Wingrove, David - Chung Kuo 02 (73 page)

In the last game
he had drawn the Emperor and despite a strong hand, had proceeded to
ensure that 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 the table.

"I'll buy
Tsang out," the Han said, his eyes meeting Sergey's briefly,
chal-
^:
lengingly. Then, turning to Heng, he added, "But
look, Chian-ye, why don't we make the game more—
exciting.
"

Heng laughed,
acting as though he didn't understand his friend. "How so, Yi
Shan-ch'i? Was that last game not exciting enough for you?"

Yi inclined his
head slightly. "Forgive me, honorable cousin, but that is not
what I meant. The game itself was good. As enjoyable to watch as I'm
sure it was to play. But such a game needs an added bite, don't you
think? If the stake were to be raised to ten thousand
yuan
a
game . . ."

Heng laughed,
then looked across at Sergey. "Maybe so. But let's ask our
friend here. Well,
Shih
Novacek? What do you say? Would you
like to raise the stakes, or are you happy as it is?"

It was
delicately put. Almost too delicately, for it was phrased to let him
back off without losing face. But things were not so simple. He was
not one of them, even though he sat at their table. He was
Yang
kuei tzu. A
foreign devil. A
barbarian.
He looked down,
wrinkling up his face as if considering the matter, then looked up
again.

"Ten
thousand
yuan . .
." He laughed nervously. "It's
more than I've lost in a whole evening before now. Still, Yi
Shan-ch'i is right. It
would
make the game more interesting."

Heng looked to
his two friends, then back at Sergey. "I would not like to
pressure you."

"No."
Sergey shook his head firmly, as if he had made up his mind and was
now determined. "Ten thousand
yuan
it is. For good or
ill."

He sat back,
watching Yi deal. As ever Heng picked up each card as it was dealt,
his face an eloquent map of his fortunes. For his own part, Sergey
waited until all seventeen cards were laid facedown before him,
watching the other two sort their cards before he picked up his own.

As he sorted his
hand he thought back to the last time he had played Heng. The object
of
Chou
was straightforward and could be expressed quite
simply: it was to hold the most points in one's hand at the end of
the final play. To do so, however, one had not only to strengthen
one's own hand but to weaken one's opponents. The game's complex
system of discards and exchanges, blind draws and open challenges was
designed to simulate this aspect of political life, the sticky web of
intrigue that underpinned it all. Heng played, however, as if he
barely understood this aspect of the game, as if only the relative
levels of the cards—their positive attributes— mattered
to him. He sought to cram his hand full of high-scoring cards and
bonus combinations—Ministers and Family Heads and
Generals—failing, like so many of his kind, to understand the
other side of things, the powerfully destructive potential of
Concubines and Sons.

In
Chou
the
value of a card did not always express its significance in the scheme
of things. So it was with Concubines. At the end of the game they
were worth only eight points—fifty-six points less than a
Family Head and one hundred twenty points less than a Minister.
Unless . . .

Unless the
Emperor were without a Wife. In which case, the Concubine took on its
negative aspect, cancelling out not only its own value but the two
hundred fifty-six points that the Emperor would otherwise score.

Likewise with
the Sons. While they scored only four a piece at the final count, in
the company of their respective mothers they became a liability,
cancelling out not merely their own value but that of any Minister
held.

The skillful
player sought, therefore, to pair Wives with Sons, hold back Wives
from those who held the Emperor, and, at the last throw, to off-load
their pairings and Concubines in an exchange of hostages. To win by
undermining their opponents.

Sergey smiled,
noting that he had both Concubines in his hand. Well, good. This time
he would keep them. Would make it seem he had drawn them late in the
play, before he could off-load them on another.

A half hour
later he had lost.

"Another
game,
ch'un tzu?"
Heng asked, jotting down Yi's victory
on the tab. Sergey glanced across. He was eleven thousand down, Chan
nine, Heng eight. Yi, who had taken on Tsang's deficit of two
thousand, was now twenty-eight thousand up.

Heng dealt this
time. "Has anyone the Emperor?" he asked, having sorted out
his own hand.

Sergey laid it
down before him, then reached across to take another card from the
pile. Having the Emperor made one strong. But it also made one
vulnerable— to Concubines and the scheming Sons of Wives.

Again he smiled.
He had a good hand—no, an excellent hand. Three Wives and three
Ministers and there, at the far left of his hand, one of the
Concubines. The tiny, doe-eyed one.

He looked down,
momentarily abstracted from the game, thinking back to earlier that
evening and to the row with Catherine. He had shut it out before, but
now it came back to him. It had been his fault. He could see that
now. But why did she always have to provoke him so? Why couldn't she
be more like the other women he knew? He felt a mild irritation at
her behavior. Why did she always have to be so stubborn? Didn't she
know what it did to him? And all that business with the "technician,"
Shepherd. Why had she done that, if not to spite him? She knew how
jealous he was. Why couldn't she be a bit more compliant? Then again,
he liked her spirit. So different from Lotte and her kind.

He laughed
softly, conscious of the contradiction.

"You have a
good hand,
Shih
Novacek?" Heng asked, smiling tightly at
him, misunderstanding the cause of his laughter.

"I think
so, Heng Chian-ye," he answered, leaning forward to place two of
the Ministers facedown onto the discard pile. "I think so."

Two hours later
he was sixty-one thousand down. He wasn't the only one down, of
course. Chan had a deficit of nineteen thousand marked against his
name. But Yi was eighteen thousand up, and Heng, who had won three of
the last four games, was sixty-two thousand in credit.

