In times of great disorder, human lives come cheapest of all—even a man of considerable ability finds this so. In a troubled age, those who rely on their skills can rarely feed themselves; those who continue to eat in silk and splendor do so not by fighting and killing themselves, but by sending others to do the fighting and killing.
Back when Yao Wuhen—a skilled operative of that caliber—had been priced at no more than two hundred taels, that was already considered a premium rate for a Jizhou assassin. Shi Ci had felt confident that offering ten thousand taels was a sum no one could refuse, and had trusted in that confidence.
But once Tang Pidi named a minimum price of twenty thousand taels, Shi Ci understood that he had still underestimated human greed—or at least, that was the conclusion he drew in that moment.
Tang Pidi’s reasoning was simpler: if the other party was already willing to spend ten thousand taels, they were out for Yongning Tongyuan’s complete extermination. If they were willing to spend twenty thousand, they probably wanted to pound Li Chi into dust and scatter the ashes to the wind.
“Twenty thousand at most.”
After a brief silence, Shi Ci said to Tang Pidi, “My master is a person of high standing, and his household effects cannot simply be turned over to you for inspection—that would be an insult. Were it not for my admiration of Li Gongzi’s martial skill, I would have left just now.”
Tang Pidi nodded agreeably. “Very well—twenty thousand it is. Fifteen thousand down.”
Shi Ci fell silent again, though not for long. He rose. “I’ll go and get it now. I’ll be back shortly.”
Tang Pidi rose to see him off and waved farewell in a thoroughly agreeable manner.
Back in the rear courtyard, Tang Pidi looked Li Chi up and down. Li Chi grew a little disconcerted under the scrutiny and asked what Tang Pidi was looking at. Tang Pidi said he was trying to figure out who exactly Li Chi had managed to offend—someone who would rather pay twenty thousand taels than let him live. Across all of Dachu, to have a price like that on your head at this age, Li Chi was probably the only one.
Li Chi smiled. “All it says is that they’re confident—they believe that once the twenty thousand taels change hands, they’ll get it back when they’re done with us.”
Tang Pidi said, “I’m already thinking about quitting the partnership.”
Li Chi said, “Think it over—that’s twenty thousand taels. Plenty of time to quit after we get our hands on it.”
Tang Pidi nodded. “You make a fair point. I’ll quit after we collect.”
They waited for Shi Ci to go and fetch the bank draft. He was back in roughly three quarter-hours. When the shop hand came through to say Shi Ci had returned, Tang Pidi looked at Li Chi and said, “He might not have gone anywhere at all. Three quarters of an hour, with Yu Jiuling and Ruan Mu watching in the shadows without spotting a thing—that tells us this Shi Ci has authority to make decisions on his own.”
Li Chi made a sound of acknowledgment. “As of now, there aren’t many people in Jizhou City willing to spend this much to have my head.”
Tang Pidi sighed, “If there were more of them it might actually be better—we’d be that much closer to making our fortune.”
Li Chi: “Ugh!”
The two of them walked toward the front courtyard together, and at that moment one realized: Li Chi and Tang Pidi shared a great deal in terms of character—particularly in their understanding of the principle that fewer complications were preferable to more.
Since trouble had come to their door, they would deal with it—and dealing with it would mean less trouble.
—
Meanwhile, in the capital of Dachu.
In a small, exquisitely kept courtyard, Yao Wuhen sat on the front steps with a fishing rod in hand, angling for fish in the ornamental pond. A fine drizzle was falling. In the courtyard of blue tiles and green brick, the scene had something of an ink-wash painting about it; the rain off the eaves formed a curtain of pearls before him.
Rain pattered on the fishing rod and on the surface of the pond, and in the soft irregular drumming of it, the fish seemed to sense danger—not one of them approached the hook.
A young woman of around eighteen crossed the courtyard holding an umbrella. She wore a long gown of ink-green, which suited the courtyard and the veil of rain so perfectly it might have been chosen for that purpose. Her hair was gathered loosely at her neck and fell like a waterfall behind her, and with the rain it suited the scene all the more.
“Fishing again.”
The young woman stopped beside Yao Wuhen. She was standing under the eaves now and no longer needed the umbrella, yet she hadn’t put it down. Her gaze stayed on that man beside her—for a man who, just a few months ago, had become the whole of her world. It took her a while to realize she ought to close the umbrella.
She had once been the most sought-after woman in her pleasure house, and her worth had been considerable. But this man had paid a great sum to redeem her from that life—before which he had never visited that establishment, had never laid eyes on her.
She could not understand why. The true proprietor of that pleasure house was a figure of considerable influence in the capital—one who wielded real power behind the façade of the official teaching halls. She knew that no matter how much money someone offered, they could not have redeemed her. And yet this man had done it with ease. The only reasonable explanation was that the proprietor behind the pleasure house could not afford to cross him.
“Mm.”
Yao Wuhen made a sound but did not look up.
So she understood even less. He had no apparent desire to even glance at her—then why had he spent so much money and drawn on so much influence to redeem her? Was it truly only for… she wasn’t entirely certain, but she would lower her gaze to her own belly—not yet showing—and find herself forced toward that conclusion. He had simply wished to possess her exclusively.
