The Chinese Vase

by Steve Turnbull

  They came out onto the main field. The Frozen Beauty’s hot air envelopes were completely deflated and Remy had folded them neatly. It was always strange seeing the ship that way, as if she were naked. Set down close by was the Cherry Blossom in Winter; she was the same design as the Beauty, but Captain Han had kept her hydrogen balloons—an extra expense that Qi avoided by using Remy’s hot-air design.

  The Blossom was nearly unloaded. The cargo space was wide and almost warm. Only a few slabs remained. Dock workers exchanged furtive glances, but they knew who Sun was and they would not want to even admit to having seen him.

  She glanced back at Sun. Now that they were inside the ship he had pulled the gun from his pocket and had it pointed at her spine.

  “You really don’t need that.”

  “I will be the judge of that, Zang.”

  She climbed the stairs towards the bridge. Strange, how the staircase differed from the one on her ship. Superficially they were the same, and yet this one moved differently, and creaked on different steps.

  They pushed their way through the ice-lock doors and came into the main cabin. Han was at the chart table, already plotting his route back into the mountains. When he saw Qi enter, he hastily covered the map.

  Ice was a precious commodity. Every captain had favourite sites from which to mine it and, come summer, those sites were even more carefully guarded. Of course, one could collect ice that had already been cut by ground crews. But then one had to have the money to pay them up-front, and there was always the risk they might hijack the ship instead.

  Han came round the table; he spent a long moment looking at the gun in Sun’s hand, then grunted at them. Qi was not sure she’d ever heard him utter more than five words at one time.

  Han turned and bent down behind the chart table. Sun swung his gun round, trained on him. As Han straightened holding two boxes, he frowned at the gun barrel. He placed the boxes on the edge of the chart table, then backed to the window and crossed his arms over his chest, a scowl darkening his face.

  Sun stared at the two boxes. While they were not large, there was no way he would be able to carry them and the gun simultaneously.

  “Would you like me to carry those for you?” Qi asked pleasantly, moving forward to take them.

  Sun jerked the gun up and pointed it at her stomach. “Back off!”

  She did as she was instructed, her hands in front of her defensively. “I was only offering to help.”

  “I do not require your help. I do not trust you, Captain Qi.”

  For which I am truly grateful, she thought to herself.

  Awkwardly Sun managed to scoop up the large boxes. His western suit had become creased, and the rough edges of the boxes dug into it. One wrong move and the material might tear. He rested them on his gun arm, so he could for the most part point the weapon in her direction.

  “Don’t follow me,” he said to her and then glanced at Han. “Keep her here for an hour.”

  Han grunted.

  “What about the Beauty?” Qi said quickly. “I need to be out of here for the next trip.”

  “I’ll send a message, Zang.”

  “Write a letter now.”

  Sun turned and sneered at her. “Don’t you trust me?”

  “Write me a letter now, Sun. You wouldn’t want Captain Han here to think you’re untrustworthy and spread it around, would you? You know how he gossips.”

  Sun returned to the desk, acquired paper and pen from Captain Han, and wrote out his instructions in English. He picked up the boxes again, made his way to the door, and left. Not a word was exchanged.

  As the door swung shut Qi put her hand into a pocket. Han jerked back defensively, then grinned as she pulled out a metal flask. “Scotch?”

  Han grunted.

  xiii

  Kuan-Yin Sun emerged from the cargo hold of the Blossom, awkwardly carrying the two boxes. He co-opted one of the ground crew to carry them for him. From his place at the whist game, Fanning watched as Sun adjusted the weight of his gun in his pocket as he strode between the buildings towards the main exit.

  Fanning put down his cards on the tea chest they were using as a table and made quick good-byes to the other players. They were not pleased at his sudden departure; there was money they wanted to win back. Fanning tore himself away with hasty promises of his return as Sun disappeared from view.

  As Fanning rounded the building he saw that Sun was getting away from him. The lad put on a spurt of speed. He was fairly sure that Sun wouldn’t recognise him, but it would not look good if Sun noticed him in pursuit. As long as Sun didn’t turn around, there wouldn’t be a problem.

  Looking ahead towards the main entrance, he was pleased to see an open carriage waiting just beyond the wrought-iron gates. A woman held the reins. Good, she had arrived.

  There had been no certainty she would be brave enough to come at all. This was not a task for the faint-hearted, but the rewards would be worth it, and now she had a personal stake in getting Frozen Beauty into the air.

  Once outside the gates Sun hailed a hansom cab, gave the dock-worker something for his trouble, and climbed in with his boxes. Mrs Cameron looked delightful in the afternoon sunlight, in her cream and blue dress and matching bonnet with a veil pulled down over her left eye. That she should be married to such a man was a terrible crime and one they could now put right.

  The hansom cab drew away; Sun must have given the driver instructions to move quickly, but Fanning was not too concerned. He had a pretty good idea which direction the criminal would be heading.

