Seventy million zen!
        That figure keeps going through my mind all through Friday. Inajari Dragonhouse Liquors owes us sixty million zen. And Nakarishi Depapaka owes ten million zen to me, personally. Total piles on total to create a mountain of impossibility.
        Self-delusion will take you a long way, but the escalation of the debt by a staggering seventy million makes me feel despair.
        The bad thing about the Merlercians being delayed is that it gives me all day to revolve the impossibilities of my situation. At one point I find myself composing an imaginary news item in my head.
        "A tragedy occurred today in Yendo's Hessawatari Ward when businessperson Visper Udamana, head of Bamboo Horses, was torn to pieces in grounds of the Moss Mansion. The death of Udamana, daily named Ken, is attributed to the gorgel, an Expressed Potential of the perturbed zone in which Udamana dwelt."
        That's how I could die. Disappearing from the world in a gruesome blur of blood. Leaving no example. No example of suicide. I would not want to leave that example for my children.
        "So what if your child's life was on the line?" I ask myself.
        Yes, a good question. If Tanto or Helena were in jeopardy I wouldn't be indulging myself in despair. Instead, I'd be working on a solution.
        "A death penalty crime," I say.
        It is entirely possible that one of my close relations is a mass murderer: the person who set fire to Dolagataka Dignity Domiciles. If I could determine who that person is and if I could discover irrefutable proof of their guilt then that data might be worth ... well, seventy million zen would not be an unreasonable price. Not an unreasonable price for the guilty party to pay to a cunning blackmailer.
        "Not an unreasonable price at all," I say to myself, knowing that the alternative to the payment of silence money would be a death sentence.
        "Ken Udamana, the happy blackmailer!"
        Well, if I can figure out who murdered Aunt Chariot, why not? As long as I can get that person to hand over any vials of cyanide they might have in their possession ...
        The good thing about the delay caused by the absent Merlercians is that it solves my time pressure problem. Instead of Friday being a rushed and over-committed day, I have plenty of time for everything, including my session with Chobber.
        There is presently only one chair in my office. The other chairs got moved out at New Year, when we had our big annual clean up, and, for some reason, they never got moved back. After lunch, I bring a couple of chairs up from the living room. With three chairs in it, the office feels a bit crowded. Never mind. I can rearrange things once the visitors have gone.
        Having visitors scheduled to intrude on my private space feels unsettling. I prefer to do business at the Yaplama or at a restaurant. Or at some other place, for example Mitodarni's office. When the Merlercians arrive, we'll have to meet in the living room: momentarily, I find myself unable to recall how big Kitty's team is going to be, but I know it's going to be too many people to fit comfortably into my office.
        Five minutes before two in the afternoon, Chobber turns up. To my regret, Mitodarni runs late, but eventually shows up almost thirty minutes after the appointed time. His excuse? He was delayed in court, where he had been defending the owner of one of Yendo's antique shops, who had been accused of selling some modern museum-quality replicas of figurines of Apurshahi, the God of Hairbrushes, as authentic Echeon Era originals. I don't ask whether Mitodarni won the case.
        With my lawyer at my side, I go over my unbreakable alibi for Monday April 17th, the day of the cyanide delivery. I was one of the parents who took on a supervisory role during the school trip to Bakufueki. We left as a group on a train departing from Yendo Railway Station at 07:05 on the Monday and did not return until the Friday.
        There is no shortage of people who can support my alibi, if required. Tanto and Helena were there, naturally. And other parents, and teachers. And documentation would be available if required, in the form of date-stamped photographs and videos.
        "Because it's so far to Bakufueki, there's no way I could have slipped away to wait for a delivery of cyanide," I say.
        "But someone else could have signed for you," says Chobber.
        This is true, and it occurs to me that the same is true for Tanto and Helena. Maybe Chelooza signed for the cyanide. In any case, it is clear that Chobber does not care that I have an unbreakable alibi. I am still under suspicion, and he makes no effort to hide the fact.
        "Are we done here, then?" says Mitodarni.
        "Yes," says Chobber.
        "Well, then," says Mitodarni.
        Then pauses, as if expecting something to be said. Then glances at his watch.
        "You can leave, counselor," says Chobber. "I'm done. Investigatively."
        But, having said this, Chobber makes no move to depart. Mitodarni looks at me inquiringly. I nod. Mitodarni takes this as permission to escape, and hurries off.
        "Your briefcase!" I say.
        "Oh, yes," says Mitodarni.
        He retrieves the neglected item and makes a second departure, leaving Chobber and me alone.
        "And?" I say, wondering if Chobber is wired, if he is recording this conversation.
        "Off the record," says Chobber.
        "A journalist might go there," I say, still thinking of hidden microphones, "But not you."
        "Well," says Chobber. "Let me ask anyway. I've always wanted to know. Why did you kill him?"
        The question comes out of nowhere and makes no sense. I have never killed anyone. I have done no murders. I am responsible for no hit-and-run driving accident. I have a clean conscience, at least as far as murder is concerned. But Chobber is not the kind of person who makes jokes. Not while on duty, at any rate.
        "Kill who?" I say.
        Chobber watches me impassively, waiting. Expecting what? A confession? Then, at last, he gives up, at least for the moment, and leaves.
        What time is it? I glance at my watch, only to find it showing the hour as two-thirty. But that was when Mitodarni arrived. Wasn't it?
        The wrong time on the watch. It's genuinely frightening. Either my short-term memory is messed up or reality is skidding out of control. What's happening to me?
        And then I realize that my watch has unaccountably stopped. It's broken. Or maybe the battery is dead. I'll have to dig out my spare timepiece, the far too glitzy gold-plated number that Petticat gave me on the occasion of ... damn, I can't remember!