The Diamond Chariot

SPARKS OF LIGHT ON A KATANA BLADE




‘Three samurai? Swords wrapped in rags. They called Okubo “a dog”? This could be very, very serious!’ Doronin said anxiously. ‘Everything about it is suspicious, and especially the fact that they used the launch. It’s the best way of getting right into the heart of the city, bypassing the road posts and the toll gates.’

Erast Petrovich had caught Vsevolod Vitalievich at home, in the left wing of the consulate. Doronin had already returned from the opening of the charitable establishment and the supper that had followed it, and he was getting changed for the Bachelors’ Ball. The consul’s gold-embroidered uniform was hanging over a chair and a plump Japanese maid was helping him into his dinner jacket.

Fandorin was very much taken by his superior’s apartment: with its furnishings of light rattan, it was very successful in combining Russianness with Japanese exoticism. For instance, on a small table in the corner there was a gleaming, fat-sided samovar, and through the glass doors of a cupboard, carafes of various colours could be seen, containing liqueurs and flavoured vodkas, but the pictures and scrolls on the walls were exclusively local in origin, and the place of honour was occupied by a stand with two samurai swords, while through an open door there was a view of an entirely Japanese room – that is, with no furniture at all and straw flooring.

The hazy circumstances of Blagolepov’s death interested Vsevolod Vitalievich far less than his three nocturnal passengers. This reaction actually seemed rather extreme to Fandorin at first, but Doronin explained the reason for his alarm.

‘It is no secret that the minister has many enemies, especially among the southern samurai. In Japan attempts at political assassinations are almost as frequent as in Russia. At home, of course, the dignitaries are killed by revolutionaries, and here by reactionaries, but that makes little difference to the case – society and the state suffer equally serious damage from leftist zealots as from rightist ones. Okubo is a key figure in Japanese politics. If the fanatics can get to him, the entire direction, the entire orientation, of the empire will change, in a way that is highly dangerous for Russia. You see, Fandorin, Minister Okubo is a protagonist of evolution, the gradual development of the internal forces of the country under strict governmental control. He is an animal trainer who cracks his whip and does not allow the tiger to break out of its cage. The tiger is the ancestral, deep-rooted militancy of the aristocracy here, and the cage is the Japanese archipelago. What was it that tore the notorious triumvirate of the three Japanese Corsicans apart? The question of war. The mighty party that was led by our Shirota’s favourite hero, Marshal Saigo, wanted to conquer Korea immediately. The reason why Okubo gained the upper hand over all his opponents at that time was that he is cleverer and more cunning. But if he is killed, power will inevitably go to those who support rapid development based on expansion, the poets of the great Japanese Empire of Yamato. Although, God knows, there are already too many empires in the world – any minute now they will all start wrangling with each other and sinking their steel talons into each other’s fur …’

‘Wait,’ Fandorin said with a frown, holding open the leather-bound notebook intended for collecting information about Japan, but not yet writing anything in it. ‘What does that matter to Russia? If Japan does attack Korea, then what do we care?’

‘Tut-tut-tut, such puerile talk, and from a diplomat,’ the consul said reproachfully, and clicked his tongue. ‘Learn to think in terms of state policy, strategically. You and I have been an empire for a long time now, and everything that happens on the globe matters to empires, my dear. Especially in Korea. For the Japanese, the Korean Peninsula will be no more than a bridge to China and Manchuria, and we have had our own sights on those for a very long time. Have you never heard of the project to create Yellow Russia?’

‘I have, but I don’t like the idea. For goodness’ sake, Vsevolod Vitalievich, God grant us the grace to solve our own internal problems.’

‘He doesn’t like it!’ the consul chuckled. ‘Are you in the tsar’s service? Are you paid a salary? Then be so good as to do your job, and let those who have been entrusted with responsibility do the thinking and give the orders.’

‘But how is it possible not t-to think? You yourself do not greatly resemble a person who follows orders without thinking!’

Doronin’s face hardened.

‘You are right about that. Naturally, I think, I have my own judgement, and as far as I can I try to bring it to the attention my superiors. Although, of course, sometimes, I’d like … But then, that does not concern you,’ said the consul, suddenly growing angry and jerking his hand so that his cufflink fell to the floor.

