White Moon, Red Dragon

"I hear what you say, Master Nan, but there will be no further mention of that man within my hearing, nor within the walls of any palace or official building under my jurisdiction. From henceforth it must be as if he does not exist."

Nan Ho stared at him a moment, shocked by the coldness he saw in his Master's eyes, then bowed his head.

"It shall be so, Chieh Hsia."

"Good," Li Yuan said. "Then good night, Master Nan. May the gods look after us in the days ahead."

KARR woke in the small hours, his whole body beaded in sweat, shaken by a dream in which Lehmann had stolen into their rooms and taken May, replacing her with a perfect changeling—an android copy. Fearful, he had gone to May's room and knelt beside her bed, touching her arm in the darkness to feel the warmth there, checking at her neck for a pulse.

She had stirred and he had sung to her, crooning softly until he was certain she had settled. Only then did he go back.

Marie spoke to him from the darkness, her voice heavy with sleep. "Gregor?"

"It's all right," he said, climbing in beside her. "I heard a noise. From May's room. I was just checking she was okay."

She murmured some vague noise of understanding, then cuddled close, placing her head on his chest, asleep in an instant. Normally it would have been enough to soothe him, to calm his fears, but this once he could not get to sleep again. He lay there, tense, remembering the dream, disturbed by it—seeing again and again his daughter turn and laugh at him, her mouth a dark hole within which he could see the full moon burning.

CHAPTER EIGHT

To the Edge

THE TOWER dominated the valley. Inside, heavy wooden blinds had been pulled down over the massive windows at either end of the Upper Hall, leaving it in heavy shadow—a brooding darkness that a shaft of light from a skylight breached, picking out a tiny figure in bloodred silks, standing on the stone flags beside a fountain.

Fu Chiang, "the Priest," Big Boss of the Red Flower Triad of North Africa, stood at the center of the Hall, looking up through the skylight at the faint circle of the moon in the early morning sky. Behind him the light glittered off the flowing water of the fountain, making the green-bronze flanks of the running horse shimmer.

He loved this hour when the air was so clear and cool and the fortress silent. Walking to the door he pushed aside the blue silk curtain and went out onto the balcony, stepping from shadow into sunlight.

Dismissing the two guards, he went to the parapet and looked out across the valley. From this vantage point all was below him. To his right three peaks soared into the cloudless sky, their very stillness making him think of eternity. Dark green pines clothed their flanks, hiding the gun emplacements he knew were there. To his left the land fell away more steeply, the stark geometric shapes of the lower garrison bunkers jutting from the smooth face of the rock. Far below a river wound its way into the distance, like a black snake coiled in the grass. Somewhere in the middle ground lay two small villages. Beyond them the dark massed shapes of the Atlas Mountains-rose once more, stretching to the horizon.

Fu Chiang looked up, taking a deep breath, and stared into the perfect blue of the sky. More and more he found himself drawn to this place. More and more he left the day-to-day running of the brotherhood to his lieutenants; to his Red Pole, Hu Lin, and his White Paper Fan, Tan Sui.

This had once been a summer retreat for Wang Sau-leyan. It was rumored he had even brought his woman here—the hsueh pcd. But that had been some while back now. Fu Chiang had taken it over two years ago, after Wang's death, paying off the local Warlord, Yen Fu.

For now, he thought. For the day will come when Yen Fu will pay me.

Yes, but Yen Fu was not a problem. An irritation, maybe, but not a problem.

Li Min ... Li Min was the problem.

He turned, looking to the north, the stone face of the tower climbing into the air to his left. This morning, not long after first light, a cruiser had come from that direction. On board had been Li Min's henchman, Visak.

Fu Chiang pulled at his beard thoughtfully. His Wu would be here shortly. He had summoned him as soon as he'd learned what Visak wanted, knowing that this was not a course to be entered on lightly. To give Visak shelter—to agree to what he wanted—would, if Li Min heard of it, surely make an enemy of the man. On the other hand, to send him back . . .

He sighed, suddenly impatient. Where was the man? Why hadn't he come? He turned and went back inside, hurrying across the Hall and throwing the door open.

"Guard!"

The man came quickly to his Master's summons and knelt at his feet.

"Find out what's happened to the Wu!"

"Master!"

The man bowed low, then hurried off, calling to others as he went.

Fu Chiang stood there a moment, banging his clenched fist against the doorpost with frustration, then went back inside. It would not have been so bad had he been able to trust any of his fellow Mountain Lords, but who was to say which one of them would take advantage of the situation and inform Li Min?

Or was he worrying too much? Could Li Min really harm him?

Yes, he thought. Not directly, but the bastard could withdraw his support and fund his enemies, and that could shift the balance of power against him. Unless . . .

Unkss I make a deal—another deal—this time with Li Min's principal enemy.

He laughed. The very thought was outrageous. But why not? Why shouldn't he, a Mountain Lord, make deals with one of the Seven? After all, the times had changed. And if Visak was so important, then maybe Li Yuan would be willing to buy the man.

The more he thought of it, the more he liked the idea.

He turned, hearing voices and running footsteps, and nodded to himself. If the Wu confirmed it—if the signs were right—then he would act.

And if they weren't!

No. He was convinced of it. The oracle would bear it out. Visak . . . Visak was the key that would open many doors for him.

TSUNG YE edged to the side of the bed, then, carefully pulling the silken covers aside, slipped out, tiptoeing to the chair where he had left his clothes. Pei K'ung lay on her side on the far side of the bed, naked, her shoulder and the curve of her back visible from where he stood, dressing.

He had waited almost twenty minutes until he was sure she was asleep, knowing that if he woke her he would be there still an hour hence. The thought of it made him lower his eyes and groan inwardly. It was not that his Mistress was a bad lover. Far from it. He was surprised by how passionate, how enthusiastic, she was, how quickly she had learned the arts of pleasure. Nor did her age or lack of beauty put him off. It was just that she was so ... well, insatiable. As if she was trying to make up for forty years of celibacy in a few brief days.

Tsung Ye sat, pulling on his boots, then stifled a yawn. She had kept him at it all night, that last time riding him like a demon, her face distorted so that, for the briefest moment, he had been afraid, thinking she had been taken over by the legendary fox lady. He shuddered, remembering it, then stood, pressing his feet down into the bottom of the soft kid boots she had bought him.

That, at least, was one good thing that had come of this. The presents she kept showering on him: new clothes, a golden timepiece, silks, jewelry, and cloth-bound books. Even so, the situation worried him. One of these days they would be caught. He knew it for a certainty. And though she said her husband knew, how certain could he be of that? After all, it was not something he could check.

He sighed. Maybe she would tire of him. Maybe, once her passion for him had waned, she would take another to her bed. Until then he must be careful. Until then he must do as she said.

He tiptoed to the door and opened it, checking the corridor, then slipped outside. Pulling the door closed behind him, he hurried away, making for his bed and the sweet oblivion of sleep.

P EI K' u N G heard the door click shut, then turned and pulled herself up onto the cushions. Stretching, she yawned then smiled. The night had been wonderful, the best yet, but though she felt exhausted, she could not sleep. For a while she lay there in a fitful reverie, remembering what they had done, her hand straying down to touch her breasts, her sides, the soft-haired nest between her legs.

Yes, my little bird, she thought, a sigh of contentment escaping her, you were right to slip away when you did. Get some sleep. For tonight I shall have need of you again.

After a while she got up and went through to her bathroom. Squatting there over the bowl, washing herself, she felt a shiver run through her, imagining not Tsung Ye but her husband, watching her. For a moment she closed her eyes, letting the fantasy run its course, imagining him chancing upon her, there where she was, then coming across to throw her down upon the tiled floor and have her on the spot. The thought of it made her nerves tingle, the hair on her neck stand on end.

Awake, she thought. After all this time 1 am awake.

She dried herself, then went back through, not bothering to summon her maids, but searching the great carved wardrobes herself, looking for something that suited her mood. Something light and airy. She decided on a simple wrap of lavender and pink decorated with embroidered silk butterflies. Laying it on the bed, she went to her dressing table and sat.

"Send my maids," she said, addressing the House Computer.

They were there in an instant. Curtseying in the doorway, they came in, then stopped, hesitating as they saw her at the mirror, naked.

She smiled, seeing how they averted their eyes as they came across, then spoke to them, giving them their orders.

"Tiny Jade, I want you to put my hair up. You will do something fashionable with it, all right? As for you, Autumn Snow, you must use all your skills to make your Mistress presentable."

"Mistress!" the two maids said together, bowing and looking to each other with worried glances; glances Pei K'ung pretended not to see.

"And, girls," she said, the familiar authority of her voice tempered with a unexpected tenderness. "Do this properly and I shall reward you well."

NAN HO stopped outside the Empress's rooms, then, clearing his throat, knocked loudly on the outer door.

There was a faint exchange of voices from within and then the door eased back, a guard staring out at the Chancellor. Seeing who it was, the man bowed his head and stepped back, announcing him.

"Mistress, it is his Excellency, the Chancellor."

Pei K'ung was seated in her throne, the dignitaries of her household surrounding her, as if she'd been expecting him.

"Master Nan," she said, smiling. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Nan Ho knelt, bowing his head, then stood, returning her smile. "Forgive me, Mistress, but I have come from your husband. He wishes to see you at once."

She gave a nod, then turned, dismissing the dignitaries. As they went, Nan Ho frowned, noting the absence of Tsung Ye, surprised not to see the ever-present young secretary at her side.

He bowed again, letting her pass, then fell in two paces behind her as they went out into the corridor.

"Is my husband better?"

"Better, Mistress?"

She stopped and turned, facing him. "Forgive me for being so blunt, Master Nan—I mean no disrespect by it—but let me have no more of this bullshit from you. You know what I mean. Yesterday we returned from Astrakhan at a moment's notice, snubbing our cousin's wedding. Today a decree is issued banning all mention of the man's name. It takes no great intelligence to figure that something happened between my husband and his cousin, does it?"

Nan Ho nodded, conceding the point.

"Moreover, it was noticeable how pale my husband seemed, returning from our cousin's palace. So I ask you again, Master Nan. Is my husband feeling any better?"

He laughed. "That is something I think you had best judge for yourself." He put his hand out. "If you would . "

She smiled, then turned, walking on at a pace, leaving him to half walk, half run to try and keep up with her. |

LI yuan was halfway through a meeting when she came into his study. Without breaking sentence he motioned toward a chair, his eyes following her as she made her way across and sat.

Flicking out her fan, she waved it before her face, hiding a yawn, then clicked it shut, studying the senior official who stood stoop-backed before her husband's desk.

At once she sensed something different. It was not just the tension in the room, though that, of itself, was quite remarkable; nor was it the crowd of advisors and retainers who were gathered in the room; it was something in the words her husband used—in their curt significance and in the underlying menace she sensed in them. Even before he dismissed the man and turned to her she knew. He had decided upon war.

"Chieh Hsia," she said, addressing him formally, anticipating him. "Might we talk alone?"

He stared at her a moment, then nodded and waved the rest away. When they had gone he stood and came around the desk to her.

"So, Pei K'ung, what is it?"

She looked up at him, meeting his eyes squarely, almost as an equal. "Yesterday . . . that business with your cousin. I know you do not wish to talk about it, but ..."

"But what?" There was a hardness in him suddenly that told her she had been right. "Speak, then be silent."

She bowed her head. "When I was researching in the imperial library, I came upon something. Something to do with your cousin."

"Go on," he said, a note of curiosity entering his voice.

"It was to do with your first wife, Fei Yen."

She looked up, expecting to find him glaring at her, but to her surprise he was looking away, a muscle in his cheek jumping. Then a tear dropped from the corner of his eye and rolled swiftly down his cheek and into the folds of his silks. She blinked, astonished.

"Husband, I ..."

He turned to face her, then sniffed deeply and wiped away a second tear that had formed but not fallen. "You understand, then?"

She nodded, but at the core of her she was shocked. So it was true. It really was true. And because of it the two T'ang were not now speaking, and Li Yuan was preparing for war. She shivered and clicked open her fan again, moving it distractedly.

"I have had her put under house arrest," he said. "Her son is held separately. Without him she'll do no more mischief."

"Ah . . ." Again she felt a faint shock of surprise. "She tried to see you," she said quietly.

He stared at her.

"A few days ago," she said, putting the fan down and holding it stiffly in her lap, "I ... I saw her myself. Sent her away. I"—she looked up at him again—"I thought it best. I did not realize—"

"No. . . ." He sighed. "You were not to blame, Pei K'ung. The woman"—he shook his head and grimaced—"the woman was always unstable. I was wrong to marry her. It was infatuation . . . childish infatuation. I see that now."

She nodded. But whereas only three days ago, she would not have understood, now she saw it clear. When it came to love and sex the eyes were blind.

"Is it war?" she asked, changing the subject. "I mean, against Li Min?"

"Yes." Strangely, he offered her a smile. "I'm glad you know. I ... I was so lonely. So wrapped up in myself. But now . . . Well, now it's easier, neh?"

He stared at her a moment, as if seeing her for the first time, then frowned. "You're . . . different, Pei K'ung. Your hair. That dress. It ... it makes you seem much younger."

She bowed her head, a faint blush coming to her neck. "I ... I thought I would try to please you, husband. I"—she looked up again, noting that his eyes were still upon her—"I thought I could, perhaps, come to you tonight. After you had retired. To talk and . . . well, to help you relax."

He opened his mouth, as if, for the briefest moment, he was going to say no, then, with a curt little movement, he nodded.

Pei K'ung sat there, her heart pounding, her mouth suddenly dry. Then, realizing that the audience was at an end, she stood and, bowing, backed away.

MAY STOOD IN the doorway to the shower, watching while her father washed himself down, her four-year-old eyes taking in his every movement. Glancing at her, he smiled self-consciously, then turned, facing the stone wall, whistling softly to himself.

"Papa?"

He stopped and turned back. "Yes, little plum blossom?"

"Those marks . . ." She pointed to the tattoos on his chest and arms, her tiny face creased up with curiosity.

"These?" He laughed, then, cutting the flow, stepped out and grabbed a towel. "I had these done when I was twelve. Long ago, that was. Long, long ago. And far away, come to that."

She stared at him, waiting. Shrugging, he toweled his loins dry, pulled on some shorts, then crouched down next to her.

"These," he said, indicating the dragon tattoos on his left arm, "are the red dragon of summer and the green dragon of spring. And this"— he smiled, seeing how her eyes widened at the sight of it—"is the great eagle, symbolizing strength."

She shivered, then reached out to touch and trace the design.

"But why is it so cruel?" she asked, pointing to the terror-stricken horse the eagle clutched in each of its steellike talons.

"Because strength is cruel, perhaps." He watched her, seeing how she studied the design, and felt a tightening of his stomach muscles at the thought of what lay ahead.

What kind of world will you grow up in? he wondered. A world of eagles and dragons? Or will it be a kinder, safer place?

The thought disturbed him. He reached out and picked her up, cuddling her, then carried her through into the kitchen where Marie was preparing the breakfast.

"You want a hand?" he asked, setting May down.

She turned from the stove and smiled. "Are you ill, Gregor?"

He laughed. "No. It's just that I'm not used to being waited on. In Africa I would eat with the men, help prepare the meals. But that's not what I meant. This"—he looked about him—"I wonder if all this will be the same . . . afterward."

There was a flicker of uncertainty in her face and then she smiled again, reassuring him. "We'll come through, Gregor. We always do. Besides, you've more than us two to think of now,"

Karr smiled, but the memory of what Lehmann had said lay underneath his joy. Death. Death lay beneath the surface wherever one looked. He went across and stood beside her, reaching past her to take the tiny statue from the shelf by the window. More and more these past few years people had reverted to such things.

"You should be careful," he said, holding it out to her. "It's still illegal."

She raised an eyebrow, then took it from him and set it back. "It's Si Ming."

"Ah . . ." He looked at it again, then nodded to himself. Si Ming was the God of Fate, bestower of life and death. It was he, they said, who determined how long a man's life should be. He shivered, then reached out to touch the tiny statue, as if to take some of its good luck.

"Gregor?"

He looked at her, then laughed. "It'll do no harm."

"I thought you made your own luck."

He nodded. It was what he'd always said. But in the days ahead a single man would be like a seed, blown by the great wind. In the days to come they would need all the luck they could get.

"I—" He stopped, hearing a knocking at the door, then moved past her. It had an urgent sound to it.

He threw the door open. A messenger stood there, dressed in the dark green and red of Li Yuan's personal staff. The young man handed him a sealed letter, then bowed and backed away.

Karr watched him go, then broke the seal and took the letter from the envelope.

"What is it?" Marie said from the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a cloth.

"New orders," he said, looking back at her. "I'm to go to Africa."

"To the Banners?"

He shook his head. "No. I am to meet a Mountain Lord named Fu Chiang. It seems Lehmann's man Visak has fled the nest. He wants to make a deal."

"Tell me your name?"

Light flickered in the creature's eye. The pupil moved to the right, contracting slightly.

"I am . . ."

It hesitated, searching its newly implanted memory.

"Well?" Kim asked, adjusting the scope that was set up over the creature's face, then glancing at the twin screens beside the operating table.

"Of course." Kim loosened the scope arm and pulled it aside. "Sit up, Box. I want to talk to you about what you remember."

Like a waxwork waking into life, it sat up, slipping its legs over the side of the operating table. Its eyes were an intense blue. Kim stood facing it, dwarfed by it.

"Good." Kim studied it, as if looking for flaws. "Now tell me. The house. You remember the house, right?"

"I remember."

"Fifteen rooms, you said. A big house. The house where Box lived with his parents."

"And my brothers."

"Ah." Kim nodded, as if it were the answer he'd expected. "Two brothers?"

"Three," it corrected him.

"Of course." Kim smiled. "Your brothers ... did they have names?"

"They . . . Yes. They had names."

"Good. And their names . . . what were they, Box?"

"One . . . one was named Other. The second was Pole. The third"—it reached inside, its face forming the rudiments of a frown, then it smiled—"the third was Square."

Kim smiled. "Good. That's very good, Box. But tell me, did you play with your brothers? In the garden, for instance?"

"I"—its hesitation this time was pronounced—"I must have. I ... I think I remember playing with them."

"Were there trees in the garden?"

"Yes." It was more confident this time. "Four trees."

"One for each brother."

"That's right."

"Okay. We'll leave it now. Rest now, Box. Lie down and rest."

Outside once more, Curval rounded on him. "What's going on? Where the hell did it get all that stuff?"

"It made it up."

"Made it up?"

"To fill the gaps."

Curval laughed. "Three brothers . . . Aiya! It's a pathological liar! We might as well destroy it right now! It's living in a fantasy world!"

Kim nodded. "Sure. But that's exactly what we intended, wasn't it?"

"Yes, but—"

"No, think about it, Andrew. What did we set out to achieve with the implant? To give it memories that seemed real. To give it some kind of back-story so that it thought of itself as being more than a simple machine of flesh—so that it could function properly. All well and good. But the trouble is, how do we make sure that that story— that 'false history,' if you like—is detailed enough? Up to now we've been assuming that what we were giving it was enough. That it would accept the implant verbatim and use it like some kind of theatrical backdrop. But we know now that that assumption was a false one."

"Because there were gaps. Because you didn't name it."

"Sure. But there are always going to be gaps. Don't you see that? That demonstration just now—the things I left out of its back-story were glaring and obvious, but they make the point. Whatever we leave out, it will invent. Wherever it finds gaps—however small—it will fill them. That's the nature of it."

"So we make the implant more detailed."

Kim laughed. "You're missing the point, Andrew. What we're talking about here is duplicating a life—the memory of a life—detail for detail. We're talking about a piece of programming so huge, so complex, that we could put a thousand men on the job and they'd still be working on it fifty years from now."

"Okay. So what is the point? Are you suggesting we should give up? Is that it?"

"Not at all. What I'm saying is that we need to take this new factor—this facility it has for filling gaps, for inventing its own reality—into our calculations. We need to reconceive what we've been doing and to construct the next generation of implants not as backdrops but as mental skeletons. If we can give the new models some kind of coherent framework, they can flesh it out themselves. And if I'm right—if my instinct for this is correct—then we'll not only cure the instability problem we've suffered with previous prototypes but we might even simplify the whole imprinting process."

"So where do we go from here?"

"First we go back to GenSyn. Get them to expedite the release of the new brain matter they've been working on. There have been delays with the paperwork—the usual kind of thing—but I'll get on to To-lonen. See if he can't put a rocket up them."

