The White Mountain

She waved the girls away, then slid the door across and turned to face him, reminding herself that this was her passage out, the last time she would have to deal with his kind.

"What is it you would like?" she asked, keeping her voice steady. "We cater for all tastes here, my Lord."

He smiled, a broad gap opening in the flesh of his lower face, showing teeth that seemed somehow too small to fill the space. His voice was silken, like the voice of a young woman.

"My needs are simple, Mu Chua. Very simple. And the General promised me that you would meet them."

She knelt, bowing her head. "Of course, Excellency. But tell me, what exactly is it that you want?"

He clicked the fan shut, then leaned forward slightly, beckoning her across.

She rose, moving closer, then knelt, her face only a hand's width from his knees. He leaned close, whispering, a hint of aniseed on his breath.

"I have been told that there is a close connection between sex and death, that the finest pleasure of all is to fuck a woman at the moment of her death. I have been told that the death throes of a woman bring on an orgasm so intense . . ."

She looked up at him, horrified, but he was looking past her, his eyes lit with an intense pleasure, as if he could see the thing he was describing. She let him spell it out, barely listening to him now, then sat back on her heels, a small shiver passing through her.

"You want to kill one of my girls, is that it, Lord Hsiang? You wish to slit her throat while you are making love to her?"

He looked back at her, nodding. "I will pay well."

"Pay well . . ." She looked down. It was not the first time she had had such a request. Even in the old days there had been some like Hsiang who linked their pleasure to the pain of others, but even under Whiskers Lu there had been limits to what she would allow. She had never had one of her girls die while with a client, intentionally or otherwise; and it was on her tongue to tell this bastard, Prince or no, to go fuck himself. But. . .

She shuddered, then looked up at him again, seeing how eagerly he awaited her answer. To say no was to condemn herself at best to staying here, at worst to incurring the anger of Hans Ebert. And who knew what he would do to her if she spoiled things now for him? But to say yes was to comply with the murder of one of her girls. It would be as if she herself had held the knife and drawn it across the flesh.

"What you ask . . ." she began, then hesitated. "Yes?"

She stood, then turned away, moving toward the door before turning back to face him again. "You must let me think, Lord Hsiang. My girls . . ." "Of course," he said, as if he understood. "It must be a special girl." His laughter chilled her blood. It was as if what he was discussing were commonplace. As for the girl herself... In all her years she had tried to keep it in her mind that what her clients bought was not the girl, but the services of the girl, as one bought the services of an accountant or a broker. But men like Hsiang made no such distinction. To them the girl was but a thing to be used and discarded as they wished. But how to say no? What possible excuse could she give that would placate Hsiang K'ai Fan? Her mind raced, turning back upon itself time and again, trying to find a way out, some way of resolving this impossible dilemma. Then she relaxed, knowing, at last, what to do.

She smiled and moved closer, taking Hsiang's hands gently and raising him from his chair.

"Come," she said, kissing his swollen neck, her right hand moving down his bloated flank, caressing him. "You wanted special pleasures, Hsiang K'ai Fan, and special pleasures you will have. Good wine, fine music, the very best of foods . . ."

"And after?" He stared at her expectantly.

Mu Chua smiled, letting her hand rest briefly on the hard shape at his groin, caressing it through the silk. "After, we shall do as you wish."

charles lever's son Michael sat at his desk, facing Kim across the vastness of his office.

"Well? Have you seen enough?"

Kim looked about him. Huge tapestries filled the walls to the left and right of him, broad panoramas of the Rockies and the great American plains; while on the end wall, beyond Lever's big oak desk and the leather-backed swivel chair, was a bank of screens eight deep and twenty wide. In the center of the plushly carpeted room, on a big low table, under glass, was a 3-D map of the east coast of City North America, ImmVac's installations marked in blue. Kim moved closer, peering down through the glass.

"There's an awful lot to see."

Lever laughed. "That's true. But I think you've seen most of the more interesting parts."

Kim nodded. They had spent the day looking over Imm Vac's installations, but they had still seen only a small fraction of Old Man Lever's vast commercial empire. More than ever, Kim had been conscious of the sheer scale of the world into which he had come. Down in the Clay, it was not possible to imagine the vastness of what existed a wartha—up Above. At times he found himself overawed by it all, wishing for somewhere smaller, darker, cozier in which to hide. But that feeling never lasted long. It was, he recognized, residual; part of the darker self he had shrugged off. No, this was his world now. The world of vast continent-spanning cities and huge corporations battling for their share of Chung Kuo's markets.

He looked up. Lever was searching in one of the drawers of his desk. A moment later he straightened, clutching a bulky folder. Closing the drawer with his knee, he came around, thumping the file down beside Kim.

"Here. This might interest you."

Kim watched as Lever crossed the room and locked the big double doors with an old-fashioned key.

"You like old things, don't you?"

Lever turned, smiling. "I've never thought about it really. We've always done things this way. Hand-written research files, proper keys, wooden desks. I guess it makes us ... different from the other North American companies. Besides, it makes good sense. Computers are untrustworthy, easily accessed, and subject to viruses. Likewise doorlocks and recognition units. But a good, old-fashioned key can't be beaten. In an age of guile, people are reluctant to use force—to break down a door or force open a drawer. The people who'd be most interested in our product have grown too used to sitting at their own desks while they commit their crimes. To take the risk of entering one of our facilities would be beyond most of them." He laughed. "Besides, it's my father's policy to keep them happy with a constant flow of disinformation. Failed research, blind alleys, minor spin-offs of a more important research program—that kind of thing. They tap into it and think they've got their finger on the pulse." Kim grinned. "And they never learn?" Lever shook his head, amused. "Not yet they haven't." Kim looked down at the file. "And this?" "Open it and see. Take it across to my desk if you want." Kim flipped back the cover and looked, then turned his head sharply, staring at Lever. "Where did you get this?" "You've seen it before?"

Kim looked down at it again. "I have ... of course I have, but not in this form. Who . . . ?" Then he recognized the handwriting. The same handwriting that had been on the copy of the cancelled SimFic contract he had been given by Li Yuan. "Soren Berdichev . . ."

Lever was looking at him strangely now. "You knew?"

Kim gave a small, shuddering breath. "Six years ago. When I was on the Project."

"You met Berdichev there?"

"He bought my contract. For his company, SimFic." "Ah . . . Of course. Then you knew he'd written the File?" Kim laughed strangely. "You think Berdichev wrote this?" "Who else?"

Kim looked away. "So. He claimed it for his own."

Lever shook his head. "Are you trying to tell me he stole it from someone?" In a small voice, Kim began to recite the opening of the File; the story of the pre-Socratic Greeks and the establishment of the Aristotelian yes/no mode of thought. Lever stared back at him with mounting surprise. "Shall I continue?"

Lever laughed. "So you do know it. But how? Who showed it to you?" Kim handed it back. "I know because I wrote it."

Lever looked down at the folder, then back at Kim, giving a small laugh of disbelief. "No," he said quietly. "You were only a boy."

Kim was watching Lever closely. "It was something I put together from some old computer records I unearthed. I thought Berdichev had destroyed it. I never knew he'd kept a copy."

"And yet you knew nothing about the dissemination?" "The dissemination?"

"You mean, you really didn't know?" Lever shook his head, astonished. "This is the original, but there are a thousand more copies back in Europe, each one of them like this, hand-written. Now we're going to do the same over here— disseminate them among those sympathetic to the cause."

"The cause?"

"The Sons of Benjamin Franklin. Oh, we'd heard rumors about the File and its contents some time ago, but until recently we'd never seen it. Now, however—" He laughed, then shook his head again in amazement. "Well, it's like a fever in our blood. But you understand that, don't you, Kim? After all, you wrote the bloody thing!"

Kim nodded, but inside he felt numbed. He had never imagined . . .

"Here, look . . ." Lever led Kim over to one of the tapestries. "I commissioned this a year ago, before I'd seen the File. We put it together from what we knew about the past. It shows how things were before the City."

Kim looked at it and shook his head. "It's wrong."

"Wrong?"

"Yes, all the details are wrong. Look." He touched one of the animals on the rocks in the foreground. "This is a lion. But it's an African lion. There never were any lions of this kind in America. And those wagons crossing the plains, they would have been drawn by horses. The gasoline engine was a much later development. And these tents here—they're Mongol in style. North American Indian tents were different. And then there are these pagodas—"

"But in the File it says—"

"Oh, it's not that these things didn't exist, it's just that they didn't exist at the same time or in the same place. Besides, there were Cities even then—here on the east coast."

"Cities? But I thought—"

"You thought the Han invented Cities? No. Cities have been in Man's blood since the dawn of civilization. Why, Security Central at Bremen is nothing more than a copy of the great ziggurat at Ur, built more than five thousand years ago."

Lever had gone very still. He was watching Kim closely, a strange intensity in his eyes. After a moment he shook his head, giving a soft laugh.

"You really did write it, didn't you?"

Kim nodded, then turned back to the tapestry. "And this"—he bent down, indicating the lettering at the foot of the picture—"this is wrong too."

Lever leaned forward, staring at the lettering. "How do you mean?"

"A.D. It doesn't mean what's written here. That was another of Tsao Ch'un's lies. He was never related to the Emperor Tsao He, nor to any of them. So all of this business about the Ancestral Dynasties is a complete nonsense. Likewise B.C. It doesn't mean 'Before the Crane.' In fact, Tsao He, the 'Crane,' supposedly the founder of the Han Dynasty and ancestor of all subsequent dynasties, never even existed. In reality, Liu Chi-tzu, otherwise known as P'ing Ti, was Emperor at the time—and he was the twelfth of the great Han dynasty emperors. So, you see, the Han adapted parts of their own history almost as radically as they changed that of the West. They had to—to make sense of things and keep it all consistent."

"So what do they really mean?"

"A.D. . . . that stands for anno Domini. It's Latin—TaTs'in—for'the year of our Lord.'"

"Our Lord?"

"Jesus Christ. You know, the founder of Christianity."

"Ah . . ." But Lever looked confused. "And B.C.? Is that Latin too?"

Kim shook his head. "That's 'before Christ.' "

Lever laughed. "But that doesn't make sense. Why the mixture of languages? And why in the gods' names would the Han adopt a Christian dating for their calendar?"

Kim smiled. When one thought about it, it didn't make a great deal of sense, but that was how it was—how it had been for more than a hundred years before Tsao Ch'un arrived on the scene. It was the Ko Ming—the Communists—who had adopted the Western calendar; and Tsao Ch'un, in rewriting the history of Chung Kuo, had found it easiest to keep the old measure. After all, it provided his historians with a genuine sense of continuity, especially after he had hit upon the idea of claiming that it dated from the first real Han dynasty, ruled, of course, by his ancestor, Tsao He, "the Crane."

"Besides . . ." Lever added, "I don't understand the importance of this Christ figure. I know you talk of all these wars fought in his name, but if he was so important why didn't the Han incorporate him into their scheme of things?"

Kim looked down, taking a long breath. So they had read it but they had not understood. In truth, their reading of the File was, in its way, every bit as distorted as Tsao Ch'un's retelling of the world. Like the tapestry, they would put the past together as they wanted it, not as it really was.

He met Lever's eyes. "You forget. I didn't invent what's in the File. That's how it was. And Christ. . ." he sighed. "Christ was important to the West, in a way that he wasn't important to the Han. To the Han he was merely an irritation. Like the insects, they didn't want him in their City, so they built a kind of net to keep him out."

Lever shivered. "It's like that term they use for us—t'e an tsan, 'innocent westerners.' All the time they seek to denigrate us. To deny us what's rightfully ours."

"Maybe ..." But Kim was thinking about Li Yuan's gifts. He, at least, had been given back what was his.

ebert STRODE into the House of the Ninth Ecstasy, smiling broadly; then he stopped, looking about him. Why was there no one to greet him? What in the gods' names was the woman up to?

He called out, trying to keep the anger from his voice, "Mu Chua! Mu Chua, where are you?" then crossed the room, pushing through the beaded curtain.

His eyes met a scene of total chaos. There was blood everywhere. Wine glasses had been smashed underfoot, trays of sweetmeats overturned and ground into the carpet. On the far side of the room a girl lay facedown, as if drunk or sleeping.

He whirled about, drawing his knife, hearing sudden shrieking from the rooms off to his left. A moment later a man burst into the room. It was Hsiang K'ai Fan.

Hsiang looked very different—his normally placid face was bright, almost incandescent, with excitement; his eyes popping out from the surrounding fat. His clothes, normally so immaculate, were disheveled, the lavender silks ripped and spattered with blood. He held his ceremonial dagger out before him, the blade slick, shining wetly in the light; while, as if in some obscene parody of the blade, his penis poked out from between the folds of the silk, stiff and wet with blood.

"Lord Hsiang . . ." Ebert began, astonished by this transformation. "What has been happening here?"

Hsiang laughed; a strange, chilling cackle. "Oh, it's been wonderful, Hans . . . simply wonderful! IVe had such fun. Such glorious fun!"

Ebert swallowed, not sure what to make of Hsiang's "fun," but quite sure that it spelt nothing but trouble for himself.

"Where's An Liang-chou? He's all right, isn't he?"

Hsiang grinned insanely, lowering the dagger. His eyes were unnaturally bright, the pupils tightly contracted. He was breathing strangely, his flabby chest rising and falling erratically. "An's fine. Fucking little girls, as usual. But Hans . . . your woman . . . she was magnificent. You should have seen the way she died. Oh, the orgasm I had. It was just as they said it would be. Immense it was. I couldn't stop coming. And then—"

Ebert shuddered. "You what⁷." He took a step forward. "What are you saying? Mu Chua is dead?"

Hsiang nodded, his excitement almost feverish now, his penis twitching as he spoke. "Yes, and then I thought. . . why not do it again? And again . . . After all, as she said, I could settle with Whiskers Lu when I was done."

Ebert stood there, shaking his head. "Gods . . ." He felt his fingers tighten about his dagger, then slowly relaxed his hand. If he killed Hsiang it would all be undone. No, he had to make the best of things. To make his peace with Whiskers Lu and get Hsiang and An out of here as quickly as possible. Before anyone else found out about this.

"How many have you killed?"

Hsiang laughed. "I'm not sure. A dozen. Fifteen. Maybe more."

"Gods . . ."

Ebert stepped forward, taking the knife from Hsiang. "Come on," he said, worried by the look of fierce bemusement in Hsiang's face. "Fun's over. Let's get An and go home."

Hsiang nodded vaguely, then bowed his head, letting himself be led into the other room.

Toward the back of the House things seemed almost normal. But as Ebert came to the Room of Heaven, he slowed, seeing the great streaks of blood smeared down the door frames, and guessed what lay within.

He pushed Hsiang aside, then went inside. A girl lay to one side, dead, her face bloody, her abdomen ripped open, the guts exposed; on the far side of the room lay Ma Chua, naked, face up, on the huge bed, her throat slit from ear to ear. Her flesh was ashen, as if bleached, the sheets beneath her dark with her blood.

He stood there, looking down at her a moment, then shook his head. Whiskers Lu would go mad when he heard about this. Mu Chua's House had been a key part of his empire, bringing him a constant flow of new contacts from the Above. Now, with Mu Chua dead, who would come?

Ebert took a deep breath. Yes, and Lu Ming-shao would blame him—for making the introduction, for not checking up on Hsiang before he let him go berserk down here. If he had known . . .

He twirled about, his anger bubbling over. "Fuck you, Hsiang! Do you know what you've done?"

Hsiang K'ai Fan stared back at him, astonished. "I b-beg your pardon?" he stammered.

"This!" Ebert threw his arm out, indicating the body on the bed; then he grabbed Hsiang's arm and dragged him across the room. "What the fuck made you want to do it, eh? Now we've got a bloody war on our hands! Or will have, unless you placate the man."

Hsiang shook his head, bewildered. "What man?"

"Lu Ming-shao. Whiskers Lu. He's the big Triad boss around these parts. He owns this place. And now you've gone and butchered his Madam. He'll go berserk when he finds out. He'll hire assassins to track you down and kill you."

He saw how Hsiang swallowed at that, how his eyes went wide with fear, and felt like laughing. But no, he could use this. Yes, maybe things weren't quite so bad after all. Maybe he could turn this to his advantage. "Yes, he'll rip your throat out for this, unless . . ." Hsiang pushed his head forward anxiously. "Unless . . . ?" Ebert looked about him, considering. "This was one of his main sources of income. Not just from prostitution, but from other things, too—drugs, illicit trading, blackmail. It must have been worth, oh, fifteen, twenty million yuan a year to him. And now it's worth nothing. Not since you ripped the throat out of it." "I didn't know. . ." Hsiang shook his head, his hands trembling. His words came quickly now, tumbling from his lips. "I'll pay him off. Whatever it costs. My family is rich. Very rich. You know that, Hans. You could see this Whiskers Lu, couldn't you? You could tell him that. Please, Hans. Tell him I'll pay him what he asks."

Ebert nodded slowly, narrowing his eyes. "Maybe. But you must do something for me too."

Hsiang nodded eagerly. "Anything, Hans. You only have to name it."

He stared at Hsiang contemptuously. "Just this. I want you to throw your party this afternoon—your chao tai hui—just as if nothing happened here. You understand? Whatever you or An did or saw here must be forgotten. Must never, in any circumstances, be mentioned. It must be as if it never was. Because if news of this gets out there will be recriminations. Quite awful recriminations. Understand?"

Hsiang nodded, a look of pure relief crossing his face.

"And Hsiang. This afternoon . . . don't worry about the girls. I'll provide them. You just make sure your friends are there."

Hsiang looked down, chastened, the madness gone from him. "Yes ... As you say."

"Good. Then find your friend and be gone from here. Take my sedan if you must, but go. I'll be in touch."

Hsiang turned to go, but Ebert called him back one last time.

"And, Hsiang . . ."

Hsiang stopped and turned, one hand resting against the blood-stained upright of the door. "Yes?"

"Do this again and I'll kill you, understand?"

Hsiang's eyes flickered once in the huge expanse of flesh that was his face; then he lowered his head and backed away.

Ebert watched him go, then turned, looking down at Mu Chua again. It was a shame. She had been useful—very useful—over the years. But what was gone was gone. Dealing with Whiskers Lu was the problem now. That and rearranging things for the party later.

It had all seemed so easy when he'd spoken to DeVore earlier, but Hsiang had done his best to spoil things for him. Where, at this late stage, would he find another fifteen girls—special girls of the quality Mu Chua would have given him?

Ebert sighed, then, seeing the funny side of it, began to laugh, remembering the sight of Hsiang standing there, his penis poking out stiffly, for all the world like a miniature of his ratlike friend, An Liang-chou, staring out from beneath the fat of Hsiang's stomach.

Well, they would get theirs. They and all their friends. But he would make certain this time. He would inject the girls he sent to entertain them.

He smiled. Yes, and then he'd watch as one by one they went down. Princes and cousins and all; every last one of them victims of the disease DeVore had bought from his friend Curval.

How clever, he thought, to catch them that way. For who would think that was what it was. He laughed. Syphilis ... it had not been heard of in the Above for more than a century. Not since Tsao Ch'un had had his own son executed for giving it to his mother. No, and when they did find out it would be too late. Much too late. By then the sickness would have spread throughout the great tree of the Families, infecting root and branch, drying up the sap. And then the tree would fall, like the rotten, stinking thing it was.

He shivered, then put his hand down, brushing the hair back from the dead woman's brow, frowning.

"Yes. But why did you do it, Mother? Why in hell's name did you let him do it to you? It can't have been the money . . ."

Ebert took his hand away, then shook his head. He would never understand— never in ten thousand years. To lie there while another cut your throat and fucked you. It made no sense. And yet...

He laughed sourly. That was exactly what his kind had done for the last one hundred and fifty years. Ever since the time of Tsao Ch'un. But now all that had changed. From now on things would be different.

He turned and looked across. Three of Mu Chua's girls were standing in the doorway, wide-eyed, huddled together, looking in at him.

"Call Lu Ming-shao," he said, going across, holding the eldest by the arm. "Tell him to come at once, but say nothing more. Tell him Hans Ebert wants to talk to him. About a business matter."

