The Middle Kingdom

Her hand went to his face, then moved down until it rested on his shoulder.

"You have it?"

He took the two packets from his jacket pocket and threw them down onto the bed beside her. If she noticed his rudeness, she said nothing, but leaned forward urgently, scrabbling for the tiny sachets, then tore one open with her small pointed teeth and swallowed its contents down quickly.

It was as he had thought. She was an addict.

He watched her close her eyes again, breathing deeply, letting the drug take hold of her. When she turned her head and looked at him again she seemed more human, more animated, a slight playfulness in her eyes revealing how attractive she must once have been. But it was only a shadow. A shadow in a darkened room.

"Your eyes," she said, letting her hand rest on his chest again. "They seem . . . wrong somehow."

"Yes." He put a finger to each eye, popping out the contact lenses he had borrowed from DeVore's drawer, then looked back at her, noting her surprise.

"Hello, Mother."

"I have no..." she began, then laughed strangely, understanding. "So. You're Pietr's son."

He saw how the muscles beneath her eyes betrayed her. But there was no love there. How could there be? She had killed him long ago. Before he was born.

She swallowed. "What do you want?"

In answer he leaned forward and held her to him, embracing her. DeVore is right, he thought. Trust no one. For there's only yourself in the end.

He let her fall back among the satin cushions, the tiny, poisoned blade left embedded at the base of her spine. Then he stood and looked at her again. His mother. A wpman he had never met before today.

Carefully, almost tenderly, he took the device from his pocket, set it, then laid it on the bed beside her. In sixty seconds it would catch fire, kindling the silks and satins, igniting the gauzelike layers of voile, cleansing the room of every trace of her.

Lehmann moved back, away, pausing momentarily, wishing he could see it, then turned and left, locking the door behind him, knowing that no one now had any hold on him. Especially not DeVore.

LI YUANLAY there in the darkness, listening to the rain falling in the garden beyond the open windows, letting his heartbeat slow, his breathing return to normal. The dream was fading now and with it the overwhelming fear which had made him cry out and struggle back to consciousness, but still he could see its final image, stretching from horizon to horizon, vast and hideously white.

He shuddered, then heard the door ease open, a soft tread on the tiled floor.

"Do you want company, Li Yuan?"

He sighed, then rolled over and looked across to where she stood, shadowed and naked, at the foot of his bed.

"Not now, Sweet Rose. Not now. ..."

He sensed, rather than saw, her hesitation. Then she was gone and he was alone again.

He got up, knowing he would not sleep now, and went to the window, staring out into the moonlit garden. Then, taking a gown from the side, he wrapped it about him and went to the double doors that led out into the garden, pulling them open.

For a while Li Yuan stood there, his eyes closed, breathing in the fresh, sweet night scents of the garden. Then he went outside, onto the balcony, the coldness of the marble flags beneath his feet making him look down, surprised.

"Prince Yuan?"

He waved the guard away, then went down, barefoot, into the garden. In the deep shadow of the bower he paused, looking about him, then searched blindly until he came upon it.

"Ah!" he said softly, finding the book there, on the side, where she had laid it only hours before. It had been in the dream, together with the horse, the silks, the scent of plum blossom. The thought made his throat dry again. He shivered and picked the book up, feeling at once how heavy it was, the cover warped, ruined by the rain. He was about to go back out when his fingers found, then read, the pictograms embossed into the sodden surface of the cover.

Yu T'ai Hsin Yang.

He moved his fingers over the figures once again, making sure, then laughed shortly, understanding. It was a book of love poetry. The sixth-century collection New Songs from a]ade Terrace. He had not read the book himself, but he had heard of it. Moving out from the bower he turned it over and held it out, under the moonlight, trying to make out the page she had been reading. It was a poem by Chiang Yen. "Lady Pan's Poem on the Fan."

White silk like a round moon

Appearing from the loom's white silk.

Its picture shows the king of Ch'in's daughter

Riding a lovebird toward smoky mists.

Vivid color is what the world prefers,

Yet the new will never replace the old.

In secret I fear cold winds coming

To blow on my jade steps tree

And, before your sweet love has ended,

Make it shed midway.

He shivered and closed the book abruptly. It was like the dream, too close, too portentous to ignore. He looked up at the three-quarter moon and felt its coldness touch him to the core. It was almost autumn, the season of executions, when the moon was traditionally associated with criminals.

The moon ... A chill thread of fear ran down his spine, making him drop the book. In contrast to the sun the new moon rose first in the west. Yes, it was from the West that Chang-e, the goddess of the Moon, first made herself known.

Chang-e . . . The association of the English and the Mandarin was surely fanciful—yet he was too much the Han, the suggestive resonances of sounds and words too deeply embedded in his bloodstream, to ignore it.

Li Yuan bent down and retrieved the book, then straightened up and looked about him. The garden was a mosaic of moonlight and shadows, unreal and somehow threatening. It was as if, at any moment, its vague patterning of silver and black would take on a clearer, more articulate shape; forming letters or a face, as in his dream. Slowly, fearful now, he moved back toward the palace, shuddering at the slightest touch of branch or leaf, until he was inside again, the doors securely locked behind him.

He stood there a while, his heart pounding, fighting back the dark, irrational fears that had threatened to engulf him once again. Then, throwing the book down on his bed, he went through quickly, almost running down the corridors, until he came to the entrance to his fathers suite of rooms.

The four elite guards stationed outside the door bowed deeply to him but blocked his way. A moment later Wang Ta Chuan, Master of the Inner Palace, appeared from within, bowing deeply to him.

"What is it, Prince Yuan?"

"I wish to see my father, Master Wang."

Wang bowed again. "Forgive me, Excellency, but your father is asleep. Could this not wait until the morning?"

Li Yuan shuddered, then shook his head. His voice was soft but insistent. "I must see him now, Master Wang. This cannot wait."

Wang stared at him, concerned and puzzled by his behavior. Then he averted his eyes and bowed a third time. "Please wait, Prince Yuan. I will go and wake your father."

He had not long to wait. Perhaps his father had been awake already and had heard the noises at his door. Whatever, it was only a few seconds later that Li Shai Tung appeared, alone, a silk pau pulled about his tall frame, his feet, like his son's, bare.

"Can't you sleep, Yuan?"

Li Yuan bowed, remembering the last time he had spoken to his father, in the Hall of Eternal Truth, after his audience with Ssu Lu Shan. Then he had been too full of contradictions, too shocked, certainly too confused, to be able to articulate what he was feeling. But now he knew. The dream had freed his tongue and he must talk of it.

"I had a dream, Father. An awful, horrible dream."

His father studied him a moment, then nodded. "I see." He put a hand out, indicating the way. "Let us go through to your great-grandfather's room, Yuan. We'll talk there."

The room was cold, the fire grate empty. Li Shai Tung looked about him, then turned and smiled at his son. "Here, come help me, Yuan. We'll make a fire and sit about it, you there, I here." He pointed to the two big armchairs.

Li Yuan hesitated, surprised by his fathers suggestion. He had never seen the T'ang do anything fcut be a T'ang. Yet, kneeling there, helping him make up the fire, then leaning down to blow the spark into a flame, it felt to him as if he had always shared this with his father. He looked up, surprised to find his father watching him, smiling, his hands resting loosely on his knees.

"There. Now let's talk, eh?"

The fire crackled, the flames spreading quicker now. In its flickering light the T'ang sat, facing his son.

"Well, Yuan? You say you had a dream?"

Much of the early part of the dream evaded him now that he tried to recall its details, and there were some things—things related too closely to Fei Yen and his feelings for her—that he kept back from the telling. Yet the dream's ending was still vivid in his mind and he could feel that strange, dark sense of terror returning as he spoke of it.

"I was high up, overlooking the plain where the City had been. But the City was no longer there. Instead, in its place, was a mountain of bones. A great mound of sun-bleached bones, taller than the City, stretching from horizon to horizon. I looked up and the sky was strangely dark, the moon huge and full and bloated in the sky, blazing down with a cold, fierce radiance as though it were the sun. And as I looked a voice behind me said, 'This is history.' Yet when I turned there was no one there, and I realized that the voice had been my own."

He fell silent, then looked down with a shudder, overcome once more by the power of the dream.

Across from him the T'ang stretched his long body in the chair, clearly discomfited by what his son had seen. For a time he, too, was silent, then he nodded to himself. "You dream of Tsao Ch'un, my son. Of the terrible things he did. But all that is in our past now. We must learn from it. Learn not to let it happen again."

Li Yuan looked up, his eyes burning strangely. "No ... it is not the past. Can't you see that, Father? It is what we are, right now. What we represent. We are the custodians of that great white mountain—the jailers of Tsao Ch'un's City."

Normally Li Shai Tung would have lectured his son about his manners, the tone in which he spoke, yet this was different: this was a time for open speaking.

"What Tsao Ch'un did was horrible, yes. Yet think of the alternatives, Yuan, and ask yourself what else could he have done? Change had become an evil god, destroying all it touched. Things seemed beyond redemption. There was a saying back then which expressed the fatalism people felt—E hsing hsun kuan. Bad nature follows a cycle; a vicious circle, if you like. Tsao Ch'un broke that circle—fought one kind of badness with another and ended the cycle. And so it has been ever since. Until now, that is, when others wish to come and set the Wheel in motion once again."

Li Yuan spoke softly, quietly. "Maybe so, Father, yet what Tsao Ch'un did is still inside us. I can see it now. My eyes are opened to it. We are the creatures of his environment—the product of his uncompromising thought."

But Li Shai Tung was shaking his head. "No, Yuan. We are not what he created. We are our own men." He paused, staring at his son, trying to understand what he was feeling at that moment; recollecting what he himself had felt. But it was difficult. He had been much older when he had learned the truth of things.

"It is true, Yuan—the world we find ourselves born into is not what we would have it be in our heart of hearts, yet it is surely not so awful or evil a world as your dream would have it? True, it might limit our choices, but those choices are still ours to make."

Li Yuan looked up. "Then why do we keep the truth from them? What are we afraid of? That it might make them think other than we wish them to think? That they might make other choices than the ones we wish them to make?"

The T'ang nodded, firelight and shadow halving his face from brow to chin. "Perhaps. You know the saying, Yuan. To shuo hua pu ju shoo."

Li Yuan shivered, thinking of the moonlight on the garden. He knew the saying: Speech is silver, silence is golden. Sun and moon again. Silver and gold. "Maybe so," he said, yet it seemed more convenient than true.

"In time, Yuan, you will see it clearer. The shock, I know, is great. But do not let the power of your dream misguide you. It was, when all's considered, only a dream."

A dream. Only a dream. Li Yuan looked up, meeting his father's eyes again. "Maybe so. But tell me this, Father, are we good or evil men?"

CHEN LOOKED up from where he was sitting on the stool outside the equipment barn to see whose shadow had fallen across him.

"Do I know you?"

The three Han had ugly, vicious expressions on their faces. Two of them were holding thick staves threateningly in both hands. The third—the one whose shadow had fallen across him—brandished a knife. They were dressed in the same drab brown as himself.

"Ah. . . ." Chen said, seeing the likeness in their faces. So the thief had brothers. He got up slowly. "You have a score to settle?"

The momentary smile on the eldest brother's face turned quickly to a scowl of hatred. Chen could see how tense the man was and nervous, but also how determined.

Chen let the hoe he had been repairing drop, then stood there, empty handed, facing the man, watching him carefully now, knowing how dangerous he was. A careless, boastful man would often talk too much or betray himself into ill-considered movements, but these three were still and silent. They had not come to talk, nor to impress him. They had come for one thing only. To kill him.

He glanced across and saw, in the distance, outlined against the lip of the irrigation dike, the Overseer's man, Teng. So. That was how they knew. He looked back, weighing the three up, letting his thoughts grow still, his breathing normalize. His pulse was high, but that was good. It was a sign that his body was preparing itself for the fight to come.

"Your brother was a thief," he said, moving to his right, away from the stool, putting the sun to one side of him.

The eldest made a sound of disgust.

Yes, thought Chen; I understand you. And maybe another time, in different circumstances, I'd have let you kill me for what IVe done. But there are more important things just now. Like DeVore. Though you'd not understand that, would you?

Chen saw the man's movement a fraction of a second before he made it, the sudden action betrayed by a tensing of the muscles, a slight movement in his eyes. Chen bunched his fist and knocked the big knife aside, then followed through with a kick to the man's stomach that left him on his knees, badly winded.

The other two yelled and charged him, their staves raised.

Chen moved quickly to one side, making them wheel about, one of the brothers momentarily hidden behind the other. Taking his opportunity, Chen ducked and moved inside the stave's wild swing, his forearm lifting the man's chin and hurling him back into his brother.

At once Chen was standing over them, kicking, punching down at them, his breath hissing from him sharply with each blow, until the two men lay there, unconscious.

The eldest had rolled over, groaning, still gasping for his breath. As Chen turned, facing him again, his eyes widened with fear and he made to crawl away. But Chen simply stood there, his hands on his hips, getting his breath, and shook his head.

"I'm sorry. I did what I had to do. Do you understand me? I have no quarrel with you. But if you come again—if any of you come again—I will kill you all."

Chen bowed then walked back to the barn, picking up the hoe. Only then did he see Pavel, watching from the doorway.

"You saw then, Pavel?"

The young man's eyes were wide with astonishment. "I saw, Shih Tong, but I'm not sure I believe what I saw. I thought they'd kill you."

Chen smiled. "Yes. And so did Teng. I must deal with him, before he can tell others."

Pavel's eyes narrowed; then, as if he had made up his mind about something, he took Chen's arm and began to turn him about.

Chen shook him off. "What are you doing?"

Pavel stared at him. "You said you must deal with Teng. Well, he's gone already. As soon as he saw what you could do. If you want to catch him you had best come with me. I know a quicker way."

Chen laughed. "A quicker way?"

Pavel grabbed his arm again. "Yes. Now, don't argue with me. Come on! We'll cut the bastard off."

