A few miles away on the Tokaido Road, at the Hodogaya way station, Katsumata scrutinized the crowds from a Teahouse window. "Be patient, Takeda," he said, "Hiraga is not due till midmorning.

Be patient."

"I hate this place," Takeda said. The village was in open country with few places to hide and barely three miles from the Yokohama Settlement. They were in Teahouse of the First Moon, the same that Katsumata and daimyo Sanjiro had stayed at after Ori and Shorin had attacked the gai-jin on the Tokaido. "And if he does not arrive?" The youth scratched his head irritably, his chin nor his pate not shaven since their escape from Kyoto and now covered with stubbled hair.

"He will arrive, if not today, tomorrow. I must see him."

The two men had been hiding here for a week.

Their journey from Kyoto had been arduous, with many narrow escapes. "Sensei, I do not like this place or the change of plan. We should be in Yedo if we're to carry on the fight, or perhaps we should turn around and go home."

"If you want to go on, go. If you want to walk back to Choshu, go," Katsumata said.

"The next time you complain you are ordered to leave!"

Takeda apologized at once, adding, "It's just that we lost so many men in Kyoto, we do not even know how shishi have fared in Yedo. So sorry, yes, but I keep thinking we should have gone home like those who survived, me to Choshu you to Satsuma to regroup later."

"Hodogaya's perfect for us and this Inn is safe." Warned that Yoshi had put a heavy price on his head, Katsumata had decided to be prudent and not continue. "Tomorrow or the next day we'll go on," he said, glad for the youth's value as a shield to his back. "First Hiraga."

It had been difficult and dangerous to contact him. Few people here had access through the Yokohama barriers, or to the gai-jin Yoshiwara. New passes were continually being issued, new passwords. Enforcer patrols wandered at large. Covert pockets of samurai swarmed around Yokohama, almost cutting it off from the rest of the land.

Then three days ago Katsumata had found a maid whose sister was a midwife who went to the Yoshiwara from time to time. For a golden oban the midwife agreed to carry a message to the mama-san at the House of the Three Carp.

"Takeda, stay here and keep watch. Wait patiently."

Katsumata went down into the garden and strode through the front gates onto the Tokaido, bustling with morning travellers, palanquins, porters, soothsayers, scribes, samurai, and some ponies carrying women or ridden by samurai.

Talking, shouting, screeching. The morning was cold and everyone wore padded jackets and warm head scarves or hats. A few samurai eyed Katsumata but not rudely. The way he walked, the filthy thatch of hair and beard, the long sword in a back scabbard, another in his belt, shouted caution to the inquisitive.

Clearly he was a ronin of some kind and to be avoided.

On the outskirts of the village, inside the well-guarded barrier, where he had a good field of view towards the sea and Yokohama, he sat on a bench at a roadside eating stall.

"Tea and make it fresh and see that it's hot."

The frightened stall owner rushed to obey.

At the Settlement, a group of mounted traders clattered over the bridge, raised their hats politely or saluted the North Gate guards with their riding crops in return for perfunctory bows. Other traders, tradesmen, soldiers, sailors, Drunk Town riffraff were on foot, all of them on a holiday morning outing. Today was New Year's Day.

Horseraces were scheduled for this afternoon and then, later, an interservice football match. It was cold though fine, the wind slight but sufficient to take most of the smell of winter and decaying seaweed and human waste further inland.

One of the riders was Jamie McFay.

Close beside him was Hiraga, a scarf covering most of his face, his riding cap down over his eyes, his riding clothes well cut. This outing was not approved or even known to Tyrer or Sir William, the gift in return for interpreting between Jamie and the shoya, and also for providing him with business information.

Yesterday Hiraga had said, "I answer more question during ride, Jami-sama. Need go, to go Hodogaya, meet cousin. P'rease?"' "Why not, Nakama, old chap?"' McFay had not visited the village for months though it was within the agreed area of the Settlement and was glad for the excuse. Few traders ventured that far now without military escort, Canterbury's murder and Malcolm Struan's fate never far from all their thoughts.

Today McFay was feeling good. In the last mail a statement from his bankers in Edinburgh had led him to discover he was in better shape than he had thought, more than enough to start on his own in a small way. The Noble House was in good hands and that pleased him. Struan's new manager, Albert MacStruan, had arrived from Shanghai. He had met him in Hong Kong three years ago when MacStruan had first joined the company. Six months training in Hong Kong under Culum Struan, then to Shanghai where he had quickly become their Deputy Director.

"Welcome to Yokohama," Jamie had said, meaning it, liking him though knowing little about him except he was good at his job and his branch of the clan was black Highlander--a Scots and Spanish blood line from one of the thousands of Spaniards of the Armada who had been shipwrecked in Scotland and Ireland and survived, but never to return.

Here he would be taken as Eurasian though no one challenged him. Legend whispered that he was another of Dirk Struan's clandestine, illegitimate children whom Dirk had secretly sent home to Scotland with a stepbrother, Frederick MacStruan, both heavily endowed by him, shortly before he died.

"Dreadfully sorry about seeing you under these rotten circumstances, old chap."

MacStruan's accent was patrician, Eton and Oxford University, with a trace of Scots.

He was twenty-six, a chunky, dark-haired man, with golden skin, high cheekbones, dark sloe eyes. Jamie had never asked him about the legend, nor had MacStruan volunteered anything. When Jamie had first arrived in Hong Kong, almost twenty years ago, it had been made clear to him by Culum Struan, then tai-pan, that here you don't ask questions, especially about the Struans--"We've too many secrets, too many black deeds to forget, perhaps."

"Everything's in order, and don't worry about me, Mr. MacStruan," Jamie had said.

"I'm ready for a change." And though, now, no longer formally with the Noble House he was still helping him, bringing him up-to-date on projects and deals, introducing him, with Vargas, to their Japanese suppliers. The books were in good order, the coaling venture with Johnny Cornishman had begun perfectly and should be highly profitable, the quality of the coal first rate, and further arrangements made to fill a barge a week for the next three months as a trial period.

Generously, MacStruan had given him a twenty percent share of the profit for the first year, and then approval to deal on his own account with Cornishman: "... should that little bounder still be alive," he had said with a laugh.

Thanks to Hiraga, Jamie's secret dealings with the shoya had blossomed and the first company formed in principle: I.s.k. Trading-- Ichi Stoku Kompani--the shoya's wife considering it prudent not to use their own name. The stock was split into a hundred parts: the shoya had forty, McFay forty, Ryoshi's wife fifteen, and Nakama--Hiraga--five.

Last week he had registered his own trading company, tomorrow he was open for business in temporary offices in the same building that housed Nettlesmith's Guardian. For a week now, Ryoshi's eldest son, shy, nervous and nineteen, reported for work at 7:00 A.m. daily and left at 9:00 P.m., there to learn everything. Particularly English. And in the last mail, an unexpected three month severance pay arrived with a polite note from Tess Struan thanking him for his services. Three months isn't bad for nineteen years, he thought with grim amusement.