City of Ink

by Elsa Hart

  In the middle of this speech, Father Calmette lifted his face from his hands. His expression conveyed new worry. “You didn’t…” he said quietly, and stopped. He turned to look at Li Du. “He wasn’t involved in the crime, was he? Is that why you are here?”

  “I am here only to ask for an explanation,” Li Du replied.

  “I had nothing to do with Pan’s death,” said Father Aveneau. “All that you say is true, but I beg you to believe me when I tell you that my reason for going to the Black Tile Factory that morning was exactly what I told you it was. You see yourself the damage to the roof. Father Calmette knows I went with the intention of commissioning a repair. That’s all. I never expected to see Pan Yongfa there, alive or dead. My shock, when I saw the bodies, was not feigned.”

  “You maintained your composure enough to withhold the fact that you recognized one of the victims.”

  Aveneau swallowed. “When I saw who it was, I was struck by fear. You see, he had one of my letters in his possession. I had given it to him only days earlier, and was awaiting its return. What if he has it with him? I thought. What if it is found?” He looked urgently at Li Du. “That is why I returned later to the office. I had noticed, that morning, that the desk there was covered in papers. I hoped against hope that they had not yet been searched, and that the letter might be among them.”

  “But it wasn’t.”

  Aveneau shook his head. “The letter is still missing.”

  “What did it say?”

  “It was about the succession,” said Father Aveneau quietly. “It was about the rumor that Prince Yinzao, the one who is returning to the capital, may be named the Emperor’s heir, now that he is once more in favor.” He hesitated. “The letter discusses the possibility that he will be more receptive to our teachings than his father has been.”

  Father Calmette raised a trembling hand wearily. “I cannot listen to more. You have quelled any hope I had that the contents of the letter might be too benign to attract attention. The topic of the succession is the most sensitive one in the city, save, perhaps, for the topic of the previous dynasty. The penalty, should your letter be found…”

  There was a long silence. Then Father Calmette lifted himself from his chair, pulled his shoulders back as straight as he was able, and addressed Li Du. “I must beg you to help us,” he said. “If I had known, I would never have permitted Father Aveneau to act as he did. I trust you not to send us to our doom without consideration. I am asking you, please, to help us find this letter. I cannot tell you what to do when you have found it, but I can say that if I could choose one person to pass fair judgment under the circumstances, it would be you.”

  Chapter 37

  The evening closed in quickly, dense gray clouds turning violet for only a few moments before darkness fell. To Li Du’s relief, he and Hamza were back at Water Moon Temple by that time, eating a simple meal of rice and bony carp. They sat on the steps outside the kitchen, not wanting to disturb the clerics, who usually adhered to a rule of silence during meals.

  A clink of earthenware dishes, followed by the sound of wooden stools being drawn back from a table, announced that the clerics had finished eating. The head cleric, in robes of deep crimson, emerged from the kitchen holding a letter. After he had expressed his relief that his tenants had not come to harm during their night away from the temple, he handed Li Du the letter, and told him it had been delivered by a messenger earlier that day.

  The cleric turned to Hamza. “A message came for you, also,” he said. “I believe Chan has already taken it to your room.”

  Li Du waited until he was in his room before he opened the letter. He lit a candle and examined it. Though the paper and ink were of the fine quality used by the palace, it was written in the rushed scrawl of an overworked scholar completing one task while his mind moved on to the next one.

  He was rummaging through his satchel in search of his spectacles when Hamza appeared at the door, holding aloft a sheet of red paper. “An invitation,” he announced. “To perform, the day after tomorrow, at a party to be held at the mansion of one Baldan.” He presented the invitation to Li Du. The message, written in a dignified script, cascaded down the page, enclosed by a gilded design. It was addressed simply to The Storyteller.

  “The address is in the district of the White Bordered Banner,” said Li Du. “And Baldan is a Manchu name. I wonder how he came to hear of you.”

