Beneath the Tree of Heaven

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The Maker’s Mark kuei jen lay in bed, the covers pulled up tight about his neck, alone in the big, dark room, the familiar shapes of the furniture threatening somehow, changed in the faint predawn light. He had been crying, but the tears had dried and his eyes were sore where he had rubbed them. There had been noises in the night—shouting, and running footsteps— but when he had called no one had come, as if his section of the palace had been deserted. And then there had been silence—a silence worse than the commotion that had preceded it, for then he really did think that they had gone and left him there alone. Left him because he was bad. He sniffed and felt a shiver pass right through him, wishing, despite the fear he felt, that the darkness would linger in his room a little longer. When it was light the man would come, and it would begin again—all those awful exercises; all those dreadful things that he could never manage properly.

Why? he kept asking himself. Why? And always the answer was the same. Because he no longer loves me. Because I’ve been bad and he no longer loves me. Again he shuddered, close once more to tears. But if the man came and saw he had been crying there would be trouble. He would be punished for it.

Fighting back his fear he pushed the covers back and slid to the edge of the bed, then ran quickly, fearfully, across the shadowed room to the door, fumbling at the big hexagonal doorknob before it gave and the heavy door creaked back.

Outside, the corridor was empty. There were noises from the left, from the kitchens, but from the right, where his father’s suite was, there was nothing. He went that way, running down the broad, dark corridor, his bare feet padding on the cold tiles, his breath coming to him in tiny, shuddering gasps. Outside his father’s study he stopped, hearing faint voices from within, remembering what his father had said only the day before about not bursting in. And yet he had to speak to him; had to explain just what he was feeling. If this went on ... He squeezed his eyes firmly shut, trying to stop the tears, to be the prince his father wanted him to be, but it was hard. He had had so little practice at it.

Pressing his ear against the door he listened. There were two voices. One was his father’s, the other ... he listened more . . . Tsu Ma’s. Yes, even as he recognized it, he heard, more clearly than before, his Uncle Ma’s rich laughter. It almost cheered him. But then he remembered that that, too, was in the past. All joy, all happiness—all that lay in the past now. Today, like every other day from this time on, he would spend with the dour Lo Wen, learning to be a prince.

He reached out, placing his hand against the handle, then stopped, taking in what his father had just said. A wife . . . His father was taking a new wife.

Slowly he backed away, his mouth an O of surprise. And then it hit him. That was why. A wife! His father was taking a new wife, and there would no longer be room for him in his father’s heart. His mouth puckered and a small sound of pain, like the whimper of a wounded animal, escaped him. He doesn’t love me anymore. Daddy doesn’t love me anymore.

“Kuei Jen?”

He turned, his eyes wide with fear. It was the Captain of the Guard, Shen Lo-yen. Shen stared back at him, surprised to find him there. “Are you all right, young Master?”

But Kuei Jen was not all right. With a yelp he turned and ran, straight past his room and on—on through the kitchens and out into the Western Garden, jumping the broad marble steps in twos and threes in his haste, his bare feet stinging, and then on again, down the narrow pathway and through the gate in the wall ... on until the darkness of the trees embraced him.

li yuan looked up anxiously as his Chancellor entered the room. “Is he found, Master Nan?”

Nan Ho smiled reassuringly. “All is well, Chieh Hsia. We found him in the orchard, hiding behind one of the trees. He was a little cold, but no real harm has been done. Your maids are tending to him now.” “Thank the gods!” Li Yuan heaved a huge sigh of relief, then turned to his fellow T’ang. “If Captain Shen hadn’t raised the alarm, who knows what might have happened? But why? Why should the child run off like that?” Tsu Ma shrugged. “I’m hardly the person to ask, Yuan. My experience of children is limited, to say the least.”

Nan Ho cleared his throat.

“Yes, Master Nan?”

“I think you need to talk to him, Chieh Hsia. About your forthcoming marriage. The boy needs . . . reassuring. It might also serve if you would let him off his instruction just for today.” “Let him off? But you’ve been telling me how important it was to keep to his routines.”

Nan Ho bowed. “So it is, Chieh Hsia. But today is a special day, neh? Besides, it would look well if your son sat beside you on the imperial dais.”

Li Yuan smiled. “Must there always be a political reason for doing something, Nan Ho?”

“You are a T’ang, Chieh Hsia. Everything you do is political.”

“Everything?”

“Well. . . almost everything. I understand the new maid was much to your satisfaction, Chieh Hsia.”

“And if she wasn’t?”

“I would find another who was, Chieh Hsia.”

“And one for me, I hope,” Tsu Ma said, laughing.

Nan Ho turned to him. “If that is the great Tang’s wish?” Tsu Ma raised an eyebrow at Li Yuan, then laughed again. “I might take you up on that, Master Nan . . . with my cousin’s permission, of course.” “Granted.”

Again Nan Ho cleared his throat.

“Yes, Master Nan? What is it now?”

“Forgive me, Chieh Hsia, but the tournament site is ready for your inspection.”

“Then lead on.”

The sun was still low to their left as they stopped at the top of the steps, looking out across the great Southern Lawn. Directly in front of them, and some half a li distant, the newly built landing strip had been decorated with the banners of the seven Cities, the big silk pennants flapping gustily in the early morning breeze. Closer to hand a dozen big hunting tents had been set up and a trail of servants could be seen going to and fro, ferrying huge silver platters into their interiors. In front of those an area had been cordoned off and a large number of couches had been set up on a semicircle of elevated platforms for the use of the Twenty-Nine, the Minor-Family princes, and their kin. Directly in front of them was the tournament platform, a huge circular stage decorated like a giant t’ai chi, ten thousand tiny black and white tiles forming the interlocking swirls of dark and light, two wei chi boards placed at the focal points. While play was in progress, pictures of each board would be captured by floater cameras and transmitted to the huge screens that were displayed prominently in more than a dozen places. To their left, in front of a huge marquee of golden silk, was the imperial enclosure. Here the five great T’ang would gather while their champions—and the champions of North America and the Australias—would play out their games.

