The White Mountain

by David Wingrove

  Hsiang’s eyes flickered once in the huge expanse of flesh that was his face then he lowered his head and backed away.

  Ebert watched him go then turned, looking down at Mu Chua again. It was a shame. She had been useful – very useful – over the years. But what was gone was gone. Dealing with Whiskers Lu was the problem now. That and rearranging things for the party later.

  It had all seemed so easy when he’d spoken to DeVore earlier, but Hsiang had done his best to spoil things for him. Where, at this late stage, would he find another fifteen girls – special girls of the quality Mu Chua would have given him?

  Ebert sighed, then, seeing the funny side of it, began to laugh, remembering the sight of Hsiang standing there, his penis poking out stiffly, for all the world like a miniature of his rat-like friend, An Liang-chou, staring out from beneath the fat of Hsiang’s stomach.

  Well, they would get theirs. They and all their friends. But he would make certain this time. He would inject the girls he sent to entertain them.

  He smiled. Yes, and then he’d watch, as one by one they went down. Princes and cousins and all; every last one of them victims of the disease DeVore had bought from his friend, Curval.

  How clever, he thought, to catch them that way. For who would think that that was what it was. He laughed. Syphilis… it had not been heard of in the Above for more than a century. No, and when they did find out it would be too late. Much too late. By then the sickness would have spread throughout the great tree of the Families, infecting root and branch, drying up the sap. And then the tree would fall, like the rotten, stinking thing it was.

  He shivered then put his hand down, brushing the hair back from the dead woman’s brow, frowning.

  ‘Yes. But why did you do it, Mother? Why in hell’s name did you let him do it to you? It can’t have been the money…’

  Ebert took his hand away then shook his head. He would never understand – never in ten thousand years. To lie there while another cut your throat and fucked you. It made no sense. And yet…

  He laughed sourly. That was exactly what his kind had done for the last one hundred and fifty years. Ever since the time of Tsao Ch’un. But now all that had changed. From now on things would be different.

  He turned and looked across. Three of Mu Chua’s girls were standing in the doorway, wide-eyed, huddled together, looking in at him.

  ‘Call Lu Ming-shao,’ he said, going across, holding the eldest by the arm. ‘Tell him to come at once, but say nothing more. Tell him Hans Ebert wants to talk to him. About a business matter.’

  He let her go then turned, facing the other two, putting his arms about their shoulders. ‘Now, my girls. Things seem uncertain, I know, but I’ve a special task for you, and if you do it well…’

  Hsiang Wang leaned his vast bulk towards the kneeling messenger and let out a great huff of annoyance.

  ‘What do you mean, my brother’s ill? He was perfectly well this morning. What’s happened to him?’

  The messenger kept his head low, offering the handwritten note. ‘He asks you to accept his apologies, Excellency, and sends you this note.’

  Hsiang Wang snatched the note and unfolded it. For a moment he grew still, reading it, then threw it aside, making a small, agitated movement of his head, cursing beneath his breath.

  ‘He says all has been arranged, Excellency,’ the messenger continued, made uncomfortable by the proximity of Hsiang Wang’s huge, trunk-like legs. ‘The last of the girls – the special ones – were hired this morning.’

  The messenger knew from experience what a foul temper Hsiang K’ai Fan’s brother had and expected at any moment to be on the receiving end of it, but for once Hsiang Wang bridled in his anger. Perhaps it was the fact that his guests were only a few ch’i away, listening beyond the wafer-thin wall, or perhaps it was something else: the realization that, with his elder brother absent, he could play host alone. Whatever, it seemed to calm him and, with a curt gesture of dismissal, he turned away, walking back towards the great double doors that led through to the Hall of the Four Willows.

  Hsiang Wang paused in the doorway, taking in the scene. From where he stood, five broad, grass-covered terraces led down, like crescent moons, to the great willow-leaf-shaped pool and the four ancient trees from which the hall derived its name. There were more than a hundred males from the Minor Families here this afternoon, young and old alike. Most of the Twenty-Nine were represented, each of the great clans distinguishable by the markings on the silk gowns the princes wore, but most were from the five great European Families of Hsiang and An, Pei, Yin and Chun. Girls went amongst them, smiling and laughing, stopping to talk or rest a gentle hand upon an arm or about a waist. The party had yet to begin and for the moment contact was restrained, polite. The sound of erhu and k’un ti – bow and bamboo flute – drifted softly in the air, mixing with the scents of honeysuckle and plum blossom.

