All of which made the reality of this—the shattered slabs, the empty casket— that much more disturbing. Besides which, the thing was out there somewhere, a strong, powerful creature, capable of splitting stone and lifting a slab four times the weight of a man.
Something inhuman.
He watched the T'ang go inside, and he turned away, looking about him at the layout of the rain-swept garden. Unless it was the real Wang Ta-hung, it would have had to get inside the tomb before it could break out so spectacularly; how would it have done that?
Hung Mien-lo paced to and fro slowly, trying to work things out. It was possible that the being had been there a long time—placed there at the time of Wang Ta-hung's burial ceremony, or before. But that was unlikely. Unless it was a machine it would have had to eat, and he had yet to see a machine as lifelike as the one that had burst from the tomb.
So how? How would something have got into the tomb without their seeing it?
The security cameras here worked on a simple principle. For most of the time the cameras were inactive, but at the least noise or sign of movement they would focus on the source of the disturbance, following it until it left their field of vision. In the dark it was programmed to respond to the heat traces of intruders.
The advantage of such a system was that it was easy to check each camera's output. There was no need to reel through hours of static film; one had only to look at what was there.
Hung could see how that made sense . . . normally. Yet what if, just this once, something cold and silent had crept in through the darkness?
He went across, looking down into the tomb. At the foot of the steps, in the candle-lit interior, Wang was standing beside the broken casket, staring down into its emptiness. Sensing Hung there, above him, Wang Sau-leyan turned, looking up.
"He's dead. I felt him. He was cold."
Hung Mien-lo nodded, but the T'ang's words had sent a shiver down his spine. Something cold... He backed away, bowing low, as Wang came up the steps, wiping the dust from his hands.
"You'll find out who did this, Master Hung. And you'll find that thing . . . whatever it is. But until you do, you can consider yourself demoted, without title. Understand me?"
Hung met the T'ang's eyes, then let his head drop, giving a silent nod of acquiescence.
"Good. Then set to it. This business makes my flesh creep."
And mine, thought Hung Mien-lo, concealing the bitter anger he was feeling. And mine.
Jk.
THE CELL WAS CLEAN, the sheets on the bed freshly laundered. In one comer stood a bowl and a water jar, in another a pot. On the narrow desk were paper, brushes, and an ink block. Those and the holo plinth from Ywe Hao's apartment.
Ywe Hao sat at the desk, brush in hand, her eyes closed, looking back, trying to remember how it was, but it was hard to do. Painful. Even so, the need was strong in her. To make sense of it all. To try and explain it to the big man.
She let the brush fall, then sat back, knuckling her eyes. It was more than three hours since the morning's interview with the Major, yet she had managed no more than three brief pages. She sighed and lifted the first sheet from the desk, reading it back, surprised by the starkness of her description, by the way the words bristled with pain, as if she'd changed them somehow.
She shivered, then put it down, wondering what real difference any of this made. At the end of it they would find her guilty and have her executed, whatever she said J or did. The evidence was too strong against her. And even if it wasn't. . .
Yes, but the big man—the Major—had been scrupulously fair so far. She looke away, disturbed by the direction of her thoughts. Even so, she could not deny it. There was something different about him. Something she had not expected to find in one of the T'ang's servants. It was as if he had understood—maybe even sympathized with—much of what she'd said. When she had spoken of the Dragonfly Club, particularly, she had noted how he had leaned toward her, nodding, as if he shared her contempt. And yet he was a Major in Security, a senior officer, loyal to his T'ang. So maybe it was just an act, a trick to catch her off her guard. Yet if it was, then why hadn't he used it? Or was his a longer game? Was he aiming to catch bigger fish through her?
If so, he would need the patience of the immortals, for she knew as little as Karr when it came to that. Mach alone knew who the cell leaders were, and Mach was much too clever to be taken by the likes of Karr.
Again the thought troubled her. Made her pause thoughtfully and look down at her hands.
Karr had given her clothes, ensured that her food was okay, that she was treated well by her guards. All of which had been unexpected. She had been schooled to expect only the worst. But this one puzzled her. He had the look of a brute—of some great, hulking automaton—yet when he talked his hands moved with a grace that was surprising. And his eyes . . .
She shook her head, confused. Whatever, she was dead. The moment he had taken her she had known that.
So why did she feel the need to justify herself so strongly? Why couldn't she let the acts speak for themselves?
She leaned across and pulled the plinth toward her. Maybe this was why. Because he had asked. Because of the look in those deep-blue eyes of his when she had told him about her brother. And because he had returned this to her. So maybe. . .
Maybe what? she asked, some coldly cynical part of her suddenly asserting itself. After all, what good was his understanding unless it changed him? What good would all her explanations be if all they did was make him better at what he did? And what he did was to track down people like herself. Track them down and kill them, preventing change.
What was the expression they had? Ah yes, 1 am my Master's hands. So it was among them. And so it would remain. And nothing she could say would ever change that.
She pushed the plinth and the papers aside and stood up, angry, annoyed with herself that she had not been quicker, stronger than she'd proved. She had had so much to offer the Yu, but now she had destroyed all that.
I should have known, she told herself. I should have anticipated Edel getting back at me. I should have moved from there. But there wasn't time. Mach didn't give me time. And I was so tired.
She threw herself down onto the bed, letting it all wash through her for the dozenth time. Nor was she any nearer to an answer. Not that answers would help her now. And yet the urge remained. The urge to explain herself. To justify herself to him.
But why? Why should that be?
There were footsteps outside and the sound of the electronic locks of the door sliding back. A moment later the door eased back and Karr came into the room, stooping to pass beneath the lintel.
"Ywe Hao," he said, in that faintly accented way he had of speaking. "Get up now. It's time for us to talk again."
She turned, looking at him, then nodded. "I've been thinking," she said. "Remembering the past. . ."
SINCE THE FIRE that had destroyed it, Deck Fourteen of Central Bremen stack had been rebuilt, though not to the old pattern. Out of respect for those who had died here, it had been converted into a memorial park, landscaped to resemble the ancient water gardens—the Chuo Cheng Yuan—at Siichow. Guards walked the narrow paths, accompanied by their wives and children, or alone, enjoying the peaceful harmony of the lake, the rocks, the delicate bridges and stilted pavilions. From time to time one or more would stop beside the great t'ing, named "Beautiful Snow, Beautiful Clouds" after its original, and stare up at the great stone—the Stone of Enduring Sorrow—that had been placed there by the young T'ang only months before, reading the red-painted names cut into its broad, pale gray flank. The names of all eleven thousand and eighteen men, women, and children who had been killed here by the Ping Tiao.