"And Box?"

Kim turned, looking back at the creature. "We'll let Box run for a week. See how he fills himself. And then . . . well, then I guess we close the lid." He looked back at Curval. "The shame of it is that he'll "I am unnamed," it said finally.

"Good," Kim said, looking across the room to where Curval sat behind the control desk. "Why do you think that is?"

There was activity on the right-hand screen—tiny flares of red and yellow within the dark outline of the skull—and then an answer.

"Because I have not been named."

"Good." Kim peered down the scope again, adjusting the fingertip controls. "And yet it is in the nature of things to be named, no?"

The creature was silent. At the desk Curval smiled.

"So why does everything—even the smallest, inanimate thing-possess a name and you none?"

Again the flares danced in the outline skull, brighter this time and more intense.

"I ... I do not know."

Kim straightened up, then studied the left-hand screen, where two graphs—one in green, one in yellow—showed respiration and blood pressure. He nodded, satisfied, then looked back at the creature.

"Do you remember your parents?"

It gave a smile of recognition. "I remember."

"Good." Kim patted its arm. "So what did they call you?"

"Call me?"

"You lived with them, right?"

Flares of yellow intensified into red, faded, and then returned. The respiration rate was up—dramatically.

Kim looked at Curval and nodded.

"You remember them, but you can't remember being with them, is that how it is?"

There was a look of pain on the creature's face now, of confusion. It gave a tiny nod, constrained by the scope.

"Good. And the house you lived in. It was a big house, neh?"

"Very big. There were fifteen rooms."

"Fifteen? That's a lot of rooms for just the three of you. You had no brothers or sisters?"

"No"—again it hesitated—"I ... I don't think so."

"Okay." Kim laid his hand on the creature's shoulder, reassuring it. "You can relax now. We'll talk more later."

He went out, Curval joining him in the anteroom.

"Well?" the older man asked impatiently. "What do you think?"

Kim went to the machine in the corner and punched for a bulb of soup. "I think the implant's taken well."

Curval followed him across. "So what was all that about?"

Kim turned back, handed Curval the bulb, then punched for another. "You mean, why didn't I program him properly? Why did I leave gaps?"

"That's exactly what I mean."

Kim took the bulb, cracked it open, then sat on the corner of the nearby table. "Because I want to see what it does with them."

Curval frowned. "With what?"

Kim sipped then smiled. "With the gaps. If my hunch is right, its brain won't be happy with the situation—with there being gaps. If I'm right, it will try to fill them."

"Fill them? How? We'd have to program it, surely?"

"Would we?" Kim sipped again, then laughed. "Let's give it half an hour and see what happens."

Curval laughed, then turned, looking through the glass at the creature on the table. It lay there, inert, like a piece of discarded machinery. "What could happen?"

Kim finished his soup, throwing the flattened bulb into the disposal. "It might invent something."

"Like what?"

"Wait and see," Kim said, going to the machine and punching for another soup. "Just wait and see."

"Tell me your name?"

Light flickered in the creature's eye. On the right-hand screen a single flare of yellow brightened and then faded.

"I am Box."

"I see." Kim looked across. Curval, at the desk, was sitting forward, astonished.

"Box. That's the name your parents gave you?"

"Yes."

"You remember your parents, then?"

"You asked me that before."

Kim smiled. "I did, didn't I?"

"You asked me if I remembered being with them and I said no,"

"But now you do?"

It hesitated, then. "Yes, I remember it now."

"Why do you think that is?"

"I ... I must have forgotten."

never know, never realize just what he could have been. Gaps All he'll ever know are gaps."

VON PASENOW stood in the shadows at the back of the room, waiting while Tolonen took the call. He listened, sensitive to the nuances in the Marshal's voice, to the sudden defensive stiffness of his posture, and knew that the old man's overpolite manner concealed real depths of hostility. Whoever Ward was, he was no friend of the Marshal's.

As the old man cut the call and turned to him again, he straightened, attentive once more.

"I'm sorry about that," Tolonen said, a flicker of distaste crossing his face. "You'd think he'd deal with the appropriate manager! Why he has to pester me . . . Anyway . . . you were saying you had news."

Von Pasenow took two steps forward, into the circle of light cast by the hover-globe at Tolonen's elbow, then bowed his head.

"I think we've found them, sir."

"Found them! Why that's excellent! Where?"

He raised his head. Tolonen was leaning forward, staring at him eagerly.

"We've traced them to Cosenza in the south. It looks like they're preparing to slip away to Africa. My guess is that they're waiting to be paid off, otherwise they'd have gone."

Tolonen nodded, then waved him to continue.

"I've had the surrounding levels staked out thoroughly. Good men. Reliable, ex-service types. My men are in the transits and at all the barriers. If they even cough I'll know about it."

Tolonen stood. "Excellent. Then let's go there, neh?"

"Marshal?" Von Pasenow stared at the old man, surprised. "But I thought . . ."

Tolonen came around the desk and placed a golden hand on Von Pasenow's shoulder. "You've done a good job, Major. I knew you would. That's why I hired you. But this is personal. You understand?"

Von Pasenow bowed his head. "Of course, sir. I'll take you there at once."

"Good. And, Major ... if we have to take containment action, we do what has to be done, neh? I'll accept the responsibility for any consequences. But I want at least one of the fuckers alive. I don't care how you do it, but you do it, right?"

Von Pasenow swallowed, then bowed his head. "Sir!"

THE CURTAINS WERE DRAWN, the room in semidarkness. From the far side of the room he could hear her soft, regular breathing and smiled. The room was warm, filled with the sweetly perfumed scent of her. Hesitant, he pushed the door closed and tiptoed to the bed.

Shu-sun lay there, her back to him, a bright red silk wrapped about her nakedness. Gently Tsu Ma sat, careful not to disturb her, then leaned across, his eyes taking in the features of her sleeping face.

He had not been wrong. She was every bit as beautiful as he'd remembered. As he watched, she turned, slowly, sensuously uncurling, her lips parting a fraction, her shoulders and neck stretching. Then, with a lazy motion, her eyes opened, the pupils heavy with sleep. Seeing him, she smiled.

"Where were you?" she asked, her voice a lazy, familiar drawl. "I thought you were going to come, but you didn't. . . ."

He felt a pang of guilt and quickly suppressed it. "I'm here now," he said, placing his palm against her cheek and smoothing it. She took it and slowly led it down her body onto the warm, firm breast beneath the silk.

"I wanted you."

"Wanted?" He felt a tiny shiver of anticipation pass through him. The silken warmth of her inflamed him.

"Want," she said, correcting herself.

She lifted his hand to her lips, kissed it, then, releasing it, drew back her silks, revealing her nakedness. Tsu Ma let a long, slow breath escape him, bewitched by the sight of her, then leaned forward and gently kissed first one and then the other breast, his tongue lingering on the nipples.

He glanced up at her. Her eyes were closed now, her whole face lit with pleasure at what he was doing. He bent again, kissing and teasing her breasts, his hands moving down her body, tracing the smooth young shape of it, eliciting soft sighs from her.

Moving back, he shrugged off his jacket and then stood, beginning to undress. Her eyes opened lazily, watching him, her smile heavy with desire, her body turning toward him like an offering. He threw off his shirt and kicked away his boots, then peeled off his leggings. As he moved forward to kneel on the edge of the bed, she sat up and reached out to him, her fingers caressing his stomach and his inner thighs, tracing a circle about his groin, her eyes wide, enjoying the sight of his fierce arousal.

He closed his eyes and groaned as she leaned closer, her fingers cupping his balls gently, tenderly while her mouth opened to him. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he began to knead the muscles there, half tender, half savage.

"Aiya," he moaned, unable to keep himself from thrusting at her. "Aiya!"

His hands were at her neck now. As she leaned into him, taking him deeper, he reached up with his right hand and, grasping the point where her hair was gathered into a plait, pulled back her head, as if reining in a horse.

She stared back up at him, her mouth still open, her face entirely changed, a primal savagery staring back at him from her eyes. He shuddered then pulled her down, his mouth going to hers and crushing it almost brutally, even as her legs parted and her body curled about his. With a gasp he was inside her, the shock of entry making them both cry out, she high, he low. Savagely he thrust at her, as if to destroy her, to annihilate her utterly, her cries, the pained contortions of her face, robbing him of all reason. She clung to him fiercely, pushing up to meet each downward thrust like some young animal in its death throes.

As he came she cried out, convulsing beneath him, thrusting up against him as if to split herself, her hands gripping his buttocks fiercely while he groaned as if he'd been speared, forcing his seed deep into her, each thrust now like a dagger blow, his teeth gritted, his whole face contorted in a rictus of pain. Again! Again! Again!

HE WOKE AN HOUR LATER, his head nestled between her breasts, her arms about his neck and shoulders. For a while he lay there, contented, happy simply to listen to her gentle breathing, to feel the soft warmth of her flesh against his own. Like paradise, he thought. Then, knowing he must get back, he gently broke from her, easing up off the bed.

He stood there a moment, staring at her, aroused once more by the sight of her. It would be easy simply to stay here for a day or two. To sleep and make love and damn the world outside. After all, that was a T'ang's privilege. But a T'ang had responsibilities, too, and right now the world was a place of threats and chaos. Right now the world would allow him only a few snatched moments of pleasure.

He shuddered, then began to dress. For a moment he had forgotten everything—everything but her. He smiled, remembering. The first time had been fierce, like the violent coupling of animals, the second tender, softly, astonishingly gentle. And between ... He laughed, surprised by it. Between times he had fallen in love with her.

Fastening the last button of his jacket, he turned, looking at her again, then went across and, leaning over her, planted gentle kisses on her neck, her cheek, her brow.

"Tonight," he whispered. Then, moving back, he straightened up, preparing himself to go out and face the greater world once more.

Tonight, he thought, knowing that there was at least this one sweet certainty amid all else. I shall come to you tonight, my darling Shu-sun.

But first there was one other matter to be settled.

THEY WERE IN TRANSIT when it began—traveling south from Milan garrison, their cruiser flitting less than a hundred ch'i above the City's roof, as if across a vast, smooth snowscape.

"What's happening?" Tolonen demanded, leaning across to touch Von Pasenow's arm.

The ex-Major looked up and grimaced. "It looks like their contact has arrived. They're decamping. If we don't hit them now ..."

"Then hit them," Tolonen said sternly. "But remember what I said. I want at least one of them alive. Tell your men to shoot to disable if they can, not to kill."

"And if they suicide?"

"That's a risk we'll have to take."

Von Pasenow stared at him a moment, then nodded and got back on to his man in Cosenza.

They arrived ten minutes later, setting down beside one of the security hatches. By then it was all over.

"Let's hope they've left us something," Tolonen said as they climbed down from the craft.

"Or someone," Von Pasenow said beneath his breath, fearing the Worst.

Down below it was chaos. Someone had shot at one of the Shen T'se before the ambush was properly set. As a result more than twenty of their own men had been killed or critically wounded. Of the Shen T'se, only one was still alive, and that was because they had blown off both his arms and one of his feet. He lay in one of the rooms, under heavy guard, his wounds freeze-staunched, his condition kept stable by the Resuscitation Machine he was strapped to.

Tolonen went to inspect the dead first, spending a long time staring at the five Shen T'se, murmuring to himself about loyalty and trust, and wondering aloud how such men as these could be bought. Eventually he left them and came through, frowning fiercely as he studied the half-conscious man.

"You know him?" Von Pasenow asked.

"I did," Tolonen answered. "Or thought I did. He was a good man." He heaved a sigh, then sniffed deeply. "But then, men are not to be taken at face value any longer."

The Marshal turned, looking directly at Von Pasenow. "It began with that rascal DeVore. From him it was contracted by my erstwhile son-in-law, Hans Ebert. And from there, it seems, it has spread, like some contagious disease. The disease of seeming. It hollows a man and replaces him with a shadow, a puppet man, dancing to another's orders. So here."

He went across and stood over the wounded Shen T'se, his face pained.

"Sergeant Hoff ... do you know who's speaking to you?"

Hoff s eyes slowly opened. "Marshal Tolonen? Is that you?"

"Hoff ... I need to know a few things, and I need to know them now."

Hoff shook his head.

"I'll make it simple, Sergeant. You tell me now I'll kill you, quickly and mercifully. You know I can do that, don't you?"

Hoff nodded, suddenly more alert.

"If you keep silent, however"—Tolonen sniffed—"well, I think you've a good enough imagination, neh, Sergeant? I could keep you alive, what, thirty, maybe forty years. And every day of that you would be in agony. In a hell that would make your present condition seem like bliss. So ... what is it to be? A quick death or an eternity of suffering?"

Hoff closed his eyes and groaned. "What do you want to know?"

"Who bought you? Who paid you? Who gave you your orders?" He paused, then, leaning closer. "And here's the big one. Where's the boy? Tell me that and I may even offer you a better deal."

Hoff shivered, then opened his eyes again, looking directly at the old man.

"Our contact was a man named Ruddock. He's a Minor Official according to his Security file, but in point of fact he's one of the main mediators between ourselves and the White T'ang's organization."

"Go on."

Hoff grimaced, closing his eyes briefly, then began again. "The paymaster was Li Min himself. As for who gave us our orders ... it was Rheinhardt."

Tolonen laughed. "I don't believe you."

Hoff s eyes stared back at him, a cold certainty in them. "There was a secret meeting, two weeks back, up north. In Goteborg or someplace like that. More than two dozen people attended that meeting, our commander and a number of other high-ranking Security officers among them. Rheinhardt chaired it. The purpose of that meeting was to try to assess just who would come out on top in the event of a war between Li Yuan and Li Min."

Tolonen let out a long breath. "You have proof?"

Hoff nodded. "Our commander . . . Needham . . . swore a personal oath to Rheinhardt. He had us do the same." Again he grimaced, the pain clearly returning as the quick-shot medication wore off. "When the order came from on high we did as we were told."

"I see." The old man nodded, then looked once more to Von Pasenow. "I couldn't understand it," he said. "A Shen T'se unit. Their loyalty is unquestionable. But this, if true, explains it." He looked back to Hoff. "So where's the boy?"

Hoff swallowed dryly, then shook his head. "I don't know. We handed him over back at Linz on our way down here. To a tall man with an oxlike face. Had a shoulder wound. Pale, cadaverous face."

"Li Min's man?"

"I ... I guess so."

Tolonen stared at him a long while, then slowly shook his head.

"I don't believe you, you know that, Hoff? Oh, the part about being in Li Min's pay—that rings true. As for the rest, well ... I think you're out to make mischief for Li Yuan. Rheinhardt—" he laughed, his voice suddenly louder, more authoritative—"I know Helmut Rheinhardt, and he would as soon slit his own throat as think of committing treason against his Master."

He leaned in to the man, placing the fingers of his left hand—the golden, metallic fingers—against the cauterized stump of Hoff s right arm and pressed, gently at first and then with greater and greater pressure.

Hoff screamed.

"Now, Sergeant," Tolonen said, his rocklike face hovering above the sweating man, "let's begin again from the beginning, eh? We've plenty of time, after all. All the time in the world . . ."

F U CHIANG stood beside Karr at the rail, looking down into the fight pit.

"It is brutal, I know, but it is also one of the few pure things there is. To see them fight . . ." Fu Chiang smiled and turned to look at the giant, casting admiring eyes over his physique. "It cannot be faked. One wins, the other dies. There is such . . . clarity."

"I know," Karr said, his look intense. "I was a Blood. I, too, once fought in a pit, beneath the lights."

Fu Chiang's eyes widened. "You fought . . ." Then he laughed. "You jest with me, Colonel?"

Karr turned to him, his eyes deadly serious. "I fought. Beneath the Net. Eight contests, to the death. And then the Supreme Master, Hwa. He almost beat me." Karr breathed deeply then nodded. "He was a great man, Hwa."

"And then?"

Karr smiled. "And then Tolonen found me, used me. Made me the T'ang's man."

Fu Chiang frowned. "I did not know. It ... well, it strikes me as odd that a Blood should rise to become a Colonel in Security, yet looking at you ..."

Fu Chiang put out a hand, touching Karr's chest. It was like touching a warm stone pillar. Karr watched him patiently, neither offended nor pleased by the small man's touch. Fu Chiang let his hand fall and shrugged. "Anyway, to business . . ."

"He's here?"

"Up above, in the Tower Hall. I left him admiring the view."

"It must be beautiful."

"It is." Fu Chiang smiled. "I like you, Colonel Karr. If ever you tire of being in Li Yuan's service . . ."

He left the rest unsaid, then put out an arm, indicating that they should leave. As they walked along they talked, going down corridors and up stairs, moving along passages cut from the stone of the mountainside, guards everywhere.

"You know what to do?" Fu Chiang asked, pausing outside the great doors.

Karr nodded. "You talked of purity back there. Of the clarity that comes when life or death's the issue. But it isn't always so. These days . . ." He looked away, troubled, then met Fu Chiang's eyes again. "Deals. That's all there is these days. Deals."

"That worries you," Fu Chiang said; statement, not question.

"Yes," Karr admitted. "But I can live with that, if it means I can serve the moral good."

"The moral good? You actually believe that?"

"Not all the time. Yet I know there is a difference. To serve a good man, however bad the system that he oversees, well, it might seem strange to you, Fu Chiang, but I find it better than serving such a one as Li Min."

"You make it sound so simple."

Karr shook his head. "Simple? No. It's never simple. Some days . . ." He smiled, then took a step back from the edge. "Never mind. Let's see the White T'ang's man—the Traitor's traitor."

Fu Chiang laughed. "The Traitor's traitor. I like that. I take it you do not trust our friend Li Min?"

"No."

"Nor I . . ."

"Shall we?" Karr said, indicating the doors.

Fu Chiang smiled. "Be patient, Colonel. Visak will wait as long as you and I wish him to wait, but this . . . ah, it is rare to talk without masks. I had almost forgotten how."

Karr raised an eyebrow. "Have you no wife, Fu Chiang? No friend in whom to confide?"

"A wife?" Fu Chiang snorted. "I have a dozen wives! But trusting them . . . why, I'd sooner trust my bollocks on a butcher's block!"

Karr laughed, then grew serious again. "And yet a man cannot live in isolation."

"No?" Fu Chiang considered that, then shrugged. "All my life I have been alone. It is the condition in which I exist. I thought you understood that. To be a Mountain Lord ... it is not an easy path."

"No . . ." Karr's eyes studied him, their earlier suspicion changed to sympathy. "I understand."

"You understand?" Fu Chiang, half Karr's height, an eighth his size, laughed, then met the giant's eyes. "No, Colonel Karr. You do not even begin to understand."

VISAK WAS STANDING beside the fountain, one hand resting on the horse's flank. Hearing the doors creak open, he turned, then hurriedly came across, his nervousness marked.

"What's happening, Fu Chiang? Has Li Yuan agreed my terms?"

"Your terms?" Karr stepped between Visak and Fu Chiang.

Visak took a step back, then, deliberately ignoring Karr, looked to Fu Chiang again. "You know what I said, Fu Chiang. I want guarantees. A safe place. Protection. Twenty million yuan."

Fu Chiang looked to Karr and nodded. Karr stepped forward, the quickness of the movement surprising for so big a man. In an instant he had pinned Visak's arms behind his back and bound them.

"No deals," Karr said, stepping back. "You're my prisoner now, Shih Visak."

Visak glared at Fu Chiang. "You viper. You—"

"You had nothing," Fu Chiang said. "Nothing for yourself, that is. But for me . . ." He grinned, then turned to Karr. "Tell Li Yuan I am grateful for his patronage. Tell him . . . tell him I hope my gift helps him snare that monster in the depths of his City."

Visak looked from one to the other and then snarled. "You cunt! You fucking—"

Fu Chiang's hand flashed out, the stiffened fingers catching Visak crisply in the solar plexus. Visak doubled up, gasping. Fu Chiang turned, meeting Karr's eyes.

"That was good," Karr said, lowering his head respectfully.

Fu Chiang smiled. "Maybe I should have told you, Gregor Karr, but 1 too was once a Blood. Long ago now. Long, long ago ..."

Lf YUAN had signed the Recall Order and was inking it with the Great Seal, pushing down with both hands on the massive chop, when Nan Ho's secretary, Hu Chang, entered the room and, hurrying to his Master, whispered something to him. Nan Ho listened, then stepped forward and spoke up.

