The Art of War

by David Wingrove

  He looked back, checking the room one final time, then, satisfied that nothing was disturbed, he backed out of the room, pulling the door to silently behind him, his heart pounding, his mouth dry with fear, the sealed bag seeming to burn where it pressed against his chest.

  Wang Ta-hung woke to whispering in his room and sat up, clutching the blankets to his chest, his mind dark with fear.

  ‘Who is it?’ he called out, his voice quavering. ‘Kuan Yin preserve me, who is it?’

  A figure approached the huge bed, bowed. ‘It is only I, Excellency. Your servant, Wu Ming.’

  Wang Ta-hung, the T’ang’s eldest surviving son, pulled the blankets tighter about his neck and stared, wide-eyed, past his Master of the Bedchamber, into the darkness beyond.

  ‘Who is there, Wu Ming? Who were you whispering to?’

  A second figure stepped from the darkness and stood beside the first, his head bowed. He was a tall, strongly built Han dressed in dark silks, his beard braided into three tiny pigtails, his face, when it lifted once again, solid, unreadable. A handsome, yet inexpressive face.

  ‘Excellency.’

  ‘Hung Mien-lo!’

  Wang Ta-hung turned and glanced at the ornate timepiece beside the bed, then twisted back, facing the two men, his face twitching with alarm.

  ‘It is almost half two! What are you doing here? What’s happened?’

  Hung Mien-lo sat on the bed beside the frightened twenty-year-old, taking his upper arms gently but firmly in his hands.

  ‘It’s all right, Ta-hung. Please, calm yourself. I have some news, that’s all.’

  The young Prince nodded, but it was as if he was still in the grip of some awful dream; his eyes continued to stare, a muscle in his left cheek twitched violently. He had been this way for eighteen months now, since the day he had found his two brothers dead in one of the guest bedrooms of the summer palace, their naked bodies grey-blue from the poison, the two maids they had been entertaining sprawled nearby, their pale limbs laced with blood, their eyes gouged out.

  Some said that the pale, wasted-looking youth was mad, others that it was only natural for one of his sickly disposition to suffer after such a discovery. He had never been a strong boy, but now…

  Hung Mien-lo stroked the young man’s shoulder, comforting him, knowing the delicacy of what lay ahead – that what must be said might well send him deeper into madness. He spoke softly, reassuringly. ‘It is your father, Ta-hung. I am afraid he is dead.’

  For a moment it didn’t register. There was a flicker of disbelief. Then, abruptly, the Prince pulled himself away, scrambling back until he was pressed up against the headboard, his eyes wide, his mouth open.

  ‘How?’ he said, the words the tiniest, frightened squeak. ‘How did he die?’

  Hung Mien-lo ignored the question. He spoke calmly, using the same reassuring tone as before. ‘You must get dressed, Ta-hung. You must come and bear witness to what has happened.’

  Wang Ta-hung laughed shrilly, then buried his head in his arms, shaking it wildly. ‘No-o-o!’ he cried, his voice muffled. ‘No-oh! Gods, no, not again!’

  Hung Mien-lo turned and clicked his fingers. At once Wu Ming bustled off to get things ready. Yes, Hung thought, he at least understands. For now that the old T’ang is dead Ta-hung is T’ang in his place, mad or no. Indeed, the madder the better as far as I’m concerned, for the more Ta-hung relies on me, the more power lies within my hands.

  He smiled and stood, seeing how the young man cowered away from him, yet how his eyes beseeched his help. Yes, indeed, Hung Mien-lo thought; my hour has truly come; the hour I waited for so long as companion to this young fool. And now I am effectively first man in City Africa. The shaper. The orderer. The granter of favours.

  Inwardly he felt exultation, a soaring, brilliant joy that had lit in him the moment he had been told; yet this, more than any other moment, was a time for masks. He put one on now, shaping his face towards sternness, to the expression of a profound grief. Satisfied, he went over to the young Prince and lifted him from the bed, standing him on his feet.

  ‘It was so cold,’ the youth murmured, looking up into his face. ‘When I touched Chang Ye’s shoulder, it was like he had been laid in ice. The cold of it seemed to burn my hand. I…’He hesitated, then looked down, turning his hand, lifting the palm to stare at it.

  ‘That’s done with, Ta-hung. You must get dressed now and see your father. You are the eldest now, the Head of your family. You must take charge of things.’