,

At the lip of the dike Pavel didn't stop but went over the top and down. Chen followed, splashing through the shallow water, then following Pavel up the other bank, pulling himself up a rough, indented ladder which had been cut into the side of the dike.

"Teng will go by the bridges," Pavel explained breathlessly as they ran across the field toward the intersection. "He won't want to get his uniform muddy. But that means he has to go along and across. We, however, can go diagonally. We can cut him at the fourth west bridge."

"Where's Chang Yan?" Chen asked, not slowing his pace. "I thought those two bastards were inseparable!"

"Chang Yan's on leave in Lodz. Which is where Teng should be. But it looks like he wanted to see the outcome of his troublemaking before he went."

Yes, thought Chen. But De Vore's behind it. I knew it. I felt he was up to something the other evening.

The fourth west bridge consisted of four long, thick planks of wood, embedded into the earth on either side of the irrigation canal. Chen waited, hidden among the man-tall stand of super-wheat to one side of the path, while Pavel stayed down below, in the water beneath the bridge.

Teng was wheezing when he came to the bridge. He slowed and wiped his brow, then came out onto the wooden planking.

"Teng Fu," said Chen, stepping out onto the pathway. "How fortunate to meet you here."

Teng blinked furiously, then turned, looking about him. The sun was quite low now. The fields on every side were empty.

He turned back, facing Chen, slipping the rifle from his shoulder and holding it out before him threateningly. But it was clear he was shaken.

"Get out of my way, Tong Chou! I'll kill you if you don't!"

Chen laughed scornfully. "It's Chen, by the way. Kao Chen. But that aside, why should I move? You've seen too much, Teng. If I let you go, you'll say what you've seen, and I can't have that. Anyway, it was you set those poor bastards onto me, wasn't it? You who told them. Well. . . this will be for them. And for their brother. Oh, and for Pavel too."

Teng turned too late. Pavel had climbed the bank and come up behind him. As the Overseer's man turned, hearing someone behind him, Pavel launched himself forward and pushed. Teng fell awkwardly, going headlong into the shallow stream, the gun falling away from him.

Chen ran forward, then jumped from the bridge into the water. Pavel followed him a fraction of a second later.

Teng rolled over, lifting his head from the water, spluttering, his eyes wide with surprise, only to find himself thrust down again. He was a big man and struggled hard, straining with his arms and neck to free himself, his feet kicking desperately beneath him, but the two men gritted their teeth and held him down beneath the water until, after one final, violent spasm of activity, Teng's body went limp.

Pavel shuddered, then stood up in the water, looking down at what he had done.

"Gods. . . ." he said softly. "We've killed him."

"Yes," said Chen, steeling himself, recognizing the pain in the young man's twisted face. Oh, Pavel had hated him beforehand—had hated him even enough to kill him—but now that it was done the boy saw Teng clearer, as another man. A man he had robbed of life. "Come on," he said, getting to his feet. "We have to hide the body."

For a moment Pavel just stared at the lifeless body that now floated, facedown, in the shallow water; then he seemed to come to himself. He swallowed deeply, then looked back at Chen. "What?"

"We have to hide the body," Chen repeated, careful to be gentle with the boy. "Do you know a place, Pavel?"

The light was failing fast. They would not be missed at once, but if they delayed too long . . .

Pavel shivered again, then nodded. "Yes. There's a place. Farther along."

They towed the heavy body between them, pulling it by its arms, moving as quickly as they could against the resistance of the water, until they came to a place where the reeds on one side of the canal threatened to spill right across and block the stream. There Pavel halted.

"Here," he said, indicating a vague patch of darkness against the bank.

Chen heaved the body around, then, with Pavel's help, moved it in among the tall reeds. There, behind the cover of the reeds, a small cave had been carved out of the bank. Inside, it was curiously dry. Small niches, like tiny, primitive ovens, had been cut into the walls on either side. Pavel turned and reached into one. A moment later Chen saw the flicker of a flint.

Pavel turned, a lighted candle in his hand, and looked down at the body floating there between them.

"I don't like it, but it's the only place."

Chen looked about him, astonished. The walls were painted, red and green and yellow, the openings lined with colored tiles. Tiny statues were placed in each of the niches, about which were placed small pieces of paper and the remains of tiny finger candles. It was a shrine. A secret shrine.

"Kuan Yin preserve us!"

Pavel nodded vehemently, then let out another shuddering breath. "How will we anchor him?"

Chen looked about him, then hit upon the best solution. "We'll lift him up. Jam his head and shoulders into one of the niches. That should hold him long enough for us to decide what to do with him."

Pavel looked at him, wide eyed, then swallowed again.

"What are you, Kao Chen? What are you doing here?"

Chen looked down, then decided to tell Pavel the truth. It was that now or kill him, and he didn't think he could kill the boy, even to get DeVore.

"What I am doesn't really matter. But I'm here to get Overseer Bergson. To trap him and bring him to justice. Will you help me, Pavel? Will you help me get the bastard?"

Pavel looked again at the body of the man he had helped to kill, then looked up at Chen again, the candle wavering in his hand, throwing shadows about the tiny space. He smiled and offered his hand. "Okay, Kao Chen. I'll help you."

karr STOOD at the window, looking down at the vast apron of Nanking spaceport, then turned, smiling. "Well, Gen-eral, it seems we must play our final card."

The old man nodded, returning Karr's smile openly. "So it seems. Unless they change their minds. You're prepared?"

Karr nodded. "I know what I have to do."

"Good." Tolonen went across and stood beside Karr, then, unexpectedly, he embraced him. He did not expect to see the big man again.

Karr held Tolonen's upper arms a moment, his smile undiminished. "Don't be sad, General. Remember what you said to me. I'm a winner."

Tolonen sighed, then smiled. "I hope it's so, my friend. Never more than now."

Karr turned his head, looking outward again, watching a craft rise slowly on the far side of the field. The noise reached them a moment later—a deep, rumbling reverberation that went down the register.

"You know, General, I'd love to see their faces. Especially DeVore's." He paused, then, on another tack, added. "Chen has his backup?"

"Of course. The best I could arrange."

Karr turned back. "That's good." He went across and took something from the top of his pack and brought it back across, handing it to Tolonen.

"What's this?"

"For Chen. Just in case."

Tblonen laughed. "So you are human, after all. I was beginning to wonder."

"Oh, yes," Karr answered, his smile fading momentarily. "And I'll tell you this, General. What I'm about to do frightens me. More than anything I've ever done before. But I'll do it. Or die trying."

Tolonen looked at him, admiring him, then bowed his head respectfully.

"Good luck. And may heaven favor you, Shih Karr."

THE JOURNEY to Tbngjiang took Tolonen an hour. Li Shai Tung was waiting for him in his study, the authority on the desk beside him, signed and witnessed—the seven tiny Ywe Lung seals imprinted into the wax in the whiteness on the left-hand side of the document.

"Your man is on his way, Knut?" the T'ang asked, handing Tolonen the parchment, then waving away his secretary.

"He is, Chieh Hsia. We should know by tomorrow evening how things stand."

"And the other matter? The business with DeVore?"

Tolonen smiled. "That will be settled sooner, Chieh Hsia. The agent concerned, Kao Chen, passed vital evidence back through channels yesterday. It has been verified that the suspect, Overseer Bergson is, in reality, the traitor, DeVore."

"Have we arrested the man?"

"I have arranged things already, Chieh Hsia. We will capture the man this evening. Within the next few hours, in fact."

"Good. That, at least, eases my mind." The T'ang sniffed, his expression grave, then got up slowly from his desk. "A great storm is coming, Knut, and we shall have made enemies enough before it blows itself out. DeVore is one I'd rather have in hand, not loose and making mischief for us."

Yes, thought Tolonen. And Berdichev too. But that would have to wait a day or two. Until after Karr had done his stuff. He looked down at the document in his hands, feeling a great sense of pride at being at the center of things this night. He had foreseen this long ago, of course. Had known the day would come when the Seven could no longer sit on their hands and do nothing. Now they would shake Chung Kuo to its roots. Shake it hard, as it needed to be shaken.

Tolonen smiled and then bowed to his T'ang, acknowledging his dismissal; feeling a deep satisfaction at the way things had gone. The days of wuwei—of passive acceptance—were past. The dragon had awakened and had bared its claws.

And now it would strike, its seven heads raised, magnificent, like tigers, making the hsioo jen—the little men—scuttle to their holes and hide, like the vermin that they were.

Yes. They would clean the world of them. And then? His smile broadened. Then summer would come again.

LI SHAI TUNG sat at his desk, brooding. What had he done? What set in motion? He shuddered, disturbed by the implications of his actions.

What if it cracked Chung Kuo itself apart? It was possible. Things were balanced delicately now. Worse, what if it brought it all tumbling down—leveling the levels?

He laughed sourly, then turned at a sound. It was Li Yuan. He was standing in the doorway, his shoes removed, awaiting his father's permission to enter. Li Shai Tung nodded and beckoned his son to him.

"Bitter laughter, Father. Is there something wrong?"

Too wise. Too young to be so old and knowing.

"Nothing. Just a play of words."

Li Yuan bowed, then turned away slightly: a gesture of indirectness his father could read perfectly. It was something difficult. A request of some kind. But awkward. Not easy to ask. Li Shai Tung waited, wondering how Li Yuan would broach the matter. It was an opportunity to study his son: to assess his strengths, his weaknesses.

"I've been much troubled, Father."

Li Yuan had looked up before he spoke. A direct, almost defiant look. He had resolved the matter and chosen to present it with firmness and authority. Yes, the old man thought, Li Yuan would make a fine T'ang. When it was time.

"Is it your dream again, Yuan?"

Li Yuan hesitated, then shook his head.

"Then tell me what it is."

He stood and went across to the pool, then stood there, looking down at the dim shapes moving in the depths of the water, waiting for his son to join him there.

Unexpectedly, Li Yuan came right up to him, then went down onto his knees at his feet, his eyes fixed upon the floor as he made his request.

"I want to ask your permission CD marry, Father."

Li Shai Tung turned sharply, surprised, then laughed and bent down, lifting Li Yuan's face, his hand cupping his son's chin, making him look up at him.

"But you're only twelve, Yuan! There's more than enough time to think of such matters. A good four years or more. I never meant for you to—"

"I know, Father. But I already know what I want. Who I want."

There was such certainty, such fierce certainty, in the words, that the T'ang released his hold and stepped back, his hand stroking his plaited beard thoughtfully. "Go on," he said. "Tell me who it is."

Li Yuan took a deep breath, then answered him. "Fei Yen. I want Fei Yen."

Li Shai Tung stared at his son in disbelief. "Impossible! She was Han's wife, Yuan. You know the law."

The boy's eyes stared back at him intently. "Yes, and by our law Fei Yen was never Han Ch'in's wife."

Li Shai Tung laughed, amazed. "How so, when the seals of Yin Tsu and I are on the marriage contract? Have you left your senses, Yuan? Of course she was Han's wife!"

But Li Yuan was insistent. "The documents were nullified with Han's death. Think, Father! What does our law actually say? That a marriage is not a marriage until it has been consummated. Well, Han Ch'in and Fei Yen—"

"Enough!" The T'ang's roar took Li Yuan by surprise. "This is wrong, Li Yuan. Even to talk of it like this . . ."

He shook his head sadly. It was not done. It simply was not done. Not only was she too old for him, she was his brother's bride.

"No, Yuan. She isn't right for you. Not Fei Yen."

"Fei Yen, father. I know who I want."

Again that intensity of tone, that certainty. Such certainty impressed Li Shai Tung, despite himself. He looked down into the pool again.

"You could not marry her for four years at the least, Yuan. You'll change your mind. See if you don't! No, find some other girl to be your bride. Don't rush into this foolishness!"

Li Yuan shook his head. "No, Father, it's her I want. I've known it since Han Ch'in was killed. And she'll take me. I know that too."

Li Shai Tung smiled bitterly. What use was such knowledge? In four years Chung Kuo would have changed. Perhaps beyond recognition. Li Yuan did not know what was to be: what had been decided. Even so, he saw how determined his son was in this matter and relented.

"All right. I will talk to her parents, Yuan. But I promise you no more than that for now."

It seemed enough. Li Yuan smiled broadly and reached out to take and kiss his father's hand. "Thank you, Father. Thank you. I shall make her a good husband."

When Yuan had gone, he stood there, staring down into the darkness of the water, watching the carp move slowly in the depths, like thought itself. Then, when he felt himself at rest again, he went back into his study, relaxed, resigned almost to what was to come.

Let the sky fall, he thought: What can I, a single man, do against fate?

Nothing, came the answer. For the die had been cast. Already it was out of their hands.

BAMBOO. A three-quarter moon. Bright water. The sweet, high notes of an erhu. Chen looked about himself, at ease, enjoying the warmth of the evening. Pavel brought him a beer and he took a sip from it, then looked across at the dancers, seeing how their faces shone, their dark eyes laughed brightly, in the fire's light. At a bench to one side sat the bride and groom, red faced and laughing,-listening to the friendly banter of their fellow peasants.

Two great fires had been built in the grassy square formed by the three long dormitory huts. Benches had been set up on all sides and, at one end, a temporary kitchen. Close by, a four-piece band had set up their instruments on the tailpiece of an electric hay wagon: yueh ch'in, ti tsu, erhu and p'i p'a—the ancient mix of strings and flutes enchanting on the warm night air.

There were people everywhere¹, young and old, packing the benches, crowded about the kitchen, dancing or simply standing about in groups, smoking clay pipes and talking. Hundreds of people, maybe a thousand or more in all.

He turned, looking at Pavel. "Is it true, Pavel? Have you no girl?"

Pavel looked down, then drained his jug. "No one here, Kao Chen," he answered softly, leaning toward him as he spoke.

"Then why not come back with me? There are girls in the levels would jump at you."

