The Middle Kingdom (30 page)

Lo Ying turned
to him, his deeply lined, wispily bearded face only a hand's breadth
away. "What'll you have? The soychicken with ginger and
pineapple's good. So's the red-cooked soypork with chestnuts."

Chen laughed.
"They both sound excellent. We'll have a large dish of each, eh?
And I'll share the cost with you."

Lo Ying put his
long, thin hand over Chen's. "Not at all, my friend. As I said,
you did me a good turn tonight. It was good of you to work the shift
at short notice. I was in a hole and you helped me out of it. It's
the least I can do to buy you a meal and a few beers."

Chen smiled,
then looked down, rubbing at the red marks at the back of his head
and on his forehead where he had been wearing the wraparound. Lo Ying
was a good man. A bit dull, maybe, but fair and reliable, unlike most
of the pan chang he'd encountered up here. "Okay," he said.
"But I was glad of the extra shift. We've not much, Wang Ti,
baby Jyan, and I, but IVe ambitions. I want better for my son."

Lo Ying looked
at him a moment, then nodded his head. "I've watched you often,
Chen. Seen how hard you work. And I've wondered to myself. Why is
Chen where he is? Why is he not higher up the levels? He is a good
man; a good, strong worker; reliable, intelligent. Why is he here,
working for me? Why am I not working for him?"

Chen laughed
shortly, then looked up, meeting Lo Ying's eyes. "I was not
always so, Lo Ying. I was a wild youth. A waster of my talents. And
then . . . well, a wife, a son—they change a man."

"Ah, yes.
So it is."

A girl came and
took their order, then returned a moment later with two bulbs of Yoo
Fan Te
beer. Lo Ying handed one to Chen, then toasted him.

"To your
family!"

"And yours,
Lo Ying!"

He had told no
one of his past. No one. Not even Wang Ti. For in this, he knew, he
was vulnerable. One careless word said to the wrong person and he
would be back there, below the Net. Back in that nightmare place
where every man was for himself and men like Lo Ying were as rare as
phoenix eggs.

Lo Ying put his
beer down and wiped the froth from his wispy moustache. "Talking
of work, I've been meaning to ask you . . ." He looked sideways
at Chen. "As you know, Feng Shi-lun is up for a pan chang's job.
I happen to know he'll get it. Which means there's a vacancy as my
assistant."

Lo Ying fell
silent, leaving unstated the meaning of his words. Chen took a deep
draft of his beer, studying the old Han beggar on the label a moment.
Then he wiped his mouth and looked up again. "You're offering me
the job?"

Lo Ying
shrugged. "It's not up to me, Chen, but. . . well, I could put a
word in higher up."

Chen considered
a moment, then looked directly at him. "How much would it cost?"

"Two
hundred
yuan."

Chen laughed. "I
haven't twenty! Where would I find such money?"

"No, you
don't understand me, Chen. I'd lend you it. Interest free. I'd"—he
hesitated, then smiled—"I'd like to see you get on, Chen.
You're worth a dozen of those useless shits. And maybe someday..."

Again, it was
left unsaid. But Chen had grown used to the ways of these levels.
Favors and bribes—they were the lubricants of this world. You
scratch my back, I scratch yours. You pay squeeze, you move up.
Refuse and you stay where you are. It was the way of the world. But
Lo Ying was better than most. He offered his help interest free and
with only the vaguest of strings. Chen looked at him and nodded.
"Okay, but how would I repay you? My rent's eight
yuan.
Food's another six. That leaves eleven from my weekly pay to see
to clothing, heating, light. I'm lucky if I save five
yuan
a
month!"

Lo Ying nodded.
"That's why you must take this opportunity. Pan
chang's
assistant pays thirty a week. You could pay me the difference
until the debt is cleared. You say you've twenty?"

Chen nodded.

"Good. Then
that's one hundred and eighty you'll need from me. Thirty six weeks
and you're free of obligation. Free . . . and five
yuan
better
off a week."

Chen looked at
him, knowing how great a favor Lo Ying was doing him. If he went to a
shark for the money it would be two years, maybe four, before he'd be
clear. But thirty-six weeks. Nine months, give or take. It was
nothing. And he would be one step higher.

