Shōgun

by James Clavell

  “I’m not a counselor, Gyoko-san. Nor a valuer.”

  “I’d say they’re worth a thousand koku.”

  “So desu ka?”

  Gyoko made perfectly sure no one was listening, then told Mariko what the renegade Christian priest had muttered aloud that the Lord Onoshi had whispered to him in the confessional that he had related to his uncle, Lord Harima; then what Omi’s second cook had overheard of Omi’s and his mother’s plot against Yabu; and lastly, all she knew about Zataki, his apparent lust for the Lady Ochiba, and about Ishido and Lady Ochiba.

  Mariko had listened intently without comment—although breaking the secrecy of the confessional shocked her greatly—her mind hopping at the swarm of possibilities this information unlocked. Then she cross-questioned Gyoko carefully, to make sure she understood clearly what she was being told and to etch it completely in her own memory.

  When she was satisfied that she knew everything that Gyoko was prepared to divulge at the moment—for, obviously, so shrewd a bargainer would always hold much in reserve—she sent for fresh cha.

  She poured Gyoko’s cup herself, and they sipped demurely. Both wary, both confident.

  “I’ve no way of knowing how valuable this information is, Gyoko-san.”

  “Of course, Mariko-sama.”

  “I imagine this information—and the thousand koku—would please Lord Toranaga greatly.”

  Gyoko bit back the obscenity that flared behind her lips. She had expected a substantial reduction in the beginning bid. “So sorry, but money has no significance to such a daimyo, though it is a heritage to a peasant like myself—a thousand koku makes me an ancestress, neh? One must always know what one is, Lady Toda. Neh?” Her tone was barbed.

  “Yes. It’s good to know what you are, and who you are, Gyoko-san. That is one of the rare gifts a woman has over a man. A woman always knows. Fortunately I know what I am. Oh very yes. Please come to the point.”

  Gyoko did not flinch under the threat but slammed back into attack with corresponding impolite brevity. “The point is we both know life and understand death—and both believe treatment in hell and everywhere else depends on money.”

  “Do we?”

  “Yes. So sorry, I believe a thousand koku is too much.”

  “Death is preferable?”

  “I’ve already written my death poem, Lady:

  When I die,

  don’t burn me,

  don’t bury me,

  just throw my body on a field to fatten some empty-bellied dog.”

  “That could be arranged. Easily.”

  “Yes. But I’ve long ears and a safe tongue, which could be more important.”

  Mariko poured more cha. For herself. “So sorry, have you?”

  “Oh yes, oh very yes. Please excuse me but it’s no boast that I was trained well, Lady, in that and many other things. I’m not afraid to die. I’ve written my will, and detailed instructions to my kin in case of a sudden death. I’ve made my peace with the gods long since and forty days after I’m dead I know I’ll be reborn. And if I’m not”—the woman shrugged—“then I’m a kami.” Her fan was stationary. “So I can afford to reach for the moon, neh? Please excuse me for mentioning it but I’m like you: I fear nothing. But unlike you in this life—I’ve nothing to lose.”

  “So much talk of evil things, Gyoko-san, on such a pleasant morning. It is pleasant, neh?” Mariko readied to bury her fangs. “I’d much prefer to see you alive, living into honored old age, one of the pillars of your new guild. Ah, that was a very tender idea. A good one, Gyoko-san.”

  “Thank you, Lady. Equally I’d like you safe and happy and prospering in the way that you’d wish. With all the toys and honors you’d require.”

  “Toys?” Mariko repeated, dangerous now.

  Gyoko was like a trained dog on the scent near the kill. “I’m only a peasant, Lady, so I wouldn’t know what honors you wish, what toys would please you. Or your son.”

  Unnoticed by either of them the slim wooden haft of Mariko’s fan snapped between her fingers. The breeze had died. Now the hot wet air hung in the garden that looked out on a waveless sea. Flies swarmed and settled and swarmed again.

  “What—what honors or toys would you wish? For yourself?” Mariko stared with malevolent fascination at the older woman, clearly aware now that she must destroy this woman or her son would perish.

  “Nothing for myself. Lord Toranaga’s given me honors and riches beyond my dreams. But for my son? Ah yes, he could be given a helping hand.”

