"Who hates you more than I, Cousin Wang? Who hates you enough to send your brother's ghost to haunt you?"
And was it that that brought this sudden feeling of well-being? No, for the mood seemed unconnected to an event—was a sea change, like the sunlight on the waters after the violence of the storm.
He went out onto the graveled parade ground and turned full circle, his arms out, his eyes closed, remembering. It had been the morning of his twelfth birthday and his father had summoned all the servants. If he closed his eyes he could see it; could see his father standing there, tall and imperious, the grooms lined up before the doors, the Chief Groom, Hung Feng-chan, steadying the horse and offering him the halter.
He stopped, catching his breath. Had that happened? Had that been he, that morning, refusing to mount the horse his father had given him, claiming his brother's horse instead? He nodded slowly. Yes, that had been he.
He walked on, stopping where the path fell away beneath the high wall of the East Gardens, looking out toward the hills and the ruined temple, remembering.
For so long now he had held it all back, afraid of it. But there was nothing to be afraid of. Only ghosts. And he could live with those.
A figure appeared on the balcony of the East Gardens, above him and to his left. He turned, looking up. It was his First Wife, Mien Shan. He went across and climbed the steps, meeting her at the top.
"Forgive me, my Lord," she began, bowing her head low, the picture of obedience. "You were gone so long. I thought. . ."
He smiled and reached out, taking her hands. "I had not forgotten, Mien Shan. It was just that it was such a perfect night I thought I would walk beneath the moon. Come, join me."
For a time they walked in silence, following the fragrant pathways, holding hands beneath the moon. Then, suddenly, he turned, facing her, drawing her close. She was so small, so daintily made, the scent of her so sweet that it stirred his blood. He kissed her, crushing her body against his own, then lifted her, laughing at her tiny cry of surprise.
"Come, my wife," he said, smiling down into her face, seeing how two tiny moons floated in the darkness of her eyes. "I have been away from your bed too long. Tonight we will make up for that, neh? And tomorrow. . . Tomorrow we shall buy horses for the stables."
THE MORPH stood at the entrance to the cave, looking out across the moonlit plain below. The flicker of torches, scattered here and there across the darkened fields, betrayed the positions of the search parties. All day it had watched them as they crisscrossed the great plain, scouring every last copse and stream on the estate. They would be tired now and hungry. If it amplified its hearing it could make out their voices, small and distant on the wind—the throaty encouragement of a sergeant or the muttered complaints of a guard.
It turned, focusing on the foothills just below where it stood. Down there among the rocks, less than a li away, a six-man party was searching the lower slopes, scanning the network of caves with heat-tracing devices. But they would find* nothing. Nothing but the odd fox or rabbit, that was. For the morph was cold, almost as cold as the rocks surrounding it, its body heat shielded beneath thick • layers of insulating flesh.
In the center of the plain, some thirty li distant, was the palace of Tao Yuan. Extending its vision, it looked, searching, sharpening its focus until it found what it was looking for—the figure of the Chancellor, there in the south garden, crouched over a map table in the flickering half-light of a brazier, surrounded by his men.
"Keep looking, Hung Mien-lo," it said quietly, coldly amused by all this activity. "For your Master will not sleep until I'm found."
No, and that would suit its purpose well. For it was here not to hurt Wang Sau-leyan but to engage his imagination, like a seed planted in the soft earth of the young T'ang's mind. It nodded to itself, remembering DeVote's final words to it on Mars.
You are the first stone, Tuan Wen-ch'ang. The first in a whole new game. And while it may be months, years even, before I play again in that part of the board, you are nonetheless crucial to my scheme, for you are the stone within, placed deep inside my Quotient's territory—a singk white stone, embedded in the darkness of his skutt, shining like a tiny moon.
It was true. He was a stone, a dragon's tooth, a seed. And in time the seed would germinate and grow, sprouting dark tendrils in the young T'ang's head. And then, when it was time ...
The morph turned, its tautly muscled skin glistening in the silvered light, the smooth dome of its near-featureless head tilted back, its pale eyes searching for handholds, as it began to climb.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
White Mountain
The rocket came DOWN at Nairobi, on a strip dominated by the surrounding mountains. It was late afternoon, but the air was dry and unbearably hot after the coolness of the ship. Chen stood only a moment on the strip; then, his pack clasped under one arm, he made hurriedly for the shelter of the buildings a hundred ch'i off. He made it, gasping from the effort, his shirt soaked with sweat.
"Welcome to Africa!" one of the guards said, then laughed, taking Chen's ID. They took a skimmer southeast, over the old deserted town, heading for Kib-wezi. Chen stared out through one of the skimmer's side windows, drinking in the I strangeness of the view. Below him was a rugged wilderness of green and brown, stretching to the horizon in every direction. Huge bodies of rock thrust up from the plain, their sides creased and ancient looking, like the flanks of giant, slumbering beasts. He shivered and took a deep breath. It was all so raw. He had been expecting something like the Plantations. Something neat and ordered. Never for a moment had he imagined it would be so primitive.
Kibwezi Station was a collection of low buildings surrounded by a high wire fence, guard towers standing like machine-sentinels at each corner. The skimmer came in low over the central complex and dropped onto a small hexagonal landing pad. Beside the pad was an incongruous-looking building; a long, old-fashioned construction made of wood, with a high, steeply sloping roof. Two men stood on the verandah, watching the skimmer land. As it settled, one of them came down the open, slatted steps and out onto the pad; a slightly built Hung Moo in his late twenties. He was wearing a broad-rimmed hat and green fatigues on which were marked the double-helix logo of SimFic. As Chen stepped down, the man moved between the guards and took his pack, reaching out to shake his hand.
"Welcome to Kibwezi, Tong Chou. I'm Michael Drake. I'll be showing you the ropes. But come inside. This damned heat. . ."
Chen nodded, looking around him at the low, featureless buildings. Then he saw it. "Kuan Yin!" he said, moving out of the skimmer's shadow and into the heat. "What's that?"
Drake came and stood beside him. "Kilimanjaro, they call it. The White Mountain."
Chen stared out across the distance. Beyond the fence the land fell away. In the late afternoon it seemed filled with blue, like a sea. Thick mist obscured much of it, but from the mist rose up a giant shape of blue and white, flat-topped and massive. It rose up and up above that mist, higher than anything Chen had ever seen. Higher, it seemed, than the City itself. Chen wiped at his brow with the back of his hand and swore.
"It's strange, but you never quite get used to it."
Chen turned, surprised by the wistfulness in the man's voice. But before he could comment, Drake smiled and touched his arm familiarly. "Anyway, come. It's far too hot to be standing out here. Especially without something on your head."
Inside, Chen squinted into shadow, then made out the second man seated behind a desk at the far end of the room.