The Middle Kingdom (11 page)

"Yang
Lai is dead, then?"

DeVore turned
from the window and looked back into the room. "Yes. The Junior
Minister is dead."

Lehmann was
silent a moment, then nodded. "I see. And the lieutenant in
charge of the Security post?"

DeVore
hesitated, then, in a quieter voice. "Dead, too, I'm afraid. It
was . . . unavoidable."

Lehmann met his
eyes, understanding at once. "How?"

"By his own
hand. The dishonor, you see. His family. It would have ruined them.
Better to kill oneself and absolve them from the blame." He
turned back to the window and looked out again, following the slow
progress of the two men down below as they made their way back across
the meadow to the pagoda.

"So we're
clear."

DeVore gave a
short laugh. "Not clear. Not yet." • "Then you
think there's still a chance they'll find something?"

The Major's eyes
met Lehmann's briefly, then looked away. "Remember how long this
took us to plan, Pietr. WeVe been careful, and such care pays off.
And anyway, we have the advantage of knowing all they do. There's not
a move General Tolonen can make without me hearing of it."

He was quiet a
moment, staring off across the meadow. It was true what he had said.
He had spent years recruiting them; young men like himself who had
come, not from First Level, from the privileged top deck of the
City—the
supernal,
as they liked to term themselves—nor
from the army families—the descendants of those North European
mercenaries who had fought for the Seven against the tyrant Tsao
Ch'un a century before—but ordinary young men without
connection. Young men of ability, held back by a system modeled on
the Manchu "banners"—an archaic and elitist
organizational structure where connection counted for more than
ability. Misfits and malcontents. Like himself.

Yes, he had
become adept at spotting them; at recognizing that look, there at the
back of the eyes. He would check out their backgrounds and discover
all he could about them. Would find, invariably, that they were
loners, ill at ease socially and seething inside that others had it
so easy when army life for them was unmitigatedly hard. Then, when he
knew for certain that it was so, he would approach them. And every
time it was the same; that instant opening; that moment of
recognition, like to like, so liberating that it bound them to him
with ties of gratitude and common feeling.

"Like you,
I am a self-made man," he would say to them. "What I am I
owe to no one but myself. No relative has bought my post; no uncle
put in a word with my commanding officer."

And as he said
it, he'd think of all the insults, all the shit he'd had to put up
with from his so-called superiors—men who weren't fit to polish
his boots. He had suffered almost thirty years of that kind of crap
to get where he was now, in a position of real power. He would tell
his young men this and see in their eyes the reflection of his own
dark indignation. And then he would ask them, "Join me. Be part
of my secret brotherhood." And they would nod, or whisper yes.
And they would be his: alone no longer.

So now he had
his own organization; men loyal to him before all others; who would
hesitate neither to betray their T'ang nor to lay down their lives if
he asked it of them. Like the young officer who had been on duty the
night of Lwo Kang's assassination. Like a hundred others, scattered
about the City in key positions.

He looked back
at Lehmann. "Are the trees real?" He pointed outward,
indicating the stand of mulberries at the far end of the meadow.

Lehmann laughed.
"Heavens, no. None of it's real."

DeVore nodded
thoughtfully, then turned his face to look at Lehmann. "You're
not afraid to use Wyatt?" His eyes, only a hand's length from
Lehmann's, were stern, questioning. There was the faintest hint of
peppermint on his breath.

"If we
must. After all, some things are more important than friendship."

DeVore held his
eyes a moment longer then looked back at the figure of Wyatt down
below. "I don't like him. You know that. But even if I did—if
it threatened what we're doing ... if for a moment. . . ."

Lehmann touched
his arm. "I know."

DeVore turned
fully, facing him. He smiled, then reached up and held his shoulders
firmly. "Good. We understand each other, Pietr. WeVe always
understood each other."

Releasing him,
DeVore checked his wrist-timer then went to the middle of the room
and stood there by the table, looking down at the box. "It's
almost time to call the others back. But first, there's one last
thing we need to talk about. Heng Yu."

Lehmann frowned.
"What of him?"

"I have
reason to believe he'll be Lwo Kang's replacement."

Lehmann laughed,
astonished. "Then you know much more than any of us, Howard. How
did you come by this news?"

