Ice and Fire: Chung Kuo Series (41 page)

Now that he faced the boy he could see what the Architect had meant. The child was
totally vulnerable. He had been reconstructed without defences. Like Adam, innocent,
he stood there, facing, if
not his Creator, then, in his new shape, his Instigator. The boy knew nothing of that.
Neither did he understand the significance of this encounter. But Berdichev, studying
him, came to his
decision. He would leave well alone. Would let them shape the boy further. And then,
in three, maybe four years’ time, would come back for him. That was, if either he
or the boy was still
alive.

The camera turned, following Berdichev’s tall, aristocratic figure as it left the
room, looking for signs of the man it had heard about. For the machine Outside was
a
mosaic formed from the broken shards of rumour. In its isolation, it had no knowledge
of the City and its ways other than what it overheard, fitting these imperfect glimpses
into an ever-widening
picture. When the guards talked, it listened, sifting and sorting what they said,
formulating its own version of events. And when something happened in that bigger
world beyond itself, it would
watch the ripples spread, and form its own opinion.

Assassinations and reprisals; this seemed the pattern of the War-that-wasn’t-a-War.
No armies clashed. No missiles fell on innocents. The City was too complex, too tightly
interwoven for
such things. Yet there was darkness and deceit in plenitude. And death. Each day seemed
to bring its freight of names. The mighty fallen. And in the deep, unseen levels of
its consciousness, the
machine saw how all of this fitted with its task here in the Unit – saw how the two
things formed a whole: mosaics of violence and repression.

It watched as Berdichev stood there in the outer room, giving instructions to the
Unit’s Head. This was a different man from the one he had expected. Deeper, more subtle
than the foolish,
arrogant villain the men had drawn between them. More dangerous and, in some strange
way, more
kingly
than they would have had him be.

It had seen how Berdichev had looked at the boy, as if recognizing another of his
own kind. As if, amongst men, there were also levels. And this the highest; the level
of Shapers and Doers
– Architects and Builders not of a single mind but of the vast hive of minds that
was the City. The thought recurred, and from somewhere drifted up a phrase it had
often heard spoken –
‘the Kings of the City’. How well the old word sat on such men, for they moved and
acted as a king might. There was the shadow of power behind their smallest motion.
Power and
death.

It watched them all. Saw how their faces said what in words could not be uttered.
Saw each small betraying detail clearly, knowing them for what they were; all desire
and doubt open to its
all-seeing eye. Kings and peasants all, it saw the things that shaped each one of
them. Variations on a theme. The same game played at a different level, for different
stakes. All this was old
knowledge, but for the machine it was new. Isolated, unasked, it viewed the world
outside with a knowing innocence. Saw the dark heart of things. And stored the knowledge.

When they felt it was time, they taught him about his past. Or what they knew of it.
Heavily edited, they returned to him the history of the person he had been. Names,
pictures
and events. But not the experience.

Kim learned his lessons well. Once told he could not forget. But that was not to say
they gave him back his self. The new child was a pale imitation of the old. He had
not lived and suffered and
dreamed. What was dark in him was hidden; was walled-off and inaccessible. In its
place he had a fiction; a story learned by rote. Something to fill the gap; to assuage
the feeling of emptiness
that gripped him whenever he looked back.

It was fifteen months into the programme when they brought T’ai Cho to the small suite
of five rooms Kim had come to know as home. Kim knew the stranger by his face; knew
both his history
and what he had done for him. He greeted him warmly, as duty demanded, but his eyes
saw only a stranger’s face. He had no real feeling for the man.

T’ai Cho cried and held the boy tightly, fiercely to him. He had been told how things
were, but it was hard for him. Hard to feel the boy’s hands barely touching his back
when he
held him. Hard to see love replaced by curiosity in those eyes. He had been warned
– had steeled himself – yet his disappointment, his sense of hurt, was great nonetheless.

In a nearby room the team watched tensely, talking amongst themselves, pleased that
the boy was showing so little sign of emotion or excitement. A camera focused on the
boy’s eyes, showing
the smallest sign of movement in the pupils. A monitoring unit attached to the back
of the boy’s neck traced more subtle changes in the brain’s activity. All seemed normal.
Stable.
There was no indication that the boy had any memory of the man other than those implanted
by the team.

