White Moon, Red Dragon

Alone again, she picked up one of the meat-filled dumplings with her chopsticks, savoring the delicious smell of it. As with the ch'a, this, too, was part of the ritual—this, too, she had first tasted with her father.

So it began, she thought, suddenly heavy of heart; yes, and so, perhaps, it ends.

Killing Lehmann—some said it was impossible, but nothing was impossible. She laughed and took a second dumpling from the plate, dipping it in the sauce, then popping it into her mouth, enjoying the mixture of soy pork, cabbage, and onion, even as she thought the problem through. No, killing him would not be hard—what was impossible was surviving the attempt.

She cleared the plate, then sat back. It had been good. She had forgotten how good. She turned, meaning to order a second plate—to indulge herself for once—and saw that Yu I and his waiters were gathered beneath one of the media screens, staring up at it. From where she sat she couldn't make out what the picture was, but after a moment a small cheer went up from the men, their faces suddenly lit up and laughing.

Yu I, seeing her, came across again. "You want more, Nu Shih?"

She handed him a five-yuan chip. "Yes, but tell me ... what was all that about? You seemed very excited."

The old man grinned and nodded, his delight evident. "It was good new, Nu Shih. Very good news indeed. It seems the great T'ang, Tsu Ma, is to be married!"

THE ANNOUNCEMENT was a simple one—Liang K'o Ting chih nu Shu-sun Shih li wei Luang-hou. "Shu-sun, daughter of Liang K'o Ting, is hereby created Empress."

The imperial rescript was read out on the media channels and posted throughout the levels of City West Asia.

At Tsu Ma's palace at Astrakhan, there was a small ceremony. The prospective bride's father, Liang K'o Ting, approached Tsu Ma and knelt, pressing his forehead to the floor. Tsu Ma looked down at him from his throne and smiled, watching as he went through the san kuei chiu k'ou—the three kneelings and nine strikings of the head that was required before a Son of Heaven.

As Old Liang straightened up, Tsu Ma looked past him at Shu-sun, wondering how such a stick of a man had bred such a voluptuous daughter. Shu-sun noticed his attention and let her head fall slightly, blushing. She was eighteen years old and fresh as a peach. Just looking at her made his blood race, and when she looked up at him and smiled . . .

He turned his attention to Old Liang again. The man was thanking him for the honor of elevating his daughter to the imperial dignity. He listened, hearing the old man out, then bestowed on him the button of First Rank, given by right to the hou-fu, the father of the Empress, and appointing him an officer of the imperial bodyguard. And then it was done, the great family seals placed upon the betrothal agreement, all speeches made.

There was laughter and raised glasses, yet at the back of the hall, unnoticed by Tsu Ma or his future in-laws, a young man slipped away, crossing the great hall swiftly, silently.

At the doorway, Tsu Kung-chih turned, looking back at the smiling group surrounding the throne, his eyes burning with resentment. Then, his face set, his right hand gripping the handle of his dagger, he strode out and ran down the echoing corridors to his rooms, slamming the door behind him.

TSU TAG CHU reined in his pony at the cliffs edge and sat forward in his saddle, looking out across the calm sea's surface. Shen, his mount, moved his head restlesly, then bent to crop. The youth reached down to smooth its long, sleek neck before straightening up again, sighing heavily, thinking of the ceremony that morning. It was here, only a week ago, that Tsu Ma had spoken to them. Here that his half-brother Kung-chih's sickness had begun.

He dismounted and sat at the cliffs edge, his legs dangling over the drop. Far below the water slopped over and around the tips of jagged rocks. It was high tide and the sluggish movement of the current seemed like the shallow breath of a sleeper. The water was thick and glassy green and the dark, vague shapes of rocks beneath the surface seemed more like shadows than hard realities. Tao Chu took a handful of stones from the bare patch of earth beside him and sprinkled them over the edge, watching the diffuse pattern of ripples spread on the rising, falling back of the water.

He looked down at himself. Dust was spattered across his knee-length boots. He raised a leg to brush the earth from the dark leather, bracing his heel against a large, upjutting stone. Then, taking a white silk handkerchief from the pocket of his riding jacket, he spat on it and began to rub the shine back into the leather. He had just leaned forward to breathe on it when the stone moved and he tilted forward.

There was no time to save himself. Where his foot had been the cliff had fallen away and he found himself tumbling headfirst toward the water, his arms flailing the air. He made a sound, more of surprise than fear, then hit the surface hard, all breath knocked from him, the sudden, shocking coldness of the water making him gasp and try to take a watery breath, but some last flicker of reason made him choke back the instinct.

He struggled upward, his mind dark, in turmoil, his lungs on fire, a searing pain in his side, then broke water, coughing violently and, floundering against a rock, held on for dear life, the waves washing over him.

It was some while before he came fully to his senses. He was still coughing and the pain in his side had grown worse. His teeth were chattering now and he realized that if he didn't get to shore soon he would die from exposure. He turned in the water, trying to make out where best to swim for, but as he did the pain grew so severe, he had to close his eyes, almost blacking out.

Carefully he felt beneath the waterline, tracing the wound tenderly with his fingers. He shuddered. It was bad. Very bad. But he wasn't helping himself by staying here. Gritting his teeth, bracing himself against the pain he knew would come, he began to swim, leaning over to one side, doing a kind of lopsided doggie-paddle that took the strain off his injured side.

Several times on that long and painful swim he thought of giving up, of relaxing and letting himself be sucked beneath the cold, clear water, but something kept him from succumbing, kept him doggedly pressing on, until, at last, he crawled up onto the beach, the outward wash forming long ribbons of silver laced with red at the side of his legs. Slowly, feeling close to exhaustion now, he pulled himself up out of the water, then turned to examine the gash properly.

The wound looked smaller than it had felt, and not so deep. Miraculously it had missed the bone. The rock had sliced into the flesh of his left side between the edge of the pelvis and the outer cage of the ribs. The seawater had washed it clean and the flow of blood from it had eased.

He had been lucky. Very, very lucky.

For the first time in what seemed an eternity, Tao Chu smiled. Somehow he had missed the rocks. Somehow he had fallen between those hard, cruel points of darkness. As he rested there, taking long, sweet breaths of the salty air, a sense of elation, of pure joy at having survived his own stupidity, washed over him. He laughed.

He was still laughing when a call came from the rocks overlooking the small bay he had swum to. Awkwardly, still in some pain, he turned and looked. Three men, servants of his uncle, were standing there. One of them waved, calling out his reassurances as they began to hurry down the slanting, rock-strewn face toward him.

Tao Chu let them lift him and carry him carefully back to the cliffs summit. There one of them examined the wound again, wincing to himself, and removed his jacket, tearing it into strips which he then bound about Tao Chu. Then they began to carry him again, hurrying now. They were halfway across the long, flat stretch of grass that led to the orchards when Tao Chu saw his mount.

"Stop!" he cried. They set him down, then made small murmurs of protest when he told them to catch and bring his pony. There was a moment's muttering between them then one of them scurried off and, after some trouble, brought the reluctant, skittish pony back.

Tao Chu stared at the beast, delighted. "Now help me mount her,"

he ordered, struggling up into a sitting position. This time there was open protest from the men, but Tao Chu insisted, his voice taking on the tone of command. The men looked among themselves again, then shrugged. One held the horse steady while the others helped Tao Chu into the saddle.

Fresh blood stained the bindings at his side, but Tao Chu felt strangely better now that he was mounted. He smiled fiercely, doing his sixteen-year-old best to ignore the pain that was now a horribly nagging ache. Seated thus he let them lead him on, one drawing the horse by its harness while the other two walked either side of him, ensuring he did not fall, their hands supporting him in the saddle.

Coming into the courtyard of his uncle's palace, he saw his half-brother, Kung-chih, over by the stables. He made to call to him, then stopped, frowning. Kung-chih was standing with his back to him, talking to a small baldheaded man. Kung's presence in the stables was not unusual, nor was the fact that he was talking to a servant, but the servant was neither groom nor stable hand, he was Hwa Kwei, one of Tsu Ma's most trusted men, the Chief Steward of his bedchamber. What was the eunuch doing talking to Kung-chih? And why here, in the stables? Kung-chih made a furtive gesture with one hand and Hwa Kwei scuttled away. Then Kung-chih himself strode purposefully across the cobbled space and into a side door, far from the one Hwa Kwei had taken.

Concerned, Tao Chu looked down at the men surrounding him, but they seemed to have noticed nothing. He grimaced, the pain starting up again more fiercely than before.

"Help me down," he said quietly.

WHEN KUNG-CHIH came to see him later Tao Chu said nothing of what he had seen. Tsu Ma was sitting in the room with them, concerned for his favorite nephew. Tao Chu had told him everything, omitting nothing, and had seen his uncle frown and then laugh with pride as he told him about mounting his horse and riding home.

"That is indeed how a Prince should act!" Tsu Ma had said, delighted. "And do not worry, Tao Chu, I shall not punish the men for your obstinacy!"

But Kung-chih was quieter, somehow less attentive than he might usually have been. He had said little since that day on the cliff tops— had made no threats nor shown any disrespect to Tsu Ma. He had been kind, almost his old self, yet in small ways he had changed. He no longer confided in Tao Chu; no longer shared his hopes and fears with his young half-brother. He had become insular and broody and subject to sudden moods. Seeing him with Hwa Kwei had therefore awoken Tao Chu's suspicions. He was sure that Kung-chih was up to something.

"How are you, little brother?" Kung-chih said on entering the room. "I hear you have been swimming."

It was an attempt at the old banter that had once existed between them, but now it fell strangely flat.

"I was stupid," Tao Chu said, sighing. "I ought to be dead. I'll not be so lucky twice in my life!"

The comment was not meant to carry any other meaning, yet as Tao Chu looked up into his brother's face he saw how Kung-chih's eyes moved away sharply, as if stung by the words. There was a momentary sourness in his expression, but then he looked back at Tao Chu and, softening, smiled. "Still . . . I'm glad you're safe."

Are you? thought Tao Chu, seeing that all-too-familiar face in a different light, as if with new-created eyes; seeing the softness, the weakness there. But it was an unworthy, an uncharitable thought, and he felt guilty, knowing that for all his half-brother's self-preoccupation, his love was genuine. Reaching out, he took his hand and pressed it gently.

"I know," he said, and in his mind added, because you need me, Tsu Kung-chih. Need me to save you from yourself. To keep you from falling.

That was, if it wasn't already too late.

JELKA LOOKED UP from the screen and rubbed her eyes. She had been working on the tapes most of the day, selecting and editing those parts he'd find of interest, determined that she would finally get them done.

She had frozen the tape at an image of Titan she had taken when they'd been heading back on the Meridian. The orange surface of the moon was hazed in cloud, the dark red collar in its northern hemisphere showing up strongly. Beyond it, seeming to spear it, Saturn's rings swept in a glorious arc through the star-spattered blackness, the great gas giant itself just out of shot. The sight of it had taken her back to that moment, sending a strange thrill through her.

If only you could have been there with me, Kim. If only you could have seen it as I saw it.

She turned, looking across at the picture of her in her spacesuit taken on the steps of the Meridian. It was strange how comfortable she had felt in it—odd how something in her had responded to the icy coldness of the outer planets.

She turned back, stretching, nodding to herself, then took a print of the image. She would have it blown up and hung on the wall behind her desk. The rest . . . well, the rest was for Kim.

She let the film run, listening to her own voice as she repeated for the camera what she'd been told, facts and figures flowing from her tongue effortlessly. This was the last of them—the last of a dozen eight-hour tapes she had compiled for him from what had been months of material. For almost a year now she had spent at least an hour a day preparing them, but now they were almost done. Another few hours at most.

And then?

She wasn't sure. Wasn't sure whether to send them to him or hand them over herself. After all, what if he'd forgotten her? What if there was someone else?

Titan receded slowly, the bulk of Saturn moving into the shot, dwarfing the tiny moon, the swirling striations of its northern hemisphere filling the screen. It was beautiful. Breathtaking. She let it run, knowing that whatever else happened, he, at least, would get to share this much of her experience.

So small our world is. Like a tiny speck of dust in a vast, echoing hall.

Slowly the image of Saturn shrank, slowly the darkness filled the screen. She shivered, frightened by the intensity of her feelings.

He had promised he would wait. Seven years, he'd said. Seven years.

There was a knock. She leaned forward and pressed HOLD, then turned to face the door.

"Come in!"

"Jelka?" Her father took a step into the room and looked about him. "Can you spare me a few moments?"

"Sure." She turned back, pressed SAVE, then blanked the screen. She could finish it later.

"How's Pauli?" she asked, going across to him and kissing his cheek.

Tolonen grinned. "Oh, he's fine. He's resting now. That new tutor of his makes him work. Sometimes I wonder if he's not a bit too hard on the child."

"He's a good child," she said, taking his arm and leading him out of the room. "And a bit of discipline won't harm him, will it? You forget how strict my tutors were with me."

"I guess so. But then, you were always a tough one. Headstrong too." He laughed. "Still are, I guess."

They went into his study. While he sat, she walked about the room, picking books from the shelves, then putting them back.

"So what is it?"

He looked up from his papers and grunted. "Just, er . . . a few details to sort out. For the party."

"Ah . . ." The invitation to Kim—that was what this was about. Steeling herself, she went across and sat, facing him across the desk.

"Here." He took a small pile of bright red envelopes from his tray and handed them to her. "You'd better check them before they go out."

She took them, nodding to him, but afraid to look.

"I was wondering about the music. I've booked the Chi L'ing Ensemble. I've been told they're very good. But maybe you feel they're a bit too . . . conventional."

She would have laughed but for the tension at the pit of her stomach. "It's all right," she answered, her voice small. "The Chi L'ing will be fine."

His smile was businesslike. "Good . . . then that's settled."

She stared at him, trying to read his face while her fingers sorted through the pile, counting the cards. Eleven. There were only eleven. But she had made twelve additions to the list. She wetted her lips, then spoke.

"There's one missing."

"Pardon?" He looked at her, then, understanding, gave a brief laugh. "Oh, I see. Yes . . . Old Joss Hawkins is dead, I'm afraid. Died a good eight, nine months back. I thought you'd heard."

She stared at him, mouth open, then looked down, flicking through the envelopes.

There! Six down. She stared at her father's handwriting on the envelope, surprised. Kim Ward it said, then gave his address at the SimFic labs. She looked up again. "I thought . . ."

"You thought?"

She shook her head. "It doesn't matter."

"Good. Then let's look at the catering. I've been thinking that maybe we should change a few things. ..."

AFTER she'd GONE, Tolonen sat there deep in thought. It was just as he'd suspected. No ... as he'd feared. He had seen it in her face. He'd thought it finished with, but it wasn't. She was still obsessed with the Claybom—still determined on being with him.

He sighed, then sat back, steepling his fingers under his nose.

Rich or not, genius or not, it could not be countenanced. His daughter and a Clayborn. No, it was unthinkable. His family would be a laughingstock, his daughter's chances at a real marriage destroyed for all time. He had to do something. Defying her was no good—he knew that now. But there were other ways.

He sat forward and pulled his diary toward him, opening it at that day's entry. The card he had been given lay there where he'd left it. He picked it up and stared at it, then, grimacing, drew the comset across to him and tapped in the number.

It rang, once, twice, a third time. I'll try later, he thought, about to put it down, but then the signal changed and a voice answered him.

"Hello. Madam Peng here. Can I help you?"

He cleared his throat. "Madam Peng . . . it's Marshal Tolonen here. A friend of mine gave me your number. I—I have a problem I hope you can help me with."

KIM STEPPED FROM the sedan and looked about, taking in the breathtaking opulence of the place. The Mansion was a big three-story building in the Han style with sloping tiled roofs, but the gardens, too, were expansive, with a small river and an orchard on the far side of an ornamental bridge. Fake clouds drifted slowly across the blue of the ceiling fifty ch'i overhead, while the walls gave views of distant mountains. He had seen its like before, but he'd never thought to own such a place.

Reiss had called him just over an hour back and told him to go and see it. If he liked it it was his, whether he signed the new deal or not. If not, well, there would be others.

"Shih Ward?"

He turned as a middle-aged Han in dark green business silks strode toward him down the gravel path.

"I am Chang . . . Hugh Chang from Supernal Property." He bowed and shook Kim's hand at one and the same time, then turned, indicating the Mansion. "Beautiful, isn't it? It's rare for one of these really big Mansions to come on the market, but Director Reiss asked me to look out for something and notify him first. So here we are. I understand you're interested in acquiring something special."

Kim stared at the man a moment, irritated by his bullish, overfamiliar manner, then answered him.

"I haven't really thought about it."

"But I thought—"

"Just show me," he said, moving toward the house. "I want straight answers to my questions. And don't try to persuade me to buy it. If I like it, I like it. If not . . ."

He swept past Chang, imagining the look the man gave him behind his back, but right now he didn't care. It had been a bad day—a very bad day so far—and even this could not really lift his spirits. Losing Ravachol had been a body blow, and though he'd set to the task again at once, it was more to disguise his feeling of loss, of alienation from the task at hand, than to seriously solve the problems that had come up.

The truth was, he felt like giving it all up. He felt like calling Reiss back and saying no, keep your company, I want none of it. At the same time he recognized that it was only a passing mood, and that however bad he felt now he would feel better in a day or two. Well enough, perhaps, to start anew.

As he approached the huge double doors to the main house, two guards stepped forward to bar his way, then backed away hurriedly as Chang waved them aside.

"Security is tight, as you see," he said, coming alongside Kim as they went into the shadowy hallway. "There are six guard towers in the wall and special security barriers at both lifts—as you saw on the way in. We've recently installed a special electronic tracking system for the perimeter walls and emergency seal doors inside the house itself."

Kim glanced at him, surprised. "Is that normal?"

Chang shrugged. "You know how it is these days. No one's safe. Not even up this high. Not unless they've got all this stuff."

Kim stopped, turning to him. "And the people who owned this?"

"They took great precautions. In the eight years they were here there wasn't a single breach of security."

"So what happened to them? Did they get tired living like this? Or did they buy something even bigger?"

"Like a stack?" Chang laughed, then grew serious again. "No. You want a straight answer, right?"

"Right."

"Okay . . . They were killed. Butchered in their sedan. They'd gone to a charity ball run by that new group, you know, the New Conscience Movement. Seems like they were targeted. A terrorist cell took them in the lift coming up. The death by a thousand cuts. Very messy, so I'm told."

Kim nodded, sobered by the story. He looked to his right up the broad main stairs, then turned, looking through to the kitchens. It was all very dour and ostentatious. It simply trumpeted its wealth. Moreover, the place was huge. One could have a hundred children here and still not fill it. Even so, it didn't have to stay like this. With a little imagination he could make something of it—turn part of it into a research center, another of the wings into a lab complex. After all, money was no object now. He could do pretty much as he wanted.

Yes, he thought, but what would ]elka say? What does she want?

For a moment the absurdity of his situation almost made him laugh. Here he was, looking round a First Level Mansion—a place worth, what, a hundred, a hundred and fifty million yuan?—that was his, gratis, if he said yes, and the only thing stopping him was whether a young woman he hadn't seen in seven years—and who he couldn't be sure even remembered him—would like to live there.

He huffed out a breath, exasperated with himself, then looked at Chang again. "Okay. I'll take it. But I want to make changes. That's possible, I assume?"

Chang beamed. "As far as we're concerned, Shih Ward, you can burn the place down and start again from scratch. What you pay for is the deck itself. The Mansion"—he made a dismissive gesture—"you could replace this for ... oh, twenty million?"

"As little as that, huh?"

Chang nodded, unaware, it seemed, of the irony in Kim's voice. "Naturally, should you wish to make changes, we could put you in touch with the very best construction technicians. Craftsmen, they are. Why—"

"Thank you, Shih Chang, but I think I've seen enough. Draw up the papers and send them to Director Reiss. If I wish to see the place again I'll know who to speak to, neh?"

Chang smiled, then handed Kim his card. "Just press the reverse and it'll put you in direct contact."

Kim stared at it with a professional interest, then pocketed it. He was about to turn away, when it came back to him what he'd meant to ask earlier.

"By the way . . . about the previous owners. What group was it that attacked them?"

