History Keepers: Nightship to China (12 page)

‘Wait!’ He took out the picture of his family, half covering it with his hand to favour Philip, and showed it to Bess. ‘What about him? Have you ever seen
him
?’ he asked her. She had clearly never come across a photograph before, and was struck dumb. ‘Look closely at him,’ Jake said. She stared, almost as if she
had
recognized Philip – but then shook her head. ‘Are you sure? Absolutely
sure
?’

‘I am, sir,’ she replied, but Jake suspected she was lying.

Nathan locked her in the pantry and the three of them walked up the creaking staircase, Topaz leading the way with a candelabra held high in one hand. They crossed the landing, and went through an archway into the main room of the house.

It was an Elizabethan gallery that ran the entire length of the building, with a series of large windows facing the river. By the entrance hung a lantern in the form of a sea creature. Nathan put a candle to it and it caught light with a soft
whoomph
. There came the sound of machinery ticking and whistling, and within seconds a whole succession of lights went on one by one.

‘Respect where it’s due,’ said Nathan, gazing around. ‘Taste-wise, Xi Xiang is not lacking.’

The room was decorated in a mixture of styles from east and west. The walls were panelled in dark oak, but the objects and furnishings – lacquer cabinets, golden screens, finely carved chairs – all had a Chinese feel. A vast mural covered the back wall – a seascape of swirling blues: turquoise, cobalt and ultramarine. In the centre of the room, dominating the space, stood a supersized globe. It all reminded Jake of his first glimpse of the London bureau – a place Xi Xiang would have visited in his time as a History Keeper.

‘Interesting,’ said Topaz, scanning the globe. Thin red lines streamed across the oceans between the land masses, from South America, up through the Caribbean to America, then across the Atlantic to Europe. From here, they looped back down round Africa to Persia, traversing the Indian Ocean to Asia, before fanning out again across the Pacific to start the journey all over again.

‘Trade routes,’ she said, pointing to various spots on the map. ‘Sugar, silver, silk, pepper, tobacco – the whole merry-go-round. Even slaves,’ she added sombrely. Her finger lingered on the South China Sea, which had the greatest concentration of red; a whole network of converging lines. ‘As we just saw, no exports are more popular than from
this
corner of the world.’

Jake went to examine the giant mural. Viewed close up, it was unsettling. In the heart of the ocean was a blue, quartz-like crystal, covered with intricate inscriptions. It seemed to radiate some kind of magical power, as the seas raged and exploded all around it. At the edges of the scene there was destruction: ships sinking, sailors crying out, tidal waves engulfing cities.

‘What
is
that thing?’ he asked, pointing at the stone.

Topaz frowned as she studied it.

‘My knowledge of Chinese mythology is rusty at best,’ Nathan commented, ‘but isn’t that the Lazuli Serpent?’

‘The
what
serpent?’ Jake asked.

‘The
Lazuli
Serpent. It’s a tide stone,’ Topaz replied, though Jake was none the wiser. ‘Tide stones have been part of Chinese folklore for thousands of years; they’re mythical crystals that can control the oceans, producing giant sea monsters simply by coming in contact with water. There are large ones and small ones, each with varying degrees of power. The Lazuli Serpent is the most famous, the most dangerous, capable of harnessing the power of
all
the seas of the world. It is said that Qin Shi Huang, the first true emperor of China—’

‘That’s the one who started building the Great Wall,’ Nathan chipped in, ‘and insisted on being buried with an army of stone soldiers to keep him company.’

‘– that he possessed it, but even Huang was so frightened of its might that he kept it locked in a jade casket, telling no one of its whereabouts.’

‘But it’s a myth,’ Nathan butted in. ‘Let’s not forget that. No one in the history of the world has ever seen this stone. And that story is two thousand years old.’

As Jake gazed at the mural, his eye caught the glimmer of hinges and a handle, then a faint rectangle lost amongst the swirling colours: it was a door hidden in the wall. He turned the handle, and a panel opened out onto a small landing and a staircase.

‘It must go up into one of the towers,’ Jake said, remembering the outside of the building.

