Beneath the Tree of Heaven

Ghosts’ Torches

Ah, silence, such silence, like in a dream, moonlight noble and heartless, in the same dusk, in the same dawn. No elegy to be heard, and no bells tolled. The gate to the world of the departed souk, is solemnly closed, seeing me into the funeral train which marries me to life, demanding I reclaim talent of days gone by. Ah, silence, such perpetual silence, there is no reply, and there is no echo, there are just ghosts’ torches, illuminating my whole life. . . .

Duo Duo, “Death of a Poet,” a.d. 1974

THE GREAT COURTROOM WAS EMPTY, silent. On the bare stone of the walls torches burned brightly, steadily, in their iron cressets, yet the chamber seemed engulfed in shadows, the galleries and wood-beamed ceiling lost in an impenetrable darkness. At the far end of the chamber two huge stone pillars flanked the great double doors. Between them, their figures dwarfed by the entrance arch, walked two men. “Well, Knut,” said one of them, turning a long, horselike face to his companion, “the day has come at last. You must be proud to have brought things to this point.”

Tolonen paused, his smile uncertain. “We have worked hard to bring this about, neh, Chi Hsun? Yet now that the day is upon Us I feel not satisfaction but a strange sadness. It’s as if I haven’t grieved for him. But now that it’s done, now that the matter’s to be decided . . .”

He fell silent, staring away into darkness. Chi Hsun reached out, touching the Marshal’s arm, consoling him. “I understand. . . . Klaus Ebert was a fine man. He stood for all that was good and strong and decent. To have lost such a man was a tragedy for us all. But for you . . . well, you were his friend.” “And he mine,” Tolonen said, lifting his chin, a look of real pain, real hurt, in his eyes. “Since we were boys.” He turned, facing Chi again, a strange sound, half pain, half remembered joy, escaping him. “I had dreams, Chi Hsun. Dreams that his son would marry my daughter. That his grandchildren would be my grandchildren.” He stopped, choked by emotion, unable to say more.

The Chief Commissioner, watching him, nodded. “I’m sorry, Knut. It must be hard for you in view of what happened. But listen. I hear that Ebert’s widow is to be married again.”

Tolonen looked back at him, surprised. “Berta? I’d not heard.” “No. They say she’s waiting until after the Hearing to make the announcement.”

“Ah.” Tolonen walked on, out into the body of the Courtroom, stopping beside the huge, long desk that dominated the center of the chamber. He leaned forward, his hands—one flesh, one burnished gold—pressed flat against the smoothly polished surface, silently looking about him at the empty benches, the dais where, in a matter of hours, the Commissioners would sit and deliberate. Then he turned, looking directly at Chi Hsun. “Where did it all go? That’s what I keep asking myself. Where did they go—all those dreams we had? They seemed so real, so secure. How could it all have gone so wrong?”

Chin Hsun looked down, then came across, stopping beside Tolonen. “The past is gone, Knut. We cannot change it. But the future . . . well, that we can affect. It is why we serve, neh?—why, in the days to come, we must work hard to ensure the best result.” Tolonen met his eyes, a sudden tiredness in his voice. “And what is the best result? To see that wastrel Lutz inherit?” “You think he will?”

Tolonen sighed, then nodded.

“And Berta Ebert?”

Tolonen grimaced. “The most she can realistically hope for is a life interest in the estate. And an annual sum, perhaps, corresponding with her private allowance when Klaus was still alive. Oh, she’ll get to keep the Mansion, probably, but as for the Company . . .” “And if Lutz Ebert inherits? What will happen, do you think? Will GenSyn become again the power it was?”

Tolonen shrugged. “Who can tell? If Lutz has any sense he’ll keep the present management committee in place and let them run things, but I doubt he’ll do that. He has acquired many new ‘friends’ these past few years, his new wife’s family not least among them. I suspect he’ll pack the board with them once he’s inherited. If so, who knows what future GenSyn has? A poor one, probably.”

“And the rumors? You know, of Lutz’s involvement with his nephew, the traitor Hans?”

Tolonen looked down, his face sour. “Ah, that. I had a team looking into it for the best part of a year.”

“And?”

“Nothing. Oh, there were a few shady business deals—the kind of thing that, were the media to get hold of them, would make him even less popular than he is now—but nothing to link him to Hans. Nor will there be, unless we find the young man.”

Chi Hsun glanced across at the dais, then looked back at the aged Marshal.

“And your Master, Li Yuan. . . what does he think of events?” Tolonen looked away, his expression troubled. “My Master has been kept fully briefed. His primary concern is to see that things are kept stable.” It was a diplomatic answer, for, by all accounts, Li Yuan had become something of a recluse since the murder of his wives, letting his Chancellor, Nan Ho, attend to the day-to-day running of things. But where GenSyn was concerned, what Li Yuan thought was of immense importance. GenSyn was still the biggest Company in Chung Kuo, and traditionally its fortunes had been linked directly with the Li family. A decline in the power of GenSyn would mean a corresponding decline in power for Tolonen’s Master. It remained to see whether he would allow it to fall into the hands of Klaus Ebert’s weak half-brother, Lutz. Yet what could he do?

