Kuei Jen stared at his brother in amazement. "You think. . ."
"Masters!"
They both turned as one of the guards ran toward them, then stopped, bowing low.
"What is it, man?" Han Ch'in asked, assuming command.
"We've found him, Excellency. In the kitchens."
"My father?"
"Yes, Excellency. He's alive. And there's another with him. A Captain ..."
Han Ch'in turned to Kuei Jen and grinned. "Alive!" He laughed, then slapped his brother's back. "Then let us go and greet our father, Kuei Jen! Let us show him his new grandson!"
They walked for most of that day through the streets of the dead city, a small but growing crowd of golden-eyed survivors raggedly following their cart.
It was when they were about to give up their search and go home, convinced they'd come too late to save any, that they came upon the boarded-up Mansion: a big, two-storey house at the top of a wide, sloping street.
While Michael knocked loudly on the bolted gate, Lin Chao and Lin Pei went round to the alleyway that ran along the back of the big house to see if there were any signs of life there.
Leaning on the cart, Emily looked on, conscious of how tired Michael seemed. Tired but uncomplaining. She smiled, weary herself, thinking of all he had done for them these past few months, asking nothing for himself: endlessly patient with her and her boys.
"Lef s go," she said, when, after knocking again, there was no reply. "They're either dead or in hiding."
But she had barely uttered the words when the shutters over the gate clattered open and a cowled head popped out.
"What do you want?"
Michael looked up, smiling, but the smile slowly froze as he realised he was staring into the barrel of a high-powered rifle.
"Michael?" she said quietly, alerted by the sudden change in his expression.
"Stay where you are, woman!" the same voice - cracked and angry - barked at her. "Come any closer and I'll blow his head clean off his shoulders!"
She saw the slight movement in Michael's eyes. In that instant he had weighed things up and knew he had no chance of getting out of the way - not if the madman decided to pull the trigger. And there was no doubt he was mad. She could hear it in the voice.
"We've come to help you," Michael said, no trace of fear or self-concern in his voice. "We've got a potion... a cure for the plague."
"You're a stinking liar!" the man yelled, the rifle jerking menacingly in his hands. "You bastards have come to rob me!"
Emily had moved slightly to the side to try to get a better view of him, but now she stopped. Who knew? The least movement might set him off.
"That's not so," Michael answered patiently, showing his empty hands.
"Then what's in the cart?" "Medicines and blankets and food." The gun jerked again. "Show me!"
Keeping his hands clearly in sight, Michael backed away and, making no movement that might be misconstrued, turned the cart and pushed it across until it was directly beneath the window. Moving slowly, with infinite patience, he opened doors and pulled out drawers, showing the madman what was there.
Finished, he looked up again. "Well? Will you let us help you? We're friends. We mean no harm."
There was a long, tense silence, then the man grunted and moved back inside. Emily let out a breath and closed her eyes briefly. Thank the gods! K moment later she heard the sound of chains being unlocked, of huge bolts being slid back. And then, very slowly, the doors swung open.
Emily went across, joining Michael even as the two boys reappeared, signalling with one hand for them to be quiet.
Now that she faced him she saw they had come too late. Despite the hood, the protective mask that hid his face, the signs of the Hollowing were clear on him. He had lost near on two-thirds of his body weight and his clothes hung on him like a sail on a child's boat.
"Well?" he demanded, throwing the gun down and moving toward them. "Where is it? Where is this cure you told me about?"
Michael reached beside him and lifted one of the vials, meaning to hand it to him, but the man stepped past him, knocking his hand away, and grabbed a handful of them, uncapping them one after another and gulping them down.
Michael looked to Emily, then stepped inside and picked up the gun, examining it.
"Empty," he said, showing her the chamber. "And I'd say it hasn't been cleaned for years."
As the madman made to grab another handful of vials, Emily stepped up to him and gently but firmly pulled his hand away.
"That's fine," she said, smiling into his golden eyes. "You should be okay now. But any more and you might get sick again."
He stared back at her uncertainly, then nodded. "You want to come in?" he asked, as if suddenly remembering his manners. "My wife will be pleased to see such honoured guests. It's been so long since we entertained."
Something in the way he said it warned her. But even though she had seen many grotesque sights in the last week, this capped them all.
Coming into the house she could smell the strong reek ot incense, and in a room at the far end of a long, unlit corridor, she could see candles burning in silver holders on a polished table. She walked toward them, then stopped, realising just what she was looking at. His family were gathered about the table, eight of them in all including the grandparents, one chair left vacant at the head of the table. All were dressed as if to greet some mighty dignitary, the best chopsticks laid out before plates of sparkling porcelain and dishes of finest silver. But they were all dead and shrivelled and the food in the dishes was covered in a five-day layer of mould.
Emily walked on, slowly now, conscious of the madman right behind her.
"I told them you would come," he said, a strange happiness in his voice. "What did I say, Jung Wang. I told you we must look our very best for when our guests arrived. Our very best." She stopped, holding on to the doorway lest she faint, the poignancy of the candle-lit scene affecting her more than anything she'd ever seen. Here was his whole world, here all of his treasures - his wife, his parents, his three sons and his two young daughters. And all of them dead bar him. Yes, and nothing he, their protector, could do about it.
Emily turned and looked to him and felt her heart go out to him. Mad? No wonder he was mad. The real wonder was that anyone was sane who had lived through this.
Just behind their host, Michael was looking on, his face mirroring her own astonished pity. "Aiyal" he said softly. "The gods have mercy on us all."
"Yes," she said quietly, remembering now why she had loved him once. "But let's go home now, Michael. And let's take our friend here with us, neh?"
Early evening shadows were falling across the rose garden as Ben's cruiser set down on the pad in the lower field. Catherine looked up from where she sat on the lawn, the sleeping child in her lap, then half turned, hearing the top flap of the kitchen door creak back as Meg leaned out to look.
For a while Meg simply stared, a smile lighting her face, then she looked to Catherine. "Why don't you go down and meet him? I'll lay little Dogu down for you."
"Would you?" Catherine studied the child a moment, conscious of how fond she was of it. And that was strange, considering how fervently she'd wished it dead before the birth. But Ben was kind to it and that was what mattered. If Ben had not been kind . . .
She shivered, then, sensing Meg behind her, moved back slightly, letting her lift and take the child.
Sometimes this thing with Ben frightened her. The intensity of it. Sometimes it was hard to know whether she was really in control of herself, or whether she was in the grip of some force.
She stood, brushing herself down, stopping a moment to watch Meg carry the child inside. If anyone could be said to love the boy it was Meg. She spoiled him endlessly and loved nothing more than to sit on the lawn and play with him for hours. When it came to say its first words it would be Meg, no doubt, who heard them.