Antonio Garrido - The Corpse Reader

“Leave the dead in peace,” said Ningzong. “First, you ought to worry about your own impertinence.”

Feng’s anger quickly turned to a blush.

“Imperial Highness…this insolent fool, the one they call Corpse Reader, is in reality nothing more than an expert in dissimulation. Where’s the proof? Where, I ask you? His words are like fireworks, as explosive as this supposed gunpowder he speaks of. Hand cannons? All I see is a bronze flute. What would it shoot anyway? Rice? Cherry stones?” He turned to face Cí.

The emperor squinted. “Calm yourself, Judge Feng. I am not yet pronouncing your guilt, but much of what young Cí says seems logical. The question is, why might he want to accuse you, if not to uncover the truth?”

“Majesty, is that so difficult? Spite! Sheer spite! As you know Cí’s father was once in my employ as an accountant. I hadn’t intended to bring this out in public today, but I found out that his father had been falsifying accounts and stealing from me. I had to fire him. Out of affection, I hid the truth from Cí himself. To protect him. But the Songs are all the same! When he found out, he went crazy and somehow decided it was all my fault.

“With respect to these murders, I don’t see how there can be any doubt: Kan killed these unfortunate men, but Cí, unable to solve the case and burning with ambition, made it look as though Kan also committed suicide. Simple. All the rest is the result of Cí’s feverish mind. Pure invention.”

“And I invented the hand cannon, too?” howled Cí.

“Quiet!” ordered the emperor.

The emperor got to his feet and whispered something to one of the officers near him, who signaled to Bo to come nearer. Bo hurried over and kneeled, before being ordered to follow Ningzong through to an antechamber. The two emerged after a few minutes, and as he came over, Cí could clearly see the concern on Bo’s face.

“The emperor has asked me to talk with you,” Bo whispered.

Cí was surprised at how firmly Bo took him by the arm, leading him into the antechamber and shutting the door. Once they were alone, Bo hid his face in his hands.

“What?” said Cí.

“The emperor believes you.”

“No…really?” Cí whooped with delight. “Amazing! Feng’s finally going to get what he deserves, and—” But Cí could see how worried Bo looked. “What? What else? You’ve just told me I’ve won the case, so…”

Bo wouldn’t look Cí in the face.

“What’s going on?”

Bo took a deep breath.

“The emperor wants you to say you’re guilty.” He sighed.

“But…but why? What for? Why me and not Feng?”

“He’s offering a comfortable exile if you just say you’re guilty,” said Bo. “He’ll give you a lump sum and an annual stipend. You’ll never have to work again; you’ll have plenty to pass onto future generations even. You’ll receive no punishment whatsoever. It’s a generous offer.”

“And Feng?”

“The emperor has assured me he’ll take care of him personally.”

“Meaning what? And you, you agree with all this?” Cí began backing away from Bo. “You’re in on it, too, aren’t you?”

“Be calm, Cí! I’m just the messenger—”

“Be calm? You know what I’m being asked to do? I’ve lost everything—my family, my dreams, my honor. And now you want to strip me of my dignity? No, Bo! I won’t give up the one hope I have left! I couldn’t care less about anything else, but there’s no way I’m going to let that bastard Feng get away with killing my father and shaming my family. No way.”

“Gods, Cí! Don’t you get it? This isn’t a request. The emperor can’t allow this kind of scandal. It would be far too damaging to him. His critics already say he’s too weak, so if they hear of intrigues at court, if word of treason gets out, if people see he can’t even control his own officials, what will they think of his ability to deal with the country’s enemies? Especially with the Jin on our doorstep, Ningzong has to show an iron will. Councilors and judges killing each other? He can’t allow that to get out.”

“So let him show he’s firm—but fair, too!”

“Damn it, Cí! If you reject his offer, what do you think he’ll do? Condemn you anyway, of course! You’ll be executed, or sent to the mines for the rest of your days. What would your father have you do? If you agree, you’ll have somewhere to live, a stipend, a calm life—away from all this. With time, you might be able to repair your reputation and reenter court life. I don’t see what more you can ask for or, really, what choice you have in the matter. If you try and oppose the emperor, he’ll crush you. Your evidence is circumstantial at best.”

Cí tried to find his conviction and fight reflected in Bo’s eyes, but what he saw couldn’t have been more different.

“Please,” begged Bo. “It’s your best—and only—option.”

Bo put his hands on Cí’s shoulders. Their weight was the weight of sincerity. Cí’s thoughts turned to his dreams, his studies, his desire to become a great forensic judge. This had also been his father’s dream for him…He nodded his head, resigned.

“Come on,” said Bo.

Cí approached the throne with his head hung low and dragging his feet as though they were in shackles. He fell to his knees before the emperor, who glanced at Bo. Bo nodded. The emperor, pleased, calmly gestured to the scribe to prepare the deed.

Once the deed was written, an officer stepped forward to read it out. Everyone listened, and the emperor watched intently, as the officer slowly read the words. Cí’s culpability was established, and the charges against Feng were dismissed. All that was left was for Cí to sign it.

When the deed was handed to Cí, the ink wasn’t yet dry—as if offering some hope it might still be rewritten. Cí’s hands trembled violently. He tried to pick up the brush, but it fell from his fingers to the floor, leaving a black dash across the red carpet. Excusing his clumsiness, Cí picked up the brush and then stopped to reflect. There was no doubt: sign the deed and he would be admitting sole responsibility, and Feng would be off the hook.

Bo’s argument ran through his head. But could this really be what his father would have wanted? Cí could barely think straight. He gripped the brush and wet it on the inkstone. Then, slowly, he began painting the lines that made up his signature. Again, though, his grip seemed to loosen on the brush; it was as if his ancestors were there in the room, knocking it away. When he reached the part of his signature that was his family name, something rose up inside him. And at that moment, he looked up and saw Feng’s triumphant smile. Cí saw his parents’ bodies buried in the rubble, and his brother’s tortured form, and his little sister in agony. He couldn’t leave them like that. He looked Feng steadfastly in the eyes until a grain of concern entered the older man’s face. Cí jumped to his feet, threw the ink and brush to the floor, and tore up the deed.

Ningzong’s wrath was immediate and terrible. He ordered his men to come forward, put manacles on Cí, and whip him ten times. When it was over, the emperor said the time had come for the verdict, but Cí demanded to be allowed his final defense. Ningzong bit his tongue. This was a centuries-old tradition, and Cí knew the emperor wouldn’t dare prevent him his rights in front of the whole court. Eventually the emperor signaled for Cí to go ahead.

“You have until the water clock runs out!” he said as it was brought forward.