Beneath the Tree of Heaven

Empty Rooms

LI yuan stood at the back of the great study, beside the open window, looking out into the Eastern Garden, while his Chancellor, Nan Ho, sat at his desk conducting the meeting.

General Rheinhardt had come, together with Tolonen and the giant, Karr. The big man had just returned from a fifteen-month undercover assignment in the Lowers, collecting information on the state of things down there. Glancing at him Li Yuan wondered how such a man could ever go “undercover.” Eyes were certain to turn wherever such a man went; questions were certain to be asked. And yet his report had been good, the details telling. Now Nan Ho questioned him, looking up from the written copy of Karr’s report to meet the man’s blue, Hung Mao eyes. “From what you say of this ... Li Min ... he seems to have created quite a little empire for himself, neh? You talk of it extending, what? . . . twenty thousand stacks, perhaps more. And fifty levels. Are you quite certain of this, Major Karr?”

Karr, standing there at attention, his hands folded behind his back, bowed his head slightly. “Quite certain, Excellency.” “And you say that, for the most part, this man Li Min governs fairly and that there is peace within those areas he controls.” Karr hesitated. “I would not say fairly, Excellency. Harshly is perhaps a better word. His ‘officials,’ as he calls them, are corrupt, their justice arbitrary. His rule is one of fear, not justice.” “Even so, there is peace there, neh? Whereas elsewhere in the Lowers there is chaos and clamor for violent change.”

“Maybe so, Excellency, but—“

Nan Ho raised a hand, silencing the big man. Li Yuan, watching, looked away, hiding his amusement. He had yet to see Nan Ho intimidated by anyone, least of all by their physical presence. “My point is this, Major Karr. When I had you sent, it was because I feared the very worst. I feared that the situation had deteriorated beyond the point of stability. Yet what you say here reassures me.” Tolonen, silent until now, pushed past Karr and leaned both hands on the front of the desk, facing Nan Ho. “Reassures you? But surely this is the worst? To find another ruling in the great T’ang’s place—is that a good thing, Master Nan? Or have I died and woken in a world where all values are inverted? You know what they call the man down there? They call him the White T’ang, and they say that he will one day depose our Master, and extend his rule to every comer of this City. Is that good? Or is that not the very worst?”

Nan Ho leaned back, smiling tolerantly at the old man. Had any other than Tolonen uttered those words there would have been no smile, just an icy hostility.

“Again, you misunderstand me, Marshal Tolonen. I did not say that things were well, nor that I condone what has happened, merely that—in the context of all else that has been happening—to find such stability in the Lowers is a welcome, indeed a useful thing. These are troubled times and it would be unwise to take precipitate action in this matter.” “But what about these?” Tolonen said, slamming a flimsy handbill down on the desk—identical to the one Nan Ho had in the file before him. “Is this not a good reason to take action? Or is treason no longer an offense?” Li Yuan had read the bill earlier and understood the old man’s anger. In effect it was a declaration of independence from the rule of the Seven, the setting up of a separate nation within the City Empire. Even so, Nan Ho was right. Mars had fallen, and North America. Now was not the time to take Li Min and his cohorts on. Right now far greater dangers threatened. Nan Ho had closed the file. He looked up at Tolonen with an unchanged expression, calm, his great authority unruffled. “It is treason, I agree. And action will be taken. But no wars, Marshal Tolonen. We cannot afford another war.”

Tolonen straightened up, taking a long, shuddering breath, clearly reluctant to let the matter drop. Then he turned, facing his T’ang. “Is that your final word, Chieh Hsia?”

Li Yuan looked down. Once before—when his elder brother, Han Ch’in, had been assassinated—Tolonen had been urged to a course of inaction, of wuwei, a course which, it seemed, was against the very fiber of his being. That time he had reacted badly—had marched into the great House at Weimar and killed the man he blamed for the young prince’s death. Only quick thinking by his father had prevented war. But times had changed. For Tolonen to act precipitately now would be disastrous. Nan Ho was right. In better times they would have crushed such insolence in the bud, expending whatever force was necessary for the task, but these were evil days. This was but a single threat of many. The great empire of Chung Kuo was under siege, and a single error—one single misjudgment—could bring the whole fragile edifice crashing down.

He looked up. All four men were waiting to see what he would say—Nan Ho with certainty, the other three, it seemed, hoping he would gainsay his Chancellor. He smiled, knowing how fortunate he was to have such good men serving him.

“It is as Master Nan says. Our hands are tied. We cannot act.” “But, Chieh Hsia . . . Each day his power grows, and at our expense. Why, the drug revenue alone allows him to add a hundred men to his private army every day. Soon the whole of the Lowers will be his, and then—“ Li Yuan raised a hand, silencing Tolonen. “That may be so, Knut, but you forget what happened on Mars and in my cousin’s City.” “That last was an accident, Chieh Hsia.”

“Maybe. But an accident waiting to happen, neh?” Tolonen shook his head, his granite features regretful. “We should have crushed him when we could. After the war between the brotherhoods.” Li Yuan smiled sadly. “I gave the order. Remember? But then the storm hit Nantes.” He sighed. “So it is. We cannot deal with every problem as if it were the only one. Things never happen in isolation. Priorities. It is always a question of priorities, and right now our priority is to maintain the peace at all costs.”

He paused, looking about him sternly. “However, do not mistake my hesitancy for weakness. I will strike when I must. But not now. As Sun Tzu reminds us, to be cautious can also be a virtue.”

when they were gone , Li Yuan turned to his Chancellor, letting a great sigh of relief escape him.

“They are right, of course. The situation is intolerable.” Nan Ho, serious throughout the meeting, allowed himself the luxury of a smile.

“Not so intolerable, Chieh Hsia. It is not all doom and gloom. My scheme—“ “—is a good one, and before you say another word, I agree to it. Arrange to meet the man and put the deal before him. But first there’s another matter I wish you to set in motion.”

Nan Ho’s brows furrowed. For once he was at a loss. “Another matter, Chieh Hsia?”

Li Yuan looked about him, gesturing at the silent solemnity of it all. “Empty rooms, Master Nan. I have had my fill of empty rooms. It is time I had a wife again.”

walking down the long corridor that led to his suite of offices, Nan Ho mulled the matter over in his mind. After the death of Li Yuan’s wives he had not pressed the matter, knowing just how deeply the young T’ang had been hurt. But lately he had been wondering whether he should raise the matter.