  Low tables were scattered about the terraces. The young princes surrounded these, lounging on padded couches, talking or playing Chou. On every side tall shrubs and plants and lacquered screens – each decorated with scenes of forests and mountains, spring pastures and moonlit rivers – broke up the stark geometry of the hall, giving it the look of a woodland glade.

  Hsiang Wang smiled, pleased by the effect, then clapped his hands. At once doors opened to either side of him and servants spilled out down the terraces, bearing trays of wine and meats and other delicacies. Leaving the smile on his lips, he went down, moving across to his right, joining the group of young men gathered about Chun Wu-chi.

  Chun Wu-chi was Head of the Chun Family; the only Head to honour the Hsiang clan with his presence this afternoon. He was a big man in his seventies, long-faced and bald, his pate polished like an ancient ivory carving, his sparse white beard braided into two thin plaits. Coming close to him, Hsiang Wang knelt, in san k’ou, placing his forehead to the ground three times before straightening up again.

  ‘You are most welcome here, Highness.’

  Chun Wu-chi smiled. ‘I thank you for your greeting, Hsiang Wang, but where is your elder brother? I was looking forward to seeing him again.’

  ‘Forgive me, Highness,’ Hsiang said, lowering his head, ‘but K’ai Fan has been taken ill. He sends his deep regards and humbly begs your forgiveness.’

  Chun looked about him, searching the eyes of his close advisors to see whether this could be some kind of slight, then, reassured by what he saw, he looked back at Hsiang Wang, smiling, putting one bejewelled hand out towards him.

  ‘I am sorry your brother is ill, Wang. Please send him my best wishes and my most sincere hope for his swift recovery.’

  Hsiang Wang bowed low. ‘I will do so, Highness. My Family is most honoured by your concern.’

  Chun gave the smallest nod then looked away, his eyes searching the lower terraces. ‘There are many new girls here today, Hsiang Wang. Are there any with… special talents?’

  Hsiang Wang smiled inwardly. He had heard of Chun Wu-chi’s appetites. Indeed, they were legendary. When he had been younger, it was said, he had had a hundred women, one after the other, for a bet. It had taken him three days, so the story went, and afterwards he had slept for fifty hours, only to wake keen to begin all over. Now, in his seventies, his fire had waned. Voyeurism had taken the place of more active pursuits.

  ‘There is one girl, Highness…’ he said, remembering what K’ai Fan had said. ‘I have been told that she can manage the most extraordinary feats.’

  ‘Really?’ Chun Wu-chi’s eyes lit up.

  Hsiang Wang smiled. ‘Let me bring her, Highness.’ He looked about him at the younger men. ‘In the meantime, if the ch’un tzu would like to entertain themselves?’

  On cue the lights overhead dimmed, the music grew more lively. From vents overhead subtle, sweet-scented hallucinogens wafted into the air.

  As he made his way down to the pool, he saw how quickly some of the men, eager not to waste a moment, had drawn girls down on to the couches next
to them, while one – a prince of the Pei family – had one girl massaging his neck and shoulders while another knelt between his legs.

  Hsiang Wang laughed softly. There would be more outrageous sights than that before the day was done. Many more. He slowed, looking about him, then saw the girl and lifted his hand, summoning her.

  She came across and stopped, bowing before him. A dainty little thing, her hair cut in swallow bangs. She looked up at him, revealing her perfect features, her delicate rosebud lips. ‘Yes, Excellency?’

  He reached in his pocket and took out the thousand-yuan chip he had stashed there earlier, handing it to her. ‘You know what to do?’

  She nodded, a smile coming to her lips.

  ‘Good… then go and introduce yourself. I’ll have the servants bring the beast.’

  He watched her go, glad that he had gone through all this with his brother two days before.

