Shōgun

by James Clavell

  “Certainly.”

  “And please fetch that stinking priest as well so I can talk directly with the Anjin-san.”

  “Good. What arrangements do you want made?”

  “Just some paper and ink and a brush for my will and death poem, and two tatamis—there’s no reason to hurt my knees or to kneel in the dirt like a stinking peasant. Neh?” Yabu added with bravado.

  Buntaro walked over to the other samurai, who were shifting from one foot to the other with suppressed excitement. Carelessly Yabu sat cross-legged and picked his teeth with a grass stalk. Omi squatted nearby, warily out of sword range.

  “Eeeeee,” Yabu said. “I was so near success!” Then he stretched out his legs and hammered them against the earth in a sudden flurry of rage. “Eeeeee, so near! Eh, karma, neh? Karma!” Then he laughed uproariously and hawked and spat, proud that he still had saliva in his mouth. “That on all gods living or dead or yet to be born! But, Omi-san, I die happy. Jikkyu’s dead and when I cross the Last River and see him waiting there, gnashing his teeth, I’ll be able to spit in his eye forever.”

  Omi said meaning it, though watching him like a hawk, “You have done Lord Toranaga a great service, Sire. The coastal route’s open now. You’re right, Sire, and Iron Fist’s wrong and Sudara’s wrong. We should attack at once—the guns will get us through.”

  “That old manure heap! Fool!” Yabu laughed again. “Did you see him go purple when I mentioned his piles? Ha! I thought they were going to burst on him then and there. Samurai? I’m more samurai than he is! I’ll show him! You will not strike until I give the order.”

  “May I thank you humbly for giving me that honor, and also for making me your heir? I formally swear the Kasigi honor is safe in my hands.”

  “If I didn’t think so I wouldn’t have suggested it.” Yabu lowered his voice. “You were right to betray me to Toranaga. I’d have done the same if I’d been you, though it’s all lies. It’s Toranaga’s excuse. He’s always been jealous of my battle prowess, and my understanding the guns and the value of the ship. It’s all my idea.”

  “Yes, Sire, I remember.”

  “You’ll save the family. You’re as cunning as a scabby old rat. You’ll get back Izu and more—that’s all that’s important now and you’ll hold it for your sons. You understand the guns. And Toranaga. Neh?”

  “I swear I will try, Sire.”

  Yabu’s eyes dropped to Omi’s sword hand, noting his alertly defensive kneeling posture. “You think I’ll attack you?”

  “So sorry, of course not, Sire.”

  “I’m glad you’re on guard. My father was like you. Yes, you’re a lot like him.” Without making a sudden movement he put both of his swords on the ground, just out of reach. “There! Now I’m defenseless. A few moments ago I wanted your head—but not now. Now you’ve no need to fear me.”

  “There’s always a need to fear you. Sire.”

  Yabu chortled softly and sucked another grass stalk. Then he threw it away. “Listen, Omi-san, these are my last orders as Lord of the Kasigis. You will take my son into your household and use him if he’s worth using. Next: Find good husbands for my wife and consort, and thank them deeply for serving me so well. About your father, Mizuno: He’s ordered to commit seppuku at once.”

  “May I request that he be given the alternative of shaving his head and becoming a priest?”

  “No. He’s too much of a fool, you’ll never be able to trust him—how dare he pass on my secrets to Toranaga!—and he’ll always be in your way. As to your mother …” He bared his teeth. “She’s ordered to shave her head and become a nun and join a monastery outside Izu and spend the rest of her life saying prayers for the future of the Kasigis. Buddhist or Shinto—I prefer Shinto. You agree, Shinto?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “Good. That way,” Yabu added with malicious delight, “she’ll stop distracting you from Kasigi matters with her constant whining.”

  “It will be done.”

  “Good. You are ordered to avenge the lies against me by Kosami and those treacherous servants. Soon or later, I don’t care, so long as you do it before you die.”

  “I will obey.”

  “Is there anything I’ve forgotten?”

  Carefully Omi made sure they were not overheard. “What about the Heir?” he asked cautiously. “When the Heir’s in the field against us, we lose, neh?”

