,weakling, Prince Kung, the Emperor's brother? Or his cousin, the hungry skeleton Prince I? Or that murderous madman, Prince Sang? Or Tungchi, the Emperor's only son—my son? Any one of these, or as many others, might become Emperor, Little An—but who will rule China?"
Well, he could guess, all right, and I could have a suspicion myself; I knew nothing of their palace politics, or the immense power of Imperial concubines, but I know women. This one had the spirit, no error, and probably the brains and determination—above all, she had that matchless beauty which could get her whatever she wanted.
"What … too frightened even to guess, Little An? Never mind; leave the dying Son of Heaven, and consider the barbarians. Sang, the idiot, still hopes to defeat them—which is why he and his fellow-jackals have been urging the Emperor to go north to Jehol, on an ostensible hunting trip for his health!" She laughed without mirth. "In fact, Sang knows such a departure would be seen as a cowardly flight, and the Emperor would be disgraced—and Sang, having beaten the barbarians in his absence, would step into his shoes as the darling of army and people. Poor Sang! If only he knew it, the throne will soon be vacant, and his intrigues all for nothing. In any event, he will not beat the barbarians; they will be here within two weeks."
"But that is impossible!" Little An started up in horror. "And that you should say so! You, Orchid Lady, who have urged the Emperor to fight to the end—who made him send the silk cord to defeated generals—who made him set the price on barbarian heads!"
"To be sure—a thousand taels for the Big Barbarian's head, isn't it?" She sounded amused. "A hundred for every white head, fifty for their black soldiers? Five hundred for Banner Chiefs like that repulsive thing there!" She waved a wing at me, the awful bitch. "Really, I must make him wear a mask in bed. But of course I urge resistance—you think I like these barbarian swine? Yehonala is the resolute champion of China, and the people know it, and will remember the Banner Knight's daughter—especially when the Emperor is dead. Until he is, I make him fight—who do you think has kept him from fleeing to Jehol, stupid? It is quite wonderful how even such a flabby wreck as the Son of Heaven can be roused to martial ardour … in bed."
"But if the barbarians triumph, all is lost —"
"No, little fool, all is gained! The barbarians will come—and go, with their piece of paper. China remains. With a new Emperor—but of course, he must be an Emperor acceptable to the barbarians; they will see to that before they go. And they will countenance no bitter enemies like Sang or Prince I or Sushun —"
"But, forgive me, Orchid Lady—you are their bitterest foe of all!"
"But they don't know that, do they? They think Sang and the ministers control the Emperor—they can't conceive the power that rests in the little lotus hand." She raised one slim silver-taloned pinkie, and laughed. "What, a mere girl, who looks like me? Can you hear the Big Barbarian crying `Enemy!' when I smile and bid my ladies serve him rose-petal tea and honey cakes in the Birthday Garden? Why, I'm just the dead Emperor's whore—and the mother of his heir. No, to ensure a clear field for my Imperial candidate—whoever he may be—it is necessary only to ensure the complete discredit in barbarian eyes of such rivals as Sang and his reptiles. As the known leaders of resistance, they are ill-regarded already, but I shall contrive their utter disgrace—perhaps even get them hanged, who knows?"
D'you know who she reminded me of? Otto Bismarck. Not to look at, you understand, but in the smooth, sure way she summed it up and lined it out, and had you agog for her to drop the next piece into place—and a bare half-hour since she'd been rogering her soul out, whooping drunk on lust and poppy. And, like dear Otto, she was holding my interest despite my other pressing concerns; come on, come on, I was thinking, let's hear how you're going to get Sang to Tyburn, because I want to be there to swing on the bastard's ankles. Little An, too, was clamouring for information, albeit apprehensively. So she told him—and I wished she hadn't.
"It is simple. Before he dies, the Emperor will issue a final vermilion decree, ordering the execution of all barbarian captives now in the Board of Punishments. For this, the Emperor's advisers, Sang and the rest, will be held responsible, and when the bodies are handed back, and it is seen that they have died by the usual procedures—binding, flogging, bursting, maggots
the barbarians will be in a rage for retribution. Sang will have to make apologies and excuses—that it was the work of brutal underlings, most unfortunate, much to be regretted, and so forth. The barbarians, growling, will accept the apology—and a cash compensation—as they have done in the past. They will bear no love for Sang and his friends, but they will let the matter end there. Unless," she laughed, and it would have frozen your marrow, "there is, among the bodies, one that has died by the wire jacket, or something equally elaborate. For that cannot be excused as the casual brutality of some underling; it will be seen as a calculated, insulting atrocity. Barbarians are very sensitive about such things; they will certainly take vengeance—and I wonder if Sang will escape with his life?"
My soul shrank as I listened; only a Chinese female could plot with such cruel, diabolic cunning. Our prisoners were doomed, then, one of them by the most ghastly torture—just so that this wicked, lovely harpy could bring down her rivals and capture Imperial power. And there was nothing to be done—I didn't even know how many of our fellows had been taken, or who. And it would be done without warning, or hope of rescue … that little toad An was at the knots and splices of it already, once he'd babbled out his admiration.
"Oh, Orchid Lady, forgive your kneeling slave!" cries he, and he was weeping buckets, so help me. "Your eyes are on the stars, and mine on the dirt! When shall it be done? And which of them shall it be? For it will be to arrange—the victim must be brought from the Board secretly, lest Sang's people should hear. Afterwards, when the bodies are sent to the barbarian camp, it will be easy to increase their number by that one."
"In a week, perhaps. When the barbarians prepare their final attack on the city. And who will wear the jacket?" She shrugged. "One of their leading people—Pa-hsia-li, perhaps." So they'd got Parkes; I could hear that lazy drawl, see the superior smile, and … the wire jacket. "It does not matter. You will see it done. Now," she stood up, stretching, "you will take me up. Oh, but I'm tired, Little An! And hungry! Why did you let me talk so long, you stupid little man!" And she pretended to box his ears, laughing, while he squeaked and feigned anguish.
That was what made my flesh crawl—the sudden capricious change from hellish scheming to playful mischief, from the cold, unspeakably cruel calculation that meant dreadful death for men she'd never seen, to happy high spirits demanding crackling with cherries, and a tea-leaf pillow because her eyes were tired. It's a rare thing, that gift of human translation, although I'd seen it before—always in people who held immense power. I mentioned Bismarck just now; he had it. So did Lakshmibai of Jhansi—and in a way, James Brooke of Borneo, although with him it had to be a conscious act of will. For the others, it was a necessary part of their nature, to be able to turn, in perfect oblivion, from determining the destiny of a nation, or a matter of life and death, to choosing a new hat or listening to music—and then back again, with the mind wiped clean.
Here, in an hour or so, this bonny girl of twenty-five had been subjected to heaven-knew-what debauches with a dying monarch, drugged herself with opium, run the risk of death for the mere whim of seeing some new thing (a barbarian), ravished a helpless captive for the sheer sport of it, rehearsed her plans for securing supreme political power, again at the risk of death, and was now yawning contentedly at the thought of a snack and a good sleep. God knew what her diary held for tomorrow; my point is, it wasn't quite the home life of our own dear Queen, and it takes a nature beyond our understanding to manage it.