The Broken Wheel

Chung Kuo. The words mean "Middle Kingdom," and since 221 B.C., when the first emperor, Ch'in Shih Huang Ti, unified the seven Warring States, it is what the "black-haired people," the Han, or Chinese, have called their great country. The Middle Kingdom—for them it was the whole world; a world bounded by great mountain chains to the north and west, by the sea to east and south. Beyond was only desert and barbarism. So it was for two thousand years and through sixteen great dynasties. Chung Kuo was the Middle Kingdom, the very center of the human world, and its emperor the "Son of Heaven," the "One Man." But in the eighteenth century that world was invaded by the young and aggressive Western powers with their superior weaponry and their unshakable belief in progress. It was, to the surprise of the Han, an unequal contest and China's myth of supreme strength and self-sufficiency was shattered. By the early twentieth century, China—Chung Kuo—was the sick old man of the East: "a carefully preserved mummy in a hermetically sealed coffin," as Karl Marx called it. But from the disastrous ravages of that century grew a giant of a nation, capable of competing with the West and with its own Eastern rivals, Japan and Korea, from a position of incomparable strength. The twenty-first century, "the Pacific Century," as it was known even before it began, saw China become once more a world unto itself, but this time its only boundary was space.

"A new sound from the old keys."

Keep away from sharp swords

Don't go near a lovely woman.

A sharp sword too close will wound your hand,

Woman's beauty too close will wound your life.

The danger of the road is not in the distance,

Ten yards is far enough to break a wheel.

The peril of love is not in loving too often,

A single evening can leave its wound in the soul.

—MENG CHIAO , Impromptu, eighth century A.D.

PROLOGUE I SUMMER 2205

The Sound of Jade

At rise of day we sacrificed to the Wind God,

When darkly, darkly, dawn glimmered in the sky.

Officers followed, horsemen led the way;

They brought us out to the wastes beyond the town,

Where river mists fall heavier than rain,

And the fires on the hill leap higher than the stars.

Suddenly I remembered the early levees at Court

When you and I galloped to the Purple Yard.

As we walked our horses up Dragon Tail Way

We turned and gazed at the green of the Southern Hills.

Since we parted, both of us have been growing old;

And our minds have been vexed by many anxious cares;

Yet even now I fancy my ears are full

Of the sound of jade tinkling on your bridle-straps.

—po chu-i, To Li Chien (a.a 819)

IT WAS NIGHT and the moon lay like a blinded eye upon the satin darkness of the Nile. From where he stood, on the balcony high above the river, Wang Hsien could feel the slow, warm movement of the air like the breath of a sleeping woman against his cheek. He sighed and laid his

hands upon the cool stone of the balustrade, looking out to his right, to the north, where in the distance the great lighthouse threw its long sweeping arm of light across the delta. For a while he watched it, feeling as empty as the air through which it moved; then he turned back, looking up at the moon itself. So clear the nights were here. And the stars. He shivered, the bitterness flooding back. The stars . . .

A voice broke into his reverie. "Chieh Hsia? Are you ready for us?"

It was Sun Li Hua, Master of the Inner Chamber. He stood just inside the doorway, his head bowed, his two assistants a respectful distance behind him, their heads lowered. Wang Hsien turned and made a brief gesture, signifying that they should begin; then he turned back, staring up at the stars.

He remembered being with his two eldest sons, Chang Ye and Lieh Tsu, on the coast of Mozambique in summer. A late summer night with the bright stars filling the heavens overhead. They had sat there around an open fire, the three of them, naming the stars and their constellations, watching the Dipper move across the black velvet of the sky until the fire was ash and the day was come again. It was the last time he had been with them alone. Their last holiday together.

And now they were dead. Both of them lying in their coffins, still and cold beneath the earth. And where were their spirits now? Up there? Among the eternal stars? Or was there only one soul, the hun, trapped and rotting in the ground? He gritted his teeth, fighting against his sense of bitterness and loss, hardening himself against it. But the bitterness remained. Was it so? he asked himself. Did the spirit soul—the p'o—rise up to Heaven as they said, or was there only this? This earth, this sky, and Man between them? He shuddered. Best not ask. Best keep such thoughts at bay, lest the darkness answer you.

He shivered, his hands gripping the stone balustrade fiercely. Gods, but he missed them! Missed them beyond the power of words to say. He filled his hours, keeping his mind busy with the myriad affairs of state. Even so, he could not keep himself from thinking of them. Where are you? he would ask himself on waking. Where are you, Chang Ye, who smiled so sweetly? And you, Lieh Tsu, my ying too, my baby peach, always my favorite? Where are you now?

Murdered, a brutal voice in him insisted. And only ash and bitterness remain.

He turned savagely, angry with himself. Now he would not sleep. Bone-tired as he was, he would lie there, sleepless, impotent against the thousand bittersweet images that would come.

"Sun Li Hua!" he called impatiently, moving the diaphanous curtain aside with one hand. "Bring me something to make me sleep! Ho yeh, perhaps, or tou chi."

"At once, Chieh Hsia."

The Master of the Inner Chamber bowed low; then went to do as he was bid. Wang Hsien watched him go; then turned to look across at the huge low bed at the far end of the chamber. The servants were almost finished. The silken sheets were turned back, the flowers at the bedside changed, his sleeping robes laid out, ready for the maids.

The headboard seemed to fill the end wall, the circle of the Ywe Lung—the Moon Dragon, symbol of the Seven—carved deep into the wood. The seven dragons formed a great wheel, their regal snouts meeting at the hub, their lithe, powerful bodies forming the spokes, their tails the rim. Wang Hsien stared at it for a while; then nodded to himself as if satisfied. But deeper, at some dark, unarticu-lated level, he felt a sense of unease. The War, the murder of his sons—these things had made him far less certain than he'd been. He could no longer look at the Ywe Lung without questioning what had been done in the name of the Seven these last five years.

He looked down sharply. Five years. Was that all? Only five short years? So it was. Yet it felt as though a whole cycle of sixty years had passed since the New Hope had been blasted from the heavens and war declared. He sighed and put his hand up to his brow, remembering. It had been a nasty, vicious war; a war of little trust— where friend and enemy had worn the same smiling face. They had won, but their victory had failed to set things right. The struggle had changed the nature—the very essence—of Chung Kuo. Nothing would ever be the same again.

He waited until the servants left, backing away, bowed low, their eyes averted from their lord's face. Then he went across and stood before the wall-length mirror.

"You are an old man, Wang Hsien," he told himself softly, noting the deep lines about his eyes and mouth, the ivory yellow of his eyes, the loose roughness of his skin. "Moon-faced, they call you. Maybe so. But this moon has waxed and waned a thousand times and still I see no clearer by its light. Who are you, Wang Hsien? What kind of man are you?"

He heard a noise in the passageway outside and turned, tensing instinctively; then he relaxed, smiling.

The three girls bowed deeply, then came into the room, Little Bee making her way across to him, while Tender Willow and Sweet Rain busied themselves elsewhere in the room.

Little Bee knelt before him then looked up, her sweet, unaffected smile lifting his spirits, bringing a breath of youth and gaiety to his old heart.

"How are you this evening, good father?"

"I am fine." He lied, warmed by the sight of her. "And you, Mi Feng?"

"The better for seeing you, my Lord."

He laughed softly, then leaned forward, and touched her head gently, affectionately. Little Bee had been with him six years now, since her tenth birthday. She was like a daughter to him.

He turned, enjoying the familiar sight of his girls moving about the room, readying things for him. For a while it dispelled his previous mood, made him forget the darkness he had glimpsed inside and out. He let Little Bee remove his pau and sit him, naked, in a chair; then he closed his eyes and let his head fall back while she began to rub his chest and arms with oils. As ever, the gentle pressure of her hands against his skin roused him. Tender Willow came and held the bowl with the lavender glaze while Sweet Rain gave him ease, her soft, thin-boned fingers caressing him with practiced strokes until he spilled his seed. Then Little Bee washed him there, and, making him stand, bound him up in a single yellow-silk cloth before bringing a fresh sleeping garment.

He looked down at her tiny, delicate form as she stood before him, fastening his cloak, and felt a small shiver pass through him. Little Bee looked up, concerned.

"Are you sure you are all right, Father? Should I ask one of your wives to come to you?"

"It's nothing, Mi Feng. And no, I'll sleep alone tonight."

She fastened the last of the tiny, difficult buttons, looking up into his face a moment, then looked down again, frowning. "I worry for you, Chieh Hsia," she said, turning away to take a brush from the table at her side. "Some days you seem to carry the whole world's troubles on your shoulders."

He smiled and let her push him down gently into the chair again. "1 am Seven, Mi Feng. Who else should carry the burden of Chung Kuo?"

She was silent a moment, her fingers working to unbind his tightly braided queue. Then, leaning close, she whispered in his ear. "Your son," she said. "Why not make Ta-hung your regent?"

He laughed shortly, unamused. "And make Hung Mien-lo, that rascal friend of his, a T'ang in all but name?" He looked at her sharply. "Has he been talking to you?"

"Has who been talking to me, Father? I was thinking only of your health. You need more time to yourself."

He laughed, seeing how free from subterfuge she was. "Forget what 1 said, Mi Feng. Besides, I enjoy my duties."

She was brushing out his hair now, from scalp to tip, her tiny, perfectly formed body swaying gently, enticingly, beside him with each passage of the brush. He could see her in the mirror across the room, her silks barely veiling her nakedness.

He sighed and closed his eyes again, overcome by a strange mixture of emotions. Most men would envy me, he thought. And yet some days I think myself accursed. These girls . . . they would do whatever I wished, without a moment's hesitation; yet there is no joy in the thought. My sons are dead. How could joy survive such heartbreak?

He shuddered and stood up abruptly, surprising Little Bee, making the others turn and look across. They watched him walk briskly to the mirror and stand there as if in pain, grimacing into the glass. Then he turned back, his face bitter.

"Ta-hung!" he said scathingly, throwing himself down into the chair again. "I was a fool to let that one be bom!"

There was a shocked intake of breath from the three girls. It was unlike Wang Hsien to say such things. Little Bee looked to the others and nodded, then waited until they were gone before speaking to him again.

She knelt, looking up into his face, concerned. "What is it, Wang Hsien? What eats at you like poison?"

"My sons!" he said in sudden agony. "My sons are dead!"

"Not all your sons," she answered gently, taking his hands in her own. "Wang Ta-hung yet lives. And Wang Sau-leyan."

"A weakling and a libertine!" he said bitterly, not looking at her, staring past her into space. "I had two fine, strong sons. Good, upstanding men with all their mother's finest qualities. And now—" He shivered violently and looked at her, his features racked with pain, his hands gripping hers tightly. "This war has taken everything, Mi Feng. Everything. Some days I think it has left me hollow, emptied of all I was."

"No . . ." she said, sharing his pain. "No, my Lord. Not everything."

He let her hands fall from his and stood again, turning away from her and staring at the door that led out onto the balcony.

"It is the most bitter lesson," he said fiercely, "that a man might own the world and yet have nothing."

Little Bee swallowed and looked down. She had seen her master in many moods, but never like this.

She turned, realizing there was someone in the chamber with them. It was Sun Li Hua. He stood in the doorway, his head bowed. In his hands was the bowl with the lavender glaze Tender Willow had taken out to him only moments earlier.

"Chieh Hsia?"

Wang Hsien turned abruptly, facing the newcomer, clearly angered by the interruption. Then he seemed to collect himself and dropped his head slightly. He looked across at Little Bee and with a forced smile dismissed her.

"Good night, Chieh Hsia," she said softly, backing away. "May Kuan Yin bring you peace."

SUN LI HUA stood there after the maid had gone, perfectly still, awaiting his master's orders.

"Come in, Master Sun," Wang Hsien said after a moment. He turned away and walked slowly across the room, sitting down heavily on his bed.

"Are you all right, Chieh Hsia?" Sun Li Hua asked. He set the bowl down on the small table at the bedside then looked at his master. "Has one of the maids done something to upset you?"

Wang Hsien glanced at his Master of the Inner Chamber almost without recognition, then shook his head irritably. "What is this?" he said, pointing at the bowl.

"It is your sleeping potion, Chieh Hsia. Lotus seeds mixed with your own life elixir. It should help you sleep."

Wang Hsien took a deep, shuddering breath, then reached out and took the bowl in one hand, sipping from it. The ho yeh was slightly bitter to the taste—a bitterness augmented by the salt tang of his own yang essence, his semen—but not unpleasant. He drained the bowl, then looked back at Sun Li Hua, holding out the empty bowl for him to take. "You will wake me at five, yes?"

Sun Li Hua took the bowl and backed away, bowing again. "Of course, Chieh Hsia."

Sun Li Hua watched the old T'ang turn and slide his legs between the sheets, lower his head onto the pillow, and pull the covers up about his shoulders. Two minutes, he thought; that's all the good Doctor Yueh said it would take.

Sun Li Hua moved back, beneath the camera, waiting in the doorway until he heard the old T'ang's breathing change. Then, setting the bowl down, he took a key from inside his silks and reached up, opening a panel high up in the door's frame. It popped back, revealing a tiny keyboard and a timer unit. Quickly he punched the combination. The timer froze, two amber lights appearing at the top of the panel.

He counted to ten, then touched the EJECT panel. At once a thin, transparent card dropped into the tray beneath the keyboard. He slipped it into his pocket, put its replacement into the slot at the side, and punched SET.

"Good," he said softly, closing the panel and slipping the key back inside his silks. Then taking a pair of gloves from his pocket, he stepped back inside the bedchamber.

six floors below, at the far end of the palace, two soldiers were sitting in a cramped guardroom, talking.

The younger of them, a lieutenant, turned momentarily from the bank of screens that filled the wall in front of him and looked across at his Captain. "What do you think will happen, Otto? Will they close all the companies down?"

Captain Fischer, Head of the T'ang's personal security, looked up from behind his desk and smiled. "Your guess is as good as anyone's, Wolf. But I'll tell you this, whatever they do there'll be trouble."

"You think so?"

"Well, think about it. The volume of seized assets is so vast that if the Seven freeze them it's certain to damage the market badly. However, if they redistribute all that wealth in the form of rewards there's the problem of who gets what. A lot of people are going to be jealous or dissatisfied. On the other hand, they can't just give it back. There has to be some kind of punishment."

The lieutenant turned back to his screens, scanning them conscientiously. "I agree. But where do they draw the line? How do they distinguish between those who were actively against them and those who were simply unhelpful?"

Fischer shrugged. "I don't know, Wolf. I really don't."

They were discussing the most recent spate of Confiscations and Demotions, a subject never far from most people's lips these days. In the past eighteen months more than one hundred and eighty thousand First Level families had been "sent down" and all their material goods confiscated by the Seven as punishment for what had been termed "subversive activities." A further five thousand families had simply vanished from the face of Chung Kuo—to the third generation as the law demanded—for active treason against the Seven. But now, with the War in its final stages and the clamor for peace growing daily, the Confiscations had become a delicate subject and a major bone of contention between those who wanted retribution and those who simply wanted to damp down the fires of resentment and bitterness that such retribution brought in its wake.

The lieutenant turned, eyeing his Captain speculatively. "I hear there's even talk of reopening the House."

Fischer looked back at his junior officer sternly, his voice suddenly hard. "You would do best to forget such talk, Lieutenant."

"Sir." The lieutenant gave a curt bow of his head, then turned back to his screens.

Fischer studied Rahn's back a moment, then leaned back, yawning. It was just after two, the hour of the Ox. The palace was silent, the screens empty of activity. In an hour his shift would be over and he could sleep. He smiled. That is, if Lotte would let him sleep.

He rubbed at his neck, then leaned forward again and began to catch up with his paperwork. He had hardly begun when the door to his right crashed open. He was up out of his seat at once, his gun drawn, aimed at the doorway.

"Sun Li Hua! What in Hell's name?"

The Master of the Inner Chamber looked terrible. His silks were torn, his hair disheveled. He leaned against the doorpost for support, his eyes wide with shock, his cheeks wet with tears. He reached out, his hand trembling violently, then shook his head, his mouth working mutely. His voice, when he found it, was cracked, unnaturally high.

"The T'ang . . ."

Fischer glanced across at the screen that showed Wang Hsien's bedchamber, then back at Sun Li Hua. "What is it, Master Sun? What's happened?"

For a moment Sun Li Hua seemed unable to speak, then he fell to his knees. A great, racking sob shook his whole body, then he looked up, his eyes wild, distraught. "Our Master, the T'ang. He's . . . dead."

Fischer had known as soon as he had seen Sun Li Hua, had felt his stomach fall away from him with fear; but he had not wanted to know—not for certain.

"How?" he heard himself say. Then, seeing what it meant, he looked across at his lieutenant, pre-empting him, stopping him from pressing the general alarm that would wake the whole palace.

"Touch nothing, Wolf. Not until I order you to. Get Kurt and Alan here at once.

He turned back to Sun. "Who else knows, Master Sun? Who else have you told?"

"No one," Sun answered, his voice barely audible. "I came straight here. I didn't know what to do. They've killed him, killed him while he slept."

"Who? Who's killed him? What do you mean?" •) <

"Fu and Chai. I'm certain it was they. Fu's stiletto ..." ••••;. •

Fischer swallowed, appalled. "They knifed him? Your two assistants knifed him?" He turned to his lieutenant. "Wolf, take two copies of the surveillance tape. Send one to Marshal Tolonen at Bremen. Another to General Helm in Rio."

"Sir!"

He thought quickly. No one knew anything. Not yet. Only he and Wolf and Sun Li Hua. And the murderers, of course; but they would be telling no one. He turned back to his lieutenant. "Keep Master Sun here. And when Kurt and Alan come have them wait here until I get back. And Wolf . . ."

"Sir?"

"Tell no one anything. Not yet. Understand me?"

THE BOARD lay on the desk in front of DeVore, its nineteen-by-nineteen grid part overlaid with a patterning of black and white stones. Most of the board was empty; only in the top right-hand corner—in Chu, the West—were the stones concentrated heavily. There the first stage of the battle had been fought, with black pressing white hard into the corner, slowly choking off its breath, blinding its eyes until, at last, the group was dead, the ten stones taken from the board.

It was an ancient game—one of the ten games of the West Lake, played by those two great masters from Hai-nin, Fan Si-pin and Su Ting-an, back in 1763. DeVore played it often, from memory, stopping, as now, at the fifty-ninth move to query what Fan, playing white, had chosen. It was an elegant, enthralling game, the two masters so perfectly balanced in ability, their moves so exquisitely thought out, that he felt a shiver of delight contemplating what was to come. Even so, he could not help but search for those small ways in which each player's game might have been improved.

DeVore looked up from the board and glanced across at the young man who stood, his back to him, on the far side of the room. Then, taking a wafer-thin ice-paper pamphlet from his jacket pocket, he unfolded it and held it out. "Have you heard of this new group, Stefan—the Ping Tiao?" Lehmann turned, his face expressionless, then came across and took the pamphlet, examining it. After a moment he looked back at DeVore, his cold, pink eyes revealing nothing. "Yes, I've heard of them. They're low-level types, aren't they?

Why are you interested?"

"A man must be interested in many things," DeVore answered cryptically,

WANG HSIEN lay there on his back, his face relaxed, as if in sleep, yet pale— almost Hung Moo in its paleness. Fischer leaned across and felt for a pulse at the neck. Nothing. The flesh was cold. The T'ang had been dead an hour at least. Fischer shuddered and stepped back, studying the body once again. The silk sheets were dark, sticky with the old man's blood. The silver-handled stiletto jutted from the T'ang's bared chest, the blade thrust in all the way up to the handle. He narrowed his eyes, considering. It would have taken some strength to do that, even to a sleeping man. And not just strength. It was not easy for one man to kill another. One needed the will for the job.

Could Fu have done it? Or Chai? Fischer shook his head. He could not imagine either of them doing this. And yet if not them, who?

He looked about him, noting how things lay. Then, his mind made up, he turned and left the room, knowing he had only minutes in which to act.

Leaning forward to take a white stone from the bowl, hefting it in his hand. "The Ping Tiao want what we want—to destroy the Seven."

"Yes, but they would destroy us just as readily. They're terrorists. They want only to destroy."

"I know. Even so, they could be useful. We might walk the same path a while, don't you think?"

"And then?"

