Chapter 38

THE SADDLE

The old T’ang backed away, his hands raised before him, his face rigid with fear.

‘Put down the knife, erh tzu! For pity’s sake!’

A moment before there had been laughter; now the tension in the room seemed unendurable. Only the hiss and wheeze of Tsu Tiao’s laboured breathing broke the awful silence.

In the narrow space between the pillars, Tsu Ma circled his father slowly, knife in hand, his face set, determined. On all sides T’ang and courtier alike – all Han, all Family – were crowded close, looking on, their faces tense, unreadable. Only one, a boy of eight, false whiskered and rouged up, his clothes identical to those of the old T’ang, showed any fear. He stood there, wide-eyed, one hand gripping the arm of the taller boy beside him.

‘Erh Tzu!’ the old man pleaded, falling to his knees. My son! He bowed his head, humbling himself. ‘I beg you, Tsu Ma! Have mercy on an old man!’

All eyes were on Tsu Ma now. All saw the shudder that rippled through the big man like a wave; the way his chin jutted forward and his face contorted in agony as he steeled himself to strike. Then it was done and the old man slumped forward, the knife buried deep in his chest.

There was a sigh like the soughing of the wind, then Tsu Ma was surrounded. Hands clapped his back or held his hand or touched his shoulder briefly. ‘Well done, Tsu Ma,’ each said before moving on, expecting no answer; seeing how he stood there, his arms limp at his sides, his broad chest heaving, his eyes locked on the fallen figure on the floor beneath him.

Slowly the great room emptied until only Tsu Ma, the six T’ang and the two young boys remained.

Li Shai Tung stood before him, staring into his face, a faint smile of sadness mixed with satisfaction on his lips. He spoke softly, ‘Well done, Tsu Ma. It’s hard, I know. The hardest thing a man can do…’

Slowly Tsu Ma’s eyes focused on him. He swallowed deeply and another great shudder racked his body. Pain flickered like lightning across the broad, strong features of his face, and then he spoke, his voice curiously small, like a child’s. ‘Yes… but it was so hard to do, Shai Tung. It… it was just like him.’

Li Shai Tung shivered but kept himself perfectly still, his face empty of what he was feeling. He ached to reach out and hold Tsu Ma close, to comfort him, but knew it would be wrong. It was hard, as Tsu Ma now realized, but it was also necessary.

Since the time of Tsao Ch’un it had been so. To become T’ang the son must kill the father. Must become his own man. Only then would he be free to offer his father the respect he owed him.

‘Will you come through, Tsu Ma?’

Tsu Ma’s eyes had never left Li Shai Tung’s face, yet they had not been seeing him. Now they focused again. He gave the barest nod, then, with one last, appalled look at the body on the floor, moved towards the dragon doorway.

In the room beyond, the real Tsu Tiao was laid out atop a great, tiered pedestal on a huge bed spread with silken sheets of gold. Slowly and with great dignity, Tsu Ma climbed the steps until he stood there at his dead father’s side. The old man’s fine grey hair had been brushed and plaited, his cheeks delicately rouged, his beard brushed out straight, his nails painted a brilliant pearl. He was dressed from head to foot in white. A soft white muslin that, when Tsu Ma knelt and gently brushed it with his fingertips, reminded him strangely of springtime and the smell of young girls.

You’re dead, Tsu Ma thought, gazing tenderly into his father’s face. You’re really dead, aren’t you? He bent forward and gently brushed the cold lips with his own, then sat back on his heels, shivering, toying with the ring that rested, heavy and unfamiliar, like a saddle on the first finger of his right hand. And now it’s me.

He turned his head, looking back at the six T’ang standing amongst the pillars, watching him. You know how I feel, he thought, looking from face to face. Each one of you. You’ve been here before me, haven’t you?

For the first time he understood why the Seven were so strong. They had this in common: each knew what it was to kill their father; knew the reality of it in their bones. Tsu Ma looked back at the body – the real body, not the lifelike GenSyn copy he had ‘killed’ – and understood. He had been blind to it before, but now he saw it clearly. It was not life that connected them so firmly, but death. Death that gave them such a profound and lasting understanding of each other.

He stood again and turned, facing them, then went down amongst them. At the foot of the steps they greeted him; each in his turn bowing before Tsu Ma; each bending to kiss the ring of power he now wore; each embracing him warmly before repeating the same eight words.

‘Welcome, Tsu Ma. Welcome, T’ang of West Asia.’

When the brief ceremony was over, Tsu Ma turned and went across to the two boys. Li Yuan was much taller than when he had last seen him. He was entering that awkward stage of early adolescence and had become a somewhat ungainly-looking boy. Even so, it was hard to believe that his birthday in two days’ time would be only his twelfth. There was something almost unnatural in his manner that made Tsu Ma think of childhood tales of changelings and magic spells and other such nonsense. He seemed so old, so knowing. So unlike the child whose body he wore. Tsu Tao Chu, in contrast, seemed younger than his eight years and wore his heart embroidered like a peacock on his sleeve. He stood there in his actor’s costume, bearded, his brow heavily lined with black make-up pencil, yet still his youth shone through, in his eyes and in the quickness of his movements.

Tsu Ma reached out and ruffled his hair, smiling for the first time since the killing. ‘Did it frighten you, Tao Chu?’

The boy looked down, abashed. ‘I thought…’

Tsu Ma knelt down and held his shoulders, nodding, remembering how he had felt the first time he had seen the ritual, not then knowing what was happening, or why.

Tao Chu looked up and met his eyes. ‘It seemed so real, Uncle Ma. For a moment I thought it was Grandpa Tiao.’

Tsu Ma smiled. ‘You were not alone in that, Nephew Chu.’

Tao Chu was his dead brother’s third and youngest son and Tsu Ma’s favourite; a lively, ever-smiling boy with the sweetest, most joyful laugh. At the ritual earlier Tao Chu had impersonated Tsu Tiao, playing out scenes from the old T’ang’s life before the watching Court. The practice was as old as the Middle Kingdom itself and formed one link in the great chain of tradition, but it was more than mere ritual, it was a living ceremony, an act of deep respect and celebration, almost a poem to the honoured dead. For the young actor, however, it was a confusing, not to say unnerving experience, to find the dead man unexpectedly there, in the seat of honour, watching the performance.

‘Do you understand why I had to kill the copy, Tao Chu?’

Tao Chu glanced quickly at Li Yuan, then looked back steadily at his uncle. ‘Not at first, Uncle Ma, but Yuan explained it to me. He said you had to kill the guilt you felt at Grandpa Tiao’s death. That you could not be your own man until you had.’

‘Then you understand how deeply I revere my father? How hard it was to harm even a copy of him?’

Tao Chu nodded, his eyes bright with understanding.

‘Good.’ He squeezed the boy’s shoulders briefly, then stood. ‘But I must thank you, Tsu Tao Chu. You did well today. You gave me back my father.’

Tao Chu smiled, greatly pleased by his uncle’s praise, then, at a touch from Li Yuan, he joined the older boy in a deep bow and backed away, leaving the T’ang to their Council.

From the camera’s vantage point, twenty li out from the spaceship, it was hard to tell its scale. The huge sphere of its forward compartments was visible only as a nothingness in the star-filled field of space – a circle of darkness more intense than that which surrounded it. Its tail, so fine and thin that it was like a thread of silver, stretched out for ten times its circumference, terminating in a smaller, silvered sphere little thicker than the thread.

It was beautiful. Li Shai Tung drew closer, operating the remote from a distance of almost three hundred thousand li, adjusting the camera image with the most delicate of touches, the slight delay in response making him cautious. Five li out he slowed the remote and increased the definition.

The darkness took on form. The sphere was finely stippled, pocked here and there with hatches or spiked with communication towers. Fine, almost invisible lines covered the whole surface, as if the sphere were netted by the frailest of spiders’ webs.

Li Shai Tung let the remote drift slowly towards the starship and sat back, one hand smoothing through his long beard while he looked about him at the faces of his fellow T’ang.

‘Well?’

He glanced across at the waiting technicians and dismissed them with a gesture. They had done their work well in getting an undetected remote so close to The New Hope. Too well, perhaps. He had not expected it to be so beautiful.

‘How big is it?’ asked Wu Shih, turning to him. ‘I can’t help thinking it must be huge to punch so big a hole in the star field.’

Li Shai Tung looked back at him, the understanding of thirty years passing between them. ‘It’s huge. Approximately two li in diameter.’

‘Approximately?’ It was Wei Feng, T’ang of East Asia, who picked up on the word.

‘Yes. The actual measurement is one kilometre. I understand that they have used the old Hung Mao measurements throughout the craft.’

Wei Feng grunted his dissatisfaction, but Wang Hsien, T’ang of Africa, was not so restrained. ‘But that’s an outrage!’ he roared. ‘An insult! How dare they flout the Edict so openly?’

‘I would remind you, Wang Hsien,’ Li Shai Tung answered quietly, seeing the unease on every face. ‘We agreed that the terms of the Edict would not apply to the starship.’

He looked back at the ship. The fine web of lines was now distinct. In its centre, etched finer than the lines surrounding it, were two lines of beadlike figures spiralling about each other, forming the double helix of heredity, symbol of the Dispersionists.

Three years ago – the day after Under Secretary Lehmann had been killed in the House by Tolonen – he had summoned the leaders of the House before him, and there, in the Purple Forbidden City where they had murdered his son, had granted them concessions, amongst them permission to build a generation starship. It had prevented war. But now the ship was almost ready and though the uneasy peace remained intact, soon it would be broken. The cusp lay just ahead. Thus far on the road of concession he had carried the Seven. Thus far but no further.

He stared at the starship a moment longer. It was beautiful, but both House and Seven knew what The New Hope really was. No one was fooled by the mask of rhetoric. The Dispersionists talked of it being an answer – ‘the only guarantee of a future for our children’ – but in practical terms it did nothing to solve the problem of over-population that was supposedly its raison d’être. Fully laden, it could carry no more than five thousand settlers. In any case, the ship, fast as it was, would take a thousand years to reach the nearest star. No, The New Hope was not an answer, it was a symbol, a political counter – the thin end of the great wedge of Change. It heralded not a new age of dispersal but a return to the bad old days of technological free-for-all – a return to that madness that had once before almost destroyed Chung Kuo.

He cleared the image and sat there, conscious that they were waiting for him to say what was on his mind. He looked from face to face, aware that the past three years had brought great changes in his thinking. What had once seemed certain was no longer so. His belief in peace at all costs – in a policy of concession and containment – had eroded in the years since Han Ch’in’s death. He had aged, and not only his face. Some days there was an air of lethargy about him, of having done with things. Yes, he thought, looking down at his own long hands, the tiger’s teeth are soft now, his eyes grown dull. And they know this. Our enemies know it and seek advantage from it. But what might we do that we have not already done? How can we stem the tidal flow of change?

Tsu Ma broke into his thoughts. ‘Forgive me, Li Shai Tung. But what of Tolonen?’

