Michael Scott Rohan - The Gates of Noon

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If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book

is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the

publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment

for this "stripped book."

For Marise, Philip and Lucy

AVON BOOKS

A division of

The Hearst Corporation

1350 Avenue of the Americas

New York, New York 10019

Published by arrangement with the author Library of Congress Catalog Card

Number: 93-20295 ISBN: 0-380-71718-2

portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S.

First AvoNova Printing: May 1994

First Morrow/AvoNova Hardcover Printing: July 1993

AVONOVA TRADEMARK REG. U.S. PAT. OFF. AND IN OTHER COUNTRIES. MARCA

REGISTRADA. HECHO EN U.S.A.

Printed in U.S.A.

RA 10 987654321

BetuventhepedestakofNightandMornmg, Between red death and radiant destre With

not one sound of triumph or of warnmg Stands the great sentry onthe Bridge of

Ftre...

Flecker, The Bridge of Fire

Too angry to wait for the creaky elevator, I went clattering down the dusty

stairs, so fast that I outpaced Dave. I stalked across the little lobby,

ignoring the receptionist's soft-voiced courtesies, and barged straight out

into the sunshine before I stopped to take a deep breath. This wasn't the best

idea. Rumour awarded the atmosphere here one of the world's lowest oxygen

counts, and beyond the air-conditioned shade of the shipping offices the

sunlight beat down on it with the brassy intensity of a gong. The roar of the

city enveloped me, the growl of cars mingled with the deeper cough of the

buses, the high-pitched fizz of the little tuk-tuk taxi-rickshaws and the

flatulent mopeds. A thousand stinks smote my nostrils: smoke, exhausts,

spices, street filth, sweat and all the other statenesses of humanity. Round

here they were pretty considerable, these offices being in a low-rent district

not far from the riverside wharves. Just the kind of one-horse outfit who'd

normally be falling over themselves for the business of a worldwide agency

like ours.

Normally.

I was actually trembling with rage and resentment. I was fed up with this

place. I just wanted to walk, to get away to somewhere less hot and stinking

and uncooperative. I turned on my heel and plunged away through the

counterflowing crowd. A sea of heads hardly reached my shoulder; 1 had to

fight the feeling that I ought to be swimming. But for all the crush and

hubbub, the eternal plastic pop blaring from Japanese blasters, there was none

of Hong Kong's earsplitting jabber, nor the barging you'd find in Western

crowds. By and large this was a quiet-spoken, courteous people; only their

children and their rock bands screeched above the traffic. On the other hand,

1 became aware of nimble fingers

probing my jacket now and again, and was glad I'd zipped away everything in

inside pockets. But that was just this part of town. The crush cleared a

tittle, and Dave caught up. 'All right/1 said heavily. 'You told me so.

Anywhere else? Or is that the lot?'

'Nowhere else/ he said, just as heavily. 'Look, I only wanted you to see for

yourself, that's all, okay? Fro new in the job, I didn't want you of all

people to think I couldn't handle it. You're sort of a hard act to

follow—'specially when it's you I'm reporting to.*

1 stormed on, still too angry to appreciate the compliment. Pounding the

pavements suited my temper. 'Damn it, Dave! It's an everyday deal, this. Just

a simple set of consignments to Indonesia, that's all!'

'Yeah, so simple nobody wants it.'

'But in god's name, why not?* We skipped back as a string of mopeds ran a

light, spattering debris from the gutter, then we plunged across with the

human barrier before any more broke through. *I mean, we couldn't make it any

bloody easier, could we? One or two shipments at most for any big carrier, but

we can feed it through one container at a time if we have to. So how come none

of 'em want it? Not the big boys, not the little boys - not the absolute

bloody dregs back there! Air, sea, land—no matter how we finagle it, this is

the nearest we get. That's hard enough; but from here it's just like running

into a bloody wall!' I glared at him. 'I know damn well just how much pull we

used to have around here! So how come you've somehow managed to lose it in a

week?'

'That's unfair,' said Dave quietly. He flicked his gold-topped Zippo under a

cigarette, shielding it between dark fingers, then slid the lighter carefully

back into an inner pocket he could fasten. It underlined a point; he was no

stranger here, either. 'Look, I'm slipping shipments through points East all

the time, no sweat—as you'd know if you'd read my this month's sheets.

