They all dismounted. The grooms ran forward to take the horses’ reins. Maids hurried to the veranda’s edge with bowls of water to wash the travelers’ feet. The innkeeper himself appeared, an important figure in the town’s government. He was sweating with nervousness; he bowed to the ground, then leaped to his feet, organized the maids and menservants with many hissed instructions and much hand-flapping, and ushered Takeo and Gemba into the main guest room.
It was a pleasant enough room, though far from lavish. The matting was new and sweet-smelling, and the inner doors opened onto a small garden that contained some ordinary shrubs and one unusual black rock, like a miniature double-peaked mountain.
Takeo gazed on it, listening to the bustle of the inn all around him: the anxious voice of the owner, the activity in the kitchen as the evening meal was prepared, Tenba’s whinny from the stables, and finally his daughter’s voice, her step outside. He turned as the door slid open.
“Father! I could not wait to see you!”
“Shigeko,” he said, and then with great affection, “Lady Maruyama!”
Gemba had been sitting in the shade on the inner veranda. He now rose to his feet and echoed Takeo. “Lady Maruyama!”
“Lord Miyoshi! I am so pleased to see you.”
“Hmm, hmm,” he said, smiling broadly and humming with pleasure. “You look well.”
Indeed, Takeo thought, his daughter was not only at the peak of youthful beauty but radiated the power and confidence of a mature woman, of a ruler.
“And your charge arrived in good health, I see,” Takeo said.
“I have just come back from the kirin’s enclosure. She was so happy to see Tenba. It was quite touching. But are you well? You have had a more difficult journey. You are not in too much pain?”
“I am well,” he replied. “In this mild weather the pain is bearable. Gemba has been the best of companions, and your horse is a marvel.”
“You will have had no news from home?” Shigeko said.
“That’s right, but since I have not been expecting any, the silence has not concerned me. But where is Hiroshi?” he asked.
“He is overseeing the horses and the kirin,” Shigeko replied, calmly. “With Sakai Masaki, who came with us from Maruyama.”
Takeo studied her face, but it revealed no emotion. After a moment he asked, “Was there any message from Taku at Akashi?”
Shigeko shook her head. “Hiroshi was expecting something, but none of the Muto people there had heard from him. Can there be something wrong?”
“I don’t know; he has been silent for so long.”
“I saw him and Maya briefly in Hofu before we left. Maya came to see the kirin. She seemed well, more settled, more accepting of her gifts and more able to control them.”
“You see this possession as a gift?” he said, surprised.
“It will be,” Gemba said, and he and Shigeko smiled at each other.
“So tell me, my Masters,” Takeo said, masking with irony his slight annoyance that they should exclude him. “Should I be worrying about Taku and Maya?”
“Since you can do nothing for either of them from here,” Gemba explained, “there is no point in wasting your energy on worrying about them. Bad news travels fast—you will hear it soon enough.”
Takeo recognized the wisdom of this, and tried to put the matter from his mind. But in the nights that followed, as they traveled on toward the capital, he often saw his twin daughters in dreams, and in that other shadow world he was aware that they were undergoing some strange ordeal. Maya shone like gold, drawing all light from Miki, who in his dreams seemed as fine and sharpened as a dark sword. Once he saw them as the cat and its shadow—he called to them, but though their heads turned they took no notice of him but raced away along a pale road on silent feet until they were out of earshot and beyond his protection. He woke from these dreams with an aching sense of loss that his daughters were no longer children, that even his baby son would eventually grow to manhood and challenge him, that parents bring children into this world only to be supplanted by them, that the price of life is death.
Each day the night was shorter, and as the light strengthened each morning, Takeo, returning from the dream world, regathered his determination and his strength to deal with the task that faced him, to dazzle his opponents and win their favor, to retain his country and preserve the Otori clan, above all to prevent war.
