Gai-Jin by James Clavell
Sumomo stared back at her, not knowing how to extricate herself from the pit that had suddenly opened in front of them. “Lady, please, let us think clearly. I—I am no threat to you, nor you to me, let us leave it like that. I swore to protect you and I will, and Lord Yoshi if need be. Let me travel with you. I swear I will leave the moment we reach Yedo. Please?” Her eyes willed Koiko to agree. “You will never regret the kindness. Please. My guardian asked a lifetime favor. Please, I will serve you …”
Koiko hardly heard the words. She watched her as a mouse would a poised cobra, no thought in her head but how to escape, how to make all this a dream. Is it a dream? Be sensible, your life is in the balance, more than your life, you must collect your wits.
“Give me your knife.”
Sumomo did not hesitate. Her hand went into her obi and she gave her the sheathed knife. Koiko took the blade as if it were on fire. Not knowing what else to do with it, never having handled or owned or needed one before, all weapons forbidden in the Floating World, she thrust it into her own obi. “What do you want with us? Why are you here?” her voice barely audible.
“Just to travel with you, Lady,” Sumomo said as though to a child, not realizing her own face was stark. “Just to travel with you, there is no other reason.”
“Were you part of the assassins, the attackers on Shōgun Nobusada?”
“Of course not, I am only a simple loyalist, a frien—”
“But you were the spy who whispered that my Lord was going outside the barracks to meet Ogama—it was you!”
“No, Lady, I swear it. I have told you he is not the enemy—that was a lone madman, not one of ours, I keep say—”
“You have to leave, you must,” Koiko said in a tiny voice. “Please go. Please go now, please. Quickly.”
“There is no need to worry or be afraid. None.”
“Oh, but I am, I am terrified, and terrified that someone should … should denounce you. Yoshi would …” The words seemed to suspend themselves in the air between them. Their eyes locked, Sumomo willing her, Koiko helpless and wilting under their strength. Both seemed to have aged, Koiko torn apart that she could have been so naive and that her idol had used her so evilly, Sumomo furious that she was so stupid not to have agreed instantly the moment this meddlesome whore had proposed she should leave. Fool, fool, both were thinking. “I will do as you say,” Sumomo muttered. “I will leave even though—”
The shoji opened. Yoshi strode in jauntily, heading for the inner room. Their trance shattered. They hastily bowed. He stopped in midstride, all his senses shrieking danger.
“What is it?” he asked sharply. He had noticed their instant of fear before their heads bowed.
“Noth…nothing, Sire,” Koiko said, collecting herself as Sumomo hurried for the brazier to fetch fresh tea. “You will have tea, breakfast, perhaps?”
His eyes went from woman to woman. “What-is-it?” he said slowly, the words like ice needles.
Sumomo knelt humbly. “We—we were so sorry not to be going with you, Sire, it was just that…just that the Lady Koiko was so sad. May I serve tea, Sire?”
The silence gathered. His fists bunched on his hips, face set, bare legs planted. “Koiko! Tell-me-now!”
Koiko’s mouth began to move but the words would not come out. Sumomo’s heart stopped, then thundered in her ears as Koiko dragged herself to her feet, tears beginning, and she stammered, “You s-see, she…it is true but she is not quite what …”
Instantly Sumomo was on her feet, her right hand darting into her sleeve and bringing out a shuriken. Yoshi set his teeth, seeing it. Her arm curled back for the throw—he was unarmed, an open target, his swords in the inner room. At once he ducked left, hoping the feint would confuse her, preparing to hurl himself at her, his eyes fixed on her hand. Unperturbed, she aimed for his chest and threw viciously.
The barbed circle of steel spun across the room. Frantically he arched his body and skewed around. One of the barbs caught the edge of his kimono and sliced through the material but touched no flesh and went on to disappear through the shoji and thwackked into one of the posts in the inner room as, jerked off balance by the supreme effort, he slammed into a wall and buckled into a heap.
