Jade Dragon Mountain (11 page)

Tulishen gave Li Du a look of pitying condescension. “There are considerations of strategy, of diplomatic relations with Tibet, of what is prudent when you look at the situation from a more sophisticated perspective. The situation with Kham is very delicate at present. If the Emperor wants to risk a war in order to investigate the death of a foreigner, then he will issue his commands accordingly. But it is not for me to destroy the Spring Festival simply because one foreigner has died.”

“Then you are not going to investigate?”

“As I have said already, it is clear what happened.” Now Tulishen's tone contained a warning.

“Excuse me, Cousin, but it is not clear. There are inconsistencies that cannot be ignored. The poison in the tea—I recognize it. It is powdered jewelvine root, a poison kept here in your own library.”

Tulishen's face tensed. “If this jewelvine is in my library, there is no reason for it not to be on a caravan also.”

Li Du persisted. “And there is a teacup missing from Brother Pieter's room. If he brewed the tea himself, drank it, and died, then the cup from which he drank should still be in the room. If it is not, then someone must have taken it. Someone in the mansion—”

“A teacup?” Tulishen struck the desk before him with an open palm and stood, glaring at Li Du. “Do not be so foolish. If someone removed a cup from the room, it was to clean it. Is it your goal to undermine the festival? Are you so envious of my success that you would use the death of this man against me? You bring more shame upon yourself.”

The words hung between them. Li Du was aware of the impulse to return Tulishen's insult, to say that he could never envy a man doomed by his own small-mindedness to a never-ending cycle of frustrated ambition. Instead, he said simply, with no change in his expression, “My concern is for the truth.”

“And mine is for the will of the Emperor,” snapped Tulishen. “The Son of the Dragon has traveled a year for this moment. The festival must be all that he expects it to be. These are not frivolities. Displays of power unite the empire, and inspire loyalty across generations.”

“Consider if you are wrong, and the Khampa are innocent. Then the murderer is here, in the city, or in your home. What threat does that pose to the festival?”

Tulishen's voice shook with anger. “I will hear nothing more from you. Your intention was to depart the city today. I command you to do so. Your papers are here.”

“Then,” said Li Du, “you choose not to seek an answer.”

“You have too simple a view of the world,” Tulishen replied. “Your attitude has already brought grief to you and to our family. Now I must ask you again to leave this house. You have a capacity for making yourself unwelcome in your own empire. Let us hope that this is the last time you must be told. It is embarrassing for both of us.”

“Yes,” Li Du said, quietly. “It is.”

Avoiding Li Du's eyes, Tulishen made a show of rolling and resealing Li Du's papers. When he looked up, his attention was caught by something over Li Du's shoulder, and he nodded with an expression of relief. “My Lady Chen,” he said. Li Du turned and saw her, tall and composed, lower her head gracefully in deference to the magistrate. He wondered how much she had heard.

“Excuse my interruption,” she said. “The Emperor's portrait has just been delivered.”

“Ah,” said Tulishen. “That is very good. But first I must speak to you about the salt commissioner. There is some question over where he is to sit at the first banquet. Li Du, here are your papers. Take them.” He held out the sealed roll. Li Du took the papers, bowed to Lady Chen, turned, and left the room.

At the end of the hallway, three servants were carefully removing the layers of cloth from the portrait of the Emperor. As Li Du approached, the final panel of sheer green silk slipped away from the painting and fell at his feet, almost tripping him. He stopped, and as one of the servants gathered the cloth into a bundle, he looked at the image that was now revealed.

The Kangxi sat behind a square desk. He was dressed in the unadorned gray robe and red hat of a scholar, and his feet, in soft black shoes, rested on a low footstool atop a scarlet rug. One foot was braced, as if he were about to rise, but his relaxed shoulders conveyed stillness and solidity. His expression was gentle, but behind him, carved onto a marble screen, were climbing dragons whose scaly coils strained and bunched to fit within the confines of the frame. In his right hand he held a brush poised above a sheet of unmarked paper.

