The Emperor's Code

by Gordon Korman

  “The Cahill connection,” Amy explained. “Look, books say Amelia Earhart was trying to fly around the world. We know she was really following the clue hunt. I’ll bet there’s something similar about Puyi.”

  “Such as?”

  On the laptop’s encyclopedia, Amy set the yearbook function to 1924. “Okay, within a few months of the day Puyi was exiled, IBM was formed, Joseph Stalin came to power in Russia —”

  Not for the first time, Nellie was amazed at the brilliance of the girl’s logic. She peered over her shoulder at the screen. “Greece became a republic — ooh, I’d love to go there. The islands, the baklava …”

  Her voice trailed off as the bus crested a ridge. For the past half hour, the terrain had been growing hillier, the rises steeper. Suddenly, it was laid out before them — the Great Wall of China.

  Beside her, Amy gasped. The ancient barrier stretched up slopes and into valleys, farther than the eye could see in both directions. Four thousand miles, Nellie reflected — long enough to go from Boston to San Diego, and then hang a left to Mexico City.

  “I’ve seen pictures,” Amy said in awe, “but the real thing —”

  Even Saladin turned his attention from the chicken in the next row to gaze out the window at the giant structure that loomed up as the bus approached.

  Nellie took the computer from Amy’s lap and browsed to the Great Wall, glancing back and forth from the pictures on-screen to the mind-blowing reality. The only man-made structure that could be seen from outer space. Once guarded by more than a million men.

  During construction, when a worker died, his body was built right into the Wall itself. No one knew how many corpses lay within the stone and mortar, but some estimates ran as high as three million souls.

  It was a sight without equal anywhere in the world — unique because of its age, its historical importance, and mostly its unimaginable length.

  Nellie’s heart sank. To find a single person in such a place — even a celebrity like Jonah Wizard — would be like searching the universe for a grain of sand.

  CHAPTER 12

  The orange robe looked somehow right on Dan — like he was meant to wear it.

  “Can somebody take my picture?” He had his collection in mind. This would be the prized piece. He’d have it blown up to twenty feet wide. It would be an entire wall of his trophy room.

  “Photography forbidden.”

  Dan was crushed. He opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it. You didn’t argue with a guy who could rip your arm out and beat you to death with the bloody end. “Can I at least keep the suit?”

  His sparring partners smiled tolerantly.

  The lesson began. Dan had envisioned himself flying through the air with the greatest of ease. But he was not surprised that it didn’t happen that way. As a beginner, he started at the beginning — simple punches and kicks, and learning how to fall.

  It doesn’t get any better than this, he reflected, slapping the mat in a break-fall. Learning kung fu — wushu — in a secret part of the Shaolin Temple in the very heart of Mount Song.

  Soon they progressed to basic throws. Dan glowed when the monks praised his balance. And thanks to his extraordinary memory, he was a quick study, with perfect recall of everything he’d been taught.

  The highlight of the hour was a sparring session — Dan versus four of the most dangerous fighters in the world. Oh, sure, he knew they were letting him win. But the feeling of throwing a kung fu master was indescribable — even if the guy was mostly throwing himself.

  All at once, Dan saw an opening. The monk in front of him was down, perfectly positioned for one of the holds Dan had just learned. This was it — a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for a novice to star in real Shaolin competition.

  As Dan pounced, two powerful hands reached up and grabbed the front of his robe. Suddenly, his opponent’s foot was against his abdomen — not kicking, but launching Dan up and over him with astonishing force. Flying through the air, the triumphant thought flashed through his mind: I just got schooled by a Shaolin master! It never occurred to him that he was about to break every bone in his body.

  The other three caught him and set him gently down on the mat. He did a quick self-inventory — two arms, two legs, everything still attached.

  A colossal grin split his face. “That was mad awesome! How did you do that?”

  His teachers looked vaguely pleased.

  “This is the basis of all defense in wushu,” the thrower explained. “The momentum of your adversary is your greatest ally.”

