The Corpse Reader

33

Cí woke in a dimly lit cell with several filthy inmates, one of whom was on top of him, digging through his clothes as if to find a priceless treasure. Cí shoved the man off and sat up to get his bearings. There was something wet in his eyes. Blood, he realized, touching a hand to his sticky forehead. The ragged man jumped back on top of him, but a guard appeared out of nowhere and dragged the man off before hauling Cí to his feet. Cí, dazed, looked at the guard gratefully, but then the guard punched him across the face, knocking him to the floor.

“On your feet!” the guard ordered. Alongside him stood a giant of a man holding a club.

“He said get up!” said the man, hitting him with the truncheon.

Though he didn’t feel the pain of the blow, and though he had no idea what was going on, Cí obeyed, bracing himself against the wall. Why had he been locked up, and why on earth was he being beaten like this? He began asking the men, but another blow came at him, this time to his stomach. He doubled over, winded.

Cí peered at them through the blood that had run down into his eyes. He could barely breathe. He wanted to ask for an explanation, but instead the first guard had a question for him: “Who did you have helping you?”

“Helping me do what?” he said, tasting blood as it dripped into his mouth.

Another blow with the club opened a cut in his cheek. Cí crumpled at the impact and fell to his knees.

“It’s up to you: Tell us what we need to know now, and you can keep your teeth. Either that or we’ll knock them out and you’ll be on a porridge diet until they decide when to string you up.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! Ask at the palace; I work for Kan!”

“You work for a dead man?” Another blow brought blood gushing from his mouth. “Well, then you can ask him yourself—in Hell!”

When he came to again, someone was tenderly cleaning his head wounds. Through his blurry eyes, he saw that it was Bo.

“Wh…what’s going on?” asked Cí.

Bo dragged him along the floor over to a wall, far from where anyone could hear. His face was etched with concern.

“What do you mean, what’s happening? My God! You’re all anyone’s talking about at court. You’re accused of Kan’s murder!”

Cí blinked, trying to take this in. Bo dabbed at the blood on his forehead and gave him a sip of water. Cí gulped it down thirstily.

“They…they were beating me.”

“I can see that! They almost killed you,” he said, examining Cí’s wounds. “Kan’s body was examined this morning by Gray Fox, and in his view, it can’t have been suicide. There was some fortune-teller with him who was willing to testify that you’d also killed some sheriff.” Bo shook his head. “It’s this Gray Fox who’s accused you, but it’s the emperor himself who ordered your arrest.”

“But this is insane! You have to get me out of here. Feng knows—”

“Shh! The guards will hear.”

“Ask Feng,” hissed Cí. “He knows it wasn’t me.”

“You mean you’ve spoken with Judge Feng? What did you tell him?”

“The truth! Someone drugged Kan and hanged him.” Cí buried his head in his hands.

“And that was all? You didn’t say anything about the room with the bronze maker’s studio remains?”

“What about the room? What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Did you mention it to him or not?”

“Yes. No! Gods, I can’t remember!”

“Damn it, Cí. If you’re determined to be unhelpful, it will be a struggle to help you. You have to tell me everything.”

“I have already.”

“Stop playing dumb!” Bo threw the water glass to the floor, smashing it, and was silent for a few moments. “Sorry,” he said. “Listen, Cí. You have to be completely honest with me. Are you sure you had nothing to do with Kan’s death?”

“Of course I’m sure! What is it you want me to say?” he shouted. “That I killed him? On my parents’ graves, no, but these animals are going to kill me whether I did it or not.”

“Fine, have it your way,” said Bo, getting to his feet. “Guards!” The door opened immediately, and Bo left the cell.

Cí curled up on the floor. He couldn’t understand why Bo seemed to think he was lying about Kan. He couldn’t think straight. A deep tiredness consumed him, and soon enough he fell asleep.

When he woke, he didn’t know what time of day it was, but he knew his shirt had been stolen. He glanced around, but none of the other prisoners were wearing it. He had no energy to try and look for it, and he crouched in the corner feeling ashamed, as always, at the scars and burns on his torso. After a moment, another prisoner came over and offered him a blanket. Cí accepted, and when he glanced over at the man, he noticed familiar marks on his face. When Cí peered closer, the man recoiled, confused. But Cí saw they were exactly the same kind of scars as those on the corpse of which he’d had the portrait made.

