That day, She Wanlin ate the most unpalatable pastry of his life, yet it was also the most fragrant.

The pastry tasted coarse, like chewing on sand — grain it was, but grain gone badly wrong, and the only comfort was that it was at least a little sweet.

He didn’t like it, yet he had to put on an expression of loving it, sitting on the railing crammed together with a group of youths from the Wufu Troupe, all munching away with great gusto.

Then, the boat finally passed the first checkpoint into Jindian territory, and for two days straight the river rain fell in a continuous drizzle. By this point whether they could eat their fill was one thing, but with the cold weather setting in, staying warm had become a problem.

Still the opera boat couldn’t come ashore. After thirty li of waterway, they were held up again.

This time the stretch of water where they were stopped was rather broad — at a glance there could be forty or fifty boats mixed together, not a few of them official vessels. But no matter whose official boat it was, the mountains were high and the emperor far away — whatever lord you were, once you reached Jindian, you simply couldn’t throw your weight around. Everyone lined up obediently, side by side, at a place called Pingzhuozhou.

By now the opera boat’s stored provisions were gone, and the charcoal they’d bought in the outer prefectures was used up too — they could barely even boil hot water anymore.

Troupe Master Zhang’s face, which had always managed to look worried despite his beard, could no longer even pull off his usual trick of playing the fool.

He was truly worried. The date he’d arranged with the lord in Jindian had long passed, and if he couldn’t find some way to earn a living in Jindian, this whole big family of his would have no money to get home.

Seeing his genuine distress, Old Chou softened somewhat and even offered advice — if they truly had no money for the road home, he could lend some.

The Bao family of Jintong Ping, though merchants, had built a reputation abroad for being kind and charitable. A rescue like this was, by their own principles, something they should lend a hand with.

No one was foolish — helping out cost little money, and it was rare to find people who traveled the world spreading one’s name the way an opera troupe could.

Unfortunately, though he wanted to help, Troupe Master Zhang flatly refused. These days, bad people harm others and good people look after themselves — everyone knew that people out making a living on the road couldn’t afford to owe favors, and wouldn’t lightly take one on.

First, they might never be able to repay it; second, opera troupe masters ran into enough unsavory business that they stayed wary in their hearts, not daring to bow their heads, let alone extend a hand.

It was maddening too — they could see Pingzhuozhou dock right there, yet without inspection no one was allowed ashore.

Trouble had broken out in nearby Yiyuan prefecture, and once word spread, the local prefect, fearing trouble, forbade people from going ashore freely.

As a result, the local dockside households went wild with joy, scrambling to build little rafts and skiffs for use on the water, then marking up firewood, rice, oil, and salt several times over to sell.

Never mind charcoal — who could afford to use charcoal? Even plain dry firewood: in normal times, with so much rain, dry firewood was already dear; in Yiyuan prefecture behind the mountains it was only five wen, but at Pingzhuo dock — hmph — forty wen or so, take it or leave it, and there were plenty willing to buy.

No food, no fuel, and their clothes were growing mold. A couple of days earlier, when Old Chou combed out the little prince’s hair, plump lice had dropped out, startling him badly.

When had it started? He didn’t know. He barely felt anything about it anymore.

He himself felt he could hardly bear this suffering any longer, yet everyone in the Wufu Troupe, high and low, had grown used to this kind of hardship — if food was running short, they simply ate less; as long as there was salt aboard and a few fish traps set behind the boat, no one would starve to death.

Troupe Master Zhang had grown so troubled his beard seemed to sprout from it, and he no longer wanted to go outside at all. With him gone, the youths ran wild — no loincloths?

So what! They swung around the whole boat bare-bottomed.

She Wanlin had no clothes to wear either, and being too proud to lose face by admitting it while still wanting to join in, he wore a simple wrap-top and a pair of shorts every day, bouncing around the boat all the same, quite at ease.

A burst of quick footsteps sounded on the deck, and in an instant the cabin door was flung open as a crowd of youths, reeking, crowded in. Zhang Yongcai, who played the painted-face roles, spoke up first: “Yi’ge, Yi’ge! There’s a firewood skiff coming by, hurry and go!”

She Wanlin rolled up off the floor and said to Old Chou, who was leaning against the bed pretending to read: “Chou-shu, give me the money.”

