The Amtrak Wars - Ironmaster Part 85

'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 Aridina.

His throat tightened, forcing him to speak in a harsh whisper. 'I also killed n.o.buro 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 grat.i.tude.

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 AmeratsuOmikami.

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-run, 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-run, his duty was to spare the princ.i.p.al actor unnecessary agony.

He was empowered to intervene at a prearranged 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 grace 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 j.a.p 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 c.o.c.kpit 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 j.a.p 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 j.a.p told them to pile bales of straw and branches around the machines and set them alight. Anyone who had seen the planes pa.s.s 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 c.o.c.kpits 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 j.a.p 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 j.a.p 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-s.h.i.ta. 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 ca.n.a.l system that linked the Hudson with Lake Erie was reserved for vessels owned by the Yama-s.h.i.ta family.

The j.a.p, 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 nab 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 All-bani in the early evening of 'day-ad tab tohmarah'.

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.