“Lu Lian, courtesy name Zhuoguang. I am honored to meet you all…”
Lu Zhuoguang loved the theater.
It was just past noon, and he stood outside the opera house among a crowd of idlers. The bitter wind of midwinter carried with it the bustle of people coming and going, while from inside came the intermittent rise and fall of the performers’ voices. Before long, he recognized the popular opera being performed: The Thunder God’s Punishment of the Evil General. He could not help feeling disappointed.
After years of revisions, the opera had only grown more popular. It told the tale of a feckless and incompetent barbarian general who, after suffering ten consecutive defeats in the northern frontier, finally abandoned his wife and children and fled, causing Great Qi to lose a hundred li of territory and countless lives.
The calamity that befell the common people was so great that it roused the Thunder God to descend to the mortal realm. He seized the fleeing barbarian general on the road and struck him down with heavenly thunder, putting him to death on the spot. The resulting inferno burned through ten li of woodland and held back the enemy’s relentless advance until reinforcements could reach the northern frontier, sparing Great Qi from losing half its realm.
It was a story every citizen of Great Qi knew. In truth, however, the barbarian general who was supposedly responsible for the deaths of millions had not been struck down by the Thunder God at all. He had been captured by the enemy, rather ignominiously beheaded, and his head displayed to the public. The territory lost back then had never been fully recovered, either.
Even years after his death, General Helian remained despised to the bone. So despised, in fact, that the opera had come up with more than a dozen different ways to bring him to his “just punishment,” and in every version his death was suitably gruesome.
Inside the theater, the gongs and drums crashed like thunder as the performance reached the scene in which the Thunder God descended from heaven to deliver divine justice. The audience erupted in applause, and even the idlers gathered outside laughed along.
Lu Zhuoguang, however, was distinctly unimpressed. He had never cared much for this particular opera.
Fortunately, the guards sent to fetch him had arrived. They soon spotted him among the crowd—his height made him impossible to miss—and hurried over, lowering his voice as he said, “Scholar Lu, the gentlemen are all waiting for you in the carriage.”
Lu Zhuoguang turned his head slightly, his face catching the sunlight.
He had a pair of deep-black eyes set against fair, handsome features. His brows were neat and cleanly defined, and when the corners of his lips curved into a smile, he took on an air of refined elegance. Even his voice was clear and pleasant to the ear.
“Let’s go.”
The carriage stood beside the road, spacious and imposing. Inside, three men occupied the three seats arranged around a small tea table.
The man seated in the middle was named Qi Xuan. Dressed in the official robes of the Ministry of Justice, he was the Prince of Ling, the emperor’s own nephew, and also served as Minister of Justice. At present, his eyes were closed as he rested.
On the left sat a man wrapped in a sable cloak, dressed with extravagant splendor. He was the only son of the Grand Secretary, and an official of the Court of Judicial Review. His name was Zhao Ke.
Zhao Ke was a man who carried extravagance wherever he went. Though he had been ordered to travel on official business, he had managed to turn even that into quite a spectacle. Not only had he brought along a favored concubine, he had also arranged for more than a dozen guards to clear and protect the road before and behind his carriage. Everywhere he went, people gathered to stare, costing them no small amount of time. And now, the carriage had even been made to detour halfway across the city to pick up a mere guest of the Zhao household.
He was every inch the young master—spoiled, extravagant, and utterly lawless.
Zhao Ke was rolling a string of bodhi beads between his fingers, making them click softly together. The sound was somewhat grating in the confined carriage and drew a glance from the young man seated on the right.
The young man silently cursed him.
That Zhao wastrel is dressed like a peacock. Does he look as though he has come here to conduct serious business?
His name was Cui Hui, newly appointed Vice Censor-in-Chief.
He had barely settled into his new position before a major assignment had landed on his head. Before setting out, he had rolled up his sleeves, fully prepared to accomplish something great.
Yet after spending the entire morning being dragged along at Zhao Ke’s indolent pace, most of that lofty ambition had already been ground away.
Still, Zhao Ke was the only son of the powerful Grand Secretary Zhao. Though his official position was not particularly high, he enjoyed his father’s protection and influence. Wherever he went, others had no choice but to give him considerable deference.
Thus, even though an entire morning had been wasted on his account, the Prince of Ling sitting in the carriage had not uttered a single word of reprimand.
Cui Hui was grinding his teeth inwardly when he suddenly heard someone report from outside:
“Your Highness, the man has arrived.”
The Prince of Ling, seated in the middle, opened his eyes slightly.
“Send him in.”
The Scholar Lu whom the carriage had gone out of its way to collect was a guest of the Zhao household.
A “guest,” in this context, was someone who attached himself to the household of a nobleman or official, earning his keep by virtue of some particular skill. His status was somewhat higher than that of a household retainer or servant, but such men were still largely dependents living off another’s patronage, and were generally looked down upon.
Lu the Scholar, however, was different.
He was an unusually accomplished guest.
