Morgan Brock had guffawed when he told them. "Thee's my consent to blow his head or balls off. 'Stead of pistols, make it fighting irons and really earn thy bonus."

Tenders were already scurrying to meet the mail ship. Sourly, he noted that the Struan steam launch was waiting in the chop, first in line, Jamie McFay in the stern. His oared launch second. Never mind, won't be long before your launch's mine, your building, with you and all the bloody Struans beached or dead, though maybe I'll give you a job, Jamie, maybe, just for amusement. Then he saw McFay put binoculars to his eyes and knew he would see him. He waved perfunctorily, spat over the side and went to his cabin below.

"'Morning, Mr. Greyforth, suh," Edward Gornt said with Southern charm. He stood at the door of the cabin opposite, a tall, though slight, good-looking young man from Virginia, twenty-seven, with deep set, brown eyes and brown hair, "I've been watching from the aft deck. Nothing like Shanghai, is it?"

"In more ways than you can think. Are you packed?"

"Yes, suh, and ready to have at it."

Apart from the slight roll to the "suh" his accent was faint, much more English than Southern.

"Good. Sir Morgan told me to give you this when we arrived." He took an envelope from his briefcase and handed it him. The more he thought about his whole trip the more flabbergasted he became.

Tyler Brock had not come to Shanghai. A curt note had greeted Greyforth instead, telling him to obey his son, Morgan, as though he was giving the orders. Sir Morgan Brock was a big-bellied, balding man, not as coarse as his father, but just as mean-tempered and bearded like him.

Unlike him, he was London-trained in Threadneedle Street, center of the world's stock markets, and for all manner of international trade.

As soon as Greyforth arrived Morgan had laid out his plan to break Struan's.

It was foolproof.

For a year he, his father and their associates on the board of the Victoria Bank of Hong Kong had been buying up Struan's debt paper.

Now, with the whole board backing them, they only had to wait until the 30th of January to foreclose.

There was no way Struan's could meet this deadline. On that date the bank would own Struan's, lock, stock and clipper ship with Morgan cornering the Hawaiian sugar markets, cunningly excluding Struans who counted on their yearly profits from those markets to service their debts, he would make the killing certain. And another, even bigger coup: Morgan, with supreme cleverness, had bartered these crops forward to Union and Confederate importers for Union goods and Southern cotton for the huge British market that still, by law, could only be serviced by British ships--their ships.

"It's a genius scheme, Sir Morgan, congratulations," Norbert said, awed, for it would make Brock's the wealthiest trading company in Asia, the Noble House, and guarantee his stipend of five thousand guineas a year.

"We be buying Struan's at ten pennies in the pound from the Bank, that be agreed, Norbert, their fleet, everything," Sir Morgan had said, his huge belly shaking with laughter. "Thee's to retire soon, and we be very grateful for thy service. If all goes well in Yokohama, we be thinking of another five thousand a year as bonus. Look after young Edward and show him everything."

"To what end?"' he had asked, that vast amount of money every year swamping him.

"To any end I want," Sir Morgan had said curtly. "But since thee asks, perhaps I be wanting him to take over Japan, take over thy job when thee goes, if he's worthy.

Rothwell's be giving him a month's leave"-- this was Gornt's present employer, one of the oldest Shanghai companies and associates of Cooper-Tillman, the biggest American China trader, for whom he had been working for three years, and with whom Brock's, as well as Struan's, had extensive business relations-- "this be enough time for the lad to decide, perhaps he'll take over from thee, when thee retires."

"You think he's experienced enough, Sir Morgan?"' "By the time thee leaves, make sure he is-- that's thy job, teach him, toughen him. Don't break him, I don't want him scared off, broken, don't forget now!"

"How much should I tell him?"' After thought, Sir Morgan said, "Everything about our business in the Japans, the gunrunning plan and opium smuggling if them bastards in Parliament get their way. Tell him thy ideas on opening up the opium trade and busting any embargo if there be one, but nought about provoking Struan, or about our scheme to smash them. The lad knows about the Struans, no love lost on them at Rothwell's, he knows what scum they really be and the devilment old Dirk did, murdering my stepbrother and the like. He's a good lad, so tell him what thee will, but not about sugar!"

"Just as you say, Sir Morgan. What about all the specie and paper I brought? I'll need replacements to pay for the guns, silks and this year's trade goods."

"I be sending it from Hong Kong, when I returns, and Norbert, it were right clever to shove Struan's out of the way with the Jappo prospecting offer--if that pays dirt, thee will share in't. As to Edward, after the month send him to Hong Kong with a confidential report to the Old Man. I like the lad, he be highly thought of in Shanghai and by Rothwell's--and the son of an old friend."

Norbert had wondered about "what" old friend, and about the debt Sir Morgan owed the man to take so much trouble, unusual for him to be kind to anyone. But he was too shrewd to ask and kept his own counsel, happy that the problem of staying in the Brock's good favor would not concern him much longer.

Edward Gornt proved to be pleasant enough, reticent, a good listener, more English than American, intelligent, and, rare in Asia, a nondrinker. Greyforth's immediate assessment had been that Gornt was totally unsuited to the rough, adventurous, hard-drinking China trade--a lightweight in everything, except at cards.

Gornt was an exceptional bridge player and lucky at poker, a major virtue in Asia, but even this was academic for he never played for high stakes.

He was convinced that Edward Gornt would not suit the Brocks for long, and nothing on the voyage back had made him change his mind. From time to time he had seen a strangeness behind the eyes. The bugger's just wishywashy, out of his depth and knows it, he thought, watching him reading Morgan's letter.

Never mind, if anyone can make him grow up I can.

Gornt folded the letter, pocketed it and the sheaf of money the envelope had contained. "Sir Morgan's so generous, isn't he?" he said with a smile. "I never thought he'd... I can't wait to begin, to learn, I like work and action and I'll do my best to please you, but I'm still not sure if I should leave Rothwell's and... well I never thought he would ever consider I would maybe be good enough to head Brock's in Japan if or when you retire. Never."

"Sir Morgan's a tough master, difficult to please, like our tai-pan, but straight if you do what you're told. A month will be enough. Can you handle a gun?"

"Oh yes."

The sudden directness surprised him. "What kinds?"

"Handguns, rifles, shotguns." Again the smile. "I've never killed anyone, Indians or the like, but I was second in the Richmond skeet-shoot four years ago." A shadow went over him. "That was the year I went to London to join Brock's."

"You didn't want to leave? Didn't like London?"

"No, and yes. My mother had died and, and my father, he thought it best I should be out in the world, London being the Center of the World so to speak.

London was grand. Sir Morgan very kind.

Kindest man I know."

Norbert waited but Gornt volunteered nothing more, lost in his own thoughts. Sir Morgan had only told him Gornt had spent a satisfactory year with Brock's in London, with Tyler Brock's last and youngest son, Tom.