Ice and Fire: Chung Kuo Series

by David Wingrove

  She felt embarrassed, felt that she ought to remove her hand, but did not know how. It seemed that any movement of hers would be a snub.

  Then, unexpectedly, he reached up and covered her hand with his own, pressing it firmly to his shoulder. ‘We both miss him,’ he said. ‘But life goes on. I too found the customs too… strict.’

  She was surprised to hear that. It was more like something Han Ch’in might have said. She had always thought Li Yuan was in his father’s mould. Traditional. Bound fast by custom.

  He released her and turned to face her.

  Li Yuan was smiling now. Once more she found herself wrong-footed. What was happening? Why had his mood changed so quickly? She stared at him, finding the likeness to Han more prominent now that he was smiling. But then, Han had always been smiling. His eyes, his mouth, had been made for laughter.

  She looked away, vaguely disturbed. Li Yuan was too intense for her taste. Like his father there was something daunting, almost terrible about him: an austerity suggestive of ferocity. Yet now, standing there, smiling at her, he seemed quite different – almost quite likeable.

  ‘It was hard, you know. This morning… to mount Han’s horse like that.’

  Again the words were unexpected. His smile faded, became a wistful, boyish expression of loss.

  It touched her deeply. For the first time she saw through his mask of precocious intelligence and saw how vulnerable he was, how frail in spite of all. Not even that moment after Han’s death had revealed that to her. Then she had thought it grief, not vulnerability. She was moved by her insight and, when he looked up at her again, saw how hurt he seemed, how full of pain his eyes were. Beautiful eyes. Dark, hazel eyes. She had not noticed them before.

  Han’s death had touched him deeply. He had lost more – far more – than her. She was silent, afraid she would say the wrong thing, watching him, this man-boy, her curiosity aroused, her sympathies awoken.

  He frowned and looked away.

  ‘That’s why I came to see you. To give you a gift.’

  ‘A gift?’

  ‘Yes. The Andalusian.’

  She shook her head, confused. ‘But your father…’

  He looked directly at her now. ‘I’ve spoken to my father already. He said the horse is mine to do with as I wish.’ He bowed his head and swallowed. ‘So I’d like to give him to you. In place of the Arab.’

  She laughed shortly. ‘But the Arab was Han’s, not mine.’

  ‘I know. Even so, I’d like you to have him. Han told me how much you enjoyed riding.’

  This time her laughter was richer, deeper, and when Li Yuan looked up again he saw the delight in her face.

  ‘Why, Li Yuan, that’s…’ She stopped and simply looked at him, smiling broadly. Then, impulsively, she reached out and embraced him, kissing his cheek.

  ‘Then you’ll take him?’ he whispered softly in her ear.

  Her soft laughter rippled through him. ‘Of course, Li Yuan. And I thank you. From the bottom of my heart I thank you.’

  When she was gone he turned and looked after her, feeling the touch of her still, the warmth on his cheek where she had kissed him. He closed his eyes and caught the scent of her, mei hua – plum blossom – in the air and on his clothes where she had brushed against him. He shivered, his thoughts in turmoil, his pulse racing.

  The plum. Ice-skinned and jade-boned, the plum. It symbolized winter and virginity. But its blossoming brought the spring.

  ‘Mei hua…’ He said the words softly, like a breath, letting them mingle with her scent, then turned away, reddening at the thought that had come to mind. Mei hua. It was a term for sexual pleasure, for on the bridal bed were spread plum blossom covers. So innocent a scent, and yet…

  Shivering, he took a long, slow breath of her. Then he turned and hurried on, his fists clenched at his sides, his face the colour of summer.

  ‘There have been changes since you were last among us, Howard.’

  ‘So I see.’

  DeVore turned briefly to smile at Berdichev before returning his attention to the scene on the other side of the one-way mirror that took up the whole of one wall of the study.

  ‘Who are they?’

  Berdichev came up and stood beside him. ‘Sympathizers. Money men, mainly. Friends of our host, Douglas.’

