The Imperial Alchemist Read online

  Within seconds, a portly middle-aged man in an austere three-piece suit opens the heavy doors, and she instantly feels under-dressed in her simple black shift.

  “Good evening. You must be Professor Lee,” he says with a pompous English accent, his posture so erect she wonders if there are stiffeners hidden in that black suit.

  “Yes, hello. I’m here to see Mr. Lambert?”

  “Of course, please come in. I am Joseph, Mr. Lambert’s butler.”

  Joseph leads her through the cavernous marble foyer with a sprawling staircase, into an exquisite drawing room adorned with antique European furnishings. The air has a mixed aroma of tobacco and rich coffee.

  “Mr. Lambert shall be down shortly. Would you like a drink while you wait, Professor? Tea? Coffee? Some wine perhaps?” Joseph offers.

  “I could do with a glass of red after that drive,” she says with a weary smile.

  The butler proceeds to rattle off a long list of vintages that Georgia doesn’t recognise. She shrugs, giving him a perplexed smile. “Whatever is easiest for you, Joseph.”

  “Of course. I’ll be back shortly with your drink.” He makes a slight bow of his head, exiting the room.

  Georgia lets out a soft whistle as she surveys the lushly appointed space, admiring the various masterpieces on the wall, including one by her own favourite artist, O’Keeffe. Her eyes are drawn to the table beneath the large mirror on the wall, cluttered with picture frames boasting images of Mark Lambert with prominent figures. It is clear the man has no shortage of powerful and famous friends: there are photos of him playing golf with eminent leaders of the world, partying with Hollywood celebrities, and even one of him shaking hands with the Dalai Lama.

  “Professor Lee, sorry to keep you waiting,” a deep voice booms from behind her. She turns to see a tall, commanding man standing at the doorway. Dressed in a black polo shirt and grey slacks, his silvering hair is immaculately trimmed, his face tanned from the Australian sun, and he wears a relaxed, confident smile that Georgia is sure he’s used to beguile countless women of her age—or younger.

  She resists the temptation to roll her eyes. Sarah has warned her to play nice.

  Evidently sensing that she is unmoved by his charms, he crosses the distance between them in a few strides, offering his hand. “I’m Mark,” he says, now donning an amused smile and assessing her anew with his steely grey eyes.

  Up close, she can see why this man is a highly coveted bachelor, and why Sarah was giddy as a schoolgirl at the thought of Georgia having dinner with him. The man is handsome, in the conventional sense, and does not look a day over forty-five. With his chiselled jaw, expensive haircut, and his intense, smouldering gaze, he looks like he has just walked out of a GQ photo shoot.

  She shakes his outstretched hand with a firm grip. “Mr. Lambert—”

  “Please, call me Mark. We’re in Australia and that puts us immediately on a first name basis.” He winks, and Georgia catches a subtle whiff of a cockney accent which hints at his more humble upbringing.

  “Mark,” she says, “thank you for the invitation tonight.”

  “You’re very welcome. I’m so glad you could make it. I’ve been a fan of your work for a long time.”

  She narrows her eyes. “I’m sorry, Mr. Lambert—”

  “Mark,” he corrects as he gestures to a couple of lounge chairs by the fireplace, sitting down in one and crossing his legs. Joseph reappears with their drinks, placing two glasses of wine on the coffee table, before silently disappearing again.

  “Mark,” Georgia says, joining him by the fireplace as she watches him sip his drink. “I’m surprised that a man of your standing knows of my existence, let alone my work.”

  Mark holds her gaze, taciturn and thoughtful. After a long awkward silence, Georgia feels her usual confidence wane under his piercing gaze, and for a brief moment she regrets the biting tone of her remark.

  When he finally speaks again, it is with a sincerity that makes her icy resolve thaw. “I think you undervalue your work, Georgia. I know you probably despise people like me—hedonistic dilettantes with poor taste and too much wealth for their own good. But I assure you, some of us do read and have interests outside of money.” He smiles with mirth, taking the edge off his observation.