DeVore smiled tightly. Lehmann knew as well as he. Then there would be war between them. A war he would win. He looked down at the board again. The fifty-ninth move. What would he have played in Fan's place? His smile broadened, became more natural. How many times had he thought it through? A hundred? A thousand? And always, inevitably, he would make Fan's move, taking the black at 4/1 to give himself a temporary breathing space. So delicately were things balanced at that point that to do otherwise—to make any of a dozen other tempting plays—would be to lose it all.

A wise man, Fan Si-pin. He knew the value of sacrifice: the importance of making one's opponents work hard for their small victories, knowing that while the battle was lost in Chu, the war went on in Shang and Ping and Tsu.

So it was now, in Chung Kuo. Things were balanced very delicately. And one wrong move . . . He looked up at Lehmann again, studying the tall young albino.

"You ask what would happen should we succeed, but there are other, more immediate questions. Are the Ping Tiao important enough? You know how the media exaggerate these things. And would an alliance with them harm or strengthen us?"

Lehmann met his gaze. "As I said, the Ping Tiao are a low-level organization. Worse, they're idealists. It would be hard to work with such men. They would have fewer weaknesses than those we're used to dealing with."

"And yet they are men. They have needs, desires."

"Maybe so, but they would mistrust us from the start. In their eyes we are First Level, their natural enemies. Why should they work with us?"

DeVore smiled and stood up, coming round the desk. "It's not a question of choice, Stefan, but necessity. They need someone like us. Think of the losses they've sustained."

He was about to say more—to outline his plan—when there was an urgent knocking at the door.

DeVore looked across, meeting Lehmann's eyes. He had ordered his lieutenant, Wiegand, not to disturb him unless it was vitally important.

"Come in!"

Wiegand took two steps into the room, then came sharply to attention, his head bowed. "I've a call on the coded channel, sir. Triple-A rated."

DeVore narrowed his eyes, conscious of how closely Lehmann was watching him. "Who is it?"

"It's Stifel, sir. He says he has little time."

"Stifel" was the code name for Otto Fischer in Alexandria. DeVore hesitated a moment, his mind running through possibilities; then nodded.

"Okay. Switch it through."

It was a nonvisual, Fischer's voice artificially distorted to avoid even the remote possibility of recognition. "Well, Stifel? What is it?"

"The moon is down, sir. An hour past at most." •

DeVore caught his breath. "How?" "Eclipsed." - ^:

DeVore stared across at Lehmann, astonished. He hesitated a moment, considering, then spoke again.

"How many know about this?"

"Three, maybe four."

"Good. Keep it that way." He thought quickly. "Who's guarding our fallen moon?"

"No one. A camera ..."

"Excellent. Now listen ..." ..

He spelled out quickly what he wanted, then broke contact, knowing that Fischer would do exactly as he had asked. ^;:

"Who's dead?"

DeVore turned and looked at Lehmann again. His face, like the tone of his words, seemed utterly devoid of curiosity, as if the question were a mere politeness, the answer a matter of indifference to him.

"Wang Hsien," he answered. "It seems he's been murdered in his bed." If he had expected the albino to show any sign of surprise he would have been disappointed, but he knew the young man better than that. "1 see," Lehmann said. "And you know who did it?"

"The agent, yes, but not who he was acting for." DeVore sat behind his desk again, then looked up at Lehmann. "It was Sun Li Hua." "You know that for certain?"

"Not for certain, no. But I'd wager a million yuan on it." Lehmann came across and stood at the edge of the desk. "So what now?" DeVore met his eyes briefly, then looked down at the board again. "We wait. Until we hear from Stifel again. Then the fun begins."

"Fun?"

"Yes, fun. You'll see. But go now, Stefan. Get some rest. I'll call you when I need you."

He realized he was still holding the white stone. It lay in his palm like a tiny moon, cold, moist with his sweat. He opened out his ringers and stared at it, then lifted it and wiped it. The fifty-ninth stone.

The game had changed dramatically, the balance altered in his favor. The moon was down. Eclipsed.

DeVore smiled, then nodded to himself, suddenly knowing where to play the stone.

THE DEAD T'ANG lay where he had left him, undisturbed, his long gray hair fanned out across the pillow, his arms at his sides, the palms upturned. Fischer stood there a moment, looking down at the corpse, breathing deeply, preparing himself. Then, knowing he could delay no longer, he bent down and put his hand behind the cold stiff neck, lifting the head, drawing the hair back from the ear.

It was not, physically, difficult to do—the flesh parted easily before the knife; the blood stopped flowing almost as soon as it had begun—yet he was conscious of a deep, almost overpowering reluctance in himself. This was a T'ang! A Son of Heaven! He shivered, letting the severed flesh fall, then turned the head and did the same to the other side.

He lowered the head onto the pillow and stepped back, appalled. Outwardly he seemed calm, almost icy in his control, but inwardly he quaked with an inexplicable, almost religious fear of what he was doing. His pulse raced, his stomach churned, and all the while a part of him kept saying to himself, What are you doing, Otto? What are you doing?

He stared, horrified, at the two thick question-marks of flesh that lay now on the pillow, separated from their owner's head; then he steeled himself and reached out to take them. He drew the tiny bag from inside his jacket and dropped them into it, then sealed the bag and returned it to the pocket.

Wang Hsien lay there, regal even in death, indifferent to all that had been done to him. Fischer stared at him a while, mesmerized, awed by the power of the silent figure. Then, realizing he was wasting time, he bent over the corpse again, smoothing the hair back into place, hiding the disfigurement.

Nervousness made him laugh—a laugh he stifled quickly. He shuddered and looked about him again, then went to the doorway. There he paused, reaching up to reset the camera, checking the elapsed time against his wrist timer, then moved the camera's clock forward until the two were synchronized. That done, he pressed out the combination quickly. The lights at the top changed from amber to green, signifying that the camera was functioning again.

He looked back, checking the room one final time. Then, satisfied that nothing was disturbed, he backed out of the room, pulling the door to silently behind him, his heart pounding, his mouth dry with fear, the sealed bag seeming to bum where it pressed against his chest.

WANG TA-HUNG woke to whispering in his room and sat up, clutching the blankets to his chest, his mind dark with fear.

"Who is it?" he called out, his voice quavering. "Kuan Yin preserve me, who is it?" A figure approached the huge bed, bowed. "It is only I, Excellency. Your servant, Wu Ming."

Wang Ta-hung, the T'ang's eldest surviving son, pulled the blankets tighter about his neck and stared, wide-eyed, past his Master of the Bedchamber, into the darkness beyond.

"Who is there, Wu Ming? Who were you whispering to?" A second figure stepped from the darkness and stood beside the first, his head bowed. He was a tall, strongly built Han dressed in dark silks, his beard braided into three tiny pigtails, his face, when it lifted once again, solid, unreadable. A handsome, yet inexpressive face. "Excellency." "Hung Mien-lo!"

Wang Ta-hung turned and glanced at the ornate timepiece beside the bed, then twisted back, facing the two men, his face twitching with alarm. "It is almost half two! What are you doing here? What's happened?" Hung Mien-lo sat on the bed beside the frightened twenty-year-old, taking his upper arms gently but firmly in his hands.

"It's all right, Ta-hung. Please, calm yourself. I have some news, that's all." The young Prince nodded, but it was as if he were still in the grip of some awful dream: his eyes continued to stare, a muscle in his left cheek twitched violently. He had been this way for eighteen months now, since the day he had found his two brothers dead in one of the guest bedrooms of the summer palace, their naked bodies gray-blue from the poison, the two maids they had been entertaining sprawled nearby, their pale limbs laced with blood, their eyes gouged out.

Some said that the pale was ted-looking youth was mad; others that it was only natural for one of his sickly disposition to suffer after such a discovery. He had never been a strong boy, but now . . .

Hung Mien-lo stroked the young man's shoulder, comforting him, knowing the delicacy of what lay ahead—that what must be said might well send him deeper into madness. He spoke softly, reassuringly. "It is your father, Ta-hung. I am afraid he is dead."

For a moment it didn't register. There was a flicker of disbelief, of uncertainty.! Then, abruptly, the Prince pulled himself away, scrambling back until he was pressed up against the headboard, his eyes wide, his mouth open.

"How?" he said, the words the tiniest, frightened squeak. "How did he die?"

Hung Mien-lo ignored the question. He spoke calmly, using the same reassuring tone as before. "You must get dressed, Ta-hung. You must come and bear witness to what has happened."

Wang Ta-hung laughed shrilly, then buried his head in his arms, shaking it wildly. "No-o-o!" he cried, his voice muffled. "No-oh! God no, not again!"

Hung Mien-lo turned and clicked his fingers. At once Wu Ming bustled off to get things ready. Yes, Hung thought, he at least understands. For now that the old T'ang is dead, Ta-hung is T'ang in his place, mad or no. Indeed, the madder the better as far as I'm concerned, for the more Ta-hung relies on me, the more power lies within my hands.

He smiled and stood, seeing how the young man cowered away from him, yet how his eyes beseeched his help. Yes, indeed, Hung Mien-lo thought; my hour has truly come, the hour I waited for so long as companion to this young fool. And now I am effectively first man in City Africa. The shaper. The orderer. The granter of favors.

Inwardly he felt exultation, a soaring, brilliant joy that had lit in him the moment he had been told; yet this, more than any other moment, was a time for masks. He put one on now, shaping his face toward sternness, to the expression of a profound grief. Satisfied, he went over to the young Prince and lifted him from the bed, standing him on his feet.

"It was so cold," the youth murmured, looking up into his face. "When I touched Chang Ye's shoulder, it was like he had been laid in ice. The cold of it seemed to burn my hand. I..." He hesitated, then looked down, turning his hand, lifting the palm to stare at it.

"That's done with, Ta-hung. You must get dressed now and see your father. You are the eldest now, the Head of your family. You must take charge of things."

Ta-hung stared back at him uncomprehendingly. "Take charge?"

"Don't worry," Hung said, unfastening the cord, then pulling the Prince's sleeping silks down off his shoulders, stripping him naked. "I'll be there beside you, Ta-hung. I'll tell you what to do."

Wu Ming returned and began at once to dress and groom the Prince. He was only partway through when Ta-hung broke away from him and threw himself down at Hung Mien-lo's feet, sobbing.

"I'm frightened, Mien-lo. So frightened!"

Hung glanced at Wu Ming, then reached down and hauled the Prince roughly to his feet. "Stop it! You've got to stop this at once!"

There was a moment's shocked silence, then the young Prince bowed his head. "I'm sorry, I ..."

"No!" Hung barked. "No apologies. Don't you understand, Ta-hung? You're T'ang now. Seven. It is I who should apologize, not you, Chieh Hsia."

Chieh Hsia. It was the first time the words of imperial address had been used to the young man and Hung Mien-lo could see at once the effect they had on him. Though Ta-hung still shivered, though tears still coursed freely down his cheeks, he stood straighter, slightly taller, realizing for the first time what he had become.

"You understand then? Good. Then remember this. Let none but a T'ang touch you without your permission. And let no man, not even a T'ang, speak to you as I spoke then. You are T'ang now. Supreme. Understand me, Chieh Hsia?"

Ta-hung's voice when he answered was different, almost calm. "I understand you, Mien-lo. My father is dead and I am T'ang now."

"Good. Then, with your permission, we will go to see your father and pay our respects, neh?"

The slightest shudder passed through the young man's wasted frame, the smallest cloud of revulsion momentarily crossed the sky of his face, then he nodded. "As you say, Mien-lo. As you say."

WANG SAU-LEYAN heard their voices coming nearer—the rustle of silks and the sound of their soft footsteps on the tiled floor—and slid the door open, slipping out into the dimly lit corridor. He pulled the door to quietly, then turned, facing them. They came on quickly, talking all the while, not seeing him until they were almost on top of him. He saw the look of surprise on Hung Mien-lo's face, heard his brother's gasp of fear.

He smiled and gave the slightest bow. "1 heard noises, Ta-hung. Voices calling softly but urgently in the darkness. What is happening, brother? Why do you wander the corridors at this early hour?"

He saw how Ta-hung looked to his friend—at a loss, his face a web of conflicting emotions—and smiled inwardly, enjoying his brother's impotence.

"I'm afraid there is bad news, Wang Sau-leyan," Hung Mien-lo answered him, bowing low, his face grave. "Your father is dead."

"Dead? But how?"

He saw how Hung Mien-lo glanced at his brother and knew at once that Ta-hung had not been told everything.

"It would be best if you came yourself, Excellency. I will explain everything then. But excuse us, please. We must pay our respects to the late T'ang."

He noted how pointedly Hung Mien-lo had emphasized the last two words; how his voice, while still superficially polite, was a register of how he thought things had changed. Wang Sau-leyan smiled tightly at Hung, then bowed to his elder brother.

"I will get dressed at once."

He watched them go; then, satisfied, he slid the door open again and went back into his rooms.

A voice from the bed, young, distinctly feminine, called softly to him. "What was it, my love?"

He went across to her and slipping off his robe, joined her, naked beneath the sheets.

"It was nothing," he said, smiling down at his father's third wife. "Nothing at all."

WANG TA-HUNG stood in the doorway of his father's room staring in, fear constricting his throat. He turned and looked at Hung Mien-lo beseechingly. "I can't. . ."

"You are T'ang," Hung answered him firmly. "You can."

The young man swallowed, then turned back, his fists clenched at his sides. "I am T'ang," he repeated. "T'ang of City Africa."

Hung Mien-lo stood there a moment, watching him take the first few hesitant steps into the room, knowing how important the next few minutes were. Ta-hung had accustomed himself to the fact of his father's death. Now he must discover how the old man died. Must learn, first-hand, the fate of kings.

And if it drove him mad?

Hung Mien-lo smiled to himself, then stepped inside the room. Kings had been mad before. What was a king, after all, but a symbol—the visible sign of a system of government? As long as the City was ruled, what did it matter who gave the orders?

He stopped beside the old man's chair, watching the youth approach the bed. Surely he's seen? he thought. Yet Ta-hung was too still, too composed. Then the young T'ang turned, looking back at him.

"I knew," he said softly. "As soon as you told me, I knew he had been murdered."

Hung Mien-lo let his breath out. "You knew?" He looked down. There, beneath him on the cushion, lay the T'ang's hairbrush. He leaned forward and picked it up, studying it a moment, appreciating the slender elegance of its ivory handle, the delicacy of its design. He was about to set it down when he noticed several strands of the old T'ang's hair trapped among the darkness of the bristles—long white strands, almost translucent in their whiteness, like the finest threads of ice. He frowned then looked back at Wang Ta-hung. "How do you feel, Chieh Hsia? Are you well enough to see others, or shall I delay?"

Wang Ta-hung looked about him, then turned and stared down at his father. He was still, unnaturally calm.

Perhaps this is it, thought Hung. Perhaps something has broken in him and this calmness is the first sign of it. But for once there seemed no trace of madness in Ta-hung, only a strange sense of dignity and distance, surprising because it was so unexpected.

"Let the others come," he said, his voice clear of any shade of fear, his eyes drinking in the sight of his murdered father. "There's no sense in delay."

Hung Mien-lo hesitated, suddenly uncertain, then turned and went to the door, telling the guard to bring Fischer and Sun Li Hua. Then he went back inside.

Wang Ta-hung was standing at the bedside. He had picked something up and was sniffing at it. Hung Mien-lo went across to him.

"What is this?" Ta-hung asked, handing him a bowl.

It was a perfect piece of porcelain. Its roundness and its perfect lavender glaze made it a delight to look at. Hung turned it in his hands, a faint smile on his lips. It was an old piece, too. K'ang Hsi perhaps ... or perhaps not, for the coloring was wrong. But that was not what Ta-hung had meant. He had meant the residue.

Hung sniffed at it, finding the heavy, musky scent of it strangely familiar; then he turned, hearing voices at the door. It was Sun Li Hua and the Captain.

"Master Sun," he called out. "What was in this bowl?"

Sun bowed low and came into the room. "It was a sleeping potion, Chieh Hsia." he said, keeping his head bowed, addressing the new T'ang. "Doctor Yueh prepared it."

"And what was in it?" Hung asked, irritated by Sun's refusal to answer him directly.

Sun Li Hua hesitated a moment. "It was ho yeh, for insomnia, Chieh Hsia."

"Ho yeh and what?" Hung insisted, knowing the distinct smell of lotus seeds.

Sun glanced briefly at the young T'ang, as if for intercession, then bent his head. "It was mixed with the T'ang's own yang essence, Chieh Hsia."

"Ah . . ." He nodded, understanding.

He set the bowl down and turned away, looking about the room, noting the fresh flowers at the bedside, the T'ang's clothes laid out on the dresser ready for the morning.

He looked across at Fischer. "Has anything been disturbed?"

"No . . . Excellency."

He noted the hesitation and realized that although they knew how important he had suddenly become, they did not know quite how to address him. I must have a title, he thought. Chancellor, perhaps. Some peg to hang their respect upon.

He turned, looking across at the open door that led out onto the balcony. "Was this where the murderer entered?"

Fischer answered immediately. "No, Excellency."

"You're certain?"

"Quite certain, Excellency."

Hung Mien-lo turned, surprised. "How so?"

Fischer glanced up at the camera, then stepped forward. "It is all on tape, Excellency. Sun Li Hua's assistants, the brothers Ying Fu and Ying Chai are the murderers. They entered the room shortly after Master Sun had given the T'ang his potion."

"Gods! And you have them?"

"Not yet, Excellency. But as no one has left the palace since the murder they must be here somewhere. My men are searching the palace even now to find them."

Ta-hung was watching everything with astonishment, his lips parted, his eyes wide and staring. Hung Mien-lo looked across at him a moment, then turned back to Fischer, giving a curt nod. "Good. But we want them alive. It's possible they were acting for another."

"Of course, Excellency."

Hung Mien-lo turned and went to the open door, pulling back the thin see-through curtain of silk and stepping out onto the balcony. It was cool outside, the moon low to his left. To his right the beam of the distant lighthouse cut the darkness, flashing across the dark waters of the Nile delta and sweeping on across the surrounding desert. He stood there a moment, his hands on the balustrade, staring down into the darkness of the river far below.

So, it was Fu and Chai. They were the hands. But who was behind them? Who besides himself had wanted the old man dead? Sun Li Hua? Perhaps. After all, Wang Hsien had humiliated him before his sons when Sun had asked that his brothers be promoted and the T'ang had refused. But that had been long ago. Almost three years now. If Sun, why now? And in any case, Fischer had said that Sun had been like a madman when he'd come to him, feverish with dismay.

Who, then? Who? He racked his brains, but no answer sprang to mind. Wang Sau-leyan? He shook his head. Why should that no-good wastrel want power? And what would he do with it but piss it away if he had it? No, Ta-hung's little brother was good only for bedding whores, not for intrigue. Yet if not he, then who?

There was an anguished cry from within the room. He recognized it at once. It was Ta-hung! He turned and rushed inside.

Ta-hung looked up at him as he entered, his face a window, opening upon his inner terror. He was leaning over his father, cradling the old man's head in the crook of his arm.

"Look!" he called out brokenly. "Look what they've done to him, the carrion! His ears! They've taken his ears!"

Hung Mien-lo stared back at him, horrified, then turned and looked at Sun Li Hua.

Any doubts he had harbored about the Master of the Inner Chamber were dispelled instantly. Sun stood there, his mouth gaping, his eyes wide with horror.

Hung turned, his mind in turmoil now. His ears! Why would they take his ears? Then, before he could reach out and catch him, he saw Ta-hung slide from the bed and fall senseless to the floor. :

"Prince Yuan! Wake up, your father's here!"

Li Yuan rolled over and sat up. Nan Ho stood in the doorway, a lantern in one hand, his head bowed.

"My father?"

A second figure appeared behind Nan Ho in the doorway. "Yes, Yuan. It's late, I know, but I must talk with you at once."

Nan Ho moved aside, bowing low, to let the T'ang pass; then backed out, closing the door silently behind him.

Li Shai Tung sat on the bed beside his son, then reached across to switch on the bedside lamp. In the lamp's harsh light his face was ashen, his eyes red-rimmed.

Li Yuan frowned. "What is it, Father?"

"Ill news. Wang Hsien is dead. Murdered in his bed. Worse, word of it has got out, somehow. There are riots in the lower levels. The Ping Tiao are inciting the masses to rebellion."

"Ah . . ." Li Yuan felt his stomach tighten. It was what they had all secretly feared. The War had left them weak. The Dispersionists had been scattered and defeated; but there were other enemies these days, others who wanted to pull them down and set themselves atop the wheel of state.

