"Thanks. . . ."
The young man nodded and turned away. Apart from Yu I few talked to her here. They were mainly Han, she Hung Mao, a big-nose barbarian. So it was these days. Tolerance was the most she might expect.
She poured, then lifted the mock-porcelain bowl, cupping it in both hands, enjoying its warmth, the strong scent of the "Iron Goddess of Mercy" reminding her of her youth—of times she had sat beside her father in places like this while he talked with his friends.
Was that why she came here? To renew that simple memory? To keep in touch with that earlier self? Or was it for the peace she found here and nowhere else?
She sighed, then took a long sip of her ch'a, swilling it about her mouth as the Han did, enjoying the simplicity of it.
The great world changed, yet these smaller, simpler things persisted. Small things. She nodded to herself, thinking of the horrors she had seen, the deaths she had been witness to. Yes, though empires fell, small things—those intensely human things—remained unchanged. A thousand years might pass and great emperors turn to dust in their tombs, but still in some small tea house in some corner of the world the old men would meet beneath the caged songbirds and sip ch'a and talk away the day.
The thought brought her comfort. Yesterday she had gone to see the gutted deck; had seen with her own eyes how cruel and indiscriminate the White T'ang's justice was.
The bastard, she thought, remembering the stink of the place, the pictures she had seen from the leaked security video. It had been awful, unbearable to watch. But necessary. For now she knew there was no option. She had to kill him. Had to, for the sake of them all. The only question now was how.
She sipped again, then set the bowl down. Yu I was coming across again, a large plate of the delicious dumplings in one hand, a small bowl of spicy sauce in the other.
"Chiao tzu," he said, grinning at her again. "If there is anything else, Nu Shih?"
"No, Lao jen, that's fine." She handed him a ten-yuan chip and closed his hand about it. "Buy your grandson something."
He grinned and nodded his thanks.
Alone again, she picked up one of the meat-filled dumplings with her chopsticks, savoring the delicious smell of it. As with the ch'a, this, too, was part of the ritual—this, too, she had first tasted with her father.
So it began, she thought, suddenly heavy of heart; yes, and so, perhaps, it ends.
Killing Lehmann—some said it was impossible, but nothing was impossible. She laughed and took a second dumpling from the plate, dipping it in the sauce, then popping it into her mouth, enjoying the mixture of soy pork, cabbage, and onion, even as she thought the problem through. No, killing him would not be hard—what was impossible was surviving the attempt.
She cleared the plate, then sat back. It had been good. She had forgotten how good. She turned, meaning to order a second plate—to indulge herself for once—and saw that Yu I and his waiters were gathered beneath one of the media screens, staring up at it. From where she sat she couldn't make out what the picture was, but after a moment a small cheer went up from the men, their faces suddenly lit up and laughing.
Yu I, seeing her, came across again. "You want more, Nu Shih?"
She handed him a five-yuan chip. "Yes, but tell me ... what was all that about? You seemed very excited."
The old man grinned and nodded, his delight evident. "It was good new, Nu Shih. Very good news indeed. It seems the great T'ang, Tsu Ma, is to be married!"
THE ANNOUNCEMENT was a simple one—Liang K'o Ting chih nu Shu-sun Shih li wei Luang-hou. "Shu-sun, daughter of Liang K'o Ting, is hereby created Empress."
The imperial rescript was read out on the media channels and posted throughout the levels of City West Asia.
At Tsu Ma's palace at Astrakhan, there was a small ceremony. The prospective bride's father, Liang K'o Ting, approached Tsu Ma and knelt, pressing his forehead to the floor. Tsu Ma looked down at him from his throne and smiled, watching as he went through the san kuei chiu k'ou—the three kneelings and nine strikings of the head that was required before a Son of Heaven.
As Old Liang straightened up, Tsu Ma looked past him at Shu-sun, wondering how such a stick of a man had bred such a voluptuous daughter. Shu-sun noticed his attention and let her head fall slightly, blushing. She was eighteen years old and fresh as a peach. Just looking at her made his blood race, and when she looked up at him and smiled . . .
He turned his attention to Old Liang again. The man was thanking him for the honor of elevating his daughter to the imperial dignity. He listened, hearing the old man out, then bestowed on him the button of First Rank, given by right to the hou-fu, the father of the Empress, and appointing him an officer of the imperial bodyguard. And then it was done, the great family seals placed upon the betrothal agreement, all speeches made.
There was laughter and raised glasses, yet at the back of the hall, unnoticed by Tsu Ma or his future in-laws, a young man slipped away, crossing the great hall swiftly, silently.
At the doorway, Tsu Kung-chih turned, looking back at the smiling group surrounding the throne, his eyes burning with resentment. Then, his face set, his right hand gripping the handle of his dagger, he strode out and ran down the echoing corridors to his rooms, slamming the door behind him.
TSU TAG CHU reined in his pony at the cliffs edge and sat forward in his saddle, looking out across the calm sea's surface. Shen, his mount, moved his head restlesly, then bent to crop. The youth reached down to smooth its long, sleek neck before straightening up again, sighing heavily, thinking of the ceremony that morning. It was here, only a week ago, that Tsu Ma had spoken to them. Here that his half-brother Kung-chih's sickness had begun.
He dismounted and sat at the cliffs edge, his legs dangling over the drop. Far below the water slopped over and around the tips of jagged rocks. It was high tide and the sluggish movement of the current seemed like the shallow breath of a sleeper. The water was thick and glassy green and the dark, vague shapes of rocks beneath the surface seemed more like shadows than hard realities. Tao Chu took a handful of stones from the bare patch of earth beside him and sprinkled them over the edge, watching the diffuse pattern of ripples spread on the rising, falling back of the water.
He looked down at himself. Dust was spattered across his knee-length boots. He raised a leg to brush the earth from the dark leather, bracing his heel against a large, upjutting stone. Then, taking a white silk handkerchief from the pocket of his riding jacket, he spat on it and began to rub the shine back into the leather. He had just leaned forward to breathe on it when the stone moved and he tilted forward.
There was no time to save himself. Where his foot had been the cliff had fallen away and he found himself tumbling headfirst toward the water, his arms flailing the air. He made a sound, more of surprise than fear, then hit the surface hard, all breath knocked from him, the sudden, shocking coldness of the water making him gasp and try to take a watery breath, but some last flicker of reason made him choke back the instinct.
He struggled upward, his mind dark, in turmoil, his lungs on fire, a searing pain in his side, then broke water, coughing violently and, floundering against a rock, held on for dear life, the waves washing over him.
It was some while before he came fully to his senses. He was still coughing and the pain in his side had grown worse. His teeth were chattering now and he realized that if he didn't get to shore soon he would die from exposure. He turned in the water, trying to make out where best to swim for, but as he did the pain grew so severe, he had to close his eyes, almost blacking out.