Chapter 4
1232 Words
Crack.
A fine purple hair brush snapped between Zheng Wantang’s fingers.
Too little income. Too much outflow. Too chaotic.
She tossed the broken brush aside and picked up a piece of burned charcoal from the brazier.
Seventeen ledgers lay open across the desk.
Cinnabar red marked the faults. Charcoal black traced the numbers.
Income on the left. Expenditure on the right. Balance at the bottom.
Lin Ruo stood at the threshold, a bowl of warm porridge in her hands.
Her mistress wore plain white mourning clothes, a single piece of charcoal in her hand.
No abacus. No counting rods.
The tangled mess of numbers unraveled beneath her brush like silk threads.
Three hours. Seventeen ledgers.
“Is the outside cleaned up?” Zheng Wantang’s gaze remained fixed on the books.
Lin Ruo’s hands trembled around the tray.
“Yes, my lady. Captain Han saw to the washing himself. The body has been disposed of.”
Zheng Wantang pressed the charcoal to the paper with a sharp stroke.
“Call Han Changluan in.”
The clink of iron armor stopped just outside the door.
Han Changluan stepped inside and dropped to one knee.
“How many people are left in this household?” Zheng Wantang asked.
“All the elite soldiers went with His Highness to Jin Province. At present, counting the servants, thirty-three remain.” Han Changluan lowered his head. “Of those who can wield a blade… six crippled veterans with missing limbs.”
Thirty-three servants. Six broken soldiers.
The mansion of Great Qi’s greatest warrior was as empty as a ghost city.
Zheng Wantang tossed the last ledger onto the desk.
“Cash in the treasury.”
Han Changluan’s dark face flushed red. For a long moment, he didn’t answer.
Outside the door, Lin Ruo’s knees hit the ground.
“My lady… eight hundred and seventy taels remain.”
Silence.
You could have heard a needle drop.
The Prince of Lanling’s household. A thousand households under its domain. Ten thousand taels in annual salary.
And now, not even a thousand taels left on the books.
“Where did the silver go?” Zheng Wantang’s voice was very low.
“Compassionate allowances!” Han Changluan’s head snapped up, his voice rough, raw. “The court withheld two years’ worth! The widowed mothers and starving children of our fallen brothers had nothing! His Highness could not stand by and watch them die!”
Foolish.
Gao Changgong was a god on the battlefield, but in the court, he was a lamb led to the slaughter.
“Cut off all private payments. Every single one.” Zheng Wantang picked up a tea cup.
Han Changluan shot to his feet.
“Impossible! That is His Highness’s iron decree!”
Zheng Wantang hurled the cup at his feet.
Shards flew.
“Iron decree?” She rose, looking down at him across the desk. “The Emperor needs one excuse to kill him, and you hand him this on a platter?”
“A prince with an army at his back, pouring his own silver into the families of soldiers?”
“In Yecheng, in the mouths of those civil officials, that is not mercy. That is buying loyalty. That is conspiracy to rebel.”
Han Changluan’s pupils contracted sharply.
The fury in his chest was doused, replaced by a chill that cut to the bone.
He understood war. He did not understand the knives of Yecheng, the ones that left no blood.
“Live first. Then you can talk of loyalty.” Zheng Wantang sat back down. “Pass the order. Seal the household. Anyone comes asking questions, turn them away. If a single moth slips through, you answer to me.”
“Understood.”
Han Changluan’s spine went cold. He lowered his head and withdrew.
The door closed again.
Zheng Wantang pulled open the bottom drawer of the desk.
Several sheets of yellowed mulberry paper lay in the corner.
Characters written in a shaky, uncertain hand.
Trembling strokes.
Autumn, the first year of Wuping. His Highness marