Beneath the Tree of Heaven

“Chieh Hsia?”

Wu Shih turned, looking back up the path between the mulberry trees. His Chancellor was standing just in front of the moon gate, his head lowered, his hands folded into his silken sleeves. “Yes, Cho-hsien. What is it?”

“There is news, Chieh Hsia. From Weimar.” “Ah . . .” He looked down at the pink and white blossoms scattered on the red-tiled path. “Was the proposal passed?” “It was, Chieh Hsia.”

“And the amendment?”

“That, too,.Master.”

He looked up. “So why the long face, Cho-hsien? What ill news accompanies the good?”

Fen Cho-hsien came forward, then bowed and handed his T’ang a sheet of paper. Wu Shih read it through, then looked up, a heaviness descending on him. It was the draft of a proposal to be put before the House within the month—a proposal to increase the powers of the House and give them a say in the financial arrangements of government—arrangements which at present were the sole concern of the Seven. Put simply, it was a grab for power, real power.

“This is new, I assume.”

“It is, Chieh Hsia.”

The old T’ang took a long breath, then shook his head. “I am surprised, and disappointed. I thought—“ “It was Kennedy, Chieh Hsia.”

Wu Shih smiled weakly. He had not needed his Chancellor to tell him who was behind this.

“He calls our bluff, neh?”

Fen Cho-hsien said nothing, but his eyes, watching his master, were eloquent. You must act, they said. You must do something now. Wu Shih turned, looking out across the great gardens of Manhattan, the perfect blue of the sky, the fresh-washed greens of the trees no longer exerting their calming spell over him. He had thought to find peace here—to inure himself against the news, whatever it was, that came from Weimar. But this . . .

He looked back at his Chancellor, feeling suddenly weary beyond his years. “If we allow this to be put before the House, there will be chaos within the year.”

“And if we refuse to allow it?”

“It will come sooner.”

“Then what are we to do?”

Wu Shih shrugged. For once he did not know. “Has my cousin, Tsu Ma, contacted me yet?”

“Not yet, Chieh Hsia.”

“Ah . . .” He sighed, his left hand pulling at his beard. “Tell him I wish to see him. Tell him—tell him we need to talk.” “Chieh Hsia.”

Fen Cho-hsien bowed low, then turned away, disappearing through the moon gate. A moment later he could be seen climbing the steps to the palace. Wu Shih sighed deeply. So the day had come at last. The day he had tried so carefully to avoid. But part of him had always known. A man like Kennedy ... it was difficult to bridle such a one. Yes. But what was he to do? It was as he’d said to his Chancellor. Kennedy had called his bluff and now he must either carry out his threat or lose his hold over the man. And if he carried out his threat. . . He let his breath whistle between his teeth. Not yet. I’ll not decide it yet. Then, as if he had made some kind of decision, he nodded and walked on. But as he made his way along the path his tread was heavier and his head hung despondently, as if a great weight were pressing down upon his shoulders.

michael poked his head round the bedroom doorway, looking in at her. Mary was sitting at her dressing table, her back to him. “Em. We’ve got to talk this through. Now. Before Joe arrives. All this”—he threw his hands up in despair—“it’s not going to solve anything!” He took two paces into the room, then stopped. He could see her face now in the mirror. She was looking down, angry, her mouth set, her fists bunched in her lap like a fighter’s.

“Em ...” he pleaded. “We’ve a houseful of guests. You can’t just sit there and ignore them.”

He stood there, waiting for her to respond, but there was nothing. She was like a statue, impermeable. He sighed resignedly. “Okay . . . come when you’re ready. But understand this. I’m as pissed off as you about that amendment. Joe had no right. But tonight—well, tonight’s not the right time to raise it.”

“Then when is?”

It was the first thing she had said to him since she’d returned.

“I’ll speak to him tomorrow. I’ll go over and see him.” “No.” She turned to face him. “Tonight. After the party. And not just you, Michael. Us. I’ve one or two things I want to say to Joseph Kennedy myself.”

He raised his hands defensively. “All right. Have it your way. But afterward, okay?”

“Okay,” she answered quietly, her face softening toward him.

He smiled. “Good. Then come on, my princess. Let’s go and show ourselves.”

kennedy arrived an hour later. There was a huge cheer and the band started up as he came in through the big double doors and down the steps, his wife Jean on his arm. Michael and Mary were there at the foot of the steps to greet them, embracing them, then turning to lead them to the center of the crowded ballroom, where, on a rostrum shaped like the continent of North America, a huge tiered cake awaited them. It was Kennedy’s thirty-fifth birthday and, coincidentally the fifteenth anniversary of his marriage to Jean. As they posed for the media cameras, Michael drew Mary aside.

“Did you get a present?” he whispered.

“Two,” she answered.

“Two?”

“One for now, one for later.”

He looked at her, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Just what are you up to, Mary Lever?”

“Trust me,” she said out of the corner of her mouth, as if it were a joke—but her eyes were cold and hard.

For the next two hours there was no time for anything but the social whirl. Then, as the great bell sounded midnight, a curtain at one end of the hall swept back and four liveried servants stepped forward, bearing a huge silver tray between them. On the tray was an irregular, bulky shape, covered in a bright red, white, and blue silk flag. “What’s this?” Kennedy asked, laughing, turning to Michael. “It’s your birthday present,” Mary answered, smiling tightly, reaching out to take Michael’s hand.

Kennedy turned, watching the servants approach through the parting crowd. As they stopped, he stepped forward and, looking about him, took hold of the silk and tugged it back.

There was a gasp of surprise, then a great tide of applause and cheering. It was a tiny artillery piece, the iron barrel a dull, unreflecting black, the wheels and limber of ancient polished wood. Kennedy turned, beaming. “Why, that’s beautiful!” Michael was nodding. “It sure is.” He motioned to the servants. “Lift it up, so everyone can see!”

