Wingrove, David - Chung Kuo 02 (39 page)

"It seems
so. Fischer, my man in Alexandria, thinks Sau-leyan wasn't responsible for his
brother's death, but there's good reason to believe that Hung Mien-lo
has been his man for some time now."

"And Mach?
Why didn't he consult the others?"

"That's
Mach's way. He didn't like it when I went to Gesell direct. If he'd
had his way he would have checked me out beforehand, but I
circumvented him. He doesn't like that. It rankles him. He likes to
be in control of things."

"But you
think he'll deal with Hung Mien-lo?"

DeVore nodded.
"It makes sense. If I were he I'd do the same. He'll get what he
can out of the T'ang. And he'll use that to keep us at a distance. To
make the
Ping Tiao
less dependent on us. And, conversely,
he'll use the alliance with us to keep the T'ang at a distance. It'll
mean the
Ping Tiao
won't have to accept what either of us tell
them to do. It'll give them the option to say no now and again. Mach
will try to keep the deal with us secret from the T'ang, and vice
versa. He'll try to make it seem as if the change—the
strengthening of their position—comes from within the
Ping
Tiao
."

Lehmann was
silent a while, thoughtful. "Then why not kill Hung Mien-lo and
prevent Mach from making this deal? There has to be a reason."

DeVore smiled,
pleased with his young lieutenant. He always enjoyed talking out his
thoughts with him.

"There is.
You see, Mach's scheme works only if we're unaware of the T'ang's
role in things, if we're fooled by his tales of a great
Ping Tiao
renaissance. Oh, their fortunes will be on the up after Helmstadt,
there's no doubt, but a deal with the T'ang could give them something
they lack. Something they didn't get from Helmstadt. Funds."

"And you
want that? You want them to be independently funded?"

"No. Not if
that were all there was to it. But I don't intend to let them bargain
with me. At the first sign of it I'll threaten to pull out
altogether. That would leave them in a worse position than they
began, because all the T'ang can offer them is money. They'd lose our
contacts, our specialist knowledge, our expertise in battle. And the
rest of the Bremen map . . ."

"I see. And
then there's the question of what Wang Sau-leyan wants from this?"

"Exactly.
He wouldn't risk contacting the
Ping Tiao
unless he had some
scheme in mind. T'ang or not, if the other members of the Council of
Seven heard of his involvement he would be dead." Lehmann
glanced at the screen. "It's a thought . . ."

"Yes.
There's always that option. If things get really bad and we need
something to divert the Seven."

"Then what
do you intend to do?"

DeVore leaned
forward and pressed the pad to clear the screen. At once the lights
came up again.

"At present
nothing. Mach is meeting Hung Mien-Lo again. In Alexandria in two
weeks time. My man will be there to record it for me. It might be
interesting, don't you think? And—who knows?—Mach might
even give the T'ang his father's ears back."

* *
*

the NIGHT WAS
clear and dark, the moon a sharp crescent to the northeast, high
above the distant outline of the mountains. It was a warm night.
Laughter drifted across the water as the long, high-sided boat made
its way out across the lake, the lanterns swinging gently on either
side.

Tsu Ma had
insisted on taking the oars. He pulled the light craft through the
water effortlessly, his handsome mouth formed into a smile, his back
held straight, the muscles of his upper arms rippling beneath his
silks like the flanks of a running horse. Li Yuan sat behind Tsu Ma
in the stem, looking past him at Fei Yen and her cousin, Yin Wu Tsai.

The two girls
had their heads together, giggling behind their fans. It had been Fei
Yen's idea to have a midnight picnic, and Tsu Ma had been delighted
when the two girls had come to them with blankets and a basket,
interrupting their talk. The two men had smiled and laughed and let
themselves be led out onto the lake.

Li Yuan grinned
broadly, enjoying himself. In the varicolored light from the lanterns
Fei Yen looked wonderful, like a fairy princess or some mythical
creature conjured from the rich legends of his people's past. The
flickering patterns of the light made her face seem insubstantial,
like something you might glimpse in a dream but which, when you came
closer or held a clear light up to see it better, would fade or
change back to its true form. He smiled at the fancifulness of the
thought, then caught his breath, seeing how her eyes flashed as she
laughed at something her cousin had whispered in her ear. And then
she looked across at him, her dark eyes smiling, and his blood seemed
to catch fire in his veins.

