(Old Stinky, 10)

Xin Yijian, known in the martial world as “One Sword Seals the Throat,” saw that the sky wasn’t yet late, and came smiling up to the carriage, saying to Xie Ximu, who was reading inside: “Gennu’er, could we pick up the pace a bit? Twenty li ahead there’s a post station. The day after tomorrow, that boat with our An’er aboard should dock at Yiyuan Prefecture’s wharf, and we may need to switch to traveling overland — no worries about falling behind. Besides, we’ve been out on the road for quite a few days now. Won’t you at least find somewhere safe to rest for a night, catch your breath?”

Xie Ximu looked up and shot him a glance, and Xin Yijian patiently pressed on: “There’s no shortage of fine scenery in this world — you needn’t cling so hard to these few days. Let’s slow down a bit? Even if you don’t mind it, these animals have been walking for so many days now, they truly can’t take much more.”

This Xin Yijian, who traveled at Gennu’er Xie Ximu’s side, was the older brother of Xin Wudao, the head guard who accompanied She Wanlin.

Sharing a surname, the two brothers were in fact not related by blood at all — both had simply been orphans wandering alone around Qingfeng City in their youth, who later joined the Beggars’ Sect and were tutored in martial arts by Uncle Xin. It was through wandering the martial world that they’d finally made a name for themselves, right as the world fell into chaos.

Uncle Xin had raised orphans for years, but the year so many died, he stopped letting them go out. Later, once Uncle Xin came to rely on Huo Qiqian, he gradually sent the Beggars’ Sect’s people over to the area around the Chen family, seeking a new path for them — and a steady bowl of rice as well.

Back then, Qiqian’er had let this pair of young brothers choose their own bodyguards — after all, both were children of noble rank, and it was proper custom among the nobility to keep a capable man at one’s side for protection.

But don’t underestimate this pair of brothers — they were among the special few permitted under the court’s laws to maintain a body of private soldiers, the kind once called “buqu.”

This was precisely what had once made the great clans of old so formidable: their ability to sway who rose and who fell in power, resting on two things — first, their monopoly over knowledge, and second, the large bodies of private soldiers under their names. If an emperor proved unsatisfactory, they could band together and replace him, and this was common enough in the old days.

Xin Yijian and Xin Wudao now held precisely this kind of status. They were on record with the Ministry of War, ranked as ninth-grade military officers, yet drew their monthly stipend from their lord’s household, and would go on to marry, have children, with their descendants’ education likewise the household’s responsibility.

Back then, Gennu’er had chosen Xin Yijian precisely because his nickname sounded so impressive. Only later did he learn it had nothing to do with actually “sealing throats with a single sword” — in truth, Xin Yijian’s family came from Sanjiagou, where the family trade had been brewing liquor, and their strong spirits were especially favored by escort agency men. Advertised as perfect for “wind and snow, bitter cold,” a single mouthful would send fiery heat searing up the throat and sweat pouring down the whole body — hence it was called “Throat-Sealing Wine.”

In truth it was nothing more than ordinary raw grain liquor — two coppers would buy a measure, enough to warm the belly and ward off the cold.

By rights, he should have grown up to be the young master of a modest liquor trade — never great wealth or status, but a decent enough life all the same. Unfortunately, a year of natural disaster brought the family to ruin. Both his parents died of malaria, and with the household’s grain stores cut off, it happened that the palace was recruiting a batch of young eunuchs, and his own grandfather, acting as head of the family, sold him off in exchange for grain.

Quick-witted and a local through and through, Xin Yijian fled under cover of night and became a young beggar, and it was through meeting Uncle Xin that he entered the martial world.

In his heart he bore resentment toward his family, yet couldn’t bear to let go of his feelings for his parents, so he discarded his ancestral name and gave himself the title “One Sword Seals the Throat.”

