Yama-s.h.i.ta had attempted to fake its destruction some months before, but he had subsequently received several disquieting indications that his ruse had not succeeded." At least two of the Shogun's Heralds had been involved in equally unsuccessful attempts to persuade certain disaffected members of his own household either to confirm its continued existence or to reveal its present hiding place.

The clumsy fools had not had the wit to realise that he would never have involved any envious or untrustworthy relatives in such a sensitive affair. Those selected as potential traitors quickly informed him of the approaches that had been made and of the inducements offered. Whatever their private differences, loyalty to the family took precedence over their obligations to the Shogun. They were also motivated by a strong sense of self-preservation. Yama-s.h.i.ta had risen to power because he had ruthlessly eliminated anyone foolish enough to oppose his policies or challenge his leadership - either openly or in secret. Friend or relation, mother or child, he had spared no one. And age had not mellowed him.

The only threat to his growing power and influence came from his neighbours the Toh-Yota. Despite his family's role in bringing them to power and the solid support they had given to the Shogunate in the past, Yama-s.h.i.ta knew that it had become an uneasy alliance tinged with envy and suspicion. The thirty-year-old merger between the Yama-Ha and the Matsus.h.i.ta families had produced a menacing combination of wealth and military power, and it was well known that kings often turned against the kingmakers. All they needed was a convincing pretext that could be used to muster the necessary support. If they held together, a pack of snivelling street-hounds could always overcome a mountain lion, but it rarely happened. Faced with a spirited resistance, the more cowardly mongrels always tended to slink away.

It was the same with the running dogs in the TohYota pack. Some would follow their leader blindly, others would turn tail - or even change sides - if the battle proved too lard and too b.l.o.o.d.y. Even so, it would be foolish to underestimate the resources of the Shogunate.

Yoritomo had somehow got wind of the tentative plan to resurrect the Dark Light. The rumours - for that was all they could be at this stage - had been given substance by his suspected involvement in the transportation of the long-dog b.i.t.c.h the idiot Toh-Shiba had taken into his bed.

If she was to be believed, no charges could be levelled against himself or his colleague, Kiyo Min-Orota - but could she? Yama-s.h.i.ta had few grounds for complacency.

The eleven a.s.sa.s.sins who had been dispatched to kill her in two teams of three and a final, somewhat desperate, quintet, had all vanished without trace. To a seasoned power-broker like Yama-s.h.i.ta that did not auger well. He doubted that the Consul-General had either the foresight or the means to protect his outlandish wh.o.r.e against such dedicated professionals. No. Another unseen hand was at work here and Yama-s.h.i.ta had a shrewd idea to whom it belonged. If he was correct about the a.s.sumptions and intentions of his adversaries, it would be unwise to remain in possession of the engine. It was for this reason he had brought it with him. Kiyo Min-Orota had been eager to share in the fruits of this hazardous enterprise. It was only right and proper that he shared the risks - something which, up to now, he had been noticeably reluctant to do.

The move made good sense. Despite being linked with the Yama-s.h.i.ta family in the Heron Pool project and the deeper suspicions that surrounded it, the Min-Orota were still regarded as being loyal allies of the Toh-Yota Shogunate - to whom they were tied by marriage.

Temporarily wayward allies, perhaps - but a family who, in the end, would realise where their duty and their best interests lay.

Excellent. Trusted servants were always best placed to betray their masters.

Kiyo's reaction on being made guardian of the infernal machine that could destroy them both would be a good measure of his resolve. If he was willing to grasp the nettle, then the cloud warrior who had already demonstrated his skills in the building of flying-horses should be

given a new project. The rockets he had devised were only a stopgap solution. To have any worthwhile military application, the flying-horses had to be able to alight and take to the air from any suitable terrain and be capable of sustained powered flight. That would require two things: some kind of wheeled carriage fixed to the body of the craft and an engine similar to the one he had brought with him.

How its component parts could be reproduced was something the cloud warrior would have to solve. But that could come later. The first step was to get him to reveal the secret methods used by the spinners and weavers to capture and manipulate the Dark Light.

As his flotilla of junks sailed parallel with the southern sh.o.r.e of Aron-giren, Yama-s.h.i.ta paid no heed to the pa.s.sing watchboats flying the flag of the Toh-Yota. There was not the slightest danger of being stopped and searched; any vessel carrying a domain-lord was deemed to be an extension of his personal fief, and for government sea-soldiers to have boarded it would have been tantamount to an armed invasion of his territory - an act of war which could have the most serious consequences.

