He tried to avoid memories of Troth and home, for they were far more painful than reciting bits of the Odyssey. But he couldn't control his dreams. At night Constancia lay beside him, warm and loving, or Troth, sweet and true and passionate. Or he was fishing with Dominic, or riding the hills of Dornleigh with his sister and father.

Waking up was a return to hell.

He was sure the second execution would be real. Beheading, after all, was the preferred Chinese method, and their executioners were said to be very expert.

The prospect of decapitation was peculiarly unpleasant, despite Wang's assurances that it would be painless. This time it was harder to keep his face impassive when he was taken into the courtyard. His bristling, untamed beard helped conceal any failures of control.

When forced to kneel in front of the headsman, he thought of Hoshan and the serenity he'd experienced there. His hammering heart almost drowned out the beating of the drums that marked the raising of the sword.

Cool air brushed his face as the blade sliced by to bury itself in the ground a scant inch in front of him. He half expected a second blow to fall just when he would begin to believe he'd been spared, but Wu Chong was subtler than that.

Once more Kyle was marched back to his stinking cell. It was wretchedly hot. The monsoon season had begun and water trickled down the walls constantly as the rains alternated with suffocating humidity.

Every night Kyle made another scratch on the wall and wondered how long it would be until the prefect tired of his game, and ended it once and for all.

The third execution was scheduled as a hanging in another one of Wu Chong's bows to Western custom. Kyle no longer cared, for malaria had struck. As he'd guessed at the beginning, the prison was a breeding place for pestilence, and the rude health that had protected him throughout his travels was no longer enough.

He recognized his ailment when chills started in his lower back, radiating throughout his body until he shook with cold despite the tropical heat. Dispassionately he watched his fingers turn dead white and his nails take on a bluish cast. Even milder forms of malaria could be lethal without treatment.

Chills were followed by burning fever. Desperately he rubbed his face against the wet walls, frantic for cooling as muscle tremors brought on pain so deep his bones ached. The guard who delivered his meals prodded him with a boot before leaving him to his fate.

Twelve hours after the first symptoms, the fever ebbed and he had a short period of mere misery. Having seen malaria in others, he took advantage of the time to eat his rice and drink as much water as possible. Often malaria struck in daily attacks as regular as clockwork, and he needed to maintain his strength for the next bout.

The chills returned at noon and the ghastly cycle began again: chills, dry fever, sweating, over and over. He lost count of the days because he was too ill to scratch the wall. Sometimes when shaking with cold he imagined Troth beside him, warming him with her body. Or when he panted with fever he thought he felt her cool hands on his face, until he returned to the horror of the cell.

He had to be carried out to the crude scaffold, though he managed to stand upright as the rope was put around his neck. Three times was the charm; a few miserable minutes and his suffering would be over. Sorry, Dom, for breaking my promise to come home.

But the hangman was an amateur and the execution a sham. Instead of dropping him far enough to break his neck, as a decent British hangman would have done, Kyle was left strangling at the end of the rope until he blacked out. Then they cut him down.

It was hard to be arrogant when lying on the ground spewing one's guts out, but Kyle did his best. Wrexham would have been proud. Looking disappointed that his prey wouldn't last much longer, Wu Chong waved him back to the prison.

As his daily bout of fever claimed him, the only damned thing Kyle could manage to be glad about was that Troth and his family would think he'd died quickly.

He'd wanted to see the world. Now it had been reduced to stone walls, illness, and despair.

"Drink."

He fought the bitter potion forced into his mouth, wanting to return to his dream of England. If even his dreams turned punishing, death truly would be a blessing.

"Drink!"

Coughing and spitting, he came partially awake and realized that a well-dressed Chinese man was trying to force a bitter drink down his throat. Medicine? Poison? No longer caring which, he swallowed, then drifted into darkness again.

He had a vague sense of being carried, of rattling along in some kind of vehicle. Long spells of unconsciousness were punctuated by short bursts of feverish awareness.

When his wits fully returned, he was in a blessedly clean bed. Slowly his gaze moved over carved screens and silk hangings. On a table sat a porcelain vase with one perfect flower. He was in the household of a wealthy Chinese. Surely not Wu Chong?

An elderly female servant peered in at him, then left the room. A few minutes later another woman arrived. This one was also aged, but dressed like the mistress of the household. As she laid a cool hand on his forehead, he said tentatively, "Tai-tai?"

His voice was a croak, but she smiled appreciatively at his recognition of her rank as she made him drink something. Bitterness again. This time he realized that the potion contained Peruvian bark. Rare and expensive, it came from South America and was the most effective treatment for malaria, when it could be obtained.

The next time he woke, the servant bustled off and returned with Chenqua, leader of the Cohong. Finally understanding, Kyle inclined his head. "Greetings, Lord Chenqua. I gather that I owe you my life. You have done far more than I deserve."

"Indeed," the merchant said with unmistakable dryness. "Your crimes cost me many taels of silver, but at least you live. Your death would cost much more."

Kyle closed his eyes, feeling as if he were five and being scolded by his father. "I'm sorry. It was wrong of me to enter China, but… I wanted very much to see Hoshan."

Voice slightly softened, Chenqua said, "Understandable, but stupid."

"Am I in Canton?" When Chenqua nodded, he continued, "Will I be imprisoned again now that I've recovered?"

"No. You go to Macao, return to England. Wu Chong says he never intended death, merely imprisonment while he sent word of your capture to Peking, very slowly." The merchant's expression turned satiric. "Not possible to prove otherwise."

So Wu Chong would not be punished for overstepping his authority. If Kyle had died of fever it would have been unfortunate, but not the prefect's fault. The mock executions had been mere pranks, much less than the Fan-qui deserved, or so the official story would go. No diplomatic incident, only a law-breaking Briton graciously restored to his people by the Chinese government. "How did you learn of my captivity?"

"The Company, and a letter from Mei-Lian."

So he owed Troth his life-again-and Chenqua knew something of their relationship. By now, she must be almost to England. His family must endure months of mourning before they could learn he was alive. Well, there was no help for that. He hoped the news didn't kill his father-the guilt of that would never go away.

Wondering how much his lawbreaking had cost Chenqua, Kyle said, "I shall reimburse you for the fine you had to pay."

"No. Go home, and live with the knowledge of what your foolishness has cost."

Unsmiling, Kyle said, "You drive a hard bargain."

"Always." Chenqua gathered his robes about him, then hesitated. "You stole my best interpreter. Swear to provide for her."