For an instant everything seemed a slow dream …
Sumomo reaching endlessly in her sleeve for the next shuriken, seeing only the great enemy lying helpless and his dim-witted whore who had caused this unnecessary conclusion gaping at her, a pillar of fear—but feeling no fear herself, only elation, sure that this was her zenith, the moment she had been born for and had trained all her life for, and that now, invincible champion of the shishi, she would conquer and, dying, live in legend forever …
Koiko, standing paralyzed, aghast that she had been duped by the godlike guru who had betrayed her, told her nothing but lies, the girl equally a cheat, and because of them this monstrous conspiracy was happening: her Patron would die and even if he did not die, she was disgraced and would die, either by his hand or those of the guards, everything in this life wasted, never to marry her samurai, never to have sons, never in this life, better to end it quickly by her own hand than foully by theirs but how, how, and then she remembered Sumomo’s knife …
Yoshi craned around from the floor, frantic to see the next throw, hauling his feet under him for the charge he had to make or die, everything taking so much time, his mind exploding that he had been nursing a viper in his embrace, then his eyes saw Sumomo’s hand with the second shuriken—how many does she have?—her lips drawn back from her very white teeth …
The frozen instant ended.
Sumomo hesitated, exulting in the kill, but the moment was too long and she saw Koiko come out of her trance and the knife appear in her hand. Instinctively she shifted her aim, caught herself, wavered, aimed at Yoshi again and began the throw, but at that instant Koiko lurched forward, tripped over her hem and sprawled toward her.
The spinning shuriken embedded itself in Koiko’s chest and she cried out, and that gave Yoshi time to lunge at Sumomo from the floor. He caught one of her ankles and brought her down, stabbed fingers for her throat but she was an eel and twisted away, trained in martial arts, her hand seeking the last shuriken. Before she could reach it, his iron fingers grabbed part of her kimono, tore half the sleeve off, inhibiting her. Again she squirmed from his grasp and was on her feet in a second, but now he was too.
At once she shrieked a nerve-racking battle cry, bunched her hand and threw again. He was transfixed, dead—yet her hand was empty, the throw only a feint, the last shuriken still caught in her torn sleeve.
As she groped for it the shoji behind her was jerked open by the guard. “Quick,” she shouted, pointing at Koiko writhing and moaning on the floor, distracting and directing him. As he darted forward, she ripped his long sword out of its sheath, raised it and hacked, wounding him, and in the same movement turned for Yoshi. But he had leapt back a pace, jumped over Koiko’s prone, squirming body and sprinted for the inner room and his swords, bursting through the closed shoji, Sumomo in fierce pursuit.
His sword hissed out of the scabbard. He spun, parried the first blow violently, and pivoted in the enclosed space. Fearlessly Sumomo attacked and was again parried while Yoshi measured her and she measured him. Another flurry of blows, she an impeccable sword fighter, as he was.
Now he attacked and was held and they broke off and circled, then she darted back through the shoji seeking more space, he close behind her, and they circled seeking an opening. Outside there were shouts. Guards converged, the wounded samurai half blocking the doorway. Knowing there was little time Sumomo increased the pressure, lunged forward, then swivelled to put her back to the door and they hacked at each other, parry and blow, parry and blow. Yoshi twisted, forcing her around once more, but losing the initiative.
He saw Abeh rush for her back, sword raised, and he snarled, “No! Leave her to me!” and almost got decapitated, retreating in temporary disorder.
Obediently Abeh
Now their hilts locked. Quickly she disengaged, knowing he must beat her in such a clinch, stepped back, feinted then hurtled forward in a blind, unorthodox blitz, her sword edge cutting into his shoulder. It would have disabled a less skilled fighter, but he had anticipated the blow and suffered only a minor wound, though he cried out and dropped his guard, pretending a great hurt. Carelessly she went in for the kill. But he was not exactly where she expected. His sword arched up ferociously from the ground, catching her unawares, the blow slicing through her left wrist and sending it flying with the sword, her fingers still gripping the hilt.
She stared at the stump of her arm, astonished, blood spurting up and out in a huge stream. There was no pain. Her other hand grabbed the stump and slowed the flow. Guards raced forward to seize her but again Yoshi cursed them away, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath, watching her so very carefully. “Who are you?”
“Sumomo Fujahito … shishi,” she gasped, her courage and strength ebbing fast, then, with the last of her spirit, whimpered, “Sonno-joiiii,” released her grip on her wrist, groped for the last shuriken, found it, dug one of the poisoned barbs into her arm and stumbled forward to jam it into him. But he stood ready.
