An Inch of Ashes (CHUNG KUO SERIES)

by David Wingrove

  He laughed and sat up, glimpsing the mountains through the portal to his left as the craft banked, circling the base.

  But first he would undermine them. First he would smash their confidence – would break the Ywe Lung, the great wheel of dragons, and make them question every act they undertook. Would set them one against another, until...

  Again he laughed. Until the final dragon ate its own tail. And then there would be nothing. Nothing but himself.

  Hans Ebert smiled and placed his arm about Fest’s shoulders. ‘Don’t worry, Edgar. The matter’s closed. Now, what will you drink? I’ve a bottle of the T’ang’s own finest Shen, if you’d like. It would be good to renew our friendship over such a good wine, don’t you think?’

  Fest lowered his head slightly, still ill at ease despite Ebert’s apparent friendliness. He had thought of running when he’d first received Ebert’s note summoning him to his apartment, but where would he run? In any case, it was only a bout of paranoia brought on by the visit of Haavikko and the Han to his rooms – there was no real reason why he should fear Ebert. And as for the other matter – the business with Golden Heart – not only had Ebert forgiven him, he had astonished him by offering him use of the girl.

  ‘I’ve tired of her,’ Ebert had said, standing there in the doorway next to him, looking in at the sleeping girl. ‘I’ve trained her far too well, I suspect. She’s far too docile. No, my preference is for a woman with more spirit. Like the mui tsai.’

  Fest had looked about for her, but Ebert had quickly explained that he’d sent the mui tsai away. For a day or two.

  Ebert had laughed again. ‘It doesn’t do to jade the appetite. A few days’ abstinence sharpens the hunger, don’t you find?’

  Fest had nodded. It had been six days since he’d had a woman and his own hunger was sharp as a razor. From where he stood he could see the girl’s naked breasts, the curve of her stomach where she had pushed down the sheet in her sleep, and swallowed. How often he’d imagined it. Ever since that first time in Mu Chua’s.

  Ebert had turned his face, meeting Fest’s eyes. ‘Well, Edgar? Wouldn’t you like to have her?’

  Slowly, reluctantly, he had nodded, and Ebert, as if satisfied, had smiled and drawn him back, pulling the door to.

  ‘Well, maybe you will, eh? Maybe I’ll let you use her.’

  Now they stood there in the lounge, toasting their friendship, and Fest, having feared the very worst, began to relax.

  Ebert turned, looking about him, then sat, smiling across at Fest.

  ‘That’s a nasty bruise you’ve got on the side of your face, Edgar. How did that come about?’

  The question seemed innocuous – a mere pleasantry – yet Fest felt himself stiffen defensively. But Ebert seemed unconcerned. He looked down, sipping his drink, as if the answer were of no importance.

  ‘I fell,’ Fest began. ‘Truth was, I was pissing in the sink and slipped. Caught myself a real crack on the cheek and almost knocked myself out.’

  Ebert looked up at him. ‘And your friends... how are they?’

  Fest frowned. ‘My friends? Scott, you mean? Panshin?’

  Ebert shook his head slowly. ‘No. Your other friends.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. What other friends?’

  ‘Your new friends. The friends you made yesterday.’

  Fest swallowed. So he knew. Or did he? And if he did, then why the earlier show of friendship? Why the offer of the girl? Unless it was all a game to draw him and make him commit himself.

  He decided to brazen it out. ‘I still don’t follow you, Hans. I’ve no new friends.’

  The speed with which Ebert came up out of his chair surprised him. Fest took a step backwards, spilling his drink.

  ‘You fucking liar. You loud-mouthed, cheating liar. And to think I trusted you.’

  Fest shivered. The change in Ebert was frightening. His smile had become a snarl. His eyes were wide with anger.

  ‘It’s all lies, Hans. Someone’s been telling lies...’

  Again Ebert shook his head, his contempt for Fest revealed at last in his eyes. He spat the words out venomously. ‘You want to fuck the girl, eh? Well, I’d sooner see you dead first. And as for liars, there’s only one here, and that’s you, you fucking creep! Here, look at this.’

  He picked up the picture Auden had taken from outside Fest’s apartment and handed it across. It showed Fest standing in his doorway, saying goodbye to Haavikko and the Han. All three of them were smiling.

