Ice and Fire: Chung Kuo Series (34 page)

‘How much is involved?’

‘Three billion. Maybe three and a half.’

‘Three billion. Hmm. With that we could take some of the pressure off our investors.’

DeVore shook his head. ‘No. That would just alert Weis. I gave him the distinct impression
that we were grabbing for every
fen
we could lay our hands on. If we start making refunds
he’ll know we’ve got funding from elsewhere and he’ll start looking for it. No, I
want you to go to him with the begging bowl again. Make him think things are working
out over
budget.’

Berdichev frowned. ‘And if he says it can’t be done?’

DeVore laughed and reached out to touch his arm. ‘Be persuasive.’

‘Right. You want me to pressure him?’

DeVore nodded. ‘How are things otherwise?’

‘Things are good. Under Secretary Barrow tells me that the
tai
are to face impeachment charges next week. Until then they’re suspended from the
House. That gives our coalition
an effective majority. Lo Yu-Hsiang read out a strongly worded protest from the Seven
yesterday, along with an announcement that funding in certain areas was to be cut.
But we expected as much.
Beyond that they’re impotent to act – as we knew they would be. The House is humming
with it, Howard. They’ve had a taste of real power for once and they like it. They
like it a
lot.’

‘Good. And the File?’

For a moment Berdichev thought to play dumb. Then, seeing how things stood, he shrugged
inwardly, making a mental note to find out how DeVore had come to know of it. It was
fortunate that, for
once, he had prepared for such an eventuality. ‘I’ve a copy in my craft for you, Howard.
I’ll hand it to you before we go.’

‘Excellent. And the boy? Kim, isn’t it? Have you sorted out your problems there?’

Berdichev felt his stomach tighten. Was there anything DeVore hadn’t heard about?
‘It’s no problem,’ he said defensively.

‘Good. Because we don’t want problems. Not for the next few days, anyway.’

Berdichev took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax. ‘And how is young Stefan?
How is he settling in?’

DeVore turned his head away, staring out at the mountains, the moonlight momentarily
revealing his neat, rather handsome features. ‘Fine. Absolutely fine. He’s quiet,
but I rather
like that. It shows he has depths.’ He looked back, giving Berdichev the briefest
glimpse of a smile.

Yes,
thought Berdichev, recalling the two appalling weeks the boy had spent with them
as a house guest,
he has depths all right – vacuous depths
.

‘I see. But has he learned anything from you, Howard? Anything useful?’

DeVore laughed, then looked away thoughtfully. ‘Who knows, Soren? Who knows?’

The huge bed was draped with veils of silk-white
voile
, the thin, gauze-like cotton decorated with butterflies and delicate, tall-stemmed
irises. It filled one end of
the large, sumptuously decorated room, like the cocoon of some vast, exotic insect.

The air in the room was close, the sweet, almost sickly scent of old perfumes masking
another, darker odour.

The woman lay on the bed, amidst a heap of pale cream and salmon pink satin cushions
that blended with the colours of the silk
shui t’an i
camisole she wore. As he came closer, she
raised her head. The simple movement seemed to cost her dearly, as if her head were
weighted down with bronze.

‘Who is it?’

Her voice had a slightly brittle edge to it, a huskiness beneath its silken surface.

He stood where he was, looking about the room, noting with disgust its excesses. ‘I
am from
Shih
Bergson,
Fu Jen
Maitland.’

‘You’re new…’ she said sleepily, a faintly seductive intonation entering her voice.
‘Come here where I can see you, boy.’

He went across and climbed the three small steps that led up to the bed, then drew
the veil aside, looking down at her.

She was a tall, long-limbed woman with knife-sharp, nervous facial features, their
glass-like fragility accentuated rather than hidden by the heavy pancake of make-up
she was wearing. She looked
old before her time, the web of lines about each eye like the cracked earth of a dried-up
stream, her eyeballs protruding slightly beneath their thin veils of flesh. The darkness
of her hair, he
knew at once, had been achieved artificially, for the skin of her neck and arms had
the pallor of albinism.