He met his father's eyes. "What's to be done?"

Li Shai Tung sighed, then looked aside. "I have spoken to Tsu Ma and Wu Shih already. They think we should do nothing, that we should let the fires burn themselves out." He paused, then shrugged. "Tensions have been high lately. Perhaps it would be good to let things run their course for once."

"Perhaps."

Li Yuan studied his father, knowing from his uncertainty that this was a course he had been talked into, not one he was happy with.

The T'ang stared away broodingly into the far corner of the room, then turned, facing his son again.

"Wang Hsien was a good man, Yuan. A strong man. I depended on him. In Council he was a staunch ally, a wise counselor. Like a brother to me, he was. The death of his sons ... it brought us very close."

He shook his head, then turned away, suddenly angry, a tear spilling down his cheek. "And now Wang Ta-hung is T'ang! Ta-hung, of all the gods' creations! Such a weak and foolish young man!" He turned back, facing Li Yuan, anger and bitterness blazing in his eyes. "Kuan Yin preserve us all! This is an ill day for the Seven."

"And for Chung Kuo."

When his father had gone Li Yuan got up and pulled on his robe, then crossed the room and stood by the window, staring out into the moonlit garden. It was as his father said, the Seven were made much weaker by this death. Yet Wang Hsien had been an old man. A very old man. They would have had to face the consequences of his death some day or other, so why not now? Wang Ta-hung was weak and foolish, that was true; but there were six other T'ang to lead and guide him. That was the strength of the Seven, surely? Where one might fall, the Seven would stand. So it was. So it would always be.

He turned and looked down. There, on the low table by the window, was his bow, the elegant curve of it silvered by the moonlight. He bent down and lifted it, holding the cool smooth surface of the wood against his cheek a moment. Then, abruptly, he spun about, as he'd been taught, the bow suddenly at his waist, the string tensed as if to let fly.

He shivered, then felt himself grow still, looking back.

He had not thought of it in a long time, but now it came clear to him, the memory released like an arrow across the years. He saw himself, eight years old, sat beside Fei Yen in the meadow by the lake. He could smell the faint sweet scent of jasmine, see the pale cream of her sleeve, feel once more the shudder that had run through him as it brushed deliciously against his knees. Across from them sat his brother, Han Ch'in, his booted feet like two young saplings rooted in the earth, his hands placed firmly on his knees.

Wang Sau-leyan . . . Yes, he remembered it now. Fei Yen had been talking about Wang Sau-leyan and how he had been caught in his father's bed. Ten years old, he had been. Only ten, and to be caught with a girl in his father's bed!

Li Yuan frowned, then swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, remembering how Fei Yen had laughed, not shocked but amused by the tale. He recalled how she had fanned herself slowly, how her eyes had looked briefly inward before she raised her eyebrows suggestively, making Han guffaw with laughter. Fei Yen. His brother's wife. And now his own betrothed. The woman he would be marrying only weeks from now.

And Wang Sau-leyan? Yes, it all made sense. He remembered how Wang Hsien had exiled his youngest son, had sent him in disgrace to his floating palace, a hundred thousand li above Chung Kuo. And there the boy had stayed a whole year, with only the T'ang's own guards for company. A year. It was a long, long time for such a spirited child. An eternity, it must have seemed. Long enough, perhaps, to break the last thin ties of love and filial respect. What bitterness that must have engendered in the boy—what hatred of his captors.

Li Yuan looked down at the bow in his hands and shivered violently. That day with Fei Yen, it had been the day of the archery contest—the day she had let his brother best her. And yet, only two days later, Han Ch'in was dead and she a widow.

He shuddered, then saw her smile and tilt her head, showing her tiny perfect teeth. And wondered.

SUN li hua , Master of the Inner Chamber, stood by the door, watching as the doctors examined the body. He had made his statement already, sat beneath the glaring lights of the Security cameras while monitors tested his vital body signs for abnormalities. He had passed that test and now only one thing stood between him and success.

He saw them mutter among themselves, then Fischer turned and came across to him.

"It tests out, Master Sun," he said, making a small bow. "The ho yeh was pure." "I did not doubt it," Sun answered, allowing a slight trace of indignation to enter his voice. "Doctor Yueh is a trusted servant. He had served the T'ang for more than forty years."

"So I understand. And yet men can be bought, can they not?" Fischer smiled tightly, then bowed again and walked on, leaving the room momentarily. Sun watched him go. What does it matter what he suspects.⁷ he thought. He can prove nothing.

He turned, then went across to where the doctors were busy at their work. One cradled the T'ang's head, while a second delicately examined the area where the ear had been cut away. They would make new ears from the T'ang's own genetic material, for a T'ang must be buried whole. But as to where the originals had gone, there was no sign as yet, just as there was no sign of Fu or Chai.

A mystery . . .

Sun Li Hua stared down into the old man's vacant face and took a deep breath, filled suddenly with a sense of grim satisfaction. Yes, old man, he thought, you humiliated me once, before your sons. Refused to promote my brothers. Held down my family. But now you're dead and we will rise in spite of you. For another has promised to raise the Sun family high, to make it second family in all of City Africa.

He turned away, smiling beneath the mask of grief. It had been so easy. Fu and Chai—what simpletons they'd been! He thought back, remembering how he had drugged them and taped them murdering the copy of the T'ang. But they knew nothing of that, only that they were being sought for a crime they had no memory of committing.

Trust—it was a fragile thing. Break it and the world broke with it. And Wang Hsien had broken Sun Li Hua's trust in him some years ago.

He glanced across and saw himself in the wall-length mirror opposite. Do I look any different? he wondered. Does my face betray the change that's taken place in me? No. For I was different that very day, after he'd spumed me. It was then I first stuck the knife in him. Then. For the rest was only the fulfillment of that first imagining. He turned and saw Fischer standing there, watching him from the doorway. "Well, Captain, have you found the murderers?" "Not yet, Master Sun, but we shall, I promise you."

Fischer let his eyes rest on Sun a moment longer, then looked away. It was as DeVore said: Sun Li Hua was the murderer. While Sun had been in his office Fischer had had his lieutenant take a sample of his blood under the pretext of giving him a sedative. That sample had shown what DeVore had said it would show, traces of CT-7, a drug that created the symptoms of acute distress.

His shock, his overwhelming grief—both had been chemically faked. And why fake such things unless there was a reason? And then there was the camera. There was no way of proving it had been tampered with, but it made sense. Apart from himself, only Sun Li Hua knew the combination; only Sun had the opportunity. It was possible, of course, that they had simply not seen Fu and Chai go into the room, but his lieutenant was a good man—alert, attentive. He would not have missed something so obvious. Which meant that the tape of the murder had been superimposed.

But whose hand lay behind all this? Hung Mien-lo? It was possible. After all, he had most to gain from Wang Hsien's death. Yet he had seen with his own eyes how fair, how scrupulous, Hung had been in dealing with the matter. He had let nothing be rushed or overlooked, as if he, too, were anxious to know who had ordered the T'ang's death.

As he would need to. For he would know that whoever killed a T'ang might kill again.

No. Would kill again.

"Captain Fischer . . ."

He turned. It was Wang Ta-hung. Fischer bowed low, wondering at the same time where Hung Mien-lo had got to.

"Yes, Chieh Hsia?"

"Have you found them yet?"

He hesitated. It had been almost thirty minutes since they had begun searching for Sun's two assistants and still there was no trace of them.

"No, Chieh Hsia. I'm afraid—"

He stopped, astonished. A man had appeared in the doorway at Wang Ta-hung's back, his hair untidy, his clothing torn. In his hand he held a bloodied knife.

"Wang Sau-leyan!"

Ta-hung spun around and cried out, then took two faltering steps backward, as if he feared an attack. But Wang Sau-leyan merely laughed and threw the knife down.

"The bastards were hiding in my rooms. One cut me here." He pulled down his pau at the neck, revealing a thin line of red. "I stuck him for that. The other tried to take my knife from me, but he knew better after a while."

"Gods!" said Fischer, starting forward. "Where are they?"

Wang Sau-leyan straightened up, touching the wound gingerly. "Where I left them. I don't think they'll be going far."

Fischer turned and looked across at the doctors. "Quick, now! Come with me, ch'un tzu! I must save those men."

Wang Sau-leyan laughed and shook his head. He was staring at his brother strangely. "Do what you must, Captain. You'll find them where I left them."

Fischer turned, facing the new T'ang. "Chieh Hsia, will you come?"

Wang Ta-hung swallowed, then nodded. "Of course."

They met Hung Mien-lo in the corridor outside.

"You've found them, then?"

Fischer bowed, then glanced at Wang Sau-leyan. "The Prince found them, in his quarters. He has incapacitated them, it seems."

Hung Mien-lo glared at Wang Sau-leyan, then turned angrily away. "Come, then. Let's see what the Prince has left us, neh?"

WANG SAU-LEYAN sat on a footstool in his bedroom, letting the doctor dress the wound at his neck. Across from him Fischer was moving about the bathroom suite, examining the two corpses.

"Why?" Hung Mien-lo asked him again, standing over him almost threateningly. "Why did you kill them?"

He looked up, ignoring Hung Mien-lo, his eyes piercing his elder brother. "They were dangerous men. They killed our father. What was to stop them killing me?"

He smiled tightly, then looked back at the bathroom. He saw Fischer straighten up, turn, and come to the doorway. He had been searching the dead men's clothing, as if looking for something they had stolen.

"Where are they?" Fischer asked, looking directly at him. Wang Sau-leyan stared back at him, irritated by his insolence. "Where are what?" he asked angrily, wincing as the doctor tightened the bandage about his shoulder.

"The ears," said Fischer, coming out into the room.

"Ears?" Wang Sau-leyan gave a short laugh.

"Yes," Fischer said, meeting the Prince's eyes. "The ears, my Lord. Where are the great T'ang's ears?"

The Prince rose sharply from his stool, pushing Hung Mien-lo aside, his broad moonlike face filled with disbelief. He strode across and stood glowering at Fischer, his face only inches from his.

"What are you suggesting, Captain?"

Fischer knelt, his head bowed. "Forgive me, my Lord. 1 was suggesting nothing. But the murderers took your father's ears, and now there is no sign of them."

Wang Sau-leyan stood there a moment longer, clearly puzzled, then whirled about, looking directly at his brother.

"Is this true, Ta-hung?"

"Chieh Hsia . . ." Hung Mien-lo reminded him, but Wang Sau-leyan ignored him.

"Well, brother? Is it true?"

Wang Ta-hung let his head fall before the fierceness of his younger brother's gaze.

He nodded. "It is so."

Wang Sau-leyan took a shuddering breath then looked about him again, his whole manner suddenly defiant, his eyes challenging any in that room to gainsay him.

"Then I'm glad I killed them."

Hung Mien-lo stared at the Prince a moment, astonished by his outburst, then turned and looked across at Wang Ta-hung. The contrast was marked. Tiger and lamb, they were. And then he understood. Wang Sau-leyan had dared to have his father killed. Yes! Looking at him he knew it for a certainty. Sun had had access to the T'ang and motive enough, but only Wang Sau-leyan had had the will—the sheer audacity—to carry through the act.

It took his breath. He looked at the Prince with new eyes. Then, almost without thinking, he stepped forward and, his head bowed in respect, addressed him.

"Please, my Prince, sit down and rest. No blame attaches to you. You did as you had to. The murderers are dead. We need look no further."

Wang Sau-leyan turned, facing him, a smile coming to his lips. Then he turned toward Fischer, his face hardening again.

"Good. Then get the bodies of those vermin out of here and leave me be. I must get some sleep."

PART I SUMMER 2206

The Art of War

Though the enemy be stronger in numbers, we may prevent him from righting. Scheme so as to discover his plans and the likelihood of their success. Rouse him, and leam the principle of his activity or inactivity. Force him to reveal himself, so as to find out his vulnerable spots. Carefully compare the opposing army with your own, so that you may know where strength is superabundant and where it is deficient.

—SUN TZU, The Art of War, fifth century b.c.

CHAPTER ONE

The Fifty-Ninth Stone

IT WAS DAWN on Mars. In the lowland desert of the Golden Plains it was minus 114 degrees and rising. Deep shadow lay like the surface of a fathomless sea to the east, tracing the lips of huge escarpments; while to the north and west the sun's first rays picked out the frozen slopes and wind-scoured mouths of ancient craters. Through the center of this landscape ran a massive pipeline, dissecting the plain from north to south, a smooth vein of polished white against the brown-red terrain.

For a time the plain was still and silent. Then, from the south, came the sound of an approaching craft; the dull roar of its engines carried faintly on the thin atmosphere. A moment later it drew nearer, following the pipeline. Feng Shou Pumping Station was up ahead, in the distance—a small oasis in the billion-year sterility of the Martian desert—discernible even at this range from the faint spiral curve of cloud that placed a blue-white smudge amid the perfect pinkness of the sky.

The report had come in less than an hour earlier, an unconfirmed message that an unauthorized craft had been challenged and brought down in the Sea of Divine Kings, eighty li northwest of Feng Shou Station. There was no more than that; but Karr, trusting to instinct, had commissioned a Security craft at once, speeding north from Tian Men K'ou City to investigate.

Karr stared down through the dark filter of the cockpit's screen at the rugged terrain below, conscious that after eight months of scouring this tiny planet for some sign of the man, he might at last be nearing the end of his search.

At first he had thought this a dreadful place. The bitter cold, the thin unnatural atmosphere, the closeness of the horizon, the all-pervading redness of the place. He had felt quite ill those first few weeks, despite the enjoyable sensation of shedding more than 60 percent of his body weight to Mars' much smaller surface gravity. The Han Security officer who had been his host had told him it was quite natural to feel that way: it took some time to acclimatize to Mars. But he had wondered briefly whether this cold, inhospitable planet might not be his final resting place. Now, however, he felt sad that his stay was coming to an end. He had grown to love the austere magnificence of Mars. Eight months. It was little more than a season here.

As the craft drew nearer he ordered the pilot to circle the station from two li out. The five huge chimneys of the atmosphere generator dominated the tiny settlement, belching huge clouds of oxygen-rich air into the thin and frigid atmosphere. Beneath them the sprawl of settlement buildings was swathed in green—hardy mosses that could survive the extreme temperatures of the Martian night. Farther out, the red sands were rimed with ice that formed a wide, uneven ring of whiteness about the Station. The generator itself was deep beneath the surface, its taproots reaching down toward the core of the planet to draw their energy. Like thirty other such generators scattered about the planet's surface, it had been pumping oxygen into the skies of Mars for more than one hundred and fifty years. Even so, it would be centuries yet before Mars had a proper atmosphere again.

Karr made a full circle of the settlement, studying the scene. There were four transports parked to the east of the pipeline, in an open space between some low buildings. At first, in the half light, they had seemed to form one single, indistinct shape—a complexity of shadows—but through the resolution of field glasses he could make out individual markings. One was a craft belonging to the settlement; another two were Security craft from out of Kang Kua in the north. The fourth was unmarked. A small, four-man flier, the design unlike anything he had seen before on Mars.

He leaned forward and tapped out that day's security code, then sat back, waiting. In a moment it came back, suitably amended, followed by an update.

Karr gave himself a moment to digest the information, then nodded to himself. "Okay. Set her down half a li to the south of those craft. Then suit up. I want to be ready for any trouble."

The young pilot nodded tersely, setting them down softly on the southern edge of the settlement. While the pilot suited up, Karr sat there, staring out at the settlement, watching for any sign that this might yet be a trap. "Ready?"

The young man nodded. "Good. Wait here. I'll not be long."

Karr took a breath, then released the hatch. As he climbed out, systems within his suit reacted immediately to the sudden changes in temperature and pressure. It was cold out here. Cold enough to kill a man in minutes if his suit failed.

There were five buildings surrounding the craft: three domes and two long, flat-topped constructions, the domes to the left, the flat-tops to the right. The pumping station itself was the largest of the domes, straddling the pipeline like a giant swelling. It was one of eight similar stations—situated at two hundred li intervals along the pipeline—that pumped water from the sprawling Tzu Li Keng Seng generating complex in the south to the three great northern cities of Hong Hai, Kang Kua, and Chi Shan.

Karr walked toward the huge hemisphere of the station, the tiny heat generator in his suit clicking on as he moved into the shadow of the giant pipeline. As he came nearer a door hissed open and unfolded toward the ground, forming steps. Without hesitation he mounted them and went inside, hearing the door close behind him.

He went through the air lock briskly and out into the pressurized and heated core of the station. Two Security men were waiting for him, at attention, clearly surprised that he was still suited up. They looked at him expectantly, but he went past them without a word, leaving them to follow him or not, as they wished.

He took a left turn at the first junction into a corridor that bridged the pipeline. As he did so an officer, a fresh-faced young Han, hurried down the corridor toward him.

"Major Karr. Welcome to Feng Shou. Captain Wen would like . . ."

Ignoring him, Karr brushed past and turned off to the left, taking the narrow stairwell down to the basement. Guards looked up, surprised, as he came down the corridor toward them, then stood to a hurried attention as they noticed the leopard badge of a third-ranking officer that adorned the chest of his suit.

"Forgive me, Major Karr, but the Captain says you must. . ."

Karr turned and glared at the junior officer who had followed him, silencing him with a look.

"Please tell your Captain that, as his superior officer, I've taken charge of this matter. And before you ask, no; I don't want to see him. Understand me?"

The young soldier bowed deeply and backed off a step. "Of course, Major. As you say."

Karr turned away, forgetting the man at once. These stations were all the same. There was only one place to keep prisoners securely. He marched down the narrow dimly lit passageway and stopped, facing a heavy paneled door. He waited as one of the guards caught up with him and took a bunch of old-fashioned metal keys from inside a thick pouch; then, as the door swung inward, he pushed past the man impatiently.

Hasty improvisation had made a cell of the small storeroom. The floor was bare rock, the walls undecorated ice, opaque and milky white, like a blind eye. The four men were bound at wrist and ankle.

Berdichev was sitting slumped against the wall. His gray uniform was dusty and disheveled, buttons missing from the neck; his face was thinner, gaunter than the Security profile of him. He hadn't shaved for a week or more, and he stared back at Karr through eyes red-rimmed with tiredness. Karr studied him thoughtfully. The horn-rimmed glasses that were his trademark hung from a fine silver chain about his neck, the lenses covered in a fine red grit.

He had not been certain. Not until this moment. But now he knew. Berdichev was his. After almost five years of pursuit, he had finally caught up with the leader of the Dispersionists.

Karr looked about the cell again, conscious of the other three watching him closely, then nodded, satisfied. He knew how he looked to them. Knew how the suit exaggerated his size, making him seem monstrous, unnatural. Perhaps they were even wondering what he was—machine or man. If so, he would let them know. He lit up his face plate, seeing how the eyes of the others widened with surprise. But not Berdichev. He was watching Karr closely.

Karr turned, slamming the door shut behind him; then turned back, facing them again.

He knew what they expected. They knew the laws that were supposed to govern an arrest. But this was different. They had been tried in their absence and found guilty. He was not here to arrest them.

"Well, Major Karr, so we meet up at last, eh?" Berdichev lifted his chin a little as he spoke, but his eyes seemed to look down on the giant. "Do you really think you'll get me to stand trial? In fact, do you even think you'll leave Mars alive?"

If there had been any doubt before, there was none now. It was a trap. Berdichev had made a deal with the Captain, Wen. Or maybe Wen was in another's pay—a friend of Berdichev's. Whatever, it didn't matter now. He walked over to where Berdichev was sprawled and kicked at his feet.

"Get up," he said tonelessly, his voice emerging disembodied and inhuman through the suit's microphone.

Berdichev stood slowly, awkwardly. He was clearly ill. Even so, there was a dignity of bearing to him, a superiority of manner, that was impressive. Even in defeat he thought himself the better man. It was how he had been bred.

Karr stood closer, looking down into Berdichev's face, studying the hawklike features one last time. For a moment Berdichev looked away; then, as if he realized this was one last challenge, he met the big man's stare unflinchingly, his features set, defiant.

Did he know whose gaze he met across the vastness of space? Did he guess in that final moment?

Karr picked him up and broke his neck, his back, then dropped him. It was done in an instant, before the others had a chance to move, even to cry out.

He stepped away then stood there by the door, watching.

