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colors will blind them to the foreign roses.”
    “Foreign?” A most beguiling look of query widened her eyes and caused her head to tilt. “I have been told roses, pink, white, and red, blossom every spring in the innermost garden of the famous castle, Cloud of Sparrows.” She added pointedly, “I have been told, though I have never been invited to see for myself.”
    Genji bowed, not too deeply. Protocol forbade a Great Lord from bowing low to anyone below him in rank, which was practically everyone but the members of the Imperial Family in Kyoto and the Shogunal Family in the great castle that towered over Edo. With a smile, he said, “I am certain that oversight will be remedied in a day not distant.”
    “I am less certain,” she said, “but I am heartened by your confidence. In any case, is that castle not one of the most ancient in all of Japan?”
    “Yes,” Genji said, playing along with her. “It is.”
    “Then how can these flowers be foreign? By definition, what blooms in an ancient Japanese castle must be Japanese, must it not, Lord Genji?”
    “It is obvious I was wrong to worry about you, Lady Heiko,” Genji said. “Your logic is certain to deflect all criticism.”
    The household staff was still bowing. Outside the gate, passersby who had dropped to their knees at the appearance of a Great Lord’s procession remained on their knees, their heads pressed to the ground. This was less out of respect than out of fear. A samurai could cut down any commoner who failed, in the samurai’s opinion, to display the proper humility, which generally meant groveling until the samurai and his lord had passed by. During the entire conversation, all activity in the vicinity had come to a halt. Seeing Heiko, Genji had forgotten about everyone else. His lack of consideration embarrassed him now. With a quick farewell bow to her, he gave the signal to proceed.
    “Forward!” Saiki ordered. As the procession finally departed, Saiki shot a glance at Kudo, who remained behind.
    Genji observed this exchange and knew right away what it meant. The two were disobeying his order to let Heiko be. When she left the compound minutes later, she would be accompanied by her maidservant at her side, and behind her at a discreet distance, Kudo, the surveillance specialist among his senior advisors. There was nothing he could do about that now. Nor was there much reason for concern. Events had not yet taken such a turn that he had to worry about his bodyguards killing his mistress. The situation would deteriorate soon enough. He would worry about it then.
    “Saiki.”
    “Lord.”
    “What transportation awaits our guests?”
    “Rickshaws, lord.”
    Genji said nothing more. Rickshaws. Saiki knew they would be more comfortable in carriages, so he had arranged for rickshaws instead. This clear signal of his vassal’s disapproval didn’t upset Genji. He understood the dilemma.
    Saiki was bound to him by honor, history, and tradition. Yet the code history and tradition had created, the code from which all honor flowed, was itself under attack by the very actions Genji now took. Foreigners threatened the hierarchical order of lord and vassal upon which their society was built. While the most decisive lords sought their expulsion, his own lord went out of his way to befriend them. And not just any foreigners, but Christian missionaries, the most politically provocative and practically useless of them all.
    Genji knew Saiki was not alone among his tradition-bound vassals in doubting his judgment. Indeed, of the three generals he had inherited from his grandfather—Saiki, Kudo, and Sohaku—there wasn’t one whose adherence was utterly certain. Loyalties were coming into conflict in a way never foreseen. When those loyalties could no longer be reconciled, would they follow Genji, or would they turn against him?
    Even with prophecy as a guide, the road ahead was uncertain.

    A dozen roughly dressed Japanese dockworkers awaited the