Beneath the Tree of Heaven

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Fire in the Lake

He had not been asleep more than four hours when he was woken by a knocking on the bedroom door. “Master Kao!” the maid called urgently. “Master Kao! You must come at once! There is an urgent message for you!”

Chen struggled up from the depths in which he’d been floating and sat up. For the first time in a long, long while he felt relaxed. And happy. He turned, smiling, conscious of Wang Ti there in the darkness beside him. They had made love. For the first time since the loss of her child, they had made love. He shivered, remembering how her eyes had opened to him; how she had softly called his name.

So long he’d waited. So long. . . .

Leaning across her he pulled back the hair from her brow and placed a small soft kiss there, careful not to wake her, then eased back the cover and got up.

He threw on a gown and went out. The maid, Tian Ching, was waiting for him outside, her nightgown tightly wrapped about her. She bowed, then turned, pointing to the vid-phone in the comer.

“It is your office, Master. They said to wake you.”

Chen thanked her then went across.

It was his lieutenant, Wilson.

“Major Kao ... I thought you’d want to know at once. We’ve got our

killer!”

“Alive?”

“Yes, sir. And keen to talk, it seems.”

Chen’s face lit up. “Excellent! How did we get him?” Wilson laughed. “Purest accident, as it turns out! One of our drug squads hit a Triad-run gambling den down-level and picked him up in the trawl. They were about to let him go when his face came up on the screen. So your all-points warning worked! They captured him at Nordhausen, so they’ve taken him to the garrison at Kassel. I’m headed there now.” “Okay. I’ll meet you there. It’ll take me ... what? ... an hour and a half at most. But keep him isolated, okay? And take some of our men—men you can trust—to guard him. If a certain Company director finds we’ve got his man—which I’m sure he will—he’ll be anxious to remove the evidence, and I don’t want any mistakes this time. I want to nail that bastard Comwell!” “Sir!”

He cut connection, then turned away, hurrying to his bedroom to dress. But he had taken only two paces when the vid-phone’s chime sounded again. Chen turned, staring at the flashing screen. “Who the hell. . . ?” He went back and pressed to connect, then stood back as a young face filled the screen.

“Hannah?”

“You’ve got to come, Kao Chen. At once. Something terribly impor-tant’s happened.”

He stared at her, wondering what on earth could be so important that she would phone him at half past three in the morning. “What’s happened? Has someone died?”

“No. But they will, if you don’t help us.” He sighed. “Look, I can’t. An important lead has just come up on one of my cases and I’ve got to follow it up right away. Can’t it wait? Can’t I pop in to you on my way back?”

She shook her head. “You don’t understand. This is so important that, well ... I can’t tell you over the phone, but you’ve got to come, you just have to!”

He made to shake his head, but there was real fear in the young woman’s face. Erfut—it was only fifteen minutes from Kassel by cruiser. If he were to call in first and reassure her . . .

“Okay,” he said finally. “I’ll try. But I’ve got to see to this other matter first, okay?”

She nodded, grateful, then cut the line.

Shit, he thought. Then, taking a long, calming breath, he tapped Wilson’s code into the phone and waited to be connected.

the two men sat back from the screen and looked at each other.

“Well? What do you think?”

“I think our friend the Junior Minister has lost his nerve. I think he’s confided in his daughter and she’s panicked him.” “I agree.”

“Then what are we to do?”

“We do what we have to do, neh? The I Lung’s instructions were quite explicit.”

“And the girl?”

“She must die too.”

“A fire?”

“That would be best, neh? No witnesses . . . and it can be made to seem quite natural. An accident...”

“I like that.”

“Good. Then let’s get moving, before our meddling Major has a chance to fuck things up.”

“What about him? What do you think his connection with the young woman

is?”

“Sexual, probably. I’m told his wife is mad. They probably haven’t slept together for years.”

“Then how do we deal with him? A bribe?”

“It depends on the attachment. If he’s besotted with the girl... well, it could be difficult. I think we might have to kill him.” “Messy . . . There’ll be an inquiry.”

“I know. But it can’t be helped. If we can make it seem as if he’s been killed for another reason ...”

“That shouldn’t be too difficult. He has a long record of getting involved in things he shouldn’t have meddled in.”

“Then we’ll do that. But first the girl and her father.”

they had been up half the night, talking, trying to work out how best to approach the matter.

The problem was a simple one. Li Yuan had to be told, but to get to Li Yuan—especially these days—one had to go through numerous intermediaries, and any one of these might be in the pay of the First Dragon. Indeed, to think otherwise would be naive.

To go direct, that would be ideal, yet it was impossible. Even to get to his Chancellor, Nan Ho, would mean negotiating whole levels of bureaucracy, and at some critical point a warning bell would sound, the I Lung would know, and the game would be up. So what were they to do?

Hannah had come up with a solution. They would approach the matter indirectly, through the Security officer, Kao Chen. Chen, she remembered, had access of a kind to Li Yuan. He had told her about his friend, Major Karr, and how he had been made Chia ch’eng— Honorary Assistant to the Royal Household. If Chen could persuade Karr to seek a personal audience with the T’ang . . .

She busied herself, making ch’a, while her father paced the room behind her. Strangely, she had never felt closer to him than tonight. Talking this through, she had found herself appreciating for the first time just how subtle a mind he had . . . and what a minefield the world he inhabited really was.

