Beneath the Tree of Heaven

“Major Kao?”

He jerked his head up, meeting the young woman’s eyes. Strong, hazel-colored eyes that could have been Han. “Forgive me,” he began, “but should we be in here? Your father ...” She smiled pleasantly. “You misunderstand, Major Kao. This is my study, not my father’s.”

“Ah . . .” Chen blushed. Already he was showing his gaucheness. The truth was he had met many great men and their families, but never, before this moment, had he been inside one of their Mansions. That had always been someone else’s job—someone more senior and less Han than he. But this time he had been determined. He was going to let no one take this case out of his hands.

He hesitated, looking about him once more, then, faintly embarrassed, pointed to the large hemisphere close by that had caught his attention. “Forgive me, Nu Shi Shang, but just what is that?” She laughed and came across. “It’s known as a HoloVisual Imager, but I call it my Magic Theater. It’s a miniature stage, you see. The actors are tiny holograms. It’s programmed to perform most of the major Han plays, but you can program it yourself if you like. You can write your own plays, make your own characters ... do what you want with it, really.” She stared at the hemisphere fondly, one hand resting lightly on its curved glass surface, then looked back at Chen, smiling broadly. “I’d show you, Major, but I’m sure you’re busy, neh?” “Indeed ...” But he was unable not to answer her smile with his own, her youthful enthusiasm reminded him so much of his own daughter. “It is a very simple matter, Nu Shi Shang, I—“ “Hannah,” she interrupted him. “Please, call me Hannah.” Chen nodded. “Okay . . . Hannah. All I need is your verbal statement about what happened yesterday. Once that’s done I’ll get that transcribed and we’ll send you two copies, one for your signature and return, the other to keep.”

“I understand. Well. . . shall we go over to the desk, Major?” He hesitated. “It is Chen. Kao Chen. I...” He looked away briefly, then looked back at her. “All these things . . . I’ve not seen anything like them. They . . .” He shrugged, not quite knowing what he meant. “They’re just things,” she said offhandedly, clearing a space on the desk, then pulling out a chair. “My father has collected a lot of things across the years. If I like them, he lets me keep them.” She turned, looking back at him. “They come from all over. His office, you see ...” Chen raised a hand, indicating that he understood and really didn’t wish to know. What the Thousand Eyes did—what they sanctioned— really wasn’t his business.

“I have a tape,” he said, going across. “You can either speak directly into it, or I can prompt you with questions.” She indicated the chair, then went around the desk and sat, facing him.

“You ask, I’ll answer. That’s probably the best way, neh?” Chen nodded, then sat, placing his bag down beside the chair. Taking the tape from his tunic pocket he snapped the seal, then placed it on the desk between them. From this moment on it would record all that was said between them. Chen looked down at the timer at his wrist and spoke. “The date is the fifteenth day of March, 2212, and the time is twenty-seven minutes after eight in the morning. My name is Major Kao Chen of the Tang’s Security Service and I am in the Mansion of Junior Minister Shang Mu, interviewing his daughter, Shang Han-A, concerning the incident that took place yesterday afternoon in the Mid levels of Rathenow stack.” Chen looked across the desk and met her eyes. “So, Nu Shi Shang, what exactly were you doing in the Mids at Rathenow?” “I go to College at Rathenow. When there are no lectures, I often go down the levels. I like to see what’s happening down there.” “College?” Chen frowned. “But I thought you were only sixteen?” She smiled. “I graduated early, Major Kao. If you had checked my personal records, you’d have seen that I’ve been there a year and a half now.” “Ah . . .” He’d known about the College. In fact the dead man had been a graduate of Rathenow. All of his known associates there had already been arrested for questioning, but Chen had not thought to check on the girl. He’d assumed, because of her age, that she was still at school. Besides, he’d been loath to pull her file from Central records, just in case the Thousand Eyes had security tags on all their employees’ families’ files. The last thing he wanted was for the Thousand Eyes to come down hard on him.

