City of Ink

by Elsa Hart

  “The temple scheme.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you agreed to participate.”

  “Yes. Pan explained that he had been put in charge of temple construction contracts for the Ministry of Rites. He and Kirsa had a plan to charge both the ministry and the imperial household for the same roofs.”

  “You found small, neglected temples,” said Li Du. “With ambiguous histories of patronage.”

  Ji nodded. “Pan would submit an order for temple maintenance to the Ministry of Rites, and Kirsa would do the same at the Imperial Household Agency. Once each request was accepted, and money allotted for the repair, Pan sent work orders for glazed tiles to me, and for black tiles to the Black Tile Factory. When the job was complete, I sent a bill to the Ministry of Rites, as did the Black Tile Factory. We received our first payment from the Ministry of Rites. Then all Kirsa had to do was take the same amount of money from the Imperial Household Agency, and submit duplicate bills for the imperial household records. As long as the ministry and the agency never communicated, we could continue.”

  “With or without Hong Wenbin’s knowledge?” asked Li Du.

  “Without,” Ji replied. “Hong was an inattentive owner, disorganized, and often drunk. Pan was able to manipulate the paperwork at the Black Tile Factory easily. We divided the extra payment between us. Kirsa took most of it, claiming the risk was highest for him.”

  “And Pan accepted this?”

  “Pan enjoyed what he was doing. I don’t think he ever cared very much about profit.”

  “Why did the three of you meet in Hong’s garden on the day of the party?”

  Ji took a deep breath. “We had learned that the ministry and the imperial household were going to audit their temple construction contracts. Pan and Kirsa had reviewed the paperwork and discovered that they were missing the invoice from the Black Tile Factory for the Narcissus Temple roof. Hong must have forgotten to send one. But we had already taken the money. The audits were beginning. If the discrepancy was noticed, it could initiate an investigation. Pan said he would find the invoice details in the Black Tile Factory records, create the document, and deliver a copy of it to Kirsa.”

  Li Du and Hamza exchanged glances. That must have been the paper Pan had given Kirsa on the afternoon before Pan died, when Erchen had witnessed their meeting. “When was the last time you saw Pan?” asked Li Du.

  “When we spoke together in Hong’s garden. I had nothing to do with the murders. What I told you about that night was true. I was in Mentougou.”

  “But Pan must have said something to you about Madam Hong. You were his friend.”

  Ji shook his head. “He never mentioned her.”

  “When you learned that he was dead, what did you think?”

  “I didn’t know what to think. Kirsa summoned me to meet him. He asked me the same questions you are asking me now, whether I knew anything, what I thought. I told him what I’ve told you. I don’t know anything.”

  “And Kirsa? What did he know?”

  “He seemed as confounded as I, though less anguished. Pan was my friend, but Kirsa’s only concern was that the investigation of Pan’s death might expose Kirsa’s own crimes. Kirsa knew Hong was in prison, that he claimed to have no memory of what happened that night, and that circumstances strongly suggested his guilt. Kirsa told me he would make the investigation stop before anyone began looking too closely at Pan’s activities.” Ji paused.

  “Did he say he intended to have Hong killed?”

  “No, but I should have known.”

  “And yet, when you heard Hong was dead, you chose to say nothing.”

  Ji made no attempt to defend himself. Li Du read contrition in his eyes. “Are you going to arrest me now?”

  “No,” said Li Du. “But I do have one final question. When you were overheard speaking in Hong’s garden, Pan said that, if it became necessary, he could use tunnels to deliver the copied bill to Kirsa. What did he mean by that?”

  To Li Du’s surprise, a faint smile rearranged the clay-dusted wrinkles of Ji’s face. “Pan was always boasting about his tunnels.”

  “His tunnels?” asked Hamza. “But where are they?”

  “They are gone, now,” said Ji. He looked from Hamza’s face to Li Du’s, and his mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “I see you don’t understand. For a long time, I didn’t either. Pan’s tunnels were not dug beneath the city or hidden in manor walls. They weren’t really tunnels at all.” Ji paused. “You know, I never saw Pan lose a game of chess. It was his unique skill to hold in his mind the movements of many individuals at once. That’s how he built his tunnels.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Hamza. “What authority did he have to move the people of this city like pieces on a board?”

