Ice and Fire: Chung Kuo Series (4 page)

No. Not because of him. Because of his discovery. He was not to blame for their deaths.
They had killed themselves. Their greed had killed them. That and their stupidity.

He was not to blame; yet he felt their deaths quite heavily. If he had said nothing.
If he had simply burned the rabbit as Meg had suggested…

It would have solved nothing. The sickness would have spread; the discovery would
have been made. Eventually. And then the two soldiers would have died.

It was not his fault. Not his fault.

His mother met him at the back door. She knelt down and took his hands. Are you okay,
Ben? You look troubled. Has something happened?’

He shook his head. ‘No. I…’

The door to the right of the broad, low-ceilinged passage-way opened and his father
came out, closing the door behind him. He smiled at Ben, then came across.

‘Our guest is here, Ben. He’s been here all afternoon. I know I said earlier that
you would be eating alone tonight, but he says he’d like to meet you. So I thought
that maybe
you could eat with us after all.’

Ben was used to his father’s guests and had never minded taking his evening meal in
his room, but this was unusual. He had never been asked to sit at table with a guest
before.

‘Who is it?’

His father smiled enigmatically. ‘Wash your hands, then come through. I’ll introduce
you. But, Ben… be on your best behaviour, please.’

Ben gave a slight bow, then went to the small washroom. He washed his face and hands,
then scrubbed his nails and tidied his hair in the mirror. When he came out his mother
was waiting for him.
She took his hands, inspecting them, then straightened his tunic and bent to kiss
his cheek.

‘You look fine, Ben. Now go in.’

‘Who is it?’ he asked again. ‘Tell me who it is.’

But she only smiled and turned him towards the door. ‘Go on in. I’ll be there in a
moment.’

Chapter 36

A CONVERSATION IN THE FIRELIGHT

I
n the light from the open fire the T’ang’s strong, oriental features seemed carved
in ancient yellowed ivory. He sat back in
his chair, smiling, his eyes brightly dark.

‘And you think they’ll be happy with that, Hal?’

Li Shai Tung’s hands rested lightly on the table’s edge, the now-empty bowl he had
been eating from placed to one side, out of his way. Ben, watching him, saw once again
how the
light seemed trapped by the matt black surface of the heavy iron ring he wore on the
index finger of his right hand. The
Ywe Lung
. The seal of power.

Hal Shepherd laughed, then shook his head. ‘No. Not for a moment. They all think themselves
emperors in that place.’

They were talking about the House of Representatives at Weimar – ‘That troublesome
place’, as the T’ang continually called it – and about ways of shoring up the
tenuous peace that now existed between it and the Seven.

The T’ang and his father sat at one end of the long, darkwood table, facing each other,
while Ben sat alone at the other end. His mother had not joined them for the meal,
bowing in this
regard to the T’ang’s wishes. But in other respects she had had her own way. The T’ang’s
own cooks sat idle in her kitchen, watching with suspicion and a degree of amazement
as she single-handedly prepared and served the meal. This departure from the T’ang’s
normal practices was remarkable enough in itself, but what had happened at the beginning
of the meal
had surprised even his father.

When the food taster had stepped up to the table to perform his normal duties, the
T’ang had waved him away and, picking up his chopsticks, had taken the first mouthful
himself. Then,
after chewing and swallowing the fragrant morsel, and after a sip of the strong green
Longjing
ch’a
– itself ‘untasted’ – he had looked up at Beth Shepherd and
smiled broadly, complimenting her on the dish. It was, as Ben understood at once,
seeing the surprised delight on his father’s face and the astonished horror on the
face of the official
taster, quite unprecedented, and made him realize how circumscribed the T’ang’s life
had been. Not free at all, as others may have thought, but difficult; a life lived
in the shadow of
death. For Li Shai Tung, trust was the rarest and most precious thing he had to offer;
for in trusting he placed his life – quite literally his life – in the hands of others.

In that small yet significant gesture, the T’ang had given his father and mother the
ultimate in compliments.

Ben studied the man as he talked, aware of a strength in him that was somehow more
than physical. There was a certainty – a vitality – in his every movement, such that
even the
slightest hesitancy was telling. His whole body spoke a subtle language of command;
something that had developed quite naturally and unconsciously during the long years
of his rule. To watch him
was to watch not a man but a directing force; was to witness the channelling of aggression
and determination into its most elegant and expressive form. In some respects Li Shai
Tung was like an
athlete, each nuance of voice or gesture the result of long and patient practice.
Practice that had made these things second nature to the T’ang.

