"Yes, Papa?"
The Marshal sat at his big oak desk, a stack of papers to one side, a file open before him, his hands, one flesh, one golden metal, resting on the page. He looked tired, but then he always looked tired these days, and his smile at least was as strong as ever.
"How did it go?" ..••<
She hesitated. He would find out. He was sure to find out. But not yet. Not before she'd had time to think things through. "I don't know. . ." She shrugged and gave a little sigh. "It's not my thing, really. I..."
He laughed softly. "You don't have to tell me, my love. I know that feeling only too well. I used to think it was me, but I know better now. We're not party people, we Tolonens. Our ancestors were made of sterner stuff, neh? All that northern ice—some of it must have got into our blood!"
His laughter was warm, wonderful, and for a moment she simply stood there, basking in it. But in the morning he would be different— when he discovered what she'd done. So maybe it was best. . .
She moved closer, until she stood there, facing him across the desk, looking down at him. "I... I did something tonight, Papa. I... hurt someone."
"You hurt someone?" He frowned, trying to understand, then gave a short laugh. "What? You mean, you broke their heart?"
She shook her head. "No. One of the young officers, it was. My escort for the evening. Lieutenant Bachman. He tried . . ."
Tolonen sat forward, his face changed; suddenly stem, implacable. "What? What did he try?"
She looked away briefly, wondering how it had got to this point; why she had let it get out of control. "He tried to kiss me, Papa. Against my wishes. He . /. he was persistent."
He sat back, indignation and anger written large on his face. "Bachman, you say? Colonel Bachman's son?"
"Yes, Papa. But please . . . listen. I hurt him, you see. Hurt him badly."
"Badly? How badly?"
She swallowed. "I think I nearly killed him. If Anna hadn't shouted at me . . ."
He narrowed his eyes, then shook his head. "You mean, you nearly killed a man, and all because he wanted to kiss you?"
"It wasn't like that, Papa. He ... he was awful. It was as if I didn't exist. As if he had the right. . ." She shuddered and looked down, realizing she had clenched both her fists. "Even so, in the end I provoked him. I made him fight me. I could have walked away, but I didn't. I don't know why ... I..." She stopped, looking back at her father. "Do you understand, Papa? Something snapped in me. Something . . ."
He stared back at her a moment, then nodded. His voice was soft now, almost a whisper. "I understand, my love. It's how we are, neh? Brittle. That time I killed Lehmann in the House. It was like that then. As if I had no choice. As if I'd lost control."
For a moment they were silent, staring at each other. Then, with a tiny shudder, Tolonen looked away, fixing his gaze on the file in front of him. "He'll live, I take it?"
"Yes."
He looked up again, a strange kind of pride in his face. "So what did you do to him? Kick him in the balls? Break his nose?"
"I wish it were that simple. I..." She shook her head, suddenly exasperated with herself. "It wasn't even as if I was angry at that point. It was like . . . like it was just something I had to do. I... well, you'll think this strange, but it was like it was Hans in front of me. Hans Ebert. And I had to stop him coming after me. That's why I broke both his legs, to stop him. And his arms."
He stared at her, astonished, then sniffed in deeply. "Aiya. . . And were there any witnesses to this?"
"Several dozen . . ."
For a moment he sat there, deep in thought, then, remembering something suddenly, he got up and went across to the other side of the room, where a long worktop filled the alcove.
"Something was delivered about an hour back," he said, searching among the papers there. "It wasn't marked urgent and I was busy, so I left it. It's here somewhere."
She watched him, wondering what was going on in his mind at that moment. Did he really understand why she had done it? Or was he only saying that? He would stand by her, certainly, because that was his way, but for once that was not enough. She needed him to understand. Because if he didn't understand . . .
"Here," he said, turning back to her and slitting open the package with his thumbnail. "If it's as you said. If it was a fair fight. . ."
He fell silent, reading through the brief report. She watched him come to the end of it, then read it once again. He nodded, as if satisfied, then looked back at her.
"We'll sit down, tomorrow, first thing, and make a report. In your own words, exactly as it happened. Then I'll go and see Bachman, sort something out about his son's medical expenses. The rest. . . well, I think it's straightforward enough. It'll teach the lad manners, neh? And maybe wake a few of them up, into the bargain." He Booked away, giving a tight bark of laughter. "They're growing soft, these young men. Soft . . ."
"Papa . . . ?"
He looked back at her, seeing how she stood there, close— suddenly very close—to tears, and came across, holding her to him tightly.
"It's all right, my love. It's all over now." He looked down into her face, then gently kissed her brow.
"You understand, then? You understand why I did it?"
He nodded, his grim smile fading into concern. "It's how we are, my love. Brittle. Easily angered. But strong, too, neh? Stronger than iron."
CHAPTER THREE
Fathers and Sons
LI YUAN stood inside the doorway, looking across to where the T'ang of East Asia lay in a huge, canopied bed. The room was bright and unexpectedly airy. A warm breeze blew in through the open doors that led out onto the balcony, the scent of apple blossom strong in the air. Yet underlying it was the faintest hint of corruption. Of sickness and age.
"Wei Feng. . ." Yuan said softly, his heart torn from him at the sight of his father's oldest friend.
The old man turned his head on the pillow, his voice faint, almost inaudible. "Shai Tung? Is that you?"
Li Yuan swallowed and moved closer. "It is I, cousin Feng. Shai Tung's son, Yuan."
"Ahh . . ." Blind eyes searched the darkness whence the voice had come, looking past the young T'ang of Europe. The voice was stronger now, more confident. "Forgive me, Yuan. I was dreaming. . . Your father and I were walking in the meadow.- We stopped beneath a tree. . ."
Yuan waited, but there was nothing more. "How are you, cousin?" he said gently, fearing the old man had drifted back into sleep.
"Ah yes . . ." Wei Feng's laughter was weak; the merest shadow of the great roar of delight Yuan remembered from his childhood. Yuan felt his stomach muscles tighten with pain at the thought. Was it all so quickly gone?
"Where are your sons?" Yuan asked, surprised to find himself alone with the old man. "Should I summon them, Wei Feng?"
The old man's head came round, his blind eyes staring up into Yuan's face. The hair had not grown back on the half of his skull that had been shaven, and the flesh there was a pale ivory, mottled, almost transparent. One could see the bone clearly.
"No, Yuan," the old man said determinedly. Old age and sickness had robbed Wei Feng of much, but his mind seemed as sharp as ever. "It is you I wished to see. I..."
The old man swallowed dryly, unable to continue. Li Yuan looked about him, then saw the jug and the cup on the table behind him and went across. He poured a little of the water into the cup, then brought it back, supporting Wei Feng's head while he sipped; then, setting the cup aside, he wiped his lips for him.
"Thank you, Yuan. You are your father's son."
Once again, it was painful to see the thin, watery smile the old man gave and recall the strength of former days. It made him feel that this ought not to be—that this great fall from health and potency was a kind of sin against life itself. He looked away momentarily, robbed of words. Why had he not felt this for his own father?