The Eleventh Tiger

by David A. McIntee

  ‘That will only get you beaten,’ Fei-Hung murmured. ‘And the Doctor as well.’

  ‘You know he can’t win.’

  ‘I know only that the Doctor is older, and I believe he cannot win. But I cannot know what will happen before it happens. Even the strongest warrior might be beaten by the weakest, if fortune so decides.’

  Ian’s eyes momentarily flicked round to Fei-Hung. ‘That sounds like a very wise attitude.’

  ‘It should be. It’s my father’s. He drums it into all his students in the hope of preventing us from becoming arrogant and overconfident.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem to have made much of an impression on Jiang.’

  Barbara could barely look. She had already seen Ian beaten almost to a pulp, and had no wish to see the same thing happen to the only person who could take them away from here.

  Part of her mind told her the Doctor must have some plan, or that maybe he really did have the ability to match Jiang.

  The old boy could be pretty sprightly when he wanted to, though she knew he always paid for it later. The larger part of her mind, however, simply went along with what her eyes were seeing, as did most people’s.

  She could see an old man who walked with a stick preparing to fight a younger, fitter man who had been training all his adult life, and who had once killed a man with a single kick. She couldn’t understand why the Doctor was going through with this. She had visited Nero’s Rome and there she had watched Ian fight in the Coliseum as a gladiator, under threat of death. There was no such threat here from any authority, so why do it?

  If it were two teenage boys fighting in the Coal Hill School playground she would almost understand. Boys of such an age seemed to have a genetic disposition to proving themselves. The Doctor was a far cry from being a teenage boy, and generally disapproved of violence.

  She bit her tongue to avoid shouting to them to stop this nonsense, just as she would have done at the school back in Shoreditch. She had heard Fei-Hung’s warning to Ian and didn’t want to make the situation any worse. Despite this, she remembered her desire to hit someone when she was tending to the unconscious Ian the previous day. If Jiang brought the Doctor down perhaps she would just give in to that impulse, and see for once what it felt like.

  Vicki watched the two men on the courtyard intently. She would have preferred to watch Fei-Hung knock seven bells out of this Jiang person, and find out whether he was as good as the stories and legends suggested.

  She didn’t mind watching the Doctor fight. For one thing, as Fei-Hung had said, many masters were as old as the Doctor - or perhaps that should be as young as the Doctor appeared to be. She knew he was really much older, though she didn’t know by how much. If forced to guess, she would probably say she thought he must be five hundred years old.

  She didn’t think he was frail, even though he was a demi-millenarian. Over the centuries he must have learnt lots of different things about looking after himself. She had been with him when he had fought off an assassin in Nero’s palace in Rome. Even though the man had been younger and stronger-looking than Jiang, and had been armed with a sword, the Doctor had fought him off with little apparent effort.

  For this reason, and because of his intelligence, she was sure he would beat Jiang. She hoped she was sure.

  Jiang knew he could bring the Doctor down with a good kick to the head, but he doubted that the watching students would see much honour in doing that to the old man. He wanted them to cheer him and accept him as their master, not vilify him. So instead, he started with a punch.

  The Doctor didn’t even try to dodge it, and Jiang doubted that he could. At the instant before his fist would connect with the Doctor’s face, the old man started to lean back and his left hand began to rise. It was too late, in Jiang’s opinion.

  Then the Doctor’s forearm connected with his own, his hand snaking up and around Jiang’s arm. It first went outwards over Jiang’s bicep, then ducked under his armpit, and suddenly the Doctor’s left palm was on Jiang’s chest next to the shoulder. Jiang never even noticed the Doctor’s foot dart out and catch his ankle, because suddenly he was on the ground with blinding agony shooting up his spine from his tailbone.

  As one, the students and staff gasped. Then, slowly, they began to cheer. Fei-Hung could hardly believe his eyes. The Doctor had scarcely so much as moved, and Jiang, one of the best fighters Fei-Hung had seen, was down. Perhaps they did have masters in the west, and the Doctor was one. In any case, his father must have been right after all, to entrust the school into this man’s care.

