An Inch of Ashes (40 page)

Her eyes grew large, a vague understanding coming into her face. ‘Then...’ But it was as if she had reached out to grasp at something, only to have it vanish before her eyes. The light faded from her face. She looked down, shaking her head.

He straightened up, stepping out from the frame. Taking his blue silk
pau
from the bed he turned back, offering it to her.

‘Here, put this on.’

She took the robe, handling it strangely, staring at it as if uncertain whether it existed or not; as if, at any moment, she would wake again and find it all a dream.

He stood there, watching her, his eyes searching hers for answers, then turned away.

‘Put it on, Catherine. Put it on and I’ll make some coffee.’

She lay there on his bed, his blue silk
pau
wrapped about her, a mound of pillows propped up behind her, sipping at her coffee.

Ben was pacing the room, pausing from time to time to look across at her, then moving on, gesturing as he talked, his movements extravagant, expansive. He seemed energized, his powerful, athletic form balanced between a natural grace and an unnatural watchfulness, like some strange, magnificent beast, intelligent beyond mere knowing. His eyes flashed as he spoke, while his hands turned in the air as if they fashioned it, moulding it into new forms, new shapes.

She watched him, mesmerized. Before now she’d had only a vague idea of what he was, but now she knew. As her mind cleared she had found herself awed by the immensity of his achievement.
It had been so real
...

He paused beside the empty frame, one hand resting lightly against the upright.

‘When I say I had a problem, I didn’t realize how wrong it was to think of it as such. You see, it wasn’t something that could be circumvented with a bit of technical trickery; it was more a question of taking greater pains. A question of harnessing my energies more intensely. Of being more watchful.’

She smiled at that. As if anyone could be more watchful than he.

‘So... I began with a kind of cartoon. Ten frames a second, rough-cast. That gave me the pace, the shape of the thing. Then I developed it a stage further. Put in the detail. Recorded it at twenty-five a second. Finally I polished and honed it, perfecting each separate strand; re-recording at fifty a second. Slowly making it more real.’

His hands made a delicate little movement, as if drawing the finest of wires from within a tight wad of fibres.

‘It occurred to me that there really was no other way of doing it. I simply had to make it as real as I possibly could.’

‘But how? I can’t see how you did it. It’s...’ She shrugged, laughing, amazed by him. ‘No. It’s not possible. You
couldn’t
have!’

And yet he had.

‘How?’ He grew very still. A faint smile played on his lips, then was gone. For a moment she didn’t understand what he was doing with his body, with the expression on his face. Then, suddenly, her mouth fell open, shocked by the accuracy of his imitation; his stance, the very look of him.

And then he spoke.

‘But how? I can’t see how you did it. It’s...’ He shrugged and laughed: a soft, feminine laugh of surprise. ‘No. It’s simply not possible. You
couldn’t
have!’

It was perfect. Not
her
exactly, yet a perfect copy all the same – of her gestures, her facial movements, her voice. Every nuance and intonation caught precisely. As if the mirror talked.

She sat forward, spilling her coffee. ‘That’s...’

But she could not say. It was frightening. She felt her nerves tingle. For a moment everything slowed about her. She had the sensation of falling, then checked herself.

He was watching her, seeing how she looked: all the time watching her, like a camera eye, noting and storing every last nuance of her behaviour.

‘You have to look, Catherine. Really look at things. You have to try to see them from the other side. To get right inside of them and see how they feel. There’s no other way.’

He paused, looking at her differently now, as if gauging whether she was still following him. She nodded, her fingers wiping absently at the spilled coffee on his robe, but her eyes were half-lidded now, uncertain.

‘An artist – any artist – is an actor. His function is mimetic, even at its most expressive. And, like an actor, he must learn to play his audience.’ He smiled, opening out his arms as if to encompass the world, his eyes shining darkly with the enormity of his vision. ‘You’ve seen a tiny piece of it. You’ve glimpsed what it can be. But it’s bigger than that, Catherine. Much, much bigger. What you experienced today was but the merest suggestion of its final form.’

