His mind's mind shows him the scene of Bara wiping his knife on the bloodied cloth, over and over, until at last the men arrive at Todoroki Bridge.

Shuzai and Tsuru discuss how best to sabotage it later.

An owl cries, in this cedar or that fir . . . once, twice, nearby . . . gone.

The shrine's last chime of the day, loud and close, announces the late Hour of the Rooster. Before it rings again Before it rings again, Uzaemon thinks, Orito will be freed Orito will be freed. The men wrap their faces in black cloth, leaving only a narrow band for their eyes and noses. They proceed stealthily, not expecting an ambush but not discounting the possibility. When Uzaemon snaps a twig underfoot the others turn around, glaring. The incline lessens. A fox barks. The tunnel-like succession of tori tori gates begins, slicing the cross-wind. The men stop and gather around Shuzai. 'The Shrine is four hundred paces uphill . . .' gates begins, slicing the cross-wind. The men stop and gather around Shuzai. 'The Shrine is four hundred paces uphill . . .'

'Junrei-san.' Shuzai turns to Uzaemon. 'Here is where you wait. Remember your sage: "One pays an army for a thousand days to use it for one." That day is now. Hide away from the path, but stay warm. You've come further than most "clients" ever do, so there's no dishonour in waiting here. Once our business in the monastery is accomplished, I'll send for you, but don't approach the Shrine until then. Don't worry. We are warriors. They are a handful of monks.'

Uzaemon climbs a short distance through stony ice and drifts of pine-needles, to a sheltered bowl out of the worst of the wind: he crouches and stands repeatedly until his hamstrings ache but his legs and torso are warmed through. The night sky is an indecipherable manuscript. Uzaemon remembers last studying the stars with de Zoet on Dejima's Watchtower, back in the summer, when the world was simpler. He tries to imagine a sequence of pictures entitled, The Bloodless Liberation of Aibagawa Orito The Bloodless Liberation of Aibagawa Orito: here are Shuzai and three samurai scaling the wall; here, three monks in the gatehouse, surprised into submission; and here comes the head monk, hurrying across the ancient courtyard, muttering, 'Lord Enomoto will be displeased, but what choice have we?' Orito is woken and ordered to dress for a journey. She ties her headscarf around her beautiful burnt face. The last picture gives her expression when she recognises her rescuer. Uzaemon shivers, and performs some exercises with his sword, but it is too cold to concentrate, so he turns his thoughts to choosing a name for his new life. Unwittingly, Shuzai has selected his given name - Junrei, the pilgrim - but what about a family name? He may discuss this with Orito: perhaps he could adopt her Aibagawa. I am tempting Fate I am tempting Fate, he warns himself, to snatch my prize away to snatch my prize away. He rubs his cold-gnawed hands, wondering how much time has passed since Shuzai led the attack, and finds he has no inkling. An eighth of an hour? A quarter? An eighth of an hour? A quarter? The Shrine bell hasn't rung since they crossed Todoroki Bridge, but the monks have no reason to mark the hours of the night. How long should he wait before concluding that the rescue has foundered? Then what? If Shuzai's masterless samurai were overcome by force, what chance would a former Interpreter of the Third Rank have? The Shrine bell hasn't rung since they crossed Todoroki Bridge, but the monks have no reason to mark the hours of the night. How long should he wait before concluding that the rescue has foundered? Then what? If Shuzai's masterless samurai were overcome by force, what chance would a former Interpreter of the Third Rank have?

Thoughts of death creep through the pine trees towards Uzaemon.

He wishes the human mind were a scroll that could be rolled up . . .

'Junrei-san, we have the--'

Uzaemon is so startled by the speaking tree that he falls on his backside.

'Did we startle you?' A boulder's shadow turns into the mercenary Tanuki.

'Just a little, yes.' Uzaemon steadies his breathing.

'We have the woman,' Kenka appears from the tree, 'safe and sound.'

'That's good,' says Uzaemon. 'That's very, very good.'

A calloused hand finds Uzaemon's and lifts him to his feet. 'Was anyone hurt?' Uzaemon meant to ask, 'In what state is Orito?'

