Wingrove, David - Chung Kuo 02 (26 page)

Even so, it
didn't reach her yet; didn't touch or move her. Three years was a
long time. She could not imagine how she would feel three years from
now. This much—this ritual of contracts, of pledges and vague
promises—seemed a small thing to do to satisfy her father.

She smiled,
looking at her father, sensing his pride in her. It pleased her, as
always, and she reached out to hold and touch his arm. She saw how
old man Ebert smiled at that, a tender, understanding smile. He was
cut from a different cloth than the rest of his family. Beside him
his wife, Berta, looked away, distanced from everything about her,
her face a mask of total indifference to the whole proceeding. A
tall, elegant woman, hers was a cold, austere beauty: the beauty of
pine forests under snow. A rarefied, inhuman beauty.

With that same
clarity with which she had seen the son, Jelka saw how Berta Ebert
had shaped her children in their father's absence. Saw how their cold
self-interest was a reflection of their mother's.

She held her
father's arm, feeling its warmth, its strong solidity, and drew
comfort from that contact. He loved her. Surely he would allow
nothing that would harm her?

On the way over
he had talked to her of the reasons behind this marriage. Of the need
to build strong links between the Seven and the most powerful of the
new, commercial Families. It was the way forward, and her union with
Hans would cement the peace they had struggled hard to win. GenSyn
had remained staunchly loyal to the Seven in the recent War and Li
Shai Tung had rewarded them for that loyalty. Klaus Ebert had taken
over mining contracts on Mars and the Uranus moons as well as large
holdings in three of the smaller communications companies. Her
marriage would make this abstract, commercial treaty a personal
thing. Would make it a thing of flesh and blood.

She understood
this. Even so, it seemed a long way off. Before then she had to
finish her schooling, the rest of her childhood. She looked at Hans
Ebert dispassionately, as if studying a stranger.

She turned in
her seat, her cup empty, to summon the servant. It came to her
without a word, as if it had anticipated her wish, bowing to her as
it filled her cup. Yet before it moved back into the shadows of the
room it looked up at her, meeting her eyes a second time, holding
them a moment with its dark, intimate knowledge of things she did not
know.

Jelka turned her
head away, looking past her father, meeting the eyes of her future
husband. Blue eyes, not pink. Startlingly blue. Colder, harder eyes.
Different...

She shuddered
and looked down. And yet the same. Somehow, curiously, the same.

* *
*

WANG SAU-LEYAN
raised the silk handkerchief to his face and wiped his eyes. For a
moment he stood there, his well-fleshed body shaking gently, the
laughter still spilling from his lips; then he straightened up and
sniffed loudly, looking about him.

Behind him the
tomb was being sealed again, the rosewood litter carried away.
Servants busied themselves, sweeping the dirt path with brushes of
twigs, while, to one side, the six New Confucian officials stood in a
tight circle, talking quietly among themselves.

"That was
rich, Heng, don't you think?" Wang said, turning to face his
Chancellor, ignoring the looks of displeasure of his fellow T'ang. "I
had visions of my brother getting up out of the casket to chastise
the poor buggers!"

"My Lord .
. ." Heng's face was a picture of dismay. He glanced about him
at the gathered T'ang, then lowered his head. "It was
unfortunate . . ."

"Unfortunate!"
Wang's laughter rang out again. "Why, it could only have
happened to Ta-hung! Who else but my brother would find himself
thrown
into his own tomb!" With the last few words Wang
Sau-leyan made a mime of the casket sliding into the tomb.

It had been an
accident. At the top of the steps, one of the bearers had tripped and
with the balance of the casket momentarily upset, the remaining
bearers had lost their grip. The whole thing had tumbled down the
steps, almost throwing out its occupant. Wang Sau-leyan, following
close behind, had stood there at the tomb's mouth, doubled up with
laughter. He had not stopped laughing since.

Throughout the
ceremony, he had giggled, oblivious of the astonished looks of the
officials.

Now, however,
his fellow T'ang were exchanging looks, appalled by his behavior.
After a moment the oldest of them, Wei Feng, stepped forward.