It was an image created to inspire loyalty, and it was masterful. In it, the Emperor was simultaneously rarefied and relatable. The Emperor was an approachable scholar, a compassionate man with an appreciation for beauty and an understanding of sadness. He was also a descendent of dragons, a powerful warrior who had subdued the provinces and whose rule was sanctioned by divine ancestry. Whatever words he chose to write on the blank sheet before him could never be challenged, be they poetry, command, or judgment.

The portrait is a game of perception
, Li Du thought,
as are the festival and the empire itself. And—
Li Du was aware of the cold heaviness in his chest that always preceded the memory—
as was the execution outside the Forbidden City five years ago.
The time had been deemed appropriate for the Emperor to make a stern example of condemned traitors, and so it was done. The deaths had been cruel and, Li Du would never cease to believe, unjust. The search for the truth had been as minor a concern to the Emperor then as it was to Tulishen now. For those in power, facts were merely materials that could be used, modified, or ignored for the purpose of maintaining control. Tulishen was not entirely stupid. The people of Dayan would accept the culpability of the Khampa because they wanted to. The festival would proceed, and any unease would be lost in the clink of coins, the glow of lanterns, and the spectacle of performance. Li Du had no place here. He turned his back on the painting and left the mansion.

*   *   *

By midafternoon, his pack heavy with supplies purchased from the market, Li Du was in need of a hot meal, and found himself outside the inn. He eyed the bright, peeling festival announcements pasted on either side of the door and the symbols of good fortune painted onto the lintel. He sensed more than heard the bustle that would surround him once he went inside. Shifting the pack on his shoulders, he hesitated. Then he caught the fragrance of fresh rice and rich broth, considered the cold nights ahead of him, and stepped through the door.

The small, narrow entrance was deceptive; it opened into an extensive labyrinth of courtyards and guesthouses. One hallway or covered walkway after another dead-ended in secluded gardens, each one indistinguishable from the others. But he came eventually to the central common room and found it full to capacity. Those who could not find a place at the tables crowded together around plates of food held by anxious maids, and raised their arms to demand more tea or wine. Servants scurried through the packed spaces clutching trays piled high with dishes, avoiding elbows and knees and gesturing hands. The multitude of voices clamored with excitement, and the topic of conversation was immediately apparent. They were all talking about the death at the mansion.

The innkeeper was in the kitchen issuing instructions to the cooks while he tossed flat circles of dough into a pan of spattering-hot oil over a flame. His fingers were coated in oil. The rest of him was dusted with flour, and his forehead glistened with sweat from working over the fire. Whenever he looked up, he surveyed the room full of patrons with beaming pleasure. When he noticed Li Du, his eyes sparked with recognition, which he made a quick, unconvincing effort to hide.

“Sit here,” the innkeeper said to Li Du immediately, gesturing to a small space at a table beside the fire. “Go ahead and set down your pack. Here, see, there is still some space. Not too close to the fire. You'll be wanting the stew, I think.” Li Du obeyed, shifting the heavy pack from his shoulders to the floor, and taking his place on the bench. The innkeeper gestured to a nearby maid, and a bowl was set before Li Du as quickly as if it had been conjured from the air. As Li Du began to eat, he saw the innkeeper's gaze move around the room, restless and observant.

“I'm called Hoh,” the innkeeper said. “You're a guest at the mansion, aren't you?”

“I was.”

Hoh made a show of concentrating on his work. He scooped a handful of wet, greasy dough from the bowl beside him into the pan, which was supported over the flame by a sturdy ring of bricks, and began to press and stretch the dough into a flat circle using his knuckles and fingers. Li Du could see that the motions were automatic, the busy fingers mere indicators of the calculations and judgments that were taking place inside the man's head.

“It's a bad business,” said Hoh. “My guests are very upset over it. They were all just on the same roads themselves, you know, the same roads as those Khampa. The bandits are becoming bolder, more dangerous. Thieves can smell money, you know, and there's too much coin and rare goods changing hands at festival time. And why, you might ask, why does the innkeeper complain when his inn is full? I will tell you—it is because I keep a good house, and I do not like my guests to be anxious. Very upsetting for you, wasn't it? In the room just next to his? You might have shared tea with him.” The words were sympathetic, but Hoh's expression was one of eager curiosity.

