The Art of War

by David Wingrove

  ‘And after that?’

  DeVore was still staring at the folders, his hunched shoulders and lowered head indicative of his disappointment. ‘Go to Mars, maybe.’

  ‘Mars?’

  He looked up. ‘They say it’s where the future lies. The Seven have a weaker hold out there.’

  ‘Ah…’ Douglas hesitated a moment, then looked about him once more. ‘Well, Howard. I think we’ve said all we came to say. We’d best be getting back.’

  DeVore stood up. ‘Of course. It was good seeing you all a last time. I wish you luck in all your ventures. And thank you, gentlemen. For all you did. It was good of you.’

  He embraced each one as they left, then went to the window, staring out at the jagged landscape of rock and ice and snow. He was still there, watching, as, ten minutes later, their craft lifted from the hangar and slowly banked away to the right. For a moment its shadow flitted across the escarpment opposite, then, with a sudden, shocking brightness, it exploded. The shock of the explosion struck a moment later, rattling the empty glasses on the table.

  He saw the fireball climb the sky, rolling over and over upon itself; heard the roar of the explosion roll like a giant clap of thunder down the valley and return a moment later. A million tiny incandescent fragments showered the mountainside, melting the snow where they fell, hissing and bubbling against the glass only a hand’s width from his face. Then there was silence.

  DeVore turned. Lehmann was standing in the doorway.

  ‘What is it, Stefan?’

  Lehmann looked past him a moment, as if recollecting what he had just seen. Then he came forward, handing DeVore a note. It was from Douglas. Handwritten. DeVore unfolded it and read.

  Dear Howard,

  I’m sorry it didn’t work out. We tried. We really did try, didn’t we? But life goes on. This is just to say that if ever you need anything – anything at all – just say.

  With deepest regards,

  John Douglas

  DeVore stared at it a moment, then screwed it into a ball and threw it down. Anything… The words were meaningless. The man had given up. He and all the rest like him. Well, it was time now to go deeper, lower, to cultivate a different class of rebel. To shake the tree of State again. And shake and shake and shake. Until it fell.

  The Officers’ Club at Bremen was a spacious, opulently decorated place. Dark-suited Han servants, their shaven heads constantly bowed, moved silently between the huge, round-topped tables that lay like islands in an ocean of green-blue carpet. Tall pillars edged the great central hexagon, forming a walkway about the tables, like the cloisters of an ancient monastery, while, fifty ch’i overhead, the hexagonal panelling of the ceiling was a mosaic of famous battles, the Han victorious in all.

  It was late afternoon and most of the tables were empty, but off to the right, halfway between the great double doorway and the bar, a group of eight officers was gathered about a table, talking loudly. Their speech, and the clutter of empty bottles on the table, betrayed that they were somewhat the worse for drink. However, as none of them was less than captain in rank, the duty officers smiled and turned away, allowing behaviour they would not have tolerated from lesser-ranking officers.

  The focus of this group was the young major, Hans Ebert, the ‘Hero of Hammerfest’, who had been regaling them with stories about the reception he had attended that afternoon. Now, however, the conversation had moved on into other channels, and the low, appreciative laughter held a suggestion of dark enjoyments.

  Auden, seeing how things were drifting, directed the conversation back to his superior. That was his role – to keep his master central at all times. Unlike the others, he had barely touched his drink all afternoon, yet it was not evident, for he seemed to lift his drink as often to his lips and refill his glass as often from the bottle. But his speech, unlike the others’, was clear, precise.

  ‘And you, Hans? How is that lady you were seeing?’

  Ebert looked aside, smiling rakishly. ‘Which of my ladies would that be, Will?’

  Auden leaned forward to tap the end of his cigar against the tray, then sat back again in his chair. ‘You know the one. The minister’s wife.’

  There was a gasp of surprise and admiration. A minister’s wife! That smelled of danger. And danger was an aphrodisiac they all understood.

  ‘Yes, tell us, Hans,’ said Scott, his eyes bright with interest.

  Ebert sipped at his glass relaxedly, then looked about the circle of eager, watching faces.