  Hamza lifted his chin. “I have earned a certain renown in my profession.”

  Li Du smiled faintly. “I am not challenging the strength of your reputation.” He looked down at the invitation. Reflected candlelight flickered along the golden frame that curved around the text.

  Hamza filled two cups of wine by the light of the guttering candle. “And what have you received?”

  “It’s a reply to my message,” said Li Du.

  “What message?”

  “I’d almost forgotten that I’d sent it. I wrote to an old acquaintance from the palace, asking him if the records of temples funded by the imperial family contained any mention of Narcissus Temple.” He found his spectacles, put them on, and sat down at his small desk. “But now that we know the temple falls under the auspices of the Ministry of Rites, I doubt the palace records will have much to tell us.”

  Li Du accepted the cup Hamza offered and took a sip from it without looking up from the letter. “No wonder your eyes have become tired,” Hamza said. “You remind me of the peddlers and merchants who begin to resemble what they are selling. The brick seller is covered in brick dust. The ribbon seller is draped in ribbons. The blacksmith’s arms are as strong as if they themselves were made in the forge.”

  “Hm?” Li Du pulled himself away from the text and looked quizzically at his friend.

  “Eyes like ink pots, cheeks like parchment,” said the storyteller, shaking his head. “You spend so much time with your letters and records and reports that I fear you will turn into one. You can’t find all the answers in paper.”

  Li Du nodded, only half listening, and began to read again. “Consider the Jesuits,” Hamza went on, oblivious to Li Du’s distraction. “If they had chosen to keep more of their secrets in their heads, and commit fewer of them to writing, they wouldn’t be in the predicament they are now. And—”

  “I was wrong,” Li Du interrupted. “There is information here.” He took another sip of wine and read the letter out loud, starting again from the beginning.

  “‘Your request was not a simple one,’” he read.

  I was obliged to search numerous cabinets before I found any mention of Narcissus Temple, the documents relating to it having been grossly misfiled. Little wonder, for the temple has been known by several different names, rendering its history unclear at best.

  Are you certain it is Narcissus Temple that interests you? It appears to be a place of little consequence to the past, or to the present. It seems that it was built during the reign of Wanli, at the request of the third consort of the fifth prince. A woman of exceptional talent as a poet and painter, she unfortunately succumbed to illness a year after the temple was completed.

  After the loss of its patron, Narcissus Temple disappears from the records, with one exception. You will recall from our student days that I always took pride in thorough research. I may have clerks to do my work for me now, but let it not be said that I have forgotten how to do it myself! It was not easily done, but I unearthed from the records a contract, dated not three months ago, for the replacement of the roof of Narcissus. The contract authorizes payment from the Imperial Household Agency to the Black Tile Factory for the completion of this project.

  I cannot imagine what use this information may be to you. If you are searching for old temples to inspire a collection of poetry, my recommendation is that you research the temples of the Western Hills. In my humble opinion, they outdo the temples of the capital both in beauty and literary significance.

  Hamza had been leaning with his back against the rough wooden wal
l. Now he pulled a small chair from its place in the corner, set it by the desk, and sat. While Li Du closed his eyes in silent contemplation, Hamza read the letter again. “I confess I am confused,” he said, when he had finished. “I thought it was the Ministry of Rites that replaced the temple roof.”

  “It was,” Li Du replied, opening his eyes. “And I believe we have found our way to another of Pan Yongfa’s schemes.”

  “Another?” Hamza’s expression was a combination of incredulity and respect. “I have never heard of such an overachieving criminal. What other scheme?”

  Li Du took a long sip of wine. The dancing light from the candle was casting confused shadows across the letter. He trimmed the wick, and the light steadied, along with his tumbling thoughts. “There are hundreds of shrines and temples within the walls of this city,” he said. “And hundreds more in the villages and parks outside it. Since the fall of the previous dynasty, many of these temples have, like Narcissus, fallen into decay and disrepair.”

