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yet significant gesture, the T’ang had given his father and mother the
     ultimate in compliments.
    Ben studied the man as he talked, aware of a strength in him that was somehow more
     than physical. There was a certainty – a vitality – in his every movement, such that
     even the
     slightest hesitancy was telling. His whole body spoke a subtle language of command;
     something that had developed quite naturally and unconsciously during the long years
     of his rule. To watch him
     was to watch not a man but a directing force; was to witness the channelling of aggression
     and determination into its most elegant and expressive form. In some respects Li Shai
     Tung was like an
     athlete, each nuance of voice or gesture the result of long and patient practice.
     Practice that had made these things second nature to the T’ang.
    Ben watched, fascinated, barely hearing the words, but aware of their significance,
     and of the significance of the fact that he was there to hear them.
    Li Shai Tung leaned forward slightly, 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