“I’ll deal with them soon enough,” the peasant warlord had said. “Those sneering carrion refused my invitation to come here tomorrow—they sent my scroll back covered in bird’s shit. You want their lands? The whole Kwanto?”
“I want nothing from them or from anyone,” he had said.
“Liar,” Nakamura had said genially. “Listen, Tora-san: I’m almost fifty. None of my women has ever birthed. I’ve juice in plenty, always have had, and in my life I must have pillowed a hundred, two hundred women, of all types, of all ages, in every way, but none has ever birthed a child, not even stillborn. I’ve everything but I’ve no sons and never will. That’s my karma. You’ve four sons living and who knows how many daughters. You’re forty-three so you can pillow your way to a dozen more sons as easy as horses shit and that’s your karma. Also you’re Minowara and that’s karma. Say I adopt one of your sons and make him my heir?”
“Now?”
“Soon. Say in three years. It was never important to have an heir before but now things’re different. Our late Master Goroda had the stupidity to get himself murdered. Now the land’s mine—could be mine. Well?”
“You’ll make the agreements formal, publicly formal, in two years?”
“Yes. In two years. You can trust me—our interests are the same. Listen: In two years, in public; and we agree, you and I, which son. This way we share everything, eh? Our joint dynasty’s settled into the future, so no problems there and that’s good for you and good for me. The pickings’ll be huge. First the Kwanto. Eh?”
“Perhaps Beppu Genzaemon will submit—if I submit.”
“I can’t allow them to, Tora-san. You covet their lands.”
“I covet nothing.”
Nakamura’s laugh had been merry. “Yes. But you should. The Kwanto’s worthy of you. It’s safe behind mountain walls, easy to defend. With the delta you’ll control the richest rice lands in the Empire. You’ll have your back to the sea and an income of two million koku. But don’t make Kamakura your capital. Or Odawara.”
“Kamakura’s always been capital of the Kwanto.”
“Why shouldn’t you covet Kamakura, Tora-san? Hasn’t it contained the holy shrine of your family’s guardian kami for six hundred years? Isn’t Hachiman, the kami of war, the Minowara deity? Your ancestor was wise to choose the kami of war to worship.”
“I covet nothing, worship nothing. A shrine is just a shrine and the kami of war’s never been known to stay in any shrine.”
“I’m glad you covet nothing, Tora-san, then nothing will disappoint you. You’re like me in that. But Kamakura’s no capital for you. There are seven passes into it, too many to defend. And it’s not on the sea. No, I wouldn’t advise Kamakura. Listen: You’d be better and safer to go farther over the mountains. You need a seaport. There’s one I saw once—Yedo—a fishing village now, but you’ll make it into a great city. Easy to defend, perfect for trade. You favor trade. I favor trade. Good. So you must have a seaport. As to Odawara, we’re going to stamp it out, as a lesson to all the others.”
“That will be very difficult.”
“Yes. But it’d be a good lesson for all the other daimyos, neh?”
“To take that city by storm would be costly.”
Again the taunting laugh. “It could be, to you, if you don’t join me. I’ve got to go through your present lands to get at it—did you know you’re the Beppu front line? The Beppu pawn? Together you and them could keep me off for a year or two, even three. But I’ll get there in the end. Oh, yes. Eeeee, why waste more time on them? They’re all dead—except your son-in-law if you want—ah, I know you’ve an alliance with them, but it’s not worth a bowl of horseshit. So what’s your answer? The pickings are going to be vast. First the Kwanto—that’s yours—then I’ve all Japan. Then Korea—easy. Then China—hard but not impossible. I know a peasant can’t become Shōgun, but ‘our’ son will be Shōgun, and he could straddle the Dragon Throne of China too, or his son. Now that’s the end of talk. What’s your answer, Yoshi Toranaga-noh-Minowara, vassal or not? Nothing else is of value to me.”
“Let’s piss on the bargain,” Toranaga had said, having gained everything that he had wanted and planned for. And the next day, before the bewildered majesty of the truculent daimyos, he had humbly offered up his sword and his lands and his honor and his heritage to the upstart peasant warlord. He had begged to be allowed to serve Nakamura and his house forever. And he, Yoshi Toranaga-noh-Minowara, had bowed his head abjectly into the dust. The Taikō-to-be now had been magnanimous and had taken his lands and had at once gifted him the Kwanto as a fief once it was conquered, ordering total war on the Beppu for their insults to the Emperor. And he had also given Toranaga this sword that he had recently acquired from one of the Imperial treasuries. The sword had been made by the master swordsmith Miyoshi-Go centuries before, and had once belonged to the most famous warrior in history, Minowara Yoshitomo, the first of the Minowara Shōguns.
Toranaga remembered that day. And he recalled other days: a few years later when the Lady Ochiba gave birth to a boy; and another when, incredibly, after the Taikō’s first son had conveniently died, Yaemon, the second son, was born.
So was the whole plan ruined. Karma.
He saw Yabu holding the sword of his ancestor with reverence.
“Is it as sharp as they say?” Yabu asked.
“Yes.”
“You do me great honor. I will treasure your gift.” Yabu bowed, conscious that, because of the gift, he would be the first in the land after Toranaga.
Toranaga bowed back, and then, unarmed, he walked for the gangway. It took all his will to hide his fury and not to let his feet falter, and he prayed that Yabu’s avariciousness would keep him mesmerized for just a few moments more.
“Cast off!” he ordered, coming onto the deck, and then turned shoreward and waved cheerfully.
Someone broke the silence and shouted his name, then others took up the shout. There was a general roar of approval at the honor done to their lord. Willing hands shoved the ship out to sea. The oarsmen pulled briskly. The galley made way.
“Captain, get to Yedo quickly!”
“Yes, Sire.”
Toranaga looked aft, his eyes ranging the shore, expecting danger any instant. Yabu stood near the jetty, still bemused by the sword. Mariko and Fujiko were waiting beside the awning with the other women. The Anjin-san was on the edge of the square where he had been told to wait—rigid, towering, and unmistakably furious. Their eyes met. Toranaga smiled and waved.
The wave was returned, but coldly, and this amused Toranaga very much.
Blackthorne walked cheerlessly up to the jetty.
“When’s he coming back, Mariko-san?”
“I don’t know, Anjin-san.”
“How do we get to Yedo?”
“We stay here. At least, I stay for three days. Then I’m ordered there.”
“By sea?”
“By land.”
“And me?”
“You are to stay here.”
“Why?”
“You expressed an interest in learning our language. And there’s work for you to do here.”
“What work?”
“I don’t know, I’m sorry. Lord Yabu will tell you. My Master left me here to interpret, for three days.”
Blackthorne was filled with foreboding. His pistols were in his belt but he had no knives and no more powder and no more shot. That was all in the cabin aboard the galley.