Leaning forward, Wu Shih plucked the paper from Lever's outstretched hand and opened it. Its original—verified by retinal print and scan—was already on file. Yet there was more power in this—this written paper, signed by the hand of each and given here at this place where the dream of America had died—than in the purely legal form of their agreement. It was little understood by them, but ritual was more than empty show. It was power itself. Was what gave form to the relationships of men.
Wu Shih folded the paper, grunting his satisfaction. Half turning, he made a signal. At once, a brilliant light fell on a nearby building. For a moment there was nothing, then a door opened in the plain white face of the building and from the darkness within stepped a group of young men. The Sons. Gaunter, less proud for their fifteen-month incarceration. But dangerous. More dangerous than Wang Sau-leyan would ever contemplate.
Wu Shih raised his hand, dismissing the old man.
Lever backed away, moving slowly down the steps, then, at the bottom, turned and went among his fellows, making his way across the littered wasteland toward the building where the young men stood. Wu Shih watched a moment, then turned away. In his hand he held their guarantee of good behavior—their pledge to govern themselves better than they had. But he had seen the hate, the irreverence in Lever's face. Was such a guarantee worth having in the face of such open defiance?
He smiled. Yes, for it would give him the excuse to act, without the intercession of that meddler Wang.
As he made his way from there he knew for a certainty that this was not the end of this, only a temporary respite. There would come a time when he would have to face these men again.
"Americans . . ." he said beneath his breath, then laughed softly, looking back at the headless statue, silhouetted against the lights from above. The Supernal, they called themselves. Dwellers in the Heavens. Supremely great and excellent. Exalted.
He laughed. So they might believe, but if they so much as spat he'd make it hell for them.
* * *
LEAF shadow fell on the pale, slatted rocks on the far side of the pool. Li Yuan, T'ang of Europe, stood on the low, humped bridge, listening to the sounds coming from the rooms across the water. Low trees obscured his view of the courtyards and the house, but the sounds came clear to him: laughter, light-headed with relief; the chatter of excited female voices; and beneath both, unremitting, the bawling of a newborn child.
He stood there, in perfect stillness, looking down at his dark reflection in the lotus-strewn water. It was a child. A son—of course a son—there would not be laughter if it were otherwise. He stood, unmoving, not knowing what to think, what feel at that moment, the world—the tiny world of tree and stone and water—suspended all about him.
A son ... He shook his head, frowning. There should be more than this, he thought. I should be glad. I too should laugh, for today the chain is forged anew, the Family strengthened. But there was nothing—only an empty space where feeling ought to have been.
Across from him one of the nurses stepped out onto the balcony of the birth room and saw him. He looked up in time to see her turn hurriedly and go back inside; heard her warning to them and the sudden silence that followed, broken almost at once by the high-pitched cries of the newborn. He stood there a moment longer, then moved on slowly, his heart strangely heavy, for once totally unprepared for what lay ahead.
Mien Shan lay there, a tiny figure in his grandmother's huge bed— the same bed where his father, Li Shai Tung, had come into the world. She was propped up on pillows, her dark hair tied back from her sweat-beaded brow. Seeing him she smiled broadly and lifted the tiny bundle in her arms, offering it to him.
"Your son, ChiehHsia."
He took the child from her, cradling it carefully, conscious of the others in the room watching him. With one hand he drew back the blanket and looked down at the child. Dark hair lay finely on its long, pale scalp, glistening wetly in the overhead light. Its eyes were screwed shut and its thin lips formed ugly, awkward shapes as it yelled incessantly, one thin arm and tiny hand reaching blindly, repetitively into the air. It struggled against him as he held it, as if sensing his unease. Even so, he laughed, feeling how small, how light it was. So fragile and yet so determined. His son. Once more he laughed, and sensed the mood in the room change, growing more relaxed.
He looked down at Mien Shan and smiled. "Good. You have done well, my love." He glanced across, seeing how his other wives, Lai Shi and Fu Ti Chang, blushed with Mien Shan at the endearment, and felt an unexpected warmth. They were good, kind women. Nan Ho had chosen well for him.
He sat beside Mien Shan on the bed and turned to face her, holding the child in one arm. Behind her, on the wall above the bed, was a copy of the Luoshu diagram—the "magic" numbers used as a charm for easing childbirth. Normally the sight of such superstitious nonsense would have angered him. But this was no moment for anger.
"Was it hard?" he asked, lifting her chin gently with one finger, making her look at him. She hesitated, then gave the slightest nod, remembered pain in her eyes.
He took a deep breath, trying to imagine it, then nodded, his lips and eyes slowly forming a smile. "I honor you, sweet wife. And thank you, both for my son and for myself."
For a moment he looked at her, an unusual tenderness in his features, then, giving the slightest bow, he leaned forward and kissed the wetness of her brow.
He turned, facing the others in the room. Besides wives, nurses, and doctors, several of his Ministers were present—witnesses to the birth. Li Yuan stood up, still cradling the child, and took a step toward them.
"You will announce that the Families have a new heir. That Kuei Jen, first son to Li Yuan, was born this morning of his wife, Mien Shan, in good health and in a state of physical perfection."
He nodded vigorously, holding the child firmer, seeing how they all smiled at that. "A strong child. Like his grandfather."
There was a murmur of agreement and a nodding of heads. But then Li Yuan lowered his head in the sign of dismissal and, with bows of respect, the others left, leaving Li Yuan alone with Mien Shan and the child. The babe in his arms had settled and was no longer crying. Now it looked up at him, open-eyed. Huge, dark eyes that peered out from the mystery of birth. And, lowering his face gently, he kissed brow and nose and chin with a tenderness that took him by surprise.
"Kuei Jen," he said, smiling down softly at the child. "Welcome, my son. May the world be kind to you." And, looking up, he saw that Mien Shan was watching him, tears trickling down her cheeks.
THE ROOM WAS DARK, ill-ventilated. The old man in the bed coughed, a dry, hacking cough, then sniffed loudly. "Draw the curtains, Chan Yin. 1 want to see you all."
His eldest son went to the far side of the room and drew the heavy silken curtain back a fraction. Brilliant light spilled into the room, cutting a broad swath through the shadow.
"More," said the old man, leaning forward from his pillows. "And open the doors. It's like a sweatbox in here."
Chan Yin hesitated and looked across at the doctors, but they simply shrugged. Pulling the curtain back fully, he pushed open the bronze and glass doors that led out onto the balcony, then stood there, feeling the freshness of the breeze on his face and arms, looking out across the gardens toward the distant mountains. After a moment he turned back, facing his father.
In the sudden brightness Wei Feng was squinting at him, a faint smile on his creased and ancient-looking face. "Better," he said, easing himself back onto the pillows. "It's like a tomb. Each night they tuck me up and bury me. And yet, when the morning comes, I am still here."