Wasted, she thought. He’s been wasted all these years. Like so much else in her world his talents had been squandered—had been used not positively, creatively, to bring something new and vibrant to the world, but to service the stale bones of the Great Lie: to bury that old, progressive world that had preceded theirs beneath a thick, muffling layer of ice. She carried the tray across to the low table at the center of the room, then knelt to pour.

“What will you do, afterward?”

He stared back at her. “Afterward?” It was clear he had not thought beyond telling the T’ang. He frowned. “It will be the end of it all. The Lie . .

.”

“We’re well rid of it.”

But she could see from his face that he was not so sure as she. Yet that was understandable. All his life he had worked to preserve the one great secret of his world—had based his life, his whole philosophy, on it. And now he was about to throw all that away: to betray all that he had lived by. It was not so easily done.

She picked up one of the bowls and carried it to him. “And what of your wife?”

There was a moments confusion in his face, and then he realized. “Aiya!

I’d not thought!”

If the I Lung were found guilty of treason—and there was little doubt that he would, should her father get to speak to Li Yuan—then she, as his sister, would, in all probability, be found guilty too. To the third generation. That was the law. Unless . . . “A deal,” he said, thinking aloud. “I’m certain I could make some kind of deal.”

“You want that?”

“I...” His eyes looked to her, then away, uncertainty eating at him. She knew he had never loved his second wife. The marriage had always been political in essence, a cementing of ties—a guarantee, to put it crudely, of his loyalty to the I Lung. Yet he had had two children by her, and though he saw little of them, it was no easy thing to cast them off. “How long will this friend of yours be?”

“Major Kao? He said he’d be here as soon as he could. When he hears what has happened, he’ll help us. I know he will.” “He is a good man, this Major? An honest man?”

She nodded.

“Strange. I had begun to think there were no honest men left in our world. I have seen so much, Hannah. Oh, I could not begin to tell you. Corruption and greed, murder and betrayal. Such behavior is endemic. Wherever you turn there are cold eyes and grasping hands.” He sighed, then sipped from his bowl. “Good ch’a,” he said, smiling at her. Then, “I have not been a good father to you, have I?” She reached out and touched his cheek, her voice softer than before. “Nonsense. You’ve been the very best of fathers. If you weren’t here much, that wasn’t your fault. I always knew you loved me.” He looked at her a long while, then nodded. “When I look at you, I understand why I loved your mother so much. She was like you, Hannah. I lost much when I lost her.”

Hannah shivered, close to tears. Yes, she thought, you and I both.

the first man slipped from the shadows and ran across. For one brief moment he was in full sight of the overhead camera, then he was inside, the door to Shang Mu’s Mansion irising open about his disappearing back. The second assassin followed a moment later. The hallway was mainly in shadow. A small night-light on the wall to the left gave a little illumination. Beneath it, on a low couch, lay a servant. Sensing something the man stirred and looked up sleepily. For the briefest moment his eyes opened wide, then he made a small strangled noise as the wire was looped tightly about his throat from behind. Move, the first assassin mouthed, pointing to the door to the right. Check it out.

He ran across. Inside, on the far side of what looked like a storeroom, two young servants were sleeping, back to back on a broad bed. Quickly, expertly, he dealt with them.

Outside his companion was waiting patiently, crouched beside the big double doors that led through into the main living quarters. He raised two fingers to indicate the tally, then ran across and crouched beside his partner.

Three dead now. Which meant that the other two servants were inside. Unless Chili Huang Hui had taken her body servant with her, in which case there was only the daughter’s maid.

He looked down. It was as well that the I Lung’s sister was elsewhere tonight, for, whatever the necessity, neither of them fancied the task of explaining her death to the First Dragon. Reaching up, the first assassin tried the handle. Slowly, soundlessly, it turned. They went inside.

A long corridor stretched away in front of them, lit by four wall-lamps spaced left and right. At the far end were another set of doors. To the left were Shang Mu’s rooms, to the right his wife’s. They took three steps, then froze. There, halfway down on the right, on a couch beside Chih Huang Hui’s door, lay another of the servants. The lady of the houses body servant, by the look of it.

The first assassin frowned deeply, then waved his companion across, watching as he crouched over the sleeping figure and did his work. There was the faintest tremor of the upper torso, a tiny kicking of the left foot, and then the body lay still. The second assassin turned, looking to him.

Inside, he mouthed, indicating the door to Chih Huang Hui’s rooms. His fellow nodded, then turned back, reaching for the handle. It could not be helped, but at least the woman was an invalid. She would be no trouble.

He ran across and, as his fellow slipped into the darkened room across from him, stood by the door to Shang Mu’s apartments, his ear pressed close, listening.

As he’d thought, there was nothing. The message they’d intercepted had come from the daughter’s rooms. In all likelihood they were there. But it was best to be certain.

He reached down, trying the handle. It was locked. Double-locked by the feel of it. Good. He would leave it and . . . There was a shot, the noise startling in the stillness of the great House.

He turned, astonished. No...

at the sound of the shot Shang Mu looked up, the ch’a bowl falling from his grasp.

Hannah, pouring a second bowl for herself, froze, staring at the doorway. “Aiya ...” she whispered, wondering for a moment if she had been wrong about Kao Chen. Then, stirring herself, she went across and turned the lock, then reached up to pull the bolt across. She turned, facing her father. “Go through!” she whispered urgently, pointing to the inner door. “Quick now!”

