Heart of Iron - Ekaterina Sedia [47]
“I have not seen them,” I said. “I heard they escaped unharmed—I only pray they have reached their . . . your homeland by now. The man who saved them and me is my friend; he’s English. I don’t understand all of it, but the English are more influential in St. Petersburg than Russian aristocracy.”
He shook his head, mournful. “There are only two ways in which the English relate to the world—they either take what they want or they destroy what they don’t.”
“Not Mr. Bartram,” I said, rather defensively. “You see, he agrees the Opium War was a disgrace for his countrymen. In fact, he is helping me, and we are going to go to China, and . . . ”
“You must speak more slowly,” Wong Jun said. “And keep your voice down.”
I hesitated, realizing that if Wong Jun had a chance to buy his freedom in exchange for information, everything I told him could be just as well printed in the newspapers. Still, there didn’t seem to be anything to gain by not asking questions he had answers to. I sighed and related the plan Jack and I had devised with, omitting the details and keeping the general thrust—that is, our need to go to China and to reach someone in the position to gain the emperor’s attention.
Wong Jun listened thoughtfully, his eyebrows doming occasionally as if he were troubled. He made a sound only once—a small, disappointed moan when the fate of Crane Club slipped through my lips.
“I’m so sorry,” I said then. “But you do see why it is important. The English have your airship models.”
He looked at me as if my words made no sense. “Those were not secrets, they were there for display. No one had to steal them, they could go in and see.”
“But if they want to make something that works, they would need the models,” I said. I remembered my visit with Eugenia to the factory in Tosno, the ill-fated airship. I wondered what happened to it, if there were any more.
Wong Jun nodded. “I see. If something isn’t a secret, it doesn’t mean it cannot be stolen and used. I do have to say I think your idea to ally our countries against the British is a good one—China would certainly benefit from not having Russia as an enemy. And I will be able to help you. Do you have any paper? I used up my monthly allowance on poetry.” He gave a dry smile. I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not.
I rifled through my handbag, and found the programme from a chamber music concert Jack and I had attended recently. Fortunately, the reverse side of it was blank, and I handed it to Wong Jun. Under his bed, he kept an inkwell filled with black ink and a brush—just a piece of bamboo splintered into fibers on one end. With these simple implements, Wong Jun started drawing symbols similar to those I’d seen at the Crane Club, but of course could not read. When he was finished, he handed me the paper and I folded it, feeling rather like either Rosencrantz or Guildenstern.
“What does it say?” I asked.
“Just show it to any official you see,” he said. “Or rather any who wear Manchu robes—Ming loyalists and most other Han are idiots, and they may decide this letter has better uses than helping two Europeans, one of whom is . . . English.” He said “English” as if it was the most distasteful word in the world. “But you need to get to a real official with that, understand? They will take you to the Xian Feng Emperor—I wrote that it is the matter of our country’s very survival. I wrote that you would help us stop the East India Company. Don’t make me into a liar.”
His smile, hidden by his beard so that only the corners of his eyes creased and his mustache lifted a bit, was unexpected but welcome. I had not realized how tense my back was, how tightly my hands clenched on my jacket sleeves until I smiled back and heaved a sigh of relief. “It’s a tall order, but we will do our best. Meanwhile, my aunt will keep asking for your release.”
“Please convey my deepest thanks to your aunt.” Wong Jun smiled still.