“Oh yes, for an untrained servant amateur. All she would add was that the Master was virile and not heavy, that he pillowed most abundantly in the most ordinary position. And that he was generously endowed.”
   “That doesn’t help much, Mama-san.”
   “I know. Perhaps the best thing to do is to have everything ready, just in case, neh? Everything.”
   “Yes. I’ll just have to be most cautious. It’s very important that everything should be perfect. It will be very difficult—if not impossible—to entertain him correctly if I can’t talk to him.”
   “Lady Toda said she’d interpret for you and for him.”
   “Ah, how kind of her. That will help greatly, though it’s certainly not the same.”
   “True, true. More saké, Ako—gracefully, child, pour it gracefully. But Kiku-san, you’re a courtesan of the First Rank. Improvise. The barbarian admiral saved Lord Toranaga’s life today, and sits in his shadow. Our future depends on you! I know you will succeed beautifully. Ako!”
   “Yes, Mistress!”
   “Make sure that the futons are perfect, that everything’s perfect. See that the flowers—no. I’ll do the flowers myself! And Cook, where’s Cook?” She patted Kiku on the knee. “Wear the golden kimono, with the green one under it. We must impress the Lady Toda tonight very much.” She rushed off to begin to get the house in order, all the Ladies and maids and apprentices and servants happily bustling, cleaning and helping, so proud of the good fortune that had come to their house.
   When all was settled, the schedule of the other girls rearranged, Gyoko went to her own room and lay down for a moment to gather her strength. She had not told Kiku yet about the offer of the contract.
   I will wait and see, she thought. If I can make the arrangement I require, then perhaps I will let my lovely Kiku go. But never before I know to whom. I’m glad I had the foresight to make that clear to Lady Toda before I left. Why are you crying, you silly old woman? Are you drunk again? Get your wits about you! What’s the value of unhappiness to you?
   “Hana-chan!”
   “Yes, Mother-sama?” The child came running to her. Just turned six, with big brown eyes and long, lovely hair, she wore a new scarlet silk kimono. Gyoko had bought her two days ago through the local child broker and Mura.
   “How do you like your new name, child?”
   “Oh, very much, very much. I’m honored, Mother-sama!”
   The name meant “Little Blossom”—as Kiku meant “Chrysanthemum”—and Gyoko had given it to her on the first day. “I’m your mother now,” Gyoko had told her kindly but firmly when she paid the price and took possession, marveling that such a potential beauty could come out of such crude fisherfolk as the rotund Tamasaki woman. After four days of intense bargaining, she had paid a koban for the child’s services until the age of twenty, enough to feed the Tamasaki family for two years. “Fetch me some cha, then my comb and some fragrant tea leaves to take the saké off my breath.”
   “Yes, Mother-sama.” She rushed off blindly, breathlessly, anxious to please, and collided into Kiku’s gossamer skirts at the doorway.
   “Oh, oh, oh, so sorryyyy …”
   “You must be careful, Hana-chan.”
   “So sorry, so sorry, Elder Sister …” Hana-chan was almost in tears.
   “Why are you sad, Little Blossom? There, there,” Kiku said, brushing away the tears tenderly. “We put away sadness in this house. Remember, we of the Willow World, we never need sadness, child, for what good would that do? Sadness never pleases. Our duty is to please and to be gay. Run along, child, but gently, gently, be graceful.” Kiku turned and showed herself to the older woman, her smile radiant. “Does this please you, Mistress-san?”


   Blackthorne looked at her and muttered, “Hallelujah!”
   “This is Kiku-san,” Mariko said formally, elated by Blackthorne’s reaction.
   The girl came into the room with a swish of silk and knelt and bowed and said something Blackthorne did not catch.
   “She says that you are welcome, that you honor this house.”
   “Domo,” he said.
   “Do itashemasite. Saké, Anjin-san?” Kiku said.
   “Hai, domo.”
   He watched her perfect hands find the flask unerringly, make sure the temperature was correct, then pour into the cup that he lifted toward her, as Mariko had shown him, with more grace than he thought possible.
   “You promise you will behave like a Japanese, truly?” Mariko had asked as they set out from the fortress, she riding the palanquin, he walking beside, down the track that curled to the village and to the square that fronted the sea. Torchbearers strode ahead and behind. Ten samurai accompanied them as an honor guard.
   “I’ll try, yes,” Blackthorne said. “What do I have to do?”
   “The first thing you must do is to forget what you have to do and merely remember that this night is only for your pleasure.”
   Today has been the best day of my life, he was thinking. And tonight—what about tonight? He was excited by the challenge and determined to try to be Japanese and enjoy everything and not be embarrassed.
   “What—what does the evening—well—cost?” he had asked.
   “That’s very un-Japanese, Anjin-san,” she had chided him. “What has that to do with anything? Fujiko-san agreed that the arrangement was satisfactory.”
   He had seen Fujiko before he left. The doctor had visited her and had changed the bandages and given her herb medicines. She was proud of the honors and new fief and had rattled on nicely, showing no pain, glad that he was going to the Tea Houses—of course, Mariko-san had consulted her and everything had been arranged, how good Mariko-san was! How sorry she was to have the burns so that she couldn’t make the arrangements for him herself. He had touched Fujiko’s hand before he left, liking her. She had thanked him and apologized again, and sent him on his way hoping that he would have a wonderful evening.
   Gyoko and maids had been waiting ceremoniously at the gate of the Tea House to greet them.
   “This is Gyoko-san, she’s the Mama-san here.”
   “So honored, Anjin-san, so honored.”
   “Mama-san? You mean mama? Mother? That’s the same in English, Mariko-san. Mama—mommy—mother.”
   “Oh! It’s almost the same, but, so sorry, ‘mama-san’ just means ‘stepmother’ or ‘foster parent,’ Anjin-san. Mother is ‘haha-san ’ or ‘oba-san. ’”
   In a moment Gyoko excused herself and hurried away. Blackthorne smiled at Mariko. She had been like a child, gazing at everything. “Oh, Anjin-san, I’ve always wanted to see the inside of one of these places. Men are so very lucky! Isn’t it beautiful? Isn’t it marvelous, even in a tiny village? Gyoko-san must have had it refurbished completely by master craftsmen! Look at the quality of the woods and—oh, you’re so kind to allow me to be with you. I’ll never have another opportunity … look at the flowers … what an exquisite arrangement … and oh, look out into the garden…”
   Blackthorne was very glad and very sorry that a maid was in the room and the shoji door open, for even here in a tea house it would be unthinkable and lethal for Mariko to be alone with him in a room.
   “Thou art beautiful,” he said in Latin.
   “And thou.” Her face was dancing. “I am very proud of thee, Admiral of Ships. And Fujiko—oh, she was so proud she could hardly lie still!”
   “Her burns seemed bad.”
   “Have no fear. The doctors are well practiced and she is young and strong and confident. Tonight put everything from thy mind. No more questions about Ishido or Ikawa Jikkyu, or battles or codewords or fiefs or ships. Tonight no cares—tonight only magic things for thee.”
   “Thou art magic for me.”
   She fluttered her fan and poured the wine and said nothing. He watched her, then they smiled together. “Because others are here and tongues wag, we must still be cautious. But oh, I am so happy for thee,” she said.
   “Thou. What was the other reason? You said there was another reason you wanted me to be here tonight?”
   “Ah yes, the other reason.” The same heavy perfume drifted around him. “It is an ancient custom we have, Anjin-san. When a lady who belongs to someone else cares for another man, and wishes to give him something of consequence that it is forbidden to give, then she will arrange for another to take her place—a gift the most perfect courtesan that she can afford.”
   “You said ‘when a lady cares for someone else.’ Do you mean ‘love’?”
   “Yes. But only for tonight.”
   “Thou.”
   “Thou, Anjin-san.”
   “Why tonight, Mariko-san, why not before?”
   “Tonight is a magic night and kami walk with us. I desire thee.”
   Then Kiku was at the doorway. “Hallelujah!” And he was welcomed and served saké.
   “How do I say that the Lady’s especially pretty?”
   Mariko told him and he repeated the words. The girl laughed gaily, accepted the compliment, and returned it.
   “Kiku-san asks if you would like her to sing or dance for you.”
   “What is thy preference?”
   “This Lady is here for thy pleasure, samurai, not mine.”
   “And thou? Thou art here also for my pleasure?”
   “Yes, in a way—in a very private way.”
   “Then please ask her to sing.”
   Kiku clapped her hands gently and Ako brought the samisen. It was long, shaped something like a guitar, and three-stringed. Ako set it in position on the floor and gave the ivory plectrum to Kiku.
   Kiku said, “Lady Toda, please tell our honored guest that first I will sing ‘The Song of the Dragonfly.’”
   “Kiku-san, I would be honored if tonight, here, you would call me Mariko-san.”
   “You are too kind to me, Madam. Please excuse me. I could not possibly be so impolite.”
   “Please.”
   “I will if it pleases you, though…” Her smile was lovely. “Thank you, Mariko-sama.”
   She strummed a chord. From the moment that the guests had walked through the gateway into her world, all her senses had been tuned. She had secretly watched them while they were with Gyoko-san and when they were alone, searching for any clue how to pleasure him or to impress the Lady Toda.
   She had not been prepared for what soon became obvious: clearly the Anjin-san desired the Lady Toda, though he hid it as well as any civilized person could hide it. This in itself was not surprising, for the Lady Toda was most beautiful and accomplished and, most important, she alone could talk with him. What astounded her was that she was certain the Lady Toda desired him equally, if not more.
   The barbarian samurai and the Lady samurai, patrician daughter of the assassin Akechi Jinsai, wife of Lord Buntaro! Eeeee! Poor man, poor woman. So sad. Surely this must end in tragedy.
   Kiku felt near to tears as she thought of the sadness of life, the unfairness. Oh, how I wish I were born samurai and not a peasant so that I could become even a consort to Omi-sama, not just a temporary toy. I would gladly give my hope of rebirth in return for that.
   Put away sadness. Give pleasure, that is your duty.
   Her fingers strummed a second chord, a chord filled with melancholy. Then she noticed that though Mariko was beguiled by her music the Anjin-san was not.
   Why? Kiku knew that it was not her playing, for she was sure that it was almost perfect. Such mastery as hers was given to few.
   A third, more beautiful chord, experimentally. There’s no doubt, she told herself hastily, it doesn’t please him. She allowed the chord to die away and began to sing unaccompanied, her voice soaring with the sudden changes of tempo that took years to perfect. Again Mariko was entranced, he was not, so at once Kiku stopped. “Tonight is not for music or singing,” she announced. “Tonight is for happiness. Mariko-san, how do I say, ‘please excuse me’ in his language?”
   “Per favor.”
   “Per favor, Anjin-san, tonight we must laugh only, neh?”
   “Domo, Kiku-san. Hai.”
   “It’s difficult to entertain without words, but not impossible, neh? Ah, I know!” She jumped up and began to do comic pantomimes—daimyo, kaga-man, fisherman, hawker, pompous samurai, even an old farmer collecting a full pail—and she did them all so well and so humorously that soon Mariko and Blackthorne were laughing and clapping. Then she held up her hand. Mischievously she began to mimic a man peeing, holding himself or missing, grabbing, searching for the insignificant or weighed down by the incredible, through all the stages of his life, beginning first as a child just wetting the bed and howling, to a young man in a hurry, to another having to hold back, another with size, another with smallness to the point of “where has it gone,” and at length to a very old man groaning in ecstasy at being able to pee at all.
   Kiku bowed to their applause and sipped cha, patting the sheen from her forehead. She noticed that he was easing his shoulders and back. “Oh, per favor, senhor!” and she knelt behind him and began to massage his neck.
   Her knowing fingers instantly found the pleasure points. “Oh God, that’s … hai … just there!”
   She did as he asked. “Your neck will be better soon. Too much sitting, Anjin-san!”
   “That very good, Kiku-san. Make Suwo almost bad!”
   “Ah, thank you. Mariko-san, the Anjin-san’s shoulders are so vast, would you help me? Just do his left shoulder while I do his right? So sorry, but hands are not strong enough.”
   Mariko allowed herself to be persuaded and did as she was asked. Kiku hid her smile as she felt him tighten under Mariko’s fingers and she was very pleased with her improvisations. Now the client was being pleasured through her artistry and knowledge, and being maneuvered as he should be maneuvered.
   “Is that better, Anjin-san?”
   “Good, very good, thank you.”

