Karr smiled inwardly. Improvise. It was a wonderfully subtle euphemism for the crudest of businesses: the business of murder and prostitution, gambling, drugs, and protection.
"So you see, Major Karr. We have always been loyal to the traditions of Chung Kuo. Which is why we are always pleased to do business with the Seven. We are not their enemies, you understand. All we wish for is to maintain order in those lawless regions that have escaped the long grasp of the T'ang."
"And the banner?"
Fat Wong smiled, then lowered his head slightly. "The banner comes from Fu Chou monastery. It is the great ancestor of all such banners. And whoever leads the Great Council holds the banner."
Wong's smile tightened.
"And you. . ." But it didn't need to be said. Karr understood. But why had Wong told him? Not, surely, to impress him. Unless . . .
Wong turned slightly, his stance suggesting that Karr should join him. Kan-hesitated, then went across, his mind racing. Fat Wong wanted something. Something big. But to ask for help directly was impossible for Wong: for to admit to any weakness—to admit that there was something, anything, beyond his grasp—would involve him in an enormous loss of face. And face was everything down here. As Above.
Karr shivered, filled with a sudden certainty. Yes. Something was happening down here. In that veiled allusion to the Triad Council and the banner, Fat Wong had revealed more than he'd intended. Karr looked at him in profile and knew he was right. Fat Wong was under pressure. But from whom? From inside his own Triad, or from without—from another of the 4895? Whichever, he had seized this opportunity to broach the matter—to approach it subtly, without having to ask directly.
But what precisely was going on?
Wong looked back at the banners, then with the briefest smile, moved on. "Come, Major," he said. "We have much to say and it is far more comfortable within."
He followed Wong through, up a broad flight of steps and out into a huge, subtly lit room.
Steps led down into a sunken garden, at the center of which was a tiny, circular pool. Within the pool seven golden fish seemed to float, as if suspended in glass. But the garden and the pool were not the most striking things about the room, for the eye was drawn beyond them to where one whole wall—a wall fifty ch'i in length, ten in height—seemed to look out onto the West Lake at Hang Chou, providing a panoramic view of its pale, lacelike bridges and pagodas, its willow-strewn islands and ancient temples. Here it was perpetually spring, the scent of jasmine and apple blossom heavy in the cool, moist air.
From somewhere distant, music sounded, carried on the breeze that blew gently through the room. For a moment the illusion was so perfect that Karr held himself still, enthralled by it. Then, realizing Wong was watching him, he went down the steps and stood at the edge of the pool.
"You know why 1 have come here, Wong Yi-sun?"
"I understand you want some information. About the Ko Ming who assassinated the Hsien Ling."
"We thought you might know something about this group—for instance, whether or not they were related to the Ping Tiao."
"Because they share the same symbol?" Wong sniffed, his face suddenly ugly. "1 don't know what your investigations have thrown up, Major Karr, but let me tell you this, the Hsien L'ing was meddling in things he ought never to have been involved in."
Karr kept his face a mask, but behind it he felt an intense curiosity. What was Shou Chen-hai involved in that could possibly anger Fat Wong? For there was no doubting that Wong Yi-sun was furious.
"And the Ko Ming?"
Fat Wong gulped savagely at his drink, then took a deep breath, calming himself. "Your assassins are called the Yu. Beyond that I cannot say. Only that their name echoes throughout the Lowers."
Karr nodded thoughtfully. "That is unusual, neh?"
Wong met Karr's eyes steadily. "You are quite right, Major Karr. They are something different. We have not seen their like for many years. I—"
Wong paused, looking beyond Karr, toward the arched doorway. "Come," he said brusquely, one hand waving the servant in.
The servant handed Wong something, then leaned close, whispering. Then he backed away, his head lowered, his eyes averted.
For a moment Wong stared at the three tiny packages, his hand trembling with anger, then he thrust his hand out, offering them to Karr.
"These are yours, I understand."
Karr nodded, but made no attempt to take the three tiny, waxen packages from the 489. "We found them in the Hsien L'ing's apartment. I thought they might interest you."
Wong narrowed his eyes. "You know what was in them?"
Again Karr nodded. They had had them analyzed and knew they were something special. But what did Fat Wong know about them? Karr watched the movement in his face and began to understand. Wong hadn't been sure. He had only suspected until he had seen the packages. But now he knew.
Wong turned away and stood there, as if staring out across the lake. A wisp of his jet black hair moved gently in the breeze. "They have overstretched themselves this time. They have sought to destroy the balance . . ."
Then, as if he realized he had said too much, he turned back, giving a tiny shrug. But though Fat Wong smiled, his eyes gave him away. This was what had been worrying him. This was the big something he could not deal with on his own. He had been the biggest, fattest worm until now. The keeper of the ancient banner. But now the Big Circle was making its bid to oust him; a bid financed by the revenue from new drugs, new markets.
But what did Fat Wong want? Did he want help to crush the Big Circle? Or did he want something else—some other arrangement that would keep the Big Circle in their place while keeping him supreme? And, beyond that, what would his own master, Li Yuan, want from such a deal? That was, if he wanted anything but to keep the Triads in their place.
Li Yuan's father, Li Shai Tung, had tried to make such a deal. To forge some kind of order in the Lowers by granting concessions to men like Fat Wong. But would it work? Would it not merely give them too much power? And, in the end, would they not have to crush them anyway? Or see themselves displaced.
Fat Wong closed his hand over the three tiny packets, then threw them down into the water. Reaching inside his silks, he withdrew a slender envelope.
"Give this to your T'ang," he said, handing it across.
"And what am I to say?"
"That I am his friend. His very good friend."
ON THE TABLE by the bed was a holo plinth. Mach knelt, then placed his hand on the pad. Nothing. He turned slightly, looking up at Ywe Hao, curious. She leaned across him, holding her fingertips against the pad. At once two tiny figures formed in the air above the plinth.
"My brother," she explained. "He died in an industrial accident. At least, that's what the official inquiry concluded. But that's not the story his friends told at the time. He was a union organizer. Eighteen he was. Four years older than me. My big brother. They say the pan chang threw him from a balcony. Eight levels he fell, into machinery. There wasn't much left of him when,they pulled him out. Just bits."
Mach took a breath, then nodded. For a moment longer Ywe Hao stared at the two tiny images, then drew her hand back, the pain in her eyes sharp, undiminished by the years.
"I wanted to see," he said, looking about him again. "I wanted to be sure."
"Sure?"
"About you."
"Ah ..."
He smiled. "Besides which, I've got to brief you."