He laughed: a short, sharp explosion of laughter that was like a shout of joy.

‘
The
art – that’s what I’m talking about! The thing all true artists dream of!’

Slowly he brought down his arms. The smile faded on his lips and his eyes grew suddenly fierce. Clenching his fists, he curled them in towards his chest, hunching his body into itself like a dancer’s. For a moment he held himself there, tensed, the whole of him gathered there at the centre.

‘Not art like you know it now. No...’ He shook his head, as if in great pain. ‘No. This would be something almost unendurable. Something terrible and yet beautiful. Too beautiful for words.’

He laughed coldly, his eyes burning now with an intensity that frightened her.

‘It would be an art to fear, Catherine. An art so cold it would pierce the heart with its iciness, and yet, at the selfsame time so hot that it would blaze like a tiny sun, burning in the darkness of the skull.

‘Can you imagine that? Can you imagine what such an art would be like?’ His laughter rang out again, a pitiless, hideous sound. ‘That would be no art for the weak. No. Such an art would destroy the little men!’

She shuddered, unable to take her eyes from him. He was like a demon now, his eyes like dark, smouldering coals. His body seemed transfigured; horrible, almost alien.

She sat forward sharply, the cup falling from her hands.

Across from her Ben saw it fall and noted how it lay; saw how its contents spread across the carpet. Saw, and stored the memory.

He looked up at her, surprised, seeing how her breasts had slipped from within the robe and lay between the rich blue folds of cloth, exposed, strangely different.

And as he looked, desire beat up in him fiercely, like a raging fire.

He sat beside her, reaching within the robe to gently touch the soft warmth of her flesh, his hands moving slowly upward until they cupped her breasts. Then, lowering his face to hers, he let his lips brush softly against her lips.

She tensed, trembling in his arms, then, suddenly, she was pressing up against him, her mouth pushing urgently against his, her arms pulling him down. He shivered, amazed by the sudden change in her, the hunger in her eyes.

For a moment he held back, looking down into her face, surprised by the strength of what he suddenly felt. Then, gently, tenderly, he pushed her down, accepting what she offered, casting off the bright, fierce light that had held him in its grasp only moments before, letting himself slip down into the darkness of her, like a stone falling into the heart of a deep, dark well.

Chapter 56

THE LOST BRIDE

‘W
ell, Minister Heng, what was it you wished to see me about?’

Heng Yu had been kneeling, his head touched to the cold, stone floor. Now he rose, looking up at his T’ang for the first time. Li Shai Tung was sitting in the throne of state, his tall, angular body clothed in imperial yellow. The Council of Ministers had ended an hour past, but Heng Yu had stayed on, requesting a private audience with his T’ang. Three broad steps led up to the presence dais. At the bottom of those steps stood the T’ang’s Chancellor, Chung Hu-yan. In the past few months, as the old man had grown visibly weaker, more power had devolved on to the shoulders of the capable and honest Chung, and it was to Chung that Heng had gone, immediately the Council had finished. Now Chung gave the slightest smile as he looked at Heng.

‘I am grateful for this chance to talk with you,
Chieh Hsia
,’ Heng began. ‘I would not have asked had it not been a matter of the greatest urgency.’

The T’ang smiled. ‘Of course. But, please, Heng Yu, be brief. I am already late for my next appointment.’

Heng bowed again, conscious of the debt he owed the Chancellor for securing this audience.

‘It is about young Shepherd,
Chieh Hsia
.’

The T’ang raised an eyebrow. ‘Hal’s boy? What of him?’

‘He is at college, I understand,
Chieh Hsia
.’

Li Shai Tung laughed. ‘You know it for a certainty, Heng Yu, else you would not have mentioned the matter. But what of it? Is the boy in trouble?’

