History Keepers: Nightship to China

by Dibben, Damian

  Unruffled, she picked herself up and reached for a weapon attached to her saddle – a golden bazooka crafted in the shape of a dragon. Before the History Keepers even realized what was going on, she had primed the mechanism and fired. A jet of flames shot out, setting fire to the rigging. She was about to let off a second shot when Topaz leaped up onto the mainsail, took hold of a rope, swung round and struck her on the back of the head. The bazooka flew out of her grasp and she toppled over the side of the ship. For a moment she clung to the rail, but Yoyo slashed downwards with her sword, leaving her no choice but to let go.

  Even now she wasn’t ready to give up, swimming after the ship, but it was moving too fast now.

  Meanwhile the white stallion got to his feet. Whinnying and snorting, he dashed to and fro, looking for his mistress. Suddenly he heard her cries and swung round, almost knocking the wheel from its casing. The mighty beast reared up and launched himself over the side. Jake watched in awe as the animal smacked down into the water and started swimming towards Fang; she managed to climb on his back, and they headed towards the shore.

  ‘Go!’ Topaz shouted to Nathan at the helm, and the Thunder roared off across the bay at full speed; the port of Canton, with its millions of lanterns, quickly receded behind them.

  Once they had put out the fire, Jake studied the dragon-shaped bazooka that Fang had left behind. It seemed familiar, and he remembered with a start where he had seen it before: it was the weapon that Philip had drawn . . . He ripped open the pouch with the bundle of his brother’s things, took out the diagrams that Galliana had given him and checked the design against the weapon lying on the deck . . . They were identical.

  18 A NIGHT ON THE TOWN

  CHARLIE WAITED FOR Oceane on the pier. He was smartly dressed, his crutches at his side and Mr Drake perched on his shoulder. Three nights earlier he had agreed to take her to the summer ball in St Malo; he was braced for a difficult night ahead.

  Oceane had a terrible reputation: she was spoiled, pompous, self-obsessed and dependably rude. She was not much of a spy either. (In the past, she had only undertaken missions that offered opportunities for adding to her collection of jewellery. People only put up with her out of respect for her late parents, who had both been great Keepers and wonderful characters.) But Charlie was determined to try and cheer her up after the death of Josephine – he could sympathize with anyone who lost a beloved pet.

  He looked at his pocket watch. It was almost nine o’clock. ‘She’s an hour late. The party will be over by the time we get there!’ he said, shaking his head at Mr Drake.

  Just then, he heard the sound of pattering footsteps. Oceane floated down the steps towards them in a gown of blue chiffon, with long white gloves, and flowers in her hair. A pearl necklace and an ivory bag completed her elegant outfit. Charlie didn’t know anything about fashion, but he was certain that she looked breathtaking.

  ‘I’ve decided it’s a bad idea,’ she announced coolly before she had even got to the bottom of the stairs. She might have looked the part, but her attitude was sourer than ever. ‘I’m not coming. Désolée.’ She turned on her little gold heel and started up the steps again.

  ‘Non, Mademoiselle Noire,’ Charlie called after her. ‘Permission is not granted for you to return to your rooms and be miserable for the rest of your life. Do you wish to die a lonely spinster with nothing but your jewellery for company?’

  ‘That sounds perfect,’ she replied, without breaking step. ‘Jewels are the only thing that can really be depended on.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have dressed up like that if you weren’t desperate to go.’

  She ignored him, so he took a sheet of paper out of his pocket and started reading out names: ‘Charles St Jean, le Vicomte de Rennes, Michel-Pierre Rousseau, from the house of Nantes, Alain Fourgère the Second, le Comte de Breton.’

  Oceane stopped in her tracks and swung round. ‘Who are those people?’

  ‘This is a good one: Frédéric-Xavier Montjac, Duc de Bretagne, and his little brother, Alençon. Actually Alençon’s only seventeen. But they have a cousin who has the largest vineyard in Normandy.’

  ‘Arrête! Arrête!’ Oceane exclaimed, sweeping back down. ‘Are you trying to tell me that those people will be guests at the ball?’

  ‘Those, and many more like them.’

  She put her nose in the air and thought about her options. ‘Is that the ship you’re proposing to take me in?’ she said, pointing at a yacht bobbing by the pier. ‘It’s hardly Cleopatra’s barge.’

  ‘I have champagne on ice and asparagus tartlets at the ready. I know how you love asparagus. It’s just half an hour across the bay.’

