‘Chieh Hsia?’
‘Bring ch’a, Master Nan. I need to talk.’
Nan Ho bobbed his head. ‘Should I send for your Chancellor, Chieh Hsia?’
‘No, Master Nan, it is you I wish to speak with.’
‘As you wish, Chieh Hsia.’
When he had gone, Li Yuan leaned across and drew the large, heavy-bound book towards him. A stylized dragon and phoenix – their figures drawn in gold – were inset into the bright red silk of the cover. Inside, on the opening page, was a handwritten quotation from the Li Chi, the ancient Book of Rites, the passage in the original Mandarin.
The point of marriage is to create a union between two persons of different families, the object of which is to serve, first, the ancestors in the temple, and, second, the generation to come.
He shivered. So it was. So it had always been amongst his kind. Yet he had thought it possible to marry for love. In so doing he had betrayed his kind. Had tried to be what he was not. For he was Han. Han to the very core of him. He recognized that now.
But it was not too late. He could begin again. Become what he had failed to be. A good Han, leaving all ghosts of other selves behind.
He flicked through the pages desultorily, barely seeing the faces that looked up at him from the pages. Here were a hundred of the most eligible young women, selected from the Twenty-Nine, the Minor Families. Each one was somewhat different from the rest, had some particular quality to recommend her, yet it was all much the same to him. One thing alone was important now – to marry and have sons. To make the family strong again, and fill the emptiness surrounding him.
For anything was better than to feel like this. Anything.
He closed the book and pushed it away, then sat back in the chair, closing his eyes. He had barely done so when there was a tapping on the door.
‘Chieh Hsia?’
‘Come!’ he said, sitting forward again, the tiredness like salt in his blood, weighing him down.
Nan Ho entered first, his head bowed, the tray held out before him. Behind him came the She t’ou – the ‘tongue’, or taster. Li Yuan watched almost listlessly as Nan Ho set the ch’a things down on a low table then poured, offering the first bowl to the She t’ou.
The man sipped then offered the bowl back, bowing gracefully, a small smile of satisfaction crossing his lips. He waited a minute then turned to Li Yuan and bowed low, kneeling, touching his head against the floor before he backed away.
Nan Ho followed him to the door, closing it after him, then turned, facing Li Yuan.
‘Shall I bring your ch’a up to you, Chieh Hsia?’
Li Yuan smiled. ‘No, Nan Ho. I will join you down there.’ He stood, yawning, stretching the tiredness from his bones, then leaned forward, picking up the heavy-bound volume.
‘Here,’ he said, handing it to Nan Ho, ignoring the offered bowl.
Nan Ho set the bowl down hastily and took the book from his T’ang. ‘You have decided, then, Chieh Hsia?’
Li Yuan stared at Nan Ho a moment, wondering how much he knew – whether he had dared look at the genotyping – then, dismissing the thought, he smiled.
‘No, Master Nan. I have not decided. But you will.’
Nan Ho looked back at him, horrified. ‘Chieh Hsia?’
‘You heard me, Master Nan. I want you to choose for me. Three wives I need. Good, strong, reliable women. The kind that bear sons. Lots of sons. Enough to fill the rooms of this huge, empty palace.’
Nan Ho bowed low, his face a picture of misery. ‘But, Chieh Hsia… It is not my place to do such a thing. Such responsibility…’ He made to shake his head then fell to his knees, his head pressed to the floor. ‘I beg you, Chieh Hsia. I am unworthy for such a task.’
Li Yuan laughed. ‘Nonsense, Master Nan. If anyone, you are the very best of men to undertake such a task for me. Did you not bring Pearl Heart and Sweet Rose to my bed? Was your judgment so flawed then? No! So, please, Master Nan, do this for me, I beg you.’
Nan Ho looked up, wide-eyed. ‘Chieh Hsia… you must not say such things! You are T’ang now.’
‘Then do this thing for me, Master Nan,’ he said tiredly. ‘For I would be married the day after my coronation.’
Nan Ho stared at him a moment longer then bowed his head low again, resigned to his fate. ‘As my lord wishes.’