Ben watched, fascinated, barely hearing the words, but aware of their significance,
and of the significance of the fact that he was there to hear them.

Li Shai Tung leaned forward slightly, his chin, with its pure white, neatly braided
beard, formulating a slight upward motion that signalled the offering of a confidence.

‘The House was never meant to be so powerful. Our forefathers saw it only as a gesture.
To be candid, Hal, as a sop to their erstwhile allies and a mask to their true intentions.
But now,
a hundred years on, certain factions persist in taking it at face value. They maintain
that the power of the House is sanctioned by “the People”. And we know why, don’t
we? Not
for “the People”. Such men don’t spare a second’s thought for “the People”. No, they
think only of themselves. They seek to climb at our expense. To raise
themselves by pulling down the Seven. They want control, Hal, and the House is the
means through which they seek to get it.’

The T’ang leaned back again, his eyes half-lidded now. He reached up with his right
hand and grasped the tightly furled queue at the back of his head, his fingers closing
about the coil of
fine white hair. It was a curious, almost absent-minded gesture; yet it served to
emphasize to Ben how at ease the T’ang was in his father’s company. He watched, aware
of a whole
vocabulary of gesture there in the dialogue between the two men: conscious not just
of what they said but of how they said it; how their eyes met or did not meet; how
a shared smile would suddenly
reveal the depths of their mutual understanding. All served to show him just how much
the T’ang depended on his father to release these words, these thoughts, these feelings.
Perhaps because
no other could be trusted with them.

‘I often ask myself, is there any way we might remove the House and dismantle the
huge bureaucratic structure that has grown about it? But each time I ask myself I
know beforehand what the
answer is. No. At least, not now. Fifteen, maybe twenty years ago it might have been
possible. But even then it might simply have pre-empted things. Brought us quicker
to this point.’

Hal Shepherd nodded. ‘I agree. But perhaps we should have faced it back then. We were
stronger. Our grip on things was firmer. Now things have changed. Each year’s delay
sees them
grow at our expense.’

‘You’d counsel war, then, Hal?’

‘Of a kind.’

The T’ang smiled. And what kind is that?’

‘The kind we’re best at. A war of levels. Of openness and deception. The kind of war
the Tyrant, Tsao Ch’un, taught us how to fight.’

The T’ang looked down at his hands, his smile fading. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t,
Hal. Sometimes I question what we’ve done.’

As any man must surely do.’

Li Shai Tung looked up at him and shook his head. ‘No, Hal. For once I think you’re
wrong. Few actually question their actions. Most are blind to their faults. Deaf to
the criticisms
of their fellow men.’ He laughed sourly. ‘You might say that Chung Kuo is filled with
such individuals – blind, wicked, greedy creatures who see their blindness as strength,
their
wickedness as necessity, their greed as historical process.’

‘That’s so…’

For a moment the two men fell silent, their faces solemn in the flickering light from
the fire. Before either could speak again, the door at the far end of the room opened
and Ben’s mother
entered, carrying a tray. She set it down on a footstool beside the open fire, then
leaned across to take something from a bowl on the mantelpiece and sprinkle it on
the burning logs.

At once the room was filled with the sweet, fresh smell of mint.

The T’ang gave a gentle laugh, delighted, and took a long, deep breath.

Ben watched his mother turn from the fire, drawing her long dark hair back from her
face, smiling. ‘I’ve brought fresh
ch’a
,’ she said simply, then lifted the tray
and brought it across to them.

As she set it down the T’ang stood and, reaching across, put his hand over hers, preventing
her from lifting the kettle.

‘Please. I would be honoured if you sat a while with us and shared the
ch’a
.’

She hesitated then, smiling, did as he bid her; watching the strange sight of a T’ang
pouring
ch’a
for a commoner.

‘Here,’ he said, offering her the first bowl. ‘
Ch’a
from the dragon’s well.’

The T’ang’s words were a harmless play on the name of the Longjing
ch’a
, but for Ben they seemed to hold a special meaning. He looked at his mother, seeing
how she
smiled self-consciously and lowered her head, for a moment the youthful look of her
reminding him terribly of Meg – of how Meg would be a year or two from now. Then he
looked back at the
T’ang, standing there, pouring a second bowl for his father.

