Wingrove, David - Chung Kuo 02 (83 page)

She went across
and put her arms about him, holding him tightly, her breasts pressed
against his back, her cheek resting against his neck.

"It's all
right," she said softly, kissing his naked shoulder. "It's
all going to be all right. I promise you it will. It's Meg, Ben. I'm
here. I won't leave you. I promise I won't."

But when she
turned him to face her, his eyes seemed sightless and his cheeks were
wet with tears.

"She's
gone," he said brokenly. "Don't you see, Meg? I loved her.
I didn't realize it until now, but I loved her. And now she's gone."

* *
*

IT WAS MUCH
LATER when Meg found the package. She took it through to the living
room; then, laying it on the floor, she unwrapped it and knelt there
looking down at it. It was beautiful. There was no doubt about it.
Meg had thought no one else capable of seeing it, but it was there,
in the girl's painting—all of Ben's power, his harsh,
uncompromising beauty. She too had seen how mixed, how gentle-fierce
he was.

She was about to
wrap it again, to hide it away somewhere until they were gone from
here, when Ben came out of the bedroom.

"What's
that?" he asked, looking across at her, the faintest light of
curiosity in his eyes.

She hesitated,
then picked it up and turned it toward him.

"The girl
must have left it," she said, watching him, seeing how his eyes
widened with surprise, how the painting seemed to bring him back to
life.

"Catherine,"
he corrected her, his eyes never leaving the surface of the painting.
"She had a name, Meg, like you and I. She was real. As real as
this."

He came closer,
then bent down on his haunches, studying the canvas carefully,
reaching out with his fingertips to trace the line and texture of the
painting. And all the while she watched him, seeing how his face
changed, how pain and wonder and regret flickered one after another
across the screen of his features, revealing everything.

She looked down,
a tiny shudder rippling through her. Their lives had been so
innocent, so free of all these complications. But now. . . She shook
her head, then looked at him again. He was watching her.

"What is
it?" he asked.

She shook her
head, not wanting to say. They had both been hurt enough by this. Her
words could only make things worse. Yet she had seen the change in
him. Had seen that transient, flickering moment in his face when pain
had been transmuted into something else—into the seed of some
great artifice.

She shuddered,
suddenly appalled. Was this all there was for him? This constant
trading in of innocence for artifice? This devil's bargain? Could he
not just be? Did everything he experienced, every living breath he
took, have to be sacrificed on the bleak, unrelenting altar of his
art?

She wished there
were another answer—another path—-for him, but knew it
was not so. He could not
be
without first recording his being.
Could not be free without first capturing himself. Nor did he have
any choice in the matter. He was like Icarus, driven, god-defiant,
obsessed by his desire to break free of the element which bound him.

She looked back
at him, meeting his eyes. "I must go after her, Meg. I must."

"You can't.
Don't you understand? She
saw
us. She'll not forgive you
that."

"But this .
. ." He looked down at the painting again, the pain returned to
his face. "She saw me, Meg. Saw me clear. As I really am."

She shivered. "I
know. But you can't. It's too late, Ben. Don't you see that?"

"No,"
he said, standing. "Not if I go now and beg her to forgive me."
She let her head fall, suddenly very tired. "No, Ben. You
can't.
Not now."

"
Why?
"
his voice was angry now, defiant. "Give me one good reason why I
can't." She sighed. It was what she had been unable to say to
him earlier—the reason why she had come here a week early—but
now it
had
to be said. She looked up at him again, her eyes
moist now. "It's Father. He's ill."

"I know—"
he began, but she cut him off.

"No, Ben.
You
don't
know. The doctors came three days ago. The day I
wrote to you." There was a faint quaver in her voice now. She
had let the painting fall. Now she stood there, facing him, the first
tears spilling down her cheeks.

"He's
dying."
She raised her voice suddenly, anger spilling
over into her words. "Goddamnit, Ben, they've given him a month!
Six weeks at most!" She swallowed, then shook her head, her eyes
pleading with him now. "Don't you see? That's why you can't go
after her. You've got to come home. You must! Mother needs you. She
needs you badly. And me. I need you too, Ben. Me more than anyone."

