Chapter 18

The monk Liaoru stood trembling in the courtyard before the County Yamen's main hall. A Junior Clerk led the way ahead of him and, seeing him refuse to move again, urged him repeatedly, "Abbot, the Special Envoy merely asked you to help with the investigation. He isn't arresting you. Why are you so afraid to go?"

Yet to Liaoru, this clearly looked like a trap laid with malicious intent, an invitation to climb into the urn.

When Magistrate Wu had proposed temporarily enshrining Military Governor Cui Keyong's precious pearl at Lotus Flower Temple a dozen days earlier, Liaoru had thought auspicious clouds had descended from heaven and felt overwhelmed by the honor. Whether he caught the wind of imperial favor or the Military Governor's patronage, he would leap through the Dragon Gate and see his standing rise tenfold.

Even if the pearl merely passed through and left, it would still bring glory to Lotus Flower Temple. They could lavish ink on the story afterward, and the temple's incense offerings would naturally flourish beyond anything it had known before. Back then, Liaoru's imagination had run wild even in his dreams. If he could use this opportunity to become the abbot of a great temple in Chang'an and don a splendid brocade cassock, that would truly be a dream come true.

Never had he imagined that what descended from heaven was not auspicious clouds, but disaster. With the pearl stolen from Lotus Flower Temple, he could not escape blame as its abbot. Overnight, he had fallen from the clouds and been confined within his own temple to reflect on his faults. More terrifying still, Unworthy Marshal Luo Chengye had been arrested at Lotus Flower Temple yesterday. The man had murdered someone, destroyed the corpse, and faked his own death to escape, then remained hidden in the temple without anyone noticing. That, too, had become the abbot's fault.

The Junior Clerk urged him on again. Liaoru could only keep chanting the Buddha's name, praying that all the gods and Buddhas in heaven would protect him through this terrible ordeal.

When he saw that the Junior Clerk was leading him toward the Prison Ward rather than the courtroom, every fold of fat on Liaoru's body trembled with fear. "Officer, this is... this is..."

"The Special Envoy spends all day in the prison questioning prisoners," the Junior Clerk said. "Sorry for the trouble, Abbot, but you'll have to go there."

With a blade already at his throat, Liaoru had no choice but to follow, even if mountains of knives and seas of fire lay ahead.

By tradition, the County Yamen's Prison Ward was built underground. Once the main door opened, a long, pitch-black staircase lay beyond. As they descended, the temperature suddenly dropped, and an overpowering stench of blood and decay struck them in the face. Below ground, the Prison Ward was as dark as midnight, with torches burning here and there. Liaoru narrowed his eyes to adjust to the light and dimly made out several bloody, mangled figures suspended in the air. Too frightened to look closely, he quickly bowed his head and chanted the Buddha's name.

But when he looked down, he found blood, feces, and urine all over the floor. Apparently the prisoners under interrogation had been beaten until they lost control of their bowels.

The last stretch of summer's dog days had passed, though noon was still quite hot. This underground prison, however, was extraordinarily cold and dank. Gooseflesh rose all over Liaoru's body. He felt as though he had stepped into the famed Buddhist painting of hell's transformations, except this was no mural. Every torment of hell was real.

"Has the abbot arrived? Excellent timing. There is something I would like to ask you."

A commanding, chilling voice rang out. Special Envoy Bao Lang slowly approached, his words cultured and courteous.

But the more polite he was, the more frightened Liaoru became. He had seen firsthand how quickly this man could change his face: gloomy one moment, irritable the next, courteous now, raving mad a moment later, like a beast both cunning and insane.

Today, Bao Lang wore a gray-green, round-collared brocade warrior's robe, with a silver-inlaid Dieliexie Belt patterned with taotie beasts at his waist and a Horizontal Saber in a sharkskin sheath hanging from it. He looked tall and imposing, a figure who would stand out even in Chang'an. Only a few dark-red bloodstains had splashed onto the hem of his robe. Liaoru, who dared not raise his head, saw them, and his palms trembled despite being pressed together in prayer.