“I didn’t know him,” she said, before he could speak again. “The man who was killed, I mean. I saw him clearly as he ran past me, but I don’t think I’d ever seen him before. Mind you, that’s not really surprising, is it?” “No ...” But he was still thrown by the fact that she was at College at all. He had been assuming that it was sheer coincidence that the Junior Minister’s daughter had been there, of all places, when the man had been cornered with the File, but now he began questioning that assumption. What if she had been there for just that reason—to meet the man and take the File? For there was no doubt about that—she had the File. Here, possibly, in her rooms, or somewhere else. Somewhere she’d hidden it, between yesterday afternoon and now.

“What do you do at College?”

“Is that relevant, Major Kao?”

“Maybe not. I was just interested. If you want to move on ... ?” “No. It’s okay. I study art. Art and sculpture. Those paintings and sketches on the wall behind you. They’re mine.” Chen turned, looking at them again, impressed. “Yours? I thought...” He turned back. “You’re certain you’d never seen the man before?” She smiled. “No, Major Kao. I was watching the hua pen, you see. Sketching him. . . .”

“Sketching him? You mean, with paper and pencil?”

“No. With a sketchboard. You know, one of those computer-generated

things.”

“I know. My son has one. He, too, wants to study art.”

“Your son?”

Chen waved the question aside. “Look . . . can I possibly see your sketches? They might help us in some way.” “Of course,” she said, getting up. “I think I left the sketchboard in the other room. If you’ll wait just a second or two . . .” He turned, watching her go through, expecting her to come back and say she couldn’t find it, to make some excuse. But when she returned, it was with the sketchboard. She came across, handing it to him. “You know how to work it?”

Chen nodded, then fiddled with the controls, trying to remember how to summon up the last few stored items. “They’re a nuisance to clean, neh?” he said, looking up at her.

“Here,” she said, leaning across him to tap out an instruction on the touch pad. “I only made one sketch. I’d have made more, but there wasn’t time. I’d barely finished this one when it all happened.” He stared at the sketch, surprised. If she had taken the inner workings out of the machine, then she could not have kept the sketch, but here it was, and from the security camera records he had seen, she had captured the scene about the hua pen almost perfectly. “It’s very good,” he said, handing it back to her. “Perhaps we could have a copy ... for the investigation file. There just might be something in it that will help us.”

She smiled. “Of course. I’ll print one out and send it to you. Oh, and I could sketch the man for you, if you like. I’m told I’ve a good visual memory.”

For a moment he had begun to doubt his own theory—to think he’d been mistaken—but her words made him reassess things. A good visual memory. So it was possible that she had reworked the sketch on a second, a spare, sketchboard, just in case someone like himself should come asking awkward questions.

Chen looked down at the dispatch bag which lay beside his chair. “No.

There’s no need. But if you would tell me now what you saw.” As he listened to her, Chen thought it all through, examining all the angles. She had the File. There was no doubt of that. She had removed it from the scene in the inside of her sketchboard. But why? And was it only coincidence that she had been there at that very moment? It seemed unlikely. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that she was involved—that she in fact knew the man who’d died. Checks could be made, of course, and if they could find a camera record of her talking to him, then the matter could be proved. Alternatively, they could search the Mansion and locate the File. Both were fairly routine and straightforward procedures. The question was, did he really want to do either?

It wasn’t just the fact that her father was a Junior Minister in the Thousand Eyes and senior adviser to the First Dragon himself, though that was not something to be readily dismissed. It was more to do with how he himself felt about this matter. To have this young woman arrested, to have her tortured and eventually killed, simply for knowing the truth about their world—was that right? Or was it, as he had increasingly begun to feel, a kind of evil?

Chen felt himself go cold, remembering what he himself had seen, at the research station—Kibwezi—he had been posted to, three years before. He had seen then what the system he served was capable of— of the moral depths his Masters plumbed to keep their world in check—and had been changed by the experience. Oh, he still served, for that was all he really knew, yet it was with a kind of self-disgust, and with a desire, if possible, to do what he could, however small, to counterbalance that great evil. As she came to the end, he gave a tiny bow and, his decision made, stood, picking the tape up off the desk.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “That’s all 1 need. We’ll terminate the interview here, at—“ he glanced at his timer—“forty-nine minutes after eight.” He placed pressure on the top of the tiny unit, switching off the tape and sealing it.

