Chapter Seventy-Seven: The Guest List

This unexpected turn of events caught Yang Xiaolin off guard, yet it could not deter him from carrying out his plan. Once the arrow is drawn, it must be released, no matter how many perils lie ahead.

The banquet had actually begun at noon. With the inauguration of the French Embassy, all those merchants who had journeyed from France to seek their fortunes naturally came to show their support—an honor in itself. The number of local merchants present, meanwhile, was a measure of France's influence in the Qing Empire.

Minister Shirley had sent invitations to every French merchant he knew, and it seemed these men appreciated the gesture: almost all attended, and in sheer numbers they far surpassed the Italians, much to the minister’s satisfaction.

Old Third bustled in and out, relaying Yang Xiaolin’s instructions to Lu Mozong and the others outside, and bringing back any tidings Lu Mozong managed to pick up. Many guests had arrived, not one of whom Lu Mozong recognized; he could only stand at the entrance under the pretense of cleaning, observing their manners and bearing and making his best guesses—though with little hope of accuracy.

By five in the afternoon, Lu Mozong finally found a chance to slip inside.

“Big Brother, I managed to get a list. See if this is what you needed.”

Yang Xiaolin was overjoyed, hurriedly wiping his hands clean on his apron. “Let me have a look.”

Lu Mozong handed him a crumpled piece of paper, marked by a conspicuous footprint. Yang Xiaolin frowned, regarding him with suspicion.

Lu Mozong explained, “A Frenchman dropped this at the door. I can’t make head or tail of it, so I brought it for you.”

Yang Xiaolin unfolded the paper and was instantly dumbfounded—it was all in French, a language he did not understand.

“Damn it!”

After so long among these bandits, Yang Xiaolin had unconsciously picked up their coarse tongue. These Frenchmen, really—hosting a banquet in China and not even bothering with a bilingual list.

Judging by the arrangement of the text, he surmised it was indeed the guest list. But it was useless to him; he couldn’t read a single word.

“This won’t do. I must find Nirell immediately. Old Third, keep an eye on the fish—when it’s about forty percent cooked, fish it out, put it in the pot to simmer, pour chili oil over it, then add scallions and ginger, and that’s it.”

Old Third hesitated. Yang Xiaolin was preparing spicy fish—a dish he’d never made. He wanted to admit his inexperience but, recalling the importance of Yang Xiaolin’s business, he clenched his jaw and accepted the task without further protest.

Yang Xiaolin could not afford to care whether Old Third could manage. He pulled off his apron and strode out of the kitchen.

Biaozi was still tending the stove, his face blackened by smoke. Only after Yang Xiaolin left did Old Third amble over and ask, “Brother Biao, what exactly does ‘forty percent cooked’ mean?”

Biaozi glanced up, “You’re asking me?”

Old Third nodded earnestly. Biaozi, exasperated, kicked at him. “You’d do better asking the fish in the pot!”

The embassy had no prison; such a feature had not been considered in its design. Thus, after being disarmed, Nirell and the other Black men were kept in the back garden, guarded by the Indians.

The reputation of the Indians was well known. Under normal circumstances, they endured the indignity of being regarded as third-class citizens in the embassy, always under the heels of the Black men. Now, with a chance to turn the tables, they relished every opportunity to humiliate their former overseers.

When Yang Xiaolin arrived in the garden, several Indians stood with rifles pointed at the group of Black men, muttering words whose tone left no doubt as to their malice.

The Indians recognized Yang Xiaolin at once. The one whom Yang Xiaolin had once felled with a punch in the latrine immediately stepped forward. “Stop. What do you want?”

There was a peculiar glint in his eyes, his expression betraying a desire for Yang Xiaolin to give him a reason to exact revenge. This time, no one could intervene on Yang Xiaolin’s behalf.

Yang Xiaolin looked at him. “The minister sent me. Nirell is to be executed tomorrow morning; the minister wants to know what he’d like for his last meal.”

The Indian was momentarily taken aback. With the minister’s authority invoked, he could insult Yang Xiaolin and Nirell as he pleased, but Shirley’s words were another matter entirely. He scrutinized Yang Xiaolin, searching for any flaw in his story.

Yang Xiaolin was unfazed. Time was running out. If he could not come to terms with Nirell, he would simply seize a few men at random and hope for the best.

“If you don’t believe me, ask the minister yourself,” he said confidently, pushing past the man and entering. The Indian was indeed cowed and dared not pursue the matter further, so he watched Yang Xiaolin enter.

Nirell looked despondent. He had overheard everything. The treatment of condemned prisoners may differ from country to country, but one thing is universal: before death, the condemned are allowed a good meal—what the Chinese call a “beheading meal,” and in the West, the last supper.

“Lu, are they really going to kill me?” he asked, his voice breaking as he clutched his head in anguish. “I truly didn’t kill anyone!”

Yang Xiaolin waited for him to recover, then said quietly, “I know you didn’t, but that’s no longer important. What matters now is—do you want to live?”

Nirell stared at him. “You can save me?”

Yang Xiaolin nodded. “Perhaps. I can’t promise, but we can try.”

Nirell gazed at him in shock, barely able to believe this Chinese man would risk himself for him. Yet what Yang Xiaolin offered was not a lifeline, but a straw to cling to—and Nirell had no choice but to grasp it tightly, for he did not wish to die.

“How do you plan to do it?”

Yang Xiaolin pulled him down beside him, and at once the other Black men formed a screen, shielding them from the Indians’ view. The Indians noticed something was amiss, but their bullying was limited to insults and petty threats; they dared not intervene directly.

“I have a piece of paper—tell me what’s written on it.”

He handed the paper to Nirell, who glanced at it and tossed it aside. “It’s tonight’s guest list. I have a clean copy right here, exactly the same as yours.”

He drew one from his breast pocket—Yang Xiaolin checked and saw it was indeed identical.

“Can you tell me who these people are?”

Nirell nodded and began reading from the first name: “The British Minister to the Qing Empire, Sir Thomas Wade; the Italian Minister, Savago; the Japanese Minister, Uchida Kosai…”

He stopped abruptly, his expression turning strange. “Lu, why do you need this list? What does it have to do with getting me out?”