“Understand. Yes.” Blackthorne lay back, a sheen of sweat on his skin. Good, he thought. The best thing I could have done, no wonder I feel better.

His bed of soft quilts was screened now on three sides with exquisite movable partitions, their panel paintings landscapes and seascapes, and inlaid with ivory. Sunlight came through windows opposite and flies swarmed, the room vast and pleasant and quiet. Outside were castle sounds, now mixed with horses trotting past, bridles jingling, their hoofs unshod. The slight breeze bore the aroma of smoke. Don’t know if I’d want to be burned, he thought. But wait a minute, isn’t that better than being put in a box and buried and then the worms . . . Stop it, he ordered himself, feeling himself drifting into a downward spiral. There’s nothing to worry about, karma is karma and when you’re dead, you’re dead, and you never know anything then—and anything’s better than drowning, water filling you, your body becoming foul and blotted, the crabs . . . Stop it!

“Drink, please.” The doctor gave him more of the foul brew. He gagged but kept it down.

“Cha, please.” The woman servant poured it for him and he thanked her. She was a moon-faced woman of middle age, slits for eyes and a fixed empty smile. After three cups his mouth was bearable.

“Please, Anjin-san, how ears?”

“Same. Still distance . . . distance, understand? Very distance.”

“Understand. Eat, Anjin-san?”

A small tray was set with rice and soup and charcoaled fish. His stomach was queasy but he remembered that he had hardly eaten for two days so he sat up and forced himself to take some rice and he drank the fish soup. This settled his stomach so he ate more and finished it all, using the chopsticks now as extensions of his fingers, without conscious effort. “Thank you. Hungry.”

“Yes,” the doctor said. He put a linen bag of herbs on the low table beside the bed. “Make cha with this, Anjin-san. Once every day until all gone. Understand?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“It has been an honor to serve you.” The old man motioned to the servant, who took away the empty tray, and after another bow followed her and left by the same inner door. Now Blackthorne was alone. He lay back on the futons feeling much better.

“I was just hungry,” he said aloud. He was wearing only a loincloth. His formal clothes were in a careless pile where he had left them and this surprised him, though a clean Brown kimono was beside his swords. He let himself drift, then suddenly he felt an alien presence. Uneasily he sat up and glanced around. Then he got onto his knees and looked over the screens, and before he knew it, he was standing, his head splitting from the sudden panicked movement as he saw the tonsured Japanese Jesuit staring at him, kneeling motionlessly beside the main doorway, a crucifix and rosary in his hand.

“Who are you?” he asked through his pain.

“I’m Brother Michael, senhor.” The coal-dark eyes never wavered.

Blackthorne moved from the screens and stood over his swords. “What d’you want with me?”

“I was sent to ask how you are,” Michael said quietly in clear though accented Portuguese.

“By whom?”

“By the Lord Kiyama.”

Suddenly Blackthorne realized they were totally alone. “Where are my guards?”

“You don’t have any, senhor.”

“Of course I’ve guards! I’ve twenty Grays. Where are my Grays?”

“There were none here when I arrived, senhor. So sorry. You were still sleeping then.” Michael motioned gravely outside the door. “Perhaps you should ask those samurai.”

Blackthorne picked up his sword. “Please get away from the door.”

“I’m not armed, Anjin-san.”

“Even so, don’t come near me. Priests make me nervous.” Obediently Michael got to his feet and moved away with the same unnerving calm. Outside two Grays lolled against the balustrade of the landing. “Afternoon,” Blackthorne said politely, not recognizing either of them. Neither bowed. “Afternoon, Anjin-san,” one replied. “Please, where my other guards?”

“All guards taken away Hour of the Hare, this morning. Understand Hour of Hare? We’re not your guards, Anjin-san. This is our ordinary post.”

Blackthorne felt the cold sweat trickling down his back. “Guards taken away—who order?”

Both samurai laughed. The tall one said, “Here, inside the donjon, Anjin-san, only the Lord General gives orders—or the Lady Ochiba. How do you feel now?”

“Better, thank you.”

The taller samurai called out down the hall. In a few moments an officer came out of a room with four samurai. He was young and taut. When he saw Blackthorne his eyes lit up. “Ah, Anjin-san. How do you feel?”

“Better, thank you. Please excuse me, but where my guards?”

