James Clavell

by Asian Saga 03 - Shogun (v5)

  Toranaga rubbed his hands with glee at all the wonderful new possible ploys this newfound knowledge gave him against his brother.

  And Onoshi the leper! A drop of honey in Kiyama’s ear at the right time, he thought, and the guts of the renegade’s treason twisted a little, improved modestly, and Kiyama might gather his legions and go after Onoshi with fire and sword at once. ‘Gyoko’s quite sure, Sire. The acolyte Brother Joseph said Lord Onoshi had whispered in the confessional that he had made a secret treaty with Ishido against a fellow Christian daimyo and wanted absolution. The treaty solemnly agreed that in return for support now, Ishido promised the day you are dead that this fellow Christian would be impeached for treason and invited into the Void, the same day, forcibly if necessary, and Onoshi’s son and heir would inherit all lands. The Christian was not named, Sire.’

  Kiyama or Harima of Nagasaki? Toranaga asked himself. It doesn’t matter. For me it must be Kiyama.

  He got up shakily, in spite of his jubilation, and groped to one of the windows, leaned heavily on the wooden sill. He peered at the moon, and the sky beyond. The stars were dull. Rain clouds were building.

  “Buddha, all gods, any gods, let my brother take the bait—and let that woman’s whisperings be true!”

  No shooting star appeared to show the message was acknowledged by the gods. No wind sprang up, no sudden cloud blanketed the crescent moon. Even if there had been a heavenly sign he would have dismissed it as a coincidence.

  Be patient. Consider facts only. Sit down and think, he told himself.

  He knew the strain was beginning to tell on him but it was vital that none of his intimates or vassals—thus none of the legion of loose-mouthed fools or spies of Yedo—suspect for an instant that he was only feigning capitulation and play-acting the role of a beaten man. At Yokosé he had realized at once that to accept the second scroll from his brother was his death knell. He had decided his only tiny chance of survival was to convince everyone, even himself, that he had absolutely accepted defeat, though in reality it was only a cover to gain time, continuing his lifelong pattern of negotiation, delay, and seeming retreat, always waiting patiently until a chink in the armor appeared over a jugular, then stabbing home viciously, without hesitation.

  Since Yokosé he had waited out the lonely watches of the nights and the days, each one harder to bear. No hunting or laughing, no plotting or planning or swimming or banter or dancing and singing in Nōh plays that had delighted him all his life. Only the same lonely role, the most difficult in his life: gloom, surrender, indecision, apparent helplessness, with self-imposed semistarvation.

  To help pass the time he had continued to refine the Legacy. This was a series of private secret instructions to his successors that he had formulated over the years on how best to rule after him. Sudara had already sworn to abide by the Legacy, as every heir to the mantle would be required to do. In this way the future of the clan would be assured—may be assured, Toranaga reminded himself as he changed a word or added a sentence or eliminated a paragraph, providing I escape this present trap.

  The Legacy began: “The duty of a lord of a province is to give peace and security to the people and does not consist of shedding luster on his ancestors or working for the prosperity of his descendants….”

  One of the maxims was: “Remember that fortune and misfortune should be left to heaven and natural law. They are not to be bought by prayer or any cunning device to be thought of by any man or self-styled saint.”

  Toranaga eliminated “… or self-styled saint,” and changed the sentence to end “… by any man whatsoever.”

  Normally he would enjoy stretching his mind to write clearly and succinctly, but during the long days and nights it had taken all of his self-discipline to continue playing such an alien role.

  That he had succeeded so well pleased him yet dismayed him. How could people be so gullible?

  Thank the gods they are, he answered himself for the millionth time. By accepting “defeat” you have twice avoided war. You’re still trapped, but now, at long last, your patience has brought its reward and you have a new chance.

  Perhaps you’ve got a chance, he corrected himself. Unless the secrets are false and given by an enemy to enmesh you further.

  His chest began to ache, he became weak and dizzy, so he sat down and breathed deeply as the Zen teachers had taught him years ago. ‘Ten deep, ten slow, ten deep, ten slow, send your mind into the Void. There is no past or future, hot or cold, pain or joy—from nothing, into nothing….’