Yes, he could see now where his own colouring came from.

Bracelets of fine gold wire were bunched about her narrow wrists, jewelled rings clustered
on her long, fragile fingers. About her stretched and bony neck she wore a garishly
large
ying
luo
, the fake rubies and emeralds like pigeons’ eggs. Her hair was unkempt from troubled
sleep, her silks creased. She looked what she was – a rich Han’s concubine. A kept
woman.

He watched her turn her head slowly and open her eyes. Pale, watery blue eyes that
had to make an effort before they focused on him.

‘Ugh… Pale as a worm. Still…’ She closed her eyes again, letting her head sink back
amongst the cushions. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Mikhail,’ he said, adopting the alias he had stolen from DeVore. ‘Mikhail Böden.’

She was silent a moment, then gave a small, shuddering sigh and turned slightly, raising
herself onto her elbows, looking at him again. The movement made her camisole fall
open slightly at the
front, exposing her small, pale breasts.

‘Come here. Sit beside me, boy.’

He did as he was bade, the perfumed reek of her filling his nostrils, sickening him.
It was like her jewellery, her silks and satins, the make-up and nail paint. All this
– this
ostentation – offended him deeply. He himself wore nothing decorative. His belief
was in purity. In
essence
.

Her hand went to his face, then moved down until it rested on his shoulder.

‘You have it?’

He took the two packets from his jacket pocket and threw them down onto the bed beside
her. If she noticed his rudeness, she said nothing, but leaned forward urgently, scrabbling
for the tiny
sachets, then tore one open with her small, pointed teeth and swallowed its contents
down quickly.

It was as he had thought. She was an addict.

He watched her close her eyes again, breathing deeply, letting the drug take hold
of her. When she turned her head and looked at him again she seemed more human, more
animated, a slight
playfulness in her eyes revealing how attractive she must once have been. But it was
only a shadow. A shadow in a darkened room.

‘Your eyes,’ she said, letting her hand rest on his chest again. ‘They seem… wrong
somehow.’

‘Yes.’ He put a finger to each eye, popping out the contact lenses he had borrowed
from DeVore’s drawer, then looked back at her, noting her surprise.

‘Hello, mother.’

‘I have no…’ she began, then laughed strangely, understanding. ‘So. You’re Pietr’s
son.’

He saw how the muscles beneath her eyes betrayed her. But there was no love there.
How could there be? She had killed him long ago. Before he was born.

‘What do you want?’

In answer he leaned forward and held her to him, embracing her.
DeVore
is right,
he thought.
Trust no one. For there’s only yourself in the end.

He let her fall back amongst the satin cushions, the tiny, poisoned blade left embedded
at the base of her spine. Then he stood and looked at her again. His mother. A woman
he had never met
before today.

Carefully, almost tenderly, he took the device from his pocket, set it, then laid
it on the bed beside her. In sixty seconds it would catch fire, kindling the silks
and satins, igniting the
gauze-like layers of voile, cleansing the room of every trace of her.

Lehmann moved back, away, pausing momentarily, wishing he could see it, then turned
and left, locking the door behind him, knowing that no one now had any hold on him.
Especially not DeVore.

Li Yuan lay there in the darkness, listening to the rain falling in the garden beyond
the open windows, letting his heartbeat slow, his breathing return to normal. The
dream
was fading now and with it the overwhelming fear which had made him cry out and struggle
back to consciousness, but still he could see its final image, stretching from horizon
to horizon, vast and
hideously white.

He shuddered, then heard the door ease open, a soft tread on the tiled floor.

‘Do you want company, Li Yuan?’

He sighed, then rolled over and looked across to where she stood, shadowed and naked,
at the foot of his bed.

‘Not now, Sweet Rose…’

He sensed, rather than saw her hesitation. Then she was gone.

He got up, knowing he would not sleep now, and went to the window, staring out into
the moonlit garden. Then, taking a gown from the side, he wrapped it about him and
went to the double doors
that led out, pulling them open.

