"If my brother had been a man to respect I would have shown him some respect, but my brother was a fool and a weakling. He would never have been T'ang but for the death of my elder brothers." Wang looked about him, nodding his head. "Yes, and I know that goes for me, too, but understand me, cousins. I'll not play hollow tongue to any man. I'll speak as I feel. As I am, not as you'd have me seem. So you'll understand me if I say that I disliked my brother. I'm not glad he's dead. No, I'd not go that far, for even a fool deserves breath. But I'll not be a hypocrite. I'll shed no false tears for him. I'll save them for men who deserve them. For men I truly love. Likewise I'll keep my respect for those who deserve respect."
Tsu Ma had been staring past Wang while he spoke. Now he looked back at him, his face inexpressive, his eyes looking up and down the length of Wang Sau-leyan, as if to measure him.
"And yet your brother was T'ang, Wang Sau-leyan. Surely a T'ang deserves respect?"
"Had the man filled the clothes . . ."
"And he did not?"
Wang Sau-leyan paused, realizing suddenly what dangerous seas he had embarked upon. Then he laughed, relaxing, and looked back at Tsu Ma.
"Don't mistake me, Tsu Ma. I speak only of my brother. I knew him well. In all the long history of the Seven there was never one like him. He was not worthy to wear the imperial yellow. Look in your hearts, all of you, and tell me that I'm wrong. In all honesty, was there one of you who, knowing my father was dead, rejoiced that Ta-hung was T'ang?"
He looked about them, seeing the grudging confirmation in every face.
"Well, let us keep our respect for those that deserve it, neh? For myself I'd gladly bow to any of my cousins here. You are men who have proved your worth. You, indeed, are T'ang."
He saw how that mollified them and laughed inwardly. They were all so vain, so title-proud. And hypocrites, too; for if the truth were known they cared as little for Ta-hung as he. No, they had taken offense not at his denigration of his brother but at the implied mockery of his brother's title, for by inference it mocked them also. As for himself. . .
He moved through, between their ranks, bowing to each of them as he passed, then led them on along the pathway and up the broad marble steps into the ancient palace.
As for himself, he cared not a jot for the trappings of his title. He had seen enough of men and their ways to know how hollow a mere title could be. No, what he valued was not the title "T'ang" but the reality of the power it gave him; the ability to say and do what he had always dreamed of saying and doing. The power to offend, if offense was what he wished. To be a T'ang and not have that was to be as nothing—was to be an actor in a tiresome play, mouthing another's words, constrained by bonds of ritual and tradition.
And he would not be that.
As the servants made their way among his guests, offering wine and sweetmeats, he looked about him again, a faint smile coming to his lips as he remembered that moment at the entrance to the tomb.
Yes, he thought, it was not your fate to be T'ang, Ta-hung. You were designed for other things than kingship. And yet T'ang you became.
Wang smiled and took a cup of wine from a servant, then turned away, looking out through the window at the walled garden and the great marbled tablet of the tomb at its center.
It was unfortunate. He had not disliked his brother. Despised him, maybe— though even that was too strong a word for the mild feeling of irritation he had felt—but not hated him as he had his father and his two oldest brothers. However, Ta-hung had had the misfortune of being born before him. As a younger brother he would have been no threat, but as T'ang he had been an obstacle, a thing to be removed.
He sipped at his wine and turned his head, looking across at his Chancellor. Hung Mien-lo was talking to Tsu Ma, his head lowered in deference. Smoothing things over, no doubt. Wang looked down, smiling, pleased by his morning's work.
It was true, he had found the accident genuinely amusing, but he had grasped at once that it was the perfect pretext for annoying his fellow T'ang—the perfect irritant; and he had exaggerated his response. He had seen how they bridled at his irreverence. And afterward it had given him the opportunity to play the bluff, honest man. To put his heart upon his sleeve and flaunt it before them. He took a deep breath, then looked up again, noting how their eyes went to him constantly. Yes, he thought. They hate me now, but they also admire me in a grudging way. They think me crass but honest. Well, let them be mistaken on both counts. Let them take the surface-show for the substance, for it will make things easier in the days to come.
He turned again, looking back at the tomb. They were dead—every one of them who had been in the room that day he had been exiled. Father and mother, brothers and uncles. All dead. And he had had them killed, every last one.
And now I'm T'ang and sleep in my father's bed with my father's wives and my father's maids.
He drained his glass, a small ripple of pleasure passing through him. Yes. He had stopped their mouths and closed their eyes. And no one would ever again tell him what he could or couldn't do.
No one.
TWO HOURS LATER, Wang Sau-leyan sat in his father's room, in the big, tall-backed chair, side-on to the mirror, his back to the door. He heard the door open, soft footsteps pad across the tiles.
"Is that you, Sweet Rain?"
He heard the footsteps pause and imagined the girl bending low as she bowed. A pretty young thing, perhaps the prettiest of his father's maids.
"Chieh Hsia?"
He half-turned, languid from the wine he'd drunk, and put his hand out.
"Have you brought the lavender bowl?"
There was the slightest hesitation, then, "I have, Chieh Hsia." "Good. Well, come then. 1 want you to see to me as you used to see to my father." Again there was the slightest hesitation before she acted. Then she came round, bowing low, and knelt before him, the bowl held delicately in the long slender fingers of her left hand.
He had seen the film of his father's final evening, had seen how Sweet Rain had ministered to him, milking the old man into the lavender bowl. Well, now she would do the same for him. But no one would be watching this time. He had turned off the cameras. No one but he would know what he did within the privacy of his bedroom walls.
He drew the gown back from his lap, exposing his nakedness. His penis was still quite flaccid.
"Well, girl? What are you waiting for?"
He let his head fall back and closed his eyes, waiting. There was the faint rustle of silks as she moved closer, then he felt her fingers brush against his flesh. He shivered, then nodded to himself, feeling his penis stir between her fingers. Such a delicate touch she had—like silk itself—her fingers caressing the length of him slowly, tantalizingly, making his breath catch in his throat.
He opened his eyes, looking down at her. Her head was lowered, intent on what she was doing, the darkness of her hair held up with a single white-jade pin.
"Is this how you touched my father?"
She glanced up. "No, Chieh Hsia. But I thought. . ."
And still her fingers worked on him, gathering the whole of him up into that tiny nexus of pleasure, there between his legs.
"Thought what?" he said after a moment, the words barely audible.
She hesitated, then looked up at him again, candidly this time. "Every man is different, Chieh Hsia. Likewise their needs . . ."
He nodded slowly. Gods, but it was delightful. He would never have dreamed that a woman's hands could be so potent an instrument of pleasure.
Her eyes met his again. "If the T'ang would prefer, I could . . . kiss him there."
He shuddered. The word "kiss" promised delights beyond imagining. He gave a tiny nod. "Yes. I'd like that."
He heard her set the bowl down and let his head fall back, his eyes close, then felt her lift him to her lips. Again he shivered, drawn up out of himself by the sheer delight of what she was doing. For a while, then, he seemed to lapse out of himself, becoming but a single thread of perfect pleasure, linked to the warm wetness of her mouth, a pleasure that grew and grew . . .