Iron master, p.2
Iron Master, page 2
But that route was not open to him. Even now, Cadillac would have gladly given up his own life to save hers. The bonds of friendship, rooted in the shared pain and joy of their childhood and nurtured by their special ‘otherness’, could never be broken until Mo-Town called their spirits back into the luminous crystal waters that filled the great Cup of Life. Moreover, he had no proof Clearwater had betrayed him. She had not confessed her guilt. Indeed, her manner towards him had hardly changed. But he knew! He knew! Her clouded blue eyes told him that her mind and heart had parted company with his.
He also knew that, as a fellow-summoner, Mr Snow was bound to leap to her defence, leaving him completely tongue-tied. The degree of respect and obedience demanded by the ancient code of the wordsmiths made it impossible for an apprentice to contradict his master publicly. To do so would have been an unforgivable breach of etiquette. But even if he had been foolish enough to try, he could never have won an argument with Mr Snow. Far from gaining any sympathy, he would find himself being mocked by those who envied him and sought to bar him from the ranks of the Bears.
The simplest solution was to drop out of the contest; give up all claim to Clearwater. But even this had its dangers. If she ceased to visit his hut, eyebrows would be raised, tongues would start to wag. And if, as he suspected, she and the cloud warrior had laid between the fox and the wolf, it would not remain secret from her clan sisters for long. Women had a way of knowing these things. They were also unable to keep a secret. Once the news spread it would not be long before both of them were called to account before the clan elders.
No. Regardless of his feelings, the most sensible course of action was to take her with him to Beth-Lem. By so doing the truth could be concealed from the clan until their return – perhaps for ever. Given time, a reconciliation was not impossible. His pride had been hurt but he was not too proud to admit that her presence on such a perilous journey would still be welcome.
What had happened was the will of Talisman. So be it…
But understanding had not dulled the pain. Even now, almost nine months later, when his mind and his days were happily filled with the myriad problems that arose from his new responsibilities, the invisible wound would occasionally open, spoiling his newfound contentment. Fortunately, the Iron Masters had a potent cure for this type of affliction – a fiery liquid called ‘sake’ that gave him a new, reckless courage, gave his tongue a new edge, and awakened desires that his body-slaves eagerly satisfied. And when all passion was spent, and the bittersweet pain had been numbed…
Oblivion.
CHAPTER ONE
The summer palace of Yoritomo Toh-Yota was situated at Yedo, on Aron-giren, a huge tract of land that he had christened his ‘floating domain’. Yedo was a place-name plucked from the distant past of his own race; Aron-giren was the name given by the people of a long-dead nation which had once inhabited the land on which his palace stood – a fish-shaped island with a ragged forked tail reaching out into the Eastern Sea. A hand-painted silk map on the wall of his book-lined study showed its great shark head lying close to the mainland, with several smaller islands trapped like tiny minnows in its gaping jaw. Long slender reefs of sand hugged the line of its belly like pilot fish hoping for scraps from the feast.
Several other islands lay between Aron-Giren and the mainland; Sta-tana and Mana-tana were the largest; others, like Govo-nasa and Eris-iren, were very small. These too formed part of Yoritomo’s domain and, depending on their size, had one fortified harbour or more, garrisoned by sea-soldiers. Day or night, no vessel, be it sea-going junk or one-oared dory, escaped inspection by the everpresent watchboats that patrolled the surrounding waterways, and no one was allowed to dock on Aron-giren when Yoritomo was in residence without a special pass. The vigilance of the sea-soldiers prevented his island retreat from being invaded by what were politely termed ‘foreign bodies’, and ensured safe passage for Yoritomo, his family and their high-ranking entourage on their journeys to and from his vast estates on the mainland.
The Toh-Yota, who had emerged as one of the leading samurai families in the previous century, had held the reins of power for the last eighty-two years. Yoritomo, its present head, was the sixth successive member of the family to assume the title of Shogun, supreme ruler of Ne-Issan, Land of the Rising Sun. The Toh-Yota had gained their pre-eminence by the matchless skill of their warriors and with the help of their allies – other domain-lords who had risked the heads of their entire families by placing their banners alongside those of Yoritomo’s great-great-grandfather.
