Shōgun

  “I don’t need to rely on ninja.”

  “Of course,” Onoshi agreed, his voice poisonous. “Neither do I, nor does anyone here. But I feel it is my duty to remind you that there are two hundred and sixty-four daimyos, that the Heir’s strength lies on a coalition of perhaps two hundred, and that the Heir cannot afford to have you, his most loyal standard-bearer and commander-in-chief, presumed guilty of such filthy methods and such monstrous inefficiency as the attack failed.”

  “You say I ordered that attack?”

  “Of course not, so sorry. I merely said you will be convicted by default if you don’t let everyone leave.”

  “Is there anyone here who thinks I ordered it?” No one challenged Ishido openly. There was no proof. Correctly, he had not consulted them and had talked only in vague innuendos, even to Kiyama and Ochiba. But they all knew and all were equally furious that he had had the stupidity to fail—all except Zataki. Even so, Ishido was still master of Osaka, and governor of the Taikō’s treasure, so he could not be touched or removed.

  “Good,” Ishido said with finality. “The ninja were after loot. We’ll vote on the safe conducts. I vote they be canceled.”

  “I disagree,” Zataki said.

  “So sorry, I oppose also,” said Onoshi.

  Ito reddened under their scrutiny. “I have to agree with Lord Onoshi, at the same time, well … it’s all very difficult, neh?”

  “Vote,” Ishido said grimly.

  “I agree with you, Lord General.”

  Kiyama said, “So sorry, I don’t.”

  “Good,” Onoshi said. “That’s settled, but I agree with you, Lord General, we’ve other pressing problems. We have to know what Lord Toranaga will do now. What’s your opinion?”

  Ishido was staring at Kiyama, his face set. Then he said, “What’s your answer to that?”

  Kiyama was trying to clear his head of all his hates and fears and worries, to make a final choice—Ishido or Toranaga. This had to be the time. He remembered vividly Mariko talking about Onoshi’s supposed treachery, about Ishido’s supposed betrayal and Toranaga’s supposed proof of that betrayal, about the barbarian and his ship—and about what might happen to the Heir and the Church if Toranaga dominated the land and what might happen to their law if the Holy Fathers dominated the land. And overlaying that was the Father-Visitor’s anguish about the heretic and his ship, and what would happen if the Black Ship was lost, and the Captain-General’s God-sworn conviction that the Anjin-san was Satan spawned, Mariko bewitched as the Rodrigues was bewitched. Poor Mariko, he thought sadly, to die like that after so much suffering, without absolution, without last rites, without a priest, to spend eternity away from God’s sweet heavenly grace. Madonna have mercy on her. So many summer’s tears.

  And what about Achiko? Did the ninja leader single her out or was that just another killing? How brave she was to charge and not to cringe, poor child. Why is the barbarian still alive? Why didn’t the ninja kill him? They should have been ordered to, if this filthy attack was conceived by Ishido, as of course it must have been. Shameful of Ishido to fail—disgusting to fail. Ah, but what courage Mariko had, how clever she was to ensnare us in her courageous web! And the barbarian.

  If I’d been he I would never have been able to delay the ninja with so much courage, or to protect Mariko from the hideous shame of capture—and Kiritsubo and Sazuko and the Lady Etsu, yes, and even Achiko. But for him and the secret sanctuary, Lady Mariko would have been captured. And all of them. It’s my samurai duty to honor the Anjin-san for being samurai. Neh?

  God forgive me, I did not go to Mariko-chan to be her second, which was my Christian duty. The heretic helped her and lifted her up as the Christ Jesus helped others and lifted them up, but I, I forsook her. Who’s the Christian?

  I don’t know. Even so, he has to die.

  “What about Toranaga, Lord Kiyama?” Ishido said again. “What about the enemy?”

  “What about the Kwanto?” Kiyama asked, watching him.

  “When Toranaga’s destroyed I propose that the Kwanto be given to one of the Regents.”

  “Which Regent?”

  “You,” Ishido answered blandly, then added, “or perhaps Zataki, Lord of Shinano.” This Kiyama thought wise, for Zataki was needed very much while Toranaga was alive and Ishido had already told him, a month ago, that Zataki had demanded the Kwanto as payment for opposing Toranaga. Together they had agreed Ishido should promise it to him, both knowing this to be an empty promise. Both were agreed Zataki should forfeit his life and his province for such impertinence, as soon as convenient.