38
The journey continued without incident. It was the best time of year to travel, the days lengthening toward the solstice, the air clear and mild. Okuda seemed deeply impressed by everything—by the kirin, by the Maruyama horses, by Shigeko, who chose to ride alongside her father. He questioned Takeo closely about the Three Countries, their trade, their administration, their ships, and Takeo’s truthful answers made his eyes pop even more.
News of the kirin had gone ahead of them, and as they approached the capital, the crowds became thicker as the townspeople poured out to welcome it. They made a day’s outing of it, bringing their wives and children in brightly colored clothes, spreading mats, and erecting scarlet sunshades and white tents, eating and drinking merrily. Takeo felt all this festivity as a blessing on his journey, dispelling the bad omen of the executions at Inuyama, and this impression was reinforced by Lord Kono, who sent invitations to Takeo to visit him on their first night in the capital.
The city lay in a bowl on the hills; a great lake to the north supplied it with fresh water and much fish, and two rivers flowed through it, crossed by several beautiful bridges. It was built like the ancient cities of Shin, on a rectangle with avenues running north to south, crossed by streets. The Imperial Palace was situated at the head of the main avenue, next to the great shrine.
Takeo and his retinue were lodged in a mansion not far from Kono’s own residence, with stabling for the horses and a hastily constructed enclosure for the kirin. Takeo dressed with considerable care for the meeting, and rode in one of the sumptuous lacquered palanquins that had been transported by ship from Hagi to Akashi. Gifts for Kono were carried by a train of servants. The local products of the Three Countries were a testimony to prosperity and good rulership, whatever Kono had enjoyed or admired during his stay in the West—one of Taku’s minor forms of espionage.
“Lord Otori has come up to the capital as the sun approaches its zenith,” Kono exclaimed. “It could not be a more auspicious time. I have the highest hopes for your success.”
This is the man who brought the news that my rule was illegal and the Emperor demanded my abdication and exile, Takeo reminded himself. I must not be distracted by his flattery. He smiled and thanked Kono, saying, “All these things are in the hands of Heaven. I will submit to the will of His Divine Majesty.”
“Lord Saga is most anxious to meet you. Perhaps tomorrow is not too early? He would like to see matters settled before the rains begin.”
“Certainly.” Takeo could see no point in delay. Indeed he was eager to learn Saga’s exact terms. The rains would no doubt keep him in the capital until the seventh month—he suddenly saw himself the loser in the contest. What would he do then? Skulk in the damp and dreary city until he could creep home and arrange his own exile? Or take his own life, leaving Shigeko alone in Saga’s hands, at his mercy? Was he really about to gamble an entire country, and his life and hers, on the outcome of a contest?
He gave no sign of these misgivings, but spent the rest of the evening admiring Kono’s collection of treasures and discussing painting with the nobleman.
“Some of these were my father’s,” Kono said, as one of his companions unwrapped the silk coverings of the precious objects. “Of course, most of his collection was lost…But we will not recall those unhappy times. Forgive me. I have heard that Lord Otori himself is an artist of great talent.”
“No talent at all,” Takeo replied. “But painting gives me great pleasure, though I have very little time for it.”
Kono smiled and pursed his lips knowingly.
&nbs
p; No doubt he is thinking I will soon have all the time in the world, Takeo reflected, and he could not help smiling, too, at the irony of his situation.
“I will be bold enough to beg you to give me one of your works. And Lord Saga would be delighted to receive one too.”
“You flatter me too much,” Takeo replied. “I have brought nothing with me. A few sketches done on the journey I have already sent home to my wife.”
“I am sorry I cannot persuade you,” Kono exclaimed with warmth. “In my experience, the less the artist displays his work, the greater the talent. It is the hidden treasure, the concealed skill, that is the most impressive and the most valued.
“Which brings me,” he went on smoothly, “to your daughter—surely Lord Otori’s greatest treasure. She will accompany you tomorrow?”
It seemed to be only partly a question. Takeo inclined his head slightly.
“Lord Saga is looking forward to meeting his opponent,” Kono murmured.
