Chapter Eighteen: Striking the Tiger in Brocade Lane, Crossing Blades at the Hour of the Rooster

On the gray stone path deep within the courtyard, an old man wearing a melon-shaped felt hat led the two people behind him toward the back garden, carrying a lantern. The sun still hung high in the west, and the crimson glow of sunset painted the faces of the young women in Brocade Lane with a rosy blush. They were as pleasing to the eye as goldfinches, and from time to time carriages departed, bearing maidens adorned in festive colors and spring accessories.

Another night of revelry was about to begin.

It was the fifteenth day of the eighth month in the thirteenth year of Jian’an, at Brocade Lane in South Bay District, early evening.

As the sun slanted toward the west, the fading red light stretched the shadows of Tang Yi and Song Mo along the roots of the wall. The scent of Brocade Lane’s daughters seemed unable to penetrate this courtyard; the tall walls kept the fragrance of rouge at bay.

The old man in the melon hat led them into a house, where a nauseating mustiness struck them immediately. Tang Yi and Song Mo both frowned, but the old man seemed oblivious—he was long accustomed to it.

Though the hour was early, lamps had already been lit inside. “A Soul-Calming Lamp?” Song Mo glanced at the dim oil lamp on the table, his brows furrowing deeply.

Tang Yi, meanwhile, was observing the figure reclining in the center of the room on a bamboo chair, wrapped in a heavy fox fur coat. A blue-eyed Persian cat lay quietly on his chest.

“Master Bai, these are people from the Six Doors Bureau,” the melon-hatted old man whispered, bowing his head.

A withered hand gently pushed the Persian cat away. The cat, displeased, meowed at Song Mo and darted into the darkness.

“It’s been a long time since anyone from the magistrate’s office visited here. How rare,” Master Bai slowly sat up from his bamboo chair, wrapping the fox fur tighter around himself.

Song Mo found it strange—though the autumn heat was oppressive outside, Master Bai looked as if it were the coldest days of winter.

“Speak. What brings you here?” Master Bai’s voice was weak; under the dim light, his face appeared gaunt, mottled with brown age spots.

The matter was urgent. Tang Yi spoke directly, his voice grave: “I need to know the whereabouts of the latest group of courtesans from Brocade Lane.”

Master Bai snorted coldly, his smile never reaching his eyes. “Does the officer require red courtesans or green courtesans?”

Song Mo’s brow tightened; he knew that red courtesans referred to those who both performed and sold their bodies, while green courtesans were entertainers who kept their virtue.

Tang Yi hesitated, then replied solemnly, “No distinction between red or green courtesans. Only those who remain untouched.”

Master Bai’s cloudy old eyes suddenly flashed with sharpness, then he sneered, “All courtesans in Brocade Lane are registered. If the officer wishes, you may go directly to the Music Bureau.”

With that, Master Bai pulled his fur coat closer and lay back down.

He was dismissing them.

“Perhaps you should visit the Music Bureau?” the melon-hatted old man whispered, but by the time he looked up, the two had already departed.

Master Bai, who had only been feigning sleep, listened as Tang Yi and Song Mo’s footsteps faded, then beckoned the melon-hatted man over and whispered instructions in his ear.

Tang Yi and Song Mo left the courtyard and stood beneath a sign in Chunli Lane, opposite South Bay District.

“Aren’t we investigating? Why did we leave so easily?” Song Mo asked, puzzled.

Tang Yi did not answer; his gaze remained fixed on South Bay across the street.

After a short wait, a burly man with a white cloth turban led a group out of Brocade Lane, moving hastily.

They looked anxious and quickly disappeared from Song Mo’s sight.

Tang Yi finally spoke in a low voice, “Follow them.”

Song Mo was taken aback. “Why?”

“To investigate.”

…

Atop the watchtower in South Bay District, a black-clad officer waved a dark indigo signal flag three times to the west and then repeated the motion. Soon, a message from Tang Yi was relayed back to the Six Doors Bureau.

Zhuge Changqing, the Chief Inspector, received a carrier pigeon from his subordinate. Inside the tube was a palm-sized slip of paper.

Zhuge Changqing glanced at it and handed it across to Jiang Wanyi, who, after reading it, departed immediately.

West Market, Qintai District, evening.

The east wind sang its farewell, lingering with the scent of pear blossoms.

Two figures crouched beside a low wall. Forty yards away, in front of a secluded courtyard, two shadows paced back and forth.

“Tang, brother Tang, Lord Tang, the Mortuary Bureau needs roll call at the hour of the dog. May I return first?” Song Mo said with a wry smile.

Not kneeling was the last bit of stubbornness Song Mo had left.

“Silence.” Tang Yi glared at Song Mo.

It wasn’t so much that Song Mo cared about his mortuary duties, but rather that, along the way, he noticed the white-turbaned group brandishing weapons.

Meteor hammers, crescent blades, chipped axes—someone even wielded a tetanus blade…

Seeing the white-turbaned men approach with ill intent, the two figures at the courtyard gate immediately moved to confront them.

“Hu people?” Song Mo whispered, having finally seen their faces clearly.

“Where is Second Sister Qin? Where are the ladies?” The white-turbaned man glanced at the two Turks and spoke warily.

The two Turks exchanged a look. One replied in awkward Zhou language, “They’re all inside. You’ll see when you enter.”

The white-turbaned man frowned; his instincts told him something was off. He discreetly reached behind his waist where his weapon—a pair of golden melon copper hammers—was concealed.

Naturally, this movement did not escape the Turks, who began to flank him.

Just as both sides were about to clash, the courtyard door opened from within, and a woman emerged.

“Brother Peng, what temper you have,” she said, dressed in a pale green gown that accentuated her graceful figure.

Song Mo studied her closely: her coiffure exposed her temples, her brows were lightly drawn, her skin smooth as warm jade, her lips crimson without paint, two locks of hair brushing her cheeks added a hint of allure.

Seeing the woman in green, Song Mo realized why Peng the white turban was unfazed by the Turks.

She was a Hu woman.

Peng withdrew his hand from his waist and smiled at the green-gowned Hu woman. “So it’s Second Sister Qin. I told Master Bai he worries too much. Must be those Six Doors scoundrels gossiping.”

Second Sister Qin’s eyes narrowed briefly, then she smiled coyly. “You brothers have worked hard. Many girls have arrived in Yangzhou lately. Shall I pick a few fresh ones for you to enjoy?”

“Second Sister, isn’t that against the rules?” Peng said, though the longing in his eyes gave him away.

Qin saw through him and laughed, “Better our own brothers than outsiders.”

Peng grinned. “I’ll leave it to your arrangement, then.”

His men, driven by desire, paid no heed as Second Sister Qin discreetly signaled the two Turks, who silently closed the courtyard gates.

A massacre began, quietly and without a sound.

“This is bad—they’re escaping,” Tang Yi thought, then charged toward the courtyard.

Song Mo hesitated, then gritted his teeth and followed.

“Hold your fire!” Tang Yi shouted, kicking open the gate.

Inside, bodies lay scattered. Peng, eyes wide, lay dead behind the door, his copper hammer still in hand, never thrown.

He died with his eyes open.