He would address his visitor with the same elaborate degree of courtesy he would offer to a fellow-samurai; his voice and demeanour conveying no hint of approval, or disapproval. It would be up to Mr Snow and his unknown a.s.sociates to interpret his silence on the subject, and make their next move accordingly.

Nakane Toh-Shiba, the Consul-General, had been under strict instructions to say nothing to the long-dog apart from disclosing that she was to be transported to another location, but it was all to no avail. Plunged into despair at the thought of their coming separation, he had been hopelessly indiscreet. Knowing that the man's tongue was as restless as his dong, Lord Min-Orota had taken care not to tell him the whole story, but the moment Clearwater knew she was to meet Yamaos.h.i.ta at Kari-faran, she had guessed that the domain-lord must be taking her to see Mr Snow. April was the month when the Plainfolk began to prepare for the 'walk on the water' - the name they gave to the brief period of peace when the rival clans gathered at the trading post at the edge of the Great River.

Since Cadillac was, apparently, quite content to remain at the Heron Pool, Clearwater knew she would have to return to Ne-Issan. In fact, she had no choice in the matter. When she had turned on the tears at the news of their forthcoming separation, the Consul-General had been quick to console her. He had, he a.s.sured her, extracted solemn guarantees from Yamas.h.i.ta that she would be provided with every comfort and returned to him unharmed.

Clearwater knew there was no time to lose. She begged to be allowed to take a small token of his affections with her. Something she could caress in the hours, the days, the weeks they would be apart. A small lacquered box, perhaps, decorated with images of her own choosing...?

And once again she had fixed him with that look. So appealing, so ardent, so full of promise.

Toh-Shiba had been unable to refuse. Those eyes, ah!

Her eyes were like shimmering jewels. At one moment, they were sharp-edged emeralds, filled with blue fire, and in the next, they softened, melting into liquid azure pools. Had he been a stone, he would have plunged willingly into their mysterious depths. He had lost count of the number of women whose s.e.xual favours he had enjoyed - or made use of - but none had ever satisfied his physical desires or darkest fantasies in the way this long-dog had. She was, quite simply, the most skilled pract.i.tioner he had had the good fortune to encounter.

But she was more than just beautiful, her whole being exuded a mysterious, vibrant s.e.xuality. She was the embodiment of carnal desire. And Toh-Shiba was so besotted with her, he was prepared to do almost anything she asked.

Within reason, of course.

The truth was somewhat different. The Consul-General had, without any shadow of doubt, penetrated Clearwater's body, but every time he did so, she penetrated his mind, imposing her will upon the fevered images within. Fantasy became reality. TohShiba's wildest imaginings took on physical form as she became whatever he desired; yielding and submissive at one moment, ravishing and devouring him the next. His nerve-endings went into overdrive. Sight, sound, touch, smell - every sensation was magnified, then moulded to marry with his deepest needs.

His weapon, already n.o.bly proportioned by nature, was expanded by his mind's eye into an awesome ivory shaft which he wielded with the thrust and vigour of a stallion and the stamina of a pack-mule. Time became distorted so that when the climax came the delicious jolt that filled every fibre of his being was transformed into a flood-tide of exquisite satisfaction on which his mind and body seemed to float for a joyous eternity.

In sum, the Consul-General thought he was enjoying himself a great deal more than he actually was.

Clearwater drew no pleasure from their encounters, but she was obliged to use her body in order to maintain her hold over his mind. The Consul-General was totally unaware that, whenever he lay with her, his eyes, his ears, his tongue, his fingers and his indefatigable dong were sending back signals that had been generated by his own lascivious brain.

The power Clearwater had used was the same power that Mr Snow had employed to cloud the brain of Hartmann, the commander of the first wagon-train to enter Plainfolk territory. But Mr Snow had no need to encounter the sand-burrower in person. As a Storm-Bringer he held the Seventh Ring of Power and this enabled him to make contact through the mental image of Hartmann that Cadillac had drawn from the seeing-stone.

Clearwater's abilities were formidable, but they were far below those of Mr Snow. The powers that flowed through her did so by the will of Talisman; they were not hers to command. That was why she knew her present actions had his blessing. She had been driven into the liaison with the Consul-General by the need to stay close to Cadillac.

Toh-Shiba's estate was not far from the Heron Pool. If Cadillac had a change of heart and turned his mind back to her and to thoughts of escape, she would be in a position to help.

The Sky Voices had told her the wrath of the Iron Masters must fall on the sand-burrowers, not the Plainfolk. That was why her power - if it had to be used openly - must appear to be that of the Federation. She had been distressed by Cadillac's apparent indifference to their separation, but she quickly realised she had been fated to fall into the hands of the Consul-General. She had also seen enough to know that, as a Mute, she was beneath consideration and that, despite her well-formed body, her multi-coloured skin would condemn her to a harsh, degrading existence as a beast of burden, . staggering under the weight of baskets filled with stones and earth, hauling cartloads of excrement to the paddy fields, or yoked to an irrigation wheel.