LORD KONO CAME the next day with the Okuda, father and son, and the other warriors of Saga’s household, to escort Takeo, Shigeko, and Gemba to the great lord’s residence. When they dismounted from the palanquins in the garden of a large and imposing mansion, Kono murmured, “Lord Saga asks me to apologize. He is having a new castle built—he will show it to you later. In the meantime he fears you will find his dwelling place somewhat humble—not at all what you are accustomed to in Hagi.”
Takeo raised his eyebrows and glanced at Kono’s face, but could see no hint of irony there.
“We have had the advantage of years of peace,” he replied. “Even so, I am sure nothing we have in the Three Countries can compare with the splendors of the capital. You must have the most skilled craftsmen, the most talented artists.”
“It’s my experience that such people seek a calm environment in which to practice their art. Many fled the capital and are only now beginning to return. Lord Saga gives many commissions. He is a passionate admirer of all the arts.”
Minoru also accompanied them with scrolls of the genealogy of those present and lists of the gifts for Lord Saga. Hiroshi begged to be excused, pleading he did not want to leave the kirin unguarded, though Takeo thought there were other reasons—the young man’s awareness of his lack of status and land, his reluctance to meet the man to whom Shigeko might be married.
Okuda, dressed in formal clothes rather than the armor he had worn previously, led them down a wide veranda and through many rooms, each one decorated with flamboyant paintings, brilliant colors on gold backgrounds. Takeo could not help admiring the boldness of the design and the mastery of its execution. Yet he felt all the paintings were done to demonstrate the power of the warlord: They spoke of glorification; their purpose was to dominate.
Peacocks strutted beneath massive pine trees. Two mythical lions strode across one entire wall; dragons and tigers snarled at each other; hawks gazed imperiously from their vantage point on twin-peaked crags. There was even a painting of a pair of houou feeding on bamboo leaves.
In this final room Okuda asked them to wait for a little while, while he left with Kono. Takeo had expected this—indeed he often used the same ploy himself. No one should expect too easy an access to the ruler. He composed himself and gazed at the houou. He was sure the artist had never seen a live one, but was painting from legend. He turned his thoughts to the temple at Terayama, to the sacred forest of paulownia trees where even now the houou were raising their chicks. He saw in his mind’s eye Makoto, his closest friend, who had devoted his life to the Way of the Houou, to the way of peace, felt the spiritual strength of Makoto’s support, embodied in his present companions, Gemba and Shigeko. All three of them sat without speaking, and he felt the energy of the room intensify, filling him with a steady confidence. He set his ears as he had once long ago in Hagi castle when made to wait in a similar way; then he had overheard the treachery of Lord Shigeru’s uncles. Now he heard Kono talking quietly to a man he presumed was Saga, but they spoke only in commonplaces of insignificant matters.
Kono has been alerted to my hearing, he thought. What else has Zenko revealed to him?
He recalled his past, known only to the Tribe; how much did Zenko know?
After a while Okuda returned with a man whom he introduced as Lord Saga’s chief steward and administrator, who would escort them to the audience room, receive the lists of presents prepared by Minoru, and oversee the scribes as they recorded the proceedings. This man bowed to the ground before Takeo and addressed him in terms of greatest courtesy.
A polished and covered boardwalk took them through a small exquisite garden to another building, even grander and more beautiful. The day was growing warmer, and the trickle of water from pools and cisterns gave an enticing sense of coolness. Takeo could hear caged birds whistling and calling somewhere in the depths of the house, and thought that they must be Lady Saga’s pets, then recalled that the warlord’s wife had died the previous year. He wondered if it had been a tragic loss for Saga, and felt a moment of fear for his own wife, so far away—how could he bear her death? Would he be able to live without her? Take another wife for reasons of state?
Recalling Gemba’s advice, he put the thought from him, concentrating all his attention on the man he was at last to meet.
The steward fell to his knees, sliding the screens apart and touching his head to the ground. Takeo stepped into the room and prostrated himself. Gemba followed him, but Shigeko waited on the threshold. Only when the two men had received the command to sit up did she move gracefully into the room and sink to the floor beside her father.