  Soon he started to think clearly again. Then he went to his desk and began to write. He asked his mother to act as intermediary between himself and his half-brother and to present an offer for the future of their clan. First, he petitioned his brother to consider a marriage with the Lady Ochiba: “… of course it would be unthinkable for me to do this, brother. Too many daimyos would be enraged at my ‘vaulting ambition.’ But such a liaison with you would cement the peace of the realm, and confirm the succession of Yaemon—no one doubting your loyalty, though some in error doubt mine. You could certainly get a more eligible wife, but she could hardly get a better husband. Once the traitors to His Imperial Highness are removed, and I resume my rightful place as President of the Council of Regents, I will invite the Son of Heaven to request the marriage if you will agree to take on such a burden. I sincerely feel this sacrifice is the only way we can both secure the succession and do our sworn duty to the Taikō. Second, you’re offered all the domains of the Christian traitors Kiyama and Onoshi, who are presently plotting, with the barbarian priests, a treasonous war against all non-Christian daimyos, supported by a musket-armed invasion of barbarians as they did before against our liege lord, the Taikō. Further, you’re offered all the lands of any other Kyushu Christians who side with the traitor Ishido against me in the final battle. (Did you know that upstart peasant has had the impertinence to let it be known that once I am dead and he rules the Regents, he plans to dissolve the Council and marry the mother of the Heir himself?)

  “And in return for the above, just this, brother: a secret treaty of alliance now, guaranteed safe passage for my armies through the Shinano mountains, a joint attack under my generalship against Ishido at a time and manner of my choosing. Last, as a measure of my trust I will at once send my son Sudara, his wife the Lady Genjiko, and their children, including my only grandson, to you in Takato….”

  This isn’t the work of a defeated man, Toranaga told himself as he sealed the scroll. Zataki will know that instantly. Yes, but now the trap’s baited. Shinano’s athwart my only road, and Zataki’s the initial key to the Osaka plains.

  Is it true that Zataki wants Ochiba? I risk so much over the supposed whispers of a straddled maid and grunting man. Could Gyoko be lying for her own advantage, that impertinent bloodsucker! Samurai? So that’s the real key to unlock all her secrets.

  She must have proof about Mariko and the Anjin-san. Why else would Mariko put such a request to me? Toda Mariko and the barbarian! The barbarian and Buntaro! Eeeee, life is strange.

  Another twinge over his heart wracked him. After a moment he wrote the message for a carrier pigeon and plodded up the stairs to the loft above. Carefully he selected a Takato pigeon from one of the many panniers and slid the tiny cylinder home. Then he put the pigeon on the perch in the open box that would allow her to fly off at first light.

  The message asked his mother to request safe passage for Buntaro, who had an important dispatch for her and his brother. And he had signed it like the offer, Yoshi Toranaga-noh-Minowara, claiming that mantle for the first time in his life.

  “Fly safe and true, little bird,” he said, caressing her with a fallen feather. “You carry a heritage of ten thousand years.”

  Once more his eyes went to the city below. The smallest bar of light appeared on the west horizon. Down by the docks he could see the pinpricks of flares that surrounded the barbarian ship.

  There’s another key, he thought, and he began to
rethink the three secrets. He knew he had missed something.

  “I wish Kiri were here,” he said to the night.

  Mariko was kneeling in front of her polished metal mirror. She looked away from her face. In her hands was the dagger, catching the flickering oil light.

  “I should use thee,” she said, filled with grief. Her eyes sought the Madonna and Child in the niche beside the lovely spray of flowers, and filled with tears. “I know suicide’s a mortal sin, but what can I do? How can I live with this shame? It’s better for me to do it before I’m betrayed.”

  The room was quiet like the house. This was their family house, built within the innermost ring of defenses and the wide moat around the castle, where only the most favored and trusted hatamoto were allowed to live. Circling the house was a bamboo-walled garden and a tiny stream ran through it, tapped from the abundance of waters surrounding the castle.

  She heard footsteps. The front gate creaked open and there was the sound of servants rushing to greet the master. Quickly she put the knife away in her obi and dried her tears. Soon there were footsteps and she opened her door, bowing politely.

