Read Online The Eleventh Tiger by David A McIntee - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David A McIntee
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nicely, she says.’
‘That is good to hear,’ Cheng said, and meant it. He’d never met this Megan, but she seemed like a good person, from what Anderson had told him. They shook hands on the deal.
‘Tomorrow morning it is.’
Then Anderson was gone, and Pang paused in his work.
‘Jiang’s waiting for you upstairs.’
Cheng groaned, but ascended to the cleaner, private dining level. The furnishings here were much the same as on the ground floor, but a few watercolours hung on the walls and every table was partitioned into its own little booth. Here the slightly better-off clientele could eat and discuss business without having to look over their shoulders at a crowd.
Jiang was indeed waiting. He was tall and thin, with a slightly shaggy moustache, and wore a white tunic over black trousers. His clothes may have been plain, but they were well tailored. ‘Jiang-sifu,’ Cheng said. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Lei-Fang has called a meeting. On the junk.’
‘Let me get my coat.’
The junk was a large, two-masted ship that could slide over the Pearl River quietly and steadily, as placid as a swan. Only a couple of sailors were visible on deck, doing whatever sailors did with ropes and suchlike. Cheng had never been to sea and, on a river, preferred a boat he could row himself.
He and Jiang had ridden in a wagon to the northwest of the city, to a small dock where a ferryman was waiting with a low, wide boat. It had taken a further half-hour to reach the place where the junk was moored, and Cheng had passed the time by telling Jiang about the day’s hassles. Jiang seemed amused, which made Cheng wonder whether telling him had been such a good idea.
Then, as the setting sun enriched the sky ahead, they had reached the junk. It sat high on the water, its sails glowing in the late afternoon light, its planking the colour of pale tea.
The ferryman guided the boat in under the shadow of the junk, and one of the sailors let down a rope ladder. Cheng and Jiang quickly scrambled up it. At the top, Cheng looked down and saw the ferryman push the boat away and glide across to the near shore to wait.
Cheng stepped down on to the main deck and ducked through a low door. To his surprise, Lei-Fang was waiting in the companionway outside an ornate gilded door. He was a little older than Cheng and Jiang, but he seemed to have aged twenty years since Cheng last saw him barely a month ago. He still wore his militia uniform, which surprised Cheng as these meetings were supposed to be covert.
‘Some sort of emergency?’ Cheng asked.
‘I’m not sure. Something strange is happening.’
‘Strange?’
‘You’ll see.’ Lei-Fang sounded as worn and worried as he looked.
Cheng didn’t like this at all.
Lei-Fang knocked on the door. ‘Enter,’ a voice called out.
And they did.
The room inside was fit for a palace - a far cry from the simple captain’s cabin, strewn with charts and scrolls, of Cheng’s last visit. Now the chamber was filled with ornate lamps and statuary, and the most expensive furniture and carpets he had ever seen. At the far end was a low dais.
Cheng stopped short as he saw the three men on the raised area. They were all strangers to him; the familiar faces he had served with for the last couple of years weren’t there.
All three men had short hair, and none of them had shaved their foreheads. One man was sitting, firm yet relaxed. His hair was grey, as was his wispy beard. The other two men stood flanking him. One was lean, with an angular, handsome face. The other was squat, almost as wide at the shoulders as he was tall, his face almost square.
They were complete strangers, yet somehow Cheng recognised them. He couldn’t believe his eye. Those three faces were burnt into his consciousness in a way that even his father’s face was not. They weren’t dressed in the robes of monks any more, but he recognised them as if he had last seen them yesterday, not two years ago.
The
‘That is good to hear,’ Cheng said, and meant it. He’d never met this Megan, but she seemed like a good person, from what Anderson had told him. They shook hands on the deal.
‘Tomorrow morning it is.’
Then Anderson was gone, and Pang paused in his work.
‘Jiang’s waiting for you upstairs.’
Cheng groaned, but ascended to the cleaner, private dining level. The furnishings here were much the same as on the ground floor, but a few watercolours hung on the walls and every table was partitioned into its own little booth. Here the slightly better-off clientele could eat and discuss business without having to look over their shoulders at a crowd.
Jiang was indeed waiting. He was tall and thin, with a slightly shaggy moustache, and wore a white tunic over black trousers. His clothes may have been plain, but they were well tailored. ‘Jiang-sifu,’ Cheng said. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Lei-Fang has called a meeting. On the junk.’
‘Let me get my coat.’
The junk was a large, two-masted ship that could slide over the Pearl River quietly and steadily, as placid as a swan. Only a couple of sailors were visible on deck, doing whatever sailors did with ropes and suchlike. Cheng had never been to sea and, on a river, preferred a boat he could row himself.
He and Jiang had ridden in a wagon to the northwest of the city, to a small dock where a ferryman was waiting with a low, wide boat. It had taken a further half-hour to reach the place where the junk was moored, and Cheng had passed the time by telling Jiang about the day’s hassles. Jiang seemed amused, which made Cheng wonder whether telling him had been such a good idea.
Then, as the setting sun enriched the sky ahead, they had reached the junk. It sat high on the water, its sails glowing in the late afternoon light, its planking the colour of pale tea.
The ferryman guided the boat in under the shadow of the junk, and one of the sailors let down a rope ladder. Cheng and Jiang quickly scrambled up it. At the top, Cheng looked down and saw the ferryman push the boat away and glide across to the near shore to wait.
Cheng stepped down on to the main deck and ducked through a low door. To his surprise, Lei-Fang was waiting in the companionway outside an ornate gilded door. He was a little older than Cheng and Jiang, but he seemed to have aged twenty years since Cheng last saw him barely a month ago. He still wore his militia uniform, which surprised Cheng as these meetings were supposed to be covert.
‘Some sort of emergency?’ Cheng asked.
‘I’m not sure. Something strange is happening.’
‘Strange?’
‘You’ll see.’ Lei-Fang sounded as worn and worried as he looked.
Cheng didn’t like this at all.
Lei-Fang knocked on the door. ‘Enter,’ a voice called out.
And they did.
The room inside was fit for a palace - a far cry from the simple captain’s cabin, strewn with charts and scrolls, of Cheng’s last visit. Now the chamber was filled with ornate lamps and statuary, and the most expensive furniture and carpets he had ever seen. At the far end was a low dais.
Cheng stopped short as he saw the three men on the raised area. They were all strangers to him; the familiar faces he had served with for the last couple of years weren’t there.
All three men had short hair, and none of them had shaved their foreheads. One man was sitting, firm yet relaxed. His hair was grey, as was his wispy beard. The other two men stood flanking him. One was lean, with an angular, handsome face. The other was squat, almost as wide at the shoulders as he was tall, his face almost square.
They were complete strangers, yet somehow Cheng recognised them. He couldn’t believe his eye. Those three faces were burnt into his consciousness in a way that even his father’s face was not. They weren’t dressed in the robes of monks any more, but he recognised them as if he had last seen them yesterday, not two years ago.
The
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