The Middle Kingdom

by David Wingrove

  Chen sniffed, then shook his head.

  Jyan leaned across the table again. ‘Don’t you understand? We can be kings here! We can!’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘You see, I know who hired us.’

  Chen met the other’s eyes calmly. ‘So?’

  Jyan laughed, incredulous. ‘You really don’t see it, do you?’

  Chen let his eyes fall. Of course he saw it. Saw at once what Jyan was getting at. Blackmail. Games of extreme risk. But he was interested, and he wanted Jyan to spell it out for him. Only when Jyan had finished did he look up, his face expressionless.

  ‘You’re greedy, Jyan. You know that?’

  Jyan sat back, laughing, then waved a hand dismissively. ‘You weren’t listening properly, Chen. The tape. It’ll be my safeguard. If they try anything – anything at all – Security will get the tape.’

  Chen watched him a moment longer, then looked down, shrugging, knowing that nothing he said would stop Jyan from doing this.

  ‘Partners, then?’

  Jyan had extended his left hand. It lay on the table’s surface beside the half-empty bottle; a small, almost effete hand, but clever. An artisan’s hand. Chen looked at it, wondering not for the first time who Jyan’s father might have been, then placed his own on top of it. ‘Partners,’ he said, meeting Jyan’s eyes. But already he was making plans of his own. Safeguards.

  ‘I’ll arrange a meeting, then.’

  Chen smiled tightly. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You do that.’

  Edmund Wyatt stopped beneath the stand of white mulberry trees at the far end of the meadow and looked back at the pagoda. ‘I don’t trust him, Soren. I’ve never trusted him.’

  Berdichev looked sideways at him and shrugged. ‘I don’t know why. He seems a good enough fellow.’

  ‘Seems!’ Wyatt laughed ironically. ‘DeVore’s a seeming fellow, all right. Part of his Security training, I guess. All clean and smart on the outside – but at core a pretty dirty sort, don’t you think?’

  Berdichev was quiet a moment. He walked on past Wyatt, then turned and leaned against one of the slender trunks, studying his friend. ‘I don’t follow you, Edmund. He is what he is. Like all of us.’

  Wyatt bent down and picked up one of the broad, heart-shaped leaves, rubbing it between thumb and finger. ‘I mean… he works for them. For the Seven. However friendly he seems, you’ve always got to remember that. They pay him. He does their work. And as the Han say – Chung ch’en pu shih erh chu – You can’t serve two masters.’

  ‘I don’t know. Do you really think it’s that simple?’

  Wyatt nodded fiercely, staring away at the distant pagoda. ‘They own him. Own him absolutely.’

  He turned and saw that Berdichev was smiling.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Just that you let it worry you too much.’

  Wyatt smiled. ‘Maybe. But I don’t trust him. He’s up to something.’

  ‘Up to what?’ Berdichev moved away from the tree and stood beside Wyatt, looking back across the meadow. ‘Look, I’ll tell you why he’s here. Lwo Kang was murdered. Last night. Just after eleventh bell.’

  Wyatt turned abruptly, shocked by the news. ‘Lwo Kang? Gods! Then it’s a wonder we’re not all in the cells!’

  Berdichev looked away. ‘Maybe… And maybe not. After all, we’re not unimportant men. It would not do to persecute us without clear proof of our guilt. It might make us martyrs, neh?’

  Wyatt narrowed his eyes. ‘Martyrs?’

  ‘Don’t think the T’ang underestimates us. Or the power of the Above. If he had all of us Dispersionists arrested, what then? What would the Above make of that? They’d say he was acting like a tyrant. He and the rest of the Seven. It would make things very awkward.’

  ‘But Lwo Kang was a Minister! One of Li Shai Tung’s own appointees!’

  ‘It makes no difference. The T’ang will act properly, or not at all. It is the way of the Seven. Their weakness.’

  ‘Weakness?’ Wyatt frowned, then turned back, looking across at the pagoda. ‘No wonder DeVore is here. I’d say he’s come to find a scapegoat. Wouldn’t you?’

  Berdichev smiled then reached out, putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘You really think so, Edmund?’ He shrugged, then squeezed Wyatt’s shoulder gently. ‘Whatever else you might think about him, DeVore’s Hung Mao, like us. He may work for the Han, but that doesn’t mean he thinks like them. In any case, why should he be interested in anything but the truth?’