Xin Yijian’s martial skill was, among the group of orphans, considered on the weaker side, but his good temper and thoroughness in handling matters made him well-liked by Gennu’er, and he’d now followed him for a full eight years.

Hearing Uncle Yi’s earnest advice, Xie Ximu thought it over, then crooked a finger, signaling him to climb aboard.

Xin Yijian trotted alongside the carriage a couple steps, then swung up nimbly and sat down across from Xie Ximu, looking at him with a smile.

Xie Ximu tossed him a local fruit. Watching him take a crisp bite with a smile, Xie Ximu then glanced outside, raised an eyebrow, and asked: “You’d only just fallen asleep for a bit — how did you notice Uncle was gone?”

Xin Yijian nodded, swallowed the sweet, juicy bite of fruit, and said: “Yes, I stepped away for a moment.”

Xie Ximu asked further: “Where’d you go?”

Outside was a proper official road, and their procession of carriages and honor guard was so complete and imposing that travelers scattered out of the way well in advance — no carriage had passed close by at all.

Xin Yijian saw the mocking look on Xie Ximu’s face and knew he’d been found out, so he laughed apologetically: “Just a coincidence, really — saw a few people by the roadside acting a bit off, worried it might be unsteady on our An’er’s end, so I, well, I went to test the waters a bit.”

Along this whole stretch of road, there’d been no small number of such troubles, all of them converging on that tower boat in the middle of the river.

Hearing this explanation, Xie Ximu let out a snort of laughter — why had lazy old Xin Yijian suddenly grown so diligent these past few days? Simply because his younger brother Xin Wudao had failed in his duty of protection, lost the little prince, and had been recalled by the household to face punishment.

He wanted to earn some merit of his own, so he could later put in a good word for his brother when they got back.

Once done laughing, Xie Ximu asked: “So something really was off?”

Xin Yijian nodded at once: “Yes, yes! Never mind that my hands aren’t much good — but these two eyes of mine…” He blinked hard and said: “This is an eye trained from years of begging by the city gates — I could never mistake it. Look at the soles of their shoes, and something was off right away — there’s a mountain up ahead, and what were they wearing? Thick wooden cleats made specifically for mountain climbing!”

Xie Ximu, also surprised: “Thick wooden cleats? You mean Xie-style clogs?”

Xin Yijian, briefly stunned, nodded: “Ah! You’ve read the thick books, brother — not like me, I only know a couple hundred characters, just enough to not get lost when I’m out. Seemed to be called something like ‘rooster shoes’ too.

“These days things have gotten better, but even common folk in short jackets working the spring plow with a hoe still can’t afford shoes like that. Once I went over to test them a bit, they gave themselves away. Pity — this time I brought along one of the top scouts, but before we could even properly cross blades, the man was knocked flat…”

As Xin Yijian said this, his expression was thoroughly aggrieved. He’d wanted to follow proper martial-world custom — at least exchange the customary greetings, ask which northern or southern hall the other party paid homage to, whose lineage they claimed back home. That way, if it turned out to be some minor faction, there’d be room to talk them down peacefully.

But no such luck — the moment the other side so much as showed a defensive stance, out came some needle that could knock down even an immortal, and the man was down in no time flat. Not long after that, the other side had efficiently carried the man off.

Scouts only cared about results — they wouldn’t bother discussing martial-world etiquette with you.

Once the man was down, a curtained prisoner cart had already been made ready on the other side. The man was thrown in and hauled far off before Xin Yijian even realized something was wrong. Damn it — had his own kill been stolen right out from under him?

Xie Ximu, being sharp as he was, glanced outside at the soldiers His Majesty had specially assigned and the scouts his own father had sent, and understood at once what had happened — and burst out laughing.

A bit embarrassed, Xin Yijian pinched his nose sheepishly and said: “There were five of them — four men and one old woman. We didn’t manage to get a single word out of them, didn’t find out where they came from either — the person was just taken away.”

