She felt a faint shiver, not of fear, but of aversion, ripple through her. "So that's it, is it? I join you—become one of the sealed—or I die?"
He shook his head. "If I'd wanted you dead, you'd be dead. No. It has to be your choice. If you choose not to work with me you can go into exile. Africa, maybe. Or Asia."
"And if I stay?"
"You get to help formulate policy."
She laughed, astonished, then frowned, searching his eyes for some kind of explanation. "I don't get it. I want what Chou wanted."
"No. I've watched you at those meetings. I've seen the doubt in your face, the frustration at some of the decisions. You want what I want. Not all of it, but enough for us to work together. To make the Black Hand not just another shitty little faction but a genuinely important force. A force for change. You want that. I know you do. I've seen it in your eyes."
Emily looked away. It was true. The last eighteen months had been nothing but frustration. But to work with Pasek ... It was on her lips to say no, to tell him to go to hell, but something stopped her.
"I need to think about it."
He looked her up and down, then nodded. "Okay. Twenty-four hours. That's all I can give you. We're meeting at noon tomorrow. At the White Mantis. If you're with me, be there. If not . . . well, good luck."
She watched him go. Saw his tall, spiderish figure vanish into the crowd, then shivered, chilled by this sudden turn in events. Twenty-four hours. It wasn't long. And if she didn't turn up?
She didn't know. For once her instincts failed her.
Wett? she asked herself, sighing heavily. What are you going to do?
She turned, putting her hands on the rail of the balcony, leaning her full weight on them as she looked out across the crowded marketplace. She knew what she wanted—at least, she thought she did. But Pasek . . . could she work with Pasek?
Twenty-four hours. It wasn't long. But maybe that was how it always was.
She pushed away from the rail, then turned, hurrying away, pushing through the crowded corridor urgently, hastening toward her room, conscious of the seconds ticking by.
TAO CHU looked round the door into his half-brother's suite of rooms, then took a step inside.
"Kung-chih?" he called softly. "Are you there?"
The study was in shadow, the last of the evening's light blocked off by the closed slats of the window. On the far side of the room, the door to his brother's bedroom was open. Tao Chu went across, one hand pressed to the bandage at his side.
"Kung-chih?"
There was no answer. The room was empty, the bed made up. Tao Chu turned, looking back into the study, wondering where Kung-chih could have got to.
A sharp pain stabbed through him, taking his breath. Making his way across slowly, he eased into his brother's chair and sat there until the pain subsided.
He looked down. There was fresh blood on the bandage. Surgeon T'ung would be angry with him and would no doubt speak to his uncle, but that didn't matter right now—he had to speak to Kung-chih; to find out what was going on.
"Curse him," he said quietly, his anxiety for his beloved half-brother outweighing any concern he had for himself. "Curse his stupid pride."
He leaned forward, searching the desktop with his eyes, looking for some clue as to where he might be, but there was nothing. Kung-chih was probably out walking in the grounds somewhere—in the orchards, perhaps—or riding in the woods to the south of the palace.
Brooding, probably. Yes, he'd seen the way he had looked at their uncle Ma; seen the resentment in his eyes, the hurt. But Kung-chih had to come to terms with that. His life—his expectations—had changed and he must live with that. He could not mope about forever.
He was about to get up and return to his room when he heard voices outside, coming closer. His brother's voice and . . .
Tao Chu frowned, surprised. It was Hwa Kwei again—Tsu Ma's Chief Steward of the Bedchambers. What in the gods' names was Kung-chih doing talking to him twice in one day?
There was a murmured exchange, a curt dismissal, and then Kung-chih came into the room. He switched on the light and turned, then stopped dead, his mouth open, seeing Tao Chu there at his desk. For a moment there was a look of guilty shock on his face, then anger.
"Tao Chu! Why aren't you in your bed? What the hell are you doing here?"
"I . . ."
Kung-chih came and stood over him, glaring at him fiercely. "Did Uncle Ma send you to spy on me? Is that it?"
Tao Chu shook his head, hurt by the accusation, but Kung-chih went on.
"Why, you fucking little sneak! I thought I could trust you, but as soon as my back's turned you were in here, weren't you, poking about to see what you could find! But you won't find anything, brother."
Find what? he wanted to say, but the question made no sense. He hadn't come here to poke about, he'd come here to talk to him, to warn him about associating with the likes of Hwa Kwei.
He closed his eyes, the ache in his side suddenly worse, but Kung-chih went on, his voice savage now, unrelenting.
"You little worm! You sniveling little worm! All those words of consolation and all the while you're fucking lapping it up. That's the truth, isn't it? You loved seeing Tsu Ma humiliate me. You just loved it!"
"No . . ." Tao Chu said, crying now, unable to believe that this was Kung-chih talking to him this way. What had he done—what had he ever done—to deserve this?
"Fuck off! Just fuck off! Next time I find you poking around my rooms, I'll kick you from here to Africa!"
Slowly, every movement an effort, Tao Chu pulled himself up. For a moment he stood there, swaying, his vision swimming, then it came clear again. Kung-chih stood there close by, less than an arm's length from him, yet so far away, it seemed a whole world separated them.
"Brother . . ." he said, his eyes pleading with Kung-chih, his right hand reaching for him, but Kung-chih brushed his hand off angrily and leaned toward him, his words spat into Tao Chu's face.
"Brother? No, Tao Chu, you've got it wrong. You're not even a friend!"
RAVACHOL LAY facedown on the operating table, naked under the pale blue light. They had finished the dissection and had begun to tidy up. Kim stood back, weary now, letting his assistants finish off.
After extensive scanning they had taken sample slices from different areas of the android's brain, running a number of tests on them. All had shown the same—a severe deterioration of the brain tissue, almost as if it had been burned away.
What could have done that? he wondered, puzzled by the phenomenon. Was Curval right? Was the organic material they were using substandard? Or had something more sinister taken place?
Later, as he showered, his mind toyed with possible explanations. Synaptic burnout of some kind? A virus? Or maybe—just maybe— some form of neuronal poison?
There was no physical evidence for it. Its food had been strictly vetted and there had been no signs on the body of an injection, but the more he thought about it, the more certain he was. Someone had got to it. Someone—an agent of one of their business rivals?—had made sure the experiment would fail.
I wasn't wrong, he realized with a start. The brain's structure was sound. But someone has been tampering with it. Someone who had access.
The thought was chilling. At any other time he would have dismissed it as a product of the hour and his depressed mood, but this was not paranoia. The more he considered the history of its deterioration, the more he saw how false, how unscientific, it had been. No ... it hadn't been a natural decay. All along they had floundered for explanations for what was happening, not wanting to face the obvious.