The Middle Kingdom (17 page)

"Shall I
wake him?"

"No, Mother
Chua. Let him sleep a little longer. The fight is not for another two
hours yet. There's plenty of time. Did he enjoy himself?"

Mu Chua smiled
but did not answer. Some things she would do for money. Others were
against her code. Spying on her guests was one of them. She studied
Ebert a moment, trying to establish what it was made him so different
from the others who came here. Perhaps it was just the sheer rudeness
of the man. His ready assumption that he could have anything, buy
anything. She didn't like him, but then it wasn't her job to like all
of her clients. As it was he had brought her something valuable—the
two Hung
Mao
girls.

"Have you
made your mind up yet?"

Ebert did not
look at her. There was a faint smile on his lips. "I can choose
any one?"

"That was
our deal."

"Then I'll
take the girl. Golden Heart."

Mu Chua looked
down. It was as she had expected. "She's untrained," she
said, knowing it was hopeless but trying to persuade him even so.

"I know.
That's partly why I chose her. I could train her myself. To my own
ways."

Mu Chua
shuddered, wondering what those ways would be. For a moment she
considered going back on the deal and returning the two Hung
Mao
girls, but she knew that it made no sense either to throw away
such a certain attraction as the barbarian
shen nu
or to make
an enemy of Hans Ebert.

"Are you
certain she's not too young?"

Ebert merely
laughed.

"Then I'll
draw up the contracts. It will be as agreed. The two girls for the
one. And this evening's entertainment free."

"As we
agreed," said Ebert, smiling to himself.

Mu Chua studied
him again, wondering what game he was playing with his fellow
officer. She had seen the way he bullied and insulted him. Why, then,
had he been so insistent that she drug him and send the Hung Moo girl
to him? There seemed no love lost between the two men, so what was
Ebert's design?

She bowed and
smiled, for once feeling the hollowness of her smile, then turned and
went to bring the contract. But she was thinking of Golden Heart's
dream. Ebert was the tiger come out of the West, and last night he
had mated with her. Insatiably, so Golden Heart had said: wildly, his
passion barely short of violence. And though there was no chance of
Golden Heart conceiving, Mu Chua could not help but think of the
image in the dream—the image of the gray-white snake. In most
cases it was an auspicious symbol—sign that the dreamer would
bear a boy child. But the snake in the dream had been cold and dead.

She shuddered.
The first part of the dream had proved so right, how could the second
not come about in time? And then, what misery for Golden Heart. Eat
your year cakes now, thought Mu Chua as she took the contract from
the drawer in her room and turned to go back. Celebrate now beneath
the rainbow-colored clouds, for soon Golden Heart will be broken. And
I can do nothing. Nothing at all.

WHEN HE WOKE the
second time he knew she would be there, beside him in the bed. He
turned and looked at her, all shame, all horror purged from him, only
love and a vague desire remaining. For a moment he was still, silent,
watching her, a faint smile on his face. Then, as he watched, there
was movement at the mouth of her sex. A dark and slender shape seemed
to press up between the soft, pale lips of flesh. Slowly it emerged,
stretching a thumbnail's length and more into the air, its blind
snout moving purposively, as if sniffing the air. Axel stared at it,
fascinated and horrified. It was alive—a living thing. He gave
a small cry of shock and surprise and the thing vanished, as though
it had never been, burrowing back down into the soft, moist folds of
flesh.

His cry woke
her. She sat up abruptly, her eyes as blue as a northern sea, heavy
with sleep. "Axel. . . what is it?"

She focused on
his face and seemed to come awake suddenly, seeing the horror there.

"Gods, what
is it?" She got up and moved toward him, but he backed away,
fending her off with his hands. She stopped still, her body tensed,
and lowered her head a fraction, staring at him. "Tell me what
it is, Axel. Please. Was it a bad dream?"

He pointed at
her. "Something ..."

It was all he
could say, but it seemed she understood. She sat back on the bed,
folding her hands in her lap. "Ah ... I see."

She let out a
deep breath. "What you saw"— she shrugged and looked
up at him, strangely vulnerable—"we all have them."
Her look was as much as to say,
Surely you knew about this? Surely
you've heard?

"I"—
he swallowed—"I don't understand."