  Oceane pursed her lips. ‘Well, I suppose they’ll be crying out for women of my class. I wouldn’t like to let them down.’ She threw her head back, strode over to the boat and stepped down. It didn’t cross her mind to help Charlie, so he hobbled aboard and started the engine.

  From a window high up in the Mount, Rose Djones stood watching them.

  ‘Charlie Chieverley needs his head examined,’ she commented to Galliana. ‘If I went out for an evening with Oceane Noire, only one of us would come back alive.’ She was in Galliana’s study, a half-eaten cake in her hand. She polished it off and licked her fingers. ‘I’m so happy that rum babas are back on the menu – now that Jupitus isn’t.’

  ‘Are you two still not talking?’ Galliana asked. She was busy at her desk, poring over maps of China with a magnifying glass.

  ‘What is there to say?’ Rose shrugged. ‘He’s a cold fish, and that’s that. Thank goodness that ring never made it onto my finger.’

  Galliana studied her old friend.

  Rose let out a little sigh and turned away from the window. ‘Apologies. Selfish of me to be chattering away when you’ve got far more important things on your mind.’ She squeezed herself onto the commander’s seat and switched her attention to the maps. ‘Do you think they’ve found Xi yet?’ she asked.

  Galliana took a deep breath; her lip trembled and a tear pricked her eye.

  ‘Oh, my darling,’ Rose said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I should never have sent them in the first place,’ Galliana cried. ‘Better that he commits his crimes than I lose more people I love. I should have stopped them from going to China, insisted they return.’

  ‘It’s what we do. It’s what we’re here for. We are the History Keepers.’ Rose tried to hide her shock; she hadn’t seen Galliana cry in decades.

  The commander shook her head. ‘I should be protecting them, not sending them to . . . to . . . Xi is so utterly evil, Rose, so black-hearted. The others have humanity, some humanity. Not he. He is a fiend.’

  Rose felt a shiver go down her spine. She opened her carpetbag, took out an old tissue and started dabbing her friend’s face. ‘Come on – if you don’t perk up, I’ll have to take you to that ball in St Malo and make you dance a polka.’

  ‘It’s not invented yet,’ Galliana retorted, the glimmer of a smile on her face.

  ‘That’s more like it. We can’t have the venerable commander of the History Keepers’ Secret Service blubbing away like Marie-Antoinette.’

  There was a knock on the door, and Fredrik Isaksen put his head round, smiling roguishly. ‘Here you all are,’ he said. ‘There’s the beginnings of a startling sunset outside. I wondered if either of you would like to come and view it? I have a bottle open – a very confident Margaux from 1787.’ He pretended that he was speaking to both of them; but his Lothario eyes were fixed on Rose.

  ‘Rose, darling,’ Galliana said, ‘why don’t you go with Fredrik while I finish up here?’ Seeing that her friend was about to protest, she whispered in her ear, ‘Go – it will do you good.’

  Rose squeezed her hand. ‘Five more minutes with these maps, then come and find us.’ She picked up her carpetbag and turned to leave.

  Fredrik held the door open for her, eyes twinkling. ‘May I be so bold as to say how beautiful you look tonight?’ he purr
ed. ‘Vermillion is your colour.’

  ‘You may be as bold as you like, Fredrik,’ she said, winking at Galliana.

  Then her grin dropped: Jupitus was coming down the corridor towards them. He ignored Rose at first; but as he passed, he bowed slightly and said stiffly, ‘Fredrik . . . Miss Djones.’

  Rose, irritated, watched him retreat. Then she took her companion by the arm and said in a loud voice, ‘Let’s go and see that sunset, then.’

  ‘Mmm. Let me think . . . My ideal man?’ Oceane munched an asparagus tartlet as she pondered. She was seated on deck, a silver tray of goodies at her side. Charlie was at the helm, navigating across the flat summer sea with Mr Drake. ‘He’d be idiotically wealthy. Impeccable manners, naturally. Discreet, respectful, gracious. And I don’t like nose hair or big feet.’

  ‘And I suppose you want someone who loves you . . .’ Charlie offered. ‘Who likes you the way you are . . . That’s the important thing, isn’t it?’

  Oceane screwed up her face. ‘That sounds a little vulgar, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Maybe I’ll have one of those tartlets now,’ he said, changing the subject.