Cui Hui had heard his colleagues mention him long ago. Zhao Ke brought this Lu Scholar with him to most of the places he frequented, addressing him as a brother and treating him with considerable familiarity. At times, the man could even be seen at the side of Grand Secretary Zhao himself. His reputation was on the rise.
It was said that although he bore the title of “scholar,” his face was apparently more remarkable than his learning. No one quite knew what means he had employed to distinguish himself from the many other household guests, but the Zhao family clearly thought highly of him.
Cui Hui had been curious for some time.
The moment he heard that the man had arrived, his gaze immediately turned toward the carriage door.
The carriage rocked slightly.
The heavy curtain was lifted, and the first thing to appear was a pair of eyes as gentle and lustrous as jade.
He bent down and stepped inside. When he raised his face, his appearance proved almost excessively handsome. His brows and eyes were dark and striking, yet a faint, perfectly measured smile softened the impression, tempering some of that natural flamboyance and giving his features an overall air of gentleness.
He slowly bowed to the three men.
His movements were somewhat unhurried, lending him an air of scholarly refinement.
“Lu Lian, courtesy name Zhuoguang. I pay my respects to all of you, gentlemen.”
Zhao Ke greeted him with great enthusiasm.
“Brother Zhuoguang, we’ve been waiting for you. Come, sit here!”
Lu Zhuoguang showed not the slightest embarrassment at having kept three important men waiting. He calmly took the seat beside Zhao Ke.
Next to the Zhao heir, with his broad nose, narrow eyes, and rather unfortunate features, Lu Zhuoguang’s appearance seemed even more astonishingly beautiful.
As for his learning, Cui Hui could not yet say. But judging solely by his bearing and appearance, the man certainly lived up to the word “remarkable.”
Once everyone was aboard, the carriage began to move slowly. By coincidence, the opera inside the theater had reached its finale, and the applause and commotion carried across the street. The Prince of Ling turned his head and asked in a gentle voice, “Scholar Lu, do you enjoy the opera?”
Lu Zhuoguang’s eyes shifted slightly, his gaze drifting lazily toward him.
“Only when I have nothing better to do. I stand outside and listen to a line or two to pass the time.”
The Prince of Ling gave a soft laugh.
“That reminds me of an amusing story. In the theater, once the actors have their faces painted, it can be difficult to tell men from women. There was once a young master who spent a fortune showering gifts on a favored actor, only to discover after the performance that he was a man. He grabbed the dan actor by the collar and demanded his money back. It caused quite a spectacle.”
Lu Zhuoguang looked puzzled.
“How could anyone mistake them? A woman’s breathing is finer, and because women have lighter bones, their footsteps and movements are also more delicate. You can tell even without looking at the face.”
There was something decidedly strange about that answer.
Everyone in the carriage except Zhao Ke turned to look at Lu Zhuoguang at once.
His clothes might have looked somewhat worn, but his collar was snowy white and the fabric neatly pressed. He wore no gold or silver ornaments whatsoever. Against his fair skin, that simple cleanliness only made him appear more refined. There was an unmistakable scholarly air about him; by any measure, he looked every inch a man of letters.
Whether he had simply blurted out some absurd nonsense, or whether he truly possessed the peculiar ability to determine a person’s sex from the sound of their breathing and the weight of their footsteps, no one could yet say.
Before anyone had a chance to question him, however, Lu Zhuoguang brushed the matter aside with a smile.
“I hardly have enough money to spend on showering gifts upon actors. I merely listen to a few snippets here and there for amusement.”
Once the carriage left the busy streets, its pace gradually quickened. Before long, they had passed through the city gates and were heading south.
As for why, with the New Year approaching, three officials of varying rank and a scholar were crammed into a carriage leaving the capital for the south, the story began with an urgent report that had arrived in the capital several days earlier.
Xu Feng, the magistrate of Danyu County, had suddenly been assassinated.
The urgent report was immediately submitted to the emperor.
It was already the dead of winter, with natural disasters ravaging the land. Rivers had frozen several feet deep, while the south was still suffering from relentless flooding. Countless commoners had frozen to death. The imperial court was already overwhelmed by the crisis when news of the assassination arrived, sending the emperor into a towering rage. In court, he cursed the officials responsible for handling the disasters until they were thoroughly humiliated.
Ordinarily, the strange death of a mere county magistrate would hardly have warranted such a commotion among the entire court. The reason so many officials had been mobilized was that Xu Feng was no ordinary man.
Thirteen years earlier, Xu Feng had been the illustrious Grand Preceptor of the Eastern Palace. He had also grown up studying at the Imperial Academy alongside the man who was now the Left Censor-in-Chief.
He had been gentle, courteous, frugal, and upright, an incorruptible official who enjoyed an excellent reputation at court and had cultivated friendships in every quarter.
But in those days, the Crown Prince had been framed by traitors and accused of attempting to usurp the throne. The late emperor, consumed by rage, stripped him of his title. He was first imprisoned in Death Valley and later exiled to Lingnan.
