She smiled at him. ‘I’ve drawn heavier bows than this, Han Ch’in. Bows twice this length. But I’ll not take your horse from you, husband-to-be. I’ve seen how much you love the beast.’
Han Ch’in shrugged. ‘Okay. Then go ahead.’
Fei Yen shook her head. ‘No, Han. Some other prize. Just between us. To prove who’s master here.’
He laughed uncomfortably. ‘What do you mean?’
She looked at the bow in her hands, then up at him.
‘This, maybe. If I can beat you with my three arrows.’
For a moment he hesitated; then, laughing, he nodded. ‘My bow, then. And if you lose?’
She laughed. ‘If I lose you can have everything I own.’
Han Ch’in smiled broadly, understanding her joke. In two days they would be wed and he would be master of all she owned anyway.
‘That’s fair.’
He stepped back, folding his arms, then watched as she notched and raised the bow. For a long time she simply stood there, as if in trance, the bow-string taut, the arrow quivering. Yuan watched her, fascinated, noting how her breathing changed; how her whole body was tensed, different from before. Then, with a tiny cry, she seemed to shudder and release the string.
The arrow flew high, then fell, hitting the wood with a softer sound than Han’s.
‘A gold!’ she said triumphantly, turning to face Han Ch’in.
The arrow lay like a dash across the red. Han’s arrows had hit the target almost horizontally, burying themselves into the softwood, but hers stuck up from the gold like a fresh shoot from a cut tree.
Han Ch’in shook his head, astonished. ‘Luck!’ he said, turning to her. ‘You’ll not do that twice.’ He laughed, and pointed at the target. ‘Look at it! A good wind and it’ll fall out of the wood!’
She looked at him fiercely, defiantly. ‘It’s a gold, though, isn’t it?’
Reluctantly he nodded, then handed her the second arrow. ‘Again,’ he said.
Once more she stood there, the bowstring taut, the arrow quivering, her whole self tensed behind it, concentrating. Then, with the same sharp cry, she let it fly, her body shuddering with the passion of release.
This time the arrow seemed to float in the air above the target before it fell abruptly, knocking against the third of Han’s.
It was another gold.
Fei Yen turned to Han Ch’in, her face inexpressive, her hand held out for the third arrow.
Han Ch’in hesitated, his face dark, his eyes wide with anger, then thrust the arrow into her hand. For a moment she stood there, watching him, seeing just how angry he was, then she turned away, facing where Yuan sat watching.
Yuan saw her notch the bow then look across at him, her face more thoughtful than he’d ever seen it. Then, to his surprise, she winked at him and turned back to face the target.
This time she barely seemed to hesitate, but, like Han Ch’in before her, drew the string taut and let the arrow fly.
‘No!’ Yuan was on his feet. The arrow lay a good five paces from the target, its shaft sticking up from the ground, its feathers pointing towards the bull.
Han Ch’in clapped his hands, laughing. ‘I win! I’ve beaten you!’
Fei Yen turned to him. ‘Yes, Han,’ she said softly, touching his arm gently, tenderly. ‘Which makes you master here…’
Representative Barrow huffed irritably and leaned forward in his seat, straining against the harness. ‘What do you think the T’ang wants, Pietr, summoning us here five hours early?’
Lehmann looked down through the window, watching the ground come slowly up to meet them. ‘What do you think he wants? To keep us down, that’s what. To tie us in knots and keep us docile. That’s all they ever want.’
Barrow looked at him sharply. ‘You think so? You’re certain it has nothing to do with the wedding?’
Lehmann shook his head, remembering the alarm he’d felt on receiving the T’ang’s summons. Like Barrow he had been told to present himself at Tongjiang by the third hour of the afternoon at the latest. No reason had been given, but he knew that it had nothing to do with the wedding. If it were they would have been notified a good month beforehand. No, this was something else. Something unrelated.
‘It’s bloody inconvenient,’ Barrow continued. ‘I was in the middle of a House committee meeting when his man came. Now I’ve had to cancel that, and the gods know when I’ll get a chance now to get ready for the reception.’