  Ian regretted ever having doubted the Doctor. He should have known the wily old bird would know how to deal with a situation like this.

  Barbara felt her heart shoot up into her throat when Jiang moved, but then it was floating with elation rather than jumping in alarm.

  Vicki gritted her teeth to avoid letting out a laugh. That would probably have been inappropriate, she thought. The Doctor hadn’t let her down, as she had known he wouldn’t.

  Jiang bit down on the yell that wanted to burst from his lips.

  The pain geysering up from his tailbone was scalding and freezing at the same time.

  The Doctor looked down at him, an infuriating twinkle in his eye. ‘I hope you aren’t hurt too much.’ He reached out a hand. ‘Do you need any help?’

  Jiang swatted the hand away, and rose. He hoped his legs didn’t look as wobbly as they felt. The old bastard had tricked him this time, but he was determined it wouldn’t happen again. ‘You couldn’t hurt me if you tried.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to, dear boy,’ the Doctor said. ‘But this duelling is very dangerous - you might easily hurt yourself.’

  ‘You worry about yourself, Doctor,’ Jiang spat. ‘You were fortunate, and that will save you face.’ He lowered his voice to a threatening mutter. ‘Be thankful that you will not be seen as humiliated. You will die with honour.’

  The Doctor’s expression was mild, understanding and downright irritating. ‘Yes, I suppose I shall. You know, there are laws against giving details of future events to people, hmm?’

  Jiang had no idea what the Doctor was talking about, but was sure it was a deliberate attempt to confuse him and break his concentration. He refused to let this happen.

  ‘Again,’ he said, and lunged at the Doctor, careful to keep his weight moving forward.

  This time the Doctor moved a little more. He caught the wrist behind Jiang’s incoming fist and pulled it towards himself. At the same time, he turned on his heel and slapped Jiang lightly on the back.

  Jiang hit the earth face-first this time. The watching students applauded.

  Jiang sprang to his feet, brushing dirt and pebbles from his face. ‘Fight properly, damn you.’

  ‘And what exactly do you mean by “properly”? Hmm?’ The Doctor’s tone was definitely slightly mocking now. ‘Like you do, I suppose? Well, that type of thing isn’t doing you much good here, is it?’

  Jiang grimaced, his face burning. The old bastard wasn’t even putting in any effort! It was as if he was dismissing Jiang’s very thoughts and instincts, rather than besting him in a proper fight. He decided it was time to forget his magnanimous plans to allow the Doctor an honourable fight.

  He came forward again and lashed out with a foot. It was the type of roundhouse kick that he practised by shattering clay jars of water, and skulls shattered more easily than the jars did.

  This time the Doctor simply dodged back, not trying to stop the kick. This didn’t surprise Jiang too much, as he was certain there was nothing the Doctor could possibly stop the kick with. Even if he blocked it his arm would be broken in the process.

  Jiang’s foot missed the Doctor’s head by inches, and he continued into a spinning back kick. The Doctor kept retreating towards the steps that led up to the veranda. Then he stopped and took up a guarding stance. Jiang felt himself filled with anticipation, and it was like the warmth of a good wine.

  He came forward, starting to kick. Ther
e was a sudden flash in his eyes - the sun reflecting from the Doctor’s ring -

  but it came too late to stop him aiming the kick right at the Doctor’s head.

  The top of Jiang’s foot stopped moving when it impacted, and crushing pain exploded up his leg blasting him to the ground. He writhed in agony, trying to reach his foot with his hands. He could feel the gut-churning sensation of ligaments and muscles tearing. Every movement sent a sympathetic ripple through his bowels.

  The Doctor was looking at him, his head tilted to one side.

  Behind him a solid, hardwood beam, one of many that supported the veranda’s roof, had a bloody mark, and splinters gouged out of it. The Doctor, Jiang realised, had simply positioned himself in front of it and moved his head to let Jiang’s foot hit the wood. The flash from his ring had covered the movement.

