Gai-Jin

YOKOHAMA 14th September 1862

GAI-JIN BOOK ONE YOKOHAMA 14th September 1862: The panic-stricken girl was galloping full speed back towards the coast, half a mile ahead, along footpaths that led precariously through the rice swamps and paddy fields. The afternoon sun bore down. She rode sidesaddle and though normally expert, today she could hardly keep her balance. Her hat had vanished and her green riding habit, the height of Parisian fashion, was ripped by brambles and speckled with blood, tawny fair hair streaming in the wind.

She whipped the pony faster. Now she could see the tiny hovels of the Yokohama fishing village clustering the high fence and canals that enclosed the Foreign Settlement and spires of the two small churches within and knew, thankfully, in the bay beyond were British, French, American and Russian merchantmen and a dozen warships, both steam and sail.

Faster. Over narrow wooden bridges and canals and irrigation ditches that crisscrossed the paddy and swamps. Her pony was lathered with sweat, a deep wound on his shoulder and tiring rapidly. He shied. A bad moment but she recovered and now she swerved onto the path that led through the village to the bridge over the encircling canal and to the main gate and the samurai guard house, and Japanese Customs House.

The two-sworded samurai sentries saw her coming and moved to intercept but she charged through them into the wide main street of the Settlement proper on the seafront. One of the samurai guards rushed for an officer.

She reined in, panting. "Au secours... a l'aide, help!"

The promenade was almost deserted, most of the inhabitants at siesta or yawning in their countinghouses, or dallying in the Pleasure Houses outside the fence.

"Help!" she called out again and again and the few men spread along its length, British traders and off-duty soldiers and sailors mostly, some Chinese servants, looked up startled.

"God Almighty, look there! It's the French girl..."

"What's amiss? Christ, look at her clothes..."

"Cor, it's her, the smasher, Angel Tits, arrived couple of weeks ago..."

"That's right, Angelique... Angelique Beecho or Reecho, some Frog name like that..."

"My God, look at the blood!"

Everyone began converging on her, except the Chinese who, wise after millennia of sudden trouble, vanished. Faces began to appear in windows.

"Charlie, fetch Sir William on the double!"

"Christ Almighty, look at her pony, poor bugger will bleed to death, get the vet," a corpulent trader called out. "And you, soldier, quick, get the General, and the Frog, she's his ward --oh for God's sake the French Minister, hurry!" Impatiently he pointed at a single-story house flying the French flag.

"Hurry!" he bellowed, the soldier rushed off, and he trundled for her as fast as he could. Like all traders he wore a top hat and woolen frock coat, tight pants, boots, and sweated in the sun. "What on earth happened, Miss Angelique?" he said, grabbing her bridle, aghast at the dirt and blood that speckled her face and clothes and hair. "Are you hurt?"

"Moi, non... no, I think not but we were attacked... Japanners attacked us." She was trying to catch her breath and stop shaking, still in terror, and pushed the hair out of her face.

Urgently she pointed inland westwards, Mount Fuji vaguely on the horizon. "Back there, quick, they need, need help!"

Those nearby were appalled and noisily began relaying the half news to others and asking questions: Who? Who was attacked? Are they French or British? Attacked? Where? Two-sword bastards again! Where the hell did this happen...

Questions overlaid other questions and gave her no time to answer, nor could she yet, coherently, her chest heaving, everyone pressing closer, crowding her. More and more men poured into the street putting on coats and hats, many already armed with pistols and muskets, a few with the latest American breech-loading rifles. One of these men, a big-shouldered, bearded Scot, ran down the steps of an imposing two-story building. Over the portal was "Struan and Company." He shoved his way through to her in the uproar.

"Quiet for God's sake!" he shouted, and in the sudden lull, "Quick, tell us what happened.

Where's young Mr. Struan?"

"Oh Jamie, je... I, I..." The girl made a desperate effort to collect herself, disoriented. "Oh mon Dieu!"

He reached up and patted her shoulder like a child, to gentle her, adoring her, like all of them.

"Don't worry, you're safe now, Miss Angelique. Take your time. Give her some room for God's sake!" Jamie McFay was thirty-nine, chief manager of Struan's in Japan. "Now, tell us what happened."

She brushed away the tears, her tawny hair askew. "We... we were attacked, attacked by samurai," she said, her voice tiny and accent pleasing. Everyone craned to hear better. "We were ... we were on the, on the big road..." Again she pointed inland, "It was there."

"The Tokaido?"

"Yes, that's it, the Tokaido..." This great coastal trunk toll road, a little over a mile west of the Settlement, joined the Shogun's forbidden capital, Yedo, twenty miles northwards, to the rest of Japan, also forbidden to all foreigners. "We were... riding...." She stopped and then the words poured out: "Mr. Canterbury, and Phillip Tyrer and Malcolm--Mr. Struan--and me, we were riding along the road and then there were some... a long line of samurai with banners and we wait to let them pass then we... then two of them rush us, they wound Monsieur Mr. Canterbury, charge Malcolm--Mr. Struan--who had his pistol out and Phillip who shout me to run away, to get help." The shaking began again. "Quick, they need help!"

Already men were rushing for mounts, and more guns.

Angry shouts began: "Someone get the troops ..."

"Samurai got John Canterbury, Struan, and that young chap Tyrer, they've been chopped on the Tokaido."

"Christ, she says samurai have killed some of our lads!"

"Where did this happen?" Jamie McFay called out above the noise, curbing his frantic impatience. "Can you describe the place where this happened, exactly where?"

"By the roadside, before Kana... Kana something."

"Kanagawa?" he asked, naming a small way station and fishing village on the Tokaido, a mile across the bay, three odd miles by coastal road.

"Oui--yes. Kanagawa! Hurry!"

Horses were being led out of the Struan stables, saddled and ready. Jamie slung a rifle over his shoulder. "Don't worry, we'll find them quickly. But Mr. Struan? Did you see if he got away--if he was hurt?"

"Non. I saw nothing, just the beginning, poor Mr. Canterbury, he... I was riding beside him when they..." The tears flooded. "I did not look back, I obeyed without... and came to get help."

Her name was Angelique Richaud. She was just eighteen. This was the first time she had been outside the fence.

McFay jumped into the saddle and whirled away. Christ Almighty, he thought in anguish, we haven't had any trouble for a year or more, otherwise I'd never have let them go. I'm responsible, Malcolm's heir apparent and I'm responsible! In the Name of God, what the hell happened?

Without delay, McFay, a dozen or so traders, a Dragoon officer with three of his lancers found John Canterbury on the side of the Tokaido but viewing him was more difficult.

He was decapitated and parts of his limbs scattered nearby. Ferocious sword cuts were patterned all over his body, almost any one of which would have been a death blow. There was no sign of Tyrer and Struan, or the column of samurai.

None of the passers knew anything about the murder, who had done it, or when or why.

"Would the other two have been kidnapped, Jamie?" an American asked queasily.

"I don't know, Dmitri." McFay tried to get his brain working. "Someone better go back and tell Sir William and get... and bring a shroud or coffin." White-faced he studied the passing crowds who carefully did not look in his direction but observed everything.

The well-kept, beaten earth roadway was massed with disciplined streams of travellers to and from Yedo that one day would be called Tokyo. Men, women and children of all ages, rich and poor, all Japanese but for an occasional long-gowned Chinese. Predominately men, all wearing kimonos of various styles and modesty, and many different hats of cloth and straw. Merchants, half-naked porters, orange-robed Buddhist priests, farmers going to or coming from market, itinerant soothsayers, scribes, teachers and poets. Many litters and palanquins of all kinds for people or goods with two, four, six or eight bearers. The few strutting samurai amongst the crowds stared at them balefully as they passed.

"They know who did it, all of them," McFay said.

"Sure. Matyeryebitz!" Dmitri Syborodin, the American, a heavyset, brown-haired man of thirty-eight, roughly clothed and a friend of Canterbury, was seething.

"It'd be goddam easy to force one of them." Then they noticed a dozen or so samurai standing in a group down the road, watching them. Many had bows and all Westerners knew what adept archers samurai were.

"Not so easy, Dmitri," McFay said.

Pallidar, the young Dragoon officer said crisply, "Very easy to deal with them, Mr.McFay, but ill-advised without permission-- unless of course they attack us. You're quite safe." Settry Pallidar detailed a dragoon to fetch a detachment from the camp, with a coffin, the American visibly irritated by his imperiousness. "You'd better search the nearby countryside. When my men arrive they'll assist. More than likely the other two are wounded somewhere."

McFay shuddered, motioned at the corpse.

"Or like him?"

"Possibly, but let's hope for the best. You three take that side, the rest of you spread out and--"

"Hey, Jamie," Dmitri interrupted deliberately, hating officers and uniforms and soldiers, particularly British ones. "How about you and me going on to Kanagawa--maybe someone in our Legation knows something."

Pallidar disregarded the hostility, understanding it, well acquainted with the American's fine service record. Dmitri was an American of Cossack extraction, an ex cavalry officer of the U.s. Army, whose grandfather had been killed fighting the British in the American War of 1812. "Kanagawa is a good idea, Mr. McFay," he said. "They should certainly know what big procession of samurai passed through and the sooner we find out who the culprit is the better. The attack must have been ordered by one of their kings or princes. This time we can peg the bastard and God help him."

"God rot all bastards," Dmitri said pointedly.

Again the resplendently uniformed Captain did not provoke but did not let it pass. "Quite right, Mr. Syborodin," he said easily. "And any man who calls me a bastard better quickly get himself a second, a pistol or sword, a shroud and someone to bury him. Mr. McFay, you'll have plenty of time before sunset. I'll stay here until my men return, then we'll join the search. If you hear anything in Kanagawa, please send me word." He was twenty-four and worshipped his regiment. With barely concealed disdain he looked at the motley group of traders.

"I suggest the rest of you... gentlemen... begin the search, spread out but stay in visual contact. Brown, you go with that group and search those woods. Sergeant, you're in charge."

"Yessir. Come on, you lot."

McFay took off his coat and spread it over the body, then remounted. With his American friend he hurried northwards toward Kanagawa, a mile away.

Now the dragoon was alone. Coldly he sat on his horse near the corpse and watched the samurai. They stared back. One moved his bow, perhaps a threat, perhaps not. Pallidar remained motionless, his sabre loose in its scabbard.

Sunlight sparked off his gold braid.

Pedestrians on the Tokaido hurried by silently, afraid. His horse pawed the ground nervously, jingling the harness.

This isn't like the other attacks, the lone attacks, he thought with growing anger. There's going to be hell to pay, attacking those four, a woman amongst them, and killing an Englishman so foully. This means war.

A few hours ago the four of them had ridden out of the main gate, past the Customs House, casually saluted the samurai guards who bowed perfunctorily, and trotted leisurely inland along meandering paths, heading for the Tokaido.

All were expert riders, their ponies nimble.

In Angelique's honor, they wore their best top hats and riding clothes, and were the envy of every man in the Settlement: one hundred and seventeen resident Europeans, diplomats, traders, butchers, shopkeepers, blacksmiths, shipwrights, armorers, adventurers, gamblers and many ne'er-do-wells and remittance men, most of them British, the clerks Eurasian or Chinese, a few Americans, French, Dutch, Germans, Russians, Australians and one Swiss; and amongst them three women, all matrons, two British, wives of traders, the last a madam in Drunk Town as the low-class quarter was called. No children. Fifty to sixty Chinese servants.

John Canterbury, a good-looking, craggy-faced British trader acted as their guide. The purpose of the excursion was to show Phillip Tyrer the way by land to Kanagawa where meetings with Japanese officials took place from time to time, and well within the agreed Settlement area. Tyrer, just twenty-one, had arrived yesterday from London via Peking and Shanghai, a newly appointed student interpreter to the British Legation.

This morning, overhearing the two of them in the Club, Malcolm Struan had said, "May I come along, Mr. Canterbury, Mr.Tyrer? It's a perfect day for sightseeing, I'd like to ask Miss Richaud to join us--she hasn't seen any of the country yet."

"We'd be honored, Mr. Struan."

Canterbury was blessing his luck. "You're both welcome. The ride's good though there's not much to see--for a lady."

"Eh?"' Tyrer had said.

"Kanagawa's been a busy post village and stopover place for travellers to and from Yedo for centuries, so we're told. It's well stocked with Teahouses, that's what most brothels are called here. Some of them are well worth a visit though we're not always welcome like at our own Yoshiwara across the swamp."

"Whorehouses?"' Tyrer had said.

The other two had laughed at his look. "The very same, Mr. Tyrer," Canterbury had said. "But they're not like the doss houses, or brothels in London, or anywhere else in the world, they're special. You'll soon find out, though here the custom is to have your own doxy, if you can afford it."

"I'll never be able to do that," Tyrer said.

Canterbury laughed. "Maybe you will.

Thank God the rate of exchange favors us, oh my word! That old Yankee Townsend Harris was a canny bastard." He beamed at the thought. Harris was the first American Consul-General appointed two years after Commodore Perry had forced the opening of Japan to the outside world, first in '53, then '56 with his four Black Ships--the first steamers seen in Japanese waters. Four years ago, after years of negotiating, Harris arranged Treaties later ratified by major Powers that granted access to certain ports. The Treaties also fixed a very favorable rate of exchange between silver Mex--Mexican silver dollars, the universal coin of exchange and trade in Asia --and Japanese gold oban, whereby if you changed Mex for oban and later exchanged them for Mex, you could double or triple your money.

"An early lunch then off we go,"

Canterbury said. "We'll be back in good time for supper, Mr. Struan."

"Excellent. Perhaps you'd both join me in our company dining room? I'm giving a small party for Mademoiselle Richaud."

"Thank you kindly. I trust the tai-pan's better?"' "Yes, much better, my father's quite recovered."

That's not what we heard in yesterday's mails, John Canterbury had thought worriedly, for what affected the Noble House--the nickname by which Struan and Company was known the world over--affected them all. Rumor is your Old Man's had another stroke. Joss. Never mind, it's not often a man like me gets the chance to chat to a real tai-pan-to-be, or an angel like her.

This's going to be a great day!

And once en route, he became even more affable. "Oh, Mr. Struan, you... are you staying long?"

"Another week or so, then home to Hong Kong." Struan was the tallest and strongest of the three. Pale blue eyes, long reddy-brown hair tied in a queue, and old for his twenty years. "No reason to stay, we're in such good hands with Jamie McFay. He's done a sterling job for us, opening up Japan."

"He's a nob, Mr. Struan, and that's a fact. Best there is. The lady will leave with you?"

"Ah, Miss Richaud. I do believe she'll return with me--I hope so. Her father asked me to keep an eye on her though, temporarily, she's the French Minister's ward while she's here," he said lightly, pretending not to notice the sudden gleam, or that Tyrer was deep in conversation with Angelique in French that he himself spoke hesitantly, and already under her spell.

Don't blame him, Canterbury, or anyone, he thought amused, then spurred forward to give the others room as the path ahead became a bottleneck.

The terrain was flat but for bamboo thickets, though it was wooded here and there--the trees already autumn tinged. There were many duck and other game fowl. Paddy fields and rice swamps being cultivated intensively, and land reclaimed.

Narrow pathways. Streams everywhere. The stench of human manure, Japan's only fertilizer, ever present. Fastidiously, the girl and Tyrer held scented handkerchiefs to their noses, though a cooling breeze came off the sea to take away most of the stink and the dregs of summer's humidity, mosquitoes, flies and other pests. The far hills, densely forested, were a brocade of reds and golds and browns--beech, scarlet and yellow larch, maples, wild rhododendrons, cedar and pines.

"It's beautiful there, isn't it, Monsieur Tyrer? A shame we can't see Mount Fuji clearer."

"Oui, demain, il est la! Mais mon Dieu, Mademoiselle, quelle senteur," what a smell, Tyrer replied happily in fluent French--an essential language for any diplomat.

Casually Canterbury dropped back alongside her, neatly displacing the younger man.

"Are you all right, Mademoiselle?"

"Oh yes, thank you, but it would be good to gallop a little. I'm so happy to be outside the fence." Since she arrived two weeks ago with Malcolm Struan on the bimonthly Struan steamer she had been closely chaperoned.

And quite right too, Canterbury was thinking, with all the riffraff and scum of Yokohama, and let's be honest, the odd pirate sniffing around.

"On the way back you can take a turn around the racetrack if you like."

"Oh, that would be wonderful, thank you."

"Your English is just wonderful, Miss Angelique, and your accent delightful. You were in school in England?"

"La, Mr. Canterbury," she laughed and a wave of heat went through him, the quality of her skin and beauty exhilarating. "I've never been to your country. My young brother and I were brought up by my aunt Emma and Uncle Michel, she was English, and refused always to learn French. She was more a mother than an aunt." A shadow crossed her. "That was after my mother died birthing my brother and father left for Asia."

"Oh, sorry about that."

"It was a long time ago, Monsieur, and I think of my darling aunt Emma as Mama." Her pony tugged at her reins. She corrected him without thought. "I was very lucky."

"This's your first visit to Asia?" he asked, knowing the answer and much more, wanting to keep her talking. The snippets of information about her, gossip, rumors had sped from smitten man to smitten man.

"Yes it is." Again her smile lit up his being. "My father's a China trader in your Colony of Hong Kong, I'm visiting him for the season. He's a friend of Monsieur Seratard here, and kindly arranged this visit for me. You may know him, Guy Richaud, of Richaud Freres?"

"Of course, a fine gentleman," he answered politely, never having met him, knowing only what others had told him: that Guy Richaud was a philandering, minor foreigner who had been there for a few years, scratching a living.

"We're all honored that you're visiting us here.

Perhaps I may host a dinner in your honor, at the Club?"

"Thank you, I will ask my host, Monsieur Seratard." Angelique saw Struan glance back, up ahead, and she waved gaily. "Mr.Struan was kind enough to escort me here."

"Really?" As if we didn't know, Canterbury thought, and wondered about her, how you could catch and hold and afford such a treasure, wondered about the brilliant young Struan who could afford it, wondered too about rumors that the struggle for dominance between Struan's and their major trading rival, Brock and Sons, was rising again, something to do with the American civil war that had started last year.

The pickings are going to be huge, nothing like a war for business, both sides already going at each other like maniacs, the South more than a match for the Union...

"Angelique, look!" Struan reined in, pointing. Ahead a hundred yards, down the small rise, was the main road. They came up beside him.

"I never thought the Tokaido would be this big, or so crowded," Phillip Tyrer said.

Except for a few ponies, everyone was on foot. "But... but where are the carriages, or tumbrils or carts? And more than that," she burst out, "where are the beggars?"

Struan laughed. "That's easy, Angelique. Like almost everything else here they're forbidden." He shifted his top hat to a more jaunty angle. "No wheels of any sort are allowed in Japan. Shogun's orders.

None!"

"But why?"

"It's one sure way of keeping the rest of the population in order, isn't it?"

"Yes indeed," Canterbury laughed sardonically, then motioned towards the road. "And add to that, every Tom, Dick or Mary there, high or low, has to carry travel papers, permission to travel, even to be outside their own village, same for princes or paupers. And notice the samurai--they're the only ones in all Japan who can carry weapons."

"But without proper stagecoaches and railways, how can the country possibly work?" Tyrer was perplexed.

"It works Japan style," Canterbury told him. "Never forget Jappers have only one way of doing things. Only one. Their way.

Jappers are not like anyone else, certainly not like Chinese, eh, Mr. Struan?"

"Indeed they are not."

"No wheels anywhere, Miss. So everything, all goods, food, fish, meat, building supplies, every sack of rice, stick of wood, bale of cloth, box of tea, keg of gunpowder --every man, woman or child who can afford it--has to be carried on someone's back--or go by boat, which means by sea 'cause they've no navigable rivers at all, so we're told, just thousands of streams."

"But what about the Settlement? Wheels they are allowed there, Mr. Canterbury."

"Yes, indeed they are, Miss, we've all the wheels we want though their officials bitched like bloody... sorry, Miss," he added quickly, embarrassed. "We're not used to ladies in Asia. As I was saying, Japper officials, they're called Bakufu, they're like our civil service, they argued about it for years until our Minister told them to get from---- to, er, to forget it because our Settlement was our Settlement! As to beggars, they're forbidden too."

She shook her head and the feather on her hat danced merrily. "It sounds impossible. Paris, she is... Paris is filled with them, everywhere in Europe, it's impossible to stop the begging.

Mon Dieu, Malcolm, what about your Hong Kong?"

"Hong Kong's the worst," Malcolm Struan said, smiling.

"But how can they forbid begging and beggars?"

Tyrer asked, perplexed. "Mademoiselle Angelique is right of course. All Europe's a begging bowl. London's the richest city in the world but it's inundated."

Canterbury smiled strangely. "There're no beggars because the Almighty Tycoon, the Shogun, king of the lot, says no begging so it's law. Any samurai can test his blade on any beggar at any time--or on any other bugger... pardon... or anyone else for that matter so long as he's not samurai. If you're caught begging you're breaking the law, so it's into the slammer, prison, and once there, the only penalty's death. That's law also."

"None other?" the girl said, shocked.

"'fraid not. So Japanners are untoward law-abiding." Again Canterbury laughed sardonically and looked back at the twisting road, halting abruptly half a mile away for a wide shallow stream that every person had to ford or be carried over. On the far bank was a barrier. There, they bowed and presented papers to the inevitable samurai guards.

Bloody bastards, he thought, hating them but loving the fortune he was making here--and his lifestyle that centered around Akiko, now his mistress of a year. Ah yes, luv, you're the best, most special, most loving in all the Yoshiwara.

"Look," she said. On the Tokaido they could see groups of passersby had stopped and were pointing in their direction, gaping and talking loudly above the ever present hum of movement--hatred on many faces, and fear.

"Pay no attention to them, Miss, we're just strange to them, that's all, they don't know better. You're probably the first civilized woman they've ever seen." Canterbury pointed north. "Yedo's that way, about twenty miles.

Of course it's off limits."

"Except for official delegations," Tyrer said.

"That's right, with permission which Sir William hasn't got once, not since I've been here and I was one of the first. Rumor has it that Yedo's twice as big as London, Miss, that there's over a million souls there and fantastical rich, and the Shogun's castle the biggest in the world."

"Could that be a lie, Mr. Canterbury?"

Tyrer asked.

The trader beamed. "They're powerful liars, that's the God's truth, Mr. Tyrer, the best that have ever been, they make the Chinee seem the Angel Gabriel. I don't envy you having to interpret what they say which sure as God made periwinkles won't be what they mean!" Normally he was not so talkative but he was determined to impress her and Malcolm Struan with his knowledge while he had the opportunity. All this talking had given him a vast thirst. In his side pocket was a thin silver flask but he knew, regretfully, that it would be bad manners to swig some of the whisky in front of her.

"Could be we get permission to go there, Malcolm?" she was saying. "To this Yedo?"

"I doubt it. Why not ask Monsieur Seratar'?"

"I shall." She noticed that he had pronounced the name correctly, dropping the d as she had taught him. Good, she thought, her eyes drawn back to the Tokaido. "Where does she end, the road?"

After a curious pause, Canterbury said, "We don't know. The whole country's a mystery and it's clear the Jappers want to keep it that way and don't like us, any of us. They call us gai-jin, foreign persons. Another word is I-jin meaning "different person." Don't know the difference 'cepting I'm told gai-jin's not so polite." He laughed. "Either way, they don't like us. And we are different--or they are."

He lit a cheroot. "After all, they kept Japan closed tighter than a gnat's... closed for nigh on two and a half centuries until Old Mutton Chops Perry bust her open nine years ago," he said with admiration.

"Rumor says the Tokaido ends in a big city, a kind of sacred city called Keeotoh, where their chief priest--called the Mikado-- lives. It's so special, and sacred, we're told the city's off limits to all but a few special Japanners."

"Diplomats are allowed to travel inland,"

Tyrer said sharply. "The Treaty permits it, Mr. Canterbury."

The trader eased off the beaver topper of which he was inordinately proud, mopped his brow and decided that he would not let the young man spoil his air of bonhommie. Cocky young bastard, with your hoity-toity voice, he thought. I could break you in two and not even fart. "It depends how you interpret the Treaty, and if you want to keep your head on your shoulders. I wouldn't advise going outside the agreed safe area, that's a few miles north and south and inland, whatever the Treaty says--not yet, not without a regiment or two."

In spite of his resolve, the swell of the girl's full breasts under the green, formfitting jacket mesmerized him. "We're penned in here but it's not bad. Same at our Settlement at Nagasaki, two hundred leagues westward."

""Leagues"? I don't understand," she said, hiding her amusement and pleasure at the lust surrounding her. "Please?"

Tyrer said importantly, "A league is approximately three miles, Mademoiselle." He was tall and lithe, not long out of university, and besotted by her blue eyes and Parisian elegance. "You, er, you were saying, Mr. Canterbury?"

The trader tore his attention off her bosom.

"Just that it won't be much better when the other ports are opened. Soon, very soon we'll have to break out of them too if we're to really trade, one way or t'other."

Tyrer glanced at him sharply. "You mean war?"

"Why not? What are fleets for? Armies? It works fine in India, China, everywhere else.

We're the British Empire, the biggest and best that's ever been on earth. We're here to trade and meanwhile we can give them proper laws and order and proper civilization."

Canterbury looked back at the road, soured by the animosity there. "Ugly lot, aren't they, Miss?"

"Mon Dieu, I do wish they wouldn't stare so."

"'fraid you just have to get used to it. It's the same everywhere. As Mr. Struan says, Hong Kong's the worst. Even so, Mr. Struan," he said with sudden esteem, "I don't mind telling you what we need here is our own island, our own Colony, not a rotten, smelly mile strip of festering coast that's indefensible, subject to attack and blackmail at any moment if it weren't for our fleet! We should take an island just like your granddad took Hong Kong, bless him."

"Perhaps we will," Malcolm Struan said confidently, warmed by the memory of his famous ancestor, the tai-pan, Dirk Struan, founder of their company and main founder of the Colony twenty-odd years ago in '41.

Without being aware of what he was doing, Canterbury slipped out his small flask, tipped it back and drank, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and slid the flask away.

"Let's go on. Best I lead, single file where necessary, forget the Jappers! Mr. Struan, perhaps you'd ride alongside the young lady and Mr.Tyrer, you keep the rear." Very pleased with himself, he spurred his pony into a brisk walk.

As Angelique came alongside, Struan's eyes crinkled in a smile. He had been openly in love with her from the first moment he had seen her four months ago in Hong Kong, the first day she arrived--to take the island by storm.

Fair hair, perfect skin, deep blue eyes with a pleasing upturned nose in an oval face that was in no way pretty but possessed a strange, breathtaking attractiveness, very Parisian, her innocence and youth overlaid with a perceptible, constant, though unconscious sensuality that begged to be assuaged. And this in a world of men without eligible wives, without much hope of finding one in Asia, certainly never like her.

Many of the men rich, a few of them merchant princes. "Pay no attention to the natives, Angelique," he whispered, "they're just awed by you."

She grinned. Like an Empress, she bowed her head. "Merci, Monsieur, vous etes tr`es aimable."

Struan was very content and now, very sure. Fate, joss, God threw us together, he thought elated, planning when he would ask her father's permission to marry. Why not Christmas?

Christmas will be perfect. We'll marry in the spring and live in the Great House on the Peak in Hong Kong. I know Mother and Father already adore her, my God, I hope he really is better.

We'll give a huge Christmas party.

Once on the road they made good progress, taking care not to impede traffic. But, whether they liked it or not, their unexpected presence and, for the vast majority of incredulous Japanese who had never seen people of this size and shape and coloring, particularly the girl--along with their top hats and frock coats, stovepipe trousers and riding boots, and her boots and riding habit and top hat with its saucy feather, and riding sidesaddle --inevitably created traffic jams.

Both Canterbury and Struan watched those on the road carefully as the oncomers swirled past, around them, though always giving way to their progress.

Neither man sensed or expected any danger.

Angelique kept close, pretending to ignore the guffaws and gaping and the occasional hand that tried to touch her, shocked at the way many men carelessly tucked up their kimonos exposing their skimpy loincloths and ample nakedness: "Dearest Colette, you'll never believe me," she thought, continuing the letter she would complete tonight to her best friend in Paris, "but vast majority of the legions of porters on the public highway wear ONLY these tiny loincloths that hide almost nothing in front and become a thin string between the buttocks behind! I swear it's true, and I can report that many of the natives are quite hairy though most of their parts are small. I wonder if Malcolm..." She felt herself flush. "The capital, Phillip," she said, making conversation, "it is truly forbidden?"

"Not according to the Treaty." Tyrer was vastly pleased. Only a few minutes and she had dropped the Monsieur. "The Treaty arranged for all Legations to be in Yedo, the capital.

I was told we evacuated Yedo last year after the attack on ours. Safer to be at Yokohama under the guns of the fleet."

"Attack? What attack?"

"Oh some madmen called ronin--they're some kind of outlaw, assassins--a dozen of them attacked our Legation in the middle of the night.

The British Legation! Can you imagine the gall!

The devils killed a sergeant and a sentry..."

He stopped as Canterbury swung off the roadway and reined in and pointed with his riding crop. "Look there!"

They halted beside him. Now they could see the tall, thin banners held aloft by the ranks of samurai tramping around a bend towards them, a few hundred yards ahead. All travellers were scattering, bundles and palanquins hastily thrown to the ground, well out of the way, riders dismounting hurriedly, then everyone knelt on the sides of the roadway with heads bowed to the packed earth, men women children, and stayed motionless. Only the few samurai remained standing. As the cortege passed, they bowed deferentially.

"Who is it, Phillip?" Angelique asked excitedly. "Can you read their signs?"

"Sorry, no, not yet, Mademoiselle.

They say it takes years to read and write their script." Tyrer's happiness had evaporated at the thought of so much work ahead.

"It is the Shogun perhaps?"

Canterbury laughed. "No chance of that. If it was him they'd have this whole area cordoned off.

They say he has a hundred thousand samurai at his slightest beck. But it'll be someone important, a king."

"What shall we do when they pass?" she asked.

"We'll give them the royal salute,"

Struan said. "We'll doff our hats and give him three cheers. What will you do?"

"Me, cheri?" She smiled, liking him very much, remembering what her father had said before she had left Hong Kong for Yokohama: "Encourage this Malcolm Struan, but with care, my little cabbage. I have already, discreetly. He would make a marvelous match for you, that's why I advocate this sightseeing trip to Yokohama, unchaperoned, providing he escorts you in one of .his ships. In three days you're eighteen, time you were married. I know he's barely twenty and young for you, but he's smart, the eldest son, he'll inherit the Noble House in a year or so--it's rumored his father, Culum, the tai-pan, is much sicker than the company publicly allow."

"But he's British," she had said thoughtfully. "You hate them, Papa, and say we should hate them. You do, don't you?"' "Yes, little cabbage, but not publicly.

Britain's the richest country in the world, the most powerful, in Asia they're king, and Struan's the Noble House--Richaud Freres are small.

We would benefit immensely if we had their French business. Suggest it to him."

"Oh I couldn't Papa, that would be... I couldn't, Papa."

"You're a woman now, not a child my pet.

Beguile him, then he will suggest it himself. Our future depends on you. Soon Malcolm Struan will be the tai-pan. And you, you could share it all..."

Of course I would adore such a husband, she thought, how wise Papa is! How wonderful to be French, therefore superior. It's easy to like, perhaps even to love this Malcolm with his strange eyes and young old looks. Oh I do so hope he asks me.

She sighed and turned her attention to the present. "I will bow my head as we do in the Bois to His Majesty, the emperor Louis Napoleon. What is it, Phillip?"

"Perhaps we'd better turn back," Tyrer said uneasily. "Everyone says they're touchy about us near their princes."

"Nonsense," Canterbury said. "There's no danger, never has been a mob attack--this isn't like India, or Africa or China. As I said, Japanners are mighty law-abiding.

We're well within the Treaty limit and we'll do as we always do, just let them pass, raise your titfer politely as you would to any potentate, then we'll go on. You're armed, Mr.Struan?"

"Of course."

"I'm not," Angelique said, a little petulantly, watching the banners that now were barely a hundred yards away. "I think women should carry pistols if men do."

They were all shocked. "Perish that thought.

Tyrer?"

Feeling awkward Tyrer showed Canterbury the small derringer. "It was a going-away present from my father. But I've never fired it."

"You won't need to, it's only the lone samurai you have to watch, the ones or twos, the anti-foreign fanatics. Or the ronins," then added without thinking, "Not to worry, we haven't had any trouble for a year or more."

"Trouble? What trouble?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said, not wanting to concern her and trying to cover the slip. "A few attacks by a few fanatics, or two, nothing important."

She frowned. "But Monsieur Tyrer said there was a mass attack on your British Legation and some soldiers were killed. That's not important?"

"That was important." Canterbury smiled thinly at Tyrer who read the message clearly: you're a bloody idiot to tell a lady anything of any importance! "But they were an isolated gang of cutthroats. The Shogunate bureaucracy have sworn they'll catch them and punish them."

His voice sounded convincing, but he was wondering how much of the truth Struan and Tyrer knew: five men murdered on the streets of Yokohama in their first year. The next year two Russians, an officer and a sailor from a Russian man-of-war, hacked to death, again in Yokohama. A few months later two Dutch merchants. Then the young interpreter at the British Legation in Kanagawa stabbed from behind and left to bleed to death. Heusken, the Secretary of the American Mission, butchered into a dozen pieces while riding home after a dinner party at the Prussian Legation. And last year a British soldier and sergeant cut down outside the Consul General's bedroom!

Every murder premeditated and unprovoked, he thought, incensed, and committed by a two-sworder.

Never once was any offense given--and worst of all, never once has any bastard been caught and punished by the Shogun's all-powerful Bakufu, however much our Legation Heads screamed, and however much the Jappers promised.

Our leaders are a bloody bunch of stupid bastards! They should have ordered up the fleet at once and blown Yedo to hell, then all the terror would stop, we could sleep safe in our beds without guards, and walk our streets, any streets, without fear when any samurai's nearby.

Diplomats are anus eaters and this young popinjay a perfect specimen.

Sourly he watched the banners, trying to decipher the characters. Behind the cortege, once it had completely passed, travellers picked themselves up and went on again. Those going the same way as the column, followed at a judicious distance.

It felt curious to the four of them to be mounted and so high above the ragged lines of kneeling figures on both shoulders of the roadway, heads in the dust, rumps in the air. The three men tried not to notice the nakedness, embarrassed that she was there, equally embarrassed.

The ranks of samurai banner men approached relentlessly. There were two columns, each of about a hundred men, then more flags and massed ranks surrounding a black lacquered palanquin carried by eight sweating porters. More banners and samurai followed, then more leading pack ponies and last a motley crowd of ladened baggage porters. All samurai wore grey kimonos with the same insignia, three interlocking peonies, that was also on the banners, and straw hats tied under their chins. Two swords in their belts, one short, one long. Some had bows and arrows slung, a few carried muzzle-loading muskets. A few were more elaborately dressed than others.

The columns bore down.

With growing shock Struan and the others saw what was on all the faces, all eyes fixed on them: fury. He was the first to break the spell. "I think we'd better move farther back..."

But before he or any one of them could start, a young, broad-shouldered samurai broke ranks and charged up to them, closely followed by another man, planting himself between them and the approaching palanquin. Choking with rage, the first man threw down his banner and shouted, cursing them away, the suddenness of his blazing anger paralyzing them. The columns faltered, then picked up the cadence and continued passing. The kneeling people did not move. But now, over all was a great, sick silence, broken only by the sound of marching feet.

Again the samurai cursed them. Canterbury was nearest to him. Obediently, nauseated with fear, he spurred his pony. But the turn was inadvertently towards the palanquin, not in the other direction. At once the samurai jerked out his killing sword, shouted "sonno-joi!" and hacked with all his might. In the same instant the other man went for Struan.

The blow took off Canterbury's left arm just above his biceps and sliced into his side. The trader gaped at the stump with disbelief as blood sprayed onto the girl. The sword whirled in another brutal arc. Impotently Struan was groping for his revolver, the other samurai charging him, blade raised. More by luck than judgment he twisted out of the path of a blow that wounded him slightly on his left leg and sliced into his pony's shoulder. The pony screamed and reared in sudden panic, knocking the man aside. Struan aimed and pulled the trigger of the small Colt but the pony reared again and the bullet went into the air harmlessly. Frantically he tried to steady the animal and aimed again, not seeing that now the first man was attacking from his blind side.

"Watchouttt!" Tyrer screeched, coming back to life. Everything had happened so fast it was almost as though he was imagining the horror--Canterbury on the ground in agony, his pony fleeing, the girl stupefied in her saddle, Struan pointing the gun a second time and the killing sword arching at his unprotected back. He saw Struan react to his warning, the frantic pony skittering at his touch, and the blow that would have killed him was deflected somehow by the bridle or pommel and sliced into his side. Struan lurched in his saddle and let out a howl of pain.

This galvanized Tyrer.

He jammed in his spurs and charged Struan's attacker. The man leapt aside untouched, noticed the girl and ran for her, sword on high. Tyrer spun his terrified pony, saw Angelique staring at the approaching samurai in frozen horror. "Get out of here, get help!" he screamed, then again slammed at the man who once more twisted to safety, recovered perfectly, and stood with his sword in attack position.

Time slowed. Phillip Tyrer knew he was dead. But that did not seem to matter now for in the moment's respite he saw Angelique whirl her pony and flee safely. He had forgotten his derringer. There was no room to escape, or time.

For a split second the youthful samurai hesitated, exulting in the killing moment, then leapt. Helplessly, Tyrer tried to back away. Then the explosion happened, the bullet thrust the man sprawling and the sword failed, cutting Tyrer in the arm but not badly.

For a moment Tyrer did not believe that he was still alive then he saw Struan reeling in his saddle, blood seeping from the wound in his side, the gun levelled at the other samurai, his frenzied pony twisting and cavorting.

Again Struan pulled the trigger. The gun was near the pony's ear. The explosion blew away her control and she took the bit and charged off, Struan barely able to hold on. At once the samurai rushed after him and this moment gave Tyrer the chance to dig in his spurs, spin away from the road and race in pursuit, northwards.

"Sonno-joiiii!" the samurai shouted after them, enraged that they had escaped.

John Canterbury was writhing and moaning in the dirt near some petrified travellers, all of them still kneeling, heads down and frozen.

Angrily the youth kicked Canterbury's top hat aside and decapitated him with a single blow.

Then, with great care, he cleansed his blade on the frock coat, and replaced it in its scabbard.

And all the while the cortege continued to pass as though nothing was happening, that nothing had happened, eyes seeing everything but nothing. Nor did any of the foot travellers move their heads from the earth.

The other younger samurai was sitting cross-legged on the ground, nursing his shoulder, using his bunched kimono to stop the flow of blood, his sword, still stained, in his lap. His compatriot went over to him and helped him up, cleansed the sword on the kimono of the nearest traveller, an old woman, who shivered in terror but kept her head pressed to the earth.

Both men were young and strongly built. They smiled at each other, then, together, examined the wound. The bullet had gone right through the muscle of his upper arm. No bone touched. Shorin, the older said, "The wound's clean, Ori."

"We should have killed them all."

"Karma."

At this moment the massed samurai and the eight terrified porters carrying the palanquin began passing, all pretending the two men and the corpse did not exist. With great deference, the two youths bowed.

The tiny side window of the palanquin slid open, then closed again.

"Here, Mr. Struan, drink this," the doctor said kindly, towering over the camp bed. They were in the surgery of the British Legation at Kanagawa and he had managed to stanch most of the blood flow. Tyrer sat on a chair near the window. The two of them had arrived half an hour ago. "It will make you feel better."

"What is it?"

"Magic--mostly laudanum, that's a tincture of opium and morphine of my own devising. It will stop the pain. I have to patch you up a little but not to worry, I will use ether to put you quite to sleep."

Struan felt a sick fear rush through him.

Ether for surgery was a recent innovation, much heralded, but still experimental. "I've, I've never had one or an, an operation and, and I don't... think..."

"Don't worry yourself. Anesthetics are really quite safe in the right hands." Dr. George Babcott was twenty-eight, well over six feet five and equally proportioned. "I've used ether and chloroform many times over the last five or six years, with excellent results.

Believe me, you won't feel anything, and it's a godsend to the patient."

"That's right, Mr. Struan," Tyrer said, trying to be helpful, knowing he was not. His arm already had been swabbed with iodine, sewn up and bandaged and in a sling and he was thanking his luck that his wound was relatively superficial. "I met a fellow at university who told me he had had his appendix out with chloroform, and it didn't hurt a bit." He wanted to sound reassuring, but the idea of any operation--and the gangrene that all too often followed--frightened him too.

"Don't forget, Mr. Struan," Babcott was saying, masking his concern, "it's almost fifteen years since Dr. Simpson first used chloroform in surgery and we've learned a lot since then. I studied under him at the Royal Infirmary for a year before I went out to the Crimea." His face saddened. "Learned a lot there too. Well, that war's over so not to worry, lovely laudanum will give you some erotic dreams too, if you're lucky."

"And if I'm not?"

"You're lucky. You're both very lucky."

Struan forced a smile through his pain. "We're lucky we found you here and so quickly, that's certain." Instinctively trusting Babcott he drank the colorless liquid, and lay back again, almost fainting from the pain.

"We'll let Mr. Struan rest a moment,"

Babcott said. "You'd better come with me, Mr.Tyrer, we've things to do."

"Of course, Doctor. Struan, can I get you anything, do anything?"

"No... no, thanks. No, no need for you to wait."

"Don't be silly, of course I'll wait." Nervously Tyrer followed the doctor out and closed the door. "Is he going to be all right?"

"I don't know. Fortunately samurai blades are always clean and they cut as beautifully as any scalpel. Excuse me a minute, I'm the only official here this afternoon so now that I've done everything medically possible, I'd better act like Her Britannic Majesty's representative." Babcott was Deputy to Sir William. He ordered the Legation cutter across the bay to Yokohama to sound the alarm, sent a Chinese servant to fetch the local Governor, another to find out what daimyo, or prince, had passed through Kanagawa a couple of hours ago, put the six-man detachment of soldiers on alert, and poured Tyrer a large whisky. "Drink it, it's medicinal. You say the assassins shouted something at you?"

"Yes, it, it sounded like "sonoh... sonnoh-ee."

"Means nothing to me. Make yourself at home, I'll be back in a moment, I've got to get ready." He went out.

Tyrer's arm was aching, with seven stitches in it.

Though Babcott had been expert, Tyrer had been hard put not to cry out. But he had not and that pleased him. What appalled him were the currents of fear that continued to shake him, making him want to run away and keep on running.

"You're a coward," he muttered, aghast at the discovery.

Like the surgery, the anteroom stank of chemicals making his stomach heave. He went to the window and breathed deeply, trying unsuccessfully to clear his head, then sipped some of the whisky. As always the taste was raw and unpleasant. He stared into the glass. Bad pictures there, very bad. A shudder went through him. He forced himself to look just at the liquor. It was golden brown and the smell reminded him of his home in London, his father after dinner sitting in front of the fire with his dram, mother complacently knitting, their two servants clearing the table, everything warm and cozy and safe, and that reminded him of Garroway's, his favorite Coffee House on Cornhill, warm and bustling and safe, and of university exciting and friendly but safe. Safe. His whole life safe but now?

Again panic began to overwhelm him. Jesus Christ, what am I doing here?

After their escape but still not far enough away from the Tokaido, Struan's bolting pony had shied as her half-severed shoulder muscle gave out and Struan tumbled to the ground. The fall hurt him badly.

With great difficulty, still weak with fear, Tyrer had helped Struan onto his own pony but he had been barely able to hold the taller heavier man in the saddle. All the time his attention was on the disappearing cortege, expecting any moment to see mounted samurai. "Can you hold on?"' "Yes, yes I think so." Struan's voice was very weak, his pain great.

"Angelique, she got away all right?"' "Yes, yes she did. The devils killed Canterbury."

"I saw that. Are... are you hurt?"' "No, not really. I don't think so. Just a gash in my arm." Tyrer tore off his coat, cursed at the sudden pain. The wound was a neat slice in the fleshy part of his forearm. He cleaned some of the blood away with a handkerchief, then used it as a bandage. "No veins or arteries cut--but why did they attack us? Why? We weren't doing any harm."

"I... I can't turn around. The bastard got me in the side... how... how does it look?"' With great care Tyrer eased the split in the broadcloth coat apart. The length and depth of the cut, made worse by the fall, shocked him.

Blood pulsated from the wound, frightening him further. "It's not good. We should get a doctor quickly."

"We'd, we'd better, better circle for Yokohama."

"Yes, yes I suppose so." The young man held on to Struan and tried to think clearly. People on the Tokaido were pointing at them. His anxiety increased. Kanagawa was nearby and he could see several temples. "One of them must be ours," he muttered, a foul taste in his mouth. Then he saw that his hands were covered with blood and his heart again surged with fright, then surged again with relief when he discovered that most of it was Struan's. "We'll go on."

"What... did you say?"' "We'll go on to Kanagawa--it's close by and the way clear. I can see several temples, one of them must be ours. There's bound to be a flag flying." By Japanese custom, Legations were housed in sections of Buddhist temples. Only temples or monasteries had extra rooms or outbuildings of sufficient size and quantity, so the Bakufu had had some set aside until individual residences could be constructed.

"Can you hold on, Mr. Struan? I'll lead the pony."

"Yes." Struan looked across at his own mount as she whinnied miserably, tried to run again but failed, her leg useless. Blood ran down her side from the savage wound. She stood there shivering. "Put her out of her pain and let's go on."

Tyrer had never shot a horse before. He wiped the sweat off his hands. The derringer had twin barrels and was breech-loaded with two of the new bronze cartridges that held bullet and charge and detonator. The pony skittered but could not go far. He stroked her head for a second, gentling her, put the derringer to her ear and pulled the trigger. The immediacy of her death surprised him. And the noise that the gun made. He put it back in his pocket.

Again he wiped his hands, everything still as in a trance. "We'd best stay away from the road, Mr. Struan, best stay out here, safer."

It took them much longer than he had expected with ditches and streams to cross. Twice Struan almost lost consciousness, and Tyrer only just managed to keep him from falling again. Peasants in the rice paddies pretended not to see them, or stared at them rudely, then went back to their work, so Tyrer just cursed them and pressed onwards.

The first temple was empty but for a few frightened, shaven-headed Buddhist monks in orange robes who scurried away into inner rooms the moment they saw them. There was a small fountain in the forecourt. Thankfully Tyrer drank some of the cool water, then refilled the cup and brought it to Struan who drank but could hardly see for pain.

"Thanks. How... how much farther?"' "Not far," Tyrer said, not knowing which way to go, trying to be brave. "We'll be there any moment."

Here the path forked, one way going towards the coast and to another temple soaring above village houses, the other deeper into the town and another temple. For no reason he chose the way towards the coast.

The path meandered, ran back on itself then went east again, no people in the maze of alleys but eyes everywhere. Then he saw the main gate of the temple and the Union Jack and the scarlet-uniformed soldier and almost wept with relief and pride for at once they were seen and the soldier rushed to help, another went for the Sergeant of the Guard and in no time there was Dr. Babcott towering over him.

"Christ Almighty, what the hell's happened?"' It had been easy to tell--there was so little to tell.

"Have you ever assisted at an operation before?"

"No, Doctor."

Babcott smiled, his face and manner genial, his hands moving swiftly, undressing the half-conscious Malcolm Struan as easily as if he were a child. "Well, soon you will have, good experience for you. I need help and I'm the only one here today. You'll be back in Yokohama by suppertime."

"I'll... I'll try."

"You'll probably be sick--it's the smell mostly, but not to worry. If you are, do it in the basin and not over the patient." Again Babcott glanced at him, gauging him, asking himself how reliable this young man might be, reading his bottled terror, then went back to work. "We'll give him ether next and then, off we go. You said you were in Peking?"

"Yes, sir, for four months--I came here by way of Shanghai and arrived a few days ago." Tyrer was glad to be able to talk to help keep his mind off the horrors. "The Foreign Office thought a short stay in Peking learning Chinese characters would help us with Japanish."

"Waste of time. If you want to speak it--by the way, most of us out here call it Japanese, like Chinese--if you want to read and write it properly, Chinese characters won't help, hardly at all." He shifted the inert man to a more comfortable position. "How much Japanese do you know?"

Tyrer's unhappiness increased.

"Practically none, sir. Just a few words.

We were told there would be Japanish, I mean Japanese grammars and books in Peking but there weren't any."

In spite of his enormous concern over this whole incident, Babcott stopped for a moment and laughed. "Grammars are as rare as a dragon's dingle and there're no Japanese dictionaries that I know of, except Father Alvito's of 1601 and that's in Portuguese--which I've never even seen and only heard about--and the one Reverend Priny's been working on for years." He eased off Struan's white silk shirt, wet with blood. "Do you speak Dutch?"

"Again just a few words. All student interpreters for Japan are supposed to have a six months course but the F.o. sent us off on the first available steamer. Why is Dutch the official foreign language used by the Japanese bureaucracy?"

"It isn't. The F.o. are wrong, and wrong about a lot of things. But it is the only European language presently spoken by a few Bakufu--I'm going to lift him slightly, you pull off his boots then his trousers, but do it gently."

Awkwardly Tyrer obeyed, using his good left hand.

Now Struan was quite naked on the surgical table. Beyond were the surgical instruments and salves and bottles. Babcott turned away and put on a heavy, waterproofed apron.

Instantly Tyrer saw only a butcher. His stomach heaved and he just made the basin in time.

Babcott sighed. How many hundred times have I vomited my heart out and then some more? But I need help so this child has to grow up. "Come here, we have to work quickly."

"I can't, I just can't..."

At once the doctor roughened his voice. "You come over here right smartly and help or Struan will die and before that I'll thump the hell out of you!"

Tyrer stumbled over to his side.

"Not here, for God's sake, opposite me!

Hold his hands!"

Struan opened his eyes briefly at Tyrer's touch and went back again into his nightmare, mouthing incoherently.

"It's me," Tyrer muttered, not knowing what else to say.

On the other side of the table Babcott had uncorked the small, unlabeled bottle and now he poured some of the yellowish oily liquid onto a thick linen pad. "Hold him firmly," he said, and pressed the pad over Struan's nose and mouth.

At once Struan felt himself being suffocated and grabbed at the pad, almost tearing it away with surprising strength. "For Christ sake, get hold of him," Babcott snarled. Again Tyrer grabbed Struan's wrists, forgetting his bad arm, and cried out but managed to hold on, the ether fumes revolting him. Still Struan struggled, twisting his head to escape, feeling himself dragged down into this never-ending cesspool. Gradually his strength waned, and vanished.

"Excellent," Babcott said. "Astonishing how strong patients are sometimes." He turned Struan onto his stomach, making his head comfortable, revealing the true extent of the wound that began in his back and came around just under the rib cage to end near his navel. "Keep a close watch on him and tell me if he stirs--when I tell you give him more ether..." But Tyrer was again at the basin. "Hurry up!"

Babcott did not wait, letting his hands flow, used to operating in far worse circumstances. Crimea with tens of thousands of soldiers dying--cholera, dysentery, smallpox mostly--and then all the wounded, the howls in the night and in the day, and then in the night the Lady of the Lamp who brought order out of chaos in military hospitals. Nurse Nightingale who ordered, cajoled, threatened, demanded, begged but somehow instituted her new ideas and cleansed that which was filthy, cast out hopelessness and useless death, yet still had time to visit the sick and the needy all hours of the night, her oil or candle lamp held high, lighting her passage from bed to bed.

"Don't know how she did it," he muttered.

"Sir?"

Momentarily he looked up and saw Tyrer, white-faced, staring at him. He had quite forgotten him. "I was just thinking about the Lady of the Lamp," he said, allowing his mouth to talk, to calm himself-- without letting this disturb his concentration on the sliced muscles and damaged veins. "Florence Nightingale. She went out to the Crimea with just thirty-eight nurses and in four months cut the death rate from forty in every hundred to about two--in every hundred."

Tyrer knew the statistic as every Englishman knew proudly that she had really founded the modern profession of nursing. "What was she like--personally?"

"Terrible, if you didn't keep everything clean and as she wanted it. Otherwise she was Godlike --in its most Christian way. She was born in Florence, in Italy, hence her name--though she was English through and through."

"Yes." Tyrer felt the doctor's warmth.

"Wonderful. So wonderful. Did you know her well?"

Babcott's eyes did not waver from the wound, or from his wise fingers as they probed and found, as he had feared, the severed part of the intestine. He swore without noticing it. Delicately he began seeking the other end. The stench increased.

"You were talking about Dutch. You know why some of the Japanners speak Dutch?"

With a violent effort, Tyrer tore his gaze away from the fingers and tried to close his nostrils.

He felt his stomach twist. "No sir."

Struan stirred. At once Babcott said, "Give him more of the ether... that's right, don't press too firmly... good. Well done.

How do you feel?"

"Dreadful."

"Never mind." The fingers began again, almost outside the doctor's will, then stopped.

Gently they exposed the other part of the severed intestine. "Wash your hands then give me the needle that's already threaded--there, on the table."

Tyrer obeyed.

"Good. Thanks." Babcott began the repair. Very accurately. "His liver's not hurt, bruised a little but not cut. His kidney's all right too. Ichiban--that's Japanese for "very good." I have a few Japanner patients.

In return for my work I make them give me words and phrases. I'll help you learn if you like."

"I'd... that would be wonderful--ichiban.

Sorry I'm so useless."

"You're not. I hate doing this alone. I, well I get frightened. Funny, but I do."

For a moment his fingers filled the room.

Tyrer looked at Struan's face, no color now where an hour ago it was ruddy, and strong where now it was stretched and ominous, eyelids flickering from time to time. Strange, he thought, strange how unbelievably naked Struan seems now. Two days ago I'd never even heard his name, now we're bonded like brothers, now life is different, will be different for both of us, like it or not. And I know he's brave and I'm not.

"Ah, you asked about Dutch," Babcott said, scarcely listening to himself, all his attention on the repairs. "Since about 1640 the only contact Japanners have had with the outside, apart from China, has been with Dutchmen. All others were forbidden to land in Japan, particularly Spaniards and Portuguese. Japanners don't like Catholics because they meddled in their politics back in the 1600's. At one time, so legend says, Japan almost went Catholic. Do you know any of this?"

"No sir."

"So the Dutch were tolerated because they'd never brought missionaries here, just wanted to trade."

For a moment he stopped talking but his fingers continued the fine neat stitches. Then he rambled on again.

"So a few Hollanders, men never women, were allowed to stay, but only with the most severe restrictions and confined on a man-made island of three acres in Nagasaki harbor called Deshima. The Dutch obeyed any law the Japanners made, and kowtowed--growing rich meanwhile. They brought in books, when they were allowed, traded, when they were allowed, and carried the China trade that's essential to Japan-- Chinese silks and silver for gold, paper, lacquer, chopsticks--you know what those are?"

"Yes sir. I was in Peking for three months."

"Oh yes, sorry I forgot. Never mind.

According to Dutch journals of the 1600's the first of the Toranaga Shoguns, their equivalent of emperors, decided foreign influence was against Japan's interests, so he closed the country and decreed that Japanners could not build any oceangoing ships, or leave the country--anyone who did could not come back or if they returned, they were to be killed instantly. That's still the law."

His fingers stopped for an instant as the delicate thread parted and he cursed. "Give me the other needle. Can't get decent gut though this silk's fine. Try to thread one of the others but wash your hands first and wash it when you're done. Thanks."

Tyrer was glad to have something to do and turned away but his fingers were helpless. His nausea was growing again, his head throbbing. "You were saying, about the Dutch?"

"Ah yes. So, warily, Dutch and Japanners began learning from the other though the Dutch were officially forbidden to learn Japanese.

Ten odd years ago the Bakufu started a Dutch language school..." Both men heard the running feet.

Hasty knock. The sweating Grenadier Sergeant stood there, trained never to enter while an operation was in progress. "Sorry to interrupt, sir, but there's four of the rotten little buggers coming down the road. Looks like a deputation. They's all samurai."

The doctor did not stop sewing. "Is Lim with them?"

"Yessir."

"Escort them into the reception room and tell Lim to look after them. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Yessir." The Sergeant took one last glazed look at the table, then fled.

The doctor completed another stitch, knotted it, cut the thread, swabbed the oozing wound, and began anew. "Lim's one of our Chinese assistants. Our Chinese do most of our leg work, not that they're Japanese speakers or, or very trustworthy."

"We... it was the same... we found it was the same in Peking, sir. Dreadful liars."

"The Japanners are worse--but in a way that's not true either. It's not that they're liars, it's just that truth is mobile and depends on the whim of the speaker. Very important for you to learn to speak Japanese very quickly. We don't have even one interpreter, not of our own people."

Tyrer gaped at him. "None?"

"None. The British padre speaks a little but we can't use him, Japanners detest missionaries and priests. We've only three Dutch speakers in the Settlement, one Hollander, one Swiss who's our interpreter, and a Cape Colony trader, none British.

In the Settlement we speak a bastard sort of lingua franca called "pidgin," like in Hong Kong and Singapore and the other China Treaty ports and use compradores, business intercessors."

"It was the same in Peking."

Babcott heard the irritation but more the underlying danger. He glanced up, instantly saw into Tyrer that he was near to breaking, ready to vomit again any second. "You're doing fine," he said encouragingly, then straightened to ease his back, sweat running off him. Again he bent down. Very carefully he resettled the repaired intestine into the cavity, quickly began to stitch another laceration, working outwards. "How'd you like Peking?" he asked, not caring but wanting Tyrer to talk.

Better that than an outburst, he thought. Can't deal with him till this poor bugger's closed up.

"I've never been there. Did you like it?"

"I, well... yes, yes, very much." Tyrer tried to collect his wits through a blinding headache that racked him. "The Manchus are quite subdued at the moment, so we could go anywhere we wanted quite safely." Manchus, a nomadic tribe from Manchuria, had conquered China in 1644 and now ruled as the Ch'ing Dynasty. "We could ride around without... without any problems... the Chinese were... not too friendly but..." The closeness of the room and the smell crested. A spasm took him and he was sick again and, still nauseated, came back. "Sorry."

"You were saying--about Manchus?"

Suddenly Tyrer wanted to scream that he cared nothing about Manchus or Peking or anything, wanting to run from the stench and his helplessness.

"The devil with--"

"Talk to me! Talk!"

"We, we were told that... that normally they're an arrogant, nasty lot and it's obvious the Chinese hate Manchus mortally." Tyrer's voice was phlegmy but the more he concentrated the less he felt the urge to flee. He continued, hesitating, "It, it seems they're all petrified the Tai'ping Rebellion will spread up from Nanking and engulf Peking, and that will be the end of...." He stopped, listening intently. His mouth had a dreadful taste and his head pounded even more.

"What is it?"

"I... I thought I heard someone shouting."

Babcott listened, hearing nothing. "Go on about Manchus."

"Well, the, er, the Tai'ping Rebellion.

Rumor has it that more than ten million peasants have been killed or died of famine in the last few years. But it's quiet in Peking--of course burning and looting the Summer Palace by British and French forces two years ago that Lord Elgin ordered as a reprisal, also taught the Manchus a lesson they won't forget in a hurry. They aren't going to murder any more British lightly. Isn't that what Sir William will order here? A reprisal?"

"If we knew who to carry out the reprisal against we would have started. But against who? You can't bombard Yedo because of a few unknown assassins ..."

Angry voices interrupted him, the Sergeant's English at odds with guttural Japanese. Then the door was jerked open by a samurai and behind him two others threatened the Sergeant, their swords half out of their scabbards, two Grenadiers with breech-loaders levelled stood in the passageway. The fourth samurai, an older man, came forward into the room. Tyrer backed against the wall, petrified, reliving Canterbury's death.

"Kinjiru!" Babcott bellowed, and everyone froze. For a moment it looked as though the older man, furious now, would pull out his sword and attack. Then Babcott whirled and faced them, a scalpel in his enormous fist, blood on his hands and apron, gigantic and diabolical. "Kinjiru!" he ordered again, then pointed with the scalpel. "Get out!

Dete. Dete... dozo." He glared at all of them then turned his back on them and continued sewing and swabbing. "Sergeant, show them the reception room--politely!"

"Yessir." With signs, the Sergeant beckoned to the samurai who chattered angrily amongst themselves. "Dozo," he said, muttering.

"Come on, you rotten little bastards." Again he beckoned. The older samurai imperiously waved at the others and stomped off. At once the other three bowed and followed.

Awkwardly Babcott wiped a bead of sweat off his chin with the back of his hand, then continued his work, his head and neck and back aching. "Kinjiru means It is forbidden," he said, making his voice calm though his heart was beating violently as it always did when samurai were near with drawn or even half-drawn swords and he had no pistol or gun in his hands, cocked and ready. Too many times he had been summoned to the result of their swords, against both Europeans and themselves-- fights and samurai feuds were constant in and around Yokohama, Kanagawa and the surrounding villages. "Dozo means please, Dete go out. Very important to use please and thank you with Japanese. Thank you is domo. Use them even if you shout." He glanced at Tyrer who was still against the wall, shaking. "There's whisky in the cabinet."

"I'm... I'm all right..."

"You're not, you're still in shock. Take a good dose of whisky. Sip it. Soon as I'm finished I'll give you something to stop the sickness.

You-are-not-to-worry! Understand?"

Tyrer nodded. Tears began streaming down his face that he could not stop and he found it difficult to walk. "What's... what's the matter with... me?" he gasped.

"Just shock, don't worry about it. It'll pass. It's normal in war and we're at war here. I'll be finished soon. Then we'll deal with those bastards."

"How... how will you do that?"

"I don't know." An edge came into the doctor's voice, as he cleaned the wound again with a fresh square of linen from a dwindling pile--still much sewing to be done. "The usual I suppose, just wave my hands and tell them our Minister will give them bloody hell and try to find out who attacked you. Of course they'll deny all knowledge of the affair, which is probably right--they never seem to know anything about anything. They're unlike any other people I've ever come across. I don't know whether they're just plain stupid, or clever and secretive to the point of genius. We can't seem to penetrate their society--nor can our Chinese--we've no allies amongst them, can't seem to bribe any of them to help us, we can't even speak to them directly. We're all so helpless. Are you feeling better?"

Tyrer had taken a little whisky. Before that he had wiped the tears away, filled with shame, and washed his mouth and poured water on his head. "Not really... but thanks. I'm all right. How about Struan?"

After a pause Babcott said, "I don't know. You never truly know." His heart surged at the sound of more footsteps, Tyrer blanched. A knock. The door opened immediately.

"Christ Jesus," Jamie McFay gasped, his whole attention on the bloody table and the great gash in Struan's side. "Is he going to be all right?"

"Hello, Jamie," Babcott said. "You heard about--"

"Yes, we've just come from the Tokaido, tracking Mr. Struan on the off chance, Dmitri's outside. You all right, Mr.Tyrer? The bastards butchered poor old Canterbury into a dozen pieces and left the bits to the crows..." Tyrer lurched for the basin again. Uneasily, McFay stayed at the door.

"For Christ's sake, George, is Mr.Struan going to be all right?"

"I don't know!" Babcott flared, his never-ending impotence at not knowing erupted as anger, not understanding why some patients lived and others less wounded did not, why some wounds rotted and others healed. "He's lost pints of blood, I've repaired a severed intestine, three lacerations, there are three veins and two muscles yet to be done and the wound closed and Christ alone knows how much foulness has got in from the air to infect him if that's where disease or gangrene comes from. I don't know!

I-don't-bloody-know! Now get to hell out of here and deal with those four Bakufu bastards and find out who did this by God."

"Yes, certainly, sorry, George,"

McFay said, beside himself with worry, and shocked at the violence from Babcott who was usually imperturbable, adding hastily, "we'll try--Dmitri's with me--but we know who did it, we leaned on a Chinese shopkeeper in the village. It's damn strange, the samurai were all from Satsuma and--"

"Where the hell's that?"

"He said it's a kingdom near Nagasaki on the south island, six or seven hundred miles away and--"

"What the hell are they doing here for God's sake?"

"He didn't know, but he swore they were overnighting at Hodogaya--Phillip, that's a way station on the Tokaido not ten miles from here--and their king was with them."

Sanjiro, Lord of Satsuma, eyes slitted and pitiless--a heavyset, bearded man of forty-two, his swords priceless, his blue over-mantle the finest silk--looked at his most trusted advisor. "Was the attack a good thing or a bad thing?"

"It was good, Sire," Katsumata said softly, knowing there were spies everywhere. The two men were alone, kneeling opposite each other, in the best quarters of an inn at Hodogaya, a village way station on the Tokaido, barely two miles inland from the Settlement.

"Why?" For six centuries Sanjiro's ancestors had ruled Satsuma, the richest and most powerful fief in all Japan--except for those of his hated enemies, the Toranaga clans --and, as zealously, had guarded its independence.

"It will create trouble between the Shogunate and gai-jin," Katsumata said. He was a thin, steel-hard man, a master swordsman and the most famous of all Sensei--teachers--of martial arts in Satsuma province. "The more those dogs are in conflict the sooner they will clash, the sooner the clash the better, for that will help bring down the Toranagas and their puppets at last, and let you install a new Shogunate, a new Shogun, new officials, with Satsuma preeminent and yourself one of a new roju."

Roju was another name for the Council of Five Elders that ruled in the name of the Shogun.

One of the roju? Why only one, Sanjiro thought secretly. Why not Chief Minister? Why not Shogun--I have all the necessary lineage. Two and a half centuries of Toranaga Shoguns is more than enough.

Nobusada, the fourteenth, should be the last--by my father's head, will be the last!

This Shogunate had been established by the warlord Toranaga in 1603 after winning the battle of Sekigahara, where his legions took forty thousand enemy heads. With Sekigahara he eliminated all practical opposition and, for the first time in history, had subdued Nippon, the Land of the Gods, as Japanese called their country, and brought it under one rule.

At once this brilliant general and administrator, now holding absolute temporal power, gratefully accepted the title Shogun, the highest rank a mortal could have, from a powerless Emperor--which confirmed him, legally, as Dictator. Quickly he made his Shogunate hereditary, at once decreeing that, in future, all temporal matters were the sole province of the Shogun, all spiritual matters the Emperor's.

For the last eight centuries the Emperor, the Son of Heaven, and his court had lived in seclusion in the walled Imperial Palace at Kyoto. Once a year, only, he came outside the walls to visit the sacred Ise shrine but, even then, he was hidden from all eyes, his face never seen in public. Even inside the walls he was screened from all but his most immediate family by zealous, hereditary officials and ancient, mystic protocols.

Thus the warlord who had physical possession of the Palace Gates decided who went in and who came out, had de facto possession of the Emperor and his ear, and thus his influence and power.

And though all Japanese absolutely believed him to be divine, and accepted him as the Son of Heaven, and descended from the Sun Goddess in an unbroken line since time began, by historic custom the Emperor and his court retained no armies, and had no revenue other than that granted by the warlord at his Gates-- yearly at the man's whim.

For decades Shogun Toranaga, his son and grandson, ruled with wise though ruthless control.

Following generations loosened their hold, lesser officials usurped more and more power, gradually making their own offices hereditary too.

The Shogun remained titular head but, over a century or more, had become a puppet--but always and only selected from the Toranaga line, as was the Council of Elders. The present Shogun, Nobusada, was chosen four years ago when he was twelve.

And not long for this earth, Sanjiro promised himself, and came back to the present problem which disturbed him. "Katsumata, the killings, though merited, may provoke the gai-jin too much and that would be bad for Satsuma."

"I do not see any bad, Sire. The Emperor wants the gai-jin expelled, you do, as do most daimyos. That the two samurai are Satsumas will also please the Emperor. Do not forget your mission to Yedo was accomplished perfectly."

Three months ago Sanjiro had persuaded Emperor Komei, through intermediaries at the Imperial court in Kyoto, personally to sign several "wishes" Sanjiro had suggested, and to appoint him escort to an Imperial Messenger who would formally deliver the scroll in Yedo which would ensure its acceptance--a "wish" of the Emperor, if accepted, was difficult to refuse, sometimes. For the last two months he had led the negotiations and as much as the Elders and their Bakufu officials twisted and turned, he had dominated them and now had their written assent to certain reforms bound to weaken the whole Shogunate. Importantly he now had their formal consent to cancel the hated Treaties, signed against the Emperor's wishes, to expel the hated gai-jin and to close the land as it was before the unwelcome arrival and forced entry of Perry.

"Meanwhile, what about those two fools who broke ranks and killed without orders?"

Sanjiro asked.

"Any act that embarrasses the Bakufu helps you."

"I agree the gai-jin were provocative.

Those vermin had no right to be anywhere near me.

My banner and the Imperial banner were in the front rank forbidding it."

"So let the gai-jin bear the consequences of their act: they forced their way onto our shores against our wishes and have the Yokohama foothold. With the men we have now, and a surprise attack by night, we could obliterate the Settlement and burn the surrounding villages easily. We could do it tonight and solve the problem permanently."

"Yokohama yes, with a sudden attack. But we cannot get at their fleets, we cannot squash them and their cannon."

"Yes, Sire. And the gai-jin would retaliate at once. Their fleet would bombard Yedo and destroy it."

"I agree, and the sooner the better. But that would not destroy the Shogunate and after Yedo they would go against me, they would attack my capital, Kagoshima. I cannot risk that."

"I believe Yedo would satisfy them, Sire. If their base is burnt they would have to go back aboard their ships and sail away, back to Hong Kong. Sometime in the future they may come back, but then they must land in strength to erect a new base. Worse for them, they must use land forces to maintain it."

"They humbled China. Their war machine is invincible."

"This isn't China and we are not mealymouthed, cowardly Chinese to be bled to death or frightened to death by these carrion. They say they just want to trade. Good, you want to trade too, for guns, cannon and ships." Katsumata smiled and added delicately, "I suggest if we burn and destroy Yokohama--of course, we pretend the attack is at the Bakufu's request, the Shogun's request--when the gai-jin return, whoever controls the Shogunate then would reluctantly agree to pay a modest indemnity and, in return, the gai-jin will happily agree to tear up their shameful treaties and trade on any terms we decide to impose."

"They would attack us at Kagoshima,"

Sanjiro said. "We could not repel them."

"Our bay is hazardous for shipping not open like Yedo, we have secret shore batteries, secret Dutch cannon, we grow stronger every month. Such an act of war by gai-jin would unite all daimyo, all samurai, and the whole land into an irresistible force under your banner.

Gai-jin armies cannot win on land. This is the Land of the Gods, the gods will come to our aid too,"

Katsumata said fervently, not believing it at all, manipulating Sanjiro as he had done for years. "A divine wind, a kamikaze wind, destroyed the armadas of the Mongol Kublai Khan six hundred years ago, why not again?"

"True," Sanjiro said. "The gods saved us then. But gai-jin are gai-jin and vile and who knows what mischief they can invent? Foolish to invite a sea attack until we've warships --though yes, the gods are on our side and will protect us."

Katsumata laughed to himself. There are no gods, any gods, or heaven, or life after death. Stupid to believe otherwise, stupid gai-jin and their stupid dogma. I believe what the great Dictator General Nakamura said in his death poem, From nothing into nothing, Osaka Castle and all that I have ever done is but a dream within a dream. "The gai-jin Settlement is within your grasp like never before. Those two youths awaiting judgment pointed a way. I beg you take it."

He hesitated and dropped his voice even more.

"Rumor has it, Sire, secretly they are shishi."

Sanjiro's eyes narrowed even more.

Shishi--men of spirit, so called because of their bravery and deeds--were young revolutionaries who were spearheading an unheard-of revolt against the Shogunate. They were a recent phenomenon, thought to number only about a hundred and fifty throughout the land.

To the Shogunate and most daimyos they were terrorists and madmen to be stamped out.

To most samurai, particularly rank-and-file warriors, they were loyalists waging an all-consuming battle for good, wanting to force the Toranagas to relinquish the Shogunate and restore all power to the Emperor, from whom, they fervently believed, it had been usurped by the warlord Toranaga, two and a half centuries ago.

To many commoners and peasants and merchants, and particularly to the Floating World of geishas and Pleasure Houses, shishi were the stuff of legends, sung about, wept over, and adored.

All were samurai, young idealists, the majority coming from the fiefs of Satsuma, Choshu and Tosa, a few were fanatic xenophobes, most were ronin--wave men, because they were as free as the waves--masterless samurai, or samurai who had been outcast by their lord for disobedience, or a crime, and had fled their province to escape punishment, or those who had fled by choice, believing in a new, outrageous heresy: that there could be a higher duty than that due their lord, or their family, a duty to the ruling Emperor alone.

A few years ago the growing shishi movement had formed themselves into small, secret cells, committing themselves to rediscover bushido-- ancient samurai practices of self-discipline, duty, honor, death, swordsmanship and other warlike pursuits, arts long since lost--except for a few Sensei who had kept bushido alive. Lost because for the last two and a half centuries Japan had been at peace under rigid Toranaga rule that forbade warlike pursuits, where, for centuries before, there had been total civil war.

Cautiously the shishi began to meet and discuss and to plan. Swordsmanship schools became centers of discontent. Zealots and radicals appeared in their midst, some good, some bad. But one common thread joined them--all were fanatically anti-Shogunate, and opposed to allowing Japanese ports to be opened to foreigners and foreign trade.

To this end, for the last four years, they had waged sporadic attacks on gai-jin, and begun to articulate an unprecedented, all-out revolt against the legal ruler, Shogun Nobusada, the all-powerful Council of Elders and Bakufu that in theory did his bidding, regulating all aspects of life.

The shishi had conjured up an all-embracing slogan, Sonno-joi: Honor the Emperor and Expel the Barbarians, and had sworn, whatever the cost, to remove anyone in the way.

"Even if they are shishi," Sanjiro said angrily, "I cannot allow such a public disobedience to go unpunished, however merited--I agree those gai-jin should have dismounted and knelt, as customary, and behaved like civilized persons, yes, it was they who provoked my men. But that does not excuse those two."

"I agree, Sire."

"Then give me your advice," he said irritably. "If they're shishi as you say and I crush them, or order them to commit seppuku, I will be assassinated before the month is out, however many my guards--don't attempt to deny it, I know. Disgusting their power is so strong though most are common goshi."

"Perhaps that is their strength, Sire,"

Katsumata had replied. Goshi were the lowest rank of samurai, their families mostly penniless country samurai, hardly more than the warrior peasants of olden times with almost no hope of getting an education, therefore no hope of advancement, no hope of getting their views acted upon, or even heard by officials of low rank, let alone daimyo. "They've nothing to lose but their lives."

"If anyone has a grievance I listen, of course I listen. Special men get special education, some of them."

"Why not allow them to lead the attack on the gai-jin?"

"And if there is no attack? I cannot hand them over to the Bakufu, unthinkable, or to the gai-jin!"

"Most shishi are just young idealists, without brains or purpose. A few are troublemakers and outlaws who are not needed on this earth. However some could be valuable, if used correctly--a spy told me the oldest, Shorin, was part of the team that assassinated Chief Minister Ii."

"So ka!"

This had occurred four years ago. Against all advice, Ii, who was responsible for maneuvering the boy Nobusada to be Shogun, had also suggested a highly improper marriage between the boy and the Emperor's twelve-year-old half sister, and, worst of all, had negotiated and signed the hated Treaties. His passing was not regretted, especially by Sanjiro.

"Send for them."

Now in the audience room a maid was serving Sanjiro tea. Katsumata sat beside him.

Around stood ten of his personal bodyguard.

All were armed. The two youths kneeling below and in front of him were not, though their swords lay on the tatami within easy reach. Their nerves were stretched but they showed none of it. The maid bowed and left, hiding her fear.

Sanjiro did not notice her going. He lifted the exquisite little porcelain cup from the tray, sipped the tea. The tea's taste was good to him and he was glad to be ruler and not ruled, pretending to study the cup, admiring it, his real attention on the youths. They waited impassively, knowing the time had come.

He knew nothing about them except what Katsumata had told him: that both were goshi, foot soldiers like their fathers before them. Each had a stipend of one koku yearly--a measure of dry rice, about five bushels, considered enough to feed one family for one year. Both came from villages near Kagoshima. One was nineteen, the other, who had been wounded and now had his arm bound, was seventeen. Both had been to the select samurai school at Kagoshima he had begun twenty years ago for those showing special aptitudes that gave extra training, including studies of carefully chosen Dutch manuals. Both had been good students, both were unmarried, both spent their spare time perfecting their swordsmanship and learning. Both were eligible for promotion sometime in the future. The older was called Shorin Anato, the younger Ori Ryoma.

The silence became heavier.

Abruptly he began talking to Katsumata as though the two youths did not exist: "If any of my men, however worthy, however much provoked, whatever the reason, were to commit a violent act that I had not authorized and they remained within my reach, I would certainly have to deal with them severely."

"Yes, Sire."

He saw the glint in his counselor's eyes.

"Stupid to be disobedient. If such men wanted to remain alive their only recourse would be to flee and become ronin, even if they were to lose their stipends. A waste of their lives if they happened to be worthy." Then he looked at the youths, scrutinizing them carefully. To his surprise he saw nothing on their faces, just the same grave impassivity. His caution increased.

"You are quite correct, Sire. As always,"

Katsumata added. "It might be that some such men, if special men of honor, knowing that they had disturbed your harmony, knowing you would have no other option than to punish them severely, these special men even as ronin would still guard your interests, perhaps even forward your interests."

"Such men do not exist," Sanjiro said, secretly delighted his counselor agreed with him. He turned his pitiless eyes onto the young men. "Do they?"

Both youths tried to maintain their direct gaze but they were overwhelmed. They dropped their glance. Shorin, the older, muttered, "There, there are such men, Sire."

The silence became rougher as Sanjiro waited for the other youth to declare himself also. Then the younger Ori nodded his bowed head imperceptibly, put both hands flat on the tatami and bowed lower. "Yes, Lord, I agree."

Sanjiro was content for now, at no cost, he had their allegiance and two spies within the movement --whom Katsumata would be answerable for.

"Such men would be useful, if they existed." His voice was curt and final. "Katsumata, write an immediate letter to the Bakufu, informing them two goshi called..." he thought a moment, paying no attention to the rustle in the room, "put whatever names you like... broke ranks and killed some gai-jin today because of their provocative and insolent attitude, the gai-jin were armed with pistols which they pointed threateningly at my palanquin. These two men, provoked as all my men were, escaped before they could be caught and bound." He looked back at the youths. "As to you two, you will both come back at the first night watch for sentencing."

Katsumata said quickly, "Sire, may I suggest you add in the letter that they have been ordered outcast, declared ronin, their stipends cancelled and a reward offered for their heads."

"Two koku. Post it in their villages when we return." Sanjiro turned his eyes on Shorin and Ori and waved his hand in dismissal.

They bowed deeply and left. He was pleased to see the sweat on the back of their kimonos though the afternoon was not hot.

"Katsumata, about Yokohama," he said softly when they were alone again. "Send some of our best spies to see what is going on there. Order them to be back here by nightfall, and order all samurai to become battle ready."

"Yes, Sire." Katsumata did not allow a smile to show.

When the youths left Sanjiro and had passed through the rings of bodyguards, Katsumata caught up with them. "Follow me." He led the way through meandering gardens to a side door that was unguarded.

"Go at once to Kanagawa, to the Inn of the Midnight Blossoms. It is a safe house, other friends will be there. Hurry!"

"But, Sensei," Ori said. "First we must collect our other swords and armor and money and--"

"Silence!" Angrily Katsumata reached into his kimono sleeve and gave them a small purse with a few coins in it. "Take this, and return double for your insolence. At sunset I will order men to go after you with orders to kill you if you're caught within one ri." A ri was about a league, about three miles.

"Yes, Sensei, I apologize for being so rude."

"Your apology is not accepted. You are both fools. You should have killed all four barbarians, not just one--particularly the girl for that would have sent the gai-jin mad with rage! How many times have I told you? They're not civilized like us, and view the world, religion and women differently! You're inept! You're fools! You initiated a good attack then failed to press forward ruthlessly without concern for your own lives. You hesitated!

So you lost! Fools!" he said again. "You forgot everything I've taught you." Enraged, he backhanded Shorin in the face, the blow savage.

At once Shorin bowed, mumbled an abject apology for causing the Sensei to lose wa, to lose inner harmony, keeping his head bowed, desperately trying to contain the pain. Ori stayed ramrod stiff waiting for the second blow. It left a livid burn in its wake. Immediately he, too, apologized abjectly, and kept his throbbing head bowed, afraid. Once a fellow student, the best swordsman amongst them, had answered Katsumata rudely during a practice fight. Without hesitation, Katsumata had sheathed his sword, attacked barehanded, disarmed him, humiliated him, broke both his arms and expelled him to his village forever.

"Please excuse me, Sensei," Shorin said, meaning it.

"Go to the Inn of the Midnight Blossoms.

When I send a message, obey whatever I require of you at once, there will be no second chance! At once, understand?"

"Yes, yes, Sensei, please excuse me," they mumbled together, tucked up their kimonos and fled, thankful to be out of his reach, more frightened of him than of Sanjiro. Katsumata had been their main teacher for years, in both the arts of war and, in secret, other arts: strategy, past, present and of the future, why the Bakufu had failed in their duty, the Toranagas in theirs, why there must be change and how to bring it about.

Katsumata was one of the few clandestine shishi who was hatomoto--an honored retainer with instant access to his lord--a senior samurai with a personal yearly stipend of a thousand koku.

"Eeee, to be so rich," Shorin had whispered to Ori when they had first found out.

"Money is nothing, nothing. The Sensei says when you have power you don't need money."

"I agree, but think of your family, your father and mine, and grandfather, they could buy some land of their own and not have to work the fields of others--nor would have to work like that from time to time to earn extra."

"You're right," Ori said.

Then Shorin had laughed. "No need to worry, we'll never get even a hundred koku and if we had it we'd just spend our share on girls and sak`e and become daimyos of the Floating World. A thousand koku is all the money in the world!"

"No, it's not," Ori had said. "Don't forget what the Sensei told us."

During one of Katsumata's secret sessions for his special group of acolytes he had said: "The revenue of Satsuma amounts to seven hundred and fifty thousand koku and belongs to our lord, the daimyo, to apportion as he sees fit. That's another custom the new administration will modify. When the great change has happened, a fief's revenue will be portioned out by a Council of State, made up of wise men drawn from any rank of samurai, high or low, of any age, provided the man has the necessary wisdom and has proved himself a man of honor.

It will be the same in all fiefs, as the land will be governed by a Supreme Council of State in Yedo or Kyoto, drawn equally from samurai of honor--under the guidance of the Son of Heaven."

"Sensei, you said any? May I ask, will that include the Toranagas?"' Ori had asked.

"There will be no exception, if the man is worthy."

"Sensei, please, about the Toranagas.

Does anyone know their real wealth, the lands they really control?"' "After Sekigahara Toranaga took lands from dead enemies worth yearly about five million koku, about a third of all the wealth of Nippon, for himself and his family. In perpetuity."

In the stunned silence that followed, Ori had said for all of them: "With that amount of wealth we, we could have the greatest navy in the world with all the men-of-war and cannon and guns we could ever need, we could have the best legions with the best guns, we could throw out all gai-jin!"

"We could even carry war to them and extend our shores," Katsumata had added softly, "and correct previous shame."

At once they had known he was referring to the tairo, General Nakamura, Toranaga's immediate predecessor and liege lord, the great peasant-general who then possessed the Gates and had therefore, in gratitude, been granted by the Emperor the highest possible title a lowborn could aspire to, tairo, meaning Dictator --not that of Shogun which he coveted to obsession but could never have.

Having subdued all the land, chiefly by persuading his main enemy Toranaga to swear allegiance to him and his child heir forever, he had gathered a huge armada and mounted a vast campaign against Chosen, or Korea as it was sometimes called, to enlighten that country and use it as a stepping stone to the Dragon Throne of China.

But his armies had failed and soon retreated in ignominy--as in previous eras, centuries before, two other Japanese attempts had failed, equally in disaster, the throne of China a perpetual lodestone.

"Such shame needs to be eradicated--like the shame the Sons of Heaven have suffered because of the Toranagas who usurped Nakamura's power when the man died, destroyed his wife and son, levelled their Osaka castle, and have pillaged the heritage of the Son of Heaven for long enough!

Sonno-joi!"

"Sonno-joi!" they had echoed.

Fervently.

In the dusk the youths were tiring, their headlong flight racking them. But neither wanted to be the first to admit it so they pressed on until they were at the threshold of woods. Ahead now were paddy swamps on either side of the Tokaido that led to the outskirts of Kanagawa just ahead, and to the roadblock. The shore was to their right.

"Let's... let's stop a moment,"

Ori said, his wounded arm throbbing, head hurting, chest hurting, but not showing it.

"All right." Shorin was panting as hard and hurting as much but he laughed. "You're weak, like an old woman." He picked a dry patch of earth, sat down gratefully. With great care he began to look around, trying to regain his breathing.

The Tokaido was almost empty, night travel being generally forbidden by the Bakufu and subject to severe cross questioning and punishment if not justified. Several porters and the last of the travellers scurried for the Kanagawa barrier, all others safely bathing or carousing at the Inns of their choice--of which there was a multitude within the post towns. Throughout the land, trunk road barriers closed at nightfall and were not opened until dawn, and always guarded by local samurai.

Across the bay Shorin could see the oil lamps along the promenade and in some of the houses of the Settlement, and amongst the ships at anchor. A good moon, half full, was rising from near the horizon.

"How is your arm, Ori?"

"Fine, Shorin. We are more than a ri from Hodogaya."

"Yes, but I won't feel safe until we're at the Inn." Shorin began massaging his neck to try to ease the pain there and in his head.

Katsumata's blow had stunned him. "When we were before Lord Sanjiro I thought we were finished, I thought he was going to condemn us."

"So did I." As he spoke Ori felt sick, his arm throbbing like his heaving chest, his face still afire. With his good hand he waved absently at a swarm of night insects. "If he... I was ready to go for my sword and send him on before us."

"So was I but the Sensei was watching very closely and he would have killed both of us before we moved."

"Yes, you're right again." The younger man shuddered. "His blow almost took my head off.

Eeee, to have such strength, unbelievable! I'm glad he's on our side, not against us. He saved us, only him, he bent Lord Sanjiro to his will." Ori was suddenly somber. "Shorin, while I was waiting I... to keep myself strong, I composed my death poem."

Shorin became equally grave. "May I hear it?"

"Yes.

"Sonno-joi at sunset, Nothing wasted.

Into nothing I spring."

Shorin thought about the poem, savoring it, the balance of the words and the third level of meaning. Then he said solemnly, "It is wise for a samurai to have composed a death poem. I haven't managed that yet but I should, then all the rest of life is extra." He twisted his head from side to side to the limit, the joints or ligaments cracking, and he felt better. "You know, Ori, the Sensei was right, we did hesitate, therefore we lost."

"I hesitated, he's right in that, I could have killed the girl easily but she paralyzed me for a moment. I've never... her outlandish clothes, her face like a strange flower with that huge nose more like a monstrous orchid with two great blue spots and crowned with yellow stamens--those unbelievable eyes, Siamese cat eyes and thatch of straw under that ridiculous hat, so repulsive yet so, so attracting." Ori laughed nervously. "I was bewitched. She is surely a kami from the dark regions."

"Rip her clothes off and she'd be real enough, but how attractive I... I don't know."

"I thought of that too, wondering what it would be like." Ori looked up at the moon for a moment.

"If I pillowed with her I think... I think I'd become the male spider to her female."

"You mean she'd kill you afterwards?"

"Yes, if I pillowed her, with or without force, that woman would kill me." Ori waved the air, the insects becoming a pestilence. "I've never seen one like her--nor have you. You noticed too, neh?"

"No, everything happened so fast and I was trying to kill the big ugly one with the pistol and then she had fled."

Ori stared at the faint lights of Yokohama. "I wonder what she's called, what she did when she got back there. I've never seen--she was so ugly and yet..."

Shorin was unsettled. Normally Ori hardly noticed women, just used them when he had a need, let them entertain him, serve him. Apart from his adored sister, he could not remember Ori ever discussing one before. "Karma."

"Yes, karma." Ori shifted his bandage more comfortably, the throbbing deepened. Blood seeped from under it. "Even so, I do not know if we lost.

We must wait, we must be patient and see what will happen. We always planned to go against gai-jin at the first opportunity--I was right to go against them at that moment."

Shorin got up. "I'm tired of seriousness, and kami and death. We'll know death soon enough.

The Sensei gave us life for sonno-joi. From nothing into nothing--but tonight we've another night to enjoy. A bath, sak`e, food, then a real Lady of the Night, succulent and sweet-smelling and moist..." He laughed softly, "A flower, not an orchid, with a beautiful nose and proper eyes. Let's--"

He stopped. Eastwards, from the direction of Yokohama came the echoing report of a ship's signal cannon. Then a signal rocket briefly lit the darkness.

"Is that usual?"

"I don't know." Ahead they could just see the lamps at the first barrier. "Through the paddy is better, then we can skirt the guards."

"Yes. Better we cross the road here and go closer to the shore. They won't expect intruders that way, we can avoid any patrols, and the Inn is nearer."

They ran across the road, keeping well down, then up onto one of the paths that transversed the fields recently planted with winter rice.

Suddenly they stopped. From the Tokaido came the clatter of approaching horses and jingling harness. They ducked down, waited a moment, then gasped. Ten uniformed dragoons, armed with carbines, and led by an officer cantered out of the curve.

At once the soldiers were spotted by samurai at the barrier, who called out a warning. Others rushed from the huts to join them. Soon there were twenty lined up behind the barrier, an officer at their head.

"What shall we do, Ori?" Shorin whispered.

"Wait."

As they watched the senior samurai held up his hand. "Stop!" he called out, then nodded slightly instead of a bow, correct etiquette from a superior to an inferior. "Is your night travel authorized? If so please give me the papers."

Ori's fury soared as he saw the open insolence of the gai-jin officer who halted about ten paces from the barrier, called out something in his strange language and imperiously motioned to the samurai to open it, neither dismounting nor bowing courteously as custom demanded.

"How dare you be so rude! Leave!" the samurai said angrily, not expecting the insult, waving them away.

The gai-jin officer barked an order. At once his men unslung their carbines, levelled them at the samurai, then on an abrupt second order, fired a disciplined volley into the air. At once they reloaded and now aimed directly at the guards almost before the sound of the volley had died away, leaving a vast ominous silence throughout the landscape.

Shorin and Ori gasped. For all time guns had been muzzle-loaded with powder and shot. "Those are breech-loading rifles, with the new cartridges," Shorin whispered excitedly.

Neither had ever seen these recent inventions, had only heard of them. The samurai were equally shocked. "Eeee, did you notice how fast they reloaded? I heard a soldier can easily fire ten rounds to one of a muzzle loader."

"But did you see their discipline, Shorin, and that of the horses, they hardly moved!"

Once more the gai-jin officer haughtily motioned them to open the barrier, no mistaking the threat that if he was not obeyed quickly, all the samurai were dead.

"Let them through," the senior samurai said.

The Dragoon officer disdainfully spurred forward, apparently without fear, his grim faced men following, their guns ready. None of them acknowledged the guards or returned their polite bows.

"This will be reported at once and an apology demanded!" the samurai said, enraged with their insulting behavior, trying not to show it.

Once they had passed through, the barrier was replaced and Ori whispered furiously, "What foul manners! But against those guns what could he do?"

"He should have charged and killed them before he died.

I could not do what that coward did--I would have charged and died," Shorin said, knees trembling with anger.

"Yes. I think..." Ori stopped, his own anger evaporating at his sudden thought. "Come on," he whispered urgently. "We'll find out where they're going--perhaps we can steal some of those guns."

The Royal Naval longboat came out of the twilight and sped for the Kanagawa jetty. It was strongly built of stone and wood, unlike the others that speckled the shore, and boldly signposted in English and Japanese script: "Property of H.m. British Legation, Kanagawa--trespassers will be prosecuted." The longboat was rowed briskly by sailors and crammed with armed marines. A thin band of scarlet still rimmed the western horizon.

The sea was choppy, the moon rising nicely with a fair wind jostling the clouds.

One of the Legation Grenadiers waited at the end of the wharf. Beside him was a round-faced Chinese wearing a long, high-necked gown, and carrying an oil lamp on a pole.

"Oars ho!" the Bosun ordered. At once all oars were shipped, the bowman leaped onto the wharf and tied the boat to a bollard, marines followed rapidly in disciplined order and formed up defensively, guns ready, their Sergeant studying the terrain. In the stern was a naval officer. And Angelique Richaud. He helped her ashore.

"Evening sir, Ma'am," the Grenadier said, saluting the officer. "This here's Lun, he's a Legation assistant."

Lun gawked at the girl. "Ev'nin, sah, you cumalong plenty quick quick, heya? Missy cumalong never mind."

Angelique was nervous and anxious and wore a bonnet and a blue silk hooped dress with a shawl to match that set off her paleness and fair hair to perfection. "Mr. Struan, how is he?"

The soldier said kindly, "Don't know, Ma'am, Miss. Doc Babcott he's the best in these waters so the poor man will be all right if it's God's will. He'll be proper pleased to see you--been asking for you. We didn't expect you till morning."

"And Mr. Tyrer?"

"He's fine, Miss, just a flesh wound. We best be going."

"How far is it?"

Lun said irritably, "Ayeeyah no far chop chop never mind." He lifted the lamp and set off into the night, muttering busily in Cantonese.

Insolent bastard, the officer thought. He was tall, Lieutenant R.n., his name John Marlowe. They began to follow. At once the marines moved into a protective screen, scouts ahead. "Are you all right, Miss Angelique?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you." She pulled the shawl closer around her shoulders, picking her way carefully. "What an awful smell!"

"'fraid it's the manure they use for fertilizers, that and low tide." Marlowe was twenty-eight, sandy-haired and grey-blue-eyed, normally Captain of H.m.s. Pearl, a 21-gun steam-driven frigate, but now acting Flag Lieutenant to the ranking naval officer, Admiral Ketterer. "Would you like a litter?"

"Thank you, no, I'm fine."

Lun was ahead slightly, lighting their way through the narrow, empty village streets. Most of Kanagawa was silent, though occasionally they could hear boisterous and drunken laughter of men and women behind high walls that were pierced from time to time by small barred doorways. A multitude of decorative Japanese signs.

"These are inns, hotels?" she asked.

"I would imagine so," Marlowe said delicately.

Lun chuckled quietly, hearing this exchange.

His English was fluent--learned in a missionary school in Hong Kong. On instructions he carefully hid the fact and always used pidgin and pretended to be stupid so he knew many secrets that had great value to him, and to his tong superiors, and to their leader, Illustrious Chen, Gordon Chen, compradore of Struan's. A compradore, usually a well born Eurasian, was the indispensable go-between betwixt European and Chinese traders, who could speak fluent English and Chinese dialects, and to whose hands at least ten percent of all transactions stuck.

Ah, haughty young Missy who feeds on unrequited lust, Lun thought with vast amusement, knowing lots about her, I wonder which of these smelly Round Eyes will be the first to spread you wide and enter your equally smelly Jade Gate? Are you as untouched as you pretend, or has the grandson of Green-eyed Devil Struan already enjoyed the Clouds and the Rain? By all gods great and small, I shall know soon enough because your maid is my sister's third cousin's daughter. I already know your short hairs need plucking, are as fair as your hair and much too abundant to please a civilized person but I suppose all right for a barbarian. Ugh!

Ayeeyah, but life is interesting. I'll wager this murder attack will cause both foreign devils and the Filth Eaters of these islands much trouble. Wonderful! May they all drown in their own feces!

Interesting that the grandson of Green-eyed Devil was wounded badly, and so continues the bad joss of all males of his line, interesting that the news is already rushing secretly to Hong Kong by our fastest courier. How wise I am! But then I am a person of the Middle Kingdom and of course superior.

But a bad wind for one is good for another. This news will surely depress the share price of the Noble House mightily. With advanced information I and my friends will make a great profit. By all the gods, I will put ten percent of my profit on the next horse at Happy Valley races with the number fourteen, today's date by barbarian counting.

"Ho!" he called out, pointing. The central turrets of the temple loomed over the alleys and lanes of the tiny, single-story houses, all separate though clustered in honeycombs.

Two Grenadiers and their Sergeant were on guard at the temple gates, well lit with oil lamps, Babcott beside them. "Hello, Marlowe," he said with a smile. "This is an unexpected pleasure, evening, Mademoiselle. What's--"

"Pardon, Doctor," Angelique interrupted, peering up at him, astounded at his size, "but Malcolm, Mr. Struan, we heard he was badly wounded."

"He has had quite a bad sword cut, but he's been sewn up and now he's fast asleep," Babcott said easily. "I gave him a sedative. I'll take you to him in a second. What's up, Marlowe, why--"

"And Phillip Tyrer?" she interrupted again.

"Is he, was he badly wounded too?"

"Just a flesh wound, Mademoiselle, there's nothing you can do at the moment, both are sedated.

Why the marines, Marlowe?"

"The Admiral thought you'd better have some extra protection--in case of an evacuation."

Babcott whistled. "It's that serious?"

"There's a meeting going on right now. The Admiral, the General, Sir William together with the French, German, Russian and American representatives and the, er, the trading fraternity." Marlowe added dryly, "I gather it's rather heated." He turned to the Royal Marine Sergeant. "Secure the Legation, Sar'nt Crimp, I'll inspect your posts later."

To the Grenadier Sergeant he added, "Please give Sar'nt Crimp the help he needs, where to billet his men, etc. Your name please?"

"Towery, sir."

"Thank you, Sar'nt Towery."

Babcott said, "Perhaps you'd both follow me?

A cup of tea?"

"Thank you, no," she said, trying to be polite but consumed with impatience, disliking the way the English brewed tea and offered it at the slightest provocation. "But I would like to see Mr. Struan and Mr. Tyrer."

"Of course, right away." The doctor had already judged that she was near to tears at any moment, decided she really did need a cup of tea, perhaps laced with a little brandy, a sedative and then to bed. "Young Phillip, poor chap had quite a shock I'm afraid--must have been dreadful for you too."

"Is he all right?"

"Yes, quite all right," he repeated patiently. "Come along, see for yourself." He led the way through the courtyard. The clatter of hooves and harness stopped them. To their surprise they saw a Dragoon patrol arriving. "Good God, it's Pallidar," Marlowe said.

"What's he doing here?"

They watched the Dragoon officer return the salutes of the marines and grenadiers and dismount.

"Carry on," Pallidar said, not noticing Marlowe, Babcott and Angelique.

"Bloody bastard Japanners tried to bloody bar the road against us, by God!

Unfortunately the sons of whores changed their bloody, God-cursed minds or they'd be pushing up bloody daisies and..." He saw Angelique and stopped, appalled. "Jesus Christ! Oh, I say, I am... I am most terrible sorry, Mademoiselle, I, er, I didn't realize there were any ladies... er, hello John, Doctor."

Marlowe said, "Hello Settry.

Mademoiselle Angelique, may I introduce plainspoken Captain Settry Pallidar, of Her Majesty's Eighth Dragoons. Mademoiselle Angelique Richaud."

She nodded coolly and he bowed stiffly.

"I'm, er, most awfully sorry, Mademoiselle. Doc, I was sent to secure the Legation, in case of an evacuation."

"The Admiral already sent us here to do that,"

Marlowe said crisply. "With marines."

"You can dismiss them, we're here now."

"Get... I suggest you ask for new orders. Tomorrow. Meanwhile I'm senior officer and in command. Senior service. Doctor, perhaps you'd take the lady to see Mr. Struan."

Babcott had watched the two young men square up to one another with concern, liking them both.

Friendly on the surface, deadly underneath. These two young bulls will have at each other one day-- God help them if it's over a woman. "See you both later." Taking her arm he walked off.

The two men watched them go. Then Pallidar's chin jutted. "This isn't a ship's quarterdeck," he hissed, "it's a job for the army, by God."

"Bullshit."

"Are your brains lost with your manners? Why the hell bring a woman here when Christ knows what may happen?"

"Because the important Mr. Struan asked to see her, medically it's a good idea, she persuaded the Admiral to allow her to come tonight against my advice, he ordered me to escort her here and send her back safely. Sar'nt Towery!"

"Yessir!"

"I'm in overall command until further orders --show the dragoons to quarters and make them comfortable. Can you stable their horses? Do you have enough rations?"

"Yessir, we've plenty of room.

Grub's a bit short."

"Has it ever been plentiful in this godforsaken place?" Marlowe beckoned him closer.

"Spread the word," he said dangerously. "No fighting and if there is, it's a hundred lashes for any bastard involved--whoever he is!"

The bar of the Yokohama Club, the biggest room in the Settlement and thus the meeting place, was in uproar and packed with almost the entire, acceptable population of the Settlement-- only those too drunk to stand or the very sick were missing--all shouting in various languages, many armed, many waving their fists and cursing the small group of well-dressed men who sat at a raised table at the far end, most of whom were shouting back, the Admiral and General beside them apoplectic.

"Say that again, by God, and I'll call you outside..."

"Go to hell you bastard..."

"It's war, Wullem's got to..."

"Turn out the bloody army an' navy and bombard Yedo..."

"Flatten the f'ing capital, by God..."

"Canterbury's gotta be revenged, Wullum's got to..."

"Right! Willum's responsible, John the Cant's me mate..."

"Listen you lot..." One of the seated men began pounding the table top with a gavel for silence.

This only incensed the crowd further--merchants, tradesmen, innkeepers, gamblers, horse handlers, butchers, jockeys, seamen, remittance men, sail makers, and port riffraff. Top hats, multicolored waistcoats, woolen clothes and underwear, leather boots, from rich to poor, the air hot, stale, smoky and heavy with the odor of unwashed bodies, stale beer, whisky, gin, rum and spilt wine.

"Quiet for Christ's sake, let Wullum speak...."

The man with the gavel shouted, "It's William, for God's sake! William, not Wullum or Willum or Willam!

William Aylesbury, how many times do I have to tell you? William!"

"That's right, let Willum speak, for Christ's sake!"

The three barmen serving drinks behind the vast counter laughed. "Proper thirsty bloody work this 'ere meeting, i'nit, guv?" one called out breezily, wiping the counter with a filthy rag.

The bar was the pride of the Settlement, deliberately a foot bigger than the one in the Shanghai Jockey Club, previously the biggest in Asia, and twice as big as the Hong Kong Club's. The wall was lined with bottles of spirits, wine and beer kegs. "Let the bugger speak, for crissake!"

Sir William Aylesbury, the man with the gavel, sighed. He was British Minister in Japan, senior member of the Diplomatic Corps. The other men represented France, Russia, Prussia, and America. His temper snapped and he motioned to a young officer standing behind the table. At once, clearly prepared--as were those at the table--the officer took out a revolver and fired into the ceiling. Plaster speckled down in the sudden silence.

"Thank you. Now," Sir William began, his voice heavy with sarcasm, "if you gentlemen will all be quiet for a moment we can proceed." He was a tall, well-covered man in his late forties, with a bent face and prominent ears. "I repeat, as you will all be affected by what we decide, my colleagues and I wish to discuss how to respond to this incident--in public. If you lot don't want to listen, or if you're asked for an opinion and don't give it with the minimum of expletives--we will ponder the matter in private and then, when we've decided what WILL HAPPEN, we will be glad to inform you."

A muttering resentment, but no open hostility.

"Good. Mr. McFay, you were saying?"

Jamie McFay was near the front, Dmitri beside him--because he was head of Struan's, the largest house in Asia, he was the usual spokesman for the merchant-traders, the most important of whom had their own fleets of armed clippers and merchantmen. "Well, sir, we know the Satsumas are bedding down at Hodogaya in easy reach north and that their king's with them," he said, greatly concerned over Malcolm Struan.

"His name's Sajirro, some name like that, and I think we sh--"

Someone shouted, "I vote we surround the bastards tonight and string the bugger up!" A roar of applause that soon trickled away amidst a few muffled curses and, "For God's sake get on with it..."

"Please carry on Mr. McFay," Sir William said wearily.

"The attack was unprovoked as usual, John Canterbury foully brutalized, God only knows how long it will take Mr. Struan to recover. But this is the first time we can identify the murderers--or at least the king can and as sure as God made little apples he has the power to catch the buggers and hand them over and pay damages..." More applause. "They're within reach, andwiththe troops we have we can peg them."

Strong cheers and cries for vengeance.

Henri Bonaparte Seratard, the French Minister in Japan said loudly, "I would like to ask Monsieur the General and Monsieur the Admiral what is their opinion?"

The Admiral said at once: "I have five hundred marines in the fleet..."

General Thomas Ogilvy interrupted, firmly but politely, "The question applies to a land operation, my dear Admiral. Mr.Ceraturd..." The greying, red-faced man of fifty carefully mispronounced the Frenchman's name and used "Mr." to compound the insult, "we have a thousand British troops in tent encampments, two cavalry units, three batteries of the most modern cannon and artillery, and can call up another eight or nine thousand British and Indian infantrymen with support troops within two months from our Hong Kong bastion." He toyed with his gold braid. "There is no conceivable problem that Her Majesty's forces under my command cannot conclude expeditiously."

"I agree," the Admiral said under the roars of approval. When they had died down, Seratard said smoothly, "Then you advocate a declaration of war?"

"No such thing, sir," the General said, their dislike mutual, "I merely said we can do what is necessary, when necessary and when we are obliged to do it.

I would have thought this "incident" is a matter for Her Majesty's Minister to decide in conjunction with the Admiral and myself without an unseemly debate."

Some shouted approval, most disapproved and someone called out, "It's our silver and taxes wot pays for all you buggers, we've the right to say wot's wot. Ever heard of Parliament by God?"

"A French national was involved," Seratard said heatedly above the noise, "therefore the honor of France is involved." Catcalls and sly remarks about the girl.

Again Sir William used the gavel and that allowed the acting American Minister, Isiah Adamson, to say coldly, "The idea of going to war over this incident is nonsense, and the notion of grabbing or attacking a king in their sovereign country total lunacy--and typical highhanded Imperialist jingoism! First thing to do is inform the Bakufu, then ask them to--"

Irritably, Sir William said, "Dr.Babcott has already informed them in Kanagawa, they've already denied any knowledge of the incident and in all probability will follow their pattern and continue to do so. A British subject has been brutally murdered, another seriously wounded, unforgivably our delightful young foreign guest was almost frightened to death--these acts, I must stress as Mr. McFay so rightly points out, for the first time have been committed by identifiable criminals.

Her Majesty's Government will not let this go unpunished...." For a moment he was drowned by tumultuous cheers, then he added, "The only thing to decide is the measure of punishment, how we should proceed and when. Mr. Adamson?" he asked the American.

"As we're not involved I've no formal recommendation."

"Count Zergeyev?"

"My formal advice," the Russian said carefully, "is that we fall on Hodogaya and tear it and all the Satsumas to pieces." He was in his early thirties, strong, patrician and bearded, leader of Tsar Alexander II'S mission. "Force, massive, ferocious and immediate is the only diplomacy Japanners will ever understand. My warship would be honored to lead the attack."

There was a curious silence. I guessed that would be your answer, Sir William thought. I'm not so sure you're wrong. Ah Russia, beautiful extraordinary Russia, what a shame we're enemies. Best time I ever had was in St.

Petersburg. Even so you're not going to expand into these waters, we stopped your invasion of the Japanese Tsushima islands last year, and this year we'll prevent you from stealing their Sakhalin too. "Thank you, my dear Count.

Herr von Heimrich?"

The Prussian was elderly and curt. "I have no advice in this, Herr Consul General, other than to say formally my government would consider it is a matter for your government alone, and not the affair of minor parties."

Seratard flushed. "I do not consider--"

"Thank you for your advice gentlemen," Sir William said firmly, cutting off the row that would have flared between them. Yesterday's Foreign Office dispatches from London said that Britain could soon become embroiled in another of the never-ending European wars, this time belligerent, pride-filled France against belligerent, pride-filled expansionist Prussia, but did not forecast on which side. Why the devil damned foreigners can't behave as civilized fellows I'm damned if I know.

"Before making a judgment," he said crisply, "since everyone of note is here and not having had such an opportunity before, I think we should articulate our problem: We have legal treaties with Japan. We're here to trade, not to conquer territory. We have to deal with this bureaucracy, the Bakufu, who're like a sponge --one moment it pretends to be all-powerful, the next helpless against their individual kings.

We've never been able to get to the real power, the Tycoon or Shogun--we don't even know if he really exists."

"He must exist," von Heimrich said coolly, "because our famous German traveller and physician, Dr. Engelbert Kaempfer, who lived in Deshima from 1690 to 1693, pretending to be a Dutchman, reported visiting him in Yedo on their annual pilgrimage."

"That doesn't prove one exists now,"

Seratard said caustically. "However, I do agree there is a Shogun, and France approves of a direct approach."

"An admirable idea, Monsieur." Sir William reddened. "And how do we do that?"

"Send the fleet against Yedo," the Russian said at once, "demand an immediate audience or else you'll destroy the place. If I had such a beautiful fleet as yours, I'd first flatten half the city and then demand the audience... better, I would order this Tycoon-Shogun native to report aboard my flagship at dawn the next day, and hang him." Many shouts of approval.

Sir William said, "That is certainly one way but Her Majesty's Government would prefer a slightly more diplomatic solution. Next: we've almost no real intelligence about what's going on in the country. I'd appreciate it if all traders would help to get us information that could prove useful. Mr. McFay, of all the traders, you should be the best informed, can you help?"

McFay said cautiously, "Well, a few days ago one of our Jappo silk suppliers told our Chinese compradore that some of the kingdoms --he used the word "fiefs" and called the kings "daimyos"--were in revolt against the Bakufu, particularly Satsuma, and some parts called Tosa, and Choshu..."

Sir William noticed the immediate interest of the other diplomats and wondered if he was wise to have asked the question in public. "Where are they?"

"Satsuma's near Nagasaki in the South Island, Kyushu," Adamson said, "but what about Choshu and Tosa?"

"Well now, yor Honor," an American seaman called out, his Irish accent pleasing.

"Tosa's a part of Shikoku, that's the big island on the inland sea. Choshu's far to the west on the main island, Mr. Adamson, sir, athwart the Straits. We been through the Straits there, many a time, they're not more than a mile across at the narrowest part. As I was saying now, Choshu's the kingdom's athwart the narrows, bare a mile across. It's the best, and closest way from Hong Kong or Shanghai to here.

Shi-mono-seki Straits, the locals call it, and once we traded for fish and water at the town there but we weren't welcome." Many others called out their agreement and that they too had used the Straits but had never known that the kingdom was called Choshu.

Sir William said, "Your name if you please?"

"Paddy O'Flaherty, Bosun of the American whaler, Albatross out of Seattle, yor Honor."

"Thank you," Sir William said, and made a mental note to send for O'Flaherty, to find out more and if there were charts of the area, and if not to instantly order the Navy to make them. "Go on Mr. McFay," he said. "In revolt, you say."

"Yes, sir. This silk trader--how reliable he is I don't know--but he said there was some kind of power struggle going on against the Tycoon that he always called "Shogun," the Bakufu and some king or daimyo called Toranaga."

Sir William saw the Russian's eyes slit even more in his almost Asian features.

"Yes, my dear Count?"

"Nothing, Sir William. But isn't that the name of the ruler mentioned by Kaempfer?"

"Indeed it is, indeed it is." I wonder why you never mentioned to me before that you also had read those very rare but illuminating journals that were written in German, which you do not know, therefore must have been translated into Russian? "Perhaps "Toranaga" means ruler in their language.

Please continue, Mr. McFay."

"That's all the fellow told my compradore, but I'll make it my business to find out more.

Now," McFay said politely but firmly, "do we settle King Satsuma at Hodogaya tonight or not?"

The smoke stirred the silence.

"Has anyone anything to add--about this revolt?"

Norbert Greyforth, chief of Brock and Sons, Struan's main rival said, "We've heard rumors of this revolt, too. But I thought it was something to do with their chief priest, this "Mikado," who supposedly lives in Kyoto, a city near Osaka. I'll make enquiries as well. In the meantime, about tonight, my vote goes with McFay, the sooner we belt these buggers the sooner we'll have peace." He was taller than McFay and clearly hated him.

When the cheers died down, like a judge delivering a sentence, Sir William said: "This is what will happen. First, there will be no attack tonight and--"

Cries of "Resign, we'll do it ourselves by God, come on, let's go after the bastards..."

"We can't, not without troops..."

"Quiet and listen, by God!" Sir William shouted. "If anyone is stupid enough to go against Hodogaya tonight he'll have to answer to our laws as well as Japanners. IT IS FORBIDDEN! Tomorrow I will formally demand--DEMAND--THAT at once the Bakufu, AND Shogun, tender a formal apology, at once, hand over the two murderers for trial and hanging, and at once pay an indemnity of one hundred thousand pounds or accept the consequences."

A few cheered, most did not and the meeting broke up with a surge to the bar, many of the men already near blows as arguments became more drunken and more heated. McFay and Dmitri shoved their way out into the open air. "My God, that's better."

McFay eased off his hat and mopped his brow.

"A word, Mr. McFay?"

He turned and saw Greyforth. "Of course."

"In private if you please."

McFay frowned, then moved over the semi-deserted promenade along the wharfs and seafront, away from Dmitri who was not in Struan's but traded through Cooper-Tillman, one of the American companies. "Yes?"

Norbert Greyforth dropped his voice.

"What about Hodogaya? You've two ships here, we've three, and between us lots of bully boys, most lads in the merchant fleet'd join us, we've arms enough and we could bring a cannon or two. John Canterbury was a good friend, the Old Man liked him, and I want him revenged. What about it?"

"If Hodogaya was a port I wouldn't hesitate, but we can't raid inland. This isn't China."

"You afraid of that pipsqueak in there?"

"I'm not afraid of anyone," McFay said carefully. "We can't mount a successful raid without regular troops, Norbert, that's not possible. I want revenge more than any."

Greyforth made sure no one was listening.

"Since you brought it up tonight and we don't talk too often, we've heard there's going to be bad trouble here soon."

"The revolt?"

"Yes. Very bad trouble for us. There's been all sorts of signs. Our silk dealers have been acting right smelly the last month or two, upping the price of bulk raw, delaying deliveries, slow on payments and wanting extra credits. I'll bet it's the same with you."

"Yes." It was rare for the two men to talk business.

"Don't know much more than that, except many of the signs are the same as in America that led to civil war. If that happens here it's going to bugger us proper. Without the fleet and troops we're bitched and we can be wiped out."

After a pause, McFay said, "What do you propose?"

"We'll have to wait and see what happens. With Wee Willie's plan I don't hope for much, like you. The Russian was right about what should be done. Meanwhile..." Greyforth nodded out to sea where two of their clippers and merchantmen lay in the roads--clippers still much faster back to England than steamers, paddle-driven or screw-driven ... "we're keeping all our inner ledgers and specie aboard, we've increased our levels of gunpowder, shot, shrapnel and put in an order for two of the brand-new Yankee, 10-barrel Gatling machine guns as soon as they are available."

McFay laughed. "The hell you have--so did we!"

"We heard that too, which is why I made the order, and twice as many of the new rifles than your shipment."

"Who told you, eh? Who's your spy?"

"Old Mother Hubbard," Greyforth said dryly.

"Listen, we all know these inventions, along with metal cartridges, have changed the course of war --that's proved already by the casualties at the battles of Bull Run and Fredericksburg."

"Shocking, yes. Dmitri told me, said the South lost four thousand in one afternoon. Terrible.

So?"

"We could both sell these weapons to the Japanners by the ton, my thought is we agree to not, and together we make bloody sure no other bugger imports them or smuggles them in.

Selling Jappers steamers and the odd cannon's one thing, but not repeaters or machine guns.

Agreed?"

McFay was surprised by the offer. And suspicious. But he kept it off his face, sure that Norbert would never keep the bargain, and shook the offered hand. "Agreed."

"Good. What's the latest on young Struan?"

"When I saw him an hour or so ago he was poorly."

"Is he going to die?"

"No, the doctor assured me of that."

A cold smile. "What the hell do they know?

But if he did that could wreck the Noble House."

"Nothing will ever wreck the Noble House, Dirk Struan saw to that."

"Don't be too sure. Dirk's been dead more than twenty years, his son Culum's not far from his deathbed and if Malcolm dies who's to take over? Not his young brother who's only ten." His eyes glinted strangely.

"Old Man Brock may be seventy-three but he's as tough and clever as he ever was."

"But we're still the Noble House, Culum is still the tai-pan." McFay added, glad for the barb, "Old Man Brock's still not a Steward of the Jockey Club at Happy Valley and never will be."

"That'll come soon enough, Jamie, that and all the rest. Culum Struan won't control the Jockey Club vote much longer, and if his son and heir kicks the bucket too, well then, counting us and our friends we've the necessary votes."

"It won't happen."

Greyforth hardened. "Mayhaps Old Man Brock will honor us with a visit here soon-- along with Sir Morgan."

"Morgan's in Hong Kong?" McFay tried to stop his astonishment from showing. Sir Morgan Brock was Old Man Brock's eldest son who, very successfully, ran their London office. As far as Jamie knew Morgan had never been to Asia before. If Morgan's suddenly in Hong Kong... what new devilment are those two up to now? he asked himself uneasily. Morgan specialized in merchant banking and had skillfully spread the tentacles of Brock's into Europe, Russia, and North America, always harrying the Struan trade routes and customers. Since the American war began last year, McFay, along with other Directors of Struan's, had been getting worrying reports about failures amongst their extensive American interests, both North and South, where Culum Struan had invested heavily. "If Old Man Brock and son grace us with their presence, I've no doubt we would be honored to give them supper."

Greyforth laughed without humor. "I doubt they'll have time, except to inspect your books, when we take you over."

"You never will. If I have any news on the revolt I'll send word, please do likewise.

Good night now." Overpolitely McFay raised his hat and walked away.

Greyforth laughed to himself, delighted with the seeds he had planted. The Old Man will be happy to harvest them, he thought, tearing them out by the roots.

Dr. Babcott trudged wearily along a corridor in the semi-darkness of the Kanagawa Legation. He carried a small oil lamp and wore a dressing gown over woolen pajamas.

From somewhere downstairs a clock chimed two o'clock.

Absently he reached into his pocket and checked his fob watch, yawned, then knocked on a door. "Miss Angelique?"

After a moment she called out sleepily, "Yes?"

"You wanted to know when Mr. Struan woke up."

"Ah, thank you." A moment, then the door was unbarred and Angelique came out. Hair a little dishevelled and still drowsy, wearing a robe over her nightdress. "How is he?"

"A little sick, and woozy," Babcott said, leading her back along the corridor and downstairs to the surgery where the sickrooms were.

"His temperature and pulse rate are up a little, of course that's to be expected. I've given him a drug for the pain, but he's a fine, strong young man and everything should be all right."

The first time she had seen Malcolm she had been shocked by his lack of color, and appalled by the stench. She had never been in a hospital or surgery before, or in a real sickroom. Apart from reading in the Paris newspapers and journals about death and dying and illness and the waves of plague and killing diseases--measles, smallpox, typhus, cholera, pneumonia, meningitis, whooping cough, scarlet fever, childbed fever and the like--that swept Paris and Lyon and other cities and towns from time to time, she had had no close acquaintance with sickness. Her health had always been good, her aunt and uncle and brother equally blessed.

Shakily she had touched his forehead, moving the sweat-stained hair out of his face, but, repelled by the smell that surrounded the bed, hurried out.

In a room nearby Tyrer was sleeping comfortably. To her great relief there was no smell here. She thought he had a pleasant sleeping face where Malcolm Struan had been tormented.

"Phillip saved my life, Doctor," she had said. "After Mr., Mr. Canterbury I was, me I was paralyzed and Phillip he flung his horse in the assassin's path and gave me time to escape. I was, I can't describe how awful...."

"What was the man like? Could you recognize him?"' "I don't know, he was just a native, young I think, but I don't know, it's difficult to tell their ages and he was the, the first I'd seen close. He wore a kimono with a short sword in his belt, and the big one, all bloody and ready again to..." Her eyes had filled with tears.

Babcott had gentled her and showed her a room, gave her some tea with a touch of laudanum, and promised he would call her the moment Struan awoke.

And now he's awake, she thought, her feet leaden, nausea welling up inside her, head aching and filled with vile pictures. I wish I hadn't come here, Henri Seratard told me to wait until tomorrow, Captain Marlowe was against it, everyone, so why did I plead so ardently with the Admiral? I don't know, we're jus' good friends, not lovers or engaged or...

Or do I begin to love him, or was I only consumed with bravado, playacting, because this whole, horrid day has been like a melodrama by Dumas, the nightmare at the road not real, the Settlement inflamed not real, Malcolm's message arriving at sunset not real: "please come and see me as soon as you can," written by the doctor on his behalf--me not real, just playacting the part of the heroine....

Babcott stopped. "Here we are. You'll find him rather tired, Mademoiselle. I'll just make sure he's all right, then I'll leave you alone for a minute or two. He may drop off because of the drug, but don't worry, and if you want me I'll be in the surgery next door.

Don't tax him, or yourself, or worry about anything--don't forget you've had a rotten time too."

She steeled herself, fixed a smile on her face and followed him in. "Hello, Malcolm, mon cher."

"Hello." Struan was very pale, and had aged, but his eyes were clear.

The doctor chattered pleasantly, peered at him, quickly took his pulse, felt his forehead, half nodded to himself, said that the patient was doing fine and left.

"You're so beautiful," Struan said, his robust voice now just a thread, feeling strange, floating yet nailed to the cot and the sweat-sodden straw mattress.

She went closer. The smell was still there as much as she tried to pretend it was not. "How do you feel? I'm so sorry you're hurt."

"Joss," he said using a Chinese word that meant fate, luck, the will of the gods. "You're so beautiful."

"Ah, cheri, oh how I wish all this had never happened, that I'd never asked to go for a ride, never wanted to visit to the Japans."

"Joss. It's... it's the next day, isn't it?"

"Yes, the attack was yesterday afternoon."

It seemed to be difficult for his brain to translate her words into usable form, and equally difficult to compose words and say them, as she was finding it equally difficult to stay. "Yesterday?

That's a lifetime ago. Have you seen Phillip?"

"Yes, yes I saw him earlier but he was asleep. I'll see him as soon as I leave you, cheri. In fact I'd better go now, the doctor said not to tire you."

"No, don't go yet, please. Listen, Angelique, I don't know when I'll be, be it to travel so..." Momentarily his eyes closed against a barb of pain but it left him. When he focused on her again, he saw her fear and misread it. "Don't worry, McFay will see that you're esc... escorted safely back to Hong Kong so please don't worry."

"Thank you, Malcolm, yes I think I should, I'll return tomorrow or the next day." She saw the sudden disappointment and added at once, "of course you'll be better then, and we can go together and oh yes, Henri Seratard sent his condolences ..."

She stopped, aghast, as a great pain took him and his face twisted and he tried to double up but could not, his insides tried to cast out the foul poison of the ether that seemed to permeate every pore and brain cell he possessed but could not--his stomach and bowels already empty of everything possible--each spasm tearing at his wounds, every cough ripping more than the last with only a little putrid liquid coming out for all the torment.

In panic she whirled for the doctor and fumbled for the door handle.

"It's all right, Ange...

Angelique," said the voice that she hardly recognized now. "Stay a... moment more."

He saw the horror on her face and again misread it, seeing it as anxiety, a vast depth of compassion, and love. His fear left him and he lay back to gather his strength. "My darling, I'd hoped, I'd hoped so very much... of course you know I've loved you from the first moment."

The spasm had sapped his strength but his complete belief that he had seen in her what he had prayed for, gave him great peace. "I can't seem to think straight but I wanted... to see you to tell you ... Christ, Angelique, I was petrified of the operation, petrified of the drugs, petrified of dying and not waking up before I saw you again, I've never been so petrified, never."

"I'd be petrified too--oh, Malcolm, this is all so awful." Her skin felt clammy and head ached even more and she was afraid she would be sick any moment. "The doctor assured me and everyone that you'll be well soon!"

"I don't care now that I know you love me, if I die that's joss and in my family we know we, we can't escape joss. You're my lucky star, my lodestone, I... knew it from the first moment. We'll marry..." the words trailed off. His ears were ringing and his eyes misted a little, eyelids flickering as the opiate took hold, sliding him into the netherworld where pain existed but was transformed into painlessness. "... marry in springtime...."

"Malcolm, listen," she said quickly, "you're not going to die and I... alors, I must be honest with you..." Then the words began pouring out, "I don't want to marry yet, I'm not sure if I love you, I'm just not sure, you'll have to be patient, and if I do or do not, I don't think I can ever live in this awful place, or Hong Kong, in fact I know I can't, I won't, I can't, I know I'd die, the thought of living in Asia horrifies me, the stench and the awful people. I'm going back to Paris where I belong, as soon as I can and I'm never coming back, never, never, never."

But he had heard none of it. He was in dreams now, not seeing her, and he murmured, "... many sons, you and I... so happy you love me... prayed for... so now... live forever in the Great House on the Peak. Your love has banished fear, fear of death, always afraid of death, always so near, the twins, little sister Mary, dead so young, my brother, father almost dead... grandfather another violent death, but now... now ... all changed... marry in springtime.

Yes?"

His eyes opened. For an instant he saw her clearly, saw the stretched face and wringing hands and revulsion and he wanted to shriek, What's the matter for God's sake, this is only a sickroom and I know the blanket's sodden with sweat and I'm lying in a little urine and dung and everything stinks but that's because I'm cut for Christ's sake, I've only been cut and now I'm sewn up and well again, well again, well again ...

But none of the words came out and he saw her say something and jerk the door open and run away but this was just nightmare, the good dreams beckoning. The door swung on its hinges and the noise it made echoed and echoed and echoed: well again well again well again....

She was leaning against the door to the garden, gulping the night air, trying to regain her poise. Mother of God, give me strength and give that man some peace and let me leave this place quickly.

Babcott came up behind her. "He's all right, not to worry. Here, drink this," he said compassionately, giving her the opiate. "It'll settle you and help you sleep."

She obeyed. The liquid tasted neither good nor bad.

"He's sleeping peacefully. Come along.

It's bedtime for you too." He helped her upstairs, back to her room. At the door he hesitated. "Sleep well. You will sleep well."

"I'm afraid for him, very afraid."

"Don't be. In the morning he'll be better, you'll see."

"Thank you, I'm all right now. He... I think Malcolm thinks he's going to die. Is he?"

"Certainly not, he's a strong young man and I'm sure soon he'll be as right as rain."

Babcott repeated the same platitude he had said a thousand times, and did not tell the truth: I don't know, you never know, now it's up to God.

And yet, most times he knew it was correct to give the loved one hope and take away the burden of increased worry, though not correct or fair to make God responsible if the patient lived or died. Even so, if you're helpless, if you've done your best and are convinced your best and best knowledge are not good enough, what else can you do and stay sane? How many young men have you seen like this one and dead in the morning or the next day--or recovered if that was God's will. Was it?

I think it's lack of knowledge. And then God's will.

If there is a God.

Involuntarily, he shivered. "Good night, not to worry."

"Thank you." She put the bar in place and went to the window, pushed open the heavy shutters.

Tiredness welled over her. The night air was warm and kind, the moon high now. She took off her robe and wearily towelled herself dry, aching for sleep. Her nightdress was damp and clung to her and she would have preferred to change but she had not brought another. Below, the garden was large and shadow-struck, trees here and there and a tiny bridge over a tiny stream. A breeze caressed the treetops. Many shadows in the moonlight.

Some moved, now and then.

The two youths saw her the moment she appeared in the garden doorway forty yards away. Their ambush was well chosen and gave them a good view of the whole garden as well as the main gate, the guard house and the two sentries they had been watching. At once they crept deeper into the foliage, astonished to see her, even more astonished by the tears coursing her cheeks.

Shorin whispered, "What's the matt--"

He stopped. A wandering patrol of a sergeant and two soldiers, the first to enter their trap, rounded the far corner of the grounds, approaching them on the path that skirted the walls. They readied, then became motionless, their black, nearly skintight clothes covered all of their bodies except their eyes and made them almost invisible.

The patrol passed within five feet and the two shishi could have attacked easily and safely from this ambush. Shorin--the hunter, the fighter and leader in battle where Ori was the thinker and planner--had selected the blind, but Ori decided they would only attack a one- or two-man patrol, unless there was an emergency or they were prevented from breaking into the armory: "Whatever we do this time must be silent," he had said earlier. "And patient."

"Why?"' "This is their Legation. According to their custom that means it is their land, their territory--it is guarded by real soldiers, so we're encroaching on them. If we succeed, we will frighten them very much.

If they catch us we fail."

From the ambush they watched the departing patrol, noting the silent, careful way the men moved.

Ori whispered uneasily, "We've never seen these sort before--soldiers so well trained and disciplined. In a battle, massed, we would have a hard time against them and their guns."

Shorin said, "We'll always win, we'll have guns soon, one way or another, and anyway Bushido and our courage will swamp them. We can beat them easily." He was very confident. "We should have killed that patrol and taken their guns."

I'm glad we didn't, Ori thought, deeply unsettled. His arm ached badly and though he feigned indifference he knew that he could not sustain a long sword-fight. "If it wasn't for our clothes they would have seen us." His eyes went back to the girl.

"We could have killed all three easily.

Easily. And grabbed their carbines and gone over the wall again."

"These men are very good, Shorin, not ox-headed merchants." Ori kept the aggravation out of his voice, as always, not wanting to offend his friend or wound his sensitive pride, needing his qualities as much as Shorin needed his--he had not forgotten Shorin had deflected the bullet that would have killed him on the Tokaido. "We've plenty of time. Dawn's still at least two candles away." This was approximately four hours.

He motioned at the doorway. "Anyway, she would have given the alarm."

Shorin sucked in his breath, cursing himself.

"Eeee, stupid! I'm stupid, you're right-- again. So sorry."

Ori gave her all of his attention: what is it about that woman that troubles me, fascinates me? he asked himself.

Then they saw the giant appear beside her. From information they had been given at the Inn they knew this was the famous English doctor who achieved miracle healings for any seeking his services, Japanese as well as his own people.

Ori would have given much to understand what the doctor said to the girl. She dried her tears, obediently drank what he offered her, then he guided her back into the hallway, closing and barring the door.

Ori muttered, "Astounding--the giant, and the woman."

Shorin glanced at him, hearing undercurrents that further perturbed him, still angry with himself for forgetting the girl when the patrol was nearby. He could see only his friend's eyes and read nothing from them. "Let's go on to the armory," he whispered impatiently, "or attack the next patrol, Ori."

"Wait!" Taking great care not to make a sudden movement that might be noticed, Ori lifted his black-gloved hand, more to ease his arm than to wipe the sweat away. "Katsumata taught patience, tonight Hiraga counselled the same."

Earlier when they had reached the Inn of the Midnight Blossoms, they had found to their joy that Hiraga, their friend and the greatly admired leader of all Choshu shishi, was also staying there. News of their attack had arrived.

"The attack was perfectly timed, though you could not know it," Hiraga had said warmly. He was a handsome man of twenty-two and tall for a Japanese. "It will be like a stick plunged into the Yokohama hornet's nest. Now gai-jin will swarm, they're bound to go against the Bakufu who won't, cannot, do anything to appease them. If only the gai-jin retaliate against Yedo! If they did that, and smashed it, that would be the signal for us to seize the Palace Gates! Once the Emperor is free all daimyos will rebel against the Shogunate and destroy it and all Toranagas. Sonno-joi!"

They had toasted sonno-joi and Katsumata who had saved them, taught most of them and served sonno-joi secretly and wisely. Ori had whispered their plan to Hiraga to steal arms.

"Eeee, Ori, it is a good idea and possible," Hiraga said thoughtfully, "if you are patient and choose the perfect moment. Such weapons could be valuable on some operations.

Personally, guns disgust me--garrote, sword or knife please me better--safer, silent, and much more frightening, whoever the target-- daimyo or barbarian. I'll help. I can give you a plan of the grounds and ninja clothes."

Ori and Shorin brightened. "You can get them for us?"' "Of course." Ninja were a highly secret tong of expertly trained assassins who operated almost exclusively at night, their special black clothes helping to fuel the legend of their invisibility. "At one time we were going to burn the Legation building." Hiraga laughed and emptied another flask of sak`e, the warmed wine making his tongue looser than normal. "But we decided not to, that it was more valuable to keep it under observation. Often I've gone there disguised as a gardener or at night as a ninja--it's surprising what you can learn, even with simple English."

"Eeee, Hiraga-san, we never knew you could speak English," Ori said, astounded by the revelation. "Where did you learn it?"' "Where else can you learn gai-jin qualities if not from gai-jin? He was a Dutchman from Deshima, a linguist who spoke Japanese, Dutch and English. My grandfather wrote a petition to our daimyo suggesting that one such man should be allowed to come to Shimonoseki, at their cost, to teach Dutch and English for an experimental one year, trade would come afterwards.

Thank you," Hiraga said as Ori politely refilled his cup. "Gai-jin are all so gullible--but such foul money worshippers. This is the sixth year of the "experiment" and we still only trade for what we want, when we can afford them-- guns, cannon, ammunition, shot and certain books."

"How is your revered grandfather?"' "In very good health. Thank you for asking."

Hiraga bowed in appreciation. Their bow in return was lower.

How wonderful to have such a grandfather, Ori thought, such a protection for all your generations--not like us who have to struggle to survive daily, are hungry daily, and have desperate trouble to pay our taxes. What will father and grandfather think of me now: ronin, and my so-needed one koku forfeit? "I would be honored to meet him," he said. "Our shoya is not like him."

For many years Hiraga's grandfather, an important peasant farmer near Shimonoseki and secret supporter of sonno-joi, had been a shoya. A shoya, the appointed, or hereditary, leader of a village or grouping of villages with great influence and magisterial power and responsibility for tax assessments and collection, was at the same time the only buffer and protector of peasants and farmers against any unfair practices of the samurai overlord within whose fief the village or villages lay.

Farmers and some peasants owned and worked the land but by law could not leave it. Samurai owned all the produce and the sole right to carry weapons, but by law could not own land. So each depended on the other in an inevitable, never-ending spiral of suspicion and distrust--the balance of how much rice or produce to be rendered in tax, year by year, and how much retained, always an incredibly delicate compromise.

The shoya had to keep the balance. The advice of the best was sometimes sought on matters outside the village by his immediate overlord, or higher, even by the daimyo himself. Hiraga's grandfather was one of these.

Some years ago he had been permitted to purchase goshi samurai status for himself and his descendants in one of the daimyo's offerings--a customary ploy of all daimyos, normally debt ridden, to raise extra revenue from acceptable supplicants. The daimyo of Choshu was no exception.

Hiraga laughed, the wine in his head now.

"I was chosen for this Dutchman's school, and many a time I regretted the honor, English is so foul-sounding and difficult."

"Were there many of you at the school?"' Ori asked.

Through the sak`e haze a warning sounded and Hiraga realized he was volunteering far too much private information. How many Choshu students were at the school was Choshu business and secret, and while he liked and admired both Shorin and Ori they were still Satsumas, aliens, who were not always allies, but frequently enemy and always potential enemies.

"Just three of us to learn English," he said softly as though telling a secret, instead of thirty, the real figure. Inwardly alert he added, "Listen, now that you're ronin, like me and most of my comrades, we must work closer together. I am planning something in three days that you can help us with."

"Thank you, but we must wait for word from Katsumata."

"Of course, he is your Satsuma leader." Hiraga added thoughtfully, "But at the same time, Ori, don't forget you're ronin and will be ronin until we win, don't forget we're the spearhead of sonno-joi, we're the doers, Katsumata risks nothing. We must--must-- forget that I am Choshu and you two Satsumas.

We've got to help each other. It's a good idea to follow your Tokaido attack tonight and steal guns. Kill one or two guards inside the Legation, if you can, that will be a huge provocation! If you could do it all silently and leave no trace, even better. Anything to provoke them."

With Hiraga's information it had been easy to infiltrate the temple, to count the dragoons and other soldiers and to find the perfect lair. Then the girl had unexpectedly appeared, and the giant, and then they had gone back inside and ever since both shishi had been staring at the garden door, glazed.

"Ori, now what do we do?" Shorin asked, his voice edged.

"We stick to the plan."

The minutes passed anxiously. When the shutters on the first floor opened and they saw her in the window both knew that a new element had come into their future. Now she was brushing her hair with a silver-handled brush. Listlessly.

Shorin said throatily, "She doesn't look so ugly in moonlight. But with those breasts, eeee, you'd bounce off."

Ori did not reply, his eyes riveted.

Suddenly she hesitated and looked down.

Directly at them. Though there was no chance she could have seen or heard them, their hearts picked up a beat. They waited, hardly breathing. Another exhausted yawn. She continued brushing a moment then put down the brush, seemingly so close that Ori felt he could almost reach out and touch her, seeing in the light from the room details of embroidery on the silk, nipples taut beneath, and the haunted expression he had glimpsed yesterday--was it only yesterday?--that had stopped the blow that would have ended her.

A last strange glance at the moon, another stifled yawn, and she pulled the shutters to. But did not close them completely. Or bar them.

Shorin broke the silence and said what was in both their minds. "It would be easy to climb up there."

"Yes. But we came here for guns and to create havoc. We..." Ori stopped, his mind flowing into the sudden glimmering of a new and wonderful diversion, a second chance, greater than the first.

"Shorin," he whispered, "if you silenced her, took her but didn't kill her, just left her unconscious to tell of the taking, leaving a sign linking us to the Tokaido, then together we kill one or two soldiers and vanish with or without their guns--inside their Legation--wouldn't that make them mad with rage?"

The breath hissed out of Shorin's lips at the beauty of the idea. "Yes, yes it would, but better to slit her throat and write "Tokaido" in her blood. You go, I'll guard here, safer," and when Ori hesitated he said, "Katsumata said we were wrong to hesitate. Last time you hesitated. Why hesitate?"

It was a split-second decision, then Ori was running for the building, a shadow among many shadows. He gained the lee and began to climb.

Outside the guard house, one of the soldiers said softly, "Don't look around, Charlie, but I think I saw someone running for the house."

"Christ, get the Sergeant, careful now."

The soldier pretended to stretch, then strolled into the guard house. Quickly but cautiously he shook Sergeant Towery awake and repeated what he had seen, or thought he had seen.

"What did the bugger look like?"

"I just caught the movement, Sar'nt, 'least I think I did, I'm not sure like, it might've been a bloody shadder."

"All right, me lad, let's take a look." Sergeant Towery awoke the Corporal and another soldier and posted them. Then he led the other two into the garden.

"It were about there, Sar'nt."

Shorin saw them coming. There was nothing he could do to warn Ori who was almost at the window, still well camouflaged by his clothes and the shadows. He watched him reach the sill, ease one of the shutters wider and vanish inside. The shutter moved slowly back into place. Karma, he thought, and turned to his own plight.

Sergeant Towery had stopped in the center of the path, and was carefully scanning the surroundings and up at the building. Many of the shutters on the upper story were open and unbarred so he was not concerned, one of them creaking in the small wind. The garden door was locked.

At length he said, "Charlie, you take that side." He pointed near to where the ambush was hidden. "Nogger, you go opposite, flush 'em out if any's there. Keep your bloody eyes open.

Fix bayonets!" He was obeyed instantly.

Shorin eased his sword in its scabbard, the blade also blackened for the night foray, then settled himself into attack position, his throat tight.

The moment Ori had slid into the room, he checked the only door and saw that it was barred, that she was still asleep, unsheathed his short stabbing sword and darted for the bed. It was a four-poster, the first he had ever seen, everything about it strange, its height and heavy permanence, posts, curtains, bedclothes, and for a second he wondered what it would be like to sleep in one, so high off the ground, instead of the way Japanese slept, on futons-- light, square mattresses of straw--laid out at night and put away by day.

His heart was racing and he tried to keep his breathing soft, not wanting to awaken her yet, not knowing she was deeply drugged. The room was dark but moonlight came in through the shutters and he saw her long fair hair flowing over her shoulders and the swell of her breasts and limbs under the sheet. A perfume surrounded her, intoxicating him.

Then the click of the bayonets and muttered voices from the garden... For a split second he was petrified. Blindly he poised the knife to end her, but she did not stir. Her breathing remained regular.

He hesitated, then padded noiselessly to the shutters and peered out. He saw the soldiers.

Did they see me, or notice Shorin? he asked himself in panic.

If so then I'm trapped but that doesn't matter I can still accomplish what I came to accomplish and perhaps they'll go away--I have two exits, the door and the window. Patience, Katsumata always advised. Use your head, wait calmly, then strike without hesitation and escape when the moment arrives, as it always will.

Surprise is your best weapon!

His stomach twisted. One of the soldiers was heading for their hiding place. Even though Ori knew exactly where Shorin was he could not pick him out. Breathlessly he waited to see what would happen. Perhaps Shorin will draw them off. Whatever happens, she dies, he promised himself.

Shorin watched the soldier approaching, hopelessly trying to fathom a way out of the trap and cursing Ori. They must have spotted him! If I kill this dog there's no way I can reach the others before they shoot me. I can't get to the wall without being seen.

Stupid of Ori to change the plan, of course they spotted him, I told him that woman was trouble--he should have killed her at the road...

Perhaps this barbarian will miss me and give me enough time to rush for the wall.

The moonlight caught the long bayonet in flashes as the soldier quietly probed the foliage, lifting it apart here and there to see better.

Closer and closer. Six feet, five, four, three...

Shorin stayed motionless, his face covering now practically masking his eyes, and held his breath.

The soldier almost brushed him in passing, then went on again, stopped a moment, on a few more paces, probing again, then on again and Shorin began quietly to breathe once more. He could feel the sweat on his back but he knew he was safe now and in a few moments would be safely over the wall.

From his position Sergeant Towery could watch both soldiers. He held a cocked rifle loose in the hands, but was as unsure as they were, not wanting to give a false alarm. The night was fine, wind slight, moonlight strong. Easy to imagine shadows to be enemy in this stinking place, he thought. Christ, wish we were back in good old London town.

"Evening, Sergeant Towery, what's up?"

"Evening sir." Towery saluted smartly. It was the Dragoon officer, Pallidar. He explained what he had been told. "Might have been a shadow, better safe than sorry."

"Better get extra men and we'll make sure that--"

At that moment the young soldier nearest the ambush site whirled on guard, his musket levelled.

"Sergeant!" he called out in excitement and terror, "the bastard's here!"

Already Shorin was rushing to the attack, his killing sword on high but the soldier's training took over for that instant and the bayonet expertly held Shorin off as the others came running, Pallidar jerking out his revolver. Again Shorin pressed the attack but was inhibited by the length of the rifle and bayonet, then slipped, scrambled out of the way of the bayonet lunge and fled through the foliage for the wall. The young soldier charged after him.

"Watchiiit!" Towery shouted as the young man crashed into the undergrowth, glands now in total control propelling him to the kill. But the soldier did not hear the warning and went into the bushes and died, the short sword deep in his chest. Shorin jerked it out, quite sure there was no escape, the others almost on him.

"Namu Amida Butsu"--In the Name of the Buddha Amida--he gasped through his own fear, commending his spirit to Buddha, and screamed "Sonno-joi!" not to warn Ori but to make his last statement. Then, with desperate strength he buried the knife in his own throat.

Ori had seen most of this but not the end. The moment the soldier had shouted and charged he had rushed pell-mell for the bed expecting her to be startled awake but to his astonishment she had not moved, nor had the calm tempo of her breathing changed so he stood over her, knees trembling, waiting for her eyes to open, expecting a trick, wanting her to see him and see the knife before he used it. Then there was the wail of "sonno-joi" and he knew Shorin had gone onwards, then more noise. But still she did not stir. His lips came back from his teeth, his breathing strangled.

Abruptly he could stand the strain no longer so he shook her angrily with his wounded arm, heedless of the pain, put the knife to her throat, ready to obliterate the scream.

Still she did not stir.

To him it was all dreamlike and he watched himself shake her again and still nothing, then suddenly he remembered that the doctor had given her a drink and he thought, One of those drugs, the new Western drugs Hiraga told us about, and he gasped, trying to assimilate this new knowledge.

To make sure he shook her again but she only muttered and turned deeper into the pillow.

He went back to the window. Men were carrying the soldier's body out of the foliage. Then he saw them drag Shorin into the open by one of his feet like the carcass of an animal. Now the bodies were side by side, both strangely alike in death.

Other men were arriving and he heard people calling from some windows. An officer stood over Shorin's body. One of the soldiers tore off the black head-covering and face mask. Shorin's eyes were still open, features twisted, the knife hilt protruding. More voices and other men arriving.

Movement within the house now and in the corridor.

His tension soared. For the tenth time he made sure the door bar was secure and could not be opened from the outside, then moved into ambush behind the curtains of the four-poster, near enough to reach her whatever happened.

Footsteps and knocking on the door. Splash of light under it from oil or candle lamps. Louder knocking and voices raised. His knife readied.

"Mademoiselle, are you all right?" It was Babcott.

"Mademoiselle!" Marlowe called out.

"Open the door!" More pounding, much louder.

"It's my sleeping draft, Captain. She was very upset, poor lady, and needed sleep. I doubt if she'll wake up."

"If she doesn't I'll break the bloody door down to make sure. Her shutters are open, by God!" More heavy pounding.

Angelique opened her eyes blearily.

"Que se passe-that-il? What is it?" she mumbled, more asleep than awake.

"Are you all right? Tout va bien?"

"Bien? Moi? Bien sur...

Pourquoi? Qu'arrive-that-il?"

"Open the door a moment. Ouvrez la porte, s'il vous plait, c'est moi, Captain Marlowe."

Grumbling and disoriented, she sat up in the bed. To his shock, Ori watched himself allowing her to reel out of bed and totter to the door. It took her a little time to pull back the bar and half open the door, holding on to it for balance.

Babcott, Marlowe and a marine held candle lights. The flames flickered in the draft.

They gaped at her wide-eyed. Her nightdress was very French, very fine, and diaphanous.

"We, er, we just wanted to see you were all right, Mademoiselle. We, er, we caught a man in the shrubbery," Babcott said hurriedly, "nothing to worry about." He could see that she hardly understood what he was saying.

Marlowe pulled his gaze off of her body and looked beyond into the room. "Excusez moi, Mademoiselle, s'il vous plait," he said embarrassed, his accent tolerable, and eased past her to inspect. Nothing under the bed except a chamber pot. Curtains behind the bed this side revealed nothing--Christ, what a woman! Nowhere else to hide, no doors or cupboards. The shutters creaked in the wind. He opened them wide. "Pallidar! Anything more down there?"

"No," Pallidar called back. "No sign of anyone else. It's quite possible he was the only one and the soldier saw him moving about. But check all the rooms this side!"

Marlowe nodded and muttered a curse and, "what the hell do you think I'm doing?" Behind him the four-poster curtains moved in the slight breeze uncovering Ori's feet in his black tabi, Japanese shoe-socks. Marlowe's candle guttered and blew out, and when he slid the shutter bar into place and turned back again he did not notice the tabi in the deep shadows beside the bed, or much of anything else, only Angelique silhouetted in the doorway candlelight hardly awake. He could see every part of her and the sight drew his breath away.

