“Hey, Rodrigues! It’s great to see you. How’s your leg? How’d you find me?”
“Madonna, you’ve grown, Ingeles, filled out! Yes, fit and healthy and acting like a piss-cutting daimyo!” Rodrigues gave him a bear hug and he returned it.
“How’s your leg?”
“Hurts like shit but it works and I found you by asking where the great Anjin-san was—the big barbarian bandit bastard with the blue eyes!”
They laughed together, swapping obscenities, careless of the samurai and servants that surrounded them. In a moment Blackthorne sent a servant for saké and led the way back. Both strolled with their sailor’s gait, Rodrigues’ right hand, by habit, on his rapier’s hilt, the other thumb hooked into his wide belt near his pistol. Blackthorne was a few inches taller but the Portuguese had even wider shoulders and a barrel-chested power to him.
Yoshinaka was waiting on the veranda.
“Domo arigato, Yoshinaka-san,” Blackthorne said, thanking the samurai again, and motioned Rodrigues to one of the cushions. “Let’s talk here.”
Rodrigues put a foot on the steps but stopped as Yoshinaka moved in front of him, pointed at the rapier and the pistol, then held out his left hand, palm upwards. “Dozo!”
The Portuguese frowned up at him. “Iyé, samurai-sama, domo ari—”
“Dozo!”
“Iyé, samurai-sama, iyé!” Rodrigues repeated more sharply. “Watashi yujin Anjin-san, neh?”
Blackthorne moved forward a step, still amazed at the suddenness of the confrontation. “Yoshinaka-san, shigata ga nai, neh?” he said with a smile. “Rodrigues yujin, wata—”
“Gomen nasai, Anjin-san. Kinjiru!” Yoshinaka rapped an order. Instantly samurai leapt forward, surrounding Rodrigues threateningly, and again he held out his hand. “Dozo!”
“These shit-filled whores’re touchy, Ingeles,” Rodrigues said through a toothy smile. “Call ’em off, eh? I’ve never had to give up my arms before.”
“Don’t, Rodrigues!” he said quickly, sensing his friend’s imminent decision, then to Yoshinaka, “Domo, gomen nasai, Rodrigues yujin, watash—”
“Gomen nasai, Anjin-san. Kinjiru.” Then roughly to the Portuguese, “Ima!”
Rodrigues snarled back, “Iyé! Wakarimasu ka?”
Blackthorne hastily stepped between them. “Hey, Rodrigues, what does it matter, neh? Let Yoshinaka-san have them. It’s nothing to do with you or me. It’s because of the lady, Toda Mariko-sama. She’s in there. You know how touchy they are about weapons near daimyos or their wives. We’ll argue all night, you know how they are, eh? What’s the difference?”
The Portuguese forced a smile back on his face. “Sure. Why not? Hai. Shigata ga nai, samurai-sama. So desu!”
He bowed like a courtier without sincerity, slid his rapier and scabbard from its clasp and took out his pistol, and offered them. Yoshinaka motioned to a samurai, who took the weapons and ran off to the gateway, where he put them down and stood guard over them. Rodrigues started to mount the steps, but again Yoshinaka politely and firmly asked him to stop. Other samurai came forward to search him. Furious, Rodrigues leaped back. “IYÉ! Kinjiru, by God! What the—”
The samurai fell on him, pinned his arms tight, and searched him thoroughly. They found two knives in the tops of his boots, another strapped to his left forearm, two small pistols—one concealed in the lining of his coat, one under his shirt—and a small pewter hip flask.
Blackthorne examined the pistols. Both were primed. “Was the other primed too?”
“Yes. Of course. This land’s hostile, haven’t you noticed, Ingeles? Tell them to let go of me!”
“This isn’t the usual way to visit a friend by night. Neh?”
“I tell you this land’s hostile. I’m always armed like this. Aren’t you normally? Madonna, tell these bastards to let me go.”
“Is that the lot? Everything?”
“Of course—tell ’em to let me go, Ingeles!”
Blackthorne gave the pistols to a samurai and stepped forward. His fingers felt carefully around the inside of Rodrigues’ wide leather belt. A stiletto slid from its secret sheath, very thin, very springy, made of the best Damascus steel. Yoshinaka swore at the samurai who had made the search. They apologized but Blackthorne only watched Rodrigues.
“Any more?” he asked, the stiletto loose in his hand.
Rodrigues stared back at him stonily.
“I’ll tell ’em where to look—and how to look, Rodrigues. How a Spaniard would—some of them. Eh?”
“Me cago en la leche, che cabron!”
“Que va, leche! Hurry up!” Still no answer. Blackthorne went forward with the knife. “Dozo, Yoshinaka-san. Watash—”
Rodrigues said hoarsely, “In my hat band,” and Blackthorne stopped.
“Good,” he said and reached for the wide-brimmed hat.
“You would, wouldn’t you—teach them?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Be careful of the feather, Ingeles, I cherish that.”
The band was wide and stiff, the feather jaunty like the hat. Inside the band was a thin stiletto, smaller, specially designed, the fine steel easily molding the curve. Yoshinaka barked out another vicious reprimand to the samurai.
“Before God, that’s all, Rodrigues?”
“Madonna—I told you.”
“Swear it.”
Rodrigues complied.
“Yoshinaka-san, ima ichi-ban. Domo,” Blackthorne said. He’s all right now. Thank you.
Yoshinaka gave the order. His men released the Portuguese. Rodrigues rubbed his limbs to ease the pain. “Is it all right to sit down, Ingeles?”
“Yes.”
Rodrigues wiped off the sweat with a red kerchief, then picked up the pewter flask and sat cross-legged on one of the cushions. Yoshinaka remained nearby on the veranda. All but four samurai went back to their posts. “Why are they so touchy? Why are you so touchy, Ingeles? I’ve never had to give up my weapons before. Am I an assassin?”
“I asked you if that was all your weapons and you lied.”
“I wasn’t listening. Madonna! Would you—held like a common criminal?” Rodrigues added sourly, “Eh, what’s it matter, Ingeles, what’s anything matter? The night’s spoiled. . . . Hey, but wait, Ingeles! Why should anything be allowed to spoil a great evening? I forgive them. And I forgive you, Ingeles. You were right and I was wrong. I apologize. It’s good to see you.” He unscrewed the stopper and offered the flask. “Here—here’s some fine brandy.”
“You first.”
Rodrigues’ face became ashen. “Madonna—do you think I bring poison?”
“No. You drink first.”
Rodrigues drank.
“Again!”
The Portuguese obeyed, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Blackthorne accepted the flask. “Salud!” He tipped it back and pretended to swallow, secretly keeping his tongue over the opening to prevent the liquor from going into his mouth, much as he wanted the drink. “Ah!” he said. “That was good. Here!”