"And the draft of these proposals?" Ping Hsiang asked, looking to either side of him as he spoke.
"A document is being prepared, even as we speak, and will be ready for the signature of all before we leave. You will all be given copies to take with you, naturally."
Nan Ho saw the grins of pleasure at that news and smiled inwardly. He had brought them a long way this night, from open hostility and mistrust of the Seven and their motives, to a new respect, and maybe even a grudging admiration for the men who ruled them. On the way he had gained all that his masters had entrusted him, as spokesman of their negotiating committee, to gain, and had given no more—less, in fact—than they had empowered him to give. All in all, then, it had been a successful round of negotiations, and the irony was that, now that it was done, the men who sat facing him positively glowed with satisfaction, as if they had put one over on him.
But then, that was the art of negotiation, surely? From the simplest marketplace haggling to the subtle art of statecraft, the principle behind it was the same: one had to forget the value of the thing one wanted, and begin negotiations from a point beyond. To over or undervalue, that was the basis of it, the one and only secret. But to do that one had also to know, with pinpoint accuracy, just what the thing desired was truly worth. So it had been today. He had spent long months establishing clearly in his mind just what it was the two sides wanted from this meeting.
And now it was done.
Nan Ho stood, looking about him, then clapped his hands together sharply, summoning the pavilion's servants. At once, two dozen shaven-headed young men entered, heads bowed respectfully, bearing trays of food and wine. He watched them move about the table, offering refreshments, then turned away, going across to the long window that curved away to either side.
Out there a new day was beginning, sunlight glittering off the upper windows of the House, stretching down the smooth, pearled flanks of the great building toward the deep shadow at its foot. Yesterday, before the meeting, Nan Ho had had the great doors unlocked and had gone into the House, pacing its empty corridors and lobbies until he came out into the echoing vastness of the central debating chamber. There, surrounded by tier upon tier of empty seats, he had imagined it, a year from now, filled with the elected representatives of the Above—ten thousand voices clamoring to be heard above the din—and for a moment had found himself beset by doubts. Yet he knew that there was no stepping back from this course, no real alternative to this compact between Seven and Above. It was as Li Yuan argued: it was this or nothing. And so he had shrugged off his doubts and gone to the negotiating table with a clear, hard mind, softening his stance only when it was clear to those who sat opposite him that he was bargaining from a position of strength, not weakness. Only then had he relaxed, bowing like the reed before the wind, making unexpected concessions. The Seven's demand for a maximum of two children per married couple was softened to three. A provocative "retrospective action" clause, never intended to be part of the final package, was fought for and then abandoned. A proposal to extend the voting franchise from the top fifty to the top one hundred levels—a measure as abhorrent to the Seven as it was to the seven graybeards facing Nan Ho—was pressed and then dropped. And so it went on, false bargains being made, while real concessions were gained.
There were footsteps just behind him. Nan Ho half turned, then formed his features into a tight, polite smile. It was Hung Mien-lo, the Chancellor of City Africa, Wang Sau-leyan's man.
"Well, Chancellor Nan," Hung said softly, his voice not carrying beyond their circle, "we have what we came for, neh?"
Nan Ho looked beyond Hung Mien-lo at the graybeards gathered on the far side of the table. "So it seems," he said, mistrustful of the man. "But it is not the power we give them that worries me—for that is little enough—as that which they might yet take for themselves. There is no stepping back from this course. To close the House a second time . . . Well, it is inconceivable, neh?"
Hung Mien-lo smiled. "Maybe. And yet stranger things have happened."
Nan Ho shook his head, disturbed by the thought. "No. To close the House again is unthinkable. Our task henceforth is a simple one. We must find ways of harnessing that power."
"Like 'Pockets' you mean?"
Nan Ho narrowed his eyes, trying to gauge what the odier meant by his comment. "Pockets"—tai—were Representatives who had been bought by the Seven, and who had, in the past, exerted considerable influence over the House. But in the period leading up to the War-that-wasn't-a-War the Seven had tried to swamp the House with "Pockets" and the institution had fallen into disrepute. The impeachment and arrest of the tai in the Spring of 2201 had, in effect, been a declaration of independence by the House from the Seven, and had led directly to the War.
Nan Ho shrugged. "In this, as in all else, the past shows us the way to the future."
"The past. . ." Hung Mien-lo laughed softly and leaned closer. "And when the future finally comes? What then, Master Nan? How do we block the future? How harness it? For it is coming. You and I know that, even if our masters don't."
Nan Ho stared back at Hung Mien-lo a moment, his face impassive, then, seeing that the scribes were finished, the document prepared, moved past his fellow Chancellor, leaving the questions unanswered.
THE TWO bodyguards looked about them nervously as the sedan was set down, unused to being so far down the levels, but Michael Lever, stepping down from the carriage, seemed not to notice their unease. He looked about him, noting the stark neatness of his surroundings, then crossed the narrow hallway.
There was no entrance hall, no suite of offices isolating the inner workings of the Company from the outside world, merely a big double door, decorated, like many Company premises, with the Company logo. Lever smiled, amused by the simplicity of it all. He reached out to touch the delicate, shimmering web, then drew his fingers back sharply, surprised to find the strands warm, the background deathly cold.
He took a step back, studying the design. At the center of the web was a tiny, smiling spider, while above it was the Company name, Ch't Chu—Spider—written in English and Mandarin.
This was the first time he had visited Kim at his facility and, despite all Kim had said, he was surprised to find it all so low-key. Why, there wasn't even a camera over the doorway . . .
The doors shuddered, then, unexpectedly, melted away, leaving only the logo, hovering in the empty darkness. One of the guards made to come past him, but Michael raised a hand. Then, a faint smile of amusement on his lips, he stepped through.
There was the faintest crackle of static, the feeling of having.passed through the flimsiest of barriers, and then he was inside. A tall, slightly balding Han stood before him, his head lowered, his hands folded before him respectfully.
"Welcome, Shih Lever. We were expecting you."
Michael laughed. "I see you were." He turned, watching the door shimmer back into existence.
"Two holograms," the Han explained, straightening up. "One for the door, one for the logo. And behind them a security force field. It was Kim's idea."
Michael nodded. "It's clever. But I prefer more solid things."
"Perhaps so. But solidity is a relative thing, Shih Lever. If the field had been turned on, you would have found it hard enough to walk through, hologram or no. But forgive me, let me introduce myself. My name is T'ai Cho."
Michael lowered his head. "T'ai Cho ... I am delighted to meet you. Kim has spoken often of you. He is fortunate to have such a good friend and guardian."
The Han bowed, but his face remained expressionless. "The good fortune has been mine alone, Shih Lever. The honor of serving so fine and talented a young man falls to few in this life. I would have counted my life as having had little meaning had I not met Shih Ward."