“What are they from?” Cí asked, gesturing to the tiny scars.

“It was New Year’s,” said the man when he realized Cí meant no harm. “I was…stealing from a rich home. Food. I was hungry. I was going through crates in the pantry, when all of a sudden, boom, they went off in my face! Just exploded.”

Cí nodded for the man to continue.

“Fireworks! I was using a candle to see. Somehow I managed to light one. Never expected fireworks in the pantry…They nearly blinded me!”

Cí peered closer, shaking his head. The marks really were exactly the same. He wanted to ask if he’d ever met anyone else who had suffered the same injury, when two guards entered. The man moved quickly away, leaving Cí cowering.

“Up!” they said, but he was so weak they had to help him.

He shuffled behind them down a hallway so dark it felt as if they were at the bottom of a mine shaft. They came to a rusty old door, and when one of the guards stepped forward and knocked, Cí was gripped by a sudden certainty that this was his end. The door’s creaking hinges sounded like a death sentence. He had a brief thought of attacking his captors to try and get away, but he had no energy to do anything of the kind. When they stepped through the door, the light blinded him, and it took a moment before he could see there was a person standing in front of him.

No…Could it be?

“Feng?” He fell forward into his old master’s arms.

After the doctor left, saying Cí was lucky to be alive and instructing him to rest, Feng came and sat down on the bed beside him. It was Feng’s own bed; he had insisted Cí be cared for in his private chamber.

“Those bastards,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to you sooner. I thought I’d gotten up early enough to see the emperor before anyone else could, but that Gray Fox fellow was there even earlier. It seems he came to the same conclusion as you about Kan’s not killing himself, but it’s also clear he’s not very fond of you. He was so vehement in his accusations that they alone were enough to convince the emperor you killed Kan! He also had some flea-ridden fortune-teller with him, and there was some story about a sheriff you’re supposed to have killed?”

“But—but I solved Kan’s case!”

“That was partly what helped me get you free. I assured the emperor that only yesterday you had told me the very same details Gray Fox had brought up—the dresser, the marks on the rope, the confession note—and that we were going to tell him everything this morning. It wasn’t easy to convince him, though. He made me swear on my name, and my honor, and only then did he say I could keep you in my custody. The trial’s tomorrow.”

“The trial? So he didn’t believe you?”

Feng sighed. “Gray Fox has done everything to find motives and condemn you. He found out that the emperor had offered you a place in the administration if you solved the case, and his argument was that killing Kan was the simplest way for you to do just that. And that you’re the only one who benefits from Kan’s death. Then there’s this fortune-teller.”

“That man’s a liar! You know full well—”

“It doesn’t matter what I know. What matters is they currently believe Gray Fox. And I’m finding it hard to think of evidence, hard evidence, to prove your innocence. And apparently there are a number of witnesses who saw the two of you arguing recently—including the emperor.”

Cí grimaced. His head was pounding. Feng left him to rest for a while, and he fell asleep in a whirl of fear. In his dreams, Lu kept appearing.

Waking to voices outside the window, Cí staggered over and braced himself against the ledge. He was so unsteady he thought he should lie down again, but then he saw two figures crouched down in the foliage. They glanced around nervously and spoke in sharp whispers. He couldn’t make out actual words, but the tone was clearly accusatory. Carefully and quietly, he got on his tiptoes to peer through the plants and trees to try and see who was there. He could hardly believe it, but the two figures in the bushes were Bo and Blue Iris.

He went back over to the bed and lay down again, trying to clear his head, trying to figure out some way through the labyrinth he was stuck in. All he knew for certain, for now, was that Feng was the one person he could definitely trust. Several minutes later, there was a knock at the door, and in stepped Blue Iris.

“How are you feeling?” she asked coldly.

Cí said nothing. Blue Iris stood in the doorway looking impassive, emotionless, as if they hardly knew each other, before walking over to the bedside table and putting down a tray with a pot of tea and a cup. Her hands were trembling.

“Me?” he said. “I’m fine.”

She began to pour a cup of tea.

“Oh, something I’ve been meaning to ask: How do you know Bo?”

She almost dropped the teapot.

