Karr grinned. ‘I’d like that, Marie Enge. I’d like that very much.’
She was standing there when the door opened. It was just after two in the morning and the corridors were empty. Tuan Ti Fo took one step towards her then stopped, seeing her there in the shadows.
‘Marie…’
‘I know,’ she said quickly, seeing how he was dressed; how he was carrying his bedroll on his back. Behind him the boy looked out, wide-eyed, wondering what was going on.
He took a breath. ‘Then you will understand why we must go. The boy is in great danger here.’
She nodded. ‘I know that, too. There are men trying to kill him. They killed his friends.’
He narrowed his eyes, his voice a whisper. ‘How do you know all this, Marie?’
‘Inside,’ she said, moving closer. ‘Please, Tuan Ti Fo. I must talk with you.’ When he hesitated, she reached out and touched his arm. ‘Please, Master Tuan. For the boy’s sake.’
They went inside. The boy had backed away. He was crouched against the back wall, his eyes going from Tuan Ti Fo to the newcomer, his body tensed.
‘It’s all right, Kim,’ Tuan Ti Fo said, going across and kneeling next to him. ‘She’s a friend.’ He half turned, looking back at Marie. ‘This is Kim. Kim, this is Marie.’
She came across and stood there, shaking her head. ‘You’re the boy, all right, but it doesn’t make sense.’ She looked from him to Tuan Ti Fo. ‘I was told he was a scientist, a genius, but…’ She turned back. ‘Well, he’s just a boy. A frightened boy.’
Tuan Ti Fo’s eyes had widened at her words. Now he laughed. ‘A boy he may be, but just a boy he’s certainly not. Do you know something, Marie? He beat me. In only his third game.’
‘I don’t understand you, Master Tuan. Beat you at what?’
‘At the game. At wei chi. He’s a natural.’
She stared at Tuan Ti Fo then looked back at the boy, new respect entering her expression. ‘He beat you?’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Gods…’
‘Yes…’ Tuan Ti Fo chuckled. ‘And by five stones, no less. Not just beaten, but humiliated.’ He looked back at Kim and gave him a small bow. ‘Which makes our friend here unofficial First Hand Supreme of all Chung Kuo, neh?’
She laughed; a small laugh of astonishment. ‘No wonder they want him back.’
Tuan Ti Fo stiffened, his face hardening. ‘They?’
Marie nodded, suddenly more sober. ‘Li Yuan. The new T’ang. Kim was working for him.’
She explained.
Tuan Ti Fo sighed. ‘I see… And you’re certain of this?’
‘I…’ She hesitated, remembering her meeting with Karr, then nodded. ‘Yes. But there’s something I have to give the boy. They said it would mean something to him.’
She took the pendant from her pocket and crouched down, holding it out to the boy.
For a moment he seemed almost not to see the bright silver circle that lay in her palm. Then, growing wonder filling his eyes, he reached out and touched the hanging chain.
She placed it in his hand then moved back slightly, watching him.
Slowly the wonder faded, shading into puzzlement. Then, like cracks appearing in the wall of a dam, his face dissolved, a great flood of pain and hurt overwhelming him.
He cried out – a raw, gut-wrenching sound in that tiny room – then pressed the pendant to his cheek, his fingers trembling, his whole face ghastly now with loss.
‘T’ai Cho,’ he moaned, his voice broken, wavering. ‘T’ai Cho… they killed T’ai Cho!’
Chapter 63
NEW BlOOD
The statue stood at the centre of the Hall of Celestial Destinies in Nantes spaceport, the huge, bronze figures raised high above the executive-class travellers who bustled like ants about its base. Thrice life-size and magnificently detailed, the vast human figures seemed like giants from some golden age, captured in the holo-camera’s trebled eye and cast in bronze.
‘Kan Ying bows to Pan Chao after the Battle of Kazatin’, read the description, the huge letters cut deep into the two-ch’i-thick base, the Mandarin translation given smaller underneath, as though to emphasize the point that the message was aimed at those who had been conquered in that great battle – the Hung Mao.