When Li Du did not reply, the innkeeper continued, his hands working faster and more deftly as he settled into his own chatter. “There is another one of those priests here, you know. The young one, with the hair like old hay. He can't communicate with anyone, unless he's asking about plants. He has a passion for every weed that grows in the ground. I told him to go find Doctor Yang. The doctor knows a thing or two about plants. Strange people, these foreigners, more strange than most foreigners who come through this town. I heard you speak their language. So the old man really said nothing to you? Nothing about why they wanted him dead?”

“Brother Pieter admired the Khampa. If they were indeed responsible for his death, I can offer no explanation for it.”

Hoh's eyes widened and his plump cheeks quivered. “If?” he said in a loud whisper, leaning forward even as he handed a waiting maid a plate heaped with fried dough. “Then you do not think they did it?”

Li Du looked thoughtfully at the eager innkeeper. “How is it that you know so much about what happened that night?” he asked.

Hoh waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, I have a pretty set of ears in the mansion. Do you think I don't know who you are? The magistrate's cousin. And I know that you used to be a librarian. And that you were exiled from the capital. You see? Nothing escapes me.”

“I see that it does not.”

“Well,” Hoh said, annoyed, perhaps, by Li Du's reticence, “I'm sure I didn't mean any offense. Everyone is anxious. A murder, and now the storyteller has disappeared. He was doing a great service entertaining my guests. I would hire him to stay in Dayan awhile, if my wife would let me have the money.”

“Hamza is missing?”

Hoh used the tips of his fingers to flip the flat dough in the oil, spattering a few drops over his apron. “I wouldn't expect an artist to miss an opportunity to perform for an emperor, but who knows? Can't predict what people will do, can you?” Hoh sighed and changed the subject. “No talk of the Emperor changing his plans, I hope?” Li Du heard the first real suggestion of anxiety in Hoh's voice. “Because,” said Hoh, “my guests will be very disappointed if there are cancellations. The whole city is in great anticipation.”

“I know of no changes.” Li Du's bowl was empty, but he used his last piece of bread to soak up the final traces of savory stew, his mind turning to the journey before him.

“Of course it's all set,” said Hoh, “once the Emperor makes his prediction. What a fearsome sight that will be—the sun going dark. And the Son of the Dragon himself. My inn will never see such prosperity again. No—never again like this.” Hoh wiped flour onto his apron and added, “Not a good time for inauspicious events. You don't take risks when the Emperor's coming. Too many spirits hanging around, and something bad could happen. I have all my jade hanging on my door.”

Before Hoh could pry any further, Li Du thanked him and took his leave of the inn.

*   *   *

The sun set and the moon rose, parchment yellow, the marks on its surface like traces of lead someone had tried to rub away. Li Du walked alone on the path to the mountain. A painter could have captured it well: a defeated curve of shoulders at odds with a determined stride against a mountain that filled the sky.

That night, sleeping at the base of a gingko tree in the courtyard of a Buddhist temple, he dreamed of the red glow of lanterns lit at dusk in Beijing. His dream lingered on the color: red tea in a white cup, scarlet lacquer on the sides of drums, blood on the executioner's platform in the capital city, the decree, in imperial scarlet ink, of exile. The Vermilion Bird of the South, blazing in Tulishen's library. What was the character on that shelf?
Emptiness
. That was it.
Emptiness.
No, that was in the north. The southern constellation was
ghost.
He was a ghost in the library, and the books were rearranging themselves, shifting into disorder, mocking his efforts to return them to their proper places.

 

4 Days

 

Chapter 7

The path was as steep as a staircase, and after three hours Li Du began to notice the effects of high elevation. Thorny rose vines and berry bushes gave way to azaleas and oaks. The wind grew sharper and colder, sweeping down from alpine meadows. The air thinned; a deep breath no longer satisfied his lungs. When he took too large a step he teetered, and he was aware of his laboring heart.