The White Mountain (5 page)

As the girl slipped her gown from her shoulders, there was a low murmur of approval. Now she stood there, naked, holding the beast's huge phallus in one hand, while with the other she continued to stroke its chest.

Its lowing now had a strange, inhuman urgency to it. It turned its head from side to side, as if in pain, its whole body trembling, as if at any moment it might lose control. One hand lifted, moving towards the girl, then withdrew.

Then, with a small, teasing smile at Chun Wu-chi, the girl lowered her head and took the beast deep into her mouth.

There was a gasp from all round. Hsiang, watching, saw how the girl he had assigned to Chun was working the old man, burrowed beneath his skirts, doing to him exactly what the other was doing to the Ox-man. He smiled. From the look of pained pleasure on the old man's face, Chun Wu-chi would not forget this evening quickly.

It was just after nine and in the great Hall of Celestial Destinies at Nantes spaceport a huge crowd milled about. The eight-twenty rocket from Boston had come in ten minutes back and the final security clearances were being made before its passengers were passed through into the hall.

Lehmann stood at the base of the statue in the centre of the hall, waiting. DeVore had contacted him an hour and a half back to say he would be on the eight-twenty. He had sounded angry and irritable, but when Lehmann had pressed him about the trip, he had seemed enthusiastic. It was something else, then, that had soured his mood – something that had happened back here, in his absence – and there was only one thing that could have done that: the failure of the assassination attempt on Tolonen.

Was that why DeVore had asked him to meet him here? To try again? It made sense, certainly, for despite all their ‘precautions' the last thing Security
really
expected was a new attempt so shortly after the last.

He turned, looking up at the giant bronze figures. He knew that the composition was a lie, part of the Great Lie the Han had built along with their City; even so, there was an underlying truth to it, for the Han
had
triumphed over the
Ta Ts'in
. Kan Ying
had
bowed before Pan Chao. Or at least, their descendants had. But for how much longer would the dream of Rome be denied?

For himself, it was unimportant. Han or
Hung Mao
, it did not matter who ruled the great circle of Chung Kuo. Even so, in the great struggle that was to come, his ends would be served.

Whoever triumphed, the world would be no longer as it was. Much that he hated would, of necessity, be destroyed, and in that process of destruction – of purification – a new spirit would be unleashed. New and yet quite ancient. Savage and yet pure, like an eagle circling in the cold, clear air above the mountains.

He looked away. A new beginning, that was what the world needed. A new beginning, free of all this.

Lehmann looked about him, studying those making their way past him, appalled by the emptiness he saw in every face. Here they were, all the half-men and half-women and all their little halflings, hurrying about their empty, meaningless lives. On their brief, sense-dulled journey to the Oven Man's door.

And then?

He shivered, oppressed suddenly by the crush, by the awful perfumed stench of those about him. This now – this brief moment of time before it began – was a kind of tiger's mouth; that moment before one surrounded one's opponent's stone, robbing it of breath. It was a time of closing options. Of fast and desperate plays.

There was a murmuring throughout the hall as the announcement boards at either end showed that the passengers from the eight-twenty Boston rocket were coming through. Lehmann was about to go across when he noticed two men making their way through the crowd, their faces set, their whole manner subtly different.

Security? No. For a start they were Han. Moreover, there was something fluid, almost rounded about their movements; something one never found in the more rigorously and classically trained Security élite. No. These were more likely Triad men. Assassins. But who were they after? Who else was on DeVore's flight? Some Company head? Or was this a gang matter?

He followed them surreptitiously, interested; wanting to observe their methods.

The gate at the far end of the hall was open now and passengers were spilling out. Looking past the men, he saw DeVore, his neat, tidy figure making its way swiftly but calmly through the press. The men were exactly halfway between him and DeVore, some ten or fifteen
ch'i
in front of him, when he realized his mistake.

‘Howard!'

DeVore looked up, alerted, and saw at once what was happening. The two assassins were making directly for him now, less than two body lengths away, their blades out, slashing at anyone who got in their way, intent on reaching their quarry. Beyond them Lehmann was pushing his way through the crowd, yelling at people to get out of his way, but it would be several seconds before he could come to DeVore's aid.

DeVore moved forward sharply, bringing the case he was carrying up into the face of the first man as he came out of the crowd in front of him. Hampered by a woman at his side, the assassin could only jerk his head back, away. At once DeVore kicked out, making him stagger back. But even as he did, the second assassin was upon him, his notched knife swinging through the air at DeVore's head.

The speed at which DeVore turned surprised the man. One hand
countered the knife blow at the wrist while the other punched to the ribs. The assassin went down with a sharp cry.

DeVore turned, facing the first assassin, feinting once, twice with his fists before he twisted and kicked. The assassin moved back expertly, but before he could counter, he sank to his knees, Lehmann's knife embedded in his back.

There was shouting and screaming from all sides of them now.

‘Come away,' Lehmann said quietly, taking DeVore's arm. ‘Before Security come!' But DeVore shrugged him off, going over to the second man.

The would-be assassin lay there, helpless, clutching his side, gasping with pain. DeVore had shattered his ribcage, puncturing his lung. He crouched close, over the man, one hand at his throat.

