The Nicholas Linnear Novels (187 page)

Tak himself had emerged from that disease-ridden ship thin and tubercular. He had worked night and day to pay off the enormous debt he had incurred for not only his own passage, but that of his dead brothers as well.

Within two years he had paid off the debt and, a free man, he had entered Nightside. There, he had bought a weapon with the remainder of his money, had returned to the pepper plantation on which he had toiled for twenty-four months, and had killed his former employer.

He was a famous figure around Nightside, and he was much feared. He also had amassed the most powerful tong in the Crown Colony, as the British called Singapore in those days. Rather than being intimidated by the local British police, Tak had made a deal with them—a kind of mutual nonaggression pact. The British did not hinder his affairs to any major degree. They did not dare.

When he had been a
sinkeh,
Tik Po Tak had been a brash young man, willing to take appalling risks for the sake of honor and freedom. In So-Peng he no doubt saw an image of his younger self, and therefore his interest was piqued. On the other hand, he was wary. His truce with the British was at best brittle, and it would be correct to say that Tak was uneasy around them. In his opinion, any people who were more concerned with telling the truth—and, thus, giving offense—than they were with saving face were simply not trustworthy.

Tik Po Tak sent One Eye Yan across the barroom to speak with So-Peng. In that way he might observe the young man’s actions, reactions, and manner from a distance, the better to judge whether So-Peng was what he claimed he was or a spy sent into Nightside by the devious British.

One Eye Yan was a massive man with a notoriously incendiary temper who could intimidate the bravest British officer. But Yan had his orders, and Tak had no doubt that he would do what he, Tak, wanted him to do.

Yan said to So-Peng, “Why are you here in a part of Singapore that does not belong to you?”

So-Peng looked at this giant of a man who was of approximately the same height as he but was perhaps twice again as heavy. “I am looking for men who have committed murder,” he said.

Yan laughed. He brandished a long, dirty knife in So-Peng’s face. “Then you’ve come to the right place.” He watched So-Peng’s face as he turned the blade of the knife this way and that. “Which murders?”

“The Muslim merchants who were found with pigs’ feet in their mouths,” So-Peng said at once.

One Eye Yan grunted. “Why do you want to find these men?”

“I wish to talk with them,” So-Peng said.

Yan grinned as he put the filthy blade to So-Peng’s neck. “Your search has ended,” he said softy. “I am one of them.” He leaned into So-Peng’s face. “Speak.”

So-Peng did not move. He knew that this giant was not a tanjian; he did not have the sense of menace about him that Liang had described. There was nothing mystical about this one-eyed man. His character was simple, straightforward. So-Peng knew that this did not make him any less dangerous.

With that in mind, So-Peng knew that the matter of his reaction now was extremely important. “If you are who you say you are,” he told the giant, “you will know my name.”

“Is that so?” Yan said. “Why should I know you? You’re just a stripling.”

Using his gift, So-Peng reached out, touched Yan’s spirit with his own, enfolding it in a sense of truth. Straightforward adversaries demanded straightforward measures.

Yan grunted, took the blade from So-Peng’s throat. “Aren’t you afraid that they will kill you as well?” he asked. “Murderers are notoriously indifferent about their victims.”

“Not these murderers,” So-Peng said with such absolute authority that for a moment Yan was taken aback.

He peered more closely at So-Peng. “You know the identities of these men?”

So-Peng nodded. “Yes.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Yes, lean.”

“Come with me,” Yan said. He led So-Peng to the back of the bar, where Tik Po Tak waited in the shadows. So-Peng stood until he was invited to sit down. He shared a drink with Tik Po Tak without knowing the man’s name. That was all right, he decided. On that score, the two of them were even.

“I understand that you are looking for the men responsible for the two recent murders,” Tak said when they had both drained their glasses.

“That is correct.”

“There are elements within Singapore who believe that I murdered the two merchants.”

“Why would they think that?” So-Peng asked.

“Because I am Tik Po Tak, and I had business with those two merchants.”

“Opium business?”

Tak squinted at So-Peng. Beneath the table he had drawn a small-caliber pistol which he had aimed at So-Peng’s stomach. “What is your name?” he asked tightly.

So-Peng told him.

“My business is no concern of yours, So-Peng,” he said.

