“For how much time?”

“The rains are with us for two months, about. When the rains cease Ishido will plan to send Ikawa Jikkyu and Lord Zataki against you simultaneously, to catch you in a pincer, and Ishido’s main army will support them over the Tokaidō Road. Meanwhile, until the rains stop, every daimyo who bears a grudge against any other daimyo will only pay Ishido lip service until he makes the first move, then I think they’ll forget him and they’ll all take revenge or grab territory at their whim. The Empire will be torn as it was before the Taikō. But you, Sire, between Yabu-sama and yourself, jointly, with luck you have enough strength to hold the passes to the Kwanto and to Izu against the first wave and beat it off. I don’t think Ishido could mount another attack—not a great one. When Ishido and the others have expended their energies, together you and Lord Yabu can cautiously come from behind our mountains and gradually take the Empire into your own hands.”

“When will that be?”

“In the time of your children, Sire.”

“You say fight a defensive battle?” Yabu asked scornfully.

“I think jointly you’re both safe behind the mountains. You wait, Toranaga-sama. You wait until you have more allies. You hold the passes. This can be done! General Ishido’s evil, but not stupid enough to commit all his force to one battle. He’ll stay skulking inside Osaka. So for the time being, we mustn’t use our regiment. We must tighten security and keep them as a secret weapon, poised and ever ready, until you come from behind your mountains—but now I don’t think I will ever see them used.” Omi was conscious of the eyes watching him. He bowed to Toranaga. “Please excuse me for talking at length, Sire.”

Toranaga studied him, then glanced at his son. He saw the youth’s pent-up excitement and knew it was time to cast him at his prey. “Naga-san?”

“What Omi-san said is true,” Naga told him at once, exultantly. “Most of it. But I say use the two months to gather allies, to isolate Ishido even more, and when the rains cease, attack without warning—Crimson Sky.”

Toranaga asked, “You disagree with Omi-san’s opinion about a lengthy war?”

“No. But isn’t this—” Naga stopped.

“Go on, Naga-san. Speak openly!” Naga held his tongue, his face white. “You’re ordered to continue!”

“Well, Sire, it occurred to me that—” Again he stopped, then said in a gush, “Isn’t this your great opportunity to become Shōgun? If you succeed in taking Kyoto and get the mandate, why form a Council? Why not petition the Emperor to make you Shōgun? It would be best for you and best for the realm.” Naga tried to keep the fear out of his voice for he was speaking treason against Yaemon and most samurai here—Yabu, Omi, Igurashi, and Buntaro particularly—were open loyalists. “I say you should be Shōgun!” He turned defensively on the others. “If this opportunity is let go . . . Omi-san, you’re right about a long war, but I say Lord Toranaga must take power, to give power! A long war will ruin the Empire, split it into a thousand fragments again! Who wants that? Lord Toranaga must be Shōgun. To gift the Empire on to Yaemon, to Lord Yaemon, the realm must be secured first! There’ll never be another opportunity. . . .” His words trailed off. He squared his back, frightened because he had said it, glad that he had said publicly what he had been thinking forever.

Toranaga sighed. “I have never sought to become Shōgun. How many times do I have to say it? I support my nephew Yaemon and the Taikō’s will.” He looked at them all, one by one. Lastly at Naga. The youth winced. But Toranaga said kindly, calling him back to the lure, “Your zeal and youth alone excuse you. Unfortunately, many much older and wiser than you think that’s my ambition. It isn’t. There’s only one way to settle that nonsense and that’s put Lord Yaemon into power. And that I intend to do.”

“Yes, Father. Thank you. Thank you,” Naga replied in despair.

Toranaga shifted his eyes to Igurashi. “What’s your counsel?”

The one-eyed samurai scratched. “Me, I’m only a soldier, not a counselor, but I wouldn’t advise Crimson Sky, not if we can war on our terms like Omi-san says. I fought in Shinano years ago. That’s bad country, and then Lord Zataki was with us. I wouldn’t want to war in Shinano again and never if Zataki was hostile. And if Lord Maeda’s suspect, well, how can you plan a battle if your biggest ally may betray you? Lord Ishido’ll put two, three hundred thousand men against you and still keep a hundred holding Osaka. Even with the guns we’ve not enough men to attack. But behind the mountains using the guns, you could hold out forever if it happens like Omi-san says. We could hold the passes. You’ve enough rice—doesn’t the Kwanto supply half the Empire? Well, a third at least—and we could send you all the fish you need. You’d be safe. Let Lord Ishido and devil Jikkyu come at us if it’s to happen like Omi-san said, that soon the enemy’ll be feeding on each other. If not, keep Crimson Sky ready. A man can die for his lord only once in this life.”

“Has anyone anything to add?” Toranaga asked. No one answered him.

