Chapter Thirty
THE CHANGSAN-CLAD attendant led the way, hurrying at such a pace Xian had to break into an undignified trot to keep up.
He’d made it back to his rooms after leaving Master Chen’s workshop without incident, with no sign of Mai or her cart; leaving him unable to enquire about her message.
He’d spent a long twenty minutes staring out his window, taking tentative and embarrassing sniffs of the air, ears pricked; hoping to catch a hint of Lim.
Certain he’d read the flowers entirely wrong; and wasted precious time he could have spent with the shoemaker.
Then, this officious man had arrived.
‘This way, your highness. Do hurry. The Mandarin is a busy man.’
They passed by the line of phoenix trees, hung with red tassels, knots and lanterns; decorations that held the hopes and wishes of the approaching New Year. The attendant paused at the foot of the stairs, glancing back.
‘I’m coming,’ Xian scuffed his feet now and then, aware of how quietly he moved on the pebbled path.
The sun was readying herself to give way to night, already low down in the sky; a cold evening seemed likely. Xian shivered in the thin fabric of his black changsan. He’d changed into the simple robe—long-sleeved and raised an inch from the ground—after his frantic return left him sweating.
Up the stairs they went, and across the width of the verandah, a space wide enough for six men to have stood in a line and not been out from beneath the sweeping wave of the roof.
Xian’s belly cinched with nerves as he passed the guardian lion statues at the top of the stairs and stepped into the entrance parlour.
The space had intimidated him on his arrival; a wide expanse with beautifully painted panels of the Four Arts covering two of the walls, and work from a yangren in pride of place on another; a French artist whose name Xian had not bothered to set to memory.
Mandarin Feng’s residence teemed with a mix of the traditional and the exotic, his thirst for collecting on display everywhere; even upon the floors, where Persian weaves were interspersed with Peking carpets and Ningxia rugs.
The attendant led him to the back of the entry parlour, sliding open a panel to lead Xian through another smaller room, filled with more artwork and stunning ceramics, pots filled with peacock’s feathers and tea sets whose insides gleamed with gold.
Down another corridor with bamboo matting, then another room, and another corridor, until he feared the man had gotten them hopelessly lost.
He must have sensed Xian’s hesitation, for he turned and bowed. ‘Not much further, your highness.’
Xian nodded and waited as one final panel was slid open, revealing a small courtyard, not much bigger than Xian’s own generously sized room.
At the centre stood a fountain, not unlike one of those at the Governor’s Residence in Kunming; crystal clear water spilling from a sculpture of an overturned pot set amongst bamboo.
Carp swam in the rockery that surrounded the fountain; dull and puny compared to Mercy’s shock of golden colour and rotund belly.
Xian chewed at his lip, biting down on the hurt that came with knowing he’d had his mother so close all that time; and lost her again before he knew.
‘His Lordship’s private quarters, your highness.’ The attendant stopped short of opening the door on the far side of the small courtyard, stepping aside and ushering Xian forward instead. ‘I’ll announce you now.’
Announcing him involved ringing a bell that had been hung up on the outer wall beside the door; one of bronze, with foreign script upon its side.
He knew it to be English, but could not read the text.
Xian stared at the words of the yangren country he thought to flee to; a land whose language he could not speak, whilst trying to learn what it meant to be huli jing.
‘Come in, your highness,’ the master of the house called out.
The attendant pushed open the door, bowed, and was gone before Xian could turn to thank him.
He took his first step into Mandarin Feng’s innermost sanctum, gagging at the wave of scents that assailed him. A confusing mix he couldn’t decipher; too many of them unpleasant.
Xian stared, his mouth agape at the overflow of grandeur.
There were stunning ceramics — vases larger than the attendant who’d brought him here — painted with brilliant hues of blue, red and gold, and a table whose top was a golden tray; the metalwork beaten with fanning patterns and polished so brightly it stood bright as the sun.
There were paintings, some with frames so thick and elaborate they were more eye-catching than the paintings within; portraits of nobles whose features, though not comparable to the beauty of Sir William, were certainly more similar to him than of anyone born of China.
In another work, a tall ship sat in a foreign harbour, masts jutting into blue skies, its crew working the cargo from the decks.
Xian stepped forward, peering at the flag of origin that was hoisted; primarily red, but with the white and blue crosses of the British Empire.
His toe snagged upon the rug, and Xian glanced down.
