The Broken Wheel

"There are fresh clothes in the bathroom," her uncle said gently, squeezing her shoulder, bringing her back from her reverie. "Get changed then come through into the kitchen. I'll make some toast and ch'a. We can sit and talk."

He looked up, waving his wife away, then looked back at Jelka, smiling. "Go on now. I can see you won't sleep until this has blown over."

She did as she was told, then went into the kitchen and stood by the window, staring out through the glass at the storm-tossed waters of the harbor while he brewed the ch'a.

"Here," he said after a while, handing her an old earthenware mug filled with steaming ch'a. He stood beside her, staring outward, then gave a soft laugh. "I've done this before, you know, when I was much younger than I am now. Your mother was like you, Jelka. Knut could never understand it. If there was a storm he would tuck his head beneath the blankets and try to sleep through it, as if it were all a damned nuisance sent to rob him of his sleep and no more than that. But she was like you. She wanted to see. Wanted to be out there in the thick of it. I think she would have thrown herself in the water if she'd not had the sense to know she'd drown."

He laughed again and looked down at her. Jelka was staring up at him, fascinated.

"What was she like? I mean, what was she really like?"

He nodded toward the broad pine table. They sat, he in the huge farmhouse chair, she on the bench beside him, a heavy dressing gown draped about her shoulders.

"That's better. It gets in my bones, you know. The damp. The changes in pressure." He smiled and sipped at his mug. "But that's not what you want to know, is it? You want to know about your mother . . ."

He shook his head slowly. "Where to start, eh? What to say first?" He looked at her, his eyes grown sad. "Oh, she was like you, Jelka. So very much like you." He let out a long breath, then leaned forward, folding his big broad hands together on the tabletop. "Let me start with the first moment I ever saw her, there on the rocks at the harbor's mouth . . ."

She sat there, listening, her mouth open, her breathing shallow. The ch'a in her mug grew cold and still she listened, as if gazing through a door into the past.

Through into another world. Into a time before her time. A place at once familiar and utterly alien. That pre-existent world a child can only imagine, never be part of. And yet how she ached to see the things he spoke of; how she longed to go back and see what he had seen.

She could almost see it. Her mother, turning slowly in the firelight, dancing to a song that was in her head alone, up on her toes, her arms extended, dreaming . . . Or, later, her mother, heavily pregnant with herself, standing in the doorway of the kitchen where she now sat, smiling . . .

She turned and looked but there was nothing; nothing but the empty doorway. She closed her eyes and listened, but again there was nothing; nothing but the storm outside. She could not see it—not as it really was. Even with her eyes closed she couldn't see it.

Ghosts. The past was filled with ghosts. Images from the dark side of vision.

Hours passed. The storm died. And then a faint dawn light showed at the sea's far edge, beyond the harbor and the hills. She watched it grow, feeling tired now, ready for sleep.

Her uncle stood, gently touching her shoulder. "Bed, my child," he said softly. "Your father will be here tomorrow."

THE DEEP-LEVEL telescope at Heilbronn was more than a hundred and fifty years old. The big satellite observatories at the edge of the solar system had made it almost an irrelevancy, yet it was still popular with many astronomers, perhaps because the idea of going deep into the earth to see the stars held some curious, paradoxical appeal.

"It feels strange," Kim said, turning to face Hammond as they rode the elevator down into the earth. "Like going back."

Hammond nodded. "But not uncomfortable, I hope?"

"No." Kim looked away thoughtfully, then smiled. "Just odd, that's all. Like being lowered down a well."

The elevator slowed, then shuddered to a halt. The safety doors hissed open and they stepped out, two suited guards greeting them.

"In there," said one of the guards, pointing to their right. They went in. It was a decontamination room. Ten minutes later they emerged, their skin tingling, the special clothing clinging uncomfortably to them. An official greeted them and led them along a narrow, brightly lit corridor and into the complex of labs and viewing rooms.

There were four telescopes in Heilbronn's shaft, but only one of them could be used at any one time, a vast roundabout, set into the rock, holding the four huge lenses. One of the research scientists—a young man in his early twenties—acted as their guide, showing them around, talking excitedly of the most recent discoveries. Few of them were made at Heilbronn now—the edge observatories were the pioneers of new research—but Heilbronn did good work nonetheless, checking and amassing detail, verifying what the edge observatories hadn't time to process.

Hammond listened politely, amused by the young man's enthusiasm, but for Kim it was different: he shared that sense of excitement. For him the young man's words were alive, vivid with burgeoning life. Listening, Kim found he wanted to know much more than he already did. Wanted to grasp it whole.

Finally, their guide took them into one of the hemispherical viewing rooms, settled them into chairs, and demonstrated how they could use the inquiry facility.

His explanation over, he bowed, leaving them to it.

Kim looked to Hammond.

"No, Kim. You're the one Prince Yuan arranged this for."

Kim smiled and leaned forward, drawing the control panel into his lap, then dimmed the lights.

It was like being out in the open, floating high above the world, the night sky all about them. But that was only the beginning. Computer graphics transformed the viewing room into an armchair spaceship. From where they sat they could travel anywhere they liked among the stars: to distant galaxies far across the universe, or to nearer, better-charted stars, circling them, moving among their planetary systems. Here distance was of little consequence and the relativistic laws of physics held no sway. In an instant you had crossed the heavens. It was exhilarating to see the stars rush by at such incredible speeds, flickering in the corners of the eyes like agitated dust particles. For a while they rushed here and there, laughing, enjoying the giddy vistas of the room. Then they came back to earth, to a night sky that ought to have been familiar to them, but wasn't.

"There are losses, living as we do," Kim said wistfully.

Hammond grunted his assent. "You know, it makes me feel, well— insignificant. I mean, just look at it." He raised his hand. "It's so big. There's so much power there. So many worlds. And all so old. So unimaginably old." He laughed awkwardly, his hand falling back to the arm of the chair. "It makes me feel so small."

"Why? They're only stars."

"Only stars!" Hammond laughed, amused by the understatement. "How can you say that?"

Kim turned in his chair, his face, his tiny figure indistinct in the darkness, only the curved, wet surfaces of his eyes lit by reflected starlight. "It's only matter, reacting in predictable ways. Physical things, bound on all sides by things physical. But look at you, Joel Hammond. You're a man. Homo sapiens. A beast that thinks, that has feelings."

"Four pails of water and a bag of salts, that's all we are."

Kim shook his head. "No. We're more than mere chemicals. Even the meanest of us."

Hammond looked down. "I don't know, Kim. I don't really see it like that. I've never been able to see myself that way."

"But we have to. We're more than earth, Joel. More than mere clay to be molded."

There was a hint of bitterness in the last that made the man look up and meet the boy's eyes.

"What is it?" he asked softly.

"Nothing. Just the memory of something."

It was strange. They had not really spoken before now. Oh, there had been the poems—the transfer of matters scientific—but nothing personal. They were like two machines passing information one to the other. But nothing real. As people they had yet to meet.

Hammond hesitated, sensing the boy's reluctance, then spoke, watching to see how his words were taken. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Kim looked back at him. "This feels like home."

"Home?"

"Down deep. Under the earth."

"Ah ... the Clay."

Kim smiled sadly. "You should have seen me, Joel. Eight years ago. Such a tiny, skulking thing, I was. And thin. So thin. Like something dead." He sighed, tilting his head back, remembering. "A bony little thing with wide, staring eyes. That's how T'ai Cho first saw me."

He laughed, a tighter, smaller sound than before. More like surprise than laughter. "I wonder what it was he saw in me. Why he didn't just gas me and dispose of me. I was just"—he shrugged, and his eyes came up to meet the older man's, dark eyes, filled with sudden, half-remembered pain—"just a growth. A clod of earth. A scrap of the darkness from beneath."

Hammond was breathing shallowly, intent on every word.

"Twice I was lucky. If it weren't for T'ai Cho I'd be dead. He saved me. When I reverted he made a bargain for me. Because of what he saw in me. Five years I spent in Socialization. Doing penance. Being retrained, restructured, tamed."

Hammond looked up, suddenly understanding. So that was why Kim's life was forfeit. "What did you do?"

Kim looked away. The question went unanswered. After a while, he began to speak again. Slower this time. Hammond's question had been too close, perhaps; for what Kim said next seemed less personal, as if he were talking about a stranger, describing the days in Socialization, the humiliations and degradations, the death of friends who hadn't made it. And other, darker things. How had he survived all that? How emerged as he was?

Kim turned away, leaning across to activate the viewer. Slowly the hemisphere of stars revolved about them.

"We were talking about stars, Joel. About vastness and significance." He stood and walked to the edge, placing his hand against the upward curving wall. "They seem so isolated—tiny islands in the great ocean of space, separated by billions of li of nothingness. Bright points of heat in all that endless cold. But look at them again." He drew a line between two stars, and then another two. "See how they're all connected. Each one linked to a billion-billion others. A vast web of light, weaving the galaxy together."

He came across, standing close to Hammond, looking down at him. "That's what's significant, Joel. Not the vastness or the power of it all, but how it's connected." He smiled and reached down to take Hammond's hand, clasping it firmly. "Apart or a part. There are always two ways of seeing it."

"A web," said Hammond, frowning; he shook his head and laughed, squeezing the hand that held his own. "A bloody web. You're mad, you know that, Kim Ward? Mad!"

"Not mad, Joel. Touched, perhaps, but not mad."

IT WAS HER last day on the island. She had slept late and had woken hungry. Now she walked the wooded slopes beside the house, Erkki shadowing her. It was a cool, fresh day. The storm had washed the air clean, and the sky, glimpsed through the tall, black bars of pine, was a perfect, unblemished blue.

At the edge of the clearing she turned and looked back at the young guard. He was walking along distractedly, looking down at the ground, his gun hung loosely about his left shoulder.

"Did you hear it?"

He looked up, smiling "Hear what?"

"The storm."

He shrugged. "I must have slept through it."

She studied him a moment, then turned back. In front of her the fire had burned a great circle in the stand of trees. Charred branches lay all about her. No more than a pace from where she stood, the ground was black. She looked up. The trees on all sides of the blackened circle had been seared by the heat of the blaze, their branches withered. She looked down, then stepped forward into the circle.

The dark layer of incinerated wood cracked and powdered beneath her tread. She took a second step, feeling the darkness give slightly beneath her weight, then stopped, looking about her. If she closed her eyes she could still see it, the flames leaping up into the darkness, their brightness searing the night sky, steaming, hissing where they met the violent downpour.

Now there was only ash. Ash and the fire-blackened stumps of seven trees, forming a staggered H in the center of the circle. She went across to the nearest and touched it with the toe of her boot. It crumbled and fell away, leaving nothing.

She turned full circle, looking about her, then shivered, awed by the stillness, the desolation of the place. She had seen the violent flash and roar of the gods' touch; now she stood in its imprint, reminded of her smallness by the destructive power of the storm. And yet for a moment she had seemed part of it, her thinking self lost, consumed by the elemental anger raging all about her.

She crouched and reached out, putting her fingers to the dark, soft-crumbling surface, then lifted them to her mouth, tasting the darkness. It seemed sour, unappetizing. Wiping her fingers against her knee, she stood and moved further in, until she stood at the very center of the great circle.

"Kuan Yin! What happened here?"

She turned and looked back at Erkki. He stood at the circle's edge, his eyes wide with wonder.

"The lightning did it," she said simply, but saw at once that he didn't understand. Of course, she thought; you slept through it, didn't you? In that you're like my father—like all of them—you carry the City within you, wherever you are.

She turned back, looking down. This evening, after supper, her father was coming to take her back. She sighed. It would be nice to see her father again, and yet the thought of returning to the City was suddenly anathema. She looked about her, desperate to see it all one last time, to hold it fast in memory, in case . . .

She shuddered, then finished the thought. In case she never came again.

The nightmares no longer haunted her, the three gaunt men no longer came to the edge of the lake, their mocking eyes staring across at her. Even so, the threat remained. She was the Marshal's daughter, and while he remained important to the T'ang, her life would be in danger.

She understood it now: saw it vividly, as if her mind had been washed as clear as the sky. They had not been after her father. No. They had been after her. For her death would have left her father drained, emotionally incapacitated, a dead man filling the uniform of the Marshal.

Yes, she saw it clearly now. Saw how her death would have brought about her father's fall. And if the keystone fell, how could the arch itself hold up?

She knew her father's weaknesses, knew that he had four of the five qualities Sun Tzu had considered dangerous in the character of a general: his courage too often bordered on recklessness; he was impulsive and quick-tempered and would, if provoked, charge in without considering the difficulties; his sense of honor was delicate and left him open to false accusations; and, lastly, he was deeply compassionate. Against these she set his strengths, chief of which was the loyalty he engendered in those who served under him. As Sun Tzu had said in the tenth book of the Arc of War, "Because such a general regards his men as infants they will march with him into the deepest valleys. He treats them as his own beloved sons and they will die with him."

She nodded to herself. Yes, and weaknesses sometimes were strengths and strengths weaknesses. Take Hans Ebert, for instance. A fine, brave soldier he might be, handsome, too, and well-mannered, yet her father's eyes saw a different man from the one she had seen that day in the Ebert mansion. To her father he was the son he had never had and was thus born to be his daughter's life companion. But that was to forget her own existence, to leave out her own feelings on the matter.

She turned, chilled by the thought, then looked across at the young guard. "Come, Erkki. Let's get back. I ought to pack."

She looked about her as she walked, seeing it all as if it had already passed from her. Yet she would never wholly lose it now. She had found herself here, had discovered in this harsh and forbidding landscape the reflection of her inner self, her true self; once awakened to it she was sure she would never feel the same about her world. The scent of pine and earth, the salt tang of the sea—these things were part of her now, inseparable, like the voices of the island. Before she had been but a shadow of her self, entranced by the dream that was the City, unaware of her inner emptiness. But now she was awake. Herself—fully herself.

THE MESS ORDERLY set the glasses down on the table between the two men, then, with a smart bow, left the room.

"Kan pei!" said Tolonen, lifting his glass to his future son-in-law.

"Kan pei!" Ebert answered, raising his glass. Then, looking about him, he smiled. "This is nice, sir. Very nice."

"Yes." Tolonen laughed. "A Marshal's privileges. But one day you'll be Marshal, Hans, and this room will be yours."

"Maybe so," Ebert answered, setting his glass down. "But not for many years, I hope."

Tolonen smiled. He liked young Ebert hugely, and it was reassuring to know that Jelka would be in such good hands when she was married. Just now, however, there was work to be done; there were other matters to occupy them.

"I've come from the T'ang, "he said, sitting back. "I had to deliver the interim report on the Executive Killings." He paused and sniffed, his features re-forming themselves into a frown. "Li Shai Tung wasn't pleased, Hans. He felt we ought to have got somewhere by now, and perhaps he's right. But the very fact that we've drawn so many blanks convinces me that DeVote's behind this somehow."

"Do you think so, sir?" Ebert looked away, as if considering the matter, then looked back, meeting Tolonen's eyes. "But surely we'd have found something to connect him. It would be rather too clever of him, don't you think, not to have left some trace somewhere? So many people were involved, after all."

"Hmm . . ." Tolonen sipped at his drink—a fruit cordial—then set his glass down again. "Maybe. But there's another matter, Hans. Something I didn't know about until the T'ang told me of it today. It seems that more was taken in the raid on Helmstadt than the garrison expenses. Jewelry for the main part, but also several special items. They were in the safe the Ping Two took. Three items of T'ang pottery. Items worth the gods know how much on the collector's market."

Tolonen reached into his tunic pocket and pulled out three thick squares of black ice. They were "flats," hologramic stills.

"Here," he said, handing them across.

Ebert held them up, looking at them a moment, then placed one on the table beside his drink and pressed the indented strip that ran along one edge. At once a hologram formed in the air above the flat.

He studied each in turn, then handed them back to the Marshal. "They're beautiful. And as you say, they'd fetch astronomical prices, even on the black market." He hesitated, looking down. "I realize it's awkward but. . . well, might I ask what they were doing in the safe at Helmstadt?"

Tolonen tucked the flats away and picked up his glass again. "I have the T'ang's permission to discuss this with you, Hans. But remember, this is mouth-to-ear stuff."

Ebert nodded.

"Good. Well, it seems Li Shai Tung was planning an experiment. The statuettes were to be sold to finance that experiment."

"An experiment?"

"Yes. There have been talks—highly secretive talks, you understand—between the T'ang's private staff and several of the Net's biggest Triad bosses."

Ebert sat back, surprised. "I see. But what for?"

Tolonen sniffed. "It seems that Li Shai Tung wanted to try to reclaim parts of the Net. To bring them back into the fold, so to speak. He would guarantee basic services and limited travel in the lower levels, as well as huge cash injections to bring facilities up to standard. In return the Triad bosses would guarantee to keep the peace, within the framework of existing law."

Ebert looked down. "It seems . . ." he sighed, then looked up again. "Forgive me for being candid, sir, but I'd say it was highly optimistic, wouldn't you?"

Tolonen lowered his voice. "Just between us, Hans, I fully agree. But ours is not to question policy, ours is to carry that policy out. We are our master's hands, neh?"

There was a moment's silence between the men, then Tolonen continued. "Anyway, it seems that the loss of the three statues has thrown things into flux for the time being. The T'ang is reluctant to part with any more of his treasures until it can be found what happened to these three. If the Triads were involved—if they are trying to have their cake and eat it—Li Shai Tung wants to know that. It may answer other questions, too. We've had our suspicions for some while that the Ping Tiao were working with another group in their raid on Helmstadt. If they were acting in conjunction with one or other of the larger Triad bosses, it would explain a lot. Maybe it would even give us a handle on these murders."

"I see. And you want me to investigate?"

"That's right, Hans. You see, some of the jewelry has already shown up on the black market. I want you to find out who's been trading the stuff. Then I want you to trace it back and get some answers."

Ebert was silent a moment, considering, then he looked up again, meeting the Marshal's eyes. "Why not Karr?"

"Major Karr has quite enough on his hands already." Tolonen leaned forward and covered Ebert's hand with his own. "No, Hans, you look after this for me, eh? Get me some answers that'll please the T'ang. It'll do you no harm, I guarantee. The murders, they're one thing. But this. . . Well, it could prove far more important in the long run."

Ebert smiled. "Of course. When do you want me to report?"

"The T'ang has given me three days."

"Then three days it is. Whatever it takes. I'll find out who's behind all this." "Good." Tolonen beamed. "I knew I could count on you, Hans."

IT WAS THIRTY minutes later and Ebert was in the corridor outside his apartment when the woman approached him, grabbing his arm and shrieking into his face.

"You bastard! You bought her, didn't you? To humiliate me!"

Ebert turned and shook her off". "I don't know what you mean, Madam Chuang. Bought whom?"

"You know fucking well whom!" Her face was pale, her eyes dark with sleeplessness, her clothes. . .

"Gods, woman, look at you! You're a mess! And such language! You forget yourself, Madam Chuang. A Minister's wife!"

He gave her a look of disgust and started to turn away, but she grabbed at him again. He turned back angrily, taking her hand from his arm and squeezing it painfully. "If you don't desist. . ." he said quietly, but threateningly.

She tore her hand away, then leaned toward him, spitting full in his face.

He swore, rubbing at his face, then, glaring at her, turned away. But as he did so, she pulled a knife from inside her clothes and struck out, catching him glancingly on the arm.

"Shit!"

He was turning as she struck the second blow, lifting his wounded arm to try to fend her off. She grunted as she delivered the blow, her full weight behind it, her face distorted with a mad lust of hatred as she thrust at him. This time the knife caught him squarely on the back of the head, knocking him forward onto his hands and knees. But the knife had gone scattering away.

Madam Chuang looked in horror. Where the knife had caught him, the hair had ripped away, revealing a shining metal plate. He half turned his head, looking up at her, stunned by the force of the blow, yet still alive. She shrieked and made to leap on him, but strong hands pulled her back, then threw her down roughly. A moment later she felt something hard press down brutally against her temple and knew it was a gun. She closed her eyes.

