Chang laughed.
They had come to a bridge. The first man had stopped, his head still bowed, waiting for the others. He was forbidden to cross the bridge without a permit.
‘Get on!’ said Teng, drawing the long club from his belt and jabbing the man viciously in the small of the back. ‘The Overseer wants to see you. Don’t keep him waiting, now!’
The man stumbled forward onto the bridge, then got up and trudged on again, wiping his dirtied hands against his thighs as he went and glancing up briefly, fearfully, as the big house loomed over him.
More guards lounged at the foot of the steps. One of them, a tall Hung Mao seated apart from the rest, looked up as the three men approached, then, with the vaguest movement of his head to indicate that they should go on up, looked back down at the rifle in his lap, continuing his meticulous inspection of the weapon.
‘Good day, Shih Peskova,’ said Teng, acknowledging the Overseer’s lieutenant with a bow. But Peskova paid him no attention. Teng was Han and Han were shit. It didn’t matter whether they were guard or peasant. Either way they were shit. Hadn’t he heard as much from The Man himself often enough?
When they had gone, Peskova turned and looked up at the house again. He would have to watch that Teng. He was getting above himself. Thinking himself better than the other men. He would have to bring him down a level. Teach him better manners.
With a smile he put the rifle down and reached for the next in the stack at his side. Yes, it would be fun to see the big Han on his knees and begging. A lot of fun.
Overseer Bergson looked across as the three men entered.
‘What is it, Teng Fu?’
The big Han knelt in the doorway and bowed his head. ‘We have brought the man you asked for, Overseer.’
Bergson turned from the bank of screens that took up one whole wall of the long room and got up from his chair. ‘You can go, Teng Fu. You too, Chang Yan. I’ll see to him myself
When they were gone and he was alone with the field supervisor, Bergson came across and stood there, no more than an arm’s length from the man.
‘Why did you do it, Field Supervisor Sung?’
The man swallowed, but did not lift his head. ‘Do what, Shih Bergson?’
Bergson reached out almost tenderly and took the man’s cheek between the fingers of his left hand and twisted until Sung fell to his feet, whimpering in pain.
‘Why did you do it, Sung? Or do you want me to beat the truth out of you?’
Sung prostrated himself, holding on to Bergson’s feet. ‘I could not bear it any longer, Overseer. There is barely enough to keep a child alive, let alone men and women who have to toil in the fields all day. And when I heard the guards were going to cut our rations yet again…’
Bergson stepped back, shaking Sung’s hands off. ‘Barely enough? What nonsense is this, Sung? Isn’t it true that the men steal from the rice fields? That they eat much of the crop they are supposed to be harvesting?’
Sung went to shake his head, but Bergson brought his foot down firmly on top of his left hand and began to press down. ‘Tell me the truth, Sung. They steal, don’t they?’
Sung cried out, then nodded his head vigorously. ‘It is so, Shih Bergson. There are many who do as you say.’
Bergson slowly brought his foot up, then stepped away from Sung, turning his back momentarily, considering.
‘And you stole because you had too little to eat?’
Sung looked up, then quickly looked back down, keeping his forehead pressed to the floor. ‘No… I…’
‘Tell me the truth, Sung!’ Bergson barked, turning sharply. ‘You stole because you were hungry, is that it?’
Sung miserably shook his head. ‘No, Shih Bergson. I have enough.’
‘Then why? Tell me why.’
Sung shuddered. A sigh went through him like a wave. Then, resigned to his fate, he began to explain. ‘It was my wife, Overseer. She is a kindly woman, you understand. A good woman. It was her suggestion. She saw how it was for the others: that they were suffering while we, fortunate as we were, had enough. I told her we could share what we had, but she would not have it. I pleaded with her not to make me do as she asked…’
‘Which was?’
‘I stole, Overseer. I took fruit from the Frames and gave it to the others.’
Bergson laughed coldly. ‘Am I meant to believe this, Sung? An honest thief? A charitable thief? A thief who sought no profit from his actions?’
Sung nodded his head once but said nothing.
Bergson moved closer. ‘I could have you flogged senseless for what you did, Sung. Worse, I could have you thrown into the Clay. How would you like that, Field Supervisor Sung? To be sent into the Clay?’
