Chapter Fourteen
XIAN BOWED low to the small audience gathered to watch his dance, his chest rising in the quickened pace of exertion, his body warm and supple beneath his light-green ruqun, the high neck damp from his sweat. He enjoyed the breathlessness; the dance as soothing as the tincture he relied on.
‘Enchanting.’ A man in a rich brown changsan declared, whilst the woman with him, resplendent in an overcoat of peach, embroidered with magnolia and white butterflies, nodded enthusiastically.
‘Like the sway of reeds in the wind. I could not look away,’ she declared. ‘I feel quite bewitched.’ She laughed gaily at the dangerous notion, and a thread of unease weaved its way through Xian.
With the hour so late, almost midnight, the group was truly inebriated. Huangjiu flowed, and an opium pipe was being shared about. The woman who giggled at talk of magick, passed the pipe on to a chestnut-haired Englishwoman, who thanked her in rough Mandarin before nodding at Xian.
‘Brava, brava,’ she said. He supposed it was a compliment, but the words were foreign, so he couldn’t be sure.
She closed her kohl-lined eyes and sighed as she took a long drag from the slender pipe, slumping amongst the mountain of silk cushions assembled for the guests.
She’d slackened the laces on her corset, that formidable piece of clothing Lady Tian had begged her father to have brought to her from London, and it now slackened around her midriff, leaving her breasts in danger of being more exposed than she had intended. But no one seemed to have a care.
Xian longed to join them in such mindless carelessness; he hungered for another sip of the tincture.
He’d been due another dose hours ago, but the evening had run on, with the Mandarin begging this dance from him after claiming another set of guests had arrived; those who were his dearest of friends.
Mandarin Feng had an inordinate number of dear friends; from the Middle Kingdom and beyond. All expected to be entertained and enthralled in the Palace of Endless Prosperity; Feng’s audacious name for his sprawling residence.
The past week — or was it two? — since his arrival had been a blur for Xian.
He knew he should be exhausted, with all the long days spent at temple fairs, banquets and lantern shows, gift exchanges with neighbouring towns, and of course, the performances of Xian’s dance; always for the select few, rather than gathered crowds, always held privately, rather than in the Reception Hall whose expansive wooden floors were polished to perfection, and would have given him the extra ease of movement that the smaller chambers Mandarin Feng arranged, did not.
Xian’s days were spent being led around by the indomitable Mandarin Feng, like he were one of the many exotic creatures Manhao’s ruler had on display in his sprawling residence.
Xian was a dazed, and somewhat numb, exotic creature.
Time had taken on a cloaked appearance, with his blissfully fuddled mind only gathering itself on those occasions when he was too busy to retake the tincture quickly enough.
If he did not sip at the bitter blue water, morning and night, he would shudder with chills, and his eyes would sting with thoughts that gathered in his mind like a teetering avalanche; ready to bombard him should he weaken.
So long as he danced, and drank of Master Liang’s precious liquid, Xian could pretend himself happy here.
Certainly more so than in that nest of daemons in Kunming.
Xian still drew stares, as he had in the Governor’s Manor, but here those stares were filled with gawking curiosity, intrigue, even an odd type of reverence, rather than contempt.
There was another look too, something he could not name in his drowsy state; one that had the men and women trailing their gaze over his body.
But the mandarin kept his mind free of worries, mostly. Xian was an honoured guest. Feng had said it many times.
‘My home is your home, your highness. In Manhao you are under my protection. Anything you want, ask for it, and it shall be yours.’
Soon, Xian may ask that more tincture be made in order to keep his mind quiet and his nights free of terrible dreams. But for now he was as near to content as life would allow.
Raising his head, Xian gazed out over the small gathering of people.
The chamber, with half its wooden floor covered in a swathe of richly coloured satin cushions, was one of many such private rooms the Mandarin had built into the sprawl of his impressive siheyuan.
The residence was large; the front courtyard was twice as large as that in Kunming, while the Central Hall could have housed the marquess’s Reception Hall five times over.
Xian dared not move about the various wings without a guide, for fear of being lost.
The guests who’d watched his performance—four couples and a man who appeared to be in his own company—lay about on their cushions, sipping on always-full cups, glassy-eyed in the late hour.
They had watched him with mirroring looks of satisfaction, the man on his own winking at Xian when his gown had brushed near to him in the confined space.
The same man, with sharp features and keen hazel eyes, got to his feet, his baijiu sloshing from his cup.
‘A remarkable performance, your highness.’ His queue was so long the tip of his braid touched at the back of his knees; swaying like a black snake from a tree.
‘I did not know a man could move so well…those hips of yours…are something to behold.’
