The food in the jail was distributed by prisoners themselves — four men in total: the front two carried a basin of bowls and chopsticks, the two behind hauled a large bucket, one of them holding a big ladle.
Everyone surged toward the wooden lattice. Zhù Ying had no choice but to do as the locals did.
The moment she stood at the lattice, she understood why even the previously composed, listless middle-aged man and the apparently self-possessed cultured man had both whirled over like a gust of wind!
The front two set the basin down before the lattice; hands shot through the gaps to seize bowls and chopsticks. Once the bowls and chopsticks were taken, the bucket-bearers arrived as well: the man with the ladle scooped up a ladleful of a thick, mixed vegetable-and-grain slurry and thrust it through the lattice into whichever outstretched bowl happened to be there.
Some prisoners who were friendly with the distributors got a little more of the solid bits — but for most, this one bowl was all there was.
Whoever had invented the principle of keeping prisoners underfed had truly been a clever soul.
The secret to maintaining prison order: let them eat enough not to starve to death, but not enough to have energy to make trouble — and they won’t have the strength to scheme about escape.
Zhù Ying followed the others’ example, snagging a bowl and two chopsticks, clamping the chopsticks crosswise in her mouth. Half her face still burned painfully. The prisoner distributing food gave her only a shallow ladleful; she didn’t push for more right away. Chopsticks in mouth, bowl cradled in her hands, she leaned against a wall and prepared to eat.
Most prisoners ate either squatting or sitting on the sleeping planks — it was just the one bowl anyway, however you ate it. Better to eat it quickly; if there were any leftover slurry in the bucket, you could press up to the lattice again and coax another mouthful from the distributor’s discretion. Zhù Ying held her bowl in one hand and scooped with the chopsticks — it was all right, not spoiled. There were some beans settled at the bottom, two leaves of cabbage floating on top. Though not cooked to complete mushiness, it was fully cooked, and there was even a faint hint of salt — they had actually added salt!
She had barely taken two bites when two large food boxes were carried in from outside. The lids were firmly closed, yet many people could somehow sense, just from the boxes’ appearance, that the food inside was extraordinary. Zhù Ying set down her chopsticks and followed the boxes with her eyes. The cell had three walls on three sides; she stood, walked to the lattice, and watched as a jailer carried the boxes into the deepest section of the area.
Zhù Ying estimated that area must hold the most serious offenders’ cells. What kind of prisoner could eat this well?
Uncle Wen had finished his bowl of rice and sidled over, saying: “Envious? Nothing you can eat — that costs a great deal of money.”
“Uncle Wen knows about it?” Zhù Ying asked with curiosity.
Uncle Wen said: “The person in there has money! That food isn’t cheap — it’s not just the cost of the food itself, but all the palms that need greasing above and below. In this jail, if your backer is powerful enough and your money sufficient, they can even bring women of the night for you to spend the night with! Though looking at you…”
He studied Zhù Ying, then glanced over at the heavily bearded man, and said: “Your family perhaps has a little money? It’s probably not enough. How about this — tell me what your case is, and I’ll help you get out. You only need to pay me some silver in thanks.”
Zhù Ying cradled her bowl and watched him warily: “You’re still inside yourself… what is your business?”
Pan Bao had finished his first bowl and pushed forward: “Him? A shyster lawyer! Tricked my family into sending him ten strings of cash and still hasn’t gotten me off yet!”
Old Hu had also finished a bowl; waiting at the lattice for the next round of food, he offered Zhù Ying some additional information: “He promised me too!”
Uncle Wen said: “Pfft! You two! Did I not help? Old Hu — the two men you killed, their families are at the yamen gate wailing day after day. One was an only son; his parents won’t relent. One’s wife has a young child — she’s not about to let it drop. I told you to lie low and not draw attention in here, to work through Senior Justice Wang’s channel: report that you have an aged mother at home, that you’re her only son and she needs your care — and your life could be spared. Then have your master send a letter with his seal, and the matter would have been settled. But you just wouldn’t behave!”