In the old days, the task of ruling Ne-Issan had been easier. In that first period of rapid conquest, after the landing of the boat-people – the historic ‘Seventh Wave’ – there had only been a handful of domain-lords but, over the succeeding centuries, new warrior families had emerged in the border regions, planting their banners on the Western Hills and in lands to the south of Awashi-tana. Now, there were seventeen powerful domain-lords; seventeen warrior families backed by their own armies of samurai, each one bound to him by sacred oaths of fealty; some bound closer still by ties of blood.
Since the basic structure remained unchanged, the governing of Ne-Issan should, in theory, have presented no problem. As Shogun, Yoritomo could command the instant obedience of his subjects, from the most powerful domain-lord to the lowest peasant farmer or fisherman. He held the power of life and death, and his decisions in such matters were unchallenged. With a simple, dismissive gesture, and without any explanation, he could order a samurai to commit seppuku, ritual disembowelling – an appallingly painful self-inflicted death reserved exclusively for samurai and to which they readily submitted with the most admirable fortitude.
In practice, things were not that simple. If they were, the Shogunate would have no hidden enemies and the shores of Aron-Giren would not need to be guarded against ‘foreign bodies’. The one-great Da-Tsuni would still be in power, and the Toh-Yota would still be hewing timber amid the lake-strewn hills on the northern marches. The supreme authority of the Shogun could only be maintained if the holder of that office displayed resolute, forceful leadership combined with an unswerving regard for tradition and an iron will. But it was equally true that those who did not pause to consider the possible consequences of an irreversible decision did not, as a rule, remain in power for long. Action begat reaction. It was a fundamental law. The stone in the water. The Shogun might be revered as a figurehead by the mass of his lower-ranking subjects but to his fellow domain-lords he was first among equals, not an untouchable god-emperor. Despotic behaviour was no longer tolerated. Nowadays, the art of government consisted in striking the right balance. And despite the stark philosophy of bushido, the choice, more often than not, was no longer simply between right and wrong, but between the lesser of two evils.
As Shogun, Yoritomo’s decisions were influenced by an unceasing flow of information brought to his trusted advisers by a large network of government spies. He knew that the outward calm imposed by the code of bushido, the formal etiquette of court procedures and the restrictive ordinances issued by the governing council of ministers formed a screen that concealed a brooding pit of vipers, restless with dreams of power, their forked tongues charged with venomous rumours, forever hatching murderous conspiracies.
Once, loyalty had been given unstintingly, without question. But those were the lean, hard days, when the survival of Ne-Issan was at stake. The establishment of the first Shogunate by the Da-Tsuni, the leaders of the ‘Seventh Wave’, was a model of purity. Their overthrow had been followed by two centuries of turbulence; periods of uneasy peace interspersed with bloody civil wars. The rise to power of the Toh-Yota had restored the previous authority of the Shogunate, bringing firm government and more than three-quarters of a century of relative peace and prosperity.
But even peace had its dangers. It had enabled the domain-lords to grow richer and ever more powerful. The annual taxes they were required to pay into the coffers of the Shogunate had also increased the already considerable wealth of the Toh-Yota family, but now loyalty, like everything else, had its price. For prosperity brought not only a change in a society’s material wealth, it also changed its values. It awakened the desire for progress, and progress was a two-edged sword that, in the wrong hands, could destroy Ne-Issan just as the world of their ancestors had been destroyed.
Yes, reflected Yoritomo, these were troubled times. Absolute power was a dangerously seductive brew that had to be handled with caution – even more so when it was absolute in name only. There were moments when the task of governing became a crushing burden. On the nights when he lay awake, trying to decide on the correct course of action, Yoritomo often found himself wishing he could exchange his life for the quieter and more rewarding existence of a saddle-maker, an armourer, or a swordsmith. Being Shogun was an awesome responsibility – especially when you were only twenty-eight years old.
