Doctor Who_ Foreign Devils - Andrew Cartmel [2]
He knew it because he had the same identical image tattooed on his
torso, winding up over his chest and onto his back. How strange. The same creature exactly. The coincidence seemed somehow menacing. A cold sweat began flowing down Upcott's ribs, over the colours of that very tattoo. He told himself not to be a fool. It was merely a traditional design. The coincidence meant nothing.
'Tea will be brought to us shortly,' said the Chinaman, breaking the silence. 'I trust you will enjoy my modest offering of hospitality.' 'You can keep your tea,' said Upcott. 'It's not tea I've come here to talk about.' 'No?' His host smiled.
'No, it's not tea that brought me out this afternoon with the streets
so unsafe. Tea doesn't yield the sort of profits a businessman in my
position demands.'
'Naturally not,' agreed his host.
'My reason for coming here is the same as the reason the streets aren't safe,' said Upcott, smiling at his own wit in noting the parallel. 'Not safe? Really?'
'No. I've got a mob of rioters and troublemakers foaming at the mouth outside the Concession. They've been massing there since dawn and they don't show any signs of going away.'
'And to what do you attribute this minor inconvenience?'
'The activities of the Emperor and his blessed Chief Astrologer, bloody well stirring up trouble again.'
'Ah,' murmured his host. 'The Chief Astrologer. A most interesting man, I believe.'
'Well, he's helping the Emperor kick up a most interesting stink.'
'What a splendid witticism!' exclaimed the Chinaman.
Upcott's brows knotted with suspicion. Was he being mocked? 'What do you mean?'
'Oh, I assumed you knew. It seems the Chief Astrologer has prepared a special mixture to burn, a kind of offertory incense. Which is what I thought you meant by an interesting stink. It is supposed to assist in driving out the Foreign Devil.'
'Which is me, I suppose,' said Upcott. 'What exactly is this mixture?'
'Ginseng, asafoetida, gun powder . . . who knows? I imagine anything that will burn and create smoke with a suitably pungent odour, thus providing the sort of spectacle that will impress and gull the credulous.'
'Gunpowder eh? That must be what I scented on the way here. It's all around the Concession, a billowing great mass of smoke. I thought it was some kind of ground mist.'
'No,' said the Chinaman, shaking his head good naturedly and causing his jowls to wobble. 'Not mist. A smoke created by this charlatan of an Astrologer in his no doubt wholly futile and extravagantly implausible attempt to drive out the European trading interests.' 'Which again is me,' said Upcott. 'Which brings us to the subject of our meeting here today.' 'Opium,' murmured his host smoothly.
'Exactly,' said Upcott. 'The reason for the riots and the reason I'm here. In your letter you said you were interested in buying from me, in bulk and at a premium price.'
'Oh yes,' the man nodded. 'I am sure I will have no difficulty in offering you a better price than any of your other competitors. I have enormous resources at my disposal. You might say they are unlimited.' The Englishman suppressed a rising, euphoric excitement. If this slippery yellow customer could really offer a higher buying price – say as much as twenty per cent higher than he was getting elsewhere – then it meant Upcott could retire and return to England in no more than two years. Perhaps a year and a half. To be in England again, with a suitable fortune tucked away! And to be shot of this Godforsaken land . . .
The aroma of roast pork in the room had gradually become almost unbearable to a man with Upcott's healthy, not to say ravenous, appetite. But now, as it were, he smelled another aroma which awoke another, even more powerful appetite. He smelled money, and his enormous dormant greed awoke.
He immediately