The Middle Kingdom (65 page)

"I am
honored, Li Yuan."

Fei Yen had
dressed quite simply, in a peach
ctii p'ao,
over which she wore a long embroidered cloak of white silk,
decorated with stylized bamboo leaves of blue and green and edged in
a soft pink brocade that matched the tiny pink ribbons in her hair
and set the whole thing off quite perfectly.

She knew how
beautiful she looked. From childhood she had known her power over
men. But this was strange, disturbing. It was almost as if this boy,
this child . . .

Fei Yen rose
slowly, meeting the Prince's eyes for the first time and seeing how
quickly he redirected his gaze. Perhaps it was just embarrassment—the
memory of how he had shamed himself that time when she had comforted
him. Men were such strange, proud creatures. It was odd what mattered
to them. Like Han Ch'in that time, when she had almost bettered him
at archery. . . .

Li Yuan found
his tongue again. But he could only glance at her briefly as he
complimented her,

"May her
name be preserved on bamboo and silk."

She laughed
prettily at that, recognizing the old saying and pleased by his
allusion to her cloak. "Why, thank you, Li Yuan. May the fifteen
precious things be yours."

It was said
before she fully realized what she had wished for him. She heard her
maids giggle behind her and saw Li Yuan look down, the flush
returning to his cheeks. It was a traditional good-luck wish, for
long life and prosperity. But it was also a wish that the recipient
have sons.

Her own laughter
dispelled the awkwardness of the moment. She saw Li Yuan look up at
her, his dark eyes strangely bright, and was reminded momentarily of
Han Ch'in. As Han had been, so Li Yuan was now. One day he would be
head of his family—a powerful man, almost a god. She was
conscious of that as he stood there, watching her. Already, they
said, he had the wisdom of an old man, a sage. Yet that brief
reminder of her murdered husband saddened her. It brought back the
long months of bitterness and loneliness she had suffered, shut away
on her father's estate.

Li Yuan must
have seen something of that in her face, for what he said next seemed
to penetrate her mood, almost to read her thoughts.

"You were
alone too long, Fei Yen."

It sounded so
formal, so old-mannish, that she laughed. He frowned at her, not
understanding.

"I mean
it," he said, his face earnest. "It isn't healthy for a
young woman to be locked away with old maids and virgins."

His candidness,
and the apparent maturity it revealed, surprised and amused her. She
had to remind herself again of his precocity. He was only twelve.
Despite this she was tempted to flirt with him. It was her natural
inclination, long held in check, and, after a moment's hesitation,
she indulged it.

"I'm
gratified to find you so concerned for my welfare, Li Yuan. You think
I should have been living life to the full, then, and not mourning
your brother?"

She saw
immediately that she had said the wrong thing. She had misread his
comment. His face closed to her and he turned away, suddenly cold,
distant. It troubled her and she crossed the space between them,
touching his shoulder. "I didn't mean . . ."

She stood there
a moment, suddenly aware of how still he was. Her hand lay gently on
his shoulder, barely pressing against him,

yet it seemed he
was gathered there at the point of contact, his whole self focused in
her touch. It bemused her. What was this?

She felt
embarrassed, felt that she ought to remove her hand, but did not know
how. It seemed that any movement of hers would be a snub.

Then,
unexpectedly, he reached up and covered her hand with his own,
pressing it firmly to his shoulder. "We both miss him," he
said. "But life goes on. I, too, found the customs too—
too strict."

She was
surprised to hear that. It was more like something Han Ch'in might
have said. She had always thought Li Yuan was in his father's mold.
Traditional. Bound fast by custom.

He released her
and turned to face her.

Li Yuan was
smiling now. Once more she found herself wrong footed. What was
happening? Why had his mood changed so quickly? She stared at him,
finding the likeness to Han more prominent now that he was smiling.
But then, Han had always been smiling. His eyes, his mouth, had been
made for laughter.

