◎Reminiscence◎

Once Fu Mingran saw that he had gotten a clear look at her face, she immediately lowered the white gauze, gathered her robes, and sat down across from him. “Lord Zhou, how have you been these days?”

Zhou Tan answered briefly. “Thanks to your blessing.”

“Zanjin Hall was set up personally by His Majesty. They say that at the founding of the dynasty, a Madam Zanjin once lived here and trained a corps of royal death-warriors — that’s where the name comes from. His Majesty built it here because he wanted the court to have its own death-warriors as well.” Fu Mingran reached for the teapot without the slightest hesitation, meaning to pour herself a cup, only to find there was just the one cup on the table.

That cup was clenched tightly in Zhou Tan’s hand, with no sign of him letting go.

“Since Your Highness knows all that, and still dares to come here alone — I’m impressed,” Zhou Tan said.

“His Majesty had a headache yesterday and rested in my palace. I had someone brew him a calming draught. He canceled morning court today and is still resting,” Fu Mingran said, blowing idly on her fingernails. “I merely took his decree and left the palace to visit my father. I haven’t stepped outside the Fu residence gate all day — what danger could there possibly be in that? Everyone in Zanjin Hall may be His Majesty’s trusted men, but in the end, people are hard to make into a heart, hard to make into a gut — one’s own organs are one’s own, but how can you be certain your trusted men couldn’t also belong to someone else?”

“Your Highness is naturally one whose reach extends to the heavens.”

Mocked by him again and again, Fu Mingran finally felt she was losing face, and gave a cold snort. “Lord Zhou has fallen to such a state, and yet you’re still neither anxious nor rattled. Should I praise you for your composure, or mock you for your arrogance?”

Seeing that Zhou Tan didn’t respond, she felt a grudging satisfaction and let go of the emotion he’d nearly stirred in her a moment ago. “You and I have old ties between us. I came to find you today to point you toward a way to survive.”

“Mind your words, Noble Consort,” Zhou Tan said, setting the cup down hard on the little table beside him. “What old ties could you and I possibly have? Only the bond of ruler and subject — you are exalted, I am your subject. Don’t twist things carelessly, Noble Consort, or you’ll only demean your own standing.”

“Lord Zhou holds himself so righteously, always so lofty and cold, so indifferent,” Fu Mingran said, exhaling deeply. She’d known all along he was this sort of man — she shouldn’t let him stir any feeling in her. “And yet I still remember — the year Lord Zhou swept all three top places in the examinations, the dashing new top graduate, in crimson brocade robes, the Left Forest Guard leading the procession, riding a white horse down the Imperial Avenue, so elegant and clear of bearing that every woman in the capital dreamed of marrying you.”

Zhou Tan lowered his eyes and said nothing, not looking at her.

“I went up to the tower with my sisters to watch you, and I got so caught up in it that I lowered my head and my hairpin slipped and fell — right into your arms, without even breaking. A hairpin dropped from a wall-top — that’s the kind of romantic scene you only find in operas. Every woman on that tower envied me. Lord Zhou even came up in person to return it to me. I’ve come today remembering that old bond.”

She had come privately from the Fu residence, her hair not even done up properly, just held with a single jade hairpin.

Zhou Tan didn’t so much as lift his eyelids. He seemed rather impatient, and sighed, though his tone remained restrained and courteous. “Noble Consort, I dare not claim any old bond with you. And besides, what sort of ‘old bond’ is that supposed to be? If that’s truly all it was, I would honestly rather I’d never caught that hairpin you threw down from the wall at all.”

“You haven’t changed one bit, all these years. Back then, to refuse the marriage, you wrote that poem to insult me. Now you resent my father, and you say such cruel things to me as well.” Fu Mingran narrowed her eyes, and then, seeming to recall something that pleased her, bit her lip and smiled. “Never mind. You’re no longer the man of every woman’s spring dreams across Biandu these days. Let’s leave the past where it lies. I granted you your marriage — are you not pleased about that, even now?”

At those words, Zhou Tan finally showed some reaction, his fingers trembling faintly. “Of course.”

