Wingrove, David - Chung Kuo 02 (65 page)

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. He 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
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 him.

"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 out and make him commit himself.

He decided to
brazen it out. "I still don't follow you, Hans. I've got no new
friends."

The speed with
which Ebert came up out of his chair surprised him. Fest took a step
backward, 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 being 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 took the
picture Auden had taken from outside Fest's apartment and handed it
across. It showed Fest standing in his doorway, saying good-bye 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 ass 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 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 vise-like grip,
bringing it down savagely onto his knee.

Fest screamed,
but his scream was cut short as Ebert smashed his face down onto 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 disemboweled.

Ebert stood
there a moment longer, shuddering, looking down at what he had done;
then he turned and walked across to the doorway, 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 walked across the room 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
door lock 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 onto
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 rumor and counter-rumor 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; he 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; he raised his, too, 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 . . .