She looked away,
vaguely disturbed. Li Yuan was too intent for her taste. Like his
father there was something daunting, almost terrible about him: an
austerity suggestive of ferocity. Yet now, standing there, smiling at
her, he seemed quite different— almost quite likable.

"It was
hard, you know. This morning ... to mount Han's horse like that."

Again the words
were unexpected. His smile faded, became a wistful, boyish expression
of loss.

It touched her
deeply. For the first time she saw through his mask of precocious
intelligence and saw how vulnerable he was, how frail in spite of
all. Not even that moment after Han's death had revealed that to her.
Then she had thought it grief, not vulnerability. She was moved by
her insight and, when he looked up at her again, saw how hurt he
seemed, how full of pain his eyes were. Beautiful eyes. Dark, hazel
eyes. She had not noticed them before.

Han's death had
touched him deeply; she could see. He had lost far more than she. She
was silent, afraid she would say the wrong thing, watching him, this
man-boy, her curiosity aroused, her sympathies awakened.

He frowned and
looked away.

"That's why
I came to see you. To give you a gift."

"A gift?"

"Yes. The
Andalusian."

She shook her
head, confused. "But your father ..."

He looked
directly at her now. "I've spoken to my father already. He said
the horse is mine to do with as I wish." He bowed his head and
swallowed. "So I'd like to give him to you. In place of the
Arab."

She laughed
shortly. "But the Arab was Han's, not mine."

"I know.
Even so, I'd like you to have him. Han told me how much you enjoyed
riding."

This time her
laughter was richer, deeper, and when Li Yuan looked up again he saw
the delight in her face.

"Why, Li
Yuan, that's . . ." She stopped and simply looked at him,
smiling broadly. Then, impulsively, she reached out and embraced him,
kissing his cheek.

"Then
you'll take him?" he whispered softly in her ear.

Her soft
laughter rippled through him. "Of course, Li Yuan. And I thank
you. From the bottom of my heart I thank you."

When she was
gone he turned and looked after her, feeling the touch of her still,
the warmth on his cheek where she had kissed him. He closed his eyes
and caught the scent of her,
mei hua
— plum blossom—in
the air and on his clothes where she had brushed against him. He
shivered, his thoughts in turmoil, his pulse racing.

The plum.
Ice-skinned and jade-boned. It symbolized winter and virginity. But
its blossoming brought the spring.

"Mei
hua.
. . ."
He said the words softly, like a breath, letting them
mingle with her scent, then turned away, reddening at the thought
that had come to mind. Mei
hua.
It was a term for sexual
pleasure, for on the bridal bed were spread plum-blossom covers. So
innocent a scent, and yet Shivering, he took a long, slow breath of
her. Then he turned and hurried on, his fists clenched at his sides,
his face the color of summer.

"There have
been changes since you were last among us, Howard."

"So I see."

DeVore turned
briefly to smile at Berdichev before returning his attention to the
scene on the other side of the one-way mirror that took up the whole
of one wall of the study.

"Who are
they?"

Berdichev came
up and stood beside him. "Sympathizers. Money men, mainly.
Friends of our host, Douglas."

The room the two
men looked into was massive; was more garden than room. It had been
landscaped with low hills and narrow walks, with tiny underlit pools,
small temples, carefully placed banks of shrub and stone, shady
willows, cinnamon trees, and delicate uw-tong. People milled about
casually, talking among themselves, eating and drinking. But there
the similarities with past occasions ended. The servants who went
among them were no longer Han. In fact, there was not a single Han in
sight.

DeVore's eyes
took it all in with great interest. He saw how, though they still
wore silks, the style had changed; had been simplified. Their dress
seemed more austere, both in its cut and in the absence of
embellishment. What had been so popular only three years ago was now
conspicuous by its absence. There were no birds or flowers, no
dragonflies or clouds, no butterflies or pictograms. Now only a
single motif could be seen, worn openly on chest or collar, on hems
or in the form of jewelry, on pendants about the neck or emblazoned
on a ring or brooch: the double helix of heredity. Just as noticeable
was the absence of the color blue—the color of imperial
service. DeVore smiled appreciatively; that last touch was the
subtlest of insults.

