Part 19 (2/2)

”You know who Wen Yi is, don't you? That's why you're so afraid.”

She stood, quietly, against a background painted a soft white. She did not move, did not look at me. From a Xuyan, it was as good as an admission.

”Did He Zhen know?” I asked.

He Chan-Li said, ”The company--has trouble. Financial trouble. Wen Yi offered--”

”Support.” I tried to keep the sarcasm from my voice. ”In exchange for a docile wife. Did she know about Wen Yi's other activities, Mistress He?”

Her voice, when she finally answered me, was emotionless. ”No. Zhen was very honest. She--”

”She wouldn't have stood for it. And Wen Yi would not have tolerated a refusal. Is this what you think happened?”

He Chan-Li looked at me, and would not answer.

”There's blood where they found the tracking implant. Your daughter's blood.”

It was hard to tell with the makeup, but I think she had gone pale underneath. ”He wouldn't have dared--”

”Do you truly think that?” I asked, watching her eyes--watching the minute flicker of emotion that crossed them.

She said, at last, ”Zhen never understood--that the company was everything that kept us afloat. She never understood the meaning of filial duty.” Her voice was bitter.

I pitied her then, for she was the one who had not understood her daughter. I only said, ”I see.”

”Have you--” He Chan-Li swallowed ”--found her?”

Her body. ”No. I'm still working on a couple of things. I'll keep you informed.” And I cut the conversation before she could take it further.

I sat for a whilst, thinking. If Wen Yi had indeed killed He Zhen that night, why was he so worried? He could not possibly have left any evidence in her room.

Think of it another way. If He Zhen's blood did indeed mean she was dead, why had Wen Yi killed her? He had her mother's agreement, and in Xuyan law that was enough for a wedding. If the bride was not docile, well, there were ways to tame her into submission; ways I was all too familiar with from a hundred sordid cases.

I remembered the searched bedroom and the erased files on He Zhen's laptop. He had not killed her because she had protested; he had killed her because she had threatened him. Because she had the only thing that would make him fall: proof of his ties with the White Lotus, proof the tribunal could not ignore.

It was a long shot. But not an absurd one.

Smoking Mirror. If He Zhen had indeed gathered proof, she would have been smart enough not to leave it on her computer. I could think of several places on the net where she could have opened an online storage account.

I tried them one by one, entering ”Mexica,” ”Tezcatlipoca,” and ”Smoking Mirror” as usernames.

On the fifteenth try, I hit pay dirt. There was a ”smokingmirror” account opened two years earlier on treasurechest.xy; after a maddening hour of fiddling with a pa.s.sword-breaking program, I was finally granted access.

He Zhen's treasure trove, though, was nothing like I expected. I'd thought I'd find ties to the White Lotus--things that would make Wen Yi feel threatened enough to kill.

What I found instead was a shrine to Mexica culture.

There were pictures of the ball-game champions, leaping beneath the vertical stone hoop with proud grins; videos of religious processions ending in blood-soaked sacrifices at the great pyramids; images of Jaguar Knights laying down their lives in the Tripart.i.te Wars before American rifles; icons of G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses with their hollow eyes turned toward the viewer.

After a whilst, I finally turned away from the acc.u.mulation of data and checked the storage capacity. The account was almost full; if I wanted to look at everything, it would take me several days. I suspected I'd stop long beforehand.

Some admire the Mexica's self-sacrificing spirit and their relentless devotion. I think it is a sick religion, and an even sicker civilisation, making thousands of sacrifices every year for no other reason than bloodthirst.

Well, I knew the meaning of the b.u.t.terfly's wings, and it did not feel like a lot of progress. I turned off the computer, checked my log recovery--which still displayed a four-hour wait--and went into the kitchen to prepare lunch. As I was picking some coriander from the fridge, a glint from the window caught my eye. I put down the stalks I'd been holding and raised the curtains.

An aircar waited underneath my building: a slick red limo with tinted windows, conveniently masking the view of its driver and pa.s.sengers.

There was an itch between my shoulderblades: a familiar sign of danger. The sign, too, that I was onto something.

All I had to do was find out what.

Lunch was brief and perfunctory. I gobbled up my steamed rice and eggs, trying not to focus on the aircar, and came back before my desk to find He Zhen's computer blinking. My recovery of the log history was complete.

I stared at the screen, at the last few lines of the log. It had been He Zhen who had connected last, a few hours after midnight eight days ago--a remote session launched from an unknown router address.

Could it have been someone else? I thought for a whilst, but decided against it. If someone else had had He Zhen's login, pa.s.sword and fingerprints, they wouldn't have bothered with changing the session system.

I tracked the router address, which turned out to be a network centre not far from the Gardens of Felicity. What had He Zhen been doing? Erasing things from her computer?

I stared at the timestamp and saw that the connection had been broken after thirty seconds. Far too short to log in and erase multiple files--unless He Zhen had set up some kind of script. But I knew she hadn't been planning to run away, so there was no reason for her to have done so.

My phone was beeping--an incoming call that I had not seen for several minutes.

”Yes?” I asked, pressing the b.u.t.ton to light up the screen.

It was Wen Yi, now dressed in purple silk with serpentine animals embroidered on the sleeves. The animals looked very close to Chinese dragons, but not close enough to give offence--in Xuya, as in China, the only people ent.i.tled to the dragon were members of the Imperial Family.

”Mr Brooks? I wanted to check on your progress.” He was speaking English, though he knew I could speak perfect Xuyan. By this he subtly relegated me to a rank inferior--the worst kind of immigrant, the one who could not fit into Xuyan society.

”You are checking,” I said, curtly. ”Is that red aircar yours?”

He laughed. ”You Americans--”

It was a deliberate insult, and it smarted. But I would not give in to anger; that would only reinforce his low opinion of me. ”Is there anything I can do for you?”

”Tell me how things are going.”

”I do not think I can do that,” I started. ”My client--”

”I am not a man you can dismiss that easily, Mr Brooks.”

”I do not doubt that. Still, my progress is my own.”

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