The Eleventh Tiger (6 page)

Ian and Barbara sat on one side of the table, opposite the Doctor and Vicki. The Doctor went over to the man with the glass eye and spoke to him. While he was there Vicki looked around. There were a couple of white men at another table, but they were concentrating on their meal. Everyone else was looking at the time travellers’ table.

It was more specific than that, Vicki realised after a moment: they were looking at Ian. Their expressions ranged from surprise through curiosity to indignation, and they were all looking at Ian.

The Doctor returned, flanked by a waitress carrying a tray of
dim sum.
He didn’t seem to notice the looks. ‘Help yourselves,’ he said, taking his stool.

Vicki took his walking cane while he got himself settled.

‘Thank you, child.’

Vicki felt more comfortable sitting with the Doctor rather than with Ian and Barbara. It wasn’t that she disliked them -

they were smart enough, considering they came from a time not much evolved beyond this one, and they were good people. It was just that she didn’t feel at ease being in their way. They were so much a couple - almost a gestalt entity, she sometimes thought - that she felt like an intruder when she was around. Or sometimes just like a fifth wheel.

Vicki suddenly realised how hungry she really was. The food machine in the TARDIS seemed able to supply any amount of nutrition, and could even manage the taste of real food, but it wasn’t really real. It didn’t have the right texture, and you certainly couldn’t sit and have a chat over a meal the size of a chocolate bar, even if it did taste like steak and eggs.

She helped herself to spring rolls, noodles, steamed dumplings and anything else her arms could reach. As she had found in Rome, the food in the past tasted better, or at least more real, than the food of her time.

On the ship to Astra - and even on Earth in her time -

everything was engineered and processed to be nutritious and healthy, but it all tasted much the same. She looked over at Ian and Barbara, who were chatting and relaxed as they picked at the buffet. Though they came from a time not much more advanced than this one, she envied them the food they ate. Healthy or not, at least it was worthy of the name.

‘This is excellent,’ Barbara exclaimed.

‘Much better than anything out of the food machine,’ Ian agreed, echoing Vicki’s thought.

‘And just what is wrong with the food machine?’ the Doctor asked haughtily, though Vicki could tell from his tone that he was being playful rather than truly offended.

‘Nothing, Doctor,’ Ian said, doing a good job of faking ruefulness. ‘But you have to admit that nutrition bars, however well flavoured, are no match for the real thing.’

Vicki got the feeling their banter was an old and favourite game for both of them.

‘Oh, aren’t they, young man? The Ship does have a kitchen, you know - or perhaps I should say a galley. If I were to collect ingredients, perhaps you’d care to do the cooking from now on, eh?’

Ian looked tempted. ‘Well, I’m no cordon bleu, but I know how to fry an egg -’

‘Chesterton!’ a voice from a nearby table exclaimed.

It was a man with the waxy face of a drinker, and the stained clothes of one whose drinking gets less accurate with every cup of wine. His face seemed to be caught in a battle between the expressions of a jackpot winner and a crash survivor. The whole populace of the restaurant looked at the travellers.

‘Yes,’ Ian said cautiously. ‘My name’s Chesterton.’

‘Chesterton,’ the half-drunk man said again.

Vicki was astonished. ‘How did he know your name?’

Ian could only shrug and look baffled as the drunkard put his massive knuckles on the table and pushed himself up from his stool. He came over, almost managing to walk in a straight line.

‘You must have more guts than we thought, to come in here with only an old man and a couple of your
gwailo
whores for company - or less brains than we thought.’

‘Look friend,’ Ian began tartly, ‘I don’t care what you think you’ve got against me, but if you don’t take back what -’

His protest ended in a solid smack of drunken fist against speaking mouth.

The old temple off the Baiyun road didn’t look nearly as spooky in the morning light. It was just a tumbledown old building, with grass for a floor, and plants and flowers covering the walls. Fei-Hung felt more than a little foolish.

Perhaps he had been tricked by a shadow or the movement of trees in the wind?

