Still enraged he followed him down the street, wanting to smash the eyes that watched from every opening and crush the whispers in his wake.

"There, Lord."

Hiraga waved him away. The sign outside the open shop that was filled with goods of all description but empty of people announced that this was the residence and place of business of Ichi Ryoshi, shoya, rice merchant and banker, the Yokohama agent for the Gyokoyama. The Gyokoyama was a zaibatsu--meaning a closely knit family complex of businesses-- immensely powerful in Yedo and Osaka as rice traders, sak`e and beer distillers, and all-important, bankers.

He took hold of himself. With great care and politeness he knocked, squatted on his heels and began to wait, trying to dominate the pain from the beating he had taken from the ten-man patrol. At length a strong-faced, middle-aged man came out into the open shop, knelt and bowed. Hiraga bowed back equally, introduced himself as Nakama Otami and mentioned that his grandfather was also shoya, not saying where but giving enough information for him to know it was the truth and that, perhaps, as there was no ryokan to stay at, the shoya might have a room for paying guests that was not being used. "My grandfather also is honored to have dealings with the Gyokoyama zaibatsu--his villages sell all their crops through it," he had said politely. "In fact I would like you, please, to send my pledge to them in Osaka, and would be grateful if you would advance me some cash against it."

"Yedo is nearer than Osaka, Otami-san."

"Yes, but Osaka is better for me than Yedo," Hiraga said, not wanting to risk Yedo where there could be leaks to the Bakufu. He noted the cool, unafraid appraisal and hid his hatred but even daimyos had to be careful when dealing with the Gyokoyama or their agents, even Lord Ogama of Choshu. It was common knowledge that Ogama was heavily in debt to them, with years of future revenue already pledged as security.

"My company is honored to serve old customers. Please, how long would you wish to stay in my house?"' "A few days, if it would not inconvenience you." Hiraga told him about Tyrer and the problem of the soldiers, only because he was sure the news had preceded him.

"You may stay at least three days, Otami-san. So sorry, but you must be prepared to leave quickly in case of a sudden raid, by day or night."

"I understand. Thank you."

"Please excuse me but I would like an order signed by this Taira, or better the chief of the gai-jin, ordering me to open my house to you, in case or when the Bakufu arrive here."

"I will arrange it." Hiraga bowed his thanks and hid his irritation at the restraints.

"Thank you."

The shoya ordered a maid to bring tea and writing materials and watched while Hiraga wrote the pledge that asked the amount be deducted from the account of Shinsaku Otami, the secret code name of his father. He signed it and sealed it with his chop, signed and sealed the receipt for Ryoshi, who agreed to advance half the amount at the usual interest of two percent per month, for the three months that would be needed to send the paper to Osaka and complete the transaction. "Do you want the money in cash?"' "No, thank you, I still have a few oban," he said exaggerating, down to his last two.

"Please open an account for me, deduct the charges for my room and food, I need some clothes, swords, and could you please arrange a masseuse."

"Of course, Otami-san. About clothes, the servant will show you our stock. Choose what you want. As to swords for sale," Ryoshi shrugged, "the only ones I have are trinkets for gai-jin and hardly worth your trouble but you may see what I have. Perhaps I could obtain proper ones for you. Now I will show you your room and your private entrance and exit--there is a guard here, by day and by night."

Hiraga had followed him. Never once had Ryoshi commented on his nakedness or bruises or asked any questions. "You are welcome and honor my poor house," he had said and left him.

Remembering the way it was said suddenly made Hiraga's skin crawl--so polite and grave but underneath so deadly. Disgusting, he thought, disgusting that we samurai are kept in poverty by corrupt daimyos and Shoguns and Bakufu and forced to borrow from these low-class zaibatsu who are nothing but filthy, money-grubbing merchants who act as though their money gives them power over us. By all gods when the Emperor has regained power there'll be a reckoning, merchants and zaibatsu will begin to pay....

In the same instant he felt her fingers stop.

"What is it, Lord?" the masseuse asked, frightened.

"Nothing, nothing. Please continue."

Her fingers obeyed, but now their touch was different and there was tension in the room.

It was an eight-mat room, the futons stuffed with down, the tatami of good quality and shojis recently renewed with oiled paper. In the takoyama niche was an oil lamp, flower arrangement and small scroll painting of a vast landscape, its only habitation a tiny cottage in a bamboo grove, with an even tinier woman forlorn in the doorway, peering into the distance--a love poem beside it.

Waiting, Listening to the rain Beating on the rain So lonely, filled with so much hope for her man's return.

Hiraga was drifting into sleep when the screen door slid back. "Excuse me, Lord." The servant knelt and said uneasily, "So sorry, there is a low-class person outside who claims to know you, asks to see you, so sorry to disturb you, but he is very insistent an--"

"Who is he? What's his name?"

"He... wouldn't give a name, and he didn't ask for you by name, Lord, but kept on saying: "Say to the samurai: Todo is the brother of Joun."

Instantly Hiraga was on his feet. As he slipped on his yukata, he asked the masseuse to come back tomorrow at the same time and dismissed her, moved closer to the two swords he had borrowed until the shoya could obtain better, and knelt in a defensive-attack position facing the door.

"Send him here, and keep everyone else away."

The slight, dirty young peasant with a tattered kimono grovelled along the passageway and went onto his knees outside the door. "Thank you Lord, thank you for seeing me," the youth mumbled then looked up and beamed inanely, his front teeth missing. "Thank you, Lord."

Hiraga glowered at him, then gasped with disbelief: "Ori? But, but it's impossible!" then peered closer and saw that his tooth had just been blacked out as part of his disguise, in this light the illusion perfect. But no mistaking that Ori was no longer obviously samurai: his topknot had been cut off and all hair on the back and sides of his head roughly trimmed to the same length as the two-week stubble that covered his pate.

"Why?" he asked helplessly.

Ori grinned and sat close to him. "Bakufu are looking for ronin, eh?" he whispered, keeping his voice down against ears they both knew would be listening. "I'm not less a samurai but now I can pass any barrier, eh?"

The air hissed out of Hiraga's mouth with admiration. "You are right. You are brilliant, sonno-joi doesn't depend on a hairstyle. So simple--I would never have thought of it."

"It occurred to me last night. I was thinking about your problem, Hiraga, an--"

"Careful. Here my name's Nakama Otami."

"Ah, so that's it! Good." Ori smiled. "I did not know what to use, hence the code."

"Have they found Todo and the others?"

"No, no they are still missing. They have to be dead. We heard Joun was executed like a common criminal, but still don't know how he was caught."

"Why come here, Ori? It's too dangerous."

"Not like this, nor at night, and I needed to test the new Ori and to see you." Squeamishly he ran his hand over his head stubble, scratching his scalp, his face freshly shaven. "It feels awful, and dirty, somehow obscene, but never mind, now I am safe to get to Kyoto. I will leave in two days."