Chapter 15: Ten Miles of Welcome at Yong'an Gate; At Noon, Song Mo Stitches the Corpse

Great Zhou, Jian’an Imperial City.

To the north of Jian’an, according to the principles of geomancy, lies the place where the Black Tortoise raises its head, the land of the Dark Water.

A special city gate was constructed here, called Yong’an.

Yong’an Gate serves as the Great Zhou’s stronghold against the demon kingdom of the northern desert and as the barrier against barbarian invasions. The gate is made from ten-thousand-pound slabs of snowflake black iron, each piece forged with a thousand hammer strikes by the artisans of the Ministry of Works’ Iron Foundry, able to withstand fire and stone, and infused with a thousand pounds of secret silver to ward off evil magic.

The surface of the gate bears both overt and hidden patterns: the overt is the armored Black Tortoise, while the hidden is a celestial array carved by the masters of the Demon-Subduing Division, drawing on the power of the stars to eternally secure Jian’an.

Upon the city walls, the Northern Defense Army patrols every quarter hour, clad in heavy black iron armor, beneath battle standards embroidered with white tigers, exuding an awe-inspiring presence.

Thirteenth year of Jian’an, fourteenth day of the eighth month, just past noon.

Beneath Yong’an Gate, the Northern Defense Army stood in disciplined formation; before them, two horses.

Upon the red-maned steed sat the famed wanderer, Hua Banxia.

On the other, draped in black armor, was Zhao Tianxi, the cavalry captain of the Northern Defense Army. He looked grimly at the citizens emerging ten miles out from the gate, holding colorful paper in welcome.

Today was the Lantern Festival, and also the day when Ma Sihu, the governor of the Northern Desert, returned to the capital. It should have been an occasion for universal celebration, yet Zhao Tianxi’s nerves only grew tauter; his instincts told him that something was gravely amiss within Jian’an.

The Six Gates Bureau had been moving with increasing urgency. There had been a fierce clash in Pomegranate Lane of the Western Market; Star-Chaser Qi Jingmo had gone to the Ministry of Revenue’s archives under the pretense of investigation to retrieve the city’s ward maps, while Blood-Drinker Bai Lingquan had taken his men to the inner imperial offices to secretly strengthen the defenses. Meanwhile, Hua Banxia had infiltrated the Northern Defense Army under the guise of offering assistance.

Zhao Tianxi had a sense that all of this was connected to the group of barbarians Mi Zige had brought back. If so, then his own guilt would be enormous.

After all, he had personally let them in through the Xuanle Gate.

“Hua, can you level with me? What exactly is going on?” Zhao Tianxi asked in a low voice.

Hua Banxia wore a green robe, a white jade belt at her waist, white deerskin boots upon her feet, and her hair was neatly tied up with a black peachwood hairpin. In her hand was a white jade pipe from which she exhaled a cloud of pale smoke, lending her face a languid air.

“Oh? They’re here,” Hua Banxia said abruptly and without explanation.

Zhao Tianxi frowned and looked up, following her gaze into the distance.

A cloud of dust rose as a squad of scouts galloped toward them.

Their apricot-yellow signal flags fluttered in the wind; as they drew nearer, the scouts’ deep voices could be heard.

“Good news—fifty li away!”

“Good news—thirty li!”

“Good news—ten li!”

Hua Banxia tucked her pipe into her belt; in the distance, among the crowd lining the road, several riders could already be seen approaching at a leisurely pace.

It must be Ma Sihu, the governor, parading through the streets.

...

Just past noon.

Chang Le Ward, Eastern Market.

Ren’an Pawnshop.

Mi Zige and Zhao Nu had long since disappeared without a trace.

Tang Yi frowned as he gazed at Liu Jinbiao’s corpse in the back room. The body was riddled with tiny holes, and the floor was littered with the corpses of small, jet-black snakes.

Each snake was no thicker than a pinky and no longer than an inch—a most bizarre sight.

Song Mo, still clutching the iron cat, glanced at them and felt his scalp crawl.

“What happened here?” Song Mo asked, forcing down his revulsion.

“Could it be that the parasites in Fat Liu’s body finally wriggled out?” he muttered under his breath.

Tang Yi shot him a glare and said in a low voice, “It’s gu—snake gu.”

Song Mo shuddered and quickly clutched the iron cat, edging away from the little snakes on the ground, thinking to himself that he better not let those things crawl onto him.