The servant girl kneeled down, picked up the little circle of gold, took the consul’s arm and set his cuff to rights.

‘Domo, domo,’ Vsevolod Vitalievich thanked her, and the girl smiled, revealing crooked teeth that spoiled her pretty little face rather badly.

‘You should have a word with her, to get her to smile without parting her lips,’ Fandorin remarked in a low voice, unable to restrain his response.

‘The Japanese have different ideas about female beauty. We value large eyes, they value small ones. We value the shape of the teeth, they value only the colour. Irregularity of the teeth is a sign of sensuality, regarded as highly erotic. Like protruding ears. And the legs of Japanese beauties are best not mentioned at all. The habit of squatting on their haunches has made most women here bandy-legged and pigeon-toed. But there are gratifying exceptions,’ Doronin suddenly added in a completely different, affectionate tone of voice, looking over Erast Petrovich’s shoulder.

Fandorin glanced round.

A woman in an elegant white-and-grey kimono was standing in the doorway of the Japanese room. She was holding a tray with two cups on it. Fandorin thought her white-skinned, smiling face seemed exceptionally lovely.

The woman walked into the drawing room, stepping soundlessly on small feet in white socks, and offered the guest tea.

‘And this is my Obayasi, who loves me according to a signed contract.’

Erast Petrovich had the impression that the deliberate crudeness of these words was the result of embarrassment – Vsevolod Vitalievich was gazing at his concubine with an expression that was gentle, even sentimental.

The young man bowed respectfully, even clicking his heels, as if in compensation for Doronin’s harshness. The consul spoke several phrases in Japanese and added:

‘Don’t be concerned, she doesn’t know any Russian at all. I don’t teach her.’

‘But why not?’

‘What for?’ Doronin asked with a slight frown. ‘So that after me she can sign a marriage contract with some sailor? Our bold seafarers think very highly of a “little madam” if she can chat even a little in Russian.’

‘Isn’t that all the same to you?’ the titular counsellor remarked rather drily. ‘She will have to live somehow, even after your love by contract expires.’

Vsevolod Vitalievich flared up:

‘I shall make provisions for her. You shouldn’t imagine that I’m some kind of absolute monster! I understand your gibe, I deserved it, I shouldn’t have been so flippant. If you wish to know, I respect and love this lady. And she returns my feelings, independent of any contracts, yes indeed, sir!’

‘Then you should get married properly. What is there to stop you?’

The flames that had blazed up in Doronin’s eyes went out.

‘You are pleased to joke. Conclude a legal marriage with a Japanese concubine? They would throw me out of the service, for damaging the reputation of Russian diplomats. And then what? Would you have me take her to Russia? She would pine away there, with our weather and our customs. People there would stare at her as if she were some kind of monkey. Stay here? I should be expelled from civilised European society. No, the fiery steed and trembling doe cannot be yoked … But everything is excellent as it is. Obayasi does not demand or expect anything more from me.’

Vsevolod Vitalievich turned slightly red, because the conversation was encroaching farther and farther into territory that was strictly private. But in his resentment at the consul’s treatment of Obayasi, Fandorin was not satisfied with that.

‘But what if there’s a child?’ he exclaimed. ‘Will you “make provisions” for him too? In other words, pay them off?’

‘I can’t have a child,’ Doronin said with a grin. ‘I mention it without the slightest embarrassment, because it has nothing to do with sexual impotence. On the contrary.’ His bilious smile widened even further. ‘In my young days, I was very keen on the ladies, and I ended up with a nasty disease. I was pretty much cured, but the likelihood of having any progeny is almost zero – such is the verdict of medicine. That, basically, is why I have never concluded a legal marriage with any modest maiden of the homemade variety. I did not wish to disappoint the maternal instinct.’

Obayasi obviously sensed that the conversation was taking an unpleasant turn. She bowed once again and walked out as soundlessly as she had come in. She left the tray with the tea on the table.

‘Well, enough of that,’ the consul interrupted himself. ‘You and I are behaving far too much like Russians … Intimate talk like that requires either long friendship or a substantial amount of drink, and we are barely acquainted and completely sober. And therefore, we had better get back to business.’

Assuming an emphatically businesslike air, Vsevolod Vitalievich started bending his fingers down one by one.

