Iron master, p.47
Iron Master, page 47
‘A fool can be forgiven, but not someone who betrays a trust.’
It was at that moment Toshiro realised that everything was slipping away from him. The Shogun was playing a cat-and-mouse game from which there was no escape. He assumed a kneeling position and bowed again, this time from the waist. ‘Sire, I did everything in my power to ensure your objectives were achieved.’
‘Everything and more,’ replied Yoritomo. ‘But in doing so you kept vital information from me. Look at it from my point of view. From now on I can never be sure, can I?’
Toshiro straightened his back, but kept looking at the floor.
‘On the other hand there is someone – whose word I’m prepared to accept without question – who trusts you absolutely. With her life even.’
Toshiro raised his eyes to meet Yoritomo’s.
‘My sister, the Lady Mishiko – whose tiresome husband you so obligingly removed. In fact, I believe you were the one who suggested the idea.’
The Herald gazed steadily at the Shogun. Bowing wouldn’t make any difference now.
‘It came as something of a surprise to learn that Ieyasu has had several of his own men working on this case. And it appears they crossed your path on more than one occasion…’
Toshiro waited for the next blow to fall.
‘I don’t know how true it is, but he claims that my sister was your principal informant regarding the extramural activities of her husband. In particular, his relations with the female long-dog. Or Mute, as the case may be.’
When no reply was forthcoming, Yoritomo said: ‘And she has informed me of her wish to marry you.’ He raised his eyebrows – perhaps in the hope of eliciting a reply.
Once again, Toshiro said nothing.
‘I know just what you’re thinking and I agree,’ said Yoritomo. ‘It was rather impetuous of her. But then you know what women are like. Please – don’t misunderstand me. You come from a good family. I don’t need to enumerate your qualities. From the moment you joined the College I’ve looked upon you as one of the family. And now my sister wants to make it official.’
‘S-sire,’ stammered Toshiro. ‘I – I never once entertained the idea that–’
Yoritomo silenced him. ‘My dear friend, I can’t think of anyone I would rather have as a brother-in-law. I really mean that. I can overlook that mix-up over the Mute. But your pride led you to commit an even greater act of folly.’ Opening a small lacquered cabinet that stood beside him, the Shogun drew out a neatly folded piece of paper and tossed it on to the mat between them.
‘If only you hadn’t sent that letter…’
Toshiro recognised it from the way it had been folded and the watermark on the paper. It was the letter he had written to the military commander of the southern district of Lord Se-Iko’s domain, informing him of the location of the ronin camp and the means by which he could gain entry. The letter he had paid a shopkeeper to post for him at Ari-dina.
His throat tightened, forcing him to speak in a harsh whisper. ‘I also killed Noburo Naka-Jima and his two companions.’
Yoritomo nodded. ‘Ieyasu told me.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘Why? What on earth made you, of all people, do such a thing?’
Toshiro sighed. ‘The one serious flaw in my character. I can’t bear to be wrong.’ He hung his head. There were other reasons, but it was unnecessary to go into them now.
‘You realise, of course, that this was a particularly scabrous crime – for which you should be flayed, disembowelled, then boiled alive?’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘But you have done something even worse. You have forced me back into the hands of corrupt, licentious men. And that is unforgivable. However, because of the feelings I once had for you, and for the sake of my sister, I will spare you the humiliating death you so richly deserve. I hope you won’t display any weakness tomorrow morning.’
Toshiro fell forward on his hands to kiss the mat in abject gratitude. His lips met the fatal letter.
When he sat back, Yoritomo said: ‘Who will attend you?’
‘Captain Kamakura.’
‘Ah, yes – the good captain with the five pretty daughters…’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Having informed Guard-Captain Kamakura of the service he was to render shortly after sunrise, Toshiro retired to his quarters in the palace and slept peacefully for several hours before being roused by a servant. After a ritual cleansing of his body, he offered prayers at the small shrine in his room, then penned a short but eloquent letter to the Lady Mishiko. Giving the letter to the servant with a sum of money that would guarantee its discreet delivery, he put on a cloak and made his way down into the stone garden.
