Free Thrilling Tales of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences by Pip Ballantine

Hall. The Frenchmen are still laughing and shouting outside. I think they must have gotten into some bai jiu , that devil drink that will make even the staunchest man a vomiting fool in no time.
    The Hall smells of camphor and sandalwood. Great rock formations, like slumbering dragons, curl around themselves on pedestals in the gloom. The Emperors kept them around as interesting testaments to the art of Nature, but I can feel the power in them. Unfortunately, such a hulking object isn’t going to fit into my pocket.
    Something flutters at the edge of my vision. A bit of white cloth. The edge of a sleeve. The hem of a robe, perhaps.
    I follow it down the corridor, every muscle like a coiled spring. The sounds outside seem to have stopped rather abruptly. All I can hear are my own boot heels and the occasional hissing of the torch.
    The moment I see her, the torch falls from my hand. It hits the floor and goes out in smoking silence. And yet, despite the darkness, I can still see.
    She casts her own light. She wears the long-sleeved, layered robes of an Imperial concubine and her hair is done up in the loops and pins of the Ming Dynasty. She once had the favour of some Emperor.
    The horrid twisting in my stomach tells me that she may not have kept it for long.
    I am not without my defences, so I step closer. Her gaze freezes me.
    Ni shi shei?
    I know better than to answer a ghost. I finger the æther-blade in my pocket. It’s a small thing, meant to disperse unpleasant, localised energies in a pinch. To anyone else, it would seem to be a simple pocketknife.
    But when I brandish it at her, she shrinks before its thin blue glow. I’m thankful she can’t see my shaking fingers.
    It’s as if the world contracts. There’s a ripple through the silence and I hear the Frenchmen coming down the corridor. I smell the burning before I see the flames racing along the old, dry roof beams.
    She growls something I can’t quite make out. I can feel that growl radiate through my bones before she disappears around a corner.
    I’m so pleased with myself that I follow. There’s only one direction to run, anyway. The Frenchmen have effectively cut off the entrance.
    The flames chase me as I follow a wisp of her. The concubine’s ghost is nowhere to be seen, however. I suppose we’ve frightened her off and I’m glad of it.
    I search as best I can for items that might interest the Ministry—small things, charms and tokens of old Chinese magic. There’s a ginger jar on the table by a door that leads out onto the veranda. It’s small compared to most of the pottery other soldiers have tried to carry off with them. A bit of chinoiserie for the missus back home.
    I don’t really look at it carefully. The threat of imminent immolation is wont to do that to a chap. I stuff the jar in my pocket with the other things and flee out into the smoke-filled garden.
    The rest of the night I run through the maze of burning buildings. The malevolence has been replaced with a feeling of triumph. Our triumph. Whatever designs the dead may have had on us when we arrived, they were simply no match for the living.
     

     
    It’s not until I’m en route to home once again that I remember the little ginger jar. A serving man packed it away before I left Peking. With nothing to do while on board, I decide to catalogue all the artefacts of my travels. Unfortunately, the little jar is stowed somewhere in the hold below.
    It’s a star-filled night and the moon is just rising above the waves. The boat plunges between troughs and I let the fresh sea air fill my lungs.
    It’s then that I notice a dark shape slinking across the deck above.
    I rub my eyes, trying not to stumble across the deck when the ship pitches. I look up, searching for the tell-tale shape.
    I would almost swear that a great cat just crossed in front of the railing.
    Then, I hear the scream.
    It’s faint. A fairly good distance off, but it’s coming from the direction of the hold. I sprint