“Excellent,” Li Yuan said, nodding his satisfaction. “It will be a marvelous spectacle for the masses, neh?” “It is to be hoped so, Chieh Hsia,” Nan Ho answered somberly.

Li Yuan looked to him, concerned. “Are things still bad, Master Nan?” “Oh”—Nan Ho tugged at his beard, then made a shrugging gesture with his face—“it is much better than it was, Chieh Hsia. We have reclaimed most of the areas we lost during the night. But there are still one or two problems. The real test will be tonight. Our forces cannot go forty-eight hours without sleep.”

“I see. . . .” He huffed out a breath. “Is there nothing else we can do to defuse the situation?”

Nan Ho sighed. “We have done all that is humanly possible, Chieh Hsia.

Time alone will tell if we have been successful.”

“And while we wait, we watch our Champions play games with stones.” “It is the oldest game,” Tsu Ma reminded him. “And for myself I cannot think of anything more fitting. There is nothing you or I can do, Yuan. For once things are in the hands of the gods.” He smiled. “You know the tale of the woodcutter, Wang Chih?”

Li Yuan frowned. “Remind me.”

“Well... it is said that Wang Chih went up into the mountains to cut wood, and on his way back he came upon two ancients playing wti chi upon a big flat stone. He stayed to watch, not knowing that the ancients were immortals, and when the game was finished he went on his way again. Down in the valley, however, things had changed. His village was not the same as he remembered it and none of his old neighbors was alive. When he looked at his ax he saw that the handle had rotted away, and when he asked what year it was, he was amazed to find that a thousand years had passed.” Li Yuan smiled, amused by the story. “Amazed? Or horrified?”

“Both, maybe.”

“And the point of your tale, cousin Ma?”

Tsu Ma smiled broadly. “Must a story always have a point?”

“Not always. But yours generally do.”

“Then maybe it’s this: that of all distractions none can enchant as much as the game of wei chi.”

“Unless it’s the game of red enters white, hard enters soft. . . .” Tsu Ma roared with laughter, while beside him even Nan Ho allowed himself a smile.

“A maid, cousin Ma. You must have one of my maids.”

“And if I tire her out?”

“Then you’ll have another, neh?”

And, clapping his cousin on the back, Li Yuan turned and led them back into the palace.

chen stopped, looking about him at the burned-out ruin of the main

corridor, then waved the first squad through. He was wearing full riot

gear, the big standard-issue automatic clipped to his chest. They had been

on duty now for fifteen hours and had cleared the best part of twenty

stacks. Casualties, fortunately, had been light—two dead and six

injured—but the night had taken its toll in other ways. What they had seen

had changed them. To have had to hurt children, however necessary it had

been to restrain them—that was something new, something he did not want to

have to do again, nor had he savored the look of madness he had seen in

many of the faces of the insurgents as they threw themselves at his

troops.

Chen pulled the visor of the bulky helmet up, then rubbed at his neck. He had been in riot situations before and had seen how otherwise sane men and women could cast off all inhibitions and act like savage animals, but nothing could have prepared him for this past night. It was as if they’d tapped some deeper, darker level—as if Hell itself had emptied out into this mundane world of levels. The Sickness, whatever it was, had unhinged them all, and their fear had led them to excesses beyond the experience of even the most jaded hand among his troops. Now things were calm again, for a time, and they could assess the full extent of the damage. From what he’d seen it was bad. There was barely a corridor left untouched, and many—like this—were totally gutted. If it were like this across the breadth and width of the City, then the cost of this night’s work would be unimaginable.

He licked at his lips, wondering how this would affect his plans: whether, after this, he would be able to move his family to the Plantations. Had they been affected? Had this madness spread to the great East European growing areas? If so then there was more trouble to come, for food shortages would feed this tide of chaos. He shuddered, realizing for the first time just how fragile a thing the City was. “Sir!”

He looked up. Two of his men were standing in a doorway halfway down, pale faced, beckoning to him. He walked across. “What is it?”

“We think you’d better see, sir!”

He went to go in, but his sergeant stopped him. “You’d best wear your visor down, sir. There are signs of the Sickness.” “Ah ...” He flipped it down again, clicking it tight, and took two deep breaths, making sure the filter was still working. Then, satisfied, he followed the sergeant through.

“In here, sir.”

It was a clinic—he saw that at a glance—but the machinery had been smashed, surgical instruments scattered everywhere. “In the back room, sir.”

He stepped through, then checked himself, seeing what lay on the bare, tiled floor of the operating room.

“Aiya...” he said softly, both moved and horrified. In a pool of congealed blood lay the dismembered corpses of three young children. He shuddered and then, forcing himself, stepped closer, crouching over them to look. The cuts were clean, as if they’d been done with a sharp cleaver: nothing frenzied about them. There were no stab wounds, no sign of slashing as he’d seen elsewhere. No. Heads, arms, and legs had been severed carefully from the torsos, the hands from the arms, the feet from the legs, and all had been laid out meticulously, as if in some ghastly ritual. They were Han, and, looking at them, he could not dissociate himself from the feeling that these were his children. For a moment the sense of it was so strong, so overpowering, it made him feel giddy. The eldest was no more than six, the youngest—he let out a low moan of anguish—was only two, three at the most.

“Why?” he asked quietly. “Who in the gods’ names would do this to young children?”

“Look at the flesh, sir,” the sergeant said, something in his voice revealing that he, too, was having to steel himself to look at the tiny bodies. “Look at the tiny rashes. What does it remind you of?” Chen swallowed and then looked closer. “That’s odd.” He looked again, then felt a chill run through him. The rash was not a simple blotch of redness but a quite clearly defined mark. A pictogram, endlessly repeated on the flesh. To an untutored eye it looked like an ill-drawn figure nine followed by a small t, the two linked by a line that rested upon them like the lid of a tomb.

Si, it was. Death.

