She looked up at him, wide-eyed, then knelt down, so that her head was below the sill. ‘Tell me what’s happening.’
He watched. There were ten of them down there, their voices urgent, excited. For a moment Ben couldn’t understand what was going on, then one of them turned. It was the captain, Rosten. He pointed down the passageway towards the open ground in front of the old inn and muttered something Ben couldn’t quite make out.
‘What are they doing?’
He looked down at Meg and saw the fear in her eyes.
‘Nothing. Hush now, Megs. It’ll be all right.’
He put his hand on her shoulder and looked out again. What he saw this time surprised him. Two of the men were being held and bound; their wrists and ankles taped together. One of the men started to struggle, then began to cry out. Meg tried to get up to see, but with a gentle pressure he pushed her back down.
There was the sound of a slap, then silence from below. A moment later Rosten’s voice barked out. ‘Out there! Quick now!’
Ben moved across to the other side of the window, trying to keep them in sight, but he lost them in a moment.
‘Stay here, Meg. I’m going downstairs.’
‘But, Ben…’
He shook his head. ‘Do what I say. I’ll be all right. I’ll not let them see me.’
He had to move slowly, carefully on the stairs because, for a brief moment, he was in full sight of the soldiers through the big plate-glass window that looked out onto the narrow quay. At the bottom he moved quickly between the racks and tables until he was crouched between two mannequins, looking out through their skirts at the scene in front of the inn.
Two men held each of the prisoners. The other three stood to one side, in a line, at attention. Rosten had his back to Ben and stood there between the window and the prisoners. With an abrupt gesture that seemed to jerk his body forward violently, he gave an order. At once both prisoners were made forcibly to kneel and lower their heads.
Only then, as Rosten turned slightly, did Ben see the long, thin blade he held.
For a moment the sight of the blade held him; the way the sunlight seemed to flow like a liquid along the gently curved length of it, flickering brilliantly on the razor-sharp edge and at the tip. He had read how swords could seem alive – could have a personality, even a name – but he had never thought to see it.
He looked past the blade. Though their heads were held down forcibly, the two men looked up at Rosten, anxious to know what he intended. Ben knew them well. Gosse, to the left, was part Han, his broad, rough-hewn, Slavic features made almost Mongolian by his part-Han ancestry. Wolfe, to the right, was a southerner, his dark, handsome features almost refined; almost, but not quite, classical. Almost. For when he smiled or laughed, his eyes and mouth were somehow ugly. Brutish and unhealthy.
Rosten now stood between the two, his feet spread, his right arm outstretched, the sword in his right hand, its tip almost touching the cobbled ground a body’s length away.
‘You understand why you’re here? You’ve heard the accusations?’
‘They’re lies…’ began Wolfe, but he was cuffed into silence by the man behind him.
Rosten shook his head. The long sword quivered in his hand. ‘Not lies, Wolfe. You have been tried by a panel of your fellow officers and found guilty. You and Gosse here. You stole and cheated. You have betrayed our master’s trust and dishonoured the Banner.’
Wolfe’s eyes widened. The blood drained from his face. Beside him Gosse looked down, as if he had already seen where this led.
‘There is no excusing what you did. And no solution but to excise the shame.’
Wolfe’s head came up sharply and was pushed down brutally. ‘No!’ he shouted, beginning to struggle again ‘You can’t do this! You…’
A blow from one of the men holding him knocked him down onto the cobbles.
‘Bring him here!’
The two guards grabbed Wolfe again and dragged him on his knees, until he was at Rosten’s feet.
Rosten’s voice was almost hysterical now. He half-shouted, half-screamed, his sword arm punctuating the words. ‘You are scum, Wolfe! Faceless! Because of you your fellow officers have fallen under suspicion! Because of you, all here have been dishonoured!’ Rosten shuddered violently and spat on the kneeling man’s head. ‘You have shamed your Banner! You have shamed your family name. And you have disgraced your ancestors!’
Rosten stepped back and raised the sword. ‘Hold the prisoner down!’
