Shogun_ A Novel of Japan - James Clavell [319]
“Yes.”
“Now, Sire? At once?”
“Tonight would do excellently.” He looked at her blandly. “Her contract’s not necessarily for me, perhaps for one of my officers.”
“I would imagine the price would depend on whom, Sire.”
“I imagine it will. But set a price. The girl of course has the right of refusal, if she wishes, when the samurai’s named, but tell her mama-san owner that I don’t expect the girl will have the bad manners to mistrust my choice for her. Tell the owner also that Kiku is a Lady of the First Class of Mishima and not Yedo or Osaka or Kyoto,” Toranaga added genially, “so I expect to pay Mishima prices and not Yedo or Osaka or Kyoto prices.”
“Yes, Sire, of course.”
Toranaga moved his shoulder to ease the ache, shifting his swords.
“May I massage it for you, Sire? Or send for Suwo?”
“No, thank you. I’ll see Suwo later.” Toranaga got up and relieved himself with great pleasure, then sat down again. He wore a short, light silk kimono, blue patterned, and the simple straw sandals. His fan was blue and decorated with his crest.
The sun was low, rain clouds building heavily.
“It’s vast to be alive,” he said happily. “I can almost hear the rain waiting to be born.”
“Yes,” she said.
Toranaga thought a moment. Then he said as a poem:
“The sky
Scorched by the sun,
Weeps
Fecund tears.”
Mariko obediently put her mind to work to play the poem game with him, so popular with most samurai, spontaneously twisting the words of the poem that he had made up, adapting them, making another from his. After a moment she replied:
“But the forest
Wounded by the wind,
Weeps
Dead leaves.”
“Well said! Yes, very well said!” Toranaga looked at her contentedly, enjoying what he saw. She was dressed in a pale green kimono with patterns of bamboo, a dark green obi and orange sunshade. There was a marvelous sheen to the blue-black hair, which was piled high under her wide-brimmed hat. He remembered nostalgically how they had all—even the Dictator Goroda himself—wanted her when she was thirteen and her father, Akechi Jinsai, had first presented this, his eldest daughter, at Goroda’s court. And how Nakamura, the Taikō-to-be, had begged the Dictator to give her to him, and then how Goroda had laughed, and publicly called him his randy little monkey general, and told him to “stick to fighting battles, peasant, don’t fight to stick patrician holes!” Akechi Jinsai had openly scorned Nakamura, his rival for Goroda’s favor, the main reason why Nakamura had delighted in smashing him. And why also Nakamura had delighted in watching Buntaro squirm for years, Buntaro who had been given the girl to cement an alliance between Goroda and Toda Hiro-matsu. I wonder, Toranaga asked himself mischievously, looking at her, I wonder if Buntaro were dead, would she consent to be one of my consorts? Toranaga had always preferred experienced women, widows or divorced wives, but never too pretty or too wise or too young or too well-born, so never too much trouble and always grateful.
He chuckled to himself. I’d never ask her because she’s everything I don’t want in a consort—except that her age is perfect.
“Sire?” she asked.
“I was thinking about your poem, Mariko-san,” he said, even more blandly. Then added:
“Why so wintery?
Summer’s
Yet to come, and the fall of
Glorious autumn.”
She said in answer:
“If I could use words
Like falling leaves,
What a bonfire
My poems would make!”
He laughed and bowed with mock humility. “I concede victory, Mariko-sama. What will the favor be? A fan? Or a scarf for your hair?”
“Thank you, Sire,” she replied. “Yes, whatever pleases you.”
“Ten thousand koku yearly to your son.”
“Oh, Sire, we don’t deserve such favor!”
“You won a victory. Victory and duty must be rewarded. How old is Saruji now?”
“Fifteen—almost fifteen.”
“Ah, yes—he was betrothed to one of Lord Kiyama’s granddaughters recently, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, Sire. It was in the eleventh month last year, the Month of the White Frost. He’s presently at Osaka with Lord Kiyama.”
“Good. Ten thousand koku, beginning