He looked at the girl again, at the pathetic bundle she held out before her, and shook his head. Then he turned away, calling out as he did so, summoning his servants to him.
Li Shai Tung’s figure filled the tiny overhead screen, his face grave, the white robes of mourning he wore flowing loosely about him as he came slowly down the steps to make his offering before the memorial plaque. Beneath the screen, its polished surface illuminated by the flickering light from the monitor, another, smaller plaque had been set into the foot of the wall, listing all those who had died in this small section of the deck.
Axel Haavikko knelt before the plaque, his head bowed, his shoulders hunched forward. His face was gaunt, his eyes red from weeping. He had not slept since the news had come.
He had thought himself alive again, reborn after years of self-destruction – years spent in idle, worthless dissipation – that moment in Tolonen’s office twelve years before, when Hans Ebert had betrayed him, put behind him finally, his life redeemed by his friendship with Karr and Chen, made sense of by their common determination to expose Ebert – to show him for the hollow, lying shit he was. But all that was as nothing now. The light that had burned in him anew had gone out. His sister was dead. Vesa, his beloved Vesa, was dead. And nothing – nothing – could redeem the waste of that.
He took a shivering breath then looked up again, seeing the image of the T’ang reflected in the plaque where Vesa’s name lay. Vesa Haavikko. It was all that remained of her now. That and the relentless ghosts of memory.
On that morning he had gone walking with her. Had held her arm and shared her laughter. They had got up early and gone down to see the old men and their birds in the treelined Main at the bottom of Bremen stack.
Had sat at a café and talked about their plans for the future. And afterwards he had kissed her cheek and left her to go on duty, never for a moment suspecting that it was the last time he would ever see her.
He moaned softly, pressing his hands against his thighs in anguish. Why her? She had done nothing. If anyone, it was he who deserved punishment. So why her?
He swallowed painfully, then shook his head, but the truth would not be denied. She was dead. His beloved Vesa was dead. Soul-mate and conscience, the best part of himself, she was no more.
He frowned then looked down, suddenly bitter, angry with himself. It was his fault. He had brought her here, after all. After long years of neglect he had finally brought her to him. And to what end?
A tear welled and trickled down his cheek.
He shuddered, then put his hand up to his face. His jaw ached from where he had been gritting his teeth, trying to fend off the images that came – those dreadful imaginings of her final moments that tore at him, leaving him broken, wishing only for an end to things.
An end… Yes, there would be an end to everything. But first he had a score to settle. One final duty to perform.
He took a deep breath, summoning the energy to rise, then grew still, hearing a noise behind him: a gentle sobbing. He half turned and saw her there, kneeling just behind him to his right, a young woman, a Hung Mao, dressed in mourning clothes. Beside her, his tiny hand clutching hers, stood a child, a Han, bemusement in his three-year-old face.
He looked down, swallowing. The sight of the boy clutching his mother’s hand threw him back across the years; brought back the memory of himself, standing there before his mother’s plaque; of looking down and seeing Vesa’s hand, there in his own, her fingers laced into his, her face looking up at him, not understanding. Two she had been, he five. And yet so old he had felt that day; so brave, they’d said, to keep from crying.
No, he had never cried for his mother. But now he would. For mother and sister and all. For the death of all that was good and decent in the world.
Li Yuan was standing in the stable doorway when she returned, his arms folded across his chest, his face closed to her. He helped her from the saddle, coldly silent, his manner over-careful, exaggeratedly polite.
She stared at him, amused by this rare display of anger, trying to make him acknowledge her presence, but he would not meet her eyes.
‘There,’ she said, pressing one hand against the small of her back to ease the ache. ‘No harm done.’
She smiled and went to kiss him.
He drew back sharply, glaring at her, then took her hand roughly and led her into the dark warmth of the stable. She went reluctantly, annoyed with him now, thinking him childish.
Inside he settled the horse in its stall then came back to her, making her sit, standing over her, his hands on his hips, his eyes wide with anger.
‘What in hell’s name do you think you were doing?’
