The Eleventh Tiger

by David A. McIntee

  ‘Too bloody right.’

  Anderson went back to the civilians as the gate opened behind him. ‘Right lads, ye’re on your own now. I’ll tell the major that ye’re getting started.’

  Inside the compound oil lamps gave the already warm night a friendlier touch of light. A couple of men in their shirtsleeves were performing some sort of maintenance duties on a cannon. The tower itself was five storeys high, but there were only three floors.

  The ground floor had been turned into a combined living, eating and working area for the soldiers on duty. The ceiling was so high that the lamps on the walls left the upper reaches in shadow. An urn of tea so sweet and thick that Ian thought he could have spread it on toast was simmering away in one corner. Boxes of tools and bullets were scattered around. Several smaller rooms split off from the main area to give the man in charge privacy, and to separate the small kitchen from the rest of the space.

  The next floor up, actually in the middle of the tower, was partitioned into untidy sleeping quarters and exuded the rank smell of sweaty clothes and unwashed bedding.

  Finally, sections of the tiled roof had been removed, giving anyone on the top floor a clear view in every direction.

  ‘Yes,’ the Doctor said, ‘this will be ideal. Ideal, my boy.’

  ‘Thank heavens for that,’ Ian grunted as he and Fei-Hung set the tripod down. He wanted to yell with relief. He spread the legs of the tripod, then attached the telescope, which Pang lifted from its crate and held in place until all the screws and bolts were tightened.

  ‘Capital, my boy. Boys,’ the Doctor corrected himself.

  He immediately set about lining up the telescope on the first of his chosen targets. ‘Mars first, I think,’ he said to Ian.

  ‘Easier to find.’

  ‘Precisely.’ The Doctor adjusted the brass knobs of the telescope.

  Fei-Hung cleared his throat and said, ‘I should be getting back to Po Chi Lam.’

  ‘Very well, but be careful. City streets can be dangerous at night.’

  Fei-Hung merely chuckled, and he and Pang left. The Doctor continued to peer through the telescope, occasionally swinging or tilting it on to a new bearing, and making notes on a piece of paper.

  Major Chesterton was walking in a hall of mirrors. The hall was in total darkness, with no sources of light, yet he could see the reflections clearly enough. Variations on his own face leered at him shouting questions.

  ‘Who are you?’ a scar-faced Chesterton demanded.

  ‘How long have your been here?’ An old, white-haired version of himself asked.

  ‘Who is she?’ the younger one demanded.

  Then the reflections started to step out of the mirrors and attack him. He fought back as best he could, but his other selves all seemed to be experts in Chinese boxing of various kinds. Fists and feet pummelled him, driving him down to the ground and then through it.

  He was drenched in cold sweat when he woke. He stumbled to a cupboard for a brandy, and took a single hit from the bottle. He had never had a dream like this before. Of course, he had never before been told that there were two of him.

  The very idea was utterly preposterous, like something Poe would have made up. Chesterton wanted to laugh, but the earnest expressions on the faces of such a diverse group of reflections gave him pause. He seemed to recall the Scandinavian legend of the Doppelganger, and wondered if this was the kind of thing people had seen.

  Perhaps he should see this double for himself, he decided.

  His mind, falling back into the irrational world of dreams, threw up a last suggestion. Maybe the other Chesterton was the part of him that had been missing since his fall.

  Ian was feeling a little jealous of the Doctor hogging the telescope. It was a fine example of nineteenth-century science, and he wouldn’t have minded taking a few observations himself. The Doctor finally stepped away from it.

  He put the paper on a low table and started scribbling furiously, occasionally licking the pencil and mumbling to himself.

  Then he looked up from his calculations. His eyes were as bright as new pennies. ‘A conjunction,’ he chuckled. ‘Yes, there’s going to be a stellar conjunction of sorts.’

  The lightness faded from his voice as he looked at the paper on which he had worked out his sums. ‘There are many cycles to the heavens, depending upon which celestial bodies you are relating to. In this case, there seems to be a relationship between the position of the Earth, the moon and several more distant regions of space.’

