Although Xing Muzheng himself did not particularly value the Shu Book, he had to think of the bigger picture. For now, external enemies were stable, but remnants of the previous dynasty were still in hiding. If the Shu Book fell into the wrong hands, would that not stir up trouble? Moreover, aside from the Shu Book, there was an even greater secret involved.
As he rummaged through chests and cabinets, he pondered the dilemma. That Zhao family young lady was strange yet stubborn—she declared outright that she would rather destroy the map than present it to the palace, for she believed the emperor, having already cultivated the Dao and transcended worldly concerns, was not the kind of man her father deemed trustworthy. Meanwhile, Jiaoniang was fanning the flames at his side, making it seem as though if he didn’t marry Zhao Yaoqian, he would be failing all the people under heaven.
Remembering Qian Jiaoniang’s righteous, “for the country and the people” expression, Xing Muzheng was utterly exasperated. He flung aside the black cloud-patterned cloak in his hand and kicked an empty chest.
Outside, Wang Yong and Li Qingquan asked to see him. Entering, they found the room a complete mess—outer robes, underclothes, greatcoats, and cloaks scattered over tables, chairs, and floor, as if a thief had been through. Only, if a thief had dared to steal here in broad daylight, they’d have saluted him as a true man.
“Master, are you… looking for something?” Wang Yong asked cautiously.
Xing Muzheng lifted his eyes to the two of them, gaze landing on Wang Yong’s pouch. For no reason, a chill crept up Wang Yong’s back.
“…Did Madam, the other day, tell you to give me something?” Xing Muzheng asked him.
“No.” Wang Yong thought for a moment and answered. If such a thing had happened, how could he forget?
“Really no?”
“Really no!” This time Wang Yong was firm.
Xing Muzheng frowned. Stepping over the scattered clothes, he went to the main hall and asked again, “Then earlier… did she ever give me something like… a cloak?” Back when he had been poisoned?
“This…” Wang Yong thought hard for a while. “I don’t think so… Back when you were ill, Master, you spent your days in the courtyard; Madam probably never thought to make a cloak for you.”
So there really hadn’t been one… Then where and when had Jiaoniang made the cloak she claimed?
Li Qingquan, holding a wooden box, stepped forward. “Master, these are the invitations from this morning.”
Xing Muzheng took it and handed it to Wang Yong. “Take it to Miss Qingya, have her show it to Madam, let her decide which house she wants to visit. Tell her it’s the imperial birthday, all officials will have three days off, there’ll be much festivity—she may go anywhere she likes. Also, have someone come tidy up the room.”
Wang Yong acknowledged and left with the box. Li Qingquan said, “Master, the Crown Princess’s birthday is in two days. The Crown Prince has sent an invitation for you and Madam to attend. This banquet is probably unavoidable.”
“The Crown Princess’s birthday right next to the imperial birthday? That is a coincidence.” Xing Muzheng sat in the grand master’s chair.
Li Qingquan stepped forward to pour him tea and smiled. “Isn’t it though? Only…”
“Only what?”
Li Qingquan looked at Xing Muzheng. “Master, it’s just that at the Crown Prince’s banquet, there will be many imperial relatives and high-ranking officials. Madam… has never attended such a gathering, nor learned the etiquette for it. If she were to make some mistake, wouldn’t that…”
Xing Muzheng thought for a moment. “She’ll be fine.”
“Is it nothing serious?” Remembering Qian Jiaoniang’s wild antics at the racetrack that day, Li Qingquan secretly wiped a cold sweat. He honestly felt it was something serious.
“Oh, right, Master — another peddler came by with a message. He asked the gatekeeper if Madam had any reply.”
Xing Muzheng’s hand, holding the teacup, paused. He lifted his gaze toward Li Qingquan. “…Another one came?”
“Yes. The little gate monkey said there was no message, so he sent the man away. But that peddler then produced a letter, slipped him a few coins of silver, and told the lad to be sure to pass it on to Madam.”
“The letter?”
As expected, Li Qingquan had not placed this letter together with the earlier invitation. He drew it from his sleeve and presented it to Xing Muzheng with both hands. The seal bore no name, no signature; a faint, subtle fragrance wafted from it. Xing Muzheng tore it open in one motion and shook out the letter inside.
No greeting, no closing — just two lines, written in neat regular script in the Yan style:
Tomorrow at the hour of Chen — Wuling Temple, Great Pagoda Tree.
Xing Muzheng’s eyes narrowed slightly.
Catching this from the corner of his eye, Li Qingquan’s heart gave a jolt. Wasn’t this an invitation to meet Madam at a temple? Could it be she truly had an old lover? If so… that imperial edict had not wronged her after all.
Xing Muzheng crumpled the letter into a ball and squeezed it in his palm.
Li Qingquan hesitated for a moment, then said, “My Lord, shall I copy it out and send it on to Madam?”
Xing Muzheng asked flatly, “Why?”
“Well…” Wouldn’t it be a way to see whether Madam recognized this mysterious person or not?
“She’s never been to Yongan. How could she have old acquaintances here? Likely a case of mistaken identity. Ignore it.” With that, Xing Muzheng tore the letter to shreds and tossed it onto the table.
Li Qingquan glanced at the scraps of paper, wanting to speak but holding his tongue.