He turned and berated Pan Bao: “And you — I told you to say she seduced you, that she wanted to become your concubine to escape being the old woman’s slave. A slave girl — who knows how many men she’d been with anyway — trying to frame you. And the old woman, with no one to rely on, was only trying to set a trap to extort you. Your fist just grazed her head during a scuffle. You? With the deputy magistrate right there watching, your lecherous eyes were glued to that maid girl — you’d have reached out and stripped off her clothes with your gaze if you could — and you thought the deputy magistrate was blind?! And you hit that old woman, and she died of her injuries — did you know that? If you had played the part of a good, contrite man in front of the deputy magistrate from the very beginning, you’d have been out long ago! And if the old woman had died after that, it wouldn’t have had anything to do with you anymore! Instead, you ruined yourself by your own hand, and you blame me? I collected ten strings of cash in total!”
He finished, then tilted his head back with a long sigh: “How did I end up with this pair of disasters?! To think they’d ruin my reputation!”
He turned to Zhù Ying and said: “Young master, don’t be like them. You see — my ideas were perfectly sound; it was simply they who were foolish! If you just listen to me, twenty-five strings of cash, and I guarantee I can get your sentence reduced from two years’ penal servitude to one year — one year is just twenty lashes. Pay twenty-five strings and you could be released right in open court! How about it?”
Not interested.
Zhù Ying asked: “The person in there just now — what was his offense? Could you get him off too?”
“Him?” Uncle Wen said sourly. “He doesn’t need me! He has powerful backing. Hmph! And you couldn’t have committed his kind of crimes anyway! He’s done it all — abused men, defiled women, seized common people’s land, tormented his own servants, beat people into permanent injury. Some with his own hands, some through directing his household thugs. Here, Old Hu was in that master’s employ doing exactly this kind of work. If it weren’t for the deputy magistrate finding out this time about the servant beaten to death and actually obtaining the evidence, they couldn’t have brought him in at all. Just wait — in a few days, he’ll walk out. It’s a matter of a single letter with a seal.”
Take away ninety-five of a hundred-acre plot, leave the person with five so they don’t starve to death — technically no great crime, but the rest of that person’s life is utterly transformed. Or seize a shop, driving an entire family to destitution and forcing them to sell themselves into slavery — well, you can’t blame the perpetrator for their complete ruin; it was their own choice to degrade themselves. None of these acts literally killed anyone, yet every single one struck straight at a person’s lifeblood.
Without someone shrewd to guide you, and unless you were shrewd yourself, you could never think of doing things in this way.
This was a business deal Uncle Wen would never profit from.
Uncle Wen pressed Zhù Ying: “Well? If you don’t have the kind of backing that gets things done with a single sealed letter, then twenty-five strings of cash. Trust me — if I had no ability, how would the deputy magistrate have bothered arresting me?”
Zhù Ying understood: he had been arrested for taking on litigation cases illegally. A litigation shyster was exactly the kind of person that officials despised most. The more upright the official, the more they loathed such people.
Old Hu bellowed: “Shut up!”
The food distributors came back around; Old Hu, the listless middle-aged man, and Pan Bao all got another half-bowl. Uncle Wen rushed to stick his bowl out: “Wang Wu — some here — quickly!”
——
Zhù Ying had not pushed forward. She still had most of her first bowl untouched; the thin gruel was almost clear enough to show her reflection.
One who violates a female bond-servant shall receive ninety strokes; if done by force, an additional degree of punishment.
Those sentenced to death for crimes not among the Ten Unforgivable, whose paternal or maternal grandparents or parents are elderly or infirm and require care, and who have no other adult male relatives of appropriate mourning degree at home, shall be referred to higher authority for review.
For any servant who has committed a crime, if the master kills the servant without first reporting to the authorities and requesting official judgment, the master shall receive one hundred strokes. For killing a servant without cause, the master shall be sentenced to one year of penal servitude.
Violating a bond-servant — just a beating with a plank.
Reporting that you have no one at home, that your grandparents or parents are old and ill and need care — this could commute a death sentence.
Killing a bond-servant on your own authority was only one year of penal servitude; if you claimed the servant had done wrong, it was just a flogging. And if you reported to the authorities in advance, none of these penalties would apply at all.
All three of the above could additionally be redeemed with money.
And yet even these laws you refuse to keep.