  ‘What sort of relationship?’ Ian asked.

  ‘A two-thousand-year-long cycle, which will soon reach its turning point again.’ He looked out of the window, up at the stars in the clear summer sky. ‘I must admit to you, Chesterton, that I do not like the look of this at all.’

  ‘Doctor, you’re beginning to sound like one of those women who think their horoscopes in the papers actually make sense.’

  The Doctor gave him a withering look.

  ‘I’m sorry, Doctor, but what you’re talking about sounds more like astrology than astronomy.’

  ‘I’m sure it does, but just because something sounds like something else, it doesn’t mean to say that it is that something else.’ The Doctor tapped his calculations. ‘Suffice it to say that I have good scientific reason to think that this conjunction could well prove dangerous.’

  When Fei-Hung reached Po Chi Lam a man was sitting in front of the gateway, leaning against it. Fei-Hung was sure he had never seen him before, but he looked vaguely familiar.

  He was quite tall and a lot of white was starting to creep into his queue. His lined face had seen many years and probably many fights, and the tattooed forearms that emerged from his exquisite tunic were as solid and taut as if they were moulded out of steel.

  The man was asleep and for a moment Fei-Hung wondered whether he should wake him, as he might have been a friend of Jiang’s. But he was leaning against the gateway, so he would have to be disturbed anyway. Fei-Hung reached out to touch him gently, but the man’s eyes opened before he could do so and he sprang to his feet.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t want to wake anyone at this hour,’ Fei-Hung said.

  The newcomer put his hands on his hips and looked askance at him.

  ‘Good grief,’ he said. ‘Fei-Hung? My word, but you’ve grown. I haven’t seen you since…’

  ‘Do I know you?’

  The stranger scratched his nose as he thought about this.

  ‘Well, we’ve met, but you were very small at the time and probably don’t remember. I’m called Iron Bridge Three. I’m a friend of your father’s.’ He pulled a folded piece of paper from his tunic and handed it to Fei-Hung. It was a letter from Kei-Ying - Fei-Hung recognised his father’s calligraphy - inviting the man to come and discuss the current situation.

  Fei-Hung handed the letter back and saluted, fist in palm.

  This man was one of the Ten Tigers, and deserved such respect. ‘Come in. I’ll wake my father. He’ll be glad to see you.’

  ‘Chesterton...’ the abbot mused. ‘He will be the biggest danger to us in Guangzhou. The Doctor will undoubtedly ally himself with this soldier, who has already been sending out messages to the Ten Tigers. Since Kei-Ying and the Doctor have both survived, we should concentrate on the weakest link.’

  ‘But there are two Chestertons,’ Zhao said. ‘We’ve been assuming that Major Chesterton has simply taken to wearing civilian clothes, but Jiang has seen the two of them...’

  ‘They are clearly brothers,’ the abbot said. ‘That presents us with an interesting opportunity.’ He smiled, obviously taken with whatever plan he had in mind. Eerily, Zhao and Gao smiled too, as if the three of them had the same feeling about the same thought.

  Both men will be on their guard for our assassins, but how could Major Chesterton suspect his own brother of planning to kill him?’

  ‘The brother?’

  ‘Yes. His name is Ian, if Jiang was correct. If we apply the right
pressure, he will be able to approach his brother far more closely - and without arousing suspicion - than we could.’

  ‘What sort of pressure did you have in mind?’

  The abbot remembered something Jiang had told him, days ago. ‘He has a woman. Her name is Barbara. If we bring her here, he will do anything we ask to save her life.’

  Vicki had seen a lot of activity. First, late the previous night Fei-Hung had brought in a man with the bizarre name of Iron Bridge Three, and the early hours had been filled with the muffled sounds of speech and laughter from the Wongs’

  apartments.

  Kei-Ying and Iron Bridge had gone off to Xamian before breakfast, neither of them looking at all tired.