  Another monk arrived with a tea service and a platter of food, and the sparring was adjourned. Dan bit down on a deep-fried snack and chewed thoughtfully, trying to place the unfamiliar flavor. Not bad, he decided. Crispy, kind of salty — a little like pork rinds, but the texture was different.

  “What are these?” Dan asked, popping another piece into his mouth.

  “It is a delicacy made from the larva of the silkworm,” came the reply.

  Dan nearly spit the morsel clear across the room. “We’re eating worms?”

  “No. The silkworm is the caterpillar of the Bombyx mori — the silk moth.”

  Like that was any better. Not worms, bugs. The effort to swallow required all the willpower he could muster. He knew he was imagining it, but he felt an entire insect zoo in his stomach, writhing and buzzing.

  He struggled to unsteady feet. “I think I need some air.”

  One of the monks escorted him through the many twists and turns that led to the Chang Zhu courtyard. He murmured his thanks and staggered out onto the grounds.

  I’d never make it as a Shaolin monk. Great martial arts — but the meal plan!

  Tourists and visitors regarded him quizically — a Western boy in Shaolin robes. He was too nauseated to be impressed by the sights, but just walking helped to settle his stomach. Jonah was nowhere to be seen. The star was probably still inside the temple, signing autographs for his Shaolin fans.

  Dan surveyed his surroundings. What was that? From a distance it looked like a miniature city. He drifted over and discovered that the structures were not buildings but towering brick-and-stone grave markers, shaped like Chinese pagodas, some of them thirty or forty feet tall. A sign declared that this burial ground was the Pagoda Forest — the final resting place for the cremated remains of centuries of Shaolin monks.

  Pretty cool — unless you’re trying to digest a couple of Bombyx moris.

  Just outside the temple grounds, by the side of the road, he noticed a line of coin-operated telescopes trained up Mount Song.

  He left the Pagoda Forest and trudged along the path, fishing in his pocket for change. Another advantage of being part of the Wizard posse — Jonah had provided him with some Chinese money.

  Exiting via a rear gate, he approached the line of telescopes. He squinted up at the mist-drenched summit of Mount Song. He could make out a distant monument, white against the gray sky. “What is it?”

  An attendant supplied the answer. “It is the statue of Bodhidharma.”

  “You mean the eyelids dude?” Dan blurted.

  The man pointed to the money slot. “One yuan.”

  Dan inserted a coin, and the telescope whirred to life with the ticking of a timer. He peered into the eyepiece.

  The statue was carved from white stone — a bearded monk sitting cross-legged atop a brick pedestal. As far as Dan could tell, there were no missing eyelids, and the figure’s lower body, shriveled or not, was hidden by robes.

  But that wasn’t what made Dan gasp.

  I know that guy!

  Where would a Boston orphan have seen a statue that sat atop a remote Chinese mountain? On TV? The Internet? In a textbook at school?

  He had a murky vision of the white sculpture surrounded by thick gray fur …

  Cat fur …

  Saladin?

  Of course! Grace had kept a small replica of this statue on the landing of her stairs! It had been one of Saladin’s fa
vorite spots — the Egyptian Mau used to circle it endlessly, rubbing against the contours of the porcelain.

  Amy and Dan had called it the Beard Buddha.

  How could I ever forget that thing? I was scared to death of it!

  And now he was staring at the real one.

  He frowned. They never knew it when she was alive, but Grace Cahill had been embroiled up to her nostrils in the 39 Clues. The entire contest was her creation, written into her will with the help of William McIntyre. A lot of things Grace had casually mentioned over the years had turned out to be vital to the Clue hunt. It was almost like she was still searching from the grave.

  He felt a brief flash of irritation at his grandmother. She had implanted so many things like this in his head — and even more in Amy’s, since the two of them had been extra close. Sometimes he couldn’t escape the feeling that his brain was a computer hard drive infected with dozens of viruses just waiting for some outside trigger to set them off.

  The one possibility Grace had never considered was that he might quit the contest and be stuck with all these mental time bombs to drive him crazy. Because, Clue hunt or not, he couldn’t help being curious.

  1)Jonah’s Janus connections had sent him to the Shaolin Temple.

  2)That was the real Beard Buddha up there.

  Coincidence?