She looked away. ‘I was riding, that’s all.’
‘Riding…’ he murmured, then raised his voice. ‘I said you weren’t to ride!’
She looked up, indignation rising in her. ‘I’m not a child, Li Yuan. I can decide for myself what’s best for me!’
He laughed scornfully then turned, taking three steps away from her. ‘You can decide?’ He looked directly at her, his expression openly contemptuous. ‘You… You’re seven months pregnant and you think riding is best for you?’
‘No harm was done,’ she repeated, tossing her head. She would not be lectured by him! Not in ten thousand years! She turned her face aside, shaking now with anger.
He came across and stood there, over her, for a moment the image of his father, his voice low but menacing. ‘You say that you’re not a child, Fei Yen, yet you’ve acted like one. How could you be so stupid?’
Her eyes flared. Who was he to call her stupid? This… this… boy! He had gone too far. She pulled herself up awkwardly from the chair and pushed past him. ‘I shall ride when I like! You’ll not prevent me!’
‘Oh, won’t I?’ He laughed, but his mouth was shaped cruelly and his eyes were lit with sudden determination. ‘Watch! I’ll show you how…’
She was suddenly afraid. She watched him stride across the straw-strewn tiles, coldness in her stomach. He wouldn’t… But then the certainty of it hit her and she cried out – ‘No-o-o!’ – knowing what he meant to do. She screamed it at his back, then went after him, nausea mixing with her fear and anger.
At the far end of the stable he turned, abruptly, so that she almost ran into him. He seized her upper arms, his fingers gripping the flesh tightly, making her wince.
‘You’ll stand here and watch. You’ll witness the price of your stupidity!’
There was so much anger, so much real venom in his words that she swayed, feeling faint, paralysed into inaction by this sudden change in him. As she watched, he took the power-gun from the rack and checked its charge, then went down the row of horses.
At the end stall he paused and turned to look at her, then went in, his hand smoothing the flank of the dark horse, caressing its long face, before he placed the stubby gun against its temple.
‘Goodbye,’ he whispered, then squeezed the trigger, administering the high-voltage shock.
The horse gave a great snort then collapsed on to the floor of the stall, dead. Fei Yen, watching, saw how he shuddered, then stepped back, looking at what he’d done, his face muscles twitching violently.
Appalled, she watched him move down the stalls, her horror mounting as the seconds passed.
Five mounts lay dead on the straw. Only the last of them remained, the horse in the third stall, the black Arab that had once been Han’s. She stood there, her hands clenched into tight fists, looking in at it. She mouthed its secret name, cold numbness gripping her, then turned, looking at Li Yuan.
Li Yuan was breathing deeply now. He stood there in the entrance to the stall, for a moment unaware of the woman at his side, looking in at the beautiful beast that stood so proudly before him, its head turned, its dark eyes watching him. His anger had drained from him, leaving only a bitter residue: a sickness gnawing at the marrow of his bones. He shook his head, wanting to cry out for all the pain and anger she had made him feel, then
turned and looked at her, seeing now how ill her beauty sat on her.
Like a mask, hiding her selfishness.
He bit his lip, struggling with what he felt, trying to master it. There was the taste of blood in his mouth.
For a moment longer he stood there, trembling, the gun raised, pointed at her. Then he threw it down.
For a time afterwards he stood there, his hands empty, staring down at the red earth floor, at the golden spill of straw that covered it, blankness at the very core of him. When he looked up again she was gone. Beyond the stable doors the sky was a vivid blue. In the distance the mountains showed green and grey and white, swathed in mist.
He went out and stood there, looking out into the beauty of the day, letting his numbness seep down out of him, into the earth. Then he turned back and went inside again, bending down to pick up the gun.
The child – that was all that mattered now, all that was important. To make the Seven strong again.
‘I’m sorry, Han,’ he whispered gently, laying his face against the horse’s neck. ‘The gods know I didn’t wish for this.’ Then, tears blurring his vision, he stepped back and rested the gun against the horse’s temple, easing back the trigger.