  ‘Oh dear, I didn’t know you’d be eating too,’ Oceane said carelessly. ‘I polished them off.’

  Charlie smiled bravely and wondered what on earth he was doing on this expedition. What were his friends up to at this moment? He had always wanted to go to China; such a fascinating culture, so full of surprises. ‘St Malo ahead,’ he said.

  Oceane turned and squinted at it. The city walls glowed in the sunset. A hexagon of stout ramparts protected a pyramid of dark grey buildings, with the cathedral at the apex.

  Charlie docked in the harbour, and Oceane swanned ashore without a thought for her com panion. He managed to hail a carriage, and they zigzagged their way up through the warren of narrow streets, alighting outside a grand-looking hall.

  ‘Mon Dieu,’ Oceane gasped, clasping her pearls at the sight of dozens of smart young men chatting on the terrace. ‘What a brave new world this is.’ The driver opened the door for her. ‘I shall see you in there,’ she sang to Charlie. ‘Wish me luck.’

  Before he had even managed to alight from the carriage, she had swept off, making sure that all male eyes were upon her. Charlie paid off the cabbie before looking at his parrot. ‘Why did I ever think I could change her? She is ungrateful and beyond redemption.’

  He hobbled into the hall, and couldn’t help smiling at the scene he found inside. It was a proper ball. The room glittered with candlelight from two enormous chandeliers, and at least two hundred revellers were dressed in all their finery: the men straight-backed and dark-suited; the women visions of silk and fluttering fans. Many took part in a lively dance; others chatted and gossiped around the edge. A twenty-piece orchestra – the musicians immaculately turned out in golden coats and breeches – played at the far end.

  ‘Oh goody, a buffet!’ Charlie said to himself, spying a long table on the other side of the room. Taking his chances with his crutches, he made his way across the dance floor, helped himself to a plate and started piling it up with delicacies.

  ‘I like your parrot,’ a voice said in his ear. It was a young girl with dark eyes and ringlets. ‘Is he tame?’

  Charlie was going to tell her that actually he was a rescue parrot and quite temperamental, but the girl had already reached out to stroke the bird’s head. To Charlie’s amazement, Mr Drake didn’t squawk and flap his wings; instead, he began to chuckle, before hopping onto the girl’s shoulder and nuzzling her cheek.

  ‘Hell’s bells and Bathsheba, I’ve never seen him do that before,’ Charlie said. ‘Can I get you something to eat? The mousse looks quite special.’

  ‘Anything as long as it’s not meat,’ the girl whispered. ‘Though don’t tell my brothers that . . .’ She nodded at three red-cheeked youths behind her. ‘They’re pig farmers. Je m’appelle Ambre. Enchantée.’

  ‘Charlie . . .’ The word got stuck in his throat and he blushed.

  Suddenly he caught sight of Oceane talking to a distinguished-looking man in uniform. He had a neat beard, a sash over his shoulder and a row of medals pinned to his chest. Though Oceane was fluttering her eyelashes and smiling, it seemed to Charlie that the man wasn’t interested. The band started up again, and she held out her hand, signalling that she would like to dance, but he merely turned away, leaving her hand suspended in mid-air. Her face fell in mortification as a group of young girls giggled behind their fans, and she retreated to a corner. Never in his life had Charlie seen anyone look so lonely and dejected.

  ‘Would you excuse me for a second?’ he said to Ambre.

  He quickly limped round to Oceane. He expected a tirade about how rude everyone was, and was taken aback when she smiled at him and said: ‘Thank you so much for bringing me, Charlie.’

  ‘Thank you?’ he repeated. He wondered if she was being sarcastic. She wasn’t.

  ‘I know I have my little ways; that I’m not the friendliest woman in the world. But I am grateful when people show me kindness. And no one has ever shown me kindness like you have this week. I will never forget it.’

  ‘Oh. Well . . . I . . .’ Charlie was lost for words. ‘It’s my pleasure, Mademoiselle Noire. I wasn’t sure if you were enjoying yourself.’

  ‘Of course, of course, c’est une fête merveilleuse. It’s been an age since I came to a ball like this. The orchestra and the dancing . . . and so many tall men. It all makes me feel weak with happiness.’

  Just then a man approached, bowing his head at Oceane. ‘S’il vous plaît, mademoiselle . . .?’ he began in a deep voice. Oceane looked him up and down. He was no taller than she was, thick-set, with a strong face and deep-set eyes. His suit was a little too small for him, and less fine than some of the others on show, but he had a warm smile.