Heng hesitated. ‘I am not sure,
Chieh Hsia
. It does not seem that he is in any
immediate
danger, yet certain facts have come to my notice that suggest he might be in the days ahead.’

Li Shai Tung leaned forward, his left hand smoothing his plaited beard.

‘I see. But why come to me, Heng Yu? This is a matter for General Nocenzi, surely?’

Heng gave a small bow. ‘Normally I would agree,
Chieh Hsia
, but in view of the father’s illness and the boy’s possible future relationship with Prince Yuan...’

He left the rest unsaid, but Li Shai Tung took his point. Heng was right. This was much more important than any normal Security matter. Whatever Ben said just now of his intentions, he had been bred to be Li Yuan’s advisor, and genes, surely, would out eventually? For anything to happen to him now was unthinkable.

‘What do you suggest, Heng Yu?’

In answer, Heng Yu bowed, then held out the scroll he had prepared in advance. Chung Hu-yan took it from him and handed it up to the T’ang who unfurled it and began to read. When he had finished he looked back at Heng.

‘Good. You have my sanction for this, Heng Yu. I’ll sign this and give the General a copy of the authority. But don’t delay. I want this acted upon at once.’

‘Of course,
Chieh Hsia
.’

‘And Heng Yu...’

‘Yes,
Chieh Hsia
?’

‘I am in your debt in this matter. If there is any small favour I can offer in return, let Chung Hu-yan know and it shall be done.’

Heng Yu bowed low. ‘I am overwhelmed by your generosity,
Chieh Hsia
, but forgive me, it would not be right for me to seek advantage from what was, after all, my common duty to my lord. As ever,
Chieh Hsia
, I ask for nothing but to serve you.’

Straightening, he saw the smile of satisfaction on the old man’s lips and knew he had acted wisely. There were things he needed; things the T’ang could have made easier for him; but none, at present, that were outside his own broad grasp. To have the T’ang’s good opinion, however, that was another thing entirely. He bowed a second time, then lowered his head to Chung Hu-yan, backing away. One day, he was certain, such temporary sacrifices would pay off – would reap a thousandfold the rewards he now so lightly gave away. In the meantime he would find out what this business with the Novacek boy was all about. Would get to the bottom of it and then make sure that it was from him that the T’ang first heard of it.

As the great doors closed behind him, he looked about him at the great halls and corridors of the palace, smiling. Yes, the old T’ang’s days were numbered now. And Prince Yuan, when his time came, would need a Chancellor. A younger man than Chung Hu-yan. A man he could rely on absolutely.

Heng Yu walked on, past bowing servants, a broad smile lighting his features.

So why not himself? Why not Heng Yu, whose record was unblemished, whose loyalty and ability were unquestioned?

As he approached them, the huge, leather-panelled outer doors of the palace began to ease back, spilling bright sunlight into the shadows of the broad, high-ceilinged corridor. Outside, the shaven-headed guards of the T’ang’s elite squad bowed low as he moved between them. Savouring the moment, Heng Yu, Minister to Li Shai Tung, T’ang of City Europe, gave a soft, small laugh of pleasure.

Yes
, he thought, looking up at the great circle of the sun.
Why not?

Catherine stood in the doorway, looking across at him. Ben was sitting on the edge of the bed, his head pushed forward, his shoulders hunched, staring at the frame without seeing it.

He had woken full of life; had smiled and kissed her tenderly and told her to wait while he brought her breakfast, but he had been gone too long. She had found him in the kitchen, staring vacantly at his hands, the breakfast things untouched.

‘What is it?’ she had asked. ‘What’s happened?’ But he had walked past her as if she wasn’t there. Had gone through and sat down on the bed. So still, so self-engrossed that it had frightened her.

‘Ben?’ she said, setting the tray down beside him. ‘I’ve cooked breakfast. Won’t you have some with me?’

He glanced up at her. ‘What?’

‘Breakfast.’ She smiled, then knelt beside him, putting her hand on his knee.