  Hamza drank, and refilled their cups. “I have noticed. Leaking roofs, crumbling walls, worn and uneven cobblestones covered with weeds. Most gods and goddesses do not have the power to restore their houses without the assistance of the devoted.”

  Li Du nodded. “Assistance that requires silver. Of these temples, some receive help from private patrons, neighborhoods, or guilds. Others are maintained by the Ministry of Rites on behalf of the citizenry. Still others are fortunate enough to be patronized by members of the imperial family, whose donations are administered by the Imperial Household Agency. It is important to understand that the ministry and the palace do not collaborate in this area. A temple may be supported by one entity or the other, but not by both.”

  “I understand,” said Hamza, his features set in a look of determined concentration. “So was it the Ministry of Rites that paid for the new roof on Narcissus Temple, or the Agency of Imperial—the Imperial Agency of—I cannot remember.”

  “The Imperial Household Agency,” Li Du supplied. “I believe the answer to the question is that both of them paid for it.”

  Hamza looked slightly betrayed. “But I have been paying attention! You just said that a temple cannot be supported by both.”

  “They both paid,” Li Du said. “But each one believed itself to be the only patron.”

  “Continue,” said Hamza, lifting his cup again. “I know you to be not only a scholar, but a sensible man. I trust you will soon begin to make sense. If it is possible, may I request that you populate your explanations with people, rather than institutions. It will make it easier to comprehend.”

  “Consider, then, two men,” said Li Du, acquiescing. “They are both men of high official rank and low moral character. One is employed by the Ministry of Rites. He is new to the city, arrogant, eager to prove himself cleverer than the rules that constrain him. The other is employed by the Imperial Household Agency. He is older, more settled in his corruption. He has spent many years taking lucrative advantage of the little opportunities that present themselves within the vast system of imperial finance.”

  “I can see them,” said Hamza. “And I have a guess as to who they are. The first is Pan Yongfa. The second is the man who almost had us arrested at the market—the palace official, Kirsa.”

  Li Du nodded. “Both of these men know that, like so many institutions within the capital—the Banners, the Gendarmerie, the Magistracy—the Ministry of Rites and the Imperial Household Agency rarely communicate. They also know that both their departments are overwhelmed with paperwork. No matter how many clerks are employed, it is impossible to prevent duplicated documents, lost documents, misfiled documents, outdated documents.”

  “In other words, opportunities,” said Hamza.

  “Exactly.” Li Du went on, “Kirsa cut off our conversation as soon as I mentioned Narcissus Temple, and the meeting Bai overheard in the pavilion of Hong’s manor. I suggest that this scheme was the subject of that meeting.”

  Hamza raised a hand to request more time to think. “You are saying,” he said finally, “that Pan and Kirsa were working together to profit from the repair of temples.”

  “Old, forgotten temples,” said Li Du. “Yes.”

  Hamza leaned forward. “But how?”

  Li Du drummed his fingers absently on the table, thinking. “We’ve been told they were both frequent guests at elite gatherings. It’s only speculation, but I imagine they met at one of them, shortly after Pan’s arrival in Beijing.”

  “And criminals have a way of recognizing each other,” said Hamza.

  “My thought precisely,” said Li Du. “Pan had the authority to allocate ministry funding to temple repairs. Kirsa had the same authority at the Imperial Household Agency. Once they realized this, they began to build a system to profit from it. I suspect they identified temples that were small and unsupported, and obtained funds for repairs from both the ministry and the palace. They used one institution’s money to complete the repair, and the other’s to enrich themselves.”

  “But how was it kept secret?” asked Hamza. “Even if the ministry and the palace didn’t know about the double payment, surely the Black Tile Factory would notice when it received two contracts for the same projects.”