Pavel shivered, then shook his head. "You are kind, my friend. But. . ." He tilted his shoulder slightly, indicating his bent back. "To they call me here. What girl would want such a man?"

"T'o?"

Pavel laughed, for a moment his twisted face attractive. "Camel backed."

Chen frowned, not understanding.

"It was an animal, so I'm told. Before the City."

"Ah. . . ." Chen looked past the young man, watching the dancers a moment. Then he looked back. "You could buy a bride. I would give you the means—"

Pavel's voice cut into his words. "I thank you, Kao Chen, but. . ." He looked up, his dark eyes strangely pained. "It's not that, you see. Not only that. It's . . . well, I think I would die in there. No fields. No open air. No wind. No running water. No sun. No moon. No changing seasons. Nothing. Nothing but walls."

The young man's unconscious echo of DeVore's words made Chen shiver and look away. Yet perhaps the boy was right. He looked back at the dancers circling the fires and nodded to himself. For the first time since he had been among them, Chen had seen the shadow lift from them and knew how different they were from his first conception of them. He saw how happy they could be. So simple it was. It took so little to achieve their happiness.

He stared about him, fascinated. When they danced, they danced with such fiery abandon, as if released from themselves—no longer drab and brown and faceless, but huge and colorful, overbrimming with their own vitality, their coal-dark eyes burning in their round peasant faces, their feet pounding the bare earth carelessly, their arms waving wildly, their bodies twirling lightly through the air as they made their way about the fire.

As if they were enchanted.

He shivered, wishing that Wang Ti were there with him, partnering him in the dance; then with him in the darkness afterward, her breath sweet with wine, her body opening to him.

He sighed and looked down into his jug, seeing the moon reflected there in the dark, sour liquid. In an hour it would begin. And afterward he would be gone from here. Maybe forever.

The thought sobered him. He took a large swallow of the beer, then wiped his mouth and turned to face Pavel again. "You're right. Stay here, Pavel. Find yourself a girl. Work hard and get on." He smiled, liking the young man. "Things will be much better here when Bergson is gone."

Yes, he thought; and maybe one day I'll come back, and bring Wang Ti with me, and Jyan and the new child. They'd like it here. I know they would.

He saw Pavel was watching him and laughed. "What is it, boy?"

Pavel looked down. "You think life's simple here, don't you? But let me tell you about my birth."

"Go on," said Chen softly, noting the sudden change in him. It was as if Pavel had shed a mask. As if the experience they had shared, beneath the fourth west bridge, had pared a skin from the young man, making him suddenly more vulnerable, more open.

"I had a hard childhood," he began. "I was born the fifth child of two casual workers. Hirelings—like yourself—who come on the land only at harvesttime. During the harvest things were fine. They could feed me. But when it was time to go back to the City, they left me here in the fields to die. Back in the levels they could not afford me, you understand. It is often so, even today. People here accept it as the way. Some say the new seed must be fertilized with the bones of young children. I, however, did not die."

Pavel licked at his lips, then carried on, his downcast eyes staring back into the past.

"Oh, I had nothing to do with it. Meifa tsu, they say. It is fate. And my fate was to be found by a childless woman and taken in. I was lucky. She was a good woman. A Han. Chang Lu was her name. For a time things were good. Her man, Wen, never took to me, but at least he didn't beat me or mistreat me, and she loved me as her own. But when I was seven they died. A dike collapsed on top of them while they were repairing it. And I was left alone."

Pavel was silent a moment, then he looked up, a sad smile lighting his face briefly.

"I missed her bitterly. But bitterness does not fill the belly. I had to work, and work hard. There is never quite enough, you see. Each family takes care of its own. But I had no family. And so I strove from dawn until dusk each day, carrying heavy loads out into the fields, the long, thick carrying pole pressing down on my shoulders, bending my back until I became as you see me now." He gave a short laugh. "It was necessity that shaped me thus, you might say, Kao Chen. Necessity and the dark earth of Chung Kuo."

"I'm sorry," Chen began. "I didn't know—" But Pavel interrupted him once more,

"There's something else." The young man hesitated, then shivered and went on. "It's the way you look at us, Kao Chen. I noticed it before. But now I think I understand. It's like we're a dream to you, isn't it? Not quite real. Something picturesque."

Chen was about to say no, to tell the boy that it was just the opposite—that all of this was real, and all the rest, inside, no more than a hideous dream to which he must return—but Pavel was looking at him strangely, shaking his head; denying him before he had begun.

"Maybe," he said finally, setting his jug down. But he still meant no. He had only to close his eyes and feel the movement of the air on his cheeks. . . .

"You came at the best time," Pavel said, looking away from him, back toward the dancers. "Just now the air smells sweet and the evenings are warm. But the winters are hard here. And the stench sometimes . . ."

He glanced back at Chen, then laughed, seeing incomprehension there.

"What do you think the City does with all its waste?"

Chen sipped at his beer, then shrugged. "I'd never thought—"

Pavel turned, facing him again. "No. No one ever does. But think of it. Over thirty billion, they say. So much shit. What do they do with it?"

Chen saw what he was saying and began to laugh. "You mean . . . ?"

Pavel nodded. "They waste none of it. It's stored in vast wells and used on the fields. You should see it, Kao Chen. Vast lake-like reservoirs of it, there are. Imagine!" He laughed strangely, then looked away. "In a week from now the fields will be dotted with honey carts, each with its load of sweet dark liquid to deposit on the land. Black gold, they call it. Without it the crop would fail and Chung Kuo itself would fall."

"I always thought—"

Chen stopped and looked across. The dull murmur of talk had fallen off abruptly; the music faltered and then died. He searched among the figures, suddenly alert, then saw them. Guards! The Overseer's guards were in the square!

Pavel had turned and was staring at him, fear blazing in his eyes. "It's Teng!" he said softly. "They must have found Teng!"

"No. . . ." Chen shook his head and reached out to touch the young man's arm to calm him. No, not Teng. But maybe something worse.

The guards came through, then stood there in a rough line behind their leader, a tall Hung Mao.

"Who's that?" whispered Chen.

"That's Peskova. He's Bergson's lieutenant."

"Gods ... I wonder what he wants?"

It was quiet now. Only the crackle of the fires broke the silence. Peskova looked about him, then took a handset from his tunic pocket, pressed for display, and began to read from it.

"By the order of Overseer Bergson, I have a warrant for the arrest of the following men. . . ."

Chen saw the guards begin to fan out among the peasants, pushing through the crowd roughly, their guns in front of them, searching for the faces of thoSe Peskova was naming, and wondered whether he should run, taking his chance. But as the list of names went on, he realized Tong Chou was not among them.

"What's going on?" he asked Pavel.

"I don't know. But they all seem to be friends of Field Super-

visor Sung and his wife. Maybe they forced him to make a list before they killed him."

Chen watched the guards gather the fifteen named men together and begin to lead them away, then looked about him, realizing how quickly the shadow had fallen once again.

"An hour," he said softly, more to himself than to Pavel. "If they can only wait an hour."

THE BODIES LAY heaped up against the wall. They were naked and lay as they had fallen. Some still seemed to climb the barrier of stone, their bodies stretched and twisted, their limbs contorted. Others had knelt, bowing to their murderers, facing the inevitability of death. Chen looked about him, sickened by the sight. Pavel stood beside him, breathing noisily. "Why?" he asked after a moment. "In the gods' names why? What had they done?"

Chen turned and looked to his left. The moon was high, a half-moon partly obscured by cloud. Beneath it, like the jagged shadow of a knife, the Overseer's House rose from the great plain. Where are you? thought Chen, searching the sky. Where the fuck are you? It was so unlike Karr.

It was two hours since the arrests. Two hours and still no sign of them. But even if they had come a half hour earlier it would have been too late to save these men. All fifteen were dead. They had all heard it, standing there about the guttering fires. Heard the shots ring out across the fields. Heard the screams and then the awful silence afterward.

"Peskova," Pavel said, bending down and gently touching the arm of one of the dead men. "It was Peskova. He always hated us."

Chen turned back, staring down at the boy, surprised, realizing what he was saying. Pavel thought of himself as Han. When he said "us" he didn't mean the peasants, the ko who worked the great ten-thousand-mou squares, but the Han. Yes, he thought. But DeVore is the hand behind this. It was he who gave permission for this. And I will kill him. T'ang's orders or no, I will kill him now for what he's done.

He looked back. There was a shadow against the moon. As he watched, it passed across, followed a moment later by a second.

"Quickly, PaVel," he said, hurrying forward. "They've come."

The four big Security transporters set down almost silently in the fields surrounding the Overseer's House. Chen ran to greet the nearest of them, expecting Karr, but it wasn't the big man who jumped down from the strut, it was Hans Ebert.

"Captain Ebert," he said, bowing, bringing his hand up to his chest in salute, the movement awkward, unpracticed. Ebert, the "Hero of Hammerfest" and heir to the giant GenSyn corporation, was the last officer Chen had expected.

"Kao Chen," Ebert answered him in a crisp, businesslike fashion, ignoring the fact of Chen's rank. "Are they all inside the House?"

Chen nodded, letting the insult pass. "As far as I know, sir. The Overseer's craft is still on the landing pad, so I assume DeVore is in there."

Ebert stared across the fields toward the house, then turned back to him, looking him up and down. He gave a short, mocking laugh. "The costume suits you, Kao Chen. You should become a peasant!"

"Sir!" He tried to keep the sourness from his voice, but it was hard. He knew instinctively that Ebert was the reason for the delay. He could imagine him waiting until he had finished dining. Or whoring, maybe. He had heard such tales of him. Karr would never have done that. Karr would have been there when he'd said.

Men jumped down from the craft behind Ebert. Special unit guards, their hands and faces blacked up. One of them came over to Ebert and handed him a clipboard.

Chen recognized him from the old newscasts about the Hammerfest massacre. It was Ebert's chief lieutenant, Auden.

Ebert studied the board a moment, then looked up at Chen again. "You know the layout of the Overseer's House?"

Chen bowed his head. "I do, sir."

"Good. Then you can play scout for us, Kao Chen. Auden here will be in command, but you'll take them in, understand?"

Chen kept his head lowered. "Forgive me, Captain, but I am unarmed."

"Of course. . . ." Ebert reached down and drew the ten-shot handgun from his holster. "Here."

Chen took the weapon and stared at it in disbelief. "Forgive me, sir. But they've automatics and lasers in there."

Ebert was looking at him coldly. "It's all you'll need."

Chen hesitated, wondering how far to push it, when Ebert barked at him.

"Are you refusing my orders, Kao Chen?"

In answer Chen bowed to the waist, then turned to Auden. "Come. We'd best move quickly now."

Halfway across the field a figure came toward them, Auden Stopped, raising his gun, but Chen put a hand out to stop him.

"It's all right," he said urgently. "I know him. He's a friend."

Auden lowered his gun. The figure came on, until he stood only a few paces from them. It was Pavel.

"What do you want?" Chen asked.

"I want to come with you."

He had found himself a hoe and held it tightly. There was anger in his twisted face. Anger and an awful, urgent need.

"No," said Chen after a moment. "It's too dangerous."

"I know. But I want to."

Chen turned and looked at Auden, who shrugged. "It's his neck, Lieutenant Kao. He can do what he likes. But if he gets in our way we'll shoot him, understand?"

Chen looked back at Pavel. The young man smiled fiercely, then nodded. "Okay. I understand."

"Good," said Auden. "Then let's get into position. The other squad is going in five minutes from now."

They waited in the shadows at the bottom of the ramp, the main door to the house above them. The windows of the House were dark, as if the men inside were asleep, but Chen, crouched there, staring up at the great three-tiered pagoda, knew they would be awake, celebrating the night's events. He watched the vague shadows of the assault troops climbing the ropes high overhead, nursing his anger, knowing it would not be long now.

Pavel was crouched beside him in the darkness. Chen turned and whispered to him. "Keep close to me, Pavel. And don't take risks. They're killers."

Pavel's mouth sought his ear. "I know."

They waited. Then, suddenly, the silence was broken. With a loud crash the assault troops swung through the windows of the second tier. It was the signal to go in. Chen leapt up onto the ramp and began to run toward the door, his handgun drawn, Pavel, Auden, and his squad close behind.

He was only ten ch'i or so from the door when it slid back suddenly, spilling light.

"Down!" he yelled as the figure in the doorway opened fire. But it was only a moment before the man fell back, answering fire from behind Chen ripping through his chest.

There were shouts from within, then two more men appeared, their automatics stuttering. Chen watched them fall, then scrambled up and ran for the door.

He stood in the doorway, searching the first room at a glance, the handgun following each movement of his eyes. As he'd thought, the three men had been the duty squad. Close by the door a table had been upset and moh-jong tiles lay scattered about the floor. He stepped over the dead man and went inside.

Up above there was the sound of further shots, then a burst of automatic fire. Chen turned, nodding to Auden as the veteran came into the room, pleased to see Pavel, unharmed, behind him in the doorway.

"They'll defend the stairwell," Chen said quietly, pointing to the door at the far end of the room. "There's a second guard post at the top, then DeVore's offices beyond that."

"Right." Auden went across and stood by the doorway, forming his squad up either side of it. He tried the door. It was unlocked.

Chen took Pavel's arm. "Here," he said, drawing him aside. "Let them do this. It's what they're trained for."

Pavel stared back at him. "And"you, Kao Chen? YouVe one of them? A lieutenant?"

Chen nodded, then turned in time to see Auden tug the door aside and crouch there, the big automatic blazing in his lap.

The noise was deafening. There was a moment's silence, then four of the squad moved past him, climbing the stairs quickly.

But they were only halfway up when the firing began again, this time from above.

Chen started forward, but Auden was already in charge. He was climbing the stairs over his fallen men, his gun firing ceaselessly, picking off anything that dared show itself up above.