"Chieh Hsia. It seems Marshal Tolonen wishes to speak with you urgently."

Li Yuan looked up, smiling bleakly. "Put him on. I am sure he will want to hear the news."

He moved back, letting the two Custodians of the Seal ease the great square stamp from the silk-paper page and replace it on the cushion, then turned to face the screen which slid down from the ceiling to his left.

"Knut . . . what is it?"

The old man's face was bright with joyful relief. "He's back, Chieh Hsia.¹ Li Min has returned the boy!"

"Returned . . ." For a moment he did not understand. "You mean Pauli? Li Min has returned him?"

"Yes!" Tolonen laughed, forgetting himself. "It's wonderful, neh? And no strings!"

No strings. Li Yuan felt his heart sink. What was Li Min up to? "Is he all right?"

"Oh, he's fine, Chieh Hsia!"

Li Yuan nodded, forcing himself to smile, to pretend to share the old man's joy. It was good news, there was no doubting that, yet he could not help but suspect the move. One thing he knew about Li Min, and that was that there was a reason for everything he did. This was no act of kindness, this was a calculated strategy. But to what end? What else was Li Min planning?

"Have you . . . have you had the boy checked?"

"Checked, Chieh Hsia?"

He swallowed, then, knowing no tactful way to put it, said what was on his mind. "Is the boy . . . reai? I mean . . ."

Tolonen laughed. "My personal surgeon has completed a full examination, Chieh Hsia. It is Pauli."

"Good." Li Yuan smiled, relaxing a little. "While you are on, Knut, let me tell you the news. I have recalled the Banner Annies from Africa."

"Chieh Hsia?" Tolonen's smile faded. "But I thought—"

"I have made my decision, Knut. Now forgive me. There is much to do."

Abruptly he cut contact, not wishing to argue the matter out in public with his Marshal.

He turned, looking for his Chancellor, but Nan Ho had left the room. Frowning, he beckoned Nan's secretary across.

"Hu Chang! Where is Master Nan?"

Yet even as he asked, Nan Ho returned, breathless, a strange smile on his face. He came halfway across the great study, then bowed low.

"Master Nan?"

Nan Ho straightened, then held up a flimsy piece of paper. His eyes were twinkling, his face almost laughing now. "It has come, Chieh Hsia! At the last moment it has come!"

He bowed low a second time, then held out his arm, offering the paper to his Master. Li Yuan came around the desk and took it, beginning to read. He had barely read more than a paragraph of it when he looked up abruptly, shocked, meeting Nan Ho's eyes.

"But this is—"

"His capitulation, Chieh Hsia! He calls you Son of Heaven and swears his absolute loyalty, offering his neck before your foot!" Nan Ho laughed. "We have won, Chieh Hsia!"

Li Yuan shook the paper as if to emphasize its flimsiness. "But this means nothing!"

Nan Ho bowed his head, sobered by his T'ang's words. "Forgive me, Chieh Hsia, but you have not heard the rest. This document . . . copies of it are going up throughout the Lowers even as we speak. Millions of copies. Tens of millions! He bows before you, Chieh Hsia! He calls you Son of Heaven!"

"I—" Li Yuan was about to say something more, to question what his Chancellor had said, but the summons bell behind his desk had begun to ring urgently. Wei Tseng-li was trying to contact him.

He returned to his desk and faced the screen once more as his young cousin's face appeared.

"Cousin Wei," he said formally, conscious of the servants in the room with him.

"Cousin Li," Wei Tseng-li answered, an unaccustomed hardness in his face. "I am much worried. Word has come that your African armies are to be mobilized and moved to Europe."

Word.⁷ Li Yuan felt himself go cold. How could word have got to Wei Tseng-li so fast? He had only made the decision an hour back. And the Recall Order . . . that was less than half an hour old! Who of the twenty or so who knew of this had informed his cousin Wei?

"Forgive me, cousin," he said, with a gesture dismissing all those in the room, "but may I ask from whom you heard this . . . rumor?"

Wei Tseng-li waved the query aside. "Do not toy with me, Yuan. I have heard of your quarrel with Tsu Ma. The whys and wherefores I know nothing of, but if you plan to throw your City into a state of war simply to—"

"To what?" Li Yuan interrupted angrily. "Cousin . . . I owe you the life of my son . . . and much more beside . . . but I am a T'ang and what I decide—"

"Will affect my City." Wei Tseng-li leaned into the screen. "What is happening, Li Yuan? Come clean with me. If you are planning war, then tell me, for I shall need to take measures in my own City. If not . . ."

Li Yuan sat back, holding his cousin's eyes a moment, then shook his head.

"The Banners stay in Africa. As for war . , ." He picked up the document and turned it, holding it up so Wei Tseng-li could see.

Wei read, then laughed. "But, Yuan, that is"—he laughed, a boyish laugh of delight that strangely warmed Li Yuan—"that's wonderful!"

Li Yuan nodded, but still he was uncertain. Wonderful? Was it wonderful? Or was it some trick, some empty form designed to trap him? The truth was, he did not know. To the edge . . . The bastard had taken him right to the edge. But for now—for this brief intermission, at least—it was peace.

He let out a long, sighing breath, then laughed, letting himself succumb to Wei Tseng-li's obvious delight.

"Yes, cousin Tseng, it is! It really is!"

CHAPTER NINE

Light and Dark

K

IM STOOD ON the verandah outside his new study, looking out across the gardens. There, on the south lawn between the gravel path and the outer wall, they had erected a geodesic dome—a huge structure more than sixty ch'i in height, framed by a protective web of high-tensile steel. Beneath its darkened outer layer lay two others, all three manufactured from a specially toughened variant of ice Kim had devised himself, the inner layers sealed from the outside and accessible only through a single cast-steel tunnel in which were three air locks. Beside the circle of the outer lock stood T'ai Cho, his tall, senatorial figure making a stark contrast to the workmen who were bowed deferentially before him. Kim smiled, then looked about him, pleased by what he saw. It looked so much better now that they'd laid the lawn and removed the diggers. For weeks it had been chaos, but in the last few days it had all come together. Almost miraculously, it seemed.

Thank the gods T'ai Cho is here, Kim thought with a smile, knowing he would have gone mad trying to cope with this and the project at the same time. As it was the conversion had gone very smoothly. In less than three weeks they had transformed the old Mansion. All that remained now was for the dome's alarm system to be connected and the rose garden transferred from its home in SimFic's labs.

Just in time, he thought, looking back at the elaborately wrapped present that lay on the table beside the open door, for tonight was Jelka's Coming-of-Age party. Tonight, after seven years, he would finally get to see her again.

He smiled, then went inside, walking from room to room past bowing servants, feeling an immense satisfaction at what had been achieved. T'ai Cho had done an excellent job furnishing the house. Gone was the heaviness of the old decor, the oppressive sense of age and mustiness; in its place was something much lighter and simpler.

Yes, Kim thought, stepping into the airy main reception room. This is more like it. This is a home.

Home. The very word was alien to his experience. He had never had a home before, only rooms. But this . . . this had the feeling of a home, of somewhere one could work and live. A place one could venture out from and return to, knowing it would always be there.

A; place waiting to be filled with life.

He walked to the great window and looked out. To the left was the east wing of the house and, on the far side of a shallow lake, an apple orchard; to the right the main driveway and, beyond the pale, lacelike stone of a curving bridge, the massive arch of the ornamental gates.

Home, he thought, surprised by the strength of the emotion engendered by that single word. The Machine was right. I needed to make a home—a place for us to be. . . .

He looked across. T'ai Cho, it seemed, had finished. With a curt gesture he dismissed the men then turned and, gathering his silks about him, began to make his way back to the house.

Kim went out, meeting his old friend in the entrance hall, the great sweep of the stairs to his right.

"Is everything ready?"

T'ai Cho handed the electronic clipboard to a servant, then turned to Kim. "We've had a few problems with the T'ang's Inspectorate, but I think I've smoothed them over. They're going to give the system a trial run. Once that's done we can arrange the transfer."

"Today?"

T'ai Cho shook his head. "The Inspectorate are demanding the very tightest security. They want it done tonight, in the early hours when the levels are clear. And SimFic say they'd need twelve hours' notice."

Kim looked down, disappointed.

"Chin up. It'll make no difference. Besides, it's almost midday. Even if we could arrange it for this evening you'd only miss it. Unless of course—"

"No. We'll wait."

T'ai Cho smiled. "You deserve the best, Kim. I hope it all goes well tonight."

Kim sighed. "It scares me, T'ai Cho. Seeing her again ... I ... I don't know what I'll say."

"Say what comes to mind. 'Thank you' might be a good start, for the tapes she sent you."

"Yes." Kim laughed. "Yes, you're right." He stared at his old friend a moment, then stepped forward and embraced him. "I'm glad you came, T'ai Cho."

"I'm glad you asked me," T'ai Cho said, hugging him tightly, moved by the gesture of affection. "I missed you."

Years ago, when Kim had first come up from the Clay, it had been T'ai Cho who had found him, trained him, fought for him when things went wrong and Andersen—the Director of the Recruitment Project— had wanted to have him terminated. T'ai Cho had been his tutor, his protector, the closest he had known to a father, his own having been killed—executed by the T'ang, unknown to him. Yet, for the last seven years, T'ai Cho had been almost a stranger to him. He had kept in touch, yet his work as a commodity slave for SimFic had filled his time. That, and the waiting . . .

Kim put a hand to the pulsing band about his neck. But now the waiting was at an end. Today Jelka came of age. Today he ceased to be a slave and became an owner. And tonight ... tonight he would ask her to be his wife.

He felt a strange thrill—a mixture of fear and feverish expectancy— pass through him, then turned, looking at the great clock on the wall. "Aiya! I'll be late. . . ."

T'ai Cho shook his head. "Don't worry. I've arranged everything. Director Reiss is coming here."

Kim turned back. "Here? But I thought—"

"You're important to them, Kim. Whatever you want . . ." T'ai Cho stopped, then laughed suddenly. "I'm so pleased for you. So ... thrilled. I keep remembering how we had to fight, even to keep you alive. But now . . . well"—he turned, indicating the opulence of the Mansion and its grounds—"the world is your oyster. You want a Mansion? They give you one. Your own company? It's yours. The hand of the Marshal's daughter? . . . Well, how could he refuse? You are a Great Man, Kim Ward. Today you have arrived. Today you take your place in the world."

Kim looked away, embarrassed, then smiled. "I'd best get ready. When's Reiss due?"

T'ai Cho glanced at the clock. "Any moment. I told him noon."

"Noon? Aiyal" Kim turned, beginning to climb the stairs.

"Kim?"

He stopped, looking down at T'ai Cho from ten steps up.

"Take your time. He'll wait. They'll all wait from now on. You are a Great Man now, remember that?" He smiled enigmatically. "You are the golden key that opens doors, remember?"

Kim's eyes widened. "Matyas . . . You remembered. . . ."

T'ai Cho nodded. "I remembered. But those days are done with now. No one will bully you ever again, Kim. No one. Now go and change. It's time they took that collar from your neck."

Kim touched the glowing band, then nodded and, turning, mounted the steps again, jumping them three at a time. And as he went T'ai Cho spoke softly to his back.

"No one, you understand that, Kim Ward? No one. Not even the great T'ang himself. ..." * * *

"Jelka?"

Tolonen popped his head around the door, looking into his daughter's room.

"Daddy?" She looked up from her desk, then got up and came across to hug him. "How's it going?"

"It's madness. Absolute madness! I've hardly dared come out of my rooms. But Harrison seems to know what he's doing."

Harrison had been brought in by Tolonen two weeks ago to oversee the final stages of the party. He was the veteran of a thousand social campaigns; a hard taskmaster and accomplished socialite rolled into one.

"Don't worry, Daddy," she said, seeing the troubled look on his face. "Any problems, he'll sort them out."

"Yes . . . Yes, I suppose he will." He looked past her distractedly, then gestured toward the brightly lit screen of the scanner on her desk. "Anything interesting?"

She shook her head. "Nothing really ... I thought I'd catch up with my journal."

"Journal?" He looked back at her, intrigued. "You keep a journal?"

"Yes . . . and before you ask, no, you can't see it. It's private."

He raised a hand, as if fending her off. "Okay . . . but make sure you're ready for the first guests."

"Fourth bell. Right?"

"Right." He smiled, then looked past her again. "It's a lovely dress. Your mother"—he shivered, then said it—"your mother would have loved to have seen it."

She turned, looking at the dress where it hung beside her outer-system suit, then nodded. It was her mother's dress—the same dress she had worn to her own Coming-of-Age party twenty-six years before. She turned back, then, kissing him gently on the brow, pushed him from the room, closed the door, then returned to her desk.

For a moment she sat there, staring into space, thinking of her mother; a mother she had seen only in holograms; had only dreamed of; never met, never touched.

Could you love someone you had never met? Could you love them because of what they ought to have been in your Ufe? Love them despite their absence?

She shuddered. Never had she framed it so explicitly, but there it was, the thing that made her different from all her friends; the very thing that made her idiosyncratically herself—the lack of a mother's love.

She typed it in, then sat back.

The closer it gets, the less real it seems.

And what if she found she didn't actually like him? What if the years had changed what she felt? What if the thing she had been carrying inside her all these years was only an illusion—the chimera of love?

It frightened her. She, who prided herself on fearing nothing—who had survived three separate assassination attempts—was afraid of this; of meeting the man she loved. Afraid in case his feelings for her had changed. Afraid simply because she had never done this kind of thing before, never loved. Not in this way. Not in the way she proposed to love him.

Even the thought of it made her feel odd. She had tried not to think of it; had tried to divert her thoughts whenever they fell into that track, but her dreams had tripped her up. In her dreams she had been with him, woman to man, naked with him in that cave on the island where she had seen the fox that time, his dark eyes shining in the dark. Dark, animal eyes that made her shiver simply to think of them staring back at her.

Be brave, she told herself. Furthermore, be true.

Seven years. So much could change in seven years. Yet she had waited. She had kept her word.

Tonight. She shivered, then leaned forward, switching off the screen. Tonight he would be hers.

MADAM PENG WAS W AITING for him in his study.

"Madam Peng," he said, smiling tightly as he moved toward his desk.

She got up quickly, taken by surprise by his entrance. "Marshal Tolonen. Forgive me. . . ." She bowed, the young man at her side standing to do the same.

Tolonen sat, moving the papers he had been working on aside, then looked up, taking in the young man at a glance.

"And this is?"

Madam Peng turned to her left. "This is Emil Bartels. I sent you his file. . . ."

"Ah, yes." Tolonen nodded to the young man. "You understand why you are here, Shih Bartels?"

"Yes, Marshal Tolonen."

Tolonen's expression softened a fraction. "You're a good-looking young man, Emil. And your family . . . very sound, if I recall."

The young man nodded, then glanced at Madam Peng uncomfortably.

"Please, sit down, both of you."

Madam Peng sat, smiling, fluttering the fan before her face. The young man beside her leaned forward, his hands on his left knee, the fingers interlaced, his face deadly earnest.

"Forgive me, Madam Peng," Tolonen began, sitting back a little. "As you know, it was my intention to have Shih Bartels visit my daughter before tonight. To ... prepare her for this. But there simply hasn't been time. Besides, my daughter is ... difficult, let's say. She suspects my motives. I wish only the best for her, of course, but she mistakes my interest for meddling. In the circumstances we must be careful. Her encounter with Shih Bartels must seem an accident."

"This is most unusual," Madam Peng began. "To guarantee success in a matter like this—"

Tolonen raised a hand. "I understand. If my daughter falls for young Emil here, all well and good. He looks a fine young chap and his past conduct is exemplary, but you do not understand. I ..." He frowned, searching for the right words, then shrugged. "Let's put it this way. If you succeed in distracting her tonight ... in entertaining her, let's say, and taking her mind from other matters, well, there will be a huge bonus in it for both of you."

Bartels looked to Madam Peng, surprised. "But I thought—"

"Oh, don't get me wrong," Tolonen said hastily. "If my daughter wishes to see young Bartels again, and if that association leads to marriage, I shall place no obstacle before it. But the main aim of this exercise is to ensure that tonight goes . . . well, without a hitch, let's say."

Madam Peng's fan snapped shut. Her face was now openly suspicious. "Forgive me, Marshal. You might tell me it isn't my business, but does your daughter already have a suitor?"

Tolonen looked down, sniffing deeply, then nodded.

"Aiya!" Madam Peng said softly. "Why in the gods' names didn't you tell me this?"

"You were paid well, Madam Peng," Tolonen said, an edge of steel in his voice. "And if your young man is successful the world shall know of it. As for this rival, this so-called 'suitor,' 1 shall deal with him. Your job is simple. You have only to do what you have always done—to facilitate the coming together of healthy young men and women of the right social level. If there's a problem with that . . . ?"

Madam Peng stared at him a moment, dumbstruck, then shook her head.

"Good. Then you can begin at once. I have arranged a room for you in an apartment nearby. Whatever you need, ask for it. Shih Harrison is in charge. He'll see to all your needs."

Tolonen stood, then came around the desk, offering his hand to the young man. "And good luck, Emil. Do your best for me, neh?"

The young man took the hand and shook it, then stepped back and bowed his head, like a soldier before his commanding officer, while beside him, Madam Peng looked on, her face concerned, the fan fluttering uneasily in her hand.

THE news WAS FULL OF IT. A bizarre new cult was killing people—many of them suspected terrorists—by nailing them to huge wheellike crosses, slitting their wrists, and leaving them to die. There had been a few instances before today, but this morning more than fifty had been discovered in the Mids, sign of a dramatic increase in the cult's activities. Rumor was that it was the work of what had once beeri called the Black Hand—or of a new break-off sect called the Sealed.

Whatever the truth, it was a disturbing escalation, and most of the Media channels had turned their full attention to the new "trend."

Kim sat beneath the screen in his study, watching with the sound turned down as the images changed. He was troubled by this new upturn in violence. Down where he'd come from, in the Clay, such savagery would have seemed quite normal. Dog ate dog down there. But he had climbed the levels to escape from that nightmare reality, thinking it would be different up here.

He had been wrong. The darkness wasn't down there, it was inside. However high men climbed, the darkness climbed within them. It was there, beneath the skin, there behind the pupils of the eyes. Darkness: it was rooted in the head and in the heart. Darkness, everywhere darkness.

"Enough!" he said. At once the screen went black. He turned. T'ai Cho was watching from across the room.

"What is it?" he said softly, sensing Kim's mood.

Kim shrugged. "It gets worse . . . every day there's more of it. And every day it's more extreme. The Clay . . . it's becoming like the Clay."

T'ai Cho nodded and looked away. He, too, had been disturbed by what he'd seen.

"It worries me," Kim said after a moment. "What kind of world is this to bring one's children into?"

"Things will get better. . . ."

Kim gave a short, despairing laugh. "I'd like to think so, T'ai Cho, but experience teaches otherwise. We live now on the edge of chaos, of perpetual uncertainty. Look at us. I mean . . . guards and guns. Whoever would have thought it?"

"It has always been so. From the time of the Three Emperors, men have built walls to keep other men from killing them. So it was, so it is."

"And must ever be?" Kim sighed, then shook his head. "No, T'ai Cho. There just has to be something better than this!"

"And if there isn't? If this is all there is?"

Kim stared at him, then shook his head. "Darkness ... it can't all be darkness. There has to be light. Darkness and light . . . balanced. That's what the great Tao says, isn't it?"

T'ai Cho nodded. "Yes, but remember what the great sage Lao Tzu said? The bright Way appears to be dark.' "

"And if it is dark?"

"Then be a light in that darkness, Kim. Shine out and make things change. Dedicate yourself to it. You have a gift, Kim. Use it. Maybe that's why you were saved. Maybe that's why the darkness coughed you up!"

Kim laughed. "You make it sound so easy."

"Easy? No, I never said it would be easy. Remember how we began. Remember what a knife-edge we walked back then, you and I. Why, one mistake and I'd have had to gas you in your cell. You were such a tiny, bony creature—more wraith than child. Yet I knew you were different. I could see it, right from the start. And to think how far you've come . . ."

Kim stood up, then went to the window. It was true. He had come far. Yet how much farther the light now seemed above him. How much farther it seemed he had to climb. Even so ... His hand went up to touch his neck where the collar had been removed. It was his choice now. His choice entirely what he was to be.

"Okay. I'll try. I promise you I'll try."