“Sorry,” she stammered, mopping up the spilled liquid. “That happens,” she said, gesturing at her eyes to indicate her blindness. “Bo? I don’t think I know anyone by that name.”

Cí said nothing more; he was going to need every advantage he could get.

“We haven’t had a chance to talk about the other night,” said Cí.

“What about it?”

“Sleeping together. Though I suppose it’s nothing out of the ordinary for you.”

She went to slap him, but he caught her wrist.

“Let go,” she cried. “I’ll scream!”

Cí let go just as Feng walked through the door calling Cí’s name. Blue Iris cleared her throat as she moved away from the bed.

“I spilled the tea,” she explained.

Feng seemed oblivious to any tension. He simply helped his wife wipe up the tea and then held the door for her, seeing she got out all right. When she’d gone, Feng said Cí looked much improved, but he was still concerned; the trial the next day was only getting closer, and he hadn’t been able to figure out anything in terms of Cí’s defense.

It occurred to Cí to mention Bo’s and Blue Iris’s encounter, but he was sure that would only make it more likely Feng would find out that Cí had slept with his wife.

Feng put aside his own worry to reassure Cí. “Try to be calm. Think of the lake during the storm: its surface will be ruffled by the rain and wind, but there’s stillness far down in the depths.”

Cí looked in Feng’s old eyes and found courage there. Then he shut his eyes and sought deep within himself the self-possession he knew he needed.

When he opened his eyes, he told Feng he was certain about one thing: It would be a mistake to let the whole case center on Kan alone. The real enigma still lay in the other murders, or, rather, what might link them together. The eunuch, the old man with the corroded hands, the young man of whom he’d had the portrait made, the bronze maker. There must be a connection more substantial than just the perfume and the strange wounds in their torsos. But he still hadn’t found it.

Suddenly, everything around him disappeared. The room seemed to go dark. In his mind’s eye, the four corpses stepped forward in turn.

First he saw Soft Dolphin, whom he imagined bent over the salt trade accounts, the same work Cí’s father had carried out under Feng. The eunuch was making notes of consignments, surpluses, distribution, costs. At some point he came across something that didn’t add up. And after that, the accounts changed and profits began to fall.

Next, the man with the corroded hands and the tattoo. Salt corrosion. Cí imagined him with his hands thrust into a pile of the pulverized mineral. But he’d also found fragments of carbon under his nails, hadn’t he? So he must have worked with both products…mixing them together skillfully, with all the care of a Taoist alchemist.

Then the portrait man, whose wounds were the same as those of the prisoner who’d had fireworks go off in his face.

The last image was of the bronze maker, whose workshop had gone up in flames on the night he was killed. And there was that mysterious mold for a scepter. A bronze scepter…

Cí’s mind lit up.

That was it! Salt, carbon, an explosion—he saw the link! The ingredients of an unusual and dangerous compound.

His heart was pounding.

“Feng!” he said excitedly, getting up from the bed and throwing on some clothes. “The key isn’t whatever weapon the murderer used; it isn’t the perfume used to cover up the smell! The corpses weren’t disfigured only to hide their identities; it was also to hide their jobs! It’s their jobs that hold the key!”

“Slow down, slow down,” said Feng. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“Gunpowder! That’s the key!”

“Gunpowder?” Feng looked quizzical. “For fireworks at New Year? What on earth could that have to do with anything?”

“How could I have missed this?” said Cí. He sat back down on the bed and started to explain everything.

“I came across a treatise named the Ujingzongyao while I was at the academy. It’s all about wounds inflicted on combatants. Do you know it?”

“Never heard of it,” said Feng.

“Ming said it probably wasn’t very well known. It was commissioned by Emperor Renzong and compiled at the Zeong Gongliang and Ding Du Universities, and it was only meant for military eyes. Now that I think of it, I remember Ming saying something about the current emperor prohibiting further editions, yet neither of us could figure out why. Anyway—”

“And it has something to do with these murders?”

“Yes! Well, maybe. I remember there was a chapter about the possible military applications of gunpowder.”

“As in…rockets?”