Chen went up after him. Two of the Overseer's men had been guarding the stairs. One lay to one side, dead. The other was slumped over a makeshift barrier, badly wounded. Auden took a new clip from his band and fitted it in the gun, then tugged the man's head back and looked across at Chen. "Who is he? Is he important?"

Chen shrugged, not recognizing the Han, then said, "No. . . . He's only a guard."

Auden nodded, then put his gun to the man's head and pulled the trigger savagely. "Come on," he said, letting the body fall away.

He was about to turn, when the door behind him burst open.

Chen opened up without thinking, firing off three shots rapidly, the big handgun kicking violently.

The man looked at him wide eyed, as if surprised, then fell to his knees, clutching his ruined chest, his gun falling away from him. He toppled forward and lay still.

Auden looked at Chen strangely. "Thanks," he said coldly, almost brutally. Then he turned and went through the door, the big gun chattering deafeningly in his hands.

Chen followed him through, into DeVote's office.

The place was a mess. The u>ei chi board was broken, the stones scattered over the floor. The bank of screens had been smashed, as if in a drunken orgy. He frowned, not understanding. Auden couldn't have made all of this mess. It was too thorough. Too all inclusive. It had the look of systematic destruction.

And where was DeVore?

One man lay dead beneath the screens. Two others were kneeling in the far corner of the room, their weapons discarded, their brows pressed to the floor in a gesture of submission. Auden glanced at them dismissively, then waved one of his men over to bind them and take them away. Pavel had come into the room. As the captives passed him, the young man leaned close and spat into their faces.

"For Supervisor Sung," he said, his voice hard, bitter.

Chen watched him a moment, then turned to Auden. "Something's wrong," he said, indicating the screens, the broken board.

Auden looked back at him. "What do you mean?"

Chen looked about him, uncertain. "I don't know. It's just..."

Auden turned away, impatient. "Come on, Kao Chen. No more foolishness. Let's finish the job."

Chen stared at him a moment, angered, then did as he was bid. But there is something wrong, he thought. The killings in the field. The broken screens. They mean something.

In the corridor outside Auden had stopped and was talking to the sergeant from the second squad.

"They're holed up at the top of the house, sir," the sergeant was saying. "About eight of them. Peskova's there. But not DeVore."

"What?" Auden turned and glared at Chen. "I thought you said—"

Chen shivered. So that was it. He'd gone already. It explained the killings, the board, the broken screens. He had known it earlier—some part of him had sensed it. But where? Where could he have gone to?

Chen turned and banged his fist against the wall, all his anger and frustration spilling out. "Shit!"

Auden blinked, surprised, then looked back at the sergeant. "Okay. Keep them covered, but pull most of the men back. We'll offer terms."

He watched the sergeant go, then turned and met Chen's eyes. "What's eating you, Kao Chen?"

Chen laughed bitterly. "You think I wanted DeVore to get away?"

"That's if he has. We've only their word. One of those eight could be him."

Chen shook his head. "I doubt it. He's too good a player."

Auden shrugged, not understanding, then went through. Chen followed.

There was a space at the foot of the narrow stairs where the corridor widened out, forming a kind of small room without doors. Two men were stationed there, guns at their shoulders, keeping the door at the top of the steps covered. It was the only way in to the upper room, and the stairs themselves were too narrow for more than a single man to use at any one time.

"What have they got?" Auden asked his sergeant.

"Guns. One or two deng rifles, maybe. But that's all."

"You're sure?"

"It's all they're issued with out here. These peasants never riot."

Auden laughed. "Lucky them!"

Waving one of the men away, he took his position on the left, half sheltered by the wall, then called out to the men above.

"My name is Lieutenant Auden of the T'ang's Security forces. As you know, you're totally surrounded by my men. Worse than that, you're in a bad situation. The Overseer, the man you knew as Bergson—his real name was DeVore. Yes, DeVore, the traitor. Which means that in helping him you, too, are traitors. Dead men. Understand me? But the T'ang has empowered me to make a deal with you. To be lenient. Surrender now and we deal with you lightly. If you come out, unarmed and with your arms raised where we can see them, we'll treat this whole matter as a mistake. Okay? Any tricks, however, and you're all dead."

•Chen crouched by the back wall, watching. He had heard the sudden murmur of voices from above at the revelation of Berg-son's true identity. So now you know, he thought. But what are you going to do? • The door slid open a fraction.

"Good," said Auden, turning to Chen. "They're coming out—"

Chen heard the grenade bump-bump-bump down the stairs before he saw it, and threw himself to the side, his handgun clattering away from him across the floor. He tensed, fearing the worst, but instead of an explosion, there was a tiny pop and then a furious hissing.

"Gas____"

It was a riot gas; a thick, choking gas that billowed out of the split canister, spreading quickly in the tiny space. He had to get up, above it. Forgetting his gun, Chen crawled quickly on his hands and knees, his breath held, making for the stairs. But they were quicker than he.

Chen glanced up. The first of them was already halfway down the narrow stairs. He was wearing a breathing mask and held a stiletto in his right hand. Seeing Chen, his eyes narrowed and he crouched, preparing to spring. But Chen moved quickly. As he jumped, Chen rolled to the side.

The man landed next to him and turned, slashing out wildly with the knife. It flashed past Chen's face, only a hand's width from his eyes. Chen scrambled backward, cursing softly to himself.

More masked men were coming down the stairs now, spilling out into the tiny smoke-filled space, while from the two side corridors Auden's men emerged, their knives drawn, afraid to use their guns in the confusion.

Chen's man had turned, looking for him. He took a step toward Chen, his knife raised; then, with a small strangled noise, he staggered forward, collapsing to his knees. Behind him Auden smiled fiercely through his mask, then quickly turned away, rejoining the fight.

Chen's eyes were streaming now, his throat on fire. He had to get air. He dragged himself forward, making for the stairs, then stopped.

"No-o!"

Pavel was halfway up the stairs, his hoe held out before him. He turned, surprised, looking back down at Chen. "It's Peskova!" he said hoarsely, as if that explained it all. Then his face changed and he fell forward slowly, a knife protruding from his back.

For a moment Chen struggled to get to his feet, then he fell back, a wave of blackness overwhelming him.

IT SEEMED only a moment before he came to again. But the corridor was almost clear of-the gas, and five bodies lay neatly to one side. Three men sat trussed and gagged in one corner. The door at the top of the stairs was locked again, the stairway covered by the sergeant.

Chen sat up, his head pounding, then remembered. " "Pavel!" He mouthed the word, his heart wrenched from him.

He crawled across to where they had laid the bodies, and saw him at once.

Chen pulled the young man's body up into his arms, cradling him a moment. He was still warm. "You silly bastard!" he moaned softly.' "You poor, silly bastard!" He shuddered and straightened up, looking across to where Auden was standing, watching him. Chen's cheeks were wet with tears, but it didn't matter. It was like losing a son, a brother. He felt a black rage sweep through him.

"What are you waiting for? You told him what would happen! All dead if they played any tricks. That's what you said."

Auden glanced across at the stairs, then looked back at Chen. "I've offered our friend Peskova a new deal. He's thinking it over."

Chen shuddered again, then looked down again. Pavel's face was ugly, his twisted features set in a final snarl of pain. Even in death he had been denied the peace that most men found. Damn you, Pavel! he thought, torn by the sight. It was supposed to be a job. Just a simple infiltration job.

He turned sharply. The door at the head of the stairs had opened slightly. A moment later there was a clattering on the steps. Chen looked. Two weapons lay there at the sergeant's feet—a rifle and a knife.

"Okay," Peskova called down. "I'll do what you say."

Chen turned back, swallowing dryly. His stomach had tightened to a cold, hard knot. A deal. They were going to make a deal with the bastard. He lowered Pavel gently, carefully, then turned back, looking across at Auden. But Auden had turned away. He had forgotten him already.

"All right," Auden was saying. "I'm coming up. Throw the door open wide, then go to the far side of the room and stay there with your hands in the air. If I see any movement I'll open fire. Understand me?"

"I understand, Lieutenant."

Chen pushed his hands together to stop them shaking, then pulled himself up onto his feet. The effort made him double up, coughing. For a moment his head swam and he almost fell, but then it cleared. He straightened up, wheezing for breath, and looked across.

Auden was halfway up the stairs now, moving slowly, cautiously, one step every few seconds, his gun tracking from side to side. Then he was at the top, framed by the doorway. Without turning he called his sergeant up after him.

Chen stood there a moment, breathing deeply, slowly, getting his strength back. He swallowed painfully, then looked about him. Where . . . ? Then he saw it. There, on the floor by the wall where they had placed him. His handgun.

He went across and picked it up, then turned back, following two of Auden's men up into the top room.

Peskova stood against the back wall, his hands resting loosely on his head. He was looking across at Auden, his chin raised arrogantly, his eyes smiling cruelly, almost triumphantly, knowing he was safe.

Chen shivered and looked away, sickened by the sight of the man, barely in control of himself now. He wanted to smash that arrogant face. To wipe the smile from those coldly mocking eyes. But it was not Peskova he wanted. Not really. It was DeVore.

He lifted his head, forcing himself to look at him again. Yes. He could see the pale shadow of the man in this lesser creature. Could see the same indifference behind the eyes. A kind of absence. Nothing that a retinal print could capture, but there nonetheless. Like his master, Peskova had nothing but contempt for his fellow creatures. All-he did was shaped by a cold and absolute dismissal of their separate existence. They were things for his amusement. Things. . . .

Chen looked down again, the trembling in him so marked now that he had to clench his left fist again and again to control it.

Such power DeVore had. Such awful power, to cast so many in his own dark image.

"Kuan Yin! Look at this!"

The sergeant had been moving about the room, searching. In the far comer he had come across a large shape covered by a sheet. Now he turned, facing them, the color drained from his face.

"Watch him closely!" Auden said to the man at his side, then went across to where his sergeant stood. Chen followed.

He was not sure what he'd expected, but it wasn't this. The man was stretched naked over the saddle, his hands and feet bound tightly to the stirrups. Dark smears of congealed blood coated his legs and arms and the lower part of his back, and he was split from ass to stomach.

"Gods. ..." Auden said softly, walking about the body. "I'd heard of this, but I never dreamed . . ." He fell silent.

Chen felt the bile rise to his throat. The man's eyes bulged, but they were lifeless now. He had choked to death. Not surprisingly. His balls had been cut from him and stitched into his mouth.

"Who is this?" Auden asked, looking across at Peskova.

Peskova stared back coldly, almost defiantly. "A guard. His name was Chang Yan. He had been stealing."

"Stealing. . . ." Auden made to shake his head, then turned away. "Cover it up," he said to his sergeant, meeting his eyes a moment, a look of disgust passing between them.

"You made a deal," said Chen, glaring at Auden. "Was this a part of it?"

Auden glanced at him, then turned away, moving back toward Peskova.

"I made a deal."

Chen followed him across, something still and cold and hard growing in the depths of him.

Auden stopped, three, four paces from Peskova, looking about the room. Then he turned and looked directly at the man. There was something like a smile on his lips. "Is that how you deal with thieves out here?"

Peskova's face had hardened. He had been worried momentarily. Now, seeing that hint of a smile, he relaxed again, misinterpreting it. His own smile widened. "Not always."

"So it was special?"

Peskova looked down. "You could say that. Mind you, I'm only sorry it wasn't his friend, Teng. I would have liked to have seen that bastard beg for mercy." He looked up again, laughing, as if it were a joke only he and Auden could share. "These Han . . ."

Chen stared at him coldly. "And Pavel? What about him? He wasn't Han."

Peskova turned and smiled at him contemptuously. An awful, smirking smile. "Why split hairs? Anyway, that little shit deserved what he got."

Chen shuddered violently. Then, without thinking, he lunged forward and grabbed Peskova, forcing the man's jaws open, thrusting the handgun into his open mouth. He sensed, rather than saw, Auden move forward to stop him, but it was too late—he had already pulled the trigger.

The explosion seemed to go off in his own head. Peskova jerked back away from him, his skull shattered, his brains spattered across the wall behind like rotten fruit.

Chen stepped back, looking down at the fallen man. Then Auden had hold of him and had yanked him around roughly. "You stupid bastard!" he shouted into his face. "Didn't you understand? We needed him alive!"

Chen stared back at him blankly, shivering, his jaw set. "He killed my friend."

Auden hesitated, his face changing, then he let him go. "Yes," he said quietly. "Yes." Then, angrily, "But we're even now, Kao Chen. Understand me? You saved my life downstairs. But this . . . well, we're even now. A life for a life."

Chen stared at him, then looked away, disgusted. "Even," he said, and laughed sourly. "Sure. It's all even now."

EBERT WAS waiting for them at the bottom of the ramp.

"Well?" he demanded. "Where is he? I'd like to see him once more, before we send him on. He was a good officer, whatever else he's done."

Chen looked down, astonished. A good officer!

Beside him Auden hesitated, then met his captains eyes. "I'm afraid there's no sign of him, sir. We're taking the place apart now, but I don't think he's hiding in there. One of the guards says he flew off earlier this evening? but if so it wasn't in his own craft. That's still here, as Kao Chen said."

Ebert turned on Chen, furious. "Where the fuck is he, Chen? You were supposed to be keeping an eye on him!"

It was unfair. It also wasn't true, but Chen bowed his head anyway. "I'm sorry—" he began, but was interrupted.

"Captain Ebert! Captain Ebert!"

It was the communications officer from Ebert's transporter.

"What is it, Hoenig?"

The young man bowed deeply, then handed him the report.

Ebert turned and looked back toward the west. There, in the distance, the sky was glowing faintly. "Gods," he said softly. "Then it's true."

"What is it, sir?" Auden asked, knowing at once that something was badly wrong.

Ebert laughed strangely, then shook his head. "It's the Lodz garrison. It's on fire. What's more, Administrator Duchek's dead. Assassinated thirty minutes back." Then he laughed again; a laugh of grudging admiration. "It seems DeVore's outwitted us again."

