The Art of War (17 page)

‘Have you seen them?’

The sergeant frowned. ‘Sir?’

‘The dead. Cadets, most of them. Barely out of their teens. I kept thinking of my son.’

The man nodded. ‘The
Ping Tiao
are shit, sir. Scum.’

‘Yes...’ Chen took a breath then straightened up. ‘Well... let’s move on. I want to look at their dead before I report back.’

‘Sir.’

Chen let his sergeant lead on, but he had seen the doubt in the man’s eyes.

All of this looking at the dead was quite alien to him – no doubt his previous officers hadn’t bothered with such things – but Chen knew the value of looking for oneself. It was why Tolonen had recruited Karr and himself: because they took such pains. They noticed what others overlooked. Karr particularly. And he had learned from Karr. Had been taught to see the small betraying detail – the one tiny clue that changed the whole picture of events.

‘Here it is, sir.’

The sergeant came to attention outside the door, his head bowed. Chen went inside. Here things were different, more orderly, the bodies laid out in four neat rows on trestle tables. And, unlike the other place, here the bodies were whole. These men had died in action: they had not been tied up and butchered.

He went down the first of the rows, pausing here and there to pull back the covering sheets and look at a face, a hand, frowning to himself now, his sense of ‘wrongness’ growing with every moment. Finally, at the head of the row, he stopped beside one of the corpses, staring down at it. There was something odd – something he couldn’t quite place – about the dead man.

He shook his head. No, he was imagining it. But then, as he made to move on, he realized what it was. The hair. He went closer and lifted the head between his hands, studying it. Yes, there was no doubt about it, the dead man’s hair was cut like a soldier’s. Quickly he went down the row, checking the other corpses. Most of them had normal short hair – styles typical of the lower levels – but there were five with the same military-style cut, the hair trimmed back almost brutally behind the ear and at the line of the nape.

‘Sergeant!’

The man appeared at the doorway at once.

‘Bring me a comset. A unit with a visual connection.’

‘Sir!’

While he waited he went down the line again, studying the men he had picked out. Now that he looked he saw other differences. Their nails were manicured, their hands smooth, uncalloused. They were all
Hung Mao
, of course, but of a certain kind. They all had those grey-blue eyes and chiselled features that were so typical of the men recruited by Security. Yes, the more he looked at them, the more he could imagine them in uniform. But was he right? And, if so, what did it mean? Had the
Ping Tiao
begun recruiting such types, or was it something more ominous than that?

The sergeant returned, handing him the comset, then stood there, watching, as Chen drew back the eyelid of the corpse with his thumb and held the machine’s lens over the eye, relaying an ID query through to Central Records.

He had his answer almost immediately. There were six ‘likelies’ that approximated to the retinal print, but only one of the full body descriptions fitted the dead man. It was as Chen had thought: he was ex-Security.

Chen went down the line, making queries on the others he had picked out. The story was the same: all five had served in the Security forces at some point. And not one of them had been seen for several years. Which meant that either they had been down in the Net or they had been outside. But what did it signify? Chen pressed to store the individual file numbers, then put the comset down and leaned against one of the trestles, thinking.

‘What is it, sir?’

Chen looked up. ‘Oh, it’s nothing, after all. I thought I recognized the man, but I was mistaken. Anyway, we’re done here. Have the men finish up then report to me by four. The General will want a full report before the day’s out.’

‘Sir!’

Alone again, Chen walked slowly down the rows, taking one last look at each of the five men. Like the other dead, they wore the
Ping Tiao
symbol – a stylized fish – about their necks and were dressed in simple
Ping Tiao
clothes. But these were no common terrorists.

Which was why he had lied to the sergeant. Because if this was what he thought it was he could trust no one.

No. He would keep it strictly to himself for the time being, and in the meantime he would find out all he could about the dead men: discover where they had been stationed and who they had served under.

As if he didn’t already know. As if he couldn’t guess which name would surface when he looked at their files.

Nan Ho, Li Yuan’s Master of the Inner Chamber, climbed down from the sedan and, returning the bow of the Grand Master of the Palace, mounted the ancient stone steps that led up to the entrance of the summer palace.

