Shanghai Sparrow (3 page)

“I don’t believe so,” Holmforth said. “He had apparently made some experiments and found they were intrigued by the sounds, but didn’t see worth in taking it further.”

“I’m afraid I don’t either,” Forbes-Cresswell said. “He may have stumbled upon something that imitates a natural effect by accident, but all these instruments...” He swept a hand over the paper Holmforth had put on his desk. “Rubbish, really, I’m afraid. An attempt to gild a not very impressive lily.”

“Well, in that case, I’m sorry to have taken up your time.”

“Not at all, not at all. Do give my regards to your father, next time you rusticate.”

Holmforth bowed himself out of the office, his face utterly calm. He had a great deal of practice in hiding his humiliation. And until he had been posted to Shanghai, and first encountered a rumour about what Wu Jisheng was up to, in among all the other fragments, half-truths, blatant lies and wild exaggerations, he thought he had forgotten the incident.

But now, he had the evidence in his hands. Etheric science existed, and could be used in ways that no-one had imagined. There had been that single notation in the margins of Lathrop’s work, of course – but the man had had no idea what he had found.

And Wu Jisheng’s ability seemed to militate against the idea that it was a female trait. Perhaps it had to do with his being Oriental.

In any case there was little doubt, in what few works he had managed to find that actually took Etherics seriously, that innate ability was a factor. Lathrop would have to be brought here. His vanity would no doubt be flattered.

Holmforth would show his superiors what Etheric mechanisms could do, in the right hands.
His
hands. And they would see that he had been right, that the borders of the British Empire should not stop with India, or Russia. The borders of Empire should extend beyond this world, to encompass and bring under its wing not just the primitive and barbaric peoples of the Earth, but the Folk as well. Others might believe they were no longer relevant, the last fragment of a dying race, but Holmforth knew better. They had wealth that could be put to good use. Besides, their arrogance was an insult to the Empire, and their immorality a bad example. It was beyond time they were brought to heel.

The Crepuscular

“O M
OST
E
XALTED,
Highly Honoured, and Elegant Mistress; I humble myself at your feet, which allows me to appreciate your exquisite slippers. As always, you outdo all others in taste.”

The fox, his tail quivering and his eyes brilliant, tilted his head at an angle precisely calculated to charm.

The lady at whose feet he sat smiled. Her slippers were indeed exquisite, embroidered all over with mermaid scales whose constantly shifting sea-shades echoed those of her eyes. The eyes themselves, at this moment, danced merrily, sunlight upon gentle waves. She was fond, in her way, of the fox, and found him a source of amusement.

“Well, little fox, what do you want?”

“Lady, I bring news.”

“I know you would not be so foolish as to come here without
something
to entertain me. What news?”

“Pearl divers off an island under the sway of Oro have found a great treasure. A pearl of exceptional beauty and size, dark as my lady’s hair, and nearly as lustrous. Already it is on its way to the temple, where it will be placed in a statue of laughable ugliness but great value in the eyes of the priests. And it will become an offering, and a Gift.”

“I see. And why should this concern me?”

“Because it is a Gift of some... merit, Lady. In my unworthy and no doubt mistaken opinion.”

“Some merit. How
much
merit?”

“A thousand hours of work by three separate craftsmen, one of whom lost his sight on the endeavour, the eldest of them dying as he set his chisel, having prayed and fasted overmuch in order that he might be inspired, and the youngest, possibly the best craftsman the island has ever produced, having cut his thumb, an injury that will eventually cripple him and prevent his ever creating so fine a piece again.”

“Ah.” In her eyes, a thin cloud veiled the sun, the sparkle faded from the sea.

“Forgive my presumption, but I thought your Ladyship would wish to know.”

“You are correct, little fox. And what, in your
opinion
, do you deserve in return for this information?”

“What could I ask more than your Ladyship’s pleasure?”

“Oh, you could ask many things. Some of them I might even grant.”

“Your Ladyship’s generosity is outweighed only by your Ladyship’s beauty. I ask merely the freedom to suggest something that might, if your Ladyship should deign to consider it, outweigh this Gift in value.”

“And what has my clever fox found, to overbear so weighty a Gift?”

“A pebble.”

The fox kept his eyes on her slippers, but from their darkening colours he could see that in her eyes, now, there would be the suggestion of reefs, of depths where no diver would ever find the wreckage. He was something of a gambler by nature, and rather enjoyed the shiver of risk.

“A pebble.”

“Yes, your Ladyship.”

“Explain.”

“A child has spent hundreds of hours searching for this pebble. She has collected and discarded stone after stone, to find the perfect one. She knows it must be perfect. She has built a cairn upon the grave of her little cat; this stone is to mark the apex. She has ignored calls to supper, she has searched in the rain and as darkness fell, and despite scoldings and beatings. Only if she found the perfect stone could she finish the shrine, and release her grief.” He paused, and added, “She is seven years old.”

“Hmm.” The scales on her slippers became still, the colours those of a lake beneath an empty sky. He kept his eyes lowered.

“Seven,” she said.

“Yes.”

“A significant number, even to them.”

“So I believe,” the fox said, and silently cursed himself. A misstep.

“You do not believe;
you
know.” But her tone was musing, not yet dismissive.

“Yes, lady.”

“At such an age, constancy of that nature is a rarity among them.”

“Indeed.”

“A pity to waste it upon a cat.” She disliked cats; those with the knack passed between the mortal and magical worlds without shame, they refused to grovel, and they could go where she could not.