  “It wasn’t authority,” said Li Du, beginning to understand. “It was observation.”

  Ji nodded. “The carpenter neglects to fix the lock on an unguarded alley door, so that it can be opened if it is lifted slightly on its hinges. The guards at another gate reliably begin to gamble every night at the hour of the goat, and from then on, ignore their posts. There was some manipulation, of course. Pan was adept at forging seals that could be applied to letters authorizing passage through the city after dark. He also had a supply of tidbits of information he could use as leverage. Tell a soldier to open a gate if he doesn’t want news of his father’s illegal salt speculations to reach the salt merchant’s guild, and the gate will almost always open.”

  So that was how Pan managed to get from the Opera District to the Black Tile Factory, when Erchen could not, thought Li Du. “The tunnels let him move through the city at night,” he said.

  “Just so,” said Ji. “Pan was not a man who accepted barriers between himself and what he wanted.”

  “Did Kirsa have access to these tunnels as well?”

  “No. As I said, Pan liked to boast about the tunnels, but that didn’t mean he was willing to share them with us. He guarded his secrets as any player of games guards his strategies.”

  They were interrupted by the musical sound of something shattering. Upon leaving the booth, they saw that one of the tiles had fallen from the scaffolding. Ji squinted up at the roof. “The laborers are in need of supervision. If you intend to take me to prison, I suggest you summon Hu to oversee the final stages of the project.”

  “That will not be necessary,” said Li Du. “I have no more questions for you at present. As I am investigating murder, not theft, I will allow you to return to your work.”

  They left Ji staring after them, his expression one of incredulous relief. As Li Du left the examination yard behind, he found himself looking at every gate they passed. He tried to see them as Pan had seen them, not as barriers made of boards and hinges, but as sets of circumstances that could be altered. Pan had built a dark, crooked path through a city that prided itself on limiting the movements of the people within it. Ji’s words echoed in his mind. They are gone, now. With Pan’s death, the tunnels had collapsed, never to be walked again.

  Chapter 43

  “You know the way to the district of the White Banner?” asked Li Du.

  Hamza oriented himself so that he was facing the city’s northeast corner. He was resplendent in a tunic and pantaloons of ocean blue silk embroidered with tiny silver crescent moons. Li Du had no idea where Hamza had come by the outfit, which called to mind a child’s description of an adventuring deity. “Through Chongwen Gate,” said Hamza, concentrating, “past the Observatory and the examination yard. To reach the mansion, I turn left at Dongzhi.”

  Li Du nodded. “If you see the Russian church, you have gone too far north.” It was late in the afternoon. They had left Water Moon Temple together, and now stood a little removed from the bustle and clutter of antique shops selling bronzes and porcelain vases.

  “When we meet in the light of morning,” said Hamza, “I will have sampled the finest delicacies of the capital, and guided its most glittering citizens—excepting the
princes and consorts within the palace, of course—to vast kingdoms that lie far beyond these city walls.” His expression turned grave. “And yet I am still not sure if it is correct for me to leave you, when time is short and our answers remain distant.”

  Li Du reassured him. “At present, I am convinced that the best use of my time is simply to think. No one is searching for me yet. As I am officially neither in Beijing, nor in Tongzhou, I can enjoy some quiet.”

  “Perhaps,” said Hamza. He directed a skeptical look over Li Du’s shoulder in the direction of the temple. “If you can think through the sound of statues toppling from their altars and crockery smashing against the floor.” He was referring to Chan’s most recent efforts to rid the temple of rodents by introducing a lithe, glittering-eyed ferret to the temple’s small community. The creature had fascinated Hamza until it had earned his ire by ripping one of his hats to pieces.

  They parted, and Li Du returned to Water Moon Temple to find Chan in transports because the ferret had succeeded in catching a rat, which it had left unconsumed under the golden knee of a goddess.

