Days of Bitter Strength

I Ye bowed, as if he had been complimented, then turned, reaching for a towel.

"So what did you find out?"

I Ye turned back, wiping himself, the white cloth of the towel smeared red. "Nothing we did not know already."

"And the tape?"

"Was lost, unfortunately. We cast the net too late, it seems. Either that or one of those we captured managed to hide it."

"Is that possible?"

"If it was, we'd soon find out. These birds sing sweetly when they're caged."

"And this one here?" Heng pointed without looking at the corpse of the fat man.

"Was only a contact. He knew very little."

"So we're no further on."

I Ye pulled on his tunic then came across. "On the contrary, Master Heng. We now know several things we didn't before today. We know for instance that the tapes are genuine. That they're from the Imperial library at Tongjiang. We know for certain where the messenger was coming from and where he went. We know also that he is due to return to get his second payment. All we have to do now is wait."

"And if he doesn't show?"

"Then we'll watch the ports."

"And if he doesn't leave? What if he knows we're looking for him and goes to ground?"

"Then we'll be patient. When he doesn't return, someone will get anxious. Someone will be sent. And when that someone comes . . ."

Heng considered that. Personally he didn't think they had made much progress, but then, it wasn't for him to make that judgement.

"Does she know?"

Heng saw the movement in I Ye's face, the momentary uncertainty.

"Not yet."

"You know what she'll do if you fail?"

"I know." I Ye considered that a moment, then laughed. "But if I succeed."

"If you succeed." Heng forced himself to smile, as if I Ye's ambition were commendable, but he understood now what I Ye wanted. Understood - as he hadn't before that moment - what currently motivated him. He wanted Karr's job. He wanted to be Marshal in Karr's place. And so he worked, patiently and with an exact care, to undermine Karr even as he kept within the letter of his orders.

Heng turned, giving the corpse one final glance. "You'll send me a copy of the report, I hope."

"Of course," I Ye answered urbanely. "It will be on your desk before the day is out."

"Good. Very good." Heng made to turn away, but I Ye called him back.

"Master Heng?"

"Yes, Colonel I?"

"Was it my Captain, Dawes, who told you where I was?"

It was after six when Heng Yu finally returned to his rooms. He had missed three appointments - important appointments with senior officials on matters of great urgency - and even though his secretaries had dealt with things efficiently in his absence, he felt, perhaps for the first time since he had become Chancellor, that the responsibilities of office were getting too much for him.

It is out of control, he thought, recalling the mad, vain glint in his Mistress's eyes, the distraction in his Master's. The Great Experiment has failed.

Li Yuan's great vision of a new and healthier state had foundered almost at its inception - foundered because he had personally withdrawn from the task of its creation, leaving it to other, less enthusiastic hands. It might have worked - indeed, it ought to have worked - but the ship of State had wrecked itself on the rock of Pei K'ung^s vanity, on her obsession with control. In giving her power, Li Yuan had effectively destroyed any last chance the new state once possessed. After the City's fall there had been a moment - one brief, deceptive, shining moment - when it might have happened: when the terms of Li Yuan's promise to Hans Ebert could have been fulfilled and a new, more equitable, saner society could have been established. But old patterns of behaviour quickly reestablished themselves. People forgot the reasons for that Fall. Greed, corruption, fraud, nepotism, addiction, mindless violence, murder, theft and a thousand other shades of bad behaviour. . . the darkness had seeped back, swamping the bright ideal, until, this very day, he had helped promote the document that would douse that light completely.

Ah yes, but he hasn 't signed it yet, Heng thought, the faintest glimmer of hope holding out against experience. And until he does, until he agrees to her insane war, her debilitating taxes, then the vision is still alive.

But the possibility of that happening was frail. In ten years Li Yuan had not failed to sign a single one of Pei K'ung's edicts.

Heng sat down heavily in his high-backed chair, staring across the huge, empty room sightlessly, a sense of futility gripping him. He had tried to be a good man, to conduct himself as honestly and openly as possible, but it had been hard. In truth, the politics of the San Chang were the politics of the snake pit. It was bite or be bitten.

The gods help us, he thought. Soon the sadists and the madmen will take over completely. Ming Ai and his stunted half-men unB rule the roost!

The buzzer sounded on his desk. He stared at it, as if it lay a thousand li from where he sat. Then, wearily, he leaned forward and placed his palm against the contact pad.

"What is it, Fen Chun?"

"Master Heng?"

He sat bolt upright, suddenly alert. "Chieh Hsia?"

"Come to my rooms at once."

"At once, Chieh Hsia," he answered, instinctively bowing his head, but he was speaking to himself. Li Yuan had already cut contact.

He sat back and closed his eyes. What now? It was but four hours since he had last seen his Master.

The answer came to him at once. The unmarked craft that had arrived an hour back. Perhaps Li Yuan was about to let him in on what was going on.

If so it would bring matters to a head. For a long time now he had sought to serve both his Master and his Mistress equally. Now, however, if Li Yuan insisted on his secrecy, he would have to disappoint Pei K'ung. And that, he realised, was not something he looked forward to. No, for he had seen what had happened to those who betrayed the Empress.

The thought of it made him turn pale. Li Yuan might well be the head, but Pei K'ung, without doubt, was the hands. Cross her and he might as well take the knife and use it on himself.

He stood. His legs felt weak and there was a sudden pounding at his temple. I am ill, he told himself. But he knew it wasn't any common illness. This was a sickness of the soul.

Li Yuan was waiting for him at the door to his study. Ushering him inside, the T'ang closed the door himself, then, unexpectedly taking Heng"s arm, he drew him across to the window.

"Do you see?" he asked, pointing out into the gardens.

Heng looked. There, in the late afternoon sunlight, two young men stood beneath a blossoming cherry tree.

"The prince!" Heng turned, surprised, looking to his Master. "But I thought he wasn't due back until tomorrow?"

"He came back yesterday. We sneaked him in on one of the regular security patrols. The young man with him is an American. Mark Egan is his name. He is one of the New Colonists."

"Chieh Hsia?"

"I'll explain tomorrow. Right now I want you to go and see Pei K'ung."

"Chieh Hsia?"

Li Yuan smiled, then, going to the desk, rummaged amongst his papers until he found something. He brought it back across. "Here, Master Heng. Give her this. I know I promised you my answer tomorrow, but I had an hour to kill earlier this afternoon." He held out a large white parchment letter, sealed with his imperial stamp. "It is my answer to the document the Empress sent me this morning."

Heng took the letter and stared at it a moment, openmouthed, unable to believe that his Master had at last stood up to Pei K'ung. Again this was Shepherd's doing, he was sure.

He looked up, unable to keep the smile from his face. "Forgive me if I seem impertinent, Chieh Hsia, but might I ask your reasons for not signing the edict."

"Not signing?" Li Yuan gave him a puzzled look. "Did I say I was not signing? No, Master Heng. You have it wrong. I shall sign her document, and gladly, but I want changes to it first."

"Changes?" Heng Yu asked, the smile fading, the last flicker of hope guttering in his chest.

"Of course. The main thrust of her policy is sound, but her strategy. . . Well, you will see my proposals for yourself. They are ... refinements."

"Refinements," Heng repeated, knowing for certain now that all was lost, that it would be war, endless war, for years to come.

"And the prince?" he asked, looking out into the gardens once again and wondering if Kuei Jen's return had to do with this insane plan to reconquer Asia and make Chung Kuo whole again. "Am I to mention that he's back?"

Li Yuan's tight smile gave nothing away. "Not yet, Master Heng. You know how it is between them. They only bicker. Let her think, for the time being, that he is to return tomorrow, in time for the banquet. Besides, I think the letter you are carrying will more than fill her thoughts, neh, Master Heng?"

"Why, yes, Chieh Hsia."

Li Yuan laughed. "Then go and let her know my thoughts. Oh, and Heng Yu . . ."

"Yes, Chieh Hsia?"

"Cheer up a little. You would think the world had ended by that face of yours."

Gregor Karr sat back in his armchair and laughed. Behind him, his eldest daughter, May, nineteen and barely a head shorter than him, held on to the back of the chair, laughing along with him. On the far side of the room, framed in the doorway, stood Karr's youngest, his five-year-old, Beth, her arms extended at full stretch, her father's white Marshal's tunic draped like a tent about her.

"Gregor?" Marie came from the kitchen then, seeing what was up, began to giggle. "Beth. . . come now. You know daddy has to wear that at the banquet tomorrow night. If you get it dirty . . ."

"Leave her," Karr said good-humouredly, sitting forward and holding out his arms to the infant. "I can always get it cleaned."

Marie looked at him fondly as he lifted Beth up onto his knee and cuddled her. "You spoil her, Gregor. She'll become a little Empress."

His look - of mock horror - made her smile. Each knew, without it needing to be said, what the other thought of Pei K'ung.

She looked to May. "Sweetheart, will you chase those two out of the bathroom. It's time I got Beth bathed and into bed."

"Okay," May said, hurrying off.

"They're good girls," Gregor said, smiling at to his wife. "I'm looking forward to tomorrow night. It's not often in a man's life that he can present five such fine-looking women to his T'ang."

She smiled and came across, laying a hand on his shoulder. "You want to see their dresses, Gregor?"

"What, now? But I thought. . ."

Beth grabbed his chin with both of her tiny hands and turned it, so that he had to look at her. "Mease, daddy."

"Okay. But what about that bath. You stink, you little monkey!"

"Oh, I'll bath her in a while. But they'd like that, Gregor. You know how they always want to show off."

He grinned. "Okay, then. But I'm back on duty in an hour."

She squeezed his shoulder. "It'll take five minutes at most. Come on, you . .." And, reaching across Gregor she lifted Beth and twirled her round. "We'll show daddy just what a little angel you can be!"

He watched them go, then sat back, enjoying the peace of his own living room, the sound of his girls - his wife and his four darling daughters - moving and talking in the rooms about him. It was rare that he had the chance to relax this way. Most of the time he was in barracks at Bremen, among his men. He smiled, thinking of it. Though he enjoyed it, he had to admit that it was a hard, unashamedly masculine world. It looked and smelled of men. Of leather and sweat. Here it was different. This here was his place of softness - a Yin world of perfumed comfort and loving kindness. Here he could indulge that other, more feminine side of his nature; a side that only those he loved best - only his girls - knew existed.

And his men?

Karr looked down thoughtfully. In the days to come he would learn just how well his men loved him, for there were rumours that the Empress was planning a campaign -unconfirmed stories that she had been holding consultations and commissioning reports. It was hard to know the truth, of course, especially where that viper I Ye was concerned, but Karr had heard enough - and from enough different sources -to know there was some substance to the talk. And if it was true . . .

Karr sighed heavily. He was a soldier, a fighter - bred from the cradle to be a fighter - yet these past ten years had given him a taste for peace. He had seen his family grow and had been glad not to be away from them any more than was necessary. In the past he had spent months, often years at a stretch, away from them, fighting for his T'ang. When he thought of doing that again . . .

"Achh," he said quietly, speaking to himself. "What is the madwoman doing! Why can't she leave things be?"

But he knew the reasons why. It was because what she had was no longer enough for her. She had grown tired of ruling such a tiny piece of land. Like endless kings and queens before her, she wanted more, as much as she could grab, and to hell with the consequences. It was of no concern to her how many died in the achievement.

Power, it seemed, was an addiction. It ate one from within. And Pei K'ung had been hollowed. One had only to look at her.

He heard footfalls in the corridor outside and looked up.

"Daddy?"

"But I thought . . ." He sat forward, then laughed and clapped his hands in delight as the four of them trooped into the room, their silk and satin dresses swishing against the walls and the polished wooden floor. "Why, they're beautiful, my darlings! I'll be the proudest father ever when I lead you out between the pillars in the T'ang's Great Hall tomorrow night."

He stood, admiring them. It was true. They looked quite stunning. And though their powder-blue satin dresses reminded him a little of the groups of officials he saw waiting in the T'ang's reception rooms from time to time, no official had ever looked so radiant, so beautiful as the four of them looked at that moment.

"Hannah, Lily . . . what have you done to your hair, you two?"

"You like it?" Hannah, the second eldest answered, rushing across to him. "Lily did it for me. It's the latest fashion at Court," she said. "All the great ladies wear their hair like this."

He smiled and reached out to touch it. "It's very nice. Very adult."

"Why thank you, kind sir," she said, and bobbed a curtsey. Behind her, the other three did the same.

He laughed again, enjoying himself. "And you know what to say when I present you, I hope."

Marie, standing just behind them, laughed. "They've practised it endlessly, Gregor. Why, if I hear it one more time!"

Little Beth made to open her mouth, but Hannah, seeing it, placed a hand over it.

"Hey!" Beth said, struggling, then gave her elder sister a thump.

"Now, you two!" Marie said, moving between them to break it up. "Best behaviour, or the T'ang will be cross with you!"

"Well, she started it," Beth said, glowering up at her sister.

Karr sighed. Even their squabbles were a delight to him. "Here," he said, putting out an arm to Beth once more. Yet even as he did, the door chime sounded.

"Are you expecting anyone?" he asked, looking to Marie.

She shook her head. "You want me to get it?"

"No, I'll go." He stood and, patting Beth's head, moved between them. "You look wonderful," he said, smiling at each in turn. "You really do."

The front door to their apartment was half wood, half glass, in the new style. Through the coloured glass panels he could see the shadow of a figure. Upright, soldierly.

What now? he wondered, slipping the latch and pulling the door open wide.

"Marshal!" The soldier - a Captain of I Ye's elite force, his uniform the bottle green of the West Palace - snapped to attention and bowed his head smartly.

He looked out past the man, noting at a glance that his own guards were still at their positions in the hallway, then looked back at the waiting officer.

"Well, Captain? This had better be good. If your Colonel wanted me, he should have sent you to my office, not my home."

"Forgive me, Marshal," the Captain said, keeping his head bowed, daunted as much by Karfs sheer size as by his rank. "I... I..."

Unexpectedly, Karr laughed. "Damn it, man. Spit it out! I've four young women in there want my attention!"

The Captain's head came up, surprised.

"My daughters," Karr explained, and noted how the man's face changed. He had clearly misunderstood what his Marshal had meant. "Now get on with it."

"Sir!" The Captain fumbled in his tunic, then produced a sealed letter. Coming to attention again, he presented it stiffly, a colour now at his neck. Despite himself, Karr found he rather liked the man. At least he wasn't the usual arrogant arsehole one found doing I Ye's bidding. Karr took the letter and, breaking the seal with his thumbnail, flipped it open.

It was from Pei K'ung. He was to go to her at once. Karr looked up at the young officer.

"Have I time to dress?"

"I. . ." The colour at his neck deepened. "Of course, Marshal. I am instructed by Colonel I to accompany you."

"Very well. Wait there. I'll be but a minute."

Karr returned inside, closing the door behind him. Marie was standing at the end of the hall, staring at him.

"What is it?" she asked, as if she already understood.

"I have been summoned," he said quietly, knowing that there could be only one reason why Pei K'ung would summon him so urgently. "I am to see the Empress straight away."

Pei K'ung came directly to the point.

"I have a job for you, Marshal Karr - a very important job. I want you to be my envoy."

"Mistress?" His eyes went to I Ye and Ming Ai who stood to the right just behind the Empress, but there was no sign in either of their faces. If anything, both looked a touch unhappy.

"It has been decided that there is to be a campaign," she continued. "A campaign to reunify the hereditary lands. You, as Marshal, shall of course be given the command of that campaign. However, in the present circumstances, matters are far from simple. We cannot simply send out an army. There must be careful planning. Yes, and negotiations."

"Negotiations, Mistress?"

The smile she gave him was not because she liked him -Karr knew better than to think she had changed overnight in that regard - but for some intellectual puzzle she had solved. "Negotiations," she repeated. "With Hu Wang-chih and Mao Tun."

He stared at her, astonished. "But Mistress, those men are bandits!"

"Warlords," she said, giving the word a degree of dignity she did not normally accord it. "And two of the most important Warlords in West Asia. If we can convince them to become our allies . . ."

She stopped, staring at him harshly. "Have you a problem, Marshal Karr?"

He lowered his head, then, steeling himself to speak, nodded. "I have indeed, Mistress. For several years I have been instructed to undermine these men, to weaken them and take every opportunity to strike at them. Now, overnight, it seems, we are to embrace them and call them our friends. May I ask why?"

She spoke to him as she might to a small child who did not understand a simple truth. "Because, Marshal Karr, it will make things easier for us. Word is that there is a defensive alliance between the nine Western Warlords - that should we attack any single Warlord, the rest would come to his aid. If that is so - and there is no reason to doubt that it is so - then we might find ourselves getting bogged down in a long and expensive campaign. Any short-term benefits would dissolve. There would be trouble here in the City - discontent, maybe even revolution - and we cannot afford to risk that, can we, Marshal Karr?"

"Maybe not," he admitted grudgingly. "Yet why should Hu Wang-chih and Mao Tun join us? I would say they had every possible incentive not to ally with us. We killed Hu's son, burned down Mao's palace."

Pei K'ung stepped closer, looking up into Karr's face, her own as hard as iron. "Because, Marshal Karr, you will offer Hu Wang-chih and Mao-tun the rank of Minor Prince. The Twenty-Nine will be extended to include their families, and they will be allowed to rule their present territories as vassals of the T'ang. In return they will help us against their neighbours."

Karr made a noise of disbelief, stunned by the enormity of what had been decided. "And the Minor Families. . . have they been consulted on this matter?"

Again she smiled. "No. Nor shall they be. For I have no intention of honouring the agreement."

He stared back into her eyes, alarmed. "Mistress?"

"You heard me Marshal. You don't seriously think we could let such rabble - such bandits as you so rightly termed them -become Lords, do you? No. Nor shall we. As soon as the other Warlords have been destroyed and their forces dissipated, we shall turn on Hu and Mao and crush them without mercy."

She smiled - a light, almost pleasant smile, then turned from him. "But you will keep that to yourself."

He saw her look to Ming Ai, saw the eunuch smile as if he shared the joke.

"And when am I to go?"

"The day after tomorrow," she said, going to her and desk and sitting. "You will travel to Mashhad to meet with Hu Wang-chih. I shall prepare whatever documents you'll need and will brief you fully before you go."

"I am to go alone, then, Mistress?"

She looked up at him, then reached across the desk to take a brush and ink it. "Is that a problem, Marshal Karr?"

He shook his head. But the more he heard the worse he felt about this mission.

"May I ask one final thing, Mistress?"

Her brush, which had begun to sketch out pictograms on the blank paper, paused. She looked up at him again, her eyes cold, no love for him in them. "Yes, Marshal Karr?"

"Why are you sending me?"

The sun glinted off the great Bell Tower of the San Chang, casting its long shadow over the jetty as Li Yuan stepped out to greet the royal barge. Behind him the full Court had gathered for the occasion, servants lined up in ranks behind the smaller group of Courtiers, Ministers and Minor Family princes.

117 -

As the two women stepped down, Li Yuan lowered his head, acknowledging with that gesture the high regard in which the Shepherd family were held - a special status enshrined in the laws of Chung Kuo. Just beyond the women, hanging back at the rail, was Shepherd's son, so like his father that it could have been a younger version.

"Welcome," Li Yuan said, smiling first at Shepherd's dark-haired sister, Meg, then at his wife, the red-haired Catherine. "I am delighted you have come."

"It was very kind of you to invite us," Meg answered, looking beyond him, clearly disappointed that Ben was not there to greet them. "My brother?" she said quietly.

Li Yuan moved closer, conscious as he did of the discreetly perfumed scent of the two women, answering Meg in a whisper. "He will meet us inside. He thought it... better."

Meg nodded, as if she understood. Catherine, however, seemed less concerned. She stared past him, studying the walls of the palace.

"Your journey was good, I hope?" Li Yuan asked her.

