Ice and Fire: Chung Kuo Series

by David Wingrove

  Kim looked across at him, his eyes narrowed. ‘And?’

  T’ai Cho lowered his head. ‘And he has ordered their destruction, I’m afraid. We must forget they ever were. Understand?’

  Kim laughed, then bowed his head. ‘I am ordered to forget?’

  T’ai Cho looked up at him, sudden understanding in his eyes. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. ‘Why, yes. I never thought…’

  Forget, Kim thought, then laughed again, a deep, hearty laughter. As if I could forget.

  Chapter 40

  THE SCENT OF PLUM BLOSSOM

  The big man came at Chen like an automaton, swinging and punching, kicking and butting, making Chen duck and bob and jump to evade the furious rain of blows. Back and back he was pushed until his shoulders thudded painfully against the wall. He ducked then kicked off from the wall, head first, aiming for the stomach of the big man. But he was too slow. The big man parried him, linking both hands to form a shield and thrust him down into the floor. Then, before Chen could get his breath, he was yanked up by one huge hand and pinned against the wall.

  Chen chopped down against the arm desperately, but it was like hitting an iron bar. The arm quivered but held him firm. Chen swallowed and met the big man’s eyes, conscious of the power there, the control.

  The big man drew back his free arm, his fist forming a phoenix eye – a feng huang yen ching – the knuckle of the first finger extended, ready to strike and shatter Chen’s skull.

  Chen closed his eyes, then laughed. ‘It’s no good, my friend. I have no counter to your strength and skill.’

  Karr held him there a moment longer, his fist poised as if to strike, then relaxed, letting Chen slide down onto the floor again.

  ‘Then we must work at it until you do.’

  Chen squatted on his haunches, getting his breath. He looked up at Karr, smiling now. ‘I can’t see why. There’s only one of you, Shih Karr. And you’re on my side. For which I thank the gods.’

  Karr’s sternness evaporated. ‘Maybe now, Chen, but one day they’ll make machines like me. I guarantee it. Things like those copies that came from Mars. Even now, I’d warrant, they’re working on them somewhere. I’d rather find an answer now than wait for them to come, wouldn’t you?’

  They had spent the morning working out extensively, first with stick and sword and spear – kuai chang shu, tao shu and ch’iang shu – then with their bare hands, concentrating on the ‘hand of the wind’ – feng shou kung fu – style that Karr favoured. It was the first time the two men had seen each other in several months and they had enjoyed the friendly tussle, but Karr had not asked Chen here simply to polish his skills.

  After they had showered they sat in the refectory, a large jug of hot sweet almond ch’a on the table between them – a delicacy Chen’s wife, Wang Ti, had introduced them to.

  ‘How is young Jyan?’ Karr asked. ‘I’ve meant to visit, but the T’ang has kept me busy these past months.’

  Chen smiled and bowed his head slightly, but his eyes lit at the mention of his son. ‘Jyan is well. Only four and already he knows all the stances. You should see how well he executes the kou shih. Such balance he has! And when he kicks he really kicks! You should see the bruises on my legs!’

  Karr laughed. ‘And Wang Ti?’

  Chen looked down, his smile broadening. ‘Wang Ti is Wang Ti. Like the sun she is there each morning. Like the moon she shines brilliantly at night.’

  Again the big man laughed, then grew quiet. ‘I hear you have news, Chen. The very best of news.’

  Chen looked up, surprised, then smiled broadly. ‘Who told you, Shih Karr? Who ruined my moment? I wanted to tell you myself!’

  Karr tilted his head. ‘Well… Let’s just say I heard, neh? You know me, Chen. There’s little that escapes my notice.’

  ‘Or your grasp!’

  Both men laughed.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Karr, lifting his bowl in salute. ‘Here’s to your second child! May he be strong and healthy!’

  Chen raised his bowl. ‘Thank you, my friend.’ He sipped, then looked directly at Karr. ‘This is very pleasant, Shih Karr. We do this too little these days. But tell me, why am I here? Is there a job for me? Something you want me to do?’

  Karr smiled. ‘There might be.’

  ‘Might be? Why only might?’

  The big man looked down, then reached across and filled his bowl again. ‘I’ve a lead on DeVore. I think I know where he is.’

