Above the door frame, where the blue tiles were peeling away, hung a wooden sign for the "Zhao Estate," half of which had faded. A breeze, carrying the scent of rotting wood, whistled through the gaps in the door, snapping the hem of Pi Yanlin’s coarse black robes.
He tilted his head to look at the moon—it hung right between the branches of the withered locust tree by the east wall, resembling a copper coin dipped in blood.
"Handyman Pi, over here!" The jailer gave him a shove. The light from his lantern hit the red-lacquered door of the mortuary, revealing patches of mottled mold.
Judge Wei had been waiting in the doorway for some time. He snapped his water sleeves with a flick of his wrists. "Constable Gu, this is nothing but a farce—"
"Judge Wei." Gu Qinghuan cut him off, the pressure of the Dark Iron tiger-pattern token leaving a red mark on her palm. "The Xuan'an Bureau is investigating. You need only watch." She swept her gaze over Pi Yanlin, her eyes resting on the red mark on the back of his neck from where he had pressed against a pile of straw. The handyman had slept soundly in the cell last night; even now, he had bits of straw stuck to the corner of his eye, yet his mouth curled into a nonchalant smile.
Pi Yanlin reached out to touch the stone lion outside the mortuary, his fingertips coming away coated in gray dust.
He looked at the red-lacquered coffin inside, suddenly stretched his arms, and sighed. "Constable Gu, would it be alright if I lay on the coffin to take a look? I can see things more clearly if I’m lying down."
"Audacious!" Judge Wei’s goatee shook like tangled weeds. "The person who died in the Zhao Estate was the only son of an Undersecretary. The coffin has been properly consecrated—"
"Go ahead." Gu Qinghuan interrupted him, her hand resting on the hilt of her saber.
She stared at the hint of cunning flashing in Pi Yanlin’s eyes, suddenly recalling how, when he had claimed in the cell last night that "the corpse strangled itself," the bones of his wrists had tightened under her grip like taut bowstrings. It wasn't fear; it was as if something were hidden within him, struggling to break through the soil.
The moldy smell inside the mortuary intensified.
Pi Yanlin took off his shoes and climbed onto the coffin in a leisurely manner. The moment his back hit the lid, a pale golden mist of light bloomed before his eyes.
His Trace-Seeking Eye activated automatically. He stared at the floor: the dried blood was rolling back as if dragged by invisible hands toward the corner of the courtyard wall. The trail of pale blue viscous fluid in the cracks of the blue bricks converged into a line before his eyes, leading from the foot of the coffin straight to the back window.
"He—he’s closed his eyes!" The jailer’s lantern nearly crashed against the threshold. "Is he casting a spell?"
Judge Wei slapped the table and shouted, "Gu Qinghuan! Do you have any idea what this is—"
"Shut up." Gu Qinghuan’s voice was as cold as tempered ice.
She stared at Pi Yanlin, watching the delicate shadows his eyelashes cast against his skin. His breathing was long and steady; there was not a trace of the frantic energy of someone performing a ritual.
He looked like... he was truly, earnestly "seeing" something.
Pi Yanlin tapped his fingers lightly against the coffin lid.
Through the Trace-Seeking Eye, the back window twenty paces away suddenly became sharp and clear. There was a fresh scratch on the window lattice, accompanied by the smell of rust. The direction of the bloodstains on the floor was the exact opposite of the drag marks—the deceased hadn't breathed his last in the Zhao Estate at all; someone had dragged him in after death and posed him in a lying position!
He snapped his eyes open, flipped off the coffin, and his heels clicked sharply against the blue bricks. "Constable Gu, follow me."
The group followed him around to the back courtyard.
Pi Yanlin crouched at the base of the wall and dug his fingernails into the gap between two bluestone slabs. Clods of dirt fell away, revealing a hidden compartment the size of a palm.
He looked up at Gu Qinghuan. She was staring at his mud-stained fingertips, her gaze scorching.
"Up," he said softly, and the slab lifted at his touch.
The contents of the compartment caused the air to freeze.
Half a broken blade was stuck diagonally in the mud, the surface covered in fine, dense thunder patterns. Beside it lay half of a military tally, its edges charred black, with the characters for "Zhenbei" faintly visible.
"Granny?" Gu Qinghuan turned her head suddenly.
Granny Lin was standing at the courtyard gate, though no one knew when she had arrived. Her hunched back was pulled straight, and her withered hands covered her mouth. Her eyes were red enough to bleed. "The scourge of war again... Master Zhao was a participant in the Zhenbei Army of the former dynasty. That night, ten years ago, the executioners who wiped out the entire household wore military tallies exactly like that one..."
"You knew?" Gu Qinghuan’s voice trembled.
She crouched down, her fingertips hovering three inches above the broken blade. The thunder pattern—it was a forging technique unique to the Dark Iron Sabers of the Zhenbei Army.
Ten years ago, in the massacre of her own family, the blades used by the executioners had featured the exact same pattern.
Pi Yanlin took half a step back, watching Gu Qinghuan’s pale knuckles.
He remembered the night before in the cell, when this female constable had helped him up—there had been an old scar on her wrist, running from the joint to her elbow like a faded line of blood. It hadn't been an ordinary injury after all; it was a blade wound.
"Handyman Pi." Gu Qinghuan suddenly looked up, the dark tide roiling in her eyes threatening to overflow. "How did you know the compartment was here?"
Pi Yanlin scratched the back of his neck. "My Trace-Seeking Eye saw it." He didn't mention that among the pale blue viscous trails, there had been a half-printed shoeprint—Granny Lin’s three-inch-long shoe, which had stepped here just after midnight.
Judge Wei’s voice suddenly exploded. "Constable Gu! Such monstrous, heretical activities must be reported—"
"Judge Wei." Gu Qinghuan rose abruptly, slamming her Dark Iron tiger-pattern token onto the stone table. "The Xuan'an Bureau is taking over the case." She swept a glance at Pi Yanlin and added, "Including this Handyman Pi."
Pi Yanlin rubbed his stomach and smiled. "Constable Gu, I'm hungry."
Gu Qinghuan paused, then unhooked her coin purse and tossed it to him.
He clutched the purse and walked away. As he passed Granny Lin, the old woman suddenly grabbed his sleeve, her voice trembling like a leaf in the wind. "Young friend, do not dig any deeper... The Scourge of War spares no one who touches it."
He replied, "I know," but as he turned the corner of the street, he ducked into the "Four Seas Gambling House" directly opposite.
"Liu Ergou!" the sound of dice rolling echoed through the gambling house. "The old stories about the Zhao Estate you told last time—if I add five copper coins, are you willing to tell me the details?"
In the shadows, a man thin as a monkey rubbed his fingers and leaned in. "Handyman Pi? Aren't you working for the Xuan'an Bureau? Why—"
"Shh." Pi Yanlin slammed the coin purse onto the table. "I’m just here for the entertainment." He stared at the swaying light of the lanterns in the gambling house, thinking to himself: The Zhao Estate, the Zhenbei Army, the massacre from ten years ago... I fear Gu Qinghuan’s vendetta is inextricably tangled with this case.
Meanwhile, in the back courtyard of the Zhao Estate, Gu Qinghuan gripped that half of the military tally. The moonlight illuminated her face, laying bare the hatred in her eyes—ten years had passed, and she had finally caught a glimpse of a lead.