Toranaga shut and bolted his door and walked to a window. Below, he could see his generals and counselors silently streaming away to their homes outside the donjon walls. Beyond the castle walls, the city lay in almost total darkness. Above, the moon was pallid and misted. It was a brooding, darkling night. And, it seemed to him, doom walked the heavens.
Blackthorne was sitting alone in the morning sun in a corner of the garden outside his guest house daydreaming, his dictionary in his hand. It was a fine cloudless day—the first for many weeks—and the fifth day since he had last seen Toranaga. All that time he had been confined to the castle, unable to see Mariko or visit his ship or crew, or explore the city, or go hunting or riding. Once a day he went swimming in one of the moats with other samurai, and to pass the time he taught some to swim and some to dive. But this did not make the waiting easier.
“So sorry, Anjin-san, but it’s the same for everyone,” Mariko had said yesterday when he met her by chance in his section of the castle. “Even Lord Hiro-matsu’s been kept waiting. It’s two days since he arrived and he still hasn’t seen Lord Toranaga. No one has.”
“But this is important, Mariko-chan. I thought he understood every day’s vital. Isn’t there some way I can get a message to him?”
“Oh yes, Anjin-san. That’s simple. You just write. If you tell me what you want to say I’ll write it for you. Everyone has to write for an interview, those are his present orders. Please be patient, that’s all we can do.”
“Then please ask for an interview. I’d appreciate it. . . .”
“That’s no trouble, it’s my pleasure.”
“Where have you been? It’s four days since I saw you.”
“Please excuse me but I’ve had to do so many things. It’s—it’s a little difficult for me, so many preparations. . . .”
“What’s going on? This whole castle’s been like a hive about to swarm for almost a week now.”
“Oh, so sorry. Everything’s fine, Anjin-san.”
“Is it? So sorry, a general and a senior administrator commit seppuku in the donjon forecourt. That’s usual? Lord Toranaga locks himself away in the ivory tower, keeping people waiting without apparent reason—that’s also usual? What about Lord Hiro-matsu?”
“Lord Toranaga is our lord. Whatever he does is right.”
“And you, Mariko-san? Why haven’t I seen you?”
“Please excuse me, so sorry, but Lord Toranaga ordered me to leave you to your studies. I’m visiting your consort now, Anjin-san. I’m not supposed to visit you.”
“Why should he object to that?”
“Merely, I suppose, so that you are obliged to speak our tongue. It’s only been a few days,
“When are you leaving for Osaka?”
“I don’t know. I expected to go three days ago but Lord Toranaga hasn’t signed my pass yet. I’ve arranged everything—porters and horses—and daily I submit my travel papers to his secretary for signing, but they’re always sent back. ‘Submit them tomorrow.’ ”
“I thought I was going to take you to Osaka by sea. Didn’t he say I was to take you by sea?”
“Yes. Yes, he did, but—well, Anjin-san, you never know with our liege Lord. He changes plans.”
“Has he always been like that?”
“Yes and no. Since Yokosé he’s been filled with—how do you say it—melancholy,
“Since First Bridge you’ve been filled with melancholy and very different. Yes, you’re different now.”
“First Bridge was an end and a beginning, Anjin-san, and our promise.
“Yes. Please excuse me.”
She had bowed sadly and left, and then, once safely away, not turning back, she had whispered, “Thou . . .” The word lingered in the corridor with her perfume.
At the evening meal he had tried to question Fujiko. But she also knew nothing of importance or would not, or could not, explain what was amiss at the castle.
“
He went to bed seething. Seething with frustration over the delays, and the nights without Mariko. It was always bad knowing she was so near, that Buntaro was gone from the city, and now, because of the “Thou . . .” that her desire was still as intense as his. A few days ago he had gone to her house on the pretext that he needed help with Japanese. The samurai guard had told him, so sorry, she was not at home. He had thanked them, then wandered listlessly to the main south gate. He could see the ocean. Because the land was so flat, he could see nothing of the wharves or docks though he thought he could distinguish the tall masts of his ship in the distance.
The ocean beckoned him. It was the horizon more than the deep, the need for a fair wind washing him, eyes squinting against its strength, tongue tasting its salt, the deck heeled over, and aloft the spars and rigging and halyards creaking and groaning under the press of sails that, from time to time, would cackle with glee as the stalwart breeze shifted a point or two.