  Sick. What a time for K’ai Fan to fall sick! Surely he knew how important this occasion was for the Family? Hsiang Wang shuddered then threw off his irritation. It could not be helped, he supposed. And if he could please Old Chun, who knew what advantages he might win for himself?

  He hurried back in time to see the servants bring the beast. The Ox-man stood there passively, its three-toed hands at its sides, looking about it nervously, its almost-human eyes filled with anxiety. Seeing it, some of the younger princes laughed among themselves and leaned close to exchange words. Hsiang Wang smiled and moved closer, standing at Chun’s shoulder. At once another girl approached and knelt at Chun’s side, her flank against his leg, one hand resting gently on his knee.

  Chun looked down briefly, smiling, then looked back, studying the girl and the beast, one hand tugging at his beard, an expression of interest on his long, heavily lined face.

  Hsiang raised his hand. At once the servants came forward, tearing the fine silks from the Ox-man’s back, tugging down its velvet trousers. Then they stood back. For a moment it stood there, bewildered, trembling, its big, dark-haired body exposed. Then, with a low, cow-like moan, it turned its great head, as if looking to escape.

  At once the girl moved closer, putting one hand up to its chest, calming it, whispering words of reassurance. Again it lowed, but now it was looking down, its eyes on the girl.

  From the couches to either side of Chun Wu-chi came laughter. Laughter and a low, excited whisper.

  Slowly she began to stroke the beast, long, sensual strokes that began high up in the beast’s furred chest and ended low down, between its heavily muscled legs. It was not long before it was aroused, its huge member poking up stiffly into the air, glistening, long and wet and pinky-red in the half-light – a lance of quivering, living matter.

  As the girl slipped her gown from her shoulders, there was a low murmur of approval. Now she stood there, naked, holding the beast’s huge phallus in one hand, while with the other she continued to stroke its chest.

  Its lowing now had a strange, inhuman urgency to it. It turned its head from side to side, as if in pain, its whole body trembling, as if at any moment it might lose control. One hand lifted, moving towards the girl, then withdrew.

  Then, with a small, teasing smile at Chun Wu-chi, the girl lowered her head and took the beast deep into her mouth.

  There was a gasp from all round. Hsiang, watching, saw how the girl he had assigned to Chun was working the old man, burrowed beneath his skirts, doing to him exactly what the other was doing to the Ox-man. He smiled. From the look of pained pleasure on the old man’s face, Chun Wu-chi would not forget this evening quickly.

  It was just after nine and in the great Hall of Celestial Destinies at Nantes spaceport a huge crowd milled about. The eight-twenty rocket from Boston had come in ten minutes back and the final security clearances were being made before its passengers were passed through into the hall.

  Lehmann stood at the base of the statue in the centre of the hall, waiting. DeVore had contacted him an hour and a half back to say he would be on the eight-twenty. He had sounded angry and irritable, but when Lehmann had pressed him about the trip, he had seemed enthusiastic. It was something else, then, that had soured his mood – something that had happened back here, in his absence – and there was only one thing that could have done that: the failure of the assassination attempt on Tolonen.

  Was that why DeVore had asked him to meet him here? To try again? It made sense, certainly, for despite all their ‘precautions’ the last thing Security really expected was a new attempt so shortly after the last.

  He turned, looking up at the giant bronze figures. He knew that the composition was a lie, part of the Great Lie the Han had built along with their City; even so, there was an underlying truth to it, for the Han had triumphed over the Ta Ts’in. Kan Ying had bowed before Pan Chao. Or at least, their descendants had. But for how much longer would the dream of Rome be denied?

  For himself, it was unimportant. Han or Hung Mao, it did not matter who ruled the great circle of Chung Kuo. Even so, in the great struggle that was to come, his ends would be served.

  Whoever triumphed, the world would be no longer as it was. Much that he hated would, of necessity, be destroyed, and in that process of destruction – of purification – a new spirit would be unleashed. New and yet quite ancient. Savage and yet pure, like an eagle circling in the cold, clear air above the mountains.

  He looked away. A new beginning, that was what the world needed. A new beginning, free of all this.