Sung stared up at Bergson, his terror at the thought naked in his eyes. ‘You’d not do that, Shih Bergson. Please. I beg you. Anything but that.’
Bergson was silent a moment. He turned and went across to the desk.
When he returned he was holding a thin card in one hand. He knelt down and held it in front of Sung’s face a moment.
‘Do you know what this is, Sung?’
Sung shook his head. He had never seen the like of it. It looked like a piece of Above technology – something they never saw out in the fields – but he would not have liked to have guessed just what.
‘This here, Sung, is the evidence of your crime. It’s a record of the hour you spent harvesting in the Frames. A hidden camera took a film of you.’
Again Sung shuddered. ‘What do you want, Shih Bergson?’
Bergson smiled and slipped the thin sliver of ice into his jacket pocket, then stood up again. ‘First I want you to sit down over here and write down the names of all those who shared the stolen fruit with you.’
Sung hesitated. And then?’
‘Then you’ll go back to your barracks and send your wife to me.’
Sung stiffened but did not look up. ‘My wife, Overseer?’
‘The good woman. You know, the one who got you into all this trouble.’
Sung swallowed. ‘And what will happen to my wife, Shih Bergson?’
Bergson laughed. ‘If she’s good – if she’s very good to me – then nothing. You understand? In fact – and you can tell her this – if she’s exceptionally good I might even give her the tape. Who knows, eh, Sung?’
Sung looked up, meeting Bergson’s cold grey eyes for the first time in their interview, then looked down again, understanding perfectly.
‘Good. Then come. There’s paper here and ink. You have a list of names to write.’
She came when it was dark. Peskova took her up to the top room – the big room beneath the eaves – and locked her in as he had been told to. Then he went, leaving the house empty but for the woman and the Overseer.
For a time DeVore simply watched her, following her every movement with the hidden cameras, switching from screen to screen, zooming in to focus on her face or watching her from the far side of the room. Then, when he was done with that, he nodded to himself and blanked the screens.
She was much better than he had expected. Stronger, prettier, more attractive than he’d anticipated. He had thought beforehand that he would have to send her back and deal with Sung some other way, but now he had seen her he felt the need in him, like a strong, dark tar in his blood, and knew he would have to purge himself of that. He had not had a woman for weeks – not since that last trip to the Wilds – and that had been a sing-song girl, all artifice and expertise. No, this would be different; something to savour.
Quickly he went to the wall safe at the far end of the room and touched the combination. The door irised open and he reached inside, drawing out the tiny phial before the door closed up again. He hesitated a moment then gulped the drug down, feeling its warmth sear his throat and descend quickly to his stomach. It would be in his blood in minutes.
He climbed the stairs quickly, almost eagerly now, but near the top he slowed, calming himself, waiting until he had complete control.
Only then did he reach out and thumb the lock.
She turned, surprised. A big woman, bigger than her husband, nothing cowed or mean about the way she stood. You married below yourself, DeVore thought at once, knowing that Sung would never have made Field Supervisor without such a woman to push him from behind.
Her bow was hesitant. ‘Overseer?’
He closed the door behind him, then turned back to her, trying to gauge her response to him. Would she do as he wanted? Would she try to save her husband? She was here. That, at least, augured well. But would she be compliant? Would she be exceptionally good to him?
‘You know why you’re here?’ he asked, taking a step closer to her.
Her eyes never left him. ‘I’m here because my husband told me to be here, Shih Bergson.’
DeVore laughed. ‘From what I’m told old Sung is a docile man. He does what he’s told. Am I wrong in thinking that? Does Sung roar like a lion within his own walls?’
She met his gaze fiercely, almost defiantly, making the blood run thicker, heavier in his veins. ‘He is my husband and I a dutiful wife. He wished me here, so here I am.’
DeVore looked down, keeping the smile from his face. He had not been wrong. She had spirit. He had seen that when he had been watching her; had seen how she looked at everything with that curious, almost arrogant stare of hers. She had strength. The strength of twenty Sungs.