  In ill humor, Buntaro told her Toranaga had changed his mind again, that now he was ordered to Mishima temporarily. “I’ll leave at dawn. I wanted to wish you a safe journey—” He stopped and peered at her. “Why are you crying?”

  “Please excuse me, Sire. It’s just because I’m a woman and life seems so difficult for me. And because of Toranaga-sama.”

  “He’s a broken reed. I’m ashamed to say it. Terrible, but that’s what he’s become. We should go to war. Far better to go to war than to know the only future I’ve got is to see Ishido’s filthy face laughing at my karma!”

  “Yes, so sorry. I wish there was something I could do to help. Would you like saké or cha?”

  Buntaro turned and bellowed at a servant who was waiting in the passageway. “Get saké! Hurry up!”

  Buntaro walked into her room. Mariko closed the door. Now he stood at the window looking up at the castle walls and the donjon beyond.

  “Please don’t worry, Sire,” she said placatingly. “The bath’s ready and I’ve sent for your favorite.”

  He kept his eyes on the donjon, seething. Then he said, “He should resign in Lord Sudara’s favor if he’s not got the stomach for leadership anymore. Lord Sudara’s his son and legal heir, neh? Neh?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “Yes. Or even better, he should do as Zataki suggested. Commit seppuku. Then we’d have Zataki and his armies fighting with us. With them and the muskets we could smash through to Kyoto, I know we could. Even if we failed, better that than give up like filthy, cowardly Garlic Eaters! Our Master’s forfeited all rights. Neh? NEH?” He whirled on her.

  “Please excuse me—it’s not for me to say. He’s our liege lord.”

  Buntaro turned back again, brooding, to stare at the donjon. Lights flickered on all levels. Particularly the sixth. “My advice to his Council is to invite him to depart, and if he won’t—to help him. There’s precedent enough! There are many who share my opinion, but not Lord Sudara, not yet. Maybe he does secretly, who knows about him, what he’s really thinking? When you meet his wife, when you meet Lady Genjiko, talk to her, persuade her. Then she’ll persuade him—she leads him by the nose, neh? You’re friends, she’ll listen to you. Persuade her.”

  “I think that would be very bad to do, Sire. That’s treason.”

  “I order you to talk to her!”

  “I will obey you.”

  “Yes, you’ll obey an order, won’t you?” he snarled. “Obey? Why are you always so cold and bitter? Eh?” He picked up her mirror and shoved it up to her face. “Look at yourself!”

  “Please excuse me if I displease you, Sire.” Her voice was level and she stared past the mirror to his face. “I don’t wish to anger you.” He watched her for a moment then sullenly tossed the mirror back onto the lacquered table. “I didn’t accuse you. If I thought that I’d … I wouldn’t hesitate.”

  Mariko heard herself spit back, unforgivably, “Wouldn’t hesitate to do what? Kill me, Sire? Or leave me alive to shame me more?”

  “I didn’t accuse you, only him!” Buntaro bellowed.

  “But I accuse you!” she shrieked in return. “And you did accuse me!”

  “Hold your tongue!”

  “You shamed me in front of our lord! You accused me and you won’t do your duty! You’re afraid! You’re a coward! A filthy, garlic-eating coward!”

  His sword came out of its scabbard, and she gloried in the fact that at least she had dared to push him over the brink.

  But the sword remained poised in the air. “I … I have your … I have your promise before your … your God, in Osaka. Before we … we go into death … I have your promise and I … I hold you to that!”

  Her baiting laugh was shrill and vicious. “Oh yes, mighty Lord. I’ll be your cushion just once more, but your welcome will be dry, bitter, and rancid!”

  He hacked blindly with all his two-handed strength at a corner post and the blade sliced almost totally through the foot-thick seasoned beam. He tugged but the sword held fast. Almost berserk, he twisted it and fought it and then the blade snapped. With a final curse he hurled the broken haft through the flimsy wall and staggered drunkenly for the door. The quavering servant stood there with the tray and saké. Buntaro smashed it out of his hands. Instantly the servant knelt, put his head on the floor, and froze.

