Shogun (The Asian Saga Chronology) (122 page)

"Yes.  Lord Toranaga would be dead now, Sire, but for him.  I'm quite certain.  Three times he has saved our Master:  escaping from Osaka Castle, aboard the galley in Osaka harbor, and absolutely at the earthquake.  I saw the swords Omi-san had dug up.  They were twisted like noodle dough and just as useless."

"You think the Anjin-san really meant to commit seppuku?"

"Yes.  By the Lord God of the Christians, I believe he made that commitment.  Only Omi-san prevented it.  And, Sire, I believe totally he's worthy to be samurai, worthy to be hatamoto."

"I didn't ask for that opinion."

"Please excuse me, Sire, truly you didn't.  But that question was still in the front of your mind."

"You've become a thought reader as well as barbarian trainer?"

"Oh, no, please excuse me, Sire, of course not," she said in her nicest voice.  "I merely answer the leader of my clan to the best of my very poor ability.  Our Master's interests are first in my mind.  Your interests are second only to his."

"Are they?"

"Please excuse me, but that shouldn't be necessary to ask.  Command me, Sire.  I'll do your bidding."

"Why so proud, Mariko-san?" he asked testily.  "And so right?  Eh?"

"Please excuse me, Sire.  I was rude.  I don't deserve such—"

"I know!  No woman does!"  Hiro-matsu laughed.  "But even so, there are times when we need a woman's cold, cruel, vicious, cunning, practical wisdom.  They're so much cleverer than we are,
neh?
"

"Oh, no, Sire," she said, wondering what was really in his mind.

"It's just as well we're alone.  If that was repeated in public they'd say old Iron Fist's overripe, that it's time for him to put down his sword, shave his head, and begin to say prayers to Buddha for the souls of the men he's sent into the Void.  And they'd be right."

"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
momne
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?
"

"I know whom she belongs to," Omi shouted.  "I want to see her, that's all."

"Oh, so sorry, of course, you have every right to shout and curse, so sorry, please excuse me.  But, so sorry, she's not well.  This evening—or perhaps later—or tomorrow—what can I do, Omi-san?  If she becomes well enough perhaps I could send word if you'll tell me where you're staying."

He told her, knowing that there was nothing he could do, and stormed off wanting to hack all Mishima to pieces.

Gyoko thought about Omi.  Then she sent for Kiku and told her the program she'd arranged for her two nights in Mishima.  "Perhaps we can persuade our Lady Toda to delay four or five nights, child.  I know half a dozen here who'll pay a father's ransom to have you entertain them at private parties.  Ha!  Now that the great
daimyo's
bought you, none can touch you, not ever again, so you can sing and dance and mime and be our first
gei-sha!
"

"And poor Omi-san, Mistress?  I've never heard him so cross before, so sorry he shouted, at you."

"Ha!  What's a shout or two when we consort with
daimyos
and the richest of the rich rice and silk brokers at long last.  Tonight I'll tell Omi-san where you'll be the last time you sing, but much too soon so he'll have to wait.  I'll arrange a nearby room.  Meanwhile he'll have lots of saké . . . and Akiko to serve him.  It won't hurt to sing a sad song or two to him afterwards—we're still not sure about Toranaga-sama,
neh?
  We still haven't had a down payment, let alone the balance."

"Please excuse me, wouldn't Choko be a better choice?  She's prettier and younger and sweeter.  I'm sure he would enjoy her more."

"Yes, child.  But Akiko's strong and very experienced.  When this sort of madness is on men they're inclined to be rough.  Rougher than you'd imagine.  Even Omi-san.  I don't want Choko damaged.  Akiko likes danger and needs some violence to perform well.  She'll take the sting out of his Beauteous Barb.  Run along now, your prettiest kimono and best perfumes. . . ."

Gyoko shooed Kiku away to get ready and once more hurled herself into finishing the management of her house.  Then, everything completed—even the formal cha invitation tomorrow to the eight most influential Mama-sans in Mishima to discuss a matter of great import—she sank gratefully into a perfect bath, "Ahhhhhhhhh!"

At the perfect time, a perfect massage.  Perfume and powder and makeup and coiffure.  New loose kimono of rare frothy silk.  Then, at the perfect moment, her favorite arrived.  He was eighteen, a student, son of an impoverished samurai, his name Inari.

"Oh, how lovely you are—I rushed here the moment your poem arrived," he said breathlessly.  "Did you have a pleasant journey?  I'm so happy to welcome you back!  Thank you, thank you for the presents—the sword is perfect and the kimono!  Oh, how good you are to me!"

Yes, I am, she told herself, though she stoutly denied it to his face.  Soon she was lying beside him, sweaty and languorous.  Ah, Inari, she thought bemused, your Pellucid Pestle's not built like the Anjin-san's but what you lack in size you surely make up with cataclysmic vigor!

"Why do you laugh?" he asked sleepily.

"Because you make me happy," she sighed, delighted that she'd had the great good fortune to be educated.  She chatted easily, complimented him extravagantly, and petted him to sleep, her hands and voice out of long habit smoothly achieving all that was necessary of their own volition.  Her mind was far away.  She was wondering about Mariko and her paramour, rethinking the alternatives.  How far dare she press Mariko?  Or whom should she give them away to, or threaten her with, subtly of course—Toranaga, Buntaro, or whom?  The Christian priest?  Would there be any profit in that?  Or Lord Kiyama—certainly any scandal connecting the great Lady Toda with the barbarian would ruin her son's chance of marrying Kiyama's granddaughter.  Would that threat bend her to my will?  Or should I do nothing—is there more profit in that somehow?

Pity about Mariko.  Such a lovely lady!  My, but she'd make a sensational courtesan!  Pity about the Anjin-san.  My, but he's a clever one—I could make a fortune out of him too.

How can I best use this secret, most profitably, before it's no longer a secret and those two are destroyed?

Be careful, Gyoko, she admonished herself.  There's not much time left to decide about this, or about the other new secrets:  about the guns and arms hidden by the peasants in Anjiro for instance, or about the new Musket Regiment—its numbers, officers, organization, and number of guns.  Or about Toranaga, who, the last night in Yokosé, pillowed Kiku pleasantly, using a classic "six shallow and five deep" rhythm for the hundred thrusts with the strength of a thirty year-old and slept till dawn like a babe.  That's not the pattern of a man distraught with worry,
neh?