The Russian Concubine Part 31

'Don't kill us.'

He paid them no heed. Using the chopsticks in his left hand, he took hold of the man's limp p.e.n.i.s and raised it until it was pulled taut and upright. A groan came from the sleeper's mouth, and one heavy hand crept down to his groin but then lay still. Chang slipped the sharp tip of his knife through the tangle of black hairs till it found the base of the p.e.n.i.s and with a small twist of his wrist he snicked the fragile flesh.

A screech like the whinny of a horse rang out and made Chang expect the guard's return.

'Silence,' he hissed.

The man's mouth shut and his teeth ground together. Whether in fear or pain was not clear. To Chang it made no difference.

'Silence,' he ordered again.

The man's eyes were narrowed to slits, and they were staring with hatred at Chang. For one moment they sought out the sword, slender and delicately engraved, that hung on the wall above a small shrine, but Chang increased the pressure of his blade.

'What is it you want?' the man growled. His body was rigid and still as stone.

'I want your b.a.l.l.s on a plate.'

Chang was in control. A dangerous position to be in. In this great dragon of a house with all its bowing servants and well-tended courtyards only one man held power. Only one man breathed fire. That man was Feng Tu Hong.

Chang made his way through the archway. Across the final courtyard, the finest one where even in the darkness and the rain the gilded jaws of bronze lions glinted and threatened from their plinths. Guards and servants scurried forward, then backed away in alarm. Petals swirled across the marble floor, wet and fraying. The dog growled low in its throat and stood stiff-legged with hackles raised but did not attack.

Because ahead of Chang shuffled the hunched figure of Po Chu. The rain streamed off the strong curve of his back and down between his naked b.u.t.tocks. He still wore only the belt of snake fangs but a leather thong now bound his wrists to his ankles in front of him, so that he was bent almost double, and another shackled his feet no more than two hand-spans apart. His progress like a crippled turtle was slow and humiliating, while the knife point on his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es encouraged him to keep edging forward. From his mouth came a stream of obscenities that Chang ignored.

'Feng Tu Hong,' Chang called out, 'I have your camel-humping son sitting on the point of my blade. If you ever wish to have him seed grandsons for you, open your doors and let him crawl on his belly to your feet.'

The wind s.n.a.t.c.hed at his words and the night sky swallowed them. Around him he could hear swords being drawn and the hiss of sharp breath, but none dared approach too close, and a callused hand had the sense to seize the dog by the scruff. Chang felt the power of the moment. It rose in him like a typhoon, racing through his veins and driving all fear before it. He must enjoy this moment, taste its sweetness. It could be his last.

The ornate doors burst open at the top of the steps and Feng Tu Hong stood there, almost as broad as the archway itself. His powerful frame was wrapped in an embroidered robe of bright scarlet, though he still wore the white headband of mourning for Yuesheng. He disdained any weapon, but behind him hovered two broad-faced bodyguards with Lugers in their hands. The guns were pointed at Chang.

'You crave death,' Feng stated.

His slanted eyes were black and very still. They gave no sign of the fury behind them. He folded his arms across his barrel chest.

'This is the second time I bring you a son, Feng Tu Hong. But this time this one is not dead.' He stared steadily at the leader of the Black Snake triad. 'Not yet.'

Feng lowered his gaze to the dark head of his son, his only surviving son. It was disgracefully close to the floor.

'Po Chu, you dishonour me again,' he said, words heavy with scorn. 'I should let him slice you into worthless strips, no more use to me than a monkey's fingernails.'

'Let us talk inside,' Chang said swiftly, 'where there are fewer ears and no rain to wash away our words.'

Feng jutted out his heavy jaw and took a long shuddering breath that shook his whole body, then abruptly turned on his heel and swept back inside. Chang waited for the bodyguards to scuttle after him, then followed with Po Chu, who was still bent double and hopping sideways up the steps, his breath coming in short, savage grunts. The tethered man had nothing to say now, as if the weight of his father's words had crushed what was left of his spirit. Only the silent hatred remained, as naked and exposed as his own b.u.t.tocks.

Inside the hall to the right was a wall of shrines with pictures of ancestors and other dead kin, full of fresh offerings of food and drink and incense sticks arranged in front of each one. The photograph of Yuesheng among them took Chang by surprise, though it shouldn't have. He studied it. The young confident face. A sensation like spikes driven through the pressure points of his feet made a blinding ball of light dart erratically behind Chang's eyes. He turned away but a memory followed him. It was of Po Chu beating his younger brother to a b.l.o.o.d.y pulp because of his political allegiance to Mao Tse-Tung, and Yuesheng refusing to raise a hand to defend himself. Chang elicited a high moan from Po Chu by increasing the pressure of his knife in the soft sagging flesh between his legs, the knife that was a gift from Yuesheng. It possessed a fine blue-steel edge and a hilt of buffalo horn with the image of a Chinese unicorn, Chi Lin, carved on each side for good fortune. Now it was thrust in Yuesheng's worthless brother's greasy b.a.l.l.s.