  ‘She’s my slave,’ he said calmly. ‘I can make her do anything I want. Anything at all. Take today, for instance. I had her two maids strip her and hold her down while I beat her with my cane. Then, while she watched, I had her maids. Afterwards, she was begging for it. But I shook my head. “You have to earn it,” I said. “I want you to show me how much you love your maids.”’

  ‘No!’ said Panshin, a rather portly colonel. ‘And did she?’

  Ebert sipped again. ‘Didn’t I say she was my slave?’ He smiled. ‘Right in front of me she got down on the floor with her maids and rolled about for more than twenty minutes, until all three of them were delirious, begging me to join them.’

  Fest’s eyes were bulging. ‘And then you gave her one?’

  Ebert set his glass down and slowly shook his head. ‘Nothing so simple. You see, I have this ritual.’

  ‘Ritual?’ Scott swigged down his brandy with a quick tilt of his head, then set his glass down hard on the table. ‘What kind of ritual?’

  ‘I had all three of them kneel before me, naked, their heads bowed. Then I called them forward, one at a time, to kneel before the god and kiss the god’s head. As each did so they had to repeat a few words. You know the sort of thing. “I promise to be faithful and obedient to the god and do whatever the god wishes.” That sort of thing.’

  ‘Kuan Yin!’ said another of the captains, a man named Russ. ‘Don’t tell me, and then you had all three at once.’

  Ebert laughed and finished his drink. ‘I’m afraid not. The old girl was just about to take her turn when I noticed what time it was. “Sorry,” I told her, “I didn’t realize the time. I have to go. The T’ang awaits me.”’

  ‘Gods!’ Scott spluttered, then shook his head. ‘You’re not kidding us, Hans. That really happened?’

  ‘Less than six hours back.’

  ‘And what did she say?’

  Ebert laughed. ‘What could she say? You don’t keep a T’ang waiting.’

  ‘And your promise?’ said Russ. ‘You promised you’d fuck her if she showed she loved her maids.’

  Ebert reached out and tipped more wine into his glass. ‘I’m a man of my word, Captain Russ. As you all know. When we’ve finished here I’ll be returning to fulfil my promise.’

  ‘And her husband?’ Scott asked. ‘Where was he while all of this was going on?’

  ‘In his study. Reading the Analects.’

  There was a great guffaw of laughter at that, which made heads turn at nearby tables.

  ‘Power. That’s what it’s really all about,’ said Ebert, his eyes half-closed, a faintly sybaritic smile on his lips. ‘That’s the key to sex. Power. It’s something young Li Yuan will learn this very night. Master your sexuality and the world is yours. Succumb to it and…’ He shrugged. ‘Well… look at Fest here!’

  The laughter rolled out again, dark, suggestive.

  At that moment, on the threshold of the great doorway to the club, a rather dour-looking, almost ugly man, a Han, paused, looking in, his eyes drawn momentarily towards the laughter at the table to his right. He was different from the other Han inside the club in that he wore the powder-blue uniform of a Security officer, his chest patch showing him to be a captain. But he was a Han, all the same, and when he took a step across that threshold, a duty officer stepped forward, intercepting him.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but might I see your pass?’

  Kao Chen stopped, then turned and faced the man, keeping his feelings in tight chec
k. The man was within his rights, after all. He gave a terse bow and took his permit card from the top pocket of his tunic, then handed it to the officer. As the man studied the card intently, Chen was conscious how other, non-Han officers went through unhindered, even guests from other Security forces. But he had half expected this. The colour of his skin, the fold of his eyes – both were wrong here. The officer class of Security was almost totally made up of Hung Mao, descendants of the mercenary armies that had fought for the Seven against the tyrant Tsao Ch’un. Here Han were secondary; servants, not rulers. But he was an officer and he was thirsty. He had a right to sit and have a beer. And so he would.

  The officer handed him back his pass, then gave a brief, almost slovenly salute. In terms of rank, Chen was his superior, but he was not Hung Mao, and so the rank meant little.

  ‘Thank you, Lieutenant,’ he said tightly, then made his way through, down the plushly carpeted steps and out into the main body of the club.

