But Malcolm's death had not pleased him at all. It was the one option he had not planned for, not today. Now his scheme would have to be revised, and quickly. In God's name, how? Could this brawl be used, he wondered, sifting possibilities while waiting to see what Jamie would do next.

Now that he had won, Jamie's rage dissipated. His chest was heaving. Bile and blood filled his mouth. He spat it out. For years he had wanted to humble Norbert and now he had, and had his measure once and for all time--and had taken revenge for Malcolm who had been provoked deliberately.

"Norbert, you bastard," he croaked, astonished how bad his voice sounded and how awful he felt, "you say any, anything against my tai-pan, anything by God, or laugh about him again behind his back, I'll smash you to pieces."

Roughly he stumbled past Gornt, hardly seeing him, to go to the jetty. Ten or fifteen yards away his foot caught in a rut and he fell cursing, and remained there on his hands and knees, oblivious of the others, spent.

Norbert was coming around, spitting blood, his nose ruined, a mass of hurt, sick with rage that he had been beaten. And petrified. Old Man Brock won't forgive you, his brain was screaming, you'll lose your bonus and the stipend he promised, you'll be the laughingstock of Asia, beaten and pulped and marked forever by that son of a bitch Jamie who's nowhere near your size, a Struan bastard...

He felt himself helped to stand. Unsteadily he forced his eyes open. Gasping for air and confused, his face and head on fire, eyes puffed and mostly closed, he saw McFay groping to his feet a few paces away with his back towards him, Gornt half in front of him, still carrying the double-barrelled duelling pistol.

Half mad with pain, a tangle of thoughts rushed at him: Can't miss at this distance, Gornt's the only witness, at the inquest we'll say, "McFay went for the gun, Sir William, we'd been fighting yes, a struggle, yes, but he'd hit me first, didn't he, Edward, tell the God's truth, then terrible Your Honor, terrible it was, somehow the gun went off, poor Jamie..."

Norbert grabbed the pistol and raised it.

"Jamie!" Gornt called out in warning.

McFay turned, startled, gaped at the pointed gun as Norbert jeered and pulled the trigger but Gornt was ready and with another warning shout, deflected the shot upwards and now, with his back towards McFay, covered the pistol with his body, holding it in both hands with surprising strength, simulating a momentary struggle with Norbert for possession. And all the time he stared into Norbert's eyes who saw, appalled, only death. He twisted the muzzle into Norbert's chest and squeezed the second trigger. Norbert died instantly. Then, pretending to be aghast, Gornt let the body fall. It had taken a few seconds.

"Christ Almighty," Jamie gasped.

Appalled he stumbled over and sank to his knees beside the body.

"My God, suh, I didn't know what to do, oh my God, suh, Mr. Greyforth he was going to shoot you in the back and all I did... oh my God, Mr. McFay... you saw him yourself, didn't you, I shouted a warning but... he was going to shoot you in the back... isn't there anything we can do? He was going to kill you..."

Easy to convince McFay, who blearily staggered away to fetch help.

Once safely alone, Gornt exhaled.

Pleased with himself. Delighted he had, in that instant foreseen what Norbert would do and had gambled his life on it.

"When you're gambling, timing and execution must be perfect," was one of his stepfather's litanies when teaching him the art of cards.

"Sometimes there comes a chance, young Eddie, a gift from the Fates. They give you something special, you take it and make a killing. You win the big pot, you can't fail if they've really offered it, their timing's perfect. But don't be fooled by the Devil--he'll screw you to the cross, his deal's like the other but different, you'll recognize the difference once it comes your way ..."

Gornt smiled crookedly. His stepfather hadn't meant a killing literally though it had come to pass that way for him. His gift from the Fates was Norbert.

Perfect timing, perfect killing, perfect alibi.

Norbert had to be sent onward for many reasons. One was because Norbert might have been able to deflect part of the Brock disaster, turning it back against Struan's. Another that Old Man Brock had ordered Norbert to kill Struan any way he could, another--the most important --that Norbert was common with no manners, no finesse, no sense of honor, and not a gentleman.

Flies were already swarming around and on the corpse. Gornt moved away and lit a cheroot. His eyes searched No Man's Land, looking through the mist. Still no alien eyes, no one stirring. Dawn barely breaking the overcast.

While he waited he removed the blanks from the other pistol, Malcolm's pistol, that Norbert had insisted on. He smiled to himself. He would have switched them, giving Norbert the duds, if Norbert had decided to fight the duel, instead of cancelling as agreed.

What a bastard Norbert was, he thought.

Good riddance. But I'm sorry about Malcolm.

Never mind, now I'll go to Hong Kong and make my deal with his mother--safer and better. Norbert was right, she's the real tai-pan. I barter what I would have given Malcolm, real means and evidence to destroy Brock and Sons--to crush Morgan, the devil incarnate.

Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. But not with me. Not me, Edward Gornt, Morgan's son. Ah, Father, if you only knew how glorious revenge will be, how correct patricide is! In payment for "I'll marry the slut if..."

It's ironic, Morgan, you've spent your life trying to ruin your only sister and her family--your father the same with his only daughter-- and I'm your only son, and nemesis, protecting her to ruin you.

Safer dealing with Tess than Malcolm, better. She'll deliver Rothwell's in Shanghai, and underwrite the Victoria Bank loans I'll need, and get me a seat on the Board. No, not that, rightly she'd consider that a threat, the seat will come later. Meanwhile, next on the list, Cooper-Tillman.

Meanwhile, what to do? Off to Hong Kong soon as possible. Curious Norbert's gone, and Malcolm. Strange.

Dying on the job? I wonder. What a way to go!

By removing Malcolm the Fates dealt me another prize. Angelique. She's free and rich now, Noble House rich. Six months would be perfect, time enough for mourning, and me to get organized. By then Tess Struan will be glad to have her out of Hong Kong, and out of her hair. And married. Say she's pregnant? I'll worry about that, if. Makes no difference either way, I'll get the Noble House quicker than already planned.

His low laugh mixed with the hum of the flies.

"Dr. Babcott's outside, Sir William," Tyrer said.

"Send him in for God's sake! George, 'morning, what the hell happened to the poor fellow--terrible news! What about Angelique, how is she, did you hear about Norbert?

Miserable bastard tried to shoot Jamie in the back couple of hours ago!"

"Yes, yes we heard," Babcott was unshaven and clearly upset. "Hoag's taken Angelique to the French Legation, we all came ashore together--she wouldn't go back to Struan's."

"I can understand that, don't blame her, how is she?"

"In shock, of course. We've given her sedatives. Dreadfully sorry for her--she's had a rotten time here, the Tokaido, then that bloody ronin thug and now this. Rotten luck, the worst luck. She's hurt badly."

"Oh. Will it, will it turn her mind?"

"Hope not. You never know. She's young and strong but... you never know. By all that's holy I hope not." The two men were gravely concerned. "Such a shame for both of them. Rotten business, feel so damned useless."

Sir William nodded, "Must confess I was bloody angry about their marriage, but then, when I heard this morning, well I would have given anything for it not to have happened." His face hardened.