  On seeing him approaching the gates, Mrs Cameron urged her horse into motion. As the carriage passed, Fanning swung up into the seat beside her. If she were not a married woman he would be happy with a kiss from those sweet lips.

  She caught him staring, but he didn’t look away as would have been polite. He wasn’t British, so he just grinned—and she blushed.

  “Follow that hansom, Mrs Cameron.”

  She focused her attention on the road, gave the reins a flick, and the pony stepped up its gait to a fast trot. Her driving skills equalled those of the cabbie. Fanning looked behind and saw another carriage following them. Men overflowed its seats, hanging from the sides and back. If he was not mistaken, one of those clinging to the side was the estimable Constable Templeton.

  They followed the cab through the streets of Delhi. The cab kept to the main streets and avoided the more dangerous areas. The streets were not busy, but there was sufficient traffic to disguise their pursuit.

  * * * * *

  Kuan-Yin Sun sat back in the hansom cab. He should be pleased with himself; he had succeeded in making Qi Zang toe the line. If just one of these pilots got away with public disobedience, there would be no end of trouble.

  He should be pleased, but he was not. Something was wrong. It was a feeling deep inside, a disturbance in his chi. Qi Zang had always had this effect on him, even before her father had died.

  She rebelled against everything. Even the social station of a woman. Her father had been of a good family, and yet he had not bound her feet. She walked like a man. She dressed like a man.

  And yet, Sun still lusted after her. He liked to think that he was above such things but he was not fool enough to be dishonest with himself. Despite her social disobedience—perhaps because of it—he was attracted to her.

  He pushed the thought aside. This was not important. What was important now lay beneath his hand. He had regained the property he required in spite of her—and still he felt uncomfortable.

  The hansom cab left the commercial district, crossed the river, and climbed into the better quality residences. The Family provided a decent property for him; it was not his own, but as long as he maintained control it would remain in his possession.

  He entered the main living room and had his man place the boxes on a table that had been covered with a rough cloth to protect its polished surface. Pulling Han’s box in front of him, he prised open the lid and pull
ed out a beautiful small statue of Confucius, the architect of Modern China. It was a good piece and would sell quite well.

  Then came Qi’s box, the battle he had had to get it made it seem more valuable. He lifted the lid and ran his hands through the protective straw; his fingers touched something small with a cool, smooth surface. Carefully he brought it out into the light: A delicate vase, Meiping if he was not mistaken, with strong blues showing the signs of the zodiac. No wonder Qi had wanted to hang on to it; this would fetch a very pretty price, enough for several trips.

  Or it would have, if Qi had sold it herself.

  A sudden banging on the door interrupted his thoughts. Sun frowned. He wanted to set the vase on the desk and enjoy its aesthetic Beauty for a time. This was one piece that would be going into his private collection.

  The banging repeated and then ceased. His manservant came through almost at a run, with a westerner in a cheap suit directly behind him and, following him, two uniformed police officers.

  The manservant threw himself to the floor in prostration.

  “Kuan-Yin Sun? I am arresting you for the theft of certain valuable properties.”

  Sun felt a wave of fear run through him. Theft? Yes, of course, there was theft but not from anyone in Delhi. What trick was this?

  The fellow in the suit strode over and looked down at the vase on the table. He gestured behind him and an Englishwoman came forward, accompanied by a boy—no, a girl. Another abominable female dressed in men’s clothing.

  “Mrs Cameron, do you see anything you recognise in this room?”

  The woman stood with head downturned, hands clutched to keep them from shaking. Sun relaxed; he fixed her with his gaze, sneered, and drew his hands into fists. At that she lifted her head, and her gaze became harder, more certain. She looked directly at the vase on the table between them. Sun frowned. She wouldn’t dare.

  She raised her arm and pointed at the vase. “That belongs to my husband.”

  xiv

  Captain Qi Zang stood on the bridge of the Frozen Beauty. The deck throbbed with the power of the furnace. She could feel the ship coming alive as the super-heated steam flowed through the pipes and into the seven balloons, heating the air and expanding it until the envelopes bulged with lift.

  The generators hummed. The Faraday grid was ready to receive the electrical power that would cancel out gravity and allow them to lift.

  The ship was ready to depart, but they were forced to wait. Out on the field a horse-drawn hansom rolled towards them at a rapid pace, carrying the passenger and the new crew member.

  * * * * *

  The cabbie brought the rig round the Frozen Beauty at an angle, so the blinkered horse would not be scared by the shifting and twisting balloons above the ship.

  Smoke pumped steadily from the stack and steam escaped from some of the pipe joints. The ship appeared to be making ready to lift. It was not that Fanning disbelieved Captain Qi—she knew the captain would wait, as she had given her word—but Fanning had been betrayed more than once in both her lives, and the experiments of Dr Munroe had not been the first of those betrayals. Trusting did not come easily any longer.

  The hansom came to a stop and Fanning swung down, holding out a hand to assist Mrs Cameron so that she did not trip on the hem of her long and impractical dress.