Contracts all nitt and tiddy. Never a bother. It's just this one. And a pretty

penny-ante job at that - or so you say. So why all the fuss? Not doing a

little dealing on the side, are we, already? Arms? Nose candy?*

'For Christ's sake, Dave! You know damn well I*d never —'I caught the jibe,

and reined in my temper. 'Look, I'm sorry, right? I know you can handle things

okay, you're doing at least as good a job at Contracts as I ever did. That's

why I found it hard to believe you could run into such a foul-up over this one

— penny-ante, at

you say. Even when you'd flown out personally. So that's why I came myself.'

'Yeah. When I couldn't fix it. And now neither can you. So you might as well

spill it. What's so important about this pipsqueak account, anyhow, that it

brings our new assistant managing director out and running?*

'Well... *

*Oh, c'mon. I work for you, remember? Why're you so interested - personally, 1

mean?'

I shrugged, and jammed my hands hard into the pockets of my tight silk suit.

'Look, it's nothing like— nothing big, all right? It's just a favour. A Good

Cause one of my political cronies talked me into. Kind of millstone you have

to take on now and again, good for street cred. You know! Could be awkward if

it flops. Bad PR. That's all.'

There was a short silence. Only between us; the roar of business as usual in

Bangkok, that concrete lump dropped into the belly of Asia, filled in the gap.

'We're old mates, remember?* Dave informed me, reverting to his would-be

streetwise manner. He blew a casual jet of smoke back at the street. 'C'mon,

you're not fooling me, Fisher. I know you — workwise, anyhow. I know just how

much trouble you'd take over any given punter - normally, that is. And just

how much temper you'd lose, which is not much. This is something you want to

go right, and not just because of your precious political buddies, either.

Something you care about. And it's just like you to be embarrassed as hell

about that, too.' He shrugged. 'Oh, don't worry. I like that. I like seeing

you forget you're made of wheels and clockwork and cryonic chips, and getting

involved with the human race now and again. It suits you.'

As so often with Dave, I was slightly taken aback. 'Well... I wouldn't say it

like that. Making me out as some kind of altruist or something.'

*Sure. Could ruin your rep.*

'Thank you. I mean, this just fell into my lap - at a Rotary do, in fact.

Someone suggesting we might be able to help out a foundation they were

involved in - friend of a friend, that kind of thing. So I looked into it a

bit further, and it son of ... caught my imagination. Barry and 1 agreed.

Right in our field, dead simple, the sort of thing we could pass through in

ten minutes before tea, so why not? At cost. No skin off our noses.'

*So you send a contracts manager letting halfway round the world, then come

chasing after him yourself? Boy, you sure are ruthless. But don't worry, I

won't spill your secret - if you ever get around to spilling it to me!*

I hesitated. Not because I didn't want to tell him, but because he'd touched

that same old sore point, asking a question I'd been asking myself for some

time now. Why was I so interested? Not just because it was a good cause. Every

business gets swamped with those and soon learns to be hard-hearted; if we

responded to them all we'd be bankrupt in a month, and doing nobody any

favours. So why this one, especially? I'd never come up with an answer -

unless, as I suspected, it was one particular thing 1 didn't want to admit.

Not even to myself.

My furious progress was cut short. Even with my eyes closed I'd have baulked

at the sudden wall of stench that rose before me, riper even than all the

other city stinks put together. Dave wrinkled his nostrils. 'Wow. Try charging

across that crossing and you'd really be in deep -'

The street ended in one of the narrower klongs, the famous city canals that

still serve as home, highway, water supply and sanitation — not necessarily in

that order — for a chunk of the poorer population. A tour boat raised a

churning wake, its cargo of tourists filming the uninhibited behaviour of the

dwellers in stilt-borne shacks along the bank; and it said a lot for the

dwellers that they didn't summarily drown the tourists, and even grinned

curiously at the all-devouring lenses as they buzzed past. For us, too, they

had grins, though they were inclined to stare askance at Dave; Africans were

pretty rare in these parts, let alone Oxbridge-accented Africans in raw silk

suits. Dave chucked his gilt cigarette-end into the turbid brown water, which

swallowed it with a faint greasy belch.

'Yuk,* he observed.

'Yuk it is,' I agreed. 'But all the same, that's what it's all about, here or

anywhere. Water.'

'You call that water?'

To a lot of places it'd be lifeblood. Might even be glad to have it in

California, these days. And Bali. You know, the island—'

'Which just happens to be our consignment destination, right. One more lush

tropical paradise I never get sent to.'

'I haven't been there either. Not yet. Anyhow, you were born in

one.

