The Middle Kingdom (27 page)

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 soft wood, 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
toward 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, then?"

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
had 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. Nor 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 Chamberlain, Chung Hu-yan, was
waiting for them at the foot of the ramp.

"Ch'un
tzu."
The Chamberlain 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 Moo
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, nor 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, nor had the T'ang's Chamberlain 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 birdlike 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 nonrecognition 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. ..." he whispered.

"Yes."
The T'ang came around 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
outstretched, 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, nor 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 Jiang 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."