Chapter 30: Partridge Sky (Part 5)
Zhou Ting sent Chao Yi Song to check on Ni Su while he took the medicine woman, Yang Shi, the couple who had hidden her, and the surviving assassins back to the Yin Ye Si.
“Commander Zhou, they all have poison hidden in their teeth,” an officer said, pointing to the small pellets mixed with blood on the extracted teeth.
Since the jailer’s suicide at the Guangning Prefecture Yamen, the Yin Ye Si had become more cautious.
Zhou Ting glanced at the teeth, then, seeing several officers hurrying towards the torture chamber with books and brushes, asked, “Is the Director inside?”
“Yes, he just arrived. I heard Master Lin is about to confess,” the officer whispered.
Master Lin was an official from the Transcription Office, also implicated in the winter examination case.
He was going to confess?
Zhou Ting looked towards the flickering candlelight coming from the torture chamber.
“Master Lin, was it you who destroyed Ni Qinglan’s examination paper, and the others?” Director Han Qing asked, gesturing for an officer to record the testimony.
“Yes…” Lin Yu coughed up blood, his clothes soaked crimson, his body convulsing.
“The transcriber, Yan, who was responsible for collecting the papers, said someone informed him beforehand that the cheater had mentioned the ancient place name ‘Feng Lin Zhou’ in their essay. That’s how he identified the paper. As for Ni Qinglan, he recognized his handwriting and, while Jin Xiang Shi was away, risked looking at his unfinished transcription, memorizing a few phrases. He then collected the other transcribed papers, secretly rewrote Ni Qinglan’s and the cheater’s papers, and delivered them to the Transcription Office, to you.” Han Qing blew on his tea.
Jin Xiang Shi had testified that he remembered a particular paper because of its excellent calligraphy and content. That’s how he had realized it had been rewritten when he went to submit the papers.
Upon returning to Yun Jing and hearing about Ni Qinglan’s death, he had suspected something was amiss.
There had been several transcribers. Han Qing had them all submit writing samples for Jin Xiang Shi to identify, but someone had deliberately disguised their handwriting, making it difficult at first.
It wasn’t until Zhou Ting found their personal writings that Jin Xiang Shi identified Yan.
Using Yan as a breakthrough, they had finally found evidence against Lin Yu.
“That’s correct,” Lin Yu coughed violently. “Yan had blank, anonymized examination papers that someone had smuggled into the Imperial College. We only knew that Ni Qinglan was one of their targets. We didn’t know who the cheater was, nor did we want to know. But when the Emperor decided to hold the palace examination, I had to destroy their papers, along with a few others, by setting fire to the Transcription Office during those dry days.”
“Master Lin, you were foolish,” Han Qing sneered, putting down his teacup. “Was the Emperor’s salary not enough for you? Where did you get the audacity to commit such a crime? Did you think you could simply refuse to confess and rely on those censors to defend you?”
“As long as I have the Emperor’s decree, I’m not afraid of them,” Han Qing said, looking down at him. “Tell me, who instructed you? I suspect you’ve reached your limit.”
After days of torture at the Yin Ye Si, Lin Yu had experienced true hell. He gasped, his spirit broken. “Du Cong.”
Dawn broke, the rain falling steadily.
Du Cong had been sitting in his study all night, unable to sleep since the Yin Ye Si had arrested the officials involved in the winter examination case.
As the sky lightened, he saw his steward lead a cloaked figure up the steps. The steward left, and the figure entered the study, not removing their straw hat, and bowed. “Minister Du.”
“What did he say?” Du Cong asked, remaining seated.
“My master has only one message for you: Fifteen years of wealth and prosperity should be enough, shouldn’t it?” the figure said, without looking up.
Du Cong’s fingers clenched.
The figure turned and left, disappearing into the rain.
The rain intensified the silence in the study.
Du Cong sat at his desk, his face ashen.
***
There were no breakfast stalls on Nan Huai Street, so Ni Su went to the next street, buying some steamed buns from a vendor with an awning.
“When we encountered the bandits, I didn’t see clearly. You didn’t use your powers to kill them, did you?” she asked, the rain drumming against the umbrella.
“Using my powers to kill would result in severe punishment,” Xu He Xue said, walking beside her, his form flickering in the rain and mist.
“Then when did you learn martial arts?” Ni Su had seen his skills last night, realizing the gentle scholar possessed a hidden strength.
“I learned to wield a sword as soon as I learned to hold a brush,” Xu He Xue said, glancing at the umbrella she held over him. “It was our family tradition.”