Michael Lever stopped and stared up at it. Kazatin was where the dream of Rome, of the great Ta Ts’in emperors, had failed. The defeat of Kan Ying – Domitian as he had been known by his own people – had let the Han into Europe. The rest was history.
‘What do you make of it?’ Kustow said into his ear. ‘It looks like more of their crowing to me.’
Like Lever, Bryn Kustow was in his late twenties, a tall man with close-cropped blond hair. He wore the same sombre clothes as Lever, a wine-red pau that made them seem more like clerks than the heirs to great Companies. Facially the two men were very different, Kustow’s face blunt and Lever’s hawkish, but the similarity of dress and the starkness of their haircuts made them seem like brothers, or members of some strange cult. So, too, the third of them, Stevens, who stood to one side, looking back at the wall-length window and its view of the great circle of the spaceport’s landing apron.
They were strangers here. Americans. Young men over here on their fathers’ business. Or so their papers claimed. But there were other reasons for coming to City Europe. This was where things were happening just now. The pulsing heart of things. And they had come to feel that pulse. To find out if there was something they could learn from looking around.
Lever turned, smiling back at his best friend. ‘They say Kan Ying was a good man, Bryn. A strong man and yet fair. Under him the lands of Ta Ts’in were fairly governed. Had his sons ruled, they say there would have been a golden age.’
Kustow nodded. ‘A good man, yes, until the great Pan Chao arrived.’
The two men laughed quietly then looked back at the statue.
Kan Ying knelt before Pan Chao, his back bent, his forehead pressed into the bare earth. He was unarmed, while Pan Chao stood above him, legs apart, his great sword raised in triumph, two daggers in his belt. Behind Kan Ying stood his four generals, their arms and insignia stripped from them, their faces gashed, their beards ragged from battle. There was honour in the way they held themselves, but also defeat. Their armies had been slaughtered on the battlefield by the superior Han forces. They looked tired, and the great, empty coffin they carried between them looked too much for their wasted strength to bear.
Neither would it grow any lighter. For, so the story went, Pan Chao had decapitated Kan Ying there and then and sent his body back to Rome where it had lain out in the open in the great square, slowly rotting, waiting for the young Emperor Ho Ti’s triumphal entry into the city three years later.
Two thousand years ago. And still the Han crowed about it. Still they raised great statues to celebrate the moment when they had laid the Hung Mao low.
Lever turned. ‘Carl! Bryn! Come on! We’re meeting Ebert in an hour.’
Stevens turned, smiling, then hurried across. ‘I was just watching one of the big interplanetary craft go up. They’re amazing. You could feel the floor trembling beneath you as it turned on the power and climbed.’
Kustow laughed. ‘So that’s what it was… And there was I thinking it was the chow mein we had on the flight.’
Stevens smiled back at them then put his arms about their shoulders. He was the eldest of the three, an engineering graduate whose father owned a near-space research and development company. His fascination with anything to do with space and spaceflight bordered on obsession and he had been horrified when The New Hope had been blown out of the sky by the Seven. Something had died in him that day; and, at the same time, something had been born. Determination to get back what had been taken from them. To change the Edict and get out there, into space again, whatever it took.
‘We’ll be building them one day, I tell you,’ he said softly. ‘But bigger than that, and faster.’
Kustow frowned. ‘Faster than that?’ He shook his head. ‘
Well, if you say so, Carl. But I’m told some of those craft can make the Mars trip in forty days.’
Stevens nodded. ‘The Tientsin can do it in thirty. Twenty-six at perihelion. But, yes, Bryn. Give me ten years and I’ll make something that can do it in twenty.’
‘And kill all the passengers! I can see it now. It’s bad enough crossing the Atlantic on one of those things, but imagine the g-forces that would build up if you –’
‘Please…’ Lever interrupted, seeing how things were developing. ‘Hans will be waiting for us. So let’s get on.’
They went through to the main City Transfer barrier, ignoring the long queue of passengers formed up at the gates, going directly to the duty officer, a short, broad-shouldered man with neat black hair.
‘Forgive me, Captain,’ Lever began, ‘but could you help us?’ He took his documentation from his pocket and pushed it into the officer’s hand. ‘We’ve an appointment with Major Ebert at eleven and –’
The officer didn’t even look at the card. ‘Of course, Shih Lever. Would you mind following me? You and your two companions. There’s a transporter waiting up above. Your baggage will be sent on.’
