Ice and Fire: Chung Kuo Series (14 page)

She saw immediately that she had said the wrong thing. She had misread his comment.
His face closed to her and he turned away, suddenly cold, distant. It troubled her
and she crossed the space
between them, touching his shoulder. ‘I didn’t mean…’

She stood there a moment, suddenly aware of how still he was. Her hand lay gently
on his shoulder, barely pressing against him, yet it seemed he was gathered there
at the point of contact, his
whole self focused in her touch. It bemused her. What
was
this?

She felt embarrassed, felt that she ought to remove her hand, but did not know how.
It seemed that any movement of hers would be a snub.

Then, unexpectedly, he reached up and covered her hand with his own, pressing it firmly
to his shoulder. ‘We both miss him,’ he said. ‘But life goes on. I too found the customs
too… strict.’

She was surprised to hear that. It was more like something Han Ch’in might have said.
She had always thought Li Yuan was in his father’s mould. Traditional. Bound fast
by custom.

He released her and turned to face her.

Li Yuan was smiling now. Once more she found herself wrong-footed. What was happening?
Why had his mood changed so quickly? She stared at him, finding the likeness to Han
more prominent now that
he was smiling. But then, Han had always been smiling. His eyes, his mouth, had been
made for laughter.

She looked away, vaguely disturbed. Li Yuan was too intense for her taste. Like his
father there was something daunting, almost terrible about him: an austerity suggestive
of ferocity. Yet now,
standing there, smiling at her, he seemed quite different – almost quite likeable.

‘It was hard, you know. This morning… to mount Han’s horse like that.’

Again the words were unexpected. His smile faded, became a wistful, boyish expression
of loss.

It touched her deeply. For the first time she saw through his mask of precocious intelligence
and saw how vulnerable he was, how frail in spite of all. Not even that moment after
Han’s
death had revealed that to her. Then she had thought it grief, not vulnerability.
She was moved by her insight and, when he looked up at her again, saw how hurt he
seemed, how full of pain his eyes
were. Beautiful eyes. Dark, hazel eyes. She had not noticed them before.

Han’s death had touched him deeply. He had lost more – far more – than her. She was
silent, afraid she would say the wrong thing, watching him, this man-boy, her curiosity
aroused, her sympathies awoken.

He frowned and looked away.

‘That’s why I came to see you. To give you a gift.’

‘A gift?’

‘Yes. The Andalusian.’

She shook her head, confused. ‘But your father…’

He looked directly at her now. ‘I’ve spoken to my father already. He said the horse
is mine to do with as I wish.’ He bowed his head and swallowed. ‘So I’d like to
give him to you. In place of the Arab.’

She laughed shortly. ‘But the Arab was Han’s, not mine.’

‘I know. Even so, I’d like you to have him. Han told me how much you enjoyed riding.’

This time her laughter was richer, deeper, and when Li Yuan looked up again he saw
the delight in her face.

‘Why, Li Yuan, that’s…’ She stopped and simply looked at him, smiling broadly. Then,
impulsively, she reached out and embraced him, kissing his cheek.

‘Then you’ll take him?’ he whispered softly in her ear.

Her soft laughter rippled through him. ‘Of course, Li Yuan. And I thank you. From
the bottom of my heart I thank you.’

When she was gone he turned and looked after her, feeling the touch of her still,
the warmth on his cheek where she had kissed him. He closed his eyes and caught the
scent of her,
mei hua
– plum blossom – in the air and on his clothes where she had brushed against him.
He shivered, his thoughts in turmoil, his pulse racing.

The plum. Ice-skinned and jade-boned, the plum. It symbolized winter and virginity.
But its blossoming brought the spring.

‘
Mei hua
…’ He said the words softly, like a breath, letting them mingle with her scent, then
turned away, reddening at the thought that had come to mind.
Mei
hua.
It was a term for sexual pleasure, for on the bridal bed were spread plum blossom
covers. So innocent a scent, and yet…

Shivering, he took a long, slow breath of her. Then he turned and hurried on, his
fists clenched at his sides, his face the colour of summer.

‘There have been changes since you were last among us, Howard.’

‘So I see.’

