Shanghai (32 page)

The family who owned the junk was nowhere to be seen, but the smell of their cooking brazier tainted the air. She followed the source of the smell down a narrow set of steps and into a passage. There to one side was a closed door. She opened it.

Inside, the other progeny of the Chosen Three awaited her—and of course the Carver. She noted that the Carvers seemed old even when they were young—as if they were born old men. The Body Guard never seemed to age, but the Confucian had sent his youngest son to represent his family. She nodded slightly and removed the plain woollen blanket she wore around her shoulders and as a cowl over her head—no need to advertise her beauty on the dark and dangerous streets in this part of the city. But when she shook out her long hair she didn't miss the admiring looks of the young Confucian. She had known his father, but not this young man—although both had that disconcerting way of staring as if they knew something that no one else knew.

The boat lurched momentarily and she steadied herself against an overhead timber. The Carver stepped forward and offered her a seat. She refused his offer with
a curt shake of her head, then added, “I got here as quickly as I could.” Before the men could comment she added evenly, “We all have our labours, gentlemen. The fact that mine bring pleasure make them no less valuable than yours—as some of your family members will attest.”

“Enough,” the Carver said. “The threat of the Taiping Prophet has to be understood in light of the Ivory Compact
.”

Jiang looked to the young Confucian. “You didn't tell him about your father and his meeting?”

The Confucian avoided Jiang's eyes and quickly gave the bare details of his father's meeting with the extraordinary young man.

“And that was how long ago?” the Body Guard asked.

“Twenty months, just before he took to his bed.”

“He didn't bother consulting us?” complained the Body Guard.

“He consulted me,” Jiang broke in.

“Nothing in the Compact states that all decisions must be made jointly,” the Confucian said.

“Be that as it may, now we must act,” the Carver said as the wide-bellied boat once again listed dangerously in the screaming wind.

Jiang steadied herself against a ship wall, as did the Carver and the Confucian. But the Body Guard's balance was such that he counteracted the motion by shifting his weight.
Like an acrobat,
Jiang thought. She looked down at the planks and thought of them as a platform that danced beneath her feet.
I think more like my daughter and her operas every day.

The boat righted itself.

“Have you tried to open the second portal? There must be information there that we need,” said the Body Guard.

“In all likelihood there is, but I've been unable to open the window,” replied the Carver.

“So we work with what we have,” said Jiang.

“Agreed,” said the Confucian, who then turned to the Body Guard and said, “Time to stop fishing and make your selection.”

“It will be done.”

“Have you chosen?”

The Body Guard thought of his son—and then of his powerful young nephew, who now lived in his home. “The choice will be made soon.”

“Don't hesitate, we may well need the services of a master assassin shortly,” said Jiang.

A silence greeted that.

“So be it,” said Jiang.

“But aren't we a little ahead of ourselves?” the Body Guard asked. “How does the rise of the Taiping Prophet fit into the prophecy of the Seventy Pagodas?”

“Simply,” said the young Confucian.

“Explain,” demanded the Body Guard.

“If the Long Noses declare their Foreign Settlements neutral in the struggle …”

“… and manage to get the Prophet to agree to that neutrality,” added Jiang.

“Yes, and get the Prophet to agree, then the one vital thing most missing from our village at the Bend in the River will be addressed.”

“I don't follow,” said the Body Guard.

“People,” responded the young Confucian. “This extraterritoriality that the Long Noses received has enabled them to induce local Shanghainese to work for them. But we are still almost nothing more than a large village. We need to become a great city to build the Seventy Pagodas. Even Beijing and Canton and Nanking
have nothing like that. But if Shanghai is safe while rebellion rages through the countryside, then …”

Somehow the howling wind entered the room. Papers riffled on the table, and a tablecloth flapped. A scythe of cold cut through the room, like a warning.

“It takes many people to build seventy pagodas,” agreed the Body Guard.

“Many people.”

“So we must see to it that the Long Noses approach the Prophet?”

