“This brother, I wonder — what urgent matter has prompted the Young Master to summon me? You seem a kind-hearted man — could you not give me some hint beforehand?”

Li Que unfastened the pouch at his waist and handed it, along with the various weapons that were confiscated from him, to the guard standing before him.

The cold-faced guard did not so much as glance at the pouch, took away the weapons, and without a word gave him a shove forward.

“The Young Master awaits you in the pavilion.”

Li Que walked away clutching the pouch he had failed to deliver, now even more guarded and alert. As he made his way forward at an unhurried pace, his gaze swept discreetly over the surroundings.

The bamboo grove was dense, the leaves a deep and lush green — an excellent place to conceal killing intent.

Li Que was a skilled bowman, and for that reason understood better than most the cold glint that ran along an arrow’s edge. The bamboo grove appeared calm and undisturbed on the surface, and yet — in the sway of slender bamboo leaves, in the density of the undergrowth — a frigid murderous intent lay concealed at every turn.

He lowered his eyes and walked, composed and measured, to the entrance of the pavilion.

A winding trail of blood ran from the stone steps all the way into the pavilion’s interior. Something appeared to have been dragged out from inside the pavilion and into the bamboo grove.

The elegant and pristine bamboo — symbol of purity and quiet virtue, of the modest and noble gentleman — had instead become a place to hide filth and conceal corpses. Like the lotus that rises untainted from the mud, where the mud beneath harbors two white bones, it would only be a waste of an ideal spot to conceal the dead. The meanings that people stretch and force upon such things, and the posturing of those who perform refinement to suit those forced meanings, and those who use such forced meanings to pave the way for their own private desires — all of it made the pretense doubly absurd.

Li Que bowed his head and, before the entrance of the pavilion, dropped to one knee to pay his respects to the figure within:

“Your subordinate Li Que pays respects to the Young Master.”

In the space within his field of vision, a fragment of a fingernail painted with vermilion dye lay in the damp earth speckled with bloodstains.

Li Que quickly shifted his gaze, though his mind was already working rapidly.

A woman would be the one to paint her nails with vermilion. Among the women who could be received by Fu Xuanmiao, the number, when counted carefully, was very few.

As for who was most likely to be the owner of that nail, beyond Yang Liu — who had so suddenly vanished — no other came to mind.

Yang Liu was the one among the courtesans kept by the Fu household who had remained longest and been most heavily relied upon. If Fu Xuanmiao had resolved to cast her aside, it could only be because she had violated one of Fu Xuanmiao’s forbidden lines.

Fu Xuanmiao had many forbidden lines, but the kind that would drive him to harm himself in order to vent his wrath — those were few.

“You are here,” Fu Xuanmiao said.

There was no one else in the pavilion.

His face held no ripple of expression. In his hand he toyed idly with a small plectrum. To all appearances, everything was as it always was. But Li Que’s sharp eyes caught the undried water marks on the pavilion floor, and the slightly askew stone brazier that spoke of some haste.

Flames licked at the bottom of the brazier, but the water within was utterly silent.

In the span of an instant, Li Que’s mind had already reconstructed the scene: the brazier had been overturned, and water had since been hurriedly added anew and set back on the stand.

In those few brief moments, his thoughts had turned over a hundred times.

“I do not know why the Young Master has summoned me so urgently. What matter is at hand?” Li Que kept his head bowed.

“You have been here for some time now. How have you found it?” Fu Xuanmiao asked.

“…Thanks to the Young Master’s kindness and the guidance of my superiors, these past days have been most instructive.”

“More than merely instructive, I should think.” Fu Xuanmiao said with a light smile. “I hear that you have been making yourself well-liked among the troops, moving adeptly in all directions, winning hearts within a matter of days, and performing impressively. If I continue to keep a talent like you as a common soldier, would that not be consigning a jewel to obscurity?”

“The Young Master flatters me.” Li Que lowered his head even further.

A sound rustled through the bamboo grove, and four guards carried a familiar coffin out from among the trees.

Li Que recognized this coffin. He also knew what lay inside — he had followed this very coffin for the better part of a month, from Xiangzhou all the way to Jianzhou.

As his peripheral vision tracked the coffin’s movement, the Fu Xuanmiao in the pavilion spoke in a quiet voice:

“Today I came to know of a curious matter.”

Li Que had by now formed a fair sense of what had just transpired and what was about to: Fu Xuanmiao had learned that the person in the coffin was not the Princess of Yue.

The more pressing question was — how much did he know?