He let her go, then turned, facing the other two, putting his arms about their shoulders. "Now, my girls. Things seem uncertain, I know, but I've a special task for you, and if you do it well..."

HSIANG WANG leaned his vast bulk toward the kneeling messenger and let out a great huff of annoyance.

"What do you mean, my brother's ill? He was perfectly well this morning. What's happened to him?"

The messenger kept his head low, offering the hand-written note. "He asks you to accept his apologies, Excellency, and sends you this note."

Hsiang Wang snatched the note and unfolded it. For a moment he grew still, reading it, then threw it aside, making a small, agitated movement of his head, cursing beneath his breath.

"He says all has been arranged, Excellency," the messenger continued, made uncomfortable by the proximity of Hsiang Wang's huge, trunklike legs. "The last of the girls—the special ones—was hired this morning."

The messenger knew from experience what a foul temper Hsiang K'ai Fan's brother had and expected at any moment to be on the receiving end of it, but for once Hsiang Wang bridled in his anger. Perhaps it was the fact that his guests were only a few ch'i away, listening beyond the wafer-thin wall, or perhaps it was something else: the realization that, with his elder brother absent, he could play host alone. Whatever, it seemed to calm him, and with a curt gesture of dismissal he turned away, walking back toward the great double doors that led through to the Hall of the Four Willows.

Hsiang Wang paused in the doorway, taking in the scene. From where he stood, five broad grass-covered terraces led down, like crescent moons, to the great willowleaf-shaped pool and the four ancient trees from which the Hall derived its name. There were more than a hundred males from the Minor Families here this afternoon, young and old alike. Many of the Twenty-Nine were represented, each of the great clans distinguishable by the markings on the silk gowns the princes wore, but most were from the five great European Families of Hsiang and An, Pei, Yin, and Chun. Girls went among them, smiling and laughing, stopping to talk or rest a gentle hand upon an arm or about a waist. The party had yet to begin and for the moment contact was restrained, polite. The sound oierhu and k'un ti—bow and bamboo flute—drifted softly in the air, mixing with the scents of honeysuckle and plum blossom.

Low tables were scattered about the terraces. The young princes surrounded these, lounging on padded couches, talking or playing Chou. On every side tall shrubs and plants and lacquered screens—each decorated with scenes of forests and mountains, spring pastures and moonlit rivers—broke up the stark geometry of the hall, giving it the look of a woodland glade.

Hsiang Wang smiled, pleased by the effect, then clapped his hands. At once doors opened to either side of him and servants spilled out down the terraces, bearing trays of wine and meats and other delicacies. Still smiling, he went down, moving across to his right, joining the group of young men gathered about Chun Wu-chi.

Chun Wu-chi was Head of the Chun Family; the only Head to honor the Hsiang clan with his presence this afternoon. He was a big man in his seventies, long-faced and bald, his pate polished like an ancient ivory carving, his sparse white beard braided into two thin plaits. Coming close to him, Hsiang Wang knelt in san k'ou, placing his forehead to the ground three times before straightening up again.

"You are most welcome here, Highness."

Chun Wu-chi smiled. "I thank you for your greeting, Hsiang Wang, but where is your elder brother? I was looking forward to seeing him again."

"Forgive me, Highness," Hsiang said, lowering his head, "but K'ai Fan has been taken ill. He sends his deep regards and humbly begs your forgiveness."

Chun looked about him, searching the eyes of his close advisors to see whether this could be some kind of slight; then, reassured by what he saw, he looked back at Hsiang Wang, smiling, putting one bejeweled hand out toward him.

"I am sorry your brother is ill, Wang. Please send him my best wishes and my most sincere hope for his swift recovery."

Hsiang Wang bowed low. "I will do so, Highness. My Family is most honored by your concern."

Chun gave the smallest nod, then looked away, his eyes searching the lower terraces. "There are many new girls here today, Hsiang Wang. Are there any with—special talents?"

Hsiang Wang smiled inwardly. He had heard of Chun Wu-chi's appetites. Indeed, they were legendary. When he was younger, it was said, he had had a hundred women, one after the other, for a bet. It had taken him three days, so the story went, and afterward he had slept for fifty hours, only to wake keen to begin all over. Now, in his seventies, his fire had waned. Voyeurism had taken the place of more active pursuits.

"There is one girl, Highness . . ." he said, remembering what K'ai Fan had said. "I have been told that she can manage the most extraordinary feats."

"Really?" Chun Wu-chi's eyes lit up.

Hsiang Wang smiled. "Let me bring her, Highness." He looked about him at the younger men. "In the meantime, if the ch'un tzu would like to entertain themselves?"

On cue the lights overhead dimmed, the music grew more lively. From vents overhead subtle, sweet-scented hallucinogens wafted into the air.

As he made his way down to the pool, he saw how quickly some of the men, eager not to waste a moment, had drawn girls down onto the couches next to them; one—a prince of the Pei Family—had one girl massaging his neck and shoulders while another knelt between his legs.

Hsiang Wang laughed softly. There would be more outrageous sights than that before the day was done. Many more. He slowed, looking about him, then saw the girl and lifted his hand, summoning her.

She came across and stopped, bowing before him. A dainty little thing, her hair cut in swallow bangs. She looked up at him, revealing her perfect features, her delicate rosebud lips. "Yes, Excellency?"

He reached in his pocket and took out the thousand-^uan chip he had stashed there earlier, handing it to her. "You know what to do?"

She nodded, a smile coming to her lips.

"Good. Then go and introduce yourself. I'll have the servants bring the beast."

He watched her go, glad that he had gone through all this with his brother two days before.

Sick. What a time for K'ai Fan to fall sick! Surely he knew how important this occasion was for the Family? Hsiang Wang shuddered, then threw off his irritation. It could not be helped, he supposed. And if he could please Old Chun, who knew what advantages he might win for himself?

He hurried back in time to see the servants bring the beast. The ox-man stood there passively, its three-toed hands at its sides, looking about it nervously, its almost-human eyes filled with anxiety. Seeing it, some of the younger princes laughed among themselves and leaned close to exchange words. Hsiang Wang smiled and moved closer, standing at Chun's shoulder. At once another girl approached and knelt at Chun's side, her flank against his leg, one hand resting gently on his knee.

Chun looked down briefly, smiling, then looked back, studying the girl and the beast, one hand tugging at his beard, an expression of interest on his long, heavily lined face.

Hsiang raised his hand. At once the servants came forward, tearing the fine silks from the ox-man's back, tugging down its velvet trousers. Then they stood back. For a moment it stood there, bewildered, trembling, its big dark-haired body exposed. Then, with a low, cowlike moan, it turned its great head, as if looking to escape.

At once the girl moved closer, putting one hand up to its chest, calming it, whispering words of reassurance. Again it lowed, but now it was looking down, its eyes on the girl.

From the couches to either side of Chun Wu-chi came laughter. Laughter and low, excited whispers.

Slowly she began to stroke the beast, long, sensuous strokes that began high up in the beast's furred chest and ended low down, between its heavily muscled legs. It was not long before it was aroused, its huge member poking up stiffly into the air, glistening, long and wet and pink-red in the half-light—a lance of quivering, living matter.

As the girl slipped her gown from her shoulders, there was a low murmur of approval. Now she stood there, naked, holding the beast's huge phallus in one hand, while with the other she continued to stroke its chest.

Its lowing now had a strange, inhuman urgency to it. It turned its head from side to side, as if in pain, its whole body trembling, as if at any moment it might lose control. One hand lifted, moving toward the girl, then withdrew.

Then, with a small, teasing smile at Chun Wu-chi, the girl lowered her head and took the beast deep into her mouth.

There was a gasp from all around. Hsiang, watching, saw how the girl he had assigned to Chun was working the old man, burrowed beneath his skirts, doing to him exactly what the other was doing to the ox-man. He smiled. Judging from the look of pained pleasure on the old man's face, Chun Wu-chi would not forget this evening quickly.

IT WAS JUST after nine in the evening and in the great Hall of Celestial Destinies at Nantes spaceport a huge crowd milled about. The 8:20 rocket from Boston had come in ten minutes earlier and the final security clearances were being made before its passengers were passed through into the hall.

. Lehmann stood at the base of the statue in the center of the hall, waiting. DeVore had contacted him an hour and a half ago to say he would be on the 8:20. He had sounded angry and irritable, but when Lehmann had pressed him about the trip, he had seemed enthusiastic. It was something else, then, that had soured his mood—something that had happened back here, in his absence—and there was only one thing that could have done that: the failure of the assassination attempt on Tolonen.

Was that why DeVore had asked him to meet him here? To try again? It made sense, certainly, for despite all their "precautions" the last thing Security really expected was a new attempt so shortly after the last.

He turned, looking up at the giant bronze figures. He knew that the composition was a lie, part of the Great Lie the Han had built along with their City; even so there was an underlying truth to it, for the Han had triumphed over the Ta Ts'in. Kan Ying had bowed before Pan Chao. Or at least, their descendants had. But for how much longer would the dream of Rome be denied?

For himself, it was unimportant. Han or Hung Mao, it did not matter who ruled the great circle of Chung Kuo. Even so, in the great struggle that was to come, his ends would be served. Whoever triumphed, the world would be no longer as it was. Much that he hated would, of necessity, be destroyed, and in that process of destruction—of purification—a new spirit would be unleashed. New and yet quite ancient. Savage and yet pure, like an eagle circling in the cold clear air above the mountains.

He looked away. A new beginning, that was what the world needed. A new beginning, free of all this.

Lehmann looked about him, studying the people making their way past him, appalled by the emptiness he saw in every face. Here they were, all the half-men and half-women and all their little halflings, hurrying about their empty, meaningless lives. On their brief, sense-dulled journey to the Oven Man's door.

And then?

He shivered, oppressed suddenly by the crush, by the awful perfumed stench of those about him. This now—this brief moment of time before it began—was a kind of tiger's mouth; that moment before one surrounded one's opponent's stone, robbing it of breath. It was a time of closing options. Of fast and desperate plays.

There was a murmuring throughout the hall as the announcement boards at either end showed that the passengers from the 8:20 Boston rocket were coming through. Lehmann was about to go across to the gate when he noticed two men making their way through the crowd, their faces set, their whole manner subtly different.

Security? No. For a start they were Han. Moreover, there was something fluid, almost rounded about their movements; something one never found in the more rigorously and classically trained Security elite. No. These were more likely Triad men. Assassins. But who were they after? Who else was on DeVore's flight? Some Company Head? Or was this a gang matter?

He followed them surreptitiously, interested, wanting to observe their methods.

The gate at the far end of the hall was open now and passengers were spilling out. Looking past the men, he saw DeVore, his neat, tidy figure making its way swiftly but calmly through the press. The men were exactly halfway between him and DeVore, some ten or fifteen ch'i in front of him, when he realized his mistake.

"Howard/"

DeVore looked up, alerted, and saw at once what was happening. The two assassins were making directly for him now, less than two body lengths away, their blades out, slashing at anyone who got in their way, intent on reaching their quarry. Beyond them Lehmann was pushing his way through the crowd, yelling at people to get out of his way; but it would be several seconds before he could come to DeVore's aid.

DeVore moved forward sharply, bringing the case he was carrying up into the face of the first man as he came out of the crowd in front of him. Hampered by a woman at his side, the assassin could only jerk his head back, away. At once DeVore kicked out, making him stagger back. But even as he did, the second assassin was upon him, his notched knife swinging through the air at DeVore's head.

The speed at which DeVore turned surprised the man. One hand countered the knife blow at the wrist while the other punched to the ribs. The assassin went down with a sharp cry.

DeVore turned, facing the first assassin, feinting once, twice, with his fists before he twisted and kicked. The assassin moved back expertly, but before he could counter, he sank to his knees, Lehmann's knife embedded in his back.

There was shouting and screaming from all sides of them now.

"Come away," Lehmann said quietly, taking DeVore's arm. "Before Security comes!" But DeVore shrugged him off, going over to the second man.

The would-be assassin lay there, helpless, clutching his side, gasping with pain. DeVore had shattered his rib cage, puncturing his lung. He crouched close, over the man, one hand at his throat.

"Who sent you?"

The man pushed his face up at DeVores and spat.

DeVore wiped the blood-stained phlegm from his cheek and reached across to pick up the assassin's blade. Then, as the man's eyes widened, he slit open his shirt and searched his torso for markings.

DeVore turned, looking up at Lehmann, a fierce anger in his face. "He's not Triad and he's not Security, so who the fuck . . . ?"

The third man came from nowhere.

DeVore had no time to react. It was only accident that saved him. As Lehmann turned, he moved between DeVore and the man, glancing against the assassin's knife arm. The knife, which would have entered DeVore's heart, was nudged to one side, piercing DeVore between neck and shoulder.

The assassin jerked the serrated knife out savagely from DeVore's flesh; but before he could strike again, Lehmann had lashed out, punching his nose up into his skull. The man fell and lay still.

DeVore sank to his knees, holding one hand over the wound, a look of astonishment on his bloodless face. This time Lehmann didn't ask. With a single blow he finished off the second man, then turned and did the same to the other. Then, lifting DeVore up onto his shoulder, ignoring the shouts of protest from all about him, he began to carry him toward the exit and the safety of the transit, praying that their man in Security could hold his fellows off a minute longer.

As for DeVore's question, he had his answer now; for that last man had been a Hung Mao, a face they'd often seen in the past, one of several who had always been in the background at their meetings with the Ping Tiao. A guard. One of the ones who had defected to the Yu.

So it was Mach, Jan Mach, who'd tried to have DeVore killed.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Willow Plum Sickness

0N THE OPEN windswept hillside the small group gathered about the grave. Across the valley, cloud shadow drew a moving line that descended, crossing the water, then came swiftly up the slope toward them.

Ben watched the shadow sweep toward him, then felt the sudden chill as the sun passed behind the cloud.

So it is, he thought. As swift as that it comes.

The wooden casket lay on thick silken cords beside the open grave. Ben stood facing the casket across the darkness of the hole, his feet only inches from the drop.

Earth. Dark earth. It had rained and tiny beads of moisture clung to the stems of grass overhanging the grave. In the sunlight they seemed strange, incongruous.

It was still unreal. Or not yet real. He felt no grief as yet, no strong feeling for what he had lost, only a vacancy, a sense of his own inattentiveness. As if he had missed something . . .

They were all in black, even Li Yuan. Blackness for death. The old Western way of things. His mother stood beside the casket, her face veiled, grieving heavily. Beside him stood his sister, and next to her Li Yuan's Chancellor, Nan Ho.

A cold wind gusted from the south across the hilltop, blowing his hair into his eyes. A sea breeze, heavy with brine. He combed strands back into place with his fingers, then left his hand there, the fingers buried in his fine, thick hair, his palm pressed firmly against his forehead. Like an amnesiac. A sleeper.

He felt like an actor, the outer shell dissociated from the inner core of himself: the "boy in black" at the graveside. An impostor. Neither loving nor dutiful. Cuckoo in the nest. Too distanced from things to be his father's son, his brother's brother.

Had he ever even said he loved him?

Two of Li Yuan's men came and lifted the casket on its cords.

Ben moved back as they lowered the casket into the earth. A cassette of death, slotting into the hillside.

And no rewind ... no playback. Hal Shepherd existed only in the memories of others now. And when they in their turn died? Was it all simply a long process of forgetting? Of blinded eyes and decaying images? Maybe... but it didn't have to be.

The earth fell. He closed his eyes and could see it falling, covering the pale wood of the casket. Could hear the sound of the earth tumbling against the wood. A hollow, empty sound.

He opened his eyes. The hole was a shallow depression of uneven darkness. The T'ang's men had ceased shoveling.

He felt the urge to bend down and touch the cold, dark earth. To crush it between his fingers and feel its gritty texture, its cool, inanimate substance. Instead he watched as Li Yuan stepped forward and pressed the young tree into the pile of earth, firming it down, then moving back to let the servants finish their task.

No words. No graven stones. This was his father's wish. Only a tree. A young oak.

Ben shivered, his thoughts drawn elsewhere. What was the darkness like on the other side of being? Was it only a nothingness? Only blank, empty darkness?

They walked back along the path, down to the cottage by the bay—Li Yuan holding his mother's arm, consoling her; Nan Ho walking beside his sister. Ben came last, alone, several paces behind.

His father's death. Expected so long, it had nonetheless come like a blow of evil fate to his mother. He had heard her crying in the night: a sound that could not be described, only heard and remembered. A wordless noise, connected to the grieving animal deep within the human—a sound drawn from the great and ancient darkness of our racial being. An awful, desolate sound. Once heard, it could never be forgotten.

He turned and looked back. There was no sign of the grave, the fledgling tree. Banks of iron-gray clouds were massed above the hillside. In a while it would rain.

He turned and looked down the slope at the cottage and the bay beyond, seeing it all anew. Where was its paradigm? Where was the designer of all this? The shaping force?

Death had unlocked these questions, forcing his face relentlessly against the glass.

He sighed, then walked on, making his slow way down.

LI yuan stood in the center of Ben's room, looking about him. Ben was hunched over his desk, working, making notations in a huge loose-leafed book, the pages of which were covered in strange diagrams.

It was not what Li Yuan had expected. The room was cluttered and untidy, totally lacking, it seemed, in any organizational principle. Things were piled here, there, and everywhere, as if discarded and forgotten; while one whole wall was taken up by numerous half-completed pencil sketches depicting parts of the human anatomy.

He looked back at Ben, seeing how tense he was, crouched over the big square-paged book, and felt a ripple of unease pass through him. It did not seem right, somehow, to be working on the day of his father's funeral. Li Yuan moved closer, looking over Ben's shoulder at the diagram he was working on—seeing only a disorganized mess of lines and shapes and coded instructions set down in a dozen brilliant colors on the underlying grid, like the scribblings of a child.

"What is that?"

Ben finished what he was doing, then turned, looking up at the young T'ang.

"It's a rough."

"A rough?" Li Yuan laughed. "A rough of what?"

"No. . . that's what I call it. All of these are instructions. The dark lines—those in brown, orange, and red, mainly—are instructions to the muscles. The small circles in blue, black, and mauve are chemical input instructions; the nature of the chemical and the dosage marked within the circle. The rectangular blocks are just that—blocks. They indicate when no input of any kind is passing through the particular node."

"Nodes?" Li Yuan was thoroughly confused by this time.

Ben smiled. "Pai pi. You know, the old artificial reality experiments. I've been working on them for the last fifteen months. I call them 'shells.' This is an input instruction diagram. As I said, a rough. These eighty-one horizontal lines represent the input points, and these forty vertical lines represent the dimension of time— twenty to a second."

Li Yuan frowned. "I still don't understand. Inputs into what?"

"Into the recipient's body. Come. I'll show you. Downstairs."

They went down, into the basement workrooms. There, at one end of the long, low-ceilinged room, almost hidden by the clutter of other machinery, was the shell. It was a big, elaborately decorated casket; like something one might use for an imperial lying-in-state, the lid lacquered a midnight black.

Ben stood beside it, looking back at Li Yuan. "The recipient climbs in here and is wired up—the wires being attached to eighty-one special input points both in the brain and at important nerve centers throughout the body. That done, the casket is sealed, effectively cutting the recipient off from all external stimuli. That absence of stimuli is an unnatural state for the human body: if denied sensory input for too long the mind begins to hallucinate. Using this well-documented receptivity of the sensory apparatus to false stimuli, we can provide the mind with a complete alternative experience."

Li Yuan stared at the apparatus a moment longer, then looked back at the Shepherd boy. "Complete? How complete?"

Ben was watching him, as a hawk watches a rabbit. An intense, predatory stare.

"As complete as the real thing. If the art is good enough."

"The art... I see." Li Yuan frowned. It seemed such a strange thing to want to do. To create an art that mimicked life so closely. An art that supplanted life. He reached out and touched the skeletal frame that hung to one side of the shell, noting the studded inputs about the head and chest and groin. Eighty-one inputs in all. "But why?"

Ben stared at him as if he didn't understand the question, then handed him a book similar to the one he had been working on in his room. "These, as I said, are the roughs. They form the diagrammatic outline of an event-sequence—a story. Eventually those lines and squiggles and dots will become events. Sensory actualities. Not real, yet indistinguishable from the real."

