Matthew 10:34

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1860

The shop was just off the Hollywood Road, itself bent crooked against the steep incline of the mountain. Jungle edged its way against civilisation, fighting back against the squalid lean-tos and rickety houses, forcing tentacles of lush green into well-probed holes in rotting woodwork. The long grass was rich in sound, chirps and ticks and slippery slithers, battling against the urban world of squelched mud, pidgin dialects and the stench of jarring cultures.

Robert stepped forward, through the unseasonal heat. Back home – did England still count as that? – Christian souls trod hard through deep snow, wrapped in warmth as they shuffled to church, then back to turkey. It was Christmas, a time to praise God’s son and our saviour. Yet here the temperature had barely fallen; even without the cursed sun, the thick, humid air smothered life with clenched, scented stillness. God’s gaze fell on the Orient, of that there was little question. But he had never felt so abandoned by grace as he crossed the shop’s threshold.

It was cramped, even by Chinese standards, and in truth more a temple than a ship; piles of red paper and melted wax stacked along the shelves, the pungent stench of joss sticks filling the air with their clogging grey smoke, the flames of oil lamps flickering beneath paper housing, twisting shadows in the clenching atmosphere. Robert flicked his head up at the proprietor, watched as the man gave a toothless grin and beckoned to the back room, ponytail wagging over his peasant jacket. The Englishman nodded, and stepped into the gloom.

“Ah, Mr Tyne-Blake. So good of you to join us.” Voltaire’s words were as smooth as his perfectly-placed cravat, the silk an unruffled ocean of luxury. Robert knew the meaning was a reproach, but not one to be fought.

”Archbishop,” he said, voice strained and grating, as it had been since his embrace. A curse of his lineage, and even in unlife he thanked God it had only been his voice and scent the Nosferatu blood had twisted irrevocably. “A thousand apologies. Business at North Point detained me.”

Voltaire smiled, thin and unforgiving, before gesturing to the chair. The others were all ready there, sitting in the dark, waiting for the meeting to commence. Two he knew; both were Second Estate. The third… oh, not kindred. He could smell the fear, taste the blood on the air, see the heartbeat’s relentless pulse fire bursts up its jugular. He took his place next to the ghoul, bowed his head in respect to the others.

“First, let us pray…” Robert bowed his heads with the others, lips mouthing the ritual murmurs of the Lord’s Prayer. This was church business, in its own way, and they would need Jesus’ watchful eye if they were to succeed. Muscle memory took hold, allowing him to drift along the map’s route while he called to God, sketching it all in his head. It was Mrs Russell who broke his reverence.

“Amen. Mr Tyne-Blake, Archbishop Voltaire has indicated your willingness to bring our cargo to our friends outside Canton. I trust you are still agreeable?”

“Of course,” Robert smiled. When the Church asked you for something, what good Christian said no? The Lancea Sanctum was hardly the Church of England, but, as he often had to remind himself, he was hardly a man any more. “Thirty crates, and no officials boarding. It should be relatively straightforward.”

“So simple?” The Prussian spoke next, accent heavy and ridiculous. “This is hardly opium, sir!”

“Indeed not, sir. But the Chinese don’t know that, do they? If Johnny Mandarin sights Calliope, he’ll assume I’m hauling the poppy. The risks are the same, and so are the solutions, I’ll warrant. If you want your crates up the Pearl, I’m the man for it.”

“Were the man for it.” Voltaire smiled, as only a predator could, his greying flesh and blackened veins haunting in the dim light. “Which is why Lok Fu is accompanying you on this endeavour. You will have a plan to account for your condition, I’ll warrant?”

“I’ll board the night previous to sail. Tide is at four, sunset at six sharp. We’d hope to be bound for the estuary by the time I stir. We’re small enough for an inlet, so we meet these Taiping chaps of yours, offload the Enfield rifles, then make for Canton. Should be a simple night’s work.”

“Then it is settled.” The Archbishop leaned forward, placing his hands upon Robert’s own. “This is God’s work, my son. The Kingdom of Heavenly Peace fights for Christian ideals against the idolatry of their homeland.”

Robert nodded. The words were a comfort. Unfortunately, he did not know they were a lie.