“That’s all, then?”

He nodded. “Yes. You’ll get the copies of your statement. Oh, and your father will get a copy of the final report. Apart from that, well. . . it was very pleasant to meet you, Hannah. Very pleasant indeed.” She stood, then came around the desk. “Forgive me, Kao Chen . . . I’ve just realized. I forgot to ask the servant to bring the ch’a. If you’ve time?” She raised an eyebrow inquisitively. “No,” he said, tempted by her offer, wanting to ask her about the various things in the glass-fronted cabinet behind him, curious to see the Magic Theater in operation. “It’s kind of you, but I must get back. I’ve a lot to do. Besides, I haven’t seen my family in three days. You know how it is.”

She laughed. “I wish I did. I’m afraid I don’t get on with my father’s second wife, nor with my half brother and sister. We are too ... well, different, let’s say. Oh, it’s not a racial thing, Kao Chen. It’s just. .

.”

“I understand,” he said sympathetically, seeing it all clearly. “It must be difficult for you.”

“Difficult?” Again she laughed, but this time there was a hint of sourness. “She is the First Dragon’s youngest sister, you understand. A very important lady. It was a convenient alliance for my father, but some days I think she would have preferred my father’s first marriage to have been . . . without issue.”

Chen winced inwardly at the pain he heard in her voice.

“Is it that bad?”

She looked back at him, forcing herself to smile. “Sometimes. But I can give as good as I get. I was eight when my mother died. Nine when my father married that woman. It toughened me up, you might say. Forced me to be a survivor. And that’s what it’s about, neh? Surviving. Or so my father’s friends all say.”

“Maybe . . . but there ought to be more to life than that, neh?”

She nodded.

“Anyway, I must go now.” Chen bowed, then turned, making for the door.

“Major Kao?”

He turned back. “Yes?”

“Your bag...”

“Keep it. I think you might find it... interesting.”

“Interesting?” She stared back at him, her eyes half lidded. “You’ll see.” He smiled. “It was pleasant meeting you, Hannah. I’m sorry that our acquaintance has to be so brief, but good luck.” He bowed again, then turned, making his way out. And as he walked down the long, luxuriant corridor, following the House Steward, he smiled, imagining her surprise when she opened the bag. Small things, he thought, letting himself be ushered out of the great doorway. That’s all we can do to counter the great evil in our world. Small things. And yet, for once, he felt pleased, as if he had done something big. He laughed and walked on, making for the lift. Something that would reverberate.

an sheng’s palace lay in the valley just below them, its tiled roofs a gleaming red in the late afternoon sunlight, its high white walls heavily patrolled by armed guards. As they made their way down, a horseman rode up the path to greet them, dismounting and pressing his forehead into the dust at the First Dragon’s feet.

“Highness,” the man said breathlessly, lifting his head but keeping his eyes averted, “my Master was not expecting you until this evening. But he greets you warmly and asks you to accompany me.” The First Dragon grunted, then turned, looking to Shang Mu. “I suppose Prince An knows best.”

“He would have good reason, I Lung,” Shang answered quietly, conscious of how he would have felt had the First Dragon descended on him three hours early. “I am told Li Yuan has spies in all the households. Prince An would want to make sure that news of our visit did not get back to the wrong ears.”

The First Dragon smiled tightly. “Ah. Of course.” He turned back to the waiting servant. “Lead on, man. One of my servants will take your horse.” At the gate An Sheng’s third son, Prince Mo Shan, a tall man in his thirties, was waiting to greet them formally. With a minimum of fuss he ushered them through into the cool of a small anteroom where a table had been laid with sweetmeats and wine.

