the Seven, carved deep into the wood. The seven dragons formed a great wheel, their regal snouts meeting at the hub, their lithe, powerful bodies forming the spokes, their tails the rim. Wang Hsien stared at it a while, then nodded to himself as if satisfied. But deeper, at some dark, unarticulated level, he felt a sense of unease. The War, the murder of his sons – these things had made him far less certain than he’d been. He could no longer look at the Ywe Lung without questioning what had been done in their name these last five years.
He looked down sharply. Five years. Was that all? Only five short years? So it was. Yet it felt as though a whole cycle of sixty years had passed since The New Hope had been blasted from the heavens and war declared. He sighed and put his hand up to his brow, remembering. It had been a nasty, vicious war; a war of little trust – where friend and enemy had worn the same smiling face. They had won, but their victory had failed to set things right. The struggle had changed the nature – the very essence – of Chung Kuo. Nothing would ever be the same again.
He waited until the servants left, backing away, bowed low, their eyes averted from their lord’s face, then went across and stood before the wall-length mirror.
‘You are an old man, Wang Hsien,’ he told himself softly, noting the deep lines about his eyes and mouth, the ivory yellow of his eyes, the loose roughness of his skin. ‘Moon-faced, they call you. Maybe so. But this moon has waxed and waned a thousand times and still I see no clearer by its light. Who are you, Wang Hsien? What kind of man are you?’
He turned, tensing instinctively, hearing a noise in the passageway outside, then relaxed, smiling.
The three girls bowed deeply, then came into the room, Little Bee making her way across to him, while Tender Willow and Sweet Rain busied themselves elsewhere in the room.
Little Bee knelt before him, then looked up, her sweet, unaffected smile lifting his spirits, bringing a breath of youth and gaiety to his old heart.
‘How are you this evening, good Father?’
‘I am fine,’ he lied, warmed by the sight of her. ‘And you, Mi Feng?’
‘The better for seeing you, my lord.’
He laughed softly, then leaned forward and touched her head gently, affectionately. Little Bee had been with him six years now, since her tenth birthday. She was like a daughter to him.
He turned, enjoying the familiar sight of his girls moving about the room, readying things for him. For a while it dispelled his previous mood; made him forget the darkness he had glimpsed inside and out. He let Little Bee remove his pau and sit him, naked, in a chair, then closed his eyes and let his head fall back while she began to rub his chest and arms with oils. As ever, the gentle pressure of her hands against his skin roused him. Tender Willow came and held the bowl with the lavender glaze while Sweet Rain gave him ease, her soft, thin-boned fingers caressing him with practised strokes until he came. Then Little Bee washed him there and, making him stand, bound him up in a single yellow silk cloth before bringing a fresh sleeping garment.
He looked down at her tiny, delicate form as she stood before him, fastening his cloak, and felt a small shiver pass through him. Little Bee looked up, concerned.
‘Are you sure you are all right, Father? Should I ask one of your wives to come to you?’
‘It’s nothing, Mi Feng. And no, I’ll sleep alone tonight.’
She fastened the last of the tiny, difficult buttons, looking up into his face a moment, then looked down again, frowning. ‘I worry for you, Chieh Hsia,’ she said, turning away to take a brush from the table at her side. ‘Some days you seem to carry the whole world’s troubles on your shoulders.’
He smiled and let her push him down gently into the chair again. ‘I am Seven, Mi Feng. Who else should carry the burden of Chung Kuo?’
She was silent a moment, her fingers working to unbind his tightly braided queue. Then, leaning close, she whispered in his ear. ‘Your son,’ she said. ‘Why not make Ta-hung your regent?’
He laughed shortly, unamused. ‘And make that rascal friend of his, Hung Mien-lo, a T’ang in all but name?’ He looked at her sharply. ‘Has