Shōgun полностью

Her fan stopped. “I never thought he’d escape alive. Never. I’ve said a prayer and burnt incense to his memory daily.” Buntaro had told her this morning how another contingent of Toranaga samurai had covered his retreat from the beach and he had made the outskirts of Osaka without trouble. Then, with fifty picked men and spare horses, disguised as bandits, he hastily took to the hills and lesser paths in a headlong dash for Yedo. Twice his pursuers caught up with him but there were not enough of the enemy to contain him and he fought his way through. Once he was ambushed and lost all but four men, and escaped again and went deeper into the forest, traveling by night, sleeping during the day. Berries and spring water, a little rice snatched from lonely farmhouses, then galloping on again, hunters always at his heels. It had taken him twenty days to reach Yedo. Two men had survived with him.

“It was almost a miracle,” she said. “I thought I was possessed by a kami when I saw him here beside you on the beach.”

“He’s clever. Very strong and very clever.”

“May I ask what news of Lord Hiro-matsu, Sire? And Osaka? Lady Kiritsubo and the Lady Sazuko?”

Noncommittal, Toranaga informed her that Hiro-matsu had arrived back at Yedo the day before he had left, though his ladies had decided to stay at Osaka, the Lady Sazuko’s health being the reason for their delay. There was no need to elaborate. Both he and Mariko knew that this was merely a face-saving formula and that General Ishido would never allow two such valuable hostages to leave now that Toranaga was out of his grasp.

“Shigata ga nai,” he said. “Karma, neh?” There’s nothing that can be done. That’s karma, isn’t it?

“Yes.”

He picked up the scroll. “Now I must read this. Thank you, Mariko-san. You’ve done very well. Please bring the Anjin-san to the fortress at dawn.”

“Sire, now that my Master is here, I will have—”

“Your husband has already agreed that while I’m here you’re to remain where you are and act as interpreter, your prime duty being to the Anjin-san for the next few days.”

“But Sire, I must set up house for my Lord. He’ll need servants and a house.”

“That will be a waste of money, time, and effort at the moment. He’ll stay with the troops—or at the Anjin-san’s house—whichever pleases him.” He noticed a flash of irritation. “Nan ja?”

“My place should be with my Master. To serve him.”

“Your place is where I want it to be. Neh?”

“Yes, please excuse me. Of course.”

“Of course.”

She left.

He read the scroll carefully. And the War Manual. Then he reread parts of the scroll. He put them both away safely and posted guards on the cabin and went aloft.

It was dawn. The day promised warmth and overcast. He canceled the meeting with the Anjin-san, as he had intended, and rode to the plateau with a hundred guards. There he collected his falconers and three hawks and hunted for twenty ri. By noon he had bagged three pheasants, two large woodcock, a hare, and a brace of quail. He sent one pheasant and the hare to the Anjin-san, the rest to the fortress. Some of his samurai were not Buddhists and he was tolerant of their eating habits. For himself he ate a little cold rice with fish paste, some pickled seaweed with slivers of ginger. Then he curled up on the ground and slept.

Now it was late afternoon and Blackthorne was in the kitchen, whistling merrily. Around him were the chief cook, assistant cook, the vegetable preparer, fish preparer, and their assistants, all smiling but inwardly mortified because their master was here in their kitchen with their mistress, also because she had told them he was going to honor them by showing them how to prepare and cook in his style. And last because of the hare.

He had already hung the pheasant under the eaves of an outhouse with careful instructions that no one, no one was to touch it but him. “Do they understand, Fujiko-san? No touching but me?” he asked with mock gravity.

“Oh, yes, Anjin-san. They all understand. So sorry, excuse me, but you should say ‘No one’s to touch it except me.’ ”

“Now,” he was saying to no one in particular, “the gentle art of cooking. Lesson One.”

“Dozo gomen nasai?” Fujiko asked.

“Miru!” Watch.

Feeling young again—for one of his first chores had been to clean the game he and his brother poached at such huge risk from the estates around Chatham—he selected a long, curving knife. The sushi chef blanched. This was his favorite knife, with an especially honed edge to ensure that the slivers of raw fish were always sliced to perfection. All the staff knew this and they sucked in their breaths, smiling even more to hide their embarrassment for him, as he increased the size of his smile to hide his own shame.