  Lehmann looked about him, studying those making their way past him, appalled by the emptiness he saw in every face. Here they were, all the half-men and half-women and all their little halflings, hurrying about their empty, meaningless lives. On their brief, sense-dulled journey to the Oven Man’s door.

  And then?

  He shivered, oppressed suddenly by the crush, by the awful perfumed stench of those about him. This now – this brief moment of time before it began – was a kind of tiger’s mouth; that moment before one surrounded one’s opponent’s stone, robbing it of breath. It was a time of closing options. Of fast and desperate plays.

  There was a murmuring throughout the hall as the announcement boards at either end showed that the passengers from the eight-twenty Boston rocket were coming through. Lehmann was about to go across when he noticed two men making their way through the crowd, their faces set, their whole manner subtly different.

  Security? No. For a start they were Han. Moreover, there was something fluid, almost rounded about their movements; something one never found in the more rigorously and classically trained Security élite. No. These were more likely Triad men. Assassins. But who were they after? Who else was on DeVore’s flight? Some Company head? Or was this a gang matter?

  He followed them surreptitiously, interested; wanting to observe their methods.

  The gate at the far end of the hall was open now and passengers were spilling out. Looking past the men, he saw DeVore, his neat, tidy figure making its way swiftly but calmly through the press. The men were exactly halfway between him and DeVore, some ten or fifteen ch’i in front of him, when he realized his mistake.

  ‘Howard!’

  DeVore looked up, alerted, and saw at once what was happening. The two assassins were making directly for him now, less than two body lengths away, their blades out, slashing at anyone who got in their way, intent on reaching their quarry. Beyond them Lehmann was pushing his way through the crowd, yelling at people to get out of his way, but it would be several seconds before he could come to DeVore’s aid.

  DeVore moved forward sharply, bringing the case he was carrying up into the face of the first man as he came out of the crowd in front of him. Hampered by a woman at his side, the assassin could only jerk his head back, away. At once DeVore kicked out, making him stagger back. But even as he did, the second assassin was upon him, his notched knife swinging through the air at DeVore’s head.

  The speed at which DeVore turned surprised the man. One hand countered the knife blow at the wrist wh
ile the other punched to the ribs. The assassin went down with a sharp cry.

  DeVore turned, facing the first assassin, feinting once, twice with his fists before he twisted and kicked. The assassin moved back expertly, but before he could counter, he sank to his knees, Lehmann’s knife embedded in his back.

  There was shouting and screaming from all sides of them now.

  ‘Come away,’ Lehmann said quietly, taking DeVore’s arm. ‘Before Security come!’ But DeVore shrugged him off, going over to the second man.

  The would-be assassin lay there, helpless, clutching his side, gasping with pain. DeVore had shattered his ribcage, puncturing his lung. He crouched close, over the man, one hand at his throat.

  ‘Who sent you?’

  The man pushed his face up at DeVore’s and spat.

  DeVore wiped the bloodstained phlegm from his cheek and reached across to pick up the assassin’s blade. Then, as the man’s eyes widened, he slit open his shirt and searched his torso for markings.

  DeVore turned, looking up at Lehmann, a fierce anger in his face. ‘He’s not Triad and he’s not Security, so who the fuck…?’

  The third man came from nowhere.

  DeVore had no time to react. It was only accident that saved him. As Lehmann turned, he moved between DeVore and the man, glancing against the assassin’s knife arm. The knife, which would have entered DeVore’s heart, was nudged to one side, piercing DeVore between neck and shoulder.

  The assassin jerked the serrated knife out savagely from DeVore’s flesh, but before he could strike again, Lehmann had lashed out, punching his nose up into his skull. The man fell and lay still.

  DeVore sank to his knees, holding one hand over the wound, a look of astonishment on his bloodless face. This time Lehmann didn’t ask. With a single blow he finished off the second man, then turned and did the same to the third. Then, lifting DeVore on to his shoulder, ignoring the shouts of protest from all about him, he began to carry him towards the exit and the safety of the transit, praying that their man in Security could hold his fellows off a minute longer.