He took another step then shook his head. ‘You’re wrong, you know. You’re here because I said you should be here.’
She did not answer him this time, but stared back at him almost insolently, only a slight moistening of her lips betraying her nervousness.
‘What’s your name, Sung’s wife?’
She looked away, then looked back at him, as if to say, Don’t toy with me. Do what you are going to do and let me be.
‘Your name?’ he insisted, his voice harder now.
‘My name is Si Wu Ya,’ she answered proudly.
This time he smiled. Si Wu Ya. Silk Raven. He looked at her and understood why her parents had given her the name. Her hair was beautifully dark and lustrous. ‘Better an honest raven than a deceitful magpie, eh?’ he said, quoting the old Han adage.
‘What do you want me to do?’
He shook his head. ‘Don’t be impatient, Si Wu Ya. We’ll come to that. But tell me this – is Sung a good man? Is he good in bed? Does he make you sing out with pleasure?’
He saw how she bridled at the question, but saw also how the truth forbade her to say yes. So, Sung was a disappointment. Well, he, DeVore, would make her sing tonight. Of that he had no doubt. He took a step towards her, then another, until he stood before her, face to face.
‘Is he hard like bamboo, or soft like a rice frond? Tell me, Si Wu Ya. I’d like to know.’
For a moment her eyes flared with anger, but then she seemed to laugh deep inside herself and her eyes changed, their anger replaced by a hard amusement. ‘Don’t mock me, Shih Bergson. I’m here, aren’t I? Do what you want. I’ll be good to you. I’ll be very good. But don’t mock me.’
He looked back at her a moment, then reached down and took her left hand in his own, lifting it up to study it. It was a big, strong hand, roughly calloused from field-work, but she had made an effort. It was clean and the nails were polished a deep brown.
He met her eyes again. ‘My friends tell me you Han women wear no underclothes. Is it true?’
In answer she took his hand and placed it between her legs. His fingers met the soft, masking texture of cloth, but beneath them he could feel her warmth, the firm softness of her sex.
‘Well?’ she asked, almost smiling now, determined not to be cowed by him.
‘Strip off,’ he said, standing back a pace. ‘I want to see what you look like.’
She shrugged, slipped the one-piece off and kicked off her briefs, then stood there, her hands at her sides, making no effort to cover her nakedness.
DeVore walked round her, studying her. She was a fine woman, unspoilt by childbirth, her body hardened by fieldwork. Her breasts were large and firm, her buttocks broad but not fat. Her legs were strongly muscled yet still quite shapely, her stomach flat, her shoulders smooth. He nodded, satisfied. She would have made a good wife for a T’ang, let alone a man like Sung.
‘Good. Now over there.’
She hesitated, her eyes showing a momentary unease, then she did as she was told, walking over to the corner where he had indicated. He saw how she looked about her; how her eyes kept going to the saddle. As if she knew.
‘What do you want me to do?’
DeVore smiled coldly. He had watched her earlier. Had seen, through the camera’s hidden eye, how fascinated she had been with the saddle. Had witnessed her puzzlement and then her shocked surprise as she realized what it was.
It was a huge thing, almost half a man’s height and the same in length. At first glance it could be mistaken for an ornately carved stool, its black and white surfaces for a kind of sculpture. And in a way it was. Ming craftsmen had made the saddle more than seven hundred years before, shaping ivory and wood to satisfy the whim of a bored nobleman.
‘Have you seen my saddle?’
She watched him, eyes half-lidded now, and nodded.
‘It was a custom of your people, you know. They would place a saddle in the gateway to the parental home before the bride and bridegroom entered it.’
She wet her lips. ‘What of it?’
He shrugged. ‘An, it was. A saddle. An. Almost the same sound as for peace.’
He saw her shiver, yet the room was warm.
‘Have you studied my saddle?’
She nodded briefly.
‘And did it amuse you?’
‘You’re mocking me again, Shih Bergson. Is that what you want me to do? To play that game with you?’
He smiled. So she had worked it out. He went across and stood there beside the saddle, smoothing his hand over its finely polished surfaces. What at first seemed a mere tangle of black and white soon resolved itself. Became a man and woman locked in an embrace that was, some said, unnatural; the man’s head buried between the woman’s legs, the woman’s head between the man’s.