'The Kano suburbs are a tropical paradise? Oi.'

'Paradise is relative. So is lush. Thing is, Ball's got little or no water of

its own; and that's what this business is all about. It depends mostly on

rainwater flowing down from the central highlands, and there's none too much

of that. Fair shares make the difference between idyll and starvation. It's

been that way for centuries now, so they've evolved a pretty sophisticated

irrigation system to distribute water — so long it's become all mixed up with

their society, their religion, everything. They have these societies called

subaks to govern the community rice paddies, sort of local water-temples with

complicated law codes and judge-priests to administer them. It's democratic,

in its way, and it works. So far.'

Dave nodded. 'We had things like that back home, in some places. Pretty

arbitrary, though - the chief or shaman or elders settling disputes under the

banyan tree, that kind of thing. Or the District Officer, when you guys took

over. This sounds more sophisticated.'

'It is. Complicated as hell. And Ball's changing, just like everywhere else.'

Tourism booming in the eighties and nineties, sure. Rock stars getting married

there, that kind of thing.*

'That - but not just that. The population's expanding - better medicine,

hygiene, the usual reasons. And whatever the cause, global warming or

deforestation or the natural cycle or whatever, the rainfall patterns are

definitely altering. For the worse. The subak system's had its day; the klian

subaks, the priests, they can't cope any more, or soon won't. A few years back

this American college project thought they could get it to hold up by teaching

'em to put the whole damn system on little home computers! But there's got to

be something serious done now, and soon. I can tell you, the central

government's pretty worried. The island's going to need a whole new system, a

couple of desalination plants like they have in the Gulf - and guess what

those cost! Plus more efficient collection, storage, distribution, all

controlled by a centralised computer network. Maximise the use of every last

drop they can get.*

'The difference between idyll and starvation ... ' repeated Dave thoughtfully.

'Seems like a shame. And how the hell are they going to pay for all that?'

'Usual channels - World Bank tending, aid from the Gulf

States, European Community, a lot of places. But it's all pretty tight, after

the debt crisis; that's all earmarked for the desalination plants, and they

won't be operational for maybe ten years. They were going to have to muck

along with the present irrigation system meanwhile, and that could mean eight

or nine crisis years — maybe even hard famine. A hell of a lot of suffering,

plus infant mortality, environmental damage, maybe even epidemics. At the very

least it'd kill the tourist industry stone-dead, and that means less hard

currency, the central government less willing to spend money there — you see

the progression?*

'I do,' said Dave grimly. He'd grown up in the aftermath of the Nigerian

famine; he knew. 'Anybody doing anything?'

'They got one of the US college foundations to step in. It set up a project,

finagled a bit more public and private funding - good PR. So the Project's

buying the most expensive stuff, the sluice engineering and control systems,

in the USA and Europe, and recruiting the manpower; but even there money's

very short. This is an ecologically clean project; big money's not interested,

because there are no massive returns to be made. The islanders will benefit,

and the government's all for it — no political problem involved as far as we

can see. Yet it seems that all along the line there's been trouble,*

Dave cocked his head. 'Now you tell me?'

I felt slightly abashed. I hadn't believed it could affect us, that was all.

'Well, I didn't fully understand it myself, not at first. All I was told was,

the foundation was having a hell of a time shipping their stuff. When I saw

what they could afford to pay, that didn't seem too hard to understand. So we

polished up our haloes and said cost or below. And here we are.'

'Yeah. And we might as well be up to our necks in that damn klong. So it

appears you've heard a bit more about this mysterious trouble since.'

'No, it bloody well doesn't! Just what all our friends and associates here -

our usual associates - let drop when they turned us down, Only to me; they

don't know you that well yet. Vague rumbles, worried mutterings; nothing too

specific. But each and every one of them effectively stuck the black spot on

the whole Project. And you've heard nothing else yourself?'

We fetched up at some huts, and absent-mindedly turned down behind them, away

from the klong. Dave thought back. 'Well, now that you mention it... I didn't

even connect it at the rime.

But old Lee Wang Ji over at Taiwan Star just happened to drop into the

conversation that guerrilla trouble on Jawa might be spreading to Bali. He

didn't add anything.'

'Yes, well, Boonserb at Pacific C did. Hinted the terrorists might have their

knives into the Project. But he was shipping right into Jakarta during the

last big blow-up a couple of years back — and Sulawesi, too. Never stopped him

for a minute. 1 looked up die Bali incidents, and they were just a couple of

bushwhackings, nothing like the same scale. Probably by Javanese fugitives.

