He smiled, looking about him, seeing his smile mirrored uncertainly in thirty faces. "I, above all others, cannot afford to be ill. Where would Chung Kuo be if we who ruled were always being sick?"
There was laughter, but it lacked the heartiness, the sincerity of the laughter he was accustomed to from those surrounding him. He could hear the fear in their voices and understood its origin. And, in some small way, was reassured by it. It was when the laughter ceased altogether that one had to worry. When fear gave way to relief and a different kind of laughter.
He looked about him, his head lifted, his heart suddenly warmed by their concern for him, then turned and began making his way back to the imperial craft.
yin TSU welcomed the Prince and brought him ch'a.
"You know why I've come?" Li Yuan asked, trying to conceal the pain he felt.
Yin Tsu bowed his head, his ancient face deeply lined. "I know, Li Yuan. And I am sorry that this day has come. My house is greatly saddened."
Li Yuan nodded uncomfortably. The last thing he had wished for was to hurt the old man, but it could not be helped. Even so, this was a bitter business. Twice Yin Tsu had thought to link his line with kings, and twice he had been denied that honor.
"You will not lose by this, Yin Tsu," he said softly, his heart going out to the old man. "Your sons ..."
But it was only half true. After all, what could he give Yin's sons to balance the scale? Nothing. Or as good as.
Yin Tsu bowed lower.
"Can I see her, Father?"
It was the last time he would call him that and he could see the pain it brought to the old man's face. This was not my doing, he thought, watching Yin Tsu straighten up then go to bring her.
He was back almost at once, leading his daughter.
Fei Yen sat across from him, her head bowed, waiting. She was more than eight months pregnant now, so this had to be dealt with at once. The child might come any day. Even so, he was determined to be gentle with her.
"How are you?" he asked tenderly, concerned for her in spite of all that had happened between them.
"I am well, my Lord," she answered, subdued, unable to look at him. She knew how things stood. Knew why he had come.
"Fei Yen, this is—painful for me. But you knew when we wed that I was not as other men—that my life, my choices, were not those of normal men." He sighed deeply, finding it hard to say what he must. He raised his chin, looking at Yin Tsu, who nodded, his face held rigid in a grimace of pain. "My Family—I must ensure my line. Make certain."
These were evasions. He had yet to say it direct. He took another breath and spoke.
"You say it is not my child. But I must be sure of that. There must be tests. And then, if it is so, we must be divorced. For no claim can be permitted if the child is not mine. You must be clear on that, Fei Yen."
Again Yin Tsu nodded. Beside him his daughter was still, silent.
He looked away, momentarily overcome by the strength of what he still felt for her, then forced himself to be insistent.
"Will you do as I say, Fei Yen?"
She looked up at him. Her eyes were wet with tears. Dark, almond eyes that pierced him with their beauty. "I will do whatever you wish, my Lord."
He stared at her, wanting to cross the space between them and kiss away her tears, to forgive her everything and start again. Even now. Even after all she had done to him. But she had left him no alternative. This thing could not be changed. In this he could not trust to what he felt, for feeling had failed him. His father was right. What good was feeling when the world was dark and hostile? Besides, his son must be his son.
"Then it shall be done," he said bluntly, almost angrily. "Tomorrow."
He stood, then walked across the room, touching the old man's arm briefly, sympathetically. "And we shall speak again tomorrow, Yin Tsu. When things are better known."
the old han squatted at the entrance to the corridor, waiting patiently, knowing the dream had been a true dream, one of those he could not afford to ignore. Beside him, against the wall, he had placed those things he had seen himself use in the dream—a blanket and his old porcelain water bottle.
This level was almost deserted. The great clothing factory that took up most of it had shut down its operations more than four hours ago and only a handful of Security guards and maintenance engineers were to be found down here now. The old man smiled, recalling how he had slipped past the guards like a shadow.
His name was Tuan Ti Fo, and though he squatted like a young man, his muscles uncomplaining under him, he was as old as the great City itself. This knowledge he kept to himself, for to others he was simply Old Tuan, his age, like his origins, undefined. He lived simply, some would say frugally, in his rooms eight levels up from where he now waited. And though many knew him, few could claim to be close to the peaceful, white-haired old man. He kept himself very much to himself, studying the ancient books he kept in the box beside his bed, doing his exercises, or playing himself at wei chi—long games that could take a day, sometimes even a week to complete.
The corridor he was facing was less than twenty ch'i long, a narrow, dimly lit affair that was little more than a feeder tunnel to the maintenance hatch in the ceiling at its far end. Tuan Ti Fo watched, knowing what would happen, his ancient eyes half-lidded, his breathing unaltered as the hatch juddered once, twice, then dropped, swinging violently on the hinge. A moment later a foot appeared— a child's foot—followed by a leg, a steadying hand. He watched the boy emerge, legs first; then drop.
Tuan Ti Fo lifted himself slightly, staring into the dimness. For a time the boy lay where he had fallen; then he rolled over onto his side, a small whimper—of pain, perhaps, or fear—carrying to where the old Han crouched.
In the dream this was the moment when he had acted. And so now. Nodding gently to himself, he reached beside him for the blanket.
Tuan Ti Fo moved silently, effortlessly through the darkness. For a moment he knelt beside the boy, looking down at him; again, as in the dream, the reality of it no clearer than the vision he had had. He smiled, and unfolding the blanket, began to wrap the sleeping boy in it.
The boy murmured softly as he lifted him, then began to struggle. Tuan Ti Fo waited, his arms cradling the boy firmly yet reassuringly against his chest until he calmed. Only then did he carry him back to the entrance.
Tuan Ti Fo crouched down, the boy balanced in his lap, the small, dark, tousled head resting against his chest, and reached out for the water bottle. He drew the hinged stopper back and put the mouth of the bottle to the child's lips, wetting them. Waiting a moment, he placed it to the boy's mouth again. This time the lips parted, taking in a little of the water.
It was enough. The mild drug in the liquid would help calm him, make him sleep until the shock of his ordeal had passed.
Tuan Ti Fo stoppered the bottle and fixed it to the small hook on his belt, then straightened up. He had not really noticed before but the boy weighed almost nothing in his arms. He looked down at the child, surprised, as if the boy would vanish at any moment, leaving him holding nothing.
"You're a strange one," he said softly, moving outside the dream a moment. "It's many years since the gods sent me one to tend."
So it was. Many, many years. And why this one? Maybe it had something to do with the other dreams—the dreams of dead, dark lands and of huge brilliant webs, stretched out like stringed beads, burning in the darkness of the sky. Dreams of wells and spires and falling Cities. Dreams filled with suffering and strangeness.
And what was the boys role in all of that? Why had the gods chosen him to do their work?
Tuan Ti Fo smiled, knowing it was not for him to ask, nor for them to answer. Then, letting his actions be shaped once more by the dream, he set off, carrying the boy back down the broad main corridor toward the guard post and the lift beyond.