“Our real enemies?”
“Wang Sau-leyan ...”
“Ah . . .” Chen lifted his bowl, drank deeply from it, then set it down again. “I thought you were for dealing firmly with Li Min.” “I am. At least, part of me is. To leave him there . . . well, it’s as Tolonen says. He grows stronger daily. And eventually . . . well, eventually there will be war. A far more hideous war, I suspect, than any we’ve yet seen. And if Li Min triumphs, well. . .” Again he shrugged. “You say it was peaceful down there.”
Karr smiled faintly. “That’s the strangest part of it. In some ways it reminded me of how things used to be. Before the Dispersionists. Before the Ping Tiao, the Yu, and all the other factions. It’s all very orderly. There’s fear, true, but there’s also hope. A lot of people down there like living under Li Min. They say it’s better than living under Li Yuan. And who’s to know the truth? Maybe there is no difference.” “Hold. Careful what you say, old friend. The difference, surely, is in the man. This Li Min . . . you say you’ve met him. You say he chills you. And Li Yuan? You’ve met him, neh? Does he chill you? Does he strike you as the King of Hells?”
“No.”
“Then maybe that’s the difference. Maybe one should look behind the system to the man who governs it.”
“You mean Nan Ho?”
Chen laughed. “I mean that orderliness is not everything. Nor is peace a sure sign of happiness. Things are bad, no one denies that, but they could be worse, and if this Li Min were in charge they would be a lot worse, neh?”
“Maybe . . . And you, Chen? How have things been? Is Wang Ti”— he hesitated—“I mean, is she still as she was?” For a moment Chen was silent, then a bright, almost impish smile settled on his lips. “Well. . . come and see.”
He led Karr through, stopping before the door to the bedroom. “She’s rather weak right now,” he whispered. “A virus, the doctors say, but she’ll be okay. The other problems . . . Well, you’ll see.” He slid the door open, then stood there, watching as Karr went across and, kneeling over the bed, reached out, hugging Wang Ti to him. “Wang Ti. . . how are you? It’s been ages. ...” Karr moved back slightly, drinking in the sight of Wang Ti smiling up at him. Thank you, she mouthed at him, then gave a tiny shiver, a tear trickling down her cheek.
“It’s good to see you better,” Karr said softly, then leaned toward her again, kissing her cheek. “Marie sends her love. We’ve a child now, you know. ...”
“A child!” Chen said, astonished. “You mean, you’ve had a child and I didn’t hear about it? Why, Wang Ti had only to have fallen for a week and you’d know.”
Karr turned, looking back at him, his eyes deadly serious. “It was while I was away. The pregnancy was a bad one and the child was ill at birth. They didn’t think it would live. They wanted to call me back, to be with her, but Marie wouldn’t let them. She endured it all. For two whole weeks it was in a special incubator. They say they had to revive it more than a dozen times in all. And yet it lived.”
“It?” Wang Ti spoke the word softly, her whole face wrinkled with concern. “A girl,” Karr said, turning to her, his face lit with joy. “A beautiful baby girl. May, we’ve called her, after the month in which she was born. And because she may be something special.” Wang Ti stared up at him, her eyes wide with joy, the tears flowing freely once again. But Karr, looking down into her face, found his own joy clouded by the memory of her lost child.
“Does it still hurt?” he asked gently, stroking the back of her hand with his fingers as if to comfort her.
Yes, she mouthed. But less now. Much less.
in the imperial palace at Alexandria, Wang Sau-leyan, T’ang of City Africa, lounged on a couch eating strawberries while, in a sunken circle nearby, two graybeards, both Masters of the game, faced each other over a wei chi board.
The game was near completion, the patterns of black and white stones filling the low, nineteen-by-nineteen board. The two Masters, their legs crossed beneath them, leaned over the board, their gaze intent. This was a crucial stage of the game and a single stone might win or lose it. To the side of Wang Sau-leyan a group of richly dressed courtiers looked on with a jaded indifference, plucking delicacies from the bowls that surrounded their couches, or sipping from silver goblets. Across from them, hunched forward on a low bench, like statues, their chins cradled in their hands, the two other finalists—graybeards, indistinguishable from the two who sat at play—watched with narrowed eyes, knowing that the outcome of this single game would decide it all. Beyond them, his eyes taking in everything, stood Hung Mien-lo, Chancellor of City Africa. He was busy—more busy than he’d ever been, trying to keep things together, but the T’ang had insisted he be here for this final game, and so here he was, less jaded perhaps than the watching courtiers, but tired all the same. Tired of his Master’s whims, his vicious nature, his callous brutality. Tired, more than anything, of being his whipping boy, his servant.
None of this showed in his face—only a polite interest in the game. But from time to time he would look past the two ancients at the board and watch his Master; see those heavy, gluttonous jowls move up and down as he ate some new delicacy.
As if he could eat it all...
There was a sharp click, a little movement backward by the old Master, Hsu Jung; a smile of satisfaction.
Hung Mien-lo watched, seeing how Hsu’s opponents face wrinkled with dismay as he realized the significance of the play. Then, with a sharp little movement, the man bowed his head, conceding the game. It was over. Hsu Jung had won. Which meant. . .
“Shit!” Hung Mien-lo murmured beneath his breath, then moved out into the circular space.
“Is it finished?” Wang asked, looking up, his chin wet with peach juice.
“Have we a champion?”
Hung Mien-lo paused, wondering how to phrase it, then shook his head. “I am afraid . . .”
“You afraid, Hung Mien-lo? And so you should be, I guess. Afraid I’ll cut off your head, or your balls, or some other part of your anatomy, neh?” Wang half sat, laughing, his huge triple belly shaking with it. Beyond him the courtiers, to a man and woman, laughed along with him. But their eyes showed something different. They knew Wang’s sudden moods. “Well?” Wang asked again, fixing Hung Mien-lo in a cold stare. “Have I a champion, or have we all been wasting our time?” Hung swallowed. “We have a result, Chieh Hsia. Unfortunately . . .” That unfortunately made Wang sit forward, his face suddenly hard, uncompromising. “What the fuck are you trying to tell me, man? Have I a champion or haven’t I?”
Hung shook his head. “Tradition has it that the four best players must compete to see who is Supreme Champion. Each contestant must play each of the other competitors twice, the winner being the one who has won most games.”
Wang tilted his head back, revealing not three but six, maybe seven, chins, a huge cascade of flesh that was like the soft rocks at the foot of a waterfall. This last year he had put on weight at an astonishing rate, while in his City rationing had reduced most of his citizens to wraiths—walking skeletons who barely had the strength to protest. But while his body had grown softer, flabbier, his manner hadn’t changed.
If anything he was harder, crueller, than he’d been.
“So?” he asked, the very softness of his voice a warning. Hung Mien-lo swallowed a second time, then turned, looking across at the four Masters, who now stood together, heads bowed, awaiting their T’ang’s pleasure. “So . . . each of them has won three games, and each—“ “—has lost three,” Wang finished wearily. He leaned forward, once, twice, a third time, finally freeing himself from the pull of the couch. Slowly he came across, until he was facing Hung Mien-lo. Again, his voice was gentle.