Li Shai Tung looked up, surprised, meeting the new T’ang’s eyes.

‘Tolonen? I don’t understand you, Tsu Ma. You think I should accede to the House’s demands?’ He looked away, a bitter anger in his eyes. ‘You would have me give them that satisfaction too?’

Tsu Ma answered him softly. ‘Not at all, Shai Tung. You mistake my meaning. Things have changed. Many who were angry three years ago have cooled. They see things differently now, even in the House.’

Li Shai Tung looked about him, expecting strong disagreement with Tsu Ma’s remarks, but there was nothing. They looked at him expectantly.

‘I still don’t follow you. You mean they’d have him back? After what he did?’

Tsu Ma shook his head. ‘Not as General, no. But in some other role.’

Li Shai Tung looked down sharply. It was more than he could have hoped for. But dare he say yes? Dare he call the old rogue back?

‘We are not alone in thinking things have gone too far,’ said Wu Shih, picking up on what Tsu Ma had said. ‘There are many at First Level – even among the Hung Mao – who feel we gave too much; were too timid in our dealings with the Dispersionists. They would see the changes to the Edict reversed, The New Hope melted down.’

‘We daren’t go so far. There would be war, surely?’

Tsu Ma leaned forward. ‘Not if we challenge them in their own sphere.’

‘You mean the House?’

There were nods all around. So, they had discussed this between them. Why? Had he been so preoccupied? So unreachable?

Wei Feng spoke for them all. ‘We know the last three years have been hard for you, Shai Tung. You have tasted bitterness and we have had to watch in silence. But we shall watch no longer, or hold our tongues for fear of hurting you. We have seen the plan your advisor, Shepherd, drew up and…’

Li Shai Tung sat forward jerkily. ‘Impossible! No one has seen those papers!’

Wei Feng waited a moment then continued. ‘Not impossible, old friend. Not at all. Shepherd merely took advantage of his right as equal to appeal to us. He knew you would not act as your heart dictated, so he sent us copies.’

Li Shai Tung stared back at him, astonished. Then they knew…

‘And we agree.’ Wei Feng was smiling now. ‘Don’t you see, Li Shai Tung. We agree with Shih Shepherd’s proposals. Our enemies have gone too far. To kill your son and take advantage from it – it was too much for any man to bear. And a T’ang is not just any man. A T’ang is one of Seven.’

‘And the Seven?’

Wei Feng looked about him, then back at Li Shai Tung. ‘In this the Seven shall do as Li Shai Tung decides.’

As the door at the far end of the room hissed open, steam billowed out into the corridor beyond. Berdichev shivered but stood straighter, his skin still tingling from the shower.

An armed guard stood there in the doorway, head bowed, a clean silk pau folded over one arm. Behind him stood two Han servants who, after a moment’s hesitation, entered the room and began to dry Berdichev with soft towels. When they had done, he went over to the guard and took the full-length gown from him, pulling it on and tying it at the waist.

‘You have my charm?’

The guard’s head moved fractionally, but remained bowed. ‘I’m sorry, excellency. I was given only the pau.’

Berdichev huffed impatiently and looked up at the overhead camera. Moments later an official appeared at the far end of the corridor and hurried to him. The man bowed deeply, his face flushed with embarrassment, and held out one hand, offering the necklace.

‘My humble apologies, Excellency. I did not understand.’

Berdichev took the silver chain and fastened it about his neck, closing his hand over the smooth surface of the charm a moment. The impertinence of these little men, he thought, making a mental note of the official’s number – so prominently displayed on his chest – before he waved him away. Then he waited as one of the two Han brought him anti-static slippers while the other combed and plaited his hair. Only then, when they were finished, did Director Clarac make his appearance.

Clarac embraced him lightly and then stepped back, smiling pleasantly, his appearance and manner the very model of elegance and charm. Berdichev smiled tightly and gave the barest of nods in response to Clarac’s respectful bow. As ever, he was in two minds about Clarac’s value to the project. He was a good front man, but the real work was done by his team of four assistants. Clarac had only to step out of line once and he would be out, family connections or no.

Clarac’s voice oozed warmth and friendliness. ‘Soren! It’s a real delight to have you here as our guest.’

Yes, thought Berdichev, but I’m the last person you expected to see up here today. I bet you were shitting your elegant white pants when you heard I was here. That said, Berdichev was impressed by what he had seen. The defences about The New Hope left nothing to be desired. Neither had he had any reason to complain about the security measures surrounding visitors to the base. He had been forced to undergo the full body search and decontamination procedure. And when he had tried to bully the guards into making an exception in his case, their officer had politely but firmly stated that there could be no exceptions – hadn’t Shih Berdichev insisted as much?

‘Shih Clarac,’ he answered, distancing the man at once and subtly reminding him of their relative status. ‘I’m delighted to be here. But tell me, what are you doing about the spy camera?’

Clarac’s momentary hesitation was telling. He was a man who prided himself on having everything at his fingertips, but he had not counted on Berdichev’s directness. Clarac was used to social nicety. It was how he functioned. He approached such matters slowly, obliquely, over wine and sweetmeats. But Berdichev had no time for such ‘niceties’.

‘We know about the remote,’ Clarac answered, recovering quickly. ‘In fact, if you’ll permit me, Shih Berdichev, I’ll take you to our tracking room.’

Berdichev nodded tersely and walked on, not waiting for Clarac, who had to hurry to catch up with him.

‘And that gap in your defences – the blind spot on darkside – how do you account for that?’

Clarac did not hesitate this time. ‘Our defence experts have assured me that nothing of any real size could get through undetected. The blind spot, as you call it, is a mere 30 degrees of arc. Our central sensors would detect any ship coming in from five thousand li out. In any case, no one would come from that direction. There’s nothing out there. You would have to orbit the moon in a one-man craft to get into position. And who would do that?’

Berdichev stopped and stared at him a moment.

‘Besides which,’ Clarac added quickly, facing Berdichev, ‘there’s the question of cost. To extend our defence satellite system to cover the darkside channel would cost a further one hundred and twenty million. The budget is already two hundred and eighty-five per cent over original costings. Our investors are justifiably concerned…’

‘And if one man did just what you say is impossible and slipped in on the darkside?’

Clarac laughed. ‘If he did it would make no difference. Every airlock is linked to central security. There are seals at every level. And more than a thousand security men guarding the outer shell alone. The inner shell is a self-sufficient unit which can be cut off at once from the outer shell. As the engines and life-support systems are there, there’s no possibility of them being under threat. No, the only way the Seven could get at The New Hope would be to try to blow it out of the sky from below. And we’ve designed our defence system to prevent just that possibility.’

Berdichev sniffed, then, satisfied, nodded and began to walk on. Beside him, Clarac began to talk about the progress they had made, the difficulties they had overcome, but Berdichev was hardly listening. He had seen the reports already. What he wanted were answers to some of the things they might not have thought of. He wanted to make certain for himself that nothing had been overlooked.

In the tracking room he took a seat at the desk and listened while Clarac explained the system. But all the time he was looking about him, noting things.

Interrupting Clarac he pointed to the screen that showed the remote spy camera. ‘You’re certain it’s not a weapon?’

Clarac laughed. A laugh which, to Berdichev’s ear, was just a touch too self-confident.

‘We’ve scanned it thoroughly, of course. There’s an engine unit at the back of it and a whole system of foils and anti-jamming devices, and though the central core of it is lead-screened, our experts have calculated that there’s barely enough room for the camera unit, let alone any kind of weaponry.’

‘Unless they’ve developed something new, neh?’

Clarac looked at him and gave a slight bow, understanding that he would be allowed nothing today. He would need answers for everything.

‘I’ve assumed that that might be the case. Which is why I personally ordered that the thing should be tracked twenty-four hours a day. I’ve two lasers trained on the aperture constantly. At the smallest sign of unusual activity they’ll blow the thing apart.’

‘Before it can damage The New Hope?’

‘The lasers are set for automatic response. The remote would be blasted out of the sky in less than a fiftieth of a second.’

Berdichev turned his head and looked at Clarac, for the first time letting a brief smile signal his satisfaction.

‘Good. I want nothing to stop The New Hope from making its maiden flight three months from now.’

He saw the surprise on Clarac’s face, followed an instant later by a broad smile of unfeigned delight. ‘But that’s excellent, Shih Berdichev! That’s marvellous news! When did the Seven agree to this?’

‘They haven’t. But they will. Very soon now. By the week’s end there will be a proposal in the House. We’re going to push them on this one. We’re going to make them fulfil the promises they made three years ago. And then we’ll push some more. Until there’s a whole fleet of these ships. You understand me? But this is the first, the most important of them. The New Hope will break their stranglehold. They know that and they’ll try to prevent it – but we must pre-empt their every move. That’s why it’s so important things are right up here. That’s why I came to see things for myself

Clarac bowed. ‘I understand, Shih Berdichev. You think, then, that we should extend the satellite system?’

Berdichev shook his head. ‘No. I’m satisfied with your reasoning. As you say, it would be impossible for a single man to do any real damage to the craft. Let us worry about more direct approaches, eh? And for a start let’s destroy that remote. I’m sure one of our ferry craft could have a little accident, eh? A technical malfunction, perhaps, that would place it on a collision course?’

Clarac smiled. ‘Of course, Shih Berdichev. It shall be done at once.’

Fei Yen stood in the shade of the willow, waiting for the two princes to come along the path that led to the bridge. She had seen their craft land only minutes earlier and had placed herself deliberately here where they would have to pass her. Her maids stood off at a slight distance, amongst the trees, talking quietly amongst themselves and pretending not to watch her, but she knew they were as inquisitive as she. For the past three years they had shared her tedious exile on her father’s estate, where she had seen no one but her brothers and aunts. Today, however, for the first time since the period of mourning had ended, she had been granted permission to call upon the young prince – to stay a week and celebrate his birthday.

Seeing movement among the trees at the far end of the stone-flagged path, she turned and signalled to the maids to be quiet. Here they come! she mimed exaggeratedly.

The maids giggled then, obedient, fell silent.

Fei Yen turned back to watch the two approach. But as they came closer she drew her sandalwood fan and waved it impatiently, certain there must be a mistake. Where was Tao Chu? Where was Tsu Ma’s strapping young nephew?

She saw the taller of the boys hesitate, then touch the arm of the other and lean close to whisper something. The smaller of them seemed to stare at her a moment, then turn to the other and nod. Only then did the older boy come on.

Three paces from her he stopped. At first she didn’t recognize him, he was so much taller, so much gawkier than when she had seen him last.

‘Li Yuan?’

Li Yuan swallowed and then bowed; an awkward, stilted movement that betrayed his unease. When he straightened up and looked at her again she saw his face was scarlet with embarrassment. His lips moved as if he was about to say something, but he had not formed the words when she interrupted him.

‘Where is Tao Chu? I was told Tao Chu would be with you.’

