He waited, his eyes lowered, listening as the guard and the Captain talked between themselves in Mandarin. Their assumption that a mere Clayborn couldn't understand the tongue was typical of their kind.
"You! Raise your head!"
The Captain's barked command surprised Kim. He jerked his head up, meeting the man's eyes. The Captain studied him a moment, then made a coarse remark in Mandarin. Behind him the guards laughed.
"Well?" he said, thrusting the invitation at him. "Where did you get this? You're not on the guest list, and one of the invitations was reported missing. It can only be assumed . . ."
"What can only be assumed?"
The voice came from behind the guards. They stepped back, revealing the tall figure of Michael Lever, dressed in the bright blue and white costume of an American general of the late eighteenth century.
"Shih Lever . . ." the Captain said, bowing low, as if acknowledging both the real and illusory gulf in rank between them. "Forgive me, but this man was trying to gain admission to the grounds. There was a report this afternoon that one of the invitations had gone missing and..."
"Be quiet, you imbecile! Shih Ward is my honored guest. He is a great man. A ch'un tzu. You will bow low before him and apologize . . ."
Embarrassed, Kim spoke up. "Michael, please, there's really no need. The Captain was mistaken, that's all. Besides, he^was right to be cautious. These are troubled times and this is a great house. Its doors should be protected."
Michael stared at Kim a moment, then shrugged. "If that's what you want. But I think you're mistaken. I think this shit knew exactly what he was doing."
Almost certainly, Kim thought, butl'tt not be a party to such pettiness. Not while I've a choice in it.
They went through, into a huge open space—a garden landscaped in the Han fashion. At the far side, beyond a pair of gently arching white stone bridges, a large two-story Mansion in the southern style rested amid tree and rock. Already, it seemed, the great house was full to overflowing. Guests crowded the veranda, talking and drinking, while from within came the muted sound of pipes and strings.
Kim turned, looking up at his friend. "I thought it would be different. I thought. . ."
"You thought it would be like last time, neh? And you're confused, because this is Han. Well, let me explain things, before we meet our hostess."
He drew Kim aside, moving toward a quiet arbor. There they sat, facing each other across a low table of sculpted stone, Michael's tricorn hat laid to one side.
"Back when the House was still open, Gloria's father was a Senior Representative—an important man, spokesman for his tong, the On Leong."
Kim frowned. The five major tong of City America shared an ancestry with the Triads of Europe and Asia, but their recent history was very different. When things had collapsed over here, after President Griffin's assassination, it was the five tong who had helped hold. things together on the East Coast and in enclaves in California and the Midwest. And when the City was built across the continent, they had taken a major role in the social reconstruction program. Their reward was a legitimization of their organizations. They had become political parties.
"I see," Kim said, "but I still don't understand. I'd have thought that the long would be your natural political adversaries."
Michael sat back, smiling. "They are. But Gloria is very different from her father. She wants what we want—an independent and outward-looking America. And she's not alone. There are many Han who think like her. Most of them—the influential ones, that is—are here tonight."
Kim looked down. "And there I was, thinking . . ."
"That I hated the Han?" Michael shook his head. "No. Only our masters. Only those who try to keep us from our natural destiny. The rest. . . well, there are good and bad, neh? What has race to do with that?"
"Bryn? Can I have a word?"
Bryn Kustow excused himself from the group with which he was standing, then came away, following Michael Lever down the broad corridor and into one of the empty side rooms.
With the door firmly closed behind them, Michael turned, confronting him.
"Well, Michael? What is it?"
Michael reached out and held his arm. "I've just had news. The bankers have called in the loan."
"Ahh. . ." Kustow considered that a moment, then shrugged. "Then that's it, I guess. The game's over for the boys."
"Is that what you want?"
Kustow looked up. "No. But what's left to us? WeVe allocated most of my capital, and yours is frozen."
Michael hesitated, then. "What if I could get the money somewhere else?"
Kustow laughed. "Where? Your father has the money market tied up tighter than a fly's ass."
"That's what he thinks. But IVe been checking out a few tips."
"And?"
"And weVe a meeting, tomorrow afternoon at two, with the Clear Heart Credit Agency of Cleveland."
"And they'll lend us what we need?"
Michael hesitated. "I don't know. What with this latest development we'll need to reassess things carefully. Work out what we need to pay off the loan and fund new development. The rates are^high, but it's that or go under."
"I see." Kustow looked away a moment, then turned back, a faint smile on his lips. "There is one other option. I mean, if we do have to seek alternative employment, there is one sphere we could go into."
Michael laughed. "I don't follow you, Bryn. What are you going on about?"
"IVe been busy, too, Michael. Making calls. And IVe set up a meeting. Just you and me and an old school friend of ours. Two days from now, out at his place."
"An old school friend?"
Kustow put a hand on Michael's shoulder. "Trust me. Meanwhile, let's enjoy ourselves, neh? And smile, damnit. The night's young and youVe a pretty woman waiting for you out there!"
a fan fluttered in the pearled light. There was the scent of rich perfumes, the swish of ancient ballgowns, the rustle of silks and satins, the low murmur of conversation, interspersed with bursts of drunken laughter. Emily Ascher stood at the head of the steps, looking down into the Hall of Ultimate Benevolence, amazed by the sight that met her eyes. The great hall was a riot of red, white, and blue, decorated with all manner of Americana. Faded flags and ancient banners hung from the surrounding balconies and across the great ceiling, interspersed with huge, carved wooden eagles. At the far end a huge cracked bell rested on a raised platform—the Liberty Bell. Behind it hung a wall-size map of the American Empire at its height, most of South America shaded blue, each of the Sixty-Nine States marked with a blazing golden star. In the space between, two or three thousand garishly dressed young men and women milled about, talking and drinking.
Emily turned, wide-eyed, to her companion. Michael was watching her, a smile on his lips.
"Impressed?"
She nodded. "1 didn't expect. . ." But what had she expected? She laughed softly. "Are these occasions always like this?"
"Not always. But then, most hostesses don't have Gloria's style. She's done us proud, don't you think?"
"Us?"
"The Sons . . ."
"But I thought this was a coming-of-age party."
"And so it is." He smiled enigmatically, then offered her his arm. "Here, let's go down. There are some friends I'd like you to meet."
Two hours later she found herself among a group of young men gathered at the far end of the hall, about the Liberty Bell. There were nine of them in alclass="underline" Michael Lever, three of his close friends, and five other "Sons" who had shared the long months of incarceration at Wu Shih's hands. Like Lever, all were dressed in the style of the early republic—authentic blue and white uniforms that had been purchased at great expense. With their short-cropped blond hair and knee-length boots they brought a strangely somber note to the occasion, making a striking contrast against the other partygoers.