On the morning of Saturday, May 13th, I show up early at Ajima Law. Mitodarni is already in the office checking through some documents.
        "Sorry, Ken," says Mitodarni, indicating the paperwork, "but this has to be ready for a courier in ten minutes."
        "Understood," I say.
        Then, hoping that didn't sound ungracious -- yesterday was a very long day, and today I feel fuzzy and depleted -- I take a seat and try phoning Atakana. Does he have his cellphone with him in hospital? Yes, he does. The rules say that cellphones should be switched off in hospital but his evidently isn't. He complains about breakfast. The computerized meal system messed up, and instead of the fish and rice he ordered he got served the kind of rice gruel you dish out to toothless geriatrics.
        "If you drop by for lunch," says Atakana, "bring me something to eat."
        It seems he's bruised and sore but probably has nothing seriously wrong with him. Just in case, however, he's scheduled to have a CAT scan, an X-ray using Computerized Axial Tomography technology, at 10:30 this morning. One of the doctors is afraid that Atakana might have cracked the bones in his pelvis or might even have gaping fractures there, and the CAT scan is to exclude this possibility.
        "And if you do have a fracture?" I ask. "What then?"
        "Hospital food," says Atakana gloomily. "Many days of it."
        "Okay," I say. "Next subject: who pushed you? How's your memory?"
        "The memory's no better," says Atakana. "But I did have a dream about being pushed. And I saw the perpetrators."
        "Who were?" I ask.
        "One was you," says Atakana, "and the other was a lopsided gherkin in a red knit cap."
        "Gherkin?" I ask.
        "You know," says Atakana. "One of those little cucumber type things."
        "Try to dream more coherently," I say. "And remember that I have an alibi. I was with Kitty."
        "You were?" says Atakana.
        Yes, I was, and, if recollection serves, I told Atakana that when I visited him in hospital yesterday. Anyway. I explain all over again, and, while I'm doing so, a courier shows up, dressed in bright green motorbike leathers which are splattered with logos. The courier is inconveniently early: Mitodarni has not quite finished preparing the paperwork.
        "Van Kan Jai Ji," chants the young courier, who looks to be about eighteen.
        At a guess, chanting the chant is a compulsory corporate ritual, but, mercifully, he only does it once.
        Van Kan Jai Ji is the name of the startup company that the courier's working for, which has been aggressively promoting itself (by e-mail, flyers, newspaper ads and even a couple of promos on Salyan Jarkot TV) as "faster, cheaper, bleeper". I don't know what "bleeper" means. Maybe it's an equivalent for "noisier", and maybe that's construed as being a good thing.
        Presumably it was the "cheaper" which persuaded Mitodarni to become one of their customers. Mitodarni Danisheli Ajima, Danisheli to his family but Mitodarni to the wider world, is the first member of his family to make the ascent into the professional classes. The struggle upwards has not been easy, and Mitodarni works hard for a living and has to control costs strictly. So do we. Mitodarni works reasonably cheaply, which is one of the reasons why he ended up being our lawyer.
        The "cheaply" part is going to work out as a poor bargain if Mitodarni ends up ripping us off. But the only thing I can positively accuse him of at this stage is kindness: he went to the trouble of visiting Atakana in hospital.
        As fast as he can, Mitodarni finishes his paperwork, puts it into a courier package and hands it to the chanting one, who gives us a big grin and another enthusiastic "Van Kan Jai Ji" then goes pounding down the stairs. We hear a heavy crash followed by a thump. He's fallen? Evidently. The stairs are steep and narrow, and it's unwise to sprint down them in motorbike boots. "Okay!" cries the courier cheerfully. And, moments later, we hear his motorbike roaring to life outside. I wonder what kind of medical insurance package the Van Kan Jai Ji outfit has for its workers.
        "What's this I hear about Atakana being attacked?" says Mitodarni.
        "Well, you tell me," I say. "What did you hear?"
        "I was up early this morning watching Egg Fracture," says Mitodarni. "They said intruders broke into a house in Hessawatari Ward and that an Atakana Udamana was taken to hospital."
        "That's pretty much it," I say. "Two intruders. They threw him off the stairs. It looks as if they were trying to kill him. Valencia thought she identified one of them, but the culprit she named was killed in an accident a month ago."
        I enlarge on yesterday's events, making it clear that I have an unimpeachable alibi: I'm both disturbed and annoyed by the fact that Atakana has had the temerity to link me with the assassination attempt that was made on him. Even though the link was only made in a dream.
