“Messy,” Wang Sau-leyan said, and then laughed, his laughter echoed back at him by the watching courtiers. “Still. It worked, neh? I have a champion at last. Someone to represent me at the tournament in two weeks’ time.” He hauled himself up into a sitting position, then swiveled around on his couch and put his feet down on the floor. “Master Hsu, I congratulate you.”
The old man bowed his head, maintaining his dignity a moment longer, then was promptly sick all over the board.
“Gods . . .” Wang said, sighing, his face registering his disgust. “Hung—take him away and clean him up, will you? Oh . . . and give him ten thousand yuan. He was a worthy winner.”
Hung raised an eyebrow, surprised that Wang had even noticed how well Hsu Jung had played.
“And the others, Chieh Hsia?”
“The losers?” Wang smiled, his mouth like a slit in the puffed expanse of his face. “Throw them to the birds.”
the ch’a had proved to be a T’ieh Kuan Yin, an Iron Goddess of Mercy, an oolong from Fukien’s Wu-I Mountains. Karr had complimented Hannah on its bittersweetness, its lingering fragrance, but the ch’a had been the least of his delights. An hour into their meeting he found himself enchanted by the young woman, and when, in a break in the conversation, he looked across at Chen, it was to find his friend smiling at him. “You see?” Chen said. “What did I say?”
“You said nothing, you scoundrel. If I had known—“
“If you had known, then you would have spoiled it for both of us. Isn’t my Hannah something?”
Karr nodded, then, on whim, lowered his head to her in respect. In return she beamed back at him.
“But your idea ...” Chen said suddenly. “You haven’t mentioned your idea.” She made to wave it away, but Chen insisted. “No. You must tell Gregor. I think it’s a marvelous idea.”
Karr looked at her questioningly. “Well?” She looked down, for the first time slightly abashed. “It’s just something I’ve been thinking of doing, that’s all. But”—she looked up again—“well, it’s all so impractical. I can’t see how it could work.” “Well, tell me. Maybe f can see a way.”
She shrugged, smiled. “All right. It’s this. We have the media, neh? It tells us what’s happening in our world. Or so we fool ourselves into thinking. In reality it only tells us what it wants us to know. You’ve seen it for yourself. What’s news for First Level isn’t news for the Lowers. At each level things are ... different. Not only that, but there are bodies like the T’ing Wei, the Superintendency of Trials, responsible for black propaganda, and there’s the Ministry, the Thousand Eyes—or what’s left of it, now that the Seven have dismantled it. All of them serve to distort the overall picture of events. They’re all ... barriers set up in the path of truth, like screens set up to fend off ghosts. Well, my idea—my big idea—is to tear down those barriers somehow. Or to get around them. To somehow find a way of letting people know just exactly what’s going on. Like the business Chen was telling me about at Kibwezi, or the cover-up over the storm damage at Nantes, or ... well, there’s a hundred different subjects you might chose. The point is, Chung Kuo needs to have someone outside all the power games. Someone who can see it clearly and tell it like it really is, without fear or favor. Mary Lever tried it and she failed, but that’s no reason not to try again. To do it ... differently somehow. To be a voice.”
Karr sat back, blowing out a long, whistling breath. “Aiya . . . that’s some idea, young woman.”
She nodded, but her eyes now were deadly serious. “Well? What do you think, Gregor Karr? I’m not a rich woman like Mary Lever. I’ve no real influence. Do you think I’m mad even to dream about doing such a thing?” Karr looked down, then reached across and poured more ch’a into his bowl. “No. To be frank with you, I’ve felt the same for some time now. I’ve felt like I’d burst unless I could tell someone what I’ve seen and done. I’m”—he looked to Chen—“well, Chen here is the same. I am not happy serving two Masters.”
“Two Masters?” She stared at him, not understanding. “Li Yuan and my own conscience. It feels . . . unhealthy somehow. But if there were a way of expressing how I feel—some channel for it—well, maybe I’d feel better.”
“So?” Chen prompted.
Karr laughed. “So maybe I know a way. Look”—he spread his hands—“it may not work, but it’s worth a try, neh?”
She nodded.
“Good. Well ... it was something I saw years ago. Something the Ping Tiao were very good at. Pamphlets. Simple things, hand-printed on flimsy paper. A hundred million they got out one time, passed hand to hand throughout the Lowers. From what I can make out they had ten thousand originals, then left it to others—sympathetic agitators—to print up more from those.” He smiled. “Maybe you could do something similar?” She laughed. “You’re teasing me, surely?” Karr smiled. “Not at all. It might work. You provide the text, Chen and I will get it distributed. Or, at least, we’ll try.” Hannah shook her head. “But you’re both Majors . . . senior officers in the T’ang’s Security service. You can’t get involved in something like this!”
“And both special services,” Karr said, his smile unwavering. “Who better to arrange something like this? This past fifteen months I’ve made some useful contacts. Contacts we could use to get these things distributed. To spread them far and wide.”
He stopped. Chen was staring at him, his eyes narrowed. “Maybe so. But you have a child now, Gregor Karr.”
“And you have three. But the risk’s worth taking, neh?”
Chen hesitated, then gave a terse nod.
“Good. Then I’ll tell you what, young Hannah. You write us something—about what happened at Nantes, perhaps—and we’ll take it from there. Agreed?” He held out his hand, palm open to her. For a moment she simply stared at him, wondering; then, a faint smile beginning to creep into her eyes, she reached out and grasped it firmly.
“Agreed.”
the new hope was dark when they arrived, only a single lamp above the entrance lit, yet as they approached, two guards stepped from the shadows and unceremoniously pushed them against the wall, searching them for weapons.
“Charming,” Mary muttered through clenched teeth as the guard’s hand dwelt overlong on her inner thigh, then, with a pat, refrained from taking further liberties.
“Is this really necessary?” Michael asked, as he was turned roughly about to face his guard. But the man didn’t answer, merely gestured that they should go through.
“Well,” she said, taking his arm, “there go my last illusions about the civility of these people. Power, that’s all they understand.” Michael shrugged, then stopped, peering into the dark interior of the restaurant. As if on cue a lamp at a table on the far side of the room lit up, revealing the solitary figure of the T’ang’s Chancellor, Nan Ho. As they looked, he beckoned them across.
“Representative Lever,” he said, standing as they reached the table, then turned, bowing his head to Mary. “Madam Lever . . . Please, take a seat.” Michael helped her get seated, then took his own place, facing Nan Ho across the empty tabletop, the gentle swaying of the lamp above them throwing their faces briefly into shadow. “What was all that about?” Michael asked, his face set, determined, it seemed, to concede nothing.
“Precautions,” Nan Ho answered calmly, then half turned, snapping his fingers. At once a waiter—not one of the New Hopes regulars— appeared at his elbow. He turned back, smiling urbanely at Michael. “Would you like some wine before we eat?”
Michael looked to Mary, who nodded. ‘Tes,” he said. “But that’s not what I meant. The need to be cautious, that I understand, but the unnecessary brutality of it. What was that meant to demonstrate?” Nan Ho’s smile broadened. “I think you know already. But your question is very interesting. It shows that you’ve come here with fixed ideas. You think you know what I want. But you haven’t heard me yet. That’s strange. I expected much more of you, Michael Lever. I expected a certain . . . subtlety, let’s call it. Something I wouldn’t find in another of your . . . kind.”