by Elsa Hart
“Cheaters,” said a voice nearby. It belonged to a peddler who had come from the site, pulling his cart behind him.
“What were they doing?” asked Hu.
“Trying to bury answers inside,” answered the peddler. “Old trick. I haven’t heard of it being attempted since the twenty-eighth reigning year. I expect they thought they could get away with it because of the construction.” He squinted at Hu, his eyesight obviously poor, and nodded a wrinkled chin at the laborers still tossing and catching tiles. “They were dressed up like workers.”
Hu was frowning. “What will happen to them?”
“They’ll be lucky if they aren’t executed,” said the peddler. “I don’t know why they’d risk it. There are enough soldiers around here to spot an old scheme like that one.”
Li Du knew. The examination yard was a point on the path to power that could not be bypassed. No matter how many literary gatherings a merchant hosted, or how many paintings he acquired, he could never attain the status conferred by a degree. Those few candidates whose names appeared on the list would be on their way to claiming some small part of the gold and glamor visible, every day, on the streets of the capital.
The peddler turned weak eyes to Li Du. “You a candidate? Can I interest you in one of the items in my cart? I have ink stones that keep ink from drying out. I have brushes so fine the answers all but write themselves. And here—this is something very special. Take a sniff of this powder, and it will block the smell of the latrines for half a day. You can’t beat that for helping concentration, can you? I’ve heard the stench is terrible in there.” He looked at Li Du hopefully.
Hu, whom the peddler had thus far ignored, picked up one of the brushes and examined it thoughtfully. It was made of white porcelain, decorated in blue with encouraging maxims. “How much for this one?” he asked.
The man’s eyebrows lifted. “So you’re going to move up in the world?” he said. “You won’t find a straighter path than the one you can paint for yourself with that brush. That brush will write you all the way to a ministry job. And if you buy a stick of ink, too, I’ll throw in this charm at no charge.” He plucked a tiny, carved wooden tortoise from a basket in the cart full of identical carvings.
Hu produced several coins. “Ah,” said the peddler. “That would be enough for one of the more humble brushes, but your fine taste has led you directly to the most valuable item in my cart.”
After a short bargaining session, Hu agreed to a price and handed over an additional coin. “My son’s brushes are old,” he explained to Li Du. “I wouldn’t want his marks to suffer just because the bristles blurred his calligraphy. He has as fine and controlled a hand as any scholar.”
“You have obviously worked hard on behalf of your son,” said Li Du, eyeing the brush. “I took the exams once myself. I know they are as difficult for the families of the candidates as they are for the candidates themselves. If I may—” He approached the cart, selected a different brush, and examined it. Made of black lacquered wood, it featured a simple design, in inlaid silver, of a carp borne up on a curl of water. He handed it to Hu. “May I suggest this one, instead? It is lighter, and will not tire his hand as quickly. The peddler will give it to you for the same price.”
The peddler looked as if he would argue, then changed his mind, recognizing Li Du as a man who was knowledgeable about the worth of brushes. It was a fair price for a brush of significantly higher quality than the other one. Hu thanked Li Du, paid for the brush, then stood turning it over in his hands, admiring it. “It has a lucky feel,” he said.
“The design refers to the carp that jumped over a waterfall and became a dragon,” said Li Du. He thought of Hamza, and made a mental note to tell him the story.
Hu smiled. “Just as my son will pass the exams and become an official.” After a moment’s silent indecision, he spoke again. “I will tell you why I avoided Pan. About a year ago, my son met Pan by chance at the Black Tile Factory. He—my son—told Pan he was studying for the exams, and Pan offered to take my son to the opera. Now, my son is a moral man and a serious student, but I allowed him to go because I knew that Pan had passed with distinction, and I thought his friendship would help my son in his career. But when Erchen—my son—returned home the next morning, he confessed something to me. He said that Pan had told him he could help him cheat, that he had a scheme to smuggle answers into the exam yard, and that Erchen could benefit from it. I am telling you this because I know you will believe me when I say that my son never even considered accepting Pan’s offer. As I told you, he is a moral and honorable young man. But a newborn calf does not know to be afraid of the tiger, and I feared Pan’s influence. After Erchen told me about Pan’s proposition, I forbade him from ever speaking to Pan again. I would not allow my son to be lured into the same terrible fate of the two men we just saw dragged away.”
