The Eleventh Tiger (22 page)

He came forward, starting to kick. There 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.

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 previous 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.’

‘It’s been a busy day, Doctor, as I’m sure you understand.

One minute those kids are just running around chaotically, but the next minute they’re focused and everybody’s kung-fu fighting.’

‘Those kids are as fast as lightning,’ Barbara added.

The Doctor raised his eyebrows. ‘Are they indeed? And was it, perchance, dear boy, a little bit frightening? Hmm?’

‘I wouldn’t like to try to control a playground full of them,’

Ian admitted. ‘But I don’t think the word -’

A distant thud and a cry of pain silenced him. It had come from the far end of the west wing. Ian was on his feet at once, and ran to see what had happened. Jiang was hauling himself through a window, and not quite managing to stifle his cries as he moved his swollen foot. Ian sprinted through the hall towards him, arms outstretched to grab Jiang and pull him back in.

He was just too late. He saw Jiang limping towards the corner of the grounds where the wall was lowest and tried to squeeze through a window, but it was just a little too narrow and he couldn’t get through. He dropped back as the Doctor and Barbara entered the room.

‘It’s Jiang,’ he said. ‘He’s gone through the window and is trying to get over the wall. I think I might just be able to catch him.’

He started to leave, but the Doctor put a hand in his way.

‘Oh, let the infuriating man go. After that defeat and loss of face, he won’t be back.’

‘I hope you’re right, Doctor,’ Ian said. As far as he could tell, this Jiang was the vindictive sort. He was sure they hadn’t seen the last of him. ‘I really hope you’re right.’

Music was in the air in the monastery. A small number of nervous musicians were grouped where there had once been incense burners, playing for the abbot. Gao found his lord standing at the mirror behind the dais. His fingertips were on the glass, as if he were trying to gauge what it felt like or find something that was lost.

‘My Lord,’ Gao whispered respectfully, and bent on one knee, fist in palm.

‘Gao.’ The abbot didn’t turn from the mirror, nor did his expression change from one of awed puzzlement.

‘Jiang-sifu has returned.’

The abbot’s voice was soft. ‘Then the time traveller is dead.’

‘No, my Lord.’ Gao knew his master would be angry and disappointed. He knew this because he felt the same way himself, and knew Zhao would too. Zhao would almost certainly be feeling these emotions more strongly than he was; he always had done, even when they were boys.

‘No?’ The abbot turned at last, his eyes glittering with a growing anger. ‘Jiang lost the duel?’

‘Yes, my Lord. He did not give up his life as he should have, but allowed himself to be merely injured, and humiliated. By his own admission, the Doctor treated the injury Jiang received.’ Gao could barely keep the shudder out of his voice.

He knew his lord would feel it anyway, such was the bond they now shared.

The abbot was silent for a long time. Finally he said, ‘Do you remember what I looked like, Gao?’

‘My Lord?’ Gao had no idea what this had to do with Jiang’s return. He was even more astonished by the fact that his master could surprise him in spite of their bond. Then again, perhaps this was why he and his brother were loyal servants of their lord, and not the other way round.

‘I do not,’ the abbot said. ‘I remember my name and my desires. I remember that which I ruled, and how to make decisions and make war. But I do not remember my face. Nor yours, though I know who you are.’