Old Chou put on his usual miserly act, glaring toward the door and giving a cold snort, then slapping his forehead as though taking a loss. After much fuss he finally fished out a string of coins from under the blanket, laid it on the bed, and carefully counted out three hundred coins one by one into a cloth pouch. He yanked the drawstring tight with a snort — and the pouch fell to the floor.

She Wanlin had grown used to watching him play the stingy shopkeeper every day, and without complaint picked the money pouch up off the floor, asking him: “How many jin should I buy?”

Their cabin didn’t have a single stick of firewood left.

Old Chou thought it over and said: “Pick the evenly bundled, sturdy bunches — get five or six bundles.”

She Wanlin nodded that he understood, and then, pushing and shoving his companions without daring to make noise, went out with them.

Once the door closed behind them, they’d gone only a dozen or so steps before Zhang Yongcai excitedly burst out: “Today it’s my turn to shout…”

The other youths all shushed him at once, and the senior disciple, annoyed at his lack of restraint, thumped him on the back.

Zhang Yongcai didn’t care one bit, and stubbornly pointed at himself to confirm: “We agreed… it’s my turn, my turn.”

Your turn, your turn — it was just buying a few bundles of firewood, what was there to fight over?

In the time it took to talk, the group had already run to the bow and pushed Zhang Yongcai forward to call out to the firewood skiff.

Zhang Yongcai shouted excitedly a dozen-odd times, and when the firewood seller came alongside, he bellowed like Zhang Fei at Dangyang Bridge, browbeating the man down and taking the whole skiff-load of firewood for two hundred eighty wen.

Once the firewood was hauled aboard in a great scramble, She Wanlin picked out the larger bundles and had Yongchun and the others carry them to the guest cabin, while the three remaining loose bundles were carried, out of sight, down to the hold, to be used at night for warmth and drying clothes.

The youths were close with him, and were well used to him quietly skimming a little money to help them out. Worried that She Wanlin might someday be caught and beaten for it, they silently pitched in to help with chores.

Things like fetching food from the big stove, wiping down the inner cabin deck with dry cloths, even performing somersaults for Steward Ping — in short, they went out of their way to curry favor, all for She Wanlin’s sake.

It was only a matter of tens of coins’ worth of firewood, but in the past their master had been harsh and would beat without mercy, so the youths didn’t want to enjoy the benefit alone, and quietly sent some to their master’s cabin behind She Wanlin’s back.

What could She Wanlin do but pretend not to notice, leaning on the railing above. As luck would have it, someone was selling local taro cakes — well, since he’d already “skimmed” twenty wen off the firewood money, and boys never could hold onto coins for long, it had to be spent.

Watching She Wanlin wave the cake seller over, the youths, having gotten used to sweets these past few days and knowing something good was up, didn’t dare shout for fear the adults would hear — so a good twenty of them lined up in a row and waved together instead, quite a spectacle.

After much effort they finally flagged the skiff over, and furtively bought two packets of cake for twenty wen, hauling it up. She Wanlin was generous and broke it apart to share with everyone — as the one paying, he treated himself to a whole cake.

In the drizzling weather, their bodies damp, feet soaking in the cool green river water, they all sat together on the railing eating cake, savoring it as though they were emperors newly enthroned.

They didn’t dare stay quiet for long, though — if not the master, then one of the tutors was bound to come out and check on them before too long.

So Zhang Yongcai began reciting aloud: “In gauze cap and quail-patched robe and calf-nose shorts, carefree and proud as a noble scion…”

Another opened his throat to sing too — “Chan Juan glares at me, and I glare back at Chan Juan” — and little Bao sang along dreamily as well: “Brows undrawn, the crimson chamber unclosed, the willow-lined bridgehead slender…”

The child was truly delighted; after a bite of cake he’d let out a wistful little cry, and with food in his belly he sang out a mournful tune with all the flavor of Hongniang — never mind that one was the clown role and another the female lead, none of them even knew their characters, they just sang from memory whatever came to mind.

In the misty rain, with shimmering ripples on the water, everyone content and the tune merry, just as things were going beautifully, someone on a large boat not far off suddenly called out: “You there, little performer across the way — you long for spring, fine, but why sing of Zhang Fei sharing beauty with Chan Juan? Over there they’re crying out at Broken Bridge, and here’s your mother eloping…”

This person was mocking them — and clearly knew opera too, for in a single line he’d called out every mismatched snippet the youths had been singing at random.