You're not telling me that's the reason!'

We strolled along in silence, thinking deeply. At last Dave stopped and fished

for his cigarettes. 'So the shippers are just looking for excuses. Me with my

wicked Third World upbringing, I'd say any block as complete as this has got

to be political. Bound to be. Maybe some other governments in the region ...'

1 felt a great ride of hopelessness surge over me. This was ground I'd been

over and over these last few days. 'Which ones, for god's sake? What could any

of them gain by scuppering this Project? Ball's about the most peaceful place

in Indonesia. Peace, natural beauty, rich farming, good surfing - that's about

the sum total of its resources. No threat to anyone, damn near impossible to

invade...' I sighed, and kicked at the ground. A great fan of dirt showered

out. 'Dave, I don't know... I'm not just being paranoid, am I?'

'Well, we both ...' He finished lighting his cigarette, and blew oat an

irritable blast of expensive smoke. It dawned on us both then; no pavement

underfoot. 'Damn! Just where the hell have we got to?'

We gazed around. Somehow or other the crowded little streets had melted away,

and we were standing in some sort of back alley, barren and dirty and

unusually empty. The walk around us were a wild assortment. Rows of rotting

brown planks, patched with bamboo and rusty corrugated iron, ran right up to

elegant old stonework, pitted and cracked. Pastel plasterwork crumbled away

from the wall of cheap yellow brick that crowded up against it, shedding its

mortar in loose flakes, or absorbed the sordid staining from a cracked

downflow pipe, pooling in fetid puddles at its base. A wrought-iron

fire-escape sagged drunkenly from windows that seemed to be mostly boards,

grinning sharklike with shards of dirty glass. As a child, fascinated, I'd

watched windows like that in old half-empty tenements, a strong wind setting

the glass teeth chattering with a faint chilly icicle music. Now and again one

would work loose and drop with a crash into the sordid lot behind, unregarded

by those within. Here they rippled to a softer breeze, like a hot breath on

our

necks, to a more alien music. We turned round. Behind us we could dimly see a

complex

warren of alleys kinking away in all directions, floored with mud

and refuse, swimming with pools of accumulated unpleasantness.

Dave stared appalled at his elegant brogues. 'Did we realty come

stomping through that stuff? Without noticing?'

'We must have got turned around somehow/1 remarked, and

strode confidently around the next corner. 'So it must have

been..."

1 walked straight into a wall of mist. No other word for it; not a cloud, not

wisps, just a single sudden wall, the way it looks when you come up against it

on a nightbound motorway with too much on the clock and brakes squealing into

lock. One minute I was walking in the late afternoon light, the next I was

stumbling through obscurity where even sounds rang differently, where refuse

piles I'd been carefully avoiding were somehow no longer there. It was warm,

clammy, hard to breathe. Even my footfalls sounded different. 'Dave? You

there?' 'If I knew where there is, I might answer that! I'm sure

somewhere.'

'Can you see anything? What's underfoot?'

'Well, dirt... no, wait a minute. Stone?

'Remains of one of the older buildings, maybe. And dammit, there's even a

pillar of some sort, 1 just saw it over there... damn, it's gone now.1

'Over where?

He answered himself by crashing into me. We staggered back against the pillar.

What felt like very uneven stonework jabbed into my back. The mist was thinner

here, and looking down I saw I was resting on uneven nubs of grey stone, its

surface faintly cracked and lichen-encrusted; it was deeply carved, with what

looked like hanging foliage. I looked up. Dimly through die whiteness 1 could

see what must be other pillars, tall tapering shadows that seemed to stand

alone, supporting nothing more substantial than the coils of mist. I was about

to say something

when Dave grabbed my arm. He didn't need to point. Between two of the columns

there was now a third shadow, inchoate, changing. It took me a moment to

realise it was a human outline, half turning, this way, that way, hunched up

as if it was peering about. For an instant it loomed our way, and I found

myself silent, short-breathed, desperately hoping it wouldn't spot us. Then,

still in that concentrated half-crouch, it disappeared back into die mist.

If anything it left its feeling behind it. A horrible hunted sensation was

growing on me, spreading like chilly lichen. I'd felt something like it once

before, a burgeoning unease in my bones — but where? I looked at Dave. There

was a grey tinge to his skin as if the mist had got under it. I mouthed Let's

get out of here \ and he nodded fervently. Slowly, quietly, keeping a firm

grip on each other's arms, we sidled around the curve of the pillar. Ahead

were other pillars, and we hadn't passed any on our way in; so this ought to

be the best bet. If the normal rules applied, that was...

