Li Shai Tung stared at them contemptuously, seeing the ill-ordered manner of their obeisance. It was as he had thought; these Hung Mao had fallen into bad habits. Such respect as they owed their T'ang was not an automatic thing with them. It was shallow rooted. The first strong wind would carry it away.
Slowly, deliberately, he looked from face to face, seeing how few of them dared meet his eyes, and how quickly those who did looked away. Hsiao jen, he thought. Little men. You're all such little men. Not a king among you. Not one of you fit to be my chamberlain, let alone my equal. He ran his hand through his ice-white plaited beard, then turned away, as if dismissing them, facing the man in the cage.
The man was naked, his head shaven. His hands were tied behind him with a crude piece of rope. There was something ancient and brutal about that small detail; something that the two boys at the old man's side took note of. They stood there silently, their faces masks of dispassionate observation. "This now is a lesson," their father had explained beforehand. "And the name of the lesson is punishment."
The trial had lasted nineteen months. But now all evidence was heard and the man's confession—thrice given as the law demanded—had placed things beyond doubt.
Li Shai Tung walked round the cage and stood there on the far side of it, an arm's length from its thick, rounded bars. The cage was deliberately too small for the man, forcing him to kneel or bend his back. He was red eyed, his skin a sickly white. Flesh was spare on him and his limbs were badly emaciated. The first two months of incarceration had broken his spirit and he was no longer proud. His haughty, aquiline profile now seemed merely birdlike and ludicrous—the face of an injured gull. All defiance had long departed from him. Now he cowered before the T'ang's approach.
The old man pointed to the symbol burned into the caged man's upper arm. It was the stylized double helix of heredity, symbol of the Dispersion faction.
"Under Secretary Lehmann. You know this man?"
Lehmann came forward and stood there on the other side of the cage, looking in.
"Chieh Hsia?"
There was the blankness of nonrecognition in Lehmann's eyes. Good, thought the T'ang. He is not expecting this. All the better. It will make the shock of it far sharper.
"He was your friend."
Lehmann looked again, then gasped. "Edmund. ..." he whispered.
"Yes." The T'ang came around the cage again and stood there, between Lehmann and the throne. "This prisoner was once a man, like you. His name was Edmund Wyatt. But now he has no name. He has been found guilty of the murder of a minister and has forfeited all his rights. His family, such as it was, is no more, and his ancestors are cut adrift. His place and purpose in this world are annulled."
He let the significance of his speech sink in, then spoke again.
"You disown him? Your faction disowns his actions?"
Lehmann looked up, startled.
"Do you disown him, Under Secretary?"
It was a tense moment. At the trial Lehmann had been Wyatt's chief advocate. But now it was different. If Lehmann said yes he sanctioned the T'ang's actions. If no ...
The silence grew. Lehmann's face moved anxiously, but he could not bring himself to speak. Across from him the T'ang held steady, his arm outstretched, his head turned, staring at the House Deputy. When the silence had stretched too thin, he broke it. He repeated his words, then added. "Or do you condone murder as a political option, Under Secretary?"
Li Shai Tung raised his voice a shade. "Am I to take it, then, that your silence is the silence of tacit agreement?"
"Under the force of the old man's staring eyes Lehmann began to shake his head. Then, realizing what he was doing, he stopped. But it was too late. He had been betrayed into commitment. He need say nothing now. Li Shai Tung had won.
"This man is mine then? To do with as I wish?"
The T'ang was like a rock. His age, his apparent frailty, were illusions that the hardness of his voice dispelled. There was nothing old or frail about the power he wielded. At that moment it lay in his power to destroy them all, and they knew it.
Lehmann had clenched his fists. Now he let them relax. He bowed his head slowly, tentatively, in agreement. "He is yours, Chieh Hsia. My—my faction disowns his actions."
It was a full capitulation. For Li Shai Tung and the Seven it was a victory, an admission of weakness on the part of their opponents. Yet in the old man's face there was no change, nor did his outstretched hand alter its demanding gesture.
The two boys, watching, saw this, and noted it.
At last Li Shai Tung lowered his arm. Slowly, uncertainly, the Hung Mao turned away and began to make their way out of the Hall. It was over. What the T'ang did with the man no longer concerned them. Wyatt was his.
When they were gone, Li Shai Tung turned to his sons. "Come here," he said, beckoning them closer to the cage.
Li Han Ch'in was seventeen; tall and handsome like his father, though not yet fully fleshed. His brother, Li Yuan, was only eight, yet his dark, calculating eyes made him seem far older than he was. The two stood close by their father, watching him, their obedience unquestioning.
"This is the man who killed Lwo Kang, my Minister. By the same token he would have killed me—and you and all the Seven and their families. For to attack the limbs of state is to threaten the body, the very heart."
The man in the cage knelt there silently, his head bowed.
Li Shai Tung paused and turned to his eldest. "Considering such, what should I do, Han Ch'in? What punishment would be fitting?"
There was no hesitation. "You must kill him, Father! He deserves to die." There was a fiery loathing in the young man's eyes as he stared at the prisoner. "Yes, kill him. As he would have killed you!"
Li Shai Tung was silent, his head tilted slightly to one side, as if considering what his eldest son had said. Then he turned, facing his second son. "And you, Yuan? Do you agree with your brother?"
The boy was silent a moment, concentrating.
Li Yuan was less impetuous than his brother. He was like the current beneath the ocean's swell, his brother the curling, foaming waves—all spray and violent show. Magnificent, but somehow ephemeral. Li Shai Tung, watching his sons, knew this and hoped the younger would prove the voice of reason at the ear of the elder. When it was time. When his own time was done.
Li Yuan had come to a decision. He spoke earnestly, gravely, like an old man himself. "If you kill him you will bring only further hatred on yourself. And you kill but a single man. You do not cure the illness that he represents."
"This illness"—the T'ang brought his head straight. The smile had gone from his lips—"is there a cure for it?"
Once more the boy was silent, considering. Again he gave an earnest answer. "Immediately, no. This illness will be with us a long while yet. But in time, yes, I believe there is a way we might control it."
Li Shai Tung nodded, not in agreement, but in surprise. Yet he did not dismiss his youngest's words. Li Yuan was young, but he was no fool. There were men ten times his age with but a fraction of his sense, and few with a Jiang of his intelligence.
"We must speak more of this"—he waved a hand almost vaguely—"this means of control. But answer me directly, Yuan. You feel this man should be spared, then, to alleviate the short-term hatred, the resentment?"
The small boy allowed himself the luxury of a brief smile. "No, Father, I suggest nothing of the kind. To spare the prisoner would be to exhibit weakness. As you said to us earlier, it is a lesson, and the name of the lesson is punishment. The man must be killed. Killed like the basest piece of Clay. And all hatred, all resentment, must be faced. There is no other way."