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The problem was, Upcott could have sworn that when he had first entered the room, that dragon had been green.

The damned thing had changed colour. Green to red. Was it some kind of trick? He looked at the Chief Astrologer. His host smiled benignly at him. Some kind of conjuring trick, surely? Some kind of substance that could change colour, embedded in the cloth? He began to sweat. He wouldn't put it past these heathens. They were a tricky lot and loved things like fireworks, which involved cleverness with colours.

Upcott was distracted from these thoughts when a figure appeared silently in the doorway of the room. It was the emaciated wraith of a manservant who had greeted him in the garden. He was carrying an elaborate tea service on an ornate brass tray.

'Don't worry about that now,' said the Chief Astrologer, gesturing the servant away. 'I don't think my guest is in the mood for tea.' He smiled at Upcott as the walking cadaver of the servant lurched across the room to set the tray down on a lacquered sideboard. He was moving with such terrible trembling slowness that it was painful to watch.

'One of the victims of your trade,' said his host in a pleasant, con

versational tone of voice.

'What do you mean?'

'He is an addict. A hopeless case. His wife and children starved to death long ago, as a consequence of his habit. He himself will be dead before the moon rises again.' The Chinaman smiled. 'And of course there are many more like him, more than you could count in your lifetime.'

Upcott felt his temper rising again. 'I think you've wasted enough

of my time.'

'Why do you say that?'

The Englishman hesitated. 'I was brought here under false pre

tences.'

'Were you?'

Suddenly Upcott was uncertain. 'Wasn't that letter, the letter inviting me here, just a fraud to draw me out?'

His host shook his head, jowls wobbling. 'Not at all. The offer and the merchant making it were both entirely genuine.' The Chief Astrologer gestured around at the room they were sitting in. 'The owner of this charming house and delightful garden with such marvellous goldfish was indeed eager to meet you and do business.' He smiled. 'Unfortunately the poor fellow is no longer in a position to offer you the generous terms that lured you to this rendezvous.' 'Really? What has become of him?'

'Oh, he is proving useful.' The Chief Astrologer patted the wide iron bench on which they were sitting. 'Don't you find it delightfully warm, sitting on this contraption?'

Upcott felt a liquid shudder of premonition. The roast pork smell was suddenly thick in his nostrils His mouth had gone dry and sour. Repressing the urge to retch, he stood up, feeling the warmth of the bench clinging to his thighs.

'Yes, the gentleman in question kindly provided the use of his house for our meeting, with all its fine furnishings. Although there was one item of furniture I provided myself.' The Chief Astrologer patted the bench again.

The silent trembling wraith of a servant had finished putting the tea things down and slowly and painfully crossed the room to join them again. His gaze passed over Upcott without fear or hatred or even recognition. The man's eyes were like dead coals in a fire that had long gone out. The Chief Astrologer barked a rapid command at him and the man moved some cushions aside with trembling hands, exposing the outline of a large hinged lid in the surface of the iron bench.

The servant opened the lid and a ferocious burst of heat came wafting out of the oven-like interior. The air over the opening danced, blurring for a moment the hot orange bed of coals that could be glimpsed inside.

And something else, charred and black, with a hint of a paler colour showing through. A colour as pale as ivory, or bone. With a rush of horror Upcott realised it was the blackened, burnt skull of a man. Grinning up at him. A man who had been roasted alive.

He backed away, trying not to gag. 'Good Lord,' he choked. The skull smiled at