The Middle Kingdom (74 page)

For once he had
had time to stay more than a day, and when Hanna had suggested they
fly up to Fredrikstad and visit the family's summer home, he had
agreed at once. From Fredrikstad they had taken a motor cruiser to
the islands south of the City.

He had thought
they would be alone on the island; he, Hanna, and her two sons. But
when the cruiser pulled up at the jetty, he saw that there were
others there already. He had gone inside, apprehensive because he had
not been warned there would be other guests, and was delighted to
find not strangers, but his oldest friend, Pietr Endfors, there in
the low-ceilinged front cabin, waiting to greet him.

Endfors had
married a girl from the far north. A cold, elegant beauty with
almost-white hair and eyes like the arctic sea. They had an
eight-year-old daughter, Jenny.

It had not
happened at once. At first she was merely the daughter of an old
friend; a beautiful little girl with an engaging smile and a warmth
her mother seemed to lack. From the start, however, she had taken to
him and by that evening was perched immovably in his lap. He liked
her from that first moment, but even he could not tell how attached
he would become.

When Pietr and
his wife had died eight years later, he had become Jenny's guardian.
Four years later he had married her. He had been thirty years her
senior.

He returned from
the bitter-sweet reverie and focused on his daughter.

"You've not
been listening to a word, have you, Father?"

He laughed and
shook his head. "Just reminiscing." He sat up in his chair
and reached across to feel the
ch'a
kettle. It was lukewarm.
He grunted and then shouted for the servant.

"I was just
saying, we ought to go home. It seems time. Don't you think?"

He looked
sharply at her, then, confused by what she had said, shook his head.
It was not so much a negative as an acknowledgment that he had not
considered the matter. Go home? Why? Why was it time?

"Are you
tired of all this?" he asked, almost incredulous. She seemed so
happy here. So carefree.

She seemed
reluctant to admit what she felt, but finally she answered him. "I'm
happy enough. But it's not me I'm thinking of, it's you. This place
is no good for you. You're going soft here. Wasting away before your
time." She looked up at him, real love, real concern, in her
young eyes. "I want you to be as you were. I don't want you to
be like this. That's all. . . ."

He couldn't
argue with that. He felt it in himself. Each day it seemed to get
worse. Sitting here with nothing to do. Ordered to do nothing. He
felt more and more restless as the months passed; more and more
impotent. That was the worst of exile.

"What can I
do? I have to be here."

She could feel
the bitterness in his voice, see the resignation in his hunched
shoulders. It hurt her to be witness to such things. But for once she
could help him. For once she had balm for his wounds.

"Where is
that bloody servant!" he cried out, anger and frustration
boiling over into his words, his actions. He turned in his chair and
yelled for service. She waited for him to finish, then told him that
she had sent the servant away earlier.

"I want to
talk to you."

He looked at
her, surprised and amused by her actions, by the grown-up tone of her
voice. "Talk, eh? What about?"

She looked away,
stared out at the sea, the distant islands of the Kepulauan Barat
Daya. "This is beautiful, isn't it? The colors of the sky and
sea. But it's the wrong kind of beauty. It doesn't. . ." She
struggled for some way of expressing what she was feeling, then shook
her head.

He knew what she
meant, though. It was beautiful. But it was a soft, pearled beauty.
It didn't touch his soul the way the fjords, the mountains, touched
him. The unvarying warmth, the mists, the absence of seasonal
change—these things irked him.

"I wish . .
." he began, then shook his head firmly. There was no use
wishing. Li Shai Tung had exiled him here. He would live out his days
on this island. It was his payment for disobedience. Exile.

"What do
you wish?" she asked. She had stood and was waiting at his side,
looking at him, her head on the level of his own.

He reached out a
hand and caressed her cheek, then let his hand rest on her bare
shoulder. The skin was cool and dry.

"Why should
I wish for anything more than what I have?" He frowned as he
looked at her, thinking that he might have been killed for what he
had done; and then she would have been alone, an orphan. Or worse. He
had acted without understanding that. In his anger he had gambled
that the T'ang would act as he had. Yet it pained him greatly now to
think what might have been: the hurt he could have caused her—maybe
even her death.