“Yes.”

“And once they secure Shanghai's neutrality, we support the Prophet?”

“Yes.”

There was another long silence. The slapping of the waves against the ancient timbers of the junk grew loud. They knew that there would be death—much death—and they would support it, all to fulfill a prophecy. None of the progeny in the room had ever been free of doubt about the prophecy. None had refrained from questioning and railing against the demands set upon them so long ago on the Holy Mountain. But none of them dared stand in the way of the future greatness that was promised. Much of the rest of the prophecy had come to pass: foreigners invading, foreigners sitting on the Celestial Throne but always succumbing to the luxuriance of China, the arrival of the White Birds on Water and the ensuing darkness. And here was yet more darkness—and so much death.

“What if the Prophet wins?” asked the young Confucian, although what he really wanted to ask was
What role would Confucians play in a Taiping-ruled China?
No one answered his first question, so he asked
another. “If he takes over all of China, won't he then turn and demand Shanghai as well?”

Jiang thought about that. Finally she said, “That mustn't happen. The Prophet is a means, not an end.” She knew that the Prophet would be more inclined to burn Shanghai to the ground than to build seventy pagodas.

The Confucian recited his father's admonition: “How, once launched heavenward, can an archer be sure of the landing place of his arrow?”

Jiang, sensing something beneath the young man's words, stared at the Confucian for a long moment, then turned to the Body Guard. “That is your job. It is time to begin the Guild of Assassins so that when we need the Prophet ended—he will be ended.”

The Body Guard thought again of his son and his nephew.

Jiang surprised the others when she asked, “Would your chosen assassin be able to juggle and tumble?”

“Yes, but …”

“Good,” Jiang said. “When you have selected the one to begin the Guild, send the assassin to me.”

Summer 1852, twenty months after the start of the Taiping Revolt

Richard watched and tried not to laugh, although he understood perfectly well that there was nothing very funny going on in this private room in the back of the famous Yu Yuan Gardens. The harmonious lines of the polished mahogany wood, the deep, still pool with its bright-orange carp and its arching bridge, as well as the peaceful orderliness of the immaculate gardens did nothing to mediate the open anger in the room. Even getting to the damned place was a challenge now that the Manchus had been defeated in the city proper by the Han Chinese Triad of the Small Knives.

It didn't matter to the traders if they dealt with the devious Manchus or the openly thuggish Triads. No one believed that the Triads would rule Shanghai for long. Already they were fighting amongst themselves.

None of the English, French, or American powers cared. The Triads would disappear back into their rat holes on their own. But these religious rebels, these Taipingers sitting across the table from the committee of opium traders, they controlled almost a third of the Middle Kingdom, including the ancient capital of Nanking, and were a significant power—and in total opposition to the use of opium by their people, all their people.

Every time one of the traders spoke, and Richard translated, the Taipingers responded with increasingly surly scowls.

The head of the Taiping delegation was not their leader, Hung Hsiu-ch'uan. This man, who sat directly across the table from the Vrassoon Patriarch, referred to himself as the West King. There were apparently five such kings. Richard wondered which direction had two kings. But there was nothing else very humorous about the rebels. The Taipingers had come raging out of their mountain retreats just under three years ago, and although initially they had lost their battles with the Manchus, their numbers had swelled quickly, and victories followed.

Richard wondered how much his brother had to do with their military successes.

The Taipingers' particular religious approach was so stern that men and women were strictly separated and not permitted, upon penalty of death, to have sexual intercourse until the Manchus were driven from Beijing. All of their people were organized into fighting and
working battalions under military commanders, who reported to captains, who eventually reported to one of the five Kings, who then reported to Hung Hsiu-ch'uan, the Heavenly King himself. The rebels quickly routed local warlords and large landowners, distributing the land and wealth to their followers, which further swelled their ranks. Then towns began to fall to them, and eventually cities. Just the year before, they had routed the Manchus and taken Nanking, which they now proclaimed as their Heavenly Capital.