Oh no, they’d stirred up trouble.

The youths scrambled down off the railing at once, and the first thing they did on the deck was gulp down the licked-damp cake in two or three bites, then wipe their mouths left and right — only then did the fear set in.

They went below to destroy the evidence, leaving poor She Wanlin frozen in place, still clutching his cake. The cake wasn’t good, but he’d grown used to the taste and had already eaten half of it.

Looking up, he realized he recognized the boat too — across the way was a modest tower-boat. The man who had called out finished speaking, and the boat erupted in laughter; before long, a dozen or so gentlemen in silk caps and hairnets, men clearly suffering from boredom, came out on deck.

The two boats were not far apart, no more than three zhang or so. The gentlemen, thoroughly bored, had originally set up a game of chess to pass the time, but hadn’t expected the little performers on the neighboring opera boat to start playing around — bits and snatches of opera drifting over, not exactly tuneful, but genuinely endearing.

Peering through gaps in the window screens, they’d seen the youths acting furtively, licking cake while glancing left and right, and to cover their snacking had suddenly launched into loud practice.

A whole cluster of bare-bottomed youngsters gathered together — anyone who saw it would find it charming.

Several of the gentlemen laughed until their stomachs ached, and finally one, too soft-hearted to hold back any longer, called out and gave the game away.

So the youths had no choice but to come out together to look — only to find the other little performers had already hidden themselves, leaving just one round-faced, fair-skinned youth standing there, both hands cradling a piece of cake, staring blankly at them.

The gentlemen took one look at this youth and each silently cried out in delight. No wonder — the boy had a round head and round face, honest and simple-looking, his innocent expression enough to make their hearts ache with fondness.

Perhaps startled badly, seeing them come out the round-faced youth bit down hard on his cake for courage, then, chewing, pretended not to see anyone as he glanced left and right, cheeks bulging, eyes darting.

This — this was simply too adorable.

One gentleman pressed a hand to his chest and murmured: “If I could have a child like that by my side, I could live out my days content — die today, even, and I’d die happy!”

This fellow had no idea, and it was only his good fortune that he’d spoken softly — if this young lord had heard him, he’d have drowned him in the river for sure; if his mother had heard, he’d have been beaten to a pulp; if his father had heard, he’d have been split clean in half… and if his grandfather had heard, being allowed to die alone would count as mercy from the ancestors, with the whole clan exiled and their ancestral graves smoking with shame.

The two sides simply stared at each other like this, until the gentleman who’d been ready to die called out loudly: “Young master — is that cake of yours hard to chew? Careful not to choke!”

He meant well enough, but She Wanlin, being stared at like that, felt his young-master temper flare, and raised an eyebrow: “So what? Did you fetch me three rivers’ worth of water to wash the cake down with?”

With that he rolled his eyes.

The moment he said this, putting on such a disdainful air, the gentlemen all clutched their chests again, thoroughly smitten.

Their little prince had soaked in medicinal baths from the White Stone Mountains since he was a few years old, nourished by formulas passed down for generations for cultivating the bones — no wonder he’d grown skin like white jade.

Since ancient times, the wealthy and romantically inclined never distinguished between male and female, and were quite open-minded in their tastes. These men, while not from the very highest noble clans, were still from great established families, and among their tastes was this particular refined appreciation.

Of course, given their upbringing, their fondness held nothing improper — it was pure, simple admiration.

Admiration for this cluster of white jade upon the river’s water — the sight alone was a feast for the eyes.

Seeing the youth truly about to leave, one gentleman called out loudly: “Young sir, are you all with the outer-prefecture troupe hired by that family in Jindian?”

No one had ever heard of a Wufu Troupe before.

She Wanlin had no idea about any of that, and turned his face away rudely: “How should I know which family!”

With that he made to leave again, but he heard the man calling for the boatman to row over, while several others chimed in, urging him and saying they wanted to request a few scenes to pass the time…

Ordinarily She Wanlin would never have bothered with people like this, but the moment he heard they wanted to commission opera scenes, hmm?

He stopped in his tracks, turned, and came to stand before the railing. First he coughed once, then asked very formally across the water: “Gentlemen, we’re not some riverboat troupe for hire — we’re an outer-prefecture troupe with a proper name. Is it up to you to just say which scenes you want performed?”

