Not their fault. Yes, but that wasn't what she had thought back then. She could still recall the sense of repugnance with which she had faced her new surroundings, her marked distaste for the people she found herself among. So coarse they were. So dirty in their habits.
No, she had never really recovered from that fall. It had shaped her in every single way. And even when her aversion had turned to pity and her pity into a fiery indignation, still she felt, burning within her chest, the dark brand of that fall.
Her mother had been a genteel woman, in many ways a weak woman, wholly unsuited to the bustle of the Lows; but she had done her best and in the years that followed had tried in every way to keep the standards that her husband had once set. Unused to work, she had broken with a lifetime's habits and gone looking for work. Eventually she had found it, running a trader's stall in the busy Main where they lived. The job had bruised her tender Mid-Level sensibilities sorely, but she had coped.
Emily shuddered, remembering. Why do you do it? she had asked her mother whenever she returned, tearful and exhausted, from a day working the stall. The answer was always the same: For you. To get you out of this living hell. It was her hard work that had put Emily through college; her determination, in the face of seemingly overwhelming odds, that had given Emily her chance. But for what? To climb the levels again? To take part in the same charade that had destroyed her father? No. She was set against that path. Secretly—for she knew that even to mention it would hurt her mother badly—she had harbored other dreams.
She had joined the Ping Tiao eight years ago, in its earliest days, just before the War. Back then there had been a lot of talk about ultimate goals and keeping the vision pure. But eight years was a long time to keep the flame of idealism burning brightly; especially when they had had to face more than their fill of disappointments. And all that time she had been Bent's woman, his alone, fired by his enthusiasm, his vision of how things might be. But now things had changed. Now it was hard to say whether those ideals still fired them or whether, in some small way, they had become the very thing they once professed to hate.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror, trying, as she so often did, to get beyond the surface of each eye and see herself whole and clear. So hard to do, it was. So hard. She looked down again, shaking her head. There was no doubting it—her fall had opened her eyes to the evil of the world, a world in which good men and women could be left to fester in the shit-heap of the lower levels while the corrupt and the unscrupulous wallowed in undeserved luxury high above them. A world unfit for decent beings. No; and she would never feel at ease in the world while such moral discrepancies existed.
She sighed and turned from the bowl, drying her face and upper arms. So maybe Bent was right. Maybe she was just being silly about the Tolonen girl. Maybe it would help bring this rotten pile crashing down. And yet it didn't feel right. No. Because it wasn't Jelka Tolonen's fault, either, that she had been born into this world of levels. And so long as she had no proof that the girl was anything other than a pawn of circumstance, she would not feel happy undertaking such a task. Not for herself, let alone for a bastard like Turner.
Besides, what was his motive? Why did he want the General's daughter dead? Was it as he said, to weaken the General and thus undermine the T'ang's Security forces? Or was it something personal? Some slight he'd suffered at the General's hands?
She shivered again, remembering the moment on the mountainside beside Turner. To think that he thought they had something—anything—in common! She laughed and felt the laugh turn sour, recalling his words.
Love, you mean? Human understanding? Goodness? Those things don't exist. Not really. They're illusions. Masks over the reality. And the reality is like these peaks—it's beautiful, but it's also hard, uncompromising, and cold, like the airless spaces between the stars.
Well, maybe that was how he saw it, but the truth was otherwise. It was as she had said: he was lacking a dimension, lacking, essentially, any trace of basic human feeling. The Han had a saying for the behavior of such men, Hou lion, hei hsin—"Thick face, black heart"—and it was never more true than of Turner. Only in his case Thick Face, Black Heart had reached its ultimate, where the face is so thick it is formless, the heart so black it is colorless. His nihilism was pure, untempered by any trace of pity. And that was why they should not be working with him; for while their paths might coincide for a time, their aims were diametrically opposed.
In time they would have to fight the man. That was, if he had not, in the meantime, robbed them of the will to fight
THE MUl TSAl BOWED deeply, then backed away two paces, holding the door open for him.
"Major Ebert. Please, come in. My mistress offers her apologies. She is afraid she will be late."
The girl kept her head lowered, as if from politeness, but a faint flush at her neck and cheeks betrayed her embarrassment at being left alone with the young Major.
"Oh? Not ill news, I hope."
"I believe not, Excellency, but she was summoned urgently. She knew you would understand."
Ebert moved past her slowly, turning to keep his eyes on her. Yes, she was a pretty young thing. Sixteen, seventeen at most. He could see the shape of her breasts beneath the thin silk of the dress she wore, the fullness of her hips. She was a peach. An absolute peach, ripe for the picking.
He moved closer. "How long will your mistress be?"
She turned to face him, her eyes averted. "She said she would not be long, Excellency. Fifteen minutes, perhaps. Twenty at the most. Her husband . . ."
She fell silent, looking up at him, surprised. Ebert had moved closer, taking her left hand in his own, while with his other hand he held her breast.
"Good," he said, smiling. "Then come. There's time for other things, neh?"
The linen cupboard was in the next room—a tiny chamber in itself, wide drawers and rows of silk chi poo, full-length elegant formal dresses arrayed in a rainbow of stunning colors to either side. He had noticed it on his previous visit, had seen the cushioned floor and thought how nice it might be ...
He pushed the girl down, onto the cushions, laughing softly, enjoying the way she looked back at him, a strange wantonness in her dark eyes.
Afterwards they lay there, the soft hiss of their breathing the only sound in the silence. The scent of their lovemaking was mixed deliciously with the faded perfumes of the dresses ranged on either side above them, a sweet, musky smell that, with the warm presence of her naked body beneath him, made him stir again.
She laughed softly, then turned her head to look at him. "That was nice . . ."
"Yes. . ." He let out a small, shuddering breath. Maybe he'd offer to buy her from Chuang Lian . . .
He felt her stiffen, then draw back from him, and opened his eyes. Then he heard the sound. It came from the other room. The sound of rustling silks.
"Gods. . ." the girl whispered anxiously, searching for her dress. But Ebert was smiling. Had they been at it that long, then? Or had the Ministers wife come back earlier than expected? He pulled his trousers up over his knees, then climbed to his feet, beginning to button himself up.
The girl had pulled the dress over her head and was fumbling at the fastenings. Ebert turned to her and put his finger against his lips; then reaching past her for his belt, he pushed her back into the linen cupboard and closed the door.