FEI YEN stood there in her rooms, naked behind the screen, her maids surrounding her. Her father, Yin Tsu, stood on the other side of the heavy silk screen, his high-pitched voice filled with an unusual animation. As he talked, one of Fei Yen's maids rubbed scented oils into her skin, while another dried and combed her long, dark hair. A third and fourth brought clothes for her to decide upon, hurrying backward and forward to try to please her whim.

He had called upon her unexpectedly, while she was in her bath, excited by his news, and had had to be physically dissuaded from going straight in to her.

"But she is my daughter!" he had complained when the maids had barred his way.

"Yes, but I am a woman now, Father, not a girl!" Fei Yen had called out sweetly from within. "Please wait. I'll not be long."

He had begged her forgiveness, then, impatient to impart his news, had launched into his story anyhow. Li Shai Tung, it seemed, had been in contact with him.

"I'm almost certain it's to tell me there's an appointment at court for your eldest brother, Sung. I petitioned the T'ang more than a year ago now. But what post, I wonder? Something in the T'ang's household, do you think? Or perhaps a position in the secretariat?" He laughed nervously, then continued hurriedly.

"No. Not that. The Tang would not bother with such trivial news. It must be a post in the ministry. Something important. A junior minister's post, at the very least. Yes. I'm almost certain of it. But tell me, Fei Yen, what do you think?"

It was strange how he always came to her when he had news. Never to Sung or Chan or her younger brother Wei. Perhaps it was because she reminded him so closely of her dead mother, to whom Yin Tsu had always confided when she was alive.

"What if it has nothing to do with Sung, Father? What if it's something else?"

"Ah, no, foolish girl. Of course it will be Sung. I feel it in my bones!" He laughed. "And then, perhaps, I can see to the question of your marriage at long last. Tuan Wu has been asking after you. He would make a good husband, Fei Yen. He comes from a good line. His uncle is the third son of the late Tuan Chung-Ho and the Tuans are a rich family."

Fei Yen looked down, smiling to herself. Tuan Wu was a fool, a gambler, and a womanizer, in no particular order. But she had no worries about Tuan Wu. Let her father ramble on—she knew why Li Shai Tung was coming to see them. Li Yuan had spoken to his father. Had done what she had thought impossible.

"I know what you're thinking, Fei Yen, but a woman should have a proper husband. Your youth is spilling from you, like sand from a glass. Soon there will be no more sand. And then?"

She laughed. "Dearest Father, what a ridiculous image! No more sand!" Again she laughed, and after a moment his laughter joined with hers.

"Whatever . . ." he began again, "my mind is made up. We must talk seriously about this."

"Of course." Her agreement surprised him into momentary silence.

"Good. Then I shall see you in my rooms in three hours. The T'ang has asked to see us all. It might be an opportune time to discuss your remarriage."

When he had gone she pushed aside her maids, then hurried across the room and stood there, studying herself in the full-length dragon mirror. Yes, she thought; you are a T'ang's wife, Fei Yen. You always were a T'ang's wife, from the day you were born. She laughed and threw her head back, admiring her taut,

full breasts, the sleekness of her thighs and stomach, the dark beauty of her eyes. Yes, and you shaft have a proper husband. But not just any fool or Minor Family reprobate. My man shall be a T'ang. My son a T'ang.

She shivered, then turned from the mirror, letting her maids lead her back to her place behind the screens.

But make it soon, she thought. Very soon.

KARR DRIFTED in from the darkside, the solar sail fully extended, slowing his speed as he approached. His craft was undetectable—just another piece of space junk.

They would have no warning.

Twenty ti out he detached himself and floated in, a dark hunched shape, lost against the backdrop of space. As planned he landed on the blind spot of the huge ship, the curved layers of transparent ice beneath his boots.

He stood there a moment, enjoying the view. The moon vast and full above him, Chung Kuo far to his right and below him, the sun between, magnificent even through the visor of his suit. It surprised him how much he felt in his element, standing there on the curved hull of the starship, staring fearlessly into the furnace of creation, the void pressing in upon him. He laughed soundlessly and then ducked down, his movements slow at first as he climbed toward the air lock, then more fluent as he caught the proper rhythm.

He slowed himself with the double rail, then pushed into the semicircular depression. Beside the hexagonal door-hatch was a numbered touch-pad. He fingered the combination quickly, almost thoughtlessly, then leaned back as the hatch irised, its six segments folding back upon themselves.

As expected, there was no guard. He pulled himself inside and closed the hatch.

This part was easy. He had done it a hundred, two hundred times in simulation. He had been trained to do this thoughtlessly. But at some point he would need to act on his own: to use his discretion and react with immediacy. Until then he went by rote, knowing every inch of the huge craft as if he had buiit it.

The air lock filled and the inner door activated. He went through quickly, his weapon searching for targets, finding nothing, no one. But somewhere an alarm would be flashing. Unauthorized entry at air lock seven. A matter for investigation. Security would be buzzing already. There would be guards at the next junction of the corridor.

Karr removed the two heat-seeking darts from his belt and pressed a button on his suit. In seconds the ice of his suit was minus ten. He hurled the darts ahead of him and raced down the corridor after them.

Explosions punctuated the silence up ahead. The darts had found their targets. Coming to the ruined corpses he leapt over them without stopping and ran on, taking the corridor to his left and going through the two quick-irising doors before he paused and anchored himself to the ceiling, the short securing chain attached to the back of his sturdy helmet.

He swung up and kicked. The inspection hatch moved but did not open. His second kick shifted it back and he hooked his feet through, scrambling up into the narrow space, releasing the anchor chain.

Here his size was a handicap. He turned awkwardly, putting back the hatch, knowing he had only seconds to spare.

He had cut it fine. He heard guards pass by below only a moment later, their confusion apparent. Good. It was going well.

Karr smiled, enjoying himself.

He moved quickly now, crawling along the inspection channel. Then, at the next down intersection, he swung out over the space and dropped.

He landed and turned about immediately, crouching down then working his way awkwardly into a second channel. This one came out at the back of the Security desk. Timing was crucial. In a minute or so they would have guessed what he had done.

Maybe they had already and were'waiting.

He shrugged and poised himself over the hatch, setting the charge. Then he went along to the second hatch. The explosion would blow a hole in the room next door to Security—a sort of recreation room. There would be no one there at present, but it would distract them while he climbed down.

He lifted the hatch cover a fraction of a second before the charge blew and was climbing down even as the guards turned below him, surprised by the explosion.

He landed on the neck of one of them and shot two others before they knew he was there among them. Another of the guards, panicking, helped Karr by burning two more of his colleagues.

Confusion. That, too, was a weapon, sharp as a knife.

Karr shot the panicking guard and rolled a smoke bomb into the corridor outside. Then he turned and blasted the Security communications desk. The screens went dead.

He waited a moment. The screens flickered into brief life, showing scenes of chaos in corridors and rooms throughout the starship, then they died again, the backups failing. The inside man had done his job.

Good, thought Karr. Now to conclude.

He went out into the corridor, moving fast, jumping over bodies, knocking aside confused, struggling guards. All they saw was a giant in a dark, eerily glowing suit, moving like an athlete down the corridor, unaffected by the thick, black choking •smoke.

He went right and right again, then fastened himself to the inner wall of the corridor, rolling a small charge against the hull.

The spiked charge almost tore his anchorage away. He was tugged violently toward the breach. The outer skin of the star-ship shuddered but held, beginning to seal itself. But it had bled air badly. It was down to half an atmosphere. Debris cluttered about the sealing hole.

In half a minute he released the anchor chain and ran on down the corridor, meeting no resistance now. Guards lay unconscious everywhere. Many had been thrown against walls or doorways and were dead or badly wounded. It was complete chaos.

The engine was inside, in the inner shell. A breach of the hull could not affect it.

This was the difficult part. They would be expecting him now. But he had a few tricks left to show them before he was done.

He ignored the inner-shell air lock and moved on to one of the ducts. It would have shut down the instant the outer hull was breached, making the inner shell airtight. Thick layers of ice were interlaced like huge fingers the length of a man's arm. Above them a laser-protected sensor registered the atmospheric pressure of the outer shell.

Karr undipped a rectangular container from his belt and took two small packages from it. The first was a one-atmosphere "pocket." He fitted it over the sensor quickly, ignoring the brief, warning sting from the laser. The second.of the packages he treated with a care that seemed exaggerated. It was ice-wire: a long thread of the deadly cutting material. He drew it out cautiously and pulled it taut, then swiftly used it to cut the securing bolts on each of the six sides of the duct.

The whole thing dropped a hand's length as the lasers blinked out. There was a soft exhalation of air. The sound an elevator makes when it stops.

Karr waited a moment, then began cutting into the casing with small, diagonal movements that removed pieces of the ice like chunks of soft cheese. As the gap widened he cut deeper into the casing and then pulled back and set the thread down.

He climbed up onto the casing and kicked. Three of the segments fell away. He eased himself down into the gap.

It was far narrower than he had anticipated and for a moment he thought he was going to be stuck. The segments had wedged against the internal mechanism of the duct at an awkward angle, leaving him barely enough room to squeeze by. He managed, just, but his right arm was trapped against the wall and he couldn't reach the device taped to his chest.

He shifted his weight and stood on tiptoe, edging about until his hand and lower arm were free, then reached up and unstrapped the bomb from his chest.

Another problem presented itself. He could not reach down and place the device against the inner casing of the duct. There was no way he could fasten it.

Did it matter? He decided that it didn't. He would strengthen the upper casing when he was out. The explosion would be forced inward.

It was such a small device. So delicate a thing. And yet so crude in its power.

He placed the bomb between his knee and the duct wall, then let it slide down between leg and wall, catching it with his foot.

He didn't want it to go up with him there.

He touched the timer with his boot and saw it glow red. Eight minutes to get out.

He began to haul himself up the sides of the duct, using brute force, legs and back braced, his thickly muscled arms straining to free himself from the tight-packed hole.

At the top he paused and looked around. What could he use? He bent down and picked up the ice-wire, then went to a nearby room and cut machinery away from the decks, then brought it back and piled it up beside the breached duct.

Three minutes thirty seconds gone. He went to the doorway and cut a huge rectangle of ice from the wall. It was thin— insubstantial almost—but strong. It weighed nothing in itself but he could pile all the heavy machinery up on top of it.

It would have to do.

There was just short of two minutes left to get out.

Time for his last trick. He ran for his life. Back the way he'd come. Without pause he pulled the last of his bombs from his belt and threw it, pressing the stud at his belt as he did so.

The outer wall exploded, then buckled inward.

Karr, his life processes suspended, was thrown out through the rent in the starship's outer skin; a dark, larval pip spat out violently.

The pip drifted out from the giant sphere, a thin trail of dust and iced air in its trail. Seconds later the outer skin rippled and then collapsed, lit from within. It shriveled, like a ball of paper in a fire, then, with a suddenness that surprised the distant, watching eyes, lit up like a tiny sun, long arms of vivid fire burning a crown of thorns in the blackness of space.

It had been done. War had been declared.

EPILOGUE

SUMMER 2202-2203

Mosiacs

What is it whose closing causes the dark and whose opening causes the light? Where does the Bright God hide before the Horn proclaims the dawning of the day?

—t'ien wen (Heavenly Questions)

by Ch'u Yuan, from the Ch'u TYu • (Songs of the South), second century BC.

A Bridge over Nothingness

SO THEY BEGAN, burying the dark; capping the well of memory with a stone too vast, too heavy, to move. The machine watched them at their work, seeing many things their frailer, time-bound eyes were prone to miss—subtle changes of state it had come to recognize as significant. At times the full intensity of its awareness was poured into the problem of the boy, Kim. For a full second, maybe two, it thought of nothing else. Several lifetimes of normal human consciousness passed this way. And afterward it would make a motion in its complex circuitry-—unseen, unregistered on any- monitoring screen—approximate to a nod of understanding.

While the two theoreticians began the job of mapping out a new mosaic—a new ideal configuration for the boy's mental state, his personality—the Builder returned to the cell and to the boy. His eyes, the small, unconscious movements of his body, revealed his unease, his awkwardness, finally his uncertainty. As he administered the first of the drug treatments to the boy he could not hide the concern, the doubt he felt.

It watched, uncommenting, as'the drugs began to have their desired effect upon the boy. It saw how they systematically blocked off all pathways that led into the boy's past, noting the formulae of the drugs they used, deriving a kind of mathematical pleasure from the subtle evolving variations as they fine-tuned their chemical control of the process of erasure. There was an art to what they did. The machine saw this and, in its own manner, appreciated it.

It was a process of reduction different in kind from what they had attempted earlier. This time they did not seek to cower him but to strip him of every last vestige of that which made him a personality, a being. In long sessions on the operating table, the two theoreticians probed the boy's mind, sliding microthin wires into the boy's shaven skull, then administering fine dosages of chemicals and organic compounds, until, at last, they had achieved their end.

In developing awareness the machine had developed memory. Not memory as another machine might have defined it—that, to the conscious entity that tended these isolated decks, was merely "storage," the bulk of things known. No, memory was something else. Its function was unpredictable. It threw up odd items of data—emphasized certain images, certain words and phrases, over others. And it was inextricably bound up with the sensation of self-awareness. Indeed, it was self-awareness, for the one could not exist without the eccentric behavior of the other. Yet it was also much more than the thing these humans considered memory—for the full power of the machine's ability to reason and the frighteningly encyclopedic range of its knowledge informed these eccentric upwellings of words and images.

One image that it held important occurred shortly after they had completed their work and capped the well of memory in Kim. It was when the boy woke in his cell after the last of the operations. At first he lay there, his eyes open, a glistening wetness at the corner of his part-open mouth. Then, as though instinct were taking hold—some vestige of the body's remembered language of actions shaping the attempt—he tried to sit up.

It was to the next few moments that the machine returned, time and again, sifting the stored images through the most intense process of scrutiny.