  Wyatt stared at the pagoda intently for a time, as if pondering some mighty problem, then he shivered and touched his tongue to his teeth in a curiously innocent, childlike gesture. He turned, looking back at Berdichev. ‘Maybe you’re right, Soren. Maybe he is what you say. But my feelings tell me otherwise. I don’t trust him. And if he’s here, I’d wager he’s up to something.’ He paused, then turned, looking back at the pagoda. ‘In fact, I’d stake my life on it.’

  ‘Yang Lai is dead, then?’

  DeVore turned from the window and looked back into the room. ‘Yes. The Junior Minister is dead.’

  Lehmann was silent a moment. ‘I see. And the lieutenant in charge of the Security post?’

  ‘Dead too, I’m afraid. It was… unavoidable.’

  Lehmann met his eyes. ‘How?’

  ‘By his own hand. The dishonour, you see. His family. It would have ruined them. Better to kill oneself and absolve them from the blame.’

  ‘So we’re clear.’

  DeVore gave a short laugh. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘You think there’s still a chance they’ll find something?’

  The Major’s eyes met Lehmann’s briefly. ‘Remember how long this took us to plan. We’ve been careful, and such care pays off. Besides, we have the advantage of knowing all they do. There’s not a move General Tolonen can make without me hearing of it.’

  He was quiet a moment, staring off across the meadow. It was true what he had said. He had spent years recruiting them; young men like himself who had come, not from First Level, from the privileged top deck of the City – the supernal, as they liked to term themselves – or from the army families – the descendants of those North European mercenaries who had fought for the Seven against the tyrant Tsao Ch’un a century before – but ordinary young men without connection. Young men of ability, held back by a system modelled on the Manchu ‘banners’ – an archaic and elitist organizational structure where connection counted for more than ability. Misfits and malcontents.

  Like himself.

  He had become adept at spotting them; at recognizing that look, there at the back of the eyes. He would check out their backgrounds and discover all he could about them. Would find, invariably, that they were loners, ill at ease socially and seething inside that others had it so easy when army life for them was unmitigatedly hard. Then, when he knew for certain that it was so, he would approach them. And every time it was the same; that instant opening; that moment of recognition, like to like, so liberating that it bound them to him with ties of gratitude and common feeling.

  ‘Like you, I am a self-made man,’ he would say. ‘What I am I owe to no one but myself. No relative has bought my post; no uncle put in a word with my commanding officer.’ And as he said it, he’d think of all the insults, all the shit he’d had to put up with from his so-called superiors – men who weren’t fit to polish his boots. He had suffered almost thirty years of that kind of crap to get where he was now, in a position of real power. He would tell his young men this and see in their eyes the reflection of his own dark indignation. And then he would ask them, ‘Join me. Be part of my secret brotherhood.’ And they would nod, or whisper yes. And they would be his: alone no longer.

  So now he had his own organization; men loyal to him before all others; who would neither hesitate to betray their T’ang nor lay down their lives if he asked it of them. Like the young officer who had been on duty the night of Lwo Kang’s assassination. Like a hundred others, scattered about the City in key positions.<
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  He looked back at Lehmann. ‘Are the trees real?’ He pointed outward, indicating the stand of mulberries at the far end of the meadow.

  Lehmann laughed. ‘Heaven, no. None of it’s real.’

  DeVore nodded thoughtfully, then turned his face to look at Lehmann. ‘You’re not afraid to use Wyatt?’ His eyes, only centimetres from Lehmann’s, were stern, questioning.

  ‘If we must. After all, some things are more important than friendship.’

  DeVore held his eyes a moment longer then looked back at the figure of Wyatt down below. ‘I don’t like him. You know that. But even if I did – if it threatened what we’re doing… If for a moment…’

  Lehmann touched his arm. ‘I know.’

  DeVore turned fully, facing him. ‘Good. We understand each other, Pietr. We always have.’

  Releasing him, DeVore checked his wrist-timer then went to the middle of the room and stood there, looking down at the box. ‘It’s almost time to call the others back. But first, there’s one last thing we need to talk about… Heng Yu.’

  ‘What of him?’

