An Inch of Ashes (CHUNG KUO SERIES)

by David Wingrove

  ‘Yes...’ Ben turned, looking at it again, awed by its simple power. ‘All this... your work ... it must keep you busy.’

  ‘Busy?’ The old man laughed. ‘There is no busier person in the Seven Cities than the oven man, unless it is the Midwife. They say eight hundred million die each year. Eight hundred million, and more each year. Always more. There is no room for such numbers in the earth. And so they come to my ovens.’ He laughed, a strangely thoughtful expression on his face. ‘Does that disturb you, young Master?’

  ‘No,’ Ben answered honestly, yet it made him think of his father. How long would it be before Hal too was dead – alive in memory alone? Yet he, at least, would lie at rest in the earth. Ben frowned. ‘Your vision is marvellous, Lu Nan Jen. And yet, when you talk, you make it all sound so... so prosaic. So meaningless.’

  ‘From nothing they come. To nothing they return.’

  ‘Is that what you believe?’

  The old man shrugged, his eyes going to the darkness at the far left of the mural, beyond the figure of Death. ‘To believe in nothing, is that a belief? If so, I believe.’

  Ben smiled. There was more sense, more wisdom, in this old man than in a thousand Fan Liang-weis. And himself? What did he believe? Did he believe in nothing? Was the darkness simply darkness? Or was there something there, within it? Just as there seemed to be a force behind the light, was there not also a force behind the dark? Maybe even the same force?

  The old man sighed. ‘Forgive me, young Master, but I must leave you now. I have my ovens to attend. But, please, if you wish to stay here...’

  Ben lowered his head. ‘I thank you, Lu Nan Jen. And I am honoured that you showed me your work. It is not every day that I come across something so real.’

  The oven man bowed, then met Ben’s eyes again. ‘I am glad you came, young Master. It is not every day that I meet someone who understands such things. The dream uses us, does it not?’

  Ben nodded, moved by the old man’s humility. To create this and yet to know how little he had to do with its creating. That was true knowledge.

  He bowed again and made to go, then stopped. ‘One last thing,’ he said, turning back. ‘Do you believe in ghosts?’

  The oven man laughed and looked about him at the air. ‘Ghosts? Why, there’s nothing here but ghosts.’

  ‘Catherine? Are you in there?’

  She closed her eyes and let her forehead rest against the smooth, cool surface of the door, willing him to go and leave her in peace, but his voice returned, stronger, more insistent.

  ‘Catherine? You are there, aren’t you? Let me in.’

  ‘Go away,’ she said, hearing the tiredness in her voice. ‘You’ve a date with young Heng, haven’t you? Why don’t you just go to that and leave me be.’

  ‘Let me in,’ he said, ignoring her comment. ‘Come on. We need to talk.’

  She sighed then stepped back, reaching across to touch the lock. At once the door slid back.

  Sergey had changed. He was wearing his gambling clothes – dark silks that lent him a hard, almost sinister air. She had never liked them, least of all now, when she was angry with him.

  ‘Still sulking?’ he asked, making his way past her into the room.

  She had thrown a sheet over the oilboard to conceal what she had been working on, but he went straight to it, throwing back the sheet.

  ‘Is this what’s been causing all the difficulties?’

  She punched the touch-pad irritably, closing the door, then turned to face him.

  ‘What do you want?’

  He laughed, then came across to her. ‘Is that how you greet me?’

  He made to embrace her, but she pushed him away.

  ‘You forget,’ she said, moving past him and throwing the sheet back over the oilboard.

  ‘It was a joke...’ he began, but she rounded on him angrily.

  ‘You’re a child! Do you know that?’

  He shrugged. ‘I thought that’s what you liked about me? Besides, it wasn’t you who had wine thrown in your face. That hurt.’

  ‘Good.’

  She turned away, but he caught her arm and pulled her back.

  ‘Let go of me,’ she said coldly, looking down at where he held her.

  ‘Not until you apologize.’

  She laughed, astonished by him. ‘Me apologize? After what you said? You can go rot in hell before I apologize to you!’

  He tightened his grip until she cried out, tearing her arm away from his grasp.

  ‘You bastard... You’ve no right...’