"No! Leave her!" The voice was Ebert's. He got to his knees, trying to steady himself. "Leave her . . ."

Auden looked across at his Major, then with a small shudder, pulled the gun back from the woman's temple and returned it to the holster. "She would have killed you, Hans."

Ebert looked up, smiling through his pain. "I know. She's got spirit, that one! Real spirit. Wouldn't you like to fuck her?"

Auden looked away.

Ebert laughed. "No. Maybe not. But perhaps we should frighten her off, neh?

After all, I can't always be watching my back, can I? There are times. . ." He laughed again, then reached up and touched the back of his head tenderly.

"What do you suggest?" Auden asked, looking back at him.

"Her breasts," Ebert said, wincing. "She was always proud of them. Cut her breasts."

Auden turned, pushed the woman down, and tore her silks open roughly, exposing her breasts. Then he knelt over her, pinning down her arms.

She looked up at him, horrified, her voice a mere breath. "You can't. . ."

He hit her savagely with the back of his hand, splitting her lip, then drew his knife from his belt. There was a moment's hesitation, then pinning her neck down with his left hand, he drew the knife across her breasts, once, twice, a third time, ignoring her screams of pain, the razor-sharp blade ripping open the skin.

He stood, sheathing his knife, looking down at the distraught woman, then turned back, seeing at once how Ebert had been watching, how his eyes were wide with excitement, how his chest rose and fell.

"Thanks," Ebert said quietly. "You'll see to her?"

Auden nodded, then bent down, recovering the package he had dropped in coming to Ebert's aid. "Here," he said, handing it to Ebert. "It came this morning."

Ebert glanced at it then looked across at the woman again. "Who would have believed it, eh? Who'd have thought the old girl had it in her?" He laughed, then got unsteadily to his feet, swaying, closing his eyes momentarily. Auden went to him and put his arm about him, supporting him.

"Are you sure you're all right? Should I get a medic?"

Ebert shook his head, slowly, smiling through the pain he clearly felt. "No. I'll rest a while. It'll be all right."

Auden turned, looking across at the Minister's wife. She had turned onto her side now, huddled into herself, whimpering, her bloodied silks pulled about her torn and ruined breasts. "I'll see to her. Don't you worry about that. I'll say she was attacked in the corridors by a gang. Fest will back me up."

Ebert swallowed, then put his hand on Auden's arm. "Good. Then get moving. I'll go inside and lie down for a while. There's help there if I need it."

He watched Auden go over to the woman and crouch down, speaking into his wrist-set, summoning assistance, then turned away. It would be all right; Auden would sort things out. He touched his arm. It was only a superficial wound, but the blow to his head . . . Well, perhaps Auden was right. Perhaps he should have the medics in. She had caught him a cracking blow, after all. He could easily be concussed.

He turned to face the door. "Fancy that. . ." he said softly, placing his hand against the lock and lifting his face to look directly into the overhead camera. At once the door hissed open. "She could have killed me," he said, going inside. "The fucking woman could have killed me!"

THE GREAT HALL of the Jakobstad Terminal was uncharacteristically silent, the departure lounge emptied of its normal crowds, the doors barred and guarded by soldiers. As the tiny party came through, their footsteps echoed across the massive space. It was almost a li from landing pad to platform, but Tolonen had waved away the sedan and had led his party on by foot, marching quickly, his daughter just behind him, the twelve man elite corps squad fanned out about them, prepared for anything.

The Marshal had taken extraordinary steps to bring his daughter home. Things were in flux again and if their enemies were to strike anywhere, they would strike here, at one of the terminals. Which was why he was taking no chances.

The "bolt" was waiting for them, its normal crew of eighty pared down to ten trusted men, its usual complement of fifteen hundred passengers reduced to fourteen for this one journey. It was a fast-track monorail, cutting directly through the City, south to Turku, then east to Helsinki Terminal. From there they would commission another transporter and fly across the Baltic direct to Danzig.

Tolonen looked about him, tense despite his strict arrangements. For once he had chosen to trust no one; only he knew what he had planned. Even so, it would not be difficult for his enemies to second-guess him. If they could get into his home, what could they not do?

As they boarded the bolt he hesitated, scanning the platform both ways, then went inside. Jelka was already seated, her long legs stretched out in front of her. He smiled, studying her a moment, noticing how she had color from being outside, how her hair seemed even blonder than usual. He sat, facing her, leaning forward, his hands clasped together between his knees.

"Well?"

It was the first time they had relaxed together. On the flight across from the island he had been busy taking reports and giving orders, but now he could take time to talk, to ask her how she had enjoyed her stay.

She looked back at him and smiled, her eyes sparkling. "It was beautiful, Daddy. Just beautiful."

"So you enjoyed it?" He laughed. "That's good . . ."

She looked away. For a moment there was a strange wistfulness in her eyes, a wistfulness he shared and understood.

For a moment he just looked at her, realizing how precious she was to him. She was so like her mother now. So like the woman he had loved.

"You look tired,", she said, concerned for him.

"Do I?" He laughed again, then nodded. "Well, perhaps I am." He smiled and leaned forward again, reaching out to take her hands in his. "Listen, we've got one stop-off to make, but then I've got the evening free. How do you fancy coming to the opera? I've booked a box. It's the T'ang's own company. They're doing The South Branch."

She laughed, delighted, for a moment forgetting her heaviness of heart. She had always liked opera, and if The South Branch wasn't the lightest of subjects, it was still opera.

"Where are we going first?"

He sat back, relinquishing her hands. "It's just business. It won't take long. A half hour at most. Then we can get back and get changed, neh?"

They felt the bolt judder then begin to move, picking up speed very quickly. Jelka looked away, watching the dragon pattern on the wall beyond the window flicker and then blur until it was just seven lines of red and green and gold.

"Did Uncle Jon tell you about the storm?"

"No." He laughed. "There was a storm, was there?"

"Yes." She turned, looking back at him. "It was so powerful. So . . ."

He looked down, as if disturbed. "Yes," he said quietly. "I'd forgotten."

She stared at him a moment, surprised by his sudden change of mood. "What is it?"

He looked up at her again, forcing a smile. "Nothing. Just that it suddenly reminded me of your mother."

"Ah . . ." She nodded. Then it was as her uncle had said. Yes, she could see it now, how different her father and mother had been and yet how much in love.

She turned her head, seeing their reflections in the glass of the window, and smiled sadly. It must have been hard for him, harder even than his exile.

She pushed the thought away, trying to cheer herself with the prospect of the evening ahead; but raising her hand to touch her cheek, she caught the unexpected scent of burnt pine on her fingers and felt herself go still.

"What is it?" her father asked, his eyes never leaving her.

"Nothing," she answered, turning, smiling at him again. "Nothing at all."

"Who's that?"

Tolonen came back to the one-way mirror and stood beside his daughter. "That? Why that's Ward. Kim Ward. He's a strange one. Quite brilliant. They say his mind is quicker than a machine."

She laughed, surprised. "You mean, he's one of the team?"

"Yes, and probably the best, by all accounts. It's astonishing, considering . . ."

Jelka looked up at him. "Considering what?"

Her father looked away, as if the matter were distasteful. "He's Clayborn. Can't you see it in him—that darkness behind the eyes? He's been conditioned; but even so, it's never quite the same, is it? There's always that little bit of savagery left in them." He looked back at her, smiling. "Still. . . let's get on, eh? I've done here now and Hans is waiting back home."

She nodded vaguely, looking back at the boy, pressing her face close up against the glass to stare at him. She could see what her father meant. When he turned to face the glass it was as though something else—something other than the boy— looked back at her. Some wild and uncaged thing that owed nothing to this world of levels. She shivered, not from fear but from a sense of recognition. She laughed softly, surprised to find him here when she had thought him left behind her on the island. Then, as if coming to herself, she pushed back slightly from the glass, afraid.

And yet it was true. She could see it, there, in his eyes. Clayborn, her father had said. But he was more than that.

"Come, Jelka. Let's get on."

For a moment longer she hesitated, watching the boy, then turned, following her father, only then realizing what he had said earlier.

"The gods preserve us." she said almost inaudibly. "Hans Ebert! That's all I need!"

kim turned, looking across the table at Hammond.

"Who was that?"

"Who?"

"The girl. The one with Marshal Tolonen."

Hammond laughed. "Oh, her. That was his daughter, didn't you know?"

"Ah..." For a while he had thought it might have been his wife. It was the habit of such men, after all, to take young girls for wives. Or so he had heard. But he was strangely pleased that he'd been mistaken.

"Did you hear the rumors?" one of the other men said, keeping his voice low. "They say the Ping Tiao tried to assassinate her."

Kim frowned. "It wasn't on the news."

"No," one of the others said conspiratorially. "It wouldn't be. Just now they want everyone to believe that things are quiet and that they're in control. But I've heard—well, they say a whole squad of them attacked the Marshal's apartment. She killed six of them before her father intervened."

Kim felt a strange ripple of excitement—or was it fear?—move down his spine. He looked at Hammond again.

"What's her name?"

Hammond frowned. "I'm not sure. Jukka, or something."

"Jelka," one of them corrected him. "Jelka Tolonen."

Jelka. He shivered, then looked down. Yes, the name fitted her perfectly. Like something out of myth.

"What's going on here?"

Kim looked up, meeting Spatz's eyes. "Nothing," he said. "Nothing at all."

"Good. Then you can go now, Ward. I've no further use for you."

He bowed slightly, keeping all expression from his face, but inwardly he felt elated. Spatz had had no choice other than to take him into the laboratories for the duration of the Marshal's visit and Kim had made the most of it, calling up files and asking questions until he was as fully briefed of developments as the best of them. Yet as he walked back down the corridor to his room he found himself thinking not of the Project but of the girl. Who was she? What was she like? What did she sound like when she spoke? How did her face change when she laughed?

He paused at his door, thinking of how she had stood there at her father's side, her deeply blue eyes taking in everything. And then, briefly, her eyes had met his own and she had frowned. As if ...

He shivered, then shook his head, palming the lock and stepping inside as the door irised open. No, it wasn't possible. It was only his imagination. And yet— well, for the briefest moment it had seemed that she had seen him. Not just the outward form of him, but his deeper self.

He smiled, dismissing the thought, then sat down on his bed, looking about him. What would you make of this, Jelka Tolonen? he wondered. It would be too alien, I'm sure. Too dull. Too esoteric.

Yes, for she was not of his kind. She was First Level, powerful, sophisticated, rich. No doubt she was in love with fine clothes and dances, opera and gallant young officers. It was ridiculous even to think . . .

And yet he was thinking it.

For a moment he closed his eyes, seeing her again: so straight and tall and perfectly proportioned, her skin so pure and white, her hair like gold and silver blended, her eyes— He caught his breath, remembering her eyes. Yes. Like something out of myth.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

King of the World

TSU MA STOOD on the grassy slope, looking south, the ruined monastery above him, at his back. He could see her in the distance, a tiny figure beneath the huge, cloudless sky, spurring her horse on along the narrow track between the rocks. For a brief moment he lost sight of her behind the great tor at the valleys head; then she reappeared, closer now, her dark hair streaming behind her as she leaned forward in the saddle, climbing the long slope.

He looked down, sighing. They had met here several times these last few weeks, and every time they had ended by making love despite his resolve to cast her off and mend his ways. But this time it was different. This time he had to end it. To break off with her, before they were discovered.

He was still in love with her; there was no denying that. But love was not enough, he knew that now. For this love—a love that had begun in passion and bewilderment—had now become a torment, keeping him from sleep, distracting him at every moment, until he felt he had to halt it or go mad. He could not now meet with Li Yuan or his father without wanting to throw himself at their feet and beg forgiveness for the wrong he had done them both.

So now an end to it. While it was yet within his power to end it.

He watched her come on, now hearing her voice encouraging the horse, seeing how she sat up in the saddle looking for him, then raised a hand in greeting. He returned the gesture uncertainly, steeling himself against the thoughts that came. Last time they had climbed the hill together, hand in hand, then gone into the ruined temple, and Jain on his cloak for three hours, naked, their eyes, their hands and lips, feasting upon each other's bodies. The sweetness of the memory ate at him now, like sugar on a tooth. He groaned and clenched his fists against it. Even so, his sex stirred and his heart began to hammer in his chest.

He had never known how dreadful love could be, had never imagined how the heart could grieve and yet exult at the same time. But so his did.

She drew nearer, her horse laboring under her, snorting, straining to make the steep gradient. Seeing her thus reminded him of that first time, when she had ridden past him, ignoring his offer of help. Back then he had been thrilled by her defiance, for all he'd said to her of taking care; but now that recklessness in her seemed less attractive. Was the very thing, perhaps, that forged his determination to bring things to a head.

"Tsu Ma!"

She jumped down and ran to him, throwing her arms about him, her lips seeking his; but he held still against her, as if made of stone. She drew back, astonished, her eyes wide, looking up into his face.

"What is it, my love? What's happened?"

He looked down at her, his hands trembling now, her beauty, the warmth of her hands where they touched him, almost robbing him of his senses. Her perfume was intoxicating, her eyes like oceans in which a man could drown.

"I love you," he began, the full depth of what he felt for her concentrated in those few words.

"I know," she interrupted him, pressing closer, relief flooding her face. "And I've news—"

"Hear me out!" he said harshly, then relented, his hand brushing against her face, his voice softening. "Please, my love, hear me out. This is difficult enough. . ."

Her face changed again. She tried to smile, then frowned. "Difficult?"

"Yes. I..." He swallowed. Never had anything been so difficult as this. Not even the death of his father and the ritual killing of the "copy" had prepared him for the hardship of this moment. "I . . ."

He fell silent. Even now it was not said. Even now he could take her in his arms and carry her up into the temple rooms and lay her on his cloak. Even now he could have that sweetness one last time.

But no. If this once, then he would want her forever. And that could not be. Not while there were Seven. Chung Kuo itself would have to fall before he could have Fei Yen.

He looked down, the pain of what he felt almost overwhelming him.

"You want to end it? Is that it?"

Her voice was strangely soft, surprisingly sympathetic. He looked up and saw how she was looking at him, saw how his own hurt was reflected in her face. And even as he watched he saw the first tears begin to gather in the comer of her eyes and fall, slowly, ever so slowly, down the porcelain perfection of her cheek.

"Fei Yen . . ." he said, his voice a whisper. "You know I love you."

"And I you." She shuddered, then stepped back from him. "I had a dream. A dream that I was free to become your wife."

He shivered, horrified by the words. "It cannot be."

Her eyes were pleading with him now. "Why not? I was his brother's wife. You know our laws."

"And yet you married him. The Seven put their seals to the special edict. It was done. It cannot be undone."

"Why not? You willed the law changed once, now will it back."

He shook his head. It was as he said; it could not be undone. Though all the seven T'ang agreed the match was ill-chosen, they would not change this thing. Not now. For one day Li Yuan would be T'ang, and to do this would be to wound him deeply. Only catastrophe could come of that. Only the end of everything they were.

He spoke clearly now, articulating each word separately. "I would we both were free, Fei Yen. I would give up all I have for that. But only ill—great ill—would come of it. And this, this play between us—it too must end. We must not meet like this again. Not ever."

She winced at his finality. "Not ever?"

The sweetness of the words, their pain and pleading, seemed to tear his soul from him, and yet he stood firm against her, knowing that to soften now would undo everything. "Not ever. Understand me, Li Yuan's wife? From now we are but— acquaintances who meet at functions and the like. All other thoughts must now be put aside."

"Would you forget. . . ?" she began, then fell silent, dropping her head, for he was glaring at her.

"Enough, woman! Would you have me die before you've done with me?"

"Never . . ." she. answered, the word a mere breath, a whisper. )

"Then go. At once."

She bowed, obedient, for a moment so like a wife to him that he caught his breath, pained, beyond all curing pained by the sight of her, broken, defeated by his own determination not to have her.

And then she was gone and he was alone again. He sat down heavily, feeling suddenly empty, hollowed of everything but grief, and wept.

fei YEN jumped DOWN and, without waiting for her groom to come and take the horse, made toward the palace. As she ran through the stable yards, grooms and servants bowed low, then straightened up, watching her back, astonished. No one dared say a word, but their exchanged glances spoke eloquently. They had seen her ruined face and understood, for they, at least, knew what had been happening between the Princess and the handsome young T'ang.

And now, it seemed, it was over.

In the corridor Nan Ho made to greet her, but she ran past him as if he were not there. He turned, frowning, deciding not to pursue her but to go out to the stables and investigate the matter. It was his duty, after all, to serve his Prince. And how better than to understand and gauge the volatile moods of the woman closest to him? Fei Yen herself went into her rooms and slammed the doors behind her, locking them; then she threw herself down onto the bed, letting the enormity of what had happened wash over her at last, her tiny body shaken by great shuddering sobs. For a while she slept, then woke an hour later, all of the anger and hurt washed from her. She stood and looked about her, studying the hangings, the rich furnishings of her room, frowning at their strangeness, finding no connection between herself and these things. It was as if she had died and come to life again, for she felt nothing. Only an overpowering numbness where feeling ought to be.

She turned, catching her own reflection in the glass on the far side of the room. She took a step toward it, then stopped, looking down sharply. Her news . . . She had never had a chance to tell him her news. She stood there a moment, trembling, a single tear running down her cheek; then she lifted her head defiantly, taking control of herself again, knowing what she must do.

She bathed, then summoned her maids and had them put her hair up and dress her in a simple chi poo, the silk a pale lavender trimmed with blue. Then, to perfect the look, she removed all of her bangles and her rings, except his, wearing nothing about her neck. That done she stood before the mirror, examining herself minutely.

Yes. That was the look she wanted. Not sumptuous and sophisticated but plain and almost earthy—like a peasant girl. She had kept even her makeup simple. Smiling she turned from the mirror and went out into the corridor. "Master Nan!" she called, glimpsing the Master of the Inner Chamber at the far end of the corridor.

Nan Ho turned, acknowledging her; then, giving a small bow to the man he had been talking to, he hastened to her, stopping four paces from Fei Yen and bowing low, his eyes averted.

"Master Nan, is my husband back yet?"

Nan Ho kept his head lowered. "He is, my Lady. Twenty minutes ago." "Good," she turned, looking away from him. "Then go to him, Master Nan, and tell him his wife would welcome a few moments of his time."

Nan Ho looked up, surprised, then looked down quickly. "Forgive me, my Lady, but the Prince asked not to be disturbed. He has important work to finish." "He is in his study, then?"

Nan Ho bowed his head slightly. "That is so, my Lady. With his personal secretary, Chang Shih-sen."

"Then you need worry yourself no longer, Nan Ho. I'll go to him myself." _;

"But, my Lady—"

"You are dismissed, Nan Ho."

He bowed very low. "As my Lady wishes."

She watched him go, then turned away, walking quickly toward her husband's study.

In front of the door she hesitated, composing herself, then knocked.

There was a moment's silence, then footsteps. A second later the door opened slightly and Secretary Chang looked out at her.

"My Lady. . ." He bowed, then opened the door wider, stepping back, at the same time looking across at Li Yuan.

"It is your wife, my Lord, the Princess Fei."

Li Yuan stood up behind his desk as Fei Yen entered, his face lighting at the sight of her.

"Fei Yen. I thought you were out riding."

"I—" She hesitated, then crossed the room until only the desk was between them. "The truth is, husband, I could not settle until I had seen you. Master Nan said you had returned . . ."

Li Yuan looked past her at his secretary. "Go now, Shih-sen. We'll finish this later." Then, smiling, he came round the desk and embraced her, lifting her face to kiss her lips. "Your eagerness to see me warms me, my love. I've missed you too."

She let her head rest against his chest a moment, then looked up at him again. "I've missed you, yes, but that isn't why I've interrupted you."

He laughed gently. "You need no reason to interrupt me. You are reason enough in yourself."

She smiled and looked down. "Even so, it wasn't only my eagerness to see you. I have some news."