Otherwise, would a sip of water turn him into a human fountain?

Tang Yi, half amused, half exasperated, said, “Once the snake gu leaves its host, it dies. Don’t borrow trouble.”

Song Mo gave a sheepish grin. At that moment, Tang Yi’s eyes fell on the empty wooden box on the table, his expression turning grave.

“This is bad,” Tang Yi muttered to himself. No doubt the Turks had already gotten their hands on the ward map and killed to silence the witness.

A Turk gu master, a detailed ward map, and a young scion of a Jian’an apothecary family—this was now a troublesome affair.

Tang Yi’s brow furrowed in deep concern; Song Mo looked at the black cat he was holding.

He understood the principle—if you take someone’s food or favor, you owe them.

“You didn’t find Old Wu yesterday?” Song Mo asked.

Tang Yi shook his head. “We found his corpse. Died from gu worms, just like Liu Jinbiao.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Song Mo said in a low voice, “Have the body sent to the Number Seven Morgue in the southern city. I’ll see if I can help you recover the registration book.”

Tang Yi jerked his head up, staring at Song Mo for a long moment before saying, “You know soul-searching techniques? You got the book from Zhang Wei’s soul, didn’t you?”

Song Mo was taken aback, but quickly changed the subject. “Let’s be clear: I can’t guarantee getting the book back. But your payment—”

“Consider it settled,” Tang Yi interrupted coldly, giving Song Mo—ever the one to haggle over money—a look of disdain.

“Straightforward,” Song Mo said with a wry smile. He was well versed in the ways of the world; such looks hardly fazed him.

A mere drizzle.

...

Sunlight scattered across a thousand rivers, clouds curling on the wind.

High noon, Number Seven Morgue, southern city.

A corpse wrapped in white cloth was brought in.

According to the customs of the undertaker’s trade, bodies should not be prepared during daylight lest the peace of the spirits be disturbed, giving rise to vengeful ghosts and calamities.

“Lord Tang, would you have your men cover the entire Number Seven Morgue with black cloth? Not a single ray of sunlight must seep in, or else—” Tang Yi paused here.

Then, with rare solemnity, he continued, “Or else my life will be forfeit.”

Tang Yi nodded. Soon the constables of the Six Gates Bureau layered black cloth inside and out, sealing the morgue completely.

When all was ready, Song Mo lifted the white cloth from the body on the table.

Beneath it lay a corpse with a face twisted in terror—Old Wu, whom they had seen just the day before.

His eyes bulged with a milky haze, as if he had glimpsed some unspeakable horror. Most chilling of all, there was a blood hole on his forehead, no larger than a fingernail.

It was as if something had burrowed its way out of his skull. Song Mo rapped on the head with his knuckles.

A hollow clang—a veritable rattle.

Fortunately, though the wound was small, it marred the face, so it would need to be stitched with transparent thread.

A careful inspection of the skin, a gentle sweep of the brush across the brows.

In a trance, the soul-calling banner appeared, and the Record of Summoning was revealed.

The corpse’s revolving lantern began to spin.

Old Wu had been a rascal all his life; in the city of Dark Moon, he once harassed a courtesan and had his leg broken for it, leaving him a beggar in his old age.

A lifetime of hooliganism—nothing much to recount.

The lantern quickly spun to last night. As it turned out, Old Wu, incorrigible to the end, had dragged a stool to peep at a widow bathing, only to run into a black-clad Turk on his way back.

Without a word, the man shoved a gu worm into his mouth. Whether from fright or a weak heart, Old Wu died before a breath had passed.

This left the Turk at a loss; after searching the body and finding nothing, he retrieved the gu worm.

But this worm took a different path—boring its way out through Old Wu’s forehead.

The black-clad man left, disgruntled. The lantern’s story ended.

Return, wandering soul; enter the record.

Heaven and earth, mysterious and vast; grades and ranks, nine in four tiers.

The Record of Summoning appraised the corpse: Grade Seven, Yellow.

This time, the reward was not a spell, but two bamboo clappers—the kind used to recite ballads.

The Clappers of Compassion. Strike them, and they would stir sympathy in the listener.

Perfect for begging and panhandling.

Song Mo, a strapping man of seven feet, casually tossed the clappers under the table to gather dust.

Though the reward was disappointing, he had gotten what he needed.

No one could have guessed where the registration book had ended up.