   “Oh, you’re very welcome. It’s my pleasure. But the Lady Toda is so much more deft than I.” Kiku could feel the attraction between them though they tried to conceal it. “Now a little food perhaps?” It came at once.
   “For you, Anjin-san,” she said proudly. The dish contained a small pheasant, cut into tiny pieces, barbecued over charcoal with a sweet soya sauce. She helped him.
   “It delicious, delicious,” he said. And it was.
   “Mariko-san?”
   “Thank you.” Mariko took a token piece but did not eat it.
   Kiku took a fragment in her chopsticks and chewed it with relish. “It’s good, neh?”
   “No, Kiku-san, it very good! Very good.”
   “Please, Anjin-san, have some more.” She took a second morsel. “There’s plenty.”
   “Thank you. Please. How did—how this?” He pointed to the thick brown sauce.
   Mariko interpreted for her. “Kiku says it’s sugar and soya with a little ginger. She asks do you have sugar and soya in your country?”
   “Sugar in beet, yes, soya no, Kiku-san.”
   “Oh! How can one live without soya?” Kiku became solemn. “Please tell the Anjin-san that we have had sugar here since one thousand years. The Buddhist monk Ganjin brought it to us from China. All our best things have come from China, Anjin-san. Cha came to us about five hundred years ago. The Buddhist monk Eisai brought some seeds and planted them in Chikuzen Province, where I was born. He also brought us Zen Buddhism.”
   Mariko translated with equal formality, then Kiku let out a peal of laughter. “Oh so sorry, Mariko-sama, but you both looked so grave. I was just pretending to be solemn about cha—as if it mattered! It was only to amuse you.”
   They watched Blackthorne finish the pheasant. “Good,” he said. “Very good. Please thank Gyoko-san.”
   “She will be honored.” Kiku poured more saké for both of them. Then, knowing it was time, she said innocently, “May I ask what happened today at the earthquake? I hear the Anjin-san saved the life of Lord Toranaga? I would consider it an honor to know firsthand.”
   She settled back patiently, letting Blackthorne and Mariko enjoy the telling, adding an “oh,” or “what happened then?” or pouring saké, never interrupting, being the perfect listener.
   And, when they finished, Kiku marveled at their bravery and at Lord Toranaga’s good fortune. They talked for a while, then Blackthorne got up and the maid was told to show him the way.
   Mariko broke a silence. “You’ve never eaten meat before, Kiku-san, have you?”
   “It is my duty to do whatever I can to please him, for just a little while, neh?”
   “I never knew how perfect a lady could be. I understand now why there must always be a Floating World, a Willow World, and how lucky men are, how inadequate I am.”
   “Oh, that was never my purpose, never, Mariko-sama. And not our purpose. We are here only to please, for a fleeting moment.”
   “Yes. I just meant I admire you so much. I would like you for my sister.”
   Kiku bowed. “I would not be worthy of that honor.” There was warmth between them. Then she said, “This is a very secret place and everyone is to be trusted, there are no prying eyes. The pleasure room in the garden is very dark if one wants it dark. And darkness keeps all secrets.”
   “The only way to keep a secret is to be alone and whisper it down an empty well at high noon, neh?” Mariko said lightly, needing time to decide.
   “Between sisters there’s no need for wells. I have dismissed my maid until the dawn. Our pleasure room is a very private place.”
   “There you must be alone with him.”
   “I can always be alone, always.”
   “You’re so kind to me, Kiku-chan, so very thoughtful.”
   “It is a magic night, neh? And very special.”
   “Magic nights end too soon, Little Sister. Magic nights are for children, neh? I am not a child.”
   “Who knows what happens on a magic night? Darkness contains everything.”
   Mariko shook her head sadly and touched her tenderly. “Yes. But for him, if it contained you that would be everything.”
   Kiku let the matter rest. Then she said, “I am a gift to the Anjin-san? He did not ask for me himself?”
   “If he had seen you, how could he not ask for you? Truthfully, it’s his honor that you welcome him. I understand that now.”
   “But he did see me once, Mariko-san. I was with Omi-san when he passed on his way to the ship to go to Osaka the first time.”
   “Oh, but the Anjin-san said that he saw Midori-san with Omi-san. It was you? Beside the palanquin?”
   “Yes, in the square. Oh yes, it was me, Mariko-san, not the Lady, the wife of Omi-sama. He said ‘konnichi wa ’ to me. But of course, he would not remember. How could he remember? That was during a previous life, neh?”
   “Oh, he remembered her—the beautiful girl with the green parasol. He said the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. He told me about her many times.” Mariko studied her even more closely. “Yes, Kiku-san, you could easily be mistaken for her on such a day, under a parasol.”
   Kiku poured saké and Mariko was entranced by her unconscious elegance. “My parasol was sea green,” she said, very pleased that he had remembered.
   “How did the Anjin-san look then? Very different? The Night of the Screams must have been terrible.”
   “Yes, yes it was. And he was older then, the skin of his face stretched… But we become too serious, Elder Sister. Ah, you don’t know how honored I am to be allowed to call you that. Tonight is a night of pleasure only. No more seriousness, neh?”
   “Yes. I agree. Please forgive me.”
   “Now, to more practical matters, would you please give me some advice?”
   “Anything,” Mariko said, as friendly.
   “In this matter of the pillow, do people of his nation prefer any instruments or positions that you are aware of? So sorry to ask, but perhaps you might be able to guide me.”
   It took all of Mariko’s training to remain unabashed. “No, not that I know. The Anjin-san is very sensitive about anything to do with pillowing.”
   “Could he be asked in an oblique way?”
   “I don’t think you can ask a foreign person like that. Certainly not the Anjin-san. And—so sorry, I don’t know what the, er, instruments are—except, of course, a harigata.”
   “Ah!” Again Kiku’s intuition guided her and she asked artlessly, “Would you care to see them? I could show them all to you, perhaps with him there, then he need not be asked. We can see from his reaction.”
   Mariko hesitated, her own curiosity swamping her judgment. “If it could be done with humor.”
   They heard Blackthorne approaching. Kiku welcomed him back and poured wine. Mariko quaffed hers, glad that she was no longer alone, uneasily sure that Kiku could read her thoughts.
   They chatted and played silly games and then, when Kiku judged that the time was correct, she asked them if they would like to see the garden and the pleasure rooms.
   They walked out into the night. The garden sparkled in the torchlights where the raindrops still lingered. The path meandered beside a tiny pool and gurgling waterfall. At the end of the path was the small isolated house in the center of the bamboo grove. It was raised off manicured ground and had four steps up to the encircling veranda. Everything about the two-roomed dwelling was tasteful and expensive. The best woods, best carpentry, best tatami, best silk cushions, most elegant hangings in the takonama.
   “It’s so lovely, Kiku-san,” Mariko said.
   “The Tea House in Mishima is much nicer, Mariko-san. Please be comfortable, Anjin-san! Per favor, does this please you, Anjin-san?”
   “Yes, very much.”
   Kiku saw that he was still bemused with the night and the saké but totally conscious of Mariko. She was very tempted to get up and go into the inner room where the futons were turned back and step out onto the veranda again and leave. But if she did, she knew that she would be in violation of the law. More than that, she felt that such an action would be irresponsible, for she knew in her heart Mariko was ready and almost beyond caring.
   No, she thought, I mustn’t push her into such a tragic indiscretion, much as it might be valuable to my future. I offered but Mariko-san willed herself to refuse. Wisely. Are they lovers? I do not know. That is their karma.
   She leaned forward and laughed conspiratorially. “Listen, Elder Sister, please tell the Anjin-san that there are some pillow instruments here. Does he have them in his country?”
   “He says, no, Kiku-san. So sorry, he’s never heard of any.”
   “Oh! Would it amuse him to see them? They’re in the next room, I can fetch them—they’re really very exciting.”
   “Would you like to see them, Anjin-san? She says they’re really very funny.” Mariko deliberately changed the word.
   “Why not,” Blackthorne said, his throat constricted, his whole being charged with an awareness of their perfume and their femininity. “You—you use instruments to pillow with?” he asked.
   “Kiku-san says sometimes, Anjin-san. She says—and this is true—it’s our custom always to try to prolong the moment of the ‘Clouds and the Rain’ because we believe for that brief instant we mortals are one with the gods.” Mariko watched him. “So it’s very important to make it last as long as possible, neh? Almost a duty, neh?”
   “Yes.”
   “Yes. She says to be one with the gods is very essential. It’s a good belief and very possible, don’t you think, to believe that? The Cloudburst feeling is so unearthly and godlike. Isn’t it? So any means to stay one with the gods for as long as possible is our duty, neh?”
   “Very. Oh, yes.”
   “Would you like saké, Anjin-san?”
   “Thank you.”
   She fanned herself. “This about the Cloudburst and the Clouds and the Rain or the Fire and the Torrent, as we sometimes call it, is very Japanese, Anjin-san. Very important to be Japanese in pillow things, neh?”
   To her relief, he grinned and bowed to her like a courtier. “Yes. Very. I’m Japanese, Mariko-san. Honto!”
   Kiku returned with the silk-lined case. She opened it and took out a substantial life-size penis made of ivory, and another made of softer material, elastic, that Blackthorne had never seen before. Carelessly she set them aside.
   “These of course, are ordinary harigata, Anjin-san,” Mariko said unconcernedly, her eyes glued on the other objects.
   “Is that a fact?” Blackthorne said, not knowing what else to say. “Mother of God!”
   “But it’s just an ordinary harigata, Anjin-san. Surely your women have them!”
   “Certainly not! No, they don’t,” he added, trying to remember about the humor.
   Mariko couldn’t believe it. She explained to Kiku, who was equally surprised. Kiku spoke at length, Mariko agreeing.
   “Kiku-san says that’s very strange. I must agree, Anjin-san. Here almost every girl uses one for ordinary relief without a second thought. How else can a girl stay healthy when she’s restricted where a man is not? Are you sure, Anjin-san? You’re not teasing?”
   “No—I’m, er, sure our women don’t have them. That would be—Jesus, that—well, no, we—they—don’t have them.”
   “Without them life must be very difficult. We have a saying that a harigata’s like a man but better because it’s exactly like his best part but without his worst parts. Neh? And it’s also better because all men aren’t—don’t have a sufficiency, as harigatas do. Also they’re devoted, Anjin-san, and they’ll never tire of you, like a man does. And too, they can be as rough or smooth—Anjin-san, you promised, remember? With humor!”
   “You’re right!” Blackthorne grinned. “By God, you’re right. Please excuse me.” He picked up the harigata and studied it closely, whistling tonelessly. Then he held it up. “You were saying, Teacher-san? It can be rough?”
   “Yes,” she said cheerfully. “It can be as rough or as smooth as you desire, and harigatas very particularly have far more endurance than any man and they never wear out!”
   “Oh, that’s a point!”
   “Yes. Don’t forget, not every woman is fortunate enough to belong to a virile man. Without one of these to help release ordinary passions and normal needs, an ordinary woman soon becomes poisoned in body, and that will certainly very soon destroy her harmony, thus hurt her and those around her. Women don’t have the freedom men have—to a greater or lesser degree, and rightly, neh? The world belongs to men, and rightly, neh?”
   “Yes.” He smiled. “And no.”
   “I pity your women, so sorry. They must be the same as ours. When you go home you must instruct them, Anjin-san. Ah, yes, tell your Queen, she will understand. We are very sensible in matters of the pillow.”
   “I’ll mention it to Her Majesty.” Blackthorne put the harigata aside with feigned reluctance. “What’s next?”
   Kiku produced a string of four large round beads of white jade that were spaced along a strong silken thread. Mariko listened intently to Kiku’s explanation, her eyes getting wider than ever before, her fan fluttering, and looked down at the beads in wonder as Kiku came to an end. “Ah so desu! Well, Anjin-san,” she began firmly, “these are called konomi-shinju, Pleasure Pearls, and the senhor or senhora may use them. Saké, Anjin-san?”
   “Thank you.”
   “Yes. Either the lady or the man may use them and the beads are carefully placed in the back passage and then, at the moment of the Clouds and the Rain, the beads are pulled out slowly, one by one.”
   “What?”
   “Yes.” Mariko laid the beads on the cushion in front of him. “The Lady Kiku says the timing’s very important, and that always a … I don’t know what you would call it, ah yes, always an oily salve should be used … for comfort, Anjin-san.” She looked up at him and added, “She says also that Pleasure Pearls can be found in many sizes and that, if used correctly, they can precipitate a very considerable result indeed.”
   He laughed uproariously and spluttered in English, “I’ll bet a barrel of doubloons against a piece of pig shit you can believe that!”
   “So sorry, I didn’t understand, Anjin-san.”
   When he could talk, he said in Portuguese, “I’ll bet a mountain of gold to a blade of grass, Mariko-san, the result is very considerable indeed.” He picked up the beads and examined them, whistling without noticing it. “Pleasure Pearls, eh?” After a moment he put them down. “What else is there?”
   Kiku was pleased that her experiment was succeeding. Next she showed them a hemitsu-kawa, the Secret Skin. “It’s a pleasure ring, Anjin-san, that the man wears to keep himself erect when he’s depleted. With this, Kiku-san says, the man can gratify the woman after he’s passed his pinnacle, or his desire has flagged.” Mariko watched him. “Neh?”
   “Absolutely.” Blackthorne beamed. “The Good Lord protect me from either, and from not giving gratification. Please ask Kiku-san to buy me three—just in case!”
   Next he was shown the hiro-gumbi, Weary Armaments, thin dried stalks of a plant that, when soaked and wrapped around the Peerless Part, swell up and make it appear strong. Then there were all kinds of potents—potents to excite or increase excitement—and all kinds of salves—salves to moisten, to swell, to strengthen.
   “Never to weaken?” he asked, to more hilarity.

   “Oh no, Anjin-san, that would be unearthly!”
   Then Kiku laid out other rings for the man to wear, ivory or elastic or silken rings with nodules or bristles or ribbons or attachments and appendages of every kind, made of ivory or horsehair or seeds or even tiny bells.
   “Kiku-san says almost any of these will turn the shyest lady wanton.”
   Oh God, how would I like thee wanton, he thought. “But these’re only for the man to wear, neh?” he asked.
   “The more excited the lady is, the more the man’s enjoyment, neh?” Mariko was saying. “Of course, giving pleasure to the woman is equally the man’s duty, isn’t it, and with one of these, if, unhappily, he’s small or weak or old or tired, he can still pleasure her with honor.”
   “You’ve used them, Mariko-san?”
   “No, Anjin-san, I’ve never seen them before. These are … wives are not for pleasure but for childbearing and for looking after the house and the home.”
   “Wives don’t expect to be pleasured?”
   “No. It would not be usual. That is for the Ladies of the Willow World.” Mariko fanned herself and explained to Kiku what had been said. “She says, surely it’s the same in your world? That the man’s duty is to pleasure the lady as it is her duty to pleasure him?”
   “Please tell her, so sorry, but it’s not the same, just about the opposite.”
   “She says that is very bad. Saké?”
   “Please tell her we’re taught to be ashamed of our bodies and pillowing and nakedness and … and all sorts of stupidities. It’s only being here that’s made me realize it. Now that I’m a little civilized I know better.”
   Mariko translated. He drained his cup. It was refilled immediately by Kiku, who leaned over and held her long sleeve with her left hand so that it would not touch the low lacquered table as she poured with her right.
   “Domo.”
   “Do itashimashite, Anjin-san.”
   “Kiku-san says we should all be honored that you say such things. I agree, Anjin-san. You make me feel very proud. I was very proud of you today. But surely it’s not as bad as you say.”
   “It’s worse. It’s difficult to understand, let alone explain, if you’ve never been there or weren’t brought up there. You see—in truth …” Blackthorne saw them watching him, waiting patiently, multihued, so lovely and clean, the room so stark and uncluttered and tranquil. All at once his mind began to contrast it with the warm, friendly stench of his English home, rushes on the earth floor, smoke from the open brick fire rising to the roof hole—only three of the new fireplaces with chimneys in his whole village, and those only for the very wealthy. Two small bedrooms and then the one large untidy room of the cottage for eating, living, cooking, and talking. You walked into the cottage in your seaboots, summer or winter, mud unnoticed, dung unnoticed, and sat on a chair or bench, the oak table cluttered like the room, three or four dogs and the two children—his son and his dead brother Arthur’s girl—climbing and falling and playing higgledy piggledy, Felicity cooking, her long dress trailing in the rushes and dirt, the skivvy maid sniffing and getting in the way and Mary, Arthur’s widow, coughing in the next room he’d built for her, near death as always, but never dying.
   Felicity. Dear Felicity. A bath once a month perhaps, and then in summer, very private, in the copper tub, but washing her face and hands and feet every day, always hidden to the neck and wrists, swathed in layers of heavy woolens all year long that were unwashed for months or years, reeking like everyone, lice-infested like everyone, scratching like everyone.
   And all the other stupid beliefs and superstitions, that cleanliness could kill, open windows could kill, water could kill and encourage flux or bring in the plague, that lice and fleas and flies and dirt and disease were God’s punishments for sins on earth.
   Fleas, flies, and fresh rushes every spring, but every day to church and twice on Sundays to hear the Word pounded into you: Nothing matters, only God and salvation.
   Born in sin, living in shame, Devil’s brood, condemned to Hell, praying for salvation and forgiveness, Felicity so devout and filled with fear of the Lord and terror of the Devil, desperate for Heaven. Then going home to food. A haunch of meat from the spit and if a piece fell on the floor you’d pick it up and brush the dirt off and eat it if the dogs didn’t get it first, but you’d throw them the bones anyway. Castings on the floor. Leavings pushed onto the floor to be swept up perhaps and thrown into the road perhaps. Sleeping most of the time in your dayclothes and scratching like a contented dog, always scratching. Old so young and ugly so young and dying so young. Felicity. Now twenty-nine, gray, few teeth left, old, lined, and dried up.
   “Before her time, poor bloody woman. My God, how unnecessary!” he cried out in rage. “What a stinking bloody waste!”
   “Nan desu ka, Anjin-san?” both women said in the same breath, their contentment vanishing.
   “So sorry … it was just … you’re all so clean and we’re filthy and it’s all such a waste, countless millions, me too, all my life … and only because we don’t know any better! Christ Jesus, what a waste! It’s the priests—they’re the educated and the educators, priests own all the schools, do all the teaching, always in the name of God, filth in the name of God … It’s the truth!”
   “Oh yes, of course,” Mariko said soothingly, touched by his pain. “Please don’t concern yourself now, Anjin-san. That’s for tomorrow…
   Kiku wore a smile but she was furious with herself. You should have been more careful, she told herself. Stupid stupid stupid! Mariko-san warned you! Now you’ve allowed the evening to be ruined, and the magic’s gone gone gone!
   In truth, the heavy, almost tangible sexuality that had touched all of them had disappeared. Perhaps that’s just as well, she thought. At least Mariko and the Anjin-san are protected for one more night.
   Poor man, poor lady. So sad. She watched them talking, then sensed a change in tone between them.
   “Now I must leave thee,” Mariko was saying in Latin.
   “Let us leave together.”
   “I beg thee stay. For thy honor and hers. And mine, Anjin-san.”
   “I do not want this thy gift,” he said. “I want thee.”
   “I am thine, believe it, Anjin-san. Please stay, I beg thee, and know that tonight I am thine.”
   He did not insist that she stay.


