City of Ink

by Elsa Hart

  Li Du, who had only been half listening, caught the look of concern on Hamza’s face. He tried to look curious. “What happened when you could not give it what it wanted?”

  Hamza’s face brightened. “I may have tricked many a monster and demon who meant me harm, but I never make hollow promises. I am acquainted with the moon, and I did make the introduction. But that is a story for another time.” His tone grew serious. “What will you do now?”

  They began to walk again. As they entered the market, patterned silks and brocades stood out in vivid relief against the grays and browns of the East Borough. At the far side of the intersection, several sedan chairs waited for business, their bearers dozing in their seats. “I will return to my place of employment,” said Li Du, indicating the sedan chairs. “And you will visit the Rainbow Bridge, if that is still your intention.”

  Hamza frowned. “But what will do you regarding your—” His voice dropped to a whisper. “—your investigation?”

  Li Du stared unseeingly at the colors surrounding them. “Maybe the truth is lost,” he murmured. “Maybe Shu—” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “Nonsense,” said Hamza. “Someone knows.”

  Li Du saw in his mind the room in the library where the conspirators had met, and the empty table at its center. “I begin to think that everyone who knows is dead.”

  A golden cast moved across Hamza’s features, followed by blue and purple, as he was lit through gossamer scarves caught in a breeze above them. He smiled. “It is not impossible to ask questions of those who have passed into other worlds.”

  Li Du returned the smile with the most genuine one he could produce. “In your wanderings today,” he said before he turned to the borough office, “do not forget that when the drums set the night watch, the gates of the city close. It is not a rule to take lightly. The guards will not allow you through after dark, and they will not respond well to being asked for favors.”

  * * *

  Chief Inspector Sun had not yet returned from the Inner City. Unchallenged by the clerks, Li Du went to his desk, put on his spectacles, and immersed himself in the assignments that had accumulated over the past several days. The bulk of the documents on his desk were minor complaints submitted to the office by local families and businesses. Li Du’s only responsibility was to review the complaints for clerical errors. Those containing errors would be returned to the parties that had issued them with instructions to make the corrections before resubmitting the complaint.

  The body of the plea must be limited to three lines and no more than one hundred and forty-four words, he wrote in the margin of one complaint. In a case concerning landed property, a copy of the deed must be included, he wrote in another. When he had finished reviewing the twentieth complaint, a sizeable stack remained. He removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. He could hear voices from the other side of the courtyard. The clerks were concluding their work for the day. Plans were being made for dinner and entertainment. Brush handles were clicking against stone as their owners tapped water from the rinsed bristles. Li Du stood up, put a portion of tea leaves into his cup, and went outside in search of hot water.

  Mi was standing beside the brazier, perusing a document. “The water isn’t boiled yet,” he said absently to Li Du.

  Yuan emerged from the office, carrying his own cup, and took a seat on the edge of the veranda. “What is it you’re reading?” he asked Mi.

  It was the end of the day, and they were both bored. Mi shrugged. “The Ministry of Punishments has updated the list of exiles for the borough offices to compare to housing records. No new names here, though.”

  Yuan lifted dreamy eyes to the sky. Then he placed a finger between his black felt hat and his forehead and scratched vigorously. “I envy the exiles,” he sighed. “Because they have no rank, they are free not to wear hats. If I were an exile, my paintings of bamboo would become famous. How brilliant, people would say. He paints bamboo because, like the exile, it bends without breaking. I would walk through the mountains with an attractive walking stick. Behind me, my attendant would walk with my zither. Sometimes the wind would strum a tune across its strings, inspiring me to write a poem—”

  “You lose a great deal when your connection to other people is severed. I do not think you would find the experience as pleasurable as you imagine.” The words were spoken before Li Du could consider them.

  The two clerks turned to him with startled curiosity. It was a tone Li Du had never used in the North Borough Office before. “I apologize,” said Yuan. “You never speak of your exile. We weren’t even sure that it was true. Is it also true that your sentence was lifted because you performed a service for the Emperor?”

