On the tenth day he turned down an invitation to sail with the three of them on a circuit of the nearby islands. Instead he spent the morning overhauling a mower tractor which he found in the cavernous shed used to garage Charmaine's neglected agricultural machinery. After he'd stripped down and reassembled the gearbox, and charged the power cell from the tidal turbine, he got to work on the lawn. Driving round and round the house, grass cuttings shooting out of the back like a green geyser.

When Althaea emerged from the trees late in the afternoon she gawped at the lawn in astonishment, then whooped and hugged him. «It looks wonderful,» she laughed. «And you've found the lily pond!»

He'd nearly driven straight into the damn thing; it was just a patch of emerald swamp, with a statue of Venus in the centre, concealed by reeds. If it hadn't been for the frogs fleeing the tractor's blades he would never have guessed what it was in time.

«Will you get the fountain working again? Please, Eason!»

«I'll have a look at it,» he said. Pressed against him, her lean body left an agreeable imprint through the thin fabric of her dress. Tisrella was giving him a stern frown, which he replied with a silent mocking smile.

Althaea took a step back, face radiant. «Thank you.»

•   •   •

That night, Eason jerked awake as Tiarella's hand jabbed into his side.

«Get up,» she hissed urgently.

It was gone midnight; a storm had risen to batter the archipelago. Huge raindrops pelted the windowpanes; lightning flares illuminated the garden and its palisade of trees in a stark chiaroscuro. Thunder formed an almost continuous grumble.

«They're here,» she said. «They're docking at the jetty, right now.»

«Who's here?» His thoughts were still sluggish from sleep.

«You tell me! You're the one they're after. No one with honest business would try to sail tonight.»

«Then how do you know anyone's here?»

Tiarella had closed her eyes. «Orphée has a set of dolphin-derived echo receptors fitted under her hull. I can see their boat, it's small. Ah, they've hit the jetty. It's wobbling. They must be getting out. Yes . . . yes, they are.»

The Party! It couldn't be anyone else, not creeping up in the middle of the night. Conceivably it was comrades he'd once fought with, although contract killers were more likely.

Eason's training took over: assess, plan, initiate. He cursed violently at being caught out so simply. Ten days was all it had taken for Charmaine's cosy existence to soften him. He should have moved on immediately, broken his trail into chaotic segments which no one could piece together.

«There's three of them,» Tiarella said, her eyes still tight shut.

«How do you know that?»

«Three!» she insisted.

«Oh, for fuck's sake. Stay here,» he ordered. «You'll be safe. They only want me.» He rolled out of bed and shoved the window open, climbing out on to the balcony, still naked. Retinal amps scanned the freshly cut garden. Nothing was moving.

At least the rain and wind would hinder them slightly. But it still didn't look good.

Eason scrambled down one of the balcony pillars, rust flakes scratching his palms and thighs. He raced across the lawn, desperate to reach the cover of the trees, slipping three times on the sodden grass. Thorns tore at his legs as he sprinted into the undergrowth. There was no sign of the intruders yet.

He forced his way through the mass of clawing vegetation until he was ten metres from the path to the jetty, then started to climb the gnarled trunk of an orange tree. The branches were dense, unyielding, but he twisted and wriggled his way through them, feeling them snap and bend against his ribs. He finally stopped when he'd manoeuvred himself above the path.

Thunder and lightning swamped his senses. He was totally dependent on his retinal amps now, praying they could compensate for the storm. The infra-red function rewarded him with a large hot-spot creeping along the sombre tunnel formed by the overgrown trees. It resolved into a human shape, a man. He held his breath. If he could see the man, then he was visible, too. It had been a stupid move; he'd gambled on the attackers being closer to the house by now.

But the man was only a couple of metres away, and showed no awareness of Eason. He was wearing dark oilskins and a broad-brimmed hat, cradling some kind of rifle. Hick-boy out hunting.

This wasn't any kind of professional operation. Which made even less sense.

Someone else was floundering through the undergrowth parallel to the path, making enough noise to be heard above the thunder and the rain. The man on the path walked directly under Eason, and kept on going. There was a commotion away towards the ocean. Someone screamed. It choked off rapidly, but not before Eason got an approximate fix.

«Whitley? Whitley, where the hell are you?»

That was the one Eason had heard blundering about, shouting at the top of his voice.

«Come on, let's get out of these bloody trees,» the one on the path yelled in answer. «Now shut up, he'll hear us.»

«I can't fucking hear us! And what happened to Whitley?»

«I don't bloody know. Tripped most likely. Now come on!»

The figure on the path started to advance again. Eason landed behind him as thunder shook the creaking trees. He focused, and punched. Powered by an augmented musculature, his fist slammed into the back of the man's neck, snapping the spinal cord instantly, shoving fractured vertebrae straight into his trachea, blocking even a reflex grunt from emerging.

The body pitched forward, squelching as it hit the muddy path. Eason snatched up the rifle, checking it in a glance. His synaptic web ran a comparison search through its files, identifying it as a Walther fluxpump. Basically, a magnetic shotgun which fired a burst of eighty steel pellets.

The breech was fully loaded with twenty-five cartridges. Satisfied, Eason plunged back into the undergrowth, crouching low as he closed the gap on the second intruder.

The man was leaning against a tree trunk at the edge of the lawn, peering through the branches at the house. Eason stood three metres behind him, pointed the fluxpump at his legs, and fired.

«Who are you?»

«Jesus God, you shot me! You fucking shot me. I can't feel my legs!»

It was another bovine islander, same as the first. Eason shook his head in wonder, and moved the fluxpump's barrel slightly. «In three seconds you won't feel your prick if you don't answer me. Now who are you?»

«Don't! God, I'm called Fermoy. Fermoy, OK?»

«Right. Well done, Fermoy. So what are you and where do you come from?»

«I'm a shipwright over on Boscobel.»

«Where's Boscobel?»

«An island, nine kilometres away. God, my legs!»

«What are you doing here, Fermoy?»

«We came for the man. You.»

«Why?»

«You're wanted. There must be money for you.»

«And you thought you'd collect?»

«Yes.»

«Who were you going to give me to, Fermoy?»

«Torreya.»

«Why her?»

«You were running from Kariwak. We thought she must want you. You wouldn't be running, else.»

«Who told you I was running?»

«Ross.»

Eason stared down at him, teeth bared in rage. That drunken shithead. He'd been safe on Charmaine, home dry. He made an effort to calm down. «When did he tell you?»

«This morning. We were drinking. It came out. You know what he's like.»

«How many of you came?»

«Three, just three.»

So Tiarella had been right about that. «And how many people on Boscobel know I'm here?»

«Only us.»

«Right. Well, thanks, I think that's covered everything.»

The third bounty hunter, Whitley, was easy to find. He lay, strangely motionless, in the centre of a broad circle of mangled undergrowth. Eason took a couple of cautious steps towards him, fluxpump held ready.