"I asked you to come today chiefly because I wanted to know how many people in your temple can read."

Bao Lang casually took a handkerchief from a Jailer and wiped his hands. "You and Magistrate Wu both saw the note the thief left that day. Few commoners can read-not even one in a hundred. But monks need some familiarity with writing to recite sutras, so suspicion still falls on Lotus Flower Temple."

Hearing this, Liaoru pleaded in a trembling voice, "Special Envoy, I have told you everything I could, down to the smallest detail. The temple's rules are strict, and I had the Monastery Supervisor submit the names of every monk. Four or five of the men who guarded the pagoda have already been tortured to death. Truly, no one dares conceal anything. Please, if not for the monks' sake, then for the Buddha's, take pity on us!"

Bao Lang smiled faintly. "If you could discern the finest autumn hair and honestly account for everything, Luo Chengye would not have hidden at your temple for so many days without being discovered. Clearly, Lotus Flower Temple still holds many suspicious points that need to be peeled apart and examined carefully."

He turned his palm upward, gesturing for Liaoru to enter. "Speaking of the Monastery Supervisor, I would like you to see him."

The Monastery Supervisor managed all the temple's daily affairs and could be called one of its most powerful monks below the abbot. At these words, Liaoru's hair stood on end. Since he had sent the Monastery Supervisor to deliver the list a few days earlier, the man had never returned to the temple. Presumably, he had already been thrown into prison.

Looking at the prisoners hanging from the ceiling, their lives or deaths uncertain, Liaoru hardly dared imagine what had become of the Monastery Supervisor.

Seeing his hesitation, Bao Lang smiled. "The supervising master is a monk of standing. Naturally, we would not use whips or branding irons on him."

Half believing him and half doubting, Liaoru could only steel himself and follow deeper into the prison. Everything he saw and heard filled him with horror. Even the torments depicted in the murals of hell's transformations were not as gruesome as this. He chanted Amitabha over and over, wishing only that he were blind and deaf.

When they reached the Monastery Supervisor's cell, they saw a figure sitting motionless in a chair, his hands bound behind his back.

"Look. Everyone else is strung up and beaten, but the supervising master gets to sit during his interrogation."

Bao Lang pushed Liaoru forward to give him a clear view.

An iron cage like a helmet covered the monk's shaven head. Numerous wooden wedges had been inserted between its bars, pressing tightly against his scalp. Apparently, they had been hammered in one after another during the interrogation. With only a fixed amount of space inside the cage, the Monastery Supervisor's head had slowly been crushed by the wedges until his brains burst out. His death was too ghastly to behold.

Once Liaoru saw it clearly, he let out a terrible scream. Then his eyes rolled back, and he fainted rigid with terror.

Bao Lang merely sneered at the abbot's bulky body lying on the ground.

Suddenly, one of his personal guards came to report, "Special Envoy! The Official Guesthouse is on fire!"

Startled, Bao Lang forgot Liaoru and hurried up to ground level, loudly ordering someone to bring his horse. He galloped all the way back to the Official Guesthouse in town, where the acrid smell of burning timber reached his nose. Fortunately, the blaze was not too large. He immediately returned to his room, pulled a copy of the Avatamsaka Sutra from a large pile of documents, and tucked it inside his robe.

After coming outside, Bao Lang questioned the proprietor of the Official Guesthouse and learned that only a storeroom containing firewood and straw had caught fire, and that the blaze had already been extinguished. He stood with his hands tucked into his sleeves and supervised for a while. Seeing that none of the officials and envoys lodging there had suffered any mishap and that everything had returned to normal, he looked up at the sun. It was still early; he could converse with Liaoru for a while longer. He returned to his room and put the sutra back where it had been.

Now that copy of the Avatamsaka Sutra lay on the small table before Baozhu.

Yang Xingjian said incredulously, "Just to get this, you set fire to the Official Guesthouse where the officials are staying?!"

Unconcerned, Wei Xun replied lazily, "I only burned a row of empty storerooms. Without starting a fire, how would I know where he hid the important things?"

