The White Mountain (26 page)

He stood, looking about him at the torch-lit stillness of the hall – at the grey stone of the huge, funerary couch to his right, at the carved pillars and tablets and lacquered screens – then turned away, angry with himself. There was so much to be done – the note from Minister Heng, the packet from Fat Wong, the last few preparations for Council – yet here he was, moping like a child before his dead father's image. And to what end?

He clenched his fist, then slowly let it open. No. His anger could not be sustained. Neither would the dream be denied that easily. If he closed his eyes he could see them – a thousand bright, flickering shapes in the
morning sunlight, their wings like curtains of the finest lace. Layer upon layer of flickering, sunlit lace…

‘
Chieh Hsia
…'

Li Yuan turned, almost staggering, then collected himself, facing his Chancellor.

‘Yes, Chancellor Nan. What is it?'

Nan Ho bowed low. ‘News has come,
Chieh Hsia
. The news you were waiting for.'

He was suddenly alert. ‘From Tao Yuan? We have word?'

‘More than that,
Chieh Hsia
. A tape has come. A tape of the meeting between Wang and Hsiang.'

‘A tape…' Li Yuan laughed, filled with a sudden elation that was every bit as powerful as his previous mood of despair. ‘Then we have him, neh? We have him where we want him.'

The doorman had done his job. The outer door slid back at her touch. Inside it was pitch black, the security cameras dead. Ywe Hao turned, then nodded, letting the rest of the team move past her silently.

The doorman was in the cubicle to the left, face down on the floor, his hands on his head. One of the team was crouched there already, binding him at hand and foot.

She went quickly to the end of the hallway, conscious of the others forming up to either side of the door. She waited until the last of them joined her, then stepped forward, knocking loudly on the inner door.

There was a small eye-hatch near the top of the reinforced door. She faced it, clicking on the helmet lamp and holding up her ID. The call had gone out half an hour ago, when the outer power had ‘failed', so they were expecting her.

The hatch cover slid back, part of a face staring out from the square of brightness within.

‘Move the card closer.'

She did as she was told.

‘Shit…' The face moved away; spoke to someone inside. ‘It's a fuckin' woman.'

‘Is there a problem?'

The face turned back to her. ‘This is a men's club. Women aren't supposed to come in.'

She took a breath, then nodded. ‘I understand. But look. I've only got to cut the power from the box inside. I can do the repairs out here in the hallway.'

The guard turned, consulting someone inside, then turned back. ‘Okay, but be quick, neh? And keep your eyes to yourself or there'll be a report going in to your superior.'

Slowly the door slid back, spilling light into the hallway. The guard moved back, letting Ywe Hao pass, his hand coming up, meaning to point across at the box, but he never completed the gesture. Her punch felled him like a sack.

She turned, looking about her, getting her bearings. It was a big, hexagonal room, corridors going off on every side. In its centre was a circular sunken pool of bright red tile, five steps leading down into its depths.

The young men in the pool seemed unaware of her entrance. There were eight of them, naked as newborns. One of them was straddling another over the edge of the pool, his buttocks moving urgently, but no one seemed to care. Behind him the others played and laughed with an abandon that was clearly drug-induced.

She took it all in at a glance, but what she was really looking for was the second guard – the one her fallen friend had been speaking to. She felt the hairs on her neck rise as she was unable to locate him, then she saw movement, a brief flash of green between the hinges of the screen to her right.

She fired twice through the screen, the noise muted by the thick carpeting underfoot, the heavy tapestries that adorned the walls, but it was loud enough to wake the young men from their reverie.

The others stood behind her now, masked figures clothed from head to toe in black. At her signal they fanned out, making for the branching corridors.

She crossed the room slowly, the gun held loosely in her hand, until she stood on the tiled lip of the pool. They had backed away from her, the drug-elation dying in their eyes as they began to realize what was happening. The copulating couple had drawn apart and were staring wide-eyed at her, signs of their recent passion still evident. Others had raised their hands in the universal gesture of surrender.

‘Out!' she barked, lifting the gun sharply.

