"Go up!" he hissed anxiously, hoping he'd not be heard; horrified that she had been witness to Gosse's death. He saw her turn and look at him, for a moment barely recognizing him or understanding what he had said to her. Dear god, he thought; how much did she see?
"Go up!" he hissed again. "For heaven's sake, go up!"
IT WAS DARK on the river, the moon obscured behind the Wall's northwestern edge. Ben jumped ashore and tied the row-boat up to the small, wooden jetty, then turned to give a hand to Peng Yu'Wei, who stood there, cradling a sleeping Meg in one arm.
He let the teacher go ahead, reluctant to go in, wanting to keep the blanket of darkness and silence about him a moment longer.
There was a small rectangle of land beside the jetty, surrounded on three sides by steep clay walls. A set of old wooden steps had been cut into one side. Ben climbed them slowly, tired from the long row back. Then he was in the garden, the broad swath of neat-trimmed grass climbing steadily to the thatched cottage a hundred yards distant.
"Ben!"
His mother stood in the low back doorway, framed by the light, an apron over her long dress. He waved, acknowledging her. Ahead of him Peng Yu-wei strode purposefully up the path, his long legs showing no sign of human frailty.
He felt strangely separate from things. As if he had let go of oars and rudder and now drifted on the dark current of events. On the long row back he had traced the logic of the thing time and again. He knew he had caused their deaths. From his discovery things had followed an inexorable path, like the water's tight spiral down into the whirlpool's mouth. They had died because of him.
No. Not because of him. Because of his discovery. He was not to blame for their deaths. They had killed themselves. Their greed had killed them. That and their stupidity.
He was not to blame; yet he felt their deaths quite heavily. If he had said nothing. If he had simply burned the rabbit as Meg had suggested. . . .
It would have solved nothing. The sickness would have spread; the discovery would have been made. Eventually. And then the two soldiers would have died.
It was not his fault. Not his fault.
His mother met him at the back door. She knelt down and took his hands. "Are you okay, Ben? You look troubled. Has something happened?"
He shook his head. "No. I—"
The door to the right of the broad, low-ceilinged passageway opened and his father came out, closing the door behind him. He smiled at Ben, then came across.
"Our guest is here, Ben. He's been here all afternoon, in fact." He hesitated and glanced at his wife. "I know I said earlier that you would be eating alone tonight, Ben, but. . . well, he says he would like to meet you. So I thought that maybe you could eat with us after all."
Ben was used to his father's guests and had never minded taking his evening meal in his room, but this was unusual. He had never been asked to sit at table with a guest before.
"Who is it?" he asked.
His father smiled enigmatically. "Wash your hands, then come through. I'll introduce you. But, Ben ... be on your best behavior, please."
Ben gave a slight bow, then went straight to the small washroom. He washed his face and hands, then scrubbed his nails and tidied his hair in the mirror. When he came out his mother was waiting for him. She took his hands, inspecting them, then straightened his tunic and bent to kiss his cheek.
"You look fine, Ben. Now go in."
"Who is it?" he asked again. "Tell me who it is."
But she only smiled and turned him toward the door. "Go on in. I'll be there in a moment."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A Conversation in the Firelight
IN THE LIGHT from the open fire the T'ang's strong, Oriental features seemed carved in ancient yellowed ivory. He sat back in his chair, smiling, his eyes brightly dark.
"And you think they'll be happy with that, Hal?"
Li Shai Tung's hands rested lightly on the table's edge, the now-empty bowl he had been eating from placed to one side, out of his way. Ben, watching him, saw once again how the light seemed trapped by the matt black surface of the heavy iron ring he wore on the index finger of his right hand. The Ywe Lung. The seal of power.
Hal Shepherd laughed, then shook his head. "No. Not for a moment. They all think themselves emperors in that place."
They were talking about the House of Representatives at Weimar—"that troublesome place," as the T'ang continually called it—and about ways of shoring up the tenuous peace that now existed between it and the Seven.
The T'ang and his father sat at one end of the k>ng, darkwood table, facing each other, while Ben sat alone at the other end. His mother had not joined them for the meal, bowing in this regard to the T'ang's wishes. But in other respects she had had her own way. The T'ang's own cooks sat idle in her kitchen, watching with suspicion and a degree of amazement as she single-handedly prepared and served the meal. This departure from the T'ang's normal practices was remarkable enough in itself, but what had happened at the beginning of the meal had surprised even his father.
When the food taster had stepped up to the table to perform his normal duties, the T'ang had waved him away and, picking up his chopsticks, had taken the first mouthful himself. Then,, after chewing and swallowing the fragrant morsel, and after a sip of the strong green Longjing ch'a—itself "untasted"—he had looked up at Beth Shepherd and smiled broadly, complimenting her on the dish. It was, as Ben understood at once, seeing the surprised delight on his father's face and the astonished horror on the face of the official taster, quite unprecedented, and made him realize how circumscribed the T'ang's life had been. Not free at all, as others may have thought, but difficult; a life lived in the shadow of death. For Li Shai Tung, trust was the rarest and most precious thing he had to offer; for in trusting he placed his life—quite literally his life—in the hands of others.
In that small yet significant gesture, the T'ang had given his father and mother the ultimate in compliments.
Ben studied the man as he talked, aware of a strength in him that was somehow more than physical. There was a certainty—a vitality—in his every movement, such that even the slightest hesitancy was telling. His whole body spoke a subtle language of command; something that had developed quite naturally and unconsciously during the long years of his rule. To watch him was to watch not a man but a directing force; was to witness the channeling of aggression and determination into its most elegant and expressive form. In some respects Li Shai Tung was like an athlete, each nuance of voice or gesture the result of long and patient practice. Practice that had made these things second nature to the T'ang.
Ben watched, fascinated, barely hearing their words, but aware of their significance, and of the significance of the fact that he was there to hear them.
Li Shai Tung leaned forward slightly, his chin, with its pure white, neatly braided beard, formulating a slight upward motion that signaled the offering of a confidence.
"The House was never meant to be so powerful. Our forefathers saw it only as a gesture. To be candid, Hal, as a sop to their erstwhile allies and a mask to their true intentions. But now, a hundred years on, certain factions persist in taking it at face value. They maintain that the power of the House is sanctioned by 'the People." And we know why, don't we? Not for 'the People.' Such men don't spare a second's thought for 'the People.' No, they think only of themselves. They seek to climb at our expense. To raise themselves by pulling down the Seven. They want control, Hal, and the House is the means through which they seek to get it."
The Tang leaned back again, his eyes half lidded now. He reached up with his right hand and grasped the tightly furled queue at the back of his head, his fingers closing about the coil of fine white hair. It was a curious, almost absentminded gesture; yet it served to emphasize to Ben how at ease the T'ang was in his father's company. He watched, aware of a whole vocabulary of gesture there in the dialogue between the two men; conscious not just of what they said but of how they said it; how their eyes met or did not meet; how a shared smile would suddenly reveal the depths of their mutual understanding. All served to show him just how much the T'ang depended on his father to release these words, these thoughts, these feelings. Perhaps because no other could be trusted with them.