* *
*

MEMORANDUM: 4th
day of May, A.D. 2207

To His Most
Serene Excellency, Li Shai Tung, Grand Counsellor and T'ang of
C/i'eng
Ou Chou
(City Europe)

Chieh Hsia,
Your humble servant begs to inform you that the matter of which
we spoke has now resolved itself satisfactorily. The girl involved,
Catherine Tissan (see attached report, MinDis PSec 435/55712), has
apparently returned to her former lover, Sergey Novacek (see attached
report, MinDis PSec 435/55711), who, after pressure from friends
loyal to Your Most Serene Excellency, has dropped his civil action
against the Shepherd boy (see copies of documents attached).

Ben Shepherd
himself has, as you are doubtlessly aware, returned home to tend his
ailing father, abandoning his studies at Oxford, thus removing
himself from the threat of possible attack or abduction.

This
acknowledged, in view of the continuing importance of the Shepherd
family to State matters, your humble servant has felt it his duty to
continue in his efforts to ascertain whether this was, as appears on
the surface of events, a simple matter of rivalry in love, or whether
it was part of some deeper, premeditated scheme to undermine the
State. Such investigations have revealed some interesting if as yet
inconclusive results regarding the nature of the business dealings of
the father, Lubos Novacek. Results which, once clarified, will, if of
substance to this matter, be notified to Your Most Serene Excellency.

Your humble
servant,

Heng Yu,

Minister of
Distribution,
Ch'eng Ou Chou
(City Europe)

Heng Yu read the
top copy through; then, satisfied, he reached out and took his brush
from the inkblock, signing his name with a flourish on each of the
three copies. One would go to Li Shai Tung. The second he would keep
for his own records. The third—well, the third would go to
Prince Yuan, via Nan Ho, his contact in the palace at Tongjiang.

Heng Yu smiled.
Things could not have gone better. The boy was safe, the T'ang
pleased, and he was much closer to his ambition. What more could a
man ask for? Of course, not everything had been mentioned in the
documents. The matter of the bronze statue, for instance, had been
left out of the report on Sergey Novacek.

It had been an
interesting little tale. One that, in spite of all, reflected well on
young Novacek. Investigations into the past history of the bronze had
shown that it had once belonged to his father, Lubos, who, to bail
out an old friend, had had to sell it. Sergey Novacek had known of
this, and hearing Heng Chian-ye talking of it, had set things up so
that he might win it back. The matter of Shepherd, it seemed, had
been a secondary matter, spawned of jealousy and tagged on as an
afterthought. The statue had been the prime mover of the boy's
actions. From accounts he had returned it to his father on his
sixtieth birthday.

And the father?
Heng Yu sat back, stroking his beard. Lubos Novacek was, like many of
the City's leading tradesmen, a respectable man. His trade, however,
was anything but respectable, for Lubos Novacek acted as a middleman
between certain First Level concerns and the Net. Put crudely, he was
the pimp of certain Triad bosses, acting on their behalf in the
Above, buying and selling at their behest and taking his cut.

A useful man to
know. And know him he would.

As for the Great
Man—that pompous halfwit, Fan Liang-wei—Heng had enjoyed
summoning him to his Ministry and ordering him to desist from his
efforts to get Ben thrown out of the College. He had shown Fan the
instrument signed by the T'ang himself and threatened him with
instant demotion—even to the Net itself—should any word
come back to him that Fan was pursuing the matter in any shape or
form.

Yes, it had been
immensely satisfying. Fan's face had been a perfect picture as he
attempted to swallow his massive pride and come to terms with the
fact of the boy's influence. He had been almost apoplectic with
unexpressed anger.

Heng Yu gave a
little chuckle, then turned to face his young cousin.

"Something
amuses you, Uncle?"

"Yes,
Chian-ye. Some business I did earlier. But come now, I need you to
take these documents for me." He picked up two of the copies and
handed them across. "This first copy must be handed directly to
Chung Hu-yan and no one else, and this to Nan Ho at Tongjiang. Both
men will be expecting you."