They jerked at the sound of her voice, then began to scramble back, abashed now at their nakedness, fear beginning to penetrate the drug-haze of their eyes.

She knew them all. Faces and names and histories. She looked from face to face, forcing them to meet her gaze. They were so young. Barely out of childhood, it seemed. Even so, she felt no sympathy for them, only disgust.

There were noises from the rest of the club now; thumps and angry shouts and a brief snatch of shrieking that broke off abruptly. A moment later one of the team reappeared at the entrance to one of the corridors.

‘Chi Li! Come quickly…'

‘What is it?' she said as calmly as she could, tilting her head slightly, indicating her prisoners.

He looked beyond her, understanding, then came across, lowering his voice. ‘It's Hsao Yen. He's gone crazy. You'd better stop him.' He drew the gun from his belt. ‘Go on. I'll guard these.'

She could hear Hsao Yen long before she saw him, standing over the young man in the doorway, a stream of obscenities falling from his lips as he leaned forward, striking the prisoner's head and shoulders time and again with his rifle butt.

‘Hsao Yen!' she yelled. ‘
Ai ya
! What are you doing?'

He turned, confronting her, his face livid with anger, then jerked his arm out, pointing beyond the fallen man.

She moved past him, looking into the room, then drew back, shuddering, meeting Hsao Yen's eyes almost fearfully. ‘He did that?'

Hsao Yen nodded. ‘Yes…'

He made to strike the fallen man again, but Ywe Hao stopped his hand, speaking to him gently. ‘I understand. But let's do this properly, neh? After all, that's what we came here for. To put an end to this.'

Hsao Yen looked down at the bloodied figure beneath him and shivered. ‘All right. As you say.'

She nodded, then looked past him, torn by what she saw. ‘And the boy? He's dead, I take it.'

Hsao Yen shuddered, his anger transformed suddenly to pain. ‘How could he do that, Chi Li? How could he do that to a child?'

She shook her head, unable to understand. ‘I don't know, Hsao Yen. I simply don't know.'

They were lined up beside the pool when she returned, three dozen of them, servants included. The masked figures of the
Yu
stood off to one side, their automatic pistols raised. She had two of their number hold up their beaten fellow, then went down the line, separating out the servants.

‘Tu Li-shan, Rooke… take them through to the kitchens. I want them gagged and bound. But don't harm them. Understand?'

Ywe Hao turned back, facing the remaining men. There were twenty-three of them. Fewer than she had hoped to find here. Looking down the line, she noted the absence of several of the faces from the files. A shame, she thought, looking at them coldly. She would have liked to have caught them all; every last one of the nasty little bastards. But this would do.

‘Strip off!' she barked angrily, conscious that more than half of them were naked already, then turned away, taking the thickly wadded envelope from within her tunic. These were the warrants. She unfolded them and flicked through them, taking out those that weren't needed and slipping them back into the envelope, then turned back, facing them again.

They were watching her, fearful now, several of them crying openly, their limbs trembling badly. She went slowly down the line, handing each of them a single sheet of paper; watching as they looked down, then looked back up at her again, mouths open, a new kind of fear in their eyes.

They were death warrants, individually drafted, a photograph of the condemned attached to each sheet. She handed out the last, then stood back, waiting, wondering if any of them would have the balls at the last to say something, to try to argue their way out of this, perhaps even to fight. But one glance down the line told her enough.

For a moment she tried to turn things round: to see it from their viewpoint; maybe even to elicit some small trace of sympathy from deep within herself. But there was nothing. She had seen too much; read too much: her anger had hardened to something dark, impenetrable. They were evil, gutless little shits. And what they had done here – the suffering they had caused – was too vast, too hideous, to forgive.

Ywe Hao pulled the mask aside, letting them view her face for the first time, letting them see the disgust she felt, then walked back to the end of the line and stood facing the first of them. Taking the paper from his
shaking hands, she began, looking directly into his face, not even glancing at the paper, reciting from memory the sentence of the
Yu
inner council, before placing the gun against his temple and pulling the trigger.

