Chapter 49: Picking Mulberries (Part 6)
The rare sunshine melted the snow on the rooftops, the dripping water creating a peaceful rhythm.
Xu He Xue sat by the window, his hand on his knee, silently reading the ledger. Before giving Du Cong’s ledger to Jiang Xian Ming, he had made a copy.
The entries, spanning fifteen years, revealed a pattern in the flow of money.
The tea on the stove whistled as it boiled. Xu He Xue’s cold fingers didn’t feel the heat of the pot as he poured himself a cup and took a sip.
Still tasteless.
He could only smell its faint fragrance.
He looked up. The beaded curtain concealed the sleeping figure on the bed. She usually woke up early, but today was an exception.
Last night, after leaving the Grand Commandant’s residence, she had insisted on visiting Jiang Xian Ming’s house and had caught a cold.
Jiang Xian Ming was known for his integrity and lived a simple life, his residence less grand than Du Cong’s.
“Can you take me with you?” Ni Su had asked, worried about him being too far away. She had pointed at the roof. “I can wait for you there.”
Xu He Xue had nodded, carried her effortlessly to the roof, and carefully removed a tile, peering into the study below.
Jiang Xian Ming was speaking with his elderly steward.
“Master, that ledger someone threw at you is trouble. You’ve been investigating it for months, and you almost got caught at the entertainment district…” the steward said, trying to dissuade him. “They know the Emperor only listens to you, so they’re giving you all these old, troublesome cases. Minister Du is missing. What’s the point of investigating his past dealings?”
“That incident at the entertainment district wasn’t targeted at me. It was meant for Grand Commandant Miao, because of his memorial advocating for war,” Jiang Xian Ming sneered. “Although I don’t get along with that rough soldier, his memorial was correct. The Great Qi can’t keep paying tribute to the barbarians. Even if we wanted to, their greed would never be satisfied.”
“And just because Du Cong is missing, does that mean we should ignore his crimes? For fifteen years, over a dozen officials bribed him regularly, and he, in turn, sent money to those unnamed individuals. That money must have come from exploiting the people! I won’t let them get away with it.”
Jiang Xian Ming flipped through the ledger. “Minister Meng’s new policies only offer ‘generous salaries to foster integrity.’ But I believe generous salaries only fuel greed, ultimately harming the people.”
“Are you saying Minister Meng is afraid?” the steward asked. He had accompanied Jiang Xian Ming to Yongzhou and wasn’t ignorant of such matters. “After fourteen or fifteen years, has his time in Wen County softened him? But between the two, Minister Zhang suffered more. Fourteen years of exile… I heard he was even branded. His wife and son died on the way. He returned alone.”
Xu He Xue’s hand trembled, holding the roof tile.
He had heard about Meng Yun Xian and his teacher, Zhang Jing. He knew that after his death, his teacher had been stripped of his position and exiled.
Branded, shackled, a criminal, wandering for years, losing his family.
He knew all this.
But hearing it from others always pained him.
“Minister Zhang wasn’t exiled solely because of the failed reforms, but also because he was…” Even in his own home, speaking to his most trusted servant, Jiang Xian Ming couldn’t bring himself to say that Zhang Jing had been punished because of the Emperor’s anger.
Zhang Jing was Xu He Xue’s teacher.
Grand Mentor Wu had presented the Emperor with a poetry collection compiled by renowned scholars, which included two poems written by Zhang Jing and Xu He Xue, responding to each other.
The year Xu He Xue passed the imperial examination, Zhang Jing had written a poem titled “Midnight,” using characters from his student’s name.
“Ice soul, snow spirit,” was Zhang Jing’s description of Xu He Xue.
The poem was filled with a teacher’s pride and hope for his student. Zhang Jing had never been so openly affectionate towards his students before.
He had written the poem in a moment of joy, and it shouldn’t have been public knowledge, but another student, He Tong, had included it in a published collection of Zhang Jing’s works.
The poem became famous.
Xu He Xue had responded with a poem titled “Bamboo Heart,” vowing to be as resilient and upright as bamboo, serving his teacher, his friends, and his nation.
But no one had anticipated that these two poems would lead to Zhang Jing’s downfall five years later.
How could “ice soul, snow spirit” describe a traitor who had been executed by slow slicing? The enraged Emperor had ordered the destruction of the poetry collection and forbidden the republication of the two poems under penalty of thirty lashes.
This became known as the “New Calendar Poetry Case.”
After the incident, Zhang Jing was no longer a Grand Councilor.
Jiang Xian Ming sighed. “I can’t quite understand Minister Meng. He’s too enigmatic. But Minister Zhang is a true patriot, respected by scholars even in exile. I questioned him upon his return not to make things difficult for him, but to ensure the Emperor understood his stance. He had suffered enough. I didn’t want another ‘New Calendar Poetry Case.’”
“Last month, I requested access to the ‘Annual Performance Evaluations of Officials’ but was denied. I later learned that Minister Zhang had requested them. It seems he intends to rectify official conduct.”
Jiang Xian Ming stroked his smooth chin. “If that’s the case, my investigation of Du Cong’s dealings might benefit from his support.”
Xu He Xue, on the roof, immediately understood Jiang Xian Ming’s intentions. He turned to Ni Su and whispered, “Wait for me here. If you’re afraid, crouch down and don’t look down.”
Before Ni Su could reply, he stood up, holding the lantern, and his form dissolved into mist, drifting down into the courtyard.
“Who’s there?” the steward asked, startled by a shadow on the window screen. He rushed towards the door.
But as he opened it, a sword was drawn, its hilt striking his knee, and he fell back. The door slammed shut.
Jiang Xian Ming helped his steward up, his eyes fixed on the shadow on the screen. “Who are you?!”