He looked across at her, amused. ‘Have you ever done that with Sung?’
She blinked. Then, unexpectedly, she shook her head.
‘Would you like to do that, now, with me?’
He waited, watching her like a hawk watching its prey. Again she hesitated, then she nodded.
‘You think you’d like it, don’t you?’
This time she looked away, for the first time the faintest colour appearing at her neck.
Ah, he thought. Now I have you. Now I know your weakness. You are dissatisfied with Sung. Perhaps you’re even thinking what this might lead to. You’ve ambitions, Si Wu Ya. For all your social conscience you’re a realist. And, worse for you, you enjoy sex. You want to be made love to. You want the excitement that I’m offering here.
‘Come here.’
He saw how her breathing changed. Her nipples were stiff now and the colour had not left her neck. Slowly, almost fearful now, she came to him.
He took her hand again, guiding it down within the folds of his pau , then heard her gasp as her hand closed on him; saw her eyes go down and look.
DeVore laughed, knowing the drug would last for hours yet – would keep him at this peak until he had done with her. He leaned closer to her, drawing her nearer with one hand, his voice lowering to a whisper.
‘Was he ever this hard, Si Wu Ya? Was he ever this hot?’
Her eyes went to his briefly, the pupils enlarged, then returned to the splendour she held. Unbidden, she knelt and began to stroke him and kiss him. He put his hands on her shoulders now, forcing her to take him in her mouth, her whole body shuddering beneath his touch, a soft moaning in her throat. Then he pushed her off, roughly, almost brutally and moved away from her.
She knelt there, her breasts rising and falling violently, her eyes wide, watching him.
Almost. She was almost ready. One more step. One more step and she would be there.
He threw off the pau and stood there over her, naked, seeing how eagerly she watched him now. How ready she was for him to fuck her. With one foot he pushed her back, then knelt and spread her legs, watching her all the while, one hand moving between her legs, seeing how her eyes closed, how her breath caught with the pleasure of it.
‘Gods,’ she moaned, reaching up for him. ‘Goddess of mercy, put it there! Please, Shih Bergson! Please put it there!’
His fingers traced a line from her groin up to her chin, forcing her to look back at him.
‘Not like this,’ he said, putting her hands on him again. ‘I know a better way.’
Quickly he led her to the saddle, pushing her face down onto its hard smooth surface, his hands caressing her intimately all the while, keeping her mind dark, her senses inflamed. Then, before she realized what was happening, he fastened her in the double stirrups, binding her hands and feet.
He stood back, looking at his handiwork, then crossed to the wall and switched off all the lights but one – the spot that picked out her naked rump.
She was shaking now. He could see the small movement of the muscles at the top of her legs. ‘What’s happening?’ she asked in a tiny, sobered voice. ‘What are you doing?’
He went over to her and placed his hand on the small of her back, running his fingers down the smooth channel that ended in the tight hole of her anus, feeling her shudder at his touch.
Pleasure or fear? he wondered. Did she still believe it would all turn out all right?
The thought almost made him laugh. She had mistaken him. She had thought he wanted ordinary satisfactions.
He reached beneath the saddle and dipped his fingers in the shelf of scented unguents, then began to smear them delicately about the tiny hole, pushing inward, the unguents working their magic spell, making the muscles relax.
He felt her breathing change again, anticipating pleasure; knew, without looking, that she would have been newly aroused by his ministrations; that her nipples would be stiff, her eyes wide with expectation.
He reached under the saddle a second time and drew out the steel-tipped phallus that was attached by a chain to the pommel. The chain was just long enough. Longer and there would not be that invigorating downward pull – that feeling of restraint – shorter and penetration would not be deep enough to satisfy. He smiled, holding the hollowed column lovingly between his hands and smoothing his fingers over the spiralling pattern of the wu-tu, the ‘five noxious creatures’ – toad, scorpion, snake, centipede and gecko – then drew it on, easing himself into its oiled soft-leather innards and fastening its leather straps about his waist.
Ice and Fire: Chung Kuo Series Page 10