“Is that so,” Fu Mingran said, quite pleased with herself. “I’d assumed that once your new bride found the pear-blossom fan you’d received, she’d make quite a scene with you over it. But I suppose coming from a family of pure scholars, she can endure even that. Though — the last time you forced her to go strike the Drum of Grievances, that really did stir up quite the storm across the whole city. Even I heard about that little drama from inside the palace. I hear that ever since then, you’ve mostly lived at the Ministry of Justice and rarely gone home. Behind closed doors, I wonder — is there some other trouble weighing on you?”

Zhou Tan stared blankly at a corner of the table. Something about what Fu Mingran had just said suddenly made something click clear in his mind.

From childhood on, aside from his mother, every woman he had ever known had been the same — beautiful, dignified, looking down from above — exactly like the Fu Mingran in front of him now.

Rumor had it that he frequented the pleasure quarters, and that he had forced Qu You to strike the Drum of Grievances on behalf of some courtesan’s grievance. Qu You had never understood it before — to her, such rumors seemed utterly absurd, illogical the moment one thought it through, and yet the instant they’d spread, everyone had believed them without question.

Because, like Fu Mingran, none of them had ever imagined that a noblewoman of an inner household would take up the cause of a group of women from the lowest registers out of genuine indignation on their behalf — would even be willing to sacrifice a reputation she’d carefully cultivated for years, and go strike the drum in open defiance of the world’s judgment.

Perhaps some scholars who valued moral integrity might praise such an act as principled, but in most people’s eyes, this simply wasn’t something a woman would do — and so once the rumor spread, everyone had nodded in understanding: ah, so it must have been his doing all along.

Fu Mingran would never for a moment consider that the injustice done to those women had anything to do with her, and so she would also never imagine that any other woman might willingly do such a thing.

Because she had never once seen it happen.

But to Qu You, striking the drum on their behalf simply mattered far more than her own reputation — and set against each other, that hollow, illusory thing called reputation wasn’t even worth mentioning.

They were the same kind of person.

And so, after being betrayed by those he owed the deepest debts to, after losing both teacher and friend, standing utterly alone in the dead of night, he still found himself greedy for even this faint sliver of light.

Seeing him bow his head so deeply, Fu Mingran assumed she’d struck a nerve, and, quite pleased with herself, dropped the subject and changed course instead. “Lord Zhou, do you know — the moment I learned the Zanjin Guards had brought you here, I immediately found a way to sound out His Majesty’s thinking. A few days ago he hadn’t yet made up his mind, but after a private talk with my father, he seems to have settled on something. I was worried you’d be caught off guard, so I came ahead of time to let you know.”

“Chancellor Fu surely didn’t allow you to come here merely to gloat over his victory,” Zhou Tan replied evenly. “What you’ve said so far was what you wanted to say. What was it your father wanted said?”

“Father genuinely values talent. Even now, at a time like this, he still wants to give you a chance.” Fu Mingran smiled. “The Zanjin Guards have already established the facts — that night, Young Master Ren was with Chun Niangzi of the Spring Rain House, and he fell off the boat because he was framed. Curiously enough, though — Lord Zhou, you were reprimanded by His Majesty that very morning, and quarreled with Young Master Du on the Imperial Avenue. That night you never returned home either, and took none of the Ministry of Justice’s guards with you — your whereabouts entirely unaccounted for. Where did you go, Lord Zhou? Does anyone vouch for you? Oh — it seems… only a single passerby near the Bian River happened to see you there.”

“Naturally, no one can vouch for me,” Zhou Tan said. “Isn’t that precisely because your father deliberately chose a moment when even he himself couldn’t locate me, and acted then on purpose?”

“What a thing to say, Lord Zhou,” Fu Mingran said, raising a hand to cover her mouth as she laughed softly. “If you’re going to kill someone, you have to own up to it — you’d already colluded beforehand with that dead woman Liu Shi’s maid, attempting to frame Young Master Du. Once you were exposed in open court, you flew into a rage from the humiliation and killed him — then framed your own cousin for it. Lucky for him that Chun Niangzi was willing to testify on your cousin’s behalf, or he really would have died wrongfully accused, thanks to you.”