They had lived together in this beautiful small courtyard for several months. He was domineering in his way—he wouldn’t allow her to go out—so this courtyard had become the entire extent of her world. In those months she had grown so bored that she had memorized exactly how many leaves each of the potted plants on the windowsill had; when a leaf fell she would feel a little sad, because her world was so small that losing even one leaf seemed like losing a great deal.
This man—except in his moments of fierce passion with her—was otherwise as inert as a block of wood. So she supposed his world must be even smaller than hers.
Her world contained this courtyard, every blade of grass and leaf within it, the pot plants, the goldfish. His world contained only himself—not the courtyard, not her.
“Will you catch one today?”
She slowly crouched beside him, resting her arm across his knee, and leaned against him—lying across his lap, watching the curtain of rain, and the fish pond through it. The fish went on swimming back and forth, showing not the slightest interest in the bait, and so she felt a measure of peace.
Yao Wuhen looked down at her and saw the cascade of her hair. For the first time, he raised his hand and gently laid it on her head.
Her heart gave a start.
“You feed the fish three or four times a day,” Yao Wuhen said slowly. “You keep them so full, hoping I won’t catch any. They know your wishes—how could they be caught?”
He let out a long, slow breath, looking out at the curtain of rain—the falling drops forming a beaded screen that seemed to shut out the world beyond. In this moment the silence was so beautiful it was hard to let it go.
“You’ll be leaving, won’t you?” she asked.
Yao Wuhen gave a slight nod. “Soon.”
She was quiet for a long while before asking again: “And—do you remember my name?”
Yao Wuhen seemed to think for a moment, but truly could not recall it. He had simply asked Crown Prince Yang Jing which woman in the capital’s pleasure houses was most sought-after, and Yang Jing had sent someone to redeem this young woman. She had told him her name once, but he had not retained it.
“My name is Zhou Wan. Not a name from the pleasure house—my real name.”
She lay across his knee and spoke as if to herself.
“I’m from Anling Prefecture. My father was once the prefectural official there—he offended Liu Chongxin and the household was seized. My parents both died; the others were exiled or conscripted. I was sent to the teaching halls.”
Yao Wuhen nodded. “I’ll remember it.”
At those four words she shuddered. She understood all too well: if he said he would remember, it meant the time of his leaving was nearly upon them, and once he left, they might never meet again.
She didn’t know why she felt afraid. Perhaps it was because this man, still largely a stranger to her, had treated her better than any man ever had. He did not beat her or scold her or confine her—he was only somewhat cold.
“Someone made me a promise,” Yao Wuhen said. “He promised to keep you alive. If he hasn’t died by then, he’ll have more than enough ability to keep that promise. And fortunately you are not my only woman, nor is the child in your womb my only blood.”
She shivered slightly. Those words were colder than the rain outside.
Yao Wuhen paused, then continued, “But you are the woman I am most fond of.”
Zhou Wan looked up at Yao Wuhen. Her eyes had grown a little wet—as though rain had found its way into them. She looked at him this way; he went on watching the curtain of rain.
“If nothing goes wrong, my name will one day appear in the histories—and people will call me a hero.”
Yao Wuhen smiled faintly. She noticed for the first time that when he smiled, he was rather handsome—when a man smiles with true confidence, whether he is handsome or not has little to do with his features, and this man was no ordinary-looking man to begin with.
“I never intended to be a hero,” Yao Wuhen said. “But that person said to me: if you must kill people, why not become a killer who can change the world? Men who kill for money have existed throughout history—and not one of them is remembered. But if you kill the right people, your name will be spoken for a very long time.”
Zhou Wan’s voice trembled faintly as she asked: “Can you not—just not go?”
Yao Wuhen fell silent.
After a long, long silence, he smiled. “Days like this are truly comfortable—so comfortable that even the desire to kill has nearly left me. But fortunately, the goal I carry in my heart is still there.”
His hand lifted from her hair. She felt the world beginning to slip away.
Yao Wuhen was silent for a very long time. Neither of them spoke, and the sound of the rain was everything. Then—a fish actually took the hook. Yao Wuhen’s brow furrowed slightly; he raised his hand, the rod lifted, and the fish came swinging toward him through the air. He looked at the fish dangling and twisting before him on the line, and spoke to himself quietly: “You weren’t hungry. So why did you take the hook?”
She murmured to herself: “I had no reason to believe this world still held love for me—and yet wasn’t I caught the same way?”
Yao Wuhen stilled. He reached out, took the fish off the hook, and tossed it back—it fell into the pond and swam in startled circles, leaving a thin trace of red in the water where the hook had torn.
“It will hurt for a while,” Yao Wuhen said, his hand returning to her hair, moving gently.
“But then the pain passes—and it will swim free.”
Zhou Wan’s cheek turned softly against his knee. “The pond is only so large. The world is only so large. Free—is only so free.”
Just then a knock came at the outer gate. Yao Wuhen looked toward the sound. Zhou Wan’s face drained of color. In all the months they had been here, this was the first time anyone had knocked. It would also, she felt, be the last.
Yao Wuhen’s hand continued its gentle motion. He said in a soft voice: “My family name is Yao. When the child is born—if it’s a girl, let her take your name. If it’s a boy, let him take mine. I’ve left some things in the room; he can train with them. A son of mine must inherit them.”
He rose, took her umbrella, and walked toward the gate.
He paused in the rain. Turned back. Smiled.
“Your name is beautiful—Wan’er. But not as beautiful as you.”