Curval laughed sourly. ‘I know that young man too well. He seems different, but underneath it all he’s the same as the rest of them. They’ve had it too easy, all of them. What fires them isn’t ambition but a sense of bitterness. Bitterness that their fathers still treat them as children. For all they were saying back there in the screen-room, they don’t want change. Not real change, like you and I want. When they talk of change, what they mean is a change of leadership. They’d as soon relinquish their privileges as the Seven.’
‘Maybe,’ DeVore said, watching Curval pack up the microscope. ‘By the way, has the virus a name?’
Curval clicked the case shut and turned, looking back at DeVore. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact it does. I’ve named it after the viral strain I developed it from. That too was a killer, though not as lethal or efficient as mine. And it was around for centuries before people managed to find a cure for it. Syphilis they called it. What the Han call yang mei ping, “willow plum sickness”.’
DeVore laughed, surprised. ‘So it’s sexually transmitted?’
Curval stared at DeVore then laughed quietly. ‘Of course! I thought you understood that. It’s the only way to guarantee that it will spread, and spread widely. Fucking… it’s the thing the human race does most of and says least about. And when you consider it, it’s the perfect way of introducing a new virus. After all, they’re all supposed to be immune to sexual disease. From birth.’
DeVore touched his tongue against his top teeth then nodded. Errant husbands and their unfaithful wives, bored concubines and their casual lovers, lecherous old men and randy widows, sing-song girls and libertine young sons – he could see it now, spreading like the leaves and branches of a great tree, until the tree itself rotted and fell. He laughed then slapped Curval on the back.
‘You’ve done well, Andrew. Very well.’
Curval looked at him. ‘And you, Howard? You’ll keep your promise?’
DeVore squeezed his shoulder. ‘Of course. Have I ever let you down? But come, let’s go through. Our young friends will be wondering why we’ve been gone so long. Besides, I understand our friend Kustow has brought his wei chi champion with him and I fancied trying myself out against him.’
Curval nodded. ‘He’s good. I’ve seen him play.’
DeVore met his eyes. ‘As good as me?’
Curval turned and took the tiny, deadly slide from off the table. ‘They say he might even challenge for the championship next year.’
DeVore laughed. ‘Maybe so, but you still haven’t answered me. You’ve seen me play. Would you say he’s as good as me?’
Curval slotted the slide back into the case and secured the lid, then looked back at DeVore, hesitant, not certain how he’d take the truth.
‘To be honest with you, Howard, yes. Every bit as good. And maybe a lot better.’
DeVore turned away, pacing the tiny room, lost in his own thoughts. Then he turned back, facing Curval again, a smile lighting his face.
‘Our friend Kustow… do you know if he likes to gamble?’
DeVore looked up from the board then bowed to his opponent, conceding the game. It was the fifth the two had played and the closest yet. This time he had come within a stone of beating the Han. Even so, the result of the tournament was conclusive: Kustow’s champion had triumphed five–nil, two of those games having been won by a margin of more than twenty stones.
‘Another five?’ Kustow said, smiling. He had done well by the contest – DeVore had wagered five thousand yuan on each game and a further ten thousand on the tournament.
DeVore looked back at him, acknowledging his victory. ‘I wish there was time, my friend, but you must be at the Ebert Mansion by nine and it’s six already. I’ll tell you what, though. When I come to America, I’ll play your man again. It will give me the opportunity to win my money back.’
Lever leaned forward in his chair. ‘You plan to come to America, then, Shih DeVore? Wouldn’t that be rather dangerous for you?’
DeVore smiled. ‘Life is dangerous, Michael. And while it pays to take care, where would any of us be if we did not take risks?’
Lever looked to his two friends. ‘True. But one must choose one’s friends well in these uncertain times.’
DeVore bowed his head slightly, understanding what was implied. They were inclined to work with him, but had yet to commit themselves fully. He would need to give them further reasons for allying with him. ‘And one’s lieutenants. My man Mach, for instance. He served me well in the attack on the T’ang’s Plantations.’
