“He must have known. He must. . . .”
He swallowed, uncertainty eating at him. Maybe it was time to run? To flee to Europe, perhaps, and throw himself upon the mercy of Li Yuan and his Chancellor? Or would that not simply seal his fate? No. He had to be sure. Had to know one way or the other whether Wang suspected him. But how?
The woman. The hsueh pai. If he could talk to her, find out what she knew.
..
He shook his head. No. That was too great a risk. It would merely serve to confirm Wang’s dark suspicions.
Hung Mien-lo sighed heavily. Nothing. 1 can do nothing until his return. But the bitter disappointment—the frustration of his denied hopes—burned in him like a heated coal, and, gripping the edges of the list, he tore it, once, twice, a third time, then scattered the pieces across his desk.
from where he stood among the Heads of Families, Li Yuan saw Tseng-li reappear at the top of the marble steps. The young man looked up and smiled, then began to make his way toward the T’ang. “Excuse me, ch’un tzu,” Li Yuan said, smiling, extricating himself from their midst. “There is some business I must attend to.” They bowed, stepping back out of his way, their own high status eclipsed by his own.
“Well, Tseng-li?” he asked, meeting the young man beside the great platform. “What does my cousin say?”
Tseng-li bowed. “I spoke to his Chancellor, Chieh Hsia. He says Wang Sau-leyan’s craft left an hour back. He should be here in forty minutes.” “Forty minutes ...” Li Yuan stroked his chin thoughtfully. “That is too long for us to delay. I shall go and speak with my cousins and see if they agree. Meanwhile, prepare refreshments for us in the enclosure. We shall finish here and come over.”
Tseng-li bowed and made to turn away, then turned back, remembering something. “Forgive me, Chieh Hsia, but Marshal Tolonen and General Rheinhardt have come. They wish to speak to you urgently.” Li Yuan sighed. “All right. Tell them I shall see them after the commencement address.”
Tseng-li bowed again and left.
Li Yuan watched him go, smiling, then turned and made his way back to where his cousins mingled with the Families. “Cousins,” he said, beckoning them across. “Our cousin Wang will be delayed a further forty minutes. In the circumstances I feel we must begin the tournament. There are many games to be played and it would be unfair to our Champions if we were to limit their time any more than we have already.”
“He is coming, then?” Tsu Ma said, an ironical smile on his lips. Then, whispering into Li Yuan’s ear, he added, “No doubt they had trouble finding a craft big enough to carry the fat bastard!” Li Yuan suppressed the smile that threatened to break out on his face, then, drawing himself up, addressed his fellow T’ang once more. “If you would follow me across, Cousins, we shall begin. Ch’un tzu,” he said, speaking to those Heads of Family who stood just beyond the tiny circle of T’ang, “we shall speak again later, at the celebrations. In the meantime, enjoy yourselves. Whatever you want, you have only to ask my servants and they will do their best to satisfy your needs.” There was a murmur of satisfaction as they began to disperse back to their couches. Li Yuan looked to his fellow T’ang, then turned, leading them across.
chen stood on the platform of the bell tower, looking out across Main. Below him, filling the great space, he had gathered together all the inhabitants of this deck. They were sitting cross-legged, men, women, and children, their hands on their heads, while his men patrolled the perimeters, their heavy automatics pointed at the floor. From vantage points on the balconies above, others looked down, their weapons leveled. He had called in a special murder squad to go over the room, at the same time requesting whatever camera evidence existed. It hadn’t proved much. Most of the surveillance cameras had been smashed in the first few hours of the riot. Yet there were one or two interesting snippets, one of them showing a tall, thin-faced Han brandishing what looked like a bloody cleaver as he ran along at the front of a mob of thirty or forty chanting men.
Chen turned, calling to his sergeant. “Okay. Let’s get moving. Issue the hardprint copies of the man’s face and have a dozen men go down the lines checking for him. If he’s here I want him dragged out. We’ll beat a confession out of him if necessary.”
“And the prints, sir?”
Inconclusive was the answer. The computer had thrown up more than twenty likely matches, and not one of them from this deck. “Just get going,” he answered, then turned back, looking out across the gathered masses.
More than ever he was determined to give up this occupation. If he had not known it before, last night would have taught him what it was to be a servant of the great T’ang. More than any other this job dehumanized a man. To be a part of that great chain of command was to cease to be a thinking, choosing being; was to become a thing, a tool, less even than the kwai he had once been.
Yes, he thought, but now and then one has the chance to put things right.
To use that power to good effect.
He reached into his pocket and took out the crumpled handbill. They had seen them all over. Found them in the pockets of corpses and scattered in the ruins of empty rooms. It was headed what really happened at nantes. Beneath the blood-red lettering was the picture Hannah had provided. Hannah’s pamphlet. They had distributed it in the first few hours. Had used it to fan the flames.
He shivered, wondering just how many more had died because of it.
It wasn’t what we meant. . . .
Sure. But just what had they meant? To stir things up a little. To make people begin to question what was happening. But the timing had been bad, and what had been written to stir the conscience had been used by others to incite these poor bastards to slit each other’s throats and burn each others homes. And was that their fault?
For once he wasn’t sure. All he knew^vas that what he’d seen was hell. And the sooner he and his family were out of it the better. As his men went out along the lines of seated people, he looked on, tense, expectant. For a time there was nothing, then one of the soldiers turned and called up to him.
“Sir! I think it’s him!”
As the soldier turned back, dragging the man to his feet, other soldiers hurried to help him. Strangely, the man didn’t struggle, but let himself be led, his head hanging, his whole manner strangely subdued. He was tall and thin, like the man in the surveillance tape, but that didn’t necessarily mean it was he.
“Keep on looking!” Chen ordered, seeing how the other soldiers had stopped and were staring up at him. “I’m coming down.”
after the brilliant sunlight of the Southern Lawn, the audience room was cool and dark, the stone flags echoing back his booted footsteps. Dismissing the guards, Li Yuan went across, greeting the two men.
“Marshal Tolonen . . . General Rheinhardt...”
“Chieh Hsia,” both said as one, bowing their close-shaven heads.
“You have news?”