He looked down, seeing how still the boy had become, as if listening to his words, yet he was still asleep.
‘Who are you, boy?’ he asked softly, setting the book down. He reached across and pulled up the blanket until it covered the boy’s chest. Yes, he thought, and what brought you here to me? For the fates as surely directed you to me as they directed my feet this morning to a path I never took before.
He leaned back then took up the book and began to read again, letting Lao Tzu’s words – words more than two and a half thousand years old – wash over the sleeping boy and bring him ease.
‘Well?’
Karr stared back morosely at his friend then set his ch’a bowl down.
‘Nothing. The trail’s gone cold. I tracked the boy as far as the factory, but there it ended. It’s as if he vanished. There’s no way he could have got past that guard post.’
Chen sat down, facing Karr across the table. ‘Then he’s still there. In the factory.’
Karr shook his head. ‘We’ve taken it apart. Literally. I had a hundred men in there, dismantling the place back to the bare walls. But nothing.’
‘We’ve missed something, that’s all. I’ll come back with you. We can go through it again.’
Karr looked down. ‘Maybe. But I’ve been through it a dozen, twenty times already. It’s as if he was spirited away.’
Chen studied his friend a moment. He had never seen Karr looking so down in the mouth.
‘Cheer up,’ he said. ‘It can’t be that bad.’
‘No?’ Karr sat back, drawing himself up to his full height. ‘It seems Ebert’s to be appointed General. The old T’ang accepted Nocenzi’s resignation before he died. Tolonen was to step back into the job, but it seems the new T’ang wants a new man in the post.’
Chen grimaced then sat back. ‘Then our lives aren’t worth a beggar’s shit.’
Karr stared at him a moment then laughed. ‘You think?’
‘And you don’t?’
Karr stood up. ‘Let a thousand devils take Hans Ebert. We’ll concentrate on finding the boy. After all, that’s our job, isn’t it – finding people?’
Li Yuan was the first to arrive. Walking from the hangar, he felt detached, as if outside himself, watching. The meaning of this death had come to him slowly; not as grief but as nakedness, for this death exposed him. There was no one now but him; a single link from a broken chain.
Outside his father’s rooms he stopped, in the grip of strong reluctance, but the eyes of others were upon him. Steeling himself, he ordered the doors unlocked then went inside.
The doors closed, leaving him alone with his dead father.
Li Shai Tung lay in his bed, as if he slept, yet his face was pale, like carved ivory, his chest still.
Li Yuan stood there, looking down at him. The old man’s eyes were closed, the thin lids veined, mauve leaf patterns on the milky white. He knelt, studying the patterns in the white, but like the rest it meant nothing. It was merely a pattern, a repetition.
He shook his head, not understanding, knowing only that he had never seen his father sleeping. Never seen those fierce, proud eyes closed before this moment.
He put his hand out, touching his father’s cheek. The flesh was cold. Shockingly cold. He drew his hand back sharply then shuddered. Where did it go? Where did all that warmth escape to?
Into the air.
He stood then drew the covers back. Beneath the silken sheets his father lay there naked, the frailty of his body revealed. Li Yuan looked, feeling an instinctive pity for his father. Not love, but pity. Pity for what time had done to him.
Death had betrayed him. Had found him weak and vulnerable.
His eyes moved down the body, knowing that others had looked before him. Surgeons with their dispassionate eyes; looking, as he looked now.
He shuddered. The body was thin, painfully emaciated, but unmarked. His father had been ill. Badly ill. That surprised him, and he paused a moment before putting back the sheet. It was unlike his father not to comment on his health. Something was amiss. Some element beyond simple senility had been the cause of this.
He had no proof and yet his sense of wrongness was strong. It made him turn and look about him, noting the presence of each object in the room, questioning their function. All seemed well, and yet the sense of wrongness persisted.
He went outside, into the hallway. Surgeon Hua was waiting there with his assistants.
‘How has my father been, Hua? Was he eating well?’
The old man shook his head. ‘Not for some time, Chieh Hsia. Not since Han’s death. But…’ he pursed his lips, considering, ‘…well, enough for an old man. And your father was old, Li Yuan.’