He swallowed, then did as he was told.

No, she thought. Not Chen. But someone else. Someone who’s found out what we planned.

She shivered. Yes, but who?

It came to her at once. Someone employed by the I Lung... by the Thousand Eyes.

She cursed her own stupidity. She should have known! The First Dragon would never have been so careless. Her father would have been watched carefully. That was the way of it, after all, to set spies upon the spies. She hurried after him, pulling the inner doors closed and locking them. Then, calming herself, she looked about her, wondering what, if anything, she could do.

he went in slowly, cautiously feeling his way blindly across the floor, alert to the smallest sound.

At first he could see nothing. Then, hearing a low groan from just in front of him, he froze, narrowing his eyes. His partner seemed to be sitting against the wall just inside the bedroom doorway. As he watched there was a cough, and the body slumped slowly to one side.

He made to move, then held still, a second sound coming to his notice.

Breathing. A shivered, irregular sound.

Chih Huang Hui. . .

Slowly, careful to make as little sound as possible, he drew his gun, then began to edge forward, trying to pinpoint the sound in the darkness up ahead of him.

the maid stood in the doorway to her room, rubbing her eyes. “Mistress?

What’s happening?

“Go back to bed,” Hannah told her, going across and pushing her back inside. “Lock your door and be silent. There are intruders in the House.” The young girl’s eyes flew wide with fear.

“Do what I said,” Hannah said, frowning at her. “Now!”

Bobbing her head, the girl backed off a step, then closed her door. Hannah turned back. They were trapped, the house communications cut. They could not have asked for help even if they’d wanted to. Not that help would have come, she thought acidly. Not for us, anyway.

“Hannah?”

She looked back at her father. He was watching her expectantly, as if she could save them somehow. As if...

“We’re dead,” she said quietly. “We’re—“

There was a shot. Much closer than before. Then another. Then, a moment later, a third.

Shang Mu moaned softly.

She stared at him a moment, woken from her own despair by the sight of his crumpled, frightened face, then nodded to herself, knowing what she must do. Chen was coming. He would be here . . . soon. Until then it was up to her to gain every second she could.

“Help me,” she said, going across to her father. “We’ve got to move things, Daddy. Put them in front of the doors. We’ve got to make a barricade and keep them out.”

He stared at her a moment, then nodded.

“Good,” she said, smiling, encouraging him. “But quick now. We’ve got so little time.”

he reached across, switching on the bedside lamp, then looked down at the woman, studying her in the sickly orange light. She lay on her back on the bloodied sheets, the jade-handled gun she’d used beside her. Her face looked surprised, her mouth open in a small o of shock, as if she’d expected some other outcome. But there had never been any doubt about it. His first bullet had smashed her right wrist, the second had removed the top of her skull.

On the floor on the other side of the bed lay the boy, facedown where he’d fallen, his back a sticky mess. He’d not expected the boy to be there. He turned, angry with himself for having got it wrong, then looked across to where his partner half lay, half sat, against the wall. A shame, he thought, saddened by the waste. He had been a good man, quick to leam and obedient to a fault. And to think one lucky shot. . . He leaned across and spat fully in her face, then, without looking back, walked back out into the hallway.

Let’s finish this, he thought sourly, certain now that no good would come of it. Let’s give the Great Man what he wants.

as the cruiser descended Chen leaned forward in the copilot’s seat, listening to the comset.

“It’s what?” he said, suddenly concerned. “You mean it’s engaged, surely?” “No, sir,” came the reply. “It’s dead. There’s nothing on that channel at all!”

“Shit!” He cut the connection, then turned, looking to the pilot. “Get the hatch open, quick now!”

“But, sir. Procedures . . .”

“Fuck procedures! I need to get down there quickly!” “Sir!” The man leaned forward and hit several buttons. At once there was a clunk, a sudden hiss, and then an inrush of cold air from behind them. Chen threw off his belt and clambered between the seats into the back of the tiny four-man craft. As it began to settle on the roof of the City, he jumped and rolled, then ran for the ventilation shaft.

the assassin pulled on his gas mask, then walked across. Stepping back, he took a deep breath, building his concentration, then launched himself at the door, his heel connecting crisply with the wooden panel. He moved back, studying the damage. The door had held, but the panel beside the lock was cracked and splintered. One well-aimed punch and he’d be through.

He hesitated. As far as he knew, neither the Junior Minister nor his daughter owned a gun, but then neither had Chih Huang Hui, officially. And that one mistake had nearly ruined things. Best, then, to make sure. To use a gun rather than a fist.

He sighed, a dark cloud of fatalism descending on him. This was to have been the culmination of his long career—the final task before he finished with it all—but even his own survival was doubtful now that the I Lung’s sister had been killed. The First Dragon was a vengeful man, so he’d heard, and would not take kindly to the news. Oh, he would keep his word, certainly, and pay him—even a bonus, perhaps, to show there was no animosity—but he would be lucky if he lived a week. Lucky if he lived long enough to spend a tenth of the blood money. He nodded to himself. Maybe so, but there was still the Guilds pride to consider. That special pride in a task well accomplished. Unsheathing his gun, he raised it and fired twice, then pushed his fist through the resultant hole, widening the gap. Holstering his gun, he took a grenade from his belt and primed it. Then, poking his arm through the hole, he lobbed it into the center of the room. There was a pop and then the sharp, sibilant hiss of escaping gas. He waited, counting, then, at ten, grasped the sides of the panel and kicked again, climbing up through the gap and into the smoke-filled room.

from where she crouched beneath the barricade, Hannah heard the metallic clink of the grenade as it bounced on the tiles in the next room, and braced herself for an explosion. The soft pop it made sent a shiver of surprise up her spine, but then she understood. That hissing—it was a disabling gas of some kind.