Chen turned, looking up at his sergeant. The man nodded, then looked away. He understood at once. This was no accident, no natural form of retribution. This thing had been designed. The rash . . . that was a calling card. But whose?

“Check them for prints and other traces and then burn them,” he said, gesturing toward the bodies. “And then I want everyone in this deck held and questioned. We’re going to find out just who did this to them.” And then?

He pulled himself up onto his feet again, feeling tired, sickened by all he’d seen. There would be no trials here today, no expulsions and demotions. When he found out who had done this he would take them aside and kill them. That was, if they weren’t already dead. Fear. Fear drove people to do such things. But fear was no excuse. A man did not stop being a man because he was afraid. He was still responsible for his actions.

Chen stepped aside, letting the two men begin their grisly work; then, unclipping his handset from his belt, he tapped out the secure code for General Rheinhardt. It was time he reported in—time the powers that be knew just what was going on.

they waited as the ship set down, floater-cameras discreetly hovering at a distance from the small group of T’ang who stood there on the lawn below the landing strip.

As the hatch locks clunked open and the door hissed slowly upward, Li Yuan gestured his secretary forward.

“Go, Tseng-li. Greet your elder brother!” The young man smiled, bowed in respect, then turned and half walked, half ran toward the craft. As the walkway extended from the interior, he slowed, then stopped, dropping to his knees, his head lowered. “Chieh Hsia,” he said as a figure appeared at the head of the walkway. Wei Chan Yin strode down the ramp and, lifting his brother to his feet, hugged him tightly. “How have you been, little brother? Have you served my cousin well?”

Tseng-li moved back slightly, then, reluctantly it seemed, though not without warmth, he embraced his brother back. For a moment the two stared into each others faces, then Tseng-li lowered his gaze again. “I have tried my best, Chieh Hsia.” Then, more softly. “It’s good to see you again, Chan Yin. It has been too long.” “Far too long,” Wei Chan Yin agreed, squeezing his brother’s arms. “But come, let me greet my cousins.”

Tseng-li moved back, letting his brother pass, then watched as he went among the tiny group of T’ang, greeting first Li Yuan, then Tsu Ma, and finally Hou Tung-po, the young T’ang of South America. Wei Chan Yin turned, looking about him. “I thought I would be last here.

Where is Wang Sau-leyan? He is coming, I take it?” “So he says,” said Li Yuan quietly, his face turned away so that the cameras would not catch what he said.

“I would not have been late,” Wei Chan Yin said, his own voice lowered, conscious of the watching floaters, “but something came up. I’ll tell you of it later.”

“No matter ...” Li Yuan said. “What we must decide is whether to wait awhile longer or whether to begin. It would not do to delay too long. The people will grow restless.”

“No,” Wei Chan Yin agreed, “yet we should give our cousin the chance to be here at the commencement. Why not send Tseng-li to inquire of Wang’s Chancellor?”

Li Yuan turned. “Tseng-li? You heard?”

“And shall obey, Chieh Hsia.” He turned, bowing to each of the four T’ang in turn. “I shall return as soon as possible.” “Good.” Li Yuan smiled and looked about him. “In the meantime, let us spend the time fruitfully, neh?”

He turned, clicking his fingers. At once his Senior Steward ran up and presented himself before him, kneeling, his head pressed almost to his chest.

“Steward Ye ... tell the Heads of the Families that their T’ang will come

among them while we are awaiting our cousin Wang. And, Ye— do something

about those cameras, neh? Until the tournament begins-----“

hung mien-lo turned from the now vacant screen and looked across his study at the three men who waited, heads bowed, for their instructions. He breathed deeply, trying to control the muscles of his face; to show nothing of the turmoil within. Five minutes ago it had all been crystal clear, but now things had changed. Wei Tseng-li’s inquiry had made him realize what otherwise he would not have known. Wang Sau-leyan was on his way to Tongjiang.

Did he know? Hung wondered, standing and coming around his desk. For last night, when he had specifically asked him, it had been clear that the T’ang had no intention of going to the tournament—not after Li Yuan had insulted him so grossly.

“Let them wait,” he had said angrily. “Let them all stand there like stuffed fools before the camera until it dawns on them I am not coming.” But now, it seemed, he had changed his mind and gone. Unusual, Hung thought, walking across to where the three men waited. For years now Wang Sau-leyan had done nothing without first confiding in him. But suddenly, today . . .

He must know. He has to. What other reason could have made him go? And yet if he knew, then he, Hung Mien-lo, would have already been killed, and these three men with him, their throats cut, their stomachs slit open, exposing the entrails for Wang’s carrion birds to feed upon. So what then? Why had Wang gone, after all, and not told him? He stared at the men a moment, then, with an abrupt gesture, dismissed them. Another time, perhaps. But the way things were developing events might yet outpace his schemes.

He took a long, shuddering breath.

You are fortunate this once, Wang Sau-leyan. For if you had not gone, my

assassins would have found you where you lay—you and that abominable

woman.

As it was, there would be no opportunity now for several weeks. The guards he’d bribed would be reposted shortly, and to bribe new ones would take some time, for it was a careful business, fraught with dangers. Wang’s spies . . .

He returned to his desk and reached across, picking up the latest list. Each morning there was a new list; each evening another thousand men and women went to their deaths. And all the while Wang’s spies went among the levels like a plague, choosing both innocent and guilty at whim. And Wang Sau-leyan, unconcerned, signed whatever was placed before him. He leaned against the edge of the desk, his hands trembling. Step by step he had brought Wang to the edge. Step by step he had made the people fear and hate their odious master, so that when finally he struck it would seem that Ch’eng-huang, the great City God himself, had acted. He had pictured it clearly: had seen himself standing before the cameras, the tyrant’s severed head in his hand, as he announced that the Mandate had been broken and a new and better age had come for City Africa. So close he’d been. So very close.

“He must have known. He must. . . .”