They gathered about the body, kneeling, glaring across at him, impotent to help the dying man. One of them half rose, his fists clenched, then drew back, realizing he could do nothing.

Karr tensed, hearing noises in the corridor outside—Captain Wen and his squad.

He took a small device from his belt, cracked its outer shell like an egg, and threw the sticky innards at the far wall, where it adhered, high up, out of reach. He pulled the door open and stepped outside, then pulled it closed and locked it. His face plate still lit up, he smiled at the soldiers who were hurrying down the corridor toward him as if greeting them; then he shot Wen twice before he could say a word.

The remaining four soldiers hesitated, looking to the junior officer for their lead. Karr stared from face to face, defying them to draw a weapon, his own held firmly out before him. Then, on the count of fifteen, he dropped to the floor.

The wall next to him lit up brightly and a fraction of a second later, the door blew out.

Karr got up and went through the shattered doorway quickly, ignoring the fallen men behind him. The cell was devastated, the outer wall gone. Bits of flesh and bone lay everywhere, unrecognizable as parts of living men.

He stood there a moment, looking down at the thermometer on the sleeve of his suit. The temperature in the room was dropping rapidly. They would have to address that problem quickly or the generators that powered the pumps would shut down. Not only that, but they would have to do something about the loss of air pressure within the station.

Karr crossed to the far side of the room and stepped outside, onto the sands. Debris from the blast lay everywhere. He turned and looked back at the devastation within. Was that okay? he asked silently. Did that satisfy your desire for vengeance, Li Shai Tung? For the T'ang was watching everything. All that Karr saw, he saw— the signal sent back more than four hundred million li through space.

He shrugged, then tapped the buttons at his wrist, making contact with the pilot.

"I'm on the sands to the west of the pipeline, near where the explosion just happened. Pick me up at once."

"At once, Major."

He turned back and fired two warning shots into the empty doorway, then strode out across the sands, positioning himself in a kneeling stance, facing the station.

Part of him saw the craft lift up over the massive pipeline and drop toward him, while another part of him was watching the doorway for any sign of activity. Then he was aboard, the craft climbing again, and he had other things to think of. There was a gun turret built into the side of the station. Nothing fancy, but its gun could easily bring down a light two-man craft like their own. As they lifted he saw it begin to turn and leaned across the pilot to prime the ship's missiles, then sent two silkworms hurtling down into the side of the dome.

A huge fireball rose into the sky, rolling over and over upon itself. A moment later the blast rocked the tiny craft.

"Kuan Yin!!" screamed the pilot. "What in hell's name are you doing?"

Karr glared at the young Han. "Just fly!"

"But the station . . ."

The big dome had collapsed. The two nearest domes were on fire. People were spilling from the nearby buildings, shocked, horrified by what they saw. As Karr lifted up and away from the settlement, he saw the end of the fractured pipeline buckle and then lift slowly into the air, like a giant worm, water gushing from a dozen broken conduits, cooling rapidly in the frigid air.

"Ai ya!" said the young pilot, his voice pained and anxious. "It's a disaster! What have you done, Major Kan:? What have you done?"

"I've finished it," Karr answered him, angry that the boy should make so much of a little water. "I've ended the War."

FOUR hundred million li away, back on Chung Kuo, DeVore strode into a room and looked about him. The room was sparsely furnished, undecorated save for a flag that was pinned to the wall behind the table, its design the white stylized outline of a fish against a blue background. At the table sat five people: three men and two women. They wore simple, light-blue uniforms on which no sign of rank or merit was displayed. Two of them—one male, one female—were Han. This last surprised DeVore. He had heard rumors that the Ping Tiao hated the Han. No matter. They hated authority, and that was good enough. He could use them, Han in their ranks or no. "What do you want?"

The speaker was the man at the center of the five; a short stocky man with dark intense eyes, fleshy lips, and a long nose. His brow was long, his thin gray hair receding. DeVore knew him from the report. Gesell was his name. Bent Gesell. He was their leader or at least the man to whom this strange organization of so-called equal individuals looked for their direction.

DeVore smiled, then nodded toward the table, indicating the transparent grid that was laid out before Gesell. "You have the map, I see."

Gesell narrowed his eyes, studying him a moment. "Half of it, anyway. But that's your point, isn't it, Shih Turner? Or am I wrong?"

DeVore nodded, looking from face to face, seeing at once how suspicious they were of him. They were of a mind to reject his proposal, whatever it might be. But that was as he had expected. He had never thought this would be easy.

"I want to make a deal with you—the other half of that map, and more like it, for your cooperation in a few schemes of mine."

Gesell's nostrils dilated, his eyes hardened. "We are not criminals, Shih Turner, whatever the media says about us. We are Ko Ming. Revolutionaries."

The Fifty-Ninth Stone 9

DeVore stared back at Gesell challengingly. "Did I say otherwise?"

"Then I repeat. What do you want?"

DeVore smiled. "I want what you want. To destroy the Seven. To bring it all down and start again."

Gesell's smile was ugly. "Fine rhetoric. But can you support your words?"

DeVore's smile widened. "That packet your men took from me. Ask one of them to bring it in."

Gesell hesitated, then indicated to the guard who stood behind DeVore that he should do so. He returned a moment later with the small sealed package, handing it to Gesell.

"If this is a device of some kind . . ." Gesell began. But DeVore shook his head.

"You asked what proof I have of my intentions. Well, inside that package you'll find a human ear. The ear of the late T'ang of Africa, Wang Hsien."

There was a gasp from the others at the table, but Gesell was cool about it. He left the package untouched. "Half a map and an ear. Are these your only credentials, Shih Turner? The map could be of anything, the ear anyone's."

He's merely playing now, thought DeVore; impressing on the others how wise he is, how cautious. Because he, at least, will have had the map checked out and will know it is of the Security arsenal at Helmstadt Canton. Likewise with the ear. He knows how easy it is to check the authenticity of the genetic material.

He decided to push. "They might. But you believe otherwise. It must interest you to know how I could get hold of such things."

Gesell laughed. "Perhaps you're a thief, Shih Turner."

DeVore ignored the insult but stored it in memory. He would have his revenge for that.

"The ear is easy to explain. I had Wang Hsien assassinated."

Gesell's laughter was harder; it registered his disbelief. "Then why come to us? If you can have a T'ang murdered so easily, what need have you for such"—he looked about him humorously "—small fish as we Ping Tiao?"

DeVore smiled. "I came here because the War has entered a new phase. And because I believe I can trust you."

"Trust us?" Gesell studied him closely, looking for any trace of irony in the words. "Yes. Perhaps you could. But can we trust you, Shih Turner? And should we even consider trusting you? I mean, what are your real motives for coming here today? Is it really as you say—to ally with us to bring down the Seven? Or do you simply want to use us?"

"I want to share what I know with you. I want to fight alongside you. If that's using you, then yes, I want to use you, Shih Gesell."

Gesell's surprise was marked. "How do you know my name?"

DeVore met his stare openly. "I do my homework."

"Then you'll know we work with no one."

"You used not to. But those days are past. You've suffered substantial losses. You need me. As much as I need you."

Gesell shrugged. "And why do you need us? Have your Above backers pulled out, then, Shih Turner?"

He feigned surprise, but he had known Gesell would raise this point. Had known because he himself had passed the information on to his contact inside the Ping Tiao.

Gesell laughed. "Come clean, Shih Turner. Tell us the real reason why you're here."

DeVore stepped forward, appealing suddenly to them all, not just Gesell, knowing that this was the point where he could win them over.

"It's true. The War has taken many whose funds supported my activities. But there's more to it than that. Things have changed. It's no longer a struggle in the Above between those in power and those who want to be. The conflict has widened. As you know. It's no longer a question of who should rule, but whether or not there should be rulers at all."

Gesell sat back. "That's so. But what's your role in this? You claim you've killed a Tang."

"And Ministers, and a T'ang's son . . ."

Gesell laughed shortly. "Well, whatever. But still I ask you: why should we trust you?"

DeVore leaned forward and placed his hands on the edge of the table. "Because you have to. Alone, both of us will fail. The Ping Tiao will go down into obscurity, or at best earn a footnote in some historical document as just another small fanatical sect. And the Seven . . ." He heaved a huge sigh and straightened up. "The Seven will rule Chung Kuo forever."

He had given them nothing. Nothing real or substantial, anyway. As Gesell had so rightly said, all they had was half a map, an ear. That and his own bare-faced audacity in daring to knock on their door, knowing they were ruthless killers. Yet he could see from their faces that they were more than half convinced already.

"Unwrap the package, Shih Gesell. You'll find there's something else besides an ear inside."

Gesell hesitated, then did as DeVore had asked. Setting the ear aside, he unfolded the transparent sheet and placed it beside its matching half.

"I have three hundred and fifty trained men," DeVore said quietly. "If you can match my force we'll take the Helmstadt Armory two days from now."

Gesell stared at him. "You seem very sure of yourself, Shih Turner. Helmstadt is heavily guarded. It has complex electronic defenses. How do you think we can take it?"

"Because there will be no defenses. Not when we attack."

Quickly, confidently, he spelled out his plan, holding back only the way he had arranged it all. When he'd finished, Gesell looked to his colleagues. He had noted what DeVore had said, in particular the part about the high-profile media publicity the Ping Tiao would gain from the attack, publicity that was sure to swell their ranks with new recruits. That, and the prospect of capturing a significant stockpile of sophisticated weaponry, seemed to have swung the decision.

Gesell turned to him. "You'll let us confer a moment, Shih Turner. We are a democratic movement. We must vote on this."

DeVore smiled inwardly. Democracy, my ass. It's what you want, Gesell. And I think you're clever enough to know you've no option but to go along with me.

Giving the slightest bow, he walked out of the room. He had only to wait a few minutes before the door opened again and Gesell came out. He stood facing the Ping Two leader.

"Well?"

Gesell stared at him a moment, coldly assessing him. Then, with the smallest bow, he stepped back, holding out his arm. "Come in, Shih Turner. We have plans to discuss."

the girl WAS DEAD. Haavikko sat there, distraught, staring at her, at the blood that covered his hands and chest and thighs, and knew he had killed her.

He turned his head slightly and saw the knife, there on the floor where he remembered dropping it; he shuddered, a wave of sickness, of sheer self-disgust washing over him. What depths, what further degradations, lay ahead of him? Nothing. He had done it all. And now this.

There was no more. This was the end of that path he had set out upon ten years ago.

He turned back, looking at her. The girl's face was white, drained of blood. Such a pretty face it had been in life, full of laughter and smiles, her eyes undulled by experience. He gritted his teeth against the sudden pain he felt and bowed his head, overcome. She could not have been more than fourteen.

He looked about the room. There, draped carelessly over the back of the chair, was his uniform. And there, on the floor beside it, the tray with the empty bottles and the glasses they had been drinking from before it happened.

He closed his eyes, then shivered violently, seeing it all again—the images forming with an almost hallucinatory clarity that took his breath. He uttered a small moan of pain, seeing himself holding her down with one hand, striking at her in a frenzy with the knife, once, twice, a third time, slashing at her breasts, her stomach, while she cried out piteously and struggled to get up.

He jumped to his feet and turned away, putting his hands up to his face. "Kuan Yin preserve you, Axel Haavikko for what you've done!"

Yes, he saw it all now. It all led to this. The drinking and debauchery, the insubordination and gambling. This was its natural end. This grossness. He had observed his own fall, from that moment in General Tolonen's office to this . . . this finality. There was no more. Nothing for him but to take the knife and end himself.

He stared at the knife. Stared long and hard at it. Saw how the blood was crusted on its shaft and handle, remembering the feel of it in his hand. His knife.

Slowly he went across, then knelt down next to it, his hands placed on either side of it. End it now, he told himself. Cleanly, quickly, and with more dignity than you've shown in all these last ten years.

He picked up the knife, taking its handle in both hands, then turned the blade toward his stomach. His hands shook, and for the briefest moment, he wondered if he had the courage left to carry the thing through. Then, determined, he closed his eyes.

"Lieutenant Haavikko, I've come to see—"

Haavikko turned abruptly, dropping the knife. The pimp, Liu Chang, had come three paces into the room and stopped, taking in the scene.

"Gods!" the Han said, his face a mask of horror. He glanced at Haavikko fearfully, backing away; then turned and rushed from the room.

Haavikko shuddered, then turned back, facing the knife. He could not stand up. All the strength had gone from his legs. Nor could he reach out and take the knife again. His courage was spent. Nothing remained now but his shame. He let his head fall forward, tears coming to his eyes.

"Forgive me, Vesa, I didn't mean . . ."

Vesa. It was his beloved sister's name. But the dead girl had no name. Not one he knew, anyway.

He heard the door swing open again; there were footsteps in the room, but he did not lift his head. Let them kill me now, he thought. Let them take their revenge on me. It would be no less than I deserve.

He waited, resigned, but nothing happened. He heard them lift the girl and carry her away, then sensed someone standing over him.

Haavikko raised his head slowly and looked up. It was Liu Chang. "You disgust me." He spat the words out venomously, his eyes boring into Haavikko. "She was a good girl. A lovely girl. Like a daughter to me."

"I'm sorry . . ." Haavikko began, his throat constricting. He dropped his head, beginning to sob. "Do what you will to me. I'm finished now. I haven't even the money to pay you for last night."

The pimp laughed, his disgust marked. "I realize that, soldier boy. But then, you've not paid your weight since you started coming here." Haavikko looked up, surprised. "No. It's a good job you've got friends, neh? Good friends who'll bail you out when trouble comes. That's what disgusts me most about your scat. You never pay. It's all settled for you, isn't it?"

"I don't know what you mean. I—"

But Liu Chang's angry bark of laughter silenced him. "This. It's all paid for. Don't you understand that? Your friends have settled everything for you." ;

Haavikko's voice was a bemused whisper. "Everything . . . ?"

"Everything." Liu Chang studied him a moment, his look of disgust unwavering, then he leaned forward and spat in Haavikko's face.

Haavikko knelt there long after Liu Chang had gone, the spittle on his cheek a badge of shame that seemed to burn right through to the bone. It was less than he deserved, but he was thinking about what Liu Chang had said. Friends . . . What friends? He had no friends, only partners in his debauchery, and they would have settled nothing for him.

He dressed and went outside, looking for Liu Chang.

"Liu Chang. Where is he?"

The girl at the reception desk stared at him a moment, as if he were something foul and unclean that had crawled up out of the Net, then handed him an envelope.

Haavikko turned his back on the girl, then opened the envelope and took out the single sheet of paper. It was from Liu Chang.

Lieutenant Haavikko, Words cannot express the disgust I feel. If I had my way you would be made to pay fully for what you have done. As it is, I must ask you never to frequent my House again. If you so much as come near, I shall pass on my record of events to the authorities, "friends" or no. Be warned.

Liu Chang. _; .....

He stuffed the paper into his tunic pocket then staggered out, more mystified than ever. Outside, in the corridor, he looked about him, then lurched over to the public drinking fountain inset into the wall at the intersection. He splashed his face then straightened up.

Friends. What friends? Or were they friends at all?

Liu Chang knew, but he could not go near Liu Chang. Who then?

Haavikko shivered, then looked about him. Someone knew. Someone had made it their business to know. But who?

He thought of the girl again and groaned. "I don't deserve this chance," he told himself softly. And yet he was here, free, all debts settled. Why? He gritted his teeth and reached up to touch the spittle that had dried on his cheek. Friends, It gave him a reason to go on. To find out who. And why.

DEVORE TOOK OFF his gloves and threw them down on the desk; then he turned and faced his lieutenant, Wiegand, lowering his head to dislodge the lenses from his eyes.

"Here." He handed the lenses to Wiegand, who placed them carefully in a tiny plastic case he had ready. "Get these processed. I want to know who those other four are."

Wiegand bowed and left. DeVore turned, meeting the eyes of the other man in the room.

"It went perfectly. We attack Helmstadt in two days."

The albino nodded, but was quiet.

"What is it, Stefan?"

"Bad news. Soren Berdichev is dead."

DeVore looked at the young man a moment, then went and sat behind his desk, busying himself with the reports that had amassed while he was away. He spoke without looking up.

"1 know. I heard before I went in. A bad business, by all accounts, but useful. It may well have alienated the Mars settlers. They'll have little love for the Seven now, after the destruction of the pipeline."

"Maybe . . ." Lehmann was silent a moment, then came and stood at the edge of the desk looking down at DeVore. "I liked him, you know. Admired him."

DeVore looked up, masking his surprise. He found it hard to believe that Stefan Lehmann was capable of liking anyone. "Well," he said, "he's dead now. And life goes on. We've got to plan for the future. For the next stage of the War." "Is that why you went to see those scum?"

DeVore stared past Lehmann a moment, studying the map on the wall behind him. Then he met his eyes again. "I have news for you, Stefan."

The pink eyes hardened, the mouth tightened. "I know already." "I see." DeVore considered a moment. "Who told you?"

"Wiegand."

DeVore narrowed his eyes. Wiegand. He was privy to all incoming messages, of course, but he had strict instructions not to pass on what he knew until DeVore authorized it. It was a serious breach.

"I'm sorry, Stefan. It makes it harder for us all."

The Notice of Confiscation had come in only an hour before he had gone off to meet the Ping Tiao, hot on the heels of the news of Berdichev's death. In theory it stripped Lehmann of all he had inherited from his father, making him a pauper, but DeVore had pre-empted the Notice some years back by getting Berdichev to switch vast sums from the Estate in the form of loans to fictitious beneficiaries. Those "loans" had long been spent—and more besides—on constructing further fortresses, but Lehmann knew nothing of that. As far as he was concerned, the whole sum was lost.

Lehmann was studying him intently. "How will it change things?"

DeVore set down the paper and sat back. "As far as I'm concerned it changes nothing, Stefan. All our lives are forfeit anyway. What difference does a piece of paper bearing the seals of the Seven make to that?"

There was the slightest movement in the young man's ice-pale face. "I can be useful. You know that."

"I know." Good, thought DeVore. He understands. He's learned his lessons well. There's no room for sentimentality in what we're doing here. What's past is past. I owe him nothing for the use of his money.

"Don't worry," he said, leaning forward and picking up the paper again. "You're on the payroll now, Stefan. I'm appointing you lieutenant, as from this moment. Ranking equal with Wiegand."

Yes, he thought. That should take the smile from Wiegand's face.

When Lehmann had gone he stood and went across to the map again. In the bottom left-hand comer the carp-shaped area that denoted the Swiss Wilds was crisscrossed with lines, some broken, some solid. Where they met or ended were tiny squares, representing fortresses. There were twenty-two in all, but only fourteen of them—boxed in between Zagreb in the southeast and Zurich in the northwest—were filled in. These alone were finished. The eight fortresses of the western arm remained incomplete. In four cases they had yet to be begun.

Money. That was his greatest problem. Money for wages, food, and weaponry. Money for repairs and bribes and all manner of small expenses. Most of all, money to complete the building program: to finish the network of tunnels and fortresses that alone could guarantee a successful campaign against the Seven. The Confiscations had robbed him of many of his big investors. In less than three hours the remainder were due to meet him, supposedly to renew their commitments, though in reality, he knew, to tell him they had had enough. That was why Helmstadt was so important now.

Helmstadt. He had wooed the Ping Tiao with promises of weapons and publicity, but the truth was otherwise. There would be weapons, and publicity enough to satisfy the most egotistical of terrorist leaders, but the real fruit of the raid on the Helmstadt Armory would be the two billion yuan DeVore would lift from the strong room. Money that had been allocated to pay the expenses of more than one hundred and forty thousand troops in the eight garrisons surrounding the Wilds.

But the Ping Tiao would know nothing of that.

He turned away from the map and looked over at his desk again. The Notice of Confiscation lay where he had left it. He went across and picked it up, studying it again. It seemed simple on the face of it: an open acknowledgment of a situation that had long existed in reality, for Lehmanris funds had been frozen from the moment Berdichev had fled to Mars, three years earlier. But there were hidden depths in the document. It meant that the Seven had discovered evidence to link Stefan's father to the death of the Minister Lwo Kang; and that, in its turn, would legitimize Tolonen's killing of Lehmann Senior in the House.

It was an insight into how the Seven were thinking. For them the War was over.

They had won.

But DeVore knew otherwise. The War had not even begun. Not properly. The confiscations and the death of T'angs notwithstanding, it had been a game until now, a diversion for the rich and bored, an entertainment to fill their idle hours. ; But now it would change. He would harness the forces stirring in the lowest levels. Would take them and mold them. And then?