  She draws in a breath, heat creeping up her face. Unsure of what to say in response, she stutters, “I—I’m sorry.”

  Mark holds up his hands, letting out a short chuckle. “No, that’s fine. I guess I am guilty of liking beautiful things. I’m a collector, and I like to buy rare and exquisite objects from the past. I think the past can teach us a lot of things, wouldn’t you agree?”

  She nods, feeling oddly chastised.

  “Take O’Keeffe, for example.” He gestures to the large artwork above the mantelpiece, one of the artist’s famed floral paintings. “We can all learn from her resolve to remain independent from the shifting trends of her time, and to stay true to her own vision. Without vision, and the resolve to see it through, not much can be achieved. It’s not surprising, then, that O’Keeffe became one of the first female American artists to be recognised by her male peers.”

  Georgia murmurs her agreement, looking over at the painting to hide her now scarlet face.

  “You know, I’ve read all of the books you’ve published over the years,” he says, now focusing his gaze back on her.

  “You have?”

  He nods. “Your most recent, The First Emperor, is my favourite. It offers a different perspective on the Qin Dynasty. Emperor Qin’s methods of uniting China were inspirational—they gave me an insight into my own business strategies.”

  Georgia raises her brows in surprise. The First Emperor is the fruit of years of research and too many sleepless nights. It takes an in-depth look at the infamous ruler, whose totalitarian regime embittered the oppressed people of his reign and gave him a most notorious reputation. His cruel methods of dictatorship also led to numerous assassination attempts, which he somehow managed to thwart.

  But in a different light, Qin was also the man who—at long last—united China, which until then had been a myriad of small warring states battling ceaselessly against each other for over two centuries. In addition, Qin also unified China’s currency, measuring units, and its written language. The terracotta warriors, one of the most important archaeological discoveries of the twentieth century, were also the creations of Qin; as, of course, was the Great Wall.

  Most people condemn Qin as a brutal tyrant, yet Georgia sees the invaluable contributions he also made, which helped to shape China into the country it is today. If Qin had not defeated the Warring States, it is likely the country would have gone through many more centuries of internecine bloodshed, war, and turmoil. A new Chinese empire was born, and its civilisation eventually prospered into one of the great powers of the world.

  Georgia has received countless criticisms of her book and her opinions, but it appears Lambert is in agreement with her. Quite frankly, she’s glad to have another person take her side. She realises, with some relief, that tonight may really just be dinner with someone who genuinely understands and appreciates her work.

  “Pardon me, sir,” Joseph appears by the door way. “Dinner is ready to be served.”

  “Shall we?” Mark stands, leading her out of the drawing room. “I hope you’re hungry, Georgia. I had my kitchen prepare a feast for our meeting tonight.”

  Dinner is a sumptuous seven-course meal, starting with freshly shucked oysters for appetisers and finishing with the most delicious homemade ice cream she has ever tasted: salted butter caramel, wild fig, and malted syrup topped with crunchy honeycomb. In spite of herself, Georgia sits back after her last bite of the dessert and lets out a sigh of contentment. She has always been a sucker for good food.

  She takes another sip of the Bordeaux the butler keeps pouring for her, feeling glad she isn’t driving all the way back to Sydney tonight. Sarah, bless her, has booked a motel nearby.

  Dinner conve
rsation has roamed over a wide range of subjects, from politics and Asian art to the latest discovery of water on Mars. Georgia is unexpectedly impressed at her host’s interest and extensive knowledge in numerous artistic, scientific, and intellectual pursuits. She finds herself speaking at length about her current excavation project in China, and Mark’s eyes gleam with enthusiasm as she describes with great detail the uncovering of the ancient tomb a mere two months ago. When she tells him about her university’s loss of funding, and their imminent withdrawal from the project, he grows quiet, seemingly contemplating the issue.

  “Do you know who the tomb belongs to?” Mark asks as he leads her to the library with his after-dinner cognac in hand.

  “We’ve narrowed it down to a shortlist of three possible candidates,” replies Georgia. “We’ll know for sure as the team examines the artefacts and manuscripts in there.”