Such a smooth, seamless chain of logic. With no way to trace his whereabouts that night, and given how suspicious Emperor De’s nature was, he would surely believe it.

Zhou Tan thought to himself that Ren Shiming truly had the worst luck that day — whoever had pushed him off the boat had probably just spotted him lingering near the Bian River and seized the opportunity on impulse. After all, given the awkward state of his relationship with Ren Shiming, if no one could prove it, it would look like he’d ordered the murder; if someone could prove it, it would look like he’d framed his own cousin.

He’d entrusted the crown prince to quietly search for witnesses, never expecting that Ren Shiming had in fact been with Ye Liuchun. Ye Liuchun was a woman of standing, and her word carried weight — with her as witness, Ren Shiming should be able to walk free.

Thinking this, he let out a quiet breath of relief. Fu Mingran, meanwhile, went on. “Father says that if from now on you’re willing to let go of all these old grievances, you may return to your post as Vice Minister of Justice as before — reputation is nothing but drifting clouds and wild horses, and he has plenty of ways to manage that. The crown prince is no wise ruler, as you well know. You and I have old ties, after all — once His Majesty’s hundred years are up, if my son ascends the throne, you would be chief minister, second only to the emperor himself. My son would call you his imperial tutor, and your reputation would surpass even that of your old teacher’s—”

“Noble Consort.” At those words, Zhou Tan’s fingers curled briefly, then quickly relaxed as he cut her off.

Fu Mingran looked across at Zhou Tan, feelings tangled and complicated in her chest.

Years ago, Zhou Tan had been the ideal match every young woman in Biandu dreamed of marrying, and even a single glance from afar had won her heart completely. As it happened, her father had wanted to recruit him and had promised to arrange the match for her. But Zhou Tan had shown not the slightest gratitude — not only had he taken Gu Zhiyan as his teacher instead, he’d gone so far as to devise that scheme, willing to damage his own reputation just to refuse marrying her.

Those who didn’t know the truth had cursed him as a dissolute wastrel; the sisters who did know had laughed at her behind her back. That humiliation from Zhou Tan had carved itself deep into her memory.

Her father had originally intended to send her into the palace anyway, and had only relented because he’d seen real value in recruiting Zhou Tan. With the marriage falling through, she’d had no choice but to marry the emperor, a man only a few years younger than her own father.

Once you married into a noble house, it was like sinking into the sea.

Later, when Zhou Tan’s world had been turned upside down by disaster, she’d put in a few good words on his behalf before Emperor De to help save his life — and had also, in the streets and back alleys, added a bit more fuel to his already ruined reputation.

When she’d heard that Gao Ze’s daughter — her father’s mortal enemy — had failed to secure a match with the crown prince and had set her sights on Zhou Tan instead, she’d immediately picked out a daughter of the pure scholarly faction from the Candlelight Tower case and had her married off to him instead, hoping the woman would stir up chaos in his household and teach him the consequences of his choices.

And yet even now, locked in a cell in Zanjin Hall, he still wore that same cold, arrogant expression, as if he’d never once considered her worth his notice.

After she finished speaking, Zhou Tan suddenly looked at her and began to laugh, quietly at first, then louder and louder. Fu Mingran had never seen him like this before, and it startled her — for a single instant, she was certain she’d glimpsed something icy and unhinged flash through his eyes.

“My thanks to your father for his generous regard,” Zhou Tan said, a mocking smile on his lips, his eyes sharp enough to frighten. “And please tell him, everything he has ever done, I remember clearly, down to the last detail — I dare not forget a single one of them. How could I possibly accept such kindness from him now?”

“As for you—”

“Noble Consort, do you resent me? Back then you didn’t want to enter the palace, and in your haste you chose me to entrust yourself to. When that plan fell through, you were consumed with grudges — and yet you’ve done splendidly for yourself in the palace all the same, your power and authority burning so bright. Have you truly ever regretted it? If you’d actually married me, that’s when you would have come to regret it.”

In truth, Fu Mingran had perhaps done him a favor or two without meaning to — for instance… granting him a marriage he’d never once dared to hope for.

Only, there was no way to tell him that now.