The smile faded from Chang's face. "It was the Hand. The Black Hand. No one else is so audacious. Why, I'm told—" He stopped, realizing he had overstepped the mark, then bowed. "Forgive me, Shih Ward. I don't want to keep you."

Kim nodded, then walked out and across to his sedan. Yet as he climbed inside he was thinking of all he'd heard recently. There was no doubting it, they were living in troubled times. Society had changed. Once it had been driven by the simple mechanics of the levels—of aspiration and demotion. Life had been a giant game of snakes and ladders. But now . . . now society was fear driven. All of these guns and guards and laser-tracking devices were signs of a deeply paranoid culture. So paranoid that it was now quite normal to assume the worst—to assume that your enemies would come and get you in your bed.

He sat, feeling suddenly heavy boned and tired. Paranoia ... it was the philosophy of the Clay, of the place from which he'd come. Upwards he'd climbed and ever upward, until he'd found himself here, at the very top of the City, beneath the roof, like a bird in a loft of an old house, fluttering about, trying to get out. But there was no way out. And slowly, very slowly, the darkness was climbing after him. Up and up it came. And what guns and trackers would keep it out? What precautions could ever be enough?

As the sedan lifted he sat back, shaking his head angrily.

It was Ravachol's death that had made him think all this. That and Chang's foolish prattling. So a few rich people had died . . . hadn't that always been the way? Wasn't history filled with such instances? Yes, but that made it no more comforting, for the signs were clear now—there for the dullest man to read.

The sedan shuddered slightly, then began its swaying motion.

Li Yuan was right. They had to act now or go under. But what action could prevent the coming crisis? What measures could assure their children's futures?

Yes, and that was the nub of it, wasn't it? For what was the point in loving someone—in pursuing and possibly marrying them—if it were all to come to nought?—if society were to crumble away and the species end itself in a frenzy of bloodlust?

Why take the risk of loving and having children when the risks were so high, the rewards of love so tentative? Why make oneself a hostage to the times?

Because you have no choke. Because you love her and want her and—-and because if you don't try you'll never forgive yourself.

And because nothing else mattered. Nothing.

"Rachel?"

Emily gave a little start, then turned, regaining her composure. For a second she had forgotten who she was—had been thrown by the use of her assumed name. She had been daydreaming: thinking about Michael, wondering where he was, what he was doing.

"What is it?" she asked half challengingly, staring back at the tall, pockfaced Hung Mao who stood there, an arm's length from her.

Pasek smiled coldly, then moved past her, looking out from the balcony across the crowded Main below. His dark Slavic eyes passed briefly across the ragged awnings, the packed mass of unwashed and shabby humanity that crowded the floor between the stalls, dismissing what he saw.

"I thought we ought to talk."

Emily felt her stomach muscles tighten with aversion. "Talk?"

He turned back. "Sure. We need to clear the air between us."

She was silent, uncertain what to say.

Pasek's smile was like a sneer. "You don't like me, Rachel DeValerian. I know that. I can see it even now. But that doesn't matter. What does matter is that we don't let it get in the way of things."

"I don't see—"

He raised one pale, thin hand, interrupting her. "There are going to be changes."

She stared at the dark leather band about his wrist. On it was a copy of the symbol he wore on a silver chain about his neck. A cross within a circle.

"Changes?"

His smile evaporated. The eyes were brutal now. "It's already happening. A purge. Those we can't trust. I ordered it."

"You . . ." She fell silent, understanding. He'd had Chou Te-hsing killed. Yes, and all his deputies. All except her. She looked up, meeting his eyes. "Why?"

"Because it was time. We were drifting. We needed a new direction. Chou had no idea. He had to go."

She nodded, not because she agreed, but because she saw it all clearly now—saw why he'd pressed to have his men placed in key strategic positions; why he'd held his tongue in the last council meeting when Chou had spelled out the new program. You planned this, she thought, all of her instincts about the man confirmed in an instant. He'd known then that it didn't matter what Chou said or didn't say at that meeting; knew then that, come this morning, Chou would be dead, his power base in the Black Hand destroyed. Pasek had taken over. He was the Black Hand.

"What do you want?"

His hand went to the cross hanging about his neck. "I want you to join us. Become one of the sealed."

She made to answer him, but he spoke over her. "Oh, I know you don't believe. That doesn't matter. Not now, anyway. Right now what matters is that we consolidate. Make sure the Hand doesn't tear itself apart. There'll be a lot of ill feeling. Chou had a lot of support at grass roots level. People respected him. Wrongly, as it turns out, but that's by the by. As for you, Rachel, you're respected too. Rightly so. I've watched you for a long time and I like what I've seen. There are no illusions about you. You get on with things. It's as if you've seen it all before. Nothing shocks you. Even this. I saw how quickly you understood how things stood—how quickly you accepted them, and I like that. I'd be sorry to lose you."

She felt a faint shiver, not of fear, but of aversion, ripple through her. "So that's it, is it? I join you—become one of the sealed—or I die?"

He shook his head. "If I'd wanted you dead, you'd be dead. No. It has to be your choice. If you choose not to work with me you can go into exile. Africa, maybe. Or Asia."

"And if I stay?"

"You get to help formulate policy."

She laughed, astonished, then frowned, searching his eyes for some kind of explanation. "I don't get it. I want what Chou wanted."

"No. I've watched you at those meetings. I've seen the doubt in your face, the frustration at some of the decisions. You want what I want. Not all of it, but enough for us to work together. To make the Black Hand not just another shitty little faction but a genuinely important force. A force for change. You want that. I know you do. I've seen it in your eyes."

Emily looked away. It was true. The last eighteen months had been nothing but frustration. But to work with Pasek ... It was on her lips to say no, to tell him to go to hell, but something stopped her.

"I need to think about it."

He looked her up and down, then nodded. "Okay. Twenty-four hours. That's all I can give you. We're meeting at noon tomorrow. At the White Mantis. If you're with me, be there. If not . . . well, good luck."

She watched him go. Saw his tall, spiderish figure vanish into the crowd, then shivered, chilled by this sudden turn in events. Twenty-four hours. It wasn't long. And if she didn't turn up?

She didn't know. For once her instincts failed her.

Wett? she asked herself, sighing heavily. What are you going to do?

She turned, putting her hands on the rail of the balcony, leaning her full weight on them as she looked out across the crowded marketplace. She knew what she wanted—at least, she thought she did. But Pasek . . . could she work with Pasek?

Twenty-four hours. It wasn't long. But maybe that was how it always was.

She pushed away from the rail, then turned, hurrying away, pushing through the crowded corridor urgently, hastening toward her room, conscious of the seconds ticking by.

TAO CHU looked round the door into his half-brother's suite of rooms, then took a step inside.

"Kung-chih?" he called softly. "Are you there?"

The study was in shadow, the last of the evening's light blocked off by the closed slats of the window. On the far side of the room, the door to his brother's bedroom was open. Tao Chu went across, one hand pressed to the bandage at his side.

"Kung-chih?"

There was no answer. The room was empty, the bed made up. Tao Chu turned, looking back into the study, wondering where Kung-chih could have got to.

A sharp pain stabbed through him, taking his breath. Making his way across slowly, he eased into his brother's chair and sat there until the pain subsided.

He looked down. There was fresh blood on the bandage. Surgeon T'ung would be angry with him and would no doubt speak to his uncle, but that didn't matter right now—he had to speak to Kung-chih; to find out what was going on.

"Curse him," he said quietly, his anxiety for his beloved half-brother outweighing any concern he had for himself. "Curse his stupid pride."

He leaned forward, searching the desktop with his eyes, looking for some clue as to where he might be, but there was nothing. Kung-chih was probably out walking in the grounds somewhere—in the orchards, perhaps—or riding in the woods to the south of the palace.

Brooding, probably. Yes, he'd seen the way he had looked at their uncle Ma; seen the resentment in his eyes, the hurt. But Kung-chih had to come to terms with that. His life—his expectations—had changed and he must live with that. He could not mope about forever.

He was about to get up and return to his room when he heard voices outside, coming closer. His brother's voice and . . .

Tao Chu frowned, surprised. It was Hwa Kwei again—Tsu Ma's Chief Steward of the Bedchambers. What in the gods' names was Kung-chih doing talking to him twice in one day?

There was a murmured exchange, a curt dismissal, and then Kung-chih came into the room. He switched on the light and turned, then stopped dead, his mouth open, seeing Tao Chu there at his desk. For a moment there was a look of guilty shock on his face, then anger.

"Tao Chu! Why aren't you in your bed? What the hell are you doing here?"

"I . . ."

Kung-chih came and stood over him, glaring at him fiercely. "Did Uncle Ma send you to spy on me? Is that it?"

Tao Chu shook his head, hurt by the accusation, but Kung-chih went on.

"Why, you fucking little sneak! I thought I could trust you, but as soon as my back's turned you were in here, weren't you, poking about to see what you could find! But you won't find anything, brother."

Find what? he wanted to say, but the question made no sense. He hadn't come here to poke about, he'd come here to talk to him, to warn him about associating with the likes of Hwa Kwei.

He closed his eyes, the ache in his side suddenly worse, but Kung-chih went on, his voice savage now, unrelenting.

"You little worm! You sniveling little worm! All those words of consolation and all the while you're fucking lapping it up. That's the truth, isn't it? You loved seeing Tsu Ma humiliate me. You just loved it!"

"No . . ." Tao Chu said, crying now, unable to believe that this was Kung-chih talking to him this way. What had he done—what had he ever done—to deserve this?

"Fuck off! Just fuck off! Next time I find you poking around my rooms, I'll kick you from here to Africa!"

Slowly, every movement an effort, Tao Chu pulled himself up. For a moment he stood there, swaying, his vision swimming, then it came clear again. Kung-chih stood there close by, less than an arm's length from him, yet so far away, it seemed a whole world separated them.

"Brother . . ." he said, his eyes pleading with Kung-chih, his right hand reaching for him, but Kung-chih brushed his hand off angrily and leaned toward him, his words spat into Tao Chu's face.

"Brother? No, Tao Chu, you've got it wrong. You're not even a friend!"

RAVACHOL LAY facedown on the operating table, naked under the pale blue light. They had finished the dissection and had begun to tidy up. Kim stood back, weary now, letting his assistants finish off.

After extensive scanning they had taken sample slices from different areas of the android's brain, running a number of tests on them. All had shown the same—a severe deterioration of the brain tissue, almost as if it had been burned away.

What could have done that? he wondered, puzzled by the phenomenon. Was Curval right? Was the organic material they were using substandard? Or had something more sinister taken place?

Later, as he showered, his mind toyed with possible explanations. Synaptic burnout of some kind? A virus? Or maybe—just maybe— some form of neuronal poison?

There was no physical evidence for it. Its food had been strictly vetted and there had been no signs on the body of an injection, but the more he thought about it, the more certain he was. Someone had got to it. Someone—an agent of one of their business rivals?—had made sure the experiment would fail.

I wasn't wrong, he realized with a start. The brain's structure was sound. But someone has been tampering with it. Someone who had access.

The thought was chilling. At any other time he would have dismissed it as a product of the hour and his depressed mood, but this was not paranoia. The more he considered the history of its deterioration, the more he saw how false, how unscientific, it had been. No ... it hadn't been a natural decay. All along they had floundered for explanations for what was happening, not wanting to face the obvious.

But who?

He stepped from the shower and shook himself, not wanting to wait for the warm air-currents to start up, then padded across to the terminal in the corner of the room.

"Who was it?" he asked, knowing that if anyone knew, It knew. "Who poisoned Ravachol?"

The Machine was silent.

"You know. I know you know. So why won't you say? You see everything. If it happened, you saw it. Why, you could even show me, I bet!"

"The screen," it said tonelessly. "Look at the screen."

Kim watched, fascinated at first and then horrified as he saw who it was. When he spoke again his voice was small and frightened.

"Why didn't you say? Why didn't you show me this before?"

"You didn't ask."

"But . . ."

Kim leaned against the terminal, feeling suddenly more tired than he'd ever felt. He had thought it was over, thought himself cured, but here was proof that it was still going on, unknown to him.

"Run it again," he said, forcing himself to watch as, on the screen, he slipped from his room and, creeping stealthily past the guards, went to the android's cell. There, crouching beside the sleeping creature, he took a small pouch from his pocket and gently brushed some of its powdery contents onto Ravachol's lips.

As the figure on the screen turned, the lens zoomed in, catching for a moment the dark malevolence of its eyes. Kim shuddered, recognizing it from his dreams. It was Gweder ... his mirror self.

Gweder and Lagasek—"Mirror" and "Starer," his two halves, the dark and light of his being, names from his Clayborn past.

"A'dhywas'lur," he said softly, a ripple of pure fear running up his spine. Up from the ground. Then, more practically, "What did it use?"

"Something it stole from you. Something you made and then forgot about."

"But I don't forget."

"No?"

The images ran. Again and again he saw himself slip from his cell and make his way to the android's cell. Again and again he saw himself administer the poison. And never once had he suspected. Never once had he had even the faintest idea what was going on.

"Where's the pouch now?"

"In your room."

Kim gave a laugh of disbelief. "It can't be. I would have seen it."

"No. He doesn't let you."

"How . . ." Kim frowned fiercely, then rubbed at his brow. "How do you know this?"

"You forget. I have all your files. I saw you through rehabilitation. I know things about you that even you don't know."

"So what else do you know?"

"I can't tell you."

"Why?" .'• . .

"Because ..."

Kim gave a small yelp of frustration. "Why?"

It was silent a moment, then, in a voice that seemed as old as the rocks, it spoke to him again.

"Get dressed now and go to bed. We'll talk in the morning. I'll tell you then what you need to know. And, Kim . . ."

"Yes?"

"Do not blame yourself. You are what you are. Without him—without Gweder . . . Well, I think you understand."

Kim nodded, then, sighing, he turned from the screen and took a fresh one-piece from the pile, slipping it on.

"Tomorrow?" he said, looking up into the camera's eye.

"Tomorrow."

CHAPTER FIVE

Caged Birds

LI YUAN'S SON, the Imperial Prince Kuei Jen, sat in a tall official's chair facing the three old men, his back straight, his eyes staring straight ahead. The men—distinguished-looking graybeards—sat some twenty ch'i from the Prince, wearing the flowing saffron robes of New Confucian officials, no sign of rank displayed anywhere about them. Yet these were not simple priests, these were the San Shih, the Three Priest-Scholars— princes themselves, honored sons of the Twenty-Nine, the Minor Families—and they were here to test the young prince on his knowledge of the Five Classics.

Li Yuan and his Chancellor, Nan Ho, sat to one side, looking on. While the examination was in progress they could not interrupt. So it was. So it had been for two thousand years or more, since the time of the Han emperors. With one difference. Kuei Jen—at seven—was probably the youngest ever to sit the oral examination.

A long white banner hung to one side of the hall. On it, painted in large red pictograms, was Kang Hsi's famous Sacred Edict with its sixteen injunctions exalting the twin virtues of filial piety and brotherly love. Copies of it hung throughout the Cities of Chung Kuo and were recited twice a month by teachers and pupils alike.

Just now they were questioning Kuei Jen on the Ch'un Ch'iu, the Spring and Autumn Annals of the State of Lu.

The Ch'un Ch'iu was the earliest historical record of the Han people, covering the period from 722 to 481 B.C., when the fifteen major feudal states of the North China plain had first formed a loose confederation called Chung Kuo, the "Middle Kingdom." Though it was some while since he himself had read it, Li Yuan could still remember how he had felt as a boy, knowing how deeply rooted—how ancient—those traditions were.

Looking on, he knew that this was Kuei Jen's favorite area of study—one that not merely interested, but excited him—yet the boy's answers, couched in fluent Mandarin, were strangely hesitant, stilted almost, as if he spoke from rote.

"Ch'i was the first of the Five Hegemons—the Pa—followed by Sung, then Ts'in, then Ch'in and finally Ch'u, before authority was returned to its rightful owner, the Son of Heaven."

One of the old men leaned toward Kuei Jen, his voice, like those of his fellow San Shih, filled with the authority of his position.

"And the Lord Protector Ch'i. Tell me about him. Who was he Lord of and where was his capital?"

Again Kuei Jen hesitated, trying not to let his father down, resisting the temptation to turn and look at him.

"Lord Ch'i was Prince of Ts'i and his capital was the powerful and wealthy city of Lin-tsu in Shantung Province. The Lord Ch'i could trace his ancestry back thirteen generations to the kings of Chou. His daughter married the Emperor."

The old man nodded, then glanced at his fellows, clearly pleased by the answer. As he sat back, another of them leaned forward.

"You speak well, Prince Kuei, but tell me, what event caused the Lord Chi to take up arms at the request of his Lord the Emperor?"

Li Yuan frowned, surprised by the question, trying to recollect what he knew of the House of Ts'i and its history. Lord Ch'i had eventually been assassinated. But as to why he had taken up arms in the first place . . .

Kuei Jen shifted uncomfortably, then, as if mirroring the old man, leaned forward slightly.

"Was it to do with what happened in 894 B.C.?" : "Go on. . . ."

"Well, in that year one of the Emperor's advisors had counseled that he should have the Lord of Lu boiled alive, which the Emperor did. Two hundred and four years later, one of Lu's descendants launched an armed attack on the descendants of the advisor, and the Lord Ch'i was commissioned by the Emperor to act on his behalf in bringing Lu to justice."

"Very good. Now tell me ..."

And so it went on, question following question, unrelenting, until, after almost four hours, it came to an end.

Li Yuan stood, pleased—profoundly pleased—and proud of his son's performance. To fail would have been no disgrace, for the same examination was taken by men four times young Kuei's age, yet he had answered every question; most of them with a detailed knowledge that, he suspected, was rarely shown, even by much older candidates.

As the San Shih backed away, to consult among themselves and prepare to give their verdict, he went across to Kuei Jen. What he wanted to do was pick the boy up and hug him, he was so proud, but as ever the eyes of his servants and officials watched his every move, constraining his actions.

Later, he promised himself, seeing how awkwardly Kuei Jen stood there, how nervous he was even now, after it was over.

"You did well," he said, bowing stiffly to his son, honoring him by the gesture. "Whatever the San Shih say, I am proud of you, Kuei Jen. Your answers showed not merely a sound knowledge of the texts but also a profound understanding of their meaning. You are a good son, Kuei Jen. The very best of sons."

Kuei Jen blushed, then bowed his head. "Father ..."

"Chieh Hsia?"

He turned. "What is it, Master Nan?"

"Forgive me, Chieh Hsia, but it seems your wife, Pei K'ung, has been waiting these past few hours to speak with you."

"Does she say why?"

"It seems it is a personal matter, Chieh Hsia. She will speak to no one but yourself."

Li Yuan huffed, exasperated. What with this, he was already behind with his work, and there would be no time to catch up, for he must leave at six to fly to meet Tsu Ma at his palace in Astrakhan.

"Tell her I shall come, Master Nan. Tell her—tell her I must finish here. She'll understand."

"Chieh Hsia."

He turned back, puzzled as to why Pei K'ung should wish to see him so urgently. Maybe her father was ill. Maybe that was it. Maybe she wanted permission to visit him.

The San Shih returned, bowing as they entered the hall again, then came across, presenting themselves formally to their T'ang.

"Well, ch'un tzu," he said, nervous himself now that the moment of decision had come. "Give me your verdict."

"The Prince spoke well," Old Luo began. "He answered confidently and, for the main part, correctly. His tutors are to be commended."

Li Yuan felt himself stiffen, hearing the unspoken but there behind the old man's words.

Luo continued. "His knowledge of the texts was good for one his age, though more work needs to be done on both the Shih Ching and the second book of the Li Ching, where his knowledge—though cor-rect—seems fairly thin."

"However . . ." Li Yuan said, impatient now.

The old man bowed his head slightly. "However, it is the feeling of all three of us that, while the Prince exhibits a good knowledge of the form of the Wu Ching—of the words and events set down in the texts—he is nonetheless of an age when . . . well, when perhaps the substance is not so strongly rooted in his being."

"Put bluntly, you think him too young."

"Not too young, Chieh Hsia, merely . . . inexperienced."

Li Yuan felt his anger welling and beat it down, maintaining a calm and stately demeanor.

"Inexperienced?" He turned away, taking a pace or two, as if considering the idea, then turned back, staring directly at Old Luo.