Each of the Seven—the T’ang who ruled Chung Kuo—had appointed a representative to sit on the Hearing Committee and look after their best interests. For Li Yuan to overrule their decision was unthinkable. Yet there were other means.

Chi Hsun looked about him at the empty benches of the Courtroom and sighed. GenSyn. Wherever one turned, the influence of that great Company could be seen: in the food substitutes used throughout the Lowers; in the cheap health treatments that were so popular in the Mids; in the range of prosthetics and “age-at-bay” products used by the rich. Mainly, however, the Company was known as the creator of the Genetic Synthetics, those strange and marvelous creatures grown in its tanks, custom designed for every taste: servants and whores, sportsmen and performers, goat-men and ox-men, brutish bodyguards and the flat-faced, bullish Hei that Security used to put down riots. GenSyn had been a cornucopia, providing something for every level—one of the great pillars on which Chung Kuo was built. But now all that was threatened.

Chi Hsun looked at the Marshal. As he did, Tolonen turned from the table, looking back at him, a tired, sad expression in his eyes. Beyond him the lamps flickered in their iron cressets, making the shadows seem deeper, ingrained almost in the stone and wood of the ancient hall. “Ah, well,” the old man said. “Let’s go now, Master Chi. Sleep. That’s the remedy. A good night’s sleep, neh? Tomorrow will come soon enough.”

alone in his rooms, Tolonen stood before the mirror, staring at his face, trying to see, beyond those rugged, angular planes, some semblance of the man he’d been.

He had had little time in his life for self-analysis. He had always seen it as a weakness in a man and had maintained a rigid self-discipline when it came to such matters. But recently, left with much time on his hands and missing the company of his daughter, Jelka, his thoughts had turned inward. He had been reading the Kalevala once more, immersing himself in the great epic of his people, the Finns, and as he read he had found memories awakening of people long dead; of friends he had forgotten. The dead ... it was as if the great world were slowly dying all about him. All those he had known and loved—his wife, his brother and his brother’s wife, his old Master Li Shai Tung, and his best friend, Klaus . . . they and countless others—all were gone. Only ghosts remained. The world had lost substance, had reduced itself to a pool of light, a mirror, a face—his own face, staring back at him.

So hard that face. Elemental, it was. Like weathered rock.

And eyes like a November sky.

He smiled, but it was a pale and steely smile. Sunlight in winter. Then, softly, his voice little more than a whisper, he spoke into the glass. When the oak at last had fallen, And the evil tree was leveled, Once again the sun shone brightly, And the pleasant moonlight glimmered, And the clouds extended widely, And the rainbow spanned the heavens, O’er the cloud-encompassed headland, And the islands hazy summit. The words came easily to him. But that was no surprise. He had pored over them, time and again, as if obsessed. For weeks now he had been haunted by them; had woken from dreams with them on his lips. Dreams in which the great City had fallen and the land was green and empty—was a land of lakes and mountains.

The oak, the evil tree: it was the symbol of the Shepherd family, of the architect of the seven great Cities of Chung Kuo. He took a long, shuddering breath. Had he been wrong? Chung Kuo—was that the evil tree of legend? For if it was ... if all he had believed in was an evil spell. . .

He shook his head, then pushed the thought aside. Lately he had been tormented by loneliness: a loneliness he was too proud—far too proud—to admit to. Some days he would wake feeling fragile, like a ghost, and sometimes he would turn, imagining someone behind him, only to find an empty room . . . and silence. But what was he? He had thought he knew. “A man,” he would once have answered, as if that had a meaning beyond all question. But now . . . well, what was a man? Never in all his seventy-six years had he been troubled by such thoughts, but now it was as if a door had opened in him and he had stepped inside. Inside . . . into uncertainty, and dreams, and thoughts that woke him in the night.

Old ... I am getting old.. . .

He stripped off his sleeping jacket, then reached up to touch his left shoulder, tracing the join, watching himself in the glass. There, where flesh met metal, a thin strip of soft leather acted as a kind of buffer, preventing the skin from being chafed. It had been awkward at first, but now the feel of it was comforting, strangely reassuring. 1 am alive, it seemed to say.

He sniffed, then moved the golden limb, flexing and unflexing the jointed hand, remembering how he had lost the arm. A close call, that had been. Indeed it was a wonder he had lived so long when so many had wanted him dead.