'Nobody whatsoever,' says Tanuki. 'Master Genmu's a man of peace.'

'Meaning,' adds Kenka, 'he shan't have his Shrine polluted by bloodshed for the sake of one nun. But he's also a wily old fox, and Deguchi-san wants you to come and check that the man of peace isn't fobbing us off with a decoy before we leave and they barricade the gate.' wants you to come and check that the man of peace isn't fobbing us off with a decoy before we leave and they barricade the gate.'

'There are two nuns with burnt faces.' Tanuki uncorks a small flask and drinks from it. 'I went inside the House of Sisters. What a strange menagerie Enomoto's assembled! Here, drink this: it'll protect you from the cold and bolster your strength. Waiting is worse than doing.'

'I'm warm enough,' Uzaemon shivers. 'There's no need.'

'You have three days to put a hundred miles between yourself and Kyoga Domain, preferably on Honshu. You won't get that far with a chill in your lungs. Drink!'

Uzaemon accepts the mercenary's gruff kindness. The spirit scalds his throat. 'Thank you.'

The trio make their way back down to the tunnel of tori tori gates. gates.

'Assuming you saw the correct Aibagawa-san, in what state is she?'

The pause is long enough for Uzaemon to fear the worst.

'Gaunt,' answers Tanuki, 'but well enough, I'd say. Calm.'

'Her mind's sharp,' adds Kenka. 'She's not asking us who we are: she knows her captors might overhear. I can see why a man might go to all this time and expense for a woman like that.'

They arrive at the track and begin the final climb through the tori tori gates. gates.

Uzaemon notices a strange elasticity in his legs. Nerves Nerves, he thinks, are natural are natural.

But soon the path is undulating like the slow swell of waves.

The last two days have been taxing. He steadies his breathing. The worst is over The worst is over.

Past the tori tori gates, the ground flattens. The Shrine of Mount Shiranui rears up. gates, the ground flattens. The Shrine of Mount Shiranui rears up.

Roofs hunker behind high walls. Weak light escapes a gap in the gates.

He hears Dr Marinus's harpsichord. He thinks, Impossible Impossible.

His cheek presses the frosted leaf-mould, soft as a woman's midriff.

Awareness begins in the membranes of his nose and spreads through his head, but his body cannot move. Questions and statements assert themselves like a throng of sickbed visitors: 'You fainted again,' says one. 'You are indoors in Mount Shiranui Shrine,' says another, and then they all speak at once: 'Were you drugged?'; 'You are sitting upright on a cold floor of beaten earth'; 'Yes, you were were drugged: Tanuki's drugged: Tanuki's drink drink?'; 'Your wrists are bound behind a pillar and your ankles are tied'; 'Was Shuzai betrayed by some of his men?'

'He can hear us now, Abbot,' says an unknown voice.

The tip of a glass bottle brushes Uzaemon's nostril.

'Thank you, Suzaku,' says a voice he knows, but cannot yet place.

The smell of rice, sake sake and pickled vegetables suggest a storehouse. and pickled vegetables suggest a storehouse.

Orito's letters. There is an emptiness at his midriff. They're gone They're gone.

Wasps of pain crawl in and out through the stump of his brain.

'Open your eyes, Ogawa the Younger,' says Enomoto. 'We aren't children.'

He obeys, and the Lord of Kyoga's face rises in the lantern-lit darkness.

'You are an estimable scholar,' says the face. 'You are a risible thief.'

Three or four human shapes watch from the edges of the storeroom.

'I didn't come here,' Uzaemon tells his captor, 'to steal anything that is yours.'

'Why oblige me to spell out what is obvious? Mount Shiranui Shrine is an organ in the body of the Domain of Kyoga. The Sisters belong to that Shrine.'

'She was neither her stepmother's to sell nor yours to buy.'

'Sister Aibagawa is a glad servant of the Goddess. She has no wish to leave.'

'Let her tell me so from her own lips.'

'No. Some habits of mind from her old life had to be . . .' Enomoto pretends to search for the right verb '. . . cauterised. Her scars are healed, but only a negligent Lord Abbot would allow a dithering one-time sweetheart to pick at them.'