"News?" He moved her slightly back from him, taking her upper arms gently in his hands, studying her. Then he smiled again. "Well, let us go outside into the garden. We'll sit on the bench seat, side by side, like doves on a perch, and you can tell me your news."

Returning his smile she let herself be led out into the sunlit warmth of the garden. From somewhere near at hand a songbird called, then called again. They sat, facing each other on the sun-warmed bench.

"You look beautiful, my love" he said, admiring her. "I don't know what you've done, but it suits you." He reached out, his fingers brushing against her cheek, caressing the bare, unadorned flesh of her neck. "But come, my love, what news is this you have?" '

For a second or two her eyes searched his, as if for prior knowledge of what she was about to say; but he, poor boy, suspected nothing. "What would you say if I told you I had fallen?"

He laughed, then shook his head, puzzled. "Fallen?"

She smiled, then reached out, taking his hands in her own. "Yes, my wise and yet foolish husband. Fallen. The doctors confirmed it this very morning." She saw how his eyes widened with sudden comprehension and she laughed, nodding her head. "Yes, my love. That's right. We're going to have a child."

IT WAS LATE afternoon and the Officers Club at Bremen was almost empty. A few men stood between the pillars on the far side of the vast, hexagonal lounge, talking idly; only one of the tables was occupied.

A Han servant, his shaved head bowed, made his way across the huge expanse of green-blue carpet to the table, a heavily laden tray carried effortlessly in one hand. And as he moved between the men, scrupulously avoiding touching or even brushing against them as he put down their drinks, he affected not to hear their mocking laughter or the substance of their talk.

One of them, a tall mustached man named Scott, leaned forward, laughing, then stubbed out his cigar in one of the empty glasses.

"It's the talk of the Above," he said, leaning back and looking about him at his fellow officers. Then, more dryly. "What's more, they're already placing bets on who'll succeed the old bugger as Minister."

Their laughter spilled out across the empty space, making the Han working behind the bar look up before they averted their eyes again.

They were talking of Minister Chuang's marriage earlier that day. The old man had cast off his first wife and taken a new one—a young girl of only fourteen. It was this last that Scott had been rather salaciously referring to.

"Well, good luck to the man, I say," an officer named Panshin said, raising his glass in a toast. Again there was laughter. Only when it had died down did Hans Ebert sit forward slightly and begin to talk. He had been quieter than usual, preferring for once to sit and listen rather than be the focus of their talk; but now all eyes looked to him.

"It's a sad story," he began, looking down. "And if I'd had an inkling of how it would turn out I would never have got involved."

There was a murmur of sympathy at that, an exchange of glances and a nodding of heads.

"Yes, well—there's a lesson to us all, neh?" he continued, looking about him, meeting their eyes candidly. "The woman was clearly deranged long before I came across her."

For once there was no attempt to derive a second meaning from his words. All of them realized the significance of what had happened. An affair was one thing, but this was different. Events had got out of hand and the woman had overstepped the mark when she had attacked Ebert.

"No," Ebert went on. "It saddens me to say so, but I do believe Madam Chuang would have ended in the sanatorium whether I'd crossed her path or not. As for her husband, I'm sure he's much better off with his nan-fang," he smiled, looking to Scott, "even if the girl kills him from sheer pleasure."

There were smiles at that but no laughter. Even so, their mood was suddenly lighter. The matter had been there, unstated, behind all their earlier talk, dampening their spirits. But now it was said and they all felt easier for it.

"No one blames you, Hans," Panshin said, leaning forward to touch his arm. "As you say, it would have happened anyway. It was just bad luck that you got involved." "That's so," Ebert said, lifting his shot glass to his lips and downing its contents in one sharp, savage gulp. "And there are consolations. The mui tsai for one."

Fest leaned forward, leering, his speech slurred. "Does that mean you've cooled toward the other one, Hans?" He laughed suggestively. "You know. The young chink whore . . . Golden Heart."

Fest was not known for his discretion at the best of times, but this once his words had clearly offended Ebert. He sat there, glaring at Fest. "That's my business," he said coldly. "Don't you agree?"

Fest's smile faded. He sat back, shaking his head, suddenly more sober. "Forgive me, Hans, I didn't mean . . ." He fell silent, bowing his head.

Ebert stared at Fest a moment longer, then looked about him, smiling. "Excuse my friend, ch'un tzu. I think he's had enough." He looked back at Fest. "I think you'd best go home, Fest. Auden here will take you if you want."

Fest swallowed, then shook his head. "No. I'll be all right. It's not far.¹' He sought Ebert's eyes again. "Really, Hans, I didn't mean anything by it."

Ebert smiled tightly. "It's all right. I understand. You drank too much, that's all." "Yes." Fest put his glass down and got unsteadily to his feet. He moved out from his seat almost exaggeratedly, then turned, bowing to each of them in turn. "Friends . . ."

When he was gone, Ebert looked about him, lowering his voice slightly. "Forgive me for being so sharp with him, but sometimes he forgets his place. It's a question of breeding, I suppose. His father climbed the levels, and sometimes his manners—" he spread his arms, "Well, you know how it is."

"We understand," Panshin said, touching his arm again. "But duty calls me, too, I'm afraid, much as I'd like to sit here all afternoon. Perhaps you'd care to call on me some time, Hans? For dinner?"

Ebert smiled broadly. "I'd like that, Anton. Arrange something with my equerry. I'm busy this week, but next?"

Slowly it broke up, the other officers going their own ways, until only Auden was there with him at the table.

"Well?" Auden asked, after a moment, noticing how deep in thought Ebert was. Ebert looked up, chewing on a fingernail.

"You're annoyed, aren't you?"

"Too fucking right I am. The bastard doesn't know when to hold his tongue. It was bad enough the Minister committing his wife to the asylum, but I don't want to be made a total laughingstock."

Auden hesitated, then nodded. "So what do you want me to do?"

Ebert sat back, staring away across the sea of empty tables toward the bar, then looked back at him, shuddering with anger.

"I want him taught a lesson, that's what I want. I want something that'll remind him to keep his fucking mouth shut and drink a little less."

"A warning, you mean?"

Ebert nodded. "Yes. But nothing too drastic. A little roughing up, perhaps."

"Okay. I'll go there now, if you like." He hesitated, then added, "And the pictures?"

Ebert stared back at him a moment. Auden was referring to the package he had left with him the day he had been attacked by the madwoman. He took a breath, then laughed. "They were interesting, Will. Very interesting. Where did you get them?"

Auden smiled. "From a friend, let's say. One of my contacts in the Net."

Ebert nodded. It had been quite a coincidence. There he'd been, only half an hour before, talking to Marshal Tolonen about the missing sculptures, and there was Auden, handing him the package containing holograms of the self-same items he had been instructed to find.

"So what do you want to do?" Auden prompted.

"Nothing," Ebert answered, smiling enigmatically. "Unless your friend has something else for me."

Auden met his eyes a moment, then looked away. So he understood at last. But would he bite? "I've a letter for you," he said, taking the envelope from his tunic pocket. "From your Uncle Lutz."

Ebert took it from him and laughed. "You know what's in this?"

Auden shook his head. "I'm only the messenger, Hans. It wouldn't do for me to know what's going on."

Ebert studied his friend a while, then nodded slowly. "No, it wouldn't, would it?" He looked down at the envelope and smiled. "And this? Is this your friend's work, too?"

Auden frowned. "I don't know what you mean, Hans. As I said—"

Ebert raised a hand. "It doesn't matter." He leaned forward, taking Auden's hand, his face suddenly earnest. "I trust you, Will. Alone of all this crowd of shits and hangers-on, you're the only one I can count on absolutely. You know that, don't you?"

Auden nodded. "I know. That's why I'd never let you down."

"No," Ebert smiled back at him fiercely, then sat back, releasing his hand. "Then get going, Will. Before that loud-mouthed bastard falls asleep. Meanwhile, I'll find out what my uncle wants."

Auden rose, then bowed. "Take care, Hans."

"And you, Will. And you."

FEST LEANED against the wall pad, locking the door behind him, then threw his tunic down onto the floor. Ebert had been right. He had had too much to drink. But what the hell? Ebert was no saint when it came to drinking. Many was the night he'd fallen from his chair incapable. And that business about the girl, the chink whore, Golden Heart. Fest laughed.

"I touched a sore spot there, didn't I, Hans old pal? Too fucking sore for your liking, neh?"

He shivered, then laughed again. Ebert would be mad for a day or two, but that was all. If he kept his distance for a bit it would all blow over. Hans would forget, and then . . .

He belched, then put his arm out to steady himself against the wall. "Time to piss."

He stood over the sink, unbuttoning himself. It was illegal to urinate in the wash basins, but what the shit? Everyone did it. It was too much to expect a man to walk down the corridor to the urinals every time he wanted a piss.

He was partway through, thinking of the young singsong girl Golden Heart and what he'd like to do to her, when the door chime sounded. He half-turned, pissing on his boots and trouser leg, then looked down, cursing.

"Who the hell. . . ?"

He tucked himself in and not bothering to button up, staggered back out into the room.

"Who is it?" he called out, then realized he didn't have his hand on the intercom.

What the fuck? he thought, it's probably Scott, come to tell me what happened after I'd gone. He went across and banged his hand against the lock to open it, then turned away, bending down to pick his tunic up off the floor.

He was straightening up when a boot against his buttocks sent him sprawling headfirst. Then his arms were being pulled up sharply behind his back and his wrists fastened together with a restraining brace.

"What in hell's name?" he gasped, trying to turn his head and see who it was, but a blow against the side of the head stunned him and he lay there a moment, tasting blood, the weight of the man on his back preventing him from getting up.

He groaned, then felt a movement in his throat. "Oh, fuck. I'm going to be sick . . ."

The weight lifted from him, letting him bring his knees up slightly and hunch over, his forehead pressed against the floor as he heaved and heaved. When he was finished he rested there for a moment, his eyes closed, sweat beading his forehead, the stench of sickness filling the room.

"Gods, but you disgust me, Fest."

He looked sideways, finding it hard to focus, then swallowed awkwardly. "And who the fuck are you?"

The man laughed coldly. "Don't you recognize me, Fest? Was it so long ago that your feeble little mind has discarded the memory?"

Fest swallowed again. "Haavikko. You're Haavikko, aren't you?"

The man nodded. "And this is my friend, Kao Chen."

A second face, that of a Han, appeared beside Haavikko's, then moved away. It was a strangely familiar face, though Fest couldn't recall why. And that name . . .

Fest closed his eyes, the throbbing in his head momentarily painful, then slowly opened them again. The bastard had hit him hard. Very hard. He'd get him for that.

"What do you want?" he asked, his cut lip stinging now.

Haavikko crouched next to him, pulling his head back by the hair. "Justice, I'd have said, once upon a time, but that's no longer enough—not after what I've been through. No. I want to hurt you and humiliate you, Fest, as much as I've been hurt and humiliated."

Fest shook his head slowly, restrained by the other's grip on him. "I don't understand. I've done nothing to you, Haavikko. Nothing."

"Nothing?" Haavikko's laugh of disbelief was sour. He tugged Fest's head back sharply, making him cry out. "You call backing Ebert up and having me dishonored before the General nothing?" He snorted, then let go, pushing Fest's head away roughly. He stood. "You shit. You call that nothing?"

Fest grimaced. "I warned you. I told you to leave it, but you wouldn't. If only you'd kept your mouth shut—"

Haavikko's boot caught Fest on the shoulder. He fell onto his side, groaning, then lay there, the pain lancing through his shoulder. For a time he was still, silent, then he turned his head again, trying to look back at Haavikko. "You think you'll get away with this?"

It was the Han who answered him, his face pressed close to Fest's, his breath sour on Fest's cheek. "See this?" He brought a knife into the range of Fest's vision—a big vicious-looking knife, longer and broader than the regulation issue, the edge honed razor-sharp.

"I see it," Fest said, fighting down the fear he suddenly felt.

"Good. Then you'll be polite, my friend, and not tell us what we can or cannot do."

There was something coldly fanatical about the Han. Something odd. As if all his hatred were detached from him. It made him much more dangerous than Haavikko, for all Haavikko's threats. Fest looked away, a cold thrill of fear rippling through him.

"What are you going to do?"

The Han laughed. Again it was cold, impersonal. "Not us, Fest. You. What are you going to do? Are you going to help us nail that bastard Ebert, or are you going to be difficult?"

Fest went very still. So that was it. Ebert. They wanted to get at Ebert. He turned back, meeting the Han's eyes again. "And if I don't help you?"

The Han smiled. A killer's smile. "If you don't, then you go down with him. Because we'll get him, be assured of that. And when we do, we'll nail you at the same time, Captain Fest. For all the shit you've done at his behest."

Fest swallowed. It was true. His hands were far from clean. But he also sensed the unstated threat in the Han's words. If he didn't help ... He looked away, certain that the Han would kill him if he said no. And then, suddenly, something broke in him and he was sobbing, his face pressed against the floor, the smell of his own vomit foul in his nostrils.

"I hate him. Don't you understand that? Hate him."

Haavikko snorted his disgust. "I don't believe you, Fest. You're his creature. You do his bidding. You forget, old friend, I've seen you at your work."

But Fest was shaking his head. He looked up at Haavikko, his face pained, his voice broken now. "I had to. Don't you understand that, Haavikko? That time before Tolonen—I had to lie. Because if I hadn't. . ."

The Han looked at Haavikko, something passing between them, then he looked back at Fest. "Go on," he said, his voice harder than before. "Tell us. What could he have done? You only had to tell the truth."

Fest closed his eyes, shuddering. "Gods, how I wished I had. But I was scared."

"You're a disgrace—" Haavikko began, but Fest interrupted him.

"No. You still don't understand. I couldn't. I ..." He looked down hopelessly, then shook his head again. "You see, I killed a girl—"

Haavikko started forward angrily. "You lying bastard!"

Fest stared back at him, wide-eyed, astonished by his reaction, not understanding what he meant by it. "But it's true! I killed a girl. It was an accident—in a singsong house—and Ebert found out about it—"

Haavikko turned, outraged. "He's lying, Chen! Mocking me!"

"No!" Chen put his hand on Haavikko's arm, restraining him. "Hear him out. And think, Axel. Think. Ebert's not that imaginative a man. What he did to you—where would he have got that idea if not from Fest here? And what better guarantee that it would work than having seen it done once before?"

Haavikko stared back at him open-mouthed, then nodded. He turned, looking back at Fest, sobered. "Go on," he said, almost gently this time. "Tell us, Fest. Tell us what happened."

Fest shivered, looking from man to man, then, lowering his eyes, he began.

THE DOORMAN BOWED low, then stepped back, his ringers nimbly tucking the folded note into his back pocket as he did so.

"If the gentleman would care to wait, I'll let Shih Ebert know he's here." DeVore went inside and took a seat, looking about him. The lobby of the Abacus Club was a big high-ceilinged room, dimly lit and furnished with low heavy- looking armchairs. In the center of the room a tiny pool was set into a raised platform, a fountain playing musically in its midst, while here and there huge bronze urns stood like pot'bellied wrestlers, their arms transformed to ornately curved handles, their heads to bluntly flattened lids.

Across from him the wall space was taken up by a single huge tapestry. It depicted an ancient trading hall, the space beneath its rafters overflowing with human life, busy with frenetic activity, each trader's table piled high with coins and notes and scrolled documents. In the foreground a clearly prosperous merchant haggled with a customer while his harried clerk sat at the table behind him, his fingers nimbly working the beads of his abacus. The whole thing was no doubt meant to illustrate the principles of honest trade and sturdy self-reliance, but to the eye of an impartial observer the impression was merely one of greed.

DeVore smiled to himself, then looked up as Lutz Ebert appeared at the far end of the lobby. He stood and walked across, meeting Ebert halfway.

Lutz Ebert was very different from his brother, Klaus. Ten years his brother's junior, he had inherited little of his father's vast fortune and even less, it seemed, of his distinctive personal traits. Lutz was a tall, slim, dark-haired man, more sauve in his manner than his brother — the product of his father's second marriage to an opera star. Years before, DeVore had heard someone describe Lutz as honey-tongued, and it was true. Unlike his brother he had had to make his own way in the world and the experience had marked him. He was wont to look away when he talked to people or to press one's hand overzealously, as if to emphasize his friendship. The blunt, no-nonsense aloofness that was his brother's way was not allowed him, and he knew it. He was not his brother — neither in power nor personality — though he was not averse to using the connection, letting others make what they would of his relationship with, and his possible influence over, one of Chung Kuo's most powerful men. He had swung many deals that way, deals that the force of his own personality and limited circumstances might have put outside his grasp. Here, in the Abacus Club, however, he was in his element, among his own kind.

Lutz smiled warmly, greeting him, then gave a small, respectful bow.

"What an unexpected pleasure, Shih Loehr. You'll dine with me, I hope. My private rooms are at the back. We can talk there undisturbed."

"Of course."

The rooms were small but sumptuously furnished in the latest First Level fashion. DeVore unbuttoned his tunic, looking about him, noting the bedroom off to one side. No doubt much of Lutz Ebert's business was transacted thus, in shared debauchery with others of his kind. DeVore smiled to himself again, then raised a hand, politely refusing the drink Ebert had poured for him.

"I won't, thanks. I've had a tiring journey and I've a few other visits to make before the day's over. But if you've a fruit juice or something . . ."

"Of course." Ebert turned away and busied himself at the drinks cabinet again.

"This is very nice, my friend. Very nice indeed. Might I ask what kind of rental you pay on these rooms?"

Ebert laughed, then turned, offering DeVore the glass. "Nominally it's only twenty thousand a year, but in reality it works out to three or four times that."

DeVore nodded, raising his glass in a silent toast. He understood. There were two prices for everything in this world. One was the official, regulated price: the price you'd pay if things were fair and there were no officials to pay squeeze to, no queues to jump. The other was the actual price—the cost of oiling palms to get what a thousand others wanted.

Ebert sat down, opposite him. "However, I'm sure that's not why you came to see me."

"No. I came about your nephew."

Ebert smiled. "I thought as much."

"You've written to him?"

"In the terms you suggested, proposing that he call on me tomorrow evening for supper."

"And will he come?"

Ebert smiled, then took an envelope from his top pocket and handed it to DeVore. Inside was a brief handwritten note from Hans Ebert, saying he would be delighted to dine with his uncle. DeVore handed the letter back. "You know what to say?"

"Don't worry, Howard. I know how to draw out a man. You say you've gauged his mood already. Well, fair enough, but I know my nephew. He's a proud one. What if he doesn't want this meeting?"

DeVore sat back, smiling. "He'll want it, Lutz, I guarantee it. But you must make it clear that there's no pressure on him, no obligation. I'd like to meet him, that's all—to have the opportunity of talking with him."

He saw Ebert's hesitation and smiled inwardly. Ebert knew what risks he was taking simply in being here, but really he'd had no option. His last business venture had failed miserably, leaving him heavily indebted. To clear those debts Ebert had to work with him, whether he wished it or not. In any case, he was being paid very well for his services as go-between—a quarter of a million yuan—with the promise, if things worked out, of further payments.

There was a knock at the door. It was the steward, come to take their orders for dinner. Ebert dealt with him, then turned back to DeVore, smiling, more relaxed now the matter had been raised and handled.

"Are you sure there's nothing else I can do for you, Howard? Nothing I can arrange?"

DeVore sat back, then nodded. "Now you mention it, Lutz, there is one small thing you can do for me. There's something I want to find a buyer for. A statuette . . ."

IN THE TranSPORTER returning to the Wilds, DeVore lay back, his eyes closed, thinking over his days work. He had started early, going down beneath the Net to meet with Gesell and Mach. It had been a hard session, but he had emerged triumphant. As he'd suspected, Wang Sau-leyan had convinced them—Gesell particularly—that they ought to attack Li Shai Tung's Plantations in Eastern Europe. Once implanted, this notion had been hard to dislodge, but eventually he had succeeded, persuading Mach that an attack on Bremen would strike a far more damaging blow against the T'ang while damaging his own people less. His agreement to hand over the remaining maps and to fund and train the special Ping Tiao squads had further clinched it. He could still see how they had looked at each other at the end of the meeting, as if they'd pulled a stroke on him, when it had been he who had called the tune.