Lever gave a laugh of surprise. ‘That was you? But I thought…’
‘You thought as everyone was meant to think. That it was the Ping Tiao. But, no, they were my men.’
‘I see. But why? Why not claim credit for yourself?’
‘Because sometimes it suits one’s purpose to make one’s enemies believe the truth is other than it is. You see, the Ping Tiao is now defunct. I destroyed the last vestiges of that organization two days back. Yet as far as the Seven are concerned, it still exists – still poses a threat to them. Indeed, the new T’ang, Li Yuan, plans to launch a major campaign against them. He has given instructions to his new General to use whatever force it takes to destroy them, and at whatever cost. Such a diversion of funds and energies is to be welcomed, wouldn’t you say?’
Lever laughed. ‘Yes! And at the same time it draws attention away from your activities here in the Wilds. I like that.’
DeVore nodded, pleased. Here were young men with fire in them. They were not like their European counterparts. Their anger was pure. It had only to be channelled.
He stood and, with one final bow to his opponent, came round the table, facing the three young men.
‘There’s one more thing before you go from here. Something I want to give you.’
Lever looked at his friends then lowered his head. ‘We thank you, Shih DeVore, but your hospitality has been reward enough.’
DeVore understood. Lever was accustomed to the use of gifts in business to create obligations. It was a trick the Han used a great deal. He shook his head. ‘Please, my friends, do not mistake me – this gift carries no obligation. Indeed, I would feel greatly offended if you took it otherwise. I am no trader. I would not dream of seeking any material advantage from our meeting. Let this be a simple token of our friendship, neh?’
He looked at each of them, at Lever, Kustow and finally at Stevens, seeing how each had been won by the simplicity of his manner.
‘Good. Then wait here. I have it in the other room.’
He left them, returning a moment later with a bulky, rectangular parcel wrapped in red silk.
‘Here,’ he said, handing it to Lever. ‘You are to open it later – on the flight to Ebert’s if you must, but later. And whatever you finally decide to do with it, bear in mind that great sacrifices have been made to bring this to you. Let no one see it whom you do not trust like a brother.’
Lever stared at the parcel a moment, his eyes burning with curiosity, then looked up again, smiling.
‘I’ve no idea what this is, but I’ll do as you say. And thank you, Howard. Thank you for everything. You must be our guest when you come to America.’
DeVore smiled. ‘That’s kind of you, Michael. Very kind indeed.’
‘Well, Stefan, what do you think?’
Lehmann stood there a moment longer at the one-way mirror then turned back, looking at DeVore. He had witnessed everything.
‘The contest… You lost it deliberately, didn’t you?’
DeVore smiled, pleased that Lehmann had seen it.
‘I could have beaten him. Not at first maybe, but from the third game on. There’s a pattern to his game. So with these Americans. There’s a pattern to their thinking and I feel as if I’m beginning to discern it. Which is why I have to go there myself. Europe is dead as far as we’re concerned. We’ve milked it dry. If we want to complete the fortresses, we’ve got to get funds from the Americans. We’ve got to persuade th
em to invest in us – to make them see us as the means by which they can topple the Seven.’
‘And Curval? You promised him you’d kill Old Man Ebert. Is that wise?’
DeVore laughed. ‘If the gods will it that the old man dies in the next six months, he will die, and I will claim the credit. But I shall do nothing to aid them. I have no great love for Klaus Ebert – I think he’s a pompous old windbag, to tell the truth – but he is Hans’s father. Kill him and we risk all. No, we will leave such things to fate. And if Curval objects…’ He laughed. ‘Well, we can deal with that as and when, neh? As and when.’
Chapter 64
MIRRORS
It was night. Li Yuan stood there on the bridge, staring down into the lake, watching the full moon dance upon the blackness. Tongjiang was quiet now, the guests departed. Guards stood off at a distance, perfectly still, like statues in the silvered darkness.