  The room the two men looked into was massive; was more garden than room. It had been landscaped with low hills and narrow walks, with tiny underlit pools, small temples, carefully placed banks of shrub and stone, shady willows, cinnamon trees and delicate wu-tong. People milled about casually, talking amongst themselves, eating and drinking. But there the similarities with past occasions ended. The servants who went amongst them were no longer Han. In fact, there was not a single Han in sight.

  DeVore’s eyes took it all in with great interest. He saw how, though they still wore silks, the style had changed; had been simplified. Their dress seemed more austere, both in its cut and in the absence of embellishment. What had been so popular only three years ago was now conspicuous by its absence. There were no birds or flowers, no dragonflies or clouds, no butterflies or pictograms. Now only a single motif could be seen, worn openly on chest or collar, on hems or in the form of jewellery, on pendants about the neck or emblazoned on a ring or brooch: the double helix of heredity. Just as noticeable was the absence of the colour blue – the colour of imperial service. DeVore smiled appreciatively; that last touch was the subtlest of insults.

  ‘The Seven have done our work for us, Soren.’

  ‘Not altogether. We pride ourselves on having won the propaganda war. There are men out there who, three years ago, would not have dreamed of coming to a gathering like this. They would have been worried that word would get back – as, indeed, it does – and that the T’ang would act through his Ministers to make life awkward for them. Now they have no such fears. We have educated them to the fact of their own power. They are many, the Seven few. What if the Seven close one door to them? Here, at such gatherings, a thousand new doors open.’

  And The New Hope?’

  Berdichev’s smile stretched his narrow face against its natural grain. The New Hope was his brainchild. ‘In more than one sense it is our flagship. You should see the pride in their faces when they talk of it. We did this, they seem to be saying. Not the Han, but us, the Hung Mao, as they call us. The Europeans.’

  DeVore glanced at Berdichev. It was the second time he had heard the term. Their host, Douglas, had used it when he had first arrived. ‘We Europeans must stick together,’ he had said. And DeVore, hearing it, had felt he had used it like some secret password; some token of mutual understanding.

  He looked about him at the decoration of the study. Again there were signs of change – of that same revolution in style that was sweeping the Above. The decor, like the dress of those outside, was simpler – the design of chairs and table less extravagant than it had been. On the walls now hung simple rural landscapes. Gone were the colourful historical scenes that had been so much in favour with the Hung Mao. Gone were the lavish screens and bright floral displays of former days. But all of this, ironically, brought them only further into line with the real Han – the Families – who had always preferred the simple to the lavish, the harmonious to the gaudy.

  These tokens of change, superficial as they yet were, were encouraging, but they were also worrying. These men – these Europeans – were not Han, neither had they ever been Han. Yet the Han had destroyed all that they had once been – had severed them from their cultural roots as simply and as thoroughly as a gardener might snip the stem of a chrysanthemum. The Seven had given them no real choice: they could be Han or they could be nothing. And to be nothing was intolerable. Now, however, to be Han was equally untenable.

  DeVore shivered. At present their response was negative: a reaction against Han ways, Han dress, Han style. But they could not live like this for long. At length they would turn the mirror on themselves and find they had no real identity, no positive
channel for their newborn sense of racial selfhood. The New Hope was a move to fill that vacuum, as was this term ‘European’; but neither was enough. A culture was a vast and complex thing and, like the roots of a giant tree, went deep into the rich, dark earth of time. It was more than a matter of dress and style. It was a way of thinking and behaving. A thing of blood and bone, not cloth and architecture.

  Yes, they needed more than a word for themselves, more than a central symbol for their pride; they needed a focus – something to restore them to themselves. But what? What on earth could fill the vacuum they were facing? It was a problem they would need to address in the coming days. To ignore it would be fatal.

  He went to the long table in the centre of the room and looked down at the detailed map spread out across its surface.

  ‘Has everyone been briefed?’

  Berdichev came and stood beside him. ‘Not everyone. I’ve kept the circle as small as possible. Douglas knows, of course. And Barrow. I thought your man, Duchek, ought to know, too, considering how helpful he’s been. And then there’s Moore and Weis.’

