The Corpse Reader

20

At the burial, Cí felt that a part of him was being nailed inside the small coffin along with his beloved sister. And the other parts of him—blasted and messy—though they might be sewn back together again, would never shine as before. His spirit was in a worse place than his body, and it was as if the burns that disfigured him had become internal. They were painful, and he had no way of soothing them.

He cried until he couldn’t cry anymore. First his other sisters, then his brother and parents, and now the little one.

The only other person at the funeral was Xu. He waited outside, and when Cí came back to the cart they’d hired to transport the coffin, Xu was impatient. Cí hadn’t even finished arranging the flowers for the small grave, and Xu wanted to talk about the contract. He’d brought it with him. Cí turned on him, taking the piece of paper and tearing it up. Xu didn’t bat an eyelid. He crouched down and began picking up the torn pieces.

“Are you sure you don’t want to sign it?” he asked, smiling. “Do you really think I’m going to let such a good piece of business escape, just like that?”

Cí glared at him. He began walking off.

“Whoa!” shouted Xu. “Where do you think you’re going? Think you’ll survive in this city without me? You’re nothing but a beggar with airs.”

Cí exploded. “Where am I going? Anywhere you’re not! You and your greed. I’m going to the Ming Academy.” No sooner had he finished speaking than he regretted saying that much.

“Oh, really? But you do know that if you try to go, I’ll go straight to that sheriff who was after you, right? And I’ll go out whoring with the reward money, stopping by your bitch little sister’s grave to piss on it—”

He was interrupted by a hard punch in the face; the next blow dislodged some teeth. Cí stood back. Xu spat bloodily on the ground and then smiled up at Cí.

“Listen: you’ll work with me, or not at all.”

“No, you listen! Put your stupid disguise on and scratch together whatever living you want. You’re enough of a trickster to fool a few people yet. But if I ever find out you’ve spoken to Kao about me, you can be sure the whole city will know about your fraud business. And that’ll be the end of you. And if I find out you’ve come anywhere near my sister’s grave, I’ll break you in two and, I swear, I’ll eat your heart.”

He dropped one last flower on Third’s grave and went down the cemetery’s hill.

It was raining and he was soaked to the bone, but he dawdled in the streets anyway. He spent the whole morning walking the same maze of alleys, head bowed, going over and over the question: Was it really worth it to go to the academy? If it would never bring back Third, or his mother or father, was there really any point?

Leaning back against a pillar, he became lost for a long time in a swirl of images, all of his family. They were never coming back.

A beggar boy with no arms came and sat next to him. He had two cloth bags for carrying sand slung over his stumps. He grinned toothlessly at Cí; he liked the rain, he said, because it cleaned his face. Cí leaned over and adjusted the boy’s bags for him, and with a cloth wiped some of the dirt from his face. Third’s constant smile sprang into his thoughts, her enthusiasm in spite of everything. He felt her there with him.

Getting up, he stroked the boy’s head and looked out. Maybe it was clearing up. If he hurried, he might even make it to the Ming Academy before nightfall.

From outside the academy, he could see silhouettes of the students in the classrooms. Their talk and laughter drifted out into the gardens and through the cloisters where, behind an imposing stone wall, there was a grove of plum, pear, and apricot trees.

A group of students came from the street behind him and passed by as they walked in the direction of the academy. They were discussing their classes, and behind them a couple of servants pulled handcarts overflowing with all kinds of food. A few of them glanced back at him as if they were worried he might contaminate them somehow. I probably would, he thought. They entered through the academy gate whispering.

Inside there was wisdom and cleanliness; outside, ignorance and baseness.

Summoning all his courage, Cí walked through the academy’s entrance. But as he did, a guard stepped out in front of him brandishing a stick. Cí told him Professor Ming had invited him.

“Professor Ming doesn’t give interviews to beggars,” he said, advancing on Cí.

Backing away, Cí noticed the group of students watching and laughing. But he wasn’t going to be diverted from the academy any more. He sidestepped the guard and ran through the gardens toward the main building. Shouts went up as he came through the door, and as he looked back he saw that the guard and several students were chasing him. He ran through the hallway and into a library. The students and the guard entered through another door and, together with students who had been studying in the library, quickly surrounded Cí. With his back against a bookshelf, he shut his eyes and waited for the first blow.

But then they all went quiet.

Looking up, Cí saw Professor Ming coming toward them, glowering. As soon as Ming heard what the guard had to say, he ordered that Cí be thrown out without even the opportunity to explain himself.

