His sword hissed out of the scabbard. He spun, parried the first blow violently, and pivoted in the enclosed space. Fearlessly Sumomo attacked and was again parried while Yoshi measured her and she measured him. Another flurry of blows, she an impeccable sword fighter, as he was.

Now he attacked and was held and they broke off and circled, then she darted back through the shoji seeking more space, he close behind her and they circled seeking an opening. Outside there were shouts. Guards converged, the wounded samurai half blocking the doorway. Knowing there was little time Sumomo increased the pressure, lunged forward, then swivelled to put her back to the door and they hacked at each other, parry and blow, parry and blow. Yoshi twisted, forcing her around once more, but losing the initiative.

He saw Abeh rush for her back, sword raised, and he snarled, "No! Leave her to me!" and almost got decapitated, retreating in temporary disorder.

Obediently Abeh backed off. Another wild skirmish, Yoshi regaining his balance just in time. Both of them well matched, Yoshi vastly more strong though not as practiced.

Now their hilts locked. Quickly she disengaged, knowing he must beat her in such a clinch, stepped back, feinted then hurtled forward in a blind, unorthodox blitz, her sword edge cut into his shoulder. It would have disabled a less skilled fighter, but he had anticipated the blow and suffered only a minor wound though he cried out and dropped his guard pretending a great hurt.

Carelessly she went in for the kill. But he was not exactly where she expected. His sword arched up ferociously from the ground catching her unawares, the blow slicing through her left wrist and sending it flying with the sword, her fingers still gripping the hilt.

She stared at the stump of her arm astonished, blood spurting up and out in a huge stream. There was no pain. Her other hand grabbed the stump and slowed the flow. Guards raced forward to seize her but again Yoshi cursed them away, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath, watching her so very carefully. "Who are you?"

"Sumomo Fujahito... shishi," she gasped, her courage and strength ebbing fast, then, with the last of her spirit, whimpered, "sonno-joiiii," released her grip on her wrist, groped for the last shuriken, found it, dug one of the poisoned barbs into her arm and stumbled forward to jam it into him. But he stood ready.

The great blow took her perfectly where her neck joined her body and sliced across and through her to come out just under her arm. Those watching sucked in their breaths as one man, sure that they had witnessed a happening that would be passed from mouth to mouth for centuries and proved this man a worthy descendent of the great Shogun and bearer of his name.

But all were rocked also, at the sight of so much blood.

Abeh recovered his voice first. "What happened, Lord?"

"I won," Yoshi said grimly, examining his shoulder, blood staining his kimono, an ache in his side and his heart still violent.

"Get a doctor... then we'll leave."

Men raced to do his bidding. Abeh tore his eyes off Sumomo's corpse. Koiko was moaning and squirming pitifully, her nails clawing the tatami, gashing it. He went towards her, stopped as Yoshi said, "Careful, fool!

She was part of the conspiracy!" Cautiously Abeh kicked Sumomo's knife to one side.

"Turn her over!" He obeyed, with his foot.

There was only the slightest sign of blood.

The shuriken had pinned her kimono to her flesh, stanching the seepage, more than half of the steel buried in her. Apart from the pulsating agony that twisted her face in waves, she was as breathtaking as ever.

Yoshi was filled with hatred.

Never had he been so close to death. The other attack was nothing compared to this one. How he had managed to withstand the onslaught and sneak attack, he could not understand. Half a dozen times he had been, knowingly, beaten, and the terror at the brink was not as he had imagined it to be. That terror will unman anyone, he thought, wanting to hack Koiko to pieces in fury for her betrayal, or to leave her to her agony.

Her hands were clawing impotently at her chest, at the huge pain centered there, trying to tear away the thing that was causing it. But she could not. A shudder racked her. Her eyes opened and she saw Yoshi standing there and her hands left her chest and went to her face, trying to make her hair neat for him.

"Help me, Tora-chan," she sobbed, her words garbled, "please helllp meeee... it hurts ..."

"Who sent you? And her? Who?"

"Helpppp me, oh please, it hurts, it hurts, I tried to save... save..." Her words trailed away and she saw herself again with the knife in her hand, him defenseless, heroically doing her duty, rushing forward to protect him, to give him the knife she could not herself use and to prevent the betrayer from wounding him with the flying steel, accepting it in his place, saving his life so he would reward her and forgive her, not that she was guilty of anything, only of serving him pleasing him adoring him...

"What shall we do with her?" Abeh was asking queasily, certain, with all of them that the shuriken was poisoned and she would die, some poisons more cruel than others.

Throw her on a dung heap, was Yoshi's immediate thought, his stomach filled with sick sweet bile, and leave her to her pain and the dogs. He scowled, tormented now, seeing she was still beautiful, even still desirable, only the dribbling moan underscoring his ugly, acid awareness that an era had ended.

Now and forevermore he would be alone. She had destroyed trust. If this woman on whom he had lavished so much affection could betray him, anyone could. Never again could he trust a woman or share so much. Never. She had destroyed that part of him forever. His face closed. "Throw..."

And then he remembered her silly poems and happy poems, all the laughter and pleasures she had given him, the good advice and satisfactions. Abruptly he was consumed with immense sadness at the cruelty of life. His sword was still in his hand. Her neck was so small.

The blow was kind.

"Sonno-joi, eh?" he muttered, blind at her loss.

Cursed shishi, their fault she is dead. Who sent Sumomo? Katsumata! Must be, same sword strokes, same guile. Twice his assassins have almost killed me. No third time.

I will wipe them out. Until I am dead Katsumata is enemy, all shishi are enemy.

Cursed shishi--and cursed gai-jin!

It is really their fault, the gai-jin.

They're a plague. If it wasn't for them none of this would have happened, there would be no stinking Treaties, no shishi, no sonno-joi, and no pussing sore of Yokohama.

Cursed gai-jin. Now they will pay.

YOKOHAMA On the afternoon of the same day, Jamie McFay came out of the office of the Yokohama Guardian seething. He stuffed the latest edition of the newspaper under his arm and hurried along High Street. The breeze was salty and chill, the sea spotted with combers, grey and uninviting. His stride was as angry as his mood.

I wish to God Malcolm had told me, he was thinking. He's off his rocker, crazy.

It's bound to stir up trouble.

"Wot's up?" Lunkchurch asked, seeing the crumpled paper and perturbed by Jamie's unusual haste. He himself had been on the way to collect his own copy before his afternoon siesta and had stopped for a moment to urinate in the gutter.

"Hey, the duel's in the paper, been reported, eh?"

"What duel?" McFay snapped. Rumors were rife that it was due any day now, though, as yet, no one had whispered they knew it was the day after tomorrow, Wednesday. "For Christ's sake stop spreading that chestnut!"

"No offense, old lad." The big, florid man buttoned up, heaving his belt up over his paunch to have it slide down again. "Well wot the eff's up?" He jabbed the paper. "Wot's effing Nettlesmith writ that's put your dingle out of joint?"