Liang Yu stared at where he’d been touched, astonished, then looked up again, his left eye twitching.
“Who are you?”
Tuan smiled, then bowed. “Forgive me, Magistrate Liang ... let me introduce myself. I am Tuan Ti Fo, Citizen of Mars and a friend of the Osu. . . .”
echewa shook his head in disbelief. “You’ve arranged it. ... What do you mean, you’ve arranged it?”
“It’s done,” Ebert answered him, smiling.
“But how do you knowl Have you been to Kang Kua?” “No. But there will be no trouble. Not now. We shall live in peace from here on, the Han and ourselves. They shall live in the Cities and we on the Plains.”
“And the settlers know of this?”
“We have their word.”
Echewa shook his head. “Are you certain they won’t come for us?”
“I am certain, brother Aluko. There will be no trouble now.”
When Echewa had gone, the boy slipped back into the room.
“Well?” he asked. “Did he believe you?”
Ebert smiled. “Not yet. But he will. As the days pass.” He laughed, imagining how it had been. When Magistrate Liang had switched on his comset to talk to his duty captain, there had been Tuan Ti Fo. When he had tried to patch in to the interplanetary satellite link, there once more was Old Tuan, grinning back at him. Wherever he looked, there would be Tuan, staring back at him.
The new settlement was effectively isolated. Were they to send a message back to Chung Kuo, trying to warn them about what was happening here, it would be intercepted and changed . . . instantly. They could say nothing, do nothing, without the Machine knowing. And what the Machine knew, Tuan Ti Fo also knew.
For a time they would be resentful—would feel themselves prisoners, perhaps—yet as time passed and no harm came to them, they would realize that the “ghost” of the old Han was a benevolent spirit and there would come a day when they would step outside their Cities and greet the Osu. A day of reconciliation.
He turned, looking at the boy, then pointed to the wei chi set on the corner shelf.
“Would you like a game, Nza? I’m told you play quite well.”
PART 3 I AUTUMN 2213
The Path in the Twilight
The Southern hills, how mournful!
A ghostly rain sprinkles the empty grass. In Ch’ang-an, on an autumn midnight, How many men grow old before the wind? Dim, dim, the path in the twilight, Branches curl on the black oaks by the road. The trees cast upright shadows and the moon at the zenith Covers the hills with a white dawn.
Darkened torches welcome a new kinsman:
In the most secret tomb these fireflies swarm.
Li Ho, Criticisms, ninth century a.d.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Empty Rooms
LI yuan stood at the back of the great study, beside the open window, looking out into the Eastern Garden, while his Chancellor, Nan Ho, sat at his desk conducting the meeting.
General Rheinhardt had come, together with Tolonen and the giant, Karr. The big man had just returned from a fifteen-month undercover assignment in the Lowers, collecting information on the state of things down there. Glancing at him Li Yuan wondered how such a man could ever go “undercover.” Eyes were certain to turn wherever such a man went; questions were certain to be asked. And yet his report had been good, the details telling. Now Nan Ho questioned him, looking up from the written copy of Karr’s report to meet the man’s blue, Hung Mao eyes. “From what you say of this ... Li Min ... he seems to have created quite a little empire for himself, neh? You talk of it extending, what? . . . twenty thousand stacks, perhaps more. And fifty levels. Are you quite certain of this, Major Karr?”
Karr, standing there at attention, his hands folded behind his back, bowed his head slightly. “Quite certain, Excellency.” “And you say that, for the most part, this man Li Min governs fairly and that there is peace within those areas he controls.” Karr hesitated. “I would not say fairly, Excellency. Harshly is perhaps a better word. His ‘officials,’ as he calls them, are corrupt, their justice arbitrary. His rule is one of fear, not justice.” “Even so, there is peace there, neh? Whereas elsewhere in the Lowers there is chaos and clamor for violent change.”
“Maybe so, Excellency, but—“
Nan Ho raised a hand, silencing the big man. Li Yuan, watching, looked away, hiding his amusement. He had yet to see Nan Ho intimidated by anyone, least of all by their physical presence. “My point is this, Major Karr. When I had you sent, it was because I feared the very worst. I feared that the situation had deteriorated beyond the point of stability. Yet what you say here reassures me.” Tolonen, silent until now, pushed past Karr and leaned both hands on the front of the desk, facing Nan Ho. “Reassures you? But surely this is the worst? To find another ruling in the great T’ang’s place—is that a good thing, Master Nan? Or have I died and woken in a world where all values are inverted? You know what they call the man down there? They call him the White T’ang, and they say that he will one day depose our Master, and extend his rule to every comer of this City. Is that good? Or is that not the very worst?”
Nan Ho leaned back, smiling tolerantly at the old man. Had any other than Tolonen uttered those words there would have been no smile, just an icy hostility.
“Again, you misunderstand me, Marshal Tolonen. I did not say that things were well, nor that I condone what has happened, merely that—in the context of all else that has been happening—to find such stability in the Lowers is a welcome, indeed a useful thing. These are troubled times and it would be unwise to take precipitate action in this matter.” “But what about these?” Tolonen said, slamming a flimsy handbill down on the desk—identical to the one Nan Ho had in the file before him. “Is this not a good reason to take action? Or is treason no longer an offense?” Li Yuan had read the bill earlier and understood the old man’s anger. In effect it was a declaration of independence from the rule of the Seven, the setting up of a separate nation within the City Empire. Even so, Nan Ho was right. Mars had fallen, and North America. Now was not the time to take Li Min and his cohorts on. Right now far greater dangers threatened. Nan Ho had closed the file. He looked up at Tolonen with an unchanged expression, calm, his great authority unruffled. “It is treason, I agree. And action will be taken. But no wars, Marshal Tolonen. We cannot afford another war.”
Tolonen straightened up, taking a long, shuddering breath, clearly reluctant to let the matter drop. Then he turned, facing his T’ang. “Is that your final word, Chieh Hsia?”
Li Yuan looked down. Once before—when his elder brother, Han Ch’in, had been assassinated—Tolonen had been urged to a course of inaction, of wuwei, a course which, it seemed, was against the very fiber of his being. That time he had reacted badly—had marched into the great House at Weimar and killed the man he blamed for the young prince’s death. Only quick thinking by his father had prevented war. But times had changed. For Tolonen to act precipitately now would be disastrous. Nan Ho was right. In better times they would have crushed such insolence in the bud, expending whatever force was necessary for the task, but these were evil days. This was but a single threat of many. The great empire of Chung Kuo was under siege, and a single error—one single misjudgment—could bring the whole fragile edifice crashing down.