A monster, he thought, recollecting Nan Ho’s words, then shivered. Was it true? Was it really that bad? And if so, had it been his failure? Had he failed as a father? As he walked back through to Kuei Jen’s room, the thought nagged at him.
Maybe he had. But it was not too late to start anew. To love without spoiling. To—
He stopped in the doorway, looking in. Kuei Jen was sitting up watching him, a mischievous grin lighting his features. “What’s this I hear?” he began, dismissing both the doctors and the maids.
“I think it’s time we had a little talk.”
michael lever was in the shower when the messenger came. The first he knew of it was when Mary rapped on the transparent surround, startling him. “Hey, what’s so urgent?”
“I think it’s come. It has the T’ang’s seal on it.” He pushed the door open, glanced at the package she held up to him, then ducked back inside, jabbing at the off switch. As he emerged she was holding out a towel for him.
“You want me to dry you?”
He laughed. “Not if I’m in a hurry, I don’t!” Even so, he let her rub him down while he stood there staring at the package where she’d put it on the tall-backed bath-chair, wondering. “Do you think . . . ?” he asked after a moment. “Do I think what?” she answered, smiling back up at him from where she was kneeling, dabbing at those delicate areas where the flesh was newest. It was only two months since the last operation and he still complained of soreness, but now that he was out of the harness he was a changed man, as if he’d shed the last memory of the bombing. But it wasn’t entirely so. Part of him would remain forever shocked at what had happened to him. “Do you think he’s granted it? I mean, why send a package if the answer’s no?”
She stood, watching as he went to the side and began to dress. “You think Nan Ho would say no?”
“Maybe. That’s if it ever got as far as Nan Ho. You know what they say—the building has nine floors and each floor has nine doors. There’s some truth to that. There are eighty-one levels of officialdom, and if you’re unlucky you have to pass through every damn one of them.” “Then you don’t think Gloria’s letter of introduction would have helped?” He shrugged, then pulled on his tunic. “I don’t know. At the time I thought it was a good idea. Now I’m not so sure. I mean, she’s in the same position as us. Or was.”
That was true, she reflected. They and many others who had escaped the fall of North America. And that was the problem, basically. One could do nothing here without citizenship. In particular you could not buy a First Level Mansion. In fact the demand was so great that you couldn’t even rent one. Which meant that they, like many others, had spent the months since the Fall as perpetual house-guests, moving from one great Mansion to another, forever beholden, forever dissatisfied, never alone. As if picking up on her thoughts, Michael looked at her glumly. “That’s the worst of it, Em. I own six Companies over here—Companies worth over a billion yuan—and still I’m classed as a refugee.” “Well, maybe you aren’t any longer. Why don’t you see?” He looked past her at the package, then met her eyes again, smiling. “I was like this as a kid. It used to drive my father wild. He’d say, ‘Why don’t you just open it, boy!’ but I’d delay and delay. It was like . . . well, the gift itself was nothing. I had lots of things. It was the anticipating. That was the good part.”
She smiled, conscious of the hurt that reemerged whenever he talked of his father. “I know. But this is different, neh? If he says yes, it’s a severance from the past—from America and all we did there. And if he says no ...”
“He can’t, surely?”
“Well, open it and find out. Or do you want me to open it?”
He shook his head.
“Well?” But she understood his hesitancy. It had been the same for her when she had fled from Europe that first time. She still vividly recalled her final moments at the spaceport, staring out for what she thought would be her last glimpse of home. But now she was back. This time it was Michael who was the exile.
He held her briefly, kissing her brow, then went over to the chair and picked up the package. It was heavy and official-looking, the T’ang’s seal, its blood-red wax imprinted with his chop, dominating the reverse. He peeled it off and opened the package up.
“What the ... ?”
She went over and stood beside him, looking down at what he held. It was an expensive-looking menu—the menu for the New Hope, she realized, with a jolt of surprise. The New Hope was an eating place at Weimar, popular with the more radical members of the House.
He opened it, then frowned. Inside was a handwritten note—an invitation to a meal that evening. That in itself was not surprising, they had many invites. Michael was a popular young man and not without influence both inside the House and out, in the greater business world. No, what was surprising was the name at the foot of the invitation—a name which was signed over the imprint of a second blood-red chop. Nan Ho.
She whistled. “What do you think he wants?”
Michael shrugged. “You think we should go, then?”
She stared at him, surprised. “You’d refuse?”
“It’s a strange choice, don’t you think? To invite us there.” “Maybe. But you can’t refuse, surely? That would end our chances of citizenship.”
“It might. But it might also embarrass the Chancellor if it became public knowledge, don’t you think? Questions would be asked. Primarily why Li Yuan’s First Minister should be asking an ex-member of the New Republicans to dinner. I mean, it has to be a deal. Li Yuan has to want something from us.”
She smiled. “You’re beginning to sound like a politician.”
He laughed. “Well, I was! And maybe I still am.” She shook her head. “You’re wrong. There are lots of political animals, and we seem to have met them all these past few years, but you’re different. People respect you because you always think and act as a man, not as a politician. Not that you’re wrong here. Li Yuan almost certainly wants something of you. It’s just. . . well, I’d trust to your instincts. I’d meet him. Hear what he wants. You don’t have to agree to anything. After all, he’s the one who’s put himself out here. If anyone loses face, it’s Nan Ho, not you.”
“And you? You’re invited, too, you know.” She looked at the note again, then gave a small laugh of surprise, for Nan Ho had specifically mentioned her, and by her sobriquet, “the Eldest Daughter.”
“Do you think that’s meant ironically?” she asked, surprised to find her pulse suddenly racing at the thought.
“Maybe. But we’ll find out, neh? Tonight.”
“Then we’re going?”
Dropping the menu he put his arm around her and lifted her face up to his.
“Sure. But that’s tonight. Right now . . .”
“what is this place?”
Karr stood there at the big ornamental gateway, looking about him uncomfortably. Beside him Chen waited patiently, as if it was something he did regularly.
“This is Shang Mu’s Mansion,” Chen said quietly. “Shang Mu’s? You mean the same Shang Mu who blew the whistle on what was happening in the Ministry?”
“That’s right.”
“And we’ve come to see him?”
Chen shook his head. “Not Shang Mu. He was killed. It’s his daughter, Hannah, we’ve come to see.”
Karr frowned. “When you said there was someone I ought to meet, I thought...”