After a sip of tea, Xing Muzheng suddenly said, “Tell the shadow guards to keep an eye on the maidservants around Madam. If anything unusual happens, report at once.”
Li Qingquan stole a quick glance at Xing Muzheng, then immediately accepted the order and left.
“Wait.” Xing Muzheng stopped him. “Prepare a horse. I’m going to the Prime Minister estate.”
***
Yongan’s Qintai Street, closest to the imperial palace, was home to many high-ranking court officials. Most prominent among them was the residence of Grand Prime Minister Hang Zhi.
The Hang clan of Nanling was a century-old noble family — their forebears had rendered meritorious service to the founding emperor, earning the title of First-rank Duke. Over the past hundred years they had produced a mighty general, a provincial governor, and even an imperial concubine. Now, with Hang Zhi as Prime Minister, the Hang family’s glory eclipsed all others.
The Prime Minister’s residence had been a personal gift from Emperor Taikang, originally a royal palace of the former dynasty. After receiving it, Hang Zhi had renovated the place on a grand scale, transforming it into a garden estate with distinctive Nanling style. Those lucky enough to set foot inside would always leave full of praise.
Xing Muzheng now stood at the steps of the Hang residence, waiting for the servant to return from announcing his arrival.
After a short while, Hang Zhi’s third brother, Hang Yuan, came out in haste with his son Hang Mo and several attendants. Seeing Xing Muzheng, unmoving as a mountain before his fine steed, Hang Yuan stepped forward to salute respectfully, then spoke with deep apology:
“Marquis Xing, it is a great honor for you to visit in person. By rights, my sixth brother should come out to greet you himself. But he has been worn out of late and caught a chill. Today he is bedridden and cannot rise to receive such an esteemed guest. I beg the Marquis’ pardon.” Hang Yuan finished with a deep bow.
“The Prime Minister is ill?” Xing Muzheng was slightly surprised.
“Indeed. Sixth Uncle has been working day and night — the cold air must have gotten into him. Once he slackened even a little, he could no longer hold up,” Hang Mo said, head lowered.
Xing Muzheng considered for a moment. “In that case, I shall pay my respects another day. Please convey my regards to the Prime Minister and tell him to take good care of his health.”
Hang Yuan and Hang Mo agreed repeatedly, seeing him off as he mounted and rode away. Only when Xing Muzheng had gone did the father and son exchange a glance and exhale a long breath.
Li Qingquan followed alongside. When the figures from the Hang residence were out of sight, he caught up to Xing Muzheng. “My Lord, could it really be such a coincidence — the very day you come, the Prime Minister falls ill?” Surely that eccentric Prime Minister was still nursing a grudge from that day.
“Whether it is or not doesn’t matter. I’ve shown the proper courtesy,” Xing Muzheng said coolly. In the end, he and Hang Zhi were never on the same path.
***
In the warm pavilion of the main courtyard at the rear of the Hang residence, heat filled the air. From all sides, incense smoke drifted from beast-headed burners.
Reclining on a soft couch of golden-thread nanmu carved with bats was a man with white hair falling loose over his shoulders, a few strands spilling across his chest. A robe of pearl-white silk could not outshine the snowy luster of his skin. His glass-like eyes gleamed; long fingers toyed with a crystal-clear jade cup. At first glance, he was like an immortal fallen to earth.
He tilted his head back to drain a cup of strong liquor. The stray alcohol that escaped trickled from the corner of his mouth down the pale curve of his neck.
Nearby, his attendant Duanfang held a jade ewer, sneaking a glance and swallowing hard. Anyone who didn’t know better would take this man for the Prime Minister’s cherished catamite — but few knew that this otherworldly beauty was Hang Zhi himself.
Hang Zhi lifted two fingers, pinching the jade cup between them, and let it fall lazily onto his lap. Duanfang quickly refilled it for him. Hang Zhi downed it in one go.
“This cup is too small. Bring me a bowl.”
With a crisp crack, the fine patterned jade cup shattered into pieces.
Duanfang sighed inwardly. Whenever his master had a day off, the result was always the same — drinking himself into a stupor. Setting down the ewer, Duanfang fetched a square white-jade cup from the curio shelf, wiped it clean, and poured. “Master, Marquis Xing came to visit in person today. Is it alright for you to avoid him?”
Propping his head with one hand, Hang Zhi’s starlit eyes were half-lidded, hiding their chill. “Whether he came for something or nothing, what’s it to me? The day I wanted to welcome him, I went. Today I don’t want to see him, so I won’t.”
He crooked a finger; Duanfang placed the square cup in his hand. Still, the attendant hesitated. “But that day it really was pouring rain. The Marquis didn’t mean to arrive late… By not seeing him now, you make yourself seem petty.”
Hang Zhi snorted through his nose. “Petty or magnanimous — let him think what he likes. What’s it to me?” With that, he drained the brimming cup. The liquor was fierce and burning, yet he drank it as if it were water.
Duanfang’s brows knit where his master could not see. His master’s alcohol tolerance was poor; this ewer alone would be enough to inebriate him. When sober, he drank again; after drinking, he got drunk again — and all the while refused to touch even a mouthful of rice. Duanfang almost wished his master would forgo rest days entirely; at least when working, he stayed sober.
“Zhi’er, are you inside?” came the voice of the old Madam of the Hang family from outside.
