She gritted her teeth. The Wit . . . She must consult her father's diviner—his Wu—and have him cast an oracle. But first she must wash the man's foul scent from her.
Finding her way in the dark, she crossed the room and pushed the bathroom door open.
"Light," she said, speaking to the House Computer. At once the room was bathed in artificial sunlight from the panels in the ceiling.
"Gentler . . ."
The light softened.
Since her father's death four years before no one had used these rooms, yet the servants maintained them as if he were due back any moment. Solid-gold fittings sparkled under the crystal lights, marble surfaces gleamed. In one corner a green jade fountain, carved in the shape of a rearing dragon, jutted over a circular pool, its tiled floor decorated like a huge tai chi.
She went to it and, activating the controls in the panel between its wings, stood and watched as a steaming jet of water spewed from the dragon's mouth, describing a glistening arc in the air.
"Cooler . . ."
Throwing off her gown, she went down the steps, into the swirling current of the slowly filling pool.
The fierceness of the spray against her skin was exhilarating. She turned slowly in the glittering fall, her arms out, feeling the water drum against her face and breasts and back, cascading down her flanks and between her legs, cleansing her, washing all memory of the man from her skin. And as the disgust passed from her, that feeling of anger and indignation she had had in Pei K'ung's office returned. She was still young, her body trim and firm, her beauty undiminished. How dare the woman treat her like a servant? How dare she?
"Enough!"
At once the jet of water died. At once warm air-currents played over her body, drying and caressing it.
She knew, of course, just why she had got drunk. It was the news— those hideous images from Tsu Ma's palace in Astrakhan. She had seen the way he looked at his bride—how his eyes drank in the youthful beauty of her.
Just as he had once looked at her. . . .
"Wake the Wu," she said, climbing the steps, then stopping to pick up her gown. "Send him to my study. I'll see him there."
THE WU LOOKED UP from the fallen yarrow stalks and met her eyes.
"Heaven above water ... it is Sung . . . conflict." Fei Yen nodded, but she was disappointed. She had hoped for something clearer. Conflict—of course there would be conflict.
Old Fung turned to his book and picked it up, beginning to read.
"Conflict. You are sincere. And are being obstructed. ..."
"Yes," she said, impatient now. "Go now, Fung. I need to think." The old man bowed and backed away, knowing his Mistress's moods, not even bothering to gather up his things.
Lightning, she thought, gathering up the stalks and letting them fall onto the table once again; from the sky into the sea. Yes, I shall be like the lightning falling on them.
And her son? What would happen to Han if she did as she proposed?
Better, perhaps, to ask what would happen if I did nothing; if he had to live out his life in the shadow of my bitterness.
Maybe ... yet it stayed her hand. It had always stayed her hand. But no longer. If she could not get satisfaction from Li Yuan, she would go to Tsu Ma and tell him direct.
Han was his son. His. She would prove it before the world.
She shivered—indignation singing in her blood—then swept her arm across the table, clearing it.
Conflict ... she would give them conflict. Whether they wanted it or no.
CHAPTER SIX
The White Pang
PE I K ' U N G looked up from the comer desk in which she sat, trying to keep the impatience from her voice. "Yes, Master Chu, what is it now?" The old man bowed—more a slight leaning forward than a proper bow, he was so bent already—then placed four gold-bound cases in front of her.
"Ah . . ." Her eyes lit up. "I thought—"
"Your husband's permission, it seems, covers everything."
She smiled, then drew the cases toward her, her fingers tracing the embossed shape of the Ywe Lung, the Wheel of Dragons.
"Thank you, Chu Shi-ch'e. I am sorry if I was . . . tetchy with you earlier. If you would leave me now."
"Mistress."
The old man inclined his body slightly and backed away, but Pei K'ung's attention was already on the tapes. If these showed what she thought they showed . . .
She gathered them up and went across. At the center of the room was a circular black lacquered platform, some six ch'i in width, its surface carved with the symbol of the Ywe Lung, the whole thing resting on seven golden dragon heads. Setting the cases down beside it, she went to the window and pulled at the thick silk cord that hung there. At once massive blinds—each slat a full ch'i thick—began slowly to descend, shutting out the daylight.
She returned to the platform, then knelt, taking the first of the discs from its case.
"I'm right," she whispered to herself, her hands trembling with anticipation. "I know I am. . . ."
Leaning across the platform, she placed the disc onto the spindle at the hub, then moved back. Slowly the room's lights faded. A faint glow filled the air above the platform.
"I am Pei K'ung," she said, "wife of Li Yuan and Empress of Ch'eng Ou Chou."
"Welcome, Mistress," the machine answered, accepting her voice recognition code, its own voice soft, melodious. "What would you like to see?"
"The stables," she said, her heart beating faster. "The royal party, setting out to ride."
"Mistress . . ."
The air shimmered and took shape. As ever, she found herself surprised by the sharpness, the crystalline clarity, of the image. It was so real, she could almost smell the horses.
She watched, fascinated, her suspicions confirmed. She saw the horses being led from their stalls, their breath pluming in the cold December air; saw Tsu Ma wave the groom aside and help Fei Yen up into the saddle, his hands lingering overlong on her waist. And then that smile—a smile that said it all. Lovers . . . yes, they had been lovers.
Closing her eyes, she let out a long sigh. She ought to have felt satisfaction that her guess had been proved right, but all she could think of was Li Yuan: of how hurt he must have felt, how damaged.
"Enough!"
The air show died.
"You wish to see something more, Mistress?"
"No. No, I ..." She made a gesture of dismissal.
Slowly the lights came up.
So now she knew. Bending down, she picked up the empty casing, studying the date. Like the other three, it came from a four-week period in December 2206—the month Fei Yen had conceived her son.
Pei K'ung shuddered, wanting to hate the woman for what she had done to her husband—for the suffering she had caused him, and for being so weak, so impulsive, a creature—but it was no longer possible. Not after last night.
She sank onto her knees, letting her head fall forward, remembering. So sweet it had been, so deliciously sweet. And his body. Aiya, his body . . . Once more she shivered, desire welling up in her, making her place a hand against her breast, gently, tenderly ... as he had done.
She hadn't known. She simply hadn't known. But now she understood. What had been dark was now light; what had been hidden was now revealed to her. She smiled. Yes ... so many things had come clear in the night.
It was then, lying there in the dark beside him, listening to his soft breathing, his flesh pressed close and warm against her own, that she had begun to think it through. If it were not Li Yuan's child, then whose was it? Who had had the opportunity? A servant? One of the house musicians, perhaps? A groom? Or had it been someone greater than that? Someone whose very power and nobility had been enough to rob Fei Yen of her senses?