Chapter 59
THE WAY OF DECEPTION
Fei Yen went back to her father’s house. For a week Li Yuan did nothing, hoping she would return of her own free will, then, when there was no sign of her returning, he went to see her, taking time off from his duties.
The Yin house defences tracked him from twenty li out, checking and rechecking his codes before granting him permission to set down. He landed his private craft in the military complex at the back of the estate, in a shadowy hangar where the sharp, sweet scents of pine and lemon mingled with the smell of machine oils.
Two of Yin Tsu’s three sons, Sung and Chan, were waiting there to greet him, bowed low, keeping a respectful silence.
The palace was on an island at the centre of a lake; an elegant, two-storey building in the Ming style, its red, corbelled roof gently sloped, its broad, panelled windows reminiscent of older times. Seeing it, Li Yuan smiled, his past memories tinged with present sadness.
The two sons rowed him across the lake, careful not to embarrass him with their attentions. Fei’s father, Yin Tsu, was waiting on the landing stage before the palace, standing beneath an ancient willow whose shadow dappled the sunlit water.
He bowed low as Li Yuan stepped from the boat.
‘You are welcome, Li Yuan. To what do I owe this honour?’
Yin Tsu was a small, neat man. His pure white hair was cut short about his neck in an almost occidental style, slicked back from his high forehead. He held himself stiffly now, yet despite his white hair and seventy-four years he was a sprightly man with a disposition towards smiles and laughter. Just now, however, his small, fine features seemed morose, the tiny webs of lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth drawn much deeper than before.
Li Yuan took his hands. Small hands, like a woman’s, the skin smooth, almost silky, the fingernails grown long.
‘I need to see my wife, Honoured Father-in-Law. I must talk with her.’
A faint breeze was blowing off the water. Fallen leaves brushed against their feet then slowly drifted on.
Yin Tsu nodded his head. Looking at him, Li Yuan saw the original of his wife’s finely featured face. There was something delicate about it; some quality that seemed closer to sculpture than genetic chance.
‘Come through. I’ll have her join us.’
Li Yuan bowed and followed the old man. Inside, it was cool. Servants brought ch’a and sweetmeats while Yin Tsu went to speak to his daughter. Li Yuan sat there, waiting, rehearsing what he would say.
After a while Yin Tsu returned, taking a seat across from him.
‘Fei Yen will not be long. She wants a moment to prepare herself. You understand?’
‘Of course. I would have notified you, Yin Tsu, but I did not know when I could come.’
The old man lifted his chin and looked down his tiny nose at his sonin-law. Unspoken words lay in the depth of his eyes. Then he nodded, his features settling into an expression of sadness and resignation.
‘Talk to her, Yuan. But, please, you must only talk. This is still my house. Agreed?’
Li Yuan bowed his head. Yin Tsu was one of his father’s oldest friends. An affront to him would be as an affront to his father.
‘If she will not listen, that will be an end to it, Yin Tsu. But I must try. It is my duty as a husband to try.’
His words, like his manner, were stilted and awkward. They hid how much he was feeling at that moment: how much this meant to him.
Yin Tsu went to the window, staring out across the lake. It was difficult for him too. There was tenseness to each small movement of his that revealed how deeply he felt about all this. But, then, that was hardly surprising. He had seen his hopes dashed once before, when Yuan’s brother Han had been killed.
Li Yuan sipped at his ch’a then set it down. He tried to smile, but the muscles in his cheeks pulled the smile too tight. From time to time a nerve would jump beneath his eye, causing a faint twitch. He had not been sleeping well since she had left.
‘How is she?’ he asked, turning to face Yin Tsu.
‘In good health. The child grows daily.’ The old man glanced across then looked back at the lake. His tiny hands were folded together across his stomach.
‘That’s good.’
On the far side of the room, beside a lacquered screen, stood a cage on a long, slender pole. In the cage was a nightingale. For now it rested silently on its perch, but once it had sung for him – on that day he had come here with his father to see Yin Tsu and ask him for his daughter’s hand in marriage.