  “Take the Musket Regiment and blast a way through and kill him, whatever Toranaga says. Yaemon’s your prime target.”

  “That was my conclusion too. Thank you.”

  “Good. But better than waiting all that time, put a secret price on his head now, with ninja … or the Amida Tong.”

  “How do I find them?” Omi asked, a tremor in his voice.

  “The old hag Gyoko, the Mama-san, she’s one of those who knows how.”

  “Her?”

  “Yes. But beware of her, and Amidas. Don’t use them lightly, Omi-san. Never touch her, always protect her. She knows too many secrets and the pen’s a long arm from the other side of death. She was my father’s unofficial consort for a year … it may even be that her son is my half brother. Eh, beware of her, she knows too many secrets.”

  “But where do I get the money?”

  “That’s your problem. But get it. Anywhere, anyhow.”

  “Yes. Thank you. I will obey.”

  Yabu leaned closer. At once Omi readied suspiciously, his sword almost out of the scabbard. Yabu was gratified that even defenseless he was still a man to beware of. “Bury that secret very deep. And listen, nephew, remain very good friends with the Anjin-san. Try to get control of the navy he will bring back one day. Toranaga doesn’t understand the Anjin-san’s real value, but he’s right to stay behind the mountains. That gives him time and you time. We’ve got to get off the land and out to sea—our crews in their ships—with Kasigis in overall command. The Kasigis must go to sea, to command the sea. I order it.”

  “Yes—oh, yes,” Omi said. “Trust me. That will happen.”

  “Good. Lastly, never trust Toranaga.”

  Omi said with his complete being, “I don’t, Sire. I never have. And never will.”

  “Good. And those filthy liars, don’t forget, deal with them. And Kosami.” Yabu exhaled, at peace with himself. “Now please excuse me, I must consider my death poem.”

  Omi got to his feet and backed off and when he was well away he bowed and went another twenty paces. Within the safety of his own guards he sat down once more and began to wait.

  Toranaga and his party were trotting along the coast road that circled the vast bay, the sea coming almost up to the road and on his right. Here the land was low-lying and marshy with many mud flats. A few ri north this road joined with the main artery of the Tokaidō Road. Northward twenty ri more was Yedo.

  He had a hundred samurai with him, ten falconers and ten birds on their gloved fists. Sudara had twenty guards and three birds, and rode as advance guard.

  “Sudara!” Toranaga called out as though it was a sudden idea. “Stop at the next inn. I want some breakfast!”

  Sudara waved acknowledgment and galloped ahead. By the time Toranaga rode up, maids were bowing and smiling, the innkeeper bobbing with all his people. Guards covered north and south, and his banners were planted proudly.

  “Good morning, Sire, please what can I get for you to eat?” the innkeeper asked. “Thank you for honoring my poor inn.”

  “Cha—and some noodles with a little soya, please.”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  The food was produced in a fine bowl almost instantly, cooked just the way he liked it, the innkeeper having been forewarned by Sudara. Without ceremony, Toranaga squatted on a veranda and consumed the simple peasant dish with gusto and watched the road ahead. Other guests bowed and went about their own business contentedly, proud that they were staying in the same inn as the great daimyo. Sudara toured the outposts, making sure everything was perfect. “Where’re the beaters now?” he ask
ed the Master of the Hunt.

  “Some are north, some south, and I’ve got extra men in the hills there.” The old samurai pointed back inland toward Yokohama, miserable and sweating. “Please excuse me but have you any idea where our Master’ll wish to go?”

  “None at all. But don’t make any more mistakes today.”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  Sudara finished his rounds then reported to Toranaga. “Is everything satisfactory, Sire? Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “No, thank you.” Toranaga finished the bowl and drank the last of the soup. Then he said in a flat voice, “You were correct to say that about the Heir.”

  “Please excuse me, I was afraid I might have offended you, without meaning to.”

  “You were right—so why should I be offended? When the Heir stands against me—what will you do then?”

  “I will obey your orders.”

  “Please send my secretary here and come back with him.”

  Sudara obeyed. Kawanabi, the secretary—once a samurai and priest—who always traveled with Toranaga, was quickly there with his neat traveling box of papers, inks, seal chops, and brush pens that fitted into his saddled pannier.