   After she had gone he lay back and put his arms under his head and stared out of the window at the night. Rain splattered the tiles, the wind gusted caressingly from the sea.
   Kiku was kneeling motionless in front of him. Her legs were stiff. She would have liked to lie down herself but she did not wish to break his mood by the slightest movement. You are not tired. Your legs do not ache, she told herself. Listen to the rain and think of lovely things. Think of Omi-san and the Tea House in Mishima, and that you’re alive and that yesterday’s earthquake was just another earthquake. Think of Toranaga-sama and the incredibly extravagant price that Gyoko-san had dared to ask initially for your contract. The soothsayer was right, it is your good fortune to make her rich beyond dreams. And if that part is true, why not all the rest? That one day you will marry a samurai you honor and have a son by him, that you will live and die in old age, part of his household, wealthy and honored, and that, miracle of miracles, your son will grow to equal estate—samurai—as will his sons.
   Kiku began to glow at her incredible, wonderful future.
   After a time Blackthorne stretched luxuriously, a pleasing weariness upon him. He saw her and smiled.
   “Nan desu ka, Anjin-san?”
   He shook his head kindly, got up and opened the shoji to the next room. There was no maid kneeling beside the netted futons. He and Kiku were alone in the exquisite little house.
   He went into the sleeping room and began to take off his kimono. She hurried to help. He undressed completely, then put on the light silk sleeping kimono she held out for him. She opened the mosquito netting and he lay down.
   Then Kiku changed also. He saw her take off the obi and the outer kimono and the scarlet-edged lesser kimono of palest green, and finally the underskirt. She put on her peach-colored sleeping kimono, then removed the elaborate formal wig and loosed her hair. It was blue-black and fine and very long.
   She knelt outside the net. “Dozo, Anjin-san?”
   “Domo,” he said.
   “Domo arigato goziemashita,” she whispered.
   She slipped under the net and lay beside him. The candles and oil lamps burned brightly. He was glad of the light because she was so beautiful.
   His desperate need had vanished, though the ache remained. I don’t desire you, Kiku-chan, he thought. Even if you were Mariko it would be the same. Even though you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, more beautiful even than Midori-san, who I thought was more beautiful than any goddess. I don’t desire you. Later perhaps but not now, so sorry.
   Her hand reached out and touched him. “Dozo?”
   “Iyé,” he said gently, shaking his head. He held her hand, then slipped an arm under her shoulders. Obediently she nestled against him, understanding at once. Her perfume mingled with the fragrance of the sheets and futons. So clean, he thought, everything’s so incredibly clean.
   What was it Rodrigues had said? ‘The Japans’re heaven on earth, Ingeles, if you know where to look,’ or ‘This is paradise, Ingeles.’ I don’t remember. I only know it’s not there, across the sea, where I thought it was. It’s not there.
   Heaven on earth is here.

Chapter 41

   The courier galloped down the road in darkness toward the sleeping village. The sky was tinged with dawn and the night fishing boats that had been netting near the shoals were just coming in. He had ridden without rest from Mishima over the mountain passes and bad roads, commandeering fresh horses wherever he could.
   His horse pounded through the village streets—covert eyes watching him now—across the square and up the road to the fortress. His standard carried Toranaga’s cipher and he knew the current password. Nevertheless he was challenged and identified four times before he was allowed entrance and audience with the officer of the watch.
   “Urgent dispatches from Mishima, Naga-san, from Lord Hiro-matsu.”
   Naga took the scroll and hurried inside. At the heavily guarded shoji he stopped. “Father?”
   “Yes?”
   Naga slid back the door and waited. Toranaga’s sword slipped back into its scabbard. One of the guards brought an oil lamp.
   Toranaga sat up in his mosquito net and broke the seal. Two weeks ago he had ordered Hiro-matsu with an elite regiment secretly to Mishima, the castle city on the Tokaidō Road that guarded the entrance to the pass leading across the mountains to the cities of Atami and Odawara on the east coast of Izu. Atami was the gateway to Odawara to the north. Odawara was the key to the defense of the whole Kwanto.
   Hiro-matsu wrote: “Sire, your half brother, Zataki, Lord of Shinano, arrived here today from Osaka asking for safe conduct to see you at Anjiro. He travels formally with a hundred samurai and bearers, under the cipher of the ‘new’ Council of Regents. I regret to tell you the Lady Kiritsubo’s news is correct. Zataki’s turned traitor and is openly flaunting his allegiance to Ishido. What she did not know is that Zataki is now a Regent in place of Lord Sugiyama. He showed me his official appointment, correctly signed by Ishido, Kiyama, Onoshi, and Ito. It was all I could do to restrain my men at his arrogance and obey your orders to let any messenger from Ishido pass. I wanted to kill this dung eater myself. Traveling with him is the barbarian priest, Tsukku-san, who arrived by sea at the port of Numazu, coming from Nagasaki. He asked permission to visit you so I sent him with the same party. I’ve sent two hundred of my men to escort them. They’ll arrive within two days at Anjiro. When do you return to Yedo? Spies say Jikkyu’s mobilizing secretly and news comes from Yedo that the northern clans are ready to throw in with Ishido now that Zataki’s Shinano is against you. I beg you to leave Anjiro at once—retreat by sea. Let Zataki follow you to Yedo, where we can deal with him properly.”
   Toranaga slammed his fist against the floor.
   “Naga-san. Fetch Buntaro-san, Yabu-san, and Omi-san here at once.”
   They arrived very quickly. Toranaga read them the message. “We’d better cancel all training. Send the Musket Regiment, every man, into the mountains. We don’t want any security leaks now.”
   Omi said, “Please excuse me, Sire, but you might consider intercepting the party over the mountains. Say at Yokosé. Invite Lord Zataki”—he chose the title carefully—”to take the waters at one of the nearby spas, but have the meeting at Yokosé. Then, after he’s delivered his message, he and all his men can be turned back, escorted to the frontier, or destroyed, just as you wish.”
   “I don’t know Yokosé.”
   Yabu said importantly, “It’s beautiful, almost in the center of Izu, Sire, over the mountains in a valley cleft. It’s beside the river Kano. The Kano flows north, eventually through Mishima and Numazo to the sea, neh? Yokosé’s at a crossroads—the roads go north-south and east-west. Yes, Yokosé’d be a good place to meet, Sire. Shuzenji Spa’s nearby—very hot, very good—one of our best. You should visit it, Sire. I think Omi-san’s made a good suggestion.”
   “Could we defend it easily?”
   Omi said quickly, “Yes, Sire. There’s a bridge. The land falls steeply from the mountains. Any attackers would have to fight up a snaking road. Both passes can be held with few men. You could never be ambushed. We have more than enough men to defend you and butcher ten times their number—if need be.”
   “We butcher them whatever happens, neh?” Buntaro said with contempt. “But better there than here. Sire, please let me make the place safe. Five hundred archers, no musketeers—all horsemen. Added to the men my father sent, we’ll have more than enough.”
   Toranaga checked the date on the dispatch. “They’ll reach the crossroads when?”
   Yabu looked at Omi for confirmation. “Tonight at the earliest?”
   “Yes. Perhaps not until dawn tomorrow.”
   “Buntaro-san, leave at once,” Toranaga said. “Contain them at Yokosé but keep them the other side of the river. I’ll leave at dawn tomorrow with another hundred men. We should be there by noon. Yabu-san, you take charge of our Musket Regiment for the moment and guard our retreat. Put it in ambush across the Heikawa Road, on the skyline, so we can fall back through you if necessary.”
   Buntaro started to leave but stopped as Yabu said uneasily, “How can there be treachery, Sire? They’ve only a hundred men.”
   “I expect treachery. Lord Zataki wouldn’t put his head into my hands without a plan, for, of course, I’ll take his head if I can,” Toranaga said. “Without him to lead his fanatics we’ll have a far better chance to get through his mountains. But why’s he risking everything? Why?”
   Omi said tentatively, “Could he be ready to turn ally again?”
   They all knew the long-standing rivalry that had existed between the half brothers. A friendly rivalry up till now.
   “No, not him. I never trusted him before. Would any of you trust him now?”
   They shook their heads.
   Yabu said, “Surely there’s nothing to disturb you, Sire. Lord Zataki’s a Regent, yes, but he’s only a messenger, neh?”
   Fool, Toranaga wanted to shout, don’t you understand anything? “We’ll soon know. Buntaro-san, go at once.”
   “Yes, Sire. I’ll choose the meeting place carefully, but don’t let him within ten paces. I was with him in Korea. He’s too quick with his sword.”
   “Yes.
   Buntaro hurried away. Yabu said, “Perhaps Zataki can be tempted to betray Ishido—some prize perhaps? What’s his bait? Even without his leadership the Shinano mountains are cruel.”
   “The bait’s obvious,” Toranaga said. “The Kwanto. Isn’t that what he wants, has always wanted? Isn’t that what all my enemies want? Isn’t that what Ishido himself wants?”
   They did not answer him. There was no need.
   Toranaga said gravely, “May Buddha help us. The Taikō’s peace has ended. War is beginning.”


   Blackthorne’s sea ears had heard the urgency in the approaching hoofs and they had whispered danger. He had come out of sleep instantly, ready to attack or retreat, all his senses tuned. The hoofs passed, then headed up the hill toward the fortress, to die away again.
   He waited. No sound of a following escort. Probably a lone messenger, he thought. From where? Is it war already?
   Dawn was imminent. Now Blackthorne could see a small part of the sky. It was overcast and laden with rain, the air warm with a tang of salt in it, billowing the net from time to time. A mosquito whined faintly outside. He was very pleased to be within, safe for the moment. Enjoy the safety and the tranquillity while it lasts, he told himself.
   Kiku was sleeping next to him, curled up like a kitten. Sleep-tousled, she seemed more beautiful to him. He carefully relaxed back into the softness of the quilts on the tatami floor.
   This is so much better than a bed. Better than any bunk—my God, how much better! But soon to be back aboard, neh? Soon to fall on the Black Ship and take her, neh? I think Toranaga’s agreed even though he hasn’t said so openly. Hasn’t he just agreed in Japanese fashion? ‘Nothing can ever be solved in Japan except by Japanese methods. ’ Yes, I believe that’s the truth.
   I wanted to be better informed. Didn’t he tell Mariko to translate everything and explain about his political problems?
   I wanted money to buy my new crew. Didn’t he give me two thousand koku?
   I asked for two or three hundred corsairs. Hasn’t he given me two hundred samurai with all the power and rank I need? Will they obey me? Of course. He made me samurai and hatamoto. So they’ll obey to the death and I’ll bring them aboard Erasmus, they’ll be my boarding party and I will lead the attack.
   How unbelievably lucky I am! I’ve everything I want. Except Mariko. But I even have her. I have her secret spirit and her love. And I possessed her body last night, the magic night that never existed. We loved without loving. Is that so different?
   There’s no love between Kiku and me, just a desire that blossomed. It was grand for me. I hope it was also grand for her. I tried to be Japanese wholely and do my duty, to please her as she pleased me.
   He remembered how he had used a pleasure ring. He had felt most awkward and shy and had turned away to put it on, petrified that his strength would vanish, but it had not. And then, when it was in place, they had pillowed again. Her body shuddered and twisted and the tremoring had lifted him to a more urgent plane than any he had ever known.
   Afterwards, when he could breathe again, he began to laugh and she had whispered, Why do you laugh, and he had answered, I don’t know except you make me happy.
   I’ve never laughed at that moment, ever before. It made everything perfect. I do not love Kiku-san—I cherish her. I love Mariko-san without reservation and I like Fujiko-san completely.
   Would you pillow with Fujiko? No. At least, I don’t think I could.
   Isn’t that your duty? If you accept the privileges of samurai and require others to treat you totally as samurai with all that that means, you must accept the responsibilities and duties, neh? That’s only fair, neh? And honorable, neh? It’s your duty to give Fujiko a son.
   And Felicity. What would she say to that?
   And when you sail away, what about Fujiko-san and what about Mariko-san? Will you truly return here, leaving the knighthood and the even greater honors that you’ll surely be granted, provided you come back laden with treasure? Will you sail outward bound once more into the hostile deep, to smash through the freezing horror of Magellan’s Pass, to endure storm and sea and scurvy and mutiny for another six hundred and ninety-eight days to make a second landfall here? To take up this life again?
   Decide!
   Then he remembered what Mariko had told him about compartments of the mind: ‘Be Japanese, Anjin-san, you must, to survive. Do what we do, surrender yourself to the rhythm of karma unashamed. Be content with the forces beyond your control. Put all things into their own separate compartments and yield to wa, the harmony of life. Yield, Anjin-san, karma is karma, neh? ’
   Yes. I’ll decide when the time comes.
   First I have to get the crew. Next I capture the Black Ship. Then I sail halfway around the earth to England. Then I’ll buy and equip the warships. And then I’ll decide. Karma is karma.
   Kiku stirred, then buried herself deeper into the quilts, nestling closer. He felt the warmth of her through their silk kimonos. And he was kindled.
   “Anjin-chan,” she murmured, still in sleep.
   “Hai?”
   He did not awaken her. He was content to cradle her and rest, enraptured by the serenity that the yielding had given him. But before he went into sleep, he blessed Mariko for teaching him.


   “Yes, Omi-sama, certainly,” Gyoko said. “I’ll fetch the Anjin-san at once. Please excuse me. Ako, come with me.” Gyoko sent Ako for tea, then bustled out into the garden wondering what vital news the galloping night messenger had brought, for she too had heard the hoofs. And why is Omi so strange today, she asked herself. Why so cold, rough, and dangerous? And why did he come himself on so menial a task? Why not send any samurai?
   Ah, who knows? Omi’s a man. How can you understand them, particularly samurai? But something’s wrong, terribly wrong. Did the messenger bring a declaration of war? I suppose so. If it’s war, then it’s war and war never hurt our business. Daimyos and samurai will still need entertaining, as always—more so in war—and in war, money means less than ever to them. Good good good.
   She smiled to herself. Remember the war days forty-odd years ago when you were seventeen and the toast of Mishima? Remember all the laughter and pillowing and proud nights that melted into days? Remember serving Old Baldy himself, Yabu’s father, the nice old gentleman who boiled criminals like his son after him? Remember how hard you had to work to make him soft—unlike the son! Gyoko chuckled. We pillowed three days and three nights, then he became my patron for a whole year. Good times—a good man. Oh, how we pillowed!
   War or peace, never mind! Shigata ga nai? There’s enough invested with the moneylenders and rice merchants, a little here, a little there. Then there’s the saké factory in Odawara, the Tea House in Mishima’s thriving, and today Lord Toranaga’s going to buy Kiku’s contract!
   Yes, interesting times ahead, and how fantastically interesting the previous night had been. Kiku had been brilliant, the Anjin-san’s outburst mortifying. Kiku had made as deft a recovery as any courtesan in the land. And then, when the Lady Toda had left them, Kiku’s artistry had made everything perfect and the night blissful.
   Ah, men and women. So predictable. Especially men.
   Babies always. Vain, difficult, terrible, petulant, pliant, horrible—marvelous most rarely—but all born with that single incredible redeeming feature that we in the trade refer to as the Jade Root, Turtle Head, Yang Peak, Steaming Shaft, Male Thruster, or simply Piece of Meat.
   How insulting! Yet how apt!
   Gyoko chuckled and asked herself for the ten thousandth time, by all gods living and dead and yet to be born, what in the world would we do in this world without the Piece of Meat?
   She hurried on again, her footsteps just loud enough to announce her presence. She mounted the polished cedar steps. Her knock was practiced.
   “Anjin-san—Anjin-san, so sorry but Lord Toranaga’s sent for you. You’re ordered to the fortress at once.”
   “What? What did you say?”
   She repeated it in simpler language.
   “Ah! Understand! All right—I there quick,” she heard him say, with his funny accent.
   “So sorry, please excuse me. Kiku-san?”
   “Yes, Mama-san?” In a moment the shoji slid open. Kiku smiled at her, the kimono clinging and her hair prettily disarrayed. “Good morning, Mama-san, did you have pleasant dreams?”
   “Yes, yes, thank you. So sorry to disturb you. Kiku-chan, do you wish for fresh cha?”
   “Oh!” Kiku’s smile disappeared. This was the code sentence that Gyoko could freely use in front of any client which told Kiku that her most special client, Omi-san, was in the Tea House. Then Kiku could always finish her story or song or dance more quickly, and go to Omi-san, if she wished. Kiku pillowed with very few, though she entertained many—if they paid the fee. Very, very few could afford all her services.
   “What is it?” Gyoko asked narrowly.
   “Nothing, Mama-san. Anjin-san,” Kiku called out gaily, “so sorry, would you like cha?”
   “Yes, please.”

