‘One last thing, Howard.’
DeVore raised his head, aware of the slight hesitation in Berdichev’s voice. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘Yes and no. That is, there is only if you feel there’s one.’
DeVore set the rose quartz bottle down and turned to face his friend. ‘You’re being unusually cryptic, Soren. Are we in danger?’
Berdichev gave a short laugh. ‘No. It’s nothing like that. It’s… Well, it’s Lehmann’s son.’
DeVore was silent a moment. He looked at Douglas, then back at Berdichev. ‘Lehmann’s son? I didn’t know Pietr had a son.’
‘Few did. It was one of his best-kept secrets.’
Yes, thought DeVore, it certainly was. I thought I knew everything about you all – every last tiny little, dirty little thing – but now you surprise me.
‘Illegitimate, I suppose?’
Berdichev shook his head. ‘Not at all. The boy’s his legal heir. On Lehmann’s death he inherited the whole estate.’
‘Really?’
That too was news to him. He had thought Lehmann had died intestate – that his vast fortune had gone back to the Seven. It changed things dramatically. Lehmann must have been worth at least two billion yuan.
‘It was all done quietly, of course, as Lehmann wished.’
DeVore nodded, masking his surprise. There was a whole level of things here that he had been totally unaware of. ‘Explain. Lehmann wasn’t even married. How could he have a son and heir?’
Berdichev came across and stood beside him. ‘It was a long time ago. Back when we were at college. Pietr met a girl there. A bright young thing, but unconnected. His father, who was still alive then, refused to even let Pietr see her. He threatened to cut him off without a yuan if he did.’
‘And yet he did, secretly. And married her.’
Berdichev nodded. ‘I was one of the witnesses at the ceremony.’
DeVore looked away thoughtfully; looked across at the window wall and at the gathering in the garden room beyond it. ‘What happened?’
For a moment Berdichev was quiet, looking back down the well of years to that earlier time. Then, strangely, he laughed; a sad, almost weary laugh. ‘You know how it is. We were young. Far too young. Pietr’s father was right: the girl wasn’t suitable. She ran off with another man. Pietr divorced her.’
And she took the child with her?’
The look of pain on Berdichev’s face was unexpected. ‘No. It wasn’t like that. You see, she was four months pregnant when they divorced. Pietr only found out by accident, when she applied to have the child aborted. Of course, the official asked for the father’s details, saw there was a profit to be made from the information and went straight to Lehmann.’
DeVore smiled. It was unethical, but then so was the world. And Pietr made her have the child?’
Berdichev shook his head. ‘She refused. Said she’d kill herself first. But Pietr hired an advocate. You see, by law the child was his. It was conceived within wedlock and while she was his wife any child of her body was legally his property.’
‘I see. But how did hiring an advocate help?’
‘He had a restraining order served on her. Had her taken into hospital and the foetus removed and placed in a MedFac nurture unit.’
‘Ah. Even so, I’m surprised. Why did we never see the child? There was no reason to keep things secret.’
‘No. I suppose not. But Pietr was strange about it. I tried to talk to him about it several times, but he would walk out on me. As for the boy, well, he never lived with his father, never saw him, and Pietr refused ever to see the child. He thought he would remind him too much of his mother.’
DeVore’s mouth opened slightly. ‘He loved her, then? Even after what she did?’
Adored her. It’s why he never married again, never courted female company. I think her leaving killed something in him.’
‘How strange. How very, very strange.’ DeVore looked down. ‘I would never have guessed.’ He shook his head. And the son? How does he feel about his father?’
‘I don’t know. He’s said nothing, and I feel it impertinent to ask.’
DeVore turned and looked directly at Berdichev. ‘So what’s the problem?’
‘For the last three years the boy has been my ward. As Pietr’s executor I’ve handled his affairs. But now he’s of age.’
‘So?’
‘So I’d like you to take charge of the boy for a while.’
DeVore laughed, genuinely surprised by Berdichev’s request. ‘Why? What are you up to, Soren?’
Berdichev shook his head. ‘I’ve nothing to do with this, Howard. It’s what the boy wants.’