That’s what his father would say, anyway. He was sure of that. But he was also sure the wind didn’t make the sound he had heard, and neither did it cast a flashing light. There were certainly no lamps in the old ruin.

‘Where were you, exactly?’ his father asked.

Fei-Hung pointed to an arch. ‘Through there.’

Wong-sifu immediately made for the arch and, after a moment’s hesitation, Fei-Hung followed. He wasn’t sure whether he was expecting to see anything or not. The daylight had banished most of the fear, and even if there had been anything demonic, surely it would have returned to one of the hells by dawn.

Fei-Hung stepped through the arch - and froze, a chill trickling down his spine. The gate that had appeared from nowhere was still there. ‘There it is.’

Kei-Ying moved closer to it, but Fei-Hung stayed where he was for a moment. In the light he could see that it was more like a kind of wooden box - the size of two or three coffins stuck together - that had appeared in the gap in the wall.

‘You see, I told you!’

His father gave him a withering look, which mellowed after a moment. ‘This box is new, but it’s nothing supernatural.’

He pointed to some writing above the doors and on one of the panels. ‘This writing is in the European alphabet. It probably belongs to the compound on Xamian Island, or one of the companies in town.’

‘Then what’s it doing out here?’

Kei-Ying stepped back, studying the box. ‘I don’t know. It’s out of the way, but they haven’t hidden it or covered it up. It could be abandoned, I suppose. Or some sort of small supply cabinet for columns nearing the city. I wonder how heavy it is; the noise you heard could have been some kind of steam-driven traction-engine that was carrying it.’

Fei-Hung shook his head. ‘Nothing carried it,’ he insisted.

‘It appeared out of nothing. I saw it,’ he added emphatically.

He knew it sounded insane, but he also knew he wasn’t given to flights of fancy, and he hoped his father knew this too.

After a moment Kei-Ying nodded. ‘I believe you believe that’s what you saw.’ He turned back to the box and made to pat its side. Instantly, he drew his hand back. ‘What the -?’

‘Father?’ Fei-Hung was immediately on guard, though he wasn’t sure what he was guarding against.

‘It... tingles.’

‘Tingles?’

Wong-sifu nodded.

Gingerly, Fei-Hung put out a hand towards the wooden door. There was a strange feeling in his fingertips, as if the flesh was trying to ripple against the bone inside. He jumped back. ‘Magic?’

‘Maybe... The man who owns the Hidden Panda does deals of some kind with one of the Englishmen at Xamian. Perhaps he’ll know something about this.’

Kei-Ying turned on his heel and marched out of the temple.

Fei-Hung was glad to follow.

It didn’t take long for them to return to the city. They came in past the docks this time in order to have a shorter walk to the Hidden Panda. As they neared it they could hear shouts, and the occasional crash of pottery or furniture. People in the street were looking towards the junction where the Hidden Panda stood.

Fei-Hung hoped the trouble wasn’t there; his father’s friend was almost certainly a good man simply by virtue of being his father’s friend, and Fei-Hung didn’t want such a person to be hurt. He started running, his father matching him stride for stride.

Through the open framework of the ground floor Fei-Hung could see a fight going on. The inn was in uproar. Labourers and merchants alike were struggling together in a knot of bodies in the middle of the floor.

Two hefty men - dock workers, perhaps - were restraining an older white man. A white girl was trying to pull them away from him, while a white woman was clawing at the knot of men trying to break them up. A few other men dotted around were using the chaos to settle private scores, or just joining in for fun.

Fei-Hung ducked to avoid a stool that was thrown through the door as he entered. Behind him, his father caught it and set it down beside a table. ‘Cheng! What’s going on here?’

Kei-Ying demanded of the innkeeper.

The scar-faced innkeeper paused in his bouncing of a man’s head off the bar top, and gestured towards the scrum.

‘It’s Chesterton -’

He broke off as the man he was grappling with fought back and hit him with a backhanded blow. Cheng’s glass eye clattered to the top of the bar and fell to the floor.