  Ta-hung stared back at him, uncomprehendingly. ‘Take charge?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Hung said, unfastening the cord, then pulling the Prince’s sleeping silks down off his shoulders, stripping him naked. ‘I’ll be there beside you, Ta-hung. I’ll tell you what to do.’

  Wu Ming returned and began at once to dress and groom the Prince. He was only part way through when Ta-hung broke away from him and threw himself down at Hung Mien-lo’s feet, sobbing.

  ‘I’m frightened, Mien-lo. So frightened!’

  Hung glanced at Wu Ming, then reached down and hauled the Prince roughly to his feet. ‘Stop it! You’ve got to stop this at once!’

  There was a moment’s shocked silence, then the young Prince bowed his head. ‘I’m sorry, I…’

  ‘No!’ Hung barked. ‘No apologies. Don’t you understand, Ta-hung? You are T’ang now. Seven. It is I who should apologize, not you, Chieh Hsia.’

  Chieh Hsia. It was the first time the words of imperial address had been used to the young man and Hung Mien-lo could see at once the effect they had on him. Though Ta-hung still shivered, though tears still coursed freely down his cheeks, yet he stood straighter, slightly taller, realizing for the first time what he had become.

  ‘You understand, then? Good. Then remember this. Let none but a T’ang touch you without your permission. And let no man, not even a T’ang, speak to you as I spoke then. You are T’ang now. Supreme. Understand me, Chieh Hsia?’

  Ta-hung’s voice when he answered was different, almost calm. ‘I understand you, Mien-lo. My father is dead and I am T’ang now.’

  ‘Good. Then, with your permission, we will go to see your father and pay our respects, neh?’

  The slightest shudder passed through the young man’s wasted frame, the smallest cloud of revulsion momentarily crossed the sky of his face, then he nodded. ‘As you say, Mien-lo. As you say.’

  Wang Sau-leyan heard their voices coming nearer – the rustle of silks and the sound of their soft footsteps on the tiled floor – and slid the door open, slipping out into the dimly lit corridor. He pulled the door to quietly, then turned, facing them. They came on quickly, talking all the while, not seeing him until they were almost on top of him. He saw the look of surprise on Hung Mien-lo’s face, heard his brother’s gasp of fear.

  He smiled and gave the slightest bow. ‘I heard noises, Ta-hung. Voices calling softly but urgently in the darkness. What is happening, brother? Why do you wander the corridors at this early hour?’

  He saw how Ta-hung looked to his friend, at a loss, his face a web of conflicting emotions, and smiled inwardly, enjoying his brother’s impotence.

  ‘I’m afraid there is bad news, Wang Sau-leyan,’ Hung Mien-lo answered him, bowing low, his face grave. ‘Your father is dead.’

  ‘Dead? But how?’

  He saw how Hung Mien-lo glanced at his brother and knew at once that Ta-hung had not been told everything.

  ‘It would be best if you came yourself, Excellency. I will explain everything then. But excuse us, please. We must pay our respects to the late T’ang.’

  He noted how pointedly Hung Mien-lo had emphasized the last two words; how his voice, while still superficially polite, was a register of how he thought things had changed. Wang Sau-leyan smiled tightly at Hung, then bowed to his elder brother.

  ‘I will get dressed at once.’

  He watched them go; then, satisfied, slid the door open again and went back into his rooms.

  A v
oice from the bed, young, distinctly feminine, called softly to him. ‘What was it, my love?’

  He went across to her and, slipping off his robe, joined her, naked beneath the sheets.

  ‘It was nothing,’ he said, smiling down at his father’s third wife. ‘Nothing at all.’

  Wang Ta-hung stood in the doorway of his father’s room staring in, fear constricting his throat. He turned and looked at Hung Mien-lo beseechingly. ‘I can’t…’

  ‘You are T’ang,’ Hung answered him firmly. ‘You can.’

  The young man swallowed, then turned back, his fists clenched at his sides. ‘I am T’ang,’ he repeated. ‘T’ang of City Africa.’

  Hung Mien-lo stood there a moment, watching him take the first few hesitant steps into the room, knowing how important the next few minutes were. Ta-hung had accustomed himself to the fact of his father’s death. Now he must discover how the old man died. Must learn, firsthand, the fate of kings.

  And if it drove him mad?

  Hung Mien-lo smiled to himself, then stepped inside the room. Kings had been mad before. What was a king, after all, but a symbol – the visible sign of a system of government? As long as the City was ruled, what did it matter who gave the orders?