To have a single son—that was a dangerous weakness. But to have five or six...

As the great doors swung open before him, he clicked his fingers, summoning his Principal Secretary.

“Hu Ch’ang, bring me the Book of Dragon and Phoenix, And send Pi Kung, I need to talk to him at once.”

He sat, conscious of all the urgent matters there were to deal with. Since Li Yuan had handed over power to him, he had had little time to himself. He had neglected family matters badly. His wife, his children—he had not seen them in ... what? A week. He looked about his desk, studying the great piles of official documents, then hauled one bulky folder toward him. It was the application for citizenship he had been looking at before the meeting. He flipped it open, then reached across for his seal, inking the great chop before bringing it down on the bottom of the official form. He peeled it off the paper and set it back on its stand, then studied the glistening imprint. There. As simple as that. Now he had only to arrange the meeting. Quickly he took paper from the drawer, then inked his brush and, with a haste that was uncharacteristic, wrote out the summons. “Tonight...” he murmured to himself as Hu Ch’ang came back into the room. “I beg pardon, Excellency?” Hu Ch’ang said, stopping halfway across the room, the huge book balanced on his arms. “Oh, nothing, Hu Ch’ang. I was merely talking to myself.” “Ah . . .” Hu Ch’ang averted his eyes, then came across, waiting as Nan Ho cleared a space for the great book. As Hu Ch’ang set the book down, Nan Ho looked up at him.

“It’s been some years, neh? You realize, what this means?”

Hu Ch’ang blushed. “That you are taking a second wife, Excellency?” Nan Ho started forward slightly. “No. I...” But the idea wasn’t such a bad one. Maybe Nan Tsing would welcome the company of a younger woman? And maybe he could do with the regenerative effects of a new wife in his bed? He stared at the cover of the book, tracing the dragon-and-phoenix design inlaid in gold in the blood-red velvet, and nodded. No, not such a bad idea at all!

“It is not I who need a wife but our Master.”

“The great T’ang ... he is to be married again?” “Yes, Hu Ch’ang. And it is our task, our sacred task, to choose him a lifetime’s mate. A woman of discretion, demure but strong. Attractive, but not beautiful.”

“Not beautiful, Excellency? I do not understand. ...” Nan Ho opened the great book, exposing the first of the many faces within—the faces of all the Minor-Family Princesses who were eligible to be married—then looked up at Hu Ch’ang again.

“Beauty fades. . . . Other qualities . . . well, they grow stronger as the years pass. If the great Pang wants beauty, we can recruit a dozen maids to keep his bed warm and a smile on his face. But a wife—a wife is a different thing.” He laughed. “A wife is like a good Chancellor, neh?

two hours later it was done, the official invitations sent out to six of the young princesses to attend Nan Ho at the palace. He sat there, satisfied, for once feeling positive about something. Too often these days the burden of governing the great City simply oppressed him. In another age, perhaps, he might have found it a joyful, an exhilarating task, but right now it was like being Supervisor of Dams in a time of floods. The most he could do was to contain the damage and save a field or two. Things were bad—worse than he’d ever known them— and in his heart of hearts he felt not the steersman of some great social enterprise, but the custodian of decline.

There was a knock. A moment later a tall, slender-looking man in his mid-twenties came into the room. He came forward two paces, then dropped to his knees, placing his forehead to the thickly carpeted floor. “You sent for me, Excellency?”

“Yes, Pi Kung. I have a job for you. There is a man I want killed. A great man. A very special man, so I am told. Is there someone . . . special you could find for the task?”

Pi Kung lifted his head and smiled broadly. “Ah, yes, Excellency. I know just the man.”

karr leaned back in his chair and roared with laughter. Across the kitchen table from him sat Chen, a bowl of ch’a at his elbow, an almost inane grin lighting his plain features.

Karr leaned forward again and nodded, his eyes filled with a natural warmth. “Ah, Chen, it’s good to see you again. I’ve missed your company badly. Down there . . . acch . . . it’s hard to say how foul I found it all. That man, Li Min, he’s a cold bastard. I met him twice, and to be honest with you, he sent the chills through me.” Chen frowned, his voice taking on a friendly, mocking tone. “The chills? I don’t believe it, Gregor. You . . . frightened of another human being?” “Frightened? Did I say frightened? No, brother Chen. But there’s something about the man that reminds you of Yen Wang, the King of Hells. And his two henchmen, Soucek and Visak. . . Ox-head and Horse-face they are! Niu T’ou and Ma Mien themselves! Yes . . . the chief constables of Hell.” Chen laughed, then grew more serious. “And yet the T’ang does nothing.” Karr shrugged. “What can he do? Even if he had the will, it would take all we’ve got to subdue the Lowers, and what then? Without Li Min there keeping the peace we would have to police the Lowers again—a hundred men a deck, maybe more. And in the meantime our enemies—our real enemies—would take the opportunity to destroy us.”

“Our real enemies?”

“Wang Sau-leyan ...”

“Ah . . .” Chen lifted his bowl, drank deeply from it, then set it down again. “I thought you were for dealing firmly with Li Min.” “I am. At least, part of me is. To leave him there . . . well, it’s as Tolonen says. He grows stronger daily. And eventually . . . well, eventually there will be war. A far more hideous war, I suspect, than any we’ve yet seen. And if Li Min triumphs, well. . .” Again he shrugged. “You say it was peaceful down there.”

Karr smiled faintly. “That’s the strangest part of it. In some ways it reminded me of how things used to be. Before the Dispersionists. Before the Ping Tiao, the Yu, and all the other factions. It’s all very orderly. There’s fear, true, but there’s also hope. A lot of people down there like living under Li Min. They say it’s better than living under Li Yuan. And who’s to know the truth? Maybe there is no difference.” “Hold. Careful what you say, old friend. The difference, surely, is in the man. This Li Min . . . you say you’ve met him. You say he chills you. And Li Yuan? You’ve met him, neh? Does he chill you? Does he strike you as the King of Hells?”

“No.”

“Then maybe that’s the difference. Maybe one should look behind the system to the man who governs it.”

“You mean Nan Ho?”

Chen laughed. “I mean that orderliness is not everything. Nor is peace a sure sign of happiness. Things are bad, no one denies that, but they could be worse, and if this Li Min were in charge they would be a lot worse, neh?”