  ‘No right?’ He came closer, his face leaning into hers threateningly. ‘After what we’ve been to each other these last two years, you have the nerve to say I’ve no right?’ His voice was hard, harder than she had ever heard it before, and she found herself suddenly frightened by this aspect of him. Had it always been there, just below the surface of his charm? Yes. She’d always known it about him. Perhaps that was even what had first attracted her. But she was tired of it now. Tired of his thoughtless domination of her. Let him drink himself to death, or take his whores, or gamble away all his money – she would have no more of it.

  ‘Just go, Sergey. Now, before you make even more of a fool of yourself.’

  She saw his eyes widen with anger and knew she had said the wrong thing. He reached out and grabbed her neck roughly, pulling her closer to him. ‘A fool?’

  Through her fear she recognized the strange parallel of the words with those Fan Liang-wei had used to Shepherd. Then she was fighting to get away from him, hitting his arms and back as he pulled her chin round forcibly and pressed his mouth against her own. Only then did he release her, pushing her back away from him, as if he had done with her.

  ‘And now I’ll go see Heng.’

  She shivered, one hand wiping at her mouth unconsciously. ‘You bastard...’ she said, her voice small. ‘You obnoxious bastard...’ She was close to tears now, her anger displaced suddenly by the hurt she felt. How dare he do that to her? How dare he treat her like his thing?

  But he only shook his head. ‘Grow up, Catherine. For the gods’ sake, grow up.’

  ‘Me... ?’ But her indignation was wasted on him. He had turned away. Slamming his fist against the lock, he pushed out through the door, barely waiting for it to open. Then he was gone.

  She stood there a while, staring at the open doorway, fear and hurt and anger coursing through her. Then, as the automatic lock came on and the door hissed closed, she turned and went out into the kitchen. She reached up and pulled down the bottle of peach brandy and poured herself a large glass, her hands trembling. Then, using both hands to steady the glass, she took a long, deep swig of it, closing her eyes, the rich, dark liquid burning her throat.

  She shuddered. The bastard! How dare he?

  Back in the other room, she set the glass down on the floor, then threw the sheet back from the oilboard, looking at the painting. It was meant to be a joint portrait. Of her and Sergey. Something she had meant to give him for their second anniversary, two weeks away. But now...

  She looked at it, seeing it with new eyes. It was shit. Lifeless shit. As bad as the Tung Ch’i-ch’ang landscape. She pressed to erase then stood back, watching as the faces faded and the coloured, contoured screen became a simple, silk smooth rectangle of uncreated whiteness.

  For a moment she felt nothing, then, kneeling, she picked up her glass, cradling it against her cheek momentarily before she put it to her lips and drank.

  She looked up again, suddenly determined. Fuck him! If that was what he thought of her – if that was how he was prepared to treat her – then she would have no more of it. Let it be an end between them.

  She swallowed, the warmth in her throat deceptive, the tears threatening to come despite her determination not to cry. She sniffed, then raised her glass, offering a toast to the silent doorway.

  ‘Go fuck yourself, Sergey Novacek! May you rot in hell!’

  Sergey stood there at the top of the steps, looking d
own into the huge, dimly lit gaming room of The Jade Peony. Lights above the tables picked out where games were in progress, while at the far end a bar ran from left to right, backlit and curved like a crescent moon. The floor below was busy. Crowds gathered about several of the tables, the excited murmur of their voices carrying to where he stood.

  There was a sweet, almost peppery scent in the air, like cinnamon mixed with plum and jasmine, strangely feminine, yet much too strong to be pleasant. It was the smell of them – of the sons of the Minor Families and their friends. The distinguishing mark of this Han elite; like a pheremonal dye. Sergey smiled. In theory The Jade Peony was a mixed club, membership determined not by race but by recommendation and election, but in practice the only Hung Mao here were guests, like himself.

  Yang kuei tzu, they called his kind. ‘Ocean devils’. Barbarians.

  Even the Han at the door had looked down on him. He had seen the contempt that lay behind that superficial mask of politeness. Had heard him turn, after he had gone, and mutter a word or two of his own tongue to the other doorman. Had heard them laugh and knew it was about himself.

