“No. I will come alongside at once.”

“I beg you, Lord Toranaga, allow me to come to escort you. My Master, the Father-Visitor, is here and also the Captain-General. They insist we make amends. Please accept our apologies!” Alvito changed to Portuguese again and shouted loudly to the bosun, “Launch a longboat,” and back again to Toranaga in Japanese, “The boat is being launched at once, my Lord.”

Rodrigues listened to the cloying humility in Alvito’s voice and he thought how much more difficult it was to deal with Japanese than with Chinese. The Chinese understood the art of negotiation, of compromise and concession and reward. But the Japanese were pride-filled and when a man’s pride was injured—any Japanese, not necessarily just samurai—then death was a small price to repay the insult. Come on, get it over with, he wanted to shout.

“Captain-General, I’ll go at once,” Father Alvito was saying. “Eminence, if you come as well that compliment will do much to appease him.”

“I agree.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Ferriera said. “You two could be used as hostages.”

Dell’Aqua said, “The moment there’s a sign of treachery, I order you, in God’s name, to obliterate that ship and all who sail in her, whether we’re aboard or not.” He strode off the quarterdeck, down onto the main deck, past the guns, the skirts of his robe swinging majestically. At the head of the gangway he turned and made the sign of the cross. Then he clattered down the gangway into the boat.

The bosun cast off. All the sailors were armed with pistols, and a fused keg of powder was under the bosun’s seat.

Ferriera leaned over the gunwale and called down quietly, “Eminence, bring the heretic back with you.”

“What? What did you say?” It amused dell’Aqua to toy with the Captain-General, whose continual insolence had mortally offended him, for of course he had decided long since to acquire Blackthorne, and he could hear perfectly well. Che stupido, he was thinking.

“Bring the heretic back with you, eh?” Ferriera called again.

On the quarterdeck Rodrigues heard the muffled, “Yes, Captain-General,” and he thought, what treachery are you about, Ferriera?

He shifted in the chair with difficulty, his face bloodless. The pain in his leg was grinding and it took much of his strength to contain it. The bones were knitting well and, Madonna be praised, the wound was clean. But the fracture was still a fracture and even the slight dip of the ship at rest was troublesome. He took a swallow of grog from the well-used seabag that hung from a peg on the binnacle.

Ferriera was watching him. “Your leg’s bad?”

“It’s all right.” The grog deadened the hurt.

“Will it be all right enough to voyage from here to Macao?”

“Yes. And to fight a sea battle all the way. And to come back in the summer, if that’s what you mean.”

“Yes, that’s what I mean, Pilot.” The lips were thin again, drawn into that tight mocking smile. “I need a fit pilot.”

“I’m fit. My leg’s mending well.” Rodrigues shook off the pain. “The Ingeles won’t come aboard us willingly. I wouldn’t.”

“A hundred guineas says you’re wrong.”

“That’s more than I make in a year.”

“Payable after we reach Lisbon, from the profits from the Black Ship.”

“Done. Nothing’ll make him come aboard, not willingly. I’m a hundred guineas richer, by God!”

“Poorer! You forget the Jesuits want him here more than I do.”

“Why should they want that?”

Ferriera looked at him levelly and did not answer, wearing the same twisted smile. Then, baiting him, he said, “I’d escort Toranaga out, for possession of the heretic.”

“I’m glad I’m your comrade and necessary to you and the Black Ship,” Rodrigues said. “I wouldn’t want to be your enemy.”

“I’m glad we understand one another, Pilot. At long last.”

“I require escort out of the harbor. I need it quickly,” Toranaga told dell’Aqua through the interpreter Alvito, Mariko nearby, also listening, with Yabu. He stood on the galley’s poopdeck, dell’Aqua below on the main deck, Alvito beside him, but even so their eyes were almost level. “Or, if you wish, your warship can remove the fishing boats from out of my way.”

“Forgive me, but that would be an unwarranted hostile act that you would not—could not recommend to the frigate, Lord Toranaga,” dell’Aqua said, talking directly to him, finding Alvito’s simultaneous translation eerie, as always. “That would be impossible—an open act of war.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“Please come back to the frigate. Let us ask the Captain-General. He will have a solution, now that we know what your problem is. He’s the military man, we are not.”

“Bring him here.”

“It would be quicker for you to go there, Sire. Apart, of course, from the honor you would do us.”

Toranaga knew the truth of this. Only moments before they had seen more fishing boats loaded with archers launched from the southern shore and, though they were safe at the moment, it was clear that within the hour the neck of the harbor would be choked with hostiles.

And he knew he had no choice.

“Sorry, Sire,” the Anjin-san had explained earlier, during the abortive chase, “I can’t get near the frigate. Rodrigues is too clever. I can stop him escaping if the wind holds but I can’t trap him, unless he makes a mistake. We’ll have to parley.”