The hide of an animal lay spread upon the wood.
A lion; lifeless as it was. The creature’s head was intact, caught mid-roar, eyes wild and forever unseeing, its mane a thick golden ruff, its teeth menacing pincers; polished to a gleam that reflected the light from the few lanterns hanging about the dim and too-warm room.
‘Are you overwhelmed by the bounty of my collection, your highness?’
Mandarin Feng walked out from behind a panelled screen in the room’s corner, the soft click of a latch behind him suggesting a hidden door.
He was not a large man, either in height or breadth.
Xian was taller by a head, as were many of those who surrounded the master of Manhao, but his presence overwhelmed a space, much as his treasures did.
‘Mandarin Feng,’ Xian nodded in greeting. ‘There is so much for the eyes to take in.’ And for the mind to fathom. There was a small horse, stuffed and mounted, in one corner. Its coat was striped black and white, with a mane thick and short as a broom’s bristles. ‘What is that creature?’
There was sadness in the animal’s eyes, even now when they must have been made of glass or ceramic.
‘That is the banma, from the distant land of Africa.’ Mandarin Feng stepped up onto the large kang that took up most of the back wall; the heating platform was covered in yet more animal hides, furs of the purest white Xian had seen.
Silver bowls filled with nuts and dried fruits sat beside a low yellow sandalwood desk where the Four Treasures of the Study lay: a brush, paper, an inkstone and an inkstick. ‘A beautiful, animal, is it not?’
‘Beautiful, but strange,’ Xian replied.
‘As are all things worth collecting.’ Mandarin Feng was a master of many things, but smiling was not one of them. His attempts held an iron edge and never went further than his thin lips. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, your highness?’
Xian lowered his gaze, thinking of the tedious hours attendants must spend cleaning this place of curiosity and death.
‘Of course, my lord.’
Feng lit a bamboo pipe, sucking at the tobacco, the embers blinking. Xian’s eyes watered, the pungent smell an attack upon his overwrought senses.
‘Are you ready for this evening?’
Xian pulled his gaze from the striped horse, blinking. ‘Yes, my lord.’
Feng exhaled a ring of smoke. ‘Good boy.’
Xian shifted uncomfortably beneath the mandarin’s intense regard. He felt an odd kinship with these poor skinned and stuffed animals; trapped spectacles.
A torrent of bitter smoke poured from the mandarin’s nostrils. ‘I’m told there is a trespassing thief who claims to be your shoemaker?’
‘He is no thief, his is truly my shoemaker,’ Xian said sharply. ‘There was a misunderstanding, as I’m sure you know. Master Song brought me something I think you’ll be most pleased with. I intend to wear his shoes tonight, and they are beyond compare.’
‘Are they now? Very well, they shall enhance the gown I have organised for you. That is why I have summoned you here. They were slower than I’d have liked with finishing it, so best we see it done quickly, in case adjustments are needed.’
The glow of the pipe brightened, highlighting a disturbing glint in Feng’s eyes.
‘But my lord, I have a gown already.’
He tilted the pipe away from his face. ‘Your audience are a very select group, your highness. Valuable business colleagues and investors, who are very much looking forward to seeing what you offer them.’
‘Offer them?’ The mandarin’s words turned his stomach.
‘I want my guests to be filled with desire.’ He dragged on his pipe, speaking as he exhaled. ‘Where there is desire, there comes a greater eagerness to comply, to bargain and trade.’
‘But I am only to dance.’ Xian swallowed against a dry throat. ‘That was the agreement.’
‘Of course, your highness.’ Feng lowered his pipe.
‘Gracious, what else do you suggest I imply? You are the emperor’s thirteenth son, and famed for your dance.
You’ve seen already how hungry my guests are to see you perform.
I was offered many bribes by those who wished to be invited to the private performances you graciously allowed me.
But I told them, we must not wear his highness out yet.
’ He laughed, an ugly sound that dragged at Xian’s senses.
‘I imply nothing, my lord. Forgive me, I am nervous about the dance tonight. I wish to please the court.’
Xian willed his pulse to steady. He might be innocent, but he was not stupid, and had the captain’s lewd words in Kunming to remember; he’d spoken plainly of Manhao’s appetite for the peculiar, of how they would clamour to see Xian.
Clamour to touch him. Xian had been too stupefied by the tincture to understand the true meaning before now.