  She stops short upon entering the library, gaping at the sublime space before her. The walls are lined with shelves full of books reaching to the five-metre high ceiling. Ladders lean against the shelves, providing access to the volumes. The place smells of both old books and new. The last time Georgia saw a library as beautiful as this was at the Strahov Abbey in Prague.

  Mark chuckles at the expression on her face. “As you can see, Georgia, I do like to read. And no, they aren’t just for decoration.”

  Georgia surveys the room, noticing it is also a cabinet of curiosities adorned with Asian art and relics. Scrolls of Chinese ink paintings hang on what little wall space there is between the bookshelves. A full samurai suit stands in one corner, encased in glass. A series of museum display cases are scattered about the room, and she spies in one some ancient Chinese swords, and in another, bronze vessels.

  “It’s beautiful,” she says in awe as she settles down in a leather arm chair beside Mark’s, basking in the warm scent of old, worn leather bindings as she sips her tea.

  “Well,” Mark says, “I suppose now is a good time to talk about why I’ve invited you here tonight.”

  She tenses.

  “We spoke before about your book on Emperor Qin,” Mark begins. “In it, you describe at length his search for immortality.”

  Georgia nods slowly. The Emperor’s prolonged quest for the elixir of life is notorious. It became one of his many obsessions later in life. He dispatched several eastward expeditions to find the magical potion for eternal youth, and when they were unsuccessful, he roamed the northern shore of Shandong Province to hunt down the evil spirit he believed was keeping him from contacting the Immortals who supposedly possessed the elixir. Qin visited the Zhifu Island of Shandong three times, hoping to find immortality there. Ironically, all of his futile attempts to avoid death actually became the cause of his demise. The First Emperor died at the age of forty-nine, having consumed mercury pills prescribed by his alchemists as a means to build up his resistance to death.

  “I was interested in your description of Qin sending the imperial alchemist, Hsu Fu, to search for Penglai Mountain,” Mark continues. “This mythical island was rumoured to be where the Eight Immortals lived.”

  Georgia sips her tea, pensive. This is a tale familiar to her since she was a little girl. Hsu Fu requested a fortune for the voyage, which he claimed was a gift for the Immortals. It is believed that his fleet included sixty barques, some hundreds of virgin boys and girls, and craftsmen of different fields. The mission failed, of course, and they were never seen again. To this day, no one knows for sure what happened to the expedition.

  “Anyway,” Mark says, “all of this was just mere interest, pure myth to me. Until recently.”

  Georgia looks up, cocking an eyebrow. “Recently?”

  “Yes.” He pauses to take a drink from his glass tumbler. “You know, I heard another story that wasn’t in your book. This version explains that the quest didn’t just end there. It tells of Hsu Fu’s journey as he sailed east. What Emperor Qin didn’t know was that Hsu Fu had his own reasons for making the trip. His son was born with an incurable disease, and his condition was worsening. Even Hsu Fu, a renowned alchemist and healer, couldn’t help his only child.

  “Qin’s generous offer was an opportunity that came at a perfect time. Hsu Fu didn’t really believe in the elixir, but he hoped to find other herbs in some distant land to experiment with, so that he could cure his son.”

  “Yes.” Georgia frowns. “I’ve heard of this legend as well, but really there’s no proof—”

  “Humour me, Professor, please. Allow me to finish.” Mark smiles, and she falls quiet again. “The story goes on to say, that even though Qin had believed the elixir was on Zhifu Island, Hsu Fu thought otherwise and kept sailing east. He sent messages back to court regularly to inform the emperor of his progress. But after a month, the messages stopped.

  “Qin grew impatient, and ordered the court diviner to communicate with the gods. They carved the emperor’s questions on a tortoise shell, then performed a pyromancy ritual which had only existed back in the Shang Dynasty—”

  “Okay, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to stop you there,” Georgia interjects again, feeling growing irritation with the hocus-pocus direction of the story. It annoys her when people mix fiction with history. She is a woman of science, after all. “My grandmother used to tell this story to me as a bedtime fairytale. Please don’t tell me that a man of your education has fallen prey to myths and fantasies.”

