An Inch of Ashes (36 page)

Heng Yu, Minister of Transportation for Li Shai Tung and Head of the Heng family, pulled at his beard, astonished. Chian-ye was fourteen years his junior, the youngest son of his uncle, the former Minister, Heng Chipo, who had passed away eleven years ago. Several times over the past five years he had been forced to bail the boy out when he had been in trouble, but all that had changed six months back, when Chian-ye had come into his inheritance. Now that he had his own income, Chian-ye had been a much rarer visitor at his Uncle Yu’s house.

‘A grave request? At this hour, Chian-ye? Do you
know
what time it is? Can it not wait until the morning?’

Heng Chian-ye made a small, miserable movement of his head. ‘I would not have come, Uncle, were it not a matter of the utmost urgency.’

Heng Yu frowned, confused, his head still full of figures from the report he had been studying.

‘What is it, Chian-ye? Is someone ill?’

But he knew, even as he said it, that it was not that. Fu Hen would have come with such news, not Chian-ye. Unless... He felt himself go cold.

‘It isn’t Fu Hen, is it?’

Heng Chian-ye raised his head the tiniest bit. ‘No, Honoured Uncle. No one is ill.’

Heng Yu sighed with relief, then leaned closer. ‘Have you been drinking, Chian-ye?’

‘I...’ Then, astonishingly, Chian-ye burst into tears. Chian-ye, who had never so much as expressed one word of remorse over his own wasteful lifestyle, in tears! Heng Yu looked down at where Chian-ye’s hand gripped the hem of his
pau
and shook his head. His voice was suddenly forceful; the voice of a Minister commanding an underling.

‘Heng Chian-ye! Remember who you are! Look at you! Crying like a four-year-old! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?’

‘Forgive me, Uncle! I cannot help it! I have disgraced our noble family. I have lost a million
yuan
!’

Heng Yu fell silent. Then he gave a small laugh of disbelief.

‘Surely I heard you wrong, Chian-ye? A million
yuan
?’

But a tiny nod of Chian-ye’s bowed head confirmed it. A million
yuan
had been lost. Probably at the gaming table.

Heng Yu looked about him at the cold formality of the anteroom, at its mock pillars and the tiny bronze statues of gods that rested in the alcoves to either side, the unreality of it all striking him forcibly. Then he shook his head. ‘It isn’t possible, Chian-ye. Even
you
cannot have lost that much, surely?’

But he knew that it was. Nothing less would have brought Chian-ye here. Nothing less would have reduced him to such a state.

Heng Yu sighed, his irritation mixed with a sudden despair. Was he never to be free of his uncle’s failings? First that business with Lwo Kang, and now this. As if the father were reborn in his wastrel son – to blight the family’s fortunes with his carelessness and selfishness.

For now he would have to borrow to carry out his schemes. Would have to take that high-interest loan
Shih
Saxton had offered him. A million
yuan
! He cursed silently, then drew away, irritably freeing his
pau
from his cousin’s grasp.

‘Come into the study, Chian-ye, and tell me what has happened.’

He sat behind his great ministerial desk, his face stern, listening to Chian-ye’s story. When his cousin finished, he sat there silently, considering. Finally he looked back at Chian-ye, shaking his head.

‘You have been a foolish young man, Chian-ye. First you overstretched yourself. That was bad enough. But then... well, to promise something that was not yours to promise, that was... insufferable.’

He saw how Chian-ye blushed and hung his head at that.
So there is some
sense of rightness in you
, he thought.
Some sense of shame
.

‘However,’ he continued, heartened by the clear sign of his cousin’s shame, ‘you are family, Chian-ye. You are
Heng
.’ He pronounced the word with a pride that made his cousin look up and meet his eyes, surprised.

‘Yes. Heng. And the word of a Heng must be honoured, whether given mistakenly or otherwise.’

‘You mean...?’

Heng Yu’s voice hardened. ‘I mean, cousin, that you will be silent and
listen
to me!’

