Free The Art of War by David Wingrove

cloak of state seemed loose now on his thin, old man’s frame and the delicate perfection of the gold chain about his neck served merely to emphasize the frail imperfection of his flesh. Even so, there was still strength in his eyes, power enough in his words and gestures to dispel any thought that he was spent as a man. If the flesh had grown weaker, the spirit seemed unchanged.
    Across from him, seated to the right of the ceremonial kang , was Tsu Ma, T’ang of West Asia. He sat back in his chair, a long, pencil-thin cheroot held absently in one hand. He was known to his acquaintances as ‘The Horse’, and the name suited him. He was a stallion, a thoroughbred in his late thirties, broad-chested and heavily muscled, his dark hair curled in elegant long pigtails, braided with silver and pearls. His enemies still considered him a dandy, but they were wrong. He was a capable, intelligent man for all his outward style, and since his father’s death he had shown himself to be a fine administrator; a credit to the Council of the Seven.
    The third and last man in the anteroom was Hal Shepherd. He sat to Tsu Ma’s right, a stack of pillows holding him upright in his chair, his face drawn and pale from illness. He had been sick two weeks now, the cause as yet undiagnosed. His eyes, normally so bright and full of life, now seemed to protrude from their sockets, as if staring out from some deep inner darkness. Beside him, her head bowed, her whole manner demure, stood a young Han nurse from the T’ang’s household, there to do the sick man’s least bidding.
    Ebert bowed, then crossed to the T’ang and stood there, the tray held out before him. Li Shai Tung took his drink without pausing from what he was saying, seeming not to notice the young major as he moved across to offer Tsu Ma his glass.
    ‘But the question is still what we should do with the Companies. Should we close them down completely? Wind them up and distribute their assets among our friends? Should we allow bids for them? Offer them on the Index as if we were floating them? Or should we run them ourselves, appointing stewards to do our bidding until we feel things have improved?’
    Tsu Ma took his peach brandy, giving Ebert a brief smile, then turned back to face his fellow T’ang.
    ‘You know my feelings on the matter, Shai Tung. Things are still uncertain. We have given our friends considerable rewards already. To break up the one hundred and eighteen Companies and offer them as spoils to them might cause resentment amongst those not party to the share-out. It would simply create a new generation of malcontents. No. My vote will be to appoint stewards. To run the companies for ten, maybe fifteen years, and then offer them on the market to the highest bidder. That way we prevent resentment and, at the same time, through keeping a tight rein on what is, after all, nearly a fifth of the market, help consolidate the Edict of Technological Control.’
    Ebert, holding the tray out before Hal Shepherd, tried to feign indifference to the matter being discussed, but as heir to GenSyn, the second largest Company on the Hang Seng Index, it was difficult not to feel crucially involved in the question of the confiscated Companies.
    ‘What is this?’
    Ebert raised his head and looked at Shepherd. ‘It is Yang Sen’s Spring Wine Tonic, Shih Shepherd. Li Shai Tung asked me to bring you a glass of it. It has good restorative powers.’
    Shepherd sniffed at the glass, then looked past Ebert at the old T’ang. ‘This smells rich, Shai Tung. What’s in it?’
    ‘Brandy, kao liang , vodka, honey, gingseng, japonica seeds, oh, and many more things that are good for you, Hal.’
    ‘Such as?’
    Tsu Ma laughed and turned in his seat to look at Shepherd. ‘Such as red-spotted lizard and sea-horse and dried human placenta. All terribly good for you, my friend.’
    Shepherd looked at Tsu Ma a moment, then looked back at Li Shai Tung. ‘Is that true, Shai Tung?’
    The old