  Feeling his invisibility beginning to crack, Li Du was preparing a vague denial when a pounding at the door claimed their attention. The three of them crossed the courtyard to the entrance, as the guard stationed there admitted a mounted messenger. Remaining on his horse, which dipped its head and flipped its mane impatiently, the messenger handed a rolled missive to Li Du. He opened it and began to read.

  “What is it?” asked Mi. The surprise on Li Du’s face must have been evident, given the urgent tone of the question.

  “It’s from the chief inspector. He went to the magistrate’s office to interview Hong Wenbin.”

  “We know,” said Yuan. “They were going to try to convince him to confess. Is he refusing?”

  Li Du had rolled up the scroll again and was staring at the kettle of water that had just begun to boil.

  “Well?” demanded Mi. “What did Hong say?”

  “He didn’t say anything,” murmured Li Du. “Hong is dead.”

  Chapter 21

  Magistrate Yin himself addressed the employees of the North Borough Office on the following morning. His robes proclaimed his rank with an embroidered square affixed to his chest. A silver pheasant, crowned with a proud swoop of blue, rose from a rainbow-colored wave toward a red sun. For Magistrate Yin, an uncomfortable-looking man whose demeanor conveyed no natural authority, the trappings of status were of particular advantage. Flanked by soldiers, he stood on the edge of the veranda outside Chief Inspector Sun’s office door, squinting into the morning glare.

  “Gossip will not be tolerated,” he said. The silence in the courtyard absorbed his voice rather than enhancing it. “I have come here, in person, despite the numerous demands on my time, to communicate the facts to you. I expect an end to frivolous speculation and idle chatter on the subject of the sordid incident at the Black Tile Factory. As the edict instructs, it is your duty, as officials, to cultivate peace and concord in your neighborhoods in order to illustrate harmony and benignity. Should any report to the contrary reach me, I will hold every clerk here responsible. Most of you hope to advance to ministry positions or magistracies. I would advise you not to disappoint me at this tender time in your careers.”

  Li Du observed the clerks striving to outdo each other in their performances of dutiful attention. Their shoulders were drawn back, their faces solemn, and their eyes filled with affirmation of the magistrate’s words. Chief Inspector Sun was standing just behind the magistrate, staring at the courtyard cobblestones with an attitude of grim endurance.

  “As I am sure you have all heard by now, the primary suspect in the case, Hong Wenbin, took his own life yesterday afternoon. Taking into account the nearly conclusive evidence against him, his suicide may be considered a clear admission of guilt. The investigation of the death of Madam Hong and Pan is concluded. My office will take over the responsibility of ensuring a peaceful reconciliation between the families involved.”

  Magistrate Yin paused and surveyed his audience. His lips were pursed, as if he wanted to scold someone but could not decide where to direct his criticism. Failing to identify a target, he addressed the group again. “This unusual and wasteful episode of violence in our peaceful capital was caused, in part, by excessive consumption of wine. Let this serve as a reminder of the dangers of dissip
ation and excess. Chief Inspector Sun has been instructed to make this the subject of next month’s lecture on moral behavior.”

  Sun straightened to attention as the magistrate’s head rotated on its thin neck to look at him. “Yes, sir,” said Sun.

  Nodding in approval of his own handling of the situation, Magistrate Yin began a slow descent from the veranda into the courtyard. He was obliged to lift the hem of his robe slightly, and Li Du wondered if he kept his hems long in order to emphasize the point that it was not his job to trudge through puddles in the Outer City.