Lehmann looked at him, then looked away. Whatever it was, it was certain to make a small thing like a House committee meeting seem of no consequence whatsoever. The T’ang did not send his personal craft to bring men to him without good reason. Neither did he use the warrant system lightly. Whatever it was, it was of the first importance.
But what? His pulse quickened momentarily. Had something leaked out? Or was it something else? A concession, maybe? A deal? Something to guarantee his son’s inheritance?
Lehmann laughed quietly at the thought, then felt the craft touch down beneath him. For a moment the great engines droned on, then they cut out. In the ensuing silence they could hear the great overhead gates sliding back into place, securing the hangar.
He undid his straps, then stood, waiting.
The door opened and they went outside. The T’ang’s Chancellor, Chung Hu-Yan, was waiting for them at the foot of the ramp.
‘Ch’un tzu.’ The Chancellor bowed deeply. ‘The T’ang is waiting for you. The others are here already. Please…’ He turned, indicating they should go through.
Lehmann hesitated. ‘Forgive me, but what is all this about?’
Chung Hu-Yan looked back at him, his expression unreadable. ‘In time, Under Secretary. The T’ang alone can tell you what his business is.’
‘Of course.’ Lehmann smiled sourly, moving past him.
The Hall of the Seven Ancestors was a massive, high-ceilinged place, its walls strewn with huge, opulent tapestries, its floor a giant mosaic of carved marble. Thick pillars coiled with dragons lined each side. Beneath them stood the T’ang’s private guards, big, vicious-looking brutes with shaven heads and crude Han faces. The small group of Hung Mao had gathered to the left of the great throne, silent, visibly awed by the unexpected grandeur of their surroundings. Across from them, to the right of the throne and some fifteen paces distant, was a cage. Inside the cage was a man.
‘Under Secretary Lehmann. Representative Barrow. Welcome. Perhaps now we can begin.’
The T’ang got to his feet, then came down the steps of his throne, followed by his sons. Five paces from the nearest of the Hung Mao, he stopped and looked about him imperiously. Slowly, hesitantly, taking each other’s example, they bowed, some fully, some with their heads only, none knowing quite what etiquette was demanded by this moment. They were not at Weimar now, or in the great halls of their own Companies. Here, in the T’ang’s own Palace, they had no idea what was demanded of them, neither had the T’ang’s Chancellor been instructed to brief them.
Li Shai Tung stared at them contemptuously, seeing the ill-ordered manner of their obeisance. It was as he had thought; these Hung Mao had fallen into bad habits. Such respect as they owed their T’ang was not an automatic thing with them. It was shallow rooted. The first strong wind would carry it away.
Slowly, deliberately, he looked from face to face, seeing how few of them dared meet his eyes, and how quickly those who did looked away. Hsiao jen, he thought. Little men. You’re all such little men. Not a king among you. Not one of you fit to be my chamberlain, let alone my equal. He ran his hand through his ice-white, plaited beard, then turned away, as if dismissing them, facing the man in the cage.
The man was naked, his head shaven. His hands were tied behind him with a crude piece of rope. There was something ancient and brutal about that small detail, something that the two boys at the old man’s side took note of. They stood there silently, their faces masks of dispassionate observation. ‘This now is a lesson,’ their father had explained
beforehand. ‘And the name of the lesson is punishment.’
The trial had lasted nineteen months. But now all evidence was heard and the man’s confession – thrice given as the law demanded – had placed things beyond doubt.
Li Shai Tung walked round the cage and stood there on the far side of it, an arm’s length from its thick, rounded bars. The cage was deliberately too small for the man, forcing him to kneel or bend his back. He was red-eyed, his skin a sickly white. Flesh was spare on him and his limbs were badly emaciated. The first two months of incarceration had broken his spirit and he was no longer proud. His haughty, aquiline profile now seemed merely bird-like and ludicrous – the face of an injured gull. All defiance had long departed from him. Now he cowered before the T’ang’s approach.
The old man pointed to the symbol burned into the caged man’s upper arm. It was the stylized double helix of heredity, symbol of the Dispersion faction.
‘Under Secretary Lehmann. You know this man?’
Lehmann came forward and stood there on the other side of the cage, looking in.
‘Chieh Hsia?’
There was the blankness of non-recognition in Lehmann’s eyes. Good, thought the T’ang. He is not expecting this. All the better. It will make the shock of it far sharper.
