The Art of War

by David Wingrove

  She smiled, looking at her father, sensing his pride in her. It pleased her, as always, and she reached out to hold and touch his arm. She saw how Old Man Ebert smiled at that: a tender, understanding smile. He was cut from a different cloth to the rest of his family. Beside him his wife, Berta, looked away, distanced from everything about her, her face a mask of total indifference to the whole proceeding. A tall, elegant woman, hers was a cold, austere beauty: the beauty of pine forests under snow. A rarefied, inhuman beauty.

  With that same clarity with which she had seen the son, Jelka saw how Berta Ebert had shaped her children in their father’s absence. Saw how their cold self-interest was a reflection of their mother’s.

  She held her father’s arm, feeling its warmth, its strength and solidity, and drew comfort from that. He loved her. Surely he would allow nothing that would harm her?

  On the way over he had talked to her of the reasons behind this marriage. Of the need to build strong links between the Seven and the most powerful of the new, commercial Families. It was the way forward, and her union with Hans would cement the peace they had struggled hard to win. GenSyn had remained staunchly loyal to the Seven in the recent War and Li Shai Tung had rewarded them for that loyalty. Klaus Ebert had taken over mining contracts on Mars and the Uranus moons as well as large holdings in three of the smaller communications companies. Her marriage would make this abstract, commercial treaty a personal thing. Would make it a thing of flesh and blood.

  She understood this. Even so, it seemed a long way off. Before then she had to finish her schooling, the rest of her childhood. She looked at Hans Ebert dispassionately, as if studying a stranger.

  She turned in her seat, her cup empty, to summon the servant. It came to her without a word, as if it had anticipated her wish, bowing to her as it filled her cup. Yet before it moved back into the shadows of the room it looked up at her, meeting her eyes a second time, holding them a moment with its dark, intimate knowledge of things she did not know.

  Jelka turned her head away, looking past her father, meeting the eyes of her future husband. Blue eyes, not pink. Startlingly blue. Colder, harder eyes. Different...

  She shuddered and looked down. And yet the same. Somehow, curiously, the same.

  Wang Sau-leyan raised the silk handkerchief to his face and wiped his eyes. For a moment he stood there, his well-fleshed body shaking gently, the laughter still spilling from his lips, then he straightened up and sniffed loudly, looking about him.

  Behind him the tomb was being sealed again, the rosewood litter carried away. Servants busied themselves, sweeping the dirt path with brushes of twigs, while, to one side, the six New Confucian officials stood in a tight circle, talking quietly amongst themselves.

  ‘That was rich, Hung, don’t you think?’ Wang said, turning to face his Chancellor, ignoring the looks of displeasure of his fellow T’ang. ‘I had visions of my brother getting up out of the casket to chastise the poor buggers!’

  ‘My lord...’ Hung’s face was a picture of dismay. He glanced about him at the gathered T’ang, then lowered his head. ‘It was unfortunate...’

  ‘Unfortunate!’ Wang’s laughter rang out again. ‘Why, it could only have happened to Ta-hung! Who else but my brother would find himself thrown into his own tomb!’ With the last few words Wang Sau-leyan made a mime of the casket sliding into the tomb.

  It had been an accident. At the top of the steps, one of the bearers had tripped and, the balance of the casket momentarily lost, the remaining bearers had lost their grip. The whole thing had tumbled down the steps, almost throwing out its occupant. Wang Sau-leyan, following close behind, had stood there at the tomb’s mouth, doubled up with laughter. He had not stopped laughing since. Throughout the ceremony, he had giggled, oblivious of the astonished looks of the officials.

  Now, however, his fellow T’ang were looking amongst themselves, appalled by his behaviour. After a moment the oldest of them, Wei Feng, stepped forward.

  ‘What is this, Wang Sau-leyan? Have you no feelings for your dead brother? We came to honour him today – to pay our respects to his souls as they journey on. This laughter is not fitting. Have you forgotten the rites, Wang Sau-leyan? It is your duty...’

