"Gai-Jin" - читать интересную книгу автора (Clavell James)

GAI-JIN BOOK ONE

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.