There were giggles from the trees behind her, and she turned sharply, furious with her maids, then turned back in time to see Li Yuan summon the small boy forward.

‘Fei Yen?’ said the boy, bowing elegantly like a tiny courtier. Then, in a lilting yet hesitant voice that betrayed his unfamiliarity with English, he added, ‘I am most honoured to meet you, Lady Fei. My uncle told me you were beautiful, but he did not tell me how beautiful.’

She laughed, astonished. ‘And who have I the pleasure of addressing?’

The boy bowed again, enjoying her astonishment in the same way he had enjoyed the applause of the T’ang earlier that day when he had played Tsu Tiao. ‘I am Tsu Tao Chu, son of Tsu Wen, and third nephew of the T’ang, Tsu Ma.’

The fan that she had been waving stopped in mid-motion and clicked shut. ‘Tao Chu?’ She laughed – a different, shorter laugh, expressing a very different kind of surprise – then shook her head. ‘Oh, no. I mean, you can’t be. I was told…’

Then she understood. She heard the giggling from the trees topple over into laughter. Flushing deeply, she lowered her head slightly. ‘Tsu Tao Chu. I… I’m delighted to meet you. Forgive me if I seemed confused. I…’ Then, forgetting her disappointment, she too burst into laughter.

‘What is it?’ asked the eight-year-old, delighted that he had somehow managed to amuse this mature woman of nineteen.

‘Nothing,’ she said quickly, fanning herself and turning slightly, so that the shadow of the willow hid her embarrassment. ‘Nothing at all’ She turned quickly to Li Yuan, finding it easier, suddenly, to talk to him. ‘Li Yuan, forgive me. My father, Yin Tsu, sends his deep regards and best wishes on your forthcoming birthday. I have come on his behalf to celebrate the day.’

Li Yuan’s smile was unexpectedly warm. Again he bowed, once more colouring from neck to brow. His awkwardness made her remember the last time they had met – that time he had come to her and cried upon her shoulder, four days after Han Ch’in’s death. Then, too, his reaction had been unexpected. Then, too, he had seemed to shed a skin.

‘I… I…’ He stuttered, then looked down, seeming almost to laugh at himself. ‘Forgive me, Fei Yen. I was not told you were coming.’

She gave the slightest bow. ‘Nor I until this morning.’

He looked up at her, a strange expectation in his eyes. ‘Will you be staying long?’

‘A week.’ She turned and signalled to her maids who at once came out from beneath the trees and hurried along the path to her. Then, turning back, she added, ‘We had best be getting back, don’t you think? They’ll be expecting us in the house.’ And, before they could answer, she turned away, heading back towards the bridge.

Li Yuan stood there a while, watching her. Only when he turned to speak to Tao Chu did he realize how avidly the boy was studying him.

‘What are you staring at, Squib?’ he said, almost angrily, conscious that his cheeks were warm for the third time that afternoon.

‘At you, Great Yuan,’ answered Tao Chu with a mock earnestness that made Li Yuan relent. Then, in a softer voice, the small boy added, ‘You love her, don’t you?’

Li Yuan laughed awkwardly then turned and looked back up the path. ‘What does it matter? She was my brother’s wife.’

The Overseer’s House dominated the vast plain of the East European plantation. Three tiers high, its roof steeply pitched, it rested on stilts over the meeting point of the two broad irrigation canals that ran north-south and east-west, feeding the great latticework of smaller channels. To the south lay the workers’ quarters; long, low huts that seemed embedded in the earth. To the north and east were store-houses; huge, covered reservoirs of grain and rice. West, like a great wave frozen at its point of turning under, lay the City, its walls soaring two li into the heavens.

It was late afternoon and the shadow of the Overseer’s House lay like a dark, serrated knife on the fields to the east. There, in the shadow, on a bare earth pathway that followed the edge of one of the smaller north-south channels, walked three men. One walked ahead, alone and silent, his head down, his drab brown clothes, with their wide, short trousers, indicative of his status as field worker. The two behind him joked and laughed as they went along. Their weapons – lethal deng rifles, ‘lantern guns’ – slung casually over their shoulders. They were more elegantly dressed, the kingfisher blue of their jackets matching the colour of the big sky overhead. These were the Overseer’s men, Chang Yan and Teng Fu; big, brutal men who were not slow to chastise their workers and beat them if they fell behind with quotas.

‘What does he want?’ Teng asked, lifting his chin slightly to indicate the man plodding along in front of them but meaning the Overseer when he said ‘he’. No one requested to see the Overseer. He alone chose who came to see him.

‘The man’s a thief,’ said Chang. He spat out into the channel, below and to his left, and watched the off-white round of spittle drift away slowly on the water. Then he looked back at Teng. ‘One of the patrol cameras caught him in the Frames making harvest.’

The Frames were where they grew the special items – strawberries and lychees, pineapples and oranges, grapes and peaches, cherries and almonds, pears and melons.

‘Stupid,’ Teng said, looking down and laughing. ‘These peasant types – they’re all stupid.’

Chang shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I thought this one was different. He was supervisor. A trusted man. We’d had no trouble with him before.’

‘They’re all trouble,’ said Teng, scratching his left buttock vigorously. ‘Stupid and trouble. It’s genetic. That’s what it is.’

Chang laughed.

They had come to a bridge. The first man had stopped, his head still bowed, waiting for the others. He was forbidden to cross the bridge without a permit.

‘Get on!’ said Teng, drawing the long club from his belt and jabbing the man viciously in the small of the back. ‘The Overseer wants to see you. Don’t keep him waiting, now!’

The man stumbled forward onto the bridge, then got up and trudged on again, wiping his dirtied hands against his thighs as he went and glancing up briefly, fearfully, as the big house loomed over him.

More guards lounged at the foot of the steps. One of them, a tall Hung Mao seated apart from the rest, looked up as the three men approached, then, with the vaguest movement of his head to indicate that they should go on up, looked back down at the rifle in his lap, continuing his meticulous inspection of the weapon.

‘Good day, Shih Peskova,’ said Teng, acknowledging the Overseer’s lieutenant with a bow. But Peskova paid him no attention. Teng was Han and Han were shit. It didn’t matter whether they were guard or peasant. Either way they were shit. Hadn’t he heard as much from The Man himself often enough?

When they had gone, Peskova turned and looked up at the house again. He would have to watch that Teng. He was getting above himself. Thinking himself better than the other men. He would have to bring him down a level. Teach him better manners.

With a smile he put the rifle down and reached for the next in the stack at his side. Yes, it would be fun to see the big Han on his knees and begging. A lot of fun.

Overseer Bergson looked across as the three men entered.

‘What is it, Teng Fu?’

The big Han knelt in the doorway and bowed his head. ‘We have brought the man you asked for, Overseer.’

Bergson turned from the bank of screens that took up one whole wall of the long room and got up from his chair. ‘You can go, Teng Fu. You too, Chang Yan. I’ll see to him myself

When they were gone and he was alone with the field supervisor, Bergson came across and stood there, no more than an arm’s length from the man.

‘Why did you do it, Field Supervisor Sung?’

The man swallowed, but did not lift his head. ‘Do what, Shih Bergson?’

Bergson reached out almost tenderly and took the man’s cheek between the fingers of his left hand and twisted until Sung fell to his feet, whimpering in pain.

‘Why did you do it, Sung? Or do you want me to beat the truth out of you?’

Sung prostrated himself, holding on to Bergson’s feet. ‘I could not bear it any longer, Overseer. There is barely enough to keep a child alive, let alone men and women who have to toil in the fields all day. And when I heard the guards were going to cut our rations yet again…’

Bergson stepped back, shaking Sung’s hands off. ‘Barely enough? What nonsense is this, Sung? Isn’t it true that the men steal from the rice fields? That they eat much of the crop they are supposed to be harvesting?’

Sung went to shake his head, but Bergson brought his foot down firmly on top of his left hand and began to press down. ‘Tell me the truth, Sung. They steal, don’t they?’

Sung cried out, then nodded his head vigorously. ‘It is so, Shih Bergson. There are many who do as you say.’

Bergson slowly brought his foot up, then stepped away from Sung, turning his back momentarily, considering.

‘And you stole because you had too little to eat?’

Sung looked up, then quickly looked back down, keeping his forehead pressed to the floor. ‘No… I…’

‘Tell me the truth, Sung!’ Bergson barked, turning sharply. ‘You stole because you were hungry, is that it?’

Sung miserably shook his head. ‘No, Shih Bergson. I have enough.’

‘Then why? Tell me why.’

Sung shuddered. A sigh went through him like a wave. Then, resigned to his fate, he began to explain. ‘It was my wife, Overseer. She is a kindly woman, you understand. A good woman. It was her suggestion. She saw how it was for the others: that they were suffering while we, fortunate as we were, had enough. I told her we could share what we had, but she would not have it. I pleaded with her not to make me do as she asked…’

‘Which was?’

‘I stole, Overseer. I took fruit from the Frames and gave it to the others.’

Bergson laughed coldly. ‘Am I meant to believe this, Sung? An honest thief? A charitable thief? A thief who sought no profit from his actions?’

Sung nodded his head once but said nothing.

Bergson moved closer. ‘I could have you flogged senseless for what you did, Sung. Worse, I could have you thrown into the Clay. How would you like that, Field Supervisor Sung? To be sent into the Clay?’

Sung stared up at Bergson, his terror at the thought naked in his eyes. ‘You’d not do that, Shih Bergson. Please. I beg you. Anything but that.’

Bergson was silent a moment. He turned and went across to the desk.

When he returned he was holding a thin card in one hand. He knelt down and held it in front of Sung’s face a moment.

‘Do you know what this is, Sung?’

Sung shook his head. He had never seen the like of it. It looked like a piece of Above technology – something they never saw out in the fields – but he would not have liked to have guessed just what.

‘This here, Sung, is the evidence of your crime. It’s a record of the hour you spent harvesting in the Frames. A hidden camera took a film of you.’

Again Sung shuddered. ‘What do you want, Shih Bergson?’

Bergson smiled and slipped the thin sliver of ice into his jacket pocket, then stood up again. ‘First I want you to sit down over here and write down the names of all those who shared the stolen fruit with you.’

Sung hesitated. And then?’

‘Then you’ll go back to your barracks and send your wife to me.’

Sung stiffened but did not look up. ‘My wife, Overseer?’

‘The good woman. You know, the one who got you into all this trouble.’

Sung swallowed. ‘And what will happen to my wife, Shih Bergson?’

Bergson laughed. ‘If she’s good – if she’s very good to me – then nothing. You understand? In fact – and you can tell her this – if she’s exceptionally good I might even give her the tape. Who knows, eh, Sung?’

Sung looked up, meeting Bergson’s cold grey eyes for the first time in their interview, then looked down again, understanding perfectly.

‘Good. Then come. There’s paper here and ink. You have a list of names to write.’

She came when it was dark. Peskova took her up to the top room – the big room beneath the eaves – and locked her in as he had been told to. Then he went, leaving the house empty but for the woman and the Overseer.