From there he had gone on to dine with Ebert's uncle, and then to his final meeting of the day. He smiled. If life were a great game of wei chi, what he had done today could be summarized thus. In his negotiations with the Ping Tiao he had extended his line and turned a defensive shape into an offensive one. In making advances to Hans Ebert through his uncle he sought to surround and thus remove one of his opponent's potentially strongest groups. These two were perfections of plays he had begun long ago, but the last was a brand-new play—the first stone set down on a different part of the board, the first shadowing of a wholly new shape. The scientist had been easy to deal with. It was as his informer had said: the man was discontented and corrupt. The first made it possible to deal with him, the second to buy him. And bought him he had, spelling out precisely what he wanted for his money.

"Do this for me," he'd said, "and I'll make you rich beyond your dreams." And in token of that promise he had given the man a chip for twenty thousand -yuan. "Fail me, however, and you had better have eyes in your back and a friend to guard your sleep. Likewise if you breathe but a single word of what I've asked you to do today."

He had leaned forward threateningly. "I'm a generous man, Shih Barycz, but I'm also deadly if I'm crossed."

He had seen the effect his words had had on the scientist and was satisfied it would be enough. But just to make sure he had bought a second man to watch the first. Because it never hurt to make sure.

And so he had laid his stone down where his opponents least expected it, at the heart of their own formation—the Wiring Project. For the boy Kim was to be his own, when he was ready for him. Meanwhile he would keep an eye on him and ensure he came to no harm. Barycz would be his eyes and ears and report back to him.

When the time came he would take the boy off-planet. To Mars. And there he would begin a new campaign against the Seven. A campaign of such imaginative scope as would make their defensive measures seem like the ignorant posturings of cavemen.

He laughed and sat up, glimpsing the mountains through the portal to his left as the craft banked, circling the base.

But first he would undermine them. First he would smash their confidence, break the Ywe Lung, the great wheel of dragons, and make them question every act they undertook. Would set them one against another, until. . .

Again he laughed. Until the final dragon ate its own tail. And then there would be nothing. Nothing but himself.

HANS EBERT smiled and placed his arm about Fest's shoulders. "Don't worry, Edgar. The matter's closed. Now, what will you drink? I've a bottle of the T'ang's own finest Shen, if you'd like. It would be good to renew our friendship over such a good wine, don't you think?"

Fest lowered his head slightly, still ill at ease despite Ebert's apparent friendliness. He had thought of running when he'd first received Ebert's note summoning him to his apartment, but where would he run? In any case, it was only a bout of paranoia brought on by the visit of Haavikko and the Han to his rooms. There was no real reason why he should fear Ebert. And as for the other matter—the business with Golden Heart—not only had Ebert forgiven him, he had astonished him by offering him use of the girl.

"I've tired of her," Ebert had said, standing there in the doorway next to him, looking in at the sleeping girl. "I've trained her far too well, I suspect. She's far too docile. No, my preference is for a woman with more spirit. Like the mui tsai."

Fest had looked about for her, but Ebert had quickly explained that he'd sent the mui tsai away. For a day or two.

Ebert had laughed again. "It doesn't do to jade the appetite. A few days abstinence sharpens the hunger, don't you find?"

Fest had nodded. It had been six days since he'd had a woman and his own hunger was sharp as a razor. From where he stood he could see the girl's naked breasts, the curve of her stomach where she had pushed down the sheet in her sleep. He swallowed. How often he'd imagined it. Ever since that first time in Mu Chua's.

Ebert had turned his face, meeting Fest's eyes. "Well, Edgar? Wouldn't you like to have her?"

Slowly, reluctantly, he had nodded; and Ebert, as if satisfied, had smiled and drawn him back, pulling the door to.

"Well, maybe you will, eh? Maybe I'll let you use her."

Now they stood in the lounge, toasting their friendship, and Fest, having feared the very worst, began to relax.

Ebert turned, looking about him, then sat, smiling across at him.

"That's a nasty bruise you've got on the side of your face, Edgar. How did that come about?"

The question seemed innocuous—a mere pleasantry—yet Fest felt himself stiffen defensively. But Ebert seemed unconcerned. He looked down, sipping his drink, as if the answer were of no importance.

"I fell," Fest began. "Truth was, I was pissing in the sink and slipped. Caught myself a real crack on the cheek and almost knocked myself out."

Ebert looked up at him. "And your friends . . . how are they?"

Fest frowned. "My friends? Scott you mean? Panshin?"

Ebert shook his head slowly. "No. Your other friends."

"I don't know what you mean. What other friends?"

"Your new friends. The friends you made yesterday."

Fest swallowed. So he knew. Or did he? And if he did, then why the earlier show of friendship? Why the offer of the girl? Unless it was all a game to draw him out and make him commit himself.

He decided to brazen it out. "I still don't follow you, Hans. I've got no new friends."

The speed with which Ebert came up out of his chair surprised him. Fest took a step backward, spilling his drink.

"You fucking liar. You loud-mouthed, cheating liar. And to think I trusted you."

Fest shivered. The change in Ebert was frightening. His smile had become a snarl. His eyes were wide with anger.

"It's all lies, Hans. Someone's being telling lies . . ."

Again Ebert shook his head, his contempt for Fest revealed at last in his eyes. He spat the words out venomously. "You want to fuck the girl, eh? Well, I'd sooner see you dead first. And as for liars, there's only one here, and that's you, you fucking creep! Here, look at this."

He took the picture Auden had taken from outside Fest's apartment and handed it across. It showed Fest standing in his doorway, saying good-bye to Haavikko and the Han. All three of them were smiling.

"Well? What have you got to say for yourself? Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kick your ass from here to Pei Ching?"

Fest stood there a moment longer, staring down at the photo, then let it fall from his fingers. He looked back at Ebert and smiled, for the first time in a long while feeling free, unbeholden to the man.

"Go fuck yourself, Hans Ebert."

It was what he had wanted to say for more than fifteen years but had never had the courage until now. He saw how Ebert's eyes flared at his words and laughed.

"You little shit."

He reacted slowly. Ebert's hand caught him a stinging blow to the ear, making him stagger back, knocking his glass from his hand. Then he was crouched, facing Ebert, knife in hand.

"Try that again, Ebert, and I'll cut you open."

Ebert faced him, circling slowly, sneering now. "You were always a windy little sod, Fest, but you were never any good with a knife. Why, if I'd not kept you for my amusement you'd have never made sergeant, let alone captain."

Fest lunged, but again he was too slow. Ebert had moved. Fest's knife cut nothing but air. But Ebert caught his arm and held it in a vise-like grip, bringing it down savagely onto his knee.

Fest screamed, but his scream was cut short as Ebert smashed his face down onto his knee. Then, drawing his own knife, he thrust it once, twice, a third time into Fest's stomach, grunting with the effort, heaving it up through the mass of soft tissues until it glanced against the bone.

He thrust Fest away from him, then threw his knife down. For a moment Fest's eyes stared up at him, horrified, then he spasmed and his eyes glazed over. He had been disemboweled.

Ebert stood there a moment longer, shuddering, looking down at what he had done; then he turned and walked across to the doorway, looking into the room where Golden Heart lay. She lay on her side now, her back to him, but he could see at once that she was sleeping. He shivered, then closed the door, locking it from his side.

He turned back. Blood was still welling from the corpse, bubbling like a tiny fountain from a severed artery, pooling on the floor beside the body. He stared at it a moment, fascinated, then walked across the room to the comset and tapped in Auden's code.

In a moment Auden's face appeared. "What is it, Hans?"

Ebert hesitated, then smiled. "I had a little bother with our friend, I'm afraid. It—got out of hand. If you could come?"

"Of course. I'll be there directly. And Hans?"

"What?"

"Don't forget. You've supper with your uncle tonight. Get washed and ready. I'll deal with the rest."

golden HEART lay there, hardly daring to breathe, still trembling from what she had witnessed through the narrow gap in the door. She had seen Ebert draw his knife and stab the other man, not once, to disable him, but three times . . .

She had heard him come to the doorway and look in, then had tensed as she heard the door lock click, not daring to look and see if he were inside the room with her or not—expecting her own turn to be next. But then she had heard his voice speaking on the comset outside, and had almost wept with relief.

Yet when she closed her eyes she could still see him, his face distorted with a mad fury, grunting as he pulled his knife up through the other man's flesh, tearing him open. Murdering him.

She shuddered and pulled the sheet tight about her. Yes, Ebert had murdered Fest; there was no other word for it. Fest had drawn his knife first, but Ebert had disarmed him before he'd drawn his own. And what followed had been nothing less than vicious, brutal murder.

And if he knew ... If for a single moment he suspected she had seen . . .

She lay there a moment longer, listening to him moving about in the next room, getting ready for his supper date, then got up and went into the tiny washroom, closing the door quietly behind her before she knelt over the basin, sluicing the cold, clear water up into her face again and again, as if to wash the awful image from her eyes.

ON THE WESTERN TERRACE at Tongjiang it was early evening. Long shadows lay across the sunlit gardens below the balcony, while from the meadows by the lake a peacock cried, breaking the silence.

On the terrace itself tables had been laid with food and drink. At one end, against the wall of the palace, a golden canopy had been erected, its platform slightly raised. There, enthroned in the dragon chair, sat the T'ang, Li Shai Tung, Prince Yuan, and the Lady Fei standing to one side of him beneath the bright red awning.

The T'ang had summoned all of the household servants who could be spared out onto the terrace. They stood there, crowded into the space in front of the canopy, more than six hundred in all, silent, wine tumblers in hand, waiting for the T'ang to speak.

To one side of this gathering the Master of the Inner Chamber, Nan Ho, stood among the grooms. He had spent the whole day looking into what had disturbed the Lady Fei that morning, interviewing staff and rooting through the tangle of rumor and counter-rumor to sort fact from fancy. And now he knew.

He looked across at her, seeing how sweetly she smiled up at her husband, how warmly he returned her gaze; he shivered, his sense of foreboding strong. In the warm glow of the late afternoon sunlight she seemed particularly beautiful, the simplicity of her attire setting her off, as the shell sets off the oyster. Yet that beauty was badly flawed. In time the mask she wore would slip and all would see her as he saw her now, with knowing eyes. He saw the Prince reach out and take her hand and looked down, knowing where his duty lay.

One thing was paramount, one thing alone—his Master's happiness. And if the Prince's happiness depended on this weak and foolish woman, then so it had to be; for it was not his place to change his Master's heart, merely to guard it against the worst the world could do. For that reason he had given special instructions to all he had discussed the matter with, warning them that from henceforth the smallest mention of the subject—even the most idle speculation—would be punished with instant dismissal. Or worse. For he was determined that no word of the matter would ever reach the ears of Li Yuan or his father. No. He would let nothing come between the Prince and his happiness.

He sighed and looked back, even as the great T'ang stood and began to speak, his joy like winter sunlight in his wizened face. But for Nan Ho that joy was hollow. Like the thin light, it only seemed to cast its warmth. Beneath the flesh his bones were cold, his feelings in suspense. A son! All about him his fellow servants raised their voices, excited by the news; he raised his, too, but he could hear—could feel—the falseness in his voice.

Strangely, his thoughts turned to Pearl Heart. Yes, he thought, Pearl Heart would have made a better, finer wife than this false creature. Truer to you. She would have made you strong when you were T'ang. Would have made of you a paragon among rulers.

Yes, but Pearl Heart was only a serving maid—a beast to warm your bed and teach you bedroom manners. What lineage she had was the lineage of unknown parenthood. She could not match the breeding of this whore.

Nan Ho looked up again, seeing once more his Prince's joy. That, at least, was no counterfeit. And that was why he would hold his tongue and keep this fragile boat afloat. Not for her, for what was she now but a painted thing?—a mask to hide corruption—but for Li Yuan.

And then who knew what change a child might bring?

He lifted his head, listening. There was the faint growl of engines in the distance, coming nearer. He turned, looking into the setting sun and saw them— two craft, coming in low from the west. For a moment he was afraid; but then, looking across at his T'ang, he saw how Li Shai Tung looked, then nodded to himself, as if he were expecting two such craft to come.

"Let us drink to the health of my son and his wife," Li Shai Tung said, smiling, raising his glass. "And to my grandson. Kan Pei!"

The blessing echoed across the terrace as the craft came on.

LI SHAI TUNG paused in the coolness of the anteroom and looked about him. He had not been certain they would come, but here they were in answer to his request. Surely that meant something in itself? Surely that meant they were willing to take the first step?

Damn them! he thought, suddenly angry. Damn them that 1 should have to make such deals with their like! Then he looked down, realizing where his thoughts had led him, for both men, after all, were T'ang, whatever their personal faults.

T'ang! He shivered, wondering what his grandfather would have made of Wang Sau-leyan. Then, clearing his head of such thoughts, he went into his study, taking a seat behind his desk, composing himself, waiting for his Chancellor, Chung Hu-yan, to bring them through.

After long thought, he had decided to pre-empt matters, to make peace before the division in Council grew into enmity. And if that meant swallowing his pride and meeting Wang Sau-leyan and Hou Tung-po halfway, then he would do that. For balance. And to buy time, so that the Seven might be strong again.

Hou Tung-po was not the problem. The young T'ang of South America had merely fallen under his friend's charismatic spell. No, his only fault was to be weak-minded and impressionable. The real cause of dissent was Wang Hsien's fourth son, Sau-leyan, the present T'ang of Africa.

He laughed despairingly. How cruelly the times mocked them to make such a man a T'ang—a man who was fit only to be sent below the Net! For two whole cycles they had been strong, their purpose clear, their unity unquestioned, and now . . .

He shook his head, then let his fingers brush against the two documents he had had prepared. If all went well they would be shreds within the hour, their only significance having lain in the gesture of their destruction.

But would that be enough? Would that satisfy the T'ang of Africa?

Outside, in the corridors, two bells sounded, one low, one high. A moment later Chung Hu-yan appeared in the great doorway, his head lowered.

"Your guests are here, Chieh Hsia."

"Good." He stood and came around the desk. "Show them in, Chung. Then bring us wines and sweetmeats. We may be here some while."

The Chancellor bowed and backed away, his face registering an understanding of how difficult the task was that lay before his master. A moment later he returned, still bowed, leading the two T'ang into the room.

"Good cousins," Li Shai Tung said, taking their hands briefly. "I thank you for sparing the time from busy schedules to come and see me at such short notice."

He saw how Hou Tung-po looked at once to his friend for his lead, how his welcoming smile faded as he noted the blank expression on Wang Sau-leyan's face.

"I would not have come had/I not felt it was important to see you, Li Shai Tung," Wang answered, staring past him.

Li Shai Tung stiffened, angered not merely by the hostility he sensed emanating from the young T'ang but also by the inference that a T'ang might even consider not coming at his cousin's urgent wish. Even so, he curbed his anger. This time, young Wang would not draw him.

"And so it is," he answered, smiling pleasantly. "A matter of the utmost importance."

Wang Sau-leyan looked about him with the air of a man considering buying something, then looked back at Li Shai Tung. "Well? I'm listening."

It was so rude, so wholly unexpected, that Li Shai Tung found himself momentarily lost for words. Then he laughed. Is that really the way you want it? he thought, or is that too a pose—designed to throw me from my purpose and win yourself advantage?

He put his hand to his beard thoughtfully. "You're like your father, Sau-leyan. He too could be blunt when it was called for."

"My father was a foolish old man!"

Li Shai Tung stiffened, shocked by the young man's utterance. He looked across at Hou Tung-po and saw how he looked away, embarrassed, then shook his head. He took a breath and began again.

"The other day, in Council—"

"You seek to lecture me, Li Shai Tung?"

Li Shai Tung felt himself go cold. Would the young fool not even let him finish a sentence?

He bowed his head slightly, softening his voice. "You mistake me, good cousin. I seek nothing but an understanding between us. It seems we've started badly, you and I. I sought only to mend that. To find some way of redressing your grievances."

He saw how Wang Sau-leyan straightened slightly at that, as if sensing concession on his part. Again it angered him, for his instinct was not to accommodate but to crush the arrogance he saw displayed before him; but he kept all sign of anger from his face.

Wang Sau-leyan turned, meeting his eyes directly. "A deal, you mean?"

He stared back at the young T'ang a moment, then looked aside. "I realize that we want different things, Wang Sau-leyan, but is there not a way of satisfying us both?"

The young man turned, looking across at Hou Tung-po. "Is it not as I said, Hou?"

He raised a hand dismissively, indicating Li Shai Tung. "The loo jen wants to buy my silence. To bridle me in Council."

Li Shai Tung looked down, coldly furious. Lao jen, "old man," was a term of respect, but not in the way Wang Sau-leyan had used it. The scornful intonation he had given the word had made it an insult, an insult that could not be ignored.

"An offered hand should not be spat upon."

Wang Sau-leyan looked back at him, his expression openly hostile. "What could you offer me that 1 might possibly want, loo jen⁷."

Li Shai Tung had clenched his hands. Now he relaxed them, letting his breath escape him in a sigh. "Why in the gods' names are you so inflexible, Wang Sau-leyan? What do you want of us?"

Wang Sau-leyan took a step closer. "Inflexible? Was I not 'flexible' when your son married his brother's wife? Or by flexible do you really mean unprincipled, willing to do as you and not others wish?"

Li Shai Tung turned sharply, facing him, openly angry now. "You go too far! Hell's teeth, boy!"

Wang Sau-leyan smiled sourly. "Boy . . . That's how you see me, isn't it? A boy, to be chastised or humored. Or locked away, perhaps."

"This is not right—" Li Shai Tung began, but again the young T'ang interrupted him, his voice soft yet threatening.

"This is a new age, old man. New things are happening in the world. The Seven must change with the times or go under. And if I must break your power in Council to bring about that change, then break it I shall. But do not think to buy or silence me, for I'll not be bought or silenced."

Li Shai Tung stood there, astonished, his lips parted. Break it? Break his power? But before he could speak there was a knocking at the door.

"Come in!" he said, only half aware of what he said, his eyes still resting on the figure of the young T'ang.

It was Chung Hu-yan. Behind him came four servants, carrying trays. "Chieh Hsia—?" he began, then stepped back hurriedly as Wang Sau-leyan stormed past him, pushing angrily through the servants, knocking their trays clattering to the tiled floor as they hastened to move back out of the T'ang's way.

Hou Tung-po hung back a moment, clearly dismayed by what had happened. Taking a step toward Li Shai Tung, he bowed, then turned away, hurrying to catch up with his friend.

Li Shai Tung stood there a moment longer; then waving his Chancellor away, he went to the desk and picked up one of the documents. He stared at it a moment, his hands trembling with anger; then, one by one, he began to pick off the unmarked seals with his fingernails, dropping them onto the floor beside his feet until only his own remained at the foot of the page.

He would have offered this today. Would have gladly torn this document to shreds to forge a peaceful understanding. But what had transpired just now convinced him that such a thing was impossible. Wang Sau-leyan would not permit it. Well, then, he would act alone in this.

He turned his hand, placing the dark, dull metal of the ring into the depression at the desk's edge, letting it grow warm; then he lifted his hand and pressed the seal into the wax.

There. It was done. He had sanctioned his son's scheme. Had given it life.

For a moment longer he stood there, staring down at the document, at the six blank spaces where the seals had been; then he turned away, his anger unassuaged, speaking softly to himself, his words an echo of what the young T'ang had said to him.

"This is a new age, old man. New things are happening in the world."

He laughed bitterly. "So it is, Wang Sau-leyan. So it is. But you'll not break me. Not while I have breath."

KARR STOOD on the mountainside, shielding his eyes, looking about him at the empty slopes. It was cold, much colder than he'd imagined. He pulled the collar of his jacket up around his ears and shivered, still searching the broken landscape for some sign, some clue as to where to look.

The trouble was, it was just too big a place, too vast. One could hide a hundred armies here and never find them.