So-Peng shrugged, his nonchalant attitude belying the hammering of his heart. He could feel Tak’s distrust; it was like rubbing up against a rusty scow. “If it was opium trade, I could understand the British believing you had the two merchants killed.” He had read Tik Po Tak’s name as a prime suspect in the material Wan had showed him at police headquarters. He fought down an urge to reassure Tak that he was who he said he was, knowing instinctively that that would only make the
samseng
more suspicious.

“Tell me,” Tak said, hunching forward, his hands out of sight beneath the table, “am I who you are looking for?”

“I am looking for Chinese known as tanjian,” So-Peng said. “They are monks of a sort, who possess remarkable skills. To them killing is a way of life; this is their Tao. The tanjian worship death.” His eyes met Tak’s and he put his spirit into his gaze, projecting it outward. “They are the ones who murdered the merchants, not you. Will you help me find them?”

“Monks who kill?” Tak was still skeptical, though So-Peng could sense a growing interest. “Who has heard of such a thing?”

“I have,” So-Peng said. He sensed that Tik Po Tak had reason of his own to find the murderers. “I will know them when I see them,” he said. “It seems to me that you have the physical means to find them.”

So-Peng was proposing a partnership, and Tak knew it. On the surface it seemed ridiculous, a mere lad of unknown—and suspect—origins offering an alliance with Singapore’s most powerful
samseng.
Still, Tak said, “Tell me more about these—tanjian.”

So-Peng related more or less what his mother had told him. He did not, however, include his mother’s, or his own, connection.

“Why do you want to find these tanjian—assuming, of course, that they exist at all?”

Now So-Peng was faced with a fundamental dilemma. Truth or fiction, which should he choose? He decided to stick to the twilight, where he suspected Tak had also chosen to dwell. He began to speak but at the last instant stopped. Something in Tak’s eyes hinted of discernment, and so So-Peng told the truth, recounting his mother’s fear, his own desire to protect her. He withheld any mention of his own or his mother’s gift.

Tak was silent for some time, digesting this. “How will you recognize these tanjian?” he asked abruptly.

So-Peng did not know. He said, “I have seen them before,” while projecting that same sense of truth he had directed at Yan.

Tik Po Tak had remained at the summit of Nightside’s underworld through rock-hard determination, an iron fist, and the unbending rule of never entering into a partnership. Alliances inevitably led to a sharing—and therefore a diminution—of power. And power was something Tak had been born understanding.

And yet there was some quality in this lad that drew him. It was not merely that in order to maintain face in Nightside, Tak must avenge the death of his business associates, not merely that the lad had knowledge that Tak could exploit, although surely that must have been part of it. It was the sense that So-Peng possessed a talent that could prove enormously profitable. Tak saw that unless he took So-Peng under his wing, someone smart would, and that would be bad for Tik Po Tak.

“We want the same thing,” Tak said warily. “Perhaps we can do business.” He was aware that So-Peng had not inquired as to why Tak wanted the murderers found. This impressed Tak; it was his experience that partners were inordinately nosy. He was convinced the lad was far wiser than his years would indicate. “Meet me here tomorrow at first light,” he said, terminating the meeting abruptly.

The next day, brutally steamy and uncomfortable even by Singapore standards, So-Peng traveled with Tak to Choa Chu Kang village, north of the Colony.

“Do you know how to handle a rifle?” Tak asked So-Peng.

Here there was no use lying.

“Well, no matter,” Tak said. “I will teach you.” This, in fact, gave him pleasure. Tak, who had two wives and seven children, was nevertheless unused to quick wits and unlimited aptitude in the young. He found his children stupid, lazy, and altogether a disappointment.

He liked teaching So-Peng to shoot, and was oddly proud of the lad’s almost instinctive skill. On the other hand, he was suspicious of it.

It was a good thing that So-Peng learned to use the weapon quickly, because by midday they were on a tiger hunt. The violent carnivorous cats were unhappy with the encroachment of civilization on their territory. Already this year almost three hundred people had been killed in tiger attacks on the outskirts of Singapore.

Tak was affable, even loquacious. This was a side of the
samseng
that So-Peng had not seen before, and he was fascinated. Tak managed to introduce his young ward to everyone in the party. They were friendly, spending time talking to So-Peng, asking him questions, answering his in turn.