Cí was just outside the main gate, still dusting himself off, when he felt a hand on his elbow. It was the guard, and, after helping Cí to his feet, he gave him a bowl of rice. Cí was confused, but he thanked the man.

“Thank the professor. He said he’ll receive you tomorrow if you present yourself with better manners.”

Cí slept collapsed against the academy’s outer wall. He was exhausted, but his thoughts churned so much he didn’t sleep well. Every time he drifted off, he saw Third’s smiling face. All he could do now, he knew, was honor her memory and hope her spirit would give him protection.

In the morning, he had to be shaken awake by the guard. He got up and tried to make himself look as decent as possible, hiding his matted hair under his cap. Following the guard, who Cí now noticed had a strange tottering gait, he went through the gardens, stopping at a fountain to splash his face.

Ming was in the library, and Cí bowed as the guard left them. Ming, who was wearing the same red gown that he’d worn at the cemetery, closed his book and told Cí to take a seat. Ming asked his name, and he only replied, “Cí.”

“What about a full name? What should I call you, then?” he said, beginning to pace the room. “The Amazing Murder Guesser? Hmm? Or what about the Uninvited Academy Invader?”

Cí blushed. He hadn’t considered this obstacle, but he couldn’t reveal his full name because of the report about his father’s conduct. Rather than have to field more uncomfortable questions, he said nothing.

“OK, Cí No Parents, tell me this. Why should I make this kind of offer to someone who rejects his parents by refusing to name them? I was certain the other day not only that you were blessed with talent, but that you might even be able to make a contribution to our complicated science. But I’m having doubts, given this and your conduct yesterday.”

Cí considered saying he was an orphan, but that wouldn’t stop Ming from asking more questions. Finally, he came up with a story.

“I was involved in an accident three years ago and lost my memory. All I remember is waking up in a field one day. A family found me and took care of me, but they were moving to the south, so I decided to come to the city. They always said they thought I must have been from here.”

“Right,” said Ming, stroking his mustache. “And nonetheless you have a wide knowledge of how to uncover hidden wounds, about where a prisoner is tattooed, about which knife wounds are mortal and which are not…”

“The family worked in a slaughterhouse. The rest I learned in the cemetery.”

“The only thing you’d learn in a cemetery is how to dig graves—and tell lies.”

“Please, sir—”

“Not to mention your disrespectful performance yesterday!”

“That guard’s an idiot! I told him about your offer, but he wouldn’t even listen to me.”

“Silence!” said Ming. “How dare you insult someone you don’t even know? In this institution, everyone follows orders, and that was all the guard was doing.” Ming turned away from Cí and went over to his desk. “Recognize this?” he said, picking up the book he’d been reading before.

It was his father’s copy of the penal code.

“Where did you find it?”

“Where did you lose it?” replied Ming immediately.

Cí avoided Ming’s penetrating stare. It was no use trying to fool him.

“I was robbed,” he managed to say.

“Mmm…Maybe the robber was the same man who sold it to me.”

Cí said nothing; if Ming had the book, there was a chance he knew about Kao’s tracking him. He got up to leave, thinking he should never have come. Ming told him to sit back down.

“I bought it from some ruffian at the market. When you and I met at the cemetery, I thought I recognized you, but I couldn’t place you. But I went to the book market last week, as I do every week, and this unique edition caught my eye—it stood out at what was a fairly insalubrious stall. I had a feeling you’d show up here sooner or later, so I bought it.” He frowned and put a hand to his temple, meditating on what to say next. “Dear boy. I have a feeling I might regret this, but in spite of your lies, the offer still stands.” He picked up the book. “There’s no doubt in my mind that you have exceptional qualities. It would be such a shame for them to be…dissolved among the mediocrity. If you are truly willing to do as you’re told…” He handed Cí the book. “Here. It’s yours.”

Trembling, Cí took the book. He found it difficult to comprehend what was happening. Ming might know about his father, but he didn’t seem to know about Kao. He got down on his knees to thank Ming, but Ming told him to get up.

“Don’t thank me now. Now is when your work begins.”

“You won’t regret it, sir.”

“I hope not, boy. I hope not.”

Cí met his classmates-to-be in the Honorable Debating Hall, the lavish auditorium where debates were held and exams were taken. When there was a new student, it was traditional to give the professors and students an opportunity to meet him and express any concerns about his entering the academy. Standing in front of what seemed like hundreds and hundreds of piercing gazes, Cí tried to stay calm.