  The woman looked at the Beauty with some concern. It was true the ship was not a passenger vessel and would not provide all the comforts of home. But it was an escape from her boorish and dangerous husband. The captain had offered Mrs Cameron—Beatrice—free passage to any port in exchange for her assistance in saving the Beauty from the hands of Kuan-Yin Sun.

  Fanning went to the back of the hansom where the driver had unloaded the baggage. One small case for Fanning, and two cases and a trunk for Beatrice. Fanning piled the cases on the trunk and, with the driver, lifted them all together and headed for the ship.

  Beatrice lifted one of the smaller cases from the trunk. It did not make a great deal of difference to the bearers, but they smiled politely regardless.

  * * * * *

  Mrs Beatrice Cameron stared at the gaudily coloured ship; the entire hull had been painted in bright blue with flowing white figures, accented by flowers and Chinese characters in brilliant red. Fanning had told her the vessel was christened the Frozen Beauty; the colours reminded her of winter snow and ice and blood. It had been years since Jeremy had brought her out to India, and that long since she had seen a real winter. Delhi was hot all the time, and worse when it rained.

  She glanced up as she saw a movement against the blue sky. A man stood on the top deck, looking down. She looked away in embarrassment. He was stripped to the waist, revealing lithe musculature. He did not look at all rough, and both the hair on his head and his moustache were neatly trimmed in a cut she thought might be French.

  They moved into the shadow of the ship and out of the sun. From a wide door—presumably used when loading and unloading the ice—a thin man in British army khaki scurried. His bold moustache would have suited any military man. Thankfully he was wearing a shirt, albeit with rolled-up sleeves, undone at the neck and discoloured with his perspiration.

  So many men, almost pirates, and she was willingly going on board. Still, Fanning said the captain was a woman. That idea still resounded in Beatrice’s mind: The captain is a woman. And a Chinese. A woman in charge of a sky vessel. It was like a story. As if she had opened a book by H G Wells, Conan Doyle or Jules Verne, and stepped into its pages.

  Fanning and the driver put down the trunk. The wiry man took the driver’s place; his muscles bulged as he lifted the weight at his end. Fanning once again took the strain at the other.

  Beatrice caught herself staring again. What would Jeremy say?

  Her thoughts lingered briefly on her ne’er-do-well husband. It did not matter what Jeremy thought anymore. He was just a memory. Let him see how he would manage without her support. She was taking ship with ice pirates.

  * * * * *

  Captain Qi was informed that the passengers’ gear had been stowed. Accommodations had been tricky to organise, as they only had one spare cabin and it was quite small. In the end she had decided to put Fanning in that one, and have Mrs Cameron share with her.

  It was better than the other way around. Though it was clear Fanning had the body of a woman, she insisted on behaving like a man, which made bunking with her ... him ... feel somewhat awkward.

  Both of them stood on the bridge behind her.

  Otto had programmed the Babbage and a course had been decided. Steam pressure was high; Monsieur Darras reported the balloon envelopes to be tight.

  “Faraday in one minute,” she said. Dingbang operated the steam klaxon that sounded both inside and outside the ship. The ground crew released the remaining hawsers at the prow and stern. Tying the ship down was an antiquated concept, since the vessel would go nowhere until the Faraday was engaged. Still, the British felt better following their rules—no matter how out of date.

  The letter written by Kuan-Yin Sun had ordered the Frozen Beauty restocked and refuelled. With the money they had made from selling the vase, even after having paid Mrs Cameron her share, they could afford to seek new trading grounds without taking a cargo this time around.

  But it just felt wrong for a trading vessel to travel without a cargo, so she had managed to get some trade goods to carry south. Their first stop would be Kerala, on the southeast coast.

  “Captain?”

  Ding broke her out of her reverie; the minute was long past. At her signal he gave another quick burst on the klaxon. She counted to ten and engaged the Faraday device.

  She felt the comforting lightening and the ship floated up from the ground, gathering speed. Qi engaged the driving rotors. The Beauty, light of any significant cargo, shot away like a tiger through the grass.

  As Qi spun the helm the ship turned like a sailing vessel in a strong breeze, leaping away to the south. And Qi’s heart leapt with her.
/>   .

  ~ end ~

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  About the Author

  When he's not sitting at his computer building websites for national institutions and international companies, Steve Turnbull can be found sitting at his computer building new worlds of steampunk, science fiction and fantasy.

  Technically Steve was born a cockney but after five years he was moved out from London to the suburbs where he grew up and he talks posh now. He's been a voracious reader of science fiction and fantasy since his early years, but it was poet Laurie Lee's autobiography "Cider with Rosie" (picked up because he was bored in Maths) that taught him the beauty of language and spurred him into becoming a writer, aged 15. He spent twenty years editing and writing for computer magazines while writing poetry on the side.

  Nowadays he writes screenplays (TV and features), prose and code.