“You must forgive us, I Lung,” the prince said, dismissing the servants and going to the table, intent on honoring the First Dragon by serving him himself. “My father sleeps in the afternoon and 1 am loath to wake him before he has had his full rest. After all, such matters as must be discussed ...”

He let the elliptic nature of his words hang in the air a moment, then half turned, looking down at the table. “However, would you have some refreshments after your journey, I Lung?” Shang Mu, standing to the right of the First Dragon and two steps back, watched the side of his Master’s face, noting the tension in his neck muscles. The First Dragon was clearly put out. Even so, he smiled and made polite conversation, as if nothing were amiss. Maybe, Shang thought, this is a power game of some kind. Maybe An Sheng thinks the First Dragon has come early to make some kind of point, and is acting thus to demonstrate that he will not be hurried into anything. If so that was worrying, for it spoke of mistrust and potential division, and that was the last thing any of them needed right now.

The First Dragon turned, looking at him. “Shang Mu? Will you have something to drink?”

“A cordial, Master,” he said, noting the coded signal they had agreed on earlier. If the First Dragon looked elsewhere when he addressed him, he was to say nothing; but if he looked directly at him . . . Shang Mu looked past his Master at the prince. “A man needs his rest,” he said, watching Mo Shan pour him a silver tumbler of the cordial, “and a great man more than most. He cannot afford to be tired. His responsibilities are great, therefore his mind must be clear, like a mountain stream.”

Mo Shan handed him his drink. “So it is, Master Shang. Especially when the matter is as great as this.”

The First Dragon came closer. “Your father has discussed this with you, Mo Shan?”

“I am my father’s hands, my father’s eyes. To be effective I must know what he is thinking.”

Shang Mu smiled, understanding at last. Whether they had arrived early or late would have made no difference. They might dine with An Sheng, but they would deal with his son.

The First Dragon, quick to pick up on what was happening, spoke to Shang Mu again, this time looking to the prince and smiling as he did so. “It is as I was saying on the journey here, Shang Mu: a great man is made greater by the ability of his servants, and who is more loyal a servant than a son?”

He raised his tumbler, toasting Mo Shan. “I trust you will be as the lips to the teeth.”

“You understand then, 1 Lung?”

“Of course. It is only right that your father keep aloof from such matters. Indeed, it would be easier for us all were we to keep this matter . . . informal” “Informal, I Lung?”

“Exactly. Great men are like great ships, they leave a huge wake wherever they go. It is easy for the eyes of the Hsiao jen—the little men—to see them, neh? Whereas, if this matter were dealt with at a ... let us say, slightly lower level...”

Mo Shan smiled, then turned, looking directly at Shang Mu. “You speak, then, for the Ministry, Master Shang?”

Shang Mu returned the smile, but it was the First Dragon who answered. “My son-in-law speaks for us all, as uncle and brother speak for the family.” “Then let us talk, Master Shang. But first, I Lung, let me take you through to my father’s rooms. I understand he is waking and wishes to greet his old friend.”

“And I him.” The First Dragon glanced at Shang Mu, giving a terse nod,

then went across, moving past the waiting prince and out into the

corridor.

Alone, Shang Mu looked down into his tumbler and heaved a sigh. He understood. It was not merely a matter of who dealt with whom, but who would take the blame if things went wrong. This way it would be he and the young Prince, Mo Shan, whose heads would fall were their conspiracy to be uncovered. An Sheng and the First Dragon would claim no knowledge of it. It was a frightening thought, yet that was the way of it, and he accepted it. Besides, the I Lung was right. A single meeting with An Sheng would draw little attention. After all, it was the job of the First Dragon to keep in touch with all the Heads of the Twenty-Nine. Yet to be seen in An Sheng’s company too often would draw unwanted notice. No, it was best this way. And if their scheme succeeded it would do him no harm to have played so prominent a role.

Shang Mu put the heavy tumbler to his lips and drained it at a gulp, then went across, pouring himself a second. Listening to the First Dragon only a moment before, he had realized just how far they had come in the last twenty-four hours. The first step had been taken. They had done enough already to warrant execution. From here on there could be no mistakes. To survive he had to succeed.

