The full moon came and went, a pale eye that watched Luoyang through the thinning autumn clouds, and Zhao did not leave. He stayed in his room above the lantern workshop, bending bamboo and stretching paper by day, walking the hidden alleys by night, and waiting for whoever had left the warning to make their next move. The waiting was its own kind of torture, but he had learned patience in Mulberry Hollow, and patience was a lesson he did not intend to forget.
Two weeks after the incident in the Golden Carp, Old Hu handed him a delivery order. The paper was fine and expensive, stamped with the seal of the Director's household. A banquet was being planned, a grand affair to celebrate the anniversary of the Director's appointment to his position. The household required forty paper lanterns, each painted with the character for prosperity in gold leaf, to be delivered three days before the event.
"You cannot go," Old Hu said, watching Zhao examine the order. "The Director's guards have seen your face now. Someone will recognize you."
"They saw a man in a wide hat and shadows," Zhao replied. "They did not see my face. And even if they did, they were looking for a fugitive, not a lantern maker's apprentice." He set the order down on the workbench. "Besides, this is exactly what I need. A chance to see the inside of the mansion. A chance to learn its layout. A chance to find the clerk named Sun."
Old Hu shook his head slowly, but he did not argue. He had learned, over the months of Zhao's residence, that the man from the southern market was not someone who could be dissuaded once his mind was set. There was something in Zhao's eyes, a stillness that was more unnerving than any rage, that made argument feel futile.
Three days later, Zhao stood at the servants' entrance of the Director's mansion with a wooden carrying pole across his shoulders, forty lanterns swaying gently from their hooks. The guard at the gate was the same one who had admitted him months before, a bored-looking man with a scar across his chin and the vacant eyes of someone who had long since stopped caring about anything but his wages. He glanced at the delivery order, glanced at the lanterns, and waved Zhao through without a second look.
The mansion's grounds were larger than Zhao had imagined, a sprawling complex of courtyards and pavilions connected by covered walkways. Lanterns from other workshops were already being hung by servants on ladders, and the kitchens were producing smells so rich and varied that Zhao's stomach clenched despite himself. He had eaten nothing but rice and vegetables for months, saving every coin for the work ahead. The scent of roasting duck and spiced wine was a reminder of a world he had been exiled from, a world of comfort and plenty that the powerful enjoyed while the weak scrabbled in the dust.
He was directed to a storage pavilion near the main hall, where the decorations for the banquet were being assembled. As he unloaded his lanterns, he let his eyes wander, cataloging every detail he could observe. The guards patrolled in pairs, their routes predictable. The servants moved with the practiced efficiency of people who had been doing their jobs for years. The interior doors were made of heavy wood with iron locks, but the windows were paper, and paper could be cut.
The clerk named Sun was not visible that day. Zhao had not expected him to be. But he did see something else, something that made his heart beat faster beneath his calm exterior. Through the open door of a study, he glimpsed a row of ledgers on a shelf, their spines labeled with characters that denoted dates and categories. Market Fees. Import Duties. Private Transactions. If even one of those ledgers contained evidence of the Director's corruption, it would be worth more than a hundred witnesses.
"You there," a voice called. "Lantern maker."
Zhao turned, keeping his head slightly bowed in the posture of deference that servants were expected to maintain. A steward was approaching, a thin man with a sharp face and eyes that seemed to miss nothing. He wore the dark blue robes of a senior household servant, and there was something in his bearing that suggested he was not a man to be trifled with.
"Those lanterns are for the main hall," the steward said. "Not this storage room. Take them to the eastern pavilion and wait for the decorating master to inspect them."
Zhao bowed lower. "Of course. My apologies."
As he gathered his lanterns and followed the steward's directions, he felt the man's eyes on his back. It was the same sensation he had felt outside the Golden Carp, the prickle of being watched by someone who was more observant than they should be. He filed this away too. The steward was someone to be careful of. Someone who might, under different circumstances, become a problem.
The eastern pavilion was crowded with preparations. Servants rushed back and forth with trays of food and wine. Musicians were tuning their instruments in a corner. And sitting on a carved chair near the center of the chaos, directing the entire operation with the casual authority of someone born to power, was Zheng.
Zhao had not expected to see him. He had prepared himself for the possibility, but preparation was one thing and reality was another. The sight of the young man's face, the same face that had looked down at Little Lotus's body with nothing but annoyance, the same face that had laughed as he rode away from the scene of his crime, sent a surge of something hot and terrible through Zhao's veins. For a moment, the cold fire that had sustained him for so long threatened to become a real fire, a conflagration that would consume everything in its path.
He forced himself to breathe. He forced his hands to remain steady on the carrying pole. He forced his face to maintain its mask of humble servility.
Zheng did not look at him. Why would he? Zhao was just another servant, just another invisible man carrying invisible things through an invisible life. The Director's son was too busy complaining about the quality of the wine to notice a lantern maker's apprentice.
"Tell my father I want the wine from the western cellar," Zheng was saying to the steward who had accosted Zhao. "Not this swill from last year's pressing. Do you expect me to serve this to our guests?"