Li Yuan stared at the open page and nodded, but it still didn't explain. Why this need for fictions? For taking away what was and filling it with something different? Wasn't life itself enough?

Ben was leaning close now, looking into his face, his eyes filled with an almost insane intensity, his voice a low whisper.

"It's like being a god. You can do whatever you want. Create whatever you want to create. Things that never happened. That never could happen."

Li Yuan laughed uncomfortably. "Something that never happened? But why should you want to do that? Isn't there enough diversity in the world as it is?"

Ben looked at him curiously, then looked away, as if disappointed. "No. You miss my point."

It was said quietly, almost as if it didn't matter. As if in that brief instant between the look and the words, he had made his mind up about something.

"Then what is the point?" Li Yuan insisted, setting the book down on the padded innards of the casket.

Ben looked down, his hand reaching out to touch the apparatus. For the first time Li Yuan noticed that the hand was artificial. It seemed real, but the deeply etched ridge of skin gave it away. Once revealed, other signs added to the impression. There was an added subtlety of touch, a deftness of movement just beyond the human range.

"Your question is larger than you think, Li Yuan. It questions not merely what I do, but all art, all fiction, all dreams of other states. It asserts that 'what is' is enough. My argument is that 'what is' is insufficient. We need more than 'what is.' Much more."

Li Yuan shrugged. "Maybe. But this takes it too far, surely? It seems a kind of mockery. Life is good. Why seek this false perfection?"

"Do you really believe that, Li Yuan? Are you sure there's nothing my art could give you that life couldn't?"

Li Yuan turned away, as if stung. He was silent for some time; then he looked back, a grim expression of defiance changing his features. "Only illusions, my friend. Nothing real. Nothing solid and substantial."

Ben shook his head. "You're wrong. I could give you something so real, so solid and substantial that you could hold it in your arms—could taste it and smell it and never for a moment know that you were only dreaming."

Li Yuan stared at him, aghast, then looked down. "I don't believe you," he said finally. "It could never be that good."

"Ah, but it will."

Li Yuan lifted his head angrily. "Can it give you back your father? Can it do that?"

The boy did not flinch. His eyes caught Li Yuan's and held them. "Yes. Even that, if I wanted it."

li YUAN ARRIVED at Tongjiang two hours later to find things in chaos, the audience hall packed with his ministers and advisors. While the T'ang changed his clothes, Nan Ho went among the men to find out what had been happening in their brief absence.

When Li Yuan returned to his study, Nan Ho was waiting for him, his face flushed, his whole manner extremely agitated.

"What is it, Nan Ho? What has got my ministers in such a state?"

Nan Ho bowed low. "It is not just your ministers, Chieh Hsia. The whole of the Above is in uproar. They say that more than two hundred people are ill already, and that more than a dozen have died."

Li Yuan sat forward. "111? Died⁷. What do you mean?"

Nan Ho looked up at him. "There is an epidemic, Chieh Hsia, sweeping through the Minor Families. No one knows quite what it is."

Li Yuan stood angrily and came around his desk. "No one knows? Am I to believe this? Where are the Royal Surgeons? Have them come to me at once."

Nan Ho lowered his head. "They are outside, Chieh Hsia, but—"

"No buts, Master Nan. Get them in here now. If there is an epidemic, we must act fast."

Nan Ho brought them in, then stood back, letting his T'ang question the men directly.

The eight old men stood there, their ancient bodies bent forward awkwardly.

"Well?" he said, facing the most senior of them. "What has been happening, Surgeon Yu? Why have you not been able to trace the source of this disease?"

"Chieh Hsia . . ." the old man began, his voice quavering. "Forgive me, but the facts contradict themselves."

"Nonsense!" Li Yuan barked, clearly angry. "Do you know the cause of the disease or not?"

The old man shook his head, distressed. "Forgive me, Chieh Hsia, but it is not possible. The Families are bred immune. For more than one hundred and fifty years—"

Li Yuan huffed impatiently. "Impossible? Nothing is impossible! I've just come from Hal Shepherd's funeral. They killed him, remember? With a cancer. Something that, according to you, was quite impossible. So what have they come up with now?"

The old man glanced sideways at his colleagues, then spoke again. "It seems, from our first tests, that what the victims are suffering from is what we term yang mei ping, willow-plum sickness."

Li Yuan laughed. "A fancy name, Surgeon Yu, but what does it mean?"

Nan Ho answered for the old man. "It is syphilis, Chieh Hsia. A sexually transmitted disease that affects the brain and drives its victims insane. This strain, apparently, is a particularly virulent and fast-working one. Besides side-stepping the natural immunity of its victims, it has a remarkably short incubation period. Many of its victims are dead within thirty hours of getting the dose."

Surgeon Yu looked at Nan Ho gratefully, then nodded. "That is so, Chieh Hsia. However, it seems that this particular strain affects only those of Han origin. As far as we can make out, no Hung Moo are affected."

Li Yuan turned away, recognizing at once the implications of the thing. Willow-plum sickness ... He had a vague recollection of reading about the disease. It was one of those many sicknesses the Hung Moo had brought with them when they had first opened China up, in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. But this was worse, far worse than anything those ancient sea-traders had spread among the port women, because this time his kind had no natural immunity to it. None at all.

He turned back. "Are you certain, Surgeon Yu?"

"As certain as we can be, Chieh Hsia."

"Good. Then I want you to isolate each victim and question them as to who they have slept with in the past thirty days. Then I want all contacts traced and isolated. Understand?"

He looked past Yu at his Chancellor. "Nan Ho, I want you to contact all the Heads of the Minor Families and have them come here, at once. By my express order."

Nan Ho bowed. "Chieh Hsia."

And meanwhile he would call his fellow T'ang. For action must be taken. Immediate action, before the thing got out of hand.

KARR WAS buttoning his tunic when Chen came into the room, barely stopping to knock. He turned from the mirror, then stopped, seeing the look of delight on Chen's face.

"What is it?"

Chen handed Karr a file. "It's our friend. There's no doubt about it. These are stills taken from a Security surveillance film thirty-two hours ago at Nantes spaceport."

Karr flipped the folder open and flicked through the stills a moment, then looked back at Chen, his face lit up. "Then we've got him, neh?"

Chen's face fell. He shook his head.

"What?"

"I'm afraid not. It seems his man Lehmann just picked him up and carried him out of there."

"And no one intercepted him? Where was Security?"

"Waiting for orders."

Karr started to speak, then understood. "Gods . . . Again?"

Chen nodded.

"And the Security Captain. He committed suicide, neh?"

Chen sighed. "That's right. It fits the pattern. I checked back in their surveillance records. The computer registers that a man matching DeVore's description passed through Nantes spaceport four times in the past month."

"And there was no Security alert?"

"No. Nor would there have been. The machine was reprogrammed to ignore the instruction from Bremen. As he was wearing false retina, the only way they could have got him was by direct facial recognition, and because they rely so heavily on computer-generated alerts, the chance of that was minimal."

"So how did we get these?"

Chen laughed. "It seems there was a fairly high-ranking junior minister on the same flight as DeVore. He complained about the incident direct to Bremen, and when they discovered they had no record of the event they instigated an immediate inquiry. This resulted."

Karr sat down heavily, setting the file to one side, and began to pull on his boots. For a moment he was quiet, thoughtful, then he looked up again.

"Do we know where he'd been?"

"Boston. But who he saw there or what he was doing we don't know yet. Our friends in North American Security are looking into it right now."

"And the assassins?" Karr asked, pulling on the other boot. "Do we know who they were?"

Chen shrugged. "The two Han look like Triad assassins, but the third—well, we have him on record as a probable Ping Tiao sympathizer."

Karr looked up, raising his eyebrows. "Ping Tiao? But they don't exist any longer. At least, that's what our contacts down below tell us. Our friend Ebert is supposed to have wiped them out."

Chen nodded. "You don't think . . . ?"

Karr laughed. "Even Ebert wouldn't be stupid enough to try to work with the Ping Tiao. DeVore wouldn't let him."

"So what do you think?"

Karr shook his head. "We don't know enough, that's clear. Who besides ourselves would want DeVore dead?"

"Someone he's crossed?"

Karr laughed. "Yes. But that could be anyone, neh? Anyone at all."

LI YUAN LOOKED out across the marbled expanse of the Hall of the Seven Ancestors and nodded to himself, satisfied. The space between the dragon pillars was packed. More than two thousand men—all the adult males of the Twenty-Nine—were gathered here this afternoon. All, that was, but those who had already succumbed to the sickness.

He sat on the High Throne, dressed in the dragon robe of imperial yellow edged with blue. In one hand he held the Special Edict, in the other the bamboo cane with the silver cap that had been his brother's present to his father.

There was the faintest murmur from below, but when he stood, the hall fell silent, followed a moment later by a loud rustling of expensive silks as in a single movement, the great crowd knelt, touching their heads to the floor three times in the ritual Uu k'ou. Li Yuan smiled bleakly, remembering another day, nine years ago—the day his father had summoned the leaders of the Dispersionists before him, here in this very hall, and humbled them, making their leader, Lehmann, give up his friend Wyatt. Much had changed since then, but once again the will of the T'ang had to be imposed. By agreement it was hoped; but by force, if necessary.

Li Yuan came down, stopping three steps from the bottom, facing the five elderly men who stood at the front of the crowd. His Chancellor, Nan Ho, stood to the right, the list scrolled tightly in one hand. Behind him, just beyond the nearest of the dragon pillars, a troop of elite guards waited, their shaved heads bowed low.

He looked past the five Family Heads at the great press of men behind them. All had their heads lowered, their eyes averted, acknowledging his supremacy. Right now they were obedient, but would they remain so when they knew his purpose? Would they understand the need for this, or would they defy him? He shivered, then looked back at the five who stood closest.

He saw how the hands of nephews and cousins reached from behind Chun Wu-chi, supporting him, keeping him from falling; saw how frail his once-father-in-law, Yin Tsu had become; how the first signs of senility had crept into the eighty-three-year-old face of Pei Ro-hen. Only An Sheng and Hsiang Shao-erh, both men in their fifties, seemed robust. Even so, the Minor Families had thrived—a dozen, fifteen, sons not uncommon among them—while the Seven had diminished. Why was that? he wondered for the first time. Was it merely the pressures of rule, the depredations of war and politics, or was it symptomatic of some much deeper malaise?

There was silence in the hall, but underneath it he could feel the invisible pressure of their expectations. Many of them had heard rumors of the sickness; even so, most were wondering why he had summoned them. Why they were standing here, in this unprecedented manner, in the Great Hall at Tongjiang, waiting for him to speak.

Well, now they would know. He would put an end to all speculation.

"Ch'un tzul" he began, his voice resonant, powerful. "I have summoned you here today because we face a crisis—perhaps the greatest crisis the Families have ever faced."

Li Yuan looked across the sea of lowered heads, aware of the power he exercized over these men, but conscious also of what that power rested upon. They obeyed him because they had agreed among themselves to obey him. Take away that agreement—that mandate—and what followed?

He took a breath, then continued.

"More than fifty of our number are dead. Another three hundred, I am told, are sick or close to death. And the cause of this mysterious illness? Something we thought we had rid ourselves of long ago—yang mei ping. Willow-plum sickness!"

There was a murmur of surprise and a number of heads moved agitatedly, but as yet no one dared meet his eyes. He moved on, keeping his voice calm, letting the authority of his position fill his words.

"In the past, I am told, the disease would have killed only after long months of suffering, leading to blindness and eventual madness, but this is a new, more virulent strain—one that our Families are no longer immune to. It is a brain-killer. It can strike down a healthy man—or woman—in less than thirty hours; although, as is the way of such diseases, not all succumb immediately to the virus but become carriers. That, in itself, is horrible enough; but this strain, it seems, is particularly j vile, for it is racially specific. It affects only us Han."

Shocked faces were looking up at him now, forgetting all propriety. Deliberately' ignoring this lapse, Li Yuan pressed on, saying what must be said.

"Such are the facts. What we must now ask ourselves is what are we to do to combat this disease? There is no cure, nor is there time to find one. No cure, that is, but the most drastic of preventive measures."

Hsiang Shao-erh looked up at him, his eyes half-lidded, deeply suspicious. "What do you mean, Chieh Hsia?"

Li Yuan met the older man's gaze firmly. "I mean that we must test everyone in this hall. Wives and children too. And then we must find those outside the Families—men or women—who have been in contact with anyone from the Families."

"In contact, Chieh Hsial"

The words were framed politely, but he noted Hsiang's hostility. Hsiang had already lost his oldest son to the virus and it was clear that he saw the drift of Li Yuan's speech.

He answered unflinchingly. "In sexual contact. How else do you think the disease was spread?"

Again he felt the ripples of shock pass through the Hall. Despite his reference to willow-plum sickness, many had simply not understood until that moment. A low buzz ran from one end of the hall to the other.

"But surely, Chieh Hsia—?"

Li Yuan cut Hsiang off sharply, his patience snapping. "Silence! All of you, be silent now! I have not finished."

The hall fell silent, heads were lowered again; but only a pace or so from him, Hsiang glared back at him, bristling with anger. Li Yuan looked past him, addressing the great mass.

"We must test everyone. We must track down every last victim—especially the carriers—of this disease."

"And then?" The voice was Hsiang Shao-erh's. Stubborn, defiant.

Li Yuan looked back at him. "And then they must die."

The hall erupted. Li Yuan looked out across the seething crowd, seeing the angry opposition—but also the strong agreement—his words had engendered. Arguments raged on every side. Just beneath him, Hsiang Shao-erh and An Sheng were protesting loudly, their arms gesticulating, their faces dark with anger; while Yin Tsu and Pei Ro-han attempted to remonstrate with them. For a while he let it go on, knowing that this violent flood of feelings must be allowed its channel, then he raised one hand, palm outward. Slowly the Hall fell silent again.

He looked down at Hsiang Shao-erh. "You wish to say something, Cousin?"

Hsiang took a pace forward, placing one foot on the first step of the High Throne, seeming almost to threaten his T'ang. He spat the words out angrily.

"I protest, Chieh Hsia! You cannot do this! We are Family, not hsioo jenl Never in our history have we been subjected to such humiliation! To make us take this test of yours would be to undermine our word, our honor as ch'un tzul Why, it is tantamount to saying that we are all fornicators and unfaithful to our wives!"

Li Yuan shook his head. "And the deaths? The spread of the disease? Are these things mere ghosts and idle rumors?"

"There are a few, I admit. Young bucks . . . but even so—"

"A few!" Li Yuan spat the words back angrily, almost contemptuously, taking a step forward, almost pushing his face into Hsiang's, forcing him to take a step back.

"You are a fool, Hsiang, to think of face at such a time! Do you really believe I would do this if it were not necessary? Do you think I would risk damaging my relationship with you, my cousins, if there were not some far greater threat?"

Hsiang opened his mouth, then closed it again, taken aback by the unexpected violence of Li Yuan's counterattack.

"This is a war," Li Yuan said, looking past him again, addressing the massed sons and cousins. "And upon its outcome depends how Chung Kuo will be in years to come. Whether there will be good, stable rule—the rule of Seven and Twenty-Nine—or chaos. To think that we can fight such a war without losses—without sacrifices—is both ridiculous and untenable."

He looked back directly at Hsiang. "Do not mistake me, Hsiang Shao-erh. Face, honor, a man's word—these are the very things that bind our society in times of peace, and I would defend them before any man. Yet in times of war we must let go sometimes of our high ideals, if but briefly. We must bow, like the reeds before the wind, or go down, like a great tree in a storm."

Hsiang lowered his eyes. "Chieh Hsia . . ."

"Good. Then you will sign the paper, Hsiang Shao-erh?"

Hsiang looked up again. "The paper?"

Nan Ho brought the scroll across. Li Yuan turned, offering it to Hsiang. "Here. I have prepared a document. I would not have it said that the compact between Seven and Twenty-Nine was broken. There must be agreement between us, even in this matter."

Li Yuan held the document out toward Hsiang Shao-erh. As his father had, so he now seemed the very embodiment of imperial power; unyielding, like the famous rock in the Yellow River that, for centuries, had withstood the greatest of floods.

Hsiang stared at the scroll, then looked up at his T'ang, his voice smaller suddenly, more querulous. "And if any here refuse?"

Li Yuan did not hesitate. "Then the compact is ended, the Great Wheel broken."

Hsiang shuddered. For a moment longer he stood there, hesitant, staring at the document. Then, suddenly, he lowered his head. "Very well, Chieh Hsia. I will sign."

AFTERWARD, while the Families were lining up to be tested, Nan Ho went to Li Yuan in his study.

"Forgive me, Chieh Hsia," he said, bowing low, "but I did not understand. Why did Hsiang Shao-erh oppose you just now? I would have thought, with his eldest son dead, he would have been the first to sanction your actions—to prevent the deaths of more of his sons."

Li Yuan sighed. "So it would have been, I'm sure, Master Nan, but the chao tai hut where the sickness was originally spread, was held on Hsiang's estate. Oh, he had nothing to do with the organization of the affair—that was all his son K'ai Fan's doing—nor was Hsiang Shao-erh responsible for the sickness itself. However, he feels responsible. Many among the Twenty-Nine blame him, irrational as that is. As a consequence he has lost great face. That display today was an attempt to regain his face. Unfortunately, I could not allow it. Now, I am afraid, I have made an enemy."

"Things can be smoothed over, surely, Chieh Hsia⁷. A gift, perhaps . . ."

Li Yuan shook his head. "I made him challenge me. And then I broke him before his equals. It had to be done, but there is no repairing it. No, so we must watch ourselves from that quarter henceforth. Wang Sau-leyan is sure to hear of what happened here today. No doubt he will try to exploit the division between Hsiang and me."

The Chancellor shook his head, then looked up again. "Forgive me, Chieh Hsia, but do you not think death too extreme a penalty? After all, it was not their fault that they picked up this sickness. Have you not considered, perhaps, castrating those found with the virus? Those, that is, who would not die of it anyway."

"No, Master Nan. Had they been servants we might well have done that, but these are Family. Such a humiliation would be worse than death for them. Besides, what of the women they have infected? What are we to do with them? Sew them up?"

Nan Ho gave a brief, uncomfortable laugh, then bowed his head. "I had not thought, Chieh Hsia."

Li Yuan smiled sadly. "Never mind. Go now, Master Nan. Go and supervise the screening. I will expect you three hours from now to give your report on the proceedings."

"Chieh Hsia . . ."

Li Yuan sat back. There were other things to consider now; other sicknesses to rid the world of. The Young Sons, for instance, and the virus of the Aristotle File. He sighed and leaned forward again, punching in the code that would connect him with Tsu Ma in Astrakhan.

It was time to act. Time to draw in the nets and see what fish they had caught.

W u s h I h, T'ang of North America, raised his eyes from the small screen inset into his desk and looked across at the huge image of Li Yuan's face that filled the facing wall.

He gave a deep sigh, then placed his hands palm down on the desk, clearly disturbed by what he had just seen.

"Well, Cousin, I must thank you. The tape is quite conclusive. Even so, I feel nothing but sadness that it has come to this. I had hoped that I could persuade them somehow from their folly, but it is much more than mere folly, isn't it? More than boredom or high spirits. This can lead to one thing only—rebellion and the overthrow of the Seven. I have to act. You understand that?"

Li Yuan nodded. "Of course," he said sympathetically. "Which is why I have already spoken with Tsu Ma. He agrees. And the sooner the better. The Sons of Benjamin Franklin are not the only group. There are similar factions in the other Cities, linked to the Young Sons. If we are to act, it would be best if we acted in concert, neh? Tonight, if possible. At twelfth bell."

"And the other T'ang?"

Li Yuan shook his head. "There's no time for that. Besides, if Wang Sau-leyan were to learn, it's likely there would be no one there to arrest. He has a funny way with 'secrets.'"

Wu Shih looked down, considering, then nodded. "All right. Twelfth bell. And you will act elsewhere? You and Tsu Ma?"

"At twelfth bell." He started to cut the connection.

