A border of tiles, glassy black and bright with darkness, surrounded the central hexagonal space. Huge, claw-footed plinths rested on this polished darkness, each bearing a man-sized vase; brutal-lipped and heavy vases, decorated in violent swirls of red and green and black. Elongated animals coiled about the thick trunk of each vase, facing each other with bared fangs and flaring eyes. On the walls beyond hung huge, wall-sized canvases in thick gilt frames, so dark as to seem in permanent shadow; visions of some ancient forest hell, where huntsmen ran on foot, ax or bow in hand, after a wounded stag. Again there was the green of primal forest, the black of shadows, the red of blood; these three repeated in each frame, melting into one another as in a mist.
A dark-red carpet lay lush, luxuriant beneath her feet, while the ceiling above was the black of a starless night.
A voice spoke to her, close by. She smelled a sickly sweetness, masking some deeper, stronger scent. Turning, she met a pink-eyed stare. A three-toed hand held out a glass. The voice was burred, deep, sounding in the creature's throat. She looked at it aghast, then took the offered glass.
The creature smiled and poured the blood-red liquid into the slender crystal. Again she saw the lace at its cuffs, the neat whiteness of its collar. But now she saw the bright, red roughness of the sprouting hairs on its neck, the meat-pink color of its flesh, and felt her skin crawl in aversion.
She stood and brushed past it, spilling her wine over the creature's jacket, the stain a vivid slash of color on the ice-white velvet of its sleeve.
The creature's eyes flared briefly, following her figure as she crossed the room toward her father. Then it looked down at its sleeve, its brutal lips curled back with distaste at the spoiled perfection there.
Li s H AI TUNG sat at his desk, his hands resting lightly on either side of the tiny porcelain figure, his face a mask of pain and bitter disappointment. He had tried to deny it, but there was no doubting it now. Tsu Ma's last message made it clear. It was Wang Ta Chuan. Wang, his trusted Master of the Inner Palace, who was the traitor.
The old T'ang shuddered. First the boy Chung Hsin and now Wang Ta Chuan. Was there no end to this foulness? Was there no one he could trust?
He had done as Tsu Ma had suggested after the last meeting of the Council. He had looked for the spy within his household and concluded that only four people had been privy to the information Wang Sau-leyan had used against him, four of his most senior and trusted men: Chung Hu-yan, his Chancellor; Nan Ho, Master of Yuan's chambers; Li Feng Chiang, his brother and advisor; and Wang Ta Chuan.
At first it had seemed unthinkable that any one of them could have betrayed him. But he had done as Tsu Ma said; had brought each to him separately and sown in them—casually, in confidence—a single tiny seed of information, different in each instance.
And then he had waited to hear what Tsu Ma's spies reported back, hoping beyond hope that there would be nothing. But this morning it had come. Word that the false seed had sprouted in Wang Sau-leyaris ear.
He groaned, then leaned forward, pressing the summons pad. At once Chung Hu-yan appeared at the door, his head bowed.
"Chieh Hsia?"
Li Shai Tung smiled, comforted by the sight of his Chancellor.
"Bring Wang Ta Chuan to me, Hu-yan. Bring him, then close the doors and leave me with him,"
Li Shai Tung saw the slight query in his Chancellor's eyes. Chung Hu-yan had been with him too long not to sense his moods. Even so, he said nothing, merely bowed and turned away, doing his master's bidding without question.
"A good man . . ." he said softly, then sat back, closing his eyes, trying to compose himself.
Wang Ta Chuan was a traitor. There was no doubt about it. But he would have it from the man's lips. Would have him bow before him and admit it.
And then?
He banged the table angrily, making the tiny porcelain statue shudder.
The man would have to die. Yet his family might live. If he confessed. If he admitted of his own free will what he had done. Otherwise they, too, would have to die. His wives, his sons, and all his pretty grandchildren—all to the third generation as the law demanded. And all because of his foolishness, his foulness.
Why? he asked himself for the hundredth time since he had known. Why had Wang Ta Chuan betrayed him? Was it envy? Was it repayment for some slight he felt had been made to him? Or was it something darker, nastier than that? Did Wang Sau-leyan have some kind of hold on him? Or was it simply greed?
He shook his head, not understanding. Surely Wang had all he wanted? Status, riches, a fine, healthy family. What more did a man need?
Li Shai Tung reached out and drew the statue to him, studying it while he mulled over these thoughts, turning it in his hands, some part of him admiring the ancient craftsman's skill—the beauty of the soft-blue glaze, the perfect, lifelike shape of the horse.
It was strange how this had returned to him. Young Ebert had brought it to him only that morning, having recovered it in a raid on one of the Ping Tioo cells. It was one of the three that had been taken from the safe in Helmstadt Armory and its discovery in the hands of the Ping Tioo had confirmed what he had always believed.
But now the Ping Tioo were broken, the horse returned. There would be no more trouble from that source.
There was a knocking on the outer doors. He looked up, then set the statue to one side. "Come!" he said imperiously, straightening in his chair.
Chung Hu-yan escorted the Master of the Inner Palace into the room, then backed away, closing the doors behind him.
"Chieh Hsial" Wang Ta Chuan said, bowing low, his manner no less respectful, no less solicitous than it had always been.
"Come closer," Li Shai Tung ordered. "Come kneel before the desk."
Wang Ta Chuan lifted his head briefly, surprised by his T'ang's request, then did as he was told.
"Have I displeased you, Chieh Hsia?"
Li Shai Tung hesitated, then decided to broach the matter directly; but before he could open his mouth, the doors to his study burst open and Li Yuan stormed in.
"Yuan! What is the meaning of this?" he said, starting up from his chair.
"I am sorry, Father, but I had to see you. It's Fei. . . She . . ." Li Yuan hesitated, taking in the sight of the kneeling man, then went across and touched his shoulder. "Wang Ta Chuan, would you leave us? I must talk with my father."
"Yuan!" The violence of the words surprised both the Prince and the kneeling servant. "Be quiet, boy! Have you forgotten where you are?"
Li Yuan swallowed, then bowed low.
"Good!" Li Shai Tung said angrily. "Now hold your tongue and take a seat. I have urgent business with Master Wang. Business that cannot be put off."
He came from behind the desk and stood over Wang Ta Chuan. "Have you something to tell me, Wang Ta Chuan?"
"Chieh Hsia?" The tone—of surprise and mild indignation—was perfect, but Li Shai Tung was not fooled. To be a traitor—to be the perfect copy of a loyal man— one needed such tricks. Tricks of voice and gesture. Those and a stock of ready smiles.
"You would rather have it otherwise, then, Master Wang? You would rather I told you?"
He saw the mask slip. Saw the sudden calculation in the face and felt himself go cold. So it was true.
Li Yuan had stood. He took a step toward the T'ang. "What is this, Father?"
"Be quiet, Yuan!" he said again, taking a step toward him, the hem of his robes brushing against the kneeling man's hands.
"Father.'"
He turned at Yuan's warning, but he was too slow. Wang Ta Chuan had grabbed the hem of the T'ang's ceremonial pau, twisting the silk about his wrist, while his other hand searched among his robes and emerged with a knife.