She went and stood by him, studying his face. "And is that how you chose me, Yuan? When the time was ripe?"
He turned his head and looked at her. "Five wives I've had, Pei K'ung, and still I do not understand why this should be or that. To be married ... for each man and woman it is a different thing, neh?"
She nodded, but still she held his eyes. "And for Tsu Ma? Does he marry simply to beget sons?"
Li Yuan hesitated, then shrugged. "It would seem the obvious answer."
"Then why not before? Why wait until now?"
He looked away.
She watched him, feeling—and not knowing why—that something strange was happening inside him.
"Husband, tell me this. Why did he not marry before now?"
He looked back at her, his eyes stern suddenly. "A T'ang does not need to answer such a question."
She held her ground. "I did not ask Tsu Ma. Nor would I be so impertinent. I asked you, husband. If you have no idea, merely say so and I shall be quiet. But I am curious. Tsu Ma is a handsome man. A man much enamored of women and—from what I've seen—a good
uncle to his nephews. Children ... I would have thought he'd have had many children by now."
Li Yuan huffed out a breath, clearly troubled by the direction of their conversation. He thought a moment, then waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the east—as if toward Tsu Ma himself.
"Something happened. Long ago. He ... he was betrothed once. In his teens. And the girl . . ."
"The girl died."
Li Yuan looked at her and nodded. But still it seemed he had not given up all he knew.
"Was there . . . something else?"
His answer was immediate, almost brutal. "No. Nothing else."
She shivered inwardly, surprised—no, shocked—by the anger he was containing. Anger? Anger at Tsu Ma? For what? Or had she read things wrongly? Was there still something she didn't understand?
"Did he love the girl?"
"I ... I am not sure. I guess he must have."
"And his father . . . did his father not insist that he be betrothed to another? If he was the eldest son—"
Li Yuan turned on her, his anger open now. "You do not understand, Pei K'ung! Tsu Ma was like me in that. He had an elder brother. His nephews . . . they are his elder brother's sons. Tsu Ma was not born to rule. And as to how he has chosen to live his life . . . well, enough talk of it, Pei K'ung! You understand?"
She bowed her head obediently. "I understand." But deep inside of her curiosity was burning like a coal. Something had happened. Something between Tsu Ma and her husband. What it was she couldn't guess, but she would find it out. Yes, she would seek it out and know it, were it the last thing she did.
TSU MA STOOD ON THE BALCONY of his summer palace at Astrakhan, looking out across the moonlit Caspian. It was a clear night and at this hour—just after two—it seemed like the whole world was sleeping. He alone could not sleep; he alone was plagued by the demons of restlessness.
His foot was sore tonight and troubling him. Tiredness had made his limp more exaggerated. He reached down and scratched at the joint, getting some relief.
No good, he thought, it'll only make it worse. But he couldn't help himself. He had always been the same. Impulsive. Give him an itch and he would scratch it. He laughed humorlessly.
Yes, and maybe that's the root of it.
Far out—two, maybe three li out from the shore—the lights of an imperial cruiser skimmed the water as it made its regular patrol.
Protecting me, he thought. Yes, but who would protect him from himself? Maybe that was why he was getting married finally, in the hope that he would change.
A young wife. Children. If anything could change a man, then surely these could do it. Why, he had seen how Li Yuan was with his son. . . .
Yes, but he was not Li Yuan.
So why was he doing it? Why now, when he was so settled in his ways? Or was that it at all? Was it not, perhaps, some kind of punishment?
He turned from the rail, angry with himself, looking back into the darkness of the room where, on a bed of silk, lay one of his maids.
To change himself. It was a forlorn hope. Yet try it he must, or die an old goat, his grave untended.
There had always been time. Tomorrow. Yes, there'd been an infinity of tomorrows. But slowly he had used them up. Days had passed like dying cells and he was slowly getting older.
Yes, there had always been time.
He sighed. Wasn't it strange how young men thought they were like the sea, ageless and eternal. So he had been. Tsu Ma. The horse. He had outrun, outdrunk, outfucked every last one of them. But now . . .
Now time weighed heavy on him and the seas in his veins ran slow and sluggish.
Time was he'd been a child, carefree, a full ch'i smaller than his eldest brother. That same beloved brother whom he had seen fall from his horse like a mannequin and who had bled to death in his arms, the assassin's crossbow bolt in his neck, the black iron shaft of it poking obscenely from the bloodied flesh. He had promised himself he would never love anyone that much again and had fled into debauchery, as if that might stop the hurt or end the dreams that came to him, night after night. But never is a long time, and then Fei Yen had come. Fei Yen, his cousin Li Yuan's wife.
He shuddered, then held on to the door, a sudden weakness taking him. For a moment he clung on, as the blackness swept over him, then he let out a breath. He was okay. It was nothing. He had had several of these spells of late and he put them down to overexertion. It was simply his body telling him to ease off. There was no point mentioning them to his Surgeon.
I should eat something, he thought, taking a long, calming breath. Or maybe sleep. After all, he was no longer as robust as he had once been.
He stepped inside, closing his eyes briefly to catch the young girl's scent. He moaned softly, his senses intoxicated by the sweet perfume of her, then, opening his eyes once more, put his hand out, feeling for the edge of the bed. He could hear her now. From the soft regularity of her breathing he could tell that she was sleeping.
His hand searched among the silken covers until it found something warm and smooth—her leg.
He sat, kicking off his slippers, his hand caressing the young girl's thigh, tracing the smooth contours of her. As he did she woke.
"Chieh Hsia?"
"Quiet, girl," he said, his hand finding her face in the dark. She nuzzled it, kissing it softly, wetly, making his sex stir.
Tomorrow, he thought, pushing her down then untying the sash of his sleeping robe. I shall reform myself tomorrow.
CHAPTER TWO
Breathless Mouths
KI M STIRRED, then turned abruptly on the bed, like a fish on a hook, mouth gasping, left hand reaching for the ceiling.
"A-dhywas-lur! A-dhywas-lur!"
He woke, his dark eyes blinking, staring up into the camera lens, the narrow band about his neck pulsing brightly in the darkened room. Silence, then: "What is she doing?"
It was the first question he asked, today and every day.
"She's awake," the Machine answered, the soft Han lilt of its voice filling the tiny room. "Right now she's eating breakfast. Would you like to see her?"
Each day the same struggle within him; each day the same answer.
"No."
Its circuits made a shrugging motion, unseen, unheard. Ward sat up, then twisted about, planting his feet firmly on the uncarpeted floor. One would have thought that today of all days something else would have been on his waking mind, but no, the young man was machinelike in his obsession. Not an hour went by without some reference to her.