He took a step towards Xian, but the Mandarin was suddenly there, waggling a long finger and chiding the man with a crooked smile that tilted his thick black moustache.
‘Come now, Magistrate He, that is quite close enough. You’d not wish to sully the prince’s fine reputation now, would you?
’ Mandarin Feng had something of the tiger about him; a smoothness that overlay a dangerous fortitude.
‘You know the rules. He is to be admired from afar, as an esteemed guest of our province.’
The magistrate chuckled. ‘You are a tormentor, Feng. Waving this fine specimen beneath my nose and telling me to keep my hands to myself. What if I wish to explore beneath those layers, and ensure it is not a woman there that you claim to be the prince?’
‘The price of such exploration would be too high for you to pay, He.’ The Mandarin stroked the short length of his chin beard; finely shaped and black as coal.
He was not an imposingly built man, like his bullish captain, but the Mandarin took up more space in a room than anyone else, and though his looks were plain, he drew the eye.
‘Never presume I cannot find extra coin, if the deal is worth my time.’
‘I would never presume that, my friend.’
Both men laughed, and the sound held an unpleasant note that sought to claw its way into Xian’s muffled world.
‘Now, everyone. Go along and enjoy all the other entertainments that are on offer this evening.’
The magistrate leaned in towards the Mandarin, but he did not whisper quietly. ‘None shall have the feet of this boy, though, shall they Feng? Keep me top of your list when the time is right. I’d be very glad to entertain him in Wantian.’
Xian’s chest tightened, and he swallowed hard. The dance had rushed the tincture from his body sooner than he’d hoped.
‘I am to return to Kunming in the new year.’ Xian startled himself by speaking up.
Feng and the magistrate exchanged a glance, one that caused Xian’s breath to quicken beneath his veil.
‘There, you have your answer, from the mouth of the prince himself.’ Feng clapped his hands, the noise shocking in the room’s hush. ‘I’m afraid his time here is short, and far too busy for the likes of you, Magistrate He.’
Xian shifted his feet. The cotton filling his head made it difficult to catch the nuances of the conversation, but instinct made him wary.
The magistrate released a grandiose sigh. ‘What a dreadful shame. Then I shall just have to appease myself with watching you perform for us over the coming week, before you hurry away back to Kunming where I am sure you are sorely missed.’
Xian flinched, certain now there was mockery in the man’s tone.
‘The hour is late, Mandarin Feng,’ he said. ‘I should like to retire to my room now, if I may? I know you said you have yet more important guests arriving tomorrow—’
‘Yangren from the Kingdom of Spain, no less.’ Mandarin Feng’s smooth face lit up with talk of Westerners.
The moment Xian arrived in Manhao, he’d noted how many foreigners were accommodated in Feng’s expansive residence; several Frenchmen, many members of a trading party from India, and of course, numerous Britons.
But so far he’d not yet met one yangren who could speak more than a few badly managed words of Mandarin.
And as Xian’s English was thankfully poor, he’d been able to avoid conversing with a single Westerner.
Not that his silence stopped them bombarding him with looks and questions; a Frenchman being so bold as to lift his veil.
It was the only time Xian had been grateful for Captain Duan’s interference, Feng’s man making it very clear, with no translation needed, that the yangren had overstepped the mark.
‘Foreign devils,’ the captain had growled as the alarmed guest hurried away. ‘I’ll escort you from now on.’
‘No, no, that is unnecessary.’ And unwelcome.
He knew from their time on the road that the captain’s hands wandered, and landed themselves too often at the small of Xian’s back, once sliding much lower, but Duan had made excuses; blaming the unwanted touch on the way Xian had alighted from the carriage.
Thankfully, that had been the only occasion where the man’s closeness had filled Xian with dread. At least, the only one he recalled. He’d taken too much of the tincture on that long ride and woken more than once to find himself asleep in an inn he did not recall arriving at.
Xian bowed his head to Feng and the magistrate. ‘My lord, I look forward to meeting your visitors from Spain, but for now, please excuse me. I am quite tired.’
The Mandarin nodded. ‘You are pale today. I hear you have not eaten well since arriving in Manhao. Perhaps our seafood does not agree with you?’
Xian’s suppressed grief scratched at the back of his skull, the gate-keeping tincture all but evaporated. He shook his head; too ill to speak.
‘Never mind. I’ll have the kitchen prepare you a ginseng and chicken broth to set you right. I’d not like to tell my guests you’ve grown too weak to perform.’
There was a reprimand there, Xian knew, but he was too preoccupied with holding back stinging-nettle tears.
‘Thank you, my lord.’ Xian hurried away, clutching at the cross-collar of his jacket. He drew the folds in tight, reassuring himself he was not laid so bare as this so-called palace made him feel.