After moving to Yun Jing with his mother and brother, the family traditions had faded, but he had continued his studies and martial arts training.
As they reached the end of the street, a figure suddenly stumbled towards them. Xu He Xue reacted quickly, grabbing Ni Su’s wrist and pulling her back.
The figure’s wet sleeve brushed against the oil-paper package in Ni Su’s hand. He missed her and fell to the ground.
The young man, about twenty years old, was dressed in rags, his skin pale and his body emaciated. Ni Su was startled by his eyes, unusually large.
The cloth wrapped around his head loosened, revealing a bald head, devoid of even eyebrows.
For a moment, Ni Su felt his gaze linger on the space beside her.
She took two buns from the package and offered them to him.
The young man snatched the buns without hesitation, stood up, and ran off.
“He looks very ill,” Ni Su said, watching him disappear.
“He’s not ill,” Xu He Xue said.
“How do you know?” Ni Su turned to him.
The rain and mist obscured the young man’s figure. Xu He Xue met her gaze. “He saw me.”
“He’s… also a ghost?” Ni Su asked, surprised.
But ghosts didn’t need food.
Xu He Xue shook his head. “He has no hair and unusually large pupils. He’s not a ghost, but a… ghost fetus.”
Ni Su almost dropped the buns.
A child born of a human and a ghost?
The rain lessened. The young man, clutching the buns, ran through the streets and alleys, stopping under an awning and hiding behind a pile of debris. He began to eat slowly, his eyes fixed on the food stall across the street.
The aroma of wontons filled the air. He inhaled deeply, quickly finished the cold buns, and watched as a carriage stopped at the wonton stall. An elderly steward emerged, holding an umbrella, then helped a plainly dressed, white-haired old man out of the carriage. “Master, be careful.”
The young man watched from across the street, scratching his head, then looked at the carriage more closely.
A lantern hanging from the carriage bore the character “Zhang.”
“It’s raining heavily, Master. You’re going to the palace. They have food there. Why come here?” the steward fussed.
“After all these years, the only thing I miss about Yun Jing is the wontons,” Zhang Jing said, looking around as he sat down under the awning. “This stall has been here for over a decade. It’s quite remarkable.”
“I’ll get you a bowl,” the steward said, going to the vendor.
“And some pickled vegetables,” Zhang Jing added, coughing.
The vendor, a man in his thirties or forties, quickly prepared a bowl of wontons. The steward brought it to Zhang Jing, along with the pickled vegetables, and handed him a spoon. “I asked. He’s the original vendor’s son. The taste should be the same.”
Zhang Jing took a sip of the broth and nodded, his expression relaxing. “It is the same.”
“Scholar He should be here soon. It’s safer for you to travel with him,” the steward said, looking outside.
Zhang Jing snorted, eating his wontons and pickled vegetables. “I’m not so old that I can’t walk a few steps by myself. Why does he need to watch over me constantly?”
“Master, Scholar He and the others haven’t seen you for so many years. It’s natural for them to want to be near you. You should be pleased,” the steward said with a smile. He then heard a commotion outside and turned to see the two coachmen restraining a young man.
“Why aren’t you letting him in?” Zhang Jing asked, putting down his spoon with a clang.
The steward went outside and frowned at the coachmen. “Why are you holding him?”
“Steward, he doesn’t look like he’s here for wontons. He kept staring at Master Zhang. He looks suspicious,” one of the coachmen said.
The steward looked at the young man and was startled by his eyes. The young man suddenly broke free, pulled a letter from his pocket, and bowed, his movements stiff and awkward.
“For Master Zhang.”
The steward noticed that despite the young man’s disheveled appearance, the letter was clean and dry, not even wrinkled. He took it hesitantly.
“Jia Rong,” Zhang Jing called out.
The steward quickly turned and handed him the letter.
The young man watched, then, relieved, took advantage of the coachmen’s distraction and ran off into the rain.
“Master, he said it was for you, but he didn’t say anything else,” the steward said, seeing the young man disappear, feeling uneasy.
Zhang Jing opened the letter, and his calm expression shattered. He stared at the words, his face draining of color.
He stood up abruptly, forgetting his cane, and stumbled forward. The steward quickly supported him. “Master, what’s wrong?”
Zhang Jing, his breathing ragged, pointed at the coachmen. “Where did he come from?!”
“We asked, Master. He said he’s from Yongzhou,” one of them replied.
Yongzhou.
The word made Zhang Jing’s vision darken. His chest tightened, he crumpled the letter, and coughed up blood.
“Master!” the steward cried.
He Tong, arriving just then, dropped his umbrella and rushed over. “Teacher!”