  “Of course I’m hardly the right choice for that honor,” Kiyama said, carefully assessing who in the room were for him and who against.

  Onoshi tried to conceal his disapproval. “That suggestion’s certainly a valuable one, worthy of discussion, neh? But that’s for the future. What’s the present Lord of the Kwanto going to do now?”

  Ishido was still looking at Kiyama. “Well?”

  Kiyama felt Zataki’s hostility though nothing showed on his enemy’s face. Two against me, he thought, and Ochiba, but she has no vote. Ito will always vote with Ishido, so I win—if Ishido means what he says. Does he? he asked himself, studying the hard face in front of him, probing for the truth. Then he decided and he said openly what he had concluded. “Lord Toranaga will never come to Osaka.”

  “Good,” Ishido said. “Then he’s isolated, outlawed, and the Imperial invitation to commit seppuku is already prepared for the Exalted’s signature. And that’s the end of Toranaga and all his line. Forever.”

  “Yes. If the Son of Heaven comes to Osaka.”

  “What?”

  “I agree with Lord Ito,” Kiyama continued, preferring him as an ally and not an enemy. “Lord Toranaga is the wiliest of men. I think he’s even cunning enough to stop the Exalted’s arrival.”

  “Impossible!”

  “What if the visit’s postponed?” Kiyama asked, suddenly enjoying Ishido’s discomfort, detesting him for failing.

  “The Son of Heaven will be here as planned!”

  “And if the Son of Heaven isn’t?”

  “I tell you He will be!”

  “And if He isn’t?”

  Lady Ochiba asked, “How could Lord Toranaga do that?”

  “I don’t know. But if the Exalted wanted his visit delayed for a month … there’s nothing we could do. Isn’t Lord Toranaga a past master at subversion? I’d put nothing past him—even subverting the Son of Heaven.”

  There was dead silence in the room. The enormity of that thought, and its repercussions, enveloped them.

  “Please excuse me but … but what’s the answer then?” Ochiba spoke for them all.

  “War!” Kiyama said. “We mobilize today—secretly. We wait until the visit’s postponed, as it will be. That’s our signal that Toranaga has subverted the Most High. The same day we march against the Kwanto, during the rainy season.”

  Suddenly the floor began to quiver.

  The first earthquake was slight and lasted only for a few moments but it made the timbers cry out.

  Now there was another tremor. Stronger. A fissure ripped up a stone wall and stopped. Dust pattered down from the rafters. Joists and beams and tiles shrieked and tiles scattered off a roof and pitched into the forecourt below.

  Ochiba felt faint and nauseous and she wondered if it was her karma to be buried in the rubble today. She hung onto the trembling floor and waited with everyone in the castle, and with all the city and the ships in the harbor, for the real shock to come.

  But it did not come. The quake ended. Life began again. The joy of living rushed back into them, and their laughter echoed through the castle. Everyone seemed to know that this time—for this hour, for this day—the holocaust would pass them by.

  “Shigata ga nai,” Ishido said, still convulsed. “Neh?”

  “Yes,” Ochiba said gloriously.

  “Let’s vote,” Ishido said, relishing his existence. “
I vote for war!”

  “And I!”

  “And I!”

  “And I!”

  “And I!”

  When Blackthorne regained consciousness he knew that Mariko was dead, and he knew how she had died and why she had died. He was lying on futons, Grays guarding him, a raftered ceiling overhead, dazzling sunshine hurting him, the silence weird. A doctor was studying him. The first of his great fears left him.

  I can see.

  The doctor smiled and said something, but Blackthorne could not hear him. He started to get up but a blinding pain set off a violent ringing in his ears. The acrid taste of gunpowder was still in his mouth and his entire body was hurting.

  For a moment he lost consciousness again, then he felt gentle hands lift his head and put a cup to his lips and the bitter-sweet tang of the jasmine-scented herb cha took away the taste of gunpowder. He forced his eyes open. Again the doctor said something and again he could not hear and again terror began to well, but he stopped it, his mind remembering the explosion and seeing her dead and, before she had died, giving her an absolution he was not qualified to give. Deliberately he pushed that memory away and made himself dwell on the other explosion—the time he was blown overboard after old Alban Caradoc had lost his legs. That time he had also had the same ringing in his ears and the same pain and soundlessness, but his hearing had returned after a few days.