  “What help?”

  “Two swords.”

  “Impossible.”

  “I know, Lady. So sorry. So easy to grant, yet so impossible. War’s coming. Many will be needed to fight.”

  “There’ll be no war now. Lord Toranaga’s going to Osaka.”

  “Two swords. That’s not much to ask.”

  “That’s impossible. So sorry, that’s not mine to give.”

  “So sorry, but I haven’t asked you for anything. But that’s the only thing that would please me. Yes. Nothing else.” A dribble of sweat fell from Gyoko’s face onto her lap. “I’d like to offer Lord Toranaga five hundred koku from the contract price, as a token of my esteem in these hard times. The other five hundred will go to my son. A samurai needs a heritage, neh?”

  “You sentence your son to death. All Toranaga samurai will die or become ronin very soon.”

  “Karma. My son already has sons, Lady. They will tell their sons that once we were samurai. That’s all that matters, neh?”

  “It’s not mine to give.”

  “True. So sorry. But that’s all that would satisfy me.”

  Irritably, Toranaga shook his head. “Her information’s interesting—perhaps—but not worth making her son samurai.”

  Mariko replied, “She seems to be a loyal vassal, Sire. She said she’d be honored if you’d deduct a further five hundred koku from the contract fee for some needy samurai.”

  “That’s not generosity. No, not at all. That’s merely guilt over the original usurious asking price.”

  “Perhaps it’s worth considering, Sire. Her idea about the guild, about gei-sha and the new classes of courtesans, will have far-reaching effects, neh? It would do no harm, perhaps.”

  “I don’t agree. No. Why should she be rewarded? There’s no reason for granting her that honor. Ridiculous! She surely didn’t ask you for it, did she?”

  “It would have been more than a little impertinent for her to do that, Sire. I have made the suggestion because I believe she could be very valuable to you.”

  “She’d better be more valuable. Her secrets are probably lies too. These days I get nothing but lies.” Toranaga rang a small bell and an equerry appeared instantly at the far door.

  “Sire?”

  “Where’s the courtesan Kiku?”

  “In your quarters, Sire.”

  “Is the Gyoko woman with her?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “Send them both out of the castle. At once! Send them back to…. No, lodge them at an inn—a third-class inn—and tell them to wait there until I send for them.” Toranaga said testily, as the man vanished, “Disgusting! Pimps wanting to be samurai? Filthy peasants don’t know their place anymore!”

  Mariko watched him sitting on his cushion, his fan waving desultorily. She was jarred by the change in him. Gloom, irritation, and petulance, where before there had always been only buoyant confidence. He had listened to the secrets with interest, but not with the excitement she had expected. Poor man, she thought with pity, he’s given up. What’s the good of any information to him? Perhaps he’s wise to cast things of the world aside and prepare for the unknown. Better you should do that yourself too, she thought, dying inside a bit more. Yes, but you can’t, not yet, somehow you’ve got to protect your son.

  They were on the sixth floor of the tall fortified donjon and the windows overlooked the whole city on three quarters of the compass. Sunset was dark tonight, the thread of moo
n low on the horizon, the dank air stifling, though here, almost a hundred feet above the floor of the castle battlements, the room gathered every breath of wind. The room was low and fortified and took up half the whole floor, other rooms beyond.

  Toranaga picked up the dispatch that Hiro-matsu had sent with Mariko and read it again. She noticed his hand tremble.

  “What’s he want to come to Yedo for?” Impatiently Toranaga tossed the scroll aside.

  “I don’t know, Sire, so sorry. He just asked me to give you this dispatch.”

  “Did you talk to the Christian renegade?”

  “No, Sire. Yoshinaka-san said you’d given orders against anyone doing that.”

  “How was Yoshinaka on the journey?”

  “Very capable, Sire,” she said, patiently answering the question for a second time. “Very efficient. He guarded us very well and delivered us on time exactly.”

  “Why didn’t the priest Tsukku-san come back with you all the way?”

  “On the road from Mishima, Sire, he and the Anjin-san quarreled,” Mariko told him, not knowing what Father Alvito might have already told Toranaga, if in fact Toranaga had sent for him yet. “The Father decided to travel on alone.”

