We would certainly go mad if we didn’t have an Eightfold Fence, oh very yes!”

Remember the Eightfold Fence, he told himself, as the hissing fury of Buntaro continued. I don’t know anything about her. Or him, really. Think about the Musket Regiment or home or Felicity or how to get the ship or about Baccus or Toranaga or Omi-san. What about Omi? Do I need revenge? He wants to be my friend and he’s been good and kind since the pistols and . . .

The sound of the blow tore into his head. Then Mariko’s voice began again, and there was a second blow and Blackthorne was on his feet in an instant, the shoji open. The guard stood facing him balefully in the corridor outside Mariko’s door, sword ready.

Blackthorne was preparing to launch himself at the samurai when the door at the far end of the corridor opened. Fujiko, her hair loose and flowing over the sleeping kimono, approached, the sound of ripping cloth and another clout seemingly not touching her at all. She bowed politely to the guard and stood between them, then bowed meekly to Blackthorne and took his arm, motioning him back into the room. He saw the taut readiness of the samurai. He had only one pistol and one bullet at the moment so he retreated. Fujiko followed and shut the shoji behind her. Then, very afraid, she shook her head warningly, and touched a finger to her lips and shook her head again, her eyes pleading with him.

“Gomen nasai, wakarimasu ka?” she breathed.

But he was concentrating on the wall of the adjoining room that he could smash in so easily.

She looked at the wall also, then put herself between him and the wall, and sat, motioning him to do the same.

But he could not. He stood readying himself for the charge that would destroy them all, goaded by a whimper that followed another blow.

“Iyé!” Fujiko shook in terror.

He waved her out of the way.

“Iyé, iyé,” she begged again.

“IMA!”

At once Fujiko got up and motioned him to wait as she rushed noiselessly for the swords that lay in front of the tokonama, the little alcove of honor. She picked up the long sword, her hands shaking, drew it out of the scabbard, and prepared to follow him through the wall. At that instant there was a final blow and a rising torrent of rage. The other shoji slammed open, and unseen, Buntaro stamped away, followed by the guard. There was silence in the house for a moment, then the sound of the garden gate crashing closed.

Blackthorne went for his door. Fujiko darted in the way but he shoved her aside and pulled it open.

Mariko was still on her knees in one corner of the next room, a livid welt on her cheek, her hair disheveled, her kimono in tatters, bad bruises on her thighs and lower back.

He rushed over to pick her up but she cried out, “Go away, please go away, Anjin-san!”

He saw the trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth. “Jesus, how bad are you—”

“I told you not to interfere. Please go away,” she said in the same calm voice that belied the violence in her eyes. Then she saw Fujiko, who had stayed at the doorway. She spoke to her. Fujiko obediently took Blackthorne’s arm to lead him away but he tore out of her grasp. “Don’t! Iyé!”

Mariko said, “Your presence here takes away my face and gives me no peace or comfort and shames me. Go away!”

“I want to help. Don’t you understand?”

“Don’t you understand? You have no rights in this. This is a private quarrel between husband and wife.”

“That’s no excuse for hitting—”

“Why don’t you listen, Anjin-san? He can beat me to death if he wishes. He has the right and I wish he would—even that! Then I wouldn’t have to endure the shame. You think it’s easy to live with my shame? Didn’t you hear what I told you? I’m Akechi Jinsai’s daughter!”

“That’s not your fault. You did nothing!”

“It is my fault and I am my father’s daughter.” Mariko would have stopped there. But, looking up and seeing his compassion, his concern, and his love, and knowing how he so honored truth, she allowed some of her veils to fall.

“Tonight was my fault, Anjin-san,” she said. “If I would weep as he wants, beg forgiveness as he wants, cringe and be petrified and fawn as he wants, open my legs in pretended terror as he desires, do all these womanly things that my duty demands, then he’d be like a child in my hand. But I will not.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s my revenge. To repay him for leaving me alive after the treachery. To repay him for sending me away for eight years and leaving me alive all that time. And to repay him for ordering me back into life and leaving me alive.” She sat back painfully and arranged her tattered kimono closer around her. “I’ll never give myself to him again. Once I did, freely, even though I detested him from the first moment I saw him.”

“Then why did you marry him? You’ve said women here have rights of refusal, that they don’t have to marry against their wishes.”

“I married him to please Lord Goroda, and to please my father. I was so young I didn’t know about Goroda then, but if you want the truth, Goroda was the cruelest, most loathsome man that was ever born. He drove my father to treachery. That’s the real truth! Goroda!” She spat the name. “But for him we’d all be alive and honored. I pray God that Goroda’s committed to hell for all eternity.” She moved carefully, trying to ease the agony in her side. “There’s only hatred between my husband and me, that’s our karma. It would be so easy for him to allow me to climb into the small place of death.”