"Your father specifically requested the Shanxi vintage," the steward replied, his tone carefully neutral. "He said it was more economical."
"Economical?" Zheng laughed, a sharp and ugly sound. "My father spends his days counting coins like a common merchant, and now he wants to count them at his own banquet? Bring the good wine. I will deal with my father."
The steward bowed and withdrew. Zhao, still arranging his lanterns in the corner, watched the exchange with interest. There was tension between the Director and his son. It was a small crack, barely visible, but small cracks could be widened. A son who resented his father's frugality. A father who did not trust his son's judgment. These were useful things to know.
He finished his delivery and left the mansion without incident, carrying his empty pole back through the servants' entrance. The scarred guard did not look at him. The steward did not follow him. But as he walked back through the streets toward the lantern makers' quarter, he had the distinct feeling that he had stepped deeper into a web whose threads he could not yet see.
That night, he told Old Hu what he had observed. The old lantern maker listened in silence, his hands busy with a half-finished frame, his eyes distant and thoughtful.
"The steward you describe sounds like Steward Feng," Old Hu said. "He has served the Director's family for thirty years. He is loyal, intelligent, and absolutely ruthless. If anyone in that household is a threat to you, it is him."
"And the son? Zheng?"
"Arrogant and foolish, as you saw. But even a foolish man can be dangerous if he has power. And Zheng has power, not through his own merit, but through his father's position. He has men who will do whatever he tells them, without question."
Zhao nodded. He had been thinking about Zheng, and about the clerk named Sun, and about the witness that Ma Wu had mentioned. Three threads. Three paths that might lead to the destruction of the Director. The question was which thread to pull first.
"The clerk," he said. "Sun. Ma Wu said he handles the Director's private ledgers. If I can get to him, if I can make him talk, I can find proof of the Director's corruption."
"And then what? Even if you have proof, who will you take it to? The magistrate who condemned you? The Prefect who owes his position to the Director's support?"
"The Prefect resents the Director," Zhao said. "Everyone says so. He resents the Director's influence and his monopolies. If I can give him a weapon to use against the Director, he might use it."
Old Hu set down his bamboo frame. His expression was troubled. "You are placing a great deal of faith in the resentment of powerful men. Resentment is not justice. The Prefect may want to weaken the Director, but he will not want to create a precedent that a commoner can bring down an official. If you give him proof of corruption, he might simply destroy it and destroy you along with it, to protect the system that protects him."
This was true. Zhao knew it was true. The powerful protected their own, even when they hated each other. But he did not need the Prefect to deliver justice. He needed the Prefect to create chaos, to distract the Director while Zhao did what needed to be done.
"The witness," he said. "The one who saw what happened in the market. If I can find him, I can use his testimony to expose Zheng. Not through the courts. The courts are useless. But through rumor. Through whispers. Through the kind of scandal that cannot be silenced by bribes and threats."
Old Hu considered this. "A scandal could damage the Director, but it would not destroy him. Men like the Director have survived scandals before. They survive them by sacrificing whoever is most expendable."
"Exactly," Zhao said. "And who is more expendable than a son who has already caused his father nothing but trouble?"
The old lantern maker was silent for a long moment. Outside, the wind had picked up, rattling the paper windows and carrying the first bite of winter. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked and was answered by another.
"You are playing a dangerous game," Old Hu said finally. "Dangerous for you. Dangerous for me. Dangerous for anyone who helps you."
"I know. But I am not asking you to help me any more than you already have. You have given me shelter. You have given me a trade. The rest is mine to do."
Old Hu shook his head. "You do not understand. I am not worried about myself. I am an old man. I have lived my life. But you... you are still young enough to have a future. If you continue down this path, you will destroy yourself. Even if you succeed, even if you bring down the Director and his son, you will not find peace. I have seen men consumed by vengeance before. It does not end. It simply spreads, like fire, until there is nothing left to burn."
Zhao looked at his hands. They were calloused now from the lantern work, the familiar scars of his old trade overlaid with new ones. He thought about Granny Shen's warning, that the abyss would change him, that he might not recognize himself by the time he climbed out. He thought about Little Lotus and the river stone and the sound of hoofbeats that never stopped echoing in his mind.
"Peace is not something I expect to find," he said. "Not in this life. But I will have justice. One way or another. Whatever it costs."
Old Hu sighed and picked up his bamboo frame again. "Then I will help you as I can. But be careful, Zhao. Be very, very careful. The Director is not a man who leaves his enemies alive."
The wind rattled the windows again, and somewhere in the city, a bell tolled the hour. Midnight. The hour when ghosts walked and secrets were whispered and men with nothing left to lose made plans that would shake the foundations of the world.
Zhao slept little that night. He lay in his narrow bed, staring at the ceiling, tracing patterns in the darkness. In the morning, he would begin searching for the witness. In the morning, he would begin to pull the first thread. And once the first thread was pulled, the rest would follow.
The Director's banquet was three weeks away. Three weeks to find the witness. Three weeks to prepare. Three weeks until the first move in a game that would end with the destruction of everyone who had wronged him.
Or with his own destruction. At this point, Zhao was not sure he cared which.
No comments yet. Be the first to comment!