  “Sire?”

  “Write this: ‘I, Yoshi Toranaga-noh-Minowara, reinstate my son Yoshi Sudara-noh-Minowara as my heir with all his revenues and titles restored.’”

  Sudara bowed. “Thank you, Father,” he said, his voice firm, but asking himself, why?

  “Swear formally to abide by all my dictates, testaments—and the Legacy.”

  Sudara obeyed. Toranaga waited silently until Kawanabi had written the order, then he signed it and made it legal with his chop. This was a small square piece of ivory with his name carved in one end. He pressed the chop against the almost solid scarlet ink, then onto the bottom of the rice paper. The imprint was perfect. “Thank you, Kawanabi-san, date it yesterday. That’s all for the moment.”

  “Please excuse me but you’ll need five more copies, Sire, to make your succession inviolate: one for Lord Sudara, one for the Council of Regents, one for the House of Records, one for your personal files, and one for the archives.”

  “Do them at once. And give me an extra copy.”

  “Yes, Sire.” The secretary left them. Now Toranaga glanced at Sudara and studied the narrow expressionless face. When he had made the deliberately sudden announcement nothing had shown on Sudara, neither on his face nor in his hands. No gladness, thankfulness, pride—not even surprise, and this saddened him. But then, Toranaga thought, why be sad, you have other sons who smile and laugh and make mistakes and shout and rave and pillow and have many women. Normal sons. This son is to follow after you, to lead after you’re dead, to hold the Minowaras tight and to pass on the Kwanto and power to other Minowaras. To be ice and calculating, like you. No, not like me, he told himself truthfully. I can laugh sometimes and be compassionate sometimes, and I like to fart and pillow and storm and dance and play chess and Nōh, and some people gladden me, like Naga and Kiri and Chano and the Anjin-san, and I enjoy hunting and winning, and winning, and winning. Nothing gladdens you, Sudara, so sorry. Nothing. Except your wife, the Lady Genjiko. The Lady Genjiko’s the only weak link in your chain.

  “Sire?” Sudara asked.

  “I was trying to remember when I last saw you laugh.”

  “You wish me to laugh, Sire?”

  Toranaga shook his head, knowing he had trained Sudara to be the perfect son for what had to be done. “How long would it take you to be sure if Jikkyu is really dead?”

  “Before I left camp I sent a top-priority cipher to Mishima in case you didn’t already know if it was true or not, Father. I will have a reply within three days.”

  Toranaga blessed the gods that he had had advance knowledge of the Jikkyu plot from Kasigi Mizuno and a few days’ notice of that enemy’s death. For a moment he reexamined his plan and could find no flaw in it. Then, faintly nauseated, he made the decision. “Order the Eleventh, Sixteenth. Ninety-fourth, and Ninety-fifth Regiments in Mishima on instant alert. In four days fling them down the Tokaidō.”

  “Crimson Sky?” Sudara asked, thrown off balance. “You’re attacking?”

  “Yes. I’m not waiting for them to come against me.”

  “Then Jikkyu’s dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” Sudara said. “May I suggest you add the Twentieth and Twenty-third.”

  “No. Ten thousand men should be enough—with surprise. I’ve still got to hold all my border in case of failure, or a trap. And there’s also Zataki to contain.”

  “Yes,” Sudara said.

  “Who should lead the attack?”

  “Lord Hiro-matsu. It’s a perfect campaign for him.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s direct, simple, old-fashioned, and the orders clear, Father. He will be perfect for this campaign.”

  “But no longer suitable as commander-in-chief?”

  “So sorry, Yabu-san was right—guns have changed the world. Iron Fist is out of date now.”

  “Who then?”

  “Only you, Sire. Until after the battle I counsel you to have no one between you and the battle.”

  “I’ll consider it,” Toranaga said. “Now, go to Mishima. You’ll prepare everything. Hiro-matsu’s assault force will have twenty days to get across the Tenryu River and secure the Tokaidō Road.”

  “Please excuse me, may I suggest their final objective be a little farther, the crest of the Shiomi Slope. Allow them in all thirty days.”

