2. The Last Testament

The apothecary’s shop on East Market Street was a narrow, dim place, its wooden shelves cluttered with ceramic jars and dried bundles of roots that hung from the ceiling like disembodied fingers. The old apothecary, a bent man with milky eyes named Gui Shou, had known the Zhang family for three decades. He took the silk pouch that Yuanlong offered, unfolded it carefully, and held the stained cloth to his nose. Then he scraped a few drops of the dried liquid into a small bronze dish, added a pinch of powdered vermilion, and watched the color change under the morning light.

Gui Shou’s face grew solemn. “Master Zhang, this broth contains more than angelica and ginger. There is a distinct trace of monkshood—very fine, very well-ground. Not enough to kill quickly, but enough to weaken the lungs and mimic a wasting illness over weeks. If taken daily, it would slowly suffocate a man from within.”

Yuanlong’s breath caught. Monkshood was not a common herb; it grew in the high mountains of the southwest and was used by hunters to coat their arrow tips. To find it in his father’s medicinal broth meant deliberate intent. “Who in this city would have access to such a thing?” he asked.

Gui Shou shook his head. “I do not sell it. No reputable apothecary does—it is too dangerous. But there is a man in the western ward, a travelling trader from the Shu region, who deals in rare toxins for pest control and veterinary use. His name is Liao Wu. He keeps a stall near the Temple of the City God.”

Yuanlong thanked the apothecary with a silver coin and left, his mind racing. He did not go to Liao Wu directly—that would be too conspicuous. Instead, he returned home through the back alleys, avoiding the main streets where his brother’s servants might spot him. The morning market was bustling with fishmongers and vegetable sellers, their calls filling the air like a cacophony of birds. But Yuanlong heard none of it. His ears were tuned only to the echo of Gui Shou’s words: slow suffocation. Someone in his own household had been feeding his father poison, day after day, while he was away.

He entered the compound through the kitchen gate. The cook, a stout woman named Auntie Wu, was kneading dough for the morning flatbreads. She looked up and bowed, flour dusting her apron. “Master Yuanlong, you are early. Shall I prepare your breakfast?”

“No need,” he said, his voice level. “Where is my wife?”

“Madam Suo is still in her chambers. She said she felt unwell last night and asked not to be disturbed until the third hour.”

Yuanlong nodded and walked toward the western courtyard where his wife’s rooms were. He had not seen her since his return—the servants had said she was resting, but now he wondered if it was rest or avoidance. He knocked on the door. There was a rustle inside, then a soft voice: “Enter.”

Suo Fahui sat on a low couch by the window, a book of poetry open on her lap. She was dressed in a simple robe of pale lavender, her hair loosely pinned. She looked thinner than when he had left, her cheekbones more prominent, her eyes shadowed with sleeplessness. She rose and bowed, a formal gesture that felt strange between husband and wife. “Yuanlong, you are back. I am sorry I did not greet you at the gate—I have been suffering from a persistent headache and a cough. The physician prescribed rest.”

He stepped closer and took her hand. It was cold. “I went to see Father last night,” he said gently. “His medicine—who prepares it each evening?”

Suo Fahui’s eyes flickered, a tiny motion that might have been surprise or might have been fear. “I do. I have been making his decoctions myself since the second physician recommended a special blend. The servants are too careless, and Mother is too old to manage the boiling times. Why do you ask?”

“Because the broth contains monkshood,” Yuanlong said, watching her face. “A slow poison. Did you know?”

The color drained from her cheeks. For a long moment, she said nothing. Then she pulled her hand away and turned toward the window, her back to him. “Monkshood? That is impossible. I use only the herbs prescribed by Doctor Fang—angelica, ginger, licorice, and a small amount of astragalus. I have been measuring each dose with the utmost care. Someone must have added something after I left the kitchen.”

