Wingrove, David - Chung Kuo 02 (4 page)

"How many
know about this?"

"Three,
maybe four."

"Good. Keep
it that way." He thought quickly. "Who's guarding our
fallen moon?"

"No one. A
camera ..."

"Excellent.
Now listen ..."

He spelled out
quickly what he wanted, then broke contact, knowing that Fischer
would do exactly as he had asked.

"Who's
dead?"

DeVore turned
and looked at Lehmann again. His face, like the tone of his words,
seemed utterly devoid of curiosity, as if the question were a mere
politeness, the answer a matter of indifference to him.

"Wang
Hsien," he answered. "It seems he's been murdered in his
bed." If he had expected the albino to show any sign of surprise
he would have been disappointed, but he knew the young man better
than that. "I see," Lehmann said. "And you know who
did it?"

"The agent,
yes, but not who he was acting for." DeVore sat behind his desk
again, then looked up at Lehmann. "It was Sun Li Hua."

"You know
that for certain?"

"Not for
certain, no. But I'd wager a million
yuan
on it." Lehmann
came across and stood at the edge of the desk. "So what now?"
DeVore met his eyes briefly, then looked down at the board again. "We
wait. Until we hear from Stifel again. Then the fun begins."

"Fun?"

"Yes, fun.
You'll see. But go now, Stefan. Get some rest. I'll call you when I
need you."

He realized he
was still holding the white stone. It lay in his palm like a tiny
moon, cold, moist with his sweat. He opened out his ringers and
stared at it, then lifted it and wiped it. The fifty-ninth stone.

The game had
changed dramatically, the balance altered in his favor.
The moon
was down. Eclipsed.

DeVore smiled,
then nodded to himself, suddenly knowing where to play the stone.

* *
*

THE DEAD T'ANG
lay where he had left him, undisturbed, his long gray hair fanned out
across the pillow, his arms at his sides, the palms upturned. Fischer
stood there a moment, looking down at the corpse, breathing deeply,
preparing himself. Then, knowing he could delay no longer, he bent
down and put his hand behind the cold stiff neck, lifting the head,
drawing the hair back from the ear.

It was not,
physically, difficult to do—the flesh parted easily before the
knife; the blood stopped flowing almost as soon as it had begun—yet
he was conscious of a deep, almost overpowering reluctance in
himself. This was a T'ang! A Son of Heaven! He shivered, letting the
severed flesh fall, then turned the head and did the same to the
other side.

He lowered the
head onto the pillow and stepped back, appalled. Outwardly he seemed
calm, almost icy in his control, but inwardly he quaked with an
inexplicable, almost religious fear of what he was doing. His pulse
raced, his stomach churned, and all the while a part of him kept
saying to himself, What are you doing, Otto? What are you doing?

He stared,
horrified, at the two thick question-marks of flesh that lay now on
the pillow, separated from their owner's head; then he steeled
himself and reached out to take them. He drew the tiny bag from
inside his jacket and dropped them into it, then sealed the bag and
returned it to the pocket.

Wang Hsien lay
there, regal even in death, indifferent to all that had been done to
him. Fischer stared at him a while, mesmerized, awed by the power of
the silent figure. Then, realizing he was wasting time, he bent over
the corpse again, smoothing the hair back into place, hiding the
disfigurement.

Nervousness made
him laugh—a laugh he stifled quickly. He shuddered and looked
about him again, then went to the doorway. There he paused, reaching
up to reset the camera, checking the elapsed time against his wrist
timer, then moved the camera's clock forward until the two were
synchronized. That done, he pressed out the combination quickly. The
lights at the top changed from amber to green, signifying that the
camera was functioning again.

He looked back,
checking the room one final time. Then, satisfied that nothing was
disturbed, he backed out of the room, pulling the door to silently
behind him, his heart pounding, his mouth dry with fear, the sealed
bag seeming to bum where it pressed against his chest.

* *
*

WANG TA-HUNG
woke to whispering in his room and sat up, clutching the blankets to
his chest, his mind dark with fear.

"Who is
it?" he called out, his voice quavering. "Kuan Yin preserve
me, who is it?" A figure approached the huge bed, bowed. "It
is only I, Excellency. Your servant, Wu Ming."

