"Are you finished here, sir?"
Stocken looked about him then nodded.
"Then you are to report to the Main Courtyard." The sergeant turned, looking to Eva. "You too, Nu Shi Calder. Warlord Hu has summoned the whole household to attend."
"Attend? What for?"
The sergeant smiled grimly. "For the executions."
"Ah . . ." And now the full significance of what she'd done tonight hit her. And, as she followed the two young soldiers out and down the corridor, heading for the Main Courtyard, her mind went out to her brother. He'd be in Ashkhabad by now. Unless something had happened. Unless they'd stopped and searched the train.
The four guards had been shaven and beaten. Dressed only in their loincloths, their hands bound behind them, the livid marks of the lash striping the pale flesh of their backs, they knelt beneath the arc lights of the Main Courtyard as the palace household slowly gathered.
The local Warlord, Hu Wang-chih, stood close by, his chest bare, glistening in the light, the leather whip in his right hand, a spiked glove on his left. He had administered the beatings himself, and though none of the four had confessed, there was little doubt that one of them was guilty.
As the last few people arrived, Hu looked about him and, raising his voice, began to speak.
"You all know why we're here, so I won't waste words. Simply this. If you work for me, here in the palace, I must be able to trust you. I must be able to count on you absolutely. These men . . ." he gestured with the whip, not deigning to look at the kneeling men, " . . .these insects, rather, betrayed that trust. They stole from me, and I will not tolerate that kind of behaviour in my household, understand me?"
There was nodding from all around, a faint murmur of agreement.
"Good. Then bear witness. For if I find any of you - any of you - behaving similarly, this will be your fate."
He turned and nodded to his Chief Executioner, who smoothed a gloved hand over his masked face, then stepped forward, hefting his axe.
Watching from thirty ch'i away, just to the right of Warlord Hu, Eva felt a shiver of fear run through her. Not for the poor guards, but for herself; for her immortal soul. For she knew they were innocent. Knew without fear of contradiction that they had done nothing wrong.
Not that that meant a thing now. As the axe swung back then fell, she heard herself cry out. But she was not alone. All about her, others looked on with fear in their eyes.
Yes, and that was why she'd had to act. To end this.
Maybe, she told herself, forcing herself to watch - to fix this in her memory. But she would have to live with this, knowing that she had killed these men, as surely as if she'd swung the axe herself.
The blade glinted and fell, glinted, fell.
As the last blow fell a shuddering sigh passed through the watching crowd. For a moment no one moved. Then, at some unseen, ungiven signal, they began to disperse, back to their rooms, their stations in the palace.
She sighed, then looked across. Warlord Hu stood there, breathing deeply, staring at the headless corpses where they lay toppled, ungainly in death. Then, as if waking from a trance, he turned and, seeing her, smiled, beckoning her across.
"Eva!" he called, a strange note of excitement in his voice. "Come, see to me!"
Tom woke to find the room in moonlit darkness, the girl beside him in the bed, asleep, her naked body turned from his, facing the window. For a moment he lay there, perfectly at peace, remembering.
After that first time, she had taken his hand and led him to her bed. There she had made him stretch out on his front while she massaged his back and sang to him in a soft, lilting voice; old songs in her native dialect - songs he did not recognise. Then, when he was aroused once more, she had made love to him a second time, on top of him in the half-dark, her every movement silken, like a warm wind on a summer's day, or like the gentle flow of water through a sunlit meadow. Again she played him, like an instrument, coaxing him, rousing him, slowing him when his passion grew too much, her hands, the smallest motion of her body seeming to control him, until their sweating bodies seemed to melt into a single force, driving on and on, the pleasure mounting until, with a single cry, they merged in blissful darkness.
They slept and woke much later. For an eternity, it seemed, they had lain there face to face, toying with each other, fingers on flesh, mouths meeting in the merest brushing touch, their eyes locked gaze to gaze, as if to look away would break that sensual spell.
Remembering that - remembering the sheer intensity with which he had stared into her eyes - Tom shuddered. He had never guessed. Nothing he had read or seen or experienced had prepared him for this night. Nothing. It was like being born again. Like . . .
No, there were no likes for this. This was itself - unique and incomparable. And the girl. . .
He exhaled a shivering breath. He was in love. Unbelievably - inexcusably, perhaps, for what could come of it? - he was in love. In love with a sing-song girl, a whore, whom any man could have.
A girl whose name he did not even know.
He turned his head slightly, looking at her, seeing the way the silvered light lay softly on her back, picking out in chiaroscuro the ridged bones of her spine, the curve of her naked buttocks, the sweet fold and flow of her legs.
He closed his eyes, his peace disturbed. Sampsa? he called, but his head was empty. It would be another day at least before he could talk to his friend.
Okay. So what was he to do?
Nothing, he answered, playing Sampsa's part. You can do nothing, for she's a whore and you . . . you are a Shepherd.
Maybe. Yet his father had defied convention more than once. Two wives he had, one stolen and one his sister. So maybe . . . just maybe he could buy the girl. Or marry her.
He could almost hear his mother's laughter. How old are you, Tom? she'd ask, staring at him as if he'd lost his senses. Sixteen? Just sixteen? A tu2you seriously think you know what's best for you?
No, even to contemplate it was a kind of madness. Yet to think of not seeing her again - to think of leaving her here and living out his life, knowing she existed in the world - filled him with despair.
It had been so sweet.
He stretched out his hand, meaning to touch her, to wake her and make her somehow understand, then drew his fingers back.
No. It was impossible. Impossible.
He turned and slipped from the bed, careful not to wake her, then bent down, searching in the darkness for his tunic. Finding it, he pulled it over his shoulders, then went to the cabin door.
He climbed up onto the roof of the boat, expecting to find Yun there, maybe, or the punk, but there was no one. All was quiet, the lanterns dark. Only the moon shone down, huge and pale in the night sky. Tom stared at that great white circle for a time, wondering where exactly Sampsa was in relation to it, then looked away, a sigh escaping him.
And what would Sampsa say when he knew? What would he think? For this would surely change things between them: would make things . . . different.
He went to the front edge of the cabin's roof and sat, hunched into himself. The night was warm. A soft breeze blew in from the darkness, tickling his chest. In the distance, beyond the darkened urban sprawl, lay the high-rise towers of Frankfurt Hsien, warning lights winking from their upper storeys. He watched them absently a moment then looked away.
He ought to leave. Now, before she woke and found him gone. He ought to chalk this down to experience and move on. But he was loath to move on. Something special had happened here tonight. Something unexpected. And the girl had known that too. He had seen it in her eyes that final time, felt it in the gentle kiss she'd planted on his brow before she turned from him to sleep.