"Oh, it
isn't news. Not yet, anyway. But I think you'll find it reliable
enough. Heng Chi-Po wants his nephew as the new minister, and what
Heng Chi-Po wants he's almost certain to get."

Lehmann was
quiet, considering. He had heard how high the Heng family currently
rode. Even so, it would use all of Minister Heng's quite considerable
influence to persuade Li Shai Tung to appoint his nephew, Heng Yu.
And, as these things went, it would be a costly maneuver, with the
paying off of rivals, the bribery of advisors and the cost of the
post itself. They would surely have to borrow. In the short term it
would weaken the Hengs quite severely. They would find themselves
beholden to a dozen other families. Yet in the longer term . . .

Lehmann laughed,
surprised. "I'd always thought Heng Chi-Po crude and
unimaginative. Not the kind to plan ahead. But this. . ."

DeVore shook his
head. "Don't be mistaken, Pietr. This has nothing to do with
planning. Heng Chi-Po is a corrupt man, as we know to our profit. But
he's also a proud one. At some point Lwo Kang snubbed him. Did
something to him that he couldn't forgive. This maneuvering is his
answer. His revenge, if you like."

"How do you
know all this?"

DeVore looked
across at him and smiled. "Who do you think bought Yang Lai? Who
do you think told us where Lwo Kang would be?"

"But I
thought it was because of Edmund. ..." Then Lehmann laughed.
"But of course. Why didn't you tell me?"

DeVore shrugged.
"It didn't matter until now. But now you need to know who we are
dealing with. What kind of men they are."

"Then it's
certain."

"Almost.
But there is nothing—no one—we cannot either buy or
destroy. If it is Heng Yu, then all well and good, it will prove
easy. But whoever it is, he'll remember what happened to Lwo Kang and
be wary of us." He laughed softly. "No, they'll not deal
lightly with us in future."

"And Li
Shai Tung?"

DeVore spread
his open hands, then turned away. There, then, lay the sticking
point. Beyond this they were guessing. Li Shai Tung, and the others
of the Seven who ran the Earth, were subject to no laws, no controls,
but their own. Ultimately it would be up to them whether change would
come; whether Man would try once more for the stars. DeVote's words,
true as they were for other men, did not apply to the Seven. They
could not be bought—for they owned half of everything there
was—nor, it seemed, could they be destroyed. For more than a
century they had ruled unchallenged.

"The T'ang
is a man, whatever some might think."

Lehmann looked
at DeVore curiously but held his tongue.

"He can be
influenced." DeVore added after a moment, "And when he sees
how the tide of events flows . . ."

"He'll cut
our throats."

DeVore shook his
head. "No. Not if we have the full weight of the Above behind
us. Markets and House and all. Not if his ministers are ours. He is
but a single man, after all."

"He is
Seven," said Lehmann, and for once he understood the full import
of the term. Seven. It made for strength of government. Each a king,
a T'ang, ruling a seventh of Chung Kuo, yet each an equal in Council,
responsible to his fellow T'ang; in some important things unable to
act without their firm and full agreement. "And the Seven is
against change. It is a principle with them. The very cornerstone of
their continued existence,"

"And yet
change they must. Or go under."

Lehmann opened
his mouth, surprised to find where their talk had led them. Then he
shook his head. "You don't mean..."

"You'll
see," said DeVore, more softly than before. "This here is
just a beginning. A display of our potential. For the Above to see."
He laughed, looking away into some inner distance. "You'll see,
Pietr. They'll come to us. Every last one of them. They'll see how
things are—we'll open their eyes to it—and then they'll
come to us."

"And
then?"'

"Then we'll
see who's more powerful. The Seven, or the Above."

HENG CHI-PO
leaned back in his chair and roared with laughter. He passed his
jewel-ringed fingers across his shiny pate, then sniffed loudly,
shifting his massive weight. "Excellent, Kou! Quite excellent! A
good toast! Let's raise our glasses then." He paused, the smile
on his face widening. "To Lwo Kang's successor!"

Six voices
echoed the toast enthusiastically.

"Lwo Kang's
successor!"

