Of course, it would be hard to prove An Sheng’s involvement in the coup. He had made sure his own hands were clean, and even where they weren’t—as in the case of Yin Tsu—he had been careful to make it a separate matter, and had claimed his right to be tried by a tribunal of his peers. Special circumstances notwithstanding, unless they could find a crack in the wall of silence that surrounded him, An Sheng would escape all taint of traitorous behavior. And, if precedent were anything to go by, he might yet evade the charge of murder too. Whatever they felt personally, it was unlikely that his peers would find him guilty. Of a lesser charge, perhaps. It was even feasible that they would make a deal—clearing him providing he stood down and let his eldest son, Mo Shan, take over as Head of Family in his place. And what real difference would that make? No wonder the bastard’s calm.
Nan Ho set the list aside, then cleared his throat. “You realize what has happened, Prince An?”
An Sheng shook his head disdainfully, refusing to meet the Chancellors eyes. “I understand only that I have been wrongly taken from my house and detained without explanation. I wish to register the strongest complaint—“ “Your words are noted, Prince An, but these are exceptional circumstances.
The Seven have met and—“
“Forgive me, Chancellor, but what has that to do with me? The matter with Yin Tsu was . . . unfortunate . . . but I have not denied anything. Nor have I hidden anything. The tapes of the incident have been handed to the Ting Wei, and I have placed myself at the mercy of my peers. What more could I do?”
Nan Ho bowed his head slightly, careful to conceal his irritation, then continued.
“As I said, the Seven have met and agreed on a special Edict. As of tenth bell this morning Chung Kuo has been under martial law. Furthermore, a special investigation into the activity of the Ministry is under way and it is in that regard that you are here.” An Sheng shrugged. “I repeat. What has any of this to do with me?” Nan Ho pulled a report sheet across, then tapped at his console. At once a record of An Sheng’s contacts with the First Dragon appeared on the screen beside him, complete with date and duration of each visit. “You knew the I Lung well, Prince An?”
“As well as any Minor-Family Head, Chancellor. It was my business to know him.”
“True ... yet I see you met him only a few days ago. He came to see you at your palace. Isn’t that. . . unusual?”
An Sheng tilted his head slightly. “Not unusual.” “No?” Nan Ho raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Twice in three years, I see, and the last time only days before the Ministry tries to overthrow the Seven. Tell me, Prince An, did the First Dragon seem . . . preoccupied?” He watched. An Sheng had not reacted to his mention of the coup, and that in itself was unnatural. Indeed, this whole pretense of calm had the air of a rehearsed ploy. An Sheng was walking on thin ice and he knew it. “I... noticed nothing. There was talk of the wei chi championships next year and who we thought might win . . . oh, and some gossip about the Lady Fei, but apart from that. . .” He shrugged, then looked down at his hands. Nan Ho followed his gaze. An Sheng’s hands rested lightly in his lap, the long nails painted with a pearl lacquer. As he watched, An turned one hand and flexed it like a claw, as if exercising it. . . . or finding some focus, perhaps, for all the tension in^ou. Nan Ho was silent a moment longer, then he tapped at the console, clearing the screen.
“That’s all, Prince An. You may go now. But please keep my office advised of where you are at all times. If I want to speak with you again—“ “You’ll find me at my palace, Chancellor,” An Sheng interrupted, standing abruptly. Then, with the very minimum acknowledgment of Nan Ho’s status, he turned and left the room.
Nan Ho sat back, letting his breath but in a long, exasperated sigh. He looked up at the camera.
“Well, Chieh Hsial”
“He is guilty,” Li Yuan answered. “I am certain of it now.” “And the Princess, Yin Fei Yen? Do you wish to see her and hear her evidence, Chieh Hsia?”
“No. I’ve heard enough. Now I must consult my cousins. I shall let you know what is decided, Master Nan. In the meantime step up the search for the I Lung. If we can take him the rest will follow.” “Yes, Chieh Hsia.”
There was the soft chime of the dismissal tone. Li Yuan had gone. Nan Ho sat there a moment longer, staring at An Sheng’s assassination list, then stood. For once there was no real point in acting upon the T’ang’s instruction—they had more than enough people out there looking for the First Dragon—yet if the T’ang said more, he would send out more. They would not find him, even so, for either he was dead already or he was off-planet—either way they would never know. At best they would capture one of his brothers, though even that was unlikely. And what now? Nan Ho asked himself, walking to the window and looking out across the sunlit gardens. Without the Thousand Eyes watching the levels, who would now guard the Great Secret of their collective past? Who now would keep the people ignorant? Would it stay there, buried in the darkness? Or would it all come seeping back now, like blood through a sheet?
He gritted his teeth. Uncertainties, that was all they had from here on. They had abandoned History and now it had abandoned them. There were no precedents for this, no handholds up the steep cliff-face of the future. It was all improvised from this point on. Each man for himself, and beware the man who falls.
Even so, to have survived at all was something. He went out, into the garden, and stood there a moment in the spring sunlight, his head tilted back, drinking in the freshness of the day. Yes, to have come this Jar. . .
He laughed; then, sobered by the thought of all that lay ahead, he made his way down the broad white steps and past the carp pond, heading for the cells.
“Well, Cousin, what do you think?”
Wu Shih frowned, then gave a reluctant nod. “I do not like this, Yuan, yet I agree with Tsu Ma. To let him live is unthinkable. . . . No. An Sheng must not come to trial. He must die. How you do that. . . well, I leave it to you, Cousin. But do it soon. While things are yet confused.” Li Yuan, looking down at Wu Shih from the screen, nodded. “It seems we must bury our consciences, neh, old friend? Necessity’s the force that moves us now.”
“Then let us be ruthless and have done with it. I, for one, have more than enough troubles without this added burden.” “That woman, eh?”
Wu Shih nodded. “That woman . . .”
“Well, good luck, Cousin. We shall both need our fair share of it, neh?”
Wu Shih bowed, then cut contact. That woman . . .
“Master Pao?”
“Chieh Hsia?”
He turned, looking at his Master of the Inner Chambers. “Get Kennedy for me. Tell him we have to talk. And ask Fen Cho-hsien to come through. We must deal with this matter at once.”
Pao En-fu bowed low, then turned and hurried away. Wu Shih went across to his desk and sat, pulling at his beard. As far as Mary Lever was concerned, they had miscalculated badly. Her broadcasts had not merely been successful, they had been phenomenal. Unknown to them she had organized a whole network of “wives,” women she had worked with on previous funding projects. They in their turn had organized parties and social gatherings across the City, timed to coincide with the broadcasts. Using those as focal points for her recruitment drive, she had managed to sign up close to five million subscribers at the first attempt. And then, this morning, while the business with the Ministry was distracting them, she had gone on air again, to advertise her success and to discuss the next step forward.