Zhù Ying thought: what more do you want?
Zhou You had mentioned it offhandedly, and she was sent into the command post. One moment of displeasure, and she was sent back out again. Another moment of displeasure, and she ended up in the main prison.
What more do you want?
Zhù Ying cradled her bowl and shifted her feet, letting Pan Bao’s lunging face pass wide of her. Pan Bao pressed one step closer — and still couldn’t get near. Pan Bao grinned: “Don’t be stingy now! Here, you’ve hardly eaten anything — let me share a bit with you!”
He slid the tips of his chopsticks into his mouth with a sucking slurp, held his bowl out to her in one hand, and reached out with the other in anticipation.
Zhù Ying extended her foot slightly forward; Pan Bao lunged to grab it; Zhù Ying took a step back and then spun and ran.
Pan Bao was delighted, the chopsticks still in his mouth, his words coming out garbled with saliva: “Got some spirit! I like that!” He opened his stride and gave chase!
Zhù Ying watched his stride length, and taking advantage of the moment when their bodies briefly crossed, used his bulk to block the others’ line of sight. Her hand flicked down.
Pan Bao’s foot came down on a leaf of cabbage. His foot shot out from under him, the bowl flew from his hand and struck the wall; half a bowl of vegetable soup and beans splattered across the wall in a spray, then slid downward. The wooden bowl struck the wall with a dull thud, bounced back, hit the floor on the far side of the cell, gave a small secondary bounce, and lay still.
The prisoners who had been eating and watching the spectacle shifted their gaze to the wall, tracked the arc of the wooden bowl, took another bite, and looked back for the next act — only to find Pan Bao lying flat on the ground face-down. Zhù Ying, bowl in her arms and chopsticks in her mouth, stood leaning against the wall with an expression of perfect innocence.
The cell erupted in laughter, Old Hu’s voice loudest of all.
Finishing his food in a few quick bites, Old Hu set his bowl on the ground, folded his arms, and came over to kick Pan Bao: “Get up — stop playing dead! Let me see if your face got flattened.”
Pan Bao’s body stirred; his arms seemed to be trying to push himself up, then went limp and he lay prone again in full prostration. Old Hu used his foot to flip him onto his back, and his expression changed: “Not good!”
Several people crowded around.
The listless middle-aged man lifted Pan Bao’s head and turned back his eyelids: “Passed out.”
Zhù Ying felt a twinge of regret, and climbed up onto the sleeping planks to eat her already half-cold soup and beans.
Uncle Wen said: “Old Ma — you’re an old hand — how does someone that built pass out from a fall like that?”
Old Ma, the listless man, said: “The head, if it strikes wrong, can even be fatal…”
The food collection round had returned. Zhù Ying finished her meal, then collected everyone else’s bowls and chopsticks, including Pan Bao’s bowl that had rolled onto the floor. Six bowls, a bundle of chopsticks — all tossed through the lattice into the basin.
The prisoner doing the collecting glanced at the wound on Zhù Ying’s face: “Oho, a new arrival? Learning the rules? Hey — what happened to those two?”
The prisoners who had earned the right to distribute food were upper-class members of the jail hierarchy. He called out, and Old Hu answered: “Mind your own business! The idiot fell down and knocked himself out!”
Old Ma patted Pan Bao’s face: “Wake up!”
Old Hu said: “This isn’t the way to do it — watch me!” He drew back his arm and gave Pan Bao several thunderous slaps in succession; from the sound alone it was clear each one landed much harder than the blow he had dealt to Zhù Ying.
Pan Bao lifted one eyelid; the whites of his eyes rolled up; he let out an indistinct sound from his mouth, and fainted again right in front of them.
Old Ma’s heart gave a lurch: “Something’s wrong!”
He pried open Pan Bao’s mouth and looked carefully. “Bad,” he said. “Help! Someone come!”
The food distributors had already moved on; the prisoners who had eaten their fill were chatting idly to pass the time. People-watching is human nature, even among prisoners. This commotion drew idle onlookers pressing against the lattice. People were saying: “What’s going on? What’s going on?”
Old Ma dragged Pan Bao to the lattice, and by the faint torchlight caught a glimpse of the tail end of a chopstick protruding from Pan Bao’s mouth!