  ‘Well? What have you got to say for yourself? Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kick your arse from here to Pei Ching!’

  Fest stood there a moment longer, staring down at the photo, then let it fall from his fingers. He looked back at Ebert and smiled, for the first time in a long while feeling free, unbeholden to the man.

  ‘Go fuck yourself, Hans Ebert.’

  It was what he had wanted to say for more than fifteen years but had never had the courage to say until now. He saw how Ebert’s eyes flared at his words and laughed.

  ‘You little shit...’

  He reacted slowly. Ebert’s hand caught him a stinging blow to the ear, making him stagger back, knocking his glass from his hand. Then he was crouched, facing Ebert, knife in hand.

  ‘Try that again, Ebert, and I’ll cut you open.’

  Ebert faced him, circling slowly, sneering now. ‘You were always a windy little sod, Fest, but you were never any good with a knife. Why, if I’d not kept you for my amusement you’d have never made sergeant, let alone captain.’

  Fest lunged, but again he was too slow. Ebert had moved. Fest’s knife cut nothing but air. But Ebert caught his arm and held it in a vice-like grip, bringing it down savagely on to his knee.

  Fest screamed, but his scream was cut short as Ebert smashed his face down on to his knee. Then, drawing his own knife, he thrust it once, twice, a third time into Fest’s stomach, grunting with the effort, heaving it up through the mass of soft tissues until it glanced against the bone.

  He thrust Fest away from him, then threw his knife down. For a moment Fest’s eyes stared up at him, horrified, then he spasmed and his eyes glazed over. He had been disembowelled.

  Ebert stood there a moment, looking down at what he had done, then turned and walked across, looking into the room where Golden Heart lay. She lay on her side now, her back to him, but he could see at once that she was sleeping. He shivered, then closed the door, locking it from his side.

  He turned back. Blood was still welling from the corpse, bubbling like a tiny fountain from a severed artery, pooling on the floor beside the body. He stared at it a moment, fascinated, then went across to the comset and tapped in Auden’s code.

  In a moment Auden’s face appeared. ‘What is it, Hans?’

  Ebert hesitated, then smiled. ‘I had a little bother with our friend, I’m afraid. It... got out of hand. If you could come?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll be there directly. And, Hans?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t forget. You’ve supper with your uncle tonight. Get washed and ready. I’ll deal with the rest.’

  Golden Heart lay there, hardly daring to breathe, still trembling from what she had witnessed through the narrow gap in the door. She had seen Ebert draw his knife and stab the other man, not once, to disable him, but three times...

  She had heard him come to the doorway and look in, then had tensed as she heard the doorlock click, not daring to look and see if he were inside the room with her or not – expecting her own turn to be next. But then she had heard his voice, speaking on the comset outside, and had almost wept with relief.

  Yet when she closed her eyes she could still see him, his face distorted with a mad fury, grunting as he pulled his knife up through the other man’s flesh, tearing him open. Murdering him.

  She shuddered and pulled the sheet tight about her. Yes, Ebert had murdered Fest, there was no other word for it. Fest had drawn his knife first, but Ebert had disarmed him before he
’d drawn his own. And what followed had been nothing less than vicious, brutal murder.

  And if he knew. If for a single moment he suspected she had seen...

  She lay there a moment longer, listening to him moving about in the next room, getting ready for his supper date, then got up and went into the tiny washroom, closing the door quietly behind her before she knelt over the basin, sluicing the cold, clear water up into her face again and again, as if to wash the awful image from her eyes.

  On the western terrace at Tongjiang it was early evening. Long shadows lay across the sunlit gardens below the balcony, while from the meadows by the lake a peacock cried, breaking the silence.

  On the terrace itself tables had been laid with food and drink. At one end, against the wall of the Palace, a golden canopy had been erected, its platform slightly raised. There, enthroned in the dragon chair, sat the T’ang, Li Shai Tung, Prince Yuan and the Lady Fei standing to one side of him beneath the bright red awning.

  The T’ang had summoned all of the household servants who could be spared out on to the terrace. They stood there, crowded into the space in front of the canopy, more than six hundred in all, silent, wine tumblers in hand, waiting for the T’ang to speak.