“But you never said anything to Pan?”
A shadow of guilt crossed Hu’s features. “Pan was a powerful official. How could I speak to him on the subject, or accuse him, with only my son’s story as proof? I knew that would lead to trouble. I am sorry that I did not mention it before, but I did not feel it necessary. You asked me what I knew about Pan, and now I have told you. Pan was not a man to be trusted. I am certain of that.”
Chapter 24
That evening, Li Du and Hamza dined at a restaurant that specialized in a spicy stew from Sichuan. Because it was new, and claimed to be the only restaurant in the capital serving that particular dish, it had attracted a large crowd. More eager to be seen at the popular restaurant by their coworkers and competitors than they were to ingest its food, most of the patrons were eyeing the opaque red broth warily, or recoiling from the tingling assault on their noses as they lifted their chopsticks toward their lips.
Hamza extracted a broth-soaked wedge of lotus root from the depths of the bowl between them. “Murder, blackmail, theft, adultery,” he said. “There are as many crimes associated with the Black Tile Factory as there are peppers in this soup.”
They spoke quietly to ensure that the clamor of conversations and clinking dishes around them remained louder than their voices. Li Du had apprised Hamza of Magistrate Yin’s visit to the North Borough Office that morning, and of the official closure of the case. “I would add bribery to your list of infractions,” he said, almost in a whisper. “No one could have walked into Magistrate Yin’s office, gained access to its prison, and attacked Hong without being caught. I agree with Chief Inspector Sun. If Hong’s death wasn’t a suicide, then we are looking for someone with the resources to have identified a guard willing to dirty his hands, and to have paid that guard enough to do it.”
“Then you should question the guards.”
Li Du shook his head. “There must be a hundred soldiers with access to the complex in which the magistrate’s offices are located.”
Hamza considered. “There is another possibility.”
“That the murderer works for the magistrate,” said Li Du. “I thought of that also. If I can obtain a list of officials working within the complex, and compare it to the list of guests at Hong’s literary gathering, there might—”
“I was thinking of sorcery,” said Hamza, interrupting him. “A murderer could have effected Hong’s murder from outside the walls of the prison using some spell or curse.”
“If we admit that possibility,” said Li Du, “the investigation becomes rather more complicated.”
“And more interesting,” said Hamza. “You look at me as if I am joking, but it is your own city that is to blame for the idea. I met a peddler today who, thinking I was an examination candidate, offered to sell me a potion that would make me dream the winning answers to the essay questions. I thought I might at least test its power. Is it still possible to register for these examinations?”
“If it is not your intention to spend your life working your way up through magistracies and ministries,” said Li Du mildly, “then it would seem unfair for you to claim a
spot on the list of passing candidates from one of the scholars who desires it more than anything.”
This gave Hamza pause. “You are right,” he said. “As for the matter at the factory, it is simple. The murderer now believes the case is closed, and will pay no attention to the quiet little assistant who is writing the report. All you must do is uncover the truth without alerting a wealthy and powerful killer to the fact that you are conducting an investigation.”
“Within four days,” added Li Du. He began to lift a bite of rice from his bowl, but stopped halfway and put his chopsticks down again, the food forgotten as he worked to follow his own thoughts. “The note that brought Pan and Madam Hong to the factory office that night was inspired by the book discussed at Hong’s literary gathering. Whether it was written by Pan, Madam Hong, or the murderer, I am certain that someone who was at that party was involved.”
“In that case,” said Hamza, “you should follow the strategy you just mentioned. Return to the list of guests. Interview them all.”