“No, not exactly. Rockets aren’t much more than arrows with a bit of propulsion in their tail; they can go farther than a normal arrow, but try aiming them at a target! No, this chapter talked about something far more lethal.” Cí pictured the illustrations from the Ujingzongyao. “Renzong’s artillerymen found a way of using gunpowder in bronze rather than bamboo cannons. Before, they’d only been able to shoot bits of leather, grapeshot, excrement, that kind of thing; but the bronze meant they could send up rocks, boulders even, and in that way knock down battlements and so on. At the same time, the Taoist alchemists discovered that changing the proportions of the gunpowder—upping the amount of nitrate, I think—made a much bigger and more efficient explosion.”

“OK…” said Feng.

“If I had the book here I could be more precise, but I do remember, yes, there were three types of gunpowder they used: incendiary, explosive, and propulsive, and it all depended on the proportions of sulfur, carbon, and saltpeter.”

Feng looked bemused.

“Don’t you see?” said Cí. “The scepter isn’t a scepter at all; it’s the most awful kind of weapon! It’s like a cannon, but one you can carry around!”

“What scepter?”

“Sorry,” said Cí, and he explained to Feng about the mold from the wreckage at the bronze maker’s workshop, the positive he’d made from it, and how he’d thought, until now, that it was some kind of scepter. “Now everything makes sense. The unusual wounds on the corpses; the strange pockmarks on the face of one and on the hands of another. Some kind of hand cannon did all this!”

“It would explain a lot,” said Feng, truly stunned. “And if we can present the mold in the trial—”

“I don’t have it anymore. It was in my room, but someone came in and stole it.”

“Here? In my house?”

Cí nodded. Feng pursed his lips.

“But luckily,” said Cí, “I’ve still got the plaster positive I made. It’s at the academy.” He took the key from around his neck and handed it to Feng. “I must stay and write my defense. I hate to ask, but can you get it? It’s in Ming’s quarters. A servant named Sui knows where. I’ll write a note to Sui authorizing him to give it to you.”

Feng nodded. “I’ll go later,” he promised. As he headed out, he turned to Cí with a smile. “Try and get some rest.”

Cí let out a massive sigh. This nightmare he’d been living finally felt like it was ending.

Having written the notes for his defense as well as a note authorizing Feng to retrieve the plaster cast, Cí tried to relax. But to no avail. He couldn’t get Blue Iris out of his mind. Seeing her with Bo had sparked all kinds of questions. If the two of them were collaborating, it was very likely she had ordered the mold to be stolen and that Bo was the accomplice she’d needed for all the murders.

Cí felt his pulse quicken. Though he now had the plaster positive of the hand cannon as a part of his defense, he still felt danger was all around him.

While he waited for Feng to return, he asked a servant to bring him the copy of the Ingmingji, Ming’s book on judicial processes, from his room. Given that he was going to have to defend himself in the court, he thought he should read up on similar cases.

The servant brought the book, and Cí skipped straight to the part about legal disputes. Ming had compiled lawsuits representative of every area of law: the first two-thirds of the book were taken up with inheritance disputes, divorces, commercial transactions, and disagreements over boundaries, but the last third was exclusively about prominent penal cases—notable either for the significance of the crime itself or for the brilliance of the judge’s argument. These were the cases that interested Cí. Ming had provided extremely clear commentaries on the progress of each of the cases—beginning with a brief overview of the crime and continuing with the full crime report, the judge’s investigations, any further fieldwork, the judgment and sentencing, and then any appeals and details of the execution of the sentence. Just as any attempt on the emperor’s life—or the lives of any in his retinue—was punishable by death, so were arms trafficking offenses. This did little to calm Cí.

As he was running through these summaries, he came to one that stopped him cold:

An account of the inquiry carried out by the right honorable Judge Feng on the slaughter of a country peasant in a rice field and the surprising resolution of the case through the observation of flies around a sickle. Date: third moon of the seventh month, thirteenth year of the reign of Xiaozong.

Cí checked the date again. He couldn’t believe it.

In the account, Feng, then a new member of the judiciary, had won wide acclaim for the shrewdness he’d demonstrated in a case—a case that was all too familiar to Cí. The criminal had been flushed out from dozens of suspects by lining up all their sickles in the sun, placing a slab of meat nearby to attract a swarm of flies, and shooing them so that they flew over and gathered around the one sickle that had blood on it.

Cí shut the book. He felt as though demons had taken up residence inside him, and his hands trembled violently. Xiaozong was the current emperor’s grandfather, and in the thirteenth year of his reign, Cí worked out, Feng would have been thirty. But this account was exactly the same as his brother’s case. An exact replica.