“Mariko-san?”

“It’s not my place to speak here, Sire,” she replied. “I’m sure everything has been said that should have been said. But may I be allowed to ask for all your counselors here, what do you think will happen?”

Toranaga chose his words deliberately. “I believe that what Omi-san forecast will happen. With one exception: the Council won’t be impotent. The Council will wield enough influence to gather an invincible allied force. When the rains cease it will be thrown against the Kwanto, bypassing Izu. The Kwanto will be gobbled up, then Izu. Only after I’m dead will the daimyos fight among themselves.”

“But why, Sire?” Omi ventured.

“Because I’ve too many enemies, I own the Kwanto, I’ve warred for more than forty years and never lost a battle. They’re all afraid of me. I know that first the vultures will pack together to destroy me. Later they’ll destroy themselves, but first they’ll join to destroy me if they can. Know very clearly, all of you, I’m the only real threat to Yaemon, even though I’m no threat at all. That’s the irony of it. They all believe I want to be Shōgun. I don’t. This is another war that’s not necessary at all!”

Naga broke the silence. “Then what are you going to do, Sire?”

“Eh?”

“What are you going to do?”

“Obviously, Crimson Sky,” Toranaga said.

“But you said they’d eat us up?”

“They would—if I gave them any time. But I’m not going to give them any time. We go to war at once!”

“But the rains—what about the rains?”

“We will arrive in Kyoto wet. Hot and stinking and wet. Surprise, mobility, audacity, and timing win wars, neh? Yabu-san was right. The guns will blast a way through the mountains.”

For an hour they discussed plans and the feasibility of large-scale war in the rainy season—an unheard-of strategy. Then Toranaga sent them away, except Mariko, telling Naga to order the Anjin-san here. He watched them walk off. They had all been outwardly enthusiastic once the decision had been announced, Naga and Buntaro particularly. Only Omi had been reserved and thoughtful and unconvinced. Toranaga discounted Igurashi for he knew that, rightly, the soldier would do only what Yabu ordered, and he dismissed Yabu as a pawn, treacherous certainly, but still a pawn. Omi’s the only one worthwhile, he thought. I wonder if he’s worked out yet what I’m really going to do?

“Mariko-san. Find out, tactfully, how much the courtesan’s contract would cost.”

She blinked. “Kiku-san, Sire?”

“Yes.”

“Now, Sire? At once?”

“Tonight would do excellently.” He looked at her blandly. “Her contract’s not necessarily for me, perhaps for one of my officers.”

“I would imagine the price would depend on whom, Sire.”

“I imagine it will. But set a price. The girl of course has the right of refusal, if she wishes, when the samurai’s named, but tell her mama-san owner that I don’t expect the girl will have the bad manners to mistrust my choice for her. Tell the owner also that Kiku is a Lady of the First Class of Mishima and not Yedo or Osaka or Kyoto,” Toranaga added genially, “so I expect to pay Mishima prices and not Yedo or Osaka or Kyoto prices.”

“Yes, Sire, of course.”

Toranaga moved his shoulder to ease the ache, shifting his swords.

“May I massage it for you, Sire? Or send for Suwo?”

“No, thank you. I’ll see Suwo later.” Toranaga got up and relieved himself with great pleasure, then sat down again. He wore a short, light silk kimono, blue patterned, and the simple straw sandals. His fan was blue and decorated with his crest.

The sun was low, rain clouds building heavily.

“It’s vast to be alive,” he said happily. “I can almost hear the rain waiting to be born.”

“Yes,” she said.

Toranaga thought a moment. Then he said as a poem:

“The sky
Scorched by the sun,
Weeps
Fecund tears.”

Mariko obediently put her mind to work to play the poem game with him, so popular with most samurai, spontaneously twisting the words of the poem that he had made up, adapting them, making another from his. After a moment she replied:

“But the forest
Wounded by the wind,
Weeps
Dead leaves.”

“Well said! Yes, very well said!” Toranaga looked at her contentedly, enjoying what he saw. She was dressed in a pale green kimono with patterns of bamboo, a dark green obi and orange sunshade. There was a marvelous sheen to the blue-black hair, which was piled high under her wide-brimmed hat. He remembered nostalgically how they had all—even the Dictator Goroda himself—wanted her when she was thirteen and her father, Akechi Jinsai, had first presented this, his eldest daughter, at Goroda’s court. And how Nakamura, the Taikō-to-be, had begged the Dictator to give her to him, and then how Goroda had laughed, and publicly called him his randy little monkey general, and told him to “stick to fighting battles, peasant, don’t fight to stick patrician holes!” Akechi Jinsai had openly scorned Nakamura, his rival for Goroda’s favor, the main reason why Nakamura had delighted in smashing him. And why also Nakamura had delighted in watching Buntaro squirm for years, Buntaro who had been given the girl to cement an alliance between Goroda and Toda Hiro-matsu. I wonder, Toranaga asked himself mischievously, looking at her, I wonder if Buntaro were dead, would she consent to be one of my consorts? Toranaga had always preferred experienced women, widows or divorced wives, but never too pretty or too wise or too young or too well-born, so never too much trouble and always grateful.