  Watching him, Li Du felt a quiet, disheartening sense of finality. For Magistrate Yin, Hong’s death was a convenient end to a case that might have proved troublesome. Sun had given Li Du a succinct account of what had happened. The chief inspector had gone to see Magistrate Yin on the previous day. Up to that point, Hong had continued to insist that he had not committed murder. Magistrate Yin, convinced of his guilt, felt that Hong simply needed further reassurance that the law would protect him. He and Sun had formulated a strategy to elicit a confession, then sent a soldier to retrieve Hong from his cell. The soldier had found Hong hanging from a roof beam by his own sash. No one was reported to have entered the cell since the guards had checked it on the previous evening, at which point Hong was alive. There was no evidence of harm to the body beyond the harm that Hong had, apparently, inflicted on himself. The investigation of the Black Tile Factory murders had reached its conclusion.

  “Magistrate Yin.” The magistrate was almost to the courtyard door when Li Du’s voice stopped him. He turned, his nostrils flared in disapproval.

  Li Du dropped into a low bow. “I apologize, sir. I have been assisting the chief inspector with the case. I wish to ask, humbly, by what day you expect the report of our investigation to be delivered to you?”

  “Ah,” said the magistrate. Li Du saw him search for an authoritative answer to a question he had not expected to be asked. “If they are ready, you may give your notes to me now. My clerks will revise and recopy them for the official record of the incident.”

  Maintaining an expression of the utmost deference, Li Du went on carefully. “If I had only a few additional days, I could ensure that the information is clearly presented, and confirm its accuracy. I would not wish to be the cause of any accusation of incompetence directed at this office, or yours, should some essential detail be left out, or some erroneous one included.”

  Magistrate Yin’s attention turned briefly inward as he debated what would be easiest, and most advantageous to him. “Four days, then.” He addressed Sun, who had joined them. “You understand I want no undue allocation of resources to a closed case. The eyes of the palace are on the boroughs as the examinations approach. There will be additional Green Standard soldiers assigned temporarily to the most crowded intersections. I want you present at their training this afternoon. In addition, the review of the sentry post locations is behind schedule, and the outer wall of the Altar of Agriculture needs repainting. Contact the Ministry of Rites about it. And, most important, keep the examination candidates who are staying in the North Borough under control. We don’t want any incidents this year.”

  * * *

  Chief Inspector Sun looked at Li Du over the papers and ornaments that had repopulated his desk since the misadventure with Qi’s noodle soup. “Is the door closed?”

  It was. Sun let out a long breath, and allowed his big, round shoulders to slump a little. “Magistrate Yin is not a bad administrator,” he said. “But he likes problems that solve themselves. He always has. Present him with a solution that is tidy, and he accepts it. Hong’s suicide is a very neat solution.”

  “Did you tell the magistrate about the note and the silver?”

  “I did. He assured me that all such minor details would be examined by his clerks before the record of the case is finalized.” Sun heaved a sigh. “Magistrate Yin wants to believe that the murder suspect killed himself, and that he did so because he was overcome with regret at what he had done. He wants to believe it, and he does believe it.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “I saw the body,” said Sun. “It looked like suicide. But—” He lapsed into silence. Li Du, recognizing that Sun was collecting his thoughts in preparation for a longer speech, waited. “My vantage point within the administration is not a lofty one,” said Sun finally. “I am not embarrassed to admit it. I enjoy my work. I have seen a great deal of this city. I am not talking about streets and buildings. I’m talking about the inner workings of it. And I will tell you this. For someone with the necessary resources, it is not difficult to make a man in a prison cell die.”

  “Do you think that is what happened?” asked Li Du. “That whoever killed Pan and Madam Hong arranged for her husband’s death in order to bring an end to the investigation?”

  Sun picked up one of the papers from his desk. Li Du guessed he was only pretending to read it. “The ministry reminds us to direct the request for the paint to the imperial household,” he muttered. With an effort, he returned his attention to Li Du. “I don’t know,” he said. “But it doesn’t matter. The conclusion of this case lies with the magistrate’s office.”

  “Except that we still have to provide the report,” said Li Du.

  Sun set the letter from the ministry aside. “Yes? What do you mean?”

  “I mean that, for the next four days, the case is still here in North Borough Office.”