‘Who sent you?'

The man pushed his face up at DeVore's and spat.

DeVore wiped the bloodstained phlegm from his cheek and reached across to pick up the assassin's blade. Then, as the man's eyes widened, he slit open his shirt and searched his torso for markings.

DeVore turned, looking up at Lehmann, a fierce anger in his face. ‘He's not Triad and he's not Security, so who the fuck…?'

The third man came from nowhere.

DeVore had no time to react. It was only accident that saved him. As Lehmann turned, he moved between DeVore and the man, glancing against the assassin's knife arm. The knife, which would have entered DeVore's heart, was nudged to one side, piercing DeVore between neck and shoulder.

The assassin jerked the serrated knife out savagely from DeVore's flesh, but before he could strike again, Lehmann had lashed out, punching his nose up into his skull. The man fell and lay still.

DeVore sank to his knees, holding one hand over the wound, a look of astonishment on his bloodless face. This time Lehmann didn't ask. With a single blow he finished off the second man, then turned and did the same to the third. Then, lifting DeVore on to his shoulder, ignoring the shouts of protest from all about him, he began to carry him towards the exit and the safety of the transit, praying that their man in Security could hold his fellows off a minute longer.

As for DeVore's question, he had his answer now, for that last man had been a
Hung Mao
, a face they'd seen often in the past: one of several who had
always been there in the background at their meetings with the
Ping Tiao
. A guard. One of the ones who had defected to the
Yu
.

So it was Mach, Jan Mach, who'd tried to have them killed.

Chapter 68

WILLOW-PLUM SICKNESS

O
n the open, windswept hillside the small group gathered about the grave. Across the valley, cloud shadow drew a moving line that descended, crossing the water, then came swiftly up the slope towards them.

Ben watched the shadow sweep towards him, and felt the sudden chill as the sun passed behind the cloud.

So it is
, he thought.
As swift as that it comes
.

The wooden casket lay on thick silken cords beside the open grave. Ben stood there, facing the casket across the darkness of the hole, his feet only inches from the drop.

Earth. Dark earth. It had rained and tiny beads of moisture clung to the stems of grass overhanging the grave. In the sunlight they seemed strange, incongruous.

It was still unreal. Or not yet real. He felt no grief as yet, no strong feeling for what he had lost, only a vacancy, a sense of his own inattentiveness. As if he had missed something…

They were all in black, even Li Yuan. Blackness for death. The old Western way of things. His mother stood beside the casket, her face veiled, grieving heavily. Beside him stood his sister, and next to her Li Yuan's Chancellor, Nan Ho.

A cold wind gusted from the south across the hilltop, blowing his hair into his eyes. A sea breeze, heavy with brine. He combed strands back into
place with his fingers, then left his hand there, the fingers buried in his fine, thick hair, his palm pressed firmly against his forehead.

He felt like an actor, the ‘boy in black' at the graveside. An impostor. Neither loving nor dutiful. Cuckoo in the nest. Too distanced from things to be his father's son, his brother's brother.

Had he ever even said he loved him?

Two of Li Yuan's men came and lifted the casket on its cords.

Ben moved back as they lowered the casket into the earth. A cassette of death, slotting into the hillside.

And no rewind… no playback. Hal Shepherd existed only in the memories of others now. And when they in their turn died? Was it all simply a long process of forgetting? Of blinded eyes and decaying images? Maybe… but it didn't have to be.

The earth fell. He closed his eyes and could see it falling, covering the pale wood of the casket. Could hear the sound of the earth tumbling against the wood. A hollow, empty sound.

He opened his eyes. The hole was a shallow depression of uneven darkness. The T'ang's men had ceased shovelling.

He felt the urge to bend down and touch the cold, dark earth. To crush it between his fingers and feel its gritty texture, its cool, inanimate substance. Instead, he watched as Li Yuan stepped forward and pressed the young tree into the pile of earth, firming it down, then moving back to let the servants finish their task.

No words. No graven stones. This was his father's wish. Only a tree. A young oak.

Ben shivered, his thoughts drawn elsewhere. What was the darkness like on the other side of being? Was it
only
a nothingness?
Only
blank, empty darkness?

They walked back along the path, down to the cottage by the bay, Li Yuan holding his mother's arm, consoling her, Nan Ho walking beside his sister. Ben came last, alone, several paces behind.

His father's death. Expected so long, it had nonetheless come like a blow of evil fate to his mother. He had heard her crying in the night: a sound that could not be described, only heard and remembered. A wordless noise, connected to the grieving animal deep within the human – a sound drawn from the great and ancient darkness of our racial being.
An awful, desolate sound. Once heard it could never be forgotten.

He turned and looked back. There was no sign of the grave, the fledgling tree. Banks of iron-grey cloud were massed above the hillside. In a while it would rain.

He turned and looked down the slope at the cottage and the bay beyond, seeing it all anew. Where was its paradigm? Where the designer of all this? The shaping force?

Death had unlocked these questions, forcing his face relentlessly against the glass.

He sighed, then walked on, making his slow way down.