Shanghai (34 page)

“The horses? Arabia, Scotland, and Kentucky, I expect. I rather thought you'd look after that.”

Patterson resisted smiling. Oh, he'd look after that all right, and skim the appropriate amount of money to buy that final parcel of land just north of Kelso in the Scottish border country, to which he was looking forward to retiring from this hellhole.

“Patterson?”

“Sir?”

“Teach young Silas about horses. Maybe that will catch his fancy.”

* * *

THE HORSES DIDN'T MUCH INTEREST Silas, but they became Milo's obsession. Every new animal that arrived
Milo insisted on riding—and, although Silas didn't want much to do with the animals, he was always there to cheer on his brother. Now in their middle teenage years they were closer than ever, but very different young men. Milo was much loved by his father and anxious to learn everything about the family business. Silas was often silent and withdrawn, but brilliant with languages and fascinated by the Chinese culture around him. Hearing about what many now called Peking Opera at the House of Paris, he even managed to sneak in twice to watch before being ushered out with a hand on his shoulder. The kind but firm hand belonged to Jiang, who whispered, “Soon, but not yet, my fine colt.”

Richard built new stables for his racehorses, and the day they were completed he took Silas aside.

“It's time for you to become part of this family.”

“I am part of this family. I'm your son.”

“Yes, but this family runs a serious business, and you have to become a part of it.”

“Why?”

“Because, son, a man needs expertise in this world to make a living. Time to learn the horse trade. Patterson'll show you what needs doing.”

“But why me?”

Richard didn't know what to say to that and found himself suddenly shouting, “You're a Hordoon, son. One of us. Me and your Uncle Maxi, we built this business from nothing.”

“And where is my uncle now?”

“Gone, Silas. Gone. But you're still here, and it's time to earn your keep.”

* * *

“YE'RE AN ODD ONE, ain't ye?” Patterson asked as he handed Silas the shovel.

Silas didn't answer. It wasn't really a question anyway.

“It's called shit, lad, and that thing in yer puffy, soft hands is a shovel.” Patterson laughed. “Shovel shit, me odd little heathen.”

Silas turned to look at Patterson.

“Don't give me that Persian stare, boy, or whatever the fuck it is on your kiking face.”

Silas hefted the shovel and slid it beneath a pile of fresh horse dung, keeping his distance from the Arabian steed who eyed him from the far side of the stall.

Silas was afraid of horses. The taut, quivering muscles in their thighs and the sidelong violence in their eyes, put together with their rock-hard hooves, terrified the young man. He was so small compared to them. Milo had assured him that as long as he didn't show fear the horse wouldn't hurt him. Often enough he'd said, “Give him a big swack on the butt, Silas, and he'll know who's the boss.”

Patterson laughed again for some reason.

Silas wanted to turn to the man but he couldn't. It wasn't Patterson's cruel tongue or violent temper that scared Silas. It was as if the man knew his secret. His hidden shame. It was the reason Silas never said anything, even to Milo, about the way that Patterson treated him.

“The shit's on yer leg,” Patterson said with a chortle.

Silas looked down and the man was right. The load had been too big for the shovel blade and some of the riper matter had slid off onto his tweed pants and come to rest in his cuffs.

“Not the perfect clothing for the job, lad.”

Silas just nodded and backed out of the paddock with his shovel piled high. The manure pile was on the south side of the stables and steamed in the morning sun. Silas heaved his load onto the pile, then looked around. It was silly to carry what he thought of as horse poop, one shovel at a time, out to the pile. He grabbed a hand dolly, fitted a wooden bucket to its base, and rolled it back to the stalls.

As he passed the horses he remembered how his Uncle Maxi had fawned over his own animals. Maxi seemed, like Milo and his father, to have real affection for them. His father spent hours stroking and talking to the new Arabian pony they'd just purchased.