  He stopped beside the old man’s chair, watching the youth approach the bed. Surely he’s seen? he thought. Yet Ta-hung was too still, too composed. Then the young T’ang turned, looking back at him.

  ‘I knew,’ he said softly. ‘As soon as you told me, I knew he had been murdered.’

  Hung Mien-lo let his breath out. ‘You knew?’ He looked down. There, beneath him on the cushion, lay the T’ang’s hairbrush. He leaned forward and picked it up, studying it a moment, appreciating the slender elegance of its ivory handle, the delicacy of its design. He was about to set it down when he noticed several strands of the old T’ang’s hair trapped amongst the darkness of the bristles; long, white strands, almost translucent in their whiteness, like the finest threads of ice. He frowned then looked back at Wang Ta-hung. ‘How do you feel, Chieh Hsia? Are you well enough to see others, or shall I delay?’

  Wang Ta-hung looked about him, then turned and stared down at his father. He was still, unnaturally calm.

  Perhaps this is it, thought Hung. Perhaps something has broken in him and this calmness is the first sign of it. But for once there seemed no trace of madness in Ta-hung, only a strange sense of dignity and distance, surprising because it was so unexpected.

  ‘Let the others come,’ he said, his voice clear of any shade of fear, his eyes drinking in the sight of his murdered father. ‘There’s no sense in delay.’

  Hung Mien-lo hesitated, suddenly uncertain, then turned and went to the door, telling the guard to bring Fischer and Sun Li Hua. Then he went back inside.

  Wang Ta-hung was standing at the bedside. He had picked something up and was sniffing at it. Hung Mien-lo went across to him.

  ‘What is this?’ Ta-hung asked, handing him a bowl.

  It was a perfect piece of porcelain. Its roundness and its perfect lavender glaze made it a delight to look at. Hung turned it in his hands, a faint smile on his lips. It was an old piece, too, K’ang Hsi perhaps… or perhaps not, for the colouring was wrong. But that was not what Ta-hung had meant. He had meant the residue.

  Hung sniffed at it, finding the heavy, musky scent of it strangely familiar, then turned, hearing voices at the door. It was Sun Li Hua and the Captain.

  ‘Master Sun,’ he called out, ‘what was in this bowl?’

  Sun bowed low and came into the room. ‘It was a sleeping potion, Chieh Hsia,’ he said, keeping his head lowered, addressing the new T’ang. ‘Doctor Yueh prepared it.’

  ‘And what was in it?’ Hung asked, irritated by Sun’s refusal to answer him directly.

  Sun Li Hua hesitated a moment. ‘It was ho yeh, for insomnia, Chieh Hsia.’

  ‘Ho yeh and what?’ Hung insisted, knowing the distinct smell of lotus seeds.

  Sun glanced briefly at the young T’ang, as if for intercession, then bent his head. ‘It was mixed with the T’ang’s own yang essence, Chieh Hsia.’

  ‘Ah…’ He nodded, understanding.

  He set the bowl down then turned away, looking about the room, noting the fresh flowers at the bedside, the T’ang’s clothes laid out on the dresser, ready for the morning.

  He looked across at Fischer. ‘Has anything been disturbed?’

  ‘No… Excellency.’

  He noted the hesitation and realized that though they knew how important he had suddenly become, they did not know quite how to address him. I must have a title, he thought. Chancellor, perhaps. Some peg to hang their respect upon.

  He turned, looking across at the open door that led out on to the balcony. ‘Was this where the murderer entered?’

  Fischer answered immediately. ‘No, Excellency.’

  ‘You’re certain?’

  ‘Quite certain, Excellency.’

  Hung Mien-lo turned, surprised. ‘How so?’

  Fischer glanced up at the camera, then stepped forward. ‘It is all on tape, Excellency. Sun Li Hua’s assistants, the brothers Ying Fu and Ying Chai, are the murderers. They entered the room shortly after Master Sun had given the T’ang his potion.’

  ‘Gods! And you have them?’

  ‘Not yet, Excellency. But as no one has left the palace since the murder they must be here. My men are searching the palace even now to find them.’

  Ta-hung was watching everything with astonishment, his lips parted, his eyes wide and staring. Hung Mien-lo looked across at him a moment, then turned back to Fischer, giving a curt nod. ‘Good. But we want them alive. It’s possible they were acting for another.’

  ‘Of course, Excellency.’