“I am ordered to tell you, when you wake up, that you’re to go back to your ship. Here’s your pass.” The captain took the paper from his sleeve and gave it to him and pointed contemptuously at Michael. “This fellow’s to be your guide.”

Blackthorne tried to get his head working, his brain screeching danger. “Yes. Thank you. But first, please must see Lord Ishido. Very important.”

“So sorry. Your orders are to go back to the ship as soon as you wake up. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Please excuse me, but very important I see Lord Ishido. Please tell your captain. Now. Must see Lord Ishido before leave. Very important, so sorry.”

The samurai scratched at the pockmarks on his chin. “I will ask. Please dress.” He strode off importantly to Blackthorne’s relief. The four samurai remained. Blackthorne went back and dressed quickly. They watched him. The priest waited in the corridor.

Be patient, he told himself. Don’t think and don’t worry. It’s a mistake. Nothing’s changed. You’ve still the power you always had.

He put both swords in his sash and drank the rest of the cha. Then he saw the pass. The paper was stamped and covered with characters. There’s no mistake about that, he thought, the fresh kimono already sticking to him.

“Hey, Anjin-san,” one of the samurai said, “hear you kill five ninja. Very, very good, neh?”

“So sorry, two only. Perhaps three.” Blackthorne twisted his head from side to side to ease the ache and dizziness.

“I heard there were fifty-seven ninja dead—one hundred and sixteen Browns. Is that right?”

“I don’t know. So sorry.”

The captain came back into the room. “Your orders are to go to your ship, Anjin-san. This priest is your guide.”

“Yes. Thank you. But first, so sorry, must see Lady Ochiba. Very, very important. Please ask your—”

The captain spun on Michael and spoke gutturally and very fast. “Neh?” Michael bowed, unperturbed, and turned to Blackthorne. “So sorry, senhor. He says his superior is asking his superior, but meanwhile you are to leave at once and follow me—to the galley.”

“Ima!” the captain added for emphasis.

Blackthorne knew he was a dead man. He heard himself say, “Thank you, Captain. Where my guards, please?”

“You haven’t any guards.”

“Please send my ship. Please fetch my own vassals from—”

“Order go ship now! Understand, neh?” The words were impolite and very final. “Go ship!” the captain added with a crooked smile, waiting for Blackthorne to bow first.

Blackthorne noticed this and it all became a nightmare, everything slowed and fogged, and he desperately wanted to empty himself and wipe the sweat off his face and bow, but he was sure that the captain would hardly bow back, perhaps not even politely and never as an equal, so he would be shamed before all of them. It was clear that he had been betrayed and sold out to the Christian enemy, that Kiyama and Ishido and the priests were part of the betrayal, and for whatever reason, whatever the price, there was nothing now that he could do except wipe off the sweat and bow and leave and they would be waiting for him.

Then Mariko was with him and he remembered her terror and all that she had meant and all that she had done and all that she had taught him. He forced his hand onto the broken hilt of his sword and set his feet truculently apart, knowing that his fate was decided, his karma fixed, and that if he had to die he preferred to die now with pride than later.

“I’m John Blackthorne, Anjin-san,” he said, his absolute commitment lending him a strange power and perfect rudeness. “General of Lord Toranaga ship. All ship. Samurai and hatamoto! Who are you?”

The captain flushed. “Saigo Masakatsu of Kaga, Captain, of Lord Ishido’s garrison.”

“I’m hatamoto—are you hatamoto?” Blackthorne asked, even more rudely, not even acknowledging the name of his opponent, only seeing him with an enormous, unreal clarity—seeing every pore, every stubbled whisker, every fleck of color in the hostile brown eyes, every hair on the back of the man’s hand gripping the sword hilt.

“No, not hatamoto.”

“Are you samurai—or ronin?” The last word hissed out and Blackthorne felt men behind him but he did not care. He was only watching the captain, waiting for the sudden, death-dealing blow that summoned up all hara-gei, all the innermost source of energy, and he readied to return the blow with equal blinding force in a mutual, honorable death, and so defeat his enemy.

To his astonishment he saw the captain’s eyes change, and the man shriveled and bowed, low and humble. The man held the bow, leaving himself defenseless. “Please—please excuse my bad manners. I—I was ronin but—but the Lord General gave me a second chance. Please excuse my bad manners, Anjin-san.” The voice was laced with shame.

