He had had little time in his life for self-analysis. He had always seen it as a weakness in a man and had maintained a rigid self-discipline when it came to such matters. But recently, left with much time on his hands and missing the company of his daughter, Jelka, his thoughts had turned inward. He had been reading the Kalevala once more, immersing himself in the great epic of his people, the Finns, and as he read he had found memories awakening of people long dead; of friends he had forgotten. The dead ... it was as if the great world were slowly dying all about him. All those he had known and loved—his wife, his brother and his brother’s wife, his old Master Li Shai Tung, and his best friend, Klaus . . . they and countless others—all were gone. Only ghosts remained. The world had lost substance, had reduced itself to a pool of light, a mirror, a face—his own face, staring back at him.
So hard that face. Elemental, it was. Like weathered rock.
And eyes like a November sky.
He smiled, but it was a pale and steely smile. Sunlight in winter. Then, softly, his voice little more than a whisper, he spoke into the glass. When the oak at last had fallen, And the evil tree was leveled, Once again the sun shone brightly, And the pleasant moonlight glimmered, And the clouds extended widely, And the rainbow spanned the heavens, O’er the cloud-encompassed headland, And the islands hazy summit. The words came easily to him. But that was no surprise. He had pored over them, time and again, as if obsessed. For weeks now he had been haunted by them; had woken from dreams with them on his lips. Dreams in which the great City had fallen and the land was green and empty—was a land of lakes and mountains.
The oak, the evil tree: it was the symbol of the Shepherd family, of the architect of the seven great Cities of Chung Kuo. He took a long, shuddering breath. Had he been wrong? Chung Kuo—was that the evil tree of legend? For if it was ... if all he had believed in was an evil spell. . .
He shook his head, then pushed the thought aside. Lately he had been tormented by loneliness: a loneliness he was too proud—far too proud—to admit to. Some days he would wake feeling fragile, like a ghost, and sometimes he would turn, imagining someone behind him, only to find an empty room . . . and silence. But what was he? He had thought he knew. “A man,” he would once have answered, as if that had a meaning beyond all question. But now . . . well, what was a man? Never in all his seventy-six years had he been troubled by such thoughts, but now it was as if a door had opened in him and he had stepped inside. Inside . . . into uncertainty, and dreams, and thoughts that woke him in the night.
Old ... I am getting old.. . .
He stripped off his sleeping jacket, then reached up to touch his left shoulder, tracing the join, watching himself in the glass. There, where flesh met metal, a thin strip of soft leather acted as a kind of buffer, preventing the skin from being chafed. It had been awkward at first, but now the feel of it was comforting, strangely reassuring. 1 am alive, it seemed to say.
He sniffed, then moved the golden limb, flexing and unflexing the jointed hand, remembering how he had lost the arm. A close call, that had been. Indeed it was a wonder he had lived so long when so many had wanted him dead.
Turning, he looked about him at the huge and shadowed room. It was simply, almost Spartanly, furnished. A double bed, a chair, and a small writing desk—that was all. Underfoot a thick rug covered half the floor space. As for the walls, they were bare save for the portrait of his wife that hung in the alcove facing his bed.
He went across and stared up at it.
“How are you, Jenny Endfors?” he asked quietly, using her maiden name. “Is it sunny where you are?”
She smiled back down at him. Beyond her the wind seemed to dance in the pines that covered the hillside of the island, while to her left the blue-green sea sparkled in the spring sunlight. Like a goddess, he thought, sent briefly down to haunt him.
She had been thirty years his junior, a beautiful, blond-haired girl with a laugh like the summer itself. Jelka—his darling Jelka—was her image. But the gods had decided not to grant him more than a single measure of happiness. His Jenny had died giving birth to his daughter, and he had slept alone these last eighteen years.
Lonely ... no wonder he was lonely.
There was a knock. He turned, wondering for a moment if he hadn’t imagined it, then it came again.
“Yes?” he called, his voice filled with a strength and certainty he did not feel.
“Marshal Tolonen?”
It was the voice of his equerry, Lofgren. He frowned, then went across and unlocked the door. In the corridor outside Lofgren stood alone, his shaven head bowed, a small tray balanced between his hands. The smell of hot soup wafted up out of the darkness. “Lofgren? What is this?”
“I—I heard you pacing, sir. I thought maybe this would help. I wasn’t certain you had eaten.”
Tolonen smiled, then stepped back, letting the young officer enter.
“That’s kind of you. I couldn’t sleep.”
“No, sir.” Lofgren took the tray across and set it down on the desk, then turned, coming to attention.
“At ease, boy.”
“Sir!”
He went across, then sat, beginning to eat, his hunger surprising him. “Were there any messages?” he asked, turning between mouthfuls to look up at the young man.
“Just one. From your daughter.”
“Jelka? What, from Callisto?
“Yes, sir. A short-burst transmission. I’ve stored a copy on your personal file. If you like, I could have it played right now.” Tolonen took another mouthful of the soup, then shook his head. “No. Show it to me first thing. While I’m getting dressed.” “Sir.”
He smiled. Yes. It would be something to look forward to, before the business of the Hearing began. Thinking of which . . . “Lofgren?”
“Sir?”
“Do you think we were right, letting things take their course? I mean, GenSyn is so important to us all. If things go wrong . . .” Lofgren looked down, embarrassed. It was not often the Marshal asked him for his opinion.
“I—I guess it depends what you mean, sir. If you mean, were we right not to have Lutz Ebert killed out of hand, I’m not sure, sir. I—I wouldn’t have liked to have made that call.”
“But if you had?”
The young officer looked away, a slight stiffness to him now. “I think I would have done exactly as you did, sir.” Tolonen smiled. “I see. Well, thank you, Lofgren. You can go now. Oh, and thank you for the soup. It was most welcome.” “Sir!”
He watched the boy go, then stood, stretching his limbs, tired now, ready for his bed.
If you only knew, he thought. If only you’d been there, Bertil Lofgren, when I advised the Tang to have the bastard killed. But now it was too late. Much, much too late. To have him killed now would create more problems than it solved. Besides, there were other ways to control the man. Subtler, more efficient ways.
He went across and blew a silent kiss, then turned and went to his bed.
Pulling back the thin sheet he slipped beneath it, his eyes heavy
suddenly, the frantic racing of his thoughts slowing to a more sedate
pace.
And the rainbow spanned the heavens . . . He gave a shuddering yawn, then turned onto his side, the thought that followed the words vanishing from mind even as it formed. Soup ... he must have drugged the soup. . . . Outside the door, the young man waited, listening. Then, hearing the old man’s snores, he nodded to himself and, smiling, walked away down the unlit corridor toward his quarters.