T'ai Cho came over, touched his arm. "Good. But right now you'd best get ready. You don't want to keep Jelka waiting, do you?"

Kim smiled. "No. I think we've waited long enough."

THE MADMAN WALKED through the market quickly, his head back, his shouts, his manic whoops of laughter, carrying above the normal hubbub of the place. Emily, sitting alone at one of the tables in the Blue Pagoda, turned to watch him pass, then frowned and sipped from her half-empty chung. A madman was a common sight these days. Then again, it was a wonder they weren't all mad, things being as they were.

She sighed, then looked back at the documents she'd been reading. So many things she'd seen these past ten years—so many awful, dreadful things—but this was by far the worst. And the most awful aspect of it was that it proved the old men—the Seven and their servants— right, for such a thing would never have been thought of before the Edict had been relaxed. Now it was almost commonplace. Almost . . . for thank the gods there were still some people with a shred of decency—of humanity—left in them.

Emily closed the file with a shudder. Tonight they would hit the place. Oberon's it was called, a club up on the Twenty-fifth level of the fashionable Augsburg stack, the haunt of the super-elite of the First Level, the "Above-the-Above," as they called themselves, the "Supernal."

It would not be easy, for the place had its own guards—ex-Security, for the most part—and a state-of-the-art laser defense system, but it could be done. And they would do it, whatever the cost.

She finished her ch'a, then set the chung down, recalling the difficulty she'd had getting Pasek to agree. He had been against it, wanting to carry on with his petty wars against his rivals, but she had put her foot down, insisting on this as a price of her continued loyalty, and he had given in. But if she fucked up ...

Emily laughed quietly, then looked up, signaling for Yu I to bring more ch'a.

What did it matter if she fucked up—if she didn't get out of there alive? At least she would have done something. At least she would have sent a warning to these monsters that they couldn't do such things without paying the price.

Her smile faded, the anger burning in her again. They thought their money made them immune. They thought that it lifted them above all human decency. But she would teach them otherwise.

Yu I brought back a fresh-filled chung and set it beside her with a bow, taking away the empty. She watched him go, knowing it might be the last time she would witness the sight. The thought didn't upset her. Rather, it lifted her. These past few weeks had been like a dream; she had been going through the motions like a hireling, but now she had a chance to act, to do something real, and that made her feel alive again.

She looked up at the cages overhead. The birds were quiet, dozing on their perches, like old men in the late afternoon. She smiled, then tensed, feeling a hand on her shoulder. Two men slipped onto the bench either side of her, hemming her in.

"Rachel . . ." the one to her left said. "We were told we'd find you here."

She turned, meeting his dark Han eyes. "What do you want, Ts'ao Wu?"

Ts'ao Wu smiled unpleasantly and looked past her to his companion, a tall, shaven-headed Hung Mao named Peters. Both were Hand. Both were cell leaders. Both, as far as she knew, were Pasek's men.

"We've had enough," Ts'ao Wu said quietly, his face close to hers, his bad breath making her want to choke. "This new spate of killings • . . these cruci/jxions. They've gone too far."

"Yes," Peters said, leaning in from the other side. "And we want to know what you're going to do about it?"

"Do?" She sat back slightly. "I don't intend to do anything. You don't like what's happening, you speak to Pasek. ... Or leave the Hand."

Ts'ao Wu laughed sourly, his pocked face humorless. "The only way you leave the Hand is through the Oven Man's door. You know that. So I ask again. What are you going to do?"

She looked down at her untouched chung. "You don't like what Pasek's doing?"

Ts'ao Wu turned and spat on the floor, then looked back at her, raising the middle finger of his left hand. "That to his great 'crusade.' That to his talk of the One God and Judgment Day!"

"The man's mad," Peters said, his face glowing strangely. "He's gone too far. We have to stop him before he destroys the Hand entirely."

"Or changes it?"

Her comment caught them off-guard. She saw them exchange looks, and knew suddenly that they were serious. For a moment she had thought this a trap, an attempt by Pasek to test her loyalty, but that brief eye exchange—revealing, as it did, their uncertainty, their sudden fear that they had miscalculated—told her she'd been wrong. Setting aside personal dislike, she put her arms about their shoulders and drew them in, looking from one to the other, her voice a whisper.

"I understand. I ... share some of your fears. But now is not the time. We must plan things carefully. Make soundings. See how deep the current of mistrust runs."

She saw once more the uncertainty in their faces and squeezed their shoulders as if to reassure them.

"It will not be easy, but it can be done. You must be watchful, brothers. Sensitive to the moods and expressions of your fellow Hand members. And patient. You must approach only those whose eyes and gestures reveal their . . . unhappiness."

"But Pasek—"

"Pasek sees only what he wants to see. Likewise his lieutenants. They are like blind men, neh? They see only what he wants them to see, say what he wishes them to say. That is their weakness. We need not fear them. We need fear only ourselves. So go to it. But carefully."

Emily took her arms from their shoulders, then leaned between them to take the file. She stood, stepping out from the bench.

"And you?" Peters asked, both men turning to look up at her. "What will you be doing?"

"Me?" Her smile was like a hawk's, fierce and cold. "Don't worry about me, brothers. When the time comes, I shall be there for you. Yes, and Pasek will rue the day he let me live."

If I survive, that is, she thought, turning away. If I get out ofOberoris alive.

JELKA STOOD BEFORE the full-length mirror, holding out the voluminous folds of the lilac ball dress and frowning at herself.

It's not me, she thought, wondering how her mother had felt about wearing it. But then, her mother had not been brought up by the T'ang's General. Her mother had had a normal childhood, been a normal woman.

She grimaced at her reflection, then, lifting her arms, twirled about, as she had seen dancers do on the trivee.

No. It was grotesque. Utterly grotesque. How could she possibly wear such a thing in front of people? The very thought of it made her want to crawl away and hide.

"Jelka?"

It was her father.

"Jelka? Why is the door locked? Are you all right in there?"

"I'm fine, Daddy. I won't be long."

She could hear his sigh of exasperation through the door.

"Okay," he said. "But our first guests will be arriving anytime now. You ought to be at the door to greet them."

"I'll be there. Just give me a minute."

She listened to his footsteps fade, then let out her breath. What was she to do? What on earth was she to do?

If she didn't wear it he would be upset. He would think it an insult to her mother's memory. But if she did . . .

She sighed. Aiya! Why hadn't she tried it on before? Why hadn't she faced this problem weeks ago and settled it then?

Perhaps because she'd known what a fuss her father would make. These past few weeks she had avoided arguing with him, afraid to give him any excuse to cancel the party. But now she had to face it.

"Shit!" she said, making a face at her image. Was this really how she wanted Kim to see her? Was this—this garish, silly image of silk and lace and bows—really what he'd been waiting seven years to see?

"It isn't me," she moaned softly. "Can't you see that, Daddy? It simply isn't me!"

But he wasn't there to answer her. This one she'd have to sort out by herself. She blew out a long breath. "Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!"

From the front of the Mansion she heard the summons bell sound. The first guests were at the gate. Their sedan would be making its way up the drive even now.

Jelka glared at herself, then, turning side-on to her image, stuck out her tongue.

"If he laughs, I'll cut him dead!" she said defiantly. "If he laughs . . ."

THE HOURS PASSED, the guests arrived, and after a while her sense of self-consciousness began to fade, blurring into a kind of numbness in which she laughed and smiled and mouthed inoffensive answers to questions from people she barely knew. And yet all the while, beneath it all, some part of her was kept separate. Every time the summons bell sounded she would look to the entrance arch expectantly, her stomach muscles tensed, only for her hopes to be dashed.

Now it was after nine, and still he hadn't come.

Where ore you, Kim Ward? she asked herself anxiously. Why aren't you here?

"Jelka? You look wonderful. That dress. Why, it looks marvelous on you. . . ."

Jelka turned, for a moment not recognizing the luxuriously dressed young woman who stood before her. Then she put her hand to her mouth in surprise. "Yi Pang-chou?"

The woman beamed and reached out to take her arm, leaning close in a familiar manner. "It's Madam Heng now. I married the Minister three years ago ... or hadn't you heard?"

"No, I ..." Jelka laughed, embarrassed, wondering vaguely what had happened to her first husband. "Anyway, how are you, Pang-chou? It's ages since I last saw you."

"Seven years," Madam Heng said, straightening up. Her peacock-blue silks looked fabulously expensive and a small fortune in jewelry rested on her fingers and about her wrists and neck. She had obviously married well the second time around.

"And your children? Are they well?"

"Very well, thank you. I have five now. ..."

"Five. . . ." Jelka stared at her, stunned, then nodded vaguely. Yet it made sense. Pang-chou had married and had her first child even before they left College. So had many of her friends. As she was finding out, the anomaly lay not in them, but in herself. She alone of her schoolfriends was unmarried, childless.

She turned, glancing at the door.

"Bachman's here," Madam Heng continued. "You remember Lothar Bachman? He's a Captain now. They say he'll make Major within the next two years."

Jelka looked back at her. Bachman? Now, where had she heard that name? Then it hit her. She stared at Heng Pang-chou, alarmed. "You mean . . . ?"

"Didn't you realize?"

She shook her head. "My father must have invited him. I ..."

Bachman. He'd been the cadet officer at the College Graduation Ball who'd tried to kiss her—the young man whose legs and arms she had broken. . . .

Jelka swallowed, then bowed her head slightly. "Forgive me, Heng Pang-chou, but I have to see to something. I'll speak to you later."

She moved away, making for the entrance arch, nodding and smiling as she went, noticing, once again, the young man who seemed to have been shadowing her all night.

Probably Security, she thought. Something my father's arranged.

Outside in the corridor it was cooler. Smiling at a pair of guests who had just arrived, she went across to the House Steward, Huang Peng, who stood beside the great outer doors welcoming each guest.

"Has he come yet?"

"Shih Ward?" Steward Huang looked across at his assistant, who hastily consulted a list, then shook his head. The Steward turned back and bowed. "I am afraid not, Nu Shi Tolonen."

"Has he sent a message?"

"We have heard nothing, Mistress. Should I . . . ?"

"No."

She turned away. He was late, that was all. He would be here soon. If he loved her he would be here.

For a moment she hesitated, hearing the great swell of voices from the Reception Hall, then turned to the right, making for her rooms. Ten minutes. No one would miss her for ten minutes. But she had to know. The uncertainty was driving her mad.

As she reached her door she heard soft footsteps behind her. She whirled about.

"You? What do you want?"

"I . . ." The young man gave a nervous bow, then swept his hair back from his eyes and offered her a smile. "My name is Emil. Emil Bartels. I—"

"Did my father send you?"

He hesitated, then nodded. She sighed. A soldier. He looked every inch a soldier.

She put a hand up. "Okay. It's not your fault. Come in. You can wait in the outer room. There's something I must do."

She went inside, not looking to see if he followed. Going through to her study, she went behind the desk and sat, the folds of the gown getting in her way. Cursing, she arranged the dress beneath her, getting herself comfortable, then leaned forward, switching on the comset.

She knew the code. As soon as she'd heard he'd bought the Mansion, she had made it her business to discover it. But she had never used it before now. Never dared.

What if he isn't coming? What if he's ill?

But he wasn't ill. She knew that. If he'd been ill, he would have sent a message. So what was keeping him? Why hadn't he come?

She took a deep breath, then pressed out the coded sequence. As the screen rose from the desk to face her, she sat back a little, trying to compose herself, to steel herself against the possibility of rejection, but her hands were trembling now and her mouth had gone dry at the thought of actually talking to him.

There was a moment's hesitation and then a face appeared. A young Han face, female, very pretty.

"Nu Shi Tolonen?"

"Yes, I—"

"I am afraid that the number you have called is unavailable. The channel is closed right now, but if you would like to leave a message, we can transmit it once the channel reopens."

"I . . ." She sighed heavily, unable to help herself, then shook her head. "No. It doesn't matter."

She cut the connection, then sat back, her face pained.

Maybe he was on his way. It was even possible that he was here already. Maybe he'd arrived while she was sitting here, fretting. She stood and crossed the room quickly, then stopped, seeing the young man standing in the doorway to her bedroom. She cleared her throat.

"Excuse me. ..." : ;

He jerked round, surprised. "I ... I was just looking." He took a step toward her, his hands out, as if to excuse himself. "I just wondered what kind of girl you were. What kind of things you liked. That's all. Girls' rooms"—he smiled uncertainly—"they reveal a lot about their owners, don't you think?"

She stared at him coldly, then answered him, her voice hard, uncompromising. "What business is it of yours who I am or what I like?"

His eyes widened, disconcerted by the harshness of her answer. "You mistake me. I ... didn't mean to pry. I was . . . interested, that's all. If we're to . . ."

"If we're to what?" She was suspicious now. She took a step toward him, as if facing an attacker. "What are you talking about, Lieutenant?"

He gave a brief, surprised laugh. "Lieutenant? No, you've got it wrong. I'm not a soldier. I ..."

Bartels swallowed, seeing the look that had come to her face.

"So what are you? And what do you want?" She took another step, her body crouching slightly. "Who invited you?"

He took a step back, his hands raised defensively. "Look, I ..." He sighed, his eyes pleading with her now. "Your father said I was to be pleasant to you, that's all. He said . . ."

Jelka stopped, straightening slowly, her whole body gone cold, all of her darkest suspicions suddenly confirmed. Her father. This was her father's doing.

That was why there had been no fuss, no arguments, about Kim's invitation. Because he had had no intention of letting the young man step inside his Mansion. Because . . .

She shivered with indignation, then, sweeping past Bartels, went into her room, slamming the door shut behind her.

"You thought I'd be fooled, didn't you?" she said with a quiet anger, addressing her reflection as she began to peel off the dress. "You thought I'd play the good daughter and not embarrass you."

She kicked the dress away, then went across and pulled the spacesuit down from its peg. For a moment she hesitated, knowing that if she did this, it would be tantamount to an open rejection of her father—that it would mean a breach with him. But that was what he'd been counting on: that she would think twice before tackling him head on.

Well, you were wrong, she thought, angry with him suddenly. Furious that he should use such tactics against her, after all that had happened.

Facing the mirror again, she rested the suit against her body, remembering how it had felt out there in the outer system; how at home she'd felt among the cold-worlders. Then, without further hesitation, she pulled it on, the familiarity of the garment—the smell and touch of it—making her shiver with a sense of recognition.

Better, she thought, smiling at the new image of herself. But the hair was still wrong. Hurriedly she took it down and combed it out with her fingers. Yes, she thought finally. That's me. Not that other creature, but this. . . .

And if Kim had come? If she'd been wrong about her father?

She laughed, then spoke softly to the mirror. "Then you'll look a fool, Jelka Tolonen, won't you?" But at least it would be her and not some twisted image of her mother—some hideous fulfilment of her father's fantasies.

Seven years she had waited for this day. Seven years. And now, finally, she had come of age. Today she was her own woman, free to choose for herself. But what did that mean—what point had it—if she could not be herself?

Smiling uncertainly, Jelka nodded to her image, then, steeling herself, knowing what lay ahead, she turned and went to the door.

THE MASKED MAN stood in the doorway, a big "scattergun"—one hundred and eighty rounds in its snakelike spiral chamber—leveled at the servants who lay bound and gagged on the stone floor of the pantry. Their eyes watched him fearfully as, from other parts of the Mansion, strange voices called back and forth. They had seen the symbol on the chain about the men's necks—the cross within the circle—and feared the worst. If these were Hand members, then they were dead . . . sooner or later.

Outside, in the main house, masked men went from room to room, checking they were empty. Finally, one of them came down the main steps and went over to a man who sat on the low wall by the drive and snapped to attention in front of him, bowing his head.

"He's not inside, sir. He must have gone."

Von Pasenow stared at his lieutenant, then shook his head. "He's here. He has to be here. What about the dome?"

"It's locked. If he's in there—"

Von Pasenow stood, angry that he had to do the thinking for all of them. "Well, unlock the fucking thing! He's in there. He has to be. He can't be anywhere else, can he? We've watched the transit all day, and there's no other way out. So get to it. Use cutting tools if you have to!"

"Sir!" The man bowed and backed away, then turned and hurried back inside, calling men to him as he went.

Von Pasenow glanced at the timer inset into his wrist then swore. Twenty minutes . . . Twenty fucking minutes! They were supposed to be in and out in ten, taking Kim with them. But now . . .

He growled with frustration. Staying here was the last thing he'd wanted. They had to get Kim out of the dome and quickly, otherwise they could be into a siege situation, and who knew where that would lead?

Fuck you, Knut Tolonen! he thought, kicking at the gravel angrily. If the shit hits the fan, you can take the blame for this! Yes, and explain it to your precious daughter!

He had tried to talk the old man out of it, but it had been like talking to a statue. Tolonen was obsessed with keeping Ward and his daughter apart ... by any means, it seemed. But he hadn't counted on this.

He watched as two of his men hurried down the steps, carrying a laser cannon.

"Beinlich!"

His lieutenant reappeared in the doorway. "Sir?"

"Drug the servants, then get all but four of your men to the gate. I want to be out of here as soon as possible."

"Sir!"

Von Pasenow let out a breath. Security, when they came to investigate this, would know this wasn't the work of the Black Hand, if only because the Hand left no survivors. But then they were never meant to think that. They were meant to think this was industrial—that Kim had been kidnapped by one of SimFic's major rivals. The make of drugs would be one clue—throwing suspicion on MedFac: suspicion which would be fanned by a whispering campaign over the next few weeks.

Yes, but it won't work. It won't keep your daughter from marrying Ward. Not if she really wants to.

In fact, it might even backfire. Like that whole business with sending her away to the Colonies. If what he'd heard was right, she had spent most of her time pining for the Clayborn.

No. There was only one sure way to keep the two apart, and that was to kill him. But as Tolonen wouldn't go that far ...

He shrugged, then walked across to the dome. When he'd taken on the job, he had known very little about Ward, but scanning the files he had come to respect the young man, Clayborn or not. In that regard he didn't share the view of most of the Above. What did it matter where a man came from? It was where he ended up that counted. Too often in his life he had had to put up with assholes who were his superiors merely through connection. It was nice to come across someone who had risen, like himself, through merit.

If it were he and not the Marshal whose daughter was in love with Ward, he would have given the match his blessing. After all, Ward was one of the richest men in City Europe. And this Mansion . . . He nodded to himself, impressed. No, he would have had no qualms about a daughter of his marrying a Clayborn. Not if the Clayborn were worth six hundred million yuan.

By the time he got there they had set up the laser and were already cutting into the steel outer door. There was the sweet smell of burning in the air. He put up a hand to shield his eyes against the glare, then turned, looking back at the great House.

No ... no qualms at all.

SLOWLY, CAREFUL NOT to make a noise, Kim edged farther into the darkness, wriggling his whole body forward a fraction at a time, his head forced to the side by the narrowness of the space between the ceiling and the floor. The light was just ahead of him now, and he could hear the murmur of voices down below. If he was right he was directly above the kitchens. On the far side there was a service hatch, leading down. If he could somehow twist about and get into it.

He rested, inhaling the warm scent of the new pine floor he'd had put in only a week ago. If he hadn't watched them—if he hadn't witnessed how they'd laid the narrow planks—then they'd have taken him for certain. In all probability he would be dead by now, and Jelka . . .

Jelka would have been widowed before she was even married.

He closed his eyes, wondering what was she doing at that moment. Was she dancing? Was she in the arms of some young soldier, twirling around the ballroom, spiting him, angry with him for not being there—thinking he'd let her down?

He pushed the thought away, then began to edge forward again. It wasn't far now. Another ten minutes and he'd be there. Just another ten minutes.

And if they set the house on fire before then?

"Kim?"

He froze, his eyes searching the darkness in front of him. Then, with a jolt, he realized that the voice had come from inside—from the implant in his head.

"Who is it?" he whispered.

"It is I," the voice answered. "The Machine."

Kim felt a chill go through him. He had not known that it had access to the implant. Always, before now, he had spoken to it in the air—insisting on it. But all the while it had been in there—silent, observant, like a ghost inside his skull.

"What do you want?" he said, the words so soft, they were barely formed—yet it heard him perfectly.

"You must go back. Now. You must make your way back to the room you were in when they came."

"But they'll find me."

"No. There are only two of them in the House now, and they are in the control room."

"Then they'll see me."

"No. For there will be nothing to see."

"Ah . . ." He understood. It was talking about manipulating the images on the screen—of showing an empty room when the room was not empty.