  ‘Hell’s teeth, Wei Feng, I know my duty. But it was funny. Genuinely funny. If he had not been dead already, that last fall would have killed him!’ Wang Sau-leyan stared back at his fellow T’ang momentarily, then looked away. ‘However... forgive me, cousins. It seems that I alone saw the humour in the moment.’

  Wei Feng looked down, his anger barely contained. Never in all his years had he seen anything like it.

  ‘There are times for humour...’

  Wang’s huff of disgust was clearly disrespectful. He moved past Wei Feng as if the older man wasn’t there, confronting the other T’ang.

  ‘If my brother had been a man to respect I would have shown him some respect, but my brother was a fool and a weakling. He would never have been T’ang but for the death of my elder brothers.’ Wang looked about him, nodding his head. ‘Yes, and I know that goes for me, too, but understand me, cousins. I’ll not play hollow tongue to any man. I’ll speak as I feel. As I am, not as you’d have me seem. So you’ll understand me if I say that I disliked my brother. I’m not glad he’s dead. No, I’d not go that far, for even a fool deserves breath. But I’ll not be a hypocrite. I’ll shed no false tears for him. I’ll save them for men who deserve them. For men I truly love. Likewise I’ll keep my respect for those who deserve respect.’

  Tsu Ma had been staring past Wang while he spoke. Now he looked back at him, his face inexpressive, his eyes looking up and down the length of Wang Sau-leyan, as if to measure him.

  ‘And yet your brother was T’ang, Wang Sau leyan. Surely a T’ang deserves respect?’

  ‘Had the man filled the clothes...’

  ‘And he did not?’

  Wang Sau-leyan paused, realizing suddenly what dangerous seas he had embarked upon. Then he laughed, relaxing, and looked back at Tsu Ma.

  ‘Don’t mistake me, Tsu Ma. I speak only of my brother. I knew him well. In all the long history of the Seven there was never one like him. He was not worthy to wear the imperial yellow. Look in your hearts, all of you, and tell me that I’m wrong. In all honesty, was there one of you who, knowing my father was dead, rejoiced that Ta-hung was T’ang?’

  He looked about them, seeing the grudging confirmation in every face.

  ‘Well, let us keep our respect for those that deserve it, neh? For myself I’d gladly bow to any of my cousins here. You are men who have proved your worth. You, indeed, are T’ang.’

  He saw how that mollified them and laughed inwardly. They were all so vain, so title-proud. And hypocrites, too, for if the truth were known they cared as little for Ta-hung as he. No, they had taken offence not at his denigration of his brother but at the implied mockery of his brother’s title, for by inference it mocked them also.

  He moved through, between their ranks, bowing to each of them as he passed, then led them on along the pathway and up the broad marble steps into the ancient palace.

  As for himself he cared not a jot for the trappings of his title. He had seen enough of men and their ways to know how hollow a mere title could be. No, what he valued was not the title ‘T’ang’ but the reality of the power it gave him, the ability to say and do what he had always dreamed of saying and doing. The power to offend, if offence was what he wished. To be a T’ang and not have that was to be nothing – was to be an actor in a tiresome play, mouthing another’s words, constrained by bonds of ritual and tradition.

  And he would not be that.

  As the servants made their way amongst his guests, offering wine and sweetmeats, he looked about him again, a faint smile coming to his lips as he remembered that moment at the entrance to the tomb.

  Yes, he thought, it was not your fate to be T’ang, Ta-hung. You were designed for other things than kingship. And yet T’ang you became.

  Wang smile
d and took a cup of wine from the servant, then turned away, looking out through the window at the walled garden and the great marbled tablet of the tomb at its centre.

  It was unfortunate. He had not disliked his brother. Despised him, maybe – though even that was too strong a word for the mild feeling of irritation he had felt – but not hated him as he had his father and his two eldest brothers. However, Ta-hung had had the misfortune of being born before him. As a younger brother he would have been no threat, but as T’ang he had been an obstacle – a thing to be removed.

  He sipped at his wine and turned his head, looking across at his Chancellor. Hung Mien-lo was talking to Tsu Ma, his head lowered in deference. Smoothing things over, no doubt. Wang looked down, smiling, pleased by his morning’s work.