Li Yuan nodded, but he was still troubled. ‘Was he… clear? In his mind, I mean?’
‘Yes, Chieh Hsia. Even last night.’ Hua paused, frowning, as if he too was troubled by something. ‘There was nothing evidently wrong with him. We’ve… examined him and…’
‘Evidently?’
Hua nodded, but his eyes were watchful.
‘But you think that appearances might be deceptive, is that it, Hua?’
The old surgeon hesitated. ‘It isn’t something I can put my finger on, Chieh Hsia. Just a … a feeling I have. Confucius says –’
‘Just tell me, Hua,’ Li Yuan said, interrupting him; reaching out to hold his arm, his fondness for the old man showing in his face. ‘No proverbs, please. Just tell me what made you feel something was wrong.’
‘This will sound unprofessional, Chieh Hsia, but as you’ve asked.’ Hua paused, clearing his throat. ‘Well, he was not himself. He was sharp, alert and in a sense no different from his old self, but he was not – somehow – Li Shai Tung. He seemed like an actor, mimicking your father. Playing him exceptionally well, but not…’
He faltered, shaking his head, grief overwhelming him.
‘Not like the real thing,’ Li Yuan finished for him.
Hua nodded. ‘He was… uncertain. And your father was never uncertain.’
Li Yuan considered a moment then gave his instructions. ‘I want you to perform an autopsy, Hua. I want you to find out why he died. I want to know what killed him.’
Tsu Ma was dressed in white, his hair tied back in a single elegant bow. The effect was striking in its simplicity, its sobriety, while his face had a gentleness Li Yuan had never seen in it before. He came forward and embraced Li Yuan, holding him to his breast, one hand smoothing the back of his neck. It was this, more than the death, more than the coldness of his father’s cheek, that broke the ice that had formed about his feelings. At last he let go, feeling the sorrow rise and spill from him.
‘Good, good,’ Tsu Ma whispered softly, stroking his neck. ‘A man should cry for his father.’ And when he moved back, there were tears in his eyes, real grief in his expression.
‘And Wei Feng?’ Li Yuan asked, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.
‘He’s waiting below.’ Tsu Ma smiled; a friend’s strong smile. ‘We’ll go when you’re ready.’
‘I’m ready,’ Li Yuan answered, straightening, unashamed now of his tears; feeling much better for them. ‘Let us see our cousin.’
Wei Feng was waiting in the viewing room, wearing a simple robe of white, gathered at the waist. As Li Yuan came down the stairs Wei Feng came across and embraced him, whispering his condolences. But he seemed older than Li Yuan remembered him. Much older.
‘Are you all right, Wei Feng?’ he asked, concerned for the old man’s health.
Wei Feng laughed. A short, melodic sound. ‘As well as could be expected, Yuan.’ His expression changed subtly. ‘But your father…’ He sighed. Wei Feng was the oldest now. By almost twenty years the oldest. ‘So much has changed, Yuan. So much. And now this. This seems…’ He shrugged, as if it were beyond words to say.
‘I know.’ Li Yuan frowned, releasing him. ‘They killed him, Wei Feng.’
Wei Feng simply looked puzzled, but Tsu Ma came close, taking his arm. �
��How do you know? Is there proof ?’
‘Proof ? No. But I know. I’m sure of it, Tsu Ma. I’ve asked Surgeon Hua to… to look for something. Maybe that will show something but, even so, I know.’
‘So what now?’ Wei Feng had crossed his arms. His face was suddenly hard, his tiny figure filled with power.
‘So now we play their game. Remove the gloves.’
Beside him Tsu Ma nodded.
‘We know our enemies,’ Li Yuan said, with an air of finality. ‘We have only to find them.’
‘DeVore, you mean?’ Tsu Ma looked across at Wei Feng. The old man’s face was troubled, but his jaw was set. Determination weighed the heavier in his conflicting emotions. Tsu Ma narrowed his eyes, considering. ‘And then?’
