“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:
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:
“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:
She said in answer:
He laughed and bowed with mock humility. “I concede victory, Mariko-sama. What will the favor be? A fan? Or a scarf for your hair?”
“Thank you, Sire,” she replied. “Yes, whatever pleases you.”
“Ten thousand koku yearly to your son.”
“Oh, Sire, we don’t deserve such favor!”
“You won a victory. Victory and duty must be rewarded. How old is Saruji now?”
“Fifteen—almost fifteen.”
“Ah, yes—he was betrothed to one of Lord Kiyama’s granddaughters recently, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, Sire. It was in the eleventh month last year, the Month of the White Frost. He’s presently at Osaka with Lord Kiyama.”
“Good. Ten thousand koku, beginning at once. I will send the authority with tomorrow’s mail. Now, enough of poems, please give me your opinion.”
“My opinion, Sire, is that we are all safe in your hands, as the land is safe in your hands.”
“I want you to be serious.”
“Oh, but I am, Sire. I thank you for the favor to my son. That makes everything perfect. I believe whatever you do will be right. By the Madon—yes, by the Madonna, I swear I believe that.”
“Good. But I still want your opinion.”