He sat there, feeling leaden. She had left him on the evening of the argument. Had gone without a word, taking nothing, leaving him to think on what he had done.
‘And how is Li Shai Tung?’
Li Yuan looked up blankly. ‘I beg your pardon, Honoured Father?’
‘Your father. How is he?’
‘Ah,’ he breathed in deeply, returning to himself. ‘He is fine now, thank you. A little weak, but…’
‘None of us are growing any younger.’ The old man shook his head then came across and sat again, a faint smile on his lips. ‘Not that we would even if we could, neh, Yuan?’
Yin Tsu’s remark was far from innocuous. He was referring to the new longevity process. Already, it was said, more than a thousand of the Above had had the operation and were taking the drugs regularly. And that without concrete evidence of the efficacy of the treatment – without knowing whether there were any traceable side-effects. Such men were desperate, it seemed. They would grasp at any promise of extended life.
‘Only ill can come of it, Yuan. I guarantee.’ He leaned forward, lifting the lid to look into the ch’a kettle, then summoned the servant across. While the servant hurried to replenish it, Li Yuan considered what lay behind his father-in-law’s words. This was more than small talk, he realized. Yin Tsu was talking to him not as a son but as a future colleague. It was his way of saying that, whatever transpired, they would remain friends and associates. The interests of the Families – both Major and Minor – superseded all else. As they had to.
When the servant had gone again, Yin Tsu leaned forward, his voice a whisper, as if he were afraid of being overheard.
‘If it helps at all, Li Yuan, my sympathy’s with you. She acted rashly. But she’s a headstrong young woman, I warn you. You’ll not alter that with bit and bridle.’
Li Yuan sighed then sipped at his ch’a. It was true. But he had wanted her both as she was and as he wanted her; like caging fire. He glanced up at Yin Tsu and saw the concern there, the deep-rooted sympathy. And yet in this the old man would support his daughter. He had sheltered her; given her refuge against her husband. He could sympathize but he would not help.
There was a sound, then movement, from the far end of the room. Li Yuan looked
up and saw her in the doorway. He stood up as Yin Tsu looked round.
‘Fei Yen… Come through. Li Yuan is here to see you.’
Li Yuan stepped forward, moving to greet her, but she walked past him, as though he were not there. He turned, pained by her action, watching her embrace her father gently.
She seemed paler than he remembered her, but her tiny form was well rounded now, seven and a half months into its term. He wanted to touch the roundness of the belly, feel the movements of the growing child within. For all her coldness to him, he felt as he had always felt towards her. All of it flooded back, stronger than ever: all the tenderness and pain; all of his unfathomable love for her.
‘Fei Yen…’ he began, but found he could say no more than that. What could he say? How might he persuade her to return? He looked pleadingly at Yin Tsu. The old man saw and, giving the slightest of nods, moved back, away from his daughter.
‘Forgive me, Fei, but I must leave now. I have urgent business to attend to.’
‘Father…’ she began, her hand going out to touch him, but he shook his head.
‘This is between you two alone, Fei. You must settle it here and now. This indecision is unhealthy.’
She bowed her head, then sat.
‘Come…’ Yin Tsu beckoned to him. He hesitated, seeing how she was sitting, her head down, her face closed to him, then went across and sat, facing her. Yin Tsu stood there a moment longer, looking from one to the other. Then, without another word, he left.
For a time neither spoke or looked at the other. It was as if an impenetrable screen lay between them. Then, unexpectedly, she spoke.
‘My father talks as if there were something to decide. But I made my decision when I left you.’ She looked up at him, her bottom lip strangely curled, almost pinched. It gave her mouth a look of bitterness. Her eyes were cold, defiant. And yet beautiful. ‘I’m not coming back, Li Yuan. Not ever.’
He looked at her, meeting her scorn and defiance, her anger and bitterness, and finding only his own love for her. She was all he had ever wanted in a woman. All he would ever want.
The Broken Wheel Page 11