He swallowed, uncertainty eating at him. Maybe it was time to run? To flee to Europe, perhaps, and throw himself upon the mercy of Li Yuan and his Chancellor? Or would that not simply seal his fate? No. He had to be sure. Had to know one way or the other whether Wang suspected him. But how?

The woman. The hsueh pai. If he could talk to her, find out what she knew.

..

He shook his head. No. That was too great a risk. It would merely serve to confirm Wang’s dark suspicions.

Hung Mien-lo sighed heavily. Nothing. 1 can do nothing until his return. But the bitter disappointment—the frustration of his denied hopes—burned in him like a heated coal, and, gripping the edges of the list, he tore it, once, twice, a third time, then scattered the pieces across his desk.

from where he stood among the Heads of Families, Li Yuan saw Tseng-li reappear at the top of the marble steps. The young man looked up and smiled, then began to make his way toward the T’ang. “Excuse me, ch’un tzu,” Li Yuan said, smiling, extricating himself from their midst. “There is some business I must attend to.” They bowed, stepping back out of his way, their own high status eclipsed by his own.

“Well, Tseng-li?” he asked, meeting the young man beside the great platform. “What does my cousin say?”

Tseng-li bowed. “I spoke to his Chancellor, Chieh Hsia. He says Wang Sau-leyan’s craft left an hour back. He should be here in forty minutes.” “Forty minutes ...” Li Yuan stroked his chin thoughtfully. “That is too long for us to delay. I shall go and speak with my cousins and see if they agree. Meanwhile, prepare refreshments for us in the enclosure. We shall finish here and come over.”

Tseng-li bowed and made to turn away, then turned back, remembering something. “Forgive me, Chieh Hsia, but Marshal Tolonen and General Rheinhardt have come. They wish to speak to you urgently.” Li Yuan sighed. “All right. Tell them I shall see them after the commencement address.”

Tseng-li bowed again and left.

Li Yuan watched him go, smiling, then turned and made his way back to where his cousins mingled with the Families. “Cousins,” he said, beckoning them across. “Our cousin Wang will be delayed a further forty minutes. In the circumstances I feel we must begin the tournament. There are many games to be played and it would be unfair to our Champions if we were to limit their time any more than we have already.”

“He is coming, then?” Tsu Ma said, an ironical smile on his lips. Then, whispering into Li Yuan’s ear, he added, “No doubt they had trouble finding a craft big enough to carry the fat bastard!” Li Yuan suppressed the smile that threatened to break out on his face, then, drawing himself up, addressed his fellow T’ang once more. “If you would follow me across, Cousins, we shall begin. Ch’un tzu,” he said, speaking to those Heads of Family who stood just beyond the tiny circle of T’ang, “we shall speak again later, at the celebrations. In the meantime, enjoy yourselves. Whatever you want, you have only to ask my servants and they will do their best to satisfy your needs.” There was a murmur of satisfaction as they began to disperse back to their couches. Li Yuan looked to his fellow T’ang, then turned, leading them across.

chen stood on the platform of the bell tower, looking out across Main. Below him, filling the great space, he had gathered together all the inhabitants of this deck. They were sitting cross-legged, men, women, and children, their hands on their heads, while his men patrolled the perimeters, their heavy automatics pointed at the floor. From vantage points on the balconies above, others looked down, their weapons leveled. He had called in a special murder squad to go over the room, at the same time requesting whatever camera evidence existed. It hadn’t proved much. Most of the surveillance cameras had been smashed in the first few hours of the riot. Yet there were one or two interesting snippets, one of them showing a tall, thin-faced Han brandishing what looked like a bloody cleaver as he ran along at the front of a mob of thirty or forty chanting men.

Chen turned, calling to his sergeant. “Okay. Let’s get moving. Issue the hardprint copies of the man’s face and have a dozen men go down the lines checking for him. If he’s here I want him dragged out. We’ll beat a confession out of him if necessary.”

“And the prints, sir?”

Inconclusive was the answer. The computer had thrown up more than twenty likely matches, and not one of them from this deck. “Just get going,” he answered, then turned back, looking out across the gathered masses.

More than ever he was determined to give up this occupation. If he had not known it before, last night would have taught him what it was to be a servant of the great T’ang. More than any other this job dehumanized a man. To be a part of that great chain of command was to cease to be a thinking, choosing being; was to become a thing, a tool, less even than the kwai he had once been.

Yes, he thought, but now and then one has the chance to put things right.

To use that power to good effect.

He reached into his pocket and took out the crumpled handbill. They had seen them all over. Found them in the pockets of corpses and scattered in the ruins of empty rooms. It was headed what really happened at nantes. Beneath the blood-red lettering was the picture Hannah had provided. Hannah’s pamphlet. They had distributed it in the first few hours. Had used it to fan the flames.

He shivered, wondering just how many more had died because of it.

It wasn’t what we meant. . . .

Sure. But just what had they meant? To stir things up a little. To make people begin to question what was happening. But the timing had been bad, and what had been written to stir the conscience had been used by others to incite these poor bastards to slit each other’s throats and burn each others homes. And was that their fault?

For once he wasn’t sure. All he knew^vas that what he’d seen was hell. And the sooner he and his family were out of it the better. As his men went out along the lines of seated people, he looked on, tense, expectant. For a time there was nothing, then one of the soldiers turned and called up to him.

“Sir! I think it’s him!”

As the soldier turned back, dragging the man to his feet, other soldiers hurried to help him. Strangely, the man didn’t struggle, but let himself be led, his head hanging, his whole manner strangely subdued. He was tall and thin, like the man in the surveillance tape, but that didn’t necessarily mean it was he.

“Keep on looking!” Chen ordered, seeing how the other soldiers had stopped and were staring up at him. “I’m coming down.”

after the brilliant sunlight of the Southern Lawn, the audience room was cool and dark, the stone flags echoing back his booted footsteps. Dismissing the guards, Li Yuan went across, greeting the two men.

“Marshal Tolonen . . . General Rheinhardt...”

