Ice and Fire: Chung Kuo Series (3 page)

He hesitated, then shook his head. ‘No. Not that. But…’

Meg watched him curiously. It was unusual to see Ben so indecisive.

‘You’ve an idea,’ she said.

‘No. Not an idea. Not as such.’

Again that uncertainty, that same slight shrugging of his shoulders. She watched him
look away, his eyes tracing the row of signs above the shop fronts: David Wishart,
Tobacconist; Arthur
Redmayne, Couturier; Thomas Lipton, Vintner; Jack Delcroix, Dentist & Bleeder; Stagg
& Mantle, Ironmongers; Verry’s Restaurant; Jackson & Graham, Cabinet Makers; The Lambe
Brothers, Linen-Drapers; and there, on the corner, facing Goode’s Hostelry, Pugh’s
Mourning House.

Seeing Pugh’s brought back a past visit. It had been months ago and Ben had insisted
on going into Pugh’s, though they had always avoided the shop before. She had watched
him go
amongst the caskets, then lift one of the lids, peering inside. The corpse looked
realistic enough, but Ben had turned to her and laughed. ‘Dead long before it was
dead.’ Somehow that
had made him talk about things here. Why they were as they were, and what kind of
man her great-great-grandfather had been to create a place like this. He had not skimped
on anything. One looked in
drawers or behind doors and there, as in real life, one found small, inconsequential
things. Buttons and pins and photographs. A hatstand with an old, well-worn top hat
on one peg, a scarf on
another, as if left there only an hour past. Since then she had searched and searched,
her curiosity unflagging, trying to catch him out – to find some small part of this
world he had made
that wasn’t finished. To find some blank, uncreated part behind the superficial details.

Would she have thought to do this without Ben? Would she have searched so ardently
to find that patch of dull revealing blankness? No. In truth she would never have
known. But he had shown her
how this, the most real place she knew, was in other ways quite hollow. Was all a
marvellous sham. A gaudy, imaginative fake.

‘If this is fake, then why is it so marvellous?’ she had asked, and he had shaken
his head in wonder at her question.

‘Why? Because it’s god-like! Look at it, Meg! It’s so presumptuous! Such consummate
mimicry! Such shameless artifice!’

Now, watching him, she knew he had a scheme. Some way of using this.

‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘Let’s move on. I’d like to try on some of Lloyd’s hats.’

Ben smiled at her. ‘Okay. Then we’ll start back.’

They were upstairs in Edgar Lloyd, Hatters, when Ben heard voices down below. Meg
was busy trying on hats at the far side of the room, the android assistant standing
beside her
at the mirror, a stack of round, candy-striped boxes in her arms.

Ben went to the window and looked down. There were soldiers in the passageway below.
Real soldiers. And not just any soldiers. He knew the men at once.

Meg turned to him, a wide-brimmed creation of pale cream lace balanced precariously
on top of her dark curls. ‘What do you think, Ben? Do you…?’

He hushed her urgently.

‘
What is it?
’ she mouthed.

‘
Soldiers
,’ he mouthed back.

She set the hat down and came across to him.

‘
Keep down out of sight
,’ he whispered. ‘
They’re our guards, and they shouldn’t be here. They’re supposed to be confined to
barracks
.’

She looked up at him, wide-eyed, then knelt down, so that her head was below the sill.
‘
Tell me what’s happening
.’

He watched. There were ten of them down there, their voices urgent, excited. For a
moment Ben couldn’t understand what was going on, then one of them turned. It was
the captain, Rosten. He
pointed down the passageway towards the open ground in front of the old inn and muttered
something Ben couldn’t quite make out.

‘
What are they doing?
’

He looked down at Meg and saw the fear in her eyes.

‘
Nothing. Hush now, Megs. It’ll be all right
.’

He put his hand on her shoulder and looked out again. What he saw this time surprised
him. Two of the men were being held and bound; their wrists and ankles taped together.
One of the men
started to struggle, then began to cry out. Meg tried to get up to see, but with a
gentle pressure he pushed her back down.

There was the sound of a slap, then silence from below. A moment later Rosten’s voice
barked out. ‘Out there! Quick now!’

Ben moved across to the other side of the window, trying to keep them in sight, but
he lost them in a moment.