Xie Ximu comforted him cheerfully: “It’s nothing! Don’t overthink it. This isn’t Fifth Uncle’s fault at all — it’s An’er being willful that’s put everyone through this trouble. When we get back, shall I put in a good word for you with Father and Mother?”

Xin Yijian didn’t see it that way at all, and shook his head earnestly: “Please don’t. We’ve eaten so much of the household’s rice for nothing — if a good-for-nothing shirks his duty when trouble comes, that’s on him! How old is our An’er, really? I’ve told him before not to indulge too much in drink — if he’d taken things a bit more seriously, we wouldn’t be going through all this trouble and mobilizing everyone like this today.”

This was a matter internal to the Beggars’ Sect’s own people, so Xie Ximu offered only the one word of comfort and let it drop. He turned to look outside at the sun slowly beginning to set and asked: “Fenglan Mountain should be up ahead, right?”

Xin Yijian confirmed it was.

Xie Ximu said: “I once read a traveler’s account that said there’s a large riverside carriage inn at the foot of Fenglan Mountain, run by an old couple — they serve coarse tea and thin wine, and have a communal bed platform that can sleep twenty or thirty people, said to be the largest bed the traveler had ever seen in his life. Sounds wonderful — let’s sleep there tonight.”

Hearing this, Xin Yijian drew a breath and looked at his young master with an expression hard to describe. Not that he was truly a “master” in the strict sense — the Chen family treated him as half a member of the family, which was why he addressed him by his childhood name.

But it was precisely because they were so close that he understood exactly what was going on in the heart of this young master of his, notorious in Yandu for his wild ways.

This whole excursion was really just him using his brother’s “loss” of the little prince as an excuse to run wild himself.

Well, never mind — now that he’d finally gotten out, so long as he came home safe and sound without having to rescue anyone himself, that would already count as good fortune.

And so Xin Yijian nodded: “Fine, then.”

As the sun hung halfway down, dim and heavy, the century-old carriage inn lit several great bonfires in its courtyard.

The old couple written of in that traveler’s account had long since passed into the ground; the inn was now run by a middle-aged couple.

By two earthen stoves against the wall, four burly men worked hard wooden shovels, turning over heated sand, while a group of weary travelers sat by the bonfires eating dry rations.

Even away from home, people carried their own rank — even a cheap carriage inn had its tiers of accommodation.

Upon entering the inn, the wealthiest guests — an escort caravan, say — would rent out an entire communal room for two hundred coins, complete with foul-smelling bedding for warmth and coarse tea served.

The second tier of guests, once these pots of sand had been heated through, would have it shoveled load by load into square pits dug beneath the eaves nearby. Old customers paying five coppers could doze off by the bonfire until drowsiness came over them, then strip down freely, dig a pit in the hot sand with their bundled clothes, and bury themselves for a perfectly comfortable night’s sleep — the innkeeper would even make rounds at night to keep an eye on their belongings.

And for travelers with no money at all who came into the courtyard, the bonfire’s warmth was still theirs to share, and a mouthful of hot water was allowed too — this counted as the old inn’s charity and good conscience.

This spot marked where the official road entered Fenglan Mountain toward the border region. Though fifteen li further, over the mountain pass, lay an official post station, it wasn’t the sort of place ordinary people could stay — first, because the mountain road at night was difficult to pass, and second, because that station didn’t take in commoners anyway.

And so, with one mountain separating two inns, one side was unreachably lofty, while the other, despite the crowd of old customers, was its own lively little world.

As the smell of roasting flatbread and coarse buns drifted through the air, and sparks from the bonfires could be seen flying, the innkeeper’s son, Baogen, suddenly heard a great commotion, and turned back excitedly shouting: “Pa! Pa! Hurry, open the main gate — a big escort caravan’s coming…”

The innkeeper couple had been sitting by the water cauldron watching the boiling pot — there was never any shortage of old regulars looking for a bit of a bargain, coming back again and again to ask for more hot water, and even chopping firewood cheaply at the foot of the mountain still cost labor after all — so with nothing else to do, the couple liked to pull up stools and sit by the pot, watching it.