*
It was towards the Shogun’s summer palace at Yedo that Toshiro Hase-Gawa now journeyed aboard a ferry-boat from Nyo-poro, a fishing village on the cost of Ro-diren. The boat – a wide-hulled barge with steam-powered paddles – steered a westerly course close to the shore, then headed out across the channel following the line of islands that led to the north-eastern tip of Aron-giren.
Despite the fact that the ferry was flying his two personal banners which identified him as a government official, they were intercepted within sight of land by a watchboat, and boarded by a detachment of sea-soldiers. Once a gangway had been secured between the two vessels, the watch-captain hurried aboard the ferry where, after a deferential exchange of greetings, he courteously asked for further proof of Toshiro’s identity. When Toshiro’s papers bearing the Shogun’s personal seals had been reverentially examined, and the ferry thoroughly searched, the watch-captain withdrew his men and offered his profuse apologies for the inexcusable delay. Toshiro responded in similar vein. Had the watch-captain been less zealous, and the search less thorough, he would have had cause to be angry. The sea-soldiers were only carrying out orders and their exemplary bearing brought honour to their regiment and, above all, to their commander. Et cetera, et cetera.
An hour later, the flat, drawbridge bow of the ferry was lowered on to the slipway at Ori-enita, whose only virtue lay in the fact that it was situated at the point where the northern road met the sea. Alerted by the banners carried above the ferry’s small wheelhouse, the lowly harbour officials and the few fisherfolk who happened to be ashore gathered expectantly on either side of the road leading away from the beach. The atmosphere of expectancy increased as two sailors carefully removed the banners from the roof of the wheelhouse and took them below. Shortly afterwards, the crew of the ferry assembled on the foredeck and sank to their knees as Toshiro Hase-Gawa appeared in full ceremonial armour astride a proud, stout-legged pony.
They were an imposing sight. Toshiro’s body-armour was made up of black lacquered plates edged with gold and fastened together with cords of crimson silk; on his head, a matching helmet with a wide, flaring brim. On the front of the helmet, cut from a circle of polished bronze, was the emblem of the present Shogun – the raised wings, breast and crested head of a long-necked wading bird.
The pony’s trappings were of the same stamp and splendour. Its dappled body was caparisoned in black and gold; its mane and tail braided with crimson cords and tassels. The bamboo poles carrying Toshiro’s personal banners were now mounted in leather sockets attached to the backplate of his body-armour, the tall narrow bands of silk fluttering and snapping in the sea-breeze.
The spectators on shore fell to their knees as Toshiro directed his steed down the ramp, then pressed their foreheads to the ground as he passed by. Their obeisance was a sign of the reverence accorded to the Shogun and the government officials who, under his guidance, ordered the affairs of their nation. A reverence accorded but also demanded. Had Toshiro been ill received, he could have called for the immediate execution of anyone deemed guilty of insolent behaviour and indeed, as he had demonstrated in the past, was quite capable of carrying out the sentence himself.
Toshiro let the pony take him slowly through the village at a pace known among samurai horsemen as the ‘parade trot’ – a jaunty, high-stepping walk. The laws that obliged the lower ranks to push their noses into the dirt also obliged their superiors to conduct themselves with a certain style. When he had passed the last prostrate inhabitant, he spurred the pony into a canter along the winding road that led to Yedo.
The road swung from side to side of a narrow, ragged peninsula which, in the mind of the Shogun, formed the upper half of his fish-island’s forked tail. To Toshiro’s right, waves from the Eastern Sea broke gently on the smoothly curving shore. To his left, the land was eaten away by backwaters and bays, some of which had joined to form islands linked at low tide by threads of rock and sand. Ahead lay a forty-mile stretch of open road. The pony, responding to his urging, lengthened its stride. Behind him, the tall slender poles arched gracefully, their narrow banners with their word-signs and emblems ironed flat by the wind.