‘
Stay here, Meg. I’m going downstairs
.’

‘
But, Ben
…’

He shook his head. ‘
Do what I say. I’ll be all right. I’ll not let them see me
.’

He had to move slowly, carefully on the stairs because, for a brief moment, he was
in full sight of the soldiers through the big plate-glass window that looked out onto
the narrow quay. At the
bottom he moved quickly between the racks and tables until he was crouched between
two mannequins, looking out through their skirts at the scene in front of the inn.

Two men held each of the prisoners. The other three stood to one side, in a line,
at attention. Rosten had his back to Ben and stood there between the window and the
prisoners. With an abrupt
gesture that seemed to jerk his body forward violently, he gave an order. At once
both prisoners were made forcibly to kneel and lower their heads.

Only then, as Rosten turned slightly, did Ben see the long, thin blade he held.

For a moment the sight of the blade held him; the way the sunlight seemed to flow
like a liquid along the gently curved length of it, flickering brilliantly on the
razor-sharp edge and at the
tip. He had read how swords could seem alive – could have a personality, even a name
– but he had never thought to see it.

He looked past the blade. Though their heads were held down forcibly, the two men
looked up at Rosten, anxious to know what he intended. Ben knew them well. Gosse,
to the left, was part Han, his
broad, rough-hewn, Slavic features made almost Mongolian by his part-Han ancestry.
Wolfe, to the right, was a southerner, his dark, handsome features almost refined;
almost, but not quite,
classical. Almost. For when he smiled or laughed, his eyes and mouth were somehow
ugly. Brutish and unhealthy.

Rosten now stood between the two, his feet spread, his right arm outstretched, the
sword in his right hand, its tip almost touching the cobbled ground a body’s length
away.

‘You understand why you’re here? You’ve heard the accusations?’

‘They’re lies…’ began Wolfe, but he was cuffed into silence by the man behind him.

Rosten shook his head. The long sword quivered in his hand. ‘Not lies, Wolfe. You
have been tried by a panel of your fellow officers and found guilty. You and Gosse
here. You stole and
cheated. You have betrayed our master’s trust and dishonoured the Banner.’

Wolfe’s eyes widened. The blood drained from his face. Beside him Gosse looked down,
as if he had already seen where this led.

‘There is no excusing what you did. And no solution but to excise the shame.’

Wolfe’s head came up sharply and was pushed down brutally. ‘No!’ he shouted, beginning
to struggle again ‘You can’t do this! You…’

A blow from one of the men holding him knocked him down onto the cobbles.

‘Bring him here!’

The two guards grabbed Wolfe again and dragged him on his knees, until he was at Rosten’s
feet.

Rosten’s voice was almost hysterical now. He half-shouted, half-screamed, his sword
arm punctuating the words. ‘You are scum, Wolfe! Faceless! Because of you your fellow
officers
have fallen under suspicion! Because of you, all here have been dishonoured!’ Rosten
shuddered violently and spat on the kneeling man’s head. ‘You have shamed your Banner!
You
have shamed your family name. And you have disgraced your ancestors!’

Rosten stepped back and raised the sword. ‘Hold the prisoner down!’

Ben caught his breath. He saw how Wolfe’s leg muscles flexed impotently as he tried
to scrabble to his feet; how he squirmed in the two men’s grip, trying to get away.
A third
soldier joined the other two, forcing Wolfe down with blows and curses. Then one of
them grabbed Wolfe’s topknot and, with a savage yank that almost pulled the man up
off his knees, stretched
his neck out, ready for the sword.

Wolfe was screaming now, his voice hoarse, breathless. ‘No! No! Kuan Yin, Goddess
of Mercy, help me! I did nothing! Nothing!’ His face was torn with terror, his mouth
twisted, his
eyes moving frantically in their sockets, pleading for mercy.

Ben saw Rosten’s body tauten like a compressed coil. Then, with a sharp hiss of breath,
he brought the sword down sharply.

Wolfe’s screams stopped instantly. Ben saw the head drop and roll, the body tumble
forward like a sack of grain, the arms fall limp.

Ben looked across at Gosse.

Gosse had been watching all in silence, his jaw clenched, his neck muscles taut. Now,
with a visible shudder, he looked down again, staring at the cobbles.

