by Tim Marquitz
He moved to the tall cabinet and rifled through the drawers, relying on touch more than sight. Starting at the top he worked his way down. The first, layer upon layer of cloth, folded clothes and robes. The second and third drawers were the same. In the bottom drawer he found what he sought. A flint and steel sparker, a candle, and a sealed box of matches.
Jing Ke knelt down and placed the candle upright on the floor. He broke the seal on the matches and pulled out a few of the small sulphur dipped sticks. The sparker he raised up before his eyes and examined it in the dim light that slipped through the gap between door and floor. A single, bent and twisted piece of metal designed to be held in one hand. To the bottom arm, a rough steel pad had been attached. Held in the top arm, a piece of flint. Squeeze the hand grip and release. The flint moved back and forth, scraping over the steel causing sparks to fly. It took a few goes but at last the sparks caught on a match and Jing Ke had created fire.
With the light from the candle, he inspected the man’s wound. The flow of blood had slowed and his eyes were open. Jing Ke waved the flame in the man’s field of vision and saw the pupils sluggishly dilate. Gripping the hilt of the dagger with his free hand, he made ready to pull it free. The man groaned in pain. The dagger was stuck fast in the ribs, having entered with the blade vertical rather than horizontal.
“They’ll be searching,” the man wheezed.
“I know,” Jing Ke said and glanced towards the door. It was tempting to bar the door, but dragging the cabinets across the room would make too much noise and alert any guards. The bamboo screens might be strong enough, but there was nowhere to brace them.
“Where did it go wrong?” the man whispered again.
“Everywhere, Ren. Everywhere,” Jing Ke answered. He sat on the edge of the bed, thinking. It had gone wrong right from the start, a month ago and he cursed himself for a fool.
He had been sitting in a restaurant enjoying a meal with an attractive lady. She claimed to be of noble birth but was, Jing Ke knew, the current mistress of the local lord. It was the lord’s wife who had hired him to find the lady and kill her. Creeping into her home and killing her there would have been easy. A poisoned needle during an accidental bump on a busy market day would have been child’s play. That was no challenge. A nice meal, pleasant company and the successful culmination of his contract would be a good end to his time in this provincial town.
He spent most of the meal being charming, staying in character as a travelling historian and scribe. A man who had spent time in the court of every rich noble between here and the capital. He told her stories of his time in the Holy City. No one could have called him a liar, such was the detail he could recall and describe. She believed every word. The look of desire in her eyes was plain. The things he told her would be useful to a woman seeking to advance her social standing and wealth through, and here he felt generous towards her, romance.
“It is getting late,” he had said as their meal drew to close.
“Must you leave tomorrow?” she had asked.
“I am afraid so, dear lady.” He offered her an apologetic gesture. “I have a commission, back in the capital city that I must attend to. I stand to earn enough to buy a house in the city itself and give up my life of wandering. Once I have the seal of the Emperor on my work I can command the highest prices.”
“Aren’t you a little young to be working for the Emperor?” she asked and a wisp of suspicion drifted through her eyes.
“Better to be rich and young, than rich and old,” he had said and leaned back in his chair letting a smug grin form upon his face. “I get to enjoy the money for longer.”
“I’ve always wanted to the see the capital and the wonders of the court,” she had said, the gleam of greed back in her eyes, suspicion banished by the dream of gold.
“Then you should go, my pretty lady. It is a wonder behold. Everyone should see the capital once in their lifetime.” He took a sip of his rice wine and then, using the fine clay flask, refilled their cups.
“But where would I stay? The capital is said to be unfriendly to strangers and,” she paused, tilting her head down, away from him and her long black hair fell across her forehead. A veil over her eyes and face, “a woman travelling alone is not seemly. If I only had somewhere to stay, I would go tomorrow.”
Jing Ke saw the obvious response but waited, letting the moment hang on the air. He watched her chest rise and fall in shallow breaths, her fingers tremble. She turned back towards him, which he judged to be the perfect moment to say, “You could always stay with me.”
And now it was her turn to make him wait. The suggestion dangled between them, held up by the twin fingers of greed and desire. Jing Ke did not look away. Giving her instead, a brazen stare. Now was not the time for timidity or nerves. What the moment needed was an aura of calm confidence and a smile that said, ‘I know exactly what you offered and I am happy to oblige.’
“Perhaps,” she smiled at him, “we could discuss this a little more.”
“I would be happy to.” He nodded in agreement. “But not here. How about I walk you home and we can talk on the way.”
And so he had. And, as expected, the conversation on the way home turned into an offer of a bed for the night. She stepped through the door of her home with a little sashay of her hips, the robe pulling tight across her shapely behind. He followed, a smile upon his face which died a moment later when the sharp, cold blade of a sword kissed his neck. He froze. Another sword blade, the point this time, prodded him in the chest and a third jabbed into his ribs.
“Not the kind of pricking I had expected tonight,” he said when it was clear that the swords were not going to be driven home.
“Just shut up and listen,” the man holding the sword to his neck said. “We have a job for you.”