Turning, he looked about him at the huge and shadowed room. It was simply, almost Spartanly, furnished. A double bed, a chair, and a small writing desk—that was all. Underfoot a thick rug covered half the floor space. As for the walls, they were bare save for the portrait of his wife that hung in the alcove facing his bed.

He went across and stared up at it.

“How are you, Jenny Endfors?” he asked quietly, using her maiden name. “Is it sunny where you are?”

She smiled back down at him. Beyond her the wind seemed to dance in the pines that covered the hillside of the island, while to her left the blue-green sea sparkled in the spring sunlight. Like a goddess, he thought, sent briefly down to haunt him.

She had been thirty years his junior, a beautiful, blond-haired girl with a laugh like the summer itself. Jelka—his darling Jelka—was her image. But the gods had decided not to grant him more than a single measure of happiness. His Jenny had died giving birth to his daughter, and he had slept alone these last eighteen years.

Lonely ... no wonder he was lonely.

There was a knock. He turned, wondering for a moment if he hadn’t imagined it, then it came again.

“Yes?” he called, his voice filled with a strength and certainty he did not feel.

“Marshal Tolonen?”

It was the voice of his equerry, Lofgren. He frowned, then went across and unlocked the door. In the corridor outside Lofgren stood alone, his shaven head bowed, a small tray balanced between his hands. The smell of hot soup wafted up out of the darkness. “Lofgren? What is this?”

“I—I heard you pacing, sir. I thought maybe this would help. I wasn’t certain you had eaten.”

Tolonen smiled, then stepped back, letting the young officer enter.

“That’s kind of you. I couldn’t sleep.”

“No, sir.” Lofgren took the tray across and set it down on the desk, then turned, coming to attention.

“At ease, boy.”

“Sir!”

He went across, then sat, beginning to eat, his hunger surprising him. “Were there any messages?” he asked, turning between mouthfuls to look up at the young man.

“Just one. From your daughter.”

“Jelka? What, from Callisto?

“Yes, sir. A short-burst transmission. I’ve stored a copy on your personal file. If you like, I could have it played right now.” Tolonen took another mouthful of the soup, then shook his head. “No. Show it to me first thing. While I’m getting dressed.” “Sir.”

He smiled. Yes. It would be something to look forward to, before the business of the Hearing began. Thinking of which . . . “Lofgren?”

“Sir?”

“Do you think we were right, letting things take their course? I mean, GenSyn is so important to us all. If things go wrong . . .” Lofgren looked down, embarrassed. It was not often the Marshal asked him for his opinion.

“I—I guess it depends what you mean, sir. If you mean, were we right not to have Lutz Ebert killed out of hand, I’m not sure, sir. I—I wouldn’t have liked to have made that call.”

“But if you had?”

The young officer looked away, a slight stiffness to him now. “I think I would have done exactly as you did, sir.” Tolonen smiled. “I see. Well, thank you, Lofgren. You can go now. Oh, and thank you for the soup. It was most welcome.” “Sir!”

He watched the boy go, then stood, stretching his limbs, tired now, ready for his bed.

If you only knew, he thought. If only you’d been there, Bertil Lofgren, when I advised the Tang to have the bastard killed. But now it was too late. Much, much too late. To have him killed now would create more problems than it solved. Besides, there were other ways to control the man. Subtler, more efficient ways.

He went across and blew a silent kiss, then turned and went to his bed.

Pulling back the thin sheet he slipped beneath it, his eyes heavy

suddenly, the frantic racing of his thoughts slowing to a more sedate

pace.

And the rainbow spanned the heavens . . . He gave a shuddering yawn, then turned onto his side, the thought that followed the words vanishing from mind even as it formed. Soup ... he must have drugged the soup. . . . Outside the door, the young man waited, listening. Then, hearing the old man’s snores, he nodded to himself and, smiling, walked away down the unlit corridor toward his quarters.

the courtroom was hushed, expectant. Above the raised dais where the court officials sat, a dozen media remotes hovered like fireflies, sending back an incessant stream of images to the watching billions of Chung Kuo. Just now their cameras were focused on the distinctive features of Chi Hsun, the most senior of the seven Commissioners. Chi Hsun was a tall, humorless man with a long, horselike face. To the public he was best known for his role in the Demotion trials six years before. Back then he had become known as “Iron Chi” for his unrelenting pursuit of those who had opposed the Seven in the great “War-That-Wasn’t-a-War.” As Tsu Ma’s representative on the Hearing Committee his view was supposed to carry no more weight than any other’s, but his long experience made him their natural leader, and it fell to him now to open the proceedings.

Off to one side sat the old Marshal himself, Knut Tolonen. He was in overall charge of the Hearings and in the last two and a half years had earned much respect for the way he had handled the matter. Now, with the public phase of the Hearings finally about to begin, he seemed tired, his granite features pale and drawn.