The agents drew their weapons before cautiously climbing the steps. At the top was a thick metal door that was slightly ajar. Nathan gently pushed it open with the tip of his blade, and they stepped into a small room that looked like a monk’s cell: it had a single barred window, a bed of straw and a chamber pot. There was only one other object: a dusty painting in a smashed frame, facing the wall.

Jake turned it round, and in his shock, took a gulp of breath. ‘Wh-wh-what? How . . .?’ he stammered. It was a portrait – of Xi Xiang . . . and his brother, Philip.

They were dressed like battle heroes, in gleaming Chinese armour, and Xi’s arm lay around Philip’s shoulders. ‘I – I don’t understand . . .’ Jake’s hands were shaking.

Nathan and Topaz shared a look of concern. ‘It’s a painting,’ Topaz reassured him. ‘Many things can be captured in a painting – lies can be told.’

She tried to take it off Jake, but he clung onto it. Carefully he brushed the dust off his brother’s face. Philip was a striking boy, with a square jaw, dimpled chin and the faint shadow of stubble. He was older and stronger than Jake, but they had the same curling dark hair and brown eyes. Those eyes stared right back at Jake. What was the story here? he puzzled, his mind frantic with questions. Was Philip really in league with Xi? Or was he his prisoner?

He turned to look at the bed. The mattress was imprinted with the shape of its former occupant.

‘Is – is this where he slept?’

‘It’s all right, Jake . . . it’s all right,’ Topaz whispered, holding onto him.

He shook himself free. ‘Where is he now? Is he dead? Where is he?’ Jake’s voice echoed around the room. He fell to his knees and thrust his hand into the mattress, as if he might somehow find Philip there. ‘Where is he?’ he cried again, tossing the bedding aside. Nathan and Topaz tried in vain to calm him down. ‘What did they do to him?’ Jake demanded, half demented – then stopped as he saw something glinting amongst the straw: it was a watch, its glass smashed, its strap broken. Jake picked it up as if it were a priceless relic.

‘I gave it to him,’ he murmured. ‘There was a stall in Greenwich market that sold old watches. I knew he’d like this one because it had a ship on it. He loved ships – I never fully understood why . . . until I met you lot, of course. He said he would never take it off.’ He turned it over and received another surprise: a message was scratched in tiny letters on the back. He had to squint to make it out . . .

Tell family I love them. Find Lazuli Serpent – through the Ocean Door, C

‘It’s definitely written by him?’ Topaz asked softly. Jake nodded, tracing his finger over the letters. ‘Can I see?’ She examined it carefully. ‘Why did he sign it
C?
Did he have a nickname?’

‘No.’

‘But you’re absolutely sure it’s his?’

‘A hundred per cent,’ he said firmly. ‘The Ocean Door . . .? Do either of you know what that is?’

The other two looked at each other. ‘Never heard of it,’ Nathan confessed.

Jake slipped the watch into his pocket and stripped the painting from its frame. ‘Bess must know more,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

But when they got back downstairs and unlocked the pantry, Bess was gone. She had pulled a dresser aside and escaped out of a casement window.

Jake tore across the garden to the jetty. ‘The boat’s gone too,’ he said as the others caught up with him.

BOOM!
Suddenly there was an explosion on the other side of the river, and bright light illuminated their faces. A moment later, another blast shot a wave of heat across the water.

‘What in God’s name—’ Nathan started to say.

Further upstream, a ship was on fire, flames engulfing the sails, sparks flickering into the dusky sky. There was pandemonium – the crew diving into the river to escape the inferno as people swarmed along the pier with buckets of water. All at once, in the hold of the stricken craft, another eruption catapulted the remaining crew into the air. Jake’s ears popped and he shook his head to regain his hearing.

Almost instantly, the ship listed to one side and started to sink, its burning mast cracking in two and smacking down onto the Thames.

A fourth explosion echoed across the water – from a galleon moored close to London Bridge. Within moments, it too was ablaze. ‘
One
ship might be accidental,’ Nathan said, ‘but
two
must be a conspiracy.’

‘And those aren’t
any
old ships,’ Topaz replied. ‘You see the banners at the top of the mainsails? Red and white stripes, with the cross of St George? The emblem of the East India Company.’

They shut up the house and quickly retraced their steps back to the company’s headquarters. A crowd of people had gathered, pushing their way inside; both English merchants and their foreign counterparts.