Yuanlong studied her posture. Her shoulders were tense, her fingers gripping the edge of the windowsill. She was frightened, but was it the fear of being accused, or the fear of a conspiracy she had not known about? He had known his wife for twelve years; she had borne him two children, managed his household accounts, and never once given him reason to doubt her loyalty. But twelve years did not guarantee trust—not when a fortune and a house were at stake.

“Tell me everything,” he said, keeping his voice calm. “Every step—from the purchase of the herbs to the delivery of the bowl to Father’s bedchamber.”

She turned back, her eyes glistening. “I buy the herbs from the same shop we have used for years—Old Wang’s Herbal on South Street. I bring them home, grind them myself, and wrap each dose in paper. Then I give the packets to Auntie Wu, who boils them in the kitchen. After boiling, she strains the liquid into a ceramic pot, and I personally carry it to Father’s room every evening. The only other person who touches it is the night servant, who heats it if Father is asleep and it grows cold.”

Yuanlong mentally reviewed each link in the chain. Old Wang’s Herbal—a reputable shop. Auntie Wu—a long-standing servant with no apparent grudge. The night servant—a young man named Xiao Liu, hired only three months ago, recommended by his brother Yuanqing. That last detail caught his attention like a burr in his sleeve.

“Xiao Liu—did my brother hire him?” he asked.

Suo Fahui nodded slowly. “Yes. Yuanqing said his previous master had dismissed him unfairly, and he asked for a chance to earn his keep. I saw no harm in it.”

Yuanlong said nothing. He took the porcelain jar he had found in his father’s room from his sleeve and placed it on the table. “I found this on the bedchamber table last night. Do you recognize it?”

She picked it up, uncorked it, and sniffed the white powder inside. Her face went pale again. “This is fine almond powder—but I did not put it there. I never use almonds in Father’s medicine. They would cause indigestion.”

“Almond powder,” Yuanlong repeated. “Freshly ground. Sweetish. In large doses, it can cause cyanosis and death from respiratory failure—another slow poison. Who would have access to almonds in the household?”

“The kitchen, of course,” she said. “We have a sack of bitter almonds for pastry-making. Auntie Wu keeps it locked in the pantry, but the key is on a hook by the stove. Anyone could take a handful.”

Yuanlong took the jar back and tucked it into his sleeve. “I am going to question Auntie Wu. And then I am going to dismiss Xiao Liu. Stay in your chambers today—do not speak to anyone about this conversation. If you are innocent, time will prove it. If you are not…” He left the sentence unfinished, but he saw her flinch.

He left the room and walked to the kitchen. Auntie Wu was now rolling out dough, her strong arms working in a steady rhythm. He dismissed the other servants and closed the door. “Auntie Wu,” he said, “I trust you have served this family for twenty years. Tell me—has anyone asked you to add anything unusual to my father’s broth? Any extra herbs, any powder, anything at all?”

The cook’s hands stopped. She looked at him with wide, honest eyes. “Master Yuanlong, I swear by my ancestors—I have never added anything except what Madam Suo gives me in the paper packets. But there was one night, about ten days ago, when Xiao Liu came to the kitchen and said he needed hot water for the master’s bath. He lingered near the stove while the broth was simmering. I thought nothing of it at the time, but now that you ask…”

Yuanlong felt the pieces clicking into place. Xiao Liu—hired by Yuanqing—had access to the kitchen, to the heating process, and to the bedchamber at night. He could easily have added a pinch of monkshood powder to the hot liquid while Auntie Wu’s back was turned. And the almond powder jar—perhaps a second attempt, or perhaps a decoy.

He thanked Auntie Wu and went to the servants’ quarters, but Xiao Liu was not there. A stable boy said he had left at dawn with a message for the county magistrate’s office—a summons for Yuanlong to appear that afternoon. The coincidence was too sharp. Yuanlong knew that his brother was moving faster than he had anticipated.

He returned to his study and sat down, spreading out a sheet of paper. He wrote a letter to a trusted friend in the county archive, asking for any records of Liao Wu the Shu trader—and any connections to the Zhang household. He sealed it with his personal chop and gave it to a loyal servant who had been with him since childhood. Then he prepared himself for the afternoon meeting.