  Well, he’d wipe a few smiles from their faces tonight. And Heng? His smile broadened momentarily. He would make sure Heng would not be smiling for some time.

  He went down the plushly carpeted stairway, past the great dragon-head sculpture that stood to one side, making his way to the bar.

  As he passed they stared at him openly, their hostility unmasked.

  Heng Chian-ye was where he said he would be, at a table on the far left, close to the bar. A big, hexagonal table covered in a bright red silk. Representations of the wu fu, the five gods of good luck, formed a patterned border around its edge, the tiny silhouettes picked out in green.

  He smiled and bowed. ‘Heng Chian-ye... You received my message, I hope.’

  Heng Chian-ye was seated on the far side of the table, a glass and a wine bottle in front of him. To either side of him sat his friends, four in all, young, fresh-faced Han in their early twenties, their long fingernails and elaborately embroidered silks the calling card of their kind. They stared back at Sergey coldly, as if at a stranger, while Heng leaned forward, a faint smile playing on his lips.

  ‘Welcome, Shih Novacek. I got your message. Even so, I did wonder whether you would make an appearance tonight.’ His smile broadened momentarily, as if to emphasize the jest. ‘Anyway, you’re here now, neh? So... please, take a seat. I’ll ask the waiter to bring you a drink.’

  ‘Just wine,’ he said, answering the unspoken query, then sat, smiling a greeting at the others at the table; inwardly contemptuous.

  He smiled, then, taking the silken pouch from his jacket pocket, threw it across the table so that it landed just in front of Heng Chian-ye. It was deliberately done; not so much an insult as an act of gaucheness. In the circles in which Heng mixed it was not necessary to provide proof of means before you began to play. It was assumed that if you sat at a gaming table you could meet your debts. So it was among the ch’un tzu. Only hsiao jen – little men – acted as Sergey was acting now.

  Sergey saw the looks that passed amongst Heng and his friends and smiled inwardly. Their arrogance, their ready assumption of superiority – these were weaknesses. And the more he could feed that arrogance, the weaker they would become. The weaker they, the stronger he.

  ‘What’s this?’ Heng said, fingering the string of the pouch as if it were unclean.

  ‘My stake,’ Sergey said, sitting forward slightly, as if discomfited. ‘Look and see. I think you’ll find it’s enough.’

  Heng laughed and shook his head. ‘Really, Shih Novacek. That’s not how we do things here.’

  Sergey raised his eyebrows, as if puzzled. ‘You do not wish to play, then? But I thought...’

  Heng was smiling tightly. His English was tightly clipped, polite. ‘It isn’t what I meant.’ He lifted the pouch with two fingers and threw it back across the table. ‘You would not be here if I... doubted your ability to pay.’

  Sergey smiled. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, looking about him as he picked up the pouch and returned it to his pocket. ‘I did not mean to offend.’

  ‘Of course,’ Heng answered, smiling, yet the way he glanced at his friends revealed what he was really thinking. ‘I understand, Shih Novacek. Our ways differ. But the game...’

  Sergey lowered his head slightly, as if acknowledging the wisdom of what Heng Chian-ye had said. ‘The game is itself. The same for Han and Hung Mao alike.’

  Heng gave the barest nod. ‘So it is. Well... shall we play?’

  ‘Just you and I, Heng Chian-ye? Or will the ch’un tzu join us?’

  Heng looked to either side of him. ‘Chan Wen-fu? Tsang Yi? Will you play?’

  Two of the Han nodded; the other two – as if on cue – stood, letting the others spread out round the table.

  ‘You will be West, Shih Novacek, I East. My friends here will be North and South.’

  Sergey sat back, taking the wine from the waiter who had appeared at his side. ‘That’s fine with me. You have new cards?’

  Heng lifted his chin, as if in signal to the waiter. A moment later the man returned with a sealed pack, offering them to Sergey. He took them and hefted them a moment, then set them down on the table.

  ‘Bring another.’

  Heng smiled tightly. ‘Is there something wrong with them, Shih Novacek?’

  ‘Not at all, Heng Chian-ye. Please, bear with me. It is a foible of mine. A... superstition.’ He spoke the last word quietly, as if ashamed of such a weakness, and saw the movement in Heng’s eyes; the way he looked to North and South, as if to reinforce the point to his two friends.