“Chieh Hsia,” both said as one, bowing their close-shaven heads.

“You have news?”

Tolonen looked to Rheinhardt, then spoke. “There is something you must know, Chieh Hsia. Something of vital bearing upon our current troubles.” Li Yuan’s eyes lit up. “You’ve traced it, neh? You’ve found out where the disease came from!”

Tolonen hesitated, then took a folder from beneath his arm and handed it over.

Li Yuan opened it, then frowned. “What is this?” “It is a photograph, Chieh Hsia,” Rheinhardt answered. “A photograph of a section of diseased flesh from one of the victims.”

“But this ...” Li Yuan stared, astonished. “Si,” he whispered. “It says Si.”

“Yes, Chieh Hsia,” Tolonen answered, his granite face even grimmer than

usual. “The disease was manufactured.” Li Yuan looked up. “Wang Sau-leyan

...”

Tolonen swallowed, then shook his head. “I am afraid not, Chieh Hsia. For once your cousin’s hands are clean. This is one of ours, designed in GenSyn’s labs. It... got out, I’m afraid. We were shipping it to one of the experimental stations in North Africa—“ “Shipping it?” He could not believe what he was hearing. “A virulent disease and we were shipping it?”

Tolonen looked down, abashed, as if it had been his mistake. “It was a clerical error, Chieh Hsia. A misunderstanding.” “A clerical error!” Li Yuan exclaimed. “The gods help us! And the clerk? . . . has he been punished for his ... misunderstanding?” “When he learned what had happened he took his life, Chieh Hsia.” “Ah ...” Li Yuan looked down thoughtfully. “Does this mean we have an antidote?” Some of the gloom lifted from Tolonen’s face. “We have, Chieh Hsia. And I have already implemented immediate vaccination procedures throughout the affected areas.”

“Then there is some good news, neh?” he said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. He shook his head. Such incompetence! Such criminal idiocy! It was hard to believe anyone could be so careless! He heaved a great sigh. “No one must know of this. You understand? If news of this gets out...” He hesitated, then met their eyes again, looking from one to the other. “Whatever it takes to keep this secret, do it. And have no doubt: The existence of our City depends on it.”

chen stood across the room from the man, his legs apart, his hands behind his back. The prisoner had been stripped and beaten. Now he rested there, on his knees, his back bent, his hands tied to the pole that had been placed behind his neck, one of Chen’s soldiers behind him, holding him up. His face was bloodied and there was a huge welt on the right side of his chest where someone had kicked him very hard. Even so, the man had not talked.

Then again, they had not really begun to question him.

Chen turned his head slightly, looking to the screen on the wall to his

left, then pointed to it. As he did, a still from the surveillance tape

flashed up—an enhancement of the shot showing the man carrying the

cleaver.

“Is that you, Tung Cai?”

The soldier forced Tung’s head up, making him look. Tung shook his head. “That is you, Tung. We’ve had the print computer-enhanced and checked the retinal pattern against the one stored on your file. Surprise, surprise. They match. Now answer me, Tung Cai, is that a cleaver in your hand?” This time Tung’s head came up without prompting. He stared awhile, then nodded.

“And this room we’re in? You recognize this room? You’ve been here before?

This morning, perhaps?”

Tung looked up, staring at him. A muscle beneath his eye spasmed and then lay still. He shook his head.

“I think you’re lying. I think that you and your cleaver were here, Tung Cai. I think—“ “It wasn’t me!” he blurted out. “I know what you’re going to say, but it wasn’t me! I told them it was madness! I pleaded with them. . . .” Chen took a long, calming breath. “You know what I’m talking about, then, Tung Cai?”

Tung looked away, then gave the vaguest nod.

“And you know who did it?”

Again there was the slightest movement of his head. “Well?” Chen barked, making Tung start. “I am not a patient man, Tung Cai, and if you don’t give me a name soon, I shall show you just how impatient I can be.”

Tung murmured something, low and incoherently.

“Again, Tung Cai. And much clearer this time so that we can all hear.” “It was the Wu,” Tung said, looking back at him, real fear in his eyes now. “He said he would curse anyone who spoke about it. He said—“ “The Wu? What’s his name, Tung Cai? I want to know his name.” Tung moaned, like he was in pain. “Old Chang,” he said finally. Chen looked to his Captain who was standing in the doorway. “Go. See if you can find him.”

He turned back. “And Old Chang ... he cut up the children? Just him, on his own?”

Tung shivered, then moaned again, a low, desperate sound. But Chen felt no pity for him. If it had been he, he would have interceded, would have done something to prevent the murders, but this animal . . . well, the image on the wall said it all: Tung Cai had reveled in the orgy of violence. Besides, there was still the matter of the bloodied cleaver. “So, Tung Cai, let’s begin again. Tell me just what happened. And let’s start with how you came by that cleaver, neh? Let’s start with that.” “what a beautiful day,” Tsu Ma said, leaning back in his chair as a servant came across to top up his wine cup. “Bright sunshine and not a cloud in the sky.”

Behind him, in the entrance to the great marquee, the golden banner of the

Seven hung limp, the Ywe Lung concealed within the furls of silk. On the

platform one of the contests had just begun and the two Masters were

bowing to each other. Close by, the other games went on, the click of

stone against wood carried by amplifiers to all parts of the Southern

Lawn.

Tsu Ma sipped at the wine, then turned, looking to Wei Chan Yin. “All it needs to make it perfect is a beautiful woman, neh, Cousin?” Wei Chan Yin smiled. “That’s true. But I am surprised you never married, Cousin Ma. Was there never a woman who stole your heart?” “Oh, plenty. And many who stole my wallet too. But a wife! Well. . . one doesn’t generally love a wife. A wife’s . . . well, here comes Li Yuan. Let him tell you about choosing wives. ...” Wei Chan Yin frowned. It was unlike Tsu Ma to be so insensitive. Or had he missed something?

“So, Yuan,” Tsu Ma said, turning to him as he came closer, “is everything all right?”