  Now another stranger had interrupted the dawn exercise patterns in the courtyard. He was big and long-legged, with baggy clothes and a booming voice. He strolled in, did something of a double take at the sight of Vicki, then grinned and stuck out a hand. ‘This is the western custom isn’t it?’

  Vicki shook his hand. ‘Yes, it is. Are you one of the Tigers?’

  She had been told that other masters might arrive over the coming day or two.

  ‘That’s right. Tham Chai Wen. Most people call me Three-Legged Tham. I have a letter from Wong-sifu -’ He broke off, looking past her. ‘Do you know a large man, about seven feet tall, who likes to wear a cloak and hood, by any chance?’

  ‘No, there’s no-one like that here.’

  ‘Ah, then we’re in trouble, because four of him are coming this way.’

  Vicki turned as he took up a fighting stance.

  Tham kicked out at the first cloaked figure, a flurry of feet to the head, and fell in agony clutching his foot the way Jiang had earlier. The figure didn’t even wince. It just grabbed Vicki, its fists squeezing her so hard that she thought the bones in her arms would splinter under their grip. It felt like the sort of pressure that could turn a piece of coal into a diamond.

  Remembering what little self-defence knowledge she had, she thrust a knee into the figure’s groin. White-hot pain exploded through her from her kneecap, but her captor didn’t even flinch. It was as if she’d hit solid steel armour, or as if the figure holding her was some kind of robot.

  Then one of her arms was free, but before she could take advantage of this, something in the back of her head popped like a flashbulb, and she knew no more.

  Students and healers were flying through the air like dis-carded wrappings when Fei-Hung reached the hall, drawn by the shouts and yells. Three large, cloaked and hooded men were kicking in doors and slapping aside with incredible force anyone who got in their way.

  One was dragging Barbara out of her quarters, and Fei-Hung immediately went for him rather than the men fighting with the male staff and students. He had delivered his third punch, and was launching a kick at the cloaked man’s head, when the pain from the fist that had delivered his first punch backed up his arm. The kick faltered and he stepped back, his hands burning.

  The man must be wearing armour under that cloak. Not even little plates on leather, but western-style, solid steel breastplates. Fei-Hung was looking for a weapon when something exploded across his shoulder blades, and everything went black.

  The Doctor and Ian were in reasonably good spirits when they returned from Zhenhailou with their calculations, but Ian’s mood darkened when he saw one of Po Chi Lam’s gates lying off its hinges.

  Immediately wanting to check on Barbara and Vicki, he dashed through the broken gateway, and stopped. The sight he saw was like the aftermath of the battle for the Alamo.

  Injured youths lay everywhere, gritting their teeth against pain. Inside the surgery, Fei-Hung and a tall man in baggy clothes were doing their best to treat the most badly wounded. Their task wasn’t made any easier by the fact that much of the furniture and many bottles and vials were broken.

  ‘What happened here?’

  ‘An attack,’ Fei-Hung said bluntly.

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘Probably friends of Jiang,’ the tall man said darkly. ‘Or thugs hired by him. The loss of face will have stung him more than his broken foot, and he always had a foulness about him. A nature you could smell from streets away.’

  Fei-Hung looked at his swollen hands, and knew from the throbbing in his face that his cheeks and eyelids must look even worse. He didn’t want to check this in a mirror. He tried to flex his fingers but they felt glued into position, and a part of his mind thought they might snap off if he pushed them too far. Not that they were much use to him now. They were too painful to use as fists, and too thick and senseless to sift herbs and powders, or handle vials and cups of medicine.

  He had never felt so useless. Even as a child he could fetch and carry, or at least watch and learn.

  He turned at the sound of footsteps to find the Doctor watching him. The old man’s face was inscrutable, but Fei-Hung thought he saw concern in the pattern of his features.

  Then the Doctor stepped fully into the room, the light on him shifted and his emotions were a mystery again.

  The Doctor sighed. ‘It seems you may have been right about that foolish man, Jiang.’

  ‘It wasn’t Jiang. Three-Legged Tham thinks it was men hired by Jiang, but I don’t know.’

  Fei-Hung looked down at his hands again.

