Shōgun

A temporary house had been set up for him in a good position under a wide thatched roof that was supported with strong bamboo posts. Shoji walls and partitions were set on a raised deck flooring of wood and tatamis. Sentries were already stationed, and rooms were also there for Kiri and Sazuko and servants and cooks, joined by a complex of simple paths, raised on temporary pilings.

He saw his child for the first time. Obviously the Lady Sazuko would never have been so impolite as to bring her son back to the plateau at once, fearing that she might intrude in important matters—as she would have done—even though he had happily given her that opportunity.

The child pleased him greatly. “He’s a fine boy,” he boasted, holding the infant with practiced assurance. “And, Sazuko, you’re younger and more attractive than ever. We must have more children at once. Motherhood suits you.”

“Oh, Sire,” she said, “I was afraid I’d never see you again, and never be able to show you your newest son. How are we going to escape the trap . . . Ishido’s armies. . . .”

“Look what a fine boy he is! Next week I’ll build a shrine in his honor and endow it with . . .” He stopped and halved the figure he’d first thought of and then halved that again. “. . . with twenty koku a year.”

“Oh, Sire, how generous you are!”

Her smile was guileless. “Yes,” he said. “That’s enough for a miserable parasite priest to say a few Namu Amida Butsu, neh?”

“Oh, yes, Sire. Will the shrine be near the castle in Yedo? Oh, wouldn’t it be wonderful if it could be on a river or stream?”

He agreed reluctantly even though such a choice plot would cost more than he had wanted to spend on such frippery. But the boy’s fine, I can afford to be generous this year, he thought.

“Oh, thank you, Sire . . .” The Lady Sazuko stopped. Naga was hurrying over to where they sat on a shaded veranda.

“Please excuse me, Father, but your Osaka samurai? How do you want to see them, singly or all together?”

“Singly.”

“Yes, Sire. The priest Tsukku-san would like to see you when convenient.”

“Tell him I’ll send for him as soon as possible.” Again Toranaga began to talk with his consort but, politely and at once, she asked to be excused, knowing that he wanted to deal with the samurai immediately. He asked her to stay but she begged to be allowed to go and he agreed.

He interviewed the men carefully, sifting their stories, calling a samurai back occasionally, cross-checking. By sunset he knew clearly what had happened, or what they all thought had happened. Then he ate lightly and quickly, his first meal today, and summoned Kiri, sending all guards out of hearing.

“First tell me what you did, what you saw, and what you witnessed, Kiri-chan.”

Night had fallen before he was satisfied, even though she was perfectly prepared.

“Eeeeeee,” he said. “That was a near thing, Kiri-chan. Too near.”

“Yes,” Kiri replied, her hands folded in her ample lap. Then she added with great tenderness, “All gods, great and small, were guarding you, Sire, and us. Please excuse me that I doubted the outcome, doubted you. The gods were watching over us.”

“It seems that way, yes, very much.” Toranaga watched the night. The flames of the flares were being wafted by the slight sea breeze that also blew away the night insects and made the evening more comfortable. A fine moon rode the sky and he could see the dark marks on its face and he wondered absently if the dark was land and the rest ice and snow, and why the moon was there, and who lived there. Oh, there are so many things I’d like to know, he thought.

“Can I ask a question, Tora-chan?”

“What question, Lady?”

“Why did Ishido let us go? Really? He needn’t have, neh? If I’d been him I wouldn’t have done it—never. Why?”

“First tell me the Lady Ochiba’s message.”

“The Lady Ochiba said, ‘Please tell Lord Toranaga that I respectfully wish there was some way that his differences with the Heir could be resolved. As a token of the Heir’s affection, I’d like to tell Toranaga-sama the Heir has said many times he does not want to lead any armies against his uncle, the Lord of the Kwan—’ ”

“She said that!”

“Yes. Oh yes.”

“Surely she must know—and Ishido—that if Yaemon holds the standard against me I must lose!”

“That’s what she said, Sire.”

“Eeeeeee!” Toranaga bunched his great calloused fist and banged it on the tatamis. “If that’s a real offer and not a trick I’m halfway to Kyoto, and one pace beyond.”

“Yes,” Kiri said.

“What’s the price?”

“I don’t know. She said nothing more, Sire. That was all the message—apart from good wishes to her sister.”

“What can I give Ochiba that she doesn’t have already? Osaka’s hers, the treasure’s hers, Yaemon’s always been Heir of the realm for me. This war’s unnecessary. Whatever happens, in eight years Yaemon becomes Kwampaku and inherits the earth, this earth. There’s nothing left to give her.”

“Perhaps she wants marriage?”

Toranaga shook his head emphatically. “No, not her. That woman would never marry me.”