The Art of War

by David Wingrove

  He paused, spreading his hands.

  ‘So. Let me ask again. What is wrong with rewarding our friends? If it achieves our end – if it breeds a kind of loyalty – why question what it is that keeps a man loyal? Love, fear, money… in the end it is only by force that we rule.’

  There was a moment’s silence after he had finished. Li Shai Tung had been looking down at his hands while Wang was speaking. Now he looked up and, with a glance at Tsu Ma and Wu Shih, addressed the Council.

  ‘I hear what my cousin Wang says. Nevertheless, we must decide on this matter. We must formulate our policy here and now. I propose that this matter is put to the vote.’

  Wang Sau-leyan stared at him a moment, then looked down. There was to be no delay, then? No further debate? They would have his vote now? Well, then, he would give them his vote.

  Tsu Ma was leaning forward, taking a small cigar from the silver and ivory box on the arm of his chair. He glanced up casually. ‘We are agreed, then, cousins?’

  Wang Sau-leyan looked about him, watching his fellow T’ang raise their hands then let them fall again.

  ‘Good,’ said Tsu Ma, ‘then let us move on quickly…’

  Wang spoke up, interrupting Tsu Ma. ‘Excuse me, cousin, but have you not forgotten something?’

  Tsu Ma met his eyes, clearly puzzled. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The vote. You did not ask who was against.’

  Tsu Ma laughed awkwardly. ‘I beg pardon…?’

  ‘Six hands were raised. Yet there are seven here, are there not?’

  Wang Sau-leyan looked about him, seeing the effect his words were having on his fellow T’ang. Like so much else, they had not expected this. In Council all decisions were unanimous. Or had been. For one hundred and twenty-six years it had been so. Until today.

  It was Li Shai Tung who broke the silence. ‘You mean you wish to vote against? After all we’ve said?’

  Wei Feng, sat beside him, shook his head. ‘It isn’t done,’ he said quietly. ‘It just isn’t our way…’

  ‘Why not?’ Wang asked, staring at him defiantly. ‘We are Seven, not one, surely? Why must our voice be singular?’

  ‘You misunderstand…’ Tsu Ma began, but again Wang cut in.

  ‘I misunderstand nothing. It is my right to vote against, is it not? To put on record my opposition to this item of policy?’

  Tsu Ma hesitated, then gave a small nod of assent.

  ‘Good. Then that is all I wish to do. To register my unease at our chosen course.’

  At the desk behind Tsu Ma the secretary, Lung Mei Ho, had been taking down everything that was said for the official record, his ink brush moving quickly down the page. Beside him his assistant had been doing the same, the duplication ensuring that the report was accurate. Now both had stopped and were looking up, astonished.

  ‘But that has been done already, cousin Wang. Every word spoken here is a matter of record. Your unease…’ Tsu Ma frowned, trying to understand. ‘You mean you really do wish to vote against?’

  ‘Is it so hard to understand, Tsu Ma?’ Wang looked past the T’ang at the scribe, his voice suddenly hard. ‘Why aren’t you writing, Shih Lung? Did anyone call these proceedings to a halt?’

  Lung glanced at his master’s back, then lowered his head hurriedly, setting down Wang’s words. Beside him his assistant did the same.

  Satisfied, Wang Sau-leyan sat back, noting how his fellow T’ang were glaring at him now or looking amongst themselves, uncertain how to act. His gesture, ineffective in itself, had nonetheless shocked them to the bone. As Wei Feng had said, it wasn’t done. Not in the past. But the past was dead. This was a new world, with new rules. They had not learned that yet. Despite all, the War had taught them nothing. Well, he would change that. He would press their noses into the foul reality of it.

  ‘One further thing,’ he said quietly.

  Tsu Ma looked up, meeting his eyes. ‘What is it, cousin Wang?’

  The sharpness in Tsu Ma’s voice made him smile inside. He had rattled them – even the normally implacable Tsu Ma. Well, now he would shake them well and good.

  ‘It’s just a small thing. A point of procedure.’

  ‘Go on…’

  ‘Just this. The princes must leave. Now. Before we discuss any further business.’