"Everything's fine," he said, even more embarrassed because he had scrutinized her, enjoying her when she was defenseless. Pretending to be brisk, he walked back. "Please bolt the door and, er, sleep well," he said, wanting to stay.

Even more disoriented, she mumbled and closed the door. They waited until they heard the bar grate home in its slots. Babcott said hesitantly, "I doubt if she'll even remember opening the door." The marine wiped the sweat off, saw Marlowe looking at him and could not resist a leering beam.

"What the hell're you so happy about?"

Marlowe said, knowing very well.

"Me, sir? Nuffink sir," the marine said instantly, leer gone, innocence in its wake. Sodding officers is all the same, he thought wearily. Mucker Marlowe's as horny as the rest of us, his eyes popped and he near ate her up, short and curlies, wot's underneath and the best bloody knockers I ever hoped to see! The lads'll never believe about her knockers.

"Yessir, mum's the word, yessir," he said virtuously when Marlowe told him to say nothing about what they had seen, "Yor right sir, again sir, notta word from me lips," he assured him, and trailed along to the next room, thinking of hers.

Angelique was leaning against the door, trying to make sense of what was happening--difficult to put everything in order, a man in the garden, what garden, but Malcolm was in the garden of the Great House, no he's downstairs wounded, no that's a dream and he said something about living in the Great House and marriage... Malcolm, was he the man, the one who touched me? No, he told me he would die. Silly, the doctor said he was fine, everyone said fine, why fine? Why not good or excellent or fair? Why?

She gave up, her craving for sleep overwhelming. The moon was shining through the slats of the shutters and she stumbled through the bars of light to the bed, gratefully collapsed into the soft down mattress. With a great sigh of contentment she pulled the sheet half over her and turned on her side. In seconds she was deeply asleep.

Silently Ori slid out of his hiding place, astonished that he was still alive. Even though he had pressed himself and his swords flat against the wall, any proper search should have disclosed him. He saw that the door bar was in place, the shutters barred, the girl breathing heavily, one arm under the pillow the other on the sheet.

Good. She can wait, he thought. First, how to get out of this trap? The window or the door?

Not being able to see through the slats, he moved the bar back softly and pushed one side open a fraction, then the other. Soldiers were still milling below. Dawn was almost three hours away. Clouds building up, drifted towards the moon.

Shorin's body lay crumpled on the path like a dead animal. For a moment he was surprised they had left his head on, then remembered it was not gai-jin custom to take heads for viewing or for counting.

Difficult to escape that way and not be seen.

If they don't slacken their vigilance I'll have to open the door and try inside. That means leaving the door open. Better to go by the window if I can.

He craned out carefully and saw a small ledge below the window that led under another window, then around the building--this was a corner room. His excitement mounted. Soon clouds will cover the moon. I'll escape then. I will escape!

Sonno-joi! Now her.

Making no noise he rearranged the bar so the shutters were slightly open then came back to the bed.

His long sword was still sheathed and he put it within easy reach on the rumpled white silk counterpane. White, he thought. White sheet, white flesh, white the color of death. Apt.

Perfect to write on. What should it be? His name?

Without haste he pulled the sheet away from her.

The nightdress was beyond his ken, alien, designed to hide everything and nothing. Limbs and breasts, so large compared to the few bedmates he had known, legs long and straight with none of the elegant curve he was used to from the women's many years of kneeling-sitting. Again, her perfume. As his eyes explored her he felt himself stirring.

With the others it had been very different.

Excitement minimal. Much banter and deft professionalism. Quickly consummated, and usually in a sak`e haze to blur their age. Now there was limitless time. She was young, and out of his world. His ache increased. And the throb.

Wind creaked the shutters but there was no danger there nor was there any in the house. Everything quiet. She lay half on her stomach. A deft, soft push, and another, and obediently she moved onto her back, her head comfortably to one side, hair cascading. Deep sigh, snug in the embrace of the mattress. A small golden cross at her throat.

He leaned over and put the tip of his razor-sharp sword-knife under the delicate lace at the neck, lifted slightly and settled the blade against the tension of the garment. The material parted willingly and fell away. To her feet.

Ori had never seen a woman so revealed.

Or been so constricted. The throbbing intensified like never before. The tiny cross shone. Involuntarily her hand stirred lazily and went between her legs, resting there comfortably. He lifted it away, then moved one ankle from the other.

Gently.

Just before dawn she awoke. But not completely.

The drug was still with her, dreams still with her, strange violent dreams, erotic and crushing and wonderful and hurting and sensuous and awful and never before experienced or so intense. Through the half-opened shutters she saw the eastern horizon blood red, weird suggestive cloud formations there that seemed to match etchings in her mind.

As she moved to see them better there was a slight ache in her loins but she paid it no attention, instead letting her eyes dwell on the pictures in the sky and allowing her mind to drift back into the dreams that beckoned irresistibly. On the threshold of sleep she became aware she was naked. Languidly she pulled her nightdress around her and the sheet over her. And slept.

Ori was standing beside the bed. He had just moved out of the warmth. His ninja clothes were on the floor.

And his loincloth. For a moment he looked down at her lying there, considering her a final time. So sad, he thought, last times are so sad. Then he picked up the short knife-sword and unsheathed it.

In the room downstairs Phillip Tyrer opened his eyes. His surroundings were unfamiliar, then he realized that he was still in the temple at Kanagawa, that yesterday had been terrible, the operation awful, his part despicable. "Babcott said I was in shock," he muttered, his mouth parched and bad-tasting. "Christ, does that excuse me?"

His shutters were ajar, a wind creaking them. He could see the dawn. "Red sky in the morning, shepherd's warning." Will there be a storm? he wondered, then sat up in the camp bed and checked the bandage on his arm. It was clean, without fresh bloodstains and he was greatly relieved. Apart from the throb in his head and some soreness he felt whole again. "Oh God, I wish I'd acted better." He made an effort to remember the aftermath of the operation but it was hazed. I know I cried. It didn't feel like crying, the tears flooded.

With an effort he pushed the gloomy thoughts away. He got out of bed and shoved the shutters open, strong now on his legs and hungry. Nearby there was water in a jug and he splashed some on his face and rinsed out his mouth and spat the water into the garden foliage. After he had drank a little he felt better. The garden was empty, the air smelling of rotting vegetation and low tide. From where he was he could see a section of the temple walls and the garden but little else. Through a gap in the trees he caught a glimpse of the guard house and two soldiers there.

Now he noticed that he had been put to bed in his shirt and long woolen underpants. His torn, bloodstained coat was over a chair, his trousers and riding boots, filthy from the paddy, beside it.

Never mind, I'm lucky to be alive. He began to dress. What about Struan? And Babcott--soon I'll have to face him.

There was no razor so he could not shave. Nor was there a comb. Again never mind. He pulled on his boots. From the garden he could hear the sound of birds and movement, a few distant shouts in Japanese, and dogs barking. But no sounds as in a normal town, an English town, no morning cries of "Hot Cross Buns-O" or "Fresh water-O" or "Colchester oysters, morning fresh, for sale for sale-O," or "Direct from the press, the latest chapter by Mr. Dickens, only a penny, only a penny" or "The Times, the Times, read all about Mr. Disraeli's great scandal, read all about it..."

Will I be dismissed, he asked himself, his stomach surging at the thought of returning home in ignominy, a disaster, a failure, no longer a member of Her Illustrious Majesty's Foreign Office, representative of the greatest Empire the world has ever known. What will Sir William think of me? And what about her?

Angelique? Thank God she escaped to Yokohama--will she ever talk to me again when she hears?

Oh God, what am I going to do?

Malcolm Struan was also awake. A few moments before some sixth sense of danger, a noise from outside, had wakened him, though lying here it felt as though he had been awake for hours. He lay on the camp bed, aware of the day and the operation and that he had been severely wounded and that the chances were that he would die. Every breath caused a sharp tearing pain. Even the slightest movement.

But I'm not going to think about pain, only about Angelique and that she loves me and... But what about the bad dreams? Dreams of her hating me and running away. I hate dreams and being out of control, hate lying here, loathe being weak when I've always been strong, always brought up in the shadow of my hero, the great Dirk Struan, Green-eyed Devil. Oh how I wish I had green eyes and could be so strong. He's my lodestone and I will be as good as him, I will.

As always the enemy Tyler Brock is stalking us. Father and Mother try to keep most of the facts from me but of course I've heard the rumors and know more than they think. Old Ah Tok, more mother to me than Mother--didn't she carry me until I was two and teach me Cantonese and about life and find me my first girl?--she whispers the rumors to me, so does Uncle Gordon Chen who tells me facts. The Noble House is teetering.

Never mind, we'll deal with them. I will. That's what I'm trained for and have worked for all my life.

He moved the blanket aside and lifted his legs to stand but pain stopped him. Again he tried and again failed. Never mind, he told himself weakly.

Nothing to worry about, I'll do it later.

"More eggs, Settry?" Marlowe said, as tall as the Dragoon officer but not as broad in the shoulders. Both were patrician, sons of serving senior officers, well formed in the face, weathered, Marlowe more so.

"No thanks," Settry Pallidar said.

"Two's my limit. Must confess that I think the cooking here is vile. I told the servants I like my eggs well done not phlegmy but they've sand for brains. Actually, damned if I can eat eggs unless they're on toast, on good English bread. They just don't taste the same. What do you think's going to happen, about Canterbury?"

Marlowe hesitated. They were in the Legation dining room at the vast oak table that could seat twenty, brought from England for just this purpose. The corner room was spacious and pleasing, windows open to the garden and the dawn. Three liveried Chinese servants served the two of them.

Places laid for half a dozen. Fried eggs and bacon in silver salvers warmed by candles, roast chicken, cold salt ham and mushroom pie, a side of almost rancid beef, hardtack biscuits, a dried apple pie.

Beer, porter and tea. "The Minister should ask for immediate reparations and the murderers to be handed over at once, and when there's the inevitable delay, he should order the fleet against Yedo."

"Better that we land in force--we've troops enough--and occupy the capital, remove their king, what's he called? ah yes, Shogun, and appoint our own native ruler and make Japan a protectorate. Even better, for them, make it part of the Empire." Pallidar was very tired and had been awake most of the night. His uniform was unbuttoned but he was groomed and had shaved. He motioned to one of the servants. "Tea please."

The neatly dressed young Chinese understood perfectly but he gaped at him, deliberately, for the amusement of the other servants. "Heya, Mass'er? Tea-ah? Wat for tea-ah you say, eh? Wancha cha, heya?"

"Oh never mind for Christ's sake!"

Wearily Pallidar got up and went to the sideboard with his cup and poured his own tea while all the servants guffawed hugely but silently at the insolent foreign devil's loss of face, and then continued listening attentively to what they were saying. "It's a matter of military might, old boy. And I'll tell you frankly, the General will be bloody upset about losing a grenadier to a poxy assassin dressed like Ali Baba. He'll want--and we'll all want-- revenge by God."

"I don't know about a landing--the Navy can certainly blast a path for you but we've no idea how many samurai there are, nor anything about their strength."

"For God's sake, whatever they are, or it is, we can deal with them, they're only a bunch of backward natives. Of course we can deal with them. Just like in China. Can't understand why we don't annex China and have done with it."

All the servants heard this and understood this and all swore that when the Heavenly Kingdom possessed the guns and the ships to equal the barbarian guns and ships, they would help shove barbarian noses in their own dung and teach them a lesson to last a thousand generations. All of them were handpicked by Illustrious Chen, Gordon Chen, the Noble House compradore. "You wan'ta one piecee plenty good 'ggs, Mass'er?" the most courageous one said and beamed toothily, holding more of the deliberately phlegmy eggs under Pallidar's nose. "Werry good."

Pallidar shoved the salver away in disgust.

"No thanks. Listen, Marlowe, I think..."

He stopped as the door opened and Tyrer came in. "Oh, hello, you must be Phillip Tyrer from the Legation." He introduced himself, then Marlowe, and went on breezily, "Very sorry about your bad luck yesterday but I'm proud to shake your hand. Both Mr. Struan and Miss Richaud told Babcott if it wasn't for you they'd both be dead."

"They did? Oh!" Tyrer could hardly believe his ears. "It, it all happened so fast.

One moment everything was normal the next we were running for our lives. I was frightened to death."

Now that he had said it aloud he felt better, and even better when they brushed it aside as modesty, held out a chair for him and ordered the servants to bring him food.

Marlowe said, "When I checked you in the night you were dead to the world, we knew Babcott had sedated you, so I expect you haven't yet heard about our assassin."

Tyrer's stomach reeled. "Assassin?"

They told him. And about Angelique.

"She's here?"

"Yes, and what a brave lady she is."

For a moment Marlowe was filled with the thought of her.

He had no favored girl at home or anywhere, just a few eligible cousins but no special lady, and for the first time he was happy about it. Perhaps Angelique will stay and then... and then we'll see.

His excitement picked up. Just before steaming out of his home port of Plymouth a year ago, his father, Captain Richard Marlowe R.n. had said, "You're twenty-seven, lad, you've your own ship now--albeit a stinkpot--you're the eldest and it's time you were married. When you get back from this Far East cruise you'll be over thirty, with any luck by then I'll be a Vice Admiral and I'll... well, I can allow you a few extra guineas, but for God's sake don't tell your mother--or your brothers and sisters. It's time you made up your mind! What about your cousin Delphi? Her father's service, though only Indian Army."

He had promised that on his return he would choose. Now perhaps he would not have to settle for second or third or fourth best. "Miss Angelique raised the alarm in the Settlement then insisted on coming here last night--Mr.Struan had asked her to see him urgently-- seems he's not too good, pretty bad wound in fact, so I brought her. She's quite a lady."

"Yes." A curious silence took them, each knowing the other's thoughts. Phillip Tyrer broke it. "Why should an assassin come here?"

The other two heard the nervousness. "More devilment, I suppose," Pallidar said.

"Nothing to worry about, we caught the bugger. Have you seen Mr. Struan this morning?"

"I peeked in but he was asleep, hope he's going to be all right. The op was not so good and..."

Tyrer stopped, hearing an altercation outside.

Pallidar went to the window followed by the others.

Sergeant Towery was shouting at a half-naked Japanese from the far side of the garden, beckoning him. "Hey you, come 'ere!"

The man, apparently a gardener, was well built and young and twenty yards away. He wore only a loincloth and was carrying a bundle of sticks and branches over one shoulder, some half wrapped in a dirty black cloth, while he awkwardly scavenged for others. For a moment he stood erect, then began bobbing up and down, bowing abjectly towards the Sergeant.

"My God, these buggers have no sense of shame," Pallidar said distastefully. "Even the Chinese don't dress like that--nor Indians.

You can see his privates."

"I'm told they dress like that even in winter, some of them," Marlowe said, "they don't seem to feel the cold."

Again Towery shouted and beckoned. The man kept on bowing, nodding vigorously, but instead of going towards him, seemingly he misinterpreted him and obediently turned away, still half-bowing, and scuttled away, heading for the corner of the building. As he passed their window he gazed at them for an instant, then once more bent double in a groveling obeisance and hurried towards the servants' quarters, almost hidden by foliage, and was gone.

"Curious," Marlowe said.

"What?"

"Oh just that all that bowing and scraping seemed put on." Marlowe turned and saw Tyrer's chalky face. "Christ Almighty, what's up?"

"I, I, that man, I think he, I'm not sure but I think he was one of them, one of the murderers at the Tokaido, the one Struan shot. Did you see his shoulder, wasn't it bandaged?"

Pallidar was the first to react. He jumped out of the window, closely followed by Marlowe who had grabbed his sword. Together they hurtled for the trees. But they did not find him though they searched everywhere.

Now it was high noon. Again the soft knock on her bedroom door, again "Mademoiselle?

Mademoiselle?" Babcott called out from the corridor, his voice soft, not wanting to awaken her unnecessarily but she did not reply. She remained standing rock still in the center of the room and stared at the bolted door, hardly breathing, her robe tight around her, her face stark. The trembling began again.

"Mademoiselle?"

She waited. After a moment his footsteps died away and she exhaled, desperately trying to stop shaking, then resumed pacing to the shuttered windows and back to the bed and back to the window once more, pacing as she had been pacing for hours.

I've got to decide, she thought in misery.

When she awoke a second time, not remembering the first awakening, her mind was clear and she lay in the crumpled bed linen without moving, glad to be awake, rested, hungry, and thirsty for the first, glorious cup of coffee of the day served with some crusty fresh French bread that her Legation's chef made in Yokohama. But I'm not in Yokohama, I'm in Kanagawa, and today it will be just a cup of revolting English tea with milk.

Malcolm! Poor Malcolm, I do so hope he's better. We'll return to Yokohama today, I'll board the next steamer for Hong Kong, thence to Paris... but oh what dreams I had, what dreams!

The fantasies of the night were still vivid and mixed up with other pictures of the Tokaido and Canterbury's mutilation and Malcolm acting so strangely presuming that they would marry. The imagined smell of the surgery rose in her nostrils but she fought it away, yawned, and reached for her little timepiece which she had left on the bedside table.

With the slight movement came a small pain in her loins. For a moment she wondered if it presaged an early period for she was not completely regular but dismissed the thought as impossible.

The timepiece read 10:20. It was inset with lapis lazuli and had been her father's gift on her eighteenth birthday, July 8th, a little over two months ago in Hong Kong. So much has happened since then, she thought. I'll be so happy to be back in Paris, in civilization, never to return, never never nev-- Abruptly she realized that she was almost naked under the sheet. To her astonishment she found that her nightdress only clung to her arms and shoulders and was totally split down the front and scrambled up behind her. She lifted the two sides in disbelief. Wanting to see better, she slid out of bed to go to the window but again the slight soreness.

Now in the day's light she noticed the telltale smear of blood on the sheet and found a trace between her legs.

"How can my period..."

She began counting days and recounting them but the addition made no sense. Her last period had stopped two weeks ago. Then she noticed that she was slightly moist and could not understand why--then her heart twisted and she almost fainted as her brain shouted that the dreams had not been dreams but real and that she had been violated while asleep.

"That's not possible! You must be mad--that's not possible," she had gasped, fighting for air, fighting for space. "Oh God, let this be a dream, part of those dreams." She groped for the bed, heart pounding. "You're awake, this isn't a dream, you're awake!"

She examined herself again, frantically, and then again but this time with more care. She had enough knowledge to know that there was no mistake about the moisture, or that her hymen was split. It was true. She had been raped.

The room began to spin. Oh God I'm ruined, life ruined, future ruined for no decent man, eligible man will marry me now that I'm soiled, marriage a girl's only way to better herself, have a happy future, any future, no other way...

When her senses settled and she could see and think, she found herself lying across the bed. Shakily she tried to reconstruct the night. I remember bolting the door.

She peered at it. The bar was still in place.

I remember Malcolm and the foulness of his room and running away from him, Phillip Tyrer sleeping peacefully, Dr. Babcott giving me the drink and go upstair-- The drink! Oh God, I was drugged! If Babcott can operate with these drugs, of course it could happen, of course I would be helpless but that doesn't help me now! It happened! Say I get a child!

Again panic overwhelmed her. Tears gushed down her cheeks and she almost cried out. "Stop it!" she muttered, making a supreme effort for control. "Stop it! Don't make a sound, don't! You're alone, no one else can help, just you, you've got to think. What are you going to do?

Think!" She took deep breaths, her heart hurting, and tried to slam her jumbled mind into order. Who was the man?

The bar's still in place so no one could have come through the door. Wait a minute, I remember vaguely... or was it part of the dream before the...

I seem to remember opening the door to, to Babcott and, and the naval officer Marlowe... then barring it again. Yes, that's right! At least, I think that's right. Didn't he speak French ... yes he did, but badly, then they went away and I barred the door, I'm sure I did. But why did they knock on the door in the night?

She searched and re-searched her mind but could not find an answer, not truly sure this had happened, the night pictures slipping away.

Some of them.

Concentrate!

If not through the door he came through the window.

She squirmed around and saw that the shutter bar was on the floor, below the window, not in its slots.

So whoever it was got in through the window! Who?

Marlowe, that Pallidar or even the good Doctor, I know they all want me. Who knew I was drugged? Babcott. He could have told the others but surely none of them would dare to be so evil, would dare risk the consequences of climbing up from the garden forof course I shall shout from the rooftops...

Her whole being screamed a warning: Be careful. Your future depends on being careful and wise. Be careful.

Are you sure that this really happened in the night?

What about the dreams? Perhaps... I won't think about them now but only a doctor would know for certain and that would have to be Babcott. Wait, you could, you could have ruptured that tiny piece of skin in your sleep, twisting in the nightmare--it was a nightmare, wasn't it? That has happened to some girls. Yes, but they'd still be virgin and that doesn't explain the moisture.

Remember Jeanette in the convent, poor silly Jeanette who fell in love with one of the tradesmen, and allowed him, and excitedly told us all about it later, all the details. She didn't become pregnant but she was found out and the next day she was gone forever and later we learned she'd been married off to a village butcher, the only man who would take her.

I didn't allow anything but that won't help me, a doctor would know for certain but that won't help me, and the idea of Babcott or any doctor being so intimate fills me with horror and then Babcott would share the secret. How could I trust him with such a secret? If it became known... I have to keep it secret! But how, how can you, and what then?

I'll answer that later. First decide who the devil was. No, first clean yourself of this evil and then you will think better. You've got to think clearly.

With distaste she shook off the nightdress and threw it aside, then washed carefully and deeply, trying to remember all the contraceptive knowledge she possessed, what Jeanette had done successfully. Then she put on her robe and combed her hair. Using tooth powder, she cleaned her teeth. Only then did she look in her mirror. Very carefully she examined her face. It was without blemish. She loosed her robe. So were her limbs and breasts-- nipples a little red. Again she looked deep into her mirror.

"No change, nothing. And everything."

Then she noticed that the little gold cross she had worn forever, sleeping and waking, was gone. She searched the bed carefully, then underneath and all around. It was not buried in the bedclothes or under the pillows or caught in the curtains.

Last chance--hiding in the lace of the coverlet.

She picked it off the floor and went through it.

Nothing.

Then she saw the three Japanese characters, crudely drawn on its whiteness, in blood.

Sunlight sparked off the gold cross. Ori was holding it in his fist by the thin chain, mesmerized.

"Why did you take it?" Hiraga asked.

"I don't know."

"Not killing the woman was a mistake. Shorin was right. It was a mistake."

"Karma."

They were safe in the Inn of the Midnight Blossoms and Ori had bathed and shaved and he looked back at Hiraga with level eyes and thought, You're not my master--I will tell you only what pleases me, nothing more.

He had told him about Shorin's death and climbing into the room, that she had slept soundly and had not awakened but no more, only that he had hidden there safely, then had taken off his ninja clothes knowing he would be intercepted and had camouflaged his swords with them, shinned down into the garden with just enough time to gather some fallen branches, to pretend to be a gardener before he was spotted and how, even after recognizing the man from the road, had managed to escape. But nothing more about her.

How can I express in mortal words and tell anyone that because of her I became one with the gods, that when I had spread her wide and saw her I was drunk with craving, that when I entered her, I entered her as a lover and not a rapist, I don't know why but I did, slowly, carefully, and her arms went around me and she shuddered and held on though she never truly awoke and she was so tight and I held back and back and then poured forth in a way inconceivable.

I never believed it could be so marvelous, so sensual, so satisfying, so final. The others were nothing compared to her. She made me reach the stars but that is not why I left her alive. I thought about killing her very much. Then myself, there in the room.

But that would have been only selfish, to die at the crest of happiness, so content.

Oh how I wished to die. But my death belongs to sonno-joi. Only that. Not to me.

"Not killing her was a mistake," Hiraga said again, interrupting Ori's thought pattern.

"Shorin was right, killing her would have achieved our plan, better than anything."

"Yes."

"Then why?"

I left her alive for the gods, if there are gods, he could have said but did not. They possessed me and made me do what I did and I thank them. Now I am complete. I know life, all that remains to know is death. I was her first and she will remember me forever even though she slept. When she wakes and sees my writing in my own blood, not hers, she will know. I want her to live forever. I will die soon. Karma.

Ori put the cross into a secret sleeve pocket of his kimono and drank more of the refreshing green tea, feeling utterly fulfilled and so alive. "You said you had a raid?"

"Yes. We are going to burn the British Legation in Yedo."

"Good. Let it be soon."

"It is. Sonno-joi!"

At Yokohama, Sir William said angrily, "Tell them again, for the last time, by God, Her Majesty's Government demands immediate reparations of one hundred thousand pounds sterling in gold for allowing this unprovoked attack and murder of an Englishman--killing Englishmen is kinjiru by God! And also we demand possession of the Satsuma murderers within three days or we-will-take-definitive-action!"

He was across the bay in the small, stuffy audience room of the British Legation in Yokohama, flanked by the Prussian, French and Russian Ministers, both Admirals, British and French, the General, all of them equally exasperated.

In line opposite, seated ceremoniously on chairs, were two local representatives of the Bakufu, the chief samurai of the Settlement Guard, and the Governor of Kanagawa in whose jurisdiction Yokohama lay. They wore wide pantaloons and kimonos, and over them the broad-shouldered, winglike mantle that was belted, and two swords. Clearly all were uncomfortable and inwardly furious. At dawn, armed soldiers had hammered on the door of the Customs Houses, in both Yokohama and Kanagawa, with rifle butts and unprecedented anger, summoning the highest officials and Governor to an immediate conference at noon, the haste also unprecedented.

Between the two sides the interpreters sat on cushions. The Japanese knelt, and the other, a Swiss, Johann Favrod, sat cross-legged, their common language Dutch.

The meeting had already been in progress for two hours--English translated into Dutch into Japanese, into Dutch into English and back again. All Sir William's questions were misunderstood, or parried or needed repeating several times, delays were "requested" in a dozen different ways to "consult higher authorities to institute examinations and investigations" and "Oh yes, in Japan examinations are quite different from investigations. His Excellency, the Governor of Kanagawa, explains in detail that..." and "Oh His Excellency, the Governor of Kanagawa, wishes to explain in detail that he has no jurisdiction over Satsuma which is a separate kingdom..." and "Oh but His Excellency, the Governor of Kanagawa, understands the accused drew pistols threateningly and are accused and guilty of not obeying Japanese ancient customs..." and "How many foreigners did you say were in the foreign party who should have knelt and ... but our customs..."

Tedious, time-consuming, and complex lectures in Japanese by the Governor, put laboriously into far from fluent Dutch and retranslated into English.

"Make it blunt, Johann, exactly as I said it."

"I have, every time, Sir William, but I'm sure this cretin isn't interpreting accurately, either what you say or what the Jappers say."

"We know that for Christ's sake, has it ever been different? Please get on with it."

Johann put the words into an exact translation. The Japanese interpreter flushed, asked for an explanation of the word "immediate," then carefully delivered a polite, appropriate, approximate translation he considered would be acceptable. Even then the Governor sucked in his breath at the rudeness. The silence increased. His fingers tapped a constant, irritated tattoo on his sword hilt, then he spoke shortly, three or four words. The translation was long.

Johann said cheerfully, "Without all the merde, the Gov says he'll pass on your "request" at the appropriate time to the appropriate authorities."

Sir William reddened perceptibly, the Admirals and General more so. ""Request," eh? Tell the bugger exactly: It's not a request, it's a demand! And tell him further: We demand an IMMEDIATE audience with the Shogun in Yedo in three days! Three days by God! And I'm bloody arriving by battleship!"

"Bravo," Count Zergeyev muttered.

Johann was also weary of the game and gave the words a fine-tuned bluntness. The Japanese interpreter gasped and without waiting began a flood of acrimonious Dutch that Johann answered sweetly with two words that precipitated an aghast, sudden silence.

"Nan ja?" What is it, what's been said, the Governor asked angrily, not mistaking the hostility or hiding his own.

At once, apologetically, the flustered interpreter gave him a toned-down version but even so the Governor exploded into a paroxysm of threats and pleading and refusal and more threats that the interpreter translated into words he considered the foreigners wanted to hear, then, still rattled, listened again and translated again.

"What's he saying, Johann?" Sir William had to raise his voice above the noise, the interpreter was answering the Governor and Bakufu officials, who were chattering amongst themselves and to him. "What the devil are they saying?"

Johann was happy now--he knew the meeting would terminate in a few moments and he could return to the Long Bar for his lunch and schnapps.

"I don't know, except the Gov repeats the best he can do is to pass on your request etc. at the appropriate etc. but there's no way the Shogun will grant you the honor etc. because it's against their customs etc...."

Sir William slammed the flat of his hand onto the table. In the shocked silence, he pointed at the Governor then at himself. "Watashi ... me..." then he pointed out of the window towards Yedo. "Watashi go Yedo!" Then he raised three fingers. "THREE DAYS in a bloody battleship!" He got up and stormed out of the room. The others followed.

He went across the hall to his study, to the bank of cut-glass decanters and poured some whisky. "Anyone care to join me?" he said breezily as the others surrounded him.

Automatically he poured Scotch for the Admirals, General and Prussian, claret for Seratard, and a significant vodka for Count Zergeyev. "I thought that went according to plan.

Sorry it was drawn out."

"I thought you were going to burst a blood vessel," Zergeyev said, draining his glass and pouring another.

"Not on your nelly. Had to close the meeting with certain amount of drama."

"So it's Yedo in three days?"

"Yes, my dear Count. Admiral, have the flagship ready for a dawn departure, spend the next few days getting everything shipshape, ostentatiously clear the decks for action, all cannon primed, drills for the whole fleet, and order them to be ready to join us in battle order if need be. General, five hundred Redcoats should be enough for an honor guard.

Monsieur, would the French flagship care to join us?"

Seratard said, "Of course. I will accompany you, of course, but suggest the French Legation as Headquarters, and full dress uniform."

"No to the uniforms, this is a punitive mission, not to present credentials--that comes later. And no to the meeting place. It was our national who was murdered and, how shall I put it?

Our fleet is the deciding factor."

Von Heimrich chuckled. "It certainly is decisive in these waters, at the present time."

He glanced at Seratard. "A pity I don't have a dozen regiments of Prussian cavalry, then we could partition the Japans without a hiccup and have done with all their devious stupidity and time-wasting bad manners."

"Only a dozen?" Seratard asked witheringly.

"That would be sufficient, Herr Seratard, for all Japan--our troops are the best in the world --of course after Her Britannic Majesty's," he added smoothly.

"Fortunately Prussia could spare twenty, even thirty regiments for just this small sector and still have more than enough to deal with any problem we might encounter anywhere, particularly in Europe."

"Yes, well..." Sir William broke in as Seratard reddened. He finished his drink.

"I'm off to Kanagawa to make some arrangements. Admiral, General, perhaps a short conference when I return--I'll come aboard the flagship. Oh, Monsieur Seratard, what about Mademoiselle Angelique? Would you like me to escort her back?"

She came out of her room in the late afternoon sunlight and walked along the corridor and down the main staircase towards the entrance hallway.

Now she wore the long bustled dress of yesterday, elegant again, more ethereal than ever-- hair groomed and swept up, eyes enhanced.

Perfume and the swish of petticoats.

Sentries at the main door saluted her and mumbled an embarrassed greeting, awed by her beauty. She acknowledged them with a distant smile and went towards the surgery. A Chinese houseboy gaped at her and scuttled past.

Just before she reached the door, it opened.

Babcott came out and stopped. "Oh hello, Miss Angelique, my word but you look beautiful," he said, almost stuttering.

"Thank you, Doctor." Her smile was kind, voice gentle. "I wanted to ask... can we talk a moment?"

"Of course, come in. Make yourself at home." Babcott shut the surgery door, settled her in the best chair and sat behind his desk, swept up by her radiance and the way her coiffure showed off her long neck to perfection.

His eyes were red-rimmed and he was very tired. But then that's a way of life, he thought, glorying in the sight of her.

"That drink you gave me, last night, it was a drug of some kind?"

"Yes, yes it was. I made it fairly strong as you were, you were rather upset."

"It's all so vague and mixed up, the Tokaido, then coming here and, and seeing Malcolm. The sleeping drink was very strong?"

"Yes but not dangerous, anything like that.

Sleep's the best cure, it would have been the best kind, deep sleep, and by Jove, you slept well, it's almost four. How do you feel?"

"Still a little tired, thank you." Again the shadowed smile and it tore at him. "How is Monsieur Struan?"

"No change. I was just going to see him again, you can come along, if you like. He's doing well, considering. Oh, by the way, they caught that fellow."

"Fellow?"

"The one we told you about last night, the intruder."

"I don't remember anything about the night."

He told her what had happened at her door and in the garden, how one robber was shot and the other spotted this morning but had escaped and it took all of her will to keep her face clear and to stop screaming aloud what she was thinking: you son of Satan with your sleeping drafts and incompetence.

Two robbers? The other one must have been in my room when you were there then and you failed to find him and save me, you and that other fool, Marlowe, equally guilty.

Blessed Mother, give me strength, help me to be revenged on both of them. And him, whoever he is! Mother of God let me be revenged. But why steal my cross and leave the other jewelry and why the characters and what do they mean? And why in blood, his blood?

She saw him staring at her. "Oui?"

"I said, Would you like to see Mr. Struan now?"

"Oh! Yes, yes please." She got up too, once more in control. "Oh, I'm afraid I spilt the jug of water on the sheets--would you ask the maid to deal with them, please?"

He laughed. "We don't have maids here.

Against Japper regulations. We've Chinese houseboys. Don't worry, the moment you left the room they'll be tidying..." He stopped, seeing her go pale. "What's the matter?"

For an instant her restraint had left her and she was back in her room again, scrubbing and cleaning and petrified the marks would not come out. But they had and she remembered she had checked and rechecked so the secret was safe--nothing was left to show, neither moisture nor blood, her secret safe forever so long as she was strong and kept to the plan--must-- and must be clever, must.

Babcott was shocked by the sudden pallor, her fingers twisting the material of her skirt.

Instantly he was beside her and held her shoulders gently. "Not to worry, you're quite safe, you really are."

"Yes, sorry," she said frightened, her head against his chest, finding the tears were flowing. "It was just, I, I was, I was remembering poor Canterbury."

She watched herself, out of herself, allow him to comfort her, utterly sure that her plan was the only one, the wise one: nothing happened. Nothing nothing nothing.

You will believe it until your next period.

And then, if it arrives, you will believe forever.

And if it does not arrive?

I don't know I don't know I don't know.

Monday, 15th September

Monday, 15th September: "Gai-jin are vermin without manners," Nori Anjo said shaking with rage. He was chief of the roju, the Council of Five Elders, a squat, round-faced man, richly dressed.

"They've spurned our polite apology which should have ended the Tokaido matter, and now, impertinently, formally request an audience with the Shogun--the writing is foul, words inept, here read it for yourself, it has just arrived."

With barely concealed impatience he handed the scroll to his much younger adversary, Toranaga Yoshi, who sat opposite him. They were alone in one of the audience rooms high up in the central keep of Yedo Castle, all their guards ordered out. A low, scarlet lacquered table separated the two men, a black tea tray on it, delicate cups and teapot eggshell porcelain.

"Whatever gai-jin say doesn't matter."

Uneasily Yoshi took the scroll but did not read it. Unlike Anjo his clothes were simple and his swords working not ceremonial swords.

"Somehow we must twist them to do what we want."

He was daimyo of Hisamatsu, a small though important fief nearby and a direct descendant of the first Toranaga Shogun. At the Emperor's recent "suggestion," and over Anjo's flaring opposition he had just been appointed Guardian of the Heir, the boy Shogun, and to fill the vacancy in the Council of Elders. Tall, patrician and twenty-six, with fine hands and long fingers.

"Whatever happens, they must not see the Shogun," he said, "that would confirm the legality of the Treaties which are not yet properly ratified. We will refuse their insolent request."

"I agree it's insolent but we still have to deal with it, and decide about that Satsuma dog, Sanjiro." Both were weary of the gai-jin problem that had disturbed their wa, their harmony for two days now, both anxious to end this meeting--Yoshi wanting to return to his quarters below where Koiko waited for him, Anjo to a secret meeting with a doctor.

Outside it was sunny and kind, with the smell of sea and rich soil on the slight breeze that came through the opened shutters. No threat of winter yet.

But winter's coming, Anjo was thinking, the ache in his bowels distracting him. I hate winter, season of death, the sad season, sky sad, sea sad, land sad and ugly and freezing, trees bare, and the cold that twists your joints, reminding you how old you are. He was a greying man of forty-six, daimyo of Mikawa, had been the center of roju power since the dictator tairo Ii had been assassinated four years ago.

Whereas you, puppy, he thought angrily, you're only a two-month appointee to the Council and a four-week Guardian--both dangerous political appointments implanted over our protests. It's time your wings were clipped. "Of course we all value your advice," he said, his voice honeyed, then added, not meaning it as both knew, "For two days the gai-jin have been preparing their fleet for battle, troops drilling openly and tomorrow their leader arrives.

What's your solution?"

"The same as yesterday, official scroll or not: we send another apology "for the regrettable mishap" laced with sarcasm they will never understand, from an official they will never know, and timed to arrive before the leader gai-jin leaves Yokohama asking for a further delay to "make enquiries."

If that does not satisfy him and he or they come to Yedo, let them. We send the usual low-level official, nonbinding on us to their Legation to treat with them, giving them a little soup but no fish. We delay, and delay."

"Meanwhile it's time to exercise our hereditary Shogunate right and order Sanjiro to hand over the killers for punishment at once, to pay an indemnity, again through us, at once, and into house arrest and retirement at once. We order him!"

Anjo said harshly. "You're inexperienced in high Shogunate matters."

Keeping his temper and wishing he could send Anjo into immediate retirement for his stupidity and bad manners, Yoshi said, "If we order Sanjiro we will be disobeyed, therefore we will be forced to go to war, and Satsuma is too strong with too many allies. There's been no war for two hundred and fifty years. We're not ready for war. War is..."

There was a sudden peculiar silence.

Involuntarily both men gripped their swords.

The teacups and teapot began to rattle. Afar off the earth rumbled, the whole tower shifted slightly, then again, and again. The quake persisted for about thirty seconds. Then it was gone, as suddenly as it had arrived. Impassively they waited, watching the cups.

No aftershock. Still no aftershock.

More waiting throughout the castle and Yedo. All living creatures waiting. Nothing.

Yoshi sipped some tea then meticulously centered the cup in its saucer and Anjo envied him his control. Inwardly Yoshi was in turmoil and he thought, Today the gods smiled on me but what about the next shock, or the next, or the one after that--any moment now, or in a candle of time or this afternoon, or later tonight or tomorrow? Karma!

Safe today but soon there will be another bad one, a killer earthquake, like seven years ago when I almost died and a hundred thousand people perished in Yedo alone in the earthquake and in the fires that always follow, not counting the tens of thousands washed out to sea and drowned in the tsunami wave that swept unheralded out of the sea that night--one of them my lovely Yuriko, then the passion of my life.

He willed himself to dominate his fear. "War is completely unwise now, Satsuma is too strong, the Tosa and Choshu legions will become his allies openly, we're not strong enough to crush them alone." Tosa and Choshu were fiefs, far from Yedo, both historic enemy to the Shogunate.

"The most important daimyos will come to our banner, if summoned, and the rest follow."

Anjo tried to hide the effort it took him to unlock his grip on his sword, still terrified.

Yoshi was alert and well trained, and noticed the lapse and docketed it for future use, pleased that he had seen into his enemy. "They won't, not yet. They'll delay, bluster, whine, and never help us smash Satsuma. They have no balls."

"If not now, when?" Anjo's fury spilled out, whipped by his fear and loathing of earthquakes.

He had been in a bad one as a child, his father becoming a torch, his mother and two brothers cinders before his eyes. Ever since, with even the slightest quake, he relived the day and smelled their burning flesh and heard their screams. "We have to humble that dog sooner or later. Why not now?"

"Because we have to wait until we're better armed. They--Satsuma, Tosa and Choshu--have a few modern weapons, cannon and rifles, we don't know how many. And several steamships."

"Sold to them by gai-jin against Shogunate wishes!"

"Bought by them because of previous weakness."

Anjo's face reddened. "I'm not responsible for that!"

"Nor I!" Yoshi's fingers on the hilt tightened. "Those fiefs are better armed than we are, whatever the reason. So sorry, we have to wait, the Satsuma fruit is not yet rotten enough for us to risk a war that by ourselves we cannot win.

We're isolated, Sanjiro is not." His voice became sharper. "But I agree that soon there must be a reckoning."

"Tomorrow I will ask the Council to issue the order."

"For the sake of the Shogunate, you and all Toranaga clans, I hope the others will listen to me!"

"Tomorrow we will see--Sanjiro's head should be put on a spike and exhibited as an example to all traitors."

"I agree Sanjiro must have ordered the Tokaido killing just to embarrass us," Yoshi said. "That will madden the gai-jin. Our only solution is to delay. Our mission to Europe is due back any day now and then our troubles should be over."

Eight months before, in January, the Shogunate had sent the first official deputation from Japan by steamship to America and Europe, with secret orders to renegotiate the Treaties-- the roju considered them "unauthorized tentative agreements"--with British, French and American Governments, and to cancel or delay any further opening of any ports. "Their orders were clear. By now the Treaties will be voided."

Anjo said ominously, "So, if not war, you agree the time has come to send Sanjiro onwards."

The younger man was too cautious to agree openly, wondering what Anjo was planning, or had already planned. He eased his swords more comfortably and pretended to consider the question, finding his new appointment very much to his liking. Once more I'm in at center of power. Oh yes, Sanjiro helped put me here but only for his own vile purpose: to destroy me by making me ever more publicly responsible for all the troubles these cursed gai-jin have brought, therefore setting me up as a prime target for the cursed shishi--and to usurp our hereditary rights, wealth and Shogunate.

Never mind, I'm aware of what he and his running dog Katsumata plan, what his real intentions are against us, and those of his allies, the Tosa and the Choshu. He won't succeed, I swear it by my ancestors.

"How would you eliminate Sanjiro?"

Anjo's brow darkened, remembering his final violent row with the Satsuma daimyo only a few days earlier.

"I repeat," Sanjiro had said imperiously, "obey the Emperor's suggestions: Convene a meeting of all senior daimyos at once, humbly ask them to form a permanent Council to advise, reform and run the Shogunate, quash your infamous and unauthorized gai-jin agreements, order all ports closed to gai-jin, and if they don't go, expel them at once!"

"I keep reminding you, it is only the Shogunate's right to set foreign policy, any policy, not the Emperor's, nor yours! We both know you've deceived him," Anjo had told him, hating him for his lineage, his legions, his riches, and obvious, abundant good health.

"The suggestions are ridiculous and unenforceable!

We've kept the peace for two and a half cent--"' "Yes, for Toranaga aggrandizement. If you refuse to obey our rightful liege lord, the Emperor, then resign or commit seppuku. You chose a boy to be Shogun, that traitor tairo Ii signed the "treaties"--it's Bakufu responsibility gai-jin are here and that is Toranaga responsibility!"

Anjo had flushed, driven almost mad by the sneering malevolence and baiting that had gone on for months and he would have gone for his sword if Sanjiro had not been protected by Imperial mandate. "If tairo Ii hadn't negotiated the Treaties and had them signed, gai-jin would have bombarded their way ashore and by now we would be humbled like China."

"Surmise--nonsense!"

"Have you forgotten Peking's Summer Palace was burned and looted, Sanjiro-dono? Now China is practically dismembered and government out of Chinese control. Have you forgotten the British, the main enemy, were ceded one of their islands, Hong Kong, twenty years ago and now it's an impregnable bastion? Tientsin, Shanghai, Swatow now are permanent, self-contained gai-jin dominated and owned Treaty Ports?

Say they took one of our islands in the same way."

"We would prevent them--we're not Chinese."

"How? So sorry but you're blind and deaf, and your head's in the heavens. A year ago, the moment the latest China war was over, if we'd provoked them they would have sent all those fleets and armies against us and overrun us as well. Only Bakufu cleverness stopped them. We could not have stood against those armadas--or their cannon and guns."

"I agree that it's Shogunate responsibility we're unprepared, Toranaga responsibility. We should have had modern cannon and warships years ago, we have had knowledge of them for years, didn't the Dutch advise us dozens of times about their new inventions, but you put our heads in the night buckets! You failed the Emperor. At most you could have settled for one port, Deshima--why give the American fiend Townsend Harris, Yokohama, Hirodate, Nagasaki, Kanagawa and allow them access to Yedo for their impertinent Legations!

Resign and let others more qualified save the Land of the Gods..."

Remembering the clash made Anjo sweat, that and the knowledge that much of what Sanjiro said was right. He took a paper handkerchief from his voluminous sleeve and wiped the sweat off his brow and shaved pate and looked back at Yoshi, jealous of his bearing and good looks but mostly of his youth and legendary virility.

Not so long ago it was so easy to be satisfied, normal to be potent, he thought in sudden misery, the ever present ache in his loins reminding him. Not so long ago, easy to become erect without effort and be abundantly charged--now no longer possible even with the most desirable person, their most clever skills, or rarest salves and medicines.

"Sanjiro may consider himself beyond reach, but he's not," he said with finality. "Put your mind on it too, Yoshi-dono, our young but oh so wise Councillor, how to remove him, or your own head may be on a spike all too soon."

Yoshi decided not to take offense, and smiled.

"What do the other Elders advise?"

Anjo laughed crookedly. "They will vote as I say."

"If you weren't kinsman, I would suggest you resign or commit seppuku."

"What a pity you are not your illustrious namesake and you could actually order it, eh?"

Anjo got up heavily. "I'll send reply now, to delay. Tomorrow we take a formal vote to humble Sanjiro..." Angrily he spun on guard as the door was jerked open. Yoshi already had his sword half out of its scabbard. "I gave orders..."

The flustered sentry mumbled, "So sorry, Anjo-sama..."

Anjo's fury vanished as a youth brushed the sentry aside and hurried into the room, closely followed by a girl, barely five feet tall, both elaborately dressed and bubbling, four armed samurai in their wake and, after them, a matron and lady-in-waiting. At once Anjo and Yoshi knelt and bowed their heads to the tatami.

The entourage bowed back. The youth, Shogun Nobusada, did not. Nor did the girl, Imperial Princess Yazu, his wife.

Both were the same age, sixteen.

"That quake, it knocked over my favorite vase," the youth said excitedly, pointedly ignoring Yoshi. "My favorite vase!" He waved the door closed. His guards stayed, and his wife's ladies. "I wanted to tell you I've a wonderful idea."

"So sorry about the vase, Sire." Anjo's voice was kind. "You had an idea?"

"We... I've decided we, my wife and I, we, I've decided we'll go to Kyoto to see the Emperor and ask him what to do about the gai-jin and how to throw them out!" The youth beamed at his wife and she nodded in happy agreement.

"We'll go next month--a State Visit!"

Anjo and Yoshi felt their minds explode, both wanting to leap forward and strangle the boy for his lack of brains. But both kept their tempers, both used to his petulant stupidity and tantrums, and for the thousandth time, both cursed the day the marriage of these two had been proposed and consummated. "An interesting idea, Sire,"

Anjo said carefully, watching the girl without watching, noting her concentration centered on him now and that, as usual, though her lips smiled her eyes did not. "I will put the suggestion before the Council of Elders and we will give it our full attention."

"Good," Nobusada said importantly. He was a small, thin young man, just five and a half feet, who always wore thick geta, sandals, to increase his height. His teeth were dyed fashionably black as Court custom in Kyoto decreed, though not here in Shogunate circles. "Three or four weeks should be time to prepare everything." Ingenuously he smiled at his wife. "Did I forget anything, Yazu-chan?"

"No, Sire," she said prettily, "how could you forget anything?" Her face was delicate and made up in classic Kyoto Court style: eyebrows plucked and, in their place, high arching eyebrows painted on the whiteness of her makeup, her teeth dyed black, thick raven hair piled high and held in place with ornate pins.

Purple kimono decorated with sprays of autumn leaves, her obi, the intricate sash, golden. Imperial Princess Yazu, stepsister of the Son of Heaven, Nobusada's bride of six months, sought for him since she was twelve, betrothed at fourteen and married at sixteen. "Of course a decision by you is a decision and not a suggestion."

"Of course, Honored Princess," Yoshi said quickly. "But so sorry, Sire, such important arrangements could not possibly be made in four weeks. May I advise you to consider the implications for such a visit might be misinterpreted."

Nobusada's smile vanished.

"Implication? Advise? What implications?

Misinterpreted by whom? By you?" he said rudely.

"No, Sire, not by me. I just wanted to point out that no Shogun has ever gone to Kyoto to ask the Emperor's advice and such a precedent would be disastrous to your rule."

"Why?" Nobusada said angrily. "I don't understand."

"Because, as you remember, the Shogun has the sole hereditary duty to make decisions for the Emperor, together with his Council of Elders and Shogunate." Yoshi kept his voice gentle.

"This allows the Son of Heaven to spend his time interceding with the gods for all of us, and for the Shogunate to keep mundane and common happenings from disturbing his wa."

Princess Yazu said sweetly, "What Toranaga Yoshi-sama says is true, husband. Unfortunately the gai-jin have already disturbed his wa as we all know, so to ask my brother, the Exalted, for advice would surely be both polite and filial and not interfere with historic rights."

"Yes." The youth puffed up his chest. "It's decided!"

"The Council will at once consider your wishes," Yoshi said.

Nobusada's face contorted and he shouted, "Wishes? It's a decision! Put it to them if you wish, but I have decided! I'm Shogun, you're not! I am! I've decided! I was chosen and they rejected you--all loyal daimyos did.

I'm Shogun, Cousin!"

Everyone was aghast at the outburst. Except the girl. She smiled to herself and kept her eyes downcast and thought: at last my revenge begins.

"True, Sire," Yoshi was saying, voice level though the color was out of his face.

"But I am Guardian and I must advise against--"

"I don't want your advice! No one asked me if I wanted a Guardian, I don't need a Guardian, Cousin, least of all you."

Yoshi looked at the youth shaking with rage.

Once I was just like you, he thought coldly, a puppet to be ordered this way or that, to be sent away from my own family to be adopted by another, or to be married, or banished and almost murdered six times and all because the gods decided I would be born the son of my father--as you, pathetic fool, were born the son of your father. I'm like you in many ways, but never a fool, always a swordsman, aware of the puppeting, and now hugely different.

Now I am no longer a puppet. Sanjiro of Satsuma doesn't know it yet, but he's made me puppeteer.

"While I am Guardian, I will guard and protect you, Sire," he said. His eyes flicked to the girl, so tiny and delicate, outwardly. "And your family."

She did not meet his eyes. No need. Both knew that war was declared. "We are glad of your protection, Toranaga-sama."

"I'm not!" Nobusada screeched. "You were my rival, now you're nothing! In two years I'm eighteen and then I'll rule alone and you ..." He pointed a shaking finger at Yoshi's impassive face, everyone appalled--except the girl. "Unless you learn to obey I'll... you'll be banished to the North Island forever.

We-are-going-to-Kyoto!"

He swung around. Hastily a guard flung the door open. All bowed as he hurried out.

She followed, then the others and when they were alone again Anjo wiped the sweat off his neck. "She's ... she's the source of all his... agitation, and "brilliance,"" he said sourly. "Since she arrived the fool's become even more stupid than he was and not because he is fornicating himself blind."

Yoshi hid his astonishment that Anjo would make such an obvious though dangerous comment aloud.

"Tea?"

Anjo nodded, morosely, jealous again of his elegance and strength. Nobusada's not such a fool in some ways, he was thinking. I agree with him about you, the sooner you're removed the better, you and Sanjiro, you're both trouble.

Could the Council vote to restrict your powers as Guardian or banish you? It's true you send that foolish boy mad every time he sees you--and her.

If it were not for you I could manage that bitch, Emperor's stepsister or not. And to think that not only was I in favor of the marriage but I put tairo Ii's stratagem into place, even against the Emperor's opposition to such a match.

Didn't we refuse his reluctant first offer of his thirty-year-old daughter, then his one-year-old baby, until eventually, under pressure, he agreed on his stepsister?

Of course the close connection of Nobusada with the Imperial family strengthens us against Sanjiro and the outside lords, against Yoshi and those who wanted him appointed Shogun instead. The connection will be all-powerful once she has a son --that will mellow her and drain her venom. Her pregnancy is overdue. The boy's doctor will increase the dose of ginseng, or give him some of the special pills to improve the boy's performance, terrible to be so limp at his age.

Yes, the sooner she's carrying the better.

He finished his tea. "I will see you at the meeting tomorrow." Both bowed perfunctorily.

Yoshi left and went out onto the battlements needing air and time to think. Below he could see the vast stone fortifications with three encircling moats within moats and impregnable strong points and drawbridges, the walls monstrous. Within the castle walls were quarters for fifty thousand samurai and ten thousand horse, along with spacious halls and palaces for chosen, loyal families--but only Toranaga families within the inner moat--and gardens everywhere.

In the central keep, above and below him, were the most secure living areas and inner sanctum of the reigning Shogun, his family, courtiers and retainers. And the treasure rooms. As Guardian, Yoshi lived here, unwelcome and on the fringe but also secure and with his own guards.

Beyond the outer moat was the first protective circle of daimyo palaces. These were vast, rich, sprawling residences, then circles of lesser ones, then even lesser ones, one such residence for each daimyo in the land. All had been sited by Shogun Toranaga personally and ordered constructed to conform with his new law of sankin-kotai, alternative residence.

"Sankin-kotai," he said, "requires all daimyos to build at once and maintain forever a "suitable residence" under my castle walls in exact positions I have decided, where he, his family and a few senior retainers are to live permanently--each palace to be lavish, and without defenses. One year in three the daimyo will be allowed, and required, to return to his fief and to stay there with his retainers, but without his wife, consorts, mother, father or children, or children's children, or any member of his immediate family--the order in which daimyos leave or remain is also to be carefully regulated according to the following list and timetable..."

The word "hostage" was never mentioned though hostage taking, ordered or offered to ensure compliance, was an ancient custom. Even Toranaga himself had been hostage when a child to the Dictator, Goroda; his own family had been hostage to Goroda's successor, Nakamura, his ally and liege lord; and he, the last and greatest, decided merely to extend the custom into sankin-kotai to keep everyone in thrall.

"At the same time," he wrote in his Legacy, a private document for selected descendants, "Following Shoguns are ordered to encourage all daimyos to build extravagantly, to live elegantly, to dress opulently and entertain lavishly, the quicker to divest them of their fief's yearly revenue of koku which, by correct immutable custom belongs only to the daimyo concerned. In this way all will soon become debt ridden, ever more dependent on us and, more important, without teeth--while we continue to be thrifty and eschew extravagance.

"Even so, some fiefs--Satsuma, Mori, Tosa, Kii for example--are so rich that even these extravagances will leave too dangerous a surplus. From time to time the ruling Shogun will therefore invite the daimyo to present him with a few leagues of a new trunk road, or palace, or garden, pleasure place, or temple, such amounts, times, and frequency are laid down in the following document..."

"So clever, so far-thinking," Yoshi muttered.

Every daimyo in a silken net, powerless to rebel.

But all ruined by Anjo's stupidity.

The first of the Emperor's "requests" brought by Sanjiro to the Council--before Yoshi had become a member--was to abolish this ancient custom. Anjo and the others had prevaricated, argued and finally agreed. Almost overnight the rings of palaces emptied of all wives, consorts, children, relations and warriors and in days became a wasteland with only a few token retainers.

Our most important curb gone forever, Yoshi thought bitterly. How could Anjo have been so inept?

He let his gaze drift beyond the palaces, to the capital city of a million souls that serviced the castle and fed off it, a city crisscrossed with streams and bridges, most constructed of wood. Now there were many fires--the blossoms of earthquakes--all the way to the sea. One great wooden palace was in flames.

Yoshi noticed idly that it belonged to the daimyo of Sai. Good. Sai supports Anjo. The families are gone but the Council can order him to rebuild and the cost will crush him forever. Forget him, what's our shield against the gai-jin? There must be one! Everyone says they could burn Yedo but not break into the castle or sustain a long siege. I do not agree. Yesterday Anjo again told the Elders the well-known story of the Siege of Malta some three hundred years ago, how Turk armies could not pry even six hundred brave knights from their castle. Anjo had said, "We have tens of thousands of samurai all hostile to gai-jin, we must win, they must sail away."

"But neither Turks nor Christians had cannon," he had said. "Don't forget Shogun Toranaga breeched Osaka Castle with gai-jin cannon--these vermin can do likewise here."

"Even if they did, we would have withdrawn safely to the hills long since. Meanwhile every samurai, and every man woman and child in the land--even stinking merchants--would flock to our banner and fall on them like locusts. We have nothing to fear," Anjo had said contemptuously.

"Osaka Castle was different, that was daimyo against daimyo, not an invasion. The enemy cannot sustain a land war. In a land war we must win."

"They would lay waste everything, Anjo-sama.

We would be left with nothing to govern. Our only course is to web gai-jin like a spider webs its far bigger prey. We must be a spider, we must find a web."

But they would not listen to him. What's the web?

"First know the problem," Toranaga wrote in his Legacy, "then, with patience, you can find the solution."

The crux of the problem with the foreigners is simply this: how do we obtain their knowledge, armaments, fleets, wealth and trade on our terms, yet expel them all, cancel the unequal treaties, and never allow one to set foot ashore without severe restrictions?

The Legacy continued: "The answer to all problems for OUR land can be found here, or in Sun-tzu's "The Art of War"--and patience."

Shogun Toranaga was the most patient ruler in the world, he thought, awed for the millionth time.

Even though Toranaga was supreme in the land, outside of Osaka Castle, the invincible stronghold built by his predecessor, Dictator Nakamura, he waited twelve years to spring the trap he had baited, and lay siege to it. The castle was in absolute possession of the Lady Ochiba, the Dictator's widow, their seven-year-old son and heir, Yaemon--to whom Toranaga had solemnly sworn allegiance--and eighty thousand fanatically loyal samurai.

Two years of siege, three hundred thousand troops, cannon from the Dutch privateer Erasmus of Anjin-san, the Englishman who had sailed the ship to Japan, together with a musket regiment also trained by him, a hundred thousand casualties, all his guile and the vital traitor within, before Lady Ochiba and Yaemon committed seppuku rather than be captured.

Then Toranaga had secured Osaka Castle, spiked the cannon, destroyed all muskets, disbanded the musket regiment, had forbidden manufacture or the importation of all firearms, he had broken the power of the Portuguese Jesuit priests and Christian daimyos, reallocated fiefs, sent all enemies onwards, instituted the laws of the Legacy, forbidden all wheels, the building of ocean-going ships, and had, regretfully, taken a third of all revenue for himself and his immediate family.

"He made us strong," Yoshi muttered.

"His Legacy gave us power to keep the land pure, and at peace in the way he designed."

I must not fail him.

Eeee, what a man! How wise of his son, Sudara, the second Shogun, to change the name of the dynasty to Toranaga, instead of the real family name of Yoshi--so that we would never forget the fountainhead.

What would he advise me to do?

First patience, then he would quote Sun-tzu: Know your enemy as you know yourself and you need not fear a hundred battles; know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat; know neither the enemy nor yourself and you will succumb in every battle.

I know some things about the enemy, but not enough.

I bless my father again for making me understand the value of education, for giving me so many varied and special teachers over the years, foreign as well as Japanese. Sad I did not have the gift of tongues and so had to learn through intermediaries: Dutch merchants for world history, an English seaman to check Dutch truth and to open my eyes --just as Toranaga used the Anjin-san in his time --and all the others.

Chinese who taught me government, literature and Sun-tzu's "The Art of War"; the old renegade French priest from Peking who spent half a year teaching me Machiavelli, laboriously translating it into Chinese characters for me as his passport to live in my father's domains and enjoy the Willow World he adored; the American pirate marooned at Izu who told me about cannon and about oceans of grass called prairies, their castle called White House and the wars with which they exterminated the natives of that land; the Russian emigr`e convict from a place called Siberia who claimed he was a prince with ten thousand slaves and told fables of places called Moscow and St. Petersburg, and all the others--some teaching for a few days, some for months but never a year, none of them knowing who I was, and I forbidden to tell them, Father so careful and secretive and so terrible when aroused.

"When these men leave, Father," he had asked in the beginning, "what happens to them? They're all so frightened. Why should that be? You promise them rewards, don't you?"' "You're eleven, my son. I will forgive your rudeness in questioning me, once. To remind you of my magnanimity you will go without food for three days, you will climb Mount Fuji alone and you will sleep without covering."

Yoshi shuddered. At that time he did not know what magnanimity meant. During those days he had almost died but achieved what was ordered of him.

As a reward for his self-discipline his father, daimyo of Mito, had told him he was being adopted by the Hisamatsu family and made heir of that Toranaga branch: "You are my seventh son. In that way you will have your own inheritance, and be of a slightly higher lineage than your brothers."

"Yes Father," he had said, holding back his tears. At that time he did not know he was being groomed to be Shogun, nor was he ever told.

Then, when Shogun Iyeyoshi died of the spotted disease four years ago and he was twenty-two and ready and proposed by his father, tairo Ii had opposed him, and won--Ii's personal forces possessed the Palace Gates.

So his cousin Nobusada was appointed.

Yoshi, his family, his father and all their influential supporters were ordered into severe house arrest. Only when Ii was assassinated was he freed and reinstated with his lands and honors, along with the others who survived. His father had died in house confinement.

I should have been Shogun, he thought for the ten millionth time. I was ready, trained and could have stopped the Shogunate rot, could have formed a new bond between Shogunate and all daimyos, and could have dealt with the gai-jin. I should have had that Princess as wife, I would never have signed those agreements, or allowed the negotiations to go so badly against us. I would have dealt with Townsend Harris and begun a new era of careful change to accommodate the world outside, at our pace, not theirs!

Meanwhile I am not Shogun, Nobusada is elected Shogun correctly, the Treaties exist, Princess Yazu exists, Sanjiro, Anjo and gai-jin are battering at our gates.

He shivered. I had better be even more careful. Poison is an ancient art, an arrow by day or by night, ninja assassins in their hundreds are out there, ready for hire. And then there are the shishi. There must be an answer! What is it?

Sea birds circling and cawing over the city and castle interrupted his thought patterns.

He studied the sky. No sign of change, or tempest, though this was the month of change when the big winds came and, with them winter. Winter will be bad this year. Not a famine like three years ago but the harvest is poor, even less than last year...

Wait! What was it Anjo said that reminded me of something?

He turned and beckoned one of his bodyguards, his excitement rising. "Bring that spy here, the fisherman, what's his name? Ah yes, Misamoto, bring him to my quarters secretly at once--he's confined in the Eastern Guard House."

Tuesday, 16th September

Tuesday, 16th September: Precisely at dawn the cannon of the flagship bellowed the eleven-gun salute as Sir William's cutter came alongside the gangway. From the shore came a faint cheer, every sober man there to watch the departure of the fleet for Yedo. The wind was strengthening, sea fair, light overcast. He was formally piped aboard, Phillip Tyrer in attendance--the rest of his staff already aboard accompanying warships. The two men wore frock coats and top hats.

Tyrer's arm was in a sling.

They saw Admiral Ketterer waiting for them on the main deck, John Marlowe beside him, both in dress uniform--cocked hats, gold braided and buttoned blue cutaways, with white shirts, waistcoats, breeches and stockings, buckled shoes and gleaming swords--and, immediately, Phillip Tyrer thought Damn, how handsome and elegant yet masculine John Marlowe always is, just like Pallidar in his uniform. Damned if I have any dress clothes, or any clothes for that matter to rival them, and poor as a church mouse compared to them and not even a Deputy Secretary yet. Damn! There's nothing like a uniform to flatter a man and give him standing with a girl ...

He almost stumbled into Sir William who had stopped on the top step as the Admiral and Marlowe saluted politely, ignoring him.

Blast, he thought, concentrate, you're equally on duty, equally at the beck and call of the Mighty! Be careful, become part of the scenery too, Wee Willie Winkie's been like a cat with a hornet in his bum since you reported yesterday.

"'Morning, Sir William, welcome aboard."

"Thank you. Good morning to you, Admiral Ketterer," Sir William doffed his hat, followed by Tyrer, their frock coats tugged by the breeze. "Set sail, if you please. The other Ministers are on the French flagship."

"Good." The Admiral motioned to Marlowe.

At once Marlowe saluted, went to the Captain who was on the open bridge, just forward of the single funnel and main mast, and saluted again.

"Admiral's compliments, sir. Make way for Yedo."

The commands went rapidly down the line, the sailors gave three cheers, in moments the anchors were being chanted aboard and in the cramped boiler room three decks below, teams of stokers, stripped to the waist, shoveled more coal into the furnaces to another rhythmic chant, coughing and wheezing in air permanently fouled with coal dust. The other side of the bulkhead in the engine room, the chief Engineer engaged "half ahead," and the huge reciprocating engines began to turn the propeller shaft.

She was H.m.s. Euryalus, built at Chatham eight years ago, a three-masted, one-funnel, screw-assisted, wooden cruiser frigate of 3,200 tons burthen, with 35 guns, a normal complement of 350 officers, seamen and marines--while below decks were 90 stokers and engine room staff. Today all sails were sparred and decks cleared for action.

"A pleasant day, Admiral," Sir William was saying. They were on the quarterdeck, Phillip Tyrer and Marlowe, who had greeted each other silently, hovering close by.

"For the moment," the Admiral agreed testily, always uncomfortable near civilians, particularly someone like Sir William who was his senior in rank. "My quarters are available to you below you if you wish."

"Thank you." Sea gulls were dipping and cawing around their wake. Sir William studied them for a moment, trying to throw off his depression. "Thank you but I'd rather be on deck. You haven't met Mr. Tyrer, I believe? He's our new apprentice interpreter."

For the first time the Admiral acknowledged Tyrer.

"Welcome aboard, Mr. Tyrer, we can certainly use Japanese speakers here. How's your wound?"

"Not too bad, sir, thank you," Tyrer said, trying to retreat once more into anonymity.

"Good. Rotten business." The Admiral's pale blue eyes ranged the sea and his ship, his face florid and weatherbeaten, with heavy jowls and a choleric roll of flesh on the back of his neck over his starched collar. For a moment he watched the smoke critically, noting its color and smell, then grunted and brushed some specks of coal dust off his impeccable waistcoat.

"Something's amiss?"

"No, Sir William. The coals we get here don't compare with Shanghai best, or good Welsh or Yorkshire coals. Too much clinker in it. It's cheap enough when we can get it but that's not often. You should insist on an increased supply, it's a major problem for us here, major."

Sir William nodded wearily. "I have but they don't appear to have any locally."

"Filthy stuff, wherever it comes from. We can't use sail today, not with this wind against us. Engine assists are perfect for this sort of exercise and close inshore maneuvers, or docking. With the best man-of-war afloat, under sails, even a tea clipper--we'd take five times as long to get to Yedo and not have enough sea room for safety.

More's the pity."

Sir William was out of humor after another sleepless night and reacted instantly to the Admiral's discourtesy and stupidity telling him something that was obvious. "Really?" he said thinly.

"Never mind, soon we'll have a completely stinkpot navy, no sail at all and that will be that."

Tyrer hid a smile as the Admiral flushed for this was a sore point with naval officers and widely discussed in the London newspapers who blithely dubbed future fleets as "Stink pots of various sizes, commanded by stink potters of various sizes, who will be dressed accordingly."

"That won't happen in the foreseeable future and never for long-haul cruising, blockades or battle fleets." The Admiral almost spat the words out. "There's no way we can carry all the coal we need between ports and still have fighting ships. We must have sails to conserve fuel.

Civilians have little understanding of naval matters ..." This reminded him of the present Liberal government's attack on the current Navy estimates and his blood pressure went up another notch. "Meanwhile to secure our sea lanes and keep the Empire inviolate, as a corner stone of government policy the Royal Navy must maintain the equation of twice as many ships--wooden or ironclads, steam and sail-- as the next two other navies combined, with the biggest and best engines and most modern cannon, shells, and explosives in the world."

"An admirable idea, but now out of date, not practical, and I'm afraid too rich for the Chancellor of the Exchequer and government to stomach."

"It better not be, by God." The roll of neck flesh went pink. "Mr. Pennypinching Gladstone better learn right smartly where his priorities lie. I've said it before: the sooner the Liberals are out and the Tories back in power the better! Not because of them, thank God the Royal Navy still has enough ships and firepower to sink any French, Russian or American fleets in their home waters if need be. But say those three combine against us in the coming conflict?"

Irritably the Admiral turned and bellowed though Marlowe was close by, "Mr. Marlowe!

Signal the Pearl! She's out of station, by God!"

"Aye aye sir!" Marlowe left at once.

Sir William glanced astern, seeing nothing amiss with the following ships, then again concentrated on the Admiral. "Foreign Secretary Russell's too clever to be drawn into it.

Prussia will war on France, Russia will stay out, the Americans are too involved with their civil war, Spanish Cuba and Philippines, and sniffing around the Hawaiian islands. By the way, I've proposed we annex one or two of those islands before the Americans do, they'd make perfect coaling stations..."

Marlowe was sourly heading for the signalman, his eyes on H.m.s. Pearl, his ship, a Jason-class three-masted, single-funneled, 21-gun, screw frigate of 2,100 tons burthen, temporarily in the command of his Number One, Lieutenant Lloyd, wishing he was aboard her and no longer the Admiral's lackey. He gave the signalman the message, watched him use the signal flags and read the reply before the young man reported, "He says sorry, sorr."

"How long have you been a signalman?"

"Three months sir."

"You'd best look up your codes, right smartly. The message said: "Captain Lloyd of H.m.s. Pearl apologizes." Make another mistake and your balls are in the wringer."

"Yessir, sorry sir," the crestfallen youth said.

Marlowe went back to the Admiral. To his relief the potential row between the two men seemed to have simmered down and now they were discussing alternative plans of action at Yedo and the long term implications of the Tokaido attack.

While he waited for a lull in the conversation, he cautiously cocked an eyebrow at Tyrer--who smiled back--wanting to be dismissed so he could ask him about Kanagawa and Angelique. He had had to leave the same day Sir William had arrived, three days ago, and had no first-hand information on what had occurred since then.

"Yes, Mr. Marlowe?" The Admiral listened to the message and at once rasped: "Send another signal: report aboard my flagship at sunset." He saw Marlowe wince. "And well you might, Mr. Marlowe.

Such an apology is insufficient excuse for slackness in my fleet. Is it?"

"No sir."

"Consider who should take over your ship in his place--not you!" Admiral Ketterer turned back to Sir William. "You were saying? You don't th--" A gust crackled the rigging.

Both officers looked aloft, then at the sky and all around, tasting the wind. No sign of danger yet, though both knew that the weather this month was unpredictable and in these waters storms came suddenly. "You were saying? You don't think the authorities, this Bakufu, will do what we require?"

"No, not without some form of force. At midnight I got another apology from them and a request for a month's delay so they could "consult higher ups" and more such nonsense--my God, they can prevaricate. I sent the bloody messenger back with a flea in his ear and a curt, rather rude message to give us satisfaction or else."

"Quite right."

"When we anchor off Yedo, can we fire as many salutes as possible, create an entrance?"

"We'll make it 21 guns, a royal salute. I suppose this mission could be construed as a formal visit to their Royalty." Without turning, the Admiral rasped: "Mr. Marlowe, give the order, for the whole fleet and ask the French Admiral if he would do likewise."

"Yessir." Again Marlowe saluted and rushed off.

"The plan for Yedo is still as we agreed?"

Sir William nodded. "Yes. I and my party will go ashore to the Legation--a hundred soldiers as an honor guard should be enough, the Highlanders, their uniforms and bagpipes will be the most impressive. The rest of the plan remains the same."

"Good." Uneasily the Admiral stared ahead. "We'll be able to see Yedo when we get around that headland." His face hardened. "It's one thing to rattle a few sabres and fire off a few blank cannonades but I don't agree to bombard and burn that city--without a legal state of war."

Sir William said carefully, "Let's hope I don't have to ask Lord Palmerston to declare one, or for me to legalize one forced on us. A full report's on the way to him.

Meanwhile his reply is four months away so we have to do the best we can, as usual. These murders must stop, the Bakufu must be brought to heel, one way or another. Now is the perfect time."

"Admiralty instructions are to be prudent."

"By the same post I sent an urgent message to the Governor of Hong Kong also advising him what I planned to do and asking what reinforcements in ships and men could be available if necessary, and about Mr. Struan's condition."

"Oh? When was that, Sir William?"

"Yesterday. Struan's had a clipper available, Mr. McFay agreed the matter merited the most immediate haste."

Ketterer said caustically, "This whole incident seems to be a Struan cause celebre, the fellow who was killed hardly gets a mention, it's nothing but Struan, Struan, Struan."

"The Governor's a personal friend of the family, and the family is, er, very well connected, very important to Her Majesty's trading interests in Asia and China. V."

"They've always sounded like a bunch of pirates to me, gunrunning, opium running, anything for a profit."

"Both are legal enterprises, my dear Admiral. Struan's are highly respectable, Admiral, with very important connections in Parliament."

The Admiral was unimpressed. "A lot of ne'er-do-wells there too, by God, if you don't mind my saying. Bloody idiots most of the time, trying to cut Navy funds and our fleets-- stupid when England depends on sea power."

"I agree we need the best Navy with the most competent officers to carry out Imperial policy," Sir William said. Marlowe, near the Admiral, heard the thinly veiled barb. A quick glance at the back of his superior's neck confirmed the barb had registered. He braced for the inevitable.

"Imperial policy? Seems to me," the Admiral said sharply, "the Navy spends most of its time pulling civilian and trader fingers out of their smelly holes when their greed or double-dealing takes them into messes they should never have been in in the first place. As for those bastards there," his stubby finger pointed at Yokohama on the port side, "they're the worst bunch of scallywags I've ever seen." "Some are, most not, Admiral." Sir William's chin came out. "Without traders and trade there'd be no money, no Empire and no Navy."

The red neck became purple. "Without the Navy there would be no trade and England would not have become the greatest nation in the world, the richest, with the greatest Empire the world has ever seen, by God."

Balls, Sir William wanted to shout, but he knew that if he did, here on the quarterdeck of the flagship, the Admiral would have apoplexy, Marlowe and every sailor within hearing distance would faint. The thought amused him and removed most of the venom that sleepless nights worrying over the Tokaido affair had caused, and permitted him to be diplomatic. "The Navy is the senior service, Admiral. And many share your opinion. I trust we'll be on time?"

"Yes, yes we will." The Admiral eased his shoulders, somewhat mollified, his head aching from the bottle of port he had consumed after dinner, on top of the claret. The ship was making about seven knots, into wind, which pleased him. He checked the lie of the fleet. Now H.m.s. Pearl was very carefully astern, with two 10-gun paddle sloops to port. The French flagship, a three-masted, 20-gun ironclad paddle frigate was carelessly to starboard. "Her helmsman should be put in irons! She could do with a new coat of paint, new rigging, fumigating to get rid of the garlic, and a bloody good holy-stoning and their crew keelhauled. Don't you agree, Mr. Marlowe?"

"Yes sir."

When he was satisfied all was correct, the Admiral then turned back to Sir William.

"This, this Struan family and their so-called Noble House, is it really so important?"

"Yes. Their trade is enormous, their influence in Asia, notably in China without compare, except for Brock and Sons."

"I've seen their clippers of course.

Beauties, and very well armed." The Admiral added bluntly, "I hope to Christ they don't try to peddle opium, or guns here."

"Personally I agree though it's not against present law."

"It is, according to Chinese law. Or Japan's."

"Yes, but there are mitigating circumstances,"

Sir William said wearily. He had been through the same explanation dozens of times. "I'm sure you know Chinese will only accept cash, silver or gold, for the tea we must import, nothing else. The only merchandise they'll pay cash for--gold or silver--is opium, nothing else. It's very unfortunate."

"Then it's up to traders and Parliament and diplomats to pull their fingers out. For the last twenty years the Royal Navy has been enforcing illegal laws in Asia, bombarding China ports and cities, doing all sorts of rotten acts of war, in my opinion just to support opium--a blot on our escutcheon!"

Sir William sighed. His orders from the Permanent Under Secretary had been precise: "For Christ's sake, dear Willie, this is the first time you'll be Minister in charge so be careful, don't make any precipitous decisions, unless they're necessary.

You're astonishingly lucky, the telegraph wire has already reached Bagdad so we can get and send messages there in an incredible seven days, add another six-odd weeks by steamer to Yokohama through the Persian Gulf, Indian Ocean via Singapore and Hong Kong, our instructions will only take an incredible two months to arrive--not the twelve to fifteen months ten-odd years ago. So if you need guidance, which you will all the time if you're wise, you're about four months off our leash, and that's the only thing that protects your neck and our Empire.

Clear?"' "Yes sir."

"Rule number one: Handle the service Brass with velvet gloves and don't overrule them lightly because your life and those of all Englishmen in your area depend on them. They're inclined to be boneheaded, which is excellent for obviously we need lots of these sort of fellows to go off and get killed defending our, well, Imperial policy. Do not make waves, Japan is unimportant but in our sphere of influence and we've spent considerable time and money finessing the Russians, Americans and French out. Do not foul up our Japanese nest, we've enough on our Imperial plate with rebellious Indians, Afghans, Arabs, Africans, Persians, Caribbeans, Chinese to say nothing of the rotten Europeans, Americans, Russians etc. My dear dear Willie, be diplomatic and don't fuck up or else!"

Sir William sighed again, bottled his temper, and repeated what he had said a dozen times, the truth: "A lot of what you say is correct, but unfortunately we have to be practical, without tax revenue on tea the whole British economy will collapse.

Let's hope in a few years our Bengal opium fields can be torched. Meanwhile we have to be patient."

"Meanwhile I suggest you embargo all opium here, all modern weapons, all modern warships, and all slavery."

"Of course I agree about slavery, that's been outlawed since '33!" Sir William's voice edged perceptibly. "The Americans have been informed long since. As to the rest, unfortunately that's up to London."

The Admiral's chin jutted even further.

"Well, sir, I have certain powers in these waters. You can take it I am instituting such an embargo now. I've heard disquieting rumors about Struan's ordering rifles and cannon for sale, they've already sold these natives three or four armed steamers and the Jappers learn too fast for my liking. I will write formally by tomorrow's mail to the Admiralty to ask them to insist my orders are made permanent."

The Minister's face mottled, he planted his feet even more firmly into the deck. "An admirable idea," he said icily. "I will write by the same mail. Meanwhile you cannot make such an order without my approval and until we have a directive from the Foreign Office the status quo remains the status quo!"

Both of their aides blanched. The Admiral looked at Sir William, of a height with him.

All officers and most men would have quailed but Sir William just stared back. "I'll...

I'll consider what you say, Sir William.

Now if you'll excuse me I have things to do."

He turned and stomped off for the bridge. Weakly Marlowe began to follow. "For Christ's sake, Marlowe, stop following me like a puppy. If I want you I'll shout. Stay within shouting distance!"

"Yessir." When the man was well away Marlowe exhaled.

Sir William had exhaled too and he mopped his brow and muttered, "Awfully glad I'm not in the Navy."

"Me too," Tyrer said, amazed by the Minister's courage.

Marlowe's heart was racing, hating to be bellowed at, even by an Admiral, but he did not forget himself. "I, er... excuse me, sir, but the fleet's very safe in his hands, sir, and the expedition, and we all believe he's quite right about selling ships, guns, cannon and opium.

Japanners are already building ships and making small cannon, this year they sailed their first iron steamship, the 300-ton Kanrin maru to San Francisco, crewed and captained entirely by them. They've mastered the deep. That's remarkable in such a short time."

"Yes, yes it is." Sir William wondered briefly how the Japanese Delegation that went with this ship had fared in Washington, and what mischief President Lincoln would generate against our glorious Empire. Aren't we dependent on Confederate cotton for our Lancashire mills that are being ruined? At the same time aren't we increasingly dependent on abundant Union wheat and corn and meat and other trade? He shuddered. God damn that war! And politicians, and Lincoln. Didn't the man's inaugural speech in March include: "... this country belongs to the people and whenever they shall grow weary of their government they can exercise their constitutional right to amend it, or revolutionary right to dismember it or overthrow it..."

Inflammatory to say the least! If that idea spread to Europe! My God! Dreadful! We may be at war with them any day, certainly at sea. Must have cotton.

He was trying to collect himself, heartily relieved that the Admiral had backed down and still cursing himself for losing control. You've got to be more careful, and mustn't worry about Yedo and your stupid, arrogant decision to "go there by God in three days in a battleship and see the Shogun by God!" as though you're Clive of India. You're not. This is your first tour of the Far East and you're a novitiate. Madness to put all these men at risk over a few murders, madness to risk a full-scale war. But is it?

Sorry, but no.

If the Bakufu get away with this killing, then there will be no end and we will be forced to withdraw-- until allied battle fleets return to enforce Imperial wills bloodily. Your decision is correct, the manner of reaching it wrong. Yes, but it's damned difficult with no one to talk to --who you can trust. Thank God Daphne arrives in a couple of months. I never thought I'd miss her and her counsel so much. I can't wait to see her and my boys--ten months is a long time and I know the change from London's stinking pea soup fogs and gloom will make her happy and please her and it will be grand for the boys.

We could use some English ladies in the Settlement, of the right sort. We'll go on trips and she will make the Legation a home.

His eyes focused on the approaching headland.

Around it is Yedo and the cannonade. Was that wise? he asked himself queasily. I hope so.

Then the landing and going to the Legation. You've got to do that--and prepare for the meeting tomorrow. You're alone in this. Henri Seratard's waiting for you to mess up, hoping. And the Russian.

But you're the one in charge and it's your job, and don't forget you wanted to be "Minister" somewhere, anywhere. Indeed I did, but I never expected Japan! Damn the Foreign Office.

I've never been in a situation like this: all my experience has been at the French or Russian desk in London or at the Court of St.

Petersburg, odd postings wangled to glorious Paris and Monaco with never a warship or regiment in sight...

Marlowe was saying stiffly, "I hope you don't mind, sir, me giving my opinion of the Admiral's position."

"Oh, not at all." Sir William made an effort to put his worry aside: I will try to avoid war, but if it is to be, it will be.

"You're quite right, Mr. Marlowe, and of course I'm honored to have Admiral Ketterer in charge," he said, and at once felt better.

"Our difference of opinion was over protocol.

Yes, but at the same time we should be encouraging the Japanese to industrialize and to sail ships, one ship or twenty's nothing to be concerned about.

We should encourage them--we're not here to colonize, but it is we who should be training them, Mr. Marlowe, not the Dutch or the French.

Thank you for reminding me--the more our influence here the better." He was feeling lighter. It was rare for him to be able to talk freely to one of the up-and-coming captains and he found Marlowe impressive, both here and at Kanagawa. "Do all officers detest civilians and traders?"

"No sir. But I don't think many of us understand them. We have different lives, different priorities. It's difficult for us at times."

Most of Marlowe's attention was on the Admiral who was talking to the Captain on the bridge, everyone nearby uneasily aware of him. The sun broke through the overcast and all at once the day seemed better. "To be in the Navy is, well, it's all I ever wanted to do."

"Your family is naval?"

At once Marlowe said proudly, "Yes sir," wanting to add my father's a Captain, presently in the Home Fleet--so was his father, he was Flag Lieutenant to Admiral Lord Collingwood in Royal Sovereign at Trafalgar--and my forebearers have been in the Navy since there was one. And before that, so legend goes, they ran privateers out of Dorset where the family comes from--we've lived there, in the same house, for more than four centuries. But he said none of it, his training telling him it would sound like boasting. He just added, "My family come from Dorset."

"Mine come from the north of England, Northumberland, for generations," Sir William said absently, his eyes on the approaching headland, his mind on the Bakufu. "My father died when I was young--he was a Member of Parliament, with business interests in Sunderland and London, and dealt in the Baltic trade and Russian furs. My mother was Russian so I grew up bilingual and that got me on the first rung of the F.o. She was..." He caught himself just in time, astonished that he had volunteered so much.

He had been going to add that she, his mother, was born the Countess Sveva, a cousin to the Romanovs, that she was still alive and once had been a lady-in-waiting to Queen Victoria. I must really concentrate--as if my family and background was any of their business. "Er, what about you, Tyrer?"

"London, sir. Father's a solicitor, like his father." Phillip Tyrer laughed. "After I got my degree at London University and told him I wanted to join the Foreign Office he almost had a fit! And when I applied to become an interpreter in Japan he told me I'd gone mad."

"Perhaps he was right, you're damned lucky to be alive and you're hardly here a week. Don't you agree, Marlowe?"

"Yes sir. That's true." Marlowe thought the time apt. "Phillip. By the way, how is Mr.Struan?"

"Neither good nor bad was how George Babcott put it."

"I certainly hope he recovers," Sir William said, a sudden ache in his bowels.

When he had gone to Kanagawa three days ago, Marlowe had met his cutter and told him what he knew about Struan and Tyrer, about losing the soldier, the suicide of the assassin, and chasing the other one.

"We charged after the bugger, Sir William, Pallidar and I, but the man had just vanished.

We combed the surrounding houses but nothing. Tyrer thinks they might be the two Tokaido attackers, sir, the murderers. But he's not sure, most of them look alike, don't they?"' "But if they were the two, why should they risk going to the Legation?"' "The best we could come up with was perhaps to prevent identification and to finish the job, sir."

They had left the wharf and hurried through the ominously deserted streets. "What about the girl, Mr. Marlowe?"' "Seems to be fine, sir. Just shaken."

"Good, thank God for that, the French Minister is wound up as tight as a gnat's bum about the "vile insult to honor of France and one of his nationals who is also his ward." The sooner she's back in Yokohama the better--oh by the way, the Admiral asked me to tell you to return to Yokohama at once. There's a lot to do.

We, er, we've decided to pay Yedo a formal visit in three days, by flagship..."

Marlowe had felt his excitement explode.

Sea or land engagements were the only real way to quick promotion and to the Admiral's bars he would have at all costs. I'll make the Old Man proud of me, and get Flag Rank long before Charles and Percy, his two younger brothers, both Lieutenants.

And now on the deck of the flagship, the sun good, the deck throbbing with the power of the engines, his excitement welled up again. "We'll be off Yedo before you know it, sir, your entrance will be the biggest that's ever been, you'll get the murderers, indemnity and anything else you want."

Both Tyrer and Sir William had heard the excitement, but Sir William only felt chilled. "Yes, well, I think I'll go below for a minute, no thank you, Mr. Marlowe, I know the way."

With great relief, the two young men watched him go. Marlowe checked that the Admiral was within sight. "What happened at Kanagawa after I left, Phillip?"

"It was, well, extraordinary, she was extraordinary, if that's what you were asking."

"How so?"

"About five o'clock she came down and went straight to see Malcolm Struan and stayed with him until dinner--that's when I saw her. She seemed... seemed older, no, that's not quite right either, not older but more serious than before, mechanical. George says she's still in some form of shock. During dinner Sir William said he'd take her back with him to Yokohama but she just thanked him and refused, said she'd first have to make sure Malcolm was all right, and neither he nor George nor any of us could persuade her otherwise. She hardly ate anything and went back to his sickroom, stayed with him and even insisted on having a cot made up there so she could be within call if need be. In fact, for the next two days, until yesterday when I went back to Yokohama, she hardly left his side and we barely spoke a dozen words to her."

Marlowe covered a sigh. "She must love him."

"That's the strange part. Neither Pallidar or I think that's the reason. It's almost as though she's... well disembodied is too strong a word. It's more like she's partially in a dream and that being with him is safe."

"Christ! What did Sawbones say?"

"He just shrugged and said to be patient, not to worry, and that she was the best tonic Malcolm Struan could have."

"I can imagine. How is he, really?"

"Drugged most of the time, lot of pain, lot of vomit and loose bowels--don't know how she stands the smell though the window's open all the time." Fear washed over both of them at the thought of being so wounded and so helpless. Tyrer glanced ahead, to hide, still deeply conscious that his own wound had not yet healed, knowing it could still rot, and that his sleep had been nightmared with samurai and bleeding swords and her.

"Every time I popped by to see Malcolm--and to be honest to see her," he continued, "she just answered me with "yes, no or I don't know," so after a while I gave up. She's, she's still as attractive as ever."

Marlowe wondered: if Struan wasn't around was she truly out of reach? How serious a rival could Tyrer be? Pallidar he dismissed as not in the same league--she couldn't like that pompous bugger.

"My word, look!" Tyrer said.

They were rounding the headland and they saw the vast Bay of Yedo before them, open sea to starboard, smoke from cooking fires of the sprawling city shrouding it, the landscape and overlording castle.

Astonishingly the bay was almost empty of the multitude of ferries and sampans and fishing boats that normally abounded, with the few there scurrying for shore.

Tyrer was very uneasy. "Is it going to be war?"

After a pause, Marlowe said, "They had their warning. Most of us think, no, not a full-scale war, not yet, not this time. There'll be incidents ..." Then, because he liked Tyrer and admired his courage, he opened his mind to him. "There'll be incidents and skirmishes of various sizes, some of our people will get killed, some will discover they are cowards, some will become heroes, most will be petrified from time to time, some will be decorated but of course we will win."

Tyrer thought about that, remembering how frightened he had already been but how Babcott had convinced him that the first time was the worst time, how brave Marlowe had been rushing after the assassin, how ravishing Angelique was--and how good it was to be alive, young, with one foot on the ladder to "Minister."

He smiled. Its warmth lit up Marlowe as well. "All's fair in love and war, isn't it?" he said.

Angelique was sitting in the window of the sickroom at Kanagawa, staring into space, the sun breaking through the powder-puff clouds from time to time, her heavily perfumed handkerchief to her nose. Behind her Struan was half awake half asleep. In the garden soldiers patrolled constantly. Since the attack security had been redoubled, more troops sent from the Yokohama encampment, with Pallidar temporarily in command.

A tap on the door pulled her from her reverie. "Yes?" she said, hiding the kerchief in her hand.

It was Lim. Beside him was a Chinese orderly with a tray. "Food for Master. Missee wantchee eat, heya?"

"Put there!" she ordered, and pointed at the beside table. She was about to ask for her tray to be brought as usual, then changed her mind, thinking it safe. "Tonight, tonight Missee food dining room. Unn'erstan, heya?"

"Unn'erstan." Lim laughed to himself, knowing that when she thought she was alone she used the kerchief.

Ayeeyah, is her nose as small and delicate as her other part? Smell? What's the smell they complain of? There's no smell of death here yet. Should I tell the tai-pan's son that news is bad from Hong Kong? Ayeeyah, better he finds out for himself. "Unn'erstan."

He beamed and left.

"Cheri?" Automatically she offered the chicken soup.

"Later, thank you, darling," Malcolm Struan said as expected, his voice very weak.

"Try to take some," she said as usual, again he refused.

Back once more to her seat in the window and her daydreams--about being safe at home in Paris again, in the great house of her uncle Michel and her darling Emma, the highborn English aunt who had mothered her and brought her and her brother up when her father had left so many years ago for Hong Kong, all of them surrounded in luxury, Emma planning luncheons and riding in the Bois on her prize stallion, the envy of everyone, charming the massed aristocracy and being fawned on in return, then bowing so gracefully to Emperor Louis Napoleon--Napoleon Bonaparte's nephew--and his Empress, Eugenie, and their smiling recognition.

Boxes at theatres, La Comedie francaise, choice tables at Trois Freres Provencaux, her coming of age, seventeen, the talk of the season, Uncle Michel recounting his adventures at the gambling tables and the races, whispering naughty stories about his aristocratic friends, his mistress, the Countess Beaufois, so beautiful and seductive and devoted.

All daydreams of course for he was only a junior Deputy in the War Ministry, and Emma, English yes but an actress from a travelling group of Shakespearean players, daughter of a clerk, but neither with enough money for the outward display so necessary for Angelique in the capital of the world, for the spectacular horse, or two-in-hand and carriage that she needed so desperately to break into real society, the real upper echelon, to meet those who would marry and not just bed and flaunt and soon to pass on to a younger flower.

"Please please please, Uncle Michel, it's so important!"

"I know, my little cabbage," he had said sadly on her seventeenth birthday when she had begged for a particular gelding and the riding clothes to match. "There's nothing more I can do, there are no more favors I can ask, I know no more arms to twist, or other moneylenders to persuade. I possess no State secrets to sell, or princes to promote. There's your young brother and our daughter to consider."

"But please, darling Uncle."

"I have one last idea and enough francs for a modest passage out to join your father. A few clothes, no more."

Then the making of the clothes, all perfect, then trying them on and refitting and improving and yes, the green silk gown as well as all the others-- Uncle Michel won't mind--then the excitement of the first railway journey to Marseille, steamer to Alexandria in Egypt, overland to Port Said past the first diggings of Monsieur de Lesseps' canal at Suez that all wise informed people believe it was just another stock promotion, that it would never be finished, or if it was, would partially empty the Mediterranean because those seas were higher than the seas below. Onwards, everything begged pleaded beguiled and from the very beginning correctly First Class: "The difference is really so tiny, dear dear Uncle Michel ..."

Sweet winds and new faces, exotic nights and good days, the beginning of the great adventure, at the end of the rainbow a handsome, rich husband like Malcolm now all spoiled because of a filthy native!

Why can't I just think about the good parts, she asked herself in sudden anguish? Why is it good thoughts dribble into the bad and then into the awful and then I start thinking about what truly happened and begin to cry.

Don't, she ordered herself, forcing away the tears. Behave. Be strong!

You decided before you left your room: nothing happened, you will act as normally until your next period arrives. When it begins--it will begin-- then you are safe.

But if, if it doesn't?

You won't think about that. Your future will not be torn asunder, that wouldn't be fair. You will pray and you will stay close to Malcolm, and pray for him too, and act the Florence Nightingale, and then perhaps you will marry him.

She glanced at him over the handkerchief. To her surprise he was watching her.

"Is the smell still so awful?" he asked sadly.

"No, cheri," she said, pleased the lie sounded more sincere each time and required less effort. "Some soup, yes?"

Wearily he nodded, knowing that he must have some nourishment but whatever he consumed would inevitably be retched out of him and tear the stitches, within and without, and the pain that followed would unman him again, much as he tried to contain it. "Dew neh loh moh," he muttered. The curse was Cantonese, his first language.

She held the cup and he drank and she wiped his chin, and drank a little more. Half of him wanted to order her away until he was up and about again, the other half terrified she would leave and never return. "Sorry about all this--I love your being here."

For a reply she just touched his forehead gently, wanting to leave, needing fresh air, not trusting herself to speak. The less you speak the better, she had decided. Then you will not be trapped.

She watched herself minister to him and settle him and all the while let her mind drift to ordinary happenings, to Hong Kong or to Paris, mostly Paris. Never would she allow herself to dwell on that night's wake-sleep dream. Never during the day, too dangerous. Only at night when the door was safely barred and she was alone and safe in bed could she release the dam and permit her mind to voyage where it would...

A knock. "Yes?" Babcott strode in.

She flushed under his gaze. Why is it I think he can always read my thoughts.

"Just wanted to see how both my patients are doing," he said jovially. "Well, Mr.Struan, how are you?"

"About the same, thank you."

Dr. Babcott's sharp eyes noticed that half the soup had gone but there was no vomit yet to clear up. Good. He held Struan's wrist.

Pulse rate jumpy but better than before.

Forehead still clammy, still a temperature but that's also lower than yesterday. Dare I hope he will actually recover? His mouth was saying how improved the patient was, that it must be the ministrations of the lady, nothing to do with him, the usual. Yes, but so little else to say, so much up to God, if there's a God. Why do I always add that? If.

"If you continue to improve I think that we should move you back to Yokohama. Perhaps tomorrow."

"That's not wise," she said at once, frightened she would lose her haven, her voice harsher than she had wanted.

"Sorry but it is," Babcott said kindly, wanting at once to calm her, admiring her fortitude and concern over Struan. "I wouldn't advise it if there was a risk but it would be wise, really. Mr. Struan would have much more comfort, more help."

"Mon Dieu, what else can I do? He mustn't leave, not yet, not yet."

"Listen, darling," Struan said, trying to sound strong. "If he thinks I can move back, that would be good, really. It would free you and make it easier."

"But I don't want to be free, I want us to stay here, exactly as it is now without... without any fuss." She felt her heart pumping and she knew she was sounding hysterical but she had not planned for a move. Stupid, you're stupid. Of course there would have to be a move. Think! What can you do to prevent it?

But there was no need to prevent anything. Struan was saying that she should not be concerned, it would be better to be back in the Settlement, she would be safer and he would be happier and there were dozens of servants and suites of rooms in the Struan Building, that if she wished she could have the suite next to his and she could stay or leave, just as she wished, with constant access by day or by night. "Please don't worry, I want you to be content too," he assured her. "You'll be more comfortable, I promise, and when I'm better I'll..."

A spasm took him and used him.

After Babcott had cleaned up and Struan was once more drugged asleep, he said quietly, "It really would be better for him there. I've more help, more materials, it's almost impossible to keep everything clean here. He needs... sorry but he needs stronger aid. You do more than you can imagine for him, but certain functions his Chinese servants can do better for him. Sorry to be blunt."

"You don't have to apologize, Doctor.

You're right and I understand." Her mind had been racing. The suite next to Malcolm's will be ideal, and servants and fresh clothes. I'll find a seamstress and have beautiful dresses made, and be correctly chaperoned and in command--of him and of my future. "I only want what's best for him," she said, then added quietly, needing to know, "How long will he be like this?"

"Confined to bed and fairly helpless?"

"Yes, please tell me the truth.

Please."

"I don't know. At least two or three weeks, perhaps more, and he won't be very mobile for a month or two after that." He glanced at the inert man a moment. "I'd prefer you didn't say anything to him. It would worry him unnecessarily."

She nodded to herself, content and at ease now, everything in place. "Don't worry, I won't say a word. I pray he'll get strong quickly and promise to help all I can."

As Dr. Babcott left her he was thinking over and over, My God, what a wonderful woman! If Struan lives or dies, he's a lucky man to be loved so much.

The 21-gun salute from each of the six warships, anchored off Yedo, that had accompanied the flagship echoed and re-echoed, all personnel in the fleet excited and proud of their power and that the time for restitution had come.

"Thus far and no further, Sir William,"

Phillip Tyrer exulted, standing beside him at the gunnel, the smell of cordite heady. The city was vast. Silent. The castle dominant.

"We'll see."

On the bridge of the flagship the Admiral said quietly to the General, "This should convince you that our Wee Willie's just a little popinjay with delusions of grandeur. Royal salute be damned. We'd better watch our backsides."

"You're right, by Jove! Yes. I'll add it to my monthly report to inform the War Office."

On the deck of the French flagship, Henri Seratard was puffing his pipe and laughing with the Russian Minister. "Mon Dieu, my dear Count, this is a happy day! The honor of France will be vindicated by normal English arrogance. Sir William is bound to fail.

Perfidious Albion is more perfidious than ever."

"Yes. Disgusting that it's their fleet and not ours."

"But soon your fleets and ours will have replaced them."

"Yes. Then we're secretly agreed? When the English leave, we take Japan's North Island, plus Sakhalin, the Kuriles and all islands linking it to Russian Alaska--France the rest."

"Agreed. As soon as Paris gets my memorandum it will surely be ratified at the highest level, secretly." He smiled.

"When a vacuum exists, it is our diplomatic duty to fill it..."

With the cannonade a great fear exploded over Yedo. All remaining skeptics joined the masses clogging every road and bridge and lane, fleeing with the few possessions they could carry--of course no wheels anywhere--everyone expecting that bursting shells and rockets they had heard of but had never witnessed would any moment rain fire and their city would burn, burn, burn and them with it.

"Death to gai-jin," was on every lip.

"Hurry... Out of the way... Hurry!" people were shouting, here and there in panic, a few crushed or shoved off bridges or into houses, most stoically plodding onwards--but always away from the sea. "Death to gai-jin!" they said as they fled.

The exodus had begun this morning, the moment the fleet had weighed anchor in Yokohama harbor though, three days earlier the more prudent merchants had quietly hired the best porters and removed themselves, their families and valuables when rumors of the unfortunate incident--and the resulting foreign uproar and demands--had flashed through the city.

Only the samurai in the castle and those manning the outer defenses and strong points were still in place. And, as always and everywhere, the carrion of the streets, animal and human, who slunk and sniffed around the lockless houses, seeking what could be stolen and later sold. Very little was stolen.

Looting was considered a particularly hideous crime and, from time immemorial, perpetrators would be pursued relentlessly until caught and then crucified. Any form of stealing was punished in the same fashion.

Within the castle keep, Shogun Nobusada and Princess Yazu were cowering behind a flimsy screen, their arms around each another, their guards, maids and court ready for instant departure, only awaiting the Guardian's permission to leave. Everywhere in the castle proper, men were preparing defenses in depth, others harnessing horses and packing the most valuable possessions of the Elders for evacuation, with their owners, the moment shelling began or word was brought to the Council that enemy troops were disembarking.

In the Council chamber at the hurriedly convened meeting of the Elders, Yoshi was saying, "I repeat, I don't believe they'll attack us in force, or sh--"

"And I see no reason to wait. To go is prudent, they will start shelling any moment,"

Anjo said. "The first cannonade was their warning."

"I don't think so, I think it was just an arrogant announcement of their presence. There were no shells in the city. The fleet won't shell us and I repeat I believe the meeting tomorrow will take place as planned. At the meet--"

"How can you be so blind? If our positions were reversed and you commanded that fleet and possessed that overwhelming power, would you hesitate for a moment?"

Anjo was stark with rage. "Well, would you?"

"No, of course not! But they are not us and we not them and that's the way to control them."

"You are beyond understanding!" In exasperation Anjo turned to the other three Councillors. "The Shogun must be taken to a safe place, we must go too to carry on the government. That's all I propose, a temporary absence. Except for our personal retainers, all other samurai will stay, the Bakufu stays." Once more he glared at Yoshi. "You stay if you wish. Now we will vote: the temporary absence is approved!"

"Wait! If you do that the Shogunate will lose face forever, we'll never be able to control the daimyos and their opposition--or the Bakufu.

Never!"

"We are just being prudent! The Bakufu remains in place. So do all warriors. As Chief Councillor it's my right to call for a vote, so vote! I vote Yes!"

"I say No!" Yoshi said.

"I agree with Yoshi-san," Utani said.

He was a short, thin man with kind eyes and spare visage. "I agree if we leave we lose face forever."

Yoshi smiled back, liking him--daimyos of the Watasa fief were ancient allies since before Sekigahara. He looked at the other two, both senior members of Toranaga clans.

Neither met his eyes. "Adachi-sama?"

Finally, Adachi, daimyo of Mito, a rotund little man, said nervously, "I agree with Anjo-sama that we should leave, and the Shogun of course. But I also agree with you that then we may lose even though we gain. Respectfully I vote No!"

The last Elder, Toyama, was in his middle fifties, grey-haired with heavy dewlaps and blind in one eye from a hunting accident--an old man as ages went in Japan. He was daimyo of Kii, father of the young Shogun. "It bothers me not at all if we live or die, nor the death of my son, this Shogun--there will always be another.

But it bothers me very much to retreat just because gai-jin have anchored off our shore. I vote against retreat and for attack, I vote we go to the coast and if the jackals land we kill them all, their ships, cannon, rifles notwithstanding!"

"We don't have enough troops here," Anjo said, sick of the old man and his militancy that had never been proved. "How many times do I have to say it: we do not have enough troops to hold the castle and stop them landing in strength. How many times do I have to repeat our spies say they have two thousand soldiers with rifles in the ships and at the Settlement, and ten times that number in Hong Kong an--"

Yoshi interrupted angrily, "We would have had more than enough samurai and their daimyos here if you hadn't cancelled sankin-kotai!" "That was at the Emperor's request, given in writing and presented by a Prince of his Court.

We had no option but to obey. You would also have obeyed."

"Yes--if I'd taken delivery of the document! But I would never have accepted it, I would have been away, or would have delayed the Prince, any one of a hundred ploys, or bartered with Sanjiro who instigated the "requests," or told one of our Court supporters to petition the Emperor to withdraw the requests,"

Yoshi's voice snapped. "Any petition from the Shogunate must be approved--that's historic law. We still control the Court's stipend! You betrayed our heritage."

"You call me a traitor?" To everyone's shock Anjo's hand tightened on his sword hilt.

"I say you allowed Sanjiro to puppet you,"

Yoshi replied without moving, calm on the surface of his skin, hoping that Anjo would make the first move and then he could kill him and have done with his stupidity forever. "There is no precedent to go against the Legacy. It was a betrayal." "All daimyos other than immediate Toranaga families wanted it! The consensus of Bakufu agreed, the roju agreed, better to agree than to force all daimyos into the camp of the outside lords to challenge us at once as Sanjiro, the Tosas and Choshus would have done. We would have been totally isolated. Isn't that true?" he said to the others. "Well, isn't it?"

Utani said quietly, "It's certainly true I agreed--but now I think it was a mistake."

"The mistake we made was not to intercept Sanjiro and kill him," Toyama said.

"He was protected by Imperial Mandate,"

Anjo said.

His old man's lips curled from his yellow teeth. "So?"

"All Satsuma would have risen up against us, rightly, the Tosa and Choshu would join in and we'd have a general civil war we cannot win. Vote!

Yes or no?"

"I vote for attack, only attack," the old man said stubbornly, "today on any landing, tomorrow at Yokohama."

From far off came the skirl of bagpipes.

Four more cutters were heading for the wharf, three packed with Highland Infantry to join others already formed up there, drums beating and bagpipes wailing impatiently. Kilts, busbies, scarlet tunics, rifles. Sir William, Tyrer, Lun and three of his staff were in the last boat.

As they came ashore, the captain in charge of the detachment saluted. "Everything's ready sir.

We've patrols guarding this warf and the surrounding areas. Marines will take over from us within the hour."

"Good. Then let's proceed to the Legation."

Sir William and his party got into the carriage that had been ferried and manhandled ashore with so much effort. Twenty sailors picked up the traces. The captain gave the order to advance and the cortege marched off, flags waving, soldiers surrounding them, a resplendent, six-feet-eight drum major to the fore, Chinese coolies from Yokohama nervously dragging baggage carts in the rear.

The narrow streets between the low, one-story shops and buildings were eerily empty. So was the inevitable guard post at the first wooden bridge over a festering canal. And the next. A dog charged out of an alley, barking and snarling, then picked itself up and scuttled away howling after a kick lifted it into the air and sent it sprawling ten yards. More empty streets and bridges, yet their way to the Legation was tortuous because of the carriage and because all streets were only for foot traffic. Again the carriage stuck.

"Perhaps we should walk, sir?" Tyrer asked.

"No, by God, I arrive by carriage!"

Sir William was furious with himself. He had forgotten the narrowness of the streets. At Yokohama he had privately decided on the carriage just because wheels were forbidden, to further ram home his displeasure to the Bakufu. He called out, "Captain, if you have to knock down a few houses, so be it."

But that did not become necessary. The sailors, used to handling cannon in tight places below decks, good-naturedly shoved and pushed and cursed and half carried the carriage around the bottlenecks.

The Legation was on a slight rise in the suburb of Gotenyama, beside a Buddhist temple. It was a two-story, still uncompleted structure of British style and design inside a high fence and gates. Within three months of the Treaty's signing, work had begun.

Building had been agonizingly slow, partially because of British insistence on using their plans and their normal building materials such as glass for windows and bricks for bearing walls--that had to be brought from London, Hong Kong or Shanghai --constructing foundations and the like which Japanese houses did not normally possess, being of wood, deliberately light and easy to erect and repair because of earthquakes and raised off the ground. Most of the delays, however, were due to Bakufu reluctance to have any foreign edifices whatsoever outside Yokohama.

Even though not fully finished, the Legation was occupied and the British flag raised daily on the dominant flagpole which further incensed the Bakufu and local citizens. Last year occupation was temporarily abandoned by Sir William's predecessor when ronin, at night, killed two guards outside his bedroom door to British fury and Japanese rejoicing.

"Oh so sorry..." the Bakufu said.

But the site, leased in perpetuity by the Bakufu--mistakenly, it had been claimed ever since--had been wisely chosen. The view from the forecourt was the best in the neighborhood and they could see the fleet drawn up in battle order, safely offshore, safely at anchor.

The cortege arrived in martial style to take possession again. Sir William had decided to spend the night in the Legation to prepare for tomorrow's meeting and he bustled about, stopped as the Captain saluted. "Yes?"

"Raise the flag, sir? Secure the Legation?"

"At once. Keep to the plan, lots of noise, drums, pipes and so on. Pipe the retreat at sunset, and have the band march up and down."

"Yes sir." The Captain walked over to the flagstaff. Ceremoniously, to the heady skirl of more pipes and drums, once more the Union Jack broke out at the masthead. Immediately, by previous agreement, there was an acknowledging broadside from the flagship. Sir William raised his hat and led three resounding cheers for the Queen. "Good, that's better. Lun!"

"Heya Mass'er?"

"Wait a minute, you're not Lun!"

"I Lun Two, Mass'r, Lun One come 'night, chop chop."

"All right, Lun Two. Dinner sunset, you make every Mass'er shipshape never mind."

Lun Two nodded sourly, hating to be in such an isolated, indefensible place, surrounded by a thousand hidden, hostile eyes that everyone carelessly dismissed, though nearly all must sense. I'll never understand barbarians, he thought.

That night Phillip Tyrer could not sleep.

He lay on one of the straw mattresses atop a ragged carpet on the floor, wearily changing his position every few minutes, his mind unpleasantly crossed with thoughts of London and Angelique, the attack and the meeting tomorrow, the ache in his arm, and Sir William who had been irritable all day. It was cold with a slight promise of winter on the air, the room small.

Windows with glass panes overlooked the spacious, well-planted back gardens. The other mattress bed was for the Captain but he was still making his rounds.

Apart from sounds of dogs foraging, a few tomcats, the city was silent. Occasionally he could hear distant ships' bells of the fleet sounding the hours and the throaty laughter of their soldiers and he felt reassured. Those men are superb, he thought. We're safe here.

At length he got up, yawned and padded over to the window, opened it to lean on the sill.

Outside it was black, the cloud cover thick.

No shadows but he saw many Highlanders patrolling with oil lamps. Beyond the fence to one side was the vague shape of the Buddhist temple.

At sunset after the bagpipes had beat the retreat and the Union Jack ritually pulled down for the night, monks had barred their heavy gate, sounded their bell, then filled the night with their strange chanting: "Ommm mahnee padmee hummmmm..." over and over again.

Tyrer had been calmed by it, unlike many of the others who shouted catcalls, telling them rudely to shut up.

He lit a candle that was beside the bed. His fob watch showed it was 2:30. Yawning again, he rearranged the blanket, propped himself up with the rough pillow and opened his small attach`e case, his initials embossed on it--a parting gift from his mother--and took out his notebook. Covering the column of Japanese words and phrases he had written out phonetically, he muttered the English equivalents, then the next page, and the next. Then the same with the English and said aloud the Japanese. It pleased him every one was right.

"They're so few, I don't know if I'm pronouncing them correctly, I've so little time, and I haven't even begun to learn the writing," he muttered.

At Kanagawa he had asked Babcott where he could get the best teacher.

"Why not ask the padre?"' Babcott had said.

He had, yesterday. "Certainly, my boy.

But can't this week, how about next month? Care for another sherry?"' My God, can they drink here! They're sozzled most of the time and certainly by lunch. The padre's useless, and smells to high heaven. But what a stroke of luck about Andr`e Poncin!

Yesterday afternoon he had accidentally met the Frenchman in one of the Japanese village shops that serviced their needs. These lined the village main street that was behind High Street, away from the sea and adjoined Drunk Town.

All the shops appeared to be the same, selling the same kinds of local merchandise from food to fishing tackle, from cheap swords to curios. He was searching through a rack of Japanese books--the paper of very high quality, many beautifully printed and illustrated from woodblocks--trying to make himself understood to the beaming proprietor.

"Pardon, Monsieur," the stranger had said, "but you have to name the type of book you want." He was in his thirties, clean-shaven, with brown eyes and brown, wavy hair, a fine Gallic nose and well dressed. "You say: Watashi hoshii hon, Ing'erish Nihongo, dozo--I would like a book that has English and Japanese." He smiled. "Of course there aren't any though this fellow will tell you with abject sincerity, Ah so desu ka, gomen nasai, etc.--Ah so sorry I have none today but if you come back tomorrow... Of course he's not telling the truth, only telling you what he thinks you want to know, a fundamental Japanese habit. I'm afraid Japanese are not generous with the truth, even amongst themselves."

"But, Monsieur, may I ask, then how did you learn Japanese--obviously you're fluent."

The man laughed pleasantly. "You are too kind. Me, I'm not, though I try." An amused shrug. "Patience. And because some of our Holy Fathers speak it."

Philip Tyrer frowned. "I'm afraid I'm not Catholic, I'm Church of England, and, er, and an apprentice interpreter at the British Legation. My name is Phillip Tyrer and I've just arrived and a bit out of my depth."

"Ah, of course, the young Englishman of the Tokaido. Please excuse me, I should have recognized you, we were all horrified to hear about it. May I present myself, Andr`e Poncin, late of Paris, I'm a trader."

"Je suis enchant`e de vous voir," Tyrer said, speaking French easily and well though with a slight English accent--throughout the world, outside of Britain, French was the language of diplomacy, and lingua franca of most Europeans, therefore essential for a Foreign Office posting--as well as for anyone considering themselves well educated. In French he added, "Do you think the Fathers would consider teaching me, or allowing me to join their classes?"' "I don't believe any actually give classes. I could ask. Are you going with the fleet tomorrow?"' "Yes, indeed."

"So am I, with Monsieur Seratard, our Minister. You were at the Legation in Paris before here?"' "Unfortunately no, I've only been to Paris for two weeks, Monsieur, on holiday--this is my first posting."

"Oh, but your French is very good, Monsieur."

"Afraid it's not, not really," Tyrer said in English again. "I presume you are an interpreter too?"' "Oh no, just a businessman, but I try help Monsieur Seratard sometimes when his official Dutch-speaking interpreter is sick-- I speak Dutch. So you wish to learn Japanese, as quickly as possible, eh?"' Poncin went over to the rack and selected a book. "Have you seen one of these yet? It's Hiroshige's Fifty-Three Stages on the Tokaido Road. Don't forget the beginning of the book is at the end for us, their writing right to left. The pictures show the way stations all the way to Kyoto." He thumbed through them.

"Here's Kanagawa, and here Hodogaya."

The four-color woodblock prints were exquisite, better than anything Tyrer had ever seen, the detail extraordinary. "They're marvelous."

"Yes. He died four years ago, pity, because he was a marvel. Some of their artists are extraordinary, Hokusai, Masanobu, Utamaro and a dozen others."

Andr`e laughed and pulled out another book.

"Here, these are a must, a primer for Japanese humor and calligraphy as they call their writing."

Phillip Tyrer's mouth dropped open. The pornography was decorous and completely explicit, page after page, with beautifully gowned men and women, their naked parts monstrously exaggerated and drawn in majestic, hairy detail as they joined vigorously and inventively. "Oh my God!"

Poncin laughed outright. "Ah, then I have given you a new pleasure. As erotica they're unique, I have a collection I'd be glad to show you. They're called shunga-every the others ukiyo-every--pictures from the Willow World or Floating World. Have you visited one of the bordellos yet?"' "I... I, no... no I, I, er, haven't."

"Oh, in that case, may I be a guide?"' Now in the night, Tyrer remembered their conversation and how secretly embarrassed he had been. He had tried to pretend he was equally a man of the world, but at the same time kept hearing his father's grave and constant advice: "Listen, Phillip, Frenchmen are all vile and totally untrustworthy, Parisians the dregs of France and Paris without doubt the sin city of the civilized world--licentious, vulgar, and French!"

Poor Papa, he thought, he's so wrong about so many things, but then he lived in Napoleonic times and survived the bloodbath of Waterloo.

However great the victory, it must have been terrible for a ten-year-old drummer boy, no wonder he will never forgive or could forget or accept the new Era. Never mind, Papa has his life and as much as I love him, and admire him for what he did, I have to make my own way. France is almost an ally now--it's not wrong to listen and learn.

He flushed, remembering how he had hung on Andr`e's words--secretly ashamed of his avid fascination.

The Frenchman explained that here bordellos were places of great beauty, the best of them, and their courtesans, the Ladies of the Floating World, or Willow World as they were called, easily the best he had ever experienced. "There are degrees, of course, and streetwalkers in most towns. But here we have our own Pleasure Quarter, called Yoshiwara. It's over the bridge outside the fence." Again the pleasant laugh, "We call it the Bridge to Paradise. Oh yes and you should know that... oh excuse me, I interrupt your shopping."

"Oh but no, not at all," he had said at once, aghast that this flow of information and rare opportunity would cease, and added in his most flowery and honeyed French, "I would consider it an honor if you would care to continue, really, it is so important to learn as much as one can and I'm afraid the people I associate with, and talk to, are... regretfully, not Parisian, mostly stodgy and without French sophistication.

To return your kindness perhaps I may offer you some tea or champagne at the English Tea House, or perhaps a drink at the Yokohama Hotel--sorry, but I'm not a member of the Club yet."

"You are too kind, yes I would like that."

Thankfully he beckoned the shopkeeper, with Poncin's help paid for the book, astonished it was so inexpensive. They went into the street. "You were saying about the Willow World?"' "There's nothing sordid about it as in most of our brothels and almost all those elsewhere in the world.

Here, as in Paris, but more so, the act of sex is an art form, as delicate and special as great cuisine, to be considered and practiced and savored and thought of as such, with no... please excuse me, no misguided Anglo-Saxon "guilt."

Instinctively, Tyrer bridled. For a moment was tempted to correct him and say that there was a vast difference between guilt, and a healthy attitude towards morality and all good Victorian values. And to add that, regretfully the French had never possessed any distinction with their leaning towards loose living that seduced even such august nobles as the Prince of Wales who openly considered Paris home ("a source of grave concern in the highest English circles," the Times glowered, "French vulgarity knows no end, their wretched display of wealth and outrageous innovative dances, like the cancan where, it is reliably reported, the dancers deliberately do not and are even required not to wear any under garments whatsoever").

But he said none of it, knowing he would only be parroting more of his father's words. Poor Papa, he thought again, concentrating on Poncin as they strolled the High Street, the sun pleasing and the air bracing, with the promise of a fine day tomorrow.

"But here in Nippon, Monsieur Tyrer," the Frenchman continued happily, "there are marvelous rules and regulations, both for clients and the girls. For instance, they're not all on show at one time, except in the very low-class places, and even then you can't just go in and say I want that one."

"You can't?"' "Oh no, she always has the right to refuse you without any loss of face on her part. There are special protocols--I can explain in detail later if you wish--but each House is run by a madam, called mama-san, the san being a suffix meaning mistress, madam or mister, who prides herself on the elegance of her surroundings and her Ladies. They vary, of course, in price and excellence. In the best, the mama-san vets you, that's the right word, she considers if you are worthy to grace her House and all it contains, in substance whether or not you can pay the bill. Here a good customer can have a great deal of credit, Monsieur Tyrer, but woe betide you if you do not pay or are late once the bill is discreetly presented. Every House in all Japan will then refuse you every kind of entrance."

Tyrer had guffawed nervously at the pun.

"How word passes I don't know but it does, from here to Nagasaki. So, Monsieur, in certain ways this is paradise. A man can fornicate for a year on credit, if he so desires." Poncin's voice changed imperceptibly. "But the wise man buys a lady's contract and reserves her for his private pleasure. They are really so, so charming and so inexpensive when you consider the enormous profit we make on the money exchange."

"You, well, that's what you advise?"' "Yes, yes I do."

They had had tea. Then champagne at the Club where Andr`e was clearly a well-known and popular member. Before they parted, Andr`e had said, "The Willow World deserves care and attention.

I would be honored to be one of your guides."

He had thanked him, knowing he would never take advantage of the offer. I mean, what about Angelique? What about, what about catching one of the vile diseases, gonorrhea, or the French disease that the French call the English disease and the doctors call syphilis that George Babcott mentioned pointedly abounds, under any name, in any Asian or Middle Eastern Treaty Ports, "... or any port for that matter, Phillip. I see lots of cases here amongst the Japanese, not all European related. If you're that way inclined, wear a sheath, they're not safe, not much good yet.

Best you don't, if you know what I mean."

Phillip Tyrer shuddered. He had had only one experience. Two years ago he had become boisterously drunk with some fellow students after their finals, in the Star and Garter public house on Pont Street. "Now's the time, Phillip, old boy. It's all fixed, she'll do it for tuppence, won't you, Flossy?"' She was a bar girl, a bawdy of about fourteen, and the tumble had taken place hurriedly, sweatily, in a smelly upstairs cubbyhole--a penny for her and a penny for the publican. For months afterwards he was petrified he was poxed.

"We have more than fifty Teahouses, as they're called, or Inns, to choose from in our Yoshiwara, all licensed and controlled by the authorities, more going up every day. But take care, go nowhere in Drunk Town." This was the unwholesome part of the Settlement, where the low-class bars and rooming houses clustered around the only European brothel: "It's for soldiers and sailors and seamen, and for the riffraff, ne'er do wells, remittance men, gamblers and adventurers who congregate there, on sufferance.

Every port acquires them because we have no police yet, no immigration laws. Perhaps Drunk Town's a safety valve but unwise to visit after dark. If you value your pocket book and your privates don't take them out there.

Musuko-san deserves better."

"What?"' "Ah, a very important word. Musuko means son, or my son. Musuko-san literally means Honorable Son, or Mr. My Son, but in the patois, cock or My Honorable Cock, pure and simple. Girls are called musume. Actually the word means daughter, or my daughter, but in the Willow World, vagina. You say to your girl, "Konbanwa, musume-san." Good evening, cherie. But if you say it with the twinkle she knows you mean, How is it? How is your Golden Gully, as Chinese sometimes call man's passage to paradise--they are so wise, the Chinese, because the sides certainly are lined with gold, the whole nourished by gold and only opened with gold, one way or another..."

Tyrer lay back, his notebook forgotten, brain churning. Almost before he realized it, the little book of ukiyo-every that he had hidden in his briefcase was open and he was studying the pictures. Abruptly he replaced it.

No future in looking at dirty pictures, he thought consumed with disgust. The candle was guttering now. He blew out the flame, then lay back, the familiar ache in his loins.

What a lucky man Andr`e is. Obviously he has a mistress. That must be marvelous, if even half of what he says is true.

I wonder if I could get one too? Could I buy a contract? Andr`e said many here do, and rent private little houses in the Yoshiwara that can be secret and discreet if you wish: "It's rumored all the Ministers possess one, Sir William certainly goes there at least once a week--he thinks no one knows but everyone spies him and laughs--but not the Dutchman who's impotent, according to rumor, and the Russian who openly prefers to sample different houses..."

Should I risk it, if I could afford it? After all, Andr`e gave me a very special reason: "To learn Japanese quickly, Monsieur, acquire a sleeping dictionary--it's the only way."

But his last thought before sleep overwhelmed him was: I wonder why Andr`e was so kind to me, so voluble. Rare for a Frenchman to be so open with an Englishman. Very rare. And strange that he never mentioned Angelique once...

It was just before dawn. Ori and Hiraga, again in all-encompassing ninja clothes, came out of their hiding place in the temple grounds overlooking the Legation and ran silently down the hill, across the wooden bridge and into an alley, down it and into another. Hiraga led. A dog saw them, growled, moved into their path and died. The deft short arc of Hiraga's sword was instantaneous and he hurried onwards with the blade unsheathed, hardly missing a step, ever deeper into the city. Ori followed carefully. Today his wound had begun to fester.

In the lee of a hut on a protected corner, Hiraga stopped. "It's safe here, Ori!" he whispered.

Hastily both men slipped out of their ninja clothes and stuffed them into the soft bag Hiraga carried slung on his back, replacing them with nondescript kimonos. With great care Hiraga cleansed his sword using a piece of silk cloth, carried for that purpose by all swordsmen to protect their blades, then sheathed it. "Ready?"

"Yes."

Again he led onwards into the maze, surefooted, staying under cover where he could, hesitating at every open space until he was sure they were safe, seeing no one, meeting no one, then pressed on, heading for their safe house.

They had been watching the Legation since early morning, the bonzes--the Buddhist priests-- pretending not to notice them, once they were sure the two men were not thieves and Hiraga had identified himself and their purpose: to spy on the gai-jin. All bonzes were fanatically xenophobic and anti-gai-jin, to them synonymous with Jesuit, still their most hated and feared enemy.

"Ah, you are shishi, then you are both welcome," the old monk had said. "We have never forgotten Jesuits ruined us, or that the Toranaga Shoguns are our scourge."

From the middle of the fifteenth century to the early sixteenth, Portuguese alone knew the way to Japan. Papal edicts had also given them exclusivity to the islands, and Portuguese Jesuits the sole right to proselytize. Within a few years they had converted so many daimyos to Catholicism, therefore naturally their retainers, that Dictator Goroda had used them as an excuse to massacre thousands of Buddhist monks at that time militant, dominant in the land and opposed to him.

The tairo, Nakamura, who inherited his power, expanded it immensely, and played off bonze against Jesuit with honey, persecution, suffering and killing. Then came Toranaga.

Toranaga, tolerant of all religions, though not of foreign influence, observed that all converted daimyos had initially fought against him at Sekigahara. Three years later, he became Shogun and two years after that he resigned in favor of his son, Sudara, but kept actual power--an old established Japanese custom.

During his lifetime he leashed Jesuits and Buddhists severely, and eliminated or neutralized the Catholic daimyos. His son, Shogun Sudara, tightened the curbs and his son, Shogun Hironaga, finished the plan laid down so carefully in the Legacy where he formally outlawed Christianity from Japan on pain of death. In 1638, Shogun Hironaga destroyed the last Christian bastion at Shimabara, near Nagasaki, where a few thousand ronin, thirty thousand peasants and their families were in rebellion against him. Those who refused to recant were crucified or put to the sword immediately as common criminals. All but a handful refused. Then he turned his attention to the Buddhists. Within days he was pleased to accept the gift of all their lands, and so fettered them.

"You are welcome, Hiraga-san, Ori-san," the old monk had said again. "We are for the shishi, for sonno-joi and against the Shogunate. You are free to come or go as you please. If you want help, tell us."

"Then keep a tally of the numbers of soldiers, their comings and goings, what rooms are occupied and by whom."

The two men had waited and watched throughout the day. At dusk they put on their ninja clothes.

Twice Hiraga moved closer to the Legation, once he scaled the fence to experiment and reconnoiter but quickly retreated unseen when a patrol almost trod on him.

"We'll never get in by night, Ori," he whispered. "Or by day. Too many troops now."

"How long do you think they'll stay?"' Hiraga smiled. "Until we drive them out."

Now they were almost at their safe house, an Inn that lay to the east of the castle. Dawn was near, the sky lighter and cloud cover thinner than yesterday.

Ahead the street was deserted. So was the bridge.

Confident, Hiraga hurried onto it, skidded to a stop. A Bakufu patrol of ten men stepped out of the shadows. At once both sides went into attack-defense positions, hands on their sword hilts.

"Come forward and give me your identification papers," the senior samurai called out.

"Who are you to challenge anyone?"

"You see our badges," the man said angrily, stepping onto the wooden slats of the bridge. The remainder of his men spread out behind him. "We are of warriors of Mito, 9th Regiment, guardians of the Shogun. Identify yourselves."

"We have been spying on the enemy stockade.

Let us pass."

"You look like thieves. What's in that bag on your back, eh? Identification!"

Ori's shoulder was throbbing. He had seen the telltale discoloration but had hidden it from Hiraga, and the pain. His head ached but he knew instantly he had nothing to lose and an admirable death to gain.

"Sonno-joi!" he bellowed suddenly and hurled himself at the samurai on the bridge. The others backed off to give them room as Ori hacked with all his might, recovered as the blow was deflected and again attacked, feinted and this time his blow was true. The man was dead on his feet, then crumpled. At once Ori darted for another man who retreated, went for another who also retreated. The ring of men began to close.

"Sonno-joi!" Hiraga shouted and rushed to Ori's side. Together they stood at bay.

"Identify yourselves!" a young warrior said, unimpressed. "I am Hiro Watanabe and do not wish to kill or be killed by an unknown warrior."

"I am shishi from Satsuma!" Ori said proudly, adding an alias as was their usual custom, "Riyama Takagaki."

"And I from Choshu, my name Shodan Moto!

Sonno-joi," Hiraga shouted and hurled himself at Watanabe who retreated without fear, as did the others nearby.

"I've never heard of either of you," Watanabe said through his teeth. "You're not shishi--you are scum." His rush was parried. Hiraga, a master swordsman, used his assailant's strength and speed to catch him off balance, sidestepped and cut under the opposing sword into the man's unprotected side, withdrew and in one continuous movement sliced into the man's neck, decapitated him as he toppled to the ground, ending once more in perfect attack position.

The silence was profound. "Who did you study under?" someone asked.

"Toko Fujita was one of my Sensei,"

Hiraga said, every part of him ready for the next killing.

"Eeeee!" This was one of Mito's revered sword masters who had been killed in Yedo's earthquake of '55 when a hundred thousand also perished.

"They are shishi, and men of Mito do not kill shishi, their own kind," one of the men said softly.

"Sonno-joi!" Warily, this man moved aside a pace, not sure of the others, his sword still ready. They looked at him, then at one another. Opposite him another man moved.

Now there was an inviting, narrow path between them, but all swords stayed poised.

Hiraga readied, expecting a trick, but Ori nodded to himself, his pain forgotten, victory or death the same to him. Taking his time, he cleansed his blade and sheathed it. Politely he bowed to both the dead men and strode through the narrow passage, looking neither right nor left nor backwards.

In a moment Hiraga followed. Equally slowly. Until they turned the corner. Then they both took to their heels and did not stop until they were well away.

The five Bakufu representatives came leisurely into the Legation forecourt in their palanquins. They were an hour late and preceded by samurai with banners bearing their official emblems and surrounded by guards. Sir William stood at the top of the wide steps that led to the imposing entrance. Beside him were the French, Russian and Prussian Ministers--their aides, Phillip Tyrer and others of the Legation staff to one side--and an honor guard of Highlanders with some French soldiers Seratard had insisted upon. Admiral Ketterer and the General had remained aboard, in reserve.

Ceremoniously the Japanese bowed, Sir William and the others raised their hats.

Ritually they conducted the Japanese to the large audience hall, trying to restrain their amusement at their outlandish costumes: small black lacquered hats set square on their shaven pates and tied elaborately under their chins, the vast shouldered overgarments, multicolored ceremonial silk kimonos, voluminous pantaloons, thong sandals and shoe socks split between the toes--tabi--fans in their belts and the inevitable two swords. "Those hats aren't big enough to piss in," the Russian said.

Sir William sat in the center of one line of chairs with the Ministers, Phillip Tyrer on one end to balance the delegation. The Bakufu took the opposite row, interpreters on cushions in between. After lengthy discussion they agreed on five guards each. These men stood behind their masters and eyed each other suspiciously.

Following strict protocol the adversaries introduced themselves. Toranaga Yoshi was last: "Tomo Watanabe, junior official, second class," he said, pretending a humbleness he did not feel, and took the lowest position at the end of the row, his clothes less elaborate than those of the others who, with all guards, had been commanded on pain of punishment to treat him as the least important official here.

He settled himself, feeling strange. How ugly these enemies are, he was thinking, how ridiculous and laughable with their tall hats, outlandish boots and ugly, heavy black clothes --no wonder they stink!

Sir William said carefully and simply: "An Englishman has been murdered by Satsuma samurai..."

By five o'clock European tempers were frayed, the Japanese still polite, smiling, outwardly imperturbable. In a dozen different ways their spokesman claimed that... so sorry but they had no jurisdiction over the Satsuma, or knowledge of the murderers or any way to find them, but yes, it was a regrettable affair but no, they did not know how to obtain reparations but yes, under some circumstances reparations might be sought but no, the Shogun was not available but yes, the Shogun would be pleased to grant an audience when he returned, but no, not in the foreseeable future but yes, we will immediately petition for an exact day, but no, it could not be this month because his present whereabouts are not known for certain, but yes, it would be as soon as possible but no, the next meeting and all meetings should not take place in Yedo, but yes in Kanagawa but so sorry, not this month, perhaps next, but no so sorry we do not have authority...

Every point had to be translated from English to Dutch to Japanese--as usual to be discussed at length by them--then pedantically resubmitted into Dutch into English with an inevitable homily, and ever polite requests for explanations on the most trivial point.

Yoshi found the whole proceeding vastly interesting, never having been near gai-jin en masse or attended a meeting where unequals, astonishingly, discussed policy and did not listen and obey.

Three of the other four were genuine though unimportant Bakufu officials. All had used false names, a normal custom when dealing with aliens. The imposter, who secretly spoke English, sat beside Yoshi. His name was Misamoto. Yoshi had ordered him to remember everything, to tell him discreetly of anything important not translated accurately, otherwise to keep his mouth shut. He was a felon under sentence of death.

When Yoshi had sent for him the day before yesterday, Misamoto had at once prostrated himself, shaking with fear.

"Get up and sit over there." Yoshi pointed with his fan to the edge of the tatami platform on which he sat.

Misamoto obeyed instantly. He was a small man with slitted eyes and long, grizzled hair and beard, the sweat running down his face, his clothes coarse and almost rags, hands callused and his skin the color of dark honey.

"You will tell me the truth: your interrogators report that you speak English?"' "Yes, Lord."

"You were born in Anjiro in Izu and have been to the land called America?"' "Yes, Lord."

"How long were you there?"' "Almost four years, Lord."

"Where in America?"' "San Francisco, Lord."

"What is San'frensiska?"' "A big city, Lord."

"Just there?"' "Yes, Lord."

Yoshi studied him, needing information quickly. He could see that the man was desperate to please but at the same time frightened to death, of him and of the guards who had hustled him in and shoved his head to the ground.

So he decided to try a different approach.

He dismissed the guards and got up and leaned on the windowsill, looking at the city. "Tell me, quickly, in your own words what happened to you."

"I was a fisherman in the village of Anjiro in Izu, Lord, where I was born thirty-three years ago, Lord." Misamoto began at once--obviously the tale told a hundred times before. "Nine years ago I was fishing with six others in my boat, a few ri offshore, but we were caught in a sudden storm that quickly became a great one and we were blown before it for thirty days or more, eastwards, out into the great sea, hundreds of ri, perhaps a thousand, Sire.

During this time, three of my companions were washed overboard. Then the sea became calm but our sails had been ripped to pieces and there was no food and no water. The three of us fished but caught nothing, there was no water to drink... One of us went mad and jumped into the sea and began to swim to an island he thought he saw and drowned quickly. We saw no land or ship, just water.

Many days later the other man, my friend Ishii, died and I was alone. Then one day I thought I had died because I saw this strange ship that went along without sails and seemed to be on fire, but it was just a paddle steamer, American, going from Hong Kong to San Francisco. They rescued me, gave me food and treated me as one of them --I was petrified, Lord, but they shared their food and drink and clothed me..."

"This American ship took you to this San place? What happened then?"' Misamoto told how he had been put with a brother of the Captain of this ship, a ship's chandler, to learn the language and do odd jobs until the authorities decided what to do with him.

He lived with this family for about three years, working in their shop and in the port. One day, he was taken before an important official called Natow who questioned him closely, then told him he was to be sent with the warship Missouri to Shimoda to be an interpreter for Consul Townsend Harris who was already in Japan negotiating a Treaty.

By this time he wore Western clothes and had learn some Western ways.

"I accepted happily, Sire, certain I could be helpful here, specially helpful to the Bakufu. On the ninth day of the eighth month of the year 1857 by their counting, five years ago, sire, we hove to off Shimoda in Izu, my home village not far north, Sire. The moment I was ashore I obtained permission to leave for a day and set off at once, Lord, to report to the nearest guard house to find the nearest Bakufu official believing I would be welcome because of the knowledge I had got... But the barrier guards would not ..." Misamoto's face twisted with anguish.

"But they wouldn't listen to me, Sire, or understand ... they bound me and dragged me to Yedo... that was about five years ago, Lord, and ever since I've been treated like a criminal, confined like one though not in prison and I keep explaining and explaining I'm not a spy but a loyal man of Izu and what had happened to me..."

To Yoshi's disgust, tears began streaming down the man's face. He cut the whimpering short.

"Stop it! Do you or do you not know it is forbidden, by Law, to leave Nippon without permission?"' "Yes, Lord but I th--"' "And do you know under the same law, if broken, whatever the reason, whoever he or she is, the lawbreaker is forbidden to return on pain of death?"' "Oh yes, Sire, yes yes I did but, but I did not think it would include me, Sire, I thought I'd be welcomed and valuable and I'd been blown out to sea. It was the storm th--"' "A law is a law. This law is a good law. It prevents contamination. You consider you have been treated unfairly?"' "Oh no, Lord," Misamoto said hastily, wiping his tears away, with even greater fear, bowing his head to the tatami, "Please excuse me, I beg your forgiveness, please ex--"' "Just answer the questions. How fluent is your English?"' "I... I understand and speak some American English, Sire."

"Is that the same as the gai-jin here speak?"' "Yes Sire, yes more or les--"' "When you came to see the American Harris were you shaven or unshaven?"' "Unshaven, Sire, I had a trimmed beard like most sailors, Sire, and let my hair grow like theirs and tied into a pigtail and knotted with tar."

"Who did you meet with this gai-jin Harris?"' "Just him, Sire, just for an hour or so, and one of his staff, I don't remember his name."

Once more Yoshi weighed the dangers of his plan: to go to the meeting disguised, without Council approval, and to use this man as a spy, to overhear the enemy secretly. Perhaps Misamoto is a spy already, for gai-jin, he thought grimly, as all his interrogators believe. Certainly he's a liar, his story far too smooth, his eyes too cunning, and he's like a fox when off guard.

"Very well. Later I want to know everything you have learned, everything and... do you read and write?"' "Yes, Lord, but only a little in the English."

"Good. I have a use for you. If you obey exactly and please me, I will review your case. If you fail me, however slightly, you-will-wish-you-had-not."

He explained what he wanted, assigned him teachers, and when his guards had returned Misamoto yesterday clean-shaven, his hair dressed like a samurai's, and wearing the clothes of an official with two swords though these were false and without blades, he had not recognized him.

"Good. Walk up and down."

Misamoto obeyed and Yoshi was impressed how quickly the man had learned an erect posture as the teacher had shown him, not the correct, normal servile attitude of a fisherman.

Too quickly, he thought, convinced now that Misamoto was more, or less, than he wanted others to see.

"You understand clearly what you are to do?"' "Yes, Sire, I swear I won't fail you, Sire."

"I know, my guards have orders to kill you the instant you leave my side, or become clumsy, or... indiscreet."

"We'll stop for ten minutes," Sir William said wearily. "Tell them, Johann."

"They ask why?" Johann Favrod, the Swiss interpreter yawned.

"Pardon. Seems they think they've discussed all the points etc. etc., that they'll carry back your message etc. etc. and meet again at Kanagawa with the reply from on high etc. etc. in about sixty days as suggested earlier etc. etc."

The Russian muttered, "Let me have the fleet for a day, and I'll solve these matyeryebitz and this whole problem."

"Quite," Sir William agreed, adding in fluent Russian, "sorry, my dear Count, but we're here for a diplomatic solution, preferably." Then in English, "Show them where to wait, Johann. Shall we, gentlemen?" He got up, bowed stiffly, and led the way into a waiting room. As he passed Phillip Tyrer he said, "Stay with them, keep your eyes and ears open."

All the Ministers headed for the tall chamber pot that was in the corner of their anteroom. "My God," Sir William said thankfully.

"Thought my bloody bladder would pop."

Lun came in leading other servants with trays. "Heya, Mass'er. Tea-ah, sam'wich-ah!" He jerked a disdainful thumb towards the other room. "All same give monkees, heya?"

"You'd better not let them hear you say that, by God. Perhaps some of them speak pidgin."

Lun stared at him. "Wat say, Mass'er?"

"Oh never mind."

Lun went out laughing to himself.

"Well, gentlemen, as expected, progress zero."

Seratard was lighting his pipe, Andr`e Poncin beside him, carelessly pleased with Sir William's discomfiture. "What do you propose to do, Sir William?"

"What's your advice?"

"It is a British problem, only partially French. If it was entirely mine I would have already settled it with French elan--on the day it happened."

"But of course, mein Herr, you would need an equally fine fleet," von Heimrich said curtly.

"Of course. In Europe we have many, as you know. And if it was Imperial French policy to be here in strength as our British allies, we would have had one or two fleets here."

"Yes, well..." Sir William was tired. "It's clear that your collective advice is to be tough with them?"

"Rough and tough," Count Zergeyev said.

"Ja."

"Of course," Seratard agreed. "I thought that's what you had already in mind, Sir William."

The Minister munched on a sandwich and finished his tea. "All right. I'll close the meeting now, reconvene for ten tomorrow, with an ultimatum: a meeting with the Shogun within a week, the murderers, the indemnity or else--with, er, of course your joint approval."

Seratard said, "I suggest, Sir William, given it might be difficult for them to deliver a meeting with the Shogun, why not keep that for later until we have reinforcements--and real cause for a meeting with him. After all, this exercise is a show of force to correct an evil, not to implement Imperial policy, yours or ours."

"Wise," the Prussian said reluctantly.

Sir William pondered the reasons behind the suggestion but could find no fault or hidden hazard. "Very well. We'll demand an "early meeting" with the Shogun. Agreed?"

They nodded. "Excuse me, Sir William," Andr`e Poncin said pleasantly, "may I suggest that I tell them your decision-- for you to begin the meeting and then close it at once would be somewhat of a loss of face. Yes?"

"Very wise, Andr`e," Seratard said. As far as the others knew, Poncin was just an occasional trader with some knowledge of Japanese customs, a smattering of Japanese, a personal friend and occasional interpreter. In reality Poncin was a highly regarded spy employed to uncover and neutralize all British, German, and Russian endeavors in the Japans. "Eh, Sir William?"

"Yes," Sir William said thoughtfully.

"Yes, you're right, Andr`e, thank you, I shouldn't do it myself. Lun!"

The door opened instantly. "Heya, Mass'er?"

"Fetch young Mass'er Tyrer quick quick!" Then to the others, "Tyrer can do it for me. As it's a British problem."

When Phillip Tyrer returned to the other reception room overlooking the forecourt, he went up to Johann with as much dignity as he could muster. The Bakufu officials paid no attention and continued chatting, Yoshi sightly apart.

Misamoto was beside him--the only one not talking.

"Johann, give them Sir William's compliments and tell them today's unsatisfactory meeting is adjourned and they are to reconvene tomorrow at ten for what he expects will be a satisfactory conclusion to this unwarranted affair: the murderers, the indemnity and a guaranteed, early meeting with the Shogun or else."

Johann blanched. "Just like that?"

"Yes, exactly like that." Tyrer was also tired of the shilly-shallying, constantly reminded of John Canterbury's violent death, Malcolm Struan's serious wounds and Angelique's terror. "Tell them!"

He watched Johann deliver the short ultimatum in guttural Dutch. The Japanese interpreter flushed and began the lengthy translation as Tyrer studied the officials carefully without appearing to do so. Four were attentive, the last was not, the small man with narrow eyes and callused hands that he had noticed earlier--all other hands were well groomed. Again this man began whispering to the youngest and most handsome official, Watanabe, as he had been doing from time to time all day.

Wish to God I could understand what they were saying, Tyrer thought irritably, more determined than ever to do whatever was necessary to learn the language quickly.

As the shocked and embarrassed interpreter finished there was a silence, broken only by the sucking in of breath though all faces remained impassive. During the translation he had noticed two glance surreptitiously at Watanabe.

Why?

Now they seemed to be waiting. Watanabe dropped his eyes, hid behind his fan and muttered something. At once the narrow-eyed man beside him stood awkwardly, and spoke briefly.

Relieved, they all got up and, without bowing, silently trooped out, Watanabe last, except for the interpreter.

"Johann, they really got the message this time," Tyrer said happily.

"Yes. And they were very plenty pissed."

"Obviously that's what Sir William wanted."

Johann mopped his brow. He was brown-haired and medium height, thin, strong with a hard lined face. "The sooner you're interpreter the better. It's time I went home to my mountains and snows while I've still got my head intact. There're too many of these cretins, they're too unpredictable."

"As the interpreter, surely you have a privileged position," Tyrer said uneasily.

"The first to know."

"And the carrier of bad news! They're all bad news, mon vieux. They hate us and can't wait to throw us out. I made a contract with your Foreign Office for two years, renewable by mutual consent. The contract, she is up in two months and three days and my English is going to hell." Johann went to the sideboard near the window and took a deep draft of the beer he had ordered instead of tea. "No renewal, whatever the temptation." He beamed suddenly.

"Merde, that's the problem about leaving here."

Tyrer laughed at his pixy look.

"Musume? Your girl?"

"You learn fast."

In the forecourt the officials were getting into their palanquins. All gardening activity had stopped, the half dozen gardeners kneeling motionless with heads to the earth. Misamoto was waiting beside Yoshi, conscious that any mistake and he would not be standing erect, desperately hoping he had passed the first test. Somehow or another I'll be useful to this bastard, he was thinking in English, until I can get back aboard an American ship and paradise and tell the Captain how I was kidnapped off Harris's staff by these poxy scum....

He looked up, froze. Yoshi was watching him. "Lord?"

"What were you thinking?"

"I was hoping I'd been of value, Sire.

I... Look out behind you, Sire!" he whispered.

Andr`e Poncin was coming down the steps, heading for Yoshi. Instantly his guards were a protective screen. Unafraid Poncin bowed politely and said in fair though halting Japanese: "Lord, excuse please, can give message from my Master, French High Lord, please?"

"What message?"

"He say please perhaps you like see inside steamship, engine, cannons. Asks humbly invite you and officials." Poncin waited, saw no reaction, except an imperious wave of the fan in dismissal. "Thank you, Lord, please excuse me." He walked away, sure he had been right. On the first step he noticed Tyrer watching him from the audience room window, bit back a curse, and waved. Tyrer waved back.

When the last samurai left the forecourt the gardeners carefully resumed their work. One of them shouldered his spade and limped away. Hiraga, his head swathed with a filthy old cloth, his kimono ragged and dirty, was happy with the success of his spying. Now he knew how and when and where the attack tomorrow should take place.

Once more safe in his palanquin en route back to the castle--with Misamoto, at his orders, sitting at the far end--Yoshi let his mind roam. He was still astonished at their ill-mannered dismissal, not furious like the others, just patient: revenge will be taken in a manner of my own choosing.

An invitation to see the engines of a warship and to go over one? Eeee, an opportunity not to be missed. Dangerous to accept but it will be done. His eyes focused on Misamoto who was staring out of a slit window. Certainly prisoner Misamoto has been useful so far. Stupid of interpreters not to translate accurately. Stupid of the Russian to threaten us. Stupid for them to be so rude. Stupid of the Chinese servant to call us monkeys. Very stupid. Well, I shall deal with them all, some sooner than others.

But how to deal with the leaders and their fleet?

"Misamoto, I have decided not to send you back to the guard house. For twenty days you will be housed with my retainers and continue to learn how to behave like a samurai."

Misamoto's head was on the floor of the palanquin at once. "Thank you, Lord."

"If you please me. Now, what will happen tomorrow?"