“Unfortunately, there were almost fifty guests in attendance. The report will be due before I could speak to five of them. I don’t even know if any would agree to speak to me at all. Without Chief Inspector Sun or a retinue of soldiers lending weight to my visit, I am merely an assistant from an inconsequential borough office writing a report.”
Hamza waved a dismissive hand. “You have faced more difficult challenges. Surely you recall the time you restored the pearl that was taken from the diadem of the Queen of the Seven Islands?”
Li Du’s small eyebrows lifted in a silent invitation for Hamza to explain himself. “There was also the time you thwarted the ghost bandits of Tiger Gorge,” Hamza continued. “That was not an easy task.”
“None of these events occurred,” said Li Du.
“Ask the Mongols that guided me and Sera-tsering over the steppes,” said Hamza. “They will tell you all about the exploits of Li Du, and I doubt even I could talk them out of retelling the tales now.”
Li Du’s eyes smiled gently beneath heavy lids. Then he stood up and slipped his chopsticks into their case. They paid for the meal and exited the restaurant into a twilit alley. Lantern light and muddled conversations hovered over courtyards hidden by walls. The air was savory, thickened by cooking oil and dust, carrying a heavy hint of manure and temple incense. There were not many people left on the streets. Hunched peasants pulled the day’s empty carts toward the outer wall, while others pulled the evening’s laden ones, ready to serve spice-encrusted meats to hungry customers. Those revelers who remained much longer where they were would be trapped by the closing gates, committed to the night’s entertainments until the doors opened at dawn.
As they made their way back toward Water Moon Temple, Li Du recounted his finding of Father Aveneau at the scene of the crime, and subsequent conversations with Wei and Hu.
“The Jesuit is hiding something,” said Hamza, when Li Du had finished.
“Certainly,” Li Du agreed. His pace quickened. He always walked faster when he was thinking, and slowed down when he started to talk. “But there is no way a foreigner could have gone from the South Church to the Black Tile Factory at night without being stopped. And what motive could Father Aveneau possibly have to kill a woman he has never met, and a ministry official with whom he had no business? I cannot believe he could be the murderer. Also, he wasn’t at the party.”
“But the manager, Hu, was.”
“Hu is, so far, the only person to whom I have spoken who admits that he did not like Pan, and who lived near enough to the factory to access it at night without passing a sentry post. But the fact that he was unable to read The Bitter Plum—if that is true—means that he did not write the blackmail note. He does not seem like a man who would commit murder. To me, what is more interesting in his statement today is the suggestion that Pan was not the upstanding official I imagined him to be. If Pan was indeed corrupt, possibilities suggest themselves, though I cannot see how Madam Hong fits into them.”
“It is as if there were two versions of the same story,” said Hamza, with a dreamy look at the alley lanterns that were gaining strength as the sky darkened. “Consider, first, the lovers. A man lies on a bed, his blood soaking the silk cushions. Near him lies a woman. She wears a dress of golden silk. Her gleaming hair is tumbled, black as ink, around her face. Her heart is pierced. Above her stands her husband, whose love, confronted with her betrayal, turned to rage. Is that an accurate description, based on what you saw in that room?”
“It is.”
“Then let us consider a different murder,” said Hamza. “The scene changes. Look again at the faces of the victims. There is no recent passion in their expressions, no flushed cheek, no kiss-swollen lips. It was not love that drew them to that room, but silver and secrets. And it was not jealous fury that tore their lives from them. The spectral husband fades, and is replaced by a colder shadow.”
They had entered a narrow alley. The walls on either side of them were almost black, the sky behind them soft and dim, like a petal drained of color. Since his return to Beijing, Li Du had become more aware of its walls, within which the thoughts and anxieties of hundreds of thousands of people were compressed. After two years of searching within those walls for memories and secrets, he had only encountered patterns too faint to follow, soon lost.