“Maybe . . . And you, Chen? How have things been? Is Wang Ti”— he hesitated—“I mean, is she still as she was?” For a moment Chen was silent, then a bright, almost impish smile settled on his lips. “Well. . . come and see.”

He led Karr through, stopping before the door to the bedroom. “She’s rather weak right now,” he whispered. “A virus, the doctors say, but she’ll be okay. The other problems . . . Well, you’ll see.” He slid the door open, then stood there, watching as Karr went across and, kneeling over the bed, reached out, hugging Wang Ti to him. “Wang Ti. . . how are you? It’s been ages. ...” Karr moved back slightly, drinking in the sight of Wang Ti smiling up at him. Thank you, she mouthed at him, then gave a tiny shiver, a tear trickling down her cheek.

“It’s good to see you better,” Karr said softly, then leaned toward her again, kissing her cheek. “Marie sends her love. We’ve a child now, you know. ...”

“A child!” Chen said, astonished. “You mean, you’ve had a child and I didn’t hear about it? Why, Wang Ti had only to have fallen for a week and you’d know.”

Karr turned, looking back at him, his eyes deadly serious. “It was while I was away. The pregnancy was a bad one and the child was ill at birth. They didn’t think it would live. They wanted to call me back, to be with her, but Marie wouldn’t let them. She endured it all. For two whole weeks it was in a special incubator. They say they had to revive it more than a dozen times in all. And yet it lived.”

“It?” Wang Ti spoke the word softly, her whole face wrinkled with concern. “A girl,” Karr said, turning to her, his face lit with joy. “A beautiful baby girl. May, we’ve called her, after the month in which she was born. And because she may be something special.” Wang Ti stared up at him, her eyes wide with joy, the tears flowing freely once again. But Karr, looking down into her face, found his own joy clouded by the memory of her lost child.

“Does it still hurt?” he asked gently, stroking the back of her hand with his fingers as if to comfort her.

Yes, she mouthed. But less now. Much less.

in the imperial palace at Alexandria, Wang Sau-leyan, T’ang of City Africa, lounged on a couch eating strawberries while, in a sunken circle nearby, two graybeards, both Masters of the game, faced each other over a wei chi board.

The game was near completion, the patterns of black and white stones filling the low, nineteen-by-nineteen board. The two Masters, their legs crossed beneath them, leaned over the board, their gaze intent. This was a crucial stage of the game and a single stone might win or lose it. To the side of Wang Sau-leyan a group of richly dressed courtiers looked on with a jaded indifference, plucking delicacies from the bowls that surrounded their couches, or sipping from silver goblets. Across from them, hunched forward on a low bench, like statues, their chins cradled in their hands, the two other finalists—graybeards, indistinguishable from the two who sat at play—watched with narrowed eyes, knowing that the outcome of this single game would decide it all. Beyond them, his eyes taking in everything, stood Hung Mien-lo, Chancellor of City Africa. He was busy—more busy than he’d ever been, trying to keep things together, but the T’ang had insisted he be here for this final game, and so here he was, less jaded perhaps than the watching courtiers, but tired all the same. Tired of his Master’s whims, his vicious nature, his callous brutality. Tired, more than anything, of being his whipping boy, his servant.

None of this showed in his face—only a polite interest in the game. But from time to time he would look past the two ancients at the board and watch his Master; see those heavy, gluttonous jowls move up and down as he ate some new delicacy.

As if he could eat it all...

There was a sharp click, a little movement backward by the old Master, Hsu Jung; a smile of satisfaction.

Hung Mien-lo watched, seeing how Hsu’s opponents face wrinkled with dismay as he realized the significance of the play. Then, with a sharp little movement, the man bowed his head, conceding the game. It was over. Hsu Jung had won. Which meant. . .

“Shit!” Hung Mien-lo murmured beneath his breath, then moved out into the circular space.

“Is it finished?” Wang asked, looking up, his chin wet with peach juice.

“Have we a champion?”

Hung Mien-lo paused, wondering how to phrase it, then shook his head. “I am afraid . . .”

“You afraid, Hung Mien-lo? And so you should be, I guess. Afraid I’ll cut off your head, or your balls, or some other part of your anatomy, neh?” Wang half sat, laughing, his huge triple belly shaking with it. Beyond him the courtiers, to a man and woman, laughed along with him. But their eyes showed something different. They knew Wang’s sudden moods. “Well?” Wang asked again, fixing Hung Mien-lo in a cold stare. “Have I a champion, or have we all been wasting our time?” Hung swallowed. “We have a result, Chieh Hsia. Unfortunately . . .” That unfortunately made Wang sit forward, his face suddenly hard, uncompromising. “What the fuck are you trying to tell me, man? Have I a champion or haven’t I?”

Hung shook his head. “Tradition has it that the four best players must compete to see who is Supreme Champion. Each contestant must play each of the other competitors twice, the winner being the one who has won most games.”

Wang tilted his head back, revealing not three but six, maybe seven, chins, a huge cascade of flesh that was like the soft rocks at the foot of a waterfall. This last year he had put on weight at an astonishing rate, while in his City rationing had reduced most of his citizens to wraiths—walking skeletons who barely had the strength to protest. But while his body had grown softer, flabbier, his manner hadn’t changed.

If anything he was harder, crueller, than he’d been.

“So?” he asked, the very softness of his voice a warning. Hung Mien-lo swallowed a second time, then turned, looking across at the four Masters, who now stood together, heads bowed, awaiting their T’ang’s pleasure. “So . . . each of them has won three games, and each—“ “—has lost three,” Wang finished wearily. He leaned forward, once, twice, a third time, finally freeing himself from the pull of the couch. Slowly he came across, until he was facing Hung Mien-lo. Again, his voice was gentle.

“What you mean to say is that we’ve spent more than two weeks watching these—these Masters play out their interminable strategies, only to find ourselves right back at the beginning, neh?” “Yes, Chieh Hsia.”

The change was abrupt. One moment he was smiling, the next he was screaming, his eyes wide, spittle flying from his lips. “I want a winner! I don’t want four champions, I want one! Can’t you understand that, you dolt?”

He lowered his head, not daring to wipe the spittle from his cheeks. “It is tradition, Chieh Hsia—“ “Well, bugger tradition! You four, here, now!” The four ancients scuttled across, then prostrated themselves at Wang Sau-leyans feet.