He'd also seen that same look on his father's face sometimes when Milo was at his side. He'd seen the look on Uncle Maxi's face when he worked out his intricate knots and inventions.

But Silas had never felt anything like that. He'd heard rumours about his father and the missionary woman, and he assumed that Uncle Maxi felt strongly for some woman—although there were few non-Chinese women in Shanghai. Silas had listened in rapt attention as Uncle Maxi told them of working on the opium farm in far-off India. How he had “loved those people, loved them through and through.”

Silas had never loved anybody or anything. He knew he was incapable of it. So he pretended. But he couldn't pretend well enough to fool Patterson. Patterson knew his secret, his shame. Silas tried to make himself feel things. He cared about Milo, but he suspected that this was only because Milo had always been there for him. Some nights Silas would creep from their bed and snuggle up beside their
amah
, who
slept on the mat outside their door. But even then, it was just for warmth.

Silas knew that it didn't matter to him who offered him warmth or comfort or even love—he couldn't return it. There was something wrong, and he knew it. Unfortunately, Patterson knew it as well.

North of Shanghai, across the Huangpo River, in the Pudong 1854

Somehow the Body Guard knew it would end up in the bamboo thicket—that death and decision would come in the bamboo—so he had avoided it for as long as he could. But now they were in there, obscured from his view—only the movement of the elegant stems in the crisp early morning light gave a hint as to their whereabouts. And now the screams of “Help me, Father! Help me, Father!” over and over again.

They had completed the rituals in the previous two weeks, during which time his son and his nephew had grown even closer, as only those who need each other to
survive can. But the ancient rule of one leader for the Guild of Assassins was firm, and he dared not break it for fear of betraying his family's oath, sealed in the Narwhal Tusk.

“Help me, Father! Help me, Father!”

He had thought about resurrecting the Guild himself but knew he was too old. Already the rot had set in, he could feel it, and soon every eye would see it—as one sees a small black blotch on a peach slowly eat into the centre and attack the pit.

“Help me, Father! Help me, Father!”

T
HE
B
ODY
G
UARD

I wanted to put my hands to my ears to block the sound from punishing my heart, but I couldn't allow myself that luxury.

This is my duty—as it is my son's duty, and my nephew's.

T
HE
S
ON

“Help me, Father! Help me, Father!” The sharpened bamboo cane is sticking out of my skin just below my right shoulder. Blood is coursing down my side, but I've shallowed my breathing, as Father taught me. I realize that the pain is bearable. But I am scared, and I know that Loa Wei Fen will be in the trees, up in the bamboo—“Kill from above; always find a way above.”

T
HE
N
EPHEW

My cousin fell into the pit trap I set for him. One of the sharpened bamboo stems pierced his right breast, but has not cut into the sac that holds his heart. I wish it had killed him—so that I would not have to.

T
HE
S
ON

I am reaching for the swalto blade in my belt, but when I move, the pain suddenly floods me. But I need my blade to defend myself. For he will be coming. Coming soon for my heart.

T
HE
N
EPHEW

I taste the cobra skin that wraps the handle of my swalto blade as I put it between my teeth. I need both hands free to descend from the tall shoots. I've never been so high in the bamboo before, and the tassels sing to me in the morning breeze. I want to go higher to hear the clear voice of the morning's song, but below me—in a pit—lies my destiny.

T
HE
B
ODY
G
UARD

I begin to run. The bamboo tears my clothes, cuts at my skin—one lances a deep cut just below my left eye. But I run as fast as I can to my son—my gentle son.

T
HE
S
ON

A lone cloud races across the morning sky, moving a circle of darkness beneath it as it runs toward the horizon. So beautiful! So beautiful! But now I see the snake in the bamboo—my cousin, the snake.

T
HE
N
EPHEW

The swalto turns in my hand and nestles into place—as if it is a living thing—its keen edges and point a thing of immaculate purpose. Then I am moving—down, down, down the largest of the bamboo stems—my legs controlling my descent—as I move headfirst toward my destiny in the pit.

