“No, Sire. It’s as the Lord, your son, said. Until our Master’s fate is set, you may not retreat. Neither you, nor the Lord my husband. Nor I.”
“Yes. Even so, I’d be very pleased to lay down my sword and seek the peace of Buddha for myself and those I have killed.”
He stared at the night for a time, feeling his age, then looked at her. She was pleasing to see, more than any woman he had ever known.
“Sire?”
“Nothing, Mariko-san. I was remembering the first time I saw you.”
That was when Hiro-matsu had secretly mortgaged his soul to Goroda to obtain this slip of a girl for his own son, the same son who had slaughtered his own mother, the one woman Hiro-matsu had ever really adored. Why did I get Mariko for him? Because I wanted to spite the Taikō, who desired her also. To spite a rival, nothing more.
Was my consort truly unfaithful? the old man asked himself, reopening the perpetual sore. Oh gods, when I look you in the face I’ll demand an answer to that question. I want a yes or no! I demand the truth! I think it’s a lie, but Buntaro said she was alone with that man in the room, disheveled, her kimono loose, and it was months before I returned. It could be a lie, neh? Or the truth, neh? It must be the truth—surely no son would behead his own mother without being sure?
Mariko was observing the lines of Hiro-matsu’s face, his skin stretched and scaled with age, and the ancient muscular strength of his arms and shoulders. What are you thinking? she wondered, liking him. Have you seen through me yet? Do you know about me and the Anjin-san now? Do you know I quiver with love for him? That when I have to choose between him and thee and Toranaga, I will choose him?
Hiro-matsu stood near the embrasure looking down at the city below, his fingers kneading the scabbard and the haft of his sword, oblivious of her. He was brooding about Toranaga and what Zataki had said a few days ago in bitter disgust, disgust that he had shared.
“Yes, of course I want to conquer the Kwanto and plant my standard on the walls of Yedo Castle now and make it my own. I never did before but now I do,” Zataki had told him. “But this way? There’s no honor in it! No honor for my brother or you or me! Or anyone! Except Ishido, and that peasant doesn’t know any better.”
“Then support Lord Toranaga! With your help Tora—”
“For what? So my brother can become Shōgun and stamp out the Heir?”
“He’s said a hundred times he supports the Heir. I believe he does. And we’d have a Minowara to lead us, not an upstart peasant and the hellcat Ochiba, neh? Those incompetents will have eight years of rule before Yaemon’s of age if Lord Toranaga dies. Why not give Lord Toranaga the eight years—he’s Minowara! He’s said a thousand times he’ll hand over power to Yaemon. Is your brain in your arse? Toranaga’s not Yaemon’s enemy or yours!”
“No Minowara would kneel to that peasant! He’s pissed on his honor and all of ours. Yours and mine!”
They had argued, and cursed each other, and, in privacy, had almost come to blows. “Go on,” he had taunted Zataki, “draw your sword, traitor! You’re traitor to your brother who’s head of your clan!”
“I’m head of my own clan. We share the same mother, but not father. Toranaga’s father sent my mother away in disgrace. I’ll not help Toranaga—but if he abdicates and slits his belly I’ll support Sudara. . . .”
There’s no need to do that, Hiro-matsu told the night, still enraged. There’s no need to do that while I’m alive, or meekly to submit. I’m General-in-Chief. It’s my duty to protect my Master’s honor and house, even from himself. So now I decide:
Listen, Sire, please excuse me, but this time I disobey. With pride. This time I betray you. Now I’m going to co-opt your son and heir, the Lord Sudara, and his wife, the Lady Genjiko, and together we’ll order Crimson Sky when the rains cease, and then war begins. And until the last man in the Kwanto dies, facing the enemy, I’ll hold you safe in Yedo Castle, whatever you say, whatever the cost.
Gyoko was delighted to be home again in Mishima among her girls and ledgers and bills of lading, her debts receivable, mortgage deeds, and promissory notes.
“You’ve done quite well,” she told her chief accountant.
The wizened little man bobbed a thank you and hobbled away. Balefully she turned to her chief cook. “Thirteen silver chogin, two hundred copper monme for one week’s food?”
“Oh, please excuse me, Mistress, but rumors of war have sent prices soaring to the sky,” the fat man said truculently. “Everything. Fish and rice and vegetables—even soya sauce has doubled since last month and saké’s worse. Work work work in that hot, airless kitchen that must certainly be improved. Expensive! Ha! In one week I’ve served one hundred and seventy-two guests, fed ten courtesans, eleven hungry apprentice courtesans, four cooks, sixteen maids, and fourteen men servants! Please excuse me, Mistress, so sorry, but my grandmother’s very sick so I must ask for ten days’ leave to . . .”
Gyoko rent her hair just enough to make her point but not enough to mar her appearance and sent him away saying she was ruined, ruined, that she’d have to close the most famous Tea House in Mishima without such a perfect head cook and that it would all be his fault—his fault that she’d have to cast all her devoted girls and faithful but unfortunate retainers into the snow. “Don’t forget winter’s coming,” she wailed as a parting shot.
Then contentedly alone, she added up the profits against the losses and the profits were twice what she expected. Her saké tasted better than ever and if food prices were up, so was the cost of saké. At once she wrote to her son in Odawara, the site of their saké factory, telling him to double their output. Then she sorted out the inevitable quarrels of the maids, sacked three, hired four more, sent for her courtesan broker, and bid heavily for the contracts of seven more courtesans she admired.
“And when would you like the honored ladies to arrive, Gyoko-san?” the old woman simpered, her own commission considerable.
“At once. At once. Go on, run along.”
Next she summoned her carpenter and settled plans for the extension of this tea house, for the extra rooms for the extra ladies.
“At long last the site on Sixth Street’s up for sale, Mistress. Do you want me to close on that now?”
For months she had been waiting for that particular corner location. But now she shook her head and sent him away with instructions to option four hectares of wasteland on the hill, north of the city. “But don’t do it all yourself. Use intermediaries. Don’t be greedy. And I don’t want it aired that you’re buying for me.”
“But four hectares? That’s—”
“At least four, perhaps five, over the next five months. But options only—understand? They’re all to be put in these names.”
She handed him the list of safe appointees and hurried him off, in her mind’s eye seeing the walled city within a city already thriving. She chortled with glee.
Next every courtesan was sent for and complimented or chided or howled at or wept with. Some were promoted, some degraded, pillow prices increased or decreased. Then, in the midst of everything, Omi was announced.
“So sorry, but Kiku-san’s not well,” she told him. “Nothing serious! It’s just the change of weather, poor child.”
“I insist on seeing her.”
“So sorry, Omi-san, but surely you don’t insist? Kiku-san belongs to your liege Lord, neh?”