   “It will be here at once,” Gyoko said. “Ako! Hurry up, child.”
   “Yes, Mistress.” Ako brought in the tray of tea and two cups and poured, and Gyoko left, again apologizing for disturbing him.
   Kiku gave Blackthorne the cup herself. He drank it thirstily, then she helped him to dress. Ako laid out a fresh kimono for her. Kiku was most attentive but she was consumed with the knowledge that soon she would have to accompany the Anjin-san outside the gateway to bow him homeward. It was good manners. More than that, it was her privilege and duty. Only courtesans of the First Rank were ever allowed to go beyond the threshold to bestow that rare honor; all others had to stay within the courtyard. It was unthinkable for her not to finish the night as was expected—that would be a terrible insult to her guest and yet …
   For the first time in her life, Kiku did not wish to bow one guest homeward in front of another guest.
   I can’t, not the Anjin-san in front of Omi-san.
   Why? she asked herself. Is it because the Anjin-san’s barbarian and you’re ashamed that all the world will know you’ve been possessed by a barbarian? No. All Anjiro knows already and a man is like any other, most of the time. This man is samurai, hatamoto, and Admiral of Lord Toranaga’s ships! No, nothing like that.
   What is it then?
   It’s because I found in the night that I was shamed by what Omi-san did to him. As we should all be shamed. Omi-san should never have done that. The Anjin-san is branded and my fingers seemed to feel the brand through the silk of his kimono. I burn with shame for him, a good man to whom that should not have been done.
   Am I defiled?
   No, of course not, just shamed before him. And shamed before Omi-san for being ashamed.
   Then in the reaches of her mind she heard Mama-san saying again, ‘Child, child, leave man things to men. Laughter is our balm against them, and the world and the gods and even old age.’
   “Kiku-san?”
   “Yes, Anjin-san?”
   “Now I go.”
   “Yes. Let us go together,” she said.
   He took her face tenderly in his rough hands and kissed her. “Thank you. No words enough to thank.”
   “It is I who should thank you. Please allow me to thank you, Anjin-san. Let us leave now.”
   She allowed Ako to put the finishing touches to her hair, which she left hanging loosely, tied the sash of the fresh kimono, and went with him.
   Kiku walked beside him as was her privilege, not a few steps behind as a wife or consort or daughter or servant was obliged to. He put his hand on her shoulder momentarily and this was distasteful to her for they were not in the privacy of a room. Then she had a sudden, horrible premonition that he would kiss her publicly—which Mariko had mentioned was barbarian custom—at the gate. Oh, Buddha let that not happen, she thought, almost faint with fright.
   His swords were in the reception room. By custom, all weapons were left under guard, outside the pleasure rooms, to avoid lethal quarrels with other clients, and also to prevent any lady from ending her life. Not all Ladies of the Willow World were happy or fortunate.
   Blackthorne put his swords into his sash. Kiku bowed him through to the veranda, where he stepped into his thongs, Gyoko and others assembled to bow him away, an honored guest. Beyond the gateway was the village square and the sea. Many samurai were there milling about, Buntaro among them. Kiku could not see Omi, though she was certain he would be watching somewhere.
   The Anjin-san seemed immensely tall, she so small beside him. Now they were crossing the courtyard. Both saw Omi at the same time. He was standing near the gateway.
   Blackthorne stopped. “Morning, Omi-san,” he said as a friend and bowed as a friend, not knowing that Omi and Kiku were more than friends. How could he know, she thought. No one has told him—why should they tell him? And what does that matter anyway?
   “Good morning, Anjin-san.” Omi’s voice was friendly too, but she saw him bow with only sufficient politeness. Then his jet eyes turned to her again and she bowed, her smile perfect. “Good morning, Omi-san. This house is honored.”
   “Thank you, Kiku-san. Thank you.”
   She felt his searching gaze but pretended not to notice, keeping her eyes demurely lowered. Gyoko and the maids and the courtesans who were free watched from the veranda.
   “I go fortress, Omi-san,” Blackthorne was saying. “All’s well?”
   “Yes. Lord Toranaga’s sent for you.”
   “Go now. Hope see you soon.”
   “Yes.”
   Kiku glanced up. Omi was still staring at her. She smiled her best smile and looked at the Anjin-san. He was watching Omi intently; then feeling her eyes, he turned to her and smiled back. It seemed to her a strained smile. “So sorry, Kiku-san, Omi-san, must go now.” He bowed to Omi. It was returned. He went through the gate. She followed, hardly breathing. Movement stopped in the square. In the silence she saw him turn back, and for a hideous moment, she knew he was going to embrace her. But to her enormous relief he did not, and just stood there waiting as a civilized person would wait.
   She bowed with all the tenderness she could muster, Omi’s gaze boring into her.
   “Thank you, Anjin-san,” she said and smiled at him alone. A sigh went through the square. “Thank you,” then added the time-honored, “Please visit us again. I will count the moments until we meet again.”
   He bowed with just the right amount of carelessness, strode off arrogantly as a samurai of quality would. Then, because he had treated her very correctly, and to repay Omi for the unnecessary coldness in his bow, instead of going back into her house at once, she stayed where she was and looked after the Anjin-san to give him greater honor. She waited until he was at the last corner. She saw him look back. He waved once. She bowed very low, now delighted with the attention in the square, pretending not to notice it. And only when he was truly gone did she walk back. With pride and with great elegance. And until the gate was closed every man watched her, feeding on such beauty, envious of the Anjin-san, who must be much man for her to wait like that.
   “You’re so pretty,” Omi said.
   “I wish that were true, Omi-san,” she said with a second-best smile. “Would you like some cha, Omi-sama? Or food?”
   “With you, yes.”
   Gyoko joined them unctuously. “Please excuse my bad manners, Omi-sama. Do take food with us now, please. Have you had a first meal?”
   “No—not yet, but I’m not hungry.” Omi glanced across at Kiku. “Have you eaten yet?”
   Gyoko interrupted expansively, “Allow us to bring you something that won’t be too inadequate, Omi-sama. Kiku-san, when you’ve changed you will join us, neh?”
   “Of course, please excuse me, Omi-sama, for appearing like this. So sorry.” The girl ran off, pretending a happiness she did not feel, Ako in tow.
   Omi said shortly, “I would like to be with her tonight, for food and entertainment.”
   “Of course, Omi-sama,” Gyoko replied with a low bow, knowing that she would not be free. “You honor my house and do us too much honor. Kiku-san is so fortunate that you favor her.”


   Three thousand koku? Toranaga was scandalized.
   “Yes, Sire,” Mariko said. They were on the private veranda in the fortress. Rain had begun already but did not reduce the heat of the day. She felt listless and very tired and longed for autumn coolness. “I’m sorry, but I could not negotiate the woman down any further. I talked until just before dawn. So sorry, Sire, but you did order me to conclude an arrangement last night.”
   “But three thousand, Mariko-san! That’s usury!” Actually, Toranaga was glad to have a new problem to take his mind away from the worry that beset him. The Christian priest Tsukku-san traveling with Zataki, the upstart Regent, augured nothing but trouble. He had examined every avenue of escape, every route of retreat and attack that any man could imagine and the answer was always the same: If Ishido moves quickly, I’m lost.
   I’ve got to find time. But how?
   If I were Ishido I’d start now, before the rains stop.
   I’d get men into position just as the Taikō and I did to destroy the Beppu. The same plan will always win—it’s so simple! Ishido can’t be so stupid as not to see that the only real way to defend the Kwanto is to own Osaka, and all the lands between Yedo and Osaka. As long as Osaka’s unfriendly, the Kwanto’s in danger. The Taikō knew it, why else did he give it to me? Without Kiyama, Onoshi, and the barbarian priests…
   With an effort Toranaga put tomorrow into its own compartment and concentrated totally on this impossible amount of money. “Three thousand koku’s out of the question!”
   “I agree, Sire. You’re correct. It’s my fault entirely. I thought even five hundred would be excessive but the Gyoko woman would come no lower. There is one concession though.”
   “What?”
   Gyoko begged the honor of reducing the price to two thousand five hundred koku if you would honor her by agreeing to see her privately for one stick of time.”
   “A Mama-san would give up five hundred koku just to speak to me?”
   “Yes, Sire.”
   “Why?” he asked suspiciously.
   “She told me her reason, Sire, but humbly begged that she be allowed to explain to you herself. I believe her proposal would be interesting to you, Sire. And five hundred koku … it would be a saving. I’m appalled that I couldn’t make a better arrangement, even though Kiku-san is of the First Rank and completely merits that status. I know I’ve failed you.”
   “I agree,” Toranaga said sourly. “Even one thousand would be too much. This is Izu not Kyoto!”
   “You’re quite right, Sire. I told the woman that the price was so ridiculous I could not possibly agree to it myself, even though you’d given me direct orders to complete the bargain last night. I hope you will forgive my disobedience, but I said that I would first have to consult with Lady Kasigi, Omi-san’s mother, who’s the most senior lady here, before the arrangement was confirmed.”
   Toranaga brightened, his other worries forgotten. “Ah, so it’s arranged but not arranged?”
   “Yes, Sire. Nothing is binding until I can consult with the Lady. I said I’d give an answer at noon today. Please forgive my disobedience.”
   “You should have concluded the arrangement as I ordered!” Toranaga was secretly delighted that Mariko had cleverly given him the opportunity to agree or disagree without any loss of face. It would have been unthinkable for him personally to quibble over a mere matter of money. But oh ko, three thousand koku… “You say the girl’s contract’s worth enough rice to feed a thousand families for three years?”
   “Worth every grain of rice, to the right man.”
   Toranaga eyed her shrewdly. “Oh? Tell me about her and what happened.”
   She told him everything—except her feeling for the Anjin-san and the depth of his feeling toward her. Or about Kiku’s offer to her.
   “Good. Yes, very good. That was clever. Yes,” Toranaga said. “He must have pleased her very much for her to stand at the gateway like that the first time.” Most of Anjiro had been waiting for that moment, to see how the two of them would act, the barbarian and the Willow Lady of the First Rank.
   “Yes.”
   “The three koku invested was well worth it for him. His fame will run before him now.”
   “Yes,” Mariko agreed, more than a little proud of Blackthorne’s success. “She’s an exceptional lady, Sire.”
   Toranaga was intrigued by Mariko’s confidence in her arrangement. But five hundred koku for the contract would have been more fair. Five hundred koku was more than most Mama-sans made in a lifetime, so for one of them even to consider giving away five hundred… “Worth every grain, you say? I can hardly believe that.”
   “To the right man, Sire. I believe that. But I could not judge who would be the right man.”
   There was a knock on the shoji.
   “Yes?”
   “The Anjin-san’s at the main gate, Sire.”
   “Bring him here.”
   “Yes, Sire.”
   Toranaga fanned himself. He had been watching Mariko covertly and had seen the momentary light in her face. He had deliberately not warned her that he had sent for him.
   What to do? Everything that is planned still applies. But now I need Buntaro and the Anjin-san and Omi-san more than ever. And Mariko, very much.
   “Good morning, Toranaga-sama.”
   He returned Blackthorne’s bow and noted the sudden warmth when the man saw Mariko. There were formal greetings and replies, then he said, “Mariko-san, tell him that he is to leave with me at dawn. You also. You will continue on to Osaka.”
   A chill went through her. “Yes, Sire.”
   “I go Osaka, Toranaga-sama?” Blackthorne asked.
   “No, Anjin-san. Mariko-san, tell him I’m going to the Shuzenji Spa for a day or two. You both will accompany me there. You’ll go on to Osaka. He will journey with you to the border, then go on to Yedo alone.”
   He watched them narrowly as Blackthorne spoke to her, rapidly and urgently.
   “So sorry, Toranaga-sama, but the Anjin-san humbly asks if he could borrow me for a few more days. He says, please excuse me, that my presence with him would greatly speed up the matter of his ship. Then, if it pleases you, he would immediately take one of your coastal ships and ferry me to Osaka, going on to Nagasaki himself. He suggests this might save time.”
   “I haven’t decided anything about his ship, yet. Or about a crew. He may not need to go to Nagasaki. Make that very clear. No, nothing is decided. But I’ll consider the request about you. You’ll get my decision tomorrow. You can go now… Oh yes, lastly, Mariko-san, tell him that I want his genealogy. He can write it down and you’ll translate it, affirming its correctness.”
   “Yes, Sire. Do you want it at once?”
   “No. When he arrives at Yedo will be time enough.”
   Mariko explained to Blackthorne.
   “Why does he want that?” he asked.

   Mariko stared at him. “Of course all samurai have to have their births and deaths recorded, Anjin-san, as well as their fiefs and land grants. How else can a liege lord keep everything balanced? Isn’t it the same in your country? Here, by law, all our citizens are in official records, even eta: births, deaths, marriages. Every hamlet or village or city street has its official scroll. How else can you be sure where and to whom you belong?”
   “We don’t write it down. Not always. And not officially. Everyone’s recorded? Everyone?”
   “Oh yes, even eta, Anjin-san. It’s important, neh? Then no one can pretend to be what he is not, wrongdoers can be caught more easily, and men and women or parents can’t cheat in marriage, neh?”
   Blackthorne put that aside for later consideration and played another card in the game he had joined with Toranaga that he hoped would lead to the death of the Black Ship.
   Mariko listened attentively, questioned him a moment, then turned to Toranaga. “Sire, the Anjin-san thanks you for your favor and your many gifts. He asks if you would honor him by choosing his two hundred vassals for him. He says your guidance in this would be worth anything.”
   “Is it worth a thousand koku?” Toranaga asked at once. He saw her surprise and the Anjin-san’s. I’m glad you’re still transparent, Anjin-san, for all your veneer of civilization, he thought. If I were a gambling person, I’d wager that that wasn’t your idea—to ask for my guidance.
   “Hai,” he heard Blackthorne say firmly.
   “Good,” he replied crisply. “Since the Anjin-san’s so generous, I’ll accept his offer. One thousand koku. That will help some other needy samurai. Tell him his men will be waiting for him in Yedo. I’ll see you at dawn tomorrow, Anjin-san.”
   “Yes. Thank you, Toranaga-sama.”
   “Mariko-san, consult with the Lady Kasigi at once. Since you approved the amount I imagine she’ll agree to your arrangement however hideous it seems, though I’d suppose she’ll need until dawn tomorrow to give such a ridiculous sum her full consideration. Send some menial to order the Gyoko woman here at sunset. She can bring the courtesan with her. Kiku-san can sing while we talk, neh?”
   He dismissed them, delighted to have saved fifteen hundred koku. People are so extravagant, he thought benignly.