  Mark takes a deep breath, and Georgia can see the muscles of his jaw working. Rising from his chair, he says, “Let me show you something.”

  He walks over to a display cabinet in the centre of the room. Opening the lid, he carefully lifts out a small object, then returns to show her the item in his outstretched hands.

  She looks down at the relic, seeing it is displayed on a tray lined with soft black cloth. Frowning, she leans in to study it further. Then, as recognition sinks in, her eyes grow round and she jerks her head up to meet his gaze.

  “Where did you get this?”

  2

  Mark Lambert smiles, satisfied that he finally has the professor’s undivided attention.

  “This piece came into my collection several months ago,” he explains. “The man I got it from said it was dug up by a farmer outside of Xi’an. That was all I could get out of him.”

  He sets the small tray on the table before Georgia and offers her a magnifying glass. She murmurs her thanks as she takes it, her eyes never leaving the object. Like a true archaeologist, she is now completely captivated by the relic.

  Mark watches as she leans over it, examining every inch of its surface. It’s the belly side of a small tortoise shell, slightly larger than the professor’s hand. Fragments that have broken off are set in the grooves of the custom-built tray, securing them in place. On the surface of the shell are faint carvings of texts, forming vertical lines down the centre and also along cracks in the shell.

  “It’s an oracle bone,” she murmurs in awe, more to herself than to him. Her eyes are still fixated on the prize before her.

  Mark nods. Oracle bones were one of the more difficult relics to track down for his collection. When they were first discovered in the early twentieth century by local villagers, they were used as ‘dragon bones’ in Chinese medicine, ground up and ingested by patients to cure various ailments. By the time an antique dealer had realised their true origins, news spread quickly and the market of oracle bones exploded amongst foreign collectors. Decades of uncontrolled digs in China meant that many of these pieces quickly disappeared into private collections in the West before archaeologists even had a chance to study them. Mark guesses Georgia has not seen many of these intact.

  He watches as she scrutinises it, a slight crease at the centre of her forehead emerging. A stray strand of hair falls in her eyes, and she absentmindedly flips it back, her long, jet-black hair cascading down her slim shoulders.

  The professor is a beautiful woman, more stunning in person than in photographs. Yet she carries herself as if she i
s completely oblivious to this fact, and Mark finds this fascinating. He studies Georgia as he leans back in his chair. She is wearing hardly any makeup, which is a positive compared to the heavily powdered women he is used to dining with. Her chosen attire for the night, however, is the exact kind that he hates: a black A-line shift dress. Simple, elegant, conservative, and boring. Lambert is accustomed to women garbed with an ostentatious and seductive flare in his presence, and he can tell Georgia has not dressed with the intention to impress tonight.

  She is so understated. And yet surprising in so many ways.

  With her petite frame, big, almond-shaped eyes, and near-perfect Asian complexion, she can easily pass as a kid just out of college. On appearance, it’s hard to imagine this gorgeous woman is half as accomplished as her resume describes. The only thing that hints at her true age and maturity are the few strands of grey around her temples, the glint of sharp intelligence in her eyes, and the ever-so-subtle air of melancholy in her gait. She walks as if she is a woman burdened by the experiences of life. Even so, Mark finds it hard to believe she is now well into her thirties.

  Things are not always as they seem. He, of all people, should know that.

  “This oracle bone—it’s not like any other I’ve seen before,” Georgia concludes, almost breathless. She looks up to meet his gaze, her dark brown eyes now shimmering with excitement.

  “How so?”

  “Oracle bones were used for a method of divination during the Shang Dynasty, which dates back to around 1000 BCE,” she explains in the authoritative voice of a professor, and Mark can instantly picture her at a university lectern with hundreds of students before her. “They bear the earliest known significant corpus of ancient Chinese writing: the Oracle Bone Script. But the words carved on this shell are in Seal Script, which was only adopted as the formal system of writing during the Qin Dynasty. And the Qin Dynasty began much, much later—in 221 BCE.