Uncle Wen chewed his fingers and said: “This is bad — someone’s going to die.”
Old Ma reached two fingers in to pinch the end of the chopstick and gave it a test — both chopsticks had been thrust upward from the throat into the brain at an angle, with only a little more than an inch of each tail remaining inside the mouth cavity. What could be done? If pulled out, he feared it might bring brain matter with it.
Zhù Ying thought: he won’t survive this.
——
The prisoners erupted in noise, all shouting: “Someone come quick! There’s a death! YOOOOOOO~”
“Someone’s dying here! Come look!”
The jailer who had been delivering food to the inner cells had been sitting in there keeping a prisoner company over drinks and passing along gossip from outside. At the sound of the commotion, he set down his wine cup, picked up his sword, and came out: “What’s all the racket?! You worthless wretches — you really don’t learn without a beating!”
The prisoners shouted over each other: things like “Pan Bao fell to his death!” and “Ha! You’ve got a killing on your hands!”
The jailer strode over in three long steps, came to Pan Bao’s cell, and saw Pan Bao laid up against the wooden lattice, the other cellmates standing in a semicircle two or three steps back.
The jailer frowned, called two more jailers from outside, and the three of them opened the lock: one went to examine Pan Bao while the other two kept watch over the cell’s occupants. The jailers knew things the others did not: Old Ma was one of the most notorious theft bosses in the entire prefecture. The capital’s streets had been unsettled lately, and conveniently, the deputy magistrate had been cracking down on public order — so Old Ma had turned himself in on a minor charge and moved in here to lie low for a while. Old Hu was a hired muscle of some noble house — a person of certain standing. The lean, wiry man was a lieutenant of one of the street bosses, brought in here for seriously injuring someone in a brawl. The man surnamed Wen was a litigation shyster of some small notoriety in the capital.
These four, along with Pan Bao, had all been brought in by the deputy magistrate in his campaign to rid the people of troublemakers, though their respective offenses were all different.
These people had better not get into any trouble — or how would he explain things if the deputy magistrate asked?
Fear draws exactly what you fear. The jailer checked Pan Bao’s breathing — there was still a faint trace of it — and said urgently: “Quick! Carry him to the sleeping area and send for a doctor!”
The other two were startled: “What’s happened?”
“More breath going out than coming in! Hurry — we can’t let him just die here. If he dies and we didn’t call a doctor, we’ll be the ones the deputy magistrate comes after!”
The other two grew nervous as well.
Prisoners dying in jail was nothing remarkable — especially in an “accident” like this: falling down while eating, a chopstick driven up through the throat into the brain and killing oneself. There were regulations covering such situations — if a prisoner required medical care and the guards failed to provide it and the prisoner died, the guards were subject to punishment. But generally no one paid too much attention to this. Even holding people accountable was a matter of great fanfare followed by light consequences.
All they needed to do was make a show of genuinely attempting a rescue, then file a report afterward of an accidental death, and that would be that.
They weren’t worried about the money, either — Pan Bao’s family still had a house; they could squeeze the cost of medicine and treatment from Pan Bao’s assets.
Before long, a doctor was brought in. He took one look and said: “This is difficult. Children sometimes get chopsticks jammed in their throats when eating carelessly — if you get it out and the airway isn’t damaged, that can be managed. But this has gone into the brain. It comes down to fate. Let me be clear: leave it in, and death is certain. Pull it out, and survival is not guaranteed either.”
The jailer said impatiently: “We know all that! Get to work!”
The doctor labored away, having Old Hu prop Pan Bao’s mouth open while he gripped the end of the chopstick with a pair of tongs. He applied force — slipped, the chopstick rebounded slightly deeper in — then took hold again and started pulling it out. Once the first chopstick was removed, the jailer let out a breath of relief. The doctor said: “There’s another one.”
When both were removed, Pan Bao’s legs gave a kick, and he went still.
The doctor said: “This is not my fault!”
The jailer said: “Fine. Come back tomorrow.”
“What?!”
“Just come and report what you saw. That’s all.”
The doctor wiped sweat from his brow: “All right.”