  Jiang tried to rise, but his foot just wouldn’t support him.

  ‘I think this duel is over, don’t you?’ the Doctor asked.

  All Jiang could do was curse and nod through the pain.

  2

  Ian could hardly find the words to express himself. ‘Doctor, that was astonishing!’

  Everyone was trying to clap the Doctor on the back, and his fellow time travellers could hardly get near him.

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t have been if I had listened to you, young man,’ the Doctor rebuked him. ‘I told you, dear boy. Brains will always win over brawn. Have you heard of Miyamoto Musashi?’

  Ian shook his head.

  ‘I have,’ Fei-Hung said. ‘He was a Japanese warrior, genera-tions ago.’

  The Doctor gave a pleased nod. ‘That is correct, young man. Musashi once told the story of a situation similar to our own. A farmer came to him to ask his advice about a duel he was to fight. A samurai warrior, who was feared all over the area as an unbeatable fighter, had challenged him over some imaginary insult or other. The farmer was not a warrior and, although he owned a sword, he had never fought with it.

  ‘Musashi told him, “First, accept that you will die tomorrow.”‘

  ‘Cheerful advice,’ Ian said dryly.

  ‘Oh, hush now, Chesterton. He then told the farmer to hold his sword high above his head and, when the samurai stepped forward to strike, to bring the sword down on the top of his head...,’ the Doctor demonstrated, chopping his hand down almost unconsciously, ‘...just like so!’

  ‘What happened?’ Fei-Hung asked.

  ‘On the morning of the duel the farmer waited. When he saw the samurai approaching he held his sword over his head as Musashi had told him. The samurai tried to judge the best way to cut him down. It would be easy - the farmer was no fighter and the samurai could kill him with one blow.

  But to do this he would have to come in under the farmer’s sword, and he knew he would get his head chopped in half if he did.’

  Fei-Hung nodded, understanding. ‘You mean he knew he could kill the farmer, but only at the price of his own life?’

  ‘Yes, exactly! And after spending an hour trying to work out how he could kill the farmer without dying himself he put his sword away and gave up in disgust and went home!’

  The Doctor chuckled, but there was something knowing and calculating about the chuckle. ‘Brains over brawn, you see. Brains over brawn.’ He paused and looked narrowly at Ian. ‘You know, I think I find it quite disappointing that you have such lack of faith.’ He harrumphed.

  ‘Yes, I understand that, but I was thinking about his youth and speed rather than his brawn.’

  ‘And so was he, and that’s what cost him the bout,’ the Doctor chuckled. ‘He was more concerned with doing the thing quickly, than with doing it right.’

  He stepped aside to let a couple of students carry Jiang into the surgery. The defeated man’s eyes were screwed tight shut, his teeth were audibly grinding together. The Doctor stopped the students and examined Jiang’s shattered foot.

  He rattled off a list of words that Ian couldn’t quite catch, and the lead student nodded.

  ‘People like the young man I’ve been fighting tend to think that sophistication is at the heart of power,’ the Doctor said.

  ‘That the most complicated and flashy movements are the best, and that doing them makes them more effective. But that isn’t true. Simplicity is at the heart of power.’

  ‘Simplicity?’ Ian asked.

  ‘Why yes, of course. The more complicated and theatrical a move, the longer it takes to perform. It also requires more concentration, and so is easier to throw off.’

  ‘Well, anyway, you beat him. That’s what matters.’

  The Doctor chuckled. ‘I suppose I should be proud to take the credit, but really he beat himself.’

  ‘He beat himself? You fought him, you won. It was because you were smarter, but you still beat him.’

  The Doctor shook his head, and smiled in a kindly way.

  ‘That young man there beat himself because he expected me to fight back with the same kind of movements as he was using. He acted as he would act against someone who would punch and kick him back, and so wasn’t prepared for my simply acting as a fulcrum, and letting him be a lever.’ He sighed. ‘I suppose I shall now have to waste time treating him, after he’s caused all this bother.’