   “Will that leave me enough to get a crew?” Blackthorne asked.
   “Oh, yes, Anjin-san. But he hasn’t agreed to allow you to go to Nagasaki yet,” Mariko said. “Five hundred koku would be more than enough to live on for a year, and the other five hundred will give you about one hundred and eighty koban in gold to buy seamen. That’s a very great deal of money.”
   Fujiko lifted herself painfully and spoke to Mariko.
   “Your consort says that you shouldn’t worry, Anjin-san. She can give you letters of credit to certain moneylenders who will advance you all that you’ll need. She’ll arrange everything.”
   “Yes, but haven’t I got to pay all my retainers? How do I pay for a house, Fujiko-san, my household?”
   Mariko was shocked. “Please, so sorry, but this is of course not your worry. Your consort has told you that she will take care of everything. She—
   Fujiko interrupted and the two women spoke together for a moment.
   “Ah so desu, Fujiko-san!” Mariko turned back to Blackthorne. “She says you must not waste time thinking about it. She begs you please to spend your time worrying only about Lord Toranaga’s problems. She has money of her own which she can draw upon, should it be necessary.”
   Blackthorne blinked. “She’ll lend me her own money?”
   “Oh, no, Anjin-san, of course she’ll give it to you, if you need it, Anjin-san. Don’t forget your problem’s only this year,” Mariko explained. “Next year you’re rich, Anjin-san. As to your retainers, for one year they’ll get two koku each. Don’t forget Toranaga-sama’s giving you all their arms and horses, and two koku’s enough to feed them and their horses and families. And don’t forget, too, you gave Lord Toranaga half your year’s income to ensure that they would be chosen by him personally. That’s a tremendous honor, Anjin-san.”
   “You think so?”
   “Oh certainly. Fujiko-san agrees wholeheartedly. You were most shrewd to think of that.”
   “Thank you.” Blackthorne allowed a little of his pleasure to show. You’re getting your wits back again and you’re beginning to think like them, he told himself happily. Yes, that was clever to co-opt Toranaga. Now you’ll get the best men possible, and you could never have done it alone. What’s a thousand koku against the Black Ship? So yet another of the things Mariko had said was true: that one of Toranaga’s weaknesses was that he was a miser. Of course, she had not said so directly, only that Toranaga made all his incredible wealth go further than any daimyo in the kingdom. This clue, added to his own observations—that Toranaga’s clothes were as simple as his food, and his style of living little different from that of an ordinary samurai—had given him another key to unlock Toranaga.
   Thank God for Mariko and old Friar Domingo!
   Blackthorne’s memory took him back to the jail and he thought how close he had been to death then, and how close he was to death now, even with all his honors. What Toranaga gives, he can take away. You think he’s your friend, but if he’ll assassinate a wife and murder a favorite son, how would you value his friendship or your life? I don’t, Blackthorne told himself, renewing his pledge. That’s karma. I can do nothing about karma and I’ve been living near death all my life, so nothing’s new. I yield to karma in all its beauty. I accept karma in all its majesty. I trust karma to get me through the next six months. Then, by this time next year, I’ll be scudding through Magellan’s Pass, bound for London Town, out of his reach…
   Fujiko was talking. He watched her. The bandages were still discolored. She was lying painfully on the futons, a maid fanning her.
   “She’ll arrange everything for you by dawn, Anjin-san,” Mariko said. “Your consort suggests you take two horses and a baggage horse. One man servant and one maid—”
   “A man servant’ll be enough.”
   “So sorry, the maid servant must go to serve you. And of course a cook and a cook helper.”
   “Won’t there be kitchens that we—I can use?”
   “Oh, yes. But you still have to have your own cooks, Anjin-san. You’re a hatamoto.”
   He knew there was no point in arguing. “I’ll leave everything to you.”
   “Oh, that’s so wise of you, Anjin-san, very wise. Now I must go and pack, please excuse me.” Mariko left happily. They had not talked much, just enough in Latin for each to know that though the magic night had never come to pass and was, like the other night, never to be discussed, both would live in their imaginations forever.
   “Thou.”
   “Thou.”
   “I was so proud when I heard she stood at the gate for such a long time. Thy face is immense now, Anjin-san.”
   “For a moment I almost forgot what thou hadst told me. Involuntarily I was within a hair’s distance of kissing her in public.”
   “Oh ko, Anjin-san, that would have been terrible!”
   “Oh ko, thou art right! If it had not been for thee I would be faceless—a worm wriggling in the dust.”
   “Instead, thou art vast and famous and thy prowess undoubted. Didst thou enjoy one of those curious devices?”
   “Ah, fair Lady, in my land we have an ancient custom: A man does not discuss the intimate habits of one lady with another.”
   “We have the same custom. But I asked if it was enjoyed, not used. Yes, we very much have the same custom. I am glad that the evening was to thy liking.” Her smile was warming. “To be Japanese in Japan is wise, neh?”
   “I cannot thank thee enough for teaching me, for guiding me, for opening my eyes,” he said. “For—” He was going to say, for loving me. Instead he added, “for being.”
   “I have done nothing. Thou art thyself.”
   “I thank thee, for everything—and thy gift.”
   “I am glad thy pleasure was great.”
   “I am sad thy pleasure was nil. I am so glad that thou art also ordered to the Spa. But why to Osaka?”
   “Oh, I am not ordered to Osaka. Lord Toranaga allows me to go. We have property and family business matters that must be seen to. Also, my son is there now. Then too, I can carry private messages to Kiritsubo-san and the Lady Sazuko.”
   “Isn’t that dangerous? Remember thy words—war is coming and Ishido is the enemy. Did not Lord Toranaga say the same?”
   “Yes. But there is no war yet, Anjin-san. And samurai do not war on their women, unless women war on them.”
   “But thou? What about the bridge at Osaka, across the moat? Did thou not go with me to dupe Ishido? He would have killed me. And remember thy sword at the fight on the ship.”
   “Ah, that was only to protect the life of my liege Lord, and my own life, when it was threatened. That was my duty, Anjin-san, nothing more. There is no danger for me. I have been lady-in-waiting to Lady Yodoko, the Taikō’s widow, even the Lady Ochiba, mother of the Heir. I’m honored to be their friend. I’m quite safe. That’s why Toranaga-sama allows me to go. But for thee in Osaka there is no safety, because of Lord Toranaga’s escape, and of what was done to Lord Ishido. So thou must never land there. Nagasaki will be safe for thee.”
   “Then he has agreed that I may go?”
   “No. Not yet. But when he does it will be safe. He has power in Nagasaki.”
   He wanted to ask, ‘Greater than the Jesuits’? Instead he said only, “I pray Lord Toranaga orders thee by ship to Osaka.” He saw her tremble slightly. “What troubles thee?”
   “Nothing, except … except that the sea does not please me.”
   “Will he order it thus?”
   “I don’t know. But …” She changed back into the mischievous teaser, and into Portuguese. “But for your health we should bring Kiku-san along with us, neh? Tonight, are you going again into her Vermilion Chamber?”
   He laughed with her. “That’d be fine, though—” Then he stopped, as with sudden clarity he remembered Omi’s look. “You know, Mariko-san, when I was at the gate I’m sure I saw Omi-san looking at her in a very special way, as a lover would look. A jealous lover. I didn’t know they were lovers.”
   “I understand he’s one of her customers, a favored customer, yes. But why should that concern you?”
   “Because it was a very private look. Very special.”
   “He has no special claim on her, Anjin-san. She’s a courtesan of the First Rank. She’s free to accept or reject whom she pleases.”
   “If we were in Europe, and I pillowed his girl—you understand, Mariko-san?”
   “I think I understand, Anjin-san, but why should that concern you? You’re not in Europe, Anjin-san, he has no formal claim on her. If she wants to accept you and him, or even reject you or reject him, what has that to do with anything?”
   “I’d say he was her lover, in our sense of the word. That’s got everything to do with it, neh?”
   “But what has that to do with her profession, or pillowing?”
   Eventually he had thanked her again and left it at that. But his head and his heart told him to beware. It’s not as simple as you think, Mariko-san, even here. Omi believes Kiku-san’s more than special, even if she doesn’t feel the same. Wish I’d known he was her lover. I’d rather have Omi a friend than an enemy. Could Mariko be right again? That pillowing has nothing to do with loving for them?
   God help me, I’m so mixed up. Part Eastern now, mostly Western. I’ve got to act like them and think like them to stay alive. And much of what they believe is so much better than our way that it’s tempting to want to become one of them totally, and yet … home is there, across the sea, where my ancestors were birthed, where my family lives, Felicity and Tudor and Elizabeth. Neh?
   “Anjin-san?”
   “Yes, Fujiko-san?”
   “Please don’t worry about money. I can’t bear to see you worried. I’m so sorry that I cannot go to Yedo with you.”
   “Soon see in Yedo, neh?”
   “Yes. The doctor says I’m healing well and Omi’s mother agrees.”
   “When doctor here?”
   “Sunset. So sorry I cannot go with you tomorrow. Please excuse me.
   He wondered again about his duty to his consort. Then he put that thought back into its compartment as a new one rushed forward. He examined this idea and found it fine. And urgent. “I go now, come back soon. You rest—understand?”
   “Yes. Please excuse me for not getting up, and for … so sorry.”
   He left her and went to his own room. He took a pistol out of its hiding place, checked the priming, and stuck it under his kimono. Then he walked alone to Omi’s house. Omi was not there. Midori welcomed him and offered cha, which he politely refused. Her two-year-old infant was in her arms. She said, so sorry, but Omi would return soon. Would the Anjin-san like to wait? She seemed ill at ease, though polite and attentive. Again he refused and thanked her, saying he would come back later, then he went below to his own house.
   Villagers had already cleared the ground, preparing to rebuild everything. Nothing had been salvaged from the fire except cooking utensils. Fujiko would not tell him the cost of rebuilding. It was very cheap, she had said. Please don’t concern yourself.
   “Karma, Anjin-sama,” one of the villagers said.
   “Yes.”
   “What could one do? Don’t worry, your house will soon be ready—better than before.”
   Blackthorne saw Omi walking up the hill, taut and stern. He went to meet him. When Omi saw him, he seemed to lose some of his fury. “Ah, Anjin-san,” he said cordially. “I hear you’re also leaving with Toranga-sama at dawn. Very good, we can ride together.”
   Despite Omi’s apparent friendliness, Blackthorne was very much on guard.
   “Listen, Omi-san, now I go there.” He pointed toward the plateau. “Please you go with me, yes?”
   “There’s no training today.”
   “Understand. Please you go with me, yes?”
   Omi saw that Blackthorne’s hand was on the hilt of his killing sword in the characteristic way, steadying it. Then his sharp eyes noticed the bulge under the sash and he realized at once from its partially outlined shape that it was a concealed pistol. “A man who’s allowed the two swords should be able to use them, not just wear them, neh?” he asked thinly.
   “Please? I don’t understand.”

   Omi said it again, more simply.
   “Ah, understand. Yes. It better.”
   “Yes. Lord Yabu said—now that you’re completely samurai—that you should begin to learn much that we take for granted. How to act as a second at a seppuku, for example—even to prepare for your own seppuku as we’re all obliged to do. Yes, Anjin-san, you should learn to use the swords. Very necessary for a samurai to know how to use and honor his sword, neh?”
   Blackthorne did not understand half the words. But he knew what Omi was saying. At least, he corrected himself uneasily, I know what he’s saying on the surface.
   “Yes. True. Important,” he told him. “Please, one day you teaches—sorry, you teach perhaps? Please? I honored.”
   “Yes—I’d like to teach you, Anjin-san.”
   Blackthorne’s hackles rose at the implied threat in Omi’s voice. Watch it, he admonished himself. Don’t start imagining things. “Thank you. Now walk there, please? Little time. You go with? Yes?”
   “Very well, Anjin-san. But we’ll ride. I’ll join you shortly.” Omi walked off up the hill, into his own courtyard.
   Blackthorne ordered a servant to saddle his horse and mounted awkwardly from the right side, as was custom in Japan and China. Don’t think there’d be much future in letting him teach me swordsmanship, he told himself, his right hand nudging the concealed pistol safer, its pleasing warmth reassuring. This confidence vanished when Omi reappeared. With him were four mounted samurai.
   Together they all cantered up the broken road toward the plateau. They passed many samurai companies in full marching gear, armed, under their officers, spear pennants fluttering. When they crested the rise, they saw that the entire Musket Regiment was drawn up outside the camp in route order, each man standing beside his armed horse, a baggage train in the rear, Yabu, Naga, and their officers in the van. The rain began to fall heavily.
   “All troops go?” Blackthorne asked, perturbed, and reined in his horse.
   “Yes.”
   “Go Spa with Toranaga-sama, Omi-san?”
   “I don’t know.”
   Blackthorne’s sense of survival warned him to ask no more questions. But one needed to be answered. “And Buntaro-sama?” he asked indifferently. “He with us tomorrow, Omi-san?”
   “No. He’s already gone. This morning he was in the square when you left the Tea House. Didn’t you see him, near the Tea House?”
   Blackthorne could read nothing untoward in Omi’s face. “No. Not see, so sorry. He go Spa too?”
   “I suppose so. I’m not sure.” The rain dripped off Omi’s conical hat, which was tied under his chin. His eyes were almost hidden. “Now, why did you want me to come here with you?”
   “Show place, like I say.” Before Omi could say anything more, Blackthorne spurred his horse forward. With his most careful sea sense he took accurate bearings from memory and went quickly to the exact point over the crevasse. He dismounted and beckoned Omi. “Please.”
   “What is it, eh?” Omi’s voice was edged.
   “Please, here Omi-san. Alone.”
   Omi waved his guards away and spurred forward until he towered over Blackthorne. “Nan desu ka?” he asked, his hand seemingly tightening on his sword.
   “This place Toranaga-sama …” Blackthorne could not think of the words, so explained partially with his hands. “Understand?”
   “Here you pulled him out of the earth, neh? So?”
   Blackthorne looked at him, then deliberately down at his sword, then stared up at him again saying nothing more. He wiped the rain out of his face.
   “Nan desu ka?” Omi repeated more irritably.
   Still Blackthorne didn’t answer. Omi stared down at the crevasse and again at Blackthorne’s face. Then his eyes lit up. “Ah, so desu! Wakarimasu!” Omi thought a moment then called out to one of the guards, “Get Mura here at once. With twenty men and shovels!”
   The samurai galloped off. Omi sent the others back to the village, then dismounted and stood beside Blackthorne. “Yes, Anjin-san,” he said, “that’s an excellent thought. A good idea.”
   “Idea? What idea?” Blackthorne asked innocently. “Just show place—think you want know place, neh? So sorry—don’t understand.”
   Omi said, “Toranaga-sama lost his swords here. Swords very valuable. He’ll be happy to get them back. Very happy, neh?”
   “Ah so! No my idea, Omi-san, “ Blackthorne said. “Omi-san idea.”
   “Of course. Thank you, Anjin-san. You’re a good friend and your mind’s fast. I should have thought of that myself. Yes, you’re a good friend and we’ll all need friends for the next few months. War’s with us now whether we want it or not.”
   “Please? So sorry. I don’t understand, speak too fast. Please excuse.”
   “Glad we’re friends—you and me. Understand?”
   “Hai. You say war? War now?”
   “Soon. What can we do? Nothing. Don’t worry, Toranaga-sama will conquer Ishido and his traitors. That’s the truth, understand? No worry, neh?”
   “Understand. I go now, my house. All right?”
   “Yes. See you at dawn. Again thank you.”
   Blackthorne nodded. But he did not leave. “She’s pretty, neh?”
   “What?”
   “Kiku-san.” Blackthorne’s legs were slightly apart and he was poised to jump back and pull out the pistol, and aim it and fire it. He remembered with total clarity the unbelievable, effortless speed that Omi had used to decapitate the first villager so long ago, and he was ready as best he could be. He reasoned his only safety was to precipitate the matter of Kiku. Omi would never do it. Omi would consider such bad manners unthinkable. And, filled with shame at his own weakness, Omi would lock his very un-Japanese jealousy away into a secret compartment. Because it was so alien and shamefilled, this jealousy would fester until, when it was least expected, Omi would explode blindly and ferociously.
   “Kiku-san?” Omi said.
   “Hai.” Blackthorne could see that Omi was rocked. Even so he was glad he had chosen the time and the place. “She’s pretty, neh?”
   “Pretty?”
   “Hai.”
   The rain increased. The heavy drops spattered the mud. Their horses shivered uncomfortably. Both men were soaked but the rain was warm and it ran off them.
   “Yes,” Omi said. “Kiku-san is very pretty,” and followed it with a torrent of words Blackthorne did not fathom.
   “No words enough now, Omi-san—not enough to speak clear now,” Blackthorne said. “Later yes. Not now. Understand?”
   Omi seemed not to hear. Then he said, “There’s plenty of time, Anjin-san, plenty of time to talk about her, and about you and me and karma. But I agree, now is not the time, neh?”
   “Think understand. Yes. Yesterday not know Omi-san and Kiku-san good friends,” he said, pressing the attack.
   “She’s not my property.”
   “Now know you and her very friends. Now—”
   “Now leave. This matter is closed. The woman is nothing. Nothing.”
   Stubbornly Blackthorne stayed where he was. “Next time I—”
   “This conversation is over! Didn’t you hear? Finished!”
   “Iyé! Iyé, by God!”
   Omi’s hand went for his sword. Blackthorne leaped back two paces without realizing it. But Omi did not draw his sword and Blackthorne did not pull out his pistol. Both men readied, though neither wanted to begin.
   “What do you want to say, Anjin-san?”
   “Next time, first I ask—about Kiku-san. If Omi-san say yes—yes. If no—no! Understand? Friend to friend, neh?”
   Omi relaxed his sword hand slightly. “I repeat—she’s not my property. Thank you for showing me this place, Anjin-san. Goodbye.”
   “Friend?”
   “Of course.” Omi walked over to Blackthorne’s horse and held the bridle. Blackthorne swung into the saddle.
   He looked down at Omi. If he could have got away with it he knew he would have blown the samurai’s head off right now. That would be his safest course. “Goodbye, Omi-san, and thank you.”
   “Goodbye, Anjin-san.” Omi watched Blackthorne ride off and did not turn his back until he was over the rise. He marked the exact place in the crevasse with some stones and then, in turmoil, squatted on his haunches to wait, oblivious of the deluge.
   Soon Mura and the peasants arrived, bespattered with mud.
   “Toranaga-sama fell into the crevasse exactly at this point, Mura. His swords are buried here. Bring them to me before sunset.”
   “Yes, Omi-sama.”
   “If you’d had any brains, if you were interested in me, your liege Lord, you would have done it already.”
   “Please excuse my stupidity.”
   Omi rode off. They watched him briefly, then spread themselves out in a circle around the stones, and began to dig.
   Mura dropped his voice. “Uo, you’ll go with the baggage train.”
   “Yes, Mura-san. But how?”
   “I’ll offer you to the Anjin-san. He won’t know any different.”
   “But his consort, oh ko, she will,” Uo whispered back.
   “She’s not going with him. I hear her burns are bad. She’s to go by ship to Yedo later. You know what to do?”
   “Seek out the Holy Father privately, answer any questions.”
   “Yes.” Mura relaxed and began to talk normally. “You can go with the Anjin-san, Uo, he’ll pay well. Make yourself useful, but not too useful or he’ll take you all the way to Yedo.”
   Uo laughed. “Hey, I hear Yedo’s so rich everyone pisses into silver pots—even eta. And the women have skins like sea foam with no pubics at all.”
   “Is that true, Mura-san?” another villager asked. “They’ve no short hair?”
   “Yedo was just a stinking little fishing village, nothing as good as Anjiro, when I was there the first time,” Mura told them, without stopping digging. “That was with Toranaga-sama when we were all hunting down the Beppu. We took more than three thousand heads between us. As to pubics, all the girls I’ve known had them, except one from Korea, but she said she’d had them plucked, one by one.”
   “What some women will do to attract us, heh?” someone said.
   “Yes. But I’d like to see that,” Ninjin said toothlessly. “Yes, I’d like to see a Jade Gate without a bush.”
   “I’d gamble a boatload of fish against a bucket of shit that it hurt to pull out those hairs.” Uo whistled.
   “When I’m a kami I’m going to inhabit Kiku-san’s Heavenly Pavilion! They say she was born perfumed and hairless!”
   Amid laughter, Uo asked, “Did it make any difference, Mura-san, to attack the Jade Gate without the bush?”
   “It was the nearest I ever got. Eeeeh! I got closer and deeper than ever before and that’s important, neh? So I know it’s always better for the girl to take off the bush though some are superstitious about it and some complain of the itch. It’s still closer for you and so closer for her—and getting close makes all the difference, neh?” They laughed and put their backs into the digging. The pit grew under the rain.
   “I’ll wager the Anjin-san got plenty close last night for her to stand at the gateway like that! Eeee, what wouldn’t I give to have been him.” Uo wiped the sweat off his brow. Like all of them he wore only a loincloth and a bamboo, conical hat, and was barefoot.
   “Eeee! I was there, Uo, in the square, and I saw it all. I saw her smile and I felt it down through my Fruit and into my toes.”
   “Yes,” another said. “I have to admit just her smile made me stiff as an oar.”
   “But not as big as the Anjin-san, eh, Mura-san?” Uo chuckled. “Go on, please tell us the story again.”
   Happily Mura obliged and told about the first night and the bath house. His story had improved in the many tellings, but none of them minded.
   “Oh, to be so vast!” Uo mimed carrying a giant erection before him, and laughed so much he slipped in the mud.
   “Who’d have thought the barbarian stranger’d ever get from the pit to paradise?” Mura leaned on his shovel a moment, collecting his breath. “I’d never have believed it—like an ancient legend. Karma, neh?”
   “Perhaps he was one of us—in a previous life—and he’s come back with the same mind but a different skin.”
   Ninjin nodded. “That’s possible. Must be—because from what the Holy Father said I thought he’d be burning in the Devil’s Hell Furnace long since. Didn’t the Father say he’d put a special curse on him? I heard him bring down the vengeance of the great Jesus kami himself on the Anjin-san and, oh ko, even I was very frightened.” He crossed himself and the others hardly noticed. “But the Jesus Christ Madonna God punishes His enemies very strangely if you ask me.”
   Uo said, “Well, I’m not a Christian, as well you know, but, so sorry, it seems to me the Anjin-san’s a good man, please excuse me, and better than the Christian Father who stank and cursed and frightened everyone. And he’s been good to us, neh? He treats his people well—some say he’s Lord Toranaga’s friend, must be with all his honors, neh? And don’t forget Kiku-san honored him with her Golden Gully.”
   “It’s golden all right. I heard the night cost him five koban!”
   “Fifteen koku for one night?” Ninjin spluttered. “Eeeeeee, how lucky the Anjin-san is! His karma’s vast for an enemy of God the Father, Son, and Madonna.”
   Mura said, “He paid one koban—three koku. But if you think that’s a lot …” He stopped and looked around conspiratorially to make sure there were no eavesdroppers, though of course in this rain he knew there would be none—and even if there were, what did that matter?
   They all stopped and moved closer. “Yes, Mura-san?”
   “I just had it whispered to me she’s going to be Lord Toranaga’s consort. He bought her contract this morning. Three thousand koku.”
   It was a mind-boggling figure, more than their whole village earned in fish and rice in twenty years. Their respect for her increased, if that were possible. And for the Anjin-san, who was therefore the last man on earth to enjoy her as a courtesan of the First Rank.
   “Eeee!” Uo mumbled, hard put to talk. “So much money—I don’t know whether I want to vomit or piss or fart.”
   “Do none,” said Mura laconically. “Dig. Let’s find the swords.”
   They obeyed, each lost in his own thoughts. Inexorably, the pit was deepening.
   Soon Ninjin, whipped by worry, could contain himself no longer, and he stopped digging. “Mura-san, please excuse me, but what have you decided about the new taxes?” he asked. The others stopped.
   Mura kept on digging at his methodical, grinding pace. “What’s there to decide? Yabu-sama says pay, so we pay, neh?”
   “But Toranaga-sama cut our taxes to four parts out of ten and he’s our liege Lord now.”
   “True. But Lord Yabu was given back Izu—and Suruga and Totomi as well—and made overlord again, so who is our liege Lord?”
   “Toranaga-sama. Surely, Mura-san, Tora—”
   “Are you going to complain to him, Ninjin? Eh? Wake up, Yabu-sama’s overlord as he always was. Nothing’s changed. And if he puts up taxes we pay more taxes. Finish!”
   “But that’ll take all our winter stocks. All of them.” Ninjin’s voice was an infuriating whine but all knew the truth of what he said. “Even with the rice we stole—”
   “The rice we’ve saved,” Uo hissed at him, correcting him.
   “Even with that, there won’t be enough to last through winter. We’ll have to sell a boat or two—”
   “We sell no boats,” Mura said. He jabbed his shovel into the mud and wiped the sweat out of his eyes, retied the string of his hat more firmly. Then he began to dig again. “Work, Ninjin. That will take your mind off tomorrow.”
   “How do we last the winter, Mura-san?”
   “We still have to get through the summer.”
   “Yes,” Ninjin agreed bitterly. “We’ve paid more than two years’ taxes in advance, and still it’s not enough.”
   “Karma, Ninjin,” Uo said.
   “War’s coming. Perhaps we’ll get a new lord who’ll be fairer, neh?” another said.
   “He can’t be worse—no one can be worse.”
   “Don’t wager on that,” Mura told them all. “You’re alive—you can be very dead very quickly and then no more Golden Gullies, with or without the forest.” His shovel hit a rock and he stopped. “Give me a hand, Uo, old friend.”
   Together they fought the rock out of the mud. Uo whispered anxiously, “Mura-san, what if the Holy Father asks about the weapons?”
   “Tell him. And tell him we’re ready—that Anjiro’s ready.”