Catherine turned her head and met his smile, her green eyes twinkling momentarily, making Li Yuan understand just why Ben had married the woman. "It was certainly eventful," she said. "If s fortunate young Tom has a good sense of direction, otherwise we'd be looking for him still."

"Ah. .." Li Yuan looked past her. Tom had moved from the rail and was coming down the gangway. A moment later he stood before the T'ang.

Astonishing, he thought, recollecting once again the first time he had met the mould from which this copy had been cast. He took the boy's hand and, instead of shaking it, turned it in his own, as if studying it. It was a gesture so like one Ben would use that Tom looked up and smiled.

"I am very pleased to meet you, Thomas. You are so very like your father," he said. "And your mother, of course," he added quickly, looking to Meg, anxious not to offend.

She smiled, and as she did he saw that it was Tom's smile, Ben's smile, as if the three had been cloned from the same DNA.

Not surprising, he thought, recalling what Ben had told him of the genetic "programme" set up by his great-great-greatgrandfather, Amos. For the Shepherd's were not a "normal" family - not in any respect.

"Anyway," he said, collecting his thoughts. "Come through into the palace. We've nothing formal arranged for tonight, but it will give you a chance to meet a few people. Some you will know. Others . . ." He stopped, realising he was in danger of rambling; realising also that it was an age since he had last done this - since he had last taken part in the official, ritual life of his Court.

"It's a beautiful place," Catherine said, as they began to walk toward the palace, Tom bringing up the rear of their party. "I thought it would be more . . . German, I guess."

Li Yuan laughed. "It is the thing about we Han. Wherever we travel, we are never far from home. If one must live in exile, then it is best to surround oneself with such . . . reminders, neh?"

Her answering smile suggested that, if she did not disagree with him, she did not entirely agree either. Again it made him re-evaluate her. To be Ben's mate - to keep his interest - that would be some task for a single woman.

Then again, she wasn't a single woman. After all, there was also Meg, sharing Ben's life, his bed.

Li Yuan looked down, remembering in that instant the three wives he had once had; recalling their differences, the special traits he had liked about each.

Dead they were. Gone. Murdered by his enemies.

Yes, but then his enemies were also dead. Murdered in turn. Killed by his servants, to his order. An eye for an eye, as Ben so often said.

Such is the world, he thought, looking straight ahead, smiling fixedly as they made their way through the bowing group of Courtiers and Ministers, his emotions at that moment a mixture of bitterness and sadness. Try as one might, one cannot change it.

And he had tried. The gods knew he had tried.

"Are the Osu here?" Catherine asked, the faintest waft of her perfume reaching him as she leaned towards him.

"The Osu? Why, yes. You're interested in their history?" She laughed, then leaning even closer, spoke to his ear. "Bugger their history! Ben's promised me I can sleep with one!"

There was a heavy knocking on the outer gate, impatient and aggressive. Chuang Kuan Ts 'ai, who was standing on a chair at the sink, her arms elbow-deep in the washing-up bowl, turned abruptly, looking to her adopted father, the Oven Man, where he sat at table cradling his ch'a bowl.

"Are you expecting someone, Uncle Cho?"

He looked back at her and shrugged, then, setting the bowl down softiy, stood, his actions weary. It had been a long, hard day and it was late. Almost tenth bell.

She watched him go out, heard his footsteps on the stone floor of the hallway; heard the latch slide back, his footsteps on the cobbles of the courtyard.

The hammering came again.

"Okay . . . okay, I'm coming!"

She could picture him looking through the spyhole in the gate. A moment later she heard the rattle of the chain, the grating of the top bolt as he slid it back.

"It's late," he said. "I dosed an hour back."

"We've urgent business," someone answered gruffly.

"Can't it wait?"

"No," came the answer. "We've five bodies need storing overnight, til you can burn them."

Chuang jumped down from the chair and hurried to the door, peering out across the unlit courtyard. On the far side, framed by the light from the yard's single lamp, she could see Uncle Cho, his face looking round the gate, one massive hand holding it half-closed against them. In the gap, back-lit, was a stranger, a tall, shaven-headed Han dressed in the bottle green of Pei K'ung's elite. In one hand he cupped an ID badge. Beyond him there were others. How many, she couldn't teU.

"Okay," Uncle Cho said, stepping out and beginning to putt the gate open. "But make it quick now. I've had a long day."

Chuang putted the door to, so that she wouldn't be seen, then placed her ear to it, listening. There was the metallic dick of boots against the cobbles of the yard, the creak of the outer gate and then the sound of a cart being wheeled in.

For a moment there was silence, then came the sound of a heavy doth being pulled back.

Cho made a noise of surprise. "Aiya," he said softiy but distinctly. "What happened to them?"

"Never you mind. Just store them and burn them. And say nothing, understand? This is your clearance."

In her mind Chuang saw the officer hand across a document; saw her Uncle open and study it before he grunted his assent. "I can't argue with this," he said finally, a hint of resignation in his voice, "but I don't like it."

"You aren't asked to like it," another voice, more sophisticated than the first, said sharply. "Just do what you're paid for, Oven Man, and hold your tongue."

There were more noises - the shuffling of feet, booted footsteps, the creak of the outer gate - then silence.

She waited a moment then, slipping the catch, went out to him.

He was standing on the far side of the yard, half crouched over the cart. Hearing her he made to cover it over but she stayed his hand.

"Let me see," she said, stepping past him then walking round the cart, taking it att in.

She had seen many corpses - many more dead than living if she thought about it - but few that were as grotesque, as badly damaged as these. There was no doubt about it - they showed the signs of torture. Not only that but they had been strangled. The cords were stitt tight about their necks, their tongues poking black from their open mouths.

"Who were they?" she asked, looking to him.

He shrugged, unable to keep from looking at them, his eyes, which had seen so much, appalled by this. She leaned across and putted the rough doth over them once more.

"Lock the gate," she said, seeing how he was, mother to him at that moment.

He nodded then went to do as she said.

"Good," she said, watching him. "Then move the cart into the shed. Well deal with this in the morning."

Again he nodded, as if in trance.

She let a long breath hiss between her teeth then turned, looking at the covered cart. In the dim light of the lamp she saw how blood had dripped onto the wheels and pooled beneath the cart. No doubt a tiny trail of blood led to their door.

Fresh killed, she thought. Or else the blood would have congealed.

She shuddered. They had been touched tonight. Touched by the evil that emanated from that woman's palace. The shadows that flittered here and there about the City had tonight landed in their yard.

She looked up at the sky, remembering the butterfly. GenSyn it had been. A camera eye.

The cart creaked. She looked down in time to see the cart disappear inside the shed. A moment later the Oven Man emerged, closing the double doors behind him.

"Come, Uncle," she said, putting out a tiny hand for him to take, conscious suddenly of how small she was compared to him, how frail, and yet in this much stronger. "Let's get some sleep."

It was easy to do. Every house on Teng Sung Lane had a water barrel out in the front, facing the alleyway, where the water-bringer could fill them up each morning from his cart. There were filters, naturally, but they were intended to cope with dust and insects and the like, not with the malice of a wilful boy. It was simple to remove a filter and replace it afterwards. The poison was a white powder, tasteless and odourless - deliberately so, for rats had far more sensitive and discerning palates than humans - and it needed little to achieve its intended end.

From where he squatted on a first floor balcony at the far end of the alley, hidden from curious eyes behind the carved lattice, Josef watched the dawn come up and saw the water-bringer make his rounds. One house in particular - the house with the green doors halfway along the watt that ran the alley's length -

interested him more than the others. It was there he'd laid his bait. He watched the water-bringer park his shining metal cart beside it and lift the water-barrel's lid to fill it, unaware.

People came and went. An hour passed. Slowly the City woke, the alley filling with locals, shaking out rugs and greeting each other, stopping a moment to talk. There was the clatter of cooking utensils from within a dozen households, the sound of a baby crying. Below that there was the noise from a dozen screens, voices, an angry shout. Ordinary sounds. Sounds that one might hear throughout the width and breadth of the great city.

The green doors were the last to open. Josef 'leaned forward, suddenly intent, watching as the mother of the house - a tall Han in her forties - came out and filled a jug from the water-barrel. For a moment she stood there in the morning sunlight, her head thrown back, one hand on her hip as she talked to a neighbour, then she returned inside, the doors pulled shut behind her.

He waited, tensed now, expectant, imagining her actions. First she would boil the water, then she would add it to the pot to make the breakfast ch'a. Yes, he could see the fitted and steaming chung resting there in the middle of the kitchen table, innocuous yet deadly. .

For a time nothing, then, distinct above the other normal sounds, a groan - a groan so deep, so filled with pain that he knew without doubt it had begun. It came again, louder, longer than before. There was a shout, then the sound of someone retching. Josef pushed himself up, his tiny hands gripping the smooth edge of the lattice.

There was a fumbling at the latch and then the green doors burst open. A young man, naked from the waist up, staggered out into the alky and collapsed, his hands at his throat, as if he were choking himself to death. From inside there came the sound of screaming.

Josef watched, his eyes taking in everything, seeing how neighbours rushed to help. But there was nothing they could do. The poison was deadly and efficient. Whoever had drunk the ch'a would be dead by now.

As the young man shuddered and lay still, Josef turned and slipped away over the rooftops, picking his way barefoot across the tiles with the deftness of a cat.

Dropping into his yard, he heard his mother's voice at once, chiding his long-suffering father for not keeping a better eye on him.

"He's out of control, thatchild. . . you know it and I know it. If you don't do something ..."

"Do something? What can I do?He's a law unto himself, that one. Seven and you'd think he was seventy. He was born old, that one. Sometimes I think ..."

"What?" Josef could almost see her turn upon his father, her eyes glaring. "What do you almost think?"

"Nothing," he said bitterly. "I think nothing."

Josef slipped into the kitchen like a shadow, taking a cake from the tray as he passed. Then, silently, unseen by the two figures who stood confronting each other in the cramped front room, he climbed the stairs and went into his room.

It was a tiny room, under the sloping roof, but big enough for him. Crossing it quickly he went to the shelves beside the bed and reached behind a stack of tape-books, his fingers dosing on the storage jar.

So far so good, he thought, recalling the choking noise the young man had made, the screams of the mother from within. But there was one further thing to do before his scheme could be brought to fruition. One final, necessary stage.

Downstairs they were arguing again, their voices carrying through the floor to where he stood.

Tucking the jar into the band of his trousers Josef went to the window and undid the catch, then stepped out onto the roof. It would take but an hour. Then he could come back here and sleep. Yes, and dream, perhaps, of what was yet to be.

CHAPTER-3

proclamation

Kung Chia, Wei, Chief of Security for Weisenau Hsien, stood before the gates of the Magistrate's Yamen, his feet spread, as he unfurled the proclamation. His men were formed up in a line in front of him, their visors down, their guns held threateningly across their chests.

Kung looked about him at the crowd of locals packed into the square, then, clearing his throat, began to read, his words echoing back to him from the speakers on the far side of the square. When he had finished there was a moment's shocked silence, then a great murmur swept through the crowd.

Turning his back on the mob, Kung Chia took a long, black nail from his pocket and, pinning the top of the proclamation to the gate, hammered it into the erwood with the pommel of his dagger. Taking a second nail from his pocket, he pinned it to the foot of the thick paper, then knocked it in, feeling the door judder beneath the heavy blows.

He sheathed his dagger then stood back, feeling a sense of profound satisfaction. It was about time Li Yuan did something. About time these miserable bastards paid for something other than their food. He looked about him at the shocked and angry faces and grinned. Let the fucking ingrates moan and argue, the thing was done - T'iehpipu kai, as it said at the foot of the edict - "The iron pen changes not". Yes, and if any of them thought they could change it, then he, Kung Chia, would make sure they changed their minds! The three new water-cannons had been delivered only a week back. They sat in the courtyard of the Yamen even now, their crews ready for action.

With a gruff laugh, Rung Chia pushed the gate open and marched back inside the walled enclosure, his men falling in at his back. He was still laughing as the big doors slammed shut behind him.

Outside, in Wen Ti Square, the crowd surged in, clamouring to read the edict for themselves, cries of dismay and anger piercing the morning air. Taxes! For the first time in Chung Kuo's history, a T'ang had levied taxes on the common people!

Emily had been standing at the very back of the crowd, beside a row of stalls, young Ji up on her shoulders so he could see. Like everyone there, she had heard what the Wei had said and had no doubt that he had read the proclamation word for word, but still people crowded at the door, keen to read it for themselves, to see with their own eyes what had been decided from on high.

She sighed and, bending, handed Ji down.

"What is it, Mama Em?" the four-year-old asked, staring up at her with his big hazel eyes.

"Trouble," she said, hugging him briefly, then stood and took his hand.

They hurried home. The boys were at school, the outer yard empty, but Lin was at his table in the inner yard, the ledgers stacked beside him, the latest of them open to the last few weeks' figures.

"You've heard, then," she said.

"I've heard," he answered, not looking up, his finger moving patiently across the lines of figures, as if deciphering some ancient language. "Old Wen was here. He said there are to be taxes. Ten fen in every yuan we earn."

"So it is. Beginning at Hsiao Man."

"So soon?"

Hsiao Man - "Small Fullness" - was the week of May 22nd. It was now a week past Li Hsia - "Summer Commences". The new tax would be introduced a mere nine days hence.

She went and stood beside him. "So, Papa Lin ... what are we to do?"

He half turned, looking up at her, his twisted face unchanged, an inexhaustible patience in his dark Han eyes. "We must work harder, Mama Em, that's what. And Chao .. . Chao will have to find a job."

"But. .."

She fell silent, seeing the determination in his face. He was right. Chao would have to get a job. It was the only way.

"It cannot be helped," Lin said after a moment, shutting up the ledger and pushing it aside. "Besides, Chao will understand. I'll talk to him. Help him in the evenings. He does not have to give up his studies, only the lessons."

She nodded, yet her heart sank at the thought of telling Chao. Chao was their eldest - the one they'd had the longest -and he had set his heart on graduating for the State College. This news would come as a great blow to him.

She sighed, then leaned heavily against the table's edge, suddenly tired. "Why now? Why now, when things are finally okay?"

The patient shrug epitomised Lin Shang. "We will make do. You know that, Mama Em. It is our way, after all. This here is our island, no? And we take care of those we love. As for the bigger world . . . well, how can we change the minds of kings? You tried that once and where did it get you?"

She laughed. It wasn't often Lin referred to her past life, yet when he did, as now, it was to emphasise the futility of action. At least, of the kind of action - terrorism and political activity - that she had once engaged in. For Lin Shang, wuwei -maction - was the key to life.

He gave a faint smile, the way he always did when he quoted the sages. "When the great storm comes, the big oaks try to stand against the wind and so fall, whereas the weaker reeds lay flat and, when the wind has died, raise up their heads once more. So it is. So it has always been."

She nodded, but at the back of her mind was the memory of the last great storm that had struck Chung Kuo a decade back, and of the billions of common people - reeds, every last one of them - who had died in it. Whereas the big oaks - Li Yuan, Ebert, Shepherd and the like - had come through unscathed. It was a fact that seemed to make a mockery of Lin Shang"s philosophy, but she said nothing.

Ji, standing at her side, had said nothing all this while. Now he yawned loudly. Emily looked down at him and smiled.

"Are you hungry, Ji?"

Ji returned her smile, then nodded.

"Good. Then come and help me make Papa Lin some lunch."

Ji hesitated, his face slowly forming a frown. "And the paper, Mama Em? The paper that the Wei nailed onto the Hsien L'ing"s door . . . Does it mean there'll be no more food, after today?"

"No more food . . ." Emily laughed, then knelt, holding Ji to her. "No, Ji. There'll be food. Maybe not as much as before, but we'll make do, neh? We always do."

Tom stood on the balcony of his father's rooms, looking out across the palace gardens toward a sheltered bower, where, part-hidden by the leaves of an ancient willow, three serving maids walked slowly back and forth, giggling among themselves, their heads pressed close together. He watched them, fascinated, reminded by their laughter of the girl, wondering what she was doing at that moment; whether she too would stop at moments and look up, thinking of him.

It was ridiculous. He knew it was ridiculous, but could not help himself. Everywhere he looked he seemed to see her face. When the wind blew, he heard her whispering. When a door creaked open, he would turn, thinking it was her. And nothing he could do - nothing - could take his mind from her.

"Tom?"

He turned as his father came out and joined him at the rail. Ben was silent a while, his eyes taking in the scene.

"You like it here, Tom?"

Tom shrugged. He hadn't even thought about it. From the bower a peal of laughter, high-pitched and melodious, rang out, and as it did he felt a shiver ripple through him, making the hairs on his neck stand up.

"You want to see what I'm doing?"

He met his father's eyes, then nodded. What did it matter after all?

"Come then."

He followed his father inside. While Ben prepared things at the far end of the workroom, Tom sat in the tall-backed chair beside the window, the sunlight through the glass making him feel drowsy. Ben, by comparison, moved quickly, energetically about, his helmet - a cross between an exo-skeletal skull and a surgeon's cap, the delicate metallic frame studded with swivel-mounted lenses - set momentarily on a workbench at the side as he switched on this and tampered with that, then paused to sketch out an "external" for his assistant.

Scaf stood just behind his Master, watching patiently and nodding whenever Ben asked him if he understood. It was Scaf s job to make the roughs - the first stage 3-D landscapes within which Ben would set his drama. As Ben finished, the ancient dayman grunted his approval.

"It's like the painting," he said in his gruff Clay voice, taking the sketch from Ben and holding it up to study it.

"Precisely," Ben said. "But only like. We must make literal what was allegorical in the painting."

The dayman's head turned slowly, his eyes - night dark, the skin about them heavily lined - meeting his Master's briefly, as if registering understanding. Again he nodded.

"Good." Ben laid a hand gently on Scafs shoulder and smiled. "You get on with that. I'll be setting down the opening viewpoint."

As Scaf disappeared through the end door, Ben looked across at his son, as if noticing him for the first time, though Tom had sat there for the best part of ten minutes.

"So?" he said, mentioning it for the first time, "how was the journey?"

Tom shrugged. Behind him, from the garden, came the sound of laughter. He shivered, then moved his hands. It was. . . . eventful.

"Ah . . ." Ben went to the bench and picked up the helmet, staring at it as he spoke. "I can't stop you having adventures, Tom. To be frank, I wouldn't want to. But you should spare a thought for your mother. You worried her, you know." He looked up, meeting Tom's eyes, trying to make some kind of contact. "After all, this isn't the Domain. It can be very dangerous out there."

Tom moved his hands in his lap. I know. But inside he felt a tremendous restlessness. What was he doing sitting here? What in God's name was he doing? Why wasn't he back there in the cabin with her? Why was he here?

Ben set the helmet down and came across. He stood there, just to Tom's right, barely an arm's length from him, staring out into the garden. For a moment the silence was complete. Then Ben looked down at him.

"So what did happen out there?"

Tom took a long, calming breath. Nothing, he signed.

"I see." Ben made a small gesture, as if it didn't matter. "So you had an eventful journey in which nothing happened, do I understand that correctly?"

Tom almost smiled. Almost. Yet suddenly, frighteningly, he felt close to tears. There was a silence in his head, and his heart. ..

"Was it a girl?" Ben asked, crouching, facing him now, his eyes staring into Tom's face. "Is that it? Did you meet someone?"

He closed his eyes against that searchlight stare, wanting but not wanting to tell his father everything. But so it was. So it had always been. He wanted so much to share it all with Ben -wanted it almost as much as he wanted the girl - yet he was afraid. Afraid that his father would use it, as he used everything. Afraid that Ben would transform his life into a confection - a thing for others to chew upon and spit out. And maybe he had always feared that. Maybe that was why he was silent, for the doctors said there was no physiological reason for his dumbness.

He shook his head, his eyes squeezed tightly shut now, so tight they seemed to bleed.

"Tears?" Ben said, a tone of genuine surprise in his voice. "You want to talk about it?"