“Alas.” The fox himself admired cats; they tended to be, like himself, survivors.

“Now, little fox.” She bent down and put one long, pale finger beneath his chin, tilting his head up so that he must look into her eyes. “You know that if you were wrong, on a matter of such delicacy, I would be... displeased?”

Enough to skin me alive and hang me writhing by my own pelt from the arm of your throne, to provide amusement to your guests for a hundred mortal years?
He let a little of his genuine terror show, but only a little. Though, of course, she would use fear, she did not bask in it. She far preferred adoration. He narrowed his eyes as she scratched his chin, and let a small moan of pleasure escape his throat.

“Good. Then fetch it for me.” She sat up. “And when I have it, you may receive a gift of your own.”

“Ma’am.”

The fox bowed and danced his way out of the Presence, careful to display nothing but delight. Smugness was something the Court preferred to keep entirely to themselves.

The child would know something had changed, of course, when she next visited her little shrine. The heart, the soul, the intention would be gone. What was left would be just a stone. She would probably believe the change was in her, the first dulling of the gemlike passions of childhood.

With the cat, who might choose to be irritated, he would have to make other accommodation. Find something it wanted, or could be persuaded it wanted, and obtain it – or provide a means of getting it. That was what the fox did, and he was exceptionally good at it.

Shanghai

H
OLMFORTH RETURNED FROM
booking his flight at the aerodrome to find a letter lying on the table. His houseboy was packing, flipping crisply folded shirts into a clean but battered leather case reinforced with polished wooden struts.

Holmforth opened the letter.

Dear Sir,

Further to your enquiry of the 18th December, we regret to inform you...

As he read on, his fingers tensed on the discarded envelope, crushing it.

No.

“Massa wanchee tea?” the houseboy said.

“No. Leave that. Get out.
Out,
I said!”

The man bowed, and scurried away.

Holmforth flung the crumpled envelope into a corner, and scanned the letter again with eyes that felt hot and dry.

Lathrop was dead. Dead! And just as he might have been useful!

He would not be thwarted. But who else could he find to operate the thing? Wu Jisheng was no possibility – he was fanatically loyal to his hopeless, crumbling mess of an Empire. That, presumably, was why he had risked the wrath of the influential Iron Hats, with their loathing of Occidental technology and innovation and everything else. Holmforth could have brought them down on Wu Jisheng’s head easily enough, but that would have risked the device being destroyed, and he could not have that.

Lathrop must have had other family, close relatives...
someone
must have the ability, and he
would
find them.

He would have to be careful. There could be no missteps. He would keep his thoughts and the possibilities to himself for now, and use his own resources, rather than those of the Department. He had the Empire’s best interests at heart, after all. Why should he risk someone else taking the credit? It had happened more than once, in the course of his career. He was determined it should not happen again.

London

B
IRDS WERE SINGING
and the deep red wallflowers in the little private park smelled like warm cake. Eveline hung over the railing for a moment, sniffing, and caught something out of the corner of her eye.

It was him. The cove in the grey coat. She was sure of it. Carefully, keeping her head still as though admiring a flowering tree just ahead of her, she peered from the corner of her eye until her sockets ached.

There he was. Watching her. He hadn’t been around while she was scoping the house, she was sure of it... but he was there now.

If she hadn’t seen him before, she wouldn’t have made much of it. But she had, a day or so back. A good-looking cove with neat small features and unusual, pale gold skin; a few shades paler than the Indian man with the splendid embroidered coats, who sometimes came to see Ma and always smelled so deliciously of spices Evvie was near tempted to take a bite out of him. There was something faintly reminiscent about his colouring, too, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

It was definitely him, the same man she’d seen last time she was down on the docks. She called up every swear-word she knew – an impressive number – under her breath.

A peeler? If he was, why hadn’t he arrested her already? Though what for, she didn’t know, she hadn’t so much as dipped a pocket all morning. Maybe he was one of those detective sorts, like that Whicher, that everyone spoke of under their breath as though they were wizards or ghosts, hovering there waiting for her to make a step wrong?

Could he be someone Ma Pether had sent, to keep an eye on her, see she was doing as she was told? In that case she’d be in for it, if he’d seen her come out of the house. Did Ma still trust her that little? She felt a jab of irritation. All right, so she’d gone against Ma’s instructions, but she’d got to know far more than she would have otherwise! She even knew which cupboard the silver was kept in and where the key was, which would save a deal of time and noise!

Well, either way there was one thing for it, she’d have to give him the slip, and she could decide what to do once she was back at Ma’s.

H
OLMFORTH WATCHED THE
girl. Nothing but a skinny urchin. A shuffle to her step and a lack of proportion between feet and legs suggested her shoes were too big. The only thing about her that was even slightly remarkable was the unmistakable sharpness with which she scanned her surroundings, wary as a bird in a garden full of cats. A plain, nervy little Cockney sparrow.

He felt a moment’s black, swamping doubt. What if he was wrong? What if the talent had died with Lathrop? None of his enquiries about the younger sister had been in the least successful; it had to be presumed that she, too, was dead.

As her glance moved his way, Holmforth withdrew behind the wall. He was sure, now, that it was her: he had obtained an old portrait from Lathrop’s former household, and the girl was growing into a likeness of the mother. Finding her had taken months; months in which he had spent an inordinate amount of silver, both in London and in Shanghai, trying to move things forward in the one and hold them back in the other.