The Chinese Vase

by Steve Turnbull

  The Chinese Vase

  Frozen Beauty, Volume 1

  Steve Turnbull

  Published by Tau Press Ltd, 2017.

  Frozen Beauty: The Chinese Vase by Steve Turnbull

  Copyright © 2014, 2017 Steve Turnbull. All rights reserved.

  ISBN 978-1-910342-07-7

  This novella is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information retrieval system without permission of the publisher.

  Published by Tau Press Ltd.

  Cover art by Emily Brand (emilybranddesigns.com)

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  The Chinese Vase (Frozen Beauty, #1)

  i

  ii

  iii

  iv

  v

  vi

  vii

  viii

  ix

  x

  xi

  xii

  xiii

  xiv

  About the Author

  For Eddie.

  i

  Qi Zang tightened the belt of the heavy, too-large coat wrapped around her slim frame. There was no point spending money on one that fitted when it performed its function sufficiently well. Besides, she only required it when inspecting the cargo. She rotated the electric knob protruding from the wall, her fingertips only just peeking from the sleeve, and the lights scattered around the hold reluctantly lit up. Many were not working at all, and they had a higher priority than coats.

  She scraped the frost from the wall-mounted thermometer. The reading was two degrees above freezing. Just as well they would make port today. She descended the wooden spiral staircase from the gallery into the cargo area. Her breath condensed in white clouds that did not dissipate but hung and swirled as she stepped through them.

  She pulled leather gauntlets from a coat pocket and wriggled her hands into them. The hand rail was encrusted with an ice layer from the days it had taken to cross the Himalayas and come down to the northern Indian plain on the way to Delhi.

  Twice daily she checked the cargo to ensure the stacked blocks of ice were lashed down firmly, and that any melt water hadn’t refrozen and clogged the outlets. A small ship like the Frozen Beauty didn’t have crew to spare. As captain she was responsible for the cargo, whether it was the ice bound for the houses of the westerners and for meat storage or—she glanced towards the far end of the hold—any of the other cargo.

  It hadn’t been a bad run this time, though autumn was best. Even while it was still summer here at low altitudes they could head up into Tibet, avoiding the trigger-happy Chinese soldiers in their forts, just as the ice was freezing on the lakes. They could have a profitable journey in less than three weeks. And still get back for one or two further trips.

  Other times of the year they might be able to get the ice, but it was harder to cut in winter and harder to find in summer so they supplemented their income in other ways. Contracting to carry ice for one of the big companies would barely cover their costs. Independent ships had to make other arrangements for the leaner parts of the year.

  She began her survey of the cargo by systematically criss-crossing the gangplanks, twanging each line in turn. She found a slack one and spent a couple of minutes retying it before moving on. The lines towards the stern frequently came loose as they were directly beneath the furnace and boiler.

  None of the other lines needed her attention. Ending her survey at the forward end of the hold, she flipped off the lights and put her shoulder into getting the door open. On the third shove, the ice of accumulated hours shattered with a resounding crack. Warm air flowed past her; she went through and slammed the door. Ice was sold by weight. The less they lost the better they were paid.

  * * * * *

  Second-in-command, Dingbang Hsieh, was at the wheel as Qi pushed the door to the hold shut. He turned and smiled as she entered, then went back to watching the undulating green terrain a few hundred feet below them.

  “Anything to report?”

  “No bad weather. Easterly wind at ten knots.”

  They used English for the sake of the rest of the crew; it was the only language they all had in common. All except Ichiro, who could only talk with his hands. She looked out to starboard and saw another “ice bucket” flying down from the frozen Tibetan lakes. Its hydrogen gas bag undulated beneath its streamlining silk envelope, its rotors were a blur and it poured smoke from its single stack.

  Qi stripped off the gloves, stuffed them into the coat’s pockets, and hung it behind the door ready for her return trip later. They should have made it to Delhi by midday, but the strong headwind they had been experiencing had delayed them. If they arrived too late the cargo would not get unloaded until the morning which meant less profit.

  She took the binoculars from their hook by the window and scanned the other ship. It was on the same heading, but with a slight lead.

  “It’s the Jackanape,” said Ding without turning. Captain Klein was another independent so he and Zang would be vying to get their cargo unloaded and sold. His Australian-built ship carried less but was more streamlined, which meant it was faster—especially in this headwind.

  “Otto?”

  The tall, blond German boy looked up from the chart table. It had taken weeks of training to stop him from coming to attention and saluting at the slightest provocation. She did not recall ever seeing him smile, but she could be accused of the same.

  “Captain, we are on course. I have calculated our arrival to be 17:00 hours.”

  “How many degrees off our heading is the wind?

  “10 degrees to the south, Captain.”