‘The boy…’ DeVore felt uncomfortable. He had been wrong-footed too many times already in this conversation. He was used to being in control of events, not the victim of circumstance; even so, the situation intrigued him. What could the boy want? And, more to the point, how had Lehmann’s son heard of him?
‘Perhaps you should meet him,’ Berdichev added hastily, glancing across at Douglas as if for confirmation. ‘Then you might understand. He’s not… Well, he’s not perhaps what you’d expect.’
‘Yes. Of course. When?’
‘Would now do?’
DeVore shrugged. ‘Why not?’
But his curiosity was intense. Why should the boy be not what he’d expect? ‘Is there something I should know beforehand, Soren? Is there something strange about him?’
Berdichev gave a brief laugh. ‘You’ll understand. You more than anyone will understand.’
While Berdichev went to get the boy he waited, conscious of Douglas’s unease. It was clear he had met the boy already. It was also clear that something about the young man made him intensely uncomfortable. He glanced at DeVore, then, making up his mind, gave a brief bow and went across to the door.
‘I must be getting back, Howard. You’ll forgive me, but my guests…’
‘Of course.’ DeVore returned the bow, then turned, intrigued, wondering what it was about the boy that could so thoroughly spook the seemingly imperturbable Douglas.
He did not have long to wait for his answer.
‘Howard, meet Stefan Lehmann.’
DeVore shivered. Despite himself, he felt an overwhelming sense of aversion towards the young man who stood before him. It wasn’t just the shocking, skull-like pallor of his face and hair, or the unhealthy pinkness of his eyes, both signs of albinism, but something to do with the unnatural coldness of the youth. When he looked at you it was as if an icy wind blew from the far north. DeVore met those eyes and saw through them to the emptiness beyond. But he was thinking, Who are you? Are you really Lehmann’s son? Were you really taken from your mother’s womb and bred inside a nurture unit until the world was ready for you?
Red in white, those eyes. Each eye a wild, dark emptiness amidst the cold, clear whiteness of the flesh.
He stepped forward, offering his hand to the albino but looking at Berdichev as he did so. ‘Our eighth man, I presume.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Then Berdichev understood. ‘Ah, yes, I said I’d explain, didn’t I? But you’re right, of course. Stefan was the first to be briefed. He insisted on it. After all, he’s responsible for sixty per cent of the funding.’
DeVore looked down at the hand that held his own. The fingers were long, unnaturally thin, the skin on them so clear it seemed he could see right through them to the bone itself. But the young man’s grip was firm, his skin surprisingly warm.
He looked up, meeting those eyes again, suddenly curious; wanting to hear the boy speak.
‘So. You want to stay with me a while?’
Stefan Lehmann looked at him – looked through him – then turned and looked across at Berdichev.
‘You were right, Uncle Soren. He’s like me, isn’t he?’
DeVore laughed, uncomfortable, then let go of the hand, certain now. The boy’s voice was familiar – unnaturally familiar. It was Pietr Lehmann’s voice.
The albino was standing behind where he was sitting, studying the bank of screens, when Peskova came into the room. DeVore saw how his lieutenant hesitated – saw the flicker of pure aversion, quickly masked, that crossed his face – before he came forward.
‘What is it, Peskova?’
DeVore sat back, his eyes narrowed.
Peskova bowed, then glanced again at the albino. ‘There’s been unrest, Shih Bergson. Some trouble down on Camp Two.’
DeVore looked down at the desk. ‘So?’
Peskova cleared his throat, self-conscious in the presence of the stranger. ‘It’s the Han woman, Overseer. Sung’s wife. She’s been talking.’
DeVore met his lieutenant’s eyes, his expression totally unreadable. ‘Talking?’
Peskova swallowed. ‘I had to act, Shih Bergson. I had to isolate her from the rest.’
DeVore smiled tightly. ‘That’s fine. But you’ll let her go now, neh? You’ll explain that it was all a mistake.’
Peskova’s mouth opened marginally then closed without a sound. Bowing deeply, and with one last, brief look at the albino, he turned and left, to do at once what the Overseer had ordered.
‘Why did you tell him that?’
