Shanghai (35 page)

T
HE
F
ISHERMAN

As I hold out my hand to my blood-soaked nephew I know that something important in my life has ended. I am no longer the progeny of the First Emperor's Body Guard—and my nephew is no longer my nephew. The young man is now the founder of the Guild of Assassins, and his name, Loa Wei Fen, will be the stuff of History Tellers' tales for ages to come.

The Body Guard was now, simply, the Fisherman—a simple man who had lost a much beloved son.

Shanghai 1856

Jiang nodded as she listened to her tall, brilliant daughter, Fu Tsong, explain her most recent version of her opera,
Journey to the West
. Despite being impressed with her daughter's talent, her attention wandered as she thought of the communication she had received that morning from the Fisherman: “A new leader of the Guild has been chosen. He awaits your instructions.”

“Then, Mother, after all the trials and tribulations, all the miles of walking and the constant danger—and the love that has grown between the Princess from the East and her manservant—they finally arrive in the palace of the King of the West. The Serving Man is shocked to see
that no one is there to greet them—no banquet of welcome awaits them. Then the Princess, his Princess, is unceremoniously taken from him and, without even seeing her new husband, is sent to the house of the King of the West's concubines. They both realize that she was nothing more than a pawn in the politics of peace and war between the King of the East and the King of the West. No one cares about her or what happens to her, except the lowly Serving Man, who brought her two thousand miles across rivers, mountains, and deserts.”

“It is very sad, Fu Tsong, but duty takes us all to places that we do not expect.”

“Indeed, Mother. But that is not the end of the play.”

“Really? What more story can there be?”

“The final image is the Serving Man. Bereft of his Princess, he turns toward the East and takes the first step on his two-thousand-mile journey back home.”

Jiang smiled. Of course her daughter would see the possibility that she had not seen. She reached out and touched the strong features of her daughter's face. She was, Jiang knew, despite her mother's profession, a conservative woman. A woman whom she had helped marry into the industrious Zhong clan. A woman who had survived the sudden death of her young husband and had assumed his assigned role in the Zhong family hierarchy. A woman whom many had begun to call a History Teller.

Jiang told her so.

“History Teller?” Fu Tsong asked, puzzled.

“It's an old tradition that has faded from memory in many, but before the Manchu courts ruled in the Middle Kingdom there were always two historians in the Emperor's court. The History Chronicler gave the dates, times, and numbers of an historical event. The
History Teller found the small, personal truth behind the facts of the historical event and told that story. It is rumoured that Q'in She Huang himself said, “Abide the History Chronicler for he delivers facts. But heed the History Teller for he sees and tells the truth of what really happened.”

Fu Tsong was suddenly cautious and, keeping her eyes from her mother, said, “You are an endless surprise, my Mother.”

Jiang smiled at that. “You are a History Teller, my daughter. It has been obvious to many of us for a long time. May I call you by that title?”

History Teller,
Fu Tsong thought.
I'd be honoured to be called a History Teller.
She nodded.

“Are you and your troupe ready to travel, History Teller?”

Travel where and travel why?
the History Teller wanted to ask, but she knew better than to demand answers from her mother. She also knew that her mother was never whimsical in her requests and always had the interests of Shanghai at heart. And anything that was good for Shanghai was good for her and her troupe. “This is important,” she said. It was not a question.

“I wouldn't ask unless it was. You know me, History Teller.”

“You honour me, Mother, with the title and your trust.”

“You honour me, daughter, with your talent and loyalty. You strengthen your family. Your play is lovely, and I would not ask you to amend it in any way unless it was important. You know that.”

“I do. Is there something that gives offence?”

“Nothing. Truly nothing. I only need you to include an actor in your company whom you have not used before.”

“Is this an actor I would know?”

“No.”

Suddenly the History Teller was afraid. “Am I permitted to ask who this actor is and why you wish …?”

“No.” After a moment the History Teller nodded. “As you wish, my Mother. But can I ask about this actor's abilities?”