  ‘Tell him you’d love to dance,’ Charlie whispered in Oceane’s ear.

  ‘Would I? I don’t think he’s my sort.’

  With a nudge, Charlie pushed her forward. The man smiled, bowed and led her off onto the dance floor. She in turn shot Charlie a stern look.

  Despite his size, the man was light on his feet, and very courteous. Smiling all the time, he spoke to Oceane as they twirled around. At first she was grim-faced, but soon she began to open up, smiling and finally laughing. In all his years at Point Zero, Charlie had never seen her laugh, except at someone else’s expense.

  He was starting to feel very proud when Oceane suddenly stopped and left the dance floor; her partner stood there, baffled. ‘What happened?’ Charlie asked as she strode back towards him, picking up a flute of champagne on the way.

  ‘C’est un charlatan,’ she said, knocking it back. ‘He shouldn’t be here, pretending to be something he isn’t.’

  ‘What do you mean, a charlatan?’

  ‘Il est pêcheur d’huîtres. He’s an oyster farmer.’

  ‘You can’t just leave someone standing on the dance floor like that.’ The poor man was looking over at them, not sure what to do next.

  ‘We would be wasting our time, both of us. I think I can do better than an oyster farmer.’

  Finally Charlie lost his temper. ‘You can’t do better . . . No, mademoiselle, I’m afraid not. Perhaps I don’t understand the ways of the world – I’m just a fifteen-year-old boy, after all – but I would speculate that he is probably worth ten of you.’ Mr Drake squawked in agreement, while Oceane reeled in shock. ‘He looks like a nice man. With a nice smile. And a nice suit, with a flower in his buttonhole. He has a solid job. Besides, you love oysters. What could be better? Now go back and dance with him. It is not a request, mademoiselle, it is an order.’

  Oceane looked at him, frozen, her mouth gaping. So Charlie prodded her with one of his crutches and goaded her back over to the oyster fisherman. ‘Bonsoir – je m’appelle Charlie,’ he said to the man. ‘Et vous?’

  ‘Jacques,’ he replied, mystified. ‘Monsieur Jacques Vernet.’

  ‘A good, dependable name. Mon ami
e voudrait continuer à danser. D’accord?’ Charlie said, taking Jacques’ large hand and joining it with Oceane’s. ‘Vous êtes un beau couple.’

  The music started again, and Charlie motioned for them to get going – they were both rooted to the spot. ‘Dansez!’ he repeated. ‘Who knows what tomorrow will bring?’

  Eventually Jacques grinned uncertainly, and led Oceane across the floor. Soon she was laughing again, this time at the top of her voice.

  After the sun had set and their bottle of Margaux had been polished off – amidst many fond remembrances of old times – Fredrik Isaksen suggested to Rose that they wait for the stars to come out.

  ‘It’s such a clear evening,’ he purred, ‘it’s bound to be a wondrous show. Shall I fetch us some blankets? We can make ourselves a den.’

  Rose looked at him sadly. ‘Fredrik, you are probably the most handsome man who has ever suggested making a den with me; but I will have to say no. I’m out of sorts tonight.’

  His smile did not falter. ‘Of course, Rose, I understand.’ He took her hand and kissed it.

  She went back to her room with a heavy heart. As she passed Jupitus’s door, she saw a sliver of light underneath and heard soft music. She knelt down and looked through the keyhole. She could just see Jupitus in his dressing gown and slippers, sitting motionless on his ottoman. Suddenly she felt a surge of bravado and made to knock – but stopped, paralysed, then turned and plodded away down the corridor to her room.

  She put on her nightdress, got into bed, blew out her candle and pulled the covers up to her nose. She hadn’t closed the curtains and could see the stars beginning to come out. Suddenly the words that Galliana had spoken before came back to her:

  He’s so utterly evil, Rose, so black-hearted. The others have humanity, some humanity. Not he. He is a fiend.

  Suddenly the spectre of Xi Xiang seemed to hover in the gloom in front of her. Yesterday she had gone to inspect a picture of him in the library of faces (oddly, she had never met him in person), and now remembered his rouged cheeks and the horrible third eye sullenly watching, whatever the rest of his face was doing. Apparently he had a high-pitched laugh. She felt a cold clamp of terror and screwed up her eyes, but Xi’s image remained, staring at her in the darkness.