"Who are they?" he asked.

It was silent a moment, then. "You must start to go back. There's little time. She will be here very soon now."

Kim tensed. "Who?"

"Jelka . . . She's coming for you."

"No." He said it slightly too loud, then repeated it more quietly. "No. She mustn't come. They'll kill her."

"Only if they see her. And even then ..."

"Even then what?"

It ignored his question. "You must begin. Now;. The rest Fit see to."

"Machine?"

"Yes?"

"Make sure nothing happens to her."

"I'll try."

"And Machine?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

THE REALITY OF IT was worse than she'd imagined. Seeing the women's skins hanging there on the rail of the cool room, padded out by their plastoform inserts, their owners' eyeless faces staring lifelessly ahead, Emily felt the bile rise in her throat and had to turn away, leaning over the sink in the corner to retch, until there was nothing left in her stomach.

For once the files hadn't prepared her. For once she had let the sheer nastiness of it get to her.

They called it "shelling." Five years ago it wouldn't have been possible, but new research had found a way of keeping the flesh of a human being alive without the bone or blood or muscle. These—these skins— had once been "worn" by living human beings; by young women from the Lowers: the kind of women who, even if they were missed by those they loved, would never have been traced, never accounted for, because they were too poor, too unimportant in the scheme of things, to be bothered about.

Kidnapped by special teams, they were taken to a special lab and drugged. There the operation was performed, the surface layer of skin and fat skillfully removed, to be preserved in a vat of nutrients until required. The rest—the living being, stripped to a bloodied skeleton— was given to the Oven Man.

She shivered, thinking of it; trying to imagine the kind of man who would find this sort of thing attractive; who would pay a thousand -yuan a time simply to wear a skin.

Of course, the skin was the simplest part. The really "clever" bit was the part that brought the skin to life—that allowed the wearer to tap into the skin's nervous system and experience exactly what it experienced. A fine mesh of ice was sewn into the inner layer of the skin, feeding to a series of artificial ganglions, at the base of the spine, beneath the sex organs and at the base of the neck, which rooted pain and pleasure signals to the brain of the recipient.

By this foul means a man could wear the body of a woman and make love as a woman. He could feel what it was to be possessed by another man, to have his breasts fondled, the nipples kissed. It was an ancient dream come true. Shelling made it possible. But at a cost . . .

She forced herself to look again—to sear it into her memory. This was what human beings could do to each other. This. She reached out to touch one of the skins, surprised by its warmth, a shiver passing through her at the thought that this had once been a living woman like herself, with dreams and hopes and memories, perhaps with children of her own—children who missed her, crying themselves to sleep at night for want of her. But now . . . Emily shuddered. Now it was a mere sense-matrix, a flesh-pad for some rich, unthinking cunt.

A shock of the purest, blackest hatred passed through her like an electric bolt. Inhuman, some might call this. Obscene. But she had her own word for it. Evil. These bastards were evil.

She pulled on her gloves, then stood before the mirror, taking long, deep breaths, trying to prepare herself. The attack had been an unqualified success. Despite the heavy security of the place, they had achieved almost complete surprise. The guards had been overwhelmed in the first thirty seconds, the alarm system shut down. The rest had been easy.

As for the clients, they were in the next room, lying facedown on the thickly carpeted floor, naked, their hands tied behind their backs.

She had intended to gut the place—to set fires at all the doors and let the bastards burn to death, or suffocate—but that would be too kind. Having seen these awful mementos, she was of a mind to take the bastards back with her; to take them downlevel and keep them; to torment them, the way these poor women had been tormented.

Yet even as she considered it—even as her blood sang at the thought—she knew how impractical it was.

Torment. Yes, they deserved to live in everlasting torment for what they'd done.

She looked about her one final time, then turned away and, drawing her knife, stepped out into the other room.

I'll cut your balls off, that's what I'll do, she thought, looking about her at the dozen men who lay spread-eagled on the floor before her. And I'll make you eat them, you evil fuckers. Every last tiny morsel.

And afterward?

She reached down and grabbed the first of them by the hair, pulling his head up so that he could look at her—at the winking razor-sharp edge of the knife in her hand—and smiled.

Afterward she would have them skinned. Without anesthetic.

the YOUNG HAN crouched in the shadows beyond the broken lamp, watching them come from the lift. He had known something was going on; had heard the screams from up above when he was working in the shaft and had known they would come this way. What he hadn't known was what would happen next.

He was smiling, his deformed face pulled to the right, when the guns opened up. Two of the Hand went down at once, dead. The others scattered, finding whatever cover they could, but it was pretty hopeless. In a minute it was over. He waited, his heart threatening to burst from his chest, his legs weak from the shock of what he'd witnessed, keeping his eyes closed, thinking he'd be next. . . . After a while he opened his eyes and looked.

They were gone.

He stood, putting a hand out to steady himself against the wall, almost falling as his legs gave. He waited, letting his strength come back, then forced himself to walk over to where the bodies lay; forced himself to look.

They were dead. All eight of them were dead.

There was a faint noise, a hint of movement. He turned, his mouth forming a silent cry of fear.

His heart pounding, he shuffled across, then stooped, listening, studying the fallen woman, seeing the faint rise and fall of her chest. She was alive. He leaned over her, studying the wounds to her head and shoulder. They were bad. She was losing a lot of blood. If he left her here she would die for certain.

And if he took her?

He swallowed dryly, then, knowing he had no choice—that he was compelled to help her—he moved around and took her legs. Then, slowly, inch by inch, he began to drag her—away from the scene of death and into the 'shadows. Away ... a snaillike trail of blood smeared on the dusty floor of the corridor. Away . . . the weight of her seeming to grow with every step he took.

AS THE LIFT SLOWED, approaching the top of the stack, Jelka moved to the side, pressing herself against the wall. The feeling that something was wrong had grown in her, until by now she was jumpy, her nerves on edge.

This was stupid—common sense cried out against it—but right now she couldn't help herself. If Kim was in trouble, she had to help. And if he wasn't . . . well, she had to know that too. So that she could get on with her life.

The camera eye over the door swiveled, following her every move.

She closed her eyes briefly, trying to keep control. No doubt they were watching her from the control room and laughing; laughing, because she didn't have a chance.

The lift stopped abruptly. She was there. She waited, expecting the doors to hiss open, but they stayed closed.

"Open the doors," she said quietly, looking up at the camera. "Why don't you open the doors?"

Nothing. Just the underlying hum that was everywhere in the City.

She hesitated, then stepped across and, slipping her nails beneath the control panel's rim, popped it out. Beneath it were a number of other panels. She pulled one out and, taking a second to remember the override sequence, punched in the code.

Nothing. It was like the thing was dead.

She smacked her hand against the mirrored wall. "Shit!"

"I wouldn't do that," a voice said softly. "You'll only hurt yourself."

It sounded like a woman's voice, mature and well modulated, the intonation somewhere between Han and Hung Mao.

"Who are you?" she asked, staring up at the camera.

"Never mind who I am. Just listen. The Mansion has been taken over by intruders."

"Intruders?"

"Your father's men. They have instructions not to harm anyone, but the situation might change at any moment. If it does, this whole thing might escalate into something much nastier."

"And Kim?"

"Kim is safe. But only for a while. If they decide to make another physical check of the Mansion . . ."

"So what do you want me to do?"

"Just do exactly what I say. Take the audio unit from the control panel and carry it with you. I'll speak to you through that."

Jelka nodded, then stepped to the panel again and removed the tiny dicelike unit.

"Okay," it said, its voice suddenly tiny, coming up to her from within her palm. "You must pretend that you're invisible. . . ."

THE MASKED MAN stepped from the gaping metal of the outer airlock and shook his head.

"He's not there. The dome's empty."

"What?" Von Pasenow's face registered shock. "But that's not possible! He has to be there!"

The man lifted his mask, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "Maybe we should check the house again—"

"Quiet! Let me think!"

A second man joined the first, glancing at him, a faint amusement in his eyes, then both looked to Von Pasenow.

There were only two ways into this place and they had watched them both. Kim hadn't come out, so he had to be here.

Von Pasenow paced back and forth, punching his left fist into his right palm again and again. Convinced that Kim was inside the dome, he had dismissed the majority of his men. To search the Mansion again with only five of them would take too long; besides, they'd done a thorough job first time out.

"Tolonen," he said quietly, stopping dead. "I'll speak to Tolonen."

He spun about, then began to run toward the house.

The two men watched him a moment, then, shrugging, began to walk after him.

TOLONEN CLOSED and locked the study door, then went to his desk and sat, trying to control the trembling in his arm.

"Put him on!" he said irritably, staring at the screen.

Von Pasenow's face appeared. He bowed low, then made to speak, but Tolonen cut him short.

"Well? What in the gods' names do you want? Don't you realize how dangerous this is? Do you have him?"

"I"—Von Pasenow lowered his eyes—"I can't find him, Marshal. He's here somewhere, but . . ."

Tolonen stared at him in disbelief, then slowly shook his head. "Then you had better find him. And quick."

"But, Marshal—"

Tolonen cut contact and sat back, closing his eyes. Aiya! First that awful scene with ]elka in the ballroom and now this! He put his hands to his face, groaning. It had all seemed so simple. So straightforward. But now . . .

He gritted his teeth against the memory of the things she'd said to him—of the words he'd let fall from his own lips. Words that could never be recalled.

"Kuan Yin preserve me . . ." he said softly. "Jelka , . . My pretty little Jelka ... I never meant . . ."

But it was done. Broken. And no way back.

He shuddered, then, laying his head upon his folded arms, began to sob.

I never meant ...

SHE MOVED THROUGH the great house slowly, silently, her feet making no noise, as if invisible, moving from light to shadow like a ghost, while on screens in the control room, the watching cameras showed only empty corridors, untenanted rooms.

At the back of the great House, in a small room on the upper floor, she found him, seated on a low stool, waiting.

He stood. "What's happened?" he asked, surprised by the pain that was in her face, but she only shook her head.

He stared at her awhile, noting her clothes, the simplicity of her appearance, then reached out, taking her hand. It seemed the simplest thing, yet it had taken seven years—seven long years—to achieve.

She looked down, her hand lying passively within his, then smiled; a strangely wistful smile.

"I didn't think . . ." she began, but then her face creased up again, as if she were about to cry.

He understood. Her father. She had broken with her father. He held her to him, the difference in their heights making it an awkward first embrace. Yet in an instant all awkwardness was forgotten. He kissed her face with tiny, delicate kisses, as he'd so often dreamed of doing, then moved back a little, staring into her eyes, surprised to find her looking back at him; surprised by the awe, the love, the expectation in her eyes.

"Is it a dream?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

She shook her head. "We must leave. The Machine . . ."

"I hear it," he said, touching the access slot beneath his ear. "It speaks to me. Inside. It told me you were coming."

He reached up, his fingers touching her mouth, her nose, her cheeks, checking to see that she was real. Then he smiled.

"We'd best go," she said. "They're running out of time. Any moment now they'll come and look for us."

He nodded, but still he was reluctant to go, afraid to lose this moment. He could feel a faint trembling in him, as if he were a bell that had been struck and still resounded, long after the hammer's blow had fallen.

"Where are we going?" he asked, when the silence in his head extended; when no answer came.

"To the island," she said, and smiled, the pain momentarily forgotten. "To Kalevala."

CHAPTER TEN

The Flesh of Kings

TSUNG YE was kneeling, his head pressed to the floor in front of the Chancellor. Nan Ho looked down at the young secretary in astonishment. He had known something was going on—who hadn't?—but as long as it was being kept discreet, it was not his business to interfere. Now, however, Tsung Ye had made it his business.

He groaned inwardly. This was the last thing he needed just now. In fact, he was tempted to send Tsung Ye away and tell him not to be so silly—that sleeping with the Empress was no great crime, so long as he did not rub the T'ang's nose in it. But Tsung Ye was determined to be absolved, the great burden of his guilt taken from him.

Nan Ho sighed heavily. He felt great pity for the young man, but he only had himself to blame. No doubt it had been flattering to be pursued by his Mistress. But it seemed she had taken things too far. Nan Ho listened, embarrassed, as Tsung Ye spelled out just how far she'd taken them.

It would not have been so bad had Pei K'ung kept to her original agreement with Li Yuan. Then, at least, he could be certain that, should any issue come of the liaison, it was at least no son of Li Yuan's, but the one night she had spent with her husband complicated matters. If she were pregnant . . .

He turned away, suddenly impatient with it all. For a while he had thought her different from the rest—had thought he'd found a woman above all of that business, immune to it, but underneath it all she was just the same. Sex . . . why could they not be free of sex? For all the trouble it caused—all the unhappiness and blighted lives—there seemed little enough reward.

"Enough!" he said, turning back. At once the murmur of the young man's voice fell silent. "You will go to your rooms and lock the doors. You will take pen and paper and write down all that you have told me, then you will return and give the document to me. Meanwhile I shall ensure that the Empress does not come near you."

"Thank you, Master," Tsung Ye said with pathetic gratitude, beginning to crawl away. "I am pu ju pen fen."

Nan Ho watched him go, then went to the window. Pu ju pen fen. "One who has failed in his duty." And when his duty was to serve his Mistress without question? And when her instruction conflicted with his duty to his T'ang? The old man shivered, then pulled at his collar, which had been chafing him, undoing the top button on the right hand side of his neck. He was glad, for once, that he did not have to make a decision. It was an issue Li Yuan alone could rule upon.

And what would he say? Well done, Tsung Ye? You do well to keep the old girl from my bed?

Nan Ho almost laughed, thinking of his Master's predilection for young maids. Why he had let Pel K'ung into his bed that once he would never understand. And then to banish her again . . .

He shook his head, then returned to his desk. Matters were pressing. If he judged right, things were coming to a head. The reports of his spies were ominous. They spoke of large movements of men and supplies. They hinted at secret meetings and of deals done in shadowy rooms. But nothing certain. Nothing absolute. When it came, it would come suddenly. And he must be prepared.

Nan Ho sat, the image of Tsung Ye naked, his buttocks rising and falling between Pei K'ung's open legs, haunting him a moment, making him frown. Then, pushing the matter aside, he picked up the tiny hammer and rang the bell on his desk, summoning his secretaries.

TOLONEN MADE TO GET UP from his chair, but the abruptness of Rheinhardt's entry into the room caught him by surprise.

"What the fuck are you up to?" Rheinhardt demanded, leaning over him aggressively, his face burning with anger. "I've five men in my cells, and were it not you, Knut Tolonen, I'd gladly make it six!" Tolonen looked down, embarrassed. "You don't understand. . . ." "Understand? What is there to understand? That you hired a dis-

graced Major and his team of tin-pot mercenaries to kidnap one of this City's most important men?"

Tolonen's head came up. "Important? That ragamuffin!"

He made to get up, but Rheinhardt pushed him down savagely; the first time he had ever dared touch the old man. He leaned close, speaking the words into Tolonen's face as if addressing the most lowly of his officers and not the man who had been General even before he himself had been born. "Important. You understand me, Knut? As in indispensable. If he's been harmed. If in any way—"

"I gave strict instructions," Tolonen began, but Rheinhardt glared at him and he fell silent.

"You've done many things in your time, Knut Tolonen. Some of them were . . . well, impolitic is to put it mildly. Some of them weren't strictly within the rules. But this . . . Aiya, old man, what were you thinking of? Did you think it would solve anything? Did you . . . well, did you even think?"

Tolonen stared back at him, his natural defiance tempered by the fact that he knew Rheinhardt was right. He had been stupid.

"What will you do?" he asked quietly.

Rheinhardt straightened up, then shook his head in exasperation. "There's nothing I can do. Li Yuan will have to know. If Ward presses charges . . ."

Tolonen sat forward, some of the old fire returning to him. "Let him press charges! But he won't marry my daughter!"

Rheinhardt stared at the old man with a mixture of dismay and pity, then spoke to him, more gently than before. "Jelka is of age now, Knut. Don't you understand that? She can choose for herself now. And if she chooses Ward—"

Tolonen stood, his golden hand bunched into a fist as if to strike the one he was talking of. "He won't! I won't let him! I'd rather see him dead!"

Rheinhardt drew himself up rigid, pained to hear the old man reduced to this. "I would be careful what you say, Marshal Tolonen. I am empowered to uphold the law in City Europe. Your words—"

"Are no more than the truth," the old man said defiantly, his gray eyes piercing Rheinhardt's. His voice boomed now with all its ancient power. "Arrest me, if you dare. Go tell Li Yuan. But you will not stop me. Whether I lose my daughter or not, he shall not have her. You understand me, General Rheinhardt? I won't let him!"

Rheinhardt stared back at the old man a moment, then came to attention, clicking his heels and bowing his head smartly.

"You will hear from me, Marshal," he said, stepping back. "Until you do—"

But Tolonen was not listening. The old man turned and, crossing the room, disappeared into his dressing room, slamming the door behind him.

Rheinhardt closed his eyes, letting out a deep, audible sigh. Then, feeling a sadness that was beyond expression, he turned and left, knowing that the old man had given him no choice.

LI YUAN stood at the top of the landing ramp, looking out toward the silent stone walls of T'ai Yueh Shan palace, his mood despondent.

It was a gray, cheerless day, the wind whipping off the water of the lake, the calling of the geese like the cries of lost souls.

I should not have come, he thought. I should have left her here to rot.

But now that he was here he would see it through. Besides, he had to know, to purge himself of this so that he could move on and be strong again.

He shivered, then turned, calling for another, warmer cloak. At once a servant brought one.

The past few weeks had been a torment. In his mind he had constantly pictured her with Tsu Ma. Wherever he turned, there they were, leering at him and laughing, their nakedness taunting him. Little boy, they'd called, mockingly. Such a silly little boy, to love your brother's wife.

The pain he felt at such moments was intense. No less intense for being of the mind. Two souls they said he had—the earth soul and the spirit soul, p'o and hun—and at such moments he had no cause to doubt them, for while his body was untroubled, his spirit ached. Ached like a rotting tooth that could not be pulled.

Well, so it might be. Yet he would try to rid himself of it. Here, today, he would face that inner pain and try to find surcease.

He went down, walking between the lines of kneeling, bowing guards, and on along the path that led to the great West Gate.

Eight and a half years ago he had given her this place, for her and her bastard son. He had divorced her on the day of his coronation and she had had the child two days later, on his wedding day.

Li Yuan slowed his pace, looking to his right, across the grassy slope toward the ornamental bridge, remembering. His wedding day ... It had been a day much like this, with the wind whipping off the lake. The nineteenth day of the ninth month it had been. The week before Chiu Fen, the Autumn Equinox.

He sighed. And now those three I married that day are dead and she still lives. How strange it was that after all that had happened, it was to her he was returning. Always to her.

Yes, but no more. After today . . .

Fei Yen was waiting in her rooms. She greeted him with cold civility, kneeling and pressing her head three times against the floor before she straightened up.

"How are you?" he asked, yet a single look told him far more than she could ever say. There was a darkness behind her eyes that had not been there a month ago, a tightness to her mouth. Whatever madness had compelled her to fly to Tsu Ma's palace that day, whatever hotness of the blood had urged her on, it had congealed in her now. Eyes which had burned with an angry passion now stared at him with frigid insolence.

Her words, when they came, were, like the formality of her greeting, only a mockery.

"I am very happy here, Chieh Hsia. You do me great honor, visiting me."

He felt the pain rekindled; felt that familiar tightening of his stomach muscles. Why was it thus? Why did she still have power over him, after all these years?

"I came to clarify things," he answered. "Much was left . . . unstated last time we met."

She laughed. "Unstated? Why, forgive me, Chieh Hsia, but I thought I expressed myself quite eloquently. Your cousin fucked me. Not once, but many times. Would you like to know where and how?" Her eyes searched his, as if trying to gauge how best to inflict pain, "It would be no trouble, if you've the time. I can recall each and every occasion." She smiled. "He may have been a bastard, but Tsu Ma was a memorable fuck. He—"

"Enough!"

He turned from her, smoothing out his gloves, trying not to show the intense hurt, the agitation, he was feeling, but her voice went on, ignoring his command.

"We would ride up to the ruins of the old monastery, up in the hills above Tongjiang. Inside, in the oldest of the temples, he would lay down his riding blanket and we would strip and lie on it. And then . . ."

He turned, staring at her, compelled, despite himself, to know. "And then"—her voice, her face slowly changed, softening—"and then he would make love to me." She sighed. "So fierce and yet so—so gentle he was. As if he could feel what I was feeling. As if . . ."