  ‘You have many superstitions, Shih Novacek?’

  ‘Not many. But this...’ He shrugged, then turned, taking the new pack from the waiter and setting it down beside the other. Then, to Heng’s surprise, he picked up the first and broke the seal.

  ‘But I thought...’

  Sergey looked down, ignoring Heng’s query, fanning the huge cards out on the table in front of him. There were one hundred and sixty cards in a pack of Chou, or ‘State’, arranged into nine levels, or groupings. At the head of all was the Emperor, enthroned in golden robes. Beneath him were his seven Ministers, these greybeards plainly dressed, as if in contrast. At the third level were the Family Heads – the twenty-nine cards richly decorated, each one quite different from the others. At the next level down the four Generals seemed at first glance quite uniform; yet the staunch Hung Mao faces of the old men differed considerably. Beneath them came the four wives of the Emperor, ranked in their household order, and beneath them – at the sixth level – came the two concubines, their scantily dressed figures making them the most attractive of the cards. Next were the eight sons, their resemblance to their respective mothers suggested by their facial features and cleverly underlined by use of colour and decoration. Then, at the eighth level of this complex hierarchy came the eighty-one officials, ranked in nine levels of nine, their great chi ling patches displayed on the chests of their powder-blue gowns. And finally, at the ninth level – last in the great pecking order of State – were the twenty-four Company Heads, their corporate symbols – some long forgotten, some just as familiar now as when the game was first played one hundred and twenty years before – emblazoned on the copy of the Edict scroll each held.

  He turned one of the cards a moment, studying the reverse carefully for special markings, then compared it with a second. The backs of the cards were a bright, silken red, broken in the centre by a pattern of three concentric circles, three rings of dragons: twenty-nine black dragons in the outer circle, seven larger dragons in the second, and, at the very centre, a single golden dragon, larger than all the others, its great jaws closing on its tail.

  Sergey smiled and looked up. ‘These are beautiful cards, Heng Chian-ye. The faces... they look almost as if they were drawn from life.’

  Heng laughed. ‘So they were, my friend. These are copies of the ver
y first Chou pack, hand drawn by Tung Men-tiao.’

  Sergey looked down at the cards with a new respect. Then these were tiny portraits of the actual people who had filled those roles. Men and women whom the great artist and satirist Tung Men-tiao had known in life. He smiled. Somehow it gave the game an added bite.

  ‘Shall we start?’ Heng asked. ‘If you’ll stack the cards, we’ll cut to see who deals.’

  For the first few hours he had tried to keep things fairly even, attributing his victories to good fortune, his defeats to his own stupidity. And all the while he had studied their play – had seen how the other two played to Heng, even while making it seem that they had only their own interests at heart. It was clever but transparent, and he could see how it would have fooled another, but he was not just any player. At Chou he excelled. He had mastered this as a child, playing his father and uncles for his pocket money.

  In the last game he had drawn the Emperor and, despite a strong hand, had proceeded to ensure he lost: rather than consolidating power, he played into the hands of Heng’s three Minister cards. Heng’s rebellion had succeeded and Sergey had ended by losing a thousand yuan. He had seen the gleam in Heng’s eyes as he noted down his winnings on the tab and knew that the time was ripe. Heng had won the last two games. He must feel he was on a winning streak. What better time, then, to up the stakes?

  Sergey looked down, pretending not to see how Heng looked to his left at Tsang Yi, knowing what was to come.

  ‘Forgive me, ch’un tzu,’ the Han began, getting to his feet and bowing, first to his friends, and then – his head barely inclined – to Sergey, ‘but I must go. My father...’

  ‘Of course,’ Heng said smoothly, before Sergey could object. ‘We understand, don’t we, Shih Novacek?’

  We do, he thought, smiling inwardly, then watching as another of Heng’s circle took Tsang’s place at table.

  ‘I’ll buy Tsang out,’ the Han said, his eyes meeting Sergey’s briefly, challengingly. Then, turning to Heng, he added, ‘But look, Chian-ye, why don’t we make the game more... exciting?’