Chapter 644 — Not Dead

CHAPTER 644

Not Dead

“Lost, presumed dead!” the steward of the consort’s household said, slapping the petition down on the table. “Eleven months, Grand Tutor! Eleven months, and not one word from the man! The Ling clan’s daughter is married to a ghost!”

It was the last week of the year in Great Liang. The side hall smelled of charcoal and old ink. The Grand Tutor sat behind a table of petitions with his beard tucked into his collar, looking as if he would rather be anywhere else.

The envoy stood by the door with his hands folded and kept his face respectful. He had been told to stand there and say nothing, and he was good at both.

“A missing man is not a dead man,” the Grand Tutor said irritably. “The court can’t write ‘dead’ on a 3 Mark because the consort’s household is tired of waiting.”

“Then let his sect say it!” the steward shouted. “Artificer Hall is poor! Send them a gift, and they’ll give you a death receipt by noon!”

The Grand Tutor looked to the head of the table.

Crown Prince Sima Yu sat with a cup of tea in his hands. He had been turning it slowly the whole time without drinking. He gave the Grand Tutor a faint smile, then looked at the steward without answering. Neither man could claim he had ordered the petition, and neither dared tell him to stop it.

The Grand Tutor sighed deeply.

“Without a receipt, I won’t sign,” the Grand Tutor said. “Bring me a receipt, and I’ll write it.” He pointed at the door. “You. Go to the Hall.”

The envoy bowed. In his heart, he was already counting the reward. A broken little sect against the royal court was an egg against a rock.

Artificer Hall’s stall stood just inside the sect gate, under a patched awning heavy with snow.

A woman in a plain grey robe sat behind the counter with a ledger open in front of her. A fat, warty black toad squatted on her shoulder with its eyes half shut.

Behind her, an old man in a straw hat was sweeping snow off the steps.

The envoy recognised the woman at once, and his knees went weak. He bowed to the ground.

“Your Highness!” the envoy said. “This humble servant brings a request from the court!”

“You can stand,” Sima Lan said, keeping her brush above the ledger. “What request?”

The envoy unrolled the petition and read it out loudly, so the whole yard would hear. Shi Feng, 3 Mark of Artificer Hall. Missing since the Lantern Festival. To be recorded lost, presumed dead, so that the Ling clan may be freed from the marriage. The sect is asked to issue a death receipt.

Sima Lan dipped her brush and turned to a fresh page.

“Refused,” Sima Lan said. “Item one. The Hall issues receipts for goods sold and services done. A death is neither. Item two. We have no body. Alive, we must see the man; dead, we must see the body. Item three. The petition is from the consort’s household, not the throne. The Hall doesn’t answer the consort’s household.”

The envoy’s face turned red.

“Your Highness, this is the court’s will!” the envoy said, his voice rising. “Your own brother sat in the room when...”

“My brother sat there and let you speak,” Sima Lan said, setting down her brush. “That makes this your petition. Don’t pretend you brought an imperial order.”

The envoy’s temper broke. He had walked three days in the snow, and a poor sect’s shop girl was writing him into a ledger.

“You’re courting death!” the envoy shouted. “Do you think a broken sect can refuse the court? I’ll...”

His hand dropped to his sword hilt.

The toad opened one eye.

There was a wet slap. Something pink shot out, wrapped around the scabbard and was gone. The envoy felt a hard tug. When he looked down, he was holding a sword hilt and a guard, and nothing else. The blade and the scabbard were simply gone.

The toad swallowed, and its throat bulged twice. It made a small, satisfied noise and closed its eye.

In the yard, every disciple had stopped sweeping.

“Don’t reach for the hilt again,” Sima Lan said, watching the envoy’s shaking hand. She made another entry. “One sword eaten. No charge. He enjoyed it.”

Then she reached under the counter and laid a row of paper slips on the wood. They were draft stubs, each one stamped with a seal the envoy didn’t know: a tower, and around it the words Sky Pavilion, Wanhe Branch. Each was dated, the last less than two months ago.

Every stub had the same line in the same rough handwriting. Hut nine, rent. Paid.

“Wanhe is a city in the Empire,” Sima Lan said. “He sends rent from there. That’s his hand. He writes his nines like hooks.” She tapped the newest stub once. “He paid late, and I intend to complain to him myself. You can take these dates back to the court.”

The envoy opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

Sima Lan took the court’s petition, turned it to face her, and wrote across the face of it in neat, square characters, straight through the consort’s seal.

Refused. He is alive, and he still owes rent.

She blew on the ink, rolled the petition and held it out. The envoy took it with both hands.

The old man on the steps kept sweeping. He reached the bottom step and leaned on his broom for a moment, looking at the envoy’s empty hilt.

“Heaven keeps books too,” Li Changyuan said, and went back to the snow.

The envoy left at noon with a hilt in his belt and a petition he’d rather not deliver.

An hour later, a peddler with a pack of cheap scrolls stopped at the counter.

“The road map of the Empire,” Sima Lan said. “How much?”

“Three silver, Miss!” the peddler said. “Every great city from the border to Tianjing!”

She paid three silver exactly. Her thumb rested over the folded edge for a moment; she wanted to trace the road north, but the disciples were still watching her. She rolled the map without opening it and slid it into a drawer marked TRAVEL. On the drawer’s label, under the word, she wrote a date.

It was a long way off.