Lever gave a small nod of satisfaction. So Ebert had briefed his men properly. ‘And the other two in our party?’
The officer smiled tightly. His information was not one hundred per cent perfect, then. ‘They’ll join you as quickly as possible.’
‘Good.’ Lever smiled. No, even Ebert hadn’t known he was bringing two experts with him. Neither had he wanted him to know. In business – even in this kind of business – it was always best to keep your opponent wrong-footed, even when your opponent was your friend. To make him feel uncertain, uninformed. That way you kept the advantage.
‘Then lead on,’ he said. ‘Let’s not keep our host waiting.’
Stevens was the first to note it. He leaned across and touched Lever’s arm. ‘Michael… something’s wrong.’
‘What do you mean?’
Stevens leaned closer. ‘Look outside, through the window. There are mountains down below. And the sun… it’s to the left. We’re heading south. At a guess I’d say we’re over the Swiss Wilds.’
Lever sat up, staring outward, then turned, looking down the aisle of the transporter.
‘Captain? Can you come here a moment?’
The Security officer broke off his conversation with his adjutant and came across, bowing respectfully.
‘What is it, Shih Lever?’
Lever pointed out at the mountains. ‘Where are we?’
The Captain smiled. ‘You’ve noticed. I’m sorry, ch’un tzu, but I couldn’t tell you before. My orders, you understand. However, Shih Stevens is right. We’re heading south. And those below are the Swiss Wilds.’ He reached into his tunic and withdrew a folded, handwritten note, handing it to Lever. ‘Here, this will explain everything.’
Lever unfolded the note and read it quickly. It was from Ebert.
Lever smiled, his fingers tracing the wax seal at the foot of the note, then looked up again. ‘And you, Captain? What’s your role in this?’
The officer smiled then began to unbutton his tunic. He peeled it off and threw it to one side then sat facing the three Americans.
‘Forgive the deception, my friends, but let me introduce myself. My name is Howard DeVore and I’m to be your host for the next eight hours.’
Lehmann sat at the back of the room, some distance from the others. A huge viewing screen filled the wall at the far end, while to one side, on a long, wide table made of real mahogany, a detailed map of City Europe was spread out, the Swiss Wilds and the Carpathians marked in red, like bloodstains on the white.
DeVore, Lever and the others sat in big leather chairs, drinks in hand, talking. Above them, on the screen, the funeral procession moved slowly through the walled northern garden at Tongjiang: the Li family; the seven T’ang; their generals; and their chief retainers. Thirty shaven-headed servants followed, the open casket held high above their heads.
DeVore raised his half-filled glass to indicate the slender, dark-haired figure in white who led the mourners.
‘He carries his grief well. But, then, he must. It’s a quality he’ll need to cultivate in the days ahead.’
DeVore’s smile was darkly ironic. Beside him, Lever laughed then leaned forward, cradling his empty glass between his hands. ‘And look at our friend Hans. A study in solemnity, neh?’
Lehmann watched them laugh, his eyes drawn to the man who sat to the extreme right of the group. He was much older than Lever and his friends, his dark hair tied back in two long pigtails. There was a cold elegance about him that contrasted with the brashness of the others. He was a proud, even arrogant man; the way he sat, the way he held his head, expressed that eloquently. Even so, he was their servant, not they his, and that fact bridled his tongue and kept him from being too familiar with them.
His name was Andrew Curval and he was an experimental geneticist; perhaps the greatest of the age. As a young man he had worked for GenSyn as a commodity slave, his time and talents bought by them on a fifteen-year contract. Twelve years back that contract had expired and he had set up his own Company, but that venture had failed after only three years. Now he was back on contract; this time to Old Man Lever.
Lehmann looked back at the others. Kustow was talking, his deep voice providing a commentary on the proceedings. He was pointing up at Li Yuan, there at the centre of the screen.
‘Look at him! He’s such an innocent. He hasn’t the faintest idea of how things really stand.’