The irony of that made him laugh inwardly. His eyes opened to see his father's face a hand's width distant, studying the look of him; scanning his features like a probe above a planet's surface.

Yes, and I too am like that. That much I got from him, Tom thought, recalling the girl's face - seeing it so clearly that it might have been her crouching there only inches from him.

I'll tell you, he signed. I'll tell you everything. But not now.

"Okay," Ben said, his eyes releasing him, his hand resting briefly on Tom's knee before he stood. "But if you need help.. . if you need advice . . . well, you know where to come."

Tom stared at him as he walked back to the bench, surprised. Now that was a first. His father had never offered him advice before, let alone help.

Surprised, yes, but also suspicious.

He stood, hesitating a moment in case there was something else, but his father had done with him, it seemed. Already he was working again, the helmet perched on top of his head, the leather strap undone, a notebook open on the bench before him.

Nothing changes, Tom thought, taking in the scene. As long as I have known him he has been thus. Like a machine. A machine that sucks in life and turns out art.

The thought of it chilled him as it had never chilled him before. And maybe that too was the girl's doing. Maybe she had woken more than the response of love in him, if love it was and not some strange illness spawned by need and nurtured by physical infatuation.

After all, how could one love a woman one did not know?

And yet he did.

He turned, leaving his father's workroom, glad to be gone from there, but for once there was no sense of release. It was as if what had been wild in him - the freedom he had felt playing in the fields and secret hiding places of the Domain - was suddenly no longer there. As he paused, staring about him at the lushness of the palace corridor, he felt that there was nowhere to turn, no place for him to go. Something strange, something irreversible, had happened to him and there was no way back from it.

Sampsa! he called, the cry echoing loudly in the hollow of his skull. Sampsa, where are you?

But there was no answer. Only the silence in his head. Only that and the sound of the maids' shrill laughter in the garden.

Sampsa turned, feeling a vague sensation at the back of his head, a gentle tickling reverberation, as if something very small were crawling about the inside his skull. He knew that feeling; knew that Tom was trying to talk to him. For a moment he closed his eyes, straining to catch that faint sussuration, but it was too faint, too far away.

What is it, Tom? What are you doing at this moment?

No answer came. He shivered and turned back, looking across the platform at his father. Kim stood at the very edge of the platform beside the squat, spider-like transmitters, his face visible through the lit visor of his helmet as he stared out into the void, as if listening. Beyond him the blackness was dusted with stars. Below him was a million miles of nothingness.

"If s too much," Kim said, as if speaking to himself. "The rate of decay is far too great." He turned, gesturing to Jelka to come across to him. "No," he said, answering the radio signal in his head as Sampsa's mother, her tall shape clothed in a tight-fitting outworlder suit, joined him beside the transmitters. "We need to boost it somehow, to keep the pulse strong... No! It's just not good enough! It has to be much stronger. At least two hundred times stronger. As it is the beam won't even get a quarter of the way there. We might as well shine a rucking torch into the darkness!"

Sampsa watched, surprised. It wasn't often that he saw his father angry.

"What is it?" Jelka asked.

In answer Kim punched out a figure on the display panel on his left arm and showed it to her.

"That much?" she said, shaking her head.

He nodded.

"Shit!"

That too was strange; hearing his mother swear. The test results must have been really bad. He looked to his right.

There, by the glowing control board, his baby sister, Mileja was amusing herself doing somersaults in the zero gravity conditions, the umbilical that tethered her to the platform stretching and coiling, forever pulling her back.

He smiled. It was just wonderful up here. How wonderful he hadn't guessed until now. No wonder his mother and father spent so much time out here. Below him, to his left, so close it seemed he could almost reach out and touch it, was the moon. Further down, directly down that was, sitting there like a blue-green hole in the blackness, was Chung Kuo.

If he wanted he could leap from the platform's edge and fall towards that tiny circle, like a diver falling toward a distant pool. And how long would he take to fall? Weeks, months, perhaps, though he would probably starve long before he ever breached the surface of that pool.

He turned back. His father was shaking his head now and tutting to himself. The lenses he wore — saucer glasses designed to enhance his view of the stars - made him seem even more alien than he naturally was, with his huge head and tiny frame. And though he had something of each of his parents within his own ungainly frame, he thought once more just how ill-matched a pair they looked.

Ill-matched yet complementary. Like a double star system, they orbited each other endlessly.

"Sampsa?"

He went across. "Yes, father?"

"Is the shuttle coming?"

He looked down at the timer at his wrist and whistled, surprised. Was it that time already? "I'll check," he said.

He drifted over to the board.

"I can do doubles," Mileja said, tapping the top of his helmet as she floated past him. "Watch!"

He watched a moment, humouring her, clapping her, his thickly-gloved hands making almost no sound. Then, knowing his father would want an answer quickly, he studied the figures on the board's display screen.

"It's on its way," he said, looking to his mother who was watching him fondly. "ETA eighteen minutes."

"Good," Kim said, his concentration unbroken. "At least one thing's going to plan!"

Sampsa heard the bitterness in his father's voice, the disappointment, and looked down. Kim had been sure he'd cracked it this time; certain that the rate of decay - the rate at which the beamed laser signal broke up - had been reduced substantially. And so it had. But not enough, it seemed. Nothing like enough.

"Shit!" Kim said, sighing deeply and moving from the platform's edge. "Shit! Shit! Shit!"

Mileja, in mid loop, gave a giggle. "Shit!" she said.

"Hey," Jelka said, coming across to her. "That's quite enough, young lady!"

"But daddy said . . ."

"Enough!"

Again Mileja giggled, so that even Kim broke into a smile.

"Is it that bad?" Sampsa asked.

"Bad?" Kim came and touched his arm. "Oh, far worse than bad. I'd say I've been barking up the wrong tree, if that image made any sense at all out here."

"Mining the wrong asteroid?" Jelka suggested.

"Terraforming the wrong planet?" Sampsa added, joining in the family game.

Kim grinned, his eyes like ostrich eggs behind their lenses, then he gave another sigh. "Whatever... it looks like I'll have to start from scratch. Find some other way to tackle the problem. It's not the lasers - they're powerful enough - if s the interstellar dust. There's not much of it but, over the distances we're talking of, the signal just gets eaten by it. Absorbed. You might just as well try to send a signal through a mile of steel."

"You'll find a way," Jelka said, putting an arm round him. "You always do."

"Not this time," he said, a hint of despair in the words. "If s just too far."

"No," she began, but he shook his head.

"I'm deadly serious, my love. For once I might just have overreached myself. I mean, linking the stars, it's a crazy idea, don't you think? Building a massive cat's cradle between them. Who but a madman would think of doing that?" "Or a genius?" Jelka said quietly.

"No." He shook his head again. "No."

"Spiders," Sampsa said. "Think spiders."

"What?" Kim looked to his son, a sudden intensity in his eyes.

"Krakatoa. . . remember? You told me the story once. About how all the wildlife on the island of Krakatoa was utterly destroyed by the volcano. And how a spider was the first creature to return to the island."

Kim's smile grew slowly. "I remember. It was too far from land for it to get there by normal means, so it sailed there on the wind, spinning a thin silk thread as it went."

Sampsa nodded.

"And you think we could use something similar? To sail on solar winds, perhaps. Out into the darkness between the stars, until it comes to land . . ."

"Spinning a thread," Sampsa said. "And boosting the signal as it went."

Kim laughed. "Brilliant!" he said, clapping Sampsa's back. "I think that's brilliant!"

"You think it'll work, then?"

Kim shrugged. "The gods alone know if it'll work. But we'll try, eh? We'll sure as hell try!"

Chao stood before his adopted father where he sat at his desk, the young man's head bowed, listening as Lin Shang spoke of what had happened and what it meant for them all. Chao had heard much of it already, of course, for there was no one in the City who was unaffected. Taxes would hit them all. But for Chao it meant more than most. For Chao it could well change his entire future.

Emily stood to one side looking on, her chest tight with anxiety. If Ji, the youngest, was her favourite, Chao, the eldest, was the one upon whom all her hopes rested. Brighter than the rest and quicker of mind, he had taken to his studies like a fish to water, but who knew what this set-back would do to him.

". . .so you understand," Lin said, finally coming to it, "that this will mean sacrifices for us all. We shall all have to work harder. Not only that, but we shall have to do without many things we have previously taken for granted . . ."

"Papa Lin?"

Lin Shang looked up, surprised that Chao had interrupted him. He straightened his shoulders, a slight tick momentarily making the right-hand side of his face jump. "Yes, Lin Chao?"

The boy kept his eyes averted, yet there was something in his face - an earnestness beyond his years - that she had not noticed before.

"Would it help if you did not have to pay for my studies, Papa Lin?"

Lin Shang swallowed, disconcerted by this turn of events. It was clear he had braced himself to break the news to Chao - to be hard, if necessary - but he had not been prepared for Chao's offer.

"It would."

"Then I should be glad to give them up. If it would help."

Lin's face twitched once more, then, abruptly, he bowed his head. It was done.

Emily stared at Chao, impressed by his self-control, by the maturity he had shown - yes, and the unselfishness. She wanted to go to him and hug him tightly; to tell him what a brave young man he was, but knew that would be wrong. From the tension in Chao's neck muscles, she could see that his self-control was hard-won. Chao, ever quick of mind, had seen for himself what the new taxes would mean and had resolved to make the best of it. Even so, it was a grand gesture.

"Papa Lin?"

Lin looked up again, meeting his son's eyes, a new respect in his own. "Yes, Lin Chao?"

"I thought I would apply for a job. At the big house."

Again Lin swallowed. Again he gave a single nod of his head. Yet, as Chao made to turn away, he spoke out.

"Chao ... Do not give up hope. Your studies . . . You must keep them up, neh?"

Chao glanced at his adopted father, then averted his eyes once more.

"I shall help you," Lin said, his eyes trying to make some connection with the boy. "An hour a night we'll spend, you and I, going through your books. We will make do, neh, Lin Chao? And when things are better . . ."

Chao shuddered, suddenly close to tears. Emily, watching, steeled herself. She had promised Lin she would say nothing, do nothing. She had given her word. But young Ji had made no such promises. As if he read what was in her heart, Ji ran across and, throwing himself at Chao, held on tightly to his leg, wanting to comfort him in his disappointment. Chao looked down, smiling, then knelt and picked Ji up, cuddling him tightly, almost fiercely, then turned and went silently from the inner yard.

As the doors clinked shut she looked to Lin, meaning to say something, then stopped, seeing the first tear run slowly down Lin Shang's cheek.

"Papa Lin," she said, making to go to him, but he raised a hand as if to fend her off.

"Chao sets an example for us all," he said, after a moment. "We must all be strong from now on. And we must make do. Just as First Son Chao makes do."

She looked back at him and nodded, smiling, but her smile was laced with regret Oh, Lin would keep his promise. He always did But an hour a night... what was an hour a night? Besides, if Chao did get a job at the big house he would be tired when he came home. . . that was, if he did come home and did not stay there in the big house with his new Masters. No, both Lin Shang and Chao knew what this meant. It meant the end of Chao's dream of a College place. The end of any hopes he had of bettering his life.

"Well. . ." Lin began, stirring himself. "I think we ought. . ."

There was a sudden violent hammering at the outer gates. From the outer courtyard came the alarmed shouts of her boys, then the sound of one of the big doors splintering beneath a heavy blow.

She had turned the moment she had heard the sound. Now she made to go through, but Lin was behind her, holding her arm.

Emily turned, almost glaring at him in her anxiety to go through.

"No violence," Lin said, his hand gripping her arm tightly. "Promise me no violence. It will not help us."

"Lin Shang . . ." She made to tear her arm away, but he would not let go.

"No violence. Promise me\"

Damn you, Lin Shang! she thought, then, knowing he would not budge, she nodded. "Okay. I promise. Now let go!"

He let go.

She stiff-palmed the door open, crouching as she came through, ready for anything, but what she saw made her freeze, horrified.

"Aiya!"

Chao had set Ji down and now knelt, his head down, a butcher's cleaver, the edge razor sharp, pressed flat against the nape of his neck. The punk who held it stared across at Emily defiantly, an awful, mocking smile on his face. Beside him, standing there looking about them casually, were four others. They were liumang - street punks - but they were also more than ordinary punks. From the bright red bands they wore about their foreheads she knew they were also "runners" - Triad members.

Her boys were scattered about the outer courtyard, some seated in their cubicles, others standing near the shattered door. They looked to her, afraid. Ji, she could see, was staring hard at the floor, trying not to cry.

Knowing how important it was, she steeled herself, keeping the fear she felt from her face, her voice. Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward, confronting the runners.

"What do you want?"

The biggest of them - their leader; a tall Han with a sallow complexion that spoke of a bad diet - turned towards her, taking her measure, then glanced to the side, looking to his friends, a sneer of a smile on his lips.

"We want money, old woman," he said bluntly. "Fifty yuan or we smash the place up."

For a moment she felt old instincts call to her - felt the urge to step and kick, breaking the bastard's jaw - but she could see Chao out of the corner of her eyes and knew she'd not be quick enough to save him if she tried to fight them. Besides, she'd promised Lin.

"We can't pay you. We haven't even twenty yuan, let alone fifty!"

He came close, so close that she could smell the sweat on him, the sun-heated leather of his belt, and something else -something in his sweat.

She recognised that smell. Knew it from way back. Briefly she met his eyes and saw the tell-tale signs, that faint gold speckling about the enlarged pupil. The man was an addict, and his addiction was the most deadly drug there was -"Golden Dreams". Silently she stored the knowledge, knowing from past experience that such things could be used. Not now, perhaps, but some time.

"You give me what you have," he said quietly, threateningly, "and maybe no one will get hurt. Okay?"

She hesitated, the instinct to hit him - to hurt him badly -welling up in her again, then nodded. She turned, meaning to look to Lin, to signal to him, but he had already gone inside. A moment later he returned, holding the old "ice" box that held all their money. Coming closer, he held it out, offering it. "Twenty four eighty," Lin said, his voice small.

The liumang took it with a marked disdain and, without looking at what was inside, handed it back to one of his companions, his eyes never leaving Emily's face.

"You nice for old woman," he said, looking her up and down. "We go inside, maybe? Work off what you owe me?"

There was laughter from the punks behind him, but his eyes were cold. Looking at him she could almost read his thoughts -she knew exactly what he had in mind.

"No," she said, "We pay you later. Okay:"

His eyes widened slightly, noting the sudden, uncompromising toughness in her voice. Even so, she was at least thirty years older than him. Not only that, she was a woman. How much of a threat could she possibly be? Slowly the smile returned to his face, a fixed and ugly smile, like something painted on a theatrical mask.

"I fuck you now, maybe. Right here."

She laughed, no humour in it. "That would be a very stupid thing to do, my friend."

"Stupid?" He bared his teeth angrily.

"You touch me and Lin Shang there will try to kill you."

The punk looked at Lin Shang and gave a dismissive laugh. "The lao jen? I break him like a rotten twig!"

She stepped closer, standing face to face with him.

"You don't see it, do you? Oh, you'd swat Lin Shang as if he were a fly. I know that. Even he knows that. But he would keep coming back, keep on trying to kill you, until you had no choice but to kill him. And if you killed him there would be no one to pay the fifty yuan. And if no one paid the fifty yuan, what would your Master, the Mountain Lord say?"

Emily lifted her chin in a tight gesture of challenge. "He'd skin you alive, I'd say."

He stared back at her, taking in what she'd said, then nodded, as if accepting it. But he wasn't done yet. Pushing her aside, he stepped past her, facing Lin Shang.

"She your wife, lao jen? You love her? You fuck her every night?"

Emily had begun to relax; now she felt herself tense again. There was no need for this. No need to talk like this in front of her boys. She clenched her fist, angry suddenly, then slowly unclenched it, knowing Lin was right. Violence was not an option here. Lin's eyes went to her, then returned to the punk who stood before him. She saw him wet his lips with his tongue, saw his damaged face twitch once, a second time. Then, with a casual brutality, the liumang brought his knee up into Lin's stomach.

There was a shocked silence, then the sound of Lin Shang retching.

On the far side of the courtyard, Ji, who had been watching everything, began to cry.

"Be quiet, Lin Ji!" she barked, glaring at him, fighting her natural instinct to comfort him; knowing that, this once, it was necessary to be hard - for his sake. She knew how they thought; knew they were like sharks, scenting for blood, ready to prey upon the slightest weakness. For her to have been kind to Ji - to sympathise with him - was the worst thing she could have done.

She turned back.

The punk was watching her, his knife drawn, a self-satisfied smile on his narrow lips.

"You want to fight me, old woman?"

Behind him, Lin was on his knees, hunched into himself, looking up at her as he struggled for breath, his eyes reminding her of the promise she had made. Besides, there was still Chao to think of.

She let the tension drain from her. "No," she said quietly.

But the frustration she felt at that moment was unbearable. She wanted to punch the little bastard until his face was a bloodied mess, to break every last bone in his body for what he'd done.

He smiled at her, a nasty, hideous smile, then reached out and stroked her cheek. "You pay, old woman. Tomorrow, when we come back. Or else. You understand?"

"I understand."

"Good." He turned, looking to Lin. "And you, lao jen. You make sure you pay, neh? Or your wife, she fuck us all."

There was laughter; an awful, braying laughter at that. Emily turned, looking from face to face, imprinting them in memory, then looked down.

Ill fuck you all, all right, she thought, something hard -something she had almost forgotten until that moment -waking in her. Ill fuck you all good and proper, you can count on it!

The punk turned away, signalling to his fellows. From the corner of her eye she saw the one who'd been holding Chao lift the cleaver from his neck, then kick out, sending Chao sprawling.

There was laughter - mocking laughter - then they were gone.

From the open doorway a crowd of curious neighbours looked in, jostling with each other in their eagerness to see what had happened.

Emily glared at them, the anger in her threatening momentarily to spill over and find a release - a target - in them. Then, with a shudder, she turned away. There was mending to be done.

"Ji. . ." she said softly. "Lin Ji . . ."

Ji stiffened then turned his head away.

She went across to him and knelt, laying her hand gently on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Ji. I never meant. . ."

He pulled himself away, his face hard, his whole body set against her. She felt a shadow fall across her. It was Chao.

"Ji?" Chao said gently, as though what had happened to him had been of no importance. "Mama Em wasn't angry with you, Ji. She was angry with the men. Mama Em. . . well, Mama Em loves you. You know that, don't you?"

Ji hesitated a moment, then gave a tiny nod.

"If she spoke harshly, it was only to protect you."

Again Ji nodded.

"Then you must forgive her, neh?"

Chao turned, looking up at Emily, then moving back, gestured that she should approach the infant.

"I'm sorry, Ji," she said, kneeling beside him again. "Chao was right. I was angry with the men, not you."

For a long moment he was silent, staring away from her, as if struggling with something inside him, then he turned, looking to her, tears welling in his eyes.

"Who were they, Mama Em? Who were they?"

She reached out, holding him tightly as his tiny body began to shake and the tears roll down his cheeks.

"Trouble," she said, hugging him fiercely, conscious that it was the second time she had answered him thus that day. "Nothing but trouble."

Pei K'ung stood at the balcony, one hand gripping the iron rail, the other shading her eyes as she looked out across the gardens at the centre of the San Chang, trying to make out what was happening in her husband's palace. Ten minutes back, a second unmarked craft had landed in the Eastern Palace hangar. Now she waited, impatient for news, as her spies sought to find out who had come.

"Mistress?"

She whirled about. I Ye stood in the doorway, head bowed, an obsequious smile on his lips.

"Well, Colonel I? Do we know who's come?"

Even before he answered her she knew. Knew from his hesitation; from the way his eyes shifted in their orbits as his mind sought to find the right words to excuse his failure.

"Forgive me, Mistress, but it seems no one knows who was in the craft. Four mutes carried a sealed sedan from the craft and took it directly into the Northern Palace."

