He set the file aside and took another from the pile. It was the summary of the post-mortem report he had commissioned on his father. He read it through, then signed it and set it atop the other. Nothing. They had found nothing. According to the doctors, his father had died of old age. Old age and a broken heart. Nonsense, he thought. Utter nonsense.
He huffed out his impatience, then reached across for the third file, opening it almost distractedly. Then, seeing what it was, he sat back, his mouth gone dry, his heart beating furiously. It was the result of the genotyping test he had had done on Fei Yen and her child.
He closed his eyes, in pain, his breathing suddenly erratic. So now he would know. Know for good and certain who the father was. Know to whom he owed the pain and bitterness of the last few months.
He leaned forward again. It was no good delaying. No good putting off what was inevitable. He drew the file closer, forcing himself to read it; each word seeming to cut and wound him. And then it was done. He pushed the file away and sat back. So ...
For a moment he was still, silent, considering his options, then reached across, touching the summons bell.
Almost at once the door to his right swung back. Nan Ho, his Master of the Inner Chamber, stood there, his head bowed low. "Chieh Hsia?"
"Bring ch'a, Master Nan. I need to talk."
Nan Ho bobbed his head. "Should I send for your Chancellor, Chieh Hsia?" "No, Master Chan, it is you I wish to speak with." "As you wish, Chieh Hsia."
When he had gone, Li Yuan leaned across and drew a large, heavy-bound book toward him. A stylized dragon and phoenix—their figures drawn in gold—were inset into the bright-red silk of the cover. Inside, on the opening page was a handwritten quotation from the Li Chi, the ancient Book of Rites, the passage in the original Mandarin.
The point of marriage is to create a union between two persons of different families, the object of which is to serve first the ancestors in the temple and second, the generation to come.
He shivered. So it was. So it had always been among his kind. Yet he had thought it possible to marry for love. In so doing he had betrayed his kind. Had tried to be what he was not. For he was Han. Han to the very core of him. He recognized that now.
But it was not too late. He could begin again. Become what he had failed to be. A good Han, leaving all ghosts of other selves behind.
He flicked through the pages desultorily, barely seeing the faces that looked up at him from the pages. Here were a hundred of the most eligible young women selected from the Twenty-Nine, the Minor Families. Each one was somewhat different from the rest, had some particular quality to recommend her, yet it was all much the same to him. One thing alone was important now—to marry and have sons. To make the family strong again, and fill the emptiness surrounding him.
For anything was better than to feel like this. Anything.
He closed the book and pushed it away, then sat back in the chair, closing his eyes. He had barely done so when there was a tapping on the door.
"Chieh Hsia?"
"Come!" he said, sitting forward again, the tiredness like salt in his blood, weighing him down.
Nan Ho entered first, his head bowed, the tray held out before him. Behind him came the she t'ou—the "tongue," or taster. Li Yuan watched almost listlessly as Nan Ho set the ch'a things down on a low table, then poured, offering the first bowl to the she t'ou.
The man sipped, then offered the bowl back, bowing gracefully, a small smile of satisfaction crossing his lips. He waited a minute, then turned to Li Yuan and bowed low, kneeling, touching his head against the floor before he backed away.
Nan Ho followed him to the door, closing it after him; then he turned, facing Li Yuan.
"Shall I bring your ch'a up to you, Chieh Hsia?"
Li Yuan smiled. "No, Nan Ho. I will join you down there." He stood, yawning, stretching the tiredness from his bones, then leaned forward, picking up the heavy-bound volume.
"Here," he said, handing it to Nan Ho, ignoring the offered bowl. Nan Ho put the bowl down hastily and took the book from his T'ang. "You have decided, then, Chieh Hsia?"
Li Yuan stared at Nan Ho a moment, wondering how much he knew—whether he had dared look at the genotyping—then, dismissing the thought, he smiled. "No, Master Nan. I have not decided. But you will." Nan Ho looked back at him, horrified. "Chieh Hsial"
"You heard me, Master Nan. I want you to choose for me. Three wives, I need. Good, strong, reliable women. The kind that bear sons. Lots of sons. Enough to fill the rooms of this huge, empty palace."
Nan Ho bowed low, his face a picture of misery. "But Chieh Hsia ... It is not my place to do such a thing. Such responsibility. . ." He shook his head and fell to his knees, his head pressed to the floor. "I beg you, Chieh Hsia. I am unworthy for such a task."
Li Yuan laughed. "Nonsense, Master Nan. If anyone, you are the very best of men to undertake such a task for me. Did you not bring Pearl Heart and Sweet Rose to my bed? Was your judgment so flawed then? No! So, please, Master Nan, do this for me, I beg you."
Nan Ho looked up, wide-eyed. "Chieh Hsia . . . you must not say such things! You are T'ang now."
"Then do this thing for me, Master Nan," he said tiredly. "For I would be married the day after my coronation."
Nan Ho stared at him a moment longer, then bowed his head low again, resigned to his fate. "As my Lord wishes."
"Good. Now let us drink our ch'a and talk of other things. Was I mistaken or did I hear that there was a message from Hal Shepherd?"
Nan Ho put the book down beside the table, then picked up Li Yuan's bowl, turning back and offering it to him, his head bowed.
"Not Hal, Chieh Hsia, but his son. Chung Hu-yan dealt with the matter." "I see. And did the Chancellor happen to say what the message was?" Nan Ho hesitated. "It was ... a picture, Chieh Hsia." "A picture? You mean, there were no words? No actual message?" "No, Chieh Hsia."
"And this picture—what was in it?" "Should I bring it, Chieh Hsia?" "No. But describe it, if you can."
Nan Ho frowned. "It was odd, Chieh Hsia. Very odd indeed. It was of a tree—or rather, of twin apple trees. The two were closely intertwined, their trunks twisted about each other; yet one of the trees was dead, its leaves shed, its branches broken and rotting. Chung Hu-yan set it aside for you to look at after your coronation." He averted his eyes. "He felt it was not something you would wish to see before then."
Like the gift of stones his father had tried to hide from him—the white u>ei chi stones DeVore had sent to him on the day he had been promised to Fei Yen.
Li Yuan sighed. For five generations the Shepherds had acted as advisors to his family. Descended from the original architect of the City, they lived beyond its walls, outside its laws. Only they, in all Chung Kuo, stood equal to the Seven. "Chung Hu-Yan acted as he felt he ought, and no blame attaches to him; but in future any message—worded or otherwise—that comes from the Shepherds must be passed directly to me, at once, Master Nan. This picture—you understand what it means?" "No, Chieh Hsia."
"No. And neither, it seems, does Chancellor Chung. It means that Hal Shepherd is dying. The tree was a gift from my father to him. I must go and pay my respects at once." "But, Chieh Hsia . . ."
Li Yuan shook his head. "I know, Master Nan. I have seen my schedule for tomorrow. But the meetings will have to be cancelled. This cannot wait. He was my father's friend. It would not do to ignore such a summons, however strangely couched." "A summons, Chieh Hsial" "Yes, Master Nan. A summons."