Days of Bitter Strength

She looked about her. Nearby two men were unloading a rice cart, piling up the sacks then hauling them up into the open-fronted first floor storeroom of the grocer's shop above. Without stopping to think, she pushed her way across and, grabbing a firm hold on the rope, hauled herself up. There, balanced on one of the sacks, she peered down the packed avenue, trying to make out her quarry.

There! She saw him almost straight away. He was halfway down, near Ping So Street, pushing his way determinedly through the crowd, looking neither right nor left, but making a dear beelinefor the fast-track station at the end of the avenue.

"Hey, you!"

She turned in time to see the owner of the shop coming at her from the back of the storeroom, a broom held out before him.

With a yelp, she grabbed the rope again and swung, out over the cart, dropping onto the pUe of sacks. The two loaders looked up at her, their mouths open wide in astonishment, but she was already gone, dodging and weaving through the dense-packed crowd, knowing that every second counted.

She came out into the station's entrance hall just in time to see him disappear through the barrier. At once she was after him, ducking through the automatic gate as it hissed open for a passenger, then scurrying down the steps, thinking of nothing now but catching up with him.

"Hey, mind!" someone yelled at her as she brushed against them, while another put an arm out, as if to stop her, but she skipped past him effortlessly.

Where was he? Where in the gods' names was he?

Coming out onto the platform, she stopped, getting her breath back, her eyes searching for him among the crowds that packed both sides of the line. At first she didn't see him, and began to wonder if she hadn't made a mistake - if she hadn't perhaps been chasing the wrong man. Then she saw him, on the other side of the platform, up the far end, going down the exit ramp.

Again she ran, weaving in and out, then hurtled across the narrow covered bridge that linked the two platforms. As she came out onto the far side a fast-track was slowing as it came in. She hesitated, checking the nearest passengers, just in case she 'd got it wrong, just in case he was there, about to board the train, but he wasn't there. Moving as fast as her feet could carry her, she ran down the exit ramp, heading for the barrier.

The guard made a grab at her as she ran toward him, but she side-stepped him, vaulting the low barrier as if it wasn't there. Then she was outside, the guard's shouts echoing behind her.

Which way had he gone?Left towards Sung Chen Avenue? Or right towards the docks?

She guessed right and began to run, down the alley that curved beneath the fast-track lines, and out, into a narrow residential hutong, the back walls of tiled-roof houses to either side.

She had gone barely five paces along the hutong when a hand grabbed her from behind and, lifting her, whirled her about.

"Who are you?" he asked, his green eyes boring into her. "And why in the gods' names are you following me?"

"I. . I. . .." But she could not get her breath. She hadn't considered what she'd say if she caught up with him.

"Butyou 're just a girl," he said, frowning now. "You can't be any older than, what, six?"

"Seven," she said, swallowing deeply, trying - desperately trying - to be brave and not burst into tears.

Slowly he set her down.

"I don't understand. I thought. . ." He shook his head, then began again. "Look, what's your name?"

"Chuang Kuan Ts'ai."

He laughed, then grew serious again. "Coffin-fitter? Is that really your name?"

She nodded.

"Well, Coffin-fitter, why were you following me? And what were you doing at the club?"

For a moment she hesitated. What if she was wrong about him? What if he wasn't involved? What if he were Security? Yet there was something about him that made her trust him.

"I was trying to find out about a man."

"A man? What kind of man?"

"A dead man."

He stared at her a long while, then smiled. "Okay, young Chuang, let's find a tea-house somewhere close by where we can have a bite and a talk. I think you've quite a story to tell me."

They held the execution on the waste ground behind the shoe factory. A crowd of several thousand gathered silently to watch, stunned by the news that the murderer had been so young, the crime so meaningless. The four judges had met early to weigh the evidence and, finding nothing that spoke dearly in the boy's favour, found against him, sentencing him to be shot that very afternoon at second beU.

Josef was standing on the watt at the back of the waste ground when they brought the boy out, his hands tied tightly behind his back, his head - newly shaven that morning - bowed low. Without ceremony he was marched out to the space that had been cleared before the crowd, where the Hsien Wei - the District Security Captain - read out the judges' sentence to him. Asked if he understood, the boy nodded, but it was dear he was in deep shock. As the guard made him kneel, he looked up, as if wondering where he was.

Too bad, Josef thought, the anticipation Oj what was to come making him tremble with excitement.

As one guard held the boy another came and stood behind him, arm outstretched stiffly, a cocked handgun in his hand, pointed at the back of his head. At a signal from the Captain, the first guard jabbed a bayonet into the boy's back, making his muscles tense. A split second later the second guard fired the gun.

It was over. The boy was dead. Justice had been seen to be done. The crowd began to disperse.

Jumping down, Josef made his way across until he stood there, among several dozen others, looking down at the body.

"Bastard!" one man said, spitting on the corpse.

"Scum," another murmured, as all around the people nodded their agreement.

Josef smiled, then turned away. It had so easy. Yet as he walked away, he caught the eye of a tall man in a long dark coat, who was standing waiting at the gate beside the factory.

"Oh, shit," Josef mumbled, looking about him for some other way out of the place. It was the Truant Officer. That was all he needed - to be dragged back to school and forced to sit in a dreary classroom all day.

Recognising Josef, the man's eyes widened. He began to move towards him.

Josef turned and ran. Clambering up onto the watt, he ran along it, meaning to cross the roof of the factory and drop down into one of the alleys that ran alongside.

The Truant Officer's voice rang out at his back. "Hey, you! Boy! Stop where you are!"

"Go fuck yourself." he shouted back, leaping a narrow parapet then scampering up the gentiy sloping roof.

"I know where you live, boy! Don't think that I don't!"

Josef turned, looking back at the figure down below, then, turning his back contemptuously, slid down the other side of the roof and jumped.

Yes, he thought, getting up and dusting himself off, and I know where you live, too!

But his day had been spoiled, the bloom taken off the afternoon. He spat, then kicked out angrily.

"Fuck him! Fuck him!"

Then, slowly, the memory came back of a kneeling, shaven-headed boy; of a gun glinting in the sunlight; of a bayonet stabbing into flesh. . . and then the detonation. He saw it vividly. Saw the buttet punch its way through the skutt; saw the body jerk, then topple forward lifelessly.

And. walking on, he began to smile again, remembering.

CHAPTER-5

string and glue

Young Ji sat in the centre of the yard, on a blanket in the sunlight, playing with the computer sketchpad Lin had recently repaired. He had been sitting there peacefully for an hour, absorbed in his game, no trouble at all. But then he never was. Of all her boys, Ji was always the best behaved, always the last to complain.

The others were at school right now. It would be four, almost five hours before they got back. In the meantime, she and Lin got on with things, making and mending, trying hard to forget that things had changed; that it would be a struggle from here on.

She moved from the doorway and looked back at Lin. "How's it going?" she asked quietly.

He looked up and gave a lopsided frown. "I need glue and string ... oh, and a dozen other things."

"Make a list. I'll send Ji to Old Yang's. He'll enjoy that."

Lin grunted, then gave her a smile. "It'll be okay," he said, reassuring her for the tenth time that morning. "With Chao working at the big house and some of the other boys doing odd jobs here and there, we'll make do."

He scribbled out his list and handed it to her. "Tell Ji to ask Old Yang to put it on our bill. Once we sell the HeadStim we can repay him easily."

Lin had been working on the HeadStim half the night, but it would take several more sessions before it was working properly.

She took the list and stepped outside again. "Ji?"

The five-year-old turned and stared at her, his whole face breaking into a smile. "Yes, Mama Em?"

"Would you like to run an errand for me?"

"Ye-es!" He was on his feet in an instant and across to her.

"I want you to go to Old Yang's in Cicada Lane. Here's a list of things Papa Lin wants. Tell Old Yang to put them on the bill. Okay?"

"Okay!" Ji snatched the note and turned, meaning to go at once, but she called him back.

"Ji? Hadn't you better take a back-sack?"

He stared at her, his mouth formed into an oh of forgetful-ness, then smiled and nodded. He went across and stood on tiptoe, taking a back-sack from the hook, then pulled it on over his shoulders.

She almost laughed; he looked so comical with it on, like a soldier carrying an open tent on his back.

"Go on, then! But straight back, okay? No dawdling. Papa Lin needs those things so he can do his work."

"Yes, Mama Em!" Then he was gone.

She smiled then returned inside. There was washing to do, and the accounts hadn't been touched in over a week. And then there was mending to be done. There was always mending.

They needed a break, all of them, she realised. But life didn't give them any breaks. Life was unrelenting. There was always - always - more to be done. She smiled, accepting that, not for an instant wishing to change it for the life of ease, of luxury, she had once lived. No, even if this was hard, it was a far better way to live.

"You want some ch'a, Papa Lin?" she asked, looking across at him, feeling proud at that moment to have him as her partner.

He looked up and nodded distractedly, his scarred hands working ceaselessly. "That would be nice, Mama Em. Very nice indeed."

Su Ping bowed low, then took a small step backward, putting out his right hand in a gesture of welcome as the Commissioner for Mainz, Chu Te, stepped into his office.

Su Ping had had his staff form up behind him. Now, with the smallest motion of his head, he dismissed them. As the last of them filed out, he closed the door and turned, facing his superior.

Chu Te was sitting in his seat, his hands on the edge of the desk, as if trying out the position for himself. He smiled at Su Ping, then leaned forward and picked up the file, flicking it open in an almost desultory fashion. He glanced at one or two papers, then closed the file, as if satisfied.

"It is her, isn't it?" Su Ping said, nervous anxiety making his voice rise slightly.

"It would seem so."

"Then what are we to do? Arrest her?"

Chu Te's smile tightened. "We do nothing. 7 take over from here on."

"Ah .. ." It was not what Su Ping had expected, yet having chosen this course of action he could not very well step back from it. He had done his duty and informed his superior; now the matter was out of his hands. Even so, he felt an acute disappointment.

"You did well, Hsien L'ing Su," Chu Te said, standing, the file tucked safely under his arm. "You can be sure I will mention your part in this when I make my report to the Ministry."

Su Ping bowed his head. That much good at least would come of this. But still he didn't feel good. He had done his duty, certainly, but he could not keep from thinking of the woman -thinking of what he'd set in train. The very thought of it made him feel ill at ease with himself, somehow unclean.

But what else could he have done? As soon as the file was pulled, he had placed himself in jeopardy. To know and not to have acted would have been as bad as to condone her crimes. He would have become a criminal, a traitor. And not only him but all his family as well - to the third generation. His grandsons, his baby granddaughter: they too would have suffered had he not informed Chu Te.

Even so ...

He bowed low, letting the Commissioner move past him, then followed him through into the entrance hall, bidding him farewell, watching as the great man strode out into the main yard of the Yamen.

Su Ping had been smiling; a stiff, courteous smile, perfected across the four decades he had been an official. Now that smile bleached from his face. What was his twin brother, Su Chun, doing by the gate? What business had he coming here? He started forward, meaning to speak to him, then stopped dead. Su Chun was smiling, speaking to Chu Te as the Commissioner closed the gap between them. The two embraced, grinning like old friends. Then, Su Chun's arm about the great man's shoulder - a gesture so familiar, so out of character with Chu Te's high rank that it shocked Su Ping - the two turned and strolled toward the gate and Su Chun's waiting sedan.

Su Ping stared, his face hardening, the certainty of what had happened growing in him. They had made a deal, the two of them - a sordid little deal! He shuddered, a bolt of anger - pure anger - flashing through him like lightning. For one brief, uncontrolled moment he felt like rushing out and striking Su Chun, smashing his brother's grinning face with his fists, but the moment passed. Besides, what could he do? Nothing!

The thought fed his anger, stoked it into a blazing fury.

Su Ping turned abruptly and went inside, slamming his door behind him, then sat at his desk, chewing at a nail, his normally placid face distorted by the anger and frustration he felt.

Nothing. He could do nothing . . .

Emily stepped out from the kitchen, drying her hands, then looked about her.

"Lin? Have you seen Ji?"

Lin Shang looked up distractedly. "Isn't he back?"

She shrugged, then walked across, pushing open the door between the yards. "Ji?"

There was no answer. The outer yard was empty.

"That's odd," she said. "He should have been back long ago."

"You think he's okay?"

She smiled. "I'm sure he's fine. It's just. . ."

"You're worried, neh? The situation . . ."

She nodded.

"Then go. He's probably dawdling somewhere. Daydreaming. You know how he is."

"Okay. I'll not be long. We'll have some soup when I get back."

He nodded, already concentrating on his work again.

She went through, checking Ji's sleeping cubicle just in case, then went out into the street. It was almost half eleven and the thoroughfare was busy. She pushed through, greeting people as she went, smiling all the while, concealing the concern she felt.

It was true what Lin said. Ji often dawdled, often daydreamed, but not when he was sent on a specific task - not when he knew Papa Lin needed things urgently. Nor was he really all that late -twenty, twenty-five minutes at most - it was just that with things in flux and Triad runners on the streets . . .

I shouldn't have sent him, she thought, angry with herself. / should have taken the time and gone myself. But it was too late now. All she wanted was to be reassured that he was okay, to see his smiling face as he came toward her.

As she walked, she looked f-om side to side, scanning the crowd, making sure she didn't pass him on the way.

At Peter's fruit stall in Fen Chung Street she stopped to ask if the old man had seen Ji.

"A while back. I gave him an apple. Said he was heading for Old Yang's. He late or something?"

"A little," she said and hurried on.

Old Yang's was in Cicada Lane, tucked in between a clothes shop and a men's hairdressers. She pushed through the jumble of buckets and brooms and bowls at the front and went into the deep shadow of the interior.

"Yang Wei?" she called, trying to get her eyes accustomed to the darkness inside.

"Mama Em?" a voice answered from the back; a voice every bit as old and creaking as the man who emerged from between the well-stocked shelves that packed the tiny hardware shop. "Did young Ji forget something?"

"He's been then?"

Old Yang stared at her, concerned. "A long while back. More than half an hour. Why, isn't he home yet?"

"No." She felt cold. She looked about her, not knowing what to do.

"String and glue, he bought. And other things." Yang turned. "Here, I have the list. . ."

She reached out and touched the old man's back gently. "It's okay, Yang Wei. He's probably wandering the back alleys somewhere, daydreaming. You know how young boys are."

Yang turned, facing her again, an understanding smile on his deeply-lined face. "So it is, Mama Em. So it is."

She bowed, then turned, hurrying away. But out in the street she stopped again.

What was she to do? Go back and wait? Search the streets? Or should she go to the Yamen and report him missing?

She swallowed, suddenly, inexplicably frightened. He'd just gone on an errand, that was all. He'd done it dozens of times before. Dozens.

Home, she decided. It was best to go home and tell Lin. Then she would go out and try to find him.

Unless . . .

She looked about her at the narrow thoroughfare, then went across to one of the stalls on the far side, marching straight up to the woman seated there.

"Did you see a little boy come out of Old Yang's, oh, thirty minutes back? About this high? A young Han with shaven hair."

The old woman coughed and spat, then looked at Emily again, shaking her head. "Can't say I did. He yours?"

She nodded.

"Then you should have taken better care of him!"

Emily stared at the woman a moment then turned away. Another time she might have answered back, but just now Ji's safety was her prime concern. Besides, there was a degree of truth in what the old hag had said: she should have taken greater care.

She went along the line of stalls, asking one after another if they had seen Ji, but no one, it seemed, had seen a boy matching Ji's description come out of Old Yang's.

Worried now, she turned away, leaving Cicada Lane, making her way back hurriedly through the midday crowds, her eyes searching all the while for Ji's tiny figure among them.

He's home already, she told herself, trying to keep her spirits up. He probably got home just after I set out. Even now, Papa Lin will be cooking him soup and cutting him some bread . . .

But what if he wasn't?

A flash of pure despair made her groan. What if someone had taken him? What if one of the liumang - the Triad punks -had recognised him and pulled him off the street? What if those bastards had him, even now?

Again she moaned, doubling her pace, almost colliding with people as she dodged in and out of the crowd, the thought of Ji in their hands making her stomach muscles clench with anxiety.

Be safe\ she urged, as she came out into the marketplace. For the gods' sakes be there for me, Ji, when I get home!

She began to cut through the milling crowd, heading for the south-east corner of the marketplace, but she had barely made it halfway across when shots rang out and the crowd began to scream and panic. Someone banged into her, almost knocking her over, and then it was chaos. Stalls were going over and there were more shots, more screams.

As people fought to get away, Emily was jostled violently. Alarmed now, she cried out. If Ji were somewhere in this crowd . . .

As the crowd began to thin, she looked about her anxiously. Several people were down, shot or simply trampled, she couldn't tell, but there was no one who looked like Ji. Across from her, twenty, maybe thirty ch'i away, a dozen or more Triad runners were struggling with a group of stallholders. Even as she looked, one of the runners raised his gun and, placing it to a stallholder's head, fired. The man jerked, then fell, lifeless, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

She stared, appalled, unaware that she was in any danger until a shot whizzed past her head. Only then did she wake and begin to back away.

The runners were moving from stall to stall, firing indiscriminately - executing anyone who dared get in their way.

It has begun again, she thought, knowing that her worst fears had just been confirmed.

And Ji? She could only pray now that Ji had made it safely home. If home was any longer safe.

Young Egan was in his bed, half conscious after sleeping off the previous night's excesses, when the slatted blinds in his room were opened, letting in the brilliant morning sunlight.

He groaned and buried his head in his pillow. "Is that you, Kuei Jen?"

His answer was a pair of hands on his shoulders, shaking him. "Get up, you lazy reprobate. We need to talk."

Egan rolled over, on to his back, staring up blearily at the young prince, who sat on the bed beside him.

"What in heaven's name do you want at this hour? Is it evening yet? No. Well, then, leave me be. I need my rest."

Kuei Jen reached out, shaking him again. "Awake! We have to talk."

"Talk?" Egan made a distasteful movement with his lips. "Hey. . . pass me some of that cordial. My mouth's as dry as an old whore's clout!"

"And as foul."

Kuei Jen reached across and poured a glass of lime juice from the jug, then handed it to him. Egan struggled up onto one elbow, then drained the glass and handed it back.

"Thanks."

"So?" Kuei Jen asked, eyeing him sternly. "What's all this about a campaign in Asia? Why didn't you tell me?"

Egan eased himself back against the headboard, then shrugged. "Because I was asked not to."

"By who?"

"Whom. The word is whom."

"Okay. By whom?"

"By your father. And by my grandfather."

"And you didn't think I might need to know?"

Again Egan shrugged. "I didn't think it was important."

"Not important?" The young prince rolled his eyes. "Aiyal What could be more important?"

"You marrying the princess."

"We were betrothed as children."

"Yes, but you didn't tell me."

Kuei Jen shrugged and looked away, not wanting to meet those accusing eyes. "I thought you'd have known. It is our way."

"And me?"

He looked back, meeting his lover's eyes. "I'll always be here for you."

But Egan's eyes held a query. "What if you like it?"

"Like it?"

"Fucking her. What if you find out that you're not. . ."

" . . .a yellow eel?"

Egan nodded, then looked down. "What if?" he said quietly, clearly upset by the thought.

"I won't," Kuei Jen said, reaching out to take his hand. "It'll be duty, that"s all. To make sons."

Egan looked up again, a slight mischievousness in his eyes now. "You could always have her inseminated. That way, I could have a hand in it!"

The young prince snorted. "And more than a hand in it, if I know you!"

"Now, now . . ."

There was a moment's silence. The two young men stared at each other affectionately.

Egan shivered, then pushed down the sheet, his eyes changing. "You want to fuck me?"

Kuei Jen sat back, alarmed. "Shit, no! Not here in the palace!"

"Why not? There are no cameras in the room. Go on, Jenny, lock the door. It seems like ages since we fucked."

Kuei Jen shivered, clearly tempted by the thought; by the sight of his lover's nakedness. He swallowed then stood and went across, turning the key in the lock.