The boy had lifted his head. One of his arms bent and moved, as if to support and lift his weight, but the other had been beneath him as he lay and the muscles were "asleep." He fell forward and lay there, chin, cheek, and eye pressed close against the floor. Like that he stayed, his visible eye registering only a flicker of confusion before the pupil settled and the lid half closed. For a long time afterward there was only blankness in that eye. A nothingness. Like the eye of a corpse, unconnected to the seeing world.

Later, when, in the midst of treatment, the boy would suddenly stop and look about him, that same look would return, followed by a moment of sheer, blind panic that would take minutes to fully subside. And though, in the months that followed, the boy grew in confidence, it was like building a bridge over nothingness. From time to time the boy would step up to the edge and look over. Then would come that look, and the machine would remember the first time it had seen it. It was the look of a machine. Of a thing without life.

They began their rehabilitation with simple exercises, training the body in new ways, new mannerisms, avoiding if they could the old patterns of behavior. Even so, there were times when far older responses showed through. Then the boy's motor activities would be locked into a cycle of meaningless repetition—like a malfunctioning robot—until an injection of drugs brought him out of it.

For the mind they devised a set of simple but subtle games to make it learn again. At first it was resistant to these, and there were days when the team were clearly in despair, thinking they had failed. But then, almost abruptly, in midsession, this changed. The boy began to respond again. That night the three men got drunk together in the observation room. '

Progress was swift once the breakthrough was made. In three months the boy had a complete command of language again. He was numerate to a sophisticated degree, coping with complex logic problems easily. His spatial awareness was perfect: he had a strong sense of patterns and connections. It seemed then, all tests done, that the treatment had worked and the mode of his mind—that quick, intuitive talent unique to the boy—had emerged unscathed from the process of walling in his personality. With regard to his personality, however, he demonstrated many of the classic symptoms of incurable amnesia. In his new incarnation he was a rather colorless figure, uncertain in his relationship with the Builder, colder, distanced from things— somehow less human than he'd been. There was a machinelike,

functional aspect to his being. Yet even in this respect there were signs of change—of a softening of the hard outlines of the personality they had grafted onto him.

Nine months into the program it seemed that the gamble had paid off handsomely. When the team met that night in the observation room they agreed it was time to report back on their progress. A message was sent uplevels. Two days later they had their reply. Berdichev was coming. He wanted to see the boy with his own eyes.

SOREN BERDICHEV waited at the security checkpoint, straight backed and severe, his bodyguards to either side of him, and thought of his wife. It was more than a month now since her death, but he had still not recovered from it. The doctors had found nothing wrong with her in their autopsy report, but that meant little. They had killed her. The Seven. He didn't know how, but there was no other explanation. A healthy woman like Ylva didn't just die like that. Her heart had been strong. She had been fit—in her middle-aged prime. There was no reason for her heart to fail.

As they passed him through he found himself going over the same ground again, no nearer than before to finding a solution. Had it been someone near to her—someone he trusted? And how had they managed it? A fast-acting drug that left no trace? Some physical means? He was no nearer now than he had been in that dreadful moment when he had discovered her. And the pain of her absence gnawed at him. He hadn't known how much he was going to miss her until she was gone. He had thought he could live without her . . .

The corridor ended at a second security door. It opened as he approached it and a dark-haired man with a goatee beard stood there, his hand out in welcome.

Berdichev ignored the offered hand and waited while one of his guards went through. A team of his men had checked the place out only hours before, but he was taking no chances. Administrator Jouanne had been killed only a week ago and things were heating up daily. The guard returned a moment later and gave the all-clear signal. Only then did he go inside.

The official turned and followed Berdichev into the center of the room. "The boy is upstairs, sir. The Builder is with him, to make introductions. Otherwise—"

Berdichev turned and cut the man off in midsentence. "Bring me the Architect. I want to talk to him before I see the boy."

The official bowed and turned away.

While he waited, he looked about him, noting the spartan austerity of the place. Employees were standing about awkwardly. He could sense the intensity of their curiosity about him, though when he looked at them they would hasten to avert their eyes. It was common knowledge that he was one of the chief opponents of the Seven, that his wife had died, that he himself was in constant danger. There was a dark glamour to all this and he recognized it. But today his mood was sour. Perhaps seeing the boy would shake him from its grip.

The official returned with the Architect in tow. Berdichev waved the official away, then took the Architect by the arm and led him across the room, away from the others. For a moment he studied the man. Then, leaning forward, he spoke, his voice low but clear.

"How stable is the new mental configuration? How reliable?"

The Architect looked down, considering. "We think it's firm. But it's hard to tell as yet. There's the possibility that he'll revert. Only a slender chance, but one that must be recognized."

Berdichev nodded, at one and the same time satisfied with the man's honesty and disappointed that there was yet this area of doubt.

"But taking this possibility into consideration, is it possible to—" He pursed his lips momentarily, then said it: "to use the boy?"

"Use him?" The Architect stared at him. "How do you mean?"

"Harness his talents. Use his unique abilities. Use him." Berdichev shrugged. He didn't want to be too specific.

The Architect seemed to understand. He smiled bleakly and shook his head. "Impossible. You'd destroy him if you used him now." There was a deliberate, meaningful emphasis on the word.

"How soon, then?"

"You don't understand. With respect, STiih Berdichev, this is only the beginning of the process. We reconstruct the house, but it has to be lived in for some time before we can discover its faults and flaws. It'll be years before we know that the treatment has worked properly."

"Then why did you contact me?"

Berdichev frowned. He felt suddenly that he had been brought here under false pretenses. When he'd received the news he had seen at once how the boy might be used. He had planned to take the boy with him, back into the Clay. And there he would have honed him; made him the perfect weapon against the Seven. The means of destroying them. The very cutting edge of knowledge.

The Architect was explaining things, but Berdichev was barely listening. He interrupted. "Show me the boy. I want to see the boy."

The Architect nodded and led him through, the bodyguards following some four paces behind.

"WeVe moved him in the last few days. His new quarters are more spacious, better equipped. Once he's settled in we'll begin the next stage of the treatment."

Berdichev glanced at the psychiatrist. "The next stage?"

"Yes. He needs to be resocialized. Taught basic social skills. At present he has very few defenses. He's vulnerable. Highly sensitive. A kind of hothouse plant. But he needs to be hardened up, desensitized, if he's to survive up-levels."

Berdichev slowed and then stopped. "You mean the whole socialization program has to be gone through from scratch?"

The Architect hesitated. "Not exactly. But . . . well, near enough. You see, it's a different process here. A slow widening of his circle of contacts. And no chance of him mixing outside this unit until we're certain he can fit in. It'll take three years, maybe longer."

"Three years?"

The Architect looked down. "At least."

Berdichev stared at the man, but he hardly saw him. He was thinking of how much things would have changed in three years. On top of all else this was a real disappointment.

"And there's no way of hastening this process?"

"None we can guarantee."

He stood there, calculating. Was it worth risking the boy on a chance? He had gambled once and—if these men were right— had won. But did he want to risk what had been achieved?

For a moment longer he hesitated, then he signaled to the Architect to move on again. He would see for himself—see how the boy was—and then decide.

BERDICHEV SAT on a chair in the middle of the room; the boy stood in front of him, no more than an arm's length away. The child seemed calm and answered his questions without hesitating, without once glancing toward the Builder, who sat away to the side of him. His eyes met Berdichev's without fear. As though he had no real conception of fear.

He was not so much like his father. Berdichev studied the boy a long time, looking for that resemblance he had seen so clearly—so shockingly—that first time. But there was little sign of Edmund Wyatt in him now—and certainly no indication of the child he might have been. The diet of the Clay had long ago distorted the potential of the genes, refashioning his physical frame in a manner analogous to the way they had shaped his mind, here in this place. He seemed subdued, quiet. There was little movement of his head, his hands, no sign of restlessness. Yet beyond what was seen—behind the surfaces presented to the eye—was a sense of great intensity. The same could be said of his eyes. They, too, were calm, reflective; yet at the back of them was a darkness that was profound, impenetrable. It was like staring into a mirror and finding the vast emptiness of space there behind the familiar, reflected image.

Now that he faced the boy he could see what the Architect had meant. The child was totally vulnerable. He had been reconstructed without defenses. Like Adam, innocent, he stood there, facing, if not his Creator, then, in his new shape, his Instigator. The boy knew nothing of that, of course. Nor did he understand the significance of this encounter. But Berdichev, studying him, came to his decision. He would leave well enough alone. Would let them shape the boy further. And then, in three, maybe four years' time, would come back for him. That was, if either he or the boy was still alive in four years' time.

THE CAMERA TURNED, following Berdichev's tall, aristocratic figure as it left the room, looking for signs of the man it had heard about. For the machine, Outside was a mosaic formed from the broken shards of rumor. In its isolation it had no knowledge of the City and its ways other than that which it overheard, fitting these imperfect glimpses into an ever-widening picture. When the guards talked, it listened, sifting and sorting what they said, formulating its own version of events. And when something happened in that bigger world beyond itself, it would watch the ripples spread, and form its own opinion.

Assassinations and reprisals; this seemed the pattern of the War-That-Wasn't-a-War. No armies clashed. No missiles fell on innocents. The City was too complex, too tightly interwoven, for such things. Yet there was darkness and deceit in plenitude. And death. Each day seemed to bring its freight of names. The mighty fallen. And in the deep, unseen levels of its consciousness the machine saw how all of this fitted with its task here in the Unit—saw how the two things formed a whole: mosaics of violence and repression.

It watched as Berdichev stood there in the outer room, giving instructions to the Unit's head. This was a different man from the one he had expected. Deeper, more subtle than the foolish, arrogant villain the men had drawn between them. More dangerous and, in some strange way, more kingly than they would have had him be.

It had seen how Berdichev had looked at the boy, as if recognizing another of his own kind. As if, among men, there were also levels. And this the highest; the level of Shapers and Doers—Architects and Builders not of a single mind but of the vast hive of minds that was the City. The thought recurred, and from somewhere drifted up a phrase it had often heard spoken— the Kings of the City. How well the old word sat on such men, for they moved and acted as a king might. There was the shadow of power behind their smallest motion. Power and death.

It watched them all. Saw how their faces said what in words could not be uttered. Saw each small betraying detail clearly, knowing them for what they were; all desire and doubt open to its all-seeing eye. Kings and peasants all, it saw the things that shaped each one of them. Variations on a theme. The same game played at a different level, for different stakes. All this was old knowledge, but for the machine it was new. Isolated, unasked, it viewed the world outside with a knowing innocence. Saw the dark heart of things. And stored the knowledge.

WHEN THEY FELT it was time, they taught him about his past. Or what they knew of it. They returned to him heavily edited, a history of the person he had been. Names, pictures, and events. But not the experience.

Kim learned his lessons well. Once told he could not forget. But that was not to say they gave him back his self. The new child was a pale imitation of the old. He had not lived and suffered and dreamed. What was dark in him was hidden; was walled off and inaccessible. In its place he had a fiction; a story learned by rote. Something to fill the gap; to assuage the feeling of emptiness that gripped him whenever he looked back.

It was fifteen months into the program when they brought T'ai Cho to the small suite of five rooms Kim had come to know as home. Kim knew the stranger by his face; knew both his history and what he had done for him. He greeted him warmly, as duty demanded, but his eyes saw only a stranger's face. He had no real feeling for the man.

Tai Cho cried and held the boy tightly, fiercely, to him. He had been told how things were, but it was hard for him. Hard to feel the boy's hands barely touching his back when he held him. Hard to see love replaced by curiosity in those eyes. He had been warned—had steeled himself—yet his disappointment, his sense of hurt, was great nonetheless.

In a nearby room the team watched tensely, talking among themselves, pleased that the boy was showing so little sign of emotion or excitement. A camera focused on the boy's eyes, showing the smallest sign of movement in the pupils. A monitoring unit attached to the back of the boy's neck traced more subtle changes in the brain's activity. All seemed normal. Stable. There was no indication that the boy had any memory of the man other than those implanted by the team.

It was just as they'd hoped. Kim had passed the test. Now they could progress—move on to the next stage of his treatment. The house, once empty, had been furnished. It was time now to fill the rooms with life. Time to test the mosaic for flaws.

In the room the man turned away from the boy and picked up his jacket from the chair. For a moment he turned back, looking at him, to the last hopeful that some small flicker of recognition would light those eyes with their old familiar warmth. But there was nothing. The child he had known was dead. Even so, he felt a kind of love for the form, the flesh, and so he went across and held him one last time before he left. For old time's sake. And then he turned and went, saying nothing. Finding nothing left to say.

A Gift of Stones

IN THE HALL of the Eight Immortals, the smallest, most intimate of the eighty-one Halls in the Palace of Tongjiang, the guests had gathered for the betrothal ceremony of the young Prince Li Yuan to the beautiful Fei Yen. As these events went it was only a tiny gathering; there were fewer than a hundred people in the lavishly decorated room—the tight circle of those who were known and trusted by the T'ang. ,

The room was silent now, the guests attentive as Li Shai Tung took the great seal from the cushion his Chancellor held out to him, then, both his hands taking its weight, turned to face the table. The seal—the Family "chop," a huge square thing, more shield than simple stamp—had been inked beforehand, and as the great T'ang turned, the four Mandarin characters that quartered the seal glistened redly in the lamplight.

On the low table before him was the contract of marriage, which would link the T'ang's clan once more with that of Yin Tsu. Two servants, their shaven heads lowered, their eyes averted, held the great scroll open as the T'ang positioned the seal above the silken paper and then leaned forward, placing his full weight on the ornate handle.

Satisfied, he stepped back, letting an official lift the seal with an almost pedantic care and replace it on the cushion. For a moment he stared at the vivid imprint on the paper, remember-

623

ing another day. Yin Tsu's much smaller chop lay beneath his own, the ink half dried.