Heng Chian-ye lowered his head again, chastened; his whole manner subservient now.

‘As I was saying. The word of a Heng must be honoured. So, yes, Chian-ye, I shall meet
Shih
Novacek’s conditions. He shall have the
Ko Ming
bronze in settlement for your debt. As for the information he wanted, you can do that for yourself, right now. The terminal is over there, in the corner. However... there are two things you will do for me.’

Chian-ye raised his head slightly, suddenly attentive.

‘First you will sign over half of your annual income, to be placed in a trust that will mature only when you are thirty.’

Chian-ye hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod.

‘Good. And, second, you will resign your membership to The Jade Peony.’

Heng Chian-ye looked up, astonished. ‘But, Uncle...?’ Then, seeing the angry determination in Heng Yu’s face, he lowered his eyes. ‘As you say, Uncle Yu.’

‘Good,’ Heng Yu said, more kindly now that it was settled. ‘Then go to the terminal. You know how to operate it. The codes are marked to the right. But ask me if you must. I shall be here a few hours yet, finishing my reports.’

He watched Chian-ye go to the terminal, then sat back, smoothing at his beard with his left hand, his right hand resting on the desk. A million
yuan
! That, truly, would have been disastrous. But this... this deal. He smiled. Yes, it was a gods-given opportunity to put a bit and brace on his reckless cousin – to school him to self-discipline. And the price? One ugly bronze worth, at most, two hundred thousand, and a small snippet of information on a fellow student!

He nodded, strangely pleased with the way things had turned out, then picked up the report again. He was about to push it into the slot behind his ear when Chian-ye turned, looking across at him.

‘Uncle Yu?’

‘Yes, Chian-ye?’

‘There seems to be no file.’

Heng Yu laughed, then stood, coming round his desk. ‘Of course there’s a file, Chian-ye. There’s a file on everyone in Chung Kuo. You must have keyed the code incorrectly.’

He stared at the screen. INFORMATION NOT AVAILABLE, it read.

‘Here,’ he said, taking the scrap of paper from his cousin’s hand. ‘Let me see those details.’

He stopped dead, staring at the name that was written on the paper, then laughed uncomfortably.

‘Is something wrong, Uncle Yu?’

‘No... nothing. I...’ He smiled reassuringly, then repeated what Chian-ye had tried before, getting the same response. ‘Hmm...’ he said. ‘There must be something wrong with this terminal. I’ll call one of my men to come and see to it.’

Heng Chian-ye was watching him strangely. ‘Shall I wait, Uncle?’

For a moment he didn’t answer, his head filled with questions. Then he shook his head absently. ‘No, Chian-ye...’ Then, remembering what day it was, he turned, facing him.

‘You realize what day it is, Chian-ye?’

The young man shook his head.

‘You mean, you have been wasting your time gambling, when your father’s grave remains unswept?’

Chian-ye swallowed and looked down, abashed. ‘
Sao Mu
,’ he said quietly.

‘Yes,
Sao Mu
... Or so it is for another three-quarters of an hour. Now go, Chian-ye, and do your duty. I’ll have these details for you by the morning, I promise you.’

When Chian-ye was gone he locked the door, then came back to the terminal.

Ben Shepherd... Now, what would
Shih
Novacek be doing wanting to know about the Shepherd boy? One thing was certain – it wasn’t a harmless enquiry. For no one, Han or
Hung Mao
, threw a million
yuan
away on such a small thing. Unless it wasn’t small.

He turned, looking across at the tiny chip of the report where it lay on his desk, then turned back, his decision made. The report could wait. This was much more important. Whatever it was.

Chapter 55

CATHERINE

‘W
ould you mind if I sat with you?’

He looked up at her, smiling, seeming to see her, to
create
her, for the very first time. She felt unnerved by that gaze. Its intensity was unexpected, unnatural. And yet he was smiling.

‘With me?’

She was suddenly uncertain. There was only one chair at his table. The waiters had removed the others, isolating him. So that no one would approach him.

