Kim took the envelope without looking at it. "What is it?"
"A letter of introduction, to the Hang Su Credit Agency."
"Credit?" Kim laughed, recalling the difficulties he had faced in going to the Credit Agencies when he had first set up Ch'i Chu. The message had been the same everywhere he'd turned. Find a major sponsor or forget it. That was how things worked here. Big fish and little fish. But he had been determined to keep his independence. He had struggled on, slowly using up the funds Li Yuan had given him, cutting corners and making do, trusting that his talent would be enough to pull him through. But now it was make-or-break time. He had to sell some of his ideas—to generate enough money to allow Ch'i Chu to live another year or two.
He shrugged. "I'm not averse to the idea, but who in their right mind would give me credit?"
Michael smiled. "Don't worry. IVe made discreet inquiries and it seems that the Brothers Hang are willing to do business with you. IVe arranged an interview for tomorrow at two."
Kim laughed, genuinely surprised. "Okay. But what do I put up for security? IVe sunk everything I have into this place. And now that your father has tightened the reins . . ."
Michael was still smiling. "What about the patents? They're worth something, aren't they?"
"Maybe. Once theyVe been developed."
"Then use them. You plan to register them tomorrow, right? Good. Then go and see the Brothers straight afterward. Put the patents up as security. You'll have your funding by six tomorrow evening, I guarantee."
Kim studied the envelope a moment, then, smiling, looked back up at Michael. "Okay. I'll do as you say. And thank you, Michael. Thank you for everything."
"Oh, and one last thing. How busy are you?"
Kim laughed. "I'm always busy. But what do you mean?"
"Tonight, I mean. Could you free some time?"
"I guess so. Everything's prepared for tomorrow. What is it?"
Michael smiled, a broad, warm smile of enjoyment, undiminished by his troubles with his father. "It's a ball, Kim. A coming-of-age ball for a good friend of mine." He reached into his pocket and took out a card, handing it across. "Here. Your invitation. It's fancy dress."
"Fancy dress?"
Lever laughed, beginning to leave. "Ask T'ai Cho. And if you've any trouble rustling up a costume, contact my secretary, Mary. She'll sort something out for you."
Kim studied the gilt lettering of the invitation and nodded, recalling the last time he had been to a ball—the evening the younger sons had been arrested—and felt a tiny, unexpected thrill of anticipation ripple down his spine.
"Sweetheart?"
Jelka stood there before the giant image of her father's face, smiling broadly. "Daddy! How are you? When are you coming home?"
The great wall of the Marshal's face restructured itself, the muscles of the mouth and cheeks rearranging themselves, the broad smile becoming a look of dour resignation.
"Something's come up, I'm afraid. A development in the GenSyn case. It's important—something I have to follow up personally—so I might be here another three or four days. Is that all right?"
She smiled determinedly. "Of course, Papa. You do what you have to do. I'll be okay."
"Good." He stared at her proudly a moment, his eyes great orbs of steel amjd the craggy cliff-face of his features.
"So how was lunch?"
"Lunch?" He frowned, then, realizing what she meant, gave a broad grin. "Lunch was fine. Young Ward sends his regards. It seems he'll be coming over to Europe quite soon, to be wired."
"Wired?" She looked up into her father's face uncertainly.
"You know . . ." He touched the access slot beneath his right ear uneasily, knowing how she felt about it. "The standard thing. A direct-processing link. He says it'll help with his work. Make things easier. Anyway . . ." he cleared his throat and put on a determinedly cheerful expression, "you can talk to him directly about it when he's over. IVe invited him to dinner."
She nodded, pretending a polite interest, but beneath it she felt her chest tighten, her pulse begin to quicken. "That's good. It'll be nice to see him again."
For a moment the old man's face beamed down at his daughter, drinking in the sight of her, then, with a deep sniff, he sat back slightly, his expression suddenly more businesslike.
"Well, my girl. I must get on. There's much to do here, and I'd like to get it done with as soon as possible."
"Of course. And take care, all right?"
He nodded, the movement exaggerated by the screen. "And you, my love." Then he was gone, the screen blank.
She went across and sat at her father's desk, swiveling the big chair back and forth, staring out across the room thoughtfully. So the boy was coming here...
She frowned, then gave a small, strange laugh. The boy was not a child these days. In fact, if she remembered rightly, Kim was almost a year older than her. It was just that she still thought of him like that. After all, he was so small. So tiny and graceful. So delicately formed. . .
She shivered, then stood, disturbed suddenly by the thought of him coming there. ,But why should that be? He was just a boy, after all. A friend and colleague of her father's. It wasn't as if...
She shook her head, then turned, facing the screen once more, staring at the perfect whiteness. It was just that his eyes had burned so brightly that time. As if they saw things differently.
For the briefest instant she saw once more the tiny fox, there in the cave on the island, staring back at her with its dark and feral eyes, the memory so vivid it was as if she stood there, watching it once more. And then it was gone, leaving only the plain white screen, and the memory of some wild, dark thing that did not belong in the world of levels.
NAN HO was flying east, over the heart of Asia, the sun behind him now, the Altai Mountains beneath. Ahead lay the great desert, beyond it, ancient China and, in the shadow of the Ta Pa Shan in Sichuan Province, the estate at Tongjiang. He had sent ahead that he was coming, but, in the wake of Wei Feng's death—announced on the media an hour into his flight—he was not certain what state things would be in.
Wei Feng had been the oldest, the last of that generation. Even Wu Shih, the eldest of them now, was but a .young man by comparison.
The thought troubled Nan Ho as he sat in his padded chair, sorting through his papers. The new T'ang, Wei Chan Yin, was a good man and a sound administrator, who had proved himself already as Regent in his father's stead, but Wei Feng's death had robbed the Council of its last real vestige of experience. Without the old man, they seemed less dignified, robbed somehow of authority. It would not be said, not openly, but it was certain to be thought—to be whispered ear to ear. And, though no outward change would be evident, the Seven would be weaker. For power was something manifested not merely in its exercise, but also in how the people perceived those who ruled them.
For the third time in as many years, the Seven were diminished: first by the murder of Wang Hsien, then by Li Shai Tung's sudden demise, and now this. It was fortunate, perhaps, that they had made their "deal" with the Above before the news had broken. Or maybe not. Maybe this news—to be announced this very evening—would be seen as further weakness. As a further erosion of power.
And when power failed altogether?
Nan Ho shuddered, then pushed the papers aside, angry with himself, conscious that Hung Mien-lo's words had got to him. Yet even as he settled back in his chair, a new determination formed in him. Whatever happened from now on, he would be prepared for it. For he was warned now. It would be no one's fault but his if they faltered in the years ahead. And he, Nan Ho, son of Nan Ho-tse, would do his utmost to ensure that that did not happen. He would make it his sole concern—his life's work.