"The blinds," Egan said. "For the gods' sakes close the blinds."

The young prince went across and tugged on the rope. At once the room was in semi-darkness.

"Here," Egan said, putting out a hand. "Come and kiss me."

Kuei Jen hesitated, then went across and, slipping out of his clothes, climbed in beside him, taking him in his arms.

"What would your father say," Egan said with a soft chuckle as he began to kiss his shoulder and neck. "What would he say?"

Dogo was showering, soaping himself down and singing to himself, his deep voice booming in that huge, tiled space, when he heard the door click in the room next door.

His voice faltered briefly then went on as he stepped from beneath the flow and padded quietly to the bathroom door. He was about to call out, to ask who it was, when he saw her.

It was one of Shepherd's women. The red-haired one, Catherine. And she was going through his clothes, picking them up and sniffing them.

Still singing, his eyes looking about for somewhere to hide, he went back to the shower. Maybe she'd go away. Maybe she'd. . .

The door slid back. Unembarrassed, her eyes smiling at him, she stepped inside. The tune died on his lips. The Osu put his hands down, covering his manhood.

"Dogo? It is Dogo, isn't it?"

"Do-go," he answered, giving the correct pronunciation.

"Do-^o," she said, copying it perfectly. She stepped closer, her eyes taking in his nakedness, studying him as if she was appreciating some work of art. "You're a fine figure of a man, Do-go. And single, I hear. Why's that?"

He shrugged, not wanting to go into the business of his ex-wife. "You want something?" he asked, too polite to ask her to get the hell out of there. Besides, he was intrigued. What did she want?

Her smile gave him the answer.

"Ah . . ." He swallowed. Beneath his covering hands, his manhood had betrayed him; had risen stiff and hard at the mere thought of being there, naked, with the woman.

She turned, looking about her, then stepped across and took his loin-cloth from the peg where he'd hung it. Turning back, she went across and held it out, offering it to him.

He reached to take it and as he did, she dropped it, reaching past him to take hold of his swollen penis.

"What¹ s this?" she asked, looking down at it. "Is it red?" Then, looking up again, meeting his eyes, she smiled - the kind of smile that makes a man's heart melt, his pulse quicken. "You know, I've never seen one that colour!"

As the gate swung slowly back, Emily was conscious of the absence of any sound, of the unnatural stillness of the compound. Fear made her whisper the word.

"Lin?"

Nothing. The outer courtyard was silent, the open-fronted stalls where the boys would sit and work and sleep, empty. She stepped inside, her heart hammering in her chest, her mouth dry with fear.

Forcing herself to be calm, she crossed the yard, treading silently.

The door to the inner yard was ajar. Gently, fearful of what she'd find, she pushed it back.

The normally tidy yard was a mess. The tables were pushed over, broken things were scattered everywhere in heaps, pulled down from the shelves where they'd been stored. And in their midst sat Lin, staring at his hands, his black hair spiky and dishevelled, his plain cloth pau torn in several places. His lip was cut, his neck scratched and bruised. His hands, which she had nursed to health the last time they'd been smashed, were bruised and swollen, at least three fingers broken on each hand.

"Lin?" she asked softly, taking a step toward him, clearing a space with her right foot, careful not to tread on anything. "Lin? What happened?"

Slowly his head came up. Slowly, as if from a long way off, he focused on her. He had been crying.

Kneeling beside him, she cradled him to her, comforting him as he began to sob.

"Lin . . . Papa Lin, what happened here?"

She felt the shuddering breath he took before he met her eyes again; saw in his face the effort it took him even to speak.

"They came back. Another hundred yuan they wanted, but I didn't have it, Mama Em ... I didn't have it... so they . . . they . . ."

He dropped his head, trembling now, unable to continue.

She shivered, suddenly indignant. Until a few days back this had been a good place to live, but now the insects from the other side of the river were moving in, sucking the life-blood from them, taking the very marrow from their bones.

Emily stood, seeing clearly what had to be done. Yet as she made to leave Lin put out a hand, holding her leg.

"Don't."

She looked down. He was staring up at her.

"Don't what?"

He looked at her a moment longer, reading her face, seeing clearly what she was thinking, then shook his head. "There must be no violence. Whatever happens, we must not stoop to their level."

"But they'll bleed us dry."

"Then we shall work harder and eat less."

"And still they'll ask for more. Besides, how will you work now, Lin Shang? Your hands . . .."

He considered that a moment, then shrugged. "Maybe so, but there must be no violence. It is the Way."

Had anyone else said it she would have laughed scornfully at them, but this was Lin, her life partner, and though he was wrong, she could not laugh at him for believing what he did.

He opened his mouth again, meaning, no doubt, to offer up some other snippet from the sages - some parable to comfort her - but she had had enough.

"Can't you see, Lin Shang? Can't you see what's happening? The dream has ended. Wuwei is no answer anymore. We're back in the real world again." She shuddered. "I was in the marketplace just now. They were going from stall to stall, killing people."

She saw the shock in his eyes at that and was sorry that she had had to be the one to put it there, but it was kinder not to let him hope any more; kinder to be cruel.

"And Ji?" he asked.

It was her turn to feel shock. She had forgotten. For a moment she had forgotten Ji entirely.

"Aiya . . ."

She turned, stumbling through the door, and as she did the gate on the far side of the courtyard swung open, slowly, as if in a nightmare, and a man stepped in: one of the stallholders from Cicada Lane. He was cradling something - something small and limp and broken. Something that no amount of mending would ever make right.

She cried out and fell to her knees. Behind her she heard Lin Shang groan - a sound of emptiness and despair.

"I'm sorry," the man said, coming closer. "I. . ."

Gently he put his burden down. Slowly, he knelt, tenderly brushing the dark hair back from the dead boy's eyes.

Emily swallowed, steeling herself to ask. "Where . . .?"

"In Old Yang's. At the back of the shop, under some sacks."

She stared at him, her eyes aghast. The words hissed from her in a whisper. "Impossible. I went there . . ."

"It was after you had gone, Mama Em. Some of us thought how odd it was. We had seen him go in, but none of us - not one - had seen him come out again. We checked."

For a moment the pain was too much - she couldn't speak. Then, "And Old Yang?"

"He's dead. We stoned the old cunt."

She groaned. Old Yang would never have harmed Ji, she'd wager her life on it. No. The runners had done this. The liumang. And Old Yang had got the blame.

"Thank you, I ..."

Behind him the gate creaked. Two more stood there. Young men with bands about their foreheads. Triad runners.

She had barely seen them, barely focused on them, when she heard Lin bellow and rush past her.

She saw the gun come up, saw - so vividly, it sent a nervous ripple up her spine - the hammer come down on the firing pin, and thought she must be in shock, because she heard no detonation. Then she understood. The punk had used up his bullets.

As Lin crashed into them, she leapt up, going to his aid, jumping over the kneeling man, over the tiny figure of her darling Ji, hatred blinding her to anything but hitting back.

Old memories shaped her fist into a deadly weapon, and as the young punk's face turned, surprised, to look at her, so she struck, the venom of the blow carrying him back into his fellow, the front of his skull shattered like a fragile piece of porcelain.

Such hatred. She had never felt such hatred. She stood over the dead man, tensed, her whole body trembling, watching as the other crawled away and through the gate, wide-eyed with shock and fear.

Slowly she turned, looking to where Lin Shang lay, retching, winded by the young punk's first and final blow.

"It's over," she said, turning, the tears beginning to fall as she looked once more at the tiny body stretched out on the cobbles. "It's finished, Papa Lin."

But she knew it wasn't over. No. This was only the beginning.

Su Ping was pacing his office, trying to work out what to do - how to control the situation - when the door burst open. He turned, startled, expecting trouble, but it was only his recently-appointed Third Secretary. Calming himself, he sat behind his desk.

"What is it, Mao Kuang-li? More deaths? More butchery?"

"A report has just come in, Hsien L'ing. It seems the compound was attacked."

"The compound?"

"Where the woman is."

"Ah . . ." He studied the young man, wondering just how much he knew, then nodded. "And the woman? Is she hurt?"

"No, Master. It seems she is all right. But she has killed a man. A Triad runner."

Su Ping jumped up out of his chair. "Killed a man! Aiyal Does the Commissioner know?"

"Not yet, Master. One of your guards brought in the report a moment back."

"And my Wei, Kung Chia? Has anyone found the man yet? I asked him to report an hour back!"

The young man's eyes slid away. "Did you not know, Master?"

"Know? Know what?"

Mao Kuang-li looked back at him. "That Kung Chia is dining with your brother and the Commissioner. It seems they are old friends."

Su Ping sat again, nodding to himself. At last all the pieces fitted. By rights this was a matter for his Wei, or for the Commissioner, but he knew now he could trust neither. They were all in this together. Besides, he had already made one mistake today; he was buggered if he was going to make another.

Mao Kuang-li bowed. "You wish me to inform him, Master?"

"No." He got up, a sense of inevitability shaping his movements. "No, I will go myself. I would not wish to bother his Excellency, the Commissioner for Mainz."

The young man smiled. "Then I shall order your sedan, Master."

They had washed his tiny, broken body and wrapped him in a simple white cloth. Dragging his bunk out into the centre of the yard, they had placed what remained of their cooking fuel beneath it and laid his body on it. The boys - brought home from school by neighbours - had lined up in front of him to say their last farewells, then, after a few last words from Mama Em, they had set fire to the stack.

As she watched the funeral bier burn, Emily tried hard to think of how he'd been - of Ji's liveliness and his infectious smile - but all she could think of was the hideous grin on the liumang's face shortly before she'd killed him.

She wiped the tears from her face with her fingers then turned away, gathering her seven remaining boys about her. On the far side of the yard, Lin Shang was standing, looking on, his hands bandaged, his face ashen, tear-stained. In a short while they would be gone from here. In just a moment all of this - this happiest phase of her brief life on earth - would have ended and they would be fugitives.

She took a shuddering breath, trying to keep control of herself, trying hard - oh so hard - not to break down, because they needed her. Needed her more now than they'd ever needed her.

She was trembling. As the boys held on to her, sobbing inconsolably, she could feel them shaking, trembling against her.

Awful, it was. So awful she could not fully comprehend just what had happened. She had seen death a hundred times, but never had it touched her quite like this. Never had it made her feel like simply lying down and sleeping, never to wake.

She longed now for surcease. Longed for an end to the agony she was suffering, but knew it could not be. She had to lead them from here - to take care of them and make sure they were safe. She had to ... or Ji's death meant nothing.

The flames were roaring fiercely now as they consumed his tiny body, the black smoke from the bier forming a tall plume in the blue sky overhead. It was hot in the yard and the smell of burning strong.

She looked down, seeing how the boys' eyes were drawn to the flames, their hurt subsumed temporarily into a deeper, more primal fascination with the elemental power of fire.

She forced herself to break into their trance. "Boys! Get your packs! Chao . . . Pei. . . bring the cart. It's time to go."

They did as they were told, quietly, unquestioningly, and as she watched them she knew she had been right to end it thus. At least this way they knew where Ji had gone. This way, at least, they knew his spirit soul was free.

She shivered then went across to Lin.

"Are you ready?" she asked gently.

He nodded, unable to speak, his bandaged hands pulled up to his chest.

"Then let's go. They'll be here soon."

But even as she spoke the words there was a hammering on the gate, a call from outside - a soldierly voice, heavy with authority.

"Open up! Open up in the name of the law!"

She saw how the boys turned, looking to her, like frightened animals. But what could she do? What could she, a single woman, do against the rule of law? Once she had thought differently, but now . . .

No. She had killed a man. Word of that would have got back. And now they had come for her.

Slowly, as in a dream, she walked across and lifted the latch, letting the outer door swing back. The Hsien L'ing was standing there, a dozen of his troops behind him.

"Emily Ascher?" he said, his grave eyes meeting hers. "I have a warrant here for your arrest on the grounds of treason. Will you come peacefully, or shall I have my men arrest you?"

Li Yuan signed the document with a flourish, then sat back, letting out a weary sigh, and looked to his Chancellor.

"Is that all, Master Heng? Are we done?"

Heng Yu stared back at him, surprised. He had a stack of documents under his arm that required attention. "Chieh Hsia?"

"I mean... is there anything really urgent? Can those papers not wait a day or two?"

Again Heng simply stared. This was most unlike his Master. "I... I suppose so, Chieh Hsia."

"Then let us do that, neh?" He stood and stretched. "If you want me, I shall be in the stables."

Heng bowed his head. "Chieh Hsia."

When he'd gone, Li Yuan went to the window and looked across, wondering what Dragon Heart was doing at that moment. He had the urge to go to her and talk with her again; to kiss her and lie with her again.

Aiya, he thought, remembering what had happened between them in the night; but that's a delicious torment.

She had been as good as her word. As good, and no more. He had tried to persuade her, but she was like iron, unyielding. She would do anything but that. Anything but let him make love to her.

He clenched his fists, thinking of it, imagining it Gods, he could think of nothing else, it seemed. Even just now, signing those awful, mundane documents, his mind had been going back over what had passed between them, seeing her naked body moving next to his, each curve of hers like an arrow piercing him.

It was no good. He would have to see her. See her and throw himself on her mercy. He had to — just had to - have her.

And what if he was twice her age and more? What if he was older than her father? What did that matter? It was how they felt about each other that mattered. That and nothing else.

But she was still betrothed.

He turned, staring at his desk thoughtfully. It would take but a moment to undo that. He needed but a piece of paper, an ink brush and a seal. And then?

Li Yuan sniffed deeply. He could do it. He could summon Heng Yu and do it right now if he so wished, but something held his hand. An instinct, perhaps. That and the certain knowledge that no good would come of it. No, it was not done for a T'ang to meddle in the marital affairs of the Minor Families. Not without unquestionable cause.

Even so, he had to have her. After last night. . .

He caught his breath, remembering her eyes as she looked at him along the length of his body, smiling as she took him in her mouth.

"Aiya . . ." he murmured, closing his eyes, his penis stiff at the memory. When had he ever felt this way. Why, even with Fei Yen ...

His eyes popped open. No. No comparisons. Comparisons were dangerous. This was different. What he felt now was . . . well, unique. He had not felt it before. It was as if he had been dead before he'd met her, and now . . .

Again he shuddered. Then, knowing he needed to do something, he hurried across the room, heading for the stables, determined to work his way out of this distracted mood.

Su Ping had not known quite what he'd find, but the woman's tears were wholly unexpected. He saw the remains of the tiny body on the collapsed bier, saw the tearful, frightened faces all around and understood. No one had told him about the boy. No one had thought to. Once more events had overtaken him.

He had come here meaning to arrest her, as he'd said - to take her back to his Yamen and book her in officially as a captive of the State. That way his duty would have been done. That way no blood-money would have found its way into those jackals' pockets. But now . . .

He turned abruptly, gesturing to his men. "Get out!" he said sharply. "Go back to the Yamen and await me there!"

"But Master . . ." his Third Secretary began.

"Now!" he barked.

Mao Kuang-li bowed then turned away, ushering the others out.

Su Ping turned back. The woman stood there helplessly, her arms at her sides, her face tear-washed and vacant, no different from any mother who had just lost her youngest son. In that instant his heart went out to her. In that one brief moment a lifetime's habit was broken.

"You must go," he said quietly.

She turned her head slowly, looking to him. "What?"

"You must go from here at once," he said, more business-like this time. "You should head north-west, into the forest."

"The forest?" Slowly enlightenment dawned in her face. "You're letting us go?"

He nodded. "But you must be quick. The Commissioner is here from Mainz. He knows who you are. And my brother . . ." He shuddered, unable to keep the distaste, the anger he was feeling out of his face. "I shall try to delay them, to lay a false trail, but you must move quickly. You must get there before nightfall."

She was staring at him now, amazed. "Why?"

"Because."

She nodded, as if understanding, then turned, gathering her boys about her. Satisfied, she looked back at him. "Thank you, Hsien L'ing."

He shook his head. "You need thank me for nothing, Emily Ascher. I saw your file. It made interesting reading." He smiled sadly. "I feel I know you well."

She shuddered, then, with a simple nod, moved quickly past, leading her boys away from there. Giving them a chance.

Su Ping turned, watching them go, the Mender, Lin Shang last to leave, his eyes looking wistfully about the yard, then dwelling on the burned-out cart, tears welling, spilling down his cheeks. Then he too was gone and Su Ping was alone in the empty yard.

"Good luck," he whispered. "I hope you make it."

And himself? He laughed bitterly. There was nowhere he could run. He looked about him, then, deciding that this was as good a place as any to await his fate, he went across and sat cross-legged beside the yet-smouldering bier, knowing it would not be long.

Su Chun looked up from his plate and burped loudly. Facing him, smiling at him across a table stacked high with empty dishes, was Commissioner Chu.

"Well," said Chu, "I think we have covered everything. Half to you, Su Chun, half to me. All we need now is to pick the woman up."

Su Chun frowned and picked at his teeth. "You are quite certain my brother will do nothing?"

"What can he do? Besides, I have told him to leave matters in my hands. You know your brother - he has an exaggerated sense of duty."

Su Chun laughed. "The fool!"

"Indeed. Yet in case he should think to meddle in such matters, I have been careful to ensure that nothing is on record. Only you, he and I know of this matter."

"But what if he objects? What if he reports you to some higher authority?"

"Then it will be his word against mine, and they will take his word as that of an embittered, envious old buffoon. A man jealous of his brother's fortune and seeking to use his official status to destroy him."

"They will see it that way?"

Chu Te smiled slyly. "I shall make sure they see it that way."

"And if they investigate your accounts?"

"They will find nothing. There will be no trail from your door to mine, I assure you, Su Chun. We have friends in common who can take care of such matters, neh?"

"And afterwards?"

Chu Te turned his head and spat into the bowl beside his foot. "Afterwards we shall stay in touch. You will help me and I will help you. To both our advantages, neh?"

"So it will be," Su Chun said, lifting his wine cup in a toast and grinning from ear to ear. "So it will be."

"Master?"

Su Chun turned and looked to the man who had just come into the room. "Yes, Peng, what is it?"

"There has been trouble, Master, at the compound."

Su Chun sat up, instantly alert. "Trouble? What kind of trouble?"

"One of our men is dead. Tu Fan. The old woman killed him."

"Killed him?" Su Chun shook his head and laughed. "You jest with me, surely, Peng? The old woman?"

Peng bent low, his whole manner apologetic. "Yes, Master. It seems she smashed his skull in."

Su Chun's mouth slowly dropped open. He turned, looking to the Commissioner. "So it's true?"

"Of course," Chu Te said, wiping his mouth and standing up, suddenly businesslike. "I told you, Su Chun. She is a dangerous woman. We must go there at once with a squad of your men and arrest her, before further damage is done."

"Killed him?" Su Chun said again, his voice almost a whisper, still unable to believe it. Then, looking to the Commissioner again, he scrambled to his feet and, calling his men to him, began to do as Chu Te said.

Rung Chia, who had gone ahead, met them at the gate to the compound. His men formed a cordon about the entrance, holding back the crowd.

"They've gone," he said, anticipating Chu Te's question. "But we've caught another fish. Su Ping."

"My brother? Here?" Su Chun pushed through, then stood there, staring in amazement at the seated figure of Su Ping. He turned to the Wei.

"Why is he here?"

"He let them get away."

"He what?"

Kung Chia drew Su Chun closer, lowering his voice. "From what I can make out he came here to arrest the woman, but something changed his mind."

Chu Te, who had listened patiently, now pushed past and strode across the courtyard, stopping over the seated figure. With a brief, distasteful glance at the bier, he addressed Su Ping, his anger barely contained.

"What is the meaning of this, Hsien L'ing Su? I gave you specific orders to leave this matter in my hands!"

Su Ping looked up at him, a weary, resigned look in his eyes. "I know."

"Then why in the gods' names are you here? And why . . ." Chu Te sputtered, almost losing control, " . . .why did you let them go?"