“Good. Now listen and listen carefully. This once we do things differently. You will draw lots to see who will play who, and the winners of those two games will play each other for the honor of being my champion. Understand me?”

The four answered as one. “Yes, Chieh Hsia.” “Good.” Wang turned, walked across and sat again, a strange self-satisfied smile on his lips. “Oh . . . and one more rule. Whoever loses dies.”

li yuan was in the stables, watching the groom brush out his favorite horse and braid its mane, when Hu Ch’ang came running from the House. “Chick Hsia,” the man said breathlessly, stopping just inside the door, then knelt and touched his forehead to the dark earth of the stable floor. “Chancellor Nan bids you come quickly. Your son. . .”

“Kuei Jen?” Li Yuan frowned, his eyes suddenly wide with concern. “Why?

What has happened to him?”

“I do not know, Chieh Hsia. Only that the boy is unwell, feverish. The doctors have been summoned—“ Hu Ch’ang turned, still on his knees, as the T’ang rushed past him, then, not stopping to brush himself off, he climbed to his feet and ran after his Master.

The doctors had just arrived as Li Yuan came into his son’s bedroom. The curtains were drawn and there was the tart smell of sickness in the air. Kuei Jen’s two maids stood on the far side of the bed, looking on anxiously. Li Yuan looked to them, then gestured for the eldest, Welcome Spring, to come to him.

“What happened?” he asked, not looking at her, his eyes never leaving his son. The boy was pale, his eyes closed, his brow beaded with sweat. He moved slowly, feverishly, beneath the sheets, oblivious, it seemed, to the hands of the doctor as he examined him.

The girl knelt, her head lowered. “I—I am not sure, Chieh Hsia. Earlier he was fine. After lunch we played ball in the West Garden, but then he complained of being tired and so we brought him back indoors. He said he would have a nap. I stayed with him, on the chair just there. He slept. . . oh, for an hour or more, and then, suddenly, he sat up, groaning, holding his sides. I asked what was wrong, but before he could answer he was sick. I sent Pale Blossom to fetch Master Nan. The rest you know.” Li Yuan nodded, then made a gesture of dismissal. “Well?” he asked the doctor nearest him. “Do you know what’s wrong with him? Is it poison?” The man looked up, alarmed. “Poison, Chieh Hsia?”

“Look at him,” Li Yuan demanded. “Just look at the agony he’s in.” As if on cue the four-year-old groaned, bringing a corresponding grimace to his father’s face.

“Well? Don’t you know?”

“Forgive me, Chieh Hsia,” the second doctor answered, turning from the boy, “but a proper diagnosis will take time.” Li Yuan raised himself up, his concern for his son making him tetchy. “The gods help us! If you don’t know, say you don’t and get someone here who does!”

There was a rustling behind Li Yuan. He turned to find Nan Ho standing there, his head slightly bowed.

“Thank the gods you’re here, Master Nan. These fools know nothing. Where is my surgeon? Where is Chang Li?”

“Chieh Hsia, please . . . calm yourself. It is nothing serious. If you would come with me a moment.”

“And leave my son?”

“Chieh Hsia . . . please.”

Reluctantly he followed Nan Ho out into the corridor and into one of the tiny anterooms, then watched as his Chancellor closed the door behind him. “Well, Master Nan?”

Nan Ho scratched at his neck, as if what he was about to say were difficult, then, clearing his throat, he began. “I have made my own investigations, Chieh Hsia. They are preliminary, I confess, but I think I have managed to get to the bottom of this little episode.”

“And?” Li Yuan said impatiently.

“And Kuei Jen is ill because he ate too much at lunch, Chieh Hsia. To put it bluntly, he stuffed himself silly.”

“He what?”

“It is true, Chieh Hsia. He was warned of the consequences, but the boy cannot be told. If he does not get his own way, he throws tantrums or smashes things.”

Li Yuan laughed. “Are you serious, Master Nan?”

“I am afraid so, Chieh Hsia.”

“Then why have I not been told of this?”

“It has been . . . difficult, Chieh Hsia. The boy needs . . . discipline sometimes, and yet. . . well, you will not allow him to be punished.” “And rightly so. He is a prince, after all.” “Maybe so, Chieh Hsia, and yet you, too, were a prince, and your father never commanded that you were not to be punished. Why, I remember well the time—“ “Enough!” Li Yuan shuddered, suddenly angry. “Since when was it your place to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do?” “Since you appointed me your Chancellor, Chieh Hsia.” “Chancellor, maybe, but Kuei Jen is my son and I shall do as I see fit. He is a prince and one day shall be Tang.”

“All the more reason, then, for him to learn self-discipline.”

“You speak out of line, Nan Ho.”

“I speak as I find, Chieh Hsia. To do less would be to fail in my duty. I see a good boy slowly turning bad. Forgive me for saying so, Chieh Hsia, but you are overprotective toward the child. Guard him by all means, but do not make a monster of him.”

Li Yuan stood there for a long time, simply staring at his Chancellor, astonished. Then he looked down. “I—I didn’t realize. Maybe you’re right, Master Nan. Maybe . . .” He sighed. “Tell me. What would you do in my place?”

“There is a man, Chieh Hsia. His name is Lo Wen and he is a Master of Wushu, the martial arts. He is an upstanding and honorable man and would be a fine example to the boy. If I were you, I would invite him to the Palace and place him in charge of the boy. That is, if that is what you wish?”

Li Yuan sighed. “But isn’t he rather young for this? I mean, he’s not yet five.”

Nan Ho stared back at him, stern faced. “It is never too young, Chieh Hsia. Why, when you were five you had not one but five instructors, don’t you remember?”

“Only too well. I hated it.”

“Naturally. When one is too young to understand, one always hates what is good for you. And yet you came to respect your instructors, neh? In time you even made one of them your Chancellor.” Li Yuan smiled. “You have no need to remind me, Nan Ho. Even so, I still have doubts. Kuei Jen is so young. . . .” “It is for the best, Chieh Hsia. If I felt it would harm the boy I would not have mentioned it. You know that.”

“I know. . . .”Li Yuan hesitated a moment longer, then nodded. “Go, then.

Arrange it.”