The subsequent purge of the Eastern Palace faction naturally made Xu Feng the first man to be condemned. Only after the assembled ministers repeatedly pleaded for his life was he spared execution. His office was stripped from him, his status reduced, and he was entered into the lowly register before being sent off to the northern frontier.
After the new emperor ascended the throne, the case was eventually overturned and the names of the former Crown Prince and his followers were cleared. Xu Feng was released from the lowly register as well.
Yet he had no desire to return to the capital.
Instead, he requested a post as magistrate of Danyu County, saying that he wished to spend his remaining years there in peace.
He had scarcely enjoyed a few years of that quiet life when news of his death reached the capital.
The Left Censor-in-Chief had shared a deep bond with Xu Feng. Upon hearing that his old friend had been murdered, he braved the wind and snow and rushed into the palace in the middle of the night. He wept so bitterly that tears and mucus ran freely down his face, and in his desperation to have the emperor order a thorough investigation, he nearly froze to death in the bitter cold.
Prince Ling, Qi Xuan, was even more devastated.
In full view of the civil and military officials, he had wept uncontrollably until both sleeves were soaked with tears.
He was none other than the Crown Prince who had been framed all those years ago.
From the time he had first begun his studies as a boy, he had taken Xu Feng as his teacher and had grown up under his guidance. Whatever the circumstances, he was determined to travel to Danyu County himself and uncover the true culprit behind his teacher’s murder.
Afterward, Grand Secretary Zhao sent his son, Zhao Ke, along with him. His first purpose was to assist Prince Ling in the investigation; his second was to attend Xu Feng’s funeral and make arrangements for his widow and children.
The Censorate, meanwhile, sent Cui Hui to accompany them, both to assist with the investigation and to serve as an overseer.
It should have been a simple expedition with only the three of them traveling together.
Instead, Zhao Ke had gone out of his way to make things complicated.
Not only had he brought along his household guest, Lu Zhuoguang, he had also brought two favored concubines and more than a dozen guards. Their entourage looked less like an investigative party and more like a pleasure trip. Once they left the capital, Zhao Ke became even more unabashed about stopping to admire the scenery.
Prince Ling, Qi Xuan, was mild by nature and seemed to be still immersed in grief over his teacher’s death, leaving him unusually quiet.
So no matter how dissatisfied Cui Hui was, he could only swallow his complaints and keep them to himself.
Lu Zhuoguang, for his part, wore that gentle, courteous smile almost constantly, but remained remarkably quiet throughout the journey. He occupied himself with his books and rarely initiated conversation or idle chatter.
Whether he truly lacked the strength to lift even a chicken, or simply considered his hands too precious for manual labor, he carried nothing except paper and writing implements. He ordered the guards about even more freely than Zhao Ke did.
He was, in every respect, a second young master—ranking only beneath Zhao Ke himself.
The carriage stopped only at postal stations for brief rests. They traveled from before dawn until well after dark for two consecutive days, and when they finally reached Danyu County, it was already dusk.
The city gates were guarded by layer upon layer of soldiers, both inside and out. Everyone entering or leaving was subjected to strict inspection.
The guards stopped their party outside the gates and held them there for a full quarter of an hour. It was not until the hour of the Dog that they were finally allowed into the city.
The deputy magistrate hurried over to receive them, braving the bitter wind and apologizing profusely.
He explained that natural disasters had struck the southern regions one after another. Snow had been falling for days, leaving countless dead and injured, and many refugees fleeing famine had passed through the area. The multiple layers of guards at the city gates were there to prevent displaced people from entering the city and causing unrest.
On top of that, the county magistrate had only just been murdered, so the entire city had recently been placed under heightened security.
Feng Zong was over forty and remarkably efficient.
His first order was to have the yamen runners carry their luggage to the lodgings that had been prepared for them. He then ushered them into a warm room where a brazier was burning and served them scalding hot tea to drive the cold from their bodies.
He bustled about until his forehead was slick with sweat. Before long, he had settled everyone comfortably and immediately began reporting the details of Xu Feng’s murder.
Yet for a man who handled affairs with such speed and reliability, the first thing he said after sitting down was utterly preposterous.
“Gentlemen, ever since Lord Xu was killed, your humble servant has scarcely slept. I have investigated the case again and again, day and night, and now I dare make one assertion: this crime was not committed by a human being. I fear we may never find the murderer.”
Qi Xuan had not yet even managed to shake the weariness of the journey from himself. His expression darkened at once.
“What do you mean by that? What does it mean to say that it was ‘not committed by a human being’? Are you suggesting that my teacher was killed by a beast?”
Fear flickered across Feng Zong’s face. He did not dare meet the prince’s eyes, but nevertheless gritted his teeth and said,
“Your Highness, forgive me. Your humble servant believes that Lord Xu was not murdered by any person at all. He was claimed by an emissary of the underworld and taken by the will of the dead.”