DeVore turned and looked at Lehmann’s son. He was eighteen, but he seemed ageless, timeless. Like death itself.
‘To make him do as I say, not as he thinks he should do.’
‘And the woman?’
DeVore smiled into that empty, mask-like face. He had no need to answer. The boy knew already what would happen to the woman.
The moon was huge and monstrous in the darkness: a full, bright circle, like a blind eye staring down from nothingness. Si Wu Ya looked up at it and shivered, anxious now. Then, as the rope tightened again, tugging at her, she stumbled on, the tops of her arms chafing where the rope bit into them.
Ahead of her Sung was whimpering again. ‘Be quiet!’ she yelled, angry with him for his weakness, but was rewarded with the back of Teng’s hand. Then Teng was standing over her, his breathing heavy and irregular, a strange excitement in his face. Groaning, the pain in her lower body almost more than she could bear, she got to her feet, then spat blood, unable to put her hand up to her mouth to feel the damage he had done to her.
Ahead lay the water-chestnut fields, glimmering in the reflected light from Chung Kuo’s barren sister.
We are cursed, she thought, staggering on, each step sending a jolt of pain through her from arse to abdomen. Even Teng and Chang. Even Peskova and that bastard Bergson. All cursed. Every last one of us. All of us fated to go this way; stumbling on in darkness, beneath the gaze of that cold, blind eye.
She tried to laugh but the sound died in her before it reached her lips. Then, before she realised it, they had stopped and she was pushed down to the ground next to Sung, her back to him.
She lay there, looking about her, the hushed voices of the four men standing nearby washing over her like the senseless murmur of the sea.
Smiling, she whispered to her husband, ‘The sea, Sung. I’ve never seen the sea. Never really seen it. Only on vidcasts…’
She rolled over and saw at once that he wasn’t listening. His eyes were dark with fear, his hands, bound at his sides like her own, twitched convulsively, the fingers shaking uncontrollably.
‘Sung…’ she said, moved by the sight of him. ‘My sweet little Sung…’
She wanted to reach out and hold him to her, to draw him close and comfort him, but it was too late now. All her love for him, all her anguish welled up suddenly, overwhelming her.
‘Kuan yin!’ she said softly, tearfully. ‘Oh, my poor Sung. I didn’t mean to be angry with you. Oh, my poor, poor darling. I didn’t mean…’
Teng kicked her hard in the ribs, silencing her.
‘Which one first?’
The voice was that of the simpleton, Seidemann. Si Wu Ya breathed slowly, deeply, trying not to cry out again, letting the pain wash past her, over her; trying to keep her mind clear of it. In case. Just in case…
She almost shook her head; almost laughed. In case of what? It was done with now. There was only pain ahead of them now. Pain and the end of pain.
Peskova answered. ‘The woman. We’ll do the woman first.’
She felt them lift her and take her over to the low stone wall beside the glimmering field of water-chestnuts. The woman, she thought, vaguely recognizing herself in the words. Not Si Wu Ya now, no longer Silk Raven, simply ‘the woman’.
She waited, the cold stone of the wall pushed up hard against her breasts, her knees pushing downward into the soft, moist loam, while they unfastened the rope about her arms. There was a moment’s relief, a second or two free of pain, even of thought, then it began again.
Teng took one arm, Chang the other, and pulled. Her head went down sharply, cracking against the top of the wall, stunning her.
There was a cry followed by an awful groan, but it was not her voice. Sung had struggled to his feet and now stood there, only paces from where the Overseer’s man, Peskova was standing, a big rock balanced in both hands.
Sung made a futile struggle to free his arms, then desisted. ‘Not her,’ he pleaded. ‘Please, gods, not her. It’s me you want. I’m the thief, not her. She’s done nothing. Nothing. Kill me, Peskova. Do what you want to me, but leave her be. Please, gods, leave her be…’ His voice ran on a moment longer, then fell silent.
Teng began to laugh, but a look from Peskova silenced him. Then, with a final look at Sung, Peskova turned and brought the rock down on the woman’s upper arm.