The great blow took her perfectly where her neck joined her body and sliced across and through her to come out just under her arm. Those watching sucked in their breaths as one man, sure that they had witnessed a happening that would be passed from mouth to mouth for centuries and proved this man a worthy descendant of the great Shōgun and bearer of his name. But all were rocked also, at the sight of so much blood.
Abeh recovered his voice first. “What happened, Lord?”
“I won,” Yoshi said grimly, examining his shoulder, blood staining his kimono, an ache in his side and his heart still violent. “Get a doctor … then we’ll leave.”
Men raced to do his bidding. Abeh tore his eyes off Sumomo’s corpse. Koiko was moaning and squirming pitifully, her nails clawing the tatami, gashing it. He went towards her, stopped as Yoshi said, “Careful, fool! She was part of the conspiracy!” Cautiously Abeh kicked Sumomo’s knife to one side. “Turn her over!” He obeyed, with his foot.
There was only the slightest sign of blood. The shuriken had pinned her kimono to her flesh, stanching the seepage, more than half of the steel buried in her. Apart from the pulsating agony that twisted her face in waves, she was as breathtaking as ever.
Yoshi was filled with hatred.
Never had he been so close to death. The other attack was nothing compared to this one. How he had managed to withstand the onslaught and sneak attack, he could not understand. Half a dozen times he had been, knowingly, beaten, and the terror at the brink was not as he had imagined it to be. That terror will unman anyone, he thought, wanting to hack Koiko to pieces in fury for her betrayal, or to leave her to her agony.
Her hands were clawing impotently at her chest, at the huge pain centered there, trying to tear away the thing that was causing it. But she could not. A shudder racked her. Her eyes opened and she saw Yoshi standing there and her hands left her chest and went to her face, trying to make her hair neat for him. “Help me, Tora-chan,” she sobbed, her words garbled, “please helllp meeee … it hurts …”
“Who sent you? And her? Who?”
“Helpppp me, oh please, it hurts, it hurts, I tried to save … save …” Her words trailed away and she saw herself again with the knife in her hand, him defenseless, heroically doing her duty, rushing forward to protect him, to give him the knife she could not herself use and to prevent the betrayer from wounding him with the flying steel, accepting it in his place, saving his life so he would reward her and forgive her, not that she was guilty of anything, only of serving him, pleasing him, adoring him …
“What shall we do with her?” Abeh was asking queasily, certain, with all of them, that the shuriken was poisoned and she would die, some poisons more cruel than others.
Throw her on a dung heap, was Yoshi’s immediate thought, his stomach filled with sick bile, and leave her to her pain and the dogs. He scowled, tormented now, seeing she was still beautiful, even still desirable, only the dribbling moan underscoring his ugly, acid awareness that an era had ended.
Now and forevermore he would be alone. She had destroyed trust. If this woman on whom he had lavished so much affection could betray him, anyone could. Never again could he trust a woman or share so much. Never. She had destroyed that part of him forever. His face closed. “Throw …”
And then he remembered her silly poems and happy poems, all the laughter and pleasures she had given him, the good advice and satisfactions. Abruptly he was consumed with immense sadness at the cruelty of life. His sword was still in his hand. Her neck was so small. The blow was kind.
“Sonno-joi, eh?” he muttered, blind at her loss.
Cursed shishi, their fault she is dead. Who sent Sumomo? Katsumata! Must be, same sword strokes, same guile. Twice his assassins have almost killed me. No third time. I will wipe them out. Until I am dead Katsumata is enemy, all shishi are enemy. Cursed shishi—and cursed gai-jin!
It is really their fault, the gai-jin. They’re a plague. If it wasn’t for them none of this would have happened, there would be no stinking Treaties, no shishi, no sonno-joi, and no pussing sore of Yokohama.
Cursed gai-jin. Now they will pay.
CHAPTER FORTY
YOKOHAMA
On the afternoon of the same day, Jamie McFay came out of the office of the Yokohama Guardian, seething. He stuffed the latest edition of the newspaper under his arm and hurried along High Street. The breeze was salty and chill, the sea spotted with combers, grey and uninviting. His stride was as angry as his mood. I wish to God Malcolm had told me, he was thinking. He’s off his rocker, crazy. It’s bound to stir up trouble.