She seemed to
sense this. Leaning forward she kissed his brow, his cheek. "You
did what you had to. Li Shai Tung understood that."

He laughed at
that. "Understood? He was furious!"

"Only
because he had to be."

He removed his
hand, leaned back in his chair. "What is this, Jelka? What have
you heard?"

It was her turn
to laugh. "You were sleeping when he came. I didn't want to
disturb you. I know how bad the nights are for you." She was
looking at him in a strangely mature way; more mother than daughter
for that moment.

He reached out
and held her firmly. "Who, Jelka? Who has come?"

She reached up
and took his hands from where they lay on her shoulders, then held
them, turning them over. Strong, fine hands.

"Well?"
he prompted, impatient now, but laughing too. "Tell me who it
is!"

"General
Nocenzi."

"Ah____"
He sat back heavily.

"He's in
the house. Shall I bring him?"

He looked up at
her distractedly, then nodded. "Yes. It will be good to see
Vittorio again."

He watched her
go, then let his gaze drift out over the surface of the sea. Nocenzi.
It could mean only one thing. They had come for his head.

Friends had kept
him informed. They had told him of the growing demand for "justice"
in the Lehmann case. Lately there had been rumors that the House was
about to indict him for the murder. Well, now the T'ang had succumbed
to that pressure. And he, Tolonen, would be made to account for what
he'd done.

He shivered,
thinking of Jelka, then turned to see that Nocenzi was already there,
standing on the sand by the corner of the house, his cap under his
arm.

"Knut____"

The two men
embraced warmly and stood there a moment simply looking at each
other. Then Tolonen looked down.

"I know why
you've come."

Nocenzi laughed
strangely. "You've read my orders, then, General?"

Tolonen met his
eyes again, then shook his head. "Just Shih Tolonen. You're
General now, Vittorio."

Nocenzi studied
him a while, then smiled. "Let's sit, eh? Jelka said she'd bring
fresh ch'a."

They sat, not
facing each other, but looking outward at the sea.

Nocenzi noted
the book that lay facedown on the table. "What are you reading,
Knut?"

Tolonen handed
him the old, leather-bound volume and watched him smile. It was Sun
Tzu's Chan Shu, his Art of War, dating from the third century B.C.
The Clavell translation.

"They say
the Ch'in warriors were mad. They ran into battle without armor."

Tolonen laughed.
"Yes, Vittorio, but there were a million of them. Nor had they
ever tasted defeat."

There was a
moment's tense silence, then Tolonen turned to face his old friend.
"Tell me straight, Vittorio. Is it as I fear? Am I to pay for
what I did?"

Nocenzi looked
back at him. "Lehmann deserved what you did to him. There are
many who believe that."

"Yes,"
Tolonen insisted. "But am I to pay?"

Tolonen's
successor gazed back at the man he had served under for almost a
quarter of a century and smiled. "You said you knew why I had
come, Knut. But you were wrong. I haven't come for your head. I've
come because the T'ang has asked to see you."

LI YUAN cried
out and woke in the semi-darkness, his heart beating wildly, the
feeling of the dark horse beneath him still vivid, the smell of plum
blossom filling his nostrils.

He shivered and
sat up, aware of the warm stickiness of his loins. Sweat beaded his
brow and chest. The satin sheets were soaked about him. He moaned
softly and put his head in his hands. Fei Yen. ... He had been riding
with Fei Yen. Faster and faster they had ridden, down, down the long
slope until, with a jolt and a powerful stretching motion he could
feel in his bones even now, his horse had launched itself at the
fence.

He threw the
sheets back and, in the half light, looked down at himself. His penis
was still large, engorged with blood, but it was flaccid now. With a
little shudder he reached down and touched the wetness. The musty
smell of his own semen was strong, mixed with the lingering scent of
plum blossom. He sniffed deeply, confused, then remembered. The silk
she had given him lay on the bedside table, its perfume pervading the
air of his room.

He looked across
at the broad ivory face of the bedside clock. It was just after four.
He stood, about to go through and shower, when there were noises
outside the door, then a muted knocking.

Li Yuan threw
the cover back, then took a robe from the side and drew it on.
"Come!"