“I have no idea if he can sing or dance. But he can tumble and juggle as well or better than anyone else in your company.”

“Good. He needn't sing or dance as long as he is athletic.”

“Oh, he's very athletic. Very.”

“Fine. May I cast him as I see fit?”

“Such decisions are yours, but I think he would make a fine Monkey King.”

The History Teller's eyes opened wide. Had her mother known how displeased she had been with the present Monkey King's performance? Perhaps. “When can I meet this young athlete?”

“When you begin your journey.”

“To Beijing?”

“No, to Nanking.”

The History Teller paled. The Taipingers controlled the ancient capital.

“I have secured you safe passage from the Heavenly King through one of his senior generals. Someone you've met,” Jiang added with a strange smile.

The History Teller wanted to ask who this man was and how her mother knew him, but Jiang kissed her on the cheek, then left.

* * *

THAT NIGHT a client at Jiang's reached for his whore. But the drunken Frenchman's aim was off target. And his hand knocked over a brazier, whose coals lit the woman's silk kimono. Which set alight the bedding in the room which torched the walls of the brothel which began a conflagration that in one night burned nearly one in ten of the buildings in Shanghai, the city at the Bend in the River, to the ground. But it was of only minor concern to the Chosen Three, who had finally launched their arrow high into the night sky.

The History Teller gathered her clan by the north bank of the Huangpo. In the distance, the eerie glow of the huge fire in Shanghai cast a further strangeness on the night. A fat pig sizzled on its spit over the coal pit. The moon was already high and the cold of the night intense, but not even the youngest had returned to the housing compound. The women, the strong women of her deceased husband's clan, the Zhong clan, stood and waited for her to speak. She poured more of the powerful Chinese wine and held up her glass. The entire clan stood and looked at her. “Drink, then spit,” she ordered. They all did as she commanded. She felt the bitter liquid momentarily clench her throat.

The smell of the hundreds of pails of curing night-soil—her husband's family business—were somehow sweet on the cold air.

“And again.” And they all drank, then spat a second time.

She nodded. “Good. My mother, Jiang, has insisted that we talk of great things.” She laid out the basic plan of bringing the troupe to the Prophet's stronghold in Nanking. She never mentioned exactly why and quickly silenced any dissenting voices. “The Long Noses' neutrality treaty with the Prophet is in place, so we will not
be held back in the city. We will not, however, trust the fates or the
Fan Kuei
's word, so we'll leave tonight.”

“Will it be safe?” her mother-in-law asked. The older woman looked at her daughter-in-law and wanted to reach over and touch her hair and tell her how proud she was to have her as a part of the Zhong clan. But there had never been outward demonstrations of affection between the two. Even in private they were subdued. The History Teller saved all of her affection for her one true love, since the death of her husband: her work on the operas.

“I don't know,” she said, turning away from the question. “I just don't know.” She turned toward the rest of the large clan. “You will not see me or the troupe for some time. Don't take to heart what you hear of us. I may need to gain the Prophet's trust.” Then, turning to her actors, she said, “Get your things. It is time for us to leave.”

The actors hesitated.

“What?” she demanded.

They looked at the crackling pig, and the History Teller smiled, then nodded.
Actors and food,
she thought, but what she said was, “There will be no meat for us for some time, so we'll await the completion of the roast—then we will leave. We will be on the river before moonset.”

* * *

LATE THAT NIGHT
the History Teller hoisted the last of her bags up on the wharf railing. As she turned toward the large river junk that awaited her on the north shore of the river she was startled by the appearance, as if from the ground itself, of a young man, scarcely more than a boy.
The fresh cobra tattoo on his hand stood out in the last rays of the setting moon. “I am to come with you, History Teller,” the boy-man said.

The History Teller took a breath and steadied herself. The boy-man's athleticism was obvious, but his silence was disconcerting. There was blood on the sides of his shirt. Blood newly dried.