The camera moved on, panning slowly across the huge stacks of legal books and files, three long rows of them, which were laid out along the full length of the benches at the center of the Courtroom, then slowly climbed the steps, picking out first the tall, coldly elegant figure of Berta Ebert, sitting between her daughters on the far right of the court, then moved along, past various familiar figures, until it rested on the face of Lutz Ebert, the dead man’s half brother. For a moment it remained there, allowing that face, with its weak, watery blue eyes and its uncertain, somewhat shifty features, to condemn itself, then moved on again, across a backdrop of media celebrities and chattering anchormen, until it focused on the stocky yet sophisticated form of Henri Lanouette, sitting amid the bankers and businessmen—Han and Hung Mao— who formed his faction. For a brief moment the faint murmur of voices filled the Courtroom. Then, as the ceremonial bell sounded—one tone high, the other low—the room fell silent and the three parties’ advocates entered the room from the doors at the far end, making their way toward the raised bench at the front where the Commissioners sat.

Chi Hsun waited for them to form up in front of him, then made a brief dismissive gesture of his hand. At once the main body of the advocates—some thirty or so in all—made their way across to their benches on the left-hand side of the court, leaving only the three Senior Advocates standing before the Commissioners. And so, finally, they came to it: the formal submission of evidence. First to submit would be Tung Li-so, Chief Advocate for Berta Ebert and her daughters.

Tung Li-so began his submission, but he had barely uttered more than a dozen words when he broke off, staring to his right. An elderly Han had come across from the public benches and now presented himself before Iron Chi, his head respectfully bowed. As he straightened up, the remotes homed in, hovering just overhead.

“Forgive me, Excellency,” he began, “but I would like to submit fresh evidence before the Commissioners in the matter of the GenSyn Inheritance Hearings.”

Chi Hsun stared at the ancient a moment, astonished, then turned, looking to Tolonen for guidance.

“I have crucial new evidence. If Your Excellency would permit.”

“Let’s hear what he has to say!” Tolonen called from across the courtroom

in a weary voice. “But make him get on with it. We’ve delayed long

enough!”

“All right,” Chi Hsun said gruffly, glaring at the newcomer, “but if you are wasting the Commission’s time, I shall have you charged, you understand?”

“1 understand, Excellency.”

“Good. Then state your name and business and get on with it.” “Thank you, Excellency. My name is Ku Hsien-ch’eng and I am Advocate for the sole legitimate heir to the estate of Klaus Ebert.” Iron Chi nodded, stunned by what he’d said, waiting for Advocate Ku to say more, but the old man merely turned away. At that moment, as if at an unseen command, the doors at the far end of the room swung inward and eight gray-bearded advocates made their way into the court, each bearing a huge stack of files and legal texts, which they proceeded to heap upon the central benches, pushing aside what was already there. “Seven copies,” Ku said, turning back to Iron Chi and bowing once more.

“As the Commission demands.”

there was uproar in the court. On the benches to the left the advocates were standing, calling out to the Commissioners, demanding that they dismiss this new evidence, while on the bench itself the Commissioners were in disarray, arguing among themselves over the legality of this new submission. Amid it all stood Ku Hsien-ch’eng, his head bowed, a faint, almost enigmatic smile on his face.

On the public benches Lutz Ebert was standing, looking on, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. Nearby Berta Ebert was looking down, her fists balled tightly in her lap, what she was feeling concealed behind a wall of icy self-composure. Only Lanouette seemed vaguely amused, as if he’d been forewarned.

Tolonen, meanwhile, leaned over Chi Hsun’s shoulder, reading through the brief abstract of Advocate Ku’s submission, wondering— just loud enough for the nearest remote to catch his muttering—who in the gods’ names could possibly be claiming the GenSyn billions. An answer which, when he finally came to it, made him laugh, half in shock, half in disgust. “The gods help us!” he said quietly, meeting Iron Chi’s eyes. “Let’s hope to hell this isn’t true!”

TOLONENSATATHiSDESKin the Lower Committee Room, an old-fashioned glowlamp hovering nearby, illuminating the great chart he had spread out before him. Beyond the edges of the chart the desk was cluttered with huge stacks of files and discs and ancient law texts. Nearby, waiting silently in the shadows beyond the tight circle of light, sat his equerry the young lieutenant, Lofgren.

The Marshal looked up, then rubbed at his eyes with his right hand. Beyond the reinforced ice of the picture window the darkness seemed to have softened toward morning. His left shoulder had begun to ache, as it often did when he was tired, but that was understandable. They had been working through the new evidence for the best part of a day, but now it was clear. He yawned and looked across, smiling at the young man. “What time is it, Bertil?”

“Fifth bell sounded twenty minutes back, sir.” Tolonen nodded, then sat back, staring thoughtfully at the great mass of untouched material. There was much more to look at— enough to keep the Committee busy for another month—but he had seen enough to know that he had been right. This was serious. Very serious indeed. He turned, looking at the young man again. “What’s your feeling about this, Bertil? Do you think I was right to keep the Committee at arm’s length?”