There were eight
men in the spacious, top-level office. Four were brothers to the
Minister, three his nephews. Heng Yu, the subject of the toast, a
slender man in his mid-twenties with a pencil moustache and a long
but pleasant face, smiled broadly and bowed to his uncle. Kou, fourth
son of Heng Chi-Po's father Tao, clapped an arm about Yu's shoulders,
then spoke again.

"This is a
good day, first brother."

Heng Chi-Po
nodded his huge rounded face, then laughed again. "Oh how sweet
it was to learn of that weasel's death. How sweet! And to think the
family will profit from it!"

There was
laughter from all sides. Only the young man, Yu, seemed the least bit
troubled. "He seemed a good man, uncle," he ventured.
"Surely I would do well to be as he was."

The laughter
died away. Chi-Po's brothers looked among themselves, but Heng Chi-Po
was in too good a mood to let Yu's comments worry him. He looked at
his nephew good-naturedly and shook his head in mock despair. Yet his
voice, when he spoke, had an acid undertone. "Then you heard
wrong, Yu. Lwo Kang was a worm. A liar and a hypocrite. He was a
foolish, stubborn man with the manners of the Clayborn and the
intelligence of a GenSyn whore. The world is a better place without
him, I assure you. And you, dear nephew, will make twic6 the minister
he was."

Heng Yu bowed
deeply, but there was a faint color to his cheeks when he
straightened, and his eyes did not meet his uncle's. Heng Chi-Po
watched him closely, thinking, not for the first time, that it was
unfortunate he could not promote one of his nearer relatives to the
post. Yu, son of his long-dead younger brother, Fan, had been
educated away from the family. He had picked up strange notions of
life. Old-fashioned, Confucian ideals of goodness. Things that made a
man weak when faced with the true nature of the world. Still, he was
young. He could be reeducated. Shaped to serve the family better.

Kou, ever
watchful, saw how things were, and began an anecdote about a
high-level whore and a stranger from the Clay. Giving him a brief
smile of thanks, Chi-Po pulled himself up out of his chair and turned
away from the gathering, thoughtful, pulling at his beard. Under the
big wall-length map of City Europe he stopped, barely aware of the
fine honeycomb grid that overlaid the old, familiar shapes of
countries, thinking instead of the past. Of that moment in the
T'ang's antechamber when Lwo Kang had humiliated him.

Shih wei su
ts'an.

He could hear it
even now. Could hear how Lwo Kang had said it; see his face, only
inches from his own, those coldly intelligent eyes staring at him
scornfully, that soft, almost feminine mouth forming the hard shapes
of the words. It was an old phrase. An ancient insult. Impersonating
the dead and
eating
the bread of idleness.
You are lazy
and corrupt, it said. You reap the rewards of others' hard work.
Chi-Po shuddered, remembering how the others there—ministers
like himself—had turned from him and left him there, as if
agreeing with Lwo Kang. Not one had come to speak with him afterward.

He looked down,
speaking softly, for himself alone. "But now the ugly little
pig's ass is dead!"

He had closed
those cold eyes. Stopped up that soft mouth. And now his blood would
inherit. And yet. . .

Heng Chi-Po
closed his eyes, shivering, feeling a strange mixture of bitterness
and triumph. Dead. But still the words sounded, loud, in his head.
Shih
wei su ts'an.

BIG WHITE
brought them a tray of
ch'a,
then backed out, closing the door
behind him.

Cho Hsiang
leaned forward and poured from the porcelain bottle, filling Jyan's
bowl first, then his own. When he was done he set the bottle down and
looked up sharply at the hireling.

"Well? What
is it, Kao Jyan?"

He watched Jyan
take his bowl and sip, then nod his approval of the
ch'a.
There
was a strange light in his eyes. Trouble. As he'd thought. But not of
the kind he'd expected. What was Jyan up to?

"This is
pleasant," said Jyan, sitting back. "Very pleasant. There's
no better place in the Net than Big White's, wouldn't you say?"

Curbing his
impatience, Cho Hsiang placed his hands on the table, palms down, and
tilted his head slightly, studying Jyan. He was wary of him, not
because he was in any physical danger—Big White frisked all his
customers before he let them in—but because he knew Jyan for
what he was. A weasel. A devious little shit-eater with ambitions far
above his level.