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Authors: David A McIntee
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Panda.’
‘Jiang?’ It seemed a rather menial task for another teacher.
‘Jiang.’
7
Once the last bolt was thrown, and the shutters closed against the darkness outside, Cheng relaxed a bit, letting out a long breath. Then he set about looking for his eye.
He found it under the table nearest the door, and picked off the bits of grit and sawdust that had adhered to it. He looked at it, reluctant to put it back in after its journey around the floor. For the first time in his life, he felt a little guilty about not keeping the place any cleaner than a drunken dock worker was likely to notice.
The broom in the corner looked welcoming for a change.
‘Maybe tomorrow,’ he told it. He went back behind the bar and used his teeth to pull the stopper out of a bottle of Kao-liang. He poured some of the liquor into a mug and dropped his glass eye into it, rolling it around to clean it. Then he dried the eye off carefully, put it back in its socket - it stung, despite his efforts to remove the alcohol - and drank the liquor, as he didn’t see any point in wasting it.
He lifted the bottle and took it through to the kitchen, where the giant Pang was trying to chisel off the crust on one of the overused woks. ‘Drink?’ he offered. Pang took a couple of swallows from the bottle.
‘What a day,’ Cheng sighed.
‘Almost like the old days.’
‘Yes, almost. Except that there was no profit in it. It’ll cost us to replace those chairs.’
There was a rapping on the shutters next to the door, a simple long-short long-short code. Cheng opened the door and let in a wiry, white man with a squashed nose and weathered face. He wore simple local clothes, but couldn’t disguise his military bearing or walk.
‘You’re late,’ Cheng told him in heavily accented English.
‘Captain Logan had me putting a couple of men through punishment drills as soon as we got back from Qiang-Ling.
He’s a wee shite, that one. The kinna man whose mouth bleeds every twenty-eight days, if ye take my meaning.’
‘Hardly the way for a soldier to talk about his superior officer?’
Sergeant Major Anderson shrugged the comment off. ‘I’ve been in the army since he was naught but a babe in arms, and I’ll be there when he’s retired to some soft desk job in London.’ He looked towards the door to the cellar. ‘Now, d’ye have something for me?’
Cheng nodded, happy that the small talk was over. He lit a small lamp and led Anderson down into the spiced depths of the cellar. The space under the inn was filled with boxes and barrels, and the occasional rat that Cheng hoped would have the sense to keep out of the way. Apart from food and drink, there were small piles of lanterns in the corners and even a dancer’s lion costume.
Cheng led the Scotsman to a small pile of crates and patted the topmost one. ‘A Russian ship came into the docks yesterday. This was on board.’
He put the lamp down, pulled a knife from his belt and levered the top off the crate. There were bottles inside it nestling in straw. Cheng lifted one out and tossed it to Anderson, who caught it easily.
The sergeant major pulled the stopper out and sniffed.
‘Smooth stuff,’ he said admiringly. He put the stopper back in. ‘How many?’ .
‘Just what you see here. Six crates, twelve bottles each.’
Anderson nodded thoughtfully and Cheng could see the wheels turning behind his eyes, the beads sliding along the mental abacus to work out what to offer in exchange.
‘Three boxes of rifle ammunition.’
‘Five,’ Cheng countered immediately - through force of habit. Three would have been fine.
‘Four.’
‘Done.’
‘Deliver them to the scullery at Xamian in the morning.
Your boxes of bullets will be in the linens as usual.’
‘That’s fine.’ Cheng led Anderson back up to the kitchen, where Pang was counting up stock. ‘How is Megan?’
‘Och, she’s fine. I had a letter from her this week. She’s settling in to her new school
‘Jiang?’ It seemed a rather menial task for another teacher.
‘Jiang.’
7
Once the last bolt was thrown, and the shutters closed against the darkness outside, Cheng relaxed a bit, letting out a long breath. Then he set about looking for his eye.
He found it under the table nearest the door, and picked off the bits of grit and sawdust that had adhered to it. He looked at it, reluctant to put it back in after its journey around the floor. For the first time in his life, he felt a little guilty about not keeping the place any cleaner than a drunken dock worker was likely to notice.
The broom in the corner looked welcoming for a change.
‘Maybe tomorrow,’ he told it. He went back behind the bar and used his teeth to pull the stopper out of a bottle of Kao-liang. He poured some of the liquor into a mug and dropped his glass eye into it, rolling it around to clean it. Then he dried the eye off carefully, put it back in its socket - it stung, despite his efforts to remove the alcohol - and drank the liquor, as he didn’t see any point in wasting it.
He lifted the bottle and took it through to the kitchen, where the giant Pang was trying to chisel off the crust on one of the overused woks. ‘Drink?’ he offered. Pang took a couple of swallows from the bottle.
‘What a day,’ Cheng sighed.
‘Almost like the old days.’
‘Yes, almost. Except that there was no profit in it. It’ll cost us to replace those chairs.’
There was a rapping on the shutters next to the door, a simple long-short long-short code. Cheng opened the door and let in a wiry, white man with a squashed nose and weathered face. He wore simple local clothes, but couldn’t disguise his military bearing or walk.
‘You’re late,’ Cheng told him in heavily accented English.
‘Captain Logan had me putting a couple of men through punishment drills as soon as we got back from Qiang-Ling.
He’s a wee shite, that one. The kinna man whose mouth bleeds every twenty-eight days, if ye take my meaning.’
‘Hardly the way for a soldier to talk about his superior officer?’
Sergeant Major Anderson shrugged the comment off. ‘I’ve been in the army since he was naught but a babe in arms, and I’ll be there when he’s retired to some soft desk job in London.’ He looked towards the door to the cellar. ‘Now, d’ye have something for me?’
Cheng nodded, happy that the small talk was over. He lit a small lamp and led Anderson down into the spiced depths of the cellar. The space under the inn was filled with boxes and barrels, and the occasional rat that Cheng hoped would have the sense to keep out of the way. Apart from food and drink, there were small piles of lanterns in the corners and even a dancer’s lion costume.
Cheng led the Scotsman to a small pile of crates and patted the topmost one. ‘A Russian ship came into the docks yesterday. This was on board.’
He put the lamp down, pulled a knife from his belt and levered the top off the crate. There were bottles inside it nestling in straw. Cheng lifted one out and tossed it to Anderson, who caught it easily.
The sergeant major pulled the stopper out and sniffed.
‘Smooth stuff,’ he said admiringly. He put the stopper back in. ‘How many?’ .
‘Just what you see here. Six crates, twelve bottles each.’
Anderson nodded thoughtfully and Cheng could see the wheels turning behind his eyes, the beads sliding along the mental abacus to work out what to offer in exchange.
‘Three boxes of rifle ammunition.’
‘Five,’ Cheng countered immediately - through force of habit. Three would have been fine.
‘Four.’
‘Done.’
‘Deliver them to the scullery at Xamian in the morning.
Your boxes of bullets will be in the linens as usual.’
‘That’s fine.’ Cheng led Anderson back up to the kitchen, where Pang was counting up stock. ‘How is Megan?’
‘Och, she’s fine. I had a letter from her this week. She’s settling in to her new school
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