The great doors at the far end of the chamber swung open and Tolonen stepped through. The old man looked across, then bowed his head. “You wanted me, Chieh Hsia?”
“Yes, Knut. Join me here. I need to talk.” As Tolonen climbed up onto the map and began to walk across its surface toward his T’ang, Li Yuan saw how his eyes scanned the surface, taking in details.
“You have heard about the Fifteenth Banner?” Tolonen grinned. “It is most excellent news, Chieh Hsia. And with Karr’s new force to aid the Fourth at Abidjan, we ought to be hearing good news on that front, too, neh?”
Perhaps, he thought, keeping his doubts to himself. But that was not why he had asked Tolonen here. He went across and stood once more above Asyut, then turned, looking directly at the old Marshal. “Where is he, Knut? Where is the bastard?” Tolonen shrugged. “Dead, Chieh Hsia? It’s at least a week since he’s been seen in public. So maybe . . .”
But Li Yuan was shaking his head. “If he was dead we would know about it.
No, he’s alive. The fact that his armies still fight on is proof of that.
They would not do so if he were dead.”
It was the truth, surprisingly enough. At first he had been shocked by how fiercely Wang’s Banners had fought for him. But slowly an understanding of it had come to him. It was not Wang himself they fought for, but for his incarnation as T’ang of City Africa. Such loyalty was deeply ingrained. Without it they would have had no purpose, no real existence as a force, and so they fought—for Africa and their T’ang. He paced slowly about the map, moving from one of Wang’s palaces to the next—Alexandria, Casablanca, Ibadan, Kinshasa, Kimberley, Lusaka ... he had hit them all. Only Luxor remained. But word was that Luxor had been abandoned.
“If we could find him,” he mused, loud enough for Tolonen to hear, “if we could track him down and kill him . . . well, maybe we could end this slaughter.”
He looked up, facing Tolonen, almost eye to eye with him.
“Luxor,” Tolonen said. “You must hit Luxor next.”
“And if he’s not there?”
“Then we fight on, Chieh Hsia. No one said it would be easy. Such a war as this ... it could last years.”
Li Yuan nodded. That was exactly what he feared. Long years of warfare—what would that do to Chung Kuo? And if, at the end of it Africa were lost, what then for Europe and the other continents? Would it all go into the darkness?
“Luxor, then,” he said. “And let us pray this time we find him.”
the hall was echoing silent. Wang Sau-leyan sat on the high throne looking down on the eight prisoners, his bloodshot eyes burning with hatred. Beside him the woman looked away, fear—or was it revulsion?—in her eyes.
The prisoners were kneeling, their heads lowered, more from exhaustion
than deference, their hands bound tightly behind their backs—so tightly,
in fact, that blood seeped between the cords, darkening them. At their
backs a line of imperial guards waited, swords drawn, behind their
Captain.
At a gesture from the T’ang the screen behind him lit up, showing the
prisoners seated about a dining table, their silks, which now were filthy,
brightly clean, their faces, which now were bruised and bloodied,
laughing.
Wang leaned forward slightly, his hands gripping the arms of his throne tightly.
“Do you still deny it? After all you’ve seen? After all I’ve shown you?” He gestured toward the screen without looking. “Are those eight other men up there, laughing and talking of my death . . . plotting to kill me?” He sat back, wiping the spittle from his lips. “You treacherous scum! I treat you like my brothers and this is how you pay me back! This.’” He shuddered, an expression of pure disgust crossing his face. His arm shot out, pointing at one of the prisoners. “Captain, slit that fucker’s throat!”
Several of them looked up. One, finding himself facing Wang’s outstretched hand, gave a wail of terror. “No, Chieh Hsia . . . you misunderstand—“ The Captain grabbed him brutally, locked his head beneath his left arm, then dragged the blade of his knife across his throat. Blood gushed instantly. He let him fall.
“And that one!” Wang snarled savagely, pointing at another.
Dutifully, the Captain complied.
The other six were trembling now. There was the smell of feces in the air. “You miserable little men . . .” Wang snorted, then stood unsteadily, tottering down three steps before he got his balance. “You . . . ordure.” He came down the remaining steps and, taking the bloodied knife from his Captain, went and stood over one of the remaining six. “Plead. . . .” he said softly, leaning in toward the man. “Plead for your miserable life.”
The man threw himself down, prostrating himself at Wang’s feet. “Ch-chieh Hs-hsia,” he stammered. “The gods know—“ He grunted, Wang’s full weight suddenly on him, forcing the knife down into his back. Wang straightened up. The knife was embedded to the hilt. “And you?” he asked, turning to another.
The man fainted.
“Boil them,” he said, dismissing the guards, then wiped his hands on his silks. “Set up a cauldron and boil them all alive. And do it somewhere close. I want to hear their screams.”
He turned, looking up at his wife, seeing how she stared down at her hands, her flesh so pale, it was almost translucent. She had not been well these past few days. She was off her food and he had heard her being sick in the night. Nerves, he thought, mounting the steps toward her. “It’s okay,” he said softly, leaning over her. “I’d never hurt you. You know that. Never.”
Then, turning, addressing the backs of his guards as they dragged the prisoners away, he yelled. “Where’s Hung Mien-lo? Where’s that bastard Hung?”
hung mien-lo scampered down the walkway, then strapped himself in again. And not a moment too soon as the tiny, four-man craft lurched to the right, making the course change he had specified. He looked out, watching the roof of the City come up fast at him, then level out as the craft banked, heading out over the sea. He turned, looking out through the porthole opposite, seeing the great white wall of the City recede slowly, dwindling, dwindling as the craft accelerated. Hung sat back, feeling the pull of the craft against his body, then closed his eyes, relaxing, knowing, for the first time in over four weeks, that he was safe.
Behind him Africa grew smaller by the moment, like a bad dream fading in the dawn’s light. Ahead lay the ruined plains of the Middle East, and beyond them Central Asia and his destination. He took a long breath, sighing almost, then laughed, wondering what his once-Master would be doing now. Tending his wife, no doubt, he thought, and felt a dark tide of satisfaction wash through him. It had been impossible to poison Wang himself. A dozen tasters had died in various attempts over the years. But his wife . . . Again Hung laughed, his laughter rolling on and on as if it would never stop. It had been easy. Had he spoon-fed her the stuff pure it could not have been easier. A day he gave her, if that. And Wang himself? Hung Mien-lo heaved a huge sigh, purged by the laughter. Wang Sau-leyan’s days were numbered. He had known that from the start: from that moment in Wang’s rooms when—in a moment of blinding insight—he had understood that Wang Sau-leyan had murdered his own father. Even so, he had lasted well. A lot longer than he, Hung, had expected. But now the game was up. His Ministers had fled and now his Generals argued openly with him. In a day or two it would be over.