For a time DeVore simply watched her, following her every movement with the hidden cameras, switching from screen to screen, zooming in to focus on her face or watching her from the far side of the room. Then, when he was done with that, he nodded to himself and blanked the screens.

She was much better than he had expected. Stronger, prettier, more attractive than he’d anticipated. He had thought beforehand that he would have to send her back and deal with Sung some other way, but now he had seen her he felt the need in him, like a strong, dark tar in his blood, and knew he would have to purge himself of that. He had not had a woman for weeks – not since that last trip to the Wilds – and that had been a sing-song girl, all artifice and expertise. No, this would be different; something to savour.

Quickly he went to the wall safe at the far end of the room and touched the combination. The door irised open and he reached inside, drawing out the tiny phial before the door closed up again. He hesitated a moment then gulped the drug down, feeling its warmth sear his throat and descend quickly to his stomach. It would be in his blood in minutes.

He climbed the stairs quickly, almost eagerly now, but near the top he slowed, calming himself, waiting until he had complete control. Only then did he reach out and thumb the lock.

She turned, surprised. A big woman, bigger than her husband, nothing cowed or mean about the way she stood. You married below yourself, DeVore thought at once, knowing that Sung would never have made Field Supervisor without such a woman to push him from behind.

Her bow was hesitant. ‘Overseer?’

He closed the door behind him, then turned back to her, trying to gauge her response to him. Would she do as he wanted? Would she try to save her husband? She was here. That, at least, augured well. But would she be compliant? Would she be exceptionally good to him?

‘You know why you’re here?’ he asked, taking a step closer to her.

Her eyes never left him. ‘I’m here because my husband told me to be here, Shih Bergson.’

DeVore laughed. ‘From what I’m told old Sung is a docile man. He does what he’s told. Am I wrong in thinking that? Does Sung roar like a lion within his own walls?’

She met his gaze fiercely, almost defiantly, making the blood run thicker, heavier in his veins. ‘He is my husband and I a dutiful wife. He wished me here, so here I am.’

DeVore looked down, keeping the smile from his face. He had not been wrong. She had spirit. He had seen that when he had been watching her; had seen how she looked at everything with that curious, almost arrogant stare of hers. She had strength. The strength of twenty Sungs.

He took another step then shook his head. ‘You’re wrong, you know. You’re here because I said you should be here.’

She did not answer him this time, but stared back at him almost insolently, only a slight moistening of her lips betraying her nervousness.

‘What’s your name, Sung’s wife?’

She looked away, then looked back at him, as if to say, Don’t toy with me. Do what you are going to do and let me be.

‘Your name?’ he insisted, his voice harder now.

‘My name is Si Wu Ya,’ she answered proudly.

This time he smiled. Si Wu Ya. Silk Raven. He looked at her and understood why her parents had given her the name. Her hair was beautifully dark and lustrous. ‘Better an honest raven than a deceitful magpie, eh?’ he said, quoting the old Han adage.

‘What do you want me to do?’

He shook his head. ‘Don’t be impatient, Si Wu Ya. We’ll come to that. But tell me this – is Sung a good man? Is he good in bed? Does he make you sing out with pleasure?’

He saw how she bridled at the question, but saw also how the truth forbade her to say yes. So, Sung was a disappointment. Well, he, DeVore, would make her sing tonight. Of that he had no doubt. He took a step towards her, then another, until he stood before her, face to face.

‘Is he hard like bamboo, or soft like a rice frond? Tell me, Si Wu Ya. I’d like to know.’

For a moment her eyes flared with anger, but then she seemed to laugh deep inside herself and her eyes changed, their anger replaced by a hard amusement. ‘Don’t mock me, Shih Bergson. I’m here, aren’t I? Do what you want. I’ll be good to you. I’ll be very good. But don’t mock me.’

He looked back at her a moment, then reached down and took her left hand in his own, lifting it up to study it. It was a big, strong hand, roughly calloused from field-work, but she had made an effort. It was clean and the nails were polished a deep brown.

He met her eyes again. ‘My friends tell me you Han women wear no underclothes. Is it true?’

In answer she took his hand and placed it between her legs. His fingers met the soft, masking texture of cloth, but beneath them he could feel her warmth, the firm softness of her sex.

‘Well?’ she asked, almost smiling now, determined not to be cowed by him.

‘Strip off,’ he said, standing back a pace. ‘I want to see what you look like.’

She shrugged, slipped the one-piece off and kicked off her briefs, then stood there, her hands at her sides, making no effort to cover her nakedness.

DeVore walked round her, studying her. She was a fine woman, unspoilt by childbirth, her body hardened by fieldwork. Her breasts were large and firm, her buttocks broad but not fat. Her legs were strongly muscled yet still quite shapely, her stomach flat, her shoulders smooth. He nodded, satisfied. She would have made a good wife for a T’ang, let alone a man like Sung.

‘Good. Now over there.’

She hesitated, her eyes showing a momentary unease, then she did as she was told, walking over to the corner where he had indicated. He saw how she looked about her; how her eyes kept going to the saddle. As if she knew.

‘What do you want me to do?’

DeVore smiled coldly. He had watched her earlier. Had seen, through the camera’s hidden eye, how fascinated she had been with the saddle. Had witnessed her puzzlement and then her shocked surprise as she realized what it was.

It was a huge thing, almost half a man’s height and the same in length. At first glance it could be mistaken for an ornately carved stool, its black and white surfaces for a kind of sculpture. And in a way it was. Ming craftsmen had made the saddle more than seven hundred years before, shaping ivory and wood to satisfy the whim of a bored nobleman.

‘Have you seen my saddle?’

She watched him, eyes half-lidded now, and nodded.

‘It was a custom of your people, you know. They would place a saddle in the gateway to the parental home before the bride and bridegroom entered it.’

She wet her lips. ‘What of it?’

He shrugged. ‘An, it was. A saddle. An. Almost the same sound as for peace.’

He saw her shiver, yet the room was warm.

‘Have you studied my saddle?’

She nodded briefly.

‘And did it amuse you?’

‘You’re mocking me again, Shih Bergson. Is that what you want me to do? To play that game with you?’

He smiled. So she had worked it out. He went across and stood there beside the saddle, smoothing his hand over its finely polished surfaces. What at first seemed a mere tangle of black and white soon resolved itself. Became a man and woman locked in an embrace that was, some said, unnatural; the man’s head buried between the woman’s legs, the woman’s head between the man’s.

He looked across at her, amused. ‘Have you ever done that with Sung?’

She blinked. Then, unexpectedly, she shook her head.

‘Would you like to do that, now, with me?’

He waited, watching her like a hawk watching its prey. Again she hesitated, then she nodded.

‘You think you’d like it, don’t you?’

This time she looked away, for the first time the faintest colour appearing at her neck.

Ah, he thought. Now I have you. Now I know your weakness. You are dissatisfied with Sung. Perhaps you’re even thinking what this might lead to. You’ve ambitions, Si Wu Ya. For all your social conscience you’re a realist. And, worse for you, you enjoy sex. You want to be made love to. You want the excitement that I’m offering here.

‘Come here.’

He saw how her breathing changed. Her nipples were stiff now and the colour had not left her neck. Slowly, almost fearful now, she came to him.

He took her hand again, guiding it down within the folds of his pau , then heard her gasp as her hand closed on him; saw her eyes go down and look.

DeVore laughed, knowing the drug would last for hours yet – would keep him at this peak until he had done with her. He leaned closer to her, drawing her nearer with one hand, his voice lowering to a whisper.

‘Was he ever this hard, Si Wu Ya? Was he ever this hot?’

Her eyes went to his briefly, the pupils enlarged, then returned to the splendour she held. Unbidden, she knelt and began to stroke him and kiss him. He put his hands on her shoulders now, forcing her to take him in her mouth, her whole body shuddering beneath his touch, a soft moaning in her throat. Then he pushed her off, roughly, almost brutally and moved away from her.

She knelt there, her breasts rising and falling violently, her eyes wide, watching him. Almost. She was almost ready. One more step. One more step and she would be there.

He threw off the pau and stood there over her, naked, seeing how eagerly she watched him now. How ready she was for him to fuck her. With one foot he pushed her back, then knelt and spread her legs, watching her all the while, one hand moving between her legs, seeing how her eyes closed, how her breath caught with the pleasure of it.

‘Gods,’ she moaned, reaching up for him. ‘Goddess of mercy, put it there! Please, Shih Bergson! Please put it there!’

His fingers traced a line from her groin up to her chin, forcing her to look back at him.

‘Not like this,’ he said, putting her hands on him again. ‘I know a better way.’

Quickly he led her to the saddle, pushing her face down onto its hard smooth surface, his hands caressing her intimately all the while, keeping her mind dark, her senses inflamed. Then, before she realized what was happening, he fastened her in the double stirrups, binding her hands and feet.

He stood back, looking at his handiwork, then crossed to the wall and switched off all the lights but one – the spot that picked out her naked rump.

She was shaking now. He could see the small movement of the muscles at the top of her legs. ‘What’s happening?’ she asked in a tiny, sobered voice. ‘What are you doing?’

He went over to her and placed his hand on the small of her back, running his fingers down the smooth channel that ended in the tight hole of her anus, feeling her shudder at his touch.

Pleasure or fear? he wondered. Did she still believe it would all turn out all right?

The thought almost made him laugh. She had mistaken him. She had thought he wanted ordinary satisfactions.

He reached beneath the saddle and dipped his fingers in the shelf of scented unguents, then began to smear them delicately about the tiny hole, pushing inward, the unguents working their magic spell, making the muscles relax.

He felt her breathing change again, anticipating pleasure; knew, without looking, that she would have been newly aroused by his ministrations; that her nipples would be stiff, her eyes wide with expectation.

He reached under the saddle a second time and drew out the steel-tipped phallus that was attached by a chain to the pommel. The chain was just long enough. Longer and there would not be that invigorating downward pull – that feeling of restraint – shorter and penetration would not be deep enough to satisfy. He smiled, holding the hollowed column lovingly between his hands and smoothing his fingers over the spiralling pattern of the wu-tu, the ‘five noxious creatures’ – toad, scorpion, snake, centipede and gecko – then drew it on, easing himself into its oiled soft-leather innards and fastening its leather straps about his waist.

For a moment he hesitated, savouring the moment, then centred the metal spike and pushed. His first thrust took her by surprise. He felt her whole body stiffen in shock, but though she gasped, she did not cry out.

Brave girl, he thought, but that’s not what you’re here for. You’re not here to be brave. You’re here to sing for me.

The second thrust tore her. He felt the skin between her anus and vagina give like tissue and heard her cry out in agony.

‘Good,’ he said, laughing brutally. ‘That’s good. Sing out, Si Wu Ya! It’s good to hear you sing out!’

He thrust again.

When he was done he unstrapped himself, then took one of the white sheets from the side and threw it over her, watching as the blood spread out from the centre of the white; a doubled circle of redness that slowly formed into an ellipse.