“Will he make a mistake and will the wind hold?” he had asked through Mariko.

She had replied, “The Anjin-san says, a wise man never bets on the wind, unless it’s a trade wind and you’re out to sea. Here we’re in a harbor where the mountains cause the wind to eddy and flow. The pilot, Rodrigues, won’t make a mistake.”

Toranaga had watched the two pilots pit their wits against each other and he knew, beyond doubt, that both were masters. And he had come to realize also that neither he nor his lands nor the Empire would ever be safe without possessing modern barbarian ships, and through these ships, control of their own seas. The thought had shattered him.

“But how can I negotiate with them? What possible excuse could they use for such open hostility against me? Now it’s my duty to bury them for their insults to my honor.”

Then the Anjin-san had explained the ploy of false colors: how all ships used the device to get close to the enemy, or to attempt to avoid an enemy, and Toranaga had been greatly relieved that there might be an acceptable face-saving solution to that problem.

Now Alvito was saying, “I think we should go at once, Sire.”

“Very well,” Toranaga agreed. “Yabu-san, take command of the ship. Mariko-san, tell the Anjin-san he is to stay on the quarterdeck and to keep the helm, then you come with me.”

“Yes, Lord.”

It had been clear to Toranaga from the size of the longboat that he could take only five guards with him. But this, too, had been anticipated and the final plan was simple: if he could not persuade the frigate to help, then he and his guards would kill the Captain-General, their pilot, and the priests and barricade themselves in one of the cabins. Simultaneously the galley would be flung at the frigate from her bow as the Anjin-san had suggested and, together, they would try to take the frigate by storm. They would take her or they would not take her, but either way there would be a quick solution.

“It is a good plan, Yabu-san,” he had said.

“Please allow me to go in your place to negotiate.”

“They would not agree.”

“Very well, but once we’re out of the trap expel all barbarians from our realm. If you do, you’ll gain more daimyos than you lose.”

“I’ll consider it,” Toranaga had said, knowing it was nonsense, that he must have the Christian daimyos Onoshi and Kiyama on his side, and therefore the other Christian daimyos, or by default he would be eaten up. Why would Yabu wish to go to the frigate? What treachery did he plan if there was no help?

“Sire,” Alvito was saying for dell’Aqua, “may I invite the Anjin-san to accompany us?”

“Why?”

“It occurred to me that he might like to greet his colleague the anjin Rodrigues. The man has a broken leg and cannot come here. Rodrigues would like to see him again, thank him for saving his life, if you don’t mind.”

Toranaga could not think of any reason why the Anjin-san should not go. The man was under his protection, therefore inviolate. “If he wishes to do so, very well. Mariko-san, accompany Tsukku-san.”

Mariko bowed. She knew her job was to listen and to report and to ensure that everything that was said was reported correctly, without omission. She felt better now, her coiffure and face once more perfect, a fresh kimono borrowed from Lady Fujiko, her left arm in a neat sling. One of the mates, an apprentice doctor, had dressed her wound. The slice into her upper arm had not cut a tendon and the wound itself was clean. A bath would have made her whole, but there were no facilities on the galley.

Together she and Alvito walked back to the quarterdeck. He saw the knife in Blackthorne’s sash and the way the soiled kimono seemed to fit. How far has he leeched his way into Toranaga’s confidence, he asked himself. “Well met, Captain-Pilot Blackthorne.”

“Rot in hell, Father!” Blackthorne replied affably.

“Perhaps we’ll meet there, Anjin-san. Perhaps we will. Toranaga said you can come aboard the frigate.”

“His orders?”

“ ‘If you wish,’ he said.”

“I don’t wish.”

“Rodrigues would like to thank you again and to see you.”

“Give him my respects and say I’ll see him in hell. Or here.”

“His leg prevents that.”

“How is his leg?”

“Healing. Through your help and the grace of God, in a few weeks, God willing, he will walk, though he will limp forever.”

“Tell him I wish him well. You’d better be going, Father, time’s a-wasting.”

“Rodrigues would like to see you. There’s grog on the table and a fine roast capon with fresh greens and gravy and new fresh bread, butter hot. It’d be sad, Pilot, to waste such food.”

“What?”

“There’s new golden bread, Captain-Pilot, fresh hardtack, butter, and a side of beef. Fresh oranges from Goa and even a gallon of Madeira wine to wash it down with, or brandy if you’d prefer. There’s beer, too. Then there’s Macao capon, hot and juicy. The Captain-General’s an epicure.”

“God damn you to hell!”

“He will, when it pleases Him. I only tell you what exists.”