Chapter 42

   They came to Yokosé by noon. Buntaro had already intercepted Zataki the previous evening and, as Toranaga had ordered, had welcomed him with great formality. “I asked him to camp outside the village, to the north, Sire, until the meeting place could be prepared,” Buntaro said. “The formal meeting’s to take place here this afternoon, if it pleases you.” He added humorlessly, “I thought the Hour of the Goat would be auspicious.”
   “Good.”
   “He wanted to meet you tonight but I overruled that. I told him you’d be ‘honored’ to meet today or tomorrow, whichever he wished, but not after dark.”
   Toranaga grunted approval but did not yet dismount from his lathered horse. He wore a breastplate, helmet, and light bamboo armor, like his equally travel-stained escort. Again he looked around carefully. The clearing had been well chosen with no chance for ambush. There were no trees or houses within range that could hide archers or musketeers. Just east of the village the land was flat and somewhat higher. North, west, and south were guarded by the village and by the wooden bridge that spanned the fast-flowing river. Here at the narrows the water was swirling and rock-infested. Eastward, behind him and his weary, sweated riders, the track climbed steeply up the pass to the misted crest, five ri away. Mountains towered all around, many volcanic, and most with their peaks sleeping in the overcast. In the center of the clearing a twelve-mat dais had been especially erected on low pilings. A tall rush canopy covered it. Haste did not show in the craftsmanship. Two brocade cushions faced each other on the tatamis.
   “I’ve men there, there, and there,” Buntaro continued, pointing with his bow at all the overlooking outcrops. “You can see for many ri in all directions, Sire. Good defensive positions—the bridge and the whole village are covered. Eastward your retreat’s secured by more men. Of course, the bridge is locked tight with sentries and I’ve left an ‘honor guard’ of a hundred men at his camp.”
   “Lord Zataki’s there now?”
   “No, Sire. I selected an inn for him and his equerries on the outskirts of the village, to the north, worthy of his rank, and invited him to enjoy the baths there. That inn’s isolated and secured. I implied you’d be going on to Shuzenji Spa tomorrow and he’d be your guest.” Buntaro indicated a neat, single-story inn on the edge of the clearing that faced the best view, near to a hot spring that bubbled from the rock into a natural bath. “That inn’s yours, Sire.” In front of the inn was a group of men, all on their knees, their heads very low, bowing motionlessly toward them. “They’re the headman and village elders. I didn’t know if you wanted to see them at once.”
   “Later.” Toranaga’s horse neighed wearily and cast its head about, the bridles jingling. He gentled him, and now completely satisfied with the security, he signed to his men and dismounted. One of Buntaro’s samurai caught his reins—the samurai, like Buntaro and all of them, armored, battle-armed, and ready.
   Toranaga stretched gratefully and limbered up to ease the cramped muscles in his back and legs. He had led the way from Anjiro in a single forced march, stopping only to change mounts. The rest of the baggage train under Omi’s command—palanquins and bearers—was still far behind, strung out on the road that came down from the crest. The road from Anjiro had snaked along the coast, then branched. They had taken the west road inland and climbed steadily through luxuriant forests teeming with game, Mount Omura to their right, the peaks of the volcanic Amagi Range on their left soaring almost five thousand feet. The ride had exhilarated him—at last some action! Part of the journey had been through such good hawking country that he promised himself, one day, he would hunt all Izu.
   “Good. Yes, very good,” he said over the bustle of his men dismounting and chattering and sorting themselves out. “You’ve done well.”
   “If you want to honor me, Sire, I beg you to allow me to obliterate Lord Zataki and his men at once.”
   “He insulted you?”
   “No—on the contrary—his manners were worthy of a courtier, but the flag he travels under’s a treason against you.”
   “Patience. How often do I have to tell you?” Toranaga said, not unkindly.
   “I’m afraid forever, Sire,” Buntaro replied gruffly. “Please excuse me.”
   “You used to be his friend.”
   “He used to be your ally.”
   “He saved your life at Odawara.”
   “We were on the same side at Odawara,” Buntaro said bleakly, then burst out, “How can he do this to you, Sire? Your own brother! Haven’t you favored him, fought on the same side—all his life?”
   “People change.” Toranaga put his full attention on the dais. Delicate silk curtains had been hung from the rafters over the platform for decoration. Ornamental brocade tassels that matched the cushions made a pleasing frieze and larger ones were on the four corner posts. “It’s much too rich and gives the meeting too much importance,” he said. “Make it simple. Remove the curtains, all the tassels and cushions, return them to the merchants, and if they won’t give the quartermaster back the money, tell him to sell them. Get four cushions, not two—simple, chaff-filled.”
   “Yes, Sire.”
   Toranaga’s gaze fell on the spring and he wandered over to it. The water, steaming and sulphurous, hissed as it came from a cleft in the rocks. His body ached for a bath. “And the Christian?” he asked.
   “Sire?”
   “Tsukku-san, the Christian priest?”
   “Oh him! He’s somewhere in the village, but the other side of the bridge. He’s forbidden this side without your permission. Why? Is it important? He said something about how he’d be honored to see you, when convenient. Do you want him here now?”
   “Was he alone?”
   Buntaro’s lip curled. “No. He had an escort of twenty acolytes, all tonsured like him—all Kyushu men, Sire, all wellborn and all samurai. All well mounted but no weapons. I had them searched. Thoroughly.”
   “And him?”
   “Of course him—him more than any. There were four carrier pigeons among his luggage. I confiscated them.”
   “Good. Destroy them… Some fool did it in error, so sorry, neh?”
   “I understand. You want me to send for him now?”
   “Later. I’ll see him later.”
   Buntaro frowned. “Was it wrong to search him?”
   Toranaga shook his head, and absently looked back at the crest, lost in thought. Then he said, “Send a couple of men we can trust to watch the Musket Regiment.”
   “I’ve already done that, Sire.” Buntaro’s face lit up with grim satisfaction. “And Lord Yabu’s personal guards contain some of our ears and eyes. He won’t be able to fart without your knowing it, if that’s your wish.”
   “Good.” The head of the baggage train, still far distant, rounded a bend in the curling track. Toranaga could see the three palanquins, Omi mounted in the lead as ordered, the Anjin-san beside him now, also riding easily.
   He turned his back on them. “I’ve brought your wife with me.”
   “Yes, Sire.”
   “She’s asking my permission to go to Osaka.”
   Buntaro stared at him, but said nothing. Then he squinted back at the barely discernible figures.
   “I gave her my approval—providing, of course, that you also approve.”
   “Whatever you approve, Sire, I approve,” Buntaro said.
   “I can allow her to go by land from Mishima or she can accompany the Anjin-san to Yedo, and go by sea to Osaka from there. The Anjin-san’s agreed to be responsible for her—if you approve.”
   “It would be safer by sea.” Buntaro was smoldering.
   “This all depends on Lord Zataki’s message. If Ishido’s formally declared war on me, then of course I must forbid it. If not, your wife can go on tomorrow or the day after, if you approve.”
   “Whatever you decide I agree to.”
   “This afternoon pass over your duties to Naga-san. This is a good moment to make peace between you and your wife.”
   “Please excuse me, Sire. I should stay with my men. I beg you to leave me with my men. Until you’re safely away.”
   “Tonight you will pass over your duties to my son. You and your wife will join me at my evening meal. You will stay at the inn. You will make a peace.”
   Buntaro stared at the ground. Then he said, even more stonily, “Yes, Sire.”
   “You’re ordered to attempt a peace,” said Toranaga. He was in a mind to add “an honorable peace is better than war, neh?” But that wasn’t true and might have begun a philosophic argument and he was tired and wanted no arguments, just a bath and a rest. “Now fetch the headman!”
   The headman and elders fell over themselves in their haste to bow before him, welcoming him in the most extravagant way. Toranaga told them bluntly that the bill they would present to his quartermaster when he left would of course be fair and reasonable. “Neh?”
   “Hai,” they chorused humbly, blessing the gods for their unexpected good fortune and the fat pickings that this visit would inevitably bring them. With many more bows and compliments, saying how proud and honored they were to be allowed to serve the greatest daimyo in the Empire, the sprightly old headman ushered him into the inn.
   Toranaga inspected it completely through coveys of bowing, smiling maids of all ages, the pick of the village. There were ten rooms around a nondescript garden with a small cha house in the center, kitchens in the back, and to the west, nestling the rocks, a large bath house fed from the living springs. The whole inn was neatly fenced—a covered walk led to the bath—and it was easy to defend.
   “I don’t need the whole inn, Buntaro-san,” he said, standing again on the veranda. “Three rooms will be sufficient—one for myself, one for the Anjin-san, and one for the women. You take a fourth. There’s no need to pay for the rest.”
   “My quartermaster tells me he made a very good arrangement for the whole inn, Sire, day by day, better than half price, and it’s still out of season. I approved the cost because of your security.”
   “Very well,” Toranaga agreed reluctantly. “But I want to see the bill before we leave. There’s no need to waste money. You’d better fill the rooms with guards, four to a room.”
   “Yes, Sire.” Buntaro had already decided to do that. He watched Toranaga stride off with two personal guards, surrounded by four of the prettiest maids, to go to his room in the east wing. Dully, he was wondering, what women? What women needed the room? Fujiko? Never mind, he thought tiredly, I’ll know soon enough.
   A maid fluttered past. She smiled brightly at him and he smiled back mechanically. She was young and pretty and soft-skinned and he had pillowed with her last night. But the joining had given him no pleasure and though she was deft and enthusiastic and well-trained, his lust soon vanished—he had never felt desire for her. Eventually, for the sake of good manners, he had pretended to reach the pinnacle, as she had pretended, and then she had left him.
   Still brooding, he walked out of the courtyard to stare up at the road.
   Why Osaka?