He looked down, blowing on his hands to warm them. How easy, then, to hide a single army here?

It had begun two days ago, after he had been to see Tolonen. His report on the Executive Killings had taken almost an hour to deliver. Even so, they were still no closer to finding out who had been behind the spate of murders.

Officially, that was. For himself, however, he was certain who was behind them—and he knew both the T'ang and Tolonen agreed. DeVore. It had to be. The whole thing was too neat, too well orchestrated, to be the work of anyone else.

But if DeVore, then why was there no trace of him within the City? Why was there no sign of his face somewhere in the levels? After all, every Security camera, every single guard and official in the whole vast City, was on the look-out for that face.

That absence had nagged at him for weeks, until coming away from his meeting with Tolonen, he had realized its significance. If DeVore couldn't be found inside, then maybe he wasn't inside—maybe he was outside? Karr had gone back to his office and stood before the map of City Europe, staring at it, his eyes drawn time and again to the long, irregular space at the center of the City—the Wilds—until he knew for a certainty that that was where he'd find DeVore. There, somewhere in that tiny space.

But what had seemed small on the map was gigantic in reality. The mountains were overpowering, both in their size and number. They filled the sky from one horizon to the other; and when he turned, there they were again, marching away into the distance, until the whole world seemed but one long mountain range and the City nothing.

So, where to start? Where, in all this vastness of rock and ice, to start? How to search this godsforsaken place?

He was pondering that when he saw the second craft come up over the ridge and descend, landing beside his own, in the valley far below. A moment later a figure spilled from the craft and began to make its way toward him, climbing the slope. It was Chen.

"Gregor!" Chen greeted him. "I've been looking all over for you."

"What is it?" Karr answered, trudging down through the snow to meet him.

Chen stopped, then lifted his snow goggles, looking up at him. "I've brought new orders. From the T'ang."

Karr stared at him, then took the sealed package and tore it open.

"What does it say?"

"That we're to close the files on the murders. Not only that, but we're to stop our search for DeVore—temporarily, at least—and concentrate on penetrating the Ping Tiao organization. It seems they're planning something big."

Chen watched the big man nod to himself, as if taking in this new information, then look about him and laugh.

"What is it?" he asked, surprised by Karr's laughter.

"Just this," Karr answered, holding the T'ang's orders up. "And this," he added, indicating the mountains all about them. "I was thinking—two paths, but the goal's the same. DeVore."

"DeVore?"

"Yes. The T'ang wants us to investigate the Ping Tiao, and so we shall; but when we lift that stone, you can lay odds on which insect will come scuttling out from under it."

"DeVore," said Chen, smiling. "Yes, DeVore."

HANS ebert stood on the wooden veranda of the lodge, staring up the steep, snow-covered slope, his breath pluming in the crisp air. As he watched, the dark spot high up the slope descended slowly, coming closer, growing, until it was discernibly a human figure. It was coming on apace, in a zig-zag path that would bring it to the lodge.

Ebert clapped his gloved hands together and turned to look back inside the lodge. There were three other men with him, his comrades in arms. Men he could trust.

"He's here!" he shouted in to them. "Quick now! You know your orders!"

They got up from the table at once, taking their weapons from the rack near the door before going to their posts.

When the skier drew up beneath the veranda, the lodge seemed empty except for the figure leaning out over the balcony. The skier thrust his sticks into the snow, then lifted his goggles and peeled off his gloves.

"I'm pleased to see you, Hans. I didn't know if you would come."

Ebert straightened up, then started down the steps. "My uncle is a persuasive man, Shih DeVore. I hadn't realized he was an old friend of yours."

DeVore laughed, stooping to unfasten his boots. He snapped the clips and stepped off the skis. "He isn't. Not officially. Nor will you be. Officially."

He met the younger man at the bottom of the steps and shook both his hands firmly, warmly, flesh to gloves.

"I understand it now."

"Understand what? Come, Hans, let's go inside. The air is too keen for such talk."

Hans let himself be led back up into the lodge. When they were sitting, drinks in hand, he continued. "What I meant is, I understand now how you've managed to avoid us all these years. More old friends, eh?"

"One or two," said DeVore cryptically, and laughed.

"Yes," Ebert said thoughtfully, "You're a regular member of the family, aren't you?" He had been studying DeVore, trying to gauge whether he was armed or not.

"You forget how useful I once was to your father."

"No. . ." Ebert chose the next few words more carefully. "I simply remember how harmful you were subsequently. How dangerous. Even to meet you like this, it's—"

"Fraught with danger?" DeVore laughed again, a hearty, sincere laughter that strangely irritated the younger man.

DeVore looked across the room. In one comer a wei chi board had been set up, seven black stones forming an H on the otherwise empty grid.

"I see you've thought of everything," he said, smiling again. "Do you want to play while we talk?"

Ebert hesitated, then gave a nod. DeVore seemed somehow too bright, too at ease, for his liking.

The two men stood and went to the table in the corner.

"Where shall I sit? Here?"

Ebert smiled. "If you like." It was exactly where he wanted DeVore. At that point he was covered by all three of the marksmen concealed overhead. If he tried anything. . .

DeVore sat, perfectly at ease, lifting the lid from the pot, then placed the first of his stones in tsu, the north. Ebert sat, facing him, studying him a moment, then lifted the lid from his pot and took one of the black stones between his fingers. He had prepared his men beforehand. If he played in one particular place—in the middle of the board, on the edge of shang, the south, on the intersection beside his own central stone—then they were to open fire, killing DeVore. Otherwise they were to fire only if Ebert's life was endangered.

Ebert reached across, playing at the top of shang, two places out from his own comer stone, two lines down from the edge.

"Well?" he said, looking at DeVore across the board. "You're not here to ask after my health. What do you want?"

DeVore was studying the board as if he could see the game to come—the patterns of black stones and white, their shape and interaction. "Me? I don't want anything. At least, nothing from you, Hans. That's not why I'm here." He set down a white stone, close by Ebert's last, then looked up, smiling again. "I'm here because there's something you might want."

Ebert stared at him, astonished, then laughed. "What could I possibly want from you?" He slapped a stone down almost carelessly, three spaces out from the first.

DeVore studied the move, then shook his head. He took a stone from his pot and set it down midway between the comer and the center, as if to divide some future formation of Ebert's stones.

"You have everything you need, then, Hans?"

Ebert narrowed his eyes and slapped down another stone irritably. It was two spaces out from the center, between DeVore's and his own, so that the five stones now formed a broken diagonal line from the comer to the center—two black, one white, then two more black. ³

DeVore smiled broadly. "That's an interesting shape, don't you think? But it's weak, like the Seven. Black might outnumber white, but white isn't surrounded." Ebert sat back. "Meaning what?"

DeVore set down another stone, pushing out toward ch'u, the west. A triangle of three white stones now sat to the right of a triangle of black stones. Ebert stared at the position a moment, then looked up into DeVore's face again.

DeVore was watching him closely, his eyes suddenly sharp, alert, the smile gone from his lips.

"Meaning that you serve a master you despise. Accordingly, you play badly. Winning or losing has no meaning for you. No interest."

Ebert touched his upper teeth with his tongue, then took another stone and placed it, eight down, six out in shang. It was a necessary move; a strengthening move. It prevented DeVore from breaking his line while expanding the territory he now surrounded. The game was going well for him.

"You read my mind then, Shih DeVore? You know how I think?"

"I know that you're a man of considerable talent, Hans. And I know that you're bored. I can see it in the things you do, the decisions you make. I can see how you hold the greater part of yourself back constantly. Am I wrong, then? Is what I see really the best you can do?"

DeVore set down another stone. Unexpectedly it cut across the shape Ebert had just made, pushing into the territory he had mapped out. It seemed an absurd move, a weak move, but Ebert knew that DeVore was a master at this game. He would not make such a move without good reason.

"It seems you want me to cut you. But if I do, it means you infiltrate this area here." He sketched it out.

"And if you don't?"

"Well, it's obvious. You cut me. You separate my groups." DeVore smiled. "So. A dilemma. What to choose?"

Ebert looked up again, meeting his eyes. He knew that DeVore was saying something to him through the game. But what? Was DeVore asking him to make a choice? The Seven or himself? Was he asking him to come out in the open and declare himself?

He put down his stone, cutting DeVore, keeping his own lines open. "You say the Seven are weak, but you—are you any stronger?" "At present, no. Look at me, I'm like these five white stones here on the board. I'm cut and scattered and outnumbered. But I'm a good player and the odds are better than when I started. Then they were seven to one. Now"—he placed his sixth stone, six down, four out in shang, threatening the corner—"it's only two to one. And every move improves my chances. I'll win. Eventually."

Ebert placed another black stone in the diagonal line, preventing DeVore from linking with his other stones, but again it allowed DeVore space within his own territory and he sensed that DeVore would make a living group there.

"You know, I've always admired you, Howard. You would have been Marshal eventually. You would have run things for the Seven."

"That's so . . ." DeVore smiled openly, showing his small but perfect teeth. "But it was never enough for me to serve another. Nor you. We find it hard to bow to lesser men."

Ebert laughed, then realized how far DeVore had brought him. But it was true. Everything he said was true. He watched DeVore set another stone down, shadowing his own line, sketching out territory inside his own, robbing him of what he'd thought was safely his.

"I see." he said, meaning two things. For a time, then, they simply played. Forty moves later he could see that it was lost. DeVore had taken five of his stones from the board and had formed a living group of half of shang. Worse, he had pushed out toward ch'u and down into p'ing. Now a small group of four of his stones was threatened at the center and there was only one way to save it—to play in the space in shang beside the central stone, the signal for his men to open fire on DeVore. Ebert sat back, holding the black stone between his fingers, then laughed.

"It seems you've forced me to a decision."

DeVore smiled back at him. "I was wondering what you would do."

Ebert eyed him sharply. "Wondering?"

"Yes. I wasn't sure at first. But now I know. You won't play that space. You'll play here instead." He leaned across and touched the intersection with his fingertip. It was the move that gave only temporary respite. It did not save the group.

"Why should I do that?"

"Because you don't want to kill me. And because you're seriously interested in my proposition."

Ebert laughed, astonished. "You knew!"

"Oh, I know you've three of your best stormtroopers here, Hans. I've been conscious of the risks I've been taking. But how about you?"

"I think I know," Ebert said, even more cautiously. Then, with a small laugh of admiration he set the stone down where DeVore had indicated.

"Good." DeVore leaned across and set a white stone in the special space, on the edge of shang, beside Ebert's central stone, then leaned back again. "I'm certain you'll have assessed the potential rewards, too." He smiled, looking down at his hands. "King of the world, Hans. That's what you could be. T'ang of all Chung Kuo."

Ebert stared back at him, his mouth open but set.

"But not without me." DeVore looked up at him, his eyes piercing him through. "Not without me. You understand that?"

"I could have you killed. Right now. And be hailed as a hero."

DeVore nodded. "Of course. I knew what I was doing. But I assumed you knew why you were here. That you knew how much you had to gain."

It was Ebert's turn to laugh. "This is insane."

DeVore was watching him calmly, as if he knew now how things would turn out between them. "Insane? No. It's no more insane than the rule of the Seven. And how long can that last? In ten years, maybe less, the whole pack of cards is going to come tumbling down, whatever happens. The more astute of the Above realize that and want to do something about it. They want to control the process. But they need a figurehead. Someone they admire. Someone from among their number. Someone capable and in a position of power."

"I don't fit your description."

DeVore laughed. "Not now, perhaps. But you will. In a year from now you will."

Ebert looked down. He knew it was a moment for decisiveness, not prevarication. "And when I'm T'ang?"

DeVore smiled and looked down at the board. "Then the stars will be ours. A world for each of us."

A world for each of us. Ebert thought about it a moment. This then was what it was really all about. Expansion. Taking the lid off City Earth and getting away. But what would that leave him?

"However," DeVore went on, "you didn't mean that, did you?" He stood and went across to the drinks cabinet, pouring himself a second glass of brandy. Turning, he looked directly at the younger man. "What you meant was, what's in it for me?"

Ebert met his look unflinchingly. "Of course. What other motive could there be?"

DeVore smiled blandly. Ebert was a shallow, selfish young man, but he was useful. He would never be T'ang, of course—it would be a mistake to give such a man reed power—but it served for now to let him think he would.

"Your brandy is excellent, Hans." DeVore walked to the window and looked out. The mountains looked beautiful. He could see the Matterhorn from where he stood, its peak like a broken blade. Winter was coming.

Ebert was silent, waiting for him.

"What's in it for you, you ask? This world. To do with as you wish. What more could you want?" He turned to face the younger man, noting at once the calculation in his face.

"You failed," Ebert said after a moment. "There were many of you. Now there's just you. Why should you succeed this time?"

DeVore tilted his head, then laughed. "Ah yes. . ."

Ebert frowned and set his glass down. "And they're strong."

DeVore interrupted him. "No. You're wrong, Hans. They're weak. Weaker than they've been since they began. We almost won."

Ebert hesitated, then nodded. It was so. He recognized how thinly the Families were spread now, how much they depended on the good will of those in the Above who had remained faithful. Men like his father.

And when his father was dead?

He looked up sharply, his decision made. , /

"Well?" DeVore prompted. "Will you be T'ang?"

Ebert stood, offering his hand.

DeVore smiled and put his drink down. Then he stepped forward and, ignoring the hand, embraced the young man.

PART 4 | SPRING 2207

Artifice and Innocence

The more abstract the truth you want to teach the more you must seduce the senses to it.

—friedrich nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil

Reach me a gentian, give me a torch

let me guide myself with the blue, forked touch of this flower

down the dark and darker steps, where blue is darkened on blueness

even where Persephone goes, just now, from the frosted September

to the sightless realm where darkness is awake upon the dark

and Persephone herself is but a voice

of a darkness invisible enfolded in the deeper dark

of the arms Plutonic, and pierced with the passion of dense gloom,

among the splendour of torches of darkness, shedding darkness on the lost

bride and her groom.

—D. H. lawrence, Bavarian Gentians

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Feast of the Dead

A BANK OF EIGHT screens, four long, two deep, glowed dimly on the far side of the darkened room. In each lay the outline image of a hollowed skull. There were other shapes in the room, vague forms only partly lit by the glow. A squat and bulky mechanism studded with controls was wedged beneath the screens. Beside it was a metallic frame, like a tiny fourposter stretched with wires. In the left-hand corner rested a narrow trolley containing racks of tapes, their wafer-thin top edges glistening in the half light. Next to that was a vaguely human form slumped against a bed, its facial features missing. Finally, in the very center of the room was a graphics art board, the thin screen blank and dull, the light from the eight monitors focused in its concave surface.

It was late—after three in the morning—and Ben Shepherd was tired, but there was this last thing to be done before he slept. He squatted by the trolley and flicked through the tapes until he found what he wanted, then went to the art board and fed in the tape. The image of a bird formed instantly. He froze it, using the controls to turn it, studying it from every angle as if searching for some flaw in its conception; then, satisfied, he let it run, watching as the bird stretched its wings and launched into the air. Again he froze the image. The bird's wings were stretched back now, thrusting it forward powerfully.

It was a simple image in many ways. An idealized image of a bird, formed in a vacuum.

He sorted through the tapes again and pulled out three, then returned to the art board and rewound the first tape. That done he fed the new tapes into the slot and synchronized all four to a preset signal. Then he pressed PLAY.

This time the bird was resting on a perch inside a pagoda-like cage. As he watched, the cage door sprung open and the bird flew free, launching itself out through the narrow opening.

He froze the image, then rotated it. This time the bird seemed trapped, its beak and part of its sleek, proud head jutting from the cage, the rest contained within the bars. In the background could be seen the familiar environment of the Square. As the complex image turned, the tables of the Cafe Burgundy came into view. He could see himself at one of the nearer tables, the girl beside him. He was facing directly into the shot, his hand raised, pointing, as if to indicate the sudden springing of the bird; but her head was turned, facing him, her flame-red hair a sharp contrast to the rich, overhanging greenery.

He smiled uncertainly and let the tape run on a moment at one-fifth speed, watching her head come slowly round to face the escaping bird. In that moment, as she faced it fully, the bird's wing came up, eclipsing the watchers at the table. There it ended.

It was a brief segment, no more than nine seconds in all, but it had taken him weeks of hard work to get it right. Now, however, he was thinking of abandoning it completely.

This was his favorite piece in the whole composition—the key image with which it had begun—yet as the work had progressed, this tiny fragment had proved ever more problematic.

For the rest of the work the viewpoint was established in the viewer's head, behind the eyes, yet for this brief moment he had broken away entirely. In another art form this would have caused no problems—might, indeed, have been a strength—but here it created all kinds of unwanted difficulties. Experienced from within the Shell, it was as if, for the brief nine seconds that the segment lasted, one went outside one's skull. It was a strange, disorienting experience, and no tampering with the surrounding images could mute that effect or repair the damage it did to the work as a whole.

In all the Shells he had experienced before, such abrupt switches of viewpoint had been made to serve the purpose of the story: were used for their sudden shock value. But then, all forms of the Shell before his own had insisted only upon a cartoon version of the real, whereas what he wanted was reality itself. Or a close approximation. Such abrupt changes destroyed the balance he was seeking, shattered every attempt of his to create that illusion of the really real.

Only now was he beginning to understand the cost—in artistic terms—of such realism, the limiting factors and the disciplines involved. It was not enough to create the perfect illusion; it was also necessary to maintain a sequential integrity in the experiencing mind. The illusion depended on him staying within his own skull, behind his own eyes, the story developing in real time.

There was, of course, a simple answer: abandon all breaches of sequential integrity. But that limited the kind of story one could tell. It was a straitjacket of the worst kind, limiting fiction to the vignette, briefly told. He had recognized this at once and agonized over it, but weeks of wrestling with the problem had left him without an answer.

Perhaps this was why all previous practitioners of the form had kept to the quasi-realism of a cartoon, leaving the experiencing imagination to suspend disbelief and form a bridge between what was presented and the reality. Maybe some of them had even tried what he was attempting now, had experimented with "perfected," realistic images and had faced the same constricting factors. Maybe so, but he had to make a choice—pursue his ideal of a perfect art form or compromise that vision in favor of a patently synthetic form, a mere embellishment of the old. It was no real choice at all, yet still he procrastinated.

He wound the tapes back and replayed, this time at one-tenth speed—five frames a second—watching the bird thrust slowly outward from the cage in an explosion of sudden, golden, living fire; seeing beyond it the girl's face, its whiteness framed in flames of red as it turned to face the screen.

He closed his eyes and froze the image. It was the best thing he had done. Something real and beautiful—a tiny, perfect work of art. And yet . . . He shivered, then pressed ERASE. In an instant it was gone, the tapes blanked. He stood there for a long time afterward, leaning against the machine, perfectly still, his eyes closed. Then, with a tiny shudder, he turned away. There was that much anyway. It was there—it would always be there—in his head.

He went to the bed and sat, not knowing what he felt, staring intently, almost obsessively at the narrow ridge of flesh that circled his left wrist. Then he got up again and went out into the other room.

For a while he stood there in the center of the room, his mind still working at the problem; but just now he could not see past his tiredness. He was stretched thin by the demands he had placed on himself these last few weeks. All he could see were problems, not solutions.

He took a long, shuddering breath. "Small steps," he told himself, his voice soft, small in the darkness. "There is an answer," he added after a moment, as if to reassure himself. Yet he was far from certain.

He turned away, rubbing at his eyes, too tired to pursue the thought, for once wanting nothing but the purging oblivion of sleep. And in the morning? In the morning he would begin anew.

THE SQUARE was a huge, airy space at the top of Oxford Canton, the uppermost level of a complex warren of Colleges that extended deep into the stack below. To the eternal delight of each new generation of students, however, the Square was not square at all, but hexagonal, a whole deck opened up for leisure. Long, open balconies overlooked the vastness of the Green, leaning back in five great tiered layers on every side, while overhead the great dome of the stars turned slowly in perfect imitation of the sky beyond the ice.