The gentlemen, seeing he hadn’t left, laughed: “Of course, of course — our apologies, our apologies.”

She Wanlin, barefoot, kicked at Zhang Yongbao below him: “Hurry up, we’ve got business! Go tell your master to open the trunk and bring out the play list.”

Little Bao startled, then scrambled off, half-running half-crawling.

By the time Troupe Master Zhang arrived with the flute master, the young proprietor was already standing at the railing, hands on hips, having settled the whole deal with the other side — tonight they’d perform the full “Plum Blossoms in Snowfall Night.”

This was a light, undemanding play — no tumbling, no elaborate staging, just a few young female-role performers playing spirits who transform into human shape at night and visit a scholar’s study, playing tricks on him for fun.

Though it was a “spirit” story, it wasn’t lewd or vulgar — it was riddles, couplets, and poetry contests through the night, and the next morning the scholar wakes to find several large ingots of silver by his pillow, which he uses to pass the imperial examinations with top honors.

This was the little prince’s first business deal in his life, and he’d negotiated it up to eighteen strings of cash at once, delighting Troupe Master Zhang so much he could have shouted to the heavens, wishing he could hang the boy in gratitude.

By nightfall, large lanterns and torches lit up the opposite boat, the payers having spared no expense, illuminating a stretch of the river as if in a dream.

With erhu strings by the ear and flute notes stirring the water’s colors, the young performers took the stage for the first time, yet still drew burst after burst of applause, drawing crowds of onlookers from the docks, with little skiffs shuttling back and forth — never mind the gentlemen across the way, that night there wasn’t a soul on the water who didn’t feel a pang of wistfulness.

Everyone said such a fine performance would never be heard again.

But it was a pity for those noble gentlemen — they’d all changed into fresh robes that night and lined up eagerly on deck, waiting the whole night for that maddening little spirit-child, checking everyone on deck one by one, but never managing to find him.

Where had She Wanlin gone? He was sitting cross-legged against the railing with Chou-shu, listening to the finest opera of his life from right there on the boat, and finding it quite delightful too.

The audience below, enjoying the show, wrapped coins in cloth and tossed them up onto the boat. Father and son set out a wooden basin on each side, helping the troupe gather the money — Troupe Master Zhang said official mint coins went on the left, and inferior circulating coins on the right.

Unfortunately, this was Jindian territory — by the time they’d gathered coins through half the performance, the left-hand basin, for good coins, hadn’t a single one in it, while the right-hand basin was full.

She Wanlin, quick-witted as he was, spent the interludes of the performance grabbing handfuls of the debased coins, thinking to himself — the moment they’d entered Jindian territory, it felt as though heaven and earth had changed color. The old Tan family’s rules, the old Tan family’s tax rates… for debased coin to circulate so freely here, the source couldn’t be far off.

He didn’t know what His Majesty was thinking. Grandfather always said that reforming the era and minting coin was a great matter of state governance… though private coin-minting had never been fully stamped out in any dynasty, it had never been this blatant.

By this logic — where exactly was all the money that should have gone into the state treasury actually flowing to?

The Tan family of Jindian? Did His Majesty know?

He had no way of knowing that, at that very moment, in a side hall of the Beihu Guo Temple in Yandu, a coffin sat with no memorial tablet before it, while the Emperor of Great Liang himself held three sticks of incense, silently paying his respects.

The coffin lay open, and several forensic examiners with cloths pressed over their faces were bent over, examining the body.

The side hall was cramped and the smell nauseating, yet the emperor showed no reaction, quietly watching and thinking — no stench, however foul, could drive away the ache in his heart.

His mind was filled with images of Migu. He remembered him smiling and kneeling to kowtow, asking with concern why he himself had grown thin lately, whether something was troubling him?

He always used to quietly find the finest braised pork hocks for him to eat… Tan Er was gone, A’Duo was gone, and now was Migu gone too?

Aside from Qingling, he had truly become a solitary old man.

The more he thought, the redder his eyes grew, and after murmuring some private words to himself, the emperor finally handed the incense in his hand to the white-haired figure in beggar’s rags standing beside him.