The cracking of the bone sounded clearly in the silence. There was a moment’s quiet afterwards, then Sung fell to his knees, vomiting.
Peskova stepped over the woman and brought the heavy stone down on the other arm. She was unconscious now. It was a pity, that; he would have liked to have heard her groan again, perhaps even to cry out as she had that night when The Man had played his games with her.
He smiled. Oh, yes, they’d all heard that. Had heard and found the echo in themselves. He looked across at Sung. Poor little Sung. Weak little Sung. All his talk meant nothing now. He was powerless to change things. Powerless to save his wife. Powerless even to save himself. It would be no fun killing him. No more fun than crushing a bug.
He brought the stone down once again; heard the brittle sound of bone as it snapped beneath the rock. So easy it was. So very, very easy.
Teng and Chang had stepped back now. They were no longer necessary. The woman would be going nowhere now. They watched silently as he stepped over her body and brought the stone down once again, breaking her other leg.
‘That’s her, then.’ Peskova turned and glanced at Sung, then looked past him at Seidemann. ‘Bring him here. Let’s get it over with.’
Afterwards he stood there beside the wall, staring at Sung’s body where it lay, face down on the edge of the field of water-chestnuts. Strange, he thought. It was just like a machine. Like switching off a machine.
For a moment he looked out across the water meadow, enjoying the night’s stillness, the beauty of the full moon overhead. Then he heaved the stone out into the water and turned away, hearing the dull splash sound behind him.
Chapter 39
CASTING A SPELL OUT OF ICE
Kim lay on his back in the water, staring up at the ceiling of the pool. Stars hung like strung beads of red and black against the dull gold background, the five sections framed by Han pictograms. It was a copy of part of the ancient Tun Huang star map of AD 940. According to the Han it was the earliest accurate representation of the heavens; a cylindrical projection that divided the sky into twenty-eight slices – like the segments of a giant orange.
There was a game he sometimes played, floating there alone. He would close his eyes and clear his mind of everything but darkness. Then, one by one, he would summon up the individual stars from within a single section of the Tun Huang map; would set each in its true place in the heavens of his mind, giving them a dimension in time and space tha
t the inflexibility – the sheer flatness – of the map denied them. Slowly he would build his own small galaxy of stars. Then, when the last of them was set delicately in place, like a jewel in a sphere of black glass, he would try to give the whole thing motion.
In his earliest attempts this had been the moment when the fragile sphere had shattered, as if exploded from within; but experiment and practice had brought him beyond that point. Now he could make the sphere expand or contract along the dimension of time; could trace each separate star’s unique and unrepeated course through the nothingness he had created within his skull. It gave him a strong feel for space – for the relationships and perspectives of stars. Then, when he opened his eyes again, he would see – as if for real – the fine tracery of lines that linked the bead-like stars on the Tun Huang map, and could see, somewhere beyond the dull gold surface, where their real positions lay – out there in the cold, black eternity beyond the solar system.
Kim had cleared his mind, ready for the game, when he heard the doors at the far end of the pool swing open and the wet slap of bare feet on the tiles, followed moments later by a double splash. He knew without looking who it was, and when they surfaced, moments later, close to him, acknowledged them with a smile, his eyes still closed, his body stretched out in the water.
‘Daydreaming?’ It was Anton’s voice.
‘That’s right,’ he said, assuming a relaxed, almost lazy tone of voice. He had told no one of his game, knowing how the other boys responded to the least sign of eccentricity. Both Anton and Josef were some three years older than he and shared a tutorial class with him, so knew how brilliant he was; but brilliance inside the classroom was one thing, how one behaved outside it was another. Outside they took care to disguise all sign of what had brought them here.
At times Kim found this attitude perverse. They should be proud of what they were – proud of the gifts that had saved them from the Clay. But it was not so simple. At the back of it they were ashamed. Ashamed and guilty. They had survived, yes, but they knew that they were here on sufferance. At any moment they could be cast down again, into darkness. Or gassed, or simply put to sleep. That knowledge humbled them; bound them in psychological chains far stronger than any physical restraint. Outside the classroom they were rarely boastful.
Ice and Fire: Chung Kuo Series Page 13