"It was a stomach seizure of some kind, Jamie. To be expected, I'm afraid, poor chap. I dressed his wound-- he'd torn a few stitches. I gave him a draft of laudanum." Babcott rubbed his eyes, red-rimmed with fatigue, his frock coat heavy and frayed at the sleeves and stained, here and there, with chemicals and dried blood. "Not much more I can do for him at the moment. What's the latest from the fleet?"

"Status quo: the fleet's at action stations, Legation's still surrounded, the Bakufu are supposed to appear soon."

"What happens if they don't?"

McFay shrugged. "I've had orders to get Malcolm back to Hong Kong as soon as possible--very important for him. I can get him on the mail sh--"

"I absolutely forbid it," Babcott said with more anger than he intended. "That would be stupid and highly dangerous, highly dangerous. If they got into a storm which is likely this time of the year ... well, severe and prolonged vomiting would tear the repairs apart--which would kill him. No!"

"Then when will it be safe?"

The doctor glanced out of the windows.

Whitecaps out past the headland, none in the bay.

Sky overcast. He weighed his helplessness against his knowledge. "At least a week, perhaps a month. God knows, Jamie, I don't."

"If you were to go on the mail ship, would that help?"

"For Christ's sake, no! Didn't you hear me clearly? No. No! He's not to move.

Nine days on a ship would kill him."

McFay's face closed. "What are Malcolm's chances? Really. It's very important I know."

"Still good. His temperature's more or less normal and there's no sign of any festering."

Babcott rubbed his eyes again and yawned.

"Sorry, didn't mean to snap at you. Been up since midnight patching the results of a sailor versus soldier Drunk Town brawl, and a dawn emergency in the Yoshiwara, had to sew up a young woman who tried to cut herself into the next world." He sighed. "It would help to keep him as calm as possible. I'd say his bad news probably brought on the attack."

The knowledge and implications of Culum Struan's death and therefore Malcolm's new status as tai-pan--of vital and immediate concern to all their rivals--had rushed through the Settlement. In Brock's, Norbert Greyforth had interrupted a meeting to open the first bottle of champagne from the case he had had kept chilled against this day for many weeks--chilled in their new, and highly profitable Ice House next door to their godown. "Best news we've had in years," he chortled to Dmitri, "and I've another twenty cases for the party I'm throwing tonight. A toast, Dmitri!" He raised his cut glass, the best Venetian that money could buy. "Here's to the tai-pan of the Noble House: out with the Old, out with the New by God, and may they be bankrupt within the year!"

"I'll drink with you, Norbert, to the success of the new tai-pan, none of the rest," Dmitri said.

"Open your eyes to reality. They're the old, we're the new--once they had guts when Dirk Struan was alive but now they're weak, McFay's weak--why with his enthusiastic help and a little persuasion on the night of Canterbury's murder we could have roused the whole Settlement, the fleet, the Army, we'd have captured this bugger Satsuma king, hanged him, and be living happily ever after."

"I agree. John Canterbury's going to be revenged, one way or another. Poor bastard," Dmitri said. "You know he left me his business?"' Canterbury's was one of the smaller trading houses, specializing in the export of silk cloth, and particularly cocoons and silkworm eggs, a highly lucrative trade to France where the silk industry, once the best in the world, had been decimated by disease. "John always said he would but I never believed him. I'm his Executor too --Wee Willie gave me the deed before he left."

"Samurai are all bastards, no reason to murder him like that. What about his musume? Old John was beset by her. She's carrying, isn't she?"' "No, that was a rumor. In his will he asked me to take care of her, give her money to buy her own shack. I went to see her but her mama-san, Raiko, that old bat, she told me the girl had gone back to her village but she'd send on any money. I paid over what John had said so that was that."

Thoughtfully Norbert finished his wine and poured more and felt better. "You should take care of yourself too," he said keeping his voice down, judging the time ripe. "You've the future to think of, not a few rolls of cloth and worm eggs. Consider the Great Game, the American game. With our contacts we can buy any amount of British, French or Prussian armaments--we've just signed an exclusive deal to represent Krupp's in the Far East--at better prices than Struan's can give you, have them delivered in Hawaii for transshipment to... to wherever, no questions asked."

"I'll drink to that."

"Whatever you want, we can get cheaper and faster." Norbert refilled their glasses.

"I like Dom Perignon, it's better than Tatt--that old monk knew about color and sugar, and the lack of it. Like Hawaiian sugar," he added delicately, "I hear it's going to be so pricey this year to be almost a national treasure, for North or South."

Dmitri's glass stopped in midair.

"Meaning?"' "Meaning, just between us, Brock and Sons have the lock on this year's crop, meaning that Struan's won't have so much as a hundred-pound sack so your deal with them won't happen."

"When's this going to be common knowledge?"' Dmitri's eyes slitted.

"Would you like to be part of it? Our deal? We could use a trustworthy agent for the States, North and South."

Dmitri poured for both of them, enjoying the touch of the chilled glass. "In return for what?"' "A toast: to the demise of the Noble House!"

Throughout Yokohama other toasts were being quaffed at the rare tidings of Culum's death and the succession of a new tai-pan, and in boardrooms throughout the Far East, and elsewhere, that traded with Asia. Some toasts were celebratory, some vindictive, some toasted the succession, some blessed all Struan bones to the devil, some prayed for their success but all men of business considered how the news would affect them for, like it or not, Struan's was the Noble House.

In the French Legation Angelique clinked glasses, sipped the champagne warily, her glass cheap and barely adequate, like the wine. "Yes, I agree, Monsieur Vervene."

Pierre Vervene was the Charg`e d'Affairs, a tired, balding man in his forties. "The first toast requires a second, Mademoiselle," he said, raising his glass again, towering over her, "not only prosperity and long life to the new tai-pan, but to the tai-pan --your future husband."

"La, Monsieur!" She put down her glass, pretending to be cross, "I told you that in confidence because I'm so happy, so proud, but it must not be mentioned out loud, until he, Monsieur Struan makes it public. You must promise me."

"Of course, of course." Vervene's tone was reassuring but he had already mentally drafted the dispatch he would rush to Seratard aboard their flagship at Yedo the moment she left.

Clearly there were innumerable political ramifications and opportunities that such a liaison would create for France and French interests. My God, he was thinking, if we're clever and we are, we can control the Noble House through this young strumpet with nothing to recommend her except a fairly pretty face, delectable breasts, an overripe maidenhead and buttocks that promise her husband a wanton vigor for a month or two. How the devil did she snare him--if what she says is really true. If it is...

Merde, the poor man must be insane to settle for this baggage, with no dowry and disreputable lineage, to be the mother of his children! What incredible luck for that odious swine, Richaud, now he'll be able to redeem his paper. "My sincerest congratulations, Mademoiselle."