Hearing Baogen’s shout, the innkeeper scolded: “Shout, go on and shout! Never seen a big escort before?”

Even as he said this, delight was spreading across his face — after dark, the regular customers were all the five-copper sand-sleepers, and his household’s ten-odd large communal rooms had simply been sitting idle and unused.

Seven or eight sturdy, quick-witted hired hands, hearing the young master’s call, dashed straight out to the main gate. Together they hauled down the heavy wooden bar barring the great gate, and threw the inn’s doors wide open, bright and welcoming.

This was the foot of Fenglan Mountain — wild beasts often roamed the mountain, not to mention the high walls of rough-hewn timber built to withstand the mountain winds as well.

The young master called Baogen had perfectly sharp hearing — no sooner had the gate been thrown open than, in the distance, the shadowy outline of the approaching carriage procession could already be dimly made out.

Listening to the clop of hooves, the innkeeper made a rough estimate in his head and grew all the more delighted, sensing a big sale coming his way. He called loudly into the courtyard: “Old woman! Hurry, tell the kitchen to get the oil pan going, honored guests are coming…”

Before he could even finish speaking, however, a rough, gruff shout came from the approaching group: “Honored, my foot! Old innkeeper, quick, hang up the red cloth to cover the eyes — we’re mourning guests…!”

At these words, the once-lively courtyard fell utterly silent.

“Mourning guests” also meant funeral guests — those returning bones to their hometown for burial. The official road saw no shortage of such travelers, carrying remains home.

Though it soured the innkeeper’s mood, he couldn’t very well turn away business, so he cleared his throat and called back loudly: “What are you saying, old brother? Our century-old inn here — the living and the dead alike are all our guests. Someone, crack the mountain-shaking whip, hang the red cloth!!”

No sooner had he said this than the young master called Baogen went inside, and before long came back out carrying two pieces of darkened red cloth and an old whip.

As they spoke, the carriage procession had already drawn near, and at the sight of the newcomers, the innkeeper and the others all drew a sharp breath of cold air.

In the dusk, a mounted procession approached — and it was nothing like some dust-worn, weather-beaten escort caravan at all. Every rider was a martial-world figure bearing weapons, while those riding in the wagons — one couldn’t even see where the line ended — were empty coffins draped in red silk?

So many coffins, and even hung with red cloth as if for good fortune — it was a thoroughly frightening sight.

The innkeeper watched, his heart trembling. Such things had been common enough in the previous dynasty, but this was already many years into the new dynasty… this, this — one look told him these were coffins the martial-world travelers had prepared for their own deaths. Were they, were they about to cause more trouble again?

Seeing the innkeeper hesitate over whether to ask, the leader — a man in his forties, thick-jowled and coarse-featured, a ring-blade with red silk draped over its hilt slung across his back — dismounted.

He walked straight up to the innkeeper and said first: “Innkeeper, sir, no need to ask where we’ve come from. We’ll just rest a night in your courtyard — we won’t take up your good rooms…”

Having said this, he reached into his saddlebag, pulled out a string of bright new coins, and pressed them into the innkeeper’s hand: “The payment’s more than fair — go ahead and hang the red cloth.”

With solid money in hand, the innkeeper caught his breath, steadied his nerves, and forced a smile: “Old traveler, old traveler, now that’s a friendly way to put it, truly friendly~.”

Hearing this, the martial-world traveler laughed: “Of course — we’re local folk here, no need to ask further. Later on… never mind, just go ahead and hang the red cloth.”

There was something in his tone — neither quite open-hearted nor quite closed — that weighed heavy on the ear. Though the man was smiling, the innkeeper found himself inexplicably uneasy.

Seeing the innkeeper’s odd look, the old traveler pointed toward the gate: “Hurry along now, we’re tired too — we need to get inside.”