"I see. . ." She let out a long breath, calming herself, and as I Ye raised his head, seeking her eyes, she smiled. "You will find out what is going on or you will find yourself demoted to lieutenant before the evening's out, you understand?"

I Ye bowed low. "Mistress!" Then he was gone.

She went back to the railing, straining to see. There was a great deal of activity over there in the previously untenanted Northern Palace. Servants hurried back and forth behind the windows. Guards took up new posts. But as to who they were serving, who defending, not a word came out.

She gave a little cry of frustration, then rushed inside. Heng Yu was waiting there, precisely where she'd left him, standing beside her desk, his head bowed, the Great Ledger, wherein the State's accounts were kept, balanced between his hands.

"Someone must know!" she said, pacing back and forth. "It just isn't possible he could have kept this a secret."

And yet he had. She turned abruptly, her skirts swishing against the stone-tiled floor.

"Who is it, Master Heng? Who could possibly be so important he would fly them in here secretly?"

Heng Yu glanced up at her. "One of the Warlords, Mistress?"

"A Warlord?" She stopped dead, considering that, pleased it seemed, by the explanation. Then, suddenly, she frowned. "Then why keep it a secret? Yuan has always been careful to consult me at every turn. One of the Warlords? No, it makes no sense, Master Heng!"

Heng shrugged. He agreed, it made no sense. But what other reason could there be? Unless . . .

"Unless he wishes to surprise you, Mistress?"

She turned, staring at him. "Surprise me? No, that's absurd!"

"Not so, Mistress," he answered, setting the heavy ledger down on the edge of the desk, then stepping across to her. "It is, after all, your birthday in two weeks' time. Perhaps he has decided to use the ten-year banquet as the occasion for a dual celebration."

"My birthday?" Puzzlement slowly turned to pleasure in her face. "And you think . . .?"

Heng Yu, watching her, felt a wave of relief flood through him, at the same time cursing himself for not having thought of it earlier. "It can be the only explanation, Mistress. As you said, your husband has always been scrupulous about consulting you on matters of State. And if this is not a matter of State, then what else could it be? No. I'll warrant this is a special treat he has arranged specially for your birthday. A gift. . ."

He had lowered his head as he delivered his little speech; now he raised his eyes and almost laughed.

Pei K'ung was grinning - grinning like a lovesick girl.

"Why, the sweet man ... Of course! And there was I thinking . . ."

She let out a little sigh. "A gift . . ." Then, clapping her hands together, she went round her desk and sat, suddenly business-like again, gesturing towards the thick, leather-bound ledger.

"So, Master Heng, where were we?"

Jelka sat back, relaxing as the shuttle took them back to the orbital. It would be their last night up here for some while and the thought of going earthside again - of the banquet and the endless social whirl that would accompany it - depressed her spirits.

As the years went by, so she felt more and more distanced from that great world down below. More and more she came to see this up here - the sable darkness and the cold, clean stars -as her natural habitat, and that below as some strange, diseased anomaly. And so it was with Kim. Oh, he still persisted with that world - gave it his money and attention, trying to ease its suffering - but he too was at home out here.

It was all a question of origins. Down there he was forever Clay, looked down upon by lesser men, no matter his achievements. They were polite to his face, of course, for her husband was a powerful man, rich beyond their dreams, and he could make or break them if he chose, but she had heard their whispered comments often enough to know that no matter what he did they would always consider themselves superior.

Up here none of that mattered. Up here he was a king, with a king's powers, a king's natural elegance of mind and behaviour. Up here it did not matter how big one was physically, how straight, only what one did, what one was. And what Kim was was worth a dozen other men. A hundred, possibly.

She smiled, watching him at work across from her. Already he was taking Sampsa's basic idea of the light-spider and playing with it. On the pad before him were a dozen tiny sketches, a number of mathematical formulae scrawled beside them. As she looked he frowned and scratched his head, then looked across. Seeing her, his mouth fell open slightly. Then he smiled.

"What is it?"

"Nothing," she said, returning his smile.

"It won't be for long," he said, as if he read her thoughts. "Two weeks. Three at most. Then we can come back."

"We ought to transfer it all out here. The laboratories. The factories. You could automate it all. It'd be cheaper."

"Maybe. But then I'd have to let workers go. Families would suffer. No, Jelka. Let's keep things as they are. Besides, what about the island? What about Kalevala?"

She smiled and leaned forward, covering his hand with her own. "We could go there once a year, on our anniversary. Or maybe you could have it shipped up here, brick by brick . . ."

"And tree by tree?" He laughed. "I'd miss the sea, the wind..."

"You could simulate all that. You know you could."

He laughed, then shook his head. "It wouldn't be the same. The unpredictability of it... that's what I treasure about the island. The storms. The lightning flashes."

Jelka shivered. It was true. However much she hated all the rest of it, there was always the island - always Kalevala. For a moment she had a glimpse of him, there on the island, walking naked among the trees in the moonlight, stalking her.

She leaned closer, putting her face almost to his, and lowered her voice so only he could hear. "Just wait til we're back in our room. I'll give you lightning flashes, Kim Ward. You see if I don't..."

Emily knelt beside the narrow bunk, tucking in the blanket. Young Ji was asleep already, his tiny body turned from her, his right arm curled about his head, four pudgy fingers splayed against the jet black of his hair, the thumb hidden in the cave of his palm.

She stood, looking down at him and smiling to herself, as if he were her own. That, she'd come to realise, was her only regret: that she hadn't had children - that she had never understood, not until it was far too late, just how important it was. She sighed, then, edging around the foot of the bunk, drew the blind.

She stepped out, into the courtyard. It was quiet now that the boys had settled for the night. The dark curtains to the stalls were drawn, the lights within doused. The gentle sound of snoring came from all sides. She looked about her thoughtfully, remembering what had happened only hours before, then went through, into the inner courtyard.

Lin was at his desk, his busy hands making a fresh start on the unceasing work of repairing what had been broken. Behind him, and on every side, shelves were stacked floor to ceiling with broken things awaiting his attention. He looked up at her and smiled wearily.

"How are they?"

She placed her hands on his shoulders and leaned across him to kiss the bald spot on his crown. "They're fine. They've been through worse."

"Maybe so. But that was a while back. You forget how young they are, Mama Em. You and I ... we've seen such things before, neh? But for them . . ." He sighed deeply. "Who were they, do you think?"

She shrugged. To be honest, she didn't know. The headbands they had worn gave little clue. Yet from their arrogance she guessed they were from one of the Frankfurt brotherhoods. If so, it was the first time they had come this far west - the first time they had crossed the river. "So can we pay them?"

He met her eyes clearly. "If if s a one-off. Otherwise . . ." She understood. On top of the new taxes, a further fifty yuan a week would break them. Lin and the boys could not work enough hours repairing things to make that kind of money. And then there was food to buy and clothes, the rent for the compound.

She sighed heavily. "So what do we do?" His hands stopped then slowly started up again, as if they had a life of their own.

"What can we do? Pay what we can, work harder, eat less." She gave a bitter laugh. "Eat any less and we'll starve. We need to eat to work. Besides . . ."

His look - a look of profound patience and understanding -made her fall silent.

"We endure," he said after a moment. "If necessary we 'eat bitter'. That is our fate, neh, Mama Em? Perhaps it has always been our fate."

Maybe so, but it irked her that after all they'd done - after all those years of hard and patient work - one edict and a group of airhead punks could destroy it in a day.

"I wanted to hurt him," she said, remembering what the punk had done to Lin. "I wanted to beat him to a pulp." "I know. And I was proud of you." "Proud?"

"Yes. For showing such restraint. Our boys will take heart having seen you display such inner strength."

She stared at him, uncertain. "And Ji? You think Ji understood?"

Lin nodded. "Even Ji. He was confused, true, but Chao made him understand."

Understand what? she thought. How weak we are? How little we can protect our own? Is that any lesson for a young boy? But she said nothing. For Lin Shang there was but one way - the way of non-violence. "Avoid Trouble", he would say, "and Trouble will avoid you". Well, maybe so. Maybe that was true in normal times, but what when Trouble came looking for you - what did you do when it picked you out among the many and targeted you? Was it wise, under such circumstances, to simply acquiesce? Or was there a better way?

For now, however, she left it. For now, she let him have his way.

She smiled at him. "You fancy some soup?"

His hands were already back at work, moving like busy spiders among the pile of broken things. He looked to her and nodded.

She went through and, warming the stove, flipped opened a container of soup.

Well cope with this, she told herself. Well come through. We always do. Why, when the world tore itself apart, even then it could not harm us. This . . . why, this is just a little local difficulty.

The thought calmed her; made her feel that perhaps he was right after all and she wrong. Pouring the soup into the metal bowl, she began to sing, softly at first; an old song she had forgotten that she knew - a song from her childhood, from before her family's fall. Briefly the memory disturbed her, made the tune falter on her lips; then she began to sing once more, letting her voice lift clear and high in the tiny kitchen.

After a moment she heard the door creak open.

"What is that?" Lin asked, stepping up beside her.

"This?" She gestured toward the bubbling pot.

"No . . . what you were singing just then. I've never heard you sing before."

She smiled. "No . . ."

Switching off the stove, she took down two plain earthenware bowls and began to pour.

"Well?"

She looked to him and gave a grunt of laughter. "I don't know. I... something from my childhood."

"Ah . . ." He took the bowl she offered and stared at it a moment, then looked to her again. "We . . . well, we've never talked about that. About the time before, I mean. I..." He stopped, embarrassed.

She spoke softly. "You want to know, Lin Shang? Is that it?" "I. . ." He hesitated, then shook his head. "It's just. . . well, I'd have liked to have seen you as a child. You must have been very pretty."

She stared at him, suddenly understanding why she'd stayed with him all these years - she who could have had kings and billionaires. There was no more honest man in Chung Kuo than Lin Shang ... no, nor a kinder one.

"I was a tomboy," she said, smiling at the memory. "I wore boy's clothes and had my hair cut short. My mother despaired. And my father . . ."

She fell silent, pained by the thought. He'd been such a good man. So upright. So trusting. She swallowed back the bile she felt at what had happened to him - at what the system had done to him - then looked up again, meeting Lin's sympathetic eyes. "Best not, huh?"

He nodded, understanding. "Lef s eat our soup while it's hot. And afterwards .. . well, Steward Liu sent a messenger. He said to come."

She stared at him. "At this hour?" "I said I would. He said he had something for us. He said to come tonight."

"After what happened last time?" Emily shook her head. "No. You stay here, Papa Lin. Keep those hands of yours busy. I'll go and see the Steward."

He stared at her, trying to make out why she'd offered, then shrugged. "Okay. But take care, Mama Em. And hurry back."

The lanes were quieter now and cooler, the street lamps lit, most of the shop-front shutters pulled down; but people were still out in numbers and Emily was greeted often as she walked along.

At the corner of Nan Yueh Street and Fu Lao Lane she paused, looking up at the big screen that, twenty-four hours a day, showed the latest news from throughout the city. As ever, dozens of people crouched idly beneath it, squatting on their heels in the way the Han had done for over two thousand years, their rounded faces turned up to its light. For a moment she stood there, watching the great golden barge move up-river once again and looked back in mind to that afternoon, remembering how she had held Ji up to see the splendid sight. She sighed. How soon things changed. How quickly happiness transmuted into fear.

She hurried on. The great bell in Yan Jin Place was sounding nine as she knocked on the twelve-foot doors of the Shi Mang mansion. Head bowed, her hands folded before her, she waited. Above her a wall-mounted security camera whirred gently as it focused on her. A moment later a smaller door within the great doors opened and a shaven-headed man in bright green silks stepped out, holding a large, plainly-wrapped parcel between his hands.

"Steward Liu," she began. "Forgive the lateness of the hour, I..."

"I understand," he said, interrupting her. "You had trouble."

She met his eyes, surprised. "You heard?"

He nodded, then, moving closer, lowered his voice. "We have all had trouble, neh?"

"Ah . . ." She understood at once. It wasn't only she and Lin who had been shaken down that day; the big houses too had suffered a similar fate. Indeed, when she thought of it, it was surprising only that they hadn't been targeted long ago, for they were the biggest plums of all.

"It seems I must also apologise to you, Mama Em."

"Apologise?" She looked down, all humility.

"I understand one of the servants treated you badly last time you were here."

"It is of no importance, Steward Liu . . ." she began, but he shook his head.

"On the contrary, it is of the greatest importance. It was I who asked you here, and though, through circumstance, I was not here to greet you at the time, my staff ought to have treated you with the same civility that I would have done. You can be assured that the servant responsible has been duly punished for his insolence."

She looked up, astonished. "Punished?"

"Oh, it need not concern you. But I was worried lest you thought. . . well, lest you thought me less than a friend." He smiled. "Here," he said, handing her the parcel. "And tell Papa Lin that if there's any way I can help . . ."

She smiled, deeply moved by his offer. She had always known the man was sympathetic - knew because he had regularly given her boys scraps from his kitchen - but how good a friend she had not realised until now. "Thank you, Steward Liu."

He smiled. "Broken things . . . what good are they to the rich?" Then, with a bow, he went back inside.

She turned, making her way towards the Yamen - the government offices - in Hsiang Yu Street. If she hurried she could be there in five minutes, and if the Hsien L'ing saw her, she might just be back before ten. If he would see her . . .

She had never been to the Yamen; had been careful, in fact, to avoid it at all costs, in case some file remained from before the Fall - something that might incriminate her. Or worse .. . something that might alert Michael - that might cause him to come and take her back from Lin.

She shivered at the thought and hurried on. As she came into Hsiang Yu Street she saw the Yamen's outer gates were open and felt a mixture of relief and aversion.

You have to do this. You can't back out. Not now. Yet every step was made reluctantly. This, she reminded herself, was for her boys. To guarantee their future.

Inside the gates was the guard-post. As she went to pass it she was called back.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" She retraced her steps. The guard was a bored-looking thug with a stubble haircut and missing teeth. She noted he had put down a porno-comic to attend to her. Conquering her instant, instinctive dislike of the man, she answered with a false brightness.

"I've come to see the Hsien L'ing."

His eyes studied her coldly then dismissed her. Extending a hand, he stared past her. "Show me your papers . . ."

Putting down the parcel, she fished the ID card from her jacket pocket and handed it to him. He flipped it open, stared at it a moment, then handed it back.

"Papers."'

"But . .." Then she understood. Searching in her back pocket she found a one yuan note and folded it into the card then handed it back. This time he nodded and handed back the empty card, waving her on. But she had taken only two steps when he called her back again.

"You can't take that in there! Leave it here!"

She stared at him, then realised he was talking about the parcel. She came back and placed it against the wall, then turned and quickly crossed the darkness of the yard, afraid lest he call her back again.

Inside, in the echoing entrance hall, behind a narrow desk, sat an official. A small globe-lamp, hovering just above him, part-masked, part-revealed his pinched, ungenerous features. A printed sign on the desk in front of him informed her that he was the Hsien L'ing's Third Secretary. Seeing her, he leaned forward, glowering, instantly hostile.

"We're closed."

"But I..."

"You heard me woman. Now go. Before you get in trouble."

She took a step backward, lowering her head, the instincts of the past twenty years shaping the gesture. Then a spark of her old indignation lit in her. This, after all, was for her boys.

She looked up again. "But I have to see him. If s very important."

He stood, his hands resting flatly on the desk. "You hear me, shit-for-brains? Go, or I'll call the guard!"

She stared back at him, getting his measure, then bowed her head. "Thank you," she said brightly, and, as she turned away, added beneath her breath, "may your bowels be twisted and your children loath you."

The thought consoled her, but she also felt a sense of failure. She had steeled herself to come; had fought off her reluctance, but now . . .

"Pssst.¹"

The sound came from the darkness to her right. She stopped, looking across, peering into the shadows. Vaguely she could make out a figure, standing in an open doorway, beckoning to her. She glanced round, noting that neither the official nor the guard could see her from where they sat, then hurried across.

A hand reached out and took her arm firmly. "You mending lady, right?"

"Right," she answered, matching the old woman's whisper.

"You want Hsien L'ing, right?"

"Yes," she answered. "You know where he is?"

"Maybe . . ." The old woman leaned closer, the smell of cabbage strong on her breath. "Some nights he go baths. He meet Wei there. Much talk. Other things, too."

"Ah." She wasn't sure she wanted to know about the other things, but this was useful. If she could see him there . . .

"Your She turned. The guard was leaning from his post, looking across.

"Thank you," she whispered, squeezing the old woman's hands, then hurried across.

As she came closer, the guard pointed at her. "What the fuck you up to, eh?"

"It was my aunt," she said, acting more confidently than she felt. "She was asking after my husband."

She bent down and retrieved the parcel, then looked back at the guard, but it seemed her explanation had been satisfactory. His nose was already buried in the porno-comic.

Arsehole, she thought as she went through the gate and out into the street. / hope your cock drops off.

She stopped dead, the simple violence of her thoughts surprising her. Maybe Lin was right. Maybe it was best not to fight this. But something drove her on. Ten minutes later she stood in the busy central square, beneath the steps of the bathhouse, staring up past the great stone pillars, trying to make out if there were lights on inside or whether she was just imagining it.

As she began to climb the steps, a figure stepped from the shadows, barring her way.

"Stop right there."

She smiled at the young guard, noting from his blue silks that he, at least, had been trained to the job.

"Well?" he asked.

"I wish to see the Hsien L'ing."

"Then make an appointment with his Secretary in the morning. Office hours are over."

"But this is urgent."

"Everything is urgent Now go home. My Master is not to be disturbed."

His manner was pleasant enough - far more pleasant than the bastard at the Yamen - yet there was something about him that told her he was not to be argued with. Bowing low, she backed away.

At the far side of the square she turned, looking back. The steps were empty once again, the guard returned to the shadows. For the briefest moment she wondered idly whether she should sneak round the back of the bath-house and force her way into the Hsien L'ing's presence, but knew that such a course would only damage her chances. No, the young guard was right; she would have to go back in the morning and face the Third Secretary again.

As she made to turn away, the smell of the nearby food carts caught her attention, reminding her that she had promised Ji cakes.

She went across to the nearest stall and, setting the parcel down, studied what was for sale.

"How much are they?" she asked the old woman, pointing to a small tray of oatmeal cakes.

"Twenty-five for two. Fifteen for one."

Emily fished in her pocket and removed a twenty-five fen coin. Her last. "Here," she said. "Wrap two for me."

As the old woman wrapped the yet-warm cakes in greased paper, Emily looked about her, conscious of the bustle in the square. Nothing looked any different from how it had been the evening before. The sights, the sounds, the smells - all of those outward things remained unchanged. Yet the world had subtly shifted. Once again the darkness was descending on them all.

The old woman nudged her arm. "Here!"

She took the wrapped cakes, returning the old woman's toothless smile, then, lifting the parcel once again, began to make her way back, the sky clear and dark above her, the stars burning down like a thousand eyes, watching her as she went.

Without pausing to knock, Su Ping burst into his brother's changing room, anger making him raise his voice above its normal ice-calm level.

"What in the gods' names are you up to, brother? I've spent the whole day dealing with complaints . . ."

He stopped dead as Su Chun threw off the flimsy sheet and climbed from the massage bed to confront him. He had a glimpse of a naked girl - a pretty young thing with snow-white curves and jet-black hair - and then a door slammed to his right, making him jump.

Chun came across and poked him in the chest.

"And what in the Lord Fuck's name do you think you're doing, brother? You sure as hell know how to pick your times! It's taken me a week to get that one into my bed, and now you've gone and frightened her away!"

Su Ping swallowed. He glanced down briefly, surprised to find that his twin still sported an erection, then averted his eyes.

"I ... I ..." he stammered, then, remembering why he'd come, he took control of himself again. "I want you to stop your men harassing my citizens."