“I have a job,” Jing Ke said, “but if you need some legal scribing done, you could have just asked.”
The pressure of the sword on his neck increased.
“Do not play the fool, Jing Ke.”
At the sound of his real name, a shudder ran through his body. These men were not here to simply rob him or rape the girl. They knew who he was and, for a man who relied on secrecy, it was a discomforting thought. He glanced at the men who had him caught between their swords. Without moving his head, it was impossible to see the third man, but he could guess his position. He took a deep breath and shifted feet a little, the dust under foot made scratching noises on the tiled floor.
“Don’t,” the man said. “We have a job for you and it pays well.”
“And I get my finder’s fee,” the woman said with a smile.
“I have a job,” Jing Ke said.
“We know,” the man grinned, turned, and sliced his sword across the woman’s neck. “And now, your job is complete you are free to take another. Will you accompany us to meet our employer?”
And he had gone. Always complete your own tasks his father had taught him. That way you’ll know it was done properly. He had not. A mistake.
Jing Ke rose from the bed and went back to the door. There was quiet outside so he cracked it open and let the small noises filter in. On the edge of hearing where imagination plays tricks, he could detect the beginnings of alarm in the guests downstairs.
“They’ll be here soon,” the dying man whispered.
“I know,” Jing Ke said, returning to sit on the bed. He reached over and placed two fingertips against the man’s neck, checking his pulse. It was weak and irregular. “It won’t be long. Hang on.”
The job had brought him back home, and that was wrong too. A place he had not been for more years than he wanted to remember and had left for reasons he likewise did not wish to recall. The job itself, a case of petty revenge. His employer, a vain man who wanted to make a point. Jing Ke could still see the droplets of sweat as they rolled down the man’s podgy, pockmarked cheeks.
“You want me to kill him?” Jing Ke asked. The three men escorted him to a rich tavern in the centre of
town. They relieved him of his knife and, feeling secure, sheathed their swords. Once inside they went straight up the stairs, expecting Jing Ke to follow, and wound their way through the crowded tables to a fat, sweaty man. He waited at the bottom of the stairs and watched their conversation, noting the consternation and anger on their faces and finally, the beckoning hand of the fat man summoning him. Jing Ke permitted himself a fleeting smile at the small victory and proceeded up the stairs.
“I do,” the fat man said from his seat before a table laden with every dish and drink the tavern had to offer. Jing Ke had sat opposite and helped himself to a little of the food. It was, he decided, not too bad. Not the best he had ever tasted, but not too bad.
“Why don’t you do it?” Jing Ke lifted a little shredded chicken covered in a thick dark sauce to his lips and took a bite. He dropped the rest into the bowl of rice whilst he chewed.
“Me?” The fat man’s eyes widened in surprise.
“You have the men to do it.” Jing Ke pointed with the chopsticks.
“I can’t do it. A man such as I does not do his own dirty work.”
“But you want everyone to know it was by your hand?”
“Yes. I want them to know. I want them to fear me and know how far my reach extends. I do not want any hard evidence to leading back to me. Accusations without proof will just help build my reputation.” The man picked up his own bowl of rice in chubby fingers and shovelled a mouthful of rice into his thick-lipped mouth.
“How much?” Jing Ke asked selecting another piece of meat.
“Twice the pay of your last job.”
The chopsticks paused on the way to his mouth. He looked over the table at the fat man. A drop of sauce dripped from the meat and stained the tablecloth below.
“If that is your best offer then I’ll thank you for the food and wish you a good night.” Jing Ke stood to leave. The guards gave their employer a startled glance and moved to intercept. “Call them off. It will do your reputation no good to have your three men killed in front of all these rich people.”
The enforcers halted at the raised hand of the fat man.
“Four times.”
“Make it five and expenses,” Jing Ke said without turning back to the table.
There was a heavy sigh from behind.
“Agreed.”
“Excellent,” Jing Ke said. “I think I might have some more of that chicken.”
“We have a man on the inside,” the fat man said.
“I work alone.”
“Not on this job. You’ll need his help to get into the house.”
And that was wrong too. Your tasks and your choices are your own, his father always said. The old man had been wiser than the son had given credit.
The man on the bed gasped in pain and sucked in a wet breath. Jing Ke turned and rested a hand on Ren’s uninjured shoulder.
“Stay still, Ren,” he said in a quiet, comforting voice. “Try not to move. They’ll find us soon.”
And they would. He could hear the thumps and bumps of search parties combing the floor below. Before long there would be footsteps on the stairs, a lot of shouting and the doors would start to open. Once they did, it would be a matter of moments before they were discovered.
Earlier tonight the guards at the gate had seen his invitation and waved his carriage through into the grounds of the tiered pagoda mansion. The thick door opened at his approach and the nán guǎn jiā, the chief of the household, held out his hand for the invitation. Jing Ke handed it over and the man bowed in acknowledgement, standing aside to allow him in.