Su Ping met his superior's eyes calmly, no hint of shame in his own. "I did it to spite you. You and that insect who calls himself my brother." He paused, then, slowly, began to smile. "I did something clean at last. I helped her."

Su Chun, who had stood two paces off, listening, now bellowed and threw himself at his twin, putting both hands about Su Ping's throat and dragging him to his feet, shaking him, slowly choking him.

"Enough!" Chu Te ordered, his hands beating at Su Chun's back. "Aiyal Let him go!"

Su Chun gave his brother one last, violent shake then let him fall.

Su Ping collapsed, gasping, one hand holding him up while the other tore at his throat. His eyes were huge and swollen in his reddened face. He retched, then retched again.

Su Chun staggered back, his eyes wild, his face animated by fury. "Let me kill him! Let me finish him right now!"

Chu Te put his hand on Su Chun's shoulder. "Kill him and we've no one to blame. Besides, he'll die anyway for what he's done."

Su Chun groaned. "A million yuan. . . gone!" He swung with his left foot, his boot connecting firmly in Su Ping's stomach, making him double up again, wheezing.

"Desisfl" Chu Te said, pulling Su Chun away, then signalling for the Wei to take care of him. "The money's lost. Our main concern now is to find out where the woman's gone."

Su Chun grunted. "Who gives a shit now?"

Chu Te turned on him, his eyes glaring. "It matters greatly. Though your halfwit brother here broke orders, it was I who was in charge of this investigation, and it will be I who gets the ultimate blame should the woman escape. And if / am blamed you can be sure that you will go down with me, Su Chun. In fact, you can guarantee it!"

He turned back, looking at Su Ping who was still struggling to get his breath, then leaned toward him.

"Okay, Su Ping. You've had your fun. Now it's my turn. You want an easy death, you'll tell me where they went, and you'll tell me now."

Su Ping shuddered, then forced his head up. His face was ashen, like a dead man's, but his eyes were defiant.

"You can go fuck yourself," he whispered hoarsely.

Chu Te straightened, then turned, beckoning to one of his men. "Chain him up and take him back to the Yamen. We'll see what an hour's close questioning will drag from him."

Tom was lying on the bed in his room, his hands behind his head, his eyes closed, daydreaming of the girl, when his half-sister, Sasha, who had been creeping up on him unawares, leapt on his chest.

He fought off the ten-year-old, then sat back, smiling at her as he signed with his hands.

When did you get here?

The flame-haired little girl crossed her legs, facing him on the bed, then signed back.

An hour back. I flew in with Ebert's son.

He made a gesture of understanding, then held out his arms, cuddling her to him. Distracted as he was, he was pleased to see her.

"Whaf s it like here?" she asked quietly.

He shrugged, then made a face. He didn't like it much. He missed the open spaces of the valley. Besides . . .

She saw the movement in his face and frowned. "What is it?"

He hesitated, then shook his head. Nothing, he signed.

/ don't believe you, she signed back.

He laughed silently.

When you're older, he signed.

"Ah, girls . . ." And she stared at him knowingly, making him blush.

"Where's my mother?" she asked. "She wasn't in her rooms."

He looked down. He knew but he wasn't going to say.

How did they go? he signed, after a moment, looking back at her.

Sasha had stayed on after they'd left the valley to sit her external exams. If she passed she would get a place in one of the City's leading schools.

She shrugged. Okay, she signed.

/ bet you get a merit, he signed back.

"Maybe. . ." Then she laughed. "So. . . who's the girlfriend? You'd better tell me or I'll tickle you!"

"Here, Mama Em? Can we stop here?"

"Just a bit further," she answered gently, knowing that none of them could go on that much longer. She turned, looking back through the trees at the straggling line. It was growing dark and they would soon have to find shelter for the night. They had been travelling more than six hours now and some of the boys were well beyond their limits, but it could not be helped; the further they went from Weisenau the better chance they had. That was, if they had any chance at all after what had happened.

For the last few li they had been climbing steadily, through country that had never been built upon, not even in the heyday of the City, but now they were descending once again, moving down through a broad valley lined with trees.

Away, always away. But however far she travelled she knew it would never be far enough, for the hurt went with her every step.

She stopped, letting them catch up, Chao, who had been pulling the cart this last hour, the last to join the group standing between the trees.

"I'll scout ahead," she said, conscious now they were gathered all about her just how ragged they looked, how weary. "Wait here a while. I'll not be long."

There was no argument. She saw how grateful they were to slump down and rest for those brief few minutes, even Lin Shang.

She turned and went on, down toward the valley floor, following an old gully. Halfway down she found her way blocked by a low wall. Making her way around it, she realised what it was - the ruined shell of an ancient house. Others stood close by: dark, ghostly shapes between the trees, their jagged walls open to the sky. She nodded to herself, understanding. This had been a village. People had lived here once; had worked and raised their families. She shuddered. So much was lost. Sometimes it seemed that the whole of existence was but a dark and fitful dream.

She went on, the full moon lighting her way.

On leaving the compound she had taken them west, following the curve of the river down to Ockenheim, then north, crossing the river by the Rudesheim bridge. There, beyond Marienthal Hsien, the forest began.

For thousands of years there had been nothing but the forest - long before men had come, long before the first cities had been built. But men had come and in time they had destroyed the forests and with them the very air they breathed. They had had to build machines - machines that tapped into the earth's core for energy and synthesised that air.

Until ten years ago, that was, when the Clayborn, Kim Ward, through his company, MedFac, had reseeded large parts of the ancient forests with new, fast-growing pines; hybrids manufactured in his laboratories in Heidelberg.

Emily walked on, hurrying now, conscious that just ahead of her the trees ended in a shining, glittering line.

Water . . . there was water down therel She began to run, then slowed, the truth hitting her like a fist in the stomach.

There, where the trees ended, the land stretched away, flat, perfectly flat, and smooth like a frozen lake. She stepped out onto it, her booted feet clicking against the hard clear polymer.

Faces stared up at her, clawing hands reached, trapped forever in the ice.

She walked slowly, in a circle, staring down into the clear congealed plastic as if into the air, a wave of nausea sweeping over her. Bodies . . . wherever she looked there were bodies, like insects trapped in amber. But these were the bodies of men and women like herself. And children. Gods, the sight of the children . . . And their faces, their pale, tormented faces . . .

A small moan of pain escaped her lips. Here Li Yuan had drawn his line. Here, at the cost, it was said, of thirty million lives, he had saved his City.

Saved it for what? she asked, standing there beneath the naked, pitiless moonlight. For the pimps and the money-men, the sadists and the dealers. For Pei K'ung and I Ye and Ming Ai and all the emotional retards - all the half-men and their half-women.

Emily shuddered, at that moment wanting nothing more than for it all to end, right then, in one blinding, all-consuming flash, for if there was a god - one single, all-embracing God -then he would surely wipe the slate clean and start again with better, finer creatures than these ape-men he had botched.

She sighed and turned, meaning to go back, then saw him at the edge of the ice, not twenty ch'i from where she stood.

He was tall and pale, and even in the half-light she knew his face.

"Bent? Is that you, Bent?"

Yet even as she called, even as she took a step toward him, he seemed to slip backwards, away from her, melting into the moonlight and the darkness beneath the trees.

"Bent?"

But she knew it couldn't be him, because Bent Gesell had died over twenty years ago, murdered in his bed by DeVore.

Ghosts, she thought. This place is full of ghosts.

She went back, leading them down into the ruined village, setting up camp within the jagged walls of an old storehouse. Then, leaving them once more, she returned to the edge of the frozen lake and stood there, looking out across that scene of perpetual torment, her cheeks wet with tears.

Crying for Ji and the frozen dead. And for herself.

"Uncle Cho?"

Cho Yao turned from the corpse he was cleaning and stared at Chuang. It was a day now since he'd last spoken to her; almost as long since he had last acknowledged her. But this, she knew, was his way. He could not rant at her or hit out with his hands. His punishment was silence.

I'm sorry, Unde Cho. Ishouldhave toldyou where I was going."

He grunted and turned back.

"I was . .. carried away."

She saw his back tense and then relax. He turned again, sighing heavily. "What you did . . . it was very dangerous. I could have lost you, you know that?"

She nodded, lowering her eyes beneath his reproachful stare.

"And that would have killed me. As surely as a bullet to the heart."

Again she nodded and again he sighed. She raised her eyes, seeing how his expression had softened. She went to him and clasped him tightly.

"I promise I won't do it again," she said, her voice muffled as she pressed into him.

She felt him shudder. "So," he said, looking down at her, "what did you find out?"

She looked up, into his face. "I met a man."

"A Man?" His eyes hardened again.

"A messenger," she said quickly, before he dammed up again. "He was at the ruined dub when I went there. I followed him ..."

"Wo-ah!" he said. "Back up a little, young Chuang. What dub?"

Quickly she explained about the serial number on the corpse's neck, her visit to Hochheim Library and the service file.

His frown grew deeper. "So you followed him," he said, a hint of resignation in his voice. "What happened then?"

"I chased him through the station. Then Host him. As I was trying to catch up with him again, he jumped me."

He shook his head. "You are lucky to be alive, little one."

She nodded, chastened. "He took me to a tea-house and we talked. We told each other what we knew."

"And that was that?"

"No. He gave me this." She held out her hand. In it she clutched a huge black iron ring. He took it from her and studied it, his face darkening.

"Aiya," he said. "You know what this is, young Chuang?"

She shook her head. It was a ring. A ring with a strange design - a pattern of seven dragons formed into a wheel - on its face.

"This . . ." He held it up, his eyes awed by the sight of it. "This, child, is the ring of power of a Tang. Symbol of his Imperial authority. This ring. . ." He shivered. "This ring once sat upon the finger of an emperor."

She stared at it anew, her mouth fallen open.

Cho looked down at her. "What did he say when he gave you this?"

She swallowed. "He told me to look after it. He said . . . he said that it was a sign to me of his good faith. He said..." She frowned, trying to remember dearly what he'd said, the thought that this was so important a ring making her forget. "He said you would know what to do if he did not return within a month."

The Oven Man frowned deeply. "Why would he say that?"

She shrugged. "Idon't know. But he seemed. . . concerned."

"Concerned? If this is any token of the stakes he plays for, he would do well to be concerned." He huffed out an exasperated breath. "He knows where we live, I take it?"

She nodded. She hadn't thought it mattered.

"And if he's captured and tortured, like those others? What then?" He dosed his hand about the ring, his face screwed up with worry. "Aiya . . . what a mess! What a stinking, bloody mess this is!"

She had never seen him so worked up, never heard him use such language.

"Hell come back," she said, with more confidence than she felt. "He said he would."

He looked at her, saying nothing.

"He will," she said, then lowered her eyes.

"Maybe," he said, after a moment. "And in the meantime? Do we double bar the gate at night? Witt that stop I Ye and his men if they find out we're involved?" He sighed again. "Aiya/. . . This is what comes of meddling! This is what comes of having adventures!"

It was the closest he had come to criticising her.

"I'm sorry," she said again. "I didn't know."

But that wasn't quite true. She should have known from the moment I Ye and his men knocked on their door and brought their cart of death inside the yard. Yes. She should have known right then that some worm-filled casket lay ready to be opened. But that hadn't stopped her. Some demon of curiosity had driven her on.

She looked up. He was looking at her, but now his eyes were soft, forgiving. He put out his arms, embracing her again, lifting her up and hugging her to him, kissing her neck.

"You'U be the death of me," he said affectionately. "And who'll mind the ovens then? Who 11 dean the bodies when they're brought?"

Josef heard a heavy knocking on the front door and sat up on his bed, suddenly attentive. He heard his mother walk out from the kitchen and slip the latch.

"Yes?" she asked.

The voice was low and male, the words hard to catch.

"Ah . . ." his mother said, no pleasure in her voice. "You'd better come in."

Josef slipped from his bed and went to the door. Opening it, he peered down the stairs, but they had already gone inside. He heard the kitchen door slide shut, the voices resume, his mother's high, distinctive, the other too low for him to discern anything.

He turned, looking across at the window. It was open. Satisfied, he went out onto the landing, standing there a moment in the shadow, listening.

It was no good, he would have to go down. He could hear nothing from up here.

Slowly, choosing carefully where he put his feet, Josef made his way down. At the foot of the steps he stopped and crouched behind the rail, listening.

"Well, he's not been here," his mother was saying. "If he's been missing, he's been off somewhere else. I want him to go to school. The last thing I want is to have him under my feet all the time!"

"I understand," the man said quietly. "But the responsibility is yours, I'm afraid, Nu Shi Horacek."

"Why?" she asked bitterly. "Igave birth to him, yes, but that's where it ended. My other boys, they never missed a single day of schooling, but Josef.. .well, he's unnatural, that one! Unnatural!"

"Even so," the man began, "he'syour responsibility. Until he comes of age."

Josef knew that voice. It was the Truant Officer - the same one who'd seen him at the execution. He could picture him vividly - a tall, thin, humourless man with a wispy dark beard and beady eyes that were set far too dose to his over-long nose. All in all, the kind of man who revelled in official life; whose mean-spirited litne soul enjoyed the job he'd chosen.

"But what if he doesn't go?" his mother asked. "What if we can't get him to go?"

"Then I am empowered to fine you twenty yuan. Fifty if he continues this behaviour."

"Fifty yuan.'" He heard the anger in his mother's voice. "But what can I do?Just tell me that? He never listens to a word any of us says! Now that his elder brothers have left home, he goes where he wants and does what he wants and we can't stop him! He's out of control! Totally out of control!"

"But the boy's only seven! Surely you can discipline him?" She laughed bitterly. "Seven going on seven hundred!" Then, more quietly. "Isn't there some other answer? Couldn't the authorities take responsibility for him?" "You mean make him a ward of court?" "If that's what it takes!"

The man gave a grunt of surprise. "Are you serious, Nu Shi Horacek? You want us take your boy away? To one of the work camps?"

There was a moment's silence, then the man spoke again, his tone resigned. "Well," he said. "Dear oh dear. . . I didn't think things were quite so bad. It's come to that, has it?"

Again there was only silence. But Josef, listening, could picture the way she'd nodded, the unforgiving tightness in her face.

"Well . . ." he said again. "I shall have to see what can be done. It's most unusual, you understand. Usually we serve an order to protect a child. But if you wish . . . well, I shall see what can be done. In the meantime, speak to the boy. Try to instil in himjusthowimportantitis he attends school. The alternative. . ."

Josef heard the stool creak and, turning quickly, scurried up the stairs, Putting his door dosed behind him.

The kitchen door slid open.

"You're sure now you haven't seen him?"

His mother's voice was tired and bitter. "Quite certain. He doesn't even eat here anymore. You might try the market-place. I'm told he hangs about there sometimes."

"The market-place ..." Josef could imagine the Inspector noting that down. "Ill try it after lunch. And thank you, Nu Shi Horacek. Ill speak to the authorities, see what can be done."

He heard the door dick shut, heard his mother drop the latch. There was a moment's silence, then her footsteps on the stairs.

Quickly, knowing there was not a moment to be lost, Josef sprang across the room and out the window. As he scuttled across the rooftops he could hear her shout ring after him.

"Josef?Josef! Come back here, you little bastard! Come back!"

Josef sat on the parapet of a neighbouring house, watching as the Truant Officer stepped out from his front door. He watched him turn to his wife and bow, then lean dose to give her a parting kiss. It was a touching little scene, made all the more poignant by the fact that his daughters - two dark-haired angels, both of preschool age - stood behind their mother's skirts, looking on as their father walked away.

Josef smiled. It had not been hard to find out where he lived. Such things were never difficult. Why, after all, should the man think he were being followed? It was his job to pursue, not theirs. And why should he even begin to suspect that anyone should wish him harm?

And that was the secret, the reason Josef could do these things, because they were like children, all of them. They drifted through life, unaware of the abyss that lay just beneath their feet. Blissfully unaware of the evil that existed all about them. And his mother?

The cold anger he had felt on hearing her words had merely served to harden his resolve. No one would touch him. No one, he swore, would take him away and place him in one of the orphans' work camps.

He watched the wife return inside, shooing her girls before her like a mother hen with her chicks. As the door closed he slipped from the parapet and scrambled across the roof, dropping into the back yard of the neighbouring house.

The door to the makeshift shed was ajar where he'd forced it earlier. Inside were all the things he'd need to do the job.

It wouldn't need much: a length of wick, a large can of lamp oil, a reel of heavy sealing tape, a tinder and and a box of firecrackers. The firecrackers he'd had to buy; the rest had been here already.

He moved it all out, stacking it by the dividing wall, then peeked over. Good. They were inside. The kitchen was empty. Hauling it att up onto the back wall of the yard, he clambered up after it, then jumped down, taking his haul with him. So far so good.

Setting things down, he got to work, tearing off long strips of the sealing tape and sticking them to his legs and arms.

It would have been far easier to do this at night, under cover of darkness, but this once he could not wait. He had to do this now, right now, before the Truant Officer returned.

Satisfied he had enough, he threw the reel down, then picked up the can and, creeping across the yard, went inside. Josef stopped, listening, hearing them up above in one of the bedrooms. He smiled, then took the top off the can and began to slosh the oil about the room, careful not to spill any on himself. Setting it down beside the globe-shaped orange gas tank that supplied the stove, he crouched and disconnected the hose, then turned the tap on just the tiniest bit. Satisfied, he backed out, pulling the door shut silently, sealing it top and bottom with the tape.

He hurried across the yard, knowing it was now wholly a question of timing. If she came down now and smelled the oil, the leaking gas, his scheme would fail. It all depended on how quick he was.

He could hear their laughter from the room above - their childish giggles mixed with the woman's deeper, fuller laughter -and felt a great tide of bitterness wash over him.

She'd never loved him. Never for a moment wanted him. "Dead", she'd said once; "You were born dead."But he wasn't dead. The others were dead. The ones he'd killed. The ones he was about to kill.

He put down the box, the tinder and the wick, then looked about him. Along one side of the yard was a narrow patch of black, cultivated earth. In it was a trowel. He picked it up, then went back, crouching beneath the window.

Striking the tinder, he held it beneath the wick until it lit, then, throwing the tinder aside, opened the lid of the box. Inside there were twenty massive firecrackers. New Year Specials, as they were catted. He grinned, then picked one up.

Again the laughter fell on him, making him tense with anger, bringing the bile back to his throat. Slowly he placed the burning tip of the wick against the fuse, watching the treated paper catch with the tiniest wisp of smoke, the faintest hiss of ignition. Then, standing, he swung the trowel at the window.

It shattered noisily. Overhead the laughter stopped abruptly.

He counted. One - Two - Three. At four, he threw the cracker through the jagged gap in the glass and lit another.

There was a whumpff from inside as the oil ignited. A moment later the cracker began to go off, its explosions like rapid gunshots in that enclosed space.

Laughing now, he threw the second after the first, then lifting the box, heaved the whole lot through the gap, as the screams started overhead.

Then, whooping, like an innocent schoolboy who had just pulled off a prank, he turned about and ran, out through the gate and along the alley, even as the gas tank in the kitchen exploded, its detonation shaking the air like a massive hand.

As she stepped into the hallway, Bara Horacek stopped dead, listening. Her husband was at work and the house ought to have been empty, but there were sounds coming from upstairs - the muted sound of a Media screen.

Setting down her shopping, she made her way slowly, silently up the stairs. The sound came from the end room. So he was in! The little bastard was in!

His door was open a crack. Peering through she saw him on his bed, his back against the headboard, his knees up against his chest. He was staring at the screen, grinning, his eyes lit up.

She had never seen him like this. Never.

She moved slowly to the side, her narrow view of the room changing by the moment, revealing the open window, the dressing table, finally the screen.

On the screen the gutted shell of a house was burning fiercely. Two neighbouring houses had also caught and firemen fought to contain the blaze.

She felt herself go cold, knowing at once what it was - a news report on the accident that afternoon. The commentary was low but dear.

"... came home from work to find his wife and baby daughters dead."

The commentary stopped abruptly, the tape rewound. Again the phrase rang out.