After Nan Ho had gone he stood there awhile, taking in what had been said. Nan Ho was his oldest friend, his closest adviser. In all the time he had known him, Master Nan had never failed to do his best by him. And so now. He alone, perhaps, could have said what needed to be said. And there was no doubt—now that his anger had passed— that it had been necessary. But how long had Master Nan known and not spoken? Just how bad had it become for him to bring this matter to a head?

A monster, he thought, recollecting Nan Ho’s words, then shivered. Was it true? Was it really that bad? And if so, had it been his failure? Had he failed as a father? As he walked back through to Kuei Jen’s room, the thought nagged at him.

Maybe he had. But it was not too late to start anew. To love without spoiling. To—

He stopped in the doorway, looking in. Kuei Jen was sitting up watching him, a mischievous grin lighting his features. “What’s this I hear?” he began, dismissing both the doctors and the maids.

“I think it’s time we had a little talk.”

michael lever was in the shower when the messenger came. The first he knew of it was when Mary rapped on the transparent surround, startling him. “Hey, what’s so urgent?”

“I think it’s come. It has the T’ang’s seal on it.” He pushed the door open, glanced at the package she held up to him, then ducked back inside, jabbing at the off switch. As he emerged she was holding out a towel for him.

“You want me to dry you?”

He laughed. “Not if I’m in a hurry, I don’t!” Even so, he let her rub him down while he stood there staring at the package where she’d put it on the tall-backed bath-chair, wondering. “Do you think . . . ?” he asked after a moment. “Do I think what?” she answered, smiling back up at him from where she was kneeling, dabbing at those delicate areas where the flesh was newest. It was only two months since the last operation and he still complained of soreness, but now that he was out of the harness he was a changed man, as if he’d shed the last memory of the bombing. But it wasn’t entirely so. Part of him would remain forever shocked at what had happened to him. “Do you think he’s granted it? I mean, why send a package if the answer’s no?”

She stood, watching as he went to the side and began to dress. “You think Nan Ho would say no?”

“Maybe. That’s if it ever got as far as Nan Ho. You know what they say—the building has nine floors and each floor has nine doors. There’s some truth to that. There are eighty-one levels of officialdom, and if you’re unlucky you have to pass through every damn one of them.” “Then you don’t think Gloria’s letter of introduction would have helped?” He shrugged, then pulled on his tunic. “I don’t know. At the time I thought it was a good idea. Now I’m not so sure. I mean, she’s in the same position as us. Or was.”

That was true, she reflected. They and many others who had escaped the fall of North America. And that was the problem, basically. One could do nothing here without citizenship. In particular you could not buy a First Level Mansion. In fact the demand was so great that you couldn’t even rent one. Which meant that they, like many others, had spent the months since the Fall as perpetual house-guests, moving from one great Mansion to another, forever beholden, forever dissatisfied, never alone. As if picking up on her thoughts, Michael looked at her glumly. “That’s the worst of it, Em. I own six Companies over here—Companies worth over a billion yuan—and still I’m classed as a refugee.” “Well, maybe you aren’t any longer. Why don’t you see?” He looked past her at the package, then met her eyes again, smiling. “I was like this as a kid. It used to drive my father wild. He’d say, ‘Why don’t you just open it, boy!’ but I’d delay and delay. It was like . . . well, the gift itself was nothing. I had lots of things. It was the anticipating. That was the good part.”

She smiled, conscious of the hurt that reemerged whenever he talked of his father. “I know. But this is different, neh? If he says yes, it’s a severance from the past—from America and all we did there. And if he says no ...”

“He can’t, surely?”

“Well, open it and find out. Or do you want me to open it?”

He shook his head.

“Well?” But she understood his hesitancy. It had been the same for her when she had fled from Europe that first time. She still vividly recalled her final moments at the spaceport, staring out for what she thought would be her last glimpse of home. But now she was back. This time it was Michael who was the exile.

He held her briefly, kissing her brow, then went over to the chair and picked up the package. It was heavy and official-looking, the T’ang’s seal, its blood-red wax imprinted with his chop, dominating the reverse. He peeled it off and opened the package up.

“What the ... ?”

She went over and stood beside him, looking down at what he held. It was an expensive-looking menu—the menu for the New Hope, she realized, with a jolt of surprise. The New Hope was an eating place at Weimar, popular with the more radical members of the House.

He opened it, then frowned. Inside was a handwritten note—an invitation to a meal that evening. That in itself was not surprising, they had many invites. Michael was a popular young man and not without influence both inside the House and out, in the greater business world. No, what was surprising was the name at the foot of the invitation—a name which was signed over the imprint of a second blood-red chop. Nan Ho.

She whistled. “What do you think he wants?”

Michael shrugged. “You think we should go, then?”

She stared at him, surprised. “You’d refuse?”

“It’s a strange choice, don’t you think? To invite us there.” “Maybe. But you can’t refuse, surely? That would end our chances of citizenship.”

“It might. But it might also embarrass the Chancellor if it became public knowledge, don’t you think? Questions would be asked. Primarily why Li Yuan’s First Minister should be asking an ex-member of the New Republicans to dinner. I mean, it has to be a deal. Li Yuan has to want something from us.”

She smiled. “You’re beginning to sound like a politician.”

He laughed. “Well, I was! And maybe I still am.” She shook her head. “You’re wrong. There are lots of political animals, and we seem to have met them all these past few years, but you’re different. People respect you because you always think and act as a man, not as a politician. Not that you’re wrong here. Li Yuan almost certainly wants something of you. It’s just. . . well, I’d trust to your instincts. I’d meet him. Hear what he wants. You don’t have to agree to anything. After all, he’s the one who’s put himself out here. If anyone loses face, it’s Nan Ho, not you.”

“And you? You’re invited, too, you know.” She looked at the note again, then gave a small laugh of surprise, for Nan Ho had specifically mentioned her, and by her sobriquet, “the Eldest Daughter.”

“Do you think that’s meant ironically?” she asked, surprised to find her pulse suddenly racing at the thought.

“Maybe. But we’ll find out, neh? Tonight.”

“Then we’re going?”

Dropping the menu he put his arm around her and lifted her face up to his.

“Sure. But that’s tonight. Right now . . .”

“what is this place?”

Karr stood there at the big ornamental gateway, looking about him uncomfortably. Beside him Chen waited patiently, as if it was something he did regularly.