At the top he paused and turned, looking back across the ruins of the old town of Ch’ing Tao. Beyond it the bay of Chiao Chou was a deep cobalt blue, the grey-green misted shape of Lao Shan rising spectacularly from the sea, climbing three
li
into the heavens. A thousand
li
to the east was Korea and beyond it the uninhabitable islands of Japan.

It was a year since he had last visited this place – a year and two days, to be precise – but from where he stood, nothing had changed. For his girls, however, that year had been long and difficult: a year of exile from Tongjiang and the Prince they loved.

He sighed and turned back, following the Grand Master through. This was the smallest of the T’ang’s summer palaces and had lain unused since his great-grandfather’s days. It was kept on now only out of long habit, the staff of fifty-six servants undisturbed by the needs of their masters.

Such a shame, he thought as he made his way through the pleasantly shaded corridors into the interior. Yet he understood why. There was danger here. It was too open; too hard to defend from attack. Whereas Tongjiang...

He laughed. The very idea of attacking Tongjiang!

The Grand Master slowed and turned, bowing low. ‘Is anything the matter, Master Nan?’

‘Nothing,’ Nan Ho answered, returning the bow. ‘I was merely thinking of the last time I was here. Of the crickets in the garden.’

‘Ah...’ The Grand Master’s eyes glazed over, the lids closed momentarily, then he turned back, shuffling slowly on.

The two girls were waiting in the Great Conservatory, kneeling on the tiles beside the pool, their heads bowed.

He dismissed the Grand Master, waiting until he had left before he hurried across and pulled the two girls up, holding one in each arm, hugging them tightly to him, forgetting the gulf in rank that lay between them.

‘My darlings!’ he said breathlessly, his heart full. ‘My pretty ones! How have you been?’

Pearl Heart answered for them both.

‘Oh, Master Nan... it’s so good to see you! We’ve been so lonely here!’

He sighed deeply. ‘Hush, my kittens. Hush now, stop your crying. I’ve news for you. Good news. You’re leaving this place. Two weeks from now.’

They looked up at him, joy in their faces, then quickly averted their eyes again. Yes, they had changed, he could see that at once. What had the Grand Master done to them to make them thus? Had he been cruel? Had there been worse things that that? He would find out. And if the old man had misbehaved he would have his skin for it.

Sweet Rose looked up at him hopefully. ‘Li Yuan has asked for our return?’

He felt his heart wrenched from him that he had to disappoint her.

‘No, my little one,’ he said, stroking her arm. ‘But he wishes to see you.’
One last time
, he thought, completing the sentence in his head. ‘And he has a gift for you both. A special gift...’ He shivered. ‘But he must tell you that. I come only as a messenger, to help prepare you.’

Pearl Heart was looking down again. ‘Then she will not have us,’ she said quietly.

He squeezed her to him. ‘It would not be right. You know that. It was what we spoke of last time we were here together.’

He remembered the occasion only too well. How he had brought them here in the dark of night, and how they had wept when he had explained to them why they must not see their beloved Prince again. He swallowed, thinking of that time. It had been hard for Li Yuan, too. And admirable in a strange way. For there had been no need, no custom to fulfil. He recalled arguing with Li Yuan – querying his word to the point where the Prince had grown angry with him. Then he had shrugged and gone off to do as he was bid. But it was not normal. He still felt that deeply. A man – a prince, especially – needed the company of women. And to deny oneself for a whole year, merely because of an impending wedding! He shook his head. Well, it was like marrying one’s dead brother’s wife: it was unheard of.

And yet Li Yuan had insisted. He would be ‘pure’ for Fei Yen. As if a year’s abstinence could make a man pure! Didn’t the blood still flow, the sap still rise? He loved his master dearly, but he could not lie to himself and say Li Yuan was right.

He looked down into the girls’ faces, seeing the disappointment there. A year had not cured
them
of their love. No, and neither would a lifetime, if it were truly known. Only a fool thought otherwise. Yet Li Yuan was Prince and his word was final. And though he was foolish in this regard, at least he was not cruel. The gift he planned to give them – the gift Nan Ho had said he could not speak of – was to be their freedom. More than that, the two sisters were to be given a dowry, a handsome sum – enough to see them well married, assured the luxuries of First Level.