‘First, we have to tell Lieutenant Captain Bukhartsev about everything – I have already mentioned him to you. Secondly, write a report to His Excellency. Thirdly, if Okubo arrives at the ball, warn him about the danger …’

‘I still d-don’t understand, though … Even if Blagolepov did not imagine the suspicious things that his passengers said in his opium dream, what need is there to get so worked up? They have only cold steel. If they had revolvers or carbines, they would hardly be likely to lug their medieval swords around with them. Can such individuals really represent a danger to the most powerful politician in Japan?’

‘Ah, Erast Petrovich, do you really think the Satsumans are unacquainted with firearms or were unable to obtain the money for a couple of revolvers? Why, one night journey on the launch must cost more than a used Smith and Wesson. This is a different issue. In Japan it is considered unseemly to kill an enemy with a bullet – for them, that is cowardice. A sworn enemy, and especially one as eminent as Okubo, has to be cut down with a sword or, at the very least, stabbed with a dagger. And furthermore, you cannot even imagine how effective the takana, the Japanese sword, is in the hands of a genuine master. Europeans have never even dreamed of the like.’

The consul picked up one of the swords from the stand – the one that was somewhat longer – and flourished it carefully in his left hand, without drawing it from the scabbard.

‘Naturally, I do not know how to fence with a katana – that has to be studied from childhood. And it is preferable to study the Japanese way – that is, to devote your entire life to the subject that you are studying. But I take lessons in battojiutsu from a certain old man.’

‘Lessons in what?’

‘Battojiutsu is the art of drawing the sword from the scabbard.’

Erast Petrovich could not help laughing.

‘Merely drawing it? Is that like the true duellists of Charles the Ninth’s time? Shake the sword smartly, so that the scabbard flies off by itself?’

‘It’s not a matter of a smart shake. Do you handle a revolver well?’

‘Not too badly.’

‘And, of course, you are convinced that, with a revolver, you will have no trouble in disposing of an adversary who is armed with nothing but a sword?’

‘Naturally.’

‘Good,’ Vsevolod Vitalievich purred, and took a revolver out of a drawer. ‘Are you familiar with this device? It’s a Colt.’

‘Of course I am. But I have something better.’

Fandorin thrust his hand in under the tail of his frock coat and took a small, flat revolver out of a secret holster. It was hidden so cleverly that the guards at the ‘Rakuen’ had failed to discover it.

‘This is a Herstal Agent, seven chambers. They are p-produced to order.’

‘A lovely trinket. Now put it back. Good. And now can you take it out very, very quickly?’

Erast Petrovich threw out the hand holding the revolver with lightning speed, aiming directly at his superior’s forehead.

‘Superb! I suggest a little game. On the command of “three!” you will take out your Herstal, and I shall take out my katana, and we’ll see who wins.’

The titular counsellor smiled condescendingly, put the revolver back in the holster and folded his arms in order to give his rival a head start, but Doronin out-swanked him by raising his right hand above his head.

He gave the command:

‘One … two … three!’

It was impossible to folow the movement that the consul made. All Erast Petrovich saw was a glittering arc that was transformed into a blade, which froze into immobility before the young man could even raise the hand holding the revolver.

‘Astounding!’ he exclaimed. ‘But it’s not enough just to draw the sword, you have to cover the distance of one and a half sazhens between us. In that time I would have already taken aim and fired.’

‘You’re right. But I did warn you that I have only learned to draw the sword. I assure you that my teacher of swordsmanship would have sliced you in half before you pulled the trigger.’

Erast Petrovich did not try to argue – the trick had impressed him.

‘And have you heard anything about the art of deferred killing?’ he asked cautiously. ‘I think it is called dim-mak.’

He told the consul what he had heard from Dr Twigs.

‘I’ve never heard of anything of the sort,’ Doronin said with a shrug, admiring the flashes of light on the sword blade. ‘I think it’s a tall tale of the same genre as the fantastic stories about the ninja.’

‘About whom?’

‘During the Middle Ages there were clans of spies and hired assassins, they were called ninja. The Japanese simply love blathering all sorts of nonsense with a mystical air to it.’

‘But if we accept that this Chinese dim-mak actually does exist,’ Fandorin continued, pursuing his line of thought, ‘could the Satsuma samurai know the art?’

