He stepped through, then checked himself, seeing what lay on the bare, tiled floor of the operating room.
“Aiya...” he said softly, both moved and horrified. In a pool of congealed blood lay the dismembered corpses of three young children. He shuddered and then, forcing himself, stepped closer, crouching over them to look. The cuts were clean, as if they’d been done with a sharp cleaver: nothing frenzied about them. There were no stab wounds, no sign of slashing as he’d seen elsewhere. No. Heads, arms, and legs had been severed carefully from the torsos, the hands from the arms, the feet from the legs, and all had been laid out meticulously, as if in some ghastly ritual. They were Han, and, looking at them, he could not dissociate himself from the feeling that these were his children. For a moment the sense of it was so strong, so overpowering, it made him feel giddy. The eldest was no more than six, the youngest—he let out a low moan of anguish—was only two, three at the most.
“Why?” he asked quietly. “Who in the gods’ names would do this to young children?”
“Look at the flesh, sir,” the sergeant said, something in his voice revealing that he, too, was having to steel himself to look at the tiny bodies. “Look at the tiny rashes. What does it remind you of?” Chen swallowed and then looked closer. “That’s odd.” He looked again, then felt a chill run through him. The rash was not a simple blotch of redness but a quite clearly defined mark. A pictogram, endlessly repeated on the flesh. To an untutored eye it looked like an ill-drawn figure nine followed by a small t, the two linked by a line that rested upon them like the lid of a tomb.
Si, it was. Death.
Chen turned, looking up at his sergeant. The man nodded, then looked away. He understood at once. This was no accident, no natural form of retribution. This thing had been designed. The rash . . . that was a calling card. But whose?
“Check them for prints and other traces and then burn them,” he said, gesturing toward the bodies. “And then I want everyone in this deck held and questioned. We’re going to find out just who did this to them.” And then?
He pulled himself up onto his feet again, feeling tired, sickened by all he’d seen. There would be no trials here today, no expulsions and demotions. When he found out who had done this he would take them aside and kill them. That was, if they weren’t already dead. Fear. Fear drove people to do such things. But fear was no excuse. A man did not stop being a man because he was afraid. He was still responsible for his actions.
Chen stepped aside, letting the two men begin their grisly work; then, unclipping his handset from his belt, he tapped out the secure code for General Rheinhardt. It was time he reported in—time the powers that be knew just what was going on.
they waited as the ship set down, floater-cameras discreetly hovering at a distance from the small group of T’ang who stood there on the lawn below the landing strip.
As the hatch locks clunked open and the door hissed slowly upward, Li Yuan gestured his secretary forward.
“Go, Tseng-li. Greet your elder brother!” The young man smiled, bowed in respect, then turned and half walked, half ran toward the craft. As the walkway extended from the interior, he slowed, then stopped, dropping to his knees, his head lowered. “Chieh Hsia,” he said as a figure appeared at the head of the walkway. Wei Chan Yin strode down the ramp and, lifting his brother to his feet, hugged him tightly. “How have you been, little brother? Have you served my cousin well?”
Tseng-li moved back slightly, then, reluctantly it seemed, though not without warmth, he embraced his brother back. For a moment the two stared into each others faces, then Tseng-li lowered his gaze again. “I have tried my best, Chieh Hsia.” Then, more softly. “It’s good to see you again, Chan Yin. It has been too long.” “Far too long,” Wei Chan Yin agreed, squeezing his brother’s arms. “But come, let me greet my cousins.”
Tseng-li moved back, letting his brother pass, then watched as he went among the tiny group of T’ang, greeting first Li Yuan, then Tsu Ma, and finally Hou Tung-po, the young T’ang of South America. Wei Chan Yin turned, looking about him. “I thought I would be last here.
Where is Wang Sau-leyan? He is coming, I take it?” “So he says,” said Li Yuan quietly, his face turned away so that the cameras would not catch what he said.
“I would not have been late,” Wei Chan Yin said, his own voice lowered, conscious of the watching floaters, “but something came up. I’ll tell you of it later.”
“No matter ...” Li Yuan said. “What we must decide is whether to wait awhile longer or whether to begin. It would not do to delay too long. The people will grow restless.”
“No,” Wei Chan Yin agreed, “yet we should give our cousin the chance to be here at the commencement. Why not send Tseng-li to inquire of Wang’s Chancellor?”
Li Yuan turned. “Tseng-li? You heard?”
“And shall obey, Chieh Hsia.” He turned, bowing to each of the four T’ang in turn. “I shall return as soon as possible.” “Good.” Li Yuan smiled and looked about him. “In the meantime, let us spend the time fruitfully, neh?”
He turned, clicking his fingers. At once his Senior Steward ran up and presented himself before him, kneeling, his head pressed almost to his chest.
“Steward Ye ... tell the Heads of the Families that their T’ang will come
among them while we are awaiting our cousin Wang. And, Ye— do something
about those cameras, neh? Until the tournament begins-----“
hung mien-lo turned from the now vacant screen and looked across his study at the three men who waited, heads bowed, for their instructions. He breathed deeply, trying to control the muscles of his face; to show nothing of the turmoil within. Five minutes ago it had all been crystal clear, but now things had changed. Wei Tseng-li’s inquiry had made him realize what otherwise he would not have known. Wang Sau-leyan was on his way to Tongjiang.
Did he know? Hung wondered, standing and coming around his desk. For last night, when he had specifically asked him, it had been clear that the T’ang had no intention of going to the tournament—not after Li Yuan had insulted him so grossly.
“Let them wait,” he had said angrily. “Let them all stand there like stuffed fools before the camera until it dawns on them I am not coming.” But now, it seemed, he had changed his mind and gone. Unusual, Hung thought, walking across to where the three men waited. For years now Wang Sau-leyan had done nothing without first confiding in him. But suddenly, today . . .
He must know. He has to. What other reason could have made him go? And yet if he knew, then he, Hung Mien-lo, would have already been killed, and these three men with him, their throats cut, their stomachs slit open, exposing the entrails for Wang’s carrion birds to feed upon. So what then? Why had Wang gone, after all, and not told him? He stared at the men a moment, then, with an abrupt gesture, dismissed them. Another time, perhaps. But the way things were developing events might yet outpace his schemes.
He took a long, shuddering breath.
You are fortunate this once, Wang Sau-leyan. For if you had not gone, my
assassins would have found you where you lay—you and that abominable
woman.
As it was, there would be no opportunity now for several weeks. The guards he’d bribed would be reposted shortly, and to bribe new ones would take some time, for it was a careful business, fraught with dangers. Wang’s spies . . .
He returned to his desk and reached across, picking up the latest list. Each morning there was a new list; each evening another thousand men and women went to their deaths. And all the while Wang’s spies went among the levels like a plague, choosing both innocent and guilty at whim. And Wang Sau-leyan, unconcerned, signed whatever was placed before him. He leaned against the edge of the desk, his hands trembling. Step by step he had brought Wang to the edge. Step by step he had made the people fear and hate their odious master, so that when finally he struck it would seem that Ch’eng-huang, the great City God himself, had acted. He had pictured it clearly: had seen himself standing before the cameras, the tyrant’s severed head in his hand, as he announced that the Mandate had been broken and a new and better age had come for City Africa. So close he’d been. So very close.