The Art of War by David Wingrove

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