In a week he could be dead, all trace of his family erased from the records. It was an appalling thought. And yet, what better incentive could he have been given? What better stimulus to make him think clearly and plan carefully? No, the First Dragon had been clever— very clever indeed. And he would repay the great man’s trust. He would make this great enterprise work. Because to fail was unthinkable. To fail was . . . well, it was not an option.

He heard footsteps. A moment later Prince Mo Shan appeared in the doorway. Now that the First Dragon had gone, he seemed more relaxed, as if he had cast off a skin.

“Well, Master Shang,” he said, turning slightly, indicating the open door, the corridor beyond, “it would be a shame to waste the sunlight. Let us walk in the gardens, neh? I am sure we have much to discuss.”

it was after one when Chen finally got home. The hallway was in darkness, but there was a light on in the kitchen at the far end. He went through, thinking it might be Wang Ti, up late, waiting for him, but it was a stranger, a young Han in her late teens. She turned, eyes wide, then, drying her hands quickly, gave a bow.

“Who are you?” he asked quietly, pulling the door to behind him, concerned not to wake the household. “Where is Tian Fen?” “She had to leave, Major Kao. I am her cousin, Tian Ching.” “Ah...” He looked about him at the kitchen, satisfied by the cleanliness, the orderliness, he saw, not unhappy that the slovenly Tian Fen had left. She had been trouble from the start. He looked back at the girl. “So you’re my wife’s new helper?”

She nodded.

He studied her a moment. She was a good-looking girl. Her hair was neatly cut, her clothes simple and modest, but there was an air about her. His eyes were drawn back to her face, to the smoothness of her skin, the freshness of her features. He smiled, then moved past her, inspecting what she had been doing, lifting the lid of the big cooking pot and sniffing deeply.

“What is this?”

“Green jade soup, Master.”

“Ah . . .” He put a finger in the cold soup, tasting it. “Hmm.”

“Would you like me to warm some up for you, Master?” Her offer surprised him. He turned, looking at her, conscious suddenly of her proximity, of the soap-scrubbed scent of her, the way she looked at him, willing to please.

“Why not?” He laughed gently, then sat at table, watching as she poured some of the soup from the pot into a small bowl and began to heat it up, enjoying the simplicity of being tended to. Wang Ti had once done this for him. But that seemed long ago now. Long, long ago. He sighed and looked down.

“When did you start here, Tian Ching?”

“Tuesday, Master.”

Tuesday? He looked up, surprised. But that was five days ago. Surely it hadn’t been that long since he’d last been here? For a moment he watched her as she worked. Again it made him think of Wang Ti and die times he had sat like this, watching her at work, enjoying the simple sight of her body in movement, of the strength in her arms and shoulders. He shivered, then looked away.

“There . . .”

She placed the soup in front of him, then handed him a porcelain spoon. Heated up, the soup smelled delicious and he spooned it down quickly, not realizing he had been so hungry. “So?” he said, pushing the bowl away. “How are you finding things?”

She was standing there, facing him across the table. At his question her eyes widened slightly and then she laughed—a soft, strangely sensual laugh, the whole of her face lighting up. “It’s hard work, but I’m used to that. I’m the eldest of eleven children.” “Eleven?” Chen laughed, sitting back slightly, beginning to enjoy himself, to unwind after a long, hard day. “So you started early?” She nodded, her smile broadening. “They used to call me Shoo nai nai, little grandmother. Even so, I got my schooling. There’s many still who can’t say that.”

“Yes . . .” He looked at the bowl. “Is there more?”

“Of course . . .” She hesitated, looking past him at the door. He turned in his seat. His fourteen-year-old son, Jyan, was standing in the doorway, looking in bleary eyed, his sleeping robe pulled tight around him. Chen went across to him and hugged him close. “Jyan, love . . . Couldn’t you sleep?”

The boy stared past his father at the maid, then looked back up at him. “I heard voices. I thought. . .”