The jailer made no move to remove the body, and simply said: “No one is to make any noise!” He then asked how Pan Bao had fallen.
Uncle Wen said: “There, you see? He stepped on a cabbage leaf and slipped!”
The jailer grabbed a torch and held it close to the floor — and indeed found a cabbage leaf that had been tramped nearly beyond recognition, alongside a long slide mark. He nodded: “That’s it. The stupid fool — sloppy with his food, and cost himself his life!”
Uncle Wen suppressed a laugh. They had just witnessed quite the performance!
The jailer cursed: “What are you smirking at, you condemned wretch?” He surveyed the room, and seeing Zhù Ying looking the most well-behaved of all, pointed at her: “You — come here. Strip off his prison tunic.”
Not wanting to handle the body himself, the jailer nonetheless needed the tunic returned. Zhù Ying walked over slowly, pulled up one sleeve, gave the body a shove, and the tunic came off with the rolling motion. She stood, shook off the dust, carried it to the sleeping planks, and folded it neatly.
The jailer said impatiently: “Still being so fussy about things here? Come here — feel around his waist. See if there’s anything on him!”
Zhù Ying turned, looking at him with an innocent expression. The jailer cursed: “Are you deaf?! Get over here!”
Zhù Ying slowly shuffled over; her shoulder was whacked twice more by the scabbard. The jailer urged: “Go through it — silver coins, gold hairpins, silver pendants…”
Going through a corpse… Zhù Ying thought, and slowly bent down, reaching out her hands. The jailer gave her a kick on the shin: “Faster!”
When Zhù Ying had been brought in, she had on her person only a key. Indeed, prisoners entering jail were not permitted to keep valuables or sharp implements. Zhù Ying had come from Wannian County in transit, and after the chains had been removed no one had searched her again, so the key had been preserved. Pan Bao had clearly been searched when he came in, and had nothing of value on him.
Zhù Ying said: “Nothing — just clothing.”
The jailer frowned: “What bad luck!” Pan Bao’s clothes weren’t presentable enough to be worth confiscating — otherwise some silk or padded garments could have been kept to give away or sell…
He then directed Zhù Ying to remove the body’s shoes and check for anything hidden inside. There was indeed a small amount of silver tucked inside; the jailer took it, said “Is this all?” and went out to lock the cell, leaving Pan Bao’s corpse in the cell as well.
Zhù Ying pointed at Pan Bao’s body and asked Uncle Wen: “So… this is… that’s it?”
Uncle Wen said: “They’ll come to remove the body in the morning. Don’t worry — they can still charge the family for the cost of claiming and burying the body. There’s money to be made, so they won’t leave it alone.”
Zhù Ying said nothing.
She went to the sleeping planks, took Pan Bao’s blanket, and moved it to the far end position. From the moment she had entered this cell and found no blanket waiting for her — in under an hour — she had acquired a blanket of her own. The sleeping area was also now considerably more spacious; if no one was deliberately trying to crowd her while sleeping, the person on the next plank shouldn’t intrude on her space.
The outermost position was the one right next to the chamber pot. This wasn’t an accident — Zhù Ying had taken it voluntarily, and naturally no one would tell her not to sleep there. But in a cell that had gone from six people to now, in effect, five — with one corpse lying stretched out on the floor — only Old Ma and Zhù Ying were calm at heart.
The others, including Old Hu, looked fierce and formidable — but none of them had ever spent a night in the same room as a corpse before. Some had parents still living; others’ parents had died so long ago they had no memory of them, never having experienced the vigil of the dead — so how could they have any experience of this?
Old Ma pulled his blanket over himself and slept. Zhù Ying gathered the straw on the sleeping planks and began sorting it, strand by strand.
Uncle Wen couldn’t sleep. He edged over and displaced the others to sit beside her, asking: “What are you doing?”
Zhù Ying said: “Can’t sleep — I’ll weave a grass mat.”
Uncle Wen stared: “What?”
Zhù Ying ignored him and continued working with her hands. Uncle Wen eventually gave up. Zhù Ying worked for a while, then rummaged from Pan Bao’s things two sheets of rough paper, shuffled over to the chamber pot to use it. Uncle Wen turned over with a pinched nose, his back to her — he should never have come over here; the smell was terrible!