*
Toshiro Hase-Gawa was a Herald of the Inner Court, one of a small, select band of samurai who received their instructions from and reported directly to the Shogun. Although such messengers were not of exalted rank, this privileged access to the summit of power meant that Toshiro and his colleagues enjoyed the favour of senior – and sometimes envious – court officials. It also meant they were accorded similar treatment in the houses of the powerful domain-lords, whose hospitality was often designed to loosen tongues.
Heralds of the Inner Court were the Shogun’s eyes and ears and spoke with his voice, carrying his innermost thoughts to the furthest corners of his realm. Because of their highly public role they were not officially viewed as being part of the Shogun’s network of spies and informers but, amongst the schemers and the power-hungry, they were known to act as a conduit for sensitive information gleaned by important government agents; men (and women) who played many roles and assumed many guises.
*
If an imaginary line were to be drawn through the Shogun’s fish-island from tip to tail and the island then divided into three equal parts along the line, Yedo would be found close to the line dividing the second section of the body from the tail. Situated on high ground, almost equidistant from both shores, the multistoreyed summer palace stood aloof from the neat clusters of low-lying dwellings that had been built near by. Under an edict issued by the bakufu, no dwelling place could be erected within a league of its walls, and no home within ten leagues could be inhabited by any family unless one or more member of the household was in the direct employ of the Shogun or his court officials.
Built from mortared blocks of stone from the quarries of Baru-karina, the sloping walls of the Yedo palace rose from a huge square moat. Perched atop the walls, fifty feet above the surface of the water, was the first layer of its wood, stone and tile-roofed superstructure. The towers at each corner rose another sixty feet into the air and these were joined together by an intricate maze of screened galleries, with ornate cross-beams and curving rooflines. The feeling it conveyed to an approaching visitor was one of wealth, solidity and power; the precise qualities that its first owner – Yoritomo’s grandfather – had demanded of his architects.
The entrance, with its wide, gently arched bridge, was guarded by two keeps; one at the end of the approach road, the other set on a stone island halfway across the moat. This palace, with its pleasure gardens and artfully sculptured rock pools and waterfalls, was also a fortress with secret stairways, exits and entrances.
*
Toshiro had no need to show his papers at the outer keep. The guard-captain, alerted by a keen-eyed sentinel, recognised him with the aid of a spyglass and rode out with two other samurai to meet him. Captain Kamakura and Toshiro exchanged the usual salutations, but their voices lent a warmth to the formal exchanges. They were old friends despite the difference in their ages. Kamakura, the senior by some fifteen years, had helped Toshiro to perfect his swordmanship and would practise with him, or counsel him, whenever asked.
Over the last two years, Toshiro had been constantly on the move, arriving with eagerly awaited information only to find himself dispatched on some new errand with barely time to catch his breath. As a consequence, the two men had seen less of each other than they would have liked but their friendship remained undimmed.
Kamakura, a samurai cursed with five daughters, treated him like a surrogate son. Whenever Toshiro came to Aron-giren, the captain and his wife Yukio received him into their household with the utmost warmth and generosity. Although Toshiro had never doubted his mentor’s sincerity, it was only natural to assume that at the back of this charming couple’s mind was the hope that one of their daughters might find favour in his eyes. It was evidently a hope shared by their offspring because, over the years, all but the youngest, who was not yet thirteen, had taken it in turns to favour him with a more intimate form of hospitality.
Their nocturnal visits which, by custom, one was not expected to refuse, had been executed with an admirable discretion equal to that practised by the ladies of the court. And their subsequent behaviour gave not the slightest hint of what had occurred. Each one had remained as courteous and respectful as before. Toshiro had said nothing to their father. He preferred to think that the good captain had no idea what was going on. However, the expertise his daughters had displayed could not have been achieved without some degree of parental guidance. Although it was something that he and Kamakura had never discussed, Toshiro knew that their mother had once been a courtesan. It was a well-known fact that the warmth of their embrace was often fuelled by a burning ambition.