"Harassing . . ." Su Chun laughed, then lay a hand on Su Ping's shoulder and squeezed it. "Why, that"s rather strong, wouldn't you say?"

"Strong? Why, if I were to say what I really felt. . ."

"No, no, brother," Su Chun said reassuringly. "Please calm yourself. If my men were a little heavy-handed, I'll correct that."

Su Ping removed his brother's hand. His voice was hard now. "You'll do more than that. You'll move them out at once, understand? I'll not have your men threatening my citizens."

But Su Chun seemed unperturbed. He pulled on a silken robe, then turned back, shrugging. "I'm afraid I can't do that, brother. My Masters. . . well, they have to pay their taxes too, neh? Besides, it will solve our other problem, neh?"

"Our other problem?" Su Ping stared at his brother suspiciously.

"I'm talking about our youngest brother, Su Yen. With the extra we make, we could finance Su Yen's rise quite comfortably."

Slowly, very slowly, Su Ping began to shake his head. "You're serious, aren't you? You really mean to move in on me."

"No, brother. Not at all. I shall keep it all... within limits, let's say. But our Masters ... well, you must serve yours, I mine." He smiled broadly. "And as long as our Masters are happy . . ."

Su Ping stared at that broad, smug face, realising for the first time just how much he hated it, then, without a further word, he turned and left the room.

Downstairs, in the great high-ceilinged hallway of the Baths, Kung Chia, his Wei, was waiting.

"You sent for me, Excellency?" he began, but Su Ping cut him short, his voice echoing loudly in that huge, open space.

"I want you to rein that bastard in. I want you to make sure his punks are kept in check. If they even spit in the wrong place, I want them arrested. And if they dare go near any of the big houses again, I want to know about it immediately. I will not have my people threatened, you understand me, Kung?"

Kung Chia, surprised, bowed his head. "I understand, Hsien L'ing."

"Then go. And make sure you serve me well."

Kung looked up sharply. "You doubt me, Excellency?"

"No ... no, Kung. It's just. . ."

The Wei smiled and bowed a second time. "I understand. It's been a hard day, neh?"

Su Ping met his Security Captain's eyes and smiled weakly. Then, looking tired beyond his years, he shuffled past, heading for his bed.

Kung Chia watched the Hsien L'ing go, then, turning on his heel, made for the stairs, hurrying now, anxious to speak to his real Master, Su Chun.

Emily stepped inside the enclosure, then pulled the gate to behind her, reaching up to slide the bolt slowly, quietly across.

She turned. Li was standing on the far side of the outer courtyard, watching her.

"So what did he send us?"

She stared at the parcel, then went across and handed it to him.

He sat down, beginning to unwrap the parcel, then looked up at her, astonished. "Kuan Yin!"

"It looks new," she said, reaching out to touch the smooth, black, shiny surface of the HeadStim.

"It is," he said, awed by the machine. "State-of-the-art. It's. . ." He shook it and it rattled. "It looks like it's been dropped."

"Even so . . ." she said, anticipating his next words.

She hadn't realised. When Steward Liu had said he had something to give them, she had never thought it would be anything like this. Why, even broken, the components would be worth a hundred, maybe two hundred yuanl And mended. . . She whistled softly. This gift - this broken thing - gave them a breathing space, a few weeks free of worry.

Lin looked to her, his eyes troubled. "Are you sure he meant to give us this?"

She nodded. "It seems they were shaken down, too. He said ... he said whatever help . . ."

She found she could not finish the sentence. Found that his simple human offer of help had choked her up.

Aiyal she thought. I'm getting soft in my old age!

"That's kind," Lin said, staring at the HeadStim thoughtfully, already considering how best to set about the task of repairing it. "Steward Liu is a good man. Why, I recall. . ."

He stopped, staring at the door behind her. Emily turned. It was Ji. He stood there, clutching his blanket, his face pinched, confused by tiredness.

"Mama Em ..."

"Come on," she said, going to him and picking him up, joggling him gently. "If you don't get your sleep . . ."

"Mama Em?"

She drew her face back slightly so she could see him properly.

"Yes, Ji?"

"Did you . . . remember?"

She smiled and, reaching into her pocket, took out the greased paper that contained the cakes.

"Here," she said. "But not now. In the morning, okay, young Ji?"

There was a tired smile, a clutching of the tiny package to his chest, then he snuggled into her again, content, his tiny body fitting the contours of her own perfectly as she carried him through to his bunk.

She shuddered, partly from tiredness, partly from the strange mix of emotions she was feeling, then set him down. She tucked him in again, then, for a moment, knelt there, listening to his breathing, making sure he'd settled. Only then did she get up, pausing a moment to look down at him, smiling as she saw the way he still clutched the wrapped cakes to his chest.

IW be okay, she told herself. We shall come through.

But the morning would be difficult, and in the days ahead. . .

She sighed deeply, the brief flash of optimism guttering in her, then, turning away, she stepped out into the cobbled yard and stood there, looking about her at the shadowed stalls, sniffing the warm night air and listening to the snoring of the boys, as if to fix it all clearly in her mind.

Li Yuan crossed the moonlit gardens swiftly, silently, keeping to the cover of the trees, then climbed the steps, slipping like a shadow into the unlit entrance of the Northern Palace. There his Master of the Inner Chambers, Nan Fa-hsien awaited him.

"Are they ready?" he asked.

"Almost," Nan Fa-hsien answered. He bowed low, then led Li Yuan along a broad corridor lit by flickering cresset lamps to a pair of massive, lacquered doors.

Li Yuan stepped inside, into brightness and elegance. The room was warm after the coolness of the corridor, making Li Yuan shiver involuntarily. The double doors to the guest suite were directly ahead. To his right a group of high-backed officials chairs surrounded a low, jade-topped table, to his left a massive mirror filled the wall. He walked across and stood before it, studying himself, pulling gently at his tightly-buttoned collar, then froze.

She had got up from one of the chairs and now stood, looking across at him. As he met her eyes she smiled and lowered her head demurely.

Li Yuan turned, flustered, not merely by her presence there but by the look of her - by her youth; her fresh, untainted beauty.

"Forgive me, Chieh Hsia . . ." she began, but he shook his head.

"Who are you? I thought I was alone."

"I know," she said and, raising her fan, flipped it open, concealing the smile that had come to her face.

"So?" he said, after what seemed a lengthy silence.

"Forgive me, Chieh Hsia?" she said, lowering her fan slightly, giving him a fresh view of her delicate, almost porcelain features. Her flesh was so white it seemed to gleam.

"Your name," he said, staring at her open-mouthed now.

"Ah . . ." The fan fluttered a moment, and then she answered him. "My name, Chieh Hsia, is Hsun Lung hsin."

"Dragon Heart . . ." He laughed softly. "Did your father name you thus, or your mother?"

Her smile delighted him. "I do not know, Chieh Hsia. I never thought to ask."

"And your sister?"

"Is inside, Chieh Hsia, with my father, preparing themselves to meet you."

"Ah. . ." But suddenly he found that, though it was why he had come, he was no longer interested in meeting her sister. He wanted to know more about her. For a moment he was at a loss, not knowing what to say, then he noticed the book lying on the table close to her.

"You were reading?"

"Yes, Chieh Hsia."

He took a step toward her. "Might I see?"

She folded up her fan and tucked''. into her sleeve, then, with what was almost a curtsey, picked up the book and held it out to him.

"History?" He raised his eyes from the page, surprised, to find hers watching him. Keen, intelligent eyes.

"I was reading about the great T'ang Emperor Ming Huang and his love for the concubine Yang Kuei-fei. You know the story, of course."

He did, every schoolboy did, but at that moment he wanted to hear her speak, to watch her mouth and see her dark eyes sparkle.

"Tell me," he said, taking a seat, the book resting in his lap.

"Where to begin?" she said with a rhetorical flourish, then smiled, giving a tiny nod, as if she suddenly knew.

"Ming Huang was, perhaps, the greatest of the great T'ang emperors. In the early years of his reign the arts flourished and the Empire was strong, expanding deep into the heart of Asia. But Ming Huang had a weakness, he worshipped beauty, and most beautiful of all was the Lady Yang Kuei-fei, wife of Ming Huang's son, the young Prince Shou. In the thirty-second year of his reign, Ming Huang took Yang Kuei-fei into his palace, where, bewitched by her, he divorced her from his son and, taking her as his own consort, gave her power beyond her dreams. Beyond them, I say, for the Lady Yang was of humble birth, the daughter of a mere Hsien L'ing from Sichuan Province."

He listened, interested to hear her particular slant on the ancient tale, fascinated by the movement of her tiny hands as she spoke.

"How old are you?" he asked suddenly.

She stopped, looking at him thoughtfully. "Fifteen, Chieh Hsia."

It was the age Yang Kuei-fei had been when first she'd come to court at ancient Chang-An.

"Continue," he said, telling himself not to draw too close a parallel. After all, Ming Huang had been all of sixty years old when he had first met his little swallow, whereas he was a mere forty two. And this girl - this charming, delightful girl - was of the noblest birth, her father Head of one of the great Minor Families.

Besides which, it was her sister who was coming to his court, not her.

He watched, bewitched by her.

"They had ten good years. Ten years in which her power in the Emperor's court grew and grew as she promoted relatives and sisters to positions of the highest rank. The arts still flourished, the empire was still stable and powerful. However ..." - she looked at him directly, her stare seeming to cross the centuries and draw him with it - " . . .the seeds of tragedy were already sown. Ming Huang, infatuated by the beautiful Yang Kuei-fei, neglected his duties, leaving it to others to care for his great State. Not only that, but his consort, the Lady Yang, had in the meantime adopted one of his generals, a commoner named An Lu Shan, a gross and hideous man, to be her son."

He shuddered, caught up in her vision, hanging on her words.

"The vengeance of Heaven was swift. Droughts and earthquakes, floods, fires and invasion followed one upon another. 'The gods have spoken,' people said, and talked openly of the Mandate being broken. A mere ten years after he had first brought her to his court, Ming Huang was faced with open rebellion - a rebellion led by the Lady Yang's own adopted son, General An Lu Shan. Fleeing his capital, the Emperor's advisors told him there was but one course, to execute the Lady Yang's brother and her along with him. Only thus, they argued, would the Empire be saved. Bitterly, he agreed. Yet before his beloved Yang Kuei-fei could be executed, he lent her a silken rope so she might hang herself."

For a moment the room was silent. Li Yuan looked down at the leather-bound book in his lap and sighed. "And you, Hsun Lung hsin ... do you think it was the vengeance of Heaven?"

He looked up into her face, awaiting her answer.

"So it is written, Chieh Hsia."

"I know that. But you . . . what do you think?"

She shrugged, then smiled, a sad, pensive smile. "I think that love can rob a man of his senses. I think also that, when it happens, it must be like a great tide, sweeping one away."

He nodded. "So it is. I had three wives . . ."

"Five, surely, Chieh Hsia . . ." She stopped, realising her mistake, and lowered her head, but his smile was tolerant, his voice soft, no trace of blame or anger in it.

"I mean, I lost three wives, Dragon Heart. Had them taken from me. That hurt me. Hurt more than I ever 4magined anything could hurt. But do you know what I did, that day after I had lost them?"

She met his eyes again, curious now. "No, Chieh Hsia?"

"I went to her... to my first wife, Yin Fei Yen. I went to her and asked her to return."

She stared at him, unable to believe what she'd just heard. "But surely ..."

"Don't you see? It was like what you were saying. Like a tide, an obsession. It always was with her. One look at her and I was swept away."

He stopped then stood up abruptly, realising he had said far more than he had meant to say. Yet there was something about her: something that coaxed confessions from him. He looked at her again. "You understand?" he asked softly.

"I . . ." Dragon Heart shook her head, her expression apologetic. "I am afraid not, Chieh Hsia. That kind of feeling. . . I have read about it, certainly, but the reality . . ."

On impulse he took a step toward her, holding the book between them. "Would you mind if I kept this a while?"

"Why no, Chieh Hsia. Let it be a gift ..."

"No." He raised a hand as if commanding a servant, then let it fall, realising what he had done. "I... only want to read a little from it. I will return it, naturally, when I am done."

The deference with which he said it made her narrow her eyes. "As you wish, Chieh Hsia," she said, puzzled by his behaviour. "And as for what you said ... it shall be our secret, neh?"

He smiled, then, hearing the doors begin to open, turned to face the emerging Prince Hsun Teh and his daughter, Princess Hsun Chu-lo, the young woman his son, Kuei Jen, would be marrying before the week was out.

Chuang Kuan Ts'ai pegged the last of the washing on the line then, wiping her hands on her skirts, went quickly back inside. The Oven Man was out doing his rounds, and now that she had finished her tasks there was time at last to do what she'd been thinking of all morning.

Pulling the footstool out from beneath the sink, she took it across and set it against the watt, then climbed up, her right arm at full stretch as she dislodged the heavy bunch of keys from the hook. They fell with a rattle against the stone floor.

She jumped down and picked them up, then made her way out into the courtyard.

The outer gates were dosed, the yard empty. Facing her, the double doors to the cold store were locked. She walked across and stood before them, knowing he would be angry with her if he knew, yet she felt compelled to look once more. One find time before he burned them.

Selecting the key from the bunch, she slipped it into the lock and turned it. Leaving the bunch dangling from the lock, she put both hands to the door and heaved. Slowly the door eased back, the cold of the interior greeting her.

She slipped inside, her fingers reaching for the light-pad. At once the room was lit by a cool blue light that seemed to her the very colour of death.

How many times had she been inside this room? A hundred? A thousand? However many it was, she had never entered there without experiencing a sense of disconnection - as if, stepping over the threshold of this room, she stepped into another realm entirely: a realm untouched by simple human warmth.

Slowly she walked round the slabs, studying the bodies. He had washed them and, with a mortician's art, given them the semblance of healthy life. There was colour now to their cheeks; even so, a single touch revealed how hollow that illusion was. Their coldness was the cold of the abyss between being and non-being and the knowledge of that abyss - a certainty she had lived with from her first conscious moment - coloured her view of them.

Another might have queried why the Oven Man had done this - why, when all he had to do was consign them to the flames, he had bothered to dean them and prepare them for the after-life -but Chuang Kuan Ts'ai knew and understood, for though she was not Cho's daughter, she was much like him. She understood the need for dignity; for someone - even a stranger - to show some degree of respect at the end. To mark the passing of an individual life.

Necessary it was, else none of it made any sense.

She looked, undaunted by their hideous aspect. Now that they had been cleaned, she could see the signs of torture on them dearly and, as she had the evening they'd been brought there, began to wonder how and why they had come to this fate.

Yes, and who they were, for they had come naked on the cart, dothed only in their blood.

She stopped, leaning in doser. Behind the ear of one of them, parity hidden beneath the hair, was a mark. She reached out, lifting the stiff black hair delicately with one finger. It was a number - a serial number - imprinted in the skin.

She stared a long while, memorising it, thinking of a dozen ways to fix the number in her head, then drew her fingers back.

"Chuang?"

She looked up. Her Uncle Cho was standing in the doorway, looking in at her, surprised - clearly surprised - to find her there. She waited, expecting him to ask what she was doing there, to chastise her, perhaps, for disobeying him, but he said nothing.

He merely turned and, taking his heavy apron from the peg on the wall, slipped it on. Coming over to the slabs, he lifted the first of the corpses and, hefting it over his shoulder, went out into the yard, heading for the Ovens.

She followed him, standing there, watching while he piled the six bodies to one side, then prepared and lit the burners. So many times she'd seen him do this, yet still it held a morbid fascination.

Her eyes went up, tracing the narrow shape of the chimney in the air, noting how the air above it seemed to melt and distort, as if the souls of the departed danced there briefly before travelling on.

"Go inside," he said, turning to look at her, a strange anger in his eyes. "Go in and start the meal."

Yet even as she made to turn away, she knew it was not her he was angry with.

The thought troubled her, for she had never seen her Uncle quite so ill at ease. Looking at his eyes she knew that this matter ate at him. It made him feel used; part not of some natural process -for death was nothing if not natural - but of some evil outpouring emanating from the Imperial Palace. When men could be killed and dumped and burned and no trace of the event remain, what then did life - death's obverse - mean?

The number. It had to mean something. It had to be a due. But to what? And how did she find out?

She returned inside and, taking a pan down from the shelf, poured water from the jug and set it on the stove to bod, then turned, looking back down the hallway, seeing dearly in her mind the mark behind the dead man's ear. It had to mean something . ..

"Have you got it?"

Josef stared up at the boy, whose fingers dug into his neck, and nodded. Fumbling in his pocket he took out the crumpled five yuan notes and handed them across.

"Good," his tormentor said, releasing him, then cuffed him for good measure. "And I want the same next week, understand, littie scab?Right here. Same time, next week."

Josef nodded. Yes, he thought, but you'll not be here to collect it, not if you try to spend what you've just taken from me.

He scuttled away, one hand shielding his face as if he were crying, but in reality he was smiling. The notes were among those he had taken from the apothecary two days back and could be traced. He knew that because he had seen the lao jen painstakingly putting each note he handled through the note-tracer beside the till. It was a simple device, but effective, and security relied on it heavily to cut down the number of petty burglaries.

Well, this time they would find more than they had bargained for.

Stopping behind a bend in the watt, he counted ten then poked his head round, looking back. His tormentor was standing with two friends, laughing, the notes he'd taken held up triumphantly.

Josef watched Chou turn and walk away, and felt a flood of satisfaction wash through him.

The boy's name was Chou and he was a third year at the Seventh District School. A week ago he had ambushed Josef on his way back from the shops and taken money from him. In the brief scuffle the boy had lost his badge - the same badge that now lay in a sealed plastic bag in a security locker at the local Yamen.

Josef smiled, thinking how easy it had been. The robbery was nothing, the poisoning a trifle. Any fool could have done either. But to incriminate another in them, that was a trick that took imagination.

When Chou went to spend his blackmail money the notes would show up on the shop's tracer as stolen and he would be detained. Before long security would discover he was a pupU at Seventh District school and would remember the badge . . . his badge.

But it did not end there, for yesterday evening, while no one was in the building, Josef had gone to the Seventh District school and, climbing in through a skylight, had located Chou's locker. Making sure they were "well hidden" beneath a pile of Chou's sportswear, he had stashed away the remainder of the money -over seven hundred yuan - and the storage jar.

And now, finally, he laughed, picturing the look of astonishment on Chou's face as he watched the security guard pull out the incriminating items. The boy would swear blind he was innocent, of course, but the evidence was overwhelming. The badge, the stolen poison, the money in his locker and the notes he had tried to pass. No court in the entire city would fail to find him guilty.

And guilty meant dead. For murder was a capital offence, even for a thirteen-year-old.

You bit off more than you could chew, he thought, hurrying now, eager to get back home. Eager to await the evening MedFac news and word that a youth had been detained in connection with the poisoning of the family in Teng Sung Lane.

CHAPTER-4

into the black

I Ye sat back, letting the tension ease from him. The tape had ended and once more the room was silent but for his own ragged breathing. Behind him the door to the soundproofed cell was locked. In one corner, a boy lay bound and gagged upon a bench, a tightened cord about his neck, blood smearing his legs and back. I Ye's own hands were also smeared with blood. He stared at them a moment, then, with a shiver, went across and began to wash himself at the sink, studying his own face in the mirror as he did.

He was an ugly man, he knew that, even without the scars he'd picked up in his travels, but ugliness was no bar to advancement, not in Pei K'ung's court. Besides, he was useful to her. Very useful.

I Ye laughed, recalling what he'd seen. To be frank, he was surprised. Surprised not merely by the beauty of the legendary Fei Yen, but by the young T'ang's stamina. That was some performance, one he personally would have been proud of.

Yes, and Fei Yen had been a far from passive partner. The way she had snarled at Li Yuan and raked his back with her nails! He shivered, recalling it, seeing clearly in his mind that savage, almost feral look as she goaded on the young T'ang.