He shuddered,
filled by the sight of her. She was his. His.

Fei Yen turned,
looking out behind her, then turned back, leaning toward Tsu Ma. "To
the island, Tsu Ma. To the island . . ."

Tsu Ma bowed his
head. "Whatever you say, my Lady."

The boat began
to turn. Beyond the temple on the small hill the lake curved like a
swallow's wing. Near the wing's tip was a tiny island, reached by a
wooden bridge of three spans. Servants had prepared it earlier. As
they rounded the point, they could see it clearly, the bridge and the
tiny two-tiered pagoda lit by colored lanterns.

Li Yuan stared
across the water, delighted, then looked back at Fei Yen.

"It's
beautiful, you clever thing. When did you plan all this?"

Fei Yen laughed
and looked down, clearly pleased by his praise. "This afternoon.

After we'd been
riding. I ... I did it for our guest, husband."

Tsu Ma slowed
his stroke momentarily and bowed his head to Fei Yen. "I am
touched, my Lady. You do me great honor."

Li Yuan watched
the exchange, his breast filled with pride for his wife. She was so
clever to have thought of it. It was just the right touch. The
perfect end to a perfect day. The kind of thing a man would remember
for the rest of his days. Yes, he could imagine it now, forty years
from now, he and Tsu Ma, standing on the terrace by the lake, looking
back . . .

She had even
been clever enough to provide an escort for the T'ang, a clever,
pretty woman who was certain to delight Tsu Ma. Indeed, had Fei Yen
not been in the boat, he would have allowed himself to concede that
Wu Tsai was herself quite beautiful.

For a moment he
studied the two women, comparing them. Wu Tsai was taller than Fei
Yen, her face, like her body, longer and somehow grosser, her nose
broader, her lips fuller, her cheekbones less refined, her neck
stronger, her breasts more prominent beneath the silk of her jacket.
Yet it was only by contrast with Fei Yen that these things were
noticeable: as if in Fei Yen lay the very archetype of Han beauty;
and all else, however fine in itself, was but a flawed copy of that
perfection. The island drew near. Li Yuan leaned forward, instructing
Tsu Ma where to land. Then the boat was moored and Tsu Ma was handing
the girls up onto the wooden jetty, the soft rustle of their silks as
they disembarked seeming, for that brief moment, to merge with the
silken darkness of the night and the sweetness of their perfume.

They settled on
the terrace, Fei Yen busying herself laying out the table while Wu
Tsai sat and made pleasant conversation with Tsu Ma. Li Yuan stood at
the rail, looking out across the darkness of the lake, his sense of
ease, of inner stillness, lulling him so that for a time he seemed
aware only of the dull murmur of the voices behind him and the soft
lapping of the water against the wooden posts of the jetty. Then
there was the light touch of a hand on his shoulder and he turned to
find Fei Yen there, smiling up at him.

"Please,
husband. Come sit with us."

He put his arms
about her and lowered his face to meet her lips, then came and sat
with them. Fei Yen stood by a tiny table to one side, pouring wine
into cups from a porcelain jug; offering first to the T'ang, then to
her husband, finally to her cousin. Only then did she give a little
bow and pouring herself some wine, settle, kneeling at her husband's
side.

Tsu Ma studied
them both a moment, then raised his cup. "You are a lucky man,
Li Yuan, to have such a wife. May your marriage be blessed with many
sons!"

Li Yuan bowed
his head, inordinately pleased. But it was no more than the truth. He
was
lucky. He looked down at the woman kneeling by his side
and felt his chest tighten with his love for her. His. It was three
days now since the wedding and yet he could not look at her without
thinking that. His. Of all the men in Chung Kuo, only he was allowed
this richness, this lifelong measure of perfection. He shivered and
raised his cup, looking back at Tsu Ma.

"To
friendship!" he offered, meeting Tsu Ma's eyes. "To we
four, here tonight, and to our eternal friendship!"

Tsu Ma leaned
forward, his teeth flashing as he smiled. "Yes. To friendship!"
He clinked his cup against Li Yuan's, then raised it in offering,
first to Wu Tsai and finally to Fei Yen.

