He shuddered, angered. It was awful, like some dreadful mockery. He shook his head. No. The reality—the truth—that was grotesque. And this?
He hesitated, afraid to use the word; but there was no other way of describing the image that floated there in the darkness. It was beautiful. Beautiful.
The image was a li<e. And yet it was his mother. There was no doubt of that. He had thought her gome from mind, all trace of her erased. After all, he had been little more than four when the tribe had taken him. But now the memories came back, like ghosts, tauinting, torturing him.
He had only to close his eyes and he could see her crouched beneath the low stone wall, just after tthey had escaped from the Myghtern's brothel, her eyes bright with excitement. Coiuld see her lying beside him in the darkness, reaching out to hold him close, her tthin arms curled about him. Could see her, later, scrambling across the rocks in tlhe shadow of the Wall, hunting, her emaciated form flexing and unflexing as she tracked some pallid, ratlike creature. Could see her turn, staring back at him, a smile on her lips and in her dark, well-rounded eyes.
Could see her . . .
He covered his eyes, pressing his palms tight into the sockets as if to block out these visions, a singlle wavering note of hurt—a low, raw, animal sound, unbearable in its intensity—welling up from deep inside him.
For a time there was nothing but his pain. Nothing but the vast, unendurable blackness of loss. Then, as it ebbed, he looked up once more, and with a shuddering breath, reached out ito touch her.
His fingers brushed the air, passed through the beautiful, insubstantial image.
He sighed. Oh, hie could see her now. Yes. And not only as she was but as she should have been. Glorious. Wonderful. . .
He sat back, wiping the wetness from his cheeks; then he shook his head, knowing that it was wrong to live like this, the City above, the Clay below. Knowing, with a certainty he had never felt before, that something had gone wrong. Badly wrong,.
He leaned forward, closing the file, then sat back again, letting out a long, shuddering breath. Yes, he knew it now. Saw it with a clarity that allowed no trace of doubt. Chung Kuo was like himself: motherless, ghost-haunted, divided against itself. It might seem (teeming with life, yet in reality it was a great, resounding shell, its emptiness echoirug down the levels.
Kim picked up the four tiny cards and held them a moment in his palm. Li Yuan had given him back his life. More than that, he had given him a future. But who would give Chung Kuo such a chance? Who would give the great world back its past and seek to heail it?
He shook his head. No, not even Li Yuan could do that. Not even if he wished it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Tiger's Mouth
EBERT LOOKED about him, then turned back to Mu Chua, smiling. "You've done well, Mu Chua. I'd hardly have recognized the place. They'll be here any time now, so remember these are important business contacts and I want to impress them. Are the new girls dressed as I asked?"
Mu Chua nodded.
"Good. Well, keep them until after my entrance. These things must be done correctly, neh? One must whet their appetites before giving them the main course."
"Of course, General. And may I say again how grateful I am that you honor my humble House. It is not every day that we play host to the nobility."
Ebert nodded. "Yes . . . but more is at stake than that, Mother Chua. If these ch'un tzu like what they see, it is more than likely you will receive an invitation."
"An invitation?"
"Yes. To a chao ted hid, an entertainment, at one of the First Level mansions. This afternoon, I am told, there is to be a gathering of young princes. And they will need—how shall I put it?—special services."
Mu Chua lowered her head. "Whatever they wish. My girls are the very best. They are shen nu, god girls."
Again Ebert nodded, but this time he seemed distracted. After a moment he looked back at Mu Chua. "Did the wine from my father's cellar arrive?"
"It did, Excellency."
"Good. Then you will ensure that our guests drink that and nothing else. They are to have nothing but the best."
"Of course, General."
"I want no deceptions, understand me, Mu Chua. Carry this off for me and I will reward you handsomely. Ten thousand yuan for you alone. And a thousand apiece for each of your girls. That's on top of your standard fees and expenses."
Mu Chua lowered her head. "You are too generous, Excellency."
Ebert laughed. "Maybe. But you have been good to me over the years, Mother Chua. And when this proposition was put before me, my first thought was of you and your excellent House. 'Who better,' I said to myself, 'than Mu Chua at entertaining guests.'" He smiled broadly at her, for once almost likable. "I am certain you will not let me down."
Mu Chua lowered her head. "Your guests will be transported."
He laughed. "Indeed."
After Ebert had gone, she stood there a moment, almost in a trance at the thought of the ten thousand yuan he had promised. Together with what she would milk from this morning's entertainment, it would be enough. Enough, at last, to get out of here. To pay off her contacts in the Above and climb the levels.
Yes. She had arranged it all already. And now, at last she could get away. Away from Whiskers Lu and the dreadful seediness of this place. Could find somewhere up-level and open up a small, discreet, cozy little house. Something very different, with its own select clientele and its own strict rules.
She felt a little shiver of anticipation pass through her; then stirred herself, making the last few arrangements before the two men came, getting the girls to set out the wine and lay a table with the specially prepared sweetmeats.
She had no idea what Ebert was up to, but it was clear that he set a great deal of importance on this meeting. Only two days ago his man had turned up out of the blue and handed her twenty-five thousand yuan to have the House redecorated. It had meant losing custom for a day, but she had still come out of it ahead. Now it seemed likely that she would gain much more.
Even so, her suspicions of Hans Ebert remained. If he was up to something it was almost certain to be no good. But was that her concern? If she could make enough this one last time she could forget Ebert and his kind. This was her way out. After today she need never compromise again. It would be as it was, before the death of her protector, Feng Chung.
The thought made her smile; made her spirits rise. Well, as this was the last time, she would make it special. Would make it something that £ven Hans Ebert would remember.
She busied herself, arranging things to perfection, then called in the four girls who were to greet their guests. Young girls, as Ebert had specified, none of them older than thirteen.
She looked at herself in the mirror, brushing a speck of powder from her cheek, then turned, hearing the bell sound out in the reception room. They were here.
She went out, kneeling before the two men, touching her forehead against her knees. Behind her, the four young girls did the same, standing at the same time that she stood. It was a calculated effect, and she saw how much it pleased the men.
Ebert had briefed her fully beforehand; providing her with everything she needed to know about them, from their business dealings down to their sexual preferences. Even so, she was still surprised by the contrast the two men made.
Hsiang K'ai Fan was a big, flabby-chested man, almost effeminate in his manner. His eyes seemed to stare out of a landscape of flesh, triple-chinned and slack-jowled; yet his movements were dainty and his dress was exquisite. His lavender silks followed the fashion of the Minor Families—a fashion that was wholly and deliberately out of step with what was being worn elsewhere in the Above—with long wide sleeves and a flowing gown that hid his booted feet. Heavily perfumed, he was nonetheless restrained in his use of jewelry, the richest item of his apparel being the broad, red velvet ta lian, or girdle pouch, that he wore about his enormous waist, the two clasps of which were studded with rubies and emeralds in the shape of two butterflies. His nails were excessively long, in the manner of the Families; the ivory-handled fan he held moved slowly in the air as he looked about him.