He chuckled to himself. I’d never ask her because she’s everything I don’t want in a consort—except that her age is perfect.

“Sire?” she asked.

“I was thinking about your poem, Mariko-san,” he said, even more blandly. Then added:

“Why so wintery?
Summer’s
Yet to come, and the fall of
Glorious autumn.”

She said in answer:

“If I could use words
Like falling leaves,
What a bonfire
My poems would make!”

He laughed and bowed with mock humility. “I concede victory, Mariko-sama. What will the favor be? A fan? Or a scarf for your hair?”

“Thank you, Sire,” she replied. “Yes, whatever pleases you.”

“Ten thousand koku yearly to your son.”

“Oh, Sire, we don’t deserve such favor!”

“You won a victory. Victory and duty must be rewarded. How old is Saruji now?”

“Fifteen—almost fifteen.”

“Ah, yes—he was betrothed to one of Lord Kiyama’s granddaughters recently, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, Sire. It was in the eleventh month last year, the Month of the White Frost. He’s presently at Osaka with Lord Kiyama.”

“Good. Ten thousand koku, beginning at once. I will send the authority with tomorrow’s mail. Now, enough of poems, please give me your opinion.”

“My opinion, Sire, is that we are all safe in your hands, as the land is safe in your hands.”

“I want you to be serious.”

“Oh, but I am, Sire. I thank you for the favor to my son. That makes everything perfect. I believe whatever you do will be right. By the Madon—yes, by the Madonna, I swear I believe that.”

“Good. But I still want your opinion.”

Immediately she replied, without a care in the world, as an equal to an equal. “First, you should bring Lord Zataki secretly back to your side. I’d surmise you either know how to do this already, or more probably, you have a secret agreement with your half brother, and you prompted his mythical ‘defection’ in the first place to lull Ishido into a false position. Next: You’ll never attack first. You never have, you’ve always counseled patience, and you only attack when you’re sure to win, so publicly ordering Crimson Sky at once is only another diversion. Next, timing: My opinion is you should do what you will do, pretend to order Crimson Sky but never commit it. This will throw Ishido into confusion because, obviously, spies here and in Yedo will report your plan, and he’ll have to scatter his force like a covey of partridge, in filthy weather, to prepare for a threat that’ll never materialize. Meanwhile you’ll spend the next two months gathering allies, to undermine Ishido’s alliances and break up his coalition, which you must do by any means. And of course, you must tempt Ishido out of Osaka Castle. If you don’t, Sire, he will win, or at least, you will lose the Shōgunate. You—”

“I’ve already made my position clear on that,” Toranaga rapped, no longer amused. “And you forget yourself.”

Mariko said carelessly and happily, “I have to talk secrets today, Sire, because of the hostages. They’re a knife in your heart.”

“What about them?”

“Be patient with me please, Sire. I may never be able to talk to you in what the Anjin-san would call an ‘open English private way’ ever again—you’re never alone like we’re alone now. I beg you to excuse my bad manners.” Mariko gathered her wits and, astoundingly, continued to speak as an equal. “My absolute opinion is that Naga-san was right. You must become Shōgun, or you will have failed in your duty to the Empire and to the Minowara.”

“How dare you say such a thing!”

Mariko remained quite serene, his open anger touching her not at all. “I counsel you to marry the Lady Ochiba. It’s eight years before Yaemon’s old enough, legally, to inherit—that’s an eternity! Who knows what could happen in eight months, let alone eight years.”

“Your whole family can be obliterated in eight days!”

“Yes, Sire. But that has nothing to do with you and your duty, and the realm. Naga-san’s right. You must take the power to give power.” With mock gravity she added breathlessly, “And now may your faithful counselor commit seppuku or should I do it later?” and she pretended to swoon.

Toranaga gawked at her incredible effrontery, then he roared with laughter and pounded his fist on the ground. When he could talk, he choked out, “I’ll never understand you, Mariko-san.”

“Ah, but you do, Sire,” she said, patting the perspiration off her forehead. “You’re kind to let this devoted vassal make you laugh, to listen to her requests, to say what must be said, had to be said. Forgive me my impertinence, please.”

“Why should I, eh? Why?” Toranaga smiled, genial now.

“Because of the hostages, Sire,” she said simply.

“Ah, them!” He too became serious.

“Yes. I must go to Osaka.”

“Yes,” he said. “I know.”