Misamoto hesitated, petrified: the first rule of survival was never to carry bad news to any samurai, to say nothing, volunteer nothing, but if forced, to tell anyone only what you think he wants to hear. Unlike there, America, paradise on earth.

The answer's obvious, he wanted to shout, falling back into his habit of thinking in English --the only thing that had kept him sane all the years of his confinement--if you saw how they treat each other in the gai-jin family I lived with, how they treated me, sure a servant, but even so like a man, better than I ever dreamed possible, how every man can walk tall and carry a knife or gun, 'cepting most black men, how impatient they all are to solve a problem to hurry on to the next--if necessary by fist or gun or cannonade --where most everyone's equal under their law, and there are no stinking daimyos or samurai who can kill you when they wish...

Yoshi said softly, reading him: "Answer me truthfully, always, if you value your life."

"Of course, Lord, always." Petrified Misamoto did as he was told blindly. "So sorry, Lord, but unless they get what they want, I think they'll, they will level Yedo."

I agree, but only if we're stupid, Yoshi thought. "Can their cannon do that?"

"Yes, Lord. Not the castle but the city would be fired."

And that would be a stupid waste of Toranaga resources. We would only have to replace them all, peasants, artisans, courtesans and merchants to service us as usual. "Then how would you give them a little soup but no fish?" Yoshi asked.

"Please excuse me, I don't know, Lord, I don't know."

"Then think. And give me your answer at dawn."

"But... yes, Lord."

Yoshi leaned back on his silk cushions and focused his mind on yesterday's meeting of the Elders. Eventually Anjo had had to withdraw the order to evacuate the castle for without a clear majority the order would be invalid--so he, as formal Guardian, had forbidden the Shogun's departure.

I won, this time, but only because that stubborn old fool, Toyama, insisted on voting for his insane attack plan, thus neither for me or against me. Anjo is right: the other two normally vote with him against me. Not because of merit but because I am who I am--the Toranaga who should have been Shogun, not that stupid boy.

Because Yoshi was safe in his palanquin, alone but for Misamoto who could not know his inner thoughts, he allowed his mind to open the compartment marked Nobusada, so secret, so volatile, so dangerous, and permanent.

What to do about him?

I cannot contain him much longer. He's infantile and now in the most dangerous claws of all, those of the Princess Yazu: Emperor's spy and fanatic against the Shogunate who broke her engagement to her adored childhood playmate, a handsome and very eligible Prince, the Shogunate who forced her into permanent exile from Kyoto and all her family and friends and into a marriage to a weakling whose erection is as limp as a banner in summer and may never give her children.

Now she has schemed this State visit to Kyoto to kowtow to the Emperor, a masterstroke that will destroy the delicate balance of centuries: Authority to subdue the whole Empire is granted by Imperial Edict to the Shogun and his descendants who is also appointed Lord High Constable. Therefore orders issued by the Shogun to the country are its laws.

One consultation must lead to another, Yoshi thought, and then the Emperor rules and we do not.

Nobusada will never realize it, his eyes clouded by her guile.

What to do?

Again Yoshi went down the well-trodden but oh so secret path: he is my legal liege lord.

I cannot kill him directly. He is too well guarded unless I am prepared to throw away my own life with the deed which, at the moment I am not. Other means? Poison. But then I would be suspect, correctly, and even if I could escape the bonds that surround me--I'm just as much prisoner as this Misamoto--the land would be plunged into a never-ending civil war, gai-jin will be the only gainers, and worse I would have betrayed my oath of allegiance to the Shogun, whoever he is, and to the Legacy.

I have to let others kill him for me. The shishi? I could help them but to help enemies committed to your own destruction is dangerous. One other possibility. The gods.

He permitted himself a smile. Good luck and bad luck, wrote Shogun Toranaga, fortune and misfortune are to be left to Heaven and natural law--they are not things that can be got by praying or worked by some cunning device.

Be patient, he heard Toranaga saying to him. Be patient.

Yes, I will be.

Yoshi closed that compartment until the next time and again considered the Council. What shall I tell them? Of course by now they will know I met the gai-jin. I will insist on one absolute rule in future: we must send only clever men to these meetings. What else? Certainly about their soldiers, gigantic, with their scarlet uniforms and short skirts and enormous feathered hats, every man with a breech-loading gun, shining with care, as cherished as any of our blades.

Shall I tell them that these enemies are fools, who have no finesse and can be ruled through their impatience and hatreds--Misamoto told me enough to conclude they are as fractious and hate-ridden as any daimyo? No, this I will keep to myself. But I will tell them tomorrow our Delegation will fail unless we devise a delay gai-jin will be happy to accept.

What should that be?

"That messenger, Misamoto," he said idly, "the tall man with the big nose, why did he speak like a woman, using women's words? Was he a half man-half woman?"

"I don't know, Sire. Maybe he was, they have many aboard ship, Sire, though they hide it."

"Why?"

"Don't know, Sire, difficult to understand them. They don't talk open about fornication as we do, of the best position or if a boy is better than a woman. But about speaking like a woman: in their language men and women, they all speak the same, I mean they use the same words, Sire, unlike Japanese. The few sailors I met who could speak some words of our language, men who'd been to Nagasaki, they spoke the same as the big nose did because the only people they speak with are whores, learning our words from our whores. They don't know our women speak different from us, from men, Sire, use different words as civilized persons should."

Yoshi hid his sudden excitement. Our whores are their only real contact, he thought. And they all have whores, of course. So one way to control them, even attack them, is through their whores, female or male.

"I will not order my fleet to bombard Yedo without a formal written order from the Admiralty, or Foreign Office," the Admiral said, his face flushed. "My instructions are to be circumspect, like yours. We are NOT on a punitive mission."

"For God's sake, we have had an incident that must be dealt with. Of course it's a punitive mission!" Sir William was equally angry.

The eight bells of midnight sounded, and they were in the Admiral's quarters aboard the flagship at the round table, the General, Thomas Ogilvy, the only other person present. The cabin was low, large and heavy-beamed, and through the stern windows the riding lights of other vessels could be seen.

"Again, I believe without force they will not budge."

"Get the order, by God, and I'll budge them." The Admiral refilled his own glass with port from the almost empty cut-glass decanter.

"Thomas?"

"Thanks." The General held out his glass.

Trying to contain himself, Sir William said, "Lord Russell has already given us instructions to press the Bakufu for damages, twenty-five thousand pounds, over Legation murders, the Sergeant and Corporal last year--he will be even more incensed over the current incident. I know him, you don't," he added, exaggerating for effect. "I won't receive his approval for three months. We must obtain satisfaction now or the murders will continue. Without your support I cannot maneuver."

"You have my full support, short of war, by God. Bombarding their capital commits us to war. We're not equipped for that. Thomas? You agree?"

The General said carefully, "To surround a village like Hodogaya and eliminate a few hundred savages and put a minor native potentate into chains is a lot different than trying to secure this vast city and invest the castle."

Witheringly, Sir William said, "Then what about your "no conceivable operation that the forces under my command cannot conclude expeditiously"!"

The General reddened. "What one says in public as you well know bears little relation to practice, as you well know! Yedo is different."

"Quite right." The Admiral drained his glass.

"Then what do you propose?" The silence grew. Suddenly the stem of Sir William's glass snapped between his fingers, and the others jumped, unprepared. "Damn!" he said, the destruction somehow diminishing his rage. Carelessly he used the napkin to mop up the wine. "I'm Minister here.

If I find it necessary to make it an order and you refuse to obey, which of course you have a right to do, I will ask for your immediate replacement, of course."

The Admiral's neck went purple. "I have already put the facts before the Admiralty. But please don't mistake me: I am more than ready to seek vengeance for the killing of Mr.Canterbury and the attack on the others. If it's Yedo, I merely require the written order as I have said. There's no hurry, now or in three months, these savages will pay as we require, with this city or a hundred others."

"Yes, they will, by God." Sir William got up.

"One more piece of necessary information before you go: I cannot promise to stay at this anchorage much longer.

My fleet is unprotected, the sea bottom dangerously shallow, weather promises to worsen, and we're safer at Yokohama."

"How much longer is safe?"

"A day--I don't know, I've no control over weather which this month is irascible, as you're aware."

"Yes, I'm aware. Well, I'll be off.

I require you both at the ten o'clock meeting ashore. Kindly fire a salute at dawn when we break out the colors. Thomas, please land two hundred dragoons to secure the area around the wharf."

"May I ask why two hundred more men?" the General asked quickly. "I've already put a company ashore."

"Perhaps I may wish to take hostages. Good evening." He closed the door quietly.

The two men stared after him. "Does he mean it?"

"I don't know, Thomas. But with the Honorable, impetuous William bloody Aylesbury you never know."

In deep darkness another detachment of heavily armed samurai came out of the main castle gate, ran silently across the lowered drawbridge, then over the bridge that spanned the wide moat heading for the Legation area. Other companies were also converging. More than two thousand samurai were in place, with another thousand ready to move in when ordered.

Sir William was plodding up from the wharf with his guard, an officer and ten Highlanders, through the deserted streets. He was depressed and tired, his mind on tomorrow, trying to conceive a way out of his impasse. Another corner and another. At the end of this street was the open space that led up to the Legation.

"My God, sorr, look there!"

The space was crammed with silent samurai, motionless and watching them. All heavily armed.

Swords, bows, spears, a few muskets. A slight noise and Sir William's party glanced around. The road back was blocked with massed, equally silent warriors.

"Christ," the young officer murmured.

"Yes." Sir William sighed. This could be one solution, but then God help every man jack of them--the fleet would respond instantly.

"Let's go on. Have your men ready to fight if need be, safety catches off."

He led the way forward, not feeling brave, just out of himself somehow, observing himself and the others as if above the street. There was a narrow path between the samurai, an officer at the head. As Sir William came within ten feet, the man bowed politely, equal to equal. Sir William watched himself raise his hat with equal politeness, and walk on. The soldiers followed, rifles in hands, fingers on triggers. All the way up the hill. Same silence, same watching. All the way to the gate. Massed samurai, motionless. But none in their forecourt.

The forecourt and gardens were filled with Highlanders, armed and ready, others on the roof and at the windows. Soldiers opened then locked the gate after him.

Tyrer and all the rest of the staff were waiting in the foyer, some in nightclothes, some part dressed and they crowded around him. "My God, Sir William," Tyrer said for all of them, "we were petrified they'd captured you."

"How long have they been here?"

"Since about midnight, sir," an officer said. "We had sentries at the bottom of the hill. As the enemy arrived, these lads gave us warning and fell back. We'd no way to warn you or signal the fleet. If they wait till dawn we can hold this place until more troops arrive and the fleet opens up."

"Good," he said quietly. "In that case I suggest we all go to bed, leave a few men on guard, and let the rest turn in."

"Sir?" The officer was perplexed.

"If they wanted to do us they would have done so already without the silent treatment and ballyhoo." Sir William saw them all staring at him and he felt better, no longer depressed. He started up the stairs. "Good night."

"But, sir, don't you think..." The words trailed off.

Sir William sighed wearily. "If you wish to keep the men on duty, please do so--if it will make you happier."

A sergeant hurried into the foyer and called out, "Sorr, they're all leaving! The wee buggers are scarpering."

Glanced out of the landing window, Sir William saw that, sure enough, the samurai were melting into the night.

For the first time he became afraid. He had not expected them to disappear. In moments the path down the hill was clear and the space below empty. But he sensed that they had not gone far, that every doorway and nearby street would be crammed with enemies, all waiting confidently to spring the trap.

Thank God the other Ministers and most of our lads are safe aboard. Thank God, he thought, and walked on up the stairs with a step firm enough to encourage those watching him.

Thursday, 18th September

Thursday, 18th September: The Inn of the Forty-seven Ronin was in a dingy alley not far from Yedo castle, set back from the dirt roadway, and almost hidden behind a high, ill-kempt fence. From the street the inn appeared drab and nondescript. Inside it was lush, expensive, the fence solid.

Well-groomed gardens surrounded the sprawling single-story building and its many, isolated one-room bungalows set on low pilings and reserved for special guests--and privacy. The inn's patrons were well-to-do merchants, but also it was a safe house for certain shishi.

Now, just before dawn, it was peaceful, all patrons, courtesans, mama-san, maids, servants sleeping. Except the shishi.

Quietly they were arming themselves.

Ori sat on the veranda of one of the little houses, his kimono down around his waist. With great difficulty, he was replacing the bandage over the wound on his shoulder. The wound was fiery red now and angry and agonizingly sensitive. His whole arm throbbed and he knew a doctor was urgent. Even so he had told Hiraga it was too dangerous to fetch one or to go to one: "I might be followed. We cannot risk it, too many spies and Yedo is Toranaga sanctuary."

"I agree. Go back to Kanagawa."

"When the mission is over." His finger slipped and brushed the festering sore and a pain stabbed deep to his innards. There's no hurry, a doctor can lance it and remove the poison, he thought, only half believing it. Karma. And karma if it continues to rot. He was so absorbed that he did not hear the ninja slide over the fence and creep up behind him.

His heart twisted with fright as the ninja clapped a hand over his mouth to prevent any outcry. "It is me," Hiraga whispered angrily, then released him. "I could have killed you twenty times."

"Yes." Ori forced a smile and pointed.

Amongst the bushes, was another samurai, the arrow in his bow poised. "But he's on guard, not me."

"Good." Hiraga greeted the guard and, mollified, pulled off his face mask. "Are the others inside and ready, Ori?"

"Yes."

"And your arm?"

"Fine." Ori gasped and his face twisted in pain as Hiraga's hand snaked out and grabbed his shoulder. Tears seeped from his eyes but he remained silent.

"You're a liability. You cannot go with us today--you will go back to Kanagawa." Hiraga stepped on to the veranda and went inside. Greatly dispirited, Ori followed.

Eleven shishi were seated on the fine tatami, armed. Nine were Hiraga's compatriots from Choshu. Two newcomers were from the Mori patrol that had let them pass yesterday, later to desert and beg permission to join them.

Hiraga sat, tiredly. "I could not get within two hundred paces of the temple or the Legation, so we cannot fire it and kill Lord Yoshi and the others when they arrive. Impossible.

We must ambush him elsewhere."

"Excuse me, Hiraga-san, but are you certain it was Lord Yoshi?" one of the Mori men asked.

"Yes I'm sure."

"I still cannot believe he would risk coming out of the castle with a few guards just to meet some stinking gai-jin, even disguised. He is too clever, surely he would know he is the supreme target for shishi, except the Shogun, bigger even than the traitor Anjo."

"He is not clever, I recognized him, I was close to him once in Kyoto," Hiraga said, secretly not trusting either of the Mori samurai. "Whatever his reason, he could risk the Legation once without guards, not twice.

Surely that is why the area is awash with Bakufu samurai. But tomorrow he will be outside the castle again. It is an opportunity we cannot miss. Could we mount an ambush somewhere?

Anyone?"

"Depends on the number of samurai with the cortege," a Mori samurai said. "If a meeting is held as the gai-jin want."

"If? Would Lord Yoshi try a stratagem?"

"I would, if I were him. They call him the Fox."

"What would you do?"

The man scratched his chin. "I'd delay, somehow."

Hiraga frowned. "But if he goes to the Legation as yesterday where would he be the most vulnerable?"

Ori said, "Getting out of his palanquin. The gai-jin forecourt."

"We can't get there, even with a suicide rush."

The silence gathered. Then Ori said quietly, "The nearer to the castle gates the safer his captains would feel, therefore the fewer their immediate guards and the less their vigilance, coming out ... or going back in."

Hiraga nodded, satisfied, and smiled at him and motioned to one of his compatriots. "When the house wakes, tell the mama-san to fetch Ori a doctor, secretly and quickly."

Ori said at once, "We agreed it is not safe."

"An asset must be protected. Your idea is perfect."

Ori bowed his thanks. "Better I go to the doctor, neh?"

In first light Phillip Tyrer half ran half walked towards the wharf with two Highlanders, a sergeant and a private in tow. "Good God, Phillip, two guards are more than enough,"

Sir William had said a moment ago. "If the Jappers intend mischief our entire garrison won't be sufficient to protect you.

The message has to be delivered to Ketterer and you're it. 'Bye!"

Like Sir William he had had to pass through the hundreds of silent samurai who had returned just before dawn. No one molested him or even seemed to acknowledge his presence other than a quick flick of their eyes. Ahead now was the sea. His pace quickened.

"Halt, who goes there, or I'll blow yor bloody head off," a voice said from the shadows and he skidded to a stop.

"For Christ's sake," Tyrer said, palpitating with fright. "Who the hell d'you think it is, it's me with an urgent message for the Admiral and General."

"Sorry, sir."

Quickly Tyrer was in a cutter being rowed briskly towards the flagship. He was so glad to be out of the Legation trap he could almost weep and urged the oarsmen on faster, then went up the gangway two rungs at a time.

"Hello, Phillip!" Marlowe was officer of the watch on the main deck. "What the devil's up?"

"Hello, John, where's the Admiral?

I've an urgent dispatch for him from Sir William. The Legation's surrounded by thousands of the bastards."

"Christ!" Anxiously Marlowe led the way down a gangway then aft. "How the hell did you get out?"

"Just walked. They let me through their ranks, didn't say a bloody word, not one of them, just let me through. I don't mind telling you I was scared fartless--they're everywhere, except inside our walls and down by our wharf."

The Marine sentry outside the cabin door saluted smartly. "Morning, sir."

"Urgent dispatch for the Admiral."

At once the voice slashed through the door: "Then for God's sake, Marlowe bring it in!

Dispatch from whom?"

Marlowe sighed, opened the door. "Sir William, sir."

"What the hell's that idiot done n--"

Admiral Ketterer stopped, seeing Tyrer.

"Oh, you're his aide, aren't you?"

"Apprentice interpreter, sir, Phillip Tyrer." He handed him the letter, "Er, Sir William's compliments, sir."

The Admiral tore the letter open. He was wearing a long flannel nightgown and tasselled sleeping hat and thin-rimmed reading glasses and he pursed his lips as he read: I consider it best to cancel your appearance at the meeting today, as well as the General and the other Ministers. We are totally surrounded by hundreds, if not thousands of heavily armed samurai. Thus far they have done nothing hostile, or prevented anyone from leaving, yet. Certainly they have the right to put their own troops where they wish --perhaps it's just a bluff to unhinge us. For safety, however, I will handle the Bakufu alone, if they appear as demanded. (if this occurs I will run up a blue pennant and will endeavour to keep you advised of developments.) If the Bakufu do not appear I will wait another day or two, then may have to order an ignominious withdrawal. In the meantime, if you see the flag hauled down it will mean they have overrun us. You may then take whatever action you see fit. I am, Sir, your obedient servant....

Carefully the Admiral reread the letter, then said decisively, "Mr. Marlowe, ask the Captain and General to join me here at once.

Send the following message to all ships: "You will instantly go to action stations. All Captains to report aboard the flagship at noon." Next, send a signal to the Ministers asking them to be kind enough to join me here as soon as possible. Mr. Tyrer, get yourself some breakfast and be ready to carry back a reply within a few minutes."

"But, sir, don't you think--"

The Admiral was already bellowing at the closed door. "Johnson!"

Instantly his orderly opened the door.

"Barber's on his way, sir, your uniform's freshly ironed, breakfast's ready the moment you're at table, the porridge's hot!"

Ketterer's look fell on Marlowe and Tyrer. "What the devil are you waiting for?"

At Yokohama the Struan cutter--the only steam engine, propeller-driven, small boat in the Japans--swung against their wharf, wind brisk with a slight swell to the grey sea under the overcast. Jamie McFay climbed nimbly up the steps, then hurried along its length heading for their two-story building dominating the High Street. It was barely eight o'clock but he had already been out to meet the bimonthly mail ship that had arrived with the dawn, to collect mail, dispatches and the latest newspapers that his Chinese assistant began to load into a cart. Clutched in his hand were two envelopes, one opened the other sealed.

"'Morning, Jamie." Gabriel Nettlesmith intercepted him, stepping out from a small group of sleepy traders waiting for their boats. He was a short, roly-poly, untidy, smelly man, reeking of ink and unwashed clothes and the cigars that he smoked perpetually, editor and publisher of the Yokohama Guardian, the Settlement's newspaper, one of the many in Asia that Struan's owned, openly or secretly. "What's amiss?"

"Lots--be kind enough to join me for tiffin.

Sorry, can't stop."

Even without the fleet at anchor the harbor was already busy with cutters plying to and from the half a hundred merchantmen, others clustering the mail ship, still others heading for her or coming back.

Jamie was the first ashore, a matter of principle with him and a business expedient where prices of essential items, always in short supply, could fluctuate wildly depending on the mails. Hong Kong to Yokohama direct by mail steamer took about nine days, via Shanghai, about eleven, weather permitting. Mail from home, England, took eight to twelve weeks, weather and piracy permitting, and mail day always an anxious time, joyous, awful or in between but ever welcome, waited for and prayed for nonetheless.

Norbert Greyforth of Brock and Sons, Struan's main rival, was still a hundred yards offshore, sitting comfortably amidships, his oarsmen pulling hard, watching him through his telescope. McFay knew he was being observed but it did not bother him today. The bugger will know soon enough if he doesn't know already, he thought, feeling uncommonly frightened. Frightened for Malcolm Struan, the Company, himself, for the future and for his ai-jin--love person--who waited equally patiently in their tiny Yoshiwara house across the canal, outside the fence.

He increased his pace. Three or four drunks lay in the gutter of High Street like old sacks of coal, others scattered here and there down along the seafront. He stepped over one man, avoided a raucous group of inebriated merchant seamen staggering for their boats, ran up his steps into the large foyer of Struan's, up the staircase to the landing and down the corridor that led to suites of rooms the whole length of the godown.

Quietly he opened a door and peered in.

"Hello, Jamie," Malcolm Struan said from the bed.

"Oh, hello, Malcolm, 'morning. I wasn't sure if you'd be awake." He closed the door behind him, noticed that the door to the adjoining suite was ajar, and went over to the huge teak four-poster that, like all the furniture, came from Hong Kong or England. Malcolm Struan was pasty-faced, and drawn, propped on pillows--the boat trip back from Kanagawa yesterday had drained more of his precious strength even though Dr. Babcott had kept him sedated and they had made the journey as smooth as possible. "How are you today?"

Struan just peered up at him, his blue eyes seemingly faded and set deeper into their sockets, shadows underneath. "Mail from Hong Kong's not good, eh?" The words were flat, and gave McFay no way to break it easily.

"Yes, sorry. You heard the signal gun?"

Whenever the mail ship came within sight, it was custom for the Harbor Master to fire a cannon to alert the Settlement--the same procedure all over the world, wherever there were Settlements.

"Yes, I did," Struan said. "Before you tell me the bad, close her door and give me the chamber pot."

McFay obeyed. The other side of the door was a drawing room and beyond that a bedroom, the best apartment in the whole building and normally reserved exclusively for the tai-pan, Malcolm's father.

Yesterday at Malcolm's insistence and her happy compliance, Angelique had been installed there. At once the news had rushed around the Settlement, feeding other reports and rumors that their Angelique had become the new Lady of the Lamp, and the betting odds on that she was Struan's in more ways than one, every man wanting to be in his bed.

"You're mad," McFay had told some of them at the Club last night. "The poor fellow's in terrible shape."

Dr. Babcott interrupted, "He'll be up and about before you know it."

"It's got to be wedding bells, by God!" someone said.

"Drinks on the house," another called out expansively, "Good-oh, we'll have our own wedding, our first wedding."

"We've had lots, Charlie, what about our musumes?"' "They don't count for God's sake, I mean a real church wedding--and a right proper christening an--"' "Jumping Jehovah, are you implying one's in the oven?"' "The rumor's they was like stoats on the ship coming here, not that I blame him..."

"Angel Tits weren't even feeanced then, by God! Say that agin', impugg'ning 'er 'onor, and I'll do you by God!"

McFay sighed. A few drunken blows and broken bottles, both men had been thrown out to crawl back within the hour to an uproarious welcome. Last night, when he had peeped in here before going to bed himself, Malcolm was asleep and she was nodding in a chair beside the bed. He awoke her gently. "Best get some proper sleep, Miss Angelique, he won't wake now."

"Yes, thank you, Jamie."

He had watched her stretch luxuriously like a contented young feline, half asleep, hair down around her bared shoulders, her gown high waisted and loose, falling in folds that the Empress Josephine had favored fifty years before and some Parisian haute couturiers were trying to reintroduce, all of her pulsating with a male-attracting life force. His own suite was along the corridor. For a long time he had not slept.

Sweat soaked Struan. The effort of using the chamber pot was vast with little to show for all the pain, no feces and just a little blood-flecked urine.

"Jamie, now what's the bad?"

"Oh, well you see..."

"For Christ sake tell me!"

"Your father passed away nine days ago, same day the mail ship left Hong Kong direct us, not via Shanghai. His funeral was due three days later. Your mother asks me to arrange your return at once. Our mail ship from here with news of your, your bad luck won't arrive Hong Kong for another four or five days at the earliest. Sorry," he added lamely.

Struan only heard the first sentence. The news was not unexpected and yet it came as violent a slash as the wound in his side. He was very glad and very sad, mixed up, excited that at long last he could really run the company that he had trained for all his life, that for years had been hemorrhaging, for years held together by his mother who quietly persuaded, cajoled, guided and helped his father over the bad times. The bad was constant and mostly due to drink that was his father's medicine to cushion blinding headaches and attacks of Happy Valley ague, mal-aria, bad air, the mysterious killing fever that had decimated Hong Kong's early population but now, sometimes, was held in abeyance by a bark extract, quinine.

Can't remember a year when Father wasn't laid up at least twice with the shakes, for a month or more, his mind wandering for days on end. Even infusions of the priceless cinchona bark that Grandfather had had brought from Peru had not cured him, though it had stopped the fever from killing him, and most everyone else. But it hadn't saved poor little Mary, four years old then, me seven and forever after aware of death, the meaning of it and its finality.

He sighed heavily. Thank God nothing touched Mother, neither plague nor ague nor age nor misfortune, still a young woman, not yet thirty-eight, still trim after seven children, a steel support for all of us, able to ride every disaster, every storm, even the bitter, perpetual hatred and enmity between her and her father, godrotting Tyler Brock... even the tragedy last year when the darling twins, Rob and Dunross, were drowned off Shek-O where our summer house is. And now poor Father. So many deaths.

Tai-pan. Now I'm tai-pan of the Noble House.

"What? What did you say, Jamie?"

"I just said I was sorry, Tai-pan, and here, here's a letter from your mother."

With an effort Struan took the envelope.

"What's the fastest way for me to get back to Hong Kong?"

"Sea Cloud but she isn't due for two to three weeks. The only merchantmen here at the moment are slow, none due for Hong Kong for a week. Mail ship would be the fastest. We could get her to turn around right smartly but she's going via Shanghai."

After yesterday, the idea of an eleven-day voyage more than likely with bad seas, even typhoon, horrified Malcolm. Even so he said, "Talk to the captain. Persuade him to go direct Hong Kong. What else's in the mails?"

"I haven't been through them yet, but here..."

Greatly concerned with Struan's sudden pallor, McFay offered the Hong Kong Observer.

"Nothing but bad, I'm afraid: The American civil war's picking up steam, seesawing with tens of thousands of deaths--battles at Shiloh, Fair Oaks, dozens of places, another at Bull Run with the Union army the loser and decimated. War's changed forever now with breech-loading rifles and machine guns and rifled cannon. Price of cotton's gone sky high with the Union blockade of the South.

Another panic on the London Stock Exchange and Paris--rumors that Prussia will invade France imminently. Since the Prince Consort died in December, Queen Victoria still hasn't appeared in public--it's rumored she's pining to death. Mexico: we've pulled our forces out now it's apparent nutter Napoleon III'S determined to make it a French domain. Famine and riots all over Europe." McFay hesitated. "Can I get you anything?"

"A new stomach." Struan glanced at the envelope clenched in his hand. "Jamie, leave me the paper, go through the mails then come back and we'll decide what to do here before I leave..."

A slight noise and they both glanced back at the adjoining door that now was half open. She was standing there, elegant peignoir over her nightdress.

"Hello, cheri," she said at once.

"I thought I heard voices. How are you today?

Good morning, Jamie. Malcolm, you look so much better, can I get you anything?"

"No thank you. Come in. Sit down, you look wonderful. Sleep well?"

"Not really, but never mind," she said though she had slept wonderfully. Her perfume surrounding her, she touched him sweetly, and sat down. "Shall we breakfast together?"

McFay dragged his attention off her. "I'll come back when I've made the arrangements.

I'll tell George Babcott."

When the door had closed, she smoothed Struan's brow, and he caught her hand, loving her. The envelope slipped to the floor. She picked it up. A little frown. "Why so sad?"

"Father's dead."

His sadness brought her tears. She had always found it easy to cry, to make tears almost at will, seeing from a very early age their effect on others, her aunt and uncle particularly. All she had to do was to think of her mother who had died bearing her brother. "But Angelique," her aunt would always say tearfully, "poor little Gerard is your only brother, you'll never have another, not a real one, even if that good-for-nothing father of yours remarries."

"I hate him."

"It wasn't his fault, poor lad, his birth was ghastly."

"I don't care, he killed Maman, killed her!"

"Don't cry, Angelique...."

And now Struan was saying the same words, the tears easy because she was truly sad for him. Poor Malcolm to lose a father--he was a nice man, nice to me. Poor Malcolm trying to be brave. Never mind, soon you'll be well and now it's much easier to stay, now that the smell has gone, most of the smell has gone.

A sudden spectre of her own father came into her mind: "Don't forget this Malcolm will inherit everything soon, the ships and power and..."

I won't think about that. Or... or about the other.

She dried her eyes. "There, now tell me everything."

"Nothing much to tell. Father's dead. The funeral was days ago and I have to go back to Hong Kong at once."

"Of course at once--but not until you are well enough." She leaned forward and kissed him lightly. "What will you do when we get there?"

In a moment he said firmly, "I'm heir.

I'm tai-pan."

"Tai-pan of the Noble House?" She made her surprise seem genuine then, she added delicately, "Malcolm, dear, terrible about your father, but... but in a way not unexpected, no? My father told me he had been sick a long time."

"It was expected yes."

"That is sad but... tai-pan of the Noble House, even so, please may I be the first to congratulate you." She curtseyed to him as elegantly as to a king, and sat back again, pleased with herself. His eyes watched her strangely. "What?"

"Just that you, you make me feel so proud, so wonderful. Will you marry me?"

Her heart missed a beat, her face flushed.

But her mind ordered her to be prudent, not to hurry, and she pondered whether to be as grave as he was grave, or to release the exploding exuberance she felt at his question and her victory and to make him smile. "La!" she said brightly, teasing him, fanning herself with a handkerchief. "Yes I will marry you, Monsieur Struan, but only if you..." A hesitation and she added in a rush, "only if you get better quickly, obey me implacable, cherish me hugely, love me to distraction, build us a castle on the Peak in Hong Kong, a palace on the Champs-Elys`ees, fit out a clipper ship as a bridal bed, a nursery in gold, and find us a country estate of a million hectares!"

"Be serious. Angelique, listen to me, I'm serious!"

Oh but I am, she thought, delighted that he was smiling now. A gentle kiss but this time on the lips, full of promise. "There, Monsieur, now don't taunt this defenseless young lady."

"I'm not taunting you, I swear to God.

Will-you-marry-me?" Strong words but he did not have the strength to sit up yet or reach out to bring her closer. "Please."

Her eyes still teased. "Perhaps, when you're better--and only if you obey me implacable, cherish me..."

"Implacably, if that's the word you want."

"Ah yes, pardon. Implacably... etceteras." Again the lovely smile. "Perhaps yes, Monsieur Struan, but first we must get to know each other, then we must agree to an engagement, and then, Monsieur le tai-pan de la Noble Maison, who knows?"

Joy possessed all of him. "Then it's yes?"

Her eyes watched him, making him wait. With all the tenderness she could muster, she said, "I will consider it seriously--but first you must promise to get well quickly."

"I will, I swear it."

Again she dried her eyes. "Now, Malcolm, please read your mother's letter, and I'll sit with you."

His heart was beating strongly and the elation he felt took away the pain. But his fingers were not so obedient and he had trouble breaking the seal. "Here, Angel, read it to me, will you please?"

At once she broke the seal and scanned the singular writing that was on the single page. ""My beloved son,"" she read aloud, ""With great sadness I must tell you your father is dead and now our future rests with you. He died in his sleep, poor man, the funeral will be in three days, the dead must cherish the dead and we, the living, must continue the struggle while we have life. Your father's Will confirms you as heir, and tai-pan, but to be legal the succession has to be done with a ceremony witnessed by me and Compradore Chen in accordance with your beloved grandfather's Legacy.

Settle our Japanese interests as we discussed and return as quickly as you can. yr devoted Mother."" Tears filled her eyes again because of a sudden fantasy that she was the mother writing to her son.

"That's all? No postscript?"

"No, cheri, nothing more, just "your devoted mother." How brave of her. Would that I could be so brave."

Oblivious to everything except the portent of these happenings, she gave him the letter and went to the window that looked out on to the harbor and, drying her eyes, opened it. The air was fresh and took away the sickroom smell. What to do now?

Help him to hurry back to Hong Kong away from this foul place. Wait... will his mother favor our marriage? I don't know. Would I if I was her? I know she didn't like me, the few times we met, so tall and distant, though Malcolm said she was that way with everyone outside family.

"Wait till you get to know her Angelique, she's so wonderful and strong..."

Behind her the door opened and Ah Tok came in without knocking, a small tea tray in one hand.

"Neh hoh mah, Mass'r," good day, she said with a beam, showing the two gold teeth of which she was very proud. "Mass'r slepp good heya?"

In fluent Cantonese, Malcolm said, "Stop speaking gibberish."

"Ayeeyah!" Ah Tok was Struan's personal amah who had looked after him since he was born and a law unto herself. She hardly acknowledged Angelique, her concentration on Struan. Stout, strong and fifty-six, wearing the traditional white smock and black trousers, the long queue hanging down her back signified that she had chosen amah as her profession and had therefore sworn to remain chaste all her life and so never to have children of her own that might divert her loyalty. Two Cantonese manservants followed with hot towels and water to bathe him.

Loudly, she ordered them to close the door.

"Mass'r bar'f, heya?" she said pointedly to Angelique.

"I will come back later, cheri," the girl said. Struan did not answer, just nodded and smiled back then stared again at the letter, lost in thought. She left her door ajar. Ah Tok grunted disapprovingly, shut it firmly, told the other two to hurry up with his bed bath, and handed him the tea.

"Thank you, Mother," he said, in Cantonese, using the customary honorific for such a special person who had cherished and carried and guarded him when defenseless.

"Bad news, my son," Ah Tok said--the tidings had rushed through the Chinese community.

"Bad news." He sipped the tea. It tasted very good.

"After you have bathed you will feel better and then we can talk. Your Honorable Father was overdue his appointment with the gods. He's there now and you are tai-pan so the bad has become good. Later this morning I'll bring some extra-special tea I've bought for you that will cure all your ills."

"Thank you."

"You owe me a tael of silver for the medicine."

"A fiftieth part."

"Ayeeyah, at least half."

"Ayeeyah, a twentieth part, Mother." With hardly any thought he bargained automatically, but not unkindly, "and if you argue I'll remind you you owe me six months wages paid in advance for your grandmother's funeral--her second."

One of the servants chortled behind her but she feigned not to notice. "If you say so, Tai-pan." She used the title delicately, the first time she had ever said it to him, watching him, missing nothing, then snapped at the two men sponging and cleaning him carefully and efficiently: "Hurry up with your work. Does my son, the tai-pan, have to endure your clumsy ministrations all day?"

"Ayeeyah," one of them unwisely muttered back.

"Take care, you motherless fornicator," she said sweetly in a dialect Struan did not understand.

"Just get on with it and if you nick my son while shaving I'll put the Evil Eye on you.

Treat my son like Imperial jade or your fruit will be pulverized--and don't listen to your betters!"

"Betters? Ayeeyah, old woman, you come from Ning Tok, a turtle dung village famous only for farts."

"A tael of silver says this civilized person can whip you five out of seven times at mahjong this evening."

"Done!" the man said truculently even though Ah Tok was an accomplished player.

"What's all that about?" Struan said.

"Servants talk, nothing important, my son."

When they had finished they gave him a fresh crisp night shirt. "Thank you," Struan said to them, greatly refreshed. They bowed politely and were gone.

"Ah Tok, bolt her door, quietly."

She obeyed. Her sharp ears heard the rustle of skirts in the adjoining room and she resolved to increase her vigilance. Nosey, foreign devil toad belly whore with her Jade Gate so hungry for the Master a civilized person can almost hear it salivating...

"Light the candle for me please."

"Eh? Are your eyes hurting you, my son?"

"No, nothing like that. There are safety matches in the bureau." Safety matches, the recent Swedish patent, were usually kept locked away as they were highly sought after, therefore had a ready sale and therefore had a habit of disappearing.

Petty theft was endemic in Asia. Uneasily she used one, not understanding why they would not light unless the side of their special box was struck.

He had explained why but she only muttered about more foreign devil magic.

"Where do you want the candle, my son?"

He pointed at the bedside table within easy reach. "Here. Now leave me for a little while."

"But, ayeeyah, we should talk, there is much to plan."

"I know. Just wait outside the door and keep everyone away until I call."

Grumbling she walked out. So much talk and bad news had exhausted him. Nonetheless, painfully he balanced the candle on the side of the bed, then lay back a moment.

Four years ago on his sixteenth birthday his mother had taken him to the Peak to speak privately: "Now you are old enough to learn some secrets of the Noble House. There will always be secrets. Some your father and I keep from you until you become tai-pan. Some I keep from him, and some from you.

Some I will now share with you and not with him, or your brothers and sisters. Under no circumstances are these secrets to be shared with anyone. Anyone. You promise before God."

"Yes Mother, I swear it."

"First: perhaps one day we may need to give each other personal or dangerous information in a private letter--never forget anything in writing may be read by alien eyes. Whenever I write to you I will always add, P.s. I love you. You will do the same, always, without fail. But if there is no P.s. I love you, then the letter contains important and secret information, from me to you or you to me only. Watch!" Shielding the paper she had prepared, she lit some safety matches and held them under the paper, not to fire it but to almost scorch it, line by line.

Miraculously, the hidden message appeared: Happy Birthday, under your pillow there's a sight draft for ten thousand pounds. Keep it secretly, spend it wisely.

"Oh Mother, there is? There really is, ten thousand?"' "Yes."

"Ayeeyah! But how do you do it? The writing?"' "Take a clean quill or pen and write your message carefully in a liquid I will give you, or milk, and let it dry. When you heat the paper as I did, the writing will appear." She used another match and gravely lit a corner of the paper. In silence they watched it burn. She ground the ashes to dust under her tiny high-booted foot. "When you're tai-pan, trust no one," adding strangely, "even me."

Now, Struan held her sad letter over the candle's flame. The words came into view, no mistaking her handwriting: Sorry to tell your father died raving, besotted with whisky. He must have bribed a servant to sneak it in again. Much more to tell in person. Thank God he's out of his misery but it was the Brocks, my cursed father and my brother Morgan, who give us no peace and caused his strokes--the final one came just after you left when we discovered details, too late, of their secret Hawaiian coup against us. Jamie has a few details.

For a moment he stopped reading, sick with rage.

Soon there'll be a reckoning, he promised himself then read on: Beware of our friend, Dmitri Syborodin.

We discover he's a secret agent for that revolutionary, President Lincoln, not the South as he pretends. Beware of Angelique Richaud...

His heart twisted with sudden fright: Our Paris agents write that her uncle Michel Richaud went bankrupt shortly after she left and is now in Debtor's Prison. More facts: her father keeps very poor company, has very substantial gambling debts, and secretly boasts to intimates he'll soon represent all our French interests--received your letter of the 4th recommending this, presume at her instigation--he won't, he's insolvent. Another of his "secrets": you'll be his son-in-law within a year. Of course, ridiculous, you are far too young for marriage, and I could not conceive of a worse connection. Singly or together they are out to snare you, my son. Be circumspect and beware of feminine guile.

For the first time in his life he was furious with his mother. Shakily, he shoved the paper into the flame, held it while it burned then pulverized the ash to nothingness, smashed the flame out and sent the candle skittering and lay back nauseated, heart pounding, all the time his mind shouting; how dare she investigate Angelique and her family without asking me! How dare she be so wrong! Whatever sins they committed Angelique is not to blame.

Mother of all people should know the sins of the fathers are not to be blamed on the children! Wasn't my beloved grandfather much worse, wasn't he a killer and not much more than a pirate, as her father still is? She's a bloody hypocrite! It's none of her business who I marry. It's my life and if I want to marry Angelique next year I will. Mother knows nothing about Angelique--and when she knows the truth she'll love her as I do--or else by God! She...

"Oh Christ," he gasped as pain ripped him apart.

McFay looked up from the piles of letters, documents and journals littering his desk. "How is he?" he asked anxiously as Dr.Babcott came in and closed the door. The office was spacious, facing the High Street and the sea.

"It was a stomach seizure of some kind, Jamie. To be expected, I'm afraid, poor chap. I dressed his wound-- he'd torn a few stitches. I gave him a draft of laudanum." Babcott rubbed his eyes, red-rimmed with fatigue, his frock coat heavy and frayed at the sleeves and stained, here and there, with chemicals and dried blood. "Not much more I can do for him at the moment. What's the latest from the fleet?"

"Status quo: the fleet's at action stations, Legation's still surrounded, the Bakufu are supposed to appear soon."

"What happens if they don't?"

McFay shrugged. "I've had orders to get Malcolm back to Hong Kong as soon as possible--very important for him. I can get him on the mail sh--"

"I absolutely forbid it," Babcott said with more anger than he intended. "That would be stupid and highly dangerous, highly dangerous. If they got into a storm which is likely this time of the year ... well, severe and prolonged vomiting would tear the repairs apart--which would kill him. No!"

"Then when will it be safe?"

The doctor glanced out of the windows.

Whitecaps out past the headland, none in the bay.

Sky overcast. He weighed his helplessness against his knowledge. "At least a week, perhaps a month. God knows, Jamie, I don't."

"If you were to go on the mail ship, would that help?"

"For Christ's sake, no! Didn't you hear me clearly? No. No! He's not to move.

Nine days on a ship would kill him."

McFay's face closed. "What are Malcolm's chances? Really. It's very important I know."

"Still good. His temperature's more or less normal and there's no sign of any festering."

Babcott rubbed his eyes again and yawned.

"Sorry, didn't mean to snap at you. Been up since midnight patching the results of a sailor versus soldier Drunk Town brawl, and a dawn emergency in the Yoshiwara, had to sew up a young woman who tried to cut herself into the next world." He sighed. "It would help to keep him as calm as possible. I'd say his bad news probably brought on the attack."

The knowledge and implications of Culum Struan's death and therefore Malcolm's new status as tai-pan--of vital and immediate concern to all their rivals--had rushed through the Settlement. In Brock's, Norbert Greyforth had interrupted a meeting to open the first bottle of champagne from the case he had had kept chilled against this day for many weeks--chilled in their new, and highly profitable Ice House next door to their godown. "Best news we've had in years," he chortled to Dmitri, "and I've another twenty cases for the party I'm throwing tonight. A toast, Dmitri!" He raised his cut glass, the best Venetian that money could buy. "Here's to the tai-pan of the Noble House: out with the Old, out with the New by God, and may they be bankrupt within the year!"

"I'll drink with you, Norbert, to the success of the new tai-pan, none of the rest," Dmitri said.

"Open your eyes to reality. They're the old, we're the new--once they had guts when Dirk Struan was alive but now they're weak, McFay's weak--why with his enthusiastic help and a little persuasion on the night of Canterbury's murder we could have roused the whole Settlement, the fleet, the Army, we'd have captured this bugger Satsuma king, hanged him, and be living happily ever after."

"I agree. John Canterbury's going to be revenged, one way or another. Poor bastard," Dmitri said. "You know he left me his business?"' Canterbury's was one of the smaller trading houses, specializing in the export of silk cloth, and particularly cocoons and silkworm eggs, a highly lucrative trade to France where the silk industry, once the best in the world, had been decimated by disease. "John always said he would but I never believed him. I'm his Executor too --Wee Willie gave me the deed before he left."

"Samurai are all bastards, no reason to murder him like that. What about his musume? Old John was beset by her. She's carrying, isn't she?"' "No, that was a rumor. In his will he asked me to take care of her, give her money to buy her own shack. I went to see her but her mama-san, Raiko, that old bat, she told me the girl had gone back to her village but she'd send on any money. I paid over what John had said so that was that."

Thoughtfully Norbert finished his wine and poured more and felt better. "You should take care of yourself too," he said keeping his voice down, judging the time ripe. "You've the future to think of, not a few rolls of cloth and worm eggs. Consider the Great Game, the American game. With our contacts we can buy any amount of British, French or Prussian armaments--we've just signed an exclusive deal to represent Krupp's in the Far East--at better prices than Struan's can give you, have them delivered in Hawaii for transshipment to... to wherever, no questions asked."

"I'll drink to that."

"Whatever you want, we can get cheaper and faster." Norbert refilled their glasses.

"I like Dom Perignon, it's better than Tatt--that old monk knew about color and sugar, and the lack of it. Like Hawaiian sugar," he added delicately, "I hear it's going to be so pricey this year to be almost a national treasure, for North or South."

Dmitri's glass stopped in midair.

"Meaning?"' "Meaning, just between us, Brock and Sons have the lock on this year's crop, meaning that Struan's won't have so much as a hundred-pound sack so your deal with them won't happen."

"When's this going to be common knowledge?"' Dmitri's eyes slitted.

"Would you like to be part of it? Our deal? We could use a trustworthy agent for the States, North and South."

Dmitri poured for both of them, enjoying the touch of the chilled glass. "In return for what?"' "A toast: to the demise of the Noble House!"

Throughout Yokohama other toasts were being quaffed at the rare tidings of Culum's death and the succession of a new tai-pan, and in boardrooms throughout the Far East, and elsewhere, that traded with Asia. Some toasts were celebratory, some vindictive, some toasted the succession, some blessed all Struan bones to the devil, some prayed for their success but all men of business considered how the news would affect them for, like it or not, Struan's was the Noble House.

In the French Legation Angelique clinked glasses, sipped the champagne warily, her glass cheap and barely adequate, like the wine. "Yes, I agree, Monsieur Vervene."

Pierre Vervene was the Charg`e d'Affairs, a tired, balding man in his forties. "The first toast requires a second, Mademoiselle," he said, raising his glass again, towering over her, "not only prosperity and long life to the new tai-pan, but to the tai-pan --your future husband."

"La, Monsieur!" She put down her glass, pretending to be cross, "I told you that in confidence because I'm so happy, so proud, but it must not be mentioned out loud, until he, Monsieur Struan makes it public. You must promise me."

"Of course, of course." Vervene's tone was reassuring but he had already mentally drafted the dispatch he would rush to Seratard aboard their flagship at Yedo the moment she left.

Clearly there were innumerable political ramifications and opportunities that such a liaison would create for France and French interests. My God, he was thinking, if we're clever and we are, we can control the Noble House through this young strumpet with nothing to recommend her except a fairly pretty face, delectable breasts, an overripe maidenhead and buttocks that promise her husband a wanton vigor for a month or two. How the devil did she snare him--if what she says is really true. If it is...

Merde, the poor man must be insane to settle for this baggage, with no dowry and disreputable lineage, to be the mother of his children! What incredible luck for that odious swine, Richaud, now he'll be able to redeem his paper. "My sincerest congratulations, Mademoiselle."

His door swung open and the Legation Number One Boy, an elderly, rotund Chinese dressed in linen coat, black trousers and black skullcap and ladened with mail barged in.

"Heya, Mass'r, all same mail-ah, never mind!" He plonked the letters and packages on the ornate desk, gawked at the girl, and belched as he left.

"My God, these foul-mannered people are enough to drive one mad! A thousand times I've told that cretin to knock first! Excuse me a moment."

Quickly Vervene leafed through the letters.

Two from his wife, one from his mistress, all postmarked two and a half months ago: Both asking for money, I'll wager, he thought sourly.

"Ah, four letters for you, More'selle." Many nationals sent their mail in care of their nearest Legation. "Three from Paris and one from Hong Kong."

"Oh, oh thank you!" She brightened seeing that two were from Colette, one from her aunt, the last from her father. "We're such a long way from home, no?"

"Paris is the world, yes yes it is. Well, I expect you'll want some privacy, you can use the room across the hall. If you'll excuse me..." Vervene motioned at his heaped desk, his smile self-deprecating, "affairs of State."

"Of course, thank you. And thank you for your good wishes, but please, not a word...." She swept out graciously knowing that within hours her marvelous secret would be common knowledge, whispered from ear to ear. Is that wise? I think so, Malcolm did ask me, didn't he?

Vervene opened his letters, scanned them, quickly saw they both asked for money but no other bad news, at once put them aside to read and enjoy later and began the dispatch for Seratard--with a secret copy for Andr`e Poncin--delighted to be the bearer of good tidings. "Wait a moment," he muttered, "perhaps it's like-father-like-daughter and just the usual exaggeration! Safer to report it as a few minutes ago Mademoiselle Angelique whispered in confidence that... then the Minister can make up his own mind."

Across the hall, in a pleasant antechamber that faced the small garden off the High Street she had settled herself expectantly. Colette's first letter gave her happy news of Paris and fashion and affairs and their mutual friends so delightfully that she raced through it knowing she would reread them many times, particularly tonight in the comfort of her bed when she could savor everything. She had known and loved Colette most of her life--at the convent they had been inseparable, sharing hopes and dreams and intimacies.

The second letter gave more exuberant news, ending about her marriage--Colette was her own age, eighteen, already married a year with one son: I am pregnant again, dearest Angelique, my husband is delighted but I am a little fretful. As you know the first was not easy though the Doctor assures me I will be strong enough.

When will you return, I cannot wait...

Angelique took a deep breath and looked out of the window and waited until the twinge had passed. You must not leave yourself open, she repeated to herself, near tears. Even with Colette. Be strong, Angelique. Be careful. Your life has changed, everything changed--yes but only for a little while. Do not be caught unawares.

Again a deep breath. The next letter shocked her. Aunt Emma wrote the awful news of her husband's fall and: now we are destitute and my poor poor Michel languishes in Debtor's Prison with no help in sight!

We've nowhere to turn, no money. It's terrible, my child, a nightmare...

Poor darling Uncle Michel, she thought, weeping silently, a shame he was such a bad manager. "Never mind, dear darling Aunt-Mama," she said aloud, filled with a sudden joy. "Now I can repay all your kindnesses, I'll ask Malcolm to help, he'll certainly..."

Wait! Would that be wise?

While she pondered that she opened her father's letter. To her surprise the envelope contained only a letter, without the expected sight draft she had asked for, on money brought with her from Paris and deposited in the Victoria Bank, money that her uncle had generously advanced to her--on the solemn promise that she must not tell his wife and that her father would instantly repay the loan the moment she reached Hong Kong, which he told her he had done.

Hong Kong, September 10. Hello my little cabbage, I hope that all is well and your Malcolm idolizes you as I do, as the whole of Hong Kong does. It's rumored his father is at death's door. I will keep you advised. Meanwhile I write in haste as I leave for Macao on the tide. There's a wonderful business opportunity there, so good that I have temporarily pledged the money instruments you left in safekeeping and will invest for you as an equal partner. By the next post I will be able to send you ten times what you wanted and tell you the wonderful profit we have made--after all, we have to think of your dowry, without which... eh?

Her eyes could not read on, her brain in turmoil. Oh my God! What business opportunity? Is he gambling all that I have in the world?

It was nearly two o'clock and McFay was weary, his stomach empty, his mind filled with gloom.

He had written a dozen letters, signed half a hundred chits, paid dozens of bills, checked the previous day's books which showed trading was down, found that all goods ordered from America were either cancelled, held up or offered at increased prices, all business with Canada and Europe equally affected in some degree by the American civil war. No good news either in any dispatches from Hong Kong--a lot of bad from their branch in Shanghai, though Albert MacStruan, the power there, was doing a sterling job. My God, he thought, it'd be a catastrophe if we have to evacuate Shanghai, with all our investments there.

The city was again in turmoil and the three foreign concessions under British, French and American control beset with rumors that armies of rebel irregulars of the immense Tai'ping Rebellion, based in and around Nanking--a major city southwards they had captured nine years ago and used as a capital--were again on the move. The clipping from the Shanghai Observer read: Two years ago when our valiant force of British and French troops, ably assisted by the local mercenary army, organized and paid for by our merchant princes, both European and Chinese, under the command of the gallant American soldier of fortune, Frederick Townsend Ward, drove off the rebels for a thirty-mile radius, we all presumed the threat was put away forever.

Now eyewitnesses report an irresistible army of half a million rebels, with some European officers, have massed to come against us, and another half million will again stab north for Peking. Their opposing Manchu armies are unreliable and helpless, their Chinese levies mutinous, so this time we will not survive. It is hoped that Her Majesty's Government will prevail on the Manchu authorities to appoint Captain Charles Gordon to command of Mr. Ward's force, grievously wounded in action, and to the position of overall command of Manchu training. Your correspondent believes this will be, as usual, too little too late.

We need a fully equipped British Army stationed in China, permanently--nervousness in India over the recent, dreadful Indian Mutiny of native sepoys notwithstanding.

Business continues to be disastrous with the price of silk and tea at an all-time high. Famine conditions exist in most areas within five hundred miles...

More depressing news from home. Monumental rains had washed out the harvest and famine was expected in Ireland and other areas--though not like the Great Potato Famine when hundreds of thousands died. Vast unemployment in Scotland.

Destitution in Lancashire with most cotton spinning mills silent, including three owned by Struan's, because of the Union embargo on Southern cotton and blockade of all Southern ports. With Southern cotton England had supplied cloth to the world. A Struan clipper ship crammed with teas, silks and lacquer inbound London had been lost. In the stock market Struan's was down badly, Brock's up with the successful arrival of the first of the season's teas.

Another letter from his fiancee of five years, Maureen Ross, more bad:... when am I to arrive? Have you sent the ticket? You promised this Christmas would be the last to be apart...

"It can't be this Christmas, lassie," he murmured with a scowl, much as he liked her, "can't afford it yet and, this isn't the place for a young lady."

How many times had he written and told her, knowing that really Maureen and her parents wanted him to work for Struan's in England or Scotland or better still to leave "that infamous company and work at home like a normal man," knowing that really he wanted her to break off the engagement and to forget him, knowing that most British wives soon hated Asia, loathed Asians, abominated the Pleasure Girls, raged against their ready access, despised the food, moaned for "home" and family, making their husband's lives a permanent misery.

Knowing, too, that he enjoyed Asia, loved his work, adored the freedom, treasured their Yoshiwara and would never happily go home.

Well, he thought, not until I retire.

The only good in the mail were the books from Hatchard's in Piccadilly: a new illustrated edition of Darwin's explosive On the Origin of Species, some Tennyson poems, a newly translated pamphlet by Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels called the Communist Manifesto, five copies of Punch, but most important of all another edition of All the Year Round. This was the weekly started by Charles Dickens, and contained the fourteenth installment of Great Expectations-- to be published in twenty parts.

In spite of all that he had had to do, McFay, like everyone else who had received a copy, locked the door and consumed the installment rapaciously. When he read the last sentence, "to be continued next week," he sighed.

"What the devil will Miss Havisham do next, evil old bitch? Reminds me of Maureen's mother. Hope to God it all works out for Pip.

Somehow or other it has to! Hope to God good old Dickens gives us a happy ending..."

For a moment he was bemused, lost in admiration of the man and his marvelous range of stories, from the Oliver Twist more than twenty years ago, through Nicholas Nickleby, David Copperfield and a dozen others to the riveting Tale of Two Cities. Dickens is the greatest writer in the world, no doubt about it.

He got up and stood at the window, watching the sea and sending good thoughts to the fleet at Yedo and to the mail ship that need not now be diverted but would continue on her regular route to Shanghai instead of direct Hong Kong with Malcolm Struan, worrying about him and the future that somehow quickly became mixed up with Pip and Miss Havisham, wondering how Pip would extract himself from the mess he was in and would the girl fall in love with him.

Hope so, poor lass. What about my lassie, Maureen? It's time I had a family...

A knock. "Mr. McFay. May I see you a moment?" It was Piero Vargas, his assistant.

"Just a moment." Feeling a little guilty he put the copy under the pile, stretched and opened the door.

Piero Vargas was a handsome, middle-aged Eurasian from Macao, the tiny Portuguese enclave, forty-odd miles west of Hong Kong, set like a pimple on a slip of Mainland China and occupied since 1552.

Unlike the British, the Portuguese considered Macao equal to the mother country and not a colony, encouraged their settlers to intermarry with Chinese, accepted Eurasian offspring as nationals, allowing them permanent access to Portugal. British intermarriage was greatly discouraged, though many had families. Their offspring, however, were not accepted in Society.

By custom those born in Shanghai took their father's name, in Hong Kong their mother's.

Ever since the British came to China, they had contentedly employed the brightest Macaoans as shroffs--money changers--and compradores, who, of necessity, spoke English as well as dialects of Chinese. Except the Noble House. Their compradore was the enormously wealthy Gordon Chen, the illegitimate son of their founder, Dirk Struan, by one of his many mistresses, though not the last, the fabled May-may.

"Yes, Piero?"

"Sorry to interrupt, senhor," Piero said, his English liquid and sweet-sounding.

"Kinu-san, our silk supplier, asks for a personal interview with you."

"Oh, why?"

"Well, it's not really for him but for two buyers who arrived with him. From Choshu."

"Oh?" McFay's interest picked up.

Almost two years of tentative probes from the daimyo of Choshu, the fief far to the west on the Straits of Shimonoseki, had produced some very important business last year, authorized by Head Office in Hong Kong and arranged by them: a 200-ton paddle steamer with a very private cargo: cannon, shot and ammunition. Paid for promptly in gold and silver, half in advance, half on delivery. "Bring them in. Wait, better I see them in the main reception room."

"Si, senhor."

"Is one of them the same fellow as last time?"

"Senhor?"

"The young samurai who spoke a little English?"

"I did not take part in the discussion, senhor, I was on leave in Portugal."

"Ah yes, now I remember."

The reception room was big, seating for forty-two at the oak table. Matching sideboards and tallboys for silver plate and glass fronted display cases, gleaming and well kept, some with arms. He opened one of them, took out a belt and holstered pistol attached. He buckled the belt around his waist, making sure the pistol was loaded and loose in the holster. It was always his custom when meeting samurai to be as armed as they were. "A matter of face," he told his subordinates, "as well as safety." As a further prop he leaned the Spencer rifle against a chair, and stood by the window, facing the door.

Vargas came back with three men. One was middle-aged, fat, unctuous and swordless, Kinu, their silk supplier. The other two were samurai, one young the other in his forties though it was difficult to tell. Both short, spare, hard-faced and armed as usual.

They bowed politely. McFay noted that both men had instantly seen the breech-loader. He returned the bow in kind. "Ohayo," he said.

Good morning. Then, "Dozo"--please-- indicating the chairs opposite him, a safe distance away.

"Goo'd morning," the younger said without a smile.

"Ah, you speak English? Excellent.

Please sit down."

"Speak 'ritt're," the youth said--the l's sounding like r's because there was no l sound in Japanese, v's being equally awkward. For a moment he spoke to Vargas in Fukenese, their common Chinese dialect, then the two men introduced themselves, adding they had been sent by Lord Ogama of Choshu.

"I am Jamie McFay, chief of Struan and Company in Nippon and am honored to see you." Again Vargas translated. Patiently Jamie went through the obligatory fifteen minutes of enquires after their daimyo's health, their own health, his health and that of the Queen, the outlook in Choshu, in England, nothing particular, everything bland. Tea was served and admired. At length the young man came to the point.

With great care Vargas kept the excitement out of his own voice. "They want to buy a thousand breech-loaders with a thousand bronze cartridges per gun. We are to name a fair price and deliver within three months. If within two months, they will pay a bonus--twenty percent."

Outwardly, McFay was equally calm. "Is that all they wish to buy at the moment?"

Vargas asked them. "Yes, senhor, but they require a thousand rounds per rifle. And a steamship of small size."

McFay was counting the huge potential profit, but more so he was remembering his conversation with Greyforth, and the well-known hostility of the Admiral and General, supported by Sir William, to any sale of any armaments.

Remembering the various murders. And Canterbury hacked to pieces. And that he himself did not approve of the sale of armaments, not until it was safe. Would it ever be safe with such a warlike people? "Please tell them I can give them an answer in three weeks." He saw the pleasant smile vanish from the younger man's face.

"Answer... now. No three week."

"Not have guns here," McFay said slowly, directly to him. "Must write Hong Kong, Head Office, nine days there, nine days back.

Some breech-loaders there. All rest in America. Four or five months minimum."

"No unner'stand."

Vargas interpreted. Then there was a conversation between the two samurai, the merchant answering their questions with fervent humility. More questions to Vargas, politely responded to. "He says very well, he or a Choshu official will return in twenty-nine days. This transaction is to be secret."

"Of course." McFay looked at the youth.

"Secret."

"Hai! Sek'ret."

"Ask him how the other samurai, Saito, is." He saw them frown, but could read nothing from their faces.

"They don't know him personally, Senhor."

More bows and then Jamie was alone. Lost in thought, he put the gun belt back into the case.

If I don't sell them the guns, Norbert will--whatever the morality.

Vargas returned, very pleased. "An excellent possibility, senhor, but a big responsibility."

"Yes. I wonder what Head Office will say, this time."

"Easy to find out, senhor, quickly. You don't have to wait eighteen days, isn't Head Office upstairs?"

McFay stared at him. "I'll be damned, I'd forgotten! Difficult to think of young Malcolm as tai-pan, our ultimate decider. You're right."

Running feet approached, the door opened, "Sorry to butt in," Nettlesmith said, puffing from his exertion, his grubby top hat askew.

"Thought you'd better know, just got word the blue signal flag went up the Legation mast a few minutes ago... then came down and went up again then came down to half mast and stayed there."

Jamie gaped at him. "What the devil does that mean?"

"Don't know, 'cepting that half mast usually means a death, doesn't it?"

Greatly perturbed, the Admiral again trained his binoculars on the Legation flagpole, the other men on the quarterdeck, his Captains from the rest of the fleet, Marlowe, the General, French Admiral, and von Heimrich equally concerned, Seratard and Andr`e Poncin pretending to be.

When the lookout had given the alarm half an hour ago, they had all hurried on deck from the lunch table. Except the Russian Minister: "If you want to wait in the cold, very well, damned if I am. When word comes from the shore, yes, no or war, please wake me. If you start shelling I'll join you..."

Marlowe was watching the roll over the Admiral's collar, despising him, wishing he was ashore with Tyrer, or aboard his own ship, the Pearl. At noon the Admiral had replaced the temporary captain with a stranger, a Lieutenant Dornfild, disregarding his advice. Bloody old bastard, look at the way he fiddles so bloody pompously with his binoculars--we all know they are highly expensive and issued to Flag Rank only.

Bloody old-- "Marlowe!"

"Yessir."

"We'd better find out what the devil's going on. You go ashore... no, I need you here!

Thomas, would you please be good enough to send an officer to the Legation? Marlowe, detail a signalman to go with the detachment."

At once the General jerked his thumb at his aide who hurried off, closely followed by Marlowe. Seratard pulled his heavy great coat closer against the chill of the wind. "I'm afraid Sir William has boxed himself in."

"I remember you giving your opinion this morning," the Admiral said curtly.

The meeting he had called with the Ministers had been noisy and had brought forth no solution, except Count Zergeyev's: immediate and massive force. "Which, my dear Count," he had pointed out sourly at once, "we don't have now if it's necessary to follow up a simple bombardment to seize the city and surrounds."

Ketterer pursed his lips and glared at Seratard, the dislike mutual. "I'm sure Sir William will find an answer, but I tell you frankly, by God, if I see our colors struck, Yedo goes up in smoke!"

"I agree," Seratard said. "A matter of national honor!"

Von Heimrich's face hardened.

"Japanners are not stupid--like some people. I cannot believe they will disregard the force we have now."

The wind picked up suddenly, crackling some of the spars aloft, sea greyer, clouds greying.

All eyes went to a black squall line on the eastern horizon. The squall was heading shorewards threatening their exposed anchorage.

"Marlowe, send a... Marlowe!" the Admiral bellowed.

"Yessir?" Marlowe came running.

"For God's sake stay within hailing distance!

Signal all ships: "Prepare to stand out to sea. Should conditions deteriorate rapidly, on my command take individual action and rejoin at Kanagawa as soon as conditions permit."

You Captains get back to your ships while you've the weather." They rushed off, glad to be away.

"I will get back to my ship too," the French Admiral said. "Bonjour, messieurs."

"We'll come with you, Monsieur Admiral,"

Seratard said. "Thank you for your hospitality, Admiral Ketterer."

"What about Count Alexi? He came with you, didn't he?"

"Let him sleep. Better for the Russian bear to sleep, n'est-ce pas?" Seratard said coldly to von Heimrich, both of them knowing full well Prussia's secret overtures to the Tsar to remain neutral in any confrontation, to allow Prussia to expand in Europe to satisfy an open state policy: the creation of a German nation of German-speaking peoples with Prussia its spearhead.

Marlowe, hurrying for the signalman, saw his ship, the Pearl, neatly at anchor and was worried about her, loathing not being aboard and in command. Uneasily he glanced seaward again, gauging the squall line, the weight of blackening clouds, the smell and the taste of the salt on the wind. "That bugger's going to be a sod."

In the Legation audience room Sir William, flanked by a Scots officer, Phillip Tyrer and guards sat coldly facing three Japanese officials who were leisurely seating themselves, their guards behind them: the grey-haired Elder, Adachi, daimyo of Mito, the mock samurai, Misamoto the fisherman, and last, a short, big-bellied, Bakufu official, secretly fluent in Dutch, whose covert assignment was to report in private to Yoshi on the meeting and the behavior of the other two. As usual, none had used their correct names.

Five palanquins had arrived as yesterday, with the same ceremony though an increased number of guards. Only three were occupied which Sir William had found curiously disturbing. This, added to heightened samurai activity during the night around the temple and Legation, prompted him to send a partial alarm signal to the fleet by half-masting the pennant that he hoped Ketterer would understand.

Outside in the forecourt, Hiraga, again disguised as a gardener, had been equally perturbed --even more so that Toranaga Yoshi was not amongst the officials. This meant the attack plan so carefully poised to ambush Yoshi near the castle gates on his return had to be called off. At once he had tried to melt away, but samurai irritably ordered him back to work. Seething, he obeyed, waiting his chance to escape.

"You're two and a half hours late," Sir William said icily as an opening salvo.

"In civilized countries diplomatic meetings are on time, not late!"

Immediate and flowery apologies of no consequence. Then the usual obligatory introductions and sugary compliments and aggravating politenesses, and over an hour of back and forth, of demands calmly deflected, ponderous arguments, delays requested, astonishment where none was merited, questions needing to be repeated, facts dismissed, the truth disregarded--alibis, explanations, rationalizations, excuses, all courteously delivered.

Sir William was about to explode when, with great formality, the Elder, Adachi, produced a sealed scroll, handed it to their interpreter who handed it to Johann.

Johann's own weariness dropped away.

"Gott im Himmel! It's under the seal of the roju."

"Eh?"

"The Council of Elders. I'd recognize the seal anywhere--it's the same as Ambassador Harris got. You better accept it, formally, Sir William, then I'll read it aloud if it's in Dutch which I doubt." He stifled a nervous yawn. "Probably just another delaying tactic."

Sir William did as Johann suggested, hating to be so confined and having to rely on foreign mercenary interpreters.

Johann broke the seal and scanned the document. His astonishment was open: "It's in Dutch by God! Skipping all the titles, formal language etc., it says: The Council of Elders, having received what appears to be a just complaint, apologizes for the, for the dereliction of its subjects and wishes to invite the honored Minister of the British and other accredited Ministers to meet the Council thirty days from now, in Yedo, when the formal complaint will be presented, the matter discussed, acted upon, and an indemnity for said just complaint agreed. Signed ... Nori Anjo, Chief Minister."

With a supreme effort, Sir William kept his erupting relief bottled. This unbelievable reprieve gave him the face-saver he desperately needed, and now if he could finesse them just a little further... To his sudden fury, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Tyrer smiling broadly. Without looking at him he hissed, "Stop smiling you bloody idiot," and in the same breath added harshly, "Johann, tell them they will have my reply in three days. Meanwhile I want an immediate indemnity, in gold, in three days, for ten thousand pounds sterling for the families of the Sergeant and Corporal murdered in this Legation, last year, and already demanded four times!"

When this was translated, he saw consternation on the face of the elderly man. Another lengthy conversation between him and the Bakufu official.

Johann reported wearily, "The old fellow dismisses this with their usual: but that "unfortunate occurrence" was by a Legation staff employee who then committed seppuku-- suicide. It's not the Bakufu's fault at all."

Equally tiredly, Sir William said, "Give them back the usual, by God: that they appointed him, they insisted we employ him, so they are responsible--and he only committed suicide because he was badly wounded in the murder attempt on my predecessor and liable for immediate capture!" Trying to push away his tiredness, he watched the two officials talking with their interpreter, and the third man listening as he had done all afternoon. Perhaps he's the one with real power.

What happened to the other men from yesterday, particularly the younger man--the one Andr`e Poncin accosted as he left. What is that devious bastard Seratard up to?

The freshening wind caught a loose shutter and jolted it against the window. One of the sentries leaned over the lintel and hooked it back in place. Not far offshore was the fleet, the ocean a deep grey now and whitecapped. Sir William noticed the looming squall line. His anxiety for the ships increased.

Johann said, "The old fellow asks, will you accept three thousand."

Sir William's face went red. "Ten thousand in gold!"

More talk then Johann mopped his brow.

"Mein Gott, ten it is, to be paid in two installments at Yokohama, ten days from now, the balance the day before the Yedo meeting."

After a deliberately dramatic pause, Sir William said, "I will give them my answer in three days if it's acceptable."

Much sucking in of breath, a few more wily attempts to change the three days to thirty, to ten, to eight all of which were stonewalled and refused. "Three."

Polite bows and the Delegation was gone.

Once they were alone, Johann beamed. "That's the first time we made any progress, Sir William, the very first time!"

"Yes, well, we'll see. Just don't understand them at all. Obviously they were trying to wear us down. But why? What's the good of that?

They already had the scroll so why the devil didn't they hand it over in the beginning and have done with all their cursed time wasting? Bunch of bloody idiots! And why send two empty palanquins."

Phillip Tyrer said brightly, "Seems to me, sir, that's just one of their characteristics. To be devious."

"Yes, well, Tyrer, come with me please."

He led the way to his private office and when the door was closed he said angrily, "Didn't the F.o. teach you anything? Are you totally without brains? Don't you have enough sense to have a poker face at diplomatic meetings? Are your brains addled?"

Tyrer was in shock at the venom. "Sorry sir very sorry sir I was just so pleased at your victory I cou--"

"It wasn't a victory, you idiot! It was just a delay, albeit heaven sent!" Sir William's relief that the meeting was over and had, against his expectations, achieved much more than he could have wished for, fuelled his irritability.

"Are your ears filled with mildew? Didn't you hear the "what appears to be a just complaint"-- that's the biggest hole they could ever leave, by God!

We achieved a delay, that's all, but it happens to suit me perfectly and if the Yedo meeting takes place in thirty days I'll be astounded. The next time DON'T let your feelings show, for God's sake, and if you ever become an interpreter... you just better learn Japanese quickly or you'll be on the next boat home with a note on your record that will get you a posting to Esquimoland for the rest of your life!"

"Yes sir."

Still steaming, Sir William saw the young man staring at him stoically and wondered what was different about him. Then he noticed his eyes.

Where have I seen that look before--the same, almost indefinable strangeness that young Struan also had?

Ah yes, of course, now I remember! In the eyes of the young soldiers coming back from the Crimea, the untouched as well as the wounded--allied or enemy. War had torn the youth out of them, torn out their innocence with such obscene speed that forever after they were changed. And it always shows not in their faces but in their eyes. How many times was I told: before the battle a youth, a few minutes or hours later, adult--British, Russian, German, French, or Turk the same.

I'm the idiot, not this young chap. I'd forgotten he's hardly twenty-one and in six days he's almost been murdered and been through as violent an experience as any man can have. Or woman, by Heaven! That's right, there was the same look in the girl's eyes too. Stupid of me not to realize it. Poor girl, isn't she barely eighteen?

Terrible to grow up so fast. I've been so lucky.

"Well, Mr. Tyrer," he said gruffly, envying him--that he had come through his baptism of fire bravely, "I'm sure you'll be all right. These meetings are, well, enough to try the patience of Job, eh? I think a sherry is in order."

Hiraga had had great difficulty escaping from the garden through the circles of samurai, and sneaking back to the Inn of the Forty-seven Ronin. When he reached it, long overdue, he was shocked to discover the assassination party had already left for the ambush.

Ori said helplessly, "One of our people reported that the Delegation had come out of the castle exactly as yesterday, banners as yesterday, that there were five palanquins as yesterday, so we presumed Lord Yoshi would be in one."

"Everyone was supposed to wait."

"They did, Hiraga, but if... if they hadn't left when they did they would never be in place in time."

Rapidly Hiraga changed into a cheap kimono and collected his weapons. "Did you see the doctor?"

"We, the mama-san and I, we thought it too dangerous today. Tomorrow will be fine."

"I'll see you in Kanagawa then."

"Sonno-joi!"

"Go to Kanagawa! Here you're a hazard!"

Hiraga slipped over the fence and went by back alleys and little-used paths and bridges, circling for the Castle. This time he was lucky and avoided all patrols.

Most of the daimyo palaces outside the castle walls were deserted. Using cover well, he picked his way from garden to garden until he reached the burnt-out wreckage of what had been the daimyo's palace destroyed during the earthquake three days ago. As planned, his shishi friends were gathered for the ambush near the broken main gate that fronted the main pathway to the castle gate. There were nine of them, not eleven.

"Eeee, Hiraga, we'd given you up!" the youngest, the most excited, whispered. "From here we'll kill him easily."

"Where are the Mori samurai?"

"Dead." His cousin, Akimoto, shrugged.

He was the oldest amongst them, a burly twenty-four. "We came by separate ways but I was near them and the three of us ran into a patrol." He beamed. "I fled one way, they another, I saw one take an arrow and go down.

I never knew I could run so fast, forget them, when will Yoshi pass by?"

Their disappointment was vast when Hiraga told them their prey was not in the cortege. "Then what shall we do?" a tall, very handsome youth of sixteen asked. "This ambush is perfect--half a dozen important Bakufu palanquins have gone by with hardly a guard around them."

"This place is too good to risk for no special reason," Hiraga said. "We'll leave one at a time. Akimoto, you firs--"

The shishi on guard whistled a warning.

Instantly, they went deeper into cover, eyes pressed to openings in the broken fences. An ornate, covered palanquin with eight half-naked bearers and a dozen samurai banner guards was thirty-odd yards away, heading leisurely for the castle gate. No one else was in sight, either way.

Instant recognition of the emblem: Nori Anjo, head of the Council of Elders. Instant decision, "Sonno-joi!"

With Hiraga in the lead they rushed as one man to the attack, slaughtered the front two ranks of guards and hurtled for the palanquin. But in their excitement they had misjudged by a few seconds and that allowed the remaining eight guards, hand-picked warriors, to recover. In the frantic melee, the bearers squealed with fright, dropped their poles and fled--those who escaped the first violent onslaught--and this gave Anjo the moment he needed to slide the palanquin's far door open and roll out as Hiraga's sword went through the soft wood to impale the cushion where he had been a second before.

Cursing, Hiraga jerked the sword out, whirled in defense as he was menaced from the back, killed the man after a searing clash of swords, then leaped over the poles for Anjo who had scrambled to his feet, his sword out and now covered by three guards. Behind Hiraga, five of his friends were duelling with the other four samurai, one shishi was already dead, one helpless on the ground mortally wounded and another, screaming with bloodlust, misjudging his adversary, slipped on the body of a sobbing bearer, and took a terrible cut in his side. Before his assailant could recover, a shishi slashed at the guard with total ferocity and the samurai's head rolled in the dust.

Now it was seven against six.

At once Akimoto broke off his fight and rushed to support Hiraga who had hurled himself at Anjo and his three guards and was being overwhelmed. Feinting brilliantly, Hiraga forced one of the guards off balance and impaled him, withdrew and darted to one side to draw off the other two, giving Akimoto the opening he needed to dispatch Anjo.

At that moment there was a warning shout. Twenty castle guards had rounded the corner fifty yards away and were charging to Anjo's support. The barest hesitation from Akimoto gave a guard time to parry the ferocious blow that would have killed Anjo, allowing him to scramble and flee towards the reinforcements. Now the shishi were completely outnumbered.

No way to get Anjo! No way to overcome!

"Retreat!" Hiraga shouted and, again as one man, the maneuver rehearsed many times, Akimoto and the remaining four broke off their duels and charged back through the damaged main gate, Hiraga last--the badly wounded youth, Jozan, hobbling after them. Momentarily the guards were thrown into confusion. Then they collected themselves and, heavily reinforced, hurtled in pursuit while others intercepted Jozan, at bay, sword high, reeling, blood pouring from his side.

Akimoto was leading the pell-mell retreat through the damaged castle, their line of pullback already well reconnoitered. Hiraga was rearguard, the enemy gaining on him. He waited until he reached the first barricade where Gota waited in ambush to support him, stopped suddenly and the two of them whirled to counterattack, chopping and hacking viciously, mortally wounding one man, forcing the next to fall and bring down another.

Instantly they fled again, leading the enemy deeper into the maze.

Almost stumbling, then rushing through the next narrow gap in the half-burnt wall where Akimoto and another waited in a second ambush. Without hesitation these two cut down the first of the attackers, screaming "Sonno-joi" while the remainder, stunned by the suddenness of the assault, halted to regroup. When they gave their battle cry and jumped over the body of their comrade through the bottleneck, Akimoto, Hiraga, and the others were nowhere to be seen.

At once the samurai fanned out and began a meticulous search, the sky filled with nimbus clouds and menacing.

In front of the burnt-out main gate, Anjo was now surrounded by guards. Five of his men had been killed, two were badly wounded. The two dead shishi had already been beheaded. The young shishi was helpless on the ground, one leg almost severed and he was holding on to it in agony, trying to stick it back together. Jozan was huddled against a wall.

Rain began.

The samurai standing over the youth said again, "Who are you? What's your name, who sent you, who's your leader?"

"I've told you, shishi from Choshu, Toma Hojo! I was leader! No one sent me.

Sonno-joi!"

"He's lying, Sire," a panting officer said.

"Of course," Anjo said, seething. "Kill him."

"Respectfully request he's allowed to commit seppuku."

"Kill him!"

The officer, a big, bearlike man, shrugged and went over to the youth. With his back to the Elder, he whispered, "I have the honor to act as your second. Stretch your neck." His sword sang in the air as he dealt the single blow. Formally he lifted the head by its topknot, presenting it to Anjo.

"I have seen it," Anjo said, following correct ritual, at the same time choked with rage that these men had dared to attack him, dared to frighten him half to death, him, Chief of the roju! "Now that one--he's a liar too, kill him!"

"Respectfully request he be allowed to commit seppuku."

Anjo was about to rave at him to kill the attempted assassin brutally or commit seppuku himself when he sensed the sudden collective antagonism of the samurai around him. The usual fear permeated him: whom do I trust? Only five of these men were his personal guards.

He pretended to consider the request. When his fury was contained, he nodded, turned and stomped off towards the castle gates in the increasing rain.

His men went with him. The remainder circled Jozan.

"You can rest a moment, shishi," the officer said kindly, wiping the rain from his own face. "Give him some water."

"Thank you." Jozan had prepared for this moment ever since, with Ori and Shorin and others four years ago, he had sworn to "Honor the Emperor and expel the foreigners." Summoning his waning strength, he groped to his knees, and was horrified to realize he was petrified of dying.

The officer had seen the terror, had expected it and quickly came forward and squatted beside him: "Do you have a death poem, shishi? Tell it to me, hold on, do not give way, you are samurai and this is as good a day as any," he said softly, encouraging the youth, willing the tears to stop. "From nothing into nothing, one sword cuts your enemy, one sword cuts you. Shout your battle cry and you will live forever. Say it: Sonno-joi... again ..."

All the time he had been preparing himself. With a sudden fluid movement, he stood erect and whirled his sword from the sheath--and the youth into eternity.

"Eeee," one of his men said with admiration.

"Uraga-san, that was marvelous to see."

"Sensei Katsumata of Satsuma was one of my teachers," he said throatily, his heart pounding like never before, but pleased that he had performed his duty as a samurai correctly.

One of his men picked up the head by its topknot.

The rain became tears, washing away the real ones. "Clean the head and take it to Lord Anjo for viewing." Uraga glanced at the castle gates. "Cowards disgust me," he said and walked away.

That night, when it was safe, Hiraga and the others sneaked out of the cellar that had been located in advance. By different routes they slipped away for their safe house.

It was overcast and black, wind strong with spattering rain. I will not feel cold, I will not show discomfort, I am samurai, Hiraga ordered himself, following the pattern of training in his family ever since he could remember. Just as I will train my sons and daughters--if my karma is to have sons and daughters, he thought.

"It's time you married," his father had said a year ago.

"I agree, Father. I respectfully request you change your mind and allow me to marry my choice."

"First, it is the duty of the son to obey the father, second it is the father's duty to choose the wives of his sons and husbands of his daughters, third, Sumomo's father does not approve, she is Satsuma and not Choshu and last, however desirable she is not suitable. What about the Ito girl?"' "Please excuse me, father, I agree my choice is not perfect but her family is samurai, she is samurai trained and I am possessed by her. I beg you. You have four other sons--I have only one life and we, you and I, we both agree it is to be devoted to sonno-joi and will therefore be short. Grant this to me as a lifetime wish." By custom such a wish was a most serious request and meant that, if granted, it precluded asking for any other, ever.

"Very well," his father had said gruffly. "But not as a lifetime wish. You may be affianced when she is seventeen. I will welcome her into our family."

That was last year. A few days later he had left Shimonoseki, supposedly to join the Choshu regiment in Kyoto, actually to declare for sonno-joi and become ronin--and put his secret four-year adherence and training to use.

Now it was Ninth Month. In three weeks Sumomo became seventeen but now he was so far outside the law there was no chance of safe return. Until yesterday. His father had written: Astonishingly, our Lord Ogama has offered a pardon to all warriors who openly embraced sonno-joi and will restore all stipends if they return at once, renounce the heresy and again swear allegiance to him publicly.

You will take advantage of this offer. Many are returning.

The letter had saddened him, almost destroying his resolve. "Sonno-joi is more important than family or even Lord Ogama, even Sumomo," he had told himself over and over.

"Lord Ogama cannot be trusted. As to my stipend ..."

Fortunately his father was relatively well off compared with most, and, because of his shoya grandfather, had been promoted to hirazamurai, the third rank of samurai. Above were senior samurai, hatomoto and daimyo. Below hirazamurai were all others--goshi, ashigaru, rural samurai, and foot soldiers, who were of the feudal class but below samurai. As such his father had had access to lower officials and the education of his sons was the best available.

I owe him everything, Hiraga thought.

Yes, and obediently I worked to become the best pupil in the Samurai School, the best swordsman, the best at English. And I have his permission and approval and that of the Sensei, our chief teacher, to embrace sonno-joi, to become ronin, to lead and organize Choshu warriors as a spearhead for change. Yes, but their approval is secret, for if known, surely it would cost my father and the Sensei their heads.

Karma. I am doing my duty. Gai-jin are scum we do not need. Only their weapons to kill them with.

The rain increased. And the tempest. This pleased him for it made interception less likely. The beckoning bath and sak`e and clean clothes kept him warm and strong. That the attack had failed did not concern him. That was karma.

Ground into him by his teachers and heritage was the certainty that enemies and traitors were everywhere until it was a way of life. His steps were measured, he made sure he was not being followed, changed direction without logic and, whenever possible, explored ahead before moving.

When he reached the alley his strength drained out of him. The Inn of the Forty-seven Ronin and its surrounding fence had vanished.

All that remained was emptiness and the reeking smell and smoking ashes. A few bodies, men and women. Some decapitated, some hacked to pieces. He recognized his comrade shishi, Gota, by his kimono. The mama-san's head was on a spear thrust into the ground. Attached was a sign: It is against the law to harbor criminals and traitors. The official seal below was of the Bakufu, signed by Nori Anjo, chief of the roju.

Hiraga was filled with surging fury but it was icy and merely added more layers to that already within. Those cursed gai-jin, he thought. It is their fault.

Because of them this happened. We will be revenged.

Sunday, 28th September

Sunday, 28th September: Malcolm Struan came out of sleep slowly. His senses probed, testing. He had always known much about mental pain, losing two brothers and a sister; the anguish caused by his father's drunkenness and ever increasing rages; from impatient teachers; from his obsessive need to excel because one day he would be the tai-pan; and from his nagging fear he would be inadequate however much he prepared and trained and hoped and prayed and worked by day and by night, every day and every night of his life-- no real childhood or boyhood like others.

But now as never before he had to test the level of his awakening, to plumb the depth of what physical pain he had to endure today as today's norm, disregarding the sudden, blinding spasms that arrived without warning or logic.

Just a throbbing ache today but better than yesterday. How many days from the Tokaido Road? Sixteen. Sixteenth day.

He allowed himself to become more awake. Truly better than yesterday. Eyes and ears open now.

Room steady in the early light. Clear sky, light wind, no storm.

Two days ago the storm had ceased. It had blown for eight days at typhoon strength, then vanished as quickly as it had arrived. The fleet standing off Yedo had scattered the first day seeking safety at sea. Alone of all the warships, the French flagship had disengaged early, just making it back safely to Yokohama.

No other ships had returned. No need to worry yet, but everyone watched the horizon uneasily, hoping and praying.

During the gales here at Yokohama a merchantman had been blown ashore, some buildings damaged, many cutters and fishing boats lost, havoc wrought in the village and Yoshiwara, many tents in the military encampment on the bluff blown away but no casualties there, or in the Settlement.

We were more than lucky, Struan thought, concentrating on the central problem of his universe. Can I sit up?

A tentative, awkward attempt.

Ayeeyah! Pain, but not too bad. With both arms he pushed further and now he was erect, his hands braced behind him.

Bearable. Better than yesterday. Waiting a moment, then leaning forward, carefully taking his weight off one arm. Still bearable. Weight off both arms. Still bearable. Taking care he pulled the bedclothes off and cautiously tried to swing his legs to the floor. But he could not, the stabbing pain too great. A second try, again failure.

Never mind, I'll try later. He lowered himself as gently as he could. When his weight was off his waist and on his back he sighed with relief.

"Ayeeyah!"

"Patience, Malcolm," Babcott had said every day at every visit--three or four times daily.

"Sod patience!"

"Quite right too--but you really are doing fine."

"And when can I get up?"' "Now if you wish--but I wouldn't advise it."

"How long?"' "Give it a couple of weeks."

He had cursed openly but in many ways he was glad for the reprieve. It gave him more time to consider how he was going to deal with being tai-pan, with his mother, with Angelique, with McFay and pressing business problems.

"What about the guns for Choshu?"' McFay had asked a few days ago. "It'll be a huge continuing business."

"I've an idea. Leave it with me."

"Norbert will have sniffed these Choshus out long since and he's bound to make them an undercutting offer."

"The hell with Norbert and Brock! Their contacts are not as good as ours, and Dmitri, Cooper-Tillman and most of the other American China traders's on our side."

"Except in Hawaii," McFay said sourly.

In the last mail, ten days ago--no further news since then and the bimonthly steamer not expected for another five days--Tess Struan had written:...

The Victoria Bank has betrayed us. I believe they have been secretly supporting Morgan Brock in London with lavish letters of credit. With these, he has secretly bought out or bribed all our Hawaiian agents cornering the whole sugar market, excluding us totally.

Worse, though I've no proof, it's rumoured he has close contacts with the Rebel President Jefferson Davis and his cotton plantation owners, proposing to barter the whole crop against cotton futures for English mills --a deal that would make Tyler and Morgan the richest men in Asia. THIS MUST NOT HAPPEN! I am at my wit's end. Jamie, what do you suggest? Give this dispatch to my son with the same urgent request for help.

"What's your suggestion, Jamie?"' "I don't have one, Mal...

Tai-pan."

"If the deal's done the deal's done and that's the end of it. Say it is, could we intercept the cotton somehow?"' McFay had blinked. "Pirate it?"' Struan had said levelly, "If need be.

Old Man Brock would, he has in the past.

That's one possibility, the cotton will all go in his ships. Second: our Navy breaks the Union blockade and then we can all get all the cotton we want."

"It could, if we declare war on the Union.

Unthinkable!"

"I don't agree. For God's sake, we should come in on Davis's side, Southern cotton's our lifeblood. Then they'll win, otherwise they won't."

"Agreed. But we're equally dependent on the North."

"How do we take away his ships? There must be a way to break the chain. If he can't move the cargo he's bankrupt."

"What would Dirk do?"' "Go for the jugular," Malcolm had replied at once.

"Then that's what we have to find..."

Where and what is it? he asked himself again, lying quietly on the bed, willing his brain to work clearly on this problem and all the others.

Angelique? No, I'll think about her later --but I know I love her more every day.

Thank God I can write letters now. Must write to Mother again, if anyone should know the jugular it's her, isn't Tyler Brock her father and Morgan her brother but how dare she sneer at Angelique's family? Should I write to Angelique's father? Yes, but not yet, there's time enough.

So much other mail to catch up on, books to order from England, Christmas not so far away, the Jockey Club Charity Ball in Hong Kong, Struan's annual Ball to think about, meetings today: Jamie at least twice, Seratard this afternoon --what does he want? What else is planned for today? Phillip's coming to chat again after breakfast... wait a minute, no, not today.

Yesterday Sir William ordered him back to Yedo, to prepare the Legation for the meeting with the Council of Elders in twenty days.

"Will the meeting really take place, Sir William?"' he had asked when the Minister had visited him. With the fleet no longer protecting the Legation, and extensive though not overtly hostile samurai activity all around them, after a few face-saving days Sir William had considered it prudent to return to Yokohama, ostensibly to prepare for the delivery of the indemnity money.

"I think so, Mr. Struan. Perhaps not punctually, but yes the ceremonial will happen approximately then and we will have taken a real leap forward. If they produce the first payment of 5,000 pounds as promised... well, that will be a very good indication. By the way, I understand you've a steamer due to leave today for Hong Kong, could I prevail upon you to allow one of my staff and some urgent mail to go with her--my wife and two sons are expected soon and I have to make plans."

"Of course, I'll mention it to McFay.

If you want a berth on any of our ships to meet them just say the word."

"Thank you--I was planning two weeks vacation when they do. One gets hidebound, cooped up here, don't you think? Miss the bustle of Hong Kong, that's quite a city though damned if the people at Whitehall appreciate it! Plenty of good roast beef, some cricket or tennis, the theatre or opera, and several days at the races would be most welcome. When will you return?"' When?

News of our Tokaido disaster would have arrived almost a week ago, presuming the mail ship weathered the storm. Mother will have had a fit though showing nothing to outsiders. Will she come here on the first available ship? Possibly, but there's HQ to look after--and Emma, Rose and Duncan. With father dead, me not there, eighteen days is too long for her to be away. Even if she's already aboard there's at least another three or four days to prepare my defenses. Strange to consider her a possible enemy, if not enemy no longer friend.

Perhaps she's friend after all, she always has been, however distant, always attending father with little time for us.

"Hello, my son, how could I ever be your enemy?"' He was astonished to see her standing by the bed, his father also, and this was strange because he remembered his father was dead but it did not seem to matter, quickly out of bed without hurt and chatting with them happily in the cutter crossing Hong Kong harbor, storm clouds everywhere, both of them listening deferentially and approving his clever plans, Angelique sitting in the stern, her dress diaphanous, breasts beckoning, uncovered now, his hands there and lower, all uncovered now, her body writhing against his, hands caressing his face...

"Malcolm?"

He awoke with a start. Angelique was beside the bed, smiling at him, peignoir blue silk rich and discreet. The dream vanished, except the threat and promise of her body, ever pulsating in his subconscious. "I... oh I was dreaming, my darling, but it was about you."

"Oh yes? What?"

He frowned, trying to recollect.

"I don't remember," he said, smiling up at her, "except that you were beautiful. I love your gown."

She pirouetted gaily to show it off. "The tailor you asked Jamie to arrange made it!

Mon Dieu, Malcolm, me, I think he is marvelous--I ordered four dresses, I hope that's all right... oh thank you!" She bent down to kiss him.

"Wait, Angelique, wait, just a second. Look!" Carefully he raised himself, dominating the pain, took both supporting hands away and held them out to her.

"That's wonderful, cheri," she said, delighted, catching his hands. "Ah, Monsieur Struan, I think I'd better take care to be chaperoned all the time now, and never be alone with you in your bedroom."

Smiling she stepped closer, carefully put her hands on his shoulders, allowed his arms to go around her and kissed him. Her kiss was light, promising and avoided his need for more. Without guile she kissed his ear, then straightened, allowing his head to rest against her breast, the intimacy pleasing her--and him very much. Soft silk there, with that uncanny, irreplaceable, special warmth.

"Malcolm, did you really really mean what you said about wanting to marry me?" She felt his arms tighten and the wince of pain.

"Of course, I've told you so many times."

"Do you think, do you think your parents, pardon, your mother, she will approve, yes? Oh I do hope so."

"Yes, oh yes she will, of course she will."

"May I write to Papa, I would like to tell him?"

"Of course, write when you wish, I will write too," he said throatily, then, swamped by her affection, his need overcoming his discretion, he kissed the silk, then again, harder and almost cursed aloud as he sensed her retreat before it happened.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"No need for "Sorry" or any Anglo-Saxon guilt, my love, not between us," she said gently. "I want you too." Then, following her plan, switched her mood, entirely in control, her happiness infectious.

"Now I will be the nurse Nightingale."

She plumped the pillows and began to make the bed neater. "Tonight is a French dinner hosted by Monsieur Seratard, tomorrow night he has arranged a soiree. Andr`e Poncin is giving a piano recital of Beethoven--I prefer him so much to Mozart--also Chopin and a piece by a young man called Brahms." A church bell began, sounding the call to early service, almost immediately to be joined by others, sweeter and more melodious from the Catholic church.

"There," she said, helping him lie back comfortably. "Now I will go for my toilette and return after Mass when you are toiletted."

He held her hand. ""Bathed." You're wonderful. I love y--" Abruptly their eyes went to the door as someone tried the handle.

But the bolt was on.

"I did it when you were asleep." She chuckled like a little girl playing a game. Again the handle moved. "Servants always come in without knocking, they need to be taught lessons!"

"Mass'er!" the servant called out, "tea-ah!"

"Tell him to go away and come back in five minutes."

Struan, caught up in her pleasure, shouted the order in Cantonese, and they heard the man go off grumbling.

She laughed. "You must teach me Chinese-speaking."

"I'll try."

"What's "I love you"?"

"They don't have a word for love, not like us."

A frown went across her face. "How sad!"

She slipped over to the door, unbolted it, blew him a kiss, and vanished into her own suite. Her bolt slid home.

He watched the door, aching. Then he heard the bells change, becoming more insistent, reminding him: Mass!

His heart twisted. Didn't think about that, that she was Catholic. Mother's diehard Church of England, twice on Sundays, Father as well, us too, in procession, along with every other decent family in Hong Kong.

Catholic?

Doesn't matter, I... I don't mind.

I've got to have her, he told himself, his healthy, hungry throbbing ache pushing the pain away. "I must."

That afternoon the four perspiring Japanese porters put down the iron-banded chest watched by three Bakufu officials of no import, Sir William, interpreters, an officer from the army accounting department, the Legation shroff, a Chinese, and Vargas, to check him.

They were in the main Legation reception room, the windows open and Sir William was hard put not to beam. Laboriously one of the officials produced an ornate key and unlocked the chest.

Within were silver Mexican dollars, a few tael bars of gold--about an ounce and a third in weight--and some of silver.

"Ask why the indemnity isn't all in gold as agreed?"

"The Official says they could not obtain the gold in time but these are clean Mex and legal currency, and will you please give him a receipt." "Clean" coins meant those that were unshaved, or unclipped, a common practice, and sloughed off on to the unwary.

"Begin counting."

Happily his shroff tipped the contents onto the carpet. At once he spotted a clipped coin, Vargas another and another. These were put to one side. Every eye stayed on the carpet, on the neatly stacked, growing piles of coins. Five thousand pounds sterling was an immense sum when the salary of a full-time interpreter was four hundred a year and pay your own lodgings, a shroff a hundred (though a good percentage of everything that passed through his hands would somehow stick there), a servant in London twenty pounds a year and all found, a soldier five pennies a day, a sailor six, an Admiral six hundred pounds a year.

The counting was quickly done. Both shroffs checked the weight of each small bar of gold twice, then the weight each of the stacks of chipped coins, then used an abacus to calculate the total against the current rate of exchange.

Vargas said, "It comes to four thousand and eighty-four pounds, six shillings and seven pence farthing, Sir William, in clean coin, five hundred and twenty pounds in gold, ninety-two pounds sixteen in clipped coins for a grand total of four thousand, six hundred and ninety-seven pounds, two shillings, and seven pence farthing."

"Sorry, eight pence, Mass'er." The Chinese bowed and nodded his head, his pigtail long and thick, making the slight, face-saving adjustment as agreed in advance with Vargas, deciding that the amount that his Portuguese counterpart had deducted for their fee, two and a half percent, or one hundred and seventeen pounds, eight shillings and sixpence between them, was less than what he would have maneuvered, but passable for half an hour's work.

Sir William said, "Vargas, put it back in the chest, give them a receipt with a note that the underpayment will be added to the last installment. Johann, thank them, and say we will expect the full amount, in gold, in nineteen days."

Johann obeyed. At once the other interpreter began a long statement. "They now ask for an extension, sir, and--"

"No extension." Sir William sighed, dismissed the others and prepared for another hour, closing his ears until he was astonished to hear Johann say, "They've suddenly come to the point, sir: it's the Yedo meeting, sir. They ask that this be delayed another thirty days to make it fifty days from now... the exact words are: the Shogun will return from Kyoto then and he has informed the Council of Elders to advise the Foreign Ministers that he would grant them an audience on that day."

To give himself time to think, Sir William called out, "Lun!" Lun appeared instantly.

"Tea!"

Within seconds the trays arrived. And cigars, snuff and pipe tobacco. Soon the room was filled with smoke and everyone coughing and all the time Sir William was considering options.

First and foremost I'm probably dealing with low-level officials, so anything agreed will be subject to further negotiation. Next, in any event the fifty days will surely extend into two months, even three, but if we have an audience with the Ultimate Power, of course under British leadership, we will have taken a lasting step forward.

Actually, I don't mind if the delay goes to three, even four months. By then I'll have Lord Russell's approval for war, reinforcements will be en route from India and Hong Kong, the Admiral will have his damned authority, and we'll have the forces to invest, hold and fortify Yedo if we have to.

I could say, let us have the meeting as planned and then the Shogun meeting. That would be best, but I feel they won't go against the mystical Shogun's wishes and somehow they'll wheedle and twist and mesh us again.

Johann said, "The spokesman says, as that's agreed, we will bid you farewell."

"Nothing is agreed. A thirty-day extension is not possible for many reasons. We have already arranged a date for the Council of Elders that will take place as planned and then, ten days later we will be pleased to meet the Shogun."

After an hour of sucked-in breaths, aghast silences, blunt Anglo-Saxonese, Sir William allowed himself to be whittled down and got his compromise position: The meeting with the Council of Elders to take place as planned, and the meeting with the Shogun twenty days after that.

Once alone again with Sir William, Johann said, "They won't abide by it."

"Yes, I know. Never mind."

"Sir William, my contract's up in a couple of months. I won't renew."

Sir William said sharply, "I can't do without your services for at least six months."

"It's time to go home. This place is going to be a bloodbath soon and I've no want to have my head on a spike."

"I'll increase your salary by fifty pounds a year."

"It's not the money, Sir William. I'm tired. Ninety-eight percent of all the talk is sheiss. I've no patience now to sift the kernel of wheat from the barrel of dung!"

"I need you for these two meetings."

"They'll never take place. Two months odd, then I'm off, the exact day is on the paper. Sorry, Sir William, but that's the end, and now I am going to get drunk." He left.

Sir William went across the hall to his office window and searched the horizon. It was nearing sunset now. No sign of any of the fleet. My God, I hope they're safe. Must keep Johann somehow. Tyrer won't be ready for a year at least. Who can I get that I can trust? God damn it!

Light from the dying sun illuminated the sparsely furnished room, not enough to see by so he lit an oil lamp, adjusting the wick carefully. On his desk were neat piles of dispatches, his edition of All the Year Round --long since read from cover to cover, with all the newspapers from the last mail ship, several editions of Illustrated London News and Punch. He picked up the advance copy of Turgenev's Fathers and Sons in Russian sent to him by a friend at the Court of St.

Petersburg, amongst other English and French books, started to read it then, distracted, put it aside and began the second letter of the day to the Governor of Hong Kong, giving details of today's meeting, and asking for a replacement for Johann. Lun came in silently, closing the door.

"Yes, Lun?"

Lun came up to his desk, hesitated, then dropped his voice. "Mass'er," he said cautiously, "hear trou'bel, trou'bel soon Yedo Big House, big trou'bel."

Sir William stared up at him. Big House was what the Chinese servants called their Yedo Legation. "What trouble?"

Lun shrugged. "Trou'bel."

"When trouble?"

Again Lun shrugged. "Whisk'y water, heya?"

Sir William nodded thoughtfully. From time to time Lun whispered rumors to him with an uncanny knack of being right. He watched him pad over to the sideboard and make the drink, just as he liked it.

Phillip Tyrer and the kilted Captain were watching the same sunset from an upstairs window of the Legation at Yedo, the usual groups of samurai stationed outside the walls and in all approaches up the hill. Dark reds and orange and browns on the empty horizon mixed with a strip of blue above the sea. "Will the weather be good tomorrow?"

"Don't know much about the weather here, Mr.Tyrer. If we were in Scotland I could give you a wee forecast," the Captain, a sandy-haired, thirty-year-old ramrod, laughed. "Rain with scattered showers... but, och ay, it's no' so bad."

"I've never been to Scotland, but I will on my next leave. When do you go home?"

"Maybe next year, or the year after. This is only my second year." Their attention went back to the square. Four Highlanders and a sergeant plodded up the hill through the samurai and entered the iron gates, returning from a routine patrol to the wharf where a detachment of marines and a cutter were stationed. Samurai were always in attendance, standing around, sometimes chatting, or in clusters near fires that they lit if it was cold, movement constant. No one, soldier or Legation employee, had been prevented from leaving or entering, though all had passed through intense, always silent scrutiny.

"Excuse me, I'll see the Sergeant, make sure our cutter's there, in case, and close down for the night. Dinner at seven as usual?"

"Yes." When he was alone Tyrer stifled a nervous yawn, stretched and moved his arm to ease the slight ache there. His wound had healed perfectly, no longer any need to use a sling. I'm bloody lucky, he thought, except for Wee Willie. Damn the man for sending me here, I'm supposed to be training to be an interpreter, not a dogsbody. Damn damn damn. And now I'll miss Andr`e's recital that I was so looking forward to. Angelique is certain to be there.

Rumors of her secret betrothal had rushed around the Settlement like a foehn wind-- unsettling. Hints dropped to her or to Struan had brought forth neither denial or confirmation, or even a clue. In the Club the betting was two to one that it was a fact, twenty to one that the marriage would never take place: "Struan's as sick as a dog, she's Catholic and you know his mum for God's sake, Jamie!"

"Taken! He's better every day and you don't know him like I do. Ten guineas against two hundred."

"Charlie, what odds you give me that one's up the spout?"' "Oh for God's sake!"

"Angel Tits ain't a doxy for Chris' sake!"

"A thousand to one?"' "Done by God... a golden guinea!"

To Tyrer and Pallidar's disgust, the odds and bets, ever more personal and detailed, changed daily. "The buggers here are a lot of guttersnipes!"

"You're right of course, Pallidar. A scummy lot!"

With intense speculation going on about Struan and Angelique, there was more about the extent of the storm and the fleet, worse that it might be in dire trouble, and doom generally. Japanese merchants were more nervous than usual too, whispering rumors of insurrections all over Japan against or for the Bakufu, that the mystical Mikado, supposed high priest of all Japanese who held sway in Kyoto, had ordered all samurai to attack Yokohama.

"Poppycock, if you ask me," the Westerners told one another, but more and more guns were purchased and even the two trader wives slept with a loaded weapon beside their beds. Drunk Town was rumored to be an armed camp.

Then, a few days ago, an act of war: an American merchantman, storm battered, had limped into Yokohama. In the Shimonoseki Straits, inbound from Shanghai for Yokohama with a cargo of silver, ammunition and arms, then onwards to the Philippines with opium, tea and general trade goods, she had been fired upon by shore batteries.

"The devil you were!" someone called out over the explosion of anger in the Club.

"You're goddam right we were! And us as peaceful as a buttercup! Those Choshu bastards were mighty accurate--what crazy bastard sold them goddam cannon? Blew off our top t'gallants before we knew what was happening and could take evading action. Sure, we returned their fire but we've only a couple of stinky goddam five-pounders that'd not give a body much cause to hiccup. We counted as many as twenty cannon." "My God, twenty cannon and expert gunners could easily close Shimonoseki, and if that happens we're in dead trouble. That's the quickest and only safe way here."

"Ay! The Inland Waters are a must, by God!"

"Where the hell's the fleet? They could go and knock out those batteries! What about our trade?"' "Ay, where's the fleet, hope to God she's safe!"

"And if she's not?"' "Charlie, we'll just have to send for another..."

Stupid people, Tyrer thought, all they can think of is send for the fleet, boozing and money.

Thank God the French Admiral brought back Andr`e with him. Thank God for Andr`e even though he's volatile and strange but that's only because he's French. Thanks to him I've already two exercise books crammed with Japanese words and phrases, my daily journal's chockablock with an abundance of folklore, I've a rendezvous with a Jesuit when we're again in Yokohama. Such marvelous progress and so important for me to learn quickly --and that's without even thinking about the Yoshiwara.

Three visits. The first two guided, the third alone.

"Andr`e, I just can't tell you how much I appreciate all the time you've given me, and all the help. And as to tonight, I can never repay you, never."

That was after the first visit.

Nervous, flushed, sweating, almost tongue-tied but pretending to be manly he had followed Andr`e out of the Settlement at dusk, joining the jovial crowds of men Yoshiwara bound, passed the samurai guards, politely raising top hats and receiving perfunctory bows in return, across the Bridge to Paradise towards the tall gates in the enclosing wooden fence.

"Yoshiwara means Place of Reeds,"

Andr`e said expansively, both of them well lubricated with champagne that in Tyrer's case had only increased his foreboding. "It was the name of a district in Yedo, a reclaimed swamp, where the first ever, fenced bordello area was decreed and built by Shogun Toranaga two and a half centuries ago. Before that, bordellos were scattered everywhere. Since then, so we're told, all cities and towns have similar enclosures, all of them licensed and tightly controlled.

By custom, many are called Yoshiwara. See those?"' Above the gate, a series of Chinese characters were etched elegantly into the wood. "They mean, Lust is pressing, something must be done about it."

Tyrer laughed nervously. Many guards inside and outside the gate. Last night when Andr`e had volunteered to escort him--they were in the Club then, drinking--he had mentioned a trader had told him the guards were there, not just to keep the peace, but mostly to keep the whores from escaping, "So they're really all slaves, aren't they?"' To his shock he had seen Poncin flush angrily.

"Mon Dieu, don't think of them as whores or call them whores as we understand the word.

They're not slaves. Some are indentured for a number of years, many sold by their parents at an early age, again for a number of years, but their contracts are Bakufu approved and registered.

They're not whores, they're Ladies of the Willow World and don't forget it. Ladies!"

"Sorry, I..."

But Andr`e had paid no attention. "Some are geishas--Art Persons--those trained to entertain you, sing and dance and play silly games and are not for bedding. The rest, mon Dieu, I've told you, don't think of them as whores, think of them as Pleasure Women, trained to please, trained over many years."

"Sorry, I didn't know."

"If you treat them properly they'll give you pleasure, almost any kind you want--if they want to--and if the money you give is correct. You give them money which has no significance, they give you their youth. It's an odd bargain." Andr`e had looked at him strangely. "They give you their youth and hide the tears you cause." He quaffed his wine and stared at the cup, abruptly maudlin.

Tyrer remembered how he had quietly refilled their glasses, cursing himself for breaking the feeling of easy friendship, to him valuable friendship, swearing to be more cautious in future and wondering why the sudden fury. "Tears?"' "Their life isn't good, but even so it isn't always bad. For some it can be marvelous. The most beautiful and accomplished become famous, they're sought after by even the most important daimyo-- kings--in the land, they can marry in high places, marry rich merchants, even samurai. But for our Ladies of the Willow World who are just for us gai-jin," Andr`e had continued bitterly, "there's no future but to open another house here, to drink sak`e and employ other girls. Mon Dieu, treat them all properly, because once they're here they're polluted in the eyes of all other Japanese."

"Sorry. How awful."

"Yes, no one understan--"' A burst of drunken laughter from the men around drowned him for a moment, the Club filled, raucous and steaming.

"I tell you these cretins don't care or give a damn, none of them, except Canterbury, he did." Andr`e had looked up from the dregs of his drink. "You're young and unsullied, here for a year or two and seem willing to learn, so I thought... there's so much to learn, so much good," he had said suddenly and left.

That was last night and now they were within the Yoshiwara gate, Andr`e took out his small pistol. "Phillip, are you armed?"' "No."

Andr`e gave the pistol to the unctuous attendant who gave him a receipt and put it with many others. "No weapons are allowed within the fence--the same in all Yoshiwaras, even samurai must give up their swords. On you va!"

Ahead of them now, on either side of the wide street and alleys leading off it, were lines of neat little houses, many for eating or just small bars, all built of wood with verandas and oiled paper shoji screens, and raised off the ground on low pilings. Everywhere color and sprays of flowers, noise and laughter, and lanterns, candles and oil lamps. "Fire's a huge hazard, Phillip. This whole place burned down the first year but within the week, booming again."

All the Houses bore individual signs.

Some had open doors and sliding shoji windows.

Many girls were in them, ornately or demurely dressed in kimonos of varying quality, depending on the standing of the House. Other girls were promenading, some with colorful umbrellas, some attended by maids, paying little or no attention to the gawking men. Intermixed were vendors of all kinds, and swarms of maids shouting the virtues of the Houses in versions of pithy, raucous pidgin, and sounding over everything the happy banter of potential customers, most of whom were recognized and had their favored places. There were no Japanese except for guards, servants, porters and masseurs.

"Never forget, Yoshiwaras are a place for joy, the pleasures of the flesh, eating and drinking as well, and that there's no such thing as sin in Japan, original sin, any kind of sin."

Andr`e laughed and led the way through the well-ordered crowds except a few brawling drunks who were quickly and good-naturedly pulled apart by huge, expert bouncers, at once to be sat on stools and plied with more sak`e by the ever attentive maids.

"Drunks are welcome, Phillip, because they lose count of their money. But don't ever pick a quarrel with a bouncer, they're fantastically good at unarmed combat."

"Compared to our Drunk Town this place is as well disciplined as the Regent's Promenade at Brighton." A boisterous maid caught Tyrer's arm and tried to pull him into a doorway. "Sak`e heya? Jig jig plenty good Mass'er..."

"Iy`e, domo, iy`e..." Tyrer burst out--no, thank you no--and hurriedly caught up with Andr`e. "My God, I had to really tug to get away."

"That's their job." Andr`e turned off the main street through a passageway between dwellings, down another, stopped at a seedy door set into a fence, a grubby sign above, and knocked.

Tyrer recognized the characters that Andr`e had written for him earlier: House of the Three Carp. A small grill slid back. Eyes peered out. The door opened and Tyrer stepped into a wonderland.

Tiny garden, oil lanterns and candlelight.

Glistening grey stepping stones in green moss, clusters of flowers, many small maples-- blood-red leaves against more green--pale orange light coming from the half-obscured shoji. Little bridge over a miniature stream, waterfall nearby. Kneeling on the veranda was a middle-aged woman, the mama-san, beautifully attired and coiffured. "Bonsoir, Monsieur Furansu-san," she said, put both her hands on the veranda and bowed.

Andr`e bowed back. "Raiko-san, konbanwa. Ikaga desu ka?"' Good evening, how are you? "Kore wa watashi no lomodachi desu, Tyrer-san."

This is my friend, Mr. Tyrer.

"Ah so desu ka? Taira-san?"' She bowed gravely, awkwardly Tyrer bowed, then she beckoned them to follow her.

"She says Taira is a famous old Japanese name. You're in luck, Phillip, most of us go by nicknames. I'm Furansu-san --the nearest they can get to Frenchman."

Taking off their shoes so as not to dirty the very clean and expensive tatami, then sitting awkwardly cross-legged in the room, Andr`e Poncin explaining the takoyama, the alcove for a special hanging scroll and flower arrangement, changed daily, guiding him to appreciate the quality of the shoji and woods.

Sak`e arrived. The maid was young, perhaps ten, not pretty but deft and silent. Raiko poured, first for Andr`e and then Tyrer, then herself. She sipped, Andr`e drained the tiny cup and held it out for more. Tyrer did the same, finding the taste of the warm wine not unpleasant but insipid. Both cups were immediately filled and drained and refilled.

More trays and more flasks.

Tyrer lost count but soon he was enveloped with a pleasing glow, forgot his nervousness and watched and listened and understood almost nothing the other two said, just a word here and there. Raiko's hair was black and shining and dressed with many ornate combs, her face thick with white powder, neither ugly nor beautiful just different, her kimono pink silk with interweaving green carp.

"A carp is koi, usually a sign of good luck," Andr`e had explained earlier.

"Townsend Harris's mistress, the Shimoda courtesan the Bakufu arranged to distract him, called herself Koi, but I'm afraid it didn't bring her luck."

"Oh? What happened?"' "The story told amongst courtesans here is that he adored her and when he left he gave her money, enough to set herself up--she was with him for about two years. Shortly after he returned to America, she just vanished. Probably drank herself to death or committed suicide."

"She loved him that much?"' "They say that in the beginning when the Bakufu approached her she adamantly refused to go with a foreigner--an unheard-of aberration, don't forget he was the first ever to be actually allowed to live on Japanese soil. She begged the Bakufu to chose someone else, to allow her to live in peace, said she would become a Buddhist nun, she even swore she would kill herself. But they were equally adamant, begging her to help them solve this problem gai-jin, pleading with her for weeks to be his consort, wearing her down by what means no one knows. So she agreed and they thanked her. And when Harris left they all turned their backs on her, Bakufu, everyone: Ah so sorry, but any woman who has gone with a foreigner is tainted forever."

"How awful!"

"Yes, in our terms, and so sad. But remember, this is the Land of Tears. Now she is legend, honored by her peers and by those who turned their backs, because of her sacrifice."

"I don't understand."

"Nor do I, nor any of us. But they do.

Japanese do."

How strange, Tyrer thought again. Like this little house and this man and woman, chattering half in Japanese, half in pidgin, laughing one with another, one a madam the other a customer, both pretending they are something else. More and more sak`e.

Then she bowed and got up and left.

"Sak`e, Phillip?"' "Thanks. It's quite nice, isn't it?"' After a pause, Andr`e said, "You're the first person I've ever brought here."

"Oh? Why me?"' The Frenchman twisted the porcelain cup in his fingers, drained the last drop, poured some more, then began in French, his voice soft and filled with warmth, "Because you're the first person I've met in Yokohama with... because you speak French, you're cultured, your mind is like a sponge, you're young, not far off half my age, eh?

You're twenty-one, and not like the others, you're untainted and you'll be here for a few years." He smiled, spinning the web tighter, telling only part of the truth, molding it: "Truly you're the first person I've met who, alors, even though you're English and actually an enemy of France, you're the only one who somehow seems to merit the knowledge I've acquired." An embarrassed smile.

"Difficult to explain. Perhaps because I've always wanted to be teacher, perhaps because I've never had a son, never married, perhaps because soon I have to move back to Shanghai, perhaps because we've enemies enough and perhaps... perhaps you could be a firm friend."

"I would be honored to be your friend," Tyrer said at once, enmeshed and under his spell, "and I really do think, I really have always thought we should be allies, France and Britain, not enemies and--"' The shoji slid back. Raiko, on her knees beckoned Tyrer. His heart surged.

Andr`e Poncin smiled. "Just follow her, and remember what I told you."

As in a dream Phillip Tyrer got up unsteadily and padded after her, down a corridor, into a room, across it and along a veranda, into another empty room where she motioned him in, closed the shoji, and left him.

A shaded oil lamp. Charcoal brazier for warmth. Shadows and darkness and patches of light.

Futons--small square mattresses--laid out as a bed on the floor, a bed for two. Downy coverlets. Two yukatas, wide sleeved, patterned cotton gown for sleeping in. Through a small door a bathhouse, candle-lit, tall wooden tub filled with steaming water.

Sweet-smelling soap. Low, three-legged stool. Diminutive towels. Everything as Andr`e had foretold.

His heart was beating very fast now and he pushed his mind to remember Andr`e's instructions through the sak`e haze.

Methodically, he began to undress. Coat, waistcoat, cravat, shirt, woolen vest, each article meticulously folded and nervously placed in a pile. Awkwardly sitting, then pulling off his socks, reluctantly his trousers and standing up once more. Only his woolen long johns remained. Weaving a little, then an embarrassed shrug and he took them off and folded them, even more carefully. His skin prickled into goose bumps and he walked into the bathhouse.

There he scooped water from the barrel as he had been told and spilled it over his shoulders, the warmth pleasant. Another and then sound of the shoji opening and he glanced around. "Christ Almighty," he muttered.

The woman was beefy with huge forearms, her yukata brief, nothing under except a loincloth and she strode purposefully towards him with a flat smile, motioned him to squat on the stool.

In absolute embarrassment he obeyed. At once she noticed the healing scar on his arm and sucked in her breath, said something that he could not understand.

He forced a smile. "Tokaido."

"Wakarimasu." I understand. Then, before he could stop her she poured water over his head-- unexpectedly and not part of his forewarning--and began soaping and washing his long hair, then his body, her fingers hard, expert and insistent, but taking care not to hurt his arm. Arms legs back front, then offering him the cloth and pointing between his legs. Still in shock he cleansed those parts, meekly handed the cloth back. "Thank you," he muttered.

"Oh, sorry, domo."

More water took away the last of the soap and she pointed to the tub. "Dozo!" Please.

Andr`e had explained: "Phillip, just remember that unlike with us, you have to be washed and clean before you get into the bath, so others can use the same water--which is very sensible, don't forget wood is very expensive and it takes a long time to heat enough--so don't piss in it either, and don't think of her as a woman when you're in the bathhouse, just a helper. She cleans you outside, then inside, no?"' Tyrer eased himself into the tub. It was hot but not too hot and he closed his eyes not wanting to watch the woman making the bath tidy. Christ, he thought in misery, I'll never be able to perform with her. Andr`e's made a vast mistake.

"But... well, I, er, don't know how much I, er, pay, or do I give the girl the money first or what?"' "Mon Dieu, you should never actually give money to any girl, anywhere, that's the height of bad manners, though you can barter savagely with the mama-san, sometimes with the girl herself, but only after tea or sak`e. Before you leave you'd put it discreetly in a place she would see it. In the House of the Three Carp, you give no money, it's a special place--there are others like it--only for special customers, one of which I am. They'll send you a bill, two or three times a year. But listen, before we go there you have to swear by God that you'll pay the bill the moment it's presented, and that you will never, never introduce anyone else there or talk about it."

So he had sworn and promised, wanting to ask how much but not daring to. "The, er, bill, when does that come?"' "When it pleases the mama-san. I told you, Phillip, you can have pleasure the year round on credit, under the correct circumstances--of course I'm surety for you...."

The warmth of the bath water permeated him. He hardly heard her bustle out and then, later, bustle back again.

"Taira-san?"' "Hai?"' Yes?

She was holding up a towel. Curiously lethargic, he climbed out, his muscles drowsed by the water, and let her dry him. Once more the special places he did himself, finding it easier this time. A comb for his hair. Dry starched yukata and she motioned him towards the bed.

Again panic surged through him. Shakily he forced himself to lie down. She covered him, folded back the other coverlet and again left.

His heart was thundering but lying down felt marvelous, the mattress soft and clean and sweet-smelling, feeling cleaner than he had felt for years. Soon he was calmer and then the shoji opened and closed and he was filled with utter relief but no longer calm. The half-seen girl was tiny, willowy, pale yellow yokata, hair long and cascading. Now she was kneeling beside the bed. "Konbanwa, Taira-san.

Ikaga desu ka? Watashi wa Ako."

Good evening, Mr. Taira. Are you well? I am Ako.

"Konbanwa, Ako-san. Watashi wa Phillip Tyrer desu."

She frowned. "F... urri... f."

She tried to say Phillip several times but could not, then laughed gaily, said something he did not understand, ending with Taira-san.

He was sitting up now, watching her, heart pounding, helpless, not attracted by her, and now she was pointing to the other side of the bed. "Dozo?"' Please, may I?

"Dozo." In the candlelight he could not see her clearly, just enough to know that she was young, he estimated about his own age, that her face was smooth and white with powder, teeth white, red lips, hair shiny, nose almost roman, eyes narrow ellipses, her smile kind. She got into the bed and settled herself, turned and watched him.

Waiting. His shyness and inexperience paralyzed him.

Christ, how do I tell her I don't want her, don't want anyone now, that I can't, I know I can't and it won't, it won't tonight, it won't and I'll disgrace myself and Andr`e ... Andr`e! What can I tell him? I'll be a laughingstock, oh Christ why did I agree?

Her hand reached out and touched his cheek.

Involuntarily he shivered.

Ako murmured sweet sounding words of encouragement but inside she was smiling, knowing what to expect from this child of a man, well prepared by Raiko-san: "Ako, tonight is a rare moment in your life and you must remember every detail to regale us with at first meal. Your client is a friend of Frenchy, and unique in our world--he's virgin. Frenchy says he is so shy you will not believe it, that he will be frightened, will probably weep when his Honorable Weapon fails him, he may even wet the bed in his frustrated excitement, but do not worry, dear Ako, Frenchy assures me you can deal with him in the normal way, and that you've nothing to worry about."

"Eeee, I'll never understand gai-jin, Raiko-san."

"Nor I. Certainly they are all peculiar, uncivilized, but fortunately most are pleasantly rich, it's our destiny to be here so we must make the most of it. Very important, Frenchy says this one is an important English official, potentially a long-term customer so make him experience the Clouds and the Rain, one way or another, even if... even if you have to use the Ultimate."

"Oh ko!"

"The honor of the house is at stake."

"Oh! I understand. In that case... Somehow I will."

"I have every confidence, Ako-chan, after all you have almost thirty years experience in our Willow World."

"Is he like Frenchy in his tastes, do you think?"' "That he enjoys his back part tickled, and occasionally Pleasure Pearls? Perhaps you should be prepared but I asked Frenchy directly if the youth had leanings towards liking men and he assured me no. Curious that Frenchy chose our House to initiate a friend, instead of the others he now frequents."

"The House was not to blame, never. Please, don't think about it, Raiko-chan. I am honored that you have chosen me, I will do everything necessary."

"Of course. Eeee, when you think that the Steaming Stalks of gai-jin are usually much larger than civilized persons, that most gai-jin fornicate satisfactorily though without Japanese vigor, flair and urge to plumb the limits, except for Frenchy you would think they would be happy fornicators like normal persons. But they are not, they have so many cobwebs in their heads that somehow fornication is not our Most Heavenly Pleasure, but a some kind of secret, religious evil. Weird."

Experimenting now, Ako moved closer and caressed his chest, then shifted her hand lower and was hard put not to laugh out loud as the youth jerked with fright. It took her a few moments to compose herself. "Taira-san?"' she murmured.

"Yes, er, hai, Ako-san?"' She took his hand and placed it inside her yukata on her breast, leaned over and kissed his shoulder, forewarned to be careful of the wound in his arm that a courageous shishi had given him. No reaction. Moving against him closer. Whispering how utterly brave, how strong and manly, how fulsome the maid had described him and his fruit.

All the while patiently caressing his chest, feeling him shiver but still no passion. Minutes passed. Still nothing. Her concern grew. Fingers soft as butterflies and yet still he lay inert-- hands, lips, everything. Gently caressing, careful to circle, no real intimacy yet. More minutes. Still nothing. Her dismay mounted. Fear that she might fail overlaid her dismay. Touching his ear with her tongue.

Ah, a slight reward: her name spoken throatily and his lips kissing her neck.

Eeee, she thought and relaxed and put her lips around his nipple. Now it's only a matter of time to explode his virginity to the skies, then I can order some sak`e and sleep till dawn and forget that I am forty-three and childless, and only remember that Raiko-san rescued me from the sixth-class House that my age and lack of beauty had relegated me to.

Tyrer was idly watching the samurai in the Legation square, the sun touching the horizon, his mind increasingly beset by Ako, then two nights later, Hamako. Then Her.

Fujiko. The night before last.

He felt himself hardening and eased that part more comfortably, knowing that now he was inexorably caught in that world, the Floating World where, as Andr`e had told him, living was only for the moment, for pleasure, drifting with never a care like a blossom in the current of a calm river.

"It's not always calm, Phillip. What's she like, Fujiko?"' "Oh, er, haven't you seen her, don't you know her?"' "No, I only told Raiko-san the sort of girl you might like, the accent being on "sleeping dictionary." How was she?"' He had laughed to cover his complete embarrassment and disquiet at being asked such a personal question, so directly. But Andr`e had given him so much that he wanted to be "French" and forthright, so he put aside his misgivings that a gentleman should not discuss or disclose such personal information. "She... she's younger than I am, small, tiny in fact, not, not pretty in our terms but she's astonishingly attractive.

I think I understood her to say that she was new there."

"I meant in bed, how was she? Better than the others?"' "Oh. Well, there was, er, well no comparison."

"Was she more vigorous? Sensuous? Eh?"' "Well, yes, er, dressed or undressed, incredible. Special. Again I can't thank you enough, I owe you so much."

"De rien, mon vieux."

"It's true. Next time... next time you'll meet her."

"Mon Dieu no, that's a rule. Never introduce your "special" to anyone, least of all a friend. Don't forget, until you set her up in your own place, with you paying the bills, she's available for anyone with the money--if she wants."

"Oh. I'd forgotten," he had said, hiding the truth.

"Even if she's set up she could still have a lover on the side if she wants. Who's to know?"' "I suppose so." More anguish.

"Don't fall in love, my friend, not with a courtesan. Take them for what they are, pleasure persons. Enjoy them, like them but don't love them--and never let them fall in love with you..."

Tyrer shivered, hating the truth, hating the idea of her being with another, and bedding as they had bedded, hating that it was for money, hating the ache that was in his loins. My God she really was so special, lovely, liquid, a sweet chatterbox, gentle, kind, so young and only in the House for such a short time. Should I set her up? Not should, could I? I'm sure Andr`e has his own place with his special friend though he's never said, nor would I ever ask. Christ, how much would that cost? Bound to be more than I could afford....

Don't think about that now! Or her.

With an effort he put his attention on the garden below but the ache remained. Part of the Highland detachment were assembling around the flagstaff, the trumpeter and four kettledrummers already in position for the lowering of the flag. Routine. The motley group of gardeners were collecting by the gate to be counted and then dismissed. They grovelled their way through the gates and through the samurai and were gone. Routine. Sentries closed and bolted the iron gates. Routine.

Drums and trumpet sounding as the Union Jack was slowly lowered--no sun sets on the British flag was British law throughout the world. Routine.

Most of the samurai marching away now, leaving only a token force for the night. Routine.

Tyrer shivered.

If everything's routine why am I so nervous?

The Legation gardeners trooped into their dormitory hovel that adjoined the other side of the Buddhist temple. None of them met Hiraga's gaze. All had been warned that their lives, and the lives of all their generations depended on his safety.

"Beware of talking to strangers," he had told them. "If the Bakufu find you've harbored me your reward will be just the same, except you will be crucified, not killed cleanly."

With all their abject protestations that he was safe, that he could trust them, Hiraga knew that he was never secure. Since the Anjo ambush ten days ago, most of the time he had been at their Kanagawa safe house, the Inn of the Midnight Blossoms. That the attack had failed and all but one of his companions killed was karma, nothing else.

Yesterday a letter had arrived from Katsumata, the leading, though clandestine, Satsuma shishi, now in Kyoto: Urgent: in a few weeks, Shogun Nobusada will create an unheard-of precedent by coming here to pay the Emperor a state visit. All shishi are advised to gather here at once to plan how to intercept him, to send him onwards, then to take possession of the Palace Gates. Katsumata had signed his code name: Raven.

Hiraga had discussed what to do with Ori, then decided to return here to Yedo, determined to act alone to destroy the British Legation, furious that the Council of Elders seemed to have been bamboozled and neutralized by the gai-jin.

"Kyoto can wait, Ori. We've got to press home our attack on the gai-jin. We must infuriate them until they bombard Yedo.

Others can deal with the Shogun and Kyoto."

He would have brought Ori but Ori was helpless, his wound worse, with no help from any doctor.

"What about your arm?"' "When it's unbearable, I'll commit seppuku," Ori had said, his words slurred from the sak`e he was using to dampen the pain--the three of them, he, Ori and the mama-san, having a final drink together. "Don't worry."

"Isn't there another doctor, a safe one?"' "No, Hiraga-san," the mama-san, Noriko, said. She was a tiny woman of fifty, her voice soft. "I even sent for a Korean acupuncturist and herbalist, both friends, but the poultices have been no value.

There's the giant gai-jin..."

"You're stupid," Ori shouted. "How many times must I tell you? This is a bullet wound, one of their bullets, and they saw me at Kanagawa!"

"Please excuse me," the mama-san said humbly, her head to the tatami, "please excuse this stupid person." She bowed again and left, but in her secret heart she was cursing Ori for failing to be a true shishi and not committing seppuku while Hiraga was here, the most perfect second a man could wish for, and so lessen the awful danger surrounding her and her House. News of the fate of the Inn of the Forty-seven Ronin had rushed fifty ri and beyond --an outrageous retribution to kill all patrons, courtesans and servants and to spike the head of the mama-san.

Monstrous, she thought, inflamed. How can a House forbid any samurai entrance, shishi or not? In olden days samurai killed much more than today, yes, but that was centuries ago and mostly only when it was merited and not women or children. That was when the law of the land was just, Shogun Toranaga just, his son and grandson just, before corruption and dissipation became a way of life for descendant Shoguns, daimyo and samurai alike, who for a century and more have spread their rapacious taxations over us like pus! The shishi are our only hope! Sonno-joi!

"Anjo must die before we die," she said fervently when Hiraga had at length returned safely two days after the attack. "We've been petrified you'd been caught and burnt with the others. It was all done on Anjo's orders, Hiraga-san, on his orders--in fact he was returning from the Inn when you attacked him near the castle gates, he had personally ordered and witnessed the executions, leaving men there in ambush in case all you shishi returned unawares."

"Who betrayed us, Hiraga?"' Ori had asked.

"The Mori samurai."

"But Akimoto said he saw them engulfed and killed."

"It must have been one of them. Did anyone else escape?"' "Akimoto--he hid out in another Inn for a day and a night."

"Where is he now?"' Noriko said, "He's occupied--shall I send for him?"' "No. Tomorrow I will see him."

"Anjo must pay in blood for the Inn--that's against all custom!"

"He will. So will the roju. So will Shogun Nobusada. And so will Yoshi."

In his private quarters high up in the castle keep, Yoshi was composing a poem. He wore a blue silk kimono and sat at a low table, an oil lamp on it and sheets of rice paper, brushes of different thicknesses, water to soften the block of jet ink that now had a tiny, inviting pool in the hollowed-out center.

Twilight was becoming night. From outside the hum of Yedo's million souls ever present. A few houses on fire as usual.

From the castle below the comforting, muted noise of soldiers, hooves on cobblestones, an occasional throaty laugh wafting upwards with the smoke and smells of the cooking fires through the decorative, bowman openings in the vast walls, not yet shuttered against the night chill.

This was his inner sanctum. Spartan.

Tatamis, a takoyama, the shoji door in front of him so positioned and lit that he could see the shape of any figure outside but no one there could look within.

Outside this room was a larger anteroom with corridors leading off it to sleeping quarters, empty at present except for retainers, maids and Koiko, his special favorite. His family--his wife, two sons and a daughter, his consort and her son--were all safe and heavily guarded in his hereditary, fortress castle, Dragon's Tooth, in the mountains some twenty ri northwards. Beyond this antechamber were guards and other rooms with other guards, all sworn to his personal service.

His brush dipped into the ink pool. He poised the point over the delicate rice paper then wrote firmly: Sword of my fathers When in my hands Twists uneasily The writing was in three short, flowing vertical lines of characters, strong where they should be strong and soft where softness would enhance the picture that the characters made--never a second chance to refine or change or correct even the slightest fault, the texture of the rice paper sucking in the ink at once to become indelibly a part of it, varying the black to grey depending how the brush was used and the amount of water therein.

Coldly, he scrutinized what he had done, the placement of the poem and the whole picture that the shades of black calligraphy made within the expanse of white, the shape and the fluid, obscured clearness of his characters.

It's good, he thought without vanity. I cannot do better yet--this is almost to the limit of my capability, if not at the limit. What about the meaning of the poem, how it should be read?

Ah, that's the important question, that's why it is good. But will it achieve what I want?

These questions prompted him to review the shocking state of affairs here and at Kyoto. Word arrived a few days ago that there had been a sudden, bloody but successful coup there by Choshu troops who had thrown out Satsuma and Tosa forces who had, for the last six months, held power there in an uneasy truce. Lord Ogama of Choshu now commanded the Palace Gates.

At the hastily convened meeting of the Council tempers had flared, Anjo almost frothing with fury. "Choshu, Satsuma and Tosa! Always those three. They're dogs who must be crushed!

Without them everything would be in control."

"True," Yoshi had said, "I tell you all again we must order our troops in Kyoto to put down the rebellion at once--whatever the cost!"

"No, we have to wait, we have insufficient forces there."

Toyama, the old man, wiped his grizzled chin and said, "I agree with Yoshi-dono. War is the only way, we must declare Ogama of Choshu outlaw!"

"Impossible!" Adachi had said querulously, for himself and the last Elder. "We agree with Anjo, we cannot risk offending all daimyos, encouraging them to mass against us."

"We must act at once!" he had repeated. "We must order our troops to retake the Gates, put down the rebellion."

"We have insufficient forces," Anjo had said stubbornly. "We will wait. Now is not the time."

"Why won't you listen to my advice?"' By now Yoshi was so angered that it almost surfaced.

He had contained it with an effort, knowing that to rave and lose his temper would be a fatal error and turn them all permanently against him. Wasn't he the youngest, the least experienced but the most qualified, with the most influence amongst daimyos who could, if he wished, alone amongst the Elders, raise his standard and pitch the whole country into civil war as had existed for centuries before the Shogun Toranaga? were they not all jealous and spitting when he was appointed Guardian and an Elder by Imperial "request" without consulting them, by whomever the Son of Heaven was manipulated?

"I know I'm right. Wasn't I right about the gai-jin? I'm right about this."

The plan he had conceived to remove the gai-jin and their fleet from Yedo to gain time to deal with their own internal problems had been a perfect success.

It was so simple: "With great ceremony and feigned humility we give the gai-jin a pittance of a ransom, propose a future meeting with the Council which will be delayed and further delayed or cancelled, or even staged with puppets if need be, implying at the last moment, when their patience is at an end, that a meeting with the Shogun when he returns is to be arranged--which can also be delayed, renegotiated and delayed and will never happen, or even if it does sometime in the future, it will produce nothing we do not wish.

"We gained some of the time we needed, and discovered a permanent way of dealing with them: use their impatience against them, give them "promises" and lots of soup but no fish, or at the most a few rotting pieces we don't need or want.

They were satisfied, their fleet sailed away into the storm and perhaps under the sea. None have returned yet."

Old Toyama said, "The gods aided us with that storm, again their Divine Wind, kamikaze wind, as they did against Kublai Khan's invading hordes centuries ago. When we expel them it will be the same, the gods will never forsake us."

Adachi had been preening himself. "It's true I carried out our plan to perfection. The gai-jin were as docile as a fifth-rate courtesan."

"Gai-jin are a sore that will never heal while we are weaker in military power or wealth,"

Anjo said irritably, wringing his hands. "They are a sore that will not heal--not without burning it out, and we cannot do that yet, not yet, not without means to build ships and make cannon. We cannot be diverted and order troops to take the Gates, not yet. They are not the immediate enemy, nor Choshus, the immediate enemy is sonno-joi and shishi dogs."

Yoshi had noticed how very much Anjo had changed since the assassination attempt: now he was far more irascible, stubborn, his resolve weakened though his influence over the other Elders had not. "I don't agree but if you think we have insufficient forces let us order a general mobilization and let us finish the outside lords and any who join them!"

Toyama said, "War is the only way, Anjo-sama, forget shishi, forget gai-jin for the moment. The Gates--first we must repossess our hereditary rights."

Anjo had said, "We will, at the right time.

Next: the Shogun's visit will go forth as planned."

Over his further protests Anjo had again carried the vote, three to two, and in private had added malevolently, "I told you, Yoshi-dono, they will always vote with me, shishi will never succeed against me, nor will you, nor will anyone."

"Even Shogun Nobusada?"' "He... he is not an enemy and he takes my advice."

"And the Princess Yazu?"' "She will obey... she will obey her husband."

"She will obey her brother, the Emperor, until she dies."

To his shock Anjo had said with a twisted smile, "You propose an accident? Eh?"' "I propose nothing of the sort."

Yoshi felt chilled, afraid the man was becoming too dangerous to leave alive, already too powerful to neutralize, too farsighted, supported by a swarm of cohorts ready and able to swallow him up...

A silhouette was approaching the door, almost noiselessly. Without thinking his right hand went to his long sword that lay beside him even though he was sure he recognized her. The figure knelt.

Delicate knock.

"Yes?"

She slid the door back smiling, bowed and waited.

"Please come in, Koiko," he said, delighted with this unexpected visit, all his demons vanishing.

She obeyed, closed the door and ran over to him, her long, multipatterned kimono sibilant, knelt again and pressed her cheek to his hand, at once noticing the picture poem. "Good evening, Sire."

He laughed, and gave her a tender hug.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"I missed you," she said simply. "May I see your poem?"

"Of course."

As she studied his work, he studied her, a constant pleasure for him in the thirty-four days she had been here within the castle walls.

Extraordinary clothes. Pure eggshell skin, shining raven hair that, when loosed, would reach to her waist, delicate nose, her teeth left white as were his and not blackened in Court fashion.

"Stupid!" his father had said to him as soon as he could understand. "Why should we blacken our teeth just because it's a Court custom started by an Emperor centuries ago whose teeth were old and rotting, who therefore decreed that dyed teeth were superior to having teeth like animals! And why use paints for our lips and cheeks as some still do because another wanted to be a woman and not a man, pretended to be one, and courtiers imitated him-her to curry favor."

Koiko was twenty-two years old, Tayu, the highest possible grade of geisha in the Willow World.

Hearing whispers about her and curious, some months ago he had sent for her, enjoyed her company and then, two months ago, had ordered her mama-san to submit a proposal for her services. Correctly the proposal had gone to his wife to deal with. His wife had written from Dragon's Tooth, their castle home: Beloved Husband, I have today concluded satisfactory arrangements with the mama-san for the Tayu Koiko of the House of Wisteria.

Sire, we considered it is better to have her exclusivity, than a first option on her services, and also safer as you are surrounded by enemies. At your whim the contract is renewable monthly, payment monthly in arrears to ensure that her services are maintained to the very high standard you should expect.

Your Consort and I are pleased that you have decided to have a toy, we were and are continually most concerned for your health and safety. May I compliment you on your choice, it is rumored that Koiko is rare indeed.

Your sons are well and happy, and your daughter and myself. We send our everlasting loyalty and long for your presence. Please keep me closely advised as I must direct our Paymaster to set aside funds ...

Correctly his wife had not mentioned the amount, nor would it concern him for that was a prime wifely function: to manage and guard the family wealth and pay all bills.

Koiko looked up. "Your poem is flawless, Yoshi-chan," she said and clapped her hands, the "chan" an intimate diminutive.

"You're flawless," he said hiding his pleasure at her judgment. Apart from her unique physical attributes, she was renown in Yedo for the quality of her calligraphy, the beauty of her poems, and shrewdness in art and politics.

"I adore the way you write, and the poem, it is superb. I adore the complexity of your mind, particularly why you chose "when" and not perhaps "now," and "twists" when a lesser man could use "moves" or the more blatant "stirs" which would give it sexual overtones. But the placement of your final word, the final "uneasily"--ah Yoshi-chan, how clever to use that word last, an underneath word, perfect.

Your creation is superb and can be read a dozen ways."

"And what do you think I'm saying?"

Her eyes lit. "First tell me if you intend to keep it--to keep it openly, secretly or to destroy it."

"What is my intention?" he asked, enjoying her.

"If you keep it openly, or pretend to hide it, or pretend it's secret, you plan it to be read by others who, one way or another, will inform your enemies, as you want."

"And what will they think?"

"All but the cleverest will presume that your resolve is weakening, your fears are beginning to overrun you."

"And the others?"

Koiko's eyes lost none of their amusement but he saw them pick up an added glint. "Of your chief adversaries," she said delicately, "Shogun Nobusada would interpret it that in your inner mind you agree with him that you are not strong enough to be a real threat, and he'll happily postulate it will become easier and easier to eliminate you the longer he waits. Anjo would be consumed with envy at your prowess as a poet and calligrapher and would sneer at the "uneasily," believing it to be unworthy and ill chosen, but the poem would obsess him, worrying him, particularly if it was reported as a secret document, until he would have eighty-eight inner meanings all of which would increase his implacable opposition to you."

Her openness dazzled him. "And if I kept it, secretly?"

She laughed. "If you wanted to keep it secret, then you would have burnt it at once and never shown it to me. Sad to destroy such beauty, so sad, Yoshi-chan, but necessary to a man in your position."

"Why? It's just a poem."

"I believe this one is special. It is too good. Such art comes from deep wells within. It reveals. Revelation is the purpose of poetry."

"Go on."

Her eyes seemed to change color as she wondered how far she dared go, always testing intellectual limits--to entertain and excite her patron, if that was his interest. He noticed the change but did not discern the reason.

"For example," she said easily, "to the wrong eyes it could be construed that your innermost thought was really saying: "The power of my ancestor namesake, Shogun Toranaga Yoshi, is within my grasp, begs to be used."

He watched her and she could not read his eyes.

Eeee, he was thinking, all his senses shrieking danger. Am I so apparent? Perhaps this lady is too perceptive to keep alive. "And the Princess Yazu? What would she think?"

"She's the cleverest of all, Yoshi-chan. But then you know that. She would realize the meaning instantly--if you have a special meaning." Again her eyes could not be read.

"And if as a present to you?"

"Then this unworthy person would be filled with joy to be given such a treasure--but in a quandary, Yoshi-chan."

"Quandary?"

"It is too special, to give or to receive."

Yoshi took his eyes off her and looked at his work, very carefully. It was everything he desired, he could never duplicate it. Then he considered her, with equal finality. He watched his fingers pick up the paper and hand it to her, closing the trap.

Reverently she received the paper with both hands and bowed low. Intently she scrutinized it, wanting the whole of it to be put indelibly in her memory as the ink on the paper. A deep sigh.

Carefully she held the corner near the oil flame. "With your permission, Yoshi-sama, please?" she said formally, looking at him, eyes steady, hand steady.

"Why?" he asked, astonished.

"Too dangerous for you to leave such thoughts alive."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then, please excuse me, I must decide for you."

"Then decide."

At once she lowered the paper into the flame.

It caught and flared up. Deftly she twisted it until only a tiny scrap was still burning, the ash still in one piece, carefully balanced it on another sheet until the flame died. Her fingers were long and delicate, fingernails perfection. In silence they folded the paper containing the ashes into an ogami and put it back on the table. The paper now resembled a carp.

When Koiko looked up again her eyes were filled with tears and his affection went out to her. "So sorry, please excuse me," she said, her voice breaking, "But too dangerous for you... so sad to have to destroy such beauty, I wanted so very much to keep it. So very sad but too dangerous ..."

Tenderly, he took her in his arms, knowing that what she had done was the only solution, for him, and for her, awed by her insight in discerning his original intent: that he had planned to hide it, designed to be found and passed on to all those she named, particularly the Princess Yazu.

Koiko's right, I can see that now. Yazu would have seen through my ploy and read my real thoughts: that her influence over Nobusada must vanish, or I am a dead man. Isn't that just another way of saying, "Power of my ancestor..." But for her I might have put my head on their spike!

"Don't cry, little one," he murmured, sure now that she could be trusted.

And while she allowed herself to be gentled and then warmed and then to warm him she was thinking within her third heart, her most secret heart--the first for all the world to see, the second only opened to innermost family, the third never never never revealed to anyone--in this secret place she was sighing silently with relief that she had passed another test, for test it surely was.

Too dangerous for him to keep such treason alive, but much more dangerous for me to have it in my possession. Oh yes, my beautiful patron, it is easy to adore you, to laugh and play games with you, to pretend ecstasy when you enter me--and godlike to remember that at the end of each day, every day I have earned one koku. Think of that, Koiko-chan! One koku a day, for every day, for being part of the most exciting game on earth, with the most exalted name on earth, with a young, handsome astonishing man of great culture whose stalk is the best I have ever experienced... and yet at the same time to earn more wealth than any, ever before.

Her hands and lips and body were responding adroitly, closing, opening, opening further, receiving him, guiding him, helping him, an exquisitely fine-tuned instrument for him to play upon, allowing herself to brink, pretending ecstasy perfectly, pretending to plunge again and again but never plunging--too important to retain her energies and wits, for he was a man of many appetites--enjoying the contest, never hurrying but always pressing forward, now teetering him on the crevasse, letting him go and pulling him back, letting him go, pulling back, letting go in a seizure of relief.

Quiet now. His sleeping weight not unpleasant, stoically borne, careful not to move lest she disturb his peace. Well satisfied with her art as she knew he had been with his. Her last, most secret, exhilarating thought before drifting into sleep was, I wonder how Katsumata, Hiraga and their shishi friends will interpret, "Sword of my fathers..."

KYOTO Monday, 29th September

KYOTO Monday, 29th September: A few miles south of Kyoto in twilight, a vicious rearguard skirmish was in progress between fleeing Satsuma troops and Choshu forces of Lord Ogama who had recently seized control of the Palace Gates from them. The Satsuma sword master, Katsumata, the secret shishi, supported by a hundred mounted samurai, was leading the fight to protect the escape of Lord Sanjiro and their main Satsuma force a few miles southwards.