Clearwater did not despise the condition to which her kinfolk had been reduced, she deplored it, and had shed many bitter tears since her arrival in Ne-Issan. But she could not improve their situation by sharing it, and she had no need to share it to understand what they were going through. Her task was equally arduous, and her humiliation at the hands of the Consul-General was no less than theirs despite the relative luxury with which she had been surrounded. If what Mr Snow had said was true, 'The Lost Ones' - the Mutes held by the Iron Masters - would be freed when Talisman entered the world. Mr Snow had also said that Cadillac and she were the sword and shield of the Thrice-Gifted One. He had not explained what that meant, but he had stressed that the prophecy which spoke of his coming and of the victory of the Plainfolk over their oppressors would only be fulfilled if they followed the path that had been drawn for them.

Part of her task was the protection of Cadillac, mainly from himself, for dark forces were at work within him.

And so, when she had been briefly paraded before Nakane Toh-Shiba, she had realised what was required of her. Their eyes met only for a few fleeting moments but it was all she needed. Her mind pierced his, uncovering his unfulfilled desires to possess the body of a long-dog.

She also sensed an element of l.u.s.tful curiosity in his cursory appraisal of her, but even the Consul-General had his limits. Mutes were beyond the pale. Despite this, she was able to plant in his mind the idea of placing her in solitary confinement with a supply of running water and the small bag of possessions she brought with her.

Toh-Shiba obliged her by giving the necessary orders, but did so with the slightly hesitant air of a man who was not quite sure if he was doing the right thing.

'Each evening, when the guards grew lax and ceased their prowling and peeping through the barred spyhole in the door, Clearwater used her supply of pink leaves to remove the patterning on her body, starting with the parts hidden by her walking skins. On the fourth day of her confinement, the transformation was complete. The guard who brought her meagre breakfast was so startled he almost dropped the tray, After bringing his immediate superior to confirm the evidence of his own eyes, the news was quickly relayed up the chain of command and, within the hour, the Consul-General himself had entered her cell and ordered her to be stripped naked.

Clearwater offered no resistance, standing with downcast eyes as Toh-Shiba slowly circled her, drinking in every detail of her body.

Finally, he had ordered one of the guards who was standing behind her to pull back the long dark hair that was shrouding her face. As the white-stripe drew it over her shoulders and twisted it roughly together on the nape of the neck, her chin came up and her eyes met the Consul-General's. TohShiba had expected to see the cringing look of an inferior creature filled with fear or apprehension; what he saw were two lightning bolts of blue fire that skewered his soul like a fish on a spear.

And from that moment onwards he was held in thrall by the power given to her by Talisman.

$7.

Despite Toh-Shiba's previously insatiable appet.i.te for women, Clearwater was confident she would not be replaced in her absence. His illicit desires were now totally centred on her and would remain so even though they were to be parted for several weeks. However, there was no point in taking chances. On the eve of her departure, while Toh-Shiba lay in her embrace, trembling with ecstasy as he ran through his latest round of imaginary s.e.xual gymnastics, she directed his thought back to the marriage-bed by overlaying her own image with one of his wife. It was, therefore, not surprising that the Shogun's sister had little to complain about during her visit to the Summer Palace at Yedo.

The power Clearwater had used to manipulate the Consul-General also enabled her to direct the hands of the craft-master who had prepared the lacquered box.

Without knowing, he had decorated the tops and sides of the box with pictures that would speak to those who were to receive it: Mr Snow and the golden-haired cloud warrior, whose destiny was inextricably entwined with hers.

To the Iron Masters, who remained in total ignorance of her powers, it was nothing more than an empty box.

An object of some worth and beauty, but nothing to compare with the exquisite works of art that adorned the great houses of the domain-lords and the palaces of the Shogun. But the wood of the box was filled with her being and the pictures were cunningly disguised maps which could direct Steve to the Heron Pool and to the concealed lake-house where she was held by Nakane Toh-Shiba. When it was placed in Mr Snow's hands he would feel her presence, her voice would enter his mind, and the images would reveal their secrets.

In the middle of May, a flotilla of giant wheelboats, led by Yama-s.h.i.ta's own gilded vessel, had sailed from their home port of Bu-faro, by the thundering waters of Nya-gara. They ran south-west along the sh.o.r.eline to the port of Kari-faran in the neighbouring domain of the Ko-Nikka - close allies of Lord Yama-s.h.i.ta. The wheelboats anch.o.r.ed offsh.o.r.e at sunset and then, when darkness masked all movement from prying eyes, a dory brought the female long-dog out to Yama-s.h.i.ta's vessel in a sealed carriage-box.

At dawn, the wheelboats resumed their westward journey. The trip had been uneventful. As they crossed Lake Huron, Yama-s.h.i.ta dispatched a vessel to Bei-sita, and another to Mira-woki, to trade with minor gatherings of Mute clans who trekked up annually from that southlands.

On the tenth day of their outward journey, they sighted the usual vast crowds of Mutes camped around the trading post at Du-ruta, at the western tip of the Inland Sea.