She stared at
him a moment longer, then reached down into the folds of her sex and
began to coax something gently from within. Axel watched, wide eyed,
as she lifted the thing with her fingers and placed it gently in the
palm of her right hand, extendiag it toward him so that he could see
it clearly.

"Look. It's
all right. It won't hurt you. It's perfectly harmless."

It was an insect
of some kind. Or so it first appeared. A dark, slender, wormlike
shape half the length of a finger. It was smooth and perfectly black.
Unsegmented. Unmarked. It seemed blind; devoid, in fact, of all
sensory equipment. And yet it had reacted swiftly to his cry.

"What is
it?" he asked, coming closer, unable to conceal a shudder.

"As I said,
we all have them. All of the girls, that is. They keep us clean, you
see. OenSyn developed thenu They live off bacteria—special
kinds of bacteria. AIDS, herpes, venereal diseases of all kinds."

He wrinkled up
his nose. "Gods," he said. "And it's been there all
the time. While we were . . . ?"

"AH the
time. But it never gets in the way. It lives in a special sac in my
womb. It only comes out when it senses I'm asleep or perfectly
relaxed. It's a parasite, you see. A benevolent one." She smiled
and petted the thing in her hand, then gently put it back.

There was a
knock on the door. Axel looked about him.

"Here,"
said the girl, handing him a robe, but taking nothing for herself.

He wrapped the
er-silk
pau
about him, then turned to face the door. "Come
in!"

It was Mu Chua.
"I heard a noise," she said. "Is everything all
right?"

"Yes. Yes,
it's fine." He glanced at the girl, who sat there on the bed,
looking away from him, then turned back to face Mu Chua. "It was
nothing. Really. Nothing at all."

Mu Chua met his
eyes and held them just a moment longer than was natural, making him
wonder what she was thinking as she looked at him; reawakening, for
the briefest moment, his fears of being taped and betrayed. But then
she smiled—a warm, candid smile that held no subterfuge.
"Good," she said. "Then dress and come through. I've
prepared a breakfast for you."

Her smile warmed
him, cleared away the shadows in his head. "Thank you, Mother
Chua. You run a good house. A very good house."

THE PIT was a
riot of noise and activity, its tiered benches packed to overflowing.
On all sides men yelled and waved their arms frantically, placing
bets, dark, faceless figures in the dim red light, while down below,
in the intense white light of the combat circle, the two men crouched
on their haunches, in the
wa shih
stance, facing each other
silently.

Axel Haavikko,
sitting on the front bench between Fest and Ebert, narrowed his eyes,
studying the two combatants. They seemed an ill-matched pair; one
Hung
Mao,
the other Han; one a giant, the other so compact and
yet so perfectly formed he looked as though he had been made in a
GenSyn vat. But there was a stillness, an undisguised sense of
authority, about the smaller man that impressed at once. He seemed
immovable, as if grown about a central point of calm.

"The Han's
name is Hwa. I'm told he's champion here," said Fest, leaning
forward and speaking into his ear. "Seventeen bouts, he's had.
Two more and it'll be a record."

Axel turned and
yelled back at Fest. "And the other?"

Fest shrugged
and indicated the small Han sitting next to him. He leaned forward
again, raising his voice. "My friend here says that no one knows
much about him. He's a local boy, name of Karr, but he hasn't fought
before. He's something of a mystery. But worth a bet, maybe. You'll
get good odds."

Axel turned to
look at the other combatant. Crouched, Karr was taller than most men.
Seven ch'i, perhaps. Maybe more. Standing, he had been close to twice
the size of Hwa; broad at the shoulder and heavily muscled, his oiled
skin shining slickly in the brilliant whiteness. Such men were
usually slow. They depended on sheer strength to win through. Yet
Axel remembered how the crowd had gone quiet when the giant entered
the arena and realized that Karr was something unusual, even by their
standards.

For a moment he
studied the tattoos on Karr's chest and arms. On each arm a pair of
dragons—one green, one red, their long bodies thick and
muscular—coiled about each other sinuously. Their heads were
turned inward, face to face, wide, sharp-toothed mouths snarling,
huge golden eyes flashing. On his chest a great bird spread its
wings, its powerful, regal head thrown back defiantly, its cruel beak
open in a cry of triumph, a terror-stricken horse held fast in each
of its steel-like talons.

