Li Yuan looked down sharply, a cold fear washing through him. He had hoped against hope that there was some other way to read his dream, but his father's words merely confirmed his own worst fears. The dragonfly, though the emblem of summer, was also a symbol of weakness and instability, of all the worst excesses of a soft and easy life. Moreover, it was said that they swarmed in vast numbers just before a storm.
Yet was the dream anything more than a reflection of his innermost fears? He thought of his father's words—of dreams as loyal ministers, uttering truths that could not otherwise be faced. Was that the case here? Had this dream been sent to make him face the truth?
"Then what am I to do?"
The dead T'ang looked at him and laughed. "Do, Yuan? Why, you must wear stout clothes and leam to whistle in the wind. You must look to your wives and children. And then . . ."
"And then, Father?"
The old man looked away, as if he'd done. "Spring will come, erh tzu. Even in your darkest hour, remember that. Spring always comes."
Li Yuan hesitated, waiting for something more, but his father's eyes were closed now, his mouth silent. Yuan leaned forward and took the burning spills from the porcelain jar. At once the image shrank, taking its place beside the other tiny, glowing images of his ancestors.
He stood, looking about him at the torch-lit stillness of the Hall—at the gray stone of the huge, funerary couch to his right, at the carved pillars and tablets and lacquered screens—then turned away, angry with himself. There was so much to be done—the note from Minister Heng, the packet from Fat Wong, the last few preparations for Council—yet here he was, moping like a child before his dead father's image. And to what end?
He clenched his fist, then slowly let it open. No. His anger could not be sustained. Nor would the dream be denied that easily. If he closed his eyes he could see them—a thousand bright, flickering shapes in the morning sunlight, their wings like curtains of the finest lace. Layer upon layer of flickering, sunlit lace—
"Chieh Hsia . . ."
Li Yuan turned, almost staggering, then collected himself, facing his Chancellor.
"Yes, Chancellor Nan. What is it?"
Nan Ho bowed low. "News has come, Chieh Hsia. The news you were waiting for."
He was suddenly alert. "From Tao Yuan? We have word?"
"More than that, Chieh Hsia. A tape has come. A tape of the meeting between Wang and Hsiang."
"A tape . . ." Li Yuan laughed, filled with a sudden elation that was every bit as powerful as his previous mood of despair. "Then we have him, neh? We have him where we want him."
THE doorman had done his job. The outer door slid back at her touch. Inside it was pitch black, the Security cameras dead. Ywe Hao turned, then nodded, letting the rest of the team move past her silently.
The doorman was in the cubicle to the left, facedown on the floor, his hands on his head. One of the team was crouched there already, binding him hand and foot.
She went quickly to the end of the hallway, conscious of the others forming up to either side of the door. She waited until the last of them joined her, then stepped forward, knocking loudly on the inner door.
There was a small eye-hatch near the top of the reinforced door. She faced it, clicking on the helmet lamp and holding up her ID card. The call had gone out half an hour ago, when the outer power had "failed," so they were expecting her.
The hatch cover slid back, part of a face staring out from the square of brightness within.
"Move the card closer." She did as she was told.
"Shit . . ." The face moved away, spoke to someone inside. "It's a fuckiri woman."
"Is there a problem?"
The face turned back to her. "Well, it's like this. This is a mens' club. Women ain't supposed to come in."
She took a breath, then nodded. "I understand. But look. I've only got to cut the power from the box inside. I can do the repairs out here in the hallway."
The guard turned, consulting someone inside, then turned back. "Okay, but be quick, neh? And keep your eyes to yourself or there'll be a report going in to your superior."
Slowly the door slid back, spilling light into the hallway. The guard moved back, letting Ywe Hao pass, his hand coming up, meaning to point across at the box, but he never completed the gesture. Her punch felled him like a sack.
She turned, looking about her, getting her bearings. It was a big, hexagonal room, corridors going off on every side. In its center was a circular sunken pool of bright red tile, five steps leading down into its depths.
The young men in the pool seemed unaware of her entrance. There were eight of them, naked as newborns. One of them was straddling another over the edge of the pool, his buttocks moving urgently, but no one seemed to care. Behind him the others played and laughed with an abandon that was clearly drug induced.
She took it all in at a glance, but what she was really looking for was the second guard—the one her fallen friend had been speaking to. Unable to locate him, she felt the hairs on her neck rise; then she saw movement, a brief flash of green between the hinges of the screen to her right.
She fired twice through the screen, the noise muted by the thick carpeting underfoot, the heavy tapestries that adorned the walls, but it was loud enough to wake the young men from their reverie.
The others stood behind her now, masked figures clothed from head to toe in black. At her signal they fanned out, making for the branching corridors.
She crossed the room slowly, the gun held loosely in her hand, until she stood on the tiled lip of the pool. They had backed away from her, the drug elation dying in their eyes as they began to realize what was happening. The copulating couple had drawn apart and were staring wide-eyed at her, signs of their recent passion still evident. Others had raised their hands in the universal gesture of surrender.
"Out!" she barked, lifting the gun sharply.
They jerked at the sound of her voice, then began to scramble back, abashed now at their nakedness, fear beginning to penetrate the drug haze of their eyes.
She watched them climb the far steps, awkward, afraid to look away. One stumbled and fell back into the water. He came up, gasping, wide-eyed.
"Out!" she yelled again, making him jump, one hand searching for the steps behind him as he backed away.
She knew them all. Faces and names and histories. She looked from face to face, forcing them to meet her gaze. They were so young. Barely out of childhood, it seemed. Even so, she felt no sympathy for them, only disgust.
There were noises from the rest of the club now; thumps and angry shouts and a brief snatch of shrieking that broke off abruptly. A moment later one of the team reappeared at the entrance to one of the corridors.
"Chi Li! Come quickly. . . ."
"What is it?" she said as calmly as she could, tilting her head slightly, indicating her prisoners.
He looked beyond her, understanding, then came across, lowering his voice. "It's Hsao Yen. He's gone crazy. You'd better stop him." He drew the gun from his belt. "Go on. I'll guard these."
She could hear Hsao Yen long before she saw him, standing over the young man in the doorway, a stream of obscenities falling from his lips as he leaned forward, striking the prisoner's head and shoulders time and again with his rifle butt.
"Hsao Yen!" she yelled. "Ai yal What are you doing!"
He turned, confronting her, his face livid with anger, then jerked his arm out, pointing beyond the fallen man.