Chapter Seventeen: Third Rank of the Yellow Division in the Demon Suppression Bureau—Su Muhake at the Hour of Shen

Every stage in the theater district had already been adorned with a ring of lanterns, and though it was not yet time to light them for the night, the people of Jian’an Capital could not wait any longer and surged onto the streets with eager anticipation.

Carriages draped in brocade and bearing songstresses mingled with ox-carts brimming with lotus lanterns, creating a scene of bustling festivity.

It was the fifteenth day of the eighth month in the thirteenth year of Jian’an, at the hour of Shen.

In the western market, within the Rouge Quarter, a middle-aged man gazed rapturously at a young girl in white walking ahead of him. She wandered from stall to stall, her eyes dazzled by the myriad goods, finding delight in everything she saw.

The man wore a long indigo robe, the collar and cuffs embroidered with flowing clouds in silver thread, and around his waist was a broad sash of celestial blue adorned with auspicious clouds. His skin was tanned, his gaze resolute, his features unremarkable save for a scar an inch long on the left side of his face.

“Father, the capital is far more entertaining than the great desert!” the girl said, turning back with a smile as radiant as spring blossoms.

“Slow down, Ajin. It is unseemly for a young lady,” the man chided, though the smile tugging at his lips betrayed his pleasure.

The girl, Ajin, was like a fledgling swallow venturing from its nest for the first time. Her eyes were clear green, her nose straight, and she wore a long, deep blue brocade dress embroidered with delicate white plum blossoms at the hem, a white silk belt cinching her slender waist. Her jet-black hair was fashioned into a wish-fulfilling bun, adorned only by a single elegant jade hairpin, from which fine silver chains and pearls dangled, completing her graceful appearance.

Two figures trailed the pair from half a street away—the perfect distance. Closer would invite suspicion; farther, and they might lose them.

One was Hua Banxia, the other Qi Jingmo, who had been dispatched to protect Marshal Ma Situhu of Northern Desert upon returning from the Ministry of Revenue’s clerical office.

“You’re saying she’s not from the Zhou?” Hua Banxia, the Smoke Master, whispered.

Qi Jingmo, the Starchaser, signaled for silence, then replied in a low voice, “Marshal Ma Situhu’s wife died young and he never remarried. It is said in the army that seventeen years ago, he adopted a foreign girl named Su Jin—this must be her.”

Hua Banxia nodded, saying nothing further.

…

Within the headquarters of the Six Gates Bureau, an aged constable slowly opened his eyes.

Those whose years dwindle most cherish the sun at the hour of Shen—gentle as water, coveted by all things.

Yet a shadow blocked the light before him.

“Pardon me—” he began, but his eyes suddenly widened.

The newcomer was a striking woman, clad in black, a wooden badge hanging from her waist, engraved with the character for “Suppress.”

She was an officer of the Demon Suppression Bureau, third rank of the yellow class—Jiang Wanyi.

At the beginning of the Shen hour, deep within the halls of Six Gates, the Divine Marquis Zhuge Changqing gazed long at the woman below the dais, then heaved a gentle sigh, saying nothing.

Jiang Wanyi, dressed all in black, had her hair smartly coiled with a jet-black jade pin. Her features were refined, her almond-shaped eyes half-mischievous, half-bewitching, her lips slightly upturned with a hint of insouciance.

“My lord, is it my rank you disdain?” Jiang Wanyi asked coolly, a faint arch to her brows.

“The Turks’ intentions in entering the city are no small matter. The lantern festival brings endless troubles, and should anything go awry, we would all be branded traitors to Zhou,” Zhuge Changqing replied, not directly answering, though the reproach in his words was clear.

It was not Jiang Wanyi he faulted, but rather resented that the Demon Suppression Bureau had sent only one officer to handle such a grave affair.

Jiang Wanyi’s beautiful eyes flicked over him, as if seeing through his thoughts, and she let out a cold, mirthless laugh. “I alone am enough.”

Zhuge Changqing said no more, withdrawing his gaze and returning to the register on his desk.

A vermilion brush had circled two characters: “Cold Garment.” They stood out starkly.

“Cold Garment?” Jiang Wanyi murmured.

“You know of this medicinal herb?” Zhuge Changqing asked sharply.

Jiang Wanyi frowned. “Who told you Cold Garment is an herb?”

…

Black, lacquered watchtowers, each more than three zhang tall, stood in every open space of the market districts. From these, one could survey all the bustling activity—hence, they were called watchtowers.

On each tower was stationed a martial sergeant in black, selected for keen eyesight, able to oversee the entire district at a glance.

At the slightest disturbance—a fire, a theft—they could react without delay.