Hearing her moan, he went round and knelt beside her, lifting her face gently, almost tenderly, and kissing her brow, her nose, her lips.

‘Was that good, Si Wu Ya? Was it hard enough for you?’ He laughed softly, almost lovingly. ‘Ah, but you were good, Si Wu Ya. The best yet. And for that you’ll have your tape. But later, neh? In the morning. We’ve a whole night ahead of us. Plenty of time to play our game again.’

Sung was kneeling on the top of the dyke, staring across at the House as the dawn broke. He was cold to the bone and his clothes were wet through, but still he knelt there, waiting.

He had heard her cries in the night. Had heard and felt his heart break inside his chest. Had dropped his head, knowing, at last, how small he was, how powerless.

Now, as the light leached back into the world, he saw the door open at the head of the steps and a figure appear.

‘Si Wu Ya…’ he mouthed, his lips dry, his heart, which had seemed dead in him, pounding in his chest. He went to get up but his legs were numb from kneeling and he had to put his hand out to stop himself from tumbling into the water far below. But his eyes never left her distant, shadowed figure, seeing at once how slowly she moved, how awkwardly, hobbling down the steps one by one, stopping time and again to rest, her whole body crooked, one hand clutching the side rail tightly, as if she’d fall without it.

He dragged himself back, anxious now, and began to pound the life back into his legs. Once more he tried to stand and fell back, cursing, almost whimpering now in his fear for her. ‘Si Wu Ya,’ he moaned, ‘Si Wu Ya.’

Once more he tried to stand, gritting his teeth, willing his muscles to obey him. For one moment he almost fell again, then he thrust one leg forward, finding his balance.

‘Si Wu Ya…’ he hissed.

Forcing his useless legs to work, he made his way to the bridge, awkwardly at first, hobbling, as if in some grotesque mimicry of his wife, then with more confidence as the blood began to flow, his muscles come alive again.

Then, suddenly, he was running, his arms flailing wildly, his bare feet thudding against the dark earth. Until he was standing there, before her, great waves of pain and fear, hurt and anger washing through him like a huge black tide.

He moaned, his voice an animal cry of pain. ‘What did he do, Si Wu Ya? Gods save us, what did he do?’

She stared back at him almost sightlessly.

‘Your face…’ he began, then realized that her face was unmarked. The darkness was behind her eyes. The sight of it made him whimper like a child and fall to his knees again.

Slowly, each movement a vast, unexplored continent of pain, she pushed out from the steps and hobbled past him. He scrambled up and made to help her but she brushed him off, saying nothing, letting the cold emptiness of her face speak for her.

On the narrow bridge he stood in front of her again, blocking her way, looking back past her at the House.

‘I’ll kill him.’

For the first time she seemed to look at him. Then she laughed; her laughter so cold, so unlike the laughter he had known from her, that it made his flesh tingle with fear.

‘He’d break you, little Sung. He’d eat you up and spit you out.’

She leaned to one side and spat. Blood. He could see it, even in this half light. She had spat blood.

He went to touch her, to put his hands on her shoulders, but the look in her eyes warned him off. He let his arms fall uselessly.

‘What did he do, Si Wu Ya? Tell me what he did.’

She looked down, then began to move on, forcing him to move aside and let her pass. He had no will to stop her.

At the first of the smaller channels she turned and began to ease herself down the shallow bank, grunting, her face set against the pain she was causing herself. Sung, following her, held out his hand and for the first time she let him help her, gripping his hand with a force that took his breath, her fingers tightening convulsively with every little jolt she received.

Then she let go and straightened up, standing there knee deep in the water at the bottom of the unlit channel, the first light lain like a white cloth over the latticework of the surrounding fields, picking out the channel’s lips, the crouching shape of Sung. The same clear light that rested in the woman’s long dark hair like a faintly jewelled mist.

She looked up at him. ‘Have you your torch, Sung?’

He nodded, not understanding why she should want it, but took it from his pocket and, edging down the bank, reached out and handed it to her, watching as she unscrewed the top, transforming it into a tiny cutting tool. Then she took something from the pocket of her one-piece. Something small enough to fold inside her palm.

The card. The tape that had the record of his theft. Sung swallowed and looked at her. So she had done it. Had saved them both. He shivered, wanting to go down to her, to stroke her and hold her and thank her, but what he wanted wasn’t somehow right. He felt the coldness emanate from her, a sense of the vast distance she had travelled. It was as if she had been beyond the sky. Had been to the place where they said there was no air, only the frozen, winking nothingness of space. She had been there. He had seen it in her eyes.

She put the card against the bank and played the cutting beam upon it. Once, twice, three times she did it, each time picking up the card and examining it. But each time it emerged unscathed, unmarked.

She looked up at him, that same cold distance in her eyes, then let the card fall from her fingers into the silt below the water. Yes, he thought, they’ll not find it there. They could search a thousand years and they’d not find it.

But she had forgotten about the card already. She was bent down now, unbuttoning the lower half of her one-piece, her fingers moving gingerly, as if what she touched were flesh not cloth.

‘Come down,’ she said coldly, not looking at him. ‘You want to know what he did, don’t you? Well, come and see. I’ll show you what he did.’

He went down and stood there, facing her, the water cold against his shins, the darkness all around them. He could see that the flap of cloth gaped open, but in the dark could make out no more than the vague shape of her legs, her stomach.

‘Here.’ She handed him the two parts of the torch and waited for him to piece the thing together.

He made to shine the torch into her face, but she pushed his hand down. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not there. Down here, where the darkness is.’

He let her guide his hand, then tried to pull back as he saw what he had previously not noticed, but she held his hand there firmly, forcing him to look. Blood. The cloth was caked with her blood. Was stained almost black with it.

‘Gods…’ he whispered, then caught his breath as the light moved across onto her flesh.

She had been torn open. From her navel to the base of her spine she had been ripped apart. And then sewn up. Crudely, it seemed, for the stitches were uneven. The black threads glistened in the torchlight, blood seeping from the wound where she had opened it again by walking.

‘There,’ she said, pushing the torch away. ‘Now you’ve seen.’

He stood there blankly, not knowing what to say or do, remembering only the sound of her crying out in the darkness and how awful he had felt, alone, kneeling there on the dyke, impotent to act.

‘What now?’

But she did not answer him, only bent and lowered herself into the water, hissing as the coldness burned into the wound, a faint moan escaping through her gritted teeth as she began to wash.

At dawn on the morning of his official birthday – in the court annals his thirteenth, for they accorded with ancient Han tradition in calling the day of the child’s birth its first ‘birth day’ – Li Yuan was woken by his father and, when he was dressed in the proper clothes, led down to the stables of the Tongjiang estate.

It was an informal ceremony. Even so, there was not one of the six hundred and forty-eight servants – man, woman or girl – who was not present. Neither had any of the guests – themselves numbering one hundred and eighty – absented themselves on this occasion.

The grounds surrounding the stable buildings had been meticulously swept and tidied, the grooms lined up, heads bowed, before the great double doors. And there, framed in the open left-hand doorway of the stalls, was the T’ang’s birthday gift to his son.

It was an Andalusian; a beauty of a horse, sixteen hands high and a perfect mulberry in colour. It was a thick-necked, elegant beast, with the strong legs of a thoroughbred. It had been saddled up ready for him and as Li Yuan stood there, it turned its head curiously, its large dark eyes meeting the prince’s as if it knew its new owner.

‘You have ridden my horses for too long now,’ Li Shai Tung said to his son quietly. ‘I felt it was time you had your own.’

Li Yuan went across to it and reached up gently, stroking its neck, its dappled flank. Then he turned and bowed to his father, a fleeting smile on his lips. The chief groom stood close by, the halter in his hand, ready to offer it to the prince when he was ready. But when Li Yuan finally turned to him it was not to take the halter from him.

‘Saddle up the Arab, Hung Feng-Chan.’

The chief groom stared back at him a moment, open-mouthed, then looked across at the T’ang as if to query the instruction. But Li Shai Tung stood there motionless, his expression unchanged. Seeing this, Hung Feng-Chan bowed deeply to his T’ang, then to the prince, and quickly handed the halter to one of the nearby grooms.

When he had gone, Li Yuan turned back to his father, smiling, one hand still resting on the Andalusian’s smooth, strong neck.

‘He’s beautiful, father, and I’m delighted with your gift. But if I am to have a horse it must be Han Ch’in’s. I must become my brother.’

Throughout the watching crowd there was a low murmur of surprise, but from the T’ang himself there was no word, only the slightest narrowing of the eyes, a faint movement of the mouth. Otherwise he was perfectly still, watching his son.

The chief groom returned a minute later, leading the Arab. The black horse sniffed the air, and made a small bowing movement of its head, as if in greeting to the other horse. Then, just when it seemed to have settled, it made a sharp sideways movement, tugging against the halter. Hung Feng-Chan quieted the horse, patting its neck and whispering to it, then brought it across to where Li Yuan was standing.

This was the horse that General Tolonen had bought Han for his seventeenth birthday; the horse Han Ch’in had ridden daily until his death. A dark, spirited beast; dark-skinned and dark-natured, her eyes full of fire. She was smaller than the Andalusian by a hand, yet her grace, her power were undeniable.

‘Well, father?’

All eyes were on the T’ang. Li Shai Tung stood there, bare-headed, a bright blue quilted jacket pulled loosely about his shoulders against the morning’s freshness, one foot slightly before the other, his arms crossed across his chest, his hands holding his shoulders. It was a familiar stance to those who knew him, as was the smile he now gave his son; a dark, ironic smile that seemed both amused and calculating.

‘You must ride her first, Li Yuan.’

Li Yuan held his father’s eyes a moment, bowing, then he turned and, without further hesitation, swung up into the saddle. So far so good. The Arab barely had time to think before Li Yuan had leant forward and, looping the reins quickly over his hands, squeezed the Arab’s chest gently with both feet.

Li Yuan’s look of surprise as the Arab reared brought gasps as well as laughter from all round. Only the T’ang remained still and silent. Hung Feng-Chan danced round the front of the horse, trying to grab the halter, but Li Yuan shouted at him angrily and would have waved him away were he not clinging on dearly with both hands.

The Arab pulled and tugged and danced, moving this way and that, bucking, then skittering forward and ducking its head, trying to throw the rider from its back. But Li Yuan held on, his teeth gritted, his face determined. And slowly, very slowly, the Arab’s movements calmed. With difficulty Li Yuan brought the Arab’s head round and moved the stubborn beast two paces closer to the watching T’ang.

‘Well, father, is she mine?’

The T’ang’s left hand went from his shoulder to his beard. Then he laughed; a warm, good-humoured laugh that found its echo all around.

‘Yes, Li Yuan. In name, at least. But watch her. Even your brother found her difficult.’

They met by accident, several hours later, in one of the bright, high-ceilinged corridors leading to the gardens.

