Chapter 265 — The Puppets Turn Their Heads

CHAPTER 265

The Puppets Turn Their Heads

The old puppet storehouse stood behind the array yard, and nobody had cleaned it in sixty years.

Sixty retired practice puppets hung from racks along the walls, wooden men with painted faces and the paint half gone. Eight iron cases lay in a row at the back, long and black and lidded. Disciples called them the coffins, though they had only ever held spare puppet frames.

Nine cots stood in the middle of the floor. Li Changyuan had provided a kettle, a lamp and one blanket for each guest. He had counted the blankets twice.

“Dry roof,” Hao Wen said, running a finger along a beam. “Strong walls. Truly, Artificer Hall is generous.”

“Thank you, honoured guest,” He Zhen said stiffly.

“Fu Zhi, write that the storehouse is spacious,” Hao Wen said.

“Spacious,” Fu Zhi said, writing, and coughed. “There are a lot of faces in here, Inspector.”

“They're wood,” Hao Wen said.

By the second watch the nine inspectors were lying in a row with their boots beside their cots. Hao Wen slept like a man who expected to find fault in the morning. Fu Zhi, who had drawn the first shift, sat on a stool by the lamp with his board across his knees.

Shi Feng lay on his stomach on the roof, with one eye at a gap in the tiles.

“I want it recorded that I'm here under protest,” Shi Feng said.

“I heard your protest,” Lin Langtian whispered, loudly enough to be unhelpful. “And I’m refusing it. Here, have a bean while you watch.”

“They're guests,” Shi Feng said.

“They’re inspecting our hospitality,” Lin Langtian said, cracking a bean. “A quiet night gives them nothing to report. Lesson eleven, Junior Brother: a guest who sleeps badly leaves a witness. As the saying goes, a man who has done nothing wrong doesn’t fear a ghost knocking at midnight. We want them talking.”

“To what?” Shi Feng asked.

“To our terrifying hidden formation,” Lin Langtian said.

“We don't have one,” Shi Feng said.

“Then it's very well hidden,” Lin Langtian said.

On the other side of the gap, Gongsun Ce knelt on the beam with his sleeves tied back. In his lap lay a wooden frame the size of a bird cage, strung with silk so fine that it vanished in the lamplight. Sixty threads ran from his fingers down through the dark to sixty puppet necks.

He had sealed every joint with cooling wax before dusk. Not one of them would creak.

“If one tangles,” Gongsun Ce whispered, not turning, “I will kill you both.”

“You'd never,” Lin Langtian said. “You'd bill us.”

“Both,” Gongsun Ce said.

He lifted one finger.

Far down the room, in the dark corner by the iron cases, a wooden head turned. It moved an inch. Then a second head turned beside it. Then a third.

It went down the racks, head after head. Sixty painted faces swung slowly away from the walls, and when they stopped, every one was pointed at the cots.

Shi Feng was impressed by the control. Sixty threads moved without a joint creaking. Gongsun Ce might hate losing wagers, but he took his craft seriously even when Lin Langtian put it to such a ridiculous use.

Fu Zhi raised his head from his board.

For a moment he did nothing. Then the pen began to shake. It scratched a single line across the page, and kept going.

“Inspector,” Fu Zhi said, in a very small voice.

Hao Wen didn't stir.

“Inspector. The…” Fu Zhi swallowed. “The one on the far rack. It was facing the wall. It was definitely facing the wall.”

“Wind,” Hao Wen said, without opening his eyes.

“There's no window,” Fu Zhi said.

“A draught,” Hao Wen said.

“It isn't a draught, Inspector,” Fu Zhi said. “It's looking at me.”

Hao Wen sat up.

He stared down the long, dark room, at sixty wooden men looking at him with sixty half-painted faces. The lamp flame trembled. A cot creaked, and a second inspector sat up, and then a third.

“Who moved them?” Hao Wen said sharply.

“Nobody's here,” a man whispered.

“Then who—” Hao Wen began.

Gongsun Ce flexed one finger. Down in the dark, a hand rose six inches from its puppet's side, hesitated and fell again. Fu Zhi made a small, strangled sound.

“I didn't write that,” Fu Zhi said. “I'm not going to write that.”

“Light every lamp,” Hao Wen said. His voice had gone high and flat. “All of them. Now. Nobody sleeps. Nobody moves.”

“Inspector, the storehouse has only one lamp,” Fu Zhi said.

“Then bring more!” Hao Wen snapped.

Shi Feng thought, They came looking for faults, and now they’re afraid of the storehouse. He was enjoying their panic more than he should. He took another bean and tried not to laugh.

“Beautiful,” Lin Langtian breathed. “Prince, you have a gift. I'd give you a title, but I'm not allowed.”

“Shut up,” Gongsun Ce said, and let all sixty heads turn back to the wall at once.

Down in the storehouse, Hao Wen watched them go. The sound was a soft, collective wooden sigh. Then the room was still again.

Nobody lay back down. Every blade of grass and every tree had become a soldier.

“Fu Zhi,” Hao Wen said at last, in a small, tight voice. “Write that the storehouse has a draught.”

“A draught,” Fu Zhi said.

“A serious draught,” Hao Wen said.

Up on the roof, Gongsun Ce let go of the frame and flexed his stiff fingers. Lin Langtian lifted a hand like a man blessing a field.

“Tomorrow,” Lin Langtian whispered, “the coffins.”

“I haven't been told about the coffins,” Shi Feng said.

“Zhu Liu has,” Lin Langtian said. “Zhu Liu is delighted.”

“I am not delighted,” Zhu Liu whispered from the dark yard, snapping his receipt book shut.