“Did my mother send you?”

The Assassin shrugged.

“Did she?”

“My uncle gave me the order. I don't know if it came from someone else.”

“And this uncle's order said?”

“To meet the History Teller by the upper bend in the river and follow what she says.”

The History Teller nodded and reached for her satchel. As she pulled it off the railing the bag's handle snagged and the contents fell toward the ground. Toward, but not quite to, because the strange boy-man leapt forward, and with an unworldly speed he caught each and every article, one by one, before any of them touched the earth.

Then he looked up at the History Teller and something dark and sad crossed his face. Something the History Teller saw but made herself forget.

The History Teller indicated that the things were to be put back in the satchel. The Assassin returned the articles to the case.

Then the History Teller reached into a much larger case and threw its contents at the boy-man.

The Assassin saw the glint of metal in the moonlight. Then, as he had been taught, he shallowed his breathing, and the objects—cymbals, drums, drumsticks, horns—slowed in their twirling, spinning paths toward him.

He caught each of the seven objects, the last, a large cymbal, in his teeth. Then he stood there on one foot and awaited the History Teller's orders. They finally came.

“Pack those up and carry them onboard the junk.”

The Real Middle Kingdom 1856–57—

The heavily armed Manchu patrol boats were on their windward side.

“When did they show up?” asked the History Teller.

“While you slept,” the one-eyed Captain of her junk replied as he spat into the muddy water of the Yangtze. “They'll stop us before we get to the narrows. Are your papers in order?”

“Naturally. We are on our way to Beijing to entertain the Dowager Empress. We'll use our time on board to rehearse.” She nodded in the direction of a makeshift stage in the bow.

The Captain's single eye widened. He'd been paid enough money by the whore madam to get this handsome woman and her troupe of players to Chinkiang at the foot of the Grand Canal—no farther. He spat overboard a second time and said, “You are aware the Middle Kingdom is at war.”

“How far are we from the narrows?”

“An hour, maybe a little more.”

The History Teller nodded as she turned to her assistant, a competent but entirely boring middle-aged man. “Tell the new actor to get into makeup.” Before the pedantic man could question this, the History Teller said, “I want to work on the fourth act. Maybe the morning light will bring some clarity to that mess.”

The man threw up his hands and headed below decks. Waking up actors in the morning wasn't his idea of a good time.

The one-eyed Captain had been correct. In just under an hour a Manchu war junk hung a spinnaker sail and crossed their bow with gingalls openly displayed and shouted at the Captain to turn into the wind. Without hesitation the Captain pulled the long-handled tiller hard against his body. The junk's thick mast swung slowly across the deck and the ship turned smoothly and with remarkable speed into the wind—and there it stayed.

The Manchu Commander stepped onto the junk's deck after twenty of his armed men had rousted the History Teller and her players. The man strode across the deck as if he were reviewing his troops on a battle parade. He stopped in front of one of the older actors and shouted, “Remove your mask.”

The older man did.

The Commander turned the actor around quickly and pulled the man's long, braided hair from beneath
his robe. “It is the law for you to wear your hair out!” He turned the man around to face him and ran his hand over the man's badly shaven high forehead. Then he hit him hard across the face, drawing blood from the man's mouth. “It is the law for Han Chinese to shave their foreheads up to the line of the top of their ears. It is the law.”

He didn't bother turning to the History Teller. He just held out his hands and shouted, “Papers!”

The History Teller handed over the documents her mother had supplied. She had no idea if they were good forgeries or in fact the real thing. All she knew was that they claimed the troupe was on its way up to Beijing to entertain the Dowager Empress, Tzu Hsi.

She glanced over at the boy-man. All she knew about him was that his name was Loa Wei Fen, or at least that was the name he used. She canted her head slightly in the strange young athlete's direction. Loa Wei Fen nodded and pulled the headdress from his head. He still had a hastily painted approximation of the Monkey King makeup on his face.