"Li Yuan! Wait! What of the boy? Do you think they will suspect his role in this?"

Li Yuan laughed. "How could they? Even he doesn't know what he has been these past few days."

Wu Shih gave a small laugh. "Even so, should I take steps to get him out?"

Li Yuan shook his head. "No. Any such move might alert them. Ensure only that your men do not harm him by mistake."

Wu Shih lowered his head slightly, a mark of respect that he had often made to Yuan's father, Li Shai Tung, and an implicit acknowledgment of where the real leadership lay within the Seven.

Li Yuan smiled. "Then goodnight, Cousin. We shall speak in the morning. Once things are better known."

THE lever MANSION was a huge, two-story house with gables, standing in its own wooded grounds. Outside it was dark, the house lights reflected brightly in the dark waters of the nearby lake. In the center of the mansion's bold facade was a pillared entrance, its wide, double doors open, light spilling out onto a gravel drive. Dark sedans, some antique, some reproduction, lined the entrance road, their drivers dressed in a black-suited livery that matched the ancient crest on the sides of the sedans. All evening they had gone back and forth, ferrying guests between the house and the transit, almost a li away.

The illusion was almost perfect. The darkness hid the walls of the surrounding decks, while above the house a thick, dark-blue cloth masked the ice of the stack's uppermost floor, like a starless night sky.

Kim stood between the trees, in darkness, looking back at the house. This was the third time he had come to Richmond, to the Lever Mansion, but it was the first time he had seen the house in darkness. Tonight they were throwing a ball. A party for the elite of their City—the Supernal, as they called themselves. It was the first time he had heard the term used and it amused him to think of himself, so loui in birth, mixing in such high company. He was not drunk—he took care never to touch alcohol or drugs—but merely mixing in the atmosphere of the house was enough to create a mild euphoria. The air was chill, sharp. In the trees nearby the leaves rustled in a mild, artificial breeze. Kim smiled, enjoying the strangeness of it all, and reached out to touch the smooth bark of one of the pines.

"Kim?"

A tall, elegant young man in old-fashioned evening dress stood at the edge of the gravel, calling him. It was Michael Lever.

"I'm here," he said, stepping out from the trees. "I was just getting some air."

Lever greeted him, more than a ch'i taller than he, straight-backed and blond, an American . . .

"Come on in," he said, smiling. "Father has been asking for you."

Kim let himself be ushered inside once more, through reception room and ballroom and out into a smaller, quieter space beyond. Leather doors closed behind him. The room was dimly lit, pervaded by the tart smell of cigar smoke. Old Man Lever was sitting on the far side of the room, beside the only lamp, his friends gathered about him in high-backed leather chairs. Old men, like himself. By the window stood a group of younger men. Michael joined them, accepting a drink from one; then he turned back, looking across at Kim.

Charles Lever lit up a new cigar, then beckoned Kim over. "Here, Kim. Take a seat." He indicated the empty chair beside him. "There are some people here— friends of mine—I want you to meet."

Old men. The thought flashed through Kim's mind. Old men, afraid of dying.

He sat in the huge, uncomfortable chair, ill at ease, nodding acknowledgment to each of the men in turn; noting each face and placing it. These were big men. Powerful men. Each of them Lever's equal. So what had Lever said? What had Lever promised he could do for them?

"We were talking," Lever said, turning in his chair to look at Kim. "Chewing things over among ourselves. And I was telling my friends here about your new company. About Chi Chu. Potentially a nice little outfit, but small, undercapitalized."

Kim looked down, surprised that Lever knew already.

Lever cleared his throat, then nodded, as if satisfied by his own evaluation of things. "And I was saying what a shame it was. Because I've seen your like before, Kim. A hot property with plenty of good, strong ideas and lots of get-up-and-go, but nothing to back it up. There's a pattern to it too. I've seen how they've built things up—how they've grown real fast. Up to a certain point. And then . . ." He shook his head and looked down at the cigar smoldering between his ringers. "Then they've tried to move up a league. Into manufacturing. Because it's a shame to let the big industrials take so large a share of the cut. Galling, even."

The young men by the window were watching him intently, almost suspiciously. Kim could feel their eyes on him; could almost sense what they were thinking. What would this mean for them? For if their fathers lived forever . . .

"I've seen them try to take that step," Lever continued. "And I've seen them flounder, unable to cope with the sheer size of the market. I've watched the big companies move in, like those sharks we were talking of, and gobble up the pieces. Because that's what it's really all about, Kim. Not ideas. Not potential. Not get-up-and-go. But money. Money and power."

He paused and sucked at his cigar. All around him the old men nodded, but their eyes never left Kim's face.

"So I was saying to my friends here, let's make things happen a little differently this time. Use some of our money, our power to help this young man. Because it's a shame to see potential go to waste. A damn shame, if you ask me."

He leaned back, drawing on the cigar, then puffed out a narrow stream of smoke. Kim waited, silent, not knowing what to say. He wanted nothing from these men. Neither money nor power. But that was not the point. It was what they wanted from him that mattered here.

"CosTech has offered for your contract. Right?"

Kim opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. Of course Lever would know. He had spies, hadn't he? They all had spies. It was how things worked at this level. You weren't in business unless you knew what the competition was up to.

"Yes. But I haven't decided yet." He lied, wanting to hear what they were going to offer. "I'm meeting them again in two weeks to talk terms."

Lever smiled, but it was a smile tinged with sourness. "Working for the competition, eh?" He laughed. "Rather you than me, boy."

There was laughter from the gathered circle. Only by the window was there silence.

"But why's this, Kim? Why would you want to waste a year of your life slaving for CosTech when you could be pushing Eureka on to bigger things?"

Make your offer, Kim thought. Spell it out. What you want. What you're offering. Make a deal, old man. Or would that embarrass you, being so direct?

"You know what they've offered?" he asked.

Lever nodded. "It's peanuts. An insult to your talent. And it ties you. Limits what you could do."

Ah, thought Kim, that's more to the point. Working for CosTech, he could not work for ImmVac. And they needed him. The old men needed him, because, after a certain age, it was not possible to stop the aging process. Not as things stood. They had to catch it before the molecular signal triggered it. Afterward was no good. What ImmVac had developed was no good for any of these men. The complex system of cell-replication began to break down, slowly at first, but exponentially, until the genetic damage was irreparable. And then senility.

And what good was money or power against senility and death?

"I'm a physicist," he said, looking at the old man directly. "What good am I to you? You want a biochemist. Someone working in the field of defective protein manufacture. In cell repair. Not an engineer."

Lever shook his head. "You're good. People say you're the best. And you're young. You could learn. Specialize in self-repair mechanisms." He stared at Kim fiercely. The cigar in his hand had gone out. "We'll pay what you ask. Provide whatever you need."

Kim rubbed at his eyes. The cigar smoke had made them sore. He wanted to say no and have an end to it, but knew these were not men he could readily say no to.

"Two weeks, Shih Lever. Give me two weeks, then I'll let you know."

Lever narrowed his eyes, suspicious of the young, childlike man. "Two weeks?"

"Yes. After all, you're asking me to change the direction of my life. And that's something I have to think about. I've got to consider what it means. What I might lose and what gain. I can't see it right now. Which is why I need to think it through."

But he had thought it through already and dismissed it. He knew what he wanted; had known from the first moment he had glimpsed the vision of the web. Death—what was death beside that vision?

Lever looked to the other men in the room, then nodded his agreement. "All right, Shih Ward. Two weeks it is."

IT was LATE. The crowd in the ballroom had thinned out, but the dancing went on. On the balcony overlooking the hall, a ten-man orchestra played a slow waltz, their bows rising and falling in the fragmented light. Kim stood at the back of the hall, beside Michael Lever, watching the couples move about the floor, realizing that this, too, was an illusion, a dream of agelessness. As if time could be restored, its flow reversed.

"I love their dresses," he said, looking up at the tall young man. "They're like jellyfish."

Lever roared, then turned to his friends and repeated Kim's comment. In a moment their laughter joined his own. Lever turned back to Kim, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

"That's rich, Kim. Marvelous! Like jellyfish!" And again he burst into laughter.

Kim looked at him, surprised. What had he said? It was true, wasn't it? The bobbing movement of their many-layered dresses was like those of jellyfish in the ocean, even down to the frilled edges.

"I was only saying—" he began, but he never finished the sentence. At that moment the main lights came up. The orchestra played on for a moment or two, then ended in sudden disarray. The dancers stopped circling and stood looking toward the doorway at the far end of the ballroom. Suddenly it felt much colder in the hall. There was the sound of shouting from outside.

"What in hell's name?" Lever said, starting to make his way toward the doors. Then he stopped abruptly. Soldiers had come out onto the balcony above the dance floor. More came into the ballroom through the doorway. Security troops in powder-blue fatigues, black-helmeted, their visors down.

Kim felt his mouth go dry. Something was wrong.

The soldiers formed a line along the edge of the balcony and along the lower walls, covering the dancers with their weapons. Only a few of their number went among the dancers, their visors up, looking from face to face. Up above, on the balcony, a lieutenant began to read out a warrant for the arrest of fifteen men.

In the ballroom there was disbelief and anger. One young man jostled a Security guard and was brought down by a sharp blow with a rifle butt. When the soldiers left the hall they took more than a dozen young men, Lever and his friends among them.

Kim, watching, saw the anger in surrounding faces after the soldiers had gone. More anger than he'd ever seen. And different, very different from the anger of the Clay. This anger smoldered like red-hot ashes fanned by a breath. It was a deep-rooted, enduring anger.

Beside Kim a young man's face was distorted, black with rage. "He'll pay! The bastard will pay for this!" Others gathered about him, shouting, their fists clenched, the dance forgotten.

Kim stood a moment longer, then turned away, going quickly from the hall. Things had changed. Suddenly, dramatically, the rules had changed, and he was no longer safe here. He passed through, glancing from side to side, seeing only outrage on the faces of those he passed. Outside he walked past the waiting sedans and on, out across the darkness toward the transit.

In a sober moment they would remember. Old Man Lever would remember. And in his anger, who knew how he would act? It was a time for taking sides, and he was Li Yuan's man.

He. saw soldiers up ahead, guarding the transit entrance, and began to run, knowing his safety lay with them. But nearer the barrier he turned and looked back at the house, remembering the dresses bobbing to the music, the swish of lace in the air. And a circle of old men, offering him the earth.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

In the Open

TOLONEN STOOD at Haavikko's bedside, looking down at him, a faint smile on his lips. It had been only two days since his own operation and he was still feeling weak, but he had had to come.

A nurse brought him a chair and he sat, content to wait until the young man woke. His new arm ached at the shoulder, despite the drugs, but it was feeling better than it had.

Besides, he was alive. Thanks to Haavikko, he was alive.

The nurse hovered but he waved her away, then settled to watch the sleeping man.

All his life he had been self-reliant. All his life he had fought his own fights, keeping himself always one step ahead of his enemies. But now he was growing old. At last he had proof of it. His old eyes had missed the discrepancy of the color codings on the soldiers' chests, his reactions had been just a fraction of a second too slow, and he had lost his arm as a result. Almost his life.

He smiled, studying the young man. Haavikko was cradled in bandages, special healants creating new skin growth on his badly burned shoulder and back.

Tolonen shook his head as if to clear it, feeling both sad and happy at once. He had been told what Haavikko had done for him, like a son for a father; risking himself when all bonds of duty or obligation had long ago been severed between them.

Yes, he had sorely misjudged the boy; had believed him other than he was.

Haavikko stirred and opened his eyes. "Marshal. . ." He made to sit up, then winced and eased back, closing his eyes again. The blast had removed most of the skin at the top of his back and taken off his ear.

"Lie still, boy. Please. You need your rest."

Haavikko opened his eyes again and looked up at the Marshal. "Your arm . . ." he said, clearly pained by the sight.

Tolonen laughed gruffly. "You like it? It hurts a bit just now, but that doesn't matter. I'm alive, that's the thing." He sat back, his right hand reaching up to scratch at the stubble on his left cheek; an awkward, embarrassed gesture, indicative of just how hard the old man found it to deal with this. The warmth he felt toward the other man—that depth of reawakened feeling—brought him close to tears. He looked away a moment, controlling himself, then finished what he had meant to say. "Thanks to you, Axel. Thanks to you."

Axel smiled. His hands lay above the sheets. Long, fine hands, undamaged in the incident. Tolonen took one and squeezed it.

"I misjudged you, boy. I—"

Haavikko shook his head, a slight grimace of pain crossing his face. "It doesn't matter. Really, sir. I..." He turned his head slightly, looking across the room to the peg where his clothes hung. "But there's something you must know. Something important."

Tolonen smiled. "Rest, my boy. There's plenty of time for other things . . ."

"No . . ." Haavikko swallowed dryly. "Over there, in my tunic, there's a package. I was bringing it to you when it happened. I'd pieced it all together."

Tolonen shook his head, puzzled. "Pieced what together?"

Haavikko looked up, pleading with his eyes. "Just look. Please, sir. You don't have to read it all right now. Later, perhaps, when you feel up to it. But promise me you'll read it. Please, Marshal."

Tolonen let go of Haavikko's hand, got up heavily, and walked across the room. Just as Haavikko had said, there was a small package in the inner pocket of the tunic. He tugged at it until it came free, then went back, taking his seat again.

He held the package out, a query in his eyes. "So what is this?"

Haavikko swallowed again and Tolonen, taking the hint, put the package down and picked up the glass by the bedside, giving Haavikko a few sips.

"Well?"

"Long ago you asked me to do something for you—to make a list of people who might have been involved in the assassination of Minister Lwo Kang. Do you remember?"

Tolonen laughed. "Gods! That must have been eleven years ago. And you did that?"

Haavikko made the smallest movement of his head. "That's how it began. But I extended it. I kept a record of anything I felt wasn't right—anything that didn't quite make sense to me. Then, recently, I teamed up with Kao Chen and your man Karr."

"Good men," Tolonen said, nodding his approval.

"Yes." Haavikko smiled, then grew serious again. "Anyway, what you have there is the result of our investigations. My original list, my notes, and a few other things. Computer files. Hologram images."

Tolonen lifted the package and turned it in his hand; then he set it down on his knee and reached out to take Haavikko's hand again. "And you want me to look at it?"

"Yes. . ."

Tolonen considered a moment. He had promised Jelka he would dine with her later on, but maybe he would cancel that. He could always say he was tired. Jelka would understand. He smiled broadly at Haavikko. "Of course. It's the very least I can do."

Haavikko looked back at him, his eyes moist. "Thank you," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "Thank you, sir."

Tolonen sat clasping the young man's hand. The ache in his left shoulder was much stronger now. It was probably time for his medication, but he felt loath to leave Haavikko.

"I must go now," he said softly. "But I promise you I'll look at your files. Later. When it's quiet."

Haavikko smiled, his eyes closed. Slowly his mouth relaxed. In a moment he was sleeping.

Tolonen placed the young man's hand gently back on the sheets, then got to his feet stiffly. Twice lucky, he thought, remembering the attack at Nanking spaceport. He made his way across, then turned, looking back, noticing for the first time just how pale Haavikko was. He stood there a moment longer, absently scratching at the dressing at his shoulder, then desisted, annoyed with himself.

He looked down at the silver arm and sighed, remembering how Jelka had fussed when she'd first seen it. But there was steel in her too. She had borne up bravely. So, too, this young man. Oh, he would make things up. He was determined on it. He would find a way of making things right again.

Tolonen yawned, then, smiling sadly to himself, turned away, leaving the young officer to sleep.

TSU ma lifted the dish and brushed his thumb across its silken, contoured surface. It was a perfect piece; black lacquer carved with two water fowls against a background of lotus. Fourteenth century, from the last years of the Yuan Dynasty. He smiled to himself, then turned to face Li Yuan.

"Two years they would labor to make one of these. Two years of a master craftsman's life. And at the end, this. This small fragment of dark perfection."

Li Yuan looked across at him, turning from the view of Rio de Janeiro's bay and Sugarloaf Mountain beyond. He had not been listening, but he saw the lacquered dish in Tsu Ma's hands and nodded. "That piece is beautiful. Hou Ti had many fine things."

Tsu Ma held his eyes a moment. "These days some think of them as primitive, ignorant men. Barbarians. But look at this. Is this barbarian?" He shook his head slowly, his eyes returning to the dish. "As if the mere passage of years could make our species more sophisticated."

Li Yuan laughed and came closer. "Your point, Tsu Ma?"

Behind them, at the far side of the long room, the rest of the Seven were gathered, talking among themselves.

Tsu Ma put the dish down, letting his fingers rest in its shallow bowl, then looked up at Li Yuan again. "Just that there are those here who think the future better than the past simply because it is the future. Who believe that change is good simply because it is change. They have no time for comparisons. Nor for the kind of values expressed in the simplicity of this dish. No time for craft, control, or discipline." He lowered his voice a fraction. "And I find that disturbing, Li Yuan. Dangerous, even."

Li Yuan studied him a moment, then gave the barest nod of agreement. They had covered much ground that morning, but nothing yet of true significance. On the matters of the stewardships and the new immortality drugs he had bowed like the reed before the wind, not pushing his own viewpoint, merely ensuring that these matters were not finalized. Let them play their games of evading death, he thought; death would find them anyway, wherever they hid. As for the other, there was time enough to force his view on that.

"How deep is this feeling?"

Tsu Ma considered a moment, then leaned toward Li Yuan. "Deep, Cousin. Deep enough to trouble me." He looked past the younger man, out beyond the window glass, seeing how the space between the bowl of hills was plugged with the white of the City's walls. "They would do away with certain restraints." He stretched his long neck, lifting his chin, then looked directly at Li Yuan. "You'll see. This afternoon. . ."

The early afternoon sunlight fell across Li Yuan's arm and shoulder. "It is the illness of our time. Change and the desire for change. But I had not thought—" Yuan smiled and broke off, seeing Chi Hsing, the T'ang of the Australias, approach.

The two men nodded, acknowledging the newcomer.

"Are you not eating, cousins?" Chi Hsing smiled and turned, summoning the waiters, then turned back. "Before we resume, there is a matter I must raise with you. A change has been proposed to the scheduled itinerary."

"A change?" Li Yuan said, raising his eyebrows slightly, but heavily emphasising the word. Beside him Tsu Ma kept his amusement to himself, staring back masklike at his fellow T'ang.

Chi Hsing was known for neither his intelligence nor his subtlety. In that regard he was much more his mother's child than his father's. He was a father now himself, of course. Two young sons, the eldest barely two years old, had blessed his first marriage, changing him considerably. He was less rash now than he'd been, and though he had secretly applauded Li Yuan's purge of the Ping Tioo, he also had misgivings about such actions. He feared for his sons, remembering what had happened in the War with the Dispersionists. Vengeance was fine, but now he wished only for peace.

Peace. So that he might see his sons grow to be men. Strong, fine men, as his father had been.

"Wang Sau-leyan has made a request," he began, his eyes searching both their faces. "And there are others here who wish to speak on the matter." His eyes grew still, focused on Li Yuan.

"Go on, Cousin."

Chi Hsing bowed his head slightly. "He wishes to discuss the arrests. The action you took in league with Wu Shih against the Young Sons."

It was clear, by the way Chi Hsing stood there, that he expected Li Yuan to refuse. Indeed, it was within Li Yuan's rights to refuse Wang's request, as his father had done once before. But Li Yuan only smiled politely.

"I have no objection to that. Do you, Tsu Ma?"

"Not I."

Li Yuan reached out and touched Chi Hsing's shoulder. "It is best, after all, if these things are aired between us. In the open."

Chi Hsing nodded, still hesitant, as if he expected Li Yuan to change his mind at any moment. Then, realizing he had achieved his end, he smiled.

"Good. That's very good, Li Yuan. As you say, it is best. In the open." He nodded again, this time decisively, then turned and went across to where Wang Sau-leyan and their host, Hou Tung-po, T'ang of South America, were standing. Wang listened a moment, then looked across at Li Yuan, bowing his head slightly.

"In the open," said Tsu Ma beneath his breath. "You're like your father, Yuan. Devious."