   At the Hour of the Goat the sentries on the bridge stood aside. The cortege began to cross. First were heralds carrying banners bedecked with the all-powerful cipher of the Regents, then the rich palanquin, and finally more guards.
   Villagers bowed. All were on their knees, secretly agog at such richness and pomp. The headman had cautiously asked if he should assemble all their people to honor the occasion. Toranaga had sent a message that those who were not working could watch, with their masters’ permission. So the headman, with even more care, had selected a deputation that included mostly the old and the obedient young, just enough to make a show—though every adult would have liked to be present—but not enough to go against the great daimyo’s orders. All who could were watching surreptitiously from vantage points in windows and doors.
   Saigawa Zataki, Lord of Shinano, was taller than Toranaga, and younger by five years, with the same breadth of shoulders and prominent nose. But his stomach was flat, the stubble of his beard black and heavy, his eyes mere slits in his face. Though there seemed to be an uncanny resemblance between the half brothers when they were apart, now that they were together they were quite dissimilar. Zataki’s kimono was rich, his armor glittering and ceremonial, his swords well used.
   “Welcome, brother.” Toranaga stepped off the dais and bowed. He wore the simplest of kimonos and soldier’s straw sandals. And swords. “Please excuse me for receiving you so informally, but I came as quickly as I could.”
   “Please excuse me for disturbing you. You look well, brother. Very well.” Zataki got out of the palanquin and bowed in return, beginning the interminable, meticulous formalities of the ceremonial that now ruled both of them.
   “Please take this cushion, Lord Zataki.”
   “Please excuse me, I would be honored if you would be seated first, Lord Toranaga.”
   “You’re so kind. But please, honor me by sitting first.”
   They continued playing the game that they had played so many times before, with each other and with friends and enemies, climbing the ladder of power, enjoying the rules that governed each movement and each phrase, that protected their individual honor so that neither could ever make a mistake and endanger himself or his mission.
   At length they were seated opposite each other on the cushions, two sword lengths away. Buntaro was behind and to the left of Toranaga. Zataki’s chief aide, an elderly gray-haired samurai, was behind and to his left. Around the dais, twenty paces away, were seated ranks of Toranaga samurai, all deliberately still costumed in the clothing they’d journeyed in, but their weapons in perfect condition. Omi was seated on the earth at the edge of the dais, Naga at the opposite side. Zataki’s men were dressed formally and richly, their vast, wing-shouldered overmantles belted with silver buckles. But they were equally well armed. They settled themselves, also twenty paces away.
   Mariko served ceremonial cha and there was innocuous, formal conversation between the two brothers. At the correct time Mariko bowed and left, Buntaro achingly aware of her and vastly proud of her grace and beauty. And then, too soon, Zataki said brusquely, “I bring orders from the Council of Regents.”
   A sudden hush fell on the square. Everyone, even his own men, was aghast at Zataki’s lack of manners, at the insolent way he had said “orders” and not “message,” and at his failure to wait for Toranaga to ask, “How can I be of service?” as ceremonial demanded.
   Naga shot a quick glance away from Zataki’s sword arm to his father. He saw the flush on Toranaga’s neck that was an infallible sign of impending explosion. But Toranaga’s face was tranquil, and Naga was amazed as he heard the controlled reply: “So sorry, you have orders? For whom, Brother? Surely you have a message?”
   Zataki ripped two small scrolls out of his sleeve. Buntaro’s hand almost flashed for his waiting sword at the unexpected suddenness, for ritual called for all movements to be slow and deliberate. Toranaga had not moved.

   Zataki broke the seal of the first scroll and read in a loud, chilling voice: “By order of the Council of Regents, in the name of Emperor Go-Niji, the Son of Heaven: We greet our illustrious vassal Yoshi Toranaga-noh-Minowara and invite him to make obeisance before us in Osaka forthwith, and invite him to inform our illustrious ambassador, the Regent, Lord Saigawa Zataki, if our invitation is accepted or refused—forthwith.”
   He looked up and in an equally loud voice continued, “It’s signed by all Regents and sealed with the Great Seal of the Realm.” Haughtily he placed the scroll in front of him. Toranaga signaled to Buntaro, who went forward, bowed low to Zataki, picked up the scroll, turned to Toranaga, bowed again. Toranaga accepted the scroll, and motioned Buntaro back to his place.
   Toranaga studied the scroll interminably.
   “All the signatures are genuine,” Zataki said. “Do you accept or refuse?”
   In a subdued voice, so that only those on the dais and Omi and Naga could hear him, Toranaga said, “Why shouldn’t I take your head for your foul manners?”
   “Because I’m my mother’s son,” Zataki replied.
   “That won’t protect you if you continue this way.”
   “Then she’ll die before her time.”
   ‘“What?”
   “The Lady, our mother, is in Takato.” Takato was the landlocked, impregnable fortress and capital city of Shinano, Zataki’s province. “I regret her body will stay there forever.”
   “Bluff! You honor her as much as I do.”
   “On her immortal spirit, Brother, as much as I honor her, I detest what you’re doing to the realm even more.”
   “I seek no more territory and no—”
   “You seek to overthrow the succession.”
   “Wrong again, and I’ll always protect my nephew from traitors.”
   “You seek the Heir’s downfall, that is what I believe, so I’ve decided to stay alive and lock Shinano and the northern route against you, whatever the cost, and I’ll continue to do that until the Kwanto’s in friendly hands—whatever the cost.”
   “In your hands, Brother?”
   “Any safe hands—which excludes yours. Brother.”
   “You trust Ishido?”
   “I trust no one, you’ve taught me that. Ishido’s Ishido, but his loyalty’s unquestioned. Even you’ll admit that.”
   “I’ll admit that Ishido’s trying to destroy me and split the realm, that he’s usurped power and that he’s breaking the Taikō’s will.”
   “But you did plot with Lord Sugiyama to wreck the Council of Regents. Neh?”
   The vein in Zataki’s forehead was throbbing like a black worm. “What can you say? One of his counselors admitted the treason: that you plotted with Sugiyama for him to accept Lord Ito in your place, then to resign the day before the first meeting and escape by night, and so throw the realm into confusion. I heard the confession—Brother.”
   “Were you one of the murderers?”
   Zataki flushed. “Overzealous ronin killed Sugiyama, not I, nor any of Ishido’s men!”
   “Curious that you took his place as Regent so quickly, neh?”
   “No. My lineage is as ancient as yours. But I didn’t order the death, nor did Ishido—he swore it on his honor as a samurai. So do I. Ronin killed Sugiyama, but he deserved to die.”
   “By torture, dishonored in a filthy cellar, his children and consorts hacked up in front of him?”
   “That’s a rumor spread by filthy malcontents—perhaps by your spies—to discredit Lord Ishido and through him the Lady Ochiba and the Heir. There’s no proof of that.”
   “Look at their bodies.”
   “The ronin set fire to the house. There are no bodies.”
   “So convenient, neh? How can you be so gullible? You’re not a stupid peasant!”
   “I refuse to sit here and listen to this manure. Give me your answer now. And then either take my head and she dies or let me go.” Zataki leaned forward. “Within moments of my head leaving my shoulders, ten carrier pigeons will be racing north for Takato. I have trustworthy men north, east, and west, a day’s march away, out of your reach, and if they fail there are more in safety across your borders. If you take my head or have me assassinated or if I die in Izu—whatever the reason —she dies also. Now, either take my head or let’s finish the giving of the scrolls and I’ll leave Izu at once. Choose!”
   “Ishido murdered Lord Sugiyama. In time I can get you proof. That’s important, neh? I only need a little—”
   “You’ve no more time! Forthwith, the message said. Of course you refuse to obey, good, so it’s done. Here.” Zataki put the second scroll on the tatamis. “Here’s your formal impeachment and order to commit seppuku, which you’ll treat with equal contempt—may Lord Buddha forgive you! Now everything’s done. I’ll leave at once, and the next time we meet will be on a battlefield and by the Lord Buddha, before sunset on the same day, I’ve promised myself I’ll see your head on a spike.”
   Toranaga kept his eyes on his adversary. “Lord Sugiyama was your friend and mine. Our comrade, as honorable a samurai as ever lived. The truth about his death should be of importance to you.”
   “Yours has more importance, Brother.”
   “Ishido’s sucked you in like a starving infant at its mother’s tit.”
   Zataki turned to his counselor. “On your honor as a samurai, have I posted men and what is the message?”
   The gray-haired, dignified old samurai, chief of Zataki’s confidants and well known to Toranaga as an honorable man, felt sickened and ashamed by the blatant display of hatred, as was everyone within hearing. “So sorry, Lord,” he said in a choked whisper, bowing to Toranaga, “but my Master is of course telling the truth. How could this be questioned? And, please excuse me, but it is my duty, with all honor and humility, to point out to both of you that such … such astonishing and shameful lack of politeness between you is not worthy of your rank or the solemnity of this occasion. If your vassals—if they could have heard—I doubt if either of you could have held them back. You forget your duty as samurai and your duty to your men. Please excuse me”—he bowed to both of them—”but it had to be said.” Then he added, “All messages were the same, Lord Toranaga, and under the official seal of Lord Zataki: ‘Put the Lady, my mother, to death at once.’”
   “How can I prove I’m not trying to overthrow the Heir?” Toranaga asked his brother.
   “Immediately abdicate all your titles and power to your son and heir, Lord Sudara, and commit seppuku today. Then I and all my men—to the last man—will support Sudara as Lord of the Kwanto.”
   “I’ll consider what you’ve said.”
   “Eh?”
   “I’ll consider what you’ve said.” Toranaga repeated it more firmly. “We’ll meet tomorrow at this time, if it pleases you.”
   Zataki’s face twisted. “Is this another of your tricks? What’s there to meet about?”
   “About what you said, and about this.” Toranaga held up the scroll that was in his hand. “I’ll give you my answer tomorrow.”
   “Buntaro-san!” Zataki motioned at the second scroll. “Please give this to your master.”
   “No!” Toranaga’s voice reverberated around the clearing. Then, with great ceremony, he added loudly, “I am honored formally to accept the Council’s message and will submit my answer to their illustrious ambassador, my brother, the Lord of Shinano, tomorrow at this time.”
   Zataki stared at him suspiciously. “What possible ans—”
   “Please excuse me, Lord,” the old samurai interrupted quietly with grave dignity, again keeping the conversation private, “so sorry, but Lord Toranaga is perfectly correct to suggest this. It is a solemn choice you have given him, a choice not contained in the scrolls. It is fair and honorable that he should be given the time he requires.”
   Zataki picked up the second scroll and shoved it back into his sleeve. “Very well. I agree. Lord Toranaga, please excuse my bad manners. Lastly, please tell me where Kasigi Yabu is? I’ve a scroll for him. Only one in his case.”
   “I’ll send him to you.”


   The falcon closed her wings and fell a thousand feet out of the evening sky and smashed into the fleeing pigeon with a burst of feathers, then caught it in her talons and carried it earthward, still falling like a stone, and then, a few feet off the ground, she released her now dead prey, braked frantically and landed on it perfectly. “Ekek-ek-eeekk!” she shrieked, fluttering her neck feathers in pride, her talons ripping off the pigeon’s head in her ecstasy of conquest.
   Toranaga, with Naga as his equerry, galloped up. The daimyo slid off his horse. He called her gently to fist. Obediently she stepped up onto his glove. At once she was rewarded with a morsel of flesh from a previous kill. He slipped on her hood, tightening the thongs with his teeth. Naga picked up the pigeon and put it into the half-full game bag that hung from his father’s saddle, then turned and beckoned to the distant beaters and guards.
   Toranaga got back into the saddle, the falcon comfortably on his glove, held by her thin leather jesses. He looked up into the sky, measuring the light still remaining.
   In the late afternoon the sun had broken through, and now in the valley, the day dying fast, the sun long since bedded by the western crest, it was cool and pleasant. The clouds were northward, pushed there by the dominant wind, hovering over the mountain peaks and hiding many. At this altitude, land-locked, the air was clean and sweet.
   “We should have a good day tomorrow, Naga-san. Cloudless, I’d imagine. I think I’ll hunt with the dawn.”
   “Yes, Father.” Naga watched him, perplexed, afraid to ask questions as always, yet wanting to know everything. He could not fathom how his father could be so detached after such a hideous meeting. To bow Zataki away with the due ceremony then, at once, to summon his hawks and beaters and guards and halloo them away to the rolling hills beyond the forest, seemed to Naga to be an unearthly display of self-control. Just the thought of Zataki made Naga’s flesh crawl now, and he knew that the old counselor was right: if one tenth of the conversation had been overheard, samurai would have leapt to defend their lord’s honor. If it weren’t for the threat that hung over his revered grandmother’s head, he would have rushed at Zataki himself. I suppose that’s why my father is what he is, and is where he is, he thought…
   His eyes picked out horsemen breaking from the forest below and galloping up toward them over the rolling foothills. Beyond the dark green of the forest, the river was a twisted ribbon of black. The lights in the inns blinked like fireflies. “Father!”
   “Eh? Ah Yes, I see them now. Who are they?”
   “Yabu-san, Omi-san and … eight guards.”
   “Your eyes are better than mine. Ah yes, now I recognize them.”
   Naga said without thinking, “I wouldn’t have let Yabu-san go alone to Lord Zataki without—” He stopped and stuttered, “Please excuse me.”
   “Why wouldn’t you have sent Yabu-san alone?”
   Naga cursed himself for opening his mouth and quailed under Toranaga’s gaze. “Please excuse me, because then I’d never know what secret arrangement they would have made. He could, Father, easily. I would have kept them apart—please excuse me. I don’t trust him.”
   “If Yabu-san and Zataki-san plan treachery behind my back, they’ll do it whether I send a witness or not. Sometimes it’s wiser to give a quarry extra line—that’s how to catch a fish, neh?”
   “Yes, please excuse me.”
   Toranaga realized that his son didn’t understand, would never understand, would always be merely a hawk to hurl at an enemy, swift, sharp, and deadly.
   “I’m glad you understand, my son,” he said to encourage him, knowing his good qualities, and valuing them. “You’re a good son,” he added, meaning it.
   “Thank you, Father,” Naga said, filled with pride at the rare compliment. “I only hope you’ll forgive my stupidities and teach me to serve you better.”
   “You’re not stupid.” Yabu’s stupid, Toranaga almost added. The less people know the better, and it’s not necessary to stretch your mind, Naga. You’re so young—my youngest but for your half brother, Tadateru. How old is he? Ah, seven, yes, he’d be seven.
   He watched the approaching horsemen a moment. “How’s your mother, Naga?”
   “As always, the happiest lady in the world. She’ll still only let me see her once a year. Can’t you persuade her to change?”
   “No,” said Toranaga. “She’ll never change.”
   Toranaga always felt a glow when he thought of Chano-Tsuboné, his eighth official consort and Naga’s mother. He laughed to himself as he remembered her earthy humor, her dimpled cheeks and saucy bottom, the way she wriggled and the enthusiasm of her pillowing.
   She had been the widow of a farmer near Yedo who had attracted him twenty years ago. She had stayed with him three years, then asked to be allowed to return to the land. He had allowed her to go. Now she lived on a good farm near where she was born—fat and content, a dowager Buddhist nun honored by all and beholden to none. Once in a while he would go to see her and they would laugh together, without reason, friends.
   “Ah, she’s a good woman,” Toranaga said.
   Yabu and Omi rode up and dismounted. Ten paces away they stopped and bowed.
   “He gave me a scroll,” Yabu said, enraged, brandishing it. “… We invite you to leave Izu at once for Osaka, today, and present yourself at Osaka Castle for an audience, or all your lands are now forfeit and you are hereby declared outlaw.’” He crushed the scroll in his fist and threw it on the ground. “Today!”
   “Then you’d better leave at once,” Toranaga said, suddenly in a foul humor at Yabu’s truculence and stupidity.
   “Sire, I beg you,” Omi began hastily, dropping abjectly to his knees, “Lord Yabu’s your devoted vassal and I beg you humbly not to taunt him. Forgive me for being so rude, but Lord Zataki … Forgive me for being so rude.”
   “Yabu-san, please excuse the remark—it was meant kindly,” Toranaga said, cursing his lapse. “We should all have a sense of humor about such messages, neh?” He called up his falconer, gave him the bird from his fist, dismissed him and the beaters. Then he waved all samurai except Naga out of earshot, squatting on his haunches, and bade them do the same. “Perhaps you’d better tell me what happened.”
   Yabu said, “There’s almost nothing to tell. I went to see him. He received me with the barest minimum of courtesy. First there were ‘greetings’ from Lord Ishido and a blunt invitation to ally myself secretly with him, to plan your immediate assassination, and to murder every Toranaga samurai in Izu. Of course I refused to listen, and at once—at once—without any courtesy whatsoever, he handed me that!” His finger stabbed belligerently toward the scroll. “If it hadn’t been for your direct order protecting him I’d have hacked him to pieces at once! I demand you rescind that order. I cannot live with this shame. I must have revenge!”
   “Is that everything that happened?”
   “Isn’t that enough?”
   Toranaga passed over Yabu’s rudeness and scowled at Omi. “You’re to blame, neh? Why didn’t you have the intelligence to protect your Lord better? You’re supposed to be an adviser. You should have been his shield. You should have drawn Lord Zataki into the open, tried to find out what Ishido had in mind, what the bribe was, what plans they had. You’re supposed to be a valued counselor. You’re given a perfect opportunity and you waste it like an unpracticed dullard!”
   Omi bent his head. “Please excuse me, Sire.”
   “I might, but I don’t see why Lord Yabu should. Now your lord’s accepted the scroll. Now he’s committed. Now he has to act one way or the other.”
   “What?” said Yabu.

