Their lot—the
Yellow Emperor’s Clan—torture Yang because his lot in the Si Fan have
tortured one of their lot. Because their lot tortured one of his lot. It all
comes out in the wash. These feuds go back centuries, and there’s nothing you
or I can do to stop them. That’s something you have to learn. They’ve tumbled
Yang now, and I don’t expect he’ll be staying here much longer if he knows
what’s good for him.”
“You didn’t
tip them the wink, did you?”
“Not me!”
Reg chuckled at the idea. “I tell you, the Si Fan never forget a grudge; they
just keep adding to the list. The fellow that tipped them off—he’ll be
found one day, next week or next year or in ten years' time, with his tongue
cut out by the Si Fan. They spy on each other and betray each other and torture
each other. It will out sooner or later.”
“Will they
be after my blood?”
Reg sipped
his ale thoughtfully before shaking his head. “They respect a strong man.
You’re just a hired soldier. Chinese soldiers change sides all the time
depending who pays them, it’s expected. But betrayal – that’s another
matter! Anyway, now he knows
they’re after him, I expect Yang will be off soon enough.”
Reg seemed
well satisfied when he left. For Reg, seeing the back of Yang would be enough
to settle the matter, but I was not so sure. I did not think Yang was stirring
up mischief. His object was Roslyn D’Onston. Powell struck stone dead in the
library was a sign that D’Onston was alive, ruthless and in possession of
uncanny powers. And if there was any truth in what Howard said, D’Onston would
kill again and again in pursuit of some hidden purpose. It was difficult to put
this in words for Reg, and Arthur would be equally dubious. Only Yang was
likely to understand.
I was
content enough when I made my way back home later that night, but my sleep was
not a peaceful one.
I woke
suddenly in the early hours, a thing I rarely do. Usually, you can tell what’s
woken you easily enough—a dustbin lid blown off, or fighting cats. I lay
listening, but the night was completely still.
I rolled over
to look at the luminous radium dials on the alarm clock. Something was wrong
with the conformation of my bedroom, which seemed to press closer on me than it
should. The wall had moved somehow, or perhaps the wardrobe. I reached and
switched on the bedside light.
Towering
over me like a wall of flesh was the fat Chinese wrestler. He stood with his
arms folded, big and motionless as a granite pillar. His face was bruised where
I had hit him that afternoon.
At the
click of the light switch, he unfolded his arms and reached for my throat. I
jumped violently and woke up—really woke up this time. My room was empty.
I checked under the bed and in the wardrobe and locked the door. Even then, I
did not feel entirely safe. After I climbed back into bed, I kept opening my
eyes at intervals to reassure myself that it had all really been a dream.
I got to
thinking again about the fight with the wrestler and what I could have done and
how I would defend myself if we were to meet again. There was the ice axe on my
dressing table, but that was cumbersome for a close fight. Then I recalled some
knuckle-dusters, which Arthur had issued me as a contingency for a particular
job. I had never used them, knuckle-dusters being dangerous things to carry or
use, and they had lain neglected ever since in a bottom drawer. I fetched them
out and put them over my hands. They were cold at first but soon warmed, and
the weight was a comfort.
I slept
badly until the morning.
Chapter Eight: An Interview at the Convent
The next morning, Yang was in a charcoal-grey suit with narrow
pinstripes, and apart from some stiffness in his shoulder, he looked as good as
new. I know I never looked so well the day after a fight though, unlike Yang, I
did not disguise the bruises on my face with powder. Iodine was as far as I
ever went.
He was not
his usual
Yellow Emperor’s Clan—torture Yang because his lot in the Si Fan have
tortured one of their lot. Because their lot tortured one of his lot. It all
comes out in the wash. These feuds go back centuries, and there’s nothing you
or I can do to stop them. That’s something you have to learn. They’ve tumbled
Yang now, and I don’t expect he’ll be staying here much longer if he knows
what’s good for him.”
“You didn’t
tip them the wink, did you?”
“Not me!”
Reg chuckled at the idea. “I tell you, the Si Fan never forget a grudge; they
just keep adding to the list. The fellow that tipped them off—he’ll be
found one day, next week or next year or in ten years' time, with his tongue
cut out by the Si Fan. They spy on each other and betray each other and torture
each other. It will out sooner or later.”
“Will they
be after my blood?”
Reg sipped
his ale thoughtfully before shaking his head. “They respect a strong man.
You’re just a hired soldier. Chinese soldiers change sides all the time
depending who pays them, it’s expected. But betrayal – that’s another
matter! Anyway, now he knows
they’re after him, I expect Yang will be off soon enough.”
Reg seemed
well satisfied when he left. For Reg, seeing the back of Yang would be enough
to settle the matter, but I was not so sure. I did not think Yang was stirring
up mischief. His object was Roslyn D’Onston. Powell struck stone dead in the
library was a sign that D’Onston was alive, ruthless and in possession of
uncanny powers. And if there was any truth in what Howard said, D’Onston would
kill again and again in pursuit of some hidden purpose. It was difficult to put
this in words for Reg, and Arthur would be equally dubious. Only Yang was
likely to understand.
I was
content enough when I made my way back home later that night, but my sleep was
not a peaceful one.
I woke
suddenly in the early hours, a thing I rarely do. Usually, you can tell what’s
woken you easily enough—a dustbin lid blown off, or fighting cats. I lay
listening, but the night was completely still.
I rolled over
to look at the luminous radium dials on the alarm clock. Something was wrong
with the conformation of my bedroom, which seemed to press closer on me than it
should. The wall had moved somehow, or perhaps the wardrobe. I reached and
switched on the bedside light.
Towering
over me like a wall of flesh was the fat Chinese wrestler. He stood with his
arms folded, big and motionless as a granite pillar. His face was bruised where
I had hit him that afternoon.
At the
click of the light switch, he unfolded his arms and reached for my throat. I
jumped violently and woke up—really woke up this time. My room was empty.
I checked under the bed and in the wardrobe and locked the door. Even then, I
did not feel entirely safe. After I climbed back into bed, I kept opening my
eyes at intervals to reassure myself that it had all really been a dream.
I got to
thinking again about the fight with the wrestler and what I could have done and
how I would defend myself if we were to meet again. There was the ice axe on my
dressing table, but that was cumbersome for a close fight. Then I recalled some
knuckle-dusters, which Arthur had issued me as a contingency for a particular
job. I had never used them, knuckle-dusters being dangerous things to carry or
use, and they had lain neglected ever since in a bottom drawer. I fetched them
out and put them over my hands. They were cold at first but soon warmed, and
the weight was a comfort.
I slept
badly until the morning.
Chapter Eight: An Interview at the Convent
The next morning, Yang was in a charcoal-grey suit with narrow
pinstripes, and apart from some stiffness in his shoulder, he looked as good as
new. I know I never looked so well the day after a fight though, unlike Yang, I
did not disguise the bruises on my face with powder. Iodine was as far as I
ever went.
He was not
his usual
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