She shuddered and looked away, all of the anger in her transmuted suddenly to pain.

He stared at her, for that brief moment understanding her. For the very first time understanding just what had driven her. Ai^a.' he thought. To feel that, and yet to be tied.

"I understand," he said quietly. "It ... it was not your fault. Tsu Ma . . ."

He swallowed back the sudden surge of hatred he felt for the man. She came across and stood beside him, her dark eyes looking up at him, the sweet scent of her filling his senses. And if he were to reach out . . .

Slowly he put his arms about her and bent his face to hers, her mouth opening to his, her lips warm and moist. It was the thing he had missed most all these years: being kissed by her.

He broke from the kiss and moved his head back, staring at her, suddenly afraid of what he'd done.

"Make love to me," she said softly, her eyes pleading with him. "Now. Before the moment vanishes."

He shivered, then, unable to prevent himself, nodded, letting her lift the cloak from his shoulders and begin to unbutton his robe, a boy again, the veil of years torn aside.

"Fei Yen," he whispered, his hand reaching up to caress her neck, her cheek, his fingers smoothing the side of her head as it pressed back against his touch. "Fei Yen . . ."

She drew him down, onto the bed, her soft warm kisses on his neck and shoulders blinding his senses, making him groan with sweet delight. She fumbled at his loincloth, her hand brushing intimately against his fiercely swollen sex, and then he was inside her, thrusting into her, the pain of longing in her face inflaming him, making him spasm and come immediately. And still he thrust, and still she met his thrust, her cries of pleasure keeping him hard. "Yes ... oh, yes ... Oh, oh . . ."

He felt her reach up, holding herself tightly, intimately, against him, felt the great shudder of release that rippled through her, and then she fell back, as if she'd fainted. As she did, he felt his penis slip from her and gave a tiny groan. At once she reached for him and led him back inside her, then cradled his head against her with one hand, while the other smoothed his buttocks.

He let a shuddering sigh escape him, then closed his eyes, conscious of the hard length of his flesh within her, linking them, binding them as no words or ceremonies had ever managed.

If only it could always have been thus. But the flesh was weak, the warmth illusory.

They made love again, this time beneath the blankets, his face above hers, watching her, savoring each moment, using all his skills to bring her to her climax long before he let his seed flow into her.

"I had forgotten," he said afterward, facing her, his hands tracing the contours of her body. "All these years . . ."

She watched him lazily, like a cat, all of the hardness, the resentment, washed from her; purged, it seemed, by his lovemaking.

"Do you think . . ."he began, then sighed, shaking his head.

"You can always visit me," she said. "You could tie me up."

"Is that what you like?"

She gave a soft grunt, then looked away. "You do not know the half of it, Li Yuan. The men I've known. The years . . . ach! Each year has seemed like ten. Like those years I spent in exile in the floating palace, mourning your brother's death."

He sighed, pained by this insight into her. All these years he'd blamed and hated her; all these years he'd failed to see.

"I have been blind," he said. "I never understood, did I?"

"No." She looked back at him and smiled. "So what now, my husband?"

The words sent a strange thrill through him—a shock of recognition, of Tightness. He smiled, feeling as if it were the first true smile— the first honest, open smile—he'd ever given her.

"So now ... we start anew."

He reached out, drawing her up onto him, cradling her above him and kissing her.

"Once more and then I have to go. But I'll be back for you. I promise. We'll start again, Fei Yen, and damn the world. I'll divorce Pei K'ung and make Han Ch'in a prince. I'll set things right, I promise you. I'll make things better than they were."

Then, rolling her onto her back, he climbed above her and entered her again, feeling like an exiled king, returned into his kingdom.

"Fei Yen," he whispered, her movements matching his perfectly, Yin to his Yang. "My darling wife, Fei Yen."

TSU KUNG-CHIH was drunk. He stood there, red faced, facing his uncle's Master of the Inner Chambers, Hwa Kwei, and shouted angrily. "You incompetent fool! Can't you do anything right? I pay you a fortune and you mess things up! I mean, what now?"

He tore at his rich silks in anguish, then turned away sharply. Behind him the embarrassed Hwa, his head bowed, kept his silence. Tsu Kung-chih was right. He had failed miserably. Tsu Shu-sun was pregnant and he had failed to prevent it. His potions had made her sick, certainly, but still, somehow, she had conceived.

The prince turned, one foot up on the low wall that surrounded the inner courtyard and its shallow pool. His disappointment was clear in his face. His sallow lips quivered and his eyes were moist, but he spoke more softly now, trying to control himself; struggling against the sudden impact of this news. He had learned of it only today—only an hour back. Tsu Ma had kept it from him until now. Shuddering, he looked at Hwa Kwei again. "Was it so difficult? You said it would be easy. You assured me." Hwa Kwei gave a small nod, then bowed lower. It should have been easy, but who could have known that Shu-sun would conceive on her wedding night? Who would have thought that Tsu Ma would change his mind and go to her?

Kung-chih glared at him a moment longer, then turned away, a noise of sheer exasperation escaping him. He felt betrayed. It was as if his uncle had been toying with him. And though he had pretended otherwise, it was clear that Tsu Ma had enjoyed telling him the news. As if he didn't know what it meant to him.

He laughed bitterly and threw out his hand, dismissing the middle-aged servant. What good was it, trusting in others? No, this was something he would have to do himself.

He looked around. Hwa Kwei had gone. "Good riddance," he said softly. But the words did not begin to express the turbulence of what he had felt this last hour. Now, however—now that he was alone at last—one thing seemed to surface and rise above all others, vast, bloated, obscuring the rest in its dark and awful shadow. Tsu Ma had known! He had known all along! And Hwa Kwei ...

Tsu Kung-chih closed his eyes, a faint nausea overcoming him mo-

mentarily. They had toyed with him. Played him like\aAh on a line. And now they would reel him in.

' 'No-oooh . . ."

Slowly he opened his eyes. No one had heard his cry of anguish. He turned and looked about him, making sure. But no, he was alone.

"What, then?" he said softly, talking to himself now. "Should I go to him and tell him what I've done? Go down on my knees before him and beg forgiveness?" He sighed, then shook his head. "No, I'll not do that. Not after what he's done to me."

Which left him but one choice. Smiling grimly he stared down at his reflection in the mirror of the pool.

"So be it, then."

LI YUAN swept down the grand corridor at Tongjiang, his entourage almost running to keep up with him, servants—surprised by the haste with which he came upon them—dropping quickly to their knees and lowering their heads as he rushed past. The T'ang was more than three hours late and had missed several important meetings.

As the doors to Nan Ho's study burst open, the Chancellor looked up from his desk, then hastily came around the desk and knelt before his Master.

"Chieh Hsia," he said, looking up at Li Yuan. "I am delighted to see you well. I was worried that something had happened."

Li Yuan waved the concern for his health aside, moving past his kneeling Chancellor to study the papers on his desk.

"What has been happening, Master Nan?"

Nan Ho got up slowly, and stepped to his Master's side. "Minister Chu is in the Eastern Palace being . . . entertained, shall we say. The San Shih I saw myself. I felt it best not to keep them waiting, considering recent events."

Li Yuan nodded, yet he seemed distracted. "And the matter with Tsung Ye?"

Nan Ho blinked. "Tsung Ye?"

Li Yuan glanced at him. "He came to see you this morning, I understand. About the Empress's demands on him."

The old man's mouth opened, then closed again. He nodded.

"So what do you suggest, Master Nan? Should I have the young man castrated? Or should I make him a member of my Advisory Council?

After all, to find a man who is both a dedicated servant and yet a man of honor . . . that is not to be discarded lightly, neh?"

Nan Ho's mouth worked without sound. He looked in shock. Finally he found the words. "I ... I did not know you knew, Chieh Hsia. I ... I have had him draw up a full confession. It is—"

Li Yuan shook the sheaf of papers at him. "I am reading it, Master Nan. An interesting document, neh? One we could use, if we wished. . . ."

"Use, Chieh Hsia?"

There was an urgent knocking on the outer doors. Li Yuan looked to Nan Ho. "Are you expecting anyone, Master Nan?"

Nan Ho shook his head.

"Well ... we had best find out who wants us, neh?"

Master Nan bowed, then went across. Opening the door a crack, he exchanged a few words with his secretary, then turned back.

"It is General Rheinhardt, Chieh Hsia. He wishes to speak with you urgently."

Li Yuan folded Tsung Ye's confession and pocketed it, then nodded. "Send him in. I will see him here. And, Master Nan . . . please stay. There is something I need to arrange with you."

Nan Ho stared at his Master, noting the strange smile he wore, then turned and left. A moment later he was back, leading in Rheinhardt.

"Helmut," Li Yuan said, greeting his Marshal, holding out his ring for him to kiss, then watching as he knelt and touched his forehead to the floor before him. "How can I help you?"

Rheinhardt glanced at Nan Ho, then got to his feet again. "It is Marshal Tolonen, Chieh Hsia. He tried to have Ward kidnapped."

"Tried . . ." Li Yuan laughed. "You jest, surely, Helmut? Knut kidnap Kim? Why on earth would he do that?"

"To stop him marrying his daughter."

Li Yuan turned to Nan Ho, his face suddenly severe. "Am I to believe my ears, Master Nan? You mean there was a relationship between Ward and the Marshal's daughter and I was not told of it?"

Nan Ho bowed low. "It was long ago, Chieh Hsia. I—I did not feel it was important."

"Important? Aiya, Master Nan! Nothing is more important than these personal matters. Nothing! Surely you of all people understand that?"

"Forgive me, Chieh Hsia. I am pu ju pen fen."

Li Yuan stared at him, surprised by the formality of the phrase—

"one who has failed in his duty"—then turned to Rheinhardt again. "So what happened?"

"It seems the Marshal hired mercenaries to kidnap Kim at his Mansion, to prevent him from attending his daughter's Coming-of-Age party. But for some reason Ward eluded his attackers. Now both he and the Marshal's daughter have gone missing."

"Together?"

"That's the strange thing, Chieh Hsia. We can find no camera records of their movements. It's like they vanished."

Li Yuan sucked in his breath. If he had lost Ward . . .

"And the Marshal? What does he say of all this?"

Rheinhardt looked down. "I am afraid the Marshal is unrepentant. He says that Ward will never marry his daughter. That he would kill him first."

Li Yuan turned away, then walked over to the window. "Why now? Why now of all times?" He looked back. "We must find Ward, Helmut. We simply must. He is vital to our plans. As for the Marshal"—he sighed—"you will place Marshal Tolonen under house arrest. You will give orders to the guards to use the minimum force to restrain him if need be, but restrain him they must, if it proves necessary. As for his honorary rank, he is stripped of it until this matter can be investigated. From henceforth he is to be considered no more than any other private citizen."

Rheinhardt looked down, saddened that it had come to this. "I am sorry, Chieh Hsia. To bring such news . . ."

Li Yuan went to him. "It is not your fault, Helmut. Sometimes even the best of us lose our way, neh? The Marshal is an old man. He was always inflexible. Old age has made him more so."

He stepped back, making a gesture of dismissal. Rheinhardt bowed low, then backed away.

When he was gone, Li Yuan looked to his Chancellor and let out a long breath. "Aiya!"

Nan Ho came across and knelt at his feet. "Forgive me, Chieh Hsia. If I had known . . ."

Li Yuan reached out and touched his head gently. "It is all right, Master Nan. I forgive you this once. But . . ."

Unexpectedly he laughed.

Nan Ho straightened up, staring at his master. "Are you all right, Chieh Hsia?"

The young Tang smiled. "Never better, Master Nan. Never, in all my life, better."

THE OLD MEN filed in silently, their shaven heads lowered modestly, their saffron robes whispering on the ancient stones of the great hall. When all seventy eight were seated, the three San Shih made their way to the center of the great circle of chairs and stood, their arms crossed before them, concealed within the silken folds of their robes. Luo Ye, the eldest and most senior of them, looked about him at the patiently watching faces, then bowed. "Ch'un t%u," he began, "we have come to report to the Pa shi yi concerning our meeting this morning with Li Yuan."

The old man hesitated; then, drawing himself up straight, he raised his right hand from within his robes, the crooked index finger pointing to the ceiling high above. As he did, his voice rang out, the perfectly intoned Mandarin filling the ancient hall.

"I am afraid to tell my revered brothers that the T'ang was not there. It appears he was . . . delayed."

A great hiss of disbelief went out at the news. Luo Ye waited a moment, then continued.

"Instead we spoke to the Ch'eng Hsiang, Nan Ho. He advised us to wait; to let our grievances rest until a better time. To ... well, in brief, to go away and do as we were told."

The hiss became a buzz of anger. On all sides old men looked to each other, animatedly discussing this new development.

"Ch'un tzu . . ." Luo Ye said, calling them to order. "It may be that the great Li Yuan was indeed delayed. That, knowing we wished to see him on a matter of the first importance, he yet allowed himself to be detained elsewhere. However, it was my feeling that this was a deliberate insult; a snubbing of the Pa shi yi, indeed, of the great New Confucian Movement itself. Since we failed his son, he has, it seems, had little time for us. Like a sulking woman, he has sought to avenge himself in petty ways. But this . . ."

Luo Ye drew himself up straight, the grave authority of his voice echoing amid the stone pillars of the great hall.

"Since the time of the great sage Meng Tzu, it has been agreed by all men that to govern Chung Kuo a Son of Heaven must have Heaven's Mandate, and that to be in possession of the Mandate such a one must be a man of virtue and benevolence. Similarly, it has been agreed that any Son of Heaven found lacking in these qualities forfeits his right to the dragon throne. In such a case the Mandate is broken." He paused significantly. "For some time now the actions of our Master, Li Yuan, son of Li Shai Tung, have caused this Council great concern, but this—this willful disregard for other men . . . does this show virtue? Are these the actions of a benevolent man?"

"No!" came the cry from all sides. "No!"

"Well, brothers . . ." Luo Ye said, folding his arms within his robes once more, a smile of satisfaction on his lips now, "then it seems we must debate a brand new matter. It seems it is time for the Pa shi yi to act. To teach this willful young man from whence his power derives. ..."

TSU ma's FACE was blanched, like a mask of shocked anger, the muscles of his neck taut. He sat there, his hands clenching the carved arms of the throne, his whole body held rigid, listening as his Master of the Inner Chambers, Hwa Kwei, made his confession.

Hwa Kwei was sprawled below the raised dais, his forehead pressed against the stone floor, his arms thrown out before him in supplication, his whole attitude one of abject apology. When he had finished, Tsu Ma gave a small grunt and leaned forward.

"Is that all, Hwa Kwei?"

"It is all, Chieh Hsia."

The T'ang shuddered violently and stood, looking past his servant at the great doors. They were alone here in the audience chamber. Tsu Ma had dismissed the guards, trusting his old retainer. But now? For a moment his anger spilled out. He raised his voice.

"Why, Hwa Kwei? What have I done to deserve this of you?"

But his anger was seasoned with the knowledge that Hwa Kwei had come to him. Dishonored and a traitor he might be, but he had acted honorably at the last. Tsu Ma sighed and, going down the steps, raised Hwa Kwei's chin with his foot.

"I shall spare your family, Master Hwa. I promise you that."

The retainer took the T'ang's foot and kissed it, then returned his forehead to the floor. For himself, he knew, there was only death, but the T'ang had been merciful. Hwa's family, at least, would live.

Just then there was a hammering at the door. Tsu Ma stepped past Hwa Kwei, frowning, then glanced back at the servant as he answered.

"Enter!"

It was Yung Chen, one of the eunuchs from the women's quarters. He was breathless. His eyes stared wildly at the T'ang as he bowed, then straightened.

"What is it?" Tsu Ma said quietly. His stomach had tightened, his whole body gone cold. He had the sense that something dreadful— something irreparable—had happened.

"It is Kung-chih, Chieh Hsia. He has gone mad. He holds Shu-sun at knifepoint and calls for you to come. Tan We is dead, and two others." Tan We was the Chief Eunuch, Tsu Ma's mentor from his childhood. The news was like a physical blow. For a moment Tsu Ma faltered, not understanding what was happening. Then, stumbling forward, he pushed past the eunuch and began to run.

In the corridor outside, the guards fell in behind their T'ang, astonished to see him in such a state. Out into the courtyard they went, into bright sunlight, then through the water gardens and across the narrow bridge that led to the women's quarters.

And as he ran, Tsu Ma was thinking, And Too Chu? Is Too Chu in on this too? Can I trust no one?

The first three rooms were empty. Beyond them was a small courtyard with cherry trees in blossom and a small pool. Beyond that were Shu-sun's rooms. Two servants stood on the far side of the pool, turning toward him and bowing as he came out into the courtyard. "Where is he?"

One of the servants turned, pointing inside. Tsu Ma strode across the courtyard, but he had gone only a few paces when two figures appeared in the far doorway.

Kung-chih held Shu-sun before him, the long, deadly knife held lengthways beneath her chin. He could kill her before Tsu Ma took another step. The T'ang halted, glaring at the youth. "Are you mad, Kung-chih?" "Never so sane, Uncle."

Shu-sun looked terrified. Her silk wrap was spattered with blood and her small white hands were clasped together in front of her. She seemed close to fainting and looked to Tsu Ma with imploring eyes. Tsu Ma, seeing her so, felt his stomach turn; felt an emptiness, a fear, he had never felt before. Even so he kept it hidden from his face; kept all his love, his weakness, tight inside, steeling himself to deal with his nephew.

"Why this?" he asked, taking one step.

"No further, Uncle," the youth warned, tilting the blade slightly so that it nicked the flesh and made Shu-sun cry out. Tsu Ma gritted his teeth, then let a breath hiss out between them.

"What do you want?"

Kung-chih's hand was steady, his whole manner dangerous—far more dangerous than Tsu Ma would have expected. He had thought him weak. In that, too, he had been wrong. He waited while the youth considered his reply; appraising the situation, his eyes straying to each side and to above, trying to assess what might be done. Shu-sun's body shielded Kung-chih's. If his guards shot at Kung they would probably miss, and Shu-sun would be dead.

"I am tired of games," Kung-chih said finally.

"Games?" Tsu Ma was puzzled. He made to take another step but saw how the muscles of the hand that held the knife tensed, and so he relaxed, letting his hands open at his sides.

"You have toyed with me, Uncle. Played games with me. All along you have mocked me. I know. Hwa Kwei told me."

This puzzled him more. What could Hwa Kwei have possibly told him to make him think that? Then, suddenly, he understood. It all fell into place. The announcement of Shu-sun's pregnancy! That had precipitated all of this!

"No . . ." he said softly, almost tenderly, as if he understood the hurt the boy was feeling. "I have played no games with you, Kung-chih. Until today, I—"

The/ boy's cold laughter cut his words short. "I do not believe you, Uncle/. Even now you think to trick me. To keep me from what I want:'"

"And you want this?" Tsu Ma had gone cold again. He saw no way out of this. No way but death.

"I wanted what was mine. By right."

By right? But Tsu Ma said nothing, only bowed his head slightly, as if acknowledging what was said.

Kung-chih spoke again. "For years you led me to believe I would be T'ang one day."

Did I? Tsu Ma thought. Well, maybe he had. Even so, nothing justified this.

"What do you think this will achieve, Kung-chih?"

Again the young man laughed, but his eyes gave nothing away. He had killed three times already; perhaps those deaths had changed him.

"I could kill your son, perhaps, Tsu Ma. Kill the heir you think to have."

Tsu Ma was silent a moment, simply watching the boy, trying to control the sudden violent hatred he had felt hearing those words, reminding himself that this was his brother's child, his ward. Yet when he spoke again he let nothing of that hatred show, steeling himself to be calm and unemotional.

"I can wed a dozen wives, Kung-chih. One of them will give me a son."

For the first time the knife wavered slightly and a look of doubt crept into the prince's eyes. But it was a moment's hesitation only. The look of cold determination returned. Kung-chih slowly shook his head and laughed.

"No, Uncle. You do not fool me with your act. I've seen you with this woman."

Again Tsu Ma felt a hot flush of rage pass through him. He wanted to kill the boy; to tear him apart with his bare hands. And yet he had to stand there, calm, his hands open at his sides, his face clear of the anger he felt. For Shu-sun's sake. Because to show what he was feeling would mean her certain death.

