Shōgun полностью

Blackthorne did not understand all the words but he gathered the meaning. ‘Filthy Ones.’ That describes my people and me—us, not them, poor people.

“Good evening, Anjin-san,” the chief bath attendant said. He was a vast, middle-aged man with immense belly and biceps. A maid had just awakened him to announce another late customer was arriving. He clapped his hands. Bath maids arrived. Blackthorne followed them into the scrubbing room and they cleansed him and shampooed him and he made them do it a second time. Then he walked through to the sunken bath, stepped into the piping-hot water and fought the heat, then gave himself to its mind-consuming embrace.

In time strong hands helped him out and molded fragrant oil into his skin and untwisted his muscles and his neck, then led him to a resting room, and gave him a laundered, sun-fresh cotton kimono. With a long-drawn-out sigh of pleasure, he lay down.

“Dozo gomen nasai—cha, Anjin-san?”

“Hai. Domo.”

The cha arrived. He told the maid he would stay here tonight and not trouble to go to his own quarters. Then, alone and at peace, he sipped the cha, feeling it purify him; ‘. . . filthy-looking char herbs . . .” he thought disgustedly.

“Be patient, don’t let it disturb your harmony,” he said aloud. “They’re just poor ignorant fools who don’t know any better. You were the same once. Never mind, now you can show them, neh?”

He put them out of his mind and reached for his dictionary. But tonight, for the first night since he had possessed the book, he laid it carefully aside and blew out the candle. I’m too tired, he told himself.

But not too tired to answer a simple question, his mind said: Are they really ignorant fools, or is it you who are fooling yourself?

I’ll answer that later, when it’s time. Now the answer’s unimportant. Now I only know I don’t want them near me.

He turned over and put that problem into a compartment and went to sleep.

He awoke refreshed. A clean kimono and loincloth and tabi were laid out. The scabbards of his swords had been polished. He dressed quickly. Outside the house samurai were waiting. They got off their haunches and bowed.

“We’re your guard today, Anjin-san.”

“Thank you. Go ship now?”

“Yes. Here’s your pass.”

“Good. Thank you. May I ask your name please?”

“Musashi Mitsutoki.”

“Thank you, Musashi-san. Go now?”

They went down to the wharves. Erasmus was moored tightly in three fathoms over a sanding bottom. The bilges were sweet. He dived over the side and swam under the keel. Seaweed was minimal and there were only a few barnacles. The rudder was sound. In the magazine, which was dry and spotless, he found a flint and struck a spark to a tiny test mound of gunpowder. It burned instantly, in perfect condition.

Aloft at the foremast peak he looked for telltale cracks. None there or on the climb up, or around any of the spars that he could see. Many of the ropes and halyards and shrouds were joined incorrectly, but that would only take half a watch to change.

Once more on the quarterdeck he allowed himself a great smile. “You’re sound as a . . . as a what?” He could not think of a sufficiently great ‘what’ so he just laughed and went below again. In his cabin he felt alien. And very alone. His swords were on the bunk. He touched them, then slid Oil Seller out of its scabbard. The workmanship was marvelous and the edge perfect. Looking at the sword gave him pleasure, for it was truly a work of art. But a deadly one, he thought as always, twisting it in the light.

How many deaths have you caused in your life of two hundred years? How many more before you die yourself? Do some swords have a life of their own as Mariko says? Mariko. What about her. . . .

Then he caught sight of his sea chest reflected in the steel and this took him out of his sudden melancholy.

He sheathed Oil Seller, careful to avoid fingering the blade, for custom said that even a single touch might mar such perfection.

As he leaned against the bunk, his eyes went to his empty sea chest.

“What about rutters? And navigation instruments?” he asked his image in the copper sea lamp that had been scrupulously polished like everything else. He saw himself answer, “You buy them at Nagasaki, along with your crew. And you snatch Rodrigues. Yes. You snatch him before the attack. Neh?”

He watched his smile grow. “You’re very sure Toranaga will let you go, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he answered with complete confidence. “If he goes to Osaka or not, I’ll get what I want. And I’ll get Mariko too.”

Satisfied, he stuck his swords in his sash and walked up on deck and waited until the doors were resealed.

When he got back to the castle it was not yet noon so he went to his own quarters to eat. He had rice and two helpings of fish that had been broiled over charcoal with soya by his own cook as he had taught the man. A small flask of saké, then cha.

“Anjin-san?”

“Hai?”

The shoji opened. Fujiko smiled shyly and bowed.