  Buntaro leaned on the shattered door frame. “Wait … wait till Osaka.”

  He groped out of the house.

  For a time, Mariko remained immobile, seemingly in a trance. Then the color began to return to her cheeks. Her eyes focused. Silently she returned to her mirror. She studied her reflection for a moment. Then, quite calmly, she finished applying her makeup.

  Blackthorne ran up the stairs two at a time, his guard with him. They were on the main staircase within the donjon and he was glad to be unencumbered by his swords. He had formally surrendered them in the courtyard to the first guards, who had also searched him politely but thoroughly. Torches lit the staircase and the landings. On the fourth landing he stopped, almost bursting with pent-up excitement, and called back, “Mariko-san, are you all right?”

  “Yes—yes. I’m fine, thank you, Anjin-san.”

  He began to climb again, feeling light and very strong, until he reached the final landing on the sixth floor. This level was heavily guarded like all the others. His escorting samurai went over to those clustering at the final iron-fortified door and bowed. They bowed back and motioned Blackthorne to wait.

  The ironwork and woodwork in the entire castle were excellent. Here in the donjon all the windows, though delicate and soaring, doubled as stations for bowmen, and there were heavy, iron-covered shutters ready to swing into place for further protection.

  Mariko rounded the last angle of the easily defensible staircase and reached him.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  “Oh yes, thank you,” she answered, slightly out of breath. But she still possessed the same curious serenity and detachment that he had at once noticed when he had met her in the courtyard but had never seen before.

  Never mind, he thought confidently, it’s just the castle and Toranaga and Buntaro and being here in Yedo. I know what to do now.

  Ever since he had seen Erasmus he had been filled with an immense joy. He had truly never expected to find his ship so perfect, so clean and cared for, and ready. There’s hardly reason to stay in Yedo now, he had thought. I’ll just take a quick look below to test the bilges, an easy dive over the side to check the keel, then guns, powder room, ammunition and shot and sails. During the journey to Yedo he’d planned how to use heavy silk or cotton cloth for sails; Mariko had told him that canvas did not exist in Japan. Just get the sails commissioned, he chortled, and any other spares we need, then off to Nagasaki like a lightning bolt.

  “Anjin-san!” The samurai was back.

  “Hai
?”

  “Dozo.”

  The fortified door swung open silently. Toranaga was seated at the far end of the square room on a section of raised tatamis. Alone.

  Blackthorne knelt and bowed low, his hands flat. “Konbanwa, Toranaga-sama. Ikaga desu ka?”

  “Okagesana de genki desu. Anata wa?”

  Toranaga seemed older and lackluster, and much thinner than before. Shigata ga nai, Blackthorne told himself. Toranaga’s karma won’t touch Erasmus—she’s going to be his savior, by God.

  He answered Toranaga’s standard inquiries in simple but well-accented Japanese, using a simplified technique he had developed with Alvito’s help. Toranaga complimented him on the improvement and began to speak faster.

  Blackthorne used one of the stock phrases he had worked out with Alvito and Mariko: “Please excuse me, Lord, as my Japanese is not good, would you please speak slower and use simple words, as I have to use simple words—please excuse me for putting you to so much trouble.”

  “All right. Yes, certainly. Tell me, how did you like Yokosé?”

  Blackthorne replied, keeping up with Toranaga, his answers halting, his vocabulary still very limited, until Toranaga asked a question, the key words of which he missed entirely. “Dozo? Gomen nasai, Toranaga-sama,” he said apologetically. “Wakarimasen.” I don’t understand.

  Toranaga repeated what he had said, in simpler language. Blackthorne glanced at Mariko. “So sorry, Mariko-san, what’s ‘sonkei su beki umi’?”

  “‘Seaworthy,’ Anjin-san.”

  “Ah! Domo.” Blackthorne turned back. The daimyo had asked if he could quickly make sure whether his ship was completely seaworthy, and how long that would take. He replied, “Yes, easy. Half day, Lord.”

  Toranaga thought a moment, then told him to do that tomorrow and report back in the afternoon, during the Hour of the Goat. “Wakarimasu?”