He looked down at his own flaccid manhood and nodded. Men, women, he did not care who he fucked. No, nor how. Yet some, he knew, were particular. Li Yuan, for instance. From what he'd heard the T'ang liked but a single type: young women barely out of puberty. Salacious innocents, like the maids who'd first seduced him in his early teens. In another man that could have been a problem, but for a Tang it was merely a matter of recruitment.

Again he laughed, wondering if the old dog were still as lusty, still as passionate as he'd been in those early days, or whether he'd grown jaded with the years. Did the young maids he took now to his bed merely keep him warm? It would be interesting to know.

I Ye sluiced himself down then turned from the mirror and reached out for a towel, looking across at the dead boy as he dried himself.

A thousand routes led to the Isle of Pleasure, and he was determined to take every one of them. He smiled. Yes, he would even fuck the old hag herself if she asked him. But Fei Yen . . . he felt his penis stiffen at the thought. . . that route he'd never travel, and for that - and that alone - he envied his Master.

He pulled on his uniform then went to the projector and removed the cassette. For a moment he stared at it thoughtfully, wondering how he might use this without endangering himself. Maybe he could incriminate Karr somehow? But how? Plant it on him? No. That was too crude. But there had to be a way.

He took the cassette across and locked it in the safe, then went to the door and, throwing back the bolts, summoned his Captain.

"Sir!" the man said, coming to attention in the doorway, his eyes going briefly to the corpse before he lowered them.

"Get rid of it!" I Ye said brusquely, moving past him. "Then come to my office. I've a job for you, Captain Dawes. Something to keep you out of trouble."

The image on the screen intensified - each individual colour glowing vividly - then faded slowly to black.

"I'm guessing," Ben said, turning to Li Yuan.

"Guessing?"

"About how it is, at the end. There has to be a moment, just before the heart stops pumping and the brain stops sending messages, when the senses fire one last time. A dying flare of consciousness. And then?"

Li Yuan waited, expecting Ben to say more, then shrugged.

"Exactly!" Ben said, beginning to dismantle the equipment. "All the great prophets and philosophers . . . they were just guessing, like me. But if one knew."

"If one knew, one would be dead."

"Or someone would. There has to be a way."

"A way?"

"To record it. To follow the path past that final moment of intensity and into the black."

"The black?"

"Death. That's my next project. To try to track down death."

Li Yuan stared at Ben. Was he serious, or was this another of his jokes? After all... death.

"I brought you something," he said, offering Ben the slender book-sized case.

"A gift?" Ben took the case and flipped it open, then looked up, his eyes wide with surprise. "But these . . ."

"Are the vials from the Melfi Clinic, the last remnants of Amos Shepherd's experiment." Li Yuan smiled. "I've sent the files on to the Domain already."

Ben set die case down on top of the control desk, then prised one of the tiny glass tubes from its velvet niche. On the frosted glass was etched a tiny acorn, symbol of the experiment his great-great-great-grandfather had carried out across six generations. Inside the tube, locked in suspended animation, was a fertilised egg from Alexandra Melfi, his great-great-great-grandmother.

"Why?" Ben said, setting the vial back carefully.

"Because," Li Yuan answered, having no better answer. It had been no more than a whim, after all.

"I'm grateful," Ben said. "It was kind of you, Yuan. But there's something else I want."

"Name it."

"I want access to one of your prisons. I want to work with the condemned prisoners. To tape their memories."

"You mean their deaths."

Ben nodded.

It wasn't what he'd expected, but he had promised. "Okay, I'll arrange something. But Ben?"

"Yes?"

"Be discreet. If Pei K'ung finds out what you're up to she'll use it against you. She doesn't like you. You know that, don't you?"

Ben smiled. "I know. The feeling's mutual. But fine, I'll invent some reason for what I'm doing. Pretend I'm after something else."

"It'll be a waste of time."

"You think so?"

"Death's death."

"So you say. But I'd like to be sure. I'd like to know"

The air in the garden seemed fresh and wholesome after the stuffiness of Ben's workroom. It had recently rained and the leaves shone wetly in the morning sunlight. Standing there beneath the open sky Li Yuan realised just how little time he spent outside, how much a hermit he had become these past ten years. It was almost three years since he had last left the palace grounds, ten since he'd been outside his own City. In that time he had shed his youth. Now, at the start of middle age, he felt compelled to make changes - to shake things up and see what would transpire.

Recklessness, his father would have called it. A sign of immaturity. After all, what sane ruler would consciously seek change? Yet, undeniably, he felt compelled. He had let things run unchecked too long. Now it was time to take back the reins. Time to take risks.

He looked up. His feet had brought him to the boundary of the Northern Palace. Before him stood a gate. And inside . . .

He pushed it open, wondering as he did how much he was in control of his actions and how much compulsion drove him.

Like Ben with death, he thought, though he himself had had enough of death. Life was what drove him; life and the instinct towards . . .

He stopped dead. Towards what? Towards what lay between a young girl's legs? Was that it? Was that all this was - lust, pure and simple? If so, he might as well turn straight about, for lust was a destructive urge, as he knew well enough from his past. It had destroyed many a good man, the great Ming Huang among them.

The thought made him shiver. Was that what he'd become? An old goat, dribbling helplessly before a young girl's open legs, doomed endlessly to let his baser instincts foul his higher aspirations?

Or did he fool himself to think he could be other than he was?

He walked on, slowly now, pensively, as if he walked within one of Ben Shepherd's shells, following the guide-track, his path predestined, his sense of free will merely an illusion preprogrammed by the appropriate chemicals.

/ have to see her again. I have to.

Because if he didn't, if he left this, then he would never know if what he'd felt last night, facing her, listening to her talk, had been real or simply another damned illusion.

Because . . . well, because he hadn't felt this way in years.

He stopped again, looking up at the latticed windows just above him. She was inside, within her rooms, perhaps, or in the guest suite with her family. He hoped it was the former. He hoped she was alone, because what he wanted to say to her was not something he could utter in the presence of her father. What he wanted . . .

He began to pace, back and forth, trying to comprehend just what was going on inside him.

You are being ridiculous, he told himself. It's bad enough you take young maids into your bed each night. But to contemplate this. To upset all your carefully laid plans merely to follow a whim . . .

But this was no whim. It was not like giving the vials back to Shepherd. This was important.

Important? He could hear Pei K'ung's voice query that, the mocking laughter that would follow, as night followed day. No. He could not let his wife know how he felt, for if she did . . .

He said the words aloud, softly, so he could hear them in the air. "If she found out she would use it, just as she uses everything."

"Chieh Hsia?"

He turned, surprised to find her standing there, not ten paces from where he stood, watching him.

"Dragon Heart?"

She bowed her head. "Forgive me, Chieh Hsia, I did not mean to startle you."

"But. . ." He stared at her, then beckoned her to him. "You should not be out here. Her spies . . ."

She frowned. "Chieh Hsia?"

"My wife, the Empress ... If she were to discover you were here . . ."

"But I thought. . ."

He went to her and took her arm, leading her inside. Closing the door he turned on her. "Did no one tell you?"

She shook her head.

"Aiya . . ." He let out a great huff of exasperation. Then, seeing how she stared at him, amazed, as if he'd lost his mind, he laughed. "Do I seem like a madman, Dragon Heart?"

She looked down, flustered. "Why, no, Chieh Hsia. I..."

He reached out, taking her hands, then drew her close. She did not resist, yet when he made to kiss her, she drew her face back.

"Chieh Hsia, forgive me . . ."

"Forgive you?" He stared at her, not understanding.

"Forgive me, Great Lord, but I am betrothed."

Betrothed. The word sunk like a stone into his consciousness. But of course. She was a Minor Family Princess, and Minor Family princesses were always betrothed, just as her sister had been secretly betrothed to his son these past ten years. What had he thought? Even so, the urge to kiss her was overwhelming. Placing his hand gently against her neck, he drew her face to his.

"Chieh Hsia," she said, as their faces drew apart again, her voice a husky whisper. "We shouldn't. You know we shouldn't." But her hands were on his neck and as their faces met again she seemed to yield to him, the urgency with which she pressed her lips to his letting him know that he'd not been mistaken.

The marketplace was buzzing with the news. Big Wen, the butcher, had defied the punks and chased them off with a cleaver. There was talk among them of forming a defence committee, but Emily, listening in, wondered how long such talk would last when the runners got really nasty. She knew how they thought, how they acted, and she felt sorry for Big Wen, for today's heroes tended to be tomorrow's victims when you were dealing with the brotherhoods.

She hurried on, meaning to go home, when a commotion broke out on the far side of the square. Like the others about her she went up on her toes, craning her neck to see what was happening. There were shouts, screams, and then a stall went over.

Aiya, she thought, it's begun already.

As the crowd began to scatter, she found herself pressing forward, drawn toward the fracas, unable to stop herself. Suddenly she found herself in open space, the toppled stall in front of her, smashed bowls of uncooked meat littering the cobbles. As she watched, two of the punks dragged Big Wen away by his hair, blood streaming down his face, while another tossed a lighted torch onto the stall. As it burst into flame, she looked up, meeting the young punk's eyes.

"You like?" he said, his gap-toothed mouth laughing. "You fucking like?"

She looked about her, trying to find something to put it out, but there was nothing. Besides, the animal fats had caught and there was little she could have done.

There was an awful stench now, the smell of burning offal. Slowly, knowing she could do nothing, she backed away. They would take Big Wen away and beat him badly, as an example to the others. And so it would go on.

She swallowed bitterly, her instinct to fight them unas-suaged. But she was a single woman and they would target her, the way they had targeted Big Wen, and she could not afford that. She had the boys to think of, after all.

The Hsien L'ing, she thought. I must go and petition the Hsien L'ing.

Sleeping on the matter overnight she had decided not to; had argued herself into believing it would make no difference. But now she had no option. It was the only way.

And if that failed?

Then the brotherhoods would win and the nightmare... she sighed heavily ... the nightmare would begin again.

Su Ping set down his brush and, sighing deeply, combed his fingers through his neat grey hair.

If yesterday was bad, today is worse, he thought, conscious of the queue of complainants seated in the anteroom outside his office. His half-brother had stirred up a veritable hornets' nest and he was the one who would have to calm things down.

Fuck you, Su Chun, he thought, surprised by the anger he felt. Before you came I was a happy man, contented, liked by my citizens and trusted. And now?

Now word had gone out that his men stood by while his brother's men smashed stalls and beat up citizens.

He let a breath hiss between his teeth. Where was his Wei? Where was Kung Chia when he was needed?

He turned in his chair, hearing the door open behind him, then relaxed. It was only the old woman. She set down a bowl of ch'a at his elbow then, with a little nod, backed away.

Again he sighed. What were things coming to? First the taxes and now this! The gods knew he could do without such trials!

He reached out for his ch 'a, meaning to drink it before it grew cold, then paused, noticing something tucked beneath the bowl.

It was a note. Unfolding it he read: "Do not trust your Third Secretary." Beside the English words was a sketch of a coiled snake lying in the grass, three Mandarin pictograms - spelling the man's name, Ho Tse-tsu - drawn in the space between the coils.

He frowned then folded the note and slipped it into the pocket of his gown.

The clock on the wall read 11.37. He stared at it a moment then looked to his clerk, giving a nod to indicate he should send in the next complainant.

It was a woman, a Hung Mao, in her late forties, early fifties.

"Name," he said, tearing a fresh incident form from the pad and reaching for his brush.

"Lin," she said. "Emily Lin."

"And the reason for your visit?"

He looked up at her and knew, before she said it, what was to come. He listened, taking notes, then sat back.

"I shall do what I can, Mu Ch'in Lin, I promise you. This matter concerns me greatly and I shall be taking strong action. Now go. My door is always open . . ."

He saw a movement in her eyes at that and leaned toward her.

"You doubt my word, Mu Ch'in Lin?"

She hesitated, then shook her head. "No, HsienL'ing, it's just that I came last night," she said. "I tried to see you."

"It was after office hours," he said, smiling politely at her. "I was at the baths. But one of my officials was here . . ."

"I know," she said, speaking through him. "I tried to speak to him, but he sent me away. He spoke very harshly to me, Hsien L'ing."

"I see." He looked to his clerk. "Who was on duty last night, Chang?"

"Ho Tse-tsu, Master."

"Ah. . ." His hand went to his pocket, feeling the note there. "I see," he said again. Then, taking control of the situation, he stood. "Well, leave the matter with me, Mu Ch'in. I shall do what I can."

When she had gone he signalled to his clerk to close the door, then went through to the back office where the surveillance tapes were kept. He sorted through them until he found the one that covered the Yamen. Returning to his desk, he fed it into the scanner. At once a screen lifted from the desk. For a time he sat there, skimming through the tape, searching, then froze the image.

There! That was her. He let it run - saw, for the first time, how his staff behaved when he was absent.

I didn't know, he thought. / truly didn't know.

But it was his fault, anyway. His fault for not checking before now. For permitting it to happen.

He paused the tape and reached across the desk and pulled the Callers' Book toward him, turning it to the entries for the evening before. A quick check confirmed what he'd suspected: there were no entries. According to this no one had called at the Yamen. He closed the book, then, taking the note from his pocket, unfolded it and spread it on the desk before him.

"Send Ho Tse-tsu in at once," he said, looking to his clerk.

He sat back, composing himself. A moment later Ho Tse-tsu appeared at the door.

"Close it," he said quietly. "Then sit down. I want to talk to you."

"Master?" Ho sat, politely attentive.

"You understand your duties, Ho Tse-tsu?" he asked, keeping his tone innocuous.

"Master?" The man seemed genuinely puzzled.

"You know my stated policy. My door is always open. If someone calls you see them, and if you judge the matter urgent, then you contact me, whether I am on duiy or otherwise."

Ho bowed his head. "Master!"

"And if someone calls, you log it in the Callers' Book, neh?"

"Naturally, Master."

He turned the screen to face Ho Tse-tsu, the leaned toward him. "Then why did you not log the woman caller last night? Did you forget?"

"Master?"

Su Ping shook his head, then snorted with disgust. "Just go! You are dismissed!"

Ho Tse-tsu stared at Su Ping, astonished, then, throwing the chair aside, he turned and left the room, mumbling obscenities as he went.

Su Ping let his breath escape him, then looked to his clerk, who stood in the open doorway. "Send in Fourth Secretary Mao. I have a vacancy to fill."

He looked back at the screen. That face ... it might be simply that he'd looked at it so long, but something nagged him about it. He frowned, then enhanced the picture, closing in on the woman's eye. For a moment he stared at it, conscious of how strong, how beautiful that eye was, then looked down at the keyboard and pressed SEARCH.

Pei K'ung finished signing the final draft of the document, then, handing it to her Chief Eunuch, Ming Ai, looked up.

"You have news, Colonel I?"

I Ye bowed his head. "I have, Mistress. It seems your husband has visited the Northern Palace twice in the past twelve hours."

"And do we know what he did there?"

"Not yet, Mistress. But it seems a number of the rooms have been opened up and prepared for guests. More than fifty, so I am advised."

Her eyes lingered on his hatchet face a moment, then looked away dismissively. "And this is news? Where else would my husband put up the guests? In my palace? In his? Or maybe he planned to farm them out, some here, some there, about the locality?"

The tone with which she said the last was indicative of her acute displeasure. I Ye braced himself for a blast.

"Besides," she said, beginning in a calm monotone, "there's still the matter of the missing cassette. Whatever happened to that, Colonel I?"

"My men ..."

"Are investigating it, I know. And the messenger? You've found him, I take it?"

"No, Mistress."

"And my husband's plans? You've unearthed them?"

"No, Mistress."

"Then a fat fucking lot of good you are, Colonel I!" she yelled, standing, her hands deathly white where they pressed down against the desk, her face red, distorted with anger. "Your job is to give me answers, not excuses! And while you're at it, send Chu Po to me. I want to talk to him."

I Ye swallowed. "He is not here, Mistress."

"I know that. I have eyes. Now send him to me."

I Ye lowered his head even further, almost wincing as he spoke the words. "I mean, he is not in the palace, Mistress."

"What!" Her bellow made everyone in that room tuck their heads into their chests. In such a mood she had been known to order men stripped and tortured on the spot. "Then where the fuck is he?"

I Ye briefly thought of saying the words that had come into his head -1 do not know - but decided that that was not a wise option in the circumstances. Besides, he had a good suspicion where the no-good low-life was.

"Would you like me to fetch him, Mistress?"

Her eyes went to him again. "You know where he is?"

"Of course, Mistress," he answered confidently, hoping to all the gods he was right.

"Then bring him."

"At once, Mistress!" And I Ye turned, glad for the chance that took him from that office.

Ming Ai waited for I Ye to go then stepped forward. "Mistress? Might I have a word?"

"You have my ear, Ming Ai."

"I meant, in private."

She looked at him, measuring him, then nodded. "Leave us!" she ordered.

In a moment the room was cleared. Only Ming Ai remained, facing her across her massive desk.

"So?" she asked. "What is it, Ming Ai?"

He knelt and bowed his head low. "I want to ask a favour, Mistress."

"A favour?" She stood and came around the desk. "What kind of favour? Is this about another of your relatives, because if it is . . ."

"No, Mistress," he said hastily, glancing up at her. "This is for myself." He took a breath. "I have served you well, great Mistress. Whatever you have asked, I have done. And never, never have I questioned you. But. . ."

He hesitated, his tongue making one quick sweep of his lips, then spoke again. "I feel you are in danger of making a grave mistake, Mistress."

She stared at him coldly. "A mistake?"

"In sending Karr alone to meet with Warlord Hu."

She made to speak, then checked herself, changing her mind. "Go on."

"Marshal Karr is your husband's man. Loyal to him. Intensely loyal. If something were to happen - if some condition were to be raised, perhaps, that concerned you - then Karr would be certain to look after his Master's interests before your own."

"A good point. So you think I should send Colonel I instead?"

"Gods, no, Mistress! I Ye is a vain and selfish man, self-centred and ambitious. To send him. . . well, it would give him ideas above his station. He would want to be Marshal next, and we both know that that is impossible!"

She nodded. It was true. "Then what do you suggest?"

He reached out and took her right hand, kissing the iron ring on the second finger. "Send me with Karr, Mistress. To be your eyes and ears. To ensure your interests are safeguarded in the negotiations."

"You?" She laughed. "But your place is here, Master Ming, running my palace."

"Mistress . . . hear me out. There are two or three good men who might keep things running smoothly in my absence - my assistant, Cheng Nai shan, for instance. But who else is there you can trust implicitly?"

She turned from Ming Ai, considering the matter, while he watched her from his knees, his eyes following her anxiously, trying to gauge from the physical look of her - the way she hunched her shoulders or bit a nail - just what her answer would be.

And if it was no? Then Heng Yu would go with Karr. Or so the rumour had it. A rumour he had kept from her, knowing that it would end all possibility of him going.

And he had to go. To get out of this stifling place, before he died here. Besides which, he wanted more than the running of a palace. Much more. He wanted what Heng Yu had: the freedom to move where he wanted when he wanted - yes, and an Empire to run.

This, if she granted it, would be the first step, for it would set a precedent. Other journeys would follow, other tasks would suggest themselves, until he'd find a way to unseat that weasel Heng and make himself Chancellor.

That was, if she let him go.

Pei K'ung turned, her eyes part-hooded as she stared at him, like some great bird of prey examining her next victim.

"All right," she said softly. "You can go."

He gave a tight, exaggerated bow of the head. "I shall not let you down, Mistress!" he said soberly, with all the dignity he could muster. But inside the elation was like a great warm flood, filling every cell, making him want to whoop.

"No," she said, offering him her hand once more, the ring finger extended. "Make certain you do not, Ming Ai. Make good and certain."

The four ships landed in a tight formation, their heavy Martian design very different from the other, sleeker craft that were already parked upon the pad. As their huge twin engines whined down, Li Yuan stepped out onto the pad and made towards the lead ship, his guards hurrying to keep up with him.