  She considered for a moment. The port at Delhi was southwest of the city. “Recalculate for a new heading directly into the wind to take us past Delhi and then turning with the wind behind us.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  He turned away and sat at the Babbage in the corner. He pulled out a stack of fresh cards from the small cupboard, along with the hole punch. She shook her head. In the hands of a clever computationer, these Babbages were almost magic. Of course theirs had not been made by the Babbage Corporation, who supplied the British exclusively and received funding for developments. Like the rest of the Beauty, the computing machine had been built in Shanghai, a copy built from British patents.

  She went to the helm and stood beside Ding. She had known him all her life; he had been first mate to her father before her. His presence was comforting but not like a father’s: more like a mother’s.

  “I’ll take her now.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  Ding stepped away from the helm but kept a hand on it; she stepped into his place and placed both hands on the wheel. Ding crossed his arms and stood beside her, watching the terrain. The green of Uttar Pradesh stretched out ahead of them, sprinkled with trees, fields, and villages.

  Ding had been at the helm since shortly before daybreak. Flying at night, or even early morning, in the mountains was not recommended but they could not waste what little light they had.

  Behind her, the Babbage hissed as Otto opened the steam valve. The cogs turned and its clattering filled the room. They would have the answer in a few minutes, assuming Otto had not made a mistake. They would have to gain more altitude over the high plains. Only the big British ships flew at high altitude when given a choice. For everyone else bad weather was always a risk, and thunderstorms terrified captains with hy
drogen-lift vessels; ordinary traders couldn’t afford to buy the Americans’ helium.

  But the Beauty did not rely on dangerous hydrogen to supplement the partial gravity nullification of the Faraday device. Qi pulled the communication funnel from the wall, extracted the whistle mouthpiece and blew hard. A moment’s delay stretched to several. She blew again.

  “Oui?” The voice, piped from two decks above, came as a tinny squeak. Remy Darras could not be persuaded to indulge in any shipboard etiquette. After all—as he would say whenever given the opportunity—he was an artist, not a sailor, descended from the Montgolfier Brothers. She had not yet queried how he could be descended from both of them.

  “Can we make five thousand feet, Monsieur Darras?”

  “Certainement. We can make fifteen thousand if you desire.”

  “Five will be quite sufficient, if you please.”

  “As you wish, Madame Captain.” She passed the tube to Ding, who replaced the whistle and hung it back in its place.

  “Captain?”

  “Yes, Otto.”

  “I believe we may gain thirty minutes.”

  “Very good. Can you recalculate this every hour?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Qi smiled. There was a surge and a gentle pressure into the floor as the Beauty climbed. In her mind’s eye she could see the seven hot-air balloons expanding as the super-heated steam pipes fed them more heat. The ground slipped away.

  Hand over hand, she delicately pulled the helm to port. On the hull the steering rotors adjusted their direction and the Beauty responded. The world before her swung to the right; as the compass showed eight degrees of change she gently re-centred it. She looked out to starboard and watched the Jackanape disappearing into the distance and below them. Smiling, she ran her fingers across the helm, worn smooth by years of love.

  We are not scared of heights, are we, Beauty?

  ii

  Fanning did not know what was wrong with her. She knew there was a time when she had been perfectly well, but she couldn’t remember when that was. To be fair, it was not she who thought there was something wrong; it was everybody else.

  She strode through the shopping district, pulling stares from all the very proper ladies and gentlemen. She was aware that her clothes were the reason, but once again she could not fully understand why. The trousers and shirt were clean if a little old, and her boots were polished to a shine that would honour any army officer. Quite why that attracted such disapproval, she could not fathom.

  She found the jewellery shop easily enough and pushed open the door. The small bell tinkled and alerted the proprietor who rose from his chair behind the counter. He was tall and dressed in a sort of black robe. The place was full of shadows; the only illumination came from the electric lights in the display cases. And each case contained finely wrought Indian silver bracelets, watches, and other jewellery. She particularly noted the eye-catching silver cuff-links with the pattern of tiny diamonds set into their surface.

  “What do you want, boy?”

  She pulled a small package from her pocket. “Delivery from Mrs Devonshire.”

  The man grunted and held out his hand. Fanning set the carefully wrapped package, hardly bigger than a snuff box, on the shopkeeper’s open palm. The Chinaman pulled off the string, and unfolded the plain paper. Inside was a layer of cotton wool protecting a pair of pearl earrings in simple gold settings.

  “Mrs Devonshire, is it?” He looked at her with his head to one side. The name Devonshire was used to protect the identity of the seller. “How do I know you didn’t steal them?”

  She met his eye. “Would I have wrapped them? In cotton wool?”

  He sniffed and looked back at the earrings. “Two pounds.”

  “I’ll have them back and go elsewhere.” She put out her hand.

  “And ten shillings.”

  “Mrs Devonshire said I should come back with at least ten pounds.”

  He gave a short coughing laugh. “Mrs Devonshire’s new to this game, is she? I’m stealing from my own mother but I’ll give you three pounds.”

  “Mrs Devonshire was very firm about this. Seven.”

  “Three pound ten. They’re slightly worn and that’s not best quality gold.”