  Yeah, right.

  The white statue loomed high above, seemingly miles in the sky. Directly in front of Dan, an endless series of ancient crumbling stone steps led up the mountain.

  A million stairs — at least it looked like that many.

  Good thing I ate my silkworm today….

  He was going to need the energy.

  CHAPTER 13

  “That’s pretty wild, you guys being fans, yo,” Jonah said to Li Wu Chen.

  The abbot regarded him disapprovingly. “So long we have waited and the branch sends us a foolish boy.”

  “Branch?” Jonah repeated. He dropped his voice to a murmur. “You mean — Janus?”

  “We are not fans of your obnoxious noise. Yes, we are Janus — the one true line of the Cahill family in Asia. We welcome you as the son of Cora Wizard.” Li Wu Chen’s gaze moved to Jonah’s father. “And of course, her non-Janus husband.”

  It was as if a curtain had been swept aside. No wonder the branch leadership in Venice had sent Jonah here! As Janus representatives, the Shaolin monks might be able to help with a Clue in this part of the world.

  “She’s got a real sense of humor, my wife,” Broderick mumbled, a little resentfully. His thumbs twitched as if his hands felt empty with no BlackBerry in them. “She could have told us the natives were Janus friendlies.”

  “Chill, Pops,” soothed his son. “She got us where we needed to be, no harm done.” Classic Cora Wizard. She ran the branch like one of her performance-art pieces — equipping the actors with limited information and then stepping back to watch the sparks fly. It was very Janus, although he’d never expected her to do it with her own son.

  The abbot ushered them into a small antechamber furnished with a rough-hewn round table. The door closed with a sucking sound, and they realized they were in a secure room.

  “First things first,” Li Wu Chen announced. “Who is the boy, and why is he with you?”

  “His name is Dan Cahill,” Jonah’s father replied.

  “Cahill.” The abbot sat forward. “Janus?”

  Jonah shrugged. “Nobody knows. He’s Grace Cahill’s grandson.”

  Li Wu Chen was impressed. “Ah, Grace Cahill. Good bloodlines. Dangerous woman. Few have come as close as she to solving the thirty-nine mysteries that cannot be solved.”

  “Easy on the lovefest,” said Jonah firmly. “Grace did her thing, but my mom’s got her smoked. I think that’s why Cora hooked us up. Venice is one ingredient shy of duplicating the Janus formula.”

  The abbot leaped to his feet, shouting something in excited Mandarin. “Please excuse my exuberance,” he added sheepishly, reseating himself. “Too long have we Janus in Asia lived in the shadow of those Tomas louts with their large muscles and small minds.”

  “Word,” agreed Jonah, thinking of the Holts.

  “Consider the resources of the Shaolin order completely at your disposal. What is the missing ingredient?”

  “I’m on it,” Jonah assured him. “Mom’s convinced it’s here in China, but we don’t know what it is or where to find it. That’s why we’re hanging on to the Cahill kid.”

  Li Wu Chen frowned. “Surely this small boy has no knowledge beyond the grasp of the Janus branch.”

  “Don’t sell the kid short,” Jonah insisted. “He looks dumb, but he and his sis have pulled off a lot of miracles. Maybe it’s the Grace connection, who knows?”

  “Wise to cover all possibilities,” the abbot admitted grudgingly. “Perhaps representing the Janus and appearing on the cover of Tiger Beat are not mutually exclusive endeavors. Manipulated cleverly, Grace’s descendant could prove to be a valuable asset.”

  “Uh — thanks.” Was that supposed to be a compliment?

  “Your mother has good reason to search for the missing ingredient in China,” Li Wu Chen told him. “Replicating the Janus serum has been the goal of the Qing emperors dating back hundreds of years. It was this obsession — not their admirable devotion to the arts — that caused them to neglect their people.”

  “But did they get the job done?” Jonah probed. “Did any of those emperors score the formula?”

  “We believe the answer is yes.”

  Broderick spoke up. “Believe? Don’t you know?”