"You think my son too young, and you think, because I am a grown man, that I should agree with you. Well, ch'un tzu, let me say this. When my brother Han Ch'in was assassinated I was but eight years old. Only nine months older than Kuei Jen is now. Some men forget what they were like at that age, but I cannot. How I was that day—how I felt, what I thought, what I had experienced—is etched unforgettably in my memory."

He turned, looking at Kuei Jen.

"You look at my son and you see only a child—a precocious little boy who has learned his lessons well. But when I look at him I see myself, as 1 was, and remember what I was like at his age."

He looked back at the three men.

"You talk of form and substance, yet you forget the lessons of the Tao. What is a child but the seed of becoming? And if the seed is not sound, how will the tree grow straight?"

"So it might be, Chieh Hsia, yet is is our feeling—" "Oh, damn your feeling!" Li Yuan yelled, losing his temper. "Get out of here, loo jen! Now! Before I lose all patience with you!"

Luo blanched, then, looking to his fellow San Shih, backed away, his bow stiff and angry.

When they were gone, Li Yuan turned, looking to his son. Kuei Jen stood there, his head down, his face and neck scarlet with embarrassment.

"Kuei Jen?"

The young prince swallowed, then looked up at his father. Tears were welling in his eyes. "Call them back, father. Please. They are great men. Influential men. Besides maybe they are right. Maybe I am too young to be made a scholar."

"Nonsense! Luo Ye is an old fool! You answered all his questions perfectly!"

He shuddered with indignation, looking about him, defying anyone to gainsay him.

"Why, the nerve of the man! I am of a mind to—"

"Father!"

Li Yuan looked at Kuei Jen and frowned, noticing for the first time the tears that were coursing down his cheeks.

"Kuei Jen . . . what is it?"

"Please, father. Call them back and make peace with them. Before it's too late. Before any more damage is done."

Li Yuan sighed, his anger tempered by his son's obvious distress. "All right. But only because you wanted it so."

He turned, summoning the nearest of his retainers.

"Hu Chang ... go fetch the San Shih. Tell them I shall speak to them privately, in my study."

Then, turning back to Kuei Jen, he smiled and reached out to brush away the tears.

"You are right, Kuei Jen. It does not matter what the old men think. You and I know what you are. And maybe you are wiser than the San Shih. Much wiser, neh, my son?"

P EI K' U N G sat on a chair in the corridor facing her husband's rooms, her hands clasped together tightly in her lap. Nearby stood her secretaries and beyond them a group of guards and minor officials, all there at their T'ang's command.

The old men—the San Shih—had been in with him for more than twenty minutes now and she had heard raised voices more than once.

Dangerous, she thought, remembering how Li Yuan had lost his temper with her that evening and how she had felt. Yes, but she was only a wife—only the helpmeet of the T'ang. Those old men . . .

well, to alienate them was much more serious, for they were leading figures in the New Confucian hierarchy and without the wholehearted support of the New Confucians Li Yuan's position was greatly weak'

ened.

The door clicked open and the three graybeards backed out, bowing like comic figures in an opera. As the door closed they began to talk urgently among themselves, then fell silent, seeing her.

She rose imperiously from her chair and gave them a tight smile, then walked to the door and knocked.

Inside, Li Yuan was sitting at his desk, drumming his fingers on the surface impatiently.

"Husband," she said, dropping to her knees and lowering her head.

"Get up, Pei K'ung," he said, motioning her across. "What is it? Is your father ill?"

"My father?" She frowned then shook her head. "No. But 1 am angry."

He raised an eyebrow. :

"I visited the imperial library."

"And?"

She drew herself up straight, the full weight of her indignation in her voice. "And the old man sent me away as if I were a common serving maid!"

Li Yuan gave a shout of laughter and leaned toward her. "Chu Shi-

ch'e, you mean?"

She bristled with anger. "I don't see what is funny. You should punish him for his impudence!"

"Punish him? Punish Chu Shi-ch'e? Why, the man is ninety if he is a day! If I punished him I would kill him, and I am loath to do that, Pei K'ung. Besides, what did he say?"

"He said I could not look at the family archives. That I needed your permission."

He smiled. "So?"

She stared at him, astonished. "You mean . . . it's true?"

"Of course." He watched her, his eyes amused.

She let out a shuddering breath, then turned and went to the door. » "Pei K'ung . . ."

She stopped, her hand on the door's thick edge. "Come here, Pei K'ung."

She turned and went across, her whole manner set against him now. "Yes, husband?" He took a pen and inked it, then wrote a note and signed it, pressing his seal to the bottom of the paper.

"There," he said, handing it to her. "But let's have no more talk of punishment. The Pi-shu Chien is one of our finest servants. He served my father and my grandfather before him. Sixty-eight years he has filled that post and there is no man in the whole of Chung Kuo who knows more about or is more loyal to our family. Use him well, good wife, but do not anger him. Chu Shi-ch'e can be a cursed old crow when he's angered!"

She laughed, surprised; then, with a bow of thanks, turned and left.

Outside she stopped and stared at the permission letter then shook her head. Why, he hadn't even asked! He had simply signed it, trusting her.

Trusting her ...

The thought was sobering. Yet what had she expected?

I expected him to say no.

She stood there a moment longer, then, the letter held out carefully at her side, she began to walk, heading for the library once more, her two secretaries falling in behind her as she went.

LEHMANN SAT ON the sofa in the corner of the room, his booted feet on a low table, staring at his Financial Strategist, Cao Chang, who stood, head bowed before him.

"Well, Cao Chang? What will it cost us?"

Cao Chang hesitated. "Is this the place to discuss this, Master?"

Lehmann waved aside the objection. "Our guests are busy, Chang. We are as safe talking here as anywhere. So tell me. What would it cost us to depose of the T'ang?"

Cao Chang gave a bow, then took a tiny cassette from the breast pocket of his black silk pau and slid the thin, domino-shaped tape into the slot behind his ear. His eyes glazed a moment, then came clear. He was suddenly more alert, his speech more hurried, as if it sought to keep up with the accelerated pace of his thoughts.

"Our analysis shows nine main elements. Three of these, recruitment, training, and weaponry, might need to be adjusted upward should our policy in Africa prove unsuccessful. For my calculations, however, I have assumed a training period of six months and a total figure of two million, eight hundred thousand men, including a mercenary force of half a million."

Lehmann nodded. "Good. Now outline the other six elements."

"One," Cao Chang began, enumerating each point on his fingers. "The cost of fermenting revolt in Li Yuan's African armies. Important in preventing Li Yuan from using those forces directly against us. Two. The cost of pacifying our Triad friends in Africa. Important in ensuring that they do not take the opportunity to step in and take over our South European operations. Three. The infiltration of Li Yuan's European Security forces and the purchase of a minimum of two thousand top-level officers. Important in undermining the efficient operation of Li Yuan's forces in the first hours of our attack. Four. The purchase of tai at Weimar in the weeks running up to our operation. Important in helping to create a mood of popular dissent. Five. The funding of terrorist factions in both East and West Asia. Vitally important if we are to keep Tsu Ma and Wei Tseng-li from joining Li Yuan. Six. The cost of destroying major GenSyn installations in the hours before our attack, particularly the five Hei garrisons."

"And the costs?"

There was the briefest flicker of hesitation, then the figures spilled from Cao Chang's lips.

"For recruitment and training, forty-seven point six billion. For weaponry, sixty-eight point eight billion. To pay off the African armies, twenty-four point five billion. To pacify our Triad friends, fifty-six billion. For the infiltration of Li Yuan's security forces, sixteen point four billion. For the purchase of tai, three point five billion. To fund terrorist factions in the Asian Cities, fifty-two billion. To destroy major GenSyn installations, twenty-two point two billion. That comes to two hundred and ninety-one billion. Add to that a wastage factor of twenty percent and the final figure is three hundred and forty-nine point two billion yuan."

Lehmann nodded. It was a huge sum, but no more than he had anticipated.

"Thank you, Cao Chang. You have done well. Relax now. Take a girl, if you want."

Cao Chang gave a deep bow, then turned away, vanishing through the bead curtain on the far side of the room.

Lehmann took his feet from the table and sat forward, staring into space. Though three hundred and fifty billion was a massive sum—the equivalent of three years' profits from all his ventures—raising the money wasn't the problem. The problem would be keeping the details of his scheme secret from Li Yuan. Not that he had any illusions about that. Both he and Li Yuan knew now that a war must come. Both had begun their preparations. But when and how it would be fought, that was the nub of it.

Timing was everything.

He sighed, then sat back, looking about him at the plush decor of the foyer, feeling a natural aversion to its silk-cushioned opulence. He had had the House of the Ninth Ecstasy gutted and rebuilt, much as it was when Mu Chua, its legendary Madam, had been running it. Not only that, but he had had Mu Chua reconstructed, too, using visual records to recreate a GenSyn duplicate of the woman. Fifteen million she had cost him, all told—including the fees of the assassins he had sent to cover his tracks—but it had been money well spent; perhaps the best fifteen million he had ever spent.

Whatever he personally felt about such places, there was no denying their usefulness. In the eighteen months since he had rebuilt it, the House of the Ninth Ecstasy had regained its former prestige as a watering hole for Above merchants wishing to do business "down-level," its reputation spreading far and wide. All sorts were attracted here, lured by rumors of what could be had in the Madam's famous "Red Room"— Security officers and Company Heads, Minor Family princes and sons of the rich and famous, Representatives from the House and even, once, a Junior Minister. Through Mu Chua he snared them all. Drew them all into his cage.

Like birds, he thought, then stood, stretching his long, pale limbs, feeling the power there in every movement. He smiled: a bleak, corpselike smile.

It was time to use those connections: to make the birds flutter in their cages.

TOLONEN TRAVELED UP to Lubeck shortly after lunch. Madam Peng was waiting for him at the door to her First Level salon, her eight assistants lined up behind her to greet their prestigious visitor.

Rotund and birdlike, as her name—Peng—suggested, the Madam hovered anxiously as the eight polemen set the Marshal's sedan down.

She had entertained many prominent citizens in the thirty-four years she had been in business and prided herself on the quality—the exclusivity—of her clientele, but never had one so elevated or so powerful entered through her doors.

"Marshal Tolonen," she said, bowing low, her eight assistants kneel-

ing at her back, four to her left, four to her right, their foreheads scraping the thickly carpeted floor.

"Madam Peng," he said, stepping forward to take her gloved hand and gallantly kiss it. "I am grateful you could see me at such short notice."

"Not at all, Marshal," the Madam answered, a smile splitting her heavily rouged lips. "You honor my humble salon with your presence. Please, come through. I have canceled all other engagements to see you."

"You are most kind," Tolonen answered, inclining his head, then moved between the twin ranks of assistants.

"Forgive me if I sound impertinent, Marshal," the Madam said, hurrying to catch up with him, "but might I say how well you look."

Tolonen nodded, clearly distracted by his thoughts. Yet it was true. The old man looked closer to sixty than eighty-one. He had kept himself supremely fit, and though his stubble-length hair was the color of snow, his eyes were clear and strong. Even in his casual silks he looked exactly what he was—a leader of men—and seemed a match for any man half his age.

Double doors opened automatically before them and the two stepped through, into the Madam's "boudoir." Here she did all her business. Here, surrounded by her bright silk wall-hangings, across the low black antique table that dominated the center of the richly decorated space, she had made her reputation as City Europe's leading matchmaker.

Showing the Marshal to a sturdy chair that had been imported specially for the occasion, she plumped herself down on a sofa facing him, her ample figure settling into the big silk cushions like a brightly colored bird into its nest.

"Well, Marshal," she began, her ancient and thickly powdered Han face grinning broadly—almost obscenely—as a servant approached bearing a tray of wine and sweetmeats, "how exactly can I help you?"

It was not unusual for an old man to want a young wife, especially as they came to realize that their grip on mortality was growing daily more tenuous, yet somehow she had never thought Tolonen the type. Still, she was prepared, and had spent an hour that morning selecting a handful of special girls that might well suit his profile.

Tolonen waved away the offer of a drink and leaned toward her, his gray eyes troubled.

"It is my daughter, Jelka. I ..." He looked at the servant, reluctant to say more. At once Madam Peng dismissed the man.

She sat up slightly, smiling reassuringly. "All that is said between us here is absolutely confidential, Marshal. But forgive me ... when you spoke to me yesterday, I thought . . . well, I thought you meant to take a bride yourself."

"A bride! Me?" Tolonen laughed, but his eyes seemed horrified by the notion. "Gods, no, Madam Peng! It is my daughter, Jelka, I'm worried about. She . . ." Again he seemed ill at ease broaching the subject. "Well, to be blunt with you, she has a crush on an awful little fellow—a Clayborn by the name of Ward. He—"

She put her hand out, her face all sympathy now. "You need not say another word, Marshal Tolonen. I quite understand. Why, even the thought of it is absurd, neh?"

Tolonen smiled weakly.

"No. You were absolutely right to come to me." She leaned forward, her fingers brushing a pad on the desk in front of her. At once a screen came up out of the surface, facing her. She tapped in a few words, then eased back, smiling at Tolonen once again. "It's true what they say, neh, Marshal? Clay is Clay. It cannot be raised."

He nodded, comforted, it seemed, by her understanding.

"Now, your daughter is"—she studied the details on the screen— "twenty-four, I see. So your principal worry is, I guess, that she will do something silly after her Coming-of-Age in three weeks' time."

Tolonen swallowed. "That is so."

"Then we must act quickly, neh? We must somehow find a way to break this former attraction. And what better way than by creating a new one?"

She leaned forward, tapping at the keys, the huge golden rings on her fingers glittering in the spotlights. She paused, watching the data come up, then, satisfied, sat back, the screen lowering into the table's surface once again.

Slowly the lights dimmed. At the center of the table was now a faint red glow, dull and misty.

"You know your daughter well, Marshal Tolonen?"

"Well enough," he answered from the darkness where he sat. "Her mother died giving birth to her. I raised her from a child."

"Ah . . ."

"If it helps, she was engaged once. To Hans Ebert."

"Ah yes, I recall that now. She was . . . reluctant, am I right?"

Tolonen sighed. "She hated him, if the truth be told. I tried to force her into the marriage. I ... Well, I do not want to make the same mistake again, Madam Peng, let me make that clear. She must choose her own mate. But not him. Not Ward!"

There was a vehemence to the last few words that made Madam Peng reassess the situation. If he was so worked up about it, then there was clearly a very red danger that his daugher would marry the Clayborn. That made her own task more difficult; made it essential that she knew everything there was to know about the matter, for to fail in this, her most prestigious case—well, it was unthinkable. As unthinkable as the Marshal's daughter marrying a Clayborn!

"This Clayborn . . ." she began, trying her best to be tactful. "This Ward. What is it, do you think, that attracts your daughter to him?"

The old man's laugh was sour. "The gods alone know. Oh, he's clever enough, there's no doubting that, and he has the T'ang's ear in matters scientific, but ... well, as to what attracts her physically . . •"

"1 see," she said, after a moment's awkward silence. "And yet there is an attraction? You're quite sure of that?"

"Oh, yes. She wanted to marry him! She defied me openly, in front of old friends who'd come to dinner! Why, I had to send her away to prevent it."

Madam Peng sighed silently. The more she heard, the less she liked this commission, but it was too late now—she had committed herself the moment she had invited the old man to come and visit her. If she turned him away now it would get about—for rumor had a vicious tongue in her circles—and her reputation would be damaged. Then again, it was far from certain she could do anything meaningful in the circumstances. If what she'd heard was true, the Marshal's daughter was a headstrong, independent young madam.

"Okay," she said, her voice betraying nothing of her thoughts. "Let us try to build up some kind of profile of what she finds attractive in a man. This Ward ... I assume he's the usual type ... big head, bulgy, staring eyes, stunted body?"

Tolonen grunted, his discomfort evident.

"So. My guess is that it's not actually something physical your daughter is responding to, but some . . . inner quality. You say he's very intelligent."

"Perhaps the most intelligent young man on the planet, Ben Shepherd aside."

She brightened, letting her voice grow more animated. "Then that's it! What we need to do is look for a young man who is not merely good looking, but bright with it!"

"Maybe," the old man said uncertainly. "And yet Ebert was bright."

"Yes, but look what a foul piece of work he turned out to be. Why, it wouldn't surprise me if something in his manner alerted your daughter!"

Tolonen laughed. "I'm beginning to understand just why you have such a good reputation, Madam Peng. It was as you say. But tell me, who do you have in mind?"

He heard the tap of her fingers on the keyboard. There was a brief delay and then the hazy red glow at the center of the table began to intensify and grow.

"I have programmed the Selector to search the files for eligible young men who fit the profile. It will come up with those four that best fit the parameters we've been discussing. Then . . . well, we'll take a look at them, neh, Marshal Tolonen? And then you can tell me which of them you'd like to pay your daughter a visit over the coming weeks."

THE SIGN flickered FITFULLY, sending a sweet burning scent into the air. Emily, standing at the rail of the balcony two floors up, looked down at it, seeing how the giant electronic mantis seemed to spring and trap its prey, its long tongue moving with an inhuman quickness.

Two guards, plainly dressed but carrying Security-issue automatics, stood by the door, moving the curious along. Inside Pasek waited for her.

She went down. At the door they searched her, then waved her through. She didn't recognize either of them, yet that was not unusual—the whole of the Hand could have assembled and she'd have known no more than eighty, maybe ninety, of them at most. Or would have, she thought, before yesterday.

What she had noticed, however, were the pendants about their necks, the same as that which hung about Pasek's—the cross within the circle.

Inside, she pulled the curtain aside, then stopped. The White Mantis had been an opulent, bustling place—a gambling and drinking club the Hand had bought as a cover—but now it was silent. All the fittings had been ripped out, the carpets removed, the silk hangings torn down. All was bare now—eerily so.

She walked across and stood in front of the door to the main gaming hall, hearing the murmur of voices from within. She pushed through, then stopped, astonished. She had expected Pasek to be there with a few of his men; instead she found herself looking into a room packed with a hundred or more people. She looked about her, recognizing faces—some she'd not thought to see again—and understood at once. He'd summoned them all—all of the Hand's surviving cell leaders. Never, in the history of the Black Hand, had they met like this—all of them in one place at one time—and something told her it would not happen again.

She walked through, making for the tiny dais on the far side of the low-ceilinged room, conscious that every eye was on her. Many smiled, clearly pleased—reassured, it seemed—to see her there, and reached out to touch her arm as she passed, but one or two of them scowled, as if her very presence was a betrayal.

Coming out by the dais she found herself facing a line of Pasek's men—his four henchmen, Ashman, Grant, Blaskic, and Eyre. For the past few years they had been Pasek's constant shadows. They were big, well-built men, a good ten or fifteen years younger than Pasek, with strong Nordic features and short, ash-blond hair.

Security types, she thought, meeting their eyes unflinchingly. Just the kind of empty, soulless type the man attracts.

"Where's Pasek?" she asked, looking to Blaskic. "He'll be here," Blaskic answered, the slightest suggestion of a smile playing on his lips. Yesterday he had been outranked by her—a lowly minion in the Hand's hierarchy—but today . . .

She turned, looking about her, making a swift calculation. There were roughly a hundred and fifty people in the room. Of those she knew fifty, perhaps sixty at most. The majority of the rest were sure to be Pasek's. All in all, then, it was finely balanced. Pasek had enough support to guarantee the success of his initial coup, yet not enough to make it absolutely safe.

She smiled inwardly, understanding suddenly just why she was there. It wasn't just that Pasek "respected" her, he needed her, to hold things together while he consolidated his rule. But only for a time. Things would change—she understood that instinctively—and Pasek would slowly increase his stranglehold, until . . . Until he no longer needs me.

Emily turned back, knowing now what she had to do; knowing ex-actly how to play her hand.

She didn't have long to wait. A gong sounded from the next room and then a door opened at the back of the dais. Pasek stepped out.

He stood there a moment, looking about him as if noting who was there, then nodded.

"Friends," he said, lifting a hand, palm out, to greet them. "You know what has happened, and some of you are . . . uncomfortable with it. In the circumstances I felt we should meet. To clear the air."

His voice was warm, yet his eyes, when they met Emily's, were cold, uncompromising.

"Rachel . . ." he said, acknowledging her. "Would you like to start?"

She stared back at him belligerently. "Start?"