  It was true, he had found the accident genuinely amusing, but he had grasped at once that it was the perfect pretext for annoying his fellow T’ang – the perfect irritant – and he had exaggerated his response. He had seen how they bridled at his irreverence. And afterwards it had given him the opportunity to play the bluff, honest man. To put his heart upon his sleeve and flaunt it before them. He took a deep breath, then looked up again, noting how their eyes went to him constantly. Yes, he thought. They hate me now, but they also admire me in a grudging way. They think me crass but honest. Well, let them be mistaken on both counts. Let them take the surface show for the substance, for it will make things easier in the days to come.

  He turned again, looking back at the tomb. They were dead – every one of them who had been in the room that day he had been exiled. Father and mother, brothers and uncles all. Dead. And he had had them killed, every last one.

  And now I’m T’ang and sleep in my father’s bed with my father’s wives and my father’s maids.

  He drained his glass, a small ripple of pleasure passing through him. Yes. He had stopped their mouths and closed their eyes. And no one would ever again tell him what he could or couldn’t do.

  No one.

  Two hours later, Wang Sau-leyan sat in his father’s room, in the big, tall-backed chair, side-on to the mirror, his back to the door.

  He heard the door open, soft footsteps pad across the tiles.

  ‘Is that you, Sweet Rain?’

  He heard the footsteps pause and imagined the girl bending low as she bowed. A pretty young thing, perhaps the prettiest of his father’s maids.

  ‘Chieh Hsia?’

  He half turned, languid from the wine he’d drunk, and put his hand out. ‘Have you brought the lavender bowl?’

  There was the slightest hesitation, then, ‘I have, Chieh Hsia.’

  ‘Good. Well, come then. I want you to see to me as you used to see to my father.’

  Again there was the slightest hesitation before she acted. Then she came round, bowing low, and knelt before him, the bowl held delicately in the long, slender fingers of her left hand.

  He had seen the film of his father’s final evening, had seen how Sweet Rain had ministered to him, milking the old man into the lavender bowl. Well, now she would do the same for him. But no one would be watching this time. He had turned off the cameras. No one but he would know what he did within the privacy of his bedroom walls.

  He drew the gown back from his lap, exposing his nakedness. His penis was still quite flaccid.

  ‘Well, girl? What are you waiting for?’

  He let his head fall back and closed his eyes, waiting. There was the faint rustle of silks as she moved closer, then he felt her fingers brush against his flesh. He shivered, then nodded to himself, feeling his penis stir between her fingers. Such a delicate touch she had – like silk itself – her fingers caressing the length of him slowly, tantalizingly, making his breath catch in his throat.

  He opened his eyes, looking down at her. Her head was lowered, intent on what she was doing, the darkness of her hair held up with a single white jade pin.

  ‘Is this how you touched my father?’

  She glanced up. ‘No, Chieh Hsia. But I thought...’

  And still her fingers worked on him, gathering the whole of him up into that tiny nexus of pleasure, there between his legs.

  ‘Thought what?’ he asked after a moment, the words barely audible.

  She hesitated, then looked up at him again; candidly this time. ‘Every man is different, Chieh Hsia. Likewise their needs...’

  He nodded slowly. Gods, but it was delightful. He would never have dreamed that a woman’s hands could be so potent an instrument of pleasure.

  Her eyes met his again. ‘If the T’ang would prefer, I could... kiss him there.’

  He shuddered. The word ‘kiss’ promised delights beyond imagining. He gave a tiny nod. ‘Yes. I’d like that.’

  He heard her set the bowl down and let his head fall back, his eyes close, then felt her lift him to her lips. Again he shivered, drawn up out of himself by the sheer delight of what she was doing. For a while, then, he seemed to lapse out of himself, becoming but a single thread of perfect pleasure, linked to the warm wetness of her mouth; a pleasure that grew and grew...