“Why doesn’t he let you go? Divorce you? Even grant you what you want?”

“Because he’s a man.” A ripple of pain went through her and she grimaced. Blackthorne was on his knees beside her, cradling her. She pushed him away, fought for control. Fujiko, at the doorway, watched stoically.

“I’m all right, Anjin-san. Please leave me alone. You mustn’t. You must be careful.”

“I’m not afraid of him.”

Wearily she pushed the hair out of her eyes and stared up searchingly. Why not let the Anjin-san go to meet his karma, Mariko asked herself. He’s not of our world. Buntaro will kill him so easily. Only Toranaga’s personal protection has shielded him so far. Yabu, Omi, Naga, Buntaro—any one of them could be provoked so easily into killing him.

He’s caused nothing but trouble since he arrived, neh? So has his knowledge. Naga’s right: the Anjin-san can destroy our world unless he’s bottled up.

What if Buntaro knew the truth? Or Toranaga? About the pillowing. . . .

“Are you insane?” Fujiko had said that first night.

“No.”

“Then why are you going to take the maid’s place?”

“Because of the saké and for amusement, Fujiko-chan, and for curiosity,” she had lied, hiding the real reason: because he excited her, she wanted him, she had never had a lover. If it was not tonight it would never be, and it had to be the Anjin-san and only the Anjin-san.

So she had gone to him and had been transported and then, yesterday, when the galley arrived, Fujiko had said privately, “Would you have gone if you’d known your husband was alive?”

“No. Of course not,” she had lied.

“But now you’re going to tell Buntaro-sama, neh? About pillowing with the Anjin-san?”

“Why should I do that?”

“I thought that might be your plan. If you tell Buntaro-sama at the right time his rage will burst over you and you’ll be gratefully dead before he knows what he’s done.”

“No, Fujiko-san, he’ll never kill me. Unfortunately. He’ll send me to the eta if he has excuse enough—if he could get Lord Toranaga’s approval—but he’ll never kill me.”

“Adultery with the Anjin-san—would that be enough?”

“Oh yes.”

“What would happen to your son?”

“He would inherit my disgrace, if I am disgraced, neh?”

“Please tell me if you ever think Buntaro-sama suspects what happened. While I’m consort, it’s my duty to protect the Anjin-san.”

Yes, it is, Fujiko, Mariko had thought then. And that would give you the excuse to take open vengeance on your father’s accuser that you are desperate for. But your father was a coward, so sorry, poor Fujiko. Hiro-matsu was there, otherwise your father would be alive now and Buntaro dead, for Buntaro is hated far more than they ever despised your father. Even the swords you prize so much, they were never given as a battle honor, they were bought from a wounded samurai. So sorry, but I’ll never be the one to tell you, even though that also is the truth.

“I’m not afraid of him,” Blackthorne was saying again.

“I know,” she said, the pain taking her. “But please, I beg you, be afraid of him for me.”

Blackthorne went for the door.

Buntaro was waiting for him a hundred paces away in the center of the path that led down to the village—squat, immense, and deadly. The guard stood beside him. It was an overcast dawn. Fishing boats were already working the shoals, the sea calm.

Blackthorne saw the bow loose in Buntaro’s hands, and the swords, and the guard’s swords. Buntaro was swaying slightly and this gave him hope that the man’s aim would be off, which might give him time to get close enough. There was no cover beside the path. Beyond caring, he cocked both pistols and bore down on the two men.

To hell with cover, he thought through the haze of his blood lust, knowing at the same time that what he was doing was insane, that he had no chance against the two samurai or the long-range bow, that he had no rights whatsoever to interfere. And then, while he was still out of pistol range, Buntaro bowed low, and so did the guard. Blackthorne stopped, sensing a trap. He looked all around but there was no one near. As though in a dream, he saw Buntaro sink heavily onto his knees, put his bow aside, his hands flat on the ground, and bow to him as a peasant would bow to his lord. The guard did likewise.

Blackthorne stared at them, dazed. When he was sure his eyes were not tricking him, he came forward slowly, pistols ready but not leveled, expecting treachery. Within easy range he stopped. Buntaro had not moved. Custom dictated that he should kneel and return the salutation because they were equals or near equals but he could not understand why there should be such unbelievable deferential ceremony in a situation like this where blood was going to flow.

“Get up, you son of a bitch!” Blackthorne readied to pull both triggers.

Buntaro said nothing, did nothing, but kept his head bowed, his hands flat. The back of his kimono was soaked with sweat.