No, it wasn’t cruel. But, then, neither was it kind.

Nan Ho shook his head and smiled. ‘Still... let us go through. We’ll have some wine and make ourselves more comfortable,’ he said, holding them tighter against him momentarily. ‘And then you can tell me all about the wicked Grand Master and how he tried to have his way with you.’

Chuang Lian, wife of Minister Chuang, lay amongst the silken pillows of her bed, fanning herself indolently, watching the young officer out of half-lidded eyes as he walked about her room, stopping to lift and study a tiny statue, or to gaze out at the garden. The pale cream sleeping robe she wore had fallen open, revealing her tiny breasts, yet she acted as if she were unaware, enjoying the way his eyes kept returning to her.

She was forty-five – forty-six in little over a month – and was proud of her breasts. She had heard how other women’s breasts sagged, either from neglect or from the odious task of child-bearing, but she had been lucky. Her husband was a rich man – a powerful man – and had hired wet-nurses to raise his offspring. And she had kept her health and her figure. Each morning, after exercising, she would study herself in the mirror and thank Kuan Yin for blessing her with the one thing that, in this world of Men, gave a woman power over them.

She had been beautiful. In her own eyes she was beautiful still. But her husband was an old man now and she was still a woman, with a woman’s needs. Who, then, could blame her if she took a lover to fill the idle days with a little joy? So it was for a woman in her position, married to a man thirty years her senior; yet there was still the need to be discreet – to find the right man for her bed. A young and virile man, certainly, but also a man of breeding, of quality. And what better than this young officer?

He turned, looking directly at her, and smiled. ‘Where is the Minister today?’

Chuang Lian averted her eyes, her fan pausing in its slow rhythm, then starting up again, its measure suddenly erratic, as if indicative of some inner disturbance. It was an old game, and she enjoyed the pretence; yet there was no mistaking the way her pulse quickened when he looked at her like that. Such a predatory look it was. And his eyes – so blue they were. When he looked at her it was as if the sky itself gazed down at her through those eyes. She shivered. He was so different from her husband. So alive. So strong. Not the smallest sign of weakness in him.

She glanced up at him again. ‘Chuang Ming is at his office. Where else would he be at this hour?’

‘I thought perhaps he would be here. If I were him...’

His eyes finished the sentence for him. She saw how he looked at her breasts, the pale flesh of her thighs, showing between the folds of silk, and felt a tiny shiver down her spine. He wanted her. She knew that now. But it would not do to let him have her straight away. The game must be played out – that was half its delight.

She eased up on to her elbows, putting her fan aside, then reached up to touch the single orchid in her hair. ‘Chuang Ming is a proper
Lao Kuan
, a “Great Official”. But in bed...’ She laughed softly, and turned her eyes on him again. ‘Well, let us say he is
hsiao jen
, neh? A little man.’

When he laughed he showed his teeth. Such strong, white, perfect teeth. But her eyes had been drawn lower than his face, wondering.

He came closer, then sat on the foot of the bed, his hand resting gently on her ankle. ‘And you are tired of little men?’

For a moment she stared at his hand where it rested against her flesh, transfixed by his touch, then looked up at him again, her breath catching unexpectedly in her throat. This was not how she had planned it.

‘I...’

But his warm laughter, the small movements of his fingers against her foot, distracted her. After a moment she let herself laugh, then leaned forward, covering his hand with her own. So small and delicate it seemed against his, the dark olive of her flesh a stark contrast to his whiteness.

She laced her fingers through his, meeting his eyes. ‘I have a present for you.’

‘A present?’

‘A first-meeting gift.’

He laughed. ‘But we have met often,
Fu Jen
Chuang.’

‘Lian...’ she said softly, hating the formality of his ‘Madam’, even if his eyes revealed he was teasing her. ‘You must call me Lian here.’

Unexpectedly he drew her closer, his right hand curled gently but firmly about her neck, then leaned forward, kissing her brow, her nose. ‘As you wish, my little lotus...’