Wingrove, David - Chung Kuo 02 Read Online Free PDF Page B

will go to see your father and pay our
respects, neh?"
    The slightest
shudder passed through the young man's wasted frame, the smallest
cloud of revulsion momentarily crossed the sky of his face, then he
nodded. "As you say, Mien-lo. As you say."
    * *
*
    WANG SAU-LEYAN
heard their voices coming nearer—the rustle of silks and the
sound of their soft footsteps on the tiled floor—and slid the
door open, slipping out into the dimly lit corridor. He pulled the
door to quietly, then turned, facing them. They came on quickly,
talking all the while, not seeing him until they were almost on top
of him. He saw the look of surprise on Hung Mien-lo's face, heard his
brother's gasp of fear.
    He smiled and
gave the slightest bow. "I heard noises, Ta-hung. Voices calling
softly but urgently in the darkness. What is happening, brother? Why
do you wander the corridors at this early hour?"
    He saw how
Ta-hung looked to his friend—at a loss, his face a web of
conflicting emotions—and smiled inwardly, enjoying his
brother's impotence.
    "I'm afraid
there is bad news, Wang Sau-leyan," Hung Mien-lo answered him,
bowing low, his face grave. "Your father is dead."
    "Dead? But
how?"
    He saw how Hung
Mien-lo glanced at his brother and knew at once that Ta-hung had not
been told everything.
    "It would
be best if you came yourself, Excellency. I will explain everything
then. But excuse us, please. We must pay our respects to the late
T'ang."
    He noted how
pointedly Hung Mien-lo had emphasized the last two words; how his
voice, while still superficially polite, was a register of how he
thought things had changed. Wang Sau-leyan smiled tightly at Hung,
then bowed to his elder brother.
    "I will get
dressed at once."
    He watched them
go; then, satisfied, he slid the door open again and went back into
his rooms.
    A voice from the
bed, young, distinctly feminine, called softly to him. "What was
it, my love?"
    He went across
to her and slipping off his robe, joined her, naked beneath the
sheets.
    "It was
nothing," he said, smiling down at his father's third wife.
"Nothing at all."
    * *
*
    WANG TA-HUNG
stood in the doorway of his father's room staring in, fear
constricting his throat. He turned and looked at Hung Mien-lo
beseechingly. "I can't. . ."
    "You are
T'ang," Hung answered him firmly. "You can."
    The young man
swallowed, then turned back, his fists clenched at his sides. "I
am T'ang," he repeated. "T'ang of City Africa."
    Hung Mien-lo
stood there a moment, watching him take the first few hesitant steps
into the room, knowing how important the next few minutes were.
Ta-hung had accustomed himself to the fact of his father's death. Now
he must discover how the old man died. Must learn, first-hand, the
fate of kings.
    And if it drove
him mad?
    Hung Mien-lo
smiled to himself, then stepped inside the room. Kings had been mad
before. What was a king, after all, but a symbol—the visible
sign of a system of government? As long as the City was ruled, what
did it matter who gave the orders?
    He stopped
beside the old man's chair, watching the youth approach the bed.
Surely he's seen? he thought. Yet Ta-hung was too still, too
composed. Then the young T'ang turned, looking back at him.
    "I knew,"
he said softly. "As soon as you told me, I knew he had been
murdered."
    Hung Mien-lo let
his breath out. "You knew?" He looked down. There, beneath
him on the cushion, lay the T'ang's hairbrush. He leaned forward and
picked it up, studying it a moment, appreciating the slender elegance
of its ivory handle, the delicacy of its design. He was about to set
it down when he noticed several strands of the old T'ang's hair
trapped among the darkness of the bristles—long white strands,
almost translucent in their whiteness, like the finest threads of
ice. He frowned then looked back at Wang Ta-hung. "How do you
feel, Chieh Hsia ? Are you well enough to see others, or shall
I delay?"
    Wang Ta-hung
looked about him, then turned and stared down at his father. He was
still,