‘I know,’ she said, coming closer. ‘Can I see it? Please, Daddy.’
Out of the corner of an eye he saw the Captain smile faintly. He had been about to say no to her, but that decided him. After all, she was the Marshal’s daughter. He had taught her much over the years. Perhaps she, in turn, could teach the young officer something.
He handed her the file, watching her flick through it quickly, again as if she was looking for something specific. Then, astonishingly, she looked up at him, a great beam of a smile on her face.
‘I knew it!’ she said. ‘I sensed it as soon as I came in. He’s alive! This proves it!’
Tolonen gave a short laugh then glanced briefly at the Captain, before taking the clipboard back from his daughter and holding it open at the place she indicated. ‘What in the gods’ names are you talking about? Who’s alive?’
‘The boy. Ward. He isn’t there! Don’t you see? Look at the Chief Pathologist’s report. All the corpses he examined were those of adults – of fully grown men. But Kim wasn’t more than a child. Not physically. Which means that whoever the seventeenth victim was, he wasn’t on the Project.’
‘And Kim’s alive.’
‘Yes…’
He stared back at her, realizing what it might mean. The boy had a perfect memory. So good that it was almost impossible for him to forget anything. Which meant…
He laughed then grew still. Unless they’d taken him captive. Unless whoever had done this had meant to destroy everything but him. But, then, why had they taken the tutor, T’ai Cho, and afterwards released him? Or had that been a mistake?
‘Gods…’ he said softly. If DeVore had the boy, he also had the only complete record of the Project’s work – the basis of a system that could directly control vast numbers of people. It was a frightening thought. His worst nightmare come true. If DeVore had him.
He turned, watching his daughter. She was looking about her, her eyes taking in everything, just as he’d taught her. He followed her through, the young Captain trailing them.
‘What is it?’ he said quietly, afraid to disturb her concentration. ‘What are you looking for?’
She turned, looking back at him, the smile still there. ‘He got out. I know he did.’
He shivered, not wanting to know. But she had been right about the other thing, so maybe she was right about this. They went through the ruins of the outer office and into the dark, fire-blackened space beyond where they had found most of the bodies.
‘There!’ she said, triumphantly, pointing halfway up the back wall. ‘There! That’s where he went.’
Tolonen looked. Halfway up the wall there was a slightly darker square set into the blackness. He moved closer, then realized what it was. A ventilation shaft.
‘I don’t see how…’ he began, but even as he said it he changed his mind and nodded. Of course. The boy had been small enough, wiry enough. And after all, he had come from the Clay. There was his past record of violence to consider. If anyone could have survived this, it was Kim. So maybe Jelka was right. Maybe he had got out this way.
Tolonen turned, looking at the young officer. ‘Get one of your experts in here now, Captain. I want him to investigate that vent for any sign that someone might have used it to escape.’
‘Sir!’
He stood there, Jelka cradled against him, his arm about her shoulders, while they tested the narrow tunnel for clues. It was difficult, because the vent was too small for a grown man to get into, but with the use of extension arms and mechanicals they worked their way slowly down the shaft.
After twenty minutes the squad leader turned and came across to Tolonen. He bowed then gave a small, apologetic shrug.
‘Forgive me, Marshal, but it seems unlikely he got out this way. The vent is badly charred. It sustained a lot of fire damage when the labs went up. Besides that, it leads down through the main generator rooms below. He would have been sliced to pieces by the fans down there.’
Tolonen was inclined to agree. It was unlikely that the boy had got out, even if DeVore hadn’t taken him. But when he looked down and met his daughter’s eyes, the certainty there disturbed him.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m certain. Trust me, Father. I know he got out. I just know.’
Tolonen sniffed then looked back at the squad leader. ‘Go in another five ch’i. If there’s nothing there we’ll call it off.’
They waited, Tolonen’s hopes fading by the moment. But then there was a shout from one of the men controlling the remote. He looked up from his screen and laughed. ‘She’s right. Damn me if she isn’t right!’
They went across and looked. There, enhanced on the screen, was a set of clear prints, hidden behind a fold in the tunnel wall and thus untouched by the blast.