The young lieutenant considered a moment, then: “From what I’ve seen, sir, I think you had no choice. By dismissing Iron Chi and the Committee when you did, you gave Li Yuan a clear advantage. If Wang Sau-leyan’s man, Tu Chung, had got wind of any of this, his Master would almost certainly have intervened at once. As it is, Li Yuan has time to act, to prevent Wang from using this against him.”

Tolonen sniffed deeply. That was true. And yet he could not stop the Hearing tomorrow. To do so would merely invite the T’ang of Africa to meddle. And that was what he had been trying to avoid all along. No. His problem was how to play this. How to turn this information to Li Yuan’s advantage.

He looked back at his equerry. “At present Wang knows merely that there has been a development in the case, not how significant that development is. Yet if 1 allow this new evidence to go before the Committee, Wang will know everything within the hour.”

“And yet you have no choice. If you embargo the evidence, the effect will be the same. Tu Chung will protest, and when his protest is ignored, Wang Sau-leyan will take the opportunity to step in. In the circumstances you would be best advised, perhaps, to take the bull by the horns. To strike before our Master’s cousin knows what is going on.” Lofgren smiled. “Why not let Advocate Ku present his evidence at once, before Iron Chi and the rest have had a chance to look at it?”

Tolonen sat forward. “Could we do that?”

“Why not? It might be suggested to Chi Hsun that, by doing so, this ‘distraction’ might be set aside and the real business of the Hearing got on with.”

Tolonen gave a short laugh, then nodded. “I like that. And Chi Hsun will buy it, I’m certain. But what of Li Yuan? Oughtn’t we to let him know?” “As soon as possible, sir. The new evidence changes everything. Unless our Master acts, and acts swiftly, our worst fears will come about. The matter will drag on and GenSyn will be lost.”

“You think it would be that bad, Bertil?” “I am certain of it, sir. Why, even before this, Tu Chung has suggested delays for the most minor of technicalities. This new matter would give him the perfect excuse to request a lengthy recess. Indeed, it could drag on for years while his clerks exhaust the search for precedents, and in the meantime all the work we’ve done these past thirty months to stabilize GenSyn’s trading position and reassure the markets would be lost. Confidence would vanish overnight.

The share price would plummet. And that cannot be allowed to happen.” “No.” Tolonen stood, nodding decisively, his granite face set. “Then I shall contact Li Yuan at once and tell him what we know.”

there was silence in the great Courtroom as the elderly Ku Hsien-ch’eng completed his opening remarks, bowed low to the panel of Commissioners, then turned, facing the seated rows of advocates. “Ch’un tzu,” he said, smiling politely.

Behind and above them, at the top of a flight of steps that formed an aisle between their seats, was a doorway. At Ku’s terse nod the Guard of the Court lifted the great keys from his belt and turned, fitting one to the lock. As the heavy door eased back, heads turned, trying to see into the darkness beyond. For a moment there was nothing, then, out into the brightness of the courtroom, stepped an elderly Han dressed in pale green silks. There was a general outlet of breath, a moment’s disappointment, then, just beyond the old man, flanked by two young male attendants in matching pale green one-pieces, came a girl. Or rather, a young woman. A Han in her late twenties, wearing a simple pink-and-mauve chang shan and a white wool flower—a tai Hsiao—in her tightly bobbed jet-black hair. At the sight of her there was a buzz of excitement. A sound that was interrupted by the sudden indignant cry of Berta Ebert. “How dare you bring that creature here! How dare you!” Media remotes buzzed here and there, almost colliding in their attempts to capture every moment of it. But things were moving fast now. Behind Ebert’s widow his daughters were on their feet and shouting, enraged by the sight of the young woman. Nearby, Lutz Ebert looked down, one hand pressed to his brow, shading his eyes.

The young woman came down the steps slowly, the two attendants leading her by the hands. Down she came, looking about her vaguely, her eyes fearful, like a young animal’s, an uncertain, apologetic smile on her lips. Up ahead of her the old Han had stopped and, after bowing to Iron Chi and the Commissioners, turned, facing Advocate Ku. Ku Hsien-ch’eng smiled, then turned, facing Iron Chi, raising his voice over the clamor in the chamber.

“May 1 present before Your Excellencies the chief witness for my claimant...”

For a moment his voice was drowned out by the shouts of the Ebert women. Ku turned, looking across, his hands tucked into his sleeves, waiting patiently while a Court official got the three women to sit and be quiet, then he turned back, bowing to Iron Chi, as if the fault were his. “Forgive me, Excellencies. As I was saying, might I present to the Commissioners the young lady, Shou Chin Hsin, better known in the Ebert household as Golden Heart, onetime concubine to the traitor Hans Ebert.” From Ku’s right the shouting began again. This time Iron Chi leaned forward angrily, calling for order.