"I mean, is there anything you want to say?"

She smiled. There was plenty she'd like to say—like what a callous shit he'd been to have Chou Te-hsing murdered—but that wasn't what he meant.

"I'm here," she said, as if that said it all.

"And?"

She almost laughed. And what? That she was his loyal supporter? That she condoned what he'd done and was happy with the way things had turned out? No. The truth was, the more she thought about it, the less happy she was. She had joined the Hand because it had seemed to her to be the best way of changing things—of achieving some limited form of justice and directly affecting the lives of the common people— but in practice it hadn't worked that way, and now, under Pasek, there was even less chance of that.

She thought back to their meeting the day before. Pasek had been wrong when he'd spoken of them wanting similar things. Wrong, or simply lying. For while she saw the Hand as a vehicle for social justice—as a corrective rod to beat corrupt officials and counterbalance the grosser abuses of power—what he wanted was to transform it into a society of religious zealots like himself.

Which was fine, only she wasn't going to go along with that. Not without a struggle.

Brushing aside Grant and Blaskic, she stepped up onto the dais, facing Pasek.

"I'll join you," she said, eyeing him defiantly. "But there's one condition."

He stared back at her, confident, it seemed, now that he had her vocal support. "Name it."

"That you let me take out Lehmann."

There was an audible gasp from the body of the room; a look of shock on every face. All, that is, except Pasek's. He just smiled—a pale, ghostly smile—and nodded.

AFTERWARD HE SPOKE TO HER ALONE.

"How did you find out?"

"Find out?" She laughed. "What are you talking about?"

"The tape. 1 only got it an hour back. How did you hear about it?"

She stared at him. Clearly there was something she didn't know. "Lehmann . . . We're talking about Lehmann, right?"

He nodded, then. "Look, you'd best come through. You'd best see this before we talk any further."

He had cleared one of the bedrooms at the back of the Mantis and made it into a makeshift office. There was a desk, two simple ice-cast chairs, and—on the wall behind the desk—a larger version of the pendant he always wore, the cross within the circle.

"Sit down," he said, pointing to the nearest chair, then went around the desk and took a hand-held from the top drawer.

"Here," he said, handing the viewer to her. "But I warn you. It isn't pleasant."

Pleasant? What was pleasant about Lehmann? She stared at Pasek a moment, then looked down at the tiny screen of the hand-held, activating it.

Ten minutes later she understood.

"Who was she?"

"One of our southeastern operatives. Jane Vierheller, her name was."

"And the man?"

Pasek laughed coldly. "That's your man. That's Lehmann."

"Lehmann?" Emily brought the screen closer to her face, rewinding until his face came clearly into view. So that was what he looked like. She felt a shiver of pure aversion pass through her.

"You still want to take him out?"

She looked up, glaring at him. "And you don't?"

"Sure. But not just yet. Not until we're strong enough."

"Strong? Look, I don't want to depose him, I just want to kill him."

"I understand. But that won't be easy. To get to him at all we'd need quite a force. They say he's better defended than Li Yuan."

"You forget. I almost got to Soucek."

"Sure, but Soucek's a different matter. He's meant to be seen. Lehmann . . . well, no one sees Lehmann, not unless he wants them to."

She considered that. Then, with a jolt, she realized something.

"The tape! How did he get it to you? How did he know where to find us?"

Pasek leaned toward her. "He didn't. We found the tape. He meant us to find it."

"I don't understand. How?"

The woman . . . Vierheller . . . was part of a cell of five. Later in that sequence—toward the end of it—she gives Lehmann a name and a location. The name she gives is that of her cell leader, Wilhelm Dieter, the location is his apartment. Two hours back, when Dieter didn't show for the meeting here, I sent Ashman to bring him. Ashman brought him, all right, but Dieter was dead. Lehmann had killed him."

"And the tape was in his apartment, right?"

Pasek shook his head. "You have to understand what you're taking on. You need to know what Lehmann's like, otherwise . . ." He spread his hands, palms upward.

"So what do I need to know? He torched a whole deck. Only a monster would do that."

"That's true. But it's useful to know the nature of the monster, neh? To know just what he's capable of."

"Torture. Mass death. You still in any doubt we should kill the man?"

"No doubt at all. But listen. The tape wasn't with Dieter, it was inside him. Lehmann had had him cut open and his innards scooped out like a grapefruit. Then they sewed him up and laid him on his bed, facedown. There was a message burned into the skin of his back."

Emily swallowed. She had known Dieter; not well, but enough to know he had been a good man. She hoped it had been quick; that he hadn't suffered the way the woman, Vierheller, had suffered. She shuddered, then forced herself to ask. "What did it say?"

Pasek sat back, lacing his fingers together. "You can look for yourself, if you want. His body's in the next room."

"Just tell me."

"He's very direct, our friend, Lehmann. He knows what he wants."

"Cut the shit. What did it say?"

Pasek's smile disturbed her. "Just four words. Don't fuck with me. Effective, wouldn't you say?"

She looked down, staring at the frozen image on the screen—at that pale, albinoid face with its awful slit of a mouth and its cold, unemo-tive eyes. Monsters . . . The times bred monsters. But this one surpassed them all.

She met Pasek's eyes again. "So what are we going to do? Just how are we going to get strong enough to take the bastard out?"

Pasek's smile broadened. He leaned toward her conspiratorially. "We're going to do what we should have done years back. We're going to make sure that the Hand's the coming force . . . the only force in the land. You understand?"

"War," she said quietly. War against the myriad other terrorist organizations; that was what he was talking about. A war to make the Black Hand not merely dominant but supreme.

"That's right," he said, nodding slowly, his eyes gleaming at the thought of it. "And then you can have that bastard. I promise you, Rachel. On my mother's memory. . . ."

THE door was LOCKED, the room in darkness. For hours now Pei K'ung had sat there, hunched forward, her hands gripping her knees, watching the holograms flicker in the air above the table—so real and yet so distant. She had seen her husband as a child, playing in the orchards of Tongjiang with his elder brother, Han, his round face laughing as he ran between the trees; had watched him on the day of his coronation as he stepped down from the Temple of Heaven, resplendent in his silks of imperial yellow, like a young god sent among them; had witnessed his grief at the news of his wives' deaths, then watched him clutch his baby son Kuei Jen to him, his face filled with disbelief and joy after the floating palace of Yangjing had been destroyed; had spied on him in his bridal bed and looked on as he stood at the window of his study, his face wistful as he watched the young maids play ball in the gardens.

So much she'd seen. So much she'd forced herself to witness.

Pei K'ung sighed, then clapped her hands. At once the room's lights came up, the hologram vanishing like a wraith. She stood, the blood pulsing at her temples, and reached out to steady herself.

Too much, she thought. 1 have seen too much.

She closed her eyes, trying to shut it out, to push it far away, but she could not help herself: she kept seeing it, time and again, Fei Yen lying on the bed beneath him, her arms opening to him, her tiny breasts like offerings, and his face . . .

She drew a sharp breath. Stupid, she thought, angry with herself; not merely that she had succumbed to the temptation, but that she'd acted so ... predictably.

"It's over," she told herself with more confidence than she felt. "It was over long ago. Those were just images. Fading memories."

Yes, and yet the sharp clarity of those images seemed to belie that fact. Looking at them she had felt her stomach tighten with jealousy— as if it had been only yesterday.

She went to the mirror and pointed a finger at herself accusingly.

"Stupid, Pei K'ung . . . How could you be so stupid!"

She should not have Jet the woman's taunts get to her. But now it was too late. Now she was infected by Fei Yen's image. She could not turn her head nor close her eyes without seeing the woman there in her husband's bed, there, moving slowly, sensuously, beneath him, then, as he climaxed, smiling triumphantly back at the recording lens, as if to mock her across the years!

"Damn you!" she said, not sure whether she meant Fei Yen or herself. She felt like punishing the woman—humiliating her in front of her servants—yet even a cast-off wife had her rights, her status, and besides, she would need Li Yuan's permission before she did such a thing, and how could she possibly do that?

She turned, then went quickly to the door, unlocking it and throwing it open.

"Mistress?" the waiting Steward asked, bowing low.

"Send my maids," she said. "I shall bathe before dinner."

She went back inside, composing herself. Li Yuan had already gone—he would be at Tsu Ma's within the hour—but still her duties claimed her. With her husband gone she would sit at the head of his table, entertaining whichever guests remained. But there was an hour and forty minutes before then.

She heard footsteps in the corridor outside. A moment later both of her maids stood before her. They curtseyed breathlessly, "Mistress!"

"Run a bath," she said imperiously. "And lay out my clothes. Then leave me."

There was the briefest exchange of glances between them—for they were used to seeing to her every need—then, without a word, they set to work.

Pei K'ung went to the table, looking down at the golden cases of the holograms and shaking her head. When she had married him she had thought it would be simple, never guessing—never even suspecting— what he would awake in her.

She was not meant to be his mate, merely his helper. Her sexuality had been neutered by the marriage contract; she herself rendered into a false male—a female eunuch. She shuddered.

I should have stayed where I was. I was contented there. 1 knew my place. Here . . .

She sighed, then went across to the bathroom, watching one of them pour scent into the water and strew the surface with rose petals. Here I know nothing anymore. Only that I've changed. Finished, they bowed and backed away. She heard the door click shut, then spun around and went to her desk, activating the intercom. "Tsung Ye?"

She waited, then a voice came over the speaker. "Mistress?"

"Come to my rooms. Now." "Mistress."

Pei K'ung took her hand from the pad and straightened up. She was no longer young and she had never been beautiful, but she was Empress.

As she made her way back to the bathroom, her fingers reached up, unfastening the top button of her chi poo. She stretched her neck, relieved to be free of the tight-fitting collar, then felt for the button at her collarbone, pushing it through the eye.

There had been a brief time in her adolescence when she had hoped to be a bride, to be a woman in the fullest sense of the word. But the years had passed and no suitor had been found, and she had resigned herself to the fact that she would never have that other, secret life that most women had.

She let the chi poo slip from her, then stepped from her silk briefs, turning to face the mirror, naked now.

Forget that face, she told herself, knowing how horselike and masculine it was; look at the body.

She stood awhile, studying herself, reaching up to cup her breasts, then tracing the broad swell of her hips. Not bad, she thought, consider-

ing. She turned, looking at herself side-on, when there was a knock at the door. •

"Mistress? It is Tsung Ye!"

Pei K'ung looked across to where her silk bathrobe hung from a silver peg, then, smiling nervously, encouragingly, to herself, she stepped to the edge of the huge sunken bath and slipped in beneath the rose-scented water.

She flexed her muscles, trying to calm herself, to still the trembling in her limbs, then turned her head, facing the door.

"Come in, Tsung Ye!"

She heard the door open; heard it click shut.

"Mistress?"

"In here."

She heard him come partway, then hesitate; knew he had seen the discarded chi poo.

"Mistress?"

"Come here, Tsung Ye. I need your advice."

She waited, staring straight into the mirror, watching the reflection of the doorway. Slowly, with great reluctance, Tsung Ye edged into the room, his discomfort more than evident.

"Mistress?"

She turned to face him, lifting herself slightly in the water so that her breasts came into view. He was staring at her now, wide-eyed, his mouth fallen open. The sight gave her more confidence. After all, he was a mere servant, she an Empress!

"Well, Tsung Ye ... what are you waiting for? Come in and scrub my back."

"Mistress?" There was an edge of panic now in his voice, almost of pleading.

"You heard me, Tsung Ye. Get those clothes off and join me here. Quickly, now!"

He swallowed, unable to believe what he was hearing, then stammered a reply. "I ... I ... am a se-secretary, Mistress. I ..."

Slowly she stood, letting him see that she was naked, aware that he could not keep his eyes from her. That knowledge gave her power; gave her voice a newfound resonance.

"In here, Tsung Ye, at once, or my husband will hear you have insulted me!"

LI YUAN stopped at the top of the steps, looking down into the Great Hall, five thousand heads turning to look up at him. Long banners of bright yellow silk and huge red lanterns, all printed with the characters chang shou—long life—hung over the heads of the great and mighty who had gathered. He smiled, then turned to meet Tsu Ma's eyes.

"It is your last evening as a single man, Cousin Ma. It seems almost a shame to spend it thus."

Tsu Ma laughed, leaning heavily on his pearl-handled cane. "That is our fate, neh, Yuan? Common folk can get drunk and play the fool, but we ... we must perform like actors before an eager crowd. Come, let us go down. There will be time later to share a quiet moment."

They went down, the great mass of courtiers and ministers, soldiers and aristocrats, company heads and politicians, bowing as one before the two T'ang, then moving back, like the sea parting before the bow of a great ship.

Relieved of any official obligations, Li Yuan looked on, at ease in his cousin's court, yet also somewhat wistful, remembering the night before his own brother's wedding when, in the Great Hall at Tongjiang, they had held a similar reception.

Then, as now, there had been peace. Then, as now, beneath the calm surface of courtly ritual, things had been in flux.

And tomorrow it begins again, he thought, wondering for a moment how Karr was spending this evening—his last before he took on his official duties. Was he at home with his wife and child? Or was he out celebrating with his friends and colleagues?

With his family, he decided, smiling. A good man, Karr. Reliable. And honest. Honest as the day is long.

He had not told Tsu Ma just yet, but there would be time later. Once Wei Tseng-li was here. When the three of them were alone.

Smiling, he accepted a drink from one of the stewards and took a large sip, steeling himself, then turned to greet one of Tsu Ma's senior ministers.

The hours passed. Just after ten Wei Tseng-li arrived, the young T'ang greeting his fellows with a laugh and smile, as if the moment had no significance; yet each of them knew what lay behind this meeting. The last time all three had met had been thirty months before, at Tongjiang. That day Wang Sau-leyan, their fellow T'ang and cousin, had sent his elite troops against them in an attempt to wipe them out. Two Sons of Heaven had died that day, including Tseng-li's elder brother, Wei Chan Yin. But they had survived, and Wang, in time, had been brought to account for his treachery.

"Cousin," Tsu Ma said, embracing Wei Tseng-li, then holding him at arm's length. "Why, you've put on weight! Is this what having three wives has done for you?"

Wei Tseng'li laughed heartily, his dark eyes twinkling. "And you, cousin ... is it anticipation of marriage has bloated you so?"

Tsu Ma roared with laughter—laughter that was taken up by all surrounding him until the Great Hall rang with it. He nodded, pleased by the rejoinder, then looked to Li Yuan. "So here we are," he said quietly. "Like the Three Old Worthies!"

Li Yuan smiled. "Old, Tsu Ma?" Then, looking past Tsu Ma, he touched his arm lightly. "But hush . . . here comes your bride."

Shu-sun stood beside her father at the top of the steps, resplendent in a full-length dress of jasmine edged with lavender, her pretty face framed in delicate yellow flowers.

Looking up at her, Li Yuan felt his heart grow heavy, once more reminded of the day before his brother's wedding.

If I had but known what was to come ...

He looked down sharply, tears welling in his eyes.

What would you have done? he asked himself. How could you have prevented Han Ch'in's death? And if you had, how would you have stopped the next attempt, or the one that followed that? Could you have kept your brother safe until his last breath, until you stood over him, an old man in his bed, a dozen great-grandchildren weeping silently in the death room?

No, came the answer. No, for it was willed otherwise.

But even if you had—even if the gods gave back that day to you—how could you then have lived, knowing that she was his? How could you have looked on her, day after day, and not have had your heart break within you, knowing she was not yours?

He shivered, then looked to Tsu Ma. His cousin was gazing at his bride as she descended, a look almost of awe in his eyes.

"She is like the dawn, neh, Yuan? Like Spring's first shoot."

"She is very beautiful," he answered, determined to set aside all troublesome memories. "May you have many sons."

Tsu Ma chuckled but did not look at him, his eyes snared by his betrothed.

"And I'll call the first one Yuan. ..."

FEI YEN climbed from the bed and crossed the room, her ringers reaching for the door. She could hear the man's soft snoring in the darkness, could still feel his weight on her, smell the sickly perfumed scent of him, and shuddered, despising herself.

Kisses and flattery, that's all it ever was: crude disguises for some darker, baser need. Why could she never see that? Why was she always tethered to her senses, like a hawk on a leash, circling the lure? Where in the gods' names was her pride, her dignity?

She took a gown from the peg beside the door and pulled it on, then slipped out into the corridor.

A night-light flickered in a wall bracket to her left, some twenty ch'i along, above the stairwell. Across from it a servant slept atop a lacquered chest, his knees up under his chin, his mouth open. Wrapping her gown tight about her, she went to the right, hurrying down the broad, carpeted hallway, heading for her dead father's rooms, her bare feet making no sound.

Inside, in the silent darkness, she rested, her back against the door, her eyes closed, letting her heartbeat slow, the faint, musty scent of the room filling her lungs.

The evening had been awful. She had drunk too much, laughed too much, and then . . . Gods, the things she had let him do! The awful, degenerate things!

She gritted her teeth. The Wit . . . She must consult her father's diviner—his Wu—and have him cast an oracle. But first she must wash the man's foul scent from her.

Finding her way in the dark, she crossed the room and pushed the bathroom door open.

"Light," she said, speaking to the House Computer. At once the room was bathed in artificial sunlight from the panels in the ceiling.

"Gentler . . ."

The light softened.

Since her father's death four years before no one had used these rooms, yet the servants maintained them as if he were due back any moment. Solid-gold fittings sparkled under the crystal lights, marble surfaces gleamed. In one corner a green jade fountain, carved in the shape of a rearing dragon, jutted over a circular pool, its tiled floor decorated like a huge tai chi.

She went to it and, activating the controls in the panel between its wings, stood and watched as a steaming jet of water spewed from the dragon's mouth, describing a glistening arc in the air.

"Cooler . . ."

Throwing off her gown, she went down the steps, into the swirling current of the slowly filling pool.

The fierceness of the spray against her skin was exhilarating. She turned slowly in the glittering fall, her arms out, feeling the water drum against her face and breasts and back, cascading down her flanks and between her legs, cleansing her, washing all memory of the man from her skin. And as the disgust passed from her, that feeling of anger and indignation she had had in Pei K'ung's office returned. She was still young, her body trim and firm, her beauty undiminished. How dare the woman treat her like a servant? How dare she?

"Enough!"

At once the jet of water died. At once warm air-currents played over her body, drying and caressing it.

She knew, of course, just why she had got drunk. It was the news— those hideous images from Tsu Ma's palace in Astrakhan. She had seen the way he looked at his bride—how his eyes drank in the youthful beauty of her.

Just as he had once looked at her. . . .

"Wake the Wu," she said, climbing the steps, then stopping to pick up her gown. "Send him to my study. I'll see him there."

THE WU LOOKED UP from the fallen yarrow stalks and met her eyes.

"Heaven above water ... it is Sung . . . conflict." Fei Yen nodded, but she was disappointed. She had hoped for something clearer. Conflict—of course there would be conflict.

Old Fung turned to his book and picked it up, beginning to read.

"Conflict. You are sincere. And are being obstructed. ..."

"Yes," she said, impatient now. "Go now, Fung. I need to think." The old man bowed and backed away, knowing his Mistress's moods, not even bothering to gather up his things.

Lightning, she thought, gathering up the stalks and letting them fall onto the table once again; from the sky into the sea. Yes, I shall be like the lightning falling on them.

And her son? What would happen to Han if she did as she proposed?

Better, perhaps, to ask what would happen if I did nothing; if he had to live out his life in the shadow of my bitterness.

Maybe ... yet it stayed her hand. It had always stayed her hand. But no longer. If she could not get satisfaction from Li Yuan, she would go to Tsu Ma and tell him direct.

Han was his son. His. She would prove it before the world.

She shivered—indignation singing in her blood—then swept her arm across the table, clearing it.

Conflict ... she would give them conflict. Whether they wanted it or no.

CHAPTER SIX

The White Pang

PE I K ' U N G looked up from the comer desk in which she sat, trying to keep the impatience from her voice. "Yes, Master Chu, what is it now?" The old man bowed—more a slight leaning forward than a proper bow, he was so bent already—then placed four gold-bound cases in front of her.

"Ah . . ." Her eyes lit up. "I thought—"

"Your husband's permission, it seems, covers everything."

She smiled, then drew the cases toward her, her fingers tracing the embossed shape of the Ywe Lung, the Wheel of Dragons.

