Antonio Garrido - The Corpse Reader

“This is all very surprising!” said Feng. “But why haven’t you already told the emperor, since you’ve clearly already thought it through?”

“I wasn’t totally sure,” hedged Cí. “I wanted your opinion.”

“The way you’ve related it, I can’t see any doubts—well, maybe the note.”

“On the contrary, it fits perfectly. Think about it! Kan lets two men into his quarters, men he knows and trusts. But once they’re in, they threaten him and force him to admit guilt for the murders. Kan, fearing for his life, writes the note. There’s no mention of his own death in the note because the men don’t want him to know they’re going to kill him. Once the confession is written, they offer him a drink to calm his nerves, a drink that’s been laced with poison. This way they also avoid any noise from a struggle. Once he’s passed out, they take his clothes off, drag the dresser over, and tie him up with the fine hemp rope—I’m thinking they brought such a fine one so it would be easier to conceal coming into the palace. They lift him onto the chest and then hoist him up, technically still alive at this point.”

Feng’s jaw dropped. “Cí, this is exceptional work. We must communicate this to the emperor straightaway!”

But Cí wasn’t so enthusiastic. He pointed out that it might bring attention back to Blue Iris.

“Remember what happened with the bloody sickle and the flies?” Cí found his voice turn tremulous at the memory. “I helped find the guilty party, yes, but I’ll never forget that I lost a brother in the bargain.”

“By the gods, Cí! That’s in the past. Your brother condemned himself when he decided to kill a man. You only did what you had to, and anyway, I was the one who found the blood on the sickle; you’re hardly solely responsible. As far as my wife goes, don’t worry. I know the emperor, and I know how his mind works.” Feng stood. “Oh, I forgot. I saw that new judge you were worried about in the palace this morning. Gray Fox, isn’t it?”

Cí’s heart fluttered.

“Forget about him,” said Feng. “It’s late now, but tomorrow we’ll go to the emperor first thing, tell him about your discoveries and clarify your situation, too. I don’t know what Gray Fox found out, but if he thinks he might use it against you, I’ll see that he doesn’t.”

Cí thanked his old master. But he wasn’t sure he should go with him to see the emperor. “Please don’t be offended, but I imagine you’ll also be talking about Blue Iris. That’s private. I don’t really think I should be there.”

Feng admitted Cí had a point. But that didn’t mean he was going to let him reject the offer of a room at the Water Lily Pavilion.

“There’s no way I’m letting you go back to the academy,” he said, adamant. “You’ll stay with us here until your name is totally cleared.”

Cí couldn’t see any way of saying no.

Cí, Feng, and Blue Iris ate a light supper together, sharing an equally light conversation. Cí found it difficult to keep calm. Hard as he tried to control them, his hands kept bumping into Blue Iris’s, and Feng’s every smile felt like torture. As Cí chewed halfheartedly on the food, his mind turned again to the question of Kan’s murder. Who might have done it? The nüshi sprang immediately to mind, and he couldn’t help wondering if Feng would defend her so resolutely if he knew about her infidelity.

Before bed, Cí leafed through the Ingmingji , a manuscript on judicial process that Ming had written and which he’d borrowed from Ming’s library. It contained descriptions of some of the most intractable cases in recent legal history. He was interested but soon found he couldn’t keep his eyes open. He put the book away and immediately fell asleep, but not into restful dreams. Blue Iris was the only thing he saw.

And he saw her first thing in the morning, too. She came into his room without knocking. She placed a set of clothes at the foot of the bed and stood silently, waiting for something. Cí got out of bed. He was about to ask what she was doing, but she spoke first.

“You’re going to need clean clothes, aren’t you? If you’re going to see the emperor.”

Cí found himself so full of desire that he didn’t even trust himself to speak. But she wasn’t going away.

“What are you up to?” he asked.

“I’ll wait for you in the dining room.”

When he got downstairs, there was already food laid out: small, piping-hot rice cakes; cabbage salad; steamed vegetable buns. Cí was surprised that Feng wasn’t there, but Blue Iris said he’d already gone to the palace. Cí nodded and sipped his tea. The light strained his puffy eyes. He glanced at Blue Iris. He had to get away from there.

He decided to go and see Ming, so he said good-bye to Blue Iris and headed to the palace. But on his way there he suddenly found himself surrounded by a group of soldiers. Before he could ask what was going on, one of them struck him across the face with a baton, drawing blood. The next thing he knew, he was on the ground being kicked and beaten. Soon his hands and feet were being tied, and then there was one last blow to his head—which meant that, by the time they announced he was being arrested for conspiring against the emperor, he was out cold and didn’t hear a word.

33

Cí woke in a dimly lit cell with several filthy inmates, one of whom was on top of him, digging through his clothes as if to find a priceless treasure. Cí shoved the man off and sat up to get his bearings. There was something wet in his eyes. Blood, he realized, touching a hand to his sticky forehead. The ragged man jumped back on top of him, but a guard appeared out of nowhere and dragged the man off before hauling Cí to his feet. Cí, dazed, looked at the guard gratefully, but then the guard punched him across the face, knocking him to the floor.

“On your feet!” the guard ordered. Alongside him stood a giant of a man holding a club.

“He said get up!” said the man, hitting him with the truncheon.

Though he didn’t feel the pain of the blow, and though he had no idea what was going on, Cí obeyed, bracing himself against the wall. Why had he been locked up, and why on earth was he being beaten like this? He began asking the men, but another blow came at him, this time to his stomach. He doubled over, winded.

Cí peered at them through the blood that had run down into his eyes. He could barely breathe. He wanted to ask for an explanation, but instead the first guard had a question for him: “Who did you have helping you?”

“Helping me do what?” he said, tasting blood as it dripped into his mouth.

Another blow with the club opened a cut in his cheek. Cí crumpled at the impact and fell to his knees.

“It’s up to you: Tell us what we need to know now, and you can keep your teeth. Either that or we’ll knock them out and you’ll be on a porridge diet until they decide when to string you up.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! Ask at the palace; I work for Kan!”

“You work for a dead man?” Another blow brought blood gushing from his mouth. “Well, then you can ask him yourself—in Hell!”

When he came to again, someone was tenderly cleaning his head wounds. Through his blurry eyes, he saw that it was Bo.

“Wh…what’s going on?” asked Cí.