Shogun_ A Novel of Japan - James Clavell [555]
“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