  “No. If I make that an order, some men will reach the crest. But the majority will be dead and won’t be able to throw back the counterattack, or harass the enemy as our force retreats.”

  “But surely you’ll send reinforcements at once hard on their heels?”

  “Our main attack goes through Zataki’s mountains. This is a feint.” Toranaga was appraising his son very carefully. But Sudara revealed nothing, neither surprise nor approval nor disapproval.

  “Ah. So sorry. Please excuse me, Sire.”

  “With Yabu gone, who’s to command the guns?”

  “Kasigi Omi.”

  “Why?”

  “He understands them. More than that, he’s modern, very brave, very intelligent, very patient—also very dangerous, more dangerous than his uncle. I counsel that if you win, and if he survives, then find some excuse to invite him Onward.”

  “If I win?”

  “Crimson Sky has always been a last plan. You’ve said it a hundred times. If we get mauled on the Tokaidō, Zataki will sweep down into the plains. The guns won’t help us then. It’s a last plan. You’ve never liked last plans.”

  “And the Anjin-san? What do you advise about him?”

  “I agree with Omi-san and Naga-san. He should be bottled up. The rest of his men are nothing—they’re eta and they’ll cannibalize themselves soon, so they’re nothing. I advise that all foreigners should be bottled up or thrown out. They’re a plague—to be treated as such.”

  “Then there’s no silk trade. Neh?”

  “If that was the price then I’d pay it. They’re a plague.”

  “But we must have silk and, to protect ourselves, we must learn about them, learn what they know, neh?”

  “They should be confined to Nagasaki, under very close guard, and their numbers strictly limited. They could still trade once a year. Isn’t money their essential motive? Isn’t that what the Anjin-san says?”

  “Ah, then he is useful?”

  “Yes. Very. He’s taught us the wisdom of the Expulsion Edicts. The Anjin-san is very wise, very brave. But he’s a toy. He amuses you, Sire, like Tetsu-ko, so he’s valuable, though still a toy.”

  Toranaga said, “Thank you for your opinions. Once the attack is launched you will return to Yedo and wait for further orders.” He said it hard and deliberately. Zataki still held the Lady Genjiko, and their son and three daughters hostage at his capital of Takato. At Toranaga’s request Zataki had granted Sudara a leave
of absence, but only for ten days, and Sudara had solemnly agreed to the bargain and to return within that time. Zataki was famous for his narrow-mindedness about honor. Zataki would and could legally obliterate all the hostages on this point of honor, irrespective of any overt or covert treaty or agreement. Both Toranaga and Sudara knew without any doubt Zataki would do that if Sudara did not return as promised. “You will wait at Yedo for further orders.”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “You will leave for Mishima at once.”

  “Then it will save time if I go that way.” Sudara pointed at the junction ahead.

  “Yes. I’ll send you a dispatch tomorrow.”

  Sudara bowed and went to his horse and, with his twenty guards, rode off.

  Toranaga picked up the bowl and took a remaining morsel of the now cold noodles. “Oh, Sire, so sorry, do you want some more?” the young maid said breathlessly, running up. She was round-faced and not pretty, but sharp and observant—just as he liked his serving maids, and his women. “No, thank you. What’s your name?”

  “Yuki, Sire.”

  “Tell your master he makes good noodles, Yuki.”

  “Yes, Sire, thank you. Thank you, Sire, for honoring our house. Just raise a knuckle joint for whatever you require and you’ll have it instantly.”

  He winked at her and she laughed, collected his tray, and hurried off. Containing his impatience, he checked the far bend in the road, then examined his surroundings. The inn was in good repair, the tiled surrounds to the well clean and the earth broomed. Out in the courtyard and all around, his men waited patiently but he could detect nervousness in the Hunt Master and decided that today was the man’s last day of active duty. If Toranaga had been seriously concerned with the hunt for itself alone, he would have told him to go back to Yedo now, giving him a generous pension, and appointed another in his place.

  That’s the difference between me and Sudara, he thought without malice. Sudara wouldn’t hesitate. Sudara would order the man to commit seppuku now, which would save the pension and all further bother and increase the expertise of the replacement. Yes, my son, I know you very well. You’re most important to me.