As a mark of his personal feelings towards his Herald, the Shogun had given him permission to commit seppuku on his own special section of the veranda. Wrapped in his cloak, Toshiro spent two silent hours in contemplation of the darkened, mist-shrouded garden. At first he could see hardly anything, but as night gave way to twilight and the mist began to fade, the shapes and patterns slowly emerged, until at last all became clear.
At the moment of death, he would be plunged back into that darkness; a darkness more profound than he had ever known. If he died badly, he would be cast into the nether regions for ever; if he died well, his soul would rise towards the light that shone from the face of Ameratsu-Omikami.
When the sun rose, Captain Kamakura appeared, followed by four attendants bearing the items that Toshiro would require. He rose and stood aside while they lay down straw mats of the required measurement and edged with white silk. They then positioned the large white cushion on which the Herald would kneel. In front of this was placed the lacquered tray holding the short, razor-sharp dagger.
Once everything was in place, Toshiro handed his cloak to one of the servants, who then withdrew. After embracing Captain Kamakura and thanking him for agreeing to act as his kaishaku-nin, the Herald knelt on the white cushion and took several slow deep breaths while he concentrated his thoughts on the final act he was required to perform without exhibiting the slightest hesitation or fear. To the true samurai, death was ‘as light as a feather’ and he awoke each day ready to meet it.
Captain Kamakura now knelt in the prescribed place, behind the Herald, some three and a half feet to his left, the long killing-sword held ready in both hands. Watching from either side of the garden were the Shogun and several members of the Inner Court. Toshiro glimpsed Ieyasu’s grey, angular face amongst them.
The Chamberlain had every reason to feel satisfied. He had shaken the Shogun’s faith in his Heralds and had demonstrated that his own power to influence events remained undimmed. It would not be long before his private office reinserted itself between the Shogun and his Heralds. They were intelligent, well-intentioned young men, like their master, but they did not know the ways of the world. His nephew Yoritomo needed further guidance before he could be safely left to take Ne-Issan into the next century. He, Ieyasu, would provide that guidance in the few years left to him.
There were difficult times ahead. Yoritomo had all the qualities required to surmount those difficulties, but he needed to introduce a certain flexibility into his moral judgements. In the ancient world, it had been termed ‘double standards’; the mental suppleness that allowed a man to bend with the winds of change without being uprooted.
Toshiro reached out and picked up the knife, gazed at it for a moment as if admiring its lethal grace and then, after adjusting his grip so as to hold it firmly with both hands, he drove the full length of the blade into the left side of his belly. The impact caused him to breathe out sharply. He inhaled deeply without relaxing his grip and, with a slow, deliberate sawing motion, he began to draw the blade across to the right hand side of his body.
Beads of sweat gathered on his forehead, but apart from his eyes which stared with frightening intensity at the stone and pebble landscape before him, his face showed no sign of the excruciating pain he was inflicting upon himself. At the end of the lateral cut, he turned the blade of the dagger in his body and made a short, upward cut. The jumonji; the final ghastly flourish.
The Herald had gone much further in the act of self-mutilation than was normally deemed necessary, but he had instructed Kamakura not to act before he had pulled the knife from his body. The end to the perfect act of seppuku. But his hands had become slippery with blood, and he no longer had the strength to remove the dagger.
Kamakura leaped to his feet. As the kaishaku-nin, his duty was to spare the principal actor unnecessary agony. He was empowered to intervene at a pre-arranged moment – which could even be during the act of reaching out for the knife – or at the slightest sign of irresolution. As the Herald bent forward in one last effort to pull out the blade, Kamakura raised his sword high in the air and cut off the young man’s head with one swift blow.
It had been a good death, but it gave Kamakura scant cause for satisfaction. As Toshiro’s swordmaster he had spent countless hours instructing and counselling the young man, and now Fate had forced him to give the coup de grâce to his most promising pupil.
