vii   

The captain and Fanning headed back to the ship. Ding watched them moving away, passing in and out of the glowing yellow pools from the streetlights. The night was not quiet; here near the docks there was always something happening. A heavy steam tractor puffed by pulling a train of three trucks, on its way to the air-dock. A street walker called to him hopefully from the other side of the street. He shook his head, that was not a comfort he needed, and she drifted away into the night.

It was possible for a person to walk the streets alone and be unmolested among the pick-pockets, street gangs and others who made their living in the dark—if they knew their business. Ding leaned back against the wall and pulled a clay pipe from inside his jacket, along with a tobacco pouch and matches. Smoking was the one pleasure he allowed himself, and then only when he wasn’t looking out for Qi.

He had been first mate aboard the Beauty for all of Qi’s captaincy, and her father’s before that. Fifteen years, perhaps, since they began their life of semi-piracy on behalf of the Tiandihui clan. They had never stolen from another ship, and had killed only when there was no other choice. He was content enough with their record.

He held the leather pouch open with one hand and dipped the pipe inside, gently packing the moist tobacco into the bowl until it was almost full. This was a good night to let the fumes fill his mind and relax him. With the pouch back in his pocket, he placed the pipe in his mouth and struck a match.

The flaring light illuminated the outlines of a man’s face; he stood a short distance away, looking back at Ding.

The first mate did not react, but raised the match to the bowl and sucked the air through, dragging the flame down onto the weed. The flame flared back at each puff, lighting the face that still watched him. The tobacco smouldered. Ding shook the match to extinguish the light and flung it to the ground.

“Can I help you, Kuan-Yin Sun?” he said in Mandarin.

“Your captain has forgotten herself, Dingbang Hsieh.”

Ding levered himself from the wall and stood facing the shadow. He gave a bow that was just the right side of respectful but made it clear he did not think the recipient deserved the honour. “She was never your servant, Sun.”

“She inherited the vessel, she inherits the debt.”

“She is a spirit of the air. She will not be contained.”

Kuan-Yin Sun stepped forward, bringing his wide frame into the light, while in the dark behind him three hulking bodyguards made their presence known.

“We have known each other a long time, Dingbang,” he said. “I don’t need to tell you what the family will do to her if she fails to keep up the payments.”

Ding was well aware how much the ‘family’ cared for people. Anyone who broke the rules met their ancestors too early. Sun watched him as if he could read the thoughts that played through his mind.

“You need to persuade her, Dingbang,” he continued. “She will listen to you. You have her father’s authority.”

“Only her father had that.”

There was the sudden sound of heavy feet, iron boot-nails clicking on flagstones. More than one set of feet, more than one person not afraid of the dark, heading in their direction. Both of them glanced towards the sound. Two uniformed police and another in the garb of a customs agent marched through the light of a lamp, heading in their direction.

Sun backed into the shadow once more. “Listen to my words, Dingbang Hsieh. Captain Qi cannot fly, and she cannot sell the goods she has. I own this city. Prevail upon her, my friend; make her see sense and she will once more be able to fly in the ship that she loves so much.”

And he was gone, as the thudding of boots on stone grew closer.

The British were not afraid to be seen in the light and stopped in front of Ding. He bowed his head with the respect one gives to an unfriendly dog when one is unsure of its intentions.

“You’re the mate from the Frozen Beauty.”

Ding did not acknowledge the recognition, but he did not deny it. Constable Templeton and he were acquainted.

“Who was that you were talking to?”

“He is a Chinaman like myself.”

“It was Kuan-Yin Sun.”

Ding took a long pull at his pipe and allowed the smoke to tickle his throat before letting it out gently.

“What did he want?”

“He wanted to know when my captain intended to take the ship out again.”

“Did he now?”

Templeton glanced in the direction Sun had headed. “I wonder what he’s up to.”

Ding found it convenient to ignore rhetorical statements, particularly those that came from people with authority. Templeton returned his attention to Ding.

“What did you tell him?”

“My captain is an air spirit.”

Templeton hesitated and then harrumphed. Ding suspected he had not a single whit of poetry in his heart. Possibly he had no heart at all.

“All right, well, you better get along.”

Ding had met many men like Templeton, not just British but of all nations: men who felt they must control, because if they did not, then somehow they were the victim. They were easy to deal with; one simply did as they wanted. As long as they were in sight.

Ding nodded his head once more and headed off in the direction of the air-dock while Templeton and his associates turned away to follow Sun’s trail. Sun would be long gone by now, and they would never find where he had gone. Of that much Ding was certain.