Snow had fallen all night in the capital.
Yet across the Blackwater Ocean, on Hirado Island, only hard, biting sleet drifted through the air.
The northwest sea wind came roaring in, whipping up towering waves that smashed viciously against the reefs. White foam, like shattered jade, rose and fell in endless succession.
A dozen or more warships lay moored in the harbor, swaying drunkenly from side to side as their cables strained and creaked.
Most of the lanterns at their prows had already gone out. Only two or three remained, their dim light spinning in the wind, flickering on and off as they illuminated the dark waters below.
Half a li from the wharf stood a newly built mansion with sweeping double-tiered eaves. The scent of fresh cedar and pine resin still lingered in the air.
The eaves hung low. Beneath the glossy black tiles, iron wind chimes clattered wildly.
Inside a long row of paper doors, lamps shone brightly. Shadowy figures moved across the mulberry-paper screens, while the sounds of raised cups, hearty drinking, and approving slaps on thighs rang out without pause.
The shamisen twanged sharply. The shakuhachi wailed. The night wind sighed.
The ashigaru guards at the gate stamped their feet against the cold and hunched their necks as they stole glances inside. Several of them gathered together and whispered:
“The man from Da Qian is making the prince drink again.”
“Let him,” another replied, sniffing back a runny nose. “The single shipload of fine goods he brought over is enough to feed all Hirado for three years.”
…
The main hall was spread with fresh rush mats, though the clean grassy scent had long since been smothered by the smell of alcohol.
Seated at the head was Hirado’s lord, Matsuura Morinobu.
He was nearly forty. His forehead was shaved smooth and gleaming, with only a tuft of hair left at the back of his head and tied into a topknot.
He had a broad face, high cheekbones, and shrewd creases gathered at the corners of his eyes beneath thick brows.
He wore a dark hitatare, but the collar had been deliberately turned outward to reveal a strip of gold-brocaded silk newly woven in Da Qian.
Seated below him behind a low black-lacquered table was Li Sheng, slouching crookedly.
He truly found sitting cross-legged uncomfortable, so he had simply leaned to one side, padding his seat with three cushions.
His robe was made of rich sapphire-blue Suzhou silk, patterned with winding lotus vines. The broad sleeves hung loose, while the belt cinched around his belly and forced a roll of soft flesh to bulge above it.
He chewed on slices of raw fish and held a vermilion lacquer cup in one hand. The rim was already marked with a greasy ring of fingerprints.
“Your Highness!” Li Sheng cried, raising his cup high. His tongue twisted as he forced out two phrases of newly learned Japanese—“Tonosama” and “Sugoi.”
When he forgot the rest, he simply switched back to the Da Qian tongue and shouted, “What bearing you have! I, Li Sheng, have traveled far and wide, touring all thirteen provinces of Da Qian, and I’ve never seen many men who could stand shoulder to shoulder with you!”
The old interpreter hurried forward and translated in a low voice.
Matsuura Morinobu raised an eyebrow and took a sip of sake. He smiled without answering, though the creases at the corners of his eyes deepened.
Seeing this, Li Sheng scooted forward. His movement sent the cushion beneath him sliding half a chi.
“I’ll tell you something from the bottom of my heart.” He pretended to lower his voice, though it still rang throughout the hall. “There are more than a hundred great lords in Japan, and they’ve been fighting one another for decades. Who will be the last one standing? You, of course!”
“Hirado sits at a vital crossroads! To the west, you have Da Qian; to the south, Ryukyu; to the north, Joseon. Japanese ships heading out to sea and Da Qian merchants coming in for goods all have to pass through your treasure of a territory!”
“That means you’re sleeping atop a mountain of gold! Other men wage war by plundering. You wage war by throwing silver at it! Heaven’s mandate is clearly on your side!”
The interpreter was sweating profusely. He thought Li Sheng was making an impossible demand of him, but he could only wave his hands and gesture frantically as he struggled to convey the gist.
After hearing the translation, Matsuura Morinobu slapped his thigh and threw back his head in laughter. The topknot atop his head bobbed wildly.
He clapped his palms together three times, then praised Li Sheng repeatedly.
“Good! Mr. Li, good!”
The shamisen’s tune quickened by two beats.
Along both sides of the hall knelt five or six armed samurai. Their hairstyles varied—some had half their heads shaved, while others wore tightly knotted topknots. At each man’s waist hung two swords, one long and one short, their scabbards all worn pale with age.
None of them had any attention to spare for the drinking and flattery between the two men. Every gaze was fixed on the center of the hall.
There, more than a dozen wooden chests stood in a row with their lids thrown open. The treasures inside glittered dazzlingly in the lamplight.
Blue-and-white porcelain bowls and plates were stacked one atop another, their glazed surfaces reflecting the firelight with a blue sheen.
Rolls of figured silk and kesi brocade were arranged in neat piles. The top bolt was a brilliant red, its phoenix pattern picked out in glimmering gold thread.
A young samurai stared for so long that his throat bobbed as he swallowed. The old samurai beside him gave him a vicious jab in the ribs, and he hurriedly lowered his head.
