Shogun

speeding the dying. “Listen, child, you must trust Toranaga. Marry him, barter with him for the succession.”

“No—no,” Ochiba said, shocked.

“Yaemon could rule after him, then the fruit of your new marriage after our son. The sons of our son will honorably swear eternal fidelity to this new Toranaga line.”

“Toranaga’s always hated the Taiko. You know that, Lady. Toranaga is the source of all the trouble. For years, neh? Him!”

“And you? What about your pride, child?”

“He’s the enemy, our enemy.”

“You’ve two enemies, child. Your pride and the need to have a man to compare to our husband. Please be patient with me, you’re young and beautiful and fruitful and deserve a husband. Toranaga’s worthy of you, you of him. Toranaga is the only chance Yaemon has.”

“No, he’s the enemy.”

“He was our husband’s greatest friend and most loyal vassal. Without .?.?. without Toranaga .?.?. don’t you see .?.?. it was Toranaga’s help .?.?. don’t you see? You could manage .?.?. manage him.?.?.?.”

“So sorry, but I hate him—he disgusts me, Yodoko-chan.”

“Many women .?.?. What was I saying? Oh yes, many women marry men who disgust them. Praise be to Buddha I never had to suffer that.?.?.?.” The old woman smiled briefly. Then she sighed. It was a long, serious sigh and went on for too long and Ochiba thought the end had come. But the eyes opened a little and a tiny smile appeared again. “Neh?”

“Yes.”

“Will you. Please?”

“I will think about it.”

The old fingers tried to tighten. “I beg you, promise me you’ll marry Toranaga and I will go to Buddha knowing that the Taiko’s line will live forever, like his name .?.?. his name will live for?.?.?.”

The tears ran freely down Ochiba’s face as she cradled the listless hand.

Later the eyes trembled and the old woman whispered, “You must let Akechi Mariko go. Don’t .?.?. don’t let her reap vengeance on us for what the Taiko did .?.?. did to .?.?. to her .?.?. to her father.?.?.?.”

Ochiba was caught unaware. “What?”

There was no answer. Later Yodoko began mumbling, “.?.?.?Dear Yaemon, hello, my darling son, how .?.?. you’re such a fine boy, but you’ve so many enemies, so foolish so .?.?. Aren’t you just an illusion too, isn’t?.?.?.”

A spasm racked her. Ochiba held on to the hand and caressed it. “Namu Amida Butsu,” she whispered in homage.

There was another spasm, then the old woman said clearly, “Forgive me, O-chan.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Lady.”

“So much to forgive.?.?.?.” The voice became fainter, and the light began to fade from her face. “Listen .?.?. prom—promise about .?.?. about Toranaga, Ochiba-sama .?.?. important .?.?. please .?.?. you can trust him.?.?.?.” The old eyes were beseeching her, willing her.

Ochiba did not want to obey yet knew that she should obey. Her mind was unsettled by what had been said about Akechi Mariko, and still resounded with the Taiko’s words, repeated ten thousand times, “You can trust Yodoko-sama, O-chan. She’s the Wise One—never forget it. She’s right most times and you can always trust her with your life, and my son’s life and mine.?.?.?.”

Ochiba conceded. “I prom—” She stopped abruptly.

The light of Yodoko-sama flickered a final time and went out.

“Namu Amida Butsu.” Ochiba touched the hand to her lips, and she bowed and laid the hand back on the coverlet and closed the eyes, thinking about the Taiko’s death, the only other death she had witnessed so closely. That time Lady Yodoko had closed the eyes as was a wife’s privilege and it had been in this same room, Toranaga waiting outside, as Ishido and Kiyama were now outside, continuing a vigil that had begun the day before.

“But why send for Toranaga, Lord?” she had asked. “You should rest.”

“I’ll rest when I’m dead, O-chan,” the Taiko had said. “I must settle the succession. Finally. While I’ve the strength.”

So Toranaga had arrived, strong, vital, exuding power. The four of them were alone then, Ochiba, Yodoko, Toranaga and Nakamura, the Taiko, the Lord of Japan lying on his deathbed, all of them waiting for the orders that would be obeyed.

“So, Tora-san,” the Taiko had said, welcoming him with the nickname Goroda had given Toranaga long ago, the deep-set eyes peering up out of the tiny, withered simian face that was set on an equally tiny body—a body that had had the strength of steel until a few months ago when the wasting began. “I’m dying. From nothing, into nothing, but you’ll be alive and my son’s helpless.”

“Not helpless, Sire. All the daimyos will honor your son as they honor you.”

The Taiko laughed. “Yes, they will. Today. While I’m alive—ah yes! But how do I make sure Yaemon will rule after me?”

“Appoint a Council of Regents, Sire.”

“Regents!” the Taiko said scornfully. “Perhaps I should make you my heir and let you judge if Yaemon’s worthy to follow you.”

“I would not be worthy to do that. Your son should follow you.”

“Yes, and Goroda’s sons should have followed him.”

“No. They broke the peace.”

“And you stamped them out on my orders.”

“You held the Emperor’s mandate. They rebelled against your lawful mandate, Sire. Give me your orders now, and I will obey them.”

“That’s why I called you here.”

Then the Taiko said, “It’s a rare thing to have a son at fifty-seven and a foul thing to die at sixty-three—if he’s an only son and you’ve got no kin and you’re Lord of Japan. Neh?”

“Yes,” Toranaga said.

“Perhaps it would’ve been better if I’d never had a son, then I could pass the realm on to you as we agreed. You’ve more sons than a Portugee’s got lice.”

“Karma.”

The Taiko had laughed and a string of spittle, flecked with blood, seeped out of his mouth. With great care Yodoko wiped the spittle away and he smiled up at his wife. “Thank you, Yo-chan, thank you.” Then the eyes turned onto Ochiba herself and Ochiba had smiled back but his eyes weren’t smiling now, just probing, wondering, pondering the never-dared-to-be-asked question that she was sure was forever in his mind: Is Yaemon really my son?

“Karma, O-chan. Neh?” It was gently said but Ochiba’s fear that he would ask her directly racked her and tears glistened in her eyes.

“No need for tears, O-chan. Life’s only a dream within a dream,” the old man said. He lay for a moment musing, then he peered at Toranaga again, and with a sudden, unexpected warmth for which he was famous, said, “Eeeeee, old friend, what a life we’ve had, neh? All the battles? Fighting side by side— together unbeatable. We did the impossible, neh? Together we humbled the mighty and spat on their upturned arses while they groveled for more. Us—we did it, a peasant and a Minowara!” The old man chuckled. “Listen, a few more years and I’d have smashed the Garlic Eaters properly. Then with Korean legions and our own Japanese legions, a sharp thrust up to Peking and me on the Dragon Throne of China. Then I’d have given you Japan, which you want, and I’d have what I want.” The voice was strong, belying the inner fragility. “A peasant can straddle the Dragon Throne with face and honor—not like here. Neh?”

“China and Japan are different, yes, Sire.”

“Yes. They’re wise in China. There the first of a dynasty’s always a peasant or the son of a peasant, and the throne’s always taken by force with bloody hands. No hereditary caste there—isn’t that China’s strength?” Again the laugh. “Force and bloody hands and peasant—that’s me. Neh?”

“Yes. But you’re also samurai. You changed the rules here. You’re first of a dynasty.”

“I always liked you, Tora-san.” The old man sipped cha contentedly. “Yes—think of it, me on the Dragon