"... came home from work to find his wife and baby daughters dead. Safety Inspectors have yet..."

The sound of laughter shocked her. For a moment she stood there, feeling giddy, her hand steadying her against the wall. Then she heard it again. Laughter. His laughter.

She pushed the door open savagely and stepped inside, confronting him.

Slowly his face changed. Slowly a new look came into his eyes. He pointed past her with the control and switched the screen off.

"Why?" she asked, the anger she felt at that moment making her tremble violently. "Just tett me why?" He sat forward, staring back at her belligerently. "Why what?"

"Why were you laughing? Why ..." She shuddered, seeing that her words were having zero impact on him. "You're an animal," she said quietly, beginning to shake her head. "That's what you are. An evil little animal. That poor man. That poor, poor man. He was here today. Here . . . looking for you."

"I know," he said, his eyes cold now, dead, like stones.

"You ..."

Something broke in her suddenly. All the years of restraint, of keeping back what she felt about him, shaped what happened next. Reaching out she grabbed his foot and putted him toward her.

He yelped and tried to get away, but her grip on him was like iron.

"You little bastard!" she said, lashing out at him with the back of her hand, slapping him again and again and again. "You evil little toad! How dare you laugh at him! How dare you! I should have killed you! I should have put a pillow over your face while you were still in your cot!"

He kicked, loosening her grip, then slipped past her like an eel and out the window.

"Come here!" she yelled, climbing out onto the ledge. "Come back at once!"

But he was gone, his dark shape scuttering like a spider over the roofs and out of sight, and something told her that he wouldn't be back. It had ended. Ended . . . and she would never see him again.

She shivered, then slid down off the ledge. As she turned she half fell into the room, stumbling onto her knees, the blood pounding in her head. For a moment her vision swam, then she came back to herself.

"Aiya'" she said, her voice a groan of pain. "The gods forgive me for what I have let loose upon the world!"

CHAPTER-6

the arch of air

Calder stood at the rail, watching the crowd board the big hover-ship, enjoying the morning sunlight on the bare flesh of his shoulders.

His journey east to Baku had been uneventful. As far as he knew, he had not been followed. In three days, God willing, he would be home. Then, of course, he would have to face the others to explain what had gone wrong and - if he could answer it - why. Until then his time was his own. He could relax ... if that were possible.

The money-chips the fat man had given him were sewn into the lining of his tunic, which he held loosely in one hand. Apart from that he was empty-handed.

Travel light, his father had always told him, and so he did. As light as a butterfly, flitting from leaf to leaf.

He smiled, thinking of the girl, and of what she'd told him. He had been lucky - more lucky than he'd first realised. If he'd stayed at the club they would have got him and he would have joined the six corpses in the Oven Man's cold store. As it was he was alive, and though he would have to begin again, patiently building his contacts and looking for new markets for the tapes, at least he could do that.

To his right, at the top of the boarding ramp, a bell began to ring, slowly, sonorously. He looked about him one last time, then walked leisurely across. Showing his ticket to the steward at the barrier, he started down the ramp. The crossing to Krasnovodsk would take two hours. From there he'd get the fast-track to Ashkhabad. That was the easy part. It was the last stage of his journey, across the Kopet Mountains to Mashhad, which was the most difficult. He could have taken the fast-track, of course, and been in Mashhad by the evening, but they had decided that that would be pushing their luck. Going out, speed had been essential, but coming back he'd as like as not be watched. From what his sister had learned, Warlord Hu's secret service liked to tail returning locals. And for good reason. It was not what went out of Mashhad that they were worried about, but what came in. The last thing Hu Wang-chih wanted was an armed and organised opposition, and his agents acted to ensure it remained that way. Yet there were routes they couldn't cover, old smugglers' tracks across the mountains they didn't know about.

He would need to keep his wits about him if he was to get through in one piece. But that was why he had been chosen in the first place.

Calder stepped on board, pushing through the crowd and down one of the gangways, finding a seat near the back beside the long window. He had been sitting there only a moment when he heard the dull rumble of a shuttle coming down from the upper atmosphere. He leaned forward, staring out through the portal, watching as the tiny dot descended, changing slowly into the discernible shape of an interplanetary craft. As it came closer, so the roar of its retro-engines seemed to beat the air, making the hover-ship vibrate like a plucked string. As the rotund craft settled on the far side of the spaceport, he looked down at the jacket in his lap.

At least it hadn't been a total failure. At least he'd got something for the tape.

He smiled then looked up, nodding pleasantly as an elderly Han with a long white beard moved into the seat beside him. He turned back, looking out across the bay again, then froze, as something hard and small pressed firmly against his lower ribs.

"Keep smiling, Shih Calder," the old man said, his voice a gentle whisper. "And don't try anything. Even a short-sighted old ancient like me can't miss from this range."

"You'd shoot?" he whispered out of the corner of his mouth. "In a public place like this?"

He turned his head, meeting the old man's eyes, seeing at once the calm determination there. "If necessary," the ancient answered. "But I am sure you are more sensible than that, neh, Shih Calder?"

"And when we get to Krasnovodsk?"

The old man's smile was like the Buddha's. "One thing at a time, Shih Calder. One thing at a time."

"Oh, and one final thing," Li Yuan said, setting down the file he'd been reading from and looking at his son.

The prince was standing at the window, staring out across the gardens. He was taller than his father and broader at the shoulder, but, when he turned, there was no mistaking the origin of that face, for those same features stared out from the portrait of his grandfather, Li Shai Tung, that hung above the great fireplace. "Yes, father?"

"I want you to make your entrance at the height of the argument, when it seems Ben Shepherd must make some final, damning statement."

Kuei Jen hesitated, then. "Forgive me, father, but I do not understand. Why should you wish to disturb the celebrations in this manner?"

Li Yuan smiled, gently encouraging his son, as if he were a particularly stubborn horse he had to train. "If s very simple, Kuei. The celebrations are a pretext."

Kuei Jen made to speak, but Li Yuan raised a hand. "You see, to gather together so many important and influential people is not an easy thing. One must have a reason. And sometimes the real reason must be obscured from certain people." "Certain people, father?"

"Like your stepmother." Li Yuan sniffed then went on. "In this instance, I wish to air a certain matter publicly. To enter it into the arena of debate. My purpose, if you like, is to legitimise discussion of the subject. To make it clear to everyone tiiat merely to discuss such matters is not treasonable." "I see. Yet could this not be done another way?"

"No, Kuei Jen. For the matter is a vital one. It has to do not merely with the health but the very future of the State. You understand, now, Kuei Jen?"

Kuei Jen gave the slightest bow. "I think I understand."

"Good." Li Yuan came across and lay his right hand on his son's shoulder, looking up into his face and smiling. "Then you must trust me. I have planned this for a long time now."

Kuei Jen smiled inwardly. His father had not stopped touching him since he'd returned, almost as if to check he were still there, alive and physically present and not some ghost, some mocking hologram.

"And Pei K'ung?" he asked, broaching the one subject they had thus far avoided. "What will she think of all this?"

Li Yuan's face did not change. "Let her think what she will. She can do nothing. She is not T'ang. Nor shall she be, despite what she thinks."

"Even so ..."

"Even so nothing. Her power derives from me. She is as the shadow to the sun. My eclipse would leave her nothing."

Kuei Jen nodded, yet he still felt uneasy. His father was too calm, too certain of himself. Or was there something he wasn't telling him?

He changed the subject. "Are all the guests here now?"

Li Yuan smiled, then let his hand fall away. "All but Ward and his family. And they will be here within the hour."

Again, something in his father's manner alerted him. There was an inner unease, a feeling of disquiet that related directly to Ward. Did his father mistrust the man? Or was it a simple instinctive dislike for the Clayborn?

He had learned much in America, but the greatest lesson had been how to read men; how, from a composite of gesture, mannerism and language, he might come to their innermost thoughts. Not that it was an easy thing to do. No, the trick was to lull a man, to lead him gently away from whatever it was one wished to know from him, then, when one's victim was least expecting it, to detonate a tiny verbal charge - a superficially innocuous query that held a barb within.

So one fished for men's thoughts. So one illuminated what might otherwise remain dark. So the great statesman gained advantage over his enemies.

This he had learned, not from his father, nor his tutors, but from his own careful observation of his fellow men.

"I understand that Shepherd has been working on a new project."

Li Yuan frowned. "He was. For me."

The signals were unmistakable. Here was something his father did not wish to discuss. But why? What had Ben been making that had the power to so disturb his father and darken his mood? And why the past tense? Why "was"? Again, he stepped aside, moving his next query onto safer, more certain ground.

"His son is a strange one, neh, father? Those eyes of his are like his father's - like hungry cameras, sucking it all in, swallowing the world, yet his silence . . ."

Li Yuan nodded, a flicker of distaste - that same distaste he'd registered when talking of Kim Ward - crossing his face. "I find it eerie, too, Kuei Jen, and wonder what will become of the boy. And then, well. . ."

"Father?"

Li Yuan shrugged. When he spoke again there was a definite tone of regret in his voice. "I had hoped it would be for you as it is for Ben and I, as it was for your grandfather, Li Shai Tung and Ben's father, Hal. I had hoped. . . well, that Tom would be your Chief Advisor, as Ben is mine. Mirror to me and sounding-board. But a mirror must be opaque, neh?"

"And a sounding-board should sound?"

Li Yuan gave a short grunt of laughter. "So it is, Kuei Jen. So it is. But that is not to be, neh? You must seek other voices to guide you when it is your time."

Other voices . . . Kuei Jen looked away thoughtfully, then, conscious that his father wished to leave, looked back at him, smiling and taking his hand, bending to kiss the iron ring of power.

"We must be strong, Kuei Jen," Li Yuan said as the young prince straightened, his eyes filled with pride at the sight of his son. "The days to come will not be easy. There will be dark times, but we must face them squarely and come through. It is our destiny. Your destiny."

Kuei Jen bowed, conscious of how ominous that last phrase sounded, then raised his eyes, watching his father turn and leave the room.

Tonight it began. Tonight they took the first step on that path.

Kim reached out and touched the tiny panel on the wall. At once the floor-to-ceiling window of the craft opaqued. He sat back, watching the horizon-to-horizon sprawl of Li Yuan's great European City pass slowly below him like a map. In less than an hour they would be setting down at the San Ch'ang -the Imperial palaces - in Mannheim, yet his thoughts looked back, not forward, his mind still out there in the void between the worlds. All the while some part of him laboured on -tirelessly, relentlessly, like some insane, unsleeping machine -at the problem he had set himself.

He sighed, wishing for once he could be like other men and rest. Wishing he could forget for once those things that drove him, and take solace in more trivial matters.

"Don't worry," Jelka said, smiling at him from across the gangway, attuned as ever to his mood, his very thoughts. "You'll find an answer. You always do."

He gave an answering smile, then sat forward, beckoning to his young daughter, Mileja, who sat facing her mother. She giggled then came across, climbing into his lap.

He held her against him, one hand smoothing her long, dark hair, the simple feel of her comforting him, annulling the abstract anxiety he had been feeling.

"You must be on your best behaviour tonight, Mileja. Lots of important people will be there at the banquet."

She turned slightly, looking into his face, her breath sweet. "Will Yang Chung be there?"

"Yang Chung?" He frowned, at a loss.

"Yang Chung! You know . . ." She hummed a snippet of some theme tune, but still he had no idea what she was talking about. He looked to Jelka.

"He's a trivee actor," Jelka explained. "He plays the hero on Moving The Mountain."

"Ah. . ." But he was still none the wiser. He smiled at Mileja once again. "If Li Yuan has invited him, he'll be there!"

"And if he hasn't?"

Kim laughed. "Then I'll invite him to come and see us at home, okay?"

She clapped her hands, delighted. "You promise?"

"I promise. Now settle down and watch the scenery. We'll be flying over Nuremberg in a while."

She snuggled in contentedly. For a while he dozed. Then, with a little jerk, he came awake again.

"What is it?" Mileja said sleepily.

"Nothing," he said, stroking her back, her hair. "Nothing. . ."

But in those few moments it had come to him, like a gift from the darkness. He knew now what to do. Knew how to fix things so they would work.

He let out a long, sighing breath, the simplicity of his solution giving him an aesthetic satisfaction he very rarely experienced.

All along he had been thinking in terms of sending a beam of light in a single direction: a beam which would then be returned, again in a single direction. He had been thinking of employing boosters to enhance and prolong the signal, yet the problem had always been of keeping them in line, of keeping them focused and supplied with energy. But why have a single beam? Why not build it like one would build a bridge, with spans and supports? Why not keep each part of it in place by making the thing a web -a complex web of light - and why not pulse energy through the whole by tapping the one great power source the galaxy possessed - the power of its suns?

It would not be easy. No. Already his mind began to see all manner of problems. But problems were there to be solved. Now that he had the principle . . .

He looked out - out past Mileja's half-dozing face - toward the north, conscious suddenly of the millions, the tens of millions, who went about their business down below in the streets of the City, unaware that at that moment their future lives, the very shape of their world in years to come, had changed.

A web, a flickering web ... he saw it clearly, spanning the stars - saw the clear and slender, delicate ships that sailed the web - and smiled.

The woman watched from the far side of the passenger cabin as Calder got up and - accompanied, it seemed, by the old Han - made his way toward the front of the ship. Taking care neither to lose sight of him nor draw herself to his attention, she maintained a parallel course, threading her way through the crowd in the gangway and out onto the deck, passing through the gate only seconds after him.

So far, so good. Showing her pass at the barrier, she started down the landing ramp, the drab outline of Krasnovodsk - the five remaining central stacks dominating its skyline like a giant glacier - directly ahead of her, beyond the docks.

If her guess was right, Calder was heading inland, toward Central Asia. If that were the case he would head for the rank and hire a rickshaw to take him to the fast-track, anxious to report back to his bosses as soon as was humanly possible. She began to edge that way, anticipating his change of direction, but for some reason Calder was dragging his feet. She slowed and moved to one side, standing among a group of idle dockworkers.

Up ahead, Calder and the old man had stopped and seemed to be having some kind of altercation. They were face to face and, if not shouting, certainly arguing vigorously over something.

She frowned. Had she missed something? Was the old man a contact of some kind? Or was the argument about something else - something which had nothing to do with his mission?

She edged closer, trying to make out what was being said, but almost as soon as it had begun it was over. Calder walked on, the old man silent, chastened, it seemed, a pace or two behind.

She hurried to catch up, following them as they went to the right and on past the rickshaw rank, ignoring the turn for the fast-track station, taking a left turn instead, down a street fronted by dockside inns then right into a covered market.

Her instructions were straightforward. She was to follow Calder at a distance, find out who he was reporting to, and get that information back to I Ye. She was under strict orders not to make contact with him, and not - under any circumstances -to use her initiative.

Right now, however, she was in trouble, and she knew it. As she looked about her at the bustle of the indoor market, seeing no sign of either Calder or the old Han, she wondered just how the hell she was going to carry out her orders without breaking them. A simple tailing job was one thing -and she was normally quite good at it - but if Calder had contacts here in Krasnovodsk then she might well have to call for back-up.

"Nu shi?"

She turned, finding herself looking directly into the face of the old Han - a smiling, benevolent face.

"Are you looking for someone?" he asked, as if he wished to help her.

She wondered what to say. "My friend. . ." she began. But it was all she managed, for even as she framed the words, even as her mind struggled to invent something to cover the situation, a club thudded against the back of her head.

"Welcome to Krasnovodsk," the old man said, signalling to his men to carry the unconscious agent away. "May your stay be as unpleasant as your Master."

"Colonel I?"

I Ye turned abruptly, irritation making him answer his Captain sharply. "What is it now, man?"

Captain Dawes came smartly to attention, his head bowed. "News from Krasnovodsk, sir."

"Good news, I hope."

The Captain hesitated.

"Aiya ..." I Ye said, exasperated. "What now?"

"The guide signal, sir. It's stopped."

I'Ye let out a long breath. So she was dead. Worse yet, the messenger had got away untraced.

"Shit!" he said, turning away. "Thaf s just what I fucking need right now!"

He turned back. "Is there anyone else we can contact in Krasnovodsk? Anyone who's done any work for us in the past?"

Dawes shrugged. "Not that I know, sir. But I can check."

"Then do so, Captain. And do it nou>\"

"Sir!"

I Ye returned to his desk and sat there a while, frustration making him bring his fists down heavily on the desktop. "Fuck it!"

If you wanted something done properly you had to do it yourself. The trouble was there was too much to do and only one of him. What he lacked was men - yes, and women - he could trust. Agents who would do what they were asked, simply and efficiently, and report back, mission accomplished.

"Damn the woman!" he said, standing again, an unusual restlessness in his muscles. "Damn her!"

He knew what the cause was. It was Pei K'ung. When she itched, everyone in her palace itched. When she was restless, all her servants became restless. That was the nature of things. And right now Pei K'ung was like a nervy adolescent.

"Well, fuck her!" he said, staring out past the guards who lined the balcony to his office toward the northern palace. "Damn and fuck and bugger her!"

"I beg pardon, I Ye?"

He turned, aghast. Ten paces from him stood the Empress herself, two of her junior secretaries in attendance. She had come in silently, unannounced. Hurriedly he came around his desk and, kneeling before her, placed his forehead to the carpeted floor before her feet. Yet as he made to lift his head he felt the sole of her foot press against the top of his skull firmly, pushing it back down.

"Fuck who, Colonel I?"

"I was speaking of my agent, Mistress . . . from Krasnovodsk. She was tailing the messenger . . ."

He felt the pressure on his head lessen, but still her foot remained there.

"What of her?"

He swallowed, knowing he was in deep shit Knowing that she would blame him, whether it was his fault or no. "We have lost contact, Mistress. The guide signal... died."

"And the messenger?"

"Has evaded us for now, Mistress."

She pushed his head to one side with her foot, then moved past him with a swish of her black dress. "You are a fool, I Ye, to send but a single agent on so vital a mission."

Keeping his head lowered, he glanced up at her, trying to gauge her mood. "But she was good, Mistress. One of the best."

"So good she lost her man. So good that she's dead."

Pei K'ung turned, looking down at him. Surprisingly, her face was clear of anger. Astonishingly, she smiled.

"Be that as it may, I have another task for you, I Ye."

Tasks, he thought fleetingly, endless tasks.

"What do you wish, Mistress?" he said, lowering his eyes; her faithful dog again.

"It's very simple," she said, beaming at him now. "I want you to discredit Shepherd."

"Discredit. . ." He almost laughed, almost uttered the first word that had popped into his head - How? But something behind her fixed, radiant smile — something cold and clinically determined - told him it would not be advisable to articulate his doubts. "May I ask why, Mistress?"

"Why?" The smile hardened, becoming fragile.

"What I meant," he said quickly, "is that if I had some idea of your reasons for wanting Shepherd discredited it might make it... easier, perhaps, to accomplish the task."

She was staring at him coldly now. "You want to know my reasons, I Ye? You wish, perhaps, to know everything I'm thinking?"

Oh, shit, he thought; the more I speak, the deeper in I get. He touched his forehead to the floor.

"It shall be done, Mistress," he said, the hollowness of his voice apparent even to himself.

"Good. And no delays. I want it done, and I want it done soon, do you understand me, Colonel I?"

"Mistress!"

Yet as she swept from the room, his confidence dissolved beneath the realisation that, for the first time ever, he was in trouble. Big trouble. Why, it would be easier to kill Ben Shepherd than discredit him. The man was a law unto himself. Besides, he had the great Tang's ear.

I Ye sighed and scratched his head, perplexed. How did one discredit such a man?

By disclosing some aspect of his sexual behaviour?

Normally, perhaps. But how could one slander a man who openly slept with his own sister?

By proving somehow that he took bribes?

The very thought of it was absurd. As one of the richest men in Chung Kuo, Shepherd was not susceptible to bribes. Why, he was as near as damn it self-sufficient. Not only that, but from what he'd heard, Shepherd could tell Li Yuan to fuck off if he wished - yes, to his face - and Li Yuan would take it. No, the only way he might possibly discredit Shepherd was to implicate him somehow in a conspiracy against Li Yuan. To establish him in the same camp as Li Yuan's enemies.