She looked behind her, then crawled across, pulling the silk cover from the chair and tearing it with her teeth. Handing half to her father, she showed him what to do. “Around your nose and mouth,” she said quietly. Yes, but would it make any difference? They had to breathe.

From the next room came a crashing, splintering sound.

They’re through, she thought. Oh gods, they’re through! She turned yet again, looking about her, forcing her mind to work. What could she use? What in the gods’ names could she use for a weapon? Hairbrushes and perfume bottles, books and holo-tapes, an ink block and a framed photograph of her mother. Useless, all of it useless. . . . And then her eyes focused on something that had fallen from the dresser they had dragged across. A pair of silver hair scissors. She reached out and closed her hand on them, noting, as she did, the faintest scent of gas in the room.

How long? she wondered. How long before we’re dead? But the thought was fleeting. Stronger, more urgent impulses were at work in her now. The barricade would slow them down. Would make it hard for them to come into the room. Yes, but not impossible. They had only to smash a hole. A grenade would do the rest.

She shook her head, frantic now, knowing that the barrier was the key to it—that she had somehow to use that small advantage, to make it count. But how?

A thud close by made her jump. The door juddered in its frame. Think, she told herself, staring down at the slender pair of scissors in her hand. For the gods sake, think!

But time was running out.

chen stood outside the main door to Shang Mu’s house, surprised to find it open. As he stepped toward it a voice called out from behind him. “Stay right where you are and don’t move!”

Chen froze, conscious that the voice had had a frightened edge to it. Slowly, very slowly, he raised his hands and turned toward the man. “It’s okay. I’m Security.”

The man was in his night clothes, and the weapon he held trained on Chen was ancient, a collector’s piece.

“My ID is in my breast pocket. Will you let me reach for it?” The man considered, his eyes uncertain, then he nodded. “Okay. But very slow.”

His instinct was against it, but he did what the man said, his movements painfully slow. “There,” he said, tilting it toward him. “Throw it down.”

Aiya . . . Every second was precious, and here was this fool. He threw it down.

The man bent down, his eyes never leaving Chen, the gun aimed tensely at him. Chen watched as he lifted the card until it was slightly to the left of his line of sight; saw how he took tiny glimpses at it, as if frightened to take his eyes off his captive for even a fraction of a second.

And quite right, too, Chen thought, wishing some of his own officers were half as careful.

“A Major, huh?”

“Yes. Now, for the gods’ sakes, let me go. There’s been an incident. The Shang household—“ “I heard shots,” the man said, throwing the card back and lowering his gun. “One shot. Then three. Then another two. Just now.” “Yes!” Chen said impatiently. He had heard the last two himself. “Now if you’d excuse me ...”

“You want help?”

Chen shook his head angrily, then, knowing he had already pissed away valuable seconds, he drew his gun and turned, running for the door, praying he wasn’t too late.

the assassin stepped back from the door, nodding to himself, undipped a fresh cartridge from his belt and reloaded his gun. He turned, looking about him through the thick mist of the gas, then, thinking he heard a sound, took three paces toward the outer door. Something crunched beneath his booted foot. He bent down and looked. It was a bowl. A broken ch’a bowl. On a low table nearby was a pot and another bowl. He reached out and felt the side of the ch’a pot. It was still warm. Good. That meant they were definitely inside.

He crossed to the inner door and stood there a moment, listening, hearing nothing. But they were there—trapped, with no way out. Okay. It was time to end things and get out, before Security sent someone to check. He raised his gun and fired: three shots, splintering the lock. He stepped up to it and knocked it out with the gun’s stock. That should do it, he thought, bending down and peering through. And now to end it. ...

“hannah!” her father whispered urgently. “No!”

She turned and looked at him, grimacing, putting a finger to her lips. Then, turning back, she carried on, hauling herself up on top of the barricade.

Her ears rang and it was getting painful to breathe, but it could be their only chance.

She could hear footsteps in the other room, the sound of a bowl breaking beneath someone’s tread. One of them. She shivered, feeling the faintest ray of hope. There was only one of them!

Yes, but what’s he waiting for?

The footsteps went away, returned. Then there was silence. An awful, terrifying silence.

She was beginning to feel drowsy, nauseated. The gas . . . For a moment her vision blurred and she felt herself sway slightly, as if she were about to faint. Then it came clear again. As it did, there was a glint of silver just beside her knee, where the hole was. She struck. Grasping the hand that held the gun she forced it down savagely onto the splintered wood, at the same time stabbing down with the scissors. There was a groan of pain from behind the door and then a fierce tugging as the assassin struggled to get free. But Hannah had put her full weight into holding him. She knew that to release the hand was to die. The feeling was awful, the most dreadful thing she had ever experienced. She could feel the metal blade of the scissors gouging against the bones of his wrist: could feel the hot stickiness of his blood as it pumped from the ruined hand. And his groans . . .