No. His voyage past the Shogun's fish-island would be serene and unhindered. Despite the irritating attentions of Yoritomo's agents, he was more than a match for the young occupant of the Summer Palace. It was Ieyasu, the Court Chamberlain, who was his most dangerous adversary, but fortunately he was a man you could do business with. He was a realist, a man's man with a balanced view of the iniquitous side of human nature - not a smooth-faced soft-brained idealist who hardly ever ventured beyond the silken coc.o.o.n of the Inner Court.

Yes. Slowly but surely, all the strands would draw together and the noose would tighten round the neck of the Toh-Yota. A costly debilitating war would not be necessary. In a smooth transition of power, the young Shogun would be deposed and disposed of. A wiser, more worldly and more amenable figure would be invited to lead Ne-Issan forward into a new progressive age in which the Yama-s.h.i.ta would be the standard-bearers. They would set the pace, they would amend the rules, encourage new thoughts and new ideas and, eventually, they would - by popular consent - take over the reins of power.

Rounding the eastern tip of Aron-giren, the three square-sailed junks set course for Kei-pakoda against a freshening breeze that put white crests on the incoming waves. Aided by the steam engine whose sonorous beat could be felt as well as heard on the main deck, the broad bows dipped and rose gently as they ploughed through the light, even swell.

Except for white clouds r.i.m.m.i.n.g the far horizon, the sky was clear, with a promise of more fair weather to come. Just what was needed for the performance he was to witness on the morrow. The image that met Yama-s.h.i.ta's eyes as he surveyed the scene around him was one of majestic, unstoppable power. And it pleased him.

The Iron Masters and the mixed bag of d.i.n.k craftsmen who now formed the bulk of the Heron Pool staff put the finishing touches to the twelve aircraft at around 1800 and retired to make their own personal preparations for the big event. The original group of Trackers was left to tidy up, then the two workshops were shut for the night and left in the care of the usual team of night-watchmen. With his constant to-ing and fro-ing on Cadillac's behalf, and their joint midnight oil-burning sessions with Jodi and Kelso, Steve had come to be regarded as part of the furniture, and he had taken the opportunity to familiarise himself with the watchmen's routine.

His original plan had been to bury a fist-sized chunk of plastic explosive into the head of a rocket tube, arm it with a detonator, then pack in the special black powder mix.

During the fifteen-second burn, the flame would eat its way down the tube, ignite the detonator and - blarnrn! One flying-horse transformed into singed silken confetti and charcoal chips.

But things hadn't gone as planned. The influx of d.i.n.ks had totally upset the work routines, and to meet the increased demand for rockets, the 'power unit' had been almost completely restaffed. Jodi and Kelso - on whom Steve had been counting to help him spike the rockets had been totally occupied with training the pupil pilots, and he himself had been kept busy checking and flight-testing the completed craft as they came off the production line.

By the end of the month, the Tracker workforce had been eased into subordinate roles in all the processes except flying - a move which limited Steve's precious total freedom of access to every department.

To make life more difficult, the Iron Masters kept changing the programme for the big day, and Cadillac had ended up training eight rocket-pilots instead of five. Unaware of Steve's escape plans, Cadillac had come close to wrecking their chances by giving additional gliding instruction to the remaining four of the initial batch of twelve trainees.

All four had flown several hours solo and proved themselves reasonably proficient. Which meant that - if the Iron Masters so decided - all the available aircraft might now be in use when Steve had been gambling on having half of them on the ground, strategically parked, fuelled and ready to go when H-Hour struck!

He only planned to steal three aircraft, but when he threw the switch it was impossible to predict what the Iron Masters' reaction might be.

He was hoping, with Clearwater's help, to throw them into total confusion.

But if there was an unexpectedly strong backlash, some of the aircraft might get damaged in the crossfire .~ so it was important to have at least one in reserve. Fine in theory, but difficult to arrange when the Iron Masters were changing their minds almost daily. Every time Steve took steps to cope with the new situation he found he'd been wrong-footed by yet another switch in the schedule. It was almost as if Min-Orota's people suspected someone was out to ruin things and were trying to keep everybody guessing.

In the end, their indecision proved a blessing in disguise.

When it became clear that he was effectively locked out of the powder room, Steve called up AMEXICO and arranged for a fifth and final package to be airmailed into the pond. In the light of the bombsh.e.l.l news that they had been dropped from the team and were not even going to be allowed to watch from the sidelines, it was his smartest move yet.

