So what then? What was the answer to it all? Taking a seat he looked about him at the people on either side of him along the counter, noting how each face mirrored his own. How in each one might read the coming of the new age. An age of uncertainty and encroaching darkness.
Better, perhaps, to die, then? To go out in one final blazing act? Or was that simply the frightened child in him talking? The boy who’d never known the love of a mother, the example of a father? He shivered. If only Wang Ti had been with him. If only she were well again. Then he might begin to make sense of it. But as it was . . . Wu Mao came across and leaned across the counter. “What you want, friend?” Peace, Chen answered in his head. And a better, saner world than this. But what could Wu Mao, the rice seller, do about that?
Chen smiled, liking the man’s rough, bearded face. “Give me some ma-po
bean curd, if you have it. If not, some beggar’s rice with lots of
onions.”
Wu Mao laughed. “The bean curd is finished. Beggar’s rice it’ll have to be, friend. And maybe that’s good, neh? For we’re all beggars now.”
the two men slipped from the shadows and moved softly, silently, across the broad, tiled floor until they stood before the raised dais and the great chair. There they stopped and, like flowing pieces of the darkness, knelt, placing their hooded heads to the floor in obeisance. Above them, in the great, tall-backed chair, the First Dragon sat impassively, his masked face looking down at them.
“Listen,” he said, his voice booming, echoing, in the vastness of that dark, sepulchral chamber. “You are to follow the man. Find out what he does, who he sees, what he thinks, if that’s at all possible. And you will report to no one but myself. If your superiors ask what you are doing, you will say nothing. You will refer them directly to me. Here ...” The First Dragon leaned forward slightly, his closed right hand extended. There was the smallest movement of his fingers, the clink of falling metal on the tiles in front of the two prone figures. “These rings bear my seal. They will afford you entry into places where you would not normally be allowed. But do not abuse their power. They must be used only in the furtherance of this inquiry. You understand?” There was the slightest nodding of heads. “Good. But be discreet. Shang Mu must not know he is being shadowed. If you think he suspects, then you must tell me at once. There will be no punishment. Similarly, there will be no reward.” The First Dragon paused and sat back again, staring out over the two dark shapes, as if meeting the eyes of someone in the darkness between the great pillars at the far end. But he was alone in the audience chamber with them.
“Your fee is two hundred thousand yuan. A third will be paid to you now, the rest upon completion of your task. Now go. You will begin at once.” There was a nod of hooded heads, a quick, almost serpentine movement of a hand to retrieve the fallen rings, and then the figures backed away, swiftly, silently, their dark robes flowing like a mist across the smooth black tiles.
Watching them go, the First Dragon let out his breath. It was some six years since he had needed to call upon the services of the Guild of Assassins, nor was he entirely certain now. Shang Mu, after all, was a good man. If he proved false, then who could be trusted? Yet he had to be sure, if only for his own peace of mind, for it was not simply his own fate that now rested on Shang Mu’s shoulders, but the fate of the Ministry itself, the great Thousand Eyes. If the Ministry failed—if it fell—then there was no hope for Chung Kuo.
He shuddered, horrified by the prospect. By the thought of there being no Eyes to see, no guiding Hand to help. It was unthinkable. And yet think of it he must, for if he did not, then who would? The Seven? No. Any doubts he had harbored about them had gone completely now. There was no alternative. They had to act, and act decisively, before the Seven pissed away the gains of the last two hundred years. Before the Hung Mao took back the reins and pushed the world on into chaos once more. Progress. He had heard that foul and cursed word on many lips these past six months. Progress. Like some dark litany, chanted by the insane. And maybe that’s our fault, he thought, making his way slowly down the steps. Ours, because we did our job too well. Because they no longer understand the true meaning—the awful, frightful cost—of Progress. Not that they had been wrong. No, for their intentions had been good and honorable. They had tried to start again—to build a new world free of the sins and errors of the old. And for a time it had worked. All had been well. Yet Man was Man. His ways could not be changed. One might wipe the slate clean, yet Man would dirty it again. Moreover, in burying the past they had also buried the lessons of the past. Indeed in many ways the new man was worse than the old, for while he had the same instincts he had none of his restraint—a restraint founded in long centuries of experience. Of history. Or was that true? Did history really teach them anything? Once more the great man shivered, conscious of how far his thoughts had come—of what heresies they touched upon. Then, gathering his cloak about him, he walked briskly across the broad, tiled floor, his footsteps echoing after him, the slam of the great doors like a punctuation mark. And then silence.
two hours had passed and no one had come. Paying Wu Mao, Chen made his way to the interlevel transit, his mood despondent. Whatever his feelings on the matter he would have to do something, before Cornwell went over his head and someone else was put in charge of the investigation. But what? What could he do? He could round them all up, certainly, but as soon as he did, the matter would be taken out of his hands. A tribunal would decide their fate, and in all likelihood they would be sent down—they and their families. And to be demoted these days— to be sent “Below the Net”—was as good as a death sentence. No. He would have to warn them off somehow—to impress upon them just what the stakes were. But how? How did you get the message across to such angry, desperate men? How did you convince them that, however bad their lot was now, it could be ten times worse?
He rode the transit up fifty levels, and then another fifty, ignoring the crush in the big lift, the smell of unwashed bodies, going over the problem in his mind time and again. Warn them off. Sure. But how? Should he make one of them an example? Song Wei, perhaps? Or would that only make matters worse? Wouldn’t it, perhaps, simply harden their attitudes against authority?
Or hostages . . .
He laughed, surprised that he’d not thought of it before. Hostages. Why not? What if he rounded up the wives and held them against the good behavior of their menfolk?
Yes. But it would have to be planned. He’d have to find someplace to keep them. And he’d have to make sure there was no reaction from the men. The last thing he wanted was a riot.
A few weeks should do it. Until the men had cooled off. And in the interim maybe he could try to get some kind of deal for them— compensation, perhaps. Or jobs.
He smiled, for the first time feeling positive about the situation. He’d get onto it first thing tomorrow morning. And maybe, once it was done, he would pay that bastard Cornwell a return visit—fill his reception hall with Security.
But before then he’d better check on the other matter—see how the investigation into the missing File was going. And later, perhaps, he’d go and see the girl.
The Golden Carp. Eighth bell. . .
He nodded to himself. Maybe he’d go after all. And afterward?
Afterward he’d go home, to his children, his wife. Chen shuddered, shadows falling once again, remembering Corn-well’s gross belly shaking with laughter. His mad wife. . . .
thedaywasending, the western light fading fast. Three craft now rested on the huge, circular pad, their Minor-Family crests indistinguishable. Behind Yin Chan, at the center of the lake, the lights were slowly coming on in the great house, while to the east, above the hills, the fourth of the craft circled, then made its approach. It has begun, thought Yin Chan excitedly. And when it’s done, that man will be dead, his family eradicated.