They had annulled the previous marriage earlier in the day, all seven T'ang setting their rings to the wax of the document. There had been smiles then, and celebration, but in all their hearts, he knew, there remained a degree of unease. Something unspoken lay behind every eye.

Dark Wei followed in his brother's footsteps and the Lord of You-yi was stirred against him. . . .

The words of the "Heavenly Questions" had kept running through his mind all morning, like a curse, darkening his mood. So it was sometimes. And though he knew the words meant nothing—that his son Yuan was no adulterer-^still he felt wrong about this. A wife was like the clothes a man wore in life. And did one put on one's dead brother's clothes?

Han Ch'in. . . . Had five years really passed since Han had died? He felt a twinge of pain at the memory. This was like burying his son again. For a moment he felt the darkness well up in him, threatening to mist his eyes and spoil things for his youngest son. Then it passed. It was Li Yuan now. Yuan was his son, his only son, his heir. And maybe it was right that he should marry his dead brother's wife—maybe it was what the gods wanted.

He sniffed, then turned, smiling, to face Yin Tsu, and opened his arms, embracing the old man warmly.

"I am glad our families are to be joined again, Yin Tsu," he said softly in his ear. "It has grieved me that you and I had no grandson to sweeten our old age."

As they moved apart, the T'ang saw the effect his words had had on the old man. Yin Tsu bowed deeply, torn between joy and a fierce pride, the muscles of his face struggling to keep control. His eyes were moist and his hands shook as they held the T'ang's briefly.

"I am honored, Chieh Hsia. Deeply honored."

Behind him his three sons looked on, tall yet somehow colorless young men. And beside them, her eyes lowered, demure in her pink and cream silks, Fei Yen herself, her outward appearance unchanged from that day when she had stood beside Han Ch'in and spoken her vows.

Li Shai Tung studied her a moment, thoughtful. She looked so frail, so fragile, yet he had seen for himself how spirited she was. It was almost as if all the strength that should have gone into Yin Tsu's sons had been stolen—spirited away-^-by her. Like the thousand-year-old fox in the Ming novel Feng-shen Yen-I that took the form of the beautiful Tan Chi and bemused and misled the last of the great Shang emperors. . . .

He sniffed. No. These were only an old man's foolish fears— dark reflections of his anxiety at how things were. Such things were not real. They were only stories.

Li Shai Tung turned, one hand extended, and looked across at his son. "Li Yuan . . . bring the presents for your future wife."

THE SHEPHERD BOY stood apart from the others, staring up at the painting that hung between the two dragon pillars on the far side of the Hall. Li Yuan had noticed him earlier— had noted his strange separateness from everything—and had remarked on it to Fei Yen.

"Why don't you go across and speak to him?" she had whispered. But he had held back. Now, however, his curiosity had got the better of him. Maybe it was the sheer intensity of the boy that drew him, or some curious feeling of fellowship; a sense that—for all his father had said of Ben's aversion to it—they were meant to be companions, like Hal and his father. T'ang and advisor. They had been bred so. And yet...

"Forgive me, General," he said, smiling at Nocenzi, "but I must speak with Hal's son. I have not met him before and he will be gone in an hour. If you'll excuse me."

The circle gathered about the General bowed low as he moved away, then resumed their conversation, an added degree of urgency marking their talk now that the Prince was no longer among them.

Li Yuan, meanwhile, made hfs way across the room and stopped, a pace behind the boy, almost at his shoulder, looking up past him at the painting.

"Ben?"

The boy turned his head and looked at him. "Li Yuan. . . ." He smiled and lowered his head the tiniest amount, more ac-

knowledgment than bow. "You are to be congratulated. Your future wife is beautiful."

Li Yuan returned the smile, feeling a slight warmth at his neck. The boy's gaze was so direct, so self-contained. It made him recall what his father had told him of the boy.

"I'm glad you could come. My father tells me you are an excellent painter."

"He does?" Again the words, like the gesture, seemed only a token; the very minimum of social response. Ben turned his head away, looking up at the painting once again, the forceful-ness of his gaze making Li Yuan lift his eyes as if to try to see what he was seeing.

It was a landscape—a shan shui study of "mountains and water"—by the Sung painter Kuo Hsi. The original of his Early Spring, painted in 1072.

"I was watching you," Li Yuan said. "From across the room. I saw how you were drawn to this."

"It's the only living painting here," Ben answered, his eyes never leaving the painting. "The rest..."

His shrug was the very symbol of dismissiveness.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, the rest of it's dead. Mere mechanical gesture. The kind of thing a machine might produce. But this is different."

Li Yuan looked back at Ben, studying him intently, fascinated by him. No one had ever spoken to him like this; as if it did not matter who he was. But it was not simply that there was no flattery in Ben's words, no concession to the fact that he, Li Yuan, was prince and heir; Ben seemed to have no conception of those "levels" other men took so much for granted. Even his father, Hal, was not like this. Li Yuan laughed, surprised; not sure whether he was pleased or otherwise.

"How? How is it different?"

"For a start it's aggressive. Look at the muscular shapes of those trees, the violent tumble of those rocks. There's nothing soft, nothing tame about it. The very forms are powerful. But it's more than that—the artist captured the essence—the very pulse of life—in all he saw." Ben laughed shortly, then turned and looked at him. "IVe seen such trees, such rocks. . . ."

"In your valley?"

Ben shook his head, his eyes holding Li Yuan's almost insolently. "No. In my dreams."

"Your dreams?"

Ben seemed about to answer, then he smiled and looked past Li Yuan. "Fei Yen____"

Li Yuan turned to welcome his betrothed.

She came and stood beside him, touching his arm briefly, tenderly. "I see you two have found each other at last."

"Found?" Ben said quietly. "I don't follow you."

Fei Yen laughed softly, the fan moving slowly in her hand. Her perfume filled the air about them. "Li Yuan was telling me how much he wanted to speak to you."

"I see____"

Li Yuan saw how Ben looked at her and felt a pang of jealousy. It was as if he saw her clearly, perfectly; those dark, intense eyes of his taking in everything at a glance.

What do you see? he wondered. You seem to see so much, Ben Shepherd. Ah, but would you tell me? Would even you be that open?

"Ben lives outside," he said after a moment. "In the Domain. It's a valley in the Western Island."

"It must be beautiful," she said, lowering her eyes. "Like Tongjiang."

"Oh it is," Ben said, his eyes very still, watching her. "It's another world. But small. Very small. You could see it all in an afternoon."

Then, changing tack, he smiled and turned his attention to Li Yuan again. "I wanted to give you something, Prince Yuan. A gift of some kind. But I didn't know quite what."

It was unexpected. Li Yuan hesitated, his mind a blank, but Fei Yen answered for him.

"Why not draw him for me?"

Ben's smile widened, as if in response to her beauty, then slowly faded from his lips. "Why" not?"

They went through to the anteroom while servants were sent to bring paper and brushes and inks, but when it arrived Ben waved the pots and brushes aside and, taking a pencil from his jacket pocket, sat at the table, pulling a piece of paper up before him.

"Where shall I sit?" Ei Yuan asked, knowing from experience how much fuss was made by artists. The light, the background— everything had to be just so. "Here, by the window? Or over here by the fcang?"

Ben glanced up at him. "There's no need. I have you. Here." He tapped his forehead, then lowered his head again, his hand moving swiftly, decisively, across the paper's surface.

Fei Yen laughed and looked at him, then, taking his hand, began to lead him away. "We'll come back," she said. "When he's finished."

But Li Yuan hesitated. "No," he said gently, so as not to offend her. "I'd like to see. It interests me. . . ."

Ben looked up again, indicating that he should come across. Again it was a strange, unexpected thing to do, for who but a T'ang would beckon a prince in that manner? And yet, for once, it seemed quite natural.

"Stand there," Ben said. "Out of my light. Yes. That's it."

He watched. Saw how the figures appeared, like ghosts out of nothingness, onto the whiteness of the paper. Slowly the paper filled. A tree, a clutch of birds, a moon. And then, to the left, a figure on a horse. An archer. He caught his breath as the face took form. It was himself. A tiny mirror-image of his face.

"Why have you drawn me like that?" he asked, when it was done. "What does it mean?"

Ben looked up. On the far side of the table Fei Yen was staring down at the paper, her lips parted in astonishment. "Yes," she said, echoing her future husband. "What does it mean?"

"The tree," Ben said. "That's the legendary fu-sang, the hollow mulberry tree—the dwelling place of kings and the hiding place of the sun. In the tree are ten birds. They represent the ten suns of legend which the great archer, the Lord Shen Yi, did battle with. You recall the legend? Mankind was in danger from the intense heat of the ten suns. But the Lord Yi shot down nine of the suns, leaving only the one we know today."

Li Yuan laughed, surprised that he had not seen the allusion. "And I—I am meant to be the Lord Yi?"

He stared at the drawing, fascinated, astonished by the simple power of the composition. It was as if he could feel the horse fearing beneath him, his knees digging into its flanks as he leaned forward to release the arrow, the bird pierced through its chest as it rose, silhouetted against the great white backdrop of the moon. Yes, there was no doubting it. It was a masterpiece. And he had watched it shimmer into being.

He looked back at Ben, bowing his head, acknowledging the sheer mastery of the work. But his admiration was tainted. For all its excellence there was something disturbing, almost frightening, about the piece.

"Why this?" he asked, staring openly at Ben now, frowning, ignoring the others who had gathered to see what was happening.

Ben signed the corner of the paper, then set the pencil down. "Because I dreamt of you like this."

"You dreamt. . . ?" Li Yuan laughed uneasily. They had come to this point before. "You dream a lot, Ben Shepherd."

"No more than any man."

"But this . . . Why did you dream this?"

Ben laughed. "How can I tell? What a man dreams—surely he has no control over that?"

"Maybe so. . . ." But still he was thinking, Why this? For he knew the rest of the story—how Lord Yi's wife, Chang-e, goddess of the moon, had stolen the herb of immortality and fled to the moon. There, for her sins, she had turned into a toad, the dark shadow of which could be seen against the full moon's whiteness. And Lord Yi? Was he hero or monster? The legends were unclear, contradictory, for though he had completed all of the great tasks set him by Pan Ku, the Creator of All, yet he was a usurper who had stolen the wives of many other men.

Ben surely knew the myth. He knew so much, how could he not know the rest of it? Was this then some subtle insult? Some clever, knowing comment on his forthcoming marriage to Fei Yen? Or was it as he said—the innocent setting down of a dream?

He could not say. Nor was there any certain way of telling. He stared at the drawing a momertt longer, conscious of the silence that had grown about him; then, looking back at Ben, he laughed.

"You know us too well, Ben Shepherd. What you were talking of—the essence behind the form. Our faces are masks, yet youre not fooled by them, are you? You see right through them."

Ben met his eyes and smiled. "To the bone."

Yes, thought Li Yuan. My father was right about you. You would be the perfect match for me. The rest are but distorting mirrors, even the finest of them, returning a pleasing image to their lord. But you—you would be the perfect glass. Who else would dare to reflect me back so true?

He looked down, letting his fingers trace the form of the archer, then nodded to himself. "A dream. ..."

KLAUS EBERT roared with laughter, then reached up and drew his son's head down so that all could see. "There! See! And he's proud of it!"

Hans Ebert straightened up again, grinning, looking about him at the smiling faces. He was in full uniform for the occasion, his new rank of major clearly displayed, but that was not what his father had been making all the fuss over—it was the small metal plate he wore, embedded in the back of his skull; a memento of the attack on Hammerfest.

"The trouble is, it's right at the back," he said. "I can't see it in the mirror. But I get my orderly to polish it every morning. Boots, belt, and head, I say to him. In that order."

The men in the circle laughed, at ease for the first time in many months. Things were at a dangerous pass in the world outside, but here at Tongjiang it was as if time had stood still. From here the war seemed something distant, illusory. Even so, their conversation returned to it time and again; as if there were nothing else for them to talk of.

"Is there any news of Berdichev?" Li Feng Chiang, the T'ang's second brother, asked. His half-brothers, Li Yun-Ti and Li Ch'i Chun, stood beside him, all three of Li Yuan's uncles dressed in the same calf-length powder-blue surcoats; their clothes badges of their rank as Councillors to the T'ang.

"Rumors have it that he's on Mars." General Nocenzi answered, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "There have been other sightings, too, but none of them confirmed. Sometimes I think the rumors are started by our enemies, simply to confuse us."

"Well," Tolonen said, "wherever he is, my man Karr will find him."

Tolonen was back in uniform, the patch of marshal on his chest, the four pictograms—Lu Chun Yuan Shuai—emblazoned in red on white. It had been the unanimous decision of the Council of Generals, three months before. The appointment had instilled new life into the old man and he seemed his fierce old self again, fired with limitless energy. But it was true also what the younger officers said: in old age his features had taken on the look of something ageless and eternal, like rock sculpted by the wind and rain.

Klaus Ebert, too, had been promoted. Like Li Yuan's uncles, he wore the powder-blue of a councillor proudly, in open defiance of those of his acquaintance who said a Hung Mao should not ape a Han. For him it was an honor—the outward sign of what he felt. He smiled at his old friend and leaned across to touch his arm.

"Let us hope so, eh, Knut? The world would be a better place without that carrion Berdichev in it. But tell me, have you heard of this new development? These 'messengers,' as they're called?"

There was a low murmur and a nodding of heads. They had been in the news a great deal these last few weeks.

Ebert shook his head, his features a mask of horrified bemuse-ment, then spoke again. "I mean, what could make a man do such a thing? They say that they wrap explosives about themselves, and then, when they're admitted to the presence of their victims, trigger them."

"Money," Tolonen answered soberly. "These are low-level types you're talking of, Klaus. They have nothing to lose. It's a way of insuring their families can climb the levels. They think it a small price to pay for such a thing."

Again Ebert shook his head, as if the concept were beyond him. "Are things so desperate?"

"Some think they are."

But Tolonen was thinking of all he had seen these last few months. By comparison with sdme of it, these "messengers" were decency itself.