  To one side of this gathering the Master of the Inner Chamber, Nan Ho, stood among the grooms. He had spent the whole day looking into what had disturbed the Lady Fei that morning; interviewing staff and rooting through the tangle of rumour and counter-rumour to sort fact from fancy. And now he knew.

  He looked across at her, seeing how sweetly she smiled up at her husband, how warmly he returned her gaze, and shivered, his sense of foreboding strong. In the warm glow of the late afternoon sunlight she seemed particularly beautiful, the simplicity of her attire setting her off, as the shell sets off the oyster. Yet that beauty was badly flawed. In time the mask she wore would slip and all would see her as he saw her now, with knowing eyes. He saw the Prince reach out and take her hand and looked down, knowing where his duty lay.

  One thing was paramount; one thing alone – his master’s happiness. And if the Prince’s happiness depended on this weak and foolish woman, then so it had to be, for it was not his place to change his master’s heart, merely to guard it against the worst the world could do. For that reason he had given special instructions to all he had discussed the matter with, warning them that from henceforth the smallest mention of the subject – even the most idle speculation – would be punished with instant dismissal. Or worse. For he was determined that no word of the matter would ever reach the ears of Li Yuan or his father. No. He would let nothing come between the Prince and his happiness.

  He sighed and looked back, even as the great T’ang stood and began to speak, his joy like winter sunlight in his wizened face. But for Nan Ho that joy was hollow. Like the thin light, it only seemed to cast its warmth. Beneath the flesh his bones were cold, his feelings in suspense. A son! All about him his fellow servants raised their voices, excited by the news, and he raised his; but he could hear – could feel – the falseness in his voice.

  Strangely, his thoughts turned to Pearl Heart. Yes, he thought, Pearl Heart would have made a better, finer wife than this false creature. Truer to you. She would have made you strong when you were T’ang. Would have made of you a paragon among rulers.

  Yes, but Pearl Heart was only a serving maid – a beast to warm your bed and teach you bedroom manners. What lineage she had was the lineage of unknown parenthood. She could not match the breeding of this whore.

  Nan Ho looked up again, seeing once more his Prince’s joy. That, at least, was no counterfeit. And that was why he would hold his tongue and keep this fragile boat afloat. Not for her, for what was she now but a painted thing – a mask to hide corruption – but for Li Yuan.

  And then who knew what change a child might bring?

  He lifted his head, listening. There was the faint growl of engines in the distance, coming nearer. He turned, looking into the setting sun and saw them – two craft, coming in low from the west. For a moment he was afraid, but then, looking across at his T’ang, he saw how Li Shai Tung looked then nodded to himself, as if he were expecting two such craft to come.

  ‘Let us drink to the health of my son and his wife,’ Li Shai Tung said, smiling, raising his glass. ‘And to my grandson. Kan pei!’

  The blessing echoed across the terrace as the craft came on.

  Li Shai Tung paused in the coolness of the anteroom and looked about him. He had not been certain they would come, but here they were in answer to his request. Surely that meant something in itself? Surely that meant they were willing to take the first step?

  Damn them! he thought, suddenly angry. Damn them that I should have to make such deals with their like! Then he looked down, realizing where his thoughts had led him, for both men, after all, were T’ang, whatever their personal faults.

  T’ang! He shivered, wondering what his grandfather would have made of Wang Sau-leyan. Then, clearing his head of such thoughts, he went into his study, taking a seat behind his desk, composing himself, waiting for his Chancellor, Chung Hu-yan, to bring them through.

  After long thought, he had decided to pre-empt matters; to make peace before the division in Council grew into enmity. And if that meant swallowing his pride and meeting Wang Sau-leyan and Hou Tung-po halfway, then he would do that. For balance. And to buy time, so that the Seven might be strong again.

  Hou Tung-po was not the problem. The young T’ang of South America had merely fallen under his friend’s charismatic spell. No, his only fault was to be weak-minded and impressionable. The real cause of dissent was Wang Hsien’s fourth son, Sau-leyan, the present T’ang of Africa.