And who were they?

The Warlords?

No. That would be far too difficult to arrange. It would take time, and Pei K'ung had told him soon.

Who else then?

The answer stared him in the face. Li Yuan faced but a single threat - had only one real enemy - and that was his wife, Pei K'ung. To discredit Shepherd, he would have to discredit his Mistress.

I Ye groaned, despairing, then pulled himself up off his knees. No delays, she'd said. She wanted it done and done soon.

And if he failed?

If he failed he was dead. Or worse, she might make him live.

The roar of the cruiser's engines filled the air as it set down on the pad. Tom, standing by the hangar doorway, waited a few seconds, then ran toward the craft.

And as he ran he saw himself suddenly from the window of the craft, running across the matt black surface, dodging between guards and technicians. The doubled image made him slow, his head swimming, his senses confused.

There was laughter in his head. I'll dose my eyes, Sampsa said clearly.

His vision cleared. He walked on, his heart hammering now, the thought that he was finally about to meet his other self making him tremble with anticipation.

Ten paces from the craft he stopped, looking up as the hatch in the side of the big, beetle-like craft irised open and the ramp unfolded like an insect's leg.

Tom, shuddered. The tension he was feeling made his jaw ache, his stomach spasm with cramp.

Easy, Tom, Sampsa said, trying to calm him; always the "elder" of the two, always the steadying influence. It's only me. As Sampsa opened his eyes again, Tom saw the inside of the craft, the open hatchway to his left, the back of Jelka's head, her long golden hair - hair that was like fine-spun silk - moving briefly through his vision. I'm frightened . . .

I know. Sampsa's voice was like balm. Just dose your eyes. Ill come to you.

Tom obeyed, watching through Sampsa's eyes as he stepped up to the hatch and looked down. For a moment he saw himself clearly, as if in a mirror, then he was looking into someone else's face - into Kim's, he realised. "Are you all right, Sampsa?"

Sampsa laughed. "I'm fine. Look! Tom's here. He's come to greet us." "Tom?"

As Sampsa turned, Tom saw himself again, standing there awkwardly, his eyes closed, his hands at his side; a tall, ungainly creature with dark hair and casual, western clothes. Slowly, as in a dream, he came toward himself, until he stood but an arm's length away, staring into his own face. Tom? You can open them now. With a tiny shiver, he let his eyes flick open.

Sampsa?

There, superimposed upon his own, was a face he had only ever seen a handful of times before, reflected in one or other of the mirrors in the house in Kalevala. He reached out, touching that face, tracing the features, the warmth of it - its physical reality - making his nerves tingle. He met Sampsa's eyes and frowned, the frown reflected back and forth, as if down a hall of mirrors.

Hey, you're really real.

Sampsa reached up and took Tom's hand, lacing their fingers together. It's strange, isn't it?like being on some kind of weird drug that blurs all the edges. Everything's doubled. Why, I can even see what's directly behind me.

Inside his head Tom laughed. The fear had gone. In an instant it had vanished, driven away by the reality of being there with Sampsa.

Hello, he said, his eyes widening in a smile.

Hetto yourself, Sampsa answered silently, then reached out, embracing Tom. They stood there a moment, their eyes closed, simply hugging each other.

"You two know each other?"

Tom looked up, meeting Jelka's eyes, surprised once more by her austere, unearthly beauty.

"This is Tom, mother," Sampsa answered, turning to face her. "Tom, this is my mother, Jelka Ward, only daughter of Marshal Knut Tolonen. And this," he said as Kim stepped up, "is my father, Kim Ward. Father, this is my old friend, Tom. Tom Shepherd."

"Soyou're Ben Shepherd's son." Kim looked to his son. "But I thought. .."

"He doesn't speak," Sampsa said simply.

"Ah . . ." Kim frowned. "Old friends, you say?"

Sampsa nodded, explaining nothing.

Kim looked at Tom again, clearly confused, then, shrugging, put out his hand. "Well, whatever . . . it's good to meet you, Tom Shepherd. Very good indeed."

Calder sat in the tiny cellar room, his head in his hands, trying not to hear the woman's screams from the cell next door.

They had been at it for more than an hour now, and still the interrogation went on - still her pitiful cries went unheeded.

Bastards, he thought, wondering how the old man's organisation could square their idealistic aims with such patent barbarity.

"We are like you", the old man, Lu Song, had told him earlier. "We want what you want. Peace, a good life for all men, and an end to the rule of Hu Wang-chih."

That much they had agreed on, but just how they set about bringing down the great Warlord was a different matter entirely.

"She is your enemy," Lu Song had said, surprised that he objected to her torture. "You think she would have even blinked an eye if it were you and not her on the table? Besides, she serves that insect, I Ye. What does that make her?"

A woman, he thought, gritting his teeth as she began to shriek again. Besides, you enjoyed watching her, old man. I saw the hideous grin you wore, the tell-tale swelling at your groin.

He looked up, sighing heavily. A deal. . . he'd made a deal with them. His safe passage for information. And for copies of all future tapes.

"And if I double-cross you?" he had asked, staring into the old man's face.

"Then you will die," Lu Song had answered, matter-of-factly.

And he could well believe it. After all, they had found him easily enough at Baku. It was not difficult to believe they would find him in Mashhad. It made him realise how 'insecure' their operation was.

Even so, his colleagues would not be happy. They had hoped to do this secretly, silently, their organisation dissolving like the morning mist when their goal had been achieved and Hu Wang-chih was dead.

But matters had grown complicated. Somehow word had got out what they were up to, so that what had seemed straightforward was now diverse. The death of the club owner and those others, and now the death of this woman - these clouded things, making them morally obtuse.

A single death - the death of Hu Wang-chih - would have paid for many. That death was justified. He could live with such a death. But these?

The woman's screams tore at his insides. He stared sightlessly at the door and shuddered. Was it true what Lu Song had said? Would she have looked on indifferently, if it were he stretched out there on the torture slab?

Or did it even matter? Wasn't the important thing what he felt? Whether he could live with this on his conscience?

He was no longer quite so sure. After all, weren't the servants every bit as bad, and just as much to blame for things as their masters? For if so, then killing Hu Wang-chih was not enough. They would have to kill thousands. The rivers would have to run red with the blood of their victims.

No. One man. That was all they had to kill. One man. He had to believe that. Had to. Or he was lost.

Ebert stood back, letting his surprise guests enter.

"Why, Shih Ward, Nu Shi Ward . . . what an unexpected pleasure! I'd heard you'd arrived, but I thought . . . well, I thought I'd be meeting you later, at the banquet."

"If s Kim, please," Ward said, offering his hand to the blind man, the camera eyes above Eberf s head relaying the gesture to him.

Ebert took the offered hand unfalteringly. "Kim . . . welcome. My people have much to thank you for. Without your support these past ten years our colonies would have gone under more than once."

"And I have much to thank you for, Hans Ebert. Jelka told me long ago what you did for her, back on Mars. Without your intercession . . . without you and the Osu, that is, who knows what would have become of my beloved Jelka?"

"I did only what I had to," Ebert said, looking to Kim's wife. "I owed her a debt of honour."

Jelka smiled. "Which was repaid in full and more."

Ebert bowed his head gallantly. "I am glad you think so. But. . . well, let us not hang about here in the doorway. Come inside, please. I have fruit juice . . . and other, stronger things."

"Fruit juice is fine," Kim said, stepping past Ebert into the suite then looking about him. "Li Yuan treats us well, neh?" "And so he should," Ebert said, closing the door, then following Jelka across. "He too has owed a debt these past twelve years. Perhaps a greater debt than any here."

Kim shrugged but made no comment. He was Li Yuan's man, Ebert knew. His career, his wealth, his very existence - all had resulted from Li Yuan's patronage. And though he was a powerful man now - perhaps the most powerful man beside the T'ang in all Chung Kuo, he had never forgotten who had given him his start.

Ebert liked that. He liked the inbred loyalty of the man. But sometimes loyalty was not enough.

He went to the drinks table and poured two orange juices, then brought them back across, handing one to Jelka, then offering one to Kim.

"You've heard, I take it, of the planned campaign?" "Campaign?" Kim shook his head. "What kind of campaign?"

"A war, I'd guess you'd call it."

"War?' Kim set his glass down on the table and stepped closer. "Li Yuan is considering war? Are you sure about this?"

"An Edict authorising the raising of taxes was issued two days ago. The campaign itself, so I've heard, will begin just as soon as we've gained allies among the Asian Warlords."

One of Ebert's camera eyes had come down almost to eye-level, providing him with a clearer view of Kim's face.

Kim let out a great huff of a sigh, his eyes greatly troubled. "This is grave news indeed. I had hoped . . ." He shook his head. "It is not too late, then?" "Too late?"

"To persuade Li Yuan against such folly."

"Who knows? But I am certain of this much. Pei K'ung has given Marshal Karr his orders. Karr is to go to the fortress city of Mashhad two days from now. There he will have an audience with the Warlord, Hu Wang-chih and seek to persuade that venerable butcher to side with us against his fellow Warlords."

"Aiya . . ." Kim turned away, one hand pulling at his chin in agitation. "What virus could have invaded Li Yuan's senses? We've come so far. We've accomplished so much. But this . . ."

"Is madness, neh?"

Ebert saw how Kim drew back from saying as much; from offering any criticism of his T'ang, but it was undoubtedly what he'd been thinking.

"You've spoken to him?" Kim asked.

"Not yet. Not fully anyway."

"You think he will consult us?"

"Oh, he must. After all, he will desire the support of all his friends, neh? To go to war without consulting us would be unthinkable."

"And if we advise against?"

Ebert laughed, his blind eyes seeming to smile. "I think he will go to war anyway. I think he's bored, you see. I think he's had enough of Pei K'ung and her petty intrigues. Besides, if s my belief he made a promise to his son."

Kim stared at him, frowning deeply. "A promise? I know nothing of this."

"I have no proof, of course. Just something that was said to me in private."

Kim looked away, disturbed. Just then a door at the far end of the room opened and a stoop-backed figure appeared.

"Master Tuan?" Kim asked, uncertainly, taking a step toward the old man. "Is that really you?"

Tuan Ti Fo shuffled across, then, two paces from Kim, stopped and bowed low, his hands pressed together in a prayer-like greeting.

"It has been a long time, neh, Kim Ward? A long, long time."

Kim stepped forward, embracing the old man warmly. "Tuan Ti Fo ... where have you been? I thought..."

"You thought I was dead, neh?"

Kim laughed, then bowed, mirroring Tuan's earlier gesture. "I am delighted to be proven wrong." He stepped back a little, looking the old man up and down. "You haven't aged a day."

"And you look middle-aged. I hear you have children now. A fine boy, Sampsa, and a daughter, Mileja."

"That's so," Kim said, unable to keep from beaming. He turned, putting a hand out toward Jelka. "Jelka... come meet an old and very dear friend of mine, Tuan Ti Fo. It was Master Tuan who found me that time after the attack on the Project. You remember? That time you told your father where to look for me. It was Master Tuan who nursed me and kept me safe from harm."

She came forward and embraced the old man. "Then I have much to thank you for." She turned, looking to Ebert again. "How strange, that we should all meet thus."

"Me fa tzu," the old man said. It is fate.

While Kim talked to the old man, Jelka went across and stood beside Ebert.

"You want to know the truth?" she asked, staring at him, her eyes pained by the sight of those burned and empty sockets.

"It depends," he said, turning partly toward her.

Jelka looked down, suddenly abashed. "The truth is, Hans, I owe you my life."

"No." He shook his head then raised his right hand, the index finger lifted in gentle admonishment. "The truth is I owed you a life. Besides, you gave me the chance to redeem myself. To prove myself. That was important to me. More important than I can say."

"I was wrong," she said, moved by his words, by the simple dignity he displayed. "You proved to me a man can change his nature."

"I had much help," he answered, smiling and looking to Tuan. "Without the Way. . . without Master Tuan to guide me through the darkness, I doubt if I'd have made it in one piece."

"And your wife?"

"She died," he said, a brief pain showing in his face. "A year back. She ..." He shook his head, unable to continue, then, a sudden anger in his voice, he went on. "My faith in Mother Sky ought to console me, I know. It ought to teach me to accept what happened, but it doesn't. I still hurt inside at her loss. I still ask why."

She reached out and touched his hand. It was the first sympathetic contact she had ever had with him. He smiled, then took her hand in his own, squeezing it.

"I would have made you a dreadful husband, Jelka Tolonen. You chose well when you chose Kim."

She nodded, smiling thoughtfully as she looked across to where Kim was deep in conversation with Tuan Ti Fo. "Yes. Yet there are still some who say I married him only for his money."

"Does it matter what they say?"

Her smile broadened. She looked back at Ebert. "No. But sometimes I think it hurts him when he reads such nonsense. People . . . they're so unthinkingly cruel."

He nodded. "Still . . . I'm glad you found happiness."

"Yes." She smiled, then leaned in and kissed his cheek. "That's for all you did, Hans Ebert. And for all you've yet to do."

On the other side of the room, Kim laughed then shook his head exaggeratedly. "Gods, no, Master Tuan!" he said, "there's barely time to shit, if you'll forgive the expression. If I were to rest. . ."

"Oh, but you should rest, young Kim. Rest is good for you. Good for the body and good for the soul. Without it. . ."

"And you, Master Tuan," Kim said, short-circuiting the lecture he knew the old man was about to deliver. "What have you been up to?"

"Me?" Tuan Ti Fo smiled benignly. "Why, I have been perfecting my endgame, young Kim. We ought to play some time. Perhaps I would be able to beat you now."

"Perhaps . . ." Kim smiled, remembering how it had been between them. Then, as if reconsidering the idea, he gave a decisive nod. "Okay. Let's do that. Tomorrow, maybe? In the afternoon?"

Tuan Ti Fo shrugged. "I think you might be otherwise engaged."

Kim raised an eyebrow. "How so?"

Master Tuan's smile was gentle, enigmatic. "Wait and see, young Kim. Just wait and see."

Tom was just finishing getting ready for the banquet when Sampsa slipped into the room. He turned, surprised there had been nothing in his head to warn him. How did you do that?

Sampsa smiled. It's simple. I just don't think of you. You can do that? So could you, if you tried. But I thought. . .

Sampsa put his forefinger to Tom's brow. You want me in there all the time? Then, more soberly. It's her again, isn't it? You've been thinking of her. Tom nodded, his thoughts open to his friend. She's very pretty.

Again Tom nodded, then sat down on a nearby chair. His eyes met his friend's / can't stop thinking about her. I can't eat. I can't... He shrugged. I can't think about anything but her. You know what? What?

I think you're in love with her. In love?

Don't be so shocked. It happens. But she's . . . A sing-song girl. So? So?

So nothing. You want me to be judgmental? Sampsa sat beside him, then reached out, taking his hand. Once again the feeling was doubled; Tom felt it both through his own senses and through Sampsa's. It was strangely like being in a shell with the guide-track running.

No. No, I. . . Tom wanted to draw back, but his thoughts ran on. I want you to understand.

But I do, Tom. You want her, so go and get her. But not tonight. Tomorrow. Okay? Ill come with you. We'll go and find her again. You promise?

But he could feel the certainty there in Sampsa's head. It was impossible for Sampsa to lie to him.

Sampsa?

"I know," Sampsa said softly, smiling, squeezing his hand gently. "Now come on. We'll be late if you don't get ready now.

The Hall of Everlasting Spring was packed from end to end. Beneath the high vaulted ceiling, all the great and good of the kingdom - courtiers and ministers, company heads and members of the Twenty-Nine, colonels and majors, artists and media stars, senior representatives and personal friends of the T'ang - were gathered, talking and rubbing shoulders, while servants in blood-red silks moved among them, making sure their wine cups were never empty, their mouths never lacking for some rare delicacy.

At one end of the Hall, beneath a huge Imperial banner - the blood-red dragon emblazoned across a full white moon - Li Yuan sat on the dragon throne, a queue of kneeling guests at the foot of the steps, their heads bowed low, waiting to be received.

At a signal from the Chief Steward at the door, a fanfare sounded, announcing the arrival of a special guest. All eyes turned as the huge figure of the Marshal, Gregor Karr, entered beneath the arch, his daughters and his wife just behind him. Karr turned slightly, waiting for them to catch up with him. Taking his wife's arm, he walked on between the parting lines of guests, heading directly for the throne.

"Marshal Karr," Li Yuan greeted him, according him the special honour of getting to his feet and coming down to him. "And Marie," he added, smiling, then nodding to her. "I am glad you could come. You are most welcome here."

"Chieh Hsia," Karr answered, saluting him, his head lowered. In his dress uniform he looked magnificent; every inch a soldier. Raising his head again, he turned slightly, then put out a hand as his daughters stepped forward as one.

All four had had their blonde hair put up, and in their matching powder-blue dresses, they looked a stunning sight. They were all strikingly tall. May was almost her mother's height and build, while Hannah and Lily were easily the match of any man in the hall - with the exception of their father. Even young Beth seemed more like an eight- or nine-year-old than a child of five.

"Chieh Hsia . . ." Karr began, beaming with pride, "might I present my daughters, May, Hannah, Lily and Beth."

The girls smiled, then bowed their heads, the youngest, Beth, just slightly out of time with her elder sisters.

Unexpectedly, Li Yuan returned their bow. "I am delighted to meet you, ladies. You are most welcome here in my Hall. You are a credit to your father and mother." He smiled warmly as his eyes went from one to another. "I hope very much that you enjoy tonight's festivities."

There was a brief exchange of glances among them, and then, at the eldest, May's signal, they answered him, their voices forming a chorus.

"We are most honoured to be here, Chieh Hsia. May the heavens smile on you."

There was a pause, then May spoke alone.

"Ten thousand years!" she said, lifting her voice so all in the hall could hear.

"Ten thousand years!" the other three echoed, the traditional toast to an Emperor being taken up by all in the great hall.

And amid the sudden uproar, young Beth looked to her father and saw how proudly he was looking at them, a great beam of a smile splitting his face.

"Ten thousand years!" she yelled exuberantly. "Ten thousand years!"

Pauli Ebert sipped from the fluted glass, then, smiling courteously, answered Jelka's query.

"To be honest with you, aunt, I don't know. Both have merits, I suppose, but as to which would be more beneficial.. ."

He shrugged, then sipped again.

Two hours had passed and the great mass of people in the Hall had split into smaller groups who now stood, talking among themselves and drinking, discussing the issues of the day and -as any occasion was a good occasion for it - doing business.

Hans Ebert's son was twenty-five now and had been Head of the massive GenSyn corporation for the best part of seven years. Even in that elite company he was someone to know, someone whose every word held great significance, and so a substantial crowd - maybe fifty or sixty in all - had gathered about his party.

Just now they were talking of the plan to build a new canal south to the shore of the Mediterranean and whether they ought to choose the meandering "western" route to the port of Avignon or the more direct "eastern" route to Verona. The western route was almost twice as long, but the eastern route would mean tunnelling through the Alps. Both schemes had their advocates and detractors, and many there, listening and looking on, would be directly affected by the decision if it were ever made - so what Ebert had to say was of great importance. GenSyn's unequivocal backing for either alternative would, in effect, settle the matter. Conscious of this, Ebert took care to choose his words carefully.

"In fact," he said, as if he had only thought about it there and then and had not spent months poring over the plans and costings of the rival projects, "both schemes have much to recommend them."

"Then why not both?"

Pauli turned slightly, facing Michael Lever. With a respectful nod of the head, he answered him, his Eurasian features cast into a thoughtful smile. Lever, Head of ImmVac, was one of his major trading rivals, yet the two men - despite the twenty years difference in their ages -were good friends.

"You think we could afford two such massive projects, Michael? You've seen the costings."

