His lipless mouth grinned broadly, but as he turned away, Wong noted how Lu's left hand was clenched, the tendons showing at the wrist, as if all of his anger—anger that could not be expressed on the masklike nullity of his face—had been channeled down into that hard, bunched node of flesh and bone. And, seeing it, Fat Wong smiled.
Yes. Step by step he would undermine them, even as he seemed to be working with them. Step by step, until he was ready. And then there would be war. War such as the lowers had never seen.
WHISKERS LU let the door close, the last of his guests departed, then turned, his thin smile fading, and glared at the three men who remained in the room.
"How dare the fucker discuss my private business in my House!"
Lu Ming-shao kicked out, sending one of the low tables flying, tumblers and bowls of food scattered across the carpet.
"The toad! The fucking insect! What the fuck does he think he's playing at?"
The three men looked to each other but said nothing. When Whiskers Lu was like this, it was best to keep one's head low and wait for the storm to pass.
Lu Ming-shao shuddered, his one good eye burning in his glassy face. "If it had been any other man, I'd have slit his fucking throat! But I'll have him. See if I don't!"
He turned, anger making his movements jerky, angular. "Po Lao . . . Why was I not told what was going on? What the fuck are you up to, keeping me in the dark?"
Po Lao, Whisker's Lu's "Red Pole," his second-in-command, bowed his head, accepting the criticism, but inside he was fuming. Lu Ming-shao had been told about the new man, and not once but several times, but he had been too busy preparing for the Council meeting— closeted with designers and entertainers—to pay any attention.
"It's not fucking good enough," Lu went on, standing close to Po Lao, the pink, crab-mottled flesh of his melted face pressed right up against Po's. "I want you to go down there, personally, and see to the matter. To sort things out for good and all, because I don't want any more trouble, understand me? And I particularly don't want any word of what's happening in our territories getting out to that cunt Fat Wong."
Po Lao felt his face burning beneath its rigid exterior. For a moment he was giddy with suppressed anger. Then, with a curt bow, he turned away. But at the door Whiskers Lu called him back again.
"And Po Lao. No fuck-ups. I want it settled. Right?"
Po Lao turned back, meeting Lu Ming-shao's good eye, letting nothing of what he was feeling show. "1 understand, Master Lu."
"Good. Now go. I want to hear from you tonight."
"Shih Ward?"
Kim looked up, beginning to smile, then checked himself, realizing that it was not the young official he had been dealing with earlier, but the Supervisor of the section. Beyond the stoop-backed old graybeard stood two departmental guards, their side arms held across their chests.
"What is it?" he asked, standing, puzzled by the look of stern anger on the elderly Han's face.
In answer the man thrust a folder at Kim—the same folder he had submitted only four hours back at the counter on the far side of the waiting room.
"It's all done, then?" he asked, staring down at it, wondering momentarily where the completed patent certificate was.
"Are these your documents, Shih Ward?" the Supervisor asked, ignoring Kim's comment.
Kim glanced at the folder again. "Yes. Of course. Why? Is there a problem?"
The man's smile was cold, ironical. "You might say that. But first let me confirm two things." He reached across and opened the folder, drawing out the slender, microns-thick official form. "Is this your signature at the bottom of this patents application form?"
"Yes."
"And you understand that this form is to be used only for new patents originated by the signatory?"
Kim nodded, concerned now; not understanding why the man should need to ask, nor why he should feel the need to have guards present.
"Then I am afraid to say that this form is invalid, being in breach of Section 761 [D] of the Patents Protection Laws. Moreover, Shih Ward, it is my duty to arrest you for making a fraudulent application, infringing a patent already registered at this office."
Kim laughed, but it was the laughter of disbelief, not amusement. "It isn't possible. I checked. A week ago. Here at this very office. There was nothing. Nothing even vaguely like it!"
The official smiled, clearly enjoying his role, then produced a copy of a patent protection form. He let Kim study it a moment, watching as the young man's face drained, then took it back from him.
Kim stood there, his hands shaking, his mouth agape. "Someone stole it," he said quietly. "They must have."
The official turned, handing the folder to one of the guards, then turned back, puffing out his chest, as if to display the big, square badge of office there. "Your comments have been noted, Shih Ward, and, along with the recording of this interview, will be submitted to the Hearing in two days' time. Until then, I am afraid you will have to be detained."
"Detained . . . ?" Kim shook his head, disbelief tilting over into a kind of stupor. He felt sick and dizzy and hardly heard what the man said next, but then, suddenly, his hands were being pulled behind him. He felt the restraint-lock click into place about his wrists, then he was being pulled backward out of the room.
"You must send word!" Kim called out, trying to make the official listen. "You must tell T'ai Cho!" But the Supervisor had already turned away and was talking to the other guard. And then the door slammed shut in front of him and he felt a sharp, sudden blow on the back of his head. And then nothing.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dynasties
THE GIRL WAS ASLEEP, her long, auburn hair fanned out across her naked back, the thin sheet draped across her buttocks like a shroud. For a moment Old Man Lever studied her, conscious of the contrast between them. Her flesh was so smooth, so new, like silk over the taut frame of bone and muscle, no sign of age marring its perfection. He sighed, then pulled himself up heavily, stretching the tiredness from his bones. Suddenly he felt old. Very old. He looked about him, at the simple luxury of the room, a luxury to which he had been born, and shook his head, as if he didn't understand whence all this had come, then looked down at himself again, at thinning legs and a stomach gone to paunch, a chest to flab—at the changes and distortions time had brought to the landscape of his flesh. All these years he had kept himself trim, had fought Time itself, fleeing from it, like a swimmer in dangerous waters, but Time, patient as a shark, had waited in the depths, staring up at him with cold, impersonal eyes, biding its time, knowing there was no escape.
He shuddered, then padded across to the armchair in the corner of the room and pulled on the dark blue silk dressing gown he had thrown there earlier. The girl had been good—very good indeed— and she had finally brought him off, but it had been a long, uphill struggle, and he had almost sent her away at one point, ashamed of his failure.
180
It had happened before, of course, and he had blamed it on tiredness or an excess of wine, but it was neither—he knew that now. He was simply getting old.
He drew the sash tight about his waist, then went across, standing there at the mirror, looking at himself clearly in the light from the overhead lamp. In four weeks' time he would be seventy-four. One year older than Tolonen. An old man. Powerful, as old men went, but old all the same.
He turned away, angry with himself. Only an hour ago he had been full of life, buoyant after the news from the Patents Office, standing there, whooping at the screen. Yes, just an hour ago he had felt as though he could run ten Zi and then take on a pair of serving girls, one after the other, as he'd done in his youth. But now he knew. It was only the adrenaline rush. Only the ragged tide of feeling through an old man's head.