He laughed and let the laughter roll on for longer than its normal course. Again there was a moment's uncertainty in the young man's eyes. Tsu Ma let the laughter spill over into his voice.

"So you think you know me, boy?"

This time no words, only a curt, uncompromising nod. The knife was held steady beneath Shu-sun's chin, the sharp blade dark with others' blood. Shu-sun had closed her eyes, her chest rising and falling heavily. Kung-chih's left arm was locked about her shoulder now, keeping her from falling.

Tsu Ma, watching, wondered what she was feeling; whether it was one part as dreadful as the fear he felt for her.

"What now, then?" he asked, keeping his voice steady.

They had come to an impasse. There was nothing he could offer. No deal could come of this. No compromise. He sighed heavily, suddenly weary, then, with an anger he had concealed until that moment, he yelled and threw himself forward.

Surprised, Kung-chih's instincts took over, and for one brief moment the knife moved outward in a wide arc, as if to meet the oncoming threat. Then it jerked back and Shu-sun fell forward, screaming.

Tsu Ma stopped, horrified, looking down at his fallen wife. Then his head jerked up. Kung-chih was on his knees. The knife had clattered to the floor. From the center of Kung-chih's chest a long steel spike protruded. Kung-chih coughed once, blood dribbling from between his lips, then fell onto his face.

Behind him, in the doorway, stood Tao Chu. His silks were drenched and his hair slicked back and wet. He looked down at his half-brother in surprise, a dreadful look of pain—of sheer loss—on his face, then looked across at Tsu Ma. Shu-sun was scrabbling forward, whimpering with fright. Tsu Ma met his nephew's eyes a moment, then bent down and held his wife to him, his big frame shivering uncontrollably as he comforted her.

After a moment he looked up at Tao Chu again. The boy was still standing there, looking down at the brother he had killed. Tears rolled down his cheeks, one after another, and, even as Tsu Ma watched, the boy knelt and kissed the dark head of his brother, one hand gently touching and stroking the yet warm neck, as if he merely slept.

NAN HO SAT at his desk, staring into space.

"Kuan Yin preserve us," he murmured.

"Master?"

He looked to his secretary, Hu Chang, and shook his head. "I said, Kuan Yin preserve us. This business ... it is an ill day's work. The Empress Pel K'ung is a good woman, and if she has needs . . . well, we all have needs, neh, Hu Chang?"

Hu Cnang lowered his head.

"I tried to talk sense into him," he continued, "but he would not listen. It is just as before. He is obsessed with her. Infatuated with the she-fox. She has cast her spell over him again and we must all suffer for it."

Hu Chang looked up. "Master?"

"Yes, Hu Chang?"

"Perhaps we should try to delay matters and let time cure our Lord of this—this strangeness."

Nan Ho turned to him. "Delay?"

"Yes, Master. If we could find some . . . distraction, perhaps, to keep him from pursuing the matter. Some—"

Nan Ho raised a hand. At once Hu Chang fell silent, bowing his head.

"He wants it done tonight. The divorce document is being drawn up even as we speak. Tsung Ye's confession . . . achh!" He heaved a great sigh of exasperation, then stood, his restlessness taking a physical form. "I should have ignored my conscience and had the woman killed while I could."

Hu Chang's eyes followed his Master, appalled by what he was hearing. Never had Nan Ho spoke of killing anyone. Always he had been a voice of reason. But this matter, it seemed, had stripped all rationality from him ... or revealed it?

Hu Chang swallowed, then spoke up. "To kill her. It would solve nothing, Master."

"No?" Nan Ho turned to him. "You do not know the woman, Hu Chang. Such deviousness . . ." Again he shook his head. "And this time she will not be so easy to dislodge. This time—"

The summons bell rang. Nan Ho stared at it, then grimaced.

"That will be him. Go to him, Hu Chang. Tell him that I am sick and have taken to my bed. Tell him—"

Nan Ho stopped, lowering his head, genuine pain there suddenly. "My boy ... my poor, poor boy. How could he do this to himself a second time? How can I bear to stand by and watch it happen?"

The bell rang again.

"You want me to go, Master?"

Nan Ho looked at him, then smiled sadly. "No, Hu Chang. It is my duty to attend. My duty to serve, whatever my Master asks of me. It is the way, neh? Wherever it leads."

Hu Chang bowed his head, relieved to see his Master returned to his former self.

Nan Ho came across, touching his arm gently, then went from the room, making his way toward Li Yuan's rooms, ready to serve his Master, whatever was asked of him.

"You summoned me, Chieh Hsia?"

Li Yuan looked up and waved Nan Ho across. "Have you heard, Master Nan?"

"Heard, Chieh Usia?"

Li Yuan handed him the single sheet of paper. "It arrived a moment back. Copies are being posted throughout our City even as we speak."

Nan Ho read it through, then looked up, his face blanched, his eyes bewildered. "But this says—"

"The Mandate is broken . . . that's what it says. The Pa shi yi have declared my government invalid. They have sanctioned open rebellion."

Nan Ho stared back at him. "Aiya ..." • • .

"Aiya indeed. Yet not unexpected, neh?"

"Unexpected?"

"We have known for some while now that the New Confucians were dissatisfied with things. And your meeting this morning . . . well, did you not sense this in the air, Master Nan?"

Nan Ho shook his head. It seemed he had foreseen few of these developments. "But what shall we do?"

"Do? Why, we have them all arrested. Arrested and executed."

Nan Ho swallowed. "But that would mean . . ."

"War? Possibly. But this . . ." He took the paper back from his Chancellor. "No, Master Nan. I cannot have this."

There was a knock. Li Yuan raised an eyebrow. "Enter!"

A messenger bowed his way into the room, then, kneeling, offered a sealed letter to the T'ang's secretary, who unfurled it, read it, then brought it across.

Li Yuan took it and read it, then turned in his seat, calling for the screen to be lowered.

"Watch," Li Yuan said, then, speaking to the air. "Show me the latest scenes from Weimar."

At once the screen showed a picture of the great House. Drawing back, it' focused on a group of men outside the entrance gate. Media remote^ hovered about their heads like bugs as one of them, recognizable as the Leader of the House, Representative Kavanagh, was speaking.

". . . yet such an unprecedented statement by the New Confucian hierarchy can only be read as a recognition by those within the T'ang's government—those who know him best, let it be said—that things have reached such a pass that only the most extreme action can remedy the situation. It is therefore with great reluctance, but with a sense of duty, that we have taken a vote on the issue and offer the full support of this House to the Pa shi yi. Further, we urge the citizens of City Europe to reject the rule of the despot Li Yuan and accept Li Min as Son of Heaven and the new T'ang."

There was a gasp from all those in the room. Nan Ho turned, expecting to find his own shock mirrored on his Master's face, but Li Yuan was smiling.

"Chieh Hsia?" he said, astonished that at this moment the T'ang should be amused. "Are you all right?"

"Never better, Master Nan." He stood then came around his desk, stopping before the image of House Leader Kavanagh.

"Arrest them," he said, the confidence in his voice surprising them all. "All of them, and then burn the House. We must teach these hsiao jen a lesson, neh, Master Nan?"

"Chieh Hsia?"

Li Yuan turned to face him, the smile slowly fading from his face until, in its hawklike seriousness, it resembled his father, Li Shai Tung's.

"You heard me, Master Nan. Arrest them. Triad members, New Confucians, Representatives, and all. All who oppose me. It has begun," he said, his voice a strange mixture of fear and relief. "The gods help us, Master Nan, it has finally begun."

AT THE CLIFF'S EDGE stood a ruined chapel, its roof open to the sky, the doorway empty, gaping. It was a tiny building, the floor inside cracked and overgrown with weeds, one of the side walls collapsed, the heavy stones spilled out across the grass.

Kim stopped beside her, looking up at the lettering cut into the stone lintel.

"It's Latin," he said. "From the Revelation to John."

Jelka looked to him, surprised, as he began to read.

"I saw an angel standing in the sun, and with a loud voice he cried to all the birds that fly in middle heaven, 'Come, gather for the great supper of God . .

He turned to her, finishing the quote. " '. . . to eat the flesh of kings, of all men, both free and slave, great and small.' "

He smiled, then looked about him. "Is this it? Is this your special place?"

"No." She looked out at the sea beyond the ruin, then walked on.

It was an old path worn by many feet. Near the bottom, where the way grew steep, steps had been cut into the rock. She picked her way nimbly between the rocks and out beneath the overhang. Kim followed. There, on the far side of the shelf of rock, was the cave.

She turned and smiled at him. "This is it. My special place. The place of voices."

He went halfway across the ledge, then stopped, crouching, looking down through the crack in the great gray slab. There, below him, the incoming tide was channeled into a fissure in the rock. For a moment he watched the rush and foam of the water through the narrow channel, then he looked up. She was watching him, amused.

"Can't you hear it, Kim? It's talking to you."

"Yes," he said. "I hear it."

He stood, wiping his hands against his thighs, then went across and stood there at the edge of the rock, looking out across the rutted surface of the sea, feeling the wind like a hand on his face, the tang of salt on his lips.

"Here," she said, drawing his attention again.

There, on the wall behind her, were the ancient letters, a hand's length in height, scored into the rock and dyed a burnt ochre against the pale cream of the rock. Their sticklike, angular shapes brought to mind the shape of yarrow stalks. He frowned, recognizing them as runes—as a name. Tolonen. And yet they were—what?—fifteen hundred years old?

He shuddered, then narrowed his eyes, watching as she stooped, making her way farther in, toward where the ceiling sloped down to meet the floor of the cave.

"It was just here that I saw the fox," she said, turning, her blue eyes staring out at him from the half dark. "Later I dreamed of it and thought of you."

A fox. He nodded, then went in, taking her hand.

"So wild it was," she said, kneeling, then pulling him down beside her. "Erkki wanted to shoot it but I wouldn't let him."

He stared at her, bewitched, the dark scent of the place awaking something in him.

A fox ...

He drew her face to his and kissed her, a savage, fox's kiss, then pushed her down, the brightness slipping from him.

BACK IN THE HOUSE, he walked about the rooms, disturbed by what had happened; wondering just what it said about himself. Yet Jelka seemed happy. He could hear her in the kitchens, singing to herself, her laughter strange and unexpected. He had thought her so cold and regal.

At the door to the study he stopped and lifted his head, sniffing the air, then stepped inside, his eyes widening at the sight of so many books.

"Books!" he said, carrying one out to her. "Real books!"

"Kalevala," she said, taking it from him. "My uncle lent me this. It was the first real book I ever read. Here . . ." She handed it back to him. "You must read it. My people . . ."

"Your people . . ." He looked at her sadly. "You should contact him, you know. Let him know that you're safe. He'll be worrying."

"Let him worry!" she said. "He deserves it. But aren't you angry with him?"

"Angry?" he laughed, then, putting the books down, took her hands. "How could I be angry? Without him there would be no you. For that . . . well, I forgive him everything."

He smiled, trying to coax her to his viewpoint, but he could see she was not to be brought around. Not yet, anyway.

"Let me help," he said, looking past her at the pans on the old-fashioned stove. "I like to cook for myself."

In answer she beat his hand away. "That was when you were on your own. Now . . . well, now you're mine. If it worries you, we'll take turns. But tonight—tonight I want to cook for you. Please . . . I've dreamed of it."

He smiled. "You dream a great deal, Jelka Tolonen."

"Yes . . ." Her eyes grew serious. "I dreamed that you would come for me and save me from the World of Levels. I dreamed—" She stopped, a sudden fear growing in her face. "Something's .happened," she said. "Something ..."

She moved past him, heading for the great living room. ]He followed, intrigued by the change in her, by the sudden intuitive leap she'd made. As she crouched before the big screen, trying to tune it in, he looked about him, surprised, constantly surprised to find himself there on the island, in this strangest of houses. Had she dreamed this? And was he, even now, trapped within her dream—of no more substance than Caliban's dream?

"Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments will hum about mine ears; and sometimes voices, that, if I then had wak'd after long sleep, will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming, the clouds me-thought would open, and show riches ready to drop upon me; that, when I wak'd, I cried to dream again."

She turned, looking at him, even as the screen came to life behind her.

"What is that? It sounds . . . familiar somehow."

"Just words," he said. "Something that no longer exists, except in the mind of a Machine."

"Words?" But already her attention was being drawn by what was on the screen. There, framed by thick black smoke, was the House at Weimar, its great windows smashed, its levels licked by flames. Long lines of shackled men were being led away by visored guards. Then the image changed, to scenes of rioting and ruin, of screaming men and crying women.

"What's happening?" he said, stepping up beside her, then crouching, taking her hand. "What in the gods' name is happening?"

"It has begun," she said, a tremor passing through her. "The gods help us all. The War's begun."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Rider through the Autumn Wind

Y

O u MUST TALK to him, Chieh Hsia. You simply must."

"Must, Master Nan?" Li Yuan turned from the great map, stonyfaced, to confront his Chief Minister. "Will you tell me also who I must sleep with?"

Nan Ho lowered his head, chastened. All around the War Room others—more than forty in all—did the same, recognizing that tone in the T'ang's voice. At such times he was at his most dangerous—or so it had proved, these past five days.

Nan Ho glanced at his Master from beneath his lashes. Five days . . . was that all it had been since war had been declared? A mere five days?

"They say he is dying, Chieh Hsia," he said quietly, risking his Master's wrath; knowing he would never forgive himself unless he attempted some kind of reconciliation.

"Dying?" Li Yuan turned, surprised. "I ... I had not heard that. I thought—"

"Poisoned, Chieh Hsia. Or so I am told. It is ... well, difficult to know the truth. Our usual channels are not as reliable as they were."

Li Yuan nodded, understanding. All was in chaos. And information—reliable information—was the hardest thing to come by. Li Min had seen to that.

We did not know, Nan Ho thought, looking at the map of City Europe and noting how the dark areas—those that denoted Li Min's territories—had grown in the last two days. We failed to understand just how big he had become—how powerful. We thought what Visak told us was all lies, but it was true.

To be blunt, they had totally underestimated their enemy. They had thought he had delayed—had issued his famous Statement of Loyalty—because he was too weak to fight them. But now they knew. Li Min had delayed only because he wanted to be certain before he acted.

And now he was a day from victory. Two days at most. And still Li Yuan refused his cousin's help.

He watched his Master, seeing how the young T'ang studied the map, as if it were a board, the whole thing a massive game of wei chi in which he might find some flaw in his opponent's strategy, some previously overlooked weakness he might exploit. But there was nothing. Li Min had planned his campaign well. The game was his. He had only to lay the last few stones.

Li Yuan turned back to him. He had not slept in three days now— kept awake and alert by special drugs—and his eyes were heavy from lack of sleep.

"All right," he said softly, nodding to his Chancellor. "Arrange for us to speak."

"Chieh Hsia!" he said, a feeling of relief flooding through him.

While Li Yuan pored over the map, he made contact with the palace at Astrakhan, yet when the screen lit up, it was not Tsu Ma's Chancellor who faced him but his nephew, Tsu Tao Chu.

The young man's face was tight with anguish. Everything about him spoke of loss. Even before he said a word, Nan Ho knew.

"My uncle, the great Tsu Ma, is dead. He—" Tao Chu lowered his head, a tear trickling down his cheek—"he passed away this morning."

Li Yuan, standing beside his Chancellor, stared mutely at the screen.

"It was a great relief," Tsu Tao Chu said after a moment. "He suffered greatly. If he had not been so strong . . ." He shuddered, then, noting Li Yuan's presence, gave a bow of recognition.

"I am sad to hear the news," Li Yuan said, waving Nan Ho away so that he could speak to Tsu Tao Chu alone. "As you know, we had not been speaking these last few weeks, yet his passing comes as a blow to me. I feel as if I have lost a brother."

Tsu Tao Chu smiled tightly, a deep sadness in his eyes. "Thank you, cousin Yuan. I know that he always considered you his brother."

Li Yuan returned his smile. "How are things in your City, cousin?"

Tsu Tao Chu grimaced. "Not well, cousin Yuan. Each hour brings more bad news. Things look bleak for us all, neh?"

"That is true. Yet if we stand together . . ."

"I would like that. I ..." He paused, looking around, speaking to someone off-screen, then faced Li Yuan again. "Forgive me, cousin, but it strikes me that if you were to come here, to Astrakhan—if we were together in one place—then perhaps we might coordinate our efforts and therefore fight our enemies more effectively. Tongjiang is a fortress, true, yet Tongjiang is a long way from your City. If you were here . . ."

Li Yuan considered a moment, then nodded. "I would like that, Tao Chu. I would like that very much."

"Then come, cousin Yuan. Come now, without delay."

THE NEWS WAS GOOD. Tsu Ma was dead, and Wei Tseng-li, too, in all probability. Asia was in chaos and Europe . . . Europe would be next to fall. It needed but one final push.

Lehmann stood there, looking down at the great map of City Europe, studying the shape of things, the white that denoted his territory clearly in the ascendant.

This was the endgame. A time of sacrifices and captures. A time when shape was all-important, when the all-connectedness of his schemes would matter more than the bravery of soldiers or the skill of generals.

In his right hand were the five white stones that represented his reserve forces. Five battalions of his best troops, held back until now. He rattled them in his hand, then looked about him. His men watched him silently, awaiting his decision with a confidence, a certainty, that mirrored his own. They were almost there. Just one more push.

He leaned across, placing a stone in Stuttgart. That would reinforce his forces there and help keep the supply corridor open to the army that was besieging the Mannheim garrison. A second stone he placed in the far west, in Nantes. Again it was a defensive move, to safeguard his capture of the great spaceport. Which left three.

Lehmann hefted the three white stones, feeling their weight, then leaned right across the map and slapped them down at Bremen.

"There!" he said. "Right to the heart."

There was a deep murmur of satisfaction. Bremen. It was Li Yuan's chief stronghold, its name alone representative of the power and strength of the seven generations of the Li family who had ruled Eu-

rope. Take Bremen and the rest would follow, like the leaves falling in Autumn.

"Get me Soucek," he said, looking to his Financial Strategist, Cao Chang. "I want to know what the situation is."

In a moment Soucek's long, oxlike face appeared on the giant screen to the left of the room. Lehmann went across and stood beneath it.

"Well, Jiri? How goes it?"

Soucek's face was black with smoke. He rubbed at one eye, then answered Lehmann. "We're making headway, but slowly. Resistance is fierce. The Mannheim garrison is a proud one and well disciplined. Not only that, but Karr has taken over the command."

"Karr?" Lehmann nodded thoughtfully. "Well, press on, Jiri. Karr or no, I want you in Mannheim by the morning, understand me?"

Soucek bowed his head.

"And, Jiri. I've defended your supply line at Stuttgart. But look for news from Bremen. It's there the final battle will take place. If I'm right, Li Yuan will withdraw some of his forces from Mannheim to defend Bremen. When he does, press home. And, Jiri . . ."

"Yes, Master."

"Take no prisoners."

KARR SAT ON an ammunition case, resting, the sound of gunfire coming closer by the minute. Each time they would draw a defensive line and each time it would be overrun. Hour by hour they were being pressed back, the number of their dead and wounded mounting steadily, until finally . . .

Finally we'll all be dead.

He looked up, studying his young equerry. The boy—for he was little more than seventeen—had been posted on him only yesterday when he'd taken this command, yet he already felt he knew him well. Right now the boy looked to his right, toward the gunfire, a strange calmness—or was it shock?—pervading his gaze. Then, realizing that Kan-was watching him, he blushed and turned to face his Colonel, bowing his head smartly.

"It's okay," Karr said. "There's no ordinance against thinking."

"No, sir. It's just . . ."

Karr smiled, touched by the boy's shyness. "Go on. Say what you're thinking, lad. I grant you permission this once."

Barlow looked away, his whole manner awkward. "I was thinking of a girl, sir."

Karr smiled. "Me too. Two of them, in fact." "Sir?"

"My wife, and my daughter, May."

"Ah . . ." The cadet laughed, then fell silent, serious again. "You know, it's much harder on them," Karr said. "They carry the burden of not knowing what's happening to us. The burden of imagination. Whereas we . . . Well, we have only to worry about the unseen bullet, the sudden pain, and the darkness that follows." Barlow met his eyes and nodded, no sign of fear in his own. Good, Karr thought. He understands. It's far simpler when you understand. Death, when it comes, is easy. It's the waiting that's hard.

Karr stood, then reached down for the big automatic rifle he had been using, picking it up by the strap and slinging it over his shoulder. "Sir?"