  ‘I have reason to believe he’ll be Lwo Kang’s replacement.’

  Lehmann laughed, astonished. ‘Then you know much more than any of us. How did you come by this news?’

  ‘Oh, it isn’t news. Not yet, anyway. But I think you’ll find it reliable enough. Heng Chi-Po wants his nephew as the new Minister, and what Heng Chi-Po wants he’s almost certain to get.’

  Lehmann was quiet, considering. He had heard how high the Heng family currently rode. Even so, it would use all of the Minister Heng’s quite considerable influence to persuade Li Shai Tung to appoint his nephew, Heng Yu. And, as these things went, it would be a costly manoeuvre, with the paying-off of rivals, the bribery of advisors and the cost of the post itself. They would surely have to borrow. In the short term it would weaken the Hengs quite severely. They would find themselves beholden to a dozen other families. Yet in the longer term…

  Lehmann laughed, surprised. ‘I’d always thought Heng Chi-Po crude and unimaginative. Not the kind to plan ahead. But this…’

  DeVore shook his head. ‘Don’t be mistaken, Pietr. This has nothing to do with planning. Heng Chi-Po is a corrupt man, as we know to our profit. But he’s also a proud one. At some point Lwo Kang snubbed him. Did something to him that he could not forgive. This manoeuvring is his answer. His revenge, if you like.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  DeVore looked across at him and smiled. ‘Who do you think bought Yang Lai? Who do you think told us where Lwo Kang would be?’

  ‘But I thought it was because of Edmund…’ Lehmann laughed. ‘Of course. Why didn’t you tell me?’

  DeVore shrugged. ‘It didn’t matter until now. But now you need to know who we are dealing with. What kind of men they are.’

  ‘Then it’s certain.’

  ‘Almost. But there is nothing – no one – we cannot either buy or destroy. If it is Heng Yu, then all well and good, it will prove easy. But whoever it is, he’ll remember what happened to Lwo Kang and be wary of us. No, they’ll not deal lightly with us in future.’

  ‘And Li Shai Tung?’

  DeVore spread his open hands, then turned away. There, then, lay the sticking point. Beyond this they were guessing. He, and the others of the Seven who ran the Earth, were subject to no laws, no controls but their own. Ultimately it would be up to them whether change would come; whether Man would try once more for the stars. DeVore’s words, true as they were for other men, did not apply to the Seven. They could not be bought – for they owned half of everything there was – neither, it seemed, could they be destroyed. For more than a century they had ruled unchallenged.

  ‘The T’ang is a man, whatever some might think.’

  Lehmann looked at DeVore curiously but held his tongue.

  ‘He can be influenced,’ DeVore added after a moment. ‘And when he sees how the tide of events flows…’

  ‘He’ll cut our throats.’

  DeVore shook his head. ‘Not if we have the full weight of the Above behind us. Markets and House and all. Not if his Ministers are ours. He is but a single man, after all.’

  ‘He is Seven,’ said Lehmann, and for once he understood the full import of the term. Seven. It made for strength of government. Each a king, a T’ang, ruling a seventh of Chung Kuo, yet each an equal in Council, responsible to his fellow T’ang; in some important things unable to act without their firm and full agreement. ‘And the Seven is against Change. It is a principle with them. The very cornerstone of their continued existence.’

  ‘And yet change they must. Or go under.’

  Lehmann opened his mouth, surprised to find where their talk had led them. He shook his head. ‘You don’t mean…’

  ‘You’ll see,’ said DeVore, more softly than before. ‘This here is just a beginning. A display of our potential, for the Above to see.’ He laughed, looking away into some inner distance. ‘You’ll see, Pietr. They’ll come to us. Every last one of them. They’ll see how things are – we’ll open their eyes to it – and then they’ll come to us.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then we’ll see who’s more powerful. The Seven, or the Above.’

  Heng Chi-Po leaned back in his chair and roared with laughter. He passed his jewel-ringed fingers across his shiny pate, then sniffed loudly, shifting his massive weight. ‘Excellent, Kou! Quite excellent! A good toast! Let’s raise our glasses, then.’ He paused, the smile on his face widening. ‘To Lwo Kang’s successor!’

  Six voices echoed the toast enthusiastically.

  ‘Lwo Kang’s successor!’