  Chen laughed, astonished. ‘DeVore? We’ve found him?’

  ‘Maybe. I’ve trailed him three years since he evaded us at Nanking spaceport. Three years, Chen. I’ve tracked down eight of the ten men who helped him get away that day, but not one of them knew a thing, not one of them helped me get a fraction closer. But now things have changed – now I think I have him.’

  ‘Then what’s the problem? Why don’t you just go in and finish him off?’

  Karr sniffed deeply. ‘It’s difficult. The T’ang wants him alive. He wants DeVore to stand trial. If possible to provide us with conclusive evidence against the other Dispersionists.’

  ‘I see. Even so, what stops you from taking him?’

  ‘The House. The stink they would make if we went in and took the wrong man.’

  Chen shook his head. Still he didn’t understand.

  ‘The man we believe to be DeVore is an overseer. Understand me, Chen? On one of the big East European plantations. And that’s a House appointment. If we go barging in there mistakenly the Dispersionists would have a field day attacking us for our heavy-handedness. And things are critical at the moment. The House is finely balanced and the Seven daren’t risk that balance, even for DeVore. So we must be certain this Overseer Bergson is our man.’

  ‘How certain?’

  As certain as a retinal print could make us.’

  Chen looked down into his ch’a and laughed. ‘And how do we do that? Do you think DeVore will sit there calmly while we check him out?’

  Karr gave a tiny laugh and nodded, meeting his friend’s eyes again. ‘Maybe. Maybe that’s just what he’ll do. You see, Chen, that’s where I thought you might come in.’

  Tolonen watched his nine-year-old daughter run from the sea, her head thrown back, exhilarated. Behind her the waves broke white on the dark sand. Beyond, the distant islands were dim shapes of green and brown in the haze. Jelka stood there at the water’s edge, smoothing her small, delicate hands through her hair. Long, straight hair like her mother’s, darkened by the water. Her pure white costume showed off her winter tan, her body sleek, childlike.

  She saw him there and smiled as she came up the beach towards him. He was sitting on the wide, shaded patio, the breakfast things still on the table before him. The Han servant had yet to come and clear it all away. He set down his book, returning her smile.

  ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘Wonderful!’ Her laughter rippled in the air. ‘You should join me. It would do you good.’

  ‘Well…’ He shrugged. Maybe he would.

  She sprawled in the lounger opposite him. A young animal, comfortable in her body. Unselfconscious. He looked at her, conscious more than ever that she was the image of her mother. Especially now, like this.

  He had met her mother on an island similar to here. On the far side of the world from where he now sat. One summer almost thirty years before.

  He had been a General even then. The youngest in the service of the Seven and the ablest. He had gone to Goteborg to see his father’s sister, Hanna. In those days he made the trip twice a year, mindful of the fact that Hanna had looked after him those times his mother had been ill.

  For once he had had time to stay more than a day, and when Hanna had suggested they fly up to Fredrikstad and visit the family’s summer home, he had agreed at once. From Fredrikstad they had taken a motor cruiser to the islands south of the City.

  He had thought they would be alone on the island – he, Hanna, and her two sons. But when the cruiser pulled up at the jetty
, he saw that there were others there already. He had gone inside, apprehensive because he had not been warned there would be other guests, and was delighted to find not strangers but his oldest friend, Pietr Endfors, there in the low-ceilinged front cabin, waiting to greet him.

  Endfors had married a girl from the far north. A cold, elegant beauty with almost-white hair and eyes like the arctic sea. They had an eight-year-old daughter, Jenny.

  It had not happened at once. At first she was merely the daughter of an old friend; a beautiful little girl with an engaging smile and a warmth her mother seemed to lack. From the start, however, she had taken to him and by that evening was perched immovably in his lap. He liked her from that first moment, but even he could not tell how attached he would become.

  When Pietr and his wife had died eight years later, he had become Jenny’s guardian. Four years later he had married her. He had been thirty years her senior.

  He returned from the bitter-sweet reverie and focused on his daughter.

  ‘You’ve not been listening to a word, have you?’

  He laughed and shook his head. ‘Just reminiscing.’ He sat up in his chair and reached across to feel the ch’a kettle. It was lukewarm. He grunted, then shouted for the servant.

  ‘I was just saying. We ought to go home. It seems time. Don’t you think?’