Though this person’s face looked old, his gait was firm and steady, nothing like an elderly man’s. He inserted the incense into the burner, then stood silently to one side, head bowed, accompanying Emperor Wu without a word.

Emperor Wu, his mind heavy with grief, finally said to this man after a long while: “Migu… he suffered his whole life, without a single day of ease…”

The man hesitated somewhat, then finally raised his head and bowed: “My clan-uncle lived his whole life openly, serving his lord with sincerity, he…” His voice choked here, and he forced himself to continue: “He surely departed with a clear conscience and an untroubled heart… Your Majesty, if you grieve, my uncle’s spirit, if it has awareness, will surely…”

Spring thunder rumbled just then, and a flash of lightning lit the man’s face, clearly revealing a face identical to Old Chou’s.

Emperor Wu raised a hand to stop him: “The examiners haven’t yet finished their inquest — whether it’s truly so remains uncertain.”

Unfortunately, just as he finished speaking, one of the examiners came out from inside cradling a cloth in both hands.

Seeing this, the emperor instinctively took a step back and asked: “That — what is that?”

The examiner knelt slowly, raising it high with both hands. The emperor hesitated a long moment before finally walking over, and saw two false teeth, already bitten through, the poison pill inside long since gone.

Another flash of lightning, and the emperor looked at the man kneeling on the ground and said: “That… that was Migu, he, what did he do wrong! Can, can I even blame him for this? You — how dared you all fit him with such a thing?”

The new Old Chou immediately prostrated himself, kowtowing until his forehead bled, choking out: “My clan-uncle said — said… this is simply our family’s rule, Your Majesty!” He raised that face so familiar to Emperor Wu as Yang Zao’s, tears in his eyes, pleading: “My… my uncle died wrongly, he was about to, about to finally enjoy some peace… waaah.”

Emperor Wu stood dazed, murmuring to himself: “I gave him his name myself. That day I told him, let’s call you Migu — Migu comes from the Classic of the Southern Mountains, growing on Zhaoyao Mountain, its tree bearing golden cassia blossoms shining in four directions, wearing it dispels confusion…

He was brilliant by nature, his wisdom surpassing ordinary men by who knows how much. Back then I said, why not change your name and surname — I’d give you an illustrious lineage, and even passing the imperial exams with honors would be effortless for you…”

The new Old Chou lowered his voice, choking with tears.

Emperor Wu continued still: “His temperament was so like Qingling’s — back then he said, the ancestors’ honor has already fallen to the ground, and if his generation couldn’t pick it back up, then there would truly be no face left even in death… he…”

He let out a slow breath, and finally said to the Old Chou kneeling before him: “Things have been unsettled lately, Marquis Chen has been terribly busy — once the matter of the Fuqi Commandery Prince’s household is settled, send your people down to take over from the scouts… this can also count as giving Migu his due. If you’re willing, going forward, don’t let his incense line go cold.”

The man below startled slightly, then kowtowed three times, hard enough to draw blood each time.

Half a month earlier, Old Chou’s decomposed corpse had been discovered — the body had drifted along the back river for twenty li until it caught at the mouth of Luoxian River. Having soaked so long, it had rotted to the point that when pulled up it had come apart cleanly, flesh from bone.

Never in this world had there been such a clean, pristine skeleton.

Most alarming of all, a ring of dead fish floated around the corpse — anyone with experience could tell at a glance that this body had been poisoned to death.

The river fish had eaten the corpse and been poisoned themselves, and as more and more dead fish appeared, it drew attention.

The locals, afraid of contaminating the water source, reported it to the village head, and since trouble had recently broken out upstream as well, the village head hastily reported it to the local yamen… after much back and forth, the long-missing old beggar’s body was secretly transferred and finally sent to Yandu.

The old beggar was dead, but the covert agents of Relative Guard Alley still had to exist, so a nephew from Old Chou’s clan had disguised himself in Old Chou’s likeness, preparing to return to Quanhou Street to keep watch over Yandu’s gates, the gathering place of low-ranking officials.

Once the identity was confirmed, Emperor Wu suppressed his fury, clenching then releasing his fist, and finally forced out three words through gritted teeth: “Jiuzhouyu!”

He would exterminate their entire clan, nine generations of it!

With that, he walked to the memorial table and took up the spirit tablet, carving Migu’s name into it stroke by stroke with a knife.