  He didn’t hear the door open. Neither did he hear the second set of footsteps pad almost silently across the tiles towards him, but a movement in the girl in front of him – the slightest tensing of her left hand where it rested on his knee – made him open his eyes suddenly and look up, his gaze going to the mirror.

  Tender Willow was almost upon him, the knife already raised in her right hand. At once he kicked out with his right leg, pushing Sweet Rain away from him, and lurched forward, out of the seat.

  It was not a moment too soon. Tender Willow’s knife missed his shoulder by a fraction, tearing into the silken cushioning of the chair, gashing the wooden beading. Wang turned quickly, facing her, twice her weight and a full ch’i taller – but still the girl came on, her face filled with hatred and disgust.

  As she thrust the knife at him a second time, he moved forward, knocking her arm away, then, grabbing her neck brutally, he smashed her head down into the arm of the chair, once, then a second time. She fell and lay still.

  He stood there a moment, his breath hissing sharply from him, then turned and kicked out at Sweet Rain again, catching her in the stomach, so that she wheezed, her breath taken from her. His face was dark now, twisted with rage.

  ‘You foxes...’ he said quietly, his voice trembling. ‘You foul little bitches...’ He kicked again, catching the fallen maid fully on the side of the head, then turned back and spat on the other girl.

  ‘You’re dead. Both of you.’

  He looked about him, noting the broken bowl and, beside it, a single white jade pin, then bent down and recovered the knife from the floor. He straightened up, then, with a slight shudder, walked to the door and threw it open, calling the guards.

  PART ELEVEN

  SHELLS

  AUTUMN 2206

  Between the retina and the higher centres of the cortex the innocence of vision is irretrievably lost – it has succumbed to the suggestion of a whole series of hidden persuaders.

  —Arthur Koestler, The Act Of Creation

  That which we experience in dreams, if we experience it often, is in the end just as much a part of the total economy of our soul as is anything we ‘really’ experience: we are by virtue of it richer or poorer.

  —Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good And Evil

  Chapter 47

  THE INNOCENCE OF VISION

  Ben came upon the cottage from the bay path, climbing the steep slope. At the lower gate he turned, looking back across the bay. New growth crowded the distant foreshore, masking where the fire had raged five years earlier. Only at the hill’s crest, where the old house had stood, did the new vegetation end. There the land was fused a glassy black.

  The tall seventeen-year-old shook his head, then turned to face the cottage. Landscott was a long, low shape against the hill, its old stone walls freshly whitewashed, its roof thatched. A flower garden stretched up to it, its blooms a brilliant splash of colour besid
e the smooth greenness of the lawn. Behind and beside it other cottages dotted the hillside, untenanted yet perfectly maintained. Shells, they were. Part of the great illusion. His eyes passed over them quickly, used to the sight.

  He looked down at his left hand where it rested on the gatepost, conscious of a deep, unsatisfied itch at the join between the wrist and the new hand. The kind of itch you couldn’t scratch, because it was inside, beneath the flesh. The join was no longer sore, the hand no longer an unaccustomed weight at the end of his arm, as it had been for the first year. Even so, something of his initial sense of awkwardness remained.

  The scar had healed, leaving what looked like a machined ridge between what was his and what had been given. The hand itself looked natural enough, but that was only illusion. He had seen what lay beneath the fibrous dermal layer. It was much stronger than his right hand and, in subtle ways, much better – far quicker in its responses. He turned it, moving it like the machine it was rather than the hand it pretended to be, then smiled to himself. If he wished he could have it strengthened and augmented: could transform it into any kind of tool he needed.

  He let it fall, then began to climb again, crossing the gradual slope of the upper garden. Halfway across the lawn he slowed then stopped, surprised, hearing music from inside the cottage. Piano music. He tilted his head, listening, wondering who it was. The phrase was faltering at first, the chords uncertain. Then, a moment later, the same chords were repeated, confidently this time, all sense of hesitation gone.

  Curious, he crossed the lawn and went inside. The music was coming from the living-room. He went to the doorway and looked in. At the far side of the room his mother was sitting at a piano, her back to him, her hands resting lightly on the keys.