The same blow had put paid to his wife’s cherished dreams of having a Herald for a son-in-law. How she had schemed and laboured over the years! And now her plans had come to naught. Kamakura did not relish having to break the news to her. She would understand why he had been obliged to perform this doleful task, but she would never forgive him. And neither would his daughters.
He looked down at the bloodied head with its half-closed eyes. Eyes that had followed him so attentively over the years as he had revealed his unrivalled skill with the sword. What a waste! Kamakura cleaned and sheathed his sword, then turned away. His eyes brimmed with bitter tears, but he held them in check. There would be tears enough. The sound of weeping would fill his house for many months to come.
*
Skull-Face was as good as his word. There was a field near the east bank of the Hudson marked with a hollow white square, just as the map had indicated. And they were met on landing by a Jap agent who identified himself to Cadillac in the prescribed manner. Steve came in last, and although he tried to make it as smooth as he could, the skid landing caused agonising jolts of pain to shoot through his wounded thigh.
Kelso had spotted the feathered end of the arrow sticking out through the cockpit side during the flight, and had guessed from Steve’s signals what had happened. When his machine slid to a halt, Kelso was there with a borrowed saw to cut him loose. The others helped lift him out, then Clearwater and Cadillac removed the arrowhead. The wound wasn’t all that deep, and it hadn’t severed any tendons or arteries, but it still hurt. The Jap agent promised him he would get some medication and a bandage later.
Hauling himself upright, Steve discovered that if he didn’t put his whole weight on his right leg he was able to hobble around without support. Haww! Jack me…
Leaves and branches from a number of felled trees around the edge of the field had been gathered to make several bonfires. It explained how Kelso had got hold of a saw. The reason for the lumberjacking now became clear. As soon as they had removed their baggage, the Jap told them to pile bales of straw and branches around the machines and set them alight. Anyone who had seen the planes pass over this forested area could not be certain where, or if, they had landed, and three more columns of smoke would not arouse anyone’s curiosity.
While the others were fetching the bales and branches, Steve gritted his teeth and hung head first inside the rear cockpits of each plane. After removing the radio-controlled detonators, he ripped out the explosive struts and stowed everything away in the tote-bag.
They stood back and watched the Jap torch the three planes. It was depressing how quickly weeks of painstaking handiwork were consumed. When all the unburnt pieces around the edge of the fires had been tossed into the centre of the flames, the Jap herded them aboard a closed ox-cart for the next stage of their journey.
Instead of crossing the river and boarding ship straight away, they were obliged to spend the next two nights in a house overlooking the Hudson. The east bank, which they were now on, belonged to the Shogun’s family, the Toh-Yota. The west bank, and the land beyond, all the way to what Kelso called the Great Lakes, belonged to the Yama-Shita. The boats of both families plied the navigable stretch of the river from Nyo-Yoko in the south to as far north as you could go, but the canal system that linked the Hudson with Lake Erie was reserved for vessels owned by the Yama-Shita family.
The Jap, who spoke Basic reasonably well, told Steve he had received word that Side-Winder’s boat was running late because of some unspecified mechanical failure. ‘Buh pleez nah toh wah-ree.’ Shortly after their arrival at the house, he had seen it heading downriver, so – barring any further breakdowns – it should return to Ari-bani in the early evening of ‘day-arf tah toh-marah’.
The delay proved a blessing in disguise. It allowed the time for Clearwater to produce four top-notch paint-jobs and for Cadillac to get used to wearing women’s clothes. Once the wig pieces and combs had been pinned into position, and his coppery skin had been paled by sweet-smelling powder, he was halfway there. When he put on the white mask and gloves he looked totally authentic. And thanks to his uncanny grasp of the Iron Masters’ language and mores, he soon adopted the necessary hauteur.
