Fastening the last button, his belt in his hand, he went out into the other room.
"Lian, my love . . ."
She turned, clearly not expecting him, momentarily embarrassed by her state of half-undress. Then, with a laugh, she let the garment fall from her and, her breasts exposed, put out her arms to welcome him.
"Quickly," she said, drawing him down onto the bed, her hands fumbling with the buttons of his trousers. "Gods, I've missed you . . ." She looked up at him, her eyes filled with an unnatural agitation.
"Slowly . . ." he said, pushing her down, amused by the strange urgency of her actions. "What's up, my darling? Why so tense?"
She paused, then looked away, shuddering with disgust. "Of all the times . . ." She looked back up at him, uncertain whether to say; then she looked down again, sniffing, her hands reaching out to take his. "It was my husband. He doesn't ask for me often, but when he does . . ."
Ebert laughed. "So the old man still fucks you, eh?"
He saw the brief flare of anger in her eyes. Then she relented and laughed. "He tries. But it's like trying to fuck a goldfish . . ."
"Hmmm . . ." He thought of the girl, crouched still in the linen cupboard, and felt a little shudder of desire wash through him. "And you wanted a pike . . . ?"
Her eyes met his, all pretense gone from them suddenly. But all he could see was how lined she was, how old; how her breasts sagged, her flesh folded upon itself at neck and stomach. He shivered, thinking of the mui tsai, of the taut silken surfaces of her young flesh, then leaned closer, kissing the woman's cheek and neck, closing his eyes, trying to imagine that it was Sweet Flute he was kissing. But the scent of her was different—old and faded like her flesh, her powder sickly sweet like the scent of a corpse.
He moved back, shuddering, all desire suddenly dead in him. She had just come from her husband; was unwashed from the old man's feeble groping. The thought of it made his stomach churn. He could see her under him, the old man's wrinkled, emaciated buttocks tightening as he came.
And was he to take his place now? To be the man her husband clearly couldn't be?
"What is it?" she said, her eyes narrowed, her whole body suddenly tensed.
"I. . ." He shook his head. "I'm tired, that's all. I..." He fished for an excuse, then remembered the Han he'd beaten earlier. "I've been on duty thirty hours. Something urgent came up and I had to see to it. A number of Senior Company men were murdered . . ."
She swallowed and looked down. "I heard . . ."
He looked at her, suddenly disgusted, not only by her but by his involvement with her. And when she reached out to touch and hold him, he drew back sharply from her.
He saw her draw her hand back, then, her face wrinkling, lift it to her nose. Her mouth fell open; she jerked her head up and glared at him, her eyes black with anger. "What's this? Is this what you mean by duty!" She nodded her head exaggeratedly. "Oh, I understand it now. You've been screwing my mui tsai, haven't you? You've been having fun here while I've been on my knees before my husband . . ."
He laughed, delighted by the image that came to mind. "On your knees, Madam Chuang?"
There was a dark flash of fury behind her eyes; she swung her hand at him, trying to slap his face, but he caught it easily and threw her back down onto the bed. Oh, he could fuck her now. Could do it to her in anger. To humiliate her. But from desire?
"What if I have?" he taunted her. "What if I tell you that your mui tsai fucks like a dream? That she's ten times the woman you are, eh?"
She had bared her teeth. "You're a liar. She's only a girl. . ."
He sneered at her. "You think you were hot, eh? Is that it? You think you could make me come just thinking about what you did to me, eh? Well, let me tell you, Madam Chuang . . . you weren't so good. I've had much better below the Net. Clapped out old singsong girls who'd do it for a single yuan!" He saw how she started to answer him and put his hand brutally over her mouth. "No ... it was simply the thought of fucking a Minister's wife. Of shitting in his nest. It amused me. But now I'm bored. I've had enough of you, old woman. Your haggard old frame bores me."
He stood, fastening himself, pulling his belt about him, watching her all the while, contempt burning in his eyes. He could see now how weak she was, how frail under that brittle carapace of hers. She thought herself so hard, so sophisticated, but she was just a spoiled little girl grown old. Tediously old.
"I'll bury you . . ." she said quietly, almost hissing the words through her teeth. "You can smile now, but I'll destroy you, Hans Ebert. Your name will be shit by the time I'm finished with you."
He laughed dismissively. "And yours? What will your name be worth, Madam Chuang, if the truth came out? How would you hold your head up in company if it were known what appetites you harbored inside that ancient, wizened skull of yours?"
"You bastard . . ." She shivered and drew the blanket up about her breasts. "I'll have you, Ebert. See if I don't."
He went to the door, then turned, looking back in at her crouched there on the bed. "You'll have me?" He looked down, laughing; then looked back at her, his face suddenly hard, uncompromising. "You'll have me?" He shook his head, then laughed: a cruel, dismissive laugh. "Go suck on your husband's prick!"
two HOURS later , Klaus Stefan Ebert, Head of GenSyn, stood on the front steps of his family's mansion, his broad hand extended to his old friend, Tolonen. The Marshal had become a gray-haired stiff-mannered old man in the fifty-odd years Ebert had known him, the uniform a second skin; but he remembered a simpler, less-daunting fellow, the gay companion of his adolescence.
The two men embraced, the warmth of their greeting overriding the formality of the occasion. This was more than politics. They grinned at one another and slapped each other's back.
"I'm glad," said Tolonen, tears brimming in his eyes.
"And I," responded Ebert, holding him at arm's length and smiling fiercely into his face. "This is a day to remember, Knut. Truly a day to remember!"
Jelka stood there at the bottom of the steps, a tall, willowy girl of fourteen with long straight ash-blond hair and beautiful blue eyes. She was no longer the child Ebert remembered so vividly. Now she was not far from womanhood.
Ebert smiled and nodded. She would make his son a perfect bride.
His son, Hans, stood behind him at the top of the steps, a tall twenty-eight-year-old, broad-shouldered yet lithe of build. He was considered extremely handsome by those who dictated taste in the Above; and as heir to the mighty GenSyn Empire, he was rated the most attractive unattached male in City Europe.
Hans barely looked at his bride-to-be. There was time enough for that. He stood there, at ease, his dress uniform immaculate, his short blond hair styled fashionably with a double pigtail. He watched the two men embrace and recognized the significance of all this, his role in it. The Marshal was like a second father to him, his Commanding Officer.
It was a perfect match. Strategically, logically, it was the obvious thing to do; and when his father had suggested it, ten years ago, he had agreed at once.
As he stood there he imagined the power he would one day wield, not merely as his father's son, but as Commander of the forces of the T'ang. He had dreams. Dreams he could not share. And they began here.
He looked at his intended—the child. She was studying him: looking at him with a critical eye, as if to sum and dismiss him. He glared at her, then relented, remembering, letting his face form into a smile, as if the first were only mischief.
He looked her up and down. She possessed the unformed figure of a girl. Pretty enough, but not a woman. Not a patch on the women he knew, anyway.
He smiled and looked away. Still, he would arrange things. Make life pleasant for himself. A wife was not a jailer, after all.