Fei-Hung had never met this Chesterton, but he’d heard the name spoken by his father and some of his father’s friends. They didn’t speak well of him. Fei-Hung wondered what his father would think of this fight if the man he spoke ill of was losing it.

Wong Kei-Ying hesitated momentarily at Cheng’s words. Then he turned back to the group of men who were pummelling a figure on the floor. It wasn’t a fight - it was a mob beating, pure and simple. Even if the figure was the Chesterton he had heard about, he didn’t deserve this. To be beaten in a fair fight, yes; but not this.

Kei-Ying stepped in with a twist here and a sweep of the arms there, and the men stumbled away clutching wrists and shoulders. As the group parted, their fun over, Kei-Ying could see that there was indeed a European man on the floor.

It was Chesterton, just as Cheng had said. His features were the angular sort that westerners found handsome. His torn and stained clothes were strange - perhaps a new fashion from Europe.

There were two women with him. The older of the two was striking-looking and dark-haired. She had been the one trying to break up the gang. A few of the men had scratches on their faces that would take weeks to heal, and Kei-Ying had no doubt her nails had been responsible. Unusually for a European woman, she was wearing trousers instead of thick layers of skirt.

Kei-Ying could tell that the younger woman - no more than a girl, really - was European even before he saw her face. Her hair was an impossibly light shade for either Han or Manchu.

When she turned, he saw she had large eyes and a delicate chin.

He glared at the rabble around the Hidden Panda’s ground floor. ‘All right. You’ve had enough fun for one day. He isn’t going to shrug this off, and he’s probably beyond the point of feeling anything more you could do anyway.’

‘Wong-sifu is right,’ Cheng said. ‘You’ve done what you wanted and wrecked half my place in the process. Get the hell out of here so I can clean up.’

The drunks and thugs exchanged doubtful looks, then began to relax and filter away. Kei-Ying had noted that mobs had a limited life span. Like firecrackers they blew up with lots of noise and smoke, but the ashes blew away a moment later. He saw the giant, Pang, lurking in the doorway to the kitchen. He was an effective persuader of the doubters among the mob, even without the large cleaver he held. Those who doubted that the fun was really over also left, muttering under their breaths.

‘Keep an eye out, Fei-Hung,’ Kei-Ying said.

The young man nodded and went to guard the door, while Kei-Ying turned his attention to Chesterton. The man was in a bad way: his cheeks were swollen and his jaw was probably chipped. The sheared-off top of a tooth was lying in a small pool of blood and spit, and his eyelids were too swollen and dark to open. His ears looked as if they had been hacked out of wood.

Kei-Ying knelt and opened Chesterton’s jacket and shirt. As he suspected from seeing the kicks that had been delivered, the torso was a mass of bruises, and he wouldn’t be surprised to find several ribs broken. At least Chesterton wasn’t coughing blood, so no broken bone had pierced a lung.

‘He is badly hurt, but should live.’ He looked over at Cheng and Pang. ‘Cheng, I’ll need a cart, and the assistance of Pang.’

‘Yes, Wong-sifu,’ Cheng agreed. Pang merely nodded.

‘What are you doing with him?’ the older woman asked.

She had a bruised cheek, but didn’t seem to have noticed it.

Her attention was focused entirely on Chesterton.

‘I will take him to Po Chi Lam, my surgery. There, I can treat his wounds.’

‘You’re a doctor?’

‘A healer.’

She looked him in the eye, judging him. Kei-Ying didn’t look away; he had nothing to hide. She seemed to see that.

‘Thank you.’

‘Yes, thank you, sir, for your kind assistance,’ the old man said.

Silver hair fell around his shoulders, and he was dressed soberly in a black double-breasted frock coat and checked trousers. His face was somehow as haughty as his bearing and at the same time suggestive of wise amusement. ‘We were in considerable trouble, I believe.’

Kei-Ying nodded in agreement. ‘You were... Mr... ?’

‘Oh, just Doctor.’

‘Doctor? You’re are a medical man too, then?’

‘Well, that greatly depends.’ The Doctor smiled and clapped his hands. ‘Now, as for your surgery... Po Chi Lam, did you say?’