"The Seven
have done our work for us, Soren."

"Not
altogether. We pride ourselves on having won the propaganda war.
There are men out there who, three years ago, would not have dreamed
of coming to a gathering like this. They would have been worried that
word would get back—as, indeed, it does—and that the
T'ang would act through his ministers to make life awkward for them.
Now they have no such fears. We have educated them to the fact of
their own power. They are many, the Seven few. What if the Seven
close one door to them?—here, at such gatherings, a thousand
new doors open."

"And
The
New Hope?"

Berdichev's
smile stretched his narrow face against its natural grain.
The New
Hope
was his brainchild. "In more than one sense it is our
flagship. You should see the pride in their faces when they talk of
it.
We
did this, they seem to be saying. Not the Han, but us,
the Hung Mao, as they call us. The Europeans."

DeVore glanced
at Berdichev. It was the second time he had heard the term. Their
host, Douglas, had used it when he had first arrived. "We
Europeans must stick together," he had said. And DeVore, hearing
it, had felt he had used it like some secret password; some token of
mutual understanding.

He looked about
him at the decoration of the study. Again there were signs of
change—of that same revolution in style that was sweeping the
Above; The decor, like the dress of those outside, was simpler—the
design of chairs and table less extravagant than it had been. On the
walls, now, hung simple rural landscapes. Gone were the colorful
historical scenes that had been so much in favor with the Hung Moo.
Gone were the lavish screens a'nd bright floral displays of former
days. But all of this, ironically, brought them only further into
line with the real Han—the Families—who had always
preferred the simple to the lavish, the harmonious to the gaudy.

These tokens of
change, superficial as they yet were, were encouraging, but they were
also worrying. These men—these
Europeans
—were not
Han, nor had they ever been Han. Yet the Han had destroyed all that
they had once been—had severed them from their cultural roots
as simply and as thoroughly as a gardener might snip the stem of a
chrysanthemum. The Seven had given them no real choice: they could be
Han or they could be nothing. And to be nothing was intolerable. Now,
however, to be Han was equally untenable.

DeVore shivered.
At present their response was negative: a reaction against Han ways,
Han dress, Han style. But they could not live like this for long. At
length they would turn the mirror on themselves and find they had no
real identity, no positive channel for their newborn sense of racial
selfhood.
The New Hope
was a move to fill that vacuum, as was
this term,
European
;
but neither was enough. A culture
was a vast and complex thing and, like the roots of a giant tree,
went deep into the dark, rich earth of time. It was more than a
matter of dress and style. It was a way of thinking and behaving. A
thing of blood and bone, not cloth and architecture.

Yes, they needed
more than a word for themselves, more than a central symbol for their
pride; they needed a focus— something to restore them to
themselves. But what? What on earth could fill the vacuum they were
facing? It was a problem they would need to address in the coming
days. To ignore it would be fatal.

He went to the
long table in the center of the room and looked down at the detailed
map spread out across its surface.

"Has
everyone been briefed?"

Berdichev came
and stood beside him. "Not everyone. IVe kept the circle as
small as possible. Douglas knows, of course. And Barrow. I thought
your man, Duchek, ought to know, too, considering how helpful he's
been. And then there's Moore and Weis."

"Anton
Weis? The banker?"

Berdichev
nodded. "I know what you're thinking, but he's changed in the
last year or so. He fell out with old man Ebert. Was stripped by him
of a number of important contracts. Now he hates the T'ang and his
circle with an intensity that's hard to match."

"I
understand. Even so, I'd not have thought him important enough."

"It's not
him so much as the people he represents. He's our liaison with a
number of interested parties. People who can't declare themselves
openly. Important people."

DeVore
considered a moment, then smiled. "Okay. So that makes seven of
us who know."

"Eight,
actually."

DeVore raised
his eyebrows in query, but Berdichev said simply, "I'll explain
later."