Li Yuan nodded, then settled himself into the chair beside his son, waving away a servant who had stepped forward to offer wine. “All is well,” he said, looking up at the board and studying the state of play. “Nan Ho informs me they have secured the last of the trouble spots and are making inroads into tackling the disease itself. We have a vaccine, it seems.”

There was a murmur of delight from all those seated about him. “Why, that’s excellent news, Yuan!” Wei Chan Yin exclaimed. “We can all rest easier for hearing it!”

Hou Tung-po, who had been studying some of the younger Minor-Family Princesses through his field glasses, lowered them and turned, raising his wine cup in salute. “That was quick work, Yuan. I wish my own people were as efficient.”

But Tsu Ma was looking at Yuan strangely. Later, Li Yuan mouthed to him, then turned to look back at the screen.

chen was standing over the man when his Captain came back into the room.

He turned, glaring at him fiercely.

“What is it, Captain Jacobson?”

The Captain looked past Chen at Tung Cai, who cowered at Chen’s feet, whimpering. “You’d better come, Major Kao.” Chen wiped his hand against his jacket. “Why?”

“It’s the men . . . they won’t touch him.”

“Won’t touch who?”

“The Wu. They say it will bring ill fortune.” Chen stared at his Captain, then, without a word, came across, pushing past him roughly.

Coming out into Main he saw at once what was happening. A dozen of his men had formed a wide circle about a seated man. Everyone else had moved away. Chen threaded his way through, ignoring the curious faces, coming out into the empty space surrounding the Wu.

Chang was indeed an old man, in his seventies at least, and as Chen stepped out in front of him, the Wu’s heavily lined face broke into a smile.

“Major . . . How can I help you?”

The WU had cast an oracle. The yarrow stalks lay in front of him, like spilled straws. Chen stared at them, then looked back at the Wu. “I’m told you killed those children. Is it true?”

The Wu’s smile broadened. “They were dying, Major. They had the Sickness.”

“But you killed them?”

The Wu nodded. “Did you not see their flesh? They were cursed, marked by Yen Wang, the King of Hells. They bore his sign.” Chen shuddered. “They were not cursed, old man, they were ill. What’s more, we have a cure for the Sickness. A medicine that takes away the rash. We could have saved the children.”

He heard the murmur of surprise go out, the low babble of urgent voices as those who had heard his words passed on what he’d said to those farther back.

“They were cursed,” the Wu insisted, his smile hardening. “That was no sickness. They had Yen Wang’s mark upon them. You saw it for yourself. And look—look at the oracle. See what it says! It is Ku, Decay. It exhorts us to work on what has been spoiled. And afterward—afterward there is order.” Chen felt himself go cold with anger. “How dare you use the Way to justify what you did! You cockroach! You evil fucking bastard!” He kicked the stalks away, then reached down, hauling the old man to his feet roughly. For a moment he glared at him, then, holding him straight, he slapped him hard, sending him sprawling. “They were children, you fucker! Sick little children!”

He drew his knife.

“Kao Chen!” his sergeant called to him, alarmed. “Think what you’re

doing!”

But Chen knew what he was doing. In his mind’s eye he could see those three tiny bodies and knew what he had felt in that first moment he had come upon them—how he would have felt had they been his. Stepping over the old man he reached down and grabbed his hair. Then, tugging his head back savagely, he drew the knife across his throat, ignoring the screams from all around him, holding the kicking man until he lay still.

“he’s here. . . .”

The sound of the cruiser’s engines echoed across the valley as it came in toward the landing strip. In the enclosure the four T’ang got to their feet and began to make their way across.

“So much for forty minutes,” Tsu Ma said quietly, glancing up at the big timer-board beside the platform. “More like an hour and a half. Where the hell has the fat bastard been?”

“Tsu Ma ...” Li Yuan said, whispering from the side of his mouth. “Be careful what you say . . . there are floaters everywhere.” “You should have banned them, Yuan,” Tsu Ma answered, falling into step beside him. “And you should have banned Wang’s Champion while you were at it. He’s much too good for our poor fellows. Did you see the way he trounced my man? I’ve never seen anything like it!” Li Yuan smiled. “It’s true. He plays like one possessed.” “Then let us hope his Master rewards him well. Not that our cousin has been noted for his generosity.”

Li Yuan looked down thoughtfully. On the platform, as they passed, the Champions stood hastily, turning to face them, bowing to the waist. “He cannot help that, Cousin. His City is poor.” Tsu Ma leaned in. “Maybe so. But who is to blame for that? His father, Wang Hsien, made that City strong—stronger than it had ever been. But that wastrel. . .” He gave a snort of disgust. Li Yuan smiled, answering Tsu Ma beneath his breath. “The world is watching us, Cousin. Let us at least pretend to like him for their sakes.” “For their sakes it would best if that obese obscenity were dead.”

Li Yuan turned toward him. “You mean that, Ma?” Tsu Ma looked away. “It is only what we all think. Even Hou Tung-po, were he pressed. Think, Yuan. What has the man ever brought us but trouble and dissent?”

It was true. Even so, Tsu Mas words shocked Li Yuan, especially as he had thought to utter them in so public a manner. All of the camera images were being studied carefully, of course, and their screening delayed a minute. In a control room at the heart of the palace a team of media experts were busy evaluating what could be transmitted to the people of Chung Kuo and what should be held back, and they had strict instructions not to transmit any word of what passed between the T’ang. Even so, he knew how much could be conveyed by body language alone, and the chance that Tsu Ma’s words might get back to Wang Sau-leyan was far from negligible. Ahead of them the Heads of the Minor Families, their sons and daughters, their wives and retainers, had risen at their approach and now stood, their heads lowered, as the four T’ang threaded their way between them. As they came out onto the lawn beneath the hangar, Wang’s cruiser was beginning its descent. An honor guard was forming up at the edge of the pad, their Captain barking orders.

