"He works for Li Min. He is his right-hand man. He has access to him."
"Ah ..." A shadow passed over Kim's face.
"You want to pull out?"
Kim shook his head. "I didn't say that. But I needed to know."
"A year? At the very most?"
Kim nodded.
"Then let us pray we have a year, neh, my Clayborn friend? Let us pray to all the gods we know that time, this once, does not outrun us."
SOUCEK SAT IN a chair to one side of the Magistrate's desk, his legs crossed casually, his long, pockmarked face inexpressive. Two guards stood at his back—big, brutal-faced thugs, heavy automatics held across their chest. Behind the desk, Old Yang, the Magistrate, cleared his throat, then tugged nervously at his wispy beard.
The hall was packed. People stood at the back and along the side walls or crouched in the aisles, talking and fanning themselves indolently. There were over two dozen cases to be heard this session and this was only the third of them. Already they had seen two deaths and there was a mounting excitement now that this case, too, was coming to a head.
From where she stood against the back wall, Emily looked on apprehensively. How many times had she seen this in these last two years? How many times had she had to stand and watch this dumb show of justice? Far too often, she thought, her fingers tracing the shape of the gun beneath her jacket. But today . . . today would be different.
The accused—a young Han male of seventeen years—stood in the blood-spattered space in front of the dais, his hands bound behind his back, his head bowed. His scalp had been crudely shaved and was flecked with cuts. A leather thong had been tied around his head, over his mouth, holding down his tongue and keeping him from speaking. Two bare-chested tong members stood behind him, butchers' cleavers in their belts, ceremonial black sashes about their brows. The arresting tong officer's testimony had been read, the security camera evidence shown. All that remained was for the Magistrate to pronounce sentence.
The evidence seemed conclusive. They had a Security film of the boy—a non-tong member—purchasing a knife from an unidentified criminal, and the sworn statements of "friends" that he had been boasting about what he was going to do with it. The matter appeared clear cut. He had committed a crime for which the penalty was death. But the evidence was fake, the boy innocent.
She had seen the parents yesterday and listened to their story, then had checked out the details for herself. The father was a local market trader and the couple had three children: two boys and a girl. A week back he had had an argument with one of the local tong officials— what it was about she hadn't managed to get from him, but it had to do with their fourteen-year-old daughter. The two men had exchanged sharp words. The old man had thought that that was it, but the official had not let the matter rest. He had bought evidence—faked film, the "word" of several worthless youths—and had had his cousin, the officer responsible for Security in these stacks, arrest the boy.
The circumstances were not unusual. She had evidence now on more than eighty such cases and knew that these represented only a small part of what was going on throughout the Lowers. For two years now the White T'ang had run the tribunals down here, imposing his "Code of Iron" on these levels. But what had at first seemed like justice had quickly revealed itself as just another means for tong members to lord it over the common citizens. It was a stinking, corrupt system, administered by bullies, cheats, and murderers.
Like this case here. She sighed, her anger mixed with pain. This wasn't justice, this was arranged murder, with the victim denied even the right to speak for himself. And Soucek . . . Soucek was the architect of it all, the administrator and chief executioner. It was he who let the sewers run with filth.
But today . . . today she would strike a blow for all those who had suffered under him.
As the Magistrate began to pronounce sentence, those who were crouching stood, craning their necks to see, an electric current of anticipation running through the crowded hall. Emily stood on her toes, noting where the guards were standing, then began to move through the press of bodies, making her way toward the front.
Old Yang was shouting now, berating the youth in a shrill, ugly voice, calling him the vilest of names and insulting his family. Then it was done, the sentence pronounced. There was a murmur of anticipation.
Emily slowed, looking about her. She was still some way from the front. She would need to get nearer.
At a signal from Soucek one of the tong members behind the youth stepped up and kicked the youth hard just behind his left knee. With a groan the boy went down. As he got up onto his knees, the arresting officer came across and, drawing his gun, cocked it and placed it against his head.
The hall was silent now, a tension in the air like that before a thunderstorm. She edged forward.
The shot was like a release. Heads jerked, mouths opened. A great sigh ran round the hall. It was done. The White T'ang's word meant something. But for Emily there was only anger. Her hand covered her gun. She was only five orsix from the front now. She could see Soucek clearly; see how calm—how hideously calm-j-he was as he turned to speak to one of the guards.
There was a wailing to her right. His mother, she thought, slipping her hand inside her jacket pocket and cocking the gun. Then, shockingly, there was a gunshot.
She turned her head, anxious, trying to see where it had come from. A small cloud of smoke was rising from the crowd to her right. As she saw it, another shot rang out. There was screaming, the beginnings of panic. Tong guards were converging from all sides. For a moment she didn't understand, then, as the crowd parted, she saw. It was the youth's father. He was standing there, his face distraught, holding a gun out at arm's length. She saw his hand tremble as he tried to fire again, and then one of the big automatics opened up and he jerked back, bullets ripping into him, the gun falling from his hand.
As if at a signal everyone got down. She did the same. But as she did she saw, up on the dais, one of the guards crouched over Soucek.
He's hit! she thought, exultant. The old man got the bastard!
Yet even as half a dozen tong thugs scrambled up onto the dais to surround him, she saw Soucek get up and, shrugging off the guard's hand, push past the men and vanish through the door at the far end.
She looked down, disappointed. Soucek was bleeding. From the look of it one of the old man's shots had hit his right shoulder and broken the collarbone. But he had survived. She would have to wait for another opportunity to get to him.
Yes, but it wouldn't be so easy next time. After today they'd be sure to take greater precautions.
She got up, sighing heavily. Old Yang was slumped in his seat, dead. All about her people were moaning and whimpering. To her right it was a scene of utter chaos. Chairs were scattered everywhere. A dozen or more people were down, dead or wounded.
As the guards began to clear the hall, she let herself be herded with the rest, letting the gun slip down her leg onto the floor, then peeled the flesh-thin gloves from her hands and dropped them casually.
There'll be another time, she promised herself. The bastard can't always be so lucky. Yet she felt sick at heart and bitter . . . and angry. More angry than she'd ever felt before.
KIM STOOD BEFORE the mirror in his room, adjusting his silks. He was due at the Hive in an hour, but still he hadn't made up his mind whether to sign again or not.
"Well?" he asked, addressing the air. "What did you see?"
"He hates you."
Kim turned, startled by the words. "Hates me? Li Yuan?"
"No. Tolonen. He wishes you dead. There's such anger in him."
Kim let out a breath. "I hoped things might have changed. I hoped—"