me back my life. I can build another life and another ship. Ninety tons! My ship’ll be a sharp-nosed, floating battle platform, as sleek as a greyhound, better than the Erasmus class, her bowsprit jutting arrogantly and a lovely figurehead just below, and her face’ll look just like her, with her lovely slanting eyes and high cheekbones. My ship’ll . . . Jesus God, there’s a ton of stuff I can salvage from the wreck! I can use part of the keel, some of the ribs—and there’ll be a thousand nails around, and the rest of the keel’ll make bindings and braces and everything I need . . . if I’ve the time.
Yes. My ship’ll be like her, he promised himself. She’ll be trim and miniature and perfect like a Yoshitomo blade, and that’s the best in the world, and just as dangerous. Next year she’ll take a prize twenty times her own weight, like Mariko did at Osaka, and she’ll rip the enemy out of Asia. And then, the following year or the one after, I’ll sail her up the Thames to London, her pockets full of gold and the seven seas in her wake. “The Lady will be her name,” he said aloud.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Two dawns later Toranaga was checking the girths of his saddle. Deftly he kneed the horse in the belly, her stomach muscles relaxed, and he tightened the strap another two notches. Rotten animal, he thought, despising horses for their constant trickeries and treacheries and ill-tempered dangerousness. This is me, Yoshi Toranaga-noh-Chikitada-noh-Minowara, not some addle-brained child. He waited a moment and kneed the horse hard again. The horse grunted and rattled her bridle and he tightened the straps completely.
“Good, Sire! Very good,” the Hunt Master said with admiration. He was a gnarled old man as strong and weathered as a brine-pickled vat. “Many would’ve been satisfied the first time.”
“Then the rider’s saddle would’ve slipped and the fool would have been thrown and his back maybe broken by noon. Neh?”
The samurai laughed. “Yes, and deserving it, Sire!”
Around them in the stable area were guards and falconers carrying their hooded hawks and falcons. Tetsu-ko, the peregrine, was in the place of honor and, dwarfing her, alone unhooded, was Kogo the goshawk, her golden, merciless eyes scrutinizing everything.
Naga led up his horse. “Good morning, Father.”
“Good morning, my son. Where’s your brother?”
“Lord Sudara’s waiting at the camp, Sire.”
“Good.” Toranaga smiled at the youth. Then because he liked him, he drew him to one side. “Listen, my son, instead of going hunting, write out the battle orders for me to sign when I return this evening.”
“Oh, Father,” Naga said, bursting with pride at the honor of formally taking up the gauntlet cast down by Ishido in his own handwriting, implementing the decision of yesterday’s Council of War to order the armies to the passes. “Thank you, thank you.”
“Next: The Musket Regiment is ordered to Hakoné at dawn tomorrow. Next: The baggage train from Yedo will arrive this afternoon. Make sure everything’s ready.”
“Yes, certainly. How soon do we fight?”
“Very soon. Last night I received news Ishido and the Heir left Osaka to review the armies. So it’s committed now.”
“Please forgive me that I can’t fly to Osaka like Tetsu-ko and kill him, and Kiyama and Onoshi, and settle this whole problem without having to bother you.”
“Thank you, my son.” Toranaga did not trouble to tell him the monstrous problems that would have to be solved before those killings could become fact. He glanced around. All the falconers were ready. And his guards. He called the Hunt Master to him. “First I’m going to the camp, then we’ll take the coast road for four ri north.”
“But the beaters are already in the hills. . . .” The Hunt Master swallowed the rest of his complaint and tried to recover. “Please excuse my—er—I must have eaten something rotten, Sire.”
“That’s apparent. Perhaps you should pass over your responsibility to someone else. Perhaps your piles have affected your judgment, so sorry,” Toranaga said. If he had not been using the hunt as a cover he would have replaced him. “Eh?”
“Yes, so sorry, Sire,” the old samurai said. “May I ask—er—do you wish to hunt the areas you picked last night or would you—er—like to hunt the coast?”
“The coast.”
“Certainly, Sire. Please excuse me so I can make the change.” The man rushed off. Toranaga kept his eyes on him. It’s time for him to be retired, he thought without malice. Then he noticed Omi coming into the stable compound with a young samurai beside him who limped badly, a cruel knife wound still livid across his face from the fight at Osaka.
“Ah, Omi-san!” He returned their salute. “Is this the fellow?”