"Medics!" Tblonen yelled, horrified by the sight of Han lying there so lifelessly. "In the gods' names get some medics here! Now!"
Almost at once two uniformed men appeared and knelt either side of Han Ch'in. One ripped Han's tunic open and began to press down urgently on his chest with both hands while the other felt for a pulse.
Tolonen stood over them, his despair almost tearing him apart. He had seen enough dead men to know how hopeless things were. Han lay there in an unnatural pose, his spine snapped, his neck broken.
After a moment one of them looked up, his face ashen. "The Lord Han is dead, General. There is nothing we can do for him."
Tolonen shuddered violently. "Get a life-preservation unit here. Now! I want him taken to the special unit. The T'ang's own surgeons will see to him at once!"
He turned and looked down at the other body, knowing at once who it was. Gods! he thought, pained by the sight of his godson, Pei Chao Yang. Is there no end to this? He looked about him anxiously, searching the faces of the onlookers.
"Who did this? Who saw what happened?"
There was a babble of contesting voices. Then one came clear to him. Fei Yen's. "It was Chao Yang," she said, struggling to get the words out. "Chao Yang was—was the killer."
Tolonen whirled about, confused. Pei Chao Yang! No! It couldn't be! It was impossible!
Or was it?
Quickly he summoned two of the shoo tin and had them turn Chao Yang over. Then he took a knife from one of them and knelt over the body, slitting open Chao Yang's tunic. For a second or two he hesitated, then he plunged the knife into the chest and drew it to left and right.
His knife met only flesh and bone. Blood welled out over his hands. He dropped the knife, horrified, then looked across at Fei Yen.
"You're certain?"
She lowered her head. "I am."
There was a commotion just behind her as the crowd parted. Li Shai Tung stood there, his horror-filled eyes taking in the scene. Those near to him fell back slowly, their heads bowed.
"Chieh Hsia," Tolonen began, getting up. "I beg you to return to your place of safety. We don't know—"
The Tang raised a hand to silence him.
"He's dead?"
Li Shai Tung's face was awful to see. He had lifted his chin in that familiar way he had when giving orders, but now he was barely in command, even of himself. A faint tremor in the muscles at his neck betrayed the inner struggle. His lips were pinched with pain, and his eyes . . .
Tolonen shuddered and looked down. "I am afraid so, Chieh Hsia."
"And the killer?"
The General swallowed. "I don't know, Chieh Hsia. It seems—"
Fei Yen interrupted him. "It was ... Pei Chao Yang."
The T'ang's mouth opened slightly and he nodded. "Ah ... I see." He made to say something more, then seemed to forget.
Tolonen looked up again. He could hardly bear to meet the T'ang's eyes. For the first time in his life he knew he had let his master down. He knelt, his head bowed low, and drew his ceremonial dagger, offering its handle to the T'ang in a gesture that said quite clearly, My life is yours.
There was silence for a moment, then the T'ang came forward and put his hand on Tolonen's-shoulder. "Stand up, Knut. Please, stand up."
There was anguish in Li Shai Tung's voice, a deep pain that cut right through Tolonen and made him tremble. He had caused this pain. His failure had caused it. He stood slowly, feeling his years, his head still bowed, the dagger still offered.
"Put it away, old friend. Put it away."
He met the T'ang's eyes again. Yes, there was grief there—an awful, heavy grief. But behind it was something else. An acceptance of events. As if Li Shai Tung had expected this. As if he had gambled and lost, knowing all the while that he might lose.
"The fault is mine," Li Shai Tung said, anticipating the General. "I knew the risks." He shivered, then looked down. "There has been death enough today. And I need you, Knut. I need your knowledge, your ability, your fierce loyalty to me."
He was silent a moment, struggling to keep control, then he looked up again, meeting Tolonen's eyes. "After all, Knut, I have another son. He'll need you too."
More rrtedics came, wheeling a trolley. The General and T'ang stood there a moment in silence, watching as they placed Han Ch'in in the unit and sealed the lid. Both knew the futility of the gesture. Nothing would bring Han back now. When Li Shai Tung turned to face Tblonen again, his fists were clenched at his sides. His face was a mask of pain and patience.
"Find out who did this. Find out how they did it. Then come to me. Do not act without my order, Knut. Do not take it on yourself to avenge me." He shivered, watching the medics wheel the trolley past. "Han must not die in vain. His death must mean something."
Tolonen saw that the T'ang could say no more. He was at his limit now. His face showed signs of crumpling and there was a fierce movement about the eyes and beneath the mouth that revealed the true depths of what he was feeling. He made a brief, dismissive gesture of his hand, then turned away.
The General sheathed his dagger and turned to face the guests. Already the news of Han Ch'in's death would be spreading through the levels of Chung Kuo. And somewhere, he was certain, a group of men would be celebrating: smiling cruelly and raising their glasses to each other.
Somewhere. . . . Tblonen shuddered, grief giving way to anger in him. He would find the bastards. Find them and kill them. Every last one of them.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Kim's Game
THEY HAD sedated the boy and moved him to the observation center on the island of Corsica, three thousand Ji distant. There they cleaned and inoculated him, and put him in a cell.
It was a bare, unfurnished cell, a cube fifteen ch'i to a side. The ceiling was lost in the darkness overhead and there was no door, though a small window high up in one of the smooth, dark walls suggested that there was at least a way outside. From ceiling and window came a faint glow, barely enough to warrant the name of light, while from the center of the ceiling hung a six-eyed camera on a long, flexible neck.
The boy huddled against the wall beneath the window, staring up at the camera, his face both curious and hostile. He did not move, for when he did the camera would turn to follow him, like something living, two of its eyes focused constantly on him. He knew this because he had experimented with it; just as he had tried to climb the wall beneath the window.
In an adjacent room a man sat at a control desk, watching the boy on a screen. Behind him stood another. Both men were dressed in identical, tight-fitting suits of black. A fine gauze mesh of white was stretched across each of their faces like masks, showing only the eyes with their ebony lenses.
For a time there was nothing. Then the boy spoke.
"Bos agas pen gweder? Bos eno enawy py plas why dos mes?"
The seated man translated for the benefit of the other. "Is your head made of glass? Is there light where you come from?"
T'ai Cho laughed. He was growing to like the boy. He was so quick, so bright. It was almost a pleasure to be his partner in these sessions. He half turned, looking up at the standing man, who grunted noncommittally.
"I need to see more, T'ai Cho. Some clear sign of what he's capable of."
T'ai Cho nodded, then turned back to the screen. "Ef bos enawy," he answered pleasantly. He be light, it meant, translated literally, though its sense was It is fight. "Pur enawy," he went on. Very light. "Re rak why gordhaf whath, edrek." Too much for you to endure, I'm sorry. "Mes bos hebask. A-brys why mynnes gweles py plas my dos mes." But be patient. In good time you witt see where I come from.
The boy considered, then nodded, as if satisfied. "Da," he said. Good.
"What is that language?" asked the standing man. His name was Andersen and he was Director of the Project. It was T'ai Cho's job to convince him that his candidate was worth spending time and money on, for this was a department of the T'ang's government, and even government departments had to show a profit.