God forgive me, I did not go to Mariko-chan to be her second, which was my Christian duty. The heretic helped her and lifted her up as the Christ Jesus helped others and lifted them up, but I - I forsook her. Who's the Christian?
I don't know. Even so, he has to die.
"What about Toranaga, Lord Kiyama?" Ishido said again. "What about the enemy?"
"What about the Kwanto?" Kiyama asked, watching him.
"When Toranaga's destroyed I propose that the Kwanto be given to one of the Regents."
"Which Regent?"
"You," Ishido answered blandly, then added, "or perhaps Zataki, Lord of Shinano." This Kiyama thought wise, for Zataki was needed very much while Toranaga was alive and Ishido had already told him, a month ago, that Zataki had demanded the Kwanto as payment for opposing Toranaga. Together they had agreed Ishido should promise it to him, both knowing this to be an empty promise. Both were agreed Zataki should forfeit his life and his province for such impertinence, as soon as convenient.
"Of course I'm hardly the right choice for that honor," Kiyama said, carefully assessing who in the room were for him and who against.
Onoshi tried to conceal his disapproval. "That suggestion's certainly a valuable one, worthy of discussion, neh? But that's for the future. What's the present Lord of the Kwanto going to do now?"
Ishido was still looking at Kiyama. "Well?"
Kiyama felt Zataki's hostility though nothing showed on his enemy's face. Two against me, he thought, and Ochiba, but she has no vote. Ito will always vote with Ishido, so I win - if Ishido means what he says. Does he? he asked himself, studying the hard face in front of him, probing for the truth. Then he decided and he said openly what he had concluded. "Lord Toranaga will never come to Osaka."
"Good," Ishido said. "Then he's isolated, outlawed, and the Imperial invitation to commit seppuku is already prepared for the Exalted's signature. And that's the end of Toranaga and all his line. Forever. "
"Yes. If the Son of Heaven comes to Osaka."
"What?"
"I agree with Lord Ito," Kiyama continued, preferring him as an ally and not an enemy. "Lord Toranaga is the wiliest of men. I think he's even cunning enough to stop the Exalted's arrival."
"Impossible!"
"What if the visit's postponed?" Kiyama asked, suddenly enjoying Ishido's discomfort, detesting him for failing.
"The Son of Heaven will be here as planned!"
"And if the Son of Heaven isn't?"
"I tell you He will be!"
"And if He isn't?"
Lady Ochiba asked, "How could Lord Toranaga do that?"
"I don't know. But if the Exalted wanted his visit delayed for a month . . . there's nothing we could do. Isn't Lord Toranaga a past master at subversion? I'd put nothing past him - even subverting the Son of Heaven."
There was dead silence in the room. The enormity of that thought, and its repercussions, enveloped them.
"Please excuse me but . . . but what's the answer then?" Ochiba spoke for them all.
"War!" Kiyama said. "We mobilize today - secretly. We wait until the visit's postponed, as it will be. That's our signal that Toranaga has subverted the Most High. The same day we march against the Kwanto, during the rainy season."
Suddenly the floor began to quiver.
The first earthquake was slight and lasted only for a few moments but it made the timbers cry out.
Now there was another tremor. Stronger. A fissure ripped up a stone wall and stopped. Dust pattered down from the rafters. Joists and beams and tiles shrieked and tiles scattered off a roof and pitched into the forecourt below.
Ochiba felt faint and nauseous and she wondered if it was her karma to be buried in the rubble today. She hung onto the trembling floor and waited with everyone in the castle, and with all the city and the ships in the harbor, for the real shock to come.
But it did not come. The quake ended. Life began again. The joy of living rushed back into them, and their laughter echoed through the castle. Everyone seemed to know that this time - for this hour, for this day - the holocaust would pass them by.
"Shigata ga nai," Ishido said, still convulsed. "Neh?"
"Yes," Ochiba said gloriously.
"Let's vote," Ishido said, relishing his existence. "I vote for war!"
"And I!"
"And I!"
"And I!"
"And I!"
When Blackthorne regained consciousness he knew that Mariko was dead, and he knew how she had died and why she had died. He was lying on futons, Grays guarding him, a raftered ceiling overhead, dazzling sunshine hurting him, the silence weird. A doctor was studying him. The first of his great fears left him.
I can see.
The doctor smiled and said something, but Blackthorne could not hear him. He started to get up but a blinding pain set off a violent ringing in his ears. The acrid taste of gunpowder was still in his mouth and his entire body was hurting.
For a moment he lost consciousness again, then he felt gentle hands lift his head and put a cup to his lips and the bitter-sweet tang of the jasmine-scented herb cha took away the taste of gunpowder. He forced his eyes open. Again the doctor said something and again he could not hear and again terror began to well, but he stopped it, his mind remembering the explosion and seeing her dead and, before she had died, giving her an absolution he was not qualified to give. Deliberately he pushed that memory away and made himself dwell on the other explosion - the time he was blown overboard after old Alban Caradoc had lost his legs. That time he had also had the same ringing in his ears and the same pain and soundlessness, but his hearing had returned after a few days.
There's no need to worry, he told himself. Not yet.
He could see the length of the sun's shadows and the color of the light. It's a little after dawn, he thought, and blessed God again that his sight was undamaged.
He saw the doctor's lips move but no sound came through the ringing turbulence. Carefully he felt his face and mouth and jaws. No pain there and no wounds. Next his throat and arms and chest. No wounds yet. Now he willed his hands lower, over his loins, to his manhood. But he was not mutilated there as Alban Caradoc had been, and he blessed God that he had not been harmed there and left alive to know, as poor Alban Caradoc had known.
He rested a moment, his head aching abominably. Then he felt his legs and feet. Everything seemed all right. Cautiously he put his hands over his ears and pressed, then half opened his mouth and swallowed and half yawned to try to clear his ears. But this only increased the pain.
You will wait a day and half a day, he ordered himself, and ten times that time if need be and, until then, you will not be afraid.
The doctor touched him, his lips moving.
"Can't hear, so sorry," Blackthorne said calmly, hearing his words only in his head.