Heart of Iron - Ekaterina Sedia [70]
Our interlocutor and his companion traded a quick look. “No, of course not,” the one who had remained quiet so far said in fairly good English.
“You have long hair instead of shaved temples and queue,” Jack said.
“My father died,” said Kuan Yu.
“Mine too,” added his companion. “We are not Christian. You’re Christian, you’re an Englishman.”
Jack nodded.
“Funny,” said the second man. “There were other English at the station with us, and now I don’t know where they went.”
“There were?” Jack and I said in one voice.
“Yes,” the man said. “My name is Liu Zhi.”
“Nice to meet you,” Jack said, but already his gaze drifted toward the doors of the carriage.
We did not have to wait long—the door opened, and eight men, dressed in civilian clothing, tweed and fur collared-cloaks, filed in. In the narrow corridor of the couchette carriage, their numbers would be of no advantage, I thought, even if they noticed us. To prevent such recognition, I wrapped my shoulders in my pelisse and acted as if I were asleep sitting up, my head resting against the windowpane. Jack’s gray eyes flicked toward me, and he shot me a quick smile as he unrolled his Dick Turpin booklet.
The Englishmen looked at all the passengers as they passed; I could not see through the walls of the compartments, of course, but I could see their slow progress down the corridor, their heads swinging to the right and then left. I peeked out of the compartment, and wished we had chosen the sleeping carriage with closing doors; it was Jack who objected to those, on account of avoiding potential traps.
The first of the Englishmen reached us. I saw the back of his head as it swiveled to look at the Chinese. He had tiny black hairs on the back of his neck, fine as cat fur, bristling over the white scarf he wore over the ruddy pelt of his fur collar. When he turned toward us, my gaze drifted toward the letter in my lap. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Jack sink lower in his seat, slouching forward and hunching over.
The man did not move on; he remained where he was, staring at us. When the silence became uncomfortable and I looked up, reluctantly meeting the stare of his pale watery eyes. “May I help you, sir?” I said in my most masculine voice.
He smiled slowly and gave a half-turn half-nod to his accomplices. While his back was turned, Jack sprung. He lacked grace, but he made up this shortcoming in raw power. He barreled into the man and sent him stumbling backward, into the arms of his colleagues.
Someone in the front end of the carriage screamed, and there was a shuffling of steps as passengers fled the carriage. Soon, it would be just the two of us, eight Englishmen, and nowhere to run. Jack, however, was undeterred by the circumstance. He strained like a man trying to single-handedly move a heavy piano, pushing the knot of Englishmen back the way they had come in.
A shot rang out. I smelled smoke, and the acrid scent of burning sulfur and paper. I unsheathed my dead uncle’s saber and made my way into the narrow corridor.
I wanted to help Jack, but there was no getting around him to reach the struggling Englishmen. I was so intent on finding a way to circumvent him that I did not immediately notice both of the Chinese gentlemen had arisen as well, their fur cloaks donned anew.
“Stand aside,” one of them shouted. I obeyed on instinct, falling into one of the empty couchette compartments as they pushed past me. I expected them to be stopped by the obstacle of Jack as I had, but instead—I do not quite know how to describe it, since my eyes refused to believe the sight—they leapt into the air and sailed with the slow grace of birds riding air currents, over Jack and the Englishmen he was struggling with, and landed softly on the far side of Nightingale’s agents.
Confused shouting and thrashing of limbs filled the end of the corridor, and the fur of the Chinamen’s cloaks became quite animated—I saw it rise above the commotion