They were heavily outnumbered. The country was open, wind blustering with a heavy stench of human manure from the fields and above an ominous buildup of storm clouds.

Again Katsumata lead a furious charge that broke through the forward ranks towards the standard of the Choshu daimyo, Ogama, also mounted, but they were forced back bloodily, with heavy losses as reinforcements rushed to protect their leader.

"All troops advance!" Ogama shouted.

He was twenty-eight, a heavyset angry man wearing light, bamboo and metal armor and war helmet, his sword out and bloodied. "Bypass these dogs! Go around them! I want Sanjiro's head!"

At once aides rushed off to relay his orders.

Three or four miles away, Lord Sanjiro and the remnants of his force were hurrying for the coast and Osaka, twenty-odd miles away, to seek boats to carry them home to the South Island of Kyushu, and the safety of their capital, Kagoshima, four hundred sea miles southwest.

In all there were about eight hundred fighters, well equipped and fanatic samurai desperate to rush back to join the fight, still smarting from their defeat and being forced out of Kyoto a week ago. Ogama had staged a sudden night attack, ringing their barracks and setting fire to the buildings, abrogating the solemn agreements between them.

With many losses the Satsumas had fought their way out of the city to the village of Fushimi where Sanjiro angrily regrouped, Choshu detachments dogging them. "We are trapped."

One of his captains said, "Lord, I propose an immediate counterattack, towards Kyoto."

Katsumata said emphatically, "Too dangerous, too many troops against us, they will overwhelm us. Sire, you will alienate all daimyos and further frighten the Court. I propose you offer Ogama a truce--if he allows an orderly withdrawal."

"On what grounds?"' "As part of the truce you accept that his forces will be custodians of the Gates--his forces, not the Tosa, and that will sow further dissension between them."

"I cannot accept that," Sanjiro had said, shaking with rage that Ogama had duped him.

"Even if I did he will not consent, why should he? We are in his grasp. He can piss all over us. If I were him I would fall on us here before midday."

"Yes, Lord, he will--unless we forestall him. We can by this ruse, he's not a real fighter like you--his troops are not filled with zeal like ours, nor are they as well trained. He only succeeded against us because he fell on us by night in a filthy betrayal. Remember, his alliance with the Tosa is precarious. He must consolidate his hold of the Gates and has insufficient troops to meet every problem for the next few weeks. He has to organize and get reinforcements without provoking opposition. And soon the Bakufu must come back in force to take back the Gates as is their right."

By Toranaga Edict, all daimyos visiting Kyoto were limited to five hundred guards, all of whom had to live under severe restrictions in their own fief barracks, built by decree without defenses. The same Edict allowed Shogunate forces to number more than all the others together. Over the centuries of peace the Bakufu had allowed these laws to languish. In recent years, Tosa, Choshu and Satsumas daimyos--depending on personal strength--had twisted the bureaucracy to increase their numbers until forced to send the added warriors home.

"Ogama is not a fool, he will never let me escape," Sanjiro said. "I would spike him if I had him trapped."

"He is not a fool, but he can be manipulated." Then Katsumata dropped his voice. "Added to the Gates, you could agree that, if or when there is a Convention of Daimyos, you would support his claims to head the Council of Elders."

Sanjiro exploded, "Never! He has to know I would never agree to that. Why should he believe such nonsense?"' "Because he is Ogama. Because he has fortified his Shimonoseki Straits with dozens of cannon from his not-so-secret, Dutch-built weapons factory and believes therefore, rightly, he can stop gai-jin ships from using it at his whim, yet still be safe against them. That he alone, he thinks, can put into practice the Emperor's wish to expel the gai-jin, that he alone can restore the trapping of power to the Emperor--why shouldn't he claim the big prize, tairo--Dictator?"' "The Land will be torn apart before that."

"The last reason he would welcome a possible truce is because, Sire, never before, has he possessed the Gates--isn't he an upstart, a usurper, isn't his line ordinary,"

Katsumata said with a sneer, "not ancient or exalted like yours. A further reason: he will accept the truce you offer because you will offer it to be permanent."

In the rumble of astonished, angry opposition, Sanjiro had stared at his counselor, astounded at the vast range of concessions Katsumata proposed. Not understanding, but knowing Katsumata too well, he dismissed the others.

"What is behind all this?"' he asked impatiently. "Ogama must know any truce is only good until I am safe behind my mountains where I will mobilize all Satsuma and then march on Kyoto to repossess my rights, avenge the insult and take his head. Why such nonsense from you?"' "Because you are in mortal danger like never before, Sire. You are trapped. There are spies amongst us. I need time to organize boats in Osaka, and I have a battle plan."

At length Sanjiro had said, "Very well.

Negotiate."

The negotiations had so far lasted six days.

During this time Sanjiro placidly stayed at Fushimi, but with spies on all roads to and from Kyoto. As a measure of mutual trust, Sanjiro had agreed to move into a less defensible position, and Ogama had withdrawn all but a token force athwart the escape route. Then both waited for the other to make a mistake.

With supreme power in Kyoto, however tenuous, Ogama, supported by more than a thousand samurai, seemed to be content to tighten his grasp on the Gates, cultivating daimyos and, more particularly, courtiers who were sympathetic. These Ogama persuaded to approach the Emperor, asking Him to "request" the immediate resignation of Anjo and the Council of Elders, to convene a Convention of Daimyos who would be given the power to appoint a new Council of Elders-- with himself as tairo--who would rule until Shogun Nobusada became of age, and at one stroke replacing all Toranaga adherents in the Bakufu.

To Ogama's delight he was told the news his cannon had fired on gai-jin ships had greatly pleased the Emperor, and that, together with Sanjiro's proffered truce and extraordinary concessions, had further bolstered his influence at Court. "The truce is accepted," he had imperiously told Katsumata yesterday. "We will ratify the agreement, seven days from now, here in my headquarters. Then you can retire to Kagoshima."

But this morning had come the astonishing word of Shogun Nobusada's proposed visit. At once Sanjiro sent for Katsumata. "What could possess Anjo and Yoshi to agree? Are they mad? Whatever happens they lose."

"I agree, Sire, but this makes your position even more dangerous. With Ogama holding the Gates, therefore access to the Emperor, any enemy of Ogama is an enemy of the Emperor."

"Obvious! What can I do? What do you suggest?"' "Immediately send Ogama a letter suggesting a meeting in three days to discuss the ramifications of the visit--he must be as astonished as any daimyo. Meanwhile tonight, after dark we implement the battle plan."

"We can't escape without Ogama knowing, there are spies all around us, and his troops within easy distance. The moment he hears we're breaking camp he will fall on us."

"Yes, but we leave the camp exactly as it is, taking only our weapons--I can outmaneuver him, I know him."

Angrily Sanjiro had said, "If that is so why didn't you sniff out the surprise attack, eh?"' Oh but I did, Katsumata could have said, but it suited me better that Ogama temporarily holds the Gates. Didn't we escape his trap without much trouble? Ogama will never be able to deal with the Court, hostile daimyos, the Tosa, Shogun Nobusada's visit or the Princess Yazu--not that Nobusada will arrive, Ogama will be held responsible for his death also.

"So sorry, Sire," he had said pretending an apology, "I am finding out why your spies failed you. Heads will roll."

"Good."

Soon after dark Katsumata sent specially trained men who quietly decimated the unsuspecting Choshu troop spying on them.

Then, following Katsumata's battle plan, except for him and his hundred cavalry, Sanjiro and the regiment hurried south with orders to leave a hundred men every three ri to join up with him as he fell back, following them.

Confidently Katsumata settled into ambush across the Kyoto road. He was sure that if he could survive until dawn, enticing the Choshu into a running fight, when they would probably break off the fight and return to Kyoto to reinforce their position there, leaving only a token force in pursuit. Rumors were rife that Ogama's alliances were already falling apart, the rift widened by lies spread by Katsumata's covert allies.

He had been astonished to find Ogama leading the chase and that they had caught up with them so quickly.

Karma.

"Attack!" Katsumata shouted and again he whirled his horse from feigned flight. At once his seemingly scattered cavalry joined into violent phalanxes and burst through their opponents who were sent reeling back in disorder, the cold wet air heavy with the smell of sweat and fear and blood burning his nostrils. Men died to the left and right, his and theirs, but he fought his way through and now the path was almost clear to Ogama but once more he was foiled so he broke off and fled --really retreated this time--those alive following him. Of the hundred only twenty remained.

"Bring up our reserve! Five hundred koku for Katsumata's head," Ogama shouted, "a thousand for Lord Sanjiro!"

"Sire!" One of his most experienced captains was pointing upwards. Unnoticed in the excitement, the storm clouds had taken most of the sky and threads reached out for the moon. "So sorry, but the road back to Kyoto is difficult and we don't know if those cunning dogs have another ambush waiting."

Ogama thought a moment. "Cancel the reserve! Take fifty horsemen and harry them to death. If you bring me either head, I will make you a general, with ten thousand koku. Break off the battle!"

Instantly his captains hurried away, shouting orders. Ogama sourly peered into the gathering dark where Katsumata and his men had vanished. "By my ancestors," he muttered, "when I'm tairo, Satsuma will be a Choshu protectorate, the Treaties will be cancelled and no gai-jin ship will ever pass my Straits!"

Then he turned his horse and, with his personal guards, spurred gladly for Kyoto. And destiny.

That same evening in the French Legation at Yokohama the party and recital Seratard had arranged in Angelique's honor was a great success. The chef had surpassed himself: fresh bread, platters of stewed oysters, cold lobster, shrimps and prawns, baked local fish spiced with ginger and garlic served with leeks from his own garden, and tarte au pomme, the dried apples from France only used on special occasions. Champagne, La Doucette, and a Margaux from his home village of which he was very proud.

After dinner and cigars, great applause had heralded Andr`e Poncin, an accomplished though reluctant pianist, more applause after each piece, and now, almost midnight and after three encores, there was a standing ovation as the last lovely chord of a Beethoven sonata died away.

"Marvelous..."

"Superb..."

"Oh Andr`e," Angelique said breathlessly in French from her place of honor near the piano, her mind cleansed of the lurking misery by his music. "It was beautiful, thank you so very much." Her fan fluttered charmingly, eyes and face perfection, new crinoline over hooped petticoats, low-cut, shoulders bare, the fine green silk cascading in gathered tiers accentuating her wisp of waist.

"Merci, Mademoiselle," Poncin replied. He got up and raised his glass, his eyes barely veiled. "a toi!"

"Merci, Monsieur," she said, then once more turned back to Seratard, surrounded by Norbert Greyforth, Jamie McFay, Dmitri and other traders, everyone in evening dress with ruffled silk shirts, vivid waistcoats and cravats--some new but most old, crumpled and hastily pressed because she was to be there. Some French army and naval officers, uniforms heavy with braid, dress swords added to the unaccustomed splendor, British military equally like peacocks.

Two of the other three women in the Settlement were in the crowded, oil- and candle-lit room, Mabel Swann and Victoria Lunkchurch.

Both stout, in their early twenties and childless, wives of traders, both cross-eyed with jealousy, their husbands tethered sweatily beside them.

"'Tis time, Mr. Swann," Mabel Swann said with a sour sniff. "Yus. Prayers n'bed with a nice English cup of tea."

"If you're tired, my dear, you an Vic--"

"Now!"

"Thee, too, Barnaby," Victoria Lunkchurch said, her Yorkshire accent as heavy as her hips, "and put dirty thoughts out of thy head, lad, afore I belt thee proper!"

"Who me? Wot thorts?"

"Those thorts, thee'n that foreign baggage there, may God forgive thee," she said with even more venom. "Out!"

No one missed them or knew they had left.

All were concentrating the guest of honor, trying to get nearer, or if they were within the circle, to stop being elbowed out.

"A splendid evening, Henri," Angelique was saying.

"It's only because of you. By gracing us you make everything better." Seratard mouthed gallant platitudes while he was thinking, what a pity you're not already married and therefore ripe for a liaison with a man of culture. Poor girl to have to endure an immature bovine Scot, however rich. I would like to be your first real lover-- it will be a joy to teach you.

"You smile, Henri?" she said, suddenly aware that she had better be careful of this man.

"I was just thinking how perfect your future will be and that made me happy."

"Ah, how kind you are!"

"I think th--"

"Miss Angelique, if I may be so bold, we're having a race meet, this Saturday," Norbert Greyforth broke in, furious that Seratard was monopolizing her, disgusted that the man had the rudeness to speak French that he did not understand, detesting him and everything French, except Angelique. "We're, there's going to be a new race, in, er, in your honor. We've decided to call it the Angel Cup, eh Jamie?"

"Yes," Jamie McFay said, both of them Stewards of the Jockey Club, equally under her spell. "We, well we decided it will be the last race of the day and Struan's are providing prize money: twenty guineas for the cup. You'll present the prize, Miss Angelique?"

"Oh yes, with pleasure, if Mr. Struan approves."

"Oh, yes of course." McFay had already asked Struan's permission, but he and every man within hearing wondered about the implications of that remark, though all bets against an engagement were off. Even in private, Struan had given him no clue though McFay had felt duty bound to report the rumors.

"None of their rotten business, Jamie.

None."

He had agreed but his disquiet increased. The captain off an incoming merchantman, an old friend, had slipped him a letter from Malcolm's mother asking for a confidential report: I wish to know everything that has happened since this Richaud woman arrived in Yokohama, Jamie.

Everything, rumour, facts, gossip and I need not stress that this is to be a serious secret between us.

Bloody hell, Jamie thought, I'm committed by holy oath to serve the tai-pan whoever he is and now his mother wants... but then a mother has rights, doesn't she? Not necessarily, but Mrs. Struan has because she's Mrs. Struan and, well you're used to doing what she wants.

Haven't you done her bidding, her requests and suggestions, for years?

For the love of God, stop fooling yourself, Jamie, hasn't she truly been running Culum and Struan's for years, and neither you nor anyone has ever wanted to face the fact openly?

"That's right," he muttered, shocked by the thought he had been afraid to bring to the front of his mind. Suddenly uncomfortable, he hastily covered his lapse, but everyone was still concentrating on Angelique.

Except Norbert. "What's right, Jamie?" he asked under the buzz of conversation, his smile flat.

"Everything, Norbert. Great evening, eh?"

To his great relief, Angelique diverted them both.

"Good night, good night, Henri, gentlemen," she said over general protests. "I'm sorry but I must see my patient before I sleep." She held out her hand. With practiced elegance, Seratard kissed it, Norbert, Jamie and the others awkwardly and before any one else could volunteer, Andr`e Poncin said, "Perhaps I may escort you to your home?"

"Of course, why not? Your music transported me."

The night was cool and overcast but pleasant enough, her woolen shawl decoratively around her shoulders, the bottom ruffle of her wide, hooped skirt dragging carelessly in the dirt of the wooden sidewalk--so necessary during the summer rains that transformed all roads into bogs.

Only one small part of her mind dragging with it.

"Andr`e, your music is wonderful, oh how I wish I could play like you," she said, meaning it.

"It's only practice, just practice."

They strolled along towards the brightly lit Struan Building, speaking companionably in French, Andr`e very aware of the envious glances of the men streaming across the street to the Club-- boisterous, packed, and inviting--warmed by her, not with lust or passion or desire, just with her company and happy chattering that hardly ever required an answer.

Last night at Seratard's "French" dinner in a private room in the Yokohama Hotel, he had sat beside her and found her youth and seeming frivolity refreshing, her love and knowledge of Paris, the restaurants, theatres, the talk of her young friends, laughing about them and strolling or riding in the Bois, all the excitement of the Second Empire filling him with nostalgia, reminding him of his university days and how much he, too, missed home.

Too many years in Asia, China and here.

Curious this girl is so much like my own daughter. Marie's same age, birthdays the same month, July, same eyes, same coloring...

He corrected himself: Perhaps like Marie. How many years since I broke with Francoise and left the two of them in her family pension near the Sorbonne I boarded in? Seventeen. How many years since I last saw them? Ten.

Merde, I should never have married, Francoise enceinte or not. I was the fool, not her, at least she remarried and runs the pension.

But Marie?

The sound of the waves took his vision to the sea.

A stray gull cawed overhead. Not far offshore were the riding lights of their anchored flagship and that broke the spell, reminding him and concentrating his mind.

Ironic, this slip of a girl now becomes an important pawn in the Great Game, France versus Britain. Ironic but life. Do I leave it until tomorrow, or the next day, or deal the cards as we agreed, Henri and I?

"Ah," she was saying, her fan fluttering, "I feel so happy tonight, Andr`e, your music has given me so much, has taken me to the Opera, has lifted me until I can smell the perfume of Paris..."

In spite of himself he was beguiled. Is it her, or because she reminds me of what Marie might have been? I don't know, but never mind, Angelique, tonight I'll leave you in your happy balloon. Tomorrow is soon enough.

Then his nostrils caught a suggestion of her perfume, Vie de Camille, reminding him of the phial he had acquired from Paris with such difficulty for his musume, Hana--the Flower --and sudden rage swept away his impulse to kindness.

There was no one within hearing distance, most of the High Street empty. Even so, he kept his voice down. "Sorry to tell you but I've some private news you should have. There's no way to break it easily but your father visited Macao some weeks ago and gambled heavily, and lost."

He saw the swift pallor. His heart went out to her but he continued as he and Seratard had planned. "Sorry."

"Heavily, Andr`e? What does that mean?"

The words were barely audible and he saw her staring at him wide-eyed, rigid in the lee of a building.

"He has lost everything, his business, your funds."

She gasped. "Everything? My funds too?

But he can't!"

"Sorry, he can, and has. He's within the law, you're his daughter, an unmarried woman, apart from being a minor, he's your father with jurisdiction over you and everything you possess but of course you know that. Sorry. Do you have other money?" he asked, knowing she did not.

"Sorry?" She shivered and fought to make her mind work clearly, the suddenness of knowing that the second of her great terrors was now a reality and common knowledge tore asunder her carefully, self-generated cocoon. "How, how do you know all this?" she stammered, groping for air. "My, my funds are mine... he promised."

"He changed his mind. And Hong Kong's a village--there are no secrets in Hong Kong, Angelique, no secrets there, or here. Today a message arrived from Hong Kong, couriered from a business partner. He sent the details--he was in Macao at the time and witnessed the debacle."

He kept his voice friendly and concerned as a good friend should be, but telling only half the truth.

"He and I, we, we own some of your father's paper, loans from last year and still unpd."

Another fear slashed into her. "Doesn't... my father doesn't pay his bills?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

In anguish she was thinking of her aunt's letter and knew for certain now that her uncle's loan had not been repaid either and he was in jail because... perhaps because of me, she wanted to shout, trying to keep her balance, wishing this was all a dream oh God oh God what am I going to do?

"I want you to know if I can help, please tell me."

Abruptly her voice became shrill.

"Help me? You've destroyed my peace--if what you say is true. Help me? Why did you tell me this now, why why why when I was so happy?"

"Better you should know at once. Better I tell you, than an enemy."

Her face twisted. "Enemy, what enemy?

Why should I have enemies? I've done nothing to anyone, nothing nothing noth--" The tears began flooding. In spite of himself, he held her for a moment, compassionately, then put both hands on her shoulders and shook her.

"Stop it," he said, letting his voice sharpen. "My God, stop it, don't you understand, I'm trying to help you!" Several men were approaching on the other side of the street but he saw that they were weaving and concerned only with themselves.

No one else nearby, only men making for the club well down the street behind them, he and she protected by the building's shadow. Again he shook her and she moaned, "You're hurting me!" but the tears ceased and she came back to herself.

Partly to herself, he thought coldly, this same process repeated a hundred times before with varying degrees of twisted truths and violence, with other innocents he needed to use for the betterment of France, men so much easier to deal with than women.

Men you just kicked in the balls or threatened to cut them off, or stuck needles... But women?

Distasteful to treat women so.

"You're surrounded by enemies, Angelique.

There're many who don't want you to marry Struan, his mother will fight you every way she--"

"I've never said we were going to be married, it ... it's a rumor, a rumor, that's all!"

"Merde! Of course it's true! He's asked you, hasn't he?" He shook her again, his fingers rough. "Hasn't he?"

"You're hurting me, Andr`e, yes, yes he's asked me."

He gave her a handkerchief, deliberately more gentle. "Here, dry your eyes, there's not much time."

Meekly she obeyed, began to cry, stopped herself. "Why'reyousoawfulllll?"

"I'm the only real friend you have here--I'm truly on your side, ready to help, the only real friend you can trust--I'm the only friend you have, I swear it, the only one who can help you."

Normally he would add fervently, I swear by God, but he judged her hooked, reserving that for later. "Better you hear the truth secretly.

Now you've time to prepare. The news won't arrive for at least a week, that gives you time to make your betrothal solemn and official."

"What?"

"Struan's a gentleman, isn't he?" With an effort he covered the sneer. "An English, sorry a Scottish, a British gentleman.

Aren't they proudly men of their word? Eh? Once the promise is public he can't withdraw whether you're a pauper or not, whatever your father has done, whatever his mother says."

I know I know, she wanted to scream. But I'm a woman and I have to wait, I've been waiting and now it's too late. Is it? Oh Blessed Mother, help me! "I don't... don't think Malcolm will blame me for my father or, or listen to his mother."

"I'm afraid he has to, Angelique.

Have you forgotten Malcolm Struan is a minor too, however much he's tai-pan. His twenty-first birthday's not till May next year. Until then she can put all sorts of legal restraints on him, even annul a betrothal under English law." He was not completely sure of this but it sounded reasonable and was true under French law.

"She could put restraints on you too, perhaps take you to court," he added so sadly, "Struan's are powerful in Asia, it's almost their domain. She could have you hauled into court--you know what they say about judges, any judges, eh?

She could have you dragged before a magistrate, accuse you of being a coquette, a deceiver, just after his money or worse. She could paint a nasty picture to the judge, you in the dock and defenseless, your father a gambling, bankrupt ne'er-do-well, your uncle in Debtor's Prison, you penniless, an adventuress."

Her face became haggard. "How do you know about Uncle Michel? Who are you?"

"There are no tricks, Angelique," he said easily. "How many French citizens are in Asia? Not many, none like you, and people like to gossip.

Me, I'm Andr`e Poncin, China trader, Japan trader. You've nothing to fear from me. I want nothing but your friendship and trust and to help."

"How? I'm beyond help."

"No you're not," he said softly, watching her carefully. "You love him, don't you? You would be the best wife a man can have given the chance, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, yes of course..."

"Then press him, beguile him, persuade him, any way you can to make your betrothal public. I can guide you perhaps." Now, at last, he saw that she was really hearing him, really understanding him. Gently he delivered the coup de grace. "A wise woman, and you are wise as you are beautiful, would get married quickly. Very quickly."

Struan was reading, the oil lamp on the table beside his bed giving enough light, the door to her room ajar. His bed was comfortable and he was engrossed in the story, his silken nightshirt enhancing the color of his eyes, his face still pale and thin with none of its former strength. On the bedside table was a sleeping draft, his pipe and tobacco and matches and water laced with a little whisky: "Good for you, Malcolm," Babcott had said. "It's the best nighttime medicine you could have, taken weak.

Better than the tincture."

"Without that I'm awake all night and feel dreadful."

"It's seventeen days now since the accident, Malcolm, it's time to stop, Malcolm. Really to stop, not good to rely on medicine to sleep.

Best we stop it for good."

"I tried that before and it didn't work. I'll stop in a day or two...."

Curtains were drawn against the night, the room cozy, the ticktock of the ornate Swiss timepiece peaceful. It was almost one o'clock, and the book, The Murders in the Rue Morgue, was one that Dmitri had loaned him this morning saying: "Think you'll like it, Malc, it's what they call a detective story--Edgar Allan Poe's one of our best writers, sorry was, he died in '49, the year after the Gold Rush.

I've a collection of his books and poems if you like this one."

"Thanks, you're very kind. Good of you to drop by so often. But why so glum today, Dmitri?"' "News from home is bad. My folks... it's all bad, Malc, all mixed up, cousins, brothers, uncles on both sides.

Hell, you don't want to hear about that. Listen, I've lots of other books, a whole library in fact."

"Go on about your family, please," he had said, the pain of the day beginning. "Really, I'd like to hear."

"All right, sure. Well, when my granddaddy and his family came over from Russia, from the Crimea--did I tell you our family were Cossacks--they settled in a little place called Far Hills in New Jersey, farmed there till the War of 1812--my granddad was killed in it--great place for raising horses, too, and we prospered. The family stayed in New Jersey mostly, though two of his sons moved south, to Richmond Virginia. When I was in the army, oh fifteen odd years ago-- it was just the Union Army then, not North or South. I joined the cavalry and stayed for five years, spent most of my time south, south and west, the Indian Wars if you could call them that. Spent part of the time in Texas, a year while it was still a republic helping them blow off their Indians, then a couple after she joined the Union in '45, we were stationed out of Austin. That's where I met my wife, Emilie--she also comes from Richmond-- her Pa was a colonel in Supplies. My that's pretty country, around Austin, but more so all around Richmond. Emilie... can I get you anything?"' "No, no thanks, Dmitri, the pain will pass. Go on, will you... talking, your talking helps me a lot."

"Sure, all right. My Emilie, Emilie Clemm was her name--she was a distant cousin of Poe's wife, Virginia Clemm, which I didn't find out till later but which's why I've a collection of his works." Dmitri had laughed. "Poe was a great writer but a bigger drunk and cocksman. Seems like all writers are bums, drunks and or fornicators--take Melville--maybe that's what makes them writers, me I can't write a letter without sweating. How about you?"' "Oh, I can write letters--have to, and keep a journal like most people. You were saying about this Poe?"' "I was going to tell you he married Virginia Clemm when she was thirteen--she was also his cousin, imagine that!--and they lived happily ever after but not very if what was reported in the newspapers and gossip was true--he was a randy son of a bitch though she didn't seem to mind. My Emilie wasn't thirteen but eighteen and a Southern belle if ever there was one. We were married when I got out of the army and joined Cooper-Tillman in Richmond--they wanted to expand into armaments and ammunition for export to Asia which I'd learned a lot about, that and shooting Indians and horse trading. Old Jeff Cooper figured that guns and other goods outward bound from Norfolk Virginia would go well with opium up the China coast, silver and tea inbound to Norfolk--but, you know Jeff. Cooper-Tillman and Struan's are old friends, eh?"' "Yes, and I hope it remains so. Go on."

"Nothing much more, or everything. Over the years, others in the family moved down south and spread out. My ma was from Alabama, I have two brothers and a sister, all younger than me. Now Billy's with the North, New Jersey 1st Cavalry, and my little brother's Janny--named after my granddaddy, Janov Syborodin, Janny's cavalry too but with the 3rd Virginian, Advance Scouts. It's all crap--those two know crap about war and fighting and they'll get themselves killed, sure as hell."

"You... are you going to go back?"' "Don't know, Malc. Every day I think yes, every night yes and every morning no, don't want to start killing family whatever side I'm on."

"Why did you leave and come to this godforsaken part of the world?"' "Emilie died. She got scarlet fever-- there was an epidemic and she was one of the unlucky ones. That was nine years ago--we were just about to have a kid."

"What rotten luck!"

"Yes. You and me, we've both had our share...."

Struan was so concentrated in his mystery book that he did not hear the outside door to her suite softly open and close, nor the lightness of her tiptoeing, nor notice her peer in for an instant, then disappear. In a moment there was an almost imperceptible click as her inner, bedroom door closed.

He looked up. Now listening intently. She had said that she would look in but if he was asleep she would not disturb him. Or if she was tired she would go straight to bed, quiet as a mouse, and see him in the morning. "Don't worry, darling," he had said happily. "Just have a good time, I'll see you at breakfast. Sleep well and know I love you."

"I love you too, cheri. Sleep well."

The book was resting in his lap. With an effort he sat upright and swung his legs over the side of the bed. That part was just bearable. But not getting up.

Getting up was still beyond him. His heart was pounding and he felt nauseated and lay back. Still, a little better than yesterday. Got to push, whatever Babcott says, he told himself grimly, rubbing his stomach. Tomorrow I'll try again, three times. Perhaps it's just as well. I'd want to stay with her. God help me I would have to.

When he felt better he began to read once more, glad for the book, but now the story did not absorb him as before, his attention wandered, and his mind started to intermix the story with pictures of her about to be murdered, and corpses, him rushing to protect her, other glimpses becoming ever more erotic.

At length he put the book away, marking the place with a page she had given him, one from her journal. Wonder what she writes in it, knowing her to be as diligent as anyone. About me and her?

Her and me?

Very tired now. His hand reached for the lamp to turn the wick down, then stopped. The little wineglass with sleep in it beckoned. His fingers trembled.

Babcott's right, I don't need it anymore.

Firmly he doused the light and lay back and closed his eyes, praying for her and his family and that his mother would bless them, and then for himself. Oh God, help me get better--I'm afraid, very afraid.

But sleep would not take him. Turning or trying to gain comfort hurt him, reminding him of the Tokaido and Canterbury. Half asleep half awake, his mind buzzing with the book, the macabre setting and how would it finish? Adding all kinds of pictures. And more pictures, some bad, some beautiful, some vivid, every little movement to get more comfortable bringing blossoms of pain.

Time passed, another hour or minutes, and then he drank the elixir and relaxed contentedly, knowing that soon he would be floating on gossamer, her hand on him, his hand on her, there on her breasts and everywhere, hers equally knowingly, equally welcomed, not only hands.

Friday, 3rd October

Friday, 3rd October: Just after dawn Angelique got out of bed and sat at her dressing table in the bay windows overlooking the High Street and harbor. She was very tired. In the locked drawer was her journal.

It was dull red leather and also locked.

She slid the little key from its hiding place, unlocked it, then dipped her pen in ink and wrote in it, more as a friend to a friend--her journal these days seemed her only friend, the only one she felt safe with: "Friday, 3rd: another bad night and I feel ghastly. It's four days since Andr`e gave me the terrible news about Father. Since then I have been unable to write anything, to do anything, have locked my doors and "taken to my bed" feigning a fever, apart from once or twice a day going to visit my Malcolm to allay his anxiety, closing the door to everyone except my maid who I hate, though I agreed to see Jamie once, and Andr`e.

"Poor Malcolm, he was beside himself with worry the first day when I did not appear nor would open my door, and insisted that he be carried on a stretcher into my boudoir to see me--even if they had to break down the door. I managed to forestall him, forcing myself to go to him, saying that I was all right, it was just a bad headache, that, no, I did not need Babcott, that he was not to worry about my tears, telling him privately that it was just "that time of the month" and sometimes the flow was great and sometimes my days irregular. He was embarrassed beyond belief that I had mentioned my period! Beyond belief! Almost as though he knew nothing about this female function, at times I don't understand him at all although he's so kind and considerate, the most I've ever known. Another worry: in truth, the poor man is not much better and daily in so much pain I want to cry."

Blessed Mother give me strength! she thought. Then there's the other. I try not to worry but I'm frantic. The day approaches. Then I'll be free from that terror, but not from penury.

She began to write again.

"It's so difficult to be private in the Struan building, however comfortable and pleasant but the Settlement is awful. Not a hairdresser, not a ladies' dressmaker (though I have a Chinese tailor who is very adept at copying what already exists), no hat maker--I haven't yet tried the shoemaker, there's nowhere to go, nothing to do--oh how I long for Paris, but how can I ever live there now? Would Malcolm move there if we married? Never. And if we don't marry... how can I pay even a ticket home? How? I've asked myself a thousand times without an answer."

Her gaze left the paper and went to the window and to the ships in the bay. I wish I was on one of them, going home, wish I'd never come here. I hate this place... What if.... If Malcolm doesn't marry me I'll have to marry someone else but I've no dowry, nothing. Oh God, this isn't what I'd hoped. If I managed to get home, I've still got no money, poor aunt and uncle ruined. Colette hasn't got any to lend, I don't know anyone rich or famous enough to marry, or far enough up in society so I could safely become a mistress. I could go on the stage but there it's essential to have a patron to bribe managers and playwrights, and pay for all the clothes and jewels and carriages and a palatial house for soirees --of course you have to bed the patron, at his whim not yours, until you are rich and famous enough and that takes time, and I don't have the connections, or have any friends who do. Oh dear, I'm so confused.

I think I am going to cry again....

She buried her face in her arms, the tears spilling, careful not to make too much noise lest her maid hear her and started wailing, creating a scene as on the first day. Her nightdress was cream silk, a pale green dressing gown around her shoulders, hair tousled, the room masculine, the curtained four-poster huge, this suite much bigger than Malcolm's. To one side was the anteroom that adjoined his bedroom, a dining room off it that could seat twenty with its own kitchen. Both those doors were bolted. The dressing table was the only frivolity, she had had it curtained with pink satin.

When the tears stopped, she dried her eyes and silently studied her reflection in the silver mirror. No lines, some shadows, face a little thinner than before. No outward change. She sighed heavily, then began to write again: "Crying simply doesn't help. Today I MUST talk to Malcolm. I simply must.

Andr`e told me the mail ship is already one day overdue and the news of my catastrophe is bound to arrive with it--why is it English call a ship she or her? Her. I'm terrified Malcolm's mother will be aboard--news of his injury should have reached Hong Kong on the 24th, which gives her just enough time to catch this mail ship.

Jamie doubts she would be able to leave at such short notice, not with her other children there, her husband dead just three weeks and still being in deepest mourning, poor woman.

"When Jamie was here, the first time I've ever really talked to him alone, he told me all sorts of stories about the other Struans--Emma is sixteen, Rose thirteen and Duncan ten-- most of them sad stories: last year two other brothers the twins, Robb and Dunross, seven, were drowned in a boating accident just off a place in Hong Kong called Shek-O where the Struans have lands and a summer house. And years ago when Malcolm was seven, another sister, Mary, then four, died of Happy Valley fever. Poor little thing, I cried all night thinking of her and the twins. So young!

"I like Jamie but he's so dull, so uncivilized--I mean gauche, that's all--he has never been to Paris and only knows Scotland and Struans and Hong Kong. I wonder if I could insist that if..." She crossed that out and changed it to "when we're married..." Her pen hesitated. "Malcolm and I will spend a few weeks in Paris every year--and the children will be brought up there, of course as Catholic.

"Andr`e and I were talking about that yesterday, about being Catholic--he's very kind and takes my mind off problems as his music always does--and how Mrs. Struan was Calvinist Protestant, and what to say if that ever came up. We were talking softly--oh I am so lucky he is my friend and forewarned me about father--suddenly he put his fingers to his lips, went to the door and jerked it open.

That old hag Ah Tok, Malcolm's amah, had her ear to it and almost fell into the room. Andr`e speaks some Cantonese and told her off.

"When I saw Malcolm later in the day he was abject in his apologies. It's unimportant I said, the door was unlocked, my maid was correctly in the room, chaperoning me, but if Ah Tok wants to spy on me, please tell her to knock and come in. I confess I've been distant and cool to Malcolm and he goes out of his way to be extra pleasant and calm me, but this is how I feel, though also I must confess Andr`e advised me to behave so until our betrothal is public.

"I had to ask Andr`e, had to I'm afraid, ask him for a loan--I felt awful. It's the first time I've ever had to do it but I'm desperate for some cash. He was kind and agreed to bring me twenty louis tomorrow on my signature, enough for incidentals for a week or two--Malcolm just doesn't seem to notice that I need money and I didn't want to ask him....

"I really do have an almost permanent headache, trying to plan a way out of the nightmare. There is no one I can really trust, even Andr`e, though so far he has proved his worth. With Malcolm, every time I start the speech I have rehearsed, I know the words will sound forced, flat and dreadful before I begin so I say nothing.

""What is it, darling?" he keeps saying.

""Nothing," I say, then after I've left him and relocked my door, I cry and cry into my pillow. I think I shall go mad with grief --how could my father lie and cheat and steal my money?

And why can't Malcolm give me a purse without my having to ask, or offer some so that I can pretend to refuse and then accept gladly.

Isn't that a husband or fianc`e's duty?

Isn't it a father's duty to protect his beloved daughter? And why is Malcolm waiting and waiting to make our betrothal public? Has he changed his mind? Oh God don't let that happen...."

Angelique stopped writing, tears beginning again. One dropped on to the page. Again she wiped her eyes, sipped some water from a tumbler, then continued: "Today I will talk to him. I must do it today.

One good piece of news is that the British flagship came back into harbor safely a few days ago to general rejoicing (we are really quite defenseless without warships). The ship was battered and had lost a mast, to be closely followed by all other vessels, except a 20-gun steam frigate called Zephyour, with over two hundred aboard. Perhaps it's safe, I hope so. The newspaper here says that fifty-three other seamen and two officers died in the storm, the typhoon.

"It was terrible, the worst I have ever known. I was terrified, by day and by night. I thought the whole building would be blown away but it is as solid as Jamie McFay. Much of the native quarter vanished, and there were many fires. The frigate Pearl was damaged, also losing a mast. Yesterday a note came from Captain Marlowe: I have just heard that you are sick and I send my deepest and most sincere condolences etc.

"I don't think I like him, too haughty though his uniform makes him very glamorous and accentuates his manhood--which tight breeches are of course supposed to do, just as we dress to show our breasts and waists and ankles. Another letter arrived last evening from Settry Pallidar, the second, more condolences etc.

"I think I hate both of them. Every time I think of them I'm reminded of that hell called Kanagawa and that they did not do their duty and protect me. Phillip Tyrer is still in the Yedo Legation but Jamie said he had heard Phillip was supposed to be coming back tomorrow or the day after. That's very good because when he does I have a plan th--"' The dull echoing roar of a cannon made her jump and pulled her attention to the harbor. It was the signal gun. Far out to sea another cannon answered. She looked beyond the fleet to the horizon and saw the telltale smoke from the funnel of the arriving mail ship.

Jamie McFay, a briefcase heavy with mail under his arm, guided a stranger up main staircase of the Struan Building, sunlight flooding through tall and elegant windows of glass. Both wore woolen frock coats and top hats though the day was warm. The stranger carried a small case. He was squat, bearded, ugly and in his fifties, a head shorter than Jamie though wider in the shoulders, an unruly thatch of long grey hair sprouting from under his hat. They went down the corridor.

McFay knocked gently. "Tai-pan?"

"Come in, Jamie, door's open." Struan gaped at the man, then said at once: "Is Mother aboard, Dr. Hoag?"

"No, Malcolm." Dr. Ronald Hoag saw the immediate relief and it saddened him though he could understand it. Tess Struan had been vehement in her condemnation of the "foreign baggage" she was sure had her hooks into her son. Hiding his concern at Malcolm's loss of weight and pallor, he put his top hat beside his bag on the bureau. "She asked me to see you," he said, his voice deep and kindly, "to find out if I could do anything for you and to escort you home --if you need escorting." For almost fifteen years he had been the Struan family doctor in Hong Kong and had delivered the last four of Malcolm's brothers and sisters. "How are you?"

"I'm... Dr. Babcott has been looking after me. I'm, I'm all right. Thanks for coming, I'm pleased to see you."

"I'm pleased to be here too, George Babcott is a fine doctor, none better."

Hoag smiled, his small topaz eyes set in a creased and leathery face, and continued breezily, "Filthy voyage, the tail of the typhoon caught us and we almost foundered once, spent my time patching up sailors and the few passengers--broken limbs mostly. Lost two overboard, one a Chinese, a steerage passenger, the other some sort of foreigner, we never did find out who he was. The Captain said the man just paid his fare in Hong Kong, mumbled a name. Spent most of the time in his cabin, then came on deck once and, poof, a wave caught him.

Malcolm, you look better than I expected after all the rumors that flooded the Colony."

Jamie said, "I'd best leave you two together." He put a pile of letters on the bedside table. "Here's your personal mail, I'll bring your books and newspapers later."

"Thanks." Malcolm watched him. "Anything important?"

"Two from your mother. They're on top."

Dr. Hoag reached into his voluminous pockets and brought out a crumpled envelope.

"Here's another from her, Malcolm, later than the others. Best read it then I'll have a look at you, if I may. Jamie, don't forget about Babcott."

Jamie had already told him that Babcott was in Kanagawa for a clinic this morning and that he would send the cutter for him the moment they had seen Malcolm. "See you later, Tai-pan."

"No, best wait a moment, Jamie."

Struan opened the letter Hoag had given him and began to read.

When Jamie had reached the main deck of the mail ship, Dr. Hoag had met him, told him that he had all Struan mail ready so they could leave at once, and in answer to his immediate question, and relief: "No, Jamie, Mrs.Struan's not aboard but here, here's a letter from her."

It read simply: Jamie, do whatever Dr. Hoag asks and send me detailed, confidential reports by every mail.

"You know what it says, Doc?"' "Yes, hardly necessary but then you know the lady."

"How is she?"' Hoag thought a moment. "As usual: imperturbable outwardly, inwardly a volcano.

One day it has to explode--no one can keep such sadness contained, so many tragedies, no one.

Even her." He had followed Jamie down the gangway, eyes everywhere. "Must say I'm pleased to have the chance to visit Japan--you're looking very fit, Jamie. This posting certainly agrees with you. Let's see, it's almost a year, isn't it, since your last leave? Now tell me everything, first about the murderous attack... then about Miss Richaud."

By the time they reached shore, Dr. Hoag knew all that Jamie knew: "But, please," he added uneasily, "please don't mention to Malcolm what I've told you about Angelique. She's a wonderful person, she's had a terrible time too, I really don't think they've bedded, the secret betrothal is hearsay but he's smitten--not that I blame him, or anyone in Asia for that matter. I hate the idea of sending Mrs. Struan secret reports, for obvious reasons. Anyway, I've written one, a watered-down version, and it's ready to go when this ship turns around. My loyalties must be to Malcolm first and foremost, he's tai-pan."

Now watching Malcolm Struan lying there, reading the letter Hoag had given him, seeing the wan face and listless body, he began to wonder. And to pray.

Struan looked up. His eyes narrowed.

"Yes Jamie?"

"You wanted me to do something?"

After a pause Malcolm said, "Yes.

Leave a message at the French Legation--Angelique's there, she said she was going to wait for her mail--say an old friend has arrived from Hong Kong that I'd like her to meet."

McFay nodded and smiled. "Done. Send for me when you want anything." He left them.

Uneasily Struan watched the door.

Jamie's face had been too open. Trying to regain his calm he went back to the letter: Malcolm, my poor dear son, Just a short note in haste as Ronald Hoag leaves at once for the mail ship I held up so he could catch it, and you can have the best care. I was aghast to hear about those swine and that they had attacked you.

Jamie reports that this Dr. Babcott has had to operate--please write by any express mail you can and come home quickly so we can care for you properly. I send my love and prayers, as do Emma, Rose and Duncan. P.s. I love you.

He looked up. "So?"

"So? Tell me the truth, Malcolm. How are you?"

"I feel dreadful and I'm afraid I'm going to die."

Hoag sat in the armchair and steepled his fingers. "The first is understandable, the second not necessarily accurate though very easy, very very easy and very very dangerous to believe. Chinese can "makee die," can think themselves into death even though healthy--I've seen it happen."

"Christ, I don't want to die, I have everything to live for. I want to live and get well so much I can't tell you. But every night and every day at some time the thought hits me... it hits like a physical blow."

"What medicine are you taking?"

"Just some stuff--laudanum's in it--to help me sleep. The pain's rotten and I'm so uncomfortable."

"Every night?"

"Yes." Struan added, half apologetically, "He wants me to stop taking it, says I've... I should stop."

"Have you tried?"

"Yes."

"But haven't stopped?"

"No, not yet. My, my will seems to forsake me."

"That's one of its problems--however valuable and beautiful it is." He smiled. "Laudanum was the name first given by Paracelsus to this panacea.

Do you know Paracelsus?"

"No."

"Neither do I," Hoag said with a laugh.

"Anyway we passed the name on to this tincture of opium. Pity that all derivatives are habit forming. But then you know that."

"Yes."

"We can wean you off it, that's no problem."

"It's a problem, I know that too, and that you still don't approve of our opium trade."

Hoag smiled. "I'm glad you made that a statement, not a question. But then you don't approve of it either, no China trader does but you're all trapped. Now, no economics, no politics, Malcolm. Next, Miss Richaud?"

Struan felt the rush of blood in his face.

"Now you bloody listen once and for all time: whatever Mother says I'm old enough to know my own mind and can do what I want! Clear?"

Hoag smiled benignly. "I'm your doctor, Malcolm, not your mother. I'm also your friend. Have I ever failed you, or any one of your family?"

With a visible effort Struan shoved away his anger but could not still his racing heart. "Sorry, sorry, but I..." He shrugged helplessly.

"Sorry."

"That's not necessary. I'm not trying to interfere in your private life. Your health depends on many factors. It seems she's a major one.

Hence my question. I ask for medical reasons--not family reasons. So, Miss Angelique Richaud?"

Struan wanted to sound manly and calm but could not contain his frustration and burst out, "I want to marry her and it's driving me mad lying here like a ... lying here helpless. For Christ's sake I can't even get out of bed yet, can't pee or... can't do a God-cursed thing, can't hardly drink or eat or anything without it hurting like hell.

I'm going mad and much as I try I don't seem to be getting better..." He continued ranting until he weakened. Hoag just listened.

Eventually Struan stopped. He mumbled another apology.

"May I take a look at you?"

"Yes... yes of course."

With great care Hoag examined him, put his ear to his chest to listen to his heart, looked in his mouth, took his pulse, peered at the wound and smelt it. His fingers probed the stomach walls, searching for the organs beneath, the extent of the damage: "Does that hurt... This... Is it easier here?" Every little push caused Malcolm to groan.

At length, Hoag stopped.

Struan broke the silence. "Well?"

"Babcott has done a very good job with what would have by this time killed a normal man."

Hoag's words were measured and full of confidence.

"Now we will try an experiment." Gently he took Struan's legs and helped him to sit on the side of the bed. Then, his arm around Malcolm's shoulders, taking most of the weight with his surprising strength, he helped him stand. "Careful!"

Struan could not stay upright by himself, but he had the impression of standing and this encouraged him. After a moment or two Hoag settled him in the bed again.

Struan's heart was thumping from the pain but he was greatly satisfied. "Thanks."

The doctor sat back in the armchair and gathered his own strength. Then he said, "I'm going to leave you now, got to get myself organized. I would like you to rest. After I've seen Babcott I'll come back again. We'll probably come back together. Then we'll talk. All right?"

"Yes. And... Thanks, Ronald."

For an answer Hoag just patted him on the arm, picked up his belongings and left.

Once alone, the tears seeped down Struan's cheeks and these happy tears took him in sleep. When he awoke, he felt rested, for the first time refreshed, and he stayed without moving, glorying in the fact that he had stood up--with help yes but he had been on his feet and made a beginning, and that now, now he had a real ally.

From where he lay, slightly turned on his left side, he could see out of the window toward the sea. He loved the sea and hated it, never at ease on it, fearing it because it was uncontrollable and unpredictable like on the sunny day when the twins and the Bosun rowed offshore a hundred yards or so and a wave came and overturned the boat and a current took them down, all of them swimmers, the twins like fish, but all gone except the seaman. The shock devastated him and almost killed his father. His mother stayed in one of her walking comas, saying repeatedly: "the will of God. We must go on."

Won't think about my brothers, or Dirk Struan, he told himself, glad to be safe ashore. But our past is bound to the sea, inexorably, and our future. Isn't our ultimate strength in our clippers and steamers--and China.

Japan's a small market, interesting but small, never to be compared with China. We can make money here certainly--selective armaments and ships and British skills will make a bundle.

I'm going to tell Jamie to conclude the Choshu order. Let them kill themselves and the quicker the better. Sir William's weak-kneed dillydallying, waiting for London's approval to war is stupid. If it was up to me I would order them to hand over the murderers, to pay up at once or tomorrow a state of war would exist between us, and the first act would be to stamp out Yedo. I will never, never forgive the bastards!

The horizon beckoned. Soon I must go back to Hong Kong to take charge. A week or so. No hurry. Plenty of time.

What's the time now?

There was no need to turn and look at the clock, the angle of the sun told him it was about noon and he thought that normally he would order lovely rare roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, with rich gravy and roast potatoes, a bowl or two of diced roast chicken with fried rice and mixed vegetables, and other Chinese dishes that Ah Tok would make and he enjoyed--however much his mother and brother and sisters decried as tasteless, without nourishment, probably poisonous and only fit for heathens...

A slight sound. Angelique was curled up in the armchair, dwarfed by it, her face tearstained, and more unhappy than he had ever seen her.

"Christ, what's the matter?" "I'm, I'm ruined." Her tears began again.

"For God's sake, what're you talking about?"

"This, it was in today's mail." She got up and handed him a letter, tried to speak, couldn't. The sudden movement he made to take it twisted him and he barely managed to stop crying out.

The paper was green, like the envelope, dated Hong Kong, 23rd Sept., the letterhead Guy Richaud, Richaud Freres, and in French which Struan could read adequately: Darling Angelique, In haste. The business deal I told you about did not turn out very well, my Portuguese Macao partners cheated me so I lost heavily. All my present capital has vanished and you may hear lies spread by enemies that I am unable to make new banking arrangements so the company is in the hands of Receivers. Don't believe them, the future is bright, never fear, everything is in hand. This letter goes by tomorrow's mail ship. Today I have passage on the American steamer, Liberty, for Bangkok, where I am promised new financing from French Sources. I will write from there, in the meantime, I am your devoted Father.

P.s. By now you will be aware of the sad but expected news about Culum Struan. We have just heard about the vile Japper attack on Malcolm. I hope he's not badly hurt, please wish him well and give him my hopes for a quick recovery Struan's mind was in a turmoil. "Why are you ruined?"

"He's, he took all my money," she whimpered, "stole all my money and lost that as well, he's a thief and now, now I've nothing in the world. He stole all that I have, oh Malcolm, what am I going to do?"

"Angelique, Angelique, listen!" She seemed such a waif, so melodramatic, that he almost laughed. "For goodness' sake, listen, that's no problem. I can give you any money you wa--"

"I can't accept money from you," she cried out through her tears. "That's not right!"

"Why not? Soon we'll be married won't we?"

The crying stopped. "We... we will?"

"Yes. We'll, we'll make the announcement today."

"But father, he's," she sniffed tearfully like a child, "Andr`e told me he was sure that there was no business deal in Macao or anywhere and never was. It seems Father was a gambler and must have gambled it all away. Father had promised, he had promised Henri, Henri Seratard he would stop, and pay his bills.... Everyone knew but me, oh Malcolm I never knew, I feel so terrible I could die, Father stole my money, he swore to keep my money safe!"

Another burst of crying and she ran over to him and was on her knees beside the bed, her head buried into the counterpane. Tenderly he stroked her hair, feeling very strong and in command. The door opened and Ah Tok strode in.

"Get out," he bellowed. "Dew neh loh moh!" She fled.

Genuinely frightened, Angelique cowered deeper into the covering. She had never known his anger. He caressed her hair. "Don't worry, my darling, don't worry about your father, I'll see what we can do to help him later, but now you mustn't worry, I'm looking after you," his words ever more tender. Her sobbing lessened, the vast weight off her now that she had told him the truth and given him the news before he heard it from others-- and that he did not seem to care.

Andr`e's a genius, she was thinking, exhausted with relief. He swore that this would be Malcolm's reaction: "Just be honest, Angelique, tell Malcolm the truth, that you didn't know your father was a gambler, that this is the first you've heard about it and you're shocked beyond words, that your father has stolen your money--important you use the words stolen and thief--tell the truth, show him his letter andwiththe right amount of tears and tenderness this will bond him to you forever."

"But Andr`e," she had said miserably, "I daren't show him Father's letter. I daren't, his postscript sounds so awful..."

"Look! Without the second page the postscript just says, my hopes for a quick recovery. Perfect! The second page?

What second page? There, it's torn up and never existed."

Andr`e's nimble fingers glued the last shred of the reassembled second page into place. "There, Henri," he said and pushed it across the desk.

"Read for yourself." It had taken him no time at all to rebuild the page from the pieces he had seemingly thrown carelessly into his wastepaper basket.

They were in Seratard's office, the door locked. The page read: ... and hopes, as we discussed, you can position an early betrothal and marriage by whatever means necessary... He is the catch of the season and vital for our future, yours particularly. Struan will permanently solve Richaud Freres. Never mind that he is British, too young or whatever, now he's tai-pan of Struan's and can assure us of a smooth future. Be adult, Angelique, do anything necessary to bond him to you because your future is presently threadbare.

"That's not so terrible," Seratard said uneasily, "just a father's panic advice, reaching for straws. Struan is without doubt a wonderful catch for any girl and Angelique... who could blame a father?"

"That depends on the father. This, if used at the correct time in the correct way is another weapon over her, therefore over the Noble House."

"Then you think the poor girl will be successful?"

"We must work to make it so. Now that we've this evidence to use, if necessary, we must assist her as a matter of policy." Andr`e's lips were a thin cold line. "Not that I think she's a poor girl. She's the one who's prepared to snare him by any means necessary. Eh?"

Seratard sat back in the red leather chair.

His office bureau was tatty except for a few oils of modern, little-known French painters, Manet amongst them, that he collected cheaply through a Paris agent from time to time. "What's she doing but reacting to a young man's love?" He shoved the paper back. "I don't like these methods, Andr`e. They're distasteful. You encouraged the girl into the morass of half-truths by telling her to give him half the letter."

"Machiavelli wrote, "It is necessary for the State to deal in lies and half truths, because people are made up of lies and half truths. Even princes." And certainly, by definition, all Ambassadors and politicians." Andr`e shrugged. Carefully he folded the letter. "Perhaps we won't have to use it, but it's good to have it because we represent the State."

"Use it, how?"

"The fact that she tore it up and..."

"She didn't," Seratard said, shocked.

"Of course," Andr`e said coldly. "But it's her word against mine and who wins that contest? The fact that she tore up the second page and only showed Struan the first should be enough to damn her in his eyes.

This gives him a perfect excuse to annul any promise of marriage "as he had been deceived." His mother? If she knew about this she would concede us all sorts of concessions to gain possession of it, if he insists on marrying her, against her advice."

"I don't like blackmail."

Andr`e flushed. "I don't like lots of methods I'm obliged to use for our, I repeat our purposes." He put the page with the fine writing into his pocket. "Circulated in society or published, with the details, this document would destroy Angelique. In a court it would damn her. Perhaps it only shows the truth: that she is just an adventuress, in conspiracy with her father who is, who is at best a gambler and soon to be bankrupt, like her uncle. As to encouraging her, I only tell her what she wants to know and say. To help her. It's her mess, not mine or ours."

Seratard sighed. "Sad. Sad that she is embroiled."

"Yes, but she is, isn't she, to our advantage?" Andr`e's lips smiled but not his eyes. "And yours personally, Monsieur?

Judiciously used this would guarantee her into your bed, would it not, if your undoubted charm failed, which I doubt."

Seratard did not smile. "And you Andr`e?

What are we going to do about Hana, the Flower?"

Andr`e looked at him abruptly. "The Flower is dead."

"Yes. And under such strange circumstances."

"Not strange," Andr`e said, his eyes suddenly flat as a reptile's. "She committed suicide."

"She was found with her throat cut, with your knife. The mama-san says you spent the night with her as usual."

Andr`e was trying to work out why Seratard was probing now. "I did but this is none of your business."

"I'm afraid it is. The local Bakufu official sent a formal request for information yesterday."

"Tell him to kill himself. Hana, the Flower was special, yes, she was mine, yes. I paid the very top pillow price for her, but she was still only part of the Willow World."

"As you said so rightly, people are made up of lies and half-truths. The complaint reports that you had a violent row with her. Because she had taken a lover."

"We had a row yes and I wanted to kill her yes, but not for that reason," Andr`e muttered, choked. "The truth is... the truth is she did have some clients. Three--in the other House but this was this was before she became my property. One of them ... one of them gave her the pox, she gave it to me."

Seratard was aghast. "Mon Dieu, syphilis?"

"Yes."

"Mon Dieu, you're sure?"

"Yes." Andr`e got up and went to the sideboard and poured some brandy and drank it.

"Babcott confirmed it a month ago. No mistake. It could only have been her. When I asked her about it, she...."

He was seeing her again, looking up at him in the little house within the walls of the House of the Three Carp, a little frown on the perfect oval of her face. She was just seventeen and five feet tall.

"Hai, gomen nasai, Furansu-san, spot, like yours, but year 'g, mine sukoshi, rittle, hai, rittle, Furansu-san, sukoshi, no bad, go 'way," she said gently with her sweet smile in her usual mixture of Japanese and bits of English, her l's always like r's. "Hana tell mama-san. Mama-san say see doctor, he say no bad. No bad spot but because just begin pillow and I small. Doctor say pray at shrine and drink medicine, ugh! But few week all gon'way." She added happily.

"All gon'way year ago."

"It hasn't "gone away"!"

"Why anger? No worry. I pray at Shinto shrine like doctor say, pay priest many taels, I eat..." Her face crinkled with her laugh, "eat nasty medicine. Few week all gone."

"It hasn't gone. It won't. There's no cure!"

She had looked at him strangely. "All gon', you see me, my body, all, how many time, neh? Of course all gon'way."

"For Christ sake it hasn't!"

Another frown, then she shrugged. "Karma, neh?"' He had exploded. Her shock was vast and she put her head to the tatami and pitifully began to beg his pardon, "No bad, Furansu-san, gon'way, doctor say, gon'way. You see same doctor soon, all go'way...."

Outside their shoji walls he could hear footsteps and whispers. "You have to see the English doctor!" His heart was thundering in his ears and he was trying to speak coherently, knowing that going to a doctor, any doctor, was useless and that though sometimes the ravages could be arrested, perhaps, as sure as the sun would dawn tomorrow, the ravages would one day arrive in force. "Don't you understand?"' he had shrieked. "There's no cure!"

She just stayed bowed, shaking like a brutalized puppy, saying monotonously, "No bad, Furansu-san, no bad, all go'way..."

He dragged himself back and looked again at Seratard. "When I questioned her about it she said she had been cured, a year ago. She believed it, of course she believed it and she was cured. Me, oh yes I was screaming and asked her why she hadn't told Raiko-san and she mumbled something about, What was there to tell, the doctor said it was nothing and her mama-san would have told Raiko-san if it had been important."

"But this is terrible, Andr`e. Did Babcott see her?"

"No." Another swallow of brandy but he felt none of its customary bite, then said in a rush, desperate to tell someone at last, "Babcott told me the pox... he told me an early poxed woman can appear to be without blemish in every way, that she won't always pass it on, not every time you bed, God knows why, but it's inevitable she will sometime if you continue with her and once a sore appears you're lost though after a month or so the sore or sores go away and you think you're safe but you're not!" Now the vein in the center of Andr`e's forehead was knotted and black and pulsating. "Weeks or months later there's a rash, this's the second stage. It's strong or weak depending on only God knows what and sometimes brings hepatitis or meningitis and stays or goes away, the rash, depending on Christ knows what. The last stage, the horror stage, appears anytime, anytime, months up to, up to thirty years later."

Seratard took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow, praying that he would be spared, thinking about the frequent times he visited the Yoshiwara, about his own musume that now he kept for himself alone but could never guarantee had no other lover.

How can you prove or disprove that if there's collusion with the mama-san when they're only interested in fleecing you? "You had the right to kill her," he said grimly. "And the mama-san."

"Raiko wasn't responsible. I'd told her none of the girls here, anywhere in the Yoshiwara, were ones I wanted. I wanted someone young, special, a virgin or almost one.

I begged her to find me a flower, explaining exactly what I wanted, and she did and Hana-chan was everything I wanted, perfection-- she came from one of the best Houses in Yedo. You can't imagine how beautiful she is, was..."

He remembered how his heart had leapt the first time Raiko had shown her to him, chattering with other girls in another room. "That one, Raiko, in the pale blue kimono."

"I advise stay with Fujiko or Akiko or one of my other ladies," Raiko had said, when she wanted, her English good. "In time I will find you another. There little Saiko. In a year or two..."

"That one, Raiko. She perfect. Who is she?"' "Her name is Hana, the Flower. Her mama-san say the pretty little thing was born near Kyoto, bought by her House when three or four for training as geisha." Raiko smiled.

"Luckily, she's not geisha--if geisha, she would be not on offer, so sorry."

"Because I gai-jin?"' "Because geisha is for entertainment, not pillowing, and, Furansu-san, so sorry, truly difficult to appreciate if not Japanese.

Hana's teachers were patient, but she could not develop the skills so she was trained for the pillow."

"I want her, Raiko."

"A year ago she was old enough to begin. Her mama-san arranged the best pillow prices, of course only after Hana had approved the client. Three clients only have enjoyed her, her mama-san says she is fine pupil, and only allowed to pillow twice weekly. Only mark against her, she was born in the Year of the Fire Horse."

"What that mean?"' "You know we count time in cycles of twelve years, like the Chinese, each year with an animal name, Dragon, Snake, Cockerel, Bull, Horse and so on. But each also has one of the five elements: fire, water, earth, iron, wood that vary, cycle by cycle. Ladies born in Year of Horse, with the fire sign, are thought to be... unlucky."

"Not believe superstitions. Please say price."

"She is a pillow Flower beyond price."

"The price, Raiko."

"To the other House, ten koku, Furansu-san. To this House, two koku a year, and price of her house of own within my fence, two maids, all the clothes she wants, and parting gift of five koku when you no longer require her services--this sum to be deposited with our Gyokoyama rice merchant-banker, at interest which, until time of parting, is yours--all to be in writing, signed and registered with Bakufu."

The sum was huge by Japanese standards, extravagant by European counting even with the rate of exchange heavily weighed in the European's favor. For a week he had bartered and had managed to reduce the price only a few sous.

Every night his dreams drove him onwards. So he had agreed. With due ritual seven months ago she had been presented to him formally. She agreed to accept him formally. They both signed formally. The next night he had pillowed and she was everything he had dreamed. Laughing, happy, enthusiastic, tender, loving. "She was a gift of God, Henri."

"Of the devil. The mama-san too."

"No, it wasn't her fault. The day before I received Hana, Raiko told me, formally--it was also on the deed of payment--that the past was the past, she promised only to cherish Hana as one of her own girls, to make sure Hana was never seen by other men and remained mine alone, from that day onwards."

"Then she killed her?"

Andr`e poured another drink. "I... I asked Hana to name the three men, one of them is my murderer, but she said she couldn't--or wouldn't.

I, I smashed her around the face to force it out of her and she just whimpered and didn't cry out. I would have killed her, yes, but I loved her and... then I left. I was like a mad dog, it was three or four o'clock by then and I just walked into the sea. Maybe I wanted to drown myself, I don't know, don't remember exactly, but the cold water gave me back my head. When I got back to the House, Raiko and the others were in shock, incoherent. Hana was crumpled where I left her. Now in a mess of blood, my knife in her throat."

"Then she committed suicide?"

"That's what Raiko said."

"You don't believe it?"

"I don't know what to believe," Andr`e said in anguish. "I only know I went back to tell her I loved her, that the pox was karma, not her fault, not her fault, that I was sorry I said what I said and did what I did, that everything would be as before except, except when it became, became obvious we would suicide together..."

Henri was trying to think, his own brain addled.

He had never even heard of the House of the Three Carp before rumors of the girl's death had rushed through the Settlement. Andr`e's always been so secretive, he thought, correctly so, and he's right, it was none of my business--until the Bakufu made it official. "The three men, did this Raiko know who they were?"

Numbed, Andr`e shook his head. "No, and the other mama-san would not tell her."

"Who is she? What's her name? Where is she?

We'll report her to the Bakufu, they could force it out of her."

"They wouldn't care, why should they? The other House--it was a meeting place for revolutionaries, Inn of the Forty-seven Ronin, a week or so ago it was burned to the ground and her head stuck on a spike. Holy Mother of God, Henri, what am I going to do? Hana's dead and I'm alive..."

Early that afternoon Dr. Hoag was in the cutter heading for the Legation wharf at Kanagawa.

Babcott had sent word that he could not leave Kanagawa as he was operating in his clinic there but would return as soon as possible:... sorry, it can't be until late tonight, probably not until tomorrow morning. You're more than welcome to join me here if you wish but be prepared to stay the night as the weather is changeable...

Waiting on the wharf was a Grenadier and Lim who wore a white coat, loose black trousers, slippers and small skullcap. As Hoag came ashore Lim yawned a token bow.

"Heya Mass'er, Lim-ah, Numb'r One Boy."

"We can stop pidgin coolie talk, Lim,"

Hoag said in passable Cantonese, and Lim's eyes crossed. "I am Medicine Doctor Wise Enlightened." This was Hoag's Chinese name--the meaning of the two characters nearest to the Cantonese sound of "hoh" and "geh"-- selected out of dozens of possibilities for him by Gordon Chen, the Struan compradore, one of his patients.

Lim stared at him, pretending not to understand, the usual and quickest way to make a foreign devil lose face who had the impertinence to dare to learn a few words of the civilized tongue. Ayeeyah, he thought, who's this gamy fornicator, this putrid red devil mother-eater with the neck of a bull, this toadlike monkey who has the gall to speak in our tongue with such a foul superior manner...

"Ayeeyah," Hoag said sweetly, "also I have many, very many dirty word to describe a fornicator's mother and her putrefying parts if a man from a dog-piss, dung-heap village gives me an eyelid of cause--like pretending not to understand me."

"Medicine Doctor Wise Enlightened?

Ayeeyah, that's a good name!" Lim guffawed.

"And never have I heard such good man-talk from a foreign devil in many a year."

"Good. You will soon hear more if I am called again foreign devil. Noble House Chen selected my name."

"Noble House Chen?" Lim gawked at him.

"Illustrious Chen who has more bags of gold than an oxen has hairs? Ayeeyah, what a fornicating privilege!"

"Yes," Hoag agreed, adding not quite the truth, "and he told me if I have any dung-mixed troubles from any person of the Middle Kingdom--be he high or low--or not the at-once-service a friend of his must expect, to mention the vile fornicator's name on my return."

"Oh ko, Medicine Doctor Wise Enlightened, it is indeed an honor to have you in our humble dung-heap house."

Dr. Hoag felt he had achieved greatness, blessing his teachers, mostly grateful patients, who had taught him the really important words and how to deal with certain persons and situations in the Middle Kingdom. The day was pleasant and warm and the look of the small town pleased him, the temples he could see over the rooftops, fishermen trawling the inland waters, peasants everywhere in the paddy, people coming and going and the inevitable stream of travellers on the Tokaido beyond.

By the time they reached the Legation with Lim's overtly attentive support, Hoag had a fairly good picture of what the situation was in Kanagawa, today's number of Babcott's patients, and what to expect.

George Babcott was in his surgery, assisted in the operation by a Japanese acolyte, a trainee appointed by the Bakufu to learn Western medicine, the anteroom outside crowded with villagers, men and women and children. The operation was messy, a foot amputation: "Poor fellow's a fisherman, got his leg trapped between the boat and the wharf, should never have happened, too much sak`e I'm afraid. When I'm through we can discuss Malcolm. Did you see him?"

"Yes, no hurry. It's good to see you, George, can I help in any way?"

"Thanks, I'd appreciate that. I'm all right here but if you could sift through the mob outside?

Those who are urgent, those who can wait. Treat any you want. There's another "surgery" next door though it's little more than a sickroom.

Mura, give me the saw," he said in studied English to his assistant and accepted the tool and began to use it. "Whenever I have a surgery here it gets hectic. In the cabinet there are the usual placebos, iodine, etc., usual medicines, painkillers, bitter cough mixtures for the sweet old ladies and sweet ones for the angry."

Hoag left him and looked over the waiting men women and children, astonished with their orderliness, patience, the bows and lack of noise. Quickly he established none had smallpox, leprosy, measles, typhoid or cholera or any of the other infectious diseases or plagues that were endemic in most of Asia. More than a little relieved he began to question them individually and met with grave suspicion. Fortunately, one was an elderly itinerant Cantonese letter writer and soothsayer, Cheng-sin, who could also speak some Japanese. With his help--after being introduced as the Giant Healer's Teacher--and a promise of an especially good, new modern medicine to ease his hacking cough, Dr. Hoag began a second surgery.

Some had minor ailments. A few were serious.

Fevers, illnesses, dysentery and the like, some he could diagnose, some he could not. Broken limbs, sword and knife cuts, ulcers. One, a young woman, in great pain, heavily pregnant.

His practiced eye told him the birth, her fourth, would be bad and that most of her trouble was caused by marrying too young, working the fields too long and carrying too much. He gave her a small bottle of opium extract. "Tell her when her time is come and the pain is bad to drink a spoonful."

"Spoonful? How big, Honorable Wise Enlightened?"

"A normal-size spoon, Cheng-sin."

The woman bowed. "Domo arigato gozaimashita," she muttered as she left, pathetic in her thanks, both hands trying to carry the weight of her belly.

Children with fevers and colds and hookworm, sores but not nearly as bad as he had expected, no mal-aria. Teeth generally good and strong, eyes clear, no lice--all patients astonishingly clean and healthy compared with similar villagers in China. No opium addicts. After an hour he was happily in his stride. He had just finished setting a broken arm when the door opened and a well-dressed, attractive young girl came in hesitantly and bowed. Her kimono was blue patterned silk, the obi green, hair dressed with combs. Blue sunshade.

Hoag noticed Cheng-sin's eyes narrow.

She answered his questions and spoke even more persuasively though clearly quite nervous, her voice soft.

"Medicine Doctor Wise Enlightened,"

Cheng-sin said, his speech punctuated with the permanent, dry cough that Hoag had diagnosed instantly as terminal consumption. "This Lady say her brother need important help, near death. She beg you to accompany her--house is nearby."

"Tell her to have him brought here."

"Unfortunately afraid to move him."

"What's the matter with him?"

After more questions and answers, which to Hoag sounded more like bargaining than anything else, Cheng-sin said, "Her house only one or two street outside.

Her brother is..." he coughed as he searched for the word, "sleep like dead man, but alive with mad talk and fever." His voice became more honeyed.

"She afraid move him, Honorable Medicine Doctor Wise Enlightened. Her brother samurai, she say many important persons very happy if you help brother. I think she say truth."

From Hong Kong newspapers Hoag was acquainted with the importance of samurai as the absolute ruling class in Japan, and that anything that would gain their confidence, and thus their cooperation, would assist British influence. He studied her. At once she dropped her eyes.

Her nervousness increased. She appeared to be fifteen or sixteen and her features quite unlike the villagers, lovely skin. If her brother's samurai so is she, he thought, intrigued.

"What's her name?"

"Uki Ichikawa. Please to hurry."

"Her brother's an important samurai?"

"Yes," Cheng-sin said. "I accompany you, not be fear."

Hoag snorted. "Afraid? Me? The pox on fear! Wait here." He went to the surgery, opened the door quietly. Babcott was heavily involved extracting an abscessed tooth, his knee on the youth's chest, the distraught mother wringing her hands and chattering. He decided not to disturb him.

At the gates the Sergeant of the Guard politely stopped them and asked where he was going.

"I'll send a couple of my lads with you.

Better safe than sorry."

The girl tried to dissuade them from bringing soldiers but the Sergeant was adamant. At length she agreed and, more nervously, led the way down one street, into an alley, into another and then another. The villagers they passed averted their eyes and scuttled away. Hoag carried his doctor's bag. Over the rooftops he could still see the temple, and was reassured, and glad for the soldiers, knowing it would have been foolhardy to go without them. Cheng-sin plodded along, a tall staff in his hand.

This young lady's not all she pretends to be, Hoag thought, not a little excited by the adventure.

Into another alley. Then she stopped at a door set in a tall fence and knocked. A grill opened, then the door. When the burly servant saw the soldiers he started to close it but the girl imperiously ordered him to desist.

The garden was small, well kept but not extravagant. At the steps to the veranda of a small shoji house, she slipped out of clog shoes and asked them to do the same. It was awkward for Hoag as he wore high boots. At once she ordered the servant to help him and was obeyed instantly.

"You two best guard here," Hoag said to the soldiers, embarrassed by the holes in his socks.

"Yes sir." One of the soldiers checked his rifle. "I'll just look around the back. Any trouble just shout."

The girl slid back the shoji. Ori Ryoma, the shishi of the Tokaido attack, lay on the futons, the sheet soaking, a maidservant fanning him. Her eyes widened seeing Hoag and not Honorable Medicine Giant Healer as she had expected and she backed away as he came in ponderously.

Ori was unconscious, in a coma--his swords on a low rack nearby, a flower arrangement in the takoma. Hoag squatted on his haunches beside him. The youth's forehead was very hot, face flushed, dangerously high fever.

The cause was quickly apparent as Hoag pulled away the bandage on his shoulder and upper arm.

"Christ," he muttered, seeing the extent of the puffy, poisonous inflammation, the telltale smell and black of dead tissue--gangrene-- around the bullet wound.

"When was he shot?"

"She not know exactly. Two or three weeks."

Once more he looked at the wound. Then, oblivious of all the eyes focused on him, he went out and sat on the edge of the veranda and stared into space.

All I need now is my fine Hong Kong hospital and fine operation equipment, my wonderful Nightingale nurses, together with a barrel of luck, to save this poor youth. Fucking guns, fucking wars, fucking politicians...

For God's sake, I've been trying to patch up gun mutilations all my working life, failing most of the time--six years with the East India Company in bloody Bengal, fifteen years in the Colony and Opium War years, a volunteered year in the Crimea, the bloodiest of all, with the Hong Kong Hospital Detachment. Fucking guns! Christ, what a waste!

After he had sworn his rage away he lit a cheroot, puffed, then discarded the match. At once the shocked servant rushed forward and picked up the offending object.

"Oh sorry," Hoag said, not having noticed the pristine cleanliness of the path and surrounds.

He inhaled deeply, then dismissed everything from his mind except the youth. At length he decided, began to throw his butt away, stopped and gave it to the servant who bowed and went to bury it.

"Cheng-sin, tell her I'm sorry but if I operate or not I think her brother will die.

Sorry."

"She says "If die is karma. If no help, he dies today, tomorrow. Please to try. If he dies, karma. She ask help."

Cheng-sin added softly: "Medicine Doctor Wise Enlightened, this youth important.

Important try, heya?"

Hoag looked at the girl. Her eyes gazed back at him.

"Dozo, Hoh Geh-sama," she said.

Please.

"Very well, Uki. Cheng-sin, tell her again I can't promise anything but I'll try. I will need soap, lots of hot water in bowls, lots of clean sheets, lots of sheets torn into swabs and bandages, lots of quiet and someone with a strong stomach to help me."

At once the girl pointed at herself.

"Soji shimasu." I will do it.

Hoag frowned. "Tell her it will be very unpleasant, much blood, much stink, and ugly."

He saw her listen intently to the Chinese, then reply with evident pride, "Gomen nasai, Hoh Geh-san, wakarimasen. Watashi samurai desu."

"She say, "Please to excuse, I understand.

I am samurai."

"I don't know what that means to you, pretty young lady, and I didn't know women could be samurai, but let's begin."

Hoag found out quickly that one characteristic of samurai was courage. Never once did she falter during the cleaning operation, cutting away the infected tissue, releasing the foul-smelling pus, flushing the wound, blood pulsing from a partially severed vein until he could stanch the flow and repair it, swabbing and swabbing again--the big sleeves of the maid's kimono into which she had changed rolled up and fastened out of the way, and the scarf with which she had tied back her hair, both soon soiled and reeking.

For an hour he worked away, humming from time to time, ears closed, nostrils closed, every sense engrossed, repeating an operation he had done a thousand times too often. Cutting, sewing, cleaning, bandaging. Then he had finished.

Without haste he stretched to ease his cramped back muscles, washed his hands and took off the now bloody sheet he had used as an apron.

Ori was balanced on the edge of the veranda as a makeshift table, he standing in the garden against it: "Can't operate on my knees easily, Uki," he had said.

Everything he had wanted done she had done without hesitation. There had been no need to anesthetize the man he was told was Hiro Ichikawa, his coma was so deep. Once or twice Ori cried out, but not from pain, just some devil in his nightmare. And struggled, but without strength.

Ori sighed deeply. Anxiously Hoag felt his pulse. It was imperceptible, so was the breathing. "Never mind," he muttered. "At least he has a pulse."

"Gomen nasai, Hoh Geh-san," the soft voice said, "anata kangaemasu, hai, iy`e?"

"She says, "Excuse me, Honorable Wise Enlightened you think yes or no?"'

Cheng-sin coughed. He had spent the time well away from the veranda, his back towards them.

Hoag shrugged, watching her, wondering about her, where the strength came from, where she lived and what would happen now. She was quite pale, her features stark but still dominated by an iron will. His eyes crinkled with a smile. "I don't know. It's up to God.

Uki, you number one. Samurai."

"Domo... domo arigato gozaimashita." Thank you. She bowed to the tatami. Her real name was Sumomo Anato, she was Hiraga's wife-to-be, and Shorin's sister, not Ori's.

"She asks what should she do now?"

"For her brother, nothing at moment. Tell the maid to put cold towels on his forehead and keep bandages soaked with clean water until the fever goes down. If the... once the fever's gone --I hope before dawn--the youth will live.

Perhaps." And what are the odds, was usually the next question. This time it did not happen. "Well, I'll go now. Tell her to send guide for me early tomorrow morning..." if he's still alive, was in his mind but he decided not to say it.

As Cheng-sin translated he began to wash his instruments. The girl beckoned the manservant and spoke to him. "Hai," the man said and hurried away.

"Medicine Doctor Wise Enlightened, before you go Lady say sure to want bath. Yes?"

Dr. Hoag was on the point of saying no, but found himself nodding yes. And he was glad that he did.

In the gloaming Babcott sat on the Legation veranda enjoying a whisky, exhausted but pleased with his surgery. There was a good smell of the sea on the breeze that touched the garden. As his eyes strayed involuntarily to the shrubbery where the black-clothed assassin had been caught and killed three weeks ago, the temple bell began tolling and the distant deep-throated chant of the monks sounded:, "Ommm mahnee padmee hummmmm..."

He looked up as Hoag plodded up towards him. "Good God!"

Hoag wore a patterned, belted yukata, white shoe-socks on his feet and Japanese clogs. Hair and beard combed and freshly washed.

Under his arm was a large straw-covered cask of sak`e and he was beaming. "Evening, George!"

"You look pleased with yourself, where have you been?"

"The best part was the bath." Hoag put the cask onto a sideboard, poured a stiff whisky. "My God, the best I've ever had.

Can't believe how good I feel now."

"How was she?" Babcott asked dryly.

"No sex, old man, just scrubbed clean and dunked in damn near boiling water, pummelled and massaged and then into this garb. Meanwhile all my clothes were washed and ironed, boots cleaned and socks replaced. Marvelous. She gave me the sak`e and these..." He fished into his sleeve and showed Babcott two oval-shaped coins and a scroll covered with characters.

"My God, you've been well paid, these are gold oban--they'll keep you in champagne for at least a week! The Sergeant told me you were on a house call." They both laughed. "Was he a daimyo?"

"Don't think so, he was a youth, a samurai. Don't think I helped him much. Can you read the scroll?"

"No, but Lim can. Lim!"

"Yes Mass'r?"

"Paper what?"

Lim took the scroll. His eyes widened and then he re-read it carefully, and said to Hoag in Cantonese: "It says, "Medicine Doctor Wise Enlightened has performed a great service. In the name of Satsuma shishi, give him all help he needs."" Lim pointed at the signature, his finger trembling. "Sorry, Lord, the name I can't read."

"Why are you frightened?" Hoag asked, also in Cantonese.

Uneasily Lim said, "Shishi are rebels, bandits hunted by the Bakufu. There're bad people even though samurai, Lord."

Impatiently Babcott asked, "What's it say, Ronald?"

Hoag told him.

"Good God, a bandit? What happened?"

Thirstily Hoag poured another drink and began describing in detail the woman, the youth and wound and how he had cut away the dead tissue. "... seems the poor bugger got shot two or three weeks ago an--"

"Christ Almighty!" Babcott leapt to his feet as everything fell into place, startling Hoag who spilt his drink.

"Are you bonkers?" Hoag spluttered.

"Can you find your way back there?"

"Eh? Well, well yes I suppose so but what--"

"Come on, hurry." Babcott rushed out shouting, "Sergeant of the Guard!"

They were loping down a back alley, Hoag leading, still in his yukata, but now wearing his boots, Babcott close behind, the Sergeant and ten soldiers following, all of them armed. The few pedestrians, some with lanterns, scattered out of the way. Above was a fair moon.

Hurrying faster now. A missed turning.

Hoag cursed, then doubled back, got his bearings and found the half-hidden mouth to the correct alley. On again. Another alley. He stopped, pointed. Twenty yards ahead was the door.

At once the Sergeant and soldiers charged passed him. Two put their backs to the wall on guard, four slammed their shoulders into the door, bursting it off its hinges and they poured through the gap, Hoag and Babcott after them--both carrying borrowed rifles easily, expert in their use, a common skill and a necessity for European civilians in Asia.

Along the pathway. Up the steps. The Sergeant hauled the shoji open. The room was empty. Without hesitation he led the way into the next room and the next. No sign of anyone in any of the five interconnecting rooms or kitchen or little wooden outhouse. Out again into the garden.

"Spread out, lads, Jones and Berk go that way, you two over there, you two that way and you two guard here and for Chrissake keep your 'kin eyes open." They went deeper into the garden in pairs, one guarding the other, the lesson of the first assassin well learned. Into every nook. Around all the perimeter, safety catches off.

Nothing. When the Sergeant came back he was sweating. "Sweet fanny adams, sir! Not a bloody whisper, nothing. You sure this is the right place, sir?"

Hoag pointed to a dark patch on the veranda.

"That's where I operated."

Babcott cursed and looked around. This house was surrounded by others but only roofs showed above the fence and no windows overlooked this way. Nowhere else to hide. "They must have left the moment you did."

Hoag wiped the sweat off his brow, secretly glad that she had slipped away and was not trapped.

After he had left for the bath he had, regretfully, not seen her again. The maid had given him the money and scroll, both neatly wrapped, and the cask and told him her mistress would send a guide for him tomorrow morning and thanked him.

About her brother, now, he was ambivalent. The youth was just a patient, he was a doctor and wanted his work to succeed. "Never occurred to me the youth might have been one of the assassins.

It wouldn't have made any difference, not to the operation. At least now we know his name."

"A thousand oban to a bent button it was false, we don't even know if the youth was her brother. If he was shishi as the scroll said, it's bound to be false and anyway, being devious is an old Japanese custom." Babcott sighed. "I can't be certain either it was the Tokaido devil. Just a hunch. What are his chances?"

"The move wouldn't have helped." Hoag thought a moment, so squat and froglike against the immense height of Babcott, neither of them conscious of the difference. "I checked him just before I left. His pulse was weak but steady, I think I got most of the dead tissue away but..." He shrugged.

"You know how it is: "You pays your money and you takes your chances." I wouldn't bet much money he'll live. But then, who knows, eh? Now, now tell me about the attack, the details."

On the way back Babcott related all that had happened. And about Malcolm Struan. "He worries me, but Angelique's just about the best nurse he could have."

"Jamie said the same. I agree there's nothing like a beautiful young lady in a sickroom.

Malcolm's lost a devilish lot of weight-- and spirit--but he's young and he's always been the strong one in the family, after his mother. He should be all right so long as the stitches hold. I've every confidence in your work, George, though it'll be a long haul for him, poor lad. He's very taken with the girl, isn't he?"

"Yes. And reciprocated. Lucky fellow."

They walked in silence a moment. Hoag said hesitantly, "I, well I presume you know his mother is completely opposed to any form of liaison with the young lady."

"Yes, I've heard that. That creates a problem."

"Then you think Malcolm's serious?"

"Head-over-heels serious. She's quite a girl."

"You know her?"

"Angelique? Not really, not as a patient, not really, though, as said, I've seen her under terrible stress. You?"

Hoag shook his head. "Just at parties, the races, socially. Since she arrived three or four months ago she's been the toast of every ball and rightly. Never as a patient, there's a French doctor in Hong Kong now--imagine that! But I agree she's stunning. Not necessarily an ideal wife for Malcolm, if that's his bent."

"Because she's not English? And not wealthy?"

"Both of those and more. Sorry but I just can't trust the French, bad stock--it's in their makeup. Her father's a perfect example, charming, gallant on the surface and scallywag just below and through and through. Sorry but I wouldn't select his daughter for my son when he's of age."

Babcott wondered if Hoag knew that he was aware of the scandal: while young doctor Hoag was with the East India Company twenty-five odd years ago in Bengal, he had married an Indian girl, against convention and the open advice of his superiors and had consequently been dismissed and sent home in disgrace. They had had a daughter and a son and then she had died--the London cold and fog and damp almost a death sentence to someone of Indian heritage.

People are so strange, Babcott thought. Here's a fine, brave, upstanding Englishman, a great surgeon, with children who are half Indian--so socially not acceptable in England--complaining about Angelique's heritage. How stupid, and even more stupid to hide from the truth.

Yes, but don't you hide from it either. You're twenty-eight, lots of time to get married, but will you ever find a more exciting woman than Angelique anywhere, let alone in Asia where you will spend your working life?

I won't, I know. Fortunately Struan will probably marry her, so that's that. And I will support him, by God! "Perhaps Mrs. Struan is just being protective, like any mother," he said, knowing how important Hoag's influence was with the Struans, "and just opposed to him getting entangled too young. That's understandable. He's tai-pan now and that will take all of his energies. But don't mistake me, I think Angelique is quite a young lady, as courageous and fine a mate as anyone could want--and to do a good job Malcolm will need all the support he can get."

Hoag heard the underlying passion, docketed it and left the matter there, his mind suddenly back in London where his sister and her husband were bringing up his son and daughter, as always hating himself for leaving India, bowing to convention and so killing her, Arjumand the lovely.

I must have been mad to take my darling into those foul winters, dismissed, broke, with no job and having to start all over again. Christ, I should have stayed and battled the Company, eventually my surgical skills would have forced them, forced them to accept me and would have saved us...

The two sentries left on guard saluted as they passed. In the dining room dinner was laid for two. "Scotch or champagne?" Babcott asked, then called out, "Lun!"

"Champers. Shall I?"

"I've got it." Babcott opened the wine that waited in the Georgian silver ice bucket.

"Health! LUN!"

"And happiness!" They clinked glasses.

"Perfect! How's your chef?"

"Fair to awful but the quality of our seafood is good, shrimps, prawns, oysters and dozens of different kinds of fish. Where the devil's Lun?" Babcott sighed. "That bugger needs stick. Swear at him, will you?"

But the butler's pantry was empty. Lun was not in the kitchen. Eventually they found him in the garden beside a pathway. He had been decapitated, his head tossed aside. In its place was the head of a monkey.

"No, Lady," the mama-san said, very afraid. "You cannot leave Ori-san here tomorrow, you must leave at dawn."

Sumomo said, "So sorry, Ori-san will stay unt--"

"So sorry, since the attack on Chief Minister Anjo, the hunt for shishi is intense, rewards for information are to the sky, with death for anyone, anyone in a house harboring them."

"That order's for Yedo, not here in Kanagawa," Sumomo said.

"So sorry, someone has talked," the mama-san said, lips tight. Her name was Noriko and they were alone in her private quarters in her Inn of the Midnight Blossoms, both kneeling on purple cushions, the room candle-lit, a low table with tea on it between them and she had just returned from an angry meeting with the rice merchant moneylender who had raised the interest rate on her mortgage from thirty to thirty-five percent pleading the dangerous state of the realm. Motherless dog, she thought, seething, then compartmentalized that problem to deal with the more dangerous one before her. "This morning we heard that Enforcers are--"

"Who?"

"Enforcers? They're special, interrogating Bakufu patrols, men without mercy. They arrived in the night. I expect to be visited.

So sorry, at dawn he must go."

"So sorry, you will keep him until he is well."

"I-dare-not! Not after the Inn of the Forty-seven Ronin. Enforcers know no mercy. I don't want this head spiked."

"That was in Yedo, this is Kanagawa. This is the Inn of the Midnight Blossoms. So sorry, Hiraga-san would insist."

"No one insists here, Lady," Noriko said sharply. "Even Hiraga-san. I have my own son to think of, and my House."

"Correctly. And I have my brother's friend and Hiraga's ally to think of. Also the face of my brother to remember. I am empowered to settle his debts."

Noriko gaped at her. "All Shorin's debts?"

"Half now, half when sonno-joi rules."

"Done," Noriko said, so unbalanced with the windfall she never expected to collect that she failed to bargain. "But no gai-jin doctors, and only a week."

"Agreed." At once the girl reached into her sleeve for the purse in a secret pocket.

Noriko sucked in her breath seeing the gold coins. "Here are ten oban. You will give me a receipt and his detailed account, the balance of the half we have agreed, when we leave. Where can Ori-san be safe?"

Noriko cursed herself for being so hasty, but having agreed, now it was a matter of face. As she considered what to do she studied the girl in front of her, Sumomo Anato, younger sister of Shorin Anato, the shishi, the Wild One--the boy she had initiated into the world of men so many years ago. Eeee, what lust, what vigor for one so young, she thought with a pleasant though untoward ache. And what a memorable courtesan this girl would make. Together we could earn a fortune, in a year or two she would marry a daimyo, and if she's still virgin what a pillow price I could get! She's every bit as beautiful as Shorin had said, classical Satsuma--according to him samurai in every way. Every bit as beautiful.

"How old are you, Lady?"

Sumomo was startled. "Sixteen."

"Do you know how Shorin died?"

"Yes. I will be revenged."

"Hiraga told you?"

"You ask too many questions," Sumomo said sharply.

Noriko was amused. "In the game we play, you and I, though you are samurai and me mama-san, we're sisters."

"Oh?"

"Oh yes, so sorry, the very serious game of trying to cover for our men, to shield them from their bravery, or stupidity, depending on which side you are, risking our lives to protect them from themselves merits trust on both sides. Trust of blood sisters. So, Hiraga told you about Shorin?"

Sumomo knew that her position was tenuous.

"Yes."

"Hiraga is your lover?"

Sumomo's eyes slitted. "Hiraga is, was affianced to me before he... before he left to serve sonno-joi."

The mama-san blinked. "A Satsuma samurai allows his daughter to be betrothed to a Choshu samurai--whether shishi or not, ronin or not?"

"My father, my father did not approve. Nor my mother though Shorin did. I did not approve their choice for me."

"Ah, so sorry." Noriko was saddened, knowing too well that that meant continual pressure, confinement in their house, or even worse: "Are you outcast from your family?"

Sumomo stayed motionless, her voice remained calm. "A few months ago I decided to follow my brother, and Hiraga-san, to spare my father that shame. Now I am ronin."

"Are you mad? Women cannot become ronin."

"Noriko," Sumomo said, gambling. "I agree we should be blood sisters." A stiletto appeared in her hand.

Noriko blinked, not having seen where it had appeared from. She watched as Sumomo pricked her finger and offered her the knife. Without hesitation she did the same and they touched fingers, mixing their blood, then bowed gravely. "I am honored. Thank you, Sumomo-san." Smiling the mama-san returned the knife. "Now I am a tiny tiny bit samurai, yes?"

The knife slid back into the sleeve sheath.

"When the Emperor regains all his power, HE will make those deserving it, samurai. We will petition for you, Hiraga-san, Ori and I."

Again Noriko bowed her thanks, loving that idea but sure it was beyond possibility and that she would never live to see the unthinkable happen: the day the Toranaga Shogunate ceased to be. "On behalf of all my line, thank you. Now sak`e!"

"No thank you, so sorry, but Sensei Katsumata made women in his class forswear sak`e, telling us it would forever blunt our skills and spoil our aim. Please, where is Hiraga-san?"

Noriko watched her, hiding her smile.

"Katsumata, the great Sensei? You studied under him? Shorin told us you could use sword, knife and shuriken. Is that true?"

With dazzling speed Sumomo's hand went into her obi, came out with a shuriken and hurtled the small, razor-sharp, five-bladed circle of steel across the room to thwakkk viciously into the exact center of a post. She had hardly moved.

"Please, where is Hiraga-san?" she asked gently.

YEDO That night Hiraga led the silent charge up and over the stockade of a daimyo's palace in the second ring outside the castle walls and rushed through the gardens for the back entrance of the mansion, the night lit by a halfhearted moon. All six men wore the same short, black, night-fighting kimonos without armor for speed and quiet. All had swords, knives and garrotes. All were Choshu ronin Hiraga had summoned urgently from Kanagawa for tonight's raid.

Around the mansion the sprawling compound of barracks, stables and servants' quarters that would normally house five hundred warriors and the daimyo's family and servants was eerily empty. Only two sleepy sentries were at the back door. These men saw the raiders too late to sound an alarm and died. Akimoto stripped one of his uniform and put it on, then dragged the bodies into the undergrowth and rejoined the others on the veranda. They waited, motionless, listening intently. No warning shouts or they would have abandoned the attack at once.

"If we have to retreat, never mind,"

Hiraga had said at dusk when the others had arrived in Yedo. "It's enough that we can penetrate so close to the castle. Tonight's purpose is terror, to kill and spread terror, to make them believe no one and no place is beyond reach of us or our spies. Terror, in and out quickly, maximum surprise and no casualties.

Tonight's a rare opportunity." He smiled.

"When Anjo and the Elders cancelled sankin-kotai, they dug the Shogunate's grave."

"We fire the palace, Cousin?"' Akimoto asked happily.

"After the kill."

"And he is?"' "He's old, grey hair and little of it, thin and small, Utani, the roju Elder."

They all gasped. "Daimyo of Watasa?"' "Yes. Unfortunately I've never seen him. Anyone?"' "I think I'd recognize him," the eighteen-year-old youth said, a bad scar running down the side of his face. "He's scrawny, like a diseased chicken. I saw him once in Kyoto. So tonight we send an Elder onwards, eh, a daimyo, eh? Good!" He grinned and scratched at the scar, a legacy from the unsuccessful Choshu attempt to seize the Palace Gates in Kyoto last spring.

"Utani won't be running anywhere after tonight.

He's mad to sleep outside the walls and let it be known! And without guards? Stupid!"

Joun, a seventeen-year-old, always the cautious one, said, "Excuse me, Hiraga-san, but are you sure this isn't a trap baited with false information? Yoshi is called the Fox, Anjo worse. We've heavy prices on our heads, eh? I agree with my brother, how could Utani be so stupid?"' "Because he has a secret assignation. He's a pederast."

They stared at him blankly. "Why should he want to keep that secret?"' "The youth is one of Anjo's intimates."

"So ka!" Joun's eyes glittered.

"Then I think I would keep that secret too.

But why should a pretty boy give himself to someone like Utani when he already has a powerful patron?"' Hiraga shrugged. "Pay, what else?

Nori's a miser, Utani lavish--aren't his peasants the most taxed in all Nippon?

Aren't his debts to the sky? Isn't he known for consuming gold oban like grains of rice? Soon, one way or another, Anjo will leave this earth.

Perhaps this pretty boy thinks Utani will survive and the risk is worth it--Utani has influence at Court, eh? Koku! Why not, his family's probably destitute and drowning in debt--aren't almost all samurai, below hirazamurai rank, at poverty level?"' "True," they all agreed.

"That's been true since the fourth Shogun," the eighteen-year-old said bitterly, "almost two hundred years. Daimyos take all the taxes, sell samurai status to stinking merchants, more and more every year, and still they cut our pay. Daimyos have betrayed us, their loyal retainers!"

"You're right," Akimoto said angrily.

"My father has to hire himself out as a farm laborer to feed the rest of my brothers and sisters ..."

"Ours has only his swords left, no house, just a hut," Joun said. "We're so deep in debt from great-grandfather's time we can never repay the loans. Never."

"I know how to settle those filthy money worshippers, cancel their debts or kill them," another said. "If daimyos sometimes pay off their debts like that, why not us?"' "A fine idea," Akimoto agreed, "but it would cost you your head. Lord Ogama would make an example of you, in case his own lenders stopped advancing money against--what is it now, against four years taxes ahead."

Another said, "My family stipend hasn't changed since Sekigahara, and the cost of rice up a hundred times since then. We should become merchants or sak`e brewers. Two uncles and Elder Brother have given up their swords and done that."

"Terrible, yes, but I've thought of it too."

"Daimyos betrayed all of us."

"Most have," Hiraga said. "Not all."

"True," Akimoto said. "Never mind, we'll choose our own daimyo when we've expelled the barbarians and broken the Toranaga Shogunate. The new Shogun will give us enough to eat, us and our families, and better weapons, even some of the gai-jin rifles."

"He'll keep them for his own men, whoever he is."

"Why should he, Hiraga? There'll be enough for everyone. Don't the Toranagas hoard five to ten million koku yearly? That's more than enough to arm us properly. Listen, if we're split up in the dark, where do we regroup?"' "The House of Green Willows, south of Fourth Bridge, not here. If that's too difficult, hide somewhere and make your way back to Kanagawa..."

Now on the veranda, listening carefully for danger, enjoying the sensation, Hiraga smiled, his heart beating well, feeling the joy of life and approaching death, every day nearer. In a few moments we move again. Action at long last...

For days he had been in the temple beside the English Legation, waiting impatiently for an opportunity to fire it but always too many enemy troops, foreign and samurai. Each day acting the gardener, spying, listening, planning--so easy to kill the tall barbarian there who escaped the Tokaido attack. Astonishing that only one barbarian was killed out of the easy target of three men and a woman.

Ah, Tokaido! Tokaido means Ori and Ori means Shorin, and they mean Sumomo who is seventeen next month and I will not consider my father's letter. I will not! I will not accept Ogama's pardon if I have to recant sonno-joi. I will follow its lodestone to whatever death it steers.

Just me alive now. Ori is dead or will die tomorrow. Shorin gone. And Sumomo?

Last night tears had wet his cheeks, tears from the dream that she was in, her bushido and fire and perfume and body and beckoning and lost to him forever.

Impossible to sleep so sitting in the Lotus seat, the Buddha position, using Zen to fly his mind to peace.

Then this morning, a gift of the gods, the furtive, coded message from Koiko's mama-san about Utani who had heard it, equally secretly, from Koiko's maid. Eeee, he thought gleefully, I wonder what Yoshi would do if he knew our tentacles reached out even to his bed, even around his balls?

Confident now they were still undetected, he jumped up and went to the door, used his knife, sliding the bar back. Inside quickly. Akimoto stayed on guard in the sentry's uniform. The others followed Hiraga noiselessly up the stairs towards the women's quarters, the route already given to him. Everything was lavish, best woods, finest tatamis, purest oiled paper for shoji and most fragrant oils for lamps and candles. Turning a corner. The unsuspecting guard stared at him blankly. His mouth opened but no sound came out. Hiraga's knife had stopped it.

He stepped over the body, went to the end of this corridor, hesitated a moment to get his bearings. Now a cul-de-sac. Either side were walls of sliding shoji, rooms behind them. At the end just one, bigger and more ornate than all the others. An oil lamp burned within, also in some of the other rooms. A few snores and heavy breathing. Silently he motioned for Todo and Joun to follow and the others to guard, then went forward again like a night-hunting beast. The sound of heavy breathing increased.

A nod to Joun. At once the youth slipped past him, crouched at the far door then, at another sign from Hiraga, slid the shoji open.

Hiraga leapt into the room, then Todo.

Two men were prone on the exquisite silk quilts and futons, naked and joined, the youth spread, the older over him, clutching him and thrusting, panting and oblivious. Hiraga stood over them, reared his sword on high and with two hands gripping the hilt drove the point through the back of both bodies just above the heart, burying it into the tatami floor, impaling them.

The old man gasped and died instantly, his limbs quivering beyond death. The youth clawed impotently, unable to turn, unable to move his trunk, only his arms and legs and head but, even so, he still could not twist enough to see what had happened nor could he understand what had happened, only that his life was somehow seeping away as all his body opened. A howl of terror gathered in his throat as Todo leapt forward and twined the garrote to choke it back--just too late. Part of the cry hung in the now fetid air.

Instantly he with Hiraga whirled for the door, all senses frenzied. Hiraga with knife poised. Todo, Joun and those in the corridor swords raised, hearts pounding, all ready to charge, flee, fight, rush, die, but battle and die proudly. Behind Hiraga the delicate hands of the youth tore at his neck, his long, perfect and painted nails gouging the flesh around the wire. The fingers shuddered and stopped and fluttered and stopped and fluttered. And were still.

Silence. Somewhere a sleeper stirred noisily, then returned to sleep. Still no alarms or warning shouts. Gradually the raiders wrenched themselves from the brink, numbed and sweat-stained. Hiraga signalled the retreat.

At once they obeyed except for Joun who ran back into the room to recover Hiraga's sword. He straddled the bodies but with all his strength he could not pull the sword out or ease it out. Hiraga waved him away, tried himself and failed. On a low lacquered sword stand were the weapons of the dead men. He picked one up. At the door he looked back.

In the clean, steady light of the oil lamp the two bodies seemed like a single monstrous, multilegged human-headed dragonfly, the crumpled quilts its gorgeous wings, his sword a giant silver pin. Now he could see the face of the youth--it was quite beautiful.

Yoshi was strolling on the battlements, Koiko beside him, easily a head taller than her. A chill was on the small wind and smell of the sea at low tide. He did not notice it.

Again his eyes flicked from the city below to the moon and he watched it, brooding. Koiko waited patiently. Her kimono was the finest Shan-tung with a scarlet under-kimono and her hair, loosed informally, fell to her waist. His kimono was ordinary, silk but ordinary and swords ordinary, ordinary but sharp.

"What are you thinking about, Sire?" she asked, judging it time to dispel his gloom. Though they were quite alone she kept her voice down, well aware that nowhere within the castle walls was really secure.

"Kyoto," he said simply. As quietly.

"Will you accompany Shogun Nobusada?"

He shook his head though he had already decided to go to Kyoto before the formal party--the deception habitual.

Somehow I must stop that young fool and become the sole channel between Emperor and Shogunate, he had been thinking, his mind assaulted with the difficulties surrounding him: the madness of this state visit, Anjo whose hold over the Council had forced approval, Anjo with his hatred and plotting, the trap I'm in here in the castle, the multitude of enemies throughout the land, the chief of them Sanjiro of Satsuma, Hiro of Tosa and Ogama of Choshu who now holds the Gates that are our birthright. And added to all of those and waiting to pounce like salivating wolves are the gai-jin.

They have to be dealt with, permanently. The boy Nobusada and the Princess have to be neutralized, permanently.

The permanent solution for the gai-jin is clear: in any way we can devise, whatever the sacrifice, we must become richer than them, and better armed. This must be secret national policy, now and forever. How to achieve this? I do not know yet. But as policy we must flatter them to sleep, keep them off balance, using their foolish attitudes against them--and employ our superior abilities to cocoon them.

Nobusada? Equally clear. But he's not the real threat. It's her. I don't have to worry about him but her, Princess Yazu, she's the real power behind him, and in front.

The sudden, mental picture of her with a penis and Nobusada the receiver made him smile. It would make a wonderful shunga, he thought, amused. Shunga were erotic, many-colored woodcuts so popular and prized amongst Yedo's traders and shopkeepers that had been proscribed by the Shogunate for a century or more as too licentious for them, the lowest class, and too easy to be used as lampoons against their betters.

In Nippon's immutable hierarchy, instituted by the tairo, Dictator Nakamura, then made permanent by Shogun Toranaga, first were samurai, second farmers, third artisans of every kind, and last, despised by all, merchants: "leeches on all other labor," the Legacy called them. Despised because all others needed their skills and wealth--most of all their wealth. Particularly samurai.

So rules, certain rules, could be eased.

Thus in Yedo, Osaka and Nagasaki where the really rich merchants lived, shunga, though officially outlawed, were painted, carved and merrily produced by the best artists and printmakers in the land. In every epoch, artists vied with each other for fame and fortune, selling them by the thousands.

Exotic, explicit but always with gargantuan genitalia, hilariously out of all proportion, the best in perfect, moist, and mobile detail.

Equally prized, were ukiyo-every portraits of leading actors, the constant meat of gossip, scandal, and license--actresses were not permitted by law, so specially trained men, onnagata, played female roles--and, above all, prints of the most famous courtesans. "I would like someone to paint you. It's a pity Hiroshige and Hokusai are dead."

She laughed. "How should I pose, Sire?"

"Not in bed," he said, laughing with her, unusual for him to laugh, and she was pleased with the victory. "Just walking along a street, with a sunshade, green and pink, and wearing your pink and green kimono with the carp of woven gold."

"Perhaps, Sire, instead of a street, perhaps in a garden at dusk catching fireflies?"

"Ah, much better!" He smiled, remembering the rare days of his youth on summer evenings when he was released from studies. Then he and his brothers and sisters and friends would go out into the fields and hunt fireflies with gossamer nets and put the tiny insects into tiny cages and watch the light miraculously pulse on and off, composing poems, laughing and larking with no responsibilities, and young. "Like I feel with you now," he muttered.

"Sire?"

"You take me out of myself, Koiko. Everything about you."

For answer she touched his arm, saying nothing and everything, pleased with the compliment, all her mind concentrated on him, wanting to read his thoughts and needs, wanting to be perfect for him.

But this game's tiring, she thought again. This patron is too complex, too farsighted, too unpredictable, too solemn and too difficult to entertain. I wonder how long he will keep me.

I begin to hate the castle, hate confinement, hate the constant testing, hate being away from home and the ribald laughter and chatter of the other ladies, Moonbeam, Springtime, Petal and most of all my darling mama-san, Meikin.

Yes, but I glory being in the center of the world, adore the one koku a day every day, exult that I am who I am, handmaiden to the most noble lord who is really just another man and, like all men, a fractious little boy pretending to be complicated and who can be controlled by sweets and spanking as always, and who, if you are clever, decides to do only what you have already decided he may do--whatever he believes.

Her laughter trilled.

"What?"

"You make me joyous, filled with life, Sire. I shall have to call you Lord Giver of Happiness!"

Warmth pervaded him. "And so to bed?"

"And so to bed."

Arm in arm, they began to leave the moonlight.

"Look there," he said suddenly.

Far below one of the palace mansions had caught fire. Flames began gushing upwards, then more and clouds of smoke. Now, faintly, they could hear fire bells and see ants of people milling around, and soon lines of other ants forming to join the fire to the water tanks: Fire is our greatest hazard, not woman, Shogun Toranaga had written in his Legacy with rare humor. Against fire we can be prepared, never against woman.

All men and all women of marriageable age will be married. All habitations will have tanks of water within easy reach.

"They will never put it out, will they, Sire?"

"No. I suppose some fool has knocked over a lamp or candle," Yoshi said, his lips tight.

"Yes, you are right, Sire, the clumsy fool," she said at once, gentling him, sensing an unexpected anger in him--and not knowing why.

"I am so glad you are in charge of fire precautions in the castle so we can sleep safely. Whoever did it should be talked to severely. I wonder whose palace it is."

"It's the Tajima residence."

"Ah, Sire, you continue to amaze me,"

Koiko said with touching admiration, "how wonderful to be able to distinguish one palace from another amongst the hundreds so quickly, and from so far away." She bowed to hide her face, sure it was the Watasa and that now daimyo Utani must be dead and the raid successful. "You are wonderful."

"No, it is you who are wonderful, Koiko-chan." He smiled down at her, so sweet and tiny and observant and dangerous.

Three days ago his new spy, Misamoto, ever anxious to prove his worth, had reported the rumors circulating in the barracks about the tryst of Utani and the pretty boy. He had ordered Misamoto to allow the secret to be overheard by Koiko's maid, who was certain to whisper it to either her mistress or their mama-san or both, if other rumors were true: that this same mama-san, Meikin, was an avid supporter of sonno-joi, and that clandestinely she allowed her house to be a meeting place and sanctuary for shishi. The news would be passed to shishi who would instantly react at such a marvelous opportunity for a major kill. For almost two years his spies had kept her and her House under surveillance, both for this reason and because of the growing stature of Koiko.

But never once had the merest scrap of evidence appeared to support the theory and condemn them.

Ah, but now, he thought, watching the flames, Utani must be dead if the palace is fired and now I have real evidence: a whisper planted in a maid has born evil fruit. Utani was-- is--a coup for them. As I would be, even more so.

A small shudder touched him.

"Fire frightens me," she said, misinterpreting the shudder, wanting to give him face.

"Yes. Come along, we'll leave them to their karma." Arm in arm they walked away, Yoshi finding it hard to conceal his excitement. I wonder what your karma is, Koiko. Did your maid tell you and you told her to tell the mama-san and are part of the chain?

Perhaps, perhaps not. I saw no change in you when I said Tajima instead of Watasa, and I was watching very carefully. I wonder. Of course you are suspect, always were suspect, why else should I choose you, doesn't this add spice to my bed? It does, and you are everything your reputation promised. Truly I am more than satisfied, so I will wait. But now it is easy to trap you, so sorry, even easier to extract the truth from your maid, from this not-so-clever mama-san and from you, pretty one! Too easy, so sorry, when I close the trap.

Eeee, that will be a hard decision because now, thanks to Utani, I have a secret and direct line to the shishi, to use to uncover them, destroy them or even to use them against my enemies, at my whim. Why not?

Tempting!

Nobusada? Nobusada and.his Princess? Very tempting! He began to laugh.

"I am so happy you're so happy tonight, Sire."

Princess Yazu was in tears. For almost two hours she had used every practice that she had ever read or seen in pillow books to excite him and though she had succeeded in making him strong, before he could achieve the Clouds and the Rain he had failed her. Then, as usual, he had burst into tears, raving in a paroxysm of nervous coughing that it was her fault. As usual the tempest vanished quickly, he begged forgiveness, nestled close to kiss her breasts, falling asleep suckling a breast, curled in her lap.

"It's not fair," she whimpered, exhausted and unable to sleep. I must have a son or he is as good as dead and so am I, at the very least so shamed that I will have to shave my head and become a Buddhist nun... oh ko, oh ko...

Even her ladies had not been able to help.

"You're all experienced, most of you married, there must be some way to make my Lord a man," she had shouted at them after weeks of trying, both she and they aghast that she had lost her temper.

"Find out! It is your duty to find out."

Over the months her court had consulted herbalists, acupuncturists, doctors, even soothsayers to no avail. This morning she had sent for her chief Matron. "There has to be a way! What do you advise?"' "You are only sixteen, Honored Princess," the Matron had said on her knees, "and your Lord sixteen an--"' "But everyone conceives by that time, far earlier, almost everyone. What's the matter with him, or with me?"' "Nothing with thee, Princess, we have told you many times, the doctors assure us that nothing with thee is wr--"' "What about this gai-jin doctor, the giant I've heard about? One of my maids told me it's rumored he does miracle cures of all kinds of aliments, perhaps he could cure my Lord."

"Oh so sorry, Highness," the woman had burst out, appalled, "it's unthinkable that he or you would consult a gai-jin! Please have patience, please. Cheng-sin, the marvelous soothsayer told us patience will surely..."

"It could be done secretly, fool!

Patience? I've waited months!" she had shrieked. "Months of patience and still my Lord hasn't yet the glimmerings of an heir!" Before she could stop herself she had slapped the woman's face. "Ten months of patience and ill advice is too much, you miserable person, go away! Go! GO AWAY FOREVER!"

All day she had planned for tonight. Special dishes that he liked were prepared, well seasoned with ginseng. Special sak`e laced with ginseng and powdered rhinoceros horn. Special perfumes, heavily aphrodisiac. Special prayers to the Buddha. Special supplications to Ameratsu, the Sun Goddess, grandmother of the god Niniji who came down from Heaven to rule Nippon who was great-grandfather of the first mortal Emperor, Jimmu-Tennu, founder of their Imperial Dynasty, twenty-five centuries ago--and therefore her direct ancestress.

But all had failed.

Now it was in the black time of the night and she wept silently, lying on her set of futons, her husband asleep on his beside her, not happy in sleep, a cough now and then, his limbs jerking, his sleeping face not unpleasing to her. Poor silly boy, she thought anguished, is it your karma to die heirless like so many of your line? Oh ko oh ko oh ko! Why did I allow myself to be talked into this disaster, out of the arms of my beloved prince?

Four years ago when she was twelve, andwiththe delighted approval of her mother, last and most favorite consort of her father, Emperor Ninko, who had died the year she was born, andwiththe equally delighted and necessary acquiescence of the Emperor Komei, her much older stepbrother who had succeeded him, she was happily affianced to a childhood playmate, Prince Sugawara.

That was the year the Bakufu formally signed the Treaties that opened Yokohama and Nagasaki, against Emperor Komei's wishes, the majority of the Court, and the outspoken advice of most daimyos. That was the year sonno-joi became a battle cry. And the same year the then tairo, Ii, proposed to the Prince Advisor that the Princess Yazu marry the Shogun Nobusada.

"So sorry," the Advisor said.

"Impossible."

"Very possible and highly necessary to bond the Shogunate to the Imperial Dynasty and bring further peace and tranquility to the land," Ii had said. "There are many historical precedents when Toranagas have agreed to marry Imperials."

"So sorry." The Advisor was effete, elaborately dressed and coiffured, his teeth blackened. "As you well know Her Imperial Highness is already engaged to be married as soon as she reaches puberty. As you well know, too, the Shogun Nobusada is also engaged to the daughter of a Kyoto noble."

"So sorry, engagements of such illustrious persons are a matter of state policy, in Shogunate control and always has been," Ii said. He was small, portly and inflexible, "Shogun Nobusada's engagement, at his own request, has ceased."

"Ah, so sorry, how sad. I heard it was a good match."

"Shogun Nobusada and Princess Yazu are the same age, twelve. Please advise the Emperor, the tairo wishes to inform him the Shogun will be honored to accept her as wife.

They can marry when she is fourteen or fifteen."

"I will consult the Emperor but, so sorry, I am afraid your request will not be possible."

"I certainly hope the Son of Heaven will be guided by Heaven on such an important decision. The gai-jin are at our gates, the Shogunate and Dynasty must be strengthened."

"So sorry, the Imperial Dynasty needs no strengthening. As to the Bakufu, obedience to the wishes of the Emperor would surely improve the peace."

Ii said harshly, "The Treaties had to be signed. The barbarian fleets and weapons can humble us whatever we say publicly!

We-are-defenseless! We were forced to sign!"

"So sorry, that is the problem and fault of the Bakufu and Shogunate--Emperor Komei did not approve the Treaties and did not wish them signed."

"Foreign policy, any temporal policy, such as the marriage I so humbly suggest, is the absolute province of the Shogunate. The Emperor..." Ii chose his words carefully, "... is preeminent in all other matters."

""Other matters"? A few centuries ago, the Emperor ruled as was custom for millennia."

"So sorry, we do not live a few centuries ago."

When Ii's proposal, considered by all those opposed to the Bakufu as an insult to the Dynasty, became known there was a general outcry.

Within a few weeks shishi had assassinated him for his arrogance and the matter lapsed.

Until two years later when she was fourteen.

Though not yet a woman Imperial Princess Yazu was already an accomplished poetess, could read and write classical Chinese, knew all the court rituals necessary to her future, and was still enamored with her prince and he with her.

Anjo, needing to enhance the prestige of the Shogunate, increasingly under threat, again approached the Prince Advisor who repeated what he had already said. Anjo repeated what Ii had already said but added to the astonishment of his adversary, "Thank you for your opinion but, so sorry, Imperial Chancellor Wakura does not agree."

Wakura was in his forties, a man of high court rank though not of the nobility who, from the beginning, had assumed leadership of the xenophobic movement amongst middle-ranking nobles opposed to the Treaties. As Chancellor, he was one of the few who had Imperial access.

Within days Wakura sought an interview with the Princess. "I am pleased to tell you that the Son of Heaven requests you agree to annul your engagement to Prince Sugawara and marry Shogun Nobusada instead."

Princess Yazu almost fainted. Within the Court an Imperial request was a command.

"There must be some mistake! The Son of Heaven opposed this arrogant suggestion two years ago for obvious reasons. You are opposed, so is everyone--I cannot believe the Godhead would ask such a hideous thing."

"So sorry, but it is not hideous and it is asked."

"Even so I refuse--I refuse!"

"You cannot, so sorry. May I explain th--"' "No you may not! I refuse, I refuse I refuse!"

The next day another interview requested and refused, then another and another. She was equally inflexible. "No."

"So sorry, Highness," her Chief Matron said, very flustered. "The Imperial Chancellor again requests a moment to explain why this is asked of you."

"I will not see him. Tell him I wish to see my brother!"

"Oh so sorry, Highness," the Chief Matron said, appalled, "please excuse me but it is my duty to remind you the Son of Heaven has no kith or kin once he has ascended."

"I... of course, please excuse me, I know. I'm, I'm overwrought, please excuse me." Even within the Court only the Emperor's wife, consorts, mother, children, his brothers and sisters, and two or three Councillors, were allowed to look him in the face without permission. Outside of these few intimates it was forbidden. HE was divine.

Like all Emperors before him, from the very moment Komei had completed the rituals that mystically joined his spirit to that of the recently deceased Emperor, his father, as his father had joined with his, and he had with his in unbroken line back to Jimmu-Tennu, he had ceased to be mortal and became a Deity, the Keeper of the Sacred Symbols--the Orb and Sword and Mirror--the Son of Heaven.

"Please excuse me," Yazu said humbly, appalled at her sacrilege.

"I'm sorry I... Please ask the Lord Chancellor to petition the Son of Heaven to grant me a moment of his time."

Now, through her tears, Yazu was remembering how, many days later she was on her knees before the Emperor and his ever present multitude of courtiers, heads bowed, she hardly recognizing him in his formal swirling robes--the first time she had seen him for months. She had begged and pleaded in a litany of weeping, using the necessary court language hardly understood by outsiders, until she was spent. "Imperial Highness, I do not want to leave home, I do not want to go to this foul place Yedo, the other side of the world, I beg leave to say we are the same blood, we are not Yedo upstart warlords..." And had wanted to screech, We are not descended from peasants who do not speak properly, dress properly, eat properly, act properly, cannot read or write properly and stink of daikon-- but she dared not. Instead she said, "I beg you, leave me be."

"First: please go and listen carefully and calmly as befits an Imperial Princess to what the Lord Chancellor Wakura has to say."

"I will obey, Imperial Highness."

"Second, I will not allow this against your will.

Third, return on the tenth day, then we will talk again. Go now, Yazu-chan." It was the first time in her life that her brother had called her by the diminutive.

So she had listened to Wakura.

"The reasons are complicated, Princess."

"I am accustomed to complications, Chancellor."

"Very well. In return for the Imperial betrothal, the Bakufu have agreed to the permanent expulsion of all gai-jin and to cancel the Treaties."

"But Nori Anjo has said this is impossible."

"True. At this time. But he has agreed at once to start modernizing the army and at once to build an invincible navy. In seven, eight, perhaps ten years he promises we will be strong enough to enforce our will."

"Or in twenty or fifty or a hundred years! The Toranaga Shoguns are historic liars and not to be trusted. For centuries they have kept the Emperor confined and usurped his heritage. They are not to be trusted."

"So sorry, now the Emperor is persuaded to trust them. In truth, Princess, we have no temporal power over them."

"Then I would be a fool to give myself as hostage."

"So sorry, but I was going to add that your marriage would lead to a healing between Emperor and Shogunate which is essential to the tranquility of the State. The Shogunate would then listen to Imperial advice and obey Imperial wishes."

"If they became filial. But how would my marriage bring that to pass?"' "Would not the Court, through you, be able to intervene, even to control this youthful Shogun and his government?"' Her interest had quickened. "Control? On behalf of the Emperor?"' "Of course. How could this boy--compared with you, Highness, he a child--how could this boy have any secrets from you? Of course not. Surely the Exalted's hope is that you, his sister, would be his go-between. As wife of the Shogun you would know everything, and a remarkable person such as yourself could soon have all the threads of Bakufu power within your hands, through this Shogun. Since the third Toranaga Shogun there has never been a strong one. Would you not be perfectly placed to hold the real power?"' She had thought about that for a long time. "Anjo and the Shogunate aren't fools. They would have deduced that."

"They do not know you, Highness. They believe you are only a reed to be twisted and shaped and used at their whim, just like the boy Nobusada, why else did they choose him? They want the marriage, yes, to enhance their prestige, certainly to bring Court and Shogunate closer.

Of course, you, a girl, would be their pliant puppet, to subvert Imperial will."

"So sorry, you ask too much of a woman.

I do not want to leave home, nor give up my Prince."

"The Emperor asks that you do this."

"Once again the Shogunate is forcing him to barter, when they should just obey," she had said bitterly.

"The Emperor asks that you assist to make them obey."

"Please excuse me, I cannot."

"Two years ago, the bad year,"

Wakura continued in the same measured way, "the year of famines, the year Ii signed the Treaties, certain Bakufu scholars were searching history for examples of deposed Emperors."

Yazu gasped, "They would never dare--not that!"

"The Shogunate is the Shogunate, they are all-powerful, at the moment. Why shouldn't they consider removing an obstacle, any obstacle? Did he not, his wa destroyed, even consider abdicating in favor of his son, Prince Sachi."

"Rumor," she burst out, "that cannot be true."

"I believe it was, Imperial Princess," he said gravely. "And now, in truth, He asks, please will you help him?"' Beyond herself, she knew whatever she said, it would always return to the "ask." No way out. In the end she would have to comply or become a nun. Her mouth opened for the final refusal but it never happened. Something seemed to sever in her mind and, for the first time, she began thinking by a different process, no longer child but adult, and this gave her the answer. "Very well," she said, deciding to keep her own counsel. "I will agree, providing I continue to live in Yedo as I have lived in the Imperial Palace..."

That conversation had brought her to this night's silence, broken only by her weeping.

Yazu sat up in the bed and wiped her tears away. Liars, she thought bitterly, they promised me, but even on that they cheated. A slight sound from Nobusada and he turned in his sleep. In the lamplight without which he could not sleep he looked more boyish than ever, more like a younger brother than husband--so young, so very young.

Kind, considerate, always listening to her, taking her advice, no secrets from her, everything that Wakura had foretold. But unsatisfying.

My darling Sugawara, now impossible--in this lifetime.

A shiver went through her. The window was open.

She leaned on the lintel, hardly noticing the mansion below that was gutted and smoldering, other fires spotted here and there throughout the city, moonlight on the sea beyond--smell of burning on the wind, dawn lightening the eastern sky.

Her secret resolve had not changed from that day with Wakura: to spend this life wrecking the Shogunate who had wrecked this lifetime, to rip away their power by any means, to return that power to the Godhead.

I will destroy as they destroyed me, she thought, far too wise now to even whisper it down a well. I begged not to come here, begged not to have to marry this boy and though I like him, I loathe this hateful place, loathe these hateful people.

I want to go home! I will go home. That will make this life bearable. We will make this visit whatever Yoshi does or says, whatever anyone does or says. We will go home--and we-will-stay-there!

Monday, 13th October

BOOK TWO Monday, 13th October: In brilliant midday sunshine ten days later, Phillip Tyrer sat at a desk on the veranda of the Yedo Legation contentedly practicing Japanese calligraphy, brush and ink and water, surrounded by dozens of filled and discarded pages of rice paper, astonishingly inexpensive here compared with England. Sir William had sent him to Yedo to prepare for the first meeting with the Elders.

His brush stopped abruptly. Captain Settry Pallidar and ten equally immaculate dragoons were riding up the hill. As they came into the square the samurai there, many more than before, parted to allow them access. Slight, stiff bows acknowledged by a slight stiff salute, clearly a newly established protocol. Redcoat sentries, many more than before, opened the iron gates and closed them after the troops had clattered into the high-walled forecourt.

"Hello, Settry," Tyrer called out, running down the main steps to greet him.

"Good God, you're a sight for sore eyes, where the devil did you come from?"

"Yokohama, old boy, where else? Came by boat." As Pallidar dismounted one of the gardeners, hoe in hand, was already hurrying in a half-bowing run to hold the bridle. When Pallidar saw him, his hand went to his holster.

"Get away!"

"He's all right, Settry. He's Ukiya, one of our regulars and always very helpful. Domo, Ukiya," Tyrer said.

"Hai, Taira-sama, domo."

Hiraga put on a vacant smile, his face half obscured by the coolie hat he wore, bowed and did not move.

"Get away," Pallidar repeated.

"Sorry, Phillip, but I don't like any of the buggers near me, particularly with a bloody hoe in his hand. Grimes!"

Instantly the dragoon was there and he shoved Hiraga away roughly, taking the bridle.

"Hop it, Jappo! Piss off!"

Hiraga obediently bobbed his head, kept the vacuous grin in place and moved away. But he stayed within easy listening distance, bottling his desire to avenge the insult instantly--with the razor-sharp hoe, the small stiletto hidden in his hat or with his iron-hard hands.

"Why on earth come by boat?" Tyrer was saying.

"To save time. Patrols report extra Jappo barricades all along the Tokaido and traffic jams all the way from Hodogaya to Yedo, worse than Piccadilly Circus on the Queen's birthday, making everyone more nervous than usual. Have a dispatch from Sir William, he's ordering the Legation closed and you and your staff back--I'm your escort for "face."

Tyrer stared at him. "But what about the meeting?

I've been working like the devil to get everything ready."

"Don't know, old boy. Here."

Tyrer broke the seals on the official letter: P. Tyrer, Esq., British Legation, Yedo: This is to inform you I have agreed with the Bakufu to postpone the meeting from October 20th to Monday, November 3rd. To save unnecessary expense in troops, you and your staff will return immediately with Captain Pallidar.

"Three cheers! Yokohama here I come."

"When do you want to leave?"

"Immediately, the Great White Father says, immediately it will be. Can't wait. How about after lunch? Come and sit down. What's new in Yokopoko?"

"Not much." As they strolled back up to the veranda and easy chairs, Hiraga moved under the lee and continued hoeing.

Pallidar lit a cheroot. "Sir William, the General and Admiral had another bash at the local governor and Bakufu, swearing they would have his guts for garters if they didn't produce Canterbury's murderers--and now Lun's, pretty bloody awful, what?

All they got was the usual fawning and, Ah so sorry, we're watching all roads, all paths to catch them, so sorry for delays and inconvenience! Oh, says Sir William, then you know who they are? Oh no, says the Jappo, but if we check all papers and watch everyone, perhaps we'll find them, we do everything possible, please to help by being more careful of revolutionaries. A lot of balls! They could catch them if they wanted. They're liars."

"Terrible about Lun. Ghastly! I went into shock. Sir William almost had a stroke.

Still no sign of how the murderers got into our place at Kanagawa?"

"Nothing, any more than last time." Pallidar had noted the many pages filled with practice characters but did not comment. He loosened his collar.

"The Corporal left in charge was demoted and he and the other two given fifty lashes for dereliction of duty. Stupid not to be sharp after the other attack. But why the monkey's head?"

Tyrer shuddered. "Sir William thinks it was because Lun jeered at their Delegation, called them "monkeys" and it was their form of revenge."

Pallidar whistled. "That means at least one of them, unbeknownst to our people, secretly understands English--or at the very least pidgin."

"We came to the same conclusion." With an effort Tyrer threw off his fear. "To hell with that, I'm delighted to see you. What else is new?"

Pallidar was idly watching Hiraga. "The General believes there's more to the increased barricades and native troop movements than meets the eye. The traders say their Jappo contacts whisper that all roads out of Yedo are strangled and that the real reason's civil war's brewing. Damn nuisance not knowing.

We should be moving around like the Treaty allows, should be finding out for ourselves--the General and Admiral agree for once we should operate here like in India, anywhere else, send out patrols or a regiment or two to show the flag, by God, and contact some of the discontented kings to use them against the others. Do you have a beer?"

"Oh of course, sorry. Chen!"

"Yes Mass'r?"

"Beeru chop chop." Tyrer said, not at all sure his friend's militancy was the correct approach. The foreman of the gardeners came nearer and stood in the garden below and bowed deeply.

To Pallidar's surprise Tyrer bowed back though his bow was slight. "Hai, Shikisha?

Nan desu ka?" Yes, Shikisha, what do you want?

With even more astonishment Pallidar listened as the man asked something, Tyrer replied fluently and their conversation went back and forth. At length the man bowed and left. "Hai, Taira-sama, domo."

"My God, Phillip, what was all that about?"

"Eh? Oh, old Shikisha? It was just that he wanted to know if it was all right for the gardeners to prepare the garden in the back. Sir William wants fresh vegetables, cauliflower, onions, brussels sprouts, baking potatoes and... what's the matter?"

"You're really speaking Jappo then?"

Tyrer laughed. "Oh no, not really, but I've been cooped up here for ten days with nothing to do so I've been swotting and trying to learn words and phrases. Actually, though Sir William read me the Riot Act about pulling my finger out, I'm enjoying it immensely. I get a tremendous charge out of being able to communicate."

Fujiko's face leapt to the forefront of his mind, communicating with her, the hours spent with her --the last time ten days ago when he had returned to Yokohama for a day and the night. Hooray for Sir William, tonight or tomorrow I'll see her again, wonderful.

"Wonderful!" he said without thinking, beaming.

"Oh," he added hastily, "oh, er, yes, I enjoy trying to speak and read and write it. Old Shikisha's given me lots of words, mostly work words, and Ukiya," he pointed to Hiraga who was gardening industriously, always within distance, not knowing that "Ukiya" was an alias and just meant "gardener," "he's helping me with writing--jolly intelligent fellow for a Japanese."

During a writing lesson yesterday, he checked rumors he had heard, he asked him with signs and words Poncin had given him, to write the characters for "war," senso, and "soon," jiki-ni. Then he combined his crudely written attempts as "war, in Nippon, soon.

Please?"' He had seen a sudden change and surprise.

"Gai-jin toh nihon-go ka?"' Foreigners and Japanese?

"Iy`e, Ukiya. Nihonjin to nihonjin." No, Ukiya, Japanese and Japanese.

The man had laughed suddenly and Tyrer had seen how good-looking he was and how different from the other gardeners, wondering why he was seemingly so much more intelligent than the others, though, unlike the British equivalent worker, most Japanese could read and write. "Nihonjin tsuneni senso nihonjin! Japanese are always fighting Japanese," Ukiya had said with another laugh and Tyrer laughed with him, liking him even more.

Tyrer grinned at Pallidar. "Come on, what's new? Not business, for goodness' sake, Angelique?"

Pallidar grunted. "Oh, are you interested in her?" he asked flatly, greatly savoring the joke inside himself.

"Not at all." Tyrer was equally flat, equally teasing, and they chuckled together.

"Tomorrow's the engagement party."

"Lucky Malcolm! Thank God I'm released, marvelous! I'd hate to miss that party. How is she?"

"As pretty as ever. We had her as guest of honor at the mess. She arrived looking like a goddess, escorted by the frog Minister, pompous ass, and that Andr`e Poncin chap--don't like either of them. It was--"

"Andr`e's rather nice actually--he's helping me a lot with my Japanese."

"Perhaps he is but I don't trust him. There's a long article in the Times about the coming European conflict: France and probably Russia against Germany. We'll be dragged in again."

"That's one war we can do without. You were saying?"

An immense grin. "It was a terrific evening. Had one dance with her. It was smashing. A polka--danced my heart out. Close up her, well, without being disrespectful, I have to say her bosoms are like milk and honey and her perfume ..." For a moment Pallidar was reliving that heady moment, the center of attention on the hastily constructed dance floor, gorgeous sparkling uniforms, she the only woman present, candles and oil lamps and the Guards Band playing lustily, dancing on and on, the perfect couple, everyone else consumed with jealousy. "Don't mind admitting I envy Struan."

"How is he?"

"Eh? Oh, Struan? Slightly better so the story goes. I haven't seen him but they say he's out of bed. I asked Angelique and she only said, He's much better." Another beam.

"The new doctor, Dr. Hoag, their family doctor has taken over. I hear he's pretty damn good." Pallidar finished his beer.

Another appeared from the ever attentive Chen, smiling and round and a pattern of Lim, equally a plant, and also a distant cousin of the Struan compradore. "Thanks." Pallidar sipped it appreciatively. "Damn good beer."

"It's local. Ukiya says Japanese've brewed it for years, the best from Nagasaki. I imagine they copied some Portuguese beer years centuries ago.

What else's new?"

Pallidar looked at Tyrer thoughtfully.

"What do you make of Hoag's assassin story?

The operation and mysterious girl?"

"Don't know what to think. I thought I recognized one of them, remember? The fellow was wounded in exactly the same place. Everything adds up. Pity you and Marlowe didn't catch him. Ironic if one of our side cured him, so that he can murder more of us." Tyrer dropped his voice, always servants nearby and soldiers.

"Between you and me, old boy, Sir William's sending for more troops and ships from Hong Kong."

"I'd heard the same. It'll be war soon, or we'll have to intervene if they start fighting amongst themselves..."

Hiraga was listening carefully as he weeded and hoed, and though he missed many words he caught the marrow and their news confirmed his own, increasing his worries.

After setting the Utani mansion on fire, he and his friends had reached their nearby safe house without incident. Todo and others wanted to return to Kanagawa as soon as the barriers opened at dawn, and left. He, Joun, and Akimoto decided to remain in hiding at separate dwellings, to await an opportunity to attack the Legation.

That same dawn with eerie, unprecedented speed the Bakufu doubled the barriers on the Tokaido, and extended their grasp on all the four main trunk roads and all roads, paths and even tracks leading out of Yedo. With stepped-up surveillance, this effectively locked them in, along with all shishi and other antagonists throughout the capital.

Four days ago the mama-san Noriko sent a letter from Kanagawa, saying that with all the increased, hostile activity, this was her first opportunity, relating about Ori and Sumomo and the gai-jin doctor, and ended: Still no sign of Todo and the other two shishi-- they have vanished without trace. We know they passed the first barrier but nothing more. We fear they were betrayed and you are betrayed. Escape while you can. Ori is much stronger every day, his wound still clean. I have sent him to safety near Yokohama--the last place the Bakufu will expect him to go. Your Lady refuses to leave without your order--send it at once for I fear that my House is being watched. If we are attacked seek word from Raiko, the House of the Three Carp at Yokohama. News of Utani's assassination speeds throughout Nippon, and terror with it. Sonno-joi!

He began to write a reply but her messenger was very afraid. "Getting here was terrible, Hiraga-san. Barrier guards are ordering everyone to strip completely, men women even children, in case messages are hidden in loincloths. It happened to me, Sire."

"Then how did you escape?"' The messenger pointed to his bottom.

"I enclosed the letter in a small metal tube, Hiraga-san. I do not want to risk that again, some guards are very wise in the ways of smugglers.

Please trust me with a spoken message."

"Then give your mistress my thanks and hopes and tell Sumomo-san to report to Shinsaku at once." Hiraga had used his father's private name that only she would know, and would therefore be sure the order to return home had come from him. He paid the man. "Be careful."

"Karma."

Yes, karma, Hiraga thought and began to concentrate again on the foreign words, glad that Ori was alive, enjoying the joke that indeed a gai-jin had saved Ori to kill more gai-jin, as he himself would kill these two. During their retreat, during the confusion of leaving I could do it, if not both then one of them, whoever is the first target. Eeee, all gods, if you exist, watch and guard Sumomo. Good that she resisted her parents, good she journeyed to my parents' home in Choshu, good she came to Kanagawa, more than good that she dares to join me in battle--she will be a worthy mother to my generations, if that is my karma. Therefore much better she goes home to safety. Better she is in Choshu far from danger...

His ears caught the word "Shimonoseki."

The gai-jin officer was talking volubly and seemed quite excited, and though most of the words were lost, Hiraga gleaned that cannon had fired on some ships in the Straits, had killed some sailors, and that all gai-jin were furious because the Straits were essential to their shipping.

Yes, it is, Hiraga thought with grim amusement, which is exactly why you will never have our Straits. With the cannon we have even now we can close them and keep them closed to any barbarian fleet--and soon our Dutch-built and designed armament factory will be casting sixty-pounders, completing three a month, with gun carriages!

The tide has turned in our favor at long last: Lord Ogama of Choshu, alone of all daimyo, obeys the Emperor's wish to attack and expel the gai-jin; correctly he and Choshu troops firmly hold the palace gates; Katsumata is gathering all shishi to ambush and destroy the Shogun, unbelievably winkled out of his lair, on the way to Kyoto; and now our grip tightens on the gai-jin's citadel, Yokohama...

Abruptly all attention in the forecourt went to the barred and guarded gates as shouting erupted.

Hiraga's stomach turned over. A samurai officer at the head of a patrol under the banners of the Bakufu, and personal insignia of Toranaga Yoshi, was loudly demanding entrance, the redcoated soldiers telling him, as loudly, to go away. Just behind him, bound and battered and cowed, was Joun--his shishi comrade.

A bugler sounded the alarm. All troops inside the walls rushed to action stations, some with half-buttoned uniforms and hatless but all with rifles, full magazines and bayonets, all gardeners were on their knees, heads into the earth-- Hiraga, caught off guard, remained standing for a moment then hastily followed suit feeling totally naked. Warriors, massed in the square, began collecting ominously.

Shakily Tyrer got to his feet. "What the devil's up?"

With studied slowness Pallidar said, "I suppose we'd better find out." He got up leisurely, saw the Captain in charge of the Legation guards at the doorway queasily opening his holster. "'morning, I'm Captain Pallidar."

"Captain McGregor. Glad you're here, yes, very glad."

"Shall we?"

"Yes."

"How many troops do you have here?"

"Fifty."

"Good, more than enough. Phillip, nothing to worry about," Pallidar said to reassure him, outwardly calm but his adrenaline circulating strongly. "You're ranking official, perhaps you should ask him what he wants. We'll escort you."

"Yes, yes very good." Striving to appear calm, Tyrer put on his top hat, straightened his frock coat and walked down the steps, all eyes on him. The dragoons watched only Pallidar, awaiting his orders. Five yards from the gate he stopped, the two officers just behind him.

For the moment all that he could think of was that he wanted to urinate. In the silence he said haltingly, "Ohayo, watashi wa Taira-san. Nan desu ka?" Good morning, I am Mr. Tyrer, what you want please?

The officer, Uraga, the big bearlike man who was at the shishi ambush of Anjo outside the castle, glared at him, then bowed and held the bow. Tyrer bowed back but not quite as low--as Andr`e Poncin had advised--and said again, "Good morning, what you want please?"

The officer had noted the less than respectful bow and exploded in a rush of Japanese that totally swamped Tyrer whose dismay mushroomed. So did Hiraga's because the officer was asking for immediate permission to search the Legation and grounds, and to interview all Japanese there at once because it was probable shishi assassins and revolutionaries were amongst them: "like this one," he finished angrily, pointing at Joun.

Tyrer searched for the words. "Wakarimasen.

Dozo, hanashi wo suru noroku." I don't understand, please to speak slowly.

"Wakarimasen ka?"--You don't understand? the officer said with exasperation, then raised his voice, believing like most people when talking to a foreigner that loudness made his words clearer and more understandable, and repeated what he had said, the guttural language sounding even more threatening, and ended with, "It won't take much time and please understand it is for your own protection!"

"So sorry, not understand. Please you to speak English or Dutch?"

"No, of course not. It should be clear to you.

I only want to come in for a little while. Please open the gates! It's for your protection!

Look, your gates! Here, I will show you!" He stepped forward, grasped one of the bars and rattled the gates loudly, everyone inside shifted nervously, many safety catches came off and Pallidar ordered loudly, "Safety catches on! No firing without my order!"

"I don't know what the hell he's talking about," Tyrer said, a chill sweat running down his back. "Except it's obvious he wants us to open the gates."

"Well we're not bloody doing that, not to that armed rabble! Tell him to go away, that this is British property."

"This...." Tyrer thought a moment, then pointed at the flagstaff and Union Jack, "this English place... no to enter. Please to go!"

"Go? Are you mad. I have just explained, this is for your own protection. We have just caught this dog and we are sure another is here or hiding near here. OPEN THE GATES!"

"So sorry, not understand..." Helplessly Tyrer looked around as more Japanese words surrounded him. Then his eyes focused on Hiraga not far away. "Ukiya, come here," he called out in Japanese. "Ukiya!"

Hiraga's heart almost stopped. Tyrer shouted at him again. With pretended terror in a stumbling, grovelling run, Hiraga put his head in the dirt at Tyrer's feet, his rump towards the gate, his coolie hat covering most of him.

"What man say?" Tyrer asked.

With much feigned shaking, all senses razor-edged, Hiraga replied softly, "He's a bad man... he wants to come in, to... to steal your guns."

"Ah, yes, come in. Why?"

"He... he wants to search."

"No understand. What mean "ser'ch"?"

"Search. He wants to look at your house, everywhere."

"Yes, understand come in. Why?"

"I told you, to search--"

"You, gardener," the officer shouted and Hiraga jerked as anger flowed over him. For the first time in his life, out there the center of attention, on his knees in front of a gai-jin, knowing that under his hat he wore a rough turban, if that was taken off it would reveal the shaven pate and topknot of a samurai, he was suddenly sick with fear.

"You, gardener," the man shouted again, rattling the gates, "tell the fool I only want to search for assassins--shishi assassins!"

Desperately Hiraga said softly, "Taira-sama, the samurai wants to come in, to look at everyone. Tell him you are leaving, then he can come in."

"No understand. Ukiya go there!" Tyrer pointed at the gates. "Say go away, nice go away!"

"I cannot. I cannot," Hiraga whispered, trying to get his mind working and overcome his nausea.

"Phillip," Pallidar said, the sweat staining the back of his uniform. "What the devil's he trying to tell you?"

"I don't know."

Tension soared as the officer battered the gates again, once more demanding entrance, his men began to surge forward and grip the bars to assist him. Goaded into action, Pallidar went closer.

Coldly he saluted. Equally coldly the man bowed. Then, slowly Pallidar said, "This is British property. You are ordered to leave in peace or accept the consequences."

The officer stared at him blankly then, again, with words and actions, told him to open the door--and quickly.

"Go away!" Without turning his back Pallidar called out, "Dragoons only!

Prepare volley!"

Instantly the ten dragoons rushed forward in unison, formed two ranks just in front of the gates, in unison the front rank knelt, all ten safety catches came off, shells went into the breech and they aimed. In the sudden silence Pallidar slowly unbuckled his holster.

"Go away!"

Abruptly the officer laughed and his laugh was taken up in the square. There were hundreds of samurai there and he knew thousands were nearby and tens of thousands within reach. But none of them had seen the carnage that a few stalwart, disciplined British soldiers could cause with their fast and easy-to-fire breech-loaders.

As quickly as the laughter arose, it died. Both sides waited for the inevitable first move.

Frantic expectation swept everyone: This'll be to the death, shi kiraru beki, Christ Almighty, Namu Amida Butsu...

Hiraga sneaked a quick look up at Tyrer, saw the blank helplessness and cursed, knowing that any second the officer must order the attack to save face amidst the rumbling animosity outside. Before Hiraga could stop himself, his self-survival mechanism decided to gamble and he heard himself whisper in English--never once before had he made any indication to Tyrer he could speak the language, "P'rease to trust-- p'rease say words: Sencho... doz--"

Tyrer gaped. "Eh? Did you say "trust"? Eh?"

Committed now, heart thundering and hoping that the two officers nearby were so concentrated on the outside they would not overhear him, Hiraga whispered haltingly, his pronunciation only fair, l's impossible for him. "P'rease quiet. Danger!

Pre'tnd words yours. Say Sencho, dozo shizuka ni... say words!" Sick with fear he waited then, sensing that samurai tension outside was at breaking point, hissed in English again, as an order: "Say-words-now! Now!

Sencho... dozo shizuka ni... quick!"

Almost out of himself Tyrer obeyed.

"Sencho, dozo shizuka ni..." parroting the words exactly and those following, not knowing what he was saying and endeavoring to put into perspective that this gardener could speak English and that this was not a dream. Within seconds he saw that the words were having an effect. The officer shouted for quiet. Tension was lessening in the square. Now the officer listened intently to him, occasionally saying, "Hai, wakatta"--Yes, I understand.

Tyrer's courage flooded back and he concentrated on Hiraga and the Japanese. The words ended quickly with, "Domo."

At once the officer launched into a reply.

Hiraga waited until it had ended. "Shake head," he whispered. "Say Iy`e, domo, bow quick-quick, back house. Order me go too."

More controlled now, Tyrer firmly shook his head. "Iy`e, domo!" he said importantly and in awed silence, the center of the world, he stomped back towards the house, stopped in sudden confusion, turned and called out in English, "Ukiya! come along... oh Christ," searched frantically for the Japanese word, found it and beckoned him: "Ukiya, isogi!"

With the same grovelling run Hiraga obeyed.

At the top of the steps so that only Tyrer could hear, stooping abjectly, his back to all eyes he said, "P'rease order o'rr men, now safe.

Inside house quick p'rease."

Obediently Tyrer called out, "Captain Pallidar, order the men to stand down, it's, er, it's quite safe now!"

Once inside the Legation, out of sight, Tyrer's ashen relief turned to anger. "Who are you, what the devil did I say, eh?"

"Exp'rain 'rater, Taira-san.

Samurai want search, you, o'rr men, want take guns," Hiraga said, stumbling over the words, not yet recovered from his own fear. He stood erect now, looking him straight in the eyes, not as tall but as sweat-stained, knowing he was not yet out of the trap. "Captain very anger, want guns, taking guns, want searching for ... for Bakufu enemy. You say him, "No, Captain, kinjiru, forbidden searching. Today I and men 'reave here, then you search. Not now, kinjiru. We keep weapons when 'reave. Kinjiru forbidden stop us. Thank you. I now prepare go Yokohama."

"That's what I said?"

"Yes. P'rease now outside again, order me, gardeners back to work angri'ry. Word hataraki-mashoi," Hiraga said queasily.

"We speak 'rater, in secret, you me, yes?"

"Yes, but not alone, with an officer present."

"Then no speak, so sorry." Hiraga assumed his grovelling posture and backed out of the room, the exchange having taken only a few seconds, and once more dropped to his knees before Tyrer, rump towards the forecourt.

Unsettled, Tyrer stepped out into the light.

He saw that everyone was still waiting. "Captain Pallidar, and, er, Captain McGregor, stand the men down, then please join me for a conference.

Hataraki-mashoi! Ikimasho! Get to work! Hurry up!" he shouted at the gardeners who obeyed at once. Thankfully Hiraga fled to the safety of the garden muttering to the gardeners to cover him, officers and sergeants started shouting orders and the world began again.

Oblivious of everything, Tyrer stood on the veranda watching Hiraga, undecided, aghast that obviously he was a spy at the same time blessing him for saving them.

"You wanted us?" Pallidar said, breaking his revery.

"Oh! Oh yes... please follow me."

He led them into his office, closed the door, and told them what he had said.

Both congratulated him. "Damned impressive, Phillip," Pallidar said.

"For a moment I was sure we were going to have a showdown and Christ knows what would have happened then.

Too many of the buggers really--eventually they would have overrun us. Eventually. Of course the fleet would have revenged us but we would have been pushing up daisies and that's a pretty bloody boring thought."

"More than a bit boring," Captain McGregor muttered then glanced at Tyrer.

"What do you want us to do now, sir?"

Tyrer hesitated, astonished that neither had heard Hiraga's English, but pleased with his newfound stature--it was the first time McGregor had called him "sir." "We'd best obey Sir William. Order everyone to pack up and... but without making it look like an ignominious retreat, can't let them have our guns --what cheek!--or let them think we're running away. We'll march out with, er, with bands and pomp."