As night closed in on the eve of the display, Steve pulled the 'forgotten drawings' routine to gain entry to the workshop where the twelve aircraft had been parked in a neat interlocking line. By arriving at precisely the right moment, he was able to lace the night.w.a.tchmen's supper with some specially formulated dope in the few vital minutes between its delivery and distribution. The onset of sleep was gentle, the period of unconsciousness was brief but profound, and the sleeper's breath smelt of sake.

AMEXICO had come up with the goods yet again.

Steve had two hours to make the last connections. He only needed one.

The charge of plastic explosive, disguised as a small wooden reinforcing strut, was already in place. Steve had positioned some of them during the test-flights he'd made; the other aircraft had been primed by Jodi and Kelso. All he had to do now was to insert the ingenious device that AMEXICO had provided. It would not be difficult.

Each insertion only took a couple of minutes. The workshops and powder room had already been wired up; the surprise package for the guardhouse inside the compound would be delivered tomorrow morning.

Just these gizmos and that was it.

Yep... Once they were in place it didn't matter if the Iron Masters changed the programme for the umpteenth time or decided to make it another day. Coming or going, or just standing still, they were going to get it right in the kisser.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

When the sun had risen clear of the Eastern Sea, Nakane Toh-Shiba, the Consul-General, left Clearwater's bed in the lakehouse and returned to his official residence. A thin, velvety layer of mist still lingered on the surface of the water and it swirled around the hull of the one-oared flatboat that brought him ash.o.r.e. The five samurai who acted as his personal bodyguard on such visits sat facing him in the bow.

Normally, the Consul-General oozed contentment after coupling with his olive-skinned long-dog, but this morning, despite the joyous delirium produced by his repeated penetration of her body, his mood was sombre.

And with good reason. He had received a letter from the Shogun ordering him to take to the air in one of the newly constructed flying-horses.

In the three days since the Herald had delivered the letter, Toh-Shiba had read it over and over again, and each time it had left him disturbed and apprehensive. He might lack some of the bleaker moral principles to which samurai were expected to adhere, but he did not lack courage. He did, however, fear the unknown. In his youth, he had fought to secure the snow-laden northern marches, and was still ready to wield a sword if duty called - provided he had both feet planted firmly on the ground, or in his stirrups.

Since he was the Shogun's official representative, it would have been highly improper to comment upon the wisdom of Yoritomo's decision to support the Heron Pool project but, privately, the whole idea filled Toh-Shiba with deep foreboding. If men had been meant to fly, Ameratsu would have given them wings. The sky was the realm of the kami, and only birds had been granted pa.s.sage through it. Man had been placed on the earth and the waters, and he should not seek to alter the divine plan.

In the ancient world, ruled by the Dark Light, men had sailed across the cloud-world in great sky-boats.

They had attempted to conquer the realm of the kami and steal the glittering jewels of heaven. But they had been cast down. The shining silver sails that bore them aloft had been torn apart and thunderbolts had turned their proud hulls into funeral pyres. Crews and pa.s.sengers trapped inside the shattered hulks perished as they crashed down upon the cities of the fools who had bifilt them.

Blinded by vaulting ambition and indifferent to the wrath of the karni, humankind had continued its a.s.sault on the heavens using the powers given to it by the spinners and weavers of the Dark Light. They had trodden upon the face of the moon-G.o.ddess and sent spy-chariots hurtling towards the stars. Finally, Ameratsu-Omikami had purged the world of its madness by casting the sun into the sea.

Those early voyagers who had ventured aloft had been utterly destroyed, and this new attempt was also doomed to fail. It was for this reason, concluded Toh-Shiba, that the Shogun's own family had distanced themselves from the enterprise. The scheme to build flying-horses had been the brainchild of Lord Hiro Yama-s.h.i.ta, a man whose ambitions could not be ignored. By granting the licence to the Min-Orota, the Shogun had skilfully brought the enterprise within his sphere of influence whilst still keeping it at arm's length.

The Herald Toshiro Hase-Gawa - who had privately confessed to being terrified at the prospect - had mounted one of the flying-horses in order to be able to make a first-hand report on its qualities to the Inner Court. And now that their relative safety had been demonstrated by the training, without any serious incident, of twelve samurai, the Shogun had asked his Consul-General to make a similar flight before delivering his own opinion of their military potential.

As the highest-ranking representative of the bakufu at the ceremony, his flight would be a symbolic seal of approval; an indication of the importance the Shogun attached to the work being carried out at the Heron Pool. That, in essence was the text of the letter.