Wang Ta-hung,
the T'ang's eldest surviving son, pulled the blankets tighter about
his neck and stared, wide-eyed, past his Master of the Bedchamber,
into the darkness beyond.

"Who is
there, Wu Ming? Who were you whispering to?" A second figure
stepped from the darkness and stood beside the first, his head bowed.
He was a tall, strongly built Han dressed in dark silks, his beard
braided into three tiny pigtails, his face, when it lifted once
again, solid, unreadable. A handsome, yet inexpressive face.
"Excellency."

"Hung
Mien-lo!"

Wang Ta-hung
turned and glanced at the ornate timepiece beside the bed, then
twisted back, facing the two men, his face twitching with alarm. "It
is almost half two! What are you doing here? What's happened?"
Hung Mien-lo sat on the bed beside the frightened twenty-year-old,
taking his upper arms gently but firmly in his hands.

"It's all
right, Ta-hung. Please, calm yourself. I have some news, that's all."
The young Prince nodded, but it was as if he were still in the grip
of some awful dream: his eyes continued to stare, a muscle in his
left cheek twitched violently. He had been this way for eighteen
months now, since the day he had found his two brothers dead in one
of the guest bedrooms of the summer palace, their naked bodies
gray-blue from the poison, the two maids they had been entertaining
sprawled nearby, their pale limbs laced with blood, their eyes gouged
out.

Some said that
the pale was ted-looking youth was mad; others that it was only
natural for one of his sickly disposition to suffer after such a
discovery. He had never been a strong boy, but now . . .

Hung Mien-lo
stroked the young man's shoulder, comforting him, knowing the
delicacy of what lay ahead—that what must be said might well
send him deeper into madness. He spoke softly, reassuringly. "It
is your father, Ta-hung. I am afraid he is dead."

For a moment it
didn't register. There was a flicker of disbelief, of uncertainty.!
Then, abruptly, the Prince pulled himself away, scrambling back until
he was pressed up against the headboard, his eyes wide, his mouth
open.

"How?"
he said, the words the tiniest, frightened squeak. "How did he
die?"

Hung Mien-lo
ignored the question. He spoke calmly, using the same reassuring tone
as before. "You must get dressed, Ta-hung. You must come and
bear witness to what has happened."

Wang Ta-hung
laughed shrilly, then buried his head in his arms, shaking it wildly.
"No-o-o!" he cried, his voice muffled. "No-oh! God no,
not again!"

Hung Mien-lo
turned and clicked his fingers. At once Wu Ming bustled off to get
things ready. Yes, Hung thought, he at least understands. For now
that the old T'ang is dead, Ta-hung is T'ang in his place, mad or no.
Indeed, the madder the better as far as I'm concerned, for the more
Ta-hung relies on me, the more power lies within my hands.

He smiled and
stood, seeing how the young man cowered away from him, yet how his
eyes beseeched his help. Yes, indeed, Hung Mien-lo thought; my hour
has truly come, the hour I waited for so long as companion to this
young fool. And now I am effectively first man in City Africa. The
shaper. The orderer. The granter of favors.

Inwardly he felt
exultation, a soaring, brilliant joy that had lit in him the moment
he had been told; yet this, more than any other moment, was a time
for masks. He put one on now, shaping his face toward sternness, to
the expression of a profound grief. Satisfied, he went over to the
young Prince and lifted him from the bed, standing him on his feet.

"It was so
cold," the youth murmured, looking up into his face. "When
I touched Chang Ye's shoulder, it was like he had been laid in ice.
The cold of it seemed to burn my hand. I..." He hesitated, then
looked down, turning his hand, lifting the palm to stare at it.

"That's
done with, Ta-hung. You must get dressed now and see your father. You
are the eldest now, the Head of your family. You must take charge of
things."

Ta-hung stared
back at him uncomprehendingly. "Take charge?"

"Don't
worry," Hung said, unfastening the cord, then pulling the
Prince's sleeping silks down off his shoulders, stripping him naked.
"I'll be there beside you, Ta-hung. I'll tell you what to do."

Wu Ming returned
and began at once to dress and groom the Prince. He was only partway
through when Ta-hung broke away from him and threw himself down at
Hung Mien-lo's feet, sobbing.

"I'm
frightened, Mien-lo. So frightened!"