Rosten bent down and wiped the sword on the back of Wolfe’s tunic, then straightened,
facing Gosse.

‘You have something to say, Gosse?’

Gosse was silent a moment, then he looked up at Rosten. His eyes, which, moments earlier,
had been filled with fear and horror, were now clear, almost calm. His hands shook,
but he clenched them
to control their trembling. He took a deep breath, then another, like a diver about
to plunge into the depths, and nodded.

‘Speak then. You’ve little time.’

Gosse hunched his shoulders and lowered his head slightly, in deference to Rosten,
but kept his eyes on him. ‘Only this. It is true what you say. I am guilty. Wolfe
planned it all, but I
acted with him, and there is no excusing my actions. I accept the judgement of my
fellow officers and, before I die, beg their forgiveness for having shamed them before
the T’ang.’

Rosten stood there, expecting more, but Gosse had lowered his head. After a moment’s
reflection, Rosten gave a small nod, then spoke.

‘I cannot speak for all here, but for myself I say this. You were a good soldier,
Gosse. And you face death bravely, honestly, as a soldier ought. I cannot prevent
your death now, you
understand, but I can, at least, change the manner of it.’

There was a low gasp from the men on either side as Rosten took a pace forward and
drew the short sword from his belt and cutting the bonds at Gosse’s wrists, handed
it to him.

Gosse understood at once. His eyes met Rosten’s, bright with gratitude, then looked
down at the short sword. With his left hand he tore open the tunic of his uniform
and drew up the
undershirt, baring the flesh. Then he gripped the handle of the short sword with both
hands and turned it, so that the tip was facing his stomach. The two guards released
him and stood back. Rosten
watched him a moment, then took up his place, just behind Gosse and to one side, the
long sword half raised.

Ben eased forward until his face was pressed against the glass, watching Gosse slow
his breathing and focus his whole being upon the blade resting only a hand’s length
from his stomach.
Gosse’s hands were steady now, his eyes glazed. Time slowed. Then, quite abruptly,
it changed. There was a sudden, violent movement in Gosse’s face – a movement somewhere
between
ecstasy and extreme agony – and then his hands were thrusting the blade deep into
his belly. With what seemed superhuman strength and control he drew the short sword
to the left, then back to
the right, his intestines spilling out onto the cobbles. For a moment his face held
its expression of ecstatic agony, then it crumpled and his eyes looked down, widening,
horrified by what he had
done.

Rosten brought the sword down sharply.

Gosse knelt a moment longer. Then his headless body fell and lay there, motionless,
next to Wolfe’s.

Ben heard a moan behind him and turned. Meg was squatting at the top of the stairs,
her hands clutching the third and fourth struts tightly, her eyes wide, filled with
fright.

‘
Go up!
’ he hissed anxiously, hoping he’d not be heard; horrified that she had been witness
to Gosse’s death. He saw her turn and look at him, for a moment barely
recognizing him or understanding what he had said to her.
Dear gods,
he thought,
how much did she see?

‘
Go up!
’ he hissed again. ‘
For heaven’s sake go up!
’

It was dark on the river, the moon obscured behind the Wall’s north-western edge.
Ben jumped ashore and tied the rowboat up to the small, wooden jetty, then turned
to
give a hand to Peng Yu-wei who stood there, cradling a sleeping Meg in one arm.

He let the teacher go ahead, reluctant to go in, wanting to keep the blanket of darkness
and silence about him a moment longer.

There was a small rectangle of land beside the jetty, surrounded on three sides by
steep clay walls. A set of old, wooden steps had been cut into one side. Ben climbed
them slowly, tired from
the long row back. Then he was in the garden, the broad swathe of neat-trimmed grass
climbing steadily to the thatched cottage a hundred yards distant.

‘Ben!’

His mother stood in the low back doorway, framed by the light, an apron over her long
dress. He waved, acknowledging her. Ahead of him, Peng Yu-wei strode purposefully
up the path, his long legs
showing no sign of human frailty.

He felt strangely separate from things. As if he had let go of oars and rudder and
now drifted on the dark current of events. On the long row back he had traced the
logic of the thing time and
again. He knew he had caused their deaths. From his discovery things had followed
an inexorable path, like the water’s tight spiral down into the whirlpool’s mouth.
They had died
because of him.