Free Beneath an Opal Moon by Eric Van Lustbader Page A

so that much of his chest was exposed. Against the naked flesh, dangling like a second heart, was an enormous tourmaline which moved as he moved.
    Yet when one looked at this man, one saw first his face, which was etched with the hard cruel lines that only a lifetime of constant guerrilla warfare can cause. It was a face, flat and circular as a moon, of a power as ancient as the delta upon which the nexus of the city was built. Du-Sing, tai-pan of the Ching Pang, the Greens of Sha’angh’sei, belonged to the earth and it, it was said, to him.
    â€œGentlemen.” A voice like distant thunder, as tactile as it was aural. “Tea?”
    Moichi nodded silently while Kossori looked on, still as a statue.
    Du-Sing’s eyes moved minutely and a young man in black cotton leggings and quilted jacket sprang into motion, filling cups standing on an ornate silver tray on a table along one wall of the room. Moichi accepted his cup but Kossori ignored his. There was nothing Moichi could do about this. He sipped at the hot liquid.
    Du-Sing waited until he had taken that first drink before saying, “We worked well together, once upon a time.” He meant during the Kai-feng, when all men were joined as if from one family. “But that was a long time ago.” The tai-pan had left just a long enough pause between the two statements to give the latter one an ominous note. “You are remembered with great fondness from that time by the Ching Pang, Moichi Annai-Nin.” He sighed and it was like a dam about to burst, a sound of timbers cracking. “That is why I am showing you this courtesy instead of having you executed.” He snapped his fingers and the young man in black leapt to his side, put a cup of hot tea into his hand. It was lost inside that great fist. He drained the cup in one swallow. “And how is the Dai-San, Moichi Annai-Nin?”
    â€œHe is well, Du-Sing.”
    â€œGood. Good.”
    The tai-pan had made his point.
    â€œWhy was I attacked this morning by Ching Pang?” Moichi asked. “As you yourself said, I am no enemy of yours.”
    â€œYes.” Du-Sing lifted a fat finger. “I had thought you a friend of the Ching Pang. Yet you traveled in the company of a Hung Pang spy.”
    â€œHe was a messenger sent by the Regent to fetch me to the Seifu-ke. That is all.”
    â€œIs it?” One eyebrow was raised interrogatively. “We shall find out. Presently.” He peered at Moichi over the rim of the delicate porcelain teacup, etched with gilt butterflies, almost as if he were a demure girl on her first date. “I have had a talk with the Regent. A long talk. And he has agreed to dismiss all Hung Pang from his service.”
    â€œHe has?” This did not sound at all like something Aerent would willingly accede to.
    â€œDo you doubt the words of a tai-pan?” For a moment his eyes blazed within their folds of fat. Then the light seemed abruptly extinguished and a thin smile played about the thick lips; it did not reach any further. “But no, of course not. You would not be so discourteous, would you, Moichi Annai-Nin? No, you have too many highly placed friends in Sha’angh’sei not to see the supreme folly of such a course, hmm?” He signaled silently for more tea, got it.
    â€œCan we get on with this,” Kossori said, and, alarmed, Moichi gripped his arm.
    â€œWhat was that?” Du-Sing raised one eyebrow. “What was that?” He reminded Moichi of a great stage actor; what was real and what was being put on for his benefit?
    The tai-pan took the cup from his lips, swung it from in front of his face. “Mmm, I see that your friend is somewhat more ignorant of the social graces than are you, Moichi Annai-Nin. So be it, then. I shall come to the point directly. I had been circling it only because it causes me much pain.” He put a great paw over his heart and now for the first time he rose up. “It is