Chapter 7
1396 Words
The cloak, still damp with night dew, lay draped over the back of the rosewood chair.
The trap at the southern grain depot was temporarily stable—Han Changluan had managed to sneak into the supply convoy. But the rot within the Prince’s own household was only beginning to be cleansed.
Four braziers burned in the main hall.
Thirty-eight servants, cooks, and maids stood in two lines.
No one dared make a sound.
In the past two days, word had spread: the Princess Consort had overturned the Emperor’s table, broken down the iron gate to the rear courtyard.
“Steward.” Zheng Wantang blew the foam from her teacup.
Old Fu’s legs went weak, but he stepped forward, bowing deeply.
“Effective today, everyone’s monthly pay increases by thirty percent.”
Silence filled the hall.
Old Fu’s head snapped up.
“Princess, the accounts…”
The half-foot-thick ledger landed at his knees.
The blue brick floor let out a dull thud.
Zheng Wantang rose and looked down at the man before her.
“Third year of Longhua. A warm winter in Yecheng.”
“You reported six hundred taels for ice and charcoal—enough to buy half of West Mountain.”
“First year of Wuping. The household had only eight old horses, yet the fodder expense tripled.”
“Were those beasts eating gold bars?”
Old Fu’s knees slammed into the floor.
A dark stain spread rapidly across his trousers.
His embezzlement had always been subtle. She had torn it apart in a few glances.
“Mercy! This old servant was blinded by greed!”
Around him, thirty-some heads bowed, eyes fixed on their own toes.
“Get up.” Zheng Wantang’s voice was cold.
Old Fu stayed on the floor.
“Stand.”
He pushed himself up on hands and knees.
“What you took before, consider it retirement silver from the household. Settled.”
Zheng Wantang swept her gaze across the room.
“From today, all properties and shops within and outside the city will be re-audited.”
“After costs, half of the net profit will be distributed as dividends to the entire household.”
“Anyone who ranks first for three consecutive months will be released from servitude, with startup capital to start their own business.”
The servants’ heads shot up.
Their eyes turned red.
Higher pay. Dividends. Freedom.
For bondservants bound by contract, these were dreams they never dared speak aloud.
Lin Ruo, the plump maid, had pinched a red welt into her thigh.
“Old Fu, you remain steward.” Zheng Wantang returned to her seat.
“Seven days. Show me the true accounts. Hide one coin, and I send you to the magistrate.”
Old Fu kowtowed again, his forehead striking the blue brick until it bled.
“This old servant’s life belongs to the Princess from this day!”
Mercy for past crimes. Profit for future labor. Freedom as the ultimate prize.
The stagnant household shifted direction overnight.
“Dismissed. Get to work.”
The crowd left three times faster than usual.
Zheng Wantang drained her cold tea.
Profit binds loyalty far better than sentiment.
“Lin Ruo. Stay.”
The plump maid, who had just stepped across the threshold, stopped and returned to the table.
“Your orders.”
Zheng Wantang pushed a stack of blank paper toward her.
“Can you read?”
“A few hundred characters.”
“Enough.” She tapped her knuckles on the desk.
“You’re no longer serving tea. From today, you are household manager.”
Lin Ruo’s knees nearly buckled.
“This servant dares not. Those old foxes won’t listen to me.”
“The raises and dividends will all pass through your hands.” Zheng Wantang held her gaze.
Lin Ruo shut her mouth.
“Managing the silver is secondary. I need you to manage the people.” She drew a circle on the paper.
“Find the night-soil collectors and grocers from the other mansions. Buy them drinks.”
Lin Ruo caught on quickly.
“You want intelligence on the officials’ households? But servants never touch real secrets.”
“I don’t need real secrets.” Zheng Wantang scratched lines across the paper.
“Too much leftover food in the slop bucket means guests came last night.”
“Extra chamber pots at the gate means strangers entered the compound.”
“Medicinal dregs dumped behind the wall—have them analyzed, and you’ll know which master is dying.”
Her eyes locked onto Lin Ruo.
“The powerful cover their tracks well.”
“But they cannot erase the traces of eating, drinking, and living.”
“Gather those scraps.”
Lin Ruo’s palms went slick with cold sweat.
Treating the entire city’s nobility as pieces on a board—counting even their garbage.
“I understand.” She gripped the paper tight.
“Start with Old Fu. Go.”
…
Two nights later. The study.
The brazier’s fire had burned low.
Zheng Wantang read the latest dispatch from the front, sent by Old Han’s network.
The Northern Zhou army pressed hard against the border.
Gao Changgong was trapped in a brutal fight at Zhangzi City.
In Yecheng, the high officials continued their nightly feasting.
The door opened.
Lin Ruo walked in. In just two days, her former meekness had worn away.
“The first net has been cast.” She flipped open a small notebook, speaking quickly.
“Old Fu has a mistress outside. He was using the ice and charcoal funds to keep her. We have the proof. He’s obedient now.”
“Continue.”
“Minister Zu’s line bit.” Lin Ruo lowered her voice.
“Old Li, the night-soil man, has a nephew working the back gate at Zu’s mansion.”
“The Minister hasn’t slept in his own quarters for half a month.”
“He stays every night in the new thirteenth concubine’s room.”
Zheng Wantang’s finger paused on the battle report.
“Minister Zu is nearly fifty.”
“What’s the thirteenth concubine’s background?”
“A trained courtesan from the south.”
“Her courtyard is in the far southwest corner, not even a servant’s quarters attached.”
Lin Ruo leaned closer.
“The key is the medicine dregs.”
“Old ginseng and angelica every day. And they keep buying sour plums to settle the stomach.”
“She must be pregnant.”
Ginseng to fortify. Angelica to nourish the blood. Sour plums to settle the stomach. An older man protecting a pregnant concubine from the other wives—the logic held.
Wrong.
Zheng Wantang rose.
Zu Ting was ruthlessly pragmatic. He had used his own sons as bargaining chips. Would this fox waste nights on a concubine in a distant courtyard?
“The sour plums, the medicine—this isn’t about protecting a pregnancy.” Zheng Wantang’s voice was sharp.
“It’s to mask the smell of blood and medicine.”
Lin Ruo froze.
“He’s hiding someone in that courtyard.”
“Someone badly wounded. Someone who matters.”
Zu Ting had been liquidating gold, preparing to flee. Now he was personally guarding a corner of his own mansion.
Whoever was inside was leverage—the kind that could overturn the court.
“Send word to Old Han.” Zheng Wantang gave the order.
“Four of our sharpest eyes. Watch the Zu mansion’s southwest corner day and night.”
“If a fly gets out, I want to know where it lands.”
“Yes.”
Lin Ruo turned to leave. At the threshold, she stopped.
She looked back at Zheng Wantang, shadowed by the lamplight.
“Princess… you used to not even step on ants.”
“Now you scheme against ministers. You know the night-soil men by name.”
“What are you after?”
Cold wind slipped through the window frame.
The oil lamp at the desk corner died.
Zheng Wantang looked out at the starless sky.
“In this city, blind men don’t live long.”
She sat back in the darkness, her fingers slowly pressing against the bloodstained battle report Gao Changgong had sent from the front.
“I don’t want to die.”
“And I don’t want that fool in the demon mask out there to die in this invisible filth.”
- Writer