Ebert was first down the ramp. He had changed little over the years, yet there was a stoutness to him now, a slight touch of grey in his neatly-cut hair, that made him look even more like his long-dead father. Two tiny camera-eyes hovered above his head, his own eyes empty sockets.

"Hans," Li Yuan said, unceremoniously offering his hand.

Ebert took it, then drew Li Yuan close in an embrace.

"It's good to see you, Yuan," he said, moving back, showing his perfect teeth as he smiled. "But what's this I hear of taxes and campaigns?"

"We'll talk," Li Yuan said soberly, then smiled, genuinely delighted to see his one-time General again. "But not now. Now you must tell me all that's been happening in the New Colonies."

"Have your spies not kept you informed, Yuan?"

"Spies?" Li Yuan laughed. "You think the Osu would not notice any spies of mine?" As he spoke his eyes went to the tall, dark-faced figures that were stepping down from the other ships.

Ebert smiled brightly a moment. "I guess they would .. ." Then, unexpectedly, a shadow crossed his face. "To tell the truth, things have been hard, especially this last year. There was a drought, and then one of our neighbours thought they'd take advantage of our temporary weakness."

Li Yuan was shocked. "I did not know. You should have contacted me."

Ebert shook his head. "We coped. It is our way."

"And your neighbours?"

"They will know better next time. Still, enough of this. We have travelled far. It would be nice to refresh ourselves after our journey."

"Of course . . ." Li Yuan stepped back, meaning to lead Ebert through, then stopped, his mouth fallen open. "The gods preserve us," he said quietly, "who is that?"

The camera eyes swivelled above Ebert. "This," he said, beckoning the young man across, "is an old friend. Li Yuan, meet Nza, our little bird."

The Osu who bowed then extended a hand to take Li Yuan's was a giant of a man - six ch'i at the very least, and broad of shoulder.

"I see you have your very own Karr," he said, nodding to the young man admiringly. "It would be good to see them wrestle, neh?"

"Forgive me, Chieh Hsta," Nza said, a tone of genuine deference in his voice, "but I am not a fighter."

"But I thought. . ."

"Oh, I have fought in the past, but now I am a priest."

Li Yuan looked to Ebert, surprised, but Ebert was grinning. "Do you find it so strange, Yuan? I too, after all, am a priest."

"Not strange so much as..." he laughed again."... unlikely."

"As unlikely as a black skin on a human form, perhaps, Chieh Hsia?" Nza said, grinning now.

Behind him a dozen of the Osu had formed up, representatives of the new "tribes" that had settled the old lands of Western Africa granted them by Li Yuan. They were an impressive group of men and women, whose inner strength seemed to emanate from their physical selves. The very way they held themselves was different.

Osu they were. Martians. Followers of Efulefu, "the Worthless One", the "Walker in the Darkness". Li Yuan looked from face to face, then returned his gaze to meet the blind eyes of the Walker himself, Hans Ebert, once his General, heir to the great GenSyn corporation, traitor to the Seven and now High Priest of the Osu.

"You have come far," Li Yuan said, lowering his head in a mark of respect he granted few men.

"The journey has but begun," Ebert answered him solemnly, the words almost ritualistic. "The way ahead is long and hard, neh, brothers?"

There was a low murmur of assent.

"Then come," Li Yuan said, ushering them through into the Northern Palace. "We have much to talk about."

The streets of Frankfurt Central were narrow and dark, overshadowed by the rrassive high-rises that surrounded the anciert town centre. To the east the snake-like glass and silver shape of a hover-rail flashed brightly along its guide-rails as it crossed the river, heading south to Darmstadt. I Ye stopped a moment, watching it, then led the hand-picked squad down a cut-through and out into the broad avenue of Berliner Street, at the heart of the area known locally as the Yinmao.

Here some of the old pre-City buildings had survived and had been rebuilt, their dry brick shells shored up with steel and plastic. It was between two of these, in a basement club, that I Ye knew he'd find Chu Po.

Posting two men at the door, he took the rest - eight of his most trusted men - down the narrow stairs. A bouncer was stationed at the bottom of the steps, at the end of a short corridor. He was a big man, well used to trouble, but seeing the bottle green of Pei K'ung's elite, he flattened himself against the wall, his hands raised and open.

I Ye ignored him, sending two of his squad ahead to kick the door down. As it splintered and fell, I Ye stepped through into the darkly-lit reception area. There were shouts of surprise from inside, the rustle of frantic movement. Faces appeared at curtained doorways - male faces poking from unclothed bodies - then quickly disappeared again. A guard stepped out at the far end of the main hallway, his gun drawn, and was shot where he stood.

"Find him!" I Ye barked as his men slipped past him. But they needed no word. They knew their tasks and went about them silently, efficiently. There was another shot and I Ye turned, but it was one of his own men, dealing with the guard at the door.

He relaxed, beginning to enjoy himself, as, one by one, the male prostitutes and their clients were brought out from the cubicles and lined up - some half-clothed, most completely naked - against the wall of the reception area.

The whole place stank of sweat and semen.

"Well, well!" he said, as Chu Po was brought struggling into the room, his hands bound. "It seems we've caught a big fish in our tiny net!"

"You'll pay for this, you fucker!" Chu Po said, his handsome, clean-shaven face screwed up with anger, the muscles at his neck tensed like hawsers.

I Ye stared at him briefly, then slapped him hard across the face.

Chu Po stepped back, clearly shaken, his eyes reappraising the situation.

"I could kill you right now," I Ye said quietly. "I could put a torch to this place and leave you to burn alive. And no one would ever know. No one would ever question me about it."

Chu Po swallowed, then, some of his bravado, his natural arrogance, returning to him, he answered I Ye.

"So why don't you? Why don't you end it right now? I know you hate me. Or is it just the torturer in you speaking? The sadist that likes to get its kicks from bullying others?"

I Ye shrugged, as if it was of no moment what Chu Po thought of him, but he was conscious of his men standing there at his back, listening, and swore to himself that he would kill Chu Po - would get him in a room and play with him - the moment Pei K'ung tired of him.

"You think you're a big man, don't you, Chu Po?"

Chu Po laughed and nodded towards his penis, which hung, long and flaccid, between his legs. "At least I have a cock. A real cock, that is. Not like that little corkscrew I hear you have between your legs!"

I Ye felt himself tense, but kept from hitting Chu Po. To hit him would be to admit the potency of the insult, and that he could not do.

"You think what you will," he said, more nonchalantly than he felt, stepping right up to Chu Po, so that he was face to face with him, "but she will tire of you. And when she does . . . that day you will be mine."

"Not if you're mine first," Chu Po answered and, moving forward quickly, planted a kiss on I Ye's lips.

I Ye stepped back, spitting, furious.

"Oh, I know you've a taste for it," Chu Po went on. "I'm told you used to come here yourself, back in the old days, when you were just a young lieutenant."

I Ye stiffened. "I would be careful what you say, Chu Po. To slander an officer of the State . . ."

"Oh, bollocks!" Chu Po said. "Why, I could produce a dozen men who'd had you, I Ye, and you know it!"

This time he could not help himself. His blow knocked Chu Po from his feet and split his lip.

"Get up!" he said. "Get up before I forget my orders and kill you!"

Chu Po looked up from where he knelt, touching his bound hands to his mouth, a look of triumph in his eyes. "I was right, wasn't I?" He laughed, then grimaced with pain. "I was only guessing, but now I know."

"Lies," I Ye said, a cold feeling gripping him. Then, before Chu Po could say another word, he turned and pointed to his sergeant. "Sedate him then get him out of here."

"And the rest, sir?"

"Bum them!" he said, walking toward the door, a cold, clear fury burning in him. "Burn the whole fucking place!"

Nan Fa-hsien stood looking on as the T'ang's she t'ou -his official taster — completed his sampling of the dishes, then, at his signal, clapped his hands. At once, a dozen stewards gathered up the silver dishes and fell in behind him.

He led them through the imperial kitchens and on along the broad corridor that led to the Hall of Earthly Tranquillity. Ahead of him guards, wearing the purple uniforms of Li Yuan's elite shen t'se, hurried to push back the twenty ch'i high doors, straining, four to a door. Inside, the Hall was lit by blazing torches, twenty-nine carved stone pillars forming a circle around a large open space, at the centre of which was a huge, dark wooden table They crossed the echoing stone floor, over a vast mosaic that depicted the world as it had once been, when the Seven had ruled the entire globe, stopping a dozen ch'i from the table.

Li Yuan sat at the head of the table in a high-backed chair. To his right sat his son, Kuei Jen, while on his left sat his Chief Advisor, Ben Shepherd. Shepherd's son Tom was there also, and two of Kuei Jen's companions - the young "Prince" Egan one of them - but it was to the guests on this side of the table that Nan Fa-hsien's eyes were drawn.

Black men; white-eyed, broad-nosed, heavy-lipped . . . magnificently formed. The sight of them still fascinated him. No less, indeed, than the sight of the one-time traitor, Hans Ebert, sat at his Master's table, facing Li Yuan, hollow-eyed yet all-seeing.

Nan Fa-hsien bowed low. Behind him his stewards bowed as one, copying the gesture perfectly. Then, at Li Yuan's signal, he stood back, letting his stewards serve the opening course.

There would be fifteen courses tonight. Ten less than at an official banquet. This first, however, was a speciality, one the great T'ang himself had insisted on - boiled snake in its skin.

"Is this what I think it is?" asked the eldest of the Osu, looking to Ebert for guidance.

"It is a rare delicacy, Aluko," Ebert answered, then gave a tiny bow of his head to Li Yuan, clearly appreciating the significance of the dish. "Snake liver is good for sexual potency, while the meat is good for the eyes."

"That is so," Kuei Jen offered, "though snake fat is said to be bad for the penis. I am told that if one were to eat the fat one's penis would shrivel up."

"Then let us hope these are lean snakes," Ben Shepherd offered, bringing laughter from all sides of the table.

As it subsided, Kuei Jen leaned forward once again, looking to the Osu - Aluko Echewa - who had first spoken. "It is also said that one should keep the skin, for it will bring you riches."

"You believe that?" Ebert asked.

The Prince shrugged. "I know only what is said. That a dream in which a snake chases you will bring good luck, while a dream in which the snake coils about you is said to presage change in one's life."

"So many dreams," Li Yuan said, picking up his chopsticks and signalling that they should begin. "Yet what I like the most is the taste, the texture of the snake."

"Delicious!" one of the other Osu - Dogo - said, after a mouthful. "But not enough of it!"

There was laughter once again, even from Li Yuan himself.

"You would like more, friend Dogo?" he asked.

"I'm sure Dogo would eat a python, if you let him," Ebert said, before the Osu could answer. "But let us not spoil his appetite for other fare."

"No, indeed," Li Yuan said, gesturing to Nan to bring the second course, "yet the gift of a compliment should not go unrewarded. I will give you a basket of snakes to take back with you to Africa, friend Dogo, and servants to teach you how to breed and how to cook them."

Dogo straightened and bowed his head. "You are most generous, Chieh Hsia."

"Not at all," Li Yuan said, dabbing at his mouth with a cloth. "It is not every day I have the opportunity to repay such worthy friends." He looked to Nan Fa-hsien who, aware of the turn of the conversation, had sent the stewards on and hovered, awaiting his master's instructions. "See to it, Master Nan."

"It shall be done, Chieh Hsial"

He bowed then slowly backed away, their conversation following him out through the door and into the corridor beyond.

"Are there no snakes in Africa?" Kuei Jen asked.

"Snakes-a-plenty," Ebert answered him. "But none you could cook and eat."

"WeH?" Pel K'ung asked impatiently, crouching over the man, trying to see just what he could see that made him stare so intently.

The old man mumbled something incomprehensible, then put his face yet closer to the steaming pile of entrails, so that the longest wisps of his ash-white beard brushed against their bloodied surface.

Moments passed. Finally he turned his head and looked up at her at an odd angle, smiling his toothless smile.

"Auspicious omens, Mistress," he said, his voice almost comically high-pitched.

She straightened up, resting her hands on her haunches. "Auspicious? How auspicious? In what way auspicious?"

His grin widened. "The path ahead is clear. Purposeful action will bring its own rewards."

She felt herself tense, wanting to slap the man, to get him to speak more directly, but she knew it would be no use.

"Well?" she said, when it seemed he would never speak again. "Tell me more."

The T'ai shih lung shrugged. He had been Court Astrologer these past five years, ever since Ming Ai had recommended him to her, and he had proved useful in the past, but right now she felt like lopping off his head. What good was the old bastard if he only spoke in riddles?

"What path?" she insisted. "What action?"

The old man reached for the bright red cloth he'd brought the entrails in and threw it over the mess, then turned, smiling at her again.

"There is a mystery, neh?"

She hesitated, then nodded.

"Then take the path that leads directly to it. That path is clear. Purposeful action . . ."

" . . .will bring its own rewards." She stared thoughtfully at him a moment longer, then straightened up.

The path is dear . . .

She smiled, knowing suddenly what was meant. Li Yuan was entertaining. His rooms were therefore empty, his study unattended. It would be hours before he returned there.

The path is dear . . .

She looked down at the T'ai shih lung and smiled, then, reaching in her pocket, took out a thousand yuan chip and threw it to him. He caught it like a man a fifth his age, the chip disappearing into his cloak like a stone into a pond.

Purposeful action, eh? Well, there was no one in the kingdom who knew how to be more purposeful.

"So you really think the Americans will come to an agreement, Kuei Jen? You really believe they'll make Li Yuan their T'ang?"

Three hours had passed and, as the wine flowed and the men about the table grew more relaxed in each others' company, so their talk had moved from the trivial toward the great matters of the day: to where the world was headed and how they, its custodians, might affect its future.

Kuei Jen set his wine cup down and looked to Ebert who had posed the question.

"I do," he said bluntly. "And I'll tell you why. I think the Old Men have had enough of wars; enough of their electrified walls and the need for vigilance. At first, it's true, they rather liked their isolation, the sense that they and they alone were impervious to the chaos that was tearing their great continent apart. It made them feel strong, a true elite. But as year piled on year they grew weary of the struggle and began to long for simple peace. But where was such a peace to come from? From an agreement with their enemies? No. Too much blood had been spilled, too much bitterness stored up between the two sides. What they needed was an intermediary."

"An intermediary, certainly, but a T'ang?" Ebert shook his head, then looked to Li Yuan, who had kept quiet throughout the exchange. "I mean no disrespect to you, Li Yuan, but I can hardly see how making you their ruler will solve their quarrels."

"On the contrary," Ben Shepherd chipped in, "I'd say it was the only solution both sides could possibly agree on. To have a Master more powerful than either - a Master who might enforce such a peace."

Eberf s hollow eyes remained on Li Yuan's face. "You mean to send an army, then, Li Yuan?"

"Not at all," Li Yuan answered, almost as if he had little interest in the matter. "It is the threat of force, not force itself, that creates a lasting peace."

"So I was wrong earlier?"

"Wrong?" Kuei Jen asked, looking from Ebert to his father.

"Your father means to wage war against the Warlords," Ebert explained. "Or so the rumour has it. Why, only yesterday he issued an edict raising taxes."

"Taxes?" Kuei Jen stared at his father, astonished by the news. "Is this true, father?"

"It is true, Kuei Jen," Li Yuan said, noting how silent young Egan was, seated at his son's side, "and we shall discuss it in the morning. But to answer your point, Hans. Yes, I mean to wage war against the Warlords. A swift, decisive war to bring peace to the troubled Asian continent. Our people there have suffered far too long. It is time to let them know that they have not been forgotten."

"And if you fail?" Ebert asked.

Li Yuan smiled tightly. "We shall discuss this matter at a different juncture, perhaps?" Then, as if that were all to be said on the matter, he turned to Nan Fa-hsien and clicked his fingers. "Bring more wine, Master Nan. My guests' cups are empty."

Tom, sitting to Li Yuan's right, watched the T'ang a moment, then looked down, thinking how strange it was to be there in such company, amidst such talk of war and peace and how the world would one day be. All night he had looked on, listening attentively, intrigued by this talk of far lands and foreign places, fascinated by these men who, it seemed, had travelled further and lived more interesting lives than he himself could ever have conceived.

He reached out, meaning to drain his glass, then stopped, a shiver rippling down his spine. He had felt that faint, familiar tickling at the back of his head all evening, but now it seemed to flood his skull.

Tom? Tom? . . . can you hear me?

He felt Sampsa slip into his mind, felt the shock of it as if it were the very first time, then felt himself convulse, the wine cup falling from his hand, shattering on the stone floor.

There was silence all around the table. All eyes were on him. His father's hand closed on his arm. "Are you alright?"

Tom shook his head, hunching into himself, as if wracked by sudden pains, then, pushing his chair back, he stood abruptly and hurried from the hall.

What's happened, Tom? Why are you fighting me?

Tom groaned inwardly, then shook his head. He was sitting on the edge of the bath, his head in his hands, the strain of keeping Sampsa from his mind giving him the mother of all headaches.

Tom? Are you in trouble?

The voice was clear - clearer than it had ever been. It was as if Sampsa were sitting next to him, not hundreds of thousands of miles away, strapped into his seat on the shuttle, returning to Earth.

Tom?. . . Tom?

It was awful. Keeping Sampsa out was simply unbearable. Yet the alternative was to let him in, and if he let him in he would see it all - every last disgusting bit of it The girl, the Porno Stim, the lot. Before now it hadn't mattered. Before now there had been nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of, but now . ..

What is it, Tom? Has something happened? Something you can't tell me about?

He wanted to say yes. Wanted beyond all reasoning, to say yes and let him in, but he was frightened. Frightened lest Sampsa saw what he really was - saw and recoiled from that.

I know you're there, Tom. I can feel you. I saw . . . the Great HaU, Li Yuan, the black men . . .

The black men . . . With a shocking, sudden vividness he saw the face of the eldest of the Osu, Aluko Echewa - saw that broad nose, that generous mouth, those dark, dignified eyes -and as he saw them so Sampsa slipped inside his head.

Tom? . . . Are you alright, Tom?

I'm okay, he answered, raising his head and staring sightlessly across the room, a long, shuddering breath escaping him.

Then why . . . The voice faltered, then. Kuan Yin! Who was she?

A girl, Tom answered, but there was no hiding now. Sampsa was in. Now he'd know everything. Everything.

Tom?

Yes?

7 ... I didn't know. I. . .

Tom huffed, angry now. For the first time ever he felt betrayed, let down by that voice inside his head.

Tom?

What is it?

I understand.

Tom sighed. So now he knew. He stood up, then, a shudder passing through him, went through into the bedroom, conscious all the while of Sampsa, there in his head, sharing every thought, every memory.

Tom?. . . Look, you shouldn't be ashamed. It's how we are. It's . . .

It's what? he asked angrily, his voice a silent bark across the miles.

He felt as much as heard Sampsa's answering sigh, felt the compassion there in Sampsa's voice when he spoke again.

This had to happen. Don't you understand that? It was only a question of time. I know it must be hard. . .Imean, thefactthat it happened to you first, but. . . well, we can't live our lives like saints, can we? I mean . . . it's how we are.

He laughed bitterly. So this is it, right? No veils and no secrets . . . everything out in the open, everything exposed, every last, disgusting detail, every awful, shameful moment. . . until one or other of us dies. Have I got that right?

He felt Sampsa nod, felt the gesture as a ghostly doubled presence in his head, and at the same time felt the sad smile of understanding that came to Sampsa's lips as he answered him.

I guess so, dear friend. No veils, no secrets. Until we die.

Leaving his guests in the care of his son, Li Yuan slipped away shortly after midnight, giving the excuse that he was tired; that he had to start early the next morning.

Though both were true, it was neither tiredness nor duty that drew him from their company but the memory of a slender perfumed figure - of the dark eyes and moist sweet lips of the young Princess, Dragon Heart.