“You’ve lost your mind…”

Fu Mingran shivered, and for once found herself with no retort ready.

“This is no place to linger, Noble Consort — best return home while you still can,” Zhou Tan said, setting his cup upside-down on the table, smiling. “By our next meeting, I’m afraid the living and the dead will stand on opposite sides.”

“Fine, fine,” Fu Mingran said, not angry but laughing instead. She rose, flicked her sleeves, and strode swiftly for the door. “Don’t you dare come to regret this. On the day the living and dead are parted, I’ll light a stick of incense for you myself.”

The man who had led her there locked the door once more. Zhou Tan sat where he was, tapped the table, and turned back to look at that beam of light. The sky had grown brighter, and the light was less striking now than in the dimness before, but he knew it was still there all the same.

“The living and dead parted… naturally, I’ll be among the living, and you in hell.”

“I certainly won’t be burning incense to pray for your soul.”

Ren Shiming lay sprawled in the straw of his cell, staring blankly as the light through the small window brightened and dimmed, over and over, losing count of how many days and nights had passed.

That day, he’d been shoved off the bridge over the Bian River and had landed square in the boat carrying the corpse. He’d fought through the pain and dragged himself up from the sampan, and before he’d even gotten a clear look at the body’s face, the river patrol guards had begun shouting from the side, torches closing in fast, and someone had swum over to pull the boat toward shore.

He couldn’t swim and hadn’t thought to run — everything had happened too suddenly, too fast; he hadn’t even fully understood what was going on.

He’d been detained overnight at the Zhaozui Office as a matter of course, and had assumed he’d be handed over to Zhou Tan at the Ministry of Justice the next day. Instead, the next day, a group of guards in gold armor had brought him to this place called Zanjin Hall.

A parade of faces he couldn’t quite recall had come one after another to question him.

It was only then that Ren Shiming learned the dead man was Du Gaojun — the very man he’d been drinking with just before that night.

Over drinks, Du Gaojun had made some wild, arrogant remarks about the humiliation Zhou Tan had dealt him that morning. Ren Shiming hadn’t liked hearing it, but hadn’t bothered to argue either — and now, in the space of just a little while, how had Du Gaojun ended up a cold corpse in a small boat?

Whenever asked, Ren Shiming answered truthfully — that day, he’d left the banquet supported by Ye Liuchun back to his room, then had gone to sober up near the Bian River, and before he’d even fully come to his senses, someone had shoved him off — right onto the very boat carrying the corpse. As he’d fallen, it seemed there had still been someone else on the boat, but he’d only heard a sound before that person leapt into the water.

But since no one had caught the culprit at the time, there was no way to verify his account now, and even he himself wasn’t entirely sure of it.

Though his answers were simple, the men questioning him refused to believe a word of it. After being questioned again and again, he finally began to piece together what they were really getting at.

They were asking, in essence, whether he had been acting on Zhou Tan’s orders when he killed Du Gaojun.

Naturally, Ren Shiming denied it flatly. He and Zhou Tan were like fire and water — anyone who knew them both knew that. How could he possibly have carried out something so dangerous on Zhou Tan’s behalf?

Someone came to put him to torture.

Strangely enough, it seemed word had been passed along ahead of time. He’d assumed this mysterious, secretive Zanjin Guard would use methods even more terrifying than those of the Ministry of Justice, but the one wielding the whip showed remarkable restraint — the lashes across his back left only shallow redness, breaking the skin just slightly.

He spent roughly five or six days locked in that cell.

No matter how they questioned him, he stuck to the same account — because it was simply the truth. However much he disliked Zhou Tan, he couldn’t bring himself to falsely claim he’d acted on Zhou Tan’s orders just to satisfy someone else’s version of events.

Eventually, someone released him.

Though he hadn’t suffered any fatal injury, life in that cell had been utterly wretched — no bathing, poor food and clothing, dazed and foggy all day, with not a single soul to talk to, a pervasive fear thick in the air. Ren Shiming could hardly bring himself to imagine how his own father had once endured such conditions for so long, back when he’d been imprisoned.

