Daylight on Iron Mountain (48 page)

That helplessness had hurt him most. How ineffective he had been. How he had failed them. How, in the confusion of the times, he had left them there, within the tyrant’s grasp. If asked he would have said it was unforgivable. Only no one thought to ask, for he was T’ang now, a Son of Heaven. And one did not ask a T’ang such questions.

But lying there he asked them of himself, and felt ashamed. Had Chang So been older – had he been twenty-five and not fifteen – he would have stepped down, letting his son be T’ang in his place. But things were not so ordered.

I had six sons…

And now he had but one. His mother’s favourite. And she… dead like the rest of them.

No. He did not need to imagine how Shen Fu had suffered. Had not needed to see that pale, cadaverous body, laced with unhealed scars, to know that each day from now would be a torment.

And tomorrow?

The mere thought of it; watching them being led off like that, bound hand and foot, into Tsao Ch’un’s less than tender care. It was enough to drive a man mad.

Li Chao Ch’in sat up, placing his head in his hands, the anguish he felt beyond all bearing.

‘It was not my fault!’

Only he knew it was. He had betrayed them. Abandoned them. Left them to their fate.

Kuan Yin have mercy on my soul. Sweet Goddess of Mercy, forgive me for what I have done.

The dawn was grey, unvarying. As for Tongjiang…

Tongjiang was a shell, the floor plan of a palace laid out in ash and fallen stone. Li Chao Ch’in had seen it, up there on the screen in the Domain, but standing there amidst its smoking ruins he groaned. The devastation touched and scarred his soul.

He dared not see the bodies of those who had been taken by Tsao Ch’un. He did not dare to see how they had suffered on the slab.

One thing, however, brought it all home. One small detail amidst that hell on earth. They had burned his horses. Burned all the mounts they had ridden that fateful morning. They lay in the stable yard, badly charred but recognizable for what they were. Seven long, blackened forms, a fine layer of ash lifting up from them in the cold morning breeze.

The palace could be rebuilt. They had the plans, after all. But how to rebuild a life? How to bring back a dead child, a dead wife? It was impossible. And yet he must. It was his duty, not merely to his ancestors but to the world he now ruled. For nothing that he did henceforth was private. He was in the spotlight now. A T’ang. Beautiful and imposing. Yes, and a model for them all. For so an emperor must be. A paradigm. Not merely wise, but unerring.

He turned away, walking back to the craft where his son was waiting.

Li Chang So had refused to see it. Had sat there staring at the floor, shaking his head, refusing to leave the craft. Not that Li Chao Ch’in had possessed the heart to force him.

Does he blame me too?
he wondered, glancing at the boy as he strapped himself in again. More specifically, did Li Chang So blame him for the death of his mother? If so, then what future had they? He loved his son. Loved him fiercely. Loved the anger and the hurt he saw in him at that moment. Loved him for the sensitive young boy he was.

Li Chao Ch’in swallowed bitterly. He knew that a T’ang ought not to think such thoughts. That a man could lose his reason thinking thus. But he could
not help it. For two whole days he had blocked it off. But now…

There was ash on his sleeves, ash on the hem of his gown and on his hands. Ash in his hair.

Li Chao Ch’in groaned.

‘Father?’

He looked up. Li Chang So was looking to him, concern in his eyes.

‘It’s hard, neh?’

Li Chao Ch’in looked away, grimacing with pain. In that instance of his son’s concern, all of his doubts had been blown away. Yet that moment had also exposed him. Made him vulnerable again. And now he sat there, tears coursing down his face, his fists clenched against what he was being forced to feel.

‘I abandoned them… I
abandoned
them, Chang So…’

The young prince looked back at him, tears running down his own face now. ‘No, Father. You are not to blame. It was that man. You could have not have acted any other way. You gave us all a chance. If you had stayed…’

His voice caught, gave way. His head went down again.

But Li Chao Ch’in shook his head, inconsolable.

He had abandoned them.

Half a world away, in a makeshift office on the edge of what had once been Bremen, Wolfgang Ebert and his team were finalizing the agreement with the Ministry of Contracts.

Amidst the chaos they had resurrected the deal. Just as it had seemed to have slipped from their grasp, Reed had brought them all together once more, labouring day and night to make it work. They went through the agreement clause by clause, all the while knowing that in a day or less they might be dead, or worse, prisoners in Tsao Ch’un’s cells.