‘Good. Now let us drink our ch’a and talk of other things. Was I mistaken or did I hear that there was a message from Hal Shepherd?’
Nan Ho set the book down beside the table then picked up Li Yuan’s bowl, turning back and offering it to him, his head bowed.
‘Not Hal, Chieh Hsia, but his son. Chung Hu-yan dealt with the matter.’
‘I see. And did the Chancellor happen to say what the message was?’
Nan Ho hesitated. ‘It was… a picture, Chieh Hsia.’
‘A picture? You mean, there were no words? No actual message?’
‘No, Chieh Hsia.’
‘And this picture – what was in it?’
‘Should I bring it, Chieh Hsia?’
‘No. But describe it, if you can.’
Nan Ho frowned. ‘It was odd, Chieh Hsia. Very odd indeed. It was of a tree – or rather of twinned apple trees. The two were closely intertwined, their trunks twisted about each other, yet one of the trees was dead, its leaves shed, its branches broken and rotting. Chung Hu-yan set it aside for you to look at after your coronation.’ He averted his eyes. ‘He felt it was not something you would wish to see before then.’
Like the gift of stones his father had tried to hide from him – the white wei chi stones DeVore had sent to him on the day he had been promised to Fei Yen.
Li Yuan sighed. For five generations the Shepherds had acted as advisors to his family. Descended from the original architect of the City, they lived beyond its walls, outside its laws. Only they, in all Chung Kuo, stood equal to the Seven.
‘Chung Hu-yan acted as he felt he ought, but in future any message – worded or otherwise – that comes from the Shepherds must be passed directly to me, at once, Master Nan. This picture – you understand what it means?’
‘No, Chieh Hsia.’
‘No. And neither, it seems, does Chancellor Chung. It means that Hal Shepherd is dying. The tree was a gift from my father to him. I must go and pay my respects at once.’
‘But, Chieh Hsia…’
Li Yuan shook his head. ‘I know, Master Nan. I have seen my schedule for tomorrow. But the meetings will have to be cancelled. This cannot wait. He was my father’s friend. It would not do to ignore such a summons, however strangely couched.’
‘A summons, Chieh Hsia?’
‘Yes, Master Nan. A summons.’
He turned away, sipping at his ch’a. He did not look forward to seeing Hal Shepherd in such a state, yet it would be good to see his son again; to sit with him and talk.
A faint, uncertain smile came to his lips. Yes, it would be good to speak with him, for in truth he needed a mirror just now: someone to reflect him back clearly to himself. And who better than Ben Shepherd? Who better in all Chung Kuo?
The man staggered past him then leaned against the wall unsteadily, his head lowered, as if drunk. For a moment he seemed to lapse out of consciousness, his whole body hanging loosely against his outstretched arm, then he lifted his head, stretching himself strangely, as if shaking something off. It was only then that Axel realized what he was doing. He was pissing.
Axel looked away then turned back, hearing the commotion behind him. Two burly-looking guards – Han, wearing the dark green of GenSyn, not the powder blue of Security – came running across, batons drawn, making for the man.
They stood either side of the man as he turned, confronting him.
‘What the fuck you think you do?’ one of them said, prodding him brutally, making him stagger back against the wall.
He was a big man, or had been, but his clothes hung loosely on him now. They were good clothes, too, but, like those of most of the people gathered t
here, they were grime-ridden and filthy. His face, too, bore evidence of maltreatment. His skin was blotched, his left eye almost closed, a dark, yellow-green bruise covering the whole of his left cheek. He stank, but again that was not uncommon, for most were beggars here.
He looked back at the guards blearily then lifted his head in a remembered but long-redundant gesture of pride.
‘I’m here to see the General,’ he said uncertainly, his pride leaking from him slowly until his head hung once again. ‘You know…’ he muttered, glancing up apologetically, the muscle in his cheek spasming now. ‘The handout… I came for that. It was on the newscast. I heard it. Come to this place, it said, so I came.’
The guard who had spoken grunted his disgust. ‘You shit bucket,’ he said quietly. ‘You fucking shit bucket. What you think you up to, pissing on the T’ang’s walls?’ Then, without warning, he hit out with his baton, catching the beggar on the side of the head.