The sound of his pain made her feel ill. A raw, grunting sound that frayed her nerves and set her teeth on edge, even as she struggled to hold him. But slowly, very slowly, she felt the hand slide from her grip.

The gas . . . She felt so weak.

The hand slipped wetly from her grasp, was gone. She rolled, knowing she had to get down, off the barricade, but it was too late. As the door above her splintered, she felt a hot wash of pain from her shoulder and knew she had been hit. There was another shot and then another.

Dead, she thought. I’m dead. But her thoughts rolled on. And in the silence that followed, it was not the God of Hell’s voice she heard calling her, but Kao Chen’s, muffled, as if from behind a mask. “Are you all right in there? Hannah! Are you all right?”

yin tsu stared at his daughter, then shook his head, beckoning his body servant across to see to him. “No . . . no, Fei Yen. You must have misheard them. Youthful high spirits, that’s all it was. You know these boys ... a drop too much of wine and all kinds of addled notions come to them.”

She stared at him, trying not to lose her temper. He hadn’t listened! He simply hadn’t heard a word she’d said to him! “No ...” he went on, smiling at her reassuringly, then turned to let his body servant remove his jacket. “I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding. I’ll speak to Yin Chan in the morning and sort it all out. I’m sure he’ll be able to clear things up. Now you go and get some rest. You must be tired—“ “Father!” she said sharply. “Listen to me! I am not imagining things, nor am I suffering from some misunderstanding. I know what I heard and it threatens all of us. All of us! Don’t you understand?” He stared at her, then went to speak again, but she wouldn’t let him. “No. You listen to me for once. Because it’s my child—your grandchild—who’ll suffer if this idiocy continues.” The old man frowned, taken aback by her outburst, then tugged at his beard. “But, my dear—“ “No buts, Father. You must act, and act decisively. You have no choice.” His head came up at that. “No choice?”

She huffed, exasperated. “Treason, that’s what we’re talking about here.

Treason, punishable by death. To the third generation.” Again he shook his head. “No . . .” But she could see she was beginning to get through to him.

“Your WU,” she said, a sudden flash of inspiration hitting her. “Consult your Wu! After all, he’s never wrong.”

His face lit up. “My Wu. Of course!”

“Then call him. Now, while the moment is upon us. Have him cast the oracle right here, for both of us to see. You’ll see. I tell you, you’ll see!” He stared at her, the smile fading slowly. Then, with a tiny nod to her, he gestured to his body servant. “Shen, fetch Master Fung. Tell him I have urgent need of his skills.”

“Master!”

He turned back, looking at her, a new seriousness in his manner. “What you heard—have you told any other of it?”

“No, Father.”

“Good.” He nodded to himself, but there was a slight sourness in his face that had not been there a moment before, as if he had come halfway to believing her in those few instants. He glanced at her again. “And if the yarrow stalks show nothing?”

She shivered, then shook her head. “The Way of Heaven is clear, Father. We mortals cannot change it.”

“No.” But when he looked away again, it was with a deeply troubled expression.

hannah sat in a chair in the corner, letting one of the medics check the dressing while the other packed up. The wound wasn’t as bad as it had first seemed. Most of the damage was superficial. Even so, her collarbone had been fractured and the pain from that had quite taken her breath. Local Security had arrived only minutes after Chen, summoned by their neighbor, and had taken brief statements from all three of them. Right now a special camera team was working through the house room by room, making a visual document of the carnage. She had glimpsed it only briefly, and then only part of it, but it was enough to confirm what she’d known instinctively—that this was a matter of the utmost seriousness. They had to tell Li Yuan.

She could hear Chen outside, arguing with the Security Captain. “Pull rank,” she’d told him, but this once, it seemed, he couldn’t. There were procedures for an incident like this.

She shuddered, remembering how Chen had stood there, listening to her as she spilled the whole incredible story. Treason. A plot involving the whole upper echelon of the Ministry and Minor-Family princes too. It was hard to believe. Yet Chen had simply nodded, as if he’d known it all from the start. And then Security had arrived and there’d been no time to discuss it any further.

She looked across and felt a twinge of sorrow. Her father was sitting there on the far side of the room, his hands resting lightly on his knees, like a lost child, his eyes staring into the far distance. He had lost a great deal this night. A wife, a son, a purpose for his life. Tomorrow he would have to start again. If that were possible. If any of them lived to see the dawn.

Chen returned, coming directly across to her. He smiled, then looked to the medic. “Forgive me. Could I have a word with the young lady?” The man smiled. “I’m done here, anyway,” he said, then bowed and backed away.

“Well?” she said quietly.

“We can go, if you’re ready. I’ve contacted my duty captain, Wilson, and he’s going to get a message through to General Rheinhardt. I’ve said I’d meet him on the West Pad at Bremen in an hour. If we can convince Rheinhardt we can get to Nan Ho.”

She frowned. “What about your friend . . . you know, Major Karr?” Chen shook his head. “Karr’s on a special assignment down-level. It’s been months since I’ve heard from him. If I knew where he was, I’d be the first to be in touch with him. You realize who they were, Hannah? They were Guild. Trained assassins. The best!”

She shivered. “If they were demons from Hell, I’d not give in. You know that. . . .”

He touched her good arm briefly. “I know. Now get your father ready. I want Rheinhardt to hear it from the horse’s mouth.” She frowned at him. “Horses, Kao Chen?”