“This is Shang Mu’s Mansion,” Chen said quietly. “Shang Mu’s? You mean the same Shang Mu who blew the whistle on what was happening in the Ministry?”

“That’s right.”

“And we’ve come to see him?”

Chen shook his head. “Not Shang Mu. He was killed. It’s his daughter, Hannah, we’ve come to see.”

Karr frowned. “When you said there was someone I ought to meet, I thought...”

“You thought what?” Chen turned, studying his old friend, his dark eyes strangely alive. “A lot happened while you were down-level, Gregor Karr, and not all of it reported on the media. There were moments when I thought it was all up for me. But here we are, you and I. We’re alive, neh? And not merely in the flesh.”

Karr was about to ask what he meant by that when a camera swiveled overhead, and with a faint clicking the gate juddered and began to slide back.

Inside, two liveried servants bowed low before them. “Major Kao,” the more senior of them said, then turned slightly, his arm outstretched, inviting them to cross the open space to the main Mansion. “We were not expecting you.”

“Forgive me, Steward Tse. If I’d known beforehand I was coming . . .” He paused, remembering his manners. “This, by the way, is Major Karr, of the Tang’s Imperial Elite.”

The Steward bobbed his head lower, then glanced up at Karr, clearly impressed by the big man. “Is this ... an official visit?” Chen smiled. “No. Not at all. Is Nu Shi Shang at home?” “Of course. She is working just now, but I shall tell her you are here. If you would come through.”

While they waited in the marbled entrance hall, Chen staring down into a sunken pool of carp, Karr spoke quickly to him, his voice lowered. “Well? What’s going on?”

Chen turned, smiling. “I’m sorry. I should have warned you. But. . . well, you’ll see.”

“See what?”

“Something you’ve probably not seen for some while. Something that’s not visible to the common eye.”

Karr laughed. “Have you been drinking, Chen? Or have you suffered a bad case of mysticism since I’ve been away?”

Chen raised one eyebrow. “And if I had? Would that be such a bad thing?”

“A bad thing? Why . . .”

Karr stopped. The Steward had reappeared at the doorway on the far side of the entrance hall.

“Ch’un tzu? If you would follow me.”

Karr gave Chen one long, hard look, then, shaking his head, followed Chen and the Steward through.

Inside it was cool and shadowed. A long corridor led to a pair of tall doors which opened at their approach. Beyond them was a formal dining room, at the center of which stood a young woman, her long, jet-black hair tied into a single ponytail, her hands folded before her. She was simply yet elegantly dressed, yet what struck Karr immediately was the sheer warmth of her smile on seeing Chen. It was the kind of smile one couldn’t feign. As the doors closed behind them, she put out her hands to Chen and came forward, taking his hands and leaning forward to kiss him on both cheeks.

“Chen! How wonderful to see you!” She turned, facing Karr. “And you, too, Major Karr. I’m very pleased to meet you at last. Chen’s told me a great deal about you.”

Karr laughed, his discomfort returning. “He has, has he?”

“Oh, nothing bad. At least, nothing I’d take as bad.” Her eyes were shining mischievously as she said this last, and her grip on his hands was unexpectedly strong.

“Come,” she said, ushering them through into a smaller, more feminine-looking room furnished in soft pastels. “I’ll have the servants bring ch’a.” She turned her head, flashing a smile at Karr. “You’re quite an expert, I’m told, Major. I hope you’ll like our humble brew.” Karr gave a slight bow of his head. “I am sure it will be delightful.”

“And if it isn’t? Would you tell me?”

Karr looked to Chen, then looked back. “Would you wish that? I mean, some might take it as an impertinence ... an affront.” She looked to Chen, then met Karr’s eyes again. “He hasn’t said, has he?

He’s just brought you here, right?”

Karr nodded, a faint smile appearing on his lips. She turned, wagging a finger at Chen, like a mother-in-law scolding her son’s daughter. “Why, Kao Chen, that’s very bad of you, to keep Major Karr guessing. You should have prepared him.”

Chen laughed. “And spoil my fun? No way!” She turned back, facing Karr. “Your friend Chen is a remarkable man, Major. I owe him a great deal. My liberty. Certainly my life.” It was an impassioned little speech that made Karr frown and try to reassess just what the relationship between the two was. He had begun to think . . .

“I—I don’t understand.”

“No,” she said, smiling again, gesturing toward one of the couches. “But all will be revealed, neh? Now, let me order that ch’a, then we can sit and talk.”

the stones swam before the man’s eyes, blurring, merging into each other, like a solid line of troops, a great white wall surrounding him. Sweat dripped from his brow onto the board, drip, drip, as if he were being slowly dissolved; as if, before the final stone could be played, there would be nothing of him but a pool of salted water. He swallowed dryly. It was impossible. There was no way out. Master Hsu had a four-stone advantage at the very least, and if he lost this group, then there was no hope.

His eyes lifted from the board, traveled across the room, and rested on the two bodies that lay there in the corner. So still they were. So perfectly, awfully still. Such stillness as the great Tuan Ti Fo had once reputedly possessed.

He looked back, trying to concentrate, yet he was close to fainting. The heat... It was so hot in here suddenly. As if... He remembered. The game. He had to win the game. Black. I am playing black, he reminded himself. But it was no use. His concentration had gone. The pressure. The pressure was too much. Last time, when he had realized he’d won, he had felt such relief flood through him. Such happiness! But now . . .

He looked up, meeting Master Hsu’s eyes. Nothing. They, too, were like walls, shutting him out, denying him.

It’s a game, he wanted to scream. It’s only a game! But the rules had been changed. Then, suddenly, he understood.

This is what this game is really about. Life and death. A struggle. And only one survivor And the loser?

Yes. He understood.

He moved back slightly from the board, wiping his face on the silk of his sleeve. For a moment longer he studied the board, then, drawing himself up, he gave his old friend Hsu the slightest of nods, accepting what the stones had already told him. He had lost. Six maybe eight stones ago he had lost, and he had known it then. But he had played on, hoping against hope. For once, however, hope wasn’t enough. For once the game was black and white.

He almost laughed at that. But it was no time for laughter. It was a time for dignity. Dignity . . . and inner strength. He turned, looking across at the great T’ang. Wang Sau-leyan was looking away, his great jowls chewing on some delicacy. Then, as if sensing something was happening, he turned his head and looked. “Is it over?”

The man nodded.