Zhù Ying wove for a bit more. The straw on the planks was limited; her grass-mat skill was ordinary at best. She managed to weave something thin — barely a foot and a half wide, about two feet long — which she tucked under herself. She folded the blanket in half: one half to lie on, one half to cover herself. Zhù Ying closed her eyes.
She reflected: from what she had heard, the prefecture’s deputy magistrate seemed to be a clear-headed official. So even with Zheng Xi away from the capital, the prefecture should still have someone reasonable in charge. From everything she had heard today about this deputy magistrate’s character, he would most likely not simply take Zhou You’s word for something and keep her locked in this prison. As long as there was a chance to plead her case — whether through the deputy magistrate examining prisoners or summoning them to court — she would find a way out.
In the worst case, she would wait for Zheng Xi to return; Jin Liang and Gan Ze would then be reachable, and she could get out.
There were still thirty strings of cash at home — enough for her parents to live on for quite a long time. Neither of them was the type to waste money. They would worry about her, and might spend some looking for her and making inquiries, but thirty strings could sustain them for a good while.
Apart from spending a few pointless days in prison while her parents worried unnecessarily, there was nothing too seriously wrong.
Zhù Ying sank into a deep, sound sleep.
She slept soundly; the others slept restlessly. But Old Ma’s presence kept this particular cell from erupting into chaos. Another cell called out in the dark: “Old Hu, Pan Bao is looking for you.” After that, everything fell quiet. Some were not afraid of death; others thought “well, at least it’s in their cell, not mine.” Those who couldn’t sleep at all said a few prayers to the Buddha, felt safe, and settled down.
——
Zhù Ying woke and sneezed — she had caught a slight chill after all.
The jailers rose early and called the warden over first thing, opening the cell to show him the cabbage leaf on the floor and then summoning the doctor as well. The warden said with a headache: “Fine then — carry it to the coroner for a death record. What a bother — I’m going to catch more grief for this.” Two jailers hauled the body away and re-locked the cell.
Shortly afterward, the prisoners appointed to fetch breakfast were called out.
Same as dinner, Zhù Ying figured. She also wondered about lunch — being an earnest student always eager to learn, she humbly consulted Uncle Wen. Uncle Wen had no appetite for this particular breakfast, and said: “Lunch? There’s no lunch in here.”
Old Hu, who seemed to be in a somewhat better mood, said: “Two meals a day here!”
And you still have the energy to beat people? Zhù Ying thought. You are clearly overfed.
Shortly, breakfast arrived — about the same as last night’s dinner. The two food-bearers had odd expressions. Uncle Wen asked casually: “Hey, what’s the matter?”
One of them gave a cold laugh: “You’ll find out soon enough!”
He set the basin down through the lattice. The prisoners crowded over as usual — and then all stopped short: there were wooden bowls, but no chopsticks!
Wooden bowls made sense — they didn’t want prisoners breaking ceramic ones. But chopsticks…
The man said: “Word from above — chopsticks are a hazard.”
So they were simply taken away altogether?
Uncle Wen cursed: “Do you know how to be decent human beings?! No chopsticks means spoons at least!”
Zhù Ying grabbed a bowl, received a serving of mixed vegetables and beans, squatted to one side and slurped it down, then got in line again for a second pass. The food distributor looked at her in mild surprise but still gave her only a half-bowl.
Having eaten, the long idle day of the cell began. In some cells, seasoned prisoners entertained each other with tales of their crimes; in others, inmates had bad blood and the moment the jailers left, an all-out brawl would break out. Some “knowledgeable” prisoners shared techniques with each other. And others — the unjustly imprisoned — simply shouted their grievances at the top of their lungs. It was all there was to do, so they shouted.
When a narrow slant of sunlight briefly passed through the small window, Old Hu finally returned to his usual self. He paced back and forth in the cell, and his eye immediately landed on Zhù Ying’s neatly folded blanket — and the grass mat beneath it.
He picked it up and shook it out; the blanket fell to the floor, and the grass mat was in his hands: “Not bad! I’ll take this! Boy — come here. Weave me another one. Make it to my measurements — do it right, or I’ll beat you!”