He put out his
hand. "Okay, LoYing. I'm grateful. If ever—"

"Yes, yes—"
Lo Ying smiled, then turned. "Look, here's our food."

They dug in,
looking at each other from time to time and smiling.

"It's good,
eh?" said Lo Ying, turning to order two more beers. Then he
frowned. "Hey, Chen, look. . . ."

Chen turned, his
mouth full of chicken, and looked. On the big screen over the serving
counter the
Yuie Lung
had appeared. AH over the bar people
were turning to look and falling silent.

"It's
nothing," Chen said. "Just another announcement about the
wedding."

"No. . .
look. The background's white. Someone's dead. One of the Seven."

A low murmur
went around the packed bar. A few got up from their seats and went to
stand at the bar, looking up at the screen.

Chen looked at
Lo Ying's face and saw the concern there. There was still a strong
feeling for the Seven at this level, whatever was happening Above or
far below. Here they identi-.fied with the Seven and were fiercely
loyal. "Trouble for the Seven is trouble for us all"—how
often he'd heard that said in the last year and a half. And something
of that had rubbed off on him, he realized, as he sat there, his
pulse raised by the ominous white background to the imperial symbol.

Martial music
played. Then, abruptly, the image changed.

"What's
that?" said Lo Ying softly.

There was a buzz
of noise, then quiet. On the screen was a plain, red-carpeted room.
In the middle of the room was a very solid-looking block; a big
thing, an arm's length to a side. Its top was strangely smooth, as if
melted or worn flat by the passage of feet or water over it, and cut
into its dull gray side was the
Ywe Lung,
the wheel of
dragons.

For a moment the
screen was silent. Then came the voice.

It was the same
voice he had heard numerous times before, making official
announcements, but now it seemed more somber, more threatening, than
he had ever heard it before. And the shadow voice, softer, more
singsong, that spoke in native Mandarin, seemed to contain the same
dark threat.

Chen put the
bulb to his lips and emptied it. "Listen," said Lo Ying,
reaching out to take his arm again. "There's been a trial."

The voice spoke
slowly, carefully, outlining what had happened. There had been an
assassination. The T'ang's minister, Lwo Kang. ...

Chen felt
himself go cold. Lwo Kang. He looked down, shuddering.

A man named
Edmund Wyatt had confessed to the killing. He had organized it. Had
been the hand behind the knife.

Chen stiffened.
Wyatt? Who in hell's name was Wyatt? Why not Berdichev? That was the
name Kao Jyan had mentioned on his tape. Berdichev, not Wyatt. He
shook his head, not understanding.

The image
changed again, and there, before them, was Wyatt himself, speaking
into camera, admitting his part in everything. A worn yet handsome
man. An aristocrat. Every inch an aristocrat.

From the
watching men came a sharp hissing. "Scum!" shouted someone.
"Arrogant First Level bastards!" called another.

Chen looked
down, then looked up again. So Kao Jyan had been wrong after all. He
had guessed wrongly. A pity. But then, why had they killed him? Why
kill him if he was wrong about Berdichev?

Or
had
he
been wrong?

Wyatt's face
faded, leaving the image of the empty room and the block. Again there
was silence, both on the screen and below it in the bar. Then,
suddenly, there was movement to the right of the screen. Two big,
hugely muscled men brought a tall, very angular man into the center
of the room and secured him over the block, his chest pressed against
the upper surface, his bowed head jutting out toward the watching
billions.

The man was
naked. His hands had been secured tightly behind his back and his
feet shackled with manacles. He looked very ill. Feebly he raised his
head, his lips drawing back from his teeth in a rictus of fear, then
let it fall again. His shaven head was like a skull, its paleness
dotted with red blotches, while his bones seemed to poke through at
shoulder and elbow.

"Gods . .
." whispered Lo Ying, "he looks half dead already, poor
bastard!"

Chen nodded,
fascinated, unable to look away. One of the guards had gone
offscreen. The other leaned over the prisoner and brought his knee
down firmly, brutally onto his back, pressing him down against the
block. Then the first guard came back.

From the men in
the bar came a single gasp. Of surprise. And fear.

In the guard's
hands was a sword; a huge, long, two-edged weapon with an
exaggeratedly broad, flat blade and a long iron-black handle. It was
cruel and brutal, like something out of a museum, but it had been
polished until it shone like new. The edges winked viciously in the
brightness of the room as the guard turned it in his hands,
accustoming himself to its weight and balance.

