Shiao Shi-we was a small man, almost a head shorter than his seventeen-year-old pupil. His head was shaved and oiled and he was naked but for a small dark-red loincloth. His chest and forearms and legs were heavily muscled, yet as he crossed the room he moved with the grace of a dancer. He was sixty-five years old but looked forty.
He stood in front of Han Ch'in, looking up at the T'ang's heir, but there was no deference in his posture. In this room Shiao Shi-we was as father to Han Ch'in. Once, ten years before, he had put the young boy across his knee and spanked him for his impertinence, and when Han Ch'in had gone before his father to complain, the T'ang had merely laughed, then, growing stern, had ordered the punishment repeated, so that the lesson should be learned. Since that time Han Ch'in had known better than to argue with his tutor.
"Three things," began Shi-we. "Discipline, patience, and control. Without them even a good fighter is certain to lose. With them"—the tutor lifted his head proudly, the muscles of his neck standing out like ridges of rock—"the good becomes the supreme."
There was a noise in the doorway. Without turning Shiao Shi-we lifted a hand. "Please wait there a moment, Yuan. I must finish talking to your brother."
Li Yuan made a tiny bow to the instructor's back, amazed, as ever, that the old man could tell, without looking, who it was behind him. Each man has his own sounds, he'd once said. How he moves, who he is—these things can be distinguished as distinctively as the grain of a man's skin, the identifying pigmentation of the retina. Still yourself, listen, learn to tell the sound of friend from that of your enemy, and such skills might one day save your life.
So it might be, but try as he had, Li Yuan had found he could not distinguish the sound of his brother from that of one of his servants. If it's a skill, he thought, it's one few men possess. Better then to have a good man at one's back.
Li Yuan looked past Shiao Shi-we at his brother. Han Ch'in had his head lowered and there was a slight color in his cheeks. What has Han done now? he wondered, knowing how impulsive he was. Has he "died" again?
Master Shiao sniffed loudly, then pointed to Han's left. "Position."
Han moved at once, standing where he had been only a minute or so before, facing the assassin. Shiao Shi-we gave a slight nod, then positioned himself in front of his pupil. "Discipline," he said, crouching down and rubbing at his thighs, warming himself up. "Patience." He straightened, then twisted at the waist to left and right, relaxing the muscles there. "And control."
Without warning Shiao Shi-we launched himself at Han Ch'in.
Li Yuan gasped, startled by the abruptness of Shiao Shi-we's attack. But Han had moved back and away, and Shi-we's fist merely glanced the side of his face. Had it connected it would have broken his nose.
Han Ch'in moved back quickly, breathing heavily, clearly shaken by the violence of the attack. Yet he made no complaint. Crouching, flexing his body, he prepared himself for the next attack, calming his breathing, repeating the triad in his mind. Discipline. Patience. Control.
The next assault was like nothing either boy had ever seen before. Shiao Shi-we ran at Han in a zigzag, almost lunatic manner, his movements like those of an automaton. And as he ran a strange, unsettling scream came from his widely opened mouth.
Through half-lidded eyes Han Ch'in watched him come and, at the last moment, ducked and came up under the older man, tossing him into the air, then turned to face him again.
"Excellent!" Shiao Shi-we was on his feet, unharmed. He smiled momentarily, then grimaced as he threw himself at Han again.
So it went on, Shiao Shi-we attacking wildly, Han Ch'in defending, until, with a suddenness that was as surprising as the first attack, the old man backed off, bowing deeply.
"Good!" he said, looking at his pupil with pride. "Now go and bathe. Young Yuan must have his hour."
Han bowed and did as he was bid. Li Yuan turned, watching him go, then turned back, facing Master Shiao.
"You could have killed him," he said softly, still shocked by what he had seen.
Shiao Shi-we looked away, more thoughtful than Li Yuan had ever seen him before. "Yes," he said finally. "I could have, had he not fought so well."
"Well, Chen, will you come to bed?"
Wang Ti pulled back the cover and patted the space beside her on the bed. Chen had been silent all day, angry with her for her intervention. She had understood and had gone about her business patiently, but now it was evening and Jyan was asleep. Now he would have to talk to her. She would not have him lie beside her still angry with her, his innermost thoughts un-purged.
"Well, husband?"
He turned, looking across at her in the faint light of the single lamp, then looked down, shaking his head.
So. She would have to be the one to talk.
"You're angry with me still?"
He did not look at her, merely nodded. His whole body was stiff and awkward, shaped by the words he was holding back. She sat up, unfastening her hair, letting the covers fall from her breasts.
"You would have said no."
He looked at her mutely, looked away, then looked back again, his eyes drawn to her breasts, her shoulders. Meeting her eyes, he sighed and shrugged.
"You would have said no. And then you would have felt trapped. Bitter. With me. With Jyan. I would have had to watch your joy in us turn to sourness."
He began to shake his head but she was insistent, her voice soft yet firm.
"It is so, Kao Chen. I know it is so. You think I could live with you this long and not know it?"
He looked at her uncomprehendingly.
"I knew. Understand? Knew you were kwai."
Chen's eyes were wide. "You knew? When? How?"
She patted the bed beside her. "When I first met you. I knew at once. Even before my father told me."
Chen crossed the room and sat beside her. "Your father? He knew as well?"
"Oh, Chen. You think we didn't know at once? One look at you was enough. You were like a bird let out of its cage. We knew from the first that you weren't born in these levels. And as for your papers..."
Chen looked down at her hand where it lay above the bedclothes and covered it with his own. "And yet you married me. Why, if you knew?"
She hesitated, then took his other hand. "You met Grandfather Ling?"
Chen nodded, remembering the wizened, gray-haired old man who had sat silently at the back of the room when he had negotiated for Wang Ti's hand. He recalled how the old man's eyes had followed his every movement.
"Yes. I remember Wang Ling. What of him?"
Wang Ti smiled. "He was kwai. Like you. And, like you, he came up from the Net."
Chen laughed, astonished. "And you say your father knew."
"He made . . . inquiries."
Chen shook his head, astonished. "Inquiries . . . and none of you minded? You, Wang Ti . . . you knew and yet you didn't mind what I was or where I'd come from?"
She drew him closer, her face only a hand's width from his own, her dark eyes looking deeply into his. "You are a good man, Kao Chen. I knew that from the first moment I set eyes on you. But this last year I've seen you suffer, seen you put bit and bridle on, and my heart has bled for you."
She shook her head, her teeth momentarily clenched between parted lips. "No, Chen, the big man was right. You are not a warehouseman."
He shivered, then, slowly, nodded to himself. "Then it is as you said, Wang Ti. I will be kwai again."
Wang Ti laughed softly, then drew Chen down beside her, drawing the sheet back to expose her nakedness. "Ah, you foolish man. Don't you understand me yet? To me you have always been kwai."
She reached down, freeing his penis from the folds of the cloth and taking it firmly in her hand. "Here, give me your knife, I'll sheathe it for you."
THE GENERAL leaned across the huge scale model of the Tzu Chin Ch'eng, the Purple Forbidden City, indicating the group of buildings gathered about the Yu Hua Yuan, the Imperial Gardens.