"Perfect, after we've ceremoniously run down the flag."

"Fine! Well, I'd better... I'd better make sure all dispatches are boxed etc."

Captain McGregor said, "May I suggest, sir... I really think you've earned a large glass of champagne--I do believe we've a few bottles left."

"Thank you." Tyrer beamed. "Perhaps we, let's Splice the Mainbrace," this was the traditional naval phrase for issuing a ration of rum to all hands. "Also we should all have tiffin first --show them we're not going to be hurried."

"I'll get it organized right away,"

McGregor said. "Damn clever to think of getting that gardener to help with the words, some of them sounded quite English. But why did they want to search the Legation?"

"To find... to search for Bakufu enemies."

Both men stared at him. "But there aren't any Jappos here, except gardeners, if that's what they meant."

Tyrer's heart surged as this at once pegged Ukiya but Pallidar was saying, "You're not really going to allow them to search our Legation, are you? Surely that would create a dangerous precedent."

At once his bonhomie vanished forof course Pallidar was right. "Damn, didn't think of that at the time!"

McGregor broke the silence. "Perhaps, perhaps before we leave, sir, you could invite the samurai officer to walk around with us, inspect the Legation, nothing wrong with inviting him. He can inspect the gardeners at the same time or we could just send them off before we all leave and we lock our gates."

"A perfect compromise," Pallidar said happily.

Hiraga was weeding near a side door of the Legation, an open window nearby, dirty and sweaty, the late afternoon sun still hot. Baggage being piled in carts in the forecourt, horses groomed, some soldiers already drawn up in marching order. Sentries patrolled the circumference walls. Outside the walls massed samurai squatted under sunshades or lolled around, malevolently.

"Now!" It was Tyrer's voice from inside the room. Hiraga made sure he was not observed, ducked down into the undergrowth and quickly opened the door. Hastily, Tyrer led the way down the corridor into a room that overlooked the forecourt and bolted the door. Curtains over the closed windows filtered the sunlight. A desk and a few chairs, rolls of documents, files, and a revolver on the desk. Tyrer sat behind it and motioned to a chair. "Please sit down. Now tell me who are you."

"First, sek'ret I speak Ingerish, yes?"

Hiraga remained standing, at his full height and somehow menacing.

"First tell me who you are and then I will decide."

"No, so sorry, Taira-san. I use to you, a'ready save men. Big use. True, neh?"

"Yes, true. Why should I keep this secret?"

"Safe me... you also."

"Why me?"

"Perhaps not wise have... how you say, ah yes, sek'ret other gai-jin not know. I very he'rp you. He'rp 'rearn 'ranguage, he'rp about Nippon. I say you truth, you say me truth too, you he'rp me I he'rp you. What age p'rease?"

"I'm twenty-one."

Hiraga hid his surprise and smiled from under the brim of his hat, so hard to tell the age of gai-jin who all looked alike. As to the gun his enemy had placed on the table it was laughable. He could kill this fool with his hands before he could touch it. Such a simple kill, so tempting, and this a perfect place, so easy to escape from but, once outside, not so simple to escape the samurai. "Keep se'kret?"

"Who are you? Your name's not Ukiya, is it?"

"Promise se'kret?"

Tyrer took a deep breath, weighed the consequences and came up with disaster on all counts.

"I agree." His heart skipped several beats as Hiraga slid the blade out of the hat brim, and cursed himself for being so reckless to put himself at so much risk. "In for a penny in for a pound," he muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing." He watched Hiraga prick his finger, then hand him the knife.

"Now you p'rease." Tyrer hesitated, knowing what was coming but, having decided, he shrugged and obeyed. Solemnly Hiraga touched his finger to Tyrer's, mixing their blood. "I swear by gods keep sek'ret about you. You say same p'rease by Christian god, Taira-san."

"I swear by God to keep it secret about you as long as I can," Tyrer said gravely, wondering where the binding oath would take him. "Where did you learn English? A missionary school?"

"Hai, but I not Christian." Not safe to tell about our Choshu schools, Hiraga thought, or about Mr. Great Smell, the Dutchman, our Ingerish teacher who said he had been a priest before becoming a pirate. Truth or lie to this Taira matters not at all, he is gai-jin, a minor leader of our most powerful outside enemy and therefore to be used, distrusted, hated and killed at whim.

"You he'rp es'kape?"

"Who are you? Where do you come from? Your name's not Ukiya."

Hiraga smiled and sat in one of the chairs.

"Ukiya mean gardener, Taira-san.

Fami'ry name Ikeda." He said the lie easily. "Nakama Ikeda, I who officer want. I twenty-two year."

"Why?"

"Because I and fami'ry, of Choshu, we fight Bakufu. Bakufu take power from Emperor an--"

"You mean the Shogun?"

Hiraga shook his head. "Shogun is Bakufu, head of Bakufu. He..." He thought a moment, then mimed a puppet on a string. "Un'erstand?"

"Puppet?"

"Yes, puppet."

Tyrer blinked. "The Shogun's a puppet?"

Hiraga nodded, more confident now he was communicating, having to work hard to remember the words. "Shogun Nobusada, boy, sixteen year, Bakufu puppet. He 'rive Yedo.

Emperor 'rive Kyoto. Now Emperor no power. More two hundred year, Shogun Toranaga take power. We fight take power from Shogun and Bakufu, give back Emperor."

Tyrer's mind, aching with so much concentration--hard to understand this man's speech--instantly realized the far-reaching implications. "This boy Shogun.

How old please?"

"Sixteen year Shogun Nobusada.

Bakufu say what do," Hiraga said again, curbing his irritation, knowing he must be patient.

"Emperor much power but no..." He searched for the word, could not find it so explained another way, "Emperor not 'rike daimyo. Daimyo has samurai, weapon, many. Emperor no samurai, no weapon. Can no make Bakufu obey. Bakufu have armies, Emperor not, wakatta?"

"Hai, Nakama, wakatta." A thousand questions were jostling to be asked and Tyrer knew this man could be a well to be emptied, but it must be done cautiously and this was not the place. He saw the intense concentration on the man's face and wondered how much of what he said Nakama actually understood, reminding himself to speak slowly and as simply as possible. "How many of you fight against the Bakufu?"

"Many." Hiraga slapped at a vagrant mosquito.

"Hundreds, thousands? What sort of people, ordinary people, gardeners, workmen, merchants?"

Hiraga looked at him, bewildered. "They nothing. On'ry serve samurai. On'ry samurai fight. On'ry samurai hav weapon. Kinjiru other have weapons."

Tyrer blinked again. "You're samurai?"

More bewilderment. "Samurai fight. I say fight Bakufu, yes? Nakama samurai!"

Hiraga took off his hat and pulled away the soiled, sweat-stained cloth that served as a turban to reveal his characteristic shaven pate and topknot. Now that Tyrer could see his face clearly, for the first time without the low-brimmed coolie hat and the first time he had really looked at him, he saw the same, hard slanting eyes of a two-sworder, and the vast difference in bone structure from villagers. "When Shenso, captain samurai, see me so, I dead."

Tyrer nodded, his mind amok.

"Easy me es'kape. P'rease, give so'rdier c'rothes."

Tyrer was finding it hard to keep the excitement, and dread, off his face, part of him desperate to flee, the other avaricious to have all this samurai's knowledge that could, no would, be a major key to unlock the world of Nippon and his own future if handled correctly. Just as he was about to blurt out his agreement he remembered Sir William's previous admonition and, thankfully, took time to compose himself.

"Easy es'kape, yes?" Hiraga repeated impatiently.

"Not easy, possible. But risky. First I have to be convinced to be sure you are worth saving."

Tyrer saw the sudden flash of anger--perhaps it was anger together with fear, he could not decide. Christ, samurai! I wish Sir William was here, I'm out of my depth. "Don't think I can r--"

"P'rease," Hiraga said as a supplicant, knowing that this was his only real chance to break out of the trap, but thinking, Hurry up and agree or I shall kill you and try to escape over the wall. "Nakama swear by gods he'rp Taira-san."

"You swear solemnly by your gods you will answer all my questions truthfully?"

"Hai," Hiraga said at once, astounded that Tyrer could be so naive as to ask that question of an enemy or believe his affirmative answer-- surely he cannot be that stupid? What god or gods? There are none. "By gods I swear."

"Wait here. Bolt the door, only open it to me."

Tyrer put the revolver in his pocket, went and found Pallidar and McGregor and took them aside breathlessly. "I need some help. I've found out Ukiya is one of the men wanted by the samurai, it turns out he's a sort of dissident. I want to disguise him as a soldier and sneak him back with us."

Both officers stared at him. Then McGregor said, "Excuse me, sir, but do you think that's wise? I mean the Bakufu are the legal government and if we get caught th--"

"We won't get caught. We just dress him up as a Redcoat and put in the middle of soldiers. Eh, Settry?"

"Yes, we could do that, Phillip, but if he's spotted and we're stopped we'll be up the creek without a paddle."

"Do you have an alternative suggestion?"

Tyrer said, a nervousness to his voice as his fear-excitement rose. "I want him smuggled out. Without his help we would probably all be dead and he will be extremely useful to us."

Uneasily the other two men looked at each other, then at Tyrer. "Sorry, it's too dangerous," Pallidar said.

"I-don't-think-so!" Tyrer snapped, head aching. "I want it done! It's a matter of extreme importance to Her Majesty's Government and that's the end to it!"

McGregor sighed. "Yes sir, very well.

Captain, what about mounting him?"

"As a dragoon? Ridiculous idea, a gardener won't be able to ride for God's sake.

Much better let him march, surround him with sold--"

"Fifty pounds against a brass farthing, the bugger can't keep step, he'll be as obvious as a whore in a Bishop's underpants!"

Then Tyrer said, "What about if we put him in uniform, bandage his face and hands and carry him on a stretcher--pretend he's sick."

The officers looked at him, then beamed. "Good oh!"

"Even better," Pallidar said happily, "we pretend he has some foul disease, smallpox--measles--plague!" In unison they laughed.

The samurai officer and the guards they had agreed to allow within the now empty Legation followed Tyrer, McGregor and four dragoons throughout the house. Their search was meticulous, every room, every cupboard, even the attics. At length he was satisfied. In the hall were two stretchers, on each a soldier, both feverish, both bandaged, one partially, the other, Hiraga, completely--head, feet, and hands--outside his soaking uniform.

"Both very sick," Tyrer said in Japanese, Hiraga having given him the words.

"This soldier has spotted disease."

The very mention of the words caused the samurai to blanche and move back a pace--outbreaks of smallpox were endemic in the cities but never so bad as in China where hundreds of thousands died.

"This... this must be reported," the officer muttered, he and his men covering their mouths as all believed infection and spread of the disease was caused by breathing befouled air near a sufferer.

Tyrer did not understand so he just shrugged.

"Man very sick. Not go near."

"I am not going near him, you think I am mad?" The big man went on to the veranda.

"Listen," he said quietly to his men.

"Don't say a word about this to the others in the square or there may be a panic. Stinking foreign dogs. Meanwhile keep your eyes open, this Hiraga is here somewhere."

They scoured the grounds and outhouses, the full compliment of Legation staff and soldiers drawn up in the shade, waiting impatiently to begin the march down to the wharf and to the waiting boats. At last satisfied, the officer bowed sourly and stalked back through the gates, samurai massed outside, Joun still bound near the front ranks, the petrified gardeners kneeling in a row, all hats off and naked. As he approached they cowered deeper into the dirt.

"Get up!" he said angrily, disgusted that when he had ordered them to strip, not one of them had the shaven pate of a samurai, or any sword cuts, wounds or other sign of samurai status, so he had been forced to conclude his prey was still hiding inside, or had escaped. Now he was even more angry and stomped in front of Joun.

"To disguise himself, the ronin Hiraga has shaved his head or allowed his hair to grow like one of those scum gardeners. Identify him!"

Joun was on his knees, broken, near death.

He had been beaten and brought back to life and beaten and brought back again on Anjo's orders.

"Identify this Hiraga!"

"He's... he's not, not there." The youth cried out as the officer's iron hard foot thudded into his most sensitive parts, then again, the gardeners shivering and terrified. "He's not... not there...." Again the merciless blow. In desperate, helpless agony, beyond himself, Joun pointed at a youngish man who fell on his knees screaming his innocence.

"Shut him up!" the officer shouted. "Take him before the judge, thence to prison and crucify the scum, take them all, they are guilty of hiding him, take them all!"

They were dragged away shrieking they were guiltless, the youngish man squealing that he had seen Hiraga earlier near the house and if they let him go he would show them but no one paid any attention and quickly his cries and all their cries were ended, brutally.

The officer wiped the sweat off his brow, satisfied that he had carried out his orders. He took a sip from a water bottle and spat to clean his mouth, then drank gratefully.

Eeee, he thought and shivered. The spotted disease! A gai-jin disease brought from outside!

Everything rotten comes from outside, gai-jin have got to be thrown out and kept out for all time.

Angrily he watched the bands forming up, soldiers strutting, his mind on the shishi he sought.

Not possible that that gardener was a famous shishi, the Hiraga of the fight. Karma that I and my men arrived too late that day to see him and the others who escaped. Not karma, God was watching over me.

If I had seen them I could not have pretended to accept the one Joun pointed out. Where is this Hiraga? He is hiding somewhere. Please God, help me.

Eeee, life is curious. I hate the gai-jin yet I believe in their Jesus God, though secretly, like my father and his father and his back to before Sekigahara. Yes I believe in this Jesus God, the only thing of value from outside, and didn't the Jesuit Teacher Princes say Belief gives us added power and that when we had a problem to worry it as a dog worries a bone.

Hiraga is hiding somewhere. I have searched carefully. Therefore he has disguised himself. As what? A tree? What?

Inside the walls preparations for departure continued. The flag came down. Bands were playing now. Horsemen into their saddles. Stretchers into a tumbril. Gates opening, the mounted soldiers forming up, led by the gai-jin with the Japanese name, now passed and going down the hill and-- The bandages! The revelation burst in the officer's mind. There is no plague! Clever, he thought excitedly, but not clever enough! Now, do I confront them and bottle them up in one of the narrow streets? Or do I assign spies to follow him and peg him to lead me to others?

I peg him.

Tuesday, 14th October

Tuesday, 14th October: The engagement party was in full swing under the oil lamps that lit the crowded main hall of the Club --the whole building taken over by Malcolm Struan and bedecked for his party. All respectable members of the Settlement had been invited and were present, all officers who could be spared from the fleet and Army--and outside on the High Street patrols of both services were ready to inhibit drunks and undesirables from Drunk Town.

Angelique had never looked more striking-- crinoline, Bird of Paradise feather headdress and dazzling engagement ring. The dance was a pulsating waltz by Johann Strauss the Younger, brand-new and just arrived from Vienna by diplomatic pouch that Andr`e Poncin was playing with gusto on the piano, ably supported by a skeleton Marine Band in full dress uniform for the occasion. Her partner was Settry Pallidar --his selection to represent the Army had been greeted with a roar of approval, and total jealously.

Victoria Lunkchurch and Mabel Swann were also dancing, this time partnered by Sir William and Norbert Greyforth, their dance cards filled the moment the party was announced. For all their girth both were good dancers, both wore crinolines though these could not compare with Angelique's in either richness or decolletage.

"Thee's a right rotten skinflint, Barnaby,"

Victoria hissed at her husband. "Mabel and me're going to have new folderols if it costs thee thy whole company by God! And we wants titfers like her's by God!"

"Wot?"

"Yes wot! Titfers--hats!"

Angelique's headdress had been the final coup de grace for both women. "'Tis war, her against us'n." Even so their popularity overcame their jealousy, and they twirled with abandon.

"Lucky bloody bastard," Marlowe muttered, eyes only for his rival. His blue naval uniform jacket glittered with the added gold braid of an aide-de-camp, white silk trousers and stockings and black, silver-buckled shoes.

"Who?" Tyrer asked, passing by with another glass of champagne, flushed and excited with the evening and with his success in spiriting Nakama, the samurai, out of Yedo and, with Sir William's approval, into his house as a Japanese teacher. "Who's a bastard, Marlowe?"

"Get stuffed--as if you didn't know!"

Marlowe grinned. "Listen, I'm the Navy's rep, I've got the next one and I'll show the bugger what's what or die in the attempt."

"Lucky devil! What is it?"

"Polka!"

"Oh my word--did you arrange it?"

"Good God, no!" The polka, based on a Bohemian folk dance, was another recent addition to the dance floors of Europe and all the rage, though still considered risqu`e. "It's on the program! Didn't you notice?"

"No, never did, too much on my mind,"

Tyrer said happily, bursting to tell someone how clever he had been, and even more that tonight, as soon as he could, he was heading across the Bridge to Paradise and into the arms of his beloved-- regretting that he was sworn to secrecy on both counts. "Dances like a dream, doesn't she?"

"Hey, young Tyrer..." It was Dmitri Syborodin, well oiled and sweating, a tankard of rum in his fist. "I asked the Band Master to throw in a cancan. Guy said I was the fifth to ask."

"My God, is he going to?" Tyrer asked appalled. "I saw it performed once in Paris --you won't believe but the girls didn't wear any pantaloons at all."

"I believe it!" Dmitri guffawed. "But Angel Boobs has 'em on tonight, and not afraid to show 'em either, by God!"

"Now look here..." Marlowe began hotly.

"Come on, John, he's just joking.

Dmitri, you're impossible! Surely the Bandmaster wouldn't dare?"

"Not 'nless Malc gives him the nod."

They looked across the room. Malcolm Struan sat with Dr. Hoag, Babcott, Seratard and several of the Ministers watching the dance floor, eyes only for Angelique as she dipped and swayed to the enchanting, daring modern music that exhilarated all of them. His hand rested on a heavy cane, the gold signet ring sparkling as his fingers moved to the beat, dressed in sleek silk evening clothes, winged collar, cream cravat and diamond pin, his fine leather boots from Paris.

"Pity he's so still so disabled," Tyrer murmured, genuinely sorry, but blessing his own luck.

Struan and Angelique had arrived late.

He walked with extreme difficulty, hunched over as much as he tried to remain upright, his weight on the two canes, Angelique radiantly on his arm. Dr. Hoag was with them, attentive and ever watchful. There were cheers for him and more for her and then, gratefully sitting, he had welcomed them, invited them all to partake of the feast that had been laid out on tables, "But first, my friends," he said, "please raise your glasses, a toast to the most beautiful girl in the world, Mademoiselle Angelique Richaud, my bride to be."

Cheers and more cheers. Liveried Chinese servants brought iced champagne by the case, Jamie McFay added a few words of joy and the party was on. Wines from Bordeaux and Burgundy, a special Chablis much favored in Asia, brandies, whiskies--all exclusive Struan imports--gin, beer from Hong Kong. Sides of Australian roasted beef, a few whole lambs, chicken pies, joints of cold salt pork, hams, Shanghai potatoes, baked and stuffed with roast salt pork slivers and butter, as well as puddings and chocolates, a new Swiss import. After supper had been cleared away and seven drunks removed, Andr`e Poncin took his place and the band began.

With great formality towards Malcolm, Sir William begged the first dance. Next was Seratard, then the other Ministers--except von Heimrich who was in bed with dysentery--the Admiral and the General, all of them and others taking turns with the other two women. After each dance Angelique would be surrounded by flushed and beaming faces, and then, fanning herself, she would make her way back to Malcolm's side, delightful to everyone yet completely attentive to him, every time refusing the dance, at length allowing herself to be persuaded by him: "But, Angelique, I love to watch you dancing, my darling, you dance as you do so gracefully."

Now he was watching her, torn between happiness and frustration, frantic that he was hobbled.

"Don't fret, Malcolm," Hoag had said this evening, wanting to calm him, the simple act of dressing a nightmare of pain and awkwardness. "This is the first time you've been up.

It's only a month since the accident, don't worr--"' "Tell me that once more and I'll spit blood."

"It's not just the pain that's tearing you apart.

It's the medication, or lack of it, and today's mail. You got a letter from your mother, didn't you?"' "Yes," he had said in total misery and sat on the edge of the bed, half dressed. "She ... well she's furious, never known her so angry. She's totally opposed to my engagement, to my marriage... if I listened to her, Angelique is the devil incarnate. She ..." The words stumbled out of him. "She dismissed my letter, dismissed it and said, here read it: Have you gone mad? Your father's not dead six weeks, you're not yet twenty-one, that woman's after your money and our company, she's the daughter of an escaped bankrupt, the niece of another felon, and, God help us, Catholic and French! Are you out of your mind? You say you love her? Rubbish! You're bewitched. You will stop this nonsense. You-will-stop-this-nonsense! She has bewitched you. Obviously you are in no frame of mind to run Struan's! You are to return without that person as soon as Dr. Hoag permits it."

"When I permit it. Malcolm, will you do as she says?"' "About Angelique, no. None of what she says is important, none of it! Clearly she didn't read my letter, doesn't give a fig for me. What the devil can I do?"' Hoag had shrugged. "What you've already decided: you will be engaged and in due time married.

You are going to get better. You will have lots of rest, lots of good soups and porridge and stay off the sleeping draft and painkillers.

For the next two weeks you will stay here, then you will go back and face the..." he had smiled kindly, "the future with confidence."

"I'm very lucky to have you as a doctor."

"I'm very lucky to have you as a friend."

"Did you get a letter from her too?"' "Yes." A dry laugh. "I did now that I think of it."

"And?"' Hoag had rolled his eyes. "Enough said?"' "Yes. Thanks."

Now, watching her dancing, center of a universal admiration, and lust, breasts in large part fashionably revealed, slender ankles enticing eyes to seek further under the billowing hoops of apricot silk, he felt himself hardening. Thank God for that, he thought, much of his rage evaporating, at least that's working, but, Christ, I know I won't be able to wait until Christmas. I won't.

It was nearing midnight now and she sipped champagne and hid behind her fan, fluttering it in a practiced manner, teasing those around her, then gave the glass away as though bestowing a gift, made her apologies and went gliding back to her chair that was beside Struan. Close by was an animated group of Seratard, Sir William, Hoag, other Ministers, and Poncin. "La, Monsieur Andr`e, your playing is superb.

Isn't that so, Malcolm darling?"

"Yes, superb," Struan said, not feeling good at all, trying to cover it. Hoag glanced over at him.

In French she was saying, "Andr`e, where have you been hiding the last few days?" She looked over her fan at him. "If we were in Paris I would swear that you had given your heart to a new ladyfriend."

Poncin said lightly, "Just work, Mademoiselle."

Then, in English, "Ah, sad. Paris in the fall is especially wonderful, almost as breathtaking as spring. Oh, wait till I show it to you, Malcolm. We should spend a season there, no?" She was standing close to him, and she felt his arm go loosely around her waist, she rested her arm lightly on his shoulder and toyed with his long hair. The touch pleased her, his face handsome and clothes handsome and the ring he had given her this morning, a diamond with other diamonds surrounding it, delighting her. She glanced at it, twisting it, admiring it, wondering how much it was worth. "Ah, Malcolm, you will enjoy Paris, in season, it's truly wonderful. Could we?"

"Why not, if you'd like to."

She sighed, her fingers discreetly caressing his neck, and said as though taken by a sudden thought, "Perhaps, do you think, cheri, do you think we could honeymoon there--we could dance the night away." "Your dancing is a delight, Mademoiselle, in whatever city," Hoag said, sweating and uncomfortable in his overtight clothes.

"Wish I could say the same for mine. May I sugg--"

"You don't dance at all, Doctor?"

"Years ago, when I was in India I did, but stopped when my wife died. She really enjoyed it so much that now I can't enjoy it at all.

Marvelous party, Malcolm. May I suggest we call it a night?"

Angelique glanced up at him, her smile fading, noticed the caution on his face, looked at Malcolm and saw the exhaustion. How awful he's so sick, she thought. Damn!

"It's still early," Malcolm was saying bravely, longing to lie down, "isn't it, Angelique?"

"I must confess I really am tired too," she said at once. Her fan closed, she put it down, smiled at him, Poncin and the others, preparing to leave. "Perhaps we could slip out and let the party continue..."

They made their quiet apologies to those around them. Everyone else pretended not to notice them leave but in her wake was emptiness. Outside at the door she stopped a moment. "Oh la la, I forgot my fan. I'll catch you up, my darling."

She hurried back. Poncin intercepted her.

"Mademoiselle," he said in French. "I believe this is yours."

"Ah, you're so kind." She accepted her fan, delighted that her stratagem had worked and that he was as observant as she had hoped. As he bent over her hand to kiss it she whispered in French, "I must see you tomorrow."

"Legation at noon, ask for Seratard, he won't be there."

She was brushing her hair in front of her mirror, still humming the last waltz she had danced. Which was the best? she asked herself. The best dance? That's easy, Marlowe and the polka, better than Pallidar and waltzes--you should waltz only with the love of your life, allowing the music to swim your head with adoration and longing, drifting you on the clouds, tingling and wanting as I am tonight, the best day of my life, engaged to a fine man and loved by him to distraction.

It should be the best day, but isn't.

Strange that I enjoyed this evening, and can act and think calmly, when already the day has passed, I'm overdue so probably with child of a rapist that must be ended.

She was watching her reflection as though it was another person, the brushstrokes firm, titillating her scalp and head and taking away any cobwebs, astonished that she was still alive and outwardly the same after so much agony.

Curious. Every day after the first has seemed easier.

Why is that?

I don't know. Well, never mind. Tomorrow will solve the overdue though perhaps even now I shall begin in the night and there will have been no need for all the fear and crying and crying and more fear. Tens of thousands of women have been trapped like I am trapped and still have been made whole without hurt.

Just a little drink and everything as before and no one the wiser. Except you and God! Except you and the doctor, or you and the midwife--or witch.

Enough for tonight, Angelique. Trust in God and the Blessed Mother. The Blessed Mother will help you, you are blameless. You are openly engaged to a marvelous man, somehow you will be married and live happily ever after. Tomorrow... tomorrow will begin the where and how.

Behind her Ah Soh was tidying the four-poster, picking up her stockings and underwear. The crinoline already hung on a rack with two others, and half a dozen new day dresses still wrapped in their sheaves of rice paper. Through the open window came the sound of laughter and drunken singing, and music from the Club that still showed no sign of abating.

She sighed, wanting to be back at the dance.

The brush moved more vigorously.

"Miss'y wan thing, heya?"

"No. Want to sleep."

"Ni'te Miss'y."

Angelique bolted the door after her. The connecting door to Struan's suite was closed but unbolted. By custom, as soon as she had finished her toilet, she would knock, then go and kiss him good night, perhaps chat just a little and return again, leaving the door ajar in case he had a seizure in the night. These were infrequent now, though since he had stopped the night medicine a week ago, he was very restless, hardly sleeping, but never demanding.

Again she sat at her mirror and was pleased with what she saw. Her peignoir was silk and lacy and Parisian--a locally made copy of one she had brought with her:... and you cannot believe the workmanship, Colette, or the speed of the Chinese tailor, she had written this afternoon for tomorrow's mail ship.

Now I can get anything copied. Please send me some patterns, or cuttings from La Parisienne or L'Haute Couture of the latest styles or anything wonderful--my Malcolm is so generous and so rich! He says I can order what I like!

And my ring!!!! A diamond with fourteen smaller ones around it. I asked him how on earth he had got it and where in Yokohama and he just smiled. I really must be more careful and not ask silly questions. Colette everything is so marvelous except I'm worried about his health. He improves so slowly and walks very badly. But his ardor increases, poor man, and I have to take care... Must dress for the party now but I'll write more before the post. My everlasting love for the moment.

How lucky Colette is, her pregnancy a gift of God.

Stop! No more or the tears and terror will come back. Put the problem aside. You decided what to do, if it was or if it was not. It is, so the other plan--what else can you do?

An absent touch of perfume behind her ears and on her breasts, a slight adjustment of the lace.

A gentle knock on his door. "Malcolm?"

"Come in--I'm alone."

Unexpectedly, he was not in bed but sitting in his armchair. Red silk dressing gown, eyes strange. At once some instinct put her on guard. She bolted the door as usual, and went over to him. "Not tired, my love?"

"No, and yes. You take my breath away."

He held out his hands and she came closer, heart picking up a beat. His hands were trembling. He coaxed her nearer and kissed her hands and arms and breast. For a moment she did not resist, enjoyed his adoration, wanting him, and leaned down and kissed him and allowed him to fondle her. Then, the heat mounting too swiftly, she sank on her knees beside the chair, heart pounding like his, and half broke the embrace.

"We mustn't," she whispered breathlessly...

"I know but I must, I want you so much..."

His lips were throbbing and hot and seeking and, pushed onwards, hers responded. Now his hand was caressing her thigh, feeding more fire to her loins, and then the pleasing tormenter moved higher and higher still and she wanted more but drove herself from the ever-pressing brink and again pulled away, whispering, "No, cheri." But this time he was surprisingly stronger, his other arm held her in an amorous vise, his voice and lips ever more persuasive, closer and closer but then, without thinking, he twisted too quickly and pain ripped through him. "Oh Christ!"

"What is it? Are you all right?" she said, frightened.

"Yes, yes I think so. Christ Almighty!" It took him a moment or two to recover, the surging pain lancing his ardor, that ache remaining, the other pain making it seem more strong. His hands still held on to her, still trembling but without strength. "Jesus, sorry..."

"No sorry, my darling." When, thankfully, she had recovered her own breath, she got up and poured some of the cold tea that he kept beside the bed, her loins restless and cramped and nervous, heart agitated, not wanting to stop either but must, a few more minutes and wouldn't have, must find a way to be safe, him safe, us safe--a voice shouting the litany at the forefront of her mind, "a man never marries his mistress, nothing before marriage, everything permissible after," pounded into her as soon as she could understand.

"Here," she murmured, giving him the cup.

She knelt and watched him, eyes closed, sweat staining his face and dressing gown. In a moment, most of her own unease and disquiet slid away. She put a hand on his knee and he covered it. "Being so, so close is bad for us, Malcolm," she said softly, liking him very much, loving him but not truly sure about love. "It's difficult for both of us, cheri, I want you too and love you too."

After a long time he said with difficulty, his voice low and hurting, "Yes but, but you can help."

"But we can't, not before we're married, not yet, we can't, not now."

Abruptly his pain and frustration crested at having to sit all evening and endure other men dancing her, lusting her, while he could hardly walk where a month ago he knew he was a far better dancer than any one of them, crested.

Why not now? he wanted to scream at her, what difference does a month or two make? For Christ's sake... but all right I'll accept that, that at marriage a proper girl must be virgin or she's a loose woman, I'll accept that a gentleman doesn't wrong her before marriage, I accept that! For the love of God there are other ways.

"I know, we, we can't now," he said throatily, "but... Angelique, but please help me, please."

"But how?"

Once more words choked him: For Christ's sake like girls in Houses do, kiss you and fondle you and finish you--do you think lovemaking is just spreading your legs and lying there like a piece of meat--the simple things these girls will do without fuss of shame and happy for you afterwards, "Hey, you now all same good-ah, heya?"' But he knew he could never tell her. It was against all his upbringing. How do you explain to the lady you love when she's so young and artless or so selfish or just ignorant. Suddenly the truth became rancid. Something in him mutated, changed.

In a different voice he said, "You're quite right, Angelique, it's difficult for both of us. Sorry. Perhaps it would be best if you moved back to the French Legation until we leave for Hong Kong. Now that I'm getting better we must guard your reputation."

She stared at him, unnerved by the change. "But Malcolm, I am comfortable where I am, and near in case you need me."

"Oh yes, I need you." His mouth moved with the shadow of an ironic smile. "I'll ask Jamie to make the arrangements."

She hesitated, off balance, not sure how to proceed. "If that's what you want, cheri."

"Yes, it's best. As you said, being so close is difficult for each of us. Good night, my love, I'm so glad you enjoyed your party."

A chill passed through her but whether from outside or inside she did not know. She kissed him, ready to return his passion, but there was none. What had changed him? "Sleep beautifully, Malcolm, I love you." Still nothing.

Never mind, she thought, men are so moody and difficult. Smiling as though nothing was wrong she unbolted his door, blew him a tender kiss and went into her own room.

He watched their door. It was slightly ajar.

As usual. But everything in their world was no longer as usual. The door and her nearness no longer tempted him. He was feeling different, somehow refashioned. He did not know why but he was very sad, very old, some instinct telling him that however much he loved her, however much he tried physically, she would never in their whole life together ever completely satisfy him.

Using his stick he heaved himself to his feet and hobbled as quietly as he could to the bureau. In the top drawer was the small bottle of the medication that he had secreted away against nights when the idea of sleep became impossible. He swigged the last of it. Heavily, he shuffled to his bed.

Gritting his teeth, he lay down and sighed as most of the pain left him. That he had consumed the last of the peace-giver did not bother him in the least. Chen, Ah Tok or any of the servants could supply him with more, whenever he wanted. After all, didn't Struan's supply part of China?

On her side of the door, Angelique was still leaning against the wall, in turmoil, unsure whether to go back or to leave well enough alone. She had heard him go to the bureau and the drawer open, but did not know why, heard the bed springs creak and his long-drawn-out sigh of relief.

It was just the pain and because we can't, not now, she thought, reassuring herself again, stifling a nervous yawn. And also because he had to sit still at the dance when he is as fine a dancer as I've ever had-- wasn't it that that had first attracted me to him in Hong Kong from all the others?

Not wrong that he wants to make love--and not my fault he was hurt. Poor Malcolm, he's just overwrought. Tomorrow he will have forgotten all about it and everything will be fine--and it's better I move now, there's the other to consider. All will be well.

She slipped into bed and into easy sleep but her dreams were quickly peopled by strange monsters with twisted baby faces, shrieking with laughter and tugging at her, "mamma... mamma," writing on the sheets with her own blood that leaked from the tip of her finger she used as pen, tracing and retracing those characters--the ones from the counterpane imprinted deeply in her mind that she had not yet had the courage to ask Andr`e or Tyrer about.

Something jerked her out of sleep. The nightscapes vanished. Uneasily awake, she glanced at the door, half expecting to see him there. But he was not and she heard, faintly, his heavy, regular breathing, so she settled back in her pillows and thought, It was the wind or a banging shutter.

Mon Dieu, I'm tired, but what a lovely time I had at the dance. And what a lovely ring he gave me.

Humming the polka and envious of John Marlowe's success, and quite sure he could have done as well, Phillip Tyrer half danced up to the door of the House of the Three Carp in the tiny, deserted little alleyway and knocked with a flourish.

Here the Yoshiwara seemed to be slumbering, but not far away the houses and bars on Main Street were bubbling, the night young with the noise of men laughing and raucous singing, the occasional twang of samisen and laughter and pidgin mixed with it.

The door grill opened. "Mass'r, wat?"

"Please speak Japanese. I am Taira-san and I have a appointment."

"Ah, is that so?" the burly servant said.

"Taira-san, eh? I will inform the mama-san." The grill closed.

As he waited Tyrer's fingers drummed on the old wood. Yesterday and last night he had had to spend all his time with Sir William, explaining about Nakama and the Legation, arranging a modus vivendi for his newfound teacher--guilty he had not revealed the vital truth that the man could speak some English. But he had sworn, and an Englishman's word was his bond.

Sir William had finally agreed "Nakama" could be openly samurai--sons of samurai families had been attached to the French and British Legations for short periods in the past, just as Babcott had Japanese assistants. But Sir William had ordered he was not to wear or have swords within the Settlement fence. This same rule applied to all samurai, except Settlement guards under an officer on their rare, and prior-sanctioned patrols.

Further that Nakama was not to dress ostentatiously or go anywhere near the Customs House or guard house, and to keep out of sight as much as possible, that if he was discovered and claimed by the Bakufu it would be his fault and he would be handed over to them.

Tyrer had sent for Nakama and explained what Sir William had agreed. By this time he was too tired for Fujiko. "Now, Nakama, I need to send a message, and I want you to deliver it. Please write the characters for: "Please arrange..."

"'range, p'rease?"' "To fix or to make. "Please make an appointment for me tomorrow night with..." leave a blank for the name."

It had taken Hiraga a little time to understand exactly what was required of him and why. In desperation, Tyrer had found himself giving the name Fujiko and the House of the Three Carp. "Ah, Three Carp?"' Hiraga had said. "So ka! Give message mama-san, no mistake, arrange you see musume tomorrow, yes?"' "Yes, please."

Nakama had shown him how to write the characters and Tyrer copied them, very pleased with himself and signed the message carefully with the signature Hiraga had developed for him and now he was here at the gate.

"Come on, hurry up," he muttered, ready willing and able.

In time the door grill opened again.

By Raiko. "Ah, good evening, Taira-san, you want us to speak Japanese, certainly," she said with a smile and a little bow and followed with a flood of lilting Japanese which he did not catch, except the name of Fujiko several times, ended with, "So sorry."

"What? Oh, You sorry? Why sorry, Raiko-san? Good evening, I have appointment Fujiko... with Fujiko."

"Ah so sorry," she repeated patiently, "but Fujiko is not available this evening, and will not be free even for a short time. So sorry but there is nothing I can do, she sends her regrets of course and, so sorry, but all my other ladies are equally occupied. Very sorry."

Again he did not understand everything. The gist reached him. Crestfallen, Tyrer understood that Fujiko was not there, but not the reason. "But letter, yesterday --my message man, Nakama, he bring, yes?"

"Oh yes! Nakama-san brought it and as I told him I thought everything would be perfect but, so sorry, it is not now possible to accommodate you. So sorry, Taira-san, thank you for remembering us. Good night."

"Wait," Tyrer shouted in English as the grill began to close, then pleading, "you said she isn't there--here, yes? Wait, please, Raiko-san. Tomorrow--sorry--tomorrow, Fujiko, yes?"

Sadly Raiko shook her head. "Ah so sorry, tomorrow is not possible either, it really distresses me to have to say so. I do hope you do understand, so sorry."

Tyrer was aghast. "No tomorrow? Next day, yes?"

She hesitated, smiled, made another little bow: "Perhaps, Taira-san, perhaps but, so sorry I can promise nothing. Please ask Nakama-san to come here during the day and I will tell him. You understand? Send Nakama-san.

Good night."

Blankly Tyrer stared at the door, cursed bitterly, bunched his fists, wanting to smash something. It took him a moment to recover from his immense disappointment, then, despondently, he turned away.

Hiraga had been watching through a spy hole in the fence. When Tyrer vanished around the corner he went back along the meandering stone path through the garden, deep in thought. The garden was deceptively spacious with small bungalows, always with verandas, nestling in their own shrubbery.

But he avoided all of them, went into the shrubbery and knocked on a panel of fence.

It swung open noiselessly. The servant bowed and he nodded and went along a path, heading for a similar dwelling. Most Inns or Houses had secret exits and hiding places, or connections with the one next door, and those that dared to cater to shishi paid special attention to security--for their own safety. This part of the House of the Three Carp was for very special guests with different cooking facilities, maids but the same courtesans. On the veranda he kicked off his geta--clogs--slid back the shoji. "What did he do?" Ori asked.

"Meekly walked away. Weird."

Hiraga shook his head in wonder and sat opposite him, nodded a brief acknowledgment of Fujiko's deep bow. Yesterday, after delivering Tyrer's letter--with Raiko's amused compliance he had hired Fujiko for tonight.

"May I ask why, Hiraga-san?"' Raiko had said.

"Just to annoy Taira."

"Eeee, I think he left his virginity here, with Ako. Then he tried Meiko, then Fujiko. Fujiko made his eyes cross."

He had laughed with Raiko, liking her, but when he saw Fujiko he was bewildered that his enemy found the girl attractive. She was ordinary, hair ordinary, everything about her ordinary except her eyes that were unfashionably large. Nonetheless he hid his opinion and had complimented Raiko that she had acquired such a flower, who looked sixteen though she was thirty-one and fifteen years a courtesan.

"Thank you, Hiraga-san." Raiko had smiled. "Yes she's an asset, for some reason gai-jin like her. But please, don't forget the Taira is our client and that gai-jin are not like us. They tend to attach themselves to one lady only. Please encourage him, gai-jin are rich, and I hear he's an important official and may be here for some years." "Sonno-joi."

"That is for you to arrange. You take their heads, but promise me not here, meanwhile I take their wealth."

"You will permit Ori to stay?"' "Ori-san is a curious youth," she had said hesitantly, "very strong, very angry, very unsettled--a tinderbox. I'm afraid of him. I can hide him for a day or two but... but please, curb him while he's my guest? There is trouble enough in the Willow World without seeking it."

"Yes. Have you any news of my cousin, Akimoto?"' "He's safe at Hodogaya, Teahouse of the First Moon."

"Send for him." Hiraga had slid a gold oban from his secret pocket. He noted how her eyes glinted. "This will pay for any messenger, or expenses while Akimoto and Ori are here, and for Fujiko's services tomorrow of course."

"Of course." The coin, quite a generous payment, vanished into her sleeve. "Ori-san may stay until I think it is time for him to move on, so sorry, then he leaves, you agree?"' "Yes."

"Next, so sorry, shishi, but I must tell you it is very dangerous for you here. This is being sent to every barrier." Raiko unfolded a woodcut poster, a portrait, about a foot square. Of him. The caption read: The Bakufu offers Two Koku reward for the head of this murdering Choshu ronin who goes under many aliases, one of which is Hiraga.

"Baka!" Hiraga said through his teeth.

"Does it look like me? How is it possible?

I've never had a portrait painted."

"Yes and no. Artists have long memories, Hiraga-san. One of the samurai at the fight perhaps? Unless someone closer to you is the betrayer.

Bad also is that important people are seeking you.

Anjo of course, but now Toranaga Yoshi."

He was chilled, wondering if the courtesan Koiko was betrayed or was the betrayer. "Why him?"' Raiko shrugged. "He's the head of the snake, like it or not. Sonno-joi, Hiraga-san, but do not lead the Bakufu enemy here, I want my head on my shoulders."

All night Hiraga had worried about the poster and what to do about it. He accepted a refill of sak`e from Fujiko. "This Taira amazes me, Ori."

"Why waste time on him? Kill him."

"Later, not now. Watching him and them, testing, trying to guess their reactions is like a game of chess where the rules keep changing constantly, it is fascinating--once you get over their stench."

"Tonight we should have done what I wanted to do: kill him and dump his body near the guard house and let them be blamed." Irritably Ori ran his right hand over the stubble already covering his shaven pate and face, his left shoulder bandaged and arm still in a sling. "Tomorrow I'll be shaved clean again and feel more like a samurai again--Raiko has a barber she can trust, but clean or not, Hiraga, this forced laziness is sending me mad."

"And your shoulder?"

"The wound's clean. It itches but it's a good itch." Ori lifted his arm about halfway.

"Can't go further but I force it a little every day. It would be difficult to use in a fight. Karma. But that gai-jin Taira, if we had killed him, there would have been no risk to us or the House, you said he was so secretive he wouldn't have told anyone he was here."

"Yes, but he might have, and that's what I do not understand. They are unpredictable. They keep changing their minds, they say one thing and then do the exact opposite but not with calculation, not like we do, not like us."

"Sonno-joi! Killing him would have driven the gai-jin mad. We should do it the next time he comes here."

"Yes, we will but later--he's too valuable for the moment. He will reveal their secrets, how to humble them, kill them by the hundreds or thousands --after we have used them to humble and break the Bakufu." Hiraga held out the cup again.

Instantly Fujiko filled it, smiling at him.

"I was even in the office of the Leader of all the Ing'erish, within five paces of him. I'm in the center of gai-jin authority! If only I could speak their language better." He was much too cautious to reveal to Ori the true extent of his knowledge, or how he had persuaded Tyrer to smuggle him out--let alone in front of this girl.

As she replenished their cups through the evening, smiling, totally attentive, never interrupting, she listened avidly though appearing not to, wanting to ask a hundred questions but much too well trained to do so. "Just listen, smile and pretend to be dull-witted, only a toy," mama-sans drilled into all of them, "and soon they will tell you all you want to know without prompting.

Listen and smile and watch and flatter and make them happy, only then are they generous. Never forget happy equals gold which is your only purpose and only security."

"In Yedo," Hiraga was saying, "this Taira was really quite brave, tonight a coward.

Fujiko, what is he like in bed?"

Smiling, she hid her surprise that anyone could be so indelicate. "Like any young man, Hiraga-san."

"Of course but what is he like? Is he in proportion--tall man, tall spear?"

"Ah, so sorry," she dropped her eyes, and made her voice humble, "but Ladies of the Willow World are directed never to discuss a client with another whoever he is."

"Our rules apply to gai-jin? Eh?"

Hiraga asked.

Ori chuckled. "You will get nothing out of her, or any of them, I tried. Raiko-san came and scolded me for asking! "Gai-jin or not, the ancient Yoshiwara rule applies," she said.

"We can talk generalizations, but any client particularly--Baka-neh!" She was really quite angry."

The two men laughed but Fujiko saw Hiraga's eyes were not laughing. Pretending not to notice, anxious to appease him and at the same time wondering how she would have to service him tonight, she said, "So sorry, Hiraga-san, but my experience is little, with young or old or in the middle. But most, experienced ladies say size does not guarantee satisfaction for him or for her, but that young men are always the best and most satisfying clients."

She laughed to herself at the well-worn lie.

I would like to tell you the truth for once: that you young men are the worst clients, the most demanding, the least satisfying. You're all hopelessly impatient, you've plenty of vigor, require many entries, you've puddles of essence but little contentment afterwards--and rarely generous. Worst of all, however much a girl tries not to, she can become enamored with one particular young man and that leads to even more misery, disaster and most times suicide. Old is twenty times better.

"Some youths," she said, answering without answering, "are incredibly shy, however well endowed."

"Interesting. Ori, I still can't believe this Taira just meekly turned away."

Ori shrugged. "Meek or not, he should be dead tonight and I would sleep better. What else could he do?"

"Everything. He should have kicked the door down-- an appointment is an appointment and Raiko not having a substitute ready was a further insult."

"The door and fence are too strong, even for us."

"Then he should have gone into the main street and got five or ten or twenty of his people and brought them back and smashed the fence down--he is an important official, the officers and all soldiers obeyed him at the Legation. That would certainly have made Raiko kowtow for a year or more and guaranteed he would have the service he wanted when he wanted--we might have had to run off too.

That is what I would have done if I was an important official like him." Hiraga smiled and Fujiko suppressed a shiver. "It's a matter of face. Yet they understand face very well. They would have defended their stupid Legation to the last man, then the fleet would have laid waste Yedo."

"Isn't that what we want?"

"Yes." Hiraga laughed. "But not when you are weaponless and grovelling like a gardener--I really felt naked!" Again a refill. Hiraga looked at her. Ordinarily, even though the girl of the evening was not particularly attractive, his normal virility and the sak`e would arouse him.

Tonight was different. This was the gai-jin Yoshiwara, she had bedded them so was tainted. Perhaps Ori would like her, he thought, and smiled back at her for face. "Order some food, eh, Fujiko? The best the house can provide."

"At once, Hiraga-san." She hurried away.

"Listen, Ori," Hiraga whispered so no one could overhear. "There's great danger here."

He took out the folded poster.

Ori was shocked. "Two koku? That will tempt anyone. It could be you, not exactly, but a Barrier guard might stop you."

"Raiko said the same."

Ori looked up at him. "Joun was an artist, a good one."

"I'd thought of that, and I've been wondering how they caught him and broke him. He knows many shishi secrets, knows Katsumata's planning to intercept the Shogun."

"Disgusting, allowing himself to be caught alive.

It is obvious we have been infiltrated." Ori handed the picture back. "Two koku would tempt anyone, even the most zealous mama-san."

"I thought of that too."

"Grow a beard, Hiraga, or mustache, that would help."

"Yes, that would help." Hiraga was glad that Ori was back in his head again, his counsel always valuable. "A strange feeling to know that this is out there."

Ori broke the silence. "In a day or two, soon as I can, I am stronger every day, I will go to Kyoto and join Katsumata to warn him about Joun. He should be warned."

"Yes, good idea, very good."

"What about you?"

"I am safe amongst the gai-jin, safer there than anywhere--so long as I'm not betrayed.

Akimoto's at Hodogaya, I have sent for him, then we can decide."

"Good. You will be safer to try for Kyoto at once, before these pictures are sent throughout the Tokaido."

"No. Taira is too good an opportunity to miss. I will cache swords there in case."

"Get a revolver, less obvious." Ori put his right hand inside his yokata, moving it away from his shoulder, and scratched the bandage.

Hiraga was shocked to see the little gold cross on the thin gold chain around his neck. "Why wear that?"

Ori shrugged. "It amuses me."

"Get rid of it, Ori--it ties you to the Tokaido killing, Shorin and her. The cross is an unnecessary danger."

"Many samurai are Christian."

"Yes but she could identify that cross. It is insane to take such a risk. If you want to wear one get another."

After a pause Ori said, "This one amuses me."

Hiraga saw the inflexibility, cursed him inwardly but decided it was his duty to protect the shishi movement, protect sonno-joi and now was the time. "Take-it-off!"

The blood soared into Ori's face.

His half smile did not change but he knew he was called. His choice was simple: refuse and die, or obey.

A mosquito buzzed around his face. He disregarded it, not wanting to make a sudden movement. Slowly his right hand pulled the chain away from his neck, breaking it. The cross and chain vanished into his sleeve pocket. Then he placed both hands on the tatami and bowed low.

"You are right, Hiraga-san, it was an unnecessary danger. Please accept my apologies."

Silently Hiraga bowed back. Only then did he relax and Ori straighten. Both men knew their relationship had changed. Permanently.

They had not become enemies, just were no longer friends, allies always, but never friends again. Ever. As Ori picked up his cup and raised it, toasting him, he was pleased to find his inner rage so controlled that his fingers did not shake. "Thank you."

Hiraga drank with him, leaned over and poured for both of them. "Now Sumomo. Please tell me about her."

"I remember almost nothing." Ori opened his fan and wafted the mosquito away. "The mama-san Noriko told me Sumomo arrived like a spirit with me on a stretcher, told her almost nothing except that a gai-jin doctor had cut me open and sewed me up again. She paid half Shorin's debts and persuaded her to hide me.

During the waiting Sumomo spoke hardly at all after asking about Shorin, what had happened to him. When the messenger returned from Yedo with your message she left for Shimonoseki at once.

The only news she gave was that Satsuma is mobilizing for war, and your Choshu batteries had again fired on the gai-jin ships in the Straits, turning them back."

"Good. You told her everything about Shorin?"

"Yes. She asked me seriously and then, after I told her she said she would be revenged."

"Did she leave any message or letter with the mama-san?"

Ori shrugged. "She left nothing with me."

Perhaps Noriko has one, Hiraga thought.

Never mind, that can wait. "She looked well?"

"Yes. I owe her my life."

"Yes. One day she will want to collect that debt."

"Repaying her I repay you and honor sonno-joi."

They sat in silence, each wondering what the other was thinking, really thinking.

Hiraga smiled suddenly. "Tonight in the Settlement there was a big celebration, vile music and much drinking, it's their custom when a man agrees to marry." He quaffed his cup.

"This sak`e is good. One of the merchants--the gai-jin you cut at the Tokaido--is going to marry that woman."

Ori was dumbfounded. "The woman of the Cross? She's here?"

"I saw her tonight."

"So!" Ori muttered as though to himself, then finished his sak`e and poured for both of them. A little wine spilled unnoticed on the tray. "She's to be married? When?"

Hiraga shrugged. "I don't know. I saw him and her together tonight, he walks with two canes like a cripple--your blow wounded him severely, Ori."

"Good. And the, the woman what was she like?"

Hiraga laughed. "Outlandish, Ori, total buffoonery." He described her crinoline. And her hairstyle. And got up and parodied her gait. Soon both men were almost rolling on the tatamis with laughter. "... breasts out to here, depraved! Just before I came here I peered in a window. Men clutched her openly, she and a man clutched each other, twirling in a sort of dance in front of everyone to these horrid-sounding instruments, you couldn't call it music! kicking up her skirts so you could see halfway up, and frilly white pants to the ankles. I would never have believed it if I hadn't seen it for myself but she went from man to man like a one-sen whore and they all cheered her. The fool who's going to marry her, he just sat in a chair and beamed, imagine that!" He poured but the bottle was empty.

"Sak`e!"

At once the door opened, a maid came in on her knees with two new flasks, poured and scuttled away. He belched, the sak`e getting to him. "They acted like beasts. Without their cannon and ships they are beyond contempt."

Ori glanced out of the window, towards the sea.

"What is it?" Hiraga was suddenly on guard. "Danger?"

"No, no it was nothing."

Hiraga frowned uneasily, remembering how sensitive Ori was to outside emanations. "Do you have swords here?"

"Yes. Raiko guards them for me."

"I hate not having swords in my belt."

"Yes."

For a time they drank in silence and then the food arrived, small dishes of broiled fish, rice, sushi and sashimi, and a Portuguese dish called tempura--fish and vegetables dipped in rice flour and deep fried. Before the Portuguese arrived about A.d. 1550, the first Europeans to appear off their shores, Japanese did not know the frying technique.

When they were replete, they sent for Raiko and complimented her, refused the entertainment services of a geisha, so she bowed and left them. "You can go, Fujiko. Tomorrow, I will be here sometime after sunset."

"Yes, Hiraga-san." Fujiko bowed very low, content to be dismissed without further work as Raiko had already told her her fee was generous.

"Thank you for honoring me."

"Of course nothing that you hear or see will ever be mentioned to the Taira or any gai-jin or anyone."

Her head jerked up shock. "Of course not, Hiraga-sama." When she saw his eyes her heart lurched. "Of course not," she repeated, her voice barely audible, bowed her forehead to the tatami and, deeply frightened, left them.

"Ori, we take a risk with that woman, listening."

"With any of them. But she would never dare, nor the others." Ori used his fan against the night insects. "Before we leave we will agree a price with Raiko to see Fujiko is placed in a low-grade house where she will be too busy to make mischief and be well away from all gai-jin, and Bakufu."

"Good. That is good advice. It may be expensive, Raiko said Fujiko is extremely popular with gai-jin for some reason."

"Fujiko?"

"Yes. Strange, neh? Raiko says their ways are so different from us." Hiraga saw Ori's smile twist. "What?"

"Nothing. We can talk more tomorrow."

Hiraga nodded, drained the last cup then got up, stripped off the starched yukata that all Houses and Inns habitually supplied their clients, and dressed again in the most ordinary kimono of a villager, rough turban and coolie straw hat, then shouldered the empty delivery basket.

"Are you safe like that?"

"Yes, so long as I do not have to uncover, and I've these." Hiraga showed the two passes Tyrer had given him, one for Japanese, one for English. "Guards on the gate and at the bridge are alert, and soldiers patrol the Settlement at night. There's no curfew but Taira warned me to be careful."

Thoughtfully Ori handed the passes back.

He tucked them in his sleeve. "Good night, Ori."

"Yes, good night, Hiraga-san." Ori looked up at him strangely. "I would like to know where the woman lives."

Hiraga's eyes narrowed. "So?"

"Yes. I would like to know where. Exactly."

"I can find out, probably. And then?"

The silence concentrated. Ori was thinking, I'm not sure tonight, I wish I was, but every time I let my mind free I remember that night and my never-ending surge within her. If I had killed her then that would have ended it, but knowing she's alive I'm haunted. She haunts me. It's stupid, stupid but I'm bewitched. She's evil, disgusting, I know it, but still I'm bewitched and I'm sure that as long as she's alive she will always haunt me.

"And then?" Hiraga said again.

Ori had kept all his thoughts off his face.

He looked back at him levelly and shrugged.

Wednesday, 15th October

Wednesday, 15th October: Andr`e Poncin blinked. "You're pregnant?"

"Yes," she said softly. "You see th--"

"That's wonderful, that makes everything perfect!" he burst out, his shock turning into a huge beam, because Struan, the British gentleman, had wronged an innocent lady, and now could not avoid an early marriage and remain a gentleman. "Madam, may I congratulate y--"

"Hush, Andr`e, no you can't and not so loud, walls have ears, particularly Legations, no?" she whispered, feeling out of herself, astounded that her voice remained so calm and she felt so calm and could tell him so easily. "You see, unfortunately, the father is not Monsieur Struan."

His smile vanished and then came back.

"You're joking of course, but why the jo--"

"Just listen, please." Angelique moved her chair closer to him. "I was raped in Kanagawa ..."

He stared at her, dumbfounded, as she told him what she thought had happened to her, what she had decided to do, how she had hidden the horror ever since.

"My God, poor Angelique, poor thing, how terrible for you," was all he managed to mutter, deeply shocked, while another piece of the puzzle fell into place. Sir William, Seratard and Struan had decided to restrict news about Dr. Hoag's operation at Kanagawa to as few people as possible--keeping it particularly from Angelique, both doctors advising that to be medically wise. "Why agitate her unnecessarily? She's upset enough about the Tokaido affair."

No reason yet to tell her, Andr`e thought uneasily, the irony rocking him.

He took her hand and caressed it, forcing himself to push away his own worries and concentrate on her. Seeing her there, sitting beside him in his office, so serene and demure, clear eyes and picture of innocence, only a few hours ago the belle of the best ball Yokohama had ever had, gave her story an air of total unreality. "This really happened? Really?"

She raised her hand as though taking an oath.

"I swear it, by God." Now her hands were folded in her lap. Pale yellow hooped day dress, tiny orange bonnet and umbrella.

Bewildered, he shook his head. "Seems impossible."

Throughout his adult years he had been part of many such man-woman tragedies: put into some by his superiors, stumbling into a few, precipitating many, and using most if not all for the betterment of his Cause: for France--the Revolution, Libert`e Fraternit`e Egalit`e, or Emperor Louis Napoleon, whoever or whatever the current vogue--and for himself, first.

Why not? he thought. What has France done for me, what will she do for me? Nothing. But this Angelique, she's either going to fall apart any moment--her serenity's unreal--or she's like some women I've known, born bad who twist truth brilliantly for their own purposes, or like some who have been pushed over the brink by terror to become a calculating, cold-blooded woman beyond her years. "What?"

"I need to remove the problem, Andr`e."

"You mean abortion? You're Catholic!"

"So are you. This is a matter between me and God."

"What about confession? You have to be confessed. This Sunday you must go an--"

"That is a matter between me and a priest, and then God. The problem must be removed first."

"That is against God's law and man's law."

"And has been done throughout the centuries since before the Flood." An edge crept into her voice. "Do you confess everything? Adultery is also against "God's law," isn't it?

Killing's against all law too. Isn't it?"

"Who says I've killed anyone?"

"No one, but it's more than likely you have or caused deaths. These are violent times. Andr`e, I need your help."

"You risk eternal damnation."

Yes, I've agonized over that with lakes of tears, she thought grimly, keeping her eyes innocent, hating him and that she had to trust him.

This morning she had awakened early and lay there thinking, reconsidering her plan, and came to realize of a sudden that she should hate all men.

Men cause all our problems, fathers, husbands, brothers, sons, and priests--priests the worst of all men, lots of them notorious fornicators and deviates, liars, who use the Church for their own rotten purposes, though it is true a few are saints. Priests and other men control our world and ruin it for women. I hate them all--except Malcolm. I don't hate him, not yet. I don't know if I truly love him, I don't know what love is, but I like him more than any man I've ever known, and I understand him.

As to the rest, thank God my eyes are open at last! She was looking at Andr`e, trustful and begging. Damn you that I have to put my life in thrall to you, but thank God I see through you now.

Malcolm and Jamie are right, all you want is to dominate Struan's or cause its downfall. Damnation that I have to trust any man.

If only I was in Paris, or even Hong Kong, there are dozens of women I could discreetly ask for the necessary help but none here. Those two hags? Impossible! They clearly hate me and are enemy.

She allowed a few tears to appear. "Please help me."

He sighed. "I will talk to Babcott this morn--"

"Are you mad? Of course we dare not involve him. Or Hoag. No, Andr`e, I've thought it all out very carefully. Neither of them. We must find someone else. A madam."

He gaped at her again, stunned by the calm voice and logic. "You mean a mama-san?" he stuttered.

"What's that?"

"Oh... that's the woman, the Japanese woman who, who runs the local whorehouses, contracts for the services of the girls, arranges prices, allocates girls. And so on."

Her brow creased. "I hadn't thought of one of them. I did hear there's a house down the road."

"My God! You mean Naughty Nellie's ... in Drunk Town? I wouldn't go there for a thousand louis."

"But isn't the house run by Mrs.Fortheringill's sister? The famous Mrs.

Fortheringill of Hong Kong?"

"How'd you know about her?"

"Oh my God, Andr`e, am I a foolish and bigoted English?" she said testily. "Every European female in Hong Kong knows about Mrs. Fortheringill's Establishment for Young Ladies though they pretend not to and never talk openly about it, or that all but the most stupid know their men visit Chinese Houses, or have Oriental mistresses. Such hypocrisy.

Even you would be astonished to know what ladies discuss in the privacy of their boudoirs, or when there are no men around. In Hong Kong I heard her sister opened the house here."

"It's not the same, Angelique, it caters for seamen, drunks, remittance men--the dregs.

Naughty Nellie isn't her sister, she just claims to be, probably just pays some squeeze for the use of the name."

"Oh! Then where do you go? "For entertainment"?"

"The Yoshiwara," he said and explained, astounded with this conversation and that he, too, could be so open.

"Do you have a special place, a special House? One where you're on good terms with the mama-san?"

"Yes."

"Excellent. Go to your mama-san tonight and get whatever drink they use."

"What?"

"My God, Andr`e, be sensible, be serious!

This is serious and unless we can solve the problem I will never be chatelaine of the Noble House, so will never be able to assist... certain interests." She saw that this hit the mark and was further pleased with herself. "Go there tonight and ask her for it. Don't ask your girl or a girl for it, they probably won't know. Ask the patronne, the mama-san. You can say that "the girl" is overdue."

"I don't know if they have such a medicine."

She smiled benignly. "Don't be silly, Andr`e, of course they have, they must have." Her right hand began straightening the fingers of her left-hand glove. "Once this problem is out of the way, everything will be wonderful, we'll be married at Christmas. By the way I decided it would be better to move out of the Struan suite until we're married--now that Monsieur Struan is gaining strength every day. I'll be moving back to the Legation this afternoon."

"Is that wise? Better to stay close to him."

"Normally yes. Except there are proprieties, but more important, I'm sure the medicine will not make me feel pleasant for a day or two. As soon as that's over I'll decide if I should go back. I know I can rely on you, my friend." She stood up. "The same time tomorrow?"

"If I've nothing I'll send word to let you know."

"No. Better we meet here at noon. I know I can rely on you." She smiled her nicest smile.

He tingled, both because of the smile and because, whatever happened now, she was chained to him forever.

"Those characters," he said, "the ones written on the sheet, do you remember them?"

"Yes," she said, surprised by the non sequitur. "Why?"

"Could you draw them for me? I might recognize them, they might have a meaning."

"They were on the counterpane, not the sheet. In, in his blood." She took a deep breath and reached over and took the pen and dipped it in the ink.

"One thing I forgot to tell you. When I woke up, the little cross I'd worn since a child had vanished. I searched everywhere but it had gone."

"He stole it?"

"I presume so. But nothing else. There was some jewelry but that was not touched. The pieces were not too valuable but worth more than the cross."

The thought of her lying there in that bed, inert, the nightdress slit from neck to hem, the rapist's hand pulling away the chain, moonlight glinting on the cross, before or after, spreading her, rapidly became real and erotic and throbbed him. His eyes flowed over her and she bent over the desk, oblivious of his lust.

"There," she said and handed him the paper.

He stared at it, the sunlight glinting on the gold signet ring he always wore. The characters did not relate in any way to anything. "Sorry, they mean nothing, don't even look Chinese-- Chinese or Japanese the writing's the same."

At a sudden thought he inverted the paper and gasped. "Tokaido--that's what they mean!" The color went out of her face. "You just copied them upside down. Tokaido ties everything together!

He wanted you to know, wanted the whole Settlement to know and we would have, if you'd told anyone what had happened! But why?"

Shakily her fingers went to her temples.

"I, I don't know. Perhaps... I don't know. He, he must be dead by now, Monsieur Struan shot him, surely he must be dead."

Andr`e hesitated uneasily, weighing the reasons for and against. "Since we share so many secrets, and clearly you know how to keep one, sorry but now another is necessary." He told her about Hoag and the operation. "It wasn't Hoag's fault, he had no way of knowing. It's ironic, both doctors advised against telling you, to save you anguish."

"It's because of Babcott and his opiate I am where I am," she muttered, her voice chilling him. "The man's alive then?"

"We don't know. Hoag didn't give him much of a chance. Why would that devil want his evil known, Angelique?"

"Are there any other secrets about this horror that you know and I don't?"

"No. Why should he want everyone to know?

Bravado?"

For a long time she stood staring at what she had drawn. Motionless except for her breast that rose and fell with the regularity of her breathing. Then, without another word she walked out. The door closed quietly.

He shook his head in wonder, stared back at the paper.

Tyrer was in the small bungalow adjoining the British Legation that he shared with Babcott, practicing calligraphy with Nakama, the name by which he knew Hiraga. "Please give me the Japanese for: today, tomorrow, the day after, next week, next year, the days of the week and the months of the year."

"Yes, Taira-san." Carefully, Hiraga said a Japanese word, watched as Tyrer wrote it phonetically in roman letters.

Then Hiraga wrote the characters in the space provided and again watched while Tyrer copied them. "You good student. A'ways use same order for strokes, easy, then no forget."

"Yes, I'm beginning to understand. Thank you, you're very helpful," Tyrer replied pleasantly, enjoying writing and reading and learning --and teaching him in return, noticing that Nakama was highly intelligent and a quick study. He worked through the list with him, and when he was satisfied he said, "Good. Thank you. Now please go to Raiko-san and confirm my appointment for tomorrow."

""Conf'rm," p'rease?"

"Make sure of. Make sure my appointment is certain."

"Ah, understand." Hiraga rubbed his chin, already dark with an overnight stubble. "I go now conf'rm."

"I'll be back after lunch. Please be here, then we can practice conversation and you can tell me more about Japan. How do I say that in Japanese?" Hiraga gave him the words.

Tyrer wrote them phonetically in an exercise book, now crammed with words and phrases, repeated them several times until satisfied.

He was about to dismiss him, then, on a sudden thought said, "What's a "ronin"?"

Hiraga thought a moment, then explained as simply as he could. But not about shishi.

"Then you're a ronin, outlawed?"

"Hai."

Thoughtfully Tyrer thanked him and let him go.

He stifled a yawn. Last night he had slept badly, his world upside down at Raiko's unexpected rejection.

Damn Raiko, damn Fujiko, he thought, putting on his top hat, preparing to walk down High Street to the Club for tiffin lunch.

Damn learning Japanese and damn everything, my head aches and I'll never never never learn this dreadfully complicated language. "Don't be ridiculous," he said aloud. Of course you will, you've got Nakama and Andr`e, two very good teachers, tonight you'll have a good supper, a bottle of champagne with someone jolly, and so to bed. And don't damn Fujiko, soon you'll sleep with her again. Oh God, I hope so!

The day was fair and the bay crowded with ships.

Traders were converging on the Club. "Oh hello, Andr`e! Good to see you, would you care to join me for lunch?"

"Thank you no." Poncin did not stop.

"What's up? You all right?"

"Nothing's up. Some other time."

"Tomorrow?" Not like Andr`e to be so abrupt.

Damn I wanted to ask him what I should-- "I'll join you, Phillip, if I may,"

McFay said.

"Of course, Jamie. You look hung over, old chap."

"I am. You look the same. That was some party."

"Yes. How's Malcolm?"

"Not so hot. He's one of the things I wanted to talk about." They found a table, the room smoke-filled, airless and crowded, everyone as usual in frock coats.

They were sitting at a corner table, Chinese servants carrying trays of roast beef, chicken pies, fish pies, fish soup, Cornish pasties, Yorkshire puddings, salt pork, curries and bowls of rice for the old China Hands, plus whisky, rum, gin, porter, champagne, red and white wine and tankards of beer. Fly swots laid beside every place.

McFay used the fly whisk. "Wanted to ask you to talk to Malcolm, not at my suggestion, tell him it'd be a good idea to go back to Hong Kong as soon as possible."

"But Jamie, I'm sure he will, without my saying so. He doesn't listen to me, why should he? What's up?"

"His mother. I'm afraid now that's no secret. Don't say anything but she writes by every mail ordering me to order him back--there's not a bloody thing I can do, he just won't listen and when the news of the party and his formal engagement reaches Hong Kong..." McFay rolled his eyes. "Ayeeyah! The shit will spread from here to Yedo."

In spite of McFay's seriousness Tyrer laughed. "It already has, it's stinky poo like never before. The Legation garden's knee-deep in a new dressing of prime."

"Oh?" The Scot frowned and sniffed the air.

"Hadn't noticed. How's the curry?" he asked a neighbor.

"Hot, Jamie." The man, Lunkchurch, spat a piece of chicken bone into the floor sawdust. "I'm on seconds."

Tyrer beckoned one of the waiters brushing past but the toothy youth deliberately avoided seeing him.

"Hey, Dew neh loh moh, waiter!"

McFay shouted irritably. "Curry plenty quick, heya!"

There was a shout of laughter and much jeering and catcalls at the Chinese curse words from the traders and merchants, and sour looks from the padre of the Highland Battalion who was lunching expansively with his Church of England counterpart from the Dragoons, and their own pastor.

A plate of blood-rare roast beef was plunked down vigorously in front of McFay. "Curry, Mass'er, plenty werry quick quick heya?" the young servant said, beaming.

Exasperated, McFay shoved the plate back. "This's roast beef for God's sake!

Curry, for Christ's sake, fetch CURRY!"

"I'll have the chicken pie," Tyrer said hastily.

Grumbling the servant went back to the kitchen and once inside the door bellowed with laughter amidst the pandemonium there. "Noble House Fay blew up like a barrel of fireworks when I shoved roast beef under his bulbous nose, pretending I thought it was curry. Ayeeyah," he said, holding his stomach with laughter, "I almost shat. Baiting foreign devils is more fun than fornication!"

Others laughed with him until the Head Cook reached over and belted him around the face.

"Listen, you dirty little fornicator--and the rest of you--don't bait Noble House foreign devils until Noble House Chen says it is all right.

Now take Noble House Fay his curry quickly and don't spit in it or I'll feed you your testicles in batter."

"Ayeeyah, spitting in foreign devil food is quite ordinary, Honorable Chief Cook," the youth muttered, his head almost off his shoulders, picked up a plate of chicken pie as well, then rushed to obey.

The plate of curry and bowl of rice banged on the table in front of McFay. "Curry, Mass'er, you wan' heya never mind." The youth hurried away, cursing inwardly, head aching, but still content for though he had not dared to disobey the Head Cook, he had kept his dirty thumb in the curry all the way from the kitchen.

"Rude bastard," Jamie said. "Ten dollars to a busted flush the bugger spat in it bringing it here."

"If you're so sure, why shout at him?"

Tyrer began cutting the Melton Mowbray-type pie with its thick crust.

"He needs it, they all need, and a good kick in the backside as well." With gusto McFay began tucking into the yellowish, gruel-like mutton and potato curry, globules of fat swimming on the surface. "Next, I hear you smuggled a samurai out of Yedo who speaks some English."

Tyrer almost choked on a piece of chicken.

"Rubbish!"

"Then why're you almost purple, for goodness' sake? You're talking to me, Noble House McFay! Come on, Phillip, how do you expect to keep that secret here? You were overheard." Perspiration dotted his brow from the heat of the curry, from time to time waving the flies away. "This's hot enough to fry your balls off-- good though. You want to try some?"

"No thanks."

Happily McFay continued to eat. Then, between mouthfuls his voice hardened though he still spoke confidentially. "Unless you talk to me openly about him, old chap, in confidence--my word on it--and share everything, all his info, I'll make an announcement here and now--to him." His spoon pointed at Nettlesmith, editor of the Yokohama Guardian, who was already watching them interestedly. A splatter of curry fell on the tablecloth. "If Wee Willie reads about your secret first in the paper, he'll bust a gut like you've never seen."

All Tyrer's hunger had vanished.

Queasily he said, "I, it's true we helped a dissident escape from Yedo. That's all I can say. Now he's under H.m.'s protection for the moment. Sorry, can't say any more, Official Secrets."

McFay eyed him shrewdly. "Her Britannic Majesty's protection eh?"

"Yes, sorry. Closed mouth catchee no flies, can't say any more. Secrets of State."

"Interesting." McFay finished the plate and shouted for a second helping. "But in return I won't tell a soul."

"Sorry, I'm sworn to secrecy." Tyrer was sweating too, a way of life in Asia except during the winter and spring months, and also because his secret was known. Even so, he was pleased with the way he was handling Jamie, undoubtedly the most important of the Yokohama traders.

"I'm sure you understand."

McFay nodded pleasantly, concentrating on his curry. "I understand very well, old chap. The very second I'm finished, Nettlesmith gets the exclusive."

"You wouldn't dare!" Tyrer was shocked.

"State s--"

"Balderdash on State secrets,"

McFay hissed. "First I don't believe you, second, even if it was we've the right to know, we're the State, by God, not a bunch of diplomat scallywags who can't fart their way out of an empty bag!"

"Now look here..."

"I'm looking. Share, Phillip, or read about it in the afternoon edition." McFay's beam was seraphic as he sopped up the last of the gravy with a final hunk of bread, and consumed it. He belched and pushed his chair away from the table and began to get up. "On your own head."

"Wait."

"Everything? You agree to tell me everything?"

Numbly Tyrer nodded. "If you swear to keep it secret."

"Good, but not here. My office's safer. Come on." As he passed Nettlesmith he said, "What's new, Gabriel?"

"Read the afternoon edition, Jamie. War soon in Europe, terrible in America, war brewing here."

"Just the usual. Well, see y--"

"Afternoon, Mr. Tyrer." Nettlesmith's canny eyes washed over him as he scratched thoughtfully then put his attention to McFay again.

"I've an advanced copy of the last chapter of Great Expectations."

Jamie shuddered to a stop, Phillip too.

"I don't believe it, by God!"

"Ten dollars and the promise of an exclusive."

"What exclusive?"

"When you have one. I'll trust you." Again the shrewd eyes looked at Tyrer who tried not to wince.

"This afternoon, Gabriel? Without fail?"

"Yes, for one hour, so you can't copy it--it's my exclusive. It cost me almost every favor I have in Fleet Street to aquir--"

"To steal. Two dollars?"

"Eight, but your hour's after Norbert's."

"My last offer, eight--and I read it first?"

"Plus the exclusive? Good. You're a gentleman and a scholar, Jamie. I'll be in your office at three."

Through his open window Tyrer heard the ship's bell at the Harbor Master's office sound eight bells. His feet were propped on his desk, and he was dozing, his afternoon calligraphy exercises forgotten. No need to look at the mantelpiece clock. His brain told him it was 4:00 P.m. Now aboard ships would be the first afternoon dogwatch, a two-hour period lasting from 4:00 P.m. to 6:00 P.m., then the second from 6:00 P.m. to 8:00 P.m., thence to the normal four-hour periods until tomorrow at 4:00 P.m. Marlowe had explained that dogwatches had been invented to allow crews to be rotated.

He yawned and opened his eyes, thinking, Not much more than half a year ago, I'd never even heard of a dogwatch or been on a warship and now I'm telling time by ship's bells as easy as with a timepiece.

His mantelpiece clock chimed four.

Exactly correct. In half an hour I'm to see Sir William. The Swiss can certainly make chronometers, better than us.

Where the devil's Nakama? Has he run off?

He should have been back hours ago. What the devil does Sir William want? Hope to God he hasn't heard about my secret.

Hope he just wants more dispatches copied.

Blast it that my writing's the best in the Legation, I'm supposed to be a translator not a clerk! Damn damn damn!

He got up wearily, tidied his work and began to wash his hands in the basin, getting the ink off his fingers. A knock. "Come in."

Behind Hiraga was a Redcoat sergeant and a soldier, both with bayoneted rifles and both angry. Hiraga was bruised, dishevelled, grey with rage and almost naked, hat gone, turban gone, his villager kimono in shreds.

The Sergeant shoved him forward, bayonet ready, and saluted. "We caught 'im climbing in over the fence, sir. We 'ad the devil of a time getting 'im nice and quiet. 'e's got a pass, signed by you. Is it real?"

"Yes, yes it is." Aghast, Tyrer came forward. "He's a guest here, Sergeant, a guest of Sir William, and me, he's a Japanese teacher."

"A teacher, eh?" the Sergeant said grimly.

"Well, tell the bugger teachers don't climb fences, don't try to run off, don't 'ave samurai 'aircuts, don't frighten people or fight like a bag full of tomcats--I've one man wiv 'is arm broke and another wiv a busted nose. Next time we catch 'im at it, we won't be so careful." Both soldiers stomped off.

Tyrer closed the door, rushed to the sideboard and brought some water back. "Here."

Hiraga shook his head, choked with rage.

"Please. Would you like sak`e or beer?"

"Iy`e."

"Please... well, sit down and tell me what happened."

Hiraga began pouring out an explanation in Japanese.

"Gomen nasai, Ing'erish dozo."

Sorry, English please.

With an effort, Hiraga changed to English and with long seething pauses between words he said, "Many guard at Gate and Bridge. I go through swamp, go through water, over fence. These so'dier see me. I stop, bow, reach for pass, they throw to ground. Fight, but too many." Then he followed with another searing flood of Japanese venom and promises of revenge.

When the paroxysm was spent, Tyrer said, "Sorry but it's your own fault..." He darted back involuntarily as Hiraga whirled on him. "Stop it!" he said angrily. "The soldier was right. Samurai frighten people! Sir William told you to be careful, so did I, we asked you to be careful."

"I was being polite, only doing what was correct!" Hiraga said in angry Japanese. "Those ill-mannered apes fell on me, I was reaching for the pass, it was difficult to find. Apes, I'll kill them all!"

Tyrer's heart was pounding and the sweet sick of fear was in his mouth. "Listen, we must solve this together, quickly. When Sir William hears about this he may throw you out of the Settlement! You and I must solve this, understand?"

"Iy`e! What is "so'rve" please?"

Tyrer was thankful to hear the "please" and held on to his fright. This fellow's clearly as dangerous and as violent and hotheaded as any samurai in Japan. Thank God he's not armed. ""Solve" means to arrive at an understanding. We must solve this problem, we must, you and I, how to have you live here safely. You understand?"

"Hai. So desu ka! Wakarimasu.

Taira-san me we so'rve prob'rem."

Hiraga curbed his rage. "P'rease, what sugg'st? Pass no good for so'dier. Men who see me, hate. How so'rve this matter?"

"First... first there's a good old English custom. Whenever we have to solve a serious problem. We have tea."

Hiraga stared at him blankly. Tyrer rang a bell and ordered tea from Chen, the Number One Boy who eyed Hiraga suspiciously, an ugly chopper concealed behind his back.

While they waited Tyrer sat back in his chair and solemnly stared out of the window, desperately wanting the other man to tell him about Fujiko but too well mannered to ask directly such a leading question. Damn the fellow, he was thinking, he should volunteer the info knowing I must be anxious as hell and not make me bloody wait. Got to teach him English ways, got to teach him not to fly off the handle, the soldiers were quite right. Got to make an English gentleman out of him. But how? Then there's bloody Jamie who's too damned clever.

After lunch he had gone with McFay to his office, was pressed to have a small brandy and then, within minutes, he found that he had told him everything.

"Och, Phillip, you're brilliant,"

McFay had told him with genuine enthusiasm.

"That laddie will be a veritable gold mine if asked the right questions. Did he say where he was from?"' "Choshu, I think that's what he said."

"I'd like to talk to him--privately."

"If he talks to you then others are bound to find out and then the news will be... will be out everywhere."

"If I know, Norbert knows, and I'll bet the Bakufu knows--they're no fools.

Sorry, but there are no secrets here, how many times must I remind you?"' "All right, I'll ask him. But only if I'm present when you see him."

"Now that's not really necessary, Phillip, you've got so much to do. I would'na want to waste your time."

"Yes or no!"

McFay sighed. "You're a hard man, Phillip. All right."

"And if I also get to read the last chapter, without charge, say tomorrow. You arrange it with Nettlesmith."

Sharply, McFay said, "If I have to pay the astounding sum of eight dollars, you have to contribute as well."

"Then no interview, and I'll inform Sir William." He smiled to himself remembering the sour look on McFay's face and then, "Cha, Mass'er plenty quick quick," interrupted his thoughts bringing him back to Nakama. Chen put down the tray, no longer carrying the chopper, but it was close at hand, outside the door.

Gravely Tyrer poured for both of them, added milk and sugar and sipped the scalding, iron black brew with relish. "That's better."

Hiraga imitated him. It took all of his willpower not to cry out from the heat, and to hold in what was the foulest-tasting liquid he had ever had in his life.

"Good, eh?" Tyrer said with a beam, finishing his cup. "Some more?"

"No, no thank you. Ing'erish custom, yes?"

"English and American, yes, not French. The French," Tyrer shrugged. "They've no taste."

"Ah, so ka?" Hiraga had noticed the slight sneer. "French not same as Ing'erish?" he asked with a pretended innocence, his fury compartmentalized for later.

"My goodness me, no, not like them at all.

They're on the Continent, we're an island nation like you. Different customs, different foods, government, everything, and of course France's a minor power compared to Britain." Tyrer stirred in another spoon of sugar, pleased with himself that the man's rage seemed to have dissipated. "Very different."

"Oh, so? Ing'erish and French warred hav?"

Tyrer laughed. "Dozens of times over the centuries, and allies in other wars--we were allies in the last conflict." He told him briefly about the Crimea, then about Napoleon Bonaparte, the French revolution, and the present Emperor Louis Napoleon. "He's Bonaparte's nephew, an absolute buffoon.

Bonaparte wasn't, but one of the most evil men ever born, he was responsible for hundreds of thousands of deaths. But for Wellington and Nelson and our troops he would have ruled the world. Are you understanding all this?"

Hiraga nodded, "No o'rr word, but un'erstand." But he had caught the gist and this turned his head upside down, though he could not fathom why a great general should be considered evil.

"P'rease go on, Taira-san."

For a little while Tyrer did, then stopped the history lesson and gave him a lead: "Now to your problem. When you left the Yoshiwara those guards gave you no trouble?"

"No, pretend take vegitab'res."

"That's good, oh by the way, did you see Raiko-san?"

"Yes. Fujiko not possib're tomorrow."

"Oh. Well never mind." Tyrer shrugged, dying inside.

But Hiraga saw the vast disappointment and savored it. Sonno-joi, he thought grimly.

He had had to buy Fujiko's services himself but he did not mind. Raiko had said: "Since you pay well, though not gai-jin prices, I agree. But he should bed her the day after. I wouldn't want him to find another..."

Tyrer was saying, "Nakama-san, the only real way you can be safe here is to never go out. I won't send you to the Yoshiwara anymore. You must stay here, inside the Legation."

"Better, Taira-san, I stay in vi'rrage, find safe house. Inside fence safer. Each day I come at sunup, or when you want, teach and to 'rearn. You very good Sensei.

This so'rve prob'rem, yes?"

Tyrer hesitated, not wanting him off the leash but no longer caring to have him too close. "Yes, if first you show me where exactly and do not move without telling me."

In a moment Hiraga nodded and said, "I agree. P'rease, you say so'diers good me stay here and in vi'rrage?"

"Yes, I'll do that. I'm sure Sir William will agree."

"Thank you, Taira-san. Say so'diers also, if attack again I get katana."

"You will do no such thing! I forbid it, Sir William has forbidden it! No weapons, no swords!"

"P'rease you say so'dier, no attack p'rease."

"Yes, I'll do that but if you wear swords here you will be killed, they'll shoot you!"

Hiraga shrugged. "P'rease, no attack.

Wakatta?"

Tyrer did not reply. Wakatta was the imperious form of wakarimasu ka: Do you understand?

"Domo." With a contained violence that Tyrer could almost smell, Nakama thanked him again and said that he would return at dawn to guide him to the safe house, and would be ready then to answer any questions that he wanted to ask. He bowed stiffly.

Tyrer did the same. He walked out. It was only then that Tyrer saw the extent of the bruises over all his back and legs.

That night the wind became changeable, the sea choppy.

Out in the roads the fleet was snug at anchor and ready for sleep, the first night watch that came on duty at 8:00 P.m. already at their stations. Upwards of fifty men were in various cells for various offenses and with varying degrees of fear six were diligently making their own cat-o'-nine-tails for the fifty lashes they were due at dawn for conduct prejudicial to good order and military discipline: one for threatening to break the neck of a sodomite Bosun, three for fighting, one for stealing a rum ration, and another for swearing at an officer.

Nine sea burials were scheduled for sunup.

All ship's sick bays were overloaded with sufferers of dysentery, diarrhea, the croup, whooping cough, scarlet fever, measles, venereal diseases, broken limbs, hernias and the like, routine except for a dangerous fourteen with smallpox aboard the flagship. Bleeding and violent purges were the recommended cures for most illnesses--the majority of doctors also being barbers--except for the lucky few patients who were given Dr. Collis's Tincture, one he had invented during the Crimea that cut dysentery deaths by three quarters: six drops of the dark, opium-based liquid and your bowels began to quieten.

Throughout the Settlement everyone was preparing for dinner and the most eagerly anticipated part of the day: after-dinner conversation, discussing the day's rumors or news--thank God the mail ship's due tomorrow--enjoying the warm camaraderie and laughter over spicy scandals, the ball, tension over business problems and if war would begin, or about the latest book someone had read, a new funny story or poem another had thought up, or telling tales of storms or ice lands or desert, or journeys made to strange places throughout the Empire--New Zealand, Africa and Australia hardly explored but for coastal areas --or the Wild West of America and Canada, stories of the California gold rush of '48, or visits to Spanish or French or Russian America--Dmitri had once sailed the mostly uncharted western seaboard from San Francisco north to Russian Alaska --each man telling of strange sights he had seen, girls sampled or wars witnessed.

Good wine and drinks and pipes and tobacco from Virginia, a few nightcaps at the Club, then prayers and bed.

A normal night in the Empire.

Some hosts specialized in chorals or poetry readings or excerpts from a coveted novel, and tonight at Norbert Greyforth's extremely private party, all guests sworn to secrecy, a special reading of the last chapter from the bootlegged copy he had had produced in his allotted hour by putting all his fifty clerks on to it. "If this leaks, the whole lot of you are dismissed," he had threatened.

In the Club they were still discussing the previous night's ball and trying to work out how to have another.

"Why not make it a bloody weekly bash, eh?

Angel Tits can kick up her heels and show her knickers for me every day of the week along with Naughty Nellie Fortheringill--"

"Stop calling her Angel Tits for chrissake or else!"

"Angel tits she has, and Angel Tits she is!"

To jeers and catcalls the fight started, bets were taken and the two contenders, Lunkchurch and Grimm, another trader, toed the line and tried to smash each other senseless.

Almost directly across the road, on the sea side, was the large brick bungalow of the British Legation, flagpole in the courtyard, gardens, and surrounded like most important dwellings with a defendable fence. Sir William was already dressed for dinner and so was his main guest, the Admiral, both were furious.

"The bloody bastards!" the Admiral said, his flushed face more flushed than usual, going to the sideboard to pour another large whisky.

"They're beyond comprehension."

"Totally." Sir William tossed the scroll aside and glared at Johann and Tyrer who stood in front of him. An hour ago the scroll had arrived by messenger from the Japanese Governor who had sent it on behalf of the Bakufu, "Very urgent so sorry." Instead of being in Dutch as was normal, it was in characters. With Seratard's agreement, Johann had co-opted one of the visiting French Jesuit missionaries and had produced a rough copy that Tyrer at once put into correct English. The message was from the Council of Elders, and signed by Anjo: I communicate with you by dispatch. By orders of the Shogun, received from Kyoto, the provisional date of the meeting in nineteen days with the roju, and meeting the same day with the Shogun, is to be postponed for three months as His Majesty will not return until then. I therefore send you this first, before holding a Conference as to the details. The second installment of the gift is to be delayed for thirty days. Respectful and humble communication.

"Johann," Sir William said, his voice icy, "would you say this is unusually rude, impolite and altogether vile?"

The Swiss said cautiously, "I think that's about right, Sir William."

"For Christ sake, I've spent days negotiating, threatening, losing sleep, renegotiating until they swore on the Shogun's head to meet in Yedo on November 5th, the Shogun on November 6th and now this!" Sir William gulped his drink, choked and swore for almost five minutes in English, French and Russian, the others staring with admiration at the gorgeously descriptive vulgarities.

"Quite right," the Admiral said. "Tyrer, pour Sir William another gin."

Instantly Tyrer obeyed. Sir William found his handkerchief, blew his nose, took some snuff, sneezed and blew his nose again. "The pox on all of them!"

"What do you propose, Sir William?" the Admiral asked, keeping the delight off his face at this further humbling of his adversary.

"Naturally I'll reply at once.

Please order the fleet to Yedo tomorrow to bombard port facilities of my choosing."

The Admiral's blue eyes narrowed. "I think we will discuss this in private. Gentlemen!"

Tyrer and Johann at once began to leave.

"No," Sir William said tightly.

"Johann, you can go, please wait outside.

Tyrer's my personal staff, he stays."

The Admiral's neck reddened but he said nothing until the door had closed. "You know my views on bombardment very well. Until the order from England arrives, I-will-not-order-it unless I am attacked."

"Your position makes negotiations impossible. Power comes from the barrels of our cannon, nothing else!"

"I agree, we only disagree on timing."

"Timing is my decision. Good. Then kindly just order a small cannonade, twenty shells on targets of my choosing."

"Dammit, no! Am I not clear? When the order arrives I will conflagrate Japan if necessary, not before."

Sir William flushed. "Your reluctance to assist Her Majesty's policy in the most minor way is beyond belief."

"Personal aggrandizement seems to be the real problem. What do a few months matter? Nothing --except prudence!"

"Prudence be damned," Sir William said angrily. "Of course we will get instructions to proceed as I, I repeat I advise! It is imprudent to delay. By tomorrow's mail I will request you are replaced by an officer who is more tuned to Her Majesty's interests--and battle trained!"

The Admiral went purple. Only a few knew that in all his career he had never participated in a sea or land engagement. When he could talk he said, "That, sir, is your privilege. Meanwhile until my replacement, or yours arrives, I command Her Majesty's Forces in Japan. Good night sir." The door slammed.

"Rude bugger," Sir William muttered, then to his surprise saw Tyrer who had been standing behind him, out of his eye line, paralyzed by the salvos. "You'd best keep your mouth shut.

Did they teach you that?"

"Yessir, yes indeed."

"Good," Sir William said and took his agitated mind off the Gordian knot of the Bakufu, roju and intransigence of the Admiral for later. "Tyrer, get yourself a sherry, you look as though you need one, and you'd better join us for dinner as the Admiral has declined my invitation. You play backgammon?"

"Yes sir, thank you sir," Tyrer said meekly.

"While I think of it, what's this I hear about a skirmish, your pet samurai versus the British Army?"

Tyrer gave him the details and his solution, but not about his Sensei's threat to get swords, feeling ever more guilty about hiding facts from the Minister. "I'd like to retain him, of course with your approval, sir, but he is a very good teacher and I think will be most useful to us."

"I doubt that and it's more important to have no more trouble here. No telling what the fellow will do, he could become a viper in our nest. He's ordered out tomorrow."

"But sir, he's already given me some very valuable information." Tyrer held on to his sudden distress and blurted out, "For instance he told me the Shogun's only a boy, barely sixteen, he's only the puppet of the Bakufu, the real power belongs to their Emperor--he used the title Mikado several times--who lives in Kyoto."

"God Almighty!" Sir William exploded, "is this true?"

It was on the tip of Tyrer's tongue to tell about the English speaking, but he managed to stop himself. "I don't know yet sir, I haven't had time to really question him, he's difficult to bring out, but yes, I think he told me the truth."

Sir William stared at him, his mind agog with the implications of the information. "What else has he told you?"

"I've only just started and it all takes time as you'll appreciate." Tyrer's excitement picked up. "But he's told me about ronin. The word means "wave," sir, they're called ronin because they're as free as the waves. They're all samurai, but outlawed for different reasons.

Most of them are adversaries of the Bakufu, like Nakama, who believe they've usurped power from the Midako, sorry, Mikado as I said."

"Wait a moment, slow down, slow down, Tyrer. There's plenty of time. Now, what is a ronin, exactly?"

Tyrer told him.

"Good God!" Sir William thought a moment. "So ronin are samurai who are either outlawed because their king has lost favor, or outlawed by their kings for crimes real or imagined, or voluntary outlaws who are banding together to overthrow the central government of the puppet Shogun?"

"Yes sir. He says illegal government."

Sir William sipped the last of his gin, nodding to himself, astonished and elated as he ran this all around in his mind. "Then Nakama's a ronin, and what you call a dissident, and what I'd call a revolutionary?"

"Yes sir. Excuse me, sir, can I sit down?" Tyrer asked shakily, desperate to blurt out the real truth about the man and afraid to do so.

"Of course, of course, Tyrer, so sorry, but first get another sherry and bring me a tot of gin," Sir William watched him, delighted with him yet somehow perturbed. Years of dealing with diplomats, spies, half-truths, lies and blatant disinformation were calling up warning signals that something was being hidden from him. He accepted the drink. "Thanks. Take that chair, it's the most comfortable. Cheers! You must be speaking very good Japanese to get all this in such a short time," he said easily.

"No sir, sorry, I don't, but I spend all my time at it. With Nakama, it's, well, mostly patience, gestures, a few English words and Japanese words and phrases Andr`e Poncin has given me, he's been tremendously helpful, sir."

"Does Andr`e know what this man has told you?"

"No sir."

"Tell him nothing. Nothing at all. Anyone else?"

"No sir, except Jamie McFay."

Tyrer gulped his sherry. "He knew a little already and, well, he's very persuasive and he, well, pried it out about the Shogun."

Sir William sighed. "Yes, Jamie's persuasive, to say the least, and always knows far more than he tells."

He sat back in the comfortable old leather swivel chair and sipped his drink, his mind roving over all this priceless new knowledge, already redesigning his reply to tonight's rude missive, wondering how far he dare gamble and how far he could trust Tyrer's information. As always in these circumstances, queasily he remembered the Permanent Under Secretary's parting salvos about failure.

"About Nakama," he said. "I'll agree to your plan, Phillip... may I call you Phillip?"

Tyrer flushed with pleasure at the sudden and unexpected compliment. "Of course sir, thank you sir."

"Good, thank you. For the moment I'll agree to your plan, but for God's sake be careful of him, don't forget ronin have committed all the murders, except poor Canterbury."

"I'll be careful, Sir William.

Don't worry."

"Get all you can out of him but tell no one else and give me the information at once. For God's sake be careful, always have a revolver on hand and if he shows the slightest indication of violence, scream bloody murder, shoot him or clap him in irons."

Next door to the British Legation was the American, then the Dutch, Russian, German and last, the French, and there, in her suite that evening, Angelique was dressing for dinner, helped by Ah Soh. In an hour, the dinner Seratard was giving her and Malcolm to celebrate their engagement, was due to begin. Then later there would be music. "But don't play too long, Andr`e, say you're tired," she had cautioned him earlier. "Leave plenty of time for your mission, no? Men are so lucky."

She was glad and sad that she had moved. It's wiser, better, she thought. In three days I can move back. A new life, a new...

"Wat wrong, Miss'ee?"

"Nothing, Ah Soh." Angelique forced her mind away from what must soon be endured, and buried her fear deeper.

Just down the street in the best location on the waterfront, the Struan Building was well lit, as was Brock and Sons, next door, both with many clerks and shroffs still at their work. Today Malcolm Struan had moved into the tai-pan suite that was much bigger and more comfortable than the one he had been using and now he was fighting his way into his dinner clothes. "What's your advice, Jamie? Damned if I know what to do about Mother and her letters but that's my damned problem not yours-- she's giving you stick too, isn't she?"

Jamie McFay shrugged. "It's awfully difficult for her. From her point of view she's right, she only wants the best for you. I think she's worried to death over your health, you being so far away, she unable to come here. And nothing about Struans can be solved from Yokohama, everything in Hong Kong. China Cloud docks in a few days from Shanghai, then a quick turn around for Hong Kong. You'll be returning with her?"

"No, and please don't bring it up again,"

Struan said sharply. "I'll tell you when we, Angelique and I, are leaving. I just hope to God Mother isn't on China Cloud--that'd be the last straw." Struan bent to pull on his boots, failed, the pain too much. "Sorry, could you? Thanks," then he burst out, "this being like a fucking cripple is driving me over the brink."

"I can imagine." McFay covered his surprise. This was the first time he had ever heard Struan use that expletive. "I'd be the same, no, not the same, a bloody sight worse," he added kindly, liking him, admiring his courage.

"I'll be fine when we're married and all the waiting's over, everything tidy." Struan with difficulty used the chamber pot, painful always, and saw a few flecks of blood in the stream.

He had told Hoag about it yesterday when it had begun anew and Hoag had said not to worry.

"Then why do you look so worried?"' "I'm not, Malcolm, just concerned. With these kinds of vicious internal wounds, any indication during the healing process should be noted..."

Struan finished and hobbled over to the chair by the window and sat gratefully. "Jamie. I need a favor."

"Of course, anything, what can I do?"

"Can you, well, I must have a woman. Could you arrange it from the Yoshiwara?"

Jamie was startled. "I, yes, I imagine so." Then he added, "Is that wise?"

A gust rattled the shutters and tugged at trees and gardens, clattering a few loose roof tiles to the ground, sending the rats scurrying from the piles of garbage thrown carelessly into the High Street and from the encircling turgid and fetid canal that was also served as a sewer.

"No," Malcolm said.

Half a mile away from the Struan Building, near Drunk Town, in a nondescript dwelling in the Japanese village, Hiraga was lying on his stomach, naked, being massaged. The house was ordinary, the facade facing the street decrepit, a pattern of the others that lined both sides of the narrow dirt roadway, each serving as home, warehouse, and shop during the day. Inside, like many that belonged to the more substantial merchants, everything was sparkling clean, polished, cherished and extensive. It was the house of the shoya, the village elder.

The masseuse was blind. She was in her early twenties, firmly built with a gentle face and sweet smile. By ancient custom throughout most of Asia, blind people had a monopoly on the art, though there were also practitioners with normal sight. Again, by ancient custom, the blind were always quite safe and never to be touched.

"You are very strong, samurai-sama," she said, breaking a silence. "Those you fought must be dead or suffering."

For a moment Hiraga did not reply, enjoying the deep probing and wise fingers that sought out his knotted muscles and relaxed them. "Perhaps."

"Please, may I suggest, I have some special oil from China that will help heal your cuts and bruises quickly?"

He smiled. This was an often-used ploy to gain extra money. "Good, use it."

"Oh but you smile, honored samurai! It is not a trick to get more money," she said at once, her fingers kneading his back. "My grandmother who was also blind gave me the secret."

"How did you know I smiled?"

She laughed and the sound reminded him of a lark sailing the dawn air currents. "A smile begins in many parts of the body. My fingers listen to you--to your muscles and even sometimes to your thoughts."

"And what am I thinking now?"

"About sonno-joi. Ah, I was right!" Again the laugh that disconcerted him. "But don't be afraid, you have said nothing, the patrons here have said nothing, I will say nothing but my fingers tell me you are a special swordsman, the best I have ever served. Clearly you're not Bakufu, therefore you must be ronin, ronin by choice because you are a guest in this house, therefore shishi, the first we have ever had here." She bowed. "We are honored. If I were a man I would support sonno-joi."

Deliberately her steel-hard fingertip pressed a nerve center and she felt the tremor of pain go through him and it pleased her that she could help him more than he knew. "So sorry but this point is very important to rejuvenate you and keep your juices flowing."

He grunted, the pain grinding him to the futons yet strangely pleasing. "Your grandmother was also a masseuse?"

"Yes. In my family at least one girl in every second generation is born blind. It was my turn in this lifetime."

"Karma."

"Yes. It is said that in China today, fathers or mothers will blind one of their daughters so that when she grows up she will find employment for all her life."

Hiraga had never heard this but he believed it and was incensed. "This is not China and never will be and one day we will take China and civilize her."

"Eeee, so sorry to disturb your harmony, Lord, please excuse me, oh so sorry. Ah, that's better, again so sorry, please excuse me. You were saying, Lord... civilize China?

As Dictator Nakamura wanted to do? Is it possible?"

"Yes, one day. It is our destiny to gain the Dragon Throne, as it is your destiny to massage and not to talk."

Again her laugh was gentle. "Yes, Lord."

Hiraga sighed as her finger released the pressure point and left a pervading, soothing glow in place of pain. So everyone knows I'm shishi, he thought. How long before I'm betrayed?

Why not? Two koku is a fortune.

Getting into this haven had not been easy. When he had strode into the quarter there was an aghast silence for here was a samurai, a samurai without swords, looking like a wild man. The street cleared except those nearby who knelt and awaited their fate.

"You, old man, where is your nearest ryokan--Inn."

"We don't have one, Lord, there's no need, Honored Lord," the old shopkeeper muttered, his fear making him gabble on, "there's no need as our Yoshiwara is nearby, bigger than most cities with dozens of places you can stay in and over a hundred girls not counting maids, three real geisha and seven trainees, it's that way ..."

"Enough! Where's the house of the shoya?"' "There, Lord."

"Where, fool? Get up, show me the way."

Still enraged he followed him down the street, wanting to smash the eyes that watched from every opening and crush the whispers in his wake.

"There, Lord."

Hiraga waved him away. The sign outside the open shop that was filled with goods of all description but empty of people announced that this was the residence and place of business of Ichi Ryoshi, shoya, rice merchant and banker, the Yokohama agent for the Gyokoyama. The Gyokoyama was a zaibatsu--meaning a closely knit family complex of businesses-- immensely powerful in Yedo and Osaka as rice traders, sak`e and beer distillers, and all-important, bankers.

He took hold of himself. With great care and politeness he knocked, squatted on his heels and began to wait, trying to dominate the pain from the beating he had taken from the ten-man patrol. At length a strong-faced, middle-aged man came out into the open shop, knelt and bowed. Hiraga bowed back equally, introduced himself as Nakama Otami and mentioned that his grandfather was also shoya, not saying where but giving enough information for him to know it was the truth and that, perhaps, as there was no ryokan to stay at, the shoya might have a room for paying guests that was not being used. "My grandfather also is honored to have dealings with the Gyokoyama zaibatsu--his villages sell all their crops through it," he had said politely. "In fact I would like you, please, to send my pledge to them in Osaka, and would be grateful if you would advance me some cash against it."

"Yedo is nearer than Osaka, Otami-san."

"Yes, but Osaka is better for me than Yedo," Hiraga said, not wanting to risk Yedo where there could be leaks to the Bakufu. He noted the cool, unafraid appraisal and hid his hatred but even daimyos had to be careful when dealing with the Gyokoyama or their agents, even Lord Ogama of Choshu. It was common knowledge that Ogama was heavily in debt to them, with years of future revenue already pledged as security.

"My company is honored to serve old customers. Please, how long would you wish to stay in my house?"' "A few days, if it would not inconvenience you." Hiraga told him about Tyrer and the problem of the soldiers, only because he was sure the news had preceded him.

"You may stay at least three days, Otami-san. So sorry, but you must be prepared to leave quickly in case of a sudden raid, by day or night."

"I understand. Thank you."

"Please excuse me but I would like an order signed by this Taira, or better the chief of the gai-jin, ordering me to open my house to you, in case or when the Bakufu arrive here."

"I will arrange it." Hiraga bowed his thanks and hid his irritation at the restraints.

"Thank you."

The shoya ordered a maid to bring tea and writing materials and watched while Hiraga wrote the pledge that asked the amount be deducted from the account of Shinsaku Otami, the secret code name of his father. He signed it and sealed it with his chop, signed and sealed the receipt for Ryoshi, who agreed to advance half the amount at the usual interest of two percent per month, for the three months that would be needed to send the paper to Osaka and complete the transaction. "Do you want the money in cash?"' "No, thank you, I still have a few oban," he said exaggerating, down to his last two.

"Please open an account for me, deduct the charges for my room and food, I need some clothes, swords, and could you please arrange a masseuse."

"Of course, Otami-san. About clothes, the servant will show you our stock. Choose what you want. As to swords for sale," Ryoshi shrugged, "the only ones I have are trinkets for gai-jin and hardly worth your trouble but you may see what I have. Perhaps I could obtain proper ones for you. Now I will show you your room and your private entrance and exit--there is a guard here, by day and by night."

Hiraga had followed him. Never once had Ryoshi commented on his nakedness or bruises or asked any questions. "You are welcome and honor my poor house," he had said and left him.

Remembering the way it was said suddenly made Hiraga's skin crawl--so polite and grave but underneath so deadly. Disgusting, he thought, disgusting that we samurai are kept in poverty by corrupt daimyos and Shoguns and Bakufu and forced to borrow from these low-class zaibatsu who are nothing but filthy, money-grubbing merchants who act as though their money gives them power over us. By all gods when the Emperor has regained power there'll be a reckoning, merchants and zaibatsu will begin to pay....

In the same instant he felt her fingers stop.

"What is it, Lord?" the masseuse asked, frightened.

"Nothing, nothing. Please continue."

Her fingers obeyed, but now their touch was different and there was tension in the room.

It was an eight-mat room, the futons stuffed with down, the tatami of good quality and shojis recently renewed with oiled paper. In the takoyama niche was an oil lamp, flower arrangement and small scroll painting of a vast landscape, its only habitation a tiny cottage in a bamboo grove, with an even tinier woman forlorn in the doorway, peering into the distance--a love poem beside it.

Waiting, Listening to the rain Beating on the rain So lonely, filled with so much hope for her man's return.

Hiraga was drifting into sleep when the screen door slid back. "Excuse me, Lord." The servant knelt and said uneasily, "So sorry, there is a low-class person outside who claims to know you, asks to see you, so sorry to disturb you, but he is very insistent an--"

"Who is he? What's his name?"

"He... wouldn't give a name, and he didn't ask for you by name, Lord, but kept on saying: "Say to the samurai: Todo is the brother of Joun."

Instantly Hiraga was on his feet. As he slipped on his yukata, he asked the masseuse to come back tomorrow at the same time and dismissed her, moved closer to the two swords he had borrowed until the shoya could obtain better, and knelt in a defensive-attack position facing the door.

"Send him here, and keep everyone else away."

The slight, dirty young peasant with a tattered kimono grovelled along the passageway and went onto his knees outside the door. "Thank you Lord, thank you for seeing me," the youth mumbled then looked up and beamed inanely, his front teeth missing. "Thank you, Lord."

Hiraga glowered at him, then gasped with disbelief: "Ori? But, but it's impossible!" then peered closer and saw that his tooth had just been blacked out as part of his disguise, in this light the illusion perfect. But no mistaking that Ori was no longer obviously samurai: his topknot had been cut off and all hair on the back and sides of his head roughly trimmed to the same length as the two-week stubble that covered his pate.

"Why?" he asked helplessly.

Ori grinned and sat close to him. "Bakufu are looking for ronin, eh?" he whispered, keeping his voice down against ears they both knew would be listening. "I'm not less a samurai but now I can pass any barrier, eh?"

The air hissed out of Hiraga's mouth with admiration. "You are right. You are brilliant, sonno-joi doesn't depend on a hairstyle. So simple--I would never have thought of it."

"It occurred to me last night. I was thinking about your problem, Hiraga, an--"

"Careful. Here my name's Nakama Otami."

"Ah, so that's it! Good." Ori smiled. "I did not know what to use, hence the code."

"Have they found Todo and the others?"

"No, no they are still missing. They have to be dead. We heard Joun was executed like a common criminal, but still don't know how he was caught."

"Why come here, Ori? It's too dangerous."

"Not like this, nor at night, and I needed to test the new Ori and to see you." Squeamishly he ran his hand over his head stubble, scratching his scalp, his face freshly shaven. "It feels awful, and dirty, somehow obscene, but never mind, now I am safe to get to Kyoto. I will leave in two days."

Hiraga stared at his head fascinated, still bewildered by the astonishing change. "If anything makes you safe that should, except that now all samurai will take you for a common man. How can you wear swords?"

"When I need swords I will wear a hat.

When I am disguised I have this." Ori slipped his good hand into his sleeve and brought out a two-shot derringer.

Again Hiraga's face lit up. "Eeee, brilliant! Where did you get it?"

"Fujiko. She sold it to me, with a box of cartridges. A client gave it to her as a present when he left Yokohama.

Imagine! A low-class whore with such a treasure."

Hiraga held it carefully, weighing it in his hand, pointing it then lifting the catch to see the two bronze cartridges neatly in the barrels. "You could certainly kill two men before you were killed, if you were close enough."

"One is enough to give you time to run off and get some swords." Ori peered at Hiraga. "We heard about the soldiers. I wanted to see if you were all right. Baka! We will go to Kyoto together and leave this place to the dogs until we can come back in force."

Hiraga shook his head and told what really happened, then about Tyrer and discovering the enmity between the French and English, adding excitedly, "This is one of the wedges we can drive between them. We get them fighting amongst themselves, let them kill each other for us, eh? I must stay, Ori. It is only the beginning. We must learn all they know, be able to think like them and then we can destroy them."

Ori frowned, considering the reasons forandthe reasons against--though he had not forgiven Hiraga for forcing him to lose face and remove her cross, he still had to protect sonno-joi. "In that case, if you are to be our spy, you will have to be like them in every way, and burrow into their society like a bedbug, outwardly become friends, even wear gai-jin clothes." At Hiraga's blank look he added, "Why not? That will further protect you, and make it easier for them to accept you, neh?"

"But why should they accept me?"

"They should not, but they are fools. Taira will be your spearhead. He can arrange it, order it.

He could insist."

"Why should he?"

"Barter Fujiko."

"Eh?"

"Raiko gave us the key: gai-jin are different. They prefer to bed the same woman.

Help Raiko to wrap him in their net, then he is your running dog because you are his indispensable go-between. Tomorrow tell him, even though you were furious with the soldiers, it was not his fault. With great difficulty you sneaked back to the Yoshiwara and arranged Fujiko for him for tomorrow evening and "so sorry Taira-sama, it would be simpler for me to arrange these trysts if I had proper European clothes to pass the barriers, and so on." Make her available, or not, get him on her barb, and twist it. Eh?"

Hiraga began laughing quietly. "Better you stay here and not go to Kyoto, your counsel is too valuable."

"Katsumata must be forewarned. Now, the gai-jin woman?"

"Tomorrow I will find out exactly where she is."

"Good." The wind picked up and a gust passed through the house, crackling the paper in the frames and setting the oil flame dancing. Ori watched him. "Have you seen her?"

"Not yet. Taira's servants, a filthy lot of Chinese, don't speak any language I can understand so I could not find out from them, but the biggest building in the Settlement belongs to the man she is to marry."

"She lives there?"

"I am not sure but--" Hiraga stopped as an idea barreled into his head. "Listen, if I could become accepted, I could go everywhere, could find out all about their defenses, could go aboard their warships and..."

"And on a certain night," Ori said at once, jumping ahead, "perhaps we could capture one, or sink one."

"Yes." Both men glowed at the thought, the candle fluttering and casting strange shadows.

"With the right wind," Ori said softly, "a south wind like tonight, with five or six shishi, a few kegs of oil already planted in the right warehouses ... even that is not necessary: we can make incendiaries and start fires in the Yoshiwara. The wind would jump those fires into the village and those would spread to the Settlement and burn it up!

Neh?"

"And the ship?"

"In the confusion we row out to the big one. We could do it, easily, neh?"

"Not easily, but what a coup!"

"Sonno-joi!"

Thursday, 16th October

Thursday, 16th October: "Come in! Ah, good morning, Andr`e,"

Angelique said with a warmth that belied her anxiety. "You're very punctual. All's well with you?"

He nodded, closed the door of the small ground-floor room adjoining her bedroom that served as her boudoir in the French Legation, once more astonished that she appeared so calm and could make small talk. Politely he bent over her hand and kissed it, then sat opposite her.

The room was drab with old chairs and chaise and writing desk, plaster walls with a few cheap oils by current French painters, Delacroix and Corot. "The army taught me, Punctuality is next to Godliness."

She smiled at the pleasantry. "La! I didn't know you had been in the army."

"I had a commission in Algeria for a year when I was twenty-two, after university--nothing very grand, just helping to crush one of the usual rebellions. The sooner we really stamp out the troublemakers and annex all North Africa as French territory the better." He waved absently at the flies, and studied her. "You look more beautiful than ever. Your, your state suits you."

Her eyes lost their color and became flinty.

Last night had been bad for her, the bed here in the untidy, seedy bedroom uncomfortable. During the dark time her anxieties had overridden her confidence and she had become increasingly nervous about leaving her suite next to Struan and all her comfort, so hastily. In the dawn her humor had not improved and again the all-consuming idea pervaded her: men caused all her woes. Revenge will be sweet. "You mean my marriage state to be, no?"

"Of course," he said after the barest pause, and she wondered, aggravated, what was the matter with him and why he was so boorish and distant like last night when the music had gone on and on, without his usual touch. He had dark rings under his eyes and his features seemed sharper than usual.

"Is anything wrong, my dear friend?"

"No, dear Angelique, nothing, nothing at all."

Liar, she thought. Why is it men lie so much, to others and to themselves? "You were successful?"

"Yes and no."

He knew that she was twisting on the spit andofa sudden he wanted to make her squirm, wanted to fan the flames to make her scream and pay for Hana.

You're mad, he thought. It's not Angelique's fault. That is true but because of her, last night I went to the Three Carp and saw Raiko and while we talked in our mixture of Japanese and English and pidgin I suddenly felt that the other had just been a rotten nightmare and that any moment Hana would appear, the laugh in her eyes, and my heart would swirl as always and we would leave Raiko and bathe together, play there, eat in private and love without haste. And when I realized the truth, with Hana gone forever, my entrails and brain crawled with spawning worms, I almost vomited. "Raiko, got to know who three clients were."

"So sorry, Furansu-san, I said before: her mama-san is dead, people of house scattered, Inn of Forty-seven Ronin dead."

"There must be some way to find th--"' "None. So sorry."

"Then tell me the truth... the truth, of how she died."

"With your knife in her throat, so sorry."

"She did it? Hara-kiri?"' Raiko had answered with the same patient voice, the same voice that had told the same story and given the same answer to the same questions a dozen times before: "Hara-kiri is the ancient way, honorable way, the only way atone a wrong. Hana betrayed you and us, owners, patrons and herself--that was her karma in this life.

There is nothing more say. So sorry, let her rest. Her fortieth day after her death day, her kami day when a person is reborn or becomes a kami has passed now. Let her kami, her spirit, rest. So sorry, not speak of her again.

Now, what other thing can I do for you?"' Angelique was sitting straight in her chair as she had been taught from childhood, disquieted, watching him, one hand in her lap, the other fanned against the flies. Twice she had said, "What do you mean, yes and no?"' but he had not heard her, seemingly in a trance. Just before she had left Paris, her uncle had been the same and her aunt had said, "leave him be, who knows what devils inhabit a man's mind when troubled."

"What trouble is he in, Aunt-mama?"' "Ah, cherie, all life is a trouble when what you earn won't pay for what is needed.

Taxes crush us, Paris is a cess pit of greed and without morals, France is rumbling again, the franc buys less every month, bread has doubled in half a year. Leave him be, poor man, he does his best."

Angelique sighed. Yes, poor man. Tomorrow I will do my best and talk to Malcolm, he will arrange to pay his debts. Such a good man should not be in Debtor's Prison. What can his debts amount to? A few louis...

She saw Andr`e come back into himself and look at her. "Yes and no, Andr`e? What does that mean?"

"Yes they have such a medicine, but no you cannot have it yet because y--"

"But why, why ha--"

"Mon Dieu, be patient, then I can tell you what the mama-san told me. You can not have it yet because it cannot be taken until the thirtieth day, then again on the thirty-fifth day, and also because the drink--an infusion of herbs--must be prepared freshly each time."

His words had ripped the simplicity of her plan apart: Andr`e was to have given her now the drink or powder that he had obtained last night, she would take it at once and go to bed saying she had the vapors. Voila! A small stomachache and in a few hours, a day at the most and everything perfect.

For a moment she felt her whole world twisting but again managed to put on the brakes: Stop it!

You're alone. You are the heroine whom the forces of evil have ensnared. You must be strong, you have to fight alone and you-can-beat-them! "Thirty days?" She sounded strangled.

"Yes, and you repeat it on the thirty-fifth.

You must be accurate and th--"

"And what happens then, Andr`e? Is it fast, what?"

"For God's sake let me finish. She said it's, it usually works at once. The second draft isn't always necessary."

"There's nothing I can take immediately?"

"No. There isn't anything like that."

"But this other, she said it's successful every time?"

"Yes." Raiko's answer to his same question had been, "Nine times in ten. If the medicine does not work, there are other ways."

"You mean a doctor?"' "Yes. The medicine usually works but is expensive. I must pay medicine maker before he will give it to me. He must buy herbs, do you understand..."

Andr`e concentrated on Angelique again. "The mama-san said it was effective--but expensive."

"Effective? Every time? And not dangerous?"

"Every time and not dangerous. But expensive. She has to pay the apothecary in advance, he has to obtain fresh herbs."

"Oh," she said airily, "then please pay her for me, and shortly I will repay you three times."

His lips went into a thin line. "I've already advanced twenty louis. I'm not a rich man."

"But what can a little medicine cost, Andr`e, such an ordinary medicine? It can't be expensive surely?"

"She said, for such a girl wanting such help, secret help, what does the cost matter?"

"I agree, dear Andr`e." Angelique brushed this problem aside with warmth and friendliness, her heart hardening against him for being so mercenary.

"In thirty days I can pay whatever it is out of the allowance Malcolm has promised, and anyway I'm sure, I know you'll be able to arrange it, a good, wise man like you. Thank you, my dear friend. Please tell her it is exactly eight days from when I should have had my period. When do you get the medicine?"

"I already told you, the day before the thirtieth day. We can collect it or send someone for it the day before."

"And the, the discomfort? How long will that be?"

Andr`e was feeling very tired, uncomfortable and now furious that he had allowed himself to become embroiled, however many the potential, permanent advantages. "She told me it depends on the girl, her age, if this has been done before. If it hasn't it should be easy."

"But how many days of sickness will there be?"

"Mon Dieu, she didn't say and I didn't ask her. I didn't ask her. If you have specific questions write them down and I'll try to get you the answers. Now if you'll excuse me..." He got up. Instantly she allowed her eyes to fill with tears. "Oh Andr`e, thank you, I'm so sorry, you're so kind to help me and I'm sorry to upset you," she sobbed and was pleased to see him melt at once.

"Don't cry, Angelique, I'm not upset with you, it's not your fault, it's... I apologize, it must be terrible for you but please don't worry, I'll fetch the medicine on time and help all I can, just write down the questions and in the next few days I'll have the answers for you. Sorry, it's... I've not been feeling well recently..."

She had pretended to comfort him and, after he had left, she weighed what he had told her, looking out through the flyspecked curtains to High Street, seeing nothing.

Thirty days? Never mind. I can live with the delay, nothing will show, she was thinking over and over, wanting to convince herself. Twenty-two more days won't matter.

To make sure she took out her diary, unlocked it and began counting. Then she re-counted and reached the same day. November 7th.

Friday. The saint day of Saint Theodore.

Who is he? I'll light candles to him every Sunday. No need to mark the day, she thought with a shiver. Nonetheless, she put a small cross in the corner. What about confession?

God understands. HE understands everything.

I can wait--but what if.

What if it doesn't work or Andr`e gets sick or lost or killed, or the mama-san fails me, or any one of a thousand reasons?

This gnawed at her. It obliterated her resolve. Real tears wet her cheeks. Then, suddenly, she remembered what her father had once said, years upon years ago, just before he had deserted her and her little brother, in Paris...

"Yes he deserted us," she said out loud, the first time she had ever articulated that truth. "He did. Mon Dieu, from what I know now, probably that's just as well. He would have sold us, certainly sold me long since."

Her father had quoted his idol, Napoleon Bonaparte: "A wise general always has a line of retreat planned, from which to launch the hammer blow of victory."

What is my line of retreat?

Then something Andr`e Poncin had said weeks ago slid into her mind. She smiled, all her care vanishing.

Phillip Tyrer was putting the final touches to the draft of Sir William's reply to the roju in his best copper plate writing.

Unlike all previous communications, Sir William was sending the original in English and a copy in Dutch which Johann had been told to prepare.

"There, Johann, I'm done." He finished the tail of the B of Sir William Aylesbury, K.c.b. with an intricate twirl.

"Scheiss in mein Hut!" Johann beamed. "That's the best writing I've ever seen.

No wonder Wee Willie wants you to copy all his London dispatches."

"Shigata ga nai!" Tyrer said without thinking. It doesn't matter.

"You're really working at it, the Japanese, eh?"

"Yes, yes I am, and between us, for God's sake don't tell Willie, enjoy it immensely. What do you think of his ploy?"

Johann sighed. "With Jappos I don't think. Me, I think Jappo mealy-mouthing has scrambled his head."

The message read: To His Excellency, Nori Anjo, Esq., Chief roju. I have your dispatch of yesterday and inform you it is rejected entirely.

If you do not pay the agreed installment of the indemnity for the murder of two British soldiers on time, the amount owing will be quadrupled for every day of delay.

I am sorry to learn you are clearly not masters of your own calender. I will correct this for you at once. I will leave for Kyoto on my flagship with an escorting squadron, twelve days from today, docking at Osaka. Then, with a mounted escort and obligatory sixty-pound cannon of our mounted Royal Artillery for royal salutes, I and the other Ministers will proceed at once to Kyoto to seek redress for you from His young Majesty, Shogun Nobusada personally or, if he is not available, from His Imperial Highness, Emperor Komei personally, promising full royal honours with a twenty-one-cannon salute. Please inform them of our impending arrival. (signed) Her Britannic Majesty's Minister and Ambassador, Sir William Aylesbury, K.c.b....

"Emperor? What Emperor?" Johann said disgustedly. "There's only the Midako, Mikado, some name like that, and he's only a kind of minor pope without power, not like Pius the Ninth, who meddles and connives and plays politics and, like all Gottverdampt Catholics, wants us back on the stake!"

"Come now, Johann, they're not all bad.

Now English Catholics can vote and even stand for Parliament like anyone who's eligible."

"The pox on Catholics. I'm Swiss and we don't forget."

"Then why are the Pope's personal guards all Swiss?"

"They're Catholic mercenaries." Johann shrugged. "Give me the rough copy of the dispatch and I'll get to work."

"Sir Willie says you're not renewing your contract."

"It's time to move on and leave the field to younger and wiser." Johann beamed suddenly.

"Y."

"That's not funny. Please send Nakama in, I think he's in the garden."

"Don't trust that bastard. Best watch him, Phillip."

Tyrer wondered what Johann would say if he knew the real truth about him.

Hiraga opened the door. "Hai, Taira-san?"

"Ikimasho, Nakama-sensei, old chap, hai?" Let's go, all right? Tyrer said, beaming, still marvelling at the change.

When Hiraga had arrived at dawn this morning, gone were the dirt and rags and most of all the samurai haircut--his short hair now similar to that of almost any commoner. In his neat, starched but ordinary kimono, new sun hat hanging by its thong on his back, new tabi and thongs, he was like the son of a prosperous merchant.

"My God, you look terrific, Nakama," he had burst out, "that haircut suits you."

"Ah Taira-san," Hiraga had said hesitantly, with pretended humility, following the ploy he and Ori had formulated. "I think what you say me, he'rp me give up samurai, stop be samurai. Soon go back Choshu, become farmer 'rike grandfather, or in beer or sak`e factory."

"Give up samurai? Is that possible?"' "Hai. Possib're. P'rease not want say more, yes?"' "All right. But it's a wise decision, congratulations."

Involuntarily Hiraga ran his hand over his head, the close shorn sides and newness itching.

"Soon hair grows, Taira-san, same yours."

"Why not?"' Tyrer wore his hair, naturally wavy, almost to his shoulders. Unlike most he was fastidious about its cleanliness: a pettipoint had hung over his bed forever, stitched by his mother, Cleanliness is next to Godliness. "How are your bruises?"' "I forgotten them."

"I have forgotten them."

"Ah, thank you, I have forgotten them. Some good newses, Taira-san." Elaborately, Hiraga had told him about going to the Yoshiwara and arranging Fujiko for tonight. "She yours, o'rr night. Good, neh?"' For a moment Tyrer had been speechless.

Impulsively he wrung Hiraga's hand.

"Thank you. My dear friend, thank you." He had sat back and pulled out his pipe and offered tobacco to Hiraga who refused, hard put not to laugh. "That's marvelous," Tyrer's mind had jumped him ahead to their tryst, his heart throbbing and manhood conscious. "My God, marvelous!"

With an effort he had put all those immediate, erotic thoughts aside to concentrate on the day's schedule. "Have you arranged somewhere to stay in the village?"' "Yes. P'rease we go now, yes?"' During their walk to the Japanese quarter, always careful to keep their voices down and not speak English near any passerby, Tyrer had continued to probe Hiraga, mining diamonds, amongst them the names of the Shogun and Emperor. At the dwelling of the shoya, he had inspected the shop and tiny drab room off it where Hiraga was supposed to be staying. Then he had brought him back to the Legation, completely pleased and reassured. "Did you notice on the street how you were hardly noticed, even by the soldiers, now that you don't look like a samurai?"' "Yes. Taira-san. You can he'rp me, p'rease?"' "Anything, what?"' "I 'rike try to wear your clothes, become more 'rike gai-jin, yes?"' "Great idea!"

When they got back to the Legation, Tyrer hurried to see Sir William, excitedly had given him the names of the Shogun and Emperor.

"I thought you would want to know at once, sir.

Also another piece of info: I think I've understood correctly but he says all Japanese, even daimyos have to get permission to visit Kyoto, where the Emperor lives."

"What are daimyos?"' "That's what they call their kings, sir. But everyone, even them, they must get permission to visit Kyoto--he says the Bakufu which is another name for the Shogunate, like their Civil Service, are afraid to allow free access there, to anyone." He had tried to keep calm but the words rushed out of him. "If that's true, and if the Shogun's there at present and the Emperor's there permanently and if all power's there--if you were to go there, sir, wouldn't that bypass the Bakufu?"' "An inspired leap of logic," Sir William said kindly with a sigh of pleasure, already there, long before Tyrer had explained.

"Phillip, I think I will redraft the dispatch. Come back in an hour--you've done very well."

"Thank you sir." Then he had told him about the "new" Nakama and new haircut.

"My thought is that if we could persuade him into European clothes he would become more and more malleable--of course as he teaches me Japanese while I'm teaching him English."

"Very good idea, Phillip."

"Thank you, sir, I'll arrange it instantly. I can have the bill sent to our shroff for payment?"' Some of Sir William's good humor vanished. "We have no excess funds, Phillip, and the Exchequer... Very well. But one outfit only. You're responsible the bill's modest."

Tyrer had left hastily and now that he had finished his work on the dispatch, he was going to take Hiraga to the Chinese tailor down the road.

High Street was not crowded at this time of the day, midafternoon, most men in their countinghouses, or at siesta, or at the Club. A few drunks huddled in the lee of the wharfs, the wind still gusting. Later a football match had been arranged, Navy versus Army on their parade ground, and Tyrer was looking forward to it, but not to the meeting with Jamie McFay he had had to agree to, after the tailor's. "He's head of Struan's here, Nakama-san, somehow he'd found out about you, and that you can speak some English.

He's to be trusted."

"So ka? Struan? The man who is to marry?"

"Oh, the servants told you about the engagement party? No, McFay's just their head merchant.

Mr. Struan, the tai-pan, is the one who's going to be married. That's his building, warehouse, offices and living quarters."

"So ka?" Hiraga studied it.

Difficult to attack or get into, he thought.

Barred lower windows. "This Struan, also his woman, they stay there?"

Tyrer's mind leapt to Fujiko and he said absently, "Struan does, I'm not sure about her. In London, this building would be nothing compared to ordinary houses, thousands upon thousands.

London's the richest city in the world."

"Richer than Yedo?"

Tyrer laughed. "Richer than twenty, fifty Yedos, how do I say that in Japanese?"

Hiraga told him, his sharp eyes taking in everything--disbelieving about London and most of what Tyrer was telling him as lies to confuse him.

Now they were passing the various bungalows that served as Legations, picking their way through the rubbish that was strewn everywhere. "Why different f'rags, p'rease?"

Tyrer wanted to practice speaking Japanese, but every time he started, Hiraga would answer in English and at once ask another question.

Even so he explained, pointing them out: "They're Legations: that's the Russian, the American, over there's the French--that one's Prussian.

Prussia's an important nation on the Continent. If I wanted to say th--"

"Ah, so sorry, you have map of your wor'rd, p'rease?"

"Oh yes, I'd be glad to show it to you."

A detachment of soldiers approached and marched past, paying them no attention. "These men of Prush'ah," Hiraga pronounced the word carefully, "they also war against French?"

"Sometimes. They're certainly warlike, always battling someone. They've just got a new King and his chief supporter is a big tough prince called Bismarck who's trying to collect all German speakers into one great nation and--"

"P'rease, so sorry, Taira-san, not so fast yes?"

"Ah gomen nasai." Tyrer repeated what he had said but more slowly, answering more questions, never failing to be astounded at their number and extent and range of his proteg`e's enquiring mind. He laughed again. "We must have an agreement, one hour about my world in English, one hour about yours in English, and then a one-hour conversation in Japanese. Hai?"

"Hai. Domo."

Four horsemen going out to the racetrack overtook them, greeted Tyrer and looked Hiraga over curiously. Tyrer greeted them back. At the far end of High Street by the barrier, lines of coolies with the afternoon's shipment of goods and foods began to clear through the Custom House under the watchful eye of the samurai guards. "We'd best hurry, don't want to get mixed up with that lot," he said and crossed the road, picking his way through the horse manure, then stopped abruptly and waved. They had been passing the French Legation. Angelique was standing at her ground floor window, the curtains pulled aside. She smiled and waved back. Hiraga pretended not to have noticed her scrutiny.

"That's the lady Mr. Struan's going to marry," Tyrer said, walking on again.

"Beautiful, isn't she?"

"Hai. That her house, yes?"

"Yes."

"Good night, Mr. McFay. Everything's locked up."

"Thanks. 'night, Vargas." McFay stifled a yawn, continued writing his daily journal, the last job of the day. His desk was clear but for two weeks of newspapers still to be read, his In tray empty, Out tray spilling over with answers to most of today's mail, and orders, bills of lading already completed and signed, ready for collection at sunup when business began.

Vargas absently scratched at a flea bite, a way of life in Asia, and put the key to the strong room on the desk. "Shall I bring you more light?"

"No thanks, I'm almost finished. See you tomorrow."

"The Choshus are due tomorrow, about the guns."

"Yes, I hadn't forgotten, good night."

Now that he was alone in this part of the ground floor McFay felt happier, always pleased to be on his own and always safe within himself. Except for Vargas, all clerks, shroffs and other staff had their own staircase and rooms far to the back of the godown. The communicating door between the two sections was locked nightly. Only Ah Tok and their personal servants stayed in this foresection that contained offices, the strong room where all guns, ledgers, safes with all specie in Mexican silver dollars, gold taels and Japanese coin were kept, and their living quarters on the floor above.

Mail day was always busy and a late night, tonight later than most because the moment he had got the last installment of Great Expectations from Nettlesmith, he had rushed upstairs and shared his allotted hour, page by relished page with Malcolm Struan, then had come down again delighted and satisfied that all had worked out for Pip and the girl and that a new Dickens epic would be announced in next month's edition.

The grandfather clock was ticking pleasantly.

He wrote rapidly with a fine clear hand: MS was enraged with his mother's letter in today's mail (Steamship Swift Wind, a day late, one man lost overboard in storm off Shanghai, also she had to run the gauntlet in the Shimonoseki Straits, the shore batteries firing perhaps twenty rounds, without hurt, thank God!). My reply to my Mrs. S's cannonade today was honeyed (she has not yet heard about the party that will cause an explosion from Hong Kong to Java) but doubt if it will smooth any waters.

I informed her that A had moved over to the French Legation but don't think that will mean a damn to Mrs. S, though MS was fretful all day that A hadn't visited him and again swore at Ah Tok, putting her in a filthy mood--which she passed on to all the other servants, ayeeyah!

I must record in spite of all his pain that MS is much wiser than I imagined, with an excellent grasp of business generally, international trade and now accepts my view that there is great potential here. We discussed the Brock problem and agreed there was nothing to be done from here but as soon as he returned to HK, he would deal with them. Again he refused to consider returning on the mail ship--Hoag fence sits and is not my ally, saying the longer Malcolm rests here, the better--a bad voyage could be traumatic.

Had a first meeting with this Japanese Nakama (that has to be an alias) who is certainly more than he pretends to be. A samurai, a ronin outlaw, who can speak some English, who would cut his hair because he has decided to give up his samurai status, who seeks to wear our clothes, has to be out of the ordinary, and watched carefully. If half of what he says is true, then we have made--through Tyrer, bless him--a major intelligence step forward. Pity that Nakama knows nothing about business, his only usable information was that Osaka is Japan's main business center, not Yedo, so all the more reason to press for the opening of that city as soon as possible. Nakama is certainly to be cultivated and...

There was a tap on one of the shutters. He glanced at the clock, almost ten. An hour late. Never mind, Asian time's different to our time.

Without haste he got up, slipped the small revolver into the side pocket of his frock coat, went to his private door and unlocked it. Outside were two women muffled in hooded cloaks, with a man servant. They all bowed.

He beckoned the women in, gave a few coins to the man who thanked him, bowed again and went back down the side alley towards the Yoshiwara.

McFay re-locked the door. "Heya, Nemi, you all same pretty, neh?" He smiled and hugged one of them.

The girl beamed at him from under her hood, a sparkle to her, his musume for a year and kept by him for half that time. "Heya, Jami-san, you-ah gud, heya? This musume my sister, Shizuka. Pretti, neh?"

Nervously the other girl moved her hood aside, forced a smile. He began to breathe again --Shizuka was as young as Nemi, as attractive and fragrant. "Hai!" he said, and both were relieved that she had passed initial scrutiny. This was the first time McFay had ever arranged a girl for someone else. Awkwardly, he had asked Nemi to make sure the mama-san understood the girl was for the tai-pan and therefore had to be special. Both girls were in their early twenties, barely coming up to his shoulder, both more at ease now though completely aware the real hurdle had yet to be surmounted.

"Shizuka, I please you see. Tai-pan top man," he said kindly, then to Nemi, patting his side where Struan's wound was, "She understand about wound, neh?"

Nemi nodded, her white teeth sparkling.

"Hai, I 'sp'rain, Jami-san! Dozo, 'reave coat here, or up'stair?"

"Upstairs."

He led the way up the great staircase, well lit with oil lamps, Nemi chattering to the new girl who was all eyes. It was his custom, from time to time, to send for Nemi to spend the night here, the manservant returning just before dawn to escort her back to the little dwelling he had bought for her within the grounds of her house, the Inn of Succulent Joy. Ten gold sovereigns it had cost him for a five-year lease for the house after days of haggling. Another ten for her contract for the same period, plus extra for a new kimono each month, hairdressing, a personal maid, and all found, with sak`e.

"But Mama-san, what if fire burn house down, heya?"' he had asked, appalled that he was agreeing to such a huge price though the extraordinarily advantageous exchange rate gave them a profit of four hundred percent most months--meant that almost everyone could keep a pony or two, consume champagne at will, and more importantly guaranteed that Nemi's running expenses would not amount to more than a few pounds yearly.

The mama-san was shocked. "Bui'd 'rike new. You pay ha'f price, fair, neh?"' Nemi, present at the final negotiation, had laughed. "P'renti fire in house, Jami-san, p'renti jig jig, neh?"' When McFay reached the top of the stairs he gave her another happy hug for no reason, other than she had proved to be worth every farthing, giving him so much pleasure and so much peace. On the landing was a large high-back chair. Nemi took off her cloak and hood, telling the other girl to do likewise, leaving them there. Neat and pretty kimonos underneath, hair well coiffured--chrysalis into butterfly.

Pleased with himself he knocked on the door.

"Come in."

Malcolm Struan sat in his chair, a cheroot smoldering between his fingers, elegant in his dressing gown but ill at ease. "Hello, Jamie."

"Evening, tai-pan." Both girls bowed with great deference, McFay quite unaware that almost everything about Malcolm Struan--as well as himself and most gai-jin--was common knowledge and the subject of constant and avid Yoshiwara gossip, his enormous wealth, that he had recently become tai-pan, the circumstances of his wound and now impending marriage. "This's Shizuka, she'll stay with you. The servant'll arrive just before dawn, everything as I told you. I'll knock first. She may be a bit shy but, well, no problem.

This's my musume, Nemi. I, er, I thought it best, the first time, to bring her along to make things easier."

Both girls bowed again. "Heya, Tai-pan," Nemi said in complete control, delighted to meet him and confident with her choice, "Shizuka sister my, good musume, heya!"

She nodded vigorously and gave Shizuka a little push. The girl went over to him, hesitantly, knelt and bowed again.

"I'll be in my rooms if you need me."

"Thanks, Jamie."

McFay closed the door quietly, went further down the corridor. His suite was tidy, masculine and comfortable. Three rooms, sitting room, bedroom, spare bedroom, all with fireplaces, and a bathroom. On the sideboard were cold cuts, fresh bread and her favorite, a freshly baked apple pie, the apples imported from Shanghai. Sak`e in a container of hot water, and Loch Vey whisky from Struan's own distillery that she adored.

The moment the door was bolted she stood on tiptoe and kissed him hungrily. "No see six day, first bed-u then ba'f!" she said, reversing the usual order. His heart picked up a beat though he was in no hurry.

She took him by the hand, led him into the bedroom and half pushed him onto the bed, knelt to pull off his boots and began to undress him, all the time chattering in her half-comprehensible pidgin, telling him that the Yoshiwara was a buzz with business, the Floating World prosperous, not to worry about Shizuka, she was expensive but the best, and what was this they hear about war and please we do not want war, just business, and I have a new kimono with lucky carp all over it that was, well, a little expensive, "but ichiban, Jami-san, you-ah 'rike veri. Bed-u!"

Obediently he got into the four-poster. The night was perfect, neither hot nor cool. She untied her obi, let the kimono fall, then her under-kimono and slip. Quite naked, completely without guilt or shame about nudity like all musume--one of the many characteristics that set them apart, and one that McFay and all gai-jin found so astounding and enviable--she took the pins from her hair, shook it and let it fall to her waist and marched triumphantly to the bathroom and the first delight of the evening.

She sat on the toilet and reached up for the handle to the chain of the water closet and pulled. The water roared down into the porcelain bowl and, as always, she clapped her hands with glee.

The first time she had seen it she had not believed it. "Where wat'er go?"' she asked suspiciously. He had explained and drawn pictures but she still would not believe him until he had shown her the pipes and taken her into the garden where the manhole cover of the septic tank was--all pipes, water tanks, boilers, toilet bowls, hand basins, sinks, taps and the three baths imported from England, Hong Kong and Shanghai where many pieces were beginning to be manufactured for the vast Indian and Asian markets.

She had begged him to allow her to show her friends.

Proudly he had agreed because this was the first such installation in all Japan, to Sir William's chagrin and Norbert Greyforth's fury, and now the pattern of the dozen or so working and nonworking copies, though not all with hot and cold water: nothing but the best and most modern, therefore British, for Struan's.

So guided tours of the privileged few to examine the Jami-san cleansing room became one of the most sought-after sights of gai-jin Yokohama, the chattering musume like so many exotic birds, bowing and sucking in their breaths and pulling the chain to gasps of wonder and applause.

Nemi washed her hands. With a contented sigh, she slipped under the sheets beside him.

Phillip Tyrer was spent and almost asleep.

Fujiko bore his weight comfortably, then began to ease away.

"Iy`e, matsu," No, don't move ... wait, he murmured.

"I just want to fetch a towel, Taira-san. Towel, do you understand?"

"Ah, ah yes. Understand towel. You stay I get..."

"Oh no, I would lose face, it is my duty. Let me go, please... now do not be difficult or naughty."

She chuckled as he nuzzled her and held on but she was deft and knew her craft well and waited. Now the small room was peaceful.

Outside the night was fair. Wind rustled the trees and bushes. A few drafts from around the sliding windows, not yet cold or unpleasant.

Flickering oil lamp.

In a moment she slid away without disturbing his tranquility and went to the little bathroom with its high wooden tub, filled to the brim with hot water, which was on a wooden grill to allow the water to flow away when the bung was pulled out.

Scented soap and chamber pot and fresh towels.

Quickly she used a damp towel and dried herself.

When she came back she brought a hot towel, sponged him then dried him. All the while his eyes were tightly closed and he was near moaning with pleasure, at the same time embarrassed that she was doing it for him, not he for her. "Ah, Fujiko-chan, you are wonderful."

"No, it is my pleasure," she said, long over her wonder and embarrassment at the strange habits of the foreigners: that they rarely bathed, were usually consumed with shame and guilt over pillow pleasures, were astoundingly possessive and usually furious that she had other clients-- stupid, what were they but clients?--or turning away, blushing, when she was undressing for their enjoyment, or covering themselves when only half naked, preferring to fornicate in the dark when everyone knew much of the thrill was to see, examine and observe, or were embarrassed purple when she attempted normal variations to prevent boredom and to prolong and increase Moments with the gods--the time of the Clouds and the Rain.

No, gai-jin aren't like us. They almost always favor First Position with Urgency, occasionally Baiting the Hen or Cherry Blossom Time, so allowing me no opportunity to demonstrate my skills, or when, in the light, I would position myself to play with the One-Eyed Monk the many games of uplifting such as Near and Far, Over the Dragon, Springtime Planting, Stealing the Honey that even the most unpracticed youth would require and appreciate, a gai-jin would jerk away, firmly but gently pull me up alongside him, kiss my neck, hold tight and mumble incomprehensibles.

She murmured, "Now I'll massage you to sleep."

"Don't understand. Mess'erge?"

"Massage, Taira-san. Like this."

"Ah now I understand. Massage, thank you."

Her fingers were gentle and wonderful and he drifted away, hardly believing his luck, proud of his performance and that she had ecstatically finished three times at least to his once--and never mind that Raiko had said that tomorrow Fujiko had to visit her village, near Yedo, to see her sick grandfather, "... but only for a few days, Taira-san."

"Oh, so sorry, Raiko-san. Please, how many day 'way?"

"How many days will she be away. Only three."

"Ah thank you. How many days will she be away?" Tyrer repeated--he had asked her and Fujiko, always to correct him.

Three days. That will give me time to recover.

My God, that was the best. Wonder what will happen when the roju get our dispatch. I'm sure my advice's correct and that Nakama is telling the truth--God, I've a lot to thank him for, Sir William was positively beaming and as for Fujiko...

Lulled by her touch, his mind began a jumble of Nakama and her and being in Japan and everything so different and learning Japanese, incessant words and phrases leaping forward untidily. The futons were hard and difficult to get used to but he was comfortable, lying on his stomach, enjoying her nearness. God but I'm tired. Can't stand the idea of "other clients," he thought. Got to make her mine, just mine. Tomorrow I'll ask Andr`e to help me.

Without turning he reached back, put his hand on her thigh. Lovely silky skin.

Where was I? Oh yes, the roju. We'll give the buggers what-for. Bloody awful about the mail ship being fired on--we've just got to make Shimonoseki safe and if the bloody Bakufu won't do it that means taking out those batteries ourselves. Must remember to be careful about that with Nakama, mustn't forget he's from Choshu too.

Could I use him as a go-between? And if the roju won't deal with those Satsuma devils we'll have to crush them ourselves. The bloody effrontery of the daimyo saying that he can't find Canterbury's murderers, the bastards came out of his own ranks for God's sake, I saw them hack off Canterbury's arm and the blood sprayed...

Her fingers froze. "What's the matter, Taira-san?"

Before he knew it he was hugging her, wanting to block out the Tokaido, and then, when the trembling had stopped he lay back, pulling her with him and held on to her, the warm pliant length of her against him, loving her, so thankful to be with her, waiting for the bad to return to its recess.

She lay quiet, also waiting, not thinking about him except that once more gai-jin proved to be curious indeed, beyond understanding. It was comfortable resting against him and she was glad that the first explosion had been achieved properly, that the client was satisfied, so she could safely believe she had earned her extra fee.

When Raiko was assigning all their appointments this morning, the mama-san had told her she was putting up her rate: "with Taira, only, because you will have extra work. Remember he could a big fish for you, Fujiko, a long-term patron much better than Kant-er-bury-san if we're careful and if you please him. Frenchy tells me he's an important official so strive hard to please him. Only speak Japanese, no pidgin, become a teacher, encourage him, and remember he is ridiculously shy and knows nothing and never mention Kant-er-bury. We will pretend you have to go away for a few days--but do not worry, I have two clients for you tomorrow, in the afternoon a gai-jin, a civilized person at night..."

With a generous patron for a year or two I could quickly pay off my debts, and life would be much better than having to take whatever client was available, she thought, then contentedly abandoned the present as she always tried to do when with a client, projecting herself into the future where she lived happily with her rich farmer husband and four or five sons. She could see their farmhouse amid their many rice fields, abundant with green shoots of winter or spring plantings, promising another rich harvest, her mother-in-law kind and pleased with her, a bullock or two tethered to a plow, flowers in the little garden and...

"Ah, Fujiko. Thank you, you are wonderful!"

She nestled closer and said how strong and manly he was.

"What?" he asked sleepily. One of her hands answered intimately and he twisted.

"No, Fujiko, please, first sleep. No ... please later..."

"Ah, but a strong man like you..." she murmured, hid her boredom, and continued dutifully. Ori yawned and took his eye away from the spy hole. "I've seen enough," he whispered.

"Shocking."

"I agree." Hiraga kept his voice down too. "Terrible. Fujiko's performance was the worst I've ever seen. Baka!"

"If I was Taira I would demand my money back."

"I agree. Baka! She won't have him ready for hours and as for him... only First Position once and talk about urgency! Ten thrusts and poof, Over the Moon like a duck."

Ori had to hold his hand over his mouth to stop the laughter then, carefully, he stuck little pieces of paper to cover the holes they had made in the far corner of the shoji screen. Together they slipped away into the bushes, through the secret gate in the fence, and thence to Ori's dwelling.

"Sak`e!"

Half asleep the maid set the tray in front of them, poured and shuffled away, still finding it difficult not to stare at their heads. They toasted each other and refilled the cups, the room small and pleasant, candle-lit, with bed futons already made up in the adjoining room.

Swords were on low, lacquer racks--Raiko had bent the Yoshiwara rule forbidding weapons within the walls because they were shishi, because of Hiraga's portrait and because both had swore by sonno-joi not use the weapons against anyone in the house, or any guest, and only in defense.

"I cannot believe Taira was taken in by her faked Moment with the Gods, Hiraga, one after another like that! Her acting was terrible. Is he that stupid?"

"Obviously." Hiraga laughed and rubbed the back and sides of his head vigorously.

"Eeee, with that sized weapon he should have really made her squeal--are all gai-jin built like that?"