  The abbot supplied the answer to Jonah, not his father. “As passed down through the decades, the story is thus: Puyi, the last emperor, hired a tutor named Reginald Fleming Johnston, a Janus scientist from the British Isles. Together, they completed the serum in a secret laboratory in the Forbidden City.”

  Jonah could tell from his father’s scowl that Pops didn’t appreciate being ignored. But this was more important than Broderick’s bruised ego. “So, what happened to it?” he asked urgently.

  “It was most unfortunate. The year was 1924. Puyi sensed that he would soon be exiled. Naturally, the safety of the serum was his paramount concern. Johnston knew a fellow British Cahill with a unique skill that enabled him to hide the formula where it would be preserved indefinitely. It is said that not another man alive at the time could have performed the task.”

  “But where did he hide it?” Broderick demanded, almost shouting.

  Li Wu Chen shook his head. “There the legend ends.”

  “Tell me about this big player they hired to stash the merchandise,” Jonah persisted. “Who was he?”

  “This too is not known. After leaving the Forbidden City, Puyi became inactive. Some say he journeyed to the Great Wall prior to his death, but this has never been confirmed. Completing the Janus formula was his one great achievement. Not even his brief reign on the Throne of Heaven could compare. The rest of the life of Henry Puyi — as a figurehead, a prisoner, a simple library clerk — this was no fate for a Janus.” The abbot’s eyes flashed to Jonah’s father before settling back on the star. “For an ordinary person, perhaps even for an emperor. But not for a descendant of Jane Cahill.”

  With a whoosh, the door to the chamber swept open and in rushed another monk in a state of high anxiety. He held Broderick’s BlackBerry between his thumb and forefinger, as if expecting it to explode at any second. The smartphone was lit up like a Christmas tree.

  Jonah’s father leaped to his feet. “That’s Janus business — highest priority code!”

  The agitated monk could not have been happier to hand it over and make his escape.

  Only when the security door had slurped shut again did Jonah ask, “Is it from Mom?”

  His father frowned. “No, not your mother.” He held it up. Chinese characters filled the small screen.

  Li Wu Chen produced a pair of reading glasses. “Most curious. It is a series of numbers. One, thirty-eight
, fifty-three.”

  Broderick Wizard grimaced. “The message is from a dummy server. It won’t let me identify the sender.” He thumbed the keypad in frustration. “What’s the point of encrypting a meaningless message?”

  “Because it’s not meaningless, Pops.” Jonah was triumphant. “Section one, row thirty-eight, seat fifty-three — yo, this message is a seat location in a stadium!”

  “But we don’t have any more concerts scheduled this month,” his father reminded him.

  “Maybe that’s the point,” the star argued. “We set up a gig — in Shanghai, let’s say — and whoever sent that message knows to show up in that seat. All we have to do is put an agent in the next spot over.”

  “Risky,” Broderick mused.

  “Not really. I’ll be onstage with a microphone in my hand. If things get really hairy, I can bring fifty thousand screaming fans down on this guy. Even the Lucians don’t have that kind of backup.” He grinned with all thirty-two perfect teeth. He would have loved to have this get back to Mom somehow.

  “Most clever, star of Who Wants to Be a Gangsta?” Li Wu Chen told him. “But, alas, you are wrong.”

  Jonah was insulted. “You’re trippin’!”

  The abbot regarded him disapprovingly. “Shaolin monks do not ‘trip.’”

  “No disrespect,” Jonah said quickly. “It’s just — well, you tell me what that message is supposed to mean.”

  “Gladly,” the abbot agreed. “Are you familiar with the terracotta army at the tombs of Xian?”

  Broderick frowned. “The message is from the army?”

  “It is not a real army,” Li Wu Chen explained with a weary sigh. “The terracotta warriors are considered the eighth wonder of the ancient world. If you could step back from your son’s silly career for a moment, you might acquire a measure of wisdom beyond Entertainment Tonight.”

  “Let’s all take it down a notch,” Jonah suggested, seeing his father redden. The last thing he needed was for Pops to get into a scrap with a Shaolin martial arts master. First of all, Li Wu Chen, although small and slight, could probably lay waste to a city. And second, if Mom found out, the payback would be a monster.