She felt herself colouring. Her neck and her cheeks felt hot, and, after that first, startling contact, her eyes avoided his.

‘Well?’ he said, leaning back, his fingers resting lightly on the casing of the comset on the table in front of him.

He seemed unreachable, and yet he was smiling.

‘I... I wanted...’ Her eyes reached out, making contact with his. So unfathomably deep they were. They held hers, drawing her out from herself. ‘... to sit with you.’

But she was suddenly afraid; her body tensed against him.

‘Sit where?’ His hand lifted, the fingers opening in a gesture of emptiness. The smile grew broader. Then he relented. ‘All right. Get a chair.’

She brought a chair and set it down across from him.

‘No. Closer.’ He indicated the space beside him. ‘I can’t talk across tables.’

She nodded, setting the chair down where he indicated.

‘Better.’

He was still watching her. His eyes had not left her face from the moment she had first spoken to him.

Again she felt a flash of fear, pure fear, pass through her. He was like no one she had ever met. So... She shook her head, the merest suggestion of movement, and felt a shiver run along her spine. No, she had never felt like this before – so... helpless.

‘What do you do?’

Not ‘Who are you?’ Nothing as formal as an introduction. Instead, this. Direct and unabashed.
What do you do?
Peeling away all surfaces.

For the first time she smiled at him. ‘I... paint.’

He nodded, his lips pinched together momentarily. Then he reached out and took her hands in his own, studying them, turning them over in his own.

So firm and warm and fine, those hands. Her own lay caged in his, her fingers thinner, paler than those that held them.

‘Good hands,’ he said, but did not relinquish them. ‘Now, tell me what you wanted to talk to me about.’

About hands, perhaps. Or a million other things. But the warmth, the simple warmth of his hands curled about her own, had robbed her of her voice.

He looked down again, following her eyes. ‘What is it, Catherine?’

She looked up sharply, searching his face, wondering how he knew her name.

He watched her a moment longer, then gave a soft laugh. ‘There’s little you don’t pick up, sitting here. Voices carry.’

‘And you hear it all? Remember it?’

‘Yes.’

His eyes were less fierce now, less predatory in their gaze, yet it still seemed as if he was staring at her; as if his wide-eyed look was drug-induced. But it no longer frightened her; no longer picked her up and held her there, suspended, soul-naked and vulnerable before it.

Her fear of him subsided. The warmth of his hands...

‘What do you paint?’

Until a moment ago it had seemed important. All-important. But now? She tilted her head, looking past him, aware of the shape of his head, the way he sat there, so easy, so comfortable in his body. Again, so unexpected.

He laughed. Fine, open laughter. Enjoying the moment. She had not thought him capable of such laughter.

‘You’re a regular chatterbox, aren’t you? So
eloquent
...’

He lifted his head as he uttered the last word, giving it a clipped, sophisticated sound that was designed to make her laugh.

She laughed, enjoying his gentle mockery.

‘You had a reason for approaching me, I’m sure. But now you merely sit there, mute, glorious... and quite beautiful.’

His voice had softened. His eyes were half-lidded now, like dark, occluded suns.

He turned her hands within his own and held them, his fingers laid upon her wrists, tracing the blood’s quickening pulse.

She looked up, surprised, then looked down at his left hand again, feeling the ridge there. A clear, defined line of skin, circling the wrist.

‘Your hand...?’

‘Is a hand,’ he said, lifting it to her face so that she could see it better. ‘An accident. When I was a child.’

‘Oh...’ Her fingers traced the line of flesh, a shiver passing through her. It was a fine, strong hand. She closed her hand on his, her fingers laced into his fingers, and looked at him.

‘Can I paint you?’

His eyes widened, seeming to search her own for meanings. Then he smiled at her; the smile like a flower unfolding slowly to the sun. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’d like that.’

It was not the best she had ever done, but it was good, the composition sound, the seated figure lifelike. She looked from the canvas to the reality, sat there on her bed, and smiled.