Here, some seventeen years earlier, so rumor had it, Berdichev, Lehmann, and Wyatt had met and formed the Dispersionist party, determined to bring change to this world of levels. Whether the rumor was true or not, the Square was a place to which the young intelligentsia of all seven cities were drawn. If the world of thought were a wheel, this was its hub, and the Green its focus.

A line of oaks bordered the Green, hybrid evergreens produced in the vats of SynFlor; while at its center was an aviary, a tall, pagoda-like cage of thirteen tiers, modeled upon the Liu he t'a, the Pagoda of the Six Harmonies at Hang Chou. As ever, young men and women strolled arm in arm on the vast lawn or gathered about the lowest tier, looking in at the brightly colored birds.

The Square was the pride of Oxford Canton and the haunt of its ten thousand students. The elite of the Above sent their children to Oxford, just as the elite of a small nation state had done centuries before. It was a place of culture and for the children of First Level families, a guarantee of continuity.

No big MedFac screens cluttered the Green itself, but in the cool walkways beneath the overhang, small Vidscreens showed the local cable channels to a clientele whose interests and tastes differed considerably from the rest of the Above.

The overhang was a place of coffee shops and restaurants, CulVid boutiques and SynParlors. It was a curious mixture of new and old, of timelessness and state-of-the-art, of purity and decadence; its schizophrenic face a reflection of its devotees. At the Cafe Burgundy business was brisk. It was a favorite haunt of the Arts Faculty students, who, at this hour, crowded every available table, talking, drinking, gesturing wildly with all the passion and flamboyance of youth. The tables themselves—more than two hundred in all—spread out from beneath the overhang toward the edge of the Green. Overhead, a network of webbing, draped between strong poles, supported a luxuriant growth of flowering creepers. The plants were a lush, almost luminous green, decorated with blooms of vivid purples, yellows, reds, and oranges—huge gaping flowers with tongues of contrasting hues, like the silent heads of monsters. Beneath them the tables and chairs were all antiques, the wood stained and polished. They were a special feature of the cafe, a talking point, though in an earlier century they would have seemed quite unexceptional.

Han waiters made their way between the packed tables, carrying trays and taking orders. They were dressed in the plain, round-collared robes of the Tang Dynasty, the sleeves narrow, the long er-silks a dark vermilion with an orange band below the knee: the clothes of an earlier, simpler age.

At a table near the edge sat four students. Their table was empty but for three glasses and a bottle. They had eaten and were on their third bottle of the excellent Burgundy from which the cafe took its name. A vacant chair rested between the two males of the party, as if they were expecting another to join them. But it was not so. All spaces at the table had to be paid for, and they had paid to keep it vacant.

There was laughter at the table. A dark-haired, olive-skinned young man was holding sway, leaning well back in his chair, a wineglass canted in his hand. The singsong tones of his voice were rather pleasant, well-modulated. He was a handsome, aristocratic man with a pronounced aquiline profile, a finely formed mouth, and dark, almost gypsy eyes. Strong-limbed and broad-shouldered, he looked more a sportsman than an artist, though a fastidiousness about his clothes somewhat redressed that impression. As he talked, his free hand carved forms from the air, the movements deft, rehearsed. He was older than the others by some four or five years, a factor that made them defer to him in most things; and often—as now— he monopolized their talk, leading it where he would.

His name was Sergey Novacek and he was a Masters student and a sculptor. His father, Lubos, was a well-to-do merchant who, at his wife's behest, indulged his only son, buying him a place at Oxford. Not that Sergey was unintelligent. He could easily have won a scholarship. It was simply a matter of prestige. Of status. At the level on which Lubos Novacek had his interests, it was not done to accept state charity.

Just now Sergey was telling them of the ceremony he had attended the previous day, a ceremony at which six of his sculptures had been on display. He had not long been fulfilling such commissions, yet he spoke as if he had great experience in the matter. But that was his way, and his friends admired him for it, even if others found it somewhat arrogant.

"It all went very well, at first," he said, his handsome features serious a moment. "Everyone was most respectful. They fed me and watered me and tried their best to be polite and hide from themselves the fact that I was neither family nor Han." He laughed. "None too successfully, I'm afraid. But, anyway . . . The tomb was magnificent. It stood in its own walled gardens next to the house. A massive thing, two stories high, clad all over in white marble, and with a gate you could have driven a team of four horses through." Sergey sipped at his drink, then laughed. "In fact, the tomb was a damn sight bigger than the house!" There was laughter.

"That's so typical of them," said the second young man, Wolf, lifting his glass to his lips. He was taller and more heavily built than his friend, his perfect North European features topped by a close-cropped growth of ash-blond hair. "They're so into death."

Sergey raised his glass. "And a good job too, neh?"

"For you," one of the girls, Lotte, said teasingly, her blue eyes flashing. It was true. Most of Sergey's commissions were funerary—tomb statues for the Minor Families.

Lotte was a pale-skinned, large-breasted girl, who wore her blond hair unfash-ionably long and plaited, in defiance of fashion. These things aside, she looked exactly like what she was—the twin of her brother, Wolf. Beside her, silent, sat the fourth of their small group, Catherine. She was smaller than her friends, more delicately built; a slender redhead with Slavic features and green eyes.

Sergey smiled. "Anyway. As I was saying. It was all going well and then the ceremony proper began. You know how it is: a lot of New Confucian priests chanting for the souls of the departed. And then the eldest son comes to the front and lights a candle for the ancestors. Well... it had just got to that stage when, would you believe it, eldest son trips over his pau, stumbles forward, and falls against the lines of paper charms."

"No!" All three sat forward, Wolf amused, the two girls horrified. "Unfortunate, you might think, and embarrassing, but not disastrous. And so it might have been, except that in falling he dropped the lighted candle among the charms." Sergey laughed shortly and nodded to himself. "You should have seen it. There must have been two or three thousand charms hanging up on those lines, dry as bone, just waiting to go up in one great sheet of flame. And that's exactly what they did. Eldest son was all right, of course. The servants pulled him away at once. But before anyone could do a thing, the flames set off the overhead sprinklers. Worse than that, no one knew the combination sequence to the cutout and the key to the manual override was missing. It just poured and poured. We were all soaked. But the worst was to come. Because the garden was enclosed, the water couldn't drain away. Much of it sank into the thin soil layer, but soon that became waterlogged, and when that happened the water began to pour down the steps into the tomb. Within minutes the water was up to the top step. That's when it happened."

He leaned forward and filled his glass, then looked about him, enjoying himself, knowing he had their full attention. "Well? What do you think?" Wolf shook his head. "I don't know. The eldest son fell in, perhaps?" Sergey narrowed his eyes. "Ah yes, that would have been good, wouldn't it? But this was better. Much better. Imagine it. There we all are, still waiting for someone to switch the damn sprinklers off, our expensive clothes ruined, the ground a total bog beneath our feet, no one willing to show disrespect by leaving the gardens before the ceremony's over, when what should happen but the unthinkable. Out floats the coffin!"

"Kuan Yin, preserve us!" Wolf said, his eyes round as coins.

"Poor man," murmured Catherine, looking down.

Sergey laughed. "Poor man, my ass! He was dead. But you should have seen the faces on those Han. It was as if they'd had hot irons poked up their backsides! There was a muttering and a spluttering and then—damn me if they didn't try to shove the coffin back into the tomb against the current! You should have seen the eldest son, slipping about in the mud like a lunatic!"

"Gods preserve us!" Wolf said. "And did they manage it?"

"Third time they did. But by then the sprinklers were off and the servants were carrying the water away in anything they could find."

The two men laughed, sitting back in their chairs and baring their teeth. Across from Wolf, Lotte smiled broadly, enjoying her brother's laughter. Only Catherine seemed detached from their enjoyment, as if preoccupied. Sergey noticed this and leaned toward her slightly. "What is it?"

She looked up. "It's nothing . . ."

He raised an eyebrow, making her laugh.

"Okay," she said, relenting. "I was just thinking about the painting I'm working on."

"You're having trouble?"

She nodded.

Wolf leaned across to nudge Sergey. "I shouldn't worry. She's not a real artist."

Catherine glared at him, then looked away. Wolf was always mocking her for working on an oil board, when, as he said, any artist worth their rice bowl worked in watercolors. But she discounted his opinion. She had seen his work. It was technically perfect, yet somehow lifeless. He could copy but he couldn't create.

She looked back at Sergey. "I was thinking I might go to the lecture this afternoon."

He lifted his chin slightly. "Lecture?"

She smiled. "Oh ... I forgot. You weren't here when the College officials came around, were you?" She searched in her bag for something, then set a small hexagonal pad down on the table. She placed her palm against it momentarily, warming the surface, then moved her hand away. At once a tiny, three-dimensional image formed in the air and began to speak.

"That's Fan Liang-wei, isn't it?" said Wolf, leaning across to refill his glass.

"Shhhsh," Sergey said, touching his arm. "Let's hear what the old bugger has to say."

Fan Liang-wei was one of the most respected shanshui artists in City Europe. His paintings hung in the homes of most of the Minor Families. The Great Man's long white hair and triple-braided beard were familiar sights to those who tuned in to the ArtVid channel; and even to those whose tastes were less refined, Fan Liang-wei was the personification of the wen ren, the scholar-artist.

It was standard practice for professors of the College to advertise their lectures in this way, since their fees were paid according to attendance figures. Indeed, it was the practice for some of the less charismatic of them to bribe students to attend—

filling the first few rows of the hall with sleepers. For the Great Man, however, such advertising was not strictly necessary. His fee was guaranteed whatever the attendance. Nonetheless, it was a matter of ego, a question of proving his supreme status to his fellow academicians.

The tiny figure bowed to its unseen audience and began to talk of the lecture it was to give that afternoon, its internal timer updating its speech so that when it referred to the lecture it reminded the listeners that it was "less than two hours from now." The lecture was to be on the two shanshui artists Tung Ch'i-ch'ang and Cheng Ro, and was entitled "Spontaneity and Meticulousness." Sergey watched it a moment longer, then smiled and reached out to put his hand over the pad, killing the image.

"It could be amusing. I've heard the old man's worth hearing." "And Heng Chian-ye?" Wolf asked. "You've not forgotten the card game?" Sergey looked across and saw how Catherine had looked away angrily. He knew how strongly she disapproved of this side of him—the gambling and the late-night drinking sessions—but it only spurred him on to greater excesses, as if to test her love.

He smiled, then turned back to Wolf. "That's all right. I told him I'd see him at four, but it'll do the little yellow bastard good to wait a bit. It'll make him more eager."

Wolf laughed. "Do you still intend to challenge him? They say he's a good player."

Sergey lifted his chin and looked away thoughtfully. "Yes. But Heng's an arrogant young fool. He's inflexible. Worse, he's rash when put under pressure. Like all these Han, he's more concerned with saving face than saving a fortune. And that will be his undoing, 1 promise you. So, yes, I'll challenge him. It's about time someone raised the stakes on young Heng."

Sergey leaned forward, looking across at Lotte. "And you, Lotte? Are you coming along?"

Again his words, his action in leaning toward Lotte, were designed to upset Catherine. They all knew how much Lotte was besotted with the handsome young sculptor. It was a joke that even she, on occasion, shared. But that didn't lessen the pangs of jealousy that affected Catherine.

As ever, Lotte looked to her brother before she answered, a faint color at her cheeks. "Well, I ought, I know, but—"

"You must," Sergey said, reaching out to cover her hand with his own. "I insist. You'd never forgive yourself if you didn't see the Great Man."

Wolf answered for her. "We were going to do some shopping. But I'm sure . . ."

Wolf looked at Lotte, smiling encouragement, and she nodded. Wolf still had hopes that his sister might marry Novacek. Not that it affected his relationship with Catherine. Not significantly.

"Good," said Sergey, leaning back and looking about the circle of his friends. "And afterward I'll treat you all to a meal."

the TIERS of the lecture hall were packed to overflowing. Stewards scurried up and down the gangways, trying to find seats for the crowds pressing into the hall, clearly put out by the size of the attendance. Normally the hall seemed vast and echoing, but today it was like a hive, buzzing with expectation.

At three precisely the lights dimmed and the hall fell silent. On a raised platform at the front of the hall a single spotlight picked out a lectern. For a while there was no movement on stage, then a figure stepped out of the darkness. A murmur of surprise rose from the watching tiers. It was Chu Ta Yun, the Minister of Education. He stood to one side of the lectern, his head slightly bowed, his hands folded at his waist.

"Ch'un tzu," he began, his tone humble, "I have been given the great pleasure and honor of introducing one of the outstanding figures of our time. A man whose distinctions are too numerous to be listed here and whose accomplishments place him in the very first rank of painters. A man who, when the history of our culture is set down by future generations, will be seen as the epitome—the touchstone—of our art. Ch'un tzu, I ask you to welcome to our College the Honorable Fan Liang-wei, painter to the court of His Most Serene Highness, Li Shai Tung."

As the Minister withdrew, head bowed, into the darkness, Fan Liang-wei came into the spotlight, resting his hands lightly on the edge of the lectern, then bowing his head to his audience. There was a faint shuffling noise as, in unison, the packed tiers lowered their heads in respect to the Great Man.

"Ch'un tzu," he began, in the same vein as the Minister, then, smiling, added, "Friends . . ."

There was a small ripple of laughter from the tiers. The ice had been broken. But at once his face grew serious again, his chin lifting in an extravagant yet thoughtful gesture, his voice taking on an immediate tone of authority.

"I have come here today to talk of art, and, in particular, of the art of shanshui painting, something of which I have, or so I delude myself, some small knowledge."

Again there was the faintest ripple of amusement, but, as before, it was tinged with the deepest respect. There was not one there who did not consider Fan Liang-wei to be Chung Kuo's foremost expert on the ancient art of shanshui.

The Great Man looked about the tiers, as if noting friends there among the crowd; then he spoke again. "As you may know, I have called today's talk 'Spontaneity and Meticulousness,' and it is upon these two extremes of expression that I wish to dwell, taking as my examples the works of two great exponents of the art of shanshui, the Ming painter Tung Ch'i-ch'ang and the Song painter Cheng Ro. But before I come to them and to specific examples of their work, I would like to take this opportunity of reminding you of the critic Hsieh Ho's Six Principles, for it is to these that we shall, time and again, return during this lecture."

Fan Liang-wei paused, looking about him. He had just opened his mouth to speak when the door to his right swung open and a young man strode into the hall, ignoring the hushed remonstrances of a steward. The steward followed him two or three paces into the hall, then backed away, head bowed, glancing up at the platform apologetically before drawing the door closed behind him. The young man, meanwhile, moved unselfconsciously along the gangway in front of the platform and began to climb the stairs. He was halfway up when the Great Man cleared his throat.

"Forgive me, young Master, but am I interrupting something?"

The young man half turned, looking back at the speaker, then, without a word, climbed the rest of the steps and sat down at their top.

There was a murmur of astonishment from the surrounding tiers and even a few harshly whispered words of criticism, but the young man seemed oblivious of it. He sat there, staring down at the platform, a strange intensity in his manner making him seem brooding, almost malicious in intent.

"Are we comfortable?" the Great Man asked, a faint trace of annoyance in his voice.

The young man gave the barest nod.

"Good. Then perhaps we might continue. As I was saying . . . Hsieh Ho, in his classic fifth-century work the Ku Hua-p'in-lu, set down for all time the Six Principles by which the great artist might be recognized. In reiterating these, we might remember that while Hsieh Ho intended that all six should be present in a great work of art, they do, nonetheless, form a kind of hierarchy, the First Principle, that of spirit-consonance, of harmony of spirit to the motion of life—that sense we have of the painting coming alive through the harmonizing of the vital force, the ch'i, of the painter with the ch'i of his subject matter—forming the first rank, the First Level, if you like."

There was a mild ripple of laughter at the Great Man's play on words. He continued quickly, his anger at the rudeness of the young man's interruption set aside momentarily.

"Bearing this in mind, we see how the Second Principle, the bone structure of the brushwork—and its strength in conveying the ch'i, or vital energy—stems from the First and is, indeed, dependent upon it, as a Minister is dependent upon the favor of his T'ang. Likewise, the Third Principle, the fidelity, or faithfulness of the artistic representation to the subject, is dependent upon these first two. And so forth."

He hesitated, then looked directly at the young man seated at the head of the stairs. "You understand me, young Master?" Again the young man nodded.

"Good. Then let me move on quickly. Fourth of the Six Great Principles is likeness in color. Fifth is the proper placing of the various elements within the scheme of the painting. And Sixth, and last in our great hierarchy, is the preservation of the experience of the past through making pictorial reference to the great classical paintings."

Fan Liang-wei smiled, looking about him, then moved to one side of the platform, half turning as the screen behind him lit up, showing an ancient painting.

"There is, of course, one further quality that Hsieh Ho demanded from the great artist—a quality that, because it is intrinsic to art, is enshrined in each of those six great Principles—that of ching. Of precision or minuteness of detail."

He indicated the painting. "This, as you may recognize, is Tung Ch'i-ch'ang's Shaded Dwelling among Streams and Mountains, one of the great works of Ming art. This hanging scroll. . ."

The Great Man had turned, looking back at his audience; but now he stopped, his mouth open, for the young man had stood and was making his way slowly down the steps again.

"Forgive me," he said tartly, his patience snapping, "but have I to suffer more of your interruptions?"

The young man stopped, a faint smile playing on his lips. "No. I've heard enough."

"Heard enough . . ." For the briefest moment Fan's face was contorted with anger. Then, controlling himself, he came to the edge of the platform, confronting the young man. "What do you mean, heard enough?"

The young man stared back at Fan Liang-wei, unperturbed, it seemed, by the hardness in his voice, undaunted by his reputation.

"I mean what I said. I've heard enough. I don't have to wait to hear what you have to say—you've said it all already."

Fan laughed, astonished. "I see—"

The young man lifted his arm, pointing beyond Fan at the screen. "That, for instance. It's crap."

There was a gasp of astonishment from the tiers, followed by a low murmur of voices. Fan Liang-wei, however, was smiling now.

"Crap, eh? That's your considered opinion, is it, Shih . . . ?"

The young man ignored the request for his name, just as he ignored the ripple of laughter that issued from the benches on all sides. "Yes," he answered, taking two slow steps closer to the platform. "It's dead. Anyone with a pair of eyes can see it. But you . . ." He shook his head. "Well, to call this lifeless piece of junk one of the great works of Ming art is an insult to the intelligence."

Fan straightened, bristling, then gave a short laugh. "You're a student of painting, then, young Master?"

The young man shook his head.

"Ah, I see. Then what are you precisely? You are a member of the College, I assume?"

There was more laughter from the tiers, a harder, crueler laughter as the students warmed to the exchange. The young man had stepped out of line. Now the Great Man would humiliate him.

"I'm a scientist."

"A scientist? Ah, I see."

The laughter was like a great wave this time, rolling from end to end of the great lecture hall. Fan Liang-wei smiled, looking about him, sensing victory.

"Then you know about things like painting?"

The young man stood there, the laughter in the hall washing over him, waiting for it to subside. When it did he answered the Great Man.

"Enough to know that Tung Ch'i-ch'ang was the dead end of a process of slow emasculation of a once-vital art form."

The Great Man nodded. "I see. And Cheng Ro . . . I suppose he was a great painter ... in your estimation?"

There was more laughter, but it was tenser now. The atmosphere had changed, become electric with anticipation. They sensed blood.

The young man looked down. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. "You know your trouble, Fan Liang-wei?" He looked up at the older man challengingly. "You're a slave to convention. To an art that's not a real art at all, just an unimaginative and imitative craft."

There was a low murmur of disapproval from the tiers at that. As for Fan himself, he was still smiling; but it was a tight, tense mask of a smile, behind which he seethed.

"But to answer your question," the young man continued. "Yes, Cheng Ro was a great painter. He had lueh, that invaluable quality of being able to produce something casually, almost uncaringly. His ink drawing of dragons—"

"Enough!" Fan roared, shivering with indignation. "How dare you lecture me about art, you know-nothing! How dare you stand there and insult me with your garbled nonsense!"

