Chi Hsun let the noise continue for a while, then raised a hand, calling for silence. Once a kind of order had returned, he leaned forward again, looking down at Chang.
“Did you know of this, Advocate Chang?”
Chang licked his lips nervously, then nodded. “There was a child, yes, but the child was destroyed.”
“Destroyed?”
Ku, standing beside him, shook his head. “That is not so. Hans Ebert ordered it to be destroyed, but that is not the same thing. His order was not carried out. The child was taken to a place of safety and kept there. The boy lives. He is three, almost four now.”
Chi Hsun sat back, astonished. “And you can prove this, Advocate Ku?” Ku Hsien-ch’eng bowed and smiled, the very picture of composure. “As I was saying, Excellency, this is Professor K’ang. K’ang Hung-chang of the Kunming Institute of Comparative Genetics.”
in the silent darkness of the room the hologram shone with the intensity of a ghostly vision, the face of the madwoman filled with a strange inner light that seemed to waver like a candle’s flame between serenity and despair.
Tolonen, standing there, his hands gripping the edge of the viewing table, stared down at the image openmouthed, mesmerized by the sight of the child playing at its mother’s feet. He was a robust, healthy child— a four-year-old with fine dark hair and strong Eurasian features. A bastard, he thought. Yet there was no denying it. It was Hans Ebert’s child. That face, that mouth, that chin. That was the Ebert lineage. But even without that there was proof enough. His experts had taken new cell samples and subjected the genetic charts to the most rigorous scrutiny, and the evidence held up. The concubine, Golden Heart, was the mother, Hans Ebert the father.
Even so, the matter was far from straightforward. Hans Ebert was a traitor, and under normal circumstances his family shared his fate, to the third generation. Yet it had been agreed among the Seven that these were far from normal circumstances. Klaus Ebert had been a pillar of the State. Though dead it was unthinkable that he should be declared a traitor, and so a special Edict had been passed, exonerating him, his wife, and all dependants, making the sentence of the Seven specific to one single individual—Hans Ebert. Now that document assumed a new importance. Was the child to share the father’s fate, or was he, too, exonerated under the terms of the Edict?
It was up to Li Yuan to decide.
Tolonen looked down. It was all his fault. He had trusted Hans Ebert. He would have given him anything. Anything at all. His daughter, Jelka, even his own life. And to think . . .
He sighed, then shook his head. Some days he felt it was simply the gods, toying with them all, putting devils into the shapes of men. At others he felt that it was just how they were. Men. With all the strange goodness and wickedness of men.
And the men who had done this, who had saved the child and brought it up in secret: which were they? And what did they want? He had been surprised when he’d learned who was behind this. The list of names included six of the most prominent businessmen in City Europe. But what were they after? Was theirs a long-term game? Did they look to the child’s gratitude in years to come?
Or maybe young Lofgren was right. Maybe their hand had been forced. After all, what use was a potential heir once the inheritance issue had been legally decided? So maybe it had simply been a case of “Produce your trump card now or see it lose all value.” What they hoped to achieve was still obscure to him. If the aim had been to damage GenSyn, then surely the easiest, most certain course was to let Lutz Ebert inherit and destroy the child. But maybe that last part—the killing of the child—had grown too difficult for them. Maybe there were too many in on the secret for that to be a realistic option. Then again, maybe it was much simpler than that. Maybe the sight of Lutz Ebert gloating, anticipating his inheritance, had been enough to make them act.
Only one thing was certain. Whatever their motives, altruism had not been among them. They had not invested so much time and money simply to see social justice done. Whatever the outcome, they hoped to have a say, and it was his job to prevent that somehow, to make sure that Chung Kuo’s greatest Company stayed clear of such attachments. Even so, the whole affair convinced him of one thing. The world he had known was gone. There had been a breach. Father to son, that had been the way of it, generation after generation, but now the natural son had proved false, had been seen to be a twisted shadow of the father, and this thing—this product of casual fucking with a whore—had been conjured from the air to fill the gap.
He shivered. Like a dream. Like a dark and evil vision of what was to
come.
Or like a curse. . . .
the committee was seated about the long table, a fierce argument raging, when the doors at the far end of the chamber burst open. Tolonen entered, followed closely by an honor troop of six shaven-headed guards. Immediately the room fell silent. At the head of the table, directly facing Tolonen, Tsu Ma’s man, Iron Chi, rose to his feet. “Forgive me, Knut, but we are in session. It was agreed—“ Tolonen raised a hand to mollify his old friend. “Forgive me, Chi Hsun, forgive me, ch’un tzu, but for once there is no time for formalities.” Wang Sau-leyan’s man, Tu Chung, was on his feet. “With respect, Marshal Tolonen, this is not right. We must maintain formalities.” Tolonen stared at him contemptuously, then turned his head, looking to Iron Chi.
“Well, Chi Hsun? Will you keep me waiting like a servant in the antechamber? Or will you hear what I have to say?” “I protest!” Tu Chung began once more, but Tolonen turned, shouting him down.
“The gods preserve us! Hold your tongue, man!”
Tu Chung jerked back, as if slapped, then sat, glaring at Tolonen. At the head of the table Iron Chi leaned forward, his long, face clearly troubled. “While I agree with Tu Chung that this is most irregular, I do feel that, for once, we might make an exception and hear what the Marshal has to say. Forgive me, however, if I insist that we take a vote on this matter. I would not have it said that, in allowing this, I went beyond the instructions given to me by the great Council.” Tolonen bowed his head. “As you wish, Chi Hsun, but please, let us do it at once, neh? I am a busy man.”
Iron Chi nodded, then looked about him. “Well? Will all those in favor of the Marshal addressing this Committee please indicate their agreement.” From about the long table there were grunts of agreement. Only Tu Chung remained stubbornly silent.
Iron Chi stared at Wang’s man a moment, then, with a tiny shrug, looked back at Tolonen. “It is agreed, then. Let us hear what you have to say.” Tolonen bowed. “Forgive me, ch’un tzu. I will take but a moment of your time. I wish to address you informally on this matter. To advise you of a decision that has been made this past hour. One which, I feel, you might wish to take into consideration when deliberating upon this complex and difficult case.” He looked about him, then, staring directly at Tu Chung, added, “Ch’un tzu . . . It has been decided that the special Decree concerning the fate of the traitor Hans Ebert shall be deemed to apply solely to the person named and not to any issue of his loins.” Tu Chung’s head bobbed up, a look of shocked surprise etched on his features. His mouth opened, as if to answer the Marshal; then, realizing there was nothing he could say, he bowed low, acknowledging defeat. Tolonen turned, noting the surprise on Chi Hsun’s face, and nodded. It was done. The child would inherit.
it was shortly after eighth bell when Tolonen arrived at the old Ebert Mansion, his heart strangely heavy. The last time he had come here it was to tell his old friend Klaus of his son’s duplicity: a warning that had resulted in the old man’s death and young Hans’s escape from Chung Kuo, a traitor, condemned in his absence. And now a young madwoman and her bastard son were tenants of this great estate; the boy heir to the whole vast GenSyn empire, by Li Yuan’s decree.