Gaoping was a born-and-raised servant of the Marquis Kaiping’s household. He had served at Lang Zhengping’s side since his days as a page boy and had risen over the years to become a trusted head steward. His son, Gao Cailiang, naturally received more regard than ordinary household servants, and the tasks entrusted to him were always ones the master considered significant.
So when the late Marquis’s coffin was nearly desecrated by that Daoist’s dark ritual, Lang Zhengping had dispatched his trusted man Gaoping to investigate. Gaoping, naturally, set his own son to the task — and after several days of running himself ragged, the moment Cailiang finally caught a thread of the truth, he was gone.
“…Daoist Huang was the head of the Taiqing Temple. He had a certain measure of ability, which is why the temple enjoyed quite a flourishing reputation. Many households in the capital would invite the temple’s practitioners to perform ceremonies or conduct rites, and they were well spoken of.” Gaoping stood before Lang Zhengping and made his report. “Were it otherwise, I would never have dared engage him for the late Marquis’s funeral.”
“I need no recap of any of that — I am well aware of Taiqing Temple’s reputation,” Lang Zhengping said, his expression grave. “Calculated betrayal is the worst kind. We had never encountered anything of this sort and never thought to guard against it. Tell me directly: who commissioned him? Who wanted to move against our Lang Family? What exactly had Cailiang uncovered?”
“Yes.” Gaoping sniffed, dabbed quickly at the corner of his eye, and continued: “At first, we intended to interrogate that old Daoist directly. But before we could extract anything useful from him, he…”
He paused, his gaze drifting to Lang Jiuchuan, who was seated quietly to the side, cradling a cup of tea. He did not understand why Young Lord had included the Ninth Miss in this meeting — but he was well aware that whatever had happened to Daoist Huang had something to do with this young mistress.
The image of Daoist Huang’s corpse rose in his mind — shrunken and dried out like a husk drained of all flesh and blood — and he suppressed a shudder.
“He died.” Gaoping pulled his gaze away and continued: “Cailiang then investigated the two disciples, but could pry nothing out of them. He turned to examining the temple’s regular worshippers, and discovered that two days before the late Marquis’s coffin was sealed, someone had donated a gilded statue of the Founding Patriarch to Taiqing Temple.”
“Who?”
“A wealthy merchant from the south of the Yangtze region, dealing in porcelain — a man named Song Chengfu. His business enterprise here in the capital, the Shengtao Emporium, is one of his family’s ventures.”
Lang Zhengping’s brow furrowed. Song Chengfu — he had never even heard the name.
Lang Jiuchuan was running low on patience. “Just give us the conclusion,” she said. “Skip the details of how you got there — no need to wind around the long way. Who is behind this?”
Lang Zhengping’s lip twitched. Must she always be in such a rush?
“This Song Chengfu has no grievance whatsoever against the Lang Family. But Cailiang did uncover one connection: Song Chengfu and a concubine — Concubine Rong — belonging to the third son of the Lu family, a Department Director in the Ministry of Works, are maternal cousins. Over the years, all the porcelain sets used at the Lu family’s banquets have been supplied by the Song family. With the Lu family’s backing, the Song family’s porcelain trade in the capital has built itself a respectable name and runs smoothly.” Gaoping’s voice dipped lower. “Cailiang had just gotten this far and was on the verge of investigating Concubine Rong further. He arranged a small private gathering at Wanqing Tower last night to look into it — and never came home. This morning, someone from Wanqing Tower came to inform us that he was dead…”
Tears slid down his face. He wiped them away quickly and explained: “Young Lord, Cailiang was never a man who chased pleasure. He would never do something like that of his own accord.”
“He died at Wanqing Tower? What was the cause of death?” Lang Zhengping asked, his voice low and hard.
Gaoping hesitated, casting a glance toward Lang Jiuchuan. He was reluctant to utter the words — those crude and unseemly terms seemed unfit to pollute a young lady’s ears.
Lang Zhengping caught the look and more or less understood. He shifted his approach. “What kind of gathering did he arrange, and who did he invite?”
“A small-time broker named Chen Chi from the Tongtian Pavilion.” Gaoping noticed Lang Jiuchuan’s blank expression and took the initiative to explain: “Tongtian Pavilion is an establishment that operates as an inn on the surface, but its real business extends to selling land deeds, properties, and even people. Most significantly, it functions as an intelligence exchange — for the right price, any kind of information can be purchased there.”