"Yes, Barlow?"

"Why is this happening? I mean . . . why didn't Li Yuan crush the White T'ang when he could?"

Karr sighed. "A good question. But not one for us to ask. We are but our Master's hands, neh?"

Barlow stared at him briefly, surprised by the tone of his words. "Have we ... lost, sir?"

"Lost? No, lad. Things aren't that bad." But it wasn't what he believed. News had come only an hour back of Tsu Ma's death—news he had kept from his troops, lest it demoralize them. Closer to home, it was said that the old Marshal was sick, on his deathbed. Soon there would be no one left. Soon there would only be darkness—darkness and ghosts.

And as for Marie and May . . . well, maybe they would be safer in Astrakhan, but the news of their evacuation from Tongjiang had troubled him far more than he'd believed possible. Safe? No. No one was safe anymore.

In any case, it doesn't really matter, he thought. For this is the end. All this—this drawing of lines . . . we're only going through the motions. Fill' ing our own territory with stones. For the truth is he's already won. "Sir?"

He looked to Barlow again, then reached out and brushed his hair back from his eyes, as if it were his son. "Yes, lad?"

"How long do you think we have?"

"Daddy?"

Tolonen stirred in his bed, then turned his head, looking across the darkly shadowed room toward the door.

"Jelka?" he asked weakly. "Is that you?"

She went across and knelt beside the bed, clasping his good hand— the hand that was flesh and blood—between her own.

"Oh, Daddy . . . what have you been up to now?"

He laughed softly; laughter that quickly degenerated into a hacking cough. She waited, looking anxiously at the doctor who hovered silently on the far side of the bed.

It's okay, he mouthed, smiling reassuringly.

She looked back at her father. He was old—that was a fact—yet never before now had he looked old. He had always been so healthy, so . . . robust. To see him like this pained her, and for all that Kim had argued with her about it, she still saw it as her fault. She had done this to him. She and her stubbornness.

"How are you?" she asked, reaching up to smooth his brow.

"Just fine," he said, his gray eyes searching hers. "Not a day's sickness in all my life, and suddenly . . ."

She pressed his head back gently where it had come up from the pillow. "They say you must rest. They say you must take things easy and not worry."

"Worry?" He laughed bleakly. "Did you hear? They're talking of evacuating Bremen . . . Bremen! Aiya!"

"Daddy . . . please. It will do no good. You have to forget what's happening. You can do nothing."

"You think I do not know that?" He turned his head aside, then sniffed deeply, a look of bitter shame on his face. "I have never let him down. Never . . . until now."

She squeezed his hand tightly, touched by his display of loyalty. It was true what he said. Whereas she . . .

"Is he here?"

Jelka sighed. "No, Daddy. I came alone."

He closed his eyes and nodded, then placed his other hand—the hand of golden metal—over hers. She stared at it, trying not to flinch from it—from that part it had always seemed to represent—that cold, inflexible part of him.

"I've come to stay," she said quietly. "I've come to nurse you."

His head turned back, his eyes flicked open. "For good?"

It was hard to meet his eyes and disappoint him, yet she knew she must. "Until you're well again. Kim says—"

"Damn you, girl!" he yelled hoarsely, lifting himself from the pillow. "Don't even speak his name in my presence! I—"

He gave a shudder, as if he were about to have another fit, then lay back again, glancing at his doctor. "I'm sorry, I ... I forgot myself there. I must rest, I know."

She moved back slightly, letting the doctor fuss about him a moment, checking his pulse and his blood pressure, then leaned close again, giving him a smile.

"Let's not fight, eh? Let's be friends. . . ."

"You're all I have, Jelka. All the others . . . they're dead. Klaus Ebert, Hal Shepherd, Li Shai Tung . . . Dead, every last one of them. The world . . . it's like there's nothing here but ghosts. Excepting you, my love. Excepting you."

She felt her stomach muscles tighten, felt the tears begin to well in her eyes; yet at the same time she knew what he was doing; knew that this too—true as it was—was another battle for him. To win her, that was his aim. And to defeat his enemy, her lover, Kim.

"I love you, Daddy," she said, the tears beginning to trickle down her cheeks. "Never doubt that. Never doubt that for a moment. But I love him, too, and I have to be with him."

He stared at her, silently, his eyes accusing her.

"Can't you see? Don't you see how easy it would all be if you just stopped this silliness? Why can't you just accept him, eh? Then we could be together ... all of us. We could take you to Kalevala—"

"No!" he roared, sitting up, his face suffused with sudden anger. "You'll not have him! You won't! You—"

She saw the surprise in his face, the look of shock that came into his eyes, the way his hands clutched at his chest.

"Oh, gods . . ." she whispered, frightened. "Please no . . ."

Then there was shouting in the room, doctors hurrying about. In a daze she found herself lifted to her feet and led away.

"It'll be all right," someone was saying reassuringly. "He needs rest, that's all. All this excitement . . ."

But as she was led from the room, she could still hear his murmuring. "You won't have him! You won't. ..."

LI YUAN embraced his cousin, then turned, introducing the senior members of his staff who had traveled with him from Tongjiang.

"I am glad you came," Tsu Tao Chu said, when they were alone again. "The situation . . ."

Li Yuan touched his arm, understanding. Tao Chu had not been born to rule. The deaths of his half-brother and his uncle had come as a double blow. Nor had he been given any time to prepare himself for such a mighty responsibility. All this was new to him. Even so, he was a good, upstanding young man. If anyone could shoulder such a burden, Tsu Tao Chu could, surely?

"It is okay, Tao Chu. Together we shall make sense of this, neh?"

Tao Chu smiled. "I have prepared the Northern Palace for your people, Yuan. If that is insufficient—"

"It will be fine," Li Yuan said quickly. "But before I do anything else, I must pay my last respects to your uncle."

"Of course."

Tao Chu led him through, past grieving servants and into a dark, cool hall in which the funeral bier had been set up, the casket open to the air. Li Yuan went across and stood there over it, looking down at his old friend, finding it hard to believe that he was dead. The poison had left its mark on Tsu Ma. His face seemed much older than Yuan remembered it, and the hair—the hair was almost gray. He sighed, then turned to Tao Chu again.

"Have you found out yet who did this thing?"

"I have the man. I racked him, made him sing."

Li Yuan stared at Tao Chu, surprised by the unexpected hardness in his voice and face.

"And his Master?"

"You know his Master well, cousin Yuan. Your armies fight him even now."

Li Yuan gave a tiny nod, then looked back. For some reason the memory of an evening, years before, came back to him—of Tsu Ma and himself in a boat on the lake at Tongjiang, with Fei Yen and her cousin, Yin Wu Tsai, the lanterns dancing in the darkness. What a night that had been. What a beautiful, entrancing night.

He grimaced, then turned away, torn between the jealousy he felt— the anger at Tsu Ma's betrayal—and the love he'd had for him.

You were tike a brother to me, he thought, as if addressing Tsu Ma in his head. Why, then, did you take my bride away?

As if in answer, the words from Ch'u Yuan's "Heavenly Questions" floated into mind.

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

In a sense it was true—he had taken his brother's wife, and in turn his brother—Tsu Ma—had done the same to him.

But now it was done with. Death had paid all debts. Now he could let that matter go and remember his cousin with affection.

He turned back, bowing deeply to Tsu Ma, his hands pressed together, palm to palm, as he offered his respects, then he looked to Tao Chu and nodded.

"There is much to do, cousin Tao. We had best begin at once."

KARR HAD BEEN expecting the order for some time; even so, as he unsealed Rheinhardt's handwritten letter and read its contents, he felt his heart sink, the spirit go out of him. He was to abandon Mannheim and go at once to Bremen, taking whatever forces remained at his disposal.

This is it, he thought sadly, folding the letter and slipping it into his tunic pocket. Another day and all is gone. On whim he took out the picture he carried and looked at it, studying the smiling faces of his girls. He kissed it fondly, then returned it, and, calling his Duty Captain to him, began to issue orders.

"It is no good," Li Yuan said, pointing to the southern half of the map, indicating the five remaining tiny islands of black around Bordeaux, Lyon, Turin, Ravenna, and Belgrade. The rest was solidly white now— more than two thirds of the City; almost everything beneath the ancient Loire and Danube rivers—while to the north, Li Min had made encroachments in at least a dozen places. "We shall have to let them go. Issue the order now, General Rheinhardt. I want all of our forces pulled back above the Seine in the west and the Danube in the east."

"But Chieh Hsia," Rheinhardt began, appalled by the thought of relinquishing so much.

"You have your orders, General. Now do it. And get Karr on the screen. I have a use for him."

Rheinhardt bowed and left the room, leaving Li Yuan alone with Nan Ho and Tsu Tao Chu.

"Was that wise, Chieh Hsia?" Nan Ho asked quietly. "Rheinhardt knows what he is doing, and those garrisons . . . well, they have served to tie up a great number of Li Min's troops."

"And a great number of ours too," Li Yuan said, leaning across the map and drawing an imaginary line from west to east with his finger. "No, Master Nan. It is time from drastic measures. What is lost is lost. We must conserve what can yet be saved. Li Min's new forces have swung the balance heavily against us. Yet all is not lost. Until now we have been hampered by the need to hold down a vast area, to try to police it even as we wage a war. But now that responsibility is Li Min's. He must now subdue those parts of the City he has conquered. That will tie up more and more of his forces, while our own will be freed to defend what remains. Moreover, if we keep our forces here in the north, in this section"—he indicated a swath of territory less than a quarter of the City's total size—"then we also have the advantage of keeping our supply lines short."

Nan Ho studied the map a moment, then shrugged. "Even so, Chieh Hsia—"

Li Yuan snorted. "Aiya, Master Nan! Must I constantly be held back by you and your even so's? We must draw a line to preserve it. If we fail . . ."

Tsu Tao Chu stared at the map a moment, then nodded. "A line, cousin? Why not a physical breach . . . some kind of gap?"

Li Yuan stared at him awhile, then smiled. "Yes! A gap—as about Tunis! We could destroy a line of stacks . . . here." He drew the line again with his finger, this time more definite, his eyes shining with excitement. "We could make a break two U wide and defend it ... as if we were fighting a fire."

He looked to Nan Ho. "Have we still got those stocks of ice-eaters that were confiscated that time?"

"We have, Chieh Hsia, but—"

"No buts, Master Nan. The idea is an excellent one. And Karr . . . Karr's the man to implement it, neh?"

Nan Ho looked to his master, imploring him with his eyes to drop the idea, but Li Yuan was adamant. After a moment Nan Ho bowed his head. "Very well. I shall arrange it, Chieh Hsia."

Tsu tao C H U sat in the window seat, chewing a thumbnail, while Li Yuan paced the room in front of him, reading the latest reports.

That evening Tao Chu was to be appointed T'ang of West Asia in an official ceremony in the Hall of Celestial Virtues. But by then, it seemed, West Asia would be gone and he would be T'ang of nothing. Nothing but these ancient stones.

After two hundred years of peace Asia had fallen into darkness once again. Warlords had divided the great continent among them, reacting to the scent of blood like sharks in a feeding frenzy. The twin cities, once the jewels of Chung Kuo, now burned, and tens of millions died each hour as the darkness fell.

"Is it bad?" Tao Chu asked, looking up to him, a youthful innocence in his eyes.

Li Yuan sighed. "It could not be worse, Tao Chu. It is all slipping away from us. It might be best if we prepared to take our courts . . . off-planet."

"Off-planet?" Tao Chu looked alarmed. "As bad as that?"

Li Yuan nodded.

Tao Chu got up suddenly, then, with a polite smile and bow to Li Yuan, made to go past him to the door, but Li Yuan held his arm.

"Cousin? Where are you off to in such a hurry? I thought we might talk."

Tao Chu looked down, embarrassed. "Forgive me, Yuan, I ..."

Li Yuan smiled. "I remember the first time we ever met. It was after your grandfather Tsu Tiao's death. You were . . ."

"Eight . . . and you twelve." Tao Chu nodded thoughtfully, then looked to Li Yuan with a smile. "I remember that I gripped your arm, I was so afraid. I thought that my uncle"—he shivered, a look of pain flickering across his eyes—"I thought he had killed Tsu Tiao. I did not know it was only a GenSyn copy."

"Was that the first time you had encountered death?"

Tao Chu nodded. "I remember you explained it all to me. Why my uncle Ma had to kill the image of his father to become his own man. Yet I never truly understood. Not deep down. To kill one's father . . ." He shuddered.

Li Yuan reached out and held his shoulder gently. "The first of the craft from Tongjiang will be here shortly. Perhaps you would like to come and greet them with me?"

Tao Chu shook his head, his eyes avoiding Yuan's. "I ... I would prefer to get some rest, cousin. I ... it has been a very trying day for me."

Li Yuan bowed. "I understand. The times take much from us, neh?"

Tao Chu bobbed his head in response, then, with a strange, pained glance at his cousin, went to the door and out.

Li Yuan stood there awhile, staring at the open door, wondering if there were anything he could do to ease his young cousin's suffering. Then, with a heavy sigh, he went out to meet the incoming craft.

THE FIVE CRAFT came in from the east, in tight formation. Li Yuan, watching from the parapet above the Eastern Gate, saw the faint wisp of smoke that came from the exhaust of the central craft and, at the same time, heard the slight difference in the tone of its engine, and knew at once that something had happened.

He hurried across, lifting his silks so he could run, the honor guard exerting themselves to keep up with him. As he came to the hangars, they were already disembarking. Li Yuan made his way through until he stood before the Commander of the flight, who was busy examining the damage to one of his craft.

"What happened?" he asked, staring past the Captain at the smoke-blackened side of the cruiser.

The Captain spun around, surprised, then bowed low. "Forgive me, Chieh Hsia. We were attacked coming over the Uzbek plantations . . . three ships out of Tashkent. We gave them the imperial codes, yet they attacked all the same. Deliberately, it seems."

Li Yuan nodded, sobered by the thought. Before today it would have been unthinkable that an imperial cruiser would have been attacked by security forces, but today the unthinkable was finally happening.

"We lost two ships, Chieh Hsia, but none of the transporters was harmed. Not in any serious way, that is."

"And the attackers?"

"We destroyed them, Chieh Hsia."

"Good. You will be rewarded for your actions, Captain. You and all your men."

Li Yuan turned, looking around him, seeing at once the face of his son, Kuei Jen, staring down at him through the portal of one of the other cruisers. He went across, greeting the boy at the bottom of the ramp, picking him up and hugging him, relieved that he was safe. In the hatchway beyond the boy stood his wife, Pei K'ung. He stared at her, then nodded, strangely pleased that she had survived.

"What is the news from Tongjiang?" he asked, setting his son down and facing her.

"Tongjiang has fallen. A thousand dead, so they say. The news was full of it as we flew across. Another half hour and we ourselves would not have escaped."

"Ah . . ." He felt a heaviness descend on him. A thousand dead. And Tongjiang itself . . . gone. He felt like weeping at the thought. But at least his family had survived.

Cling on to that, Li Yuan, he told himself. For many men this day have emerged from this with far less than you. Millions are dying even as you stand here with your son, your wife. So give thanks to all the gods you know.

He shivered, then stretched out a hand to her. She hesitated, then came down, taking his hand, surprised, for it was the first gesture of kindness he had shown her since that night weeks ago when she had shared his bed.

"Forgive me, Pei K'ung," he whispered, drawing her close. "I have not been myself."

She drew back slightly, meeting his eyes. "There is nothing to forgive, my husband."

"And my cousin, Wei ... is there any news of him? The rumors . . ."

"Wei Tseng-li is dead," she said, the solemnity of the words filling him with dread. "We taped all of the newscasts as we flew over. The pictures . . ." She shuddered physically. "They are most disturbing. They strung him up, like an animal. That lovely man . . ."

He grimaced and closed his eyes, then reached out, holding the two of them to him—his wife, his son. After a moment he looked up again, meeting her eyes. There were tears there, as in his own. "Then there are just the two of us now. Tsu Tao Chu and I. Two T'ang and but a single City. That is, if my own City survives the night." "And if it falls?"

Li Yuan looked away, his left hand gripping his son's shoulder fiercely, a muscle in his cheek twitching. "Then we must leave Chung Kuo and go elsewhere."

HE HAD SEEN the demonstrations. One moment the ice was a solid thing, the next . . .

Karr shuddered. They were hovering above the City's roof, the hold of the cruiser packed with cylinders of the stuff. Two hundred and forty cruisers in all—more than half their remaining strength—had been loaded up and flown into position along a line from Le Havre in the west through Nurnberg and Dresden to Stettin in the northeast. Now he had only to give the order and the spraying would begin.

There was no time to evacuate. No time to give the people down below any chance to escape, for to do so would be to tip off Lehmann. And if he knew . . .

"Okay," he said, leaning toward the cockpit's control panel. "Let's get this over with. Begin spraying."

Karr turned, then clambered up, going to the left-hand portal to look out as the chemicals began to fall like a mist of fine rain onto the City's pure white roof. And where it touched . . .

He caught his breath, then groaned. It was unbearable to watch. He could see them far below him, jumping as the levels slowly melted. As in a dream . . . the ice melting beneath the fine spray that fell from the heavens, the levels vanishing just as if they'd never been.

He sat down heavily, closing his eyes, trying not to imagine it, but it was no use. He could see them still. All of those people . . . thousands, hundred of thousands of them, falling through a dissolving mist of ice, falling like stones, downward to the earth.

He groaned. He had done many foul things in the service of his T'ang. He had killed and lied and sold his soul a hundred times, but this—this was the nadir.

He stood, forcing himself to look once more, to bear witness. Behind them a great space had opened up, like a canyon between two smooth plateaus of ice, a cross section of the levels exposed by the acidlike mist. And where the mist still fell, the City seemed to sink into the earth as layer after layer shimmered into nothingness.

Like earth in a sieve, he thought, trying to find the words to describe what he was seeing—trying not to go crazy at the thought that those tiny black shapes were human beings.

I gave the order, he thought, stunned by the enormity of it. Yes, it was I who gave the order.

For a moment longer he watched, then, swallowing down the bile that had risen in his throat, he went back through and sat, staring out at the whiteness that stretched ahead of him, trying hard not to think of all those down below who, in a blink of the eye, were about to learn what their Master, the great T'ang, had decided for them.

THE cruiser DESCENDED slowly, sinking into the space between the Cities. Below, a vast army waited in the late evening gloom, rank after rank, their bright red uniforms standing out against the forlorn silver shapes of what had once been the City's supporting columns. The mass of men stretched into the distance, their number filling the two-li gap between the massive walls. Ten thousand brightly colored banners fluttered in the wind that blew down that vast artificial canyon. Torches flickered in the twilight, then, at a signal, drums rolled and trumpets blew. As one the masses came to attention.

Looking out through the cockpit of the cruiser, Lehmann studied the host below. Eight hundred thousand men there were. To the west, in the shadow of Rouen, a further million waited, while to the east, at Eberswalde, an army of four hundred thousand were gathered.

In an hour it would begin. As darkness fell he would make the final push; would hammer the final nail into the great T'ang's coffin. He nodded, then turned to Soucek, who stood in the doorway behind him.

"So here we are, Jiri. A few hours more and all is ours."

Soucek, recalled only an hour past from his labors at Bremen, bowed respectfully.

"I never doubted it, Master. From that first moment until this. We have walked an iron path."

The albino's face was like a waxwork, devoid of all emotion. Yet men followed him in their millions, bled for him, laid down their lives for him.

"That was a bold stroke of Li Yuan's," he said, a grudging respect in his voice, "but it will not save him. Drawing a line is one thing, defending it another."

The engine noise changed, intensifying as they dropped below the last level of the City and into the semidarkness beneath. Soucek looked out and shuddered. The ice-eaters had done their work mercilessly. They had stripped the levels bare.

The craft touched down on the Clay.

As the door hissed open, a great cheer went up from all sides. For a moment the hatch was silent, empty, then Lehmann stepped out, dressed from head to toe in white, his left hand raised in a triumphal salute. At once the cheer became a roar. Helmets were thrown in the air, guns thrust toward the heavens.

Lehmann half turned, his face a blank, his eyes cold like glass. "You see, Jiri? They have a need of kings."

He walked down the ramp to a tumultuous reception. It was like the roar of a great storm. Soucek stood at the head of the ramp a moment, watching him descend, then looked out across that sea of eager, exultant faces, seeing no sign of doubt—only an ecstatic adulation.