  There’s no need to worry, he told himself. Not yet.

  He could see the length of the sun’s shadows and the color of the light. It’s a little after dawn, he thought, and blessed God again that his sight was undamaged.

  He saw the doctor’s lips move but no sound came through the ringing turbulence.

  Carefully he felt his face and mouth and jaws. No pain there and no wounds. Next his throat and arms and chest. No wounds yet. Now he willed his hands lower, over his loins, to his manhood. But he was not mutilated there as Alban Caradoc had been, and he blessed God that he had not been harmed there and left alive to know, as poor Alban Caradoc had known.

  He rested a moment, his head aching abominably. Then he felt his legs and feet. Everything seemed all right. Cautiously he put his hands over his ears and pressed, then half opened his mouth and swallowed and half yawned to try to clear his ears. But this only increased the pain.

  You will wait a day and half a day, he ordered himself, and ten times that time if need be and, until then, you will not be afraid.

  The doctor touched him, his lips moving.

  “Can’t hear, so sorry,” Blackthorne said calmly, hearing his words only in his head.

  The doctor nodded and spoke again. Now Blackthorne read on the man’s lips, I understand. Please sleep now.

  But Blackthorne knew that he would not sleep. He had to plan. He had to get up and leave Osaka and go to Nagasaki—to get gunners and seamen to take the Black Ship. There was nothing more to think about, nothing more to remember. There was no more reason to play at being samurai or Japanese. Now he was released, all debts and friendships were canceled. Because she was gone.

  Again he lifted his head and again the blinding pain. He dominated it and sat up. The room spun and he vaguely remembered that in his dreams he had been back at Anjiro in the earthquake when the earth had twisted and he leaped into it to save Toranaga and her from being swallowed by the earth. He could still feel the cold, clammy wetness and smell the death stench coming from the fissure, Toranaga huge and monstrous and laughing in his dream.

  He forced his eyes to see. The room stopped spinning and the nausea passed. “Cha, dozo,” he said, the taste of gunpowder back again. Hands helped him to drink and then he held out his arms and they helped him to stand. Without them he would have fallen. His body was one great hurt, but now he was sure that nothing was broken inside or out, except his ears, and that rest and massage and time would cure him. He thanked God again that he was not blinded or mutilated and left alive. The Grays helped him to sit again and he lay back a moment. He did not notice that the sun moved a quadrant from the time he lay back to the time he opened his eyes.

  Curious, he thought, measuring the sun’s shadow, not realizing he had slept. I could have sworn it was near dawn. My eyes are playing me tricks. It’s nearer the end of the forenoon watch now. That reminded him of Alban Caradoc and his hands moved over himself once more to make sure he had not dreamed that he was unhurt.

  Someone touched him and he looked up. Yabu was peering down at him and speaking.

  “So sorry,” Blackthorne said slowly. “Can’t hear yet, Yabu-san. Soon all right. Ears hurt, do you understand?”

  He saw Yabu nod and frown. Yabu and the doctor talked together and then, with signs, Yabu made Blackthorne understand that he would return soon and to rest until he did. He left.

  “Bath, please, and massage,” Blackthorne said.

  Hands lifted him and took him there. He slept under the soothing fingers, his body wallowing in the ecstasy of warmth and tenderness and the sweet-smelling oils that were rubbed into his flesh. And all the while his mind planned.

  While he slept Grays came and lifted the litter bed and carried it to the inner quarters of the donjon, but he did not awaken, drugged with fatigue and by the healing, sleep-filled potion.

  “He’ll be safe now, Lady,” Ishido said.

  “From Kiyama?” Ochiba asked.

  “From all Christians.” Ishido motioned to the guards to be very alert and led the way out of the room to the hallway, thence to a garden basking in the sun.

  “Is that why the Lady Achiko was killed? Because she was Christian?”

  Ishido had ordered it in case she was an assassin planted by her grandfather Kiyama to kill Blackthorne. “I’ve no idea,” he said.