He laughed “An old expression. . . . Now hurry. The Guild’s pride will have been wounded. There’s two of their number dead out there and they’ll be wanting vengeance for it. Besides which, there are Dragons to fight, neh?”

Hannah laughed, then grew more sober. “Are you not afraid, Kao Chen?” “Afraid?” He leaned closer, speaking to her ear. “To be honest with you, Shang Han-A, I’m petrified.”

Fei YEN STOOD in the comer of the room, beside the hanging cages, looking in at the molting birds as the Wu finished casting the oracle. Master Fung had taken much longer than usual, going over his results once and then once again, frowning all the while. Finally he looked up, his face troubled. “It is Ko,” he said, “Fire in the Lake.” Yin Tsu caught his breath. “You are sure, Master Fung?”

The Wu nodded. “There is nine in the fifth place. The two primary trigrams are in opposition. The younger daughter dominates the elder. Fire in the Water.” His voice quailed with fear. “It is Revolution, Prince Yin. Revolution!”

. Yin Tsu shook his head, but his eyes were wide with fear. He looked across, meeting Fei Yen’s eyes, then looked down. “Aiya . . .” he said softly. “Kuan Yin preserve us!”

She came across and stood before the Wu. “Tell us more, Master Fung. Is it... inevitable?”

“Inevitable?” He shrugged, clearly uncomfortable. “No . . . not inevitable. Yet the signs are clear.” He put out his wizened hand, indicating the spill of fallen stalks. “I have never seen it so clear. Here Fire, there Water . . . the two in conflict, each trying to destroy the other. If the Man should come—“ “The Man?” Yin Tsu started forward. “What do you mean, Master Fung?” Fung looked down. “The time is ripe, Prince Yin. The hour but awaits the Man. It is as the oracle says. The Great Man changes like a tiger. . . .” “And if the Great Man is a Dragon?”

The Wu looked up, staring at her. “A dragon?” “No matter . . .” She turned, facing her father. “Well? Will you go to him now?”

Yin Tsu hesitated, then shook his head. “It is not that simple, Fei Yen. I—I must talk first with my cousins. An Sheng must know. His son . . .” He looked down, then, “Leave us a moment, Master Fung.” When the Wu had gone, he looked back at her. At that moment he seemed every one of his eighty-two years.

“It is easy for you, Fei Yen. You have a duty to your son. But I... well, I have three sons and a grandchild. And An Sheng . . . No, it would not be right to act without first speaking with An Sheng.” For a moment he stared into the air, then he shuddered, his voice suddenly pained. “Chan . . . how could he be so foolish? How?” She went across and held him close, trying to comfort him. “Maybe we could claim that he was led . . . seduced by An Hsi. Perhaps—“ “No,” said her father, pushing her back slightly. “Yin Chan is not a child. If he was led, it was because he wanted to be led.” He sighed heavily. “No, my love, Chan is lost to us. It must be—it must be as if he never was. I...”

His mouth quivered, his whole face threatening to break apart. For a moment he turned his head aside, struggling to control himself, then he looked back at her.

“I will go now and see An Sheng. He must be told at once what happened here. And then we shall go, together, to see Li Yuan. Today, before any more damage can be done.”

“And Chan? What will come of my brother?” The old man shook his head, a sudden frailty in his voice. “Yin Chan is nothing now. Nothing ...”

the first dragon laughed delightedly nodding toward the three men—his brothers—who sat with him, then turned in his seat, clapping his hands. At once a servant ran to him and knelt at his feet. “Master?”

“Bring more wine. The very best. Tell Master Yu—“

He stopped, his attention caught by the man waiting in the doorway, his head bowed, the sash of a Ministry Messenger about his shoulders. Dismissing the servant he beckoned the man across. Taking the black silk envelope from him he opened it impatiently. Was this it? Was this what he’d been waiting for these past three days? He read the handwritten note, then folded it again, smiling.

“Is there an answer, Master?”

He shook his head, then tucked the envelope into the inner pocket of his cloak. “No. No answer.”

Turning back he felt a small thrill pass through him. If one dealt with eels, it was always best to hook them through the gills. And this—this pledge from An Sheng—this would be the hook by which he held him to the task.

“Good news, I Lung?” his Second Brother asked, raising his wine cup slightly, his eyes inquisitive.

“Business,” he answered noncommittally “Our work is unending, neh?” his Fifth Brother, seated to his right, chipped in. “Our eyes never close.” There was laughter. In the midst of it more wine arrived. “Shall we have music?” he asked, looking about him, seeing his own good humor reflected in every eye.

“A splendid idea,” his Second Brother answered, leaning forward to let a servant fill his cup once more. “Is that excellent ch’in player still with you, brother?”

He laughed. “She is. But I’m tempted to think it was not her playing that interested you so much as her other talents.” “I hear she was very good on the jade flute,” Fifth Brother added, winking, “though her plucking ...”

“Brother?”

“Plucking, I said . . . her finger work ...”

Second Brother sat forward slightly, enjoying the game. “Her finger work?

What of it?”

“Oh, nothing . . . only that she could coax a tune from the tiredest old instrument!”

There was a great roar at that. The I Lung turned, laughing, and summoned his Master of Ceremonies. “Master Yu . . . I wondered where you’d got to.

My brothers—“

He stopped, noting the sobriety of Yu’s manner.

“Master Yu? What is it?”

