He climbed the stairs quickly, almost eagerly now, but near the top he slowed, calming himself, waiting until he had complete control. Only then did he reach out and thumb the lock.
She turned, surprised. A big woman, bigger than her husband, nothing cowed or mean about the way she stood. You married below yourself, DeVore thought at once, knowing that Sung would never have made Field Supervisor without such a woman to push him from behind.
Her bow was hesitant. "Overseer?"
He closed the door behind him then turned back to her, trying to gauge her response to him. Would she do as he wanted? Would she try to save her husband? She was here. That, at least, augured well. But would she be compliant? Would she be exceptionally good to him?
"You know why you're here?" he asked, taking a step closer to her.
Her eyes never left him. "I'm here because my husband told me to be here, Shth Bergson."
DeVore laughed. "From what I'm told old Sung is a docile man. He does what he's told. Am I wrong in thinking that? Does Sung roar like a lion within his own walls?"
She met his gaze fiercely, almost defiantly, making the blood run thicker, heavier, in his veins. "He is my husband and I a dutiful wife. He wished me here, so here I am."
DeVore looked down, keeping the smile from his face. He had not been wrong. She had spirit. He had seen that when he had been watching her; had seen how she looked at everything with that curious, almost arrogant stare of hers. She had strength. The strength of twenty Sungs.
He took another step then shook his head. "You're wrong, you know. You're here because I said you should be here."
She did not answer him this time, but stared back at him almost insolently, only a slight moistening of her lips betraying her nervousness.
"What's your name, Sung's wife?"
She looked away, then looked back at him, as if to say, Don't toy with me. Do what you are going to do and kt me be.
"Your name?" he insisted, his voice harder now.
"My name is Si Wu Ya," she answered proudly.
This time he smiled. Si Wu Ya. Silk Raven. He looked at her and understood why her parents had given her the name. Her hair was beautifully dark and lustrous. "Better an honest raven than a deceitful magpie, eh?" he said, quoting the old Han adage.
"What do you want me to do?"
He shook his head. "Don't be impatient, Si Wu Ya. We'll come to that. But tell me this—is Sung a good man? Is he good in bed? Does he make you sing out with pleasure?"
He saw how she bridled at the question, but saw also how the truth forbade her to say yes. So, Sung was a disappointment. Well, he, DeVore, would make her sing tonight. Of that he had no doubt. He took a step toward her, then another, until he stood before her, face to face.
"Is he hard like bamboo, or soft like a rice frond? Tell me, Si Wu Ya. I'd like to know."
For a moment her eyes flared with anger, but then she seemed to laugh deep inside herself and her eyes changed, their anger replaced by a hard amusement. "Don't mock me, Shih Bergson. I'm here, aren't I? Do what you want. I'll be good to you. I'll be very good. But don't mock me."
He looked back at her a moment, then reached down and took her left hand in his own, lifting it up to study it. It was a big, strong hand, roughly callused from field-work, but she had made an effort. It was clean and the nails were polished a deep brown.
He met her eyes again. "My friends tell me you Han women wear no underclothes. Is it true?"
In answer she took his hand and placed it between her legs. His fingers met the soft, masking texture of cloth, but beneath them he could feel her warmth', the firm softness of her sex.
"Well?" she asked, almost smiling now, determined not to be cowed by him.
"Strip off," he said, standing back a pace. "I want to see what you look like."
She shrugged, slipped the one-piece off, and kicked off her briefs, then stood there, her hands at her sides, making no effort to cover her nakedness.
DeVore walked around her, studying her. She was a fine woman, unspoiled by childbirth, her body hardened by field-work. Her breasts were large and firm, her buttocks broad but not fat. Her legs were strongly muscled yet still quite shapely, her stomach flat, her shoulders smooth. He nodded, satisfied. She would have made a good wife for a Tang, let alone a man like Sung.
"Good. Now over there."
She hesitated, her eyes showing a momentary unease, then she did as she was told, walking over to the corner where he had indicated. He saw how she looked about her; how her eyes kept going to the saddle. As if she knew.
"What do you want me to do?"
DeVore smiled coldly. He had watched her earlier. Had seen, through the camera's hidden eye, how fascinated she had been with the saddle. Had witnessed her puzzlement and then her shocked surprise as she realized what it was.
It was a huge thing, almost half a man's height and the same in length. At first glance it could be mistaken for an ornately carved stool, its black and white surfaces for a kind of sculpture. And in a way it was. Ming craftsmen had made the saddle more than seven hundred years before, shaping ivory and wood to satisfy the whim of a bored nobleman.
"Have you seen my saddle?" he asked her.
She watched him, eyes half lidded now, and nodded.
"It was a custom of your people, you know. They would place a saddle in the gateway to the parental home before the bride and bridegroom entered it."
She wet her lips. "What of it?"
He shrugged. "An it was. A saddle. An. Almost the same sound as for peace."
He saw her shiver, yet the room was warm.
"Have you studied my saddle?"
She nodded briefly.
"And did it amuse you?"
"You're mocking me again, Shih Bergson. Is that what you want me to do? To play that game with you?"
He smiled. So she had worked it out. He went across and stood there beside the saddle, smoothing his hand over its finely polished surfaces. What at first seemed a mere tangle of black and white soon resolved itself. Became a man and woman locked in an embrace that was, some said, unnatural; the man's head buried between the woman's legs, the woman's head between the man's.
He looked across at her, amused. "Have you ever done that with Sung?"
She blinked. Then, unexpectedly, she shook her head.
"Would you like to do that, now, with me?"
He waited, watching her like a hawk watching its prey. Again she hesitated, then she nodded.
"You think you'd like it, don't you?"
This time she looked away, for the first time the faintest color appearing at her neck.
Ah, he thought. Now I have you. Now I know your weakness. You are dissatisfied with Sung. Perhaps you're even thinking what this might lead to. You've ambitions, Si Wu Ya. For all your social conscience you're a realist. And, worse for you, you enjoy sex. You want to be made love to. You want the excitement that I'm offering here.
"Come here."
He saw how her breathing changed. Her nipples were stiff now and the color had not left her neck. Slowly, almost fearful now, she came to him.
He took her hand again, guiding it down within the folds of his pau, then heard her gasp as her hand closed on him; saw her eyes go down and look.
DeVore laughed, knowing the drug would last for hours yet— would keep him at this peak until he had done with her. He leaned closer to her, drawing her nearer with one hand, his voice lowering to a whisper.
"Was he ever this hard, Si Wu Ya? Was he ever this hot?"
Her eyes went to his briefly, the pupils enlarged, then returned to the splendor she held. Unbid, she knelt and began to stroke him and kiss him. He put his hands on her shoulders now, forcing her to take him in her mouth, her whole body shudderr ing beneath his touch, a soft moaning in her throat. Then he pushed her off, roughly, almost brutally, and moved away from her.