The young man stared back defiantly at Fan. "I dare because I'm right. Because I know when I'm listening to a fool."

The hall had gone deathly silent. Fan, standing there at the edge of the platform, was very still. The smile had drained from his face.

"A fool?" he said finally, his voice chill. "And you think you can do better?" For a moment the young man hesitated. Then, astonishingly, he nodded, and his eyes never leaving Fan Liang-wei's face, began to make his way down to the platform.

THE cafe BURGUNDY was alive with news of what had happened.

At a table near the edge of the Green, the four friends leaned in close, talking. Wolf had missed the lecture, but Sergey had been there with Lotte and had seen the young man mount the platform.

"You should have seen him," Sergey said, his eyes glinting. "As cool as anything, he got up and stood at the lectern, as if he'd been meaning to speak all along."

Wolf shook his head. "And what did Fan say?"

"What could he say? For a moment he was so dumbfounded that he stood there with his mouth hanging open, like a fish. Then he went a brilliant red and began to shout at Shepherd to sit down. Oh, it was marvelous. 'It's my lecture,' the old boy kept saying, over and over. And Shepherd, bold as brass, turns to him and says, 'Then you could do us all the courtesy of talking sense.' "

They all roared at that; all but Catherine, who looked down. "I've seen him, I think," she said, "in here."

Sergey nodded. "You can't really miss him. He's an ostentatious little sod. Do you know what he does?" He looked about the table, then leaned back, lifting his glass. "He comes in at the busiest time of day and has a table to himself. He actually pays for all five places. And then he sits there, drinking coffee, not touching a bite of food, a pocket comset on the table in front of him." Sergey lifted his nose in a gesture of disdain, then drained his glass.

Wolf leaned forward. "Yes, but what happened? What did Fan say?"

Sergey gave a sharp little laugh. "Well, it was strange. It was as if Shepherd had challenged him. I don't know. I suppose it had become a matter of face . . . Anyway, instead of just sending for the stewards and having him thrown out, Fan told him to go ahead." "I bet that shut him up!"

"No. And that's the most amazing part of it. You see, Shepherd actually began to lecture us."

"No!" Wolf said, his eyes wide with astonishment. Beside him, Catherine stared down into her glass.

"Yes... he droned on for ages. A lot of nonsense about the artist and the object, and about there being two kinds of vision. Oh, a lot of high-sounding mumbo-jumbo."

"He didn't drone, Sergey. And he was good. Very good."

Sergey laughed and leaned across the table, smiling at the red-haired girl who had been his lover for almost two years. "Who told you that? Lotte here?" He laughed. "Well, whoever it was, they were wrong. It's a pity you missed it, Catherine. Shepherd was quite impressive, in a bullshitting sort of way, but . . ." He shrugged, lifting his free hand, the fingers wide open. "Well, that's all it was, really.

Bullshit."

Catherine glanced up at him, as ever slightly intimidated by his manner. She picked up her glass and cradled it against her cheek, the chill red wine casting a roseate shadow across her face. "I didn't just hear about it. I was there. At the back of the hall. I got there late, that's all." "Then you know it was crap."

She hesitated, embarrassed. She didn't like to contradict him, but in this he was wrong. "I ... I don't agree . . ." He laughed. "You don't agree?" She wanted to leave it at that, but he insisted. "What do you mean?"

She took a breath. "I mean that he was right. There is more to it than Fan Liang-wei claims. The Six Principles . . . they strangle art. Because it isn't simply a matter of selection and interpretation. As Shepherd said, it has to do with other factors, with things unseen." Sergey snorted.

She shivered, irritated by his manner. "I knew you'd do that. You're just like Fan Liang-wei, sneering at anything you disagree with. And both of you . . . well, you see only the material aspect of the art, its structure and its plastic elements. You don't see—"

Sergey had been shaking his head, a patient, condescending smile fixed on his lips, but now he interrupted her.

"What else is there? There's only light and shadow, texture and color. That's all you can put on a canvas. It's a two-dimensional thing. And all this business about things unseen, it's . . ." He waved it away lightly with his hand.

She shook her head violently, for once really angry with him. "No! What you're talking about is great design, not great art. Shepherd was right. That painting, for instance—the Tung Ch'i ch'ang. It was crap."

Sergey snorted again. "So you say. But it has nothing to do with art, really, has it?" He smiled, sitting back in his chair. "You fancy the fellow, don't you?"

She set her glass down angrily. Wine splashed and spilled across the dark green cloth. "Now you're talking bullshit!"

He shook his head, talking over her protestations. "My friend Amandsun tells me that the man's not even a member of the Arts Faculty. He really is a scientist of some kind. A technician."

He emphasized each syllable of the final word, giving it a distinctly unwhole-

some flavor.

Catherine glared at him a moment, then turned away, facing the aviary and its colorful occupants. On one of the higher perches a great golden bird fluffed out its wings as if to stretch into flight. The long, silken underfeathers were as black as night. It opened its beak, then settled again, making no sound.

Sergey watched the girl a moment, his eyes half lidded; then, sensing victory, he pushed home with his taunts.

"Yes, I bet our dear Catherine wouldn't mind him tinkering with her things unseen."

That did it. She turned and took her glass, then threw its contents into his face. He swore and started to get up, wiping at his eyes, but Wolf leaned across, holding his arm firmly. "Too far, Sergey. Just a bit too far . . ." he said, looking across at Catherine as he spoke.

Catherine stood there a moment longer, her head held back, fierce, proud, her face lit with anger; then she took five coins from her purse and threw them down onto the table. "For the meal," she said. Then she was gone, was walking out into the Mainway, ignoring the turned heads at other tables.

Sergey wiped the wine from his eyes with the edge of the tablecloth. "It stings! It fucking well stings!"

"It serves you right," said Lotte, watching her friend go, her eyes uncharac-teristically thoughtful. "You always have to push it beyond the limits, don't you?"

Sergey glared at her, then relented. The front of his hair was slick with wine, his collar stained. After a moment he laughed. "But I was right, wasn't I? It hit home. Dead center!"

Beside him Wolf laughed, looking across at his sister and meeting her eyes. "Yes," he said, smiling, seeing his smile mirrored back. "I've never seen her so angry. But who is this Shepherd? I mean, what's his background?"

Sergey shrugged. "No one seems to know. He's not from one of the known families. And he doesn't make friends, that's for sure."

"An upstart, do you think?" Lotte leaned across, collecting the coins and stacking them up in a neat pile.

"I guess so." Sergey wiped at his hair with his fingers, then licked them. "Hmm. It might be interesting to find out, don't you think? To try to unearth something about him?"

Wolf laughed. "Unearth. I like that. Do you think . . . ?"

Sergey wrinkled his nose, then shook his head. "No. He's too big to have come from the Clay. You can spot those runts from ten li off. No, Mid-Levels, I'd say."

Lotte looked up, smiling. "Well, wherever he comes from, he has nerve, I'll say that for him."

Sergey considered, then grudgingly agreed. "Yes. He's impressive in a sort of gauche, unpolished way. No manners, though. I mean, poor old Fan was completely at a loss. You can be sure he won't rest until he's found a way of getting even with our friend."

Wolf nodded. "That's the trouble with the lower levels," he said, watching his sister's hands as they stacked and unstacked the coins, "they've no sense of what's right. No sense of Li. Of propriety."

"Or of art," Sergey added.

"No . . ." And their laughter carried across the tables.

ben DREW BACK into the shadows, watching. The two old men had gone down onto their knees before the makeshift shrine, the paper offerings and the bowls of food laid out in front of them. As he watched they bowed in unison, mumbling a prayer to the spirits of the departed. Then, while one of them stood and stepped back, his head still bowed, the other took a small brush from his inside jacket pocket and lifting the bowls one at a time, swept the space in front of the tablets.

The two men were no more than ten or fifteen paces from Ben, yet it seemed as if a vast gulf separated them from him—an abyss of comprehension. He noted the paper money they had laid down for the dead, the sprigs of plastic "willow" each wore hanging from his hair knot, and frowned, not understanding.

When they were gone he went across and stood there, looking at the wall and at the offerings laid out before it. It was a simple square of wall, the end of one of the many cul-de-sacs that led from Main, yet it had been transformed. Where one expected blankness, one came upon a hundred tiny tablets, each inscribed with the names and dates of the deceased. He looked, reading several of them, then bent down, picking up one of the paper notes of money. It was beautifully made, like the other presents here, but none of it was real. These were things for the dead.

For the last hour he had simply walked in the lowest levels of Oxford stack, trying to understand the events in the lecture hall; had drifted through the corridors like a ghost, purposeless.

Or so he'd thought.

Their laughter had not touched him. It had been an empty, meaningless noise, a braying to fill the void within. No, but the emptiness itself—that unease he had seen behind every eye as he was speaking—that worried him. It had been like speaking to the dead. To the hordes of hungry ghosts who, so the Han believed, had no roots to tie them to this world, no living descendants to fulfill their all-too-human needs. They were lost and they looked lost. Even their guide, the Great Man. He more than any of them.

These thoughts had filled him, darkening his mood. And then, to come upon this. . .

Ben turned, hearing a noise behind him, but it was only an old man, two pots slung from the yoke that rested on his shoulders, the one balancing the other. As the old man came on he noticed Ben and stopped, his ancient face wrinkling, as if suspicious of Ben's motives.

Ben stood. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to startle you. I was just looking." He smiled. "Are you a ch'a seller?"

"Ch'a?" The old man stared back at Ben, puzzled, then looked down at one of the pots he was carrying and gave a cackle of laughter. "No, Master. You have it wrong. This . . ." he laughed again, showing his broken teeth, "this isn't ch'a, Master. This is ash."

"Ash?"

The old man grinned back at him fiercely. "Of course. I'm Lu Nan Jen for this stack."

The Oven Man.' Of course! So the ash . . . Ben laughed, surprised. "And all this?" he asked, half turning to indicate the shrine, the paper offerings, the bowls of food.

The old man laughed uneasily. "You're a strange one, Master. Don't you know what day it is? It's Sao Mu, the Feast of the Dead."

Ben's eyes widened. Of course! The fifteenth day of the third month of the old calendar. Ch'ing Ming, it was, the festival of brightness and purity, when the graves were swept and offerings made to the deceased.

"Forgive me," he offered quickly, "I'm a student. My studies. . . they've kept me very busy recently."

"Ah, a student." The old man bowed respectfully, the yoke about his neck bobbing up and down with the movement. Then he looked up, his old eyes twinkling. "I'm afraid I can't offer you any of this ash, Master, but the ch'a kettle is on inside if you'd honor me with your presence."

Ben hesitated a moment, then returned the old man's bow. "I would be honored, Lu Nan Jen."

The old man grinned back at him, delighted, his head bobbing, then made his way to a door on the far side of the corridor. Ben followed him in, looking about the tiny room while the old man set down his pots and freed himself from the yoke.

"I must apologize for the state of things, Master. I have few visitors. Few live visitors, if you understand me?"

Ben nodded. There was a second door at the other end of the room with a sign in Mandarin that forbade unauthorized entry. On the wall beside it was a narrow shelf, on which were a meager dozen or so tape-books—the kind that were touch-operated. Apart from that there was only a bed, a small stool, and a low table on which were a ch'a kettle and a single bowl. He watched while the old man poured the ch'a then turned to him, offering the bowl.

"You will share with me, I hope?" he said, meeting the old man's eyes. "I . . ." The old man hesitated, then gave a small bow. It was clear he had not expected such a kindness.

Ben sipped at the ch'a, then offered the bowl to the old man. Again he hesitated; then, encouraged by Ben's warm smile, he took the bowl and drank noisily from it.

"It must be strange, this life of yours, Lu Nan Jen."

The Oven Man laughed and looked about him, as if considering it for the first time. "No stranger than any man's."

"Maybe so. But what kind of life is it?"

The old man sat, then leaned forward on the stool, the ch'a bowl held loosely in one hand. "You want the job?" he asked, amused by Ben's query.

Ben laughed. "No. I have enough to do, loo jen. But your work—it fascinates me."

The old man narrowed his eyes slightly. "Do you mean my work, or what I work with?"

"You can separate the two things that easily?"

The Oven Man looked down, a strange smile on his lips, then he looked up again, offering the ch'a bowl to Ben. "You seem to know a lot, young Master. What is it that you're a student of?"

"Of life," Ben answered. "At least, so my father says."

The old man held his eyes a moment, then nodded, impressed by the seriousness he saw in the younger man's face.

"This is a solitary life, young Master." He gave a small chuckle, then rubbed at his lightly bearded chin. "Oh, I see many people, but few who are either able or inclined to talk."

"You've always been alone?"

"Always?" The old man sniffed, his dark eyes suddenly intense. "Always is a long time, Master, as any of my clients would tell you if they could. But to answer you— no, there were women, one or two, in the early years." He looked up, suddenly more serious. "Oh, don't mistake me, Master, 1 am like other men in that. Age does not diminish need and a good fuck is a good fuck, neh?"

When Ben didn't answer, the old man shrugged.

"Anyway . . . there were one or two. But they didn't stay long. Not after they discovered what was in the back room."

Ben turned, looking at the door, his eyebrows lifted.

"You want to see?"

"May I?"

Ben set the ch'a down and followed the old man, not knowing what he would find. A private oven? A room piled high with skulls? Fresh corpses, partly dissected? Or something even more gruesome? He felt a small shiver of anticipation run through him, but the reality of what met his eyes was wholly unexpected.

He moved closer, then laughed, delighted. "But it's—beautiful!"

"Beautiful?" The old man came and stood beside him, trying to see it as Ben saw it, with new eyes.

"Yes," Ben said, reaching out to touch one of the tiny figures next to the tree.

Then he drew his finger back and touched it to his tongue. The taste was strange and yet familiar. "What did you use?"

The old man pointed to one side. There, on a small table were his brushes and paints and beside the paint pots a bowl like the two he had been carrying when Ben had first met him. A bowl filled with ashes.

"I see," said Ben. 'And you mix the ash with dyes?" The old man nodded.

Ben looked back at the mural. It almost filled the end wall. Only a few white spaces here and there, at the edges and the top left of the painting, revealed where the composition was unfinished. Ben stared and stared, then remembered suddenly what the old man had said.

"How long did you say you've been working at this?"

The old man crouched down, inspecting something at the bottom of the painting. "I didn't."

"But—" Ben turned slightly, looking at him, seeing things in his face that he had failed to notice earlier. "I mean, what you said about the women, when you were younger. Was this here then?"

"This?" The old man laughed. "No, not this. At least, not all of it. Just a small part. This here . . ." He sketched out a tiny portion of the composition, at the bottom center of the wall.

"Yes. Of course." Ben could see it now. The figures there were much cruder than the others. Now that his attention had been drawn to it, he could see how the composition had grown, from the center out. The Oven Man had learned his art slowly, patiently, year by year adding to it, extending the range of his expression. Until. . .

Ben stood back, taking in the whole of the composition for the first time. It was the dance of death. To the far left, a giant figure—huge compared to the other, much smaller figures—led the dance. It was a tall, emaciated figure, its skin glass-pale, its body like that of an ill-fed fighter, the bare arms lithely muscled, the long legs stretched taut like a runner's. Its body was facing to the left—to the west and the darkness beyond—but its horselike, shaven head was turned unnaturally on its long neck, staring back dispassionately at the naked host that followed, hand in hand, down the path through the trees.

In its long, thin hands Death held a flute, the reed placed to its lipless mouth. From the tapered mouth of the flute spilled a flock of tiny birds, dark like ravens, yet cruel, their round eyes like tiny beads of milky white as they fell onto the host below, pecking at eye and limb.

The trees were to the right. Willow and ash and mulberry. Beneath them and to their left, in the center of the mural, a stream fell between rocks, heavy with the yellow earth of Northern China. These were the Yellow Springs, beneath which, it was said, the dead had their domain, ti yu, the "earth prison." He saw how several among that host—Han and Hung Moo alike—looked up at that golden spill of water as they passed, despairing, seeing nothing of its shining beauty.

It was a scene of torment, yet there was compassion there, too. Beneath one of the trees the two figures he had first noticed embraced one final time before they joined the dance. They were a mother and her child, the mother conquering her fear to comfort her tearful daughter. And, further on, beneath the biggest of the willows, two lovers pressed their faces close in one last, desperate kiss, knowing they must part forever.

He looked and looked, drinking it in, then nodded, recognizing the style. It was shanshui—mountains and water. But this was nothing like the lifeless perfection Tung Ch'i-ch'ang had painted. These mountains were alive, in motion, the flow of water was turbulent, disturbed by the fall of rock from above.

It was a vision of last things. Of the death not of a single man but of a world. Of Chung Kuo itself.

He stood back, shivering. It was some time since he had been moved so profoundly by anything. The Oven Man was not a great painter—at least, not technically—yet what he lacked in skill he more than made up for in vision. For this was real. This had Ch'i—vitality. Had it in excess.

"I can see why they left you, Lu Nan Jen. Was this a dream?" The old man turned, looking at Ben, his whole manner changed. There was no mistaking him now for a simple ch'a seller. "You understand, then?" Ben met his eyes. "When did it come?"

"When I was ten. My life . . ." He shrugged, then looked away. "I guess there was nothing I could be after that but Lu Nan Jen. There was no other school for me." "Yes." Ben turned, looking at it again, awed by its simple power. "All this—your work—it must keep you busy."

"Busy?" The old man laughed. "There is no busier person in the Seven Cities than the Oven Man, unless it is the Midwife. They say eight hundred million die each year. Eight hundred million, and more, each year. Always more. There is no room for such numbers in the earth. And so they come to my ovens." He laughed, a strangely thoughtful expression on his face. "Does that disturb you, young Master?"

"No," Ben answered honestly, yet it made him think of his father. How long would it be before Hal, too, was dead—alive in memory alone? Yet he, at least, would lie at rest in the earth. Ben frowned. "Your vision is marvelous, Lu Nan Jen.

And yet, when you talk, you make it all sound so—so prosaic. So meaningless."

"From nothing they come. To nothing they return."

"Is that what you believe?"

The old man shrugged, his eyes going to the darkness at the far left of the mural, beyond the figure of Death. "To believe in nothing, is that a belief? If so, I believe." Ben smiled. There was more sense, more wisdom in this old man than in a thousand Fan Liang-weis. And himself? What did he believe? Did he believe in nothing? Was the darkness simply darkness? Or was there something there, within it? Just as there seemed to be a force behind the light, was there not also a force behind the dark? Maybe even the same force?

The old man sighed. "Forgive me, young Master, but I must leave you now. I have my ovens to attend. But please, if you wish to stay here . . ."

Ben lowered his head. "I thank you, Lu Nan Jen. And I am honored that you showed me your work. It is not every day that I come across something so real."

The Oven Man bowed, then met Ben's eyes again. "I am glad you came, young Master. It is not every day that I meet someone who understands such things. The dream uses us, does it not?"

Ben nodded, moved by the old man's humility. To create this and yet to know how little he had had to do with its creating. That was true knowledge.

He bowed again and made to go, then stopped. "One last thing," he said, turning back. "Do you believe in ghosts?"

The Oven Man laughed and looked about him at the air. "Ghosts? Why, there's nothing here but ghosts!"

"Catherine? Are you in there?"

She closed her eyes and let her forehead rest against the smooth, cool surface of the door, willing him to go and leave her in peace, but his voice returned, stronger, more insistent.

"Catherine? You are there, aren't you? Let me in."

"Go away," she said, hearing the tiredness in her voice. "You've a date with young Heng, haven't you? Why don't you just go to that and leave me be."

"Let me in," he said, ignoring her comment. "Come on. We need to talk."

She sighed, then stepped back, reaching across to touch the lock. At once the door slid back.

Sergey had changed. He was wearing his gambling clothes—dark silks that lent him a hard, almost sinister air. She had never liked them, least of all now, when she was angry with him.

"Still sulking?" he asked, making his way past her into the room. She had thrown a sheet over the oil board to conceal what she had been working on, but he went straight to it, throwing back the sheet. "Is this what's been causing all the difficulties?" She punched the touch pad irritably, closing the door, then turned to face him.