Chen heard the scrape of the bowl being picked up, the clink of the spoon as it was placed on the side.

“It’s all right,” the girl said, moving past them, stopping in the door to

bow. “It is time I was in bed. Good night, Master. Good night, young

Jyan.”

Chen returned her brief smile. “Good night. . . .” He looked down at his son again, noting how Jyan turned his head, watching her go, the light of suspicion in his eyes, and sighed inwardly. The last thing he needed just now was trouble at home. “So how are things?” he said brightly, lifting Jyan’s chin. “How has your mother been?”

Jyan shook his chin free, looking away, his jaw set stubbornly. “You ought to know that yourself. You ought to spend more time with her.” Chen smiled wearily. “You’re right. But it’s not possible right now. Things are difficult. We’re six men short and the workload has doubled this last year. It’s hard to cope as it is.” Jyan made a small, irritable movement. “Even so . . .” “Look . . . I’m here now, okay? And tomorrow night I’ll get back early. I promise I will.”

“You always say that. You never are.”

“Look, I promise. All right? Maybe we’ll get one of the new trivees out.

Maybe—“

Jyan’s voice broke in brutally. “I’ve seen them all. Besides, I’m not talking about me. I’m all right. It’s Mother. She needs you and you’re never here. She—“ “AH right! Enough! I don’t need you to tell me what I ought or ought not to be doing.” He turned away, trying to calm himself, trying to still the anger, the frustration, he felt at that moment. “Look, Jyan,” he said quietly “try and understand, will you? I am a Major in the T’ang’s Security service and my work is very important. I can’t just leave it whenever I want to. If something urgent comes up, I have to deal with it there and then. And if that means that I’m away more than I’d like, that can’t be helped. Not now.”

“So when?” Jyan asked, his young eyes full of hurt. “When does it start to get better? When will you have some time for us?” Chen sighed. “I don’t know. Soon. . . . Look, it’s difficult right now. There have been a lot of changes. Things are in flux. But they’ll get better. It’s just a phase. It’s . . .” He shrugged. “Look, I love you all. You see that, don’t you? And if I work hard, it’s for you. To keep us here, at this level. To keep you all away from . . . well, away from what’s down there.”

“Down there?” Jyan looked past him again. “Sometimes I think things were better when we were down there. Before you were promoted. Before . . .” The boy stopped, as if he’d come up against a cliff face, but Chen knew what he was thinking. He could see the pain in his eyes, the tightness of the cheek muscles where he struggled to control himself. Jyan was thinking about the loss of the baby. About the moment when Wang Ti had “gone” from them. He shivered, then pulled his son close, holding him tightly. “It’ll be okay, Jyan. I promise it will. Things will change. They’ll be as they were. I promise you.”

Jyan pulled away and nodded; then, wiping his hand across his face, he turned and went out. Chen stood, hearing the pad of his son’s feet along the hallway, the slide of his door as it closed. He sighed, looking about him at the kitchen, then turned back, hearing the door slide again, the feet pad back.

Jyan’s face appeared at the door again. “I almost forgot,” he whispered.

“There was a message. It came just after dinner.”

“A message? Where?”

“On the table in the hall.” Jyan hesitated, then came across and reached up to kiss his father’s neck. “I love you, Dad.” “And I you, my darling,” Chen answered, hugging him briefly. He waited for Jyan to return to his room, then went out. The message was on the table by the door. Chen picked up the long, pale envelope and sniffed at it. It smelled of incense. Going back into the kitchen he sat at the table again, studying the unfamiliar handwriting, then slit the envelope open with his nail and unfolded the single sheet. It was from the girl, the Junior Minister’s daughter. Meet me, it read, at The Golden Carp, eighth bell tomorrow. Wear something casual. No uniforms. I’ve some friends you might wish to meet. Interesting types. Best wishes.

Hannah.