  Li Du considered this. “Pan was the ministry’s connection to the Black Tile Factory,” he said. “Which gave him the opportunity to duplicate, delay, or destroy paperwork connected to the commissions. He must have been the one making sure Hong remained ignorant, no doubt making use of the well-known fact that Hong was a disorganized record keeper. Unless, of course, Hong was involved.”

  Hamza sighed. “And it is too late to interview Hong.” He sighed again. “So Narcissus Temple has no patron after all. What a mournful end for a place that once was loved.”

  “What we still don’t know,” said Li Du, “is what connection any of Pan’s schemes had to the murders.”

  “And the tunnels,” said Hamza. “Do not forget the tunnels.”

  “The tunnels were part of the same conversation in the pavilion,” Li Du mused. “Which means Kirsa must know about them.”

  “Perhaps,” said Hamza. “But I doubt Kirsa will speak to you again.”

  “He certainly will not,” Li Du agreed, wishing he had been able to glean more information from the interaction. “But according to Bai, there was a third man in the pavilion. I begin to think that any hope of discovering the truth lies with him.”

  * * *

  That night, Li Du listened to rain drumming on the roof and plinking into the bucket he had placed beneath the leak. An occasional distant rumble of thunder entered his tired mind like the memory of a past argument. He was aware that his investigation of the murders at the Black Tile Factory had preoccupied him over the past several days. He suspected that, since his return, it was the longest stretch of time he had spent not thinking of his purpose for being back in Beijing.

  Now his thoughts took him back in time nine years, through the palace walls, to the library. He conjured, as he had so often done, the final meeting of the traitors. Over the years, as he pieced together the events leading up to the attempted assassination, the meeting in the library had gained definition and detail, until it had begun to feel more like memory than conjecture. He observed the room as if he were standing in it. He could smell the books, the faint fragrance of scented ink, the warm resin of cabinets, and the barely perceptible sting of poisoned paste used to deter hungry moths.

  From his ghostly vantage point, he saw Shu, concealed in the shadows on the far side of the table, watching and listening, as Li Du was now. And seated at the table, he saw the conspirators, only now his tired mind gave them new faces. He saw Hong, angry and frightened, and Father Calmette, determinedly optimistic. He saw Hu and Erchen, proud father and anxious student. His tired imagination moved to the fixed, bloodied face of Madam Hong, then to that of Pan Yongfa, where it hovered.

  How different Pan had been from the Ming loyalists who had conspired around that table in the
library. They had been devoted to a cause they must have known would almost certainly fail, acting out of loyalty to a dead dynasty, plotting an assassination they hoped would alter history. Pan’s crimes, motivated by boredom and greed, had been designed to go unnoticed, flowing through the daily movements of the city like dead leaves carried along by a rushing stream. As Li Du finally succumbed to sleep, the faces around the table disappeared, transforming into fluttering clouds of paper and spinning pieces of silver.

  Chapter 38

  Li Du awoke suddenly to a tapping sound. Though his room was dark, the pale seams between the window shutters told him that it was dawn. The tapping stopped, but before he could close his eyes and try to sleep a little longer, it began again, louder than before. Someone was knocking on his door. He had a vision of soldiers, which faded as the knocking continued. Soldiers would not remain outside, waiting politely for him to answer. He rose. Holding his coverlet around his shoulders, he crossed the room.

  “Who is there?” He sounded hoarse and confused to his own ears.

  Chan’s familiar voice replied. “I know it’s early, but there’s a man here who wants to see you.”

  Li Du opened the door. Chan, an inveterate early riser, regarded him with eyes as bright as if he’d been drinking tea and enjoying the sunshine for hours. His robes smelled of incense and kitchen smoke.

  “It’s barely dawn,” Li Du said.

  Chan nodded. “I told him you’d still be asleep. He said to wake you, and tell you that Bai Chengde has come on an urgent matter.”

  “Bai Chengde?” Blinking in an effort to focus, Li Du peered over Chan’s shoulder at the quiet, misty courtyard. “Where is he?”