The clamor outside the city walls continued as Xu Sigen wove through the ranks, anxiously asking questions. But everyone only shook their heads, so he had no choice but to keep searching farther back.
It wasn’t until the commotion at the gate finally subsided and the army had all entered the city that Xu Sigen stood frozen in place, his face full of worry.
“Why don’t we see Bangchui and the others?”
“Yeah, where’s Da-lang?”
Two women, anxious and breathless, followed at his heels.
“They went to Linguan Fort. The troops from Linguan Fort entered the city ahead of us…” Xu Sigen forced a thin smile for them.
“Oh, I see. Then let’s hurry into the city – maybe they’ve already gone home,” one of the women said, bouncing the child tied to her back as she spoke. “Sister-in-law, let’s get back quickly.”
The two women turned and rushed off toward the city.
Xu Sigen turned around with some difficulty. Just as he did, he heard a clamor behind him, along with the sound of a cart. His body stiffened as he turned his head back and saw a man coming along the main road, pulling a cart, with two others walking beside him.
What happened?
Xu Sigen’s heart pounded wildly, a sudden pang of regret welling up inside him for recognizing the man pulling the cart.
“I’m telling you, Liu Kui, stop being such a damn fool, will you? The rule has always been to bury the dead on the spot. Who drags a body all the way back like this?”
The two soldiers shouted, angry, anxious, and helpless all at once.
They had been saying the same thing for nearly two days and nights, but it was useless – Liu Kui seemed possessed, utterly deaf to reason.
Liu Kui kept his head lowered, pulling the cart forward step by step. On the cart lay corpses, covered with a few ragged clothes scavenged from who-knows-where, only five pairs of feet sticking out, swaying with the cart’s jolting motion.
“…Xu Maoxiu of the Brave Armor Squad under the command of Wei-zhou’s Jieshibao City Guard; Xu Bangchui, Fan Jianglin, Fan Shitou; cavalryman Xu Sigen, Xu Layue; company warrior Fan Sanchou…”
“…You worthless cowards! You’ve got the guts to desert, the guts to use your own brothers as shields, then have the guts to come fight me head-on…”
“…What does it mean to be brave? To fight fiercely, to be the generals’ reliance. And look at what you’re doing now?…”
“We’re not deserters! We were framed by those damned officers!”
“I’ll be watching you! Don’t think you can run!”
I’ll be watching you. I’ll be watching you.
Liu Kui clenched his teeth and kept walking. Bloodshot veins filled his eyes, and the rope had already cut deep, leaving bloody welts across his shoulders.
At the gates, shouts rang out, followed by women’s screams and wailing, mixed with the cries of infants.
It was early May, and the weather in Jiang-zhou was already turning hot.
A fine steed galloped down the main road, kicking up clouds of dust in the dry heat. Wherever it passed, people scattered out of the way. The soldier on horseback was travel-worn, clearly bearing an urgent dispatch. The horse charged straight for the city gate, and the guards there didn’t even dare try to stop him – instead, they hurried to drive away the crowd.
“Heavens, what’s going on? We’ve got nothing to do with military affairs here.”
“Maybe just passing through?”
As they whispered among themselves, the horse reared to a halt at the gate, hooves striking the ground with a shrill neigh.
“The Cheng family of Jiang-zhou – where is their residence?” the soldier shouted.
So it wasn’t just passing through. And he wasn’t looking for the authorities either – he was looking for the Cheng family. That meant it wasn’t official business?
The guards breathed a little easier and quickly pointed the way. But before they could finish, the soldier had already spurred his horse onward, leaving the street in chaos – people tumbling, chickens squawking, dogs scattering, the whole place in uproar.
“Miss, something’s happened!”
The street gate was suddenly pushed open. Steward Cao came in, his face pale, holding a letter in his hand.
Ban Qin, who was just pulling open the door under the veranda, and Cheng Jiao-niang inside the room both turned to look.
Something’s happened?
First Master Cheng propped himself up to sit.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Whatever it is, it has nothing to do with us. Whether good or bad, it doesn’t concern us,” First Madam Cheng said, reaching out to help him lie back down.
“Easier said than done.” First Master Cheng gave a bitter smile. “Good news certainly has nothing to do with us, but bad news – that’s another matter.” He gestured for the steward to speak quickly.
“I don’t know exactly what it is. That soldier shouted once at the gate, saying only that he was looking for Cheng Jiao-niang. We pointed him in that direction. I wasn’t at ease, so I followed to see. When Steward Cao saw that soldier’s face, his expression changed – after taking the letter, his hands even trembled…” the steward said, unable to hide his astonishment.
Who would have thought that the arrogant Steward Cao would ever look like that?
“Then he went inside, and I heard a girl crying within,” the steward continued. “After that, there was nothing more.”
Crying?
“Was it that fool crying?” First Madam Cheng asked hurriedly.
The steward shook his head.
“I couldn’t see through the door. Anyway, it was a girl’s voice,” he said.
Whether it was the fool weeping or a maid, someone was crying – and that could only mean something had happened.
First Master Cheng exhaled and leaned back again
What had happened?
How could it have come to this?
Zhou Liu-lang sat in the military tent, asking himself the same question over and over. In his ears it still seemed as though the war drums were pounding, the din of battle still raging.
He had been sitting like this for half a day. The sheet of paper before him remained blank, while the ink on his brush tip had long since dried.
He didn’t know what he was supposed to write. The obituary notice should already have been sent out; he didn’t need to deliver it himself. Even though Fan Jianglin was still in a daze, Xu Sigen was quite clear-headed – and besides, their family was wealthy, with money and connections. The obituary would certainly be delivered promptly and correctly, unlike with other soldiers, whose notices might be delayed indefinitely, or never sent at all.