DeVore turned briefly to smile at Berdichev before returning his attention to the
scene on the other side of the one-way mirror that took up the whole of one wall of
the study.

‘Who are they?’

Berdichev came up and stood beside him. ‘Sympathizers. Money men, mainly. Friends
of our host, Douglas.’

The room the two men looked into was massive; was more garden than room. It had been
landscaped with low hills and narrow walks, with tiny underlit pools, small temples,
carefully placed banks
of shrub and stone, shady willows, cinnamon trees and delicate
wu-tong.
People milled about casually, talking amongst themselves, eating and drinking. But
there the similarities with past
occasions ended. The servants who went amongst them were no longer Han. In fact, there
was not a single Han in sight.

DeVore’s eyes took it all in with great interest. He saw how, though they still wore
silks, the style had changed; had been simplified. Their dress seemed more austere,
both in its cut and
in the absence of embellishment. What had been so popular only three years ago was
now conspicuous by its absence. There were no birds or flowers, no dragonflies or
clouds, no butterflies or
pictograms. Now only a single motif could be seen, worn openly on chest or collar,
on hems or in the form of jewellery, on pendants about the neck or emblazoned on a
ring or brooch: the double
helix of heredity. Just as noticeable was the absence of the colour blue – the colour
of imperial service. DeVore smiled appreciatively; that last touch was the subtlest
of insults.

‘The Seven have done our work for us, Soren.’

‘Not altogether. We pride ourselves on having won the propaganda war. There are men
out there who, three years ago, would not have dreamed of coming to a gathering like
this. They would
have been worried that word would get back – as, indeed, it does – and that the T’ang
would act through his Ministers to make life awkward for them. Now they have no such
fears.
We have educated them to the fact of their own power. They are many, the Seven few.
What if the Seven close one door to them? Here, at such gatherings, a thousand new
doors open.’

And
The New Hope
?’

Berdichev’s smile stretched his narrow face against its natural grain.
The New Hope
was his brainchild. ‘In more than one sense it is our flagship. You should see the
pride in
their faces when they talk of it. We did this, they seem to be saying. Not the Han,
but us, the
Hung Mao
, as they call us. The Europeans.’

DeVore glanced at Berdichev. It was the second time he had heard the term. Their host,
Douglas, had used it when he had first arrived. ‘We Europeans must stick together,’
he had
said. And DeVore, hearing it, had felt he had used it like some secret password; some
token of mutual understanding.

He looked about him at the decoration of the study. Again there were signs of change
– of that same revolution in style that was sweeping the Above. The decor, like the
dress of those
outside, was simpler – the design of chairs and table less extravagant than it had
been. On the walls now hung simple rural landscapes. Gone were the colourful historical
scenes that had been
so much in favour with the
Hung Mao
. Gone were the lavish screens and bright floral displays of former days. But all
of this, ironically, brought them only further into line with the real
Han – the Families – who had always preferred the simple to the lavish, the harmonious
to the gaudy.

These tokens of change, superficial as they yet were, were encouraging, but they were
also worrying. These men – these
Europeans
– were not Han, neither had they ever been
Han. Yet the Han had destroyed all that they had once been – had severed them from
their cultural roots as simply and as thoroughly as a gardener might snip the stem
of a chrysanthemum. The
Seven had given them no real choice: they could be Han or they could be nothing. And
to be nothing was intolerable. Now, however, to be Han was equally untenable.

DeVore shivered. At present their response was negative: a reaction
against
Han ways, Han dress, Han style. But they could not live like this for long. At length
they would turn the
mirror on themselves and find they had no real identity, no positive channel for their
newborn sense of racial selfhood.
The New Hope
was a move to fill that vacuum, as was this term
‘European’; but neither was enough. A culture was a vast and complex thing and, like
the roots of a giant tree, went deep into the rich, dark earth of time. It was more
than a matter of
dress and style. It was a way of thinking and behaving. A thing of blood and bone,
not cloth and architecture.

Yes, they needed more than a word for themselves, more than a central symbol for their
pride; they needed a focus – something to restore them to themselves. But what? What
on earth could
fill the vacuum they were facing? It was a problem they would need to address in the
coming days. To ignore it would be fatal.

He went to the long table in the centre of the room and looked down at the detailed
map spread out across its surface.

‘Has everyone been briefed?’

Berdichev came and stood beside him. ‘Not everyone. I’ve kept the circle as small
as possible. Douglas knows, of course. And Barrow. I thought your man, Duchek, ought
to know, too,
considering how helpful he’s been. And then there’s Moore and Weis.’

Anton Weis? The banker?’

Berdichev nodded. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but he’s changed in the last year
or so. He fell out with old man Ebert. Was stripped by him of a number of important
contracts.
Now he hates the T’ang and his circle with an intensity that’s hard to match.’

‘I understand. Even so, I’d not have thought him important enough.’

‘It’s not him so much as the people he represents. He’s our liaison with a number
of interested parties. People who can’t declare themselves openly. Important
people.’

DeVore considered a moment, then smiled. ‘Okay. So that makes seven of us who know.’

‘Eight, actually.’

DeVore raised his eyebrows in query, but Berdichev said simply, ‘I’ll explain later.’

‘When will they be here?’

‘They’re here now. Outside. They’ll come in when you’re ready for them.’

DeVore laughed. ‘I’m ready now.’

‘Then I’ll tell Douglas.’

DeVore watched Berdichev move among the men gathered there in the garden room, more
at ease now than he had ever been; saw too how they looked to him now as a leader,
a shaper of events, and
noted with irony how different that was from how they had formerly behaved. And what
was different about the man? Power. It was power alone that made a man attractive.
Even the potentiality of
power.

He stood back, away from the door, as they filed in. Then, when the door was safely
closed and locked, he came forward and exchanged bows with each of them. Seeing how
closely Weis was watching
him, he made an effort to be more warm, more friendly in his greeting there, but all
the while he was wondering just how far he could trust the man.

Without further ado, they went to the table.

The map was of the main landmass of City Europe, omitting Scandinavia, the Balkans,
Southern Italy and the Iberian Peninsula. Its predominant colour was white, though
there was a faint, almost
ivory tinge to it, caused by the fine yellow honeycombing that represented the City’s
regular shape – each tiny hexagon a hsien, an administrative district.

All Security garrisons were marked in a heavier shade of yellow, Bremen to the north-west,
close to the coast, Kiev to the east, almost off the map, Bucharest far to the south;
these three the
most important of the twenty shown. Weimar, to the south-east of Bremen, was marked
with a golden circle, forming a triangle with the Berlin garrison to the north-east.

Two large areas were marked in red, both in the bottom half of the map. One, to the
left, straddled the old geographic areas of Switzerland and Austria; the other, smaller
and to the right,
traced the border of old Russia and cut down into Romania. In these ancient, mountainous
regions – the Alps and the Carpathians – the City stopped abruptly, edging the wilderness.
They
formed great, jagged holes in its perfect whiteness.

Again in the top right-hand section of the map the dominant whiteness ceased abruptly
in a line extending down from Gdansk hsien to Poznan, and thence to Krakow and across
to Lviv, ending on the
shores of the Black Sea, at Odessa. This, shaded the soft green of springtime, was
the great growing area, where the Hundred Plantations – in reality eighty-seven –
were situated; an
area that comprised some twenty-eight per cent of the total land mass of City Europe.
DeVore’s own plantation was in the northwest of this area, adjoining the garrison
at Lodz.

He let them study the map a while, accustoming themselves once again to its details,
then drew their attention to the large red-shaded area to the bottom left of the map.

To him the outline of the Swiss Wilds always looked the same. That dark red shape
was a giant carp turning in the water, its head facing east, its tail flicking out
towards Marseilles
hsien
, its cruel mouth open, poised to eat Lake Balaton which, like a tiny minnow, swam
some three hundred
li
to the east. Seven of the great Security garrisons ringed the Wilds
– Geneva, Zurich, Munich and Vienna to the north, Marseilles, Milan and Zagreb to
the south. Strategically that made little sense, for the Wilds were almost empty,
yet it was as if the
City’s architect had known that this vast, jagged hole – this primitive wilderness
at the heart of its hive-like orderliness – would one day prove its weakest point.