Lever stretched his gaunt body, then nodded his prematurely grey head. "I have. And yes, Pauli, I think we could. Why, the increased trade from Africa alone would pay for them both within twenty years."

"That's if there isn't war," Hans Ebert said, from where he stood among the Osu, the twin cameras circling his head.

"War, father?"

"Things happen," Hans said, not pursuing the matter in that company. "My point is that to undertake such schemes one needs stability. Workers must be fed and paid. Investors must be certain that the scheme will not merely be carried out, but will bring them future benefits, and such certainty depends on peace, wouldn't you say?"

Pauli bowed his head, acknowledging his father's words, yet it was another who answered Ebert senior.

"Not always so. Sometimes war can stimulate growth. Necessity can shape events as much as profit, wouldn't you say, Shih Ebert?"

Hans turned to face the newcomer to the group, Ming Ai, keeping whatever distaste he felt for Pei K'ung's private secretary from his face.

"There's some truth in that," he admitted. "Yet personally I find the cost too high. War destroys. And not merely companies and trade. War is like a hungry mouth, devouring all it can find. It feeds on human misery. No, given the choice, Ming Ai, I would settle for stability and peace. I've had my fill of war."

There was a strong murmur of assent from the gathering at that, yet Ming Ai pressed on, oblivious.

"And yet you yourself raised the possibility, Shih Ebert. And why? Because, as you know, this world of ours is no longer the world our grandfathers knew - no longer a single, solid world ruled by a powerful elite. Our world is now a dangerous place, divided against itself. A thousand kingdoms vie for supremacy, and which will it be?"

"You speak as though there were some immediate threat," Kim Ward said from where he stood beside his wife.

Ming Ai turned, looking to him. "Immediate? Perhaps not, Shih Ward. Yet as Shih Ebert rightly said, things happen. Situations change. Why, it would take but a small shift in power among our West Asian neighbours and the whole region would be plunged into war - a war we would find it hard not to get involved in." Ming Ai looked down at his hands thoughtfully. "Such, alas, is the reality of our times. Oh, I admit that there are no great enemies out there now determined to break us on the wheel -

no Lehmanns or Devores - yet even the most petty war can start a major conflagration."

"Only if we were to allow it," Hans Ebert answered, the slightest edge to his voice now. "Wars only happen when people forget how to talk to each other. We should be actively encouraging trade and the free exchange of information with our neighbours, not seeking to undermine them all the while." He quickly raised a hand. "Oh, and please don't tell me that we aren't, Ming Ai, for I know it for a fact!"

"Then you know much that I do not." Ming Ai smiled pleasantly, yet there was a combative tenseness to his stance now that had not been there earlier. "As far as I am aware, we have been doing exactly what you suggest. Why, trade with our Asian neighbours trebled last year!"

"That's hardly something to boast about," Lever answered sardonically. "Three times fuck-all is still fuck-all!"

There was a roar of laughter at that. Ming Ai bristled, then responded, his politeness razor-thin.

"Forgive me, Shih Lever, but I think you miss my point. The figures may be small, but it is, at least, a start. A step in the right direction."

"Forgive me, Ming Ai," Lever said, mirroring the eunuch's smile, "but that's bollocks and you know it!"

Ming Ai looked about him, seeing how every face was turned against him and looked down, swallowing. "Well," he said, after an uncomfortable moment, "we seem to have come a long way from the matter in hand. Canals." He smiled, recovering his equanimity. "What would we do without canals . . ."

Later, when Ming Ai had moved on, the four men met together in one of the ante rooms - Pauli Ebert, his father, Hans, Michael Lever and Kim Ward.

"Well?" Pauli asked. "What was that about?" "He was busy seeding," Hans said quietly. "Planting the idea of war before the actuality."

"Then the rumours are true," Lever said, his face concerned.

"Pei K'ung plans a campaign."

"So it would seem," Hans answered. "Why else the taxes?"

"To build canals?"

They laughed at that, but their laughter quickly died. This was deadly serious - they all saw that now.

"She'll need a pretext," Pauli said, looking about him at the others.

But his father was shaking his head. "That'll be the least of her worries. She can invent a pretext. No. What's important here is how we 11 react to her plans. Whether we'll go along with her or not. That's why she sent that eel among us. To sound us out."

"You think we can dissuade her, then?" Kim asked.

"Perhaps." But Ebert said it without conviction.

"I think we're ignoring one important factor," Lever said, looking from face to face. "We're forgetting Li Yuan. What does he think about all this?"

"No disrespect intended, but does it matter what he thinks?" Pauli asked. "Pei K'ung is de facto ruler. We all know that. When was the last time he opposed her on anything? No. If Pei K'ung wants war, he'll go along with her."

"Or risk civil war," Lever said, nodding his agreement.

"Unless . . ." Hans began.

Pauli frowned. "Unless what?"

Hans shrugged. "I don't know. It's just that this doesn't feel right. If Li Yuan gives in to her on this, it simply strengthens her hand."

"Maybe so," Pauli said, nodding, "but Michael's right. His only other option is to fight her. And as we know, Pei K'ung^s position right now is strong. Stronger than it's ever been, in fact. If Li Yuan fought her, he would lose. And where would we be then?"

"Up shit canal!" Lever said, and again they laughed.

"He should delay her," Kim said, his face dark with apprehension. "Put her off somehow."

"You think he can?" Pauli asked.

"Who knows?" Lever answered. "Yet it would be preferable to war, neh? And maybe the old girl would do us all a favour in the meantime."

They stared at him, astonished.

"Well?" Lever asked, looking about him. "You mean you've never - and I mean, never ever - wished for it? Never dreamed of waking up and hearing on the Media that the old crow had finally passed on?"

There were shrugs, reluctant nods.

"It's no answer," Kim said after a moment. "No, we must be practical in this. We must see what steps can be taken to prevent this."

"So what do you suggest?" Lever asked, looking to Kim.

"A meeting," Kim answered. "A week from now. You can come to my place. To Kalevala. And maybe we can invite a few others . . ."

"You think that's wise?" Hans asked.

Kim looked to him, surprised. "You think it isn't, then?"

Hans laughed, turning his blind eyes heavenward. "Why, sometimes you surprise me, Kim Ward."

"Surprise you?"

Ebert reached out, taking Kim's arm gently. "Think of it, Kim. Just think how Pei K'ung would see it. The four of us - four powerful, influential men - meeting to discuss our opposition to her plans. Put yourself in her place, Kim Ward, then answer for yourself whether you think it would be wise to involve anyone outside this little group."

"Ah ..." Kim said, his mouth falling open. "I see . .."

"But let us do as you say," Ebert went on. "Let us meet and talk further. For now, however, let us get back before we're missed. I understand the entertainments are about to begin!"

The main festivities had ended an hour back, with displays of archery and bareback riding in the Hall of Supreme Virtue. Since then, Li Yuan had been holding audience in one of the smaller halls.

It had been years since anyone had had such free and easy access to the T'ang and a great number there were taking advantage of the unexpected opportunity, wanting -every last one of them wanting - some favour from their T'ang.

Ben Shepherd, looking on from his position at the foot of the dais, took in every last detail of the ritual, every last nuance of behaviour.

Men, he thought dismissively, as though they were a different species from him. Such insignificant littie creatures they were. And so transparent.

Take the specimen who currently abased himself at Li Yuan's feet. Fa Chun had been a nothing - a street sweeper, so the rumour had it - before the City's fall. Yet in those chaotic years that followed Fa Chun had made a fortune speculating in the new building materials. Where and how he had got the money to invest was shrouded in mystery - though word had it that certain members of the brotherhoods were never far from his Mansion's doors - but the fact was that he was now one of the richest men in City Europe, having diversified into Pharmaceuticals and entertainment.

Fa Chun was a rich man, but the newly-rich were never satisfied; they always wanted more.

So what favour did he want from Li Yuan?

Shepherd laughed silently. Fa Chun wanted what all the self-made hsiaojen wanted. He wanted to marry into royalty. To tie his new money into old privilege. Oh, ten thousand years might pass and still worms like him would try to give their rapa-ciousness the gilt of respectability.

Right now Fa Chun wheedled around the subject, trying to ask without actually asking, to suggest what it was he wanted without quite saying it directly. For directness in such a sensitive area just would not do. Not here, anyway.

Others - Minor Family princes, who could be bought for ten a fen these days - would pursue the matter for him at a later date, cultivating the right climate for its growth. Right now it was enough that Fa Chun planted the seed.

Ben yawned. He had seen enough. Besides, it was almost time.

He smiled and, looking to Li Yuan, slowly shook his head. At once the T'ang raised his right hand, silencing Fa Chun, then turned, looking to Shepherd.

"What is it, my friend?"

Ben moved closer, stopping beside the kneeling man, his right foot only inches from Fa Chun's outstretched hand.

"Aren't you bored with all this, Li Yuan? Doesn't all this petty seeking for advantage tire you?"

There was a low hiss of disbelief, the sound of a thousand indrawn breaths.

"Not at all," Li Yuan answered calmly, unfazed by the brutal openness of the query. "Does the beating of your heart tire you, Ben Shepherd? Does the quiet passage of the blood about your veins make you feel like quitting life? No. Nor this I. For these men are the blood that pumps within the imperial veins, this ritual the beating of the imperial heart. Without this there is no nourishment of the imperial body. And without nourishment there is no breath, no thought."

There was a great murmur of satisfaction at this. On all sides heads were nodding now. Men looked to each other, smiling. The T'ang had answered well.

"A good answer," Ben went on, conscious of Fa Chun still grovelling on the ground below him. "But what when the blood is sick? What when the valves that feed the veins and arteries are swollen and malfunctioning, the heart itself diseased? What when the veins are clogged and cancerous?"

The silence spread, filling the Great Hall. Suddenly all eyes were on the throne; all listened for an answer.

Li Yuan smiled dourly. "If the blood is sick and the heart itself diseased, why then, the cure is obvious. The blood should be purged, the heart removed and replaced."

Again, men looked to each other; but now they sought some clue as to what was meant. The very openness of the exchange worried them.

Ben stood back a little, half turned now to the crowd, his manner vaguely theatrical. "Removed? How removed? What surgeon is there here could undertake such a task?" He looked across to where the T'ai shih-ling, the Court Astrologer, was standing, and beckoned him across. "Tsui Ku . . . come here a moment! Maybe you, who see the shape of things so clearly, might illuminate us?"

Tsui Ku looked back at Ben aghast, clearly startled by his request. "B-b-b .. ." he stammered.

"Come now," Ben continued. "Let's b-b-begin the task at once, neh, Master Tsui? If the blood is sick, why, then let us cast the oracle and see what the ancient book suggests!"

Heng Yu, who had been standing off to one side of the throne beside Pei K'ung and her party, now stepped forward, clearly distressed. "Shih Shepherd . . . hasn't this foolishness gone far enough? These are private matters, surely?"

"Private?" Ben looked about him almost imperiously, as if, at that moment, he were T'ang. "Yet we talk of matters of the State. Are such things only to be mentioned behind locked doors?"

Behind him Li Yuan sat quietly, making no attempt to silence his Chief Advisor.

Heng Yu turned to face his Master, bowing to the waist. "Chieh Hsia>"

"Yes, Master Heng?"

"Forgive me, Chieh Hsia, but what Shih Shepherd has been saying.. ."

"Go on, Heng Yu."

"Well, Chieh Hsia, it seems to me tantamount to criticism." He paused, then carried on. "Criticism of your worthy self."

Li Yuan raised an eyebrow. "How so?"

Heng Yu lowered his head, almost squirming now. He had clearly expected his Master's understanding; perhaps even his backing, but neither had been forthcoming." Well, Chieh Hsia. . . it seems. . . well, it seems to me that Shih Shepherd is implying that you . . . you yourself, Great Master, are in some way ... diseased."

"Me?" Li Yuan laughed. The Hall was deathly still. The T'ang turned, looking to Shepherd once more. "Is that so, Shih Shepherd? Am I sick?"

Ben turned and smiled at Li Yuan, then looked past him to where Pei K'ung stood, ashen-faced and angry, looking on.

"You, my Lord? Why no. Did I say as much? All I said .. ."

Pei K'ung stepped forward, confronting Shepherd, her hand raised commandingly. "Shih Shepherd! You will desist! I find your words both offensive and distasteful!"

Ben's eyes twinkled with malice. "Why, Lady Pei. . . that's very strange indeed, for I find your looks both offensive and distasteful. As for your sexual habits . . ."

"Enough?' Pei K'ung said sharply, her face burning with anger. Climbing the steps she stood over her husband, one hand gripping the arm of his throne. "Li Yuan, will you put up with this?"

Li Yuan looked up at her and smiled coldly. "Not at all. Yet Shih Shepherd has a point, don't you think, Pei K'ung? Perhaps these matters need to be talked of openly. To be aired and discussed at length. To do otherwise ..."

She raised her hand to slap him, then slowly lowered it again, realising what she had done. He was still smiling at her; a coldly controlled and mocking smile.

"You disagree?" he asked, the question a barb.

A dissonant fanfare sounded. There was the beating of a drum and then two bells, one high, one low. All turned, looking to the head of the stairs as the great doors swung open.

It was the Prince, Kuei Jen, and on his arm, dressed in the dragon and peacock robes of a bride, was the Princess Hsun Chu-lo.

Li Yuan stood and went down the steps, the crowd making way before him, their heads bowed low, as he went to greet the couple, while behind him his wife turned and, gesturing angrily to her party, stormed from the Hall, her long face dark with fury.

Calder paced the tiny room silently, unable to sleep. It had been quiet for hours now, no sound from the woman or her tormentors. It was late - how late he didn't know - but the footfalls overhead had stopped some while back, no doubt when the market had closed for the night.

Lu Song had said he could go in the morning, but who knew what the old man and his friends were up to. Even now they might be discussing his fate; arguing over whether he should live or die; whether he too shouldn't follow the woman onto the torture slab.

He shivered, unable to get that sound out of his memory -the sound of her hopeless screaming. Pausing, he looked to the door, then went across and leaned against the erwood surface, listening. Nothing. Yet as he made to move back, he felt the door give slightly and, frowning, gave it the smallest push.

Slowly, silently, it swung back, revealing the half-lit corridor, the facing steps that led up to the indoor market.

Cautiously he stepped out, one hand to the wall. A few paces away, on a chair beside a small table, sat a guard, his head propped back against the wall behind him, his mouth open, fast asleep.

Calder swallowed. The door to the cell was just beside the guard. There were bolts top and bottom, but they had not been slid across. Nor was the door even closed. It stood ajar, a single wall-lamp lighting the fetid room.

He stepped past the guard, barely daring to breath lest he wake him, then put his hand to the door, peering in through the grill.

The woman was still there on the slab, her bone-white body slick with blood, her wrists and ankles secured. Whether she was dead or not he couldn't tell; in that wan light even the living would have seemed corpse-like.

He turned, studying the guard a moment, watching his breathing, then stepped inside, alert in case this was another trap, yet as he stood there beside the slab all thought of his own safety drained from him.

Aiya, he thought, seeing just what they'd done. How could you. bastards do this to her? How could you?

He stared at her, studying her wounds, grimacing as he recalled her cries, her pale nakedness - the thought of just how helpless she had been - stirring his deepest sympathy. Looking at her he saw his own daughters, his wife, his sister, the mother he had never known, and felt the tears begin to fall.

There was a tiny shudder through the body; the faintest sigh. She was alive! The knowledge of it surged through him like an electric tide.

Alert now, Calder turned and, wiping his face with the back of his hand, went to the corner where the brazier stood. The coals in the iron bowl were barely warm now. Searching among the irons and brands, he reached in and took one of the sharper implements. Returning to the slab, he set to work, sawing patiently at the leather thongs, severing each in turn. That done, he went to the door again.

The guard was still asleep. He edged past him and, climbing the steps quickly, tried the door. It was locked. He reached up, his fingers searching the edge of the door until he found what he was looking for. There were two hinges, one near the top, one at the bottom. If he could prise them off he could get out. The iron he had was no good, however; it was too thin. Put pressure on it and it would bend or break. No, he'd need something thicker. One of the brands had been much thicker than the others; maybe that would do the trick.

Tucking the iron into his belt, he went down agaia A moment later he was back. Pushing the end of the brand into the narrow space between the upper hinge and the wall, he slowly leaned against it For a moment the thing held, then, with a crack, it gave.

Calder turned, listening. From the corridor below he heard the guard snort, then begin to snore.

He breathed again.

Crouching down, he placed the tip of the brand beneath the lower hinge and the wall.

Don't wake, he prayed as he began to lean his full weight onto the thick iron brand. This time, when the hinge gave, the sound was like a pistol shot. A moment later, the door fell forward with a heavy crash.

"Shit!"

Down below the guard had woken and was struggling to his feet, looking about him sleepily as Calder jumped down the last three steps and cannoned into him.

The guard went down, his head thudding against the table's edge as he fell. But he was only dazed. As he got up he went to call out, but Calder, crouched over him, put his hand over the man's mouth, stifling the cry, then swung the heavy iron.

He felt it connect; felt the sickening crack as the man's skull broke beneath the blow like a clay pot. The man slumped lifeless, blood pouring from the gash.

Calder stumbled back, horrified, letting the iron fall. I didn't mean ...

But it was too late. He had to get out. Going back inside the cell, he went over to the slab again. Taking off his tunic, he wrapped it about the naked woman, then lifted her, cradling her in his arms as he carried her out past the dying guard and up the steps.

The indoor market was dark and empty, the stalls shadows within the greater shadow. From memory he found his way across, then set the woman down beside the door. The big outer doors were locked and bolted, but he had noticed a smaller door within one of them. He tried that. It too was locked, but maybe he could smash his way through. Standing back, he kicked. Once, twice, a third time he kicked, conscious of the noise he was making. Noise enough to wake the dead. Then, on the fourth kick, it splintered and gave.

Quickly now, his heart beating furiously, he went across and picked her up again, crouching, turning to his side to get through the jagged gap. Outside the moonlight shone down like a searchlight, outlining the massive shape of Krasnovodsk central to his north. From houses close by came shouts, faces appeared at windows, pointing down at him, but he ignored them, half-running now, almost stumbling beneath her dead weight. On, on, towards the edge of town and safety.

The temple door was open just a crack. Chuang Kuan Ts'ai stood there in the sunlight, chewing at her thumbnail, reluctant, afraid to go in. She knew the priest from the times he'd come to officiate at Taoist ceremonies for the dead; she had glimpsed him from across the yard as he intoned in ancient Mandarin to a crowd of grieving relatives. Uncle Ch'o said he was a wise man and helped local people with their problems, and she herself had often seen him, shuffling about the streets and alleys of the Hsien, an austere, rather daunting old gentleman, but she had never actually spoken to him. She sighed then looked about her uncomfortably. She wasn't even sure this was the right thing to do. AH she knew was that she wasn 't sleeping well. She had been troubled, fretful these past few days. If the lao jen could somehow put her mind at ease. If he could tell her what todo.. .

Hearing voices, she half turned, looking back into the shadows of the alleyway behind her. There were people at the far end, coming closer. Making up her mind, she stepped forward, slipping through the gap.

Inside, the darkness was intense. She stood there a moment, letting her eyes grow accustomed to the dimness, conscious of the hundred garish, gold-painted figures which stared sightlessly down at her from their niches on every side. Then, her heart beating fiercely in her chest, she went across and, peering around the curtain, stepped through into the inner room.

Here the smell of incense was strong. The old man sat to her left, cross-legged, his eyes closed, as if asleep, his pale saffron robe hanging loosely on his tall, gauntframe. His head was tilted forward slightly, its tall, polished dome bald but for a few wisps of long grey hair that seemed glued to the skin just above the ears. His beard was likewise wispy and unkempt, making her think of the vagrants she saw passing through the Hsien from time to time. But the priest was no vagrant. She had seen his house and knew he kept a housekeeper and two servants.