"Thank you, Chu Shi-ch'e. I am sorry if I was . . . tetchy with you earlier. If you would leave me now."

"Mistress."

The old man inclined his body slightly and backed away, but Pei K'ung's attention was already on the tapes. If these showed what she thought they showed . . .

She gathered them up and went across. At the center of the room was a circular black lacquered platform, some six ch'i in width, its surface carved with the symbol of the Ywe Lung, the whole thing resting on seven golden dragon heads. Setting the cases down beside it, she went to the window and pulled at the thick silk cord that hung there. At once massive blinds—each slat a full ch'i thick—began slowly to descend, shutting out the daylight.

She returned to the platform, then knelt, taking the first of the discs from its case.

"I'm right," she whispered to herself, her hands trembling with anticipation. "I know I am. . . ."

Leaning across the platform, she placed the disc onto the spindle at the hub, then moved back. Slowly the room's lights faded. A faint glow filled the air above the platform.

"I am Pei K'ung," she said, "wife of Li Yuan and Empress of Ch'eng Ou Chou."

"Welcome, Mistress," the machine answered, accepting her voice recognition code, its own voice soft, melodious. "What would you like to see?"

"The stables," she said, her heart beating faster. "The royal party, setting out to ride."

"Mistress . . ."

The air shimmered and took shape. As ever, she found herself surprised by the sharpness, the crystalline clarity, of the image. It was so real, she could almost smell the horses.

She watched, fascinated, her suspicions confirmed. She saw the horses being led from their stalls, their breath pluming in the cold December air; saw Tsu Ma wave the groom aside and help Fei Yen up into the saddle, his hands lingering overlong on her waist. And then that smile—a smile that said it all. Lovers . . . yes, they had been lovers.

Closing her eyes, she let out a long sigh. She ought to have felt satisfaction that her guess had been proved right, but all she could think of was Li Yuan: of how hurt he must have felt, how damaged.

"Enough!"

The air show died.

"You wish to see something more, Mistress?"

"No. No, I ..." She made a gesture of dismissal.

Slowly the lights came up.

So now she knew. Bending down, she picked up the empty casing, studying the date. Like the other three, it came from a four-week period in December 2206—the month Fei Yen had conceived her son.

Pei K'ung shuddered, wanting to hate the woman for what she had done to her husband—for the suffering she had caused him, and for being so weak, so impulsive, a creature—but it was no longer possible. Not after last night.

She sank onto her knees, letting her head fall forward, remembering. So sweet it had been, so deliciously sweet. And his body. Aiya, his body . . . Once more she shivered, desire welling up in her, making her place a hand against her breast, gently, tenderly ... as he had done.

She hadn't known. She simply hadn't known. But now she understood. What had been dark was now light; what had been hidden was now revealed to her. She smiled. Yes ... so many things had come clear in the night.

It was then, lying there in the dark beside him, listening to his soft breathing, his flesh pressed close and warm against her own, that she had begun to think it through. If it were not Li Yuan's child, then whose was it? Who had had the opportunity? A servant? One of the house musicians, perhaps? A groom? Or had it been someone greater than that? Someone whose very power and nobility had been enough to rob Fei Yen of her senses?

Rising at dawn, she had gone straight to the library and, getting Old Chu from his bed, had consulted the family records for that month. Searching through the Imperial Itinerary for the palace, she had found that on four separate occasions Tsu Ma had visited Tongjiang, each time when Li Yuan was away.

She should have left it there. Should have contented herself with that. But she had had to know for certain.

There was a knock. She turned toward it, frightened, then quickly gathering up the cases, stood.

"Who is it?"

There was a moment's hesitation, then a young male voice answered her. "It is I, Mistress, Tsung Ye . . ."

She felt her heart flutter, her stomach tighten. Calming herself, she set the cases down, then faced the door again.

"Come in!"

The door eased slowly open. The young secretary took a pace into the room then stopped, his head bowed, unable to look at her.

"What is it?" she asked, as if nothing had happened between them.

"You are wanted, Mistress," he said awkwardly. "Your cruiser is prepared. You must leave within the hour."

"Ah . . ." Pei K'ung turned her head, looking at the old clock that hung on the far side of the study above the racks of gold-bound cases, then nodded. She hadn't realized it was so late. "Thank you, Tsung Ye. I shall come and prepare myself at once."

He gave a little bow, beginning to step away, but she called him back.

"Tsung Ye ... close the door."

"Mistress?" His eyes flew up, alarmed.

"You heard me. Then come here. We need to talk."

He swallowed, then turned and closed the door. A moment later he stood before her.

"Listen," she said softly, laying a hand on his arm. "What happened last night—you will keep quiet about it, neh, Tsung Ye?"

He nodded, trembling slightly.

She leaned closer. "It is not that I am ashamed, you understand. Nor that my husband would be angry. Far from it. He has instructed me to find my own . . . amusement. But the staff must not know. You understand, Tsung Ye? My husband must be Master in his own house. No man must have cause to mock him. We must be ... discreet."

"Discreet?" He looked at her directly, his alarm quite open now.

She squeezed his arm and smiled. "Hush now, Tsung Ye. No harm will come to you. Besides, it was good, neh? You were"—she leaned close and gently kissed his neck—"very sweet."

He stared at her, direct, eye to eye for a moment, then looked down. "I will do whatever you ask, Mistress."

"Good." She let her hand rest on his shoulder, then trace the shape of his arm, finally lacing her fingers in his own. "And, Tsung Ye ... you are not obliged to love me. Only to make me happy. And if you make me happy . . . well, a talented young man can go far, neh? Very far indeed."

THERE WAS A BANNER over the gate, the Mandarin characters burning white on the jet-black background. Karr halted, ignoring his escorts, looking up at it, translating it in his head.

If only there is persistence, even an iron pillar will be ground into a needle.

Karr studied it a moment longer, then shrugged. Was it meant as a statement of intent? A rallying cry? Or had it been left there from another occasion?

The last was unlikely. Everything he had seen had been put there for him to see. He was a witness, after all. What he saw would be taken back and spoken of. And not to casual ears, but to the ears of a T'ang.

He nodded to himself. To be honest he had been surprised by the opulence, the industry, of these stacks. Much had changed in the past two years. Lehmann had come a long way since he had last been down here.

As the doors swung back, Karr had a glimpse of a huge crowd of people—uniformed, drawn up in massed ranks—and felt a moment's misgiving. What if it were Lehmann's purpose to humiliate him? And, through him, to send a message to Li Yuan?

Then why any of this? Why such display if the only reason for the meeting were to kill the T'ang's representative?

Because, came the answer, he might want to send a message to his own people too.

He straightened up, dispelling his fears, then stepped through, beneath the gate that led into the very heart of the White T'ang's territory, looking about him with a cold disdain, knowing how impressive a sight he—a single man—made in their eyes.

He strode slowly between the massed ranks, conscious of them watching him. Once he had been a "Blood" in these levels. Once he had fought the Master Hwa, to the death, becoming champion. Against the odds, he thought, remembering how the Marshal had come and asked him if he would serve the T'ang.

Facing him, at the far end of the Main, stood three men. Tall, leprous figures, the central one dressed from head to toe in white, the color of death.

He smiled inwardly, recognizing them from the last time he was here. The one in white was Li Min, the "Brave Carp," otherwise known as Stefan Lehmann. Either side of him were his henchmen— Niu T'ou and Ma Mien, as Karr secretly called them, Ox-head and Horse-face, the Lieutenants of Hell—real names Soucek and Visak.

Twenty ch'i from them he stopped, lifting a hand in greeting. "Ch'un tzu . . ."

Lehmann studied him awhile, then stepped forward. "It's been a long time, Colonel Karr. I hear you've been promoted. Ssu-li Hsioo-wei . . . that's a rare honor for a Hung Moo."

Karr blinked, astonished. Only a handful of people knew of his appointment. Why, he hadn't even told his adjutant!

"And Marie ... is she well?" Lehmann came closer, until he stood an arm's length from him, looking up into his face, an arrogance to his stance emphasizing that the difference in their size meant nothing to him.

His stomach muscles had tightened at the mention of his wife. "Marie is well."

"That's good. And young May ... it will be good for her to have a sister."

Karr stared at the albino, then answered him quietly. "I'm afraid you are mistaken, Li Min. There is only May."

"Ah . . ." Lehmann nodded, as if accepting the correction, yet there had been something about his assurance when he'd said it that was disturbing.

"Anyway, enough small talk," Lehmann said, raising his voice, so all could hear. "You did not come here to discuss your family's health, neh, Colonel Karr? You come as an envoy, to try and make a peace between Above and Below, to bridge the great gap that exists between the heights and depths of our great City."

He leaned close, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Forgive the bullshit. We, at least, know why you are here."

Then, raising his voice again: "But come, let us go through. There is much to be discussed."

THE APPROACH to Lehmann's offices were like a rat-run. Walking through the narrow corridors, Karr noticed the false walls and sliding panels and knew it could all be changed in an instant, like an ever-shifting maze. Cameras were everywhere, and laser weaponry. The best, he realized: NorTek stuff, as good as anything Bremen had.

At the very center of it all was a single, Spartanly furnished room. Karr followed Lehmann in, impressed despite himself, then stopped, staring at the painting on the wall behind Lehmann's desk.

"You like it?" Lehmann asked, noting the direction of his gaze.

Karr nodded. "I've never seen the like. Who is the artist? Heydemeier?"

Lehmann turned in his seat, studying the painting, taking in the elongated figure of the man, the naked body turned and crouching, the face staring back out of the canvas.

"No," he answered, looking back at Karr. "The painter is long dead. Egon Schiele was his name. An extraordinary man."

Karr moved closer, noting the word that was boxed in at the bottom right corner of the canvas. "Kampfer. Is that the model's name?"

Lehmann shook his head. "Kampfer's an old German word, from before the City. It means 'fighter.' "

"Ah . . ." Karr nodded again. "I should have known. He looks a fighter."

Lehmann gestured to the empty chair. "You want to sit down?"

Karr stiffened slightly. "No. I'd prefer to stand. What I have to say won't take long."

"As you wish." Lehmann sat back a little. "So . . . What does your Master want?"

"Peace. An understanding. And some token of your . . . loyalty."

"My loyalty?" Lehmann considered that, then nodded. "And in return?"

"Li Yuan will promise to keep his armies in Africa and not bring them home."

"I see." Lehmann spread his hands on the table, the pale fingers like stilettos. "And when does the great T'ang want my answer?"

"A week from now."

Lehmann nodded, then, changing the subject, leaned toward Karr. "You killed him, didn't you?"

"Who?"

"DeVore. And Berdichev too. I've seen the tape."

Karr stared at Lehmann, astonished once again. No one had access to that tape. No one but Li Yuan. So either he was lying, or ...

"You're good," Lehmann said, his pink eyes filled with respect. "They say Tolonen's a fool, but he knew what you were, neh? A killer. A natural-born killer. In that we're alike, neh, Gregor Karr? Very alike." * * *

VISAK ESCORTED Karr back to the gate. There they blindfolded him again and pushed him toward the waiting sedan. Yet even as he climbed between the curtains, he felt something being pushed into his left hand-—felt someone close his fingers over it. He held it tightly, recognizing from its shape and texture what it was. A message. Someone had passed a message on to him.

He sat there, silent, as the sedan swayed toward its destination, conscious of the two guards watching him from the seats facing him.

He could smell them, hear their breathing. After a while he let himself relax, relieved now it was over and lulled by the movement of the carriage. Even so, he was worried. Lehmann had known far too much.

Moreover, he had been too relaxed, too blase, about the whole thing.

Why, even Li Yuan's request for some token of loyalty had barely brought a flicker of reaction.

Things were wrong. Things were badly wrong.

They left him at the pickup point just below the City's roof. Pulling

off the blindfold, he opened his hand and, unfolding the paper, read the brief note.

It was from Visak. He wanted a meeting, tomorrow, at noon. Karr nodded. It was as just they'd thought—as their sources inside Leh-mann's organization had told them—things were not as rosy as they seemed. If Visak wanted a meeting . . .

He folded the note and pocketed it. Then, knowing that time was of the essence, he reached up and pulled down the trapdoor, reaching for the ladder, hauling himself up into the access tunnel.

On the roof his cruiser waited.

TWO hours later he was at Baku Spaceport, transferring to one of Tsu Ma's own cruisers for the twenty-minute flight north along the shore of the Caspian.

Karr sat to the right of the craft, directly behind the pilot, staring out of the cockpit window toward Asia, a sense of deep foreboding growing in him. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that Lehmann had spies within Li Yuan's household. And maybe more than spies. Maybe trained assassins, waiting to be triggered.

The next few days would be critical; he understood that now. Reading the secret briefing Rheinhardt had had prepared, he had realized just how near the brink they were. One thing—one single, crucial incident—could throw them into war, and having seen what had happened on Mars and in North America, that was the last thing any of them wanted.

Yes, and yet war is coming. . . .

Best, then, perhaps, to do as Li Yuan proposed and bring the armies home from Africa, whatever answer Lehmann gave them. Best break their word of honor than let the world slip into darkness.

He closed his eyes, feeling giddy. Marie . . . My darling May . . . It pained him to think what might happen to them. Yes, but they were better off in Tongjiang than Europe, that was certain.

He sighed heavily, opening his eyes again. Down below, the perimeter of Tsu Ma's estate came into view. There was a brief exchange of codes—the high-pitched chatter of computer language—and then silence.

The final days, he thought, remembering the man's pale hands spread on the table like demonic spiders. These are the final days. . . .

They circled the palace, then descended onto a crowded overspill pad to the northeast of the main palace buildings. Rheinhardt greeted him as he stepped down from the cruiser.

"Come," he said, hurrying him along the path toward the palace. "The ceremony has already begun, but Li Yuan wants to see you at once." He stopped, looking at Karr closely. "Is it good news or bad?"

Kan let the General read the doubt in his eyes and saw the shadow of it reflected back at him. They walked on, silent now, each lost in his own thoughts, brooding on the war to come.

LI YUAN was waiting for them in one of the small halls in the Eastern Palace, a place of shadows and dampness, bare stone and high, echoing ceilings. Tolonen was with him and his Chancellor, Nan Ho. They watched Karr cross the floor to them, their faces apprehensive.

"Well?" Li Yuan asked as Karr rose from his knees.

"He says he will give his answer within the week."

"Ah . . ."

Quickly he told them what had happened, leaving nothing out, not even the wording on the banner over the gate. When he had finished there was a long silence. Li Yuan turned away, pacing between the looming pillars, the hem of his silks whispering on the stone flags.

Finally, he looked to Tolonen. "Do you still think you are right, Knut? Even after what you've heard?"

Tolonen pushed out his chin, uncomfortable at being put on the spot. "I still think we should wait, Chieh Hsia. Let's hear his answer before we act. Things look bad, I admit. His arrogance"—the old man shook his head—"you should have crushed him when you could. Now . . ."

"You think it too late?"

Tolonen looked down.

"And you, Master Nan?"

Nan Ho lowered his head. "Nothing 1 have heard changes my mind, Chieh Hsia. We must crush the man. The only question is when."

"And you, Colonel?"

Karr stared back at his T'ang a moment, surprised to be asked his opinion. Recollecting himself, he bowed his head, averting his eyes.

"I ... I was not sure before today, Chieh Hsia. I thought we could avoid war. Now I know that it is a certainty. Li Min prepares for it. Our delay is to his advantage. And I sense something more. I sense some deeper game of his. He is like DeVore, that one. Shifting, elusive."

Li Yuan waited, then, when Karr said no more, nodded. "Thank you, Colonel. Your first duty as Ssu-li Hsiao-wei will be to investigate the possibility that Lehmann has infiltrated our palace at Tongjiang. Until that is completed, we shall stay here with our cousin, Tsu Ma. 1 shall send for your wife and daughter, if that eases your mind. If there's to be any nastiness, it would be best if they were not there to see it, neh?" Karr bowed low, grateful for his T'ang's concern. "Then go at once. The sooner done, the—" Li Yuan stopped, staring past Karr toward the doorway. Karr turned. It was Tsu Ma's secretary, Chiang K'o.

"Forgive me, Chieh Hsia," Chiang said, kneeling and bowing his head, "but news has come from Europe. It appears that the Ebert Mansion has been attacked."

Tolonen stepped forward. "Attacked? How do you mean attacked? Is anyone hurt?"

Chiang looked to the Marshal. "The report mentions six dead and several injured."

"Aiya!" The old man looked to the ceiling, his face deeply pained. "Jelka and the boy . . . are they . . . ?"

"Your daughter was away when the attack happened. The boy . . ." Chiang swallowed and looked down. "I am afraid the boy was taken."

Tolonen shuddered.

Li Yuan stepped to him and held his arm. "You must go, Knut. At once. I shall explain things to Tsu Ma. Take Karr. And, Knut?"

"Chieh Hsia?"

"Do whatever you need to. But get him back, neh?"

Karr shrugged. "We'll know soon. They're obtaining backup camera material right now. If any exists, that is. . . ."

"But Lo Chang . . ." Tolonen shook his head. "I can't believe Lo Chang was involved in this!"

It's always those we least expect, Karr thought, but aloud he said, "We don't know that yet, Marshal. They may have taken him, too ... to have someone there the boy knows. They do that sometimes."

But Tolonen was shaking his head. "The Lo I knew would have died before he let them take the boy. He would have fought to the death."

Yes, but he didn't—so either he was involved, or ...

"Did Steward Lo have any family?"

Tolonen nodded distractedly, then saw what Karr was saying. "I've the details in my study."

Karr followed him through, then waited while the Marshal accessed his records.

"Here," Tolonen said, turning the screen toward him.

Karr looked at it, then undipped his communicator. "It's Colonel Karr. Get me Central Security. . . ."

He gave them the details, then looked back at the Marshal.

"They'll let me know as soon as they've checked it out. It'll take them ten minutes maximum."

Tolonen looked away, sniffing deeply, clearly struggling to maintain his composure.

"We'll find him," Karr said. "We'll get him back."

Tolonen nodded, but he seemed unconvinced.

Karr hesitated. "Forgive me, Marshal, but we need to put someone in charge of this investigation. How about Major Haavikko?"

The mention of Haavikko's name seemed to bring the Marshal back to himself. "Yes . . . Good man, Haavikko. If anyone can do the job . . ." Tolonen offered Karr a smile that was closer to a grimace. "Saved my life once." He held up his golden arm. "That's when I lost this. . . ."

Karr nodded, but he was thinking of what the duty captain had said when they'd first arrived. There had been no sign of a forced entry and no alarm had been sent. Which meant that whoever had done this had either been known to the guards at the gate, or ...

No. Now, that was being paranoid.

Tolonen was staring at him. "What is it, Gregor?"

"Security. The men who did this . . . they were Security. An elite squad. They'd have had proper passes, a reason to be her& They'ti have

KARR watched the old man walk from room to room, disturbed by the vulnerability, the unexpected frailty, he glimpsed in that normally rock-hard face. He had always considered Tolonen a cold, heartless man, but watching him crouch over the shrouded body of a female servant, seeing him lift the white sheet and wince, real hurt, real pain, in his eyes, made Karr reevaluate all he knew about him. This had hit him hard. Had shaken him to the core.

Tolonen straightened up, scratching at his neck with the fingers of his flesh-and-blood hand, then looked across at Karr.

"Where's he gone, Gregor? Where have they taken him?"

known the layout and known how to erase all the security camera tapes."

"No." Tolonen shook his head, but his eyes said yes. After all, who else could have got in so easily? Who but one of the T'ang's own elite teams? His Shen T'se . . .

Karr shuddered, then undipped his communicator and spoke into it once more.

"Central Security? Karr here. Look, were any of the Shen T'se teams out this morning? . . . Two of them, huh? And have they reported in?"

He waited, meeting Tolonen's eyes, both men quite certain now.

"No sign of it, huh? I see. Look, send me full details. Faces, files, psych profiles, the lot. To the Ebert Mansion . . . that's right. Use Marshal Tolonen's code."

He closed the circuit.

"So," Tolonen said quietly. "All we need to know now is who they're working for, where they've taken him, and what they want."

"Haavikko . . ." Karr said, feeling useless suddenly. "Let me contact Haavikko."