Fei Yen had been
looking up from beneath her lashes, her pose the very image of
demure, obedient womanhood. At Tsu Ma's toast, however, she looked
down sharply, as if abashed. But it was not bashfulness that made her
avert her eyes; it was a deeper, stronger feeling, one that she tried
to hide not only from the watchful T'ang, but from herself. She
turned her head, looking up at Li Yuan.

"Would my
husband like more wine?"

Li Yuan smiled
back at her, handsome in his own way, and loving, too—a good
man for all his apparent coldness. Yet her blood didn't thrill at his
touch, nor did her heart race in her chest the way it was racing now
in the presence of Tsu Ma.

"In a
while, my love," he answered her. "But see to our guest
first. Tsu Ma's cup is almost empty."

She bowed her
head and, setting down her cup, went to fetch the wine jug. Tsu Ma
had turned slightly in his seat and now sat there, his booted legs
spread, one hand clasping his knee, the other holding out his cup.
Turning, seeing him like that, Fei Yen caught her breath. It was so
like the way Han Ch'in had used to sit, his strong legs spread
arrogantly, his broad hands resting on his knees. She bowed deeply,
hiding her sudden confusion, holding out the jug before her.

"Well . . .
?" Li Yuan prompted, making her start and spill some of the
wine.

Tsu Ma laughed,
a soft, generous laughter that made her look up at him again and meet
his eyes. Yes, there was no doubting it; he knew what she was
thinking. Knew the effect he had had on her.

She poured the
wine then backed away, her head bowed, her throat suddenly dry, her
heart pounding. Setting the jug down, she settled at her husband's
feet again, but now she was barely conscious of Li Yuan. The whole
world had suddenly turned about. She knelt there, her head lowered,
trying to still the sudden tremor of her hands, the violent beating
of her heart, but the sight of his booted feet beneath the table held
her eyes. She stared at them, mesmerized, the sound of his voice like
a drug on her senses, numbing her.

Wu Tsai was
flirting with Tsu Ma, leaning toward him, her words and gestures
unmistakable in their message; but Fei Yen could sense how detached
the T'ang was from her games. He leaned toward Wu Tsai, laughing,
smiling, playing the ancient game with ease and charm, but his
attention was focused in herself. She could sense how his body moved
toward her subtly; how, with the utmost casualness, he strove at each
moment to include her in all that was said. And Li Yuan? He was
unaware of this. It was like the poor child was asleep, enmeshed in
his dream of perfect love.

She looked away,
pained suddenly by all she was thinking. Li Yuan was her husband, and
one day he would be T'ang. He deserved her loyalty, in body and soul.
And yet...

She rose quietly
and went into the pagoda, returning a moment later with a
p'i p'a,
the ancient four-stringed lute shaped like a giant teardrop,
"What's this?" said Li Yuan, turning to look at her.

She stood there,
her head bowed. "I thought it might be pleasant if we had some
music."

Li Yuan turned
and looked across at Tsu Ma, who smiled and gave
a
tiny nod of
his head. But instead of handing the lute to her cousin, as Li Yuan
had expected, Fei Yen sat, the lute held upright in her lap, and
began to play.

Li Yuan sat
there, entranced by the fluency of her playing, the swift certainty
of her fingers across the strings, the passionate tiny movements of
her head as she wrought the tune from nothingness. He recognized the
song. It was the
Kan Hua Hui,
the "Flower Fair," a
sweet, sprightly tune that took considerable expertise to play. When
she finished he gave a short laugh and bowed his head. He was about
to speak, to praise her, when she began again—a slower, more
thoughtful piece this time.

It was the
Yueh
Erh Kao,
"The Moon on High."

He shivered,
looking out across the blackness of the lake, his heart suddenly in
his throat. It was beautiful: as if the notes were tiny silver fishes
floating in the darkness. As the playing grew faster, more complex,
his gaze was drawn to her face again and saw how her eyes had almost
closed, her whole being suddenly focused in the song, in the movement
of her fingers against the strings. It reminded him of that moment
years before when she had drawn and aimed the bow. How her whole body
had seemed to become part of the bow, and how, when the arrow had
been released, it was as if part of her had flown through the air
toward the distant target.

He breathed
slowly, his lips parted in wonder. And Han was dead, and she was his.
And still the Great Wheel turned . . .