‘Well?’ said Tolonen, ‘Are they the boy’s?’
There was a moment’s hesitation then the boy’s prints were flashed up on the screen, the computer superimposing them over the others.
There was no doubt. They were a perfect match.
‘Then he’s alive!’ said Tolonen. He stared at his daughter then shook his head, not understanding. ‘Okay,’ he said, turning to the Captain, ‘this is what we’ll do. I want you to contact Major Gregor Karr at Bremen Headquarters and get him here at once. And then –’
He stopped, staring open-mouthed at the doorway. ‘Hans… what are you doing here?’
Hans Ebert bowed then came forward. His face was pale, his whole manner unnaturally subdued.
‘I’ve news,’ he said, swallowing. ‘Bad news, I’m afraid, Uncle Knut. It’s the T’ang. I’m afraid he’s dead.’
Hans Ebert paused on the terrace, looking out across the gardens at the centre of the mansion where the Marshal’s daughter stood, her back to him.
Jelka was dressed in the southern Han fashion, a tight silk sam fu of a delicate eggshell blue wrapped about her strong yet slender body. Her hair had been plaited and coiled at the back of her head, but there was no mistaking her for Han. She was too tall, too blonde to be anything but Hung Mao. And not simply Hung Mao but Nordic. New European.
He smiled then made his way down the steps quietly, careful not to disturb her reverie. She was standing just beyond the bridge, looking down into the tiny stream, one hand raised to her neck, the other holding her folded fan against her side.
His wife. Or soon to be.
He was still some way from her when she turned, suddenly alert, her whole body tensed, as if prepared against attack.
‘It’s all right,’ he said, raising his empty hands in reassurance. ‘It’s only me.’
He saw how she relaxed – or tried to, for there was still a part of her that held out against him – and smiled inwardly. There was real spirit in the girl; an almost masculine hardness that he admired. His father had been right for once: she would make him the perfect match.
‘What is it?’ she asked, looking back at him as if forcing herself to meet his eyes. Again he smiled.
‘I’m sorry, Jelka, but I have to go. Things are in flux and the new T’ang has asked for me. But please… our home is yours. Make yourself comfortable. My mui tsai, Sweet Flute, will be here in a while to look after you.’
She stared back at him a moment, her lips slightly parted, then gave a small bow of her head. ‘And my father?’
‘He feels it best that you stay here for the moment. As I said, things are in flux and there are rumours of rioting in the lower levels. If it spreads…’
She nodded then turned away, looking across at the ancient pomegranate trees, flicking her fan open as she did so. It was a strange, almost nervous gesture and for a moment he wondered what it meant. Then, bowing low, he turned to go. But he had gone only a few paces when she called to him.
‘Hans?’
He turned, pleased that she had used his name. ‘Yes?’
‘Will you be General now?’
He took a long breath then shrugged. ‘If the new T’ang wishes it. Why?’
She
made a small motion of her head then looked down. ‘I… I just wondered, that’s all.’
‘Ah…’ He stood there a moment longer, watching her, then turned and made his way back along the path towards the house. And if he was? Well, maybe it would be a reason for bringing his marriage forward. After all, a general ought to have a wife, a family, oughtn’t he? He grinned then spurred himself on, mounting the steps two at a time. Yes. He would speak to Tolonen about it later.
*
She stood there after he was gone, her eyes following the slow swirl of a mulberry leaf as it drifted on the artificial current.
So the boy, Kim, was alive. But how had she known?
She turned, hearing footsteps on the pathway. It was a young woman – a girl little older than herself. The mui tsai.
The girl came closer then stopped, bowing low, her hands folded before her. ‘Excuse me, Hsiao Chi, but my master asked me to see to your every wish.’
Jelka turned, smiling at the girl’s use of Hsiao Chi – Lady – to one clearly no older than herself. But it was obvious that the girl was only trying to be respectful.
‘Thank you, Sweet Flute, but I wish only to wait here until my father comes.’
The mui tsai glanced up at her then averted her eyes again. ‘With respect, Hsiao Chi, I understand that might be some while. Would you not welcome some refreshments while you wait? Or perhaps I could summon the musicians. There is a pavilion…’
Jelka smiled again, warmed by the girl’s manner. Even so, she wanted to be left alone. The matter with the boy disturbed her. The preliminary search of the levels below the Project had found no trace of him.
