The White Mountain (33 page)

Karr laughed quietly. ‘Wait. There's a plaque here somewhere.' He lowered his visor, looking about, then went across. ‘All right. You'll need two men and some lifting equipment – pulleys and the like.'

‘Yes,' Chen said, growing impatient. ‘I'll do all that. But tell me where you are. You must have some idea.'

‘It's Level 31,' Karr said, turning back, playing the beam on to the surface of the plaque, making sure. ‘Level 31, Dachau
Hsien.'

Chapter 74

THE DEAD BROTHER

L
i Yuan stood on the high terrace at Hei Shui, looking out across the lake. He had come unannounced. Behind him stood his eight retainers, their black silks merging with the shadows.

A light breeze feathered the surface of the lake, making the tall reeds at the shoreline sway, the cormorants bob gently on the water. The sky was a perfect blue, the distant mountains hard, clear shapes of black. Sunlight rested like a honeyed gauze over everything, glinting off the long sweep of steps, the white stone arches of the bridge. On the far bank, beyond the lush green of the water meadow, Fei Yen's maids moved among the trees of the orchard, preparing their mistress for the audience.

From where he stood he could see the child's cot – a large, sedan-like thing of pastel-coloured cushions and veils. Seeing it had made his heart beat faster, the darkness at the pit of his stomach harden like a stone.

He turned, impatient. ‘Come,' he said brusquely, then turned back, skipping down the broad steps, his men following like shadows on the white stone.

They met on the narrow bridge, a body's length separating them. Fei Yen stood there, her head lowered. Behind her came her maids, the cot balanced between four of them.

As Li Yuan took a step closer, Fei Yen knelt, touching her head to the stone. Behind her, her maids did the same.

‘Chieh Hsia
…'

She was dressed in a simple
chi pao
of pale lemon, embroidered with butterflies. Her head was bare, her fine, dark hair secured in a tightly braided bun at the crown. As she looked up again, he noticed a faint colour at her neck.

‘Your gift…' he began, then stopped, hearing a sound from within the cot.

She turned her head, following his gaze, then looked back at him. ‘He's waking.'

He looked at her without recognition, then looked back at the cot. Stepping past, he moved between the kneeling maids and, crouching, drew back the veil at the side of the cot. Inside, amidst a downy nest of cushions, young Han was waking. He lay on his side, one tiny, delicate hand reaching out to grip the edge of the cot. His eyes – two tiny, rounded centres of perfect, liquid blackness – were open, staring up at him.

Li Yuan caught his breath, astonished by the likeness. ‘Han Ch'in…' he said softly.

Fei Yen came and knelt beside him, smiling down at the child, evoking a happy gurgle of recognition. ‘Do you wish to hold him,
Chieh Hsia?'

He hesitated, staring down at the child, engulfed by a pain of longing so strong it threatened to unhinge him, then nodded, unable to form the words.

She leaned past, brushing against him, the faint waft of her perfume, the warmth of the momentary contact bringing him back to himself, making him realize that it was her there beside him. He shivered, appalled by the strength of what he was feeling, knowing suddenly that it had been wrong for him to come. A weakness. But now he had no choice. As she lifted the child and turned towards him, he felt the pain return, sharper than before.

‘Your son,' she said, so faintly that only he caught the words.

The child nestled in his arms contentedly, so small and frail and vulnerable that his face creased with pain at the thought that anyone might harm him. Nine months old, he was – a mere thirty-nine weeks – yet already he was the image of Yuan's brother, Han Ch'in, dead these last ten years.

Li Yuan stood, then turned, cradling the child, cooing softly to him as he moved between the kneeling maids. Reaching the balustrade, he stood there, looking down at the bank, his eyes half-lidded, trying to see. But there was nothing. No younger self stood there, his heart in his throat, watching
as a youthful Han Ch'in strode purposefully through the short grass, like a proud young animal, making towards the bridge and his betrothed.

Li Yuan frowned then turned, staring across the water meadow, but again there was nothing. No tent, no tethered horse or archery target. It had gone, all of it, as if it had never been. And yet there was the child, so like his long-dead brother that it was as if he had not died but simply been away, on a long journey.

‘Where have you been, Han Ch'in?
' he asked softly, almost inaudibly, feeling the warm breeze on his cheek; watching it stir and lift the fine dark hair that covered the child's perfect, ivory brow.
‘Where have you been all these years?'

Yet even as he uttered the words he knew he was deluding himself. This was not Tongjiang, and his brother Han Ch'in was dead. He had helped bury him. No, this was someone else. A stranger to the great world. A whole new cycle of creation. His son, fated to be a stranger.

He shivered again, pained by the necessity of what he must do, then turned, looking back at Fei Yen.

She was watching him, her hands at her neck, her eyes misted, moved by the sight of him holding the child, all calculation gone from her. That surprised him – that she was as unprepared for this as he. Whatever she had intended by her gift – whether to wound him or provoke a sense of guilt – she had never expected this.

Beyond her stood his men, like eight dark statues in the late morning sunlight, watching, waiting in silence for their lord.

He went back to her, handing her the child. ‘He is a good child, neh?'

She met his eyes, suddenly curious, wondering what he had meant by coming, then lowered her head. ‘Like his father,' she said quietly.

He looked away, conscious for the first time of her beauty. ‘You will send me a tape each year, on the child's birthday. I wish…' He hesitated, his mouth suddenly dry. He looked back at her. ‘If he is ill, I want to know.'

She gave a small bow. ‘As you wish,
Chieh Hsia
.'

‘And, Fei Yen…'

She looked up, her eyes momentarily unguarded.
‘Chieh Hsia?
'

He hesitated, studying her face, the depth of what he had once felt for her there again, just below the surface, then shook his head. ‘Just that you must do nothing beyond that. What was between us is past. You must not try to rekindle it. Do you understand me clearly?'