  Anton Weis? The banker?’

  Berdichev nodded. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but he’s changed in the last year or so. He fell out with old man Ebert. Was stripped by him of a number of important contracts. Now he hates the T’ang and his circle with an intensity that’s hard to match.’

  ‘I understand. Even so, I’d not have thought him important enough.’

  ‘It’s not him so much as the people he represents. He’s our liaison with a number of interested parties. People who can’t declare themselves openly. Important people.’

  DeVore considered a moment, then smiled. ‘Okay. So that makes seven of us who know.’

  ‘Eight, actually.’

  DeVore raised his eyebrows in query, but Berdichev said simply, ‘I’ll explain later.’

  ‘When will they be here?’

  ‘They’re here now. Outside. They’ll come in when you’re ready for them.’

  DeVore laughed. ‘I’m ready now.’

  ‘Then I’ll tell Douglas.’

  DeVore watched Berdichev move among the men gathered there in the garden room, more at ease now than he had ever been; saw too how they looked to him now as a leader, a shaper of events, and noted with irony how different that was from how they had formerly behaved. And what was different about the man? Power. It was power alone that made a man attractive. Even the potentiality of power.

  He stood back, away from the door, as they filed in. Then, when the door was safely closed and locked, he came forward and exchanged bows with each of them. Seeing how closely Weis was watching him, he made an effort to be more warm, more friendly in his greeting there, but all the while he was wondering just how far he could trust the man.

  Without further ado, they went to the table.

  The map was of the main landmass of City Europe, omitting Scandinavia, the Balkans, Southern Italy and the Iberian Peninsula. Its predominant colour was white, though there was a faint, almost ivory tinge to it, caused by the fine yellow honeycombing that represented the City’s regular shape – each tiny hexagon a hsien, an administrative district.

  All Security garrisons were marked in a heavier shade of yellow, Bremen to the north-west, close to the coast, Kiev to the east, almost off the map, Bucharest far to the south; these three the most important of the twenty shown. Weimar, to the south-east of Bremen, was marked with a golden circle, forming a triangle with the Berlin garrison to the north-east.

  Two large areas were marked in red, both in the bottom half of the map. One, to the left, straddled the old geographic areas of Switzerland and Austria; the other, smaller and to the right, traced the border of old Russia and cut down into Romania. In these ancient, mountainous regions – the Alps and the Carpathians – the City stopped abruptly, edging the wilderness. They formed great, jagged holes in its perfect whiteness.

  Again in the top right-hand section of the map the dominant whiteness ceased abruptly in a line extending down from Gdansk hsien to Poznan, and thence to Krakow and across to Lviv, ending on the shores of the Black Sea, at Odessa. This, shaded the soft green of springtime, was the great growing area, where the Hundred Plantations – in reality eighty-seven – were situated; an area that comprised some twenty-eight per cent of the total land mass of City Europe. DeVore’s own plantation was in the northwest of this area, adjoining the garrison at Lodz.

  He let them study the map a while, accustoming themselves once again to its details, then drew their attention to the large red-shaded area to the bottom left of the map.

  To him the outline of the Swiss Wilds always looked the same. That dark red shape was a giant carp turning in the water, its head facing east, its tail flicking out towards Marseilles hsien, its cruel mouth open, poised to eat Lake Balaton which, like a tiny minnow, swam some three hundred li to the east. Seven of the great Security garrisons ringed the Wilds – Geneva, Zurich, Munich and Vienna to the north, Marseilles, Milan and Zagreb to the south. Strategically that made little sense, for the Wilds were almost empty, yet it was as if the City’s architect had known that this vast, jagged hole – this primitive wilderness at the heart of its hive-like orderliness – would one day prove its weakest point.

  As, indeed, it would. And all the preparedness of architects would not prevent the City’s fall. He leaned forward and jabbed his finger down into the red, at a point where the carp’s backbone seemed to twist.

  ‘Here!’ he said, looking about him and seeing he had their attention. ‘This is where our base will be.’