The room was silent as Professor Ming entered, bowed to the other professors and the students in the room, and then took his place at a podium. He related the story of the encounter in the cemetery, the meeting that had allowed him to witness Cí’s talents. He referred to Cí as the Corpse Reader and defined his practice as “an unfathomable mix of sorcery and erudition.” Ming said that perhaps with training and study—stressing the perhaps—the boy might shine. These were his reasons for inviting Cí to join the academy.

When the professor was asked about the applicant’s origins, Cí was surprised to hear Ming recount the story about his memory loss and his last few years as a butcher and gravedigger.

Then Cí was invited to the podium. He looked around in vain for a friendly face. There were only cold glares. He was asked about his knowledge of the classics, about law, and about what he knew of poetry. A wiry professor with bushy eyebrows led the comments.

“Our colleague, Professor Ming, was clearly dazzled by your reading of the corpse. He has heaped praise on you. And I don’t blame him; it can often be difficult to distinguish the brilliance of gold from the radiance of base metal. It seems that the accuracy of your examination and predictions have led Ming to think you’re some kind of visionary, and that qualifies you to stand alongside those of us who have spent our lives studying the arts. None of this surprises me. Ming’s passion for bodily organs is well known.

“But what you have to understand is that to solve crimes and bring justice to the dead, it takes much more than merely knowing who committed a crime and how. Truth lies in motivation—what could motivate a man to commit crimes?—and an understanding of people’s preoccupations, their situations. Their reasons are not to be found in wounds and entrails. They are to be found through an understanding of art and literature.”

The professor had a point, but his absolute contempt for medicine was too much. There was some truth in what he said, but if a judge couldn’t distinguish a natural death from a murder in the first place, how on earth could justice ever be done? Cí considered how best to express his opinion.

“Honorable professor, I’m not here to win a battle. I can’t possibly hope to prevail with the little that I know, nor compare my knowledge with that of the masters and students here. I only want to learn. Knowledge itself knows no limits, no compartmentalizing. Nor does it know prejudice. If you allow me to join the academy, I swear I will give everything to my studies, even leaving aside the question of wounds and entrails if I have to.”

A pudgy professor with a pinched mouth raised his hand to speak. His breathing was heavy, and the few steps he took to come forward left him out of breath. He crossed his hands over his belly as he considered Cí for a few long moments.

“It seems that you tarnished this institution’s honor yesterday, bursting in here like a savage. It brings to mind a saying about a man: ‘Yes, he might be a thief, but he’s also a wonderful flutist.’ Do you know what my reply to that is? ‘Fine. He might be a wonderful flutist, but first and foremost he’s a thief.’” The professor licked his lips and scratched his greasy hair. “What part of this truth do you embody? That of the man who disobeys rules but reads bodies, or he who reads bodies but disobeys rules? Further, can you tell me why we should accept a vagabond like you into the empire’s most respectable academy?”

These questions surprised and worried Cí. He’d thought that, since Ming was the director of the academy, his opinion would prevail. Given the circumstances, though, he decided to change his approach.

“Venerable master,” he said, bowing. “I beg your forgiveness of my unacceptable behavior yesterday. It came out of feeling powerless and desperate. I know this is no excuse, and that the most important thing is for me to demonstrate that I’m worthy of your confidence. So, first, I must ask for your indulgence; I’m a country boy, and I’m eager to learn. Isn’t that what the academy is about? If I already knew all the rules, if I didn’t have the thirst for knowledge, why would I want to study? And how could I then avoid the things that make me imperfect?

“This is the greatest opportunity I’ve ever had. I promise you, I swear, I won’t let you down.”

The pudgy professor took a couple of wheezy breaths; then, nodding, he went slowly back to his place, giving the floor to the last professor. The old, stooped man with dim eyes asked Cí why he had accepted Ming’s invitation.

“Because it’s my dream.”

The old professor shook his head. “Is that all? There was a man who dreamed of flying to the heavens, but after throwing himself off a cliff, he ended up a pile of broken bones on the rocks.”

Cí looked in the old man’s eyes. “When we want something we’ve seen, all we have to do is reach out for it. But when we want something we’ve only dreamed of, it’s our heart we have to stretch.”

“Are you sure? Sometimes our dreams lead us to fall—”

“Possibly. But if our ancestors hadn’t dreamed of better things, we’d still be dressing in rags. My father said to me once”—Cí’s voice quavered at this—“if I was striving to build a palace in the clouds, not to bother. That was clearly where I was meant to be. All I should do is try to build the foundations.”

