Hsiang looked down, chastened, the madness gone from him. "Yes ... As you say."
"Good. Then find your friend and be gone from here. Take my sedan if you must, but go. I'll be in touch."
Hsiang turned to go, but Ebert called him back one last time.
"And, Hsiang . . ."
Hsiang stopped and turned, one hand resting against the blood-stained upright of the door. "Yes?"
"Do this again and I'll kill you, understand?"
Hsiang's eyes flickered once in the huge expanse of flesh that was his face; then he lowered his head and backed away.
Ebert watched him go, then turned, looking down at Mu Chua again. It was a shame. She had been useful—very useful—over the years. But what was gone was gone. Dealing with Whiskers Lu was the problem now. That and rearranging things for the party later.
It had all seemed so easy when he'd spoken to DeVore earlier, but Hsiang had done his best to spoil things for him. Where, at this late stage, would he find another fifteen girls—special girls of the quality Mu Chua would have given him?
Ebert sighed, then, seeing the funny side of it, began to laugh, remembering the sight of Hsiang standing there, his penis poking out stiffly, for all the world like a miniature of his ratlike friend, An Liang-chou, staring out from beneath the fat of Hsiang's stomach.
Well, they would get theirs. They and all their friends. But he would make certain this time. He would inject the girls he sent to entertain them.
He smiled. Yes, and then he'd watch as one by one they went down. Princes and cousins and all; every last one of them victims of the disease DeVore had bought from his friend Curval.
How clever, he thought, to catch them that way. For who would think that was what it was. He laughed. Syphilis ... it had not been heard of in the Above for more than a century. Not since Tsao Ch'un had had his own son executed for giving it to his mother. No, and when they did find out it would be too late. Much too late. By then the sickness would have spread throughout the great tree of the Families, infecting root and branch, drying up the sap. And then the tree would fall, like the rotten, stinking thing it was.
He shivered, then put his hand down, brushing the hair back from the dead woman's brow, frowning.
"Yes. But why did you do it, Mother? Why in hell's name did you let him do it to you? It can't have been the money . . ."
Ebert took his hand away, then shook his head. He would never understand— never in ten thousand years. To lie there while another cut your throat and fucked you. It made no sense. And yet...
He laughed sourly. That was exactly what his kind had done for the last one hundred and fifty years. Ever since the time of Tsao Ch'un. But now all that had changed. From now on things would be different.
He turned and looked across. Three of Mu Chua's girls were standing in the doorway, wide-eyed, huddled together, looking in at him.
"Call Lu Ming-shao," he said, going across, holding the eldest by the arm. "Tell him to come at once, but say nothing more. Tell him Hans Ebert wants to talk to him. About a business matter."
He let her go, then turned, facing the other two, putting his arms about their shoulders. "Now, my girls. Things seem uncertain, I know, but I've a special task for you, and if you do it well..."
HSIANG WANG leaned his vast bulk toward the kneeling messenger and let out a great huff of annoyance.
"What do you mean, my brother's ill? He was perfectly well this morning. What's happened to him?"
The messenger kept his head low, offering the hand-written note. "He asks you to accept his apologies, Excellency, and sends you this note."
Hsiang Wang snatched the note and unfolded it. For a moment he grew still, reading it, then threw it aside, making a small, agitated movement of his head, cursing beneath his breath.
"He says all has been arranged, Excellency," the messenger continued, made uncomfortable by the proximity of Hsiang Wang's huge, trunklike legs. "The last of the girls—the special ones—was hired this morning."
The messenger knew from experience what a foul temper Hsiang K'ai Fan's brother had and expected at any moment to be on the receiving end of it, but for once Hsiang Wang bridled in his anger. Perhaps it was the fact that his guests were only a few ch'i away, listening beyond the wafer-thin wall, or perhaps it was something else: the realization that, with his elder brother absent, he could play host alone. Whatever, it seemed to calm him, and with a curt gesture of dismissal he turned away, walking back toward the great double doors that led through to the Hall of the Four Willows.
Hsiang Wang paused in the doorway, taking in the scene. From where he stood, five broad grass-covered terraces led down, like crescent moons, to the great willowleaf-shaped pool and the four ancient trees from which the Hall derived its name. There were more than a hundred males from the Minor Families here this afternoon, young and old alike. Many of the Twenty-Nine were represented, each of the great clans distinguishable by the markings on the silk gowns the princes wore, but most were from the five great European Families of Hsiang and An, Pei, Yin, and Chun. Girls went among them, smiling and laughing, stopping to talk or rest a gentle hand upon an arm or about a waist. The party had yet to begin and for the moment contact was restrained, polite. The sound oierhu and k'un ti—bow and bamboo flute—drifted softly in the air, mixing with the scents of honeysuckle and plum blossom.
Low tables were scattered about the terraces. The young princes surrounded these, lounging on padded couches, talking or playing Chou. On every side tall shrubs and plants and lacquered screens—each decorated with scenes of forests and mountains, spring pastures and moonlit rivers—broke up the stark geometry of the hall, giving it the look of a woodland glade.
Hsiang Wang smiled, pleased by the effect, then clapped his hands. At once doors opened to either side of him and servants spilled out down the terraces, bearing trays of wine and meats and other delicacies. Still smiling, he went down, moving across to his right, joining the group of young men gathered about Chun Wu-chi.
Chun Wu-chi was Head of the Chun Family; the only Head to honor the Hsiang clan with his presence this afternoon. He was a big man in his seventies, long-faced and bald, his pate polished like an ancient ivory carving, his sparse white beard braided into two thin plaits. Coming close to him, Hsiang Wang knelt in san k'ou, placing his forehead to the ground three times before straightening up again.
"You are most welcome here, Highness."
Chun Wu-chi smiled. "I thank you for your greeting, Hsiang Wang, but where is your elder brother? I was looking forward to seeing him again."
"Forgive me, Highness," Hsiang said, lowering his head, "but K'ai Fan has been taken ill. He sends his deep regards and humbly begs your forgiveness."
Chun looked about him, searching the eyes of his close advisors to see whether this could be some kind of slight; then, reassured by what he saw, he looked back at Hsiang Wang, smiling, putting one bejeweled hand out toward him.
"I am sorry your brother is ill, Wang. Please send him my best wishes and my most sincere hope for his swift recovery."
Hsiang Wang bowed low. "I will do so, Highness. My Family is most honored by your concern."
Chun gave the smallest nod, then looked away, his eyes searching the lower terraces. "There are many new girls here today, Hsiang Wang. Are there any with—special talents?"
Hsiang Wang smiled inwardly. He had heard of Chun Wu-chi's appetites. Indeed, they were legendary. When he was younger, it was said, he had had a hundred women, one after the other, for a bet. It had taken him three days, so the story went, and afterward he had slept for fifty hours, only to wake keen to begin all over. Now, in his seventies, his fire had waned. Voyeurism had taken the place of more active pursuits.