He laughed and crumpled the copy of the Notice in his hand. Then Change would come. Like a hurricane, blowing through the levels, razing the City to the ground.

MAJOR HANS EBERT set the drinks carefully on the tray, then turned and, making his way through the edge of the crowd that packed the great hall, went through the curtained doorway into the room beyond.

Behind him the reception was in full swing; but here, in the T'ang's private quarters, it was peaceful. Li Shai Tung sat in the big chair to the left, his feet resting on a stool carved like a giant turtle shell. He seemed older and more careworn these days; his hair, once gray, was pure white now, like fine threads of ice, tied tightly in a queue behind his head. The yellow cloak of state seemed loose now on his thin, old man's frame and the delicate perfection of the gold chain about his neck served merely to emphasize the frail imperfection of his flesh. Even so, there was still strength in his eyes, power enough in his words and gestures to dispel any thought that he was spent as a man. If the flesh had grown weaker, the spirit seemed unchanged.

Across from him, seated to the right of the ceremonial kang, was Tsu Ma, T'ang of West Asia. He sat back in his chair, a long, pencil-thin cheroot held absently in one hand. He was known to his acquaintances as "the Horse," and the name suited him. He was a stallion, a thoroughbred in his late thirties, broad-chested and heavily muscled, his dark hair curled in elegant long pigtails, braided with silver and pearls. His enemies still considered him a dandy, but they were wrong. He was a capable, intelligent man for all his outward style; and since his father's death he had shown himself to be a fine administrator, a credit to the Council of the Seven.

The third and last man in the anteroom was Hal Shepherd. He sat to Tsu Ma's right, a stack of pillows holding him upright in his chair, his face drawn and pale from illness. He had been sick for two weeks now, the cause as yet undiagnosed. His eyes, normally so bright and full of life, now seemed to protrude from their sockets as if staring out from some deep inner darkness. Beside him, her head bowed, her whole manner demure, stood a young Han nurse from the T'ang's household, there to do the sick man's least bidding.

Ebert bowed, crossed to the T'ang, and stood there, the tray held out before him. Li Shai Tung took his drink without pausing from what he was saying, seeming not to notice the young Major as he moved across to offer Tsu Ma his glass.

"But the question is still what we should do with the Companies. Should we close them down completely? Wind them up and distribute their assets among our friends? Should we allow bids for them? Offer them on the Index as if we were floating them? Or should we run them ourselves, appointing stewards to do our bidding until we feel things have improved?"

Tsu Ma took his peach brandy, giving Ebert a brief smile, then turned back to face his fellow T'ang.

"You know my feelings on the matter, Shai Tung. Things are still uncertain. We have given our friends considerable rewards already. To break up the 118 companies and offer them as spoils to them might cause resentment among those not party to the share-out. It would simply create a new generation of malcontents. No. My vote will be to appoint stewards. To run the companies for ten, maybe fifteen years, and then offer them on the market to the highest bidder. That way we prevent resentment and at the same time, through keeping a tight rein on what is, after all, nearly a fifth of the market, help consolidate the Edict of Technological Control."

Ebert, holding the tray out before Hal Shepherd, tried to feign indifference to the matter being discussed; but as heir to GenSyn, the second largest company on the Hang Seng Index, he felt crucially involved in the question of the confiscated companies.

"What is this?"

Ebert raised his head and looked at Shepherd. "It is Yang Sen's Spring Wine Tonic, Shih Shepherd. Li Shai Tung asked me to bring you a glass of it. It has good restorative powers."

Shepherd sniffed at the glass, then looked past Ebert at the old T'ang. "This smells rich, Shai Tung. What's in it?"

"Brandy, kao liang, vodka, honey, gingseng, japonica seeds, oh, and many more things that are good for you, Hal."

"Such as?"

Tsu Ma laughed and turned in his seat to look at Shepherd. "Such as red-spotted lizard and sea-horse and dried human placenta. All terribly good for you, my friend."

Shepherd looked at Tsu Ma a moment, then looked back at Li Shai Tung. "Is that true, Shai Tung?"

The old T'ang nodded. "It's true. Why, does it put you off, Hal?"

Shepherd laughed, the laugh lines etched deep now in his pallid face. "Not at all." He tipped the glass back and drank heavily, then shuddered and handed the half-empty glass to the nurse.

Tsu Ma gave a laugh of surprise. "One should sip Yang Sen's, friend Hal. It's strong stuff. Matured for eighteen months before it's even fit to drink. And this is Shai Tung's best. A twelve-year brew."

"Yes . . ." said Shepherd hoarsely, laughing, his rounded eyes watering. "I see that now."

Tsu Ma watched the ill man a moment longer, then turned and faced Ebert.

"Well, Major, and how is your father?"

Ebert bowed deeply. "He is fine, Chieh Hsia."

Li Shai Tung leaned forward. "1 must thank him for all he has done these last few months. And for the generous wedding gift he has given my son today."

Ebert turned and bowed again. "He would be honored, Chieh Hsia."

"Good. Now tell me, before you leave us. Candidly now. What do you think we should do about the confiscated companies?"

Ebert kept his head lowered, not presuming to meet the T'ang's eyes, even when asked so direct a question. Nor was he fooled by the request for candor. He answered as he knew the T'ang would want him to answer.

"I believe his Excellency Tsu Ma is right, Chieh Hsia. It is necessary to placate the Above. To let wounds heal and bitterness evaporate. In appointing stewards the markets will remain stable. Things will continue much as normal, and there will be none of the hectic movements on the Index that a selling-off of such vast holdings would undoubtedly bring. As for rewards, the health and safety of the Seven is reward enough, surely? It would be a little man who would ask for more."

The old T'ang's eyes smiled. "Thank you, Hans. I am grateful for your words."

Ebert bowed and backed away, knowing he had been dismissed.

"A fine young man," said Li Shai Tung, when Ebert had gone. "He reminds me more of his father every day. The same bluff honesty. Tolonen's right. He should be a general when he's of age. He'd make my son a splendid general, don't you think?"

"An excellent general," Tsu Ma answered him, concealing any small qualms he had about Major Hans Ebert. His own Security reports on Ebert revealed a slightly different picture.

"Now that we're alone," Li Shai Tung continued, "I've other news."

Both Tsu Ma and Shepherd were suddenly attentive. "What's that?" Tsu Ma asked, stubbing out his cheroot in the porcelain tray on the kang beside him.

"I've heard from Karr. Berdichev is dead."

Tsu Ma laughed, his eyes wide. "You're certain?"

"I've seen it with these eyes. Karr was wired to transmit all he saw and heard."

"Then it's over."

The Fifty-Ninth Stone 19

Li Shai Tung was silent a moment, looking down. When he looked up again his eyes seemed troubled. "I don't think so." He looked across at Shepherd. "Ben was right after all, Hal. We've killed the men, and yet the symptoms remain."

Shepherd smiled bleakly. "Not all the men. There's still DeVore."

The old T'ang lowered his head slightly. "Yes. But Karr will get him. As he got Berdichev."

Tsu Ma leaned forward. "A useful man, Karr. Maybe we ought to mass-produce the fellow. Give Old Man Ebert a patent for the job."

Li Shai Tung laughed and lifted his feet one at a time from the turtle stool. "Maybe . . ." He pulled himself up and stretched. "First, however, I have another idea I want you to consider—something Li Yuan has been working on these last few months. I'm going to introduce it in Council tomorrow, but I wanted to sound you out first."

Tsu Ma nodded and settled back with his drink, watching the old T'ang as he walked slowly up and down the room.

"It was an idea Li Yuan had years ago, when he was eight. He was out hawking with Han Ch'in when one of the hawks flew high up in a tree and refused to come down to the lure. Han Ch'in, impatient with the hawk, took the control box from the servant and destroyed the bird."

"Using the homing-wire in the bird's head?"

"Exactly."

Tsu Ma took a sip, then tilted his head slightly. "I've never had to do that, myself."

"Nor I," agreed Li Shai Tung. "And it was the first I had heard of the matter when Li Yuan told me of it six months ago. However, until then Li Yuan had not realized that the birds were wired in that way. It made him wonder why we didn't have such a thing for men."

Tsu Ma laughed. "Men are not hawks. They would not let themselves be bound so easily."

"No. And that is exactly what Li Yuan told himself. Yet the idea was still a good one. He argued it thus: if the man was a good man he would have no fear of having such a wire put into his head. It would make no difference. And if the man was a bad man, then he ought to have the wire."

"I like that. Even so, the fact remains, men are not hawks. They like the illusion of freedom."

Li Shai Tung stopped before Hal Shepherd and leaned forward a moment, placing his hand on the shoulder of his old friend, a sad smile on his face; then he turned back, facing Tsu Ma.

"And if we gave them that illusion? If we could make them think they wanted the wires in their heads?"

"Easier said than done."

"But not impossible. And Li Yuan has come up with a scheme by which the majority of men might do just that."

Tsu Ma sat back, considering. "And the technicalities of this?" Li Shai Tung smiled. "As ever, Tsu Ma, you anticipate me. There are, indeed, problems with creating such a control system. Men's brains are far more complex than a hawk's, and the logistics of tracking forty billion separate individuals through the three hundred levels of the City are far greater than the problems involved in tracing a few hawks on an estate. It is fair to say that Li Yuan has made little progress in this regard. Which is why there is a need to invest time and money in research."

"I see. And that's what you want from the Council tomorrow? Permission to pursue this line of inquiry?"

Li Shai Tung inclined his head slightly. "It would not do for a T'ang to break the Edict."

Tsu Ma smiled. "Quite so. But rest assured, Shai Tung, in this as in other things, you have my full support in Council." He drained his glass and set it down. "And the rest of your scheme?"

Li Shai Tung smiled. "For now, enough. But if you would honor me by being my guest at Tongjiang this Autumn, we might talk some more. Things will be more advanced by then, and Li Yuan, 1 know, would be delighted to tell you about his scheme."

Tsu Ma smiled. "It would be my great honor and delight. But come, talking of Li Yuan, we have neglected your son and his new wife far too much already. 1 have yet to congratulate him on his choice."

Both men pretended not to see the flicker of doubt that crossed the old T'ang's face.

"And you, Hal?" Li Shai Tung turned to face his old friend. "Will you come through?"

Shepherd smiled. "Later, perhaps. Just now I feel a little tired. Too much Yang Sen, I guess."

"Ah. Maybe so." And, turning sadly away, Li Shai Tung took Tsu Ma's arm and led him out into the gathering in the great hall.

KARR LEANED across the desk and with one hand pulled the man up out of his seat, the front of his powder-blue silk tunic bunched tightly in his fist.

"What do you mean, can't? I'm leaving today. By the first craft available. And I'm taking those files with me."

For a moment the man's left hand struggled to reach the summons pad on his desk, then desisted. He had heard what a maniac Karr was, but he'd never believed the man would storm into his office and physically attack him.

"Don't you know who I am?" he screeched, his voice half-strangled. "I'm Governor of Mars. You can't do this to me!"

Karr dragged the man across the desk until he was eye to eye with him. "You're a fine one to lecture me on what can and can't be done, Governor Schenck. You were ordered to give me full assistance, but you've been nothing but obstructive since I came back to Tian Men K'ou City."

The Governor swallowed painfully. "But . . . the investigation . . . Feng Shou Station destroyed, the pipeline badly damaged."

"That's your concern. Mine is to report back to my T'ang at the earliest opportunity, and to take back with me all relevant information. You knew that. You had your orders."

"But. . ."

Karr leaned back across the desk, and threw Schenck down into his chair, then slammed his fist down on the summons pad.

"Do you want war with the Seven?"

"What?" Schenck's face blanched.

"Because that's what you'll get if you take any further measures to keep me here. By a special Edict of the Seven 1 was authorized to do as I saw fit to bring the traitor Berdichev to justice and to reclaim any files or documents relating to that same person. That I have done. Now, tell me, Shih Schenck, what has your investigation to do with me?"

"I . . ." he began, then saw the door open behind Karr.

Karr turned at once. "Bring the Berdichev files. At once."

The underling looked past Karr at Governor Schenck. "Excellency?"

Karr turned back to Schenck. "Well? Will you defy the Seven and sign your own death warrant, or will you do as I request?"

Schenck swallowed again, then bowed his head. "Do as he says. And while you're at it, prepare Major Karr's clearance for the Tientsin. He leaves us this afternoon."

"At once, Excellency."

"Good," said Karr, settling his huge frame into the tiny chair facing Schenck. "Now tell me, Governor, who ordered you to keep me here?"

back ON chung KUO, DeVore looked up from the files and stared hard at his lieutenant. "Is this all?"

Wiegand bowed his head. "For now, Excellency. But our contacts have promised us more. You'll know all you need to know about these scum before you meet with them again."

"Good. Because I want to know who's good at what, and who's responsible for what. I want to know where they came from and what they ultimately want. And I want no guesses. I want facts."

"Of course, Excellency. I'll see to it at once."

Wiegand bowed low, then turned and left. A good man, thought DeVore, watching him go. Intelligent and reliable, despite that business with Lehmann and the Notice.

He got up and walked around his desk, then stood there, studying the huge blown-up photograph of the five Ping Two leaders that Wiegand had pinned to the wall.

The simple black and white image was clear and sharp, the life-size faces of the five terrorists standing out perfectly, Gesell in their center. It had been taken ten or fifteen seconds into the meeting, the tiny lens cameras activated when he'd nodded to indicate the half-map on the table in front of Gesell. His intention had been merely to get images of the other four Ping Tiao leaders so they could be traced through his contacts in Security, yet what the picture captured most clearly was the intense, almost insane suspicion. DeVore smiled. He had sensed something of it at the time, but had been too engrossed in his own scheme to make anything of it.

Now, seeing it so vividly—so physically—expressed, he realized he had missed something of real importance.

They were scared, yes; but it was more than that. They were on the run. Their cockiness was merely a front. Gesell's bluster masked a general fear that someone would come along and simply wipe them out. Them and everything they stood for. They had suffered too many setbacks, too many betrayals by their own kind. They were paranoid, afraid of their own shadows.

But that was good. He could use that. It would give him the whip hand when they met in two days time.

He went through what he knew. The Han male to the far left of the picture was Shen Lu Chua, a computer systems expert, trained as a mathematician. He was in his mid-thirties, his clean-shaven face long and drawn. Beside him was a rather pretty-looking woman with finely chiseled features—a Hung Moo, though her dark, fine hair was cut like a Han's. Her name was Emily Ascher and she was an economist, though of more interest to DeVore was the fact that she was Gesell's lover. On the other side of Gesell—second from the right in the photo—was the Han female, Mao Liang. She was an interesting one. The fourth daughter of a quite prominent Minor Family, she had been raised and educated at First Level but had rebelled against her upbringing in her late teens; after a year of arguments at home, she had vanished into the lower levels, surfacing only now, five years later, among the Ping Tiao.

Last of the five—on the far right of the photo—was Jan Mach. He was a tall broad-shouldered man of thirty-three with dark shoulder-length braided hair and a thick growth of beard. He worked for the Ministry of Waste Recycling as a maintenance official. It was a good job for a Ping Tiao member, allowing him quick and legitimate passage between the levels; but Mach had the further advantage of being a volunteer in the Security Reserve Corps, licensed to carry a firearm. In the circles in which he operated it provided the perfect cover for his Ko Ming activities.

Mach alone of the five was looking away from DeVore in the picture, his eyes lowered to a writing pad on the desk before him. On the pad—in neatly formed pictograms that could be read quite clearly—was written Jen to chiu luan lung to chiu han: "Too many people bring chaos; too many dragons bring drought."

The detail was interesting. If Gesell was the leader, Mach was the power behind the throne. He was the one to watch, to influence, the ideologue of the group.

There was a sharp knock on the door.

"Come in!"

Lehmann stood there in the doorway. "Our guests are here, sir."

DeVore hesitated, noting how well the albino looked in uniform, then nodded. "Good. I'll be down in a short while. Take them to the dining room, and make sure they're well looked after."

Lehmann bowed and left.

DeVore turned and had one last brief look at the life-size picture of the five terrorists. "As one door closes, so another opens."

He laughed softly, then went across to his desk and pressed out the code to link him to the landing dome. His man there, Kubinyi, answered at once.

"Is everything in hand?"

"As you ordered, Excellency."

"Good. I want no foul-ups. Understand me?"

He cut contact before Kubinyi could answer, then reached across and took the file from the drawer. He paused, looking about his office, conscious of the significance of the moment. Then, with a sharp laugh of enjoyment, he slammed the drawer shut and went out.

New directions, he told himself as he marched briskly down the corridor toward the elevator. The wise man always follows new directions.

They turned as he entered the room. Seven of them. First Level businessmen, dressed in light-colored silk pan.

"Gentlemen," he said, deliberately—ironically—avoiding the normal Han term, ch'un tzu. "How good to see you all again."

He saw at once how tense they were, how they looked to each other for support. They were afraid of him. Afraid how he might react to the news they brought. News they thought he was unaware of. But he saw also how resigned they were. A spent force. The Seven had routed them thoroughly. The confiscations, the arrests and executions—these had shaken them badly. They saw now the true cost of their involvement.

So it is, he thought. And now your time has passed.

He went among them, shaking hands, making small talk, his style and manner putting them at ease. He left Douglas until last, taking the old man's hand firmly, warmly, holding his shoulder a moment, as if greeting the best of friends. Douglas was leader of the Dispersionists now that Berdichev was dead. Leader of a broken party, unwilling even to whisper its own name in public.

The news of Berdichev's death had been broken publicly only two hours before.

While they were meeting, no doubt, finalizing what they would say to him this afternoon. The shock of that lay on them too. He could see it in Douglas's eyes.

"It's a sad business," he said, pre-empting Douglas. "I had nothing but respect for Soren Berdichev. He was a great man."

Douglas lowered his head slightly. The news had affected him badly. His voice was bitter and angry, but also broken. "They killed him," he said. "Like a common criminal. One of their animal-men—some GenSyn brute—did it, I'm told. Snapped his back like a twig. No trial. Nothing." He raised his eyes again and met DeVore's. "I never imagined . . ."

"Nor I," said DeVore sympathetically, placing an arm about his shoulders. "Anyway . . . Come. Let's have something to eat. I'm sure you're all hungry after your flight here. Then we'll sit and talk."

Douglas bowed his head slightly, a wistful smile on his lips softening the hurt and anger in his eyes. "You're a good man, Howard."

Little was said during the meal, but afterward, with the plates cleared and fresh drinks poured all round, Douglas came to the point, "The war is over, Howard. The Seven have won. We must plan for the long peace."

The outer-blast shutters had been drawn back, and through the thick clear glass of the wall-length window could be seen the sunlit valley and the cloud-wreathed mountains beyond. The late afternoon light gave the room a strangely melancholy atmosphere. DeVore sat at the head of the table, his back to the window, facing them, his face in partial shadow. "Ai mo ta yu hsin ssu."

Douglas gave a slow nod of agreement. "So it is. Nothing is more sorrowful than the death of the heart. And that is how we feel, Howard. Weary. Heartbroken. More so now that Soren is not with us."

"And?" DeVore looked from one to another, noting how hard they found it to look at him at this moment of surrender. They were ashamed. Deeply, bitterly ashamed. But of what? Of their failure to dislodge the Seven? Or was it because of their betrayal of him? Only Douglas was looking at him.

When no one spoke DeVore stood and turned his back to them, staring out at the mountains. "I'm disappointed," he said. "I can't help it, but I am. I thought better of you than this. I thought you had more . . ." He turned, looking at them. "More guts."

The Fifty-Ninth Stone 25

"We've lost." Douglas said, sitting back, suddenly defensive. "It's an unpleasant fact to face, but it's true. Things have changed drastically, even in the last few months. It would be suicide to carry on."

"I see." DeVore seemed surprised. He turned slightly aside, as if considering something unexpected.

"Surely you must have thought about it, Howard? You must have seen how things are. The arrests. The confiscations. The Seven are riding high. Anyone who shows even the slightest sign of opposing them is crushed. And no half-measures." He paused, looking about him for support. "That's how it is. I can't change that, Howard. None of us can change it. We failed. Now it's time to call it a day."

"And that's how you all feel?"

There was a murmur of agreement from around the table.

DeVore sighed heavily. "I thought as we'd come so far ..."

They were watching him now. Wondering what he would do.

