He shuddered. The body was thin, painfully emaciated, but unmarked. His father had been ill. Badly ill. That surprised him, and he paused a moment before putting back the sheet. It was unlike his father not to comment on his health. Something was amiss. Some element beyond simple senility had been the cause of this.
He had no proof and yet his sense of wrongness was strong. It made him turn and look about him, noting the presence of each object in the room, questioning their fiinction. All seemed well, and yet the sense of wrongness persisted.
He went outside, into the hallway. Surgeon Hua was waiting there with his assistants.
"How has my father been, Hua? Was he eating well?"
The old man shook his head. "Not for some time, Chieh Hsia. Not since Han's death. But. . ." he pursed his lips, considering, "well enough for an old man. And your father was old, Li Yuan."
Li Yuan nodded, but he was still troubled. "Was he ... clear? In his mind, I mean?"
"Yes, Chieh Hsia. Even last night." Hua paused, frowning, as if he, too, were troubled by something. "There was nothing evidently wrong with him. We've . . . examined him and . . ."
"Evidently!"
Hua nodded, but his eyes were watchful.
"But you think that appearances might be deceptive, is that it, Hua?"
The old surgeon hesitated. "It isn't something I can put my finger on, Chieh Hsia. Just a ... a feehng I have. Confucius says—"
"Just tell me, Hua," Li Yuan said, interrupting him, reaching out to hold his arm, his fondness for the old man showing in his face. "No proverbs, please. Just tell me what made you feel something was wrong."
"This will sound unprofessional, Chieh Hsia, but as you've asked." Hua paused, clearing his throat. "Well, he was not himself. He was sharp, alert, and in a sense no different from his old self, but he was not—somehow—Li Shai Tung. He seemed like an actor, mimicking your father. Playing him exceptionally well, but not. . ."
He faltered, shaking his head, grief overwhelming him.
"Not like the real thing," Li Yuan finished for him.
Hua nodded. "He was . . . uncertain. And your father never was uncertain."
Li Yuan considered a moment, then gave his instructions. "I want you to perform an autopsy, Hua. I want you to find out why he died. I want to know what killed him."
TSU MA was dressed in white, his hair tied back in a single elegant bow. The effect was striking in its simplicity, its sobriety; while his face had a gentleness Li Yuan had never seen in it before. He came forward and embraced Li Yuan, holding him to his breast, one hand smoothing the back of his neck. It was this, more than the death, more than the coldness of his father's cheek, that broke the ice that had formed about his feelings. At last he let go, feeling the sorrow rise and spill from him.
"Good, good," Tsu Ma whispered softly, stroking his neck. "A man should cry for his father." And when he moved back, there were tears in his eyes, real grief in his expression.
"And Wei Feng?" Li Yuan asked, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.
"He's waiting below." Tsu Ma smiled, a friend's strong smile. "We'll go when you're ready."
"I'm ready," Li Yuan answered, straightening, unashamed now of his tears, feeling much better for them. "Let us see our cousin."
Wei Feng was waiting in the viewing room, wearing a simple robe of white gathered at the waist. As Li Yuan came down the stairs Wei Feng came across and embraced him, whispering his condolences. But he seemed older than Li Yuan remembered him. Much older.
"Are you all right, Wei Feng?" he asked, concerned for the old man's health.
Wei Feng laughed. A short, melodic sound. "As well as could be expected, Yuan." His expression changed subtly. "But your father . . ." He sighed. Wei Feng was the oldest now. By almost twenty years the oldest. "So much has changed, Yuan. So much. And now this. This seems . . ." He shrugged, as if it were beyond words to say.
"I know." Li Yuan frowned, releasing him. "They killed him, Wei Feng."
Wei Feng simply looked puzzled, but Tsu Ma came close, taking his arm. "How do you know? Is there proof?"
"Proof? No. But I know. I'm sure of it, Tsu Ma. I've asked Surgeon Hua to ... to do an autopsy. Maybe that will show something, but even so, I know."
"So what now?" Wei Feng had crossed his arms. His face was suddenly hard, his tiny figure filled with power.
"So now we play their game. Remove the gloves."
Beside him Tsu Ma nodded.
"We know our enemies," Li Yuan said, with an air of finality. "We have only to find them."
"DeVore, you mean?" Tsu Ma looked across at Wei Feng. The old man's face was troubled, but his jaw was set. Determination weighed the heavier in his conflicting emotions. Tsu Ma narrowed his eyes, considering. "And then?"
Li Yuan turned. His eyes seemed intensely black, like space itself; cold, vacant, all trace of life and warmth gone from them. His face was closed, expressionless, like a mask. "Arrange a meeting of the Council, Tsu Ma. Let Chi Hsing host it. We must talk."
Li Yuan was barely eighteen, yet the tone, the small movement of the left hand that accompanied the final words, were uncannily familiar, as if the father spoke and acted through the son.
CHAPTER SIX
Chen Yen
The ch'a bowl lay to one side, broken, its contents spilled across the floor. Beside it Tuan Ti Fo crouched, his back to the door, facing the boy.
"Yn-mes a forth, cothwasl" the boy snarled, the sound coming from the back of his throat. "Yn-mes a forthl"
Tuan Ti Fo felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. The boy was down on all fours, his face hideously ugly, the features distorted with rage, the chin thrust forward aggressively, his round, dark eyes filled with animal menace. He made small movements with his body, feinting this way and that, gauging Tuan Ti Fo's response to each, a low growling coming from his throat.
It was the third time the boy had tried to get past him, and, as before, he seemed surprised by the old man's quickness; shocked that, whichever way he moved, Tuan Ti Fo was there, blocking his way.
The old man swayed gently on his haunches, then, as the boy threw himself to the left, moved effortlessly across, fending off the child with his palms, using the least force possible to achieve his end. The boy withdrew, yelping with frustration, then turned and threw himself again, like a dog, going for Tuan's throat.
This time he had to fight the boy. Had to strike him hard and step back, aiming a kick to the stomach to disable him. Yet even as the boy fell back, gasping for breath, that strange transformation overcame him again. As Tuan Ti Fo watched, the harshness faded from the boys features, becoming something softer, more human.
"Welcome back, Lagasek," he said, taking a long, shuddering breath. But for how long? He looked about him, noting the broken bowl, the spilled ch'a, and shook his head. He would have to bind the boy while he slept, for in time he would have to sleep. He could not guard against this "Gweder" thing forever.
He moved closer, crouching over the boy. He was peaceful now, his face almost angelic in its innocence. But beneath? Tuan Ti Fo narrowed his eyes, considering, then began to speak, softly, slowly, as if to himself.
"Look at you, child. So sweet you look just now. So innocent. But are you good or evil? Is it Gweder or Lagasek who rules you? And which of them brought you here to my rooms?" He smiled, then got up, moving across the room to fetch a small towel to mop up the ch'a, a brush to gather up the tiny pieces of broken porcelain. And as he did so he continued to speak, letting his voice rise and fall like a flowing stream, lulling the sleeping child.
"Kao Tzu believed that each man, at birth, was like a willow tree, and that righteousness was like a bowl. To become righteous, a man had therefore to be cut and shaped, like the willow, into the bowl. The most base instincts—the desire for food or sex—were, he argued, all that one could ever find in the unshaped man, and human nature was as indifferent to good or evil as free-flowing water is to the shape it eventually fills."