It had been a long and busy day. He had been up at four, supervising the final arrangements for his father’s funeral, greeting the mourners as they arrived. The ceremony had taken up the best part of the morning, followed by an informal meeting of the Seven. Interviews with ministers and various high officials had eaten up the rest of the afternoon as he began the task of tying up the loose strands of his father’s business and making preparations for his own coronation ceremony three days hence.
And other things. So many other things.
He felt exhausted, yet there was still more to do before he retired.
He turned, looking back at the palace, thinking how vast and desolate it seemed without his father’s presence. There was only him now – only Li Yuan, second son of Li Shai Tung. The last of his line. The last of the house of Li.
A faint wind stirred the reeds at the lake’s edge. He looked up, that same feeling of exposure – that cold, almost physical sense of isolation – washing over him again. Where were the brothers, the cousins he should have had? Dead, or never born. And now there was only him.
A thin wisp of cloud lay like a veil across the moon’s bright face. In the distance a solitary goose crossed the sky, the steady beat of its wings carrying to where he stood.
He shivered. Today he had pretended to be strong, had made his face thick, like a wall against his inner feelings. And so it had to be, from this time on, for he was T’ang now, his life no longer his own. All day he had been surrounded by people – countless people, bowing low before him and doing as he bid – and yet he had never felt so lonely.
No, never in his life had he felt so desolate, so empty.
He gritted his teeth, fighting back what he felt. Be strong, he told himself. Harden yourself against what is inside you. He took a deep breath, looking out across the lake. His father had been right. Love was not enough. Without trust – without those other qualities that made of love a solid and substantial thing – love was a cancer, eating away at a man, leaving him weak.
And he could not be weak, for he was T’ang now, Seven. He must put all human weakness behind him. Must mould himself into a harder form.
He turned away, making his way quickly down the path towards the palace.
At the door to his father’s rooms he stopped, loath to go inside. He looked down at the ring that rested, heavy and unfamiliar, on the middle finger of his right hand, and realized that nothing could have prepared him for this. His father’s death and the ritual of burial had been momentous occasions, yet neither had been quite as real as this simpler, private moment.
How often had he come in from the garden and found his father sitting there at his desk, his secretaries and ministers in attendance? How often had the old man looked up and seen him, there where he now stood, and, with a faint, stern smile, beckoned him inside?
And now there was no one to grant him such permission. No one but himself.
Why, then, was it so difficult to take that first small step into the room? Why did he feel an almost naked fear at the thought of sitting at the desk – of looking back at where he was now standing?
Perhaps because he knew the doorway would be empty.
Angry with himself, he took a step into the room, his heart hammering in his chest as if he were a thief. He laughed uncomfortably then looked about him, seeing it all anew.
It was a long, low-ceilinged room, furnished in the traditional manner, his father’s desk, its huge scrolled legs shaped like dragons, raised up on a massive plinth at the far end of the chamber, a low, gold-painted balustrade surrounding it, like a room within a room, the great symbol of the Ywe Lung set into the wall behind. Unlike his own, it was a distinctly masculine room, no hanging bowls, no rounded pots filled with exotic plants breaking up its rich Yang heaviness; indeed, there was not a single trace of greenery, only vases and screens and ancient wall hangings made of silk and golden thread.
He moved further in, stopping beside a huge bronze cauldron. It was empty now, but he recalled when it had once contained a thousand tiny objects carved from jade; remembered a day when he had played there on his father’s floor, the brightly coloured pieces – exquisite miniatures in blue and red and green – scattered all about him. He had been four then, five at most, but he could still see them vividly; could feel the cool, smooth touch of them between his fingers.
