As the wind moved on, channeled up over the roof of the great City, there was a moment's silence, a moment's calm. From the toppled ruins of the central spire, a handful of survivors hobbled out, blessing their luck, then stopped, conscious of the growing darkness of the storm. There, filling the sky from horizon to horizon, was a wall of solid blackness. And a growing noise, a noise which, as it came nearer, seemed to sound not merely in the air, but in the earth itself, in every atom of one's body, a single, organlike note of such intensity and scale that it seemed like the voice of Hell.
For the briefest moment they stood there, transfixed, their hands pressed to their ears, and then the storm surge hit, a giant wall of water sixty ch'i in height, that powered its way ashore, scouring the great port clean before it hit the wall of the City with a force that threw it back upon itself.
Slowly, unheard beneath the great storm's roar, a segment of that whiteness tore itself away from the surrounding stacks. Slowly, with a dreadful, dreamlike slowness, it collapsed, tumbling into the surging darkness of the waters. And as it did the second wave struck, smashing into the breach with a force that made that great wall shudder and begin to split apart.
dead MAN YUN stood there, his normally placid face twitching with emotion as he looked down at the corpses of his daughter's children. Their tiny, bloodless bodies had been laid out on the huge bed in Yun Yueh-hui's room; that selfsame bed where they had so often played, leaping about with gay abandonment while he, smiling, had looked on. If he closed his eyes he could hear them stilclass="underline" could hear their childish laughter, their shrieks of joy echoing throughout his rooms.
A/i, yes, he thought, clenching his teeth against the memory. But all that ended—all joy, all love, all happiness—when these, my beauties, died.
Yun shuddered, tears running freely down his cheeks, then reached out to gently touch and stroke each darling face, as once he'd done to comfort them in sleep. But there was no comfort anymore. No, and nothing safe. Nothing but pain and grief and bitterness.
"My beauties . . ." he said, the ache of longing in his voice dreadful to hear. "My darling little ones . . ."
"Master Yun," Hui Tsin said softly, loath to break into the old man's grief. "Forgive me, but there is little time."
Yun turned, staring at Fat Wong's Red Pole almost sightlessly, then gave a tiny nod. "Good boys, they were, Hui Tsin. Such darling little boys. They were my life. Without them . . ."
Hui Tsin bowed his head, embarrassed by the rawness he had glimpsed in the old man's face, the frightening openness. Whatever else he'd expected, it had not been this. Anger, he'd thought there'd be, and maybe even rage, but this . . . this womanly response ... He took a long breath, then spoke again.
"Forgive me, Master Yun, but unless we act now it will be too late. The pai nan jen's forces are attacking and Wong Yi-sun . . ."
Yun raised a hand, silencing the Red Pole, his manner suddenly more firm, much more the Yun Yueh-hui of old.
"I understand, brother Hui. And I shall act. But not yet. Not until I have properly grieved my daughter's sons. Return to your Master. Go now, at once, and tell my brother Wong that the Dead Man will come. But do not push me, Hui Tsin. You have no sons, no grandsons, and so do not understand how I feel, nor what I have lost this day." Yun moved closer, towering over the Red Pole, a fierceness now behind his eyes. "I see how you look at me, Hui Tsin, but you are wrong. Do not mistake my grief for weakness, nor my tears for sudden softness. When I come I shall come as an avenging demon. And then I shall crush the pai nan jen. Were the legions of Hell lined up behind him, I would crush him."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Connections
TRADITION HAD IT that when the first frosts came the Li Family would close up the estate at Tongjiang and move wives, sons, and daughters to Yangjing, their floating palace, 160,000 li above City Europe. It was an annual occurrence—a tradition that stretched back to the earliest years of the Seven when the huge geostationary environments had first been built. Li Yuan had spent a dozen childhood winters thus, not knowing snow until, at thirteen, he had stood there by the frozen lake at Tongjiang, looking up in wonder at the falling whiteness. Each spring the Family would move back, in time to witness the first buds sprout from the seeming deadness of the branch, to see the miracle of blossom in the orchard.
This once, however, they had come early, to escape not the frost but the unseasonable heat of these late autumn days. Li Yuan stood in the half-light of the shuttle hangar, smiling to himself, Kuei Jen cradled warm against his shoulder, as he watched the unloading. At such moments he felt his father move in his bones. So many times he had looked up from playing among the unloaded crates and, through a child's eyes, had seen his father, even as he himself stood now, supervising the unpacking.
Satisfied, Li Yuan turned and went through. Kuei was fifteen months old now and babbling his first half words. Li Yuan laughed tenderly, delighted by the ill-formed nonsense, and nuzzled the child,
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nodding to the guards who stood there, heads bowed at the door to his rooms. Inside, things had been prepared. A tray of sweetmeats rested on a low table. Beside it was a bowl with food for Kuei Jen. A nurse waited, eyes averted, ready to feed the boy.
Normally Li Yuan would have handed Kuei Jen to her and gone through to his own suite, to rest or to do some work, but on whim he dismissed the woman and, setting Kuei Jen in a low chair, knelt down, beginning to feed the boy himself. He was almost done when there was a faint cough behind him. His cousin, Wei Tseng-li, knelt in the doorway, his eyes lowered.
"Come in, Tseng-li. Please. I am almost done here."
Conscious of protocol, Tseng-li hesitated, then, bowing low, he crossed the room in a crouch and knelt across from the T'ang and his son, not presuming to be standing while the T'ang knelt. But, seeing the smile of pleasure on Li Yuan's face, he ventured a smile of his own.
"He is a healthy boy, Highness. He will be a fine athlete, a good horseman when he is older."
Li Yuan looked to him, his smile widening. "You think so, cousin Tseng?" He laughed, then turned back, pushing another spoonful of dinner into the waiting mouth, careful not to let Kuei Jen grab the spoon. "Is there anything of importance to be dealt with?"
"A few matters, Highness. But nothing so urgent that you cannot finish here."
Wei Tseng-li had been Li Yuan's private secretary for more than six months now; a post he had filled better than any expectations. In the past weeks Li Yuan had come to rely on him more and more as the demands on his time had increased. Now, with the House open, they could relax a little.
"Good," Yuan said, straightening a little. "I'll finish, then we can go through."
The bowl was almost empty. Li Yuan scraped the spoon around its edge to catch the last of it, tucking it neatly into his son's mouth.
"You have the way of it," Tseng-li said, laughing. "When I try I have it everywhere!"
Li Yuan glanced at him, then set the bowl aside. "You feed him often, then?"
Tseng-li smiled broadly, for the moment wholly unselfconscious.
"Only when Mien Shan permits. They are all quite jealous of the task. There is a regular contest between your wives as to who will tend to young Kuei. A loving jealousy, you might call it."
"Ah . . ." Li Yuan looked thoughtful a moment longer, then slowly got to his feet. He hadn't known, and he wasn't sure exactly how he felt about it. He had thought only the nurses fed the child.
"Wait here a moment, Tseng-li. I must give the child back to the nurse."