Nan Ho stood in
the doorway, head bowed, a lantern in one hand.

"Are you
all right, Prince Yuan?"

Nan Ho was his
body servant; his head man, in charge of the eight juniors in his
household-within-a-household.

"It was"—he
shuddered—"It was only a dream, Nan Ho. I'm fine." He
glanced around at the bed, then, slightly embarrassed by the request,
added. "Would you bring clean sheets, Nan Ho. I—"

He turned away
sharply, realizing he was holding Fei Yen's silk in his hand.

Nan Ho looked to
him then to the bed and bowed. "I'll be but a moment, Prince
Yuan." Then he hesitated. "Is there"—he moved
his head slightly to one side, as if finding difficulty with what he
was about to say—"is there anything I can arrange for you,
Prince Yuan?"

Li Yuan
swallowed, then shook his head. "I don't understand you, Nan Ho.
What might you arrange at this hour?"

Nan Ho came into
the room and closed the door behind him. Then, in a softer voice, he
said, "Perhaps the Prince would like Pearl Heart to come and see
to him?"

Pearl Heart was
one of the maids. A young girl of fifteen years.

"Why should
I want Pearl Heart . . . ?" he began, then saw what Nan Ho meant
and looked away.

"Well,
Highness?"

He held back the
anger he felt, keeping his voice calm; the voice of a Prince, a
future T'ang.

"Just bring
clean sheets, Nan Ho. I'll tell you when I need anything else."

Nan Ho bowed
deeply and turned to do as he was bid. Only when he was gone did Li
Yuan look down at the wet silk in his hand and realize he had wiped
himself with it.

CHEN STOOD there
in the queue, naked, waiting his turn. The sign over the doorway read
DECONTAMINATION. The English letters were black. Beneath them, in big
red pictograms, was the equivalent Mandarin. Chen looked about him,
noting that it was one of the rare few signs here that had an English
translation. The Lodz Clearing Station handled more than three
hundred thousand people a day, and almost all of them were Han. It
was strange that. Unexpected.

Beyond the
doorway were showers and disinfectant baths: primitive but effective
solutions to the problem of decontaminating millions of workers every
week. He shuffled along, ignoring his nakedness and the nakedness of
those on every side of him, resisting the temptation to scratch at
the skin patch beneath his left ear.

A Hung Mao guard
pushed him through the doorway brutally, and like those in front of
him Chen bowed his head and walked on slowly through the stinging
coldness of the showers, then down the steps into the bath, holding
his breath as he ducked underwater.

Then he was
outside, in daylight, goose pimples on his flesh. A guard thrust
clothes into his arms—a loincloth, a drab brown overall, and a
coolie hat—and then he was in line again.

"Tong
Chou?"

He answered to
his alias and pushed through to the front to collect his ID card and
his pack, checking briefly to make sure they had not confiscated the
viewing tube. Then he found a space and, holding the card between his
teeth, the pack between his feet, got dressed quickly.

He followed the
flow of people through, one of thousands, identically dressed. At the
end of a long walled roadway the crowd spilled out into a wide arena.
This was the embarkation area. Once more the signs were all in
Kuo-yu,
or Mandarin. Chen turned and looked back, seeing, for
the first time, the wall of the City towering over them, stretching
away whitely into the distance to either side. Then he looked down,
searching for the pictogram he had learned—hsia, the crab.
Seeing it, he made his way across and up the ramp, stopping at the
barrier to show his ID.

The train was
packed. He squeezed in, smiling apologetically as he made his way
through, then turned, waiting.

He had not long
to wait. The train was crowded and extremely stuffy, the smell of
disinfected bodies overpowering, but it was fast. Within the hour he
was at Hsia Plantation, stumbling from the carriage, part of the
crowd that made its way slowly down the ramp and out into the open.

There was a
faint, unpleasant scent to the air, like something stale or
overcooked. Chen looked up, then looked down again quickly, his eyes
unused to the brightness. The sun blazed down overhead; a huge,
burning circle of light—bigger, much brighter, than he
remembered it. Ahead of him the land stretched away forever—flat
and wide and green. Greener, much greener, than he'd ever imagined.