appalled look
at the body on
the floor, moved towards the dragon doorway.
In the room beyond, the real Tsu Tiao was laid out atop a great, tiered pedestal on
a huge bed spread with silken sheets of gold. Slowly and with great dignity, Tsu Ma
climbed the steps until he
stood there at his dead father’s side. The old man’s fine grey hair had been brushed
and plaited, his cheeks delicately rouged, his beard brushed out straight, his nails
painted a
brilliant pearl. He was dressed from head to foot in white. A soft white muslin that,
when Tsu Ma knelt and gently brushed it with his fingertips, reminded him strangely
of springtime and the smell
of young girls.
You’re dead
, Tsu Ma thought, gazing tenderly into his father’s face.
You’re really dead, aren’t you?
He bent forward and gently brushed the cold lips with
his own, then sat back on his heels, shivering, toying with the ring that rested,
heavy and unfamiliar, like a saddle on the first finger of his right hand. And now
it’s me.
He turned his head, looking back at the six T’ang standing amongst the pillars, watching
him.
You know how I feel,
he thought, looking from face to face.
Each one of you.
You’ve been here before me, haven’t you?
For the first time he understood why the Seven were so strong. They had this in common:
each knew what it was to kill their father; knew the reality of it in their bones.
Tsu Ma looked back at
the body – the real body, not the lifelike GenSyn copy he had ‘killed’ – and understood.
He had been blind to it before, but now he saw it clearly. It was not life that
connected them so firmly, but death. Death that gave them such a profound and lasting
understanding of each other.
He stood again and turned, facing them, then went down amongst them. At the foot of
the steps they greeted him; each in his turn bowing before Tsu Ma; each bending to
kiss the ring of power he
now wore; each embracing him warmly before repeating the same eight words.
‘Welcome, Tsu Ma. Welcome, T’ang of West Asia.’
When the brief ceremony was over, Tsu Ma turned and went across to the two boys. Li
Yuan was much taller than when he had last seen him. He was entering that awkward
stage of early adolescence
and had become a somewhat ungainly-looking boy. Even so, it was hard to believe that
his birthday in two days’ time would be only his twelfth. There was something almost
unnatural in his
manner that made Tsu Ma think of childhood tales of changelings and magic spells and
other such nonsense. He seemed so old, so knowing. So unlike the child whose body
he wore. Tsu Tao Chu, in
contrast, seemed younger than his eight years and wore his heart embroidered like
a peacock on his sleeve. He stood there in his actor’s costume, bearded, his brow
heavily lined with black
make-up pencil, yet still his youth shone through, in his eyes and in the quickness
of his movements.
Tsu Ma reached out and ruffled his hair, smiling for the first time since the killing.
‘Did it frighten you, Tao Chu?’
The boy looked down, abashed. ‘I thought…’
Tsu Ma knelt down and held his shoulders, nodding, remembering how he had felt the
first time he had seen the ritual, not then knowing what was happening, or why.
Tao Chu looked up and met his eyes. ‘It seemed so real, Uncle Ma. For a moment I thought
it was Grandpa Tiao.’
Tsu Ma smiled. ‘You were not alone in that, Nephew Chu.’
Tao Chu was his dead brother’s third and youngest son and Tsu Ma’s favourite; a lively,
ever-smiling boy with the sweetest, most joyful laugh. At the ritual earlier Tao Chu
had
impersonated Tsu Tiao, playing out scenes from the old T’ang’s life before the watching
Court. The practice was as old as the Middle Kingdom itself and formed one link in
the great
chain of tradition, but it was more than mere ritual, it was a living ceremony, an
act of deep respect and
at the body on
the floor, moved towards the dragon doorway.
In the room beyond, the real Tsu Tiao was laid out atop a great, tiered pedestal on
a huge bed spread with silken sheets of gold. Slowly and with great dignity, Tsu Ma
climbed the steps until he
stood there at his dead father’s side. The old man’s fine grey hair had been brushed
and plaited, his cheeks delicately rouged, his beard brushed out straight, his nails
painted a
brilliant pearl. He was dressed from head to foot in white. A soft white muslin that,
when Tsu Ma knelt and gently brushed it with his fingertips, reminded him strangely
of springtime and the smell
of young girls.
You’re dead
, Tsu Ma thought, gazing tenderly into his father’s face.
You’re really dead, aren’t you?
He bent forward and gently brushed the cold lips with
his own, then sat back on his heels, shivering, toying with the ring that rested,
heavy and unfamiliar, like a saddle on the first finger of his right hand. And now
it’s me.
He turned his head, looking back at the six T’ang standing amongst the pillars, watching
him.
You know how I feel,
he thought, looking from face to face.
Each one of you.
You’ve been here before me, haven’t you?
For the first time he understood why the Seven were so strong. They had this in common:
each knew what it was to kill their father; knew the reality of it in their bones.
Tsu Ma looked back at
the body – the real body, not the lifelike GenSyn copy he had ‘killed’ – and understood.
He had been blind to it before, but now he saw it clearly. It was not life that
connected them so firmly, but death. Death that gave them such a profound and lasting
understanding of each other.
He stood again and turned, facing them, then went down amongst them. At the foot of
the steps they greeted him; each in his turn bowing before Tsu Ma; each bending to
kiss the ring of power he
now wore; each embracing him warmly before repeating the same eight words.
‘Welcome, Tsu Ma. Welcome, T’ang of West Asia.’
When the brief ceremony was over, Tsu Ma turned and went across to the two boys. Li
Yuan was much taller than when he had last seen him. He was entering that awkward
stage of early adolescence
and had become a somewhat ungainly-looking boy. Even so, it was hard to believe that
his birthday in two days’ time would be only his twelfth. There was something almost
unnatural in his
manner that made Tsu Ma think of childhood tales of changelings and magic spells and
other such nonsense. He seemed so old, so knowing. So unlike the child whose body
he wore. Tsu Tao Chu, in
contrast, seemed younger than his eight years and wore his heart embroidered like
a peacock on his sleeve. He stood there in his actor’s costume, bearded, his brow
heavily lined with black
make-up pencil, yet still his youth shone through, in his eyes and in the quickness
of his movements.
Tsu Ma reached out and ruffled his hair, smiling for the first time since the killing.
‘Did it frighten you, Tao Chu?’
The boy looked down, abashed. ‘I thought…’
Tsu Ma knelt down and held his shoulders, nodding, remembering how he had felt the
first time he had seen the ritual, not then knowing what was happening, or why.
Tao Chu looked up and met his eyes. ‘It seemed so real, Uncle Ma. For a moment I thought
it was Grandpa Tiao.’
Tsu Ma smiled. ‘You were not alone in that, Nephew Chu.’
Tao Chu was his dead brother’s third and youngest son and Tsu Ma’s favourite; a lively,
ever-smiling boy with the sweetest, most joyful laugh. At the ritual earlier Tao Chu
had
impersonated Tsu Tiao, playing out scenes from the old T’ang’s life before the watching
Court. The practice was as old as the Middle Kingdom itself and formed one link in
the great
chain of tradition, but it was more than mere ritual, it was a living ceremony, an
act of deep respect and
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