Baozhu beamed. "What a clever idea!"

Both shocked and frightened, Yang Xingjian kept looking out the window. Order remained unchanged within the County Yamen; no one had noticed anything amiss. After the Lacquer Box, Wei Xun had once again stolen evidence in a major case, this time taking it directly from under Bao Lang's nose. By now, he finally believed that Wei Xun really had gone easy on him during their journey. Otherwise, the man would have slaughtered him without a sound long ago.

Baozhu knew nothing of Yang Xingjian's tangled thoughts. She picked up the sutra and unfolded it. Its contents were indeed the Avatamsaka Sutra. But all the Buddhist scriptures she had seen before had been scrolls, copied onto long strips of paper or silk and rolled around rods made of precious aromatic wood, ivory, gold, silver, or similar materials.

This sutra, however, was accordion-folded, repeatedly folded into a square that was light and easy to hold. In the imperial palace, only documents and memorials used this format. The writing inside was in regular script, but for some reason the ink was uneven. Some strokes seemed to contain flying-white streaks, yet not quite. From the paper to the cover mounting, the entire book was crude, with ink spots and stains in many places.

She read a passage from "All Retributions Arise from Karma": "All fruits arise from causes; all retributions arise from karma." Baozhu murmured, "If someone was copying a sutra, they should at least have copied it better, to show their devotion and reverence."

"This is a woodblock-printed book, not a handwritten one," Wei Xun said. "Artisans carve the characters in relief on wooden boards, spread ink evenly over them, and print them onto paper. Once the sheets dry, they fold them into a book."

Baozhu asked in surprise, "Carving a book the way you carve a seal? What a lot of trouble!"

"Exactly, except what they carve is a Buddhist sutra. Making the blocks is complicated, but once they're finished, you can print hundreds or thousands of copies in a day, and print more whenever you need them. It's countless times faster than copying by hand."

Woodblock printing had already appeared by this time, but the upper classes disdained it. They still delighted in collecting exquisite handwritten books that cost great amounts of time and labor, each scroll priced at several thousand cash. Even spending an entire month's salary, a lower-ranking official could not buy many. Printed books were slightly inferior in quality, but the greater the number printed, the more thinly the costs were spread. Almanacs, Buddhist sutras, and similar works printed this way were therefore much loved by ordinary people.

Devout men and women pooled money to commission woodblocks, then had many copies of sutras printed and placed in Buddhist temples, both as offerings and as free gifts for worshippers who came to burn incense, spreading the Buddha's teachings far and wide. Bao Lang had simply taken this copy of the Avatamsaka Sutra from Lotus Flower Temple.

After hearing Wei Xun's explanation, Baozhu asked, "Then where is the note?"

"Keep turning the pages," Wei Xun said.

Baozhu unfolded more pages, and a yellowish slip of paper fluttered out from inside the sutra. She quickly picked it up and examined it. Eight characters were clearly written on it: "Heaven knows, earth knows, you know, I know."

Baozhu thought, So the sutra was only there to hold this note, a container just like the Lacquer Box. The note is only a thin strip three fingers wide, hidden in that enormous Official Guesthouse. Thank goodness Wei Xun thought of using a fire to find it. Otherwise, who could have unearthed it?

Yang Xingjian hurriedly said, "That's it. Wu Zhiyuan said that when the White Snake Pearl was stolen, this note lay in the empty Lacquer Box, beneath the cushion. Heaven knows, earth knows, you know, I know-that refers to the story of Yang Zhen, the famed Eastern Han minister who refused a bribe. If the thief left this note, things become rather interesting. He not only stole the treasure, but also hinted at a threat."

"Three people were present when the note was discovered," Wei Xun said. "Bao Lang, Wu Zhiyuan, and Liaoru of Lotus Flower Temple. One of them must know something behind the scenes for 'you know, I know' to apply. Bao Lang hid the note himself. Either he considers it a key to solving the case, or he has a guilty conscience."

Seeing the soundness of his reasoning, Yang Xingjian thought that this man was not merely a wandering swordsman who defied the law through force; he had some brains as well.