It was just as they’d hoped. Kim had passed the test. Now they could progress – move
on to the next stage of his treatment. The house, once empty, had been furnished.
It was time now
to fill the rooms with life. Time to test the mosaic for flaws.

In the room the man turned away from the boy and picked up his jacket from the chair.
For a moment he turned back, looking at him, hopeful to the last that some small flicker
of recognition
would light those eyes with their old familiar warmth. But there was nothing. The
child he had known was dead. Even so, he felt a kind of love for the form, the flesh,
and so he went across and
held him one last time before he left. For old times’ sake. Then he turned and went,
saying nothing. Finding nothing left to say.

A GIFT OF STONES

I
n the Hall of the Eight Immortals, the smallest, most intimate of the eighty-one Halls
in the Palace of Tongjiang, the guests had gathered
for the betrothal ceremony of the young prince Li Yuan to the beautiful Fei Yen. As
these events went it was only a tiny gathering; there were less than a hundred people
in the lavishly decorated
room – the tight circle of those who were known and trusted by the T’ang.

The room was silent now, the guests attentive as Li Shai Tung took the great seal
from the cushion his Chancellor held out to him, then, both his hands taking its weight,
turned to face the
table. The seal – the Family ‘chop’, a huge square thing, more shield than simple
stamp – had been inked beforehand and, as the great T’ang turned, the four Mandarin
characters that quartered the seal glistened redly in the lamplight.

On the low table before him was the contract of marriage, which would link the T’ang’s
clan once more with that of Yin Tsu. Two servants, their shaven heads lowered, their
eyes
averted, held the great scroll open as the T’ang positioned the seal above the silken
paper and then leaned forward, placing his full weight on the ornate handle.

Satisfied, he stepped back, letting an official lift the seal with an almost pedantic
care and replace it on the cushion. For a moment he stared at the vivid imprint on
the paper, remembering
another day. Yin Tsu’s much smaller chop lay beneath his own, the ink half-dried.

They had annulled the previous marriage earlier in the day, all seven T’ang setting
their rings to the wax of the document. There had been smiles then, and celebration,
but in all their
hearts, he knew, there remained a degree of unease. Something unspoken lay behind
every eye.

Dark Wei followed in his brother’s footsteps and the Lord of You-yi was stirred against
him
…

The words of the ‘Heavenly Questions’ had kept running through his mind all morning,
like a curse, darkening his mood. So it was sometimes. And though he knew the words
meant nothing
– that his son, Yuan, was no adulterer – still he felt wrong about this. A wife was
like the clothes a man wore in life. And did one put on one’s dead brother’s clothes?

Han Ch’in… Had five years really passed since Han had died? He felt a twinge of pain
at the memory. This was like burying his son again. For a moment he felt the darkness
well up in
him, threatening to mist his eyes and spoil things for his younger son. Then it passed.
It was Li Yuan now. Yuan was his son, his only son, his heir. And maybe it was right
that he should marry his
dead brother’s wife – maybe it
was
what the gods wanted.

He sniffed, then turned, smiling, to face Yin Tsu, and opened his arms, embracing
the old man warmly.

‘I am glad our families are to be joined again, Yin Tsu,’ he said softly in his ear.
‘It has grieved me that you and I had no grandson to sweeten our old age.’

As they moved apart, the T’ang saw the effect his words had had on the old man. Yin
Tsu bowed deeply, torn between joy and a fierce pride, the muscles of his face struggling
to keep
control. His eyes were moist and his hands shook as they held the T’ang’s briefly.

‘I am honoured,
Chieh Hsia
. Deeply honoured.’

Behind Yin Tsu his three sons looked on, tall yet somehow colourless young men. And
beside them, her eyes lowered, demure in her pink and cream silks, Fei Yen herself,
her outward appearance
unchanged from that day when she had stood beside Han Ch’in and spoken her vows.

Li Shai Tung studied her a moment, thoughtful. She looked so frail, so fragile, yet
he had seen for himself how spirited she was. It was almost as if all the strength
that should have gone into
Yin Tsu’s sons had been stolen – spirited away – by her. Like the thousand-year-old
fox in the Ming novel,
Feng-shen Yen-I
, that took the form of the beautiful Tan Chi and
bemused and misled the last of the great Shang Emperors…

He sniffed. No. These were only an old man’s foolish fears – dark reflections of his
anxiety at how things were. Such things were not real. Were only stories.

