Emily laughed quietly, then looked up, signaling for Yu I to bring more ch'a.
What did it matter if she fucked up—if she didn't get out of there alive? At least she would have done something. At least she would have sent a warning to these monsters that they couldn't do such things without paying the price.
Her smile faded, the anger burning in her again. They thought their money made them immune. They thought that it lifted them above all human decency. But she would teach them otherwise.
Yu I brought back a fresh-filled chung and set it beside her with a bow, taking away the empty. She watched him go, knowing it might be the last time she would witness the sight. The thought didn't upset her. Rather, it lifted her. These past few weeks had been like a dream; she had been going through the motions like a hireling, but now she had a chance to act, to do something real, and that made her feel alive again.
She looked up at the cages overhead. The birds were quiet, dozing on their perches, like old men in the late afternoon. She smiled, then tensed, feeling a hand on her shoulder. Two men slipped onto the bench either side of her, hemming her in.
"Rachel . . ." the one to her left said. "We were told we'd find you here."
She turned, meeting his dark Han eyes. "What do you want, Ts'ao Wu?"
Ts'ao Wu smiled unpleasantly and looked past her to his companion, a tall, shaven-headed Hung Mao named Peters. Both were Hand. Both were cell leaders. Both, as far as she knew, were Pasek's men.
"We've had enough," Ts'ao Wu said quietly, his face close to hers, his bad breath making her want to choke. "This new spate of killings • . . these cruci/jxions. They've gone too far."
"Yes," Peters said, leaning in from the other side. "And we want to know what you're going to do about it?"
"Do?" She sat back slightly. "I don't intend to do anything. You don't like what's happening, you speak to Pasek. ... Or leave the Hand."
Ts'ao Wu laughed sourly, his pocked face humorless. "The only way you leave the Hand is through the Oven Man's door. You know that. So I ask again. What are you going to do?"
She looked down at her untouched chung. "You don't like what Pasek's doing?"
Ts'ao Wu turned and spat on the floor, then looked back at her, raising the middle finger of his left hand. "That to his great 'crusade.' That to his talk of the One God and Judgment Day!"
"The man's mad," Peters said, his face glowing strangely. "He's gone too far. We have to stop him before he destroys the Hand entirely."
"Or changes it?"
Her comment caught them off-guard. She saw them exchange looks, and knew suddenly that they were serious. For a moment she had thought this a trap, an attempt by Pasek to test her loyalty, but that brief eye exchange—revealing, as it did, their uncertainty, their sudden fear that they had miscalculated—told her she'd been wrong. Setting aside personal dislike, she put her arms about their shoulders and drew them in, looking from one to the other, her voice a whisper.
"I understand. I ... share some of your fears. But now is not the time. We must plan things carefully. Make soundings. See how deep the current of mistrust runs."
She saw once more the uncertainty in their faces and squeezed their shoulders as if to reassure them.
"It will not be easy, but it can be done. You must be watchful, brothers. Sensitive to the moods and expressions of your fellow Hand members. And patient. You must approach only those whose eyes and gestures reveal their . . . unhappiness."
"But Pasek—"
"Pasek sees only what he wants to see. Likewise his lieutenants. They are like blind men, neh? They see only what he wants them to see, say what he wishes them to say. That is their weakness. We need not fear them. We need fear only ourselves. So go to it. But carefully."
Emily took her arms from their shoulders, then leaned between them to take the file. She stood, stepping out from the bench.
"And you?" Peters asked, both men turning to look up at her. "What will you be doing?"
"Me?" Her smile was like a hawk's, fierce and cold. "Don't worry about me, brothers. When the time comes, I shall be there for you. Yes, and Pasek will rue the day he let me live."
If I survive, that is, she thought, turning away. If I get out ofOberoris alive.
JELKA STOOD BEFORE the full-length mirror, holding out the voluminous folds of the lilac ball dress and frowning at herself.
It's not me, she thought, wondering how her mother had felt about wearing it. But then, her mother had not been brought up by the T'ang's General. Her mother had had a normal childhood, been a normal woman.
She grimaced at her reflection, then, lifting her arms, twirled about, as she had seen dancers do on the trivee.
No. It was grotesque. Utterly grotesque. How could she possibly wear such a thing in front of people? The very thought of it made her want to crawl away and hide.
"Jelka?"
It was her father.
"Jelka? Why is the door locked? Are you all right in there?"
"I'm fine, Daddy. I won't be long."
She could hear his sigh of exasperation through the door.
"Okay," he said. "But our first guests will be arriving anytime now. You ought to be at the door to greet them."
"I'll be there. Just give me a minute."
She listened to his footsteps fade, then let out her breath. What was she to do? What on earth was she to do?
If she didn't wear it he would be upset. He would think it an insult to her mother's memory. But if she did . . .
She sighed. Aiya! Why hadn't she tried it on before? Why hadn't she faced this problem weeks ago and settled it then?
Perhaps because she'd known what a fuss her father would make. These past few weeks she had avoided arguing with him, afraid to give him any excuse to cancel the party. But now she had to face it.
"Shit!" she said, making a face at her image. Was this really how she wanted Kim to see her? Was this—this garish, silly image of silk and lace and bows—really what he'd been waiting seven years to see?
"It isn't me," she moaned softly. "Can't you see that, Daddy? It simply isn't me!"
But he wasn't there to answer her. This one she'd have to sort out by herself. She blew out a long breath. "Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!"
From the front of the Mansion she heard the summons bell sound. The first guests were at the gate. Their sedan would be making its way up the drive even now.
Jelka glared at herself, then, turning side-on to her image, stuck out her tongue.
"If he laughs, I'll cut him dead!" she said defiantly. "If he laughs . . ."
THE HOURS PASSED, the guests arrived, and after a while her sense of self-consciousness began to fade, blurring into a kind of numbness in which she laughed and smiled and mouthed inoffensive answers to questions from people she barely knew. And yet all the while, beneath it all, some part of her was kept separate. Every time the summons bell sounded she would look to the entrance arch expectantly, her stomach muscles tensed, only for her hopes to be dashed.
Now it was after nine, and still he hadn't come.
Where ore you, Kim Ward? she asked herself anxiously. Why aren't you here?
"Jelka? You look wonderful. That dress. Why, it looks marvelous on you. . . ."
Jelka turned, for a moment not recognizing the luxuriously dressed young woman who stood before her. Then she put her hand to her mouth in surprise. "Yi Pang-chou?"
The woman beamed and reached out to take her arm, leaning close in a familiar manner. "It's Madam Heng now. I married the Minister three years ago ... or hadn't you heard?"
"No, I ..." Jelka laughed, embarrassed, wondering vaguely what had happened to her first husband. "Anyway, how are you, Pang-chou? It's ages since I last saw you."