He handed his cloak to the servant, then walked through briskly, his booted footsteps echoing back all the way along the broad, tiled corridor. Since Klaus Ebert’s death the house had been run by a skeleton staff—but the Marshal could remember it in other days, when its rooms had been filled with guests, its corridors busy with servants. At the end of the corridor he stopped, waiting while one of the house stewards fumbled with a great bunch of keys at his waist, then threw open the huge doors that led out to the gardens at the center of the house. Tolonen strode out onto the balcony and gripped the rail, sniffing the air and looking about him. Here, at least, nothing had changed. A tiny, twisting stream ran beneath low-railed wooden bridges. Beyond it small, red-painted buildings lay half concealed among leaf and tree and rock. And there, on the far side of the gardens, beside the pool, three pomegranate trees stood like three ancients sharing a jug of wine. How often as a young man had he sat with Klaus beneath those trees, their feet dangling in the water, and talked of the years to come. Of their hopes and fears and plans. How often had they argued out the world’s great problems between them. Young men, they’d been, filled with a strange, visionary enthusiasm.
Gods, he thought, moved by the sudden clarity of the memory. It seems like only yesterday. And yet it was sixty years ago. Sixty long years. And the world of which they had dreamed—what had come of that? Nothing. Nothing but dust and ashes, betrayal and bitter disappointments. “And madwomen,” he said softly, reminding himself why he had come.
Yesterday Li Yuan had summoned him and asked him if he would serve again. “One last time,” as the young T’ang had put it, “before you take up poetry and painting.” He had laughed and readily agreed, glad to be doing something now that the inheritance issue was resolved. But this . . . He sighed. There was a bitter irony to this. That he should be chosen to be guardian to the boy. He, an old man of seventy-six years. Not only that, but in his heart of hearts he blamed himself for this situation. If he had only gone direct to Li Yuan when he had first found out about Hans Ebert, then Klaus might still be alive, the question of inheritance not an issue. But he had let friendship distort things. And this was the result. A madwoman and her bastard.
Ah, yes, but at least he’d exacted a price for his service. Jelka was to come home. She was to be flown direct to Mars from Callisto, and three ships of the imperial fleet were to be sent to ensure her safe return. Tolonen pushed back, away from the handrail, then went down, crossing the tiny bridge, following the narrow pink-and-gray-pebbled path through the trees to the far side of the garden. Golden Heart would be in her quarters at this hour, on the east side of the Mansion. And the child . . . He slowed, suddenly remembering what Jelka had said that time. How strange that he had forgotten that until now. He stopped, looking about him. It had been the evening of Li Shai Tung’s death—the night DeVore had attacked the Wiring Project—and he had left her here with Hans while he had gone to see what he might do. And later she had told him about the madwoman and her awful pink-eyed ox-baby, and how Hans had had her real child killed. Yes, and he had refused to believe her. As if she would ever lie to him. If only he had listened to her. If only he had not tried to force her into that awful, ill-fated marriage with Hans. If only . . . He shivered, thinking of her, out there on Callisto. It was strange just how much he missed her. More—much more—than he had ever thought possible. And though he heard from her regularly, it wasn’t the same. No. He missed her coming into his study late in the evening to wish him good-night. Missed the way she would come up silently behind him in his chair and lean across, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders, to gently kiss his brow.
He closed his eyes, steeling himself against the memory and the thought that accompanied it, but there was no denying it; lately he had begun to wonder whether he would ever see her again, face-to-face. Whether he would ever hold her and feel the warmth of her cheek against his own. You’re a foolish old man, Knut Tolonen, he told himself, straightening up. But then, what else was left for him these days? Who else was there for him to love?
Tolonen turned, hearing noises from the rooms up ahead—the sound of a young child crying for its mother. Hans Ebert’s son. He lifted his head, swallowing back the bitterness he felt at the thought— at the dashed hopes it represented—then walked on, knowing he would do his duty by the child.
PART 1 I SUMMER 2211
The South Side of the Sky
The mountain climbs, fifty li into darkness.
Beyond it the cold stars burn. Here, on the south side of the sky, The rain never falls.
All that we are, we carry with us In sealed packs, safe from the air.
Thin the air, thin the hope
Of seeing home again,
Except from afar.
Red sand fills our shoes.
We stop at an inn and drink our fill, Yet are never content.
We are lost,
Adrift upon a sea of dust.
Some thirsts can never be satisfied.
· kan jiang, “Thirst,” a.d. 2078
CHAPTER ONE
Upon a Sea of Dust
DEVORE STOOD AT THE GARDEN’S EDGE, one hand resting against the reinforced glass of the dome, looking out into the darkness of the Martian night. Soldiers guarded the perimeter, their bulky suits gleaming frostily in the earthlight. It was just after two, local time, and the lights of the distant city were low. Beyond them was a wall of blackness. He turned, looking back across the garden at the Governors house. It was a large, two-level hacienda, built in the “Settler” style of a hundred and fifty years earlier, its terrace and upper windows lit by sturdy globular lamps, its back wall hugging the far side of the dome. Surrounding it on three sides, the garden was a dark, luxuriant green, its trees and vines and bushes lit here and there by glowing crimson globes that drifted slowly above the black tiles of the paths. Overhead the dark curve of the dome reflected back their images, like a dozen tiny copies of the planet. DeVore looked about him, experiencing a deep-rooted sense of satisfaction. It was a beautiful garden, full of rare treats and delights. But what was perhaps most pleasing about it was that it was so totally unlike the formal gardens one found on Chung Kuo. There were no walls here, for instance, no delicate, overarching bridges, no steep-roofed ting or ornamental teahouses. It was all so open, so ... unrefined. Yet it wasn’t merely the look of it that impressed him—it was the fact that all trace of Han thought, Han tradition, had been carefully dispensed with in its design. Where, in a Han garden, there was harmony and balance—a sense of li, of “propriety”—here there was a sense of outwardness, of openness to change. His smile widened. In essence, this was one huge, deliberate snub. A thumbing of the nose at the Han who ruled them from afar. He laughed softly at the thought. Yes, there was something just slightly outlandish about all this—something positively gross about its simple spaciousness and sense of sprawl, about the silken richness of its leaves, the lurid colors of its blossoms. This was something new. An expression of excess, of unchecked growth. He could imagine how offensive—how distasteful—this would seem to the Han mentality. How alien. He reached out, taking one of the broad, leathery leaves between his fingers, surprised by how glossy and silken it was. Beneath his booted feet the earth was rich and dark, a moist, heavy soil that clung like clay and stained the fingers brown. Close by were some of the big hybrids he had noticed earlier. He went across to them, lifting one of the dark-blue flowers gently from beneath. Seen close up, it seemed less a blossom than a kind of pad, a rudimentary face formed into the puffy surface of the flower, like a mask. This one was of lust, but others, nearby, seemed to reflect a range of other moods—of anger and love, cunning and desire, of hatred, benevolence, and despair. And many more. He lifted it to his nose, intrigued by its strange, exotic scent, and noted how it brushed against his cheek, like a pet, responding to his human warmth. “They’re edible too,” said Schenck, coming out onto the terrace. “You should try one.”