And yet to be honest--"Always be honest to yourself, Sumomo-chan," her father had said, over and over, "that is your way to the future, for a leader."

To be honest I found it difficult to curb my urge to lead them, even shishi, and to bend them to the correct path and thinking.

Is that my karma, to lead? Or is it to die unfulfilled because it is truly stupid for a woman to wish to be a leader in the world of Nippon. Strange to want the impossible. Why am I like that, not like other women? Is it because father had no sons and treated us, his daughters, as sons, telling us to be strong and to stand up and never to be afraid, even allowing me, over Mother's advice, to follow Hiraga and his equally impossible star...

She sat up in the futons a moment, tousling her hair to try to clear her head and prevent her mind from so many new and untrammeled thoughts, then lay back again. But sleep would not arrive, only permutations of Hiraga and Koiko and Yoshi and Katsumata, and her.

Strange about Yoshi: "We must kill him and the Shogun," Katsumata has said, over the years, so many times, and Hiraga, "not for themselves but because of what they represent. Power will never return to the Emperor while they remain alive.

So they must go, chiefly Yoshi--he is the glue that binds the Shogunate. Sonno-joi is our beacon, any sacrifice must be made to achieve it!"

A pity to kill Lord Toranaga. Another pity that he is a good man and not vile, not vile like Anjo, not that I have ever seen him. Perhaps Anjo is also a kind man and everything said about him merely lies of jealous fools.

In this short time I have seen Yoshi for what he is: Dynamic, kind, strong, wise and impassioned. And Koiko? How wonderful she is, though how sad, so sad to be so doomed.

Remember what she said: "The curse of our World is that as much as you bind and train yourself with all manner of defenses and resolves to treat a client as just a client, from time to time one appears who turns your head into jelly, your resolve into froth and your loins into a fireball. When it happens it is frighteningly gloriously terrible.

You are lost, Sumomo. If the gods favor you, you die together. Or you die when he leaves, or you allow yourself to stay alive but you are dead even so."

"I'm not going to allow that to happen when I'm grown," Teko had piped up, overhearing them.

"Not me. Have you been turned to jelly, Mistress?"' Koiko had laughed. "Many times, child, and you have forgotten one of your most important lessons: to close your ears when others are talking. Off to bed with you."

Has Koiko's head really been turned to jelly? Yes. As a woman I know she considers Lord Yoshi more than a client, however much she tries to hide it. Where will it end? Sadly, so very sad. He will never make her consort.

And me? Will it be the same with me? Yes I think so--what I told Lord Yoshi was the truth: I will have no other husband but Hiraga. "It's the truth..." she muttered aloud and that brought herself out of the downward spiral. "Stop it," she murmured, following the method of her childhood, of her mother crooning: "Think only good thoughts, little one, for this is the World of Tears soon enough, think bad thoughts and in a blink of the eye you are in the black pit of despair. Think good thoughts ..."

She made the effort and turned her mind: only Hiraga makes life worthwhile. A shiver went through her body as a new concept sprang at her with a shocking strength of reality: Foolish this sonno-joi! It is just a slogan. As if it will change anything. A few leaders will change, that is all. Will the new ones be any better? No, except yes if Hiraga is one, perhaps yes if Katsumata is one but, ah, so sorry, they will not live that long.

Then why follow them?

A tear slid down her cheek. Because Hiraga turns my head to jelly, my loins...

In the dawn Yoshi slid out of bed and padded through to the outer room, his sleeping yukata tucked up, breath visible in the cold air. Koiko stirred, saw that he was all right, and dozed off again. In the outer room Sumomo's futons and bedclothes were already packed away in the side cupboard, the low table already set for their breakfast, their two cushions neatly in place.

Outside the cold was sharper. He stepped into straw sandals and went along the veranda to the outhouse, nodded to the waiting manservant and chose an unoccupied bucket in the line of buckets and began to relieve himself. His flow was strong and that pleased him. Other men stood beside him. He paid no attention to them, or they to him. Idly he directed the stream at the swarming, ever present flies not expecting to drown one of them.

When he had finished he moved to the other part and squatted over a vacant hole in the bench, men and some women either side, Sumomo one of them. In his mind he was alone, his ears and eyes and nostrils shut tight against their presence as theirs were against everyone else.

This imperative ability was painstakingly cultivated from infancy: "You must work at this like nothing else, little one, you must, or your life will be unbearable" was drummed into him, as it was every child.

"Here where we live cheek by cheek, children and parents and grandparents and maids and more in each tiny house, where all walls are made of paper, privacy has to be cultivated in your head and can only exist there, your own and also as the essential politeness to others. Only this way can you be tranquil, only this way can you be civilized, only this way can you remain sane."

Absently, he waved at the flies. Once when he was young he had lost his temper at two or three that were plaguing him and had tried to smash them to pieces. It had earned him an immediate smack around the face, his cheeks burning with hurt, but more with shame that he had caused his mother grief, and her need to administer the punishment.

"So sorry, my son," she said softly.

"Flies are like sunrise and sunset, inevitable, except they can be a torment--if you allow them to be. You must learn to dismiss them. Every day, for part of each day for as many days as necessary, please, stand there and let them crawl on your face and hands without moving. Until they become nothing.

Flies must become nothing--use your will, that is what you are given it for. They must become nothing to you, then they'll not cause you to ruin your harmony or, worse, ruin the harmony of others..."

Now, sitting there, he felt the odd fly on his back and face. They did not offend him.

Quickly he was done. The rice paper was of good quality. Feeling very alive and well, he held out his hands for the servant to pour water over them.

When his hands were clean, he doused water from another container onto his face, shivered, accepted a small towel and dried himself, stepped back on to the veranda and consciously opened his senses.

Around him the Inn was stirring, the few ponies being saddled and groomed, men, women, children, porters already eating and chatting noisily, or leaving for the next stage of their journey, to or from Kyoto. In the common area near the entrance gate, Abeh was checking men and equipment. When he saw Yoshi he joined him.

Because people were about he did not bow, finding that very hard. His uniform was smart and he was refreshed. "Good morning." He just managed to bite back the "sir." "We are ready to leave whenever it pleases you."

"After breakfast. Arrange a palanquin for Lady Koiko."

"At once. For ponies, or porters?"

"Ponies." Yoshi strolled back to his quarters and told Koiko she would not be riding today, that he would see how much progress they made and then, tonight, he would decide. Sumomo would ride as usual.

By evening they barely made two stations.

HAMAMATSU Yoshi chose the Inn of the Cranes for the night, neither the best nor the worst in village, Hamamatsu--a pleasing collection of houses and Inns straddling the Tokaido, renowned for its sak`e, where the road curled down towards the sea.