  He was halfway across the floor before he realized who he was walking towards. He saw Ebert’s eyes widen in recognition and decided to walk past quickly, but he was not to be so fortunate. Three paces past the table he was called back.

  ‘Hey, you! Han! Come here!’

  Chen turned slowly, then came back and stood in front of Ebert, his head bowed. ‘Major Ebert.’

  Ebert leaned back arrogantly in his chair, a sneering smile on his face. ‘What in fuck’s name do you think you’re doing, Han?’

  Chen felt himself go cold with anger, then remembered he was kwai. These were but words. And words could not hurt him. Only a knife could hurt a kwai. He answered Ebert calmly, civilly.

  ‘I’ve just come off duty. I was hot and thirsty. I thought I would have a beer or two at the bar.’

  ‘Then you can think again. There are rules in this place. No women and no Han.’

  ‘No Han?’

  He realized as soon as he said it that he had made a mistake. He should have bowed, then turned about and left. Now it was a question of face. His words, correct enough, innocuous enough in themselves, had challenged what Ebert had asserted. It did not matter that he, Kao Chen, had the right to use the club. That was no longer the issue.

  Ebert leaned forward slightly, his voice hardening. ‘Did you hear me, Han?’

  Chen hesitated, then lowered his head slightly, afraid to let the anger in his eyes show. ‘Excuse me, Major, but I am an officer in the service of the T’ang. Surely…’

  Ebert leaned forward and threw his drink into Chen’s face. ‘Are you stupid? Don’t you understand me?’

  Chen was silent a moment, then bowed again. ‘I apologize, Major. It was my fault. Might I buy you another drink before I leave?’

  Ebert gave him a look of profound disgust. ‘Just go, little Han. Now. Before I beat you senseless.’

  Chen bowed low and backed away, mastering the pain, the fierce stinging in his eyes, his face perfectly controlled. Inside, however, he seethed, and at the doorway he looked back, hearing their laughter drift outward from the table, following him.

  Laugh now, he thought. Laugh good and long, Hans Ebert, for I’ll not rest until my pride’s restored and you lie humbled at my feet.

  At the table all eyes were once again on Ebert.

  ‘The nerve of some of them,’ he said, filling his glass again. ‘Anyway. Where were we? Ah yes…’ He stood up, then raised his glass. ‘To Li Yuan and his bride! May this evening bring them clouds and rain!’

  The answering roar was deafening. ‘To Li Yuan!’ they yelled. ‘Clouds and rain!’

  The ceremony was over; the last of the guests had departed; the doors of the inner palace were locked and guarded. Only the two of them remained.

  Li Yuan turned from the doorway and looked across. Fei Yen sat in the tall-backed chair at the far side of the room, on the dais, as if enthroned. A chi pao of brilliant red was draped about her small and slender figure, while her dark hair was braided with fine strands of jewels. A thin cloth of red and gold veiled her features, an ancient kai t’ou, as worn by the brides of the Ching emperors for almost three centuries. Now that they were alone, she lifted the veil, letting him see her face.

  She was beautiful. More beautiful than ever. His breath caught as he looked at her, knowing she was his. He knew now how his brother, Han Ch’in must have felt in his final moments, and grieved less for him. It would be fine to die now, knowing no more than this.

  He walked across to her, hesitant, aware of her eyes upon him, watching him come.

  He stopped at the foot of the steps, looking at her. The huge throne dwarfed her. She seemed like a child, sitting in her father’s chair. Three steps led up to the dais, but standing there, his face was on the level of Fei Yen’s. He studied her, conscious that in the years since he had first seen her she had grown to the fullness of womanhood.

  His eyes narrowed with pain, looking at her, seeing how dark her eyes were. How deep and beautiful they were. How delicate the lashes. How finely drawn the curves of skin about the liquid centres. Eyes so dark, so vast he felt he could lose himself in their depths.

  ‘Well?’ Fei Yen leaned forward. She was smiling at him, her hand extended. ‘What does my husband command?’

  He felt a fresh thrill of delight course through his blood, at the same time hot and cold, both exquisite and painful. Her eyes held him, making him reach out and take her hand.