That would have made Yuesheng laugh.

Chang felt his friend's spirit very close at this moment. His voice rustling in the air. Maybe because Yuesheng knew they were about to be reunited. He'd come to show the way. But Chang shook his head, a sharp little flick.

'Not yet, Yuesheng,' he murmured.

'So.' Feng had positioned himself in the centre of a magnificent room, bright with gold and jade decoration and elegant scrolls on the walls, as if to remind Chang exactly who was in charge here. He stood with legs apart, arms folded, his head thrust forward on his broad neck and his face a cold blank mask. 'So. What is the price this time? Another printing press? I believe that is the price for a son. Even a shameful one.'

'No.'

Chang jabbed the side of his hand down onto the back of Po Chu's neck, sending him sprawling to his knees, then seized a handful of black hair and yanked hard. He slid the knife up under his chin. Po Chu was sweating heavily, his tethered hands quivering as if both wrists were broken, his skin slick and gleaming as he gulped for air and raised panicked eyes to his father.

'Honourable and wise parent,' he gasped in a hoa.r.s.e voice, 'I beg you to grant what this devil asks.'

Feng spat.

'You are nothing to me.'

'Very well,' Chang said easily, 'if he is worth nothing, he is of no use to me either. Prepare to meet your ancestors, Feng Po Chu.'

He gripped the hair, tightened his hold on the hilt, and saw the Lugers rise in readiness. The sudden foul stench of faeces soiled the room as Po Chu lost control of his bowels. Blood trickled down the blade of the knife onto Chang's fingers.

'Take him,' Feng said to Chang through tight lips. 'Take away my son. He is nothing but poison in my heart.'

Chang uttered a loud cry that rocked the focus of the room, commended his own spirit to his ancestors, and prepared for the stillness of the end, but even as he did so, a band of sorrow tightened around his chest. His heart turned to lead at the knowledge that he wouldn't see her again in this lifetime and that the thread that bound them would be cut. He had failed her, his fox girl. His last moment on this earth had come and she was still in danger.

Po Chu screamed.

Chang stretched his prisoner's throat so taut, the tendons stood out like teeth. He tensed his muscles for the final cut.

'Stop.'

It was Feng. His eyes no more than black lines on a face of stone.

'What is your price this time?'

Silent tears were running down Po Chu's cheeks.

'A life.'

'Your own life?'

'No.'

'Speak. Whose life?'

'The girl I stole from your Black Snakes in the hutong. hutong. Your men are pursuing her.' Your men are pursuing her.'

'Because she lied.' Feng's voice was flecked with anger. 'She told them she didn't know you or where you were hiding, but she was seen with you later. She lied. It is a matter of honour.'

'Feng Tu Hong, she is a barbarian and like all barbarians she does not understand about honour. The girl is not worth the spittle from your mouth, but I give you your son, your only surviving son now that Yuesheng is gone, in exchange for her feeble existence. A fair bargain, I think.'

'You insult me. And you insult my son. If you want the barbarian wh.o.r.e's life so much, why did you not ask for it when I promised you any gift you wanted when you brought me Yuesheng's body to be buried? Why not then?'

'My reasons are my own.'

Feng glared at him. Somewhere behind an inlaid screen a male laugh drifted out and the sound of slippers brushed over the thick silk carpet as a tall figure stepped out into the room, a lazy cigarette in his hand.

'Only ask questions, Feng, if you are sure you will receive answers. This young colt is outrunning you.' The voice was soft and pleasant.

It belonged to the Englishman. Chang recognised him instantly from the Ulysses Club. The one who spoke Mandarin as if his tongue were born to it. He was wearing a long loose grey gown and an embroidered cap on his head, a man trying to be something he was not. Chang could make out the effort of it in his pale grey eyes, but there was something else in them too. Something in pain. Something that wanted to claw itself to death.

Feng Tu Hong gave him a warning look that would have silenced most men, but the Englishman merely shrugged, gave a slight smile and asked Chang in Mandarin, 'So who is this barbarian girl you bargain for so persuasively?'

'A Russian chit, fanqui fanqui,' Feng growled. 'Not one worth having.'

'Her name?'

Chang saw his interest, though the Englishman tried to hide it.

'Ivanova,' Chang told him. 'Lydia Ivanova. One with fire on her tongue as well as in her hair.'

'Ah.' The Englishman nodded silently, ran a hand thoughtfully over his forehead, and turned to Feng. 'I'll buy her from you.' He said it casually, as he would for a bag of chestnuts from a street trader. He pulled a drawstring pouch from his pocket. It looked heavy. 'Tonight's share. For the chit.' He tossed it across to Feng, but the Chinese made no attempt to catch it and it fell with a dull thump on the carpet at his feet.