Li Sheng acted as though he had seen nothing. He simply continued chewing his sea bream, smacking his lips loudly.
…
After three rounds of drinks, Matsuura Morinobu drained the sake in his cup and did not refill it.
He leaned forward, bracing both arms on his knees. His broad face drew close to the candle stand, a smile still at the corners of his mouth—but his mind was perfectly clear.
“Mr. Li,” he said in a low voice.
The interpreter hurriedly translated.
“Silk and porcelain are indeed excellent goods. Temples and the court nobles of Kyoto all crave them.”
He tapped the low table with one bent finger.
“But to the north of Hirado lies the Ryuzoji clan, and to the south, the Arima clan. They have no interest in silk. All they want is the head on my shoulders.”
“Does the Da Qian Maritime Trading Company possess anything else—goods that can make a name for themselves on the battlefield?”
The shamisen stopped dead.
The shakuhachi fell silent.
Li Sheng froze with a piece of fish halfway through his chewing.
He set down his bamboo chopsticks, pulled a square handkerchief from his sleeve, and wiped his mouth. The ingratiating smile vanished from his face without a trace.
“Your Highness’s words,” he said, crumpling the soiled handkerchief and stuffing it back into his sleeve, “are dangerously hot to handle.”
“Under Da Qian law, military weapons brought overseas mean execution! Smuggling gunpowder means execution! Knowing about it and failing to report it means sharing the same fate!”
He spread his thick fingers and gave a few cold laughs.
“These are prohibited military goods. The Ministry of War, the Ministry of Works, the Embroidered Uniform Guard—every layer keeps a death grip on them. To get them across the Blackwater Ocean…”
Li Sheng rubbed his thumb against his forefinger, his expression turning solemn as he lowered his voice.
“You have to feed them silver. At every checkpoint. Only once they’re well fed will they close their eyes. This is the kind of business that takes a sea of hard-earned gold and silver—and risks your life besides.”
Matsuura Morinobu stared fixedly at Li Sheng. On either side of the hall, the samurai’s hands quietly moved to the hilts of their swords.
The atmosphere grew taut.
But after only a few breaths, Matsuura Morinobu suddenly burst into laughter and clapped his hands hard.
With a clatter, the paper doors were pulled open. A blast of icy wind carrying sleet rushed inside, and the candle flames bent low.
Two bare-chested warriors huffed and strained as they carried in a pair of black wooden chests. The carrying pole bowed beneath their weight.
The chests were set down side by side in front of Li Sheng’s knees.
Matsuura Morinobu lifted his chin, his face full of amusement.
Then the lids were thrown open.
Inside were silver ingots as large as children’s heads! They had been stacked together without the slightest gap, and the rough marks left by their casting gleamed harshly white in the candlelight.
The young samurai sucked in another sharp breath and flushed red as he held it.
Li Sheng’s narrow eyes flew wide. The flesh of his face bunched together.
He lunged forward, knocking his cushions askew without a thought, and scooped up the top ingot. He rubbed it hard against his Suzhou silk robe twice, examined it in the candlelight, then sank his back teeth into it with a heavy bite.
A shallow tooth mark appeared.
“Full purity!” Li Sheng smacked his thigh and turned back, howling, “Your Highness, you’re a man of action! What generosity!”
“Wang Laoliu! Where the hell have you gone? Bring out the treasure we’ve been saving for last!”
A commotion broke out beyond the door. Two trading-company porters, their shoulders dusted with frost and snow, hurried inside carrying a black-lacquered wooden case bound in copper. The words “Da Qian Maritime Trading” had been engraved into the copper in four characters.
The case was set down. Its latches sprang open.
On a bed of coarse hemp cloth lay three matchlock guns, arranged in perfect order.
Their black barrels were a little over a chi long. Their jujube-wood stocks had been soaked in black oil, and the grips were dark and glossy with age. On one of the guns, even the old weld marks had not been polished smooth.
These were obsolete weapons that had spent seven years gathering dust in the Northern Garrison’s armory of Da Qian. Yet at this moment, they held every Japanese eye in the room captive.
Li Sheng lifted the middle gun as reverently as though he were presenting a sacred tablet, letting the candlelight illuminate its body.
“Your Highness, examine this.”
“This is the Divine Thunder Fire Lance!”
He scrubbed the barrel vigorously with his broad sleeve.
“An exclusive weapon of the elite Divine Engine Battalion in the capital garrison of Da Qian! At three hundred paces, it can punch straight through iron armor!”
“Just a while back, we drove off the barbarian horsemen from the northern steppes. With these ancestors right here, one volley from the firing line left corpses piled as high as mountains!”
The interpreter trembled as he translated, even rendering “three hundred paces” as “three hundred rooms,” yet no one noticed.
“I risked my neck to smuggle these three out.” Li Sheng held up three fingers. “Across the whole of Dongying, yours are the first!”
The broad-shouldered samurai in the third seat on the left, his head half-shaved and his scalp gleaming blue, began breathing heavily. His knees shifted restlessly. Then he abruptly rose and strode forward, his fan-sized hand reaching straight for the firearm in Li Sheng’s arms.
His hand had not yet touched it.