The others, thinks Uzaemon. What about Shuzai and the others? What about Shuzai and the others?

'Shuzai is alive, well,' says Enomoto, 'and drinking soup in the kitchen with my other ten men. Your plot put them all to some trouble.'

Uzaemon refuses to believe. I've known Shuzai for ten years I've known Shuzai for ten years.

'He is a a loyal friend,' Enomoto tries not to smile, 'but not loyal friend,' Enomoto tries not to smile, 'but not your your loyal friend.' loyal friend.'

A lie, Uzaemon insists, a lie. A key to pick the lock of my mind . . . a lie. A key to pick the lock of my mind . . .

'Why would would I lie?' Midnight-blue watered silk flows upwards as Enomoto reseats himself much closer. 'No, the cautionary tale of Ogawa Uzaemon pertains to discontent. Adopted into a once-illustrious family, he climbed by talent to a high rank, enjoying the respect of the Shirando Academy, a secure stipend, a pretty wife and enviable trading opportunities with the Dutch. Who could want more? Ogawa Uzaemon wanted more! He was infected with that sickness the world calls True Love. In the end, it killed him.' I lie?' Midnight-blue watered silk flows upwards as Enomoto reseats himself much closer. 'No, the cautionary tale of Ogawa Uzaemon pertains to discontent. Adopted into a once-illustrious family, he climbed by talent to a high rank, enjoying the respect of the Shirando Academy, a secure stipend, a pretty wife and enviable trading opportunities with the Dutch. Who could want more? Ogawa Uzaemon wanted more! He was infected with that sickness the world calls True Love. In the end, it killed him.'

The human forms around the edges bestir themselves.

I shan't beg for my life, Uzaemon avows, but I shall learn why and how but I shall learn why and how. 'How much did you pay Shuzai to betray me?'

'Come! The Lord of Kyoga's favour is worth more than a hunter's bounty.'

'There was a young man, a guard, who died at the Halfway Gate . . .'

'A spy in the pay of the Lord of Saga: your adventure gave us a pleasing way to kill him.'

'Why bother bringing me all the way up Mount Shiranui?'

'Assassinations in Nagasaki can lead to awkward questions, and the poetry of your dying so very near your Beloved - mere rooms away! - was irresistible.'

'Let me see her,' the wasps swarm in Uzaemon's brain, 'or I will kill you from the other side.'

'How gratifying: a dying curse from a Shirando scholar! Alas, I have empirical proof enough to satisfy a Descartes or even a Marinus that dying curses don't work. Down the ages, many hundreds of men, women and even quite small children have all vowed to drag me down to Hell. Yet, as you see, I am still here, walking this beautiful Earth.'

He wants to taste my fear. 'So you believe your Order's demented Creeds?' 'So you believe your Order's demented Creeds?'

'Ah, yes. We found some pleasant letters on your person, but not a certain dogwood scroll-tube. Now, I shan't pretend you can save yourself: your death became pre-ordained from the hour the herbalist came knocking on your gate. But you can save the Ogawa Residence from the ruinous fire that shall incinerate it in the Sixth Month of this year. What do you say?'

'Two letters,' Uzaemon lies, 'were delivered to Ogawa Mimasaku today. One removes me from the Ogawa family register. The other divorces my wife. Why destroy a house that has no connection to me?'

'Pure spite. Give me the scroll, or die knowing they die too.'

'Tell me why you abducted Dr Aibagawa's daughter when you did.'

Enomoto decides to indulge him. 'I feared I might lose her. A page from a Dutchman's notebook came into my possession, thanks to your colleague Kobayashi's good offices. Look. I brought it.'

Enomoto unfolds a sheet of European paper and holds it up:

Retain this, Uzaemon tells his memory. Show me her, at the end Show me her, at the end.

'De Zoet draws a fair likeness.' Enomoto folds it up. 'Fair enough to worry Aibagawa Seian's widow that a Dutchman had designs on the family's best asset. The dictionary your servant smuggled to Orito settled the matter. My bailiff persuaded the widow to ignore funerary protocol and settle her stepdaughter's future without further delay.'