It had gone
perfectly. Exactly as he'd planned. He looked across. Heng Chian-ye
was smiling broadly. In the last hour Heng had begun to drink quite
heavily, as if to buoy up his nerves. He had drunk so much, in fact,
that he had almost made a simple mistake, discarding the wrong card.
An error that could have lost him everything. Only Yi's quick action
had prevented it, an intercession Sergey had pretended not to see.

Now was the
time. While Heng was at the height of his pride. But it must come
from Heng. In such company as this it must seem that it was not he
but Heng who raised the stakes a second time.

In the last hour
a small crowd had gathered about the table, intrigued by the sight of
a Hung Moo playing Chou in the Jade Peony. Sergey had noted how a
ripple of satisfaction had gone through the watchers each time he had
lost and had felt something harden deep inside him. Well, now he
would show them.

He leaned back
in his seat, pretending to stifle a yawn. "I'm tired," he
said. "Too many late nights, I guess." He smiled across at
Heng. "Maybe I should stop now, while I've any of my fortune
left."

Heng glanced
across at his friends, then looked back at him. "You mean to
leave us soon,
Shih
Novacek?"

He straightened
up and took a deep breath, as if trying to sober up. "Fairly
soon."

"Your luck
must change."

"Must it?"
He laughed harshly, then seemed to relent. "Well, maybe . . ."

"In which
case . . ." Heng looked about him, then leaned toward Sergey
again. "Maybe you'd like the chance to win your money back, eh,
my friend? One game. Just you and I. For sixty-one thousand."

Sergey looked
down. Then, surprisingly, he shook his head. "I wouldn't hear of
it. Even if I won, well, it would be as if we hadn't played." He
looked up, meeting Heng's eyes. "No, my friend. There must be
winners and losers in this world of ours, neh? If we are to play, let
it be for—seventy-five thousand. That way I at least have a
small chance of coming out ahead."

Heng smiled and
his eyes traveled quickly to his friends again. There was an
expectant hush now about the table.

"Make it a
hundred."

He made a mime
of considering the matter, then shrugged. "All right. So be it."
He turned, summoning a waiter. "Bring me a coffee. Black, two
sugars. I might need my wits about me this time."

It took him
twenty minutes.

"It seems
my luck has changed," he said, meeting Heng's eyes, seeing at
once how angry the other man was with himself; for he had made it
seem as though victory were the Han's, only to snatch it away at the
last moment. "I was fortunate to draw that last card."

He saw what it
cost Heng to keep back the words that almost came to his lips and
knew he had him.

"Anyway,"
he added quickly, "I really should go now. I thank you for your
hospitality, Heng Chian-ye. Settle with me when you will. You know
where to find me." He pushed his chair back from the table and
got to his feet.

"Wait!"

Heng was leaning
forward, his hand extended toward Sergey.

"Surely you
won't go now,
Shih
Novacek? As you yourself said, your luck
has changed. Why, then, do you hurry from your fortune? Surely you
aren't afraid, my friend?"

Sergey stared
back at him. "Afraid?"

Heng leaned
back, a faint smile coming to his lips. "Yes. Afraid." He
hesitated. "I'll play you again,
Shih
Novacek. One final
game. But this time we'll make the stakes worth playing for.
Two-hundred thousand. No.
Two-hundred-and-fifty
thousand."

Sergey looked
about him at the watching Han, seeing the tension in every face. This
was no longer about the money; for Heng it was now a matter of
pride—of
face.

He sat, placing
his hands firmly on the edge of the table, looking back at Heng,
fixing him in his gaze, his manner suddenly different—harder,
almost brutal in its challenge.

"All right.
But not for two-fifty. Let's have no half measures between us, Heng
Chian-ye. If I play you, I play you for a million. Understand me?"

There were low
gasps from all around the table, then a furious murmur of voices. But
Heng seemed unaware of the hubbub that surrounded him. He sat staring
back fixedly at Sergey, his eyes wide as if in shock. His hands were
trembling now, his brow was beaded with sweat.

"Well?"

Unable to find
his voice, Heng nodded.

"Good."
Sergey leaned forward and took the cards; then, surprising them all,
he handed them to Yi. "You deal, Yi Shan-ch'i. I want no one to
say that this was not a fair game."

He saw Heng's
eyes widen at that. Saw realization dawn in Heng's frightened face.

So
now you
know.

He kept his face
a mask, yet inwardly he was exulting.
I've got you now, you
bastard. Got you precisely where I wanted you.
A million. Yes, it
was more than Heng Chian-ye had. More than he could possibly borrow
from his friends. He would have no alternative. If he lost he would
have to go to his uncle.

* *
*

HENG YU TURNED
in his seat, dismissing the servant, then went outside into the
anteroom. Heng Chian-ye knelt there, on the far side of the room, his
head bowed low, his forehead touched almost to the tiled floor. He
crossed the room, then stood over the young man, looking down at him.
"What is it, Cousin?"

Heng Chian-ye
stayed as he was. "Forgive me, Uncle Yu, but I have the most
grave request to make of you."

Heng Yu,
Minister of Transportation for Li Shai Tung and Head of the Heng
Family, pulled at his beard, astonished. Chian-ye was fourteen years
his junior, the youngest son of his uncle, Heng Chi-po, the former
Minister, who had passed away eleven years earlier. Several times
over the past five years he had had to bail the boy out when he was
in trouble, but all that had changed six months ago, when Chian-ye
had come into his inheritance. Now that he had his own income,
Chian-ye had been a much rarer visitor at his "Uncle" Yu's
house.

"A grave
request? At this hour, Chian-ye? Do you
know
what time it is?
Can it not wait until the morning?"

Heng Chian-ye
made a small, miserable movement of his head. "I would not have
come, Uncle, were it not a matter of the utmost urgency."

Heng Yu frowned,
confused, his head still full of figures from the report he had been
studying.