        Explanation done, I take the opportunity to ask Mitodarni the question which is uppermost in my mind. If Atakana were to die then would his wife inherit his share of the proceeds from the sale of the Udamana lands? I think I know the answer to this, but I want to hear it from Mitodarni himself.
        "Presently," says Mitodarni, patiently, "the land is not Atakana's property. It doesn't belong to him: it belongs to the trust. You can't bequeath property that you don't own. If the trust is dissolved while Atakana is still living then he'll get his slice, but that hasn't happened yet. If he were to die today, he'd miss out. So Valencia, as a beneficiary of Atakana's estate, wouldn't get a share either."
        That puts my mind at rest. I've been thinking about a simple, inevitable question: who would benefit from Atakana's death? And, in my mind, Valencia has offered herself as a candidate killer. I'm reasonably sure that any love that she might once have had for Atakana died during the difficult years of his active alcoholism. But the financial logic suggests that Valencia is innocent rather than guilty.
        If Atakana survives until the assets of the Udamana Zekotalora Trust are carved up and distributed then Atakana's estate will swell by at least fifty million zen. If Atakana dies prematurely, however, then his estate stands to gain zero. In other words, Atakana is worth more alive than dead. At least for the moment.
        "You say that Valencia is accusing Egishi," says Mitodarni. "What do you think? Is Egishi involved?"
        To think of Egishi is to think of violence. The plain fact is that Egishi has a bad temper. An explosive temper. I can imagine it very easily: Egishi, hooded, giving Atakana a brutal shove. Sending him hurtling over the stairs. But what would motivate Egishi? Well, someone set fire to Dolagataka Dignity Domiciles, and is responsible for Aunt Chariot's death. Maybe Egishi has (somehow) concluded that Atakana is the guilty party.
        If Egishi does blame Atakana for his mother's death then he probably won't stop at one attempt on Atakana's death. Which suggests that I have a responsibility to confront Egishi and find out where he stands on this matter.
        But I'm not going to say that to Mitodarni.
        "Both intruders were hooded," I say, "and Valencia definitely misidentified one of them. Egishi ... well, I can't see that Egishi has a motive."
        "The motive would seem to be obvious," says Mitodarni. "The fewer Udamanas there are, the bigger everyone's share of the payout. Sorry, Ken -- I guess that sounds outrageous. But that's how the arithmetic works."
        This is true. Those of us who will benefit directly from the dissolution of the Udamana Zekotalora Trust are myself, Atakana, Egishi, Petticat and Po. Logically, Atakana can't benefit by killing himself. And, as Mitodarni has pointed out, for Valencia to benefit the trust needs to dissolved before Atakana dies.
        So (excluding myself) we're down to three suspects. Petticat, Egishi and Po. Or four suspects, if you count Petticat's husband Molo as a possible candidate. Five, if you think that Yazuchi might be reckless enough to commit a murder to enrich her husband, Po. But who would have sufficient confidence in Yazuchi's judgment to join her in a conspiracy? She's always struck me as being disconcertingly flaky.
        "Regardless of the financial arithmetic," I say, "Egishi has an alibi. Some guys he drinks with. There's a place called the Plodding Frog. It's a bar. Up near the, uh, the industrial place, Gava something."
        I'm having a senior moment. I should be able to find the missing place name as easily as I can find my left foot. But, alarmingly, I can't.
        "Gastovolux?" says Mitodarni.
        "That's it," I say. "The Gastovolux Industrial Estate, north, near the end of Ichatrak. It takes me twenty minutes in the car. The kids play table tennis at a place in the neighborhood."
        "Egishi was drinking there in the middle of the day?" says Mitodarni.
        "He was," I say. "At least, that's what his alibi buddies say."
        That's when conversation on this topic ends because Kitty shows up. Today she has neither her Phrenic Armor laptop bag nor her adventurer's style backpack bag. Instead, she's toting a silky pink "HarmaHop Microvalise" (that's the name emblazoned on the side of the thing) which looks juvenile, at least to my untutored eye -- far too young for her. Maybe it's symptomatic of a lighthearted mood.
        When Kitty enters Mitodarni's office, I'm momentarily ashamed of the situation. Here I am sitting in a cheap office with one of the cheapest lawyers in the city of Yendo. Then I realize that I'm being ridiculous. Kitty probably doesn't care how much I'm paying for legal services and, anyway, from her perspective, the setup probably looks suitably upmarket.