“Nan ja?” Blackthorne deliberately used the most insulting way of asking “What is it?” wanting to bait Buntaro into getting up, into beginning, knowing that he could not shoot him like this, with his head down and almost in the dust.

Then, conscious that it was rude to stand while they were kneeling and that the “nan ja” was an almost intolerable and certainly unnecessary insult, Blackthorne knelt and, holding on to the pistols, put both hands on the ground and bowed in return.

He sat back on his heels. “Hai?” he asked with forced politeness.

At once Buntaro began mumbling. Abjectly. Apologizing. For what and exactly why, Blackthorne did not know. He could only catch a word here and another there and saké many times, but clearly it was an apology and a humble plea for forgiveness. Buntaro went on and on. Then he ceased and put his head down into the dust again.

Blackthorne’s blinding rage had vanished by now. “Shigata ga nai,” he said huskily, which meant, “it can’t be helped,” or “there’s nothing to be done,” or “what could you do?” not knowing yet if the apology was merely ritual, prior to attack. “Shigata ga nai. Hakkiri wakaranu ga shinpai suruko-towanai.” It can’t be helped. I don’t understand exactly—but don’t worry.

Buntaro looked up and sat back. “Arigato—arigato, Anjin-sama. Domo gomen nasai.”

“Shigata ga nai,” Blackthorne repeated and, now that it was clear the apology was genuine, he thanked God for giving him the miraculous opportunity to call off the duel. He knew that he had no rights, he had acted like a madman, and that the only way to resolve the crisis with Buntaro was according to rules. And that meant Toranaga.

But why the apology, he was asking himself frantically. Think! You’ve got to learn to think like them.

Then the solution rushed into his brain. It must be because I’m hatamoto, and Buntaro, the guest, disturbed the wa, the harmony of my house. By having a violent open quarrel with his wife in my house, he insulted me, therefore he’s totally in the wrong and he has to apologize whether he means it or not. An apology’s obligatory from one samurai to another, from a guest to a host. . . .

Wait! And don’t forget that by their custom, all men are allowed to get drunk, are expected to get drunk sometimes, and when drunk they are not, within reason, responsible for their actions. Don’t forget there’s no loss of face if you get stinking drunk. Remember how unconcerned Mariko and Toranaga were on the ship when I was stupefied. They were amused and not disgusted, as we’d be.

And aren’t you really to blame? Didn’t you start the drinking bout? Wasn’t it your challenge?

“Yes,” he said aloud.

“Nan desu ka, Anjin-san?” Buntaro asked, his eyes bloodshot.

“Nani mo. Watashi no kashitsu desu.” Nothing. It was my fault.

Buntaro shook his head and said that no, it was only his fault and he bowed and apologized again.

“Saké,” Blackthorne said with finality and shrugged. “Shigata ga nai. Saké!”

Buntaro bowed and thanked him again. Blackthorne returned it and got up. Buntaro followed, and the guard. Both bowed once more. Again it was returned.

At length Buntaro turned and reeled away. Blackthorne waited until he was out of arrow range, wondering if the man was as drunk as he appeared to be. Then he went back to his own house.

Fujiko was on the veranda, once more within her polite, smiling shell. What are you really thinking, he asked himself as he greeted her, and was welcomed back.

Mariko’s door was closed. Her maid stood beside it.

“Mariko-san?”

“Yes, Anjin-san?”

He waited but the door stayed closed. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, thank you.” He heard her clear her throat, then the weak voice continued. “Fujiko has sent word to Yabu-san and to Lord Toranaga that I’m indisposed today and won’t be able to interpret.”

“You’d better see a doctor.”

“Oh, thank you, but Suwo will be very good. I’ve sent for him. I’ve . . . I’ve just twisted my side. Truly I’m all right, there’s no need for you to worry.”

“Look, I know a little about doctoring. You’re not coughing up blood, are you?”

“Oh, no. When I slipped I just knocked my cheek. Really, I’m quite all right.”

After a pause, he said, “Buntaro apologized.”

“Yes. Fujiko watched from the gate. I thank you humbly for accepting his apology. Thank you. And Anjin-san, I’m so sorry that you were disturbed . . . it’s unforgivable that your harmony . . . please accept my apologies too. I should never have let my mouth run away with me. It was very impolite—please forgive me also. The quarrel was my fault. Please accept my apology.”

“For being beaten?”

“For failing to obey my husband, for failing to help him to sleep contentedly, for failing him, and my host. Also for what I said.”

“You’re sure there’s nothing I can do?”

“No—no, thank you, Anjin-san. It’s just for today.”

But Blackthorne did not see her for eight days.