The gathering was already underway. A small group of musicians played in the corner, a Gugin, the long stringed instrument, picked out a melody whilst the Erhu offered the overarching tone and a Ruan, a round bodied instrument with a long neck, picked out the notes in between. The current song, which Jing Ke remembered from his youth, was from the north of the Empire, a more rustic and up-tempo tune than the complicated southern pieces currently in fashion. He liked it and found his fingers tapping along as he moved through the crowd.
“I don’t believe I have seen you before, honoured sir,” said a man who appeared, through the mass of people, at his elbow.
“Indeed not,” Jing Ke said in reply. “I only arrived in the capital two days ago.”
“Truly?” the man said. His clothes spoke of a man who was moderately successful and likely, given the braiding on the front, a mid-ranking administrator of a semi-important family in the capital. Gone were the days when Jing Ke could tell, at a glance, who was who. He hoped that no one in the room would be able identify him.
“Yes,” Jing Ke completed the agreed code of introduction, “I came in from the north. The winters are too cold to suffer through.”
The administrator smiled. “Let’s go and get a drink.”
“I’d prefer to get this over and done with,” Jing Ke said with an open smile, placing a familiar hand on the other’s shoulder.
“He isn’t down yet,” the man took him by the elbow and guided him over to the drinks. “We need it to be public.”
Jing Ke gave the other guests, who caught his eye, a smile and a nod. With the number of guests it was likely that many were strangers to each other. He chose a porcelain cup of wine, its traditional blue and white flower design a reminder that he was home.
“It doesn’t need to be public. The message just needs to be heard by the right person,” Jing Ke said and took a sip of wine. It was good. He raised the cup to the administrator, nodding his approval. “Where is he?”
The fake-administrator gave him a worried glance. It was possible Jing Ke supposed that he could be a real administrator in the city. It would make his presence here logical and believable.
“Upstairs somewhere,” the man said. “He likes to make an entrance. You can bet he has it timed for the end of the last song. It will be some rousing number and then we’ll all turn to see him at the top of the stairs.”
Jing Ke turned a questioning gaze upon him.
“I’ve been to a few of these before,” the administrator said.
“Then let’s go do it now,” Jing Ke said. The administrator looked around the room, seeking something. Whatever it was, Jing Ke could decide whether he found it or not. The man made his decision, sighed and motioned with his head towards the stairs.
Up they went, stepping around other guests coming down the stairs. There were still more people on the first floor. Down the corridor they walked. Whenever his contact saw someone he knew they would stop and talk about trade, the current state of the war in Wubei, or exchanged court gossip. Each time, Jing Ke smiled and responded when asked a question. He was polite but non-committal.
“Where is he?” Jing Ke asked after another of the guests had imparted his view that the new trade tax the government were about to impose was merely another way to make the hard-working merchant who were, after all, the lifeblood of trade in the city, pay even more for the privilege.
“Two floors up, I think,” his contact said.
“You think?” Jing Ke rounded on the man. In this line of work accurate information was a better weapon than a sharp knife. It was the difference between success and failure. Life and death. Do your own chores, take responsibility for your own tasks, the memory of his father told him.
“I am sure of it,” the contact said. “The third floor is where you’ll find the guest rooms. I bet quite a few are in use already, the host provides a diversion or two for the more discerning guests. The floor above is where the family have their rooms.”
“How many rooms and which one is his?” Jing Ke resumed his journey towards the stairs. The administrator fell into step beside him.
“I don’t know, I couldn’t exactly ask anyone.” The man smiled at him. Jing Ke returned it with a scowl.
“We’ll have to search, room by room.” And with each door the chance of being spotted would increase. Once spotted, the whole plan would go out of the window.
The t
hird floor was marked by closed doors. As they ascended the stairs, a few bold, appraising looks were cast their way. Jing Ke ignored them. His contact did not take the same approach and smiled, waved, and winked at those who gave them frank gaze.
They had padded, side by side, down the corridor towards the next set of stairs. Faint cries of pleasure mixed with an occasional yelp of pain sounded from behind the closed doors. The administrator wanted to stop and listen at the each one. It took a firm tug on his arm to keep him moving.
Up another flight of stairs and they were on the correct floor. Unlike the two below which had a basic straight corridor arrangement, this floor was a maze. The corridors were short and led off in every direction. After a door or two they turned at right angles, out of view.
“We split up and search,” Jing Ke said. He drew a dagger from under his robe and held it reversed, the blade tucked up against his forearm. Hidden. Ready.
“Good idea,” the man said and started off to the left. Jing Ke shook his head at his companion’s back. He watched the administrator check the first door by opening it, ducking his head in and back out. He shook his head again, the man thought this was some sort of game.
Jing Ke turned away and headed off down his own corridor. At each door, he stopped and placed his ear against it, listening for noises beyond. When he was sure it was quiet, he carried out a visual check, but unlike his guide, he opened the door and moved in, closing it behind him. Every room was empty.
The target had to be in one of them, but after the sixth door, Jing Ke was beginning to think that maybe his informant was wrong. Perhaps, the right thing to do was to kill his guide, dump his body in one of the empty rooms and leave. There would be another chance to get to the real target another day. It was tempting.