‘I’m going in to find out what’s going on,’ Nathan said. ‘Topaz, you’d better come with me – they’ll be speaking every language under the sun.’ He turned to Jake. ‘Wait here for a moment, all right?’ Jake nodded. ‘We’re going to find out what happened to Philip, if it’s the last thing we do . . .’ the American added as he shoved his way through.

Jake stood frozen on the spot as more and more people gathered. The thought of his brother locked in that tower had made him feel sick.

Someone barged past him – an old woman in a dark coat, carrying a bundle of papers. She wore a little cap with a black feather and a high collar that obscured her small head. She threw down the stack of papers and, drawing a knife, quickly severed the red ribbon that bound them, then ran off. The wind scattered the papers into the crowd. One flew directly towards Jake; he grabbed it and read the statement, inscribed in black ink:

YOUR SHIPS ARE DOOMED – YOUR CIVILIZATION TOO
.

Jake looked again at the woman hurrying away, and saw a flash of red under her gown: red slippers. It was her, surely – the old woman in the portrait . . . Xi Xiang’s nanny, Madame Fang. She rounded the corner and disappeared.

Jake didn’t hesitate; adrenalin surging, he dashed up the road after her.

JAKE TURNED THE
corner onto the wide thoroughfare that led to London Bridge. The street was swarming with traders and merrymakers, all being funnelled through the gatehouse. He scanned the sea of heads and found the distinctive black feathered cap.

He pushed and barged, weaving in and out, receiving angry shouts from those who were queuing patiently. On the bridge itself, things had slowed almost to a standstill. There was less than twelve feet between the shops on either side, and the travellers could only shuffle forward half a step at a time.

Then a bell rang out, and everything came to a complete halt. The drawbridge was going up, and Jake saw that his prey had already reached the other side. Now he would surely lose her. He struggled through the crowd, then ducked down and scrambled between the cartwheels and the horses’ hooves.

The drawbridge was now halfway up: he leaped onto it, but immediately slipped back down again. The steward – a barrel of a man with a matted grey beard and blackened teeth – took him by the collar and threw him aside. Jake picked himself up, lunged forward, hooking his leg round the man’s knee, and sent him careering back into a cart loaded with crates of wild fowl.

Jake saw that the drawbridge was now almost fully raised. At the front of the queue waiting to cross, four clergymen in a black carriage stared at him in astonishment. They gasped in unison as he vaulted from the carriage wheel up onto the roof, and launched himself towards the rising drawbridge. He caught hold of it and swung round so that he hung over the churning river.

He realized that he was still too far from the other side – but a ship was now gliding towards the opening. As the mainmast sailed past, Jake took a leap of faith and managed to land on the crow’s nest, before jumping towards the far side of the drawbridge. He caught hold of the tip and pulled himself over, tumbling down the other side and back onto the bridge.

Once more he searched for the black-feathered cap. There she was, passing under the southern arch! Jake jumped onto a cart and, using the queue of vehicles like stepping stones, leaped from one to the other until he reached the far side. Once through the arch, he turned and looked up. The severed heads of traitors stared back, the black tar gleaming in the evening light.

The south bank was thronging with people, but there were fewer buildings, and Jake caught sight of his target crossing a wide square, her steps marked by flashes of red.

She headed directly towards the octagonal building that Jake already knew well: the Globe. As she reached the forecourt, she suddenly stopped and half turned. Jake shrank back into the shadows. Did she know that he was behind her? But then a steward opened a door for her and she entered the theatre.

Jake had visited the replica of the Globe with his parents; the original was shabbier and more crooked, with the plaster coming away from the timber frame. A peeling poster was pinned to the wall near the entrance, the curly writing barely legible:

The King’s Men Presente MACBETH Entrance: One Pennie

The door was slightly ajar and Jake went in, eyes alert in case the old woman had stopped to wait for him. She was nowhere to be seen, and the performance had started. The theatre was packed – three tiers of galleries heaving with spectators, along with four hundred groundlings, their astonished faces gazing up from the pit. Someone grabbed Jake by the shoulder and his heart stopped – but it was just the steward holding out his hand for the entry fee. Jake fumbled in his pocket, found a penny and handed it over, then stepped cautiously down into the pit.