Lang Jiuchuan’s brow rose. “Wu Jing has a place that formidable? Then why go through the trouble of investigating yourself — just spend the money and buy the information from them directly.”
Lang Zhengping shook his head. “People are ranked by standing, and so is intelligence. Tongtian Pavilion does sell information, it is true — but not all information can be purchased at a price anyone can meet. The highest-grade, most closely guarded intelligence is held exclusively by the master of the Pavilion, and the cost of that goes far beyond mere money.”
“A low-tier piece of intelligence starts at five hundred taels,” Gaoping added.
Lang Jiuchuan’s eyes went wide. “That expensive? Does the law mean nothing?”
Five hundred taels just to start — and the nobles of this city do not covet that for themselves? She heard the figure and was already mentally planning a heist.
And even if they do not — what about the imperial house? This is practically extortion dressed up as commerce.
“It is said that Tongtian Pavilion has three of the great Xuan Clan families as its backers.” Lang Zhengping’s expression carried a shade of wariness. “What noble in the world would dare go against the Xuan Clans? An establishment like Tongtian Pavilion naturally commands that same respect — no one dares look down on it. As for the Pavilion’s master, they say no one has ever seen their true face.”
Lang Jiuchuan narrowed her eyes. This was now the second time she had heard mention of the three great Xuan Clans. Even someone like Lang Zhengping — himself from a distinguished noble house — could only keep a respectful distance. Their standing was clearly immense.
“And has that broker Chen Chi been looked into?” Lang Zhengping asked.
Gaoping nodded. “I questioned him myself. He said his wife went into unexpected labor that evening, so he could not make it to the gathering. He had someone sent to notify Cailiang — but then…”
“Was it reported to the authorities?”
“It was. The coroner also came. The official finding was that he died from extreme exertion during intercourse. The women who accompanied Cailiang that night all gave the same account — the two of them had been drinking heavily, one thing led to another…” Gaoping’s voice trailed off, low and listless.
Lang Zhengping’s face had gone a sickly green. He gave a weighted cough and glanced toward Lang Jiuchuan. Seeing that she appeared to be looking elsewhere, his expression eased somewhat. He said: “So the only leads Cailiang managed to uncover before his death were Song Chengfu and Concubine Rong of the Lu third son’s household?”
Gaoping nodded. “I have already looked into both. Neither Song Chengfu nor Concubine Rong has any discernible connection to the Lang Family — and the Lu household has no conflict with our Marquis’s residence either. Now that Daoist Huang is dead, even if we suspected those two had a hand in things, we have no solid evidence — the sole witness is gone.”
This effectively meant a dead end. The matter also involved Daoist dark arts, which placed it entirely beyond the reach of ordinary people like them. Accusing Song Chengfu without proof — of what? A wealthy merchant donating a gilded statue to a temple for good fortune was as ordinary as it came.
“Keep digging. Cailiang was a man who knew how to distinguish what mattered — for him to have died in a pleasure house out of nowhere, there is foul play in it. Guaranteed.” Lang Zhengping rapped the table. “Those two — dig into them. Dig back three generations if you have to.”
“I have already set Guquan to watch the Song man closely.”
Lang Zhengping looked at Gaoping’s haggard, grief-worn face and felt a stirring of compassion. “Then let Guquan carry on with the investigation. Go to the accounts room and draw two hundred taels — see to Cailiang’s affairs properly first, then take a few days to rest. After that, have your grandson Junge come serve as a study companion for the Twelfth Young Master.”
The two hundred taels were for funeral expenses. Junge was Gao Cailiang’s son — Gaoping’s grandson. Placing him in attendance beside the eldest branch’s legitimate young master was a mark of favor. This was also the household’s form of compensation, and a generous one: a master who truly valued a servant would give this much. An ordinary dead servant might receive twenty or thirty taels, and their family would still be expected to bow in gratitude.
Gaoping dropped to his knees and pressed his head to the floor three times, his voice choked as he spoke: “Your servant is grateful for Young Lord’s grace.”
He had barely risen to his feet when hurried footsteps sounded outside the door. It was Guquan — the very trusted attendant Lang Zhengping had just mentioned. He came in, performed a bow, and said in a low voice: “Young Lord. Steward Gaoping. Song Chengfu and Concubine Rong from the Lu household were meeting privately for a pleasure outing at Fairy Lake — someone came across them. In their panic, both of them stumbled and fell into the lake. They were pulled out without breath.”