  Hung Mien-lo turned and went to the open door, pulling back the thin, see-through curtain of silk and stepping out on to the balcony. It was cool outside, the moon low to his left. To his right the beam of the distant lighthouse cut the darkness, flashing across the dark waters of the Nile delta and sweeping on across the surrounding desert. He stood there a moment, his hands on the balustrade, staring down into the darkness of the river far below.

  So, it was Fu and Chai. They were the hands. But who was behind them? Who beside himself had wanted the old man dead? Sun Li Hua? Perhaps. After all, Wang Hsien had humiliated him before his sons when Sun had asked that his brothers be promoted and the T’ang had refused. But that had been long ago. Almost three years now. If Sun, why now? And in any case, Fischer had said that Sun had been like a madman when he’d come to him, feverish with dismay.

  Who, then? Who? He racked his brains, but no answer sprang to mind. Wang Sau-leyan? He shook his head. Why should that no-good wastrel want power? And what would he do with it but piss it away if he had it? No, Ta-hung’s little brother was good only for bedding whores, not for intrigue. Yet if not him, then who?

  There was an anguished cry from within the room. He recognized it at once. It was Ta-hung! He turned and rushed inside.

  Ta-hung looked up at him as he entered, his face a window, opening upon his inner terror. He was leaning over his father, cradling the old man’s head in the crook of his arm.

  ‘Look!’ he called out brokenly. ‘Look what they’ve done to him, the carrion! His ears! They’ve taken his ears!’

  Hung Mien-lo stared back at him, horrified, then turned and looked at Sun Li Hua.

  Any doubts he had harboured about the Master of the Inner Chamber were dispelled instantly. Sun stood there, his mouth gaping, his eyes wide with horror.

  Hung turned, his mind in turmoil now. His ears! Why would they take his ears? Then, before he could reach out and catch him, he saw Ta-hung slide from the bed and fall senseless to the floor.

  ‘Prince Yuan! Wake up, your father’s here!’

  Li Yuan rolled over and sat up. Nan Ho stood in the doorway, a lantern in one hand, his head bowed.

  ‘My father?’

  A second figure appeared behind Nan Ho in the doorway. ‘Yes, Yuan.
It’s late, I know, but I must talk with you at once.’

  Nan Ho moved aside, bowing low, to let the T’ang pass, then backed out, closing the door silently behind him.

  Li Shai Tung sat on the bed beside his son, then reached across to switch on the bedside lamp. In the lamp’s harsh light his face was ashen, his eyes red-rimmed.

  Li Yuan frowned. ‘What is it, Father?’

  ‘Ill news. Wang Hsien is dead. Murdered in his bed. Worse, word of it has got out, somehow. There are riots in the lower levels. The Ping Tiao are inciting the masses to rebellion.’

  ‘Ah…’ Li Yuan felt his stomach tighten. It was what they had all secretly feared. The War had left them weak. The Dispersionists had been scattered and defeated, but there were other enemies these days; others who wanted to pull them down and set themselves atop the wheel of State.

  He met his father’s eyes. ‘What’s to be done?’

  Li Shai Tung sighed, then looked aside. ‘I have spoken to Tsu Ma and Wu Shih already. They think we should do nothing. That we should let the fires burn themselves out.’ He paused, then shrugged. ‘Tensions have been high lately. Perhaps it would be good to let things run their course for once.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Li Yuan studied his father, knowing from his uncertainty that this was a course he had been talked into, not one he was happy with.

  The T’ang stared away broodingly into the far corner of the room, then turned, facing his son again.

  ‘Wang Hsien was a good man, Yuan. A strong man. I depended on him. In Council he was a staunch ally, a wise counsellor. Like a brother to me. The death of his sons... it brought us very close.’

  He shook his head, then turned away, suddenly angry, a tear spilling down his cheek. ‘And now Wang Ta-hung is T’ang! Ta-hung, of all the gods’ creations! Such a weak and foolish young man!’ He turned back, facing Li Yuan, anger and bitterness blazing in his eyes. ‘Kuan Yin preserve us all! This is an ill day for the Seven.’

  ‘And for Chung Kuo.’

  When his father had gone Li Yuan got up and pulled on his robe, then crossed the room and stood there by the window, staring out into the moonlit garden. It was as his father said, the Seven were made much weaker by this death. Yet Wang Hsien had been an old man. A very old man. They would have had to face the consequences of his death some day or other, so why not now? Wang Ta-hung was weak and foolish, that was true – but there were six other T’ang to lead and guide him. That was the strength of the Seven, surely? Where one might fall, the Seven would stand. So it was. So it would always be.