“By the lord Harry, Svenson, I’m a new man.”
Svenson laughed but said nothing. His tongue had been torn out by corsairs in the Mediterranean many years ago. He motioned for Struan to rest on the mattressed table and covered him tightly with blankets, then left him to slumber.
“Tai-Pan!” It was Lo Chum.
Struan was instantly awake. “Mass’er Culum?”
Lo Chum shook his head and smiled toothlessly. “Long-skirt Mass’er!”
Struan followed the taciturn Jesuit monk along the cathedral cloisters surrounding the inner court and its beautiful garden.
The cathedral clock chimed four o’clock.
The monk turned at the end of the walk and led the way through a great teak door into a vast anteroom. Tapestries draped the walls. Carpets covered the well-worn marble floor.
He knocked deferentially on the far door, and entered the room. Regal and imposing, Falarian Guineppa was sitting on a high-backed chair which seemed like a throne. He gestured in dismissal at the monk, who bowed and went out.
“Please sit down, senhor.”
Struan sat down on the chair indicated. It was slightly lower than the bishop’s chair, and he felt the strength of the man’s will reaching out to dominate him.
“You sent for me?”
“I asked you to come to see me, yes. Cinchona. There is none in Macao, but I believe there is some at our mission at Lo Ting.”
“Where’s that?”
“Inland.” The bishop straightened a crease in his magenta robe. “About a hundred and fifty miles northwest.”
Struan got up. “I’ll send someone immediately.”
“I’ve already done that, senhor. Please sit down.” The bishop was solemn. “Our courier left at dawn with orders to make record time. I think he will. He’s Chinese and comes from that area.”
“How long do you think it will take him? Seven days? Six days?”
“That is also a reason for my concern. How many fever attacks has the girl had?”
Struan wanted to ask the bishop how he knew about May-may but held himself in check. He realized that the sources for secret information of the Catholics were legion, and that in any event “girl” would be a simple deduction for so astute a man as the bishop. “One. The sweat broke two days ago, about this time.”
“Then there’ll be another bout tomorrow, certainly within forty-eight hours. It will take at least seven days for the courier to get to Lo Ting and back—if all goes well and there are no unforeseen difficulties.”
“I dinna think she’ll be able to stand two more attacks.”
“I hear she’s young and strong. She should be able to endure for eight days.”
“She’s four months with child.”
‘That’s very bad.”
“Aye. Where’s Lo Ting? Give me a map. Perhaps I can cut the time by a day.”
“In this journey my connections outweigh yours a thousandfold,” the bishop said. “Perhaps it will be seven days. If it is the will of God.”
Aye, Struan thought. A thousandfold. I wish I had the knowledge that the Catholics have collected over the centuries from the constant probes into China. Which Lo Ting? There could be fifty within two hundred miles. “Aye,” he said at length, “if it is the will of God.”
“You’re a strange man, senhor. I am glad that I have had the opportunity of meeting you. Would you care for a glass of Madeira?”
“What’s the price of the bark? If it exists and if it’s back in time and if it cures?”
“Would you care for a glass of Madeira?”
“Thank you.”
The bishop rang the bell and immediately a liveried servant was at the door with an engraved silver tray bearing decanter and glasses.
“To a better understanding of many things, senhor.”
They drank—and measured each other.
“The price, Your Grace?”
“There are too many ifs at present. That answer can wait. But two things cannot.” The bishop savored his wine. “Madeira is such a perfect aperitif.” He collected his thoughts. “I am gravely worried about Senhorita Sinclair.”
“I also,” Struan said.
“Father Sebastian is a miraculous healer. But he leads me to believe that unless the senhorita is helped spiritually she may take her own life.”
“Na Mary! She’s very strong. She’d na do that.”
Falarian Guineppa steepled his fine fingers. A shaft of sun turned the huge ruby ring molten. “If she were to put herself totally in Father Sebastian’s hands—and in the hands of the Church of Christ—we could turn her damnation into a blessing. That would be the best for her. I believe with all my heart that this is the only real solution. But if this is not possible, before she is released I must pass over the responsibility for her to someone who will accept it.”
“I’ll accept that.”
“Very well, but I do not think you are wise, senhor. Even so, your life and soul—and hers—are also in the hands of God. I pray that you and she will be given the gift of understanding. Very well. Before she leaves I will do everything in my power to try to save her soul—but as soon as she is fit enough to leave, I will send word.”
The cathedral clock chimed five o’clock.
“How is Archduke Zergeyev’s wound?”
Struan’s eyebrows knotted. “This is the second thing that cannot wait?”
“For you Britons, perhaps.”
Falarian Guineppa opened a drawer and pulled out a heavily sealed leather briefcase. “I have been asked to give you this prudently. It seems that certain diplomatic authorities are most concerned with the archduke’s presence in Asia.”
“The Church authorities?”
“No, senhor. I am asked to tell you that you can, if you wish, pass on the documents. I understand certain seals prove their validity.” A faint smile passed across his face. “The case too is sealed.”
Struan recognized the seal of the governor-general’s office. “Why should I be given diplomatic secrets? There are diplomatic channels. Mr. Monsey is within half a mile of here and His Excellency is in Hong Kong. Both are very well acquainted with protocol.”
“I’m giving you nothing. I’m merely doing what I was asked to do. Don’t forget, senhor, as much as I personally detest what you stand for, you are a power at the Court of St. James, and your trade connections are worldwide. We live in hazardous times and Portugal and Britain are ancient allies. Britain has been a good friend to Portugal and it is wise for friends to help each other, no? Perhaps it is as simple as that.”
Struan took the proffered briefcase.
“I will send word as soon as the Lo Ting courier returns,” Falarian Guineppa said. “At whatever hour that may be. Would you like Father Sebastian to examine the lady?”
“I dinna ken,” Struan said, rising. “Perhaps. I’d like to think about that, Your Grace.”
“At your pleasure, senhor.” The bishop hesitated. “Go with God.”
“Go with God, Your Grace,” Struan said.
“Hello, Tai-Pan,” Culum said, his head pounding and his tongue like dried dung.
“Hello, lad.” Struan put down the still-unopened briefcase which had been burning him all the way home. He went to the sideboard and poured a stiff brandy.