  “Six. Those pearls are perfect.”

  “Four. And I’ll be making a loss.”

  “Stealing from yourself ranks worse than stealing from your mother, old man? Five pound ten.”

  “I’ll ask you to keep a civil tongue in your head, boy. I won’t pay more than four. That’s my final offer. Mrs Devonshire had better like it.”

  “Mrs Devonshire’s husband’s got no horse sense, if you catch my drift, and there’ll be more of this coming your way, if I’m not much mistaken. If the price is right.”

  He stared into her face and frowned. “You’re not a boy.”

  “I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head, sir. Four pound ten.”

  “Done.”

  They shook hands.

  * * * * *

  The bungalows of the British elite were located on a hill in the north of the city. They were ranged around the slope with their frontages faced south while the main living areas faced north, towards the mountains, so the sun made less of an impression.

  The residential houses reminded Fanning of home in a way the British municipal buildings did not. The wood bungalows with their wide balconies were raised off the ground to allow cooling air to circulate beneath. Back in Louisiana the style may have been different but the purpose was the same.

  She found the house, went around back and knocked on the kitchen door.

  It was opened by a young Indian maid who recognised her and let her in. Here they had Indians where back home they had blacks. Those in power always trod on someone to keep themselves out the swamp.

  There was a few minutes’ wait while the mistress was informed of Fanning’s arrival. She took the opportunity to partake of some bread. The cook did not object, but when her back was turned Fanning pocketed a few more fresh rolls.

  The maid returned and escorted her through to a living room with some very good quality but worn furniture. The lady stood by the fireplace. It was laid for a fire but unlit, and would probably stay like that most of the year. Mrs Cameron was probably in her late twenties but she looked much older: the price of a wastrel husband.

  “Miss Fanning,” the lady said.

  She hated it when they referred to her as a girl even though she understood on one level that was how she looked. Regardless, it was important to remain polite with one’s clients. “Just ‘Fanning’, if you please, Mrs Cameron.”

  “I’m sorry, I forgot.” She sighed delicately and turned to face Fanning. “You managed to...”—she searched for an appropriate word—“conduct the business?”

  “Certainly, ma’am.” Fanning reached into her pocket, withdrew four pound notes and handed them over. The lady counted them.

  “So little,” she sighed again and extracted one of the notes, offering it back.

  “No, ma’am. I have already taken my tithe.” She displayed the four half-crowns before shoving them back into her pocket. Mrs Cameron nodded sadly and tucked the notes into her bodice. “I know it ain’t my place, Mrs Cameron. But maybe you should ditch that husband of yours.”

  The lady had a pretty smile when she wore it; that probably didn’t happen too often. “And where would I go? How would I live?”

  “Seems to me there’s not much that could be worse than selling your precious things, just because your husband always backs the slowest ponies.” Fanning took a step forward and grasped the woman’s hand. She did not pull away. “You say the word, Mrs Cameron, and I will carry you away from this.”

  “You are very kind, but it cannot be.”

  Fanning bowed and lifted her fingers to her lips. “You know where to find me if you need another transaction, or another life.”

  And with that Fanning turned and left.

  iii


  At five thousand feet the view from the open deck was majestic. To the north, the Himalayas highlighted the horizon with a band of brilliant white. The flood plain was a green swathe interrupted by the thick smog of Delhi that streamed away east in the wind. To the south lay the mountains of Rajasthan. The ship had passed equidistant between Delhi and Jaipur twenty-five minutes earlier and was due for the turn.

  Qi had been correct. By turning into the wind the ship offered less resistance and could thus travel faster. In addition they did not have to waste steam compensating for wind-drift. Now they would turn into Delhi with the wind behind them for extra speed.

  It was only four in the afternoon with Delhi only twenty minutes away.

  She spun the helm and the steering rotors twisted, forcing the prow of the Beauty through a rapid one-hundred-and-twenty-degree turn. She whistled Remy again.

  “Mon dieu, Madame Captain, I almost spilled my cognac.”

  “Monsieur Darras, we are twenty minutes from Delhi. I require the best exertion of your art.”

  “You wish me to vent hot air such that we descend in a smooth line and touchdown exactly as we reach Delhi?”

  “We are of a mind, Monsieur Darras.”

  “Very good, Captain, it will be as you desire.”

  The smooth descent went as planned. Remy Darras might be a terrible liar but his skill in managing the ship’s buoyancy was undeniable. The landscape dropped away beneath them as they descended from the high plateau into the wide fertile lands that ran the length of the foothills below the Himalayas.

  Ahead of them ragged streams of chimney smoke streamed away east across the city. The sun hung mid-way down the western sky, casting shadows that accentuated the tall central buildings.

  Ding had gone up to the open deck. The communication tube from the lookout post whistled. Qi lifted it from its socket and pressed it to her ear

  “Jackanape sighted,” Ding shouted above the wind noise. “Forty-five degrees to starboard.”