The Golden Carp ... it was in the student quarter of Rathenow. But who were these friends? Were they accomplices? Members of True History? If so, then why was she taking such a chance? Because that was what this was. A rather dangerous chance. For all she knew, his act of kindness might have been a pretense—the bait in a trap. Unless she were genuine, of course: an innocent, unaware of the risks she was running. But that would mean that it really was coincidence that she’d been there just at that moment, and that he simply didn’t believe.

Chen read the note through once more, then took it across to the sink. Taking a taper from the box he lit it, letting the burning paper fall into the empty bowl. Maybe he’d meet her, maybe not. He would see how busy he was. In the meantime he would transcribe the tape and get it to her. Chen lifted the jug and poured some water into the bowl, then sluiced the ash away. There, he thought. Now no one will know. But even as he tried to dismiss the idea, something told him he would go, if only to find out whether he was right about her.

Leaving a single light on in the kitchen he went out and down the hallway to the toilet, standing over the bowl to piss, then turned and went out, crossing the hallway to his room. In the doorway he paused, hearing Wang Ti’s gentle snoring in the darkness, then went inside, closing the door quietly behind him.

He stripped off, down to his breechcloth, then clambered in beside her. She was warm, her familiar scent strong in the dark. For a time he lay there, pressed against her back, hoping she would wake and turn, but there was nothing. She did not move, the rhythm of her breathing did not change. But so it was these days. So it had been for a long time now. It was as if he did not exist. As if...

He shuddered and then turned beneath the sheet, facing away from her, separating his body from the awful, taunting warmth of hers. Maybe that was why he worked so hard. Maybe that was why he kept away so often, so as not to face this torment. For that was what it was. Torment. Endless bloody torment. Only at such times, faced by the darkness and the long hours of the night, did he realize just what he had lost when Wang Ti had gone mad.

Chen took a long, shivering breath, trying to calm himself, to lie there and be at peace, but it was impossible. Sometimes her turned back seemed like a wall, vast and insurmountable, the very symbol of an indifference that was like death itself. He might wait forever and she would never turn and greet him lovingly, as she once had. Oh, he could take her from behind, certainly, and she would not stop him, but neither would she show any sign of wanting him. It would be as if he were making love to a corpse, or to the warm pretense of a human form. But it would not be Wang Ti. It would not be his darling wife.

He sat up, perching himself on the edge of the bed, his bare feet on the floor, his chin resting on the knuckles of his fists, knowing he would not sleep. He should not have come here. Not now. He should have come during the day. This . . . well, this only made things worse. He looked up suddenly. There had been the soft rustling of cloth outside in the hallway. He stood and went to the door, thinking it was maybe his young daughter, Ch’iang Hsin, having nightmares again. But it wasn’t she, it was the new maid, Tian Ching.

“Master ...” she said quietly, giving a tiny bow, then moved past him, going into the toilet and pulling the door closed. Chen stood there, staring into the half dark, conscious of what he’d seen. The girl’s nightrobe had been of a thin, almost translucent cloth, and the shape of her young body, of her breasts and the dark triangle of her pubis, had been clearly visible. He drew a long breath, waiting, then heard the soft, almost musical sound of her urinating into the bowl. Gods, he thought, the stiffness at his groin almost unbearable. How long had it been since he’d had a woman? Two years now? Three? He shivered, watching as she came out again, conscious of her eyes shining briefly, moistly in the half dark as they met his, then looked away. There was no doubting that look. He watched her move past him, conscious once more of the naked form of her beneath the thin cloth. At her door she paused and turned, the briefest smile playing on her lips, and then she went inside. He listened, waiting to hear her door click shut, but there was nothing.

Chen stood there, conscious of the blood beating in his head, his chest, his limbs, desire like a dark tide flowing through him. Then, as if waking, he padded slowly down the hallway, checking at each of his children’s doors to see if they were sleeping. Outside the new maid’s door he stopped, hearing her move on the bed inside the darkened room. He imagined her lying there naked beneath the thin sheet, waiting for him. The door was ajar. He had only to step inside. For a moment longer he stood there, aware of the tension in him, the madness that seemed to boil and bubble in his skull, then, reaching out, he put his hand on the edge of the door and slid it shut.