She sighed then gave a tiny laugh. ‘All right, Sweet Flute. Bring me a drink. A cordial. But no musicians. The birds sing sweetly enough for me. And I do wish to be left alone. Until my father comes.’
The mui tsai bowed. ‘As you wish, Hsiao Chi.’
Jelka looked about her, letting herself relax for the first time since she had heard of the attack on the Project, drinking in the harmony of the garden. Then she stiffened again.
From the far side of the gardens came a strange, high-pitched keening, like the sound of an animal in pain. For almost a minute it continued and then it stopped, as abruptly as it had begun.
What in the gods’ names…?
She hurried across the bridge and down the path, then climbed the wooden steps up on to the terrace. It had come from here, she was sure of it.
She paused, hearing the low murmur of male voices from the doorway just ahead of her. Slowly, step by step, she crept along the terrace until she stood there, looking in.
There were four of them, dressed in the pale green uniforms of the Ebert household. In the midst of them, a gag tied tightly about her mouth, was a woman. A Han woman in her late twenties.
Jelka watched, astonished, as the woman kicked out wildly and threw herself about, trying to escape her captives, her face dark, contorted. But there was no escaping. As Jelka watched, the men subdued her, forcing her into a padded jacket, the over-long arms of which they fastened at the back.
Shuddering with indignation, she stepped inside. ‘Stop it! Stop it at once!’
The men turned, disconcerted by her sudden appearance, the woman in their midst suddenly forgotten. She fell and lay there on the floor, her legs kicking impotently.
Jelka took another step, her whole body trembling with the anger she felt. ‘What in the gods’ names do you think you’re doing?’
They backed away as she came on, bowing abjectly.
‘Forgive us, Mistress Tolonen,’ one of them said, recognizing her. ‘But we are only acting on our master’s orders.’
She looked at the man witheringly then shook her head. ‘Unbind her. Unbind her at once.’
‘But, Mistress, you don’t understand –’
‘Quiet, man!’ she barked, the strength in her voice surprising him. He fell to his knees, head bowed, and stayed there, silent. She shivered then looked at the others. ‘Well? Must I ask you again?’
There was a quick exchange of glances then the men did as she said, unbinding the woman and stepping back, as if afraid of the consequences. But the woman merely rolled over and sat up, easing the jacket from her, calm now, the fit – if that was what it had been – gone from her.
‘Good,’ Jelka said, not looking at them, her attention fixed upon the strange woman. ‘Now go. I wish to be alone with her.’
‘But, Mistress –’
‘Go!’
There was no hesitation this time. Bowing furiously, the four men departed. She could hear the dull murmur of their voices outside, then nothing. She was alone with the woman.
Jelka went across and knelt over her, letting her hand rest on her arm. ‘What is it?’
The woman looked up at her. She was pretty. Very pretty. In some ways more like a child than Jelka herself. ‘What’s your name?’ Jelka asked, touched by the expression of innocence in the woman’s eyes.
‘My baby…’ the woman said, looking past Jelka distractedly. ‘Where’s my baby?’
Jelka turned, looking about the room, then saw it. A cot, there, on the far side of the room. And as she saw she heard it – a strange, persistent snuffling.
‘There,’ she said gently. ‘Your baby’s there.’
She stood to one side as the woman got up and, casting the straitjacket aside, went across to the cot, bending down over it to lift and cradle the child. ‘There, there…’ she heard her say, a mother’s softness in her voice. ‘There, they’ll not harm you. I’ll see to that, my little darling. Mumma’s here now. Mumma’s here.’
Jelka felt a ripple of relief pass through her. But she was still angry. Angry with Hans, if it really was he who had given the order to subdue the woman. He had no right to torment her like that. She went across, touching the woman’s back.