“The scholar, Bai,” he said. “According to Lady Ai, Bai instigated the audit of the ministry contracts, an action for which Pan had cause to be angry at him. In addition, Bai has been petitioning to shut down the Black Tile Factory for months. He thinks the smoke and coal are staining the walls and polluting the parks at Taoranting. He was at Hong’s party, and he is exactly the kind of well-connected man who could arrange a death in prison. These connections are tenuous and unexplained, which gives me all the more reason to think he might supply information we do not yet have.”
They reached the door of Water Moon Temple. There was no one nearby, though the hollow echo of horse hooves was just audible from a nearby alley. Inside, they found the clerics lighting incense sticks and sweeping the cobblestones. Chan approached them, his arms outstretched, his face a picture of worry and frustration. “Rats,” he said. “We have rats. I saw another one, stealing a slice of orange out of a basket at the feet of Guanyin’s statue. What if the visitor who had left the offering had seen? No patron wants to leave an expensive piece of fruit for a god and have it be eaten by a pest! A letter came for you.” He produced a slim, folded piece of paper. As Li Du took it, Chan turned around and left them, clicking his tongue against his teeth and muttering that they were lucky the rats hadn’t nibbled all the words away.
Li Du opened the letter and read it without bothering to find his spectacles, then folded it again. “Well?” asked Hamza, who had been watching with evident curiosity. “I would like to know who deserves credit for writing a letter that so clearly improved your spirits. And I submit to you that it was written by a woman.”
“It is not what you think,” said Li Du. “It was written by a mutual acquaintance, suggesting a meeting tomorrow morning.”
Hamza looked disappointed. “A mutual acquaintance? But the only person I know in this city, other than yourself and the good clerics who have agreed to host me here, is Feng.”
The corners of Li Du’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “With all the stories you have invented about my past, I hope you still remember the ones that you did not conjure from nothing. Consider a town at the foot of a mountain, a model of the heavens made of jewels, and an astronomer who had a daughter. You cannot have forgotten Lady Chen.”
Chapter 25
Early the next morning, Li Du and Hamza joined the officials streaming through Xuanwu Gate. Once inside the Inner City, they separated themselves from the current flowing toward the ministries and made their way north along a wide avenue. This was the privileged domain of the Banners, where elevated pavilions offered views over the city walls to the western hills, and glittering blue lakes provide
d relief from the constraints of urban living. When they reached the district of the Yellow Banner, Li Du led them into the maze of alleys that defined the tranquil enclaves of its residents.
Hamza touched the wall beside him, which was as white as a swan’s wing. “How is it so clean?” he asked in wonder. “Do the wealthy have their walls repainted every morning?”
“The walls of a mansion are a statement to the neighborhood,” Li Du explained. He lowered his voice. “My cousin used to favor crimson. He didn’t know that the choice was earning him a reputation for being as tasteless as he is wealthy.”
“As I recall from my own brief dealings with him in Dayan, he has a certain skill at giving that impression,” said Hamza.
“So he does,” said Li Du. His cousin, Tulishen, had been serving as magistrate of Dayan at the time Li Du and Hamza had met in that remote trading town. Family ambition, wealth, and willingness to exploit connections had earned Tulishen a prestigious career and an honorary Manchu title to replace his former name, but he was a petty man who had allowed his enjoyment of privilege to be compromised by fear of losing it.
“It was Lady Chen,” Li Du went on, “who perceived that the ostentatious color of the walls was a miscalculation. She had them painted white, and within a month, Tulishen was receiving invitations to parties that had previously been closed to him.”
Hamza’s expression turned speculative. “If I had a mansion, I would cover its walls in enchanted paint, and passersby would perceive it to be whatever color pleased them most. Then I would not have to concern myself with these conventions.”
They arrived at a door set within an entrance of green glazed brick. Li Du’s knock was answered almost immediately by a trim, bright-eyed servant who led them through a series of courtyards to a garden bustling with activity. Maids, neatly dressed in pink and gray silk, were untangling garlands of rice-paper flowers from willow branches, while male servants were carrying away bronze incense burners and crystal lanterns that scattered reflected light over the cobblestone paths. A lute with a broken string rested on top of a folded silk tapestry.