"What do you want?"

He laughed, then came across to her. "Is that how you greet me?"

He tried to embrace her, but she pushed him away.

"You forget," she said, moving past him and throwing the sheet back over the oil board.

"It was a joke—" he began, but she rounded on him angrily.

"You're a child! Do you know that?"

He shrugged. "I thought that's what you liked about me. Besides, it wasn't you who had wine thrown in your face. That hurt."

"Good."

She turned away, but he caught her arm and pulled her back.

"Let go of me," she said coldly, looking down at where he held her.

"Not until you apologize."

She laughed, astonished by him. "Me apologize? After what you said? You can go rot in hell before I apologize to you!"

He tightened his grip until she cried out, tearing her arm away from his grasp.

"You bastard. You've no right—"

"No right?" He came closer, his face leaning into hers threateningly. "After what we've been to each other these last two years, you have the nerve to say I've no right?" His voice was hard, harder than she had ever heard it before, and she found herself suddenly frightened by this aspect of him. Had it always been there, just below the surface of his charm? Yes. She'd always known it about him. Perhaps that was even what had first attracted her to him. But now she was tired of it. Tired of his thoughtless domination of her. Let him drink himself to death, or take his whores, or gamble away all his money—she would have no more of it.

"Just go, Sergey. Now, before you make even more of a fool of yourself."

She saw his eyes widen with anger and knew she had said the wrong thing. He reached out and grabbed her neck roughly, pulling her closer to him. "A fool?"

Through her fear she recognized the strange parallel of the words with those Fan Liang-wei had used to Shepherd. Then she was fighting to get away from him, hitting his arms and back as he pulled her chin around forcibly and pressed his mouth against her own. Only then did he release her, pushing her back away from him, as if he had finished with her.

"And now I'll go see Heng."

She shivered, one hand wiping at her mouth unconsciously. "You bastard," she said, her voice small. "You obnoxious bastard . . ." She was close to tears now, her anger displaced suddenly by the hurt she felt. How dare he do that to her? How dare he treat her like his thing?

But he only shook his head. "Grow up, Catherine. For the gods' sake grow up."

"Me?" But her indignation was wasted on him. He had turned away. Slamming his fist against the lock, he pushed out through the door, barely waiting for it to open. Then he was gone.

She stood there a while, staring at the open doorway, fear and hurt and anger coursing through her. Then, as the automatic lock came on and the door hissed closed, she turned and went into the kitchen. She reached up, pulled down a bottle of peach brandy, and poured herself a large glass, her hands trembling. Then, using both hands to steady the glass, she took a long, deep swig of it, closing her eyes, the rich, dark liquid burning her throat.

She shuddered. The bastard! How dare he?

Back in the other room, she set the glass down on the floor, then threw the sheet back from the oil board, looking at the painting. It was meant to be a joint portrait. Of her and Sergey. Something she had meant to give him for their second anniversary, two weeks away. But now . . .

She looked at it, seeing it with new eyes. It was shit. Lifeless shit. As bad as the Tung Ch'i-ch'ang landscape. She pressed ERASE and stood back, watching as the faces faded and the colored, contoured screen became a simple, silk smooth rectangle of uncreated whiteness.

For a moment she felt nothing, then, kneeling, she picked up her glass, cradling it against her cheek momentarily before she put it to her lips and drank.

She looked up again, suddenly determined. Fuck him! If that was what he thought of her, if that was how he was prepared to treat her, she would have no more of it. Let it be an end between them.

She swallowed, the warmth in her throat deceptive, the tears threatening to come despite her determination not to cry. She sniffed, then raised her glass, offering a toast to the silent doorway.

"Go fuck yourself, Sergey Novacek! May you rot in hell!"

sergey STOOD at the top of the steps looking down into the huge, dimly lit gaming room of the Jade Peony. Lights above the tables picked out where games were in progress, while at the far end a bar ran from left to right, backlit and curved like a crescent moon. The floor below was busy. Crowds gathered about several of the tables, the excited murmur of their voices carrying to where he stood.

There was a sweet, almost peppery scent in the air, like cinnamon mixed with plum and jasmine, strangely feminine, yet much too strong to be pleasant. It was the smell of them—of the sons of the Minor Families and their friends. The distinguishing mark of this Han elite, like a pheromonal dye. Sergey smiled. In theory The Jade Peony was a mixed club, membership determined not by race but by recommendation and election, but in practice the only Hung Mao here were guests, like himself.

Yang kuei tzu, they called his kind. "Ocean devils." Barbarians.

Even the Han at the door had looked down on him. He had seen the contempt that lay behind that superficial mask of politeness. Had heard him turn, after he had gone, and mutter a word or two of his own tongue to the other doorman. Had heard them laugh and knew it was about him.

Well, he'd wipe a few smiles from their faces tonight. And Heng? His smile broadened momentarily. He would make sure Heng would not be smiling for a long time.

He went down the plushly carpeted stairway, past the great dragon-head sculpture that stood to one side, making his way to the bar.

As he passed they stared at him openly, their hostility unmasked.

Heng Chian-ye was where he said he would be, at a table on the far left, close to the bar, a big, hexagonal table covered in a bright-red silk. Representations of the wu fu, the five gods of good luck, formed a patterned border around its edge, the tiny silhouettes picked out in green.

He smiled and bowed. "Heng Chian-ye . . . You received my message, I hope."

Heng Chian-ye was seated on the far side of the table, a glass and a wine bottle in front of him. To either side of him sat his friends, four in all, young, fresh-faced Han in their early twenties, their long fingernails and elaborately embroidered silks the calling card of their kind. They stared back at Sergey coldly, as if at a stranger, while Heng leaned forward, a faint smile playing on his lips.

"Welcome, Shih Novacek. 1 got your message. Even so, I did wonder whether you would make an appearance tonight." His smile broadened momentarily, as if to emphasize the jest. "Anyway, you're here now, neh? So please take a seat. I'll ask the waiter to bring you a drink."

"Just wine," he said, answering the unspoken query, then sat, smiling a greeting at the others at the table, inwardly contemptuous of them.

Then, taking the silken pouch from inside his jacket pocket, he threw it across the table so that it landed just in front of Heng Chian-ye. It was deliberately done; not so much an insult as an act of gaucheness. In the circles in which Heng mixed it was not necessary to provide proof of means before you began to play. It was assumed that if you sat at a gaming table you could meet your debts. Thus it was among the ch'un tzu. Only hsiao jen—little men—acted as Sergey was acting now.

Sergey saw the looks that passed among Heng and his friends and smiled inwardly. Their arrogance, their ready assumption of superiority—these were weaknesses. And the more he could feed that arrogance, the weaker they would become. The weaker they, the stronger he.

"What's this?" Heng said, fingering the string of the pouch as if it were unclean.

"My stake," Sergey said, sitting forward slightly, as if discomfited. "Look and see. I think you'll find it's enough."

Heng laughed and shook his head. "Really, Shih Novacek. That's not how we do things here."

Sergey raised his eyebrows, as if puzzled. "You do not wish to play, then? But I thought. . ."

Heng was smiling tightly. His English was clipped, polite. "It isn't what I meant." He lifted the pouch with two fingers and threw it back across the table. "You would not be here if I ... doubted your ability to pay."

Sergey smiled. "Forgive me," he said, looking about him as he picked up the pouch and returned it to his pocket, "I did not mean to offend."

"Of course," Heng answered, smiling; yet the way he glanced at his friends revealed what he was really thinking. "I understand, Shih Novacek. Our ways differ. But the game . . ."

Sergey lowered his head slightly, as if acknowledging the wisdom of what Heng Chian-ye had said. "The game is itself. The same for Han and Hung Mao alike."

Heng gave the barest nod. "So it is. Well, shall we play?"

"Just you and I, Heng Chian-ye? Or will the ch'un tzu join us?"

Heng looked to either side of him. "Chan Wen-fu? Tsang Yi? Will you play?"

Two of the Han nodded, the other two—as if on cue—stood, letting the others spread out around the table.

"You will be west, Shih Novacek, I east. My friends here will be north and south."

Sergey sat back, taking the wine from the waiter who had appeared at his side. "That's fine with me. You have new cards?"

Heng lifted his chin, as if in signal to the waiter. A moment later the man returned with a sealed pack, offering them to Sergey. He took them and hefted them a moment, then set them down on the table.

"Bring another."

Heng smiled tightly. "Is there something wrong with them, Shih Novacek?"

"Not at all, Heng Chian-ye. Please, bear with me. It is a foible of mine. A superstition." He spoke the last word quietly, as if ashamed of such a weakness, and saw the movement in Heng's eyes, the way he looked to north and south, as if to reinforce the point to his two friends.

"You have many superstitions, Shih Novacek?"

"Not many. But this . . ." He shrugged, then turned, taking the new pack from the waiter and putting it down beside the other. Then, to Heng's surprise, he picked up the first and broke the seal.

"But I thought . . ."

Sergey looked down, ignoring Heng's query, fanning the huge cards out on the table in front of him. There were one hundred and sixty cards in a pack of Chou, or "State," arranged into nine levels, or groupings. At the head of all was the Emperor, enthroned in golden robes. Beneath him were his seven Ministers, these graybeards plainly dressed, as if in contrast. At the third level were the Family Heads—the twenty-nine cards richly decorated, each one quite different from the others. At the next level down the four Generals seemed at first glance quite uniform; yet the staunch Hung Mao faces of the old men differed considerably. Beneath them came the four Wives of the Emperor, ranked in their household order, and beneath them—at the sixth level—came the two Concubines, their scantily dressed figures making them the most attractive of the cards. Next were the eight Sons, their resemblance to their respective mothers suggested by their facial features and cleverly underlined by use of color and decoration. Then, at the eighth level of this complex hierarchy came the eighty-one Officials, ranked in nine levels of nine, their great chi ling patches displayed on the chests of their powder-blue gowns. And finally, at the ninth level—last in the great pecking order of State—were the twenty-four Company Heads, their corporate symbols—some long forgotten, some just as familiar now as when the game was first played one hundred and twenty years before—emblazoned on the copy of the Edict scroll that each held.

Sergey turned one of the cards a moment, studying the reverse carefully for special markings, then compared it with a second. The backs of the cards were a bright, silken red, broken in the center by a pattern of three concentric circles, three rings of dragons—twenty-nine black dragons in the outer circle, seven larger dragons in the second, and at the very center, a single golden dragon, larger than all the others, its great jaws closing on its tail.

Sergey smiled and looked up. "These are beautiful cards, Heng Chian-ye. The faces . . . they look almost as if they were drawn from life."

Heng laughed. "So they were, my friend. These are copies of the very first Chou pack, hand-drawn by Tung Men-tiao."

Sergey looked down at the cards with a new respect. Then these were tiny portraits of the actual people who had filled those roles. Men and women whom the great artist and satirist Tung Men-tiao had known in life. He smiled. Somehow it gave the game an added bite.

"Shall we start?" Heng asked. "If you'll stack the cards, we'll cut to see who deals."

For the first few hours he had tried to keep things fairly even, attributing his victories to good fortune, his defeats to his own stupidity. And all the while he had studied their play, had seen how the other two played to Heng, even while making it seem that they had only their own interests at heart. It was clever but transparent, and he could see how it would have fooled someone else, but he was not just any player. At Chou he excelled. He had mastered it as a child, playing his father and uncles for his pocket money.

In the last game he had drawn the Emperor and despite a strong hand, had proceeded to ensure that he lost; rather than consolidating power, he played into the hands of Heng's three Minister cards. Heng's rebellion had succeeded and Sergey had ended by losing a thousand yuan. He had seen the gleam in Heng's eyes as he noted down his winnings on the tab and knew that the time was ripe. Heng had won the last two games. He must feel he was on a winning streak. What better time, then, to up the stakes?

Sergey looked down, pretending not to see how Heng looked to his left at Tsang Yi, knowing what was to come.

"Forgive me, ch'un tzu," the Han began, getting to his feet and bowing, first to his friends, and then—his head barely inclined—to Sergey, "but I must go. My father . . ."

"Of course," Heng said smoothly, before Sergey could object. "We understand, don't we, Shih Novacek?"

We do, he thought, smiling inwardly, then watching as another of Heng's circle took Tsang's place at the table.

"I'll buy Tsang out," the Han said, his eyes meeting Sergey's briefly, chal-^: lengingly. Then, turning to Heng, he added, "But look, Chian-ye, why don't we make the game more—exciting."

Heng laughed, acting as though he didn't understand his friend. "How so, Yi Shan-ch'i? Was that last game not exciting enough for you?"

Yi inclined his head slightly. "Forgive me, honorable cousin, but that is not what I meant. The game itself was good. As enjoyable to watch as I'm sure it was to play. ^; But such a game needs an added bite, don't you think? If the stake were to be raised to ten thousand yuan a game . . ."

Heng laughed, then looked across at Sergey. "Maybe so. But let's ask our friend here. Well, Shih Novacek? What do you say? Would you like to raise the stakes, or are you happy as it is?"

It was delicately put. Almost too delicately, for it was phrased to let him back off without losing face. But things were not so simple. He was not one of them, even though he sat at their table. He was Yang kuei tzu. A foreign devil. A barbarian. He looked down, wrinkling up his face as if considering the matter, then looked up again.

"Ten thousand yuan . . ." He laughed nervously. "It's more than I've lost in a whole evening before now. Still, Yi Shan-ch'i is right. It would make the game more interesting."

Heng looked to his two friends, then back at Sergey. "I would not like to pressure you."

"No." Sergey shook his head firmly, as if he had made up his mind and was now determined. "Ten thousand yuan it is. For good or ill."

He sat back, watching Yi deal. As ever Heng picked up each card as it was dealt, his face an eloquent map of his fortunes. For his own part, Sergey waited until all seventeen cards were laid facedown before him, watching the other two sort their cards before he picked up his own.

As he sorted his hand he thought back to the last time he had played Heng. The object of Chou was straightforward and could be expressed quite simply: it was to hold the most points in one's hand at the end of the final play. To do so, however, one had not only to strengthen one's own hand but to weaken one's opponents. The game's complex system of discards and exchanges, blind draws and open challenges was designed to simulate this aspect of political life, the sticky web of intrigue that underpinned it all. Heng played, however, as if he barely understood this aspect of the game, as if only the relative levels of the cards—their positive attributes— mattered to him. He sought to cram his hand full of high-scoring cards and bonus combinations—Ministers and Family Heads and Generals—failing, like so many of his kind, to understand the other side of things, the powerfully destructive potential of Concubines and Sons.

In Chou the value of a card did not always express its significance in the scheme of things. So it was with Concubines. At the end of the game they were worth only eight points—fifty-six points less than a Family Head and one hundred twenty points less than a Minister. Unless . . .

Unless the Emperor were without a Wife. In which case, the Concubine took on its negative aspect, cancelling out not only its own value but the two hundred fifty-six points that the Emperor would otherwise score.

Likewise with the Sons. While they scored only four a piece at the final count, in the company of their respective mothers they became a liability, cancelling out not merely their own value but that of any Minister held.

The skillful player sought, therefore, to pair Wives with Sons, hold back Wives from those who held the Emperor, and, at the last throw, to off-load their pairings and Concubines in an exchange of hostages. To win by undermining their opponents.

Sergey smiled, noting that he had both Concubines in his hand. Well, good. This time he would keep them. Would make it seem he had drawn them late in the play, before he could off-load them on another.

A half hour later he had lost.

"Another game, ch'un tzu?" Heng asked, jotting down Yi's victory on the tab. Sergey glanced across. He was eleven thousand down, Chan nine, Heng eight. Yi, who had taken on Tsang's deficit of two thousand, was now twenty-eight thousand up.

Heng dealt this time. "Has anyone the Emperor?" he asked, having sorted out his own hand.

Sergey laid it down before him, then reached across to take another card from the pile. Having the Emperor made one strong. But it also made one vulnerable— to Concubines and the scheming Sons of Wives.

Again he smiled. He had a good hand—no, an excellent hand. Three Wives and three Ministers and there, at the far left of his hand, one of the Concubines. The tiny, doe-eyed one.

He looked down, momentarily abstracted from the game, thinking back to earlier that evening and to the row with Catherine. He had shut it out before, but now it came back to him. It had been his fault. He could see that now. But why did she always have to provoke him so? Why couldn't she be more like the other women he knew? He felt a mild irritation at her behavior. Why did she always have to be so stubborn? Didn't she know what it did to him? And all that business with the "technician," Shepherd. Why had she done that, if not to spite him? She knew how jealous he was. Why couldn't she be a bit more compliant? Then again, he liked her spirit. So different from Lotte and her kind.

He laughed softly, conscious of the contradiction.

"You have a good hand, Shih Novacek?" Heng asked, smiling tightly at him, misunderstanding the cause of his laughter.

"I think so, Heng Chian-ye," he answered, leaning forward to place two of the Ministers facedown onto the discard pile. "I think so."

Two hours later he was sixty-one thousand down. He wasn't the only one down, of course. Chan had a deficit of nineteen thousand marked against his name. But Yi was eighteen thousand up, and Heng, who had won three of the last four games, was sixty-two thousand in credit.

It had gone perfectly. Exactly as he'd planned. He looked across. Heng Chian-ye was smiling broadly. In the last hour Heng had begun to drink quite heavily, as if to buoy up his nerves. He had drunk so much, in fact, that he had almost made a simple mistake, discarding the wrong card. An error that could have lost him everything. Only Yi's quick action had prevented it, an intercession Sergey had pretended not to see.

Now was the time. While Heng was at the height of his pride. But it must come from Heng. In such company as this it must seem that it was not he but Heng who raised the stakes a second time.

In the last hour a small crowd had gathered about the table, intrigued by the sight of a Hung Moo playing Chou in the Jade Peony. Sergey had noted how a ripple of satisfaction had gone through the watchers each time he had lost and had felt something harden deep inside him. Well, now he would show them.

He leaned back in his seat, pretending to stifle a yawn. "I'm tired," he said. "Too many late nights, I guess." He smiled across at Heng. "Maybe I should stop now, while I've any of my fortune left."

Heng glanced across at his friends, then looked back at him. "You mean to leave us soon, Shih Novacek?"

He straightened up and took a deep breath, as if trying to sober up. "Fairly soon."

"Your luck must change."

"Must it?" He laughed harshly, then seemed to relent. "Well, maybe . . ."

"In which case . . ." Heng looked about him, then leaned toward Sergey again. "Maybe you'd like the chance to win your money back, eh, my friend? One game. Just you and I. For sixty-one thousand."

Sergey looked down. Then, surprisingly, he shook his head. "I wouldn't hear of it. Even if 1 won, well, it would be as if we hadn't played." He looked up, meeting Heng's eyes. "No, my friend. There must be winners and losers in this world of ours, neh? If we are to play, let it be for—seventy-five thousand. That way I at least have a small chance of coming out ahead."

Heng smiled and his eyes traveled quickly to his friends again. There was an expectant hush now about the table.

"Make it a hundred."

He made a mime of considering the matter, then shrugged. "All right. So be it." He turned, summoning a waiter. "Bring me a coffee. Black, two sugars. I might need my wits about me this time."

It took him twenty minutes.

"It seems my luck has changed," he said, meeting Heng's eyes, seeing at once how angry the other man was with himself; for he had made it seem as though victory were the Han's, only to snatch it away at the last moment. "I was fortunate to draw that last card."

He saw what it cost Heng to keep back the words that almost came to his lips and knew he had him.

"Anyway," he added quickly, "I really should go now. I thank you for your hospitality, Heng Chian-ye. Settle with me when you will. You know where to find me." He pushed his chair back from the table and got to his feet.

"Wait!"

Heng was leaning forward, his hand extended toward Sergey.

"Surely you won't go now, Shih Novacek? As you yourself said, your luck has changed. Why, then, do you hurry from your fortune? Surely you aren't afraid, my friend?"

Sergey stared back at him. "Afraid?"