  He laughed despairingly. How cruelly the times mocked them to make such a man a T’ang – a man who was fit only to be sent below the Net! For two whole cycles they had been strong, their purpose clear, their unity unquestioned, and now...

  He shook his head, then let his fingers brush against the two documents he had had prepared. If all went well they would be shreds within the hour, their only significance having lain in the gesture of their destruction.

  But would that be enough? Would that satisfy the T’ang of Africa?

  Outside, in the corridors, two bells sounded, one low, one high. A moment later Chung Hu-yan appeared in the great doorway, his head lowered.

  ‘Your guests are here, Chieh Hsia.’

  ‘Good.’ He stood and came round the desk. ‘Show them in, Chung. Then bring us wines and sweetmeats. We may be here some while.’

  The Chancellor bowed and backed away, his face registering an understanding of how difficult the task was that lay before his master. A moment later he returned, still bowed, leading the two T’ang into the room.

  ‘Good cousins,’ Li Shai Tung said, taking their hands briefly. ‘I thank you for sparing the time from busy schedules to come and see me at such short notice.’

  He saw how Hou Tung-po looked at once to his friend for his lead; how his welcoming smile faded as he noted the blank expression on Wang Sau-leyan’s face.

  ‘I would not have come had I not felt it was important to see you, Li Shai Tung,’ Wang answered, staring past him.

  Li Shai Tung stiffened, angered not merely by the hostility he sensed emanating from the young T’ang but also by the inference that a T’ang might even consider not coming at his cousin’s urgent wish. Even so, he curbed his anger. This time young Wang would not draw him.

  ‘And so it is,’ he answered, smiling pleasantly. ‘A matter of the utmost importance.’

  Wang Sau-leyan looked about him with the air of a man considering buying something, then looked back at Li Shai Tung. ‘Well? I’m listening.’

  It was so rude, so wholly unexpected, that Li Shai Tung found himself momentarily lost for words. Then he laughed. Is that really the way you want it? he thought, or is that too a pose – designed to throw me from my purpose and win yourself advantage?

  He put his hand to his beard thoughtfully. ‘
You’re like your father, Sau-leyan. He too could be blunt when it was called for.’

  ‘My father was a foolish old man!’

  Li Shai Tung stiffened, shocked by the young man’s utterance. He looked across at Hou Tung-po and saw how he looked away, embarrassed, then shook his head. He took a breath and began again.

  ‘The other day, in Council...’

  ‘You seek to lecture me, Li Shai Tung?’

  Li Shai Tung felt himself go cold. Would the young fool not even let him finish a sentence?

  He bowed his head slightly, softening his voice. ‘You mistake me, good cousin. I seek nothing but an understanding between us. It seems we’ve started badly, you and I. I sought only to mend that. To find some way of redressing your grievances.’

  He saw how Wang Sau-leyan straightened slightly at that, as if sensing concession on his part. Again it angered him, for his instinct was not to accommodate but to crush the arrogance he saw displayed before him, but he kept all sign of anger from his face.

  Wang Sau-leyan turned, meeting his eyes directly. ‘A deal, you mean?’

  He stared back at the young T’ang a moment, then looked aside. ‘I realize that we want different things, Wang Sau-leyan, but is there not a way of satisfying us both?’

  The young man turned, looking across at Hou Tung-po. ‘Is it not as I said, Hou?’ He raised a hand dismissively, indicating Li Shai Tung. ‘The lao jen wants to buy my silence. To bridle me in Council.’

  Li Shai Tung looked down, coldly furious. Lao jen – old man – was a term of respect, but not in the way Wang Sau-leyan had used it. The scornful intonation he had given the word had made of it an insult – an insult that could not be ignored.

  ‘An offered hand should not be spat upon...’

  Wang Sau-leyan looked back at him, his expression openly hostile. ‘What could you offer me that I might possibly want, lao jen?’

  Li Shai Tung had clenched his hands. Now he relaxed them, letting his breath escape him in a sigh. ‘Why in the gods’ names are you so inflexible, Wang Sau-leyan? What do you want of us?’

  Wang Sau-leyan took a step closer. ‘Inflexible? Was I not “flexible” when your son married his brother’s wife? Or by flexible do you really mean unprincipled – willing to do as you and not others wish?’