She nodded.
He studied her a moment. She was a good-looking girl. Her hair was neatly cut, her clothes simple and modest, but there was an air about her. His eyes were drawn back to her face, to the smoothness of her skin, the freshness of her features. He smiled, then moved past her, inspecting what she had been doing, lifting the lid of the big cooking pot and sniffing deeply.
“What is this?”
“Green jade soup, Master.”
“Ah . . .” He put a finger in the cold soup, tasting it. “Hmm.”
“Would you like me to warm some up for you, Master?” Her offer surprised him. He turned, looking at her, conscious suddenly of her proximity, of the soap-scrubbed scent of her, the way she looked at him, willing to please.
“Why not?” He laughed gently, then sat at table, watching as she poured some of the soup from the pot into a small bowl and began to heat it up, enjoying the simplicity of being tended to. Wang Ti had once done this for him. But that seemed long ago now. Long, long ago. He sighed and looked down.
“When did you start here, Tian Ching?”
“Tuesday, Master.”
Tuesday? He looked up, surprised. But that was five days ago. Surely it hadn’t been that long since he’d last been here? For a moment he watched her as she worked. Again it made him think of Wang Ti and die times he had sat like this, watching her at work, enjoying the simple sight of her body in movement, of the strength in her arms and shoulders. He shivered, then looked away.
“There . . .”
She placed the soup in front of him, then handed him a porcelain spoon. Heated up, the soup smelled delicious and he spooned it down quickly, not realizing he had been so hungry. “So?” he said, pushing the bowl away. “How are you finding things?”
She was standing there, facing him across the table. At his question her eyes widened slightly and then she laughed—a soft, strangely sensual laugh, the whole of her face lighting up. “It’s hard work, but I’m used to that. I’m the eldest of eleven children.” “Eleven?” Chen laughed, sitting back slightly, beginning to enjoy himself, to unwind after a long, hard day. “So you started early?” She nodded, her smile broadening. “They used to call me Shoo nai nai, little grandmother. Even so, I got my schooling. There’s many still who can’t say that.”
“Yes . . .” He looked at the bowl. “Is there more?”
“Of course . . .” She hesitated, looking past him at the door. He turned in his seat. His fourteen-year-old son, Jyan, was standing in the doorway, looking in bleary eyed, his sleeping robe pulled tight around him. Chen went across to him and hugged him close. “Jyan, love . . . Couldn’t you sleep?”
The boy stared past his father at the maid, then looked back up at him. “I heard voices. I thought. . .”
Chen heard the scrape of the bowl being picked up, the clink of the spoon as it was placed on the side.
“It’s all right,” the girl said, moving past them, stopping in the door to
bow. “It is time I was in bed. Good night, Master. Good night, young
Jyan.”
Chen returned her brief smile. “Good night. . . .” He looked down at his son again, noting how Jyan turned his head, watching her go, the light of suspicion in his eyes, and sighed inwardly. The last thing he needed just now was trouble at home. “So how are things?” he said brightly, lifting Jyan’s chin. “How has your mother been?”
Jyan shook his chin free, looking away, his jaw set stubbornly. “You ought to know that yourself. You ought to spend more time with her.” Chen smiled wearily. “You’re right. But it’s not possible right now. Things are difficult. We’re six men short and the workload has doubled this last year. It’s hard to cope as it is.” Jyan made a small, irritable movement. “Even so . . .” “Look . . . I’m here now, okay? And tomorrow night I’ll get back early. I promise I will.”
“You always say that. You never are.”
“Look, I promise. All right? Maybe we’ll get one of the new trivees out.
Maybe—“
Jyan’s voice broke in brutally. “I’ve seen them all. Besides, I’m not talking about me. I’m all right. It’s Mother. She needs you and you’re never here. She—“ “AH right! Enough! I don’t need you to tell me what I ought or ought not to be doing.” He turned away, trying to calm himself, trying to still the anger, the frustration, he felt at that moment. “Look, Jyan,” he said quietly “try and understand, will you? I am a Major in the T’ang’s Security service and my work is very important. I can’t just leave it whenever I want to. If something urgent comes up, I have to deal with it there and then. And if that means that I’m away more than I’d like, that can’t be helped. Not now.”
“So when?” Jyan asked, his young eyes full of hurt. “When does it start to get better? When will you have some time for us?” Chen sighed. “I don’t know. Soon. . . . Look, it’s difficult right now. There have been a lot of changes. Things are in flux. But they’ll get better. It’s just a phase. It’s . . .” He shrugged. “Look, I love you all. You see that, don’t you? And if I work hard, it’s for you. To keep us here, at this level. To keep you all away from . . . well, away from what’s down there.”
“Down there?” Jyan looked past him again. “Sometimes I think things were better when we were down there. Before you were promoted. Before . . .” The boy stopped, as if he’d come up against a cliff face, but Chen knew what he was thinking. He could see the pain in his eyes, the tightness of the cheek muscles where he struggled to control himself. Jyan was thinking about the loss of the baby. About the moment when Wang Ti had “gone” from them. He shivered, then pulled his son close, holding him tightly. “It’ll be okay, Jyan. I promise it will. Things will change. They’ll be as they were. I promise you.”
Jyan pulled away and nodded; then, wiping his hand across his face, he turned and went out. Chen stood, hearing the pad of his son’s feet along the hallway, the slide of his door as it closed. He sighed, looking about him at the kitchen, then turned back, hearing the door slide again, the feet pad back.
Jyan’s face appeared at the door again. “I almost forgot,” he whispered.
“There was a message. It came just after dinner.”
“A message? Where?”
“On the table in the hall.” Jyan hesitated, then came across and reached up to kiss his father’s neck. “I love you, Dad.” “And I you, my darling,” Chen answered, hugging him briefly. He waited for Jyan to return to his room, then went out. The message was on the table by the door. Chen picked up the long, pale envelope and sniffed at it. It smelled of incense. Going back into the kitchen he sat at the table again, studying the unfamiliar handwriting, then slit the envelope open with his nail and unfolded the single sheet. It was from the girl, the Junior Minister’s daughter. Meet me, it read, at The Golden Carp, eighth bell tomorrow. Wear something casual. No uniforms. I’ve some friends you might wish to meet. Interesting types. Best wishes.
Hannah.
The Golden Carp ... it was in the student quarter of Rathenow. But who were these friends? Were they accomplices? Members of True History? If so, then why was she taking such a chance? Because that was what this was. A rather dangerous chance. For all she knew, his act of kindness might have been a pretense—the bait in a trap. Unless she were genuine, of course: an innocent, unaware of the risks she was running. But that would mean that it really was coincidence that she’d been there just at that moment, and that he simply didn’t believe.