  He reached into the drawer beneath the table and drew out the transparent template, then laid it down over the shaded area. At once that part of the map seemed to come alive; was overlaid with a fine web of brilliant gold, the nodes of which sparkled in the overhead light.

  They leaned closer, attentive, as he outlined the details of his scheme. Three nerve centres, built deep into the mountainside, joined to a total of eighteen other fortresses, each linked by discreet communication systems to at least two other bases, yet each capable of functioning independently. The whole thing hidden beneath layers of ice and rock, untraceable from the air: a flexible and formidable system of defences from which they would launch their attack on the Seven.

  And the cost?

  The cost they knew already. It was a staggering sum. Far more than any one of them could contemplate. But together…

  DeVore looked from face to face, gauging their response, coming to Weis last of all.

  ‘Well, Shih Weis? Do you think your backers would approve?’

  He saw the flicker of uncertainty at the back of Weis’s eyes, and smiled inwardly. The man was still conditioned to think like a loyal subject of the T’ang. Even so, if he could be pushed to persuade his backers…

  DeVore smiled encouragingly. ‘You’re happy with the way funds will be channelled through to the project, I assume?’

  Weis nodded, then leaned forward, touching the template.

  ‘This is hand drawn. Why’s that?’

  DeVore laughed. ‘Tell me, Shih Weis, do you trust all your dealings to the record?’

  Weis smiled and others about the table laughed. It was a common business procedure to keep a single written copy of a deal until it was considered safe for the venture to be announced publicly. It was too easy to gain access to a company’s computer records when everyone used the same communications web.

  ‘You want the T’ang to know our scheme beforehand?’

  Weis withdrew his hand, then looked at DeVore again and smiled. ‘I think my friends will be pleased enough, Major.’

  DeVore’s face did not change immediately, but inwardly he tensed. It had been agreed beforehand that they would refer to him as Shih Scott. Weis, he was certain, had not forgotten that, neither had he mentioned his former Security rank without some underlying reason.

  You’re dead, thought DeVore, smiling pleasantly at the man as if amused by his remark. As soon as you
’re expendable, you’re dead.

  ‘I’m delighted, Shih Weis. Like yourself, they will be welcome any time they wish to visit. I would not ask them to fund anything they cannot see with their own eyes.’

  He saw the calculation at the back of Weis’s eyes that greeted his comment – saw how he looked for a trap in every word of his – and smiled inwardly. At least the man was wise enough to know how dangerous he was. But his wisdom would not help him in this instance.

  DeVore turned to Barrow. ‘And you, Under Secretary? Have you anything to add?’

  Barrow had succeeded to Lehmann’s old position, and whilst his contribution to this scheme was negligible, his role as leader of the Dispersionist faction in the House made his presence here essential. If he approved then First Level would approve, for he was their mouthpiece, their conscience in these times of change.

  Barrow smiled sadly, then looked down. ‘I wish there were some other way, Shih Scott. I wish that pressure in the House would prove enough, but I am realist enough to know that change – real change – will only come now if we push from every side.’ He sighed. ‘Your scheme here has my sanction. My only hope is that we shall never have to use it against the Seven.’

  ‘And mine, Barrow Chen,’ DeVore assured him, allowing no trace of cynicism to escape into his voice or face. ‘Yet, as you say, we must be realists. We must be prepared to use all means to further our cause. We Europeans have been denied too long.’

  Afterwards, alone with Berdichev and Douglas, he talked of minor things, concealing his pleasure that his scheme had their sanction and – more important – their financial backing. Times have certainly changed, he thought, admiring a small rose quartz snuff bottle Douglas had handed him from a cabinet to one side of the study. Three years ago they would have hesitated before speaking against the Seven; now – however covertly – they sanctioned armed rebellion.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ he said. And indeed it was. A crane, the emblem of long life, stood out from the surface of the quartz, flanked by magpies, signifying good luck; while encircling the top of the bottle was a spray of peonies, emblematic of spring and wealth. The whole thing was delightful, almost a perfect work of art, yet small enough to enclose in the palm of his hand.