"Yes," Sir William said thoughtfully.

"Yes, you're right, Andr`e, thank you, I shouldn't do it myself. Lun!"

The door opened instantly. "Heya, Mass'er?"

"Fetch young Mass'er Tyrer quick quick!" Then to the others, "Tyrer can do it for me. As it's a British problem."

When Phillip Tyrer returned to the other reception room overlooking the forecourt, he went up to Johann with as much dignity as he could muster. The Bakufu officials paid no attention and continued chatting, Yoshi sightly apart.

Misamoto was beside him--the only one not talking.

"Johann, give them Sir William's compliments and tell them today's unsatisfactory meeting is adjourned and they are to reconvene tomorrow at ten for what he expects will be a satisfactory conclusion to this unwarranted affair: the murderers, the indemnity and a guaranteed, early meeting with the Shogun or else."

Johann blanched. "Just like that?"

"Yes, exactly like that." Tyrer was also tired of the shilly-shallying, constantly reminded of John Canterbury's violent death, Malcolm Struan's serious wounds and Angelique's terror. "Tell them!"

He watched Johann deliver the short ultimatum in guttural Dutch. The Japanese interpreter flushed and began the lengthy translation as Tyrer studied the officials carefully without appearing to do so. Four were attentive, the last was not, the small man with narrow eyes and callused hands that he had noticed earlier--all other hands were well groomed. Again this man began whispering to the youngest and most handsome official, Watanabe, as he had been doing from time to time all day.

Wish to God I could understand what they were saying, Tyrer thought irritably, more determined than ever to do whatever was necessary to learn the language quickly.

As the shocked and embarrassed interpreter finished there was a silence, broken only by the sucking in of breath though all faces remained impassive. During the translation he had noticed two glance surreptitiously at Watanabe.

Why?

Now they seemed to be waiting. Watanabe dropped his eyes, hid behind his fan and muttered something. At once the narrow-eyed man beside him stood awkwardly, and spoke briefly.

Relieved, they all got up and, without bowing, silently trooped out, Watanabe last, except for the interpreter.

"Johann, they really got the message this time," Tyrer said happily.

"Yes. And they were very plenty pissed."

"Obviously that's what Sir William wanted."

Johann mopped his brow. He was brown-haired and medium height, thin, strong with a hard lined face. "The sooner you're interpreter the better. It's time I went home to my mountains and snows while I've still got my head intact. There're too many of these cretins, they're too unpredictable."

"As the interpreter, surely you have a privileged position," Tyrer said uneasily.

"The first to know."

"And the carrier of bad news! They're all bad news, mon vieux. They hate us and can't wait to throw us out. I made a contract with your Foreign Office for two years, renewable by mutual consent. The contract, she is up in two months and three days and my English is going to hell." Johann went to the sideboard near the window and took a deep draft of the beer he had ordered instead of tea. "No renewal, whatever the temptation." He beamed suddenly.

"Merde, that's the problem about leaving here."

Tyrer laughed at his pixy look.

"Musume? Your girl?"

"You learn fast."

In the forecourt the officials were getting into their palanquins. All gardening activity had stopped, the half dozen gardeners kneeling motionless with heads to the earth. Misamoto was waiting beside Yoshi, conscious that any mistake and he would not be standing erect, desperately hoping he had passed the first test. Somehow or another I'll be useful to this bastard, he was thinking in English, until I can get back aboard an American ship and paradise and tell the Captain how I was kidnapped off Harris's staff by these poxy scum....

He looked up, froze. Yoshi was watching him. "Lord?"

"What were you thinking?"

"I was hoping I'd been of value, Sire.

I... Look out behind you, Sire!" he whispered.

Andr`e Poncin was coming down the steps, heading for Yoshi. Instantly his guards were a protective screen. Unafraid Poncin bowed politely and said in fair though halting Japanese: "Lord, excuse please, can give message from my Master, French High Lord, please?"

"What message?"

"He say please perhaps you like see inside steamship, engine, cannons. Asks humbly invite you and officials." Poncin waited, saw no reaction, except an imperious wave of the fan in dismissal. "Thank you, Lord, please excuse me." He walked away, sure he had been right. On the first step he noticed Tyrer watching him from the audience room window, bit back a curse, and waved. Tyrer waved back.

When the last samurai left the forecourt the gardeners carefully resumed their work. One of them shouldered his spade and limped away. Hiraga, his head swathed with a filthy old cloth, his kimono ragged and dirty, was happy with the success of his spying. Now he knew how and when and where the attack tomorrow should take place.

Once more safe in his palanquin en route back to the castle--with Misamoto, at his orders, sitting at the far end--Yoshi let his mind roam. He was still astonished at their ill-mannered dismissal, not furious like the others, just patient: revenge will be taken in a manner of my own choosing.

An invitation to see the engines of a warship and to go over one? Eeee, an opportunity not to be missed. Dangerous to accept but it will be done. His eyes focused on Misamoto who was staring out of a slit window. Certainly prisoner Misamoto has been useful so far. Stupid of interpreters not to translate accurately. Stupid of the Russian to threaten us. Stupid for them to be so rude. Stupid of the Chinese servant to call us monkeys. Very stupid. Well, I shall deal with them all, some sooner than others.

But how to deal with the leaders and their fleet?

"Misamoto, I have decided not to send you back to the guard house. For twenty days you will be housed with my retainers and continue to learn how to behave like a samurai."

Misamoto's head was on the floor of the palanquin at once. "Thank you, Lord."

"If you please me. Now, what will happen tomorrow?"

Misamoto hesitated, petrified: the first rule of survival was never to carry bad news to any samurai, to say nothing, volunteer nothing, but if forced, to tell anyone only what you think he wants to hear. Unlike there, America, paradise on earth.

The answer's obvious, he wanted to shout, falling back into his habit of thinking in English --the only thing that had kept him sane all the years of his confinement--if you saw how they treat each other in the gai-jin family I lived with, how they treated me, sure a servant, but even so like a man, better than I ever dreamed possible, how every man can walk tall and carry a knife or gun, 'cepting most black men, how impatient they all are to solve a problem to hurry on to the next--if necessary by fist or gun or cannonade --where most everyone's equal under their law, and there are no stinking daimyos or samurai who can kill you when they wish...

Yoshi said softly, reading him: "Answer me truthfully, always, if you value your life."

"Of course, Lord, always." Petrified Misamoto did as he was told blindly. "So sorry, Lord, but unless they get what they want, I think they'll, they will level Yedo."

I agree, but only if we're stupid, Yoshi thought. "Can their cannon do that?"

"Yes, Lord. Not the castle but the city would be fired."

And that would be a stupid waste of Toranaga resources. We would only have to replace them all, peasants, artisans, courtesans and merchants to service us as usual. "Then how would you give them a little soup but no fish?" Yoshi asked.