Since their Jap contact man had not been present during the dress rehearsals, Steve decided to put the disguise to the test. After setting up Cadillac in another room, he engaged the Jap in conversation as he was returning from one of his frequent sorties. A few minutes later, a shrill Japanese voice emanated from the adjoining room, demanding some service. When the unsuspecting Jap rushed to the door and found Cadillac sitting in solitary splendour, he was so taken aback by the masked figure’s imperious bearing and immaculate diction, he instinctively bowed and started to apologise before he cottoned on.
Fortunately, he had a sense of humour. What was even better, it meant they were in with a chance.
Steve already had a Mute identity, but it was exchanged for a new one. Sets of worn clothes, slave-tags and ‘yellow cards’ were distributed to Jodi, Kelso and Clearwater; travel papers and money were provided for ‘Yoko Mi-Shima’. Their slave papers and toll-gate stamps purported to show they had been purchased on behalf of the courtesan at Firi, where there were regular small-scale auctions as well as the big one in late spring following the annual western expedition of the wheelboats.
Slaves were a disposable asset; a medium of exchange that was more secure than carrying cash or banknotes which could be stolen by the thieves and vagabonds who preyed on unwary travellers. Indeed, some enterprising merchants who had made a close study of the seasonal and regional fluctuations in the labour market had amassed considerable fortunes by buying up slaves and slipping them to wherever there was a quick profit to be made. Why feed slaves through the winter in Mah-ina and Nofo-skosha, where the ground could not be worked, when they could labour fruitfully on plantations in the warmer climes of Fyah-jina and Karo-rina?
*
Side-Winder took charge of Steve and the other ‘Mutes’ as they came aboard the wheelboat, and shepherded them down into the gloomy bow section of the lower through-deck reserved for the transport of slaves. Cadillac’s carriage-box was taken to the door of the cabin that had been booked in the name of Yoko Mi-Shima and he did not meet up with the others until they all disembarked at Bu-faro.
The big mexican remained his usual taciturn self, and only related to them in his official capacity as Mute overseer. He did not treat them any differently from any of the other slaves on board, and because of the lumps on his forehead, Jodi and Kelso assumed he was a genuine Mute. Clearwater appeared to share their opinion, but Steve was not sure what she really thought. Maybe the Plainfolk had other, more subtle, ways of recognising their own kind.
With her help, Steve had concocted Mute names and brief cover-stories for Jodi and Kelso to use in case any of their fellow-travellers wanted to know where they came from. He himself had adopted Cadillac’s identity. Why not? It was a fair swap and, best of all, he didn’t have to make anything up. Small parties of Plainfolk Mutes came and went, but they were the only ones riding the water all the way to Bu-faro. As it happened, there was very little interchange between groups even when the deck was crowded. Most Mutes became sullen and withdrawn when being transported over water, so their own silence was not viewed as suspicious.
Steve had daily contact with the big mexican, but did not tell the others what the real connection was, and he did not tell Side-Winder what he had learned about AMEXICO’s links with the anonymous undercover organisation that Skull-Face worked for. Or that he had been named as one of the intermediaries.
In the short time that had elapsed since joining AMEXICO, Steve had learned that operatives did not probe into the details of each other’s missions. You didn’t ask questions and you didn’t give anything away without clearance from the Operations Control Centre at Rio Lobo. Side-Winder did not even enquire how he and his friends had reached Ari-bani. As far as he was concerned, that was Steve’s business – as he had made clear when Steve had attempted to speak about their escape from the Heron Pool. His job, said the big mex, was to oversee their safe passage to Bu-faro – and from there to the Big Open. Apart from that, he didn’t want to know.
Unable to see anything but sky through a small latticed hatch-cover in the deck above, Steve spent the greater part of the trip sitting close to Clearwater. Jodi and Kelso had found themselves a niche between some bales a few yards away. It must be a strange experience for them, thought Steve. Both had previously been openly contemptuous of Mutes. Now here they were, clothed in the coloured skin that was the mark of their mortal enemies, and, for the moment at least, their lives depended on how well they could act the part.
