Longing, pain, and confusion mixed in Yoshisato’s gaze. It was clear that he cared more about Yanagisawa than he wanted to admit. Then his face hardened. “It’s too late. I’m not your son anymore. I’m the shogun’s. And you’re not going to stick around when I’m head of the regime. You might stab me in the back like you’ve done to other people who’ve crossed you.”
Yanagisawa felt as if he were pushing a wild horse up a mountain while it bit, thrashed, and tried to kick him down. Too furious to apologize for his past sins and grovel, he grabbed Yoshisato by the front of his robes, shook him, and yelled, “You ungrateful, stubborn, foolhardy wretch! You won’t deprive me of my rightful share in ruling Japan!”
“Yes, I will!” Yoshisato grabbed Yanagisawa’s wrists. “Take your hands off me!”
A quavering voice called, “Hello?”
Yanagisawa and Yoshisato froze. They both knew they mustn’t fight in front of anyone, especially the shogun. They kept their battles private.
The shogun tiptoed into the room, as hesitant and nervous as if he were a trespasser instead of the lord over everything he saw. “Am I, ahh, intruding?”
“Not at all, Your Excellency.” Yanagisawa smoothed Yoshisato’s robes with a fond gesture before unhanding the young man. “Please join us.”
He’d already wiped his expression clean of his inner turmoil and donned a relaxed, serene pose. Yoshisato wasn’t yet as adept at concealing his emotions. Anxiety showed through his artificial calmness like bare flesh through inexpertly laced armor.
The shogun wandered through the quarters while Yanagisawa and Yoshisato followed. “Ahh, this place looks different than I remember. But I only lived here a short time, when my older brother was shogun. He suddenly took ill and named me as his successor. A few days later he died. I became shogun.” Worry deepened the lines in his forehead. “My brother waited until his end was near before he designated his heir. Perhaps I should have chosen to do the same.”
Yanagisawa and Yoshisato exchanged alarmed glances. They’d thought Yoshisato safely installed, but now the shogun was having second thoughts. “Your brother waited because he knew the dictatorship would pass to you whether or not he officially designated you as his heir,” Yanagisawa said. “You and he were both sons of the previous shogun.” Yanagisawa suspected the older brother had hoped the younger would die first and his son, Ienobu, could inherit the regime. Ienobu would have liked that. “Your installation was a formality he put off. But there’s no need for you to wait until you’re on your deathbed to install your son as your heir, with all the ceremony, honor, and pleasure you both deserve.” Yanagisawa extended his arms to draw Yoshisato and the shogun together.
Shying away from Yoshisato, the shogun said, “The problem is … Lately I’ve, ahh, begun to wonder if you’re, ahh, really my son.”
“Of course I’m your son!” Yoshisato looked so anxious that Yanagisawa winced. Fearful of being punished for his deceit, Yoshisato had reverted from Yanagisawa’s brilliant protégé to the inexperienced seventeen-year-old he was.
Yanagisawa needed to get at the root of the shogun’s belated misgivings and dig it out, fast. He spoke loudly, to draw the shogun’s attention away from Yoshisato. “Why on earth should you wonder, at this late date, if Yoshisato is really your son?”
The shogun pivoted, as if he were a Bunraku theater puppet and Yanagisawa had jerked the poles that controlled his body. “Last night I woke up to hear two men whispering outside my bedchamber. They said I’m not Yoshisato’s father.” A red, angry spot of blush colored each of his cheeks. “They said you are.”
Yanagisawa cursed inwardly. He’d given orders, backed by threats, that no one was to talk about Yoshisato’s parentage near the shogun. He and Yoshisato tried to make sure that one of them was with the shogun at all times, to discourage gossip. But lately the shogun had insomnia; he couldn’t fall asleep unless he was alone in his chamber. He’d evidently heard someone whispering, through the thin walls.
“Who was it?” Yanagisawa said, disguising his consternation with outrage. “Who dared to voice the blasphemous suggestion that I’m your son’s father?”
Sheepishness weakened the shogun’s anger. “Ahh, I didn’t recognize their voices.”
They were probably his guards or personal attendants, the only people allowed near the shogun while he was sleeping. “It was just idle speculation,” Yanagisawa said in a consoling, condescending tone. “You should ignore it.”
“But I can’t!” The shogun flapped his hands. “It’s been happening every night for months.” He whispered loudly, “‘Yoshisato is Yanagisawa’s son. He’s not the shogun’s. Yanagisawa is Yoshisato’s father.’” Shamefaced, he added, “I didn’t mention it earlier because I was afraid to, ahh, have to take it seriously.”
Yanagisawa realized that something more sinister was at play than careless gossip. The whispering represented a deliberate attempt to make the shogun believe that Yoshisato was a fraud. And Yanagisawa could guess who was responsible.
“Those are just ignorant dolts talking,” Yoshisato scoffed. “Don’t listen, Honorable Father.”
The shogun turned on him. “Don’t call me ‘Father’ when I’m not certain you have the right to do so!”
Yoshisato stared, aghast. The shogun scowled at Yanagisawa, pointed at Yoshisato. “I want the truth: Is he my son, or have you put a cuckoo’s egg into my nest?”
Yanagisawa deployed the wisdom, skill, and instinct gleaned from his long relationship with the shogun. He arranged his features into an expression of concern and sympathy. “The truth is that there seems to be a problem with your health.”
“My health?” Always easily distracted by the mention of his favorite topic, always terrified of illness, the shogun gasped. “What sort of problem?”
“Well, let me see,” Yanagisawa said. “You’ve been having insomnia, is that correct?”
The shogun nodded, his clasped hands extended toward Yanagisawa, dreading yet eager for bad news.
“And headaches?”
“Very often.”
“What about dizziness?”
Yoshisato frowned, trying to figure out what Yanagisawa was doing.
“… No,” the shogun said. Always vulnerable to suggestion, he changed his mind. “A little.”
“Blurred vision?” Yanagisawa asked.
The shogun’s pale complexion turned stark white. He nodded, convinced that he had blurred vision, whether he really did or not.
“And you’ve started hearing strange voices.” Yanagisawa tapped his chin with his fingertip and nodded sagely, as he’d seen physicians do while considering a patient’s symptoms. “Hmm.” The sudden enlightenment on Yoshisato’s face was so comical that Yanagisawa almost laughed. “Taking your other symptoms into account, I would say the voices are hallucinations. The problem is just as I suspected.”
“Merciful gods!” The shogun clutched at Yanagisawa. “What is wrong with me, pray tell?”
“Nothing serious.” Yanagisawa’s tone belied his words. “You have a blockage of the energy flow to your brain.”
The shogun’s eyes bulged with terror. “What should I do?”
“Go immediately to your physician. He’ll set you right.”
“Yes, yes.” The shogun hurried out of the room.
“You made that up,” Yoshisato said scornfully.
“I got us out of a tough spot,” Yanagisawa said. “You only made things worse.”
Yoshisato regarded him with offense and disbelief. “How is the doctor supposed to treat the shogun for his imaginary illness?”
“Oh, he’ll give him a harmless potion. That’s what he always does when the shogun fancies he’s sick.”
“But those voices are real. How can a potion make the shogun stop hearing them?”
“It can’t, but I can. The shogun will have a new set of guards and attendants before the day is over. They’ll be my people, who will prevent anyone from saying a word outside the shogun’s chamber. I’ll stop this campaign to poison the shogun’s mind against you.”