Every Taipinger was required to bear arms—everyone except the very young, of which, for obvious reasons, given the separation of the sexes, there were very few. Even the old were taught to use weapons. Taken lands were divided amongst the fighters, and food was distributed to people according to their need. The Taipingers treated women as equals to men. As well, they banned foot binding in all its forms, and the Manchu-imposed long braid and shaved forehead were outlawed. It was one of the many things about the men sitting across the table from the traders that differentiated them from most other Chinese.

There was also a requirement to memorize long religious tracts from the writings of the Heavenly King. The failure to recite on command could lead to summary execution. Sabbath started on Saturday evening, when large banners were strung across the streets and all activity stopped. Attendance at church was mandatory. And of course alcohol and opium—especially opium—were forbidden upon pain of death.

The Taipinger West King put the palms of his hands on the beautifully inlaid table and stood. “We have nothing more to discuss, it seems.” He shouted an order
in what Richard assumed was Hakka, since he couldn't discern the meaning, then turned to leave.

“We have
much
to discuss,” Eliazar Vrassoon said.

For an instant Richard thought of the doctored photograph of Vrassoon's eldest son that was so carefully hidden in his desk.

The West King turned and hissed into Vrassoon's face, “You are nothing more than thieves and pirates. You poison our people. You do not believe in the one true God.”

Richard translated slowly to give the room a moment to calm down. Then Jedediah Oliphant rose to his feet and said to Richard, “Translate this accurately so the heathen will understand.” Richard nodded. “Tell him that Oliphant and Company came to China for one primary reason, to spread the word of Jesus Christ and his Father, the one true God.” Richard hesitated. “Tell him, man.”

Richard did.

The West King turned on Oliphant. “Do you not sell opium to my people?”

Richard translated.

“We do nothing of the kind. We trade for goods, as all traders must, and spread God's Holy Word.”

“Which words, exactly?” the West King demanded.

Oliphant produced his vellum-bound family Bible from an old leather case and handed it to the Taipinger. The man handed it to his translator, who flipped it open and spoke in Hakka to his King. The man smiled, then shook his head as he tossed it, like so much garbage, onto the table. “This book is not the true Word.”

Oliphant's fat neck bulged out like a bullfrog's, and his bald head turned a bright red. Richard thought the man's eyes might pop out of his stupid face. Then Anderson came running into the room.

Richard signalled him over to one side. “What?”

“Their soldiers have cut off access to the Huangpo, and they are massing at the east gate.”

“How many?”

“Thousands upon thousands.”

Richard turned to the Taipinger, who openly smiled, evidently understanding the news that Anderson brought. “Could you excuse us for a moment, please?” Richard signalled the traders to join him in the next chamber. Once there, he quickly told them Anderson's news.

Anger immediately flared, but it was Hercules MacCallum who spoke calmly. “We don't want anything from these rebels—just to be left alone. To keep the town at the Bend in the River neutral. We can be of use to them by keeping the Manchus out of Shanghai—at least for the moment, with the Triad in control, that's no real problem. In return, we want nothing from them. Not a blessed thing. We should promise that we will trade only in the Manchu's territory and make motions toward closing our trading routes up the Yangtze. We would be protecting their eastern flank, and we also keep at least some of the Manchu navy nearby watching us, not up there fighting them.”

Vrassoon nodded and Oliphant grudgingly agreed, then the traders returned to the negotiating room.

The Taipingers listened to Richard without interrupting as he laid out the deal. For a moment Richard thought he'd swayed the Taiping King, then something dark crossed the man's face. “But you would still trade opium? Do the Devil's work?”

Using the phrase the dwarf Jesuit had used all those years ago sent Richard into a moment of interior fall, vertigo, and he reached for the table to balance himself. The room was strangely quiet, he thought. Then he
looked at the Taipinger and asked, “Have you met the red-haired Long Nose from the Bend in the River?”