Ben caught his breath. He saw how Wolfe’s leg muscles flexed impotently as he tried to scrabble to his feet; how he squirmed in the two men’s grip, trying to get away. A third soldier joined the other two, forcing Wolfe down with blows and curses. Then one of them grabbed Wolfe’s topknot and, with a savage yank that almost pulled the man up off his knees, stretched his neck out, ready for the sword.
Wolfe was screaming now, his voice hoarse, breathless. ‘No! No! Kuan Yin, Goddess of Mercy, help me! I did nothing! Nothing!’ His face was torn with terror, his mouth twisted, his eyes moving frantically in their sockets, pleading for mercy.
Ben saw Rosten’s body tauten like a compressed coil. Then, with a sharp hiss of breath, he brought the sword down sharply.
Wolfe’s screams stopped instantly. Ben saw the head drop and roll, the body tumble forward like a sack of grain, the arms fall limp.
Ben looked across at Gosse.
Gosse had been watching all in silence, his jaw clenched, his neck muscles taut. Now, with a visible shudder, he looked down again, staring at the cobbles.
Rosten bent down and wiped the sword on the back of Wolfe’s tunic, then straightened, facing Gosse.
‘You have something to say, Gosse?’
Gosse was silent a moment, then he looked up at Rosten. His eyes, which, moments earlier, had been filled with fear and horror, were now clear, almost calm. His hands shook, but he clenched them to control their trembling. He took a deep breath, then another, like a diver about to plunge into the depths, and nodded.
‘Speak then. You’ve little time.’
Gosse hunched his shoulders and lowered his head slightly, in deference to Rosten, but kept his eyes on him. ‘Only this. It is true what you say. I am guilty. Wolfe planned it all, but I acted with him, and there is no excusing my actions. I accept the judgement of my fellow officers and, before I die, beg their forgiveness for having shamed them before the T’ang.’
Rosten stood there, expecting more, but Gosse had lowered his head. After a moment’s reflection, Rosten gave a small nod, then spoke.
‘I cannot speak for all here, but for myself I say this. You were a good soldier, Gosse. And you face death bravely, honestly, as a soldier ought. I cannot prevent your death now, you understand, but I can, at least, change the manner of it.’
There was a low gasp from the men on either side as Rosten took a pace forward and drew the short sword from his belt and cutting the bonds at Gosse’s wrists, handed it to him.
Gosse understood at once. His eyes met Rosten’s, bright with gratitude, then looked down at the short sword. With his left hand he tore open the tunic of his uniform and drew up the undershirt, baring the flesh. Then he gripped the handle of the short sword with both hands and turned it, so that the tip was facing his stomach. The two guards released him and stood back. Rosten watched him a moment, then took up his place, just behind Gosse and to one side, the long sword half raised.
Ben eased forward until his face was pressed against the glass, watching Gosse slow his breathing and focus his whole being upon the blade resting only a hand’s length from his stomach. Gosse’s hands were steady now, his eyes glazed. Time slowed. Then, quite abruptly, it changed. There was a sudden, violent movement in Gosse’s face – a movement somewhere between ecstasy and extreme agony – and then his hands were thrusting the blade deep into his belly. With what seemed superhuman strength and control he drew the short sword to the left, then back to the right, his intestines spilling ou
t onto the cobbles. For a moment his face held its expression of ecstatic agony, then it crumpled and his eyes looked down, widening, horrified by what he had done.
Rosten brought the sword down sharply.
Gosse knelt a moment longer. Then his headless body fell and lay there, motionless, next to Wolfe’s.
Ben heard a moan behind him and turned. Meg was squatting at the top of the stairs, her hands clutching the third and fourth struts tightly, her eyes wide, filled with fright.
‘Go up!’ he hissed anxiously, hoping he’d not be heard; horrified that she had been witness to Gosse’s death. He saw her turn and look at him, for a moment barely recognizing him or understanding what he had said to her. Dear gods, he thought, how much did she see?
‘Go up!’ he hissed again. ‘For heaven’s sake go up!’
