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

Chinese government had issued this new and valuable silver coin. Trader held up the fingers of one hand. “Five fen,” he said. Five cents. A twentieth of a yuan. And a good price at that, even in wartime.

The Mongol looked disappointed, offered half a dozen eggs instead, and indicated this was what five fen would buy. Trader shook his head and pointed to a chicken that would need to be added. He gave Tom a quick glance as though to say: Observe the gentle art of bargaining. The Mongol considered. But whether he would have accepted the offer they never discovered. For suddenly he stared over Tom’s head at something behind the boy. And Trader turned.

The man was dressed in red. A Boxer, obviously. He was crouched in a kung fu tiger stance, with a light jian sword in his hand, and he had positioned himself directly between Trader and the alley through which they’d entered the market, so that there was no escape.

Where the devil had he sprung from? He must have slipped over one of the barriers. And how did he come to be in that part of the city at all? The Boxers had all been withdrawn.

Maintaining his crouch, the Boxer began to come closer. Trader shot a glance back at the Mongols, but they were watching impassively. Clearly they weren’t going to interfere.

There was only one thing to do. Keeping his eyes on the Boxer, he called softly to Tom. “Stay behind me until I give the word. The moment I do, run for the alley. You understand? Don’t ask any questions. Do exactly as I say. All right?”

“Yes, Grandfather.”

“Good.” Trader began to move slowly towards the Boxer, raising his ebony stick as he did so. It had been a long time since he’d done any fencing, but he should be able to keep the fellow occupied for a few moments. Long enough for the boy to escape. And if he was going to die, as he supposed he probably was, it wouldn’t be such a bad way to go.

Of course, he might be lucky. If he could just poke the point of his stick into the fellow’s eye, he and Tom might both get away. “So, my red friend,” he muttered, “let’s find out how good a swordsman you are.”

He was en garde now, edging forward, the point of his stick up, always on target. “Get ready, boy,” he called to Tom. Then he made a feint.

The Boxer was deceived, swung at the stick that was not there, left himself open, and quick as a flash, Trader lunged.

Except that he did not. He’d overestimated the strength of his leg. The ankle gave way, his leg collapsed, and before he even knew what was happening, he fell facedown. Looking up helplessly, he saw the Boxer smile and raise his sword.

“Run, Tom,” he shouted. “Run for your life!” He couldn’t see the boy, but he tried to swing at the Boxer’s ankles with his stick, just to keep him in place while Tom got away. He tensed, knowing the Boxer’s sword was coming. Would it be a thrust or slash?

And then, to his astonishment, he heard a crack like a pistol shot. The Boxer’s body jerked violently, fell backwards, and crashed to the ground like a man knocked clean unconscious.

Turning his head, he saw young Tom, with a look of triumph, already at his side and trying to help him up. “What happened?” he mumbled.

“I got him with my cricket ball,” Tom cried. “Right between the eyes!”

“By Jove, so you did.” Trader was up on one knee now. He could see that the unconscious man’s sword was lying on the ground beside him. The Boxer emitted a low groan. “Grab his sword, Tom, quick, before he comes round!” he ordered.

Tom did so and brandished the sword in his hand. The Boxer was dazed, but coming to, struggling to get up.

“Shall I kill him, Grandfather?” Tom cried eagerly. “I can chop his head. Easy.” He was beside himself with excitement.

“Not now. Keep the sword and help me up.”

A moment later, with one arm around Tom’s shoulders, he was hobbling towards the alley. The Boxer had managed to stand up groggily, but then fallen down again. They got to the alley and made their escape.

“I wish you’d let me kill him, Grandfather,” said Tom.

“I know, my boy,” said Trader. “But your mother wouldn’t have liked it.”

They were safely inside the legation and making their way towards the residence when Tom suddenly let out a schoolboy curse.

“What’s the matter?” asked his grandfather.

“I left my cricket ball in the market. Can I go back for it?”

“No,” said Trader. “I’m afraid you cannot.”

—

When they reached the residence, they found both Emily and Henry at home. Their story was quickly told. Though delighted to have them both back alive, Emily looked at her father a little reproachfully.

“What were you doing in the Mongol market?” she wanted to know.

“We were buying chicken and eggs,” said Tom. “For you.”

“I see,” said Emily, staring at him. “Well, I’m glad you’re safe.”

“I shouldn’t have gone in there,” Trader said with shame. “And Tom saved my life by throwing that cricket ball in his face.”

“He’s got a powerful throw,” said Henry.

“Yes.” Trader nodded slowly. “Runs in our family.”

“Does it?” said Emily.

“I threw something at somebody once. Old story from long ago. I’ll tell you some other time.”

“Well, I’m very proud of you, Tom, for saving your grandfather’s life,” said Henry firmly.

Tom beamed. “Before that, we were up by the old Chinese library wall,” he went on. “And we heard something Grandfather says we have to tell Sir Claude right away.”

As he was speaking, there was a tap at the door and the head of that worthy gentleman himself appeared. “Is my name being taken in vain?” MacDonald inquired with a smile.

“We heard something you should know about,” said Trader. “At least I didn’t hear it, but young Tom here’s got sharper ears. Tell Sir Claude what you heard,