‘No,’ Lever agreed. ‘But that’s true of all of them. They’re cut off from the reality of what’s happening in the Cities. There’s real dissent down there, real bitterness, and the Seven simply don’t know about it. They’re like the emperors of old: they don’t like bad news, so their servants make sure the truth never gets through to them. That’s bad enough, but, as we all know, the system’s corrupt to the core. From the pettiest official to the biggest Minister, there’s not one of them you can’t put a price to.’
The camera closed in. Li Yuan’s face, many times its natural size, filled the screen. His fine, dark hair was drawn back tightly from his forehead, secured at the nape in a tiny porcelain bowl of purest white. His skin was unmarked, unlined; the flesh of youth, untouched by time or the ravages of experience.
Even so, he knows, Lehmann thought, looking up into the young T’ang’s eyes. He knows we murdered his father. Or, at least, suspects.
Irritated by their arrogance, he stood then went across, filling Lever’s glass from the wine kettle. ‘I think you underestimate our man,’ he said quietly. ‘Look at those eyes. How like his father’s eyes they are. Don’t misjudge him. He’s no fool, this one.’ He turned, looking directly at DeVore. ‘You’ve said so yourself often enough, Howard.’
‘I agree,’ said DeVore, eyeing Lehmann sharply. ‘But there are things he lacks. Things the Seven miss now that Li Shai Tung is dead. Experience, wisdom, an intuitive sense of when and how to act. Those things are gone from them now. And without them…’ He laughed softly. ‘Without them the Seven are vulnerable.’
On the screen the image changed, the camera panning back, the figures diminishing as the larger context was revealed. A grey stone wall, taller than a man, surrounded everything. Beyond it the mountains of the Ta Pa Shan formed faint shapes in the distance. The tomb was to the left, embedded in the earth, the great white tablet stretching out towards its open mouth. To the right was the long pool, still, intensely black, its surface like a mirror. Between stood the seven T’ang and their retainers, all of them dressed in white, the colour of mourning.
‘One bomb,’ said Kustow, nodding to himself. ‘Just one bomb and it would all be over, neh?’ He turned in his seat, looking directly at DeVore. ‘How do you come by these pictures? I thought these ceremonies were private?’
‘They are,’ DeVore said, taking a sip from his glass. He leaned forward, smiling, playing the perfect hos
t, knowing how important it was for him to win these young men over. ‘The camera is a standard Security surveillance device. They’re all over Tongjiang. I’ve merely tapped into the system.’
All three of the Americans were watching DeVore closely now, ignoring what was happening on the screen.
‘I thought those systems were discrete,’ Lever said.
‘They are.’ DeVore set his drink down on the table at his side, then took a small device from his pocket and handed it across. ‘This was something my friend Soren Berdichev developed at SimFic before they shut him down. It looks and functions like the back-up battery packs they have on those Security cameras, but there’s more to it than that. What it does is to send a tight beam of information up to a satellite. There the signal is scrambled into code and re-routed here, where it’s decoded.’
Lever studied the device then handed it to Kustow. He turned, looking back at DeVore. ‘Astonishing. But how did you get it into place? I’m told those palaces are tighter than a young whore’s arse when it comes to security.’
DeVore laughed. ‘That’s true. But whatever system you have, it always relies on men. Individual men. And men can be bought, or won, or simply threatened. It was relatively easy to get these installed.’
Lehmann, watching, saw how that impressed the young men, but it was only half-true. The device worked exactly as DeVore had said, but the truth was that he had access only to Tongjiang, and that only because Hans Ebert had been daring enough to take the thing in, risking the possibility that an over-zealous officer might search him, Tolonen’s favourite or no. Elsewhere his attempts to plant the devices had failed.
They looked back at the screen. Li Yuan stood at the edge of the family tablet, the freshly inscribed name of his father cut into the whiteness there. Behind the young T’ang stood the rest of the Seven, and at their back the generals. Bringing up the rear of this small but powerful gathering stood members of the Li Family – cousins and uncles, wives, concubines and close relations – a hundred in all. The ranks were thin, the weakness of the Family exposed to view, and yet Li Yuan stood proudly, his eyes looking straight ahead into the darkness of the tomb.
The Broken Wheel Page 24