City of Ink

by Elsa Hart

  From their vantage point in the top room of the pagoda, they saw little that could be called scenic. Brown marshes stretched between courtyard walls and alleys, shadowed by the great square watchtower that rose from the city’s southeast corner. “A dubious attraction,” said Hamza. “I myself intend to visit the golden tortoises of Rainbow Bridge. A bridge with such a name cannot fail to be impressive. Are there many golden tortoises?”

  Li Du suspected that Hamza would be crestfallen to discover that the golden tortoises were inanimate. “The bridge offers a fine view of the imperial lakes,” he offered as he started back down the stairs. “I used to cross it daily on my way to the library.” The library. The word produced its usual silent echo in Li Du’s mind.

  Hamza followed him. “Did the chief inspector believe you were going to celebrate your aunt’s birthday?”

  Since Hamza’s arrival, Li Du had tried to keep the intended visit to Feng Liang tucked safely within his thoughts, where it would not influence his expression, or inspire a comment that could rouse the suspicions of Sun or one of the clerks. Now, as he drew closer to the conversation that could end his search for the answers he had come to Beijing to uncover, he found himself almost unable to remember the North Borough Office, or to recall the role he played there. “Sun has been encouraging me to become reacquainted with my relations,” he said in a distracted tone. “He believed me because it pleased him to think I was taking his advice.”

  They exited the pagoda onto a lane eroded by rain and the wheels of laden carts. Li Du halted. “I should go alone,” he said. “I am not certain it will be safe.”

  Hamza stopped too, and turned to him with his dark eyebrows raised and his arms crossed over his chest. “That is why I am coming with you. Do you think he will receive us?”

  Li Du patted his satchel, reassuring himself that the Commentary was still there. “If he is truly a book collector, he won’t be able to refuse.”

  * * *

  From the outside, Feng Liang’s manor seemed uninhabited. Wisteria cascaded over the walls into the street, living vines entwined with dead ones. Brittle leaves littered the stone manes of lions positioned on either side of the entrance. Li Du’s knock on the faded red door was met with silence.

  “It is possible only spirits live here,” said Hamza. He patted one of the vines, sending a tremor up through the tangle and producing a dry, rattling hiss.

  Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, Li Du turned in time to see a man in a plain blue robe retreat into the doorway of a small temple on the other side of the lane. Li Du wondered if it was only his imagination that leant an air of furtiveness to the slim figure stepping backwards out of sight. With a creak and a whisper of vines, the door of the manor swung inward, interrupting his speculations.

  A servant stood before them. Tall and broad-shouldered, he conveyed an impression of immovability in his gray robes, like the rock face of a mountain gorge steadfastly resisting the erosive power of a river.

  Li Du tilted his head back to meet the servant’s eyes. “We are here to speak to Feng Liang.”

  The man bowed. It was a polite bow, but not one that implied servility. “If you are from the Examiner Selection Committee, you may give your message to me, and I will convey it to my master. Feng Liang does not admit visitors to his private residence.”

  “We are not from Examiner Selection Committee,” said Li Du. “We are here because we have a book he may be interested in purchasing for his collection.”

  “Then I must ask you, respectfully, to depart,” replied the servant. “Feng Liang gives his business only to the most exclusive dealers in rare volumes, not to unknown peddlers.” He stepped back, preparing to close the door.

  Li Du spoke quickly. “Tell your master that we have brought a Song edition of The Commentary on the Book of Rites. If he is not interested, we will trouble him no further. I am confident we will have no difficulty finding another buyer. We will wait here for his answer.”

  The servant hesitated. Then, with another perfunctory bow, he departed. Standing once again in front of the closed door, Li Du and Hamza exchanged glances. “I’d say he is more of a guard than a servant,” said Hamza in a hushed tone. “I understand better why you required a treasure before you could approach this place. Your quarry takes his seclusion seriously.”

  “If an easier way had presented itself, I would not have asked you to undertake such an arduous errand,” Li Du replied.