‘Li Yuan.’

Fei Yen bowed deeply, the two maids on either side of her copying her automatically.

The young prince had showered and changed since she had last seen him. He wore red now, the colour of the summer, his ma k’ua, the waist-length ceremonial jacket, a brilliant carmine, his loose silk trousers poppy, his suede boots a delicate shade of rose. About his waist he wore an elegant ta lien, or girdle pouch, the border a thick band of russet, the twin heart-shaped pockets made of a soft peach cloth, the details of trees, butterflies and flowers picked out in emerald green and blue and gold. On his head he wore a Ming-style summer hat, its inverted bowl lined with red fur and capped with a single ruby. Three long peacock feathers hung from its tip, reminder that Li Yuan was a royal prince.

‘Fei Yen…’ It might only have been the light reflected from his costume, yet once again he seemed embarrassed by her presence. ‘I… was coming to see you.’

She stayed as she was, looking up at him from beneath her long black lashes, allowing herself the faintest smile of pleasure.

‘I am honoured, Li Yuan.’

Fei Yen had dressed quite simply, in a peach ch’i p’ao, over which she wore a long embroidered cloak of white silk, decorated with stylized bamboo leaves of blue and green and edged in a soft pink brocade that matched the tiny pink ribbons in her hair, setting the whole thing off quite perfectly.

She knew how beautiful she looked. From childhood she had known her power over men. But this was strange, disturbing. It was almost as if this boy, this child…

Fei Yen rose slowly, meeting the prince’s eyes for the first time and seeing how quickly he re-directed his gaze. Perhaps it was just embarrassment – the memory of how he had shamed himself that time when she had comforted him. Men were such strange, proud creatures. It was odd what mattered to them. Like Han Ch’in that time, when she had almost bettered him at archery…

Li Yuan found his tongue again. But he could only glance at her briefly as he complimented her.

‘May her name be preserved on bamboo and silk.’

She laughed prettily at that, recognizing the old saying and pleased by his allusion to her cloak. ‘Why, thank you, Li Yuan. May the fifteen precious things be yours.’

It was said before she fully realized what she had wished for him. She heard her maids giggle behind her and saw Li Yuan look down, the flush returning to his cheeks. It was a traditional good-luck wish, for long life and prosperity. But it was also a wish that the recipient have sons.

Her own laughter dispelled the awkwardness of the moment. She saw Li Yuan look up at her, his dark eyes strangely bright, and was reminded momentarily of Han Ch’in. As Han had been, so Li Yuan was now. One day he would be Head of his family – a powerful man, almost a god. She was conscious of that as he stood there, watching her. Already, they said, he had the wisdom of an old man, a sage. Yet that brief reminder of her murdered husband saddened her. It brought back the long months of bitterness and loneliness she had suffered, shut away on her father’s estate.

Li Yuan must have seen something in her face, for what he said next seemed almost to read her thoughts.

‘You were alone too long, Fei Yen.’

It sounded so formal, so old-mannish, that she laughed. He frowned at her, not understanding.

‘I mean it,’ he said, his face earnest. ‘It isn’t healthy for a young woman to be locked away with old maids and virgins.’

His candidness, and the apparent maturity it revealed, surprised and amused her. She had to remind herself again of his precocity. He was only twelve. Despite this she was tempted to flirt with him. It was her natural inclination, long held in check, and, after a moment’s hesitation, she indulged it.

‘I’m gratified to find you so concerned for my welfare, Li Yuan. You think I should have been living life to the full, then, and not mourning your brother?’

She saw immediately that she had said the wrong thing. She had misread his comment. His face closed to her and he turned away, suddenly cold, distant. It troubled her and she crossed the space between them, touching his shoulder. ‘I didn’t mean…’

She stood there a moment, suddenly aware of how still he was. Her hand lay gently on his shoulder, barely pressing against him, yet it seemed he was gathered there at the point of contact, his whole self focused in her touch. It bemused her. What was this?

She felt embarrassed, felt that she ought to remove her hand, but did not know how. It seemed that any movement of hers would be a snub.

Then, unexpectedly, he reached up and covered her hand with his own, pressing it firmly to his shoulder. ‘We both miss him,’ he said. ‘But life goes on. I too found the customs too… strict.’

She was surprised to hear that. It was more like something Han Ch’in might have said. She had always thought Li Yuan was in his father’s mould. Traditional. Bound fast by custom.

He released her and turned to face her.

Li Yuan was smiling now. Once more she found herself wrong-footed. What was happening? Why had his mood changed so quickly? She stared at him, finding the likeness to Han more prominent now that he was smiling. But then, Han had always been smiling. His eyes, his mouth, had been made for laughter.

She looked away, vaguely disturbed. Li Yuan was too intense for her taste. Like his father there was something daunting, almost terrible about him: an austerity suggestive of ferocity. Yet now, standing there, smiling at her, he seemed quite different – almost quite likeable.

‘It was hard, you know. This morning… to mount Han’s horse like that.’

Again the words were unexpected. His smile faded, became a wistful, boyish expression of loss.

It touched her deeply. For the first time she saw through his mask of precocious intelligence and saw how vulnerable he was, how frail in spite of all. Not even that moment after Han’s death had revealed that to her. Then she had thought it grief, not vulnerability. She was moved by her insight and, when he looked up at her again, saw how hurt he seemed, how full of pain his eyes were. Beautiful eyes. Dark, hazel eyes. She had not noticed them before.

Han’s death had touched him deeply. He had lost more – far more – than her. She was silent, afraid she would say the wrong thing, watching him, this man-boy, her curiosity aroused, her sympathies awoken.

He frowned and looked away.

‘That’s why I came to see you. To give you a gift.’

‘A gift?’

‘Yes. The Andalusian.’

She shook her head, confused. ‘But your father…’

He looked directly at her now. ‘I’ve spoken to my father already. He said the horse is mine to do with as I wish.’ He bowed his head and swallowed. ‘So I’d like to give him to you. In place of the Arab.’

She laughed shortly. ‘But the Arab was Han’s, not mine.’

‘I know. Even so, I’d like you to have him. Han told me how much you enjoyed riding.’

This time her laughter was richer, deeper, and when Li Yuan looked up again he saw the delight in her face.

‘Why, Li Yuan, that’s…’ She stopped and simply looked at him, smiling broadly. Then, impulsively, she reached out and embraced him, kissing his cheek.

‘Then you’ll take him?’ he whispered softly in her ear.

Her soft laughter rippled through him. ‘Of course, Li Yuan. And I thank you. From the bottom of my heart I thank you.’

When she was gone he turned and looked after her, feeling the touch of her still, the warmth on his cheek where she had kissed him. He closed his eyes and caught the scent of her, mei hua – plum blossom – in the air and on his clothes where she had brushed against him. He shivered, his thoughts in turmoil, his pulse racing.

The plum. Ice-skinned and jade-boned, the plum. It symbolized winter and virginity. But its blossoming brought the spring.

‘Mei hua…’ He said the words softly, like a breath, letting them mingle with her scent, then turned away, reddening at the thought that had come to mind. Mei hua. It was a term for sexual pleasure, for on the bridal bed were spread plum blossom covers. So innocent a scent, and yet…

Shivering, he took a long, slow breath of her. Then he turned and hurried on, his fists clenched at his sides, his face the colour of summer.

‘There have been changes since you were last among us, Howard.’

‘So I see.’

DeVore turned briefly to smile at Berdichev before returning his attention to the scene on the other side of the one-way mirror that took up the whole of one wall of the study.

‘Who are they?’

Berdichev came up and stood beside him. ‘Sympathizers. Money men, mainly. Friends of our host, Douglas.’

The room the two men looked into was massive; was more garden than room. It had been landscaped with low hills and narrow walks, with tiny underlit pools, small temples, carefully placed banks of shrub and stone, shady willows, cinnamon trees and delicate wu-tong. People milled about casually, talking amongst themselves, eating and drinking. But there the similarities with past occasions ended. The servants who went amongst them were no longer Han. In fact, there was not a single Han in sight.

DeVore’s eyes took it all in with great interest. He saw how, though they still wore silks, the style had changed; had been simplified. Their dress seemed more austere, both in its cut and in the absence of embellishment. What had been so popular only three years ago was now conspicuous by its absence. There were no birds or flowers, no dragonflies or clouds, no butterflies or pictograms. Now only a single motif could be seen, worn openly on chest or collar, on hems or in the form of jewellery, on pendants about the neck or emblazoned on a ring or brooch: the double helix of heredity. Just as noticeable was the absence of the colour blue – the colour of imperial service. DeVore smiled appreciatively; that last touch was the subtlest of insults.

‘The Seven have done our work for us, Soren.’

‘Not altogether. We pride ourselves on having won the propaganda war. There are men out there who, three years ago, would not have dreamed of coming to a gathering like this. They would have been worried that word would get back – as, indeed, it does – and that the T’ang would act through his Ministers to make life awkward for them. Now they have no such fears. We have educated them to the fact of their own power. They are many, the Seven few. What if the Seven close one door to them? Here, at such gatherings, a thousand new doors open.’

And The New Hope?’

Berdichev’s smile stretched his narrow face against its natural grain. The New Hope was his brainchild. ‘In more than one sense it is our flagship. You should see the pride in their faces when they talk of it. We did this, they seem to be saying. Not the Han, but us, the Hung Mao, as they call us. The Europeans.’

DeVore glanced at Berdichev. It was the second time he had heard the term. Their host, Douglas, had used it when he had first arrived. ‘We Europeans must stick together,’ he had said. And DeVore, hearing it, had felt he had used it like some secret password; some token of mutual understanding.

He looked about him at the decoration of the study. Again there were signs of change – of that same revolution in style that was sweeping the Above. The decor, like the dress of those outside, was simpler – the design of chairs and table less extravagant than it had been. On the walls now hung simple rural landscapes. Gone were the colourful historical scenes that had been so much in favour with the Hung Mao. Gone were the lavish screens and bright floral displays of former days. But all of this, ironically, brought them only further into line with the real Han – the Families – who had always preferred the simple to the lavish, the harmonious to the gaudy.

These tokens of change, superficial as they yet were, were encouraging, but they were also worrying. These men – these Europeans – were not Han, neither had they ever been Han. Yet the Han had destroyed all that they had once been – had severed them from their cultural roots as simply and as thoroughly as a gardener might snip the stem of a chrysanthemum. The Seven had given them no real choice: they could be Han or they could be nothing. And to be nothing was intolerable. Now, however, to be Han was equally untenable.

DeVore shivered. At present their response was negative: a reaction against Han ways, Han dress, Han style. But they could not live like this for long. At length they would turn the mirror on themselves and find they had no real identity, no positive channel for their newborn sense of racial selfhood. The New Hope was a move to fill that vacuum, as was this term ‘European’; but neither was enough. A culture was a vast and complex thing and, like the roots of a giant tree, went deep into the rich, dark earth of time. It was more than a matter of dress and style. It was a way of thinking and behaving. A thing of blood and bone, not cloth and architecture.