‘He was your friend.’
Lehmann looked again, then gasped. ‘Edmund…’
‘Yes.’ The T’ang came round the cage again and stood there, between Lehmann and the throne. ‘This prisoner was once a man, like you. His name was Edmund Wyatt. But now he has no name. He has been found guilty of the murder of a Minister and has forfeited all his rights. His family, such as it was, is no more, and his ancestors are cut adrift. His place and purpose in this world are annulled.’
He let the significance of his speech sink in, then spoke again.
‘You disown him? Your faction disowns his actions?’
Lehmann looked up, startled.
‘Do you disown him, Under Secretary?’
It was a tense moment. At the trial Lehmann had been Wyatt’s chief advocate. But now it was different. If Lehmann said yes he sanctioned the T’ang’s actions. If no…
The silence grew. Lehmann’s face moved anxiously, but he could not bring himself to speak. Across from him the T’ang held steady, his arm out-stretched, his head turned, staring at the House Deputy. When the silence had stretched too thin, he broke it. He repeated his words, then added. ‘Or do you condone murder as a political option, Under Secretary?’
Li Shai Tung raised his voice a shade. ‘Am I to take it, then, that your silence is the silence of tacit agreement?’
Under the force of the old man’s staring eyes, Lehmann began to shake his head. Then, realizing what he was doing, he stopped. But it was too late. He had been betrayed into commitment. He need say nothing now. Li Shai Tung had won.
‘This man is mine then? To do with as I wish?’
The T’ang was like a rock. His age, his apparent frailty, were illusions that the hardness of his voice dispelled. There was nothing old, or frail about the power he wielded. At that moment it lay in his power to destroy them all, and they knew it.
Lehmann had clenched his fists. Now he let them relax. He bowed his head slowly, tentatively, in agreement. ‘He is yours, Chieh Hsia. My… my faction disowns his actions.’
It was a full capitulation. For Li Shai Tung and the Seven it was a victory, an admission of weakness on the part of their opponents. Yet in the old man’s face there was no change, neither did his outstretched hand alter its demanding gesture.
The two boys, watching, saw this, and noted it.
At last, Li Shai Tung lowered his arm. Slowly, uncertainly, the Hung Mao turned away and began to make their way out of the Hall. It was over. What the T’ang did with the man no longer concerned them. Wyatt was his.
When they were gone, Li Shai Tung turned to his sons. ‘Come here,’ he said, beckoning them closer to the cage.
Li Han Ch’in was seventeen; tall and handsome like his father, though not yet fully fleshed. His brother, Li Yuan, was only eight, yet his dark, calculating eyes made him seem far older than he was. The two stood close by their father, watching him, their obedience unquestioning.
‘This is the man who killed Lwo Kang, my Minister. By the same token he would have killed me – and you and all the Seven and their families. For to attack the limbs of State is to threaten the body, the very heart.’
The man in the cage knelt there silently, his head bowed.
Li Shai Tung paused and turned to his eldest. ‘Considering such, what should I do, Han Ch’in? What punishment would be fitting?’
There was no hesitation. ‘You must kill him, father! He deserves to die.’ There was a fiery loathing in the young man’s eyes as he stared at the prisoner. ‘Yes, kill him. As he would have killed you!’
Li Shai Tung was silent, his head tilted slightly to one side, as if considering what his eldest son had said. Then he turned, facing his second son. ‘And you, Yuan? Do you agree with your brother?’
The boy was silent a moment, concentrating.
Li Yuan was less impetuous than his brother. He was like the current beneath the ocean’s swell, his brother the curling, foaming waves – all spray and violent show. Magnificent, but somehow ephemeral. Li Shai Tung, watching his sons, knew this and hoped the younger would prove the voice of reason at the ear of the elder. When it was time. When his own time was done.
Li Yuan had come to a decision. He spoke earnestly, gravely, like an old man himself. ‘If you kill him you will bring only further hatred on yourself. And you kill but a single man. You do not cure the illness that he represents.’
‘This illness…’ The T’ang brought his head straight. The smile had gone from his lips. ‘Is there a cure for it?’