Lo Ying
swallowed noisily, then made a small whimpering sound in his throat.
"Gods. . . ." he said again, barely audibly. But Chen could
not look away. It seemed alive. Hideously alive. As if some awful
power animated the weapon. Its heaviness, its very awkwardness, spoke
volumes. It was a brutal, pagan thing, and its ugly, unsophisticated
strength struck dread into him.

Beside him Lo
Ying groaned. Chen looked about him, his eyes searching from face to
face, seeing his own horrified fascination mirrored everywhere.

"They're
going to execute him!" Lo Ying's voice shook.

"Yes,"
said Chen softly, looking back at the screen, "they are."

The guard had
raised the sword high. For a moment he held it there, his muscles
quivering with the strain. Then, as if at some unspoken command, he
brought it down onto the block.

The sword met
little resistance. The head seemed to jump up on its own, a cometary
trail of blood gouting behind it. It came down to the far left of the
screen, rolled over once, and lay still, eerily upright, the eyes
staring out sightlessly at the watching billions. The headless corpse
spasmed and was still. Blood pumped from the severed neck, dribbling
down the sides of the block to merge with the deep red of the carpet.

There was a
fearful, awful silence. The guards had gone. Now there was only the
block, the body, and the head. Those three and the blood.

Chen sat there,
like the others, frozen into immobility, unable to believe it had
been real. Despite himself he felt shocked. It couldn't be real,
could it? He saw the surprise, the sudden pain, in the dead man's
staring eyes and still could not believe it had been real. But all
around him grown men were on their feet, shuddering, groaning,
laughing with shock, or crying openly as they stood there, unable to
look away from the screen and the severed head. Then Chen unfroze
himself and stood up.

"Come on,"
he said, taking Lo Ying's arm firmly. "Let's get out of here."

Above them the
screen went dark. Chen turned and pushed his way through the crowd,
pulling Lo Ying along behind him, anxious to get outside. But out in
the corridor he stopped, breathing deeply, feeling suddenly giddy.
Why? he asked himself. IVe killed men before now. With these very
hands I've taken their lives. Why, then, was that so awful?

But he knew why.
Because it was different. Because it had been witnessed by them all.

It was a sign. A
sign of things to come.

"Gods. . .
. Gods. . . ." Lo Ying was shaking violently. He was barely in
control of himself. "I didn't think . . ." he began. Then
he turned away and was sick against the wall.

Yes, thought
Chen. A sign. Times are changing. And this, the first public
execution in more than a century, is the beginning of it.

He turned and
looked at Lo Ying, suddenly pitying him. It had shocked him; what,
then, had it done to such as Lo Ying? He took his arms and turned him
around. "Listen," he said, "you'll come back with me.
Stay with us tonight. We'll make space."

Lo Ying began to
shake his head, then saw how Chen was looking at him and nodded.

"Good. Come
on, then. We can send a message to your family. They'll understand."

Lo Ying let
himself be led along, wiping distractedly at his mouth and beard and
mumbling to himself. But at the junction of Chen's corridor he
stiffened and pulled back.

Chen turned,
looking at him. "What is it?"

"There"—Lo
Ying bent his head slightly, indicating something off to Chen's
right—"those men. I saw them earlier. Back at the bar."

Chen stared at
him. "You're sure?"

Lo Ying
hesitated, then nodded. "The big one ... he was sitting across
from us. I noticed him. Before it happened. . . ." He shuddered
and looked down.

Chen turned
slowly and glanced at the men as casually as he could, then looked
back at Lo Ying, speaking as softly as he could. "Lo Ying? Have
you your knife on you?"

Lo Ying nodded.
As pan
chang
he was permitted to carry a knife for his duties.

"Good. Pass
it to me. Don't let them see."

Lo Ying did as
he was told, then clutched at Chen's shirt. "Who are they,
Chen?"

Chen took a deep
breath. "I don't know. I don't think IVe seen them before.
Perhaps it's just a coincidence."

But he knew it
wasn't. He knew it was all tied in somehow. It was no coincidence
that Wyatt had been executed tonight. And now they had come for him.
Tidying up. He wondered vaguely how they'd traced him.