“I’ve just been on watch since six.” The trooper frowned. “Who are you?”
“My name is Chang. I was part of Bascombe’s party. I became sick. Would you…” Chang shut his eyes for a moment and strained to finish the sentence. “Would you have some water?”
The trooper relieved Chang of the lantern and took his arm, leading him to a small guardroom. This, like the hallway, was fitted with gaslight fixtures and had a warm, hazy glow to it. Chang could see that they were near a large staircase—perhaps the main access for this floor, as opposed to Bascombe’s secret lair where he had been taken. He was too tired to think. He sat on a simple wooden chair and was given a metal mug of tea with milk. The trooper, who offered that his name was Reeves, put a metal plate of bread and cheese on Chang’s lap, and nodded that he should eat something.
The hot tea stung his throat as it went down, but he could feel it restoring him all the same. He pulled off a hunk of the white loaf with his teeth and forced himself to chew, if only to stabilize his stomach. After the first few bites however he realized how hungry he was and began to steadily devour everything the man had given him. Reeves refilled his mug and sat back with one of his own.
“I am much obliged to you,” said Chang.
“Not at all.” Reeves smiled. “You looked like death, if you don’t mind me saying. Now you just look like hell.” He laughed.
Chang smiled and drank more tea. He could feel the rawness of his throat and the roof of his mouth, where the powder had burned him. Each breath came with a twinge of pain, as if he’d broken his ribs. He could only speculate about the true state of his lungs.
“So you said they all left?” asked Reeves.
Chang nodded. “There was an accident with a lantern. One of the other men, Francis Xonck—do you know him?” Reeves shook his head. “He spilled oil on his arm and it caught fire. Mr. Bascombe went with him for a surgeon. I was left, and unaccountably became ill. I thought he might return, but find I have been asleep, with no idea of the time.”
“Near nine o’clock,” said Reeves. He eyed the door a bit nervously. “I need to finish rounds—”
Chang put out his hand. “Do not let me disturb you. I will leave—just point me the way. The last thing I would want is to be more of a bother—”
“No bother to help a friend of Mr. Bascombe.” Reeves smiled. They stood, and Chang awkwardly put his mug and plate on the sideboard.
He looked up to see a man in the doorway, a polished brass helmet under his arm and a saber at his side. Reeves snapped to attention. The man stepped in. The rank of captain was in gold on the collar and the epaulettes of his red uniform.
“Reeves…,” he said, keeping his gaze on Chang.
“Mr. Chang, Sir. An associate of Mr. Bascombe’s.”
The Captain did not reply.
“He was inside, Sir. When I was on my rounds, I heard him knocking on the door—”
“Which door?”
“Door five, Sir, Mr. Bascombe’s area. Mr. Chang’s been sick—”
“Yes. All right, off with you. You’re overdue to relieve Hicks.”
“Sir!”
The Captain stepped fully into the room and motioned for Chang to sit. Behind them, Reeves snatched up his helmet and dashed from the room, pausing at the door to nod to Chang behind the Captain’s back. His hurried steps clattered down the hallway, and then down the stairs. The Captain filled a mug with tea and sat. Only then did Chang sit with him.
“‘Chang’, you say?”
Chang nodded. “It’s what I am called.”
“Smythe, Captain, 4th Dragoons. Reeves says you were unwell?”
“I was. He was most kind.”
“Here.” Smythe had reached into his coat and removed a small flask. He unscrewed the cap and handed it to Chang. “Plum brandy,” he said, smiling. “I have a sweet tooth.”
Chang took a sip, feeling reckless and very much wanting a drink. He felt a sharp spasm of pain in his throat, but the brandy seemed to burn through the blue dust’s residue. He returned the flask.
“I am obliged.”
“You’re one of Bascombe’s men?” asked the Captain.
“I would not go so far. I was calling upon him at his request. Another man of the party had an accident involving lantern oil—”
“Yes, Francis Xonck.” Captain Smythe nodded. “I hear he was quite badly burned.”
“It does not surprise me. As I told your man, I became ill waiting for their return. I must have slept, perhaps there was fever…it was some hours ago—and I woke to find myself alone. I expected Bascombe to return. Our business was hardly finished.”
“Undoubtedly the trials of Mr. Xonck demanded his attention.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Chang. “He is an…important figure.”
He took the liberty of pouring more tea for himself. Smythe did not seem to notice. Instead, he stood and crossed to the door, pulled it shut, and turned the key. He smiled somewhat ruefully at Chang.
“One can never be too careful in a government building.”
“The 4th Dragoons are newly posted to the Foreign Ministry,” observed Chang. “I believe it was in the newspaper. Or was it to the Palace?”
Smythe drifted back to his chair and studied Chang for a moment before answering. He took a sip of tea and leaned back, cradling the mug in both hands. “I believe you are acquainted with our Colonel.”
“Why would you say that?”
Smythe was silent. Chang sighed—there was always a cost to idiocy.
“You saw me yesterday morning,” he said. “At the dockside, with Aspiche.”
Smythe nodded.
“It was a stupid place to meet.”
“Will you tell me the reason for it?”
“Perhaps…” Chang shrugged. He could sense Captain Smythe’s suspicion and defensiveness, but decided to test him further. “If you tell me something first.”
Smythe’s mouth tightened. “What is that?”
Chang smiled. “Were you with Aspiche and Trapping in Africa?”
Smythe frowned—it was not the question he expected. He nodded.
“I ask,” Chang went on, “because Colonel Aspiche made much of the moral and professional differences between Trapping and himself. I have no illusions about the character of Colonel Trapping. But—if you will forgive me—the insistence on our meeting place was just one example, in our dealings together, of Aspiche’s thoughtless
Chang wondered if he’d gone too far—one never knew how to read loyalty, especially with an experienced soldier. Smythe studied him closely before speaking.
“Many officers have purchased their commissions—to serve with men who are not soldiers save by money paid is not unusual.” Chang was aware that Smythe was picking his words with exceptional caution. “The Adjutant-Colonel was not one of those…but…”
“He is no longer the man he once was?” suggested Chang.
Smythe studied him for a moment, measuring him with a hard professional acuity that was not entirely comfortable. After a moment he sighed heavily, as if he had come to a decision he did not like but could not for some reason avoid.
“Are you acquainted with opium eating?” he asked.
It was all Chang could do not to smile, instead offering a disinterested, knowing nod. Smythe went on.
“Then you will know the pattern whereby the first taste can corrupt, can drive a man to sacrifice every other part of his life for a narcotic dream. So it is with Noland Aspiche, save the opium is the example of Arthur Trapping’s position and success. I am not his enemy. I have served him with loyalty and respect. Yet his envy for this man’s undeserved advancement is consuming—or has consumed—all that was dutiful and fair in his character.”
