Tolonen shrugged. He had no answer to that. No understanding of it.
At that moment the door at the far end of the study opened. One of the goat-creatures stood there, a tray of drinks in one hand. For a second or two Klaus Ebert did nothing, then he turned in his seat and yelled at the beast.
"Get out, you bloody thing! Get out!"
It blanched, then turned and left hurriedly. There was the sound of breaking glass in the hallway outside.
Ebert turned back to face the Marshal, breathing deeply, his face a deep red. "How long have I, Knut? How long before Li Yuan has to know?"
Tolonen shivered. They both knew what had to be done. "Two days," he said quietly. "I can give you two days."
Ebert nodded, then sat back in his chair, clasping his hands together tightly. "Two days," he repeated, as if to himself, then looked up at Tolonen again. "I'm sorry, Knut. Sorry for Jelka's sake."
"And I."
Tolonen watched him a moment longer, then turned and left, knowing that there was nothing more to be said. His part in this was ended, his duty discharged; but for once he felt anything but satisfaction.
there WERE FIRES on the hillside. Bodies lay unmoving on the snow. In the skies above the mountains the dark, knifelike shapes of Security battleships moved slowly eastward, searching out any trace of warmth in the icy wasteland.
In the control room of the flagship sat Hans Ebert, Li Yuan's General. He was unshaven and his eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep. His uniform was undone at the collar and he had his feet up on the console in front of him. Above him a bank of nine screens showed the landscape down below. Over the image on the central screen ran bright red lines of data. From time to time a map would flash up, showing the current extent of the sweep.
Hans watched the screens vacantly, tired to the core. There were drugs he might have taken to ameliorate his condition, but he had chosen to ignore them, feeding his bitter disappointment.
There were five others in the low-ceilinged room with him, but all were silent, wary of their commander's dark mood. They went about their tasks deftly, quietly, careful not to draw his attention.
Eight strongholds had been taken. Another five had been found abandoned. DeVore's network was in tatters, more than three thousand of his men dead. What Karr had begun, he, in the space of six short hours, had finished. Moreover, Jelka was gone, probably dead, and all his dreams with her. His dreams of being king. King of the world.
"The lodge is up ahead, sir!"
He looked up sharply, then took his feet down from the desk. "Good!" He bit the word out savagely, then relented. He turned, looking at the young officer who had reported it to him. "Thanks . . ."
The officer saluted and turned smartly away. Ebert sat a moment longer, then hauled himself up onto his feet and went down the narrow corridor and out into the cockpit. Staring out through the broad, thickly slatted screen, he could see the mountain up ahead, the lodge high up on its western slopes.
It was a mere twelve months since he had met DeVore here, and now he was forced to return, the architect of his own undoing, following his T'ang's explicit orders. Silently he cursed Li Yuan. Cursed the whole damn business, his irritation and frustration rising to fever pitch as he stood there, watching the lodge draw closer.
They touched down less than half a li away, the twin turrets of the battleship pointed toward the lodge. Hans suited up then went down, onto the snow. He crossed the space slowly, a lonely figure in black, holding the bulky gun with both hands, the stock tucked into his shoulder. Fifty paces from the verandah he stopped, balancing the gun's barrel across his left forearm and flicking off the safety. Then, without a word, he emptied the cartridge into the side of the lodge.
The explosions were deafening. In seconds the lodge was a burning ruin, debris falling everywhere, sizzling in the snow as it fell; the concussions echoing back and forth between the mountains, starting small slides. He waited a moment longer, the weapon lowered, watching the flames, then turned and walked back, the heavy gun resting loosely on his shoulder.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Shattered Land
Klaus EBERT waited in his study for his son. He had dismissed his servants and was alone in the huge, dimly lit room, his face expressionless. The file lay on the desk behind him, the only object on the big leather-topped desk. It had been fifteen hours since Tolonen's visit and he had done much in that time; but they had been long, dreadful hours, filled with foul anticipation.
Hans had been summoned twice. The first time he had sent word that he was on the T'ang's business and could not come, the second that he would be there within the hour. Between the two had been the old man's curtly worded message, "Come now, or be nothing to me."
A bell rang in the corridor outside, signal that his son had arrived. Ebert waited, his feet apart, his hands clasped behind his back. He was the picture of strength, of authority, his short gray hair combed back severely from his high forehead, but his gray-green eyes were lifeless.
There were footsteps on the tiled floor outside, then a knock on the great oak door. Hans entered, followed by two young lieutenants. He crossed the room and stood there, only an arm's length from his father. The two officers stood by the door, at ease.
"Well, Father?" There was a trace of impatience, almost of insolence in the young man's tone.
Klaus Ebert narrowed his eyes and looked past his son at the two lieutenants. "This is family business," he said to them. "Please leave us."
There was a moment's uncertainty in their faces. They looked to each other but made no move to go. Ebert stared at them a moment, then looked to his son for explanation.
"They're under my direct orders, Father. They're not to leave me. Not for a moment." His voice was condescending now, as if he were explaining something to an inferior.
Ebert looked at his son, seeing things he had never noticed before, the arrogance of his bearing, the slight surliness in the shapes his mouth formed, the lack of real depth in his clear blue eyes. It was as if he looked at you, but not into you. He saw only surfaces; only himself, reflected in others.
He felt something harden at the core of him. This was his son. This creature. He hissed out a long breath, his chest feeling tight; then he started forward, shouting at the two officers. "Get out, damn you! Now! Before I throw you out!"
There was no hesitation this time. They jerked as if struck, then turned, hurrying from the room. Klaus stared at the closed door a moment then turned, looking at his son.
"There was no need for that."
"There was every need!" he barked, and saw his son flinch slightly. "1 summon you and you excuse yourself. And then you have the nerve to bring your popinjay friends—"
"They're officers—" Hans began, interrupting, but the old man cut him off with a sharp gesture of his hand.
"Your. . . friends." He turned to face his son, no longer concealing his anger. He bit the words out. "To bring them here, Hans." He pointed at the floor. "Here, where only we come." He took a breath, calming himself, then moved away, back to the desk. From there he turned and looked back at his son.
Hans was looking away from him, his irritation barely masked. "Well? What is it, Father?"
The words were sharp, abrasive. Hans glanced at his father then resumed his rigid stance, his whole manner sullen, insolent, as if answering to a superior officer he detested.
So it has come to this? Ebert thought, growing still, studying his son. He looked down at the file and gritted his teeth. But he didn't need the Marshal's carefully documented evidence. All that he needed was there before him, for his own eyes to read.