A carrier pigeon swooped and circled before landing atop the highest watchtower at the market’s center. The martial sergeant in black removed the message and, with only a glance, his expression changed. He stood, seized a crimson signal flag, and waved it thrice in each of the four directions, then repeated the pattern.

Within a few moments, the nearest watchtowers answered, crimson flags waving in response, and an urgent order from the Six Gates Bureau began to ripple through the markets.

In the east market, outside Nanwan Quarter, at the height of the Shen hour—

A black-clad figure strode quickly into Nanwan Quarter, a reluctant companion trailing behind.

Three arched gates stood ahead. Tang Yi hesitated only briefly before entering Brocade Lane.

“What are we doing here?” Song Mo asked, eyeing the beauties on the colored balconies with confusion. From what he had seen, Tang Yi did not seem the type for such places.

“Investigating a case,” Tang Yi muttered, eyes straight ahead, quickening his pace. He paused, then added sternly, “And keep your eyes to yourself.”

Song Mo glanced at the balconies above, where women in gauzy robes revealed glimpses of beauty, each one laughing behind her sleeve, casting flirtatious glances below. Somewhere, a young rake squinted up at them, leering like a fool.

Wait—was he the one staring? Then never mind.

Tang Yi headed straight for a courtyard at the heart of Brocade Lane, where two burly guards stood watch.

“This is no place for you to parade or seek fragrant pleasures. Move along,” one of the guards, with a white cloth headscarf, cracked his knuckles and glared at Tang Yi and Song Mo.

Song Mo eyed the man’s arms, thick as ox legs and laced with sinewy veins, then looked uncertainly at Tang Yi.

With a cold snort, Tang Yi tossed out his badge and strode into the courtyard with Song Mo.

“Have you had enough of living?” the guard with the headscarf roared, raising fists like iron hammers to strike Tang Yi.

“Hold it, you fool!” A man in a melon-shaped felt cap picked up the badge and, upon seeing it, his face changed at once, stopping the guard with a shout.

“We didn’t know an officer of the Six Gates was coming. Forgive us for not greeting you properly. How can Brocade Lane serve you, sir? Just give the word,” the man in the felt cap said obsequiously, returning the badge to Tang Yi.

“Take me to your master, White Lord,” Tang Yi replied, accepting the badge in a low voice.

The man hesitated, then finally nodded.

…

In a half-collapsed side courtyard, weeds grew a foot high.

In the back garden, a stone table had just been cleared, and autumn chrysanthemum tea set out. Mi Zigge sat with her cup, lost in thought.

A few jujube trees, a patch of pear blossoms.

In the western market, within the Qin Terrace Quarter, at the height of Shen—

A convoy slowly entered a secluded estate: seven or eight large wagons in all. The freshly fallen pear blossoms on the ground were instantly churned to mud, leaving two deep ruts behind.

The wagons were draped with blue curtains, and inside were iron chests. The black sparrow banner at the lead revealed them to be the Wang family’s transport.

The foreman jumped from his cart, idly plucking a pear blossom from his shoulder and chewing it—a habit from years on the road.

This run from Yangzhou to Jian’an Capital had gone well. The old client paid handsomely and they’d met no bandits along the way. The only oddity was the cargo itself. The foreman shivered at the thought of what might be inside those iron chests, but it was none of his business so long as he delivered on time and got paid.

He spotted Zhao Nu in the courtyard and approached with a smile. “Sir, we have fulfilled our duty and delivered every single item.”

With so many foreign merchants in Jian’an Capital, he thought nothing of Zhao Nu’s origins.

“Did you encounter any trouble entering the city?” Zhao Nu asked.

The foreman boasted, “The Wang family has long-standing ties with the gate officials. We were through in an hour.”

“You came straight here?” Zhao Nu pressed.

“Of course,” the foreman replied, feigning cleverness. “We dare not delay our clients. We’ll report completion to the broker only after we receive the balance.”

He was giving Zhao Nu a hint, unaware that the estate gates had already been silently bolted by two Turkic attendants.

Zhao Nu nodded in satisfaction. “Good. You’ve done well.”

The foreman grinned, already planning where to spend his pay. The brothel girls in Brocade Lane were expensive, but perhaps he’d visit the pleasure houses instead.

But his smile froze on his face.

A curved blade slashed his throat. The last thing he saw was his men slaughtered beneath the wagons.

The wind swept through, covering the scent of blood with the faint fragrance of fallen pear blossoms.

Zhao Nu twisted open the lock of the lead wagon’s iron chest. Inside were three filthy young girls, their eyes wide with terror.

Zhao Nu dragged a nail across one girl’s neck, greedily sucking the crimson blood and sighing in rapture, “Exquisite. Soon, Sumuhaq will open his furious eyes in this sinful Jian’an Capital.”

The terror in the girl’s eyes faded to a lifeless void, her head drooping slowly.