  “But you cannot think it possible to uncover our own solution to this problem in four days, all under the guise of writing a report?”

  “It’s possible to try.”

  Sun’s eyebrows shot up. He was looking at Li Du as if he wasn’t sure whether to take him seriously. “You understand that I am a subordinate of the magistrate. I can’t reopen the investigation without his permission.”

  “You won’t be reopening it. You’ll be doing exactly the tasks the magistrate has assigned you, and I’ll be doing what you delegate authority to me to do—completing the report.”

  Understanding began to dawn on Sun. “I assume,” he said, “that merely in order to clarify your notes, you may be obliged to revisit the scene of the crime, in addition to resolving any points of confusion in the accounts given to us by those involved?”

  “That was my assumption,” said Li Du.

  “And,” Sun continued slowly, “should this report contain a compelling alternative explanation for the murders, and for Hong’s death, the magistrate would presumably have to acknowledge it.”

  Li Du remained silent, waiting for Sun to decide whether to accept Li Du’s plan. “You have set yourself a difficult task,” said Sun. “I suggest you approach it with caution.”

  Chapter 22

  It was another unseasonably warm day, and the narrow strips of shadow at the bases of walls were crowded with pedestrians seeking shade. As Li Du approached the Black Tile Factory, the number of people around him dwindled, most choosing alternate routes to avoid the thick gray air and choking coal smoke. He found the entrance to the factory open and unguarded, and received neither challenge nor welcome as he passed through the chaotic courtyard to the administrative office.

  His knock received no reply, but he could hear movement inside. He opened the door in time to see someone scrambling from the floor to his feet, caught up in voluminous black robes. A pair of startled green eyes met his.

  “Father Aveneau,” said Li Du. “What are you doing?”

  Quickly regaining his composure, Father Aveneau smiled, as if to suggest that they were more closely acquainted than they actually were. “I was just on my way to open the door,” he said.

  “You were searching for something?”

  There was a short pause. Then Father Aveneau nodded. “That is precisely what I was doing.” From the corner of the desk, he picked up a slim folder made from worn black vellum. “I came to retrieve this.”

  Li Du stepped deeper into the room, leaving the door open to let in the light. “What is it, and
how did it come to be here?”

  “It is simply a small collection of documents that I often carry with me,” said Aveneau. “I noticed yesterday that it was missing. After a thorough search of the offices at the church, I remembered that I was carrying it that morning—the morning I came here—and had not seen it since. It occurred to me that I might have set it down, and in my distress, forgotten to pick it up again. I decided this morning to return and search for it.”

  Li Du cast his eyes over the room, visualizing it as it had been the day the bodies were discovered. “We made a thorough examination,” he said. “I’m surprised neither the chief inspector, Doctor Wan, nor I myself noticed it.”

  “It had fallen,” said Father Aveneau. “It was here, tucked between the desk and the wall. I had just drawn it out when you came in. If I hadn’t looked for it, I’m not sure it would ever have been discovered, at least not without the desk being removed from the room.”

  Aveneau spoke in Latin. It was the first time Li Du had heard him communicate in a language other than Chinese. The change produced a significant alteration in his affect. His eyes, which had in the past conveyed the daunted hesitation of a man uncertain of his own meaning, now suggested that the mind animating them possessed a calm intelligence. It was a reminder, Li Du thought, never to judge a person’s intellectual capacity too quickly when they are speaking in a language other than their own.

  “Did you consider coming to the North Borough Office first?”

  “I reasoned,” said Father Aveneau smoothly, “that if you had found it, you would have mentioned it to me when you came to the South Church, the contents being so clearly indicative of their owner.” He held the folder out to Li Du. “Please see for yourself.”

  Li Du took it. The leather was protecting a number of sheets of paper. The first few contained a neat list of Chinese words transcribed using the Latin alphabet. About half were accompanied by a translation of the word into French. It was a basic vocabulary, a list obviously intended to help a foreigner conduct business within the city.