  He looked sharply at her, then, confused by what she had said, shook his head. It was not so much a negative as an acknowledgment that he had not considered the matter. Go home? Why? Why was it time?

  ‘Are you tired of all this?’ he asked, almost incredulous. She seemed so happy here.

  ‘I’m happy enough. But it’s not me I’m thinking of, it’s you. You’re going soft here. Wasting away.’ She looked up at him, concern in her young eyes. ‘I want you to be as you were. I don’t want you to be like this. That’s all…’

  He couldn’t argue with that. He felt it in himself. Each day it seemed to get worse. Sitting here with nothing to do. Ordered to do nothing. He felt more and more restless as the months passed; more and more impotent. That was the worst of exile.

  ‘What can I do? I have to be here.’

  She could feel the bitterness in his voice, see the resignation in his hunched shoulders. It hurt her to be witness to such things. But for once she could help him.

  ‘Where is that bloody servant!’ he cried out, anger and frustration boiling over. She waited for him to finish, then told him that she had sent the servant away earlier.

  ‘I want to talk to you.’

  He looked at her, surprised by the grown-up tone of her voice. ‘Talk, eh? What about?’

  She looked away, stared out at the sea, the distant islands of the Kepulauan Barat Daya. ‘This is beautiful, isn’t it? The colours of the sky and sea. But it’s the wrong kind of beauty. It doesn’t…’ She struggled for some way of expressing what she was feeling, then shook her head.

  He knew what she meant, though. It was beautiful. But it was a soft, pearled beauty. It didn’t touch his soul the way the fjords, the mountains touched him. The unvarying warmth, the mists, the absence of seasonal change – these things irked him.

  ‘I wish…’ he began, then shook his head firmly. There was no use wishing. Li Shai Tung had exiled him here. He would live out his days on this island.

  ‘What?’ she asked. She had stood and was waiting at his side, looking at him, her head on the level of his own.

  He reached out a hand and caressed her cheek, then let his hand rest on her bare shoulder. The skin was cool and dry.

  ‘Why should I wish for anything more than what I have?’ He frowned, thinking that he might have been killed for what he had done; and then she would have been alone, an orphan. Or worse. He had acted without understanding that. In his anger he had gambled that the T’ang would act as he had. Yet it pained him greatly now to think what might have been: the hurt he could have caused her – maybe even her death.

  She seemed to sense this. Leaning forward she kissed his brow, his cheek. ‘You did what you had to. Li Shai Tung understood that.’

  He laughed at that. ‘Understood? He was furious!’

  ‘Only because he had to be.’

  He removed his hand, leaned back in his chair. ‘What is this, Jelka? What have you heard?’

  She laughed. ‘You were sleeping when he came. I didn’t want to disturb you. I know how bad the nights are for you.’

  He reached out. ‘Who? Who has come?’

  She reached up and took his hands from where they lay on her shoulders, then held them, turning them over. Strong, fine hands.

  ‘Well?’ he prompted, impatient now, but laughing too. ‘Tell me!’

  ‘General Nocenzi.’

  He sat back heavily.

  ‘He’s in the house. Shall I bring him?’

  He looked up at her distractedly, then nodded. ‘Yes. It will be good to see Vittorio again.’

  He watched her go, then let his gaze drift out over the surface of the sea. Nocenzi. It could mean only one thing. They had come for his head.

  Friends had kept him informed. They had told him of the growing demand for ‘justice’ in the Lehmann case. Lately there had been rumours that the House was about to indict him for the murder. Well, now the T’ang had succumbed to that pressure. And he, Tolonen, would be made to account for what he’d done.

  He shivered, thinking of Jelka, then turned to see that Nocenzi was already there, standing on the sand by the corner of the house, his cap under his arm.

  ‘Knut…’

  The two men embraced warmly and stood there a moment simply looking at each other. Then Tolonen looked down.

  ‘I know why you’ve come.’

  Nocenzi laughed strangely. ‘You’ve read my orders, then, General?’

  Tolonen met his eyes again, then shook his head. ‘Just Shih Tolonen. You’re General now, Vittorio.’

  Nocenzi studied him awhile, then smiled. ‘Let’s sit, neh? Jelka said she’d bring fresh ch’a.’