His vision went blurry.

He read the case through again, all the while asking himself how he could have been so stupid. How could he not have seen it? His brother had been found guilty not because of the chance appearance of a swarm of flies, nor because of Feng’s astuteness. On the contrary, thought Cí. The whole thing must have been a setup. Someone had used the exact same strategy before. And that someone was Feng.

But why?

Thinking Feng must still be somewhere in the pavilion, Cí headed out to find him. But when he came to the exit, a servant he hadn’t seen there before blocked his way. Cí could see the man was a foreigner, and he looked familiar, but it took him a few moments to remember—he was the same Mongol aide who had accompanied Feng when he came to the village.

The Mongol stood in front of Cí. “Master says you are to stay here,” he said.

Cí knew that even if he were at full strength he wouldn’t have a chance against the well-built Mongol.

He went back to Feng’s room and shut the door behind him. Then he went over to the window. Two sentries had been posted outside, and he didn’t think he’d survive the jump anyway. Not in his state.

Aside from the desk and the bamboo sofa, all Feng’s room had in it was books. Pacing around, Cí saw that not all of them were on legal matters, though. One corner was dedicated entirely to books on salt. He knew Feng had left the judiciary to concentrate on bureaucratic tasks related to salt, and he also knew, of course, that Blue Iris’s family business was salt export, but such a collection of writing on one subject suggested far more than a merely professional interest. Cí took a closer look. Most of the books were on extraction processes, possible applications of the substance, and commerce, and there were a few on salt as a seasoning, for preservation, and in medicine. There was one book with a green cover that stood out to Cí, and when he pulled it off the shelf and saw the title, he could hardly believe it: it was the Ujingzongyao, the book on military techniques about which he’d told Feng just moments before—and about which Feng had claimed to have no knowledge. He ran a finger along the book spines until he came to one that was jutting out slightly. Cí wondered if this meant Feng had consulted it recently, and he decided to have a look.

At the very first paragraph, his blood froze. In fact, it was nothing but a list of accounts detailing the buying and selling of consignments of salt, but it was the handwriting, the distinctive style of the calligraphy, that caused Cí to shudder. He could have written it himself. But he knew that wasn’t the case. The name and the signature at the end of each balance sheet were not his own, but his father’s.

He went on reading the accounts, barely knowing what he was doing.

They went back over a five-year period. In fact, they contained the exact same numbers as the volume he’d consulted in the finance archives. This was some kind of parallel account, identical to the original. Cí closed the volume and ran his fingers over the page edges. Most of the pages were closed tightly together, but two parts of the book were less so—the parts Cí thought must have been consulted most often. He opened the book at the first of these sections, finding the numbers there had to do with the same strange fluctuations he’d found originally in Soft Dolphin’s file. He went to the other well-thumbed section, examined the numbers closely, and found that the pattern was similar, with profits dropping to an all-time low. From that day on, it was no longer Cí’s father’s signature on the pages, but Soft Dolphin’s.

He squeezed his eyes shut so tightly that he felt as if his eyeballs were going to burst. What could it all mean? He went over the numbers again but couldn’t understand.

Suddenly there was a noise behind him; he hurriedly tried to return the book to its place but dropped it in his nervousness. In the very same instant that Cí picked the book up off the floor and slotted it back in place, Feng came in carrying a tray of fruit. Although Feng didn’t seem to have noticed his hurried movement, Cí saw to his horror that a page had fallen from the book. With his foot, he slid it under the base of the bookshelf.

“Have you finished your notes?” asked Feng from the far end of the room.

“Not quite,” lied Cí, hurrying over to the desk and stuffing the authorization he’d written into his sleeve. He began writing again, but Feng noticed that he was trembling.

“Has something happened?”

“Nerves,” he said. “The trial.” He rewrote the authorization for Feng to give to Sui and handed it to Feng.

“Here, have some fruit,” said Feng. “And I’ll go and get the plaster hand cannon.”

On his way out, he stopped to ask again if Cí was all right. Cí murmured that he was.