  The abbot lay at peace, basking in the soft warmth of the girls who shared his bed. There were three, though the bed was large enough for at least twice that number. They were pretty enough, but they didn’t stir his loins and he found that this didn’t trouble him at all. When a woman stole a man’s seed, she stole part of his vital energy, his chi. In many ways the woman was death, if the man was not careful.

  The room was formerly a set of reception rooms for the monastery’s previous abbot. Like so many other people, he would not be complaining about the situation any more.

  ‘My Lord.’ Gao’s voice came through the door. It carried quietly but clearly. ‘The two remaining astrologers have completed their calculations.’

  The abbot slid off the bed and pulled on a robe patterned with lions. His eyes blazed and his voice changed. It emanated from somewhere deep in the hearts of all three monks: the abbot, Gao and, outside, Zhao.

  ‘The stars are right.’

  Kei-Ying handed the final letter to Cheng. Logan thought the Chinese doctor looked ten years older than he had yesterday, after sitting up writing through the night. He couldn’t see himself doing that. It was one of the reasons he had joined the army: to get away from the family accountancy business.

  ‘That one’s for Beggar Soh,’ Kei-Ying said.

  ‘Yes, sifu,’ Cheng said quietly.

  He slipped out.

  Logan went to tell Major Chesterton the news. Chesterton was asleep, another victim of the long night. He hadn’t undressed further than taking off his boots and tunic, and Logan was relieved to see that - in sleep, at least - he was looking less troubled and haggard. As far as he was concerned, a man like Chesterton didn’t deserve such trouble. That was the way of the world as far as he could see

  - the devil looked after his own, and those who were good merely suffered for it.

  He touched Chesterton’s cheek with the back of his first two fingers for a second, then gently shook him awake. ‘Sir,’

  he said.

  ‘Wha...?’

  ‘The letters are on their way.’

  ‘What le...’ Chesterton shook himself. ‘Oh, those letters.

  Right.’ He pulled his boots on and retrieved his tunic, then headed back to Kei-Ying’s cell, with Logan following.

  Kei-Ying was lying on the cot when they reached the cell.

  He yawned. ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen, but even a Tiger must rest from time to time.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Chesterton said. ‘I just wanted to ask if you have any other suggestions.’

  ‘If the Doctor is still alive,’ Kei-Ying said through another yawn, ‘he should be able to help. He is a very intelligent and civilised man, for a gwailo.’

  Logan remembered seeing this doctor the p
revious day. He didn’t know quite what to make of him, but he seemed to have done Chesterton some good and that won him points as far as Logan was concerned.

  ‘All right,’ Chesterton was saying. ‘But on the condition that you tell the truth about the English people at Po Chi Lam.’

  ‘They are my guests, willingly. The Doctor is currently running my surgery. Unless he lost this morning’s duel...’

  ‘And the beaten man?’

  ‘Some drunken dock workers at the Hidden Panda did that.

  I treated him.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  Kei-Ying finally opened his eyes, sat up and looked Chesterton in the eye. ‘As I am given to understand it... he is you.’

  The children had gone and Ian was fetching Barbara some afternoon tea. It was his first day of teaching in two years, and it felt good. He had almost forgotten what it was like, and why he’d chosen teaching as a career.

  An adult student had demonstrated the moves the schedule required the children to do, and Barbara kept them in line. Ian had found himself explaining the workings of fulcrums and leverage, to explain why certain moves worked the way they did. This aspect of martial arts was something that hadn’t occurred to him before, and he wondered if he should take it up if - when - he ever got back to London. He knew of an evening class in judo quite near to his place.

  When he got back with the tea, he found that the Doctor had joined Barbara. ‘That Jiang’s foot isn’t broken,’ he was saying. Just very badly bruised. He’s really quite lucky.’

  ‘Well,’ Barbara said with visible reluctance, ‘I suppose it’s for the best that no-one got really hurt.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

  The Doctor turned to Ian. ‘Since we are already in China I didn’t think Barbara and I would have to wait for you to go to China for the tea.’