“Good.” And with the most casual of gestures Wang waved his guards across. He turned back, studying the board one final time, realizing for the first time just how deeply, how intimately, he had woven his life into the patterns of the game. He had been a child of four when he’d first been apprenticed, eight when he’d won his first professional competition, twenty-six when he’d first been made a Master. All his life he had struggled for perfection, but until today he had sought it in vain. He stared at the stones, his mouth open in wonder. No ... no game had ever been so intense. Not one had ever possessed even a glimpse of such rare and delicate beauty, such clarity . . . such power. He shivered and looked across at Hsu, bowing his head low, honoring the man. If only every game could have been so meaningful. If only he had had a thousand lives to lose. Or maybe not. Maybe that was why. He felt their rough hands on him, felt them lift him and carry him across, felt. . .

“Messy,” Wang Sau-leyan said, and then laughed, his laughter echoed back at him by the watching courtiers. “Still. It worked, neh? I have a champion at last. Someone to represent me at the tournament in two weeks’ time.” He hauled himself up into a sitting position, then swiveled around on his couch and put his feet down on the floor. “Master Hsu, I congratulate you.”

The old man bowed his head, maintaining his dignity a moment longer, then was promptly sick all over the board.

“Gods . . .” Wang said, sighing, his face registering his disgust. “Hung—take him away and clean him up, will you? Oh . . . and give him ten thousand yuan. He was a worthy winner.”

Hung raised an eyebrow, surprised that Wang had even noticed how well Hsu Jung had played.

“And the others, Chieh Hsia?”

“The losers?” Wang smiled, his mouth like a slit in the puffed expanse of his face. “Throw them to the birds.”

the ch’a had proved to be a T’ieh Kuan Yin, an Iron Goddess of Mercy, an oolong from Fukien’s Wu-I Mountains. Karr had complimented Hannah on its bittersweetness, its lingering fragrance, but the ch’a had been the least of his delights. An hour into their meeting he found himself enchanted by the young woman, and when, in a break in the conversation, he looked across at Chen, it was to find his friend smiling at him. “You see?” Chen said. “What did I say?”

“You said nothing, you scoundrel. If I had known—“

“If you had known, then you would have spoiled it for both of us. Isn’t my Hannah something?”

Karr nodded, then, on whim, lowered his head to her in respect. In return she beamed back at him.

“But your idea ...” Chen said suddenly. “You haven’t mentioned your idea.” She made to wave it away, but Chen insisted. “No. You must tell Gregor. I think it’s a marvelous idea.”

Karr looked at her questioningly. “Well?” She looked down, for the first time slightly abashed. “It’s just something I’ve been thinking of doing, that’s all. But”—she looked up again—“well, it’s all so impractical. I can’t see how it could work.” “Well, tell me. Maybe f can see a way.”

She shrugged, smiled. “All right. It’s this. We have the media, neh? It tells us what’s happening in our world. Or so we fool ourselves into thinking. In reality it only tells us what it wants us to know. You’ve seen it for yourself. What’s news for First Level isn’t news for the Lowers. At each level things are ... different. Not only that, but there are bodies like the T’ing Wei, the Superintendency of Trials, responsible for black propaganda, and there’s the Ministry, the Thousand Eyes—or what’s left of it, now that the Seven have dismantled it. All of them serve to distort the overall picture of events. They’re all ... barriers set up in the path of truth, like screens set up to fend off ghosts. Well, my idea—my big idea—is to tear down those barriers somehow. Or to get around them. To somehow find a way of letting people know just exactly what’s going on. Like the business Chen was telling me about at Kibwezi, or the cover-up over the storm damage at Nantes, or ... well, there’s a hundred different subjects you might chose. The point is, Chung Kuo needs to have someone outside all the power games. Someone who can see it clearly and tell it like it really is, without fear or favor. Mary Lever tried it and she failed, but that’s no reason not to try again. To do it ... differently somehow. To be a voice.”

Karr sat back, blowing out a long, whistling breath. “Aiya . . . that’s some idea, young woman.”

She nodded, but her eyes now were deadly serious. “Well? What do you think, Gregor Karr? I’m not a rich woman like Mary Lever. I’ve no real influence. Do you think I’m mad even to dream about doing such a thing?” Karr looked down, then reached across and poured more ch’a into his bowl. “No. To be frank with you, I’ve felt the same for some time now. I’ve felt like I’d burst unless I could tell someone what I’ve seen and done. I’m”—he looked to Chen—“well, Chen here is the same. I am not happy serving two Masters.”

“Two Masters?” She stared at him, not understanding. “Li Yuan and my own conscience. It feels . . . unhealthy somehow. But if there were a way of expressing how I feel—some channel for it—well, maybe I’d feel better.”

“So?” Chen prompted.

Karr laughed. “So maybe I know a way. Look”—he spread his hands—“it may not work, but it’s worth a try, neh?”

She nodded.

“Good. Well ... it was something I saw years ago. Something the Ping Tiao were very good at. Pamphlets. Simple things, hand-printed on flimsy paper. A hundred million they got out one time, passed hand to hand throughout the Lowers. From what I can make out they had ten thousand originals, then left it to others—sympathetic agitators—to print up more from those.” He smiled. “Maybe you could do something similar?” She laughed. “You’re teasing me, surely?” Karr smiled. “Not at all. It might work. You provide the text, Chen and I will get it distributed. Or, at least, we’ll try.” Hannah shook her head. “But you’re both Majors . . . senior officers in the T’ang’s Security service. You can’t get involved in something like this!”

“And both special services,” Karr said, his smile unwavering. “Who better to arrange something like this? This past fifteen months I’ve made some useful contacts. Contacts we could use to get these things distributed. To spread them far and wide.”

He stopped. Chen was staring at him, his eyes narrowed. “Maybe so. But you have a child now, Gregor Karr.”

“And you have three. But the risk’s worth taking, neh?”

Chen hesitated, then gave a terse nod.

“Good. Then I’ll tell you what, young Hannah. You write us something—about what happened at Nantes, perhaps—and we’ll take it from there. Agreed?” He held out his hand, palm open to her. For a moment she simply stared at him, wondering; then, a faint smile beginning to creep into her eyes, she reached out and grasped it firmly.

“Agreed.”

the new hope was dark when they arrived, only a single lamp above the entrance lit, yet as they approached, two guards stepped from the shadows and unceremoniously pushed them against the wall, searching them for weapons.

