For Haavikko's sister, Vesa, and Chen's friend, Pavel; for Kao Jyan and Han Ch'in, Lwo Kang and Edmund Wyatt, and all the many others whose deaths were attributed to him.
Karr shuddered, then threw the cloth bag down. It was done. He could go home now and sleep.
li yuan stood in the deep shadow by the carp pool, darkness wrapped about him like a cloak. It had been a long and tiring day, but his mind was sharp and clear. He stared down through layers of darkness, following the languid movements of the carp. In their slow, deliberate motions it seemed he might read the deepest workings of his thoughts.
Much had happened. In the chill brightness of his study, all had seemed chaos. DeVore was dead and his warren of mountain fortresses destroyed. But Klaus Ebert was also dead and his son, the General, had fled. That had come as a shock to him, undermining his newfound certainty.
Here, in the darkness, however, he could see things in a better light. He had survived the worst his enemies could do. Fei Yen and young Han were safe. Soon he would have a General he could trust. These things comforted him. In the light of them, even Wang Sau-leyan's concessions to the Young Sons seemed a minor thing.
For a while he let these things drift from him; let himself sink into the depths of memory, his mood dark and sorrowful, his heart weighed down by the necessities of his life. He had companionship in Tsu Ma and three wives to satisfy his carnal needs. Soon he would have a child—an heir, perhaps. But none of this was enough. So much was missing from his life. Fei Yen herself. Han Ch'in, so deeply missed that sometimes he would wake from sleep, his pillow wet with tears. Worst were the nightmares; images of his father's corpse, exposed, defenseless in its nakedness, painfully emaciated, the skin stretched pale across the frame of bone.
The fate of Kings.
He turned and looked across at the single lamp beside the door. Its light was filtered through the green of fern and palm, the smoky darkness of the panels, as if through depths of water. He stared at it, reminded of something else—of the light on a windswept hillside in the Domain as a small group gathered about the unmarked grave. Sunlight on grass and the shadows in the depths of the earth. He had been so certain that day: certain that he didn't want to stop the flow of time and have the past returned to him, fresh, new again. But had Ben been right? Wasn't that the one thing men wanted most?
Some days he ached to bring it back. To have it whole and perfect. To sink back through the years and have it all again. The best of it. Before the cancer ate at it. Before the worm lay in the bone.
He bowed his head, smiling sadly at the thought. To succumb to that desire was worse than the desire itself. It was a weakness not to be tolerated. One had to go on, not back.
The quality of the light changed. His new Master of the Inner Chamber, Chan Teng, stood beside the doorway, silent, waiting to be noticed.
"What is it, Master Chan?"
"Your guest is here, Chieh Hsia."
"Good." He lifted a hand to dismiss the man, then changed his mind. "Chan, tell me this. If you could recapture any moment from your past—if you could have it whole, perfect in every detail—would you want that?"
The middle-aged man was silent a while; then he answered.
"There are, indeed, times when I wish for something past, Chieh Hsia. Like all men. But it would be hard. Hard living in the now if 'what was* were still to hand. The imperfection of a man's memories is a blessing."
It was a good answer. A satisfactory answer. "Thank you, Chan. There is wisdom in your words."
Chan Teng bowed and turned to go, but at the door he turned back and looked across at his master.
"One last thing, Chieh Hsia. Such a gift might well prove useful. Might prove, for us, a blessing."
Li Yuan came out into the light. "How so?"
Chan lowered his eyes. "Might its very perfection not prove a cage, a prison to the mind? Might we not snare our enemies in its sticky web?"
Li Yuan narrowed his eyes. He thought he could see what Chan Teng was saying, but he wanted to be sure. "Go on, Chan. What are you suggesting?"
"Only this. That desire is a chain. If such a thing exists it might be used not as a blessing but a curse. A poisoned gift. It would be the ultimate addiction. Few men would be safe from its attractions. Fewer still would recognize it for what it was. A drug. A way of escaping from what is here and now and real."
Li Yuan took a deep breath, then nodded. "We shall speak more on this, Chan. Meanwhile, ask my guest to come through. I shall see him here, beside the pool."
Chan Teng bowed low and turned away. Li Yuan stared down at the naked glow of the lamp, then moved his hand close, feeling its radiant warmth, tracing its rounded shape. How would it feel to live a memory? Like this? As real as this? He sighed. Perhaps, as Chan said, there was a use for Shepherd's art: a way of making his illusions serve the real. He drew his hand away, seeing how shadows formed between the fingers, how the glistening lines of the palm turned dull and lifeless.
To have Han and Fei again. To see his father smiling.
He shook his head, suddenly bitter. Best nothing. Better death than such sweet torture.
There was movement in the corridor outside. A figure appeared in the doorway. Li Yuan looked up, meeting Shepherd's eyes.
"Ben . . ."
Ben Shepherd looked about him at the room, then looked back at the young T'ang, a faint smile on his lips. "How are you, Li Yuan? With all that's happened, I wasn't sure you'd remember our meeting."
Li Yuan smiled and moved forward, greeting him. "No. I'm glad you came. Indeed, our meeting is fortuitous, for there's something I want to ask you. Something only you can help me with."
Ben raised an eyebrow. "As mirror?"
Li Yuan nodded, struck once again by how quick, how penetrating Ben Shepherd was. He, if anyone, could make things clear to him.
Ben went to the edge of the pool. For a moment he stared down into the darkness of the water, following the slow movements of the fish, then he looked back at Li Yuan.
: '••>: "Is it about Fei Yen and the child?"
Li Yuan shivered. "Why should you think that?"
Ben smiled. "Because, as I see it, there's nothing else that only I could help you with. If it were a matter of politics, there are a dozen able men to whom you might talk. Whereas the matter of your ex-wife and the child. Well. . . who could you talk to of that within your court? Who could you trust not to use what was said to gain some small advantage?"
Li Yuan bowed his head. It was true. He had not thought of it in quite such a calculated manner, but it was so.
"Well?" he said, meeting Ben's eyes.
Ben moved past him, crouching down to study the great tortoise shell with its ancient markings.
"There's an advantage to being outsidfe of things," Ben said, his eyes searching the surface of the shell, tracing the fine patterning of cracks beneath the transparent glaze. "You see events more clearly than do those who are taking part in them. What's more, you learn to ask the right questions." He turned his head, looking up at Li Yuan. "For instance: Why, if Li Yuan knows who the father of his child is, has he not acted on that knowledge? Why has he not sought vengeance on the man? Of course, the assumption has always been that the child is not Li Yuan's. But why should that necessarily be the case? It was assumed by almost everyone that Li Yuan divorced Fei Yen to ensure the child of another man would have no legitimate claim upon the Dragon Throne, but why should that be so? What if that were merely a pretext? After all, it is not an easy thing to obtain a divorce when one is a T'ang. Infidelity, while a serious enough matter in itself, would be an insufficient reason. But to protect the line of inheritance . . ."
Li Yuan had been watching Ben, mesmerized, unable to look away. Now Ben released him and he drew back a pace, shuddering. "You always saw things clearly, didn't you, Ben?" "To the bone." "And was I right?"