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his chin, with its pure white, neatly braided beard, formulating a slight upward motion that signalled the offering of a confidence.
    ‘The House was never meant to be so powerful. Our forefathers saw it only as a gesture. To be candid, Hal, as a sop to their erstwhile allies and a mask to their true intentions. But now, a hundred years on, certain factions persist in taking it at face value. They maintain that the power of the House is sanctioned by “the People”. And we know why, don’t we? Not for “the People”. Such men don’t spare a second’s thought for “the People”. No, they think only of themselves. They seek to climb at our expense. To raise themselves by pulling down the Seven. They want control, Hal, and the House is the means through which they seek to get it.’
    The T’ang leaned back again, his eyes half-lidded now. He reached up with his right hand and grasped the tightly furled queue at the back of his head, his fingers closing about the coil of fine white hair. It was a curious, almost absent-minded gesture; yet it served to emphasize to Ben how at ease the T’ang was in his father’s company. He watched, aware of a whole vocabulary of gesture there in the dialogue between the two men: conscious not just of what they said but of how they said it; how their eyes met or did not meet; how a shared smile would suddenly reveal the depths of their mutual understanding. All served to show him just how much the T’ang depended on his father to release these words, these thoughts, these feelings. Perhaps because no other could be trusted with them.
    ‘I often ask myself, is there any way we might remove the House and dismantle the huge bureaucratic structure that has grown about it? But each time I ask myself I know beforehand what the answer is. No. At least, not now. Fifteen, maybe twenty years ago it might have been possible. But even then it might simply have pre-empted things. Brought us quicker to this point.’
    Hal Shepherd nodded. ‘I agree. But perhaps we should have faced it back then. We were stronger. Our grip on things was firmer. Now things have changed. Each year’s delay sees them grow at our expense.’
    ‘You’d counsel war, then, Hal?’
    ‘Of a kind.’
    The T’ang smiled. And what kind is that?’
    ‘The kind we’re best at. A war of levels. Of openness and deception. The kind of war the Tyrant, Tsao Ch’un, taught us how to fight.’
    The T’ang looked down at his hands, his smile fading. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t, Hal. Sometimes I question what we’ve done.’
    As any man must surely do.’
    Li Shai Tung looked up at him and shook his head. ‘No, Hal. For once I think you’re wrong. Few actually question their actions. Most are blind to their faults. Deaf to the criticisms of their fellow men.’ He laughed sourly. ‘You might say that Chung Kuo is filled with such individuals – blind, wicked, greedy creatures who see their blindness as strength, their wickedness as necessity, their greed as historical process.’
    ‘That’s so…’
    For a moment the two men fell silent, their faces solemn in the flickering light from the fire. Before either could speak again, the door at the far end of the room opened and Ben’s mother entered, carrying a tray. She set it down on a footstool beside the open fire, then leaned across to take something from a bowl on the mantelpiece and sprinkle it on the burning logs.
    At once the room was filled with the sweet, fresh smell of mint.
    The T’ang gave a gentle laugh, delighted, and took a long, deep breath.
    Ben watched his mother turn from the fire, drawing her long dark hair back from her face, smiling. ‘I’ve brought fresh ch’a ,’ she said simply, then lifted the tray and brought it across to them.
    As she set it down the T’ang stood and, reaching across, put his hand over hers, preventing her from lifting the kettle.
    ‘Please. I would be honoured if you sat a while with us and shared the ch’a