  “Perhaps,” said Hamza. “Though you might have made the journey to retrieve the book yourself. I think you must have missed my company. Why do you keep looking over your shoulder?”

  “Hm?” Li Du returned his attention to Hamza. “I saw a man go into that temple. For a moment, I had the impression that he was watching us.”

  Frowning, Hamza crossed the lane to the temple, and peered inside. After a moment, he returned. “There is a man there, but he is lighting candles at the altar with every appearance of devotion.”

  The manor door opened. The same servant appeared, his stance and expression unchanged from when they had first seen him. “I will escort you to Feng Liang,” he said, and stepped aside so that they could enter. They followed him through an outer courtyard, which contained no plants other than wisteria that smothered the walls, and weeds that bristled between worn cobblestones. The long halls on either side appeared unused. Rusted padlocks hung from rusted handles, below which ran verandas coated in dust and grit. The air held an odor of sweet decay, which Li Du traced to a tall date tree outside the walls. Its fruit had fallen onto the flagstones, where it was slowly rotting. In the center of the second courtyard, a maid tended a stove while two more servants in gray sat on either side of a bucket of water, cleaning and preparing chicken intestines.

  They continued into a third courtyard, which was dominated by a two-story building. An exception to the general theme of disuse, it had a clean veranda, and freshly painted doors with polished handles and hinges. The servant led them inside, through a sparsely furnished parlor, and up a staircase to another room. Upon entering, Li Du could not prevent his gaze from lingering on the book cabinets arranged and labeled with obsessive precision. Colored according to subject matter, each label boasted an exhaustive list of titles and editions. Within the open cabinets, books in boxes of rich silk returned Li Du’s look with the contented superiority of treasures fully cognizant of their worth.

  An elderly man awaited them beside a table of black lacquer inlaid with gold. He was frail, his face stretched taut over a sharp brow and high cheekbones. His robes were parchment white. The sash tied low at his hips emphasized his diminutive frame. Despite the warm weather, a gray fox fur rested across his shoulders. He assessed their features without recognition.

  “I am Feng Liang.” He had a raspy, whispering voice that sounded like snow being brushed from a marble balustrade. “My servant tells me you have a Song edition of the Commentary. Is it with you now?”

  “It is,” Li Du replied. From his satchel, he withdrew the book Hamza had brought to Beijing. It was wrapped tightly in silk. A few grains of desert sand still clung to it. He could feel them pressing into his fingertips.

  The old man regarded the package with undisguised skepticism. “You understand I must examine it carefully,” he said. “To satisfy myself that it is not a forgery.”

  “Of course,” said Li Du.

  They sat down at the table. The servant, obeying instructions from Feng, procured a folded piece of pristine white silk, which he proceeded to smooth over the table in front of his master, before stepping back into the shadows of the book cabinets.

  “May I?” asked Feng.

  Li Du handed him the book. Feng unwound the cloth from it and set the volume on the length of silk before him. He examined the cover before carefully lifting it. His expression remained skeptical. But his hands betray him, Li Du thought, seeing them tremble as they caressed the edge of the first page, assessing its thickness and texture.

  “A
Lin’an edition,” Feng murmured. He leaned forward until his nose almost touched the paper, and inhaled. “Fragrant ink, thinly applied. Correct script. Elegant, archaically bold.” He straightened and continued his examination in silence. After a while, he looked up, pinning Li Du with his eyes. “Where did you obtain this?”

  “It was given to me a long time ago.”

  “You are a collector?”

  “No, but I was a librarian once.”

  “Were you? Tell me, then, in your opinion, what wood is best for the building of book cabinets?”

  Li Du was startled, but the answer came easily. “Dealwood from Kiangsi, cypress from Sichuan, or gingko.”

  “Why not rosewood?”

  “Because it absorbs moisture.”

  “What is the best way to prevent white ants?”

  “A paste of pulverized charcoal.”

  “How many lines per page are there in the Song edition of the Seventeen Histories?”

  “Nine, and eighteen characters to the line.”

  “And in a Tang edition of the Thirteen Classics?”