Yu, who had kept his head bowed, looked up, his eyes fearful, a distinct color at his neck. “Master . . . forgive me. A message came. . . .” “I know.” He patted his jacket pocket. “I already have it.”

“No, Master. A special message. On the screen in your study.”

“Ah . . . ?” He frowned. “And you answered it?” Master Yu bowed low. “I was passing, Master, and you were busy here. I only glanced in at the door, meaning to come and bring you. But. . . well, a face was on the screen already. It saw me and spoke to me. A soldier, it was. A young lieutenant.”

The I Lung felt himself go cold. Behind him his brothers had fallen silent and were listening.

“What did he say?”

Yu swallowed, then went on. “He said that he had only a few moments. That there was no time for me to run and fetch you. He told me”—Yu hesitated, looking about him, but the First Dragon motioned for him to carry on—“he said to tell you that the assassins are dead. And your sister, Chih Huang Hui. And that Shang Mu is loose.”

The I Lung sat back, feeling all of his former pleasure drain from him, replaced by ice.

Earlier, he had had the oracle read. Ko, it had been. Fire in the Lake. Confirmation, he’d thought, of his ambitions. He had sat there, on the sunlit terrace of his palace, thrilled by the Wit’s judgment:

Revolution. On your own day you are believed. Supreme success, furthering through perseverance. Remorse disappears. He shivered. Remorse disappears. . . .

He stood, looking about him at his brothers. They were watching him, waiting to see what he would decide. He waved Yu away, then walked across to the great window at the far end of the room and stood there, staring out blindly, a great wave of despair washing over him. It was too early, far too early. If they struck now it might prove disastrous. Yet what choice had they? If Shang Mu were loose . . . “Brother?”

He turned. His Second Brother stood there, only a pace or so away. Beyond him his Fifth and Eighth Brothers waited silently. “Okay,” he said, his mind made up. “It goes ahead.”

“Tonight?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Shang Mu,” he said. “We’ve got to get Shang Mu.”

“And afterward?”

“The Seven,” he said, meeting his brothers’ eyes and seeing the shadow of his own doubt mirrored back at him. “We must kill the Seven.”

“what do you think?”

Chen stared down through the darkness at the floodlit bulk of Bremen Fortress, then looked back at the young pilot. “If they were going to shoot us out of the air, they’d have done it by now. No. If there’s any trickery, it’ll be when we’re on the ground.” He turned, looking back at Hannah and her father. “When we land, sit tight. I’ll go out alone. If there’s any trouble, the lieutenant here will fly you out just as fast as he can.” Shang Mu looked back at him, concerned. “You think there’ll be trouble?” “I hope not. But who knows? This whole situation’s something new. It depends on how high the conspiracy goes within Security. Rhein-hardt, I’d vouch, is honest and staunchly loyal to Li Yuan. But who knows about those surrounding him? We’re just going to have to take the risk.” He turned back, then nudged the young lieutenant. “There,” he said, pointing to the far edge of the great Western Pad. “Set us down in that big clear space. I don’t want anyone sneaking up on us, okay?” “Sir!”

He swung the craft to the left, then brought it down, on the far edge, where Chen had indicated.

Chen climbed down, then looked about him. It had been raining, and the grooved surface of the Pad was wet and slippery. Behind him, less than twenty ch’i from where he stood, was a drop of almost two li. In front of him, more than two hundred ch’i away, was the stubby control tower for the Western pad and, beyond it, rising into the predawn darkness, was the slender communications spire of Bremen Fortress. Lamps embedded at the edge of the Pad, and at regular points within its floor, threw up broad columns of light. Between them were great patches of darkness. Chen smiled and began to walk toward the control tower, conscious of movement over there beneath the observation balcony.

It was like walking in a great hall, the light forming the pillars, the sky the ceiling. Normally he kept to the darkness, loath to breach those tall columns, but this once he made directly for the tower, his dark form cutting through the brilliant light, flashing and flickering, it seemed, until he was no more than twenty ch’i from the tower. There he stopped, facing the small group of men. Light from the windows of the tower created a pattern on the ground in front of him, but they were beyond that, in the shadows. Chen squinted, trying to make out who was there. “Major Kao?”

Rheinhardt stepped from the shadows, into the light from above.

“General...”

“Where’s Shang Mu? I thought—“

“Who’s with you?”

He saw how Rheinhardt stared at him, surprised by the lack of deference in his tone. The General hesitated, not sure how to handle the situation, then shrugged and answered him. “Okay. I’ve brought three of my men. Bodyguards. Men I trust. The other two are yours. Lieutenant Wilson and your sergeant.”

Chen looked beyond the General. “Send the sergeant away.” Rheinhardt turned, made a gesture with his hand. At once one of the men turned and was gone.

Rheinhardt turned back. “So? Shall we get on with this?”

“You understand? What happened back there ...”

“I understand. Guild, neh?”

Chen nodded. Then, turning, he put up a hand, waving back to the craft. A moment later two figures stepped down and began to make their way across. He turned back. Rheinhardt was watching him intently.

“What is it?” Chen asked.

“This...” Rheinhardt hesitated. “What you’re talking about, it’s ...”

“Unbelievable?”

Rheinhardt nodded.

Chen turned, watching the two figures approach them through the darkness, a strange tension rooted in his stomach.

As Shang Mu came up beside him, Rheinhardt moved closer, until he was less than a body’s length away.

“Junior Minister...”