  “What was the quarrel about?”

  “Partially over me, my soul, Sire. Mostly because of their religious enmity and because of the war between their rulers.”

  “Who started it?”

  “They were equally to blame. It began over a flask of liquor.” Mariko told him what had passed with Rodrigues, then continued, “The Tsukku-san had brought a second flask as a gift, wanting, so he said, to intercede for Rodrigues-san, but the Anjin-san said, shockingly bluntly, that he didn’t want any ‘Papist liquor,’ preferred saké, and he didn’t trust priests. The—the Holy Father flared up, was equally shockingly blunt, saying he had never dealt in poison, never would, and could never condone such a thing.”

  “Ah, poison? Do they use poison as a weapon?”

  “The Anjin-san told me some of them do, Sire. This led to more violent words and then they were hacking at each other over religion, my soul, about Catholics and Protestants … I left to fetch Yoshinaka-san as soon as I could and he stopped the quarrel.”

  “Barbarians cause nothing but trouble. Christians cause nothing but trouble. Neh?”

  She did not answer him. His petulance unsettled her. It was so unlike him and there seemed to be no reason for such a breakdown in his legendary self-control. Perhaps the shock of being beaten is too much for him, she thought. Without him we’re all finished, my son’s finished, and the Kwanto will soon be in other hands. His gloom was infecting her. She had noticed in the streets and in the castle the pall that seemed to hang over the whole city—a city that was famous for its gaiety, brash good humor, and delight with life.

  “I was born the year the first Christians arrived and they’ve bedeviled the land ever since,” Toranaga said. “For fifty-eight years nothing but trouble. Neh?”

  “I’m sorry they offend you, Sire. Was there anything else? With your permi—”

  “Sit down. I haven’t finished yet.” Toranaga rang the bell again. The door opened. “Send Buntaro-san in.”

  Buntaro walked in. Grim-faced, he knelt and bowed. She bowed to him, numb, but he did not acknowledge her.

  A while ago Buntaro had met their cortege at the castle gate. After a brief greeting, he had told her she was to go at once to Lord Toranaga. The Anjin-san would be sent for later.

  “Buntaro-san, you asked to see me in your wife’s presence as soon as possible?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “What is it you want?”

  “I humbly beg permission to take the Anjin-san’s head,” Buntaro said.

  “Why?”

  “Please excuse me but I … I don’t like the way he looks at my wife. I wanted … I wanted to say it in front of her, the first time, before you. Also, he insulted me at Anjiro and I can no longer live with this shame.”

  Toranaga glanced at Mariko, who seemed to be frozen in time. “You accuse her of encouraging him?”

  “I … I ask permission to take his head.”

  “You accuse her of encouraging him? Answer the question!”

  “Please excuse me, Sire, but if I thought that I’d be duty bound to take her head the same instant,” Buntaro replied stonily, his eyes on the tatamis. “The barbarian’s a constant irritation to my harmony. I believe he’s a harassment to you. Let me remove his head, I beg you.” He looked up, his heavy jowls unshaven, eyes deeply shadowed. “Or let me take my wife now and tonight we’ll go before you—to prepare the way.”

  “What do you say to that, Mariko-san?”

  “He is my husband. Whatever he decides, that will I do—unless you overrule him, Sire. This is my duty.”

  Toranaga looked from man to woman. Then his voice hardened, and for a moment he was like the Toranaga of old. “Mariko-san, you will leave in three days for Osaka. You will prepare that way for me, and wait for me there. Buntaro-san, you will accompany me as commander of my escort when I leave. After you have acted as my second, you or one of your men may do the same with the Anjin-san—with or without his approval.”

  Buntaro cleared his throat. “Sire, please order Crim—”

  “Hold your tongue! You forget yourself! I’ve told you no three times! The next time you have the impertinence to offer unwanted advice you will slit your belly in a Yedo cesspool!”

  Buntaro’s head was on the tatamis. “I apologize, Sire. I apologize for my impertinence.”

  Mariko was equally appalled by Toranaga’s ill-mannered, shameful outburst, and she bowed low also, to hide her own embarrassment. In a moment Toranaga said, “Please excuse my temper. Your plea is granted, Buntaro-san, but only after you’ve acted as my second.”

