China by Edward Rutherfurd (latest novels to read TXT) 📗

getting anywhere with the Dowager Empress Cixi. In short, the Catholics don’t have a strong enough hand to be triumphant.”

“So,” Trader summarized, “the alien barbarians beat the Chinese in battle, then they insult them, and then they trumpet their superiority by dominating the landscape in a country they don’t control. Not a good idea.”

“I have complete faith, obviously, or I wouldn’t be there,” Henry continued. “But it’s a question of judgment. I suspect triumphalism is always unwise. It’s asking for trouble. Also I might add, as a Christian, that I think it’s better to be humble.”

“Are there any signs of trouble yet?”

“A few popular tracts and broadsheets have appeared in the streets,” Henry answered. “Aimed at the Catholics, really—though whether ordinary people distinguish Catholic from Protestant is another matter. They accuse the Christians of kidnapping Chinese children and drinking their blood. That sort of thing. Complete nonsense, of course. In fact, it’s exactly what the Christians used to say about the Jews in the Middle Ages. In any case,” Henry went on calmly, “if at some time in the future, God forbid, things got too bad, there should be time to get Emily out quickly, together with any children we might have. Emily and I have already discussed it.”

John Trader was silent. At the far end of the room there was a painting of a Highland sunset. It glowed sadly, like a lament.

“So you could get them out in time?” Trader said slowly. “You’re sure of that?”

“Oh yes,” said Henry, “I think so.”

1875

On the southern bank of the mighty Yangtze River, about a hundred and fifty miles upstream from the ancient city of Nanjing, the great stream was joined by tributaries descending from the hills above. A day’s journey up one of these tributaries, in a spacious, protected valley, lay a town—a peaceful place, though important enough for the prefect to have his residence there.

Yet there was something out of the ordinary about its suburbs. Instead of the usual scattering of workshops with yards and storehouses, there were hundreds of them; and above their roofs, amongst the treetops, a forest of squat brick chimneys could be seen.

For this was Jingdezhen, porcelain capital of China, where the pottery made from local clay was shaped, painted, glazed, and fired in the town’s kilns—of which, if one counted even the smallest, there were more than nine thousand. The potters of Jingdezhen had been making porcelain since the Han dynasty, more than fifteen hundred years ago. There were many varieties, but the most famous was the blue and white.

The finest work was all reserved for the imperial court.

—

In recent years, most people in Jingdezhen would have agreed, they had been fortunate in the prefect who resided there. For he was a man of unusual probity.

In particular, his administration of justice was impeccable. The poorer folk especially were grateful to him. Woe betide any local magistrate who took a bribe to convict some poor but innocent man. If punishment was called for, he chose leniency. He showed a marked aversion to the use of torture. In short, he was kindly but fair.

And if there were occasions when, in a spirit of understanding and friendship, he was able to help a local business avoid some restriction, and the owner of the business showed him some gratitude, that was a private matter between them. Such arrangements were usually to benefit trade and were therefore welcomed by everyone in Jingdezhen. The only person who might not profit was the emperor. But the emperor was far away, and not so many people cared about him nowadays.

—

Timing was everything. Shi-Rong looked across the town from the balcony of the prefect’s residence and smiled. A perfect autumn day. Some way down the long street he saw his quarry approaching. He was confident of success. He had everything planned.

He’d been a widower now for five years. Though he and his wife had hardly been close, he’d been sorry for her nonetheless. The cancer that claimed her had taken its time, and he had suffered with her.

He hadn’t taken another wife after that. Whether he had come to prefer limited engagements, such as the one with Mei-Ling, or whether he had a residual fear that any woman he married might turn into a nagging wife like his first, he hardly knew himself.

He’d parted from his last concubine a few months ago. No doubt he’d take another before long. But not a wife.

A perfect autumn day: the monsoon season past. The heat of the sun in the pale blue sky was moderated by a breeze that dispersed the shimmer from the kilns and the wisps of smoke from their chimneys before it brushed the trees and flowers in the prefect’s garden.

Shi-Rong liked Jingdezhen. Its combination of commerce, art, and quiet peace was pleasing to him.

Some years before he arrived, that peace had been disturbed. The Taiping zealots had come from their Heavenly Kingdom downriver at Nanjing, swarmed up the valley, entered the town, and destroyed the kilns, all nine thousand of them.

Why had they done it? Who could say? As far as he was concerned, for all practical purposes, a zealot and a hooligan were one and the same. But a decade had passed since their Heavenly Kingdom had fallen, and the busy potters and merchants of Jingdezhen had restored the kilns with such skillful speed that one would hardly guess they’d ever been smashed.

All being well, Shi-Rong intended to leave town tomorrow on a visit to Beijing. An interview or two. A bribe to pay, naturally, but he had the money. And after that he could look forward to a few years of semi-retirement, during which, with a bit of luck, he might even double his fortune. Done discreetly, this would be the crowning achievement of his life.

He’d see his son as well, while he was in Beijing. That was a happy prospect. I might not have risen to the