        The office is very nicely presented, and Kitty probably has no inkling of the fact that Mitodarni is only paying a peppercorn rent for this space up above his family's coffee bar. And the view is great. The view, as always, is of Ginsasebo Utokawa, otherwise known as the Golden Dream Phoenix River Temple, the resplendent sweeping roofs of which are visible across the waters of Saga Irado.
        If you don't know (and Kitty surely doesn't know) that Mitodarni is getting this for next to nothing, then the ambiance conveys an upmarket boutique elegance.
        "How is your brother?" says Kitty.
        "Doing well," I say.
        "Have they found out anything more about who attacked him?" asks Kitty.
        "The police will be following the matter up, I guess," I say, with deliberate vagueness.
        And say nothing further which might encourage any discussion of this matter. It's already occurred to me that Kitty might see the attempt on my brother's life as a potential deal-breaker. The less she thinks about what seems to have been an attempted murder the better. Let's focus on today's business.
        The document that we are here to sign gives South Zeast Commercial Acquisitions a guarantee that we Udamanas will not sell our lands to any other party for the next ninety days. Nor will we enter into negotiations on any possible sale with any other party for that period. As payment for the privilege of thus temporarily excluding potential competitors, Kitty has brought along a million zen in cash.
        "I know you were thinking in terms of a bank draft," says Kitty, "but I'd already got cash from the bank. Besides, there's a certain charm in doing a cash transaction."
        An odd way to look at it. Has the payment of this money become a tourist event? Apparently so. In Merlercia, large cash transactions are associated with deals involving guns, drugs and organized crime. Handling a big chunk of cash, which feels normative to me, has, for Kitty, a certain frisson, a buzz of the elicit.
        Should I feel insulted? Well, that would be ... unhelpful. Kitty is a foreigner and I suppose this environment -- Mitodarni's office, the city of Yendo and the entire nation of Nizon -- is, from her point of view, a touristic milieu. That's natural, and I should accept it. There's no harm in being treated as a kind of tourist attraction as long as you get paid for it.
        Mitodarni writes Kitty a receipt.
        "Ken," says Kitty. "Have you ever been to the Vipari Silk Show?"
        I haven't, but it turns out that it's held every Saturday afternoon, that we could go there after lunch, that it lasts three hours and that I could probably buy something for my wife.
        This is about the last thing that I want to do. Clothes, frankly, silk or otherwise, do not interest me, and I don't have the splash money to go buying spur-of-the-moment gifts for my wife. Still. How can I say no?
        For the moment, our business is done, and Kitty has nothing on her schedule until she flies back to Merlercia tomorrow. She is alone in Yendo, and it's no fun being in a one-person tourist vacuum. This blonde Merlercian woman is the key to our future and I must do what I can to keep her happy. Also, if we have lunch then go to the silk show, maybe I can get some information out of her about her mysterious Plan A, her undisclosed alternative plan for a deal involving the Udamana land.
        "Silk is a mystery to me," I say, "so I hope you wouldn't be looking for an informed commentary or anything like that. That said -- "
        That much said, my cellphone rings. It's Mr. Fawajamabari, the principal of the Yendo Achievers Middle School. With bad news.
        "It's the school calling," I say, putting my hand over the phone for a moment so I can put Kitty in the picture.
        "The school?" says Kitty. "But it's Saturday!"
        I remind myself that she is, at least in part, a tourist. Although she's researched us assiduously, her understanding of us has probably not gotten much further than the advanced day tripper mode. There are probably a thousand everyday things about Nizon that she still doesn't know, one of them being that the schools function for six days a week.
        "They only get Sunday off," I say. "School kids, I mean. Excuse me."
        And I return to my phone call with Mr. Fawajamabari. Tanto has collapsed, and nobody has the slightest idea why. It seems he did not lose consciousness but has become incapable of speech. An ambulance has been called.
        "Was he in a fight?" I say.
        "A fight?" says Mr. Fawajamabari with surprise, as if he'd never heard of such a thing.
        "I'm thinking about blows to the head," I say.
        But Tanto, it seems, was not in a fight. Or, if he was, nobody knows about it. I wrap up the phone call, make my apologies to Kitty -- she'll have to keep herself company today -- and leave. Going down the stairs, I slip, and have to grab at the bannisters for support. That's a piece of luck: it warns me that my nerves have been jolted, that I'm upset, and that I should make a special effort to drive slowly and carefully.