Sudara waved acknowledgment and galloped ahead. By the time Toranaga rode up, maids were bowing and smiling, the innkeeper bobbing with all his people. Guards covered north and south, and his banners were planted proudly.
“Good morning, Sire, please what can I get for you to eat?” the innkeeper asked. “Thank you for honoring my poor inn.”
“Cha—and some noodles with a little soya, please.”
“Yes, Sire.”
The food was produced in a fine bowl almost instantly, cooked just the way he liked it, the innkeeper having been forewarned by Sudara. Without ceremony, Toranaga squatted on a veranda and consumed the simple peasant dish with gusto and watched the road ahead. Other guests bowed and went about their own business contentedly, proud that they were staying in the same inn as the great daimyo. Sudara toured the outposts, making sure everything was perfect. “Where’re the beaters now?” he asked the Master of the Hunt.
“Some are north, some south, and I’ve got extra men in the hills there.” The old samurai pointed back inland toward Yokohama, miserable and sweating. “Please excuse me but have you any idea where our Master’ll wish to go?”
“None at all. But don’t make any more mistakes today.”
“Yes, Sire.”
Sudara finished his rounds then reported to Toranaga. “Is everything satisfactory, Sire? Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No, thank you.” Toranaga finished the bowl and drank the last of the soup. Then he said in a flat voice, “You were correct to say that about the Heir.”
“Please excuse me, I was afraid I might have offended you, without meaning to.”
“You were right—so why should I be offended? When the Heir stands against me—what will you do then?”
“I will obey your orders.”
“Please send my secretary here and come back with him.”
Sudara obeyed. Kawanabi, the secretary—once a samurai and priest—who always traveled with Toranaga, was quickly there with his neat traveling box of papers, inks, seal chops, and brush pens that fitted into his saddled pannier.
“Sire?”
“Write this: ‘I, Yoshi Toranaga-noh-Minowara, reinstate my son Yoshi Sudara-noh-Minowara as my heir with all his revenues and titles restored.’ ”
Sudara bowed. “Thank you, Father,” he said, his voice firm, but asking himself, why?
“Swear formally to abide by all my dictates, testaments—and the Legacy.”
Sudara obeyed. Toranaga waited silently until Kawanabi had written the order, then he signed it and made it legal with his chop. This was a small square piece of ivory with his name carved in one end. He pressed the chop against the almost solid scarlet ink, then onto the bottom of the rice paper. The imprint was perfect. “Thank you, Kawanabi-san, date it yesterday. That’s all for the moment.”
“Please excuse me but you’ll need five more copies, Sire, to make your succession inviolate: one for Lord Sudara, one for the Council of Regents, one for the House of Records, one for your personal files, and one for the archives.”
“Do them at once. And give me an extra copy.”
“Yes, Sire.” The secretary left them. Now Toranaga glanced at Sudara and studied the narrow expressionless face. When he had made the deliberately sudden announcement nothing had shown on Sudara, neither on his face nor in his hands. No gladness, thankfulness, pride—not even surprise, and this saddened him. But then, Toranaga thought, why be sad, you have other sons who smile and laugh and make mistakes and shout and rave and pillow and have many women. Normal sons. This son is to follow after you, to lead after you’re dead, to hold the Minowaras tight and to pass on the Kwanto and power to other Minowaras. To be ice and calculating, like you. No, not like me, he told himself truthfully. I can laugh sometimes and be compassionate sometimes, and I like to fart and pillow and storm and dance and play chess and Nōh, and some people gladden me, like Naga and Kiri and Chano and the Anjin-san, and I enjoy hunting and winning, and winning, and winning. Nothing gladdens you, Sudara, so sorry. Nothing. Except your wife, the Lady Genjiko. The Lady Genjiko’s the only weak link in your chain. “Sire?” Sudara asked.
“I was trying to remember when I last saw you laugh.”
“You wish me to laugh, Sire?”
Toranaga shook his head, knowing he had trained Sudara to be the perfect son for what had to be done. “How long would it take you to be sure if Jikkyu is really dead?”
“Before I left camp I sent a top-priority cipher to Mishima in case you didn’t already know if it was true or not, Father. I will have a reply within three days.”
Toranaga blessed the gods that he had had advance knowledge of the Jikkyu plot from Kasigi Mizuno and a few days’ notice of that enemy’s death. For a moment he reexamined his plan and could find no flaw in it. Then, faintly nauseated, he made the decision. “Order the Eleventh, Sixteenth, Ninety-fourth, and Ninety-fifth Regiments in Mishima on instant alert. In four days fling them down the Tokaidō.”
“Crimson Sky?” Sudara asked, thrown off balance. “You’re attacking?”
“Yes. I’m not waiting for them to come against me.”
“Then Jikkyu’s dead?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” Sudara said. “May I suggest you add the Twentieth and Twenty-third.”
“No. Ten thousand men should be enough—with surprise. I’ve still got to hold all my border in case of failure, or a trap. And there’s also Zataki to contain.”
“Yes,” Sudara said.
“Who should lead the attack?”
“Lord Hiro-matsu. It’s a perfect campaign for him.”
“Why?”
“It’s direct, simple, old-fashioned, and the orders clear, Father. He will be perfect for this campaign.”
“But no longer suitable as commander-in-chief?”
“So sorry, Yabu-san was right—guns have changed the world. Iron Fist is out of date now.”
“Who then?”
“Only you, Sire. Until after the battle I counsel you to have no one between you and the battle.”
“I’ll consider it,” Toranaga said. “Now, go to Mishima. You’ll prepare everything. Hiro-matsu’s assault force will have twenty days to get across the Tenryu River and secure the Tokaidō Road.”
“Please excuse me, may I suggest their final objective be a little farther, the crest of the Shiomi Slope. Allow them in all thirty days.”
“No. If I make that an order, some men will reach the crest. But the majority will be dead and won’t be able to throw back the counterattack, or harass the enemy as our force retreats.”
“But surely you’ll send reinforcements at once hard on their heels?”
“Our main attack goes through Zataki’s mountains. This is a feint.” Toranaga was appraising his son very carefully. But Sudara revealed nothing, neither surprise nor approval nor disapproval.
“Ah. So sorry. Please excuse me, Sire.”
“With Yabu gone, who’s to command the guns?”
“Kasigi Omi.”
“Why?”
“He understands them. More than that, he’s modern, very brave, very intelligent, very patient—also very dangerous, more dangerous than his uncle. I counsel that if you win, and if he survives, then find some excuse to invite him Onward.”
“If I win?”
“Crimson Sky has always been a last plan. You’ve said it a hundred times. If we get mauled on the Tokaidō, Zataki will sweep down into the plains. The guns won’t help us then. It’s a last plan. You’ve never liked last plans.”
“And the Anjin-san? What do you advise about him?”