Axel looked
away, feeling suddenly quite awkward. His silks, his braided hair,
his necklaces of silver and jade. Such refinements were an
impertinence down here. There was no place for such subtleties. Here
everything was bared.

It was warm in
the Pit and unbearably stuffy, yet he shivered, thinking of what was
to come.

"Look at
him!" yelled Ebert, leaning close to join their conversation.
"Meat! That's what he is! A huge sack of meat! It's a foregone
conclusion, Haavikko! I'd not waste a single
yuan
on him!
It'll be over in seconds!"

"You think
so, Ebert?"

Ebert nodded
exaggeratedly. "See our man here." He indicated Hwa. "I'm
told he's a perfectionist. An artist. He practices eight hours a day,
sometimes doing nothing but repeating one single movement."
Ebert laughed and his gray eyes gleamed red in the dull light. "Such
training pays off. They say he's so fast you daren't even blink while
he's fighting!"

Axel shrugged.
Maybe it was so. Certainly there was something different, something
obsessive
about the man that was quite chilling. His eyes, for
instance, never moved. They stared ahead, as if in trance, boring
into his opponent's face, unblinking, merciless in their focus.
Whereas the other . . .

Even as he
looked he saw Karr turn his head and look directly at him.

It was a fierce,
insolent gaze, almost primitive in its intensity, and yet not wholly
unintelligent. There was something about the man. Something he had
seen at once. Perhaps it was the casual, almost arrogant way he had
looked about the tiers on entering, or the brief, almost dismissive
bow he had greeted his opponent with. Whatever, it was enough to make
Axel feel uneasy with Ebert's brusque dismissal of the man. On
balance, however, he had to agree with Ebert; the small man looked
like an adept—a perfect fighting machine. Height, weight, and
breadth were no concern to him. His strength was of another kind.

"Of
course," continued Ebert, raising his voice so that it carried
to the giant, "brute strength alone can never win. Intelligence
and discipline will triumph every time. It's nature's law, my
friends!"

Axel saw the
giant's eyes flare, his muscles tense. He had heard and understood.

He leaned close
to Ebert. "I'll wager a hundred
yuan
that the big man
wins."

"Okay. I'll
give you five to one."

"You're
sure?"

Ebert laughed
arrogantly. "Make it two fifty, and I'll give you ten to one!"

Axel met his
eyes a moment, conscious of the challenge in them, then gave the
barest nod.

Just then,
however, the fight marshal stepped out into the combat circle and the
crowd hushed expectantly.

Axel felt his
stomach tighten, his heart begin to thud against his rib cage. This
was it, then. To the death.

The two men rose
and approached the center of the circle. There they knelt and bowed
to each other—a full
k'o t'ou,
heads almost touching.
Then they sat back on their haunches, waiting, while the marshal gave
their names and read the rules.

The rules were
short and simple. One. No weapons were permitted but their own
bodies. Two. So long as the fight continued they were to keep within
the combat circle. Three. Once begun the fight could not be called
off. It ended only when one of them was dead.

Axel could feel
the tension in his bones. All about him rose a buzz of excitement; an
awful, illicit excitement that grew and grew as the moments passed
and the two men faced each other at the circle's center, waiting for
the signal.

Then, suddenly,
it began.

The small man
flipped backward like a tumbler, then stopped, perfectly, almost
unnaturally still, half crouched on his toes, his arms raised to
shoulder level, forearms bent inward, his fingers splayed.

Karr had not
moved. He was watching Hwa carefully, his eyes half lidded. Then,
very slowly, he eased back off his knees, drawing himself up to his
full height, his weight balanced on the balls of his feet.

Hwa feinted to
the left, then sprang at Karr—bounding forward, then flipping
his body up and sideways, one foot kicking out at the big man's
groin.

There was a roar
from the crowd. For a moment Karr was down. Then he was up again, his
feet thudding against the canvas flooring, a hiss of pain escaping
through his teeth. Hwa had missed his target. His foot had struck
Karr on the upper thigh. The skin there was a vivid red, darkening by
the moment, and as Karr circled he rubbed at the spot tenderly,
almost absentmindedly.