For a while Li Yuan stood there, his eyes closed, breathing in the fresh, sweet, night
scents of the garden, then he went outside, onto the balcony, the coldness of the
marble flags beneath his
feet making him look down, surprised.

‘Prince Yuan?’

He waved the guard away, then went down, barefoot, into the garden. In the deep shadow
of the bower he paused, looking about him, then searched blindly until he came upon
it.

‘Ah!’ he said softly, finding the book there, on the side, where she had laid it only
hours before. It had been in the dream, together with the horse, the silks, the scent
of plum
blossom. The thought made his throat dry again. He shivered and picked the book up,
feeling at once how heavy it was, the cover warped, ruined by the rain. He was about
to go back out when his
fingers found, then read, the pictograms embossed into the sodden surface of the cover.

Yu T’ai Hsin Yang.

He moved his fingers over the figures once again, making sure, then laughed shortly,
understanding. It was a book of love poetry. The sixth century collection,
New Songs From A Jade
Terrace
. He had not read the book himself, but he had heard of it. Moving out from the bower
he turned it over and held it out, under the moonlight, trying to make out the page
she had been
reading. It was a poem by Chiang Yen. ‘Lady Pan’s
Poem on the Fan
.’

He shivered and closed the book abruptly. It was like the dream, too close, too portentous
to ignore. He looked up at the three-quarters moon and felt its coldness touch him
to the core. It was
almost autumn, the season of executions, when the moon was traditionally associated
with criminals.

The moon… A chill thread of fear ran down his spine, making him drop the book. In
contrast to the sun, the new moon rose first in the west. Yes, it was from the west
that
Chang-e
,
the goddess of the Moon, first made herself known.

Chang-e
… The association of the English and the Mandarin was surely fanciful – yet he was
too much the Han, the suggestive resonances of sounds and words too deeply embedded
in his bloodstream, to ignore it.

Li Yuan bent down and retrieved the book, then straightened up and looked about him.
The garden was a mosaic of moonlight and shadows, unreal and somehow threatening.
It was as if, at any
moment, its vague patterning of silver and black would take on a clearer, more articulate
shape; forming letters or a face, as in his dream. Slowly, fearful now, he moved back
towards the palace,
shuddering at the slightest touch of branch or leaf, until he was inside again, the
doors securely locked behind him.

He stood there a while, his heart pounding, fighting back the dark, irrational fears
that had threatened to engulf him once again. Then, throwing the book down on his
bed, he went through
quickly, almost running down the corridors, until he came to the entrance to his father’s
suite of rooms.

The four elite guards stationed outside the door bowed deeply to him but blocked his
way. A moment later, Wang Ta Chuan, Master of The Inner Palace, appeared from within,
bowing deeply to
him.

‘What is it, Prince Yuan?’

‘I wish to see my father, Master Wang.’

Wang bowed again. ‘Forgive me, Excellency, but your father is asleep. Could this not
wait until the morning?’

Li Yuan shuddered, then shook his head. His voice was soft but insistent. ‘I must
see him now, Master Wang. This cannot wait.’

Wang stared at him, concerned and puzzled by his behaviour. Then he averted his eyes
and bowed a third time. ‘Please wait, Prince Yuan. I will go and wake your father.’

He had not long to wait. Perhaps his father had been awake already and had heard the
noises at his door. Whatever, it was only a few seconds later that Li Shai Tung appeared,
alone, a silk
pau
pulled about his tall frame, his feet, like his son’s, bare.

‘Can’t you sleep, Yuan?’

Li Yuan bowed, remembering the last time he had spoken to his father, in the Hall
of Eternal Truth, after his audience with Ssu Lu Shan. Then he had been too full of
contradictions, too shocked,
certainly too confused to be able to articulate what he was feeling. But now he knew.
The dream had freed his tongue and he must talk of it.

‘I had a dream, father. An awful, horrible dream.’

His father studied him a moment, then nodded. ‘I see.’ He put a hand out, indicating
the way. ‘Let us go through to your great-grandfather’s room, Yuan. We’ll talk
there.’