Baozhu turned the note over and over in her hands, studying the structure of its characters and the style of its strokes. The more she looked, the more puzzled she became.

"This is Zhang Xu's regular script," she said.

Yang Xingjian froze. "Whose?"

"Zhang Xu. Zhang the Mad, from 'Mad Zhang and Drunken Su.' Some people also call him the Sage of Cursive Script."

"Oh, yes, one of the Eight Immortals of the Wine Cup," Yang Xingjian said. "But isn't cursive script his specialty?"

"Although Zhang the Mad is famous for his cursive script, his regular script is excellent too," Baozhu said. "Everyone who requests his calligraphy asks for his specialty, so little of his regular script has circulated. But there are a few pieces in the palace. I've practiced copying them."

From Emperor Taizong onward, every ruler of Great Tang had passionately loved calligraphy. Generation after generation, they had amassed many precious works, and imperial sons and grandsons practiced diligently from childhood. Not all became experts, but at the very least they were widely experienced and possessed discerning eyes.

Princess Wanshou had studied under the great calligrapher Liu Gongquan since childhood. Yang Xingjian trusted her judgment, but raised another question. "Zhang the Senior Secretary is well into his seventies and retired many years ago. I've heard he has been living in seclusion in Luoyang. Surely he couldn't be involved in a theft like this?"

"I only said this was Zhang Xu's calligraphy, not that he necessarily wrote it himself," Baozhu replied. "It might be a copy. But there are probably very few people who could obtain an original of his regular script."

Wei Xun listened from the side. Although he could read the note, he could glean nothing further from it. Seeing Baozhu identify the origin of the handwriting in just a few words, he found it intriguing and felt admiration as well.

Baozhu shook the slip of paper and added, "Strange. This paper is so rough that there are even bits of unpounded stalk inside. Whatever calligraphy someone requested, given the Sage of Cursive Script's standing in literary circles, they would surely use fine paper. Could this be specially made paper like Xue Tao Paper, chosen for its rustic charm?"

Wei Xun almost laughed. "This is the most ordinary hemp paper used by commoners. Small eateries and shops keep accounts on it, children practice their first characters on it, and women trace embroidery patterns on it. Fine white xuan paper costs three cash a sheet. Few people can afford it."

Baozhu and Yang Xingjian exchanged looks, both finding it odd. Rare regular-script calligraphy by the Sage of Cursive Script, yet written on the most ordinary hemp paper used by commoners, with words full of hidden implications-the mystery only grew more bewildering.

"When Bao Lang discovers the evidence has been stolen, there will be even greater trouble," Yang Xingjian said.

"So examine it carefully," Wei Xun replied. "Once you've seen it clearly and memorized it, I'll return it." His tone was as casual as though he were borrowing a needle and thread from a neighbor.

Yang Xingjian struggled to maintain a smile and restrained himself from commenting.

There were only eight characters on the note. Reading them forward or backward and pondering them further revealed nothing new. Yang Xingjian went out to find the servants of the inner residence, saying that Yang Fangxie had vomited during her illness and needed something to absorb the moisture and remove the smell. He asked for lime, hemp paper, and other supplies, then brought them back to the room to examine. The paper was indeed very similar to the note in color and texture. Only when placed beside the original could one see differences in its shade and quality.

An idea struck Baozhu. She had Wei Xun cut the hemp paper to the note's size, mixed the ink evenly, and began copying the handwriting herself.

Wei Xun knew she intended to swap the beams and replace the pillars, and stood beside her to watch. Seeing that she had again pulled her sleeves down over her hands today, exposing only an inch of scallion-white fingertips to hold the brush, he finally could not help asking, "Won't you fold your sleeves back even when writing? Be careful not to stain your clothes with ink."

Baozhu looked up and rolled her eyes at him. "What business is it of yours? I'll write however I please."

Snapped at for no reason, Wei Xun felt baffled. He wondered why her hands had suddenly become unable to see the light these past few days.

