"That it was wrong." He looked down. "Wrong to keep you shut away. You needed this. Or something like this. I've never seen you so alive."
She looked away again, disturbed. "It wasn't wrong," she said. "You took care of me." She looked back at him, then reached out, holding his arm. "Nothing you could ever do would be wrong."
His eyes sought hers, then looked away, as if ashamed.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Nu shi . . ."
She turned, facing the customer who had interrupted her. "Just a moment . . ." But the look of surprise on the man's face at seeing her made her stop and frown. "Can I help you?"
"No . . . no, I ... Forgive me, I made a mistake."
He turned and vanished in the crowd, leaving her staring after him.
"What is it?" Lin asked, seeing the look on her face.
"That man," she said.
"You knew him?"
"No ... I mean, I don't think I did."
"Then what?" Unexpectedly he reached out and took her arms, turning her to face him. His face was more earnest than she'd ever seen it, his eyes searching hers. "Did you know him, or didn't you?"
"No," she said, certain about it now that she'd searched her memory. "But he knew me."
Lin swallowed. His face had gone pale. "Pack up," he said, pointing to the cart. "We're going from here right now."
"But—"
He shook her. "Do what I say. Now! Understand me?"
"Lin . . . ?"
"Now!"
MACH PUSHED HIS WAY through the crowd until he came out by the Market Inspector's Cabin. There was a queue by the window, but he ignored it. He went straight to the door and knocked loudly. Two men, who'd been standing nearby, started to make their way across, but he turned and held up his pass. They stared a moment, then, satisfied, backed away.
As the door opened, he stepped through, pushing past the surprised Inspector who was getting up from the table.
"I want information," he said, showing the man his pass as he stared about the littered cabin. The man had been eating, and a half-empty bottle of Jung Shen wine rested on the table.
"Of course, Master . . . Harris," he finished, reading what was written on the fake pass. "What do you need to know?"
"Stall five three seven," he said. "Who is the woman who owns it?"
The Inspector laughed. "Forgive me, Master, but you must be mistaken. Stall Five Three Seven is owned by Lin the Mender. There is no woman—"
He stopped, silenced by Mach's look.
"Today there is a woman there. So who is she? And where does this Lin live?"
"I . . ." The man wiped his mouth then went across and, searching among his records, returned with the card for Stall. Mach studied it a moment, then pocketed it.
"But, Master—"
"I'll return it," Mach said brusquely. Then, without another word, he turned and left, slamming the door behind him.
"In here!" Lin said, thrusting the cart into a side room, then turning to grab her by the arm. "Quick, now! Before he comes!"
Who is he? she wanted to ask. And what's going on? But the blind panic in his face, the very roughness of the way he pushed her into the room and slammed the door behind him, convinced her it was not the time to ask. Besides, his hand was clamped over her mouth. Outside she heard shouting, a curt demand—"Where are they? You ... did you see someone come down here?"—then booted feet running past the door.
Lin waited almost a minute, staring open mouthed at the door, barely daring to breathe. Then, slowly, he released the pressure on her mouth.
"Forgive me," he said, realizing suddenly what he'd been doing. "I . . ." He took a long, shuddering breath, then leaned toward her, whispering. "We are in great danger. That man"—he swallowed, the damaged side of his face twitching now—"I think he's trying to kill you."
Kill me? The shock of it rippled through her. She felt her legs go weak. "Why?" she asked, her voice tiny.
"I . . ." He stared at her, pained, remembering something—something he could not describe to her—then shook his head. "Believe me," he said. "I would never lie to you."
Who am I? she wanted to ask. Who in the gods' names am I? But she knew she had less chance of getting an answer from him than from the mirror.
"I have to go," he said. "There's a friend close by. He'll hide us until we can find somewhere else. We—"
"What's happening, Lin Shang?"
He tried to answer her—she could see how hard he tried to free the words—but the habit of the secret had become so strong, it was impossible. Again he shook his head.
"Stay here," he said, placing a hand on her own. "I'll be back as soon as I can."
And don't open the door unless you hear my knock. . . .
"And don't open the door unless you hear my knock. . . ."
She smiled, the familiar phrase reassuringly welcome. "I won't," she said. "Take care." And then he was gone and she was alone, wondering if she would ever see him again.
For a moment she leaned against the door, recovering her strength, then reached up to throw the catch. It was a small thing, barely enough to stop a child if he were determined enough, but she felt strangely better for it.
She turned, then, moving the cart aside, looked about her. It was a storeroom, and beyond . . .
She crossed the room and opened the door, stepping into what seemed like a family room. There was a bed and a low table, two mats, and, on the wall beside an inset screen, a picture of a family—a man, a woman, and two children. Han. She wondered where they were, what they were doing. Then, because she could not stop herself, she wondered why someone should want to kill her. Someone she didn't know.
The accident ... it had to do with the accident.
She stepped across and pressed the pad below the screen, some strange compulsion shaping the decision. For years now she had lived without it—could not remember a time, in fact, when there had been an active screen in a room she was in. Of all the things Lin had mended over the years, he had never touched a screen.
She watched as the image formed. There was a hall, a massive hall with pillars and balconies, and a host of men in white flowing robes trimmed with red, their heads shaven. On a platform high above it all was another man—a "priest" she realized, wondering where that word had come from. As the crowd below fell silent he raised his hands and began to speak. And as he began to speak the camera moved in close upon his shining face.
"Pasek," she said, shuddering. "Karel Pasek." And with the words the walls holding back her memory cracked and fell.
"Aiya . . ." she moaned, staggering back, then fell to her knees, gulping for air, while above her, Pasek's face slowly grew until it filled the whole of the screen, his eyes staring out, cold and soulless from the godless depths in which he lived.
And in her frightened mind she saw his lips smile, then move to form her name, his voice uttering the words the mirror had refused to offer up.
"Emily . . . Emily Ascher ... So there you are."
AS THE ACOLYTES queued patiently to climb the golden steps and kiss the Sacred Master's foot, Lehmann, seated in a balcony overlooking the scene, gestured to Soucek that he should come across.
"How much longer?" he said quietly to his lieutenant's ear, as the latest of the Blessed Thousand lingered above the sacred foot with a look of drugged-induced bliss.
"Oh, there are hundreds of the bastards yet!" Soucek said, his tone almost as acidic as his Master's. "I've heard of paying lip service, but this is ridiculous!"
"He takes too much upon himself," Lehmann answered coldly, speaking from the side of his mouth. "The man has ambitions above his station. One day he'll go too far."
"And then?"
Lehmann looked at his lieutenant; a look Soucek understood without needing to be told.
Right now Pasek was useful. He was a focus for the disaffection in their City. Religion—now, that was something the Han had never understood. But harness it, as the great Hung Hsiu-ch'uan had once harnessed it in the time of the Taiping, and one could destroy empires. Or build them. But religion was a two-edged sword, and its leaders invariably came to see themselves as gods.