The oil lamp's flame flickered. Chen Wuya's fingers rubbed along the edge of the plain sheet. The paper bearing bloody words lay flat at the corner of the table, its ink not yet dry, as though it had only recently been taken from beneath a shoe sole. He did not look at Bai Zhi again. Instead, he stared at the four words, "There are ghosts in the court," as if they might rearrange themselves.
"They aren't trying to seize power." He suddenly spoke, his voice very low. "They've had power all along. What they want now is to replace someone in a rightful and proper manner."
Bai Zhi stood by the window, one hand resting on her sword hilt, her knuckles lightly brushing the sapphire set into the sword tassel. She did not ask how he had reached that conclusion, merely waited for him to continue.
Chen Wuya picked up the tea bowl, poured out the remaining water, then refilled it from the pot. "The court sent an envoy to reassess military merits. On the surface, it's to fill gaps and correct oversights. But think carefully—whose merits will be reassessed? Ours, the people who fought to the death defending the border? Or those officials who hid in the rear, directing provisions and supplies, who never drew a sword?" He paused. "Once the merit records are revised, the old accounts are voided, and the new registers are verified by the Ministry of War. But who does the Ministry of War listen to?"
"Yan Song." Bai Zhi spoke the name as though spitting out a mouthful of foul air.
"Exactly." Chen Wuya nodded. "So he doesn't need to personally kill or set fires. One official document is enough to brand Zhao Tianying's escort convoy as having falsified its battle record, and turn