“Your father? How strange! Ming said you’d lost your memory.”

Cí bit his lip and his eyes moistened.

“That’s the single memory I have.”

The auditorium was swarming with students whispering in excited circles. What was the Corpse Reader’s full name? What was the secret that meant he didn’t have to go through the usual selection process? Some talked about him as a sorcerer; others said he’d learned his skills in a slaughterhouse. But one student kept himself apart and didn’t join in the discussions. When Cí came in with Professor Ming, Gray Fox spat his piece of licorice on the floor and, casting Cí a poisonous look, moved farther away.

Ming carried out the introductions. Cí would be living with these students from now on, all of them vying to join the Imperial Judiciary. Mainly they were aristocratic youths, though their long nails and neat haircuts reminded Cí of courtesans more than anything. There were some disdainful looks, but everyone greeted Cí courteously enough—everyone except the student who stood on his own in the corner. When Ming noticed, he called Gray Fox over. The youth with the distinctive gray-streaked hair approached apathetically.

“I see you don’t share your peers’ curiosity,” said Ming.

“I don’t see what there is to be interested in. I’m here to study, not to be seduced by some swindling beggar.”

“Wonderful, dear boy, wonderful…because you’re going to have the chance to observe Cí up close and check exactly how much truth there is in what he does.”

“Me? I don’t understand.”

“You two are going to be roommates. You’ll share books and a bunk.”

“But Master! I can’t live with some peasant!”

“Silence!” spat Ming. “In this academy, money, business, and family influence don’t matter. Obey me and greet Cí, or go and pack your bags!”

Gray Fox bowed his head, but his eyes drilled into Cí. Then he asked for permission to retire. Ming said he could, but as Gray Fox reached the door, Ming had one more thing to say.

“Before you go, you can pick up that licorice you saw fit to spit on the tiles.”

Cí spent the rest of the day finding out about the daily routine at the academy. He’d be up early for classes all morning; then there would be a brief break for lunch followed by debates in the afternoon and evening. After dinner he’d work in the library to pay for his stay. Ming explained that although the university boards had closed the Faculty of Medicine, part of the program was still dedicated to medical knowledge and, specifically, to causes of death. Sometimes they’d go and sit in on judicial assemblies when they examined corpses, and sometimes they’d attend criminal proceedings to learn firsthand about criminal behavior.

“Exams are four times a year. We have to make sure students are advancing as expected. If not, we initiate proceedings for the expulsion of those who aren’t showing themselves worthy of our efforts. Remember,” said Ming, “your place here is entirely provisional.”

“Don’t worry; you won’t catch me acting like some rich kid.”

“Let me give you some advice. Don’t be fooled just because the other students dress well; don’t confuse their appearance with anything like indolence. Yes, they come from elite families, but they also study extremely hard. If you go up against them, I can assure you they’ll shred you like a rabbit.”

Cí acquiesced. Nonetheless, he doubted that the force of the other students’ motivation was anywhere near as strong as his own.

That evening, the academy assembled in the Apricot Room for dinner, which was adorned with exquisite silks depicting landscapes with summerhouses and fruit trees. All the students had already sat down in groups by the time Cí arrived. He looked hungrily at the abundance of soups, fried fish, sauces, and fruits, but when he tried to sit down at a table, the students there shifted so that there wasn’t any space for him. The same happened at the next table, and the next. It didn’t take long for Cí to work out whose orders they were following; there, at the back of the room, he saw Gray Fox, glaring at him with a sarcastic half-smile.

Cí knew that if he backed down, he’d get this sort of treatment for the rest of his time at the academy. He walked over to Gray Fox’s table and, before the students could do what the other tables had done, planted a foot in the empty place. The students on either side shot him ferocious looks, but he squeezed in between them and took the seat. As soon as he did, Gray Fox spoke up.

“You aren’t welcome at this table.”

Cí ignored him. He took some soup and began sipping at the bowl.

“Didn’t you hear?” said Gray Fox, more loudly now.

“Oh, I heard,” said Cí.

“The fact that you don’t know who your father is,” said Gray Fox, “must mean you don’t know who mine is, either.”

Cí put the bowl down, placed his hands on the table and stood up slowly.

“Now you listen to me,” he said in a quiet voice. He had the whole table’s attention. “If you value your tongue, my advice is that you prevent it from ever daring to mention my father again. If you do, you’ll be speaking to the world in sign language from that point on.” Then he sat down and carried on eating as if nothing had happened.

