"It's all right," she said, turning back to face Jelka. "I can explain . . ."
But Jelka was no longer there. She was outside, leaning over the balcony, gulping in air, the image of the tiny goat-creature like a mocking demon burning indelibly in the redness behind her closed lids.
T u A N TI F O looked up from where he was making ch'a to where the boy lay sleeping on the bedroll in the far corner of the room. He had been asleep for some time, physically exhausted after his ordeal, but now he tossed and turned, held fast in the grip of some awful nightmare.
The old man put down the ch'a bowl and the cloth and went across to the boy, balancing on his haunches beside him.
The boy seemed in pain, his lips drawn back from his teeth in what was almost a snarl, his whole body hunched into itself, as if something ate at him from within. He thrashed this way and that, as if fighting himself; then, with a shudder that frightened the old man, went still.
"Gweder . . ." the boy said quietly. "Gweder . . ."
It was said softly, almost gently, yet the word itself was hard, the two sounds of which it was made stranger than anything Tuan Ti Fo had ever heard.
For a moment there was silence, then the boy spoke again, the whole of him gathered up into the movement of his lips.
"PandY'a bos ef, Lagasek?"
This time the voice was harsh, almost guttural. Tuan Ti Fo felt a small ripple of fear pass through him; yet he calmed himself inwardly, a still, small voice chanting the chen yen to dispense with fear.
"Travyth, Gweder. Travyth . . ."
He narrowed his eyes, understanding. Two voices. The first much softer, gentler than the second. Gweder and Lagasek . . . But what did it mean? And what was this language? He had never heard its like before.
He watched, seeing how the face changed, ugly one moment, peaceful, almost innocent the next. Now it was ugly, the mouth distorted. Gweder was speaking again, his voice harsh, spitting out the words in challenge.
"Praga obery why crenna? Bos why yeyn, Lagasek?"
The boy shivered violently and the face changed, all spite, all anger draining from it. Softly now it answered, the brittle edges of the words rounded off. Yet there was pain behind the words. Pain and a dreadful sense of loss.
"Yma gweras yn aw ganow, Gweder . . . gweras ... ha an pyth bos tewl."
The abruptness of the change made him shudder. And the laughter . . .
The laughter was demonic. The face now shone with a dark and greedy malice. With evil.
"Nyns-us pyth, Lagasek."
There was such an awful mockery in that face that it made Tuan Ti Fo want to strike it with his fist.
Slowly, very slowly, the malice sank down into the tissue of the face. Again the boy's features settled into a kinder, more human form.
"A'dhywar-lur . . ." it breathed. "A-dhywar-lur." Then, in a cry of anguish, "My bos yn annown . . . Yn annown!"
A ragged breath escaped Tuan Ti Fo. He stood abruptly, then crossed the room to the tiny bookshelf. He brought the book back, then squatted there again, closing his eyes and opening the pages at random, reading the first thing his eyes opened upon.
He smiled. It was a passage from midway through Book One. One of his favorites. He read, letting his voice be an instrument to soothe the boy.
"Thirty spokes share one hub. Adapt the nothing therein to the purpose in hand, and you will have the use of the cart. Knead clay in order to make a vessel. Adapt the nothing therein to the purpose in hand, and you will have the use of the vessel. Cut out doors and windows in order to make a room. Adapt the nothing therein to the purpose in hand, and you will have the use of the room. Thus what we gain is Something, yet it is by virtue of Nothing that this can be put to use."
He looked down, seeing how still the boy had become, as if listening to his words; yet he was still asleep.
"Who are you, boy?" he asked softly, putting the book down. He reached across and pulled up the blanket until it covered the boy's chest. Yes, he thought, and what brought you here tome? For the fates as surely directed you to me as they directed my feet this morning to a path 1 never took before.
He leaned back, then took up the book and began to read again, letting Lao Tzu's words—words more than two-and-a-half thousand years old—wash over the sleeping boy and bring him ease.
"Well?"
Karr stared back morosely at his friend, then put his ch'a bowl down.
"Nothing. The trail's gone cold. I tracked the boy as far as the factory, but there it ended. It's as if he vanished. There's no way he could have got past that guard post."
Chen sat down, facing Karr across the table. "Then he's still there. In the factory."
Karr shook his head. "We've taken it apart. Literally. I had a hundred men in there, dismantling the place back to the bare walls. But nothing."
"We've missed something, that's all. I'll come back with you. We can go through it again."
Karr looked down. "Maybe. But I've been through it a dozen, twenty times already. It's as if he was spirited away."
Chen studied his friend a moment. He had never seen Karr looking so down in the mouth.
"Cheer up," he said. "It can't be that bad."
"No?" Karr sat back, drawing himself up to his full height. "It seems Ebert's to be appointed General. The old T'ang accepted Nocenzi's resignation before he died. Tolonen was to step back into the job, but it seems the new T'ang wants a new man in the post."
Chen grimaced, then sat back. "Then our lives aren't worth a beggar's shit." Karr stared at him a moment, then laughed. "You think?"
"And you don't?"
Karr stood up. "Let a thousand devils take Hans Ebert. We'll concentrate on finding the boy. After all, that's our job, isn't it—finding people?"
li yuan was the first to arrive. Walking from the hangar, he felt detached, as if outside himself, watching. The meaning of this death had come to him slowly; not as grief but as nakedness, for this death exposed him. There was no one now but him; a single link from a broken chain.
Outside his father's rooms he stopped, in the grip of a strong reluctance, but the eyes of others were upon him. Steeling himself, he ordered the doors unlocked, then went inside.
The doors closed, leaving him alone with his dead father.
Li Shai Tung lay in his bed, as if he slept, yet his face was pale like carved ivory, his chest still.
Li Yuan stood there, looking down at him. The old man's eyes were closed, the thin lids veined, mauve leaf patterns on the milky white. He knelt, studying the patterns in the white, but like the rest it meant nothing. It was merely a pattern, a repetition.
He shook his head, not understanding, knowing only that he had never seen his father sleeping. Never seen those fierce, proud eyes closed before this moment.
He put his hand out, touching his father's cheek. The flesh was cold. Shockingly cold. He drew his hand back sharply, then shuddered. Where did it go? Where did all that warmth escape to?
Into the air, he said silently to himself. Into the air.
He stood, then drew the covers back. Beneath the silken sheets his father lay there naked, the frailty of his body revealed. Li Yuan looked, feeling an instinctive pity for his father. Not love, but pity. Pity for what time had done to him.
Death had betrayed him. Had found him weak and vulnerable.
His eyes moved down the body, knowing that others had looked before he had. Surgeons with their dispassionate eyes; looking, as he looked now.