“If I have one more outburst from you, Madam Ebert, I am afraid I shall have no choice but to ban you from this chamber until the Hearing is over. Now, sit still and hold your tongue.”

It was a severe rebuke, but Berta Ebert stood there a moment longer, defiant, glaring at the young woman, before she sat again, her body tense, her face a mask of hatred.

As for Golden Heart herself, she seemed unaffected by the noise, apart from it. There was something odd about her, something unconnected. The remotes, circling her, took in every detail of her dress, the way she stood, the way her eyes moved restlessly, flicking across the surface of things.

To Ku’s left came the urgent murmur of whispered exchanges among the advocates. Then, as if some agreement had been reached, Advocate Chang, the senior representative for Lutz Ebert, stood and cleared his throat. Iron Chi looked across at him. “Yes, Advocate Chang. What is it?” Chang bowed, then came around until he stood before the bench. “Forgive me, Excellency, but on behalf of my claimant I wish to register a protest against the witness presented by Advocate Ku. Medical testimony would merely serve to confirm what is evident at a glance. The woman is clearly mad. Any evidence she might give to this Hearing would be of as little value as the prattlings of a child. In the circumstances I beg the Commissioners to rule that this witness’s evidence be inadmissible.” Chi Hsun stared at the young woman a moment, then looked back at Ku Hsien-ch’eng. “Well, Advocate Ku, what have you to say? Personally I am of Advocate Chang’s view. Unless, therefore, you can give good reason why I should allow you to continue, I shall rule that we move on.” Ku bowed his head. “With respect, Excellency, the mental state of the witness has no bearing whatsoever on this Hearing. Nor have I any intention of letting Shou Chin Hsin utter a single word in respect of this matter. However, her presence here has a point, so if you would bear with me a moment?”

“I shall allow you to continue, Advocate Ku, but make it brief.” “Excellency.” Turning, Ku put out a hand, inviting the old Han in the pale green to come forward. Then, taking his arm, he went up to the bench, presenting the man to the Commissioners.

“This, Your Excellencies, is Professor K’ang. K’ang Hung-chang of the Kunming Institute of Comparative Genetics—a body established and licensed by special Edict of the Seven and run within the strict guidelines of the Edict of Technological Control. Professor K’ang’s expertise is in matching genotypes—“ “Forgive me, Excellency,” Advocate Chang interrupted, “but I fail to see the relevance of any of this. Golden Heart may have been Hans Ebert’s concubine—we do not dispute it—but that gives her no claim in law, particularly in view of the special Decree issued by the Seven.” Iron Chi looked about him at his fellow Commissioners, receiving sober nods from all sides, then looked back at Ku. “I must once more agree with Advocate Chang. Unless you can provide me with a good reason for continuing, Advocate Ku, I shall rule that your claim be set aside and that all matters relating to it be struck from the official record.”

Ku bowed. “I understand, Excellency. Then let me come directly to the point. There is a child.”

There was a great hiss of disbelief, then, once again, the chamber erupted with noise. Chi Hsun sat back, startled. Beneath him, on the floor of the court, Chang had turned and was staring at Ku, his mouth hanging open. On the benches across from him most of the advocates were on their feet, shouting and waving papers.

Chi Hsun let the noise continue for a while, then raised a hand, calling for silence. Once a kind of order had returned, he leaned forward again, looking down at Chang.

“Did you know of this, Advocate Chang?”

Chang licked his lips nervously, then nodded. “There was a child, yes, but the child was destroyed.”

“Destroyed?”

Ku, standing beside him, shook his head. “That is not so. Hans Ebert ordered it to be destroyed, but that is not the same thing. His order was not carried out. The child was taken to a place of safety and kept there. The boy lives. He is three, almost four now.”

Chi Hsun sat back, astonished. “And you can prove this, Advocate Ku?” Ku Hsien-ch’eng bowed and smiled, the very picture of composure. “As I was saying, Excellency, this is Professor K’ang. K’ang Hung-chang of the Kunming Institute of Comparative Genetics.”

in the silent darkness of the room the hologram shone with the intensity of a ghostly vision, the face of the madwoman filled with a strange inner light that seemed to waver like a candle’s flame between serenity and despair.

Tolonen, standing there, his hands gripping the edge of the viewing table, stared down at the image openmouthed, mesmerized by the sight of the child playing at its mother’s feet. He was a robust, healthy child— a four-year-old with fine dark hair and strong Eurasian features. A bastard, he thought. Yet there was no denying it. It was Hans Ebert’s child. That face, that mouth, that chin. That was the Ebert lineage. But even without that there was proof enough. His experts had taken new cell samples and subjected the genetic charts to the most rigorous scrutiny, and the evidence held up. The concubine, Golden Heart, was the mother, Hans Ebert the father.