"What is
this, Wang Sau-leyan? Have you no feelings for your dead brother? We
came to honor him today, to pay our respects to his souls as they
journey on. This laughter is not fitting. Have you forgotten the
rites, Wang Sau-leyan? It is your duty—"

"Hell's
teeth, Wei Feng, I know my duty. But it was funny. Genuinely funny.
If he had not been dead already, that last fall would have killed
him!" Wang Sau-leyan stared back at his fellow T'ang
momentarily, then looked away. "However . . . forgive me,
cousins. It seems that I alone saw the humor in the moment."

Wei Feng looked
down, his anger barely contained. Never in all his years had he seen
anything like it.

"There are
times for humor . . ."

Wang's huff of
disgust was clearly disrespectful. He moved past Wei Feng as if the
older man weren't there, confronting the other T'ang.

"If my
brother had been a man to respect I would have shown him some
respect, but my brother was a fool and a weakling. He would never
have been T'ang but for the death of my elder brothers." Wang
looked about him, nodding his head. "Yes, and I know that goes
for me, too, but understand me, cousins. I'll not play hollow tongue
to any man. I'll speak as I feel. As I am, not as you'd have me seem.
So you'll understand me if I say that I disliked my brother. I'm not
glad he's dead. No, I'd not go that far, for even a fool deserves
breath. But I'll not be a hypocrite. I'll shed no false tears for
him. I'll save them for men who deserve them. For men I truly love.
Likewise I'll keep my respect for those who deserve respect."

Tsu Ma had been
staring past Wang while he spoke. Now he looked back at him, his face
inexpressive, his eyes looking up and down the length of Wang
Sau-leyan, as if to measure him.

"And yet
your brother was T'ang, Wang Sau-leyan. Surely a T'ang deserves
respect?"

"Had the
man filled the clothes . . ."

"And he did
not?"

Wang Sau-leyan
paused, realizing suddenly what dangerous seas he had embarked upon.
Then he laughed, relaxing, and looked back at Tsu Ma.

"Don't
mistake me, Tsu Ma. I speak only of my brother. I knew him well. In
all the long history of the Seven there was never one like him. He
was not worthy to wear the imperial yellow. Look in your hearts, all
of you, and tell me that I'm wrong. In all honesty, was there one of
you who, knowing my father was dead, rejoiced that Ta-hung was
T'ang?"

He looked about
them, seeing the grudging confirmation in every face.

"Well, let
us keep our respect for those that deserve it, neh? For myself I'd
gladly bow to any of my cousins here. You are men who have proved
your worth. You, indeed, are T'ang."

He saw how that
mollified them and laughed inwardly. They were all so vain, so
title-proud. And hypocrites, too; for if the truth were known they
cared as little for Ta-hung as he. No, they had taken offense not at
his denigration of his brother but at the implied mockery of his
brother's title, for by inference it mocked them also. As for
himself. . .

He moved
through, between their ranks, bowing to each of them as he passed,
then led them on along the pathway and up the broad marble steps into
the ancient palace.

As for himself,
he cared not a jot for the trappings of his title. He had seen enough
of men and their ways to know how hollow a mere title could be. No,
what he valued was not the title "T'ang" but the reality of
the power it gave him; the ability to say and do what he had always
dreamed of saying and doing. The power to offend, if offense was what
he wished. To be a T'ang and not have that was to be as nothing—was
to be an actor in a tiresome play, mouthing another's words,
constrained by bonds of ritual and tradition.

And he would not
be that.

As the servants
made their way among his guests, offering wine and sweetmeats, he
looked about him again, a faint smile coming to his lips as he
remembered that moment at the entrance to the tomb.

Yes, he thought,
it was not your fate to be T'ang, Ta-hung. You were designed for
other things than kingship. And yet T'ang you became.

Wang smiled and
took a cup of wine from a servant, then turned away, looking out
through the window at the walled garden and the great marbled tablet
of the tomb at its center.

It was
unfortunate. He had not disliked his brother. Despised him, maybe—
though even that was too strong a word for the mild feeling of
irritation he had felt—but not hated him as he had his father
and his two oldest brothers. However, Ta-hung had had the misfortune
of being born before him. As a younger brother he would have been no
threat, but as T'ang he had been an obstacle, a thing to be removed.