“Wot’s up?” Lunkchurch asked, seeing the crumpled paper and perturbed by Jamie’s unusual haste. He himself had been on the way to collect his own copy before his afternoon siesta and had stopped for a moment to urinate in the gutter. “Hey, the duel’s in the paper, been reported, eh?”
“What duel?” McFay snapped. Rumors were rife that it was due any day now, though, as yet, no one had whispered they knew it was the day after tomorrow, Wednesday. “For Christ’s sake, stop spreading that chestnut!”
“No offense, old lad.” The big, florid man buttoned up, heaving his belt up over his paunch to have it slide down again. “Well, wot the eff ’s up?” He jabbed the paper. “Wot’s eff’ing Nettlesmith writ that’s put your dingle out of joint?”
“Just more of the same,” McFay said, avoiding the real reason. “His editorial claims the fleet’s almost up to snuff, Army’s sharpening their bayonets, and ten thousand sepoys are on the way from India to help us.”
“Eff’ing balls, all of it!”
“Yes. Added to that the bloody Governor doing his usual, sodding up Hong Kong’s economy. Nettlesmith’s reprinted an editorial from the Times praising the plan to torch our Bengal opium fields, replanting with tea, a little item that’ll cause heart attacks all over Asia—as if taste buds anywhere will be satisfied with Darjeeling muck! Stupid bastards will ruin us and the British economy at the same time. Got to run, see you at the meeting later.”
“Eff’ing meetings! Waste of eff’ing time,” Lunkchurch said. “Effing government! We should go to the eff’ing barricades like the eff’ing Frogs. And we should be shelling Yedo right now! Wee Willie hasn’t the balls, and as for eff’ing Ketterer …” He continued swearing long after Jamie had left. Others on the promenade nearby frowned, then quickened their pace heading for the newspaper office.
Malcolm Struan looked up as Jamie knocked. He saw the paper at once. “Good. I was going to ask if it was here yet.”
“I fetched a copy. A dickybird whispered I should.”
“Ah.” Malcolm grinn
“You might have told me so I could think of a way to lessen the impact.”
“Calm down, for God’s sake,” Malcolm said good-naturedly, taking the paper and turning to the section where letters were printed. “No harm in taking a moral position. Opium’s immoral, and so is gunrunning, and I didn’t tell you because I wanted you to be surprised too.”
“You’ve certainly done that! This will incense every trader here and throughout Asia and it’ll backfire—we need friends just as much as they need us.”
“I agree. But why should my letter backfire? Ah!” His letter was in the lead position and headlined: noble house to take noble stand! “Good caption, I like that.”
“Sorry, but I don’t. It’s bound to backfire because everyone knows we have to use those trade goods or we’re stuffed. You’re tai-pan but you can’t …” Jamie paused. Malcolm was smiling at him, unperturbed. “What about the Choshu rifles, for goodness’ sake? We’ve accepted their money though you agreed to pass them over to the other man, Watanabe, for Lord Someone or other—the order you increased to five thousand?”
“All in due time.” Malcolm remained calm though reminded that his mother had cancelled the order that he had, promptly, reinstated by the fastest mail possible. Silly of her, she understands nothing about Japan. Never mind, only a few more days and she’ll be curbed. “Meanwhile, Jamie, there’s no harm in taking a public, moral position,” he said airily. “We must bend with the times, don’t you think?”
McFay blinked. “You mean it’s a ploy? To confuse the opposition?”
“Bend with the times,” Malcolm repeated happily. His letter advocated, at length, the phasing out of opium and guns, just as the Admiral wanted, and put him squarely behind the Admiral’s vehement position and the Government’s proposed new plan for Asia: Ways must be found at once to put our trading approach on the most perfect footing, for the greater glory of H.M. the Queen, God Bless Her, and our British Empire. The Noble House is proud to lead the way … he had written among other flowery effusions, signing it, The tai-pan, Struan’s, as his father and grandfather had done with letters to the press. “I thought it was all put rather well. Don’t you?”