  He saw the look of consternation on Tsu Ma’s face; saw it mirrored on every face in that loose circle. Then the room exploded in a riot of angry, conflicting voices.

  DeVore braced himself as the lift fell rapidly, one hand gripping the brass and leather handle overhead, the other cradling the severed head against his hip. They had quick-frozen the neck to stop blood seeping against his uniform and peeled away the eyelids. In time the retinal pattern would decay, but for now it was good enough to fool the cameras.

  As the lift slowed he prepared himself, lifting the head up in front of his face. When it stopped, he put the right eye against the indentation in the wall before him, then moved it away, tapping in the code. Three seconds, then the door would hiss open. He tucked the head beneath his arm and drew his gun.

  ‘What’s happening up top?’

  The guard at the desk was turning towards him, smiling, expecting Sanders, but he had barely uttered the words when DeVore opened fire, blowing him from his seat. The second guard was coming out of a side room, balancing a tray with three bowls of ch’a between his hands. He thrust the tray away and went for his sidearm, but DeVore was too quick for him. He staggered back, then fell and lay still.

  DeVore walked across to the desk and set the head down, then looked about him. Nothing had changed. It was all how he remembered it. In eleven years they had not even thought of changing their procedures. Creatures of habit, they were – men of tradition. DeVore laughed scornfully. It was their greatest weakness and the reason why he would win.

  He went to the safe. It was a high-security design with a specially strengthened form of ice for its walls and a blank front that could be opened only by the correct sequence of light pulses on the appropriate light-sensitive panels. That too was unchanged. It won’t help you – that’s what Sanders had said. Well, Sanders and his like didn’t think the way he thought. They approached things head on. But he…

  DeVore laughed, then took the four tiny packets from the tunic and, taking out their contents, attached them to the ice on each side of the safe’s rectangular front. They looked like tiny hoops, like snakes eating their own tails. Four similar hoops – much larger, their destructive capacity a thousand times that of these tiny, ring-like versions – had begun it all, ten years earlier, when they had ripped the Imperial Solarium apart, killing the T’ang’s Minister Lwo Kang and his advisors. Now their smaller brothers would provide him with the means to continue that War.

  He smiled, then went across to one of the side rooms and lay down on the floor. A moment later the explosion juddered the room about him. He waited a few seconds then got up and went back inside. The guardroom was a mess. Dust filled the air; machinery and bits of human flesh and bone littered the walls and floor. Where the safe had been the wall was ripped apart, while the safe itself, unharmed by the explosion, had tumbled forward and now lay there in the centre of the room, covered by debris.

  He took off his tunic and wrapped it about the safe, then slowly dragged it across the floor and into the lift. He looked back into the room, then reached across and activated the lift. He had no need for the head this time – there were no checks on who left the room, or on who used the lift to ascend. Again, that was a flaw in their thinking. He would have designed it otherwise: would have made it easier to break in, harder to get out. That way one trapped one’s opponent – surrounded him. As in wei chi.

  At the top Lehmann was waiting for him, a fresh one-piece over his arm.

  ‘How are things?’ DeVore asked, stripping off quickly and slipping into the dark green maintenance overalls.

  Lehmann stared at the safe. ‘The Ping Tiao have held their end. We’ve begun shipping the armam
ents out through the top east gate. Wiegand reports that the Security channels are buzzing with news of the attack. We should expect a counter-attack any time now.’

  DeVore looked up sharply. ‘Then we’d best get this out quick, neh?’

  ‘I’ve four men waiting outside, and another two holding the west transit lift. I’ve told the Ping Tiao it’s out of order.’

  ‘Excellent. Anything else?’

  ‘Good news. The rioting in Braunschweig has spilled over into neighbouring hsien. It seems our friends were right. It’s a powder keg down there.’

  ‘Maybe…’ DeVore looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. ‘Right. Get those men in here. I want this out of here before the Ping Tiao find out what we’ve done. Then we’ll blow the bridges.’

  Li Yuan went at once, not waiting for the T’ang to resolve their dispute. He went out on to the broad balcony and stood there at the balustrade, looking out across the blue expanse of the Caspian towards the distant shoreline. Wei Feng’s son, Wei Chan Yin, joined him there a moment later, tense with anger.