Chen tensed, watching him hawkishly his hand covering his gun. But Rheinhardt seemed unarmed.

“General...”

The two men bowed, then faced each other silently. Beside him Hannah reached out and touched Chen’s arm. He glanced at her and smiled. “Well. . .” Rheinhardt said, after a moment. “I understand you’ve something to tell us. Major Kao tells me that—“ He broke off. Chen had moved—had walked across behind him, his gun drawn. “Major Kao?”

Rheinhardt turned and saw at once. One of the four men had moved—was walking slowly to the right, circling outward. Chen moved across, keeping himself between the man and Shang Mu. As the man moved through a patch of light they saw who it was. Chen hesitated, his gun wavering. “Wilson? What’s up? What the hell’s going on?”

Rheinhardt turned and yelled. “Get down, Shang Mu! Get down. . . .” There was a shot, a second shot. Wilson was running now, heading directly for Shang Mu, and as he ran he fired.

Chen knelt, his gun aimed, and fired. Once, twice, a third time, his bullets hit the running man full in the chest, jolting him backward and finally felling him. Wilson rolled and then lay still, his gun rattling away from him.

Chen turned, then stared, aghast. Shang Mu was down, groaning, both hands clutching his stomach.

“Aiya!” he said, getting up and staggering across. But it was too late. Even as he got there, Shang Mu spasmed and lay still. Chen looked up, meeting Hannah’s eyes, seeing the shock there, the total disbelief. “No . . .” she said, her voice tiny, frightened. “No . . .” But it was done. Her father had been killed. And Rheinhardt— Rheinhardt just stared, a cold certainty in his face, and nodded.

“cousin, what brings you here? This is a most unexpected delight!” An Sheng came halfway up the cruisers ramp to greet Fei Yen’s father, embracing Yin Tsu, then stood back, holding him at arm’s length, a broad grin on his face.

Yin Tsu tried to return his smile, but found he couldn’t. He looked down, dismayed.

“What is it?” An Sheng asked quietly, his eyes concerned. “Your children are all well, I hope?”

Yin Tsu nodded vaguely. “Inside . . .” he said. “I have to talk to you, An Sheng. Something has happened. . . .”

An Sheng considered, then nodded. “Come,” he said, turning, taking Yin Tsu’s arm in his own. “We’ll go to my private rooms. I’ll have Mo Shan bring us drinks.”

Inside, in a large room overlooking an ornamental pond and garden, Yin Tsu sat on a long couch piled with cushions, while An Sheng stood nearby, one foot resting on the kang.

“So?” he said. “What has happened?”

Yin Tsu sighed, not knowing how to begin. Our sons must die, he thought, and found himself recalling Fei Yen’s words about a deal. But no deals could be made with traitors. Foolishness it might be, but it was a deadly foolishness and threatened them all. There was no alternative. He looked up, meeting his cousin’s eyes. “Your son and mine are traitors, An Sheng. They met... at my summer palace . . . and talked of rebellion ... of killing the Seven.”

An Sheng laughed, astonished, then frowned deeply. “You must be mistaken, Yin Tsu. Our sons?”

Yin Tsu nodded. “Yin Chan and An Hsi. Oh, there were others, too, but those were the ringleaders.”

An Sheng came and stood over him, looking down, his expression somewhere between irritation and disbelief. “You must be wrong, Yin Tsu. An Hsi is a good son and loyal to the Seven. And your Chan—“ He shook his head. “No. I won’t believe it!”

Yin Tsu’s face was bleak. “Our sons must die, An Sheng. We must go to Li Yuan and tell him what happened.”

“Tell him?” An Sheng shouted angrily.

Yin Tsu looked up, surprised. “Naturally ...” An Sheng glared at him, then turned away. One fist was bunched now. “You have proof, Yin Tsu?”

“My daughter, Fei Yen ... she overheard them.” “Your daughter]” An Sheng laughed scathingly. “Your fine and precious daughter . . . the T’ang’s wife!”

Yin Tsu looked up, stung by the acidity of the remark. “She would not lie to me. ...”

An Sheng turned back and leaned over him, his face ugly now. “No? And I suppose she never sleeps with grooms and serving boys either!” He turned away, making a sound of disgust. “If that’s all the evidence you have, Yin Tsu . . .”

“Cousin, why do you insult me like this?”

An Sheng turned, his eyes blazing. “Cousin, why do you insult me this

way?”

“I”—Yin Tsu stood—“I think I had better go.” “Go?” An Sheng shook his head. “No, Yin Tsu. You come here full of rumor and the tittle-tattle of your whorish daughter and you expect me to offer up my son for such a pack of nothings? No, Yin Tsu.” He drew his knife and took a step toward the older man. “You will apologize, or I will have your blood!”

Yin Tsu stared at the knife in horror. “Cousin, I—“

An Sheng grasped the front of the old man’s silks and held the knife against his throat. His face was fierce now, uncompromising. “Damn you, old man, apologize! Apologize!”

Yin Tsu groaned, his eyes wide with fear. “Cousin . . . remember who we are—“ But An Sheng seemed beyond all reason. With a savage movement he jabbed the knife into the old man’s neck, and then again. Yin Tsu shrieked, then collapsed onto his knees, coughing, choking on the blood that filled his throat.

An Sheng stood back, watching him, then let the knife fall from his hand.

“Damn you, old man. . . .” he said softly. “Damn you to hell!”