"Besides . . ." Lever added, "I don't understand the importance of this Christ figure. I know you talk of all these wars fought in his name, but if he was so important why didn't the Han incorporate him into their scheme of things?"
Kim looked down, taking a long breath. So they had read it but they had not understood. In truth, their reading of the File was, in its way, every bit as distorted as Tsao Ch'un's retelling of the world. Like the tapestry, they would put the past together as they wanted it, not as it really was.
He met Lever's eyes. "You forget. I didn't invent what's in the File. That's how it was. And Christ. . ." he sighed. "Christ was important to the West, in a way that he wasn't important to the Han. To the Han he was merely an irritation. Like the insects, they didn't want him in their City, so they built a kind of net to keep him out."
Lever shivered. "It's like that term they use for us—t'e an tsan, 'innocent westerners.' All the time they seek to denigrate us. To deny us what's rightfully ours."
"Maybe ..." But Kim was thinking about Li Yuan's gifts. He, at least, had been given back what was his.
ebert STRODE into the House of the Ninth Ecstasy, smiling broadly; then he stopped, looking about him. Why was there no one to greet him? What in the gods' names was the woman up to?
He called out, trying to keep the anger from his voice, "Mu Chua! Mu Chua, where are you?" then crossed the room, pushing through the beaded curtain.
His eyes met a scene of total chaos. There was blood everywhere. Wine glasses had been smashed underfoot, trays of sweetmeats overturned and ground into the carpet. On the far side of the room a girl lay facedown, as if drunk or sleeping.
He whirled about, drawing his knife, hearing sudden shrieking from the rooms off to his left. A moment later a man burst into the room. It was Hsiang K'ai Fan.
Hsiang looked very different—his normally placid face was bright, almost incandescent, with excitement; his eyes popping out from the surrounding fat. His clothes, normally so immaculate, were disheveled, the lavender silks ripped and spattered with blood. He held his ceremonial dagger out before him, the blade slick, shining wetly in the light; while, as if in some obscene parody of the blade, his penis poked out from between the folds of the silk, stiff and wet with blood.
"Lord Hsiang . . ." Ebert began, astonished by this transformation. "What has been happening here?"
Hsiang laughed; a strange, chilling cackle. "Oh, it's been wonderful, Hans . . . simply wonderful! IVe had such fun. Such glorious fun!"
Ebert swallowed, not sure what to make of Hsiang's "fun," but quite sure that it spelt nothing but trouble for himself.
"Where's An Liang-chou? He's all right, isn't he?"
Hsiang grinned insanely, lowering the dagger. His eyes were unnaturally bright, the pupils tightly contracted. He was breathing strangely, his flabby chest rising and falling erratically. "An's fine. Fucking little girls, as usual. But Hans . . . your woman . . . she was magnificent. You should have seen the way she died. Oh, the orgasm I had. It was just as they said it would be. Immense it was. I couldn't stop coming. And then—"
Ebert shuddered. "You what7." He took a step forward. "What are you saying? Mu Chua is dead?"
Hsiang nodded, his excitement almost feverish now, his penis twitching as he spoke. "Yes, and then I thought. . . why not do it again? And again . . . After all, as she said, I could settle with Whiskers Lu when I was done."
Ebert stood there, shaking his head. "Gods . . ." He felt his fingers tighten about his dagger, then slowly relaxed his hand. If he killed Hsiang it would all be undone. No, he had to make the best of things. To make his peace with Whiskers Lu and get Hsiang and An out of here as quickly as possible. Before anyone else found out about this.
"How many have you killed?"
Hsiang laughed. "I'm not sure. A dozen. Fifteen. Maybe more."
"Gods . . ."
Ebert stepped forward, taking the knife from Hsiang. "Come on," he said, worried by the look of fierce bemusement in Hsiang's face. "Fun's over. Let's get An and go home."
Hsiang nodded vaguely, then bowed his head, letting himself be led into the other room.
Toward the back of the House things seemed almost normal. But as Ebert came to the Room of Heaven, he slowed, seeing the great streaks of blood smeared down the door frames, and guessed what lay within.
He pushed Hsiang aside, then went inside. A girl lay to one side, dead, her face bloody, her abdomen ripped open, the guts exposed; on the far side of the room lay Ma Chua, naked, face up, on the huge bed, her throat slit from ear to ear. Her flesh was ashen, as if bleached, the sheets beneath her dark with her blood.
He stood there, looking down at her a moment, then shook his head. Whiskers Lu would go mad when he heard about this. Mu Chua's House had been a key part of his empire, bringing him a constant flow of new contacts from the Above. Now, with Mu Chua dead, who would come?
Ebert took a deep breath. Yes, and Lu Ming-shao would blame him—for making the introduction, for not checking up on Hsiang before he let him go berserk down here. If he had known . . .
He twirled about, his anger bubbling over. "Fuck you, Hsiang! Do you know what you've done?"
Hsiang K'ai Fan stared back at him, astonished. "I b-beg your pardon?" he stammered.
"This!" Ebert threw his arm out, indicating the body on the bed; then he grabbed Hsiang's arm and dragged him across the room. "What the fuck made you want to do it, eh? Now we've got a bloody war on our hands! Or will have, unless you placate the man."
Hsiang shook his head, bewildered. "What man?"
"Lu Ming-shao. Whiskers Lu. He's the big Triad boss around these parts. He owns this place. And now you've gone and butchered his Madam. He'll go berserk when he finds out. He'll hire assassins to track you down and kill you."
He saw how Hsiang swallowed at that, how his eyes went wide with fear, and felt like laughing. But no, he could use this. Yes, maybe things weren't quite so bad after all. Maybe he could turn this to his advantage. "Yes, he'll rip your throat out for this, unless . . ." Hsiang pushed his head forward anxiously. "Unless . . . ?" Ebert looked about him, considering. "This was one of his main sources of income. Not just from prostitution, but from other things, too—drugs, illicit trading, blackmail. It must have been worth, oh, fifteen, twenty million yuan a year to him. And now it's worth nothing. Not since you ripped the throat out of it." "I didn't know. . ." Hsiang shook his head, his hands trembling. His words came quickly now, tumbling from his lips. "I'll pay him off. Whatever it costs. My family is rich. Very rich. You know that, Hans. You could see this Whiskers Lu, couldn't you? You could tell him that. Please, Hans. Tell him I'll pay him what he asks."
Ebert nodded slowly, narrowing his eyes. "Maybe. But you must do something for me too."
Hsiang nodded eagerly. "Anything, Hans. You only have to name it."
He stared at Hsiang contemptuously. "Just this. I want you to throw your party this afternoon—your chao tai hui—just as if nothing happened here. You understand? Whatever you or An did or saw here must be forgotten. Must never, in any circumstances, be mentioned. It must be as if it never was. Because if news of this gets out there will be recriminations. Quite awful recriminations. Understand?"
Hsiang nodded, a look of pure relief crossing his face.
"And Hsiang. This afternoon . . . don't worry about the girls. I'll provide them. You just make sure your friends are there."