As Feng turned again to leave, shrugging, Cí noticed that something had caught his eye—something in the library. Feng went straight over to the shelf where Cí had been. Alarmed, Cí noticed that the sheet he’d tried to hide was poking out from under the bookshelf. Surely that was what had drawn Feng’s attention. But Feng lifted his hand to the book itself. Cí held his breath. The book was upside down. Feng frowned and put it back the right way up, leaving it, as before, jutting out a little from the rest. Then he bid Cí farewell and went out.

Once he was sure Feng wasn’t coming back in, Cí went straight over and picked up the fallen piece of paper. He found it wasn’t a page from the book, but rather a letter Feng must have slipped in there. Its stamp was his father’s, from their village. He unfolded it and began reading.

Dear Feng,

Though there are still two years left of my mourning period, I wanted to let you know of my strong desire to return immediately and serve under you again. As I’ve said in previous letters, Cí is keen to take up his studies at the university, a wish I share.

In the name of both your honor and my own, I cannot accept being accused of these disgraceful actions. I am innocent. Nor will I stay in this village and leave you to endure or try to cover up these rumors of embezzlement. They who accuse me of corruption are themselves ignominious, and I am not afraid of them. I am innocent and want to prove it.

As luck would have it, I kept copies of the irregularities in your accounts. These constitute clear refutations of the accusations.

There’s no need for you to come to the village. If, as you say, you are against my returning to Lin’an because you want to protect me, I beg of you, permit me to return so that I can bring this evidence forward and defend my own name.

Your humble servant.

Cí was utterly dumbfounded.

Cí’s father believed himself innocent; Feng knew that Cí’s father believed himself innocent. But when Cí had told Feng about the university’s refusal to issue him a Certificate of Aptitude because of his father’s dishonor, Feng had acted as though Cí’s father had been guilty.

Cí took a deep breath, trying to get clear what might in fact have happened during Feng’s visit to the village. If his father had his mind set on going back to Lin’an, why the change? What kind of terrible pressure would have been exerted for him to renounce his honor and accept the charges? Why did Feng even come to the village after Cí’s father had said not to? And how did Lu’s conviction fit into it?

The main thing Cí felt was regret. He’d distrusted his own father at the first opportunity. He felt himself, not his father, to be the real disgrace. A small cry escaped him.

Hateful thoughts threatened to swallow him up, but he tried to remain calm. What was Feng’s role in all of this? He knew that this man, who had recently treated him like a son, was in fact a miserable traitor—that much was clear—but he still hadn’t worked out Feng’s exact place in the labyrinth.

Getting to his feet, putting the folded letter away in an inside pocket, he started looking for answers.

First he searched Feng’s room from top to bottom—on shelves, behind paintings, under carpets—looking for other documents or anything else that might be of use, but he found nothing. Then he went over to the desk. The top drawers contained mainly writing materials, stamps, and blank paper. Nothing of interest—except for a drawstring pouch containing a small amount of black powder. Cí sniffed it and sneezed: gunpowder. A lower drawer was locked. He thought about smashing it but, not wanting to leave any marks, opted to remove the drawer above it and reach down through the gap. He found a wooden panel in the way. He looked around the room, his eyes alighting on the serrated fruit knife Feng had brought. He managed to saw a hole in the panel and squeezed his hand through this. His finger brushed against some kind of fragments. He thrust his hand further in, tilted the desk back so that the pieces would roll into his hand, and pulled them out. Here was another thing he could barely believe: In his palm lay pieces of ceramic, exactly the same green ceramic as the pieces stolen from his room. Among them was a tiny globe of stone covered in dried blood, and this was what truly astonished him.

He tried to leave everything exactly as he’d found it, then slipped out, taking the evidence from the drawer and the trial book hidden in his pockets and sleeves.

Safely back in his own room with the door shut, Cí took out everything he’d brought from Feng’s room and began examining them.

The remnants of the mold weren’t new to him, but on closer inspection he saw that the little stone globe that had been among them had small wooden splinters stuck in it. Its surface was cracked, as if it had undergone some kind of impact. His heart leaped. He hurried over to his tools and equipment, where he had the other objects he’d been collecting during the investigation, and took out the small bag containing the splinters he’d found in the wound of the man with the corroded hands. His own hands trembled as he held these shards up against the little globe. The splinters completed it. There was no mistake: They were of a piece.

