Was there truly any real difference between concealing the truth from a man and the placing of a wire in his head?
Once he might have answered differently, might have said that the two things were different in kind; but now he was not so certain. Five years of war had changed him, soured him.
He sighed and looked back down at the page before closing the book.
"You were right, Pao-yu. All streams are sullied. Nothing is ch'ing . . . nothing pure."
He stood, then cast the book down onto the chair angrily. Where had his certainty gone? Where the clarity of his youth?
He had foreseen it all, sixteen years ago, on that dreadful evening when his darling wife, Lin Yua, had died giving birth to his second son, Li Yuan. That night he, too, had awoken from an awful dream—a dream of the City sliding down into the maw of chaos, of dear friends and their children dead, and of the darkness to come.
Such dreams had meaning. Were voices from the dark yet knowing part of oneself, voices you ignored only at your peril. And yet they had ignored them, had built a System and a City to deny the power of dreams, filling it with illusions and distractions, as if to kill the inner voices and silence the darkness deep within.
But you could not destroy what was inside a man. So maybe Yuan was right. Maybe it was best to control it. Now, before it was too late to act. For wasn't it better to have peace—even at such a price—than chaos?
He turned, annoyed with himself, exasperated that no clear answer came.
He stared down into the depths of the carp pool, as if seeking the certainty of the past, then shook his head. "I don't know . . ." he sighed. "I just don't know any longer."
A single carp rose slowly, sluggishly to the surface, then sank down again. Li Shai Tung watched the ripples spread across the pool, then put his hand up to his plaited beard, stroking it thoughtfully.
And Yuan, his son? Was Yuan as certain as he seemed?
He had heard reports of trouble between Yuan and Fei Yen. Had been told that the Prince, his son, had not visited his new wife's bed for several days, and not through pressure of work. He had been there in the Palace at Tongjiang with her, and still he had not visited her bed. That was not right. For a couple to be arguing so early in their relationship did not bode well for the future. He had feared as much—had known the match was ill-conceived—but once more he had refused to listen to the voice within. He had let things take their course, like a rider letting go the reins. And if he fell—if his son's unhappiness resulted—who could he blame but himself?
Again the carp rose, swifter this time, as if to bite the air. There was a tiny splash as its mouth lifted above the surface, then it sank down again, merging with the darkness.
Li Shai Tung coiled his fingers through his beard, then nodded. He would let things be. Would watch closely and see how matters developed. But the cusp was fast approaching. He had told Tolonen otherwise, but the truth was that he was not so sure Li Yuan was wrong. Maybe it was time to put bit and bridle on the masses, to master events before the whole thing came crashing down on them.
It would not hurt, at least, to investigate the matter. And if the boy Kim could help them find a way . . .
The T'ang turned, then bent down and retrieved the book, finding himself strangely reassured by its familiarity. He brushed at the cover, sorry that he had treated it so roughly. It was a book he had read a dozen times in his life, each time with greater understanding and a growing satisfaction. Things changed, he knew that now, after a lifetime of denying it; but certain things—intrinsic things— remained constant, for all men at all times. And in the interplay of change and certainty each man lived out his life.
It was no different for those who ruled. Yet they had an added burden. To them was ordained the task of shaping the social matrix within which ordinary men had their being. To them was ordained the sacred task of finding balance. For without balance there was nothing.
Nothing but chaos.
IT WAS late afternoon when Li Yuan finally arrived at Bremen. General Nocenzi had offered his office for the young Prince's use, and it was there, at the very top of the vast, three-hundred-level fortress, that he planned to meet the boy.
Kim was waiting down below. He had been there since his early morning session with Tolonen, unaware of how his fate had hung in the balance in the interim; but Li Yuan did not summon him at once. Instead he took the opportunity to read the files again and look at extracts from the visual record—films taken throughout the eight years of Kim's stay within the Recruitment Project.
They had given the boy the surname Ward, not because it was his name—few of the boys emerging from the Clay possessed even the concept of a family name—but because all those who graduated from the Project bore that name. Moreover, it was used in the Hung Moo manner—in that curiously inverted way of theirs, where the family name was last and not first.
Li Yuan smiled. Even that minor detail spoke volumes about the differences in cultures. For the Han had always put the family first. Before the individual.
He froze the final image, then shut down the comset and leaned forward to touch the desk's intercom. At once Nocenzi's private secretary appeared at the door.
"Prince Yuan?"
"Have them bring the boy. I understand there's a Project official with him, too. A man by the name of T'ai Cho. Have him come too."
"Of course, Excellency."
He got up from the desk, then went to the window wall and stood there. He was still standing there, his back to them, when they entered.
T'ai Cho cleared his throat. "Your Excellency . . . ?"
Li Yuan turned and looked at them. They stood close to the door, the boy a pace behind the official. T'ai Cho was a tall man, more than five ch'i, his height emphasized by the diminutive size of the Claybom child. Li Yuan studied them a moment, trying to get the key to their relationship—something more than could be gained from the summaries in the file—then he returned to the desk and sat, leaving them standing.
There were no chairs on the other side of the desk. He saw how T'ai Cho looked about him, then stepped forward.
"Excellency . . ." he began, but Li Yuan raised a hand, silencing him. He had noticed how the boys eyes kept going to the broad window behind him.
"Tell me, Kim. What do you see?"
The boy was so small; more like a child of eight than a boy of fifteen.
Kim shook his head, but still he stared, his large eyes wide, as if afraid.
"Well?" Li Yuan insisted. "What do you see?"
"Outside," the boy answered softly. "I see outside. Those towers. The top of the City. And there," he pointed out past the Prince, "the sun."
He stopped, then shook his head, as if unable to explain. Li Yuan turned to look where he was pointing as if something wonderful were there. But there were only the familiar guard towers, the blunted edge of the City's walls, the setting sun. Then he understood. Not afraid . . . awed.
Li Yuan turned back, frowning; then, trusting to instinct, he came directly to the point.
"I've called you here because you're young, Kim, and flexible of mind. My people tell me you're a genius. That's good. I can use that. But I've chosen you partly because you're not a part of this infernal scientific setup. Which means that you're likely to have a much clearer view of things than most, unsullied by ambition and administrative politics, by a reluctance to deal with me and give me what I want."
He laced his fingers together and sat back.
"I want you to join a scientific team, a team whose aim is to develop and test out a new kind of entertainment system."
Kim narrowed his eyes, interested but also wary.
"However, that's not all I want from you. I want you to do something else for me—something that must be kept secret from the rest of the members of the team, even from Marshal Tolonen."