Gray Fox’s face lit up with rage. Without a word, he got up from the table and fled the dining room.

Cí congratulated himself. His opponent had only made a fool of himself in front of everyone. He knew it wouldn’t be their only encounter, but it had been no simple thing to overcome him in public.

By nightfall the tension had increased. The room they were supposed to be sharing was a small cubicle divided by a paper panel. The only privacy to be had was in the small amount of space where the lantern light didn’t fall. There was barely room for the two beds, let alone the two small tables and two wardrobes, their personal possessions, and books. Gray Fox’s side was overflowing with silk robes and a splendid collection of beautifully bound books. Cí’s just had cobwebs. He brushed these aside and placed his father’s book on his shelf. Then he knelt down and, under Gray Fox’s disdainful gaze, prayed for his family. Gray Fox began changing into his night-clothes, and Cí did the same. Though it was hopeless in such a small space, he tried to hide his scars.

They both got into their beds without a word. Cí listened to Gray Fox’s breathing and couldn’t sleep. His head was buzzing—with thoughts of his family and this opportunity, which Gray Fox seemed determined to ruin. How could he quench this animosity between them? Maybe the best thing was to ask Ming’s advice. With this decision, his thoughts calmed and he began to drift off, but then he heard a hiss from his roommate.

“Hey, freak! So this is your secret, eh? You might be clever, but you’re also revolting like a cockroach.” He laughed. “It’s hardly surprising you read bodies, when your own looks like a rotten corpse!”

Cí didn’t answer. He gritted his teeth and tried not to pay attention to the rage bubbling in his stomach. He wrapped himself in his blanket and cursed his disgusting scars and the condition that meant he never felt pain. Gray Fox was right—he was an aberration.

But just before finally dropping off to sleep, he suddenly had the thought that perhaps his burns might present some way of reconciling with Gray Fox. And with that hopeful idea, he was asleep.

Every day, Cí got up earlier than anyone else and stayed up later, going over the day’s lessons long after he finished work at the library. He spent his few moments of free time rereading his father’s copy of the penal code, trying to commit to memory the criminal chapters in particular.

Whenever he could, he accompanied Ming on his hospital visits. There were always many herbalists, acupuncturists, and moxibustion practitioners, but very few surgeons, in spite of the obvious need for them. Confucianism prohibited interventions inside patients’ bodies, and so surgery was permitted only in the most serious cases: open fractures, deep wounds, and amputations. Unlike his colleagues, Ming showed a rare interest in advanced medicine, and he complained bitterly about the closure of the Faculty of Medicine.

“They opened it twenty years ago only to shut it now,” said Ming. “The traditionalists among the deans argue that surgery is somehow backward looking.” He snorted. “They expect our judges to solve crimes using their knowledge of literature and poetry.”

Cí agreed with Ming. He had attended classes at the Faculty of Medicine when he was working with Feng, and it was one of the things he missed most. But he had also been one of few who appreciated it. Most students preferred focusing on the Confucian canons, calligraphy, and poetics—these were what they’d need for the official exams, after all. And a lot of judicial work was paperwork. If you ever had to deal with a murder, most of the time you’d just call a slaughterman to clean the body and give his opinion.

But any change was a good change, considering Cí’s life recently, and he felt in his element among the students, debating philosophy, examining wooden anatomical models, taking part in impassioned judicial discussions.

His peers were surprised to find that Cí’s knowledge was by no means limited to wounds and corpses; he knew the sprawling penal code very well, and bureaucratic procedure and interrogation methods, too. Ming had put him in an advanced group of students who would have the chance to enter directly into the judiciary at the end of that academic year.

And as Ming’s confidence in Cí grew, so did Gray Fox’s envy—as demonstrated when Ming told them they’d be taking the November exam, and that they would be working as a team in mock trial at the prefecture headquarters. One of them would serve as principal judge, the other in an advisory capacity.

“You have to come up with a shared verdict,” said Ming. “If you work together, you’ll have a chance. But if you squabble, I can promise you the other teams will take advantage. Understood?”

Both Cí and Gray Fox kept their eyes lowered. Eventually they said yes.

“Good! Oh, and one other thing: the winners of this test will be in competition for the one Imperial official job with fixed tenure that we are allowed every year. Your dream job, both of you! So you’d better be well prepared.”

Gray Fox wanted to play principal judge, and Cí didn’t actually mind. What worried him, though, was that he didn’t think Gray Fox was ready. Ming accepted Gray Fox’s proposal of roles not because he made a particularly convincing case for being ahead of Cí, but simply because he had been at the academy longer.