"Who cares--in his case it is wasted."

"No finesse, Ori! Perhaps I should get him a pillow book like a virgin bride, eh?"

"Better we kill him and them and fire the Settlement."

"Be patient, we will, there is plenty of time."

"He is a perfect target, it is another perfect opportunity," Ori said, an edge creeping into his voice.

Hiraga watched him, all warmth gone of a sudden. "Yes but not now, he's too important."

"You said yourself if we could infuriate them enough they'd bombard Yedo and that would be wonderful for our cause."

"Yes, you are right but we have time." Hiraga showed none of his concern, appeasing him, wanting him controlled. "Taira is answering all my questions.

For instance, no one told us gai-jin fight each other like wild dogs, worse than daimyos before Toranaga--the Dutch hid that from us, eh?"

"They are all liars and barbarians."

"Yes but there must be hundreds of bits of information like that, that will unlock the way to play them, and dominate them. We must learn everything, Ori, and then, when we're part of the new Bakufu we will set German against Russian against Frenchman against Ing'erish against American..."

Hiraga shivered remembering the little Tyrer had told him about that civil war, the battles and casualties, all the modern weapons and hundreds of thousands of armed men involved, and the unbelievable vastness of the gai-jin lands. "This evening he said the Inger'ish Navy rules the world oceans, that by their law is twice as big as the next two navies combined, with hundreds of men-o'-war, thousands of cannon."

"Lies. Exaggeration to frighten you. He and all of them want us cowed, you as much as any. He wants our secrets too!"

"I only give him only what I think he should know." Hiraga belched irritably.

"Ori, we've got to learn about them! These dogs have conquered most of the world--humbled China and burned Peking, and this year the French became overlords of Cochin-China and are set to colonize Cambodia."

"Yes but the French played native prince against native prince like the British in India.

This is Japan. We're different--this is the Land of the Gods. With all the cannon in the world they will never conquer us." Ori's face twisted strangely. "Even if they seduce some daimyos to their side, even then, the rest of us will slaughter them."

"Not without cannon and knowledge."

"Without cannon, yes, Hiraga-san."

Hiraga shrugged and poured for both of them. There were many shishi who shared Ori's zeal--and had forgotten Sun-tzu: Know your enemy as you know yourself and you will win a hundred battles. "I hope you are right, meanwhile I will find out as much as I can. Tomorrow he promised to let me look at a map of the world--he called it an "at'ras."

"How do you know it will not be false, made up?"

"That is not likely, not falsifying one. Perhaps I could even get a copy, we could have it translated--and some of their school books."

Hiraga's excitement picked up. "Taira said they have new skills in counting, taught in ordinary schools, and astronomy measurers called 'rong-tit-tude, 'ra-tit-ude,"

Hiraga pronounced the English words with difficulty, "that somehow guide them with fantastic accuracy on the oceans, a thousand ri from land.

Baka that I know so little! Baka that I cannot read English!"

"You will," Ori said, "I never will. You will be part of our new government--I never will."

"Why say that?"

"I worship sonno-joi, I have already thought of my death poem, and spoken it. I told it to Shorin, the night of the attack.

Baka that he got himself killed too soon."

Ori drained his cup and poured the last drops and ordered a new flask. He looked at Hiraga narrowly. "I heard your Lord Ogama will pardon any Choshu shishi who publicly forswears sonno-joi."

Hiraga nodded. "My father wrote to me about that. It means nothing to us--to Choshu shishi."

"There is a rumor that Ogama controls the Gates, excluding everyone else--even that there's new fighting between his troops and Satsumas."

"Many daimyos are misguided, from time to time,"

Hiraga said levelly, not liking the way the conversation was going, noticing that, in his cups, Ori was ever more quarrelsome. Tonight Raiko had again warned him that Ori was a smoking volcano. "We all agreed long ago not to be bound by the deeds or misdeeds of our hereditary leaders."

"If Ogama holds the Gates he could give back power to the Emperor and make sonno-joi a fact."

"Perhaps he will, perhaps he has already."

Ori drained the cup. "I will be glad to leave Yokohama. Poison is in the air. Better you come to Kyoto with me. This nest of liars may infect you."

"You will be safer on the road to Kyoto without me. Even without my hair I could be recognized."

A sudden gust tugged at the roof thatch and rattled a half-opened shutter. They glanced at it momentarily, then went back to drinking. The sak`e had loosened them but had not dispelled the undercurrents, thoughts of death and the net tightening around them, or of the planned ambush on Shogun Nobusada, of Shorin and Sumomo, and most of all, what about the gai-jin girl? Hiraga had not yet mentioned her nor had Ori yet asked about her but both were waiting, both circling this central issue, both impatient and still undecided.

Ori broke the silence. "When Akimoto arrives tomorrow how much are you going to tell him?"

"Everything we know. He will travel to Kyoto with you."

"No, better he stays, you will need a fighter here."

"Why?"

Again Ori shrugged. "Two is better than one. Now," he said it flat, "tell me where she is."

Hiraga described the place. Exactly.

"There were no bars on the windows or side door I could see." All day he had been wondering what to do about Ori--if Ori broke in to the house and killed her, whether he lived or died, the whole Settlement would be in uproar and their venom would first turn on every Japanese within reach.

"I agree she is a correct target for sonno-joi but not yet, not while I am accepted by them and learning so many of their secrets."

"Such a perfect target should be dealt with at once, Katsumata said to hesitate is to lose. We can get those secrets out of books."

"I have already said: I do not agree."

"At the same time I kill her we fire the Yoshiwara and thus the Settlement, the three of us, and retreat in the confusion. We do it two days from now."

"No."

"I say yes! Two or three days, no more!"

Hiraga thought about that, and Ori, very carefully.

Icily. Then again he decided: "It-is-forbidden."

The finality of the words washed over Ori. For the second time in as few days. Both times over her.

No sound in the room now. Both impassive.

Outside they could hear the wind. It had dropped a little. From time to time it crackled the shoji's oiled paper. Ori sipped, seething, implacably committed but showing none of it, knowing that if both his arms were as strong as before and he was as agile as before, he would be readying to dive for his sword to fend off the attack that, unless he surrendered, was inevitable.

Never mind. In a direct fight, even if I was totally fit, Hiraga would always beat me to the first cut. Therefore he must be removed from my path in another way.

With a will to match the new enemy who was determined to thwart him, Ori vowed he would not be the first to break the silence and so lose face. Pressure between them soared. In seconds it became unbearable, now cresting...

Running footsteps. The shoji slid back. Raiko was chalky. "Bakufu Enforcer patrols are on the bridge and at the Gate.

You must leave. Hurry!"

Both were aghast, all else forgotten. They went for their swords. "Will they come into the Yoshiwara?" Ori asked.

"Yes, in twos and threes, they have before, avoiding gai-jin but not us." Her voice trembled like her hands.

"Is there a safe way out through the paddy?"

"Everywhere and nowhere, Ori," Hiraga said for her, having examined that as a possible escape route yesterday. "The land's flat with no cover for a ri. If they're blocking the gate and the bridge they'll be there too."

"What about the gai-jin area, Raiko?"

"The Settlement? They're never gone there. You mus--" She whirled, even more frightened. Both men jerked their swords half out, while a white-faced maid rushed up. "They are in the lane making a house-to-house search," she whimpered.

"Warn the others."

The girl fled. Hiraga tried to get his brain working. "Raiko, where is your safe place, your secret cellar?"

"We have none," she said wringing her hands.

"There must be one somewhere."

Abruptly Ori snaked over to her and she backed off, terrified. "Where's the secret way into the Settlement? Quick!"

Raiko almost fainted as he shifted his grip on his sword hilt and though not actually menaced, she knew she was near death. "I... into the Settlement? I, I'm not sure but, but years ago I was, was told... I'd forgotten," she said trembling, "I'm not sure but, but please follow quietly."

They stayed close to her, going deep in the bushes, careless of the branches that fought to prevent their passage, the moon still good and high between skudding clouds, the wind tugging at them. When she reached a hidden part of the fence between her Inn and the next, she pressed a knot in the wood. A section creaked open, the wooden hinges grimed and unused.

Without disturbing the carousers, she crossed this garden to the far side, through a gate into another garden and around the back, past the low, bricked, fireproof structure that served as a safe for valuables, to where the large water tanks, or wells were--the tanks part filled by rainwater, part by daily lines of water coolies.

Panting, she motioned at the wooden cover over a well. "I think, I think it is there."

Hiraga eased the cover aside. Crude, rusty iron bars as foot and handholds were hammered into the mud brick walls, no sign of water below. Still frightened she whispered, "I was told it leads to a tunnel... I am not sure but I was told it goes under the canal but where it comes out I do not know. I had forgotten about it...

I must get back..."

"Wait!" Ori stepped in her way, picked up a stone and dropped it into the well. A loud plop as it hit water far below. "Who made this?"

"Bakufu, I was told, when they built the Settlement."

"Who told you about it?"

"One of the man servants--I forget who, but he had seen them..." They all looked over towards the main street. Angry voices there.

"I have to get back..." She vanished the way she had come.

Uneasily they peered below. "If the Bakufu built it, Ori, it could be a trap, for people like us."

From one of the nearby houses the sound of voices cursing in English: "What the hell d'you want ... push off!"

Ori stuck his long sword in his belt.

Awkwardly because of his shoulder, he slid over the lip and began to descend. Hiraga followed, replacing the cover.

The blackness seemed ever more black, then Ori's feet hit earth again. "Careful, I think it is a ledge." His voice was strangled and echoed eerily.

Hiraga groped down beside him. In his sleeve pocket were some safety matches and he scraped one alight.

"Eeee," Ori said excitedly, "where did you get that?"

"They have them everywhere in the Legation--those dogs are so rich they just leave them around. Taira said to help myself. Look there!" In the last of the match they saw the mouth of the tunnel. It was dry and the height of a man. Water filled the well ten feet below them. In a niche was an old candle.

It took Hiraga three matches to light it. "Come on."

The tunnel sloped downwards. After fifty paces or so it became wet, the floor puddled and awash in parts. Fetid water seeped down from the roughly shored roof and sides, the wood rotting and unsafe. As they went onwards the air became more rancid, breathing difficult. "We can wait here, Ori."

"No, go on."

They were sweating, in part from fear, in part from the closeness. The flame guttered and went out.

Cursing Hiraga lit it and cupped the flame, not much of the wick left or of the candle. He waded onwards, the water level rising. Still the roof sloped downwards, now the water to their hips.

Ori slipped but regained his footing. Another twenty or thirty paces. Water still rising.

Now to their waists, the roof not far above their heads.

Onwards. Candle weakening. On again.

Hiraga was watching the candle, cursing.

"Better we go back and wait in the dry part." "No, go on until the candle goes out."

Ahead the tunnel curled into the blackness, the roof lowering to not far above the water. Nauseated Hiraga waded forward again, the bottom slippery. More paces. The roof pressed against his head. More, and now the roof rose slightly.

"Water level is going down," he said, sick with relief, wading faster, the murk stinking. Around the bend, roof higher now. Onwards. Just before the candle spluttered and died they saw dry earth and the tunnel end, a shaft leading up, another down.

Hiraga groped forward, unable to see anything.

"Ori, now I am at the edge. Listen, I will toss a stone down into it." The stone took seconds and seconds ricocheting before it plopped dully. "Eeee, it must go down a hundred feet or more," he said, his stomach heaving.

"Light another match."

"I have only three left." Hiraga lit one. They could see rusty, precarious footholds leading upwards, nothing more. "How did you know Raiko knew about this?"

"It was a sudden thought. There had to be a tunnel--I would have built one if I had been them." Ori's voice was hoarse, heavy breathing.

"They could be up there, in ambush. They will shove us back, or we will have to jump."

"Yes."

"Hurry up, I hate it here.

Climb!"

Equally uncomfortable, Hiraga eased his long sword in his belt. Ori backed nervously, gripping his sword hilt. Abruptly the two men faced each other, near safety perhaps, but nothing solved between them.

The match guttered and went out.

In the blackness they could no longer see each other. Without thinking each had at once retreated against the tunnel wall away from the lip.

Hiraga, more battle cunning, dropping to one knee, his hand on his hilt ready to slash the legs from under Ori if he attacked, listening intently for a sword sliding from its sheath.

"Hiraga!" Ori's voice rasped out of the black, well out of range, further away down the tunnel. "I want her dead, I will go after her--for sonno-joi and me. You want to stay.

Solve the problem."

Silently Hiraga stood. "You solve it," he hissed and at once, soundlessly, changed positions.

"I cannot. I cannot solve it, I have tried."

Hiraga hesitated, expecting a trick.

"First put your swords down."

"And then?"

"Next: because she obsesses you above sonno-joi, you will not be armed near me in Yokohama, you will leave for Kyoto tomorrow and tell Katsumata, he is your Satsuma leader. When you return we will do it, everything as you said."

"And if I do not return?"

"Then I will do it--in a time of my choosing."

The voice grated even more. "But she could leave, escape, neh? What if she leaves before I return?"

"I will make sure I hear about any move and will send you word. If you cannot be here in time, I will decide. She--and her husband if by then they're married--they will only go to Hong Kong. You--or we--can follow her there." He heard Ori's heavy breathing and waited, on guard against a sudden rush, knowing he could not trust Ori while she was alive and near but this seemed to be the best plan for the moment. Killing him would be a waste. I need his wisdom. "You agree?"

He waited. And waited. Then, "Yes.

What else?"

"Last: the cross, you will throw it down the well." Hiraga heard sudden, angry intake of breath. The silence grew.

"I agree, Hiraga-san. Please accept my apologies."

Then his sharp ears heard the slight sound of cloth being moved, something went past him and then the tiny sound of metal hitting the well wall behind him, almost immediately to vanish below. Sound of swords being grounded.

Hiraga lit a match. Indeed now Ori was standing defenseless. At once Hiraga darted forward, Ori rushed back in panic but Hiraga only collected the swords. Before the match died he had had time to throw the swords also into the well.

"Please obey me, Ori. Then you have nothing to fear. I will go first, wait till I call down to you."

The rungs were jagged with rust, some loose. The ascent was precarious. Then, far above, thankfully he saw the mouth of the well open to the sky, speckles of stars between clouds. Night sounds, wind and sea. Climbing again but more cautiously. It took all of his strength to ease himself up to the stone balustrade and peer around.

The abandoned well was near the canal fence, in a wasteland of weeds and derelict junk.

Seashore not far off. Broken-down houses, deep potholes in the dirt roadways. Snarl of a foraging dog nearby. Raucous voices singing on the wind. Now Hiraga had his bearings. They were in Drunk Town.

Friday, 17th October

Friday, 17th October: In the morning light in Yedo Castle, Misamoto--the fisherman, fake samurai, and Yoshi's spy--was trembling on his knees in front of the alarmed Council of Elders, the English version of Sir William's reply shaking in his hand. Beside him cowered a Bakufu official.

"Speak up, fisherman!" Anjo, the chief Elder repeated, the audience room hushed and tense and chill. "Never mind if you don't understand all the Ing'erish words, we want to know if has the Bakufu official translated the message accurately? Is that what the gai-jin message says? Exactly?"

"It's, well, yes, more or less, yes, Sire," Misamoto mumbled, so frightened he could hardly speak. "It's as the lord Official... more or less, Sire... more ... or..."

"Have you seaweed for a tongue, fish offal for brains? Hurry up! Lord Toranaga says you can read Ing'erish--read!" An hour ago Anjo had been awakened by the unnerved Bakufu official who had brought Sir William's reply in Dutch and English. Hastily Anjo had convened a meeting of the Council where the official had just repeated his translation of the Dutch. "What does the paper say in Ing'erish?"

"Well, Sire, yes, it's, er..." Again Misamoto's voice died away, once more choked with panic.

Exasperated Anjo looked at Yoshi. "This fish head is your spy," he said with just the right amount of ice. "It was your idea to fetch him, please make him speak up."

"Tell us what the letter says, Misamoto,"

Yoshi said kindly, inwardly almost blind with frustration and anger. "No one is going to hurt you. In your own words. The truth."

"Well, Sire, it's more or less as... more or less as the lord Official said, Sire,"

Misamoto stuttered, "but this's, this letter's, I don't know all the words, Sire, but some of them ... well, well..." His face was twisted with fear.

Yoshi waited a moment. "Go on, Misamoto, don't be afraid, speak the truth, whatever it is. No one will touch you. We need the truth."

"Well, Sire, the gai-jin leader,"

Misamoto stammered, "He says he's going to Osaka in eleven days as the Official said, but not, not to make a, a "Ceremonial visit"..." He quailed under the strength of their eyes, so terrified that now his nose was running and saliva dribbled his chin, then he blurted out, "He's not at all happy in fact he's strongly angry and he's going... going to Osaka with his fleet, going in force to Kyoto with cannon, sixty-pounders, and cavalry and soldiers to see the Son of Heaven and the Lord Shogun--he's even named them, Sire, Emperor Komei and the boy Shogun, Nobusada."

Everyone gasped, even the guards-- normally impassive and not supposed to be listening. Misamoto shoved his head to the tatami and kept it there.

Yoshi pointed at the Bakufu official who blanched as all attention focused on him. "Is that correct?"

"Ceremonial visit, Sire? For your august ears that should be the correct translation ... the barbarian wording is rude and uncouth and should, I sincerely believe, be correctly construed as a Ceremonial, State visit, an--"

"Does it say with "cannon and cavalry" and such?"

"In principle, Sire, the lett--"

To everyone's shock, Yoshi almost shouted, "Yes or no?"

The Official swallowed, aghast that he was ordered to answer so directly, the first time in his life, and appalled that he was being challenged and ordinary rules and manners and the niceties of diplomacy were being disregarded. "I regret to inform you that in principle, it does mention those but such an impertinence is clearly a mistake and--"

"Why did you not translate accurately?"

"For august ears, Sire, it is necessary to interpret--"

"Are those august persons named? Yes or no?"

"Their names are contained but y--"

"Are the characters of their names the correct ones?"

"It would seem, sire the characters appear to be c--"

"Write an exact translation of what it says at once." The raw words were said softly but the violence ricocheted off the unadorned stone walls. "Exact! Make all future communications from them, or to them, equally exact.

EXACT! One mistake and your head will be on a rubbish dump. Get out! Misamoto, you did very well, please wait outside."

The two men fled, Misamoto cursing his ill luck and the day he had agreed to accompany Perry to Japan, believing the Bakufu would welcome him for his unique knowledge, would grant him a fortune-- the Official swearing to be revenged on Yoshi and this lying fisherman before the Council made good the sentence that he, a wise and correct official, could not avoid.

Yoshi broke the silence, his mind working frantically to formulate the next move in the never ending conflict. "We cannot possibly allow an armed visit to Kyoto! This proves what I have been saying all along: we must have English speakers, translators we can trust--who will tell us what their foul messages really say!"

"That is not necessary," Toyama grated, his heavy dewlaps shaking with fury. "This gai-jin impertinence is insulting beyond belief, tantamount to a declaration of war. Such impertinence must be answered in blood." A rustle went through the guards. "It is a declaration of war. Good. In three or four days I will lead the surprise attack on the Settlement and finish this nonsense once and for all."

"That would be baka. We dare not. Baka!"

Anjo repeated, more for the guards than anyone, easy for one to be a secret shishi admirer or sonno-joi adherent. "How many times must I say no attack yet, not even a surprise attack."

Toyama had flushed even more. "Yoshi-san," he said, "we could smash them and burn Yokohama, neh? We could, neh? I cannot bear the shame, it's too much!"

"You are right, of course we could destroy Yokohama, easily, but Anjo-dono is correct--we cannot get at their fleet. I suggest we continue as before," Yoshi said calmly, not feeling calm at all, "we supply them with watered soup and no fish: we offer them a meeting with the Council of Elders in thirty days, allowing ourselves to be negotiated down to eight days, delay that as long as we can."

"I will only meet those dogs on a battlefield."

Yoshi curbed his temper. "I'm sure you will do what the roju decides, but I propose you are represented by an imposter at this meeting: Misamoto."

"Eh?" They all stared at him.

"He'll be a perfect substitute."

Anjo said, "That stupid fisherman will never b--"

"Dressed in ceremonial clothes, taught to wear them, eight days is enough time. He looks like a samurai now though he does not act like one.

Fortunately he is not stupid and so frightened that he will do whatever we order, and most important, he will tell the truth which is in short supply." Yoshi saw Anjo redden. The others pretended not to notice.

"What then, Yoshi-san?"

"Next, we'll hold the meeting here in the castle."

"Out of the question!" Anjo said.

"Of course we first offer Kanagawa,"

Yoshi told him irritably, "then allow ourselves to agree to meet them here."

"Out of the question," Anjo said again to the agreement of the others.

"With the castle as bait we can delay again, perhaps even another month--their curiosity will consume them --and we only allow them into the outer area. Why not the castle? All the gai-jin leaders of their own free will within our grasp? We could take them hostage, their presence gives us a dozen chances to entwine them further."

They gaped at him, off balance. "Take them hostage?"

"A possibility, one of many," Yoshi said patiently, knowing he needed allies in the coming struggle. "We must use guile and silken threads and their own weakness against them, not war-- until we can equalize their fleets."

"Until then?" Adachi spluttered. The rotund little man was the richest of them all and his Toranaga blood line equal to Yoshi's.

"You really believe we have to deal with these dogs until we have fleets to match theirs?"

"Or enough big cannon to keep them off our shores. We only need a sack or two of gold and they will trample over themselves to sell us the means to blow them out of our water." Yoshi's brow darkened. "I heard a rumor that some Choshu emissaries are already trying to buy rifles from them."

"Those dogs!" Toyama spat with rage.

"Always Choshu. The sooner we put them down the better."

"And Satsuma," Anjo muttered to general agreement and looked at Yoshi. "And others!"

Yoshi pretended not to understand what his adversary implied. Never mind, he thought, the day is coming.

"We can deal with all enemies, one at a time--not together."

Toyama said gruffly, "I vote we order all friendly daimyos to increase taxes at once and arm. I begin tomorrow."

""Advise" is a better word," Adachi said carefully, and drained his teacup. Delicate flowers decorated the lacquered trays that had been set in front of all of them. He stifled a yawn, bored and anxious to go back to bed.

"Please go on with your plan, Yoshi-dono, until we know all the details, how can we vote on it?"

"The morning of the meeting Anjo-sama will unfortunately be taken ill, oh so sorry. As the whole roju is not present, we will be unable to make any binding decisions, but we will listen and try to reach a compromise. If we cannot compromise then we will, with suitable deference, agree to "submit their desires to the full Council as soon as possible"--and delay and delay to drive them mad so they make a mistake, not us."

"Why should they agree to another delay?"

Anjo asked, glad that he would not have to be nose to nose with gai-jin, distrusting Yoshi, and wondering where the trick was.

"The dogs have proved they would rather talk than fight, they are cowards," Yoshi was saying.

"Though they could easily dominate us, it is clear they don't have the stomach for it."

"What if they do not agree and this insolent Inger'ish ape makes good his threat and leaves for Kyoto? What then? We cannot allow that, under any circumstances!"

"I agree," Yoshi said with great finality and everyone tensed. "That means war--a war we must eventually lose."

Toyama said instantly, "Better to war as men than become slaves like the Chinese, Indians and all other barbarian tribes." The old man peered at Yoshi. "If they land you'll vote for war?"

"Instantly! Any attempt to land in force-- anywhere--will be prevented."

"Good. Then I hope they land," Toyama said, satisfied.

"War would be very bad. I think they will talk and we can maneuver them out of this madness." Yoshi's voice became harsher. "We can if we are clever enough. Meanwhile we must concentrate on more important matters: like Kyoto and taking back control of our Gates, like the hostile daimyos, like getting enough gold to buy weapons and modernize and equip our forces--and those of our trusted allies--and not allow Choshu, Tosa and Satsuma to arm under the guise of supporting us, merely to more quickly attack us."

"The traitor Ogama should be outlawed,"

Toyama said. "Why don't we outlaw him and take back our Gates?"

"To attack him now would be baka!" Anjo told him sourly. "It would only push Satsuma and Tosa into his arms, along with other fence sitters." He shifted uncomfortably, his stomach hurting him, head hurting, and no relief from the new Chinese doctor he had consulted in secret about his constant pains. "We settle it this way: Yoshi-dono, please draft a reply to the gai-jin for approval at tomorrow's meeting."

"Certainly. But what I want to know is who is feeding our secrets to them. Who is the gai-jin spy? This is the first time they've mentioned the "young" Shogun and named him, and named the Emperor. Someone is betraying us."

"We will put all our spies on to it! Good.

And we will meet tomorrow morning as usual, consider the draft of our reply and decide on your plan."

Anjo's eyes slitted. "And to make final preparations for Shogun Nobusada's departure to Kyoto."

The blood went out of Yoshi's face. "We have discussed this a dozen times. At our last meet--"

"His visit will go forward! He will travel by the north road, not the Tokaido, along the coast. Safer."

"As Guardian I oppose the visit for the reasons already stated over and over--by any road!"

Toyama said, "Better for my son to be in Kyoto. Soon we will be at war. Our warriors won't be checked much longer."

"No war and no visit. Either will destroy us,"

Yoshi said angrily. "The moment a Shogun kowtows, as Nobusada will, our position is ruined for all time. The Legacy states th--"

Anjo said, "The Legacy will not dominate in this."

"The Toranaga Legacy is our only anchor and cannot b--"

"I do not agree!"

Choking back his rage, Yoshi began to get up but stopped as Anjo said, "There is a last matter to decide today: the immediate appointment of the new Elder, Utani's replacement."

There was a sudden tension amongst them. Since Utani's assassination and the manner of his death--the room in which he and the youth had been impaled had not been completely destroyed in the fire--together with the failure of legions of spies and soldiers to apprehend the assassins, all the Elders had slept less comfortably. Particularly Anjo who was still smarting from his own near assassination.

Except for Yoshi who was occasionally supported by Utani, none of the others regretted his death, or the manner of it, least of all Anjo who had been shocked to discover the identity of the paramour and loathed Utani even more for secretly stealing his occasional pleasure. "Let us vote now."

"Such an important matter should wait until tomorrow."

"So sorry, Yoshi-sama. Now is a perfect time."

Adachi nodded. "Unless the Council is at full strength we cannot take important decisions. Who do you propose?"

"I formally propose Zukumura of Gai."

In spite of his control Yoshi gasped--the daimyo was simple-minded, a kinsman and open ally of Anjo. "I have already stated my disapproval of him--there are a dozen better than him," he said at once. "We agreed on Gen Taira."

"I did not agree." Anjo smiled with his mouth only. "I merely said I would consider him carefully. I have. Zukumura is a better choice. Now we will vote."

"I do not think a vote now is wise or adv--"

"Vote! As chief Councillor it is my right to put it to a vote! Vote!"

"I vote No!" Yoshi said and glared at the other two.

Adachi did not meet his eye, just said, "Gai have been Mito's allies since Sekigahara.

Yes."

Toyama shrugged. "Whatever you want."

Yoshi slashed violently at his two opponents with the wooden sword, sweat pouring off his face, then darted back, spun and attacked again. Both men, experts, sidestepped and pressed their own attack, on orders to be victors, with failure costing them a month confined to barracks and three months pay.

Cleverly, one man feinted to give the other an opening but Yoshi was ready and ducked under the blow and caught the man across the chest and his sword shattered with the strength of his blow--if the blade had been real it would have almost cut the man in two-- eliminating him from the contest.

At once the other rushed in confidently for the kill but Yoshi was no longer where he had expected but almost floor level and hacking forward with a karate foot chop. This man groaned in agony as the iron-hard edge of Yoshi's foot crashed into his scrotum and he fell writhing.

Still enwrapped in his rage and adrenaline, Yoshi leaped at the prone man, the splintered haft of his sword ready on high, a stake to drive into the man's throat for the death blow. But he stayed the blow a hair above the man's neck, heart pumping, ecstatic with his skill and control and that he had not failed this time, victory meaning nothing.

His pent-up fury was no more.

Content now, he tossed the broken haft aside and began to unwind, the exercise room bare and Spartan like the rest of the castle. All were panting from their exertions, the prone man still twisting and turning with pain. Then Yoshi was astonished to hear gentle clapping. Angrily he turned-- by his custom, no one was ever invited to witness these practice sessions where the extent of his prowess could be gauged, his weaknesses could be judged, and his brutality measured--but this anger vanished also.

"Hosaki! When did you arrive?" he said, trying to regain his breath. "Why not send a messenger to tell me you were coming?" His smile vanished. "Trouble?"

"No, Sire," his wife said so happily, kneeling beside the door. "No trouble, just an abundance of pleasure to see you." She bowed deeply, her riding skirt and jacket, serviceable heavy green silk, modest and travel marked, like the padded matching overmantle and wide hat tied under her chin and short sword in her obi. "Please excuse me for slipping in like this, uninvited, and not changing first but, well, I could not wait to see you--and now I am even more pleased I did for now I know that you are a better swordsman than ever."

He pretended not to be delighted, then went closer and looked at her searchingly. "Really no trouble?"

"Yes, Sire." She beamed, her adoration open. White teeth and ebony slanted eyes in a classic face that was neither attractive nor ordinary but not to be forgotten, her whole presence was one of great dignity.

"Yoshi," his father had said nine years ago when he was seventeen, "I have chosen your wife for you.

Her blood line is Toranaga, equal to yours though from the minor branch of Mitowara. Her name is Hosaki, meaning an "ear of wheat" in the ancient tongue, a harbinger of abundance and fertility, and also a "spear head." I do not think she will fail you in either capacity...."

Nor has she, Yoshi thought proudly. Already two fine sons and a daughter, and she's still strong, always wise, a firm manager of our finances--and, rare in a wife, pleasant enough to pillow occasionally though with none of the fire of my consort or pleasure partners, particularly Koiko.

He accepted a dry towel from the man who was unhurt, and waved his hand in dismissal. The man bowed silently and helped the other, still in agony, to limp out.

He knelt near her, towelling the sweat away. "So?"

"It's not safe here, neh?" she said softly.

"Nowhere is safe."

"First," she said in a normal voice, "first Yoshi-chan, we will look after your body: a bath, massage and then talk."

"Good. There is much to talk about here."

"Yes." Smiling she got up, and again at his searching look reassured him, "Truly at Dragon's Tooth all is well, your sons healthy, your consort and her son happy, your captains and retainers alert and well armed-- everything as you would want. I just decided to make a short visit, on a sudden whim," she said for the listening ears, "I merely needed to see you, and to talk about castle management."

And also to bed you, my beauty, she was thinking in her secret heart, looking up at him, her nostrils filled with his masculine smell, conscious of his nearness and as always aching for his strength.

While you are away, Yoshi-chan, I can keep calm, most of the time, but near you? Ah then that is very hard though I pretend, oh how I pretend, and hide my jealousy of the others and behave like a perfect wife. But that does not mean that I, like all wives, do not feel jealousy violently, sometimes to a point of madness, wishing to kill or even better to mutilate the others, wanting to be desired and bedded with an equal passion.

"You've been away too long, husband," she said gently, wanting him to take her now, on the floor, to rut like she imagined young peasants would rut.

It was near midday with a kind wind that broomed the sky. They were within his innermost sanctum, a suite of three tatami rooms and bathing room off a corner battlement. She was pouring tea for him, elegantly as always. Since a child she had studied the tea ceremony, as he had, but now she was a Sensei, a teacher of tea in her own right.

Both had bathed and had been massaged. Doors were barred, guards posted and maids dismissed. He wore a starched kimono, she a flowing sleeping kimono, her hair loosed. "After our talk I think I will rest. Then my head will be clear for this evening."

"You rode all the way?"

"Yes, Sire." The journey had been rough in fact, little sleep and changing horses every three ri, about nine miles.

"How long did it take you?"

"Two and a half days, I just brought twenty retainers under the command of Captain Ishimoto."

She laughed. "I certainly needed the massage, and the bath. But first--"

"Almost ten ri a day? Why the forced march?"

"Mostly for my pleasure," she said lightly, knowing there was time enough for bad news. "But first, Yoshi-chan, tea for your pleasure."

"Thank you." He drank the fine green tea from the Ming gourd and set it down again, watching and waiting, swept up in her mastery and tranquility.

After she had poured again and sipped and set her own cup down she said softly, "I decided to come here without delay because I had heard disquieting rumors and needed to reassure myself and your captains that you were well--rumors that you were in danger, that Anjo was padding the Council against you, that the shishi attempt on him and Utani's assassination were all part of a major escalation of sonno-joi, that war is coming, within and from without, and that Anjo is further betraying you, and all the Shogunate. He must be insane to allow the Shogun and his Imperial wife to go to Kyoto to kowtow."

"All true or partially true," he said, equally quietly, and her face tumbled. "Bad news travels with the wings of a hawk, Hosaki, neh? It's worse because of the gai-jin." Then he told her about his meeting with the foreigners and Misamoto, the spy, then in more detail about the castle intrigues--but not about Koiko's suspected connection to the shishi: Hosaki would never understand how exciting she is and how much more exciting this knowledge makes her, he thought. My wife would only advise Koiko's immediate dismissal, investigation and punishment and give me no peace until it was done. He finished by telling her about the alien fleet at their doors, Sir William's letter and threat, and today's meeting.

"Zukumura? An Elder? That senile fish head? Isn't one of his sons married to a niece of Anjo's? Surely old Toyama didn't vote for him?"

"He just shrugged and said, "Him or another, it means nothing, we will be warring soon. Have who you want."

"Then at best it will be three to two against you."

"Yes. Now there is no curb on Anjo.

He can do what he wants, vote himself increased powers, make himself tairo, whatever stupidity he wants, such as Nobusada's stupid trek to Kyoto." Yoshi felt another tightness in his chest but put it away, glad to be able to talk openly--as much as he could ever be open, trusting her more than he could trust anyone.

"The barbarians were as you imagined them, Sire?" she asked. Everything about them fascinated her: "know your enemy as you know yourself..."

Sun-tzu had been the prime learning book for her and her four sisters and three brothers, along with martial arts, calligraphy and the tea ceremony. She and her sisters also had concentrated teaching by their mother and aunts on land and financial management, together with practical methods of dealing with men of all classes, and the all-important future. She had never excelled at martial arts though she could use a knife, and war fan well enough.

Everything Yoshi could remember, he told her, and also what Misamoto had said about gai-jin in the part of the Americas called California--and sometimes called the Land of the Golden Mountain. Her eyes narrowed but he did not notice.

When he had finished she still had a thousand questions but contained them for later, not wanting to tire him. "You help me to picture everything, Yoshi-chan, you are a wonderful observer. What have you decided?"

"Nothing yet--I wish my father was alive, I miss his counsel--and Mother's."

"Yes," she said, glad that both were dead, the father two years ago, mostly of old age aggravated by his close confinement by Ii--he was fifty-five--the mother in last year's smallpox epidemic. Both had made her life miserable, at the same time keeping Yoshi in thrall, in her opinion the father not doing his duty to the family, making bad decisions more times than not, and the mother forever being the most ill-tempered, difficult to please mother-in-law in her ken, worse to her than the wives of his three brothers.

The only clever thing they did in their whole lives, she thought, was to agree to my father's proposal of marriage to Toranaga Yoshi.

For that I thank them. Now I rule Dragon's Tooth, and our lands, and they will be passed on to my sons strong, inviolate and worthy of the Lord Shogun Toranaga.

"Yes," she said. "So sorry they are gone.

I bow to their shrine every day and beg to be worthy of their trust."

He sighed. Since his mother's death he had felt in a void, more so than with his father whom he admired, but feared. Whenever he had a problem, or was afraid, he always knew he could go to her and be soothed, guided and given new strength. He said sadly, "Karma that Mother died so young."

"Yes Sire," she said, understanding his sadness, and perfectly content for, of course, it would be the same with all sons whose first duty is obey and to cherish their mother above everyone--all their lives.

I can never fill that void any more than the wives of my sons will fill mine.

"What's your advice, Hosaki?"

"I've too many thoughts for these too many problems," she told him worriedly, her mind grappling with the mosaic of danger from every quarter.

"I feel useless. Let me think carefully, tonight and tomorrow--perhaps I can suggest something that will give you a clue to what you must do, then, with your permission I'll return home the next day, one thing for certain: to further strengthen our defenses. You must tell me what to do.

Meanwhile a few immediate observations for you to consider: increase the vigilance of your guards, and quietly mobilize--all your forces."

"I had already decided that."

"This gai-jin who accosted you after the meeting, a Frenchman you say, I suggest you take advantage of the offer to see the inside of a warship with your own eyes, very important for you to see for yourself--perhaps even pretend to become friendly with them, then perhaps you could play them against the English, neh?"

"I had already decided to do that."

She smiled to herself, and lowered her voice even more. "However difficult, the sooner the better, Anjo must be removed permanently. As it is now probable you cannot prevent the Shogun and the Princess from leaving for Kyoto--I agree she is, correctly from her point of view, the Court spy and puppet and your enemy--then you must leave secretly just after them and rush to Kyoto by the shorter Tokaido and be there before them... you smile, Sire?"

"Only because you please me. And when I get to Kyoto?"

"You must become the Emperor's confidant--we have friends in Court who will assist you. Then, one possibility of dozens: make a secret agreement with Ogama of Choshu to leave him in control of the Gates..." she hesitated as Yoshi flushed, "but only as long as he is openly allied with you against Satsuma and Tosa."

"Ogama would never believe I would keep that bargain nor would I, but we must get back our Gates whatever the cost."

"I agree. But say the final part of your pact is that if he agrees to join forces for a surprise attack on Lord Sanjiro of Satsuma at a time of your choosing. When Sanjiro is overcome, Ogama gives you back the Gates and he gets Satsuma in return."

Yoshi frowned even more. "Very difficult to conquer Sanjiro by land when he is skulking behind his mountains--even Shogun Toranaga did not attack Satsuma after Sekigahara, just accepted their public bows, oaths of fidelity, and curbed them with kindness. We cannot launch a sea-born attack." He thought a moment. "That is a dream, not a real possibility.

Too difficult," he muttered. "But then, who knows? Next."

She dropped her voice. "Remove Nobusada on his way to Kyoto--it is a chance in a lifetime."

"Never!" he said, openly shocked and inwardly aghast that she thought as he did or, even worse, had read his most secret heart. "That would betray the Legacy, my heritage, everything that Lord Shogun Toranaga strived for, I have accepted him as liege lord as I am bound to do."

"Of course you are right," she said at once soothingly, already bowing low, prepared and expecting that reaction but needing to articulate it for him. "That was baka of me. I completely agree. So sorr--"

"Good! Never think or say that again."

"Of course. Please forgive me." She kept her head bowed for the correct time, muttering apologies, then leaned forward and refilled his cup and sat back again, eyes downcast, waiting to be asked to continue. Nobusada should have been removed by your father, Yoshi, she was thinking calmly --I am astonished that you never realized it. Your father, and mother--who should have given him correct counsel--failed in their duty when that stupid boy was proposed against you as Shogun by the traitor Ii. Ii shoved us all into house arrest, destroyed our peace for years, almost caused the death of our eldest son because of the months we were so closely confined that we all starved. We all knew Ii would do it long before it happened.

Removing Nobusada has always been so obvious, however heretical and distasteful an action, but the only real way to protect our future. If you will not consider it, Yoshi, I will find a way...

"That was a bad thought, Hosaki. Terrible!"

"I agree, Sire. Please accept my humble apologies." Again her head touched the tatami. "It was stupid. I do not know where such stupidity comes from. You are right of course. Perhaps it was because I am overwrought with the dangers surrounding you. Please, Sire, will you allow me to leave?"

"In a moment, yes, meanwhile--" A little mollified he motioned for her to pour more tea, still off balance that she would dare to speak such sacrilege openly, even to him.

"May I mention one other thought, Sire, before I go?"

"Yes, provided it's not stupid like the last one."

She almost laughed out loud at the petulant, little boy barb that did not enter even her outmost defenses. "You said, Sire, so wisely, that the most important and immediate gai-jin riddle to solve is how to sink their fleets or to keep their cannon away from our shores, neh?"

"Yes."

"Could cannon be mounted on barges?"

"Eh?" He frowned, deflected from Nobusada by this new tack. "I'd imagine so, why?"

"We could find out from the Dutch, they would help us. Perhaps we could build a defensive fleet, no matter how cumbersome, and anchor the barges offshore, as far out to sea as we can in strategic approaches to our important areas, like the Shimonoseki Straits, along with fortifying the mouths to all our harbors--fortunately they are very few, neh?"

"It might be possible," he conceded, the idea not having occurred to him. "But I don't have enough money or gold to buy all the cannon necessary for our shore batteries, let alone to build such a fleet. Or enough time or knowledge or wealth to set up our own armories and factories to make our own --or the men to run them."

"Yes, so true, Sire. You are so wise," she agreed. Then sadly, she took a deep breath. "All daimyos are impoverished and in debt--us as much as any."

"Eh? The harvest?" he asked sharply.

"So sorry to bring bad news, less than last year."

"How much less?"

"About a third."

"That is dreadful news, and just when I need extra revenue!" His fist bunched. "Farmers are all baka."

"So sorry, it is not their fault, Yoshi-chan, the rains were too late or too early, the sun too. This year the gods have not smiled on us."

"There are no gods, Hosaki-chan, but there is karma. Karma that there is a bad harvest--you will have to put up taxes nonetheless."

Her eyes glistened with tears. "There will be famine in the Kwanto before next harvest--and if with us, the richest rice land in all Nippon, what about the others?" The memory of the famine four years ago rushed back at them.

Thousands had died, and tens of thousands in the inevitable plagues that followed. And in the Great Famine, twenty years ago, hundreds of thousands had perished. "This is indeed the Land of Tears."

He nodded absently. Then he said, his voice acid, "You will increase taxes by a tenth part, all samurai will get a tenth part less. Talk to the moneylenders. They can increase our loans.

The money will be spent on armaments."

"Of course." Then added carefully, "We are better off than most, only next year's harvest is pledged. But it will be difficult to get ordinary interest rates."

He said irritably, "What do I know or care of interest rates, make the best arrangement you can." His face tightened. "Perhaps the time has come to propose to the Council we adjust "interest rates" like my great-grandfather."

Sixty odd years ago the Shogun, crushed under the weight of his father's debts, with years of future harvests mortgaged like those of all daimyos, and goaded by the ever-increasing arrogance and disdain of the merchant class, had abruptly decreed that all debts were cancelled and all future harvests debt free.

In the two and a half centuries since Sekigahara this extreme act had been promulgated four times. It caused chaos throughout the land. Suffering amongst all classes was huge, especially samurai. There was little the rice merchants, the main moneylenders, could do. Many went bankrupt. A few committed seppuku.

The rest slid under cover as best they could and suffered in the general lake of pain.

Until the next harvest. Then farmers needed merchants, and all people needed rice, and so, carefully, sales were consummated and scarce-- therefore highly expensive--money was loaned to them for seed and tools against the next harvest, and once more, but very humbly, money and credit was advanced to samurai, against their expected income, for living and entertainment, and silks and swords. Soon samurai overspending became endemic. With greater care moneylenders slipped back into business.

Soon inducements had to be offered to them, samurai status was reluctantly proffered and gratefully purchased for some sons and everything was soon as before, with fiefs in pawn.

"Perhaps you should, Sire." She was as disgusted as he with moneylenders. "I have secret stocks of rice against famine, your men would be hungry but they will not starve."

"Good. Barter these for the guns."

"So sorry, the amount would not be significant," she told him gently, appalled with his naivet`e and added quickly to divert him, "Meanwhile taxes will not produce the cash gai-jin will require."

"Then it will have to be the moneylenders," he said sharply. "Do whatever is necessary. I must have guns."

"Yes." She allowed the silence to gather then, slowly, put forward a long pondered plan: "Something you said before you left home gave me an idea, Sire. The small gold mine in our north mountains. I propose we increase the work force."

"But you have told me many times the mine is already scavenged to capacity and produces less revenue every year."

"True, but you made me realize our miners are not experts and my thought is that where there is one vein, there may be others if we had expert prospectors to seek them out. Perhaps our methods are old-fashioned. Amongst the gai-jin there may be experts."

He looked at her. "How so?"

"I was talking to Old Smelly"--this was the nickname of an old Dutchman who, years ago had been a merchant at Deshima and had been enticed to become one of Yoshi's tutors and who, with the gift of maids, a youthful consort and much sak`e had been induced to stay until it was too late to leave. "He told me about a huge gold rush in the Land of the Golden Mountain you mentioned, only thirteen years ago, where gai-jin of all nations went to steal a fortune from the earth.

Also, a few years ago there was another such gold rush in a land far to our south--he called it Van Diemen's Land. In Yokohama there must be men who took part in one or the other. Experts."

"And if they exist?" Yoshi wondered about Misamoto.

"I suggest you offer them safe passage and half the gold they discover within one year. There are many Americans and adventurers in the Settlement so I am told."

"You would want gai-jin wandering about our lands, spying our lands?" he asked slowly.

She shook her head then leaned forward, knowing she had his complete attention. "Once again you provided the solution, Yoshi-chan. Say you approached the most important Yokohama trader, in secret, the one you told me you thought was going to supply Choshu with rifles--I agree we must get rifles and modern cannon at all costs and prevent enemies from acquiring them.

Say you offer him your gold concession, an exclusive. In return he arranges all aspects of the search and mining. You would accept only one or two unarmed prospectors, and of course they would be closely monitored. In return you are supplied immediately with so many cannon and rifles in advance, against your half of the gold found, and this merchant agrees to sell guns and cannon only to you. Never to Choshu, Tosa or Satsumas. You smile, Sire?"

"And our go-between is Misamoto?"

"Without your cleverness in discovering and training him this would not be possible." She said it with perfect deference, and sat back, secretly content, listening to his comments and her replies, knowing that he would put her plan into operation quickly, that they would somehow get some guns and never never never barter her secret rice away. Then, shortly, she could pretend to be tired and beg his permission to rest: "You should rest also, Sire, after such a marvelous though strenuous practice session..."

Of course he should, a fine man like him, she thought. And once there, many judicious compliments, asking permission to massage his tired shoulder muscles, cautiously becoming more intimate, a sigh or two and quickly he would be as close as she could ever desire. As close as Koiko.

Earlier Koiko had correctly begged permission to visit her and had bowed and thanked her and said that she hoped her services had pleased the Great Lord, that she was honored to be allowed into his household for even a brief time. They had chatted for a while and then she had gone away.

Such a beauty, Hosaki thought without jealousy, or envy. Yoshi is entitled to a toy, however expensive, from time to time. Their beauty is so fragile, so transient, their life so sad, truly cherry blossoms from the Tree of Life.

A man's world is so much more physically exciting than ours. Eeee, to be able to go from flower to flower without hurt or thought.

If the punishment for even a little philandering on our side was not so immediate and severe, women would consider it much more frequently. Wouldn't we? Why not? If it was safe.

Sometimes, when Yoshi is away, the thought of such enormous danger and immediate death is an almost overwhelming aphrodisiac. Foolish, for such a fleeting pleasure. Is it?

She waited, watching him, a warm glow within, adoring the game of life while his mind was abuzz with variations of the plan and how to use his creation, Misamoto.

I will start at once, he was thinking. Hosaki has a good mind and is clever at putting my ideas together. But, eeee, to articulate that about the boy was baka in the extreme, however correct an Act of State such an action might be.

Women have no finesse.

In the Settlement this morning, just before dawn, Jamie McFay had given Nemi a final kiss and then together they walked down the corridor to Malcolm Struan's suite. He knocked gently. At once the door opened and the young girl, Shizuka, came out, eased the door closed, smiled curiously and began whispering to Nemi who took McFay by the arm and hurried him to the landing.

"What? Bad news, heya?" McFay asked nervously--he had caught a glimpse of Struan fast asleep in the huge four-poster before the door closed but all had seemed well.

Nemi paid no attention to him and continued to cross-question the girl.

Exasperated, McFay said, "Nemi, what?

What bad?"

She hesitated, then with an initial flood of singsong apologetic Japanese, caught herself and beamed, "No bad, Jami-san, you-ah cum Yoshiwara t'morrow, yes no?" She put on her cloak and began to go down the stairs but he stopped her.

"What bad, Nemi?" he asked suspiciously.

She stared up at him a moment, then more Japanese and pidgin that did not make sense.

Finally she shrugged, "S'kr't, wakarimasu ka?" "S'kr't? Iy`e, for God's sake.

What skre't, heya?"

"S'krit, Jami-san, hai?"

"Ah, secret, for God's sake!

Wakarimasu! Secret what?"

She sighed with relief and beamed. "S'kret, gud! S'kret, Jami-san, Shizuka, Nemi. Hai? Hai?"

"Hai. Us keep secret. Now what?"

More incomprehensible Japanese and more pidgin as they put on their outer robes and then, frustrated because she could not explain properly or that she had to explain at all, Nemi parodied plenty of movement and whispered, "Shizuka gud, work gud o'rr night."

"Tai-pan good?"

Her eyes soared. "Hai, Jami-san, Shizuka gud!"

All his questions had only produced more bowing and smiles from both of them, so he had thanked Shizuka, her fee already arranged--"tai-pan credit plenti werri gud," the mama-san had told him. For a last time Nemi swore him to secrecy. The waiting servant took them back to the Yoshiwara.

Perturbed but not knowing why, though sure he not been told all the truth, he had tiptoed back and stood over the bed but Struan was fast asleep, breathing peacefully, so he had left and gone to his office and worked.

Until just after ten.

"Hello, Doctor, come in, good to see you, what's new?"

Hoag's face was grim. "Ah Tok sent for me and I've just seen Malcolm, that's what's new. I wish to Christ you'd asked me first before you--oh for God's sake, Jamie," the squat, good man added quickly, seeing him flush, "I know he asked you to arrange it, I just wish you'd thought to ask me first--I would have thought it bloody obvious it would be bloody dangerous and bloody ridiculous to try so soon after that wound with half your inside patched and near to bursting..." He stopped and sat down. "Sorry, but I had to let that out."

"That's all right--is it bad?"

"I don't know, some blood in his urine and plenty of pain in his loins. It seems she was very vigorous, he got carried away and when he climaxed he said his stomach spasmed with the surge and then cramped up. Poor fellow, though he's in a lot of pain now, he did tell me she was worth it."

"He said that?"

"Yes, in some detail--don't mention that I told you, eh? I've given him some painkiller so he'll sleep for an hour or two. I'll be back later." Hoag sighed and got up with a grim smile. "I had another note from Mrs.Struan, did you?"

"Yes, more of the same. Will you order him back to Hong Kong now?"

"I can't order him to do anything. He goes when he wants to go, this is the storm season for God's sake. He's wise to stay-- unless there's anything pressing in Hong Kong."

"There are dozens of reasons--that's the seat of power, there's nothing for him to do here really."

Hoag shrugged. "I agree Hong Kong would be better--I'd planned to go back with the mail ship but after last night I think I'll wait for a few more days for him."

"Take him with you, please, on the mail ship."

"I already suggested it and was told, rather impolitely "no." Forget it, Jamie, it's not wrong for him to rest here and a foul sea voyage would be extremely bad for him, maybe a killer. By the way, I hear there may be another ball next Tuesday with Angel T's the guest of honor."

"Malcolm didn't mention it."

"Under the auspices of Ambassador Seratard, of dubious ancestry, father of all the French. Well I must be going--keep me advised and if Malcolm asks for a similar bout, check with me first, privately."

"All right. Thanks, Doctor."

Later Vargas knocked, "Senhor, Ah Tok says the tai-pan wants to see you."

Climbing the staircase, there was a sudden nasty twinge in Jamie's stomach, imagining himself in Malcolm's place.

"Senhor McFay!" Vargas called up from the stairwell. "Excuse me, but the Choshu samurai have just arrived, about ordering the rifles, senhor."

"I'll be right back."

McFay knocked and opened the door.

"Hello, Tai-pan," he said kindly.

Struan was propped in bed, his eyes strange, a flat smile on his face. "How're you today?"

"You saw Hoag?"

"Yes."

"Good, then you know she was very satisfactory and, well, thanks, Jamie. She helped tremendously though..." Struan laughed nervously, "though the finish shook me up a bit.

Terrific body. It was all very satisfactory but I don't think I'll need a repeat performance until I'm really better. She certainly got rid of the, the logjam." Again the short, nervous laugh. "Didn't realize, Jamie, how strong a little girl like that could be, or how much... you understand, eh?"

"Of course. Everything went according to plan?"

For an instant Struan wavered, then he said firmly, "Yes, better than that--I want you to double her fee."

"Certainly." McFay read the underlying anxiety and his heart went out to him. Obviously whatever happened Malcolm's deal with Shizuka was secret. If that's the way he wants it, fine. Not up to me. What's done is done. Just another secret to add to all the rest. "Glad it was all right."

"Better than all right. Did the girl say anything?"

"Only that she, er, worked hard all night, to, well, to try to please you."

A bright knock on the door and Angelique sailed in, blooming with good health, chic in a new lavender dress, parasol, feathered hat, gloves and shawl. "Hello, my love, hello Jamie, how are you today? Oh Malcolm, I'm so pleased to see you." As she bent over the bed to kiss Struan tenderly, "Oh, cheri, how I've missed you."

The moment the door had opened the hearts of both men stretched. McFay's nervousness soared, at once his eyes checked the bed and room to see if there were any telltale signs. But all was neat and tidy, clean new sheets and pillowcases daily--more Struan fastidiousness about cleanliness, to the point of foolishness, he thought-- clean shirt every day? Ridiculous, once or twice a month more than enough but then he knew the habit had been implanted by Dirk Struan and whatever the tai-pan had decreed was law for Tess Struan and therefore her family. Struan was freshly shaved, clean nightshirt, the windows opened to the sea breeze that would carry away any trace of perfume. He began to breathe easier then she said, "I saw Dr. Hoag," and both men almost went into spasm again.

"You poor darling," she said with hardly a pause, "he told me you'd had a bad night, poor darling, and that you won't come to Sir William's soiree this evening, so I thought I'd just drop in and sit with you until lunch."

Again, the gorgeous smile that seduced both of them and she arranged herself in the tall chair-- Struan weak with love for her, at the same time sick with guilt. I must have been insane to want a whore to substitute for the love of my life, he thought, glorying in her open warmth, wanting to blurt out about Shizuka, and beg her forgiveness.

The night had begun well enough with Shizuka undressing and smiling and pressing against him, fondling and encouraging. He had touched her too, fondling and was both proud and anxious. Awkward and painful to position normally and move normally so staying seated and beginning but not quite, then of a sudden Angelique's face and presence had swamped him, unbidden and unwanted. His manhood vanished. And as much as Shizuka had tried and he had tried, it would not return.

They rested and tried again, the ache for him awful now, overlaid with frantic, impotent rage and his need to prove himself. More groping and trying--she was well trained with hand and lips and body but nothing would create that which responded in varying degrees to lust and need, but especially to love and its indefinable mystery. Nor, whatever she did, could she or he dispel the spectre. Or conquer the pain.

At length she gave up, her young body sheened with perspiration and panting from her exertions.

"Gomen nasai, Tai-pan," she had whispered, again and again, apologizing, but hiding her fury and almost in tears at his impotence, for she had never failed before, and was expecting him to send for servants any moment to beat her and throw her out for failure to arouse him as a civilized person would do. And more than anything, she was beset with anxiety as to how she would explain her inadequacy to her mama-san. Buddha bear witness: this man failed, not me!

"Gomen nasai, gomen nasai," her mouth kept saying.

"It's the accident," he mumbled, despising himself, the pain grotesque, telling her about the Tokaido and his wounds even though he knew she would not understand the words, his frustration shattering him.

When that storm had passed and his tears had passed, he made her lie beside him, had stopped her trying again and had made her understand that she would get a double fee if she kept everything secret.

"Secret, wakarimasu ka?"' he pleaded with her.

"Hai, Tai-pan, wakarimasu," she had agreed happily, found the medicine he required and then cradled him to sleep.

"Malcolm..." Angelique said.

"Yes?" Struan said at once, concentrating, his heart pounding, reminding him he had used the last of Hoag's sleeping draft and that he must ask Ah Tok to replace the mixture--for just a day or so. "I'm so pleased to see you too."

"Me too. How do you like my dress?"

"It's wonderful and so are you," he said.

"Think I'll be going, Tai-pan,"

McFay broke in, seeing how happy Struan had become, pleased for him though still sweating. "The Choshu reps are downstairs--all right to proceed with them?"

"As we decided. Good, thanks again, Jamie. Let me know how it goes."

"Malcolm," Angelique said quickly, "while Jamie's here... you remember you asked me to remind you when we were all together about my, the small allowance."

"Ah yes, of course. Jamie," he said expansively as she took his hand, her open pleasure casting the night into oblivion--forever, he thought happily. That night never happened!

"Put my fiancee's chits against my account," he told him with a twinge of happiness at the word.

"Angel, just sign chits, whatever you want, Jamie will take care of them."

"Thank you, cheri, that's wonderful, but please can I have some money?"

He laughed and Jamie smiled also. "You don't need any here, there's no need for cash-- none of us carry money."

"But Malcolm, I w--"

"Angelique," he said his voice firmer.

"Chits are the way we pay for everything, at the Club or at any store in the Settlement, everyone does, even in Hong Kong, surely you haven't forgotten. It stops tradesmen cheating and you've a permanent record."

"But I've always had money, cheri, money of my own, to pay my own bills," she said with an outward show of complete honesty, "and as my father has... well you understand."

"Paying your own bills? What an appalling idea. That's unheard of in good society. Now don't worry yourself," he said, smiling at her, "that's for men to do. Chits are our perfect solution."

"Perhaps French people are different, we always have cash and--"

"So do we in England and elsewhere, but in Asia we all sign chits. Whatever you want to buy just sign for it--even better we must get you your personal chop, we'll choose the perfect Chinese name for you." This was a small stamp, usually a rectangular piece of ivory or bone, the bottom of which was ornately carved with the Chinese characters that sounded like the owner's name. When pressed into an ink pad then onto paper, it would produce a unique imprint almost impossible to forge. "Jamie will arrange it for you."

"Thank you, Malcolm. But then, well, can I have my own account, cheri, I'm really very good at managing."

"I'm sure you are, now don't worry your beautiful head, when we're married I'll arrange it, but here it's unnecessary."

She hardly listened to herself as she entertained Struan with gossip from the French Legation, what she had read in the papers, what her friend in Paris had written about a superb residence--called "hotel" there--on the Champs-Elys`ees belonging to a Countess that would soon become available and was so inexpensive, planting seeds for their glorious future, making him laugh, waiting for him to become drowsy when she would leave for her lunch at the Club with the French officers, then later to ride with them and some of the English navy officers on the race course, then a siesta, then to prepare for Sir William's soiree--no reason not to go but first returning to say good night to her soon-to-be husband.

Everything marvelous and terrible, most of her mind on her new dilemma: how to get cash. What am I going to do? I have to have cash to pay for the medicine, that swine Andr`e Poncin won't advance it for me, I know he won't. Damn him and damn my father for stealing my money! And damn HIM of the Tokaido into eternal Hell forever!

Stop that and think. Remember you are on your own and you must solve your problems!

My only possession of value is my engagement ring and I can't sell that, I just can't.

Oh God, everything was going so well, I'm officially engaged, Malcolm is getting better, Andr`e is helping me but the medicine's so expensive and I've no money, real money, oh God, oh God what am I going to do?

Tears spilled out of her eyes.

"Good God, Angelique, what is it?"

"Just that, just that I'm so unhappy," she sobbed and buried her head in the bedclothes, "so unhappy that, that the Tokaido happened and you're hurt and I... I'm hurt too--it's not fair."

Sir William's ten-oared cutter sped through the swell in double-quick time aimed at the flagship anchored in the roads off Yokohama, her bow wave heavy. He was alone in the cabin and he stood, riding easily, frock coat, cutaway and top hat. Sea fair, light fading in the west, the clouds already grey but with no apparent threat of storm. As she swung alongside the ship, all oars went to the vertical, he jumped onto the gangway, and hurried up to the main deck to be piped aboard.

"Afternoon sir," Lieutenant Marlowe saluted smartly. "This way please." Past gleaming rows of cannons to the quarterdeck--the main deck and shrouds a hive of activity, cannons being secured, hawsers coiled, sails checked, smoke from the funnel--up a gangway then down another to the second gun deck, past sailors battening down and stowing gear, to the Admiral's cabin aft. The marine sentry saluted as Marlowe knocked. "Sir William, sir."

"Well open the door Marlowe, for Christ's sake."

Marlowe held the door for Sir William and began to close it. "Marlowe, stay here!" the Admiral ordered.

The large cabin filled the stern of the ship--many small sea windows, big table and sea chairs anchored to the deck, small bunk and toilet, large sideboard with cut-glass decanters. The Admiral and General half got up with token politeness, and sat again. Marlowe stayed at the door.

"Thank you for arriving so expeditiously, Sir William. Brandy? Sherry?"

"Brandy, thank you Admiral Ketterer.

Trouble?"

The florid-faced man glared at Marlowe.

"Would you oblige, Mr. Marlowe, brandy for Sir William." He tossed a sheet of paper on the table. "Dispatch from Hong Kong."

With the usual flowery greetings, the dispatch read: You will proceed at once with the flagship and four or five warships to the port of Boh Chih Seh, north of Shanghai (coordinates overleaf) where the main pirate fleet of Wu Sung Choi is now harbouring. A week ago a swarm of this pirate's junks, arrogantly flying his flag--the White Lotus--intercepted and sank H.m.'s mailship Bonny Sailor in the waters off Mirs Bay, the pirate haven north of Hong Kong. The fleet here will deal with Mirs Bay--you will decimate Boh Chih Seh and sink all craft not fishing vessels if the leader, believed to be Chu Fang Choy, refuses to strike his colours and declines to surrender to Her Majesty's justice.

When accomplished, send one ship with a report here and return to Yokohama, placing yourself as usual at the disposition of Her Majesty's servants. Show this to Sir William and please give him the enclosed. yrs., Stanshope, KCB, Governor Far East.

PS: The Bonny Sailor was lost with all hands, 76 officers and men, ten passengers, one of whom was an Englishwoman, the wife of a trader here, a cargo of gold, opium and rice worth ten thousand guineas. Chu Fang Choy had the effrontery to have delivered to Government House a sack containing the ship's log and forty-three pairs of ears with a letter apologizing that the others could not be recovered. The woman's were not included and we fear the worst for her.

"Bastards," Sir William muttered, with an added queasiness at the thought that, as pirates were endemic in all Asian waters, particularly from Singapore north to Peking, and the White Lotus fleets the most abundant and notorious of all, the woman could easily have been his wife who was due to arrive Hong Kong any week from England with three of his children. "You leave on the tide?"

"Yes." The Admiral slid an envelope across the table. Sir William broke the seals: Dear Willie, The next mail ship will bring the specie for the Legation expenses. Between ourselves, sorry, Willie, but I cannot give you any further troops at the moment, or ships. In the spring possibly. I have been ordered to return troops and ships to India where the authorities fear repetition of the Mutiny of five years ago. Added to that, the Punjab is in ferment again, pirates plague the Persian Gulf and damned nomads in Mesopotamia have again cut the telegraph--another expeditionary force is being organized to deal with them once and for all!

How is that poor fellow Struan? Questions are bound to be asked in Parliament about "failure to protect our nationals." News of your Tokaido disaster should reach London within two weeks, their answer not for two more months.

I trust they will countenance stiff reprisals, and send us the money troops and ships to carry out their orders. In the meantime weather the storm, if there is one, as best you can. Hong Kong is seething about this attack. Struan's mother is hopping mad and all the riffraff China traders here (however rich from their foul opium trade) are up in arms, their misguided, slanted guttersnipe Press demanding your resignation. Was it ever different? as Disraeli would say! In haste, God speed, yrs. Stanshope, KCB, Governor.

Sir William took a large sip, hoping his face did not betray his anxiety. "Good brandy, Admiral."

"Yes it is, my very best private stock, in your honor," the Admiral said, furious that Marlowe had given Sir William almost half a tumbler and had not used the ordinary, second grade he kept for visitors. Stupid berk, he thought, he should know better--he'll never make flag rank.

"What about going to Osaka?" Sir William asked.

"Oh, Osaka? I regret you will have to delay until I return." The smile was barely concealed.

"When will that be?" The sinking feeling became worse.

"To arrive at our destination, six or seven days depending on the winds, two or three days at Boh Chih Seh should be enough. I will have to re-coal at Shanghai, oh I'd say I should be off Yokohama again unless fresh orders arrive in..." The Admiral quaffed his port and poured another. "I should be back in four or five weeks."

Sir William finished his brandy and this helped to ease his nausea. "Lieutenant, would you be so kind? Thanks."

Marlowe took his glass politely and refilled it with the Admiral's best, hiding his disgust at being a flunky and totally fed up with this aide-de-camp posting--wanting to be back on his own ship, his own quarterdeck to supervise the repairs the storm had caused. But at least I'll see some action at long last, he thought with relish, imagining the attack on the pirate haven, all guns blazing.

"Well, Admiral," Sir William was saying, "if we fail to make good our threat we will lose enormous face, the initiative, and put ourselves in great danger."

"It was your threat, Sir William, not ours.

As to face you put too much value on it, as to danger--I presume you mean to the Settlement --damme, Sir, the natives of Japan would not dare to create any major problem. They didn't really bother you at the Legation, they won't really bother Yokohama."

"With the fleet gone, we're helpless."

"Not exactly, Sir William," the General said stiffly. "The army is here in some strength."

"Quite right," the Admiral agreed, "but Sir William is perfectly correct to say the Royal Navy keeps the peace. I plan to take four warships, sir, not five and leave one frigate on station. That should be sufficient.

The Pearl."

Before Marlowe could stop himself, he had said, "Excuse me sir, she's still undergoing major repairs."

"I'm so glad to know you keep abreast of the state of my fleet, Mr. Marlowe, and that you keep your ears open," the Admiral said witheringly.

"Obviously Pearl can't go on this expedition so you'd best report back aboard and make sure she's in first-class seagoing condition ready for any duty by sundown tomorrow or you won't have a ship."

"Yessir." Marlowe gulped, saluted and rushed off.

The Admiral grunted and said to the General, "Good officer but not dry behind the ears yet--fine naval family, two brothers also officers and his father's flag captain at Plymouth."

He looked at Sir William. "Don't worry, his frigate will have stepped her mast by tomorrow and be in good order--he's the best of my captains but for God's sake don't tell him I said so.

He'll guard you until I return. If there's nothing else, gentlemen, I put to sea right smartly--so sorry I can't join you for dinner."

Sir William and the General finished their drinks and stood up. "God speed, Admiral Ketterer, may you come back safely with all hands," Sir William said sincerely, the General echoing him. Then his face hardened. "If I don't get any satisfaction from the Bakufu I will leave for Osaka as planned, in Pearl or not, at the head of the army or not--but by God, go to Osaka and Kyoto I will."

"Best wait until I return, best be prudent, best not swear by God to undertake such an ill-advised action, Sir William," the Admiral said curtly. "God might decide otherwise."

That evening, just before midnight, Angelique, Phillip Tyrer and Pallidar left the British Legation and strolled down High Street heading for the Struan Building. "La," she said happily, "Sir William certainly has a modest chef!"

They were all in evening dress and they laughed for the food had been abundant English fare and especially delicious--a side of roast beef, trays of pork sausages and fresh crabs brought in on ice from Shanghai in the mail ship's ice room as part of the diplomatic pouch and therefore not subject to customs inspection or duty. These were served with boiled vegetables, roast potatoes, also imported from Shanghai, with Yorkshire pudding and followed by apple pies and mince pies with all the claret, Pouilly Fum`e, port and champagne the twenty guests could drink.

"And when Madam Lunkchurch threw a crab at her husband I thought I would die," she said to more laughter but Tyrer, embarrassed, said, "I'm afraid some of the so-called traders, and their wives are inclined to be boisterous. Please don't judge all Englishmen, or women, by their behavior."

"Quite right." Pallidar was beaming, delighted that he also had been accepted as part of her escort and conscious that his evening dress uniform and plumed cap made Tyrer's drab frock coat, his old-fashioned and abundant silk cravat and top hat seem even more funereal. "Dreadful people. Without your presence, the evening would have been awful, no doubt at all."

High Street and its side streets were still busy with traders, clerks and others weaving their way home to their dwellings or strolling the promenade, the odd drunk lying by the oil lamps that lit the length of it. An occasional cluster of Japanese fishermen, carrying oars and nets, and paper lanterns to light their way, trudged up from the shore where their boats were beached, or headed down from the village for their night's fishing.

At the front door of the Struan Building she stopped and held out her hand to be kissed.

"Thank you and good night, dear friends, please don't bother to wait, one of the servants can see me back to the Legation."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Pallidar said at once, taking her hand and holding on for a moment.

"I--we'd be glad to wait," Tyrer assured her.

"But I may be an hour or a few minutes, depending how my fianc`e is."

But they insisted and she thanked them, and she swept past the liveried, armed night watchman, up the stairs, crinoline billowing, trailing her shawl--still caught up in the excitement of the evening and the adoration that surrounded her. "Hello darling, just wanted to say good night."

Struan wore an elegant red silk dressing gown over a loose shirt and trousers with soft boots, cravat at his throat and he got up out of the chair, the pain deadened now by the elixir Ah Tok had given him half an hour ago.

"I feel better than I have for days, my darling. A bit wobbly, but fine--how lovely you are." The light from the oil lamp made his gaunt face more handsome than ever, and her more desirable than ever. He put his hands on her shoulders to steady himself, his head and body feeling strangely light, her skin creamy and warm to his touch. Her eyes were dancing and he looked down, loving her, and kissed her. Gently at first, then, as she responded, glorying further in her taste and welcome. "I love you," he murmured between kisses.

"I love you," she replied, believing it and weak with pleasure, so happy that he seemed truly better, his lips strong and seeking and hands strong and seeking but within bounds, bounds that suddenly, deliriously, she wanted to cast aside.

"Je t'aime, cheri... je t'aime ..."

For a moment they stood in their embrace and then with a strength he did not know he had, he lifted her and sat again in the big, high-backed chair and cradled her in his lap, lips touching, one arm around her tiny waist, a hand quietly on her breast, the silk seeming to enhance the half-cupped warmth beneath. Wonder filled him. Wonder that here where every part of her was covered and forbidden, in the night, all was open and offered and as young, but now he was more euphoric and stimulated than he had ever been, yet at the same time controlled, no longer frantic with lust.

"So strange," he murmured and thought, but not so strange, the pain's masked by the medicine. The rest isn't, my love for her.

"Cheri?"

"Strange that I need you so much yet I can wait. Not long but I can wait."

"Please not long, please." Again her lips sought his, nothing in her mind but him, heat welding her memory closed and worry closed and never a problem anymore. For both of them. Then the sudden sound of a nearby gunshot from outside.

Their mood shattered, she sat upright on his lap and before she knew it was hurrying for the half-open window. Below she could see Pallidar and Tyrer--damn, I'd forgotten them, she thought.

The two men were looking inland, then they turned, their attention directed towards Drunk Town.

She craned out of the window but saw only a vague group of men at the far end, their bleary shouts wafted on the wind. "It seems to be nothing, just Drunk Town..." she said, guns and fights, even duels, not rare in that part of Yokohama. Then, feeling strange and chilled and at the same time flushed, she came back and looked at him. With a little sigh she knelt and took his hand and pressed it to her cheek, her head in his lap, but his gentleness and his fingers caressing her hair and the nape of her neck no longer drove the devils away. "I should go home, my love."

"Yes." His fingers continued their stroking.

"I want to stay."

"I know."

Struan saw himself, out of himself, the perfect gentleman, calm, quiet, helping her to her feet, waiting while she straightened her bodice and hair and draped her shawl around her. Then, hand in hand, walking slowly with her to the head of the stairs where he allowed himself to be persuaded to stay, permitting a servant to lead her below. At the door she turned once and waved a loving farewell and he waved and then she was gone.

It seemed to take him no effort to walk back and undress, letting his servant pull off his boots. Then into bed with no help at all, lying back at peace with himself and the world. Head fine, body fine, relaxed.

"How is my son?" Ah Tok whispered from the doorway.

"In the Land of the Poppy."

"Good, good. No pain for my son there."

The servant blew out the flame and then left him.

Down the High Street, the French soldier sentry, his uniform as sloppy as his manner, opened the Legation door for her, "Bonsoir, Mademoiselle."

"Bonsoir, Monsieur. Good night Phillip, good night Settry." The door closed and she leaned against it a moment to collect herself. The delight of the evening had vanished. In its place, the spectres were crowding for attention.

Deep in thought she walked across the hall towards her suite, saw a light under Seratard's door. She stopped and, on a sudden impulse that this might be a perfect time to ask for a loan, she knocked and went in. "Oh! Andr`e! Hello, excuse me, I was expecting Monsieur Henri."

"He's still with Sir William. I'm just finishing a dispatch for him." Andr`e was at Seratard's desk, many papers spread around. The dispatch dealt with Struan's, their possible arms deal with the Choshu, and the possible help that a possible French wife might render their fledgling arms industry. "Did you have a good time? How's your fianc`e?"

"He's much better, thank you. The dinner was huge, if you like to eat heavily. Ah to be in Paris, yes?"

"Yes." My God she's beddable, he thought, and that reminded him of the infectious vileness eating him away.

"What is it?" she asked, startled by his sudden pallor.

"Nothing." He cleared his throat and fought to control the horror. "Just out of sorts--nothing grave."

He seemed so vulnerable, so helpless that abruptly she decided to trust him again and closed the door and sat near him, pouring out her story.

"What am I going to do, dear Andr`e? I can't get any cash... what can I do?"

"Dry your tears, Angelique, the answer is so simple. Tomorrow or the next day I will take you shopping," he said, his mind quite clear for mundane matters. "You've asked me to go shopping with you, haven't you, to help find an engagement present for More'sieur Struan.

Gold cuff links with pearls, and pearl earrings for yourself." His voice saddened. "But oh so terrible, somewhere en route back from the jewelers you lose one pair--we look everywhere but no avail. Terrible!" His pale brown eyes held hers. "Meanwhile the mama-san has her secret payment, I will make sure the pair you "lose" more than covers the medicine, and all costs."

"You're wonderful!" she burst out and hugged him. "Wonderful, what would I do without you?" She embraced him again, thanked him again and virtually danced out of the room.

He looked at the closed door a long time.

Yes it will cover the medicine, and my twenty louis, and other expenses if I decide, he thought, curiously unsettled. Poor little cabbage, so easy to manipulate you. You embroil yourself in deeper and deeper whirlpools.

Don't you realize that now you become a thief and worse, you're a criminal planning a willful fraud.

And you, Andr`e, you are an accessory to the conspiracy.

He laughed outright, a bad twisted laugh.

Prove it! Will she tell a court about an abortion, will the mama-san be witness against me?

Will the court believe the story of the daughter and niece of criminals against mine?

No, but God will know and soon you will be before HIM.

Yes, and HE will know I've done much worse. And intend to do even more evil.

Tears began to stream down his face.

"Ayeeyah, Miss'ee," Ah Soh, said, trying to help Angelique undress, who would not be still, again in a merry mood, her immediate problem solved. "Miss'ee!"

"Oh very well but do hurry." Angelique stood by her bed but continued to hum her cheery polka, the room more feminine and friendly in the oil light than during the day, the glass windows slightly ajar with the slatted shutters barred.

"Miss'ee gud time heya?" Nimbly Ah Soh began to untie the waist straps of the crinoline.

"Good, thank you," Angelique said politely, not liking her particularly. Ah Soh was a big-hipped, middle-aged woman, a servant and not a real amah. "But she's so old, Malcolm, can't you find me someone young and pretty who laughs!"

"Gordon Chen, our compradore, chose her, Angel. He guarantees she's completely trustworthy, she can brush your hair, bath you, can look after your European clothes, and she's my gift to you while she's with you in Japan...."

The straps loosened and the crinoline fell away, then Ah Soh did the same with the petticoat and last the vast framework of hoops of bone and metal that gave the crinoline body.

Long pantaloons, silk stockings, short slip and the boned cinch and corset that made her twenty-inch waist eighteen inches and swelled her breasts fashionably. As the maid unlaced the cinch-corset Angelique let out a deep sigh of contentment, stepped out of the sea of material and flopped on the bed and, as a child would, allowed herself to be undressed completely. Obediently she raised her arms to permit the flowery nightdress to be eased around her.

"Sit, Miss'ee."

"No, not tonight, Ah Soh, my hair can wait."

"Ayeeyah, t'morro no gud!" Ah Soh brandished the brush.

"Oh all right." Angelique sighed and scrambled off the bed and sat by the dressing table and allowed her to take out the pins and begin to brush. It felt very good. Oh how clever Andr`e is! He makes everything so simple--now I can get all the money I need, oh how clever he is.

From time to time a benign sea breeze creaked the shutters. A hundred yards away, across the promenade, waves ran up the pebbled shore and departed and came again with a good sound that promised another gentle night that all in the Settlement had welcomed. The fleet had left with the light.

Everyone not drunk or bedridden had watched the ships sail off with varying degrees of anxiety.

All wished them God speed and a quick return.

Except the Japanese. Ori was one of them and he had his eyes pressed to a crack in one of her shutters, well hidden and camouflaged by the tall camellia bushes that grew here abundantly and Seratard, a keen gardener, had had planted.

Long before midnight Ori was in this ambush, waiting for her, time passing slowly, thinking and rethinking schemes, exhausting himself, nervously checking and rechecking that his short sword was loose in its scabbard and the derringer safe in the sleeve of his fisherman's kimono. But when he had seen her approaching the Legation in the company of the two gai-jin, all his tiredness had vanished.

For a moment he had contemplated rushing out and killing them but discarded that foolishness knowing it was unlikely he could kill the three of them, and the sentry, before being killed himself. And anyway, he thought grimly, that would end my plan to have her once more before I die, and then to burn the Settlement.

Without me to goad Hiraga he will never do it.

He's too weak now--he's gai-jin infected.

If Hiraga the Strong can succumb so quickly, what about others? The Emperor is right to hate gai-jin and want them expelled!

So he curbed his anger and slunk deeper into hiding, biding his time, planning for any eventuality. No way through the windows unless she unbarred them. The back door was unguarded and possible--and plenty of footholds to the next floor if it would not open. He had watched the undressing in every detail, barely two paces away, beyond the wall. Now she was being tucked into bed, the maid fussing about her mistress. His impatience became almost unbearable.

Earlier one of the mixed naval and army patrols that roamed the Settlement nightly to keep order had suddenly challenged him in a lane behind High Street. He had stopped without fear, there was no curfew nor was any part of the Settlement forbidden Japanese though, wisely, they kept mostly to their own quarter and chose not to tempt gai-jin temper.

Unfortunately the Sergeant had rudely shoved a lantern in his face making him jerk back, startled. The concealed short sword clattered to the ground. "'ere, you little bastard, you knows daggers'n the like is forbidden, kinjiru."

Though Ori did not understand the words, the rule and penalty were common knowledge. At once he grabbed up his knife and fled, the Sergeant fired at him but the bullet haranggged off a tile harmlessly and he leapt over a low wall to lose himself in the maze of lanes and dwellings. The patrol did not bother to give chase, just shouted a few curses after him, carrying a knife was a small misdemeanor, worth only an immediate beating and the weapon confiscated.

Again he had waited in hiding until he could join a group of fishermen to go down to the shore, then doubled back, scaled the Legation fence and quickly found a safe place. Once there he had slumped down and began to wait.

This morning, he had pretended he was ready to leave the Yoshiwara for Kyoto as Hiraga had demanded. "As soon as I've contacted Katsumata there, I'll send you a message," he had said, deliberately tight-lipped. "Make sure the girl does not escape!"

"She's the tai-pan's woman so her every step is measured and she'll be easy to find,"

Hiraga had told him, as coldly. "Watch yourself, the Tokaido will be dangerous--Enforcer patrol and barrier guards will be very alert."

"Better we honor sonno-joi, better you allow me to stay, better we burn Yokohama, Akimoto arrives today, we could do it easily."

"We will, when you return. If you stay now you will make a mistake, the woman has turned your head and made you dangerous, to yourself, your friends and sonno-joi."

"What about you, Hiraga? The gai-jin have turned you and twisted your judgment."

"No. I tell you a last time."

Careless of provoking Hiraga even more, he flared, "You saw what scum gai-jin are, drunk and revolting, fighting like beasts, carousing in the filth of Drunk Town--are these the men you want to know more of, to be like?"' "Go!"

As angrily he had collected his short sword and derringer. At Raiko's suggestion he joined the daily procession of servants leaving for Kanagawa market where the best sak`e and foods were purchased. With them he had passed through the Yoshiwara and Settlement barriers, the Enforcer patrol still lurking amongst the guards, making them as nervous as the villagers. Halfway to Kanagawa, the road traffic heavy, he had slipped away to the shore. There he had bribed a fisherman to row him to the far end of the Settlement, near Drunk Town, to hide him till dusk.

I am doing the correct thing, he thought with absolute conviction, the small sea wind scattering the night insects. The woman is the perfect target for sonno-joi. Whatever Hiraga says I may never have another chance to cast away her spell. Yes, I am in her spell. She must be a kami, a spirit, a wolf woman reborn gai-jin, no other woman could be virgin and drugged yet still be as welcoming, no other could make a man explode like I exploded, or keep me deranged with desire.

Tonight I will lay her for the second time. Then I will kill her. If I escape, karma. If I do not escape, karma. But she will die by my hand.

The sweat was running down his face and back.

Once more he concentrated, watching her through the crack, so very close that, but for the wall he could almost reach out and touch her. She climbed into bed, nightdress revealing. Now the maid turned down the oil flame to leave a warm glow of light.

"'nite, Miss'ee."

"'nite, Ah Soh."

Happy to be alone, Angelique snuggled down in the bedclothes, watching the flame shadows dance with the drafts, her head resting comfortably on her arm. Before Kanagawa the dark had never bothered her and she would go quickly into dreamtime to awake refreshed. Since Kanagawa her pattern had changed. Now she insisted on a night light. Sleep did not come easily.

Soon her mind took her into paths of wild surmise. Her hands would stray to her breasts.

Are they a little fuller than yesterday, my nipples more sensitive? Yes, yes they are, no it is just imagination. And my stomach?

Is it rounder? No, there's no difference and yet ...

And yet there is a vast difference, like B.c. and A.d. and at least once a day I wonder, would it be a boy or girl? Or devil, taking after the rapist father. No, no child of mine could be devil!

Devil. That reminds me today's Friday and in two days I have to go to church and confess again. The words get no easier. How I hate confession now and loathe Father Leo, such a fat, uncouth, tobacco-smelling and lecherous old man. He reminds me of Aunt Emma's confessor in Paris--the ancient Scot, smelling of whisky, whose French was as vile as his cassock. Lucky for me that neither she nor Uncle Michel were fanatic, just ordinary Sunday Catholics. I wonder how she is, and poor Uncle Michel.

Tomorrow I will speak to Malcolm...

Dear dear Malcolm, he was so nice tonight, so strong and wise and oh how I wanted him. So glad I can talk to him, so lucky for me that Aunt Emma refused to learn French so I had to learn English. How could she possibly survive in Paris all those years speaking only English, and what possessed Uncle Michel to marry her and endure such hardship? Though I love her and him, she so dowdy, he so ordinary.

Love! That's what he would always say and she would say and that they had met when he was in Normandy one summer vacation, she an actress with a travelling Shakespearean troupe, he a junior official. It was love at first glance, they would always say, and tell how beautiful she was and handsome he was. Then running away together, married within the week, so romantic but not so happy ever after.

But we will be, Malcolm and I. Ah yes, and I will love Malcolm as a modern wife should, we'll have lots of children, they'll be brought up Catholic, it won't matter to him, he's not fanatic either: "I'm really not, Angelique.

Of course we'll be married according to Protestant traditions, Mother will not have it otherwise, of that I'm certain. Afterwards we can have a Catholic ceremony, privately, if you wish..."

Never mind even if it's secret, it's the real marriage--not like the other--the children will be accepted into Mother Church, we will all live in Paris most of the year, he will love me and I will love him and we'll make love marvelously, she thought, her heart beginning to thump pleasantly as she let her mind roam. Deeper and deeper.

Then, because the evening had been wonderful and she felt wonderful and quite safe, she allowed the pleasing parts of that night's dream to return.

She could remember none of it exactly. The outrage dissolved pictures within erotic pictures within erotic pictures. A little burning that became a pervading warmth. Knowing but not knowing. Feeling but not feeling strong arms embracing, and being possessed by a never-before-experienced sensuality and openness, head, body, life, gloriously free to abandon all restraint, to relish everything because it was... just a dream.

But did I awake, or almost awake, and only pretend that I didn't, she asked herself again and again, always with a shudder. I could not have responded that wantonly awake--surely not--but the dream was so strong and, in its grasp, I was driven by a tempest to want more and again more and...

She heard the outer door open and close and then the bedroom door latch moving and whirled to see Andr`e open the door silently and close it silently, bolt it, and lean against it, a mocking smile on his lips.

Suddenly she was afraid. "What do you want, Andr`e?"

For a long time he did not answer, then came over to the bed and stared down at her. "To... to talk, eh?" he said softly. "We should, eh?

Talk, or, or what?"

"I don't understand," she said, understanding too well, painfully aware of the disturbing glitter in his eyes where only a few minutes before there had been only compassion. But she kept her voice reasonable, cursing herself that she had not barred the door--never a need here, always servants or Legation staff about and no one would dare enter without permission. "Please, don't y--"

"We should talk, about tomorrow and be, be friends."

"Dear Andr`e, please, it's late, whatever it is can wait until tomorrow, sorry but you've no right to come in here without knock--" In momentary panic she retreated to the other side of the bed as he sat on the edge and reached for her. "Stop or I'll scream!"

His laugh was soft and barbed. "If you scream, dear Angelique, that will bring the servants and I will unlock the door and tell them you invited me here--you wanted privacy to discuss your need for money, cash money, for your abortion." Again the mocking twisted smile. "Eh?"

"Oh Andr`e, don't be like that, please leave, please--if someone were to see you, please."

"First... first a kiss."

She flushed. "Get out, how dare you!"

"Shut up and listen," he whispered harshly and his hand caught her wrist and held it in a vise, "I can dare anything, if I want more than a kiss you'll give it to me happily or else.

Without me you'll be found out, without me--"

"Andr`e... please let me go." As much as she tried she could not break his grip. With a twisted smile he released her. "You hurt me," she said, near tears.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said throatily, his voice sounding strange to him and he knew he was insane to be here and doing this, but he had been caught up in such sudden horror that it had overpowered his reason, his feet carrying him here of their own volition, to force her to--to what?

To share his degradation. Why not? his brain was shrieking, It's her fault, flaunting her tits and blatant sexuality, reminding me! She's no better than a street slut, maybe she wasn't raped, isn't she out to trap Struan and his millions by any means? "I'm, I'm your friend, aren't I helping you? Come over here, a, a kiss isn't much payment."

"No!"

"By Christ, do it happily or I'll stop helping you and, in a day or two, I'll inform Struan and Babcott, anonymously. You want that? Eh?"

"Andr`e, please..." She looked around, desperate for a way to escape. There was none.

He moved closer to her on the bed and reached for her breast but she pushed his hand away and began to resist and to fight and hacked with her nails for his eyes but he held her helpless as she struggled, afraid to call out, knowing she was snared and lost and would have to submit. Abruptly, there was a violent pounding on the shutter.

The suddenness ripped Andr`e out of his madness and she screamed in fright. Aghast, he leapt off the bed, rushed for the door, unlocked it and the one to the corridor, then whirled and ran to the windows, pulling them open. In seconds he had unbarred the shutters and shoved them outwards.

Nothing. No one there. Nothing but bushes waving in the wind, the sound of the sea, the promenade beyond the fence empty of people.

A sentry hurried into view. "What's going on?"

"I should ask you that, soldier," Andr`e said, his heart grinding, his words tumbling over. "Did you see anyone, anything? I was passing Mademoiselle's door and heard, or thought I heard someone pounding on her shutters. Quick, look around!"

Behind him, Pierre Vervene, the Charg`e d'Affairs, a flickering candle in his hand, hurried anxiously into the room, dressing gown over his nightshirt, nightcap askew. Others began crowding the doorway, "What's going on-- oh, Andr`e! What the devil... what's going on? Mademoiselle, you screamed?"

"Yes, I, he--" she stammered, "Andr`e was, he, someone banged on the shutters and Andr`e, well, he--"

"I was just passing her door," Andr`e said, "and rushed in--isn't that true, Angelique?"

She dropped her eyes, holding the bedclothes closer around her. "Yes, yes that's true," she said, afraid and hating him but attempting to hide it.

Vervene joined Andr`e at the window and peered out. "Perhaps it was the wind, we have sudden squalls here and the shutters aren't exactly new." He shook one of them. Indeed it was loose and rattled noisily. Then he leaned out and shouted after the sentry. "Make a very good search and come back and report to me." Then he closed and barred the shutters, and re-bolted the windows. "There!

Nothing to worry about."

"Yes, yes, but..." Tears of relief began to well.

"Mon Dieu, Mademoiselle, nothing to worry about, don't cry, you're perfectly safe, no need to worry, of course not."

Vervene took off his nightcap and scratched his bald pate, at a loss. Then, thankfully, he saw Ah Soh amongst the others at the doorway and motioned at her importantly.

"Ah Soh, you-ah sleep here, with Miss'ee, heya?"

"Yes Mass'er." Ah Soh hurried off to get some bedding and everyone else began to drift away.

"I'll wait with you, More'selle Angelique, until she returns." The older man yawned. "Probably you were both mistaken, and it was the wind. Who would want to bang on the shutters, eh? There aren't any rotten little street urchins and guttersnipes in the Settlement to play pranks or be pickpockets, thank God! Must have been the wind, eh?"

"I'm sure you're right," Andr`e said, over his scare now, dreading that someone had been outside, watching--he had seen the crack but no other signs. "Don't you agree Angelique?"

"I, I, perhaps yes," she said, very unsettled and not yet recovered from her fright, both because of him and because of the sudden sound. Why did it happen then?

Was it someone, or just a God-given wind--truly a gift from God? Wind or not, person or not I don't care, she decided. I don't care, I escaped, tomorrow I move back beside Malcolm, daren't stay here, mustn't stay, too close to Andr`e, too dangerous. "It sounded like someone banging, but, but I could be mistaken. It could have been a, a sudden gust."

"I'm sure it was," Vervene said confidently. "My shutters are always banging, wake me up all the time." He coughed and sat down, peering kindly at Andr`e whose face was still chalky. "No need for you to wait, my friend. You don't look very well at all, as though, Heaven forbid, you've a crisis of the liver."

"Perhaps, perhaps I have. I, I certainly don't feel very well." Andr`e glanced at Angelique. "Sorry," he said, holding her eyes, making his voice calm and soft, seemingly the old Andr`e once more, all strangeness and lust and violence vanished. "Good night, Angelique, you've nothing to be afraid of, ever. More'sieur Vervene is quite right."

"Yes... yes thank you, Andr`e." She forced a smile and then he was gone. She had looked at him deeply, wanting to read the truth behind his eyes. They were friendly, nothing else. But she did not trust what she had seen. Even so, she knew that she would have to make peace with him, would accept his inevitable apologies--pretending to forget everything and agreeing the attack was a momentary madness--and would become friends again. On the surface.

She shuddered. In her innermost being she also grasped that whatever he demanded, eventually she would have to give. While he lived.

Ori was trembling, hunched down against an upturned fishing boat on the pebbled beach.

Twenty yards away was the edge of the surf, the waves sibilant. "You're completely baka," he gasped, his fury directed totally against himself. Before he realized what he was doing he had hammered on the shutters and then, appalled at his stupidity, had rushed away, scaled the fence, found the oar he used as camouflage, shouldered it and loped across the roadway without being challenged, gai-jin voices in his wake.

Hiraga must be right, he thought, nauseated, mixed up, his heart aching in his chest, shoulder throbbing and a warm trickle of blood seeping from the tear in the wound his headlong flight had caused.

Perhaps this woman really has sent me mad.

Madness to pound on the shutters--what good would that do me? What does it matter if another pillows her? Why should that enflame me, make my heart roar in my ears? I don't own her or want to own her, what does it matter if another gai-jin takes her with or without violence? Some women need a measure of violence to excite them, like many men... ah, wait, would it have been better if she had fought me rather than welcoming me, however drugged she was--or pretended to be?

Pretended?

This was the first time such a thought had entered his mind.

Some of his venom left him though his heart continued to race and the ache behind his temples did not leave.

Could she have been pretending? Eeee, it's possible, her arms embraced me and her legs wrapped me and her body moved like no one has ever moved--all pillow partners move sensually, with moans and sighs and sometimes a few tears and, "Oh how strong you are, how you exhaust me, never have I had the privilege of such a man before ..." but every client knows that these are surface words, learned by rote, part of their training, nothing more and meaningless.

She wasn't like that, every moment had meaning for me.

Whether she pretended or not doesn't matter-- she probably did, women are so filled with guile. I don't care, I should not have bludgeoned the shutter like a berserk fool, revealing my presence and hiding place and probably ruining forever my chance of gaining access there again!

Again his anger burst. His fist smashed the wood of the hull. "Baka!" he croaked, wanting to shriek it aloud.

Footsteps on the pebbles. On guard, he slid deeper into the shadows, the moon baleful, then heard the voices of approaching fishermen, chatting one with another, and cursed himself afresh for not being more alert. Almost at once, a rough, middle-aged fisherman came around the stern of the boat and stopped. "Watch out! Who're you, stranger?" the man said angrily, readying the short mast he carried as a club. "What are you up to?"

Ori did not move, just glared up at him and at the other two who moved up beside him. One was also middle-aged, the other a youth not much older than Ori himself. Both carried oars and fishing tackle. "You do not ask those questions of your betters," he said. "Where are your manners?"

"Who're you, you're not samur--" The man stopped, petrified, as Ori leapt to his feet, the sword instantly in his hand, the blade dangerously half out of its scabbard.

"On your knees, scum, before I cut your baka hearts out--a haircut does not make me any less samurai!" Instantly the fishermen fell to their knees, heads to the beach and were bleating their apologies, no mistaking the authority or the way the short sword was held.

"Shut up!" Ori snarled. "Where were you going?"

"To fish, Lord, half a league out to sea, please excuse us but, well, in the dark and your hair not norm--"

"Shut up! Get the boat in the water.

Move!" Once safe out to sea, now over his blinding anger, the salt air cleansing, Ori looked back at the Settlement. Lights still on in the French and British Legations, the Struan Building and the Club that Hiraga had identified for him. Oil streetlamps along the praia, a few windows glowing in other bungalows and godowns, Drunk Town pulsating as normal throughout the night, the gin shops never totally sleeping.

But all of his attention was on the French Legation. Why? he kept asking himself.

Why should I have been so possessed with--jealousy, that's the real word. An insane jealousy. To be jealous over pillowing is baka!

Was it because of what Hiraga had told me: "Taira says their custom is like ours amongst the leader class, a man does not pillow the woman he will marry before marriage..." which means this tai-pan will not bed her and, as she is promised, no one else has the right. Did I smash the shutters to prevent that man pillowing her --or was it to protect her?

Or was it just because I wanted no other man to enjoy her until I can again--that's even more stupid, how could I ever tell? Was it because I was the first? Does that make that pillowing different: because you have possessed her uniquely? Remember, Chinese have always believed virginity to be the most powerful aphrodisiac between Heaven and Earth. Is that why I did what I did?

No. It was a sudden impulse. I believe she is a wolf woman who must be killed-- preferably after I've pillowed her once more--for me to escape her spell.

But how and when? It must be now.

Too dangerous to stay in the Settlement, or Yoshiwara. Hiraga is bound to hear I have not left. I am a dead man if he finds me.

Could I risk three more days, then, if I fail to snare her, hurry off to Kyoto with Hiraga none the wiser? Safer to leave now. Which? "You, old man, where do you live?"

"Second Street, Fifth House, Lord," the fisherman stuttered, all of them deeply afraid, long since realizing that this must be one of the ronin who were hiding in the Settlement to escape the Toranaga Enforcers.

Sunday, 19th October

Sunday, 19th October: Church bells were beckoning the faithful on this nice crisp morning. "Not many bloody faithful in Yokohama," Jamie McFay said to Struan. McFay's shoulders and back were aching, the church and the coming service not to his liking, nothing like the austere Scottish Presbyterianism of his childhood. "Not that I'm a real churchgoer, not anymore," he said, very much on guard, unsure how Struan was going to be after their violent row the day before.

"My ma's still as strict as they come, three times on Sunday!"

"Like mine, though she's Church of England,"

Struan agreed heavily. He walked slowly and badly, hunched over, leaning on his canes, amid groups of men converging on the church that was down the High Street and set back slightly in its own garden on a choice lot facing the sea.

"The church is pretty though. Makes Yokohama permanent."

Holy Trinity, or Holy Titty as they privately dubbed it, was the pride of the Settlement. It had been consecrated last year by the Bishop of Hong Kong. The steeple was tall and the bell sweet-sounding, reminding all ex-patriots of home--so very far away. Wood and plaster and bricks from Shanghai. Neat gardens and small cemetery with only seven graves, sickness rare in Yokohama--unlike Hong Kong with its plagues and the lethal Happy Valley fever, mal-aria--all seven deaths by misadventure, except one of old age.

Twenty years working in Asia were rare and men past retirement age, rarer still.

Again the bell tolled, not yet insistent, more than enough time to take their places, the Noble House pew in the first row. I need all the help I can get, Struan was thinking fervently, never devout though always a believer. I'm glad it's our church more than the other traders'.

The land and the building had been donated to the Church of England by all traders. They had enthusiastically voted the levy four hours after the Yokohama Club had opened its doors for business, the same day the Settlement was founded-- at McFay's insistence and on the orders of Tess Struan, who guaranteed fifty percent of the cost. She had also pledged to provide the bell and had it cast in their new foundry in Hong Kong. When Tyler Brock heard about it, not to be outdone by his estranged and hated daughter, he had ordered a stained-glass window from London and pews of English oak.

"Sunday church's all right, once a month, Father used to say, but never in Mother's hearing."

Struan smiled bleakly. "When he was younger he was as much a churchgoer as she is now..." He stopped a moment to gather his breath and stared out to sea. The sea was choppy, blue-grey, the sky speckled with cumulus. A dozen or so merchantmen lay snug in the roads, English predominately, one American, one Russian, yesterday's mail steamer, the French paddle steamer flagship wallowing at anchor, and the 21-gun steam frigate H.m.s. Pearl, still without her foremast. "Feels naked without the fleet, doesn't it?"

"Yes and it does. Not many will miss prayers today." McFay circled his head to ease the ache in his neck.

"How long do you think they'll be gone?"

"A month is my bet... 'morning Mrs.Lunkchurch." Both raised their hats politely, Struan awkwardly, as she sailed past, bustled and bonneted, husband sweatily in tow, his face dark with bruises. "What the devil happened to him?"

"Fighting," McFay said cautiously, still trying to gauge Struan's humor--he had not seen him or heard from him since yesterday except to get a curt message this morning to join him for their walk to church. He fell into step as Struan started off again. "Seems he, Dmitri and a few others decided to visit Drunk Town last night for a Saturday night binge."

"You mean punch-up?"

"'fraid that was the basic idea. Dmitri, well, he said they had a grand time."

Struan noticed the sudden glint in McFay's eyes. "Ah, you were there too, Jamie?" he asked dryly, then smiled.

McFay saw the smile and was greatly relieved. "Well yes, Tai-pan, yes, I went along... but just to make sure Dmitri didn't get into trouble."

"Did he?" Struan asked with a sudden stab of envy.

"No, but och ay, Tai-pan, we had a grand time."

"You lucky fellow! Come on, Jamie, tell all!"

Jamie heard and saw the open friendliness and camaraderie that he had been afraid he had lost forever and beamed, his aches forgotten, angers forgotten and worries over his future. "There was a smashing cockfight at the Bull and Cock, best we've had here, they've a new ring now and a new Nagasaki beer that's better than our own Highland Dark! Two army handlers were pitted against two of our lads, Chandler Sykes and Old Bloody."

"Who?"

"He's one of our retired seaman, a master gunner, name of Charlie Bent, who paid off of Lasting Cloud--the same gunner who blew Wu Fang Choi's war junk out of the water for your dad, back in '43. Now he's nicknamed "Old Bloody" as he looks after the abattoir. Well I backed him all the way, Tai-pan, and won twenty-five pounds. Afterwards we descended on the Yokopoko Palace--that's the biggest tavern in Drunk Town, Army mostly, the Navy go to the Friar Tuck and never the twain shall meet." He laughed. "Lost a tenner at roulette, another five at dice.

In no time at all there was the greatest free-for-all, traders against the rest. I think we won. Then home to bed though, er, a few, repaired to Naughty Nellie's."

"You too?"

"Well, yes but only for a nightcap, her champagne's the best and cheapest in Yokohama."

"And the girls?"

McFay laughed again. "Nothing like Mrs.Fortheringill's Establishment for Young Ladies in Hong Kong! There're about a dozen birds, most from the East End via Hong Kong, a few from Sydney in Australia, daughters of women convicts who've served their time and stayed on.

They're all a bit grotty, and not to my taste." Filled with bonhommie he greeted passersby and added without thinking, "My needs are more than well looked after by Nemi." He glanced at Struan and saw the stretched face. His good humor vanished and he cursed himself for mentioning her. "You all right, Tai-pan?"

"Yes, yes of course," Struan said, abruptly filled with envy at the other man's strength and virility, not loathing him for it, just himself. "Can't bear being like this, Jamie, hate it.

Hate it! Christ, it's so difficult to be patient. I've just got to, I know that." He forced a smile. "Nemi? Oh yes, she seemed a nice girl. Pretty." With a vast effort Struan tore his mind off Shizuka and his failure, his frantic need to succeed with Angelique, and to weather the shoals ahead and coming tempest his mother was bound to generate. One thing at a time. Gear yourself to get through church, then through the rest of the day until six o'clock when Ah Tok will bring you the medicine: "Would you like a little before you go to your temple, my son?"' "No thank you, Mother, once a day is enough.

The doctor said I should be careful."

"What do foreign devils know?"' "Ayeeyah, I'm a foreign devil."

"Ayeeyah, yes, but you're my son..."

Ah Tok's such an old biddy. But then I can trust her. No harm in a little once a day.

I can quit anytime, anytime, he reassured himself. Don't need it during the day though it certainly helps. Got to decide about Mother's letter, got to write her by tomorrow's mail. Got to.

Her letter had been delivered by hand from the mail ship by special courier, inevitably a relation of their compradore, Gordon Chen. Again it had had no "P.s. I love you." Again the secret message had infuriated him: Malcolm: Have you gone totally dotty?

Engagement party? After I warned you? Why on earth did you totally disregard my letter and my urgent summons to return? If it wasn't for Dr. Hoag's medical report received today with the unbelievable news I would have presumed you had head injuries as well as the terrible sword wounds. I have demanded our Governor take the most stringent measures against these uncivilized beasts and bring the violators to the Queen's justice at once! If he doesn't, I warned him personally that the whole force of the Noble House will be arranged against this administration!

Enough of that. It is VITAL that you return to Hong Kong at once to make final three matters--of course I am prepared to forgive your transgression, you are still so very young, you have been through a terrible experience and have fallen into the clutches of an exceedingly clever woman. I thank God you are gaining strength every day. From Dr. Hoag's report, thankfully you should certainly be fit enough to travel by the time you receive this (i have instructed Dr. Hoag to return with you and hold him personally responsible for your safety). I have booked passage for you both on the mail ship--not for her, deliberately.

It is essential you come back QUICKLY AND ALONE: first to formally become tai-pan. yr grandfather left specific instructions, in writing, that MUST be complied with before you LEGALLY become tai-pan of Struan's whatever your father or I leave to you by will. Before your father died, in your absence, my son, he made me swear what had to be sworn and that I would swear you to these same conditions. This must be done quickly.

Second: because we must decide at once how to combat Tyler Brock's attack on us--I mentioned before that he has the full support of the Victoria Bank and today threatens to foreclose on our promissory notes that will ruin us if successful. Gordon Chen has suggested a solution but it is terribly risky, may not be put to paper, and requires the tai-pan's signature and participation. My stepbrother "Sir" Morgan Brock has just arrived in Hong Kong and is flaunting his knighthood that he only acquired by persuading his heirless father-in-law to adopt him who then, conveniently and almost at once thereafter, died.

Was the poor man assisted? God forgive me but I would not doubt it. Both he and Tyler Brock openly claim that by Christmas they will have us humbled and they will be in possession of our Steward's box at the races in Happy Valley. The voting for a new Steward was yesterday. As per your grandfather's wishes on your behalf I again blackballed him. God forgive me but I hate my father so much I almost become mad.

Third: your entrapment! I could not believe my ears about this "engagement party" until it was confirmed. I hope by now, I pray God, your good sense has returned and you realize what has happened to you. Fortunately of course you cannot marry without my approval and certainly not the Catholic daughter of a runaway embezzler (there are warrants out to seize him for debts).

In fairness I do understand you. Gordon Chen explained how easy it would be for a youth like you to be embroiled so do not despair. We have a plan that will extract you from her toils and prove to you conclusively that she is just a--sorry my son but I have to be blunt--just a jezebel.

When you marry your wife must be English, God-fearing, never a heretic, a lady of good family, trained and at ease in SOCIETY and worthy to be your wife, bringing you a suitable dowry and qualities to assist your future. When the time comes you will have many suitable ladies to choose from.

By the same mail I have written Dr.Hoag, and also McFay expressing my shock that he allowed this engagement stupidity to happen. I look forward to embracing you in a few days. your loving Mother.

Almost at once Jamie had rushed into the room, white-faced. "She's heard!"

"I know that. Never mind."

"Jesus Christ, Malcolm, you can't just say never mind!" McFay spluttered, practically incoherent. He offered him the letter that shook in his hand. "Here, read it for yourself."

The letter, without any form of greeting, was just signed Tess Struan: Unless you have a satisfactory explanation why you permitted my son (though he is to be tai-pan you must know is still a minor) to become engaged without first obtaining my approval--which you MUST know would never be forthcoming for such an unsuitable match, you will cease to head Struan's in Japan at the end of the year. Put Mr.Vargas in charge for the moment and return with my son on the mail ship to settle this matter.

Struan had angrily shoved the letter back.

"I'm not going back to Hong Kong yet-- I'll go when I choose."

"Christ Jesus, Malcolm, if she orders us back then we had better go. There're reasons th--"' "No!" he had flared. "Understand? No!"

"For God's sake, open your eyes to the truth," McFay had flared back. "You are under age, she is running the company and has been for years. We're under her orders an--"' "I'm not under her orders, any orders.

Get out!"

"I won't! Can't you see what she asks is wise and no hardship. We can be back here in two to three weeks, you have to get her approval sometime, surely it's better to try now, it'll clear the air for you and make our job easier an--"' "No! And... and I'm cancelling her orders: I order you. I'm tai-pan of Struan's!"

"Christ, you must know I can't go against her!"

Struan almost faltered in his steps remembering the dreadful stab of pain in his loins as he had thoughtlessly scrambled out of his chair to his feet and shouted at McFay: "You fucking listen, I remind you of your sacred oath to serve the tai-pan, the tai-pan for Christ's sake, whoever he is, the tai-pan, not his fucking mother!

REMEMBER?"' "But, don't y--"' "Who're you going to obey, Jamie? Me or my mother?"' There had been a vast chasm between them and more anger and more words, but he had prevailed. This battle was no contest. The stipulation was written into every document of appointment, to be signed and settled under God's oath in accordance with their founder's instructions.

"All right, I agree!" McFay had said through his teeth. "But I dem--sorry I ask the right to write to her and tell her my new orders."

"Do that, by the mail ship, and while you're about it, tell her the tai-pan orders you to stay here, that only I can fire you, as I will by God if I have any trouble--and that if I want to get engaged, minor or no, that's up to me." Then he had groped back to his chair, almost doubled up with pain.

"My God, Tai-pan," McFay said weakly, "she'll dismiss me whether you like it or not. I'm finished."

"No. Not without my say-so, it's in our bylaws."

"Maybe. But like it or not, she can make my life and yours a misery, like it or not."

"No, you're only doing what I want.

You're within Dirk's law--and that's what governs her above all else," he said, remembering the times without number she had invoked the name of Dirk Struan to his father, or to him, or his brothers and sisters, on a point of business or morality or on life itself. And didn't Father and Mother both say a thousand times that I was to be tai-pan after him, everyone, particularly Uncle Gordon accepting that. Any formalities can wait, she's just using that as an additional excuse to curb me-- Christ I've trained all my life for the job, I know how to deal with her and I know what's wrong here. "I'm tai-pan by God, and now... now if you'll excuse me, I, I've work to do."

The moment he was alone he had shouted for Ah Tok.

Ayeeyah, that was one time I really needed the medicine, it works so well and saved me all that pain and anguish and gave me courage again and, later, such a happy time with Angelique. Ah my angel, back again in her suite next door thank God, so near and delectable and warm and near but oh and Christ, I wish when I thought of her the ache wouldn't begin, and that ache would not lead to the other pain and it's not yet midmorning with a boring sermon and lunch to endure--and more than eight hours until the next...

"Sorry about yesterday," McFay was saying.

"Very sorry."

"I'm not, it brought matters out in the open and settled them," he said with a curious strength.

"Now there's a real head to the company--I agree my Father wasn't effective and spent most of the last few years drunk, with Mother doing the best she could which hasn't kept us ahead of Brock's--again let's be honest they're stronger and richer and more sound than we are and we'll be lucky to weather the current storm. Take Japan--Japan's hardly paying expenses."

"Yes, short term, but long term it will be profitable."

"Not the way you've been running it so far.

Jappos are not buying any profitable goods from us.

We buy silk cloth and silkworms, a few lacquer trinkets, what else? Nothing of value. They've no industry and don't seem to want any."

"True, but then China took time to open up, years. And there we've the opium, tea, silver triangle."

"True but China's different. China's a cultured, ancient civilization. We've friends there and, as you say, a trading pattern. My point is we've got to hurry things up here to survive, or we close it down."

"As soon as Sir William sorts out the Bakufu--"

"The pox on that!" Struan's voice sharpened.

"I'm tired of being stuck in a chair and sick of hearing people say we have to wait until Sir William orders the fleet and army to do its job. The next time there's a meeting with the Bakufu I want to be there--or better still you arrange a private one for me first."

"But, Tai-pan..."

"Do it Jamie. That's what I want. And do it quickly."

"I don't know how that's possible."

"Ask Phillip Tyrer's tame samurai, Nakama. Better still arrange a secret meeting then Phillip won't be compromised."

McFay had given him the information that "Nakama" had provided. "That's a good idea," he said, meaning it, and, seeing the jutting jaw and the fire he was warmed. Perhaps at long last, he thought, here's someone who can make things happen. "I'll see Phillip after church."

"When's the next ship scheduled for San Francisco?"

"In a week, the Confederate merchantman, Savannah Lady." McFay dropped his voice cautiously, a group of other traders passing by. "Our Choshu order goes with her."

"Who could we trust to go with her for a special mission?" Struan asked, putting his plan into operation.

"Vargas."

"Not him, he's needed here." Again Struan stopped, his legs aching, then hobbled to the side of the promenade where there was a low wall, mostly to rest but also to keep their conversation private. "Who else? Has to be good."

"His nephew, Pedrito--he's a sharp lad, looks more Portugee than Vargas, hardly any Chinese in his face, speaks Portuguese, Spanish, English and Cantonese--good at figures. He'd be acceptable in either the North or the Confederacy.

What had you in mind?"

"Book passage for him on that ship. I want him to go with the order which we're going to quadruple, also to ord--"

"Four thousand rifles?" McFay gaped at him.

"Yes, also send a letter to the factory via tomorrow's mail ship telling them to expect him.

She'll connect with the California steamer out of Hong Kong."

McFay said uneasily, "But we only got a down payment of gold to cover two hundred-- we'll have to cover the whole order, that's factory policy. Don't you think we'd be overextending ourselves?"

"Some people might think so. I don't."

"Even with a shipment of two thousand--the Admiral's hysterical against importation of all arms and opium... I know he can't by law," McFay said hastily, "but if he wants he can still seize a cargo on the grounds of national emergency."

"He won't find them or hear about them until it's too late--you'll be too clever.

Meanwhile draft a letter to go with the order, and a copy by the mail ship--do it yourself Jamie, privately--asking the factory for special service on this consignment, but also to make us their exclusive agents for Asia."

"That's a fine idea, Tai-pan, but I strongly advise against upping the order."

"Make it five thousand rifles, and emphasize we'll negotiate a most attractive deal. I don't want Norbert to steal a march on us." Struan began walking again, the pain worse now. Without looking at McFay he knew what he was thinking and said, edged, "There's no need to check with Hong Kong first. Do it. I'll sign the order and the letter."

After a pause McFay nodded. "Just as you say."

"Good." He heard the reluctance in McFay's voice and decided that now was the time.

"We're changing our policy in Japan. They like killing here, eh? According to this Nakama many of their kings are ready to revolt against the Bakufu who certainly aren't our friends. Good, we'll help them do what they want. We'll sell them what they want: armaments, some ships, even a gun factory or two, in ever-increasing amounts--for gold and silver."

"And what if they turn these guns on us?"

"Once will be enough to teach them a lesson, like everywhere else on earth. We'll sell them muskets, some breech-loaders, but no machine guns, no big cannon or modern fighting ships. We're going to give the customer what he wants to buy."

Angelique knelt and settled herself in the tiny screened confessional, as best her voluminous skirts would allow, and began the ritual, the Latin words running together as was normal for those who did not read or write the language but had learned the obligatory prayers and responses from childhood by constant repetition. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned..."

On the other side of the screen, Father Leo was more attentive than usual. Normally he listened with half an ear, sadly, sure that his penitents were lying, their sins unconfessed, their level of transgression great--but no greater than in other Settlements in Asia--and the penances he ordered were merely paid lip service, or totally disregarded.

"So, my child, you have sinned," he said in his most pleasant voice, his French heavily accented.

He was fifty-five, corpulent and bearded, a Portuguese Jesuit and Believer, ordained for twenty-seven of those years and largely content with the crumbs of life he judged God permitted him. "What sins have you committed this week?"

"I forgot to ask the Madonna for forgiveness in my prayers one night," she said with perfect calm, continuing her pact, "and had many bad thoughts and dreams, and was afraid, and forgot I was in God's hands..."

At Kanagawa, the day after that night-- once she had reasoned a way out of her catastrophe--she had knelt weeping before the small crucifix she always carried with her.

"Mother of God, there's no need to explain what has happened and how I've been sinned against grievously," she had sobbed, praying with all the fervor she could gather, "or that I've no one to turn to, or that I need your help desperately, or that obviously I can't tell anyone, even at Confession, I daren't openly confess what has happened. I daren't, it would destroy the only chance...

"So please, on my knees I beg you, may we have a pact: when I say at Confession: I forgot to ask the Blessed Mother for forgiveness in my prayers, it really means that I'm confessing and telling everything that I've told you and you've seen happen to me, together with the added little white lies I may, I will have to tell to protect myself. I beg forgiveness for asking, and beg your help, there's no one else I can turn to. I know you'll forgive me and know you'll understand because you are the Mother of God and a woman--you will understand and know you will absolve me..."

She could see Father Leo's profile behind the screen and smell the wine and garlic on his breath.

She sighed, thanked the Madonna with all her heart for helping her. "Forgive me Father for I have sinned."

"Those sins don't appear to be so bad, my child."

"Thank you, Father." She stifled a yawn, preparing to accept her usual, modest penance, then to cross herself and be absolved and to thank him and to leave. Tiffin at the Club with Malcolm and Seratard, siesta in my beautiful suite next to Malcolm's, dinner at the Russian Leg-- "What kind of bad thoughts did you have?"

"Oh, just being impatient," she said without thinking, "and not content to rest in God's Hands."

"Impatient about what?"

"Oh, with, impatient with my maid," she said flustered, caught unawares, "and that, that my fianc`e is not as fit, is not as well as I'd like him to be."

"Ah yes, the tai-pan, a fine young man but grandson of a great enemy of the True Church.

Has he told you about him? His grandfather, Dirk Struan?"

"Some stories, Father," she said, even more unsettled. "About my maid I was impat--"

"Malcolm Struan's a fine young man, not like his grandfather. You have asked him to become Catholic?"

The color went out of her face. "We have discussed it, yes. Such a, such a discussion is very delicate and, and of course may not be hurried."

"Yes, yes indeed." Father Leo had heard the intake of breath and sensed her anxiety. "And I agree it is terribly important, for him and for you." He frowned, his experience telling him the girl was hiding much from him--not that that would be unusual, he thought.

He was going to leave the matter there, then suddenly realized here was a God-given opportunity both to save a soul and have a worthwhile enterprise--life in Yokohama, unlike in his beloved and happy Portugal, was drab with little to do except fish and drink and eat and pray. His church was small and dingy, his flock sparce and ungodly, the Settlement a veritable prison. "Such discussion may be delicate but it must be pressed forward. His immortal soul is in absolute jeopardy. I will pray for your success. Your children will be brought up in Mother Church --of course he has already agreed?"

"Oh we have discussed it, too, Father," she said forcing lightness, "of course our children will be Catholic."

"If they are not, you cast them into the Eternal Pit. Your immortal soul will be at risk as well." He was glad to notice her shudder. Good, he thought, one blow for the Lord against the Antichrist. "This must be formally agreed to before marriage."

Her heart was racing now, her head aching with apprehension that she fought to keep out of her voice, believing absolutely in God and the Devil, Life Everlasting and Eternal Damnation.

"Thank you for your advice, Father."

"I will talk to Mr. Struan."

"Oh no, Father, please no," she said in sudden panic, "that would be, I suggest that would be very unwise."

"Unwise?" Again he pursed his lips, scratching absently at the lice that inhabited his beard and hair and ancient cassock, quickly concluding the possible coup of Struan's conversion was a prize worth waiting for and needed careful planning. "I will pray for God's guidance and that HE will guide you too. But don't forget you are a minor, as he is. I suppose, in the absence of your father, Monsieur Seratard would legally be considered your guardian. Before any marriage could be performed or consummated permission must be granted, and these and other matters settled for the protection of your soul." He beamed, more than a little satisfied. "Now, for penance, say ten Hail Marys and read the letters of Saint John twice by next Sunday--and continue to pray for God's guidance."

"Thank you Father." Thankfully she crossed herself, her palms sweaty, and bowed her head for his benediction.

"In nomine Patri et Spiritu sancti, absolvo tuum." He made the sign of the cross over her. "Pray for me, my child," he said with finality, ending the ritual, in his mind already beginning his dialogue with Malcolm Struan.

At dusk Phillip Tyrer was sitting cross-legged opposite Hiraga in a tiny private room in the equally tiny restaurant that was half hidden beside the house of the shoya, the village elder. They were the only customers, and this was the first real Japanese meal with a Japanese host Tyrer had experienced. He was hungry and ready to taste everything. "Thank you invite me, Nakama-san."

"It is my pleasure, Taira-san.

May l say that your Japanese accent is improving. Please eat."

On the low table between them the maid had set many small dishes with different foods, some hot some cold, on decorative lacquered trays.

Shoji screens, tatami mats, small sliding windows open to the descending darkness, oil lamps giving a pleasing light, flower arrangement in the nook. Adjoining was another private room and, outside these, the rest of the restaurant, not much more than a corridor with stools that opened to an alley that led to the street--charcoal cooking brazier, sak`e and beer barrels, a cook and three maids.

Hiraga and Tyrer wore loose-belted sleeping-lounging kimonos--Tyrer enjoying its unaccustomed comfort and Hiraga relieved to get out of the European clothes that he had worn all day.

Both had been bathed and massaged in the nearby bathhouse. "Please eat."

Awkwardly Tyrer used chopsticks. In Peking, the Embassy had advised against eating any Chinese foods: "... not unless you want to get poisoned, old boy. These buggers really eat dog, drink snake's bile, spoon up insects, anything, and have an astounding but universal belief, If its back faces heaven you can eat it! Ugh!"

Hiraga corrected the way to hold the sticks. "There."

"Thank you, Nakama-san, very difficult." Tyrer laughed. "Will fat not get eating theses."

""I will not get fat eating with these,"

Hiraga said, not yet weary of correcting Tyrer's Japanese for he had found he enjoyed teaching him. Tyrer was an apt pupil with a remarkable memory and happy disposition--and very important for himself, a continual fountain of information.

"Ah, sorry, I won't get fat eating with these. What is, sorry, what are these foods?"

"This is what we call tempura, fish fried in batter."

"So sorry, what is "batter"?"

Tyrer listened attentively, missing many of the words but understanding the gist, just as he knew the other man would miss English words. We speak more English than Japanese, he thought wryly, but never mind. Nakama's a great teacher and we seem to have made an accommodation which is fine--without him I wouldn't be here, probably not alive, either, and would certainly never have all the face I gained with Marlowe, Pallidar and Wee Willie Winkie, let alone the invaluable intelligence he is supplying. Tyrer smiled.

It pleased him to be able to think of Sir William now by his nickname when only a few days ago he had been petrified of him.

"Oh, now I understand. Batter! We also use batter."

"This food to your liking, Taira-san?"

Hiraga asked, switching to English.

"Yes, thank you." Whenever he could Tyrer would answer in Japanese. "Thank for everything, massage, bath, now caml, sorry, now calm and happy."

Some of the food he found exciting, tempura and yakitori, bite-sized pieces of chicken that were grilled with a sweet and salty sauce. Anago turned out to be grilled eel with a warm sweet-sour sauce he particularly liked.

Sushi, slivers of various raw fish of different colors and textures on a ball of rice he found difficult to swallow at first, but when dipped in a mysterious salty sauce called soy or soya they became palatable. After all, he thought, Father did advise me to try everything: "My son, since you insist on this dramatic idea of becoming a Japanese interpreter, then I advise you to hurl yourself into their way of life and foods and so on--without forgetting you're an English gentleman with obligations, a duty to the Crown, the Empire and to God..."

Wonder what the Old Man would say about Fujiko. She's certainly part of their way of life. Tyrer beamed suddenly and pointed with a chopstick, "What's this?"

"Oh sorry, Taira-san it's bad manners point with the thin end of a chopstick.

Please use the other end. This is wasabeh."

Before Hiraga could stop him, Tyrer had picked up the nodule of green paste and eaten it. At once his sinuses caught fire and he gasped, eyes watering, almost blinded. In time the conflagration passed, leaving him panting. "My Go'd," Hiraga said, copying Tyrer and trying not to laugh, "Wasabeh do not eat, just put 'ritt'er--sorry, word very hard for me--just put some in the soy to make spicy."

"My mistake." Tyrer gasped, momentarily strangled. "My God, that's lethal, worse than chilli! Next time I careful."

"You very good for man who begin, Taira-san.

And you 'rearn Japanese o'rr so quick, very good."

"Domo, Nakama-san, domo." Same with you in English. Pleased to be complimented, Tyrer concentrated on being more deft. The next morsel he tried was tako, sliced octopus tentacle. It tasted like slimy rubber even with a touch of soy and wasabeh. "This is very tasty, I like this very much."

I'm starving, he was thinking. I'd like triples of the chicken, another bowl of rice, twenty more of the tempura prawns, and Hiraga eats like a baby. Never mind, I'm being entertained by a samurai, it's not a week since he helped get us out of the Yedo Legation without an international incident, not six weeks since I first met Andr`e, yet I can already talk a little Japanese, already know more about their customs than most traders who have been here since the beginning.

If I can keep this up I'll be gazetted as an official interpreter in a few months and in line for the official salary: Four hundred pounds a year! Hooray, or Banzai as a Japanese would say. At the present rate of exchange I can easily afford another pony but before that...

His heart quickened.

Before that I'll buy Fujiko's contract.

Nakama's promised to help so I'll have no trouble. He promised. Perhaps we'll begin tonight-- thank God, Fujiko's back from visiting her grandmother. I suppose I really shouldn't on a Sunday, but never mind. Karma.

He sighed. Between Andr`e and Nakama he had discovered that word and the marvelous way it became a panacea for all happenings, good or bad, over which you had no control. "Karma!"

"What, Taira-san?"

"Nothing. Food's good."

"Food's good," Hiraga mimicked him.

"Good, thank you, I p'reased." He called for more beer and sak`e. The shoji slid back and the drinks appeared on a tray carried by a merry-faced maid who beamed at Hiraga, smiled shyly at Tyrer. With hardly a thought, Hiraga caressed her rump. "How would you like it Over the Mountain?"

"Eeee, you naughty man! Over Mountain?

Oh no, not me, nor Under, but I might Play the Flute for a gold oban!"

They both laughed at the sally--one gold oban being outrageously expensive, the fee a courtesan of the first class might charge for such a service. The maid poured the sak`e, filled Tyrer's mug and left.

"What she say, Nakama-san?"

He smiled. "So sorry, difficu't exp'rain, not words enough yet. Just joke, man-woman joke, you understand?"

"Wakarimasu. Church today, you like?" With Sir William's approval and the avid consent of the Reverend Michaelmas Tweet he had sneaked Hiraga up to the minstrel's gallery.

Dressed in his new Western clothes, made to order by the Chinese tailor with his usual unbelievable speed, and beaver top hat, Hiraga had passed as Eurasian and was hardly noticed. Except by Jamie McFay who had winked discreetly.

"Church good, and your exp'rain too,"

Hiraga said, but inside he was still trying to sift Tyrer's information into perspective, along with the astonishing sight of all these grown men, and two revolting-looking women, singing in unison, getting up, sitting down, solemnly droning out prayers, bowing their heads to their very strange God who, after the service, Tyrer had explained was actually three people, the Father, his Son who was crucified like a common criminal, and a kami.

"So ka?"' Hiraga had said perplexed.

"So, Taira-san, woman name Madonna who not God has son God--but she not God--and she pi'rrow with kami who not God but like hatomoto of God with wing who not husband, husband who o'rso not God, but father is, so father of her son is grandfather, neh?"' "No, there was no pillowing. You see..."

Again he listened, eventually pretended to understand so he could question Taira about the enmity of the two churches for he had noticed that Ori's woman was not present and had asked why. Two churches, equally powerful, constantly at war! And Ori wanted me to give up. Baka!

And when, head aching from concentration, he had discovered the reason for the schism--and the resulting scale of hatred and mass killings and universal wars--he knew for certain in some areas gai-jin were totally mad, but oh so vulnerable: the split was only because an old bonze called 'Ruther, three hundred odd years before, had decided on a different interpretation of some minor point of dogma that had been invented by another bonze fourteen or fifteen centuries before him. This man, clearly another lunatic, had decreed, amongst other things, that poverty was to be sought, and no pillowing with women would, after death, send you forever to somewhere called Heaven, where there was no sak`e, no food and no women, and you were a bird.

Barbarians are beyond belief. Who could want to go to such a place? Any one could see at once that old bonze was like any other ambitious, disgruntled fool who, after a lifetime of pretending to be chaste, just wanted to have a wife or concubine openly like any ordinary sensible bonze or person.

"Taira-san," he had said weakly: "Need ba'f, massage, sak`e, you also, then food. Fo'rrow p'rease."

At first he had been worried that he had proffered the invitation. Now the village elder, the shoya, would discover he could speak English.

"Eeee, how wonderful to speak gai-jin, I wish I did, Otami-san!" the shoya had chortled with open admiration. "May I tell you again that I support sonno-joi, and also I have assigned the cleverest of my sons to a gai-jin bonze with orders to pretend to convert to their ridiculous beliefs so he can learn their language and their ways."

"You will make sure the servants are safe?"' "You will be protected like one of my family.

For extra safety I suggest you should hire the whole restaurant and order this Taira to speak only Japanese in the bathhouse. You say learns quickly?"' "V."

"Your secrets are safe with me.

Sonno-joi!"

Hiraga smiled grimly remembering the fervor with which the shoya had echoed him, believing him not at all. I wonder what he would do if he knew of our plan to burn all Yokohama. He would shit. But before even cleaning himself he would run to the Bakufu and bash his head to the earth in his haste to serve them and betray me.

Baka!

Tyrer was still eating voraciously. Though still hungry Hiraga toyed with his food following accepted Japanese custom and training, of disciplining oneself to be satisfied with little, there being more hungry times than abundant, to bear cold and pain with fortitude, there being more bad days than good, more cold than warmth so best be prepared. Less is better than more. Except for sak`e. And fornication. He smiled. "Sak`e!

Taira-san, kampai!"

This flask was soon gone. He pressed Tyrer to drink, pretending it was an important Japanese custom to toast each other. Soon Tyrer was happily telling about gai-jin wars, the extent of the British Empire, about the goods they manufactured and the amounts thereof. Because of Tyrer's sincerity--possible sincerity--and his "I swear it's the God's truth!"--he decided to accept the information, however frightening or preposterous until proven false. An hour's study of Tyrer's school atlas and maps had truly shocked him.

"But, p'rease, how can so 'ritter country 'rike Ing'rand ru're so many?"

"Lots of reasons," Tyrer said, warm and loose and pleased with himself and, forgetting for a moment to use simple words and ideas, he went on guilelessly, "lots of reasons, because of our superior education--superior learning, you understand?

--a superior heritage, a wise and benevolent Queen and our unique and special form of government, our Parliament, which has given us superior laws and freedoms. At the same time we're blessed, we're an island fortress, the sea protects us, our fleets control the sea-lanes for trade so we've been able to develop better skills in peace and quiet, to invent and experiment, we trade more therefore we've more capital, Nakama-san, more money than anyone else... and we're very clever at "divide and rule"--that's an old Roman law..." he laughed and finished the flask, "and, most important of all, I've told you before, we've twice the number of cannon, ships and fire power than the next two countries--half the world's ships are British, with British crews and British gunners."

So many words and ideas I don't understand, Hiraga thought, his head reeling. Romans? Who are they?

If half of what Taira says is true, no, a hundredth part, then it will take decades to catch up with them. Yes, he thought, but in time we will catch them. We are an island too. Better than them this is Land of the Gods, man for man we are tougher, stronger, better fighters, we've discipline and more courage and, most of all we must win eventually because we're not afraid to die!

Eeee, even today I can see ways to twist them that I could not have conceived a few days ago.

"Honto," he muttered.

""Honto," Nakama-san? The truth?

What's true?"

"Just think about what you say. So much truth.

P'rease, you say ear'rier... Kampai!" "Kampai! It time visit Yoshiwara, neh?" Tyrer stifled a contented yawn, weary of questions, but feeling grand.

"I not forget, Taira-san." Hiraga hid a smile. He had already arranged that Fujiko would not be available this evening. "Finish sak`e, last question, then go. P'rease, you say ear'rier about machines making machines? How is possib're?"

Tyrer launched into another enthusiastic answer, saying the British were leaders in what was nicknamed the Industrial Revolution: "The steam engine, railways, steel and iron ships, spinning Jenny, seed planters, mass production, harvesters, are all our inventions, sixty-pounders, submersibles, anesthetics, new medicines, navigation--four years ago we laid the first telegraph wire across the Atlantic, a thousand leagues or more," he said grandly, deciding not to mention the cable had burnt out within a month and, soon, another had to be laid in its place.

"We've invented electric generators, gas lighting..."

Soon Hiraga was giddy from the effort of concentration, and his desperate wish to understand everything when he understood almost nothing, but also because he could not comprehend why an official as important as Taira would answer any question an enemy would ask, forof course we are enemies.

I must learn English more quickly, I must. I will.

A gentle tap on the door and the shoji slid back. "Please excuse me, Otami-san," the maid said, "but the shoya begs a moment of your time."

Hiraga nodded briefly, told Tyrer he would return in a moment and followed the maid out into the alley that was empty and then into the busy street. The few pedestrians who appeared to notice him, bowed politely as to a merchant and not to a samurai as the shoya had ordered. Good.

The shoya was waiting in an inner room, kneeling behind the table, his arm resting comfortably on an armrest. A cat was curled beside him. He bowed. "So sorry to disturb you, Otami-san, but in case this gai-jin understands our language better than he pretends, I thought it best to speak here."

Hiraga frowned, sat on his heels and bowed back, all attention. "Yes, Ryoshi-san?"

"There are several matters you should know, Otami-sama." The strong-faced man poured green tea into little cups from the miniature iron teapot. The tea was superb, as rare as the eggshell cups, aromatic and delicate.

Hiraga's foreboding increased. The shoya sipped again then took a scroll from his sleeve and spread it out. It was another copy of the woodcut poster: The Bakufu offers two koku reward for this murdering revolutionary of many aliases one of which is Hiraga...

Hiraga picked it up, pretending this was the first time he had seen it. Noncommittally he grunted and handed it back.

The older man put the edge to the candle flame.

Both watched as the paper curled and became ash, both knowing that with his new haircut and rapidly thickening stubble Hiraga's disguise was very good.

"The Bakufu become fiends in pursuit of our brave shishi."

Hiraga nodded but said nothing, waiting.

Absently the shoya stroked the cat and it purred softly. "It is said Lord Yoshi is sending an emissary to negotiate with the chief gai-jin for guns. No doubt a Lord of his high rank would offer higher prices than, than Choshu emissaries." He added delicately, "Gai-jin will sell to the highest bidder."

Hiraga had heard about the Choshu samurai visiting the Noble House from Raiko--almost everyone in the Yoshiwara was aware of the negotiations --and he was sure if he knew their real names he would certainly know the men personally or their families. Only a year or so ago a stepbrother, who also had gone to the same English school in Shimonoseki, had been one of the team sent to buy the first hundred guns. Curious, Hiraga thought, that it should be to the same company owned by this tai-pan who will soon be dead, both he and his woman and this whole cesspit of evil.

"Gai-jin have no honor."

"Disgusting." Another sip of tea. "In Yedo Castle there is much activity. They say the Shogun and the Imperial Princess plan to leave for Kyoto in a week or two."

"Why should they do that?" Hiraga asked, pretending uninterest that fooled neither of them.

The older man chuckled. "I do not know, Otami-san, but it is very curious that the Shogun should leave his lair now to travel many dangerous miles to visit the lair of many enemies when, since the beginning, he has always sent a flunky." The cat stretched and he tickled her stomach, adding thoughtfully, "The roju are increasing taxes in all Toranaga lands to pay for any amounts of cannon and weapons that can be bought--except by Satsuma, Tosa and Choshu."

Hiraga sensed the shoya's underlying anger, though none showed, or his own amusement: What are peasants and merchants for if not to pay taxes? "Unless the Son of Heaven can use his Heaven-granted power, the Bakufu will plunge Nippon into eternal civil war again."

"I agree."

Hiraga was thinking, I wonder how much you really agree, old man. He put that aside to ponder how to push the Bakufu and Toranaga Yoshi from their course. Akimoto should go at once to Yedo and the House of Wisteria, we haven't heard from Koiko or her mama-san for days--perhaps we should go togeth-- "Last, it seems your shishi friend, Ori-san, did not leave for Kyoto as planned," the shoya said conversationally.

Hiraga's eyes went flat, almost reptilian. The shoya suppressed a shudder.

Instantly aware, the cat was erect in one smooth movement, watching warily. Hiraga broke the silence. "Where is he?"

"In that part of the Settlement where the low-class gai-jin live, drink and fornicate."

Near midnight Andr`e Poncin knocked on the door of the House of the Three Carp. At once the doorkeeper admitted him. Raiko welcomed him and soon they were drinking sak`e, discussing the latest news of the Yoshiwara and Settlement--she was a source of much intelligence for him as he was for her--in their usual mixture of Japanese and English.

"... and the Enforcer Patrol searched every house, Furansu-san! As though we would hide criminals! It is against Yoshiwara rules.

We know how to keep our rice bowls full: by promoting peace and avoiding trouble. Enforcers are still at the main gate, glowering at every passerby."

Raiko fanned herself remembering her narrow escape and wished that she had never invited shishi to favor her house. It's time they all went elsewhere, she thought, Enforcers and shishi, however much I like Hiraga. "I wish they would go away."

"What criminals look for?" Andr`e asked.

"Traitors, ronin usually. But anyone who is against them is a traitor. Ronin, they are their usual prey."

"Bakufu? Can Bakufu be throw out?

Revolution?"

She laughed softly and emptied the flask and began another. "The Bakufu are like lice in a prison--you destroy a thousand and only make room for a hundred thousand more. No, the Bakufu and Shogunate are Nippon and with us forever."

"Tonight Taira-san here?"

She shook her head. "The girl he wanted was not available, I offered another but he refused and left. Curious, neh? A curious young man in many ways, though possibly a good customer.

Thank you for introducing him to my poor House."

"This Japanese Sensei, teacher, samurai Taira has find--who is he, Raiko?"

"I don't know, so sorry, but I've heard he's a Yedo-man and lives in the Settlement, in the village."

"Taira-san, he talk Fujiko about him?"

"She never mentioned it, but then I did not ask her. Next time, perhaps by next time I will know, Furansu-san."

Andr`e did not believe her, but never mind, he thought, when she's ready she'll tell me. "The medicine. It arranged?"

"Of course, whatever I can do to help a favored client is my purpose in life."

He took out the pair of pearl earrings and laid them on the table. Her eyes glittered.

She made no move to pick them up but he was sure she had instantly weighed them mentally, deciding on their quality, cost and resale value. "I asked to give these as present," he said pleasantly and she smiled prettily, pretending to be overwhelmed though already aware payment would be in jewelry which could not be offered for sale in Yokohama. Her fingers trembled as she reached for them. He forestalled her, picking them up and pretending to examine them closely.

His plan for Angelique had worked perfectly. Servants from the Noble House had scoured the streets to no avail. Her anxiety and tears had been genuine, and she had whispered privately: "Oh Andr`e, did I do the correct thing? Malcolm was really very upset-- I had no idea they were so expensive."

"But he told you just to sign for whatever you wanted, didn't he? Not your fault that you didn't ask the price--he liked his cuff links, didn't he?"' "Yes, but Andr`e..."

"There will be enough left over in case it's needed --a credit against any eventuality, Angelique."

Andr`e smiled to himself and turned his full attention to Raiko. "Value many times cost of medicine."

"The buying price, certainly. But I must send them to the Yedo or Nagasaki Yoshiwara.

A difficult sale, but please do not worry, I will help you to be rid of an unwanted child."

"Not mine," he said sharply.

"Ah so sorry, please excuse me," she said, believing him. Good, I was afraid it was his, she told herself, greatly relieved. I want no more complications with this man. "It is not my business."

"Just help for friend of friend. In Drunk Town."

"Please excuse me, so sorry."

He smiled without humor. "You know pearl. This value fifty times cost of medicine."

She kept her smile in place and her voice cooing but inside she was gnashing her teeth. "I will have them valued. Of course they are worth more than the cost of the medicine."

"Of course." He held his palm flat and she took them. The pearls were almost black, Sea Island pearls. She touched them to her teeth to feel if they were cold and carefully bit on them but they did not mar. Satisfied now that they were genuine and rich, she said lovingly, "The price, old friend?"

"Price is: all medicine, even if first time fail. What necessary if drink fail, understand?

What need... whatever need to stop child. Yes?"

"Yes," she agreed happily, knowing this to be a marvelous bargain. "A guaranteed... elimination, termination."

"Plus twenty gold oban," he added, and was delighted to see her face twist with real horror though this was less than a third of what she would squeeze from the sale--the setting was of little value but he had made sure the Chinese jeweler only used the finest pearls. She groaned and cursed and they bargained back and forth, both enjoying the encounter, both knowing that the real cost of the medicine and medical advice was hardly significant to a brothel mama-san. Soon they were close to making a deal and then, of a sudden, her mood changed and she stared at him strangely, liking him, so sad for him, and thought: Should I interfere with karma?

"What?" he asked suspiciously.

"Let me think a moment, Furansu-san."

Later, in an entirely different voice, warm and soft as in the old days when he had been her first customer and had lavishly wined and dined the whole House to celebrate their opening, she said, "Since we met, much water has flowed under many bridges, lots of good times and laughter in our Floating World and, as it is in this life, also sadness and a lake of tears, not of my choosing.

Suddenly I remembered the last time we bargained like this was over Hana's contract."

His face settled into a mask. "Not talk about Hana."

"Ah, so sorry, I would like to, please, because I may have a solution to her."

"There none," he said angrily. "No cure, Hana dead, Hana nothing do with pearls!"

"True. Please be calm and listen. Perhaps," she said gently, "perhaps I could find another Hana, similar, but one who already has the Chinese disease."

"Not possible," he burst out, shocked.

"Disease very bad, very bad, ugly."

"Yes, near the end," she said patiently.

"Many times nothing shows for years. You are not yet ugly, nothing shows with you, Furansu-san--it may be years before that happens. It depends on your karma. I should seek such a one?"

He started to speak, stopped and shook his head.

"Listen, if I could find new Hana, and then if..."

"Not possible!"

"... if you approve her, and she approves you, you could be together until--until you decide ..." Raiko shrugged. "Never mind the future, today is today and that is the rule of our Floating World. You would keep the girl here, I would build you a new house, the other naturally we destroyed, you treat her like Hana in every way, same contract price, same monthly money for clothes and lodging, and she is for you only."

Her eyes bored into him and he knew she could see into his soul, see him writhing with a frantic, sudden hope and craving to accept that which would release him from torment--the news of his karma had travelled with the speed of light, now every house barred to him, politely oh so politely but still barred for pillowing, only Drunk Town possible --yet be a never-ending Damocles sword over him forever. And even worse, there was no lessening of his sexual urge but a heightening, a greater obsession to pillow than before, one that had already driven him to the insanity of two nights ago with Angelique, not that he did not still desire her, he did, more than ever, and knew without a release he would try again and would not fail next time.

Blessed Mother, help me, he thought near tears, I do not want to infect her too.

"There is another possibility," Raiko was saying, her gaze curious. "We can discuss that later. Now Hana."

"Not-talk-about-Hana!"

"I have to, Furansu-san. Now. You wanted to know how she died, neh?" Raiko saw his eyes focus and his breathing almost stop. "After you ran out into the night and she, weeping, told me the reason, I was as shocked as you and ordered her out of the House and cursed her even though she was like my own daughter. Of course you were right and you should have killed her not just hit her before you left, you are right and of course her mama-san should have told me, and she should have told me the mom--"

"Speak, speak slow... more slow."

"Please excuse me but it is very hard slowly, but she should have told me the moment she knew. I was furious and left her to try to catch up with you but failed. Then one of the maids... it was Mieko. Mieko rushed in to say that Hana had tried to hara-kiri..."

Raiko was perspiring now. This was by no means the first attempted suicide she had been involved in. There had been dozens during her forty-five years as apprentice, courtesan and mama-san --she had even been born in the Willow World, her mother a specialist courtesan of the second rank. Many suicides were successful, few by the knife, most by poison or drowning, some dual suicides between lovers, the man always impoverished, even samurai. But Hana's had been the worst.

When she had rushed into the room she found the girl in agony, weeping and helpless, her neck slashed several times but no artery or vein severed and the windpipe only nicked. A little air bubbled from the cut that bled badly but not badly enough. She was crumpled on the futons, knife nearby, but her hand could not grip it and each time she tried to lift it it would slip from her grasp, all the time weeping and choking and retching, begging forgiveness and crying out, Help me... help me... help me...

"She was beyond all wish for life, Furansu-san," Raiko said sadly. "I've seen too many not to know. If she had lived through that attempt she would have tried again and again, without ceasing. In this world, surely in ours, there does come a time when it is good and wise to go beyond. We put animals out of misery--it is right to give the same relief to a person. So we helped her.

We calmed her and cleaned her and sat her up and she had time to say, Namu Amida Butsu, then I held the knife to her throat and peacefully Hana fell on it. That is how she died."

"You... you kill... part... part kill her?"

"It was my duty as her mama-san," Raiko said simply. Again she hesitated, sighing. No need for more tears. Those had been shed long since.

I have none left. How many times when I was her age, hating my life and the way I had to earn my rice, did I not contemplate the same escape, even once cutting my wrists, to be succored and saved by my mama-san who, when I was well, beat me unmercifully.

But she was right, my mama-san, as I was right, because she knew I was not serious as Hana was serious, and now I cannot even remember the face of the boy she had forbidden me, only that he was a poet.

"Before she died Hana asked me to apologize again for her to you. To beg your forgiveness for her."

"You... do you... forgive, forgive?"

What a strange question, she thought, startled. "That Hana was like last year's cherry blossom scattered by the wind, no need to forgive or not to forgive. Just a petal of the Willow World. She existed but did not. You understand?"

In turmoil he nodded, not comprehending all the words, but understanding what she had done and why. He hated her and blessed her, was relieved and sad and suicidal and filled with hope. "Three men, three who before me. Who?"

"I do not know, so sorry, except they were Japanese. Truly," she told him, her eyes clean, the names buried in her most secret heart, waiting to use if necessary, for or against the Bakufu. "About these," she opened her hand. The pearls glowed in the oil light, enticingly.

"Let us agree that I give you one third of whatever I get from the sale, plus all medicines and whatever else is necessary. A third would be..." She stopped as friend in Drunk Town fell into place.

The medicine is for the woman who is to marry the tai-pan, she told herself excitedly. Wasn't it she who was supposed to have lost some jewelry yesterday that I thought nothing of. It must be her, the pearls confirm it... and if it's her, eeee, the abortion must be without his approval or knowledge or surely Jami-san would be the intermediary, not Furansu-san.

"A third would be fair," she said, and was going to add smugly, to the young gai-jin woman who is to marry the tai-pan, but seeing Furansu-san staring gloomily into his cup, decided there was no need yet to divulge she had deduced the "who."

Eeee, tonight has been most profitable, she thought gleefully. Knowledge of a secret abortion by such an important lady to bury, or to tell, could be extremely valuable, to the lady herself, before or after she marries, or to this tai-pan who is as rich as Adachi of Mito, before or after he marries, or even to one of his many enemies.

Next: through Hiraga I have this Taira firmly stuck to Fujiko's Jade Gate-- what is it about the girl that attracts Round Eyes to her? And last but not least, the solution to Furansu-san, my precious gai-jin spy, presented herself.

Raiko wanted to shout with joy but, carefully, she retained her most modest, sincere look.

"A third? Furansu-san?"

Bleakly he looked up at her, nodded his agreement.

"You have told the Lady there is a risk?"

"What risk? Raiko say medicine good most times."

"It is, most times. But if the drink does not succeed, we... let us not worry about that now.

Let us hope Buddha smiles on her and it is her karma to have an easy release, then to enjoy the good things in life." She looked at him steadily. "And you also. Neh?"

He stared back at her.

Thursday, 6th November

Thursday, 6th November: Dearest Colette: The weeks have rushed by, and tomorrow is my special day, Angelique wrote, aglow with expectation, I feel so good I can hardly believe it. I sleep marvelously, my cheeks are rosy, everyone compliments me and my figure is better than ever... No signs, nothing, she thought.

Nothing. Breasts a little tender but that's just imagination--and tomorrow all will be over.

She was sitting at the bureau in her suite facing the bay, the tip of her tongue between her lips, far too cautious to write anything that could possibly compromise her. What a lucky omen it's his day for my new beginning.