  My gungfu skills have been of little use, and with hands like these, I can’t prepare medicines properly. If my father was here, it wouldn’t matter so much, but -’

  ‘I’m sure Master Wong is just as concerned about how you are, but he wouldn’t let it distract him from what he was doing, would he?’

  ‘My father? What has he to do with it?’

  ‘He is a difficult man to live up to, but he is his own man, as are you, young man. If you did your best, you can’t find yourself wanting. Now, let’s do something practical, hmm?

  Can you describe these attackers?’

  ‘Not really. They were wearing cloaks and hoods.’

  ‘What about the one you fought? Could you not tell anything from being so close to him? Or even from his fighting style?’

  Fei-Hung thought about this. It was natural for him to analyse the style of an opponent. He was glad the same thought had occurred to the Doctor. ‘He must have been wearing armour. Not Chinese armour, but steel-plate armour, like in your English stories.’

  The Doctor frowned and looked off into the distance. ‘That’s very interesting, young man. And also very strange.’

  ‘He didn’t have much of a fighting style. It was very primitive and relied mostly on just taking punishment no matter what. But it’s not very easy to fight in armour.’

  Despite the heat of the day, and the thick blindfolds that been wrapped around her and Vicki’s heads, Barbara was soaked in a cold sweat as she lay on the floor. With no clue as to the intent of the strong men who had carried them, her imagination had been more than happy to make suggestions of its own. If they intended simply to kill her and Vicki they could easily have done so at Po Chi Lam, but knowing this intellectually hadn’t stopped her stomach churning in anticipation of a blade.

  If the men weren’t bent on murder, the next options her mind inflicted on her were rape or ransom or, possibly, simply leverage.

  She struggled, trying to get to her feet, then winced and yelped as the knife that was cutting her bonds caught her hand. The hood was pulled from her face, and she caught a brief glimpse of several men as she looked around to see if Vicki was all right.

  The younger girl was looking at her. ‘Are you all right?’

  Barbara asked.

  ‘I think so,’ Vicki said nervously. ‘I haven’t anything broken, anyway. But I think I feel sick.’

  The room they were in was large and high ceilinged, with a large dais in the centre. Four statues stood against the wall behind the girls, two flanking the door and one in each corner. They were life-sized soldiers, their bodies carved into the shape of padded tunics and leggings, and armoured jerkins. Their faces were astonishingly lifelik
e and all four were very individual. They hadn’t been merely pulled from a mould.

  Three men were on the dais. The two who were standing wore leather armour over silks, with metal plates and studs set into the leather. One was huge and almost too muscle-bound to be real, the other was lean and mean-looking. Both had dark hair tied into topknots. The third man, sitting between them, was wearing fine robes over a well-cut tunic.

  His hair was almost white, as was his goatee beard.

  ‘Welcome,’ the third man said.

  Barbara recognised instinctively that these were the men Cheng had described, and that the one who had spoken was the abbot.

  ‘Just who do you think you are?’ she demanded.

  ‘Who am I?’ The abbot seemed amused. ‘I am the lord of this land. My name is Qin Shi Huangdi.’

  Barbara could feel the blood drain from her face and the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. The words caught in her throat before she could get them out. ‘The First Emperor?’

  ‘There were others after me?’ He seemed to be struggling to think. ‘Yes,’ he said at last.

  ‘But the First Emperor died two thousand years ago.’

  For a moment the abbot looked shocked, then he smiled.

  ‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘Yes, I did.’

  5

  Qin died.

  He didn’t remember all of it. He didn’t remember meeting any of his family, or the bridge of jade, or even the white light he had heard his soldiers talk about after they were wounded. Maybe the living just weren’t meant to remember such things, or maybe the pain of being reborn scrambled it all up in his head.

  Dying was easy. The coming back hurt like all hell.

  Whether the pain woke him, or his waking kicked the pain into life, he couldn’t tell. All he did know was that every breath was sending fire around his ribs, across his shoulders and down his back. The fire paused in his chest to gather itself, psyching itself up to come out fighting with each new breath.