It was dark on the river, the moon obscured behind the Wall’s north-western edge. Ben jumped ashore and tied the rowboat up to the small, wooden jetty, then turned to give a hand to Peng Yu-wei who stood there, cradling a sleeping Meg in one arm.
He let the teacher go ahead, reluctant to go in, wanting to keep the blanket of darkness and silence about him a moment longer.
There was a small rectangle of land beside the jetty, surrounded on three sides by steep clay walls. A set of old, wooden steps had been cut into one side. Ben climbed them slowly, tired from the long row back. Then he was in the garden, the broad swathe of neat-trimmed grass climbing steadily to the thatched cottage a hundred yards distant.
‘Ben!’
His mother stood in the low back doorway, framed by the light, an apron over her long dress. He waved, acknowledging her. Ahead of him, Peng Yu-wei strode purposefully up the path, his long legs showing no sign of human frailty.
He felt strangely separate from things. As if he had let go of oars and rudder and now drifted on the dark current of events. On the long row back he had traced the logic of the thing time and again. He knew he had caused their deaths. From his discovery things had followed an inexorable path, like the water’s tight spiral down into the whirlpool’s mouth. They had died because of him.
No. Not because of him. Because of his discovery. He was not to blame for their deaths. They had killed themselves. Their greed had killed them. That and their stupidity.
He was not to blame; yet he felt their deaths quite heavily. If he had said nothing. If he had simply burned the rabbit as Meg had suggested…
It would have solved nothing. The sickness would have spread; the discovery would have been made. Eventually. And then the two soldiers would have died.
It was not his fault. Not his fault.
His mother met him at the back door. She knelt down and took his hands. Are you okay, Ben? You look troubled. Has something happened?’
He shook his head. ‘No. I…’
The door to the right of the broad, low-ceilinged passage-way opened and his father came out, closing the door behind him. He smiled at Ben, then came across.
‘Our guest is here, Ben. He’s been here all afternoon. I know I said earlier that you would be eating alone tonight, but he says he’d like to meet you. So I thought that maybe you could eat with us after all.’
Ben was used to his father’s guests and had never minded taking his evening meal in his room, but this was unusual. He had never been asked to sit at table with a guest before.
‘Who is it?’
His father smiled enigmatically. ‘Wash your hands, then come through. I’ll introduce you. But, Ben… be on your best behaviour, please.’
Ben gave a slight bow, then went to the small washroom. He washed his face and hands, then scrubbed his nails and tidied his hair in the mirror. When he came out his mother was waiting for him. She took his hands, inspecting them, then straightened his tunic and bent to kiss his cheek.
‘You look fine, Ben. Now go in.’
‘Who is it?’ he asked again. ‘Tell me who it is.’
But she only smiled and turned him towards the door. ‘Go on in. I’ll be there in a moment.’
Chapter 36
A CONVERSATION IN THE FIRELIGHT
In the light from the open fire the T’ang’s strong, oriental features seemed carved in ancient yellowed ivory. He sat back in his chair, smiling, his eyes brightly dark.
‘And you think they’ll be happy with that, Hal?’
Li Shai Tung’s hands rested lightly on the table’s edge, the now-empty bowl he had been eating from placed to one side, out of his way. Ben, watching him, saw once again how the light seemed trapped by the matt black surface of the heavy iron ring he wore on the index finger of his right hand. The Ywe Lung. The seal of power.
Hal Shepherd laughed, then shook his head. ‘No. Not for a moment. They all think themselves emperors in that place.’
They were talking about the House of Representatives at Weimar – ‘That troublesome place’, as the T’ang continually called it – and about ways of shoring up the tenuous peace that now existed between it and the Seven.
The T’ang and his father sat at one end of the long, darkwood table, facing each other, while Ben sat alone at the other end. His mother had not joined them for the meal, bowing in this regard to the T’ang’s wishes. But in other respects she had had her own way. The T’ang’s own cooks sat idle in her kitchen, watching with suspicion and a degree of amazement as she single-handedly prepared and served the meal. This departure from the T’ang’s normal practices was remarkable enough in itself, but what had happened at the beginning of the meal had surprised even his father.