Cí knew this was too much of an opportunity to let their animosity spoil it. He was also willing to admit that Gray Fox had a better knowledge of certain legal and literary subjects, and that they’d probably need these to stand a chance of winning. After dinner that evening, students were breaking off in pairs to get in some last-minute study time, and Cí suggested he and Gray Fox do the same.

“Tomorrow’s a big day. Maybe we could go over some cases together.”

“What makes you think I’d want to study with you? We’re only together because Ming ordered us to be; I don’t need your help. You do your job, I’ll do mine, and that’ll be the end of it.”

Cí didn’t follow him to their dormitory, but stayed up late going over his notes, and in particular the subjects Ming had suggested they concentrate on.

But there was something else worrying Cí. Going to the prefecture headquarters raised the specter of Kao once more. For all Cí knew, if the sheriff had put a ransom on his head, he might well have distributed descriptions of him, too.

Still, it was the most amazing opportunity.

In the early morning, when the characters began swimming in front of Cí’s tired eyes, he began preparing the equipment he’d brought from the cemetery. He added some large sheets of paper, charcoals, already threaded silk needles, and a jar of camphor from the kitchens. He placed his things next to the other students’ bags and made one last check that he had everything he needed.

Next he began his transformation.

Taking great care, he stuffed his nostrils with cotton, then shaved his downy beard and hid his hair beneath a cap he’d borrowed. He looked at himself in the dull bronze mirror and felt satisfied; it wasn’t a huge change, but every little bit would help.

He felt a pang of nerves as he ran to join the other students, putting on his gloves as he went.

When Ming caught sight of him, he shook his head.

“Where on earth have you been? And what’s that in your nose?”

Cí said he’d prepared the cotton with camphor to help him stand the stench of a corpse. That was why he was late.

“I’m disappointed in you,” said Ming, pointing to a stray lock of hair poking out from Cí’s cap.

Cí didn’t answer, but just hung his head and joined the others. Gray Fox looked immaculate.

It didn’t take long to reach the magnificent walled prefecture headquarters. Situated between the principal canals on Imperial Square, it took up the ground space of at least four normal buildings. It stood out pristine and enormous against the ramshackle buildings and market stalls. It also had something of a dead, desolate air. All of Lin’an knew and feared the place, but Cí perhaps more so than anyone.

When it came into sight, he couldn’t help but shudder. He pulled the cap down over his temples and wrapped his robes around him. Once they were all inside, Cí tried to hide by staying close behind Gray Fox, and only when they came to the Room of the Dead did he dare to raise his head. The camphor didn’t seem to help much; the smell of death was everywhere.

It was an oppressive room with barely enough space for everyone. To one side there was a small basin fed by a water pipe, and in the middle, the corpse, which reeked. A gaunt guard came in through the opposite doors to announce the arrival of the prefect and to give them the basic details of the case. It was a complicated case, he said, and one that required the utmost discretion: A man of about forty with a ruddy complexion had been found floating in the canal two days earlier by someone working one of the sluice gates. The corpse had been fully clothed and carrying a flask of liquor, but he had no identification card and had not been carrying any personal effects or items of value. His clothes indicated his office, but the guard wasn’t permitted to divulge which office at this point. An examination had been carried out the night before under the relevant judge’s supervision, but his conclusions also needed to remain secret.

Ming stepped forward and picked the three pairs who would be carrying out the examination. Each team would have an hour to draw its conclusions, and Ming would track time using incense sticks. He reminded them about taking notes, which they’d need for their summary. First up would be two Cantonese brothers who were experts in literary studies, then a pair advanced in the study of law, and finally Gray Fox and Cí.

Gray Fox complained that they’d be at a disadvantage if the others had already handled the body, but Cí wasn’t worried about that. The other pairs, being less versed in anatomy, would be unlikely to touch the body very much anyway, and he and Gray Fox would have the advantage of observing the first two before their own examination. Taking out his paper, brush, and ink bottle, Cí prepared to take notes.

Ming lit the first incense stick. The Cantonese brothers bowed and removed the cloth covering the corpse, but before they could begin, there was a crash behind them. Everyone turned to see a shattered ink bottle and a pool of dark ink spilling across the floor. It was Cí’s ink. He was sitting exactly as he had been—one hand still positioned as if holding the ink bottle, the other holding his brush—and staring at the corpse. There, on the examination table, lay the body of Sheriff Kao.