He turned. On the wall to his right was a mirror; an ancient, metallic mirror of the T’ang dynasty, its surface filled with figures and lettering, arrayed in a series of concentric circles emanating outwards from the central button. Li Yuan moved closer, studying it. The button – a simple unadorned circle – represented the indivisibility of all created things. Surrounding it were the animals of the Four Quadrants: the Tiger, symbol of the west and of magisterial dignity, courage and martial prowess; the Phoenix, symbol of the south and of beauty, peace and prosperity; the Dragon, symbol of the east, of fertility and male vigour; and the Tortoise, symbol of the north, of longevity, strength and endurance. Beyond these four were the Eight Trigrams and surrounding those the Twelve Terrestrial Branches of the zodiac – rat, ox and tiger, hare, dragon and serpent, horse, goat and monkey, cock, dog and boar. A band of twenty-four pictograms separated that from the next circle of animals – twenty-eight in all – representing the constellations.
He looked past the figures a moment, seeing his face reflected back at him through the symbols and archetypes of the Han universe. Such a mirror was hu-hsin ching and was said to have magic powers, protecting its owner from evil. It was also said that one might see the secrets of futurity in such a mirror. But he had little faith in what men said. Why, he could barely see his own face, let alone the face of the future.
He turned his head away, suddenly bitter. Mirrors: they were said to symbolize conjugal happiness, but his own was broken now, the pieces scattered.
He went across to the desk. Nan Ho had been in earlier to prepare it for him. His father’s things had been cleared away and his own set in their place: his ink block and brushes; his sandbox and the tiny statue of Kuan Ti, the God of War, which his brother, Han Ch’in, had given him on his eighth birthday. Beside those were a small pile of folders and one large, heavy-bound book, its thick spine made of red silk decorated with a cloud pattern of gold leaf.
Mounting the three small steps, he stood there, his hands resting on the low balustrade, his head almost brushing the ceiling, looking across at the big, tall-backed chair. The great wheel of seven dragons – the Ywe Lung or Moon Dragon – had been burned into the back of the chair, black against the ochre of the leather, mirroring the much larger symbol on the wall behind. This chair had been his father’s and his father’s father’s before that, back to his great-great-great-grandfather in the time of Tsao Ch’un.
And now it was his.
Undoing the tiny catch, he pushed back the gate and entered this tiny room-within-a-room, conscious of how strange even that simple action felt. He looked about him again then lowered himself into the chair. Sitting there, looking out into the ancient room, he could feel his ancestors gathered close: there in the s
imple continuity of place, but there also in each small movement that he made. They lived, within him. He was their seed. He understood that now. Had known it even as they had placed the lid on his father’s casket.
He reached across and drew the first of the folders from the pile. Inside was a single sheet, from Klaus Ebert at GenSyn: a document relinquishing thirteen patents granted in respect of special food production techniques. Before his father’s death, Ebert had offered to release the patents to his competitors to help increase food production in City Europe. They were worth an estimated two hundred and fifty million yuan on the open market, but Ebert had given them freely, as a gift to his T’ang.
Li Yuan drew the file closer then reached across and took his brush, signing his name at the bottom of the document.
He set the file aside and took another from the pile. It was the summary of the post-mortem report he had commissioned on his father. He read it through then signed it and set it atop the other. Nothing. They had found nothing. According to the doctors, his father had died of old age. Old age and a broken heart.
Nonsense, he thought. Utter nonsense.
He huffed out his impatience and reached across for the third file, opening it almost distractedly. Then, seeing what it was, he sat back, his mouth gone dry, his heart beating furiously. It was the result of the genotyping test he had had done on Fei Yen and her child.
He closed his eyes in pain, his breathing suddenly erratic. So now he would know. Know for good and certain who the father was. Know to whom he owed the pain and bitterness of the last few months.
He leaned forward again. It was no good delaying. No good putting off what was inevitable. He drew the file closer, forcing himself to read it, each word seeming to cut and wound him. And then it was done.
He pushed the file away and sat back. So…
For a moment he was still, silent, considering his options, then reached across, touching the summons bell.
Almost at once the door to his right swung back. Nan Ho, his Master of the Inner Chamber, stood there, his head bowed low.
The Broken Wheel Page 26