When the food taster had stepped up to the table to perform his normal duties, the T’ang had waved him away and, picking up his chopsticks, had taken the first mouthful himself. Then, after chewing and swallowing the fragrant morsel, and after a sip of the strong green Longjing ch’a – itself ‘untasted’ – he had looked up at Beth Shepherd and smiled broadly, complimenting her on the dish. It was, as Ben understood at once, seeing the surprised delight on his father’s face and the astonished horror on the face of the official taster, quite unprecedented, and made him realize how circumscribed the T’ang’s life had been. Not free at all, as others may have thought, but difficult; a life lived in the shadow of death. For Li Shai Tung, trust was the rarest and most precious thing he had to offer; for in trusting he placed his life – quite literally his life – in the hands of others.
In that small yet significant gesture, the T’ang had given his father and mother the ultimate in compliments.
Ben studied the man as he talked, aware of a strength in him that was somehow more than physical. There was a certainty – a vitality – in his every movement, such that even the slightest hesitancy was telling. His whole body spoke a subtle language of command; something that had developed quite naturally and unconsciously during the long years of his rule. To watch him was to watch not a man but a directing force; was to witness the channelling of aggression and determination into its most elegant and expressive form. In some respects Li Shai Tung was like an athlete, each nuance of voice or gesture the result of long and patient practice. Practice that had made these things second nature to the T’ang.
Ben watched, fascinated, barely hearing the words, but aware of their significance, and of the significance of the fact that he was there to hear them.
Li Shai Tung leaned forward slightly, his chin, with its pure white, neatly braided beard, formulating a slight upward motion that signalled the offering of a confidence.
‘The House was never meant to be so powerful. Our forefathers saw it only as a gesture. To be candid, Hal, as a sop to their erstwhile allies and a mask to their true intentions. But now, a hundred years on, certain factions persist in taking it at face value. They maintain that the power of the House is sanctioned by “the People”. And we know why, don’t we? Not for “the People”. Such men don’t spare a second’s thought for “the People”. No, they think only of themselves. They seek to climb at our expense. To raise themselves by pulling down the Seven. They wa
nt control, Hal, and the House is the means through which they seek to get it.’
The T’ang leaned back again, his eyes half-lidded now. He reached up with his right hand and grasped the tightly furled queue at the back of his head, his fingers closing about the coil of fine white hair. It was a curious, almost absent-minded gesture; yet it served to emphasize to Ben how at ease the T’ang was in his father’s company. He watched, aware of a whole vocabulary of gesture there in the dialogue between the two men: conscious not just of what they said but of how they said it; how their eyes met or did not meet; how a shared smile would suddenly reveal the depths of their mutual understanding. All served to show him just how much the T’ang depended on his father to release these words, these thoughts, these feelings. Perhaps because no other could be trusted with them.
‘I often ask myself, is there any way we might remove the House and dismantle the huge bureaucratic structure that has grown about it? But each time I ask myself I know beforehand what the answer is. No. At least, not now. Fifteen, maybe twenty years ago it might have been possible. But even then it might simply have pre-empted things. Brought us quicker to this point.’
Hal Shepherd nodded. ‘I agree. But perhaps we should have faced it back then. We were stronger. Our grip on things was firmer. Now things have changed. Each year’s delay sees them grow at our expense.’
‘You’d counsel war, then, Hal?’
‘Of a kind.’
The T’ang smiled. And what kind is that?’
‘The kind we’re best at. A war of levels. Of openness and deception. The kind of war the Tyrant, Tsao Ch’un, taught us how to fight.’
The T’ang looked down at his hands, his smile fading. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t, Hal. Sometimes I question what we’ve done.’
As any man must surely do.’
Li Shai Tung looked up at him and shook his head. ‘No, Hal. For once I think you’re wrong. Few actually question their actions. Most are blind to their faults. Deaf to the criticisms of their fellow men.’ He laughed sourly. ‘You might say that Chung Kuo is filled with such individuals – blind, wicked, greedy creatures who see their blindness as strength, their wickedness as necessity, their greed as historical process.’
Ice and Fire: Chung Kuo Series Page 3