Just ahead of her, on the far side of the six-sided room, was the altar. In its design it was typically simple; a big, open rectangular box, with a long red pole at each corner, a small, green-tiled roof placed on top of the whole thing. On the lower level two long racks rested on tiered steps, a number of thick red candles burning constantly within. Placing a coin in the dish at the side, she took a candle from the box below the altar and lit it from the smouldering spitt. Placing it in the lower rack, she stood back and, head bowed, hands pressed together, offered a prayer to Heaven.

Not that she was religious. Like the great majority of her fellows she believed not in a God but in a Supreme Ancestor, from whom all of her kind had originally derived. Man lived between Heaven and Earth and was the measure of all things. In human beings the Way was made manifest.

Or so she had been taught.

She turned, looking to the priest, then went across.

"Lao jen?" she asked, her voice almost a whisper.

He seemed at first not to have heard. Then, tike a traveller returning from afar, he opened his eyes and looked at her.

"Lao jen.?"

The old man's smile was like those of the Buddhas she had seen; impersonal and distant, not so much a smile as the badge of inner peace.

"Lao jen?" she asked a third time. "Can I speak with you, lao jen?"

Closing his eyes, the old man began to stretch his muscles; first his neck, his head circling like a preening bird's, then his shoulders, and finally his back. That done, he let a long breath hiss from him. "What is it, child?"

Chuang hesitated. All of her earlier uncertainty returned. Did she trust the old man, or did she simply turn and leave? She steeled herself, then spoke.

"I have a problem, lao jen."

"A problem?" He beckoned her closer. "What kind of problem?"

"It is a secret, lao jen."

"A secret?" The old man's smile slowly faded. "Have you done something wrong, child?"

She shook her head.

"Hmm." He stared at her as if he could see right through her, then nodded. "I see. Then what kind of secret is it?"

She forced herself to answer, squirming now beneath his scrutiny. "It is a very great and grave secret, lao jen. Iflwereto teU you ..."

He raised a finger to his lips. "Then it is best you say nothing, neh? For then we would both know and the secret's greatness would be diminished."

Chuang Kuan Ts'ai looked down, wondering suddenly if she hadn't been wrong in coming here.

"It's just that I don't know what to do," she said, after a moment. "I can't sleep, remembering how they looked."

"How who looked?"

The curiosity in the old man's voice was unmistakable.

"The dead men," she said, meeting his eyes again. "What I know . . . men have died for knowing it. Only last week ..."

He was staring at her strangely now. Something in his eyes had changed. She stopped, conscious of a sudden chill in their exchange.

"You are the Oven Man's daughter, aren't you, child?"

She swallowed. "His niece."

"Ah ..." The old man nodded. "I thought I knew you." Again there was a movement in his eyes, as if some calculation were being made in the space behind them. Then, "Do nothing, child. Understand me? Embrace wuwei. Take the path of inaction. Such is the Way."

"Nothing?" Her voice, though a whisper, registered her disappointment.

"Nothing," he reiterated, emphasising it with a nod. "What is obscure shall become dear. What is dark shall become light."

She stared at him a moment longer then bowed her head. "Lao jen."

Yet as she turned away, she could feel his eyes on her back, following her out through the curtain and knew - knew with a certainly thatfrightened her-that she had made a serious mistake.

He stationed men at every door, making sure nobody could leave, then marched over to the desk and slammed the warrant down before the woman. She looked up angrily, about to say something, then saw the uniform. At once her manner changed, became obsequious.

"Sergeant?"

He tapped the warrant. "Someone at this Library has been making illegal enquiries. I'd like to know who."

"That's not possible," she said, picking up the warrant and unfolding it. "We get hundreds of enquiries every week. Why, to track down a single instance ..."

She stopped, then looked back at him.

"Well?" he asked.

She nodded, then, folding the document, sat back. "It was a girl. She was in here a few days back. She said she was researching something for a school project. I thought it was strange, but..."

"What girl?" he asked, interrupting her.

"The Oven Man's daughter. She . . ."

"Where will I find her?" the Sergeant asked, reaching across and taking back the warrant.

Straightening up, business-like again, she nodded, then turned to her screen and, tapping out a code, called up a map of the Hsien. She turned the machine to face the Sergeant then tapped the screen with her fingernail.

"We're here. If you go south down Tai Pei Avenue and turn left along Nan Lu Street, you'll come to an open square. Huang Cheng Lane is to the left as you enter it. You'll find the Oven Man's house halfway down. You can't miss it. The chimney ..."

The Sergeant stared a moment, studying the map, then, with a bow of his head and a dick of his heels, he about-turned and departed, gesturing to his men to follow.

She sat back, watching them go, then blanked the screen, letting a long sigh escape her. Too bad, she was a pretty little thing, she thought, a small twinge of pity for the girl making her grimace briefly. Then, with a tiny shiver, she pushed the thought aside, getting on with her job.

Josef woke to find someone tugging at his arm. At first, stiU only half awake, he didn't realise what was happening; then, with a suddenness that jolted him fully awake, he understood. Someone was trying to take the jacket from his back.

He rolled from the ledge he was on into the main shaft, lashing out with his free arm, then threw himself at the thief in a savage frenzy. With a frightened yelp the thief- a thin, shaven-headed youth - let go of the jacket and tried to make his escape, but the drainage shaft they were in was narrow and besides, Josef had his arm in a tight grip.

The arm was scrawny and bare. Josef pulled it savagely towards his face and bit, sinking his teeth deep into the flesh, feeling the skin give, his mouth fill with warm blood.

The thief's scream was deafening, but Josef had not done with him. As he tried to scrabble away, Josef followed him doggedly, kicking and punching, the fact that his assailant was twice his size of no concern to him.

The thief, who'd thought he'd come upon easy pickings, was shrieking now, certain that he'd disturbed a sleeping monster, for the inhuman thing that came at him was vicious and unrelenting. His screams now were not screams of pain but of terror.

Josef stood back, watching as he scuttled away on all fours, whimpering, his eyes filled with an awed fear of the tiny figure that now stood fully upright, the top of its head barely scraping the top of the shaft.

Word would go out. There would be talk of demons in the shafts. Josef bent down and picked up his jacket. It was sodden and stained, the sleeve ripped. He went to put it on, then changed his mind and threw it down. He could get another. He could steal a thousand jackets if he wanted. In fact, he could take whatever he needed and return down here into the tunnels. After all, who would willingly pursue him now that there were demons in the shafts?

He laughed, then turned and began to make his way back along the shaft toward the pumping station and the "Nest".

The "Nest" was a high-water overflow tank just above the main pumping station. It was a large, dry space, linked to the other shafts by two narrow service tunnels barely large enough for a child to crawl along. As such it was the ideal spot for runaways and a dozen or so of them had formed a kind of camp - a nest -there. Josef had heard of it from a boy namedJudd within hours of coming into the tunnels and had tried to find a place there among its inhabitants, but they had ganged up on him and driven him out, giving him more than a few scratches and bruises in passing. Unfamiliar with the ways of the tunnels, he had accepted the setback - vowing to himself that he would settle scores with them in time - but now he knew that if he was going to survive down here he would have to be there, in the Nest, otherwise he would be prey to any cut-throat who chanced on his sleeping form.

Last time he hadn't known what to expect, but this time he was prepared. This time no one would drive him away.

Crouched beneath the access tunnel he could hear the murmur of their voices up above and smiled. They were like him in some ways - ruthless. But their ruthlessness had been born of desperation, of need, whereas his was the natural ruthlessness of a predator.

Josef turned his head, watching an insect scuttle by his foot. Like most of the insects down there, it was blind, hunting by scent alone. Not that it was dark down here. No, for the ice - the special polymer - of which the tunnel walls were made, gave off a faint, illuminating glow that gave all things a ghostly appearance.

He reached out and snatched the scuttling thing, crushing it between his fingers, then brushed it off, nodding to himself.

It was like being among the dead. Like being in Ti Yu, the great Earth Prison.

Vaguely he wondered how many lived like this, among the shafts and tunnels beneath the City, then, letting the thought go, he counted to ten and hauled himself up the tunnel, shrieking at the top of his lungs.

The noise unnerved them. Emerging from the tunnel's end he could see the startled fear in their faces. There were five of them - att of them smaller boys - crouched defensively on the far side of the circular space, staring across at him, wide-eyed. None of the bigger boys, the leaders, were there.

He jumped down and stood there like a warrior, half-crouched, ready to do battie. All about him the ragged detritus of their bedding lay scattered - an untidy, stinking mess.

"You'd better go," one of them said in a small voice.

"Yeah," another added. "You ain't welcome here."

"Yeah?" he asked, a sneer in his voice; a challenge.

He took a step towards them, then another.

"Stock wtt, have you," one of them said. "He Tl rip your guts out!"

"Stock?" Stock had to be the big one - the Hung Mao with the slight squint and the tufted, straw-like hair. Josef laughed. "Fuck Stock!"

They had backed up right against the wall. Now one of them made to make his move, but Josef bared his teeth and snarled. At once the boy cowered back.

"This time I'm staying," Josef said threateningly. "This time ..."

He heard the noise of someone entering the access tunnel behind him. Heard the harsh breathing of someone labouring to climb the steeply sloping shaft.

Reaching into his pocket, his fingers dosed about the jagged-edged shard he'd found earlier. He'd known then what use he'd have for it.

Josef moved to his right, turning slightly, keeping the others in dear view, but turning all the while to face the opening.

There was a strained grunting and then a face appeared. Stock! It had to be Stock. Yes, this was one of the two who 'd so delighted in beating him earlier.

But now the tables were turned. Now it was his turn.

Stock took in the situation at a glance, then looked to the others and bellowed at them.

"Well? What are you waiting for, you fuckers? Get him!"

But Josef gave them no chance. In three quick strides he was at the opening, the shard raised. Stock, who was still struggling to get out, looked up, a tiny sound of surprise escaping his parted lips as Josef's arm swung in an arc toward his face.

Stock's screams were terrifying. The boys, who had come halfway across the space, froze, then began to back away. As Josef turned, they saw the bloodied shard in his hand and began to whimper, while beyond Josef, wedged tightly in the opening, Stock held his blinded eye, squealing like a stuck Pig-Josef took a step toward them and, smiling, bared his teeth once more. "I stay. You understand?"

The old priest met them at the door and hurriedly ushered the three soldiers inside, looking about him as he did so to make sure that no one had seen them enter.

"WeU?" the middle-aged lieutenant asked, coming straight to the point. "You'd better not be wasting my time, lao jen. I've work enough to keep five men busy!"

"No . . . No, 7 ... Look. There have been rumours. The burned-out dub. Word was that men died, not in the fire, but... Well, you know how it is."

The officer was stony-faced. "So?"

The old man lowered his voice. "So this morning a young girl came to me. Worried, she was. She said she had a secret. A great secret, she called it. She talked about dead men and about men dying because of what she knew. I. . ."He moistened his lips with his tongue, then spoke again. "I felt it was my duty as a citizen to inform you at once."

"I see." The lieutenant scratched his balding pate. "This girl? Who was she?"

"I don't know her name. In fact, I don't even think I've talked to her before today. But she lives with the Oven Man, in Huang Cheng Lane."

The officer took out an auto-note and spoke into it, then, tucking it away, nodded to the priest.

"You did well, lao jen. I'm certain my Masters will wish to reward you for your services. But please. . .you must tell no one else about this matter. It is indeed a great secret, so . . ."

The priest bowed his head. "I understand."

"Good." The officer reached out, patting the old man's arm. "You did well, lao jen. Very well indeed."

The Sergeant and his squad were already at the Oven Man's gate when the Lieutenant arrived with his two assistants.

The two groups - rival arms of the same Security force, the Sergeant's small force in the emerald green ofPeiK'ung's elite, the Lieutenant's in the powder-blue of regular security -faced each other uneasily.

"Sergeant?" the Lieutenant asked, trying to size up the man, "What are you doing here? This is some way outside your jurisdiction, I'd have thought?"

The Sergeant came to attention, his head bowed low. Behind him his men did the same. "Forgive me, sir, but I've come to arrest someone for a security violation. A young girl. The daughter of the house."

"The daughter ..." The Lieutenant shook his head, surprised. "How strange. How very strange. Wfiy, lam here myself to have words with her about a certain matter."

The Sergeant raised his head. "I have a warrant,"

"A warrant?" The Lieutenant extended his hand. "Show me."

"I'm sorry, sir?"

"The warrant. Give it to me."

The Sergeant hesitated, then shook his head. "I am afraid I cannot do that, sir. Colonel I was most specific about that."

The Lieutenant's eyes flared. "I am your superior officer, Sergeant, and I command you. Now give it to me!"

The Sergeant stood his ground, his squad of four men backing him up, their faces set and determined. "I am afraid I cannot do that, sir. Though you are indeed my superior and under ordinary circumstances I would gladly carry out your orders, to do so in these circumstances would be to ignore the specific instructions of a more senior officer, and that..."

The Lieutenant, exasperated, made to snatch the warrant from his hand, but the Sergeant moved back sharply, hiding the warrant behind his back.

"For the gods' sakes, man," the Lieutenant said, his eyes lit with anger now. "I only want to see the damn thing!"

The Sergeant shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir, but..."

He stopped and half turned. Behind him the gate creaked open and the Oven Man stepped out. Cho Yao looked about him, surprised to see them there.

"What's going on?" he asked, looking from the Sergeant to the Lieutenant.

"Are you the Lu Nan Jen?" the Lieutenant asked.

"lam," Cho answered, a cloud crossing his face as he realised this had to do with him.

"Is your daughter in?" the Sergeant asked, pre-empting the other.

Cho straightened, suddenly defensive. "What do you want?"

"I want..." both men began, then stopped, glaring at each other.

"I have a warrant," the Sergeant began.

"Fuck your warrant!" the Lieutenant said. "I am not answerable to I Ye and this is my patch, so step aside and let me get on with my work, Sergeant, or I'll have you arrested!"

"You can try," the Sergeant answered, stepping between the Lieutenant and Cho. Then, more calmly, but with a great deal of threat, he added. "You can try, sir, but I warn you, there's but three of you and there's five of us."

The Lieutenant stepped back. "Why, this is outrageous! This . . ."

The Sergeant turned his back, ignoring him. He had his orders, after all. Besides, he knew for certain that I Ye would bail him out. He always did. That was the good thing about working for I Ye. If you were loyal to him, then he stuck by you.

"Lu Nan Jen," he began, unfolding the warrant and holding it up so Cho Yao could see. "I have here a warrant for the arrest of your daughter for the crime of illegal enquiry. If you would bring her to the door."

"Arrest?" Cho looked stunned. "What for? She's just a litde girl. An illegal enquiry? Why ..."

"If you would stand aside," the Sergeant said, beginning to get impatient. "I am a busy man."

Cho's mouth worked soundlessly a moment, then he shook his head firmly.

"No! No, you won't take her! You won't!"

But even as he said it, one of the Sergeant's men slipped behind Cho Yao and cashed him over the head. As he fell the others stepped over him and went inside.

The Sergeant turned, looking to his nominal superior. "No disrespect, sir. Just doing my duty."

The Lieutenant swallowed back the bitterness he felt. "Ill put in an official complaint," he said. "Ill have you demoted for your insolence!"

The Sergeant smiled, then bowed his head. "Of course, sir. Now. . . if I might get on with things?" And, turning his back on him a second time, he went inside, chuckling softly to himself.

Just doing my duty.

Yes, and enjoying every fucking moment of it.

CHAPTER-7

chance meetings

"Are you ready, Tom?"

Tom slipped on his jacket, then turned and nodded.

Sampsa smiled broadly. "Come on, then. Before anyone wakes."

They slipped outside, into the dawn light, the Eastern Palace to their right, the surrounding wall directly to their left as they made their way along the path.

The Sao Ch'ang were deathly quiet after the evening's celebrations, most of their occupants fast asleep. Only servants were about as the two went down the steps and across to the massive forty foot high gate.

"They know how to build doors," Sampsa joked as, showing their passes, they went through, past a squad of guards who formed up and bowed almost comically, their captain anxious to show the two young guests the maximum respect. Then they were outside, in the broad and silent streets that surrounded the Sao Ch'ang, the mansions of the rich.

"Which way?" Sampsa asked, touching Tom's arm.

Tom pointed to his left, then spoke inside Sampsa's head.

There. We head directly south, to the river, then cross the bridge and go west.

Okay, Sampsa answered silently. Let's go.

But Tom delayed. He stared at Sampsa, his vision doubled. Are you sure? Are you really sure you want to do this?

He saw himself as Sampsa saw him. It's what you want, isn't it?

Yes, but...

Then don't be silly. Let's get going. Before they realise we're missing and send a search party to bring us back!

Tom smiled and saw himself smile. Okay. And . . . thanks.

"No trouble," Sampsa said softly, the words an echoed whisper in Tom's head. "No trouble at all."

Kim looked out through the window of his room, momentarily surprised to see neither the tree-lined landscape of the island nor the star-dusted blackness of space, but the sloping red tile rooftops of the palace and, beyond the massive walls of the Sao Ch'ang, the sprawling city.

He turned, fastening the last button of his tunic, then walked through into the bedroom. Jelka was sitting on the edge of the bed, her emerald green sleeping silk wrapped about her, their five-year-old, Mileja standing between her legs, facing her mother as she dressed her.

"Where's Sampsa?" he asked, answering Mileja's smile of greeting with his own.

"Out with Shepherd's son," Jelka answered, the hair-grip between her teeth making the words come out oddly.

"Ahh . . . It's strange, that, don't you think?"

Jelka glanced at him, then looked back at her daughter, frowning with concentration. "Strange?"

"I don't understand it. How they could know one another. It was like they were old friends."

"Sampsa said they were."

"Yes . . ." Kim hesitated. "He did, didn't he?"

"Hmm." Jelka took the hairbrush from beside her and began to brush out Mileja's shoulder-length auburn hair. "Maybe they've met up on the Net."

"Maybe . . ." He considered that a moment, then nodded to himself, as if satisfied with the explanation. "Yes .. . that has to be it. I mean, where else could they have met?"

Jelka took the hair-clip from her mouth and pushed it into place. "There, little madam! That's you done." She looked to Kim again. "You need anything?"

He shook his head.

"Then get going."

He went across and held her briefly, kissing her forehead, then took Mileja's hand. "We'll not be long. An hour at most."

She smiled. "Take however long you want. I'm going to have a nice long soak. Have you seen the size of that bath in there?"

He laughed. "A bath? Is that what it is? I thought it was a dry dock of some kind!"

"Well, whatever it is, I plan to fill it to the brim and enjoy myself."

"Not too much, I hope," he said and, blowing her a kiss, went to the door, Mileja at his side.

Tuan Ti Fo was waiting for them in the corridor outside. As they stepped out he got off the bench and stood, bowing first to Kim, then, with exaggerated care, to Mileja.

"Well, good morning, young Mistress. And how are we today?"

"I'm fine, Master Tuan," she said, remembering both her manners and his name.

Tuan Ti Fo looked to Kim, impressed. "You have a fine daughter there, Kim Ward. And your wife... you chose well."

Kim nodded thoughtfully. "I waited a long time for her. And she for me. Seven years. It seemed like an eternity."

"But worth every second of the waiting, neh?"

Kim smiled, nodding his agreement. "Every second."

They went on, along the broad, high-ceilinged corridors and down, past endless hanging tapestries, endless bowing servants, until they came to the reception area at the front of the palace; there, to their right, was a huge, winding staircase big enough to march twenty men abreast.

Mileja gripped her father's hand firmly and stared at it wide-eyed. She had never seen the like. Nor the massive golden dragons that adorned the huge chandelier fifty ch'i above then-heads.

Moving on toward the great arch of the entrance, Old Tuan looked to Kim again. "Is Marie expecting us?"

Kim grinned. "She's expecting me. But you, Master Tuan.. . Well, I thought I'd keep you a surprise. It's many years since she last saw you, neh?"

"And yet it seems like only yesterday. How strange time is, neh, Kim? That seven years can seem an eternity to wait, and yet a whole lifetime can flash by like a dream. Why is that so?"