Li Yuan made to walk on, but Tsu Ma took his sleeve. “No, Yuan,” he said, speaking over the roar of the engines. “The bastard’s made us wait. Let him come down to us.”

Li Yuan turned, looking to either side of him at his fellow T’ang, but they, like Tsu Ma, seemed content to stand where they were and await their cousin.

Inwardly he shrugged. We are like bickering children. Butmaybe Tsu Ma is right. Maybe it’s Wang who made us so. Certainly, I would not weep to hear of his death.

He watched the craft settle among the other imperial cruisers, the landing struts buckling slightly, like a giant spider’s knees, taking the craft’s weight. Briefly the engines rose to a crescendo and then the sound cut out. In the silence afterward he could hear the flapping of the banners. “Well...” Tsu Ma said quietly, “let’s hope they can squeeze him through the door, neh, or we could all be standing here a long, long time.” There was a loud metallic clunk as the door locks were automatically released and then a long hissing as the hatch began to open upward. “Smile, cousin,” Li Yuan said, whispering the words to Tsu Ma, who stood directly to his left. “Remember ... the world is watching us.” “And what will the world see? What kind of ad for the Seven is our obese cousin Wang?”

Li Yuan glanced at Tsu Ma, surprised once more by the bitterness behind his words.

“What is it, Cousin?” he asked quietly. “This is most unlike you.” In answer Tsu Ma lifted his chin, indicating the lifting hatch. “It’s him, Yuan. He makes a mockery of us all. To think that such a one could be a T’ang.”

Li Yuan looked back. The hatch was fully open now, like a single insect’s wing folded above the dark body of the cruiser. He strained his eyes, trying to see into the darkness, but it was hard to make out just what was happening within.

“The bastard will keep us waiting,” Tsu Ma said. “You can be certain of it. He’ll milk it to the last—“ Tsu Ma had barely uttered the words when there was a low chunking sound and something flew through the air overhead.

“What the—“

The explosion was deafening. The ground shook. Li Yuan turned, horrified. On the far side of the Gardens, where the great marquee had stood, a plume of black smoke was climbing into the still clear air. There was a moment’s shocked silence, and then the sound of small arms fire broke out close by. “Ko Ming!” Tsu Ma shouted, pushing Li Yuan down. “Fucking Ko Ming!” And then the ground nearby exploded.

chen sat in the makeshift cell, his hands tightly bound, two guards watching him from the doorway. They had stripped him to his loincloth and cautioned him, then they had left him for an hour while they sought instructions.

The guards were uneasy, he could sense that, but he kept silent and did not look at them, not wishing to make their task any harder than it already was. It was not their fault that he felt the way he did. Not their fault that the system was corrupt and evil. When Captain Jacobson returned, he stood, facing him. “Well?” Jacobson looked down, unable to meet Chen’s eyes. “We are to take you back to Bremen. General Rheinhardt wants to interview you.” “Rheinhardt... Ah ...” Chen nodded. “Is—is all well out there?” Jacobson glanced at him, then looked away again. “It’s quiet now. We’ve removed the body, but I’m going to keep a double guard posted just in case.”

Chen nodded. It was what he himself would have done. “I’m sorry, Captain.

I’ll say in my report that you had no pan in what I did.” Jacobson looked up. “Thank you, sir.” Then, awkwardly, he added, “We understand what you did, sir. Many of the men have children. They”—he swallowed, then went on—“I guess what I mean to say is that if you want a character reference, sir, I’ll speak for you. And there’s two dozen others who’ll do the same.”

Chen looked down, moved by the unexpected offer. In all the time he had led this Banner of the Security forces, he had never once felt really close to his men. But now that he was about to be stripped of his command he felt suddenly. . . related somehow. Tied to them by way of blood and suffering. Even so, it had taken the death of three children and an old man to do that. Death—Si—marked everything, it seemed. He looked up and smiled. “That’s kind of you, Dan Jacobson, but I must fight my own battles. What I did, I did out of choice. And what we choose to do we must pay for, neh? Whatever happens, I was glad to serve with you. You’re a fine officer.”

Jacobson smiled, saluted, then backed away. “Free the Major’s hands and give him back his uniform. Then escort him through. We must be in Bremen two hours from now.”

li yuan rolled over and sat up, his ears ringing, then looked about him. Tsu Ma lay at his side, groaning but clearly conscious, his eyes open, staring up at the sky. Near by Hou Tung-po lay dead, his face bloodless, splinters of bloodied metal jutting from his neck, shoulder, and upper arm. Beside him Wei Chan Yin lay still and ominously silent. “Aiya ...” he whispered, and took a shuddering breath. The firing had stopped, but there were shouts from somewhere behind him, and from the far side of the landing pad came a fierce crackling as a clutch of burning cruisers sent a thick pall of smoke up into the blue. Just in front of him, no more than twenty ch’i from where he sat, a wide but shallow pit had been blown in the lawn where the frog-hopper mortar had exploded. Another jump and it would have landed in their midst. Earth and debris lay everywhere.

“Chick Hsia!” someone shouted distantly. “Chieh Hsia!” Quickly he examined himself. His silks were ripped at the side but that seemed all. He put his hands up to his neck, then felt his scalp, fearing that numbness had concealed some wound from him. There was a moistness on his cheek, but when he drew his hand back from his cheek and looked it was only earth.

He shivered, then looked back at his fallen cousins. Tsu Ma, he saw now, was in great pain, his face contorted in silent agony. His foot. . . Li Yuan gasped, then swallowed hard. His foot had been blown right off! “Tsu Ma,” he said, leaning over him and touching his cheek gently, trying to reassure him. “Tsu Ma, are you all right?” Then, realizing that blood was still pumping from the wound, he pulled off his jacket and wrapped it tightly about the stump, trying to stanch the flow. “I’ll get help,” he said, crouching over Tsu Ma again. “Hold on. I won’t be long.”