The innkeeper opened his mouth, then remembered the pair of small stone lions flanking the gate still needed their eyes covered.

Having lost face once, and wanting to make up for it, he worked up his nerve and gave his own son a hard punch, scolding: “You blind fool! Your uncle’s here, hurry and cover the eyes!”

And so Baogen hurried to hang the darkened red cloth over the eyes of the two stone beasts, then cracked the whip toward the distant mountains and, gesturing at these frightening coffins, half-heartedly called out a string of taboo-warding phrases, before finally letting them into the inn.

Customs differed from place to place — in some regions, they’d even slaughter a rooster and keep its blood on hand.

But at a rough inn like this, the innkeeper’s own family could hardly afford to eat meat themselves, let alone kill a chicken for it.

Once the mountain-shaking whip had been cracked, the martial-world travelers hauled their coffins into the courtyard, each choosing a corner, claiming two clusters of bonfires, and setting about making themselves at home.

Unloading carts, watering horses, calling loudly and gruffly for a round of meat and wine.

The innkeeper felt uneasy all day, and kept anxiously waiting for his son to come back from the end of the procession. Even hearing the old travelers calling for meat and wine as they settled in, he couldn’t feel happy about it.

Anyone who saw a row of coffins after nightfall couldn’t help but feel their spirits sink.

By the time the very last coffin had finally been carried into the inn, the innkeeper had a tally in his head — a full thirteen. Heavens, thirteen?

Were they lining up to die in order or something?

Mountain god, sir, are you about to show your wrath? Please don’t drag his poor, meager household into it.

Fear weakening his knees, father and son were just about to close the inn’s gates from either side when they heard the burly man call out another alarming line: “Say — old brother! Best leave this gate open. Truth be told, tonight, more of our kind may well be coming.”

No sooner had he said this than the scattered guests who’d already kept their distance grew fearful, rising one after another, huddling by the sand pits with their bundles on their backs, not daring to lift their heads, simply waiting for the hot sand to come so they could dig themselves a pit and bury themselves away.

Swallowing hard, the innkeeper’s hands trembled, uncertain how to respond to this.

As luck would have it, his wife came over carrying a double-handled cauldron. She first shot her useless husband a glare, then went with an ingratiating smile to the bonfire, hanging the pot as she chattered: “Old brother, my husband here is faint of heart, and our dog-meat balls aren’t much to look at either, so please bear with us. What, might I ask, is your honored surname?”

Since anyone local might turn out to share some distant kinship, it was custom for travelers away from home to address each other as “cousin” to feel closer.

The burly man, being good-natured, laughed and said: “Sister-in-law, we’re surnamed Zhang. My family’s not far from here — I’ve been through before, back when the old innkeeper was still alive, before you’d even married in.”

The Jade Emperor himself bears the surname Zhang, and so under Heaven, no one need apologize for sharing that name.

The innkeeper’s wife smiled all the more warmly: “Oh my, an honored guest indeed! Ah, our old innkeeper passed on more than twenty years ago now — it’s been so long… even the locals here have forgotten him.”

Little did she know, this humble mountainside inn had once been written into a book by a Daoist traveler.

Shamed by his wife in front of the guest, the innkeeper hung his head, went back to the counter, took out the key, opened the cabinet, and personally carried out the five-jin jar of wine the old “brother” had requested to serve him.

As luck would have it, just as he arrived, he saw the guest drag a still-twitching deer out of a coffin and toss it onto the ground.

First a deer, then seven or eight rabbits, and finally two large-tailed wolves — the thudding sounds came one after another, and the smell of blood grew thicker and thicker. The old “brother” had been about to draw his blade to skin them, but suddenly went still.

He tilted his ear, listening intently, and once he’d made certain, said to the innkeeper: “Right then — hurry, grab the whip and go greet the guests at the gate. More are coming…”