Li Shai Tung turned, one hand extended, and looked across at his son. ‘Li Yuan… bring
the presents for your future wife.’

The Shepherd boy stood apart from the others, staring up at the painting that hung
between the two dragon pillars on the far side of the Hall. Li Yuan had noticed him
earlier
– had noted his strange separateness from everything – and had remarked on it to Fei
Yen.

‘Why don’t you go across and speak to him?’ she had whispered. But he had held back.
Now, however, his curiosity had got the better of him. Maybe it was the sheer intensity
of
the boy that drew him, or some curious feeling of fellowship; a sense that – for all
his father had said of Ben’s aversion to it – they were meant to be companions, like
Hal and
his father. T’ang and Advisor. They had been bred so. And yet…

‘Forgive me, General,’ he said, smiling at Nocenzi, ‘but I must speak with Hal’s son.
I have not met him before and he will be gone in an hour. If you’ll excuse
me.’

The circle gathered about the General bowed low as he moved away, then resumed their
conversation, an added degree of urgency marking their talk now that the prince was
no longer amongst
them.

Li Yuan, meanwhile, made his way across the room and stopped, a pace behind the boy,
almost at his shoulder, looking up past him at the painting.

‘Ben?’

The boy turned his head and looked at him. ‘Li Yuan…’ He smiled and lowered his head
the tiniest amount, more acknowledgment than bow. ‘You are to be congratulated. Your
future wife is beautiful.’

Li Yuan returned the smile, feeling a slight warmth at his neck. The boy’s gaze was
so direct, so self-contained. It made him recall what his father had told him of the
boy.

‘I’m glad you could come. My father tells me you are an excellent painter.’

‘He does?’ Again the words, like the gesture, seemed only a token; the very minimum
of social response. Ben turned his head away, looking up at the painting once again,
the
forcefulness of his gaze making Li Yuan lift his eyes as if to try to see what Shepherd
was seeing.

It was a landscape – a
shan shui
study of ‘mountains and water’ – by the Sung painter, Kuo Hsi. The original of his
Early Spring
, painted in 1072.

‘I was watching you,’ Li Yuan said. ‘From across the room. I saw how you were drawn
to this.’

‘It’s the only
living
painting here,’ Ben answered, his eyes never leaving the painting. ‘The rest…’

His shrug was the very symbol of dismissiveness.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, the rest of it’s dead. Mere mechanical gesture. The kind of thing a machine
might produce. But this is different.’

Li Yuan looked back at Ben, studying him intently, fascinated by him. No one had ever
spoken to him like this; as if it did not matter who he was. But it was not simply
that there was no
flattery in Ben’s words, no concession to the fact that he, Li Yuan was Prince and
heir; Ben seemed to have no conception of those ‘levels’ other men took so much for
granted.
Even his father, Hal, was not like this.

Li Yuan laughed, surprised; not sure whether he was pleased or otherwise.

‘How is it different?’

‘For a start it’s aggressive. Look at the muscular shapes of those trees, the violent
tumble of those rocks. There’s nothing soft, nothing tame about it. The very forms
are
powerful. But it’s more than that – the artist captured the
essence
– the very pulse of life – in all he saw.’ Ben laughed shortly, then turned and looked
at
him. ‘I’ve seen such trees, such rocks…’

‘In your valley?’

Ben shook his head, his eyes holding Li Yuan’s almost insolently. ‘In my dreams.’

‘
Your dreams?
’

Ben seemed about to answer, but then he smiled and looked past Li Yuan. ‘FeiYen…’

Li Yuan turned to welcome his betrothed.

She came and stood beside him, touching his arm briefly, almost tenderly. ‘I see you
two have found each other at last.’

‘Found?’ Ben said quietly. ‘I don’t follow you.’

Fei Yen laughed softly, the fan moving slowly in her hand. Her perfume filled the
air about them. ‘Li Yuan said earlier how much he wanted to speak to you.’

‘I see…’

Li Yuan saw how Ben looked at her and felt a pang of jealousy. It was as if he saw
her clearly, perfectly; those dark, intense eyes of his taking in everything at a
glance.