Tak introduced So-Peng to a Western man of pleasant mien named H. N. Ridley, who Tak said would stalk with them. The two men seemed to know each other well. It seemed odd to So-Peng that Tak would befriend a Westerner, and his consternation increased when, during a rest break, he discovered that Ridley was the director of the Singapore Botanical Gardens.

“I’m a flower fancier,” Tak said, laughing.

What could the two men have in common? So-Peng wondered. Immediately he corrected himself, and asked, What was it Ridley had that Tak could exploit?

He pondered this question while the party moved out, the Malay dog handlers first, fanning through the jungle, the dogs straining at their leashes.

So-Peng had heard that the government had put a bounty on every tiger head brought back to Singapore, but he suspected that this group would have gone hunting merely for the excitement and the sport of it. The atmosphere among the party was nothing short of that of an exclusive men’s club. Among the Chinese there was intense gambling, not only on how many heads the party would bring back, but also what time the first tiger would be spotted, killed, as well as what time the party would bag its last animal.

So-Peng was very excited. While Tak and Ridley spoke idly of rumors making the rounds of the Colony, So-Peng was watching the dogs—or at least the one closest to them—a saluki. This animal was far smaller than So-Peng would have imagined would be used to hunt such large beasts. It was brindled black and white with quick, inquisitive eyes and large, triangular ears.

The tiger must have been downwind, because it came gliding through the thick underbrush on the saluki’s left without so much as a rustle. So-Peng had swung his rifle around and, as the tiger leaped for the dog, jerked the trigger hard. His rifle went off with a terrible roar. Unprepared for the recoil, he was thrown backward, his rifle pointing skyward.

Tak whirled, squeezed off two accurate rounds. The result made it seem as if the dog, tiny by comparison with the giant cat, had shrugged the larger beast off its back.

The dogs were howling. Everyone ran, converging on the spot where the tiger lay on its side, panting, eyes rolling. So-Peng arrived in time to see it lift its noble head and roar defiantly at those who had brought it down. Tak reloaded, put a bullet through its right eye.

The brindled saluki sat, panting and bleeding, by the tiger’s side. The poor wounded beast howled as best it could along with its brethren, and it resisted its handler as he dragged it away from the kill to administer to it.

Tak walked over to where So-Peng stood staring at the tiger. Its death seemed an ominous foreshadowing.

Watching So-Peng’s reactions, Tak nodded to himself. He pointed to the Malay dog handler, said, “Desaru owes you much for saving his dog’s life. Those animals are difficult to train, very hard to replace.” He went to where So-Peng had dropped his rifle, returned with it. “You did a good job,” he said, handing over the weapon. Two of the Malay boys stayed with the kill while the rest of the party prepared to move out.

As often happened after an early kill, for a long time nothing occurred. The day wore on, hot and intensely humid. A spattering of rain fell and then was gone. So-Peng watched the sunlight evaporating the precipitation off the wide leaves and fronds.

For a while Ridley walked side by side with So-Peng, speaking easily and lightheartedly. The answer to what Tak wanted from Ridley appeared gradually and was simple enough. According to Ridley, a rather gentle man, astoundingly intelligent for a Westerner, Tak had been donating money to the botanical gardens, in return for which Ridley was experimenting with growing poppies.

So-Peng could see what Tak was up to. If he could get Ridley somehow to adapt the flower to this area, Tak could cultivate the opium crop himself, cutting out all the middlemen who cut into his profit margin.

“It’s a fool’s dream, really,” Ridley confided in So-Peng during the long, tedious afternoon. “The
papaver somniferum,
or Eurasian poppy, is a delicate creature. For one thing, it craves the coolness one finds in these parts only in elevations between one thousand and fifteen hundred meters. It is impossible to get it growing here at sea level, and any attempt at hybridization mucks about with the end product—opium.”

“Have you told Tak this?” So-Peng asked.

“No,” Ridley said immediately. Then, appalled, he said, “Good God, I hope you won’t tell him. The fact is, the bulk of his donations have gone to a new project I’ve been interested in for a year now. I’ve imported seedlings of the Para tree from England. These were smuggled illegally out of the Amazon River basin—do you know where that is? I’m not surprised. South America. The other side of the world.”