During the week of brisk trading that ensued, Mr Snow, the M'Call's wordsmith, had made several attempts to raise the subject of the cloud warrior and his escort, but Yama-s.h.i.ta had kept him on tenterhooks until the eve of their departure. Only then did he take the unprecedented step of inviting the wordsmith and two clan elders on board his own vessel. The Mutes were, of course, obliged to submit to a thorough cleansing before being allowed into his presence and had to relinquish their foul-smelling animal skins and furs in favour of cotton smocks and trousers. By all accounts, they had not found it too great an ordeal, and Yama-s.h.i.ta was gratified to observe that Mr Snow, when properly clad and with neatly dressed hair, carried himself with a certain dignity. Indeed, had it not been for the lumps on his forehead, the bark-like skin on his forearms and the irregular pattern of black and brown that covered him from head to toe, one might have said he looked and behaved like a real human being.

As planned, Yama-s.h.i.ta had confronted him with Clearwater - now richly dressed in clothes provided by her ign.o.ble benefactor. She had been warned what not to say under pain of instant death, and two hidden

archers were poised to carry out the sentence the instant he gave the command. They had only been allowed a brief audience, but it had been most revealing.

Yama-s.h.i.ta could tell that Mr Snow was clearly taken aback by her changed appearance, but his expression was one of surprise, not astonishment: the uneasy surprise of someone who knows he has been found out, not the genuine astonishment of someone presented with a totally unexpected transformation. From that moment on, the Mute wordsmith had proceeded gingerly, choosing his words with the utmost care. Their guarded conversation contained phrases whose meaning escaped Yama-s.h.i.ta, but he was not perturbed. Mr Snow, on the other hand, never recovered his initial composure.

Yes, thought Yamaos.h.i.ta. Let that be a lesson. I am a man who keeps his word but I am not easily deceived.

Your move, my lump-faced friend . . .

Besides delivering the box, Clearwater had another reason to look forward to the journey. Having left the Consul-General squirming with antic.i.p.ation at the end of a psychic fishing line, she was now hoping for an opportunity to sink her hooks into the man at the centre of this affair. Yama-s.h.i.ta - who, with the snap of a finger, could order their return to the Plainfolk. But she quickly discovered that the domain-lord was no easy catch. Throughout the journey she saw virtually no one, apart from the two house-women who had been appointed as servant-guardians. The carriage box which had carried her from Bo-sana to Kari-faran had been sealed while on the road, and the only thing she had been able to see through the ventilation holes were small slivers of sky. At night, when the road convoy stopped to rest at inns - known as post-houses - she emerged from the carriage box to find herself in a room which offered no view of the outside world.

She had been similarly confined on the wheelboat and, as a result, did not set eyes on Yama-s.h.i.ta until the screens were drawn back to reveal Mr Snow, Rolling-Stone and Mack-Truck, kneeling on coloured straw mats and dressed up like low-ranking Iron Masters in dark cotton smocks and trousers. His directions on how she was to behave and what she was to say had been relayed by his samurai interpreter, a supremely cold fish whose voice and manner made it perfectly clear he would not have chosen to speak to her unless ordered to do so. It was almost as if, by conversing with her, he felt he was exposing himself to some dreadful airborne infection.

-The samurai's att.i.tude was understandable. The ordered world of the Iron Masters was based on the concept of superior and inferior beings whose status was decreed by the circ.u.mstances of their birth. It took the form of a multilayered pyramid with a few fortunate individuals at the top and a great many less-fortunate bimbos at the bottom. But while people could descend through the ranks, there was very little movement in the opposite direction. Rank, function and the attendant privileges depended on the degree of racial purity and n.o.bility of your parents. Your career possibilities were defined at birth. Only top people got the top jobs. If your folks were at the bottom of the heap then, in most cases, that was where you stayed. Like all aliens, Clearwater was excluded. She was not only a social outcast, her liaison with Nakane Toh-Shiba had made her a social leper. She was a danger to all who came into contact with her.

The few other Iron Masters she came face to face with on the outward journey were not privy to the secret, but they all reacted in the same way. Her eyes rarely met theirs and when they did it was by accident.

But even then, Clearwater could not force an entry into their minds.

There had to be a way in. A half-open door, an unbarred window.

Toh-Shiba's undisguised l.u.s.t had made it easy to penetrate his defences; likewise the craft-master who, following the instructions from his patron, had been eager to please. But Yamas.h.i.ta's entourage looked upon her with contempt. To them she was a p.a.w.n that would be discarded when her usefulness came to an end. And she sensed that the Consul-General was viewed as an errant knight who would also be sacrificed when the time came.

As for Yama-s.h.i.ta, he was the ice-king himself. Cold, calculating, implacable. The image that came into her mind when in his presence was that of a steel-jawed pike drifting imperturbably among the minnows, maneuvering into position with barely visible movements of fin and tail, then striking with electrifying speed. Yamas.h.i.ta could not be lured into the same trap as the s.e.x-crazed Consul-General. The walls around his mind could be breached - but only by blowing them apart.