Tomorrow is St. Theodore's day, he's my new patron saint. You see, Colette, by marriage I become British (not English because Malcolm is Scots and part English) and St.

Theodore is one of their oh so few saints. He became British too (he was a Greek) twelve hundred years ago and rose to be Archbishop of Canterbury...

Her steel-tipped pen hesitated as that name brought phantoms from the mists but she would not acknowledge them and they sank back into the depths again... that means he was like the pope of the British Isles. He reformed the Church, cast out evildoers and heathen practices, was oh so holy and kind, particularly to women, lived to be an astonishing eighty-eight and altogether a wonderful man of the True Church. I'm celebrating by having a special fast day, then in three days a party!

Father Leo told me about him. Ugh! I really don't like him, stinky as he is (i have to use a pomander handkerchief in the confessional--he would make you faint, dear Colette). Last Sunday I had the vapors and will certainly miss this Sunday too. Do you remember how we used to do that when we were at school, though how we avoided a scolding I'll never know.

Thoughts of Colette and school and Paris distracted her for a moment and she stared out of the window at the ocean, slate grey and stormy with a sharp wind creating seahorses that ran ashore to woosh up the beach a hundred yards away, the other side of the promenade--merchantmen at anchor, bum boats loading or unloading, the only warship, the frigate Pearl, resplendent with her new mast and new paint steaming for her mooring, just back from Yedo.

But Angelique did not really see any of it, her eyes beguiled by the rosy future her mind was promising. Here, in her suite, it was warm and calm with no drafts, the windows well fitting, a fire blazing in the fireplace, with Malcolm Struan dozing comfortably in a tall red velvet chair, papers, letters and invoices in his lap and scattered about his feet. The connecting door was open. Her door to the corridor unlocked. This was their new custom. Safer, both had agreed, plenty of time in the future to be private.

Some days he would arrive early and conduct his business from her boudoir until noon when he would doze a few minutes until lunch; sometimes he would stay in his own suite and some days he would hobble downstairs to the offices below.

He would always say she was always welcome there but she knew that was only a politeness. Downstairs was masculine domain. She was delighted he was working--McFay had told her that since "the tai-pan has taken charge, everyone's more diligent, we've big plans hatching and our company's humming..."

And so was she. No fear for the morrow. On the contrary, she was looking forward to seeing Andr`e in the evening at the Legation. Together they had hatched an excuse and she would move back there tomorrow for three days while her rooms were repainted, and new curtains made for the windows and four-poster that she had chosen from silks in their warehouse: "But, Angel," Struan had said, "we're only here for a few more weeks, the expense really isn't--"' A laugh and a kiss had changed his mind. La, I begin to love him and adore the game of getting my own way.

She smiled and began to write again: Colette darling, I've more energy than I've ever had. Riding every day--no excursions which make the Settlement restricting--but lots of galloping around the racecourse with Phillip Tyrer, Settry (pallidar), who's the best rider I've ever seen, sometimes with French and English cavalry officers, and not forgetting poor Marlowe who is turning out to be the most dear man but not, I'm afraid a horseman. They all left three days ago to go to Yedo where Sir William and the Ministers are having THE MEETING with the native Cabinet and their king called SHOGUN.

Malcolm is getting better but oh so slowly, he still walks badly but is wonderful-- except on mail days (twice monthly) when he's furious with everything and everyone, even me.

It's only because there are always letters from his mother (i begin to hate her) who complains bitterly that he stays here and doesn't return to Hong Kong.

Three days ago was worse than usual. One of the Noble House clippers arrived, this time with another letter and a verbal summons delivered by the Captain who said: "I'd appreciate it, sir, if you could come aboard the moment we've unloaded the special cargo--our orders are to escort you and Dr. Hoag to Hong Kong rightly smartly..."

I've never heard such language, Colette! I thought poor Malcolm would have apoplexy. The Captain crumpled and fled.

Again I implored Malcolm to let us do what she wants but... he just growled, "we'll go when I decide to go, by God. Don't mention it again!" Yokohama is VERY tedious, and I'd really like to return to Hong Kong and civilization.

To pass the time I have been reading everything I can lay my hands on (newspapers, apart from fashion and Paris life are really quite interesting I was surprised to find, and they make me realize what a scatterbrain I am). But I must prepare for all the soirees I must give for my husband, to entertain his important guests--as well as their wives. So I intend to learn about trade, opium and tea and cotton and silkworms... But one has to be SO careful. The first time I tried to talk about an article relating to the awful state of the French silk industry (which is why Jappaner silkworms are so valuable) Malcolm said, "Don't you worry your pretty head about that, Angel..." I could get NOT one word in even sideways, in fact he was quite irritable when I said Struan's could start a silk factory in France....

Oh dearest Colette, I wish you were here, then I could pour my heart out to you--I miss you miss you miss you...

The steel nib, set into a bone handle, began blotching. Carefully she dried it and cleaned the tip, marvelling that it was so easy, the nib again as good as new. Up to a few years ago the quill pen was commonplace and she would have had to find the special quill knife and cut a new point, splitting it to last but a page or two, whereas these Mitchell pens, mass-produced in Birmingham, would last for days and came in many sizes to please your fancy and your writing.

Behind her, Struan stirred but did not awaken.

Asleep he has a tidy face, she thought.

Neat and strong...

The door opened and Ah Soh barged in.

"Missee, tiffin, you wan' here or downstai', heya?"

Struan had awoken at once. "Your mistress will eat here," he said brusquely in Cantonese, "I'll dine downstairs, in our main dining room, and tell the cook the food had better be exceptional."

"Yes, tai-pan." Ah Soh hurried off.

"What did you tell her, Malcolm?"

"Just that you'd lunch here--I'll be downstairs.

I've invited Dmitri, Jamie and Norbert." He looked at her silhouetted against the light. "You look splendid."

"Thank you. Can I join you? I'd prefer that."

"Sorry, we've business to discuss."

With a great effort he heaved himself upright and she gave him his two walking sticks. Before he took them he put his arms around her and she allowed her body to sigh against him, hiding her anger that she would be cooped up again--nowhere to go, nothing to do, except to write some more or read some more and to wait. Boring boring boring.

Lun Two cut the first of the large deep-dish apple pies into quarters, slid them on to fine pewter plates, poured thick cream generously and served the four men.

"God Almighty, where the devil did you get it?" Norbert Greyforth asked and Dmitri said over him with equal awe, "I'll be goddamned."

"The cream?" McFay belched. "Pardon.

Compliments of the tai-pan."

Dmitri spooned a mouthful. "Last time I had cream was in Hong Kong, six months ago, goddam this's good. This a new Noble House exclusive?"

Malcolm smiled. "Our last clipper, a few days ago, sneaked in three cows. We unloaded them at night andwiththe help of the army quartermaster we've had them hidden amongst the horses--didn't want them hijacked or the Jappo Customs asking questions. Day and night guard now." He could not contain his pleasure at the effect of the cream after a lavish amount of beef, roast potatoes and fresh vegetables, local pheasant pie, French and English cheeses--with beer, Ch`ateau Haut-Brion '46, a fine Chablis and port. "We're going to start a herd if they acclimatize here, and a dairy farm--as a subsidiary of our Hong Kong dairy farm--it was Jamie's idea originally, and of course the produce will be available to anyone."

"At the usual "noble" prices?" Norbert said sarcastically, plainly irritated he had had no forewarning of this new Struan endeavor.

"At a profit--but a reasonable one,"

Struan said. He had ordered the cows to be rushed from Hong Kong the moment he arrived here. "More, Dmitri?"

"Thanks, great pie, Malc!"

"How's the word from home?" Jamie asked, to break the tension between Struan and Norbert Greyforth.

"Lousy. Terrible. Both sides are mixing it and with rifles and long-range artillery--shit, the killings's the worst ever, afraid the New World's crazy."

"The whole world's crazy, old friend,"

Norbert said. "But war's good business, that's a fact, for the lucky ones," then added, just to rile Struan, "Brock's have all the Hawaiian sugar you'll need, at reasonable prices."

"It'd be a change for anything to be reasonable," Dmitri said lightly. He knew all about the huge losses Struan's were going to sustain because of Tyler and Morgan Brock's coup, but shrugged to himself. I'm not in their war, I've my own to worry about. Dear God in Heaven, how will it end? "War's never good for the people.

Goddam, the cost's going to be huge--you hear that Lincoln's just got his goddam income tax through Congress to pay for the war?"

All the other spoons hesitated. "What's the rate?"

"Three cents on the dollar," he said disgustedly and they all laughed.

"You're sure?"

"I just heard today by a special off the Calif Belle."

"Three percent? You're bloody lucky, Dmitri," Jamie said, his plate almost empty. "I expected fifteen."

"You crazy? There'd've been a revolution."

"You're already in one. Anyway, three percent is the same as us, but yours is only for three years, that's... wait a minute," Jamie said, raising his voice, "that's what Lincoln promised, swore it was only for three years according to the last Frisco Chronicle, if Congress passed it. Three years."

"True, but you know goddam politicians, Jamie, once they get a tax through Congress, or Parliament, they'll never take it off. Goddam Congress, shysters, all of them.

Three percent's only the beginning."

"You're right there," Norbert began, equally sourly, then to Lun, "Yes, I'll have another slice, and a good dollop of cream. You're right about bloody taxes! Bloody Pitt, he's the bugger who first invented income tax and he promised the same and reneged like Lincoln will.

Politicians are liars all over but Robert Peel should have been horsewhipped."

"Robert Peel, the same guy who started a police force, the Peelers?" Dmitri asked, and took another spoon of cream.

"Yes, that's him. The Peelers were a good idea--though it weren't his idea alone, and we could use some here, no doubt about that, but income tax?

Monstrous!"

Malcolm said, "Peel was a good Prime Minister. He--"

Norbert deliberately overrode him. "We only had that damned tax for two short periods during the Napoleon Wars, fair enough, but then it was repealed forever in '15, directly after Waterloo, forever, by God, but didn't piss arsed Peel bring it back in '41 at seven pence in the pound, three percent like Jamie said?

And only for three years. Didn't he renege, and all the other buggers who followed him? It'll go on forever and twenty guineas to a bent farthing Lincoln'll renege too. You're stuck, Dmitri old lad. We are too, because of Peel. Stupid bastard," he added deliberately to irritate Struan even though privately he agreed with his assessment of Peel overall.

Struan's good humor was evaporating fast.

"Brandy, Lim, then close door!" Lim poured generous snifters and left with the other four liveried servants.

Norbert belched. "Cream was good, young Malcolm. Now, to what do we owe the pleasure of such a feast?"

The mood at the big table changed. Deepened.

"What concerns all traders. Sir William and us being excluded from the Shogun and Bakufu meeting."

"I agree the bugger should be axed. Never heard anything like it in my life!"

"Yes," Struan said. "At the very least we should have had a representative there." "Agreed," Dmitri said grimly, most of his mind on home. One brother already dead. Food riots nearby. "Our guy's nice enough but he's Yankee. I suggested he appoint me Deputy but he shat on that idea. What you have in mind, Malc?"

"A joint deputation to make sure it won't happen again, an immediate complaint to the Governor an--"

"Stanshope's a berk," Norbert said and smiled thinly. "But he will do what your Mama wants."

"He's not our puppet, if that's what you imply," Struan said, his eyes as cold as his voice.

Dmitri said, "Puppet or not, will he fire Wee Willie?"

"No," Struan said. "That has to come from London. My idea is if William won't agree that we're to be part of any negotiations in the future, then we advise Stanshope to make it policy--he can certainly do that, after all it's we who pay taxes, it's we who negotiate with the Chinese, why not here? Jointly we could accomplish that. Norbert?"

"That bugger will agree to anything for a simple life and it won't do a bit of good." His face tightened. "William's not our whole problem.

It's the Admiral. We need a new Admiral. That's more important than shoving William aside. It's him who won't bombard the bastards like he should. It's him, not William--any fool can see that." Norbert finished his brandy and refilled his glass as he continued, pretending not to notice how his barb had rocked Struan and irritated McFay. "Again my compliments on the cream, but the brandy's not up to scratch. May I send you a barrel of our Napoleon?"

With an effort Struan kept his temper. "Why not? Perhaps it's better. Is your solution to our problem better?"

"My solution's well known," Norbert said harshly. "Demand they hand over Canterbury's murderers and the indemnity and if no action, three days later flatten Yedo. How many times do I have to say it? But the idiots we've got here won't take normal reprisals which's the only action natives understand, any enemy for that matter. And until the Navy act proper, every bloody one of us here is at risk, by God!"

The silence grew. McFay kept his thoughts off his face, concerned that Struan let himself be at loggerheads with this much older and more experienced man, and saddened that Norbert's reply had not been part of Struan's opening salvo, and disgusted that he had been kept unaware of the real reason for the meeting so had not had an opportunity to give some advice beforehand. "Be that as it may, Norbert, you agree that you, Dmitri and the tai-pan, representing the majority, should see Wee Willie as soon as he returns?"

"It's all right to see him, but it will mean nothing." Norbert drank more brandy feeling better for the confrontation. "I know what Mr.Brock, a real tai-pan, and Sir Morgan would say: Tyler Brock would say, with a lot of blunt Anglo-Saxon, that the Admiral's the bleeder in the woodpile, William's an arrogant little bastard who won't change, that he'll see Stanshope personally who's an equal fool, and by the first post he'll write to our friendly Members of Parliament to raise holy hell." While he spoke, he lit a cheroot and said through the smoke, his voice sneering, "And he'll add, even though our friends are more powerful than yours and will do more than yours, meanwhile it's a bagful of fart because that'll take five or six months so he'd say, "get thy arse out of thy godrotting chair, thee's responsible, by God, thee's to solve thy problem or I'll be coming to the Japans and break heads."

Struan felt the wave of anger, and wash of latent fear, that always occurred hearing Tyler Brock's name, or when he read about him in the papers or saw him on the streets of Hong Kong or at the races. "Then what's the answer?"

"I don't have one. If I had I would already have done it, by God." Norbert belched rudely.

"Like your secret Jappo and his mining concessions you'll never get."

Struan and McFay gaped at him.

Two weeks ago Vargas had excitedly whispered that he had been approached by one of their silk suppliers, acting as an intermediary for a Lord Ota, who wanted to meet the tai-pan secretly Histo discuss granting Struan's an exclusive gold-mining concession in his domain that included most of the Kwanto, the area covering most of the plains and mountains around Yedo--the concession in return for trade: armaments."

"Perfect," Struan had said. "If this is bona fide it could be a major breakthrough for us! Eh Jamie?"' "If it's real, absolutely!"

"Here, look, here's their authority."

Vargas showed them the sheet of fine quality rice paper covered with columns of Chinese-style characters and sealed elaborately. "This seal is Lord Ota's, and this the seal of one of the roju, Lord Yoshi. There are two conditions: that the meeting is to take place in Kanagawa, and that everything is kept secret from the Bakufu."

"Why? And why Kanagawa? Why not here?"' "They just said that is where they have to meet, though they did say they would come by night to the Kanagawa Legation. The meeting could take place there."

"It could be a trap, Tai-pan," Jamie said. "Don't forget Legation Lun was murdered there, and those assassins..."

Malcolm's excitement shriveled, being reminded. But he put that away. "There are soldiers there to protect us."

Vargas said, "They guaranteed their officials would be unarmed, stressing only the need for secrecy, senhor."

"It's too risky for you, Tai-pan,"

Jamie said. "I'll go with Vargas who can interpret."

"Sorry, Senhor McFay," Vargas said, "but they want to talk to the tai-pan personally. It seems there's no need for an interpreter--they would supply one who could speak English."

"It's too dangerous, Tai-pan."

"Yes, but too good an opportunity to miss, Jamie, nothing like this has ever been offered to any one of us. If we can make such a deal, in secret all the better, we'll have made a giant step forward. What are the terms, Vargas?"' "They did not say, Tai-pan."

"Never mind. Accept their invitation and we'll meet as soon as possible. One condition: I also bring Mr. McFay. Jamie, we'll go by boat, arrange a palanquin for me at Kanagawa."

The meeting had been quick and untoward direct.

Two samurai. One, calling himself Watanabe, spoke a mixture of English and American slang, his accent American: "Lord Ota wants two prospectors. Experts.

They kin go anywheres in his lands--wiv guides.

No arms. He guarantees safe conduct, gives 'em good dry lodgings, food, wiv all the sak`e they kin drink and women to spare.

One-year contract. You's to keep half the gold they finds, you's to supply free all mining gear and overseers for to train his men if they makes a strike. You's to handle sales. If successful, he renews second year and third, and more--if Noble House plays fair.

Agreed?"' "They're to prospect only for gold?"' "Of course gold. Lord Ota says he has one small mine, maybe more nearby, eh?

You's to handle sales. Men must be good, must've been to Californi or Australi fields.

Agreed?"' "Agreed. It will take time to find the men."

"How long?"' "Two weeks if there are any in the Settlement--six months if we have to bring them from Australia or America."

"Sooner the better. Next: how many rifles you's for sale in here right now?"' "Five."

"Lord Ota buys 'em, and all the Choshu rifles you's a agreed, when they arrives.

Same price."

"Those are already promised. We can supply others."

"Lord Ota wants them Choshu rifles--he wants 'em. He pays same price. All Choshu guns, unnerstand? And all others you kin get. You sell to him only in Nippon, him only, unnerstand? Same wiv cannon and ships --all you kin get. He pays in gold. More you finds, more is yourn."

Neither Malcolm Struan or McFay could shift the man's position in any way. At length Struan had agreed and they had fixed another meeting in a month when Struan's would present a simple contract specifying their guarantees and also dossiers on the two men.

After the samurai had left they had congratulated each other and, "Jamie, you'll find them in Drunk Town. For God's sake hurry, and be careful, before Norbert finds out."

"Leave everything to me."

In days McFay had found two qualified men, an American and a Cornish tin miner both of whom had worked the gold fields near Sutter's Mill in California and the Anderson's Creek discoveries in Australia. Tomorrow the miners were to finalize their equipment needs and arrange the details of their contracts and now Struan and McFay listened appalled to Norbert saying, "I've done that deal, young Malcolm, it's done, you can forget it--and those mining scallywags too, they're contracted to Brock and Sons for five years."

"You've what?" Struan gasped.

Norbert laughed. "Early bird gets the wriggles, old son. I bettered your deal and I've already shipped them off to Yedo to samurai Watanabe. Where'd that bastard learn American English? Did he tell you? Never mind.

Fifty-fifty on any gold we find is a good deal." His laugh became even more scornful.

"As to William, I'll see him soon as he's back, no skin off my nose. Dmitri, you're welcome, I'll make the arrangements."

He looked at Struan, his upper lip curling.

"As you won't be here I'll take Jamie along."

"What?"

Norbert belched again. "Didn't I hear your mother ordered you back to Hong Kong on the next boat?"

Jamie flushed. "Now look here, Nor--"

"Keep out of this, Jamie," Struan snarled.

"Norbert, I'd advise you to choose your words more carefully."

"Is that so, my fine young feller? Didn't I hear correct that she wants you back, ordered you back right smartly, that your Captain was under orders to do just that?"

"That's none of your dammed business! I advise you..."

"Everything that goes on in Yokohama's my bloody business!" Norbert slammed back at him. "And we don't take advice from anyone in Struan's least of all a young puppy not yet dry behind the ears!"

McFay jumped to his feet and Struan jerked up his glass of brandy and threw the contents in Norbert's face.

"Christ Almighty--"

"Retract that, Norbert," Struan shouted, Dmitri and Jamie McFay stupefied by the suddenness of the escalation, "take it back or I demand satisfaction, by God!"

"Pistols at dawn?" Norbert jeered, the action even better than he had hoped.

Abruptly he yanked half the table cloth away to dab his face, sending the glasses clattering. "Pardon for the mess, but you two are witness I said nothing but the truth, by Christ!"

"Do you apologize--yes or no?"

Norbert put both hands on the table, glaring down at Malcolm Struan who glared back, white with rage. "You were ordered back, you are twenty so still a minor before the law and that's hardly dry behind the ears. It's the truth and here's another: I could blow your head off or cut it off with one hand tied, you can't even stand straight so how you going to fight, eh?" he said, his voice jeering and heavy with scorn. "You're a cripple, young Malcolm, and that's the God's truth! Another truth, your ma runs Struan's, has for years, and she's running it into the ground--ask Jamie or anyone honest enough to tell you! You may call yourself tai-pan but you're not, and you're not Dirk Struan, you're not the tai-pan and never will be!

Tyler Brock's the tai-pan and, by God, we'll be Noble House before Christmas too.

Duel? You're mad but if that's what you want, any time." He stalked out. The door slammed.

"I'd, I'd like you both to be my seconds,"

Malcolm said, trembling with rage.

Dmitri got up shakily. "Malc, you're crazy. Duelling's against the law but okay.

Thanks for lunch." He left.

Struan tried to catch his breath, his heart hurting. He looked up at McFay who was staring at him as though he were a stranger. "Yes it's mad, Jamie, but then Norbert's the best of Brock and Sons, he's swamped you and--"

"I'm sorry th--"

"So am I. But more truth is I told no one about the miners, Vargas knew nothing about them, so it leaked through you. You're the best we've got in the company but Norbert will bury us here. A bullet in the bastard's head is the best way to deal with him--or any of the God-cursed Brocks."

After a pause McFay said, "Sorry I failed you, yes I am, very much, but... but sorry, I want no part of any duel, or your vendetta. It's insane."

Struan's pallor increased. "Let's talk about you. Either you keep your holy oath to support me, by God, or you're really finished. You've three days."

Earlier this morning Settry Pallidar and a troop of mounted dragoons led the procession across the bridge that spanned the first moat of Yedo Castle.

They clattered between ranks of impassive, uniformed samurai, shoulder to shoulder--thousands of others had lined the route--over the drawbridge, under the portcullis and through the massive iron-sheathed gates. Ahead were their guides, massed samurai carrying ten-foot-high banners bearing the ensignia of the roju, three entwined cherry blossoms.

Behind the dragoons were half a hundred Highlanders preceded by their twenty-man band and giant bandleader, pipes skirrling, then the party of Ministers and their staff, all mounted, Ministers in court dress--cocked hats, ceremonial swords, cloaks or frock coats against the stiff breeze--except the Russian who wore Cossack uniform and cape and rode the best horse in Japan, a brown stallion that had a personal covey of twenty stablemen to cherish and guard him with their lives. Phillip Tyrer and Johann were in attendance on Sir William, Andr`e Poncin on Henri Seratard. A company of Redcoats brought up the rear.

Two small horse-drawn cannon with their camions and gun crews remained the other side of the bridge. This had been the subject of days of wrangling, Sir William insisting that accompanying ceremonial cannon were an accustomed courtesy to royals, the Bakufu that any gai-jin arms were against the law and an insult to their revered Shogun. The compromise, after a week of impatient dickering--by Sir William --was that the cannon would stay outside the bridge, that royal salutes would not be fired until the unanimous roju gave the promised formal permission. "No ammunition to be landed, so sorry..."

This major hitch was resolved with the help of the French Admiral. During one of the interminable sessions he brought the flagship closer to shore and fired broadside after none too accurate broadside of shells and cannon balls that passed just beyond the Settlement to land harmlessly in the pa.i beyond, but petrifying every Japanese within hearing.

"If we can't land ammunition," Sir William explained sweetly, "then we will just have to make salutes from the sea like this--we did ask him to use blanks but somehow I suppose he misunderstood, language you know--and so sorry if his range falls short and hits your city, it will be your fault. I will have to explain this in detail to your Emperor Komei as the cannonade, and carrying our rifles for full royal honors, is only a token of respect to honor your Shogun and, when we see him, your Emperor Komei, which visit to Kyoto I have postponed three times to accommodate you, I will certainly reschedule the very moment my more powerful fleet returns from decimating most of the China coast inhabited by foul pirates who had the effrontery to pirate a small British vessel!"

Bakufu opposition crumbled. So all rifles were armed and all soldiers warned that though there might be a fight, under no circumstances and on pain of extreme punishment were any Japanese to be provoked. "What about H.m.s. Pearl, Sir William?"' the General had asked at the last briefing.

"She can deliver me and my party to Yedo, then return here, in case our hosts mount a surprise attack against the Settlement while we're away--she can cover an evacuation."

"Good God, sir, if you think there's a chance of that, why put yourself at risk?"' the General had said worriedly. "The other Ministers, well they'd be no loss but you, sir, if anything happens to you it would be an international incident.

After all, sir, you represent the Empire! You should not risk your person."

"Part of the job, my dear General."

Sir William smiled to himself remembering how he kept his voice flat, meaning it as a pleasantry, but the General had nodded wisely, believing it to be the truth. Poor bugger's a berk but then that goes with his job, no doubt that, he thought cheerfully then dismissed everything to concentrate on the castle and the coming meeting that was the culmination of months of negotiating, that would, in effect, give legality to the Treaty and the opening of the Treaty ports. It was those few French shells that worked the miracle, he thought grimly.

Damn Ketterer, but thank God his operation in China went well, according to dispatches, and that he'll be back soon. If he can bombard the coast of China why not here--damn him!

And damn this castle.

From afar it had not looked very imposing but the closer they got to it the more immense it became, with eight rings of barrack-like structures as its outer defenses. Then the castle itself, elegant and beautifully proportioned, he thought, its moat almost two hundred yards across, the towering outer walls thirty or forty feet thick and made of huge granite blocks. Even our sixty-pounders wouldn't dent those, he told himself awed. And inside God only knows how many fortifications surrounding the central keep. And the only way in through one of the gates, or over the walls, a frontal attack, and I wouldn't like to have to order that. Starve it out? God only knows how many storage places it would have--or how many troops could be billeted here. Thousands.

Beyond the gate the roadway angled into a narrow staging area dominated by bowmen massed in defensive slots or on the parapets thirty feet above. The gate was open and led to another confined courtyard that let out through another fortified gate into another, clearly to be repeated in a maze of passage ways that eventually would lead to the central keep but would always leave a hostile force at the mercy of the defenders above.

"We dismount here, Sir William,"

Pallidar said, riding up and saluting. He was Captain of the escort. With him were samurai officers on foot and they were pointing at a vast door that was being heaved open.

"Good. You're clear on what you have to do?"

"Oh yes. But I haven't a hope in hell of covering you or fighting our way out of here, even against bows and arrows."

"I don't plan to have to fight anyone, Captain." Sir William smiled. He turned in his saddle and gave the signal to dismount.

"This's quite a castle, eh?"

"Better than anything I've ever read or heard about," Pallidar said uneasily.

"Beats anything the crusaders had. It makes the great castle of the Knights of St. John in Malta seem tiny. Lovely to defend, I'd hate to have to attack it."

"My thought too. Phillip!" Sir William called out, "ask someone where you pee around here."

Tyrer hurried over to one of the samurai officers, bowed politely, and whispered to him. The man grunted and waved at a casual screen.

"There are buckets over there, sir, and I think he said there's a bucket in the corner of most rooms in case one is caught short."

"Good. Always best to do it before a meeting--even so, a strong bladder is a most important boon to a diplomat." After Sir William, mightily, and the other Ministers had relieved themselves, he led them through the door: Seratard, Count Zergeyev, von Heimrich, van de Tromp, Adamson and a newcomer by the last mail ship, Burgermeister Fritz Erlicher of the Confederation of Helvetia--Switzerland--a bearded giant from their capital Bern who spoke French, English, German, Dutch and many German dialects. Phillip Tyrer and Johann followed closely, Andr`e Poncin alongside Seratard.

The audience room was forty yards square with a massive, high-beamed ceiling, very clean, very drafty, and stone walls with arrow slits for windows. Impassive samurai lined the walls.

Two rows of half a dozen chairs facing each other at the far end. Many doors. Only servants present to greet them. An elaborately garbed though low-rank Bakufu official motioned them to chairs without bowing as servants brought small trays, saying in Dutch: "Please be seated for tea."

Sir William saw that Johann was deep in conversation with his Swiss Minister so he said irritably, "Phillip, ask that fellow where the Council of Elders, the roju, are."

Hiding his nervousness and conscious that all eyes were on him and wanting to relieve himself again, Phillip Tyrer walked over to the official and waited for him to bow. The man did not, just stared at him, so he said sharply, "Where are your manners? Bow! I am a Lord in my country and I represent these High Lords!"

The man flushed and bowed low and mumbled his apologies and Tyrer was exceedingly pleased that he had had the foresight to ask Nakama for some key phrases. He interrupted the man even more imperiously, "Where are your masters, the roju?"

"Ah so sorry, please excuse me, Lord," the man stammered. "They ask that you wait here to, er, to take refreshment."

Tyrer missed words but he caught the gist.

"And after refreshments?"

"It will be my honor to conduct you to the meeting place," the man said, his eyes cautiously lowered.

Again, to Tyrer's enormous relief, he understood. As he told Sir William what had been said he could feel the cold sweat on his back and knew he had been lucky so far.

Sir William snorted and leaned towards the others. "Damned if we should wait, eh, gentlemen? They're overdue--it was agreed we'd go straight to the meeting--damned if I want to wait, nor drink their apology for tea.

Good," he said and added to general approval, "Phillip, tell the fellow we came to see the roju. That's what we want to do now. Now."

"How, er, how strong do you, er, want me to be, sir?"

"For God's sake, Phillip, if I wanted you to be long-winded and diplomatic I would have been long-winded and diplomatic. An interpreter's job is to translate what is said exactly, not to give his interpretation of what is said."

"The Great Lord says: he want see roju now. Now!"

The official was shocked at the impolite bluntness, an unheard-of affront, and was in a complete quandary. His instructions had been clear: The gai-jin will be kept waiting a suitable "face losing" period, about half a candle, when we will send word and you may escort them into our presence. He said rapidly, "Of course I will take you the instant you have had refreshment and everything is ready for your perfect reception but oh so sorry this is just not possible for a little while as their August Persons are not yet in their correct attire so it is not yet possible to comply with your Master's unseemly request, Interpreter-san."

"Please to say again, not fast," Tyrer said nervously, swamped. Another flood of Japanese. "Sir William I think he's saying we have to wait."

"Eh? Why?"

"My Master say, why wait?"

More Japanese which Tyrer lost, so the man turned to Dutch, and Erlicher stepped into the conversation, further irritating Sir William and the others. At length Erlicher said, "It seems, Sir William, that the roju are not, how you say, ah yes, they are not quite ready, but when they are we'll be taken to the audience room."

"Please tell this, this fellow bluntly to take us there right smartly, that we are on time, that high-level meetings are always on time because both sides have other important affairs of State to deal with as I've explained fifty times! And tell him to hurry up!"

Erlicher beamed and said it plainly and however much the official twisted and turned and eventually begged, he bowed and, as slowly as possible, led them through a door, down a corridor--first sending a messenger ahead to warn to the Council of the gai-jin's astounding impertinence.

Another corridor and then, ahead, samurai opened huge doors, the official went onto his knees and bowed his head to the floor. Four men in elaborate silk robes, swords in their belts sat on chairs at the far end of the audience room on a slightly raised platform.

The central chair was empty. In front of them, on a lower level--which all Ministers noted instantly--were six chairs for each of the Ministers and between the two knelt the official interpreter. A hundred or so samurai officers knelt in a half circle facing the door and as Sir William came in, all samurai in the room bowed. The four roju did not.

Sir William and the others bowed back politely, then approached the dais and took their seats: "Under no circumstances do Ministers of civilized nations get down on their knees and bow their heads to the floor," Sir William had said, "whatever your customs, whether you do it or no and that's the end of it!"

Phillip Tyrer, now an expert on bowing because of Nakama, noticed that each time an Elder bowed it was as superior to inferior.

Never mind, he thought, awed and excited, we're in the inner sanctum. When does the Shogun arrive to take the empty chair? A boy? I wonder what he'll look like and what-- An Elder began to speak. With a sudden start, Tyrer recognized him as the youngish official from their previous meeting at their Legation, and also the nervous, swarthy man sitting beside him who had said nothing then but had watched everything with his narrow eyes.

Why had two Elders come to meet with us without announcing themselves as such? he asked himself. Wait a minute, didn't the young Official introduce himself as Tomo Watanabe, yes, certainly he did, "junior official, second class."

Obviously a phony name. But why? And why the disguise?

Unsettled, Tyrer left that to be answered later and gave his attention to what the man was saying, understanding almost none of it, as he had been forewarned by Nakama would happen, who had told him that Court-oriented words would probably be used, most of which, as with most ordinary Japanese words and phrases, had different, often conflicting meanings.

His concentration wandered. The third Elder was rotund with a pudgy face and feminine hands, and the last truly elderly, graying and thin-faced with a bad scar on his left cheek. All were barely over five and a half feet, their winglike overmantles and wide-legged trousers and high-domed, lacquered hats tied under their chins and, above all their immobile dignity, making them imposing.

Now the Japanese interpreter spoke in Dutch: "The roju, the Council of Elders of the Shogunate welcomes the foreign representatives and wishes them to present their documents as has been agreed."

Sir William sighed, mesmerized by the empty chair. "All right, Johann, let's begin. Say to them, shouldn't we wait until the Shogun honors us with his presence?"

This into Dutch into Japanese, much discussion, then again the young Elder, Yoshi, made a pronouncement, slowly and meticulously translated into Dutch, into English.

"Basically, without the usual palaver, Sir William, the spokesman says the Shogun wasn't expected in this meeting, this is with the roju only. The Shogun was to be later."

"That was not as was agreed and I inform them again that Ministerial credentials are only presented to the Head of State, in this case the Shogun, so we can't proceed."

Back and forth and then, to the Ministers' displeasure: "The Elder says the Shogun had to leave for Kyoto urgently and regrets he will not have the pleasure of meeting you, etc., but you can give the roju your credentials as they have his authority to accept them."

Back and forth, Sir William's annoyance reddening into visible anger, more discussion on both sides and more time consumed, then a scroll, heavy with characters and sealed importantly and handled as though it were the Holy Grail, was presented by a kneeling official to Sir William.

"Phillip, can you read this?"

"I, no, sorry sir."

"No need to worry." Sir William sighed and turned to the others. "This is most improper."

"Yes," von Heimrich said coldly.

"Unacceptable," Count Alexi Zergeyev agreed.

"A dangerous precedent," Adamson said.

"It's certainly most unusual," Seratard said in French, "and they did promise the Shogun. We could, for just this meeting, agree to their request, eh, my friends?" He was careful to hide his own annoyance and kept his voice smooth and gentle as Andr`e Poncin, at his elbow, had suggested in a cautious whisper the moment they had entered the room, adding: "Be careful, Henri, the roju spokesman is the same Bakufu official I... we made the offer to after the other meeting, to inspect a warship, remember? Mon Dieu, I thought he was important, but never one of the Elders! If we could get him on the side of France, it would be an marvelous coup..."

Count Zergeyev was saying, "Agreeing will create a deplorable precedent."

"It will only be for this meeting. Yes?"

"It doesn't matter, it's wind over a cow's arse," the Swiss, Erlicher, said.

"Let's get on with it."

They argued. Tyrer listened but kept his attention on the Elders without being apparent, fascinated by them, wanting to take advantage of this rare opportunity to learn the maximum about them in the minimum time. His father had impressed on him from an early age: "In any meeting, always watch your opponent's hands and feet, they are the giveaways, eyes too and faces, yes, but those are usually easily controlled. Concentrate! Observe, but cautiously or the clues to tell you what he or she is really thinking will be obscured. Remember, my son, everyone exaggerates, everyone lies in some degree."

The hands and feet of the swarthy, shifty-eyed Elder twitched constantly, little nervous movements, those of the young Elder hardly at all.

From time to time, as in the other meeting, he saw the man he had dubbed "Shifty Eyes" whisper to the young Elder, the spokesman--only to him.

Why? Tyrer asked himself. And why does Shifty Eyes take no part in any of their discussions, seemingly dismissed by them, keeping his eyes constantly on the Ministers and not the interpreters.

Abruptly Sir William motioned at the empty chair: "If the Shogun was not expected at this meeting, and there are five Elders in the roju, why is there an empty chair?"

Back and forth, forth and back and then: "He says the President of their Council, Lord Anjo, has just been taken ill and cannot be here, but that does not matter, they have his authority to proceed. Please proceed."

Von Heimrich, said in perfect French as a put-down to Seratard, "Doesn't this invalidate the meeting, didn't they keep harping on the "unanimous" nature of this Council?

Five men. This could be another deceitful ploy to be used in future to negate the whole proceedings." Again an argument began.

Only Sir William was silent. He was keeping his fury, and anxiety, off his face.

Clearly we've been duped again. What to do?

Then heard himself say in a firm voice: "Very well, we will accept this authority as bona fide from your Shogun, for this meeting only. We will inform our governments that prior agreement was not adhered to and we will proceed to Kyoto as soon as possible to present credentials properly to your Shogun--and Emperor Komei--with a more than suitable escort."

As Johann began to translate into Dutch, Count Zergeyev murmured, "Bravo--that's the only way to deal with the matyeryebitz!" Von Heimrich and van de Tromp, the Dutchman, quietly agreed, to the objections of Seratard, Adamson the American and Erlicher.

The Japanese interpreter gaped and said loudly he was sure that he had misunderstood.

Johann told him there was no misunderstanding.

During this lengthy back and forth, Sir William closed his ears to them, watching the faces of the roju intently as they listened to the interpreter.

In varying degrees all of them became unsettled. Good, he thought.

"With the usual palaver, Sir William, but with a heavy load of polite apologies this time, he says it won't be possible to see the Shogun in Kyoto, the weather is very inclement at this time of the year, but they will make sure the moment he's back, etc., etc."

Sir William smiled mirthlessly. "Say to them: Inclement or not, we will visit the Emperor in the very near future, stress that Johann. On that basis only we will proceed."

The roju received that in stony silence.

In turn, Sir William first, then the others, got up and bowed, spoke his name and rank and the country he represented, and offered his credentials. These were accepted with dignity. Each time the roju bowed back, respectfully.

"Now," Sir William said, his chin jutting.

"To proceed with the second business of the meeting: Her Majesty's Government reaffirms that on Friday the 12th September, this Year of Our Lord, 1862, an English gentleman was foully murdered in daylight by samurai of the Satsuma contingent under the command of their king Sanjiro. Two others were wounded. Her Majesty's Government demands the murderers be handed over or dealt with publicly according to Japanese law, that a reparation of one hundred thousand pounds sterling in gold be paid forthwith, an apology published and a public guarantee promulgated that this will not happen again.

Next: the second and final payment of five thousand pounds sterling in gold as reparation for the murders of Sergeant Gunn and Corporal Roper in our Legation last year, weeks overdue, be paid in gold in three days or the amount is doubled every day thereafter..."

Sir William allowed time for Johann to translate word for word but allowing no discussion until he had finished the list, Adamson had demanded reparations for the murder of the American official, and last, the Russian Minister.

Count Zergeyev, his multitude of medals and decorations clinking on his gold-braided uniform said, "A Russian officer and one soldier off our man-of-war, Gudenev, were hacked to death in Yokohama on 16th of February, last year," then added to the consternation of the others, "For reparations, Tsar Alexander II of all the Russias, demands the Kurile Islands."

During the translations, Sir William leaned over and whispered pleasantly in Russian: "A nice jest, Count Alexi, forof course Her Majesty's Government could never agree to such an intrusion into our sphere of influence."

"Perhaps, perhaps not. War is coming in Europe again. Soon we'll have to see who are our friends, and who enemies."

Sir William chuckled. "That's always a problem for certain countries. The United Kingdom has no permanent enemies, only permanent interests."

"True, dear friend, but you forgot to add "no permanent friends." Also now, with Vladivostok, we're a Pacific power."

"Power from sea to sea? The dream of the Tsars, eh?"

"Why not? Better us than some," Count Alexi said pointedly, then shrugged. "The Kuriles? If not them some other islands--merely to protect Vladivostok."

"We must discuss your "curious" Pacific presence under more perfect conditions. My Government is most interested."

Seratard, not understanding Russian and furious that he had not been party to this exchange, said coldly in French, "I trust, Sir William, you are well aware of French interests."

"As always, Monsieur, the interests of gallant allies are forefront in the mind of Her Majesty's Foreign Office."

"Sir William," Johann said wearily, "the Elder says... he's only repeating their previous position that they've no jurisdiction over Satsuma, don't know who the murderers are, and think any reparation should be claimed from Satsuma itself, through correct channels of course."

"What correct channels?"

Back and forth: "He says through them, that they'll pass on your request to Satsuma again."

"It's not a request, by God. We will try one final time, stress that Johann, a different tack," Sir William said. "Say, Do they punish murderers, and tell the interpreter I require a yes or no. Only."

Back and forth: "He says, Sir William, that under some circum--"

"Murder for Christ's sake. Yes or no!

Phillip, say it in Japanese!"

Tyrer's stomach twisted. He had been watching the swarthy Elder whispering again but bravely he jumped to his feet. "Honored Lords, please excuse my poor Japanese but my Master ask, please if when murder, you kill murder man, yes or no please."

Silence. The Elders looked at Yoshi who stared at Tyrer, hands playing with his fan. The man alongside whispered to him and he nodded.

"The penalty for murder is death."

"He says yes, sir. For murder, the penalty is death," Tyrer said, having learned those key words from Nakama who had also explained the Japanese penal code and its severity.

"Tell him thank you."

"My Master say thank you, Lord."

"Now ask him, Is it correct to demand a reparation for such a crime, Yes or no?"

"Lord, please excuse me but is... is ... I..." Tyrer stopped, his mind a sudden blank, "sorry Sir William I don't know the word for "reparations."

At once Andr`e Poncin leapt in with, "The word's bakkin, Sir William, and little known, may I try please?"

"Go ahead."

"Honored Lords," Poncin said with a deep bow, and Tyrer blessed him for the rescue and saving his face. "Please my Master ask if correct, humbly ask for justice and head payment for family, for murder, a fine against Satsuma?"

"Against Satsuma yes," Yoshi said with a fleeting smile.

Andr`e sighed with relief. "He says yes, Sir William but the reparation should be demanded specifically from Satsuma." Before Sir William could ask another question, Poncin in his most perfect, rehearsed Japanese--and to Tyrer's astonishment--began to offer the face-saving formula he had devised: "Honored Lord, on behalf of my Master, humbly suggest roju perhap consdir, ah please excuse, perhaps consider roju lend Satsuma first payment, one fifth. This you offer now, give time get rest Satsuma, collect rest from Satsuma. Please?"

This time they all saw the young Elder's interest.

At once he began a whispered conversation with the others, Andr`e saw Tyrer frowning at him so subtly shook his head, silently asking him not to interfere. In a moment Yoshi said, "Perhaps it would be possible to offer a twentieth, paid in a hundred days against Satsuma's obvious debt."

"Honorable Lords..."

"What the devil's he saying, Phillip, and the Elder?"

"Just a second, Sir William," Andr`e cut in pleasantly, wanting to crush him.

"Honored Lords, my Master would recommend a tenth, in sixty days. So sorry, please excuse bad pronouncing but humbly, very humble beg yes." Greatly relieved Poncin saw their discussion begin and gambled again. "Sorry, Sir William, but as Phillip will confirm, I suggested they consider advancing payment on behalf of Satsuma who they say, rightfully, should pay any reparations."

"The devil you did? They are?" Sir William stared at him, tiredness dropping away from him and all of them. "Well done--if they'd do that then I could compromise, eh? You agree?"

For the sake of courtesy he turned to the others for their opinion. Behind him, Tyrer whistled tonelessly, having understood most of what Poncin had said in Japanese, the way he was manipulating the Elder and the Minister, and the slight, though important difference of the English translation. Clever of Andr`e. But what is he up to, is this his idea or is it Seratard's?

Again Shifty Eyes began murmuring confidentially to the young Elder whose attention went to the Ministers. It's almost as though...

All at once it was as if cataracts had dropped from his eyes and he had become clear-sighted again. Even more than that, now he was seeing the Elders with straight eyes and not with the oblique and clouded gaze of a self-styled civilized man, seeing them as people, equally civilized, equally simple or complex but as people, and not as outlandish, mysterious or weird "Jappos" that Nakama, Fujiko, even Andr`e, in their various ways correctly resented.

God Almighty, Shifty Eyes understands English, he wanted to shout ecstatically. That's the only answer, and another's that he's a roju spy and no more an Elder than I am which is why the others pay no attention to him in their discussions.

What else? He must be Watanabe's spy because he's the only one whispered to--must find out their real names and to ask Nakama about them.

Watanabe is the most powerful of this lot, acting President. The absent President? Got to find out his real name too. What else? Where did Andr`e...

He concentrated as Yoshi addressed the interpreter. His voice had sharpened. Instantly the interpreter became more alert and his Dutch twenty times briefer. Johann translated, trying to contain his astonishment, "The roju agrees in this instance it is correct to ask for a reparation, from Satsuma, that yes a hundred thousand seems reasonable for a nobleman though they can't say it will be considered so by the Lord of Satsuma. As a gesture of friendship to the British, and to outside nations, the roju will advance a tenth part in seventy days on Satsuma's behalf--while formal British requests are forwarded to the Satsuma. Concerning the request of the Russian Minister, as with his own Homeland, Japanese soil is Japanese soil and is... I suppose the word would be inviolate, or not to be bartered."

Without being obvious Sir William put a hand on Count Alexi's to stop the outburst, saying softly in Russian, "Let it rest, Alexi," then loudly to Johann, ready to negotiate the number of days down and the amount up, "Excellent. Johann, please tell them th--" He stopped as Tyrer whispered quickly, "Excuse me, sir, suggest you accept at once but you really should know their names."

It was almost as though Tyrer had not spoken for Sir William continued with hardly a pause and no change of expression: "Johann, please tell them their suggestion is acceptable to Her Majesty's Government in the same spirit of friendliness. Concerning the Minister from the Court of St. Petersburg, I am sure he will consult his government who will, undoubtedly, agree that a monetary settlement would satisfy." Without allowing Count Alexi any time to reply he rushed on: "Regarding our other pressing problem, the Shimonoseki Straits: all foreign Governments protest shore batteries firing on their ships when using those Straits peacefully."

Sir William repeated the dates and the names of ships, already the matter of much heated correspondence.

"They say they will pass on the complaint, Sir William, with the usual, they've no control over Choshu."

"Johann, say: In the friendly spirit of this meeting, may I suggest it is difficult, if not impossible, for Foreign Governments to deal with the Bakufu that apparently does not have authority over its various kingdoms or States. Therefore what should we do? Deal directly with the Shogun who signed our Treaties--or Emperor Komei?"

"The legal government of Nippon is the Shogunate, the supreme ruler of the Shogunate is the Shogun who rules on behalf of the Son of Heaven, the roju are the supreme advisors to the Shogunate whose officials are the Bakufu. In all cases Foreign Governments must deal with the Shogunate."

"In that case, how can we ensure safe passage for all shipping using the Shimonoseki?"

More draining discussion and always variations of the same response that was an answer but not an answer however much Sir William probed. Bladders agitated the general impatience and fatigue.

Three hours had passed since they began. Then a vagrant thought became a full-blown solution. Sir William smiled to himself. "Very well: say, presuming there are no further attacks and our serious remonstrations are delivered to the Choshu daimyo forthwith, we will, in the spirit of this new friendliness, accept their position for a future meeting in one hundred days."

An hour of added maneuvering. "The roju agree to a second meeting in a hundred and fifty-six days, here in Yedo and wish to declare this meeting over."

"Good," Sir William said, satisfied, stifling a yawn, "could we please have their names now, verbally, and then in correct characters on the paper that we will exchange within three days to confirm our formal agreements."

Back and forth, minor details changed, then finally: "Sir William, he says you'll have the paper in a week, the interpreter will give you their names and the meeting is ended." As each Elder was introduced the man nodded briefly and impassively: "Lord Adachi of Mito, Lord Zukumura of Gai, Lord Yoshi of Hisamatsu..." Tyrer was delighted to see that Shifty Eyes, last in the line, was sweating, his hands and feet squirming and his bow had nowhere near the imperiousness of the others: "Lord Kii of Zukoshi."

"Please give them our thanks. As previously agreed, I will now order royal salutes."

"Lord Yoshi says, unfortunately one of their members is missing. As previously agreed, unanimous approval of the roju is necessary to grant the firing of any cannon."

Abruptly Sir William's bonhomie fell away. All Ministers were shocked. "What about our agreements?" he asked sharply. "Do they require unanimous approval too?"

Back and forth amid much tension and muttered caution amongst the Ministers. Then Johann said awkwardly, "Lord Yoshi says that this gathering has the Shogun's authority and the President's to accept credentials, to listen and recommend.

They will unanimously recommend the settlement.

As previously agreed, approval for firing cannon needs unanimous approval of all Elders so regretfully this body cannot allow it."

The silence became unhealthy as Sir William and all of them realized the trap they had fallen into. No option this time, he thought, his stomach twisting. "Captain Pallidar!"

"Yessir?" Pallidar came from the back, heart suddenly grinding, knowing along with everyone else facing the roju that Sir William had no option now but to give the order to fire the salutes, whatever the cost, or the same excuse would surely be used to negate their settlement.

As he saluted perfectly, "Yessir?" Seratard broke in with his smoothest and most diplomatic voice: "Sir William, I feel sure that the agreement is bona fide, will be implemented, and you can accept it. I recommend you do this, we all do, eh gentlemen?" he said to general relief at the face-saver, "and also recommend under the circumstances we forgo the salutes. You agree, Sir William, on our behalf?"

Sir William hesitated grimly.

To further astonishment, Seratard added grandly, "Andr`e, tell them on behalf of France I will go surety for the first installment."

Before Sir William could say anything, Andr`e was bowing: "My Master say, Honored Lords, he happy roju give paper in a week, agree lend Satsuma first money in seventy day. Say also France, as Nippon friend, honored give personal bond to British Minister against first payment. Also he honored greet all or one of roju any time personally, in ship or any place. Humbly thank you, Honored Lords."

With narrowed eyes, Yoshi said, "Thank your Master. The meeting is ended."

A samurai officer called out, "Kerei!"

--salute--and every samurai bowed, holding that position as the roju got to their feet and bowed back with measured politeness. Sir William and the others had little option but to follow suit as Yoshi led the way to an unseen door beside the dais and were quickly gone. At once the samurai straightened and resumed their staring, suspicious hostility.

"Very satisfactory, Sir William,"

Seratard said expansively in French, taking his arm, wanting to distract him again. "Well done."

"Your Masters in the Elysee will be very peed off with you when we ask for ten thousand in gold,"

Sir William said, a little piqued but not entirely--except for the firing of the cannon he had made a giant step forward. "Peed or not it was a grand gesture, Henri, however expensive."

Seratard laughed. "Twenty guineas says they'll pay."

"Done! Will you dine with us at the Legation?"

They began walking out, careless of the arrogant, bellicose stares.

"Thank you no. As we've concluded our business I think I'll start back for Yokohama now instead of tomorrow, there's time enough and the sea's calm. Why wait for Pearl, join us aboard my flagship, we can dine en route, eh?"

"Thanks but I'll wait till tomorrow. I want to make sure all our lads are back safely on our transports."

Behind them, unnoticed in the throng, Tyrer had waited for Andr`e who had knelt to adjust a shoe buckle, who then, not realizing Tyrer was watching, began a whispered conversation with the Japanese interpreter. The man hesitated then nodded and bowed. "Domo."

Andr`e turned, saw Phillip scrutinizing him. For a split second he was nonplussed, then smiled as he joined him. "Well, Phillip, that went very well, didn't it? I thought you were excellent, and we certainly made the points."

"I wasn't and you saved the day. And my face, for which many thanks." Tyrer frowned, unsettled, following the procession. "Even so, though you brilliantly solved the impasse, what you said in English and what was said in Japanese was different, wasn't it?"

"Not that different, mon ami, not enough to matter."

"I don't think Sir William would agree."

"Perhaps perhaps not. Perhaps you were mistaken."

Andr`e forced a laugh. "It's never wise to agitate a Minister, eh? A closed mouth catches no nasties."

"Most times, yes. What did you say to that interpreter?"

"I thanked him. Mon Dieu, my bladder's killing me--how's yours?"

"Same," Tyrer agreed, sure that Andr`e was lying about the interpreter. But then why shouldn't he? he was thinking with his newfound point of view.

Andr`e is enemy, if not enemy, the opposition, and every nuance was to benefit and ingratiate Seratard, France and Andr`e. Fair enough.

What would he ask for secretly? To pass on a message, yes, but what? What secret message? What would I ask for secretly?

"You asked for a private meeting with Lord Yoshi, eh?" he said, gambling. "For you and Monsieur Seratard."

Andr`e Poncin's expression did not change but Tyrer noticed his right hand on his ceremonial sword became white-knuckled.

"Phillip," he said thinly, "I've been a good friend to you since you arrived, helping you begin Japanese, introducing you around, eh? I haven't interfered with your private samurai-- Nakama, eh, though I've heard, secretly, he's got other names. Haven't..."

"What other names?" Tyrer asked, suddenly nervous and not knowing why. "What do you know about him?"

Andr`e went on as though Tyrer had not spoken: "Haven't tried to question him or you about him though I did warn you about Japanese, all of them, time enough for you to tell me about him if you want to, as a friend. Remember we're on the same side, Phillip, we're servants not masters, we're friends, we're in Japan where gai-jin really have to help each other--like I did introducing you to Raiko who led to Fujiko, eh? Nice girl Fujiko. Best to have a little Gallic realism, Phillip, best keep private information private, best beware of your Nakama and remember what I've said a dozen times: In Japan there are only Japanese solutions."

Near sunset the same day, Yoshi hurried along a somber, drafty stone corridor in the castle keep. Now he wore his characteristic kimono with two swords, a cowled riding cloak over them. Every twenty paces were flickering oil torches, set into iron brackets beside bowman emplacements that also served as windows. Outside the air was cool. Ahead was a circular staircase. It led to his private stables below.

He ran down the steps.

"Halt! Who... ah, so sorry, Lord!"

The sentry bowed.

Yoshi nodded and went on. Throughout the castle soldiers, stablemen, servants were preparing for bed or for night duties, following the universal, worldwide custom of bedding down at nightfall.

Only the well-to-do had light by night, to see, to read or to play.

"Halt! Ah, so sorry Lord." This sentry bowed, and the next, and the next.

In the stable courtyard a personal guard of twenty men, was assembled at the heads of their ponies. Amongst them was Misamoto, the fisherman, the make-believe samurai and Elder. Now he was poorly clad as a common foot soldier, unarmed, and frightened.

Two small enclosed palanquins, especially light and designed for rapid transport were there.

Each was slotted on to two shafts that fitted into harness for two saddle ponies ahead and behind.

All hooves were muffled and all this part of a plan he had devised with Hosaki days ago.

The spy window of one palanquin slid aside. He saw Koiko peer out. She smiled, nodding a greeting. The window closed.

His hand tightened on his sword. Ready, he slid her door open enough to ensure she was who he thought she was and that she was alone. When he was very young his father had beaten the first law of survival into him, word by word: "If you are caught unawares, betrayed unawares, killed unawares, you failed in your duty to me and to yourself. The fault will be yours alone because you failed to check personally and to plan against any eventuality. There is no excuse for failure except karma--and gods do not exist!"

A quick reassuring smile to her. He slid the door home and checked that the other palanquin was unoccupied and available for his use if he needed it. Satisfied, he gave the signal to mount.

This was done in almost complete silence which again pleased him--he had ordered all armor and harness to be muffled. A last silent check but he could sense no danger. The new rifle was in a saddle holster, the ammunition pouch full, the other four guns slung over the shoulders of his most trusted marksmen. Noiselessly he swung into his saddle. Another signal. His advance guard and banner man carrying his personal standard led off.

He followed, then the two palanquins and the rest fell into place as rear guard.

Their progress was quick and almost soundless. Up the passageway into the next fortification, directly away from the main gate and main thoroughfares. At each checkpoint they were motioned through without challenge. Instead of turning into the maze of the castle proper, they made for a large building on the north side set against one of the major fortifications. Outside it was heavily guarded.

The moment Yoshi was recognized, tall doors swung open to let them ride through. Inside was a large, enclosed and packed-earth practice riding ring with a high vaulted ceiling and a second tier for viewing. A few torches, here and there. The doors closed behind them.

Yoshi cantered to the head and led briskly through the far archway, past stables and harness rooms.

All were empty. This area was cobbled, the air heavy with the smell of dung and urine and sweat.

Beyond, the hard-packed earth began again and another arch let out to an inner, smaller ring. Across it was an archway, dimly lit. Yoshi heeled his surefooted pony faster, then reined in suddenly.

The surrounding upper tier was packed with silent bowmen. None had arrows in their bows but all those in the ring knew they were dead men--if the order was given.

"Ah, Yoshi-sama." Nori Anjo's harsh voice came out of the semi-darkness above and Yoshi had difficulty for a moment picking him out. Then he saw him. Armorless, he was sitting at the back of the tier beside the staircase. "At this afternoon's meeting you didn't tell us you were going to leave the castle with armed men like... like what? Like ninja?"

A rustle of anger spread through Yoshi's men but he laughed and this broke the tension, below and above.

"Not ninja, Anjo-sama, though certainly as quietly as possible. It's a good idea to test defenses, without warning. I'm Guardian of the castle, as well as Guardian of the Shogun.

And you? To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"You are just testing our defenses?"

"I am killing three doves with one arrow yes." The humor had left Yoshi's voice and all were chilled, wondering why three and what did he mean. "And you? Why so many bowmen? For an ambush perhaps?"

The coarse laugh pealed among the rafters, edging everyone further. Hands tightened on weapons though no one made an overt move. "Ambush?

Oh no, not an ambush--an honor guard. The moment I heard you planned a patrol with muffled hooves... these men are just to honor you, and to show you not all of us are sleeping, that the castle is in good hands and a Guardian not needed." He barked a command. At once all bowmen hurried down the stairs and formed two lines the length of the ring, Yoshi and his men between them. They bowed formally.

Yoshi and his men bowed back, formally. But nothing had changed, the trap was still ready to be sprung.

"You need guns to test defenses?"

"Our Council advised all daimyos to arm with modern weapons," Yoshi said, his voice outwardly calm, inwardly furious that his plan had been betrayed and that he had not foreseen an ambush. "These are the first of my new rifles. I wish to accustom my men to carry them."

"Wise, yes, very wise. I see you carry one too. Lord Yoshi has to carry a gun himself?"

Seething at the jeer, Yoshi glanced down at the rifle in its holster, hating all guns and blessing the wisdom of his namesake in outlawing their manufacture or importation the day he became Shogun. Hasn't that more than anything ensured our peace for two and a half centuries, he thought grimly. Guns are vile, cowardly weapons, worthy only of stinking gai-jin, weapons that can kill at a thousand paces so you may never see who you kill or who has killed you, weapons that any simpleton, low person, maniac, filthy robber, man or woman can use against anyone, even the highest lord with impunity, or most perfectly schooled swordsman. Yes, and now even I have to carry a gun--the gai-jin have forced us into it.

With Anjo's sneering jibe ringing in his ears, he jerked the rifle out of the holster, pushed the safety off as Misamoto had shown him, pointed it, pulled the trigger, immediately pumped shells into the breech, blasting five bullets deafeningly into the rafters, the rifle almost twisting out of his hands with unexpected force. Everyone scattered, even his own men, a few unseated by frightened rearing ponies, Anjo and his guards dived for the floor anticipating more firing, lethal this time, every man in the room unnerved by the rapidity of firing.

In utter silence all waited breathlessly and then, because there was no follow-up and they realized Yoshi was just demonstrating the rifle, the two ranks of archers hastily but warily reformed around his own men who were sorting themselves into order. Anjo and his guards scrambled to their feet. "What was the meaning of that?" he shouted.

As nonchalantly as he could, his own heart pounding, Yoshi continued to gentle his pony and quietly pushed the safety catch on and laid the gun across his lap, concealing his delight with the success of his action and that he was as impressed as anyone with the rifle's power--he had fired muzzle loaders before and some old-fashioned duelling pistols at targets, but never a breech-loader with cartridges. "I wanted to show you the value of one of these. In certain circumstances they're better than a sword, particularly for daimyos." He was glad to hear that his voice sounded calm. "For instance, when you were ambushed a few weeks ago, you could have used one, neh?"

Shakily Anjo was controlling his wrath, quite sure that now he was in great danger, his life under immediate threat, and equally certain if he ordered Toranaga's arrest as he had planned bullets would pepper him--in the name of all gods where and how did that dog learn to shoot and why was I not informed he had become an expert?

And being reminded of the shishi incident was an added public insult for it was well known he had not been brave but had had to scramble to safety, never duelling once with his assailants and then, after the wounded were captured, had ordered them to be killed in a dishonorable fashion. "Under some circumstances, Yoshi-sama, some, but I doubt if your gun or any others have value tonight. I doubt that. May I ask your purpose tonight? Is it to visit our outside defenses and return?

Or is one of your "doves" a departure for elsewhere?"

Both knew Yoshi was not answerable for his movements in or out of the castle precincts. "That depends on what I see outside," he said curtly. "I may decide to return to my own domain for a day or so, perhaps not--of course I would keep you closely informed."

"The Council would miss your presence, if only for a few days. There's much to be done, if you're absent, we will have to make the decisions ourselves."

"As we decided this afternoon, there's nothing major to be decided, fortunately without five Elders nothing of major importance can be settled."

"There is the matter of the gai-jin agreement."

"That was also decided this afternoon."

The meeting of the Council after the gai-jin had departed, for once, had been happy and filled with laughter at the enemy's loss of face, that once again the gai-jin had been outsmarted, Anjo, Toyama, and Adachi congratulating him for his expert handling of the confrontation and understanding of gai-jin, Zukumura saying little except muttering feeblemindedly from time to time.

Anjo had chortled, "Agreeing to advance a pittance to get rid of them and their ships from Yedo while we bring Satsuma to heel was very clever, Yoshi-sama. V. At the same time we've indefinitely postponed their threat to go to Kyoto, and they agree that Satsuma is completely to blame."

Toyama said, "Then we declare war on Satsuma? Good!"

"No, not war, there are other ways to curb that dog." Anjo was very confident with his newfound knowledge.

"You were right about the gai-jin, Yoshi-sama. It was vastly interesting to see how enmity between them all is so close to their revolting surfaces." He and Toyama had witnessed the meeting from behind the dais, the wall there deliberately made see-through from the inner side. "Revolting. We could even smell them through the screen. Disgusting.

I've ordered that audience room washed out and the seats they sat in destroyed."

"Excellent," Adachi said. "My skin crawled all the time I was there. Yoshi-sama, may I ask about that monkey Misamoto, did he really tell you what the gai-jin said, everything? I couldn't hear a word?"' "Not all of it," he had told them, "enough to give me some advance clues but only when they were speaking English. Misamoto said much of the time they were speaking another language, he thought French.

This proves another point: we must have trusted interpreters. I propose we start a language school for our brightest sons at once."

"School? What school?"' Zukumura mumbled. No one paid any attention.

"I disagree." Toyama's dewlaps shook. "The closer our sons get to gai-jin, the more infected they'll be."

"No," Anjo said, "we'll personally select the students--we must have trusted barbarian speakers. We will vote: The Bakufu will be ordered to form a language school at once.

Agreed? Good, next, the gai-jin letter: we will continue Yoshi-sama's tactic, the day before it's due we tell them it will arrive "as soon as possible." Agreed?"' "Sorry no," he had said, "we must do the exact opposite. We must deliver the letter on time, exactly, and give them the second blackmail payment on time too."

They stared at him and Zukumura mumbled, "Letter?"' Yoshi said patiently, "The gai-jin must be kept off balance. They will be expecting us to delay, so we don't, and that will make them believe the one hundred and fifty-six days is also firm which of course it isn't. That we certainly delay and delay and hope to send them all mad." They had laughed with him, even Zukumura who did not understand why they were laughing had laughed anyway--and even more when Yoshi told them how many times he had almost guffawed during the meeting, seeing how their impatience was ruining their already illusory bargaining position. ""Without the killer dog the master's as weak as a puppy against a man with a stick."

"What? Man with a stick?"' Zukumura asked, his dead codfish eyes peering stupidly, "What dog?"' Much of Yoshi's good humor had left him, reminded that now he had to endure this feebleminded man forever. Nonetheless, he explained that without muscle to back up their complaints, and the will to use it, the enemy were helpless.

"Muscle? Don't understand, Yoshi-sama.

What muscle?"' "Force," Anjo said impatiently, "Force! Their cannons and their fleets, Zukumura. Oh never mind!"

Toyama, the old man, said fiercely, "While they're without their fleet we should burn them out--they are unspeakably arrogant, with foul manners and as for their spokesman... I'm glad I didn't have to be present, Yoshi-sama, I think I would have burst.

Let's burn them out, now."

"Who? Burn who?"' "Keep quiet, Zukumura," Anjo said wearily, "and just vote when I tell you.

Yoshi-sama, I agree with your reasoning.

We'll send the letter on time and the second part of their blackmail money when agreed. Everyone in favor? Good. Next: now that we've dealt with the gai-jin, and the Shogun and Princess are safely on the North Road there's not much to do for the next week or so."

"Allowing them to go was a misguided decision and will come back to haunt us," Yoshi had said.

"In this you are wrong. Please prepare a plan, your ideas how to bring that dog Sanjiro and Satsuma to heel. I vote we meet in two weeks, unless there is an emergency ..."

Later, going back to his own quarters Yoshi had not been able to think of any potential emergency that would require his presence in Yedo-- even the second covert, whispered invitation to visit the French warship that he neither accepted nor refused but left open for the weeks ahead was not urgent. So he had resolved to put into effect at once the plan he and his wife, Hosaki, had devised. Now Anjo and his bowmen were barring his path.

What to do?

"Good night, Anjo-sama," he said, making the decision. "As always, I will keep you advised." Covering his disquiet and feeling naked he spurred his pony forward, heading for the far archway. None of the archers moved, waiting for orders. His men and the two palanquins followed him, feeling equally defenseless.

Anjo watched them go. Enraged. But for those rifles I would have had him arrested as planned.

On what charge? Treason, plotting against the Shogun! But Yoshi would never have been brought to trial, oh no, so sorry, fools would have killed him as he tried to escape justice.

A sudden shaft of pain in his bowels made him grope for a seat. Baka doctors! There must be a cure, he told himself, then heaped more curses on Yoshi and the men who had disappeared under the far archway.

Yoshi was breathing better now, the fear sweat no longer chilling him. He trotted deeper into fortifications, along poorly lit corridors, passed more stables and harness rooms until he came to the end wall. The wall was sheathed in wood. Men dismounted and lit torches from those in wall brackets.

With his riding whip he pointed at a knob to one side. His aide dismounted and pulled it sharply.

A whole section of the wall swung outwards to reveal a tunnel, tall enough and wide enough for two men to ride along, side by side. At once he heeled his pony into motion. When the palanquins and the last man were through and the door once more closed, he sighed with relief. Only then did he holster the rifle.

But for you, Rifle-san, he thought affectionately, I might be a dead man, at the very least a prisoner. Sometimes I can see a rifle really is better than a sword. You deserve a name--it was ancient Shinto custom to give names to special swords or weapons or even rocks or trees. I shall call you "Nori" which also can mean "seaweed" and is a pun on Nori Anjo, to remind me that you saved me from him and that one of your bullets belongs to him, in his heart or head.

"Eeee, Lord," his Captain said, riding alongside. "Your shooting was a marvelous thing to behold."

"Thank you, but you and all the men were ordered to be silent until I gave you leave to speak. You are demoted. Go to the rear." The crestfallen man hurried away. "You," Yoshi said to his second in command, "you are now Captain." He turned in his saddle and went forward again, leading.

The air was stale in the tunnel. This was one of the many secret escape routes honeycombing the castle. The castle with its three moats and soaring donjon had taken just four years to build--five hundred thousand men had, at Shogun Toranaga's suggestion and at no cost to him, proudly worked on it night and day until it was finished.

The floor of the tunnel sloped downwards and curled this way and that, the sides hewn out of rock in places and roughly bricked in others, the ceiling propped here and there but in good repair.

Always downwards but without danger. Now water dripped from the sides and the air became cooler and Yoshi knew that they were under the moat. He pulled his cloak closer around him, hating the tunnel and almost sick with claustrophobia--a legacy from the time when he and his wife and sons had been close confined for almost half a year in dungeon-like rooms by tairo Ii not so very long ago. Never again will I be confined, he had sworn, never again.

In time the floor sloped upwards and they came to the far end that opened into a house. This was a safe place that belonged to a loyal Toranaga clan vassal, who, forewarned, greeted him.

Relieved that there was no further trouble, Yoshi motioned the advance guard to lead.

The night was pleasing and they trotted through the city by little known paths until they were on the outskirts and at the first barrier of the Tokaido. There hostile guards immediately became docile seeing the Toranaga standard. Hastily they opened the barricade and bowed and closed it, all of them curious but none stupid enough to ask questions.

Not far beyond the barrier the road forked. A side road meandered northwards, inland, towards the mountains that, in a normal three or four days ride, would bring him to his castle, Dragon's Tooth. Gladly the advance guard swung that way, heading for home--to their homes as well as his, most of them not having seen their families, fianc`ees or friends for the best part of a year.

Half a league down the road, approaching a village where there was a fine watering place and a hot spring, he called out, "Guards!" beckoning them back.

The new captain of the escort reined in alongside and almost said, Sire? but caught himself in time. He waited.

Yoshi pointed at an Inn as though a sudden decision. "We stop there." It was called Seven Seasons of Happiness. "No need for silence now."

The courtyard was neat and tidy and cobbled. At once the proprietor and maids and menservants hurried out with lanterns, bowing and anxious to please, honored with the majesty of their expected guest. Maids surrounded the palanquin to take care of Koiko, while the proprietor, a neat, balding, slim old man who walked with a limp, conducted Yoshi to the best and most isolated bungalow. He was a retired samurai called Inejin who had decided to shave his knot and become an innkeeper.

Secretly he was still hatomoto--a privileged samurai--one of Yoshi's many spies that dotted the surrounds of Yedo and all approaches to Dragon's Tooth. The new captain, conscious of his responsibility, and four samurai accompanied them, Misamoto and his two guards last.

Quickly the captain made sure the dwelling was secure. Then Yoshi settled himself on the veranda, on a cushion facing the steps, the captain and the other samurai kneeling on guard behind him. He noticed the maid offering tea was fresh-faced and well chosen, the tea tasting better for it. When he was quite ready he waved the maids and servants away. "Please bring them here, Inejin," he ordered.

In moments Inejin returned. With him were the two gai-jin prospectors. One tall, the other stocky, both gaunt, tough-looking, bearded men wearing grimy, rough clothes and battered caps. Yoshi studied them curiously, distastefully, seeing them more as creatures than men. Both were uneasy. They stopped near the steps, gaping at him.

At once the Captain said, "Bow!" and when they did nothing, just stared at him without understanding, he snarled at two samurai, "Teach them manners."

In seconds they were on their knees, faces in the dirt, cursing their stupidity at accepting such a perilous job: "Wot the fuck, Charlie," the stocky man, a Cornish miner, had said in Drunk Town a few days ago after their meeting Norbert Greyforth, "wot we's got to lose?

Nuffink! We's starving and we's broke, we's no work, we's can put nuffink more on the slate, man--even with my cobber Bonzer for Gawd's sake--there ain't a bar in Yokopoko that'll give us a beer, a bed or a bite of bread let alone some crumpet. Not a ship'll give us a berth. We's stuck and soon the Aussie Peelers'll land here, or yors from 'Frisco, then we's both be in chains, me hanging for bushwhacking a few poxy, claim-jumping miners and you for rustling and shooting some bloody bankers."

"You trust that bastard Greyforth?"' "Where's yor honner, me old cock sparrer! We give him our markers, right? He done like he promise, a proper toff, right? He give we's twenty-two quid to pay wot we's owe to stay out of the brig, another twenty in the bank for when we's back, all shovels, powder and goods we's need and a sworn contract in front of the preacher that we's to gets two parts of every five we ships to Yoko, right? All like he promise, right? He's a toff but all toffs is slimy."

The two men had guffawed, the other saying, "You're goddam right."

"Now we's the prospectors, right? It's we's who finds the pay dirt, right? In Jappo land, where's we's alone, right? We's kin hide a poke or two, eh? And sneak it out, right?

All the grub, booze and dinkie-die for a year, our own bleeding Yoshiwara for not a penny piece, an' a first shot at Jappo gold? Me I'm in if you isn't...."

"Let them sit up, do not hurt them.

Misamoto!"

Misamoto was on his knees at once. The moment the two men saw him, some of their concern left them.

"These are the men you met at the dock yesterday?"

"Yes sire."

"They know you as Watanabe?"

"Yes, Lord."

"Good. They know nothing about your past?"

"No Lord, I did it all as you ordered, everything an--"

"You said sailors in Nagasaki taught you English?"

"Yes Lord."

"Good. Now, first tell they will be well treated and not to be afraid. What are their names?"

"Listen you two, this's the Boss, this's Lord Ota," Misamoto said as he had been told to name Yoshi, his coarse slang American easily understood by them. "I tol' you bastards to bow and scrape or you'd hav' it done for you.

He says you're to be well treated and wants to know yor names."

"I'm Johnny Cornishman and he's Charlie Yank an' so far we's nothing to eat or drink for Christ's sweet sake!"

As best he could, Misamoto translated the names.

"You will tell them nothing about me or what you have done since I took you out of prison--remember I have ears everywhere and I will know."

"I will not fail, Lord." Misamoto bowed deeply, hiding his hatred, desperate to please and frightened for his future.

"Yes." For a moment Yoshi considered him. In the two-odd months since he had taken Misamoto into his service the man had changed radically, outside. Now he was cleanshaven, his pate also shaved and his hair groomed in samurai fashion. Enforced cleanliness had improved his appearance greatly, and even though he was deliberately kept in the vestments of the lowest class of samurai, he looked samurai and wore the two swords now as though they belonged.

The swords were still false, just hilts with no blades within the scabbards.

Thus far Yoshi was pleased with his performance and when he had seen him robed and hatted as an Elder, he had been astonished, not recognizing him. A good lesson to remember, he had thought at the time: how easy it is to appear to be what you are not!

"It would be better for you not to fail," he said then turned his attention to Misamoto's two guards. "You two are responsible for the safety of these two men. The Lady Hosaki will supply further guards and guides but you two are responsible for the success of the venture."

"Yes Lord."

"As to this fake Watanabe," he said, his voice soft but no man mistook the finality therein, "he is to be treated as samurai though of the lowest rank, but if he disobeys correct orders, or tries to escape, you will tie his hands and feet and drag him to wherever I am. You are both responsible."

"Yes, Lord."

"I won't fail you, Lord," Misamoto muttered, grey-faced, some of his terror passing on to the two miners.

"Tell these men they are quite safe. And also that you will be their helper and teacher, there is no need for any of you to be frightened if you obey. Tell them I hope for a quick success to their search."

"The Boss says there's no need to be scared."

"Then why's yous pissing in yor pants?"

"Piss off yorself. I'm... I'm to be in charge so mind yor goddam manners."

"Best watch yors or when we's alone we's feeding you's yor balls. Where's the piss-arsed grub and where's the booze an' where's the doxies we's promised?"

"You be getting it soon enough, and best be polite around these... guys," Misamoto said cautiously. "They's like a cat with a bee up its ass. And the Boss says best find the gold right smartly too."

"If there's gold we's kin find it, Wotinabey, old cock. If it ain't there it ain't there, right Charlie?"

"Excuse me, Lord, they thank you for your kindness," Misamoto said, not quite so frightened. He had suddenly realized that if he was to accompany them he would be the first to know about a strike. "They promise to try to find treasure as quick as possible. They respectfully ask if they could have some food and drink and when can they begin."

"Impress it on them it pays to be patient, pays to be polite and to be diligent. Teach them correct manners, how to bow and so on.

You are responsible."

As Misamoto obeyed Yoshi motioned to his aide who brought out the two short overmantles that Hosaki had had especially made, like waistcoats with ties on them. On the front and back were panels of inked characters on pale silk that read: This gai-jin is a personal retainer and prospector, under my protection, who is allowed, provided he has official guides with correct papers, to prospect anywhere within my domain. All are ordered to assist in this work.

Each panel bore his seal. "Tell them they are to wear it always and it will give them safe passage --explain what the writing says."

Again Misamoto obeyed without thought and showed the two men how to wear them. Cautiously now, they pretended a patience and humility alien to their nature and upbringing. "Charlie," the Cornishman whispered, adjusting the tie strings, hardly moving his lips to speak like most ex-cons --he had had four years hard labor in the Australian outback for claim jumping: "In for a penny, in for a fuckin' quid."

The American grinned suddenly, more at ease.

"I hope there's more than a quid's worth, old buddy..."

Yoshi watched them. When he was satisfied he motioned to Misamoto. "Take them with you and wait in the courtyard."

Once they had gone, after bowing correctly without assistance this time, he sent everyone out of hearing range, except Inejin. "Sit down, old friend." He motioned to the steps where the old man could sit comfortably--his left hip crushed in a fall from a horse making it impossible for him to kneel. "Good. Now, what news?"

"Everything and nothing, Lord." For three centuries Inejin and his forefathers had served this branch of the Toranagas. As a hatomoto he had no fear of speaking the truth but the obligation to do so: "The land has been worked diligently and manured properly, crops grow, but farmers say this year there will be famine even here in the Kwanto."

"How bad will the famine be?"

"This year we will need rice from elsewhere to be safe, and elsewhere will be far worse."

Yoshi remembered what Hosaki had already told him, and was very glad with her foresight and prudence. And also glad to have a vassal like Inejin--rare to find a man who could be trusted implicitly, even rarer to find one who would speak truthfully, the truth based on real knowledge and not for reasons of personal aggrandizement. "Next?"

"All loyal samurai are seething with impatience at the impasse between Bakufu and the rebellious Outside Lords of Satsuma, Choshu and Tosa, their samurai equally discontented, mostly because of the usual problem: rates of pay fixed a century ago are causing ever greater hardship, it being ever more difficult to pay the interest on ever-increasing debts, and to buy rice and food at ever-increasing prices."

Inejin was deeply aware of the problem as the majority of his widespread family, still samurai class, were suffering badly. "Daily the shishi gather adherents, if not openly, certainly undercover. Peasants are correctly docile, merchants not so, but all, except most merchants in Yokohama and Nagasaki, would like the gai-jin expelled."

"And sonno-joi?"

After a pause the old man said, "Like many things on earth, Lord, that battle cry is part right, part wrong. All Japanese detest gai-jin-- worse than Chinese, worse than Koreans-- all want them gone, all revere the Son of Heaven and believe His wish to expel them correct policy. Of your twenty men here tonight, I believe twenty would support that part of sonno-joi. As you yourself do, providing it is the Shogunate who wield the temporal power to effect His wishes, according to procedures laid down by Shogun Toranaga."

"Quite correct," Yoshi agreed, but in his innermost heart he knew that if he had had the power he would never have allowed the first Treaty, so never a need for the Emperor to interfere in Shogunate matters, and would never have allowed mean-minded men surrounding the Son of Heaven to misguide Him.

Even so, contrary to sonno-joi, if he had power, now he would invite some of the gai-jin in while he had time. But only on his terms. And only for the trade he desired. It is only with fleets and guns like theirs, he thought, that we can deny them our land, expel them from our seas, and at last fulfill our historic destiny to place the Emperor on the Dragon Throne of China. And then, with their millions and our bushido, the whole gai-jin world will obey. "Go on, Inejin."

"There's not much more that you do not already know, Lord.

Many fear the boy Shogun will never be a man, many are disturbed by the less than wise Council, many are shocked that your prudent advice against his journey to Kyoto as a supplicant was overridden, many regret that you do not control the roju to force necessary changes: the Bakufu made corruptless, clever--and to stop the rot."

"The Shogun is the Shogun," Yoshi said curtly, "and all must support him and his Council. He is our liege Lord and must be supported as such."

"I completely agree, Sire, I merely report samurai opinion as best I can. Few want the Bakufu and Shogunate cast out.

Only a handful of numbskulls believe the Emperor could rule Nippon without the Shogunate. Even amongst shishi few really believe the Shogunate should be ended."

"So?"

"The solution is obvious: somehow a strong hand must take control and rule as Shogun Toranaga ruled." Inejin eased his leg more comfortably. "Please excuse me for being long winded. May I say how honored I am by your visit."

"Thank you, Inejin," Yoshi said thoughtfully.

"No news of any daimyos collecting forces against us?"

"Not mobilizing, Lord, not in this area, though I hear Sanjiro has all Satsuma on a war footing."

"And Choshu?"

"Not yet, but Ogama has again reinforced his garrison troops holding the Gates, and increased the number of shore batteries on the Shimonoseki."

"Ah! His Dutch armorers?"

Inejin nodded. "Spies tell me they train his gunners, and make four cannon a month in the new Choshu arsenal. These are rushed to redoubts.

Soon the Straits will be impregnable."

That's good and bad, Yoshi thought--good to have that option, bad that it is in enemy hands. "Ogama plans to step up attacks on shipping?"

"I am told for the moment no. But he has ordered his batteries to destroy all gai-jin shipping and close the Straits permanently when he send them a code word."

Inejin bent forward and said softly, ""Crimson Sky."

Yoshi gasped. "The same that Shogun Toranaga used?"

"That's what was whispered."

Yoshi's mind was in a whirl. Does that mean, like my forebearer, Ogama is going to launch an equally sudden and all embracing surprise attack--supreme power again being the prize? "Can you get proof?"

"In time. But that is the present code word.

As to Ogama's real plan," Inejin shrugged.

"He has the Gates now. If he could persuade Sanjiro to pledge allegiance to him ..."

The silence grew. "You've done very well."

"Another interesting fact, Sire. Lord Anjo has a disease of the stomach." Inejin's eyes lit up even more seeing Yoshi's immediate interest. "A friend of a friend who I trust tells me he has secretly consulted a Chinese doctor. The disease is the decaying disease and cannot be cured."

Yoshi grunted, part from pleasure, part from an ice pick of anxiety that he might contract the same--who knows how or from where--or have it already in his innards waiting to fell him. "How long will he live?"

"Months, perhaps a year, not more. But you should be doubly on guard, Sire, because my informant says that while the body rots with no outward blemishes, the mind does not, just twists into dangerously implacable routes."

Like the stupid decision to permit the Princess to dominate, Yoshi thought, his head buzzing with what he had been told. "Next?"

"Next, Sire, about the shishi who attacked and assassinated Lord Utani and his paramour.

They were led by the same Choshu shishi who attacked Lord Anjo--Hiraga."

"The one whose likeness was sent to all barriers?"

"Yes Sire, Rezan Hiraga, at least that's what the captured shishi said the man's name was before dying. It is probably false. Another of his aliases is Otani."

"You have caught him?" Yoshi said hopefully.

"No, Sire, not yet, and unfortunately we have lost all trace of him so he must be elsewhere.

Possibly Kyoto." Inejin dropped his voice even more. "Rumor has it there is going to be another shishi attack in Kyoto. Many are believed to be collecting there. Many of them."

"What sort of attack? An assassination?"

"No one knows, yet. Possibly another coup attempt. The shishi leader with a code name, "the Raven," is said to have issued the summons.

I am trying to find out who he is."

"Good. One way or another shishi must be wiped out." Yoshi thought a moment. "Could their venom be directed against Ogama, or Sanjiro, the Emperor's real enemies?"

"Difficult, Sire."

"Have you discovered who told the shishi about Utani? About his secret tryst?"

After a pause Inejin said, "It was the Lady's maid, Sire, who whispered to the mama-san who whispered to them."

Yoshi sighed. "And the Lady?" "The Lady appears to be blameless, Sire."

Yoshi sighed again, pleased that Koiko was not involved, but deep inside, he was unconvinced.

"The maid is with us now--I will deal with her.

Make sure the mama-san suspects nothing, she be dealt with when I return. Have you discovered the other spy, the one feeding gai-jin with information?"

"Not for certain, Sire. I'm told the traitor is, or his alias is Ori, I don't know his full name but he's a Satsuma shishi, one of Sanjiro's men, one of the two Tokaido killers."

"Inept to kill one when four were such easy targets. Where is the traitor now?"

"Somewhere in the Yokohama Settlement, sire. He has become a secret confidant of both the young English interpreter and the Frenchman you told me about."

"Ah, him too." Yoshi thought a moment.

"Silence this Ori at once." Inejin bowed, accepting the order. "Next?"

"That ends my report."

"Thank you. You have done well." Yoshi finished the tea, deep in thought. Moonlight cast strange shadows.

The old man broke the silence. "Your bath is prepared, Sire, and you must be hungry.

Everything is ready."

"Thank you, but the night is good so I will go on at once. There's much to do at Dragon's Tooth. Captain!"

Quickly everyone assembled--Koiko and her maid hastily changed back into travelling clothes and she reentered her palanquin. With due deference, Inejin, his household, maids and servants bowed their guest on his way.

"What about all the food we prepared?" his wife, a round-faced, tiny woman, also of samurai descent, asked hesitantly, delicacies she had hastily but correctly bought at vast cost to tempt their liege lord on this sudden visit--more than three months of their profit for the single meal.

"We will eat it." Inejin watched the cortege trotting away through the sleeping village until it was gone. "It was good to see him, a great honor."

"Yes," she said and dutifully followed him back inside.

The night was gentle, enough moonlight to see by.

Beyond the village the dirt road twisted northwards through the trees, villages every few miles, all the land around well explored by Yoshi since childhood. It was quiet. No one journeyed at this time of night, except robbers, ronin or elite. They forded a brook, the land more open here. On the other side he called a halt, beckoning the captain.

"Sire?" the Captain asked.

To their growing excitement, Yoshi twisted in his saddle and pointed east and south, back towards the coast. "I am changing my plan," he said as though it was a sudden decision and not one planned over many days. "Now we go that way, to the Tokaido, but we bypass the first three barriers, then cut back onto the Road just after dawn."

There was no need to ask where they were heading.

"Forced march, Sire?"

"Yes. No further talking. Lead off!" A hundred and twenty leagues, ten or eleven days, he thought. Then Kyoto and the Gates.

My Gates.

YOKOHAMA In the late afternoon of the same day Hiraga ducked into the lee of a shack on the edge of Drunk Town where a small, grimy sailor waited nervously. "Gimme the money, mate," the man said. "You got it, eh?"

"Yes. Gun p'rease?"

"One day you's a toff, now you's a poxy nuffink." The man was grizzled-faced and suspicious, a wicked knife in his belt, another in a forearm holster. When Hiraga had first talked to him on the beach, he had been wearing his Tyrer-arranged clothes. Today he wore a dirty laborer's woolen smock, coarse trousers and scuffed boots. "Wot's yor game?"

Hiraga shrugged, not understanding him. "Gun, p'rease."

"Gun is it? I's the gun right enough." The shifty little eyes darted around, across the weed-infested, scrap heap strewn area between Drunk Town and the Japanese village-- called No Man's Land by the locals--but could sense no alien watchers. "Where's brass?" he said sullenly, "The money for crissake, the Mex!"

Hiraga reached into the pocket of the smock, everything feeling uncomfortable and outlandish, the clothes bought especially for today. Three Mexican silver dollars glittered in his hand.

"Gun, p'rease."

Impatiently the sailor reached into his shirt and showed the Colt. "You gets it when I gets the money."

"Bu'rret, p'rease?"

A filthy rag from the man's trouser pocket revealed a dozen or so cartridges. "A bargin's a bargin and me word's me word." The sailor reached for the money but before he could take it Hiraga's hand closed.

"Not sto'ren, yes?"

"'course not stole, come on for crissake!"

Hiraga opened his fist. Greedily the coins were grabbed and examined carefully to ensure they were not clipped or forged, all the time the crafty eyes darting this way and that. When he was satisfied he passed over the Colt and bullets and got up. "Don't get caught with it, matey, or you'll swing, 'course it's stolen." He leered and scuttled away like the rat he resembled.

Hiraga hunched down as he went back to the comparative safety of the Japanese village-- safe only so long as the riffraff and drunks did not decide to rampage. There were no police or sentries to protect the villagers. Only an occasional naval or army patrol passed along their main street and these men rarely took their side in any ruckus.

It had taken Hiraga many days to arrange the purchase--naturally he could not ask Tyrer's assistance. No one in the Yoshiwara possessed one. Raiko had said queasily: "Only gai-jin have them, Hiraga-san, so sorry.

Dangerous for civilized person to be caught with one."

Akimoto said with a grin, "If my cousin wants one, then get him one, Raiko! You can do anything, neh? For payment I will take you to bed without fee..." He ducked as she threw a cushion at him, laughing with him.

Raiko said, fanning herself, "Ah Hiraga-san, so sorry, I beg you to take this naughty man away, two of my girls have already demanded a day off to sooth their yin from the onslaught of his yang..."

When they were alone, Akimoto said seriously, "Perhaps you should change your mind, forget the gun.

Let me try and persuade Ori to meet us here."

Hiraga shook his head, glad for the company of his good-natured cousin. "Ori has a gun, he will use it against us the moment he sees us. I have tried every way to snare him out of Drunk Town and failed. If I ambush him with a gun, there, it will seem a gai-jin did it. Any day he will try to get at that girl again and then I'm finished here."

"Perhaps he will tire of waiting. Every man in the village has been told to watch out for him, and no one is to sneak him in by sea."

"Who dare trust a villager?"' Akimoto said heavily, "Then when you get a gun, let me do it." He was much bigger than Hiraga. Not recognizing him when he arrived, he too had cut his hair in similar fashion.

Eventually Hiraga had accosted the sailor on the beach, pretending to be a visiting Chinese trader from Hong Kong and had struck a deal, his only proviso that the gun should not be stolen. But of course it would be stolen...

Akimoto was waiting for him in their dwelling in a village alley they now rented by the month.

"Eeee, Cousin, please excuse me," he said laughing, "no need to ask if you got it, but you look so funny in those clothes, if our shishi comrades could see you..."

Hiraga shrugged. "This way I can pass for any of the gai-jin coolies, wherever they come from.

All kinds of gai-jin and coolies dress like this in Drunk Town." He eased himself more comfortably, sore in the crotch. "I cannot understand how they can wear such heavy clothes and cramping trousers and tight coats all the time--and when it's hot, eeee, they're terrible, and you sweat a fountain." While he talked he checked the action of the Colt, testing its weight, aiming it. "It's heavy."

"Sak`e?"

"Thank you, then I think I will rest till sunset." He loaded the revolver, swigged some sak`e and lay down, pleased with himself. His eyes closed. He began to meditate. When at peace he let himself drift. In moments he slept.

At sunset he awoke. Akimoto was still on guard. He looked out of the tiny window. "No storm or rain tonight," he said, then pulled out a scarf and tied it around his head as he had seen low-class gai-jin and sailors do.

Suddenly Akimoto was filled with dread. "And now?"

"Now," he said, hiding the gun under his belt, "now for Ori. If I do not return, you kill him."

Most villagers on the streets did not recognize him, the few who did bowed nervously as to a gai-jin and not a samurai as they had been ordered. In his European attire to most gai-jin eyes, he would be just another Eurasian or Chinese trader from Hong Kong or Shanghai or Manila the quality of his clothes and bearing foretelling his position and wealth: "but never forget, Nakama-san," Tyrer had warned him continually, "however rich you appear, smart clothes won't protect you from harassment or insults from riffraff if you go alone into Drunk Town, or anywhere."

The first time he had gone looking for Ori, the moment the shoya had told him Ori had disobeyed him, he had stormed into Drunk Town wearing his Tyrer clothes. Almost at once he had been cornered by a rowdy group of drunks who surrounded him, jeering and cursing him, then started to attack. Only his skill in karate, still an unknown art to gai-jin, had saved him and he had retreated seething, two broken heads and another man crippled in his wake.

"Find out exactly where Ori is! At once," he had told the shoya. "What he's doing and how he's living!"

The next evening the shoya drew a rough map: "The house is here, on this corner facing the sea, near some wharfs. It is a drinking-sleeping house for very low persons. Ori-san rents a room, paying double I was told. Very bad that place, Hiraga-san, always full of evil men. You cannot go there without a special plan. It is important he is sent away?"' "Yes. Your village is at risk with him here."

"So ka!"

Two days later the shoya told him that, in the night, the Ori house had burned down, the remains of three men had been found in the ruins.

"I was told "the native" was one, Hiraga-san," the shoya said easily.

"A pity the whole foul area was not destroyed too, and every gai-jin in it."

"Yes."

So life became calm again. Hiraga continued to spend time with Tyrer, content to learn and to teach, unaware how vastly important and informative his knowledge was to Tyrer, Sir William and Jamie McFay. For half a day he had gone aboard the British frigate with Tyrer. The experience had shaken him and made him more determined than ever to find out how these people he despised could invent and make such unbelievable machines and warships, how such despicable people of such a tiny island, smaller than Nippon--if again Tyrer was to be believed --could have acquired the vast wealth necessary to possess so many ships and armies and factories and, at the same time, rule all sea-lanes and much of the gai-jin world.

That night, he had drunk himself to insensibility, his mind disoriented, uplifted one second, in the abyss the next, his kernel of belief in the absolute invincibility of bushido and the Land of the Gods badly mauled.

Most evenings he would spend with Akimoto in the Yoshiwara, or their village haunt, planning and sharing his gai-jin knowledge though keeping the extent of his disquiet hidden, but always strengthening his net around Tyrer, toying with him: "Ah so sorry, Taira-san, Fujiko contract take many weeks, Raiko hard trader, contract expensive, she have many c'rients, many, so sorry she busy tonight, perhaps tomorrow..."

A little over two weeks ago, to Hiraga's fury, the shoya had discovered Ori had not died in the fire: "... and oh so sorry, Hiraga-san, but I'm told now Ori-san has become suddenly wealthy, spending money like a daimyo. Now he has several rooms in another drinking house."

"Ori rich? How is that possible?"' "So sorry I don't know, Sire."

"But you do know where his new house is?"' "Yes Sire, here, here is the map, so sorry th--"' "Never mind," Hiraga had said furiously, "tonight burn him out again."

"So sorry, Hiraga-san, that is no longer easy." The shoya was outwardly penitent, inwardly just as furious that his first and immediate solution to the mad ronin had not achieved the purpose he had paid for. "It is no longer easy because this house is isolated and, it seems he has many bodyguards, gai-jin bodyguards!"

Icily Hiraga had considered the consequences.

He sent a honeyed letter to Ori by one of the villagers who sold fish in Drunk Town, saying how delighted he was to hear Ori was alive and not dead in the dreadful fire as he had heard, also that he was prospering and could they meet in the Yoshiwara that evening as Akimoto also wanted to discuss shishi matters of great importance.

Ori had replied by letter at once; "Not in the Yoshiwara or anywhere, not until our sonno-joi plan is done, the girl is dead and the Settlement burned. Before that if you, Akimoto or any other traitor comes near you will be shot."

Akimoto said, "He knows the fire was not an accident."

"Of course. Where would he get money?"' "Only by stealing it, neh?"' Other messages only brought the same answer. A poison plot had failed. So he had bought the gun and made a plan. Now it was time and tonight perfect. The last rays of sunset guided him across No Man's Land and along the fetid streets that were pocked with dangerous potholes. The few men who passed him, hardly looked at him except to curse him out of the way.

Ori reached haphazardly into the small sack of coins on the table beside the bed and pulled one out.

It was a clipped Mex, now worth half of its normal value. Though still five times her agreed price, he handed it to the naked woman. Her eyes lit up, she bobbed a curtsey, mumbling abject thanks again and again, "Yore a proper gent, ta, luv."

He watched absently as she wriggled into her tattered old dress, astonished that he was here, repelled by everything about this room and bed and house and place, and the pallid, bony gai-jin body and slack buttocks he had fantasized would allay the fire maddening him, but had only made his need worse, in no way comparing with her.

The woman paid no attention to him now. Her job was done except to mumble the customary thanks and lies about his performance--in his case not lies for what his organ lacked in size was made up with strength and vigor--and to get away and keep her newfound wealth without further trouble. Her dress hung on her thin, bare shoulders to trail on the threadbare carpet, partly covering the rough wooden floorboards. Torn petticoat, no drawers. Lank brownish hair and heavy rouge.

She looked forty and was nineteen, a street urchin born in Hong Kong to unknown parents, and sold into a Wanchai House eight years ago by her foster mother. "You want me back termorrer?

Termorrow?"

He shrugged and pointed to the door, his wounded arm healed and as good as it would ever be, never with the same strength, or quickness with a sword but good enough against an average swordsman, and good enough with a gun. His derringer was on the table and never far from his hand.

The woman forced a smile and backed away, mouthing thanks, glad to get away without a beating or having to endure the foul practices she had feared. "Don' you worry, Gerty," her madam had told her, "Chinermen're like any others, sometimes a bit picky, but this bugger's rich so just give 'im wot he wants, give it to 'im quick, he's rich so give it good." There was little extra she had had to do, other than to endure his frantic battering with stoicism and necessary grunts of feigned pleasure.

"Ta again, luv." She went out, the Mex secreted in the soiled bodice that hardly covered her flaccid breasts, another coin, a twentieth of its value clutched in her hand.

On the landing outside was Timee, a rough Eurasian seaman of mixed but predominantly Chinese blood. He shut the door and grabbed her. "Shut yor gob, you poxy whore," he hissed, forcing her hand open to take the coin, then cursed her in Chinese and guttural English for the poorness of her earnings: "Ayeeyah, why didn't you please the Guv?" Then he cuffed her and she half stumbled, half fell down the stairs, but when safe, turned and cursed with even more venom. "I'll tell Ma Fortheringill 'bout yer, she'll do yer!"

Timee spat after her, knocked and reopened the door. "Musume gud, Guv, heya?" he asked unctuously.

Now Ori sat at an old table by the window.

He wore a rough shirt and breeches with bare legs and feet, his short sword-knife in a belt holster. The money sack was on the table.

He saw the narrowed eyes staring at it.

Carelessly he found another Mex and tossed it.

The heavy-shouldered man caught it expertly, touched his forelock and smirked, his few remaining teeth broken and yellowed. "Thankee, Guv.

Grub?" He rubbed his big belly. "Grub, wakarimasu ka?" Their communication was with sign language and a little pidgin, and he was chief bodyguard. Another watched downstairs in the bar. A third in the alley.

Ori shook his head. "No," he said, using one of the words he had picked up, then added, "Beer-u," and waved him away. Alone at last he stared out of the window. The glass was cracked and fly encrusted, a corner missing, opening on to the drab facade of another ramshackle, wooden hostel opposite, ten yards away. The air smelt dank and his skin felt filthy, and crawled at the thought of that woman's body in sweating close contact, with no chance for a civilized Japanese bath afterwards though he could easily have had one in the village, a couple of hundred yards away across No Man's Land.

But to do that you risk Hiraga and his spies who will be waiting, he thought, Hiraga and Akimoto and all villagers who deserve to be crucified like common criminals for trying to prevent my grand design. Scum! All of them. Daring to try to burn me to death, daring to poison the fish--eeee, karma that the cat stole it before I could stop the beast and, in moments, died retching instead of me.

Since then he had eaten sparingly, and only rice that he cooked himself in a pot in the grate, with a little meat or fish stew made for the other boarders and bar customers that he made Timee taste in front of him as a further protection.

The food's foul, this place foul, that woman foul and I can only wait a few more days before I go mad. Then his eyes noticed the money bag.

His lips moved from his teeth in a vicious smile.

The night of the fire in the other hovel he had been sleeping on a cot in a tiny, squalid alcove in the back of the bar that had cost him the last of his money. Long before others in the hostel awoke, his danger senses honed in a score of fires since childhood had warned him, tearing him out of sleep, to find flames were already licking the wooden stairs above, and to see another gourd of oil with a burning rag in its neck being hurled into the main barroom.

An hysterical dog bounded down the stairs and joined two cats frantically seeking escape and the three animals began charging around the room crashing into bottles of spirits that, smashing on the cobbled floor, nourished the blaze. Screams and uproar began from the crowded floor above.

Half-naked men started cascading down the stairs in panic, flames licking at them as they fled into the street.

The stairs caught. Then a sudden tongue of flame soared upwards along the tinder dry walls and banister. The barroom was blinding hot, the air seared as a heat-generated wind roared the fire into an implacable killer. The sides of the front door began to burn furiously, the flames almost barring it. More men rushed pellmell down the stairs, screaming, tripping over one another in panic through the flames to the outside, some already with parts of their hastily donned clothes on fire. Only minutes had passed since the arson began but now the fire was in total command and the building doomed.

In his cubbyhole Ori was unafraid, fire drilled, safely out of the billowing smoke, hugging the floor, his mouth already covered with a beer-soaked rag, his emergency escape route automatically docketed the moment he had gone into the room.

Safety lay always in refusing to panic, and this time through a small, shuttered window across the barroom, well away from the burning stairs that let out onto the back alley.

He was just about to sprint away when he saw the corpulent proprietor in nightshirt and tasseled hat with other terrified men fighting down the stairs, an iron safety box tight under his arm. Furiously this man shoved another out of his path into the flames only to have the same flames convert him into a screaming torch and tumble him with two others into the blazing ruins of the stairway as it collapsed, cutting off any further escape from above. The box flew out of his helpless arms to skeeter across the floor. One badly burned man staggered out of the fire for the doorway.

Flames greedily consumed the proprietor and the two other men and seemed to reach for the box, equally greedily.

Without hesitation Ori rushed through the flames, grabbed it up and charged for the window, easily bursting the rotting shutters apart and was out safely into the fresh air and back alley. At once he ducked down and ran for the fence opposite, scaled it and, still keeping low, wormed through the trash and weeds of No Man's Land towards the abandoned well.

Once there, chest heaving, he looked back warily. Flames from the hostel soared into the sky.

Men milled about, shouting and cursing. Two men jumped from the upper windows. Others with buckets of water were dousing adjoining shacks and buildings, bellowing for help.

He had not been noticed.

While the noise covered him, he found a broken crowbar and prized off the lid of the box, dismissing the swarming mosquitoes and night insects. The treasure inside made him throb.

Quickly he stuffed two bags of coins into the pocket of his breeches, another into his smock shirt. With great care he buried the dozen or so other bags and, in a different place, did the same with the box.

The next morning he wandered Drunk Town until he found a more isolated rooming house that was far from the burned-out wreck. Ten Mex in the owner's hand, and the weight of the bag that remained, brought him immediate, unctuous service, a big room of his choice. The owner, a man with deep-set, brilliant blue eyes--just like hers, he had thought, a sudden shaft in his loins --had pointed at the bag: "You'll be bushwhacked wiv that lot, young woggeroo."

Ori had not understood the words. The man's meaning soon became clear and produced Timee.

Also that if Timee was well paid, and the owner well paid, Ori would be safe here or on the street, and when out, his room would be sacrosanct. As an insurance, knowing the danger of putting his trust in these men, with more sign language and patience Ori had made it also clear that these two bags were only a small part of his wealth that was safely under guard in the village which he was ready to spend lavishly for protection and anything else he required.

"Yor the Guv, you name it and you can 'ave it.

Me name's Bonzer and I'm Australian."

Like almost everyone in Drunk Town, he scratched constantly at flea and lice bites, his teeth few and twisted, and he stank. ""Guv?" That means Ichiban!, Number one.

Wakarimasu ka?"' "Hai, domo."

The door opened, dispelling his thought pattern.

Timee brought him a tankard of beer. "Guv, I'm getting me grub now." He coughed.

"Grub, food, wakarimasu ka?"

"Hai." The beer quenched Ori's thirst but did not settle his mind or compare with beer of the village. Or at home in Satsuma or in the Yoshiwara, or at Kanagawa's Inn of the Midnight Blossoms. Or anywhere.

I must be going mad, he thought, bewildered. That gai-jin whore with her toad belly skin and fish smell was worse than the worst old hag I've ever had, yet I enjoyed the Clouds and the Rain twice and wanted more and more.

What is it about them? Is it their blue eyes and white skin and fair brown pubics--in those that whore was not much different from her, in all else yes. Unconsciously his fingers toyed with the cross that he wore, half hidden around his neck.

His lips curled in a crooked smile. In the tunnel he had tricked Hiraga. The piece of metal he had thrown was the last of his gold oban. I'm glad I kept her cross--to remind me constantly. And it has been more than useful in other ways, making these stupid gai-jin think I'm Christian. What is it about their women that sends me mad?

It's karma, he told himself with finality, karma that there is no answer, never will be any answer except... except to send her onwards.

The thought of her neck in his hands, his manhood deep within, made his flesh tingle and ached him anew as though the other had not happened. Once more the room began to swim and crush him so he swung his feet to the floor, pocketed his derringer, put on a leather jerkin and went downstairs.

"Guv?" Timee coughed and got up from a plate piled with rice and stew to go with him, but he waved him back and the other man to guard upstairs and went outside.

Hiraga saw him at once. He was on the other side of the busy dirt street, sitting on a bench outside a dingy bar. In front of him was an untouched gourd of beer and around were noisy men, drinking or standing or dead drunk on benches, or heading homewards for their dormitories or rooming houses, or favorite bar or gambling rooms that crowded together here in a slum as bad or worse than any in London town. The men were a polyglot of European, Asian and mixed-race laborers and workers, armed with at least a knife and dressed similarly to him, coming from their day's toil in sail-making shops or ship's chandlers, or mechanics from the machine shops, a new profession, or from any one of the dozens of services to do with ships. Along with beggars and bums were bakers and butchers and brewers and moneylenders and others who supported this part of Yokohama or fed off it, separate from the village and "Nob Town" as they all called the trader's sector, by mutual consent.

"In Drunk Town," Tyrer had explained to him, "there are perhaps a hundred and fifty souls, most are drifters. They've few rules. It's every man for himself but woe betide anyone caught stealing, the immediate mob would beat him half to death. They've no law except army and navy patrols searching for deserters, or just trying to keep the peace between the services, breaking up fights or riots. Beer and gin parlors-- gin's a rotgut that will kill if you're not careful--they're open as long as there're customers, so are the gambling dens. Don't try any of them or Ma Fortheringill's, she loathes Japanese because of our cut-rate Yoshiwara-- bless it! At the far end, near the South Gate, off Hog Lane, is the worst part of Drunk Town. I've never been there, best stay away from it too, that's where the most depraved and lost try to survive. Opium, beggars, scum, male prostitutes. Abattoir. Cemetery.

Disease. And multitudes of rats..."

The little that Hiraga had understood had made him want, even more, to see everything for himself. Tonight was his first opportunity. Except for a few absent curses that would apply to anyone, no one bothered him as he trailed Ori easily, just enough light in the darkening sky.

His prey meandered towards the shore, seemingly without purpose and without any of the bodyguards he had been warned against. His excitement notched higher. The revolver in his pocket felt good to his touch. His fingers ached to grip it and aim it and pull the trigger to end the menace to his future here, then to begin his controlled retreat to safety through No Man's Land, or along the beach to the Legation.

Now they were nearing the small, main square beside the promenade and shore where bars and eating and rooming houses fought for custom. This was the far end of the Settlement, the narrowest part, and jammed between the sea and encircling fence where the South Gate was. As at the North Gate, the fence was strong and high and went into the surf. The only opening was the barricaded guarded South Gate.

The square was clogged. Mostly British soldiers, sailors, and merchant seamen with a few French, American and Russians, and Eurasians. Ori eased through them to stand on the edge of the promenade. He stared at the sea. The sea had a three-foot swell and was black and greasy. Northwards, half a mile away, he could see the lights of the trading houses coming on, and in the French Legation. And in the upper story of Struan's that, with Brock's, dominated the waterfront.

Tonight? Should I try tonight?

His feet began to take him that way. A sudden rumbling and the sound like that of an express train just a few feet below the surface rushed at them, the earth heaved and with everyone else in the square, he tottered, nauseated, and went down on his hands and knees, holding on to the earth as it shook and rose and fell and stopped. A moment of silence that seemed to shriek to the skies. Now a few whimpers and shouts and curses that were cut short as another shock took them. Again the earth reared, not as bad as before but bad enough, and the shakes went on and on and heaved and shuddered and stopped.

Tiles cascaded off a roof. People scuttled or crawled to safety. Silence again that was almost palpable, men silent, gulls silent, animals silent. Earth waiting everything waiting. Hugging the ground, praying, cursing, praying. Waiting.

"Is it over for God's sake?" someone called out.

"Yes..."

"No..."

"Wait I th--"

Another rumble. Wails of fear. The noise peaked, the earth twisted and cried out and became still again. Several shacks collapsed. Shouts for help. No one moved.

Again everyone held their breath. Waiting.

Moans and prayers and whimpers and supplications and curses. Waiting for the next one. The big one. Waiting, but nothing more.

Yet.

Moments that became an eternity of waiting.

Then Ori sensed that it was over and got up, the first in the square, heart dancing that he was not dead this time, that he was alive and untouched and safely reborn but instinctively ready for the next danger, an immediate dash from fire that was a normal aftermath and the greatest hazard to be endured. Every earthquake was someone's nemesis, a rebirth for all others and, from time immemorial, to be treated as such by those who lived in the Land of the Gods that was also called the Land of Tears.

Abruptly Ori's stomach had a quake of its own and fell away. Across the square, above the mass of people still grounded, many retching and cursing, he saw Hiraga standing alone watching him. Fifty yards behind Hiraga most of the samurai guards were also on their feet--some studying the two of them curiously.

At almost the same instant that Ori had sensed the earthquake had ended and had jumped up, Hiraga and the samurai had spontaneously done the same, experiencing identical, ecstatic relief and rebirth, Hiraga not realizing he was on his feet until he saw Ori staring at him. His face closed. At once he started towards him, the square rapidly coming to life as men noisily scrambled or staggered erect. Blindly Ori took to his heels but frightened angry men, some laughing hysterically, others wailing thanks to God, barred his escape --and Hiraga's pursuit--with cries of "Wot the devil's up with you..."

"Who the hell're you pushing for crissake ..."

"Hey, he's a bloody Jappo..."

Then someone bellowed, "FIRE! LOOK!"

With everyone else Ori looked northwards.

At the other end of the promenade a building was on fire. He recognized it as the two-story Struan headquarters. Perhaps next door.

Careless of anyone Ori broke out of the throng in a rush.

Hiraga pushed forward after him but at that moment a nearby gin bar collapsed, scattering people into his path, sending him reeling and others trampling him. He fought to his feet amidst the uproar. In this part of the square men were milling around aimlessly, blocking him. For a second he caught a brief sight of Ori, then the ruins of the bar began to blaze and the crowd surged backwards again, engulfing him.

When Hiraga had recovered his balance, Ori was obscured and as much as he tried to force a path in the direction of his last sighting, the less progress he could make and the more furious the crowd became: "Who you pushin' for crissake!...

It's another bleeding Jappo... Give the bugger wot for..."

By the time he had placated them and retreated and circled, finding a path out to the edge of the square, Ori was not running down the promenade as he had expected, heading for the fire, nor was he going by way of the beach--but had truly vanished.

In Struan's, Jamie McFay was running up the stairs in the semi-darkness amid cries of alarm and "Fire!" an oil lamp swinging in his hand, only the chandelier alight in the whole staircase area and it still swayed drunkenly from the shocks. He gained the landing and ran down the corridor to burst Struan's door open.

"Tai-pan, are you all right?"

The room was in shadow but for an ominous flickering glow that danced on the window curtains. Struan lay on the floor, dazed, half dressed for dinner, shaking his head to try to clear it, both oil lamps shattered, the open wick of one that was hidden by the bureau sputtered on the oil-drenched carpet. "Think so," he gasped, "must have hit my head when I got knocked over.

Christ Almighty, Angelique!"

"Here let me help you..."

"I can manage, check her, Jamie!"

Jamie tried the handle to the connecting door.

Bolted on the other side. At that moment the carpet ignited, Struan scrambled out of the way, cursing with pain, but before the blaze could spread Jamie had stamped it out. In his haste to help Struan out of the way, he dragged him up roughly.

"Oh Jesus, watch it, Jamie!"

"Sorry, sorry I didn't--"

"Never mind," Struan panted, a stabbing pain in his side where he had fallen heavily, more throbbing in his stomach where there was none before and the usual under the healed but angry scar. "Where's the fire?"

"I don't know, I was downstairs wh--"

"Later--Angelique!"

Jamie ran into the corridor, smoke from the far end of the corridor making him cough. He banged on her door then tried the handle--again bolted on the inside. His shoulder smashed into the wood near the jamb and the door flew open. Her boudoir was empty, one oil lamp was on its side still alight, oil dripping on to the curtained bureau, another shattered on the floor, more oil everywhere. He doused the burning wick and ran into the bedroom. She was propped in the four-poster, as pale as her peignoir, eyes fixed on the swaying oil chandelier that was incongruously, merrily alight.

"You all right, Angelique?"

"Oh, Jamie..." she said hesitantly, her voice sounding far away, "Yes I'm, I was just, just lying down before dressing for dinner then the room started rocking. I, I thought I was dreaming then the lamps shattered and... mon Dieu, it was the noise of the building shifting that frightened me the most... Oh, is Malcolm..."

"Yes, best get dressed quick as you can.

Hurr--"

The fire alarm bell at the nearby Harbor Master's office began tolling, startling them. With sudden apprehension she smelt the smoke and heard the muffled shouts from outside and saw the glow through the window curtains and gasped, "We're on fire?"

"Not to worry for the moment but best get dressed quick as you can and come next door, I'll unbolt the connecting door." He hurried out. She slid out of bed. Under her peignoir she wore pantaloons and boned chemise. Hastily she stepped into her crinoline that was already laid out for her and picked up a shawl.

"She's all right, Tai-pan," she heard Jamie say as he unbolted the connecting door.

"She's getting dressed, let me help you downstair--"

"When she's ready."

Jamie started to say something, changed his mind, both of them still conscious of their lunchtime clash and neither prepared to compromise. He opened the window.

In the front garden and street below, clerks and servants were milling around, Vargas amongst them, onlookers and others from the various Legations gathering, but no flames that he could see.

"Vargas!" he shouted. "Where's our fire?"

"We're not sure, senhor, we think it's just part of the roof. Men with the fire captain are already there but Brock's upper story is alight."

Jamie could not see next door so he hurried back into Angelique's boudoir and pulled the curtains aside. Fire had taken a good hold of the front of Brock's--a two-story structure similar to Struan's--where the main bedrooms would be. Smoke billowed from the open windows. He could see teams of men passing along pails of water trying to douse the fire, Norbert Greyforth supervising--the Brock fire teams drilled as often and as ruthlessly as he himself had drilled Struan's. Whipped by the breeze, flames were being dragged with the smoke to reach across the gap.

Just my luck to be burned out by their godrotting fire, he thought sourly then leaned out of the window.

"Vargas," he shouted, "get men and water up here--douse this side! When we're clear, help Norbert." I hope the bugger burns and all of Brock's with him, that'd solve the stupid duel for all time.

There were no other fires that he could see from here, other than one far down the promenade in Drunk Town and two in the Yoshiwara. The smell of burning wood and oil and clothing and the tar that they used on the roofs overpowered everything though there was a taste of sea salt on the breeze.

Inexorably his attention went back to the flames from Brock's that sought them. The wind pushed the flames closer. He willed them to die, afraid of fire--the croft that he had been born in had burned one foul winter night when he was a child, his father dead drunk as usual and his younger brother consumed, he and his mother and sister barely escaping with their lives and little else, soon to go to the work house and vile years until they were rescued by Campbell Struan, kinsman of Dirk Struan, on whose land his father had toiled.

"Vargas! Hurry up for Christ's sake!"

"Coming, senhor!"

Now the promenade was packed, everyone in the streets ready to help and give advice, others with much shouting forming a water bucket line from the huge fire tank of sea water that was within easy reach, army units from the tented barracks joining the throng. Samurai were running towards them from the North Gate to help--any fire a threat to them also. Southwards, and on the other side of the canal, one of the Yoshiwara houses was burning brightly, more cries and alarm drifting on the wind, but that blaze seemed contained and not a major danger and, thankfully, nowhere near where Nemi would be.

The sweat was pouring down his back. He felt sick with relief that Malcolm was safe. Since lunch he had been brooding in his office, furious his search for prospectors had leaked, beside himself with worry over the duel, and his future.

Never once had he conceived he would ever be involved in such a quarrel, or be forced to leave the Noble House, or Japan, except for ill health or an accident, before retiring in five years at the ripe age of forty-four after twenty-five good years of service, rung by rung. Now, with Malcolm alienated, and Tess Struan furious with him, his promotion, retirement--his whole future was in jeopardy.

What to do, he had been worrying, then the shocks turned the world upside down, his precarious mortality had been rammed home to him again and then, when the jolts had ceased and he could reel to his feet, his glands and the memory of the debts he and his family owed the Struans had sent him scurrying upstairs, petrified for Malcolm's safety--after all he was in charge and this youth little more than an invalid. Tai-pan? Sorry, Malcolm, Norbert's right, your ma's in command. If you hadn't been wounded you'd have rushed back to Hong Kong when she said, none of this would have happened, you'd be taking over the reins and in a year or so you'd-- "Jamie... could you do me up?"

Blankly he turned. Angelique was standing at the doorway, back towards him, the front of the off-the-shoulder crinoline held up and the back open. For a second he almost shouted at her, That bloody dress's crazy for Christ's sake, we're on fire! But he did not, just hastily did up the top button and shoved a shawl around her and hurried her into the next room where she at once went into Struan's open arms. A team of men rushed past the open door with full buckets.

"Best get out, sir..." someone shouted.

"Time to go, Tai-pan, all right?"

"Yes." Malcolm went for the door as quickly as he could. With his two sticks he was slow-- disastrously slow had there been a real emergency which all three of them knew, Struan most of all.

Now there was tramping above them in the attics, men pounding, the smell of smoke worse, adding to their anxiety.

"Jamie, take Angelique out, I'll make my own time."

"Lean on me an--"

"For Christ's sake do it, then come back if you must!"

Jamie flushed. He took her arm and the two of them hurried out, men overtaking them with empty buckets, others staggering in with a full load.

The moment he was alone, Struan groped back to his chest of drawers, rummaged under some clothes and found the small bottle that Ah Tok had refilled this afternoon. He swigged half of the brownish liquid, re-corked it and put it in the pocket of his frock coat, sighing with relief.

Angelique swept down the staircase and out through the front doors. The clean air was welcome. "Vargas!" Jamie called out.

"Look after Miss Angelique for a moment."

"Certainly, senhor."

"Please allow me, Monsieur," Pierre Vervene, the French official said grandly. "I will escort Mademoiselle Angelique to our Legation--she can wait there in safety."

"Thanks." Jamie rushed back inside.

Now she could see that their roof was burning, not too badly at the moment, but not far away from their suites, the flames from Brock's still licking the side of their building. Well-trained samurai, kimonos tucked out of their way and masked against smoke inhalation, had ladders against one of the walls. Some scaled it as others with signs and shouts motioned men to bring buckets that were quickly handed to the topmost man who hurled them where they would do most good. An angry shaft of flame sought him but he ducked, covered his face and held on, then once more went back to fire fighting. She caught her breath, thinking how strong and brave the man was and how helpless Struan had become, how little he could do to protect her in an emergency, how he was more and more of a weight, more and more of an invalid, every day more querulous and less and less fun. What of my future? A tremor went through her.

"Nothing to worry about, Mademoiselle,"

Vervene said in French, a tassled cap covering his bald pate. "Come along, you're quite safe.

Earthquakes are really quite normal here." He took her arm to lead her up the promenade through the men swarming the front, watching or fighting the fire.

Ori had seen her the moment she came into the street.

He was on the edge of the crowd in the neck of the alley beside the French Legation near the North Gate. His laborer's clothes and cap were not much different from those of many men around him, camouflaging him well. From this position he could see most of the promenade, the front of Struan's and the street beside it that came up from the village main street.

He stopped staring at her and scanned all around, seeking Hiraga or Akimoto, sure that they were lurking somewhere near or soon would be, his heart still pounding from his frantic run through Drunk Town and into the village. The moment he had seen the Struan fire and the open length of the promenade he knew that he was doomed to be caught if he tried that way or the beach--and no time to fetch Timee to act as guard or rear guard.

Not that I could ever trust those dogs, he thought, his heart grinding even more heavily at the nearness of her.

She was only twenty yards away.

Those who saw her doffed their hats and murmured greetings that she absently returned. Ori could easily have gone deeper into safety but he did not, just took off his hat like the others and looked.

Short beard, strong face, curious eyes, his hair short but groomed. Her eyes flowed over him but she did not really see him, nor did Vervene who was chattering pleasantly in French.

They passed within a few yards. Ori waited until they had gone into the French Legation--no sentries there now, all had gone to join the fire fight--then he trudged away, down the alley.

The moment he was sure no one was watching he scaled the Legation fence as he had done before and went into the previous ambush under her window. Tonight the shutters were unbarred and open. So was the inner door. He could see across the room into the corridor and caught sight of them going into a room opposite. The door was ajar.

Now that he was safe and unobserved Ori checked his derringer and made sure his knife was loose in its holster. Then he squatted on his heels, took a deep breath and began to think.

From the moment he had seen Hiraga and, almost at once, the Struan fire, he had blindly allowed his instincts to guide him. That's no longer any good, he told himself.

Now I must plan. And quickly.

The open shutters were the magnet. He slid over the lintel into the room.

"Why not sleep here tonight, Mademoiselle, Monsieur Struan? We've plenty of room," Vervene said.

It was near dinnertime and they were in the main reception room of the French Legation having champagne and Jamie had just arrived to report that their fire was out, nothing serious except some water damage in her suite, a little in Struan's.

"If you want you can have my rooms, Tai-pan,"

Jamie said. "I'll bunk elsewhere, and Miss Angelique can have Vargas's room."

"There's no need for that, Jamie,"

Angelique said. "We can stay here, no need to disrupt everyone. I was moving here tomorrow anyway.

Yes, cheri?"

"I think I'd be more comfortable in my own suite. It's all right, Jamie?"

"Oh yes, hardly touched. Miss Angelique, would you like my rooms then?"

"No Jamie, I'll be fine here tonight."

"Good then that's settled," Struan said, eyes strange and feeling very tired, most of his pain still drowned by the opium, but not his deep-set rage over Norbert Greyforth.

"Monsieur Struan, you are certainly welcome to stay too," Vervene said. "We have rooms enough as the Minister and his staff are at Yedo for a few days."

"Oh!" Angelique was openly shocked. Tomorrow Andr`e had to collect the medicine. They all stared at her. "But Andr`e told me, he told me they were all returning by the latest early tomorrow, after today's meeting with the Shogun."

"It depends on the Shogun's punctuality and how the meeting goes--and our hosts are international models for punctuality, eh?"

Vervene chuckled at his own joke, adding grandly, "You never know how State Occasions will turn out.

It may take a day, even a week. Another brandy, Monsieur Struan?"

"Thanks, yes tha--"

"But Andr`e said the meeting was this morning and they'd be back at the latest tomorrow." She fought the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks.

"What the devil's the matter, Angel?"

Struan said testily. "Does it matter when they come back?"

"It... no, no but, but I, I just hate it when someone says something and it's not true."

"You were probably mistaken, ridiculous to be upset about such an unimportant matter."

Struan took a large swallow of his refilled glass. "For goodness' sake, Angel!"

"Perhaps they'll be back tomorrow, Mademoiselle," Vervene said, ever the diplomat. Stupid cow, however delectable her breasts and kissable her lips, as if it matters.

"Never mind," he said with his most oily smile, "dinner will be served within the hour. Monsieur McFay, you will join us, bien sur?"

"Thank you no, I'd best be going."

McFay hesitated at the door. "Tai-pan, shall I, er, shall I come back for you?"

"I'm capable of walking two hundred yards by myself," Struan snapped. "Perfectly capable!" And of pulling a bloody trigger tonight or any night, he wanted to shout after him.

Just before coming over here Norbert Greyforth had taken a respite, the Brock fire almost under control, and, unnoticed by him, had walked out into the street. Jamie, beside him, was directing Vargas and fire fighters, Dr. Hoag and Dr.Babcott nearby, tending burns and a few broken bones.

Ah Tok's elixir had worked its usual magic and he was feeling fine and confident, though strange and wanting to sleep as always--he had been fantasizing, to sleep perchance to dream, to dream about loving, about connecting with the Japanese girl or Angelique with ever greater passion, their need as great as mine and ever more erotic. Then, abruptly, he had been jerked into the vicious present.

"Evening, Jamie. Proper bugger, eh?"' "Ah, Norbert," Struan said, politeness helped by the euphoria. "Sorry about your bad joss. I think th--"' Norbert pointedly ignored him, "Fortunately, Jamie, no damage to our offices or warehouse, or trade goods or strong rooms you'll be happy to hear--just in my sleeping quarters." Then he feigned to see Struan for the first time and his voice became louder and taunting for others to hear. "Well, well, if it isn't the young tai-pan of the Oh So Noble House himself. Top of the evening to you, laddie, you don't look so good--is your milk off?"' Struan's bonhomie had vanished. Through his opiate screen he realized he was confronting evil and his enemy was there in front of him.

"No, but your manners are."

"Manners are not your strong suit, laddie." Norbert laughed. "Yes, we're not harmed, laddie. In fact our new mining ventures make us Noble House in Japan and we'll have Hong Kong by Christmas. Best toddle home, Malcolm."

"The name's Struan," he said, seeing himself tall, strong and omnipotent, not quite aware of others around him or that Jamie and Babcott were trying to intervene. "Struan!"

"I like young Malcolm, young Malcolm." "Next time you call me that I'll call you a motherless bastard and blow your head off without waiting for your seconds, by God."

Now there was a pit of silence around them. The crackle of flames and the soft, baiting hiss of the wind only enhanced it. The news of the lunchtime challenge had spread within minutes and all waited for the next move in the game that had been brooding since Malcolm's grandfather, Dirk Struan, died before he could kill Tyler Brock as he had sworn to do.

Norbert Greyforth's mind was working hard.

Once again he measured his future and his position in Brock's, considering carefully what he should do--the stakes immense. He was well compensated --so long as he obeyed orders. Tyler Brock's last letter had opened a door to paradise, telling him bluntly to "ride Malcolm Struan to the limit while he be sick, wounded, and unprotected by my hellcat daughter, God curse her to Hell! There be five thousand guinea a year for ten year if that stripling be crushed while he be in the Japans-- thee be taking any measure thee be wanting."

Norbert would be thirty-one in six days.

By forty, the normal retirement age, the average China trader was old. Five thousand for ten years was truly a princely sum, enough for him and all his generations, enough to buy a seat in Parliament, to become gentry, a squire with a manor house, married to a young bride with a fine dowry of good Surrey land.

It was easy to decide. He put his face close to Struan's and was happy to see the pain under the taut skin--of a height with him now that Struan hunched over his sticks. "Listen, young Malcolm, you tossed brandy in my face for lunch, you can kiss my arse for supper."

"You-sir-are-a-motherless-bastard!"

The older man laughed, a cruel jeering laugh. "You're an even bigger motherless bastard, in fact y--"' Babcott moved between them, his great height and size dwarfing them. "Stop it, both of you," he said angrily, "both of you! This is a public place and these quarrels should be settled in private as between gentlemen."

"He's not a bloody gen--"' "In private as gentlemen, Malcolm,"

Babcott said louder. "Norbert, what's your pleasure?"' "A duel's not my choice but it's what this bastard wants, so be it! Tonight, tomorrow, sooner the better."

"Not tonight, tomorrow, or any day, duelling's against the law, but I will be at your office at eleven." Babcott looked at Struan, knowing that no one here could prevent a duel if that was their mutual wish. He saw the dilated pupils and was sad for him and furious with him. Both he and Hoag had long since diagnosed the addiction but nothing they did or said had made any impression, nor could they prevent access to the drug. "I'll see you at noon, Malcolm.

In the meantime, as the senior British Official still in Yokohama, you are both ordered neither to address each other, or attack each other, in private or in public..."

Never mind about bloody Babcott, Struan was thinking now, even more confident, the brandy mixing nicely with the opiate. Tomorrow or the next day you'll send Jamie, no, send Dmitri to see Norbert--not Jamie, he's no longer to be trusted. We'll do it near the race course and the Noble House will give Norbert a noble funeral --and bloody Brock too if he ever comes here, by God! They've both forgotten you were the best revolver shot at Eton, and duelled that sod Percy Quill for calling you a Chinaman.

Killed him too and was sent down for it, though the affair was hushed up and settled by Papa for a few thousand guineas. Norbert will get his comeuppance ...

A stir in the room distracted him. Seratard had just come in and was surrounded and being greeted by the others, Andr`e Poncin behind him. Through his mist he heard Seratard saying the Yedo meeting had been concluded quickly after "we broke the deadlock and French compromises were accepted so no need to stay ..."

His ears stopped listening as his eyes focused on Andr`e. The taut, sharp-featured, straight-backed handsome Frenchman was smiling at Angelique who was smiling back more happily than she had for days. Jealousy began to swamp him but he put it away. Not her fault, he thought wearily, or Andr`e's, she's worth smiling at and I'm not good company and not myself, just sick to death of the pain and being helpless. God but I love that woman and need her to death.

He struggled up, made his excuses and thanked them for their hospitality. Seratard was his usual charming self. "But surely you'll stay? So sorry about the fire--we felt none of the earthquake at sea, not even a swell of any sort. Don't worry about your fiancee, we'll be delighted to have her company, Monsieur, as long as necessary while your apartments are repaired, of course you are welcome any time." He saw them to the door, Angelique insisting on taking Struan's arm to walk him home.

"I'm fine, Angel," Struan said, loving her.

"Of course, my love, but it's my pleasure," she said, bursting with goodwill now that Andr`e had returned. Only a few more hours and then I am free.

Dinner was a great success with Angelique radiant, Seratard full of himself at his success in Yedo, regaling them with his exploits in Algiers where he had been an official in charge of subjugation before this appointment, Vervene all the time vying for her attention to tell heroic versions of what he had previously achieved, all of them flushed by her company and abundant wine, a bottle of Burgundy per man, with champagne before to tickle the taste buds, and now again to settle the stomach. Then Andr`e Poncin began telling saucy tales of Hong Kong, Shanghai, and Kowloon where villagers from time to time really believed the Penis Plague was with them again when that appendage would disappear back into their bodies, so all the men would tie a string around it, anchoring it tightly to their necks to prevent the catastrophe.

"Oh, that's impossible, Andr`e, and naughty of you!" she said, her fan fluttering, amidst laughter and his protests that this was the absolute truth, sure it was now time for her to leave. She finished her second tall glass of champagne that went nicely with the previous three goblets of Ch`ateau d'Arcins, more than mellow herself--her relief that Andr`e had come back when he had promised, and her pleasure at speaking French for the whole evening, had overcome her usual caution, "Now I will leave you to your cigars and brandy--and naughty stories!"

"But only for a moment," Seratard said.

"Andr`e is going to play for us."

"Tonight, no," Andr`e said, too quickly. "If you don't mind, there are some papers I must ready for tomorrow, sorry."

"Everything can wait, pleasure before business,"

Seratard said as a genial order. "Tonight we must have music to finish the evening, something romantic for Angelique."

"Let him have some peace, Henri," she said, the wine making her cheeks rosy, delighted that Andr`e was clearly anxious to fetch the promised medicine. "You've taken him from his business long enough, after all he's not an official."

"Andr`e will adore to play for us."

"Ah, so Andr`e is always to be commanded, yes?

Then I must command you, Monsieur le Ministre, to excuse him this once... and me too, it's time for my bed." She got up, her knees a little weak. They surrounded her, protesting loudly.

"But I'm here tomorrow and for at least three days."

She offered her hand to Andr`e with a special smile, "Now you are free to go, I command you to guard our interests."

"You may count on it, Angelique."

"A last glass..."

She allowed herself to be persuaded to take it with her and they escorted her to ensure the bolts on the windows and new shutters of the boudoir and bedroom were secure.

"We decided to replace all our shutters since you were last here." Vervene said again what he had already told her earlier, his sparce hair awry, beaming tipsily, "even in last week's storm there were no rattles." All eyes noticed the filmy green peignoir and nightdress laid out on the bed that had been turned down invitingly by the heavyset maid who watched and waited balefully. Dimmed oil lamps and their alcoholic haze, made the room all the more enticing and her more provocative.

More reluctant good nights and sweet dreams and then she was alone with Ah Soh, the door to the corridor bolted. The maid undressed her and brushed her hair and put her crinoline away in the deep hanging cupboard with her other clothes, lingerie in the chest of drawers, all the while Angelique humming happily, content to be here, safe for tomorrow, elated to be alone and that the fire and earthquake had not harmed any of them or interfered with her plan but had made it simpler.

I will make peace between Malcolm and Jamie, bad for them to be estranged, she thought exhilarated, still thirsty, but smoothed and wine content. Thank God for Andr`e. I wonder what the Yoshiwara's like, and his girl. I'll encourage him to tell me about her and we can laugh together...

"'nite, Missee" interrupted her. Ah Soh was walking ponderously for the boudoir couch.

The last time her maid had slept there, even with the bedroom door closed, her snores had been deafening, further disturbing her.

"No, Ah Soh, no sleep here! You go, come back chop chop with coffee-ah, morning, heya?"

The woman shrugged. "'nite, Missee."

Angelique bolted the door after her and in the warm light, completely and peacefully alone at last, lazily twirled to a hummed waltz. In a moment her ears caught the muted notes of the piano. Ah, it's Henri, she thought, recognizing his touch. He's a good player, better than Vervene but not to be compared with Andr`e.

Chopin. Soft, delicate, romantic.

She swayed in time with the lovely melody, then caught sight of herself in the tall mirror. For a moment she studied herself, this way and that, then cupped her breasts higher as she and Colette used to do, pouting this way and that to see if that made them seem more desirable or less.

A sip of champagne, the bubbles tickling, the music and the alcohol nudging her. A sudden excited impulse and she let the peignoir fall, then slowly slid her nightdress higher and higher, coquetting the mirror image, admiring the legs and loins and hips and breasts and now full nakedness of the other person, posing this way and that, using the bunched nightdress to obscure or to reveal.

Another sip of champagne. Then she dipped a finger into it and put the liquid on her hardened nipples as she had read the great Parisian courtesans would do, sometimes using sweet Ch`ateau d'allyquem there and in other places.

Curious that our two most famous courtesans in the center of the world are English.

She chuckled to herself, possessed by the night and the music and the wine. When I have birthed one or two sons and am say twenty-one and Malcolm has a mistress and I am ready for my special lover, that's what I'll do--for his pleasure and mine, and before that for Malcolm's.

Another sip and another and then finished, languidly licking the last drop, then, watching her mirror, curling her tongue around the glass, toying with it. Chuckling again, putting the glass back on the dressing table, letting it fall unnoticed to the carpet, ears only tuned to Chopin and his underlying passions--eyes fixed on the mirror, now the reflected image close, brazenly intimate.

Lazily she leaned forward and turned down the wick, shadows kinder now, then moved back a little, the mirror person still there, lovely, voluptuous. Fingers moving with a life of their own, straying, caressing, heart picking up tempo, fluttering with growing pleasure. Eyes closed now, imagining Malcolm tall, strong, very strong, sweet-smelling, leading her into the bedroom, laying her on the coverlets, lying with her, as naked as she, his fingers wandering, fondling.

Ori had eased the door of the cupboard open in the other room and moved noiselessly and now stood in the deep shadows near the half-open doorway watching her, heart pounding in his ears. It had been easy for him to hide among the cases and hanging dresses and crinolines, easy to slide further into hiding to become invisible when the maid opened the cupboard door and closed it again. Easy to hear the final bolts ring home and to judge when Angelique was truly alone.

In the bedroom half light she lay on the sheets, eyes closed, a little shudder from time to time, face in shadow, body part in shadow, shadows dancing as the small flame moved with the air currents. It seemed to him he waited an eternity. Soundlessly, he stepped out of the darkness to the threshold. The door clicked closed. The distant music cut. Her eyes opened and focused and she saw him.

Some sense told her that this was him--the murderer from the Tokaido, father of the child that was never to be, who had violated her but had left no memory of pain or ravishment, only erotic half dreams, sleeping, waking--and that she was defenseless and tonight he would murder her.

Both were hardly breathing. Motionless. Waiting for the other to move. Still in shock, she saw his youth, not much older than she, a little taller, sheathed sword-knife in his belt, right hand on the hilt, neat short beard and hair, broad shoulders and narrow hips, rough shirt, flapped breeches, strong calves and legs and peasant sandals. Face in shadow.

This's another dream, surely it's a dream, no need to be afraid...

Bewildered, she propped her head on one hand, motioning him to move into the light.

Momentarily fused into the same unreal, dreamlike state as she, his feet obeyed and when she saw the chiselled features, so different and alien, the dark eyes so filled with craving, she opened her mouth to say, Who are you, what's your name, but he thought she was going to scream so he leapt forward in panic, the naked blade violently at her throat.

"No, please," she gasped, backed into the pillow, and when he did not understand she shook her head, petrified, eyes pleading, every part of her shrieking, You're going to die, there's no escape this time! "No--please."

The fright slid off his face and, standing over her, heart thundering as hers was thundering, he put a finger to his lips, warning her to be silent and not to scream, not to move. "Iy`e," he whispered hoarsely, adding, "No!"

A drop of perspiration slid down his cheek.

"I... I won't, won't make a sound," she muttered, terror confusing her. She pulled the sheet over her loins. At once he ripped it away. Her heart stopped. But in that second she knew, a primeval instinct in mind had propelled her to a different plane and she felt herself possessed by a latent, newfound knowledge. Her horror began to slide away. Inner voices seemed to whisper: Be careful, we can guide you.

Watch his eyes, don't make a sudden move, first the knife...

Heart pounding, she watched his eyes and put a finger to her lips as he had done, gently pointed at the blade and motioned it away.

He was like a coiled spring, expecting her to dart for the door any second and scream--he knew he could silence her easily, but that did not fit into his plan: she was to flee for the door in his time not hers and scream and scream to wake the enemy, then he would slash once and make sure and then he would wait and when they arrived he would shout, "Sonno-joi" turning the knife on himself and, spitting in their faces, die. That was his plan-- one of many he had considered: taking her wildly then killing her and then himself, or just killing her silently at once as he should have done before, however much he wanted her now, leaving the Tokaido characters on the sheets as before, then to escape through the window. But she was not reacting as he had expected. Unwavering eyes, her hand motioning the blade away, sky blue eyes asking, not begging, tension there, but no terror now.

Uncanny half smile. Why?

The blade did not move.

Be patient, the voices whispered to her...

Again she gestured the point away, unhurried, willing him. His eyes narrowed even more. With an effort he tore them away from hers to surge over her to be inexorably drawn back. What is she planning? Warily he lowered the dirk and waited, ready to lunge.

He was standing close to the bed. Leisurely her hands began to unbutton his shirt, then froze.

The cross at his neck flickered in the light, her cross. The suddenness that the lost forever was miraculously found again, elated her strangely and, dreamlike, she watched her fingers touch it, trembling slightly, weirdly pleased that he had taken it to wear it, part of her around him forever as part of him was around her forever but even the cross, her cross, did not deflect her.

Gently she eased the shirt off, down his right arm, over the knife, tightly held and a constant threat. Her intent look drifted over him, the shoulder wound, freshly healed, muscled body.

Again the wound.

"Tokaido," she said softly, not as a question though he took it as such.

"Hai," he muttered, watching and waiting and choked with lust. "Hai."

Again the cross glittered. "Kanagawa?"

He nodded, hardly breathing, spellbound, and she was glad that she had been right in the first instant, and now that he was almost naked she was more secure with the plan that had swamped her mind. She reached out and touched his belt, always watching his eyes, and felt a tiny tremor. A current went through her at this victory.

Don't be afraid, the voices said. Continue ... His fingers found the buckle. It loosened. The belt dropped away, the scabbard with it. His breeches slid off him. Below he wore a loincloth. With a grinding effort he remained motionless, his weight balanced on both legs, slightly apart, and body throbbing with his heartbeat, eyes locked.

Continue, the voices whispered, don't be afraid...

Abruptly, the image of him in the web that myriad generations of women before her--defenseless in the same mantrap--were aiding her to weave, caused her resolve to soar unexpectedly, heightening her awareness, making her part of the night and yet apart, to watch herself and him, and fingers untying the string and seeing him unadorned.

She had never seen a man thus. But for the wound he was without blemish. As she was.

For a moment he continued to dominate his lust, then his will vanished and he threw the knife on the bed and covered her but she closed like an oyster and twisted away and he did likewise, grabbing for the knife before she did but she had not made a move toward it, just lay there, watching him kneeling on the bed, blade poised, another phallus pointing at her.

In the waking dream, she shook her head, telling him to lay the knife aside, to forget it, to lie down beside her. "There's no hurry," she said softly, knowing he would not understand words, only gestures. "Lie here." She showed him where.

"No, be gentle." She showed him how. "Kiss me... no, not so cruel... gently."

She showed him everything she wanted, he wanted, advancing, retreating, soon to be aroused and then, when at last they joined she imploded to carry him over the crest and them into the abyss.

When her panting had lessened and her ears could hear, the music was still playing but far away. No sounds of danger, only his panting matching hers, body light, fitting perfectly. Belonging. That was what she could not understand--how or why he seemed to belong. Or how and why she could be so thrilled, or consumed with such ecstasy. He began to ease away.

No, the voices told her quickly, hold him, don't let him move, beware, the danger's not over, stay with the plan...

So her arms tightened around him.

They slept for an hour or so and when she awoke he was lying beside her, breathing softly, his sleeping face young and untroubled, one hand tight on the knife, the other touching her cross that he wore so easily.

It was my first gift, Maman told me, the first day of my life and worn ever since, only the chain changing. Is it his now, or mine, or ours?

His eyes opened and a shiver went through her.

For a moment he was not sure where he was, or if it was a dream and then he saw her, still beautiful, still desirable, still beside him, the strange, half smile washing over him. Enchanted, his hand went to her and she responded, to coalesce again but now without anger or haste. Only to prolong.

Afterwards, barely awake, he wanted to tell her how vast the Clouds and the Rain had been, how much he admired her and thanked her--beset with a great sadness that he had to end her life, this life.

But not sad that his own death was near. Now, because of her, he would die fulfilled, her death sanctifying the just cause of Sonno-joi.

Ah, he thought with sudden warmth, in return for such a gift perhaps an equal gift, a samurai gift, a samurai death: no screams or terror, one moment alive the next dead. Why not?

Completely at peace, hand on unsheathed knife, he allowed himself to stray into dreamlessness.

Her fingers touched him. Instantly he was awake, on guard, fingers tight on his knife.

He saw her gesture at the curtained and shuttered window, a finger to her lips. Outside whistling was approaching. The sound passed, then went away.

She sighed, then leaned over and snuggled close, kissed his chest, then, so happily, pointed at the clock on her dresser that read 4:16 A.m., again at the window. She slid out of bed and with signs, made him understand that he was to dress and to leave now and to return with the night, that the shutters would be unbarred. He shook his head, pretending to tease her, and she ran back, shadows and the sight of her delighting him, to kneel beside the bed and whisper, pleading with him, "Please... please..."

His spirit twisted. Never in his life had he seen that expression on a woman's face before, such an open depth of passion beyond his ken--no word for love, not in Japanese. It swamped him but did not deflect his decision.

Easy to pretend to assent, to agree to go, to return with nightfall. As he dressed she stayed very close, helping him, reluctant to let him go, wanting him to stay, completely protective. Finger to her lips, almost childlike, she moved the curtains aside, opened the windows soundlessly, unbarred the shutters and peered out.

The air was clean. A hint of dawn. Sky speckled with clouds. Sea calm and no sound or sight of danger, only the sigh of the waves on the sandy beach. Along High Street only threads of smoke remained of the fires. No one about, the Settlement was at peace, asleep.

He stood close behind her and realized this was the perfect moment. His hand angled the blade, knuckles white. But he did not strike for as she turned her tenderness and concern obliterated his resolve, that and the lust that still obsessed him.

Quickly she kissed him, then she leaned out again and peered both ways to make sure it was safe, "No, not yet," she murmured anxiously, making him wait, her arm around his waist.

And when she was sure, she turned again and kissed him again, then she motioned him to hurry. He stepped silently over the lintel and the moment he was safe in the garden, she slammed the shutters closed and the bolt home and her screams tore through the night, "Helppppp meeee..."

Ori was paralyzed. But only for a moment.

Blinded by rage he clawed at the shutters, her continuing screams and the knowledge he had been duped sending him berserk. Fingers now talons ripped a shutter open, almost tore it off its hinges. At that second the first of the French sentries hurtled around the corner, rifle armed and ready. Ori saw him and was faster and jerked out the derringer and pulled the trigger but missed with both barrels never having fired a gun before, the bullets whining off the brickwork into the night.

The sentry did not miss the first time or the second time or the third and in the room Angelique cowered with her hands over her ears, exulted, forlorn, not knowing what to think, what to do, whether she was laughing or crying, only that she had won and now she was safe and revenged, all the time the inner voices rejoicing, You've won, well done, you were marvelous, wonderful, you followed the plan perfectly, you're safe, you're safe now from him forever!

"Am I?" she whimpered.

Oh yes, you're safe, he's dead, of course there's always a price but don't worry, don't be afraid...

What price? What... Oh God I forgot the cross, he still has my cross!

Amid the growing uproar outside and the hammering on her door, she began to tremble. Violently.

Friday, 7th November

Friday, 7th November: In the afternoon H.m.s. Pearl returned from Yedo with all sails set and hurtled for her usual mooring in Yokohama's busy harbor.

Sir William's flag was at the masthead, other flags demanded his cutter immediately but these were unnecessary as his longboat was already waiting in the roads, the Struan steam cutter beside her-- Jamie impatient in the stern. All those ashore who saw Pearl watched to see if her Captain was up to his arrogant dash, the wind frisky and his speed under sail making the maneuver dicey.

Her bow wave was high, the sea good. At the last second she spun into wind and stayed there quivering, her bowsprit perfectly over her buoy just alee. At once smartly dressed sailors dropped rope hawsers over the bollard and made her secure while others went aloft to furl all sails.

Not bad at all, Jamie thought proudly, then called out, "Full ahead, get alongside," needing to be first at the gangplank to intercept Sir William as Malcolm had ordered.

"Hurry it up, Tinker, for Christ's sake!"

"Aye aye, sorr!" Tinker, the Struan coxswain, beamed toothlessly, anticipating him with throttles full forward. He was an old hand, a pigtailed, tattooed, greying bosun's mate off one of their clippers and he zipped passed Sir William's eight-oared cutter to their chagrin, spat tobacco juice good-naturedly, gave them the finger and took possession of the slot. Jamie jumped on to the gangway. At the main deck he raised his top hat to the officer of the deck, a fresh-faced midshipman. "Permission come aboard, message for Sir William."

The midshipman saluted him back.

"Certainly, sir."

"What is it, Jamie, what the devil's wrong now?" Sir William called down from the bridge, Phillip Tyrer and Captain Marlowe beside him.

"Sorry, sir, the Settlement's in a bit of an uproar and Mr. Struan thought I should give you the details."

Marlowe said, "You can use my cabin, Sir William."

"Thank you. Best you come along too, after all you're "Admiral in charge of our Naval Defense," however temporary."

Marlowe laughed. "I could certainly use the salary, sir, if not the rank, however temporary."