At the end of the corridor he paused. Straight on and through the door and he would find himself out in the central garden, the Eastern Palace only a minute's walk away. Turn right and climb the stairs, however, and he would be but a moment from her door.

Like a shadow, he turned and climbed the stairs, his heart hammering in his chest, his lips dry with nervous anticipation.

What, after all, if he was wrong? What if he'd misread the signals?

Then III be a fool, he told himself. A stupid, middle-aged fool for believing such a one could fall in love with me.

At the head of the stairs he stopped, the uncertainty he was feeling something he hadn't experienced in years.

He had seen the moonlight shining in the darkness of her eyes, had felt how she had responded to his kiss; her mouth, her whole body pressed against his, urgently, passionately, as though she could not live unless she had him.

And when had he last felt that?

Too long ago, he answered, thinking of the endless procession of maids who had come to his bed, to serve and service him, their unclothed bodies merging in his memory to become a single body - a softly-fleshed machine that kissed and stroked and opened to him, dutifully but without passion.

This was different, however. This was no serving girl but a princess of the blood. She kissed to no one's order, no, not even a Tang's. What she did, she did of her own volition, following her own desires. No matter how powerful he was, as a princess of the blood she was beyond him. No edict of his could force her even to let him touch her, let alone . . .

He pushed the thought away, then drew his hand through his hair, racked by indecision. If he got this wrong, if he pressed too hard, too soon, might he not frighten her away? Might he not lose her?

A wave of self-disgust engulfed him. You are nothing but an old goat, Li Yuan - sense-ridden, driven by your cock.

Whereas she . . .

The mere thought of her made him shiver. She was so young. Why, the smell of her alone was enough to drive him from his senses. And the touch of her, the ineffable sweet touch of her . . .

He swallowed and looked down. Abysses. Everywhere he looked he faced abysses. Abysses in his memory - those vast, unfillable gaps in his life which were his dead wives, his failed relationships. And if this failed? If this, his final chance, should come to nothing? What then? How could he face the years that lay ahead - those years of slow physical decay, that downhill slide into senescence and eventual darkness - without some sweet, delightful soul-mate at his side?

Oh, for all he'd said to her the other night, he understood the great Ming Huang. Understood him perfectly. To risk an Empire for a pretty face, that was indeed stupidity, but to risk all to possess one's other self - to choose light instead of darkness, life instead of the living death of solitude - that surely was the act of a sane, a healthy man!

He closed his eyes and saw her, as she'd been earlier, and as he did he knew he would not be at peace until he had heard from her own mouth what his fate was to be: whether she would have him, or whether he was to be cast out. Out into an eternity of blackness.

He crossed the hallway quickly, silently, ignoring the ever-present guards, then rapped softly on her door.

A chair scraped somewhere in the room. Silks rustled, then the door eased open.

"Chieh Hsial" she said with soft surprise.

"Forgive me," he said quietly. "I had to come."

Her face softened. "There is nothing to forgive."

For a moment he stood there, gaping at her, not knowing what to say. Then, wordlessly, she took his hand and drew him into the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

"Well?" she whispered.

Li Yuan stared at her, bewitched. He felt so old at that moment, so staid and dry and careworn. How could she possibly desire him?

Then suddenly her hands were on his neck, her lips pressed to his own.

All doubt evaporated.

He kissed her, a long and passionate kiss, his hands moving down her body, tracing the firm delightful form of her beneath her silks. But it was her eyes which most inflamed him; those beautiful, intelligent eyes, which stared back at him, the pupils widened with desire.

Carefully he lifted her and carried her through into the bedroom, yet even as he lay her down, she put a hand softly to his face, as if to wake him from a trance.

"I cannot sleep with you, Li Yuan," she said, a soft regret in her voice. "I cannot. . . you know, do that."

"What. . .?" He stared at her, unable to believe what she'd just said. Had he been wrong then? Had she been mocking him? He made to move away, suddenly angry with her.

"No," she said, reaching up to him. "Lay here beside me. Please, my love. And touch me. Please. I like it when you touch me."

Like a slave he lay beside her, still in his clothes, trapped by his longing but wanting to be gone - suddenly gone - from that place.

"You're angry with me, I know," she said softly, turning on her side to face him, her hands stroking his chest, his neck, his cheek, constantly caressing him. "But I have given my word. It is as I said. I am betrothed."

"Then why this?" he asked, more harshly than he'd intended.

"Because I cannot help myself. The merest touch of you inflames me. I want . . ." She shuddered, her hand moving down his body until it settled on the cloth above his swollen penis. "I want to do everything you want to do. I want to make love to you, Li Yuan. But I gave my word."

He closed his eyes, in torment now. The merest touch of her hand against him had almost made him come.

"What can I do?" he asked, opening his eyes again, seeing at once how pained she was by his suffering.

In answer she lifted herself up and, with a gentle movement, shrugged off her sleeping silk. Beneath it she was perfect, more like a goddess than a girl.

"Touch me," she said, laying back, her eyes imploring him. "Touch me wherever you want to. Please. I want you to."

"And you?" He shuddered, the mere thought of what he was about to say bringing him to a state of quivering anticipation. "Will you touch me?"

"I will do anything you wish, Chieh Hsia," she said, sitting up, beginning to undress him. "But I cannot make love to you. Not while I am betrothed to another."

Pei K'ung set a guard at the door then crossed the darkness of her husband's study quickly, using a torch to find her way to his desk. She had never been in here without his knowledge; normally she would not have contemplated such madness, but this was too important - much too important - for her to leave to chance.

If there was anything which could give her an insight into his plans - anything at all - then it would be here, somewhere in his study.

The path is dear . . .

She went round and sat in his chair, then bent down, trying each drawer in turn. They were locked, of course, and he would have the key upon his person - she knew his habits well - but that was not a barrier to her. She had had her own copies made long ago . . . just in case.

It took longer than she'd thought to match the key to the lock and the jangling set her nerves on edge, but finally she had the top drawer open. Swiftly she went through it, piling the contents on the empty desk, then putting them back, careful to maintain the order.

Ten minutes passed, fifteen. She would allow herself an hour. If by then she had found nothing, she would return to her own palace and . . .

And what?

No. She had to stay. If she went back empty-handed she would merely sit there in her rooms, restless and anxious, cursing herself for not persevering for another five, ten minutes.

Purposeful action will bring its own rewards. Hadn't the old fool said as much?

She searched a moment longer then sat back, letting out a long, frustrated breath. Nothing! There was nothing among these papers. Nothing she didn't know about already, that was.

She closed the drawer and locked it, then began the task of matching key to lock once more.

No. She had to be certain. She had to know, if possible, right now. However long it took. Besides, he would be with his guests another two, maybe three hours at the least, drinking and talking. It would be first, maybe second bell before he came back here - that was, if he did not go straight to bed with one of his maids.

She matched the key, turned it. The drawer slid open.

It was almost empty. Almost. At the back, in a golden folder, was a single-page memorandum. She laid it on the desk and shone her torch on it, reading the words carefully, then gave a small squeak of excitement. This was it! This was what she'd been looking for!

She closed the folder, put it back, locking the drawer with a quick, self-satisfied movement of her wrist, then straightened up, a laugh escaping her. Heng Yu was right. It was indeed a gift. But even Heng Yu did not know just how generous her husband planned to be.

He was going to stand down, to abdicate as Emperor. And she ... Pei K'ung felt a ripple of sheer delight pass up her spine . . . she was to reign alone.

At last, she thought, thinking of all the years his shadow presence had restrained her.

Her husband was a decent man, as men went, yet that was his downfall, for Li Yuan had no imagination, no vision of what a State might be. He had been conditioned by the circumstances of decline - his very thinking was that of a defeated man. But she would change things. She would make Chung Kuo great again, given the chance.

Given the chance . . .

She laughed. Well, soon she'd have that chance, that golden opportunity. And she would show them all.

She stood and crossed the room, then flicked off the torch and handed it to the guard, making her way back to her own palace.

And Chu Po? She smiled. Chu Po would be her consort. That would be her very first act, once she was ruler in her own right.

Chu Po was waiting in her bed. As she slipped beneath the sheets, his hands sought her breasts, teasing her nipples in that way she liked so much. For a while she simply lay there, letting him pleasure her with his hands and tongue, then, when she felt it was almost too much, she pushed him off.

"What is it?" he asked, his eyes, looking down at her, shining clearly, moistly in the moonlit darkness of the room.

She wanted to tell him, to explain just why her blood coursed so strongly this evening, but she knew she couldn't. Chu Po was not to be trusted with such news.

"I don't know," she said finally. "I want something . . . different."

He laughed; a low, salacious laughter that excited her.

"Something different?" His hand traced the length of her body, moving between the valley of her breasts and ending in the mound of her pubis. "Wait there," he said. "I'll not be long."

Oh, but you are, she thought, watching him climb from the bed, his naked figure outlined in the light from the open window. But that wasn't the only reason why she craved his company. No. She wanted him because Chu Po was like her . . . unpredictable.

She heard the door click open, saw him slip out into the corridor. A moment later he was back, leading a young guard by the hand.

Pei K'ung rolled over and reached out, touching the pad beside the bed. At once a gentle light came on. She leaned up on her elbow.

The guard was a young private, no more than eighteen years at most. A graduate of the Military Academy, no doubt. For a moment he stared at her, astonished to find himself looking at his naked Empress.

"Why, he's just adorable, Chu Po," she said, sitting up, then beckoning the guard to come closer.

"Isn't he?" Chu Po answered her, placing his arm about the guard's shoulder. "I noticed him earlier." He smiled and ran one hand down the young man's front. "So? What shall we play?" The young guard looked at the hand that rested about his waist, then looked to the Empress again, bewildered. His voice shook. "Mistress?"

She stood and went to him. "What is your name?" "H. . .Holzman, Mistress," he answered, unnerved to find his Empress a mere hand's breadth away, with nothing between him and her but his clothes. "Private Daniel Holzman."

"Daniel?" She put her hand out slowly, gently touching his neck. "That's a nice name. And you know your duty, Daniel?" His voice was squeezed and tight. "Mistress?" Her fingers went to the three buttons at his neck of his tunic and undid them. "Your duty," she said, looking into his face, "is to do whatever your Empress requires of you. You understand that?" "Mistress!"

"Moreover, if you serve me well, I'll serve you well." Her fingers went down his body, unfastening button after button. As the last pulled apart, Chu Po reached up and drew the tunic from his shoulders.

The young man swallowed, then straightened up, clearly meaning to make the best of things. He looked at her again, forcing himself to smile.

"What do you want me to do, Mistress?" She smiled and put her face to his, planting a soft kiss on his lips. "I want you to make love to me. Is that so hard?" "N . . .No, Mistress."

"Good." She reached down and unfastened the top button of his trousers. "And while you make love to me, Chu Po will make love to you."

His eyes registered shock. "Mistress?"

Her hand went to his chest, as if to reassure him. "Oh, do not fear, Daniel. Chu Po is a good lover. He won't hurt you. Not much, anyway."

"But. . ." Holzman fell silent and lowered his eyes, giving a terse nod of his head. Then, like a man about to go to execution, he reached down and began to remove his boots.

Su Ping sat alone in his upstairs study, the file - its official seal broken, its contents scattered across his desk - discarded on the floor by his feet.

Whatever he had expected to find, it had not been this. This . . . well... he shook his head, astonished.

At present no one knew. No one but himself and the clerk in the Central Records Office. But how long would that last? How long before someone higher up noticed that the file had been removed?

And even if they didn't, even if, by some chance, they were too busy to notice his interest in the woman, what was he to do?

He could have her arrested, then hand her over to the relevant authorities, or maybe he could call her ex-husband, Michael Lever and come to some kind of financial arrangement with him. Then again, he could always use her as some kind of trading counter with his brother to get Su Chun out of his hair.

Or he could leave her be.

The last had been an afterthought, yet the more he thought of it, the more he was drawn to it.

Wuwei. The path of inaction. He laughed. What was he to be thinking in this way? A sage? No. He was District Judge - Hsien L'ing - and all his adult life he had upheld the rule of law, even when chaos threatened all. This once, however, his instinct was to return the file to where he'd found it and do nothing.

She was a killer, he knew that now. He had seen the pictures of her victims - more than forty in all. Yet the more he'd read, the more he'd come to admire this woman - this Emily Ascher.

He pulled the flatprint of her towards him and studied it. It had been taken over twenty years ago, in America, and showed a younger, more vigorous woman than the one who had come to his office. But those eyes. . . those eyes were much the same.

"Mama Em" they called her now: a woman for whom no one had a bad word. A good, productive woman, too; one who had taken in those orphaned boys. Without doubt, a pillar of her local community. That being so, did it really matter that before the City fell she had been a senior member of several terrorist organisations - each of them dedicated to the fall of the Seven?

To his Masters it mattered greatly. Their memories were long and their desire for vengeance insatiable. To them it did not matter what a person had become; for them past crimes outweighed present virtues. But this was by the by. The more he had read - the more he learned of her - the more he'd come to like her. Yes, and to understand her.

Su Ping went out onto the balcony. His Mansion was on top of the hill, the greater part of his Hsien below him. In the near distance the river was a twisting strip of silver beneath the bright spring moon, while further off the pagoda towers of Frankfurt Hsien climbed the night sky, bristling with lights. The sloping glass roofs of the penthouse gardens glowed a soft green in the darkness on the far bank. It was a familiar, peaceful sight, yet tonight he found no comfort in it.

Su Ping sighed. Never had he been troubled in this way. Never, before today, had he thought to question his Masters' orders. From the very first he had been their hands, loyal and willing. It had not been his place to question them.

But now all that had changed. In a single day that bond between them had been broken.

The evening air was warm, yet he felt a sudden chill, as if a shadow had fallen over him. Pulling his robe tightly about his ageing frame, he went inside.

He stopped just inside the door, staring across at his desk, then went directly through, into his rooms, where his eldest wife awaited him. He stood there, letting her dress him for the night, then got into his bed, deciding he would sleep on the matter.

And in the morning?

In the morning he would know just what to do.

Sleep well, Mama Em, he thought, as he closed his eyes and rolled onto his side, picturing her settling for the night, her sleeping boys surrounding her. Sleep well, for who knows what tomorrow will bring?

"Can I help you?"

Chuang Kuan Ts'ai looked up at the severe, middle-aged woman behind the desk and, gathering up her courage, spoke, her voice tiny in that huge, echoing place.

"I was just wondering what kind of person would have a number printed on their skin."

The Librarian stared at her strangely. "Now why would you want to know that?"

This part she had rehearsed. She smiled brightly at the woman. "It's for school. I have to write a report on it for my teacher."

"Ah, I see," the woman said, apparently satisfied. "Well, you might try military records."

"Military records?"

The woman turned and pointed across the massive room, past standing rows of shelves and tape-stacks towards where a dozen scanner-screens rested on a long desk. "Over there. The operating instructions are on the machine."

"Forgive me . . ." Chuang began, but the woman cut her off abruptly, her manner stern.

"Did your teacher tell you that someone else should do the work for you?"

"No, Second Librarian," Ckuang said, addressing the woman by the rank printed on her lapel badge.

"Well, then," she said, slightly mollified by Chuang's good manners, "go and show some initiative."

Chuang bowed her head, then went across and took a seat in front of one of the scanners.

Military? No, that didn't make sense, because it was the military who had brought the bodies to them.

She switched the machine on, then sat there, tapping the keys, making queries, scrolling through lists, trying to locate what she was looking for. She was about to give up when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Here," the woman said, pressing in a code Ckuang had not yet used. "Don't tell your teacher that I helped you, okay?"

Chuang sat back, watching as the screen lit up once more. A single query filled the screen:

SERIAL NUMBER?

She hesitated. The woman stood behind her, watching.

"What should I do?" she asked, the urge to key in the number so strong that she had to physically restrain herself.

In answer the woman leaned across her again and cancelled the query. "I guess you need an index, neh?" She tapped in a request. A moment later the screen was filled with boxes.

"Which one?" the Second Librarian asked.

Chuang shrugged. ATI she really wanted was for the woman to go away so she could key the serial number query again, but the woman wasn 't going anywhere.

"Does it matter?"

"I suppose not, if all your teacher wants is for you to find out about imprinted numbers. But some of these you couldn't access anyway."

Chuang turned in her seat, looking up into the woman's face. "Why's that?"

The Librarian's face softened into a tentative smile. "Plantation guards and ordinary Hsien Security, well, it's no real secret who they are, so the records are available to anyone. But with others - the elite forces, for instance, or Li Yuan's shen ts'e, his special palace guard - the records are kept secret. Key them and you'll find yourselfin trouble."

Chuang swallowed. She hadn't known.

"So what should I key?"

"Try this one," the woman answered, touching her finger to the top right box on the screen. "That should be harmless enough."

"Thank you."

"That's all right. Now I must get back." She smiled, kind suddenly. "I hope your report goes well."

Chuang watched her return to her desk, then, facing the machine again, pressed out the sequence the woman had used earlier. Again the screen showed a single query:

SERIAL NUMBER?

She hesitated. What if her dead man were a member of some elite force - an agent, perhaps? And what if her query triggered something? The Second Librarian had talked about trouble, but what kind of trouble? And just how could they possibly find out who had keyed the request?

She had two options: to key the number and take a chance, or to forget the whole thing.

Forget it, she told herself, but she had come too far. Compulsion drove her now. Placing her fingers on the keyboard she tapped in the serial number.

There was a brief delay and then a face appeared on the screen.

She stared at it for a long time, not certain that it was the man she 'd seen dead on the slab, for life gave his features such a different cast. From the image on the screen he seemed a vigorous, even jolly, man and when was a corpse ever jolly?

But the number. The number was the one she'd memorised from the dead man's neck.

She keyed CONTINUE. At once a brief summary of the man's service record appeared on the screen, at the end of which was a note that he had left the force eighteen months after the final African campaign. For the past ten years he had been working for a man named Tung Po-jen as a guard in Tung's dub. There was a contact number and an address.

She keyed CLEAR and sat back. That was where she'd start. At the dub. She looked across again. The Second Librarian was busy, dealing with a queue of people.

Chuang switched the machine off, then, taking the long way round so that she didn't have to go past the woman again, slipped out through one of the side entrances.

She had been absent half an hour already. If Uncle Cho came back and found her gone he would get worried. But she could not leave this. She had come this far. She had to know now why those men had died.

Had to know. Because otherwise things had no meaning. No meaning at all.

The dub was a dark and jagged gap in the anonymity of the quiet back street, a burned out ruin, open to the sky. Chuang Kuan Ts'ai stared at it a long while, then turned away, meaning to go home, yet as she turned she noticed someone else - a young Hung Mao in his twenties - standing on the far side of the wreckage, in the alleyway that ran parallel to her own. He was looking in at the scene, his eyes dearly shocked by what he saw. She would have gone on even so, but there was a strange movement in his face - a moment's thoughtful calculation -before he turned and hurried off.

In that brief instant she understood. Like her he had come here for a reason.

Knowing there was no time to delay, she ran back down the street and into the cut-through, almost colliding with him as he came down the narrow passageway. Alarmed, she threw herself to the side, her shoulder thudding against the watt, then whirled about, wide-eyed.

Right. He went right.

She ran out into the street, knowing that if she lost him the trail would be cold - knowing instinctively that whatever had happened here, he had been a part of it. She looked along the length of the street then saw him as he disappeared into Sung Chen Avenue. If she didn't hurry she would lose him in the crowd, yet if he knew she was following him . . .

She ran full pelt, dodging between the crowd of passers-by, coming out into the bustle of Sung Chen Avenue. For a moment she could see nothing through the mass of bodies that moved between the stalls lining the thoroughfare. She pushed through, straining to see, hoping she'd perhaps get lucky, but within moments she knew it was hopeless. She was too small, the Avenue too crowded. Unless she could get higher . . .