Tolonen laughed gruffly. "We have to keep busy at times like these, neh, Gregor? It doesn't pay to think too much."

Karr stared back at the old man a moment, feeling a new respect for him, then nodded and made the call.

JELKA ARRIVED BACK twenty minutes later. In the interim news had come that Lo Chang's family were gone. They had left home the previous evening and had vanished without a trace. Tolonen had taken the news badly, but the sight of his daughter at the door, safe but bewildered, brought a broad grin to his face. He went to her, hugging her tightly, almost lifting her off her feet.

"Jelka, my darling. Thank the gods you're safe! For a moment I thought . . ." He kissed her face and held her tight again. Then, as if remembering, he held her at arm's length from him.

"You've heard?"

She nodded.

Slowly his face collapsed. There was a sudden tremor in his voice. "If he's dead ..."

She held him to her, patting his shoulder, comforting him. "He's not dead. Not our Pauli. We'll find him. You know we will."

She looked past her father at Karr, who looked down, embarrassed yet also moved by this show of emotion.

"Where were you?" Tolonen asked after a moment.

"I went to see a friend," she said, her eyes concerned for him. "They must have seen me leave. I couldn't have been gone more than five minutes. If I'd been here"—she swallowed and looked down guiltily— "I would never have let them in. Not without contacting you first."

"I know," the old man said, caressing his daughter's face.

Karr, however, was staring at her. "You knew they were Security?"

She moved away from her father, her blue eyes meeting Karr's clearly. "Who else could it be?"

"Aiya," Tolonen said, staring down at the golden fingers of his left hand as if at any moment they might reach up and tear at his throat. "All this betrayal . . ." He groaned. "Who would have thought?"

But Jelka wasn't listening to him. Her eyes had flown open. She turned to face her father again. "Where's Golden Heart?"

Tolonen reached out to her, his granite face distressed, tears beginning to trickle down his cheeks.

"She's dead, my love. They broke her neck. So Pauli—Pauli's ours now. Ours alone. So we've got to get him back, neh? We've got to bring him home, where he belongs."

"Kim?"

Kim lifted the bulky glasses from his eyes, then looked up at the screen. "Andrew? What is it?"

"You've a visitor," Curval said, smiling down at him. "Guy name of Neville from Product Development. Says he knows you."

"Sure. I met him a week or so back. What does he want?"

"Says he wants to speak to you ... off the record."

Kim huffed. It would mean going through decontamination again— stripping off one suit and putting on another. For a moment he hesitated, half determined to send Neville away, his tail between his legs. Then he relented.

"Okay. Tell him I'm coming out."

Five minutes later Kim stepped from the tank and, still dripping, made his way through to the reception area. Neville was seated on the far side, reading one of the Company news sheets. Seeing Kim, he got up quickly and came across.

"Kim, I ... well, I didn't plan to see you, but I was passing by and I thought . . ." His eyes took in Kim's condition, smelled the powerful cleansing agents. "Oh, shit. Look, I'm sorry, I didn't know you were—"

Kim laughed. "It's all right. Do you want to come through? I'm afraid I can't spare you long. I'm busy right now. We've begun reassembling the Model B cranium."

Neville's eyes lit up. "Could I see that?"

Kim hesitated, then nodded. "You'll have to suit up, though. The tiniest trace of infection and we're done for."

"I understand. And look, I'm really grateful. I—"

He handed Kim something. Kim stared at it. It was odd. Tiny, like a domino, and yet heavy.

"Like a scarab," Kim said, looking up. "What is it?"

Neville smiled. "If I'm right, it's going to be the biggest thing in the entertainment industry for the next hundred years. And before you go showing it to everyone, it's embargoed. Only Director Reiss and I have seen it. Oh, and the creator, of course."

"And now me." Kim spun the tape in the air and caught it. "Well, thanks. I'm honored. Whose work is it?"

"Shepherd's. You know him?"

"I've heard of him. Advisor to Li Yuan, isn't he?"

"That's one of his roles. But this . . ." Neville laughed, his face registering awe. "Well, you'll see for yourself. At least, you'll get an idea of it. The real thing is phenomenal. Totally new. We're having to redesign our entertainment hardware to accommodate it."

"I see." Kim nodded thoughtfully. "Anyway, you'd better come through."

Suited up, they went inside, the air-lock doors hissing shut behind them.

"So what are you trying to do?" Neville asked over the suit mike, a gloved hand pointing clumsily at the exposed brain of the new prototype where it rested in the nutrient tank.

"Right now?" Kim laughed. "Well, right now I'm working on the dopamine and noradrenaline reactions—attempting to extend the time the stuff remains in the synaptic cleft."

"What does that do?"

"Do? Well, it gives the brain a 'high,' for a start. Combined with other things—with certain pheremonal responses, for instance—it can trigger a response of ... well, of love. Of infatuation and desire."

"You're joking!"

Kim glanced at him. "Not at all. In fact, I've never been so serious about anything. It's where we went wrong before. We tried to tailor its emotional range to fit our criteria of usefulness—criteria which stressed the machinelike, rationalistic aspect of the human mind. In the process we made it ... well, effectively we made it mad. Balance, that's what all this is about. Giving our creations balance."

"But love, Kim! What if it develops a crush or something? What use would it be then? Surely the whole idea of developing an android is to create something quite different from us—something free of human emotional weaknesses."

"Is it?" Kim stared at Neville openly now, a faint amusement in his eyes. "That's what's always been assumed. But what if that's wrong? What if we need to put that full range of emotions in? What if it only works if they're all in there? After all, they've served us humans pretty well over the eons."

"So how will your new model be different?"

"It'll be quicker, sharper, smarter than the old model."

"Like you, you mean?"

Kim laughed. "Like me." Then, with a nod, he turned back, pulling the bulky glasses down over his eyes.

Neville watched him, fascinated, seeing how he "fine-tuned" the brain, stimulating it with a delicate-looking wire, injecting it with various chemicals, then checking one of the four screens beside the tank to see what kind of reaction he was getting. On each of the screens outline skulls—normally a regular patchwork of blues and greens—lit up with areas of pulsing yellow and brilliant red. Finally, Kim put the fine wire down and, lifting his glasses, smiled at Neville.

"Okay. I think I'll leave it at that."

Neville nodded toward the screens. "It's certainly colorful."

"Isn't it? It's an old system, but still the most effective for this kind of work. You can see what's happening at a glance." Kim lifted the headset off and placed it on the side, then turned, facing Neville. "Curval said you wanted to talk . . . informally."

Neville waved a hand. "It's nothing sinister. I just thought it might help you if you had another view on things before you made your mind up about the new deal."

"But you're the one who drew up the contract!"

Neville smiled. "So? That doesn't mean I can't detach myself from things. I mean, I've not got SimFic tattooed on my bollocks!"

Kim laughed. "I'll take your word for it. But let me ask you something first."

"Fire away."

"What's Reiss like? You work for him. What's he really like?"

Neville hesitated a moment. "Difficult. I guess that's the best word to describe him. Fucking difficult at times, forgive my Mandarin. But he listens. And he's capable of changing his mind. He doesn't tolerate fools, though, nor losers. And he likes new ideas. Thrives on them, in fact. That's why he likes you so much."

"And you?"

Neville smiled. "Me? I don't know you."

Kim returned his smile, pleased by his honesty. "Let's get these suits off, then go through to my office and talk."

NEVILLE SAT in the chair in the corner, a bowl of ch'a cupped in his right hand, listening.

Kim sat on the edge of his desk, facing him. He had been telling Neville about what had happened in America with Old Man Lever and his consortium.

"I failed once," Kim said, finishing his tale. "I don't want to fail again. Next time . . . well, if it were just myself . . ."

Neville nodded. "I understand. A man needs a family, neh? And you want security for them, right?"

Kim laughed. "Right. But it's not just that. I'm not even talking about myself, really. It's . . . well, it's what I want to do with my talent. I've been given it for some reason—and I want to find out why. Oh, and before you ask, I have glimpses of it, but—"

"You're talking theoretical science, right?"

Kim nodded.

"That's fine. We've been anticipating it."

Kim stared at him. "Anticipating it?"

"Sure." Neville drained his ch'a and set the cup down, then leaned toward Kim. "Look, my job is evaluating risks. Big risks and little risks. With a Company the size of SimFic even the little risks could involve the investment of billions of yuan. Right now, however, my biggest risk is you. When we talk in that two-page document I gave you of funding you, we mean funding—whatever it takes, and however long it takes. It may cost us very little. Then again it might mean tying up a vast amount of SimFic's capital. And if you died . . . well, we'd have nothing. On the other hand, if one of our competitors got you . . ."

Kim stared at him. "Let me get this clear. You're talking about unlimited funding, right? Guaranteed?"

Neville nodded. "Fully documented. And guaranteed by Li Yuan."

Kim raised an eyebrow, surprised. "What is the connection? I mean, aside from the fact that SimFic are helping him build the android."

Neville sat back again. "I'll tell you. But it's to go no farther than this room, right?"

Kim nodded.

"Good. Then it's like this. Since the GenSyn Inheritance Hearing six years back Li Yuan has been busy steering projects away from GenSyn to various other major Companies, SimFic among them. This was done initially to try to make GenSyn less vulnerable while it was under Tolonen's stewardship, but it proved to have a number of other advantages. What it's done, in effect, is to tie in the fortunes of six of the major Companies with those of the T'ang. Now, as far as SimFic are concerned, we've risen considerably these past few years, but we want to build on that—to make ourselves Number One, not only in commercial terms, but in terms of being the trendsetters, the innovators. It's a policy Li Yuan himself has endorsed."

"I see." He had had no idea this was going on.

Neville smiled. "There's one great weakness to this Corporate strategy, however. And that's you, Kim. In the past seven years we've become more and more dependent on you as a generator of ideas, of new patents and new directions." He laughed suddenly. "Look, I know it must seem a poor bargaining ploy, letting you know just how important you are to us but . . . well, what's the point trying to disguise the fact? You know as well as I what you're worth. No. There's only one question we at SimFic have to answer, and that's got nothing to do with money. It's whether we can provide you with the resources to pursue whatever it is you want to do."

"But what if nothing comes of it?"

"Then nothing comes of it. It's not as if we'll be sitting on our hands. Why, it'll take us the best part of a decade to develop some of the stuff you've already given us. And as I said, it would mean our competitors didn't have you."

"So when do I sign?"

"Look, I'm not trying to pressure you."

"No. I'm serious. If that's the deal, I'll take it."

Neville smiled. "Well—"

There was a knock. Kim stood. "Excuse me a moment."

It was Curval. "Sorry, Kim, but I didn't know if you knew. A package came for you about an hour back. It's in reception. And this." He handed Kim the bright red envelope. "It's Tolonen's hand, isn't it?"

Kim nodded, staring at the envelope suspiciously. The last time he had had a note from the old Marshal it had been to warn him to stay away from his daughter. He turned, looking to Neville. "Forgive me, Jack. Something's come up."

He stepped outside and closed the door, then slit the envelope open with his nail.

"What is it?" Curval asked. "Is the old bastard still playing his stupid games?"

"No." He handed Curval the card. "You said there was a package. Did it come with the card?"

Curval made a noise of surprise, then handed it back. "That's right. The guard said a young woman delivered them. Tall, long ash-blond hair. Sound like anyone you know?"

"I . . ." Kim hesitated, then touched Curval's arm. "Look, take care of Neville awhile, will you? I won't be long."

He walked through to the reception area, trying to keep calm, but feeling all the while like he wanted to run, to whoop and punch the air. It had come. After all these years she had finally made contact again.

He shivered, thinking of her; of the startling blue of her eyes, and of her smile. She was here, he thought, wondering what she had left him. She actually came here.

The guard rose from his chair behind the desk as Kim approached. "Shih Ward . . ." He reached down and removed something from one of the drawers, then placed it on the desk in front of Kim. "If you'd sign . . ."

"Of course." But Kim's palms were wet and his fingers were trembling. Steadying himself, he took the stylus and made his mark against the screen, then lifted the package.

It was a simple rectangular box, like a standard tray of samples, wrapped in dark green ersilk paper. Kim shook it gently, hearing a faint rattle from within, and frowned. The guard was watching him.

"The young woman who brought this. Did she say anything?"

"Sir?"

Kim waved a hand. "It doesn't matter." Then, making his way across to one of the interview rooms, he closed the door behind him.

He took a long, calming breath, then slit the seal on the side of the box with his nail, pulled the paper back, and slid out the box.

Tapes . . . the box held a dozen tiny tapes. He lifted one from its indented slot and studied the handwritten label.

Enceladus, Tethys, Diane, and Rhea.

He understood at once. She had recorded it all. All of her travels out there in the System, knowing his fascination with it; knowing he'd want to see.

He slotted it back, then picked out another, then another, nodding to himself. It was all here. Everything she'd seen. Everything she'd done. He shivered. She had waited. She had kept her promise. That was what this meant.

He leaned past the box and tapped out an activation code on the desk comset. There was a second or two's delay and then the screen lifted up out of the surface.

"Get me the Ebert Mansion," he said as a young Han male's face appeared on the screen. "It's Kim Ward from SimFic. I wish to speak—"

"I'm sorry, Shih Ward," the operator interrupted, "but I cannot take calls for that destination at present. If you would call later—"

"Look, this is important. Extremely important. I—"

The young Han's face shimmered, then disappeared, replaced by the face of a high-ranking Security officer in his early forties, his blond hair cut stubble neat, his eyes as blue as sapphires.

"Shih Ward? I understand you've been trying to get through to the Ebert Mansion urgently. I'm Major Haavikko, in charge of the investigation. Have you any information with regard to the whereabouts of the boy?"

"The boy?" Kim frowned, confused. "I'm sorry, I don't follow you, Major. I wished only to talk to Nu Shih Tolonen. I—" He stopped, what Haavikko had said hitting him suddenly. "What's happened?"

Haavikko smiled tightly. "You have no information, I assume."

"No. No, but look—"

"I'm sorry, Shih Ward, but time really is tight right now."

"Jelka ... is Jelka all right?"

Haavikko had leaned toward the screen to cut connection. Now he sat back again, a weariness in his face. "The Marshal's daughter is fine, Shih Ward. Now, please. There's a great deal to be done."

"Of course. And thank you. . . ."

The screen went dead. Kim straightened, realizing how tense he'd been, then let a long, shuddering sigh escape him. For a moment he'd thought ...

He sat, staring at the box of tapes. The boy. Someone must have taken the boy, Pauli.

"Machine?" he said, addressing the camera overhead. "What's happening?"

LEHMANN STUDIED the boy through the glass, then turned to his lieutenant, touching his arm.

"You did well, Jiri. But your man—"

"He's dead already."

"Good. Can't have any loose ends, can we?"

Soucek nodded, then. "So what now? Do we tell the old man we'v£ got him?"

"No. We let Tolonen sweat awhile. Two days, maybe three. Then we give him back."

Soucek stared at him uncomprehendingly.

"Trust me, Jiri. I know how to play this. Now go. There's a lot to be done."

When Soucek was gone, he turned back, watching the boy again. Pauli was sitting in the corner once again, head down, his dark hair fallen over his eyes as he chewed the knuckles of his right hand.

That morning's audience with Karr had gone well. The big man had bought the whole package, lock, stock, and barrel. All that stuff about having seen the tape of Berdichev's death—that was a lie; an audacious guess, based on what he knew of Li Yuan's father. And an accurate guess, too, he thought, remembering the shock in Karr's face. The rest . . . well, it had been easy to buy Karr's wife's surgeon. Yes, and a cheap purchase, too, considering.

It could not have been better timed. With Karr already on his way, word had come that Karr's wife was pregnant—news even Karr himself had not known.

Lehmann turned from the one-way glass. Information ... it was sometimes more deadly than armies, as the great Sun Tzu had known.

Yes, he had planted the seed of paranoia deep. That single truth— gained cheaply—would confirm the veracity of the rest. As Colonel of Internal Security, Karr would embark on a witch-hunt at Tongjiang.

Disruption—maximum disruption, that was his aim. To wrong-foot them and feed them with a stream of misinformation. To play upon their weakest points and milk them. Karr he had touched, and Tolonen. Rheinhardt and Nan Ho would follow. And then Li Yuan himself. One by one he would make them uncertain of themselves.

Yes, for war was not a simple thing of armies and battles: it was a state of mind, a psychological regime. War was not won with bullets and bombs, but with the raw materials of fear, uncertainty, and self-doubt.

He laughed—a cold, clear laugh—then left the room, keen to get on with things. Why, before he was finished with them, he would make them look before they shat!

THE CEREMONIES had begun before the dawn, as fourth bell sounded across the palace grounds. At that dark hour Prince Tsu Kung-chih, eldest nephew of Tsu Ma, had stepped from the gate of the Northern Palace, dressed in the gowns of the Imperial Commissioner, the chieh—a beribboned staff that symbolized imperial authority—held out before him. Two torchbearers lit his way, while behind him came a great procession of courtiers and servants, bearing the betrothal presents on raised platforms, as well as the Golden Scroll and Seal and the feng yu—the great bridal chair. They made their way across the gardens at the center of the four palaces, then stopped before the gate to the Southern Palace where, on a crimson cushion, Liang K'o Ting, father of the Empress, knelt, awaiting them, as if at the door of his own house.

Once, in ancient times, there had been three great ceremonies of presentation, separated by long weeks of preparation. Now there was only this single, simple ritual. Even so, the servants standing three deep at the windows surrounding the gardens watched wide eyed, conscious of the great chain that linked them to the ancient past of their kind.

At the same moment, in a private ceremony in the T'ai Miao, the Supreme Hall of Ancestors, Tsu Ma was solemnly reporting the news of his betrothal to the august spirits of his ancestors, their holograms burning brightly as he knelt before them, his forehead pressed to the cold stone flags.

Twelve hours later Liang K'o Ting, dressed in his new uniform as officer of the imperial bodyguard, stepped from the gate of the South-

em Palace, heading north across the gardens. Behind him was a procession no less great than that which had set out earlier. This time, however, the feng yu was occupied, Tsu Ma's bride, Liang Shu-sun, hidden within, twenty-two bearers moving slowly, solemnly, as the drums sounded the "Central Harmony." Fifty servants carried gifts on litters, while a further hundred bore large lanterns and "dragon-phoenix" flags. In the midst of all a dozen men carried two yellow pavilions, holding the Golden Seal and the Golden Scroll, symbols of Shu-sun's authority as Empress, while directly behind the great Phoenix Chair walked the servants and ministers of her household.

At the gate to the Northern Palace, Tsu Kung-chih stood motionless, the chieh held out before him, waiting to receive his father's bride. Behind him, in the Great Hall at the center of the palace, Tsu Ma sat on the dragon throne in the full glory of his imperial yellow silks, the nine dragons—eight shown and one hidden—decorating the gown.

As he reached the gate, Liang K'o Ting stood to one side, his head bowed, letting the imperial commissioner, Prince Kung-chih, lead the procession into the Northern Palace, relinquishing his daughter into his care. Inside, surrounding the dragon throne, stood the four hundred members of the Net T'ing, the Inner Court, as well as those invited guests, numbering some fifteen hundred in all. The procession moved between them, then stopped, the great Phoenix Chair being set down below the steps of the dragon throne.

Two bells sounded, one high, one low. The final ceremony began. Tsu Ma stood, then came down the steps, halting before the feng yu as eight shaven-headed New Confucian officials, dressed in crimson robes, lifted the red silk curtain that covered the litter, drawing it back over the top.

Within, Shu-sun sat in the Chair, dressed from head to toe in red, the traditional kai t'ou covering her face. At a signal from the chief official, Tsu Ma stepped forward and delicately lifted the veil over her head.

Shu-sun's smile was radiant. Taking her hands, Tsu Ma helped her step down, her smile disarming him, making him feel at that moment like the most gauche of schoolboys. As the chants began he stood there, facing her, disturbed by the fact that at this, one of the most public moments of his life, he was sporting the most enormous erection. As if she knew, Shu-sun's smile broadened, her eyes widening in invitation.

Tonight, he thought, surprised by the strength of his feelings. After all, he scarcely knew her. He had thought himself jaded, emotionally spent, but the simple sight of her inflamed him. Why, the last time he had felt this way had been for Fei Yen.