T
HE
S
ON

The sun glints off the snake's swalto blade—its deadly tooth—and I look away. The blood has stopped flowing from my shoulder. The breeze is cool. It is going to be a beautiful day. A day to spend with the cormorants—my cormorants—on the water. And suddenly I am there, in the boat, the youngest cormorant in my lap. I hold up the cruel metal ring that I was supposed to tighten around my bird's neck so he couldn't swallow the fish he caught, and I look to Father sitting by the rudder and say, “Do I have to?”

T
HE
B
ODY
G
UARD

The bamboo patch in front of me yields quickly, much to my surprise, and then I see them. My son pinned in a shallow pit and my nephew pressure-gripping the bamboo stem with his knees as he descends headfirst for the kill.

T
HE
N
EPHEW

I arch my back and the cobra carved there uncoils. I feel its strength, its massive fury—and then I drop on my prey.

T
HE
S
ON

“I won't do it, Father. I won't. This is a good bird. A good bird. My bird. He won't swallow the fish. He'll bring them back to the boat. I promise.”

“It is the cormorant's fate to be ringed. It is its purpose. Now put the ring on his neck—and don't be gentle or it will fall off.”

“But this is Kiwa—my cormorant—he loves me.”

T
HE
B
ODY
G
UARD

I thought I heard the word
love
come from my son's mouth as I approach. And it pierces my heart. “Help me, Father! Help me, Father!” My gentle son—but I look away. I look away.

T
HE
N
EPHEW

Then I am there. Overtop of him, my swalto ready for the initial cut. His mouth opens and a bubble of blood comes to his lips. Then I hear him. He is saying my name.

T
HE
S
ON

“Loa Wei Fen, Loa Wei Fen, help me. I cannot put the neck ring on Kiwa. I cannot.”

T
HE
B
ODY
G
UARD

I see my nephew hesitate and I shout, “Don't falter. It is your destiny, Loa Wei Fen. Either you kill him or I kill you—the choice is yours.”

T
HE
N
EPHEW

Uncle is yelling at me and my cousin is pinned by the bamboo stake and the sun is rising and the cobra on my back is hissing in my ears and the swalto blade flips to the killing position in my hand—and I …

T
HE
S
ON

The cormorant bites me. He's never bitten me before. Blood is coming from my chest. From my chest? Why from my chest? Kiwa bit me on the hand.

T
HE
B
ODY
G
UARD

Loa Wei Fen's first cut isn't deep enough. “Strike again!” I scream.

T
HE
N
EPHEW

I didn't need to be prompted. Everything in me wants the warm gush of blood to rain on me and change me and allow me to become the thing I was meant to be—an assassin.

T
HE
S
ON

“Help me, Father! Help me, Father!”

T
HE
B
ODY
G
UARD

“Strike or I will strike you!”

T
HE
N
EPHEW

All the practice, all the training—I open the cobra's hood on my back and my
chi
flows out from my centre to my arms and the swalto leaps for joy as it digs deep into my cousin's stomach, then rips up and up. Then there is a sudden stillness. Above me the bamboo sways to my
chi
's motion and the sun turns to warm my back and the world stands very still—I can hear the smallest animals in the thickets, and the wind catches its breath and the very motion of the planet—as I cut open my cousin's chest, slice free his heart from its bonds, cut it in half, and bite deep.

T
HE
B
ODY
G
UARD

Loa Wei Fen's face is smeared in the blood of my son as he spits the piece of heart high in the air—as the ritual demands. I can see his
chi
finally retreat into its den, and the boy turns to me—now no longer a boy.

T
HE
N
EPHEW

“We should bury your son.”

T
HE
B
ODY
G
UARD

“No. I now have no son. Leave the carcass for the jackals.”

It is the final lesson I had to teach Loa Wei Fen. Pity is not part of an assassin's work—nor is honour for the dead.