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behaviour, please.’
    Ben gave a slight bow, then went to the small washroom. He washed his face and hands, then scrubbed his nails and tidied his hair in the mirror. When he came out his mother was waiting for him. She took his hands, inspecting them, then straightened his tunic and bent to kiss his cheek.
    ‘You look fine, Ben. Now go in.’
    ‘Who is it?’ he asked again. ‘Tell me who it is.’
    But she only smiled and turned him towards the door. ‘Go on in. I’ll be there in a moment.’

    Chapter 36
    A CONVERSATION IN THE FIRELIGHT
    I n the light from the open fire the T’ang’s strong, oriental features seemed carved in ancient yellowed ivory. He sat back in his chair, smiling, his eyes brightly dark.
    ‘And you think they’ll be happy with that, Hal?’
    Li Shai Tung’s hands rested lightly on the table’s edge, the now-empty bowl he had been eating from placed to one side, out of his way. Ben, watching him, saw once again how the light seemed trapped by the matt black surface of the heavy iron ring he wore on the index finger of his right hand. The Ywe Lung . The seal of power.
    Hal Shepherd laughed, then shook his head. ‘No. Not for a moment. They all think themselves emperors in that place.’
    They were talking about the House of Representatives at Weimar – ‘That troublesome place’, as the T’ang continually called it – and about ways of shoring up the tenuous peace that now existed between it and the Seven.
    The T’ang and his father sat at one end of the long, darkwood table, facing each other, while Ben sat alone at the other end. His mother had not joined them for the meal, bowing in this regard to the T’ang’s wishes. But in other respects she had had her own way. The T’ang’s own cooks sat idle in her kitchen, watching with suspicion and a degree of amazement as she single-handedly prepared and served the meal. This departure from the T’ang’s normal practices was remarkable enough in itself, but what had happened at the beginning of the meal had surprised even his father.
    When the food taster had stepped up to the table to perform his normal duties, the T’ang had waved him away and, picking up his chopsticks, had taken the first mouthful himself. Then, after chewing and swallowing the fragrant morsel, and after a sip of the strong green Longjing ch’a – itself ‘untasted’ – he had looked up at Beth Shepherd and smiled broadly, complimenting her on the dish. It was, as Ben understood at once, seeing the surprised delight on his father’s face and the astonished horror on the face of the official taster, quite unprecedented, and made him realize how circumscribed the T’ang’s life had been. Not free at all, as others may have thought, but difficult; a life lived in the shadow of death. For Li Shai Tung, trust was the rarest and most precious thing he had to offer; for in trusting he placed his life – quite literally his life – in the hands of others.
    In that small yet significant gesture, the T’ang had given his father and mother the ultimate in compliments.
    Ben studied the man as he talked, aware of a strength in him that was somehow more than physical. There was a certainty – a vitality – in his every movement, such that even the slightest hesitancy was telling. His whole body spoke a subtle language of command; something that had developed quite naturally and unconsciously during the long years of his rule. To watch him was to watch not a man but a directing force; was to witness the channelling of aggression and determination into its most elegant and expressive form. In some respects Li Shai Tung was like an athlete, each nuance of voice or gesture the result of long and patient practice. Practice that had made these things second nature to the T’ang.
    Ben watched, fascinated, barely hearing the words, but aware of their significance, and of the significance of the fact that he was there to hear them.
    Li Shai Tung leaned forward slightly,