His sad smile was noted by her and she raised an eyebrow querying it. So strange it was, for it suggested an intimacy that did not yet exist between them, and yet ... well, it was as if he knew her from way back—from another cycle of existence.

He watched, unconscious of the words of the ritual, aware only of her face, her eyes, the light dancing in the darkness of her pupils.

The ceremony was halfway through when sirens began to sound beyond the doors. Tsu Ma turned, looking to his Colonel of Internal Security, Yi Ching, and nodded. Yi bowed and turned, running off to discover what was happening.

Heads turned, eyes looked apprehensive, yet no one broke the silent solemnity of the moment. The chants went on, the ritual continued, while outside, echoing menacingly across the empty gardens of the palace, the sirens rose and fell.

YI CHINO rushed into the busy control room, taking control. Voices in his head apprised him of the situation, yet he spent a moment or two studying the screens, checking for himself before he acted.

The ship was fifty li out, over the Caspian, coming in fast from the east. Twice they had challenged it for a visual ID and twice it had ignored them. Now they had only two options—to shoot it down or let it land.

He turned to the Duty Captain. "Captain Munk . . . you're certain about the CGRP?"

"It's a Minor Family format, sir, but unspecific."

"Shit!"

No one would blame him for shooting it out of the air, but what if it was one of the Minor Family princes? After all, it wouldn't be the first time a cruiser's Computer-Generated Recognition Pattern had failed or been wrongly set. Yes, and things were very sensitive right now. To shoot a prince out of the air without warning would cause a terrible stink, no matter what justification there was for it.

Colonel Yi gave a groan of annoyance, then banged the console hard with both fists. Now was no time to prevaricate. It would be here in less than five minutes. He leaned forward, barking instructions into the speaker.

"I want two cruisers in the air—now! The incoming's communicator may have failed, so make visual contact and head it off. If it ignores you again, blast it out of the sky. No arguments, right? If it complies, take it south. Land it beyond the perimeter. I'll give further instructions then."

Yi Ching straightened up, voices sounding in the air, giving orders and confirming instructions, the mood of the room changed instantly, everyone happy now that something was happening.

He stared at the flickering point on the map screen and shook his head. Who would be so fucking stupid as to fly into their air space at such a critical moment?

He had a low opinion of the Minor Family princes—they were, after all, the most self-centered, arrogant, and stupid people on the planet— but this seemed out of character, even for one of them. At the same time, he simply couldn't believe this was a serious attack on the palace. There was no way a single cruiser could get through their defenses. It was in the air too long. It made such an easy and obvious target. Unless . . .

He pressed the stud on his right wrist, putting him in direct contact with his Lieutenant in the Great Hall.

"Karlgren. Get the T'ang out of there now! Get him into one of the secure rooms and clear the Hall. I think the incoming is a diversion. Oh, and make sure Li Yuan and Wei Tseng-li are safe."

Yi Ching looked about him, seeing the startled expressions on the faces of the nearby men, but there was no time to explain.

"Captain Munk. Take over here. Make sure my instructions are carried out to the letter."

"Sir!"

Yes, he thought, running from the room, heading back to the Northern Palace, and let's hope to the gods I'm wrong!

THE SIRENS HAD STOPPED. In the central garden the crowd milled restlessly, the murmur of their voices filling the space between the walls of the ancient palaces. From the top of the steps to the Northern Palace, Prince Kung-chih looked on, the dour expression he had worn all day replaced by a smile of ironic amusement.

All day he had had to play his uncle's creature, bowing and scraping, acting to his order, reading from his script, greeting his bride, but now— through no effort of his own—he had had the last laugh.

Until he died he would remember the look of anger on his uncle's face, the pure fire of exasperation—of denied expectation—in his eyes as they hustled him away and cleared the Hall, the ceremony unfinished, the woman not yet his bride.

And even though it had proved a false alarm, Kung-chih felt it was an omen—a sign that this marriage was ill fated.

You cheated me, he thought, thinking of that day beside the cliff. You led me to believe I was your heir, and then you cheated me. But I'll not relinquish it that easily. Oh, no. Not if you take a dozen wives.

Hearing voices behind him he turned, in time to see Colonel Yi and the three T'ang coming out from where they had been closeted these past few minutes. Yi Ching backed off a pace and bowed, then turned, letting them move past him.

Kung-chih straightened up, facing his uncle squarely as he came toward him.

"Nephew," Tsu Ma said, touching his arm gently, "I am afraid we must deal with this matter at once. If you would lead our guests into the Eastern Palace, I shall have Lao Kang arrange refreshments."

"And the ceremony, Uncle?"

Tsu Ma huffed, clearly upset, but his smile for his nephew was kind. "I am afraid the ceremony must be delayed until tomorrow, Kung-chih. It would be ... inauspicious to continue now, neh?"

"As you wish, Uncle," Kung-chih answered, bowing his head low, his face expressing grave disappointment, but inside he was exultant.

THE FOUR MEN stopped outside the cell, the camera swiveling automatically to cover them, its laser trackers beading all four of them.

"Are they here?" Tsu Ma asked, pulling at the knuckles of his left hand as if he wanted to strike someone.

Yi Ching hesitated, aware of Li Yuan's presence there beside his Master, then nodded. "The crew of the ship are elsewhere, Chkh Hsia, in separate cells. It seems they were acting under orders. However, as far as their Mistress is concerned—"

"Their Mistress?" Tsu Ma stared at his Colonel in disbelief. "You mean some damned woman did this? Aiya! I'll have the bitch quartered!"

Yi Ching bowed his head, but glanced uneasily at Li Yuan. "Forgive me, Chkh Hsia, but I think you might wish to see her alone."

"Nonsense, Colonel Yi. The insult was not to me alone. My cousins deserve an explanation, neh?"

"Of course, Chieh Hsia."

Yi turned, motioning to the guards, who took turns to tap their personal codes into the lock, then place their eyes against the retinal scanner.

The cell door hissed open.

Tsu Ma moved past his Colonel into the cell, then stopped dead, giving a gasp of surprise. On the bench seat facing him sat Fei Yen, her hands bound, a tracer-necklet glowing faintly about her neck. He turned, in time to see the flash of astonishment in Li Yuan's eyes as he, too, saw who it was.

"Fei Yen . . ." he said quietly, his voice incredulous. "What in the gods' names were you up to?"

She stared back at him with dumb insolence, then raised her hands, displaying the restraints.

"Unbind her!" Tsu Ma ordered, then turned to Wei Tseng-li. "Cousin, if you would leave this to us?"

Wei Tseng-li looked from one to the other, not understanding what was going on, then nodded. "As you wish, cousin. If you need me . . ."

"Of course," Tsu Ma said gently, giving him a troubled smile, then turned back, watching as a guard undipped Fei Yen's wrist restraints.

As the door slammed shut, he glanced at Li Yuan, then looked up at the overhead camera. "Surveillance off."

At once the red operating light vanished.

He turned, staring directly at Fei Yen, giving full vent to the anger he had been keeping in. "You/ What the fuck do you think you were up to, flying in without proper identification codes? Have you any idea what you've done? Aiya ... I'd like to know why I shouldn't just have you flogged and executed. You and your whole damned family!"

"I had to see you," she said quietly, her face hardened against his accusations. "Today. Before it was too late."

"Too late?" Tsu Ma laughed, exasperated. "Too late for what?"

"For my son ..."

"Your son? What has your son to do with this?"

"Because he's your son, too, Tsu Ma."

There was a long silence and then Tsu Ma laughed. But beside him Li Yuan was looking down, his lips pursed.

"No," Tsu Ma said finally, meeting her eyes, a cruel, unforgiving anger there. "I have no sons."

She looked back at him defiantly. "No, Tsu Ma? You can say that with absolute certainty?"

His chest rose and fell. For a moment it seemed he would say nothing, then, with a tiny glance at Li Yuan, he answered her. "I have no sons, Fei Yen."

"No?" She turned, pointing at Li Yuan. "Why don't you ask your cousin if that's true?"

Tsu Ma turned, looking at Li Yuan, his eyes pained, knowing that a sudden gulf had opened between them—one that, perhaps, might never be bridged—yet he spoke softly, as if to a brother.

"Is it true, Yuan? Is Han Ch'in my son?"

Li Yuan looked up, a profound sadness in his eyes. In an instant it had all come back to him: all of the hurt he'd felt, all of the bitterness and betrayal. But worse. For now he knew. Tsu Ma—his beloved Tsu Ma—had betrayed him.

He shuddered, then answered her, his voice toneless. "You are wrong, Fei Yen. It is as Tsu Ma says. He has no sons."

She stared back at him, disbelief in her eyes, then slowly shook her head, her eyes widening, understanding coming to her. "But . . . but you divorced me!"

He nodded. "I had to. Don't you understand? You were a weakness I could no longer tolerate. A cancer that was eating away at me. To be a T'ang and be subservient to you ... it could not be, Fei Yen. It simply could not be."

"Aiya . . ." There was pain in her face; pain at the realization of what had really happened. "Han Ch'in . . . he's yours, isn't he? Yours. And you knew it, didn't you? Knew it all along!"

Li Yuan shook his head. "No, Fei Yen. Han Ch'in is your son. Yours alone. You made your bed, now you must lie in it."

She stood, angry now and close to tears. "I shall do no such thing! My son"—she swallowed, then lifted her head proudly—"my son shall be a T'ang one day!"

He answered her scathingly, his eyes cold. "Your son is nothing, woman. Understand me? Nothing.'" He took a step toward her, his very calmness menacing. "It was always the way with you, wasn't it, Fei Yen? You could never be content. You always had to meddle. To spoil things and break them. Too much was never enough for you, you always had to have more. More and more and more, like a petulant child. But now"—he sighed and shook his head—"now it must end. You have finally overstepped the mark. You have left me with no option."

Tsu Ma reached out and touched his arm. "But, Li Yuan . . ."

Li Yuan turned, looking down at the hand that rested on his arm, his eyes burning with indignation. "Cousin . . . don't you think you've done enough?"

Tsu Ma drew back, bowing his head.

Li Yuan stared at him a moment longer, then turned back, facing his ex-wife.

"As for you, Fei Yen, you shall return to Hei Shui, but this time under guard. You are to speak to no one and see no one. All correspondence between you and the outside world will be strictly censored. And as for your son . . . Your son shall be kept elsewhere, as guarantee of your good behavior."

She stared at him, then gave a wail of anguish and sank to her knees, pressing her forehead to the floor, her voice distraught.

"Aiya! Please the gods, no, Li Yuan. Please leave Han Ch'in with me. I've nothing without him. Nothing!"

She looked up at him, tearful now, her eyes imploring him. "As you once loved me, please do this for me, Li Yuan. Let my son live with me at Hei Shui. I shall do anything . . . sign anything at all, but let him stay. Please the gods, let him stay!"

He stood there a moment, staring down at her, thinking of the hell she had put him through—of all the bitter blackness he had suffered because of her—and slowly shook his head.

"It is over, Fei Yen. It is finished now. You understand?"

Then, turning from her, he left the cell, Tsu Ma following him out, neither man looking at the other, the screams of the woman following them as they walked, silent, side by side, down the dimly lit corridor.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Where the Path Divides

LI YUAN returned to Tongjiang at once, taking Pei K'ung and all his entourage with him. There, in the great study that had been his father's and his father's father's before him, he called together all his senior officials, summoning them from whatever duties they were attending to. By five they were all gathered and the Council of War began.

On the journey back he had spoken to no one, not even his Chancellor, Nan Ho, giving no explanation for his mood or actions. Nor, when he opened the great meeting of State, did he say a word about what had happened at Astrakhan, though all there, having heard of the alarm during the wedding ceremony, knew that something had transpired.

Watching him from the other side of the council table, Master Nan saw the new hardness in his Master's face and wondered what had passed between him and Tsu M*. He had seen him return from the meeting in the cells—had seen the coldness, the distance, between the two great friends—and known at once that something was wrong. Then, when Li Yuan had ordered them gone from there, he had known there had been a breach. Nothing else would have made Li Yuan miss his cousin's wedding celebrations. But what had caused it?

For hours Nan Ho listened as each man spoke, spelling out what stage their preparations were at, yet he knew for a fact that many there—surprised by the suddenness of the summons—were far from being as advanced as they claimed. Contingency plans had been drawn up months ago, after the New Year meeting of Ministers, but no one had seriously expected war. Not this year. But now things had changed.

When they were gone, Master Nan held back, waiting by the door. Normally Li Yuan would call him back to discuss what had been said, but now he just sat there, slumped forward in his chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, staring into space.

He closed the door then went across.

"Chieh Hsia?"

Li Yuan looked up, his eyes distracted, then sat up straighter.

"Master Nan, I guess you deserve an explanation."

Nan Ho waited, silent, head bowed.

"I ... I have done something that perhaps I should not have done. I have cast off a wife and denied a rightful son."

Nan Ho looked up, surprised. Li Yuan was looking past him, his face tensed against the strong emotions the words were evoking, but his eyes were misted.

"I acted wrongly, Master Nan. Yet, I, too, was wronged . . . both by my wife and by my most trusted friend."

Nan Ho felt a ripple of shock pass through him. So it was true.

"I didn't know," Li Yuan went on. "I didn't really want to know, I suppose. Until today." He paused a moment, as if steeling himself against what he was saying, then spoke again. "Today it was all made clear. Today I understood how it was—how it has been all this time."

"Chieh Hsia—"

"No, Master Nan, let me finish. I should have found out long ago. I should have made it my business to know what really happened. My father said I ought, but my pride was sorely hurt and besides, I ... I could just about bear it if I didn't know. Knowing . . . knowing exactly what happened . . . that would have broken me." "I understand."

He stared at his Master, seeing, for that brief moment, the vulnerable little boy he had once had to tend—the young man whom he had introduced into the ways of the flesh. Oh, if he had only known what love would do to his charge, he would have killed Fei Yen with his own hands long before she got her talons into him. He would have gladly sacrificed himself to prevent it. But now it was too late. Now they must learn to exist in the ruins of these relationships. He sighed, then uttered the words his Master did not wish to hear.

"You must make peace with him, Chieh Hsia. You must set aside your feelings as a man and act as a T'ang ... as an Emperor."

Li Yuan stared at him a moment, then shook his head. "It is too late for that, Master Nan. To be a T'ang . . . well, one must know where one stands, neh? One must know who one's friends are and who one's enemies. All I know, right now, is that Tsu Ma is no friend. And if not a friend, then I must count him henceforth as an enemy—as someone I cannot trust to come when I call. I must make my plans dependent upon my own strength and follow my own counsel from here on."

"But, Chieh Hsia—"

Li Yuan raised his hand imperiously, silencing his Chancellor.

"You are a good man, Master Nan, but do not oppose me in this. Be as a friend and aid me. For I have need of friends."

"Nu'ts'ai, Chieh Hsia," he said, sinking to his knees and touching his forehead to the ground. I am your slave, Majesty.

KARR CAME TO him an hour later.

"Chieh Hsia?"

"Colonel . . . please, relax a moment. Take a seat. We need to talk."

Karr hesitated, then sat, facing Li Yuan, his huge frame filling the tall-backed official's chair.

"Is there any news of the boy?"

"No, Chieh Hsia. I'm fairly certain now that it was one of our own elite teams."

"I see." Li Yuan sat back. "And Marshal Tolonen? How is he taking this?"

Karr sighed. "Badly, Chieh Hsia. He . . . Well, forgive me if this sounds impertinent, but I feel he is close to breaking point."

"Should I send one of my surgeons?"

"It would do no good, Chieh Hsia. His daughter tried to get him to rest, but he has refused all sedation. Indeed, I saw him take two Stayawake capsules. He is determined to see this through, whatever the personal cost."

Li Yuan nodded, his eyes pained. "Perhaps I should order him to rest."

"Maybe so, Chieh Hsia."

"And the other matter . . . your investigations into the household staff. How goes that?"

"Slowly, Chieh Hsia. It is difficult to know where to start. 1 have asked the six most senior members of the palace household to draw up lists of those they would trust implicitly and those they are less certain of."

"And what good will that do?"

"It is my intention to compare the lists and see where they differ— then go back and ask why. At the same time, Chieh Hsia, I have set up a team to monitor all contacts between Tongjiang and the outside world. If there is an information leak, we shall find it."

"Good. But one further thing before you go. You will have heard that I called a special meeting of my most senior ministers and advisors."

"Chieh Hsia?"

"To judge what was said in that meeting, we would be ready to fight a war at a moment's notice. The truth is very different. My own assessment is that we are weeks, possibly even months, from a state of readiness. Would that be your reading, too, Colonel Karr?"

Karr smiled. "It would, Chieh Hsia."

"And what would you say was the greatest problem confronting us?"

"Speaking from experience, Chieh Hsia, I'd say it was supplies. A war against Li Min . . . well, it would be even more difficult a logistics problem than the campaign in Africa. There we could at least stake out and clear a stack before each supply drop. Here in Europe . . . Well, it would be a war fought level by level on our own territory. Supplying our own forces while denying our enemies access to those same supplies—that would be an almost impossible task."

"I agree. If, that is, we were to fight a war on that basis."

"Chieh Hsia?"

"One last thing. How long would it take to prepare the three Banner armies in Africa for a new campaign?"

Karr considered, then shrugged. "Three days, Chieh Hsia."

"Good. Then that is all."

Karr bowed his head, then, as his T'ang stood, hastened to his feet.

"You have been most helpful," Li Yuan said, ushering Karr to the door. "If you would keep me advised on any developments with the boy."

"Of course, Chieh Hsia."

"Good. I understand your wife is here."

"That is so, Chieh Hsia."

"Then you must see her. Spend the night with her."

"Forgive me, Chieh Hsia, but I am on duty."

Li Yuan smiled and put his hand briefly on the giant's arm. "Go. I order it. I shall have Master Nan arrange cover for you. And make the best of it, neh? I fear you may have few such opportunities in the weeks to come."

AS THE EVENING LIGHT began to fade, Karr walked back slowly to the guards' quarters, his heart heavy, his mood darkened by what Li Yuan had said. He had known war would come—they all had—but it had always been at some vague time in the future, never soon—never only a matter of days away. He should have been ready for it, for he had seen much fighting in the African campaign, yet somehow this was different. War in City Europe; hand-to-hand fighting in the levels; all of that disruption, all of that chaos and carnage, the awful, barbaric brutality of it—it was hard to believe all that must come now to his homeland.

Marie was in the kitchen when he got there, singing to herself as she unpacked things from one of the big transit-boxes and put them away on shelves. He went across and put his arms about her waist, making her jump with surprise, then snuggle back against him.

"Where's May?" he asked, murmuring into her neck as he kissed it.

She turned and leaned back against the sink, smiling at him. "She's out in the gardens with the other children. It's like paradise for her. Why, she doesn't even seem bothered by the insects!"

He looked past her out of the half-open window, hearing the distant shrieks and laughter of the children. It was true. This was like paradise after the confinement of the levels, yet his pleasure at being there was muted by his knowledge of what lay ahead.

"What is it?" she asked, seeing the shadows in his face.

He met her eyes, pained by the simple strength and beauty of her. "It's war, my love."

Her breath caught. "Did he say that?"

"No. But I could see it in his eyes. He is determined on it. Something must have happened."

The light had gone out of her face. She looked away, then looked back at him, offering a tight smile. "Well, maybe it's best that we're here, then. Back there . . ."

Hejjodded, then reached out and held her once more, kissing her brow. "I'm off duty tonight," he whispered, smiling at her. "The T'ang has ordered it."

"Ah . . ." Her face lightened, her eyes widening, but still there was a darkness at the back of them. War . . . who knew what war would bring?

"I have some news too," she said, her smile broadening.

"News?"

"A baby," she said hesitantly. "We're going to have another baby, Gregor."

"That's great. . . ."

Inside, however, he felt himself go cold with fear. He had dismissed what Lehmann had said as idle talk, but the man had been right. Somehow he had known.

"Gregor? What is it?"

"I was told. Li Min told me."

She gave a small laugh. "He couldn't have. I only found out yesterday. I haven't told anyone, not even May. I was waiting to tell you first."

"He knew," he said quietly. "The bastard knew." He heaved a sigh then. "Look, stay here a moment, there's something I want to check."

He made to turn away but she called him back. "Gregor?"

"Yes?"

"Did you ... I mean, you did want another child?"