Seeing Wei Xun standing so close to the Princess, Yang Xingjian suffered another bout of his coughing ailment. After several coughs that Wei Xun pretended not to hear, he had no choice but to remind him aloud, "Her Highness's calligraphy is superb. Even if you admire it, you should wait until she finishes before looking. And you should perform the Crossed-Hands Salute, not simply stand there." As he spoke, he demonstrated the proper gesture.

The Crossed-Hands Salute was a common courtesy used by nobles toward their superiors and honored elders. While answering questions or standing still to await instructions, one had to keep one's hands crossed before the chest to show respect and humility. But where would the lower ranks of the martial world find so many cumbersome formalities? Wei Xun, moreover, had always flouted convention and been willful and unruly. He would not even heed his own master, much less accept a lecture from this pedant. Annoyed by his endless prattle, he shot Yang Xingjian a glare and continued letting his words blow past his ears.

Baozhu did not mind either. "I promised to teach him calligraphy, so he needs to see clearly how I lift and lower the brush. Let him stand here and watch."

With the room's highest-ranking person having issued her instructions, the corners of Wei Xun's mouth lifted in a smug expression. Yang Xingjian could only swallow his irritation and assent.

Baozhu concentrated fully and copied more than a dozen notes, then chose the closest match and compared it in the sunlight. Even Yang Xingjian could discern no difference in the handwriting, and he repeatedly praised the Princess's exquisite skill.

Wei Xun liked her writing and wanted to secretly keep a copy, but Yang Xingjian brought over a brazier and meticulously burned all the rejected slips, even carefully crushing the ashes to leave no trace. Wei Xun knew that great nobles of the court like them often decided the life or death of entire families over a few written words and were especially cautious when disposing of papers bearing writing. Only then did he reluctantly abandon the idea.

Baozhu let the copied note dry, slipped it between the pages of the Avatamsaka Sutra, and told Wei Xun to return it exactly as it had been. Yang Xingjian could not help worrying. "Bao Lang is extremely shrewd. What will we do if he discovers it?"

Baozhu scoffed. "I've seen the visiting card he wrote. It was simply unfit to look at. If he has the ability to tell the difference, I'll eat my own handwriting."

A knock sounded outside the Reflection Pavilion. Wu Zhiyuan had brought his wife, as usual, to "show concern" for Yang Fangxie's illness. Yang Xingjian went downstairs alone to deal with them. Wei Xun stood by the door and listened for a while, confirming that Bao Lang had not come along, then tucked the sutra inside his robe and told Baozhu, "I'll go put it back."

As Wei Xun was about to leave, Baozhu saw that strips of cloth still wrapped his left hand. She knew his burns were severe, and that he had been running back and forth, climbing through windows and onto beams, just after recovering from his illness. The bandages had already become very dirty, and she did not know whether he could bear it. So she reached for his hand to have a look and tell him to change them.

Wei Xun started. A strange flicker of fear passed through his heart, and he instinctively dodged away.

Baozhu had acted naturally, without thinking much of it. His evasion made her feel deeply embarrassed instead. The resistance and rejection in his eyes were far too obvious. Her status was supremely exalted, and her pride stood higher than the heavens. Humiliation and anger rose in her at once, and the more she thought, the angrier she became. I'm trapped here myself, yet every day I rack my brains to help clear his name, and he shuns me like a snake or scorpion. I've truly made a fool of myself. How laughable. No wonder he only grabs my belt to carry me when he takes me out. It turns out he simply doesn't want to touch me.

Feeling utterly disgraced, Baozhu's eyes glistened with tears, her face cold as frost. She furiously shouted, "Get out! Don't ever come back!"

Wei Xun's heart jolted. He scrambled out the window as though fleeing. Baozhu slammed the shutters shut and immediately slid the bolt into place.

The bang was so loud that even those downstairs heard it. Yang Xingjian had no idea what had happened and shuddered with fright. Forcing a smile, he said to Wu Zhiyuan and his wife, "The wind is getting stronger and stronger, rattling the windows. Could it be about to rain?"