What do you see?
he wondered.
You seem to see so much, Ben Shepherd. Ah, but would you tell me? Would even you be
that open?

‘Ben lives outside,’ he said after a moment. ‘In the Domain. It’s a valley in the
Western Island.’

‘It must be beautiful,’ she said, lowering her eyes. ‘Like Tongjiang.’

‘Oh, it is,’ Ben said, his eyes very still, watching her. ‘It’s another world. But
small. Very small. You could see it all in an afternoon.’

Then, changing tack, he smiled and turned his attention to Li Yuan again. ‘I wanted
to give you something, Prince Yuan. A gift of some kind. But I didn’t know quite what.’

It was unexpected. Li Yuan hesitated, his mind a blank, but Fei Yen answered for him.

‘Why not draw him for me?’

Ben’s smile widened, as if in response to her beauty, then slowly faded from his lips.
‘Why not?’

They went through to the anteroom while servants were sent to bring paper and brushes
and inks, but when it arrived Ben waved the pots and brushes aside and, taking a pencil
from his jacket
pocket, sat at the table, pulling a piece of paper up before him.

‘Where shall I sit?’ Li Yuan asked, knowing from experience how much fuss was made
by artists. The light, the background – everything had to be just so. ‘Here, by the
window? Or over here by the kang?’

Ben glanced up at him. ‘There’s no need. I have you. Here.’ He tapped his forehead,
then lowered his head again, his hand moving swiftly, decisively across the paper’s
surface.

Fei Yen laughed and looked at him, then, taking his hand, began to lead him away.
‘We’ll come back,’ she said. ‘When he’s finished.’

But Li Yuan hesitated. ‘No,’ he said gently, so as not to offend her. ‘I’d like to
see. It interests me…’

Ben looked up again, indicating that he should come across. Again it was a strange,
unexpected thing to do, for who but a T’ang would beckon a prince in that manner?
And yet, for once, it
seemed quite natural.

‘Stand there,’ Ben said. ‘Out of my light. Yes. That’s it.’

He watched. Saw how the figures appeared, like ghosts out of nothingness, onto the
whiteness of the paper. Slowly the paper filled. A tree, a clutch of birds, a moon.
And then, to the left, a
figure on a horse. An archer. He caught his breath as the face took form. It was himself.
A tiny mirror-image of his face.

‘Why have you drawn me like that?’ he asked, when it was done. ‘What does it mean?’

Ben looked up. On the far side of the table Fei Yen was staring down at the paper,
her lips parted in astonishment. ‘Yes,’ she said, echoing her future husband. ‘What
does it
mean?’

‘The tree,’ Ben said. ‘That’s the legendary
fu sang,
the hollow mulberry tree – the dwelling place of kings and the hiding place of the
sun. In the tree are
ten birds. They represent the ten suns of legend which the great archer, the Lord
Shen Yi, did battle with. You recall the legend? Mankind was in danger from the intense
heat of the ten suns. But
the Lord Yi shot down nine of the suns, leaving only the one we know today.’

Li Yuan laughed, surprised that he had not seen the allusion. ‘And I… I am meant to
be the Lord Yi?’

He stared at the drawing, fascinated, astonished by the simple power of the composition.
It was as if he could feel the horse rearing beneath him, his knees digging into its
flanks as he leaned
forward to release the arrow, the bird pierced through its chest as it rose, silhouetted
against the great white backdrop of the moon. Yes, there was no doubting it. It was
a masterpiece. And he
had watched it shimmer into being.

He looked back at Ben, bowing his head, acknowledging the sheer mastery of the work.
But his admiration was tainted. For all its excellence there was something disturbing,
almost frightening
about the piece.

‘Why this?’ he asked, staring openly at Ben now, frowning, ignoring the others who
had gathered to see what was happening.

Ben signed the corner of the paper, then set the pencil down. ‘Because I dreamt of
you like this.’

‘You dreamt… ?’ Li Yuan laughed uneasily. They had come to this point before. ‘You
dream a lot, Ben Shepherd.’

‘No more than any man…’

‘But this… Why did you dream this?’

Ben laughed. ‘How can I tell? What a man dreams – surely he has no control over that?’