"Wouldn't we all! Come along, you too, Phillip." They followed him, Marlowe last.

Before Marlowe left the bridge, he beckoned his Number One. "Engine room to get steam up, all cannon cleaned, oiled and made ready, ship's company prepared for battle stations."

In the small, austere stern cabin, with a bunk, private head and chart table, they sat down.

"Well, Jamie?"

"First, Sir William, the tai-pan and all traders want to congratulate you on a successful meeting."

"Thank you. What uproar?"

"There's been trouble: early this morning a Jappo tried to break into Angelique's bedroom in the French Legation, the sentries shot him, killed him. Dr. Hoag and Dr.Babcott w--"

"Christ Almighty, was she hurt? Touched?"

To their relief Jamie shook his head, "No sir, she said she heard him fumbling with the shutters and began screaming bloody murder an--"

"Then it was someone, like last time!" Tyrer burst out, "not the wind rattling the shutters!"

"We're inclined to think so." Jamie ran on quickly, "Babcott and Hoag were summoned--she was in shock, not hurt as I said but shaking. They took a look at the dead man and at once Hoag said he was the same bugger he operated on in Kanagawa..." Phillip Tyrer gasped and Marlowe looked at him quickly, "... the same we suspect was one of Canterbury's murderers, same man who might have been at our Kanagawa Legation and Captain Marlowe and Pallidar tried to catch."

"I'll be damned!" Sir William glanced at Tyrer who had blanched. "Do you think you could identify him, Phillip?"

"I don't know, I don't think so.

Malcolm might be able to, I don't know."

Sir William's mind had hurled him onwards: If this is the same man then both probable murderers are dead so how does this affect our demand for indemnity? "French Legation, eh? Astonished they shot the bugger, their security's abominable at the best of times and marksmanship worse. But why was the man there, was he after her or what?"

"We've no idea, sir. It also turns out he was Catholic--at least he was wearing a cross. Wh--"

"That's curious! But... but wait a minute, Angelique there? I thought she had moved back to Struan's."

"She had but her quarters were fire damaged.

I forgot to mention, after the earthquake, sir, we had a small fire, us and also Norbert. The--"

"Anyone hurt?"

"No sir, thank God, nor anywhere in the Settlement far as we know. The French offered her accommodation but th--"

"Was Malcolm Struan staying there too?"

Jamie sighed at the continual interruptions, "No sir, he was at our place."

"Then you can't have had much damage."

"No sir, fortunately, and not much in the whole Settlement though Norbert lost most of his upper floor."

"Well, that should please you. So the girl wasn't touched, the assailant's dead so what's the fuss about?"

"I've been trying to tell you, sir,"

Jamie said then rushed on, refusing this time to be interrupted by Sir William's shocked questions.

"Some of the morons in Drunk Town, aided I'm sorry to say by some of our more stupid traders, decided that every Jappo in the village was responsible so a couple of hours ago a mob of them started beating up anyone they could find, that brought samurai steaming in, troops and Navy fellows confronted them and now there's a standoff, both sides armed, reinforced and getting grimmer by the minute, some of our cavalry there, the General's in command and bristling to order a charge like the Light Brigade at Balaclava."

Bloody fool, Sir William thought.

"I'll go ashore at once."

Marlowe said, "I'll send a detachment of marines with you, sir. Orderly!"

The cabin door opened instantly.

"Yessir?"

"Marine Captain and ten marines with a signalman to the main deck gangway on the double!" then to Jamie, "Where's the riot, exactly?"

"The south end of the village, near No Man's Land."

"Sir William, I'll be standing off, close in. Any trouble, use my signalman and you can order up a barrage."

"Thank you, but I doubt if I'll need naval support."

Jamie said, "Another problem is--"

"When we're in the cutter." Sir William was already halfway to the main deck. "We'll take yours, it's faster. Head for the Drunk Town wharf."

In moments the Struan cutter was at full speed, marines crowded into the stern, Sir William, Jamie and Tyrer in relative comfort in the midship cabin. "Now, Jamie, another problem?"

"It's Mr. Tyrer's not-so-tame samurai, Nakama." Jamie glanced at Phillip briefly. "Part of the mob attacked him but he broke away, somehow got some swords and fought back, cut one drunk, an Aussie, but not badly, and would have killed the rest if they hadn't fled. Some of them got guns, rushed back and nearly blew him away so he retreated into a village store, we think there may be some samurai with him--and there's a dozen or so maniacs surrounding the place, ready to lynch him."

Sir William gasped, "A lynch mob?

In my jurisdiction?"

"Yes, sir. I tried to get them to leave him alone but they told me to piss off. Nakama wasn't at fault initially, Sir William, I saw him on High Street, that much I'm sure of."

"Good," Sir William said tightly.

"Fortunately we've one law for the rich and the same for the poor, and the same for anyone under our protection. If he's lynched we will lynch the lynchers. I'm tired of Drunk Town and their rabble nonsense. Until we get our allotment of Peelers from London we'll form our own police force. I'm Chief. Jamie, you're temporary Deputy Police Chief with Norbert an equal Deputy--equally temporary."

"Not on your nelly, Sir Wil--"

"Then it's Norbert alone," Sir William said sweetly.

"God dammit, all right," Jamie said, not pleased at all, knowing that that job had to be a thankless task. "Norbert, eh? Did you hear about Norbert and the tai-pan?"

"What about them?"

Jamie told them about the quarrel and challenge. "The betting's five to one they sneak off one dawn and one of them will end up very dead."

Sir William's eyes looked to heaven and he said wearily, "I'm away three days and everything's up the creek." He thought a moment.

"Phillip, you'll order both of them into my office first thing tomorrow." His voice changed and the other two men winced at the venom therein: "Advise them both, in advance, that they had both better be wise, docile and better listen to, and be guided by my gentle homily. Coxswain! Get a bloody move on, for God's sake!"

"Aye aye sorr..." "Did you bring my briefcase, Phillip?"

"Yessir." Tyrer thanked Heaven he had remembered.

Hiraga was peering through the slats of the barricaded door of the shoya's shop-house at the shouting, angry men, armed with pistols and muskets. Sweat ran down his face. He was choked with rage and not a little afraid though he hid it from the others. Blood from a slight wound in his back stained his shirt--he had discarded his frock coat the moment he had rushed in here to fetch some swords. The shoya stood nervously beside him, unarmed except for a fishing harpoon--only samurai could bear arms, on pain of death.

Trapped with them was a greying ashigaru, a foot soldier, who watched Hiraga with awe and confusion: awe for his fighting ability and because he was clearly shishi, confusion because he wore gai-jin clothes and grew his hair like them and seemingly lived in the Settlement with them, yet was also the subject of these unwarranted attacks.

Stinking gai-jin, he thought, as if a futile attempted burglary by a baka ronin mattered--of course the man was just a simple ronin thief and not after the girl, what civilized man would want one of them? The fool was correctly killed for his impertinence, no one was hurt, so why all the violence? Baka gai-jin! "Is there a way out the back?" he asked.

The shoya shook his head, his face ashen. This was the first time there had been a major disturbance with so many gai-jin on the rampage. And he was directly involved: had he not harbored this shishi? Even the maniac ronin had been in his house and he had not reported them as he was obliged to do--not only them but any strangers?

"There's bound to be a Bakufu investigation," his wife had moaned an hour ago, "we are bound to be called before them to testify. Enforcers are still at the guard houses.

We will lose everything, including our heads, Namu Amida Butsu!" She and their eldest daughter had been shopping at the vegetable market when the first of the mob had rushed through the village shouting threats, upsetting crates, barging and jostling shoppers and causing them to run home in panic.

"So sorry, Sire," the shoya managed to say, "we are surrounded--there are more gai-jin in the back alley."

Apart from the dozen-odd men outside confronting them, most of the population of the Settlement was collected on both sides of No Man's Land. The majority had begun as onlookers out for a lark, but now many were well whipped up by a hard core of rioters wanting revenge. Behind those in the village street were twenty samurai from the North Gate guarding the village. In front were those from the South Gate. None of the samurai had their swords out but all had their hands on their hilts, officers to the fore. The same was true with the troops confronting them, rifles ready, the dozen cavalry sitting on their horses waiting for orders, the General nearby--everyone confidently and noisily spoiling for a fight.

Once again the senior Japanese officer shouted above the clamor for the gai-jin to disperse and once again the General shouted imperiously--to a following roar of approval--the samurai were ordered to disperse, neither side understanding the other, or wanting to understand.

Hiraga could just hear the General among the shouts and counter shouts. Fool, he thought, seething, but he is not as big a fool as madman Ori. Good that he's dead, very good!

Stupid to do what he did to achieve nothing but trouble, stupid! I should have killed him the moment I caught him wearing her cross--or in the tunnel.

When her warning screams had broken the night's quiet, immediately followed by rifle fire, he and Akimoto had been hunched down in the alley near Struan's, wearily lying in wait for Ori, hoping to intercept him--they had not seen Angelique go to the Legation so presumed him to be somewhere nearby, perhaps even inside the Struan Building.

In the confusion that followed, they had joined the growing mass of half-dressed men converging on the Legation, their laborer's clothes and caps camouflaging them.

In shock Hiraga and Akimoto saw the two doctors arrive and then, in a little while, Ori's body dragged out into the light. At once Hiraga motioned to Akimoto and they slid nervously into the night, and the moment they were in their village hideaway, Hiraga burst out, "May Ori be reborn gai-jin filth not samurai! This will stir up a hornet's nest.

Sneak back to the Yoshiwara at once, use the tunnel and hide until I send word or come to find you."

"And you?"' "I am one of them," he had said with a twisted smile. "Taira is my protector, so is the gai-jin leader, everyone knows so I am safe." But I was wrong, he thought bitterly, the mood of the men outside becoming even rougher.

A couple of hours ago, the moment Pearl was spotted on the horizon, he had left the village and walked along High Street heading for the British Legation with a whole list of phrase translations Tyrer had asked to be done while he was away. He was lost in thought, more than a little anxious to hear firsthand about the Yedo meeting when furious gai-jin faces jerked him out of his reverie.

"It's Tyrer's Jappo..."

"Isn't he samurai..."

"Hey, monkey, you-ah, you samurai heya..."

"He certainly looks like the other bugger..."

"Jesus, that's a fact... same hair style..."

"We'll teach you lot to interfere with our women ..."

Without warning someone shoved him in the back, knocking him down, sending his top hat rolling away to be stomped into the mucked roadway to roars of laughter while others began to kick him, banging into each other in their haste. This gave him a second's respite and, using his superior physique and youth, he had scrambled up and broke through the cordon with them in ponderous pursuit.

Down the alley by Struan's into the village area, samurai guards running in from both gates to see what was going on. More men blocked access to his hideaway where he had hidden his pistol so he darted into the shop of the shoya, grabbed some inadequate swords and whirled to the attack. His berserk charge caught his assailants unawares, scattering them, three went down, one wounded, and the others fled out of range. Somewhere down the street a man fired a musket, the bullet passed harmlessly, and more men with guns started collecting, and in the jumbled melee of samurai and gai-jin, he and the ashigari had somehow retreated with him into the shop.

The three men ducked as a bullet came out of nowhere to shatter an ornate vase. From the back part of the house a child moaned only to be quickly hushed.

Outside the shouting increased. Lunkchurch, well heated and in his usual afternoon brandy haze, bellowed, "Let's fire them... burn the buggers out..."

"Are you off your rocker? All Yokopoko could catch f--"

"Burn 'em out, by God! Who's got a match?"

When the Struan cutter swung alongside the Drunk Town wharf, everyone piled out and ran down its length into the square, marines in front.

Ahead they saw the backs of the samurai confronting this portion of the mob. At once the Captain put their plan into operation. On his command his men formed into a wedge, rifles at the ready, and charged into the space between the two sides and wheeled, the point of the wedge threatening the Drunk Town people who began to give away and split into two groups, shouting and alarmed. Tyrer had rushed over to the samurai who was equally alarmed by the sudden appearance of the disciplined soldiers, bowed and called out loudly in Japanese, "Please, Sir Officer, all men to stay here safe, Please to salute my Master, Lord of Gai-jin."

Automatically the nonplussed samurai bowed back to Tyrer and as he straightened, Sir William, flushed from his unaccustomed run, stopped for a moment and faced the samurai. Immediately Tyrer bowed to him, calling out, "Salute!" The officer and all his men bowed, Sir William bowed back and now the samurai were back in control.

At once Sir William turned and went into the wedge that was gaining ground, the people closest to the marines being shoved back by the rifles.

"Get out of the way! Get back... back!" the young Captain was shouting, his adrenaline pumping.

He was just behind the point of wedge, and when the way did not clear fast enough for his liking he shouted, "FIX BAYONETS!"

As one man the marines stepped back two paces, fixed bayonets, levelled them at the crowd, each marine picking a target, each becoming a graven, waiting cog of a killing machine that was famed and feared throughout the world.

"PREPARE TO CHARGE!"

Sir William, Tyrer, and McFay stopped breathing. Along with everyone else. Immediate silence. Then the evil spirit that all mobs contain vanished and the men here became just a rabble that broke and fled in all directions.

The Captain did not wait. "Port rifles, follow me!" He led the way at a run towards the village where the majority of traders, soldiers, a dozen cavalry, and samurai were gathered, all of them still oblivious of Sir William and his marines.

Again the wedge formed but as they came up to the back of the shouting mass, they heard the General shouting, "For the last time I order you out or I will throw you out..." to be drowned under a roar from a crowd that was clearly ready to explode. The Captain decided there was no time to waste.

"Halt! One round over their heads, FIRE!"

The volley blew away the noise and the fury and got immediate attention, even from the equally unprepared cavalry. Everyone had whirled or ducked and in the silence Sir William, red with rage, stalked into the space between the two sides. Further down the street Lunkchurch and the others were transfixed. He held a second burning rag in his hand, poised to throw, the first was already on the veranda against the wooden wall, flames spreading. Seeing Sir William and the marines, they evaporated into side streets, rushing pell-mell for home.

All other eyes were on Sir William.

He settled his top hat more firmly and took a paper out of his pocket. In a loud grating voice he began: "I am reading you Her Majesty's Riot Act: if this unauthorized assembly does not disperse instantly, every man woman or child is liable for arrest and..." His next few words were lost under general grumbling and curses but, instantly, the rabble began to dissolve.

The Riot Act of 1715 had been promulgated by Parliament after the Jacobite Rebellion that only ruthlessness had contained and obliterated. The new law was designed to stop any unauthorized dissension at source. It granted all Magistrates or Justices of the Peace the right and duty to read the Act out to any group of more than twelve persons considered a threat to the peace of the realm, the onus on the rioters to hear and obey. Anyone who did not disperse within forty-five minutes was liable to immediate arrest, incarceration, and, if proven guilty, to either a sentence of death or to being sentenced to transportation for life at Her Majesty's pleasure.

There was no need for Sir William to finish reading. The village street emptied but for the troops and the General, and the samurai.

"Phillip, deal with them, tell them to go home please." He watched for a moment as Tyrer went over and bowed and the officer bowed back. He's a good lad, he thought, then turned away to put a bleak eye on the General who was flushed and sweating. "'Morning, Thomas."

"'Morning sir." The General saluted.

Smartly--but only because of the soldiers around him.

Sir William did not raise his hat in reply. Stupid berk, he was thinking.

"Pleasant day, what?" he said easily. "I suggest you dismiss the men."

The General motioned to the cavalry officer who was, secretly, more than a little pleased that Sir William had arrived when he did, knowing too that the Japanese were not at fault and he should have been walking his horses into the rabble of traders. What a bunch of ill-disciplined scum, he thought.

"Sergeant!" he called out. "All the men back to barracks and dismiss them. Now!"

The soldiers began sorting themselves out. Tyrer bowed a last time to the samurai officer, feeling very pleased with himself, then watched them amble away up the street towards their North Gate.

"Damn good show, Phillip, you did very well," Jamie McFay said.

"Oh? Didn't do a thing really," Tyrer said, pretending diffidence.

Jamie McFay grunted. He was sweating, his heart thumping, he had been sure that someone would pull a trigger or jerk out a sword. "That was bloody close." He glanced over at Sir William who was deep in a one-sided conversation with the General, now even more flushed. "Wee Willie's giving the bugger hell," he said softly, smiling. "Stupid clot!"

"He's..." Tyrer stopped as their attention was diverted up the street. Samurai were sprinting towards a shop on the east side that had caught fire. "Good God, that's the shoya's house..." He was already running, McFay at his heels.

Several of the samurai had jumped up onto the veranda and began beating out the flames while the others hurried to the big water barrels with their ring of buckets that were kept at intervals everywhere against such emergencies. By the time Tyrer and McFay had reached there the fire was under control.

Half a dozen more buckets and the last of the flames sizzled and died. The outer shop wall was gone. Inside they saw the shoya, beside him an ashigaru, a foot soldier. Both of them stepped out onto the veranda. The shoya knelt and bowed, the ashigaru bowed. They muttered thanks.

To McFay's astonishment there was no sign of Hiraga, the man he and Tyrer knew only as Nakama. But before either of them could say anything the officer had begun questioning the shoya and the foot soldier.

"How did the fire start?"

"A foreigner threw a rag against the wall, Sire."

"Dog's shit, all of them! You will make a report and explain the cause of this disturbance.

By tomorrow, shoya."

"Yes Sire."

The officer, a pockmarked man of thirty-odd, peered into the shop. "Where's the other man?"

"Sire?"

"The other man. The Japanese who was chased in here by the gai-jin?" he said irritably. "Hurry up!"

The ashigaru bowed politely, "So sorry, sir, there was no one else here."

"I distinctly saw him rush in here--he was carrying swords." He turned to his men.

"Who saw him?" They stared back at him uneasily and shook their heads. His face reddened. "Search the shop at once!" The search was thorough and produced only the shoya's family and servants who knelt and bowed and stayed kneeling. They denied seeing anyone. A moment of silence then Tyrer and McFay were dumbfounded to see the officer suddenly lose his temper and begin raving at them.

Stoically the ashigaru and all the soldiers stood at attention, rigid, the villagers on their knees, heads to the ground, trembling under the tongue-lashing. Without warning he stepped up to the ashigaru and belted him backhanded around the face.

The man stayed as impassive as he could under the flurry of blows and invective. At the officer's shrieked command the shoya was instantly on his feet and stood unflinchingly while the frenzied man beat him as cruelly around the face, the women and children trying not to wince at every blow, yet motionless.

As suddenly as the beatings had begun they stopped. Both men bowed deeply, their faces now welted. Again the shoya knelt. Formally the officer bowed back, all traces of the tirade gone. His men formed up and he led them towards the North Gate as though nothing untoward had happened.

Tyrer and McFay stared after them blankly. In a moment, when it was correct to do so, the shoya got up, the women and children went into the house, and he began to supervise the repair to the wall.

Village activity in the street picked up.

"What the devil was all that about?" McFay said.

"I don't know." Tyrer said, both of them shocked at the brutality and its impassive acceptance. "I only caught a word here and a word there--think it was to do with Nakama, I think they all said he'd never been there."

"That's impossible--I know he was inside that hut. I saw him myself." McFay mopped his brow. "Apart from that, why take all that from that bastard? He was a lunatic. And look at them now, acting as though nothing happened. Why?"

"I don't know--perhaps Nakama can explain."

Tyrer shuddered. "I'll tell you one thing, I'm damned if I'd like to be in their power. Ever."

"Hello, Angel, how are you?"

"Hello, darling, I'm, I'm much better, thank you." Angelique smiled wanly as Struan came in and shut the door. She was propped up by pillows in her bedroom in the French Legation, the late afternoon sun coming nicely through the window and the shadow of a guard now permanently stationed outside.

In the early hours of this morning when Struan had rushed--hobbled--to her side, she had resisted his entreaties to move, enough in command of herself to remember that she must stay here because tonight Andr`e Poncin would deliver the medicine that would deliver her from evil. No, not evil yes from evil, she had wanted to shout, Andr`e's going to deliver me from the evil I carry and from the evil I've done.

"Oh mon Dieu, Malcolm, I am all right and don't want to move!"

"Please don't cry, my darling, please."

"Then leave me be, it's all right, Malcolm, I'm quite safe, I always was safe and Doctor Babcott has given me something to stop this shaking, haven't you, Doctor?"' "That's right, Malcolm," Babcott had said, "and please don't worry, Angelique's perfectly all right, she'll be right as rain when she wakes up. It would be better not to move her. Not to worry."

"But I bloody do!"

"Tonight, perhaps she can move bac--"' "No," she had whimpered, tears spilling, "not tonight, perhaps tomorrow."

Thank God for tears, she thought again as she watched Malcolm plod over to the bed, knowing that this Heaven-given weapon against men, thought to be a weakness, was a mighty shield. His smile was fine but she noticed the dark rings under his eyes that seemed strange and an air of weariness.

"I dropped by earlier but you were dozing and I didn't want to disturb you."

"You would never disturb me." His concern and love was so open and so deep that she had to fight to keep quiet and not helplessly scream the truth.

"Don't worry, my dear one, everything will be wonderful soon, I promise."

He sat in a chair beside the bed, telling her about the near-riot and how Sir William had stopped it so quickly. "He's a good man in many ways," he told her, but he was thinking: not in others. He and Norbert had been forewarned about their summons into his presence tomorrow morning. At once they had met privately: "It's none of Wee Willie's bloody business,"

Norbert had agreed sourly, "let him concentrate on Japanners and getting the fleet back! Listen, the intruder, I hear you identified him as one of old Canterbury's murderers, the other Tokaido bastard?"' "No I didn't, I think he was a different man though he'd certainly been shot.

Hoag said he was the same one he operated on at Kanagawa."

"Why was he at her window, eh?"' "I don't know--it's weird. Just a thief I suppose."

"It's right weird. A Catholic too.

Weird..."

Struan saw that Angelique was waiting for him to continue and he wondered if he should bring the subject out into the open, the why of that man, to ask for her ideas and give her his, but she looked so tiny and defenseless that he decided to wait for another time and another day--the sod's dead whoever he was and that's that. "When I come back after dinner I'll bring the latest Illustrated London News, there's a great article about the latest London fashions..."

Angelique listened with half an ear, avoiding the clock on the mantelpiece that tick-tocked the minutes delicately. Andr`e had told her he would return from the Yoshiwara about nine that evening, that she should have a pot of warm green tea ready, and something sweet to eat as the mixture might be foul-tasting. Also some towels, and it would be best not to take any more of Babcott's sleeping draft.

She glanced at the clock. 6:46. It's so long, the waiting, she thought, her anxiety increasing. Then the inner voices became alive again. Don't worry, they whispered, the hours will quickly pass and then you are free, don't forget you won, Angelique, you were so brave and so clever, you did everything perfectly--don't worry about anything, you lived and he died and it was the only way you, or any woman, could have lived--soon you will be free, of him, of it, and all that has gone before will be no more than a bad dream...

I'll be free, thank God thank God.

The relief surged through her. She smiled at him. "How handsome you look, Malcolm. Your evening clothes are perfect."

Her warmth jerked him out of his gloom, everything dreadful surrounding him--except her. He beamed. "Oh, Angel, if it wasn't for you I think I'd explode." Tonight he had taken much trouble to select the right silk evening clothes and the finest doeskin half-boots, pure white silk ruffled shirt and white cravat with a ruby pin that his father had given him on his last birthday, his twentieth, May 21/. Only six more months and then I am free, he thought, free to do whatever I like. "You're the only thing that keeps me sane, Angel," he said and his smile banished the last of her devils.

"Thank you, my darling," she said.

"Explode? Why?"

"It's just business," he said, matter-of-fact, avoiding the real issues.

"Damned politicians are messing up our markets in their usual, obsessive pursuit of personal power, money and advancement, it never changes no matter what country, creed or color. Overall the Noble House is in fine fettle, thank God," he told her, sluffing over the crisis they were facing in Hawaiian sugar and Brock's increasing stranglehold over Struan's markets and borrowing facilities.

Yesterday an openly hostile letter arrived from the Victoria Bank, Hong Kong's central bank and Brock-dominated, a copy of one sent to Tess Struan, Managing Director, Struan's, his copy addressed, M. Struan Esq., Yokohama, For Information Only: Madam: This is just to remind Struan's it has ignoble debts, and too much paper supported by questionable assets and ignoble profits, the most of which paper becomes due January 31/, and to inform you, Madam, again, that repayment of all said highly unationoble paper the Bank owns is required on due date. I have the honour to be, Madam, your obedient servant.

Never mind those poxy bastards, he thought with certitude, I'll find a way to outsmart them and all the Brocks. Killing Norbert will be a good beginning. Our managers and staff are excellent, our fleet's still the best and our captains loyal.

"Never mind the Brocks and the rumors, Angel, we can deal with them, we always have. The American civil war has boosted our profits enormously. We're helping the South to run cotton through the Northern blockade for our Lancashire mills and bringing back all the powder, shot, guns and cannons that Birmingham can make, half for the South, half for the North--with everything else our factories can invent and provide, machinery, presses, and shoes and ships and sealing wax. British output is gigantic, Angelique, more than fifty percent of the world's industrial goods. Then we've our tea trade and Bengali opium to China, a bumper crop this year--I've an idea how to buy Indian cotton to boost the American lack--and together with all our usual cargoes...

England is the richest and most prosperous country on earth and you're beautiful."

"Thank you kind sir! Je t'aime--I really do love you, Malcolm, I know I'm very difficult but I do and I'll make you a wonderful wife I promise an--"

He had heaved himself out of his chair and stopped her with a kiss--his strong cigar smell and pomade manly and pleasant. His arms embracing her were muscular and strong, one hand straying to her breast and she felt its heavy roughness, his lips hard with the faintest taste of brandy. Just the opposite to him.

Forget him, the voices whispered.

I can't, not yet.

Bending over her like this was a dreadful strain on his wounded back and stomach muscles so he straightened with an effort though he would have gladly taken her now--had he her acquiescence--whatever the pain. "The sooner we're married, the better," he said, sure that he had felt her lips and breast and body respond.

"Oh yes, please yes."

"Christmas. That's only next month."

"Do you think... sit down, my darling, and rest a moment. Should we discuss... when should we return to Hong Kong?"

"I, I haven't decided." Much of his bonhomie went at the thought of having to face his mother.

"Perhaps we should go back next week an--"

"Not till I'm fit." And off the painkiller, he thought, his insides grinding, then I can deal with her and Brock and the bloody bank.

Just before coming here he had had the second dose of the day, earlier than usual.

I'll have a last one before sleeping, then tomorrow start fresh. Once a day from now on. Couldn't start today--last night and the problem with Norbert and ... well, yesterday was especially rotten.

"Don't trouble your lovely head."

"But I worry over you very much. Malcolm, I'd never want to interfere with anything, but I do worry about you. And there is something that I feel I must mention," she said carefully. "The trouble between you and Jamie. Isn't there anything I--"

His sudden smile stopped her. "Jamie's all right now, my darling. That's today's good news.

This evening I sent for him and he apologized for being difficult. He even renewed his oath to support me in everything. Everything."

"Oh, that's wonderful, I'm so pleased."

Just before coming here Jamie McFay had asked to see him. "Sorry to interrupt you, but I wanted to clear the air and try to make a peace and try, a last time, to dissuade you from the duel: Norbert will surely try to kill you."

"Sorry, but it's none of your affair, and I'll certainly try to kill him. I agree it's a good idea to clear the air, once and for all: Jamie, will you obey me as tai-pan or are you going back on your holy oath?"' "Yes, I will obey the tai-pan as I swore."

"Good. After we see Sir William tomorrow, secretly ask Norbert if next Wednesday suits him--yes, Jamie, I know it's his birthday. The racecourse, behind the stands, first light. On your head keep it secret, don't even tell Dmitri."

"If you kill him you'll have to leave Japan quickly."

"I've thought about that. Our clipper Storming Cloud will be in the roads. We'll board her and go to Hong Kong. There I can, well, arrange matters whatever happens."

"I hate this whole idea."

"Yes, but never mind. You remember your oath and will stick by it?"' "Yes."

"Thank you, Jamie. Let's be friends again ..."

Through his haze of excitement, he heard Angelique saying, "Oh how happy that makes me," and had to make an effort not to burst out with the news that he had set a date for the duel, when his own revenge on the House of Brocks, at long last, would begin. Angel will know soon enough and be proud of me, he thought confidently. "No need to worry about Jamie, my darling, or about Hong Kong. Anything."

"Malcolm, dear, may I please write to your Mama?" she asked, knowing that she must begin to bring the enemy to battle. Andr`e had warned her that Tess Struan's power within the company was immense, and influence over Malcolm, his brother and sisters, equally vast, reminding her that he was a minor, therefore without her approval the marriage could not take place for months, and without her benevolence might never happen. As if I needed reminding, she thought. "I want to assure her of my undying affection and my promise to become the best daughter-in-law in the whole wide world."

He beamed at the idea. "Excellent!

I'll write one too and we'll send them off together." He took her hand. "No woman so stunning as you, should also be so thoughtful and kind. I know she's going to love you as much as I do."

Again Hiraga said, "When gai-jin run away, shoya say me to go quick'ry--he very 'fraid of the samurai, very 'fraid."

"I can believe that." Tyrer shifted in his chair, Hiraga opposite him, uncomfortable too. The sitting room of the small bungalow in the Legation grounds that Tyrer shared with Dr.Babcott was sparsely furnished, with a few chairs, two desks and the smell of ointments and salves from pots of medicaments on shelves lining one wall. Windows were open to the night and though it was not cold Hiraga shivered, still unsettled by his near capture. The moment the rioters had rushed away and he could escape the back way he had told the shoya and ashigari, "You know what'll happen if I'm caught here!

Better silence, better silence and a quick beating that will soon be forgotten than a trek to prison which none of us--or your wife and children--will survive.

Sonno-joi!"

Tyrer was saying, "But I don't understand why one moment that officer was sane, the next a brute, and the next sane again with everyone pretending nothing had happened."

Hiraga sighed. "All so simp're, Taira-san. The captain sure ashigari 'ried ... sure not say truth, and shoya not say truth, and men not say truth so he beat them to save face--not say truth to samurai is very bad, against 'raw, so very bad. Punishment correct so everyone happy, no more prob'rem."

"Maybe for them," Tyrer said gloomily, "but we have lots of problems. Sir William isn't at all happy, either with the rotter who was killed--or with you."

"I no prob'rem, I not attack, men attack me."

"Sorry, Nakama, that's not the point. He says you are an irritant, an unnecessary complication, sorry, but he's right. The authorities will soon know you're here, if they don't already. Then they'll demand that we hand you over--we can't avoid that and eventually we'll have to comply."

"P'rease? Not understand."

It took Tyrer several attempts with simpler words to make his meaning clear, then he added, "Sir William told me to tell you it's best you sneak off, disappear while you can."

Hiraga's heart almost stopped. Ever since he had escaped the trap in the village he had been frantically trying to devise a way to negate the inevitable results of the riot, and of being seen--the samurai officer would surely realize a shishi was loose in the Settlement.

No solution had occurred except that he must remain in hiding here. To attempt flight now was even more dangerous. Samurai vigilance would be vastly increased, and if they realized he was Hiraga of the poster...

He wanted to scream aloud, his mind disarrayed by the rushing events and the depths of the panic and fear he had endured since Ori's betrayal. Then his ears focused and he heard a key word in Tyrer's rambling on about "how sorry he was to lose such a valuable ally in his search for Japanese knowledge but there seems to be no way of avoiding it..."

His head cleared. "Have idea, Taira-san," he said softly. "Bad for me go now, I sure die. Want he'rp Ing'erish friends, want to be va'ru'ber a'rry, very va'ru'ber friend. I know about Satsuma daimyo, know Satsuma secrets. Shoya give me mandy... sorry, give me many informations. I can exp'rain how make Satsuma obey, perhaps even Bakufu obey. I want to he'rp. Ask Sir W'rum: I give informations to keep gai-jin safe, you keep me safe and give me informations, fair exchange. Friends, neh?"

Excitedly Tyrer thought through the offer: Sir William will surely agree, but only if the information is truly valuable, and only if it comes direct from questioning Nakama himself. That means... oh God I can't! "I'd have to let Willie in on the secret that you speak English. No way to avoid that, and I just can't blurt out that I've been hiding such vital info, I'd get sacked for certain. Can't risk that, not when Willie's in such a foul mood!" Better Nakama leaves before my head's on the block and he's an international incident. "Sorry," he said, in despair. "It's not possible."

"Ah so sorry, perhaps have way," Hiraga said, and made a final gambit to give himself time.

"Have message from Fujiko--eeee, Taira-san, you make great mark on her, now she thinks you very best friend. Mama-san say, so sorry but Fujiko yesterday begin woman's sick, month'ry sick so cannot receive you for one, two days." He had seen Tyrer's immediate disappointment, followed by resignation and anticipation in quick order.

Weak with relief, he relaxed slightly, at the same time once again astounded that any man, let alone an important official like Taira would allow himself to show his inner feelings so openly to anyone, let alone to an enemy. These barbarians are beyond belief.

"Here," he continued, offering him the fan with the calligraphy on it he had had prepared. "It poem, Fujiko writes: "Counting hours, very sad. Hurry hours when your sun shine on me, then no sad, stop time."" He watched Tyrer take the fan reverently, pleased with his choice of words though disgusted with her inadequate writing skill. Still, he thought, the effect seems to be perfect. "About Chief Gai-jin, have p'ran but first, meeting with Shogun, Taira-san, the meeting was good yes?"

A gust of laughter took Akimoto, so infectious that Hiraga joined in. "Eeee, Hiraga-san, brilliant to manipulate the gai-jin like that! Brilliant! Sak`e, bring more sak`e!"

They were lolling in their isolated room in the grounds of the Three Carp, shoji windows closed against the night insects. Sprigs of autumn maple in a green vase decorated the alcove.

Oil lamps. Their swords on racks beside them and when the maid had left and they had refilled their cups and quaffed them, Akimoto said, "What happened next?"

"After little fish Taira swallowed the bait, we went to bow before the Great Grouper who gorged on both. I told him that unbeknownst to Taira I spoke some English that I had learned from Dutchmen from Deshima..."

"And that's no lie," Akimoto said and replenished their cups. He had gone to the same school for gifted Choshu samurai at Shimonoseki but had not been selected for the language classes, instead he had been ordered to specialize in the western naval affairs, taught by a retired Dutch sea captain.

"Baka that I never learned Dutch or English. What did the gai-jin leader say?"

"Not too much. Taira pretended to be equally astonished as we had agreed. It was easy to divert the man with unimportant information about Satsuma, about Sanjiro and his fortress at Kagoshima, some of their history and so on,"

Hiraga said easily although the meeting had not been easy at all. The questions had been probing and he had found it difficult to convince the leader his pretended sincerity was genuine. In his anxiety to get permission to stay he had told more than he wished, both about the political situation of the outside lords of Satsuma and Tosa but also about his own fief of Choshu, and even about the shishi.

He felt a new heaving in his stomach remembering the cold blue, fishlike eyes staring at him that somehow had squeezed knowledge out of him, and the final, curt: "I will consider allowing you to stay a few more days. We will talk again tomorrow.

Meanwhile you will move back into the Legation for safety."

"Better I to stay shoya, Sir W'rum-sama."

"You will move into the Legation tonight and stay with Mr. Tyrer, leaving only with his permission or mine. When you are on the streets you will be most careful to avoid inflaming any of our people. You will obey without question or you will be marched to the North Gate... at once!"

Again he had feigned a meekness and most abject thanks but inside he had seethed at the man's lack of manners and was still seething, and more determined than ever to implement Ori's plan to burn the Settlement--at a time of his own choosing. All gods, if there are any, curse all gai-jin.

"Sak`e?" Akimoto asked, a dribble sliding down his chin.

"Yes, thank you." His face twisted with anger. "Ori! Baka that he's dead before I could kill him."

"Yes, but dead, so is Shorin. Nothing but trouble, both of them, like all Satsumas. The men," he added hastily, remembering Shorin's sister, Sumomo, "not the women."

"Satsumas are trouble, I agree,"

Hiraga said darkly. "As to Sumomo, I don't know where to send for news of her, where she is or if she reached home safely--that could take her weeks, and more weeks for father to send word here.

News would take two, maybe three months."

"You asked Katsumata to watch for her. He will have spies out from here to Kyoto. She can take care of herself that one. You'll hear soon."

Akimoto scratched his crotch irritably.

To see Hiraga so unsettled was disturbing. "You know we're almost locked in here. The Bakufu Enforcer patrols have been reinforced and they wander in and out at random. All the mama-sans are nervous and after the riot today, Raiko... she will not let us stay much longer."

"As long as we pay we will stay. And as long as the tunnel is safe we can escape by sea if necessary. Curse Ori!"

"Forget him," Akimoto said impatiently. "What should we do?"

"Wait. The gai-jin will provide us with cover --Taira will see to it."

"Because of Fujiko? Eeee, he is mad.

What does he see in that drab? I cannot fathom that. She is nothing but a drab." Akimoto laughed and ran his fingers through the stubble of his hair.

"Think I will try her one night, just to see if anything is special--even though she's polluted."

"Try her tonight if you want, Taira won't be using her."

"Raiko will already have given her other clients-- she's rapacious."

"Yes, but Fujiko's already paid for."

"What?"

"My new arrangement is that Raiko will not offer Fujiko elsewhere unless she and I agree first--so I can keep her available for Taira at a moment's notice, in case I decide.

Try her if you want, she is cheap enough."

"Good, I need all the cash I have left, Raiko squeezed a down payment out of me, rumbling about the extent of my credit."

Akimoto grinned and drained the flask into his cup. "I want to bribe one of the fishermen to take me out to the frigate--perhaps I can talk myself aboard one of the warships, pretending to sell fish. I must see inside an engine room, one way or another."

Hiraga's stomach heaved, thinking about his own visit. "Perhaps I could get Taira to take me again, with you this time. I can pretend you are the son of an important Choshu merchant, a shipbuilder, anxious to do business with them, but any business must be kept secret from the Bakufu."

Secret? How long will we be secret here?

A tremble went through him. "It's cold tonight," he said to cover his fear that once again Akimoto politely feigned not to notice.

A few metres away in her own quarters Raiko had finished her makeup and was dressing for the evening. She decided on the new pink kimono. A large heron decorated the back, embroidered with gold filaments. For many months she had coveted it. Now it was hers, paid forwith part of the profit garnered from the hugely successful sale of the pearl earrings. They proved to be even more valuable than she had estimated.

Eeee, she thought happily, the kami and gods that look after mama-sans were looking after me that day. A major business coup, all profit except for Furansu-san's part. Money for the medicine was hardly worth considering though she had put a substantial debit in her open set of books. She smiled to herself. The cost was nothing but the knowledge of which plant and who could harvest it, at what correct season and how to make the infusion, ah, that was worth whatever the market would stand.

"The gai-jin princess will be a marvelous, long-term asset," she murmured contentedly, pleased with what she saw in her full-length mirror. It was the only modern one in the whole Yoshiwara, a present from a client, imported especially for her from England. A small frown creased her forehead as she thought of him: Kanterberri, the gai-jin who was killed on the Tokaido by those fools Ori and Shorin.

Baka! He was a good client and most appreciative of my services in finding him the perfect mistress, Akiko, whose name is now Fujiko--very convenient for us that our Ing'erish gai-jin rarely share their women, prefer to fornicate in secret, with one woman, keeping her secret in our Floating World that is based on discretion and secrecy.

Taira none the wiser, Fujiko a new life and new lover. Good for everyone.

"Mistress? The gai-jin Furansu-san has arrived."

"Good." Raiko made sure the medicine was correct and put it beside the table. When she had kept Andr`e waiting the precise amount of time, neither too little or too much, she sent for him.

"Ah, Furansu-san, welcome to my humble House." She poured thimbles of her best sak`e and toasted him. "You're looking well."

"Health! Ten thousand summers," Andr`e replied politely.

She discussed the weather and the state of business and then came to the first point. "Your choice of earrings was more perfect than I thought, your share comes to a little over double what you asked."

His eyes widened, "Jesus, so much?"

"Yes." She poured more sak`e, filled with glee at her acumen on both their behalfs for, of course, once a business deal was finally agreed between them, it was a matter of face that it was honored exactly. "My bank, the Gyokoyama, found the client, a Chinese silk and opium merchant from Shanghai who was visiting Kanagawa." Another smile. She added delicately, "He indicated that he would be in the market for as many such trinkets as I could offer."

His smile matched hers and he drained his cup and held it for a refill and toasted her, "To future trinkets!"

"Next, the..."

"Before next, Raiko. Why he pay so much?"

"In bad times a wise man puts part of his wealth into tiny things he can carry in his sleeve.

He's no fool--I considered holding on to them myself for the same reason."

His interest quickened. "What bad times in China?"

"He said that all China was in revolt, famine everywhere, gai-jin business in Shanghai less than usual, though now that the English fleet laid waste the Mirs coast and sank many of the White Lotus pirates, the sea-lanes would be safe for a while and trade up and down the Yangtze would pick up in the spring. Eeee, Furansu-san, I hear they sank hundred of junks and massacred thousands, many villages now in ashes." Her fear was open. "Their killing power is terrible."

She shuddered, knowing that though Japanese despised Chinese as weaklings, they shared the same great phobia: fear of gai-jin and an obsession to keep them forever out of their lands. "Will gai-jin fleets come against us when they return?"

"Yes, Raiko, if Bakufu not pay reparations money. War yes. Not here, not Yokohama. Yedo."

She studied her cup for a moment, wondering how she could further protect herself and turn this to profit, more than ever convinced that she must, somehow, quickly rid herself of Hiraga and Akimoto before it was discovered that she was implicated in the Ori disaster by harboring him and them, however righteous sonno-joi was. A wave of apprehension went through her and she fanned herself, complaining about the strength of the sak`e. "Karma," she said and shrugged off what "might be" for what "is." "Now, some more good news: There is a girl I would like you to meet."

Andr`e's heart seemed to skip, and then, when it started again, it was more weak than before.

"Meet when?"

"Do you wish to see her before we discuss business matters, or after?"

"Before, after, no difference. Will pay what ask, if like." Again a Gallic shrug and the stark, naked desperation.

It touched her not at all. Why should it, she was thinking. The Yang's hunger for the Yin is the essence of our world and without it our Floating World would float no more.

Strange that the Yang's obsession to join with the Yin--in and out, battering at the gate, more pain than pleasure, desperate to end, desperate to continue, if to end never enough, if not to end moaning in the night--is all so transient, the Yin never so grasping. In that women are blessed, though the gods, if there are gods, have dealt all mortals a cruel hand.

Three times I have tried to go onwards, always because my Yin craved the possessor of a particular Yang--when a Yang is always more or less the same--always useless choices that brought nothing but misery, with no future and twice my passion unrequited. How foolish! Why? No one knows.

Never mind. Now the yearning of the Yin can be quenched so easily, and for a mama-san, toyed with.

Easy to employ a Yang, or harigata, or to invite one of the Ladies to your bed. Fujiko, for example, who seems to enjoy the diversion and whose kiss can be celestial.

"Raiko know me, yes?" Andr`e was saying and she thought, Indeed I do. "I know Raiko,"

Indeed you do not. "We old friends. Old friends always help old friends." True, true, but you and I are not old friends--not in its special Asian sense--and never will be. You are gai-jin.

"Furansu-san, old friend," she said. "I will arrange a meeting, you and this Lady," she said.

He felt weak and tried to hide it. "Yes.

Thank you."

"It will be soon. Last, the medicine." She reached down beside the table. The small package was carefully tied in a square of russet silk as invitingly presented as an expensive gift.

"Listen carefully." Again her instructions were explicit. She made him repeat them until she was sure he understood.

"Raiko-san. Please, say truth, medicine dangerous, yes, no?"

"Eeee, truth? Am I not a serious person? I am Raiko of the Three Carp. Have I not already told you? Of course it could be dangerous and of course not dangerous! This is an ordinary problem that happens all the time to all girls and the cure is rarely a problem. Your princess is young and strong and so it should be easy, with no problems."

"Princess?" His features hardened. "You know who for?"

"That was easy to guess. How many women are there in the Settlement, special enough for you to help?

Never worry, old friend. The secret is secret with me."

After a pause, he said, "What problem possible?"

"Stomach pain and no result, just very sick.

Then we must try a second time, with stronger medicine. If that does not work then there is another way."

"What?"

"Time enough for that later." Confidently Raiko patted the silk. "This should be all that is necessary."

"You understand, Angelique?"

"Yes, Andr`e," she said, her eyes on the silk-wrapped package. Her salvation sat on his desk. They kept their voices down though the office door was closed against unwanted ears.

His clock chimed 10:00 P.m.

He looked back at her uneasily. "The mama-san told me it would be best if you had your maid with you."

"That's not possible, Andr`e, it's not possible to trust Ah Soh, or anyone--didn't you tell her that?"

"Yes, but that's what she said." From across the corridor they could hear the muted sounds of men laughing over the dinner table that she had just left-- Seratard, Vervene, Dmitri and a few French officers--saying she was tired and wanted an early night. Going to her suite, by prior arrangement, she had happened to see Andr`e in his office.

"We'd... we'd best check that everything's there."

He made no move to undo the silk. Instead he toyed nervously with a corner. "If Ah Soh's not there to help, who... who will dispose of... of the bottles and herbs and... you can't leave them around, and who will clean up?"

For a moment her brain became addled for, foolishly, she had not considered this problem. "I, I won't need help, there won't be... nothing except the bottles and herbs... and towels.

I can't trust Ah Soh, obviously I can't trust her, or anyone, only you. I won't need help." Her anxiety to begin the treatment and have done with this forever capped all the worries that swirled about her. "Don't worry, I'll bolt my door and... and tell her that I'll sleep late and not to disturb me. I, it should all be over in a few hours, by dawn, yes?"

"God willing, yes, that's what the mama-san told me. I still think you should risk Ah Soh."

"You're not thinking clearly, no, not at all.

You're the only one I can trust. Knock on my door early, like this." She rapped the table thrice, then once. "I'll open it only to you."

Impatiently she untied the silk. Inside were two small, corked bottles and a packet of herbs. "I drink one bottle at once and then ..."

"Mon Dieu, no," he said, wearily interrupted her, his nerves as taut as hers. "You must do everything in the correct order, Angelique. First you put the herbs to infuse in the pot of hot water you've arranged. When that's done drink one bottle, drink it quickly and don't worry if it tastes foul, use the honeyed green tea or a sweet to take away the taste."

"I've some Swiss chocolates Monsieur Erlicher gave me, will those do?"

"Yes of course." He used a handkerchief to wipe the sweat off his hands, his imagination taking him down all kinds of lurid passages. "When the infusion is tepid, say after half an hour, sip half of the brew--it won't taste good either.

Then relax and wait, go to sleep."

"Will there be a reaction, will I feel anything yet?"

"No, I already told you, no! The mama-san said that normally nothing happens until some hours later--it should be like a, a strong stomach cramp."

The more he talked about it the less he liked being involved. What if something goes wrong? Mon Dieu, I hope there's not a second time, he thought queasily and tried to push the bad away--and embarrassment--and be clinical.

"It should just be like a stomach cramp," he said, sweating even more. "That's the beginning, Angelique, a cramp. I'll start again: Drink the first bottle, then sip half the infusion, half of it, remember you must do everything in the correct sequence--relax and try to go to sleep, the more relaxed you are the easier it will be. When the, the cramps begin gulp the last bottle, take some honey or sweet, then sip the last of the infusion--sip it, don't swig it down. The cramps will increase and then, then it should begin to... the mama-san said it would be like a heavy monthly so... so be prepared with a... a towel." Again he used his handkerchief. "It's close in here tonight, isn't it?"

"It's cold and there's no need to be nervous."

She uncorked one of the bottles and smelt the contents. Her nose wrinkled. "Worse than a Parisian street toilet in August."

"You're sure you remember the sequence."

"Yes, yes. Don't worry, I'll..."

A knock on the door startled them. Hastily she scooped up the two bottles and packet of herbs and put them in her bag. "Come in,"

Andr`e said.

Dr. Babcott dwarfed the doorway. "Ah Angelique, the servant told me you were here.

I just popped in on the off chance of seeing you a moment. Evening, Andr`e."

"Evening, Monsieur."

"Ah, Doctor, I'm really all right," she said, a sudden twinge of disquiet under his penetrating gaze. "No need t--"

"Just wanted to take your temperature, count your pulse and see if you needed a sedative.

Always best to check." When she began to protest he added firmly and kindly, "Best to check, Angelique, always safer to check, won't take a minute."

"Come along then." She said good night to Andr`e and led the way down the corridor to her suite.

Ah Soh was waiting in her boudoir. "Ah Soh," Babcott said politely in Cantonese, "please come back when I call you."

"Certainly, Honorable Doctor."

Obediently she left.

"I didn't know you spoke Chinese, George," Angelique said as he sat beside her and began to count her pulse rate.

"That was Cantonese, Chinese don't have one language, Angelique, but hundreds of different languages, though only one form of writing they can all understand. Curious, what?"

How stupid to tell me what I already know, she thought impatiently, wanting to scream at him, Do hurry up! As if I haven't been in Hong Kong, as if Malcolm and everyone else hasn't told me a hundred times--as if I've forgotten you're the cause of all my misfortune.

"I picked it up while I was in Hong Kong," he continued absently, feeling her brow and the pulse in her wrist, noting that her heart was racing and there was the slightest sheen of perspiration on her forehead--nothing to worry about considering her ordeal. "A few words here and there. Spent a couple of years at the General Hospital--we could certainly use such a fine place here." He kept his fingertips lightly on her pulse.

"Chinese doctors believe there are seven levels of heartbeats, or pulses. They say they can sense them probing deeper and deeper. It's their main diagnostic method."

"And what do you hear from my seven hearts?" she asked, impulsively, enjoying the warmth of his healing hands and, in spite of her hatred, wishing she could trust him. She had never felt such hands or the good sensation that seemed to radiate from them to calm her.

"I hear nothing but good health," he said, wondering if there was any truth to the seven pulses theory. In his years in Asia he had witnessed remarkable insights and cures by Chinese doctors --along with an abundance of superstitious nonsense. The world's strange, but people are more strange. He looked back at her. His eyes were grey and very direct and kind. But there were shadows there and she saw them.

"Then, then what troubles you?" she asked, suddenly frightened that he had diagnosed her real condition.

He hesitated then reached into his pocket and brought out a piece of tissue paper. Inside the tissue was her little gold cross. "This is yours, I think."

In violent turmoil she stared at it, her lips dry and not moving though her head had conjured up an immediate denial and shrug that were replaced in the same nauseating instant with: "I, I certainly... lost one like it, are you sure it's mine, where did you find it?"

"Around the neck of the would-be interloper."

"His neck? How... how odd," she heard herself say, watching herself as though she were another person, her voice another person's, forcing herself to be controlled even though she wanted to screech aloud for she knew she was again in the vise--her brain frenzied to concoct a plausible reason.

"Around his neck?"

"Yes, I took it off the body. Thought nothing of it at the time, except that the man was a Catholic convert. Quite by chance, I saw the inscription--it's hardly noticeable." A short nervous laugh. "My eyesight is better than Hoag's. "To Angelique from Mama, 1844."

Her mouth said, "Poor Mama, she died birthing my brother just four years later." She saw her fingers pick up the crucifix and examine it, squinting in the oil light, unable to read the tiny writing clearly--cursing the writing. Then her instinct committed her and she said, "I lost it, or thought I lost it at, at the Tokaido, perhaps at Kanagawa, the night I went to see Malcolm, remember?"

"Oh yes. Bad night, very bad, bad day too." Babcott got up hesitantly. "I, er, I thought you should have it."

"Yes, yes thank you, I'm glad to have it back. So very glad, but please sit down, don't go yet," she said, much as she wanted him to go. "Who was he, that man, and how would he have found it? And where?"

"We'll never know, not now." Babcott watched her. "Did Malcolm tell you we think he was one of the Tokaido murdering devils though neither he nor Phillip were sure?"

In spite of her dread as she squirmed in this new trap, she had an overwhelming impulse to laugh hysterically and say, He wasn't a devil, not to me, not the first time, he left me alive the first time, and not a devil after I changed him. He didn't kill me though I know he was going to, I know he was going to just before I made him leave... Devil, no but even so he deserved to die, had to die...

Mon Dieu, I still don't even know his name, I was so enmeshed I forgot to ask...

I must be going mad to think such things. "Who was he?"

"No one knows. Yet. The Satsuma king could name him now that he's dead but it would probably be a false. They're such liars--that's not quite true, it's just that what we call lying seems to be a way of life with them. Probably the man found the cross at Kanagawa. You don't remember exactly when you discovered it had gone?"

"No, I don't. It was only when I got back here..." Again she saw his probing, questioning eyes and her mind screamed: Did my pulse or pulses tell him my real condition? "It's found. Good, thank God. I can't thank you enough but why should he wear it or keep it, that's what I can't understand."

"I agree, very odd."

The silence grew. "What does Dr. Hoag think?"

Babcott looked at her but she could not read what he was really thinking. "I didn't ask him," he said, "didn't discuss it with him, or with Malcolm." His eyes went back to hers and seemed to take on a deeper color. "Hoag's a Struan man and he, well his rice bowl is with Tess Struan. I don't know why, but I thought I should talk to you first."

Again a silence. She looked away, not trusting herself, wishing she could truly trust him, wanting to trust someone other than Andr`e--his knowing was bad enough--but sure beyond sure it was impossible.

She had to keep to the plan: she was alone, she must save herself alone.

"Perhaps..." she said, "no, surely he must have found my crucifix at Kanagawa, must have seen me there and, and perhaps...." She stopped then hurried on, leading him on, inventing as she continued, "perhaps he kept it to remind him of me to... I don't really know, to what?"

He said awkwardly, "To obviously do you harm, my dear, to possess you, one way or another, kill you. Sorry but that must be the truth.

At first I thought, like everyone else, that he was just one of these outlaws called ronin, but your crucifix changed all that. The moment I discovered it was yours... it must be as you say, he saw you at the Tokaido, he and the other man must have followed Malcolm and Phillip Tyrer to Kanagawa to finish them off, probably to avoid identification. Then he saw you again, found the crucifix and kept it because it was yours, pursued you here and tried to break in to, sorry again, to possess you, whatever the cost.

Don't forget it would be easy for such a man to be infatuated by such a person as you, to be, to be obsessed."

The way he said it made it clearer than ever he too was within her spell. Good, and good that he's realized the truth, she thought, faint with relief that another hazard had been eliminated. Her mind strayed to the little bottles and to tomorrow when she would be cleansed, to start her new life, the future wonderful.

"Japanese are a curious people," he was saying. "Different. But different in one major way, they're not afraid to die. They almost seem to seek it. You were lucky, so lucky to escape.

Well, I'll be off."

"Yes, and thank you thank you." She caught his hand and pressed it to her cheek. "You'll tell Malcolm and Dr. Hoag? Then that will end it."

"I'll leave Malcolm to you." For a second he considered asking her help with his opium addiction but decided it was not yet urgent, and anyway it was his own responsibility, not hers.

Poor Angelique, she has enough to deal with. "As to Hoag, what does it matter to him, or to busybodies and wagging tongues in Yokohama?

None of their affair, or mine, eh?"

He saw her clear eyes in the radiant face smiling up at him, pellucid skin, all of her emanating youth and health together with the magnetic, unconscious sensuality perpetually surrounding her that had, against all medical expectation, increased in power. Astonishing, he thought, filled with wonder at her resilience. I only wish I knew her secret and why some people thrive on adversities that would break most others.

Abruptly the doctor part of him fell away. I can't blame that ronin, or Malcolm, or anyone being mad for her, I want her too. "Curious about your cross," he said throatily, not a little ashamed. "But then life's a collection of curiosities, isn't it. 'night, my dear, sleep well."

The first cramp clawed her out of a crooked sleep that was sated with prison hulks and sloe-eyed, raving demons, the women bloated with child, the men horned and grasping her away from Tess Struan who stood guard over Malcolm like a malevolent ghoul. A second cramp followed quickly and brought her awake to reality and what was happening.

Relief that it had begun obliterated the previous hours of trepidation for it had seemed an eternity before she had slept. Now it was just past 4 A.m. The last time she looked at her clock it was almost 2:30. Another cramp, rougher than before, went through her and concentrated her on the sequence.

Trembling fingers uncorked the second bottle. Again she gagged on the putrid taste and almost brought the liquid up but managed to keep it down with a spoon of honey, all the while her stomach churning with revulsion.

She lay back gasping. Fire seemed to spread from her stomach. In moments sweat poured out of her. Then the sweating passed leaving her limp, soaked and hardly breathing.

Waiting. As before, nothing. Just a bilious, sweet sick disquiet that had, after hours of anxiety, drifted into troubled sleep. Her dismay crested. "Blessed Mother, let it work, let it work," she murmured through her tears.

More waiting. Still nothing. The minutes passed.

Then, unlike before, a startlingly different cramp almost doubled her up. Another. Just bearable. More, still bearable. She remembered the second half of the infusion and she sat up and began to sip it. The taste was bad but not as bad as the liquid in the bottles. "Thank God I don't have to take more of that," she muttered and sipped again. Another sip. After each sip a taste of chocolate...

More cramps, stronger now. An increasing rhythm to them. Don't worry, everything's happening, she thought, just as Andr`e forecast. Her stomach muscles were beginning to feel stretched and angry. More sips and more cramps and then the last drop was down. Honey jar almost empty--last of the chocolate but now even its sweetness could not mask the bilious aftertaste. A draft from under the boudoir door swayed the flame of the lamp on the side table, making the wall shadows change and dance. Stoically she lay back and watched them, her hands holding her belly against the shafts of pain, the muscles tightening and loosening, becoming more tight, knotting under her fingers.

"Watch the shadows, think good thoughts," she whispered. "What do you see?"

Ships and sails and the roofs of Paris and brambles and look, there's the guillotine, no, not the guillotine but a bower covered with climbing roses, why it's our country cottage near Versailles where we would go in the spring and summer growing up, my brother and I, darling Maman dead so long ago, Father gone only God knows where, Aunt and Uncle loving us but no substitute for darlin-- "Oh Mon Dieu!" she gasped as the first of the violent spasms slashed her, then cried out at the next, frantically crammed part of the sheet into her mouth to stop the shrieks that burst out of her and would have brought all the Legation pounding on her bolted door.

Then the chills began. Ice picks into her guts. And more violence, twenty times worse than the worst monthly cramps. Her body heaved against the strain, limbs twitching in time with the waves of torment that ripped from her loins and into her head.

"I'm going to die... I'm going to die," she moaned, her teeth grinding on the sheet, muffling the screams that followed with more spasms and chills and more, on and on and on and then stopping. Quite suddenly.

At first she thought she had truly died but soon her senses focused and she saw that the room had ceased spinning, the flame of the lamp was low but still burning and she heard the tick of the clock. The hands of the clock pointed to 5:42.

She struggled up in the bed, feeling awful. A glance in her hand mirror frightened her. Ashen features, hair lank with sweat, lips discolored by the medicine. She rinsed her mouth with some of the green tea and spat into the chamber pot and pushed it back under the bed again. Grimly she fought out of her soiled nightdress, used a damp towel to clean her face and neck as best she could, combed her hair and lay back exhausted but feeling better for the toil. It was only then that she noticed the red smear on her nightdress, thrown carelessly onto the threadbare carpet.

A quick examination confirmed that blood was seeping. She arranged a clean towel between her legs and, in the dawn, lay back once more, almost sinking into the mattress with fatigue. Warmth spread through her tired limbs. The flow increased.

Sunday, 9th November

Sunday, 9th November: "Illustrious Chen said to tell you anything that might affect the tai-pan, Elder Sister,"

Ah Soh began uneasily. "The night before last Golden Pubics started her monthly and sh--"

"Ah, that's why she took to her bed and would not see my son," Ah Tok said. They were in her room at the end of the corridor, safe from prying ears. "He was like a teething child all day, worse this morning, it's time we went home."

"Yes. But listen further: she says it's her monthly but I know her dates like my own. It seems not possible. Normally she is like any young civilized virgin, regular, though..." Ah Soh toyed nervously with her smock, "though now that I remember it her last one was sparse, almost as if she missed it."

The older woman belched and used a toothpick. "To miss, or to be little, or irregular with all the anxiety over my son's wounds and the vile, murdering barbarians surrounding us here is ordinary news, not unusual." On the table between them were various bowls with the remains of her lunch: sweet sour soup, stir-fried mixed fresh vegetables, a ginger basted fish with soy, pork slivers in black bean sauce, garlic prawns, and rice. "It's ordinary, Younger Sister."

"What is un-ordinary is that yesterday morning when I went to bring her tea, and hot water to bathe, I had to bang several times to awaken her and she would not let me into her room, just shrieked rudely, "Go away!" through the door in that vulgar voice of hers, and then..." Ah Soh dropped her voice dramatically, "... just minutes later, Big Pointed Nose, that other sort of foreign devil our foreign devils call Frogs, he knocked softly like this." She rapped three times, then a fourth. "She let him in at once!"

Ah Tok blinked. "At once? Him? The Frog? She let him in but not you? You saw him?"

"Yes, but he did not see me."

"Ayeeyah! That was clever. Go on, Younger Sister!" Ah Tok said, now hanging on every word. "Go on."

"He stayed a few minutes, then came out carrying things wrapped in a brown piece of silk. Like a thief in the darkest night. But he did not see me spying on him." Ah Soh paused again, loving--like all Chinese--to be the purveyor of gossip and secrets. "... Or even when I followed him."

"By all gods great and small, you did?" Ah Tok poured two glasses of the Madeira wine they savored. "Long life, Younger Sister, may your Jade Gate never trouble you. Go on, go on!"

"He went down to the shore and got into a rowing boat and rowed out to sea. After a while I saw him drop whatever it was over the side into the sea."

"No!"

"Yes. Then he rowed back. But he didn't see me, never."

"What could it have been?"

Ah Soh leaned closer. "When Missee let me in I looked around carefully. Her bed and nightdress were soaked with sweat, and she looked as though she had had a Happy Valley fever.

Her personal towels were soaked, heavier than usual. She told me to clean everything, to bring hot water and not to let anyone in--even the tai-pan. As soon as I had done what was necessary she flopped back in bed and went to sleep."

"That's not strange, but Pointed Nose is!"

Ah Tok nodded sagely. "This is like donkey dung, shiny on the outside but still all dung.

Clearly he disposed of something for her."

Ah Soh hesitated. "Your Honored Son, is there a chance he has lain with her?"

Ah Tok cackled. "I am sure he has tried but Golden Pubics will not let his Celestial Stem relish the breaching of her Gate, though she flaunts it every chance she gets.

I've heard him moaning her name in his sleep, poor man. Disgusting, if she was a civilized person we could arrange the price and that would end it."

Ah Soh watched Ah Tok thoughtfully pluck a piece of the decimated fish head with her chopsticks, suck the bone clean and spit it into her bowl. The younger woman would gladly have partaken of the leftovers, their cook not as good as Ah Tok's. "How's your cook these days?" she asked innocently.

"Improving. The dog comes from my village so he had promise. I'm training him, of course." Ah Tok grimaced. "Baffling, Younger Sister. How is the Empress today?"

"Irritable as usual. The flow continues, stronger than normal. Medicine Man Giant came to see her this morning but she would not see him, told me to send him away. There's someth--"

"Has my son seen her yet?"

"She will see him this afternoon."

"Good, today his tongue's like an asp to his old Mother over her. Pointed Nose and Pubics in a secret plot? Smelly, smelly indeed.

Keep your eyes and ears open, Younger Sister."

"There's something else." Ah Soh's eyes rolled with excitement. She reached into her pocket and put the cork on the table. The lower part was stained purple to black. "I found this under the bed when I was reaching for the chamber pot."

The wrinkled face became even more wrinkled with puzzlement. "So?"

"Smell it, Elder Sister."

Ah Tok obeyed. The odor was pungent, slightly familiar. "What is it?"

"I cannot be not sure... but it smells to me like Dark of the Moon. I think the bottle this corked, contained Dark of the Moon... with other herbs."

The older woman gasped. "The expeller?

To cause a miscarriage? Impossible! Why should she want to do that?"

"Very bad face for your son to be named a father before marriage, eh? You know how foreign devils carry on about marriage and scandals and virginity, no fornication before the wedding--the man always blamed, how foolish! Bad face for your son. Then there's Tai-tai Tess to answer to, as well as her foul and vengeful foreign devil god."

Both women shuddered. Ah Tok sniffed the cork again. "You think Pointed Nose threw the bottle into the sea?"

"I'm missing a teapot too, that could have been for the accompanying herbs, she wanted hot water and honey too."

"To take away the taste! Ayeeyah!"

Gravely Ah Tok said, "My son is... is quite unbalanced about that woman."

"What should we do?"

"You were right to tell me. We will write at once to Illustrious Chen and send him the cork in the first mail. He will know if you are right, and then what to do." Shakily Ah Tok poured another glass of wine for each of them.

"Keep your eyes wide, be like a clam, I will do the same--not a word to her, my son, or anyone until we hear from him what to do."

Malcolm Struan was hobbling across the High Street heading for the Struan Building, leaning heavily on his sticks. The sky was overcast, a slight wind off the sea, the afternoon chilly and his crushing worry had dropped away. Seeing Angelique, convinced that she was all right, more lovely than ever, though pale and drowsy had done it. He had stayed only moments not wanting to tire her.

A group of mounted traders reined in politely to allow him to pass, raised their riding crops in salute. "'Day to you, Tai-pan,"

Lunkchurch said, grim-faced like the others. "Will you be at the Club at sundown?"

"What's amiss?" Struan said.

Lunkchurch jerked his thumb at the squat, black-hulled, two-masted steamer anchored in the bay near Marlowe's frigate. She flew the flag of Brock and Sons. "Her and her news.

Norbert's called a meeting: just traders, not Sir William."

"I was going to do the same. Sundown, good, I'll be there," Malcolm said tightly.

Ocean Witch--all Brock's major vessels were surnamed "Witch" as Struan's used "Cloud"--had unexpectedly arrived late yesterday evening with news, mails and the latest Hong Kong papers. "Bloody stupid!"

Major editorials in all papers were about Admiral Ketterer and the fleet's highly successful attack on Chinese pirate nests in and around Mirs Bay and that now he was en route to Shanghai for coaling. The Guardian, using big, angry type, summed up the problem: In a dispatch to the Governor, Admiral Ketterer wrote that they had suffered some casualties caused by Chinese shore batteries being armed with modern cannon--cannon made in Birmingham, emanating from Hong Kong, and acquired through fair means or foul by Wu Sung Choi, leader of the White Lotus fleets who, regrettably, was not captured or killed.

Astonishingly, because of this minor incident (the cannon were spiked by a landing party of marines) the Admiral recommended that all sales of all arms--and all opium--be declared illegal and embargoed throughout Asia at once, particularly to China and Japan, with the stiffest penalties for any infraction.

This unwarranted interference with legitimate trade, this unconscionable imputation of blame on all China traders--renowned for their fair-mindedness, their intrepid Empire-building capabilities, their loyalty to Her Majesty, God Bless Her, and of putting the Mother Country before profit--must be protested in the strongest terms.

The Editors would like to ask the Admiral: who provides the taxes to pay for the greatest navy the world has ever seen (of which he is undoubtedly an admirable member though clearly misinformed on vital matters of interest to the Crown) without which our Empire ceases: Only and always hard working traders and their trade...

"Ketterer's a bloody fool," Struan said. "Norbert's right in that. Perhaps now Sir William will see the light and ask for a replacement at once. We've got to deal with the Jappos here ourselves and Ketterer won't move without crossing the t's and dotting the i's."

"We certainly needs a bugger with balls,"

Lunkchurch said. "Ketterer's a damp fart."

One of the other men said, "Hey, Charlie, he smashed the pirates when he'd the order, he'll do the same here. Wot's an extra few months, eh? Tai-pan," he asked anxiously, "can we know how Miss Angel is?"

"She's fine, she's fine now."

"Thank God for that!"

News that she had taken to her bed had flashed around the Settlement yesterday and when it was learned she had refused to see Babcott, Hoag or even the tai-pan concern escalated: "Christ, it's the Frog cooking, she's poisoned...

No, she's caught their plague... Frogs don't have plagues for God's sake, just lice... We all got lice... I heard it was cholera...."

Universal relief permeated Yokohama at noon today when Minister Seratard had put out an official bulletin that she was in perfect health, merely suffering from a temporary indisposition-- quickly whispered it was just her period.

"My fiancee's fine," Malcolm said again. Proudly.

"That's a relief," Lunkchurch said. "You hear Witch's leaving on tonight's tide?"

Malcolm glanced out to sea, much of his disquiet returning. Last night when he had first heard of the ship's arrival he had been filled with a nauseating, sudden panic that Tyler Brock or Morgan Brock were aboard. It was only when Jamie reassured him they were not that he could think clearly.

Why the hell does Tyler Brock terrify me, even now? he asked himself again. I can understand it when I was small but now Tyler's not much taller than me, though ugly as ever, rough-visaged and foulmouthed, with his big belly and his one eye always bloodshot. What does that matter? There are many men in Hong Kong like him, many uglier. Many such enemies. But they don't frighten me. He's always been our enemy and we've contained him every time--Dirk did, my father did, Mother did, has and I must but... Christ Almighty I hate that bugger for all the grief he's caused Mother and the family.

He took a deep breath and concentrated on Ocean Witch. "She's not due out for two days."

"That's the rumor."

"But why? Why so fast a turnaround?"

"Don't know, but that's the poop."

"We'll soon find out. 'Day!" Malcolm cast off his foreboding and continued across the road.

Ahead was the Struan Building where he was heading and beyond that the spire of Holy Trinity. He had been to the early service this morning and had prayed for Angelique and for strength and afterwards had felt better. But God curse all Brocks forever, let me kill Norbert quickly an-- "Tai-pan!"

Startled from his revery he looked up around.

Phillip Tyrer was hurrying from the British Legation. "Sorry but we all just wanted to know how Miss Angelique was?"

"Fine, she's fine," Malcolm said. Now, behind Tyrer, he saw Sir William peering at him out of one of the ground floor windows.

He waved a stick and gave an awkward thumbs-up and saw the Minister wave back. Just before Sir William retreated into the room he caught a glimpse of another man beside him.

"Oh, that your tame samurai, Nakama?"

"Who? Oh yes, yes it was. Is she really all right?"

"Everything with her was very good, thank you."

"Thank God for that, we were all worried to death!" Phillip Tyrer beamed down at him, a picture of health, ruddy, strong, taller than Struan but only because now he walked, and stood, hunched over. "You're looking much better yourself."

"Wish that were true, Phillip." Abruptly Malcolm's envy prompted him to say sharply, "I hear Nakama's been giving you all sorts of information, you and Sir William?"

Tyrer's smile faded. "Yes, I suppose he has."

"The arrangement was that you were to keep Jamie and me informed. Everything. Eh?"

"Well, yes, yes it was. But Sir William... he's trying to find out the politics of Japan an--"

"Politics of a country and business are like a pair of gloves, Phillip. Perhaps you'd drop by tomorrow, before tiffin? I'd appreciate knowing what's new." He forced a smile. "Please give my best to Sir William, see you tomorrow."

He limped down the street, angry at himself for being so caustic, sick to death of walking like this, then climbed the stairs of the Struan Building heading for his suite. His back and stomach ached alarmingly. No more than usual, he thought irritably, and that's no cause to snap at Phillip. He was just trying to be pleasant.

Never mind, a little of Ah Tok's elixir and I'll be fine again. I'll ask Phillip to dinner an-- "Tai-pan!"

"Oh hello, Jamie." Malcolm stopped halfway up the staircase. "Did you hear Ocean Witch is leaving early? Perhaps on this evening's tide?"

"Ah! I was just going to tell you. Heard the rumor, tried to get it confirmed by Norbert but he's busy at the moment--how's Angelique?"

"Fine," Malcolm said absently, "We'd better be ready with our mails in case the Witch sails early."

"I'll be all set. I'll collect yours as soon as I hear if it's true." Jamie frowned, seeing how distracted Malcolm was.

"Send someone to Angelique, she has mail too." Her letter to his mother, written and rewritten until both were satisfied. It's a good letter, he thought.

"She was really all right, Tai-pan?"

"Gorgeous." Malcolm smiled, aches momentarily forgotten, the Witch forgotten. She had looked spectacular in bed, fresh though wan, happy and attentive and so pleased to see him. "She said by tomorrow evening she'll be fine, Jamie. Why don't we arrange a grand dinner, here, eh? Us, and say Dmitri, Babcott, Marlowe if he's free, and Pallidar, they're both good sorts though they fawn on her like puppies."

"What about Phillip and Sir William?"

"Phillip yes but not Sir William... no, best leave them both out. How about Count Zergeyev, he's always good for a laugh or two?"

"If you invite him you should really include all the Ministers--can't very well leave Sir William out then."

"You're right. Make it simple, them another night."

"I'll make the arrangements," Jamie said, glad that they were on friendly terms again. Together they walked into his suite. All damage from the fire had been repaired though there was still the slight smell of smoke. "What about Ketterer?"

"He has to guard our interests or he's out."

Malcolm sat at his desk, began to stack the mail he wanted to send. "Mother will have already seen the Governor and sorted him out."

"Yes."

Malcolm looked up sharply, hearing a strangeness under the voice. After a moment he said, "Curious how confident we are she'll do that, and not at all confident I can persuade her to approve my marriage."

"Don't quite know how to answer that, Tai-pan,"

McFay said sadly, "if it's a question."

Malcolm nodded slowly, seeing the strong, well-used face and strong tough body and wondered if he would be as strong when he was thirty-nine-- in nineteen years. "You got another letter from her?"

"Yes. 'fraid no good news at all from Ocean Witch."

"Oh? Sit down, Jamie. What did she say?"

"Sorry, but, well she reiterated her order I assist Dr. Hoag to see you back to Hong Kong at once, confirming I'm sacked at the end of the month."

"You can forget that. You wrote her, as I told you, that you're under the tai-pan's orders, my orders, not hers?"

"Yes."

"Good, so did I and that's the end of it. Your letter and mine must have crossed hers." Malcolm lit a cheroot and noticed his fingers were shaking.

"You've never smoked?"

"No, tried once and didn't like it."

"Forget the sacking nonsense. What other bad news?"

"I've got all the correspondence and cuttings for you when you're ready. Business is rotten all over. We've lost Racing Cloud--she's too long overdue San Francisco."

"Bloody hell!" Racing Cloud was one of their clipper fleet, twenty-two ships.

Clippers, three-masted queens of the sea, were much faster on long ocean runs than cumbersome steamers that had to carry and conserve coal. Her cargo was tea, silk and spices, all highly prized goods and now, because of the American war, astronomically valuable--particularly if diverted to the South. "Insurance won't cover us, will it?"

"'fraid not. Never does, even Lloyd's.

They may even claim an Act of War. It is a war zone."

"Ayeeyah! That'll cost a pretty penny.

Damned shame about the crew. Her Captain was Caradoc, wasn't he?"

"Yes. They must have run into a hurricane-- several were reported off Hawaii though they're late this year. Her Second Mate was my cousin, Duncan McGregor."

"Oh, sorry about that." Even more depressed, Struan glanced at his bureau where the elixir waited. I wonder if the same storms swallowed Savannah Lady, along with young Pedrito Vargas and our order for five thousand rifles, he thought absently. That reminded him. "Those cannon at Mirs Bay-- they weren't sold through us were they?"

"Not to my knowledge," Jamie said, the normal response to such a question. Both were aware of major arms sales to Chinese traders who always represented the Manchu government. What happened on delivery at Canton or Shanghai was another matter.

Malcolm was thinking, I'll bet fifty Mex to a dollar they were from us, one way or another. He was party to one of Struan's inner secrets: a tenuous friend-enemy relationship existed between the Noble House and the seaborne White Lotus Wu Chois, begun by his grandfather and continued by his father. What about me? What do I do about them, he asked himself, suddenly sick to death of Yokohama and violently anxious to assume all the mantle and secrets of his grandfather--and to confront his mother. "In a week or so," he muttered.

"Tai-pan?"

"Nothing. What else, Jamie?"

Jamie went through a litany about the falling price of goods they sold and escalating price of goods they had to buy, of demands for increased danger wages for their seamen, many of whom were of English-American heritage and were being forcibly pressed aboard roving, marauding warships of both North and South. "I could go on forever, Tai-pan. Russia and France are spoiling for a fight, so Europe's a tinderbox. All over India, Moslems and Hindus are killing, murdering each other, burning crops. Whole world's crazy." He hesitated. "More urgent, the Victoria Bank wrote again about the paper they carry on us here. The notes are due..."

"I know all about that and they can rot. The Bank's Brock-controlled, they've dropped us in the sewer financing Brock's takeover of Hawaiian sugar and they're out to bankrupt us.

They can all rot, by God." Malcolm's voice had thickened. Pain was shafting from his belly. "Think I'll finish all this paperwork in case the Witch sails on the tide. Why should she turn around so fast?"

After a moment Jamie shrugged. "Don't know, but I agree: any news to do with Brock's is bad news."

The Club meeting had quickly gravitated into the usual shouting, cursing, angry mass of men, increasingly heated, with plenty of drinking, talking and no one listening, with a single theme locking them all together: "God curse all governments, all bleeding tax collectors, all fat-arsed Admirals and Generals wot don't know their poxy place, wot don't do wot they're supposed to do which is listen to the business community, do wot we bloody say and Bob's your bloody Uncle!"

"Good on yer, Lunkchurch. I proposes ..."

Whatever the man proposed was drowned in the uproar as several shouted, "Let's impeach Wee Willie...."

Exasperated, Norbert Greyforth pushed his way through the crowd from the corner of the bar where he had begun the meeting and headed for Malcolm Struan who sat beside the door, Jamie nearby.

Dmitri called out, "No conclusion, Norbert?"

"What do you expect, Dmitri? It's up to tai-pans as ever was. Come along. Jamie, would you and..." Norbert was going to needle Malcolm by calling him young Struan but he remembered Sir William's very blunt and sour threat not to provoke him in public or else.

Even more he could feel Tyler Brock's letter burning in his pocket. He looked down at Malcolm and said politely, "Would you two please join me--a private chat, eh?

Dmitri you too?"

Malcolm had expected Norbert just to pass by with a curt nod. "Certainly. Where?

Outside?"

"In my office, if it pleases you."

The three men followed him. All on guard.

"Is Ocean Witch leaving on the tide?"

Malcolm asked.

"Yes."

Dmitri said, "Why the fast turnaround, Norbert?"

"Tyler's orders." Norbert noticed the sudden shadow cross Struan's face and he smiled to himself.

His temporary office was on the ground floor while repairs were being done to the fire-ravaged upstairs. The central staircase was blackened, the roof off in places but covered temporarily with sail canvas. "Proper bugger, the fire, but there you are, happens to everyone sometime. Fortunately as I said, the safes weren't touched nor the books and warehouse." He motioned to leather easy chairs. "Make yourself comfortable."

On the sideboard were glasses and drinks, whisky, brandy, gin, vintage wine, with champagne already on ice. His Chinese Number One Boy stood waiting to serve them. Their caution increased. "What's your pleasure?"

"Champagne," Malcolm said, the others echoing him. He was feeling fine now, the elixir as always encouraging him to seem inviolate as well as deadening the pain. When all glasses were filled, Norbert jerked his thumb at the servant who bowed and left them. "Health!" They returned the toasted mildly. He sat on the edge of the desk, tall, lean and confident.

"We're safe from ears here," he said. "First, we, us'n, we represent the three biggest companies, we should jointly write a complaint to Wee Willie, not that it'll do much good, and to the Admiral--we all agree he's an impediment. No reason, Dmitri why you shouldn't have at him too, Cooper-Tillman's got a lot to lose here as well as us. At the same time we should mount a campaign, Struan's and us in Parliament to settle Japan once and for all-- either we smash the Jappos and put them in their place or we quit."

"We're not quitting Japan," Malcolm said and McFay relaxed a little.

"Nor are we," Norbert said thinly, "that's only our ploy for those miserable bastards in Parliament." He picked up a file from the immaculate desk and selected a single sheet of paper. "This's a secret dispatch from London via Ocean Witch from one of our watchdogs there, dated September 16th."

"That's damn fast," Jamie said for all of them.

"We keep abreast, Jamie. Tyler says to share part of it with you three. I'll read it: Yesterday the Prime Minister and Chancellor of the Exchequer privately agreed in the next Budget to up the tax on tea by 4 pence the pound, a penny a pint on beer, shilling on all brandy and imported wines, doubling the tax on tobacco..." They all gasped.

"... doubling the import tax on cotton ..."

"Goddamn!" Dmitri exploded. "That's crazy! That and tobacco are the only cash crops we've got in the South! They do that what happens to our war and what happens to your goddam Lancashire mills?"

"We don't have cotton mills though Struan's have. There's more: To muzzle certain powerful factions on both sides of the House they're going to order all our opium plantations in Bengal torched and tea pl--"

"Jesus Christ!" Struan was aghast, Jamie purple and Dmitri in shock. "Then how do we trade in China for God's sake?

Opium to silver to..."

"Parliament don't give a tinker's fart for our Heavenly Triangle," Norbert said grimly, "or Asia, or China, or trade, only staying in office. They want to replant with tea." He replaced the paper in the folder and sat back on the desk, knowing full well the others would dearly love to know the veracity of the document, and what else was in it. "The Old Man said to tell you we've an informant close to the P.m.'s office, his whispers always been true in the past, and that's the God's truth. He says rightly we've got to get this bloody pair out, fast. Dmitri you've got to pressure them from your side. Tyler says whatever's necessary we'll do and asks you to do the same. Agreed?"

Dmitri said, "Agreed. Jesu, I can't believe it."

"I do." Struan raised his glass, wondering where Tyler Brock's trap was. "May they burn in Hell."

Solemnly they drank with him. Norbert refilled their glasses. His face had hardened to focus on Struan. "Next: we're all party to our duel. I don't need seconds and we agreed Wednesday dawn. Sorry, I'm on Ocean Witch tonight, sorry, Tyler's orders--so Wednesday's off. I sugg--"

"Why put it off, there's light enough now." The words were out before Malcolm could stop them and he was pleased that he had reacted so quickly and firmly though suddenly his brain seemed stretched. The silence intensified. Jamie had blanched.

"Not now." Eyes glinting and hiding his amusement, Norbert turned to Jamie and Dmitri, the formal seconds. "I suggest we postpone, gentleman's agreement, till I get back, about three weeks, eh? Then it'll be next day, whenever."

Jamie said, "That's a better idea, Tai-pan. Yes?"

After a moment the tightness in Struan's head seeped away. "Fine," he said, neither pleased nor disappointed but content that he had thrown down the gauntlet again. He did not notice Jamie and Dmitri cover their relief. They finished their drinks and left.

When he was quite alone, Norbert took out Tyler Brock's letter and reread it, his palms sweaty. The first part dealt with their spy's information.

The letter ended: "Get thy arse aboard Ocean Witch and leave on first tide, just thee no other passengers mind. Bring thy inner books, the Jappo gold-mining contract, and all bullion in thy control. We's to meet in Shanghai, secret--that's Witch's first port of call though manifest says direct Hong Kong-- Morgan, me and thee, fast as possible and secret, no one to be wiser. When thee returns to Yokohama, mayhaps thy bed'll be in godrotting Malcolm Struan's room, ay, with his doxie's tongue fawning all over thee if that's thy pleasure--soon she be for sale too.

We's just heard her Dad's fled Bangkok, like Hong Kong, more fraud and swindles, Frog officials this time. They be catching him, trying him and then the guillotine--Frogs bain't like our lily piss-arsed Peelers. Missus sends best wishes."

KYOTO Sunday, 16th November

KYOTO Sunday, 16th November: Well after dark, Yoshi and his guard, muffled and disguised in nondescript clothes as ordinary soldiers, wearily picked their way through the deserted streets of the sleeping, ancient capital where Emperors and the Imperial court had lived for centuries.

The city had been constructed in Chinese fashion with straight streets, the cross streets at right angles, with the sprawling, Forbidden Palace and grounds central to it.

Only the roofs could be seen behind its tall walls --six Gates in the walls. Yoshi avoided it carefully, wanting to elude Ogama's patrols and samurai guarding the Gates, and when he arrived, unheralded, at the Shogunate barrack complex, he went to his own quarters and soon sank gratefully into a steaming bath that could easily hold eight.

"How many fighters do I have in Kyoto, Akeda?" he asked, the aches of his days of forced march beginning to seep away.

Grim-faced, the old general lowered himself into the water beside him, the bath a metre deep. The bathhouse was within the inner redoubt, all maids had been dismissed and sentries posted outside.

"Eight hundred and two of which eighty are sick or recovering from wounds, all sworn to you, all trustworthy, all mounted. Plus the eighteen you brought with you," he said in his gravelly voice.

The moment Yoshi had arrived, Akeda had doubled all guards. He was a tough, hatomoto retainer whose family had served the Toranaga clan for generations and now he commanded their Kyoto garrison. "Not enough to protect you."

"I'm safe here." By Legacy law, this was the only defensible complex in Kyoto, capable of billeting five thousand men if need be, all other daimyos restricted to a maximum of five hundred men--with no more than ten daimyos in Kyoto at any one time, their comings and goings strictly controlled. Time and weak Councils of Elders had whittled Shogunate numbers to under a thousand. "Do you doubt that?"

"Inside our walls, no. So sorry, I meant outside."

"Allies? How many daimyos can I count on?"

Akeda shrugged irritably. "It was totally wrong to put yourself at such risk travelling with so few guards, even more dangerous to come to Kyoto.

If I had been warned I could have met you and escorted you in. If your father were alive he would have forbidden such dan--"

"But my father's not alive." Yoshi's lips set into a hard line. "Allies?"

"If you raised your own standard in Kyoto, Sire, your very own, most daimyos and most samurai would rush to your side, here and throughout the land, more than enough to enforce whatever you wanted to enforce."

"That could be construed as treason."

"Ah so sorry but truth is usually treasonous at your level, Lord--and very difficult to obtain." The weathered old face broke into a smile. "The truth: If you raise the Shogunate banner almost none, the daimyos here will not combine against Ogama of Choshu, not while he holds the Gates."

"How many samurai does Ogama have here?"

"They say over two thousand, handpicked men, all well placed in fortified guard houses around the palace, close to nominal guards on our Gates." Akeda smiled mirthlessly seeing Yoshi's eyes narrow. "Oh everyone knows it's against the law, but no one reminded him and no one has stood up to him. He's been sneaking them in in tens and twenties since he threw out that old fox Sanjiro, Katsumata and his Satsumas. You know they escaped by boat to Kagoshima?" He slid deeper into the water.

"Rumor has it Ogama has another two to three thousand Choshu samurai within ten ri."

"Eh?"

"His grip tightens on Kyoto, every day a little more, his patrols control the streets, except for an occasional shishi band who pick a fight with anyone they fancy does not honor sonno-joi, particularly us and anyone allied to the Shogunate. They are fools because we are equally opposed to gai-jin, their foul Treaties and want them out."

"Are shishi here in strength?"

"Yes. Rumor is they are getting ready for some mischief. A week ago some of them picked on an Ogama patrol, openly calling Ogama a traitor. He was furious and has been trying to hunt them down ever since. There is ..."

A knock stopped him. The Captain of the Guard opened the door. "Excuse me, Lord Yoshi, an emissary from Lord Ogama is at gate, requesting an audience with you." Both men gasped.

Yoshi said angrily, "How could he know I have arrived? For the last fifty ri we have been disguised. I waited outside Kyoto till dark, we bypassed the barricades and met no patrols. There must be a spy here."

"There are no spies inside here," Akeda grated. "On my head, Sire.

Outside they are legion, everywhere, for Ogama, shishi, and others--and you are not easily disguised."

"Captain," Yoshi said, "say that I'm asleep and may not be disturbed. Ask him to come back in the morning when he will be received with due honor."

The Captain bowed and began to leave. Akeda said, "Order the whole garrison on full alert!"

When they were alone, Yoshi said, "You think Ogama would dare attack me here? That would be a declaration of war."

"What he dares doesn't concern me, Sire. Only your safety. Now you are my responsibility."

The water heat was into Yoshi's joints now and he lay back letting the warmth take him for a moment, glad that Akeda was in command, reassured by his presence, although not swayed by his opinions.

He had not anticipated being discovered so soon.

Never mind, he thought, my plan is still good.

"Who is Ogama's running dog, his Court go-between?"

"Prince Fujitaka, a first cousin of the Emperor--his wife's brother is the Imperial Chamberlain."

The air hissed from Yoshi's mouth and the General nodded sourly. "Difficult to break that link, except with a sword."

"Unthinkable," Yoshi said shortly, and thought, unless it were possible. Either way very stupid to say such a thing out loud, even in private. "What news of Shogun Nobusada and Princess Yazu?"

"They're expected in a week an--"

Yoshi looked over sharply. "They are not expected for two or three weeks."

The old man's voice rasped. "Princess Yazu ordered them to cut back to the Tokaido and take the short route, clearly anxious to see her brother, to guide her husband to kowtow to him against all tradition--the sooner to bury the Shogunate and give it to Ogama."

"Even here, old friend, you should guard your tongue." "I am too old to worry about that now--now that your neck is in Ogama's vise."

Yoshi sent for maids who brought towels and dried both men and helped them into fresh yokata.

He picked up his swords. "Wake me at dawn, Akeda. I've much to do."

Just before dawn in the southern outskirts where the river curled south towards Osaka and the sea, twenty-odd ri away, where the lanes and streets and alleys were haphazard, so different from the straight-lined rigidity of the city, where the smell of feces and mud and rotting vegetation was heavy, Katsumata, the Satsuma shishi leader and confidante of Lord Sanjiro, awoke suddenly, slid from under the coverlet and stood in the darkened room, listening intently, sword ready.

No sound of danger. Below were the muted noises of maids and servants lighting the day's fires, chopping vegetables, preparing the foods of the day.

His room was on the second floor, under the rafters, in this, the Inn of Whispering Pines. A dog barked in the distance.

Something is wrong, he thought.

He opened the shoji silently. Along the passageway were other rooms, three occupied by other shishi, two per room. The last was for the women of the Inn.

To one side was a small window overlooking the forecourt. Below nothing moved. Again his gaze ranged the area and the gate and the street beyond.

Nothing. Again. Nothing. Then a glint, more felt than seen. At once he slid doors aside and hissed the code word. Instantly the six men leapt to their feet, sleep vanished, and rushed after him, swords in hand, down the rickety stairs, through the kitchen area and out the back door. At once over the fence and into the next garden in a carefully rehearsed retreat, into the next, over that fence and into the alleyway, down it, quickly diverting into a passage between the low hovels. At the end of this cul-de-sac he turned left and eased a door open. The alert guard's spear menaced his throat. "Katsumata-san! What's wrong?"

"Someone has betrayed us," Katsumata panted, and motioned to a Choshu youth, spare like himself, steel hard but half his age, nineteen.

"Circle, see, then come back. Do not be observed or get caught!"

The youth vanished. The others followed Katsumata across the messy entranceway into the hovel itself. Within were many rooms, this building discreetly connected to others on either side, and more shishi. Twenty, all armed, most captains of shishi cells, now awake and ready to fight or retreat--one of them, Sumomo, Shorin's sister, Hiraga's fiancee.

Silently they gathered, waiting for orders.

When they were escaping the Inn not one of the servants or maids had acknowledged them or their headlong departure, continuing their labors as though nothing had happened. All froze a few seconds later when an Ogama patrol burst through the front door, and started to go through the sleeping rooms, waking guests and girls and the mama-san while others leapt up the stairs to search the rooms aloft. Wails of surprise and fright and protest and squeals from the women now occupying the four rooms above, that, moments ago, had housed the shishi--again all part of Katsumata's careful planning.

In the ensuing uproar of cries and outrage from the mama-san, and as much as the enraged Ogama officer cursed and demanded to know where the ronin outlaws had gone, bashing a few of the male servants around the face, it was to no avail.

Everyone trembled and loudly protested innocence: "Ronin? In my respectable, law-abiding House? Never!" the mama-san cried.

But when the patrol had departed and they were all safe, the mama-san swore, her acolytes swore, and servants swore, everyone cursing the spy who had betrayed them.

"Katsumata-san, who was it?" Takeda asked, a heavy-set, almost neckless Choshu youth of twenty--a kinsman of Hiraga--his heart still racing from their narrow escape.

Katsumata shrugged. "Karma if we find him, karma if we do not. It only proves what I hammer into you: be prepared for betrayal, instant flight, instant fight, trust no man or woman except a blooded shishi and sonno-joi." Everyone in the crowded little room nodded.

"What about Lord Yoshi? When do we go for him?"

"When he's outside the walls." News of Yoshi's sudden arrival had come in the night, too late to intercept him.

"But, Sensei, we've adherents inside,"

Takeda said. "Surely that would be the place to surprise him, when he feels safe and his guard is down."

"Yoshi's guard is never down.

Never forget it. As to our people with him and inside his walls, they are ordered to remain calm and hidden, their presence and information is too valuable to risk.

In the unlikely event that Shogun Nobusada escapes our ambush, then they will be even more necessary."

Many grim smiles and hands tightening on weapons. The ambush was planned for dusk, in five days at Otsu, the last way station before Kyoto. Only a few Inns on both the North Road and the Tokaido coast road were considered fitting resting places for such august persons with their multitudinous guards, maids and servants, so their night stops were easy to know. And to set spies in place.

Ten shishi had been assigned the suicide mission and were already at Otsu, preparing. Every one of the hundred and seven shishi now gathered in various safe houses throughout Kyoto had begged to be on the attack team. At Katsumata's suggestion they had drawn lots. Three Choshu, three Satsumas and four Tosas gained the honor and were already around their target, the Inn of Many Flowers.

"Eeee," the girl, Sumomo, whispered excitedly, "only five days, then sonno-joi will be a fact. The Bakufu will never recover from that blow."

"Never!" Katsumata smiled at her, liking her, the best of all his women students--as Hiraga was best amongst the men, except for his Ori--admiring her bravery and strength and skills. She too had volunteered but he had forbidden it, considering her far too valuable a weapon to cast away on such a high-risk endeavor. He was glad that he had told her to wait here, overruling Hiraga's order to her to return to his father's home. She had brought the latest intelligence from Yedo: confirming rumors of the negotiated detente between Bakufu and gai-jin, the failed attack on Chief Minister Anjo but the successful killing of Utani and firing his mansion. And importantly, confirming the growing rift between Anjo and Toranaga Yoshi.

"Where this information came from," she had whispered to him, "I do not know but the mama-san said it was from the source you would know about."

Also she reported the facts of the manner of Shorin's death. But knew nothing further of Ori or Hiraga, other than that Ori's wound was healing and both were hiding out in the Yokohama Settlement, with Akimoto-- Hiraga, somehow, miraculously a confidant of a gai-jin official.

"You are right, Sumomo, the Bakufu will never recover," Katsumata said. "And our next hammer blow will end the Toranaga Shogunate forever."

Immediately following the successful elimination of Shogun Nobusada--at all costs leaving Princess Yazu unharmed--shishi would launch a mass attack on Ogama's headquarters to assassinate him, simultaneously Katsumata and others would seize the Gates, raising the banner of sonno-joi, declaring power had returned to the Emperor, at which time all true daimyos and samurai would flock to make obeisance.

"Sonno-joi," she murmured, exultant like all of them.

Except Takeda, one of the Choshu shishi.

Uneasily he shifted in his place. "I'm not sure about killing Ogama. He is a good daimyo, a good leader--he stopped Sanjiro seizing power, stopped the Tosa seizing power, he is the only daimyo enforcing the Emperor's orders to expel gai-jin. Isn't he closing the Shimonoseki Straits? Only our cannon oppose the gai-jin ships--only Choshu forces are in the front line, eh?"

"That's true, Takeda," a Satsuma shishi of renown said. "But what did Sensei Katsumata remind us? That Ogama has changed now he has sole control. If he honored the Emperor, now that he controls the Gates, simple for him to declare sonno-joi and return all power to the Emperor. That is what we will do when we have the Gates."

"Yes but..."

"Simple for him, Takeda. But what has he done? Only used his power to twist the Court to his whims. He wants to be Shogun.

Nothing less."

There were murmurs of agreement and then Sumomo said, "Please excuse me, Takeda, but Ogama is a major threat. You all know I am Satsuma, so is Sensei Katsumata, we agree Sanjiro also has done some good, but nothing for sonno-joi. So he must relinquish power, gladly or unhappily, and will go... will go. The same for Ogama. Yes he has done some good, but now he does bad. The truth is no daimyo who has the Gates and is so close to being Shogun will ever go willingly."

Takeda said, "Perhaps if we petitioned Ogama?"

She said, "Please excuse me but a petition will be of no value. When we possess the Gates, to prevent civil war and the possibility of any daimyo being tempted ever again, when we possess the Gates we must go further, we must request the Emperor to abolish the Shogunate, Bakufu and all daimyos."

Amid sounds of surprise at such a radical proposal, Takeda burst out, "That's mad. Without a Shogunate and daimyos who will rule? There'll be chaos! Who pays our stipends? Daimyos! The daimyos own all rice koku an--"

Katsumata said, "Let her finish, Takeda, then you can have your say."

"So sorry, Takeda, but this is Hiraga-san's idea, not mine. Hiraga said that, in future, daimyos will be figureheads only, the good ones, that power will be exercised through councils of samurai, of all ranks, equally, who will decide everything, from stipends, to which daimyo is worthy and who will succeed him."

"It will never work. It's a bad idea,"

Takeda said.

Many disagreed with him, the majority for her, but Takeda was unconvinced. Then she said, "Sensei, is it a bad idea?"

"It is a good idea, if all daimyos agreed," Katsumata said, well pleased that his teachings were bearing such fruit, that correctly they were arriving at the future by consensus. Like the others he was squatting on his heels, saying little, his mind on his close escape, inwardly seething at the new attempt on his life and narrow escape.

Too near this time, he thought, bile again in mouth. The net is closing. Who is the traitor? The traitor has to be in this room.

No other shishi units knew I was spending the night at the Whispering Pines. The traitor has to be here. Who is he--or even she? Who?

"Continue, Sumomo."

"I just wanted to add... Takeda-san, you are Choshu, so is Hiraga-san, others from Tosa, the Sensei and others and me Satsumas, others from other fiefs, but first we are shishi with duties above family, above clan.

In the New Order this will be the law--the First law for all Nippon."

"Well, if that's going to be the law..."

One of them scratched his head. "Sensei, when the Son of Heaven has power again what will we really do? Us? All of us?"

Katsumata glanced at Takeda. "What do you think?"

Takeda said simply, "I will not be alive, it matters not at all. Sonno-joi is sufficient and that I tried."

"Some of us must survive," Katsumata said, "to be part of the new leadership. More important for now: Toranaga Yoshi. How to eliminate him?"

"Whenever he comes out of his sanctuary we must be ready," someone said.

"Of course," Takeda said irritably, "but he will be surrounded by guards and I doubt if we can get near him. The Sensei said not to activate our men inside. It has to be outside but that will be very difficult."

"Half a dozen of us with bows from rooftops?"

"A pity we have no cannon," another said.

They sat there in the growing light, each within in his own mind, Yoshi a prize. But five days were foremost, then the attack on Ogama--the only way to take the Gates.

Sumomo said, "It could be easier for a woman to infiltrate the Toranaga bastion, neh?

Once inside..." She smiled.

Now clouds covered the sky. The afternoon was gloomy. Even so, the wide streets outside the walls of the Shogunate barracks were crowded with townspeople, buying and selling in the market opposite the main entrance, along with orange-clad Buddhist priests, their inevitable begging bowls outstretched, samurai strutting along, singly or in groups. Ogama patrols were prominent, each with the insignia of their fief embroidered on their clothes. Katsumata, Sumomo and half a dozen shishi strolled amongst the crowds, disguised and wearing large conical hats. Housewives, maids, servants and street sweepers and night soil collectors, porters and hawkers, moneylenders, letter writers and fortunetellers, palanquins and ponies for samurai and highborn and never a wheeled vehicle.

All who passed the Shogunate gates, open now but heavily guarded, bowed politely according to rank and hurried on. News that the Guardian of the Heir had arrived unbelievably without pomp had flashed through the city--and this, coupled with the never-in-historical-memory, imminent arrival of the awesome Shogun himself, arbiter of the Land, his personage shrouded with almost as much mystery as the Son of Heaven, and who, rumor had it, was even married to one of the Deity's sisters, was almost too much to bear.

At once samurai worriedly began checking the readiness of their weapons and armor, daimyos and their most trusted counselors trembled at the news, assessing their own positions and what to do and how to avoid taking any decisive action when the inevitable happened: Lord Yoshi clashed with Lord Ogama.

Activity on the street outside the Shogunate barracks ceased as a heavily armed cortege began to come out of the gates, Yoshi's banners to the fore, soldiers surrounding a closed palanquin, with more soldiers bringing up the rear.

At once everyone within seeing distance put their heads to the earth, all samurai stood still, then bowed deeply until the cortege had passed.

Only when Yoshi and his men had vanished did a semblance of normality return. Except that Katsumata and the others were cautiously following.

Half a mile away a similar armored cortege began snaking out of the main Choshu barracks, Ogama's banners to the fore, to even greater obeisances. Inside the palanquin was Ogama. For days he had been forewarned of his enemy's arrival, just as he had been monitoring the progress of Shogun Nobusada. His advisors had recommended waylaying Yoshi and destroying him outside Kyoto but he had refused. "Better he becomes my pawn.

Once he's here, where can he hide, where can he run?"' Details for the urgent meeting he had requested had been settled between their advisors.

It was to take place in the courtyard of an empty, neutral barracks, equidistant between their headquarters. Each side to have a hundred guards. Only twenty would be mounted.

Ogama and Yoshi would ride in protected, armored palanquins. One counselor each. They would arrive simultaneously.

Within moments spies were hurrying the news to the palace, to shishi groups, and to daimyos that the two most dangerous men in Nippon were, astonishingly, on the streets in armed columns at the same instant. Quickly a spy found Katsumata and whispered the where of the meeting, and by the time Ogama and Yoshi's samurai marched through the neutral gates, Katsumata and thirty men were stationed nearby--in case an opening for a suicide attack presented itself.

The courtyard was a hundred metres square with light wooden walls, easy to breach, the one-story barracks and extensive stables also of wood, dark with age. Opposing guards took up their positions, while others brought four folding chairs and placed them carefully in the center of the space.

The two men got out of their palanquins together and strode to the chairs and sat down. Then General Akeda and Basuhiro, Ogama's chief counselor, sat beside them. Basuhiro was in his forties, a narrow-eyed, scholarly samurai, his family hereditary heads of the Choshu bureaucracy for generations. Formally they bowed. Then the eyes of the two leaders locked.

Yoshi was two years younger than Ogama-- twenty-six--and tall where Ogama was short and thickset, his face clean-shaven in contrast to Ogama's heavy blue-black beard. His blood line was more regal though Ogama's was equally ancient, equally renowned, both of them balanced in ruthlessness, ambition, and secretiveness.

Leisurely they went through the obligatory compliments and polite questions, fencing, waiting to begin --hands easily on their sword hilts. "Your arrival is a pleasant surprise, Lord Yoshi."

"I had to come myself to make sure the wild rumors I heard were not true."

"Rumors?"

"Amongst them that Choshu forces inhibit Shogunate representatives, legal representatives from their positions around the Gates."

"A necessary measure to protect the Deity."

"Not necessary and against the law."

Ogama laughed. "The Deity prefers my protection to the traitorous Council of Elders who signed gai-jin Treaties against his wishes and continue to treat with them against his wishes instead of expelling them as he has asked." He motioned to Basuhiro. "Please show Lord Yoshi."

The scroll, signed by the Emperor, "requested the Lord of Choshu to assume command of the Gates until the distressing matter of the gai-jin was settled."

"It is not within the Deity's sphere to dictate matters temporal. That is the law--I must ask you to retire."

"Law? You refer to Toranaga law, Shogunate law, all of which the first of your line implanted by force which disavowed the ancient, Heaven-granted rights of the Emperor to rule."

Yoshi's lips set into a thin hard line.

"Heaven granted the Emperor rights to intercede between us mortals and the gods, everything in all matters spiritual. Matters temporal were always in the sphere of mortals, of Shoguns. The Emperor granted Shogun Toranaga and his line perpetual rights to deal with all matters temporal."

"I repeat that Emperor was forced to agree an--"

"And I repeat this is the law of the land that has kept the land at peace for two and a half centuries."

"It is no longer valid." Ogama waved the paper. "What a previous Emperor was forced to concede, this Emperor has freely cancelled."

Yoshi's voice became softer, more deadly.

"A temporary mistake. Clearly the Son of Heaven has been given misguided advice by self-seeking malcontents as he will soon realize."

"You accuse me?" The grip of all four men tightened on their hilts.

"I merely point out, Lord Ogama, your piece of paper was obtained by false information, and is not according to the law. The Presence is and always has been surrounded by ambitious men--and women.

That is why He granted perpetual rights to Shogun Toranaga and the following Shogunate to guide him in all matters an--"

A bellow of laughter cut him off and set everyone within the walls even more on edge.

"Guide? Guide did you say? The Deity's to be guided by Anjo Nori, Toyama, Adachi and now that slobbering half-wit Zukumura? By incompetent fools who overrule you at their leisure, make stupid agreements with vile gai-jin against all daimyo advice that lay the Land of the Gods and all of us open to destruction?" His face twisted with anger, "Or is he to await guidance from the child Nobusada to pull our nuts from the fire?"

"You and I, we need not wait, Ogama-dono," Yoshi said smoothly, knowing that his major strength was in his calm. "Let us discuss this in private--the two of us."

Ogama stared at him. A slight breeze picked up and rustled the banners. "When?"

"Now."

Thrown off balance a moment, Ogama hesitated. He glanced at Basuhiro. The small man smiled with the front of his face. "I would have thought that important matters should be discussed openly, Sire, not that my poor advice would be of value. Private agreements can sometimes be misinterpreted, by either side--that was your honored father's rule."

Ogama's eyes went back to Yoshi. "This Shogun visit to the Emperor, to kowtow, to "ask advice," the first time in the whole Toranaga period, this negates the very kernel of your Toranaga structure, eh? Worse it clouds any future settlement between the Son of Heaven and... future leaders, forof course mortals will rule, eh?"

"In private, Ogama-dono."

Ogama hesitated, dark eyes recessed in the weathered face. In spite of himself, in spite of knowing that this man was potentially the only one in the Land who could perhaps gather enough opposition to prevent him reaching the prize he sought, he enjoyed the clash, enjoyed meeting face to face. He waved his hand dismissing Basuhiro, who obeyed at once though clearly disapprovingly. Akeda bowed and also moved away, even more watchful for the expected treachery he had warned against.

"So ka?"

Yoshi bent forward slightly and kept his voice low, his lips hardly moving in case Basuhiro who had placed himself out of earshot, could lip-read. "The Council vote was four to one against me in favor of the Shogun visit. Of course the visit is a major mistake, Anjo cannot and will not see that. The present Council will vote as he wishes, on any subject. Nobusada is a puppet until he is eighteen, in two years, when formally he can create many changes and problems if he so wishes. Does that answer all your questions?"

Ogama frowned, astonished that his opponent would be so open. "You said, "in private,"

Yoshi-dono, what do you want to say in private that of course I will tell my advisors afterwards and you will tell yours."

"Some secrets are better kept between leaders, than..." Yoshi added deliberately, "than with certain retainers."

"Eh? What does that mean?"

"You have spies--retainers--within my gates, neh? How else did you know I arrived when I did? Surely you don't think I don't have men here, and spies within your walls?"

Ogama's face became grimmer. "What secrets?"

"Secrets we should keep. For example Anjo is very sick and will die within a year--or at the very least will have to resign." Yoshi had seen the flicker of immediate interest that Ogama could not totally contain. "If you want proof I could tell you how your spies can confirm it."

"Good, thank you," Ogama said, docketing that for immediate action without waiting for guidance. "I would like the means to prove such pleasant news. So?"

Yoshi pitched his voice lower. "Within this year --if we were allied--it will be easy to ensure you are appointed an Elder. Then jointly we would approve the other three."

"I doubt if we could ever agree, Yoshi-dono," Ogama said with a twisted smile, "neither on a Council, or which of us would be tairo, the Leader."

"Ah, but I will vote for you."

"Why would you be so stupid?" Ogama said blankly. "You must know I would at once demolish your Shogunate."

"As it exists, yes. I agree we should. I would like to do it now. If I had power I would do it now and make reforms together with the advice of a council of all daimyos, including Outside Lords." He saw Ogama's astonishment increase and knew he was gaining. "But I can't, I must wait until Anjo resigns or dies."

"Why not sooner than later, eh? If he's the boil on your balls, lance it! You are both in Yedo Castle, eh?"

"That would precipitate the civil war I do not want, no daimyo wants. I agree the Shogunate and Bakufu must be reorganized radically--your views and mine are very similar.

Without your support I could not achieve reform."

Yoshi shrugged. "It is difficult to believe but it is an offer."

The other man said, "With Anjo out of the way you could do whatever you wanted. You could tempt Sanjiro and the fool of Tosa, perhaps both together, eh? If you three allied against me, perhaps I am a dead man and my fief ended. Then you divide them and you are the power." His lips curled into the smile that was not a smile. "Or more likely they stay together and divide you."

"Much more likely. So why not choose power to us and not them. First, together we crush Tosa."

Again the short hard laugh. "Not easily, not with Sanjiro and his Satsuma legions ready to go to Tosa's aid at once--he could never allow us to smash Tosa because then he is isolated and we would turn on him. He would never allow me to smash Tosa which I could do in time, let alone allow an alliance between us. Not possible to split them although they hate each other. At length we would beat them but neither of us can easily sustain a lengthy war--and certainly never while the gai-jin are on our shores and ready to exploit us."

"Leave the gai-jin for the moment, except to say that I oppose the Treaties, want all gai-jin expelled, want--with all my strength-- to fulfill the Emperor's request, want the Elders replaced and most of the Bakufu dismissed."

Again Ogama stared at him, hardly able to believe his ears. "Such private thoughts, lethal thoughts, so openly spoken will not remain secret for long. If true."

"They are true. They are spoken privately, between us. I gamble with you, yes. But there is purpose: Nippon. I propose a secret alliance: together we could control all power. You are a good leader, you possess the Shimonoseki Straits, your cannon cannot stop the gai-jin ships until we can buy or build an equal fleet and modernize our armies--gai-jin ships, cannon and firearms are all we need. And you are strong enough and clever enough to understand the problems confronting us."

"They are?"

"Five main ones: a weak, stupid and out-of-date Shogunate supported by an even more stupid Bakufu; second, the nation is divided; third, the gai-jin and the need for us to modernize before their ships, cannons and rifles enslave us like they enslaved China; fourth, how to obliterate all shishi whose influence grows in spite of the smallness of their numbers. And then fifth: the Princess Yazu."

"Four I agree. But why is she a problem?"

"Nobusada is a child, querulous and simple, yes and I think he will remain one. On the other hand, she is strong, educated, and cunning, cunning beyond her years."

"But a woman," Ogama cut in irritably, "with no army, no purse, and once she becomes a mother all her energies will be expended on her sons. You see fire in a bowl of water."

"But say her husband is impotent."

"What?"

"That is what his doctors whisper to me. Say also he is totally within her spell--believe me this girl has all the wits and devilment of a wolf kami! This visit is her idea, the beginning of her plan: to put him and through him the Shogunate into the clutches of Court sycophants who have no temporal experience, who will misguide the Deity and wreck us all."

"She could never do it," Ogama said sourly, "however clever, no daimyo would accept such madness."

"Step one: the visit, step two: the Shogun takes up permanent residence in the palace. From then on, supported by the Emperor's requests, her brother's requests, decisions come down through her cronies, one of whom is your Prince Fujitaka."

"I do not believe that!"

"Certainly he will not admit it. I can give you proof in a little while that he is not really working for you but against you." Yoshi kept his voice down and filled with sincerity. "Once Nobusada is permanently inside the walls, she rules. That is why she is a problem."

Ogama sighed and sat back, again weighing what his adversary had been saying, much of which was true, wondering how far he could trust him. Certainly a secret alliance had possibilities, if the price extracted was high enough.

"The answer to her is to break the marriage," he said thinly. "The Emperor was asked to approve it, eh? Perhaps the Emperor would be happy to request the annulment. At once you neutralize her, gain back support from the many who detest the Toranaga connection as a gross impertinence... not my opinion," he added hastily seeing a momentary flush, not wanting an open clash yet, so much yet to hear and to decide.

After a moment, Yoshi nodded. "A good idea, Ogama-dono. It had not occurred to me."

Indeed it had not. The more he thought about it, the more titillating the offshoots became. "That should have priority. Excellent."

Across the square a horse neighed restlessly and skittered. Both men watched while the soldier holding the bridle gentled her, Ogama wondering in his most secret heart if, when he had eliminated Yoshi--and then, without a hiccup, Nobusada, the rest of the Toranagas and their allies--and became Shogun, if he should then inherit this Imperial Princess. No woman would ever give me a problem, she would be spawning sons so quickly even gods would smile.

"So what is your proposal?" he asked, his head reeling with the wonderful avenues a temporary alliance might open.

"We make a secret agreement from today to join forces and influence and formulate plans: first to smash the shishi, second to neutralize Anjo and Sanjiro of Satsuma, third a surprise attack on Tosa being a priority. The moment Anjo is dead or resigns, I will propose you as Elder in his place and guarantee your appointment. Simultaneously Zukumura will resign and a replacement, agreed in advance by both of us, put in his place. Three to two.

Toyama I keep, Adachi is replaced by your appointee. I vote for you to be the Council Leader."

"With the rank of tairo."

"To be Chief Minister of the Council, that is enough."

"Perhaps not. In return for what?"

"From today Tosa and Satsuma are considered enemy. You will commit all necessary force for a joint, surprise attack on Tosa the moment it is feasible. We divide his fief."

"As he is an Outside Lord, his lands should go to an Outside Lord."

"Perhaps, perhaps not," Yoshi said easily. "You agree never to ally yourself with Tosa and Satsuma against me, or the Shogunate. If, I should say when Satsuma and Tosa separately or together attack you I bind myself to support you at once with massive force."

"Next?" Ogama asked impassively.

"You agree not to take sides against me, as I agree not to take sides against you."

"Next?"

"From today, quietly, each in our own way, we work to annul the marriage."

"Next?"

"Last: the Gates. You agree that legal, legitimate Shogunate forces take back control from dawn tomorrow."

Ogama's face closed. "I already showed you I am the legal and legitimate representative of the Deity."

"I already pointed out, though the document is certainly signed correctly, the signature was, regretfully obtained by misrepresentation."

"So sorry, no."

"The Gates must come back into Shogunate control."

"Then we have little left to talk about."

Yoshi sighed. His eyes slitted. "Then, sadly, there will be a new request from the Emperor --for you to leave the Gates and leave Kyoto with all your men."

Just as coldly Ogama stared back at him.

"I doubt it."

"I, Toranaga Yoshi, guarantee it. In six or seven days Shogun Nobusada and his wife are within the palace. As Guardian I have immediate access to him--and to her. Both will see the correctness of my argument--about the Gates and much else."

"What much else?"

"The Gates should not be a problem for you, Ogama-dono. I would give guarantees not to flaunt this in your face, would "gratefully accept your kind invitation to assume control," would not fortify them against you. What is so difficult? The Gates are mostly a symbol.

I advise you formally, to continue the peace and ensure order in the Land until Anjo is onwards, the Shogunate should have their place there."

Ogama hesitated, in a quandary. Yoshi could easily have such another "request" sent to him, that he would have to accept. "I will give you an answer, in a month."

"So sorry, noon on the sixth day from now is the limit."

"Why?"

"In five days Nobusada reaches Otsu.

By the dusk on the sixth day Nobusada will go through the Gates. I require possession, temporary possession, before that." It was said so gently and so politely.

Their eyes locked. Noncommittally, but equally politely, Ogama said, "I will think about all of this, Yoshi-dono." Then he bowed, Yoshi bowed, both men walked to their palanquins and everyone in the square sighed with relief that their ordeal was over and the expected bloodbath had not happened.

Friday, 21st November

Friday, 21st November: The way station of Otsu had been bustling all day in a crescendo of excitement, anticipation paired with fear over final preparations for tonight's stop of the impossibly august visitors, Shogun Nobusada and the Princess Yazu.

For weeks the citizens had been brooming streets, cleaning all dwellings, hovels, outhouses--roofs, walls, wells, gardens manicured--new tiles, shojis, tatamis, verandas, with the Inn of Many Flowers, the best and biggest in the whole of Otsu, still in a state of near panic.

It had begun the moment it was known the Hallowed Travellers had declined to stay in the nearby Shogunate castle of Sakamoto that had graced the area since before Sekigahara, selecting the Inn instead: "Everything must be perfect!" the Patron wailed, awed and at the same time petrified. "Anything not perfect will merit beheading or at the very least a whipping, man woman or child! Tales of the honor done to us this one night will be remembered through the ages --our successes or failures! The Lord High Shogun himself? In all his glory? His wife, a sister of the Deity? Oh ko...."

Late in the afternoon, veiled, surrounded by guards and counselors and well screened from being observed, Shogun Nobusada hurried from his palanquin through the gates into the isolated section of the Inn reserved for him, with the Princess and their entourage of personal bodyguards, servants, her ladies-in-waiting and maids. There were forty traditional raised bungalows of four rooms each, surrounding the inner sanctum of the Shogun's sleeping quarters and bathhouse, many of the covered verandas interlocking in a maze of pleasing walks and bridges over delicate pools and streams that came down from tiny mountains and all self-contained within a high, thick hedge of manicured hemlocks.

The room was warm and spotless, new tatamis and polished charcoal braziers. Nobusada threw his veiled hat and outer clothes aside, tired and querulous. As always the palanquin had been uncomfortable and the ride bumpy. "I hate this place already," he said to their Chamberlain whose head was touching the floor beside those of an echelon of maids. "It's so small and stinks and I ache all over! Is the bath ready?"

"Ah yes Sire, everything as you require."

"Otsu at long last, Sire," Princess Yazu said gaily, sweeping in with several ladies-in-waiting, "tomorrow we arrive home and everything will be marvelous." She dropped her huge, also veiled hat, and outer clothes.

Maids scrambled to gather them up. "Tomorrow we will be home! Home, Sire! Bypassing a few way stations will be well worth it, neh?"

"Oh yes, Yazu-chan if you say so," he said, smiling at her, quickly caught up in her exuberance.

"You will meet all my friends, cousins, aunts, uncles, elder sister and baby sister, my dear stepbrother Sachi, he's nine this year..." she twirled with happiness, "and hundreds of less close relatives and in a few days you'll meet the Emperor and he will greet you as his brother too and solve all our problems and we will live in tranquility ever after. It's cold in here. Why isn't everything ready? Where is the bath?"

Their Chamberlain--a portly, greying man of fifty with few teeth and heavy jowls--had already been here a day with an advance party of special maids and cooks to prepare their quarters, and particular foods and fruits, with an abundance of polished rice, that the Shogun's delicate stomach required and the Princess demanded. Superb flower arrangements by a Master of ikibana abounded. Again he bowed, inwardly cursing her. "Extra charcoal heaters are ready, Imperial Highness. The bath is ready, your light meal just as you and Shogun Nobusada ordered, dinner the same. It will be the most sumptuous..."

"Emiko! Our bath!"

At once her chief lady-in-waiting led her out and down the corridor, cocooned by other ladies and maids like the queen bee she was.

Nobusada glared up at the Chamberlain and stamped his tiny foot. "Am I to be kept waiting? Show me the bath and send for the masseuse, I want my back rubbed now. And make sure there is no noise--I forbid noise!"

"Yes Sire, the Captain issues the order daily and I will send the masseuse to the bathhouse, Sire. Sako will b--"

"Sako? She's not as good as Meiko--where's Meiko?"

"So sorry, she's sick, Sire."

"Tell her to get better! Tell her to be better by sunset. No wonder she's sick. I feel sick! This foul journey! Baka! How many days on the road? It should be at least fifty-three and it's less than... why all the haste..."

The Captain of the Escort waited for the Chamberlain in the garden. He was in his thirties, bearded, highly trained, a renowned Master of Swords. His adjutant hurried up.

"Everything is secure, sir."

"Good. It should all be routine by now," the Captain said, his voice weary and edged. Both wore light travelling armor and hats and two swords over Shogunate tunics and pantaloons. "Only one more day--then our problems get worse. I still cannot believe the Council and Guardian would allow such a dangerous venture."

His adjutant had heard the same thing said every day. "Yes, Captain. At least we will be in our own barracks, with hundreds more men."

"Not enough, never enough, we should have never left.

But we did and karma is karma. Check the rest of the men and make sure the evening roster of guards is correct. And then tell the horse master to look at my mare, to take a look at her left foot, she may have split her hoof..."

Shoeing horses was unknown in Japan at this time.

"She almost shied passing the barrier, then come back and report." The man hurried away.

The Captain was more satisfied than usual.

His tour of the Inn and its grounds within the high, giant perimeter bamboo fences, and particularly this sector, the hedged area with a single gateway, had reassured him that the Shogun's cluster of bungalows was easy to defend, that all other travellers had been forbidden the Inn for this night, that the watch knew the password and were clear on their prime duty: no one was allowed within five metres of the Shogun or his wife uninvited, and no one, ever, with any weapons--except the Guardian, the Council of Elders and himself, and any guards accompanying him. The law was well known, the punishment for an armed approach death, for both the armed man and the unalert guards--unless pardoned by the Shogun personally.

"Ah, Chamberlain! Is there any change of plans?"

"No, Captain." The old man sighed and mopped his brow, his jowls shaking. "The August Ones are bathing as usual, then they will rest as usual, take their real bath and massage at sunset as usual, after which they will dine as usual, play Go as usual and so to bed. All is in order?"

"Here, yes." The Captain had a garrison of a hundred and fifty samurai at any one time within the compound that measured about two hundred metres square. A unit of ten men guarded the only entrance, a pleasing bridge over a stream that led to tall decorative beams and equally ornate gates. Around the whole perimeter hedge a samurai was stationed every ten paces. These would be relieved by fresh units from the six hundred samurai lodging in barracks just outside the main gate or nearby in other Inns. Patrols would scour the garden and fence line discreetly as noise and an obvious samurai presence infuriated the Princess and therefore her husband.

Above them the clouds were thickening, a bleak, misted sun not yet on the horizon, a high wind toying with the clouds. It was cold and promised to be colder. Servants were lighting lanterns amongst the shrubs, their light already reflected in the pools, and glistening off rocks that had been moistened for that effect moments ago.

"It's beautiful," the Captain said.

"Easily the best, though most of the other Inns have been good." This was the first time he had ever made such a journey. All his life he had been within or near Yedo Castle, with or near Nobusada, or the previous Shogun. "Beautiful, yes, but I'd rather have the Lord Shogun and his wife in Sakamoto Castle than here. You should have insisted."

"I tried, Captain but... but she decided."

"I will be glad when we are in our own barracks, when they are within the palace walls and even gladder when we and they are safe at home in Yedo Castle."

"Yes," the Chamberlain said, privately weary of his Master and Mistress and the constant fault finding, nagging and petulance. Still, he thought, his back aching, wanting a bath and massage too, and the attentions of his youthful friend, I suppose I would be the same if I was as exalted as them, so mollycoddled from birth, and only sixteen. "May I ask the password, Captain?"

"Until the middle of the night it is "Blue Rainbow."

Two hundred metres away on the eastern outskirts of the village, an old broken-down farmhouse huddled at the end of an alley not far from the Tokaido and the Otsu barrier. Inside, the leader of the shishi attack team, a Choshu youth called Saigo glowered at the farmer, his wife, four children, father and mother, brother and a maid who knelt petrified, crowded into a corner. This was the only room and it served for living eating working sleeping. A few scrawny chickens in a rafter cage clucked nervously. "Remember what I told you. You know nothing, have seen nothing."

"Yes Lord, certainly, Lord," the old man whimpered.

"Shut up! Turn your backs, face the corner and close your eyes, all of you. Tie your sashes around your eyes!"

They obeyed. Instantly.

Saigo was eighteen, tall and strongly built, with a rugged handsome face and he wore a short dark tunic and pantaloons similar to the samurai at the Inn and two swords, straw sandals, no armor. When he was satisfied the peasants were blind as well as docile, he sat beside the door and peered out through rips in the window paper and began to wait.

He could see the barrier and guard houses clearly. It was not yet sunset so the barrier was still open to latecomers. It had taken him and his men many days to find this place, ideal for their purposes. The back door led to a maze of alleys and paths, perfect for a sudden retreat.

This afternoon, the moment the Shogun's party had passed through the barrier, he had taken sudden possession.

Footsteps. His hand readied his sword, then relaxed. Another youth came in silently, to be followed by another from a different direction.

Soon seven more were within. Outside one stood guard, another at the corner of the alley that joined with the Tokaido, with an eleventh man, hiding in the village, to act as courier to gallop the glad tidings of success to Katsumata in Kyoto that would signal the attack on Ogama and the Gates. They were tough young men, dressed as he was without armor and identification, formerly goshi--the lowest rank of samurai--now ronin, all more or less the same age, nineteen to twenty-two.

Only Saigo, eighteen, and Tora, seventeen, his Satsuma second in command, were younger. Drafts through rents in the window shivered them --that and their tension.

With signs he motioned them to check their swords, shuriken and other lethal weapons--no need for words during the whole operation. As much as could be planned had been decided over the days.

They all agreed it was to be conducted in silence.

A glance out of the window. The sun was touching the horizon, sky clear. It was time.

Solemnly he bowed to them and they bowed to him.

He turned his attention back to the peasants.

"Three men will be outside," he said harshly, "One rustle out of any of you until I get back and they'll fire the farm."

Again the old man whimpered.

Saigo gestured to the others. They followed him. So did the outside guard and the one on the corner. No turning back now. Those who were Buddhist had said a final prayer before a shrine, those who were Shinto had lit a last stick of incense and so joined their spirit with the thread of smoke that represented the fragility of life. All had written their death poems and sewn them to the breast of their tunics. Proudly they had given their correct fiefs, only the names were false.

Once in the alley they split up into pairs, each taking an independent route. Soon they were in position, crouched down in the tall weeds and coarse vegetation beside the perimeter fence at the back of the Inn, within sight of each other, Saigo at the southeast corner. The fence was three metres high and strongly made of giant bamboo and spiked at the top. By now shadows were losing form in the fading light.

Waiting. Heartbeats heavy in their chests, palms sweaty, the slightest rustle an enemy patrol. Strange, strong taste in every mouth.

Stabbing pains in the loins. Somewhere nearby a cricket began its urgent mating call, reminding Saigo of his death poem: A cricket with its joy filled song, Dies quickly anyway.

Better to be joy filled than sad.

He felt his eyes mist as the sky was misting.

So beautiful to be so happy yet so sad.

From inside the fence they could hear voices of servants, maids, occasionally samurai, the clatter of metal dishes for the kitchen area was not far away. In the distance a samisen and the singer.

Waiting. Sweat fell down Saigo's face.

Then he heard the approaching, barely perceptible rustle of a kimono and a girl whisper, "Blue Rainbow... Blue Rainbow." Then silence.

Again sounds of the Inn.

At once he motioned to Tora, beside him.

Silently this youth hurried to the other units and gave them the words and came back again. At Saigo's signal each pair found the ladders they had made, camouflaged and hidden in the wild undergrowth so carefully, set them against the fence.

Again he watched the sky. As the last thread of sunlight went, another signal and they went up and over the fence as one man, jumping to the ground that was soft and tilled, crouching motionlessly in the meticulous shrubbery but ready for an instant frontal attack.

Miraculously, no alarm yet. They looked up, warily. Ahead, sixty metres away, was the Shogun's section, the thatched roofs showing just above the tall, thick hedge of hemlock, the roofs of the central sleeping section and bathhouses a little higher. The main entrance was well away from them, its doors still open. Everything exactly as they expected. Except for the guards, many more than planned for. Bile jumped into their mouths.

To their right were the main kitchens with great steaming cauldrons and massed staff--more guards there.

Left and all around the compound were a scattering of guest cottages, in other gardens with streams and bridges, each with a well-tended entrance path curling through the shrubs. Silence there and no lights within, just one lantern at the front veranda. More anguish, they had expected them to be occupied and to serve as cover and a necessary diversion.

Karma, Saigo thought. Even so our positions are as we predicted, so are those of the enemy, the plan is good and we know the password. During the previous two weeks, disguised as an ordinary samurai traveller, he had found the correct courtesan and inveigled his way into her emotions so that soon he had been taken on a secret guided tour of the grounds--even to the places where the Hallowed Travellers were to rest.

"Why not?"' he had whispered, "Who will know?

They're not due here for days--ah you are so beautiful. Let us join where a Shogun and a sister of the Son of Heaven will join--that will be something to whisper to our grandchildren, eh? I think I shall never leave you..."

It had been equally easy to find a bathhouse maid who was secretly fanatic for shishi, and to persuade her there was no risk to listen and whisper a few words into the night.

He felt Tora touch his arm. Anxiously the youth pointed. A patrol had come through the far gates. It began to circle the grounds. Small pools of light were beneath the lanterns.

Inevitably the patrol would come this way and be very close. His signal, the call of a night bird, gave the order.

At once they sank deeper into the foliage and kept their heads lowered, hardly breathing. The patrol approached, and then passed without seeing them--just as Katsumata had forecast when he had suggested their attack plan: "Initially it will be easy to be missed in the dark. Never forget surprise is with you. Your infiltration will be totally unexpected. Who would dare to attack the Shogun when he is surrounded by so many men? At a way station? Impossible! Remember, with stealth, surprise and ferocious speed two or three of you will reach the kernel--and one is enough."

Saigo watched the enemy marching away. A marvelous glow pervaded him and all his confidence returned. Another short wait until the enemy patrol had turned the corner, then he motioned for the attack teams to move into their predetermined positions. Protected from view by the shrubbery, four men slithered away to his right, two to his left. When all were in position, he took a deep breath to help slow his heartbeat. His signal, again the call of a night bird, gave the order to begin.

At once the pair on his far right eased out of the shrubs onto the path, adjusting the ties on their pantaloons, and began strolling away, their arms around each other as lovers will. Within moments they had been noticed by the guards at the nearest hedge.

"You two halt!"

The two youths obeyed and one called out, "Blue Rainbow, Blue Rainbow, Lord Sergeant" and both laughed, pretending to be shy at being seen, then continued to stroll away, hand in hand.

"Halt! Who are you?"

"Ah, so sorry, just friends on a nightly stroll," the youth said in his softest, most gentle voice, "Blue Rainbow, have you forgotten our password?"

One of the samurai laughed and said, "If the Captain catches you "strolling" in the bushes around here you'll get more than a Blue Rainbow and both pairs of cheeks will know another type of beating!"

Again both youths pretended to laugh.

Unhurried, they walked away, ignoring more strident calls to stop. Finally the Sergeant shouted, "You two. Come here, at once!" They faced him a moment, calling out plaintively there was no harm in what they were doing. Saigo and the others, covered by the diversion had been crawling into final positions. Taut with excitement that they had not been noticed, they rested a second, knowing this diversion was almost over. The sound of the night bird Saigo made this time was loud enough to reach the two youths.

Without hesitation, they pretended to laugh and ran off gaily, hand in hand, directly away from the guards as though playing a game. Their path carelessly took them through a pool of light and allowed them to be seen clearly for the first time. With a shout of rage the Sergeant and four men charged in pursuit. Sentries at the far main gate peered into the darkness to see what was happening, and those guards at the hedge who could see beckoned others nearby, all of them alert.

The two shishi were quickly surrounded. Back to back, swords ready, they stood silently at bay under a barrage of questions, nothing effeminate now in their stance or the way their lips were drawn back from the teeth.

Enraged, the Sergeant stepped forward a pace.

The youth opposing him readied. His right hand darted into his sleeve and came out with a shuriken and before the Sergeant could duck or move aside the five-pointed circle of steel was embedded in his throat and he fell burbling, choking in his own blood. Both shishi leapt to the attack but neither could break out of the net and though they fought bravely, wounding three of the samurai, they were no match for the others who, though wanting to disarm them and capture them alive, could not do so.

One of the youths took a sword thrust through the lower part of his back and cried out, severely wounded but not enough to kill him immediately. The other whirled to his aid and in that instant was mortally wounded and crumpled, dying. "Sonno-joi," he gasped.

Aghast the other heard him, made one last impotent attempt to close with an attacker, then abruptly turned his sword on himself and fell on it.

"Find the Captain," a samurai panted, blood streaming from a sword slash in his arm. One of the others ran off as the rest collected around the bodies, the Sergeant still gurgling though dying fast. "Nothing we can do for him. Never seen a shuriken so fast." Someone turned the two dead men over. "Look, death poems! Shishi all right--eeee, both Satsumas! They must have gone mad."

"Sonno-joi!" another muttered, "that's not mad."

"It's mad to say that aloud," a hard-faced ashigaru warned him. "If an officer hears you..."

"Listen, these motherless dogs had the password, there's a traitor here!" More nervously they looked at each other.

Over on the right the kitchen staff were transfixed, not knowing what was going on. Many samurai had been drawn away from the hedge and stood gaping at the bodies, creating the opening Katsumata and Saigo had planned.

Again Saigo signalled. His two strongest fighters broke out of the bushes on his extreme right and ran for the far southeast corner. Almost at once they were spotted. Cursing, the two nearest samurai rushed to intercept as others ran to their aid. Violent hand-to-hand combat began again, darkness helping the attackers immeasurably.

One defender screamed and went down clawing his half-severed arm. More samurai were drawn away from the hedge immediately in front of Saigo and just before the samurai overwhelmed the two fighters, in a coordinated maneuver the two shishi broke off the battle and pretended to flee pell-mell for the fence near the kitchens, well away from Saigo and the three final teams. As they fled they unwound ropes from their waists with small grapples on the end. Nearing the fence they threw them deftly, caught the top, and began to climb, their pursuers redoubling their efforts.

By now all attention was on these two. Guards near the entrance and the far side of the Shogun's complex, still not knowing exactly what was happening other than that two ronin were loose in the compound and were now trying to escape over the fence, hurried to intercept them. Others ran out and down the perimeter fence to catch them on that side.

One of the shishi reached the top of the fence but before he could scramble over it a knife impaled him and he fell backwards into the shrubberies. The other man abandoned his rope, leapt beside his friend and just had time to see him bury his own knife in his throat to avoid capture before he went down under a flurry of blows. He twisted and turned and fought with great strength but was soon disarmed and pinioned to the earth by four samurai.

"Now, who are you?" a samurai asked, out of breath. "Who are you and what's your game?"

"Sonno-joi... obey your Emperor," the man panted and again tried to fight out of their grip but could not. Others were collecting around him and he was confident he had done his part in the attack and could continue his diversion for a little while longer, unafraid of capture because there was a poison vial in the neck of his kimono within reach of his teeth. "I am Hiroshi Ishii of Tosa, and demand to see the Shogun."

From where he was hidden Saigo and the five men with him could hear their compatriot but their attention was fixed on the hedge facing them and on the far entrance. The few remaining guards left it to gather around the doomed man and now, at last, the target was open. "Attack!"

The six men leapt to their feet and charged, Saigo and Tora leading the wedge. They had covered perhaps half the distance before there was a warning shout and samurai surrounding the bodies of the first team began running back to head them off. At once Ishii redoubled his efforts to escape, shouting and raving to distract those holding him but a fist smashed him into unconsciousness.

"You two stay here," the samurai panted, sucking his bruised knuckles. "Don't kill the son of a dog, we'll need him alive." He got up painfully and limped off to join the others, a bad sword cut on his thigh.

Some of the defenders were gaining on the six shishi who still ran directly at the hedge that curled away in both directions. "Now!" Saigo ordered. Immediately the pair to his right turned back into defensive positions, shurikens in their hands. Warily the running samurai slowed, darted left and right, feinted, then attacked, the shurikens finding targets but not wounding badly enough and another hand-to-hand began, six samurai against the two of them.

Reinforcements were running from the main gate, others from the first diversion, all of them, defenders and attackers, converging on their lodestar--the gateway to the Shogun's lair. When the men from the Inn's main gate saw to their horror that the hedges and entrance had been left completely unguarded--though the doors were closed--with Saigo and three others running fast and not far from the hedge, they swung away to position themselves between the shishi and the entrance, leaving others to attack them, and frantically raced to protect the gate. Behind Saigo and Tora the two fighters were attacking, retreating, still covering their rear. Both men had sustained wounds but two samurai were on the ground writhing with pain. Four against two with others not far away.

"Now!" Saigo ordered and the pair on his left broke away and stabbed for the entrance. No doubt they would reach it before the defenders and this caused others heading for Saigo also to change direction and make for the entrance as well. At once Saigo and Tora whirled and joined the fight behind them. Their ferocious charge dispatched two of the remaining four samurai and helped eliminate the remaining enemy--only Saigo and Tora, though breathing heavily, were untouched.

At once Saigo ordered, "Go!" the two men sang out, "sonno-joi" and, painfully, rushed to support the attack on the entrance, drawing off more samurai, leaving Saigo and Tora to resume their headlong charge for the hedge.

The first pair of shishi attacking the gateway reached the narrow path and ran for the doors. One man began to push them open. At that moment an arrow thwacked viciously into the wood and then both men were hit and shortly riddled with more arrows from bowmen amongst the reinforcements. They cried out, impotently tried to continue, and died on their feet. The second team gained the pathway. One rushed at the oncoming samurai, the other went for the gates, stumbled over his dead comrades, and died, pierced with four arrows. His friend hit the samurai head-on, and was quickly killed. Only minutes had passed since the beginning.

Now the way was open to the pathway. In moments the fleetest of the defenders would reach the entrance and then there would be no way that Saigo and Tora, almost at the end of their run and due to turn for the gateway, could reach their goal. So the pace of the defenders slackened, the bowmen took aim leisurely, confident of victory. To their astonishment, instead of wheeling along the hedge, Saigo and Tora kept the straight line of their rush and hurled themselves forward at the hedge, side by side.

Their momentum caused them to burst through it, that and the accuracy of their leap. Over preceding days, Saigo found that though the branches were tightly interwoven, the trunks of the trees were about half a metre apart, and, he had surmised, if judged correctly, a rush would carry them through.

It did, successfully, though the branches lashed them bloodily around the face and arms. The two men picked themselves up exactly where Saigo had planned--on the meandering path beside the veranda that led to the bathhouse. For a moment no one was in sight, then several terrified maids and servants gaped at them from a doorway and vanished. Saigo led the soundless dash down the path and up the steps and around the veranda corner.

Two anxious officials came out of nowhere, unarmed and unprepared, one of them the Chamberlain.

Saigo cut both down, killing the Chamberlain instantly, and wounding the other, and charged onwards.

Tora finished off this man, jumped over the bodies and rushed in pursuit.

Along the veranda and around the corner and smashing through the light shoji screen to burst into the bathhouse. Half-naked maids stared at them panic stricken: swords bloody, faces scratched and bloody, kimonos ripped and bloody. The air was warm, sweet-smelling, humid.

Saigo bellowed with rage. The steaming, shallow bath, fed from a natural hot-spring was empty, so were the four wooden steam boxes, and so were the massage tables, except one. In an instant he saw every detail of the tiny, naked girl lying there, the shock in her eyes, her half-opened mouth, teeth blackened, her plume of jet hair twisted into a stark white towel, more towels under her, small breasts and limbs and feet, dark brown nipples, all of her curved, inviting, golden skin now pinkish from the heat of the bath, oiled and fragrant--and the blind, half-naked masseuse, standing motionlessly over her, head cocked, listening intently.

So easy to kill the girl and all of them but his orders were not to harm the Princess at all costs.

Nonetheless his fury at being cheated--for their timing had been perfect, their intelligence perfect and the Shogun's pattern never varying--made his head seem about to explode. The fury turned to lust and shivered him, all of him wanting her, now, fast, brutally, any way, the wife before the husband, death to both of them but first her splayed.

His lips came away from his teeth and he charged across the expanse. The maids scattered, one fainted, the Princess gasped and lay motionless, petrified. But his obsession with the Shogun diverted him and his rush bypassed her and took him to the shoji door where again he crashed through and, once more, with Tora close behind, unerringly led the run along verandas towards the sleeping quarters and his prey, gardens to his right, rooms left--no longer a thinking man just a raging killing animal. Shoji doors were open, faces there.

Maids and youths and ladies-in-waiting and servants attracted by the commotion, dressed or half dressed for the evening or for bed or for bath, gaped at them.

No guards in these rooms. Yet.

Still no opposition. Yet.

A few more rooms to pass, doors, faces, and then he would turn the last corner and last veranda. Saigo's anticipation crested for this was a delightful covered walkway, gardens right and left, no more rooms with waiting guards to worry about, and at the end the Shogun's sleeping quarters where he himself and the courtesan had secretly bedded.

All senses tuned for expected danger, Tora a few paces behind him, running as fast, sounds of men approaching enemy, pounding feet.

Another room passed. Only one more doorway, last danger. Faces at the door, a doctor and a coughing youth stared at him in shock, then he was around the corner and, together, they began the last charge.

Both men skidded to a stop. Their hearts stopped. Ahead an officer and three samurai came out of the sanctuary door, swords drawn, to stand waiting for them. The barest hesitation then, Saigo rushed to the kill, his or theirs, Tora equally committed--only these four men between them and the Shogun they protected. "Sonno-joi!"

The Captain held the first charge, parried the blow and locked sword to sword, then twisted and hacked at Saigo as two other samurai attacked Tora, the last staying in reserve as ordered. Saigo deflected the blow and slashed back but missed. Another ferocious flurry of blow and counterblow, Saigo supremely confident, so near to success, pressing the attack, feeling superhuman and that his blade, almost of its own volition, was seeking enemy flesh as it would in seconds destroy the boy Shogun ...

There was a blinding flash behind his eyes, the pounding in his head soared and he suddenly saw that doctor again and that boy again and remembered someone telling him it was believed the boy Shogun had a hacking cough--no portraits of him, of course, not one of the shishi ever having seen him, of course: "If you do not catch him in the bathhouse,"

Katsumata had said, "you will recognize him by his blackened teeth, the cough, his nearness to the Princess, the quality of his robes--remember, both he and the Princess detest guards nearby."

With enormous, heightened strength, howling like a wild beast, Saigo hacked at the Captain who slipped on the polished floor and was, for an instant, helpless. But Saigo did not deliver the death blow, instead whirled back for the boy--and the last samurai saw the opening he had been ordered to wait for. His sword went deep into Saigo's side but Saigo felt none of it and cut impotently at the Shogun wraith in front of him, again and once again and slid to the floor stabbing, already dead but not knowing it.

The Captain had leapt to his feet and hurtled to the attack on Tora, impaled him, and then like an expert butcher, withdrew the blade and beheaded him with a single blow.

"Do the same to him," he gasped, pointing at Saigo, his chest heaving as he tried to regain his breath, and rushed back up the veranda. At the corner, men from the entranceway came pounding up, headed by his second in command. He cursed him and them, shoved him out of the way and hurried past saying: "Every man on this shift ordered to the square outside the Inn, disarmed and on their knees. You too!"

His heart was still pounding and he was enraged and not yet over his panic. Just before sunset Nobusada had testily sent for him: "Take all guards from inside the hedge. Ridiculous to have them here, the rooms so small and awful! Are you helpless, so inept you can't secure this nasty little Inn? Must we bathe with guards, sleep with guards, eat with them looking at us? Go away, tonight I forbid all guards here!"

"But Sire I must ins--"' "You will insist on nothing. No guards inside the hedge tonight. This meeting is ended!" There was nothing the Captain could do, but then there was no need to worry. Of course everything was secure.

When the first muffled sounds of the attack had reached him he was making a final, satisfactory circuit inside the hedge, four men with him--the hedge also acting as a fine sound barrier. By the time he had reached the gate doors and looked out, he had been appalled to see four men charging the hedge, two rushing for the gates. His first thought was for the Shogun and he ran for the bathhouse but the Chamberlain had called out: "What's going on?"' "Men are attacking us, get the Shogun out of the bath!"

"He's not there, he's with the doctor..."

Another panic dash, bypassing the bathhouse to the inner quarters, finding them empty, a frightened maid saying that the Lord Shogun was in one of the rooms on the next veranda and then coming out and seeing the two men charging, no way to protect the Shogun now but thinking if these two were attacking here perhaps they had missed his liege lord...

He knew he would not truly be alive until he found him alive. This took no time.

Nobusada was coughing and raving, still in fright, others around him adding to the tumult. Quickly he learned the Princess was unharmed though also hysterical. His panic left him. He disregarded Nobusada's rage, his voice icy, and every soldier nearby quailed: "Get a courier and four men on the double to rush a report ahead and except for this present shift, all guards here on the double, every man within the compound, fifty men around the sleeping quarters, two men at each corner of every veranda.

And ten men permanently in sight of the Lord Shogun until he and she are safely within the palace walls."

In midmorning the next day, within the palace walls, Yoshi hurried through the outer rim of gardens in the light rain. General Akeda was beside him. "This is terribly dangerous, Sire," he said, afraid that every shrub or thicket, however carefully tended, might hide enemies.

Both men wore light armor and swords--a rarity here where all samurai and all weapons were forbidden, except for the ruling Shogun and an immediate guard of four, the Leader of the Elders and Guardian of the Heir.

It was almost noon. The two men were late and noticed none of the beauty surrounding them, lakes and bridges and flowering shrubs and trees groomed and cherished over centuries. Whenever a gardener saw them, the man would kowtow until they were out of sight. Over their armor were straw overmantles against the rain. All morning there had been intermittent showers. Yoshi's pace quickened.

This was not the first time he had hurried to a clandestine meeting within the palace grounds--safe but never truly safe. So difficult to have a truly safe meeting anywhere, with a spy, informer, or adversary--in secret almost impossible-- always afraid of ambush, poison or hidden bowmen or musketeers. The same applied to every daimyo. His own safety factor he knew was very low. So low in fact that his father and grandfather had taught him to accept the fact that death from old age had no place in their karma.

"We are as safe as anywhere on earth," he said. "It would be unthinkable to break a truce here."

"Yes, except for Ogama. He is a liar, cheat, he should be meat for vultures, his head spiked."

Yoshi smiled and felt better. Since the appalling news of the shishi attack had arrived in the middle of the night he had been more edged than ever --more than when on the death of his uncle he had been passed over as Shogun and Nobusada appointed instead, more than when tairo Ii had arrested him, his father and their families and sent them to rot in foul quarters. He had made preparations to rush two hundred men to meet the entourage at the Kyoto barrier, and at dawn had sent Akeda secretly to Ogama to relate what had happened and why a large party of men equipped for war were leaving his stockade.

"Tell Ogama all that we have been told, and answer any of his questions, I want no mistakes Akeda."

"There will be none from me, Sire."

"Good. Then give him the letter and request an immediate answer." Yoshi had not told Akeda what the letter contained, nor did his general ask. And when Akeda returned Yoshi said, "Tell me exactly what he did."