DeVore tapped the file, suddenly more animated, his voice holding the slightest trace of anger. "I had plans. Schemes for new campaigns. Ways to finish what we had so successfully begun."

"Successfully?" Douglas laughed sharply. "I'm sorry, Howard, but in that you're wrong. We lost. And we lost heavily. Berdichev, Lehmann, and Wyatt. Duchek, Weis, and Barrow. They're all dead. Along with more than two thousand other, lesser members of our 'revolution.' One hundred and eighteen companies have ceased trading, their assets and holdings confiscated by the Seven. And the Seven are still there, stronger than ever, more dominant than ever."

"No. You're wrong. The Seven are weak now. Weaker than they've been in their entire history. The Council has lost four of its most experienced members in the last six years. The new T'ang are young and inexperienced. Not only that, but the older T'ang have lost the confidence, the certainty, they once possessed. Once it was considered inconceivable to challenge the Seven. But now ..."

"Now we understand why."

DeVore shook his head, then, resignedly, sat again. ;

Douglas watched him a moment, then looked down. "I'm sorry, Howard. I know how you must feel. You were closer to it all than we were. The fortresses. The campaigns. These were your projects—your children, if you like. It must be hard to give them up. But it's over. We would just be throwing good money after bad if we continued to support it all."

DeVore lifted his head, then smiled and shrugged. His voice was softer, more reconciled. "Well, as you say, old friend. But you're still wrong. We shook the tree. Can't you see that? It almost fell."

Douglas looked away, his disagreement implicit in that gesture. "What will you do?"

DeVore stared down at the two files, as if undecided. "I don't know. Wind it all down here, I guess."

"And after that?"

DeVore was still staring at the folders, his hunched shoulders and lowered head indicative of his disappointment. "Go to Mars, maybe."

"Mars?"

He looked up. "They say it's where the future lies. The Seven have a weaker hold out there."

"Ah . . ." Douglas hesitated a moment, then looked about him once more. "Well, Howard. I think we've said all we came to say. We'd best be getting back."

DeVore stood up. "Of course. It was good seeing you all a last time. I wish you luck in all your ventures. And thank you, gentlemen. For all you did. It was good of you."

He embraced each one as they left, then went to the window, staring out at the jagged landscape of rock and ice and snow. He was still there, watching, ten minutes later, as their craft lifted from the hangar and slowly banked away to the right. For a moment its shadow flitted across the escarpment opposite, then, with a sudden, shocking brightness, it exploded. The shock of the explosion struck a moment later, rattling the empty glasses on the table.

He saw the fireball climb the sky, rolling over and over upon itself; heard the roar of the explosion roll like a giant clap of thunder down the valley and return a moment later. A million tiny incandescent fragments showered the mountainside, melting the snow where they fell, hissing and bubbling against the glass only a hand's width from his face. Then there was silence.

DeVore turned. Lehmann was standing in the doorway.

"What is it, Stefan?"

Lehmann looked past him a moment, as if recollecting what he had just seen. Then he came forward, handing DeVore a note. It was from Douglas. Handwritten. DeVore unfolded it and read.

Dear Howard,

I'm sorry it didn't work out. We tried. We really did try, didn't we? But life goes on. This is just to say that if ever you need anything—anything at all—just say.

With deep regard,

John Douglas.

DeVore stared at it a moment longer, then screwed it into a ball and threw it down. Anything. . . The words were meaningless. The man had given up. He and all the rest like him. Well, it was time now to go deeper, lower, to cultivate a different class of rebel. To shake the tree of state again. And shake and shake and shake. Until it fell.

THE officers club at Bremen was a spacious, opulently decorated place. Dark-suited Han servants, their shaven heads constantly bowed, moved silently between the huge round-topped tables that lay like islands in an ocean of green-blue carpet. Tall pillars edged the great central hexagon, forming a walkway about the tables, like the cloisters of an ancient monastery, while fifty chi overhead the hexagonal paneling of the ceiling was a mosaic of famous battles, the Han victorious in all.

It was late afternoon and most of the tables were empty, but off to the right, halfway between the great double doorway and the bar, a group of eight officers was gathered about a table, talking loudly. Their speech, and the clutter of empty bottles on the table, betrayed that they were somewhat the worse for drink. However, as none of them was less than captain in rank, the duty officers smiled and turned away, allowing behavior they would not have tolerated from lesser-ranking officers.

The focus of this group was the young Major, Hans Ebert, the "Hero of Hammer-fest," who had been regaling them with stories about the reception he had attended that afternoon. Now, however, the conversation had moved on into other channels, and the low, appreciative laughter held a suggestion of dark enjoyments.

Auden, seeing how things were drifting, directed the conversation back to his superior. That was his role—to keep his master central at all times. Unlike the others, he had barely touched his drink all afternoon. It was not evident, for he seemed to lift his drink as often to his lips and refill his glass as often from the bottle, but his speech, unlike the others, was clear, precise.

"And you, Hans? How is that lady you were seeing?"

Ebert looked aside, smiling rakishly. "Which of my ladies would that be, Will?"

Auden leaned forward to tap the end of his cigar against the tray, then sat back again in his chair. "You know the one. The Minister's wife."

There was a gasp of surprise and admiration. A Minister's wife! That smelled of danger. And danger was an aphrodisiac they all understood.

"Yes, tell us, Hans," said Scott, his eyes bright with interest.

Ebert sipped at his glass relaxedly, then looked about the circle of eager, watching faces.

"She's my slave," he said calmly. "I can make her do anything I want. Anything at all. Take the other day, for instance. I had her two maids strip her and hold her down while I beat her with my cane. Then, while she watched, I had her maids. Afterward, she was begging for it. But I shook my head. 'You have to earn it,' I said. 'I want you to show me how much you love your maids.' "

"No!" said Panshin, a rather portly Colonel. "And did she?"

Ebert sipped again. "Didn't I say she was my slave?" He smiled. "Right in front of me she got down on the floor with her maids and rolled about for more than twenty minutes, until all three of them were delirious, begging me to join them."

Fest's eyes were bulging. "And then you gave her one?"

Ebert set his glass down and slowly shook his head. "Nothing so simple. You see, I have this ritual."

"Ritual?" Scott swigged down his brandy with a quick tilt of his head, then set his glass down hard on the table. "What kind of ritual?"

"I had all three of them kneel before me, naked, their heads bowed. Then I called them forward, one at a time, to kneel before the god and kiss the god's head. As each did so they had to repeat a few words. You know the sort of thing. 'I promise to be faithful and obedient to the god and do whatever the god wishes.' That sort of thing."

"Kuan Yin!" said another of the captains, a man named Russ. "Don't tell me, and then you had all three at once."

Ebert laughed and finished his drink. "I'm afraid not. The old girl was just about to take her turn when I noticed what time it was. 'Sorry,' I told her, 'I didn't realize the time. I have to go. The T'ang awaits me.' "

"Gods!" Scott spluttered, then shook his head. "You're not kidding us, Hans. That really happened?"

"Less than six hours back."

"And what did she say?" < •

Ebert laughed. "What could she say? You don't keep a T'ang waiting."

"And your promise?" said Russ. "You promised you'd fuck her if she showed she loved her maids."

Ebert reached out and tipped more wine into his glass. "I'm a man of my word, Captain Russ. As you all know. When we've finished here I'll be returning to fulfill my promise."

"And her husband?" Scott asked. "Where was he while all of this was going on?"

"In his study. Reading the Analects."

There was a great guffaw of laughter at that, which made heads turn at nearby tables.

"Power. That's what it's really all about," said Ebert, his eyes half-closed, a faintly sybaritic smile on his lips. "That's the key to sex. Power. It's something young Li Yuan will learn this very night. Master your sexuality and the world is yours. Succumb to it and . . ."He shrugged. "Well. . . look at Fest here!"

The laughter rolled out again, dark, suggestive.

At that moment, on the threshold of the great doorway to the club, a rather dour-looking, almost ugly man, a Han, paused, looking in, his eyes drawn momentarily toward the laughter at the table to his right. He was different from the other Han inside the club in that he wore the powder-blue uniform of a Security officer,

his chest patch showing him to be a Captain. But he was a Han all the same, and when he took a step across that threshold, a duty officer stepped forward, intercepting him.

"Excuse me, sir, but might I see your pass?"

Kao Chen stopped, then turned and faced the man, keeping his feelings in tight check. The man was within his rights, after all. He gave a terse bow and took his permit card from the top pocket of his tunic, then handed it to the officer. As the man studied the card intently, Kao Chen was aware that other, non-Han officers went through unhindered, even guests from other Security forces. But he had half-expected this. The color of his skin, the fold of his eyes—both were wrong here. The officer class of Security was almost totally made up of Hung Mao, descendants of the mercenary armies who had fought for the Seven against the tyrant Tsao Ch'un. Here Han were secondary; servants, not rulers. But he was an officer and he was thirsty. He had a right to sit and have a beer. And so he would.

The officer handed him back his pass, then gave a brief, almost slovenly salute. In terms of rank, Chen was his superior, but he was not Hung Moo, and so the rank meant little.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," he said tightly, then made his way through, down the plushly carpeted steps and out into the main body of the club.

He was halfway across the floor before he realized who he was walking toward. He saw Ebert's eyes widen in recognition and decided to walk past quickly, but he was not to be so fortunate. Three paces past the table he was called back. "Hey, you! Han! Come here!"

Chen turned slowly, then came back and stood in front of Ebert, his head bowed. "Major Ebert."

Ebert leaned back arrogantly in his chair, a sneering smile on his face. "What in fuck's name do you think you're doing, Han?"

Chen felt himself go cold with anger, then remembered he was kwai. These were but words. And words could not hurt him. Only a knife could hurt a kiwi. He answered Ebert calmly, civilly.

"I've just come off duty. I was hot and thirsty. I thought I would have a beer or two at the bar."

"Then you can think again. There are rules in this place. No women and no Han."

"No Han?"

He realized as soon as he said it that he had made a mistake. He should have bowed, turned around, and left. Now it was a question of face. His words, correct enough, innocuous enough in themselves, had challenged what Ebert had asserted. It did not matter that he, Kao Chen, had the right to use the club. That was no longer the issue.

Ebert leaned forward slightly, his voice hardening. "Did you hear me, Han?"

3"

Chen hesitated, then lowered his head slightly, afraid to let the anger in his eyes show. "Excuse me, Major, but I am an officer in the service of the T'ang.

Surely . . ."

Ebert leaned forward and threw his drink into Chen's face.

"Are you stupid? Don't you understand me?"

Chen was silent a moment, then bowed again. "1 apologize, Major. It was my fault. Might I buy you another drink before I leave?"

Ebert gave him a look of profound disgust. "Just go, little Han. Now. Before I beat you senseless."

Chen bowed low and backed away, mastering the pain, the fierce stinging in his eyes, his face perfectly controlled. Inside, however, he seethed; and at the doorway he looked back, hearing their laughter drift outward from the table, following him.

Laugh now, he thought; laugh good and long, Hans Ebert, for I'll not rest until my pride's restored and you lie humbled at my feet.

At the table all eyes were once again on Ebert.

"The nerve of some of them," he said, filling his glass again. "Anyway. Where were we? Ah yes. . ." He stood up, then raised his glass. "To Li Yuan and his bride! May this evening bring them clouds and rain!"

The answering roar was deafening. "To Li Yuan!" they yelled. "Clouds and rain!"

THE CEREMONY was over; the last of the guests had departed; the doors of the inner palace were locked and guarded. Only the two of them remained.

Li Yuan turned from the doorway and looked across. Fei Yen sat in the tall-backed chair at the far side of the room, on the dais, as if enthroned. A chi poo of brilliant red was draped about her small and slender figure, while her dark hair was braided with fine strands of jewels. A thin cloth of red and gold veiled her features, an ancient kai t'ou, as worn by the brides of the Ching Emperors for almost three centuries. Now that they were alone, she lifted the veil, letting him see her face. She was beautiful. More beautiful than ever. His breath caught as he looked at her, knowing she was his. He knew now how his brother, Han Ch'in, must have felt in his final moments, and grieved less for him. It would be fine to die now, knowing no more than this.

He walked across to her, hesitant, aware of her eyes upon him, watching him come.

He stopped at the foot of the steps, looking at her. The huge throne dwarfed her. She seemed like a child sitting in her father's chair. Three steps led up to the dais, but standing there, his face was on the level of Fei Yen's. He studied her, conscious that in the years since he had first seen her she had grown to the fullness of womanhood.

His eyes narrowed with pain, looking at her, seeing how dark her eyes were. How deep and beautiful they were. How delicate the lashes. How finely drawn the curves of skin about the liquid centers. Eyes so dark, so vast, he felt he could lose himself in their depths.

"Well?" Fei Yen leaned forward. She was smiling at him, her hand extended. "What does my husband command?"

He felt a fresh thrill of delight course through his blood, at the same time hot and cold, both exquisite and painful. Her eyes held him, making him reach out and take her hand.

He looked down at her hand. So small and fine it was. Its warmth seemed to contradict its porcelain appearance, its strength oppose its apparent fragility. Her hand closed on his, drawing him up the steps to where she sat. He knelt, his head in her lap, her hands caressing his neck. For a moment it was enough. Then she lifted his head between her hands and made him move back, away from her.

They stood, facing each other.

Her hand went to the ruby-studded clasp at her right shoulder and released it. Slowly, with a faint silken rustle, the cloth unraveled, slipping from her body.

She stood there, naked but for the jewels in her hair, the bands of gold at her ankles and at her throat. Her skin was the white of swan's feathers, her breasts small, perfectly formed, their dark nipples protruding. Mesmerized, he looked at the curves of her flesh, the small, dark tangle of her sex, and felt desire wash over him so fiercely, so overpoweringly, he wanted to cry out.

Timidly he put out his hand, caressing her flank and then her breast, touching the dark brown nipple tenderly, as if it were the most fragile thing he had ever touched. She was watching him, her smile tender, almost painful now. Then, softly, she placed her hands upon his hips and pushed her face forward.

He moved closer, his eyes closed, his body melting. His hands caressed her shoulders, finding them so smooth, so warm, they seemed unreal; while her lips against his were soft and wet and hot, like desire itself, their sweetness blinding him.

She reached down, releasing him, then drew him down on top of her. At once he was spilling his seed, even as he entered her. He cried out, feeling her shudder beneath him. And when he looked at her again he saw how changed her eyes were, how different her mouth—a simple gash of wanting now that he was inside her.

That look inflamed him, made him spasm again, then lie still on top of her.

They lay there a long while; then, as one, they stirred, noticing how awkwardly they lay, their bodies sprawled across the steps.

He stood and tucked himself in, aware of how incongruous the action seemed, then reached down to help her up, unable to take his eyes from her nakedness.

Saying nothing, she led him through into the bridal room. There she undressed him and led him to the bath and washed him, ignoring his arousal, putting him off until she was ready for him. Then, finally, they lay there on the low wide bed, naked, facing each other, their lips meeting for tiny sips of kisses, their hands tenderly caressing each other's bodies.

"When did you know?" she asked, her eyes never leaving his. "When I was eight," he said and laughed softly, as if he knew it was madness. For more than half his young life he had loved her. And here she was, his wife, his lover. Eight, almost nine years his senior. Half a lifetime older than he.

For a time she was silent, her eyes narrowed, watching him. Then, at last she spoke. "How strange. Perhaps I should have known." She smiled and moved closer,

kissing him.

Yes, he thought, releasing her, then watching her again, seeing the small movements of her lashes, of the skin about her eyes, the line of her mouth. Cloud motion in the eyes, it seemed, the bones of her face molded and remolded constantly. He was fascinated by her. Mesmerized. He felt he could lie there forever and never leave this room, this intimacy.

They made love again, slowly this time, Fei Yen leading him, guiding him, it seemed, bringing him to a climax more exquisite than the last, more painful in its intensity.

He lay there afterward, watching the darkness in her face, the sudden color in her cheeks and at her neck and knew he would always want her. "I love you," he said finally, shaking his head slowly, as if he could not believe it. He had said the words so often in his head. Had imagined himself saying them to her. And now . . .

"I know," she said, kissing him again. Then, relaxing, she settled down beside him, her head nestling into the fold of his arm, her cheek pressed soft and warm against his chest.

CHAPTER TWO

Conflicting Voices

lI yuan WOKE early and, loath to disturb her, went to his desk on the far side of the room and sat there in the tight circle of the lamp's light, looking across at her. For a time he did nothing, entranced by the vision of her sleeping form; then, stirring himself, he took paper from the drawer and, after mixing water and ink from the ink block, began, writing the words in a neat, unhesitant hand down the page, right to left.

Hot wings, perfumed like cinnamon, Beat about me, black as the moonless night. I heard your splendid cry in the silence, And knew the phoenix fed upon my heart.

He dipped the brush again, then looked across, realizing she was watching him.

"What are you doing, my love?"

He felt a tiny thrill, a shiver of pure delight, pass through him at her words. M} love . . . How often he'd dreamed of her saying them. He smiled, then set the brush down.

"Nothing, my darling one. Sleep now. I'll wake you when it's time."

He picked up a tiny dragon-headed pot and shook sand over the paper to dry the ink, then lifted the sheet to blow it clean.

"Is it business?"

He looked up again, smiling. She had raised herself on one elbow and was looking across at him, her dark hair fallen loose across the silk of her shoulder.

Li Yuan folded the sheet in half and in half again, then put it in the pocket of his gown. He looked away a moment, toward the garden. It was dark outside; black, like a sea of ink pressed against the glass.

He looked back, smiling. "No."

"Then come to bed, my love. It's warm here."

He laughed softly. "Yes, but I must get ready."

There was a meeting of the Council that afternoon and there was much to do beforehand. He ought to begin. Even so, he hesitated, seeing her thus. It was his first morning with her, after all. Surely his father would understand this once?

She was watching him silently, letting the darkness of her eyes, the silken perfection of her naked shoulder, bring him to her. He stood, then went across, sitting beside her on the bed.

She leaned forward to greet him, her left hand moving between the folds of his gown to touch and caress his chest. As she did so, the covers slipped back, revealing her neck, the smooth perfection of her upper chest, the magnificence of her breasts. He looked down at them, then up into her face again.

"Fei Yen . . ."

Her lips parted slightly, her eyes widened, smiling. "Husband?"

He laughed again, a brief sound of delight. "Husband ... It sounds so different from your lips." .

"Different?"

He shivered, then leaned forward to kiss her lips, gently, softly, holding her to him momentarily. Then he released her and sat back, looking at her again. "Yes . . . like something undeserved."

There was a small movement in her mouth, then she laughed. "I have a present for you."

'A present?"

"Yes. Wait there ..."

Li Yuan reached out and took her arm gently, stopping her. "Hold, my love. Look at you!" His eyes traced the form of her. "What need have I for presents?"

"But this is different, Yuan. It's something I chose for you myself."

"Ah . . ." he said, releasing her, then watched, his heart pounding in his chest, as she turned from him, throwing the sheets aside to reveal the slender curve of her back. She scrambled across the huge bed, then came back, a slim package in her hand.

"Here . . ."

He took it, but his eyes were elsewhere, drinking in the beauty of her.

"Well?" she said, laughing gently at him, enjoying the way he looked at her.

"Open it."

He hesitated, then looked down, tugging at the bow to free the ribbon then pulled the wrapping aside. It was a book. He opened the pages, then blushed and looked up.

"What is it?" he said quietly.

"It is a chun hua," she said, coming alongside him, draping her warmth across his side and shoulder. "A pillow book. Something to excite us when we're here, alone."

He turned the pages slowly, reluctantly, pretending he had never seen its like, strangely appalled by the graphic nature of its sexual images. "Fei Yen ... we have no need for this. Why, I have only to look at you . . ."

"I know," she said, turning his head gently with her fingers and kissing him softly on the cheek. "But this will keep our love fresh and powerful; will raise us to new heights."

He shuddered, closing his eyes, overwhelmed by the feeling of her warmth pressed up against him, the softness of her kisses against his flesh. He could smell the scent of their lovemaking on her skin. Could taste it on his tongue.

"I must get ready," he said almost inaudibly. "The Council . . ."

