The Middle Kingdom (53 page)

He looked down
at Meg and saw the fear in her eyes. "Nothing. Hush now, Megs.
It'll be all right."

He put his hand
on her shoulder and looked out again. What he saw this time surprised
him. Two of the men were being held and bound; their wrists and
ankles taped together. One of the men started to struggle, then began
to cry out. Meg tried to get up to see, but with a gentle pressure he
pushed her back down.

There was the
sound of a slap, then silence from below. A moment later Rosten's
voice barked out. "Out there! Quick now!"

Ben moved across
to the other side of the window, trying to keep them in sight, but he
lost them in a moment.

"Stay here,
Meg. I'm going downstairs."

"But, Ben—"

He shook his
head. "Do what I say. I'll be all right. I'll not let them see
me."

He had to move
slowly, carefully, on the stairs because, for a brief moment, he was
in full sight of the soldiers through the big plate glass window that
looked out onto the narrow quay. At the bottom he moved quickly
between the racks and tables until he was crouched between two
mannequins, looking out through their skirts at the scene in front of
the inn.

Two men held
each of the prisoners. The other three stood to one side, in a line,
at attention. Rosten had his back to Ben and stood there between the
window and the prisoners. With an abrupt gesture that seemed to jerk
his body forward violently, he gave an order. At once both prisoners
were made forcibly to kneel and lower their heads.

Only then, as
Rosten turned slightly, did Ben see the long, thin blade he held.

For a moment the
sight of the blade held Ben; the way the sunlight seemed to flow like
a liquid along the gently curved length of it, flickering brilliantly
on the razor-sharp edge and at the tip. He had read how swords could
seem alive—could have a personality, even a name—but he
had never thought to see it. He looked past the blade. Though their
heads were held down forcibly, the two men looked up at Rosten,
anxious to know what he intended for them. Ben knew them well. Gosse,
to the left, was part Han, his broad, rough-hewn Slavic features made
almost Mongolian by his part-Han ancestry. Wolfe, to the right, was a
southerner, his dark, handsome features almost refined; almost, but
not quite, classical. Almost. For when he smiled or laughed, his eyes
and mouth were somehow ugly. Somehow brutish and unhealthy.

Rosten now stood
between the two, his feet spread, his right arm outstretched, the
sword in his right hand, its tip almost touching the cobbled ground a
body's length away.

"You! You
understand why you're here? YouVe heard the accusations?"

"They're
lies—" began Wolfe, but he was cuffed into silence by the
man behind him.

Rosten shook his
head. The long sword quivered in his hand. "Not lies, Wolfe. You
have been tried by a panel of your fellow officers and found guilty.
You and Gosse here. You stole and cheated. You have betrayed our
master's trust and dishonored the Banner."

Wolfe's eyes
widened. The blood drained from his face. Beside him Gosse looked
down, as if he had already seen where this led.

"There is
no excusing what you did. And no solution but to excise the shame."

Wolfe's head
came up sharply and was pushed down brutally. "No!" he
shouted, beginning to struggle again. "You can't do this! You—"

A blow from one
of the men holding him knocked him down onto the cobbles.

"Bring him
here!"

The two guards
grabbed Wolfe again and dragged him, on his knees, until he was at
Rosten's feet.

Rosten's voice
was almost hysterical now. He half shouted, half screamed, his sword
arm punctuating the words. "You are scum, Wolfe! Faceless!
Because of you, your fellow officers have fallen under suspicion!
Because of you, all here have been dishonored!" Rosten shuddered
violently and spat on the kneeling man's head. "You have shamed
your Banner! You have shamed, your family name! And you have
disgraced your ancestors!"

Rosten stepped
back and raised the sword. "Hold the prisoner down!"

Ben caught his
breath. He saw how Wolfe's leg muscles flexed impotently as he tried
to scrabble to his feet; how he squirmed in the two men's grip,
trying to get away. A third soldier joined the other two, forcing
Wolfe down with blows and curses. Then one of them grabbed Wolfe's
topknot and, with a savage yank that almost pulled the man up off his
knees, stretched his neck out, ready for the sword.

Wolfe was
screaming now, his voice hoarse, breathless. "No! No! Kuan Yin,
Goddess of Mercy, help me! I did nothing! Nothing!" His face was
torn with terror, his mouth twisted, his eyes moving frantically in
their sockets, pleading for mercy.

Ben saw Rosten's
body tauten like a compressed coil. Then, with a sharp hiss of
breath, he brought the sword down sharply.

Wolfe's screams
stopped instantly. Ben saw the head drop and roll, the body tumble
forward like a sack of grain, the arms fall limp.

Ben looked
across at Gosse.

Gosse had been
watching all in silence, his jaw clenched, his neck muscles taut.
Now, with a visible shudder, he looked down again, staring at the
cobbles.

