Shōgun полностью

When everything was ready for his departure, Toranaga came out from his rooms onto the veranda. Everyone bowed. Sourly he motioned them to continue and sent for the innkeeper. The man fawned as he presented the bill on his knees. Toranaga checked it item by item. The bill was very fair. He nodded and threw it at his paymaster for payment, then summoned Mariko and the Anjin-san. Mariko was given permission to go to Osaka. “But first you’ll go directly from here to Mishima. Give this private dispatch to Hiro-matsu-san, then continue on to Yedo with the Anjin-san. You’re responsible for him until you arrive. You’ll probably go by sea to Osaka—I’ll decide that later. Anjin-san! Did you get the dictionary from the priest-san?”

“Please? So sorry, I don’t understand.”

Mariko translated.

“Sorry. Yes, I book got.”

“When we meet in Yedo, you’ll speak better Japanese than you do now. Wakarimasu ka?”

“Hai. Gomen nasai.”

Despondently Toranaga stomped out of the courtyard, a samurai holding a large umbrella for him against the rain. As one, all samurai, porters, and villagers again bowed. Toranaga paid no attention to them, just got into his roofed palanquin at the head of the column and closed the curtains.

At once, the six seminaked bearers raised the litter and started off at a loping trot, their horny bare feet splashing the puddles. Mounted escorting samurai rode ahead, and another mounted guard surrounded the palanquin. Spare porters and the baggage train followed, all hurrying, all tense and filled with dread. Omi led the van. Buntaro was to command the rearguard. Yabu and Naga had already left for the Musket Regiment that was still athwart the road in ambush to await Toranaga at the crest; it would fall in behind to form a rearguard. “Rearguard against whom?” Yabu had snarled at Omi in the few moments of privacy they had had before he galloped off.

Buntaro strode back to the high, curved gateway of the inn, careless of the downpour. “Mariko-san!”

Obediently she hurried to him, her orange oiled-paper umbrella beaten by the heavy drops. “Yes, Sire?”

His eyes raced over her under the brim of his bamboo hat, then went to Blackthorne, who watched from the veranda. “Tell him . . .” He stopped.

“Sire?”

He stared down at her. “Tell him I hold him responsible for you.”

“Yes, Sire,” she said. “But, please excuse me, I am responsible for me.”

Buntaro turned and measured the distance to the head of the column.

When he glanced back his face showed a trace of his torment. “Now there’ll be no falling leaves for our eyes, neh?”

“That is in the hands of God, Sire.”

“No, that’s in Lord Toranaga’s hands,” he said with disdain.

She looked up at him without wavering under his stare. The rain beat down. Droplets fell from the rim of her umbrella like a curtain of tears. Mud splattered the hem of her kimono. Then he said, “Sayonara—until I see you at Osaka.”

She was startled. “Oh, so sorry, won’t I see you at Yedo? Surely you’ll be there with Lord Toranaga, you’ll arrive about the same time, neh? I’ll see you then.”

“Yes. But at Osaka, when we meet there or when you return from there, then we begin again. That’s when I’ll truly see you, neh?”

“Ah, I understand. So sorry.”

“Sayonara, Mariko-san,” he said.

“Sayonara, my Lord.” Mariko bowed. He returned her obeisance peremptorily and strode through the quagmire to his horse. He swung into the saddle and galloped away without looking back.

“Go with God,” she said, staring after him.

Blackthorne saw her eyes following Buntaro. He waited in the lee of the roof, the rain lessening. Soon the head of the column vanished into the clouds, then Toranaga’s palanquin, and he breathed easier, still shattered by Toranaga and the whole ill-omened day.

This morning the hawking had begun so well. He had chosen a tiny, long-wing falcon, like a merlin, and flew her very successfully at a lark, the stoop and soaring chase blown southward beyond a belt of trees by the freshening wind. Leading the charge as was his privilege, he careered through the forest along a well-beaten path, itinerant peddlers and farmers scattering. But a weather-beaten oil seller with an equally threadbare horse blocked the way and cantankerously wouldn’t budge. In the excitement of the chase Blackthorne had shouted at the man to move, but the peddler would not, so he cursed him roundly. The oil seller replied rudely and shouted back and then Toranaga was there and Toranaga pointed at his own bodyguard and said, “Anjin-san, give him your sword a moment,” and some other words he did not understand. Blackthorne obeyed at once. Before he realized what was happening, the samurai lunged at the peddler. His blow was so savage and so perfect that the oil seller had walked on a pace before falling, divided in two at the waist.