But who?
He stepped from the shower and shook himself, not wanting to wait for the warm air-currents to start up, then padded across to the terminal in the corner of the room.
"Who was it?" he asked, knowing that if anyone knew, It knew. "Who poisoned Ravachol?"
The Machine was silent.
"You know. I know you know. So why won't you say? You see everything. If it happened, you saw it. Why, you could even show me, I bet!"
"The screen," it said tonelessly. "Look at the screen."
Kim watched, fascinated at first and then horrified as he saw who it was. When he spoke again his voice was small and frightened.
"Why didn't you say? Why didn't you show me this before?"
"You didn't ask."
"But . . ."
Kim leaned against the terminal, feeling suddenly more tired than he'd ever felt. He had thought it was over, thought himself cured, but here was proof that it was still going on, unknown to him.
"Run it again," he said, forcing himself to watch as, on the screen, he slipped from his room and, creeping stealthily past the guards, went to the android's cell. There, crouching beside the sleeping creature, he took a small pouch from his pocket and gently brushed some of its powdery contents onto Ravachol's lips.
As the figure on the screen turned, the lens zoomed in, catching for a moment the dark malevolence of its eyes. Kim shuddered, recognizing it from his dreams. It was Gweder ... his mirror self.
Gweder and Lagasek—"Mirror" and "Starer," his two halves, the dark and light of his being, names from his Clayborn past.
"A'dhywas'lur," he said softly, a ripple of pure fear running up his spine. Up from the ground. Then, more practically, "What did it use?"
"Something it stole from you. Something you made and then forgot about."
"But I don't forget."
"No?"
The images ran. Again and again he saw himself slip from his cell and make his way to the android's cell. Again and again he saw himself administer the poison. And never once had he suspected. Never once had he had even the faintest idea what was going on.
"Where's the pouch now?"
"In your room."
Kim gave a laugh of disbelief. "It can't be. I would have seen it."
"No. He doesn't let you."
"How . . ." Kim frowned fiercely, then rubbed at his brow. "How do you know this?"
"You forget. I have all your files. I saw you through rehabilitation. I know things about you that even you don't know."
"So what else do you know?"
"I can't tell you."
"Why?" .'• . .
"Because ..."
Kim gave a small yelp of frustration. "Why?"
It was silent a moment, then, in a voice that seemed as old as the rocks, it spoke to him again.
"Get dressed now and go to bed. We'll talk in the morning. I'll tell you then what you need to know. And, Kim . . ."
"Yes?"
"Do not blame yourself. You are what you are. Without him—without Gweder . . . Well, I think you understand."
Kim nodded, then, sighing, he turned from the screen and took a fresh one-piece from the pile, slipping it on.
"Tomorrow?" he said, looking up into the camera's eye.
"Tomorrow."
CHAPTER FIVE
Caged Birds
LI YUAN'S SON, the Imperial Prince Kuei Jen, sat in a tall official's chair facing the three old men, his back straight, his eyes staring straight ahead. The men—distinguished-looking graybeards—sat some twenty ch'i from the Prince, wearing the flowing saffron robes of New Confucian officials, no sign of rank displayed anywhere about them. Yet these were not simple priests, these were the San Shih, the Three Priest-Scholars— princes themselves, honored sons of the Twenty-Nine, the Minor Families—and they were here to test the young prince on his knowledge of the Five Classics.
Li Yuan and his Chancellor, Nan Ho, sat to one side, looking on. While the examination was in progress they could not interrupt. So it was. So it had been for two thousand years or more, since the time of the Han emperors. With one difference. Kuei Jen—at seven—was probably the youngest ever to sit the oral examination.
A long white banner hung to one side of the hall. On it, painted in large red pictograms, was Kang Hsi's famous Sacred Edict with its sixteen injunctions exalting the twin virtues of filial piety and brotherly love. Copies of it hung throughout the Cities of Chung Kuo and were recited twice a month by teachers and pupils alike.
Just now they were questioning Kuei Jen on the Ch'un Ch'iu, the Spring and Autumn Annals of the State of Lu.
The Ch'un Ch'iu was the earliest historical record of the Han people, covering the period from 722 to 481 B.C., when the fifteen major feudal states of the North China plain had first formed a loose confederation called Chung Kuo, the "Middle Kingdom." Though it was some while since he himself had read it, Li Yuan could still remember how he had felt as a boy, knowing how deeply rooted—how ancient—those traditions were.
Looking on, he knew that this was Kuei Jen's favorite area of study—one that not merely interested, but excited him—yet the boy's answers, couched in fluent Mandarin, were strangely hesitant, stilted almost, as if he spoke from rote.
"Ch'i was the first of the Five Hegemons—the Pa—followed by Sung, then Ts'in, then Ch'in and finally Ch'u, before authority was returned to its rightful owner, the Son of Heaven."
One of the old men leaned toward Kuei Jen, his voice, like those of his fellow San Shih, filled with the authority of his position.
"And the Lord Protector Ch'i. Tell me about him. Who was he Lord of and where was his capital?"
Again Kuei Jen hesitated, trying not to let his father down, resisting the temptation to turn and look at him.
"Lord Ch'i was Prince of Ts'i and his capital was the powerful and wealthy city of Lin-tsu in Shantung Province. The Lord Ch'i could trace his ancestry back thirteen generations to the kings of Chou. His daughter married the Emperor."
The old man nodded, then glanced at his fellows, clearly pleased by the answer. As he sat back, another of them leaned forward.
"You speak well, Prince Kuei, but tell me, what event caused the Lord Chi to take up arms at the request of his Lord the Emperor?"
Li Yuan frowned, surprised by the question, trying to recollect what he knew of the House of Ts'i and its history. Lord Ch'i had eventually been assassinated. But as to why he had taken up arms in the first place . . .
Kuei Jen shifted uncomfortably, then, as if mirroring the old man, leaned forward slightly.
"Was it to do with what happened in 894 B.C.?" : "Go on. . . ."
"Well, in that year one of the Emperor's advisors had counseled that he should have the Lord of Lu boiled alive, which the Emperor did. Two hundred and four years later, one of Lu's descendants launched an armed attack on the descendants of the advisor, and the Lord Ch'i was commissioned by the Emperor to act on his behalf in bringing Lu to justice."
"Very good. Now tell me ..."
And so it went on, question following question, unrelenting, until, after almost four hours, it came to an end.
Li Yuan stood, pleased—profoundly pleased—and proud of his son's performance. To fail would have been no disgrace, for the same examination was taken by men four times young Kuei's age, yet he had answered every question; most of them with a detailed knowledge that, he suspected, was rarely shown, even by much older candidates.
As the San Shih backed away, to consult among themselves and prepare to give their verdict, he went across to Kuei Jen. What he wanted to do was pick the boy up and hug him, he was so proud, but as ever the eyes of his servants and officials watched his every move, constraining his actions.