  They sat, not facing each other but looking outward at the sea.

  Nocenzi noted the book that lay face down on the table. ‘What are you reading?’

  Tolonen handed him the old, leather-bound volume and watched him smile. It was Sun Tzu’s Chan Shu, his ‘Art of War’, dating from the third century BC. The Clavell translation.

  ‘They say the Ch’in warriors were mad. They ran into battle without armour.’

  Tolonen laughed. ‘Yes, Vittorio, but there were a million of them. Nor had they ever tasted defeat.’

  There was a moment’s tense silence, then Tolonen turned to face his old friend. ‘Tell me straight, Vittorio. Is it as I fear? Am I to pay for what I did?’

  Nocenzi looked back at him. ‘Lehmann deserved what you did to him. There are many who believe that.’

  ‘Yes,’ Tolonen insisted. ‘But am I to pay?’

  Tolonen’s successor gazed back at the man he had served under for almost a quarter of a century and smiled. ‘You said you knew why I had come, Knut. But you were wrong. I haven’t come for your head. I’ve come because the T’ang has asked to see you.’

  Li Yuan cried out and woke in the semi-darkness, his heart beating wildly, the feeling of the dark horse beneath him still vivid, the scent of plum blossom filling his nostrils.

  He shivered and sat up, aware of the warm stickiness of his loins. Sweat beaded his brow and chest. The satin sheets were soaked about him. He moaned softly and put his head in his hands. Fei Yen… He had been riding with Fei Yen. Faster and faster they had ridden, down, down the long slope until, with a jolt and a powerful stretching motion he could feel in his bones even now, his horse had launched itself at the fence.

  He threw the sheets back and, in the half-light, looked down at himself. His penis was still large, engorged with blood, but it was flaccid now. With a little shudder he reached down and touched the wetness. The musty smell of his own semen was strong, mixed with the lingering scent of plum blossom. He sniffed deeply, confused, t
hen remembered. The silk she had given him lay on the bedside table, its perfume pervading the air.

  He looked across at the broad ivory face of the bedside clock. It was just after four. He stood, about to go through and shower, when there were noises outside the door, then a muted knocking.

  Li Yuan threw the cover back, then took a robe from the side and drew it on.

  ‘Come!’

  Nan Ho stood in the doorway, head bowed, a lantern in one hand.

  ‘Are you all right, Prince Yuan?’

  Nan Ho was his body servant; his head man, in charge of the eight juniors in his household-within-a-household.

  ‘It was…’ He shuddered. ‘It was only a dream, Nan Ho. I’m fine.’

  He glanced round at the bed, then, slightly embarrassed by the request, added, ‘Would you bring clean sheets, Nan Ho. I…’

  He turned away sharply, realizing he was holding Fei Yen’s silk.

  Nan Ho looked to him then to the bed and bowed. ‘I’ll be but a moment, Prince Yuan.’ Then he hesitated. ‘Is there…?’ He moved his head slightly to one side, as if finding difficulty with what he was about to say. ‘Is there anything I can arrange for you, Prince Yuan?’

  Li Yuan swallowed, then shook his head. ‘I don’t understand you, Nan Ho? What might you arrange at this hour?’

  Nan Ho came into the room and closed the door behind him. Then, in a softer voice, he said, ‘Perhaps the Prince would like Pearl Heart to come and see to him?’

  Pearl Heart was one of the maids. A young girl of fifteen years.

  ‘Why should I want Pearl Heart… ?’ he began, then saw what Nan Ho meant and looked away.

  ‘Well, Highness?’

  He held back the anger he felt, keeping his voice calm; the voice of a prince, a future T’ang.

  ‘Just bring clean sheets, Nan Ho. I’ll tell you when I need anything else.’

  Nan Ho bowed deeply and turned to do as he was bid. Only when he was gone did Li Yuan look down at the wet silk in his hand and realize he had wiped himself with it.

  Chen stood there in the queue, naked, waiting his turn. The sign over the doorway read DECONTAMINATION. The English letters were black. Beneath them, in big red pictograms was the equivalent Mandarin. Chen looked about him, noting that it was one of the rare few signs here that had an English translation. The Lodz Clearing Station handled more than three hundred thousand people a day, and almost all of them were Han. It was strange that. Unexpected.