In answer she drew him down again, her kisses robbing him of his senses, inflaming him once more.

prince wang SAU-LEYAN stood on the balcony of his dead father's room, his hands resting lightly on the balustrade, his back to his brother's Chancellor. The broad sweep of the Nile lay below him, bisecting the empty landscape, its surface glittering in the morning light. He was dressed in a long silk sleeping robe of lavender decorated with butterflies, tied loosely at the waist. His feet were bare and his hair hung long, unbraided. He had been silent for some time, watching the slow hovering flight of the birds high overhead, but now he lowered his head, finally acknowledging the waiting man.

"Greetings, Hung Mien-lo. And how is my brother this fine morning?"

Hung Mien-lo inclined his head. He was dressed formally, the three tiny pigtails of his beard braided tightly with silver thread, the dark silks he wore contrasting with the vermilion sash of office.

"The T'ang is poorly, Excellency. His nerves were bad and he did not sleep. He asks that you act as regent for him at todays Council. I have the authority here, signed and sealed."

The Prince dipped his hand into a bowl on the balustrade, at his side, scattering a handful of meat onto the desert floor, then watched the vultures swoop toward the subtly poisoned bait.

"Good. And our spies? What have they reported?"

Hung Mien-lo lifted his head, studying the Prince's back. "That Li Shai Tung has a scheme. Something his son, Yuan, has proposed. I've sounded some of our friends."

"And?"

The friends were a mixture of First Level businessmen and representatives,

government officials, and selected members of the Minor Families—all of them men of some influence outside the narrow circle of the Seven.

"They feel it would be best to oppose such a scheme."

"I see." He turned, looking at the Chancellor for the first time. "This scheme. . .

what does it involve?"

"They want to place a device in every citizen's head, a kind of tracking beam. They believe it would allow for a more effective policing of Chung Kuo."

Wang Sau-leyan turned away. It was not a bad idea, but that was not the point. His purpose was to blunt Li Shai Tung's authority in Council, and what better way than to oppose his son? If, at the same time, he could win the support of certain influential members of the Above, then all the better. When his own plans came to fruition they would be reminded of his opposition to the scheme.

He turned, looking back fiercely at Hung Mien-lo. "It is abominable. To put things in men's heads. Why, it would make them little more than machines!"

"Indeed, Excellency. And men should not be machines to be manipulated,

should they?"

Both men laughed.

"You understand me well, Chancellor Hung. Too well, perhaps. But I can use you."

Hung Mien-lo bowed low. "As your Excellency desires."

"Good." Wang Sau-leyan smiled and turned, staring out across the delta toward the distant pinnacle of the lighthouse. "Then you understand the last step we must take, you and I?"

Hung remained bowed; but his words came clear, unbowed, almost arrogant in their tone. "I understand . . . Chieh Hsia."

AFTER THE CHANCELLOR.had gone, Wang Sau-leyan stood there, watching the birds. At first they seemed unaffected by the poison, but then, first one and then another began to stagger unsteadily. One flapped its wings awkwardly, attempting to fly, lifting ten, maybe fifteen ch'i into the air before it fell back heavily to earth. He smiled. Six birds had taken the poison. He watched them stumble about for a time before they fell and lay still. More birds were gathering overhead, making slow circles in the cloudless sky. In a while they too would swoop. And then . . .

He turned away, tired of the game already—knowing the outcome—and went back inside.

"Sun!" he shouted impatiently. "Sun! Where are you?"

Sun Li Hua, Master of the Inner Chamber, appeared in the doorway at once, his head bent low. "Yes, Excellency?" "Send the maids. At once! I wish to dress."

Sun bowed and made to back away, but Wang Sau-leyan called him back. , "No . . , Send just the one. You know . . . Mi Feng."

"As you wish, Excellency."

He sniffed deeply, then crossed to the full-length dragon mirror and stood there, looking at himself. So his brother was unwell. Good. He would feel much worse before the day was out.

Wang Sau-leyan smiled and combed his fingers through his hair, drawing it back from his forehead. Then, almost whimsically, he turned his head, exposing one ear to view. That mystery—the mystery of who had taken his father's ears—remained unsolved. He had had Hung Mien-lo make a thorough investigation of the matter, but it had been without result. They had vanished, as if they had never been.

The thought brought a smile to his lips. He turned, still smiling, and saw the girl-Mi Feng was kneeling just inside the door, her head lowered almost to her lap,

awaiting his pleasure.

"Come here," he said brusquely, turning from her, moving across toward the great wardrobes that lined one side of the room. "I want you to dress me, girl."

She was his brother's maid, inherited from their father. In the wardrobe mirrors he saw her hesitate and glance up at his back.

"Well, girl? What are you waiting for? You heard me, didn't you?"

He noted her confusion, saw the way her face clouded momentarily before she bowed her head and began to move toward him.

He turned abruptly, making her start nervously.

"How is your sting, Little Bee? Did you serve my father well?"

Again he noted the movements in her face, the uncertainty, maybe even the suggestion of distaste. Well, who did she think she was? She was a servant, there to do his bidding, not the daughter of a T'ang.

She moistened her lips and spoke, her head kept low, her eyes averted. "What do you wish to wear, my Lord?"

White, he almost answered her. White for mourning.

"What do you suggest?" he asked, studying her more carefully, noting how delightfully she was formed, how petite her figure. "What would my father have worn to Council?"

She looked up at him, then quickly away, clearly bewildered by what was happening. "Forgive me, Prince Sau-leyan, but I am the T'ang's maid. Surely . . ."

He shouted at her, making her jump. "Be quiet, girl! You'll do as you're told or you'll do nothing, understand me?"

She swallowed, then nodded her head.

"Good. Then answer me. What would my father have worn to Council?"

She bowed, then moved past him, keeping her head lowered. A moment later she turned back, a long robe held over one arm.

"Lay it out on the bed so that I can see it."

He watched her move across to do as she was told, then smiled. Yes, the old man had chosen well with this one. He could imagine how the girl had wormed her way into the old boy's affections. She had kept his bed warm many a night, he was sure.

She had turned away from him, laying out the heavy, formal robe. He moved closer, coming up behind her, then bent down and lifted her gown up from the hem, exposing her buttocks and her lower back. She froze.

"You didn't answer me earlier," he said. "1 asked you—"

"I heard you, Excellency."

Her tone was sharper than it should have been. Impertinent. He felt a sudden flush of anger wash over him.

"Put your hands out," he said, his voice suddenly cold. "Lean forward and stretch them out in front of you." Slowly she did as she was told. "Good," he said. "Now stay there."

He went outside onto the balcony a moment, then returned, holding a cane he had broken from the bamboo plant. It was as long as his arm and as thick as his middle finger. He swished it through the air, once, then a second time, satisfied with the sound it made; then he turned and looked across at her.

"I am not my father, Mi Feng. Nor my brother, come to that. They were weak men. They held weak ideas. But I'm not like that. I'm stronger than them. Much stronger. And I'll have no impertinence from those beneath me."

He moved closer, measuring the distance between himself and the girl, then brought the cane down hard across her buttocks.

She cried out involuntarily, her whole body tensing from the blow. "Well?" he said, as if there were something she should say, some apology or word of mitigation. But she was silent, her body tensed against him, defiantly expectant. He shivered, angered by her silence, and lashed out, again and again, bringing the cane down wildly, impatiently, until, with a shudder, he threw it aside. "Get up," he said, tonelessly. "Get up. I wish to be dressed."

FEI yen lay there, Yuan's head cradled between her breasts, her hands resting lightly on his back, her fingertips barely touching his flesh. He was sleeping, exhausted from their last bout of lovemaking, the soft exhalation of his breath warm against her skin. It was almost noon and the bedchamber was flooded with light from the garden. If she turned her head she could see the maple, by the pathway where they had walked, so long ago.

She sighed and turned back, studying the neat shape of his head. It had been a sweet night, far sweeter than she had ever imagined. She thought of what they had done and her blood thrilled. She had fancied herself the famous concubine, Yang Kuei Fei, lying in the arms of the great T'ang emperor, Ming Huang, and at the moment of clouds and rain, had found herself transported. A son, she had prayed to Heaven; let his seed grow in me and make a son! And the joy of the possibility had filled her, making her cry out beneath him with the pleasure of it.

A son! A future T'ang! From these loins she would bring him forth. And he would be an Emperor. A Son of Heaven.

She shivered, thrilled by the thought of it, then felt him stir against her.

"What is it?" he said sleepily.

Her hands smoothed his back, caressed his neck. "I was thinking how hard it was before last night. How difficult to be alone."

He lifted his head slightly, then lay back again.

"Yes," he said, less drowsily than before. "1 can see that."

He was silent for a time, his body at ease against her own, then he lifted himself up on his arms, looking down at her, his face serious. "How was it? All those years before last night. How hard was that?"

She looked away. "It was like death. As if not Han but I had died that day." She looked up at him, fiercely, almost defiantly. "I am a woman, Yuan, with a woman's appetites." She swallowed. "Oh, you just don't know . . ."For a moment longer her face was hard with past bitterness, then it softened and a smile settled on her lips and in her eyes. "But now I am alive again. And it was you who brought me back to the living. My Prince. My love . . ."

She made to draw him down again, but he moved back, kneeling there between her legs, his head bowed. "Forgive me, my love, but I am spent. Truly I am." He laughed apologetically, then met her eyes again. "Tonight, I promise you, I will be a tiger again. But now I must dress. The Council . . ."

He turned to look at the timer beside the bed, then sat bolt upright. "Gods! And you let me sleep!" He backed away from her, then stood there on the bare floor, naked, looking about him anxiously. "I shall be late! Where is Nan Ho? Why did he not wake me?"

She laughed and stretched, then reached down and pulled the sheets up to her neck.

"I sent him away. They will excuse you this once if you are late. Besides, you needed to sleep."

"But Fei Yen . . ." Then he laughed, unable to be angry with her. She was beautiful, and, yes, he had needed to sleep. What's more, they would forgive him this once. Even so ...

He turned from her. "All right. But now I must dress."

He was halfway to the door when she called him back. "Li Yuan! Please! You don't understand. I'll dress you."

He turned. She had climbed from the bed and was coming toward him.

"You?" He shook his head. "No, my love. Such a task is beneath you. Let me call the maids."

She laughed, then put her arms about his neck. "You will do no such thing, my Prince. I want to dress you. I want to serve you as a wife should serve her master."

He felt a small thrill go through him at the words. "But I ..." Her kiss quieted him. He bowed his head slightly. "As you wish."

She smiled. "Good. But first I must bathe you. After all, you cannot go to Council smelling like a sing-song house."

He laughed uneasily, then seeing how she smiled at him, felt the unease fall from him. It was impossible to be angry with her, even when her words were ill-chosen, for that too was part of the charm—the sheer delight—of her. Like porcelain she looked, yet in the darkness she had been fire; black wings of fire, beating about him wildly.

WHEN HE WAS GONE she looked around the room.

It was a strangely feminine room, unlike the rooms of her brothers. There were no saddles, no weapons of war on display. In their place were beautiful ceramic pots filled with the most exquisite miniature trees and shrubs. And in place of heavy masculine colors were softer shades, delicately chosen to complement the colors of the garden outside. She looked about her, pleased by what she saw, then went across to the desk and sat there.

She placed her left hand on the desk's broad surface, then lifted it, surprised. She licked at the tiny grains that had adhered to her palm, then understood. Of course.

He had been writing.

She stood, then went back to the bed and picked up his sleeping robe. From whim, she tried it on, putting her arms into its sleeves and tying the slender sash about her waist. It was far too big for her, yet it felt somehow right to be wearing it. She laughed, then sat down on the bed, reaching into the pocket to take out the folded piece of paper.

She read it. Twice, and then a third time.

A poem. For her? It must have been. She shivered, then touched the tip of her tongue against her top teeth thoughtfully.

Yes. She could see it now: she would be everything to him. Indispensable. His wife. In all things his wife.

It was true what she had said. Or almost true. He had brought her back from death. From the death of all her hopes and dreams. Had given her back what she had always wanted.

And in return?

She smiled and drew his gown tighter about her. In return she would be his woman. That before all else. His helpmate and advisor. His champion and chief advocate. His lover and when he needed it, a mother to him.

Yes, and that was the clue to Li Yuan. She had known it earlier, when he had rested his head between her breasts, had known then that it was a mother he wanted. Or at least, someone to be the mother he had never had. Well, she would be that to him, among other things. And in time . . .

She shivered and slipped the poem back into the pocket of the gown.

In time she would have sons of her own. Seven sons. Each one of them a T'ang. She laughed and stood, letting the gown fall from her until she stood there, naked, lifting her arms defiantly. There! That was her dream. A dream she had shared with no one.

It seemed an impossibility, and yet she saw it clearly. It would be so. Yes, but first she must be practical. First she must become all things to him. She would ask him this evening, after they had made love. She would bathe him and wash his hair, and then, when he was at his sweetest, she would go down on her knees before him, pleading to be allowed always to serve him so.

He would agree. Of course he would. And then she would ask again. The maids, she would say, you must send them away. And he would do so. And then he would be hers. Completely, irrevocably hers.

tender WILLOW and Sweet Rain were talking, laughing between them as they came into the room, but seeing Little Bee stretched out face down on her bed, they fell silent.

"What is it?" Sweet Rain asked, moving closer. "What happened?"

Mi Feng looked up, her eyes red, her cheeks wet with tears, and shook her head.

"What did he do?" Tender Willow asked, coming alongside her sister.

Mi Feng swallowed, then let her head fall again, a great sob racking her body.

The two girls sat on the bed, on either side of her, their arms about her, comforting her. But when Tender Willow leaned back, accidentally brushing against her buttocks, Mi Feng winced and gave a small moan.

The two girls exchanged looks, then nodded. Carefully, they lifted Mi Feng's robe, conscious of how she tensed.

"Kuan Yin . . ." Sweet Rain said softly, her voice pained. "What did he do this with?"

"A cane," came the whisper. "A bamboo cane."

Tender Willow stared at the cuts a moment longer, horrified, then she shuddered. "How dare he?" she said, outraged. "Who does he think he is? You are the T'ang's maid, not his. He cannot be allowed to act like this."

Mi Feng shook her head. A great shuddering sigh passed through her; then she spoke again, more calmly and clearly than before. "You are wrong, sister. He may do as he wishes. He is a Prince, after all. And what am I? Only a maid. A thing to be used or discarded. I learned that today, Tender Willow. 1 had it beaten into me. And the T'ang . . ." She laughed coldly, then swallowed, another shiver passing through her, ". . . the T'ang will do nothing."

Tender Willow met her eyes momentarily, then looked away, feeling sick. Maybe it was true. The T'ang would do nothing. But this was too much. The Prince had gone too far this time. Maid or not, thing or not, she would not allow this to happen to her sister.

"I have creams," she said gently, looking back, reaching out to touch and stroke her sister's brow, "ointments to soothe the cuts and help them heal. Lay still, Little Bee, and I'll bring them. And don't worry. Everything will be all right."

THE SERVANT BOWED low and backed away, his message delivered. Tsu Ma allowed himself the slightest smile, then turned, greeting the newcomer.

"You're late, Li Yuan!" he said sternly, loud enough for the others to hear, then let the hard lines of his face melt into a broad grin. He put a hand on the young man's shoulder. "Was it hard to get up this morning?"

"No . . ." Li Yuan began innocently, then blushed deeply as he saw the verbal trap and heard the great gust of laughter from the rest of the men on the great broad balcony. He looked about and saw how each face—even his father's—was filled with a tolerant, good-natured humor. All but one. A young, moon-faced man stood alone by the ornamental rail, beyond the two small groups of men. He was staring back coldly at Li Yuan, as if irritated by his arrival. At first Li Yuan did not recognize him. Then he realized who it was and looked down, frowning. Wang Sau-leyan . . .

Tsu Ma squeezed his shoulder gently, then lowered his voice. "Anyway, Yuan, come. The second session is not due to start for another half hour. There's time for talk and refreshments before then."

He turned and drew Li Yuan out of the shadows into the warm, midafternoon sunlight, then began the formality of introducing him to the T'ang and those of their sons who were attending.

Li Yuan knew them all personally. All but the last.

"I'm surprised to find you here, Wang Sau-leyan," he said, as he lifted his head.

"Surprised?" Wang Sau-leyan's eyes looked out past Li Yuan's shoulder, an expression of disdain on his pale round face. "Five years ago, perhaps. But as things are . . ." He laughed, no warmth in the laughter. "Well, my brother is unwell. His nerves . . ."

He glanced briefly at Li Yuan, then seemed to dismiss him, turning to concentrate his attention on Tsu Ma.

"Have you sounded the other T'ang about my proposal, Tsu Ma?"

Tsu Ma smiled pleasantly, concealing whatever he had been thinking. "I have broached the matter."

"And?"

Tsu Ma laughed kindly. "Well, it's difficult, cousin. If you had given them more warning, if they had had just a little more time to consider all the possible ramifications of your suggestion . . ."

Wang Sau-leyan interrupted him curtly. "What you mean is, no, they won't debate it."

Tsu Ma gave the slightest suggestion of a shrug, the smile remaining on his lips. "It was felt that it might be—how should I say?—premature to press the matter without consideration. But if the T'ang's regent would like to prepare something for the next meeting."

Wang Sau-leyan leaned toward Tsu Ma angrily, the words hissing from him coldly. "Four months from now! That's far too long! Why not today? Why are they so afraid to listen to new ideas?"

Heads had turned, but Tsu Ma seemed perfectly unflustered. He smiled, his whole manner calm and polite. "I understand your impatience, Wang Sau—"

"Impatience? You insult me, Tsu Ma! For three hours I have listened patiently to the words of others. Have attended to their schemes. Yet now, when I beg my turn to speak, they deny me. Is that impatience?"

Li Yuan had seen the movements of the muscles in Tsu Ma's cheeks. Had known that, were he not a T'ang, Tsu Ma would have called the young Prince out and challenged him to a duel. Yet his control now in the face of such provocation was magnificent.

Tsu Ma smiled. "Forgive me, Wang Sau-leyan. My words were ill-chosen. Even so, it is neither the validity of your views nor the. . . novelty of your words that are at issue here. It is merely our way. All that we say here, all we decide upon, has a profound effect upon the lives of those we rule. It would not do to give less than the most serious consideration to such matters. Ill-considered change benefits no man."

"You would lecture me, Tsu Ma?"

"Not at all. I wish merely to explain the position of my fellow T'ang. These things are matters of long standing. It is how we transact our business."

"Then perhaps it ought to change."

Tsu Ma laughed. "Maybe so. Perhaps the Prince Regent would put the idea forward for the next Council to consider?"

Wang Sau-leyan lifted his chin slightly. "Perhaps . . ." He let his eyes rest momentarily on Li Yuan, then looked back at Tsu Ma, giving the slightest inclination of his head. "I thank you for your efforts, Tsu Ma. If my manner was terse, forgive me. That is my way. But do not mistake me. I too have the best interests of Chung Kuo at heart."

Li Yuan watched as Wang Sau-leyan crossed the room to greet the young T'ang of South America, Hou Tung-po, then turned back to Tsu Ma. "Well! What was his proposal?"

Tsu Ma smiled. "Not here," he said quietly. Then he drew Li Yuan aside, his smile suddenly broader, more natural.

"So . . . tell me, cousin. How is that beautiful bride of yours?"

HELMStadt armory was a massive hexagonal block of 300 levels, isolated from the stacks surrounding it by a space fifty ch'i in width. That two-li-deep chasm was spanned, at four separate levels, by three broad connecting bridges, each bridge ending at a huge double gate, closed against intruders. To each side a whole battery of weapons—state-of-the-art equipment controlled from the guard room within— covered these entry points to the complex.

Helmstadt was considered by its makers to be invulnerable: a fortress second only to the great nerve center of Bremen. But in less than thirty seconds, if everything went according to plan, three of its gates would be open, the approaches unguarded.

DeVore crouched among his men in a side corridor on the City side of the bridge, looking down at his handset, watching through the complex's own Security cameras as his man approached the gate. The man was a lieutenant in the Armory's backup forces, called in on emergency standby after half the Armory's regular garrison had been sent to help quell the riots in Braunschweig, thirty li away.

The lieutenant marched up to the gate, then came to attention, holding his pass up for inspection. Two of the overhead guns had swiveled about, covering him; but now, on the computer's recognition signal, they swung back, focusing once more on the mouth of the corridor beyond.

He moved forward, placing one eye to an indented pad set into the gate, then stepped back. Three seconds passed, then a panel irised back, chest high to him, revealing a keyboard. The lieutenant inserted his card, then tapped out the coded signal.

