"Chieh Hsia," she said, as their faces drew apart again, her voice a husky whisper. "We shouldn't. You know we shouldn't." But her hands were on his neck and as their faces met again she seemed to yield to him, the urgency with which she pressed her lips to his letting him know that he'd not been mistaken.
The marketplace was buzzing with the news. Big Wen, the butcher, had defied the punks and chased them off with a cleaver. There was talk among them of forming a defence committee, but Emily, listening in, wondered how long such talk would last when the runners got really nasty. She knew how they thought, how they acted, and she felt sorry for Big Wen, for today's heroes tended to be tomorrow's victims when you were dealing with the brotherhoods.
She hurried on, meaning to go home, when a commotion broke out on the far side of the square. Like the others about her she went up on her toes, craning her neck to see what was happening. There were shouts, screams, and then a stall went over.
Aiya, she thought, it's begun already.
As the crowd began to scatter, she found herself pressing forward, drawn toward the fracas, unable to stop herself. Suddenly she found herself in open space, the toppled stall in front of her, smashed bowls of uncooked meat littering the cobbles. As she watched, two of the punks dragged Big Wen away by his hair, blood streaming down his face, while another tossed a lighted torch onto the stall. As it burst into flame, she looked up, meeting the young punk's eyes.
"You like?" he said, his gap-toothed mouth laughing. "You fucking like?"
She looked about her, trying to find something to put it out, but there was nothing. Besides, the animal fats had caught and there was little she could have done.
There was an awful stench now, the smell of burning offal. Slowly, knowing she could do nothing, she backed away. They would take Big Wen away and beat him badly, as an example to the others. And so it would go on.
She swallowed bitterly, her instinct to fight them unas-suaged. But she was a single woman and they would target her, the way they had targeted Big Wen, and she could not afford that. She had the boys to think of, after all.
The Hsien L'ing, she thought. I must go and petition the Hsien L'ing.
Sleeping on the matter overnight she had decided not to; had argued herself into believing it would make no difference. But now she had no option. It was the only way.
And if that failed?
Then the brotherhoods would win and the nightmare... she sighed heavily ... the nightmare would begin again.
Su Ping set down his brush and, sighing deeply, combed his fingers through his neat grey hair.
If yesterday was bad, today is worse, he thought, conscious of the queue of complainants seated in the anteroom outside his office. His half-brother had stirred up a veritable hornets' nest and he was the one who would have to calm things down.
Fuck you, Su Chun, he thought, surprised by the anger he felt. Before you came I was a happy man, contented, liked by my citizens and trusted. And now?
Now word had gone out that his men stood by while his brother's men smashed stalls and beat up citizens.
He let a breath hiss between his teeth. Where was his Wei? Where was Kung Chia when he was needed?
He turned in his chair, hearing the door open behind him, then relaxed. It was only the old woman. She set down a bowl of ch'a at his elbow then, with a little nod, backed away.
Again he sighed. What were things coming to? First the taxes and now this! The gods knew he could do without such trials!
He reached out for his ch 'a, meaning to drink it before it grew cold, then paused, noticing something tucked beneath the bowl.
It was a note. Unfolding it he read: "Do not trust your Third Secretary." Beside the English words was a sketch of a coiled snake lying in the grass, three Mandarin pictograms - spelling the man's name, Ho Tse-tsu - drawn in the space between the coils.
He frowned then folded the note and slipped it into the pocket of his gown.
The clock on the wall read 11.37. He stared at it a moment then looked to his clerk, giving a nod to indicate he should send in the next complainant.
It was a woman, a Hung Mao, in her late forties, early fifties.
"Name," he said, tearing a fresh incident form from the pad and reaching for his brush.
"Lin," she said. "Emily Lin."
"And the reason for your visit?"
He looked up at her and knew, before she said it, what was to come. He listened, taking notes, then sat back.
"I shall do what I can, Mu Ch'in Lin, I promise you. This matter concerns me greatly and I shall be taking strong action. Now go. My door is always open . . ."
He saw a movement in her eyes at that and leaned toward her.
"You doubt my word, Mu Ch'in Lin?"
She hesitated, then shook her head. "No, HsienL'ing, it's just that I came last night," she said. "I tried to see you."
"It was after office hours," he said, smiling politely at her. "I was at the baths. But one of my officials was here . . ."
"I know," she said, speaking through him. "I tried to speak to him, but he sent me away. He spoke very harshly to me, Hsien L'ing."
"I see." He looked to his clerk. "Who was on duty last night, Chang?"
"Ho Tse-tsu, Master."
"Ah. . ." His hand went to his pocket, feeling the note there. "I see," he said again. Then, taking control of the situation, he stood. "Well, leave the matter with me, Mu Ch'in. I shall do what I can."
When she had gone he signalled to his clerk to close the door, then went through to the back office where the surveillance tapes were kept. He sorted through them until he found the one that covered the Yamen. Returning to his desk, he fed it into the scanner. At once a screen lifted from the desk. For a time he sat there, skimming through the tape, searching, then froze the image.
There! That was her. He let it run - saw, for the first time, how his staff behaved when he was absent.
I didn't know, he thought. / truly didn't know.
But it was his fault, anyway. His fault for not checking before now. For permitting it to happen.
He paused the tape and reached across the desk and pulled the Callers' Book toward him, turning it to the entries for the evening before. A quick check confirmed what he'd suspected: there were no entries. According to this no one had called at the Yamen. He closed the book, then, taking the note from his pocket, unfolded it and spread it on the desk before him.
"Send Ho Tse-tsu in at once," he said, looking to his clerk.
He sat back, composing himself. A moment later Ho Tse-tsu appeared at the door.
"Close it," he said quietly. "Then sit down. I want to talk to you."
"Master?" Ho sat, politely attentive.
"You understand your duties, Ho Tse-tsu?" he asked, keeping his tone innocuous.
"Master?" The man seemed genuinely puzzled.
"You know my stated policy. My door is always open. If someone calls you see them, and if you judge the matter urgent, then you contact me, whether I am on duiy or otherwise."
Ho bowed his head. "Master!"
"And if someone calls, you log it in the Callers' Book, neh?"
"Naturally, Master."
He turned the screen to face Ho Tse-tsu, the leaned toward him. "Then why did you not log the woman caller last night? Did you forget?"
"Master?"
Su Ping shook his head, then snorted with disgust. "Just go! You are dismissed!"