Even so, the matter was far from straightforward. Hans Ebert was a traitor, and under normal circumstances his family shared his fate, to the third generation. Yet it had been agreed among the Seven that these were far from normal circumstances. Klaus Ebert had been a pillar of the State. Though dead it was unthinkable that he should be declared a traitor, and so a special Edict had been passed, exonerating him, his wife, and all dependants, making the sentence of the Seven specific to one single individual—Hans Ebert. Now that document assumed a new importance. Was the child to share the father’s fate, or was he, too, exonerated under the terms of the Edict?

It was up to Li Yuan to decide.

Tolonen looked down. It was all his fault. He had trusted Hans Ebert. He would have given him anything. Anything at all. His daughter, Jelka, even his own life. And to think . . .

He sighed, then shook his head. Some days he felt it was simply the gods, toying with them all, putting devils into the shapes of men. At others he felt that it was just how they were. Men. With all the strange goodness and wickedness of men.

And the men who had done this, who had saved the child and brought it up in secret: which were they? And what did they want? He had been surprised when he’d learned who was behind this. The list of names included six of the most prominent businessmen in City Europe. But what were they after? Was theirs a long-term game? Did they look to the child’s gratitude in years to come?

Or maybe young Lofgren was right. Maybe their hand had been forced. After all, what use was a potential heir once the inheritance issue had been legally decided? So maybe it had simply been a case of “Produce your trump card now or see it lose all value.” What they hoped to achieve was still obscure to him. If the aim had been to damage GenSyn, then surely the easiest, most certain course was to let Lutz Ebert inherit and destroy the child. But maybe that last part—the killing of the child—had grown too difficult for them. Maybe there were too many in on the secret for that to be a realistic option. Then again, maybe it was much simpler than that. Maybe the sight of Lutz Ebert gloating, anticipating his inheritance, had been enough to make them act.

Only one thing was certain. Whatever their motives, altruism had not been among them. They had not invested so much time and money simply to see social justice done. Whatever the outcome, they hoped to have a say, and it was his job to prevent that somehow, to make sure that Chung Kuo’s greatest Company stayed clear of such attachments. Even so, the whole affair convinced him of one thing. The world he had known was gone. There had been a breach. Father to son, that had been the way of it, generation after generation, but now the natural son had proved false, had been seen to be a twisted shadow of the father, and this thing—this product of casual fucking with a whore—had been conjured from the air to fill the gap.

He shivered. Like a dream. Like a dark and evil vision of what was to

come.

Or like a curse. . . .

the committee was seated about the long table, a fierce argument raging, when the doors at the far end of the chamber burst open. Tolonen entered, followed closely by an honor troop of six shaven-headed guards. Immediately the room fell silent. At the head of the table, directly facing Tolonen, Tsu Ma’s man, Iron Chi, rose to his feet. “Forgive me, Knut, but we are in session. It was agreed—“ Tolonen raised a hand to mollify his old friend. “Forgive me, Chi Hsun, forgive me, ch’un tzu, but for once there is no time for formalities.” Wang Sau-leyan’s man, Tu Chung, was on his feet. “With respect, Marshal Tolonen, this is not right. We must maintain formalities.” Tolonen stared at him contemptuously, then turned his head, looking to Iron Chi.

“Well, Chi Hsun? Will you keep me waiting like a servant in the antechamber? Or will you hear what I have to say?” “I protest!” Tu Chung began once more, but Tolonen turned, shouting him down.

“The gods preserve us! Hold your tongue, man!”

Tu Chung jerked back, as if slapped, then sat, glaring at Tolonen. At the head of the table Iron Chi leaned forward, his long, face clearly troubled. “While I agree with Tu Chung that this is most irregular, I do feel that, for once, we might make an exception and hear what the Marshal has to say. Forgive me, however, if I insist that we take a vote on this matter. I would not have it said that, in allowing this, I went beyond the instructions given to me by the great Council.” Tolonen bowed his head. “As you wish, Chi Hsun, but please, let us do it at once, neh? I am a busy man.”

Iron Chi nodded, then looked about him. “Well? Will all those in favor of the Marshal addressing this Committee please indicate their agreement.” From about the long table there were grunts of agreement. Only Tu Chung remained stubbornly silent.