Yes, they needed more than a word for themselves, more than a central symbol for their pride; they needed a focus – something to restore them to themselves. But what? What on earth could fill the vacuum they were facing? It was a problem they would need to address in the coming days. To ignore it would be fatal.

He went to the long table in the centre of the room and looked down at the detailed map spread out across its surface.

‘Has everyone been briefed?’

Berdichev came and stood beside him. ‘Not everyone. I’ve kept the circle as small as possible. Douglas knows, of course. And Barrow. I thought your man, Duchek, ought to know, too, considering how helpful he’s been. And then there’s Moore and Weis.’

Anton Weis? The banker?’

Berdichev nodded. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but he’s changed in the last year or so. He fell out with old man Ebert. Was stripped by him of a number of important contracts. Now he hates the T’ang and his circle with an intensity that’s hard to match.’

‘I understand. Even so, I’d not have thought him important enough.’

‘It’s not him so much as the people he represents. He’s our liaison with a number of interested parties. People who can’t declare themselves openly. Important people.’

DeVore considered a moment, then smiled. ‘Okay. So that makes seven of us who know.’

‘Eight, actually.’

DeVore raised his eyebrows in query, but Berdichev said simply, ‘I’ll explain later.’

‘When will they be here?’

‘They’re here now. Outside. They’ll come in when you’re ready for them.’

DeVore laughed. ‘I’m ready now.’

‘Then I’ll tell Douglas.’

DeVore watched Berdichev move among the men gathered there in the garden room, more at ease now than he had ever been; saw too how they looked to him now as a leader, a shaper of events, and noted with irony how different that was from how they had formerly behaved. And what was different about the man? Power. It was power alone that made a man attractive. Even the potentiality of power.

He stood back, away from the door, as they filed in. Then, when the door was safely closed and locked, he came forward and exchanged bows with each of them. Seeing how closely Weis was watching him, he made an effort to be more warm, more friendly in his greeting there, but all the while he was wondering just how far he could trust the man.

Without further ado, they went to the table.

The map was of the main landmass of City Europe, omitting Scandinavia, the Balkans, Southern Italy and the Iberian Peninsula. Its predominant colour was white, though there was a faint, almost ivory tinge to it, caused by the fine yellow honeycombing that represented the City’s regular shape – each tiny hexagon a hsien, an administrative district.

All Security garrisons were marked in a heavier shade of yellow, Bremen to the north-west, close to the coast, Kiev to the east, almost off the map, Bucharest far to the south; these three the most important of the twenty shown. Weimar, to the south-east of Bremen, was marked with a golden circle, forming a triangle with the Berlin garrison to the north-east.

Two large areas were marked in red, both in the bottom half of the map. One, to the left, straddled the old geographic areas of Switzerland and Austria; the other, smaller and to the right, traced the border of old Russia and cut down into Romania. In these ancient, mountainous regions – the Alps and the Carpathians – the City stopped abruptly, edging the wilderness. They formed great, jagged holes in its perfect whiteness.

Again in the top right-hand section of the map the dominant whiteness ceased abruptly in a line extending down from Gdansk hsien to Poznan, and thence to Krakow and across to Lviv, ending on the shores of the Black Sea, at Odessa. This, shaded the soft green of springtime, was the great growing area, where the Hundred Plantations – in reality eighty-seven – were situated; an area that comprised some twenty-eight per cent of the total land mass of City Europe. DeVore’s own plantation was in the northwest of this area, adjoining the garrison at Lodz.

He let them study the map a while, accustoming themselves once again to its details, then drew their attention to the large red-shaded area to the bottom left of the map.

To him the outline of the Swiss Wilds always looked the same. That dark red shape was a giant carp turning in the water, its head facing east, its tail flicking out towards Marseilles hsien, its cruel mouth open, poised to eat Lake Balaton which, like a tiny minnow, swam some three hundred li to the east. Seven of the great Security garrisons ringed the Wilds – Geneva, Zurich, Munich and Vienna to the north, Marseilles, Milan and Zagreb to the south. Strategically that made little sense, for the Wilds were almost empty, yet it was as if the City’s architect had known that this vast, jagged hole – this primitive wilderness at the heart of its hive-like orderliness – would one day prove its weakest point.

As, indeed, it would. And all the preparedness of architects would not prevent the City’s fall. He leaned forward and jabbed his finger down into the red, at a point where the carp’s backbone seemed to twist.

‘Here!’ he said, looking about him and seeing he had their attention. ‘This is where our base will be.’

He reached into the drawer beneath the table and drew out the transparent template, then laid it down over the shaded area. At once that part of the map seemed to come alive; was overlaid with a fine web of brilliant gold, the nodes of which sparkled in the overhead light.

They leaned closer, attentive, as he outlined the details of his scheme. Three nerve centres, built deep into the mountainside, joined to a total of eighteen other fortresses, each linked by discreet communication systems to at least two other bases, yet each capable of functioning independently. The whole thing hidden beneath layers of ice and rock, untraceable from the air: a flexible and formidable system of defences from which they would launch their attack on the Seven.

And the cost?

The cost they knew already. It was a staggering sum. Far more than any one of them could contemplate. But together…

DeVore looked from face to face, gauging their response, coming to Weis last of all.

‘Well, Shih Weis? Do you think your backers would approve?’

He saw the flicker of uncertainty at the back of Weis’s eyes, and smiled inwardly. The man was still conditioned to think like a loyal subject of the T’ang. Even so, if he could be pushed to persuade his backers…

DeVore smiled encouragingly. ‘You’re happy with the way funds will be channelled through to the project, I assume?’

Weis nodded, then leaned forward, touching the template.

‘This is hand drawn. Why’s that?’

DeVore laughed. ‘Tell me, Shih Weis, do you trust all your dealings to the record?’

Weis smiled and others about the table laughed. It was a common business procedure to keep a single written copy of a deal until it was considered safe for the venture to be announced publicly. It was too easy to gain access to a company’s computer records when everyone used the same communications web.

‘You want the T’ang to know our scheme beforehand?’

Weis withdrew his hand, then looked at DeVore again and smiled. ‘I think my friends will be pleased enough, Major.’

DeVore’s face did not change immediately, but inwardly he tensed. It had been agreed beforehand that they would refer to him as Shih Scott. Weis, he was certain, had not forgotten that, neither had he mentioned his former Security rank without some underlying reason.

You’re dead, thought DeVore, smiling pleasantly at the man as if amused by his remark. As soon as you’re expendable, you’re dead.

‘I’m delighted, Shih Weis. Like yourself, they will be welcome any time they wish to visit. I would not ask them to fund anything they cannot see with their own eyes.’

He saw the calculation at the back of Weis’s eyes that greeted his comment – saw how he looked for a trap in every word of his – and smiled inwardly. At least the man was wise enough to know how dangerous he was. But his wisdom would not help him in this instance.

DeVore turned to Barrow. ‘And you, Under Secretary? Have you anything to add?’

Barrow had succeeded to Lehmann’s old position, and whilst his contribution to this scheme was negligible, his role as leader of the Dispersionist faction in the House made his presence here essential. If he approved then First Level would approve, for he was their mouthpiece, their conscience in these times of change.

Barrow smiled sadly, then looked down. ‘I wish there were some other way, Shih Scott. I wish that pressure in the House would prove enough, but I am realist enough to know that change – real change – will only come now if we push from every side.’ He sighed. ‘Your scheme here has my sanction. My only hope is that we shall never have to use it against the Seven.’

‘And mine, Barrow Chen,’ DeVore assured him, allowing no trace of cynicism to escape into his voice or face. ‘Yet, as you say, we must be realists. We must be prepared to use all means to further our cause. We Europeans have been denied too long.’

Afterwards, alone with Berdichev and Douglas, he talked of minor things, concealing his pleasure that his scheme had their sanction and – more important – their financial backing. Times have certainly changed, he thought, admiring a small rose quartz snuff bottle Douglas had handed him from a cabinet to one side of the study. Three years ago they would have hesitated before speaking against the Seven; now – however covertly – they sanctioned armed rebellion.

‘It’s beautiful,’ he said. And indeed it was. A crane, the emblem of long life, stood out from the surface of the quartz, flanked by magpies, signifying good luck; while encircling the top of the bottle was a spray of peonies, emblematic of spring and wealth. The whole thing was delightful, almost a perfect work of art, yet small enough to enclose in the palm of his hand.

‘One last thing, Howard.’

DeVore raised his head, aware of the slight hesitation in Berdichev’s voice. ‘Is there a problem?’

‘Yes and no. That is, there is only if you feel there’s one.’

DeVore set the rose quartz bottle down and turned to face his friend. ‘You’re being unusually cryptic, Soren. Are we in danger?’

Berdichev gave a short laugh. ‘No. It’s nothing like that. It’s… Well, it’s Lehmann’s son.’

DeVore was silent a moment. He looked at Douglas, then back at Berdichev. ‘Lehmann’s son? I didn’t know Pietr had a son.’

‘Few did. It was one of his best-kept secrets.’

Yes, thought DeVore, it certainly was. I thought I knew everything about you all – every last tiny little, dirty little thing – but now you surprise me.

‘Illegitimate, I suppose?’

Berdichev shook his head. ‘Not at all. The boy’s his legal heir. On Lehmann’s death he inherited the whole estate.’

‘Really?’

That too was news to him. He had thought Lehmann had died intestate – that his vast fortune had gone back to the Seven. It changed things dramatically. Lehmann must have been worth at least two billion yuan.

‘It was all done quietly, of course, as Lehmann wished.’

DeVore nodded, masking his surprise. There was a whole level of things here that he had been totally unaware of. ‘Explain. Lehmann wasn’t even married. How could he have a son and heir?’

Berdichev came across and stood beside him. ‘It was a long time ago. Back when we were at college. Pietr met a girl there. A bright young thing, but unconnected. His father, who was still alive then, refused to even let Pietr see her. He threatened to cut him off without a yuan if he did.’

‘And yet he did, secretly. And married her.’

Berdichev nodded. ‘I was one of the witnesses at the ceremony.’

DeVore looked away thoughtfully; looked across at the window wall and at the gathering in the garden room beyond it. ‘What happened?’

For a moment Berdichev was quiet, looking back down the well of years to that earlier time. Then, strangely, he laughed; a sad, almost weary laugh. ‘You know how it is. We were young. Far too young. Pietr’s father was right: the girl wasn’t suitable. She ran off with another man. Pietr divorced her.’

And she took the child with her?’

The look of pain on Berdichev’s face was unexpected. ‘No. It wasn’t like that. You see, she was four months pregnant when they divorced. Pietr only found out by accident, when she applied to have the child aborted. Of course, the official asked for the father’s details, saw there was a profit to be made from the information and went straight to Lehmann.’

DeVore smiled. It was unethical, but then so was the world. And Pietr made her have the child?’