Li Yuan turned, surprised, then laughed, seeing the humor beneath the surface of Tsu Ma's words. "Words are words, Tsu Ma. We must bend and shape them to our needs."

Tsu Ma nodded, pleased with that. "So it is in these troubled times, Cousin. But history shall judge us by our actions."

wang sau-leyan was leaning forward in his seat, his hands folded in his lap, his big moon face looking from one to another as he spoke. He seemed calm, relaxed, his voice soft and deep, persuasive in its tones. Thus far he had said little that had not been said before, but now he turned the conversation.

"In this room, as in the rooms of the Twenty-Nine and the mansions of the Supernal, there are those who are questioning recent events. Some with anger, some with sadness and misgivings. Others fearfully, remembering things not long past. But every last one of them is concerned, wondering where it will stop. For myself, I believe it has already gone too far."

Wu Shih made to interrupt, but Wang raised his hand. "You will have your say, Wu Shih, and 1 shall listen. But first hear me out. This must be said, before it is too late for words."

Tsu Ma reached into the pocket of his jacket and took out a slender silver case. "Then talk, Cousin. Let us hear what you have to say."

There was an unconcealed hostility in the words that surprised Li Yuan. He watched Tsu Ma take a cheroot from the case, close it, and slip it back into his pocket.

"Thank you, Cousin," said Wang, watching the older man light the cheroot and draw the first breath from it. He smiled tightly, then let his face fall blank again. "As I said, there is anger and sadness and a great deal of fear. Unhealthy symptoms. Signs of a deep and bitter hostility toward us."

Wu Shih grunted indignantly, but kept his silence. His cheeks burned red and his eyes bored into the side of Wang's softly rounded face.

"We have sown a harvest of discontent," Wang went on. "1 say we, because this affects us all. And yet I hesitate to use that plural, because it suggests consensus on our part. Suggests a commonly agreed-upon set of actions, discussed and debated here, in Council, as has always been our way." He paused and looked about him, shaking his head. "Instead I wake to find the world a different place from when I slept. And myself every bit as surprised as those who came begging audience, saying, 'Why is my son arrested?' "

In the chair beside him, Hou Tung-po nodded his head vigorously. "So it was for me. I was not notified, Li Yuan. Not consulted before you and Wu Shih acted. A poor choice was left to me—to seem a scoundrel or look a fool. Relations are bad between us and the Above. As bad as at any time during the last ten years. We must act to defuse this situation before it gets out of hand. We must make some gesture to placate the Above."

There was a moment's silence, then Li Yuan spoke, his anger at Wang Sau-leyan's criticism barely contained.

"When a man saves his brother's life, does he say first, 'Excuse me, brother, I would save your life, is that all right with you?' No, he acts, pushing his brother aside, out of the way of the falling rock. He acts! I make no apologies for my actions. Nor for the lack of consultation. Surprise was a necessity. I could not risk informing anyone."

He stood, going to the center of their informal circle, looking down at Wang Sau-leyan.

"Perhaps you relish death, Cousin Wang. For myself I would grow old in peace, no dagger to my throat."

Wang laughed; a short, bitter laugh. "Oh yes, Li Yuan, you act like one destined to live long. For while your enemies multiply, your friends diminish."

Li Yuan smiled back at him tightly. "So it is in this world. But it is better to trust one's friends and know one's enemies. Better to act than to prevaricate."

Wang Sau-leyan glared back at Li Yuan, infuriated by his words, all pretense of calm gone from him. "Ai yal—but must we all suffer for your rashness, Cousin? Must vx. reap what you sow? You sound like your dead brother—hotheaded!"

For a moment there was a tense silence, then Li Yuan gave a soft laugh. "Hotheaded, you say?" He shook his head. "Not so, Cousin. Not so. You ask for something to placate the Above, like a woman begging for her son's life. Has it come to that? Are we so weak we must beg for our existence? Are we not to crush what seeks to destroy us? It seems you have changed your tune, Wang Sau-leyan, for once you sought to lecture us ..."

Wang was shaking his head. "Young men, Li Yuan, that's all they are. Young men. Misguided, overenthusiastic, that's all." Wang looked beyond Li Yuan, a faint smile resting on his lips. "It would defuse things if we let them go, and in time this thing would certainly blow over."

"Blow over?" Li Yuan shook his head in disbelief. "What must they do before you see it, Cousin? Must they hold the gun to your head? This is no act of high spirits. This is revolution. Open rebellion. Don't you understand? It begins with ideas and it ends with bloodshed." He paused, then took a step closer, pointing down at'Wang. "They would kill you, Wang Sau-leyan, T'ang of Africa, and set themselves up in your place. Just as they killed your eldest brothers. Or do you forget?"

Li Yuan stood there, breathing deeply, staring down at Wang Sau-leyan, forcing him to meet his eyes.

"Well? Do you still want appeasement?" Wang nodded.

"And who else?" He looked at Hou Tung-po, then across to Chi Hsing. Both nodded, though neither met his eyes.

"And you, Wei Feng? What do you counsel?" He turned, facing the aged T'ang of East Asia. "You, surely, know the depths of this problem." "You speak as if I had the casting vote, Li Yuan."

"You have." It was Tsu Ma who answered for Li Yuan. Beside him Wu Shih looked across, bowing his head in assent.

Wei Feng sighed and looked down. "You know what I feel," he began, his low, toneless voice picking out each word slowly, meticulously. "You know my dislikes, my prejudices." He looked up at Li Yuan. "You must know, then, that what you did pleased me greatly." He smiled sourly. "However, that is not what is at issue here. What is at issue is our manner of conducting ourselves, Li Yuan. Not the action itself—with which I basically agree and for which I would support you at any other time—but the way in which you acted. As Wang Sau-leyan says, you acted without consulting us."

He paused, considering, then spoke again. "We are Seven, Li Yuan. Not One, but Seven. In that lies our strength. For seven generations now, our strength and the reason for peace in the world. For the strength of our society. Break that cohesion and you break it all."

"You defer then, Wei Feng?"

Wei Feng nodded. "I say free the young men. Then do as Wang says. Make the best of a bad lot and seek conciliation."

For a moment longer Li Yuan stood there, then he shrugged. "So be it," he said, looking across at Wang. "I will hand my prisoners over to you, Cousin, to do with as you will."

He looked away, leaving it there, but in his head the words resounded. Not One, but Seven. In that Ues our strength. He had never questioned it before, but now, standing there amidst his peers, he asked himself if it were really so.

He glanced at Wu Shih, seeing how the T'ang of North America was looking down, his anger unexpressed, and he had his answer. The days of unanimity were gone, and what had made the Seven such a force had gone with them. What Wei Feng had said, that had been true once, back in his father's time, but now?

Seven . . . the word was hollow now, the Great Wheel broken. It had died with his father. Four against three—that was the new reality. He looked across at Wang Sau-leyan, seeing the gleam of triumph in his eyes and knew. It was finished. Here, today, it had ended. And now they must find another path, another way of governing themselves. That was the truth. But the truth could not be spoken. Not yet, anyway, and certainly not here, in Council.

He smiled, suddenly relaxing as if a great weight had been taken from his shoulders, and turned his head, meeting Tsu Ma's eyes, seeing the light of understanding there.

"Shall we move on?" he said, looking about the circle of his fellow T'ang. "Time presses and there's much to do."

Yes, he thought; but none of it matters now. From now on this is merely play, a mask to hide our real intentions. For all the real decisions will henceforth be made in secret.

Out in the open. He laughed, recognizing finally the full irony of what he had said earlier, then turned, looking at Tsu Ma, and smiled, seeing his smile returned strongly. Yes. So it would be from now on. In the open . . .

IT HAD been summer in Rio. In Tongjiang it was winter.

Li Yuan stood on the terrace, looking out over the frozen lake. He wore furs and gloves and thick leather boots, but his head was bare, snowflakes settling in his fine, dark hair. Below him the slope was deep in snow, while on the far shore the trees of the orchard formed stark, tangled shapes against the white.

He looked up past the gentle slopes toward the distant mountains. Vast, sharp-edged escarpments of rock speared the colorless sky. He shivered and turned away, finding the bleakness of the view too close to his present mood.

He looked across at the palace, the stables beyond. His men were waiting on the verandah, talking among themselves beneath the great, shuttered windows. They did not like it here, he knew. This openness appalled them. They felt exposed, naked to all the primal things the City shut out behind its walls, but for him only this was real. The rest was but a game.

He had expected to find her here, or at least the memory of her, but there was nothing. Only the place itself remained, robbed of its scents, its vivid greenness, all human presence gone. As if all that had happened here had never been.

He shivered and looked down at his feet. A leaf clung to the ankle of his right boot. He removed his glove, stooped to pluck the wet and blackened leaf, then straightened up, feeling the icy cold against his flesh, the wetness in his palm. What did it all mean? He brushed the leaf away and pulled his glove back on, turning to walk back to the palace and the waiting transit.

Nothing, he decided. It meant nothing.

He flew southwest, over unbroken whiteness. Not snow this time but the endless City, three thousand U without a break, until they reached Kuang Chou, ancient Canton, at the mouth of the Pei River. Then, for a while, there was the blue of the South China Sea, before Hong Kong and to its southeast, the island of T'ai Yueh Shan, where Yin Tsu had his estate.

He had put this off too long. But now it was time to see the child. To bestow his gift upon his past-wife's son.

Coded signals passed between the ship and the estate's defense system; then they came down, Yin Tsu greeting him in the hangar. He was kneeling, his forehead pressed to the cold metal of the grid as Li Yuan stepped down.

Li Yuan had changed clothes on the flight down, shedding his furs and gloves and heavy boots in favor of thin satins of a fiery orange and slippers of the finest kid. Approaching the old man he stopped, lifting his foot.

Yin Tsu took the offered foot with care and kissed it once, then once more before releasing it.

"Yin Tsu, once-father, please." He reached down and took the old man's hand, helping him up. Only then did Yin Tsu look at him.

"I am honored by your visit, Chieh Hsia. Wnat may I do for you?"

"Fei Yen ... Is she still here with you?"

The old man nodded, his thin lips forming i'r ; faintest of smiles. "Yes, Chieh Hsia. She is here. And the child."

"Good. Good." He hesitated a moment, feeling awkward, then spoke again. "I'd like to see her. And . . . the child too. If she would see me."

"Please. Come through." Yin Tsu led the way, half turned toward Li Yuan in courtesy as he walked, bowed low, his hands held out but pressed together in an attitude of the deepest respect.

While he waited for her, he thought of what he would say. He had not seen her since the day he had insisted on the tests. Had she forgiven him for that?

He gritted his teeth, thinking on it, then turned to find her standing there. She was wearing a pale lemon-colored dress, her dark hair hanging loose about her shoulders. The child was not with her.

"I—" he began, but the sight of her struck him dumb. She seemed more beautiful than ever, her face stronger, her breasts much fuller than he remembered them. As he had turned to face her, she had bowed and now rested on one knee, her head lowered, awaiting his command.

"Fei Yen," he said, but the words came out so softly that she did not hear them. He went across and touched her gently on the crown of her head, wanting to kiss her there, his cheek muscle twitching with the tension he felt this close to her. He stepped back, straightening up. "Get up, Fei Yen. Please . . ."

She got up slowly, her dark eyes filled with awe of him. She had seen how powerful he was; how his servants laid their necks down for him to tread upon. Had seen and was afraid. This was not the boy she had known. No, he was no longer a child, but a man: the cub a lion now, dressed in flame.

"You look well," he said, aware of the inadequacy of the words.

"I wondered when you'd come. I knew you would."

He nodded, surprised by how subdued she sounded. So different from before. "And the child?"

"He's fine." She looked away, biting her lip. "He's sleeping now. Do you want to see him?" She glanced at him, aware of his hesitation. "You don't have to. I know how you feel about all this."

Do you? he thought; but he kept silent and simply nodded.

"Han," she said. "1 called him Han. As you wished."

She was watching him; trying to see what he made of it. His cheek muscle twitched once more and then lay still, his face a mask.

"Come," she said after a moment, then led him down a high-ceilinged corridor «| to the nursery.

A girl sat beside the cot, her hands in her lap. At the entrance of her mistress she got up and bowed. Then she saw Li Yuan and abased herself, as Yin Tsu had done. Fei Yen dismissed her hurriedly, then turned to face Li Yuan again.

"Don't wake him, Yuan. He needs his sleep."

He nodded and went close, looking down at the baby from the side of the cot.

The child lay on its side, one hand up to its mouth, the other resting lightly against the bars at the side of the cot. A fine, dark down of hair covered its scalp, while about its neck lay a monitoring strip, the milky white band pulsing quickly, in time with the baby's heartbeat.

"But he's so—so tiny I" Li Yuan laughed, surprised. The baby's hands, his tiny, perfectly formed feet were like fine sculpture. Like miniatures in tarnished ivory.

"He's not a month yet," she said, as if that explained the beauty of the child. Li Yuan wanted to reach out and hold one of those tiny hands; to feel its fingers stretch and close about his thumb.

He turned, looking at her, and suddenly all of the old bitterness and love were there, impurely mixed in what he was feeling. He hated her for this. Hated her for making him feel so much. Frustration made him grit his teeth and push past her, the feeling overwhelming him, making him want to cry out for the pain he felt.

As it had always been, he realized. It had always hurt him to be with her. She took too much. Left him so little of himself. And that was wrong. He could not be a T'ang and feel like this. No, it was better to feel nothing than to feel so much. He stood with his back to her, breathing deeply, trying to calm himself, to still the turmoil in his gut and put it all back behind the ice.

Where it belonged. Where it had to belong.

She was silent, waiting for him. When he turned back, all trace of feeling had gone from his face. He looked across at the cot and the sleeping child, then back at her, his voice quiet, controlled.

"I want to give you something. For you and the child. It will be his when he comes of age, but until that time it is yours to administer."

She lowered her head obediently.

"I want him to have the palace at Hei Shui."

She looked up, wide-eyed with surprise. "Li Yuan—" But he had raised his hand to silence her.

"The documents are drawn up. I want no arguments, Fei Yen. It's little enough compared to what he might have had."

She turned her head away, unable to disguise the moment's bitterness, then nodded her acquiescence.

"Good." He turned, looking at the cot once more. "There will be an allowance too. For both of you. You will not want for anything, Fei Yen. Neither you nor he."

"My father—" she began, pride creeping back into her voice, but she cut it off, holding her tongue. She knew he need do nothing. The terms of the divorce were clear enough. Hers was the shame. In her actions lay the blame for how things were.

"Let it be so, then," he said finally. "Your father shall have the documents. And Han. . ." he said the name; said it and breathed deeply afterward, a muscle jumping in his cheek. "Han shall have Hei Shui."

TOLONEN LOOKED UP, his long face ashen, his gray eyes filled with a deep hurt. For a time he stared sightlessly at the wall, then slowly shook his head.

"I can't believe it," he said quietly, pushing the file away from him. "I just can't believe it. Hans. . ." His mouth creased into a grimace of pain. "What will I say?. . . What will his father say?" Then he thought of Jelka and the betrothal and groaned. "Gods, what a mess. What a stinking, horrible mess this is."

The file on Hans Ebert was a slender dossier, not enough to convict a man in law, but enough to prove its case by any other measure. To an advocate it would have been merely a mass of circumstantial evidence, but that evidence pointed in one direction only.

Tolonen sighed, then rubbed at his eyes. Hans had been clever. Too clever, in fact; for the sum total of his cleverness was a sense of absence, of shadow where there should have been substance. Discrepancies in GenSyn funds. Payments to fellow officers. Unexplained absences in Ebert's service record—missing hours and days that, in three cases, linked up with dates given them by DeVore's man Reid. Misplaced files on five of the eighteen Young Sons arrested on Li Yuan's instructions only a day or so ago, all of which had, at some point, passed through Ebert's hands. Then there was the statement given by the girl in the Ebert household, Golden Heart, and, finally, the holograms.

The holograms seemed, on the surface of it, to be the most conclusive evidence, though in law, he knew, they held no real significance. It had been successfully claimed long ago that photographic and holographic evidence was unreliable, since GenSyn could make a perfect duplicate of anyone. This and the whole question of image-verification had relegated such "information" to a secondary status in law. But this was not something that would ever see a courtroom. Wider issues were at stake here. And older codes of conduct.

In one of the holograms Hans could be seen standing on the verandah of a skiing lodge, looking down at a figure on the snow below him. That figure was DeVore. They were grainy shots, taken from a narrow triangulation—perhaps as little as twenty degrees—and consequently the far side of the three-dimensional image blurred into perfect whiteness; but that incompleteness itself suggested that it was genuine, taken with two hand-helds from a distance, who knew for what purpose— maybe blackmail. The holograms had been found in storage in DeVore's stronghold, almost as though they had been left to be found. In itself this might have led Security to discount them as a subtle attempt to undermine Ebert's position, but added to the other matters they we're significant.

No, there was no real proof, but the circumstantial evidence was considerable.

Ebert had been working with the rebels; providing them with funds; meeting with them; passing on information, and covering their tracks where necessary.

Tolonen closed the file, then sat back, his hands trembling. He had always trusted Ebert. When he had asked Haavikko to investigate he had been thinking of three other officers. For him the question of Hans Ebert's loyalty had never arisen. Not until this evening.

He shook his head. There were tears in his eyes now; tears running down his furrowed cheeks. He gritted his teeth, tightening the muscles in his face, but still the tears came. There was only one thing to do. He would have to go and see Klaus. After all, this was Family. A matter of honor.

He let out a shuddering sigh, then shook his head, remembering. Jelka ... He had promised Jelka that he would dine with her at home tonight. He glanced at the timer on the wall, then pulled himself up out of the chair, throwing the file down on the bed. He was late already, but she would understand. He would call Helga and explain. And maybe send Jelka a note by messenger.

He shivered, feeling old beyond his years. He had been so wrong. So very wrong. And not just once but twice now. First with DeVore and then . . .

"Ach. . ." he muttered, then turned, angry with himself for his weakness, pressing the button to summon his aide. He would bathe and dress and go to see his old friend. For a father should know his son. Whatever kind of creature he was.

IT was JUST after three when Jelka woke. The apartment was in darkness, silent. For a while she lay there, trying to settle back into sleep, then abandoned the idea.

She slipped on a robe and went to her father's room, forgetting for a moment. His bed was empty, the room tidy. Of course . . . She moved on, pausing outside her aunt and uncle's room, hearing their soft snoring from within. In the kitchen she found a hand-written note resting against the coffee machine. The sheet was folded in half, her name written on the front in her father's neat, upright hand. She sat at the table and read it through, then smiled, thinking of him. She always felt such fear for him when he was out on business. More so since the latest attempt on his life.

She looked about her at the dark forms of the kitchen, feeling suddenly tense, restless. That sense of restlessness seemed almost her natural state these days. That and an underlying desire to break things. But she told no one of these feelings. She knew they had to do with Hans and the forthcoming marriage, but there was little she could do to salve them.

One thing she could do, however, was exercise. The gym was locked, but unknown to her father, she had memorized the combination. She punched it in, then went through, into darkness, the doors closing behind her automatically.

They had strengthened the walls since the attack on her and put in a special locking system, but otherwise the gym was much as it had been. She went across to the panel on the wall and switched on three of the spotlights over the wall bars, then shrugged off her robe and began to exercise, knowing that no one could hear her once the doors were closed.

There was a wall-length mirror at the far end of the gym. As she went through her routine, she caught glimpses of her naked figure as it moved between the three separate beams of light, her limbs flashing like spears of ice, her body twisting and turning intricately. And as she danced she felt the tension drain from her, deriving a definite pleasure from her body's precise and disciplined movements. Faster she went and faster, like a dervish, crying out in delight as her feet pounded the floor, flicking her over in a somersault, then into a tight, high leap.

And afterward she stood there, breathing deeply, trying not to laugh. If he could only see me now . . . She shook her head, then drew her hair back from her face.

She had begun a second routine when something caught her eye. She slowed, then stopped, facing the door, her whole body tensed.

The panel above the door was pulsing steadily. A feverish, silent pulse that meant one thing only. There were intruders in the apartment.