And then there was… Zhou Tan. During the Candlelight Tower case, he’d heard Zhou Tan had suffered the cruelest torture in the entire imperial city, in the Imperial Prison. How had he ever endured it?

The man who came to collect him from the cell didn’t lead him straight out, however — after fitting a hood over his head, he first took him on a detour through Zanjin Hall’s deeper reaches.

Ren Shiming followed the man to the very depths of Zanjin Hall’s prison.

There, he saw Zhou Tan being put to torture.

Utterly unlike the light, harmless treatment he himself had received, the whip used on Zhou Tan was barbed. At least it was only a whip, thankfully, and no other strange instruments of torture.

Back when Zhou Tan had lived under his family’s roof, Ren Shiming had known his health was never strong, and it had only worsened since the assassination attempt. Now, after just a few lashes, his face had gone deathly pale, cold sweat pouring down, his teeth clenched shut in silence — only when pushed to the extreme did he finally rasp out, hoarsely, “I want to see His Majesty.”

But apparently, this was the first time Zhou Tan had been tortured in all these days — and he was only being tortured now because Ren Shiming had been released.

The man leading him explained that until now, with the case still unresolved, no one had dared push too hard. Now that Chun Niangzi had stepped forward to testify on his behalf, they finally felt free to conduct the first genuine interrogation of Zhou Tan. If he truly was innocent, then it seemed all too likely that Zhou Tan had committed the murder and framed him for it.

By then, the man had already led him out of Zanjin Hall to the front of a certain mansion. At this, Ren Shiming felt as though struck by lightning. “But… that’s impossible. Right before I fell off the bridge, I clearly saw Zhou Tan and his wife on a boat, just passing through on the Bian River… the gap between then and now was far too short — how could he possibly have killed someone and framed me in that time?”

The man looked at him in some surprise, and then a lazy male voice spoke up nearby, sounding faintly startled. “Oh, is that so?”

Ren Shiming raised his head and saw a man in a pale gold robe teasing a parrot perched by the corridor.

The man who had led him there bowed at once, deeply respectful. “Your Highness, the man has been brought.”

Your Highness…

How many men in all of Biandu could be addressed as “Your Highness” and wear the pale gold robes of an imperial prince?

Ren Shiming’s legs went weak and he dropped to his knees at once. “Y-your servant greets His Highness the Crown Prince.”

“Rise.”

Song Shiyan clapped his hands and gestured with his eyes for the others to withdraw. In moments, the corridor was empty, save for that noisy parrot repeating: “Rise, rise.”

“You just said you saw your cousin on the Bian River?” Song Shiyan drew closer and sat down on the stone table beside him. “Did you happen to mention this while you were in the cell?”

“No,” Ren Shiming answered carefully. “I thought, since it involved a murder case, there was no need to bring up someone unrelated and risk confusing matters. Besides, he never saw me that day — saying so would have been pointless, so I decided it was best left unsaid.”

“You’re rather protective of him.” Song Shiyan looked at him through half-lidded eyes, smiling with obvious interest. “If I brought you back to Zanjin Hall to testify for him, would you go?”

Ren Shiming wasn’t quite sure what he was getting at. The crown prince and Gao Ze had always been close, and Gao Ze was Fu Qingnian’s sworn enemy, on good terms with Zhou Tan as well. He’d always assumed Zhou Tan was already firmly the crown prince’s man — but from the sound of things now, that didn’t seem quite right. So he said nothing further, only answered, “If it’s needed, of course I’ll go.”

“Very good.” Song Shiyan gave an ambiguous word of praise. “Go on home. This time I went and found Chun Niangzi myself and saved your life — you’d do well to remember that debt to me.”

The words struck him as strange, and Ren Shiming immediately dropped into a full kowtow. “I thank Your Highness for saving me. Whatever Your Highness commands, I would face death ten thousand times over to obey.”

After he’d knelt there a good while, Song Shiyan finally gave a lazy “mm” and had someone see him out of the mansion. Stepping through the gate, Ren Shiming realized he was drenched in a cold sweat, though there remained a great deal he still couldn’t puzzle out.

Even far off, through three layers of deep courtyards, he could still hear that parrot calling out.

“Fool. Fool.”