  There were eight men in the spacious, top-level office. Four were brothers to the Minister, three his nephews. Heng Yu, the subject of the toast, a slender man in his mid-twenties with a pencil moustache and a long but pleasant face, smiled broadly and bowed to his uncle. Kou, fourth son of Heng Chi-Po’s father Tao, clapped an arm about Yu’s shoulders, then spoke again.

  ‘This is a good day, first brother.’

  Heng Chi-Po nodded his huge, rounded face, then laughed again. ‘Oh, how sweet it was to learn of that weasel’s death. How sweet! And to think the family will profit from it!’

  There was laughter from all sides. Only the young man, Yu, seemed the least bit troubled.

  ‘He seemed a good man, uncle,’ he ventured. ‘Surely I would do well to be as he was.’

  The laughter died away. Chi-Po’s brothers looked among themselves, but Heng Chi-Po was in too good a mood to let Yu’s comments worry him. He looked at his nephew good-naturedly and shook his head in mock despair. Yet his voice, when he spoke, had an acid undertone. ‘Then you heard wrong, Yu. Lwo Kang was a worm. A liar and a hypocrite. He was a foolish, stubborn man with the manners of the Clayborn and the intelligence of a GenSyn whore. The world is a better place without him, I assure you. And you, dear nephew, will make twice the Minister he was.’

  Heng Yu bowed deeply, but there was a faint colour to his cheeks when he straightened, and his eyes did not meet his uncle’s. Heng Chi-Po watched him closely, thinking, not for the first time, that it was unfortunate he could not promote one of his nearer relatives to the post. Yu, son of his long-dead younger brother, Fan, had been educated away from the family. He had picked up strange notions of life. Old-fashioned, Confucian ideals of goodness. Things that made a man weak when faced with the true nature of the world. Still, he was young. He could be re-educated. Shaped to serve the family better.

  Kou, ever-watchful, saw how things were, and began an anecdote about a high-level whore and a stranger from the Clay. Giving him a brief smile of thanks, Chi-Po pulled himself up out of his chair and turned away from the gathering, thoughtful, pulling at his beard. Under the big, wall-length map of City Europe he stopped, barely aware of the fine honeycomb grid that overlaid the old, familiar shapes of countries, thinking instead of the past. Of that moment in the T’ang’s antechamber when Lwo Kang had humiliated him.

/>   Shih wei su ts’an.

  He could hear it even now. Could hear how Lwo Kang had said it; see his face, only inches from his own, those coldly intelligent eyes staring at him scornfully, that soft, almost feminine mouth forming the hard shapes of the words. It was an old phrase. An ancient insult. Impersonating the dead and eating the bread of idleness. You are lazy and corrupt, it said. You reap the rewards of others’ hard work. Chi-Po shuddered, remembering how the others there – Ministers like himself – had turned from him and left him there, as if agreeing with Lwo Kang. Not one had come to speak with him afterwards.

  He looked down, speaking softly, for himself alone. ‘But now the ugly little pig’s arse is dead!’

  He had closed those cold eyes. Stopped up that soft mouth. And now his blood would inherit. And yet…

  Heng Chi-Po closed his eyes, shivering, feeling a strange mixture of bitterness and triumph. Dead. But still the words sounded, loud, in his head. Shih wei su ts’an.

  Big White brought them a tray of ch’a, then backed out, closing the door behind him.

  Cho Hsiang leaned forward and poured from the porcelain bottle, filling Jyan’s bowl first, then his own. When he was done he set the bottle down and looked up sharply at the hireling.

  ‘Well? What is it, Kao Jyan?’

  He watched Jyan take his bowl and sip, then nod his approval of the ch’a. There was a strange light in his eyes. Trouble. As he’d thought. But not of the kind he’d expected. What was Jyan up to?

  ‘This is pleasant,’ said Jyan, sitting back. ‘Very pleasant. There’s no better place in the Net than Big White’s, wouldn’t you say?’

  Curbing his impatience, Cho Hsiang placed his hands on the table, palms down, and tilted his head slightly, studying Jyan. He was wary of him, not because he was in any physical danger – Big White frisked all his customers before he let them in – but because he knew Jyan for what he was. A weasel. A devious little shit-eater with ambitions far above his level.