  “There are no existing Tang editions of the Thirteen Classics.”

  Feng Liang gave a thin smile, and sighed. “But what would we sacrifice to obtain one? I hope you will forgive an old recluse his little tests. I thought you might be a common thief. I do not wish to own a stolen book, though in this case, I would almost make an exception.” He had not taken his eyes from the text. Now he lifted them to Li Du. “Please know that you have my deepest sympathy. I will not ask what dire circumstances could induce you to part with such a book as this. I will only ask your price.”

  “The book is not for sale.”

  Feng had dropped his eyes once more to the volume. Now he raised them again. “Please, let us not treat this object as if it were a common market trinket. There is no need to haggle. I will pay what you ask, but I must have it.” There was a tremor in his voice.

  Li Du regarded the other man with quiet gravity. “I brought the book because it was the only way to gain admittance to your home. I have questions I believe only you can answer. If you agree to do so, the Commentary is yours.”

  The old man stared. He seemed baffled. “What subject could merit such a charade, performed for an infirm recluse who lives with only his books for company? What answers do you think I have that would be worth such a treasure?”

  Li Du hesitated. “This man is my associate,” he said, indicating Hamza. “He knows all that I know. Unless you can say the same of your attendant, I suggest you dismiss him. The matter I wish to discuss is private.”

  There was a period of silence while Feng Liang considered this, studying Li Du’s face, wearing a look of wary curiosity on his own. Finally, he addressed his servant. “We old men have long histories,” he said. “Filled with small indiscretions we would prefer to forget. I will hear what my visitors have to say alone. Do not go far. I will call if I require assistance.”

  The servant bowed and departed. The three of them listened, without speaking, to his steps across the floor, and to the straining creak of wood as he descended the stairs. After a while, silence returned.

  “I would like to know to whom I am speaking,” said Feng.

  “My name is Li Du. This is Hamza—”

  “A storyteller by vocation,” Hamza supplied.

  Feng’s eyes flickered in Hamza’s direction, but his attention remained on Li Du. “I do not know you,” he said. “What is it you think you know about me?”

  Li Du took a steadying breath, knowing that every word he spoke mattered. He had no leverage over the man who now fixed him with a look of penetrating intelligence. He had to rely on the power that came from asserting with confidence what he only guessed to be true. “In the forty-first reigning year, an attempt was made on the life of the Emperor,” he began.

  “That is known to everyone in the capital,” said Feng. “They were Ming conspirators who wanted to restore the throne to the Ming prince hidden in the south. They were captured and executed.”

  “Not all of them,” said Li Du. “You escaped.”

  “I?”

  Without taking his eyes from the other man, Li Du nodded once. “I know you were one of them.”

  Dense creases formed on Feng’s forehead as he lifted his gray eyebrows. “You are mistaken. What led you to such a conclusion?”

  “I consulted records,” said Li Du, undeterred by Feng’s denial. “Hundreds of records, in search of a connection between the conspirators. You were that connection. You knew them all.”

  When Feng did not reply, Li Du continued, his words coming faster. “I am here on behalf of an innocent man. I am here because I want to know why Shu died for a crime he did not commit.” He stopped, a little out of breath. “I want to know why Shu died in your place.”

  “Li Du.” Feng uttered the name in a long exhale. “The exiled librarian. Of course. You were Shu’s friend.” Dawning comprehension seemed to ease the tension from his face.

  “Yes,” was all Li Du could manage.

  “But what are you saying?” asked Feng. “That Shu was falsely accused?”

  “I think he gave his life to protect one of the conspirators.”

  “And you think I was that person.”

  Li Du made an effort to speak, and found he could not. He had a growing sense that something was wrong. The eyes of the man looking at him were filled not with guilt, or anger, but with an expression closer to pity. Li Du was relieved and grateful when the sound of Hamza’s voice filled the silence. “My friend is not here for vengeance,” said the storyteller, echoing the words Li Du had spoken to him at the inn. “He is here for the truth. What harm can it do you now to give it to him?”