Migu’s cause of death was easy enough to deduce — he had also vanished the same day the little commandery prince went missing. Emperor Wu didn’t believe Jiuzhouyu would bother abducting even a foolish beggar; with a little thought it was clear enough: that day, seeing An’er the child taken, Migu had known how much the boy was valued and feared he might be used as leverage to ruin something important.

So he had secretly followed along, thinking… Jiuzhouyu’s martial skill was formidable, and Migu had inevitably given himself away. Fearing that under torture he might reveal his greatest secret, he had simply bitten through his back teeth and taken his own life — hence the corpse dumped twenty li away by Jiuzhouyu.

Emperor Wu, having finished carving the spirit tablet, personally burned paper ingots, then took his leave of Migu’s clan-nephew.

After the emperor left, the new Old Chou looked at the spirit tablet for a long while, and finally let out a long, slow breath.

His uncle had been right — this man’s temper was fine enough, but if you didn’t pay some price, he wouldn’t give you any benefit either.

What did his family have? A household full of condemned criminals.

Only his clan-uncle’s single life had been kept close to the emperor’s heart. His uncle hadn’t wanted to die, and yet had to die — after years of waiting, the opportunity had finally come.

Thinking of the generations of hardship, of how many lives had been poured in before they’d finally gained commoner status again, Migu’s nephew felt his heart ache with mixed feelings he could hardly untangle.

Emperor Wu returned to the Great Liang Palace; a heavy rain was already falling in force. He’d just changed clothes and sat down when someone came to report that the Consort’s husband had been waiting all day.

Emperor Wu asked which consort’s husband it was, and the eunuch said, naturally, the second consort’s husband.

This second consort’s husband was none other than Tan Weixin, son under the name of Tan Shize, who had married Emperor Wu’s second princess, Yang Linghui.

The deposed Empress Cao had left behind three daughters, and Emperor Wu had arranged good matches for all of them.

The eldest, Yang Lingyao, he had betrothed to Zheng Aman; the second princess, Yang Linghui, he had betrothed to Tan Weixin.

In the emperor’s heart, these were both children he thought highly of.

And such marriages were also mutually protective, each side benefiting the other.

It was only a pity that these past years Aman had grown erratic, drinking all day and rarely leaving the house, and had few children at his knee to bring him comfort.

Among them, Tan Weixin was especially favored by him, having been raised close to him for a full ten years now, and this affection had grown deeper and deeper over time.

A flash of lightning, and a handsome, refined young man entered the side hall, setting down the lantern in his hand as several eunuchs gathered around to help him out of his rain cloak.

Once the eunuchs had dispersed, Tan Weixin smiled and took a dry cloth, wiping the rainwater from his face as he said: “Father, I had a bad dream last night, and no matter what, I had to come see you today.”

He should have addressed him as Your Majesty, or as His Majesty, yet he still followed the second princess’s habit and called him Father. Emperor Wu enjoyed this easy familiarity and allowed it.

Hearing this, the emperor’s heart stirred, and he drew out a smile, asking: “Oh? And what did you dream?”

Tan Weixin’s hand paused, and with a somewhat puzzled look he said: “Well, I dare not presume to trouble Father with it, and I don’t know if it’s a good sign or bad… in truth, I’ve had this dream once before… I don’t know whether I should say it.”

Emperor Wu, troubled, chided him affectionately: “What’s gotten into you, child — you’re usually so forthright, why so hesitant today? Out with it, quickly.”

Tan Weixin walked over, took the hot tea a eunuch handed him, and offered it to Emperor Wu, saying: “Ah, that was back when I was still small — it was the day my father passed, and I had a nightmare then too. I dreamed of a great river, its waters especially clear, as though a hundred zhang deep and still one could see the bottom. In the dream a white lotus drifted past on the river, and you — you were standing on the bank holding a great bamboo pole, trying to fish that flower out… who would have thought I’d dream it again last night. My heart felt uneasy, so I wanted to come see you — now that I see you looking so well, my heart is at ease.”

Emperor Wu’s hand moved, and the gesture of reaching for his tea paused for a long moment before he said: “Oh? And in the dream, did I manage to fish out that lotus?”

Tan Weixin gave a soft laugh: “No. You held the bamboo pole, trying to reach it, but the lotus drifted further and further away…”