Looking at her, he realized suddenly how scared she was, how close she was to tears. He went to her and held her tightly, stroking her back, physically reassuring her. "Marie, Marie, my darling love, you know I do." He lifted her chin, making her look at him. "It's wonderful news. Really it is. But . . ." His smile slowly faded. "Get May in and settle her. Okay? I'll be back in a while."

Outside, in the imperial gardens the evening light was failing. Walking back to the duty room Karr ran a dozen different scenarios through his mind, yet he knew, even before Bremen confirmed it. They were dead; the surgeon and all his staff. Blown into the next world by a bomb planted in some new equipment they'd taken delivery of only that morning.

Returning to his rooms he rehearsed how he would tell her—how to reveal to her just how small, how vulnerable, they were—but facing her he found there was no need. She read his eyes and looked down, nodding.

"Where's May?" he said softly, wearily.

"Asleep. She tired herself out."

"Ah . . ." He nodded, then reached for her, holding her tightly against him, squeezing her arms, her back, reassuring himself that she was there, alive and warm—at least for this much longer—knowing suddenly how easily he could have lost her.

"We'll be safe here," he said. "War or no war, Tongjiang at least is safe."

She smiled, as if comforted by his words, yet something in her eyes mirrored back his own growing doubts. Nowhere was safe anymore. Nowhere. Not even Tongjiang.

THE MOON WAS FULL, burning a perfect circle of white in the blackness of the sky. Beside it the mountain glistened, its crooked peak thrust like an ice pick into the frigid air.

Lehmann stood on the slope on the far side of the valley, staring at the scene, his hood thrown back, his breath pluming in the air. It had been months since he had come out here. Months since he had seen anything so beautiful.

He shivered, more from awe than from the cold, then turned and looked to his lieutenant, Soucek, who had just arrived.

"Is there any word yet?"

Soucek rubbed his gloved hands together and shook his head inside the fur-lined hood. "Nothing."

"Ah." Lehmann turned back, distracted by the news. It was strange. Visak was normally so reliable.

"He's over two hours late," Soucek added, coming alongside him. "Do you think something's happened to him?"

He shrugged. For a moment he was silent, breathing in the pure, cold air, letting the inhuman perfection of the place fill him, then he turned, looking back at Soucek.

"It's almost time. You know that, don't you? All these years we've waited, and now . . . Well, now that it's here I hesitate. We have the means, the will, the strength, to beat Li Yuan. Even so, I hold back. And I don't know why. That's why we're here, Jiri. To try to see things clearly. To work out if there's anything we've overlooked."

"It's to be war, then?"

Lehmann nodded, his face masklike, almost transparent, in the moonlight, his eyes sparkling unnaturally, like a demon's. "Are you afraid, Jiri?"

Soucek hesitated, then nodded.

"Good. That's a fighter's emotion. To be afraid, yet to be in control of one's fear."

Soucek stamped his feet, the cold getting to him. "It seems a long time since we killed Lo Han. Seven years. . . . You know, I felt alive that day. I felt . . . well, close to something. Something I'd never experienced before. But these past few years, since we defeated Fat Wong and his cousins . . . Well, sometimes it's seemed like a dream. As if I wasn't fully awake."

Lehmann turned, looking at Soucek directly, understanding what the other man was saying. He, too, had missed the danger. Missed that feeling of extending himself—of putting himself at risk. It had all been too easy. Too safe.

"You're right, Jiri. We have been sleeping. Letting events drift when we should have been seizing the moment and shaping it. Playing at being kings when we should have been stoking the fire beneath the throne. But now it's time to change that."

Soucek had been staring at the tree line far below. Now he looked back at Lehmann. "What do you mean?"

"I mean we ought to push a little and see what happens."

"Push?"

He turned, looking to the east, as if he could see beyond the mountains, beyond the great sweep of Eastern Europe and the Urals, right to where Li Yuan sat at his desk in Tongjiang.

"Push. Create pressure in the House. Ferment trouble among the African Banners. Assassinate some of Li Yuan's leading officials. That kind of thing."

"And his offer?"

Lehmann shrugged. He didn't know. He was tempted to say no, to defy Li Yuan and see what he did. But maybe that would be too direct.

"I don't think he wants to go to war. I don't think he has the will. Besides, he'll wait on his cousins—see what they say first. No, the more I think about it, the more I'm convinced we should play a double game. Play loyal subject to his face while undermining him at every opportunity."

"And if we're wrong?"

"Then we fight."

He stopped, looking past Soucek, then relaxed. It was one of his own men. "What is it, Stewart?"

Stewart stopped and bowed his head. "There's no sign of Visak," he said breathlessly. "No one's seen him since six. He was due to meet some of our people in Osnabriick but ... he didn't show."

"I see." He dismissed the man, then turned to Soucek. "What do you think?"

"Think?"

But it was clear what Soucek thought. His eyes gave him away. He thought Visak had gone over—sold them out—and if Soucek thought that, then maybe it was true. But he would find out first. Make sure before he acted.

"You know what I think?" he said, looking up at the moon hanging there like a great white stone in the sky. "I think we'd better get back. I think the game's begun."

"Daddy?"

Jelka pushed the door open with her knee, then stepped inside into the darkness, the tray balanced carefully between her hands.

Her father was sitting in his chair, the holo-viewer on the floor in front of him, the control module in his lap, the golden fingers of his right hand wrapped about it. In the air before him stood the boy, dressed in a miniature of the Marshal's uniform.

She went across and set the tray down, then stood behind him.

It was something they had recorded only weeks ago; part of the great Kakvala she herself had set to music. Watching it she felt once again the sharp pain of Pauli's absence, that awful, gnawing uncertainty of not knowing where he was, nor what was happening to him.

Pauli stood there, straight and tall and proud, his dark hair combed neatly across his forehead, his whole body lifted slightly on the balls of his feet as he sang, his eyes staring into the distance as he concentrated on the words.

"Hereupon the bird spoke language,

And the hawk at once made answer:

'O thou smith, O Ilmarinen,

Thou the most industrious craftsman!

Truly art thou very skillful,

And a most accomplished craftsman!'

Thereupon smith Ilmarinen Answered in the words that follow:

'But indeed 'tis not a wonder,

If I am a skillful craftsman,

For 'twas I who forged the heavens,

And the arch of air who welded.' "

He sang on, his pure high voice seeming to capture the very essence of those ancient days—of that distant time before the City had been built over the land, before the World was cloaked in ice. Looking at him, she realized with a start of surprise how very like his father he was—not the Hans Ebert she had known on Chung Kuo, the one who had almost married her, but the one she had met on Mars—"the Changeling," as she liked to think of him. She shivered, strangely moved by the thought. Her father had brought the boy up well. There was nothing spoiled about him, nothing impetuous or soft—nothing corrupt. His voice was like a light shining out from deep within, revealing the perfect pitch of his inner being, resonant with innocence and hope. So strange that was, so utterly strange, considering that his father had been a traitor, his mother a madwoman and a whore. But the boy . . . She listened as he finished, entranced and deeply moved, the ancient tale made new in his song.

The old man froze the image, a tremor passing through him, tears on his cheeks. She laid her hands gently on his shoulders. He turned, looking up at her, then reached up, grasping her hands tightly in his '1 own. She squeezed them, for once not bothered by the cool, metallic feel of his left hand.

"We'll get him back," she said, fighting down the tears. "You know we will."

"It's not that easy," he said, his face hardening. "Things are changing by the hour."

He released her hands, then stood, turning to face her, all softness gone from him suddenly. "Things are bad, my love. We could be at war within the week."

She stared at him. "War?"

He nodded. "I asked the T'ang for Karr, but he refused. Things are happening. Pauli . . . Well, Pauli's but a single stone in the great game. We"—his voice faltered, then carried on—"we must deal with this matter ourselves."

She frowned, not understanding. "Deal with it? How?"

He turned his head, looking athis desk and the tray there. "Is that soup?"

"Yes . . . but answer me, Daddy. How? How are you going to deal with this?"

He looked back at her, a sour smile on his lips. "I have not been a soldier sixty years for nothing. I know people. . . ."

"People?"

Again he looked away. "It's best you don't ask."

Best? She shivered, seeing there, in her father's eyes, a steely hardness, a determination which she recognized from the past—that same determination that had made him defy his T'ang and kill Lehmann before the whole House—that same iron-hard spirit that would wreck a world before it allowed harm to one of his own.

Maybe it is best 1 don't know what you are planning, she thought. Then, reaching up, she gently stroked the drying tears from his face.

THE CELL WAS DARK, the dull red glow of the LOCKED signal above the studded door the only source of illumination. On the bunk in the corner lay the boy, a rough blanket covering his nakedness. Two guards patrolled the corridor outside. He could hear their booted footsteps click and echo in the silence.

Cold. It was so cold here.

He huddled into himself, conscious of the camera somewhere in the dark above him watching his every move. Infrared it was—he knew that. Uncle Knut had told him all about such things. He turned over, facing the wall, trying to relax, trying not to cry. He had done so well. Throughout it all he had held his head up and been brave, like he'd been taught. But now, alone in the darkness, it was suddenly much harder.

No, he told himself, swallowing hard. They're watching me, waiting for me to break down, so 1 mustn't. For Uncle Knut's sake, I mustn't.

For a moment his thoughts wandered and he imagined himself in his own bed, back in the Mansion; imagined that the footsteps were those of the servants; then he remembered. The servants were all dead: he had seen them die, Chang Mu and Shih Chih-o, Li Ho-nien and his favorite, the young Ma Ch'ing, the last in his room, fighting them vainly, trying to stop them from taking him.

He shuddered, trying to control himself, to push back the memories, but they were too powerful for him. Unbidden, a tear trickled down his cheek and then another.

And his mother . . .

He gritted his teeth, but a low moan forced itself out from somewhere deep inside him.

Be brave, he heard the old man say. Whatever you have to face in life, be brave and face it squarely. But it was hard to be brave when no one came, when no one even knew where you were. Harder yet when the memories came crowding back to haunt you.

He ducked his head beneath the blanket and secretly wiped the moistness from his cheeks, then sat up and turned, placing his feet on the cold earthen floor, ignoring the cold.

Remember the song, he told himself, hearing Jelka's soft voice coaxing him in his head. And, lifting his head, he began, his pure, high voice sounding in the silent darkness, making the guards outside turn and listen.

"Still the sun was never shining,

Neither gleamed the golden moonlight,

Not in Vainola's dark dwellings,

Not on Kalevala's broad heathlands.

Frost upon the crops descended,

And the cattle suffered greatly,

And the birds of air felt strangely,

All mankind felt ever mournful,

For the sunlight shone no longer,

Neither did there shine the moonlight. . . ."

IT WAS AFTER ELEVEN when Tsu Ma finally left the Council Chamber. He had been loath to call such a meeting, despite what had happened earlier, but the news from his agents in Tongjiang could not be ignored. If their reports were true, Li Yuan was preparing for war, and that would mean trouble in his own City.

He stood in the tiny anteroom a moment, alone—for the first time since the dawn, alone—and tried to still his racing thoughts. Too much had happened too fast. That business with Fei Yen . . .

Tsu Ma let a sigh escape him, then sat down, raking his fingers through his hair distractedly. He had always thought Li Yuan had known; had known yet been too tactful, too much a "brother," to ever mention it. Since the day of Li Yuan's coronation, when he had approached him about the child, he had assumed the boy was his: that Li Yuan knew yet had forgiven him. If he had thought for a moment . . .

"Aiya . . ."he said softly. If he had known what harm the woman could do he would have killed her. Or was that true? Wasn't he still more than a little in love with her? Hadn't his anger at her today been tempered by some other, darker feeling?

He blew out a long breath, then leaned forward. If the truth were told, seeing her there in the cell, chained and defiant, he had felt that old, familiar fire burn up in him again—had remembered, for the briefest instant, how it had been to lie with her. No other woman had ever fired him so. No other had ever made him lie there sleepless with the memory.

Tsu Ma shuddered, then stood, realizing suddenly that someone was standing in the doorway, waiting. It was Hwa Kwei, his Master of the Inner Chambers.

"Chieh Hsia?"

"What is it, Master Hwa?"

"My Mistress, the Empress, has sent me to ask if you will be coming to her rooms tonight."

His wedding night ... He had forgotten. This was, after all, his wedding night.

He stared at Hwa, then waved a hand at him. "Tell her I shall come in a while. I need a moment's thought."

Hwa bobbed his head. "Chieh Hsia! Shall I bring something to eat? Some soup, perhaps? And something for the Empress?"

Tsu Ma was looking away, staring at the portrait of his father that hung over the fireplace. "That's kind, Master Hwa, but I have no appetite. Bring something for the Empress, however."

"Chieh Hsia."

Alone again, his thoughts returned to Li Yuan and his cast-off son. How could Li Yuan have done that? It made no sense. No sense at all. If he had wanted to deal with Fei Yen, he could have exiled her and married again. There had been no need to divorce her, not if her son was his.

Unless, that was, he'd wished to punish her. And what better way to punish a headstrong, ambitious woman like Fei Yen than by denying her son the right to be a T'ang?

The thought of it quite shocked him, for he had thought Li Yuan a less vindictive man. But who knew what passion—especially spurned passion—could do to a man?

He looked back up at his father's image. "What would you have done, Tsu Tiao?"

But the question, he knew, was idle. His father would never have got involved. His father would have cut off his own manhood before he would touch another man's wife. And as for that woman being the wife of a fellow T'ang . . .

"This is all my fault," he said quietly, bowing his head to the portrait, ashamed of himself. "And I must rectify it if I can."

Yes, he thought. But how? What in the gods' names can I do to make things up with him? His wife. I stole his wife. It does not matter that her beauty blinded me. What matters is the fact that I betrayed him. Him . . . whom I counted as a brother.

He shuddered, afraid, suddenly deeply afraid, of what he had done.

So the wheel turns. So fate catches up with us.

But it was not too late. If he could only speak to him. If he could only humble himself before his cousin.

He lifted his head, speaking to the camera overhead.

"Contact Li Yuan at Tongjiang. Tell him I wish to speak to him. I shall take the call in my study."

While his servants set up the link, he paced the corridor, trying to work out what he would say—rehearsing phrases, trying to find some formula of words that would explain why he had acted as he had.

I love you, Li Yuan. Can't you see that? As I loved my elder brother Chang. Just as you loved Han Ch'in. It was their deaths that brought us so close. Beside which, this is nothing.

He sighed, then pushed through the doors into his study. If only that were true. If only it were in the past. But he had seen Li Yuan's face and had known at once that the hurt he'd felt had never gone away— that deep inside the wound was still bleeding.

Tsu Ma went to his desk and sat, waiting, his fingers laced before him, his whole body trembling with a fearful anticipation. He had thought himself fearless, had thought himself beholden to no man; but 1 now he knew. Li Yuan. He needed Li Yuan. As a friend. As a brother and an intimate. Without him . . . Well, he could not bear the thought of it. To be severed from Li Yuan after all they had gone through together. It could not be. It simply could not be.

A minute passed and another. Then, with a suddenness that made him jump, there was a knock.

"Enter," he said, feeling his heart thump heavily in his chest.

His Secretary, Tu Fu-wei, took a step into the room, then bowed low.

"What is it, Tu?"

"It is Li Yuan, Chieh Hsia, he refuses to speak to you. He . . ." The young man looked bewildered. "It seems he has given orders for the borders to be closed between the Cities."

Tsu Ma stared at his servant, stunned by the news. The last time Li Yuan had closed the borders had been when he had had the plague in his City and had closed the gates to City Africa. Within months there had been war.

He sat back, robbed of words, then shook his head.

"Chieh Hsia?"

There was a blankness in his head. He could not think. For once he did not know what to do.

Tu Fu-wei came closer, looking at his Master with alarm now. "Chieh Hsia? Are you all right? Should I send for Surgeon T'ung?"

Tsu Ma shivered, then looked back at his Secretary. "No, I ..." He shook his head, waving the man away, then stood, needing for the briefest moment to support himself against the desk.

The borders. Li Yuan had closed the borders. . . .

He crossed the room and went out, heading for his new bride's quarters. He had to see her. It was his duty to see her. Yet all of the joy, all of that wonderful lustful anticipation he had been feeling earlier, had gone from him now, leaving him an empty husk. And all the while his thoughts circled the same point.

He'll come around. He's angry now, but things will change. He needs to sleep on it, that's all. Right now he wants revenge. Rightly so. But in a day or two . . .

No, he thought, stopping outside Shu-sun's door. For there are some things that can never be forgiven. Some actions which can never be atoned for. Not in ten thousand years.

Then, steeling himself against his new bride's disappointment, he knocked on the door and pushed it open, the rich scent of her perfume greeting him as he stepped into the darkness.

"Hwa Kwei?"

The voice from the shadows was only a whisper, nonetheless Tsu Ma's Master of the Inner Chambers stopped dead, giving a small cry of surprise. He had thought he was alone and unobserved.

Stepping from the shadows, Prince Kung-chih took him by the arm and drew him aside, into one of the small reception rooms.

Closing the door quietly behind him, the young prince turned, look-

ing at the tray Hwa was carrying, at the cloth-covered bowl, then met his eyes again. "Have you . . . ?"

Hwa shook his head, then answered the Prince quietly, terrified of being overheard. "I couldn't. Her door is locked. It seems the T'ang sleeps alone tonight."

"Alone?" Kung-chih's voice was loud with surprise. "On his wedding night?"

Hwa Kwei winced. "Please, Master . . ."

Kung-chih grinned. "That bodes well, neh, Master Hwa? But we must be sure, neh?" He reached down and removed the cloth from over the bowl, then sniffed at the soup. "You are sure this will work?"

Hwa Kwei nodded.

"Good. Then make sure you treat our Mistress the new Empress well, Master Hwa. Make sure she has her bedtime bowl of soup, particularly those nights my uncle does decide to visit her."

Hwa Kwei swallowed, then bowed his head. "I shall do as you ask, Prince Kung."

Kung-chih straightened, his demeanor changing, becoming more threatening. "Make sure you do, Hwa Kwei. Make very sure you do."

LI YUAN stood beside the carp pool, looking down into its depths, watching the fish drift slowly, dark within the dark, circling like the thoughts within his skull.

It shall be war, he thought, the last shred of doubt gone from him. I shall recall the armies from Africa and crush the monster in the depths of my City.

That was the easy part. As for the rest . . .

The day, now it was done, seemed like a dream. The hurt he'd felt— the anguish and pain—now seemed unreal, like a nightmare he had woken from. Not that they were gone. No. They were still there, in the depths. It was just that he was blank now, emotionally inert.

An hour back, Pei K'ung had sent a girl, thinking it a kindness, but he had turned her away. Throwing on a cloak, he had come here, hoping to lose himself, knowing the silent spell this place wove over him.

He crouched, then put out a hand, stirring the water's surface.

Just fall forward, he thought. Just let go, Li Yuan, and it will all be. done with.

But he could not let go. In spite of everything some part of him refused to weaken; refused to take that final, irrevocable step. They could take it all from him—his brother, his father, his wives, yes, even the one man he truly trusted; the one man he had truly loved—and still he'd not succumb.

Tired as he was, he was not that tired. Hurt as he was, he was not that hurt.

Like a brother he had been. Like a brother . . .

He let his head droop, let a shuddering breath escape him, then slowly straightened up. His limbs felt leaden, his blood sluggish in his veins.

"Chieh Hsia?"

Nan Ho must have been standing there some while, his head bowed, his arms straight at his sides, like a shadow beside the door.

"What is it, Master Nan?"

Nan Ho stepped forward, his face suddenly half lit, his dark eyes concerned.

"Forgive me, Chieh Hsia. I did not mean to disturb you. I just wondered . . . well, if you were all right?"

Li Yuan smiled wearily. "It has been a long day, Master Nan. I am tired. Very tired."

Nan Ho bowed his head. "Of course, Chieh Hsia. I"—he hesitated, stepped back into the shadow, then came forward again—"I did not know, Chieh Hsia. I just wanted you to know that. There were rumors at the time—rumors we crushed in the bud, but . . . well, I did not believe them. Marshal Tolonen and I—"

Li Yuan raised a hand. At once Nan Ho fell silent. The T'ang's eyes were pained, his face muscles tensed. He looked down, composing himself, then looked back at his Chancellor, his face stern.