Berdichev shook his head. ‘She refused. Said she’d kill herself first. But Pietr hired an advocate. You see, by law the child was his. It was conceived within wedlock and while she was his wife any child of her body was legally his property.’

‘I see. But how did hiring an advocate help?’

‘He had a restraining order served on her. Had her taken into hospital and the foetus removed and placed in a MedFac nurture unit.’

‘Ah. Even so, I’m surprised. Why did we never see the child? There was no reason to keep things secret.’

‘No. I suppose not. But Pietr was strange about it. I tried to talk to him about it several times, but he would walk out on me. As for the boy, well, he never lived with his father, never saw him, and Pietr refused ever to see the child. He thought he would remind him too much of his mother.’

DeVore’s mouth opened slightly. ‘He loved her, then? Even after what she did?’

Adored her. It’s why he never married again, never courted female company. I think her leaving killed something in him.’

‘How strange. How very, very strange.’ DeVore looked down. ‘I would never have guessed.’ He shook his head. And the son? How does he feel about his father?’

‘I don’t know. He’s said nothing, and I feel it impertinent to ask.’

DeVore turned and looked directly at Berdichev. ‘So what’s the problem?’

‘For the last three years the boy has been my ward. As Pietr’s executor I’ve handled his affairs. But now he’s of age.’

‘So?’

‘So I’d like you to take charge of the boy for a while.’

DeVore laughed, genuinely surprised by Berdichev’s request. ‘Why? What are you up to, Soren?’

Berdichev shook his head. ‘I’ve nothing to do with this, Howard. It’s what the boy wants.’

‘The boy…’ DeVore felt uncomfortable. He had been wrong-footed too many times already in this conversation. He was used to being in control of events, not the victim of circumstance; even so, the situation intrigued him. What could the boy want? And, more to the point, how had Lehmann’s son heard of him?

‘Perhaps you should meet him,’ Berdichev added hastily, glancing across at Douglas as if for confirmation. ‘Then you might understand. He’s not… Well, he’s not perhaps what you’d expect.’

‘Yes. Of course. When?’

‘Would now do?’

DeVore shrugged. ‘Why not?’

But his curiosity was intense. Why should the boy be not what he’d expect? ‘Is there something I should know beforehand, Soren? Is there something strange about him?’

Berdichev gave a brief laugh. ‘You’ll understand. You more than anyone will understand.’

While Berdichev went to get the boy he waited, conscious of Douglas’s unease. It was clear he had met the boy already. It was also clear that something about the young man made him intensely uncomfortable. He glanced at DeVore, then, making up his mind, gave a brief bow and went across to the door.

‘I must be getting back, Howard. You’ll forgive me, but my guests…’

‘Of course.’ DeVore returned the bow, then turned, intrigued, wondering what it was about the boy that could so thoroughly spook the seemingly imperturbable Douglas.

He did not have long to wait for his answer.

‘Howard, meet Stefan Lehmann.’

DeVore shivered. Despite himself, he felt an overwhelming sense of aversion towards the young man who stood before him. It wasn’t just the shocking, skull-like pallor of his face and hair, or the unhealthy pinkness of his eyes, both signs of albinism, but something to do with the unnatural coldness of the youth. When he looked at you it was as if an icy wind blew from the far north. DeVore met those eyes and saw through them to the emptiness beyond. But he was thinking, Who are you? Are you really Lehmann’s son? Were you really taken from your mother’s womb and bred inside a nurture unit until the world was ready for you?

Red in white, those eyes. Each eye a wild, dark emptiness amidst the cold, clear whiteness of the flesh.

He stepped forward, offering his hand to the albino but looking at Berdichev as he did so. ‘Our eighth man, I presume.’

‘I’m sorry?’ Then Berdichev understood. ‘Ah, yes, I said I’d explain, didn’t I? But you’re right, of course. Stefan was the first to be briefed. He insisted on it. After all, he’s responsible for sixty per cent of the funding.’

DeVore looked down at the hand that held his own. The fingers were long, unnaturally thin, the skin on them so clear it seemed he could see right through them to the bone itself. But the young man’s grip was firm, his skin surprisingly warm.

He looked up, meeting those eyes again, suddenly curious; wanting to hear the boy speak.

‘So. You want to stay with me a while?’

Stefan Lehmann looked at him – looked through him – then turned and looked across at Berdichev.

‘You were right, Uncle Soren. He’s like me, isn’t he?’

DeVore laughed, uncomfortable, then let go of the hand, certain now. The boy’s voice was familiar – unnaturally familiar. It was Pietr Lehmann’s voice.

The albino was standing behind where he was sitting, studying the bank of screens, when Peskova came into the room. DeVore saw how his lieutenant hesitated – saw the flicker of pure aversion, quickly masked, that crossed his face – before he came forward.

‘What is it, Peskova?’

DeVore sat back, his eyes narrowed.

Peskova bowed, then glanced again at the albino. ‘There’s been unrest, Shih Bergson. Some trouble down on Camp Two.’

DeVore looked down at the desk. ‘So?’

Peskova cleared his throat, self-conscious in the presence of the stranger. ‘It’s the Han woman, Overseer. Sung’s wife. She’s been talking.’

DeVore met his lieutenant’s eyes, his expression totally unreadable. ‘Talking?’

Peskova swallowed. ‘I had to act, Shih Bergson. I had to isolate her from the rest.’

DeVore smiled tightly. ‘That’s fine. But you’ll let her go now, neh? You’ll explain that it was all a mistake.’

Peskova’s mouth opened marginally then closed without a sound. Bowing deeply, and with one last, brief look at the albino, he turned and left, to do at once what the Overseer had ordered.

‘Why did you tell him that?’

DeVore turned and looked at Lehmann’s son. He was eighteen, but he seemed ageless, timeless. Like death itself.

‘To make him do as I say, not as he thinks he should do.’

‘And the woman?’

DeVore smiled into that empty, mask-like face. He had no need to answer. The boy knew already what would happen to the woman.

The moon was huge and monstrous in the darkness: a full, bright circle, like a blind eye staring down from nothingness. Si Wu Ya looked up at it and shivered, anxious now. Then, as the rope tightened again, tugging at her, she stumbled on, the tops of her arms chafing where the rope bit into them.

Ahead of her Sung was whimpering again. ‘Be quiet!’ she yelled, angry with him for his weakness, but was rewarded with the back of Teng’s hand. Then Teng was standing over her, his breathing heavy and irregular, a strange excitement in his face. Groaning, the pain in her lower body almost more than she could bear, she got to her feet, then spat blood, unable to put her hand up to her mouth to feel the damage he had done to her.

Ahead lay the water-chestnut fields, glimmering in the reflected light from Chung Kuo’s barren sister.

We are cursed, she thought, staggering on, each step sending a jolt of pain through her from arse to abdomen. Even Teng and Chang. Even Peskova and that bastard Bergson. All cursed. Every last one of us. All of us fated to go this way; stumbling on in darkness, beneath the gaze of that cold, blind eye.

She tried to laugh but the sound died in her before it reached her lips. Then, before she realised it, they had stopped and she was pushed down to the ground next to Sung, her back to him.

She lay there, looking about her, the hushed voices of the four men standing nearby washing over her like the senseless murmur of the sea.

Smiling, she whispered to her husband, ‘The sea, Sung. I’ve never seen the sea. Never really seen it. Only on vidcasts…’

She rolled over and saw at once that he wasn’t listening. His eyes were dark with fear, his hands, bound at his sides like her own, twitched convulsively, the fingers shaking uncontrollably.

‘Sung…’ she said, moved by the sight of him. ‘My sweet little Sung…’

She wanted to reach out and hold him to her, to draw him close and comfort him, but it was too late now. All her love for him, all her anguish welled up suddenly, overwhelming her.

‘Kuan yin!’ she said softly, tearfully. ‘Oh, my poor Sung. I didn’t mean to be angry with you. Oh, my poor, poor darling. I didn’t mean…’

Teng kicked her hard in the ribs, silencing her.

‘Which one first?’

The voice was that of the simpleton, Seidemann. Si Wu Ya breathed slowly, deeply, trying not to cry out again, letting the pain wash past her, over her; trying to keep her mind clear of it. In case. Just in case…

She almost shook her head; almost laughed. In case of what? It was done with now. There was only pain ahead of them now. Pain and the end of pain.

Peskova answered. ‘The woman. We’ll do the woman first.’

She felt them lift her and take her over to the low stone wall beside the glimmering field of water-chestnuts. The woman, she thought, vaguely recognizing herself in the words. Not Si Wu Ya now, no longer Silk Raven, simply ‘the woman’.

She waited, the cold stone of the wall pushed up hard against her breasts, her knees pushing downward into the soft, moist loam, while they unfastened the rope about her arms. There was a moment’s relief, a second or two free of pain, even of thought, then it began again.

Teng took one arm, Chang the other, and pulled. Her head went down sharply, cracking against the top of the wall, stunning her.

There was a cry followed by an awful groan, but it was not her voice. Sung had struggled to his feet and now stood there, only paces from where the Overseer’s man, Peskova was standing, a big rock balanced in both hands.

Sung made a futile struggle to free his arms, then desisted. ‘Not her,’ he pleaded. ‘Please, gods, not her. It’s me you want. I’m the thief, not her. She’s done nothing. Nothing. Kill me, Peskova. Do what you want to me, but leave her be. Please, gods, leave her be…’ His voice ran on a moment longer, then fell silent.

Teng began to laugh, but a look from Peskova silenced him. Then, with a final look at Sung, Peskova turned and brought the rock down on the woman’s upper arm.

The cracking of the bone sounded clearly in the silence. There was a moment’s quiet afterwards, then Sung fell to his knees, vomiting.

Peskova stepped over the woman and brought the heavy stone down on the other arm. She was unconscious now. It was a pity, that; he would have liked to have heard her groan again, perhaps even to cry out as she had that night when The Man had played his games with her.

He smiled. Oh, yes, they’d all heard that. Had heard and found the echo in themselves. He looked across at Sung. Poor little Sung. Weak little Sung. All his talk meant nothing now. He was powerless to change things. Powerless to save his wife. Powerless even to save himself. It would be no fun killing him. No more fun than crushing a bug.

He brought the stone down once again; heard the brittle sound of bone as it snapped beneath the rock. So easy it was. So very, very easy.

Teng and Chang had stepped back now. They were no longer necessary. The woman would be going nowhere now. They watched silently as he stepped over her body and brought the stone down once again, breaking her other leg.

‘That’s her, then.’ Peskova turned and glanced at Sung, then looked past him at Seidemann. ‘Bring him here. Let’s get it over with.’

Afterwards he stood there beside the wall, staring at Sung’s body where it lay, face down on the edge of the field of water-chestnuts. Strange, he thought. It was just like a machine. Like switching off a machine.

For a moment he looked out across the water meadow, enjoying the night’s stillness, the beauty of the full moon overhead. Then he heaved the stone out into the water and turned away, hearing the dull splash sound behind him.