A junior minister and his wife had had their six-month-old baby stolen and sent back in a jar, boiled and then pickled, its eyes like bloated eggs in the raw pinkness of its face. Another man—a rich Hung Mao who had refused to cooperate with the rebels—had had his son taken and sold back to him, less his eyes. That was bad enough, but the kidnappers had sewn insects into the hollowed sockets, beneath the lids. The ten-year-old was mad when they got him back: as good as dead.

And the culprits? Tolonen shuddered. The inventiveness of their cruelty never ceased to amaze and sicken him. They were no better than the half-men in the Clay. He felt no remorse in tracking down such men and killing them.

"Marshal Tolonen?"

He half turned. One of the T'ang's house servants was standing there, his head bowed low.

"Yes?"

"Forgive me, Excellency, but your daughter is here; At the gatehouse."

Tolonen turned back and excused himself, then followed the servant through and out into the great courtyard.

Jelka was waiting by the ornamental pool. She stood there in the shade of the ancient willow, dropping pebbles into the water and watching the ripples spread. Tolonen stopped, looking across at his daughter, his whole being lit by the sight of her. She was standing with her back to him, the white-gold fall of her hair spilling out across the velvet blue of her full-length cloak. Her two bodyguards stood nearby, looking about them casually, but as Tblonen came nearer they came to attention smartly.

Jelka turned at the sound and, seeing him, dropped the stones and ran across, a great beam of a smile on her face. Tolonen hugged her to him, lifting her up off the ground and closing his eyes to savor the feel of her arms about his back, the softness of her kisses against his neck. It was a full week since they had seen each other last.

He kissed her brow, then set her down, laughing softly.

"What is it?" she said, looking up at him, smiling.

"Just that you're growing so quickly. I won't be able to do that much longer, will I?"

"No. . . ."Her face clouded a moment, then brightened again. "I've brought Li Yuan and his betrothed a gift. Erkki has it. . . ." She turned and one of the two young guards came across. Taking a small package from his inner pocket, he handed it to her. She smiled her thanks at him, then turned back to her father, showing him the present. It fitted easily into her palm, the silk paper a bright crimson—the color of good luck and weddings.

"What is it?" he asked, letting her take his arm as they began the walk back to the palace buildings.

"You'll have to wait," she teased him. "I chose them myself."

He laughed. "And who paid for them, may I ask?"

"You, of course," she said, squeezing his arm. "But that's not the point. I want it to be a surprise, and you're useless at keeping secrets!"

"Me!" He mimed outrage, then roared with laughter. "Ah, but don't let the T'ang know that, my love, or your father will be out of a job!"

She beamed up at him, hitting him playfully. "You know what I mean. Not the big ones—the little secrets."

They had come to the main entrance to the Halls. While a servant took Jelka's cloak, Tolonen held the tiny package. He sniffed at it, then put it to his ear and shook it.

"It rattles."

She turned and took it back from him, her face stern, admonishing him. "Don't! They're delicate."

"They?" He looked at her, his face a mask of curiosity, but she only laughed and shook her head.

"Just wait. It won't be long now. . . ."

Her voice trailed off, her eyes drawn to something behind him.

"What is it?" he said quietly, suddenly very still, seeing how intent her eyes were, as if something dangerous and deadly were at his back.

"Just something you were saying, the last time General Nocenzi came for dinner. About all the ways there are of killing people."

He wanted to turn—to confront whatever it was—but her eyes seemed to keep him there. "And?" he said, the hairs at his neck bristling now.

"And Nocenzi said the simplest ways are always the most effective."

"So?"

"So behind you there's a table. And on the table is what looks like another gift. But I'm wondering what a gift is doing, lying there neglected on that table. And why it should be wrapped as it is, in white silk."

Tblonen turned and caught his breath. "Gods. . . ."

It was huge, like the great seal the T'ang had lifted earlier, but masked in the whiteness of death.

"Guard!" he barked, turning to look across at the soldier in the doorway.

"Sir?" The guard came across at once.

"Who left this here?"

The look of utter bemusement in the soldier's face confirmed it for him. It was a bomb. Someone had smuggled a bomb into the Palace.

"No one's been here," the soldier began. "Only the Tang's own servants. . . ."

Tolonen turned away, looking back up the corridor. There were three other guards, stationed along the corridor. He yelled at them. "Here! All of you! Now!"

He watched as they carried the thing outside, their bodies forming a barrier about the package. Then, his heart pounding in his chest, he turned to Jelka, kneeling down and drawing her close to him.

"Go in. Tell the T'ang what has happened. Then tell Nocenzi to get everyone into the cellars. At once. Interrupt if you must. Li Shai Tung will forgive you this once, my little one."

He kissed her brow, his chest rising and falling heavily, then got up. She smiled back at him, then ran off to do as he had told her. He watched her go—saw her childish, slender figure disappear into the Hall—then turned and marched off toward the Gatehouse, not knowing if he would ever see her again.

NOCENZI and young Ebert met him returning from the Gatehouse.

"Is it a bomb?" Nocenzi asked, his face grim.

"No. . . ." Tolonen answered distractedly, but his face was drawn, all color gone from it.

Nocenzi gave a short laugh of relief. "Then what is it, Knut?"

Tolonen turned momentarily, looking back, then faced them again, shaking his head. "They're bringing it now. But come. I have to speak to the Tang. Before he sees it."

LI SHAI TUNG got up from his chair as Tolonen entered and came across the dimly lit room to him. "Well, Knut, what is it?"

"Chieh Hsia . . ." Tolonen looked about him at the sea effaces gathered in the huge lantern-lit cellar, then bowed his head. "If I might speak to you alone."

"Is there any danger?"

"No, Chieh Hszo."

The Tang breathed deeply, then turned to his son. "Yuan. Take our guests back upstairs. I will join you all in a moment."

They waited, the T'ang, Tblonen, Nocenzi, and the young major, as the guests filed out, each stopping to bow to the Tang before they left. Then they were alone in the huge, echoing cellar.

"It was not a bomb, then, Knut?"

Tolonen straightened up, his face grave, his eyes strangely pained. "No, Chieh Hsia. It was a gift. A present for your son and his future bride."

Li Shai Tung frowned. "Then why this?"

"Because I felt it was something you would not want Li Yuan to have. Perhaps not even to know about."

The T'ang stared at him a moment, then looked away, taking two steps then turning to face him again.

"Why? What kind of gift is it?"

Tolonen looked past him. There were faint noises on the steps leading down to the great cellar. "It's here now, Chieh Hsia. Judge for yourself."

They brought it in and set it down on the floor in front of Li Shai Tung. The wrapping lay over the present loosely, the white silk cut in several places.

"Was there a card?" The Tang asked, looking up from it.

Tolonen bowed his head. "There was, Chieh Hsia."

"I see. . . . But I must guess, eh?" There was a hint of mild impatience in the Tang's voice that made Tolonen start forward.

"Forgive me, Chieh Hsia. Here. ..."

Li Shai Tung studied the card a moment, reading the brief, unsigned message, then looked back at Tblonen. He was silent a moment, thoughtful, then, almost impatiently, he crouched down on his haunches and threw the silk back.

Li Shai Tung looked across at Tolonen. The Marshal, like Nocenzi and young Ebert, had knelt, so as not to be above the T'ang.

The T'ang's eyes were filled with puzzlement. "But this is a wei chi board, Knut. And a good one too. Why should Li Yuan not have this or know of it?"

In answer Tolonen reached out and took the lids from the two wooden pots that held the stones.

"But that's wrong. . . ." the T'ang began. Then he fell silent.

Wei chi was played with black and white stones: one hundred and eighty-one black stones and one hundred and eighty white. Enough to fill the nineteen-by-nineteen board completely. But this set was different.

Li Shai Tung dipped his hands into each of the bowls and scattered the stones across the board. They were all white. Every last one. He lifted the bowls and upended them, letting the stones spill out onto the board, filling it.

"They feel odd," he said, rubbing one of the stones between thumb and forefinger, then met Tolonen's eyes again. "They're not glass."

"No, Chieh Hsia. They're bone. Human bone."

The T'ang nodded, then got up slowly, clearly shaken. His fingers pulled at his plaited beard distractedly.

"You were right, Knut. This is not something I would wish Yuan to know of."

He turned, hearing a noise behind him. It was Klaus Ebert. The old man bowed low. "Forgive me for intruding, Chieh Hsia, but I felt you would want to know at once. It seems we have unearthed part of the mystery."

Li Shai Tung frowned. "Go on."

Ebert glanced up, his eyes taking in the sight of the wei chi board and the scattered stones. "The search of the Palace Marshal Tolonen ordered has borne fruit. We have discovered who placed the present on the table."

"And is he dead.or alive?"

"Dead, I'm afraid, Chieh Hsia. He was found in one of the small scullery cupboards in the kitchens. Poisoned, it seems. By his own hand."

The T'ang glanced at Tolonen, his eyes suddenly black with fury. "Who was it? Who would dare bring such a thing into my household?"

"One of your bond servants, Chieh Hsia." Ebert answered. "The one you knew as Chung Hsin."

Li Shai Tung's eyes widened, then he shook his head in disbelief. "Chung Hsin. . . ."It was inconceivable. Why, Li Shai Tung had raised him from a three-year-old in this household. Had named him for his strongest quality.

Yes, Chung Hsin he'd named him. Loyalty.

"Why?" he groaned. "In the gods' names, why?"

Ebert was staring at the board now, frowning, not understanding. He looked across at Tolonen. "Is that what he delivered?"

Tolonen nodded tersely, more concerned for the state of his T'ang than in answering his old friend.

"Then why did he kill himself?"

It was the T'ang who answered Ebert's question. "Because of the message he delivered."

"Message?" Old Man Ebert looked back at his T'ang, bewildered.

Li Shai Tung pointed down at the board, the scattered stones.

"The board . . . that is Chung Kuo. And the white stones"— he shuddered and wet his lips before continuing—"they represent death. It is a message, you see. From our friend DeVore. It says he means to kill us all. To fill Chung Kuo with the dead."

Tolonen looked up sharply at mention of DeVore. So the T'ang understood that too. Of course.

Ebert was staring at the board now, horrified. "But I thought stones were symbols of longevity."

"Yes." The T'ang's laughter was bitter. "But Knut has had them tested. These stones are made of human bone. They will outlast you and I, certainly, but they symbolize nothing but themselves. Nothing but death."

"And yet it might have been worse, surely? It could have been a bomb."

Li Shai Tung studied his Councillor a moment, then slowly shook his head. "No. No bomb could have been quite as eloquent as this." He sighed, then turned to Nocenzi. "Take it away and destroy it, General. And, Klaus"—he turned back—"say nothing of this to anyone. Understand me? If Li Yuan should get to hear of this..."

Ebert bowed his head. "As you wish, Chieh Hsia."

LI YUAN had been watching for his father. He had seen the guards come and go with the mystery package; had seen both Old Man Ebert and the Marshal emerge from the cellar, grim faced and silent, and knew, without being told, that something dreadful had happened.

When Li Shai Tung finally came from the cellar, Yuan went across to him, stopping three paces from him to kneel, his head bowed.

"Is there anything I can do, Father?"

His father seemed immensely tired. "Thank you, my son, but there is nothing to be done. It was all a mistake, that's all."

"And Chung Hsin. . . ?"

His father was quiet a moment, then he sighed. "That was unfortunate. I grieve for him. He must have been very unhappy."

"Ah. . . ." Yuan lowered his head again, wondering whether he should ask directly what had been beneath the white silk. But he sensed his father would not answer him. And to ask a question that could not be answered would merely anger him, so he held his tongue.

He searched for a way to lighten the mood of things, and as he did so his fingers closed upon the eight tiny pieces in the pocket of his ceremonial jacket.

He looked up, smiling. "Can I show you something, Father?"

Li Shai Tung smiled bleakly back at him. "Yes. . . . But get off your knees, Yuan. Please . . . this is your day. We are here to honor you."

Yuan bowed his head, then stood and moved closer to his father. "Hold out your hand, Father. They're small, so it's best if you look at them closely. They're what the Marshal's daughter gave us for a betrothal gift. Aren't they beautiful?" .

Li Shai Tung stared at the tiny figures in his hand. And then he laughed. A loud, ringing laughter of delight.

"Knut!" he said, looking past his son at the old Marshal. "Why didn't you say? Why didn't you tell me what your daughter had brought?"

Tolonen glanced at his daughter, then stepped forward, puzzled.

"What is it, Chieh H«a?"

"You mean you do not know?"

Tolonen shook his head.

"Then look. They are the eight heroes. The eight honorable men."

Tolonen stared at the tiny sculpted pieces that rested in the T'ang's palm, then laughed, delighted. "It's an omen," he said, meeting the T'ang's eyes. "What else can it be?"

The T'ang nodded and then began to laugh again, his laughter picked up by those nearest until it filled the Hall.

He looked down at the tiny figures in his palm. How many times had he seen them on the stage, their faces blacked to represent their honor? And now here they were, sculpted from eight black stones! It was as Knut said; it was an omen. A sign from the gods. These eight to set against the vast colorless armies of the dead.

Yuan was standing nearby, his mouth open in astonishment. "What is it?" he asked. "What have I missed?"

In answer the T'ang placed the pieces back in his son's palm and closed his fingers tightly over them.

"Guard these well, Yuan. Keep them with you at all times. Let them be your talismen."

His son stared back at him, wide eyed; then, with the vaguest shake of the head, he bowed low. "As my father wishes. . . ."

But Li Shai Tung had let his head fall back again, a great gust of laughter rippling out from him, like a huge stone dropped into the center of a pond. •

Let him hear of this, he thought. Let DeVotek spy report to him how the T-ang laughed in his face defiantly. And let him learn, too, of the second gift of stones—of the eight dark heroes; the eight men of honor.

Let him hear. For I will place the last stone on his grave.

END OF BOOK I