Hei. . . That single word sent a ripple of fear through the seated men. They had seen the Hei in action on their screens, the big GenSyn half-men clearing decks of rioters with a ruthlessness even their most fanatical runners could not match. For a moment they were silent, looking among themselves, wondering what this meant, then Li the Lidless leaned across Whiskers Lu and took the letter. He unfolded it, studying it a moment, then looked up at Wong.
"But what does this mean . . . ?"
Yet even as he said it, he understood. This letter from Li Yuan—this brief note of agreement—changed everything. Never before had one of their number received such a favor from Above. Never before had the Hung Mun worked hand-in-glove with the Seven. He shivered, seeing it clearly now. Today Fat Wong had gained great face. Had reestablished his position as Great Father of the brotherhoods. Li turned his head, looking about him, seeing the look of understanding in every face, then turned back, facing Wong again, lowering his head in a gesture of respect.
THE tapestries were burning. Flames licked the ancient thread, consuming mountain and forest, turning the huntsmen to ashes in the flicker of an eye. The air was dark with smoke, rent with the cries of dying men. Hei ran through the choking darkness, their long swords flashing, their deep-set eyes searching out anything that ran or walked or crawled.
The door to Iron Mu's mansion had been breached ten minutes ago, but still a small group of Mu's elite held out. Hei swarmed at the final barricade, throwing themselves at the barrier without thought of self-preservation. Facing them, Yao Tzu, Red Pole to the Big Circle, urged his men to one last effort. He was bleeding from wounds to the head and chest, but still he fought on, slashing at whatever appeared above the barricade. For a moment longer the great pile held, then with a shudder, it began to slide. There was a bellowing, and then the Hei broke through. Yao Tzu backed away, his knife gone, three of his men falling in the first charge. As the first of the Hei came at him, he leaped forward, screeching shrilly, meeting the brute with a flying kick that shattered the great chest bone of the half-man. Encouraged, his men attacked in a blur of flying feet and fists, but it was not enough. The first wave of Hei went down, but then there was the deafening roar of gunfire as the Hei commander opened up with a big automatic from the top of the collapsed barricade.
There was a moment's silence, smoke swirled, and then they moved on, into the inner sanctum.
His WIVES were dead, his three sons missing. From outside he could hear the screams of his men as they died. It would be only moments before they broke into his rooms. Even so, he could not rush this thing.
Iron Mu had washed and prepared himself. Now he sat, his legs folded under him, his robe open, the ritual knife before him on the mat. Behind him his servant waited, the specially sharpened sword raised, ready for the final stroke.
He leaned forward, taking the knife, then turned it, holding the needle-sharp point toward his naked stomach. His head was strangely clear, his thoughts lucid. It was the merchant Novacek who had done this. It had to be. No one else had known enough. Even so, it did not matter. He would die well. That was all that was important now.
As he tensed, the door shuddered, then fell open, the great locks smashed. Two Hei stood there, panting, looking in at him. They started to enter, but a voice called them back. A moment later a man stepped through, a small, neat-looking Han wearing the powder-blue uniform and chest patch of a Colonel. A filter-mask covered his lower face.
Iron Mu met the Colonel's eyes, holding them defiantly. In this, his last moment, he felt no fear, no regret, only a clarity of purpose that was close to the sublime.
Nothing, not even the watching Hei, could distract him now.
A breath, a second, longer breath, and then . . .
The Colonel's eyes dilated, his jaw tensed, and then he turned away, letting his Hei finish in the room. He shivered, impressed despite himself, feeling a new respect for the man. Iron Mu had died well. Very well. Even so, it could not be known how Iron Mu had died. No. The story would be put out that he had cried and begged for mercy, hiding behind his wives. Because that was what the T'ing Wei wanted. And what the T'ing Wei wanted, they got.
Yes, but while he lived, Iron Mu's death would live in his memory. And one day, when the T'ing Wei were no more, perhaps he would tell his story. Of how one of the great lords of the underworld had died, with dignity, meeting the darkness without fear.
FAT WONG STOOD by the door, bringing things to a close, thanking his fellow Bosses for coming. And as they left, he made each stoop and kiss the ancient banner, reaffirming the ancient tradition that bound them, and acknowledging that he, Wong Yi-sun, 489 of the United Bamboo, was still the biggest, fattest worm of all.
It should have been enough. Yet when they were gone it was not elation he felt but a sudden sense of hollowness. This victory was not his. Not really his. It was like something bought.
He went across and stood there over the tiny pool, staring down into the water, trying to see things clearly. For a moment he was still, as if meditating, then, taking the letter from his pocket, he tore it slowly in half and then in half again, letting it fall. No. He would be beholden to no man, not even a Son of Heaven. He saw it now. Saw it with opened eyes. Why had Li Yuan agreed to act, if not out of fear? And if that were so ...
He took a long, deep breath; then drawing back his sleeve reached in, plucking the fish from the water until five of the bloated golden creatures lay there on the ledge, flapping helplessly in the hostile air.
His way was clear. He must unite the underworld. Must destroy his brothers one by one, until only he remained. And then, when that was done, he would lift his head again and stare into the light.
He looked down, watching the dying gasps of the fish, then turned away, smiling. No. His way was clear. He would not rest now until it was his. Until he had it all.
LI YUAN STOOD on the terrace, beneath the bright full circle of the moon, looking out across the palace grounds, conscious of how quiet, how empty the palace seemed at this late hour. No gardeners knelt in the dark, earth beneath the trellises of the lower garden, no maids walked the dark and narrow path that led to the palace laundry. He turned, looking toward the stable. There a single lamp threw its pale amber light across the empty exercise circle.
He shivered and looked up at the moon, staring at that great white stone a while, thinking of what Karr had said.
Standing there in the wavering lamplight, listening to the big man's account, he had been deeply moved. He had not known—had genuinely not known—what was being done at Kibwezi and, touched by the rawness of the man's appeal, he had given his promise to close Kibwezi and review the treatment of convicted terrorists.
He had returned to the reception, distracted by Karr's words, disturbed by the questions they raised. And as he went among his cousins, smiling, offering bland politeness, it had seemed, suddenly, a great pretense, a nothingness, like walking in a hall of holograms. The more he smiled and talked, the more he felt the weight of Karr's words bearing down on him.
But now, at last, he could face the matter squarely, beneath the unseeing eye of the moon.
Until this moment he had denied that there was a moral problem with the Wiring Project. Had argued that it was merely a question of attitude. But there was a problem, for—as Tolonen had argued from the first—freedom was no illusion, and even the freedom to rebel ought—no needed—to be preserved somehow, if only for the sake of balance.