LEHMANN READ the note quickly, then crumpled it in his hand and threw it aside. Tolonen led a charmed life. Three times they had tried for him now and three times they had failed. Tonight, for instance, Ebert had assured him that he would be at home, but for some reason he had not come. Lehmann cursed softly, then turned, going into the room where they held the two captives.

They lay on the bed, facedown, their plump, naked bodies bound hand and foot. Beside them the two Han waited.

"Anything?" he asked, seeing the huge welts on the prisoners' backs, the burns on their arms where they had been tortured.

"Nothing," one of the Han answered him. "Nothing at all."

Lehmann stood there a moment, wondering if he should try something more persuasive, then shrugged and gave the order, turning away, letting them get on with it.

Outside, in the corridor, he paused and looked about, sniffing the air. Something nagged at him. They had searched the apartment thoroughly and there was no sign of the girl, so maybe she had gone. But then why the note?

He turned and looked down the corridor at the door to the gym. In there? he wondered. It was unlikely, but then so was the possibility that the girl had gone. Her bed had been slept in, even if the covers were cold.

He stood at the control panel, studying it. It was a new doorlock, specially strengthened. Without the code there was no way of opening it. He was about to turn away when he realized that he didn't have to get inside to find out if she was there. There was a security viewscreen. Which meant that there were cameras inside.

It took only a moment to work out how to operate the screen, then he was staring into darkness, the cameras looking for forms among the shadows. He scanned the whole room once, then went back carefully, double-checking. Nothing. There was no one in the room.

He switched off the screen, satisfied now that she had gone. It was a shame. She would have made the perfect hostage. But as it was, the death of Tolonen's brother and sister-in-law would hurt the old man badly.

He went back to where his men were waiting. They had finished now and were ready to go. He looked down at the corpses dispassionately, feeling nothing for them. Directly or indirectly they served a system that was rotten. This, then, was their fate. What they deserved. He leaned forward and spat in the face of the dead man, then looked up, meeting the eyes of the Han.

"All right. We've finished here. Let's go."

They nodded, then filed out past him, their weapons sheathed, their eyes averted. Lehmann looked about him, then drew his knife and followed them out into the corridor.

JELKA waited in the darkness, fearing the worst, her cheeks wet, her stomach tight with anxiety. This was the nightmare come again. And this time it was much worse than before, for this time she could do nothing. Nothing but crouch there by the locked door, waiting.

In the past hour she learned how dreadful a thing inaction was—far worse than the terror of hiding. When she had been balanced on the perch above the camera it had been somehow easier—much easier—than the awiul limbo of not-knowing that came afterward. Then she could think to herself, "In a few moments this will be over, the cameras will stop moving and I can drop to the floor again." But the waiting was different. Horribly different. The very quality of time changed subtly, becoming the implement by which she tortured herself, filling the darkness with her vile imaginings.

In the end her patience broke and she went out, afraid that they would still be there, waiting silently for her, but unable to stay in the gym a moment longer.

Outside it was dark, silent. A strange smell hung in the air. She went slowly down the corridor, feeling her way, crouching warily, prepared to strike out with hand or foot, but there was nothing. Only her fear.

At the first door she stopped, sniffing the air. The smell was stronger here, more sickly than in the corridor. She gritted her teeth and went inside, placing her feet carefully, staring into the darkness, trying to make out forms.

There were vague shapes on the floor close to her. She leaned toward them, then jerked her head back, giving a small cry, unable to stop herself. Even in the darkness she could tell. Could see the wire looped tightly about their throats.

She backed away, horrified, gasping for breath, her whole body shaking violently, uncontrollably. They were dead.

She turned and began to run, but her legs betrayed her. She stumbled, and her outstretched hands met not the hard smoothness of the floor but the awful, yielding softness of dead flesh. She shrieked and scrambled up, then fell again, her horror mounting as she found herself tangled among the bodies that littered the floor.

She closed her eyes and reached out, taking the wall as her guide, small sounds of brute disgust forming at the back of her throat as she forced herself to tread over them.

She went out into the dimly lit corridor. The outside barrier was unmanned, the elevator empty. She stood there a moment, beside the open doors, then went inside and pressed to go down. It was the same at the bottom of the deck. There were no guards anywhere, as if the whole contingent had been withdrawn. She went into the control center for the deck and sat at the console, trying to work out how to operate the board. Her first few attempts brought no response, then the screen lit up and a soft MekVoc asked for her Security code.

She stammered the number her father had made her memorize, then repeated it at the machine's request. At once a face filled the central screen.

"Nu shi Tolonen," the duty officer said, recognizing her at once. "What is it? You look—"

"Listen!" she said, interrupting him. "There are no guards. The apartment has been attacked. They've—" She bit it off, unable to say, yet it seemed he understood.

"Stay where you are. I'll inform the General at once. We'll get a special unit over to you within the next ten minutes." He was leaning out of screen as he spoke, tapping a scramble code into the machine next to him. Then he turned back, facing Jelka again. "All right. They're on their way. The General will contact you directly. Stay by the board." He paused and drew a breath. "How long ago did this happen?"

"About an hour." She shuddered, trying not to think of what she had left back up the levels. "I think they've gone now. But there are . . ." She swallowed dryly, then continued, steeling herself to say it. "There are bodies. My aunt and uncle. Some others. I don't know who." She took a shuddering breath, so close to tears again that she found it difficult to control herself.

"Listen to me, Jelka. Do exactly what I say. There should be a medical cupboard in the restroom next to you. You'll find some tranquilizers there. Take two. Only two. Then come back to the board and stay there. All right?"

She nodded and went off to do as she was told, but then she stopped and turned, looking back at the screen. Why was there no one here? Where was the guard unit? The pattern was all too familiar. Like the attack on the Wiring Project that time.

It hit her suddenly. This wasn't like the other attack on her. This had been set up. From inside. Someone had given the order for the unit to pull out. Someone at the top.

Which meant that she had to get out. Right away. Before they came for her.

Even as she turned and looked, the picture on the screen changed. Hans Ebert's face appeared, red-eyed, his cheeks unshaven. He had been summoned from his bed. "Jelka? Is that you? Come closer. Come over to the board."

In a trance she went across and stood there, staring down at the screen.

"Stay where you are. And don't worry. I'll be with you just as soon as I can."

She stood there, a cold certainty transfixing her. Then, as his face vanished from the screen, she reached across and cut the connection. She laughed, a cold bitter laughter, then, not looking back, made her way across to the transit and went inside, pressing the down button.

IT w a S T E n minutes after four when Tolonen got to the Ebert Mansion. One of the goat creatures greeted him and ushered him through to the study. It bowed low, then, in a deep, burred voice, excused itself while it went to fetch its master. A moment later another of the creatures entered the room; taller, gaunter than the first, its dress immaculate. It came across to where the Marshal stood and asked him what he would have to drink.

"Nothing, thank you," he answered, not looking at the beast.

"Would you like something to eat, Marshal?"

It stood close to him, almost at his elbow. He could hear its breathing, smell its heavy musk beneath the artifice of its cologne.

"No. Now leave me," he said, waving it away.

"Is there anything I can do for you, Excellency?" it persisted, seeming not to have heard what he had said nor to have seen his gesture of dismissal.

Tolonen turned and shook his head, meeting the creature's pink eyes. He had not noticed before how repulsive the creatures were; how vile their combination of sophistication and brutality. "I'm sorry," he said tightly, controlling the irritation he was feeling. "But please leave me alone. I want nothing, I assure you."

He watched it go, then shuddered, wondering if this would be the last time he would come here; whether by this he ended it all between himself and his oldest friend. He looked around, trying to distract himself, aware that the moment was drawing close, but it was no good: the words he had come to say ran on inside his head, like an awful, unrelenting litany.

He hadn't long to wait. Klaus Ebert had doused his face, put on a robe, and come down. He pushed the far doors open and strode into the room, smiling, his arms out to welcome his friend.

"You're damned early, Knut, but you're as welcome as ever." Ebert clasped Tolonen to him, then released him, standing back.

"What brings you here at this hour, Knut? All's well with you and yours, I hope?"

Tolonen smiled wanly, touched more than ever by the warmth and openness of the greeting, but the smile was fragile. Underlying it was a bitterness that he found hard to contain. He nodded, then found his voice. "They were well when I left them, Klaus."

He drew a breath, then shook his head once, violently, his face muscles tightening into a grimace. "I rehearsed the words, but I can't. . ." He straightened his back, controlling his emotions. Then, with his right hand, he took the file from beneath his artificial arm and handed it across.

Ebert frowned. "What's this, Knut?" He searched his friend's face for explanations, troubled now, but could find nothing there. His broad lips formed a kind of shrug, then he turned and went to his desk, pulling open the top drawer and taking out a small case. He sat, setting the file down on the broad desktop, then opened the case and drew out a pair of old-fashioned spectacles, settling them on the bridge of his nose.

He opened the file and began to read.

Tolonen stood on the far side of the desk, watching Ebert's face as he read. He had written out a copy of the file in his own hand, taking direct responsibility for the matter.

After a moment Ebert looked up at him, his eyes half-lidded. "I don't understand this, Knut. It says . . ." He laughed briefly, awkwardly, then shook his head, watching Tolonen carefully all the while. "You wouldn't. . ."

He looked down, then immediately looked up again, his mouth making the first motion of speech but saying nothing. There was a strange movement in his face as he struggled toward realization—a tightening of his lips, a brief flash of pain in his eyes.

Tolonen stood silently, his right fist clenched tight, the nails digging into the soft palm, his own face taut with pain, waiting.

Ebert looked down again, but now there was a visible tremor in his hand as it traced the words, and after a moment a tear gathered, then fell from his nose onto the sheet below. He turned the page and read on, the trembling spreading to his upper arms and shoulders. When he had finished he closed the folder slowly and took off his glasses before looking up at Tolonen. His eyes were red now, tear-rimmed, and his face had changed.

"Who else knows of this, Knut?"

Ebert's voice was soft. His eyes held no hatred of his old friend, no blame, only a deep, unfathomable hurt.

Tolonen swallowed. "Three of us now."

"And Li Yuan? Does he know yet?"

Tolonen shook his head. "This is family, Klaus. Your son."

The man behind the desk considered that, then nodded slowly, a small sad smile forming on his lips. "I thank you, Knut. I..." The trembling in his hands and arms returned. Then something broke in the old man and his face crumpled, his mouth opening in a silent howl of pain, the lower jaw drawn back. He pressed his palms into the desk's surface, trying to still the shaking, to control the pain that threatened to tear him apart. "Why?" he said at last, looking up at the Marshal, his eyes beseeching him. "What could he possibly have wanted that he didn't have?"

Tolonen shrugged. He had no answer to that. No understanding of it.

At that moment the door at the far end of the study opened. One of the goat-creatures stood there, a tray of drinks in one hand. For a second or two Klaus Ebert did nothing, then he turned in his seat and yelled at the beast.

"Get out, you bloody thing! Get out!"

It blanched, then turned and left hurriedly. There was the sound of breaking glass in the hallway outside.

Ebert turned back to face the Marshal, breathing deeply, his face a deep red. "How long have I, Knut? How long before Li Yuan has to know?"

Tolonen shivered. They both knew what had to be done. "Two days," he said quietly. "I can give you two days."

Ebert nodded, then sat back in his chair, clasping his hands together tightly. "Two days," he repeated, as if to himself, then looked up at Tolonen again. "I'm sorry, Knut. Sorry for Jelka's sake."

"And I."

Tolonen watched him a moment longer, then turned and left, knowing that there was nothing more to be said. His part in this was ended, his duty discharged; but for once he felt anything but satisfaction.

there WERE FIRES on the hillside. Bodies lay unmoving on the snow. In the skies above the mountains the dark, knifelike shapes of Security battleships moved slowly eastward, searching out any trace of warmth in the icy wasteland.

In the control room of the flagship sat Hans Ebert, Li Yuan's General. He was unshaven and his eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep. His uniform was undone at the collar and he had his feet up on the console in front of him. Above him a bank of nine screens showed the landscape down below. Over the image on the central screen ran bright red lines of data. From time to time a map would flash up, showing the current extent of the sweep.

Hans watched the screens vacantly, tired to the core. There were drugs he might have taken to ameliorate his condition, but he had chosen to ignore them, feeding his bitter disappointment.

There were five others in the low-ceilinged room with him, but all were silent, wary of their commander's dark mood. They went about their tasks deftly, quietly, careful not to draw his attention.

Eight strongholds had been taken. Another five had been found abandoned. DeVore's network was in tatters, more than three thousand of his men dead. What Karr had begun, he, in the space of six short hours, had finished. Moreover, Jelka was gone, probably dead, and all his dreams with her. His dreams of being king. King of the world.

"The lodge is up ahead, sir!"

He looked up sharply, then took his feet down from the desk. "Good!" He bit the word out savagely, then relented. He turned, looking at the young officer who had reported it to him. "Thanks . . ."

The officer saluted and turned smartly away. Ebert sat a moment longer, then hauled himself up onto his feet and went down the narrow corridor and out into the cockpit. Staring out through the broad, thickly slatted screen, he could see the mountain up ahead, the lodge high up on its western slopes.

It was a mere twelve months since he had met DeVore here, and now he was forced to return, the architect of his own undoing, following his T'ang's explicit orders. Silently he cursed Li Yuan. Cursed the whole damn business, his irritation and frustration rising to fever pitch as he stood there, watching the lodge draw closer.

They touched down less than half a li away, the twin turrets of the battleship pointed toward the lodge. Hans suited up then went down, onto the snow. He crossed the space slowly, a lonely figure in black, holding the bulky gun with both hands, the stock tucked into his shoulder. Fifty paces from the verandah he stopped, balancing the gun's barrel across his left forearm and flicking off the safety. Then, without a word, he emptied the cartridge into the side of the lodge.

The explosions were deafening. In seconds the lodge was a burning ruin, debris falling everywhere, sizzling in the snow as it fell; the concussions echoing back and forth between the mountains, starting small slides. He waited a moment longer, the weapon lowered, watching the flames, then turned and walked back, the heavy gun resting loosely on his shoulder.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The Shattered Land

Klaus EBERT waited in his study for his son. He had dismissed his servants and was alone in the huge, dimly lit room, his face expressionless. The file lay on the desk behind him, the only object on the big leather-topped desk. It had been fifteen hours since Tolonen's visit and he had done much in that time; but they had been long, dreadful hours, filled with foul anticipation.

Hans had been summoned twice. The first time he had sent word that he was on the T'ang's business and could not come, the second that he would be there within the hour. Between the two had been the old man's curtly worded message, "Come now, or be nothing to me."

A bell rang in the corridor outside, signal that his son had arrived. Ebert waited, his feet apart, his hands clasped behind his back. He was the picture of strength, of authority, his short gray hair combed back severely from his high forehead, but his gray-green eyes were lifeless.

There were footsteps on the tiled floor outside, then a knock on the great oak door. Hans entered, followed by two young lieutenants. He crossed the room and stood there, only an arm's length from his father. The two officers stood by the door, at ease.

"Well, Father?" There was a trace of impatience, almost of insolence in the young man's tone.

Klaus Ebert narrowed his eyes and looked past his son at the two lieutenants. "This is family business," he said to them. "Please leave us."

There was a moment's uncertainty in their faces. They looked to each other but made no move to go. Ebert stared at them a moment, then looked to his son for explanation.

"They're under my direct orders, Father. They're not to leave me. Not for a moment." His voice was condescending now, as if he were explaining something to an inferior.

Ebert looked at his son, seeing things he had never noticed before, the arrogance of his bearing, the slight surliness in the shapes his mouth formed, the lack of real depth in his clear blue eyes. It was as if he looked at you, but not into you. He saw only surfaces; only himself, reflected in others.

He felt something harden at the core of him. This was his son. This creature. He hissed out a long breath, his chest feeling tight; then he started forward, shouting at the two officers. "Get out, damn you! Now! Before I throw you out!"

There was no hesitation this time. They jerked as if struck, then turned, hurrying from the room. Klaus stared at the closed door a moment then turned, looking at his son.

"There was no need for that."

"There was every need!" he barked, and saw his son flinch slightly. "1 summon you and you excuse yourself. And then you have the nerve to bring your popinjay friends—"

"They're officers—" Hans began, interrupting, but the old man cut him off with a sharp gesture of his hand.

"Your. . . friends." He turned to face his son, no longer concealing his anger. He bit the words out. "To bring them here, Hans." He pointed at the floor. "Here, where only we come." He took a breath, calming himself, then moved away, back to the desk. From there he turned and looked back at his son.

Hans was looking away from him, his irritation barely masked. "Well? What is it, Father?"

The words were sharp, abrasive. Hans glanced at his father then resumed his rigid stance, his whole manner sullen, insolent, as if answering to a superior officer he detested.

So it has come to this? Ebert thought, growing still, studying his son. He looked down at the file and gritted his teeth. But he didn't need the Marshal's carefully documented evidence. All that he needed was there before him, for his own eyes to read.

"Well?" the young man insisted. "You've summoned me from my duties, threatened to withhold from me what is mine by right, and insulted my officers. I want to know why, Father. What have I done to warrant this treatment?"

Ebert laughed bitterly. "My son," he said, weighting the second word with all the! irony he could muster; but what he felt was hurt—a deep, almost overwhelming feeling of hurt—and a sense of disillusionment that threatened to unhinge his mind. He stood up and moved away from the desk, circling his son until he stood-; with his back to the door.

"What have you done, Hans? What have you done?"

The young man turned, facing his father, his fists clenched at his sides. He seemed barely in control of himself. "Yes, what have I done?" Ebert pointed across at the desk. "See that file?"

"So?" Hans made no move to look. "You could have sent it to me. I would have read it."

Ebert shook his head. "No, Hans. I want you to read it now." There was a small movement in the young man's face, a moment's doubt, and then it cleared. He nodded and turned, taking his father's seat.

Ebert went to the door and locked it, slipping the key into his pocket. Hans was reading the first page, all color drained from his face. Why? the old man asked himself for the thousandth time that day. But in reality he knew. Selfishness. Greed. A cold self-interest. These things were deeply rooted in his son. He looked at him, his vision doubled, seeing both his son and the stranger who sat there wearing the T'ang's uniform. And, bitterly, he recognized the source.

Berta, he thought. Yfou're Berta's child.

Hans closed the file. For a moment he was silent, staring down at the unmarked cover of the folder, then he looked up, meeting his fathers eyes. "So . . ."he said. There was sober calculation in his eyes: no guilt or regret, only a simple cunning. "What now, Father?"

Ebert kept the disgust he felt from his voice. "You make no denial?" "Would you believe me if I did?" Hans sat back, at ease now. The old man shook his head.

Hans glanced at the file, then looked back at his father. "Who else knows, besides Tolonen?"

"His one-time lieutenant, Haavikko." Ebert moved slowly, crossing the room in a half-circle that would bring him behind his son. "Then Li Yuan has yet to be told?" He nodded.

Hans seemed reassured. "That's good. Then I could leave here this evening." He turned in his seat, watching his father's slow progress across the room toward him. "I could take a ship and hide out among the Colony planets."

Ebert stopped. He was only paces from his son. "That's what you want, is it? Exile? A safe passage?"

Hans laughed. "What else? I can't argue with this." He brushed the file with the fingertips of his left hand. "Li Yuan would have me killed if I stayed."

Ebert took another step. He was almost on top of his son now. "And what if I said that that wasn't good enough? What if I said no? What would you do?"

The young man laughed uncomfortably. "Why should you?" He leaned back, staring up at his father, puzzled now.

Ebert reached out, placing his hand gently on his son's shoulder.

"As a child I cradled you in my arms, saw you learn to walk and utter your first, stumbling words. As a boy you were more to me than all of this. You were my joy. My delight. As a man I was proud of you. You seemed the thing I'd always dreamed of."

Hans licked at his top lip, then looked down. But there was no apology. "Shall I go?"

The old man ignored the words. The pressure of his hand increased. His fingers gripped and held. Reaching out, he placed his other hand against Hans's neck, his thumb beneath the chin. Savagely, he pushed Hans's head up, forcing him to look into his face. When he spoke, the words were sour, jagged-edged. "But now all that means nothing." He shook his head, his face brutal, pitiless. "Nothing! Do you hear me, Hans.⁷"

Hans reached up to free himself from his father's grip, but the old man was unrelenting. His left hand slipped from the shoulder to join the other about his son's neck. At the same time he leaned forward, bearing down on the younger man, his big hands tightening their grip, his shoulder muscles straining.