The man went down, groaning loudly. As he did, the two guards waded in, standing over him, striking him time and again on the head and body until he lay still.
‘Fucking shit bucket!’ the first guard said as he stepped back. He turned, glaring at the crowd that had formed around him. ‘What you look at? Fuck off! Go on! Fuck off! Before you get same!’ He raised his baton threateningly, but the message had got through already. They had begun to back off as soon as he had turned.
Axel stood there a moment longer, tensed, trembling with anger, then turned away. There was nothing he could do. Nothing, at least, that would not land him in trouble. Two he could have handled, but there were more than fifty of the bastards spread out throughout the hall, jostling whoever got in their way and generally making themselves as unpleasant as they could. He knew the type. They thought themselves big men – great fighters, trained to take on anything – but most of them had failed basic training for Security or had been recruited from the Plantations, where standards were much lower. In many cases their behaviour was simply a form of compensation for the failure they felt at having to wear the dark green of a private security force and not the imperial blue.
He backed away then turned, making his way through the crowd towards the end of the hall, wondering how much longer they would be forced to wait. They had started queuing three hours back, the corridors leading to the main transit packed long before Axel had arrived. For a brief while he had thought of turning back – even the smell of the mob was enough to make a man feel sick – but had stayed, determined to be among the two thousand ‘fortunates’ who would be let into the grounds of the Ebert Mansion for the celebrations.
He had dressed specially. Had gone out and bought the roughest, dirtiest clothes he could lay his hands on. Had put on a rough workman’s hat – a hard shell of dark plastic, like an inverted rice bowl – and dirtied his face. Now he looked little different from the rest. A beggar. A shit-bucket bum from the lowest of the levels.
He looked about him, his eyes travelling from face to face, seeing the anger there and the despair, the futility and the incipient madness. There was a shiftiness to their eyes, a pastiness to their complexions, that spoke of long years of deprivation. And they were thin, every last one of them; some of them so painfully undernourished that he found it difficult to believe that they were still alive, still moving their wasted, fragile limbs. He stared at them, fascinated, his revulsion matched by a strong instinctive pity for them; for many, he knew, there had been no choice. They had fallen long before they were born, and nothing in this world could ever redeem them. In that he differed. He too had fallen, but for him there had been a second chance.
Lowering his head, he glanced at the timer at his wrist, keeping it hidden beneath the greasy cuff of his jacket. It was getting on towards midnight. They would have to open the gates soon, surely?
Almost at once he felt a movement in the crowd, a sudden surge forward, and knew the gates had been opened. He felt himself drawn forward, caught up in the crush.
Hei were manning the barriers, the big GenSyn half-men herding the crowd through the narrow gates. Above the crowd, on a platform to one side, a small group of Han officials looked on, counting the people as they went through.
Past the gates, crush barriers forced the crowd into semi-orderly lines, at the head of which more officials – many of them masked against the stench and the possibility of disease – processed the hopeful.
As movement slowed and the crush grew more intense, he heard a great shouting from way back and knew the gates had been closed, the quota filled. But he was inside.
The pressure on him from all sides was awful, the stink of unwashed bodies almost unbearable, but he fought back his nausea, reminding himself why he was there. To bear witness. To see for himself the moment when Hans Ebert was declared General-elect.
As he passed through the second barrier, an official drew him aside and tagged his jacket with an electronic trace, then thrust a slice of cake and a bulb of drink into his hands. He shuffled on, looking about him, seeing how the others crammed their cake down feverishly before emptying the bulb in a few desperate swallows. He tried a mouthful of the cake then spat it out. It was hard, dry and completely without flavour. The drink was little better. Disgusted, he threw them down, and was immediately pushed back against the wall as those nearby fought for what he had discarded.
The big transit lift was just ahead of them now. Again Hei herded them into the space, cramming them in tightly, until Axel felt his breath being forced from him. Like the others surrounding him, he fought silently, desperately, for a little space – pushing out with his elbows, his strength an asset.