Rosten bent down
and wiped the sword on the back of Wolfe's tunic, then straightened,
facing Gosse.

"You have
something to say, Gosse?"

Gosse was silent
a moment, then he looked up at Rosten. His eyes, which, moments
earlier, had been filled with fear and horror, were now clear, almost
calm. His hands shook, but he clenched them to control their
trembling. He took a deep breath, then another, like a diver about to
plunge into the depths, and nodded.

"Speak
then. YouVe little time."

Gosse hunched
his shoulders and lowered his head slightly, in deference to Rosten,
but kept his eyes on him. "Only this. It is true what you say. I
am guilty. Wolfe planned it all, but I acted with him, and there is
no excusing my actions. I accept the judgment of my fellow officers
and, before I die, beg their forgiveness for having shamed them
before the T'ang."

Rosten stood
there, expecting more, but Gosse had lowered his head. After a
moment's reflection Rosten gave a small nod, then spoke.

"I cannot
speak for all here, but for myself I say this. You were a good
soldier, Gosse. And you face death bravely, honestly, as a soldier
ought. I cannot prevent your death now, you understand, but I can, at
least, change the manner of it."

There was a low
gasp from the men on either side as Rosten took a pace forward and
drew the short sword from his belt and handed it to Gosse.

Gosse understood
at once. His eyes met Rosten's, bright with gratitude, then looked
down at the short sword. With his left hand he tore open the tunic of
his uniform and drew up the undershirt, baring the flesh. Then he
gripped the handle of the short sword with both hands and turned it,
so that the tip was facing his stomach. The two guards who had been
holding him released him and stood back. Rosten watched him a moment,
then took up his place, just behind Gosse and to one side, the long
sword half raised.

Ben eased
forward until his face was pressed against the glass, watching Gosse
slow his breathing and focus his whole being upon the blade resting
only a hand's length from his stomach. Gosse's hands were steady now,
his eyes glazed. Time slowed. Then, quite abruptly, it changed. There
was a sudden, violent movement in Gosse's face—a movement
somewhere between ecstasy and extreme agony—and then his hands
were thrusting the blade deep into his belly. With what seemed
superhuman strength and control he drew the short sword to the left,
then back to the right, his intestines spilling out onto the cobbles.
For a moment his face held its expression of ecstatic agony, then it
crumpled and his eyes looked down, widening, horrified by what he had
done.

Rosten brought
the sword down sharply.

Gosse knelt a
moment longer. Then his headless body fell and lay there, motionless,
next to Wolfe's.

Ben heard a moan
behind him and turned. Meg was squatting at the top of the stairs,
her hands clutching the third and fourth struts tightly, her eyes
wide, filled with fright.

"Go up!"
he hissed anxiously, hoping he'd not be heard; horrified that she had
been witness to Gosse's death. He saw her turn and look at him, for a
moment barely recognizing him or understanding what he had said to
her. Dear god, he thought; how much did she see?

"Go up!"
he hissed again. "For heaven's sake, go up!"

IT WAS DARK on
the river, the moon obscured behind the Wall's northwestern edge. Ben
jumped ashore and tied the row-boat up to the small, wooden jetty,
then turned to give a hand to Peng Yu'Wei, who stood there, cradling
a sleeping Meg in one arm.

He let the
teacher go ahead, reluctant to go in, wanting to keep the blanket of
darkness and silence about him a moment longer.

There was a
small rectangle of land beside the jetty, surrounded on three sides
by steep clay walls. A set of old wooden steps had been cut into one
side. Ben climbed them slowly, tired from the long row back. Then he
was in the garden, the broad swath of neat-trimmed grass climbing
steadily to the thatched cottage a hundred yards distant.

"Ben!"

His mother stood
in the low back doorway, framed by the light, an apron over her long
dress. He waved, acknowledging her. Ahead of him Peng Yu-wei strode
purposefully up the path, his long legs showing no sign of human
frailty.

He felt
strangely separate from things. As if he had let go of oars and
rudder and now drifted on the dark current of events. On the long row
back he had traced the logic of the thing time and again. He knew he
had caused their deaths. From his discovery things had followed an
inexorable path, like the water's tight spiral down into the
whirlpool's mouth. They had died because of him.

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 passageway 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, in fact." He
hesitated and glanced at his wife. "I know I said earlier that
you would be eating alone tonight, Ben, but. . . well, he says he
would 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?" he asked.

His father
smiled enigmatically. "Wash your hands, then come through. I'll
introduce you. But, Ben ... be on your best behavior, please."

Ben gave a
slight bow, then went straight 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 toward the door. "Go on in. I'll be there
in a moment."

IN
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 k>ng, 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.