Why had I thought that? When didn't they apply?

Something was stirring in my memory, something formless as the shadow in the

mist. Something that still woke me in the cold chill hours before dawn,

confused, in conflict, still spinning on a sparking pinwheel of feelings. Less

often, these last few years; but on a night not long ago one girl had put a

hand up to my cheek as I sat there, panting. She'd exclaimed, wondering,

'You're all sweaty! Like a fever! And ...'

Did the silly bitch have to sound so utterly dumbfounded? *Steve, you've been

crying?

A few years earlier I might have thrown her out on the spot; even then I was

tempted. But the strongest feeling in me was loss; only for what? Something

definite, but something I struggled against, something I refused to give shape

to. My great bam of a flat was in darkness; but in the living room below the

gallery that was my bedroom 1 could see a gleam of light, that just seemed to

hang there in the emptiness. I'd got up, padded down the steps past the

clothes she'd scattered there — always a bad sign. The light was only the

moon, shining through the open window on to die grey Portland stone mantel and

the old broadsword I'd hung over it. My designer had shed bitter tears over

that; it was right out of place in his glassy post-modernist vision. Most of

my guests agreed with him, but I wouldn't be parted from it. I touched the

cool perfection of the blade, like still waters. Impulsively I laid my hot

forehead against it, and that seemed to still the confusion. Then I'd mixed up

drinks and taken them back to bed. She'd enough sense not to press me, so we'd

had a pleasant time making the sun come up — but die darkness of that

half-formed dream had lingered. And now, here, I sensed somehow, as with a

hint of a long-forgotten scent or flavour, that it was out of that darkness

all this had come boiling up.

With the pillar in front of us we hastily backed away, darting looks this way

and that as each swirt in the mist threatened us with hidden fears. We'd

rounded a corner; so if we went back—

With switching suddenness there was light around us again, die same warm light

we'd left, the same soft dirt underfoot, the same compounded stinks. After

that formless emptiness they were almost welcome, the stained walls gloriously

solid and confining. 'It's the alley okay!' Dave's grin was a rictus of

relief. 'Now let's get the hell—'

But as we turned around again, we saw that the alley wasn't empty any more. A

minute ago I'd almost have welcomed company, any company; but these...

They were short compared to me, to Dave even; but there were a lot of them.

They were Orientals, but oddly indeterminate, their faces so many scowling

masks of light bronze; and even their own mothers might have called them ugly,

seamed and scarred and broken-nosed, with gaping gravestone teedi. And their

old-fashioned baggy blue pyjamas, bound with heavy black sashes, had an

unpleasant hint of uniform about them, ragged and filthy as they looked. So

did the long wavy daggers in their hands. Their heads lolled mockingly as they

advanced, silendy, flicking the blades with expressive, menacing force.

Equally silently, Dave and I gave back; I saw the sweat gleam on his face,

felt it around my own collar. They came on, steady and relentless, herding us

back towards that crucial corner.

'Can't you do something?' hissed Dave, out of the corner of his mouth.

'Why me?*

'You, die hotshot leader in the strategy team! Wiped the floor with that

Securities team, everyone saying what a fighter you

were—

'With a bloody paint-ball pistol, yes! I haven't even got that here!'

'There's my lighter! They might think

'Going to offer them a Sobrame? I somehow don't think a little flame's going

to worry these guys. We'd need a bloody machine gun—*

But even as I said it, the image that sprang to mind wasn't a gun at all. It

was that sword. I could have used that - couldn't I? In fact, I had. Somehow,

somewhere - where the hell had I picked that thing up, anyhow? Down by the

docks, wasn't it? Nearly eight years back ..,

The docksl

In a summer storm I'd seen a wave arch high over a seawall. It hadn't looked

like much more than spray; but it crashed down on a street of shops and parked

cars, and when the water-curtain pulled back it left a shattered chaos in its

wake. So memory rose and roared down into my thoughts, spilling tangled images

of sea fights and stark terror, of stars and drifting clouds and sails, of sea

and fire and the jar of blade on blade, the touch of a woman who burned from

within, with hair that rose like smoke. Of once upon a darkling field a

swordhilt leaping doglike to my hand. These things had been. Beyond reason,

beyond question, they had been. The certainty shone in me, gem-hard and with

the same fire at its heart. And out of it, sprouting like a time-lapsed

seedling, burgeoned die beginnings of an idea ...