At once the gates began to open.

Elsewhere, at a gate on the far side of the stack and at another one fifty levels down, the same thing was happening. Much now depended on timing. If just one of the gates remained unsecured, the odds would swing against them.

DeVore waited, tensed, counting. At thirty the screen of the handset went blank and he gave the signal. Immediately his men spilled out of the corridor and began to cross the bridge. If his inside man had failed they would be cut down instantly. But the guns remained silent. Beyond them, on the far side of the bridge, the great doors stayed open.

DeVore switched channels on the handset quickly, making sure. All three were blank, the transmission signals dead. He smiled, then, tucking the set inside his one-piece, followed his men out onto the bridge.

Inside, he found things well advanced. The level had been sealed off and all four of the big transit elevators secured. On the floor to one side a line of captives lay face-down, bound hand and foot. Most of the prisoners were only partly dressed, while two were completely naked. Only the five-man duty squad was fully dressed, but even they had been too surprised to put up any fight. Down below his men would be moving through the levels, securing all major entry points to the arsenal itself, isolating any remaining defenders scattered about these uppermost levels.

Much depended now on how the Ping Tiao fared, fifty levels down. If they could seal off the barracks and hold their gate, all would be well. But even if they didn't, it would be more their loss than his. He needed the weapons, it was true, but there was something far more important here. Something he hadn't bothered to mention in the briefing.

He turned and called the lieutenant across to him.

"Which of these is the Duty Captain?"

The lieutenant went down the line, then stopped and bent down to touch the back of one of the half-dressed men.

"Good. Take him into the guard room."

While two of his men lifted the Captain under the shoulders and dragged him away, DeVore turned to Lehmann. Of all of them he looked most at ease in the simple Ping Tiao clothes they were wearing.

"Stefan . . . Come here."

Lehmann came across, then followed him into the guard room.

The Captain had been placed in a chair, his back to them. One of the men was busy binding him about the chest and legs.

"Who are you?" he was demanding as DeVore entered. "You're not Ping Tiao. I can see that, despite your clothes and those fish symbols about your necks. You're too sharp, too well organized. Those scum wouldn't know how to break into a food store."

"You're quite right, Captain," DeVore said, coming around and sitting on the table edge, facing him.

The man's eyes widened. "DeVore!"

DeVore laughed softly, then signaled for the two men to leave. When they were gone he looked past the man at Lehmann, who nodded and turned to lock the door.

"Good," DeVore smiled. "Now to business."

The Captain glared at him defiantly. "What business? I have no business with you, DeVore."

"No?" DeVore reached into the breast pocket of his one-piece and took out something small and flat and round, its white casing like a lady's compact. Looking across at the Captain he smiled. "You have a nice family, Captain Sanders. A beautiful wife, two fine sons, and a baby girl. Well, she's divine; a pretty little thing." Sanders watched, horrified, as DeVore opened the casing and activated the hologram within.

"You have them?" Sanders looked up at DeVore, swallowing dryly; then looked back down at the tiny holo of his family, noting the look of anguish on his wife's face, the way the boys huddled against her.

DeVore smiled. "As I said. To business."

"What do you want?"

"Six numbers and five letters."

Sanders understood at once. "The elevator . . ."

"Yes."

It was a secret one-man shaft that went down from this level to the floor of the stack. He had seen it once, when he had inspected Helmstadt eleven years earlier, had traveled down and seen first-hand how it was defended. Now he would use what he knew.

Sanders hesitated, staring at the hologram. "And if I do ... they'll go free?" "Of course." DeVore snapped the case shut and slipped it back into the pocket of his one-piece. "You might consider me a traitor, Captain Sanders, but I'm still a man of my word."

Sanders studied DeVore a moment longer, doubt warring with fear in his eyes;

then he nodded. "All right. But it won't help you."

"No?" DeVore leaned back slightly. "Well, we'll see, eh? Just give me the code.

I'll do the rest."

FIVE THOUSAND it to the east, in the great palace at Astrakhan on the shore of the great inland sea, the Seven were in Council. As was their way, they sat not at a great table but in low comfortable chairs drawn into a circle at one end of the room. Their manner seemed casual, as though they had met as friends to drink and talk of old times; yet here, on such occasions, all major policy decisions were made. Behind the T'ang, on simple stools, sat those sons who were attending—four in all, including Li Shai Tung's son, Li Yuan—while at a desk behind Tsu Ma sat two scribes. In this, the second session of the day, they had come at last to the central issue: the matter of the Confiscations. Tsu Ma was just coming to the end of his speech, leaning forward in his chair, his words a strong echo of Li Shai Tung's.

". . . but that would be folly. There's no better way to put an end to all this bitterness and rivalry. At one stroke we can stabilize the market and placate those who, however mistakenly, might otherwise feel ill-served by our generosity to those who sided with us."

Tsu Ma paused and looked about the circle of his fellow T'ang, self-assured, his mouth and eyes forming a smile. "Which is why I have no hesitation in seconding Li Shai Tung's proposal. The stewardship system will achieve the end we seek."

There was a murmur of agreement from the older T'ang, but even as Tsu Ma sat back, Wang Sau-leyan leaned forward, his round face tensed with anger, his eyes hard. He spoke bitterly, staring about him angrily, challengingly.

"Can I believe what I hear? Have we not just fought a war? A war that by the power of Heaven we won. If that is so, why should we fear the bitterness of our enemies? Why should we seek to placate them? Would they have done the same? No! They would have destroyed us. And what then? What would they have offered us? Nothing! Not even the dignity of a decent burial. And yet you sit here worrying about your enemies and their feelings. Well, I say forget them! We must reward our friends! Publicly, so all can see. What better way to encourage support for the Seven?"

Wei Feng sat forward in his chair, his face grim, his hands spread in a gesture that suggested his despair at Wang's words. "That's foolish talk, Wang Sau-leyan! Loyalty cannot be bought. It is like a tree. Long years go into its making. Your scheme would have us buy our friends." He laughed scornfully. "That would reduce our friendships to mere transactions, our dealings to the level of the marketplace."

Wang Sau-Leyan stared back at Wei Feng, his eyes narrowed.

"And what is wrong with the marketplace? Is it not that self-same market that gives us our power? Be honest now—what's the truth of it? Does the love of our subjects sustain us, or is it the power we wield? Is there anyone here who does not fear the assassin's knife? Is there a single one of us who would walk the lowest levels unprotected?" Wang laughed scornfully and looked about him. "Well, then, I ask again—what is so wrong with the marketplace? Wei Feng says I speak foolishly. With respect, cousin Wei, my thoughts are not idle ones. You are right when you talk of loyalty as a tree. So it was. But the War has felled the forests. And are we to wait a dozen, fifteen, years for the new seed to grow?" He shook his head. "We here are realists. We know how things stand. There is no time to grow such loyalty again. Times have changed. It is regrettable, but. . ."

He paused, spreading his hands.

"So. Let me ask again. What is wrong with rewarding our friends? If it achieves our end—if it breeds a kind of loyalty—why question what it is that keeps a man loyal? Love, fear, money—in the end it is only by force that we rule."

There was a moment's silence after he had finished. Li Shai Tung had been looking down at his hands while Wang was speaking. Now he looked up and with a glance at Tsu Ma and Wu Shih, addressed the Council.

"I hear what my cousin Wang says. Nevertheless, we must decide on this matter. We must formulate our policy here and now. I propose that this matter is put to the vote."

Wang Sau-leyan stared at him a moment, then looked down. There was to be no delay, then? No further debate? They would have his vote now? Well, then, he would give them his vote.

Tsu Ma was leaning forward, taking a small cigar from the silver-and-ivory box on the arm of his chair. He glanced up casually. "We are agreed, then, cousins?"

Wang Sau-leyan looked about him, watching his fellow T'ang raise their hands, then let them fall again.

"Good," said Tsu Ma, "Then let us move on quickly . . ."

Wang Sau-leyan spoke up, interrupting Tsu Ma. "Excuse me, cousin, but have you not forgotten something?" ;

Tsu Ma met his eyes, clearly puzzled. "I'm sorry?"

"The vote. You did not ask who was against." —

Tsu Ma laughed awkwardly. "1 beg your pardon . . . ?"

"Six hands were raised. Yet there are seven here, are there not?"

Wang Sau-leyan looked about him, seeing the effect his words were having on his fellow T'ang. Like so much else, they had not expected this. In Council all decisions were unanimous. Or had been. For one hundred and twenty-six years it had been so. Until today.

It was Li Shai Tung who broke the silence. "You mean you wish to vote against?

After all we've said?"

Wei Feng, sat beside him, shook his head. "It isn't done," he said quietly. "It just isn't our way . . ."

"Why not?" Wang asked, staring at him defiantly. "We are Seven, not one, surely? Why must our voice be single?"

"You misunderstand—" Tsu Ma began, but again Wang cut in.

"I misunderstand nothing. It is my right to vote against, is it not? To put on record my opposition to this item of policy?"

Tsu Ma hesitated, then gave a small nod of assent.

"Good. Then that is all I wish to do. To register my unease at our chosen course."

At the desk behind Tsu Ma the secretary Lung Mei Ho had been taking down everything that was said for the official record, his ink brush moving quickly down the page. Beside him his assistant had been doing the same, the duplication ensuring that the report was accurate. Now both had stopped and were looking up, astonished.

"But that has been done already, cousin Wang. Every word spoken here is a matter of record. Your unease . . ." Tsu Ma frowned, trying to understand. "You mean you really do wish to vote against?"

"Is it so hard to understand, Tsu Ma?" Wang looked past the T'ang at the scribe, his voice suddenly hard. "Why aren't you writing, Shih Lung? Did anyone call these proceedings to a halt?"

Lung glanced at his master's back, then lowered his head, hurriedly setting down Wang's words. Beside him his assistant did the same.

Satisfied, Wang Sau-leyan sat back, noting how his fellow T'ang were glaring at him now or looking among themselves, uncertain how to act. His gesture, ineffective in itself, had nonetheless shocked them to the bone. As Wei Feng had said, it wasn't done. Not in the past. But the past was dead. This was a new world, with new rules. They had not learned that yet. Despite all, the War had taught them nothing. Well, he would change that. He would press their noses into the foul reality of it.

"One further thing," he said quietly.

Tsu Ma looked up, meeting his eyes. "What is it, cousin Wang?"

The sharpness in Tsu Ma's voice made him smile inside. He had rattled them, even the normally implacable Tsu Ma. Well, now he would shake them well and good.

"It's just a small thing. A point of procedure."

"Go on . . ."

"Just this. The Princes must leave. Now. Before we discuss any further business."

He saw the look of consternation on Tsu Ma's face, saw it mirrored on every face in that loose circle. Then the room exploded in a riot of angry, conflicting voices.

DEVORE BRACED HIMSELF as the elevator fell rapidly, one hand gripping the brass-and-leather handle overhead, the other cradling the severed head against his hip. They had quick-frozen the neck to stop blood from seeping against his uniform and peeled away the eyelids. In time the retinal pattern would decay, but for now it was good enough to fool the cameras.

As the elevator slowed he prepared himself, lifting the head up in front of his face. When it stopped, he put the right eye against the indentation in the wall before him, then moved it away, tapping in the code. Three seconds, then the door would hiss open. He tucked the head beneath his arm and drew his gun.

"What's happening up top?"

The guard at the desk was turning toward him, smiling, expecting Sanders; but he had barely uttered the words when DeVore opened fire, blowing him from his seat. The second guard was coming out of a side room, balancing a tray with three bowls of ch'a between his hands. He thrust the tray away and reached for his sidearm, but DeVore was too quick for him. He staggered back, then fell and lay still.

DeVore walked across to the desk and put the head down, then looked about him. Nothing had changed. It was all how he remembered it. In eleven years they had not even thought of changing their procedures. Creatures of habit, they were—men of tradition. DeVore laughed scornfully. It was their greatest weakness and the reason why he would win.

He went to the safe. It was a high-security design with a specially strengthened form of ice for its walls and a blank front that could be opened only by the correct sequence of light pulses on the appropriate light-sensitive panels. That too was unchanged. It won't help you—that's what Sanders had said. Well, Sanders and his like didn't think the way he thought. They approached things head on. But he ... DeVore laughed, then took the four tiny packets from the tunic and, removing their contents, attached them to the ice on each side of the safe's rectangular front. They looked like tiny hoops, like snakes eating their own tails. Four similar hoops—much larger, their destructive capacity a thousand times that of these tiny, ringlike versions—had begun it all, ten years earlier, when they had ripped the Imperial Solarium apart, killing the T'ang's Minister Lwo Kang and his advisors. Now their smaller brothers would provide him with the means to continue that War. He smiled, then went across to one of the side rooms and lay down on the floor. A moment later the explosion juddered the room about him. He waited a few seconds, then got up and went back inside. The guard room was a mess. Dust filled the air; machinery and bits of human flesh and bone littered the walls and floor. Where the safe had been the wall was ripped apart; the safe itself, unharmed by the explosion, had tumbled forward and now lay there in the center of the room,

covered by debris.

He took off his tunic and wrapped it around the safe, then slowly dragged it across the floor and into the elevator. He looked back into the room, then reached across and pushed the button. He had no need for the head this time—there were no checks on who left the room, nor on who used the elevator to ascend. Again that was a flaw in their thinking. He would have designed it otherwise: would have made it easier to break in, harder to get out. That way one trapped one's opponent, surrounded him. As in wei chi.

At the top Lehmann was waiting for him, a fresh one-piece over his arm. "How are things?" DeVore asked, stripping off quickly and slipping into the dark-green maintenance overalls.

Lehmann stared at the safe. "The Ping Tiao have held their end. We've begun shipping the armaments out through the top east gate. Wiegand reports that the Security channels are buzzing with news of the attack. We should expect a counterattack any time now."

DeVore looked up sharply. "Then we'd best get this out quick, eh?" "I've four men waiting outside, and another two holding the west transit elevator. I've told the Ping Tiao it's out of order." "Excellent. Anything else?"

"Good news. The rioting in Braunschweig has spilled over into neighboring hsien. It seems our friends were right. It's a powder keg down there."

"Maybe . . ." DeVore looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. "Right. Get those men in here. I want this out of here before the Ping Tiao find out what we've done. Then we'll blow the bridges."

li YUAN LEFT at once, not waiting for the T'ang to resolve their dispute. He went out onto the broad balcony and stood there at the balustrade, looking out across the blue expanse of the Caspian toward the distant shoreline. Wei Feng's son Wei Chan Yin joined him there a moment later, tense with anger.

For a time neither of them spoke, then Wei Chan Yin lifted his chin. His voice was cold and clear—the voice of reason itself.

"The trouble is, Wang Sau-leyan is right. We have not adapted to the times."

Li Yuan turned his head, looking at the older man's profile. "Maybe so. But there are ways of saying such things."

Wei Chan Yin relaxed slightly, then gave a small laugh. "His manners are appalling, aren't they? Perhaps it has something to do with his exile as a child."

Their eyes met and they laughed.

Li Yuan turned, facing Wei Chan Yin. Wei Feng's eldest son was thirty-six, a tall, well-built man with a high forehead and handsome features. His eyes were smiling, yet at times they could be penetrating, almost frightening in their intensity. Li Yuan had known him since birth and had always looked up to him, but now they were equals in power. Differences in age meant nothing beside their roles as future T'ang.

"What does he want, do you think?"

Wei Chan Yin shrugged. He stared out past Li Yuan a moment, considering things, then looked back at him.

"My father thinks he's a troublemaker."

"But you think otherwise."

"I think he's a clever young man. Colder, far more controlled than he appears. That display back there—I think he was playacting."

Li Yuan smiled. It was what he himself had been thinking. Yet it was a superb act. He had seen the outrage on the faces of his father and the older T'ang. If Wang Sau-leyan's purpose had been merely to upset them, he had succeeded marvelously. But why? What could he gain by such tactics?

"I agree. But my question remains. What does he want?"

"Change."

Li Yuan hesitated, waiting for Wei Chan Yin to say more. But Chan Yin had finished.

"Change?" Li Yuan's laughter was an expression of disbelief. Then, with a tiny shudder of revulsion, he saw what his cousin's words implied. "You mean . . ."

It was left unstated, yet Wei Chan Yin nodded. They were talking of the murder of Wang Hsien. Chan Yin's voice sank to a whisper. "It is common knowledge that he hated his father. It would make a kind of sense if his hatred extended to all that his father held dear." "The Seven?" "And Chung Kuo itself."

Li Yuan shook his head slowly. Was it possible? If so ... He swallowed, then looked away, appalled. "Then he must never become a T'ang."

Wei Chan Yin laughed sourly. "Would that it were so easy, cousin. But be careful what you say. The young Wang has ears in unexpected places. Between ourselves there are no secrets; but there are some, even among our own, who do not understand when to speak and when to remain silent."

Again there was no need to say more. Li Yuan understood at once who Wei Chan Yin was talking of. Hou Tung-po, the young T'ang of South America, had spent much time recently with Wang Sau-leyan on his estates.

He shivered again, as if the sunlight suddenly had no strength to warm him, then reached out and laid his hand on Wei Chan Yin's arm.

"My father was right. These are evil times. Yet we are Seven. Even if some prove weak, if the greater part remain strong . . ."

Wei covered Li Yuan's hand with his own. "As you say, good cousin. But I must go. There is much to be done."

Li Yuan smiled. "Your father's business?" "Of course. We are our fathers' hands, neh?"

Li Yuan watched him go, then turned back and leaned across the balustrade, staring outward. But this time his thoughts went back to the day when his father had summoned him and introduced him to the sharp-faced official Ssu Lu Shan. That afternoon had changed his life, for it was then that he had learned of the Great Deception, and of the Ministry that had been set up to administer it.

History had it that Pan Chao's great fleet had landed here on the shores of Astrakhan in A.D. 98. He had trapped the Ta Ts'in garrison between his sea forces and a second great land-based army and after a battle lasting three days, had set up the yellow dragon banner of the Emperor above the old town's walls. But history lied. Pan Chao had, indeed, crossed the Caspian to meet representatives of the Ta Ts'in—consuls of Trajan's mighty Roman Empire. But no vast Han army had ever landed on this desolate shore, no Han had crossed the great range of the Urals and entered Europe as conquerors. Not until the great dictator Tsao Ch'un had come, little more than a century past.

Li Yuan shivered, then turned away, angry with himself. Lies or not, it was the world they had inherited; it did no good to dwell upon alternatives. He had done so for a time and it had almost destroyed him. Now he had come to terms with it, had made his peace with the world of appearances. And yet sometimes—as now—the veil would slip and he would find himself wishing it would fly apart and that he could say, just once, This is the truth of things. But that was impossible. Heaven itself would fall before the words could leave his lips. He stared back at the doorway, his anger finding its focus once more in the upstart Wang Sau-leyan.

Change . . . Was Prince Wei right? Was it change Wang Sau-leyan wanted? Did he hunger to set the Great Wheel turning once again, whatever the cost? If so, they must act to stop him. Because change was impossible. Inconceivable.

Or was it?

Li Yuan hesitated. No, he thought, not inconceivable. Not now. Even so, it could not be. They could not let it be. His father was right: Change was the great destroyer; the turning Wheel crushed all beneath it, indiscriminately. It had always been so. If there was a single reason for the existence of the Seven it was this—to keep the Wheel from turning.

With a shudder he turned back, making his way through, his role in things suddenly clear to him. Yes, he would be the brake, the block that kept the Wheel from turning.

AT THE turn DeVore stopped and flattened himself against the wall of the corridor, listening. Behind him the four men rested, taking their breath, the safe nestled in the net between them. Ahead there were noises—footsteps, the muffled sound of voices. But whose? These levels were supposed to be empty, the path to the bridge clear.

DeVore turned and pointed to a doorway to their right. Without needing to be told, they crossed the space and went inside. Satisfied, DeVore went to the left, moving down the corridor quickly, silently, conscious of the voices growing louder as he approached the junction. Before the turn he stopped and slipped into a side room, then waited, his ear pressed to the door. When they had gone by, he slipped out again, taking the right-hand turn, following them.

Ping Tiao. He was certain of it. But why were they here? And what were they doing?

Ten of them. Maybe more. Unless . . .

There was no reason for his hunch; yet he knew, even as he had it, that he was right. They were Ping Tiao. But not all of them. They had taken prisoners. High-ranking Security officers, perhaps. But why? For their ransom value? Or was there some other reason?