Iron Chi stared at Wang’s man a moment, then, with a tiny shrug, looked back at Tolonen. “It is agreed, then. Let us hear what you have to say.” Tolonen bowed. “Forgive me, ch’un tzu. I will take but a moment of your time. I wish to address you informally on this matter. To advise you of a decision that has been made this past hour. One which, I feel, you might wish to take into consideration when deliberating upon this complex and difficult case.” He looked about him, then, staring directly at Tu Chung, added, “Ch’un tzu . . . It has been decided that the special Decree concerning the fate of the traitor Hans Ebert shall be deemed to apply solely to the person named and not to any issue of his loins.” Tu Chung’s head bobbed up, a look of shocked surprise etched on his features. His mouth opened, as if to answer the Marshal; then, realizing there was nothing he could say, he bowed low, acknowledging defeat. Tolonen turned, noting the surprise on Chi Hsun’s face, and nodded. It was done. The child would inherit.

it was shortly after eighth bell when Tolonen arrived at the old Ebert Mansion, his heart strangely heavy. The last time he had come here it was to tell his old friend Klaus of his son’s duplicity: a warning that had resulted in the old man’s death and young Hans’s escape from Chung Kuo, a traitor, condemned in his absence. And now a young madwoman and her bastard son were tenants of this great estate; the boy heir to the whole vast GenSyn empire, by Li Yuan’s decree.

He handed his cloak to the servant, then walked through briskly, his booted footsteps echoing back all the way along the broad, tiled corridor. Since Klaus Ebert’s death the house had been run by a skeleton staff—but the Marshal could remember it in other days, when its rooms had been filled with guests, its corridors busy with servants. At the end of the corridor he stopped, waiting while one of the house stewards fumbled with a great bunch of keys at his waist, then threw open the huge doors that led out to the gardens at the center of the house. Tolonen strode out onto the balcony and gripped the rail, sniffing the air and looking about him. Here, at least, nothing had changed. A tiny, twisting stream ran beneath low-railed wooden bridges. Beyond it small, red-painted buildings lay half concealed among leaf and tree and rock. And there, on the far side of the gardens, beside the pool, three pomegranate trees stood like three ancients sharing a jug of wine. How often as a young man had he sat with Klaus beneath those trees, their feet dangling in the water, and talked of the years to come. Of their hopes and fears and plans. How often had they argued out the world’s great problems between them. Young men, they’d been, filled with a strange, visionary enthusiasm.

Gods, he thought, moved by the sudden clarity of the memory. It seems like only yesterday. And yet it was sixty years ago. Sixty long years. And the world of which they had dreamed—what had come of that? Nothing. Nothing but dust and ashes, betrayal and bitter disappointments. “And madwomen,” he said softly, reminding himself why he had come.

Yesterday Li Yuan had summoned him and asked him if he would serve again. “One last time,” as the young T’ang had put it, “before you take up poetry and painting.” He had laughed and readily agreed, glad to be doing something now that the inheritance issue was resolved. But this . . . He sighed. There was a bitter irony to this. That he should be chosen to be guardian to the boy. He, an old man of seventy-six years. Not only that, but in his heart of hearts he blamed himself for this situation. If he had only gone direct to Li Yuan when he had first found out about Hans Ebert, then Klaus might still be alive, the question of inheritance not an issue. But he had let friendship distort things. And this was the result. A madwoman and her bastard.

Ah, yes, but at least he’d exacted a price for his service. Jelka was to come home. She was to be flown direct to Mars from Callisto, and three ships of the imperial fleet were to be sent to ensure her safe return. Tolonen pushed back, away from the handrail, then went down, crossing the tiny bridge, following the narrow pink-and-gray-pebbled path through the trees to the far side of the garden. Golden Heart would be in her quarters at this hour, on the east side of the Mansion. And the child . . . He slowed, suddenly remembering what Jelka had said that time. How strange that he had forgotten that until now. He stopped, looking about him. It had been the evening of Li Shai Tung’s death—the night DeVore had attacked the Wiring Project—and he had left her here with Hans while he had gone to see what he might do. And later she had told him about the madwoman and her awful pink-eyed ox-baby, and how Hans had had her real child killed. Yes, and he had refused to believe her. As if she would ever lie to him. If only he had listened to her. If only he had not tried to force her into that awful, ill-fated marriage with Hans. If only . . . He shivered, thinking of her, out there on Callisto. It was strange just how much he missed her. More—much more—than he had ever thought possible. And though he heard from her regularly, it wasn’t the same. No. He missed her coming into his study late in the evening to wish him good-night. Missed the way she would come up silently behind him in his chair and lean across, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders, to gently kiss his brow.

He closed his eyes, steeling himself against the memory and the thought that accompanied it, but there was no denying it; lately he had begun to wonder whether he would ever see her again, face-to-face. Whether he would ever hold her and feel the warmth of her cheek against his own. You’re a foolish old man, Knut Tolonen, he told himself, straightening up. But then, what else was left for him these days? Who else was there for him to love?

Tolonen turned, hearing noises from the rooms up ahead—the sound of a young child crying for its mother. Hans Ebert’s son. He lifted his head, swallowing back the bitterness he felt at the thought— at the dashed hopes it represented—then walked on, knowing he would do his duty by the child.

PART 1 I SUMMER 2211