Kao Chen stopped, then turned and faced the man, keeping his feelings in tight check. The man was within his rights, after all. He gave a terse bow and took his permit card from the top pocket of his tunic, then handed it to the officer. As the man studied the card intently, Chen was conscious how other, non-Han officers went through unhindered, even guests from other Security forces. But he had half expected this. The colour of his skin, the fold of his eyes – both were wrong here. The officer class of Security was almost totally made up of Hung Mao, descendants of the mercenary armies that had fought for the Seven against the tyrant Tsao Ch’un. Here Han were secondary; servants, not rulers. But he was an officer and he was thirsty. He had a right to sit and have a beer. And so he would.
The officer handed him back his pass, then gave a brief, almost slovenly salute. In terms of rank, Chen was his superior, but he was not Hung Mao, and so the rank meant little.
‘Thank you, Lieutenant,’ he said tightly, then made his way through, down the plushly carpeted steps and out into the main body of the club.
He was halfway across the floor before he realized who he was walking towards. He saw Ebert’s eyes widen in recognition and decided to walk past quickly, but he was not to be so fortunate. Three paces past the table he was called back.
‘Hey, you! Han! Come here!’
Chen turned slowly, then came back and stood in front of Ebert, his head bowed. ‘Major Ebert.’
Ebert leaned back arrogantly in his chair, a sneering smile on his face. ‘What in f*ck’s name do you think you’re doing, Han?’
Chen felt himself go cold with anger, then remembered he was kwai. These were but words. And words could not hurt him. Only a knife could hurt a kwai. He answered Ebert calmly, civilly.
‘I’ve just come off duty. I was hot and thirsty. I thought I would have a beer or two at the bar.’
‘Then you can think again. There are rules in this place. No women and no Han.’
‘No Han?’
He realized as soon as he said it that he had made a mistake. He should have bowed, then turned about and left. Now it was a question of face. His words, correct enough, innocuous enough in themselves, had challenged what Ebert had asserted. It did not matter that he, Kao Chen, had the right to use the club. That was no longer the issue.
Ebert leaned forward slightly, his voice hardening. ‘Did you hear me, Han?’
Chen hesitated, then lowered his head slightly, afraid to let the anger in his eyes show. ‘Excuse me, Major, but I am an officer in the service of the T’ang. Surely…’
Ebert leaned forward and threw his drink into Chen’s face. ‘Are you stupid? Don’t you understand me?’
Chen was silent a moment, then bowed again. ‘I apologize, Major. It was my fault. Might I buy you another drink before I leave?’
Ebert gave him a look of profound disgust. ‘Just go, little Han. Now. Before I beat you senseless.’
Chen bowed low and backed away, mastering the pain, the fierce stinging in his eyes, his face perfectly controlled. Inside, however, he seethed, and at the doorway he looked back, hearing their laughter drift outward from the table, following him.
Laugh now, he thought. Laugh good and long, Hans Ebert, for I’ll not rest until my pride’s restored and you lie humbled at my feet.
At the table all eyes were once again on Ebert.
‘The nerve of some of them,’ he said, filling his glass again. ‘Anyway. Where were we? Ah yes…’ He stood up, then raised his glass. ‘To Li Yuan and his bride! May this evening bring them clouds and rain!’
The answering roar was deafening. ‘To Li Yuan!’ they yelled. ‘Clouds and rain!’
The ceremony was over; the last of the guests had departed; the doors of the inner palace were locked and guarded. Only the two of them remained.
Li Yuan turned from the doorway and looked across. Fei Yen sat in the tall-backed chair at the far side of the room, on the dais, as if enthroned. A chi pao of brilliant red was draped about her small and slender figure, while her dark hair was braided with fine strands of jewels. A thin cloth of red and gold veiled her features, an ancient kai t’ou, as worn by the brides of the Ching emperors for almost three centuries. Now that they were alone, she lifted the veil, letting him see her face.
She was beautiful. More beautiful than ever. His breath caught as he looked at her, knowing she was his. He knew now how his brother, Han Ch’in must have felt in his final moments, and grieved less for him. It would be fine to die now, knowing no more than this.
He walked across to her, hesitant, aware of her eyes upon him, watching him come.