‘Let me see…’
The woman turned, smiling, offering the child. A small, helpless little bundle that snuffled and snuffled…
Jelka felt herself go cold then stepped back, shaking her head, her mouth suddenly dry, appalled by what she saw. ‘No…’
It stared up at her, red-eyed, its pink face too thin to be human, the hair that sprouted indiscriminately from its flesh too coarse, despite the silks in which it was wrapped. As she stared at it, one tiny three-toed hand pushed out at her, as if to grasp her hand. She jerked away, feeling the bile rise in her throat.
‘Golden Heart!’ The voice came from the doorway behind her. ‘Put that dreadful thing away, right now! What in the gods’ names do you think you’re doing?’
It was the mui tsai, Sweet Flute. She came into the room, setting the drink down on the table, then went across to the woman, taking the bundle from her and setting it back in the cot.
‘It’s all right,’ she said, turning back to face Jelka. ‘I can explain…’
But Jelka was no longer there. She was outside, leaning over the balcony, gulping in air, the image of the tiny goat-creature like a mocking demon, burning indelibly in the redness behind her closed lids.
Tuan Ti Fo looked up from where he was making ch’a to where the boy lay sleeping on the bedroll in the far corner of the room. He had been asleep for some time, physically exhausted after his ordeal, but now he tossed and turned, held fast in the grip of some awful nightmare.
The old man put down the ch’a bowl and the cloth, then went across to the boy, balancing on his haunches beside him.
The boy seemed in pain, his lips drawn back from his teeth in what was almost a snarl, his whole body hunched into itself, as if something ate at him from within. He threshed this way and that, as if fighting himself, then, with a shudder that frightened the old man, went still.
‘Gweder…’ the boy said quietly. ‘Gweder…’
It was said softly, almost gently, yet the word itself was hard, the two sounds of which it was made stranger than anything Tuan Ti Fo had ever heard.
For a moment there was silence, then the boy spoke again,
the whole of him gathered up into the movement of his lips.
‘Pandr’a bos ef, Lagasek?’
This time the voice was harsh, almost guttural. Tuan Ti Fo felt a small ripple of fear pass through him, yet calmed himself inwardly, a still, small voice chanting the chen yen to dispense with fear.
‘Travyth, Gweder. Travyth…’
He narrowed his eyes, understanding. Two voices. The first much softer, gentler than the second. Gweder and Lagasek… But what did it mean? And what was this language? He had never heard its like before.
He watched, seeing how the face changed, ugly one moment, peaceful, almost innocent, the next. Now it was ugly, the mouth distorted. Gweder was speaking again, his voice harsh, spitting out the words in challenge.
‘Praga obery why crenna? Bos why yeyn, Lagasek?’
The boy shivered violently and the face changed, all spite, all anger draining from it. Softly now it answered, the brittle edges of the words rounded off. Yet there was pain behind the words. Pain and a dreadful sense of loss.
‘Yma gweras yn ow ganow, Gweder… gweras… ha an pyth bos tewl.’
The abruptness of the change made him shudder. And the laughter…
The laughter was demonic. The face now shone with dark and greedy malice. With evil.
‘Nyns-us pyth, Lagasek.’
There was such an awful mockery in that face that it made Tuan Ti Fo want to strike it with his fist.
Slowly, very slowly, the malice sank down into the tissue of the face. Again the boy’s features settled into a kinder, more human form.
‘A-dhywar-lur…’ it breathed. ‘A-dhywar-lur.’ Then, in a cry of anguish, ‘My bos yn annown… Yn annown!’
A ragged breath escaped Tuan Ti Fo. He stood abruptly then crossed the room to the tiny bookshelf. He brought the book back then squatted there again, closing his eyes and opening the pages at random, reading the first thing his eyes opened upon.
He smiled. It was a passage from midway through Book One. One of his favourites. He read, letting his voice be an instrument to soothe the boy.
‘Thirty spokes share one hub. Adapt the nothing therein to the purpose in hand, and you will have the use of the cart. Knead clay in order to make a vessel. Adapt the nothing therein to the purpose in hand, and you will have the use of the vessel. Cut out doors and windows in order to make a room. Adapt the nothing therein to the purpose in hand, and you will have the use of the room. Thus what we gain is Something, yet it is by virtue of Nothing that this can be put to use.’
The Broken Wheel Page 20
