the
post. Yu, son of his long-dead younger brother, Fan, had been
educated away from the family. He had picked up strange notions of
life. Old-fashioned, Confucian ideals of goodness. Things that made a
man weak when faced with the true nature of the world. Still, he was
young. He could be reeducated. Shaped to serve the family better.
Kou, ever
watchful, saw how things were, and began an anecdote about a
high-level whore and a stranger from the Clay. Giving him a brief
smile of thanks, Chi-Po pulled himself up out of his chair and turned
away from the gathering, thoughtful, pulling at his beard. Under the
big wall-length map of City Europe he stopped, barely aware of the
fine honeycomb grid that overlaid the old, familiar shapes of
countries, thinking instead of the past. Of that moment in the
T'ang's antechamber when Lwo Kang had humiliated him.
Shih wei su
ts'an.
He could hear it
even now. Could hear how Lwo Kang had said it; see his face, only
inches from his own, those coldly intelligent eyes staring at him
scornfully, that soft, almost feminine mouth forming the hard shapes
of the words. It was an old phrase. An ancient insult. Impersonating the dead and eating the bread of idleness. You are lazy
and corrupt, it said. You reap the rewards of others' hard work.
Chi-Po shuddered, remembering how the others there—ministers
like himself—had turned from him and left him there, as if
agreeing with Lwo Kang. Not one had come to speak with him afterward.
He looked down,
speaking softly, for himself alone. "But now the ugly little
pig's ass is dead!"
He had closed
those cold eyes. Stopped up that soft mouth. And now his blood would
inherit. And yet. . .
Heng Chi-Po
closed his eyes, shivering, feeling a strange mixture of bitterness
and triumph. Dead. But still the words sounded, loud, in his head.
Shih wei su ts'an.
BIG WHITE
brought them a tray of ch'a, then backed out, closing the door
behind him.
Cho Hsiang
leaned forward and poured from the porcelain bottle, filling Jyan's
bowl first, then his own. When he was done he set the bottle down and
looked up sharply at the hireling.
"Well? What
is it, Kao Jyan?"
He watched Jyan
take his bowl and sip, then nod his approval of the ch'a. There
was a strange light in his eyes. Trouble. As he'd thought. But not of
the kind he'd expected. What was Jyan up to?
"This is
pleasant," said Jyan, sitting back. "Very pleasant. There's
no better place in the Net than Big White's, wouldn't you say?"
Curbing his
impatience, Cho Hsiang placed his hands on the table, palms down, and
tilted his head slightly, studying Jyan. He was wary of him, not
because he was in any physical danger—Big White frisked all his
customers before he let them in—but because he knew Jyan for
what he was. A weasel. A devious little shit-eater with ambitions far
above his level.
"No better
place in the Net," he answered, saying nothing of the excellent
Mu Chua's, where he and others from the Above usually spent their
time here, nor of his loathing of the place and of the types, like
Jyan, with whom he had to deal. "You'd best say what you want,
Kao Jyan. I've business to attend to."
Jyan looked up
at him, a sly, knowing expression in his eyes. "I'll not keep
you long, mister contact man. What I have to say is simple and
direct enough."
Cho Hsiang
stiffened slightly, bristling at the insult Kao Jyan had offered him
in using the anglicized form of hsien sheng, but his mind was
already working on the question of what it was Jyan wanted. As yet he
saw no danger in it for himself, even when Jyan leaned forward and
said in a whisper, "I know who you work for, Cho Hsiang. I found
it out."
Jyan leaned
back, watching him hawkishly, the fingers of his right hand pulling
at the fingers of the left. "That should be worth something,
don't you think?"
Cho Hsiang sat
back, his mind working quickly. Did he mean Hong Cao? If so, how had
Jyan found out? Who, of Hsiang's contacts, had traced the connection
back? Or
post. Yu, son of his long-dead younger brother, Fan, had been
educated away from the family. He had picked up strange notions of
life. Old-fashioned, Confucian ideals of goodness. Things that made a
man weak when faced with the true nature of the world. Still, he was
young. He could be reeducated. Shaped to serve the family better.
Kou, ever
watchful, saw how things were, and began an anecdote about a
high-level whore and a stranger from the Clay. Giving him a brief
smile of thanks, Chi-Po pulled himself up out of his chair and turned
away from the gathering, thoughtful, pulling at his beard. Under the
big wall-length map of City Europe he stopped, barely aware of the
fine honeycomb grid that overlaid the old, familiar shapes of
countries, thinking instead of the past. Of that moment in the
T'ang's antechamber when Lwo Kang had humiliated him.
Shih wei su
ts'an.
He could hear it
even now. Could hear how Lwo Kang had said it; see his face, only
inches from his own, those coldly intelligent eyes staring at him
scornfully, that soft, almost feminine mouth forming the hard shapes
of the words. It was an old phrase. An ancient insult. Impersonating the dead and eating the bread of idleness. You are lazy
and corrupt, it said. You reap the rewards of others' hard work.
Chi-Po shuddered, remembering how the others there—ministers
like himself—had turned from him and left him there, as if
agreeing with Lwo Kang. Not one had come to speak with him afterward.
He looked down,
speaking softly, for himself alone. "But now the ugly little
pig's ass is dead!"
He had closed
those cold eyes. Stopped up that soft mouth. And now his blood would
inherit. And yet. . .
Heng Chi-Po
closed his eyes, shivering, feeling a strange mixture of bitterness
and triumph. Dead. But still the words sounded, loud, in his head.
Shih wei su ts'an.
BIG WHITE
brought them a tray of ch'a, then backed out, closing the door
behind him.
Cho Hsiang
leaned forward and poured from the porcelain bottle, filling Jyan's
bowl first, then his own. When he was done he set the bottle down and
looked up sharply at the hireling.
"Well? What
is it, Kao Jyan?"
He watched Jyan
take his bowl and sip, then nod his approval of the ch'a. There
was a strange light in his eyes. Trouble. As he'd thought. But not of
the kind he'd expected. What was Jyan up to?
"This is
pleasant," said Jyan, sitting back. "Very pleasant. There's
no better place in the Net than Big White's, wouldn't you say?"
Curbing his
impatience, Cho Hsiang placed his hands on the table, palms down, and
tilted his head slightly, studying Jyan. He was wary of him, not
because he was in any physical danger—Big White frisked all his
customers before he let them in—but because he knew Jyan for
what he was. A weasel. A devious little shit-eater with ambitions far
above his level.
"No better
place in the Net," he answered, saying nothing of the excellent
Mu Chua's, where he and others from the Above usually spent their
time here, nor of his loathing of the place and of the types, like
Jyan, with whom he had to deal. "You'd best say what you want,
Kao Jyan. I've business to attend to."
Jyan looked up
at him, a sly, knowing expression in his eyes. "I'll not keep
you long, mister contact man. What I have to say is simple and
direct enough."
Cho Hsiang
stiffened slightly, bristling at the insult Kao Jyan had offered him
in using the anglicized form of hsien sheng, but his mind was
already working on the question of what it was Jyan wanted. As yet he
saw no danger in it for himself, even when Jyan leaned forward and
said in a whisper, "I know who you work for, Cho Hsiang. I found
it out."
Jyan leaned
back, watching him hawkishly, the fingers of his right hand pulling
at the fingers of the left. "That should be worth something,
don't you think?"
Cho Hsiang sat
back, his mind working quickly. Did he mean Hong Cao? If so, how had
Jyan found out? Who, of Hsiang's contacts, had traced the connection
back? Or
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