Once more the boy was silent, considering. Again he gave an earnest answer. ‘Immediately, no. This illness will be with us a long while yet. But in time, yes, I believe there is a way we might control it.’
Li Shai Tung nodded, not in agreement, but in surprise. Yet he did not dismiss his youngest’s words. Li Yuan was young, but he was no fool. There were men ten times his age with but a fraction of his sense, and few with a liang of his intelligence.
‘We must speak more of this…’ he waved a hand almost vaguely, ‘… this means of control. But answer me directly, Yuan. You feel this man should be spared, then, to alleviate the short-term hatred, the resentment?’
The small boy allowed himself the luxury of a brief smile. ‘No, father, I suggest nothing of the kind. To spare the prisoner would be to exhibit weakness. As you said to us earlier, it is a lesson, and the name of the lesson is punishment. The man must be killed. Killed like the basest piece of Clay. And all hatred, all resentment, must be faced. There is no other way.’
At his side, Han nodded emphatically.
‘Then it is right, as Han Ch’in said, to kill this man?’
‘Not right, father. It could never be right. Necessary.’ The boy’s face showed no emotion. His features were formed into a mask of reason. ‘Moreover, it should be done in public, for it must be seen to be done. And it must be done dispassionately, without malice and with no thought of revenge – merely as evidence of our power. As a lesson.’
Li Shai Tung nodded, profoundly satisfied with his youngest son, but it was his first son he addressed. ‘Then it is as you said, Han Ch’in. We must kill him. As he would have killed us.’
He turned and looked back at the man in the cage, something close to pity in his eyes. ‘Yes. But not for revenge. Merely because we must.’
Han Ch’in laughed then clapped his hands, delighted by the gift. ‘But, father, they’re marvellous! Just look at them! They’re so strong, so elegant!’
The four creatures stood in a line before the royal party, their long heads bowed, their broad ox-like bodies neatly clothed in rich silks of carmine and gold. Nearby, their creator, Klaus Stefan Ebert, Head of GenSyn – Genetic Synthetics – beam
ed, pleased beyond words at the prince’s reaction.
‘They are the first of their kind,’ Ebert said, giving a slight bow. ‘And, if the T’ang wishes it, they shall be the last.’
Li Shai Tung looked at his old friend. Ebert had been one of his staunchest supporters over the years and, if fate decided, his son would one day be Han Ch’in’s General. He smiled and looked at the ox-men again. ‘I would not ask that of you, Klaus. This gift of yours pleases me greatly. No, such marvels should be shared by others. You shall have a patent for them.’
Ebert bowed deeply, conscious of his T’ang’s generosity. His gift to Han Ch’in was worth, perhaps, two hundred million yuan, but the T’ang’s kindness was inestimable. There was no one in the whole of City Europe’s elite who would not now want such a creature. To a more mercenary man that would have been cause for great delight, but Klaus Ebert counted such things of trivial worth. He had pleased his T’ang, and no amount of money could buy the feeling of intense pride and worthiness he felt at that moment.
‘I am deeply honoured, Chieh Hsia. My great joy at your pleasure reaches up into the heavens.’
Han Ch’in had gone closer to the beasts and now stood there, looking up into one of their long, bovine faces. He turned and looked back at Ebert. ‘They’re really beautiful, Shih Ebert. Strong, like horses, and intelligent, like men. Do they talk?’
Ebert bowed to the T’ang once more, then went across and stood beside Han Ch’in. ‘They have a form of language,’ he said, his head lowered in deference to the Prince. ‘Enough to understand basic commands and to carry trivial messages, but no more than a human three year-old would have.’
Han Ch’in laughed. ‘That depends on the three year-old. My brother Yuan could talk a counsellor to a halt at three!’
Ebert laughed. ‘So it was! I remember it only too well!’
Li Shai Tung joined their laughter, then turned to General Tolonen who was standing to his left and slightly behind him. ‘Well, Knut, are things ready within?’
The General, who had been watching the exchange with real pleasure, turned to his T’ang and was silent a moment, listening to a voice in his head. Then he bowed. ‘Major Nocenzi advises me that all the guests are now assembled and that full security measures are in operation. We can go inside.’
The Middle Kingdom Page 20