It had been a gamble, but as it had turned out, it had paid off spectacularly. The Ministry of Contracts had reported directly back to the Seven and, in gratitude for GenSyn’s declaration of support, their order had been increased fivefold, to a cool fifteen billion
yuan
.

For Reed, standing there as they raised their wine bowls in noisy celebration, it was a day he would never forget – the day he had become First Level, a member of Chung Kuo’s elite.

That very afternoon, knowing that the deal was imminent, he had taken an hour off to go and see the mansion he would purchase with his share. Had signed the contract there and then. Tonight, after work, he would take Meg and his parents there.

And between times the war had ended and the Seven had triumphed and…

Reed laughed at the thought and sipped from his bowl, then lifted it high, toasting his fellows.

A change of sky
, he thought, remembering what his father had said about the old days, when they had first come to the City.
There’s been a change of sky
.

Yet even as he thought it, the smile he’d been wearing faded. For a moment he’d forgotten.

Alison…

‘Are you all right, old friend?’

Reed looked up, meeting Buck’s eyes. Buck was still Head of Development at Contracts. They had worked so closely these past few months.

‘I was just thinking… of Alison.’

‘Ah, right. A sad business. How’s her son?’

‘He took it badly. Very badly. He’ll be looked after. Only…’

Buck nodded. ‘From what I’ve heard, she wasn’t the only one. A lot of people were undone by the last few days. Pushed over the edge. The uncertainty of it… not a lot of people can live with that.’

‘You can say that again.’

‘In the light of which, what
you
did, Peter…’ Buck smiled. ‘Well, let’s say we’re not ungrateful. I’m sure GenSyn paid you well, but if you’re ever looking to change your occupation…’

‘The Ministry?’ He laughed. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Absolutely. Chen So I loves you. He’d double your salary at a stroke.’

Reed grinned. ‘Really?’

‘Really. Now finish that off. I fancy a real drink.’

At that very moment, three thousand miles away, Jiang Lei lay in his bed, at rest after his life’s strange journey. It was quiet in the house, the curtains drawn against the afternoon’s sunlight.

Downstairs, the Jiang family was in mourning, grieving the old man’s
passing. Every now and then the comset in the study would chime and someone would go to answer it. They would accept the sympathies of old friends who had just heard from other old friends, or from the newscasts which, in the last half hour, had taken up the story.

Young Lo Wen, who had known her grandfather only in his latter days, was amazed by just how famous he was. A great poet? She never even knew he wrote! And not only that but a marshal too, in charge of fifteen million men! He was a man who seemed to have a thousand friends.

Among those messages of condolence was one from an elderly
Hung Mao
, who, head bared, bowed low and thanked Lo Wen’s mother for her father’s generosity in sparing himself and his family. A man named Jake Reed. Lo Wen asked her mother what he meant by that, only her mother wasn’t going to say. It was Jiang Lei’s ‘private business’. Even so, it made her curious. There was so much she didn’t know about Jiang Lei. But she liked the idea of him having another name – a poetic name – and wanted to do the same. Maybe
she
could become a poet.

Later, when no one was watching her, she sneaked up to look at him again. He looked so peaceful up there in his big bed, his arms folded across his chest, his light blue ceremonial silks replacing the old satin pyjamas he used to wear. She wanted to touch him, to kiss his brow the way he’d so often kissed hers, but she had been told not to. He was an ancestor now, and to be revered accordingly.

And so there in that cool and silent room she revered him, bowing low to him before saying goodbye, remembering as she did how kind he’d been, how soft and pleasant his voice. A man whom she knew would never have hurt a fly.

‘Goodbye, Jiang Lei,’ she said one final time. And then, because it had been him too, ‘Goodbye, Nai Liu.’

And blew a kiss. A tiny kiss. For her
yeh-yeh
, her granddad.

‘Ah, Peter, darling… come in… I thought…’

‘We had a little drink,’ he said, stepping past Mary into the hallway. ‘We just signed a big contract, so we had a little celebration. I called Meg on the way back… she’s coming here direct from work.’

‘Peter?’ His father’s voice called from the living room. ‘Is that you, lad?’