Hung glanced at
Wu Ming, then reached down and hauled the Prince roughly to his feet.
"Stop it! You've got to stop this at once!"

There was a
moment's shocked silence, then the young Prince bowed his head. "I'm
sorry, I ..."

"No!"
Hung barked. "No apologies. Don't you understand, Ta-hung?
You're T'ang now.
Seven.
It is I who should apologize, not
you,
Chieh Hsia."

Chieh Hsia.
It was the first time the words of imperial address had been used
to the young man and Hung Mien-lo could see at once the effect they
had on him. Though Ta-hung still shivered, though tears still coursed
freely down his cheeks, he stood straighter, slightly taller,
realizing for the first time what he had become.

"You
understand then? Good. Then remember this. Let none but a T'ang touch
you without your permission. And let no man, not even a T'ang, speak
to you as I spoke then. You are T'ang now. Supreme. Understand me,
Chieh Hsia
?"

Ta-hung's voice
when he answered was different, almost calm. "I understand you,
Mien-lo. My father is dead and I am T'ang now."

"Good.
Then, with your permission, we will go to see your father and pay our
respects, neh?"

The slightest
shudder passed through the young man's wasted frame, the smallest
cloud of revulsion momentarily crossed the sky of his face, then he
nodded. "As you say, Mien-lo. As you say."

* *
*

WANG SAU-LEYAN
heard their voices coming nearer—the rustle of silks and the
sound of their soft footsteps on the tiled floor—and slid the
door open, slipping out into the dimly lit corridor. He pulled the
door to quietly, then turned, facing them. They came on quickly,
talking all the while, not seeing him until they were almost on top
of him. He saw the look of surprise on Hung Mien-lo's face, heard his
brother's gasp of fear.

He smiled and
gave the slightest bow. "I heard noises, Ta-hung. Voices calling
softly but urgently in the darkness. What is happening, brother? Why
do you wander the corridors at this early hour?"

He saw how
Ta-hung looked to his friend—at a loss, his face a web of
conflicting emotions—and smiled inwardly, enjoying his
brother's impotence.

"I'm afraid
there is bad news, Wang Sau-leyan," Hung Mien-lo answered him,
bowing low, his face grave. "Your father is dead."

"Dead? But
how?"

He saw how Hung
Mien-lo glanced at his brother and knew at once that Ta-hung had not
been told everything.

"It would
be best if you came yourself, Excellency. I will explain everything
then. But excuse us, please. We must pay our respects to the late
T'ang."

He noted how
pointedly Hung Mien-lo had emphasized the last two words; how his
voice, while still superficially polite, was a register of how he
thought things had changed. Wang Sau-leyan smiled tightly at Hung,
then bowed to his elder brother.

"I will get
dressed at once."

He watched them
go; then, satisfied, he slid the door open again and went back into
his rooms.

A voice from the
bed, young, distinctly feminine, called softly to him. "What was
it, my love?"

He went across
to her and slipping off his robe, joined her, naked beneath the
sheets.

"It was
nothing," he said, smiling down at his father's third wife.
"Nothing at all."

* *
*

WANG TA-HUNG
stood in the doorway of his father's room staring in, fear
constricting his throat. He turned and looked at Hung Mien-lo
beseechingly. "I can't. . ."

"You are
T'ang," Hung answered him firmly. "You can."

The young man
swallowed, then turned back, his fists clenched at his sides. "I
am T'ang," he repeated. "T'ang of City Africa."

Hung Mien-lo
stood there a moment, watching him take the first few hesitant steps
into the room, knowing how important the next few minutes were.
Ta-hung had accustomed himself to the fact of his father's death. Now
he must discover how the old man died. Must learn, first-hand, the
fate of kings.

And if it drove
him mad?

Hung Mien-lo
smiled to himself, then stepped inside the room. Kings had been mad
before. What was a king, after all, but a symbol—the visible
sign of a system of government? As long as the City was ruled, what
did it matter who gave the orders?

He stopped
beside the old man's chair, watching the youth approach the bed.
Surely he's seen? he thought. Yet Ta-hung was too still, too
composed. Then the young T'ang turned, looking back at him.

"I knew,"
he said softly. "As soon as you told me, I knew he had been
murdered."