Too late the young man realized what was happening. He made a small, choked sound in his throat, then began to struggle in the chair, his legs kicking out wildly, his hands beating, then tearing, at his father's arms and hands, trying to break the viselike grip. Suddenly the chair went backward. For a moment Hans was free, sprawled on the floor beneath his father's body; but then the old man had him again, his hands about his throat, his full weight pressing down on him, pushing the air from the young man's lungs.

For one frozen moment the old man's face filled the younger man's vision, the mouth gasping as it strained, spittle flecking the lips. The eyes were wide with horror, the cheeks suffused with blood. Sweat beaded the brow. Then, like a vast, dark wave, the pain became immense. His lungs burned in his chest and his eyes seemed about to burst.

And then release. Blackness . . .

He gasped air into his raw throat, coughing and wheezing, the pain in his neck so fierce that it made him groan aloud; a hoarse, animal sound.

After a moment he opened his eyes again and pulled himself up onto one elbow. His father lay beside him, dead, blood gushing from the hole in the back of his head.

He looked around, expecting to see his lieutenants, but they were not in the room. The door to his father's private suite was open, however, and there was movement inside. He called out—or tried to—then struggled up into a sitting position, feeling giddy, nauseated.

At the far end of the room a figure stepped into the doorway; tall as a man, but not a man. Its white silk jacket was spattered with blood, as were its trousers. It looked at the sitting man with half-lidded eyes; eyes that were as red as the blood on its clothes. Over one arm was a suit of Hans's father's clothes.

"Here, put these on," said the goat-creature in its soft, animal voice. It crossed the room and stood there over him, offering the clothes.

He took them, staring at the beast, not understanding yet, letting it help him up and across the study to his father's room. There, in the doorway, he turned and looked back.

His father lay facedown beside the fallen chair, the wound at the back of his head still wet and glistening in the half light.

"We must go now," said the beast, its breath like old malt.

He turned and met its eyes. It was smiling at him, showing its fine, straight teeth. He could sense the satisfaction it was feeling. Years of resentment had culminated in this act. He shuddered and closed his eyes, feeling faint.

"We have an hour, two at most," it said, its three-toed hand moving to the side of Ebert's neck, tracing but not touching the weltlike bruise there. For a moment its eyes seemed almost tender.

He nodded and let it lead him. There was nothing for him here now. Nothing at all.

KARR looked UP over his glass and met the young officer's eyes. "What is it, Captain?"

"Forgive me, sir. I wouldn't normally come to you on a matter of this kind, but I think this will interest you."

He held out a slender dossier. Karr stared at it a moment, then took it from him. Putting down his glass, he opened it. A moment later, he started forward, suddenly alert.

"When did this come in?"

"Twenty minutes ago. Someone said you were down here in the Mess, sir, so I thought..."

Karr grinned at him fiercely. "You did well, Captain. But what put you on to this?"

"The name, sir. Mikhail Boden. It was one of the names we had as a suspect for the murder of a Fu Jen Maitland six years ago. It seems she was Under-Secretary Lehmann's wife at one time. She was burned to death in her rooms. An incendiary device. Boden was there shortly before she died. His retinal print was in the door camera that survived the blaze. When it appeared again, I thought I'd have a look at the visual image and see if it was the same man. As you can see, it wasn't."

"No . . ." Karr got to his feet. The camera stills were of two quite different men, yet the retinal print was the same. "But how come the computer allowed the match?"

"It seems that the only detail it has to have a one-hundred-percent mapping on is the retinal pattern. That's unchanging. The rest—facial hair, proportion of muscle and fat in the face—changes over the years. The computer is programmed to ignore those variations. As long as the underlying bone structure is roughly the same the computer will recognize it as being the same face."

Karr laughed. "And you know who this is?"

The young officer smiled back at Karr. "I read my files, sir. It's DeVore, isn't it?"

"Yes. And he entered Salzburg hsien twenty or twenty-five minutes ago, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. And you're tracking him?"

"Yes, sir. I've put two of my best men on the job."

"Excellent."

Karr looked down at the dossier again. The gods knew why DeVore had made such an elementary mistake, but he had, so praise them for it. Taking the handset from his pocket, he tapped in Chen's combination, then, as Chen came on line, gave a small laugh. "It's DeVore, Chen. I think we've got him. This time I really think we've got him!"

T o l o N E n was crouched in the middle of the room. The corpses were gone now, his men finished here, but still the room seemed filled with death. He looked up at the young officer, his face pulled tight with grief, his eyes staring out at nothing. "I should have killed him while I had the chance." He shuddered and looked down at his big square hands. "If only I had known what mischief he was up to."

"We'll track him, sir. Bring him back," the officer offered, watching his Marshal, a deep concern in his clear gray eyes.

The old man shook his head and looked down again. Something had broken in him in the last few hours. His shoulders sagged, his hands—real and artificial— rested on his knees limply. All of the anger, all of the old blind rage that had fired him as a man, had gone. There was no avenging this, whatever he said. The young officer had seen how the old man had looked, such tenderness and agony in his face as he.bent and gently touched the wire about his brother's neck. It was awful to see such things. More than could be borne.

The young man swallowed, his voice a sympathetic whisper. "Can I get you anything, sir?"

Tolonen looked up at him again, seeming to see him for the first time. There was a faint smile on his lips, but it was only the smallest flicker of warmth in the wasteland of his features.

"Is there any news?"

The young man shook his head. There was no trace of Jelka. It was as if she had vanished. Perhaps she was dead, or maybe Ebert had her after all. He hoped not.

But she was nowhere in the City. An eighteen-hour Security trawl had found no trace of her.

The officer went through to the living room, returning a moment later with two brandies. "Here," he said, handing one to the Marshal. "This will help."

Tolonen took the glass and stared at it a while, then drained it at a gulp. He looked up at the young officer, his face expressionless.

"Telling Li Yuan was hard." His wide brow furrowed momentarily. "I felt I had failed him. Betrayed him. It was bad. Worse than Han Ch'in's death. Much worse."

"It wasn't your fault."

Tolonen met his eyes a moment, then looked away, shaking his head. "If not mine, then whose? I knew and didn't act. And this . . ." His mouth puckered momentarily and his fists clenched. He took a deep breath, then looked up again. "This is the result."

The officer was about to answer the Marshal, to say something to alleviate the old man's pain, when a three-tone signal sounded in his head. There was news. He narrowed his eyes, listening, then smiled; a huge grin of a smile.

"What is it?" Tolonen asked, getting to his feet.

"It's Viljanen, from Jakobstad. He says to tell you that Jelka is there. And safe."

jelka stood at the end of the old stone jetty, waiting for him. Waves crashed against the rocks across the bay. Above her the slate-gray sky was filled with huge thunderheads of cloud, black and menacing.

The island was in winter's grip. Snow covered everything. She stood there, above the deep-green swell of the sea, wrapped in furs against the cold, only her face exposed to the bitter air. The boat was small and distant, rising and falling as she watched, laboring against the elements. Beyond it, its scale diminished by the distance, lay the clifflike whiteness of the City, its topmost levels shrouded by low cloud.

Only as the boat came nearer could she hear the noise of its engine, a thin thread of regularity amid the swirling chaos of wind and wave. Entering the bay the engine noise changed, dropping an octave as the boat slowed, turning in toward the jetty. She saw him on the deck, looking across at her, and lifted her arm to wave.

They embraced on the path above the water, the old man hugging her to him fiercely, as if he would never again let her go. He pushed back her hood and kissed her on the crown, the brow, the lips, his hot tears coursing down her frozen face, cooling in her lashes and on her cheeks.

"Jelka . . . Jelka ... I was so worried."

She closed her eyes and held on to him. Snow had begun to fall, but he was warm and close and comforting. The familiar smell of him eased her tortured mind. She let him turn her and lead her back to the house.

He built a fire in the old grate, then lit it, tending it until it was well ablaze. She sat watching him in the half-light from the window, her hand clasping the pendant at her neck, the tiny kuei dragon seeming to burn against her palm.

Still kneeling, he half turned toward her, his face a mobile mask of black and orange, his gray hair glistening in the flickering light.

"How did you get here?" he asked gently. "My men were looking for you everywhere."

She smiled but did not answer him. Desperation creates its own resources, and she had been desperate to get here. Besides, she wasn't sure. It was as if she had dreamed her journey here. She had known. Known that while the storm might rage on every side, here was safety, here the eye. And she had run for the eye. Here, where it was warm and safe.

He watched her a moment longer, his moist eyes filled with the fire's wavering light, then stood. He was old. Old, and weary to the bone. She went across and held him, laying her cheek against his neck, her arm about his waist. For a moment he rested against her, thoughtless, unmoving, then he shifted slightly, looking down into her face.

"But why here? Why did you come here?"

In her head there had been the memory of brine and leather and engine oils, the strong scent of pine; the memory of a circle of burned and blackened trees in the woods, of an ancient stone tower overlooking a boiling sea. These things, like ghosts, had summoned her.

She smiled. "There was nowhere else."

He nodded, then sighed deeply. "Well. . . It's over now."

"Over?"

His hand went to her face, holding her where the jaw bone came down beneath the ear, his thumb stroking the soft flesh of her cheek. His own face was stiff, his chin raised awkwardly.

"I was wrong, Jelka. Wrong about many things, but most of all wrong to try to force you into something you didn't want."

She knew at once what he meant. Hans. She felt herself go cold, thinking of him.

"I was blind. Stupid." He shook his head slowly. His face muscles clenched and unclenched, then formed a grimace. This pained him. As much as the deaths.

She opened her lips to speak, but her mouth was dry. She nodded. She had tried to tell him.

"He's gone," he said, after a moment. "Hans has gone."

For a moment she said nothing. Her face was blank, her eyes puzzled. "Gone?"

Her father nodded. "So it's over. Finished with."

For a moment longer she held herself there, tensed against the news, afraid to believe him. Then, suddenly, she laughed, relief flooding her. She shivered, looking away from her father. Gone. Hans was gone. Again she laughed, but then the laughter died. She looked up suddenly, remembering.

"He told me to stay there. He was coming for me."

She shivered again, more violently this time, her arm tightening about her father's waist, her hands gripping him hard. She looked up fiercely into his face.

"He would have killed me."

"I know," he said, pulling her face down against his neck, his arms wrapped tightly about her. His voice was anxious now, filled with sorrow and regret. "I was wrong, my love. So very wrong. Gods forgive me, Jelka, I didn't know. I just didn't know . . ."

THAT NIGHT Jelka dreamed. The sky pressed down upon her head, solid and impenetrable. Voices clawed at her with hands of ragged metal, screeching their elemental anger. It was dark; a darkness laced with purple. She was alone on the tilted, broken land, the storm raging at every comer of the earth.

Each time the lightning struck, she felt a tremor pass through her from head to toe, as sharp as splintered ice. And when the thunder growled it sounded in her bones, exploding with a suddenness that made her shudder.

Through the dark, its progress marked in searing flashes of sudden light, came the tower, its eyes like shattered panes of glass, its wooden spider limbs folding and stretching inexorably, bringing it closer.

She stood there, unable to move, watching it come. It seemed malefic, evil, its dark mouth crammed with splintered bone. She could hear it grunt and wheeze as it dragged its weight across the jagged, uneven ground. Closer it came, climbing the hill on which she stood, picking its way through the darkness.

In the sudden light she saw it, close now and laughing horribly, its crooked mouth smiling greedily at her. Its breath was foul, rolling up the hill to where she stood. The scent of rottenness itself.

As the darkness enfolded her again she cried out, knowing she was lost. Her cry rang out, louder than the storm, and for a moment afterward there was silence. Light leaked slowly into that silence, as if her cry had cracked the darkness open at its seams.

Things took a shadowy form. The tower had stopped. It stood there, not far below her. She could hear its wheezing, scraping voice as it whispered to itself. Her sudden cry had startled it. Then, as she stared into the half-dark, the earth between her and the tower cracked and split. For a moment the land was still and silent, and then something small and dark crawled from the dark mouth of the earth. A stooped little creature with eyes that burned like coals. Its wet, dark skin shone with an inner light and its limbs were short but strong, as though it had dug its way to the surface. As she watched, it climbed up onto its legs and stood facing the tower. In one hand it held a circle of glass backed with silver. Holding it up before it, it advanced.

Light flashed from the circle and where it touched the tower small leaves of bright red flame blossomed. The tower shrieked and stumbled backward, but the small, dark creature kept advancing, light flashing from the circle in its hand, the tiny fires spreading, taking hold.

Screeching, the tower turned and began to run, its thin legs pumping awkwardly. Thick black smoke billowed up into the air above it, gathering in a dense layer beneath the solid sky. The noise of the tower burning, splitting, was fierce. Great cracks and pops filled the bright-lit silence.

The creature turned, looking at her, the glass lowered now. Its fiery eyes seemed both kind and sad. They seemed to see right through her, to the bone and the darkness beneath the bone.

She stared back at it as the darkness slowly returned, filling the space between the sky and the cracked and shattered land, until all she could see was the fallen tower, blazing in the distance, and, so close she could feel their warmth, two jewels of fire set into the soft and lambent flesh of the creature.

As she watched, it smiled and bowed its head to her. Then, its movements quick and fluid, it returned to the open crack and slipped down into the darkness of the earth.

FOR eighteen HOURS DeVore hadn't settled, but had moved on constantly, as if he knew that his only salvation lay in flight. His disguises had been tenuous at best and he had cashed in old friendships at a frightening rate; but all the while Karr had kept close on his tail. Then, suddenly, Karr had lost him. That was in Danzig. It might have ended there, but DeVore got careless. For the second time that day he doubled up on an identity.

As backup, Karr had programmed the Security pass computer to "tag" all past known aliases of DeVore—eight in all—with special priority "screamers." If DeVore used any of them, alarm bells would ring. It was the slimmest of chances and no one expected it to work, but for once it did. A day after Karr had lost the trail, DeVore gave himself away. A screamer sounded on one Joseph Ganz, who had moved up-level in one of the Amsterdam stacks. A random Security patrol had checked on his ID and passed him through, unaware of the tag, Karr was there in less than an hour. Chen was waiting for him, with a full Security battalion. He had sealed off all the surrounding stacks and put Security guards at every entrance to the transit lifts. The fast-track bolts were shut down, and they were ready to go in.

There was no possibility that DeVore had gone far. All the local Security posts had been alerted at once. If DeVore was coming out, it would be by force this time, not guile. He had worn his last disguise.

Karr smiled fiercely and rubbed his big hands together. "I have you now, old ghost. You won't slip away this time."

There were five decks to check out. Chen planned to move through them carefully, one at a time, from the bottom up—fifty levels in all—but Karr knew already where he would find DeVore. At the very top of the City. He left Chen in charge of the sweep and went on up, alone, taking the transit to the uppermost deck.

He was an impressive sight, coming out of the transit; a seven-ch'i giant, in full combat dress and carrying a fearsome array of weaponry. He walked slowly, searching faces, but knowing that he wouldn't find DeVore there, in the corridors. His quarry would be higher up, holed up somewhere in one of the penthouse apartments. With an old friend, perhaps.

Karr lowered his visor and pressed out a code into his wrist comset. Onto the transparent visor came a readout. He thumbed it through as he walked, until he came upon a name he knew. Steven Cherkassky. An old associate of DeVore's and a retired Security officer. Karr checked habitation details, moving toward the inter-level lifts. Cherkassky's apartment was on the far side of the deck and at the highest level. Just as he'd thought. DeVore would be there.

Karr took a deep breath, considering. It would not be easy. DeVore was one of the best. He had been an excellent Security Major. In time he would have been General. But he'd had more ambitious plans than that. Karr had studied his file carefully and viewed training films of him in action. Karr respected few men, but DeVore demanded respect. Speed, size, and age were on Karr's side, but DeVore was cunning. And strong too. A fox with the strength of a tiger.

People moved hurriedly out of Karr's way as he strode along. The lift emptied at his bark of command and he went up. He thumbed for a map, then thumbed again for Cherkassky's service record. The man might have retired, but he could still be dangerous. It did not pay to make assumptions.

Cherkassky, Steven. The file extract appeared after a two-second delay. He took in the details at a glance, then cleared his visor and stopped.

He hadn't realized . . . This gave things a new complexion. The old man had been specially trained. Like Karr, he was an assassin.

Karr checked his guns, all the while staring down the wide, deserted corridor. He was less than a hundred ch'i from Cherkassky's apartment now. If they were being careful—and there was no reason to expect otherwise—they would know he was coming. There would have been an "eye" close by the transit; someone to report back at once.

Which meant they would be waiting for him.

He switched to special lenses. At once his vision changed. Using lenses he could pick out the shape of a tiny insect at five hundred ch'i. Squeezing the corners of his eyes he adjusted them to medium range and checked all the surfaces ahead for signs of antipersonnel devices. It seemed clear, but for once he decided not to trust the visual scan. He set one of his hand lasers to low charge and raked it along the walls and floors, then along the ceiling. Nothing. Yet he still felt ill at ease. Some instinct held him back. He waited, breathing shallowly, counting to twenty in his head, then heard a sound behind him—so faint that it would have been easy to miss it. The faintest clicking, like a claw gently tapping the side of a porcelain bowl.

He tensed, listening, making sure, then turned fast and rolled to one side, just as the machine loosed off a burst of rapid fire. The wall exploded beside him as the heavy shells hit home. He cursed and fired back, the first few rounds wild, the next deadly accurate. The machine sputtered, then blew apart, hot fragments flying everywhere. A piece embedded itself in his side, another cracked the front of his visor.

There was no time to lose now. The machine was like the one they had used to attack Tolonen, but more deadly. A remote. Which meant they had seen him. Seen how good he was. He was using up his advantage.

He considered the situation as he ran. They knew he was coming. Knew what he was like, how fast, how agile he was. There was one of him and two of them. Older, yes, but more experienced than he. A Security Major and a special-services assassin, now sixty-eight, but still fit and active, he was certain. On those facts alone it might seem he had little chance of succeeding. But there was one final factor, something they didn't know; that DeVore couldn't know, because it had never got into Karr's service record. In his teens—before he had become a blood— he had been an athlete; perhaps the finest athlete the Net had ever produced. And he was better now. At twenty-nine he was fitter and faster than he'd ever been.

Karr slowed as he neared the end of the corridor. There was no tape to break this time; even so, his time was close to nine seconds. They wouldn't think . . .

He fired ahead of him, letting momentum take him through the door, rolling and springing up, turning in the next movement to find Cherkassky on the ceiling above the door, held there in an assassin's cradle. He was turning with his feet, but it wasn't fast enough. Karr shot away the strands, making Cherkassky tumble to the floor, all the while his eyes darting here and there, looking for DeVore. He skipped over the rubble and crouched above the winded assassin.

"Where is he? Tell me where he is."

The old man laughed, then coughed blood. Karr shot him through the neck. DeVore had gone. Had traded on his final friendship. But he could not have gone far. Cherkassky hadn't been operating the machine. So ...

Quickly, carefully, he checked the rest of the apartment. There was no sign of the controls here, so DeVore had them elsewhere. Somewhere close by. But where? He pushed his helmet out into the corridor, then, a moment later, popped his head around the comer to look. Nothing. There was a high-pitched screaming from a nearby apartment but he ignored it, stepping out into the corridor again. There was no way out overhead. The roof was sealed here. He had checked on that earlier. No. The only way out was down.

He glanced at his timer. It was only three minutes and forty-eight seconds since he had stood at the far end of the corridor. Was that time enough for DeVore to get to the elevator? Possibly. But Karr had a hunch that he hadn't done that. DeVore would want to make sure he was safe, and that meant getting back at his pursuer. He walked slowly down the corridor, keeping to the wall, the largest of his guns, an antique Westinghouse-Howitzer, pressed tight against his chest. He would take no chances with this bastard.