Li Que withdrew his gaze and said, head lowered, “What matter has piqued the Young Master’s curiosity?”

“I have just learned that the Princess of Yue did not die. If the Princess of Yue did not die, then why did the female corpse found in Shouping Village come to possess the Princess’s personal ornaments and her own handwriting — is that not a curious matter?”

“…A curious matter indeed.” Li Que said.

“In your view, why would this peasant woman have come to possess the Princess’s belongings?”

“Perhaps by some fortunate chance, the Princess gave them to her as a gift.”

“Gifting ornaments in exchange for food is plausible enough — but gifting a copy of the Thousand-Character Classic? What purpose would that serve? Surely the Princess of Yue was not moved by sudden benevolence to teach this peasant woman her letters?”

“…Perhaps that is indeed what happened.” Li Que said.

Fu Xuanmiao looked at his deferential and composed bearing, and let out a faint, quiet laugh of contempt.

“Perhaps indeed. The world holds so many coincidences — what is one or two more? They prove nothing.” He said. “Since you are literate, do you have any knowledge of music?”

“Your subordinate grew up in a pleasure house from childhood. I learned a little.”

“Then play a piece.”

Li Que looked up at the figure in the pavilion. Fu Xuanmiao’s expression was mild and composed; he shifted his position slightly, yielding the space before the zither table.

Seeing that Fu Xuanmiao was not speaking idly, Li Que rose and walked slowly toward the pavilion.

“Do you know what zither this is?” Fu Xuanmiao said.

“…Your subordinate has little knowledge, and can only recognize this as a finely crafted bronze zither — red sandalwood tuning pegs, jujube-wood bridge ends. Even at a glance, it is no ordinary instrument.”

“This was made three hundred years ago by the Clear Peace Daoist at Baima Temple, from ancient paulownia wood. It passed through many hands before coming to me. I had originally intended to present it to the Princess of Yue as a gift for her appreciation.”

“If that is so, your subordinate would not dare to profane such a treasure…”

“No matter.” Fu Xuanmiao said. “Either way, it has become… something of no further use.”

At Fu Xuanmiao’s insistence, Li Que at last placed both hands upon the zither.

Fu Xuanmiao continued to toy with the plectrum in his hand, showing no sign of intending to yield it.

Li Que remained silent. He used the pads of his fingers to pluck the strings, and a flowing cascade of zither sound poured suddenly forth.

He kept his eyes lowered, his gaze fixed on the taut, quivering strings, yet still could not ignore the cold, serpentine gaze that rested upon him like a viper’s stare.

The strings struck against his fingertips again and again, the pain gradually giving way to a spreading numbness.

“What is your name?” Fu Xuanmiao said suddenly.

The question was like a silver needle, finding precisely the gap in Li Que’s defenses and driving straight into the soft tissue beneath.

He hesitated for just a fraction of a second — and the string he had been plucking snapped back against his hand, sending a searing pain shooting through him.

He did not dare let Fu Xuanmiao detect anything amiss. Ignoring the pain in his fingers, he continued to pluck the strings.

“Your playing has gone uneven,” Fu Xuanmiao said unhurriedly. “So — this turns out to be a question worth being alarmed over?”

“…Your subordinate was merely somewhat caught off guard,” Li Que said. “Because when I first paid my respects to the Young Master, I did give my name at that time.”

“Your name is Li Que — but before Li Que, you were called Li Qu’er,” Fu Xuanmiao said. “What I want to know is: before Li Qu’er, what was the name you were first given?”

“…Why does the Young Master ask this?”

“You look somewhat familiar to me. Perhaps we share some prior connection — it is hard to say.”

Li Que’s heart lurched inwardly. The string snapped back against his fingertip again, and a drop of blood fell onto the surface of the zither.

“The Young Master jests. Your subordinate is of the most lowly origins, and my appearance is coarse and plain. If we had met before, the Young Master would certainly not have forgotten.”

“If we share no prior connection, could it be that you have some connection to the Fu family?”

Fu Xuanmiao sat composed to one side, wide sleeves spread, expression untroubled — his tone half-true and half-false, impossible to read.

Li Que said quietly: “The Young Master is too generous.”

Drop after drop of blood fell upon the strings. The zither’s surface became stained with red. The razor-sharp strings had cut Li Que’s fingertips to shreds; the pain radiating from each finger was acute enough to bead cold sweat across his brow. Yet Fu Xuanmiao had not called a stop, and so he could only keep playing.

“In Shouping Village, I once instructed Li Zhuzong to search for a man named Li Wu,” Fu Xuanmiao said. “Was that man ever found?”