  “Thank you, Sire. Please excuse me for offending you.”

  “I ordered you both to make peace with one another. Have you done so?”

  Buntaro nodded shortly. Mariko too.

  “Good. Mariko-san, you will come back with the Anjin-san tonight, in the Hour of the Dog. You may go now.”

  She bowed and left them.

  Toranaga stared at Buntaro. “Well? Do you accuse her?”

  “It… it is unthinkable she’d betray me, Sire,” Buntaro answered sullenly.

  “I agree.” Toranaga waved a fly away with his fan, seeming very tired. “Well, you may have the Anjin-san’s head soon. I need it on his shoulders a little longer.”

  “Thank you, Sire. Again please excuse me for irritating you.”

  “These are irritating times. Foul times.” Toranaga leaned forward. “Listen, I want you to go to Mishima at once to relieve your father for a few days. He asks permission to come here to consult with me. I don’t know what…. Anyway, I must have someone in Mishima I can trust. Would you please leave at dawn—but by way of Takato.”

  “Sire?” Buntaro saw that Toranaga was keeping calm only with an enormous effort, and in spite of his will, his voice was trembling.

  “I’ve a private message for my mother in Takato. You’re to tell no one you’re going there. But once you’re clear of the city, cut north.”

  “I understand.”

  “Lord Zataki may prevent you from delivering it—may try to. You are to give it only into her hands. You understand? To her alone. Take twenty men and gallop there. I’ll send a carrier pigeon to ask safe conduct from him.”

  “Your message will be verbal or in writing, Lord?”

  “In writing.”

  “And if I can’t deliver it?”

  “You must deliver it, of course you must. That’s why I picked you! But … if you’re betrayed like I’ve … if you’re betrayed, destroy it before you commit suicide. The moment I hear such evil news, the Anjin-san’s head is off his shoulders. And if … what about Mariko-san? What about your wife, if something goes wrong?”

  “Please dispatch her, Sire, before you die. I would be honored if…. She merits a worthy second.”
>
  “She won’t die dishonorably, you have my promise. I’ll see to it. Personally. Now please come back at dawn for the dispatch. Don’t fail me. Only into my mother’s hands.”

  Buntaro thanked him again and left, ashamed of Toranaga’s outward show of fear.

  Now alone, Toranaga took out a kerchief and wiped the sweat off his face. His fingers were trembling. He tried to control them but couldn’t. It had taken all his strength to continue acting the stupid dullard, to hide his unbounding excitement over the secrets, which, fantastically, promised the long-hoped-for reprieve.

  “A possible reprieve, only possible—if they’re true,” he said aloud, hardly able to think, the astoundingly welcome information that Mariko had brought from the Gyoko woman still shrieking in his brain.

  Ochiba, he was gloating, … so that harpy’s the lure to bring my brother tumbling out of his mountain eyrie. My brother wants Ochiba. But now it’s equally obvious he wants more than her, and more than just the Kwanto. He wants the realm. He detests Ishido, loathes Christians, and is now sick with jealousy over Ishido’s well-known lust for Ochiba. So he’ll fall out with Ishido, Kiyama, and Onoshi. Because what my treacherous brother really wants is to be Shōgun. He’s Minowara, with all the lineage necessary, all the ambition, but not the mandate. Or the Kwanto. First he must get the Kwanto to get the rest.

  Toranaga rubbed his hands with glee at all the wonderful new possible ploys this newfound knowledge gave him against his brother.

  And Onoshi the leper! A drop of honey in Kiyama’s ear at the right time, he thought, and the guts of the renegade’s treason twisted a little, improved modestly, and Kiyama might gather his legions and go after Onoshi with fire and sword at once. ‘Gyoko’s quite sure, Sire. The acolyte Brother Joseph said Lord Onoshi had whispered in the confessional that he had made a secret treaty with Ishido against a fellow Christian daimyo and wanted absolution. The treaty solemnly agreed that in return for support now, Ishido promised the day you are dead that this fellow Christian would be impeached for treason and invited into the Void, the same day, forcibly if necessary, and Onoshi’s son and heir would inherit all lands. The Christian was not named, Sire.’