With a screeching yell the leading knifeman sprang, flinging his blade up to

fall on my throat. Fear takes time - I had none. Instinct flung up my arms in

futile self-preservation, but all I felt was anger, furious anger at being

interrupted now, of all times, just when I'd suddenly seen what I had to do.

The dark fire flared. Now, of all times now, to be distracted, killed even -

that couldn't be. To fight back became an instant, all-consuming need, that

sucked me into it like a flooding channel.

The red darkness of oxygen starvation roared in my head, faded to black. A

tiny point of light glittered in the blackness behind my eyes, glittered and

grew against a swirling dimness, turning in a great slow wheeling motion. A

streak of circling light, it sparkled agonisingly against my closed lids,

closer, brighter, larger... My eyelids flew open. No time had passed. The

knifeman still loomed up in front of me, mouth agape; the

knife hung at the top of its sweep, and came slashing down. And into my

outstretched palm something slapped with stinging force.

The blow curled my fingers about it; they dosed and held, tight. The

descending knifeblade clanged against the massive blade 1 held across my

breast, skipped along it and stuck at the hilt. I twisted the heavy blade

viciously, tearing the weapon from the wielder's grasp with a force that

whipped him around and dropped him face down into the mud. The knife clattered

aside. With a yell I sprang forward, treading on his back, and brought the

blade hissing down a hair's breadth in front of the next knifeman's flattened

snout. It thudded into the mud, kicking up a spray. I tore it free and sprang

again, sweeping my way dear with great cirding slashes — horribly clumsy, but

it made the ancient sword rush and sing like a child. The remaining bandits

leaped back, back again, back at every swing till they reached the far end of

the alley. Then I yelled aloud and charged at them, and with one massive

slashing sweep scattered them into its shadows. 'Dave? 'Yeah?' 'Run like hellr

Which he proceeded to do, though he did look back once to be sure 1 was hard

on his heels.

Not for long. He was younger and lighter, and if it hadn't been for sheer and

utter terror 1 couldn't have kept up. No doubt fright was winging his feet,

too. Certainly it made us both forget we'd no idea where the hell we were

running to; any alley without mist and muggers seemed pretty pleasant just

then. And I was almost as frightened of the sword in my hand, and of the

equally sharp and lethal things that swarmed around in my head. Things I'd

made a pretty good job of banishing, all told, these last few years; and yet

never had the skill, or maybe the courage, to forget completely. When had I

last made it back to the Tavern? Three years, was it? Or four?

Wheezing and panting in the sulphurous humidity, I rounded one more corner -

and narrowly missed impaling Dave, who'd stopped stone-dead in my path. This

was a gloomy hole, two small side alleys and a dead-end sink of scum and

sewage the rickety buildings curved out over, their roof tiles almost

touching, as if to hide its shame from the sky. Beneath the arch

they made, as the tropical twilight dimmed the sky, the shadows hung in the

sweltering air blacker than the coming night. Within those shadows, higher

than our heads, something moved.

A mask, one of those processional things you find all over the East — a

monstrous animalian face, long-jawed and triangular, that might have been

remotely based on some bug-eyed nocturnal tiger. Its colour scheme was more

natural than in most Eastern art, tacking the shrieking reds and yellows, a

rich shading instead from autumn russet to glossy leaf-green, offset by

glistening ivory fangs and its scarlet, lolling tongue; but gold-encrusted

ornaments fringed its gaping jaw and sleek silvery mane. It was a rich,

amazing sight, and I found myself wondering who in this lousy quarter could

have hung out such an expensive-looking, vibrant work of art.

Then the staring eyes narrowed, the jaws spilled slaver and the scarlet tongue

lapped it off yellowed leonine teeth. The gilt rustled and jingled as the

monstrous head tossed, threateningly. A soft purring snarl throbbed in the

air, as disembodied as a lion's cough and even more alarming. For Dave and

myself, still jangling from the mist and the knife attack, this was too much.

We yelled with one voice, turned and bolted for our lives. I plunged down the

little side alley to the left, feet skidding on decaying garbage and worse,

and around a corner stacked with boxes of empty bottles and gaudy food

containers. I found myself looking at a wall faced with decaying concrete,

blank except for one door, narrow, low and forbiddingly faced with a single

sheet of zinc, dented, weatherstained but very, very solid.