He was about to go on when he paused, noticing the silence. The screaming had stopped suddenly, almost abruptly, in mid-scream. It had taken him a second or two to notice it, but then it hit him. He turned, lowering himself onto his haunches, as if about to spring. Two doors down the corridor, it had been. He went back slowly, his finger trembling against the hair trigger, making a small circle around the door until he stood on its far side, his back to Cherkassky's apartment. He had two options now: to wait or to go in. Which would DeVore expect him to do? Was he waiting for Karr to come in, or was he about to come out? For a moment Karr stood there, tensed, considering; then he smiled. There was a third option: burn away the wall and see what lay behind it. He liked that. It meant he didn't have to go through a door.

He lay down, setting the big gun up in front of him, ejecting the standard explosive shells and slipping a cartridge of ice-penetrating charges into the loader. Then he squeezed the trigger, tracing a line of shells first up the wall, then along the top of it. The partition shuddered, like something alive, and began to peel away from where the charges had punctured holes in it. There was no sound from the other side of the wall; only silence and the roiling smoke.

He waited, easing his finger back and forth above the hair trigger as the ice curled back, revealing the shattered room. Karr's eyes took in each and every detail, noting and discarding them. A young woman lay dead on the lounger, her pale limbs limp, her head at an odd angle—garrotted, by the look of it. There was no sign of DeVore, but he had been there. The woman had been alive only a minute before.

Karr crawled into the room. A siren had begun to sound in the corridor. It would bring Chen and help. But Karr wanted to finish this now. DeVore was his. He had pursued him for so long now. And, orders or no, he would make sure of things this time.

He stopped, calling out, "Surrender yourself, DeVore. Put your hands up and come out. You'll get a fair trial."

It was a charade. Part of the game they had to play. But DeVore would pay no heed. They both knew now that this could end only in death. But it had to be said. Like the last words of a ritual.

His answer came a moment later. The door to the right hissed open a fraction and a grenade was lobbed into the room. Karr saw it curl in the air and recognized what it was. Dropping his gun, he placed his hands tight over his ears and pushed his face down into the floor. It was a concussion grenade. The shock of it ripped a hole in the floor and seemed to lift everything in the room into the air.

In a closed room it would have been devastating, but much of the force of it went out into the corridor. Karr got up, stunned but unhurt, his ears ringing. And then the door began to iris open.

Reactions took over. Karr buckled at the knees and rolled forward, picking up his gun on the way. DeVore was halfway out the door, the gun at his hip already firing, when the butt of Karr's gun connected with his head. It was an ill-aimed blow that glanced off the side of his jaw, just below the ear, but the force of it was enough to send DeVore sprawling, the gun flying from his hands. Karr went across, his gun raised to aim another blow, but it was already too late. DeVore was dead, his jaw shattered, fragments of it pushed up into his brain.

Karr stood a moment looking down at his old enemy, all of the fierce indignation and anger he felt welling up in him again. He shuddered, then, anger getting the better of him, brought the gun down, once, twice, a third time, smashing the skull apart, spilling DeVore's brains across the floor.

"You bastard . . . You stinking, fucking bastard!"

Then, taking the small cloth bag from his top pocket, he undid the string and spilled the stones over the dead man. Three hundred and sixty-one black stones.

For Haavikko's sister, Vesa, and Chen's friend, Pavel; for Kao Jyan and Han Ch'in, Lwo Kang and Edmund Wyatt, and all the many others whose deaths were attributed to him.

Karr shuddered, then threw the cloth bag down. It was done. He could go home now and sleep.

li yuan stood in the deep shadow by the carp pool, darkness wrapped about him like a cloak. It had been a long and tiring day, but his mind was sharp and clear. He stared down through layers of darkness, following the languid movements of the carp. In their slow, deliberate motions it seemed he might read the deepest workings of his thoughts.

Much had happened. In the chill brightness of his study, all had seemed chaos. DeVore was dead and his warren of mountain fortresses destroyed. But Klaus Ebert was also dead and his son, the General, had fled. That had come as a shock to him, undermining his newfound certainty.

Here, in the darkness, however, he could see things in a better light. He had survived the worst his enemies could do. Fei Yen and young Han were safe. Soon he would have a General he could trust. These things comforted him. In the light of them, even Wang Sau-leyan's concessions to the Young Sons seemed a minor thing.

For a while he let these things drift from him; let himself sink into the depths of memory, his mood dark and sorrowful, his heart weighed down by the necessities of his life. He had companionship in Tsu Ma and three wives to satisfy his carnal needs. Soon he would have a child—an heir, perhaps. But none of this was enough. So much was missing from his life. Fei Yen herself. Han Ch'in, so deeply missed that sometimes he would wake from sleep, his pillow wet with tears. Worst were the nightmares; images of his father's corpse, exposed, defenseless in its nakedness, painfully emaciated, the skin stretched pale across the frame of bone.

The fate of Kings.

He turned and looked across at the single lamp beside the door. Its light was filtered through the green of fern and palm, the smoky darkness of the panels, as if through depths of water. He stared at it, reminded of something else—of the light on a windswept hillside in the Domain as a small group gathered about the unmarked grave. Sunlight on grass and the shadows in the depths of the earth. He had been so certain that day: certain that he didn't want to stop the flow of time and have the past returned to him, fresh, new again. But had Ben been right? Wasn't that the one thing men wanted most?

Some days he ached to bring it back. To have it whole and perfect. To sink back through the years and have it all again. The best of it. Before the cancer ate at it. Before the worm lay in the bone.

He bowed his head, smiling sadly at the thought. To succumb to that desire was worse than the desire itself. It was a weakness not to be tolerated. One had to go on, not back.

The quality of the light changed. His new Master of the Inner Chamber, Chan Teng, stood beside the doorway, silent, waiting to be noticed.

"What is it, Master Chan?"

"Your guest is here, Chieh Hsia."

"Good." He lifted a hand to dismiss the man, then changed his mind. "Chan, tell me this. If you could recapture any moment from your past—if you could have it whole, perfect in every detail—would you want that?"

The middle-aged man was silent a while; then he answered.

"There are, indeed, times when I wish for something past, Chieh Hsia. Like all men. But it would be hard. Hard living in the now if 'what was* were still to hand. The imperfection of a man's memories is a blessing."

It was a good answer. A satisfactory answer. "Thank you, Chan. There is wisdom in your words."

Chan Teng bowed and turned to go, but at the door he turned back and looked across at his master.

"One last thing, Chieh Hsia. Such a gift might well prove useful. Might prove, for us, a blessing."

Li Yuan came out into the light. "How so?"

Chan lowered his eyes. "Might its very perfection not prove a cage, a prison to the mind? Might we not snare our enemies in its sticky web?"

Li Yuan narrowed his eyes. He thought he could see what Chan Teng was saying, but he wanted to be sure. "Go on, Chan. What are you suggesting?"

"Only this. That desire is a chain. If such a thing exists it might be used not as a blessing but a curse. A poisoned gift. It would be the ultimate addiction. Few men would be safe from its attractions. Fewer still would recognize it for what it was. A drug. A way of escaping from what is here and now and real."

Li Yuan took a deep breath, then nodded. "We shall speak more on this, Chan. Meanwhile, ask my guest to come through. I shall see him here, beside the pool."

Chan Teng bowed low and turned away. Li Yuan stared down at the naked glow of the lamp, then moved his hand close, feeling its radiant warmth, tracing its rounded shape. How would it feel to live a memory? Like this? As real as this? He sighed. Perhaps, as Chan said, there was a use for Shepherd's art: a way of making his illusions serve the real. He drew his hand away, seeing how shadows formed between the fingers, how the glistening lines of the palm turned dull and lifeless.

To have Han and Fei again. To see his father smiling.

He shook his head, suddenly bitter. Best nothing. Better death than such sweet torture.

There was movement in the corridor outside. A figure appeared in the doorway. Li Yuan looked up, meeting Shepherd's eyes.

"Ben . . ."

Ben Shepherd looked about him at the room, then looked back at the young T'ang, a faint smile on his lips. "How are you, Li Yuan? With all that's happened, I wasn't sure you'd remember our meeting."

Li Yuan smiled and moved forward, greeting him. "No. I'm glad you came. Indeed, our meeting is fortuitous, for there's something I want to ask you. Something only you can help me with."

Ben raised an eyebrow. "As mirror?"

Li Yuan nodded, struck once again by how quick, how penetrating Ben Shepherd was. He, if anyone, could make things clear to him.

Ben went to the edge of the pool. For a moment he stared down into the darkness of the water, following the slow movements of the fish, then he looked back at Li Yuan.

: '••>: "Is it about Fei Yen and the child?"

Li Yuan shivered. "Why should you think that?"

Ben smiled. "Because, as I see it, there's nothing else that only I could help you with. If it were a matter of politics, there are a dozen able men to whom you might talk. Whereas the matter of your ex-wife and the child. Well. . . who could you talk to of that within your court? Who could you trust not to use what was said to gain some small advantage?"

Li Yuan bowed his head. It was true. He had not thought of it in quite such a calculated manner, but it was so.

"Well?" he said, meeting Ben's eyes.

Ben moved past him, crouching down to study the great tortoise shell with its ancient markings.

"There's an advantage to being outsidfe of things," Ben said, his eyes searching the surface of the shell, tracing the fine patterning of cracks beneath the transparent glaze. "You see events more clearly than do those who are taking part in them. What's more, you learn to ask the right questions." He turned his head, looking up at Li Yuan. "For instance: Why, if Li Yuan knows who the father of his child is, has he not acted on that knowledge? Why has he not sought vengeance on the man? Of course, the assumption has always been that the child is not Li Yuan's. But why should that necessarily be the case? It was assumed by almost everyone that Li Yuan divorced Fei Yen to ensure the child of another man would have no legitimate claim upon the Dragon Throne, but why should that be so? What if that were merely a pretext? After all, it is not an easy thing to obtain a divorce when one is a T'ang. Infidelity, while a serious enough matter in itself, would be an insufficient reason. But to protect the line of inheritance . . ."

Li Yuan had been watching Ben, mesmerized, unable to look away. Now Ben released him and he drew back a pace, shuddering. "You always saw things clearly, didn't you, Ben?" "To the bone." "And was I right?"

"To divorce Fei Yen? Yes. But the child . . . Well, I'll be frank—that puzzles me somewhat. I've thought about it often lately. He's your son, isn't he, Li Yuan?" Li Yuan nodded. "Then why disinherit him?"

Li Yuan looked down, thinking back to the evening when he had made that awful decision, recollecting the turmoil of his feelings. He had expected the worst—had steeled himself to face the awful fact of her betrayal—but when he had found it was his child, unquestionably his, he was surprised to find himself not relieved but appalled, for in his mind he had already parted from her. Had cast her from him, like a broken bowl. For a long time he had sat there in an agony of indecision, unable to see things clearly. But then the memory of Han Ch'in had come to him—of his dead brother, there beside him in the orchard, a sprig of white blossom in his jet-black hair—and he had known, with a fierce certainty, what he must do.

He looked back at Ben, tears in his eyes. "I wanted to protect him. Do you understand that? To keep him from harm. He was Han, you see. Han Ch'in reborn." He shook his head. "I know that doesn't make sense, but it's how I felt. How I still feel, every time I think about the child. It's . . ."

He turned away, trying for a moment to control—to wall in—the immensity of his suffering. Then he turned back, his face open, exposed to the other man, all of his grief and hope and suffering there on the surface for Ben's eyes to read.

"I couldn't save Han Ch'in. I was too young, too powerless. But my son . . ." He swallowed, then looked aside. "If one good thing can come from my relationship with Fei Yen, let it be this: that my son can grow up safe from harm."

Ben looked down; then, patting the shell familiarly, he stood. "I see." He walked back to the edge of the pool, then turned, facing Li Yuan again. "Even so, you must have sons, Li Yuan. Indeed, you have taken wives for that very purpose. Can you save them all? Can you keep them all from harm?"

Li Yuan was staring back at him. "They will be sons . . ." "And Fei's son, Han? Is he so different?"

Li Yuan looked aside, a slight bitterness in his face. "Don't tease me, Ben. I thought you of all people would understand."

Ben nodded. "Oh, I do. But I wanted to make sure that you did. That you weren't trying to fool yourself over your real motives. You say the boy reminds you of Han. That may be so, and I understand your reasons for wanting to keep him out of harm's way. But it's more than that, isn't it? You still love Fei Yen, don't you? And the child . . . the child is the one real thing that came of your love." Li Yuan looked at him gratefully.

Ben sighed. "Oh, I understand clear enough, Li Yuan. You wanted to be her, didn't you? To become her. And the child . . . that's the closest you'll ever come to it."

Li Yuan shivered, acknowledging the truth of what Ben had said. "Then I was right to act as I did?"

Ben turned, looking down, watching the dark shapes of the carp move slowly in the depths. "You remember the picture I drew for you, the day of your betrothal ceremony?"

Li Yuan swallowed. "I do. The picture of Lord Yi and the ten suns—the ten dark birds in the fu sang tree."

"Yes. Well, I saw it then. Saw clearly what would come of it."

"To the bone."

Ben looked back at the young T'ang, seeing he understood. "Yes, You remember. Well, the mistake was made back there. You should never have married her. You should have left her as your dream, your ideal." He shrugged. "The rest, I'm afraid, was inevitable. And unfortunate, for some mistakes can never be rectified."

Li Yuan moved closer until he stood facing Ben, his hand resting loosely on Ben's arm, his eyes boring into Ben's, pleading for something that Ben could not give him.

"But what else could I have done?"

"Nothing," Ben said. "There was nothing else you could have done. But still it isn't right. You tried to shoot the moon, Li Yuan, like the great Lord Yi of legend. And what but sorrow could come of that?"

IT WAS DAWN in the Otzalen Alps and a cold wind blew down the valley from the north. Stefan Lehmann stood on the open mountainside, his furs gathered tight about him, the hood pulled up over his head. He squinted into the shadows down below, trying to make out details, but it was hard to distinguish anything, so much had changed.

Where there had been snow-covered slopes and thick pine forest was now only barren rock—rock charred and fused to a glossy hardness in places. Down where the entrance had been was now a crater almost a li across and half a li deep.

He went down, numbed by what he saw. Where the land folded and rose slightly he stopped, resting against a crag. All about him were the stumps of trees, charred and splintered by the explosions that had rent the mountain. He shuddered and found he could scarcely catch his breath. "All gone," he said, watching his words dissipate into the chill air.

AM gone . . .

A thin veil of snow began to fall, flecks on the darkness below where he stood. He made himself go on, clambering down the treacherous slope until he stood at the crater's edge, looking down into the great circle of its ashen bowl.

Shadow filled the crater like a liquid. Snowflakes drifted into that darkness and seemed to blink out of existence, their glistening brightness extinguished in an instant. He watched them fall, strangely touched by their beauty. For a time his mind refused to acknowledge what had been done. It was easier to stand there, emptied of all thought, all enterprise, and let the cold and delicate beauty of the day seep into the bones, like ice into the rock. But he knew that the beauty of it was a mask, austere and terrible. Inhumanly so. For even as he watched, the whiteness spread, thickening, concealing the dark and glassy surface.

At his back the mountains thrust high into the thin, cold air. He looked up into the grayness of the sky, then turned, looking across at the nearest peaks. The early daylight threw them into sharp relief against the sky. Huge, jagged shapes they were, like the broken, time-bared jawbone of a giant. Beneath, the rest lay in shadow, in vast depths of blue shading into impenetrable darkness. Clouds drifted in between, casting whole slopes of white into sudden shade, obscuring the crisp, paleocrystic forms. He watched, conscious of the utter silence of that desolate place, his warm breath pluming in the frigid air. Then, abruptly, he turned away, beginning to climb the slope again.

The rawness of the place appalled some part of him that wanted warmth and safety, yet the greater part of him—that part he termed his true self—recognized itself in all of this. It was not a place for living, yet living things survived here, honed to the simplest of responses by the savagery of the climate, made lithe and fierce and cunning by necessity. So it was for him. Rather this than the deadness of the City—that sterile womb from which nothing new came forth.

He reached the crest and paused, looking back. The past with all its complex schemes was gone. It lay behind him now. From here on he would do it his way; would become a kind of ghost, a messenger from the outside, flitting between the levels, singular and deadly.

A bleak smile came to his albinic eyes, touched the comers of his thin-lipped mouth. He felt no grief for what had happened, only a new determination. This had not changed things so much as clarified them. He knew now what to do; how to harness all the hatred that he felt for them. Hatred enough to fill the whole of Chung Kuo with death.

The cloud moved slowly south. Suddenly he was in sunlight again. He turned to his right, looking up toward the summit. There, at the top of the world, an eagle circled the naked point of rock, its great wings extended fully. The sight was unexpected yet significant; another sign for him to read. He watched it for some time then moved on, descending into the valley, heading north again toward his scantily provisioned cave. It would be hard, but in the spring he would emerge again, leaner and hungrier than before, but also purer, cleaner. Like a new-forged sword, cast in the fire and tempered in the ice.

He laughed—a cold, humorless sound—then gritted his teeth and began to make his way down, watching his footing, careful not to fall.

INTERLUDE I WINTER 2207

Dragons Teeth

Without preparedness superiority is not real superiority and there can be no initiative either. Having grasped this point, a force which is inferior but prepared can often defeat a superior enemy by surprise attack.

—mao tse tung, On Protracted War, May 1938

IT WAS DUSK on Mars. On the Plain of Elysium it was minus 76 degrees and falling. Great swaths of shadow lay to the north, beneath the slopes of Chaos, stretching slowly, inexorably toward the great dome of Kang Kua City. Earth lay on the horizon, a circle of pure whiteness, back-lit by the sun. The evening star, they called it here. Chung Kuo. The place from which they had come, centuries before.

DeVore stood at the window of the tower, looking out across the great dome of Kang Kua toward the northern desert and the setting sun. The messenger had come an hour earlier, bringing news from Earth. He smiled. And so it had ended, his group surrounded, his pieces taken from the board. Even so, he was pleased with the way his play had gone. It was not often that one gained so much for so small a sacrifice.

He turned, looking back into the room. The morph sat at the table, its tautly muscled skin glistening in the dull *ed light. It was hunched forward, its hands placed on either side of the board, as if considering its next play. So patient it was; filled with an inhuman watchfulness, an inexhaustible capacity for waiting.

He went to the table and sat, facing the faceless creature. This was the latest of his creations; the closest yet to the human. Closest and yet furthest, for few could match it intellectually or physically.

He took a white stone from the bowl and leaned forward, placing it in shang, the south, cutting the line of black stones that extended from the comer.

"Your move," he said, sitting back.

Each stone he placed activated a circuit beneath the board, registering in the creature's mind. Even so, the illusion that the morph had actually seen him place the stone was strong. Its shoulders tensed as it leaned closer, seeming to study the board; then it nodded and looked up, as if meeting his eyes.

Again it was only the copy—the counterfeit—of a gesture, for the smooth curve of its head was unmarked, like unmolded clay or a shell waiting to be formed.

So, too, its personality.

He looked away, a faint smile on his lips. Even in those few moments it had grown much darker. The lights of the great dome, barely evident before, now glowed warmly, filling the cold and barren darkness.

"Did you toast my death, Li Yuan?" he asked the darkness softly. "Did you think it finally done between us?"

But it wasn't done. It was far from being done.

He thought back, remembering the day when he had sent the "copy" out, two weeks after the assassination squad. It had never known; never for a moment considered itself anything but real. DeVore, it had called itself, fancying that that was what it had always been. And so, in a sense, it had. Was it not his genetic material, after all, that had gone into the being's making? Were they not his thoughts, his attitudes, that had gone to shape its mind? Well then, perhaps, in a very real sense, it was himself. An imperfect copy, perhaps, but good enough to fool all those it had had to face; even, when it turned to face the mirror, itself.

He watched the morph play its stone, his own one line out while at the same time protecting the connection between its groups. He smiled, pleased. It was the move he himself would have made.

Shadowing ... it was an important part of the game. As important, perhaps, as any of the final skirmishes. One had to sketch out one's territory well in advance, while plotting to break up one's opponent's future schemes: the one need balanced finely against the other.