It was all unreal and Blackthorne was still ready to strike, expecting to strike, expecting death and not a conquest. He looked at the other samurai. As one man they bowed and held the bow with their captain, granting him victory.

After a moment Blackthorne bowed stiffly. But not as an equal. They held their bow until he turned and walked along the corridor, Michael following, out onto the main steps, down the steps into the forecourt. He could feel no pain now. He was filled only with an enormous glow. Grays were watching him, and the group of samurai that escorted him and Michael to the first checkpoint kept carefully out of his sword range. One man was hurriedly sent ahead.

At the next checkpoint the new officer bowed politely as an equal and he bowed back. The pass was examined meticulously but correctly. Another escort took them to the next checkpoint where everything was repeated. Thence over the innermost moat, and the next. No one interfered with them. Hardly any samurai paid attention to him.

Gradually he noticed his head was scarcely aching. His sweat had dried. He unknotted his fingers from his sword hilt and flexed them a moment. He stopped at a fountain which was set in a wall and drank and splashed water on his head.

The escorting Grays stopped and waited politely, and all the time he was trying to work out why he had lost favor and the protection of Ishido and Lady Ochiba. Nothing’s changed, he thought frantically. He looked up and saw Michael staring at him. “What do you want?”

“Nothing, senhor,” Michael said politely. Then a smile spread and it was filled with warmth. “Ah, senhor, you did me a great service back there, making that foul-mannered cabron drink his own urine. Oh, that was good to see! Thou,” he added in Latin. “I thank thee.”

“I did nothing for you,” Blackthorne said in Portuguese, not wanting to talk Latin.

“Yes. But peace be upon you, senhor. Know that God moves in mysterious ways. It was a service for all men. That ronin was shamed and he deserved it. It is a filthy thing to abuse bushido.”

“You’re samurai too?”

“Yes, senhor, I have that honor,” Michael said. “My father is cousin to Lord Kiyama and my clan is of Hizen Province in Kyushu. How did you know he was ronin?”

Blackthorne tried to remember. “I’m not sure. Perhaps because he said he was from Kaga and that’s a long way off and Mariko—Lady Toda said Kaga’s far north. I don’t know—I don’t remember really what I said.”

The officer of the escort came back to them. “Please excuse me, Anjin-san, but is this fellow bothering you?”

“No. No, thank you.” Blackthorne set off again. The pass was checked again, with courtesy, and they went on.

The sun was lowering now, still a few hours to sunset, and dust devils whirled in tiny spirals in the heated air currents. They passed many stables, all horses facing out—lances and spears and saddles ready for instant departure, samurai grooming the horses and cleaning equipment. Blackthorne was astounded by their number.

“How many horse, Captain?” he asked.

“Thousands, Anjin-san. Ten, twenty, thirty thousand here and elsewhere in the castle.”

When they were crossing the next to last moat, Blackthorne beckoned Michael. “You’re guiding me to the galley?”

“Yes. That’s what I was told to do, senhor.”

“Nowhere else?”

“No, senhor.”

“By whom?”

“Lord Kiyama. And the Father-Visitor, senhor.”

“Ah, him! I prefer Anjin-san, not senhor—Father.”

“Please excuse me, Anjin-san, but I’m not a Father. I’m not ordained.”

“When does that happen?”

“In God’s time,” Michael said confidently.

“Where’s Yabu-san?”

“I don’t know, so sorry.”

“You’re just taking me to my ship, nowhere else?”

“Yes, Anjin-san.”

“And then I’m free? Free to go where I want?”

“I was told to ask how you were, then to guide you to the ship, nothing more. I’m just a messenger, a guide.”

“Before God?”

“I’m just a guide, Anjin-san.”

“Where did you learn to speak Portuguese so well? And Latin?”

“I was one of the four . . . the four acolytes sent by the Father-Visitor to Rome. I was thirteen, Uraga-noh-Tadamasa twelve.”

“Ah! Now I remember. Uraga-san told me you were one of them. You were his friend. You know he’s dead?”

“Yes. I was sickened to hear about it.”

“Christians did that.”

“Murderers did that, Anjin-san. Assassins. They will be judged, never fear.”

After a moment, Blackthorne said, “How did you like Rome?”

“I detested it. We all did. Everything about it—the food and the filth and ugliness. They’re all eta there—unbelievable! It took us eight years to get there and back and oh how I blessed the Madonna when at last I got back.”