As the great tray was raised and the cannon came into view, there was a ripple of applause and a loud whooping from near the back, where some of Michael and Kennedy’s contemporaries were gathered about the bar. “Thank you,” Kennedy said, stepping across and embracing first Michael and then Mary. “Where in the gods’ names did you get it?” She handed him the gold-and-blue envelope. He stared at it, then whistled.

“Aiya! You shouldn’t have.”

“No,” she said coldly. “We shouldn’t.”

“What is it?” Kennedy asked quietly, looking between them. “Afterward,” Mary answered, leaning close as if to kiss his cheek, a tight smile on her face for the watching cameras, “in Michael’s study.”

it was after three when things finally broke up. Kennedy had sent his wife home and the rest of the crowd had gone on to The Kitchen to continue the celebrations, which left just the three of them in the dimly lit study. Michael went around his desk and sat, tired after the day’s exertions, his movements slow, exaggerated by the harness. Mary sat in one of the big cane chairs close by, watching him. With every day that passed he resembled his father more, that same jawline, that same inflection in the voice; yet he was very much his own man—a better man than Charles Lever had ever been. Just now he stared at Kennedy with a mixture of anger and disappointment. In that he differed from her. She was simply angry. Michael hesitated, then leaned forward, looking directly at Kennedy, who was standing, facing him. “So why the amendment, Joe? What happened?” Kennedy sighed, then looked back at Michael apologetically. “I had to. The whole package was conditional on it. Without that we’d have lost the vote, and then we’d have been back to square one, but with our reputation discredited.”

She laughed. “You mean you don’t think it’s discredited now?” Kennedy turned, staring at her. She had tried to keep the anger, the bitterness she felt, from her voice, but she hadn’t quite succeeded. “No, I don’t. I still think we can achieve something. But it’s different there. Weimar ... it simply isn’t like it is here. Straight-talking doesn’t work there. Deals. That’s how the House works. Deals.” She nodded, looking at him as if he’d just confirmed her worst suspicions. “You don’t understand,” he went on. “The measure will be temporary. A year, eighteen months at most. Until the Seven can get some extra production capacity. Wu Shih’s new orbitals, the new hybrids. Things will change. And with the new controls—“ “You sound just like them,” she said, interrupting him. “Deals. Temporary measures. Things will be better once . . .” She shook her head. “But they’re never any better, are they? Not for the Lowers. They’re the ones who are getting it in the neck. As for First Level, it escapes untouched, doesn’t it? Every time. Every damn time.” “They’d never pass it.”

“No? And why’s that? I’ll tell you. Because they’re all too much in the pocket of their rich friends. They’re all like you—afraid to rock the boat. Afraid to take even the tiniest little bit from those who have it all. Change . . . you don’t want Change, Joseph Kennedy, you just want a cushy ride, that’s all!”

Michael had been watching them, his eyes narrowed. Now Kennedy turned to him.

“Does your wife speak for you, too, Michael?” Michael sat back a little. “No. Em calls it as she sees it. She’s her own person. But this once I agree with her. I think it was a pretty foul thing to do, slipping that amendment through. Millions ... no, tens of millions are going to suffer because of that—families, children— while First Level pays nothing. I don’t just think that’s poor, 1 think it’s really shitty on your part, and the Joseph Kennedy I used to know would have thought so too. So what went wrong, Joe? Where did all of that fine talk lead? To this? To pissing on the little people because they’ve got no vote, no say in things?”

Kennedy took a long, deep breath, then shook his head. “It wasn’t like that. It—“ “You’re their tool, Joe. Can’t you see it? Piece by piece they’ve bought you and controlled you. A year ago you were really something. A king. A real leader. But now...” Michael shook his head dismissively letting the full bitterness of his disappointment show in his face for the first time. “Now you’re just a puppet, Joe, jerking to their tune. I don’t have to see into those smoky rooms where you make the deals to see that. I can see it right now, in your face.”

Kennedy stared back at him a moment, then looked down. Michael met Mary’s eyes briefly, then looked back at Kennedy, suddenly businesslike.

“I’ll be making a statement. Later this morning, at nine. In it I’ll announce that I’m resigning my seat and quitting the NREE” Kennedy looked up. Both he and Mary were staring at Michael now, astonished.

“I’ll mention nothing of what passed between us here tonight, simply that growing political differences have forced this decision on me. It’s not my intention to stand again, nor to involve myself in politics in any shape or form, so you’ve no need to fear me setting up a rival party. But if it damages you, well, I can’t say I’ll be that unhappy. What you did today was unforgivable.”

Kennedy was silent a moment, then he nodded. He looked older, more haggard, than they’d ever seen him. His whole frame seemed drained suddenly, his eyes shocked.

“I. . .” He shrugged, then, quietly, “I’d better go.”

“A second. . . .” Mary said, then got up and crossed the room.

Kennedy watched her, not understanding.

“A parting gift,” she said, coming back.

Kennedy took the long tube from her, surprised. It was very light, the container wrapped in the blue and gold of Hythe-Mackay. He made to open it, but she shook her head.

“Not now. Later, when you get home.”

He hesitated, looking from one to the other, his eyes—his whole manner—regretful, apologetic. Then, abruptly, he turned and left the room. Mary turned and looked at Michael, meaning to thank him for what he’d done, but Michael was staring down at the empty desk, his clenched fists pressed hard against the desk’s edge, his face crumpled in a grimace of pain, like a bewildered little boy’s.

She shivered, understanding. Dreams die.

Then, knowing what she had to do, she went across and sat on the desk beside him, drawing him into her arms and cradling his head against her breasts until the sobbing stopped.

CHAPTER TEN