Toranaga sighed. “I have never sought to become Shōgun. How many times do I have to say it? I support my nephew Yaemon and the Taikō’s will.” He looked at them all, one by one. Lastly at Naga. The youth winced. But Toranaga said kindly, calling him back to the lure, “Your zeal and youth alone excuse you. Unfortunately, many much older and wiser than you think that’s my ambition. It isn’t. There’s only one way to settle that nonsense and that’s put Lord Yaemon into power. And that I intend to do.”
“Yes, Father. Thank you. Thank you,” Naga replied in despair.
Toranaga shifted his eyes to Igurashi. “What’s your counsel?”
The one-eyed samurai scratched. “Me, I’m only a soldier, not a counselor, but I wouldn’t advise Crimson Sky, not if we can war on our terms like Omi-san says. I fought in Shinano years ago. That’s bad country, and then Lord Zataki was with us. I wouldn’t want to war in Shinano again and never if Zataki was hostile. And if Lord Maeda’s suspect, well, how can you plan a battle if your biggest ally may betray you? Lord Ishido’ll put two, three hundred thousand men against you and still keep a hundred holding Osaka. Even with the guns we’ve not enough men to attack. But behind the mountains using the guns, you could hold out forever if it happens like Omi-san says. We could hold the passes. You’ve enough rice—doesn’t the Kwanto supply half the Empire? Well, a third at least—and we could send you all the fish you need. You’d be safe. Let Lord Ishido and devil Jikkyu come at us if it’s to happen like Omi-san said, that soon the enemy’ll be feeding on each other. If not, keep Crimson Sky ready. A man can die for his lord only once in this life.”
“Has anyone anything to add?” Toranaga asked. No one answered him.
“Mariko-san?”
“It’s not my place to speak here, Sire,” she replied. “I’m sure everything has been said that should have been said. But may I be allowed to ask for all your counselors here, what do you think will happen?”
Toranaga chose his words deliberately. “I believe that what Omi-san forecast will happen. With one exception: the Council won’t be impotent. The Council will wield enough influence to gather an invincible allied force. When the rains cease it will be thrown against the Kwanto, bypassing Izu. The Kwanto will be gobbled up, then Izu. Only after I’m dead will the daimyos fight among themselves.”
“But why, Sire?” Omi ventured.
“Because I’ve too many enemies, I own the Kwanto, I’ve warred for more than forty years and never lost a battle. They’re all afraid of me. I know that first the vultures will pack together to destroy me. Later they’ll destroy themselves, but first they’ll join to destroy me if they can. Know very clearly, all of you, I’m the only real threat to Yaemon, even though I’m no threat at all. That’s the irony of it. They all believe I want to be Shōgun. I don’t. This is another war that’s not necessary at all!”
Naga broke the silence. “Then what are you going to do, Sire?”
“Eh?”
“What are you going to do?”
“Obviously, Crimson Sky,” Toranaga said.
“But you said they’d eat us up?”
“They would—if I gave them any time. But I’m not going to give them any time. We go to war at once!”
“But the rains—what about the rains?”
“We will arrive in Kyoto wet. Hot and stinking and wet. Surprise, mobility, audacity, and timing win wars, neh? Yabu-san was right. The guns will blast a way through the mountains.”
For an hour they discussed plans and the feasibility of large-scale war in the rainy season—an unheard-of strategy. Then Toranaga sent them away, except Mariko, telling Naga to order the Anjin-san here. He watched them walk off. They had all been outwardly enthusiastic once the decision had been announced, Naga and Buntaro particularly. Only Omi had been reserved and thoughtful and unconvinced. Toranaga discounted Igurashi for he knew that, rightly, the soldier would do only what Yabu ordered, and he dismissed Yabu as a pawn, treacherous certainly, but still a pawn. Omi’s the only one worthwhile, he thought. I wonder if he’s worked out yet what I’m really going to do?
“Mariko-san. Find out, tactfully, how much the courtesan’s contract would cost.”
She blinked. “Kiku-san, Sire?”
“Yes.”
“Now, Sire? At once?”
“Tonight would do excellently.” He looked at her blandly. “Her contract’s not necessarily for me, perhaps for one of my officers.”
“I would imagine the price would depend on whom, Sire.”
“I imagine it will. But set a price. The girl of course has the right of refusal, if she wishes, when the samurai’s named, but tell her mama-san owner that I don’t expect the girl will have the bad manners to mistrust my choice for her. Tell the owner also that Kiku is a Lady of the First Class of Mishima and not Yedo or Osaka or Kyoto,” Toranaga added genially, “so I expect to pay Mishima prices and not Yedo or Osaka or Kyoto prices.”
“Yes, Sire, of course.”
Toranaga moved his shoulder to ease the ache, shifting his swords.
“May I massage it for you, Sire? Or send for Suwo?”
“No, thank you. I’ll see Suwo later.” Toranaga got up and relieved himself with great pleasure, then sat down again. He wore a short, light silk kimono, blue patterned, and the simple straw sandals. His fan was blue and decorated with his crest.
The sun was low, rain clouds building heavily.
“It’s vast to be alive,” he said happily. “I can almost hear the rain waiting to be born.”
“Yes,” she said.
Toranaga thought a moment. Then he said as a poem:
Mariko obediently put her mind to work to play the poem game with him, so popular with most samurai, spontaneously twisting the words of the poem that he had made up, adapting them, making another from his. After a moment she replied:
“Well said! Yes, very well said!” Toranaga looked at her contentedly, enjoying what he saw. She was dressed in a pale green kimono with patterns of bamboo, a dark green obi and orange sunshade. There was a marvelous sheen to the blue-black hair, which was piled high under her wide-brimmed hat. He remembered nostalgically how they had all—even the Dictator Goroda himself—wanted her when she was thirteen and her father, Akechi Jinsai, had first presented this, his eldest daughter, at Goroda’s court. And how Nakamura, the Taikō-to-be, had begged the Dictator to give her to him, and then how Goroda had laughed, and publicly called him his randy little monkey general, and told him to “stick to fighting battles, peasant, don’t fight to stick patrician holes!” Akechi Jinsai had openly scorned Nakamura, his rival for Goroda’s favor, the main reason why Nakamura had delighted in smashing him. And why also Nakamura had delighted in watching Buntaro squirm for years, Buntaro who had been given the girl to cement an alliance between Goroda and Toda Hiro-matsu. I wonder, Toranaga asked himself mischievously, looking at her, I wonder if Buntaro were dead, would she consent to be one of my consorts? Toranaga had always preferred experienced women, widows or divorced wives, but never too pretty or too wise or too young or too well-born, so never too much trouble and always grateful.
He chuckled to himself. I’d never ask her because she’s everything I don’t want in a consort—except that her age is perfect.