"Is the horse dead, Hung? Is that it?"
Hung bowed his head lower. "No, my Lord ..."
"Then in the gods' names, what is it?"
"Nan Hsin is being ridden, my Lord."
Li Yuan straightened up, suddenly angry. "Ridden? By whom? We have no guests. Who gave permission for anyone to ride the beast?"
Hung Feng-chan was silent, his head bowed so low that it almost touched his slightly bent knees.
Li Yuan's bark of anger was unexpected. "Well, Hung? Who is riding Nan Hsin?
Or do I have to have it beaten from you?"
Hung raised his head, his eyes beseeching his young master. "My Lord, forgive me. I tried to talk her out of it. . ."
"Tried to—" He stopped, sudden understanding coming to him. Fei Yen. He was ^ talking about Fei Yen. It couldn't be anyone else. No one else would have dared countermand his orders. But Fei was seven months pregnant. She couldn't go riding, not in her condition. The child . . .
He rushed past the Chief Groom and stood in the great doorway, looking out. The palace was to his left, the hills far off to the right. He looked, scanning the long slope for a sight of her, but there was nothing. Then he turned back, concern for her making him forget himself momentarily, all control gone from his voice, a naked fear shaping his words.
"Where is she, Hung? Where in the gods' names is she?" "I ... I don't know, my Lord."
Li Yuan strode across to him and took his arms, shaking him. "Kuan Yin preserve us, Hung! You mean you let her go out, alone, unsupervised, in her condition?"
Hung shook his head miserably. "She forbade me, My Lord. She said—" "Forbade you?! What nonsense is this, Hung? Didn't you realize how dangerous, how stupid this is?" "My Lord, I—"
Li Yuan pushed him away. "Get out of my sight!" He looked about him, furious now. "Go! All of you! Now! I don't want to see any of you here again!"
There was a moment's hesitation, then they began to leave, bowing low as they moved about him. Hung was last. "My Lord . . . ?" he pleaded.
But Li Yuan had turned his back on the Chief Groom. "Just go, Hung Feng-chan. Go now, before I make you pay for your foolishness."
Hung Feng-chan hesitated a moment longer, then, bowing to the back of his Prince, he turned and left dejectedly, leaving Li Yuan alone.
HANS EBERT ran up the steps of the Ebert Mansion, grinning, immensely pleased with his day's work. It had been easy to manipulate the old men. They had been off-balance, frightened by the sudden escalation of events, only too eager to believe the worst-case scenario he had spelled out for them. But the truth was otherwise. A good general could police the East European Plantations with a mere hundred thousand men, and at a cost only one tenth of what he had mentioned. As for the effect on the levels, that, too, had been exaggerated, though even he had to admit that it wasn't known precisely what effect such an attack would have at the lowest levels of the City.
He went through to his suite of rooms to shower and change. As he stripped, he stood over his personal comset, scrolling through until he came upon a cryptic message from his uncle.
Beattie asks if you'll settle his bar bill for him. He says a thousand will cover it. Love, Uncle Lutz.
Beattie was DeVore. Now what did DeVore want ten million for? Ebert kicked off his shorts and went across to the shower, the water switching on as soon as he stepped beneath the spray. Whatever DeVore wanted, it was probably best to give him just now. To pacify him. It would be easy enough to reroute that much. He would get onto it later. Just now, however, he felt like making his regular sacrifice to the gods of the flesh. He closed his eyes, letting the lukewarm jets play on him invigoratingly. Yes, it would be good to have an hour with the mui tsai. To get rid of all the tensions that had built up over the last few days.
He laughed, feeling his sex stir at the thought of her.
"You were a bargain, my lovely," he said softly. "If I'd paid ten times as much, you'd have been a bargain."
The thought was not an idle one. For some time now he had thought of duplicating her. Of transferring those qualities that made her such a good companion to a vat-made model. After all, what wouldn't the Supernal pay for such delicious talents? GenSyn could charge five times the price of their current models. Fifty times, if they handled the publicity properly.
Yes, he could see the campaign now. All the different, subtle ways of suggesting it without actually saying it: of hiding the true function of their latest model and yet letting it be known ...
He laughed, then stepped out, into the drying chamber, letting the warm air play across his body. Or maybe he would keep her for himself. After all, why should every jumped-up little merchant be able to buy such pleasures?
He threw on a light silk gown and went down a small flight of steps into the central space. The Mansion was shaped irregularly, forming a giant G about the gardens. A small wooden bridge led across a narrow stream to a series of arbors. Underfoot was a design of plum blossom, picked out in small pale-pink and gray pebbles, while on every side small red-painted wooden buildings, constructed in the Han style, lay half-hidden among the trees, their gently sloping roofs overhanging the narrow ribbon of water that threaded its way backward and forward across the gardens.
The gardens were much older than the house. Or at least, their design was, for his grandfather had had them modeled on an ancient Han original, naming them the Gardens of Peace and Prosperity. The Han character for Longevity was carved everywhere, into stone and wood, and inlaid into mosaic at the bottom of the clear, fast-running stream. Translucent, paper-covered windows surrounded the garden on all sides, while here and there a moon-door opened onto new vistas—onto another tiny garden or a suite of rooms.
Hans stopped in the middle of the gardens, leaning on the carved wooden balustrade, looking down at his reflection in the still, green water of the central pond. Life was good. Life was very good. He laughed, then looked across at the three ancient pomegranate trees on the far side of the pool, noting how their trunks were shaped like flowing water, how they seemed to rest there, doubled in the stillness of the water. Then, as he watched, a fish surfaced, rippling the mirror, making the trees dance violently, their long, dark trunks undulating like snakes.
And then he heard it, unmistakable. The sound of a baby crying.
He turned, puzzled. A baby? Here? Impossible. There were no children here. He listened then heard it again, clearer now, from somewhere to his left. In the servants' quarters.
He made his way around the pool and across the high-arched stone bridge, then stood there, concentrating, all thoughts of the mui tsai gone.
A baby. It was unmistakably a baby. But who would dare bring a baby here? The servants knew the house rules. His mother's nerves were bad. They knew that, and they knew the rules . . .
He pulled the robe tighter about him, then climbed the steps, hauling himself up onto the terrace that ran the length of the servants' quarters. The sound came regularly now; a whining, mewling sound, more animal than human. An awful, irritating sound.
He went inside, finding the first room empty. But the noise was louder here, much louder, and he could hear a second sound beneath it—the sound of a woman trying to calm the child.
"Hush now," the voice said softly. "Hush, my pretty one."
He frowned, recognizing the voice. It was Golden Heart, the girl he had bought from Mu Chua's singsong house ten years ago. The girl he had taunted Fest with before he'd killed him.
Yes, Golden Heart. But what was she doing with a baby?
He made his way through, slowly, silently, until he stood there in the doorway of her room, looking in. The girl was crouched over a cot, her back to him, cooing softly to the child. The crying had stopped now and the baby seemed to be sleeping. But whose child was it? And who had given permission for it to be brought into the house? If his mother found out she would have them dismissed on the spot.