At the second hour of the afternoon, Yuanlong arrived at the county yamen. It was a stately building with curved eaves and red-lacquered pillars, its walls adorned with carved panels depicting virtuous officials of old. Magistrate Xu was a thin, scholarly man in his fifties, with a trimmed beard and wire-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose. He received Yuanlong in the main hall, where a long table was set with tea cups and a stack of documents.

Yuanqing was already there, seated at the magistrate’s left, his expression placid and confident. Beside him sat Huan Decong, the merchant, his hands folded over his round belly. On the table lay the pledge contract, its red seal bright against the yellowed paper.

Magistrate Xu gestured for Yuanlong to sit. “Master Zhang Yuanlong, I have reviewed the documents regarding the pledge of the eastern wing. Your brother has provided witnesses and the patriarch’s seal. The debt is now overdue by three months. Under the Tang code, a pledge may be enforced if the debtor fails to repay within the agreed term. However, since the patriarch is ill and unable to testify, I am willing to grant a short extension—until the first of the ninth month—to allow for repayment or negotiation.”

Yuanlong bowed. “Your Honor, I do not dispute the pledge’s existence. But I question its validity. My father was already suffering from a debilitating illness when this contract was supposedly signed. He may not have been of sound mind. I request a formal examination of the seal—and a comparison with my father’s known signatures.”

Yuanqing’s smile flickered. “Eldest brother, are you accusing me of forgery? That is a grave charge. I have witnesses from the neighborhood who saw Father press his seal to this document. The fangzheng himself attested to it.”

Magistrate Xu raised a hand. “Calm, both of you. I will have the seal examined by a calligraphy expert. In the meantime, I order a freeze on any transfer of the eastern wing’s title. Master Huan, you will not take possession until the examination is complete. Master Zhang Yuanlong, you will submit any evidence you have regarding the patriarch’s mental state. We will reconvene on the fifteenth day.”

Huan Decong bowed, his face unreadable. “I await the magistrate’s wise judgment.” He rose and left, his robes rustling like dry leaves.

Yuanqing lingered, his eyes fixed on his brother. “You are making a mistake,” he said quietly. “If you challenge this contract, you are challenging the entire clan’s good name. And Father may not live long enough to see the outcome. Is that what you want?”

Yuanlong met his gaze. “I want the truth. If the truth destroys the clan’s good name, then that name was never worth protecting.”

He turned and left the yamen, but as he stepped outside, he saw a familiar figure on the street—Liao Wu, the Shu trader, standing beside a cart of dried herbs, watching him with sharp, calculating eyes. He did not approach, but he raised his hand in a slight, deliberate gesture—a sign that he had something to offer, or perhaps something to sell.

Yuanlong walked past him without pausing. But he noted the man’s face, the shape of his cart, and the direction he took when he left. He would visit him alone, at night, under the cover of darkness. Because by then, he was certain that the conspiracy reached far beyond a disputed pledge. It reached into the very marrow of his family—and it had already claimed his father’s health, his brother’s conscience, and perhaps his wife’s loyalty.

The only question was: would it claim his life before he could claim theirs?

When he returned home, he found a small slip of paper tucked under his inkstone. It bore a single line of characters, written in a steady but unfamiliar hand: The almond jar was left by someone who wants you to suspect Madam Suo. Do not be deceived. There is a third party.

Yuanlong read it three times. He did not recognize the handwriting. He did not know if it was a warning or a trap. But one thing was clear: he was no longer the only one watching. Someone else was playing the game—and that someone had just moved a piece onto his board.

He burned the paper in the candle flame and watched the ashes curl into nothing. Then he prepared his darkest robe, a small pouch of silver, and a short dagger hidden in his boot. Tonight, he would visit Liao Wu. And tomorrow, he would begin to separate the snakes from the shadows.