He sipped at his
wine and turned his head, looking across at his Chancellor. Hung
Mien-lo was talking to Tsu Ma, his head lowered in deference.
Smoothing things over, no doubt. Wang looked down, smiling, pleased
by his morning's work.

It was true, he
had
found the accident genuinely amusing, but he had grasped
at once that it was the perfect pretext for annoying his fellow
T'ang—the perfect irritant; and he had exaggerated his
response. He had seen how they bridled at his irreverence. And
afterward it had given him the opportunity to play the bluff, honest
man. To put his heart upon his sleeve and flaunt it before them. He
took a deep breath, then looked up again, noting how their eyes went
to him constantly. Yes, he thought. They hate me now, but they also
admire me in a grudging way. They think me crass but honest. Well,
let them be mistaken on both counts. Let them take the surface-show
for the substance, for it will make things easier in the days to
come.

He turned again,
looking back at the tomb. They were dead—every one of them who
had been in the room that day he had been exiled. Father and mother,
brothers and uncles. All dead. And he had had them killed, every last
one.

And now I'm
T'ang and sleep in my father's bed with my father's wives and my
father's maids.

He drained his
glass, a small ripple of pleasure passing through him. Yes. He had
stopped their mouths and closed their eyes. And no one would ever
again tell him what he could or couldn't do.

No
one.

* *
*

TWO HOURS LATER,
Wang Sau-leyan sat in his father's room, in the big, tall-backed
chair, side-on to the mirror, his back to the door.
He heard the door open, soft footsteps pad across the tiles.

"Is that
you, Sweet Rain?"

He heard the
footsteps pause and imagined the girl bending low as she bowed. A
pretty young thing, perhaps the prettiest of his father's maids.

"
Chieh
Hsia
?"

He half-turned,
languid from the wine he'd drunk, and put his hand out.

"Have you
brought the lavender bowl?"

There was the
slightest hesitation, then, "I have,
Chieh Hsia
."

"Good.
Well, come then. I want you to see to me as you used to see to my
father." Again there was the slightest hesitation before she
acted. Then she came round, bowing low, and knelt before him, the
bowl held delicately in the long slender fingers of her left hand.

He had seen the
film of his father's final evening, had seen how Sweet Rain had
ministered to him, milking the old man into the lavender bowl. Well,
now she would do the same for him. But no one would be watching this
time. He had turned off the cameras. No one but he would know what he
did within the privacy of his bedroom walls.

He drew the gown
back from his lap, exposing his nakedness. His penis was still quite
flaccid.

"Well,
girl? What are you waiting for?"

He let his head
fall back and closed his eyes, waiting. There was the faint rustle of
silks as she moved closer, then he felt her fingers brush against his
flesh. He shivered, then nodded to himself, feeling his penis stir
between her fingers. Such a delicate touch she had—like silk
itself—her fingers caressing the length of him slowly,
tantalizingly, making his breath catch in his throat.

He opened his
eyes, looking down at her. Her head was lowered, intent on what she
was doing, the darkness of her hair held up with a single white-jade
pin.

"Is this
how you touched my father?"

She glanced up.
"No,
Chieh Hsia.
But I thought. . ."

And still her
fingers worked on him, gathering the whole of him up into that tiny
nexus of pleasure, there between his legs.

"Thought
what?" he said after a moment, the words barely audible.

She hesitated,
then looked up at him again, candidly this time. "Every man is
different,
Chieh Hsia.
Likewise their needs . . ."

He nodded
slowly. Gods, but it was delightful. He would never have dreamed that
a woman's hands could be so potent an instrument of pleasure.

Her eyes met his
again. "If the T'ang would prefer, I could . . . kiss him
there."

He shuddered.
The word "kiss" promised delights beyond imagining. He gave
a tiny nod. "Yes. I'd like that."

He heard her set
the bowl down and let his head fall back, his eyes close, then felt
her lift him to her lips. Again he shivered, drawn up out of himself
by the sheer delight of what she was doing. For a while, then, he
seemed to lapse out of himself, becoming but a single thread of
perfect pleasure, linked to the warm wetness of her mouth, a pleasure
that grew and grew . . .