Ben frowned. The very presence of the T’ang in the room seemed suddenly quite strange.
His silks, his plaited hair, his very foreignness seemed out of place amongst the
low oak beams and
sturdy yeoman furniture. That contrast, that curious juxtaposition of man and room,
brought home to Ben how strange this world of theirs truly was. A world tipped wildly
from its natural
balance.

The dragon’s well. It made him think of fire and darkness, of untapped potency.
Is that what’s missing from our world?
he asked himself.
Have we done with fire and
darkness?

And you, Ben? Will you drink of the dragon’s well?’

Li Shai Tung looked across at him, smiling; but behind the smile – beyond it, in some
darker, less accessible place – lay a deep disquiet.

Flames danced in the glass of each eye, flickered wet and evanescent on the dark surface
of his vision. But where was the fire on the far side of the glass? Where the depths
that made of Man a
man? In word and gesture, the T’ang was great and powerful – a T’ang, unmistakably
a king among men – but he had lost contact with the very thing that had made – had
shaped – his outer form. He had denied his inner self once too often and now the well
was capped, the fire doused.

He stared at the T’ang, wondering if he knew what he had become; if the doubt that
he professed was as thorough, as all-inclusive as it ought to be. Whether, when he
looked at his
reflection in the mirror, he saw beyond the glass into that other place behind the
eyes. Ben shivered. No. It could not be so. For if it were the man himself would crumble.
Words would fail,
gestures grow hesitant. No. This T’ang might doubt what they had done, but not what
he was. That was innate – was bred into his bones. He would die before he doubted
himself.

The smile remained, unchallenged, genuine; the offered bowl awaited him.

‘Well, Ben?’ his father asked, turning to him. ‘Will you take a bowl with us?’

Li Shai Tung leaned forward, offering the boy the bowl, conscious that he had become
the focus of the child’s strange intensity; of the intimidating ferocity of his stare.

Hal was right. Ben was not like other children. There was something wild in his nature;
some part of him that remained untamed, unsocialized. When he sat there at table it
was
as if he held himself in check. There was such stillness in him that when he moved
it was like something dead had come alive again. Yet he was more alive – more vividly
alive – than
anyone the T’ang had ever met.

As he handed Ben the bowl he almost expected to receive some kind of shock – a violent
discharge of the child’s unnatural energy – through the medium of the bowl. But there
was
nothing. Only his wild imagining.

The T’ang looked down, thoughtful. Ben Shepherd was a breed of one. He had none of
those small refinements that fitted a man for the company of his fellows. He had no
sense of give and
take; no idea of the concessions one made for the sake of social comfort. His stare
was uncompromising, almost proprietorial. As if all he saw was his.

Yes, Li Shai Tung thought, smiling inwardly. You should be a T’ang, Ben Shepherd,
for you’ll find it hard to pass muster as a simple man.

He lifted his bowl and sipped, thinking back to earlier that afternoon. They had been
out walking in the garden when Hal had suggested he go with him and see Ben’s room.

He had stood in the centre of the tiny, cluttered upstairs room, looking at the paintings
that covered the wall above the bed.

Some were lifelike studies of the Domain. Lifelike, at least, but for the dark, unfocused
figures who stood in the shadows beneath the trees on the far side of the water. Others
were more
abstract, depicting strange distortions of the real. Twins figured largely in these
latter compositions; one twin quite normal – strong and healthy – the other twisted
out of shape, the
eyes blank, the mouth open as if in pain. They were disturbing, unusually disturbing,
yet their technical accomplishment could not be questioned.

‘These are good, Hal. Very good indeed. The boy has talent.’

Hal Shepherd gave a small smile, then came alongside him. ‘He’d be pleased to hear
you say that. But if you think those are good, look at this.’

The T’ang took the folder from him and opened it. Inside was a single ultra-thin sheet
of what seemed like pure black plastic. He turned it in his hands and then laughed.
‘What is
it?’

‘Here,’ Shepherd indicated a viewer on the table by the window, then drew the blind
down. ‘Lay it in the tray there, then flick that switch.’

Li Shai Tung placed the sheet down in the viewer. ‘Does it matter which way up?’

‘Yes and no. You’ll see.’

The T’ang flicked the switch. At once the tank-like cage of the viewer was filled
with colour. It was a hologram. A portrait of Hal Shepherd’s wife, Beth.