Rising at dawn, she had gone straight to the library and, getting Old Chu from his bed, had consulted the family records for that month. Searching through the Imperial Itinerary for the palace, she had found that on four separate occasions Tsu Ma had visited Tongjiang, each time when Li Yuan was away.
She should have left it there. Should have contented herself with that. But she had had to know for certain.
There was a knock. She turned toward it, frightened, then quickly gathering up the cases, stood.
"Who is it?"
There was a moment's hesitation, then a young male voice answered her. "It is I, Mistress, Tsung Ye . . ."
She felt her heart flutter, her stomach tighten. Calming herself, she set the cases down, then faced the door again.
"Come in!"
The door eased slowly open. The young secretary took a pace into the room then stopped, his head bowed, unable to look at her.
"What is it?" she asked, as if nothing had happened between them.
"You are wanted, Mistress," he said awkwardly. "Your cruiser is prepared. You must leave within the hour."
"Ah . . ." Pei K'ung turned her head, looking at the old clock that hung on the far side of the study above the racks of gold-bound cases, then nodded. She hadn't realized it was so late. "Thank you, Tsung Ye. I shall come and prepare myself at once."
He gave a little bow, beginning to step away, but she called him back.
"Tsung Ye ... close the door."
"Mistress?" His eyes flew up, alarmed.
"You heard me. Then come here. We need to talk."
He swallowed, then turned and closed the door. A moment later he stood before her.
"Listen," she said softly, laying a hand on his arm. "What happened last night—you will keep quiet about it, neh, Tsung Ye?"
He nodded, trembling slightly.
She leaned closer. "It is not that I am ashamed, you understand. Nor that my husband would be angry. Far from it. He has instructed me to find my own . . . amusement. But the staff must not know. You understand, Tsung Ye? My husband must be Master in his own house. No man must have cause to mock him. We must be ... discreet."
"Discreet?" He looked at her directly, his alarm quite open now.
She squeezed his arm and smiled. "Hush now, Tsung Ye. No harm will come to you. Besides, it was good, neh? You were"—she leaned close and gently kissed his neck—"very sweet."
He stared at her, direct, eye to eye for a moment, then looked down. "I will do whatever you ask, Mistress."
"Good." She let her hand rest on his shoulder, then trace the shape of his arm, finally lacing her fingers in his own. "And, Tsung Ye ... you are not obliged to love me. Only to make me happy. And if you make me happy . . . well, a talented young man can go far, neh? Very far indeed."
THERE WAS A BANNER over the gate, the Mandarin characters burning white on the jet-black background. Karr halted, ignoring his escorts, looking up at it, translating it in his head.
If only there is persistence, even an iron pillar will be ground into a needle.
Karr studied it a moment longer, then shrugged. Was it meant as a statement of intent? A rallying cry? Or had it been left there from another occasion?
The last was unlikely. Everything he had seen had been put there for him to see. He was a witness, after all. What he saw would be taken back and spoken of. And not to casual ears, but to the ears of a T'ang.
He nodded to himself. To be honest he had been surprised by the opulence, the industry, of these stacks. Much had changed in the past two years. Lehmann had come a long way since he had last been down here.
As the doors swung back, Karr had a glimpse of a huge crowd of people—uniformed, drawn up in massed ranks—and felt a moment's misgiving. What if it were Lehmann's purpose to humiliate him? And, through him, to send a message to Li Yuan?
Then why any of this? Why such display if the only reason for the meeting were to kill the T'ang's representative?
Because, came the answer, he might want to send a message to his own people too.
He straightened up, dispelling his fears, then stepped through, beneath the gate that led into the very heart of the White T'ang's territory, looking about him with a cold disdain, knowing how impressive a sight he—a single man—made in their eyes.
He strode slowly between the massed ranks, conscious of them watching him. Once he had been a "Blood" in these levels. Once he had fought the Master Hwa, to the death, becoming champion. Against the odds, he thought, remembering how the Marshal had come and asked him if he would serve the T'ang.
Facing him, at the far end of the Main, stood three men. Tall, leprous figures, the central one dressed from head to toe in white, the color of death.
He smiled inwardly, recognizing them from the last time he was here. The one in white was Li Min, the "Brave Carp," otherwise known as Stefan Lehmann. Either side of him were his henchmen— Niu T'ou and Ma Mien, as Karr secretly called them, Ox-head and Horse-face, the Lieutenants of Hell—real names Soucek and Visak.
Twenty ch'i from them he stopped, lifting a hand in greeting. "Ch'un tzu . . ."
Lehmann studied him awhile, then stepped forward. "It's been a long time, Colonel Karr. I hear you've been promoted. Ssu-li Hsioo-wei . . . that's a rare honor for a Hung Moo."
Karr blinked, astonished. Only a handful of people knew of his appointment. Why, he hadn't even told his adjutant!
"And Marie ... is she well?" Lehmann came closer, until he stood an arm's length from him, looking up into his face, an arrogance to his stance emphasizing that the difference in their size meant nothing to him.
His stomach muscles had tightened at the mention of his wife. "Marie is well."
"That's good. And young May ... it will be good for her to have a sister."
Karr stared at the albino, then answered him quietly. "I'm afraid you are mistaken, Li Min. There is only May."
"Ah . . ." Lehmann nodded, as if accepting the correction, yet there had been something about his assurance when he'd said it that was disturbing.
"Anyway, enough small talk," Lehmann said, raising his voice, so all could hear. "You did not come here to discuss your family's health, neh, Colonel Karr? You come as an envoy, to try and make a peace between Above and Below, to bridge the great gap that exists between the heights and depths of our great City."
He leaned close, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Forgive the bullshit. We, at least, know why you are here."
Then, raising his voice again: "But come, let us go through. There is much to be discussed."
THE APPROACH to Lehmann's offices were like a rat-run. Walking through the narrow corridors, Karr noticed the false walls and sliding panels and knew it could all be changed in an instant, like an ever-shifting maze. Cameras were everywhere, and laser weaponry. The best, he realized: NorTek stuff, as good as anything Bremen had.
At the very center of it all was a single, Spartanly furnished room. Karr followed Lehmann in, impressed despite himself, then stopped, staring at the painting on the wall behind Lehmann's desk.
"You like it?" Lehmann asked, noting the direction of his gaze.
Karr nodded. "I've never seen the like. Who is the artist? Heydemeier?"
Lehmann turned in his seat, studying the painting, taking in the elongated figure of the man, the naked body turned and crouching, the face staring back out of the canvas.
"No," he answered, looking back at Karr. "The painter is long dead. Egon Schiele was his name. An extraordinary man."
Karr moved closer, noting the word that was boxed in at the bottom right corner of the canvas. "Kampfer. Is that the model's name?"