For a moment she held his eyes, as if to deny him, then, with a familiar little motion of her head, she looked away, her voice harder than before.

‘As you wish,
Chieh Hsia.'

A screen had been set up between the pillars at the far end of the hall, like a great white banner gripped between the teeth of dragons. Wang Sau-leyan's Audience Chair had been set before it, some twenty
ch'i
back. He went to it and climbed up, taking his place, then looked across at his Chancellor. ‘Well?'

Hung Mien-lo shuddered, then, turning towards the back of the hall, lifted a trembling hand.

At once the lights in the hall faded. A moment later the screen was lit with a pure white light. Only as the camera panned back slightly did Wang Sau-leyan realize that he was looking at something – at the pale stone face of something. Then, as the border of green and grey and blue came into stronger focus, he realized what it was. A tomb. The door to a tomb.

And not just any tomb. It was his family's tomb at Tao Yuan, in the walled garden behind the eastern palace. He shivered, one hand clutching at his stomach, a tense feeling of dread growing in him by the moment. ‘What…?'

The query was uncompleted. Even as he watched, the faintest web of cracks formed on the pure white surface of the stone. For the briefest moment these darkened, broadening, tiny chips of whiteness falling away as the stone began to crumble. Then, with a suddenness that made him jerk back, the door split asunder, revealing the inner darkness.

He stared at the screen, horrified, his throat constricted, his heart hammering in his chest. For a moment there was nothing – nothing but the darkness – and then the darkness moved, a shadow forming on the ragged edge of stone. It was a hand.

Wang Sau-leyan was shaking now, his whole body trembling, but he could not look away. Slowly, as in his worst nightmare, the figure pulled itself up out of the darkness of the tomb, like a drowned man dragging himself up from the depths of the ocean bed. For a moment it stood there, faintly outlined by the morning sunlight, a simple shape of darkness against the utter blackness beyond, then it staggered forward, into the full brightness of the sun.

Wang groaned.
‘Kuan Yin
…'

It was his brother, Wang Ta-hung. His brother, lain in a bed of stone these last twenty months. But he had grown in the tomb, becoming the man he had never been in life. The figure stretched in the sunlight, earth falling from its shrouds, then looked about it, blinking into the new day.

‘It cannot be,' Wang Sau-leyan said softly, breathlessly. ‘I had him killed, his copy destroyed.'

‘And yet his vault was empty,
Chieh Hsia.'

The corpse stood there, swaying slightly, its face up to the sun. Then, with what seemed like a drunken lurch, it started forward again, trailing earth.

‘And the earth?'

‘Is real earth,
Chieh Hsia
. I had it analysed.'

Wang stared at the screen, horrified, watching the slow, ungainly procession of his brother's corpse. There was no doubting it. It was his brother, but grown large and muscular, more like his elder brothers than the weakling he had been in life. As it staggered across the grass towards the locked gate and the watching camera, the sound of it – a hoarse, snuffling noise – grew louder step by step.

The gate fell away, the seasoned wood shattering as if rotten, torn brutally from its solid, iron hinges. Immediately the image shifted to another camera, watching the figure come on, up the broad pathway beside the eastern palace and then down the steps, into the central gardens.

‘Did no one try to stop it?' Wang asked, his mouth dry.

Hung's voice was small. ‘No one knew,
Chieh Hsia
. The first time an alarm sounded was when it broke through the main gate. The guards there were terrified. They ran from it. And who can blame them?'

For once Wang Sau-leyan did not argue. Watching the figure stumble on he felt the urge to hide – somewhere deep and dark and safe – or to run and keep running, even to the ends of the earth. The hair stood up on his neck, and his hands shook like those of an old man. He had never felt so afraid. Never, even as a child.

And yet it could not be his brother. Even as he feared it, a part of his mind rejected it.

He put his hands out, gripping the arms of the chair, willing himself to be calm, but it was hard. The image on the screen was powerful, more
powerful than his reasoning mind could bear. His brother was dead – he had seen that with his eyes; touched the cold and lifeless flesh – and yet here he was once more, reborn – a new man, his eyes agleam with life, his body glowing with a strange, unearthly power.

He shuddered, then tore his eyes from the screen, looking down into the pale, terrified face of his Chancellor.

‘So where is it now, Hung? Where in the gods' names is it now?'

Hung Mien-lo looked up at him, wide-eyed, and gave the tiniest shrug. ‘In the hills,
Chieh Hsia
. Somewhere in the hills.'

Ywe Hao was standing with her back to Karr, naked, her hands secured behind her back, her ankles bound. To her right, against the bare wall, was an empty examination couch. Beyond the woman, at the far end of the cell, two medical staff were preparing their instruments at a long table.

Karr cleared his throat, embarrassed, even a touch angry, at the way they were treating her. It had never worried him before – normally the creatures he had to deal with deserved such treatment – but this time it was different. He glanced at the woman uneasily, disturbed by her nakedness, and, as he moved past her, met her eyes briefly, conscious once more of the strength there, the defiance, even, perhaps, a slight air of moral superiority.

He stood by the table, looking at the instruments laid out on the white cloth. ‘What are these for, Surgeon Wu?'

He knew what they were for. He had seen them used a hundred, maybe a thousand times. But that was not what he meant.

Wu looked up at him, surprised. ‘Forgive me, Major…?'

Karr turned, facing him. ‘Did anyone instruct you to bring these?'

The old man gave a short laugh. ‘No, Major Karr. But it is standard practice at an interrogation. I assumed…'

‘You will assume nothing,' Karr said, angry that his explicit instructions had not been acted on. ‘You'll pack them up and leave. But first you'll give the prisoner a full medical examination.'