Shogun_ A Novel of Japan - James Clavell [368]
“Later.” Toranaga’s horse neighed wearily and cast its head about, the bridles jingling. He gentled him, and now completely satisfied with the security, he signed to his men and dismounted. One of Buntaro’s samurai caught his reins—the samurai, like Buntaro and all of them, armored, battle-armed, and ready.
Toranaga stretched gratefully and limbered up to ease the cramped muscles in his back and legs. He had led the way from Anjiro in a single forced march, stopping only to change mounts. The rest of the baggage train under Omi’s command—palanquins and bearers—was still far behind, strung out on the road that came down from the crest. The road from Anjiro had snaked along the coast, then branched. They had taken the west road inland and climbed steadily through luxuriant forests teeming with game, Mount Omura to their right, the peaks of the volcanic Amagi Range on their left soaring almost five thousand feet. The ride had exhilarated him—at last some action! Part of the journey had been through such good hawking country that he promised himself, one day, he would hunt all Izu.
“Good. Yes, very good,” he said over the bustle of his men dismounting and chattering and sorting themselves out. “You’ve done well.”
“If you want to honor me, Sire, I beg you to allow me to obliterate Lord Zataki and his men at once.”
“He insulted you?”
“No—on the contrary—his manners were worthy of a courtier, but the flag he travels under’s a treason against you.”
“Patience. How often do I have to tell you?” Toranaga said, not unkindly.
“I’m afraid forever, Sire,” Buntaro replied gruffly. “Please excuse me.”
“You used to be his friend.”
“He used to be your ally.”
“He saved your life at Odawara.”
“We were on the same side at Odawara,” Buntaro said bleakly, then burst out, “How can he do this to you, Sire? Your own brother! Haven’t you favored him, fought on the same side—all his life?”
“People change.” Toranaga put his full attention on the dais. Delicate silk curtains had been hung from the rafters over the platform for decoration. Ornamental brocade tassels that matched the cushions made a pleasing frieze and larger ones were on the four corner posts. “It’s much too rich and gives the meeting too much importance,” he said. “Make it simple. Remove the curtains, all the tassels and cushions, return them to the merchants, and if they won’t give the quartermaster back the money, tell him to sell them. Get four cushions, not two—simple, chaff-filled.”
“Yes, Sire.”
Toranaga’s gaze fell on the spring and he wandered over to it. The water, steaming and sulphurous, hissed as it came from a cleft in the rocks. His body ached for a bath. “And the Christian?” he asked.
“Sire?”
“Tsukku-san, the Christian priest?”
“Oh him! He’s somewhere in the village, but the other side of the bridge. He’s forbidden this side without your permission. Why? Is it important? He said something about how he’d be honored to see you, when convenient. Do you want him here now?”
“Was he alone?”
Buntaro’s lip curled. “No. He had an escort of twenty acolytes, all tonsured like him—all Kyushu men, Sire, all well-born and all samurai. All well mounted but no weapons. I had them searched. Thoroughly.”
“And him?”
“Of course him—him more than any. There were four carrier pigeons among his luggage. I confiscated them.”
“Good. Destroy them…. Some fool did it in error, so sorry, neh?”
“I understand. You want me to send for him now?”
“Later. I’ll see him later.”
Buntaro frowned. “Was it wrong to search him?”
Toranaga shook his head, and absently looked back at the crest,