  It was late afternoon when, tired of being trapped in his room with his ruminations, Li Du ventured out of the temple with the goal of purchasing a bowl of noodle soup in a nearby establishment. He ate quickly, listening to the chatter at the tables around him. There were only two subjects under discussion. Anyone who wasn’t talking about the return of the prince was talking about the examinations.

  He was about to tip the bowl to his lips and drink the remaining broth when he noticed a man standing in the doorway on the other side of the alley. Li Du knew with instant certainty that the man was waiting for him. It had started to drizzle. They watched each other, Li Du surrounded by oblivious chatter and steam from the boiling pot, the stranger standing alone in the rain. Li Du was the first to move. He stepped out onto the cobblestones and crossed the alley. Cold drops pricked the back of his neck and left dark patches on the shoulders of his robe. “You’re here for me,” he said. “Who are you?”

  The man, of middle age and dressed as a servant, nodded his head in an approximation of a bow. “I have a message for you,” he said. He took Li Du’s hand, and pressed something into his palm. By the time Li Du had realized that it was a folded note, the man was hurrying away, his shoulders hunched against the rain. He reached an alley, turned, and was gone.

  The note was damp from the rain and from the sweat of the messenger’s palm, but the words on it were clear. I have information you want. Come as soon as you can to the Temple of the Fire God in the district of the Red Banner. Come alone, or I will not speak.

  There was no signature, no clue as to who had sent it, or why. Li Du did not hesitate long. He tucked the letter into the purse at his belt and set out, making his way north on foot. Heavy gray clouds muted the sky. The cracked walls and stagnant pits of the Outer City gave way to the bone-white balustrades and painted pavilions of the Banner districts. Raindrops fell intermittently, mottling the pale manes of stone lions that snarled at Li Du from outside closed doors.

  The streets were sparsely populated, pedestrians having been drawn toward the parade for the return of Prince Yinzao. He narrowly avoided being struck by a carriage as it hurtled down an alley toward the celebrations. Backed into a door alcove, he watched it pass in a blur of horse hooves, purple reins, and bright red wheels, on the way to the celebration. Purple and red were imperial privileges. He could almost see the glittering, gem-studded hats of its occupants.

  As he was nearing his destination, the air around him was suddenly filled with a long, desolate moan. It flowed overhead then seemed to descend, enfolding him like the arms of a pleading ghost. He lifted his gaze and saw the bell tower rising above the rooftops to the northeast, massive and solemn. The green glazed tiles of its vast roof rendered it a stately, moss-covered denizen of a vanished city. He heard the moan again, and remembered how afraid he had been when, as a child, he had first heard its sigh through the window of his nursery. His mother had comforted him, saying that it was only the goddess of the bell, who had lost her slipper and was searching for it.

  The Temple of the Fire God was unguarded, the nearest sentry post unmanned. Li Du pushed open a heavy wooden door and entered. A solitary, raised building stood in the center of the courtyard, its open doors exhaling hot golden warmth onto the gray stone that surrounded it. At the base of the stairs leading to it were two stone slabs bearing sutras. Li Du passed between them, automatically recognizing the script as that of a renowned Ming calligrapher, reproduced by the sculptor’s chisel.

  The hall was not empty. Two worshippers were prostrated in prayer on opposite sides of the space in front of the altar. One wore a soldier’s leather jacket, the metal studs shining on the rounded curve of his back and shoulders. The other was an old man, so thin that the ridge of his spine was visible through his robe. Li Du looked from one to the other. Their faces were hidden. Neither of them moved.

  Li Du walked down the center of the room, allowing his feet to scrape lightly across the floor to announce his presence, until he reached the altar. He stood before a row of candles. Their wicks had burned low, causing the flames to reel drunkenly against the edges of the brass holders. Li Du watched them uneasily. He hadn’t expected to wait. He drew in a long, slow breath. An unanticipated odor overwhelmed him, pungent, stinging, and familiar. It smelled of earth, and the energy of decay. He coughed as it burned his throat.