Smack!
Li Sheng’s thick palm swung around and landed squarely across the samurai’s face.
The man’s head snapped to the side. Five bloody marks sprang up on his cheek, and blood seeped from the corner of his mouth.
Everyone froze!
“What stray dog are you?” Li Sheng barked, shielding the firearm as flecks of spittle flew into the samurai’s face. “Your lord hasn’t even spoken. Who said you could stick out your claws?”
“The rules of the Tonghai Trading Company are simple: until the silver and goods have changed hands, anyone who touches the merchandise loses the hand they touched it with!”
The samurai could not understand the insult, but he understood the contempt. He wiped away the blood with the back of his hand, his eyes turning crimson.
Shing!
Half a long sword slid from its scabbard, its gleaming edge pointed straight at Li Sheng’s face, less than three inches from his nose.
The samurai on both sides rose in unison, hands on their swords, filling the room with an icy menace. Two of the trading company’s assistants nearly collapsed where they stood.
Li Sheng, however, did not so much as flinch. Instead, he thrust out his thick neck and deliberately moved his head closer to the blade.
“Draw it! Cut me!” he roared, his voice making the paper screens buzz.
“If I lose even a single hair tonight, those three treasure ships outside the harbor will turn around at dawn! From this day forward, Hirado can forget about getting so much as a grain of rice or a pinch of gunpowder from Great Qian!”
“Isn’t the Ryūzōji and Arima clan drooling over this territory? Fine! I’ll turn around and sell everything to them. Let’s see how Hirado plans to stop firearms with those few scraps of iron!”
He spat viciously at the blade.
The interpreter translated in a trembling voice. The moment Matsuura Morie heard the words “Ryūzōji,” his expression darkened.
“Stand down!”
At his lord’s thunderous command, the broad-shouldered samurai shuddered. In the end, he sheathed his sword unwillingly, bowed his head, and returned to his place. The other samurai likewise stood down.
Matsuura Morie personally picked up the wine pot and filled a cup. He rose from his seat and slowly walked over to Li Sheng. Then he knelt formally, holding the cup level with his brows.
“Mr. Li. My retainer has behaved disgracefully. I have failed to keep him in check. Please accept this cup as an apology.”
He drained the cup in one gulp, then smiled and displayed the empty bottom to Li Sheng, making a show of his sincerity.
Li Sheng stared at him for a moment, pretending to hesitate. Then he turned around and instantly put on the obsequious grin of a petty merchant.
“Oh, my lord, you mustn’t!”
He hurriedly helped Matsuura Morie up, dropping to both knees in the process. “Harmony makes wealth, after all! Old Li was the one who lost his temper just now. I hope you’ll forgive me!”
He turned toward the broad-shouldered samurai and clasped his hands with a sheepish grin. “Sorry about that, brother. I’ll send you a couple of bolts of fine silk later as an apology.”
With that, he held the firearm out in both hands and presented it to Matsuura Morie.
“Take good care of it, my lord. From now on, the trading company can supply you with as many of these divine toys as you want.” He jerked his chin toward the silver chests. “So long as the payment is there.”
Matsuura Morie accepted it reverently. He ran a fingertip over the conspicuous weld along its body, then threw back his head and laughed.
“Excellent!”
…
“To the courtyard!”
Matsuura Morie waved his arm, and everyone surged toward the courtyard. The paper screens were thrown open, and the icy wind swept away the smell of wine.
A thin layer of snow covered the ground. Two ashigaru propped up wooden boards beneath an old pine tree. The boards bore painted figures and the words “Ryūzōji.” The assembled samurai craned their necks in anticipation.
Li Sheng stood beneath the veranda, warming his hands around a brazier. He gave Wang Laoliu a meaningful glance.
Wang Laoliu immediately plastered on an ingratiating smile and hurried forward, reaching for the powder flask. He wanted to load the firearm for Matsuura Morie.
But Matsuura Morie raised a hand and pushed him aside. He rolled up both sleeves, insisting on doing it himself.
Following Wang Laoliu’s instructions, he poured in the powder, packed in the lead ball, and rammed it down with the ramrod. Finally, he lit the match cord.
He braced the stock against his shoulder and took aim. A deathly silence fell over the courtyard, as though even the wind had stopped.
Boom!
The deafening blast tore through the freezing night. Thick white smoke burst from the muzzle, shaking the snow from the pine needles in a soft, rattling cascade.
Before the smoke had even cleared, the three characters “Ryūzōji” on the wooden board thirty paces away had been struck dead center. A fist-sized hole had been blasted clean through it, light shining through from the other side.
Amid a shower of splinters, the board crashed to the ground.
After a brief silence, the entire courtyard erupted!
The samurai went mad, howling and waving their swords wildly.
The broad-shouldered man who had been slapped shoved his way to the front. His eyes were bloodshot, and his roar drowned out everyone else’s.
Matsuura Morie stood amid the gun smoke, firearm in hand, and threw back his head in wild laughter.
“Hahahaha!”
Under the veranda, Li Sheng warmed his hands around the brazier and curled his lip in disdain.
What a bunch of country bumpkins.