  For a time neither of them spoke, then Wei Chan Yin lifted his chin. His voice was cold and clear – the voice of reason itself.

  ‘The trouble is, Wang Sau-leyan is right. We have not adapted to the times.’

  Li Yuan turned his head, looking at the older man’s profile. ‘Maybe so. But there are ways of saying such things.’

  Wei Chan Yin relaxed slightly, then gave a small laugh. ‘His manners are appalling, aren’t they? Perhaps it has something to do with his exile as a child.’

  Their eyes met and they laughed.

  Li Yuan turned, facing Wei Chan Yin. Wei Feng’s eldest son was thirty-six, a tall, well-built man with a high forehead and handsome features. His eyes were smiling, yet at times they could be penetrating, almost frightening in their intensity. Li Yuan had known him since birth and had always looked up to him, but now they were equals in power. Differences in age meant nothing beside their roles as future T’ang.

  ‘What does he want, do you think?’

  Wei Chan Yin’s features formed into a kind of facial shrug. He stared out past Li Yuan a moment, considering things, then looked back at him.

  ‘My father thinks he’s a troublemaker.’

  ‘But you think otherwise.’

  ‘I think he’s a clever young man. Colder, far more controlled than he appears. That display back there – I think he was play-acting.’

  Li Yuan smiled. It was what he himself had been thinking. Yet it was a superb act. He had seen the outrage on the faces of his father and the older T’ang. If Wang Sau-leyan’s purpose had been merely to upset them, he had succeeded marvellously. But why? What could he gain by such tactics?

  ‘I agree. But my question remains. What does he want?’

  ‘Change.’

  Li Yuan hesitated, waiting for Wei Chan Yin to say more. But Chan Yin had finished.

  ‘Change?’ Li Yuan’s laughter was an expression of disbelief. Then, with a tiny shudder of revulsion, he saw what his cousin’s words implied. ‘You mean…’

  It was left unstated, yet Wei Chan Yin nodded. They were talking of the murder of Wang Hsien. Chan Yin’s voice sank to a whisper. ‘It is common knowledge that he hated his father. It would make a kind of sense if his hatred extended to all that his father held dear.’

  ‘The Seven?’

  ‘And Chung Kuo itself.’

  Li Yuan shook his head slowly. Was it possible? If so… He swallowed, then looked away, appalled. ‘Then he must never become a T’ang.’

  Wei Chan Yin laughed sourly. ‘Would that it were so easy, cousin. But be careful what you say. The young Wang has ears in unexpected places. Between ourselves there are no secrets, but there are some, even amongst our own, who do not understand when to speak and when to remain silent.’

  Again there was no need to say more. Li Yuan understood at once who Wei Chan Yin was talking of. Hou Tung-po, the young T’ang of South America, had spent much time recently with Wang Sau-leyan on his estates.

  He shivered again, as if the sunlight suddenly had no strength to warm him, then reached out and laid his hand on Wei Chan Yin’s arm.

  ‘My father was right. These are evil times. Yet we are Seven. Even if some prove weak, if the greater part remain strong…’

  Wei covered Li Yuan’s hand with his own. ‘As you say, good cousin. But I must go. There is much to be done.’

  Li Yuan smiled. ‘Your father’s business?’

  ‘Of course. We are our fathers’ hands, neh?’

  Li Yuan watched him go, then turned back and leaned across the balustrade, staring outward. But this time his thoughts went back to the day when his father had summoned him and introduced him to the sharp-faced official, Ssu Lu Shan. That afternoon had changed his life, for it had been then that he had learned of the Great Deception, and of the Ministry that had been set up to administer it.

  History had it that Pan Chao’s great fleet had landed here on the shores of Astrakhan in ad 98. He had trapped the Ta Ts’in garrison between his sea forces and a second great, land-based army and, after a battle lasting three days, had set up the yellow dragon banner of the Emperor above the old town’s walls. But history lied. Pan Chao had, indeed, crossed the Caspian to meet representatives of the Ta Ts’in – consuls of Trajan’s mighty Roman Empire. But no vast Han army had ever landed on this desolate shore, no Han had crossed the great range of the Urals and entered Europe as conquerors. Not until the great dictator, Tsao Ch’un, had come, little more than a century past.