“What does ‘epicure’ mean?” Mariko asked.

“It’s one who enjoys food and sets a fine table, Senhora Maria,” Alvito said, using her baptismal name. He had marked the sudden change on Blackthorne’s face. He could almost see the saliva glands working and feel the stomach-churning agony. Tonight when he had seen the repast set out in the great cabin, the gleaming silver and white tablecloth and chairs, real leather-cushioned chairs, and smelt the new breads and butter and rich meats, he himself had been weak with hunger, and he wasn’t starved for food or unaccustomed to Japanese cuisine.

It is so simple to catch a man, he told himself. All you need to know is the right bait. “Good-by, Captain-Pilot!” Alvito turned and walked for the gangway. Blackthorne followed.

“What’s amiss, Ingeles?” Rodrigues asked.

“Where’s the food? Then we can talk. First the food you promised.” Blackthorne, stood shakily on the main deck.

“Please follow me,” Alvito said.

“Where are you taking him, Father?”

“Of course to the great cabin. Blackthorne can eat while Lord Toranaga and the Captain-General talk.”

“No. He can eat in my cabin.”

“It’s easier, surely, to go where the food is.”

“Bosun! See that the pilot’s fed at once—all that he needs, in my cabin, anything from the table. Ingeles, do you want grog, or wine or beer?”

“Beer first, then grog.”

“Bosun, see to it, take him below. And listen, Pesaro, give him some clothes out of my locker, and boots, everything. And stay with him till I call you.”

Wordlessly Blackthorne followed Pesaro the bosun, a large burly man, down the companionway. Alvito began to go back to dell’Aqua and Toranaga, who were talking through Mariko near the companionway, but Rodrigues stopped him.

“Father! Just a moment. What did you say to him?”

“Only that you would like to see him and that we had food aboard.”

“But I was offering him the food?”

“No, Rodrigues, I didn’t say that. But wouldn’t you want to offer food to a fellow pilot who was hungry?”

“That poor bastard’s not hungry, he’s starving. If he eats in that state he’ll gorge like a ravenous wolf, then he’ll vomit it up as fast as a drunk-gluttoned whore. Now, we wouldn’t want one of us, even a heretic, to eat like an animal and vomit like an animal in front of Toranaga, would we, Father? Not in front of a piss-cutting sonofabitch—particularly one as clean-minded as a pox-mucked whore’s cleft!”

“You must learn to control the filth of your tongue, my son,” Alvito said. “It will send you to hell. You’d better say a thousand Ave Marias and go without food for two days. Bread and water only. A penance to God’s Grace to remind you of His Mercy.”

“Thank you, Father, I will. Gladly. And if I could kneel I would, and I’d kiss your cross. Yes, Father, this poor sinner thanks you for your God-given patience. I must guard my tongue.”

Ferriera called out from the companionway, “Rodrigues, are you coming below?”

“I’ll stay on deck while that bitch galley’s there, Captain-General. If you need me I’m here.” Alvito began to leave. Rodrigues noticed Mariko. “Just a minute, Father. Who’s the woman?”

“Donna Maria Toda. One of Toranaga’s interpreters.”

Rodrigues whistled tonelessly. “Is she good?”

“Very good.”

“Stupid to allow her aboard. Why did you say ‘Toda’? She’s one of old Toda Hiro-matsu’s consorts?”

“No. She’s the wife of his son.”

“Stupid to bring her aboard.” Rodrigues beckoned one of the seamen. “Spread the word the woman speaks Portuguese.”

“Yes, senhor.” The man hurried away and Rodrigues turned back to Father Alvito.

The priest was not in the least intimidated by the obvious anger. “The Lady Maria speaks Latin too—and just as perfectly. Was there anything else, Pilot?”

“No, thank you. Perhaps I’d better get on with my Hail Marys.”

“Yes, you should.” The priest made the sign of the cross and left. Rodrigues spat into the scuppers and one of the helmsmen winced and crossed himself.

“Go nail yourself to the mast by your green-addled foreskin!” Rodrigues hissed.

“Yes, Captain-Pilot, sorry, senhor. But I get nervous near the good Father. I meant no harm.” The youth saw the last grains of sand fall through the neck of the hourglass and he turned it.

“At the half, go below, and take a God-cursed pail and water and a scrubbing brush with you, and clean up the mess in my cabin. Tell the bosun to bring the Ingeles aloft and you make my cabin clean. And it’d better be very clean, or I’ll have your guts for garters. And while you’re doing it, say Ave Marias for your God-cursed soul.”

“Yes, Senhor Pilot,” the youth said weakly. Rodrigues was a fanatic, a madman, about cleanliness, and his own cabin was like the ship’s Holy Grail. Everything had to be spotless, no matter what the weather.