'The girl is not for sale,' Feng said and stepped over the pouch. 'She is to die. As an example to others who lie to us.' His black eyes were fixed on the knife blade at his son's throat. 'But in exchange for that dung-stinking cur on his knees there, I offer you your own life, Chang An Lo. And my word of protection. You will need it. Or Po Chu will drain the lifeblood from your body as slowly and painfully as a boar roasts on a spit over a fire. Do you accept?'

There was a long silence. Outside a dog's howl split the darkness.

'I accept.' Chang withdrew the knife.

Instantly a guard leaped forward and sliced the thongs that bound Po Chu. He struggled to his feet, his body stiff and shaking with shame. The faeces slithered down his legs. He looked ready to sink his teeth into Chang.

'Po Chu,' Feng snarled. 'I have given my word.'

Po Chu did not move. He remained only inches from Chang, breathing hatred into his face.

Chang shut him out. His usefulness was over. His father would have let him die rather than swallow his own words. But Chang could not have asked for the girl's life in payment for Yuesheng's body because it would have dishonoured Yuesheng's spirit. To be bargained for a fanqui. fanqui. That brought shame. But the printing press was vital to China's future and was something that Yuesheng had died for. It was a fitting price. That brought shame. But the printing press was vital to China's future and was something that Yuesheng had died for. It was a fitting price.

'And the girl?' the tall Englishman asked.

Feng looked over at him, saw his concern, and gave a small cruel smile. 'Ah, you see, Tiyo Willbee, I have ordered her bowels to be twisted around her neck until she can no longer breathe and then her b.r.e.a.s.t.s to be cut off.'

The Englishman closed his eyes.

Chang doubted that it was true. Ordered her death, yes. But the manner in which she should die, no. The leader of the Black Snakes would leave such things to the inventiveness of his followers. He had spoken the words only to spit venom at his English guest. Chang wondered why.

'Feng Tu Hong, I thank you for the honourable exchange we have made,' Chang said with formal politeness. 'A life for a life. Now I offer you something more important than a life.'

Feng had been striding toward the door, eager to rid himself of the sight and smell of his son. He halted.

'What,' he demanded, 'is more important than life?'

'Information. From General Chiang Kai-shek himself.'

'Ai-aiee! For a toothless cub, you speak boldly.' For a toothless cub, you speak boldly.'

'I speak truly. I have information of value to you.'

'And I have men who know how to drag it from you with tortures you have never even dreamed of. So why should I bargain for it?' He turned away.

The Englishman stepped forward. 'Show some sense, Feng. Exacting information by such methods takes time.' He gestured idly at Chang, leaving a trail of cigarette smoke in the air. 'In this case, I suspect quite a lot of time. And maybe this is urgent. Where's the harm in striking a deal?' He laughed, soft and low. 'After all, it's what we did, you and I, and look where it's got us.'

Feng frowned, impatience catching up with him. 'So. What is this new bargain you offer?'

'I will give you secret information. From Chiang Kai-shek's office in Peking. In return you give me the flame-haired Russian.'

Feng laughed, a rich, strong sound that loosened his tight jaws and made the others in the room breathe easier. 'You will have this chit? Whatever the cost?'

'No. I will have her. For this cost.'

'Very well. Agreed.'

'Word has come from Chiang Kai-shek before he returns to his capital in Nanking. Elite troops are coming to Junchow. They are approaching as I speak. To destroy all Communists, spike their heads on the town's walls, and dig out corruption in the government of Junchow. As honoured chairman of our Chinese Council, it seems to me this information is of value to you in advance of their arrival.' He gave a low bow and heard Po Chu groan.

Feng remained still and silent for a long moment. His face had grown pale, in fierce contrast to his scarlet robe, and his broad hands clenched and unclenched. Suddenly he strode across the room.

'The girl is yours,' he called without turning. 'Take her for yourself. But don't expect any good to come of it. To mix barbarians with our civilised people is always a first step to death.' A servant on his knees held open the door, and the leader of the Black Snakes was gone.

Chang gave the Englishman a nod. An acknowledgment of his help. Neither spoke. Po Chu spat on the floor with an incoherent curse, then disappeared into the night, so Chang left the room and made his way out into the courtyard once more. It was when he was crossing the shadows of the second courtyard that he saw a black uniformed guard trudging through the drizzle with drooping shoulders and a burden in each hand. In one was the severed head of the chow chow dog, its black tongue hanging out like a scorched snake. In the other was the head of the guard with the hungry face, his filmy eyes no longer alert. The price of failure in the household of Feng Tu Hong was high.

As Chang's attention was distracted for a split second by this b.l.o.o.d.y sight, the full weight of a gun slammed into the side of his head and he slid into the blackness of h.e.l.l.

27.

September, and hot. Still hot.