  Once more, Feng lapsed into a long silence. The wrinkled eyelids shuttered, and his face went still. Just as Li Du was beginning to think the old man might not intend to speak again, he did. “Shu was your teacher, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes,” said Li Du. “My teacher, and my friend.”

  “I understand,” said Feng. “Imagine, then, what it was like to lose seven friends, where you lost but one.” His eyes opened wider, and his gaze roamed the shelves surrounding them. “Having survived the pain of such a loss, is it any surprise that I choose to remain here alone with my books, and allow the threads that bound me to the companions of my younger years to fray and separate?” Feng placed his fingertips on the white silk beneath the book, resting them there so that his fingers formed a cage around the volume. Slowly, he slid the silk and its precious burden across the table to Li Du. “As loath as I am to relinquish it, I cannot take this volume from you, for you offered it in exchange for answers I cannot give.”

  “I don’t understand,” whispered Li Du.

  “I wasn’t one of them,” said Feng. “I swear it to you. I knew nothing of the conspiracy until it became public knowledge, and if Shu was indeed innocent, your words today are the first intimation I’ve had of it.” He lifted his fingers from the silk, leaving the book in front of Li Du on the table.

  Li Du barely glanced at it. “But if you knew them, if you were friends with them, why weren’t you exiled, as I was?”

  “I was not in the capital,” said Feng. “If you consult these records you speak of further, I am sure you could find proof of it. I was with my family in Gansu, and had been for several months before the attempt was made. I was there when I received the news of it. One never knows which way the imperial eye will turn. As it happened, it never fixed on me. I am no traitor, though I admit I wept for my friends.”

  “Did you know what they intended?”

  “I never suspected it.”

  “And Shu?”

  Feng shook his head. “I saw his name on the list of the accused. That is all.” He sighed. “I stayed away for more than a year. When I at last returned, I found myself changed. I no longer took pleasure in the city, as I once had. I wanted only to be left alone, and I found comfort only in my books.”

  Disappoint
ment swept through Li Du. He had come to the center of the labyrinth, and found only another wall.

  Chapter 20

  “Your book,” said Hamza. They were some distance from the manor, and had stopped within sight of a textile market. Occupying a wide intersection, it overflowed into the surrounding alleys, enlivening them with brilliant bolts of cloth, rolls of thread, and browsing customers.

  Li Du took the book, wrapped once more in its silk, and returned it wordlessly to his satchel. “I think you would have left it behind, had I not retrieved it,” Hamza continued. “And for all the pathos of the solitary, haunted collector, I am not certain he would have stopped you. Did you see the way his hands shook when he touched it, and seized when he tried to let it go?”

  Recognizing that Hamza was trying to distract him, Li Du made an attempt to emerge from the corrosive cloud that was settling over him, fraying thoughts and fading memories. He heard his own voice as if from a distance. “Devoted collectors, when they see a book they want, cannot rest until they possess it. They are known to pawn the clothes on their backs, if necessary.”

  “I would not want to desire anything so much,” declared Hamza. He seemed relieved that Li Du had spoken. “I am reminded,” he went on, “of a time I endeavored to cross a vast bog. I was a less experienced traveler than I am now. Unwisely, I began the journey on a sunny morning. With delight, I followed paths of yellow asphodel, cloudy cottongrass, and pink sundew that spread its glistening tentacles across the ground before me. But daylight soon departed, and took the paths with it. The air grew cold. Dim spirits, composed of blue light, appeared above the dark grasses and unseen pools, beckoning for me to follow them. I thought I must freeze or drown, until one of these spirits came near enough for conversation.

  “I set myself the task of discovering what, beyond leading me to my death, this spirit desired. After a time, it revealed to me that it had long wished to meet the moon, whose glow it tried so ceaselessly to imitate. Ah, I said, but this is a fortunate coincidence, for I am a personal friend of the moon. I persuaded the spirit to, against the instincts of its kind, guide me safely through the bog. In return, I promised it an introduction to the moon.”