Saga Hideki sat at the head of the room. The alcove on his right held a painting in the mainland style of Shin. It might even be the famous Evening Bell from a Distant Temple, which Takeo had heard of but never seen. Compared to the other rooms, this room was almost austere in its decoration, as though nothing should compete with the powerful presence of the man himself. The effect was extraordinary, Takeo thought. The ostentatious paintings were like the decorated scabbard—here the sword was exposed, needing no decoration, only its own sharp and deadly steel.
He had thought Saga might be a brutal and unreflecting warlord; now he changed his mind. Brutal he might be, but not unreflecting—a man who controlled his mind as stringently as his body. There was no doubt he was facing a formidable opponent. He bitterly regretted his own disability, his lack of skill with the bow, and then heard a very faint hum from his left, where Gemba sat in relaxed composure. And he saw suddenly that Saga would never be defeated by brute force, but by some subtlety, some shift in the balance of the life forces that the Masters of the Way of the Houou knew how to bring about.
Shigeko remained in a deep bow while the two men looked at each other. Saga must have been a few years older than Takeo, closer to forty than thirty, with the thickset body of middle age. Yet he had a looseness about him that belied his years: He sat easily; his movements were fluid. He had the broad shoulders and huge muscles of a bowman, made broader by the flared wings of his formal robes. His voice was curt, the consonants clipped, the vowels shortened. It was the first time Takeo had heard the accent of the northeast region, Saga’s birthplace. His face was broad and well-shaped, the eyes long and somewhat hooded, the ears surprisingly delicate, with almost no lobes, set very close to the head. He wore a small beard and a rather long mustache, both slightly grizzled, though his hair showed no traces of gray.
Saga’s eyes searched Takeo’s face no less keenly, flickered over his body, rested briefly on the black-gloved right hand. Then the warlord leaned forward and said, brusquely but amiably, “What do you think?”
“Lord Saga?”
Saga gestured toward the alcove. “The painting, of course.”
“It’s marvelous. It is Yu-Chien, is it not?”
“Ha! Kono advised me to hang it. He said you would know it, and that it would appeal to you more than my modern stuff. How about that one?”
He got to his feet and walked to the eastern w
all. “Come and look.”
Takeo rose and stood a little behind him. They were of almost equal height, though Saga was considerably heavier. The painting was a garden landscape showing bamboo, plum, and pine. It was also in black ink, understated and evocative.
“It is also very fine,” Takeo said with unfeigned admiration. “A masterpiece.”
“The three friends,” Saga said, “flexible, fragrant, and strong. Lady Maruyama, please join us.”
Shigeko stood and moved slowly to her father’s side.
“All three can withstand the adversity of winter,” she said in a low voice.
“Indeed,” Saga said, returning to his seat. “I see such a combination here.” He indicated that they should move closer to him. “Lady Maruyama is the plum, Lord Miyoshi the pine.”
Gemba bowed at this compliment.
“And Lord Otori the bamboo.”
“I believe I am flexible,” Takeo replied, smiling.
“From what I know of your history, I believe so too. Yet bamboo can be extremely hard to eradicate if it happens to be growing in the wrong place.”
“It will always grow back,” Takeo agreed. “It is better to leave it where it is, and take advantage of its many and varied uses.”
“Ha!” Saga gave his triumphant laugh again. His eyes strayed back to Shigeko, a curious expression in them, of both calculation and desire. He seemed to be about to address her directly, but then thought better of it and spoke to Takeo.
“Does this philosophy explain why you have not dealt with Arai?”
Takeo replied, “Even a poisonous plant can be put to some use, in medicine, for example.”
“You are interested in farming, I hear.”
“My father, Lord Shigeru, taught me to be, before his death. When the farmers are happy, the country is rich and stable.”
“Well, I haven’t had a lot of time for farming over the last few years. I’ve been too busy fighting. But food’s been short this winter as a result. Okuda tells me the Three Countries produce more rice than they can consume.”