"Is that
all, Uncle Yu?"

Heng Yu smiled.
It was a moment for magnanimity. "No, Chian-ye. I am pleased
with the way you have served me this past week. In view of which I
have decided to review the matter of your allowance. In respect of
past and future duties as my personal assistant, you will receive an
additional sum of twenty-five thousand
yuan
per year."

Heng Chian-ye
bowed low, surprised yet also greatly pleased. "You are most
generous, Uncle Yu. Be assured, I will strive hard to live up to the
trust you have placed in me."

"Good. Then
get going, Chian-ye. These papers must be in the hands of their
respective agents within the next six hours."

Heng Yu watched
his cousin leave, then stood, stretching and yawning. There was no
doubting it, this matter—of little substance in itself—had
served him marvelously. He laughed, then looked about him, wondering
momentarily what his uncle, Chian-ye's father, would have made of it.

And the matter
of the Melfi Clinic?

That, too, could
be used. Was something to be saved until the time was ripe. For
though his uncle Heng Chi-po had been a greedy, venal man, he had
been right in one thing. Information was power. And those who had it
wielded power.

Yes. And never
more so than in the days to come. For Chung Kuo was changing fast.
New things were rising from the depths of the City. Things he would
do well to know about.

Heng Yu,
Minister to the T'ang, nodded to himself, then reached across and
killed the light above his desk.

Which was why,
in the morning, he had arranged to meet the merchant Novacek. To
offer him a new arrangement—a new commodity to trade in, one he
would pay handsomely to possess.

Information.

EPILOGUE
I SUMMER 2207

Fallen
Petals

The guests are
gone from the pavilion high,

In the small
garden flowers are whirling around.

Along the
winding path the petals lie;

To greet the
setting sun, they drift up from the ground.

Heartbroken, I
cannot bear to sweep them away;

From my eager
eyes, spring soon disappears.

I pine with
passing, heart's desire lost for aye;

Nothing is left
but a robe stained with tears.

—LI
SHANG-YIN, Faffing
Flowers, ninth century
A.D.

LI
YUAN reined in his horse and looked up. On the far side of the
valley, beyond the tall, narrow spire of Three Swallows Mount, a
transporter was banking, heading for the palace, two
li
distant.
As it turned he saw the crest of the
Ywe Lung
emblazoned on
its fuselage and frowned, wondering who it was. As far as he knew his
father was expecting no one.

He turned in his
saddle, looking about him. The grassy slope led down to a dirt track
that followed the stream for a short way, then crossed a narrow
wooden bridge and snaked south toward Tongjiang. He could follow that
path back to the palace or he could finish the ride he had planned,
up to the old monastery, then south to the beacon. For a moment
longer he hesitated, caught in two minds. It was a beautiful morning,
the sky a perfect, cloudless blue; the kind of morning when one felt
like riding on and on forever, but he had been out three hours
already, so maybe it was best if he got back. Besides, maybe his
father needed him. Things had been quiet recently. Too quiet. Maybe
something had come up.

He tugged at the
reins gently, turning the Arab's head, then spurred her on with his
heels, leading her carefully down the slope and along the path,
breaking into a canter as he crossed the bridge. He was crossing the
long meadow, the palace just ahead of him, when a second transporter
passed overhead, the insignia of the Marshal clearly displayed on the
undersides of its stubby wings. Yuan slowed, watching as it turned
and landed on the far side of the palace, a cold certainty forming in
his guts.

It
had begun
again.

At
the
stables he all but jumped from the saddle, leaving the groom to
skitter about the horse, trying to catch hold of the reins, while he
ran on, along the red-tiled path and into the eastern palace.

He stopped,
breathless, at the door to his fathers suite of rooms, taking the
time to calm himself, to run his fingers quickly through his unruly
hair; but even as he made to knock, Chung Hu-yan, his father's
Chancellor, drew the door of the anteroom open and stepped out, as if
expecting him.