Again DeVore gave the slightest nod. "You know why IVe come?"
Lehmann glanced his way, then looked forward again, toward the pagoda. "It's Lwo Kang's death, isn't it? I knew someone would come. As soon as I heard the news, I knew. Rumor flies fast up here. Idle tongues and hungry ears make trouble for us all." He sighed, then glanced at DeVore. "I understand there are those who are misconstruing words spoken in my audience with the Minister as a threat. Well, I assure you, Howard, nothing was farther from my mind. In a strange way I liked Lwo Kang. Admired his stubbornness. Even so, I find myself . .. unsurprised. It was as I thought. As I warned. There are those for whom impatience has become a killing anger."
DeVore paused, turning toward the Under Secretary. "I understand. But there are things I must ask. Things you might find awkward."
Lehmann shrugged good-naturedly. "It's unavoidable. The Minister's death was a nasty business. Ask what you must. I won't be offended."
DeVore smiled and walked on, letting Lehmann take his arm again. They had come to the bridge. For a moment they paused, looking out across the lake. The peacock cried again.
"It is being said that you had most to gain from Lwo Kang's death. His refusal to accommodate you in the matter of new licenses. His recent investigations into the validity of certain patents. Most of all his rigid implementation of the Edict. That last, particularly, has harmed you and your faction more than most."
"My faction? You mean the Dispersionists?" Lehmann was quiet a moment, considering. "And by removing him I'd stand to gain?" He shook his head. "I know I've many enemies, Howard, but surely even they credit me with more subtlety than that."
They walked on in silence. As they reached the pagoda, the two men on the terrace came across and stood at the top of the slatted steps.
"Soren! Edmund!" DeVore called out to them, mounting the narrow stairway in front of Lehmann. "How are you both?" They exchanged greetings, then went inside, into a large, hexagonal room. Black lacquered walls were inset with porcelain in intricate and richly colored designs. The ceiling was a single huge mosaic; a double helix of tiny, brightly colored pythons surrounded by a border of vivid blue-white stars. Four simple backless stools with scrolled, python-headed feet stood on the polished block-tile floor, surrounding a low hexagonal table. On the table was a small green lacquered box.
Despite the heaviness, the formality of design, the room seemed bright and airy. Long, wide-slatted windows looked out onto the lake, the orchard, and the surrounding meadows. The smell of blossom lingered in the air.
It was almost more Han than the Han, DeVore observed uneasily, taking a seat next to Lehmann. A rootless, unconscious mimicry. Or was it more than that? Was it Han culture that was the real virus in the bloodstream of these Hung Mao; undermining them, slowly assimilating them, "as a silkworm devours a mulberry leaf." He smiled wryly to himself as the words of the ancient historian Ssu Ma Ch'ien came to mind. Ah, yes, we know their history, their sayings. These things have usurped our own identity. Well, by such patience shall I, in turn, devour them. I'll be the silkworm delving in their midst.
"So how's the Security business?"
DeVore turned on his stool, meeting Edmund Wyatt's query with a smile.
"Busy. As ever in-this wicked world."
Despite long years of acquaintanceship Wyatt and he had never grown close. There had always been a sense of unspoken hostility beneath their surface politeness. It was no different now.
Wyatt was a slightly built man with an oddly heavy head. Someone had once commented that it was as if he had been grafted together from two very different men, and that impression, once noted, was hard to shake. At a glance his face revealed a strong, unequivocal character: aristocratic, his dark green eyes unflinching in their challenge, his chin firm, defiant. But looking down at the frame of the man it was noticeable at once how frail he seemed, how feminine. His hands were soft and thin and pale, the nails perfectly manicured. Slender tiao tuo, bracelets of gold and jade, hung bunched at both wrists.
Such things made him seem a weak man, but he was far from that. His father's ruin might have destroyed a lesser man, but Wyatt had shown great courage and determination. He had gambled on his own talents and won: rebuilding his father's empire and regaining his place on First Level.
DeVore studied him a moment longer, knowing better than to underestimate the intelligence of the man, then gave the slightest bow. V "And you, Edmund—you're doing well, I see. There's talk your company will soon be quoted on the Index."
Wyatt's eyes showed a mild surprise. He was unaware how closely DeVore kept himself briefed on such things. "You follow the markets, then?"
"It makes sense to. Insurrection and business are close allies in these times. The Hang Seng is an indicator of much more than simple value—it's an index of power and ruthlessness, a club for like-minded men of similar ambitions."
He saw how Wyatt scrutinized him momentarily, trying to make out the meaning behind his words. The Hang Seng Index of Hong Kong's stock market was the biggest of the world's seven markets and the most important. But, like the House, it was often a front for other less open activities.
DeVore turned slightly in his seat to face Berdichev, a warm smile lighting his features. "And how are you, Soren? I see far too little of you these days."
Soren Berdichev returned the smile bleakly, the heavy lenses of his small, rounded glasses glinting briefly as he bowed. He was a tall, thin-faced man with pinched lips and long, spatulate fingers; a severe, humorless creature whose steel-gray eyes never settled for long. He was a hard man with few social graces, and because of that he made enemies easily, often without knowing what he did; yet he was also extremely powerful—not a man to be crossed.
"Things are well, Howard. Progressing, as they say."
DeVore smiled at Berdichev's understatement. SimFic, his company, was one of the success stories of the decade. It had been a small operation when he had bought it in eighty-eight, but by ninety-one it had been quoted on the Hang Seng 1000 Index, along with Chung Kuo's other leading companies. Since that time he had made great advances, leading the market in the production of HeadStims and Wraps. In five short years SimFic had achieved what had seemed impossible and revolutionized personal entertainment. Now they were one of the world's biggest companies and were quoted in the Top 100 on the Index.
For a while they exchanged pleasantries. Then, as if at a signal, Berdichev's features formed into a cold half-smile. "But forgive me, Howard. I'm sure you haven't come here to talk market." He turned away brusquely and looked pointedly at Wyatt. "Come, Edmund, let's leave these two. I believe they have business to discuss."
Wyatt looked from Lehmann to DeVore, his whole manner suddenly alert, suspicious. "Business?"
There was a moment's awkwardness, then DeVore smiled and nodded. "I'm afraid so."
Wyatt set down his glass and got up slowly. Giving a small bow to Lehmann he made to follow Berdichev, then stopped and turned, looking back at Lehmann. "Are you sure?" he asked, his eyes revealing a deep concern for his friend.
Lehmann gave the slightest of nods, meeting Wyatt's eyes openly as if to say, Trust me. Only then did Wyatt turn and go.
DeVore waited a moment, listening to Wyatt's tread on the steps. Then, when it was silent again, he got up and went to the table, crouching down to open the small green box. Reaching up to his lapel, he removed the tiny device that had been monitoring their conversation and placed it carefully inside the box. Lehmann came and stood beside him, watching as he switched on the tape they had recorded three weeks before. There was the cry of a peacock, distant, as if from the meadows beyond the room, and then their voices began again, continuing from where they had left off. DeVore smiled and gently closed the lid, then he straightened up, letting out a breath.