I grabbed at the handle; it turned freely, but nothing happened. I hammered my

fist on the door; the zinc thudded, but nothing stirred. 'No use, Dave ...' I

panted, and knew even as I looked around that he wasn't there to hear. The

alley was empty behind me, empty and silent save for my own sobbing breath.

But beyond, as I listened, I heard distinctly a soft padding step, plashing

delicately through the muddy stateness. I was about to call out, when I

noticed something about the sound. My jaw damped shut; the sweat started out

in rivulets. Whatever was padding along that way had four legs. Frantically

now 1 battered die door again, kicking it hard enough to mark the zinc and jar

flakes of concrete off the surround, clanging on it with my swordhilt. At

least I had that. Dave must have run the other way; he'd be all right.

Probably. Better it had followed me, I told

myself, and turned again, slowly, putting my back to the unyielding door, to

face it.

The door opened, outwards, so suddenly it sent me staggering. A hand clamped

on my flailing arm, and yanked. Helplessly I lurched into the dark opening,

and the door swung to behind me with a solid slamming boom. I was left leaning

against it, gasping in darkness; there was the soft dull snick of a key

turning, the sharper snap of bolts being shot at foot and head. Then there was

silence. I half expected an impact on the metal, or a soft curious scratching;

but there was nothing. Then long nails brushed my hand, and I jumped

violently. But the fingers that closed over mine were definitely a woman's,

and they drew me away from the door. 1 was in a pitch-dark corridor, it

seemed, with soft matting underfoot, and warm air heavy with stale, sickly

perfume. A little way ahead thin threads of light outlined a door ajar, and

the hand on my arm guided me towards this. A slim arm gleamed, sliding it

gently open. A slender silhouette crossed the dim pinkish light, and

wordlessly drew me in after her.

The door closed softly, and a bead curtain rattled back across it. The room

beyond ...

1 blinked. It was low-ceilinged and shabby, over-decorated in the fashion of a

cheap Chinese restaurant, encrusted with fake lacquer, plastic 'carvings' and

peeling bamboo wallpaper. Except that these carvings wouldn't have graced any

ordinary restaurant, that was instantly obvious; nor would the pictures on the

wall. The heavy scent masked a faint animal smell, tinged with the musky

sweetness of decay.

A soft voice spoke. 'You are safe here. You need fear no pursuit. Will you not

sit and rest?' It was perfect English, with only the faintest tinge of Eastern

staccato. I turned; and whatever I'd meant to say choked in my throat. She was

breathtaking enough in herself; but there was still more to it than that.

Maybe she saw my lips frame a name, for she stretched out a hand in a

strangely elaborate, courteous gesture, bowing from the waist. That left me

even more speechless. For a moment it seemed as if I'd summoned up still more

of my past, as if a gentle ghost of my student days had stepped in to rescue

me.

A delicate oriental face, delicate but strong; but the skin was the light

honey-brown of a tanned European, and the mane of hair that framed it was

ash-blonde, constant from root to tip, a subtle luminous shade that almost

certainly owed nothing to any

dye. Even the strong slender shoulders and the sleek curves of the figure

beneath the loose batik wrap were the same strange mingling of Eastern and

Western forms, strange, lovely and alluring. This could have been the girl I

once knew; whom I'd come nearest to loving, whom I'd long ago thrown over for

reasons that even now I didn't care to dwell on. Whose name, or one that could

be hers, had leapt out at me from the staff lists of the Bali Project

prospectus, and dragged me down into this whole lunatic business.

But though I'd never dreamed anyone else could look like her, it wasn't

Jacquie. Like enough to shake me severely, to throw me back - what was it? -

fifteen or sixteen years. To stir my blood, make my breathing shallow, my

collar far too tight. Alarming, alluring — but not her.

This girl's face was slightly browner, her features smaller, neater, less of

the Chinese in them, nothing at all of the European. Yet she was no Thai,

either; and the same sharp intelligence shone out of those mild eyes, though

her bow revealed that beneath that wrap she was dressed, or undressed, in the

black bikini that was practically a Bangkok bar girl's everyday uniform. She

repeated her offer, and I managed to find my voice.

'It's ... kind of you. Very kind.' The English phrases sounded stilted,

ridiculous. 'You got me out of real trouble there. There were these ...

characters with knives, and then there was

How could I tell her what there was, when I didn't know myself?

She cut me off with another gentle gesture. 'Yes. My pleasure. Sometimes

people are found murdered in those alleys, it comforts me to have helped you.

Will you not sit down? Would you like a drink? Whisky?'