“I gave you the ledger. I’m here to see what you’ve found,” Xu He Xue said, his voice low, standing by the window, holding the lantern.
“It’s you?” Jiang Xian Ming asked, surprised.
The steward realized this was the mysterious figure who had thrown the ledger at his master.
“Chief Censor, Ministers Zhang and Meng have just returned. The new policies are facing resistance. Are you being naive, relying on their support?” Xu He Xue asked, his voice low.
Jiang Xian Ming paused, considering the implications. He looked at the shadow. “Are you saying I chose the wrong person to give the ledger to?”
“I believe you have better options.”
“Such as?”
“Du Cong’s ledger mentions a ‘Galloping Horse Treading on a Flying Swallow’ statue, five feet long, made of white jade. If I remember correctly, it’s a treasure from a western kingdom that disappeared fifteen years ago while being transported as tribute.”
Jiang Xian Ming immediately remembered something. He flipped through the ledger and found the entry. He looked up. “Who are you?”
“It doesn’t matter. This statue is your ‘east wind.’ Why seek it elsewhere?” Xu He Xue said.
Jiang Xian Ming hadn’t paid much attention to the statue, unaware of its significance. This information was a breakthrough.
“Who were you meeting at the entertainment district that day?” the figure outside suddenly asked.
Jiang Xian Ming was instantly alert. “How do you know? Have you been watching me?”
The figure didn’t answer.
After a moment, Jiang Xian Ming heard a faint chuckle.
“Could it be…” he asked, his eyes widening, “were you the one who identified the barbarian at the entertainment district?”
Xu He Xue hadn’t actually seen Jiang Xian Ming there, but he subtly steered the conversation in that direction, prompting him to reveal his secrets. “Those who set a trap for Grand Commandant Miao might also know you, Chief Censor. You don’t have to do everything yourself.”
Jiang Xian Ming, still suspicious, asked, “Did you examine the ledger before giving it to me?”
“Fifteen years of transactions, totaling fifty-three million, six hundred thousand strings of cash,” Xu He Xue said calmly.
Jiang Xian Ming was speechless. The amount was correct. Was this truly the person who had given him the ledger? He thought for a moment. “Since you’ve seen it, you must know about Manyu Bank. I wasn’t at the entertainment district that day specifically to meet anyone. I was on my way to Manyu Bank when I saw their manager heading towards the entertainment district. I was curious who he was meeting, so I followed him.”
The manager of Manyu Bank was often away from Yun Jing, and the staff there knew little. Jiang Xian Ming had hoped to learn something from the manager, who had just returned.
“I can’t openly investigate the bank without concrete evidence, but as you suggested, I only need to find the ‘Galloping Horse’ statue to identify one of Du Cong’s contacts. With one, finding the others shouldn’t be difficult.”
Du Cong’s transactions went through Manyu Bank, but the statue, being a unique item, likely hadn’t passed through their hands. Therefore, he wasn’t worried about alerting them.
Jiang Xian Ming’s authority to investigate based on hearsay would be useful now.
Xu He Xue, having achieved his goal, was about to leave when Jiang Xian Ming called out, “Why did you give the ledger to me? Why not the Guangning Prefecture Yamen?”
Xu He Xue turned, the lantern light reflecting in his lifeless eyes. He looked at the figure behind the window screen.
It was now the twentieth year of Zheng Yuan.
In the fourth year of Zheng Yuan, the man in this room had been a young scholar in his twenties, full of patriotic ideals, traveling to the chaotic border town of Yongzhou to serve as governor.
Before him, three governors had been beheaded by the barbarians.
His first act as governor had been to fulfill the people’s desire for revenge by executing the traitorous general.
The Emperor’s decree had only specified the death penalty, but Jiang Xian Ming, heeding the people’s wishes, had ordered death by slow slicing.
Xu He Xue couldn’t remember what Jiang Xian Ming looked like. His eyes had been injured by a barbarian’s blade, and he couldn’t see.
He had only heard his voice, strong and filled with righteous anger.
“Everyone knows,” Xu He Xue said calmly, “that you, Chief Censor Jiang, value public opinion above all else. They see you as their voice.”
“That is all.”
The tea on the stove whistled again. A woman coughed softly behind the curtain. Xu He Xue, startled, stood up with his hand on the desk, poured a cup of hot tea, and carried it to the inner room.
“Did I sleep for a long time?” Ni Su asked, her voice thick with sleep, taking the tea and sipping it. Her dry throat felt better.
“Not too long,” Xu He Xue shook his head, taking the empty cup and placing it on a stool.
Ni Su rubbed her eyes, her gaze fixed on him. Although his expression was usually unreadable, she felt the lingering joy from their snowball fight had been replaced by a heavy sadness.
“What were you thinking about while I was asleep?” she asked, trying to understand his sadness.
Xu He Xue paused, turning around, and their eyes met unexpectedly.
She looked pale and weak, yet her eyes were filled with concern for him.
His throat tightened. He had remembered more of his past last night, his teacher’s stern face, rarely betraying any emotion.
But that same teacher, upon learning of his success in the imperial examination, had been too excited to sleep and had written a poem praising him lavishly.
Before that, Xu He Xue hadn’t realized how much his teacher valued him.
He had responded with a poem of his own, expressing his loyalty and gratitude.
Back then, he had truly believed he would serve alongside his teacher, fulfilling his expectations, becoming a scholar-official, a man of integrity.
The clearer the memories, the more unbearable the pain.
His teacher was alone now. He wanted him to live a peaceful life, free from hardship and suffering.
He couldn’t let Jiang Xian Ming drag his teacher into Du Cong’s mess.
He would walk this path alone.
Xu He Xue’s fingers clutched his robe. He looked at her, his voice hoarse. “Ni Su, I miss my teacher.”
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