He lowered himself in the saddle, then turned, looking back at her. She was watching him, concerned. Such a look as a wife gives her man. Thinking this, he smiled and remembered why he'd come.
He climbed down from his mount and walked across to her.
"Come!" he said, offering her his hand to help her down. But this time he did not relinquish her. This time he turned her to face him, enveloping her in his arms.
She looked up at him expectantly, her mouth open, the bottom lip raised, almost brutal in what it implied. Her eyes seared him, so fierce was their demand. And her body, where he gripped it, seemed to force itself into him.
It was as he'd thought.
He kissed her, his mouth crushing hers, answering her need with his own. For a moment they struggled with each other's clothing, tearing at the lacing, freeing themselves; and then he had lifted her onto him and was thrusting deep into her, her legs wrapped about his back, her pelvis pushing down urgently to meet his movements.
"My love," she said, her dark eyes wide, aroused, her fine, small hands caressing his neck. "Oh my love, my Lord . . ."
CHAPTER NINE
The Veiled Light
LI YUAN STOOD with his father at the center of the viewing circle, looking down at the great globe of Chung Kuo, 160,000 li below. Down there it was night. Lit from within, the great, continent-spanning mass of City Europe glowed a soft, almost pearled white, bordered on all sides by an intensity of blackness. To the south—beyond the darkness of the Chung Hai, the ancient Mediterranean—glowed City Africa, its broad, elongated shape curving out of view; while to the east—separated from City Europe by the dark barrier of the East European Plantations—City Asia began, a vast glacier, stretching away into the cold heart of the immense land mass.
The room in which they stood was dimly lit; the double doors at the top of the steps leading to the T'ang's private rooms were closed. It was warm in the room, yet, as ever, the illusion of coldness prevailed.
"What have you decided, Father?"
The T'ang turned to his son, studying him thoughtfully, then smiled.
"To wait to hear what the Marshal says. He saw the boy this morning."
"Ah . . ." Li Yuan glanced at the slender folder he was carrying beneath his arm. In it were copies of the records Karr had brought back with him from Mars: Berdichev's personal files, taken from the corpse of his private secretary three days before Karr had caught up with Berdichev himself.
It had taken them two weeks to break the complex code, but it had been worth it. Besides giving them access to a number of secret SimFic files—files that gave them the location of several special projects Berdichev had instigated—they had also contained several items of particular interest.
The first was a detailed breakdown of the events leading up to the assassination of the Edict Minister, Lwo Kang, ten years earlier. It was similar in many respects to the document Tolonen had brought to Li Shai Tung shortly after the event—the papers drawn up by Major DeVore. That document, and the web of inference and connection it had drawn, had been enough to condemn the Dispersionist Edmund Wyatt to death for treason. But now they knew it for what it was. Though Wyatt had been against the Seven, he had played no part in the murder of Minister Lwo. No, he had been set up by his fellow conspirators. But Wyatt's death, almost as surely as the destruction of the starship The New Hope had brought about the War that followed.
Li Yuan looked back at his father, conscious of how much he had aged in the years between. The War had emptied him, stripped him of all illusions. Five years ago he would not have even contemplated the Wiring Project. But times had changed. New solutions were necessary. The second file was confirmation of that.
"About the Aristotle File, Father. Do we know yet if any copies were made?"
Li Shai Tung looked down past his feet at the blue-white circle of Chung Kuo.
"Nothing as yet, Yuan. So maybe we've been lucky. Maybe it wasn't disseminated."
"Perhaps. . ." But both knew that the Aristotle File was too important—too potentially damaging to the Seven—for Berdichev to have kept it to himself. For it was no less than the true history of Chung Kuo, the version of events the tyrant Tsao Ch'un had buried beneath his own.
Li Yuan shivered, remembering the day he had found out the truth about his world, recollecting suddenly the dream he had had, a vision of a vast mountain of bones filling the plain from horizon to horizon. The foundations of his world.
"You know, Yuan, I was standing here the night you were bom. It was late and I was looking down at Chung Kuo, wondering what lay ahead. I had been dreaming . . ."
He looked up, meeting his son's eyes.
"Dreaming, Father?"
The T'ang hesitated, then gave a small shake of his head. "No matter. Just that it struck me as strange. The boy and all. . ."
He knew what his father meant.
The third file concerned a boy Berdichev had taken a personal interest in, a Claybom child from the Recruitment Project for whom Berdichev had paid the extraordinary sum of ten million yuan.
Part of the file was a genotyping—a comparison of the child's genetic material to that of a man alleged to be his father. The result of the genotyping was conclusive. The man was the child's father. And the man's name? Edmund Wyatt—the person wrongly executed for orchestrating the assassination of the T'ang's minister, Lwo Kang.
That had been strange enough, but stranger yet was a footnote to the file; it revealed that instead of being the work of Soren Berdichev, as was claimed on the file itself, the Aristotle File had, in fact, been compiled and authored by the boy.
• The fact that had struck them both, however, was the date the genotyping had given for the conception of the boy, a date that coincided with a visit Wyatt, Berdichev, and Lehmann had made to a singsong house in the Clay.
It was the day Li Yuan had been bom. The day his mother, Lin Yua, had died giving birth to him, three months premature.
It was as if the gods were playing with them. Taking and giving, and never offering an explanation. But which was the Clayborn boy—gift or curse? On the evidence of the Aristotle File he seemed—potentially, at least—a curse; yet if the reports on him were to be believed, he might prove the greatest asset the Seven possessed. The question that confronted them—the question they had met today to answer—was simple: should they attempt to harness his talents or should they destroy him?
There was a banging on the great doors at the far end of the room.
"Come in!" the T'ang answered, turning to face the newcomer.
It was Tolonen. He strode in purposefully, then stopped three paces from the T'ang, clicking his heels together and bowing his head.
"Chieh Hsia."
"Well, Knut? You've seen the boy. What do you think?"
Tolonen lifted his head, surprised by the abruptness with which the T'ang had raised the matter. It was unlike him. He turned briefly to Li Yuan, giving a small bow, then turned back to Li Shai Tung, a smile forming.
"I liked him, Chieh Hsia. I liked him very much. But that's not what you asked me, is it? You asked me whether I thought we could trust the boy. Whether we could risk using him in such a delicate area of research."
"And?"
Tolonen shrugged. "I'm still not certain, Chieh Hsia. My instinct tends to confirm what was in the file. He's loyal. The bond he formed with his tutor, T'ai Cho, for instance, was a strong one. I think that's inbred in his nature. But then, there's the fight with the boy Janko to consider and the whole personality reconstruction business subsequent to that. He's not the same person he was before all that. We have to ask ourselves how that has affected him. Has it made him more docile and thus easier to control, or has it destabilized him? I can't answer that, I'm afraid. I really can't."