  The source of the caustic smell was a bowl at the altar’s edge. The powdered crystals were familiar to him. Dragonbrain camphor, he thought, recalling Chan’s enthusiasm for the rare resin. Beside it were several other bowls filled with less potent powders. They were arranged with a collection of small tools beside a stand topped with a round, flat face, from which a single line of smoke snaked upward from a tiny, dying ember.

  “I haven’t seen you here before.”

  Li Du started and turned. The speaker was the old man, who now regarded him with aged eyes draped in papery lids. “I am not often in this neighborhood,” said Li Du warily.

  “You must be here for the examinations,” said the man. Li Du didn’t correct him. “The temple is too small to have a cleric,” the man went on. “But I keep it the best I can.” He turned his attention to the altar. “The clock has burned to the end,” he murmured. “How long?”

  “It only just went out.”

  “Good, good.” The old man picked up a spoon from among the tools set out beside the bowls. Li Du watched in silence as he scooped powders into an empty bowl, first the camphor, followed by sandalwood, agarwood, and cloves. When these were mixed, the old man set the bowl aside and spread a layer of damp ash over the surface of the plate. He searched the objects on the table until he located a pale metal disk incised with the shape of a maze. He fitted this stencil to the stand, spread the blended incense over the pattern, and tamped it firmly into the grooves. When he lifted the plate, the path of incense remained. Carefully, he lit one end, and blew out the flame. From a glowing speck, a new line of smoke climbed a winding journey up to the temple rafters.

  “It will take two hours to burn,” said the man.

  Two hours, thought Li Du. How long am I expected to wait?

  Moving a little closer to Li Du, the old man rolled his eyes backward and spoke in a whisper. “Soldier or no, I don’t think it’s right to bring weapons into the temple.”

  Li Du turned and saw the scabbard resting on the floor beside the prostrated soldier, almost hidden in the folds of his robe. He said nothing. The old man rearranged the bowls and tools neatly, checked that the incense was burning properly, and prepared to leave. His chest suddenly heavy, Li Du watched the man shuffle through the door. Long moments passed, and he pictured the old man crossing the empty courtyard, entering the empty alley, and passing the empty sentry post. No one would see him leave. Why had the sentry post been empty?

  The remaining figure still hadn’t moved. Li Du saw that the queue on his back was thick and un
touched by gray. The line of neck and jaw were hard and youthful. With the departure of the old man, the hall was silent, except for the soft flap of a hanging scroll caught by a breeze through the door.

  Suddenly convinced that he should go, Li Du took two steps in the direction of the door, then stopped. He had seen the soldier’s shoulders tense, preparing for movement. He knew suddenly, and with certainty, that he would not be allowed to pass. His heart hammered in his chest. He turned to face the altar again, searching the offerings spread across it for some object with which he could defend himself. But there was no ceremonial blade, no heavy statuette within reach. His eyes fell on the bowls of incense powders.

  Sensing movement, his eyes flickered to the statue before him. Reflected in its golden robes, he saw that the man who had been kneeling was slowly, silently rising to his feet. Li Du remained transfixed, watching the figure grow to an unnatural, stretched shape as it came closer. He reached for the bowl of camphor and plunged his hand into it, almost recoiling from the sensation of frost that laced up his wrist. As he turned, he heard a blade sing from its scabbard, saw a gleam of steel, and flung the handful of opalescent powder directly into the face before him. The sword fell with a clatter as the soldier’s hands came up to his eyes. He stumbled backward from the altar. Li Du ran.

  Above his pounding heart he heard only the crunch of the fallen leaves beneath his feet as he hurled himself through the courtyard. When he was through the gate, he bore right and ran toward the nearest intersection. He thought he heard footsteps behind him, but he didn’t turn to look. His legs felt as if they were bound by weights. Rain and mist surrounded him, confusing his sense of time and direction. Desperately, he made another turn. After two years of wanting to avoid notice, now he desired nothing more than a vigilant group of guards. He bore left, and found himself in a narrow alley. At its far end was a gate, half open. He chanced a look behind him. The soldier from the temple filled the alley’s entrance. His hand was on the hilt of his sword, but he was looking past Li Du.