“Everyone knows you piloted the first colony ship,” said Han Tzu.

“We lied,” said Mazer Rackham.

Han Tzu accepted that and waited in silence.

“There is a place for you as head of a colony,” said Rackham. “A former Hive world, with mostly Han Chinese colonists and many interesting challenges for a leader. The ship leaves as soon as you board it.”

That was the offer. The dream. To be out of the turmoil of Earth, the devastation of China. Instead of waiting to be executed by the angry and feeble Chinese government, instead of watching the Chinese people writhe under the heel of the Muslim conquerors, he could board a beautiful clean starship and let them fling him out into space, to a world where human feet had never stepped, to be the founding leader of a colony that would hold his name in reverence forever. He would marry, have children, and, in all likelihood, be happy.

“How long do I have to decide?” asked Han Tzu.

Rackham glanced at his watch, then looked back at him without answering.

“Not a very long window of opportunity,” said Han Tzu.

Rackham shook his head.

“It’s a very attractive offer,” said Han Tzu.

Rackham nodded.

“But I wasn’t born for such happiness,” said Han Tzu. “The present government of China has lost the mandate of heaven. If I live through the transition, I might be useful to the new government.”

“And that’s what you were born for?” asked Rackham.

“They tested me,” said Han Tzu, “and I’m a child of war.”

Rackham nodded. Then he reached inside his jacket and took out a pen and laid it on the table.

“What’s that?” asked Han Tzu.

“The mandate of heaven,” said Rackham.

Han Tzu knew then that the pen was a weapon. Because the mandate of heaven was always bestowed in blood and war.

“The items in the cap are extremely delicate,” said Rackham. “Practice with round toothpicks.”

Then he got up and walked out the back door of the restaurant.

No doubt there was some kind of transport waiting there.

Han Tzu wanted to leap to his feet and run after him so he could be taken out into space and set free of all that lay ahead.

Instead he put his hand over the pen and slid it across the table, then put it into the pocket of his trousers. It was a weapon. Which meant Graff and Rackham expected him to need a personal weapon soon. How soon?

Han Tzu took six toothpicks out of the little dispenser that stood on the table against the wall, beside the soy sauce. Then he got up and went to the toilet.

He pulled the cap off the pen very carefully, so he didn’t spill out the four feather-ended poison darts bunched in it. Then he unscrewed the top of the pen. There were four holes there, besides the central shaft that held the tube of ink. The mechanism was cleverly designed to rotate automatically with each discharge. A blow-gun revolver.