  Li Yuan shivered, then turned away, angry with himself. Lies or not, it was the world they had inherited; it did no good to dwell upon alternatives. He had done so for a time and it had almost destroyed him. Now he had come to terms with it: had made his peace with the world of appearances. And yet sometimes – as now – the veil would slip and he would find himself wishing it would fly apart, and that he could say, just once, This is the truth of things. But that was impossible. Heaven itself would fall before the words could leave his lips. He stared back at the doorway, his anger finding its focus once more in the upstart, Wang Sau-leyan.

  Change… Was Prince Wei right? Was it Change Wang Sau-leyan wanted? Did he hunger to set the Great Wheel turning once again – whatever the cost? If so, they must act to stop him. Because Change was impossible. Inconceivable.

  Or was it?

  Li Yuan hesitated. No, he thought, not inconceivable. Not now. Even so, it could not be. They could not let it be. His father was right: Change was the great destroyer. The turning Wheel crushed all beneath it, indiscriminately. It had always been so. If there was a single reason for the existence of the Seven it was this – to keep the Wheel from turning.

  He turned back, making his way through, his role in things suddenly clear to him. He would be the brake, the block that kept the Wheel from turning.

  At the turn DeVore stopped and flattened himself against the wall of the corridor, listening. Behind him the four men rested, taking their breath, the safe nestled in the net between them. Ahead there were noises – footsteps, the muffled sound of voices. But whose? These levels were supposed to be empty, the path to the bridge clear.

  DeVore turned and pointed to a doorway to their right. Without needing to be told they crossed the space and went inside. Satisfied, DeVore went to the left, moving down the corridor quickly, silently, conscious of the voices growing louder as he approached the junction. Before the turn he stopped and slipped into a side room, then waited, his ear pressed to the door. When they had gone by, he slipped out again, taking the right-hand turn, following them.

  Ping Tiao. He was certain of it. But why were they here? And what were they doing?

  Ten of them. Maybe more. Unless…

  There was no reason for his hunch, yet he knew, even as he had it, that he was right. They were Ping Tiao. But not all of them. They had taken prisoners. High-ranking Security officers, perhaps. But why? For their ransom value? Or was there some other r
eason?

  He frowned and ran on silently, knowing that he had to get closer to them, to make sure he was right, because if they had taken prisoners it was something he should know. Something he could use. He had agreed with Gesell beforehand that there would be no prisoners, but Gesell wasn’t to be trusted.

  The bridge was up ahead, the corridor on the far side of it cleared by his men earlier. But how had they found out about it? He had told Gesell nothing. Which meant they had a man inside his organization. Or had paid someone close to him for the information. Even so, they didn’t know about the safe. Only he knew about that.

  They were much closer now. He could hear them clearly. Three – no, four – voices. They had slowed down as they came near the bridge, cautious now, suspicious of some kind of trap. The next turn was only twenty ch’i ahead. From there he would be able to see them clearly. But it was risky. If they saw him...

  DeVore slowed, then stopped just before the junction, hunched down, listening again. They had paused, perhaps to send one of their number ahead of them across the bridge. He waited, then, when he heard the call come back, put his head round the corner, keeping low, where they’d not expect to see anyone.

  He took it all in at a glance, then moved back sharply. Five Ping Tiao and eight bound prisoners. As he’d thought. They weren’t in uniform, but he could tell by their moustaches and the way they tied their hair that they were officers. Such things were a sign of rank as unmistakable as the patches on the chests of their dress uniforms.

  So. Gesell was taking prisoners. He would find out why, then confront the man with the fact. It would be fun to hear what excuse he would give. Meanwhile, his man on the far side of the bridge could follow them, find out where they took their captives.

  He smiled and was about to turn away when he heard footsteps coming back towards him.

  ‘Go on across!’ a voice called out, closer than before. ‘Quick now! I’ll meet up with you later.’

  DeVore took a deep breath, then drew his gun. He looked at it a moment, then slipped it back into its holster. No. He would need to be quiet. Anyway, a knife was just as effective when it came to killing a man.