Li Yuan turned. His eyes seemed intensely black, like space itself; cold, vacant, all trace of life and warmth gone from them. His face was closed, expressionless, like a mask. ‘Arrange a meeting of the Council, Tsu Ma. Let Chi Hsing host it. We must talk.’
Li Yuan was barely eighteen, yet the tone, the small movement of the left hand that accompanied the final words, were uncannily familiar. As if the father spoke and acted through the son.
PART FIFTEEN
FIGURES OF SMOKE
Autumn 2207
Chapter 62
CHEN YEN
The ch’a bowl lay to one side, broken, its contents spilled across the floor. Beside it Tuan Ti Fo crouched, his back to the door, facing the boy.
‘Yn-mes a forth, cothwas!’ the boy snarled, the sound coming from the back of his throat. ‘Yn-mes a forth!’
Tuan Ti Fo felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. The boy was down on all fours, his face hideously ugly, the features distorted with rage, the chin thrust forward aggressively, his round, dark eyes filled with animal menace. He made small movements with his body, feinting this way and that, gauging Tuan Ti Fo’s response to each, a low growling coming from his throat.
It was the third time the boy had tried to get past him, and, as before, he seemed surprised by the old man’s quickness; shocked that, whichever way he moved, Tuan Ti Fo was there, blocking his way.
The old man swayed gently on his haunches then, as the boy threw himself to the left, moved effortlessly across, fending off the child with his palms, using the least force possible to achieve his end. The boy withdrew, yelping with frustration, then turned and threw himself again, like a dog, going for Tuan’s throat.
This time he had to fight the boy. Had to strike him hard and step back, aiming a kick to the stomach to disable him. Yet even as the boy fell back, gasping for breath, that strange transformation overcame him again. As Tuan Ti Fo watched, the harshness faded from the boy’s features, becoming something softer, more human.
‘Welcome back, Lagasek,’ he said, taking a long, shuddering breath. But for how long? He looked about him, noting the broken bowl, the spilled ch’a, and shook his head. He would have to bind the boy while he slept, for in time he would have to sleep. He could not guard against this ‘Gweder’ thing for ever.
He moved closer, crouching over the boy. He was peaceful now, his face almost angelic in its innocence. But beneath? Tuan Ti Fo narrowed his eyes, considering, then began to speak, softly, slowly, as if to himself.
‘Look at you, child. So sweet you look just now. So innocent. But are you good or evil? Is it Gweder or Lagasek who rules you? And which of them brought you here to my rooms?’ He smiled then got up, moving across to fetch a small towel to mop up the ch’a, a brush to gather up the tiny pieces of broken porcelain. And as he did so he continued to speak, letting his voice rise and fall like a flowing stream, lulling the sleeping child.
‘Kao Tzu believed that each man, at birth, was like a willow tree, and that righteousness was like a bowl. To become righteous, a man had therefore to be cut and shaped, like the willow, into the bowl. The most base instincts – the desire for food or sex – were, he argued, all that one could ever find in the unshaped man, and human nature was as indifferent to good or evil as free-flowing water is to the shape it eventually fills.’
He turned, looking at the child, seeing how the boy’s chest now rose and fell gently, as if soothed by his voice, then turned back, smiling, beginning to mop up the spill.
‘Meng Tzu, of course, disagreed. He felt that if what Kao Tzu said were true, then the act of becoming righteous would be a violation of human nature – would, in fact, be a calamity. But I have my own reason for disagreeing with Kao Tzu. If it were so – if human nature were as Kao Tzu claimed – then why should any goodness come from evil circumstances? And why should evil come from good?’ He gave a soft laugh. ‘Some men are water drops and willow-sprouts, it’s true, but not all. For there are those who determine their own shape, their own direction, and the mere existence of them demonstrates Kao Tzu’s claim to be a misrepresentation.’
He finished mopping then carried the towel to the basin in the corner and dropped it in. Returning, he set the two large pieces of the broken bowl to one side, then began to sweep the tiny slivers of porcelain into a pile.