'Did you tell that wretched woman about your demented practices?'

'What an earthworm knows of Copernicus you know of the Creeds.'

'You keep a harem of deformities for your monks' pleasure--'

'Can you hear how like a child trying to postpone his bedtime you sound?'

'Why not present a paper to the Academy,' Uzaemon asks, 'about--'

'Why do you mortal gnats gnats suppose that your incredulity suppose that your incredulity matters matters?'

'- about murdering your "Harvested Gifts" to "Distil their Souls"?'

'This is your last opportunity to save the Ogawa house from--'

'And then bottling bottling them, like perfume, and "imbibing" them, like medicine, and cheating death? Why not share your magical revelation with the world?' Uzaemon scowls at the shifting figures. 'Here's my guess: because there's one small part of you that's still sane, an inner Jiritsu who says, "This is evil".' them, like perfume, and "imbibing" them, like medicine, and cheating death? Why not share your magical revelation with the world?' Uzaemon scowls at the shifting figures. 'Here's my guess: because there's one small part of you that's still sane, an inner Jiritsu who says, "This is evil".'

'Oh, E Evil. Evil, evil, evil. You always wield that word as if it were a sword and not a vapid conceit. When you suck the yolk from an egg, is this "evil"? Survival is Nature's law, and my Order holds - or, better, is - the secret of surviving mortality. Newborn infants are a messy requisite - after the first two weeks of life, the enmeshed soul can't be extracted - and a fifty-strong Order needs a constant supply for its own use, and to purchase the favours of an elite few. Your Adam Smith would understand. Without the Order, moreover, the Gifts wouldn't exist in the first place. They are an ingredient we manufacture. Where is your "evil"?'

'Eloquent lunacy, Lord Abbot Enomoto, is still lunacy.'

'I am more than six hundred years old. You shall die, in minutes . . .'

He believes his Creeds, Uzaemon sees. He believes every single word. He believes every single word.

'. . . so which is stronger, in the end? Your Reason? Or My Eloquent Lunacy?'

'Free me,' Uzaemon says, 'free Miss Aibagawa, and I'll tell you where the scr--'

'No, no, there can be no bargaining. Nobody outside the Order may know the Creeds and live. You must die, just as Jiritsu did, and that busy old herbalist . . .'

Uzaemon groans with grief. 'She was harmless harmless.'

'She wanted to harm my Order. We defend ourselves. But I want you to look at this - an artefact that Fate, in the guise of Vorstenbosch the Dutchman, sold me.' Enomoto exhibits a foreign-made pistol, inches from Uzaemon's face. 'A pearl-inlaid handle, and craftsmanship exquisite enough to confound the Confucianists' claim that Europeans lack souls. Since Shuzai told me of your heroic plans, it has been waiting. See - see see, Ogawa, this concerns you - how one raises this "hammer" to "half-cock", loads the gun down the "muzzle" thus: first, the gunpowder, and then with a lead ball wrapped in paper. One pushes it down with this "ramrod" stored on the underside of the barrel . . .'

It's now, Uzaemon's heart knocks like a bloodied fist, it's now, it's now . . . it's now, it's now . . .

'. . . then one supplies the "flash-pan", here, with a little powder, shuts its lid, and now our pistol is "primed and ready". Done, in half a Hollander's minute. Yes, a master archer can string another arrow in the blink of an eye, but guns are manufactured more quickly than master archers. Any son of a shit-carrier could wield one of these and bring down a mounted samurai. The day is coming - you shan't see it, but I shall - when such firearms transform even our secretive world. When one squeezes the trigger, a flint strikes this "frizzen" as the flash-pan lid opens. The spark ignites the priming powder, sending a flame through this "touch-hole" into the combustion chamber. The main powder ignites, like a miniature cannon, and the lead ball bores through your--'

Enomoto presses the pistol's muzzle against Uzaemon's beating heart.

Uzaemon is aware of urine warming his thighs but is too scared for shame.

It's now, it's now, it's now, it's now, it's now, it's now, it's now . . .