“Charming,” Mary muttered through clenched teeth as the guard’s hand dwelt overlong on her inner thigh, then, with a pat, refrained from taking further liberties.

“Is this really necessary?” Michael asked, as he was turned roughly about to face his guard. But the man didn’t answer, merely gestured that they should go through.

“Well,” she said, taking his arm, “there go my last illusions about the civility of these people. Power, that’s all they understand.” Michael shrugged, then stopped, peering into the dark interior of the restaurant. As if on cue a lamp at a table on the far side of the room lit up, revealing the solitary figure of the T’ang’s Chancellor, Nan Ho. As they looked, he beckoned them across.

“Representative Lever,” he said, standing as they reached the table, then turned, bowing his head to Mary. “Madam Lever . . . Please, take a seat.” Michael helped her get seated, then took his own place, facing Nan Ho across the empty tabletop, the gentle swaying of the lamp above them throwing their faces briefly into shadow. “What was all that about?” Michael asked, his face set, determined, it seemed, to concede nothing.

“Precautions,” Nan Ho answered calmly, then half turned, snapping his fingers. At once a waiter—not one of the New Hopes regulars— appeared at his elbow. He turned back, smiling urbanely at Michael. “Would you like some wine before we eat?”

Michael looked to Mary, who nodded. ‘Tes,” he said. “But that’s not what I meant. The need to be cautious, that I understand, but the unnecessary brutality of it. What was that meant to demonstrate?” Nan Ho’s smile broadened. “I think you know already. But your question is very interesting. It shows that you’ve come here with fixed ideas. You think you know what I want. But you haven’t heard me yet. That’s strange. I expected much more of you, Michael Lever. I expected a certain . . . subtlety, let’s call it. Something I wouldn’t find in another of your . . . kind.”

She looked down at that, her hands clenched beneath the table. Your kind, she thought, the ugliness of the words resonating deep within her. But what did he mean by that? Her race? Or did he just mean Michael’s faction—the New Republicans?

“I’ll listen,” Michael said, folding his hands before him on the table. “But I’ve not come to make deals.” Nan Ho chuckled. “Deals. Is that all you think of?” Michael stared, silent, until Nan Ho shrugged. At that moment the waiter returned with a tray of wine cups and an open bottle. As he set the cups down and poured, Nan Ho looked between them, smiling. Then, as the waiter returned to the shadows, he lifted his cup, toasting them.

“To America’s perfect couple!”

Michael fingered the rim of his cup, his eyes narrowed. “So what do you want?”

“Me?” Nan Ho sipped at his wine, then sat back slightly, as if this were merely an evening out and he was a regular customer of the restaurant. He looked about him briefly, then fixed his gaze on Michael once more. “I’ll tell you. I want peace.”

“Peace? That’s all?”

Nan Ho nodded. “Yes, but there’s a problem with that. You see, the House wants real power, and if it gets real power, then there won’t be peace. So”—he sipped again, smiled—“I cannot let it have real power. You see my problem?”

Michael leaned in toward him, his face suddenly bright beneath the lamp.

“I see it, but I can’t see how you can prevent it. Things are changing.

The House will attain real power. If not this year, then next.” “That soon?” Nan Ho’s face wrinkled momentarily in thought. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. “Maybe I ought to start packing now, neh?” Michael stared a moment, then, catching the man’s mood, began to smile. “Better,” Nan Ho said, leaning in toward him. “You came here full of hostility toward me. Full of tension and false expectations. That display outside—for which, incidentally, I apologize most profoundly—was meant to pander to them. But we are not like that. We are not simple, abstract forces. We are people, and we want what people want. When I talk of peace, it is not some vague ideal I seek, it is peace as you or I would understand the term. Freedom from violence, from tyranny and need. Freedom to marry whom we will and raise a family. Freedom—“ “I take your meaning,” Mary said rather sharply, interrupting him, “but don’t your policies contradict your stated desire?” “Not at all. The problems we face are many, but the solutions are few. There are too many people, therefore we must limit the number of children we are having. Food supply regularly falls below demand, therefore we must either grow more food—almost an impossibility, I think you’d agree—or, again, limit the number of people. And as for overcrowding . . . well, you take my point, I’m sure. All of our problems have but a single cause—there are too many of us. Many too many. If we want peace—and I’m sure you, as much as I, want peace—then we must do something about it.” Michael went to speak, but again Mary was in before him. “Yes, but why limit the statute to the bottom hundred and fifty? Why not make it one law for all? That, surely, is much fairer?”

“Fairer? Maybe. Though not much. Our problem is in the lowest hundred and fifty. It’s there that the population levels are spiraling out of control. But there’s another factor involved, which I’m sure you understand, and that’s the power of vested interests. And that”—he paused, looking from one to the other again—“is where you come in.” She sat back, eyeing him, not certain yet whether to like this man or not.

“What do you mean?”

Nan Ho was watching her now, a look resembling respect in his eyes. “I watched you,” he said solemnly. “I saw what you tried to do in America. It was a brave attempt, a genuinely innovative reaction to a difficult situation. And it would have worked, too, given time. You would have changed things, Mary Lever. I’m certain of it. Just as I’m certain that you could do it over here. You and Michael both.”

Michael laughed. “We’re not even citizens—“

Nan Ho turned, snapped his fingers. At once a servant appeared, head bowed, a glossy black folder in his hand. Nan Ho took it from him, then turned back, offering it to Michael.

Michael took it, opened it, showed the sealed documents to her.

“A bribe?” he asked, looking back at Nan Ho. “No. You would have got them anyway. Oh, and before you ask, you get to keep them, whether you do as I suggest or not.” He smiled. “Then again, I ask nothing of you but that you do what you once chose to do freely—to influence people for the good.”

“And this?” she asked, holding up a sheet of paper which had been inside the folder. “Is this part of the deal?”

Michael took it from her, reading it through. It was a note regarding a Mansion that was for sale. He looked up. “Well?” Nan Ho smiled, then beckoned a waiter, taking a menu and handing it across to Mary.

“It’s not on the market yet, but I understand the asking price is very reasonable.” The Chancellor’s smile was urbane, gentle, yet behind il she sensed a steel-trap mind. “You’ll need such a place if you are tc entertain people. And if you’re to influence them, you’ll need tc entertain them, neh?”