‘Of course, there is another explanation. It is said that shortly after the Earth was separated from Heaven, Nu Kua created human beings. It appears that she created the first men by patting yellow earth together. She laboured at this a long time, taking great care in the shaping and moulding of the tiny, human forms, but then she grew tired. The work was leaving her little time for herself and so she decided to simplify the task. Taking a long piece of string, she dragged it to and fro through the mud, heaping it up and turning that into men. But these were crude, ill-formed creatures compared to those she had first made. Henceforth, it is said, the rich and the noble are those descended from the creatures who were formed before Nu Kua tired of her task – the men of yellow earth – whereas the poor and the lowly are descendants of the cord-made men – the men of mud.’
He laughed quietly then looked up again, noting how restful the boy now was.
‘But, then, as the T’ien Wen says, “Nu Kua had a body. Who formed and fashioned it?”’
He turned, taking the thin paper box in which the ch’a brick had come and setting it down, sweeping the fragments up into it, then dropped in the two largest pieces.
‘Ah, yes, but we live in a world gone mad. The bowl of righteousness was shattered long ago, when Tsao Ch’un built his City. It is left to individual men to find the way – to create small islands of sanity in an ocean of storms.’ He looked about him. ‘This here is such an island.’
Or had been. Before the child had come. Before the bowl had been broken, his peace disturbed.
For a moment Tuan Ti Fo closed his eyes, seeking that inner stillness deep within himself, his lips forming the chen yen – the ‘true words’ – of the mantra. With a tiny shudder he passed the hard knot of tension from him then looked up again, a faint smile at the corners of his mouth.
‘Food,’ he said softly. ‘That’s what you need. Something special.’
He stood, then went across to the tiny oven set into the wall on the far side of the room and lit it. Taking a cooking bowl from the side, he partfilled it from the water jar and set it down on the ring.
Tuan Ti Fo turned, looking about him at the simple order of his room. ‘Chaos. The world is headed into chaos, child, and there is little you or I can do to stop it.’ He smiled sadly then went across and took up the basin, carrying it across to the door. He would empty it later, after the child had been fed.
The boy had turned on to his side, the fingers of one hand lightly touching his neck. Tuan Ti Fo smiled and, taking a blanket, took it across and laid it over the child.
He crouched there a moment, watching him. ‘You know, the Chou believed that Heaven and Earth were once inextricably mixed together in a state of undifferentiated chaos, like a chicken’s egg. Hun tun they called that state. Hun tun…’
He nodded then went back to the oven, taking a jar from the shelf on the wall and emptying out half of its contents on to the board b
eside the oven. The tiny, sac-like dumplings looked like pale, wet, unformed creatures in their uncooked state. Descendants of the mud men. He smiled and shook his head. Hun tun, they were called. He had made them himself with the things the girl, Marie, had brought last time she’d come. It was soy, of course, not meat, that formed the filling inside the thin shells of dough, but that was as he wished it. He did not believe in eating flesh. It was not The Way.
As the water began to boil he tipped the dumplings into the bowl and stirred them gently before leaving them to cook. There were other things he added – herbs sent to him from friends on the Plantations and other, special things. He leaned forward, sniffing the concoction delicately, then nodded. It was just what the child needed. It would settle him and give him back his strength.
That precious strength that ‘Gweder’ spent so thoughtlessly.
He turned, expecting to see the child sitting up, his face transformed again into a snarl, but the boy slept on.
He turned back, for a while busying himself preparing the food. When it was cooked, he poured half of the broth into a small ceramic bowl and took it across.
It was a shame to wake the boy, but it was twelve hours now since he had eaten. And afterwards he would sleep. The herbs in the soup would ensure that he slept.
He set the bowl down then lifted the boy gently, cradling him in a half-sitting position. As he did so the boy stirred and struggled briefly then relaxed. Lifting the spoon from the bowl, Tuan Ti Fo placed it to the boy’s lips, tilting it gently.
‘Here, child. I serve you Heaven itself.’
The boy took a little of the warm broth, then turned his head slightly. Tuan Ti Fo persevered, following his mouth with the spoon, coaxing a little of the liquid into him each time until the child’s mouth was opening wide for each new spoonful.
The Broken Wheel Page 21