He looked at the palace. A group of men were running across the grass toward them. He gestured to them, urging them to hurry. “Come on!” he yelled. “Quickly now! He’s bleeding to death!” He stood, searching the nearby grass with his eyes. There... he saw it. It lay eight, maybe ten ch’i away, like a discarded shoe. He went across and, careful not to touch the damaged flesh, picked it up and carried it back. Crouching over Tsu Ma again, he looked down into his pain-wracked face, grimacing at him. “You’ll be okay, Ma. They’ll save it. They’re very good.”’

But Tsu Ma barely seemed to recognize him. He groaned, then, tears forming, closed his eyes.

Li Yuan shuddered. The men! Where were those men?

He turned, ready to yell at them again, but they were upon him.

“It’s his foot,” he said, pointing to it. “He’s lost his foot.”

One of them leaned over Tsu Ma’s great barrel chest, listening, then

looked up, his face ashen, and murmured something to one of his

colleagues.

“What’s that?” Li Yuan asked, noting the look that passed between them.

“What’s wrong?”

“Chieh Hsia,” one of them said, turning to him. “You must be seen to.

We’ll look after the T’ang. He is in good hands now.”

“What’s wrong?” he said again, more insistently.

The man took a breath, then answered him. “It is his chest, Chieh Hsia.

There’s damage to his chest.”

Li Yuan frowned. “No. It’s his foot. Look!” He held it up. “Chieh Hsia,” a voice said from behind him, “you must do as the surgeon says. You must get help.”

He turned. It was Nan Ho.

“Master Nan,” he said, relieved to see his Chancellor safe. Then, with a shock, he remembered how the attack had begun. “Kuei Jen!” he wailed, the severed foot dropping from his hand, forgotten suddenly. “Where in the gods’ names is Kuei Jen?”

tolonencamein from the north, ordering the young pilot to fly in slow and low over the Palace. Even at a glance he could see that the damage on the Southern Lawn was extensive. The fires were all out, yet the wreckage of at least twenty craft still smoldered on the far side of the landing strip. Elsewhere there was major crater damage, and from the number of shrouded figures laid out on the grass beside the burned-out marquee, fatalities were in treble figures.

He sucked in a breath, his worst fears confirmed. Only an elite Security squad could have done so much harm in so short a time. “Set us down by the East Gate,” he said, pointing past the young lieutenant. “And patch Rheinhardt through when you can reach him. I want his input on this straightaway.”

He patted the boy’s arm, then took up a position by the hatch as the craft slowly settled. They had been half an hour out when the news had come. He had turned the craft at once and flown straight back. Half an hour... it was not long, and yet it had seemed a small lifetime, especially when the channels had been jammed most of the time, and what reports they had got from Tongjiang had been confusing, contradictory. As the hatch began to lift, he ducked under it and ran, making his way toward the East Gate. There were guards before the gate. They raised their guns, meaning to stop him, then, seeing who it was, backed away, bowing their heads. He ran through, then, at the top of the marbled walk that bordered the Southern Lawn, he stopped, looking across. He saw Li Yuan at once and felt relief flood through him. The young T’ang was sitting beside a mobile medical unit, his son nestled in his lap. “Thank the gods,” Tolonen breathed.

Just across from Li Yuan, Tsu Ma was sitting on a camp chair, holding his arm while a medic attended to him. There was a bloodstain at his elbow and the white of bone could be glimpsed through the torn material of his jacket. Not only that, but his right leg was in a portable splint unit, as if he’d broken it. He was talking to Li Yuan, laughing through the obvious pain of his injuries, making jokes to ease the shock of things. But Tolonen, knowing him, knew that there would come a time of anger, and of reckoning.

He ran down the steps and strode across the lawn. Ten ch’i from his T’ang he stopped and fell to his knees, his head bowed. “Chieh Hsia,” he said breathlessly, his voice trembling with emotion. “I am overjoyed to see you safe and in good health. And the young prince . . . ?” “. . . is well,” Li Yuan answered, holding Kuei Jen tighter to him. “When we went to greet our cousin Wang, he got bored and ran off. But for once I am pleased he misbehaved himself. If he had not. . .” Tolonen turned, seeing for himself the huge crater where the imperial enclosure had been. Then, turning back, he looked about, as if seeking someone else. His eyes met Li Yuan’s again. “And Wei Chan Yin?”

Li Yuan looked down, a cloud falling over his features. “My dear cousin is dead. And Hou Tung-po. They died instantly, in the second explosion.” Tolonen stared at him a moment, horrified. His voice now was a whisper.

“And among the Minor Families?”

Tsu Ma answered for Li Yuan. “Nine Minor-Family Heads are dead and over forty of the princes. The gods know how many are badly injured!” Tolonen groaned. Never in their history had there been such a disaster!

Never had so many fallen in so brief a time.

“But who could have done this, Chieh Hsia?” Li Yuan’s voice was cold and hard. “For once there’s no need for guesswork. The bastards who did this were from one of Wang Sau-leyan’s elite squads—from his Lan Tian, his ‘Blue Sky” Division.” “The Blue Sky . . .” Tolonen nodded. It all made sense. All, that was, except for a motive.

“Yes,” Tsu Ma said, giving a small grunt of laughter that was laced with pain. “Well . . . they certainly came out of the blue sky, today, neh? Like a cloud of devils, they were. If the honor guard had not fought so bravely we would all be dead.”

Tolonen stared at him, then looked to Li Yuan. “But if we know. . . ?” He waited, then frowned deeply. “Am I missing something, Chieh Hsial If it was that bastard Wang, then our course is clear, neh? It must be war.” His voice rose, insistent now. “This time it must!” Li Yuan looked at him—a cold, clear look that reminded Tolonen vividly of the T’ang’s father, Li Shai Tung. So the old man had looked at him when he had urged action over caution. So the old man had sat, like a rock, when adversity threatened. Chastened, he bowed his head. “Forgive me, Chieh Hsia. I shall await your orders.” “And I will give them. But first Tsu Ma and I must talk. First we must consider how to act.”