He kissed Mary, then went through, stopping dead when he saw what was on the big screen he had bought them last year for their anniversary. ‘
Aiya
… is that who I think it is?’

Jake came over and gave his boy a hug, then stood next to him, whisky tumbler in hand, saluting the image.

‘Never thought you’d ever see that, eh, lad?’

On the screen was the image of a dead man. And not just any dead man, for this was once a Son of Heaven. Now he was nothing but a naked corpse, lying at the bottom of a well, his pale skin laced with his own blood.

Jake poured his son a tumbler of the old malt, then clinked glasses.

‘It’s over then, thank God!’

Peter winced at that last word. His father knew it was proscribed. ‘Dad…’

‘Ah, fuck it, lad… Do you still think it matters in the light of what’s happened?’

Peter shrugged. He didn’t want to get into an argument again. He wanted tonight to be a good night, a memorable night. But he knew that it
did
still matter. For this was Chung Kuo, and though their rulers may have changed, the world itself had not. If anything it would get far stricter. For a time.

The world his father had grown up in – that same world he had experienced as a child – was dead and buried. And rightly so. If it had been worth keeping it would have been kept. People would have fought to keep it.

Yeah. There were a dozen arguments to be had on the subject, only tonight he didn’t want one. Dismissing it from mind, he smiled.

‘Mum, Dad… I’ve something I want to show you.’

Shepherd watched the screen, nodding to himself and humming an old, forgotten tune. Something by Beethoven. One of the piano concertos.

He was in the same suite he’d always stayed in when he’d come to visit Tsao Ch’un at the Black Tower, with a view from the wall-length window of the sea. In that sense nothing had changed. But in all others…

On the screen, the camera moved in slowly, giving a close-up on the corpse. Now that it was much closer, you could see that the infestation had begun. Bugs crawled and bit and burrowed, they flew and hummed and laid their eggs. Only Tsao Ch’un, who had hated insects more than he’d hated anything, was unaware. His eyes, once as ferocious as a tiger’s, were now
opaque and dull. Whatever demon had once occupied him had now departed. The insects had moved in.

The camera dwelt on them a while, as if making some moral point about the fate of emperors. Or maybe it was just strange, what with the rareness of insects these days.

More than a few would be having nightmares tonight.

From all accounts, an accident had befallen Tsao Ch’un; he had stumbled upon the ancient well in the darkness and, not knowing that the thick wooden lid was rotten, had made to cross it.

And had fallen through.

Shepherd smiled. Poor bastard. Just when he thought he’d got away.

The camera eye drew back, showing the splintered lid, the slope down to the path behind it. Thus he had come, last night as the sun was setting. The Son of Heaven, half naked and undone. On the slopes of T’ieh Shan, Iron Mountain.

It rose further, showing the hill and, beyond it, the site of the crash. In the light of day it seemed an inauspicious place to die. Had so many not been looking for him, he would have lain there for eternity at the bottom of that well, unvisited, the flesh rotting on his bones, the insects burrowing, his rictus smile of death ironic.

But then
, Shepherd thought,
the Han have little grasp of irony. Fate, yes, but not irony…

‘
Mei fa tsu
,’ he said, lifting an imaginary glass to his one-time friend and Master.
It is fate.

There was a knock at the outer door.

‘Amos?’

It was Li Chao Ch’in. He went across and opened it.

‘Have you seen it?’

The T’ang nodded, then moved past Shepherd, into the room. He was quiet for a moment, then he turned, looking to the other.

‘You know… I thought I’d feel good about it, once I knew he was dead. I thought…’ Li Chao Ch’in took a long breath, then shook his head. ‘Well… it is done with, neh? We can move on. Let the insects have him now.’

Shepherd frowned. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘I mean that we’re leaving him there. Where he fell. Leaving him to rot. There’ll be no honouring of the dead, no ceremonials, not for him. Not after
what he did. No, he can lie there till the sun grows cold.’

Surprised by the bitterness in his voice, Shepherd stepped closer, touched his arm.

‘Are you all right, Chao Ch’in?’

Li Chao Ch’in shook his head. ‘I thought I would be, but…’ He swallowed, then, ‘We’ll place a cordon of iron around the site and guard it day and night.’