I became aware how shaky my legs were. I let the sword lean against the wall;

she hadn't even glanced at it.' Y-yes. Thank you. I would, very much.*

She smiled, and her hand on my arm guided me to a shabby rattan couch, under a

picture framed in fake gilt. It was one of those night scenes painted with

fluorescent colours on black velvet. An obvious imitation of classic Chinese

art, a Ming dynasty erotic illustration, but the naked figures were crudely

modern, Westernised and very graphic. One man, three women, picked out in

peeling paint in a stilted tangle of limbs and heads and groins that looked

barely possible, let alone enjoyable. The

2.1

girl followed my gaze as she handed me a double measure of yellowish fluid,

and smiled demurely. I sipped, and was startled to find it was a single malt —

not even Chivas, which was the usual status drink around here.

I exhaled gratefully. 'That's bloody marvellous!* She smiled again, and sat

down next to me, stretching out her legs, letting the robe slip back off them.

She looked at me as if she was expecting something. 'Er - my name's Steve, by

the way. Steve Fisher.'

'And mine is Rangda.' She bit off the last syllable with an exquisite 6ash of

pure white teeth, eclipsing her earlier smiles.

I looked at her more keenly. 'Beautiful. It suits you. Not a Thai name,

though, is it?'

She looked down. 'No.' My turn to expect something more, but she didn't

explain. I was about to ask where it did come from when she gave a sudden

explosive giggle, snatched my Scotch and sipped at it. I got the message:

don't ask. 'May I?* she added.

I wasn't quite sure why, until she began to stroke my hair. In this part of

the world they consider the head sacred, not to be touched without permission;

but why should a tart bother, and with a Westerner? Definitely she was

something a bit out of the ordinary. There was no mark of age about her, yet

she seemed much older than the giggling teenage bar girls of the Three

Streets, farm girls most of them who age early in the city.

I looked around, shifted awkwardly on the lurid floral cushions. They had a

faint greasy feel which gave me the urge to burn my suit; but it was a clash

of feelings that made me really uncomfortable. I was strongly aware of her,

this close, the warmth of her skin, the scent she wore as languorous as jungle

orchids, far fresher and heavier than the dismal background odour. The

surroundings were sexy in their way, but it was the blatant pin-up sexuality

of the Phatphong bars. With the girl it was ... different. She radiated

sexuality, availability even; but another kind altogether, hard to fix on. I

didn't know what to make of her; the closest I could get was that the room was

what you might find in any brothel, the girl what you might dream you'd find.

She didn't seem to belong. 'You ... work here, then?'

She raised a sardonic eyebrow. 'When it suits me.' She stretched again, and

her robe fell wider. 'Not... tied to this

place; I come, I go, as I like.' She leaned over and tilted the Scotch to my

lips. 'And with whom I like. Not... necessarily...' She made a nice play of

pronouncing the difficult word, and we chuckled. 'Not necessarily for

business.'

She leaned her forehead against my head; blonde hair brushed my shoulder, lips

brushed my ear. 'Though, I am at home here. You stay as long as you like. We

are not disturbed.*

She guided my hand to the sash of her robe; her warm belly fluttered against

my fingers an instant, and the sash fell away, the robe parted. Almost without

meaning to, I slid my arm around her waist, drew her to me. Almost, because

though my heart was racing furiously, so was my mind. Wheels and clockwork and

cryonic chips, Dave had said. Others had said worse, women especially, and

maybe they were not so far wrong. But there were times it served me well, gave

me a cynical eye, a wary tread and a distrust of illusions ~ most of all my

own. I'd never had much trouble with women, but I knew full well I wasn't that

attractive. Yet she seemed to want to make me feel I was. Not for money maybe,

but then there would be something else, some other thing she wanted, and after

the shocks I'd had I wasn't sure I could cope. I hated anybody manipulating my

feelings, no matter how they did it, power or money or sex or anything else; I

hated any kind of possession. And somehow, surely, that must be just what she

was trying to do.

There was Dave to think about, too; where had he got to? Had anyone helped

him?

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Ifyoupurchasedthisbookwithoutacover,youshouldbeawarethatthisbookisstolenproperty.Itwasreportedas"unsoldanddestroyed"tothepublisher,andneithertheauthornorthepublisherhasreceivedanypaymentforthis"strippedbook."ForMarise,PhilipandLucyAVONBOOKSAdivisionofTheHearstCorporation1350AvenueoftheAmericasNewYor...

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