   “Why else do you think I did what I did? To delay—of course, to delay,” said Toranaga.
   “But one day? What’s the value of one day?” Yabu asked.
   “Who knows? A day for you is one less for the enemy.” Toranaga’s eyes snapped back to Omi. “Was the message from Ishido verbal or in writing?”
   Yabu answered instead. “Verbal, of course.”
   Toranaga kept his penetrating gaze on Omi. “You’ve failed in your duty to your lord and to me.”
   “Please excuse—”
   “What exactly did you say?”
   Omi did not reply.
   “Have you forgotten your manners as well? What did you say?”
   “Nothing, Sire. I said nothing.”
   “What?”
   Yabu blustered, “He said nothing to Zataki because he wasn’t present. Zataki asked to speak to me alone.”
   “Oh?” Toranaga hid his glee that Yabu had had to admit what he had already surmised and that part of the truth was now in the open. “Please excuse me, Omi-san. I naturally presumed you were present.”
   “It was my error, Sire. I should have insisted. You’re correct, I failed to protect my Lord,” Omi said. “I should have been more forceful. Please excuse me. Yabu-sama, please excuse me.”
   Before Yabu could answer, Toranaga said, “Of course you’re forgiven, Omi-san. If your lord overruled you, that’s his privilege. You did overrule him, Yabu-sama?”
   “Yes—yes, but I didn’t think it mattered. You think I …”
   “Well, the harm’s done now. What do you plan to do?”
   “Of course, dismiss the message for what it is, Sire.” Yabu was disquieted. “You think I could have avoided taking it?”
   “Of course. You could have negotiated with him for a day. Maybe more. Weeks even,” Toranaga added, turning the knife deeper into the wound, maliciously delighted that Yabu’s own stupidity had thrust him onto the hook, and not at all concerned with the treachery Yabu had undoubtedly been bribed into, cajoled into, flattered into, or frightened into. “So sorry, but you’re committed. Never mind, it’s as you said, ‘The sooner everyone chooses sides the better.’” He got up. “There’s no need to go back to the regiment tonight. Both of you join me at the evening meal. I’ve arranged an entertainment.” For everyone, he added under his breath, with a great deal of satisfaction.


   Kiku’s skillful fingers strummed a chord, the plectrum held firmly. Then she began to sing and the purity of her voice filled the hushed night. They sat spellbound in the large room that was open to the veranda and the garden beyond, entranced by the extraordinary effect she made under the flickering torches, the gold threads of her kimono catching the light as she leaned over the samisen.
   Toranaga glanced around momentarily, aware of the night currents. On one side of him, Mariko sat between Blackthorne and Buntaro. On the other, Omi and Yabu, side by side. The place of honor was still empty. Zataki had been invited, but of course he had regretfully declined due to ill health, though he had been seen galloping the northern hills and was presently pillowing with his legendary strength. Naga and very carefully chosen guards were all around, Gyoko hovering somewhere in the background. Kiku-san knelt on the veranda facing them, her back to the garden—tiny, alone, and very rare.
   Mariko was right, Toranaga thought. The courtesan’s worth the money. His spirit was beguiled by her, his anxiety about Zataki lessened. Shall I send for her again tonight or shall I sleep alone? His manhood stirred as he remembered last night.
   “So, Gyoko-san, you wished to see me?” he had asked in his private quarters at the fortress.
   “Yes, Sire.”
   He lit the measured length of incense. “Please proceed.”
   Gyoko had bowed, but he hardly had eyes for her. This was the first time he had seen Kiku closely. Nearness improved her exquisite features, as yet unmarked by the rigors of her profession. “Please play some music while we talk,” he said, surprised that Gyoko was prepared to talk in front of her.
   Kiku had obeyed at once, but her music then was nothing like tonight. Last night it was to soothe, an accompaniment to the business at hand. Tonight was to excite, to awe, and to promise.
   “Sire,” Gyoko had begun formally, “first may I humbly thank you for the honor you do me, my poor house, and Kiku-san, the first of my Ladies of the Willow World. The price I have asked for contract is insolent I know, impossible I am sure, not agreed to until dawn tomorrow when both the Lady Kasigi and the Lady Toda in their wisdom will decide. If it were a matter for you, you would have decided long ago, for what is contemptible money to any samurai, let alone to the greatest daimyo in the world?”
   Gyoko had paused for effect. He had not taken the bait, but moved his fan slightly, which could be interpreted as irritation at her expansiveness, acceptance of the compliment, or an absolute rejection of the asking price, depending on her inner mood. Both knew very clearly who really approved the amount.
   “What is money? Nothing but a means of communication,” she continued, “like Kiku-san’s music. What in fact do we of the Willow World do but communicate and entertain, to enlighten the soul of man, to lighten his burden…” Toranaga had stifled a caustic response, reminding himself the woman had bought one stick of time for five hundred koku and five hundred koku merited an attentive audience. So he let her continue and listened with one ear, and let the other enjoy the flow of perfect music fhat tugged at his innermost being, gentling him into a sense of euphoria. Then he was rudely yanked back into the world of reality by something Gyoko had just said. “What?”
   “I was merely suggesting that you should take the Willow World under your protection and change the course of history.”
   “How?”
   “By doing what you have always done, Sire, by concerning yourself with the future of the whole Empire—before your own.”
   He let the ludicrous exaggeration pass and told himself to close his ears to the music—that he had fallen into the first trap by telling Gyoko to bring the girl, the second by letting himself feast on her beauty and perfume, and the third by allowing her to play seductively while the mistress talked.
   “The Willow World? What about the Willow World?”
   “Two things, Sire. First, the Willow World is presently intermingled with the real world to the detraction of both. Second, our ladies cannot truly rise to the perfection all men have the right to expect.”
   “Oh?” A thread of Kiku’s perfume, one he had never known before, wafted across him. It was perfectly chosen. Involuntarily he looked at her. A half-smile was on her lips for him alone. Languidly she dropped her eyes and her fingers stroked the strings and he felt them on him intimately.
   He tried to concentrate. “So sorry, Gyoko-san. You were saying?”
   “Please excuse me for not being clear, Sire. First: The Willow World should be separate from the real one. My Tea House in Mishima is on one street in the south, others are scattered over the whole city. It is the same in Kyoto and Nara, and the same throughout all the Empire. Even in Yedo. But I thought that Yedo could set the pattern of the world.”
   “How?” His heart missed a beat as a perfect chord fell into place.
   “All other crafts wisely have streets of their own, areas of their own. We should be allowed our own place, Sire. Yedo is a new city; you might consider setting aside a special section for your Willow World. Bring all Tea Houses within the walls of this area and forbid any Tea Houses, however modest, outside.”
   Now his mind concentrated totally, for here was a vast idea. It was so good that he berated himself for not thinking of it himself. All Tea Houses and all courtesans within a fence, and therefore remarkably easy to police, to watch, and to tax, and all their customers equally easy to police, to watch, and to spy upon. The simplicity staggered him. He knew also the powerful influence wielded by the Ladies of the First Rank.
   But his face betrayed none of his enthusiasm. “What’s the advantage in that, Gyoko-san?”
   “We would have our own guild, Sire, with all the protection that a guild means, a real guild in one place, not spread out, so to speak, a guild that all would obey…”
   “Must obey?”
   “Yes, Sire. Must obey, for the good of all. The guild would be responsible that prices were fair and that standards were maintained. Why, in a few years, a Lady of the Second Class in Yedo would equal one in Kyoto and so on. If the scheme was valuable in Yedo why not in every city in your domain?”
   “But those owners who are within the fence dominate everything. They’re monopolists, neh? They can charge usurious entrance fees, neh, can lock the doors against many who have an equal right to work in the Willow World, neh?”
   “Yes, it could be so, Sire. And it will happen in some places, and in some times. But strict laws can easily be made to ensure fairness, and it would seem the good outweighs the bad, for us and for our honored customers and clients. Second: Ladies of—”
   “Let us finish your first point, Gyoko-san,” Toranaga said dryly. “So that’s a point against your suggestion, neh?”
   “Yes, Sire. It’s possible. But any daimyo could easily order it otherwise. And he has to deal with only one guild in one place. You, Sire, you would have no trouble. Each area would of course be responsible for the peace of the area. And for taxes.”
   “Ah yes, taxes! It would certainly be much easier to collect taxes. That’s a very good point in its favor.”
   Gyoko’s eyes were on the incense stick. More than half had vanished. “You, in your wisdom, might decree that our Willow World should be the only world, within the whole world, that is never to be taxed, for all time. Never, never, never.” She looked up at him clearly, her voice guileless. “After all, Sire, isn’t our world also called the ‘Floating World,’ isn’t our only offering beauty, isn’t a large part of beauty youth? Isn’t something so fleeting and transient as youth a gift from the gods, and sacred? Of all men, Sire, you must know how rare and fleeting youth is, a woman is.”
   The music died. His eyes were pulled to Kiku-san. She was watching him intently, a small frown on her brow.
   “Yes,” he said honestly. “I know how fleeting that can be.” He sipped his cha. “I will consider what you’ve said. Second?”
   “Second.” Gyoko collected her wits. “Second and last, Sire, you could put your chop on the Willow World forever. Consider some of our Ladies: Kiku-san, for instance, has studied singing and dancing and the samisen since she was six. Every waking moment she was working very hard to perfect her art. Admittedly she’s rightfully become a Lady of the First Class, as her unique artistry merits. But she’s still a courtesan and some clients expect to enjoy her on the pillow as well as through her art. I believe two classes of Ladies should be created. First, courtesans, as always—amusing, happy, physical. Second, a new class, perhaps gei-sha could describe them: Art Persons—persons dedicated solely to art. Gei-shas would not be expected to go to the pillow as part of their duty. They would solely be entertainers, dancers, singers, musicians—specialists—and so give themselves exclusively to this profession. Let gei-shas entertain the minds and spirits of men with their beauty and grace and their artistry. Let courtesans satisfy the body with beauty, grace, and equal artistry.”
   Again he was struck by the simplicity and the far-reaching possibilities of her idea. “How would you select a gei-sha?”
   “By her aptitude. At puberty her owner would decide the way of her future. And the guild could approve, or reject, the apprentice, neh?”
   “It is an extraordinary idea, Gyoko-san.”
   The woman bowed and shivered. “Please excuse my long-windedness, Sire, but this way, when beauty fades and the body thickens, still the girl can have a rare future and a real value. She won’t have to go down the road that all courtesans today must travel. I plead for the artists among them, my Kiku-san for one. I petition you to grant the favored few a future and the position they merit in the land. To learn to sing and to dance and to play requires practice and practice over the years. The pillow needs youth and there is no aphrodisiac like youth. Neh?”
   “No.” Toranaga watched her. “Gei-shas may not pillow?”
   “That would not be part of a gei-sha’s duty, whatever the money offered. Gei-shas would never be obliged to pillow, Sire. If a gei-sha wished to pillow with a particular man, it would be her private concern—or perhaps it should be arranged with the permission of her mistress, the price to be only as high as that man can afford. A courtesan’s duty would be to pillow with artistry—gei-shas and the apprentice gei-shas would be untouchable. Please excuse me for talking so long.” Gyoko bowed and Kiku bowed. The barest fraction of incense remained.
   Toranaga questioned them for twice the allotted time, pleased with the opportunity to learn about their world, probing their ideas and hopes and fears. What he learned excited him. He docketed the information for future use, then he sent Kiku into the garden. “Tonight, Gyoko-san, I would like her to stay, if she would care to, until dawn—if she’s free. Would you please ask her? Of course I realize that she may be tired now. After all, she’s played so superbly for such a long time and I’ll quite understand. But perhaps she would consider it. I’d be grateful if you would ask her.”
   “Of course, Sire, but I know she would be honored by your invitation. It’s our duty to serve in any way we can, neh?”
   “Yes. But she is, as you so rightly point out, most special. I’ll quite understand if she’s too tired. Please ask her in a moment.” He gave Gyoko a small leather bag containing ten koban, regretting the ostentation, but knowing his position demanded it. “Perhaps this would compensate you for such an exhausting evening, and be a small token of my thanks for your ideas.”
   “It’s our duty to serve, Sire,” Gyoko said. He saw her trying to stop her fingers from counting through the soft leather, and fail. “Thank you, Sire. Please excuse me, I will ask her.” Then, strangely and unexpectedly, tears filled her eyes. “Please accept the thanks of a vulgar old woman for your courtesy and for listening. It’s just that for all the giving of pleasure, our only reward is a river of tears. In truth, Lord, it is difficult to explain how a woman feels … please excuse me…
   “Listen, Gyoko-san, I understand. Don’t worry. I’ll consider everything you’ve said. Oh yes, you’ll both leave with me shortly after dawn. A few days in the mountains will make a pleasant change. I would imagine the contract price will be approved, neh?”
   Gyoko bowed her thanks, then she brushed her tears away and said firmly, “May I therefore ask the name of the honored person for whom her contract will be bought?”
   “Yoshi Toranaga-noh-Minowara.”
   Now under the Yokosé night, the air sweetly cool, Kiku-san’s music and voice possessing their minds and hearts, Toranaga let his mind wander. He remembered the pride-filled glow that had swamped Gyoko’s face and he wondered again at the bewildering gullibility of people. How baffling it was that even the most cunning and clever people would frequently see only what they wanted to see, and would rarely look beyond the thinnest of facades. Or they would ignore reality, dismissing it as the facade. And then, when their whole world fell to pieces and they were on their knees slitting their bellies or cutting their throats, or cast out into the freezing world, they would tear their topknots or rend their clothes and bewail their karma, blaming gods or kami or luck or their lords or husbands or vassals—anything or anyone—but never themselves.
   So very strange.
   He looked at his guests and saw they were still watching the girl, locked in their secrets, their minds expanded by her artistry—all except the Anjin-san, who was edgy and fidgeting. Never mind, Anjin-san, Toranaga thought with amusement, it’s only your lack of civilization. Yes, never mind, that will come in time, and even that doesn’t matter so long as you obey. At the moment I need your touchiness and your anger and your violence.
   Yes, you’re all here. You Omi, and Yabu and Naga and Buntaro, and you Mariko and Kiku-san and even Gyoko, all my Izu hawks and falcons, all trained and very ready. All here except one—the Christian priest. And soon it’ll be your turn, Tsukku-san. Or perhaps mine.