‘The devil only knows. From a theoretical point of view, it’s possible. Satsuma is a land of seagoers, ships from there go all over South-East Asia. And in addition, it’s a mere stone’s throw away from the Ryukyu islands, where the art of killing with bare hands has flourished since ancient times … All the more important, then, that we take measures. If Blagolepov’s three passengers are not ordinary crazies, but masters of secret skills, the danger is even more serious. Somehow this threesome don’t seem like loony fanatics. They sailed across the bay to Tokyo for some reason, and they took precautions – we must assume that they deliberately hired a foreigner in the belief that he would not understand their dialect and would not be conversant with Japanese affairs. They paid him generously and gave him an advance against the next journey. Serious gentlemen. You believe that they killed Blagolepov because he was talking too much and planned to go to the police?’

‘No. It was some old man who killed him. More likely than not, he has nothing to do with all this. But even so, I can’t get the captain’s strange death out of my mind …’

Vsevolod Vitalievich narrowed his eyes, blew a speck of dust off his sword and said thoughtfully:

‘Strange or not, perhaps the old opium addict simply croaked on his own – but it gives us an excellent pretext to set up our own investigation. Why, of course! A Russian subject has expired in suspicious circumstances. In such cases, under the status of the Settlement, the representative of the injured party – that is, the Consul of the Russian Empire – has the right to conduct an independent investigation. You, Fandorin, have served in the police and had dealings with the Third Section, so you hold all the aces. Try to pick up the trail of the passengers from that night. Not yourself, of course.’ Doronin smiled. ‘Why put your own life in danger? As the vice-consul, you will merely head up the investigation, but the practical work will be carried out by the municipal police – they are not accountable to the Japanese authorities. I’ll send an appropriate letter to Sergeant Lockston. But we’ll warn the minister today. That’s all, Fandorin. It’s after ten, time to go and see Don Tsurumaki. Do you have a dinner jacket?’

The titular counsellor nodded absentmindedly – his thoughts were occupied with the forthcoming investigation.

‘No doubt in mothballs and unironed?’

‘Unironed, but with no m-mothballs – I wore it on the ship.’

‘Excellent, I’ll tell Natsuko to iron it immediately.’

The consul said something to the maid in Japanese, but Fandorin said:

‘Thank you. I already have my own servant.’

‘Good gracious! When did you manage to arrange that?’ Doronin asked, staggered. ‘Shirota wasn’t planning to send you any candidates until tomorrow.’

‘It just happened,’ Erast Petrovich replied evasively.

‘Well, well. Honest and keen, I trust?’

‘Oh yes, very keen,’ the younger man replied with a nod, avoiding the first epithet. ‘And one other thing. I brought some new equipment with me in my luggage – a Remington typewriter with interchangeable Russian and Latin typefaces.’

‘Yes, yes, I saw the advertisement in the Japan Daily Herald. It really is a very fine device. How is it they describe it?’

‘A most convenient item for printing official documents,’ Fandorin replied enthusiastically. ‘It occupies only one corner of a room and weighs a little over four p-poods. I tried it on the ship. The result is magnificent! But …’ He lowered his eyes with a guilty expression. ‘… we need an operator.’

‘Where can we get one? And there is no provision for that position on the consulate staff.’

‘I could teach Miss Blagolepova. And I would pay her salary out of my own pocket. After all, she would make my work considerably easier.’

The consul gave his assistant a searching look and whistled.

‘You are an impetuous man, Fandorin. Barely even ashore yet, and you have already got mixed up in some nasty business, found a servant for yourself and taken care of your comforts of the heart. Apparently you will not be requiring an indigenous concubine.’

‘That’s not it at all!’ the titular counsellor protested indignantly. ‘It is simply that Sophia Diogenovna has nowhere to go. She has been left without any means of subsistence, after all … and an operator really would b-be of use to me.’

‘So much so that you are prepared to support that operator yourself? Are you so very rich, then?’

Erast Petrovich replied with dignity:

‘I won a considerable sum at dice today.’

‘What an interesting colleague I do have,’ the consul murmured, slipping the glittering sword blade back into the scabbard with a rakish whistle.

Like life’s white hoarfrost

on death’s winter windowpane,

the glints on the blade.