He stopped at the foot of the steps, looking at her. The huge throne dwarfed her. She seemed like a child, sitting in her father’s chair. Three steps led up to the dais, but standing there, his face was on the level of Fei Yen’s. He studied her, conscious that in the years since he had first seen her she had grown to the fullness of womanhood.
His eyes narrowed with pain, looking at her, seeing how dark her eyes were. How deep and beautiful they were. How delicate the lashes. How finely drawn the curves of skin about the liquid centres. Eyes so dark, so vast he felt he could lose himself in their depths.
‘Well?’ Fei Yen leaned forward. She was smiling at him, her hand extended. ‘What does my husband command?’
He felt a fresh thrill of delight course through his blood, at the same time hot and cold, both exquisite and painful. Her eyes held him, making him reach out and take her hand.
He looked down at her hand. So small and fine it was. Its warmth seemed to contradict its porcelain appearance, its strength oppose its apparent fragility. Her hand closed on his, drawing him up the steps to where she sat. He knelt, his head in her lap, her hands caressing his neck. For a moment it was enough. Then she lifted his head between her hands and made him move back, away from her.
They stood, facing each other.
Her hand went to the ruby-studded clasp at her right shoulder and released it. Slowly, with a faint silken rustle, the cloth unravelled, slipping from her body.
She stood there, naked but for the jewels in her hair, the bands of gold at her ankles and at her throat. Her skin was the white of swan’s feathers, her breasts small, perfectly formed, their dark nipples protruding. Mesmerized, he looked at the curves of her flesh, the small, dark tangle of her sex, and felt desire wash over him so fiercely, so overpoweringly, he wanted to cry out.
Timidly he put out his hand, caressing her flank and then her breast, touching the dark brown nipple tenderly, as if it were the most fragile thing he had ever touched. She was watching him, her smile tender, almost painful now. Then, softly, she placed her hands upon his hips and pushed her face forward.
He moved closer, his eyes closed, his body melting. His hands caressed her shoulders, finding them so smooth, so warm they seemed unreal, while her lips against his were soft and wet and hot, like desire itself, their sweetness blinding him.
She reached down, releasing him, then drew him down on top of her. At once he was spilling his seed, even as he entered her. He cried out, feeling her shudder beneath him. And when he looked at her again he saw how changed her eyes were, how different her mouth – a simple gash of wanting now that he was inside her.
That look inflamed him, made him spasm again, then lie still on top of her.
They lay there a long while, then, as one, they stirred, noticing how awkwardly they lay, their bodies sprawled across the steps.
He stood and tucked himself in, aware of how incongruous the action seemed, then reached down to help her up, unable to take his eyes from her nakedness.
Saying nothing, she led him through into the bridal room. There she undressed him and led him to the bath and washed him, ignoring his arousal, putting him off until she was ready for him. Then, finally, they lay there on the low, wide bed, naked, facing each other, their lips meeting for tiny sips of kisses, their hands tenderly caressing each other’s bodies.
‘When did you know?’ she asked, her eyes never leaving his.
‘When I was eight,’ he said and laughed softly, as if he knew it was madness.
For more than half his young life he had loved her. And here she was, his wife, his lover. Eight, almost nine years his senior. Half a lifetime older than him.
For a time she was silent, her eyes narrowed, watching him. Then, at last, she spoke. ‘How strange. Perhaps I should have known.’ She smiled and moved closer, kissing him.
Yes, he thought, releasing her, then watching her again, seeing the small movements of her lashes, of the skin about her eyes, the line of her mouth. Cloud motion in the eyes, it seemed, the bones of her face moulded and remoulded constantly. He was fascinated by her. Mesmerized. He felt he could lie there for ever and never leave this room, this intimacy.
They made love again, slowly this time, Fei Yen leading him, guiding him, it seemed, bringing him to a climax more exquisite than the last, more painful in its intensity.
He lay there afterwards, watching the darkness in her face, the sudden colour in her cheeks and at her neck, and knew he would always want her. ‘I love you,’ he said finally, shaking his head slowly, as if he could not believe it. He had said the words so often in his head. Had imagined himself saying them to her. And now…
‘I know,’ she said, kissing him again. Then, relaxing, she settled down beside him, her head nestling into the fold of his arm, her cheek pressed soft and warm against his chest.