Fifth bell was sounding as Wang Sau-leyan stood at the head of the steps, looking down into the dimly lit cellar. It was a huge, dark space, poorly ventilated and foul-smelling. From its depths came a steady groaning, a distinctly human sound, half-articulate with pained confession. The semblance of words drifted up to him, mixing with the foul taste in his mouth, making him shudder with distaste and spread his fan before his face.

Seeing him there, Hung Mien-lo tore himself away from the bench and hurried across.

‘
Chieh Hsia
,' he said, bowing low. ‘We are honoured by your presence.'

The T'ang descended the uneven steps slowly, with an almost finicky care. At the bottom he glared at his Chancellor, as if words could not express the vulgarity of this.

It was old-fashioned and barbaric, yet in that lay its effectiveness. Torture was torture. Sophistication had nothing to do with it. Terror was of the essence. And this place, with its dank, foul-smelling miasma, was perfect for the purposes of torture. It stank of hopelessness.

The bench was an ordinary workman's bench from an earlier age. Its hard wooden frame was scrubbed clean and four dark iron spikes – each as long as a man's arm – jutted from the yellow wood, one at each corner, the polished metal thick at the base, tapering to a needle-sharp point. The prisoner's hands and feet were secured against these spikes with coils of fine, strong chain that bit into the flesh and made it bleed. Across his naked chest a series of heated wires had been bound, pulling tight and searing the flesh even as they cooled, making the prisoner gasp and struggle for each breath; each painful movement chafing the cutting wires against the blood-raw flesh.

One eye had been put out. Burned in its blackened socket. The shaven head was criss-crossed with razor-fine scars. Both ears had been severed. All four limbs were badly scarred and bruised, broken bone pushing through the skin in several places. There were no nails on hands or feet and the tendons of each finger had been cut neatly, individually, with a surgeon's skill.
Lastly, the man's genitals had been removed and the amputation sealed with a wad of hot tar.

Wang Sau-leyan looked, then turned away, moving his fan rapidly before his face, but Hung Mien-lo had seen, mixed in with the horror, the revulsion, a look of genuine satisfaction.

The prisoner looked up, his one good eye moving between the two men. Its movements seemed automatic, intent only on knowing where the pain would come from next. All recognition was gone from it. It saw only blood and heat and broken bone. Wang Sau-leyan, looking down at it, knew it from childhood. It was the eye of his father's Master of the Royal Household, Sun Li Hua.

‘You have his confession?'

‘Yes,
Chieh Hsia
,' Hung answered, one hand resting lightly on the bench. ‘He babbled like a frightened child when I first brought him down. He couldn't take much pain. Just the thought of it and the words spilled from him like a songbird.'

And yet he's still alive
, Wang thought.
How can he still be alive when all this has been done to him
? Even so, he deserved no pity. Sun Li Hua had sold him to another. To Li Yuan, his enemy.

Just as he sold my father to me
.

Wang leaned over and spat on the scarred and wounded body. And the eye, following the movement, was passive, indifferent to the gesture, as though to say,
Is that all? Is there to be no pain this time?

They moved on, looking at the other benches. Some were less damaged than Sun Li Hua, others were barely alive – hacked apart piece by piece, like hunks of animal product on a butcher's table. They were all old and trusted servants; all long-serving and ‘loyal' men of his father's household. And Li Yuan had bought them all. No wonder the bastard had been able to anticipate him in Council these last few times.

Wang turned, facing his Chancellor.

‘Well,
Chieh Hsia
?' Hung Mien-lo asked. ‘Are you pleased?'

There was an unpleasant smile on the Chancellor's features, as if to say there was nothing he liked better than inflicting pain on others. And Wang Sau-leyan, seeing it, nodded and turned quickly away, mounting the steps in twos, hurriedly, lest his face betray his true feelings.

It was a side of Hung Mien-lo he would never have suspected. Or was
there another reason? It was said that Hung and Sun had never got on. So maybe it was that. Whatever, there would come a time of reckoning. And then Hung Mien-lo would really learn to smile. As a corpse smiled.