  He looked down at her hand. So small and fine it was. Its warmth seemed to contradict its porcelain appearance, its strength oppose its apparent fragility. Her hand closed on his, drawing him up the steps to where she sat. He knelt, his head in her lap, her hands caressing his neck. For a moment it was enough. Then she lifted his head between her hands and made him move back, away from her.

  They stood, facing each other.

  Her hand went to the ruby-studded clasp at her right shoulder and released it. Slowly, with a faint silken rustle, the cloth unravelled, slipping from her body.

  She stood there, naked but for the jewels in her hair, the bands of gold at her ankles and at her throat. Her skin was the white of swan’s feathers, her breasts small, perfectly formed, their dark nipples protruding. Mesmerized, he looked at the curves of her flesh, the small, dark tangle of her sex, and felt desire wash over him so fiercely, so overpoweringly, he wanted to cry out.

  Timidly he put out his hand, caressing her flank and then her breast, touching the dark brown nipple tenderly, as if it were the most fragile thing he had ever touched. She was watching him, her smile tender, almost painful now. Then, softly, she placed her hands upon his hips and pushed her face forward.

  He moved closer, his eyes closed, his body melting. His hands caressed her shoulders, finding them so smooth, so warm they seemed unreal, while her lips against his were soft and wet and hot, like desire itself, their sweetness blinding him.

  She reached down, releasing him, then drew him down on top of her. At once he was spilling his seed, even as he entered her. He cried out, feeling her shudder beneath him. And when he looked at her again he saw how changed her eyes were, how different her mouth – a simple gash of wanting now that he was inside her.

  That look inflamed him, made him spasm again, then lie still on top of her.

  They lay there a long while, then, as one, they stirred, noticing how awkwardly they lay, their bodies sprawled across the steps.

  He stood and tucked himself in, aware of how incongruous the action seemed, then reached down to help her up, unable to take his eyes from her nakedness.

  Saying nothing, she led him through into the bridal room. There she undressed him and led him to the bath and washed him, ignoring his arousal, putting him off until she was ready for him. Then, finally, they lay there on the low, wide bed, naked, facing each other, their lips meeting for tiny sips of kisses, their hands tenderly caressing each other’s bodies.

  ‘When did you know?’ she asked, her eyes never leaving his.

  ‘When I was eight,’ he said and laughed softly,
as if he knew it was madness.

  For more than half his young life he had loved her. And here she was, his wife, his lover. Eight, almost nine years his senior. Half a lifetime older than him.

  For a time she was silent, her eyes narrowed, watching him. Then, at last, she spoke. ‘How strange. Perhaps I should have known.’ She smiled and moved closer, kissing him.

  Yes, he thought, releasing her, then watching her again, seeing the small movements of her lashes, of the skin about her eyes, the line of her mouth. Cloud motion in the eyes, it seemed, the bones of her face moulded and remoulded constantly. He was fascinated by her. Mesmerized. He felt he could lie there for ever and never leave this room, this intimacy.

  They made love again, slowly this time, Fei Yen leading him, guiding him, it seemed, bringing him to a climax more exquisite than the last, more painful in its intensity.

  He lay there afterwards, watching the darkness in her face, the sudden colour in her cheeks and at her neck, and knew he would always want her. ‘I love you,’ he said finally, shaking his head slowly, as if he could not believe it. He had said the words so often in his head. Had imagined himself saying them to her. And now…

  ‘I know,’ she said, kissing him again. Then, relaxing, she settled down beside him, her head nestling into the fold of his arm, her cheek pressed soft and warm against his chest.

  Chapter 44

  CONFLICTING VOICES

  Li Yuan woke early and, loath to disturb her, went to his desk on the far side of the room. He sat there in the tight circle of the lamp’s light, looking across at her, entranced by the vision of her sleeping form. Then, stirring himself, he took paper from the drawer and, after mixing water and ink from the ink block, began, writing the words in a neat, unhesitant hand down the page, right to left.

  Hot wings, perfumed like cinnamon,

  Beat about me, black as the moonless night.

  I heard your splendid cry in the silence,

  And knew the phoenix fed upon my heart.

  He dipped the brush again, then looked across, realizing she was watching him.