“…”

“Why do you not speak?” Fu Xuanmiao’s voice was soft as drifting cloud. “Because you are calculating how much I know — am I right?”

A cold flash of light sliced through the air. The zither’s sound broke off with a sharp, discordant cry, and a muffled grunt lodged itself behind Li Que’s clenched teeth.

His hand now bore a crescent-shaped plectrum — its sharpened end driven deep into his flesh, bright red blood welling from the wound.

“Li Wu’s secret — I already know it,” Fu Xuanmiao said. “What I want now is your secret.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying…”

A hissing sound came from Li Que’s throat, for Fu Xuanmiao had taken hold of the plectrum and was slowly turning it in his hand — in the flesh of Li Que’s hand. All the while, his expression remained exactly as it had been: light and unhurried.

Like bamboo. Like the lotus. Like all things that are clean and pure.

“Young Master, the carriage is ready.” Yan Hui came hurrying from the other end of the stone path and clasped her hands in salute.

Fu Xuanmiao withdrew his hand from the plectrum. His icy gaze lingered on the undamaged half of Li Que’s face.

“…There is no rush. You have ample time to weave your lies,” he said. “I have every confidence you will speak of your own accord.”

Fu Xuanmiao rose and turned, walking toward Yan Hui on the far side of the pavilion.

The instant he turned away, countless hidden guards burst from the trees, surrounding the pavilion and Li Que within it in the blink of an eye.

“Throw him in the prison cells. When I return, I will decide his fate.” Fu Xuanmiao said, his expression cold.

“Yes.” Yan Hui immediately responded, and turned to instruct her subordinates to take Li Que away.

“Seal off all news from the outside. Say that I have caught a slight chill and am indisposed to receive visitors — especially from His Majesty’s side.” Fu Xuanmiao strode forward, his voice dropping to a cold edge. “Send someone immediately to Fuzhou, to ask my father to return and hold the fort in Jianzhou.”

Yan Hui hesitated briefly, then said: “…Young Master, are you keeping this journey secret even from the Lord?”

“…Until I have brought the Princess back, this matter must not reach any ears.”

“Your subordinate obeys.” Yan Hui bowed her head.

Before the sky had even darkened, the Fu residence had already closed its doors to visitors. In less than the time it takes to burn a stick of incense, news of the realm’s foremost young gentleman having caught a slight chill had spread throughout every street and alleyway.

Li Que sat in the corner of the prison cell, back against the cold stone wall, eyes closed in composed rest. Fragments of conversation drifted intermittently from prison guards some distance away.

His injured right hand lay across his knee, the dark red blood already dried. In the dim light of the cell, shadow fell precisely across the missing half of his face, and the two layers of shadow merged into one — concealing, in their combined darkness, that terrible hollow.

He did not know how much time passed before the voices gradually fell silent. A lame man in plain cloth clothing, carrying a bucket of food, limped his way inside, handing out a bowl at each cell in turn.

When he reached Li Que’s cell, the ladle of the lame man scooped twice, pressed the bowl’s contents down firmly, and passed through a bowl heaped full with meat and rice.

“Benefactor — I didn’t believe it when they said you’d been thrown in here… how did you end up inside?” The lame man dropped his voice low.

Li Que seemed to have anticipated this, and kept his eyes closed. “How is your mother doing?” he asked calmly.

“Better, better! Thanks entirely to the lord’s kindness — my mother is already back on her feet!” The lame man was visibly moved, and looked at Li Que with deep gratitude.

“You once said that whoever could save your mother, you would serve as their ox and horse, weaving grass to repay them in death as you would in life… I have no need of you as an ox or horse, nor of any such repayment. But I do need you to do a small thing for me.” Li Que opened his eyes, and his sharp gaze fell on the stunned man.

The lame man’s face filled with difficulty. He hesitated for a long moment, then bit down and said with resolve: “Benefactor, rest easy. I’ll go now and get my mother to safety, and once she’s in a safe place, I’ll give my life to get you out of here!”

“There is no need to get me out.” Li Que said.

The lame man was dumbstruck.

“This is an opportunity I have long been waiting for. It has finally come.” Li Que said.

“Benefactor, what do you mean by that…”

“The current Chief Minister, Fu Ruzhi, will be returning to Jianzhou before long. You only need to deliver this to him—” Li Que drew an old and worn embroidered handkerchief from his sleeve and pressed it firmly into the lame man’s hand. “—and your debt of gratitude will be repaid.”