  “They hang together like bees in a swarm. How can anyone believe their religious nonsense?”

  “I don’t know. But they’ll all be stamped out soon enough.”

  “How, Lord General? How do you do that when so much depends on their goodwill?”

  “Promises—until Toranaga’s dead. Then they’ll fall on each other. We divide and rule. Isn’t that what Toranaga does, what the Lord Taikō did? Kiyama wants the Kwanto, neh? For the Kwanto he’ll obey. So he’s promised it, in a future time. Onoshi? Who knows what that madman wants … except to spit on Toranaga’s head and Kiyama’s before he dies.”

  “And what if Kiyama finds out about your promise to Onoshi—that all Kiyama lands are his—or that you mean to keep your promise to Zataki and not to him?”

  “Lies, Lady, spread by enemies.” Ishido looked at her. “Onoshi wants Kiyama’s head. Kiyama wants the Kwanto. So does Zataki.”

  “And you, Lord General? What is it you want?”

  “First the Heir safely fifteen, then safely ruler of the realm. And you and him safe and protected until that time. Nothing more.”

  “Nothing?”

  “No, Lady.”

  Liar, Ochiba thought. She broke off a fragrant flower and smelled the perfume, and, pleased by it, offered it to him. “Lovely, neh?”

  “Yes, lovely,” Ishido said, taking it. “Thank you.”

  “Yodoko-sama’s funeral was beautiful. You’re to be congratulated, Lord General.”

  “I’m sorry she’s dead,” Ishido said politely. “Her counsel was always valuable.”

  They strolled a while. “Have they left yet? Kiritsubo-san and the Lady Sazuko and her son?” Ochiba asked.

  “No. They’ll leave tomorrow. After Lady Toda’s funeral. Many will leave tomorrow, which is bad.”

  “So sorry, but does it matter? Now that we all agree Toranaga-sama’s not coming here?”

  “I think so. But it’s not important, not while we hold Osaka Castle. No, Lady, we have to be patient as Kiyama suggested. We wait until the day. Then we march.”

  “Why wait? Can’t you march now?”

  “It will take time to gather our hosts.”

  “How many will oppose Toranaga?”

  “Three hundred thousand men. At least thre
e times Toranaga’s number.”

  “And my garrison?”

  “I’ll leave eighty thousand elite within the walls, another fifty at the passes.”

  “And Zataki?”

  “He’ll betray Toranaga. In the end he’ll betray him.”

  “You don’t find it curious that Lord Sudara, my sister, and all her children are visiting Takato?”

  “No. Of course Zataki’s pretended to make some secret arrangement with his half brother. But it’s only a trick, nothing more. He will betray him.”

  “He should—he has the same rotten bloodline,” she said with distaste. “But I would be most upset if anything happened to my sister and her children.”

  “Nothing will, Lady. I’m sure.”

  “If Zataki was prepared to assassinate his own mother … neh? You’re certain he won’t betray you?”

  “No. Not in the end. Because he hates Toranaga more than he does me, Lady, and he honors you and desires the Kwanto above all else.” Ishido smiled at the floors soaring above them. “As long as the castle’s ours and the Kwanto exists to give away, there’s nothing to fear.”

  “This morning I was afraid,” she said, holding a flower to her nose, enjoying the perfume, wanting it to erase the aftertaste of fear that still lingered. “I wanted to rush away but then I remembered the soothsayer.”

  “Eh? Oh, him. I’d forgotten about him,” Ishido said with grim amusement. This was the soothsayer, the Chinese envoy, who had foretold that the Taikō would die in his bed leaving a healthy son after him, that Toranaga would die by the sword in middle age, that Ishido would die in old age, the most famous general in the realm, his feet firm in the earth. And that the Lady Ochiba would end her days at Osaka Castle, surrounded by the greatest nobles in the Empire.

  “Yes,” Ishido said again, “I’d forgotten about him. Toranaga’s middle-aged, neh?”

  “Yes.” Again Ochiba felt the depth of his look and her loins melted at the thought of a real man on her, in her, surrounding her, taking her, giving her a new life within. This time an honorable birthing, not like the last one, when she had wondered in horror what the child would be like and look like.