"Maybe it is all a dream, Master Tuan. Like the dream you had when you first came for me. You remember that?"

Tuan Ti Fo nodded. "How could I forget? It was as if the gods directed me to where you were."

"So it was," Kim said with a sigh, touching his old friend's arm. "So it was." And they walked on, the two men thoughtful, the child between them humming to herself as they stepped out past the saluting guards and into the morning sunlight.

Marie was rinsing out some washing in the sink when the doorbell rang. She turned, shouting back into the living room.

"May? Can you get that for me? It'll be Shih Ward. Show him in. I'll not be a moment."

She wrung out the last of the vests and put it on the side with the others, then emptied the bowl. Reaching out for the towel she paused, a strange, prickling sensation down her back. Slowly she turned.

A small, stooped-backed figure stood in the doorway. An ancient, yet familiar figure.

"Master Tuan?" she asked in a tiny voice. "Tuan Ti Fo?"

Then, shrieking with delight, she threw herself at the old Han, hugging him tightly, lifting him from his feet.

"How are you? It's been ages! I thought. . ."

"You thought I was dead, neh?"

She nodded guiltily, then grinned at him again. "Oh, it's so good to see you, Tuan Ti Fo. So very good."

Marie set the old man down, then looked past him at Ward. "And you, Kim. You're doubly welcome for bringing me such a pleasant surprise!"

Kim looked up at her and smiled, his figure like a child's beside hers.

"It was the least I could do, Marie. I was surprised myself to find Master Tuan here. He came with Shih Ebert, it seems. They were on Mars together."

"Mars?" She stared at Tuan Ti Fo, intrigued.

"That was a while ago," Tuan said, turning and smiling at Marie's daughters, giving each in turn a tiny bow. "I am in Africa now, with the Osu."

"The black men." She nodded soberly. "How strange our times are. I never thought to see such creatures."

He looked to her. "They are not creatures, Marie. They are human, like you and I."

"Like you, Master Tuan?" Kim teased.

Tuan laughed gently. "Well. . . maybe not quite like me. Not as old, certainly."

"I didn't mean ..." Marie began, but Tuan's smile was understanding.

"You are right, however, Marie. These are strange times indeed."

"Would you like ch'a, Master Tuan?" she asked.

He smiled fondly. "It is many years since you served me ch'a, Marie. In the Dragon Cloud tea-house, I believe it was, where you once worked."

It was clear none of the girls knew of this aspect of their mother's life, for they clamoured suddenly for her to tell them more, but she put them off, turning to Tuan Ti Fo again.

"You remember those days?"

"How could I forget?"

"And while you wait," she said, "May will bring the board."

"The board?" There was a sudden twinkle in his eye.

Her smile broadened. "Why, yes, Master Tuan. Just as you taught me the rudiments of the game, so I have taught my girls. The game ... it is the mark of a civilised person, neh?"

He bowed, clearly impressed, then turned to May. "If you would do me the honour, May Karr."

She returned his bow, then went into the next room, emerging a moment later with a heavy wet ch 'i board and two pots of stones. As Hannah and Lily cleared the table, May set the board down.

"How's Gregor?" Kim asked, going to the kitchen door. "Is he on duty this morning?"

"You could say that," Marie answered, pouring water into the kettle. "He's in Mashhad."

"Mashhad?"

She put the kettle on the hob then turned to face him. "He's gone to see the Warlord, Hu Wang-chih."

Kim looked to Tuan Ti Fo, his eyes forming a question, but the old man merely shrugged.

"There is to be war." Marie said quietly. "Or so Gregor believes."

"War?" Kim frowned, greatly troubled by the news. "Then Hans Ebert was right."

'Tes," Marie said, glancing at him, then turning away and beginning to prepare the ch'a. "Let us pray it is short-lived."

Karr stood among the Warlord's men, waiting to be summoned, Ming Ai stationed squatly at his side, the polished crown of his head on a level with Karr's elbow. Facing them, the doors to Hu Wang-chih's audience chamber were closed and had been so for two hours.

"Why does he keep us waiting so long?" the Chief Eunuch muttered irritably. "He must know how important this is."

"He keeps us waiting because he can," Karr answered calmly, wondering, not for the first time, just why Ming Ai had been sent.

To keep tabs on him, certainly, and to make sure that an accurate report of the meeting got back to his Mistress. But beyond that? What did Ming Ai himself hope to gain by being here?

He leaned toward the eunuch, speaking from the side of his mouth. "By the way, I would appreciate it if you would let me do the talking when we get inside, Master Ming."

Ming Ai bristled. "Don't lecture me, Marshal Karr. I know how to behave."

"Good." Karr nudged him hard. "Then make sure you do. You fuck this up, you'll know about it!"

Ming Ai glared at Karr but said nothing.

He's probably watching us, Karr thought, looking up at the camera over the door. Waiting to pick his moment, when we seem most restless.

Yes, because such meetings were all about advantage. About gaining it and keeping it. For when all was said and done - beneath the veiled layers of politeness and diplomacy -what they did here was merely another form of barter. Crude trade, driven by the desire for profit. For advantage.

Deals. He hated deals. Yet deals were necessary, even with bastards like Hu Wang-chih.

Karr sighed, mulling over what he knew of the man, or at least what was rumoured. Word was that he was a cruel man, a sadist; that he enjoyed the suffering of others. That much was unexceptional. Karr had met many such men. What was unusual - if it were true - was the inventiveness of his cruelty. It was said that he had once forced one of his servants - for no reason - to tell him which of his five children he liked the best, then had had the child tortured before the man's eyes. That in itself was execrable, but the refinement - the supreme cruelty - had been in the manner of the torture, for he had had the man's wife - the mother of the child - carry out the torture; threatening to kill the other four children if she refused.

Reluctantly, they had carried out his orders. But it had driven them mad.

As indeed it would, Karr thought with a shudder. Whether the story were apocryphal or not, it was one of many that circulated about Warlord Hu. From what he'd heard, one could fill a weighty volume with such tales.

There was the sound of bolts being drawn back. As Kan-looked up the doors began to open. Inside, the pillared hall was brightly lit... and empty.

Karr frowned, wondering what game this was - whether it was some new attempt to belittle them - then heard a door open at the far end of the hall. With the regular click of leather heels against the stone, a figure approached; a middle-aged Han in traditional dress, his dark hair tied back in a single pigtail. Stopping several paces in front of Karr he bowed low, then, straightening, smiled broadly.

"Marshal Karr. Forgive the delay. My Master will see you now. I am Ji Wang, the Warlord's First Minister."

"Ji Wang . . ." Karr lowered his head, acknowledging him. Then, trying to recall what he knew of this man, he half turned, meaning to introduce the Chief Eunuch.

Ji Wang raised a hand. "The eunuch stays here," he said bluntly. "None but men enter my Master's halls."

Ming Ai's features convulsed with anger. "I have never heard such nonsense! Why, my Mistress . . ."

Ji Wang's voice cut through the fat man's bluster like a finely-focused laser. "You heard me, eunuch. My Master will not see you."

"He refuses?'

Ignoring Ming Ai, Ji Wang turned to Karr again and gave another tiny bow. "If you would accompany me, Marshal?"

Karr stared at Ji Wang. If he was to make a protest, it would have to be right now. Indeed, he ought, perhaps, to refuse to take a step further without Ming Ai, for it was, without doubt, a snub to Pei K'ung. Yet he felt strangely disinclined. He knew how important this meeting was, and if Warlord Hu did not wish to see the eunuch, then maybe he should go along with that, if only for the sake of the alliance.

Ming Ai, seeing Karr's hesitation, gave a grunt of disgust, then made to grasp the Minister's arm, but Ji Wang pulled back, glaring at him. At his gesture two guards grabbed Ming Ai by the arms and, ignoring his shouts of protest, dragged him away.

Karr stood there, watching in shocked amazement as Ming Ai was marched forcibly down the corridor, struggling and cussing all the way, then turned back.

Ji Wang was watching him, an amused expression on his face.

"You have no objections, I take it, Marshal Karr?"

Karr stared back at the man, realising that the moment had been lost and with it the advantage. He had enjoyed Ming Ai's humiliation and they knew it. They had anticipated his reaction and used it.

He smiled at Ji Wang, feeling a new respect for the man. "Ming Ai is unimportant," he said, as if it were a fact. "What I have to say to your Master is between he and I alone."

"Then that is good. I have merely removed an irritation, neh?"

Karr hesitated, uncertain whether he should let the man push the matter quite so far, then nodded, accepting the situation. Ji Wang's actions had been an insult, true, but they were an insult against Pei K'ung, and whilst he was here at Pei K'ung's order, it was Li Yuan he served. What was done was done. It was up to him now to make the best of things.

Besides, what Ji Wang said was true. Ming Ai was an irritation and Karr had felt much constrained by the fact that he would be there at his side during the discussions. Constrained, yes, and fearful lest Ming Ai said something tactless - something that might damage the delicate, complex process of negotiation.

Now that he was gone - forcibly removed from the equation -Karr felt a sense of liberation. This was a situation he had been in several times before - with the White T'ang, Lehmann, and with the Mountain Lord, Fu Chiang - and he knew that, whatever the outcome, it would be through no fault of his that it failed.

As Ji Wang turned away, he followed him, across the echoing, empty hall and through the end doorway, into a smaller, yet luxuriously decorated room. As he entered, Hu Wang-chih got up from a chair by the window and stepped towards him, offering both hands in greeting.

"Marshal Karr. I am delighted to meet you."

Karr stood before the Warlord, his head bowed, letting the man take his hands briefly.

"Thank you for seeing me at such short notice, Hu Wang-chih," Karr said, straightening up. "My Master has asked me to express his most sincere gratitude."

"Not at all. It is my pleasure."

Hu Wang-chih gave a little bow, then turned, indicating a seat just across from his.

"Please, be seated, Marshal. We have much to discuss."

The Warlord's woman eased back in the tall-backed chair with a sigh, then touched a pad on the arm-mounted controls. At once the great panel of nine screens - three deep, three broad -slid away from her with a hiss of hydraulics. As it did, she placed a dark-gloved hand to her lips thoughtfully.

"So he sent Karr . . . Why?"

The words were for herself. She would always muse thus, alone in that sealed and darkened room. But rarely - very rarely - was she given such important matters to muse upon.

In the muted light from the screens she nodded to herself.

Li Yuan had not sent Karr. That had been Pei K'ung's decision. Li Yuan had not even been consulted.

"Of course," she said throatily. "Of course!"

Her laughter was like the calling of crows. It ended in a choking cough.

"But what does he want? What does he really want? War?" She shook her head. "No. He wants something else. Something deeper. Something . . ."

She stopped, the answer coming to her from the still and frozen air.

"Yes," she said, chuckling quietly to herself. "Why, of course . . .."

Master Tuan looked up from the board, then bowed his head to his young opponent. "Well done, Mileja. If I did not know better, I would have thought I was playing against your father."

She looked up at the old man with an expression of surprise. "But I lost!"

Kim, looking on, laughed. "To lose to Master Tuan by a single stone is no disgrace, my pet. Master Tuan was once First Hand Supreme of all Chung Kuo!"

Mileja stared at Tuan Ti Fo anew, reappraising him, then, almost comically, she bowed.

Old Tuan laughed merrily, while the others - Marie, her four daughters and Kim - joined in, laughing and clapping appreciatively.

"Well, Kim?" Tuan said, turning to face him as the merriment died down. "Will you play me?"

Kim hesitated. Then, with a brief glance at his timer, nodded. "Okay. But just the one game, neh? You know how time flies when we're at the board."

"I do indeed, old friend." Tuan Ti Fo grinned, then spoke the words of the ancient poem:

"Less than a day in paradise,

And a thousand years have passed among men.

While the pieces are still being laid on the board All things have changed to emptiness.

The woodman takes the road home,

The haft of his axe has rotted in the wind:

Nothing is what it was but the stone bridge Still spanning a rainbow cinnabar red."

Kim sighed, then nodded thoughtfully. "How often I've thought of that woodman across the years, Master Tuan. How often I've imagined myself in his place, returning home after a thousand years on the mountainside. It must have been strange, neh?"

"To be an immortal," Tuan said, beginning to pick the white stones from the board and return them to his bowl, "that too must be strange, neh?"

"Strange indeed," Kim answered, smiling at the old man. Then, with a tiny shudder, he looked to the board, beginning to clear the black stones one by one.

It was done. The proposition had been made, its details laid before the Warlord, its terms discussed in full. As Karr stood, Hu Wang-chin also stood, his eyes tracing the figure of the giant.

"You will let my Master know?" Karr asked.

Warlord Hu gave a single nod. "In two day's time." Then, stepping closer, he added: "You will forgive me, Marshal Karr, but now that our official business is done, might I make a personal observation?"

Karr shrugged. "If you so wish, Hu Wang-chih."

Hu Wang-chih smiled. "Oh, do not be afraid, Marshal Karr. I have nothing ill to say of you. It is only this. That I have admired you for many years now and followed your career closely. You are quite some soldier, Gregor Karr. A hero in an age that is ... well, let us say less than heroic. My own commanders look up to you and, should we come to an agreement, would gladly serve under you."

Karr steeled himself. "But. . ."

"No buts. If Kuan Ti, the God of War had taken on a human form, it would surely have been yours."

Karr stared, wondering what to make of this unexpectedly flattery; whether to take it at face value or look for some deeper motive. Yet the Warlord seemed, for once, quite genuine in his praise.

"It is not merely your strength I admire, Gregor Karr, but the restrained power you demonstrate in every movement. To see such brutal power moved by so subtle an intelligence is a delight to me. It is True Strength, neh?"

Hu nodded, his smile broadening momentarily. "I felt I could not let you go without saying so. It would have been... impolite."

"Thank you," Karr said simply, wishing not to offend the Warlord; yet inwardly he rebelled against the man's comments. Such men always admired the appearance of strength, of brutal power. They worshipped it. And whether this one - this Hu Wang-chih - was subtler than the others in recognising the inner power that motivated the outer show mattered little. What mattered was whether such praise came from a source he could respect - and to be candid, he could not respect Warlord Hu, fair words or otherwise.

You are a callous sadist, he thought, studying Hu's smiling face. Besides, your admiration is tainted by simple envy. Envy that U Yuan possesses my services and not you.

He bowed, then backed away.

And anyway, he thought, as he walked back through the great hall, his booted footsteps echoing from the high stone walls, true strength has nothing to do with size or skill in battle.

No. True strength was knowing not merely when to fight but why.

Two days. Li Yuan would have his answer in two days. In the meantime he would have to stay here, in the company of the odious Ming Ai.

The thought of it - of sharing close quarters with the half-man - made him groan inwardly.

True strength. He sighed heavily. Maybe true strength was simply the ability not to let such creatures get to one; to keep one's inner self clear and pure and focused. But it would be hard, he knew, to keep Ming Ai from getting under his skin. As hard as any battle he had fought.

Then, remembering the eunuch's face as he had been dragged away, Karr began to smile, the smile quickly changing to a chuckle, then a full-bellied laugh.

As he passed the guards stationed at the doors, they stared at him openly, amazed by his laughter, their faces lit with awe, as though in the presence of a god.

Li Yuan was in the stables, his tunic discarded, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he groomed one of the mares. He had almost finished when Shepherd came upon him.

"It went well, don't you think?" Yuan said with a smile, continuing to brush the horse's coat. "Pei K'ung's face was a delight. I've watched the tape of that moment a dozen times now. She really hates you."

Ben nodded, untroubled by the news, then came around the side of the stall. He rested his forearms on the wooden beam and looked over at Li Yuan thoughtfully.

"The court is buzzing with it," he said. "I come across little groups in corridors. They go quiet as I pass, but when they think I'm out of earshot, they huddle together again conspir-atorially, heads pressed close, like ants passing on a message."

Li Yuan laughed, then, finished, threw the brush down and came over to him. "It was a good evening, Ben. I am grateful for your help."

Ben gave a nod of acknowledgment. Then, "Who was the girl?"

"Girl?" Li Yuan made as if he did not know what Ben was talking about. Even so, he took a step out of the stall and gestured to the nearby grooms to leave. Alone, he turned back, looking to Ben and smiling. "Which girl?"

Ben studied him, a faint smile on his lips. "You might fool others, Yuan, but not me. I've seen the way you look at her. So who is she?"

Li Yuan shrugged, then, laughing lightly, answered him. "She is the Princess Hsun Lung hsin, second daughter of Prince Hsun."

"Ahh . . ." Ben made an instant reassessment. "I see. And you're in love with her, neh?"

Yuan's eyes slipped away. "In love? I wouldn't say that. . ."

"Li Yuan. Be straight with me."

"I. . ." He shook his head, then met Ben's eyes again. "Not in love. Infatuated, perhaps. Fascinated, certainly. But love? No ... I'll get over it. I simply have to have her."

"Fuck her, you mean?"

Li Yuan winced at the crudity of the expression. "No. I mean . . . Oh, I guess so. I just can't stop thinking about her. You know? It's like a fever, an itch beneath the skin. I ache for her, Ben. Kuan Yinl At times I feel like a lovesick adolescent!"

"There!" Ben said triumphantly, as if he'd trapped Li Yuan. "She's woven her spell over you. I was right!"

Li Yuan stared at him, concerned by what he'd said. "No. It'll be all right. I just have to . .."

" . . .have her." Ben smiled. "So what's stopping you? The fact that she's your son's bride's sister?"

Li Yuan turned away, sighing heavily.

"Not that? Then what is stopping you?"

The T'ang turned back, his face pained now. "She won't. She'll do anything but that. Absolutely anything. But she absolutely refuses to let me have her. Not while she's betrothed."

"Then buy off her suitor!"

"And her father, the Prince?"

"Buy him off, too!"

"How?"

"Think of some way. I'm sure you'll come up with something."

"But what if he refuses? After all, this is a matter of great honour. Word would get round. He would lose face, unless. . ."

Ben narrowed his eyes. "Unless what?"

"Unless I found her a better match."

"You mean, someone who wouldn't mind taking on the T'ang's cast-offs? A Minister, perhaps? Or someone of comparative high status? That worm Fa Chun, perhaps. You know, the merchant who petitioned you last night."

Li Yuan was quiet. He looked down, not answering.

Ben laughed. "No. You're not serious, surely, Yuan? Marry her yourself? You'd be mad to!"

"Mad? If s maddening now not to have her."

"Then I'll give her to you."

"How?"

"I'll make a shell for you. I'll make it so that she gives in to you. I'll make it so you can have her any way you want. Yes, and as often."

Li Yuan shuddered, then reached out for his tunic which hung on the rail beside Shepherd. "How long would that take?"

"A month, perhaps. Six weeks at most."

Yuan shuddered again, then shook his head. "Too long. I couldn't bear it. I have to have her, Ben. I have to!"

Ben shook his head. "Then have her. Rape her if you must. But don't marry her, Yuan. I warn you. It'll cause many more problems than if 11 solve."

Li Yuan looked to his old friend and advisor and gave the tiniest nod, but his eyes were haunted and his hands where they held his tunic were slick with sweat.

"A shell, you say?"

Ben nodded. "I could begin today."

Yuan swallowed, then looked down. "Okay . . ." Then, with a troubled little movement of his head, he moved past Ben, hurrying from the stables.

Ben watched him go, then, putting the tip of his tongue to his teeth, sucked in his breath and shook his head.

"I have to have her, Ben," he said, mimicking the T'ang's voice perfectly. "I have to!"

They met in the middle of the Palace Gardens, on the bridge that spanned the Lake of Prolonged Autumn - two men who, until that moment, had never crossed each other's path.

Shepherd, coming from the stables, walked slowly, his mood pensive, the moon low in the sky behind him, framing his head in a halo of pale light as he watched the other approach. Ward, returning alone from Marie Karr's, walked much more briskly, his ungainly-looking head lowered, his mind still full of complex wet ch'i moves as he studied the slender volume of aphorisms the old man had given him, unaware of Shepherd just ahead of him.