The doors closed, the huge elevator – used normally for goods, not people – began its slow climb up the levels. As it did, a voice sounded overhead, telling them that they must cheer when the masters appeared on the balcony; that they would each receive a five-yuan coin if they cheered loud enough.
‘The cameras will be watching everyone,’ the voice continued. ‘Only those who cheer loudly will get a coin.’
The journey up-level seemed to last an eternity. Two hundred and fifty levels they climbed, up to the very top of the City.
Coming out from the transit was like stepping outside into the open. Overhead was a great, blue-black sky, filled with moonlit cloud and stars, the illusion so perfect that for a moment Axel caught his breath. To the right, across a vast, landscaped park, was the Ebert Mansion, its imposing facade lit up brilliantly, the great balcony festooned with banners. A barrier of Hei prevented them from going that way – the brute, almost porcine faces of the guards lit grotesquely from beneath. All around him people had slowed, astonished by the sight, their eyes wide, their mouths fallen open, but masked servants hurried them on, ushering them away to the left, into an area that had been fenced off with high transparent barriers of ice.
They stumbled on, only a low murmur coming from them now, most of them awed into silence by the sight of such luxury, intimidated by the sense of openness, by the big sky overhead. But for Axel, shuffling along slowly in their midst, it reminded him of something else – of that day when he and Major DeVore had called on Representative Lehmann at his First Level estate. And he knew, almost without thinking it, that there was a connection between the two. As if such luxury bred corruption.
Stewards herded them down a broad gravel path and out into a large space in front of the mansion. Here another wall barred their way, the translucent surface of it coated with a non-reflective substance that to the watching cameras would make it seem as if there was no wall – no barrier – between the Eberts and the cheering crowd.
As the space filled up, he noticed the stewards going out into the crowd, handing out flags and streamers – the symbols of GenSyn and the Seven distributed equally – before positioning themselves at various strategic points. Turning, he sought out one of the stewards and took a banner from him, aiming to conceal himself behind it when the cheering began. It was unlikely that Hans Ebert would study the film of his triump
h that closely, but it was best to take no chances.
He glanced at his timer. It was almost twelve.
The stewards began the cheering, turning to encourage the others standing about them. ‘Five yuan!’ they shouted. ‘Only those who shout will get a coin!’
As the Eberts stepped out on to the balcony, the cheering rose to a crescendo. The cameras panned about the crowd, then focused on the scene on the balcony again. Klaus Ebert stood there in the foreground, a broad beam of light settling on him, making his hair shine silver-white, his perfect teeth sparkle.
‘Friends!’ he began, his voice amplified to carry over the cheering. ‘A notice has been posted throughout our great City. It reads as follows.’ He turned and took a scroll from his secretary, then turned back, clearing his throat. Below the noise subsided as the stewards moved among the crowd, damping down the excitement they had artificially created.
Ebert opened out the scroll, then began.
‘“I, Li Yuan, T’ang designate of Ch’eng Ou Chou, City Europe, declare the appointment of Hans Joachim Ebert, currently Major in my Security services, as Supreme General of my forces, this appointment to be effective from midday on the fifteenth day of September in the year two thousand two hundred and seven.”’
He stepped back, beaming with paternal pride.
There was a moment’s silence and then a ragged cheer went up, growing stronger as the stewards whipped the crowd into a fury of enthusiasm.
Up on the balcony, Hans Ebert stepped forward, his powder-blue uniform immaculate, his blond hair perfectly groomed. He grinned and waved a hand as if to thank them for their welcome, then stepped back, bowing, all humility.
Axel, watching from below, felt a wave of pure hatred pass through him. If they knew – if they only knew all he had done. The cheating and lying and butchery, the foulness beneath the mask of perfection. But they knew nothing. He looked about him, seeing how caught up in it they suddenly were. They had come for the chance of food and drink and for the money, but now they were here their enthusiasm was genuine. Up there they saw a king – a man so high above them that to be at such proximity was a blessing. Axel saw the stewards look among themselves and wink, laughing, sharing the joke, and felt more sick than he had ever felt among the unwashed mass. They, at least, did not pretend that they were clean. One could smell what they were. But Ebert?
The Broken Wheel Page 27