For one brief moment, he thought he had sufficient evidence to unmask Feng in front of the emperor. But Feng was no amateur. As he now knew all too well, Feng was capable of manipulation of the highest order. It was possible he also had enough cruelty to murder several people. Moreover, Cí had already shown Feng all his cards. He needed more evidence. He needed help.

Who can I turn to?

Blue Iris…He still didn’t know where Blue Iris fit into the puzzle, but at that moment she seemed like his only possible chance.

He found her sitting in the salon. She looked relaxed, her gaze in some far-off place only she knew; a cream-colored cat purred in her lap. Hearing Cí come in, she let the cat jump down and turned her head in his direction. Her grayish eyes looked more beautiful to him than ever.

“Do you mind if I join you?” he asked.

She gestured to the divan across from her.

“Have you recovered?”

“I’m much better,” he said. “But there’s something I’m much more worried about than my health. And I think it should be of concern to you, too.”

“Go on,” she said, emotionlessly.

“I saw you with Bo. This morning, in the gardens. I have to presume you were discussing something very serious for you to lie to me about not even knowing him.”

“I see!” she shot back at him. “Not content with spying, now you dare to accuse as well! You should be ashamed. Since the moment you turned up in this house, all we’ve had from you is one lie after another.”

Cí went quiet; this had gotten off to a bad start. His instinct was still that Blue Iris was the only person he could trust. He apologized for being so forthright, but he was desperate, he said.

“Strange as it might seem, my life is in your hands. I really need to know what you and Bo were talking about.”

“And why would I want to help you? Lies, lies, and more lies, that’s all I know about you. Now Bo accuses you and—”

“Bo?”

“Well, in a way,” she said, and then went quiet.

“Tell me what happened!” he implored, getting to his feet. “Don’t you understand? It’s my life that’s being played with here!”

“Bo said…Bo told me…” She was trembling now like a frightened child.

“What?” shouted Cí, shaking her by the shoulders. “What did he tell you?”

“He suspects Feng!” At this, she covered her face and broke down.

Cí let go of her. It was the best answer he could have hoped for, but he didn’t know what to do with it.

He sat down next to Blue Iris and wanted to embrace her, but something stopped him.

“Iris…Feng is not a good person. You should—”

“And what do you know about good people?” She turned her teary eyes in his direction. “Were you the one who stood by me when the world rejected me? Who nursed me and looked after me all these years? No. You had me for a night, and suddenly you think that gives you the right to order me around. Just like all the rest! Get you in bed, treat you like a dog. No! You don’t know Feng. He’s cared for me. There’s no way he could have done all the terrible things Bo was saying…” She broke down again.

It upset Cí to see her like this, and he imagined that perhaps her pain, which had everything to do with questioning someone she trusted, was somewhat similar to his own.

“Feng isn’t who he says he is. And it’s not only me who’s in danger. Unless you help me, you will be, too.”

“Me, help you? Wake up, Cí!” Her eyes, bursting with desperation, glanced from side to side. “I’m a blind, ill-fated, old whore—how can I possibly help you?”

“All I need is for you to come to the trial tomorrow and testify. Just be brave and tell the truth.”

“That’s all?” she said bitterly. “It’s easy to be brave when you’re young and you’ve got two seeing eyes! Do you know what I am, really? I’m nothing! Without Feng, I’m absolutely nothing.”

“As much as you might want to ignore it, the truth will always be the truth.”

“Which truth? Your truth? Because the truth for me is that I need him. That he’s looked after me. What husband doesn’t get it wrong sometimes? Who’s perfect? You, perhaps?”

“Damn it, Iris! These aren’t any old mistakes we’re talking about here. We’re talking about murder!”

She shook her head and began murmuring incomprehensibly. He knew he’d get nowhere by pressuring her.

“I can’t make you do anything,” he said. “It’s up to you. You can come to the trial tomorrow, or you can tell Feng everything when he gets back. But nothing you do will change the truth. The reality is that Feng’s a criminal. And your action, or inaction, will follow you wherever you go, your whole life—if being by that man’s side is what you call a life.”

He got up to leave, but Blue Iris grabbed his arm.

“Do you know what, Cí? You’re right. Feng knows an infinite number of ways for a person to die. And be sure that you’re going to experience the worst of them, when it’s time for him to have you killed.”