What else could he write? To repeat this sorrow once more? To offer words of comfort?
Comfort? The disaster had already struck – what words could possibly console?
Zhou Liu-lang gripped the brush, and at last, with all his pent-up strength, snapped it in two with a sharp crack.
The crying continued.
Ban Qin was bent low to the ground, unable to rise.
Steward Cao knelt nearby, his eyes fixed on the girl before the screen.
The girl’s expression had hardly changed; her gaze still rested on the sheet of letter paper spread out on the desk.
The contents of the letter were simple – so simple that Steward Cao, once a soldier himself, could recite them by heart.
On such-and-such a year, month, and day, so-and-so perished in service to the emperor… words like that.
Cheng Jiao-niang lifted her hand and brushed it across the letter.
“Fan Shitou, Xu Maoxiu, Xu Layue, Fan Sanchou, Xu Bangchui…” she slowly recited each name.
Ban Qin’s sobbing swelled once more.
“Miss, Miss, please restrain your grief, please restrain your grief,” she wept, crawling forward a few steps on her knees.
“I am not grieving,” Cheng Jiao-niang said, her hand moving back and forth over the names on the paper. “Go ask – how did they die?”
Ban Qin had not yet recovered from her tears, but Steward Cao understood. With a solemn expression, he turned and went out to summon the soldier.
The soldier had been waiting in the outer courtyard to rest.
“When did it happen?” one of the attendants was asking.
“April nineteenth,” the soldier replied.
April nineteenth. Today was the third of May. That meant it had taken only a little over ten days to travel from Longgu City to Jiang-zhou – that was astonishingly fast.
Seeing the attendants’ expressions of surprise, the soldier gulped down a large mouthful of tea to soothe the burning in his throat.
“…Manager Xu provided enough travel money to ensure fresh horses all along the way,” he said. In fact, he had been given more than he could ever hope to earn in a lifetime of delivering messages. So he had hardly rested – once every three days at most – and in that way, he had managed to arrive in the shortest possible time.
The attendants nodded and asked no more. They hadn’t been close to the brothers from Maoyuan Mountain, and didn’t feel much attachment. But still, death was a sorrowful thing.
Dead was dead – gone from this world forever.
The soldier took another deep gulp of tea. Perhaps because of the exhausting journey, it felt like the best drink he had ever tasted in his life. He then lifted his head to glance around.
The gatehouse was neither too large nor too small. Its furnishings were simple but not shabby. Tea and pastries were set out on the table, looking very fresh. It was nothing like the stingy households of the poor he had visited before, nor the ostentatious displays of the wealthy.
This was clearly a grand estate. Though there weren’t many newly built residences in this area – most homes were old, dilapidated, and humble – it had already exceeded the soldier’s expectations.
Weren’t these people supposed to be from Maoyuan Mountain? How could they have a sworn sister living in such a prosperous household, here in the wealthy Jiang–zhou?
Just as he was wondering, Steward Cao came to summon him.
That was only natural – when the master of the house received a death notice, they would surely want to ask questions. For that reason, the soldier had forced himself not to rest.
Following the servant into the rear courtyard, the soldier kept his head lowered and did not dare to glance about as he walked toward the main hall. Unlike other households that, upon receiving a death notice, erupted in wailing and lamentation, here it was quiet – so quiet it was as if nothing had happened.
So they were only sworn kin, not blood kin, after all.
The soldier stood under the veranda and bowed.
“Please, sit.”
A girl’s voice spoke from within.
The soldier knelt down.
“May I ask – how did they die?”
The question was no surprise. The soldier answered at once, giving a brief account of the battle on that day. Normally, it was enough to tell the family the circumstances of death. But perhaps because of the reward money promised, he could not resist adding a few extra details. As he spoke, a faint sound of a woman’s sobbing drifted through.
Good – good. Crying was normal. After all, they were dead men. Even if not by blood, they were still sworn kin.
“In that battle, there were many casualties. Fan Shitou and the other four fought bravely and with honor. Miss, please accept my condolences.” He bowed, ending with the formal language of an official report.
“So, you mean their defense of the city was crucial to this great victory?”
The girl’s voice asked again.
There was no trace of weeping in her tone. Then… the one crying wasn’t her?
The soldier was taken aback for a moment, then nodded.
“Yes. They had been positioned for an ambush, but by chance they ran straight into the elite troops of the Western invaders. They lit the beacons, sent messengers, and dragged out the fight against the enemy’s best with only a handful of men against many. Truly, they were heroes.”
“To sacrifice one’s life for the state, to face danger without fear – such a death is worthy, deserving of honor.”
The girl’s voice spoke again.
“Yes, the court will surely honor them,” the soldier said. “I came in such haste that I didn’t yet hear what rewards will be granted. But compensation will certainly be issued. The court has increased the allowances now – our soldiers’ families will receive five strings of cash and six bolts of silk…”
Perhaps because the household’s atmosphere was not steeped in grief, the soldier found himself rambling.
But the moment those words left his mouth, the crying inside the room swelled, startling him into silence. He lifted his head to look.
There, seated upright, was a young maiden in a plain floral blouse and skirt, her beauty as radiant as a flower.
That was the only phrase the soldier could muster to describe her. He didn’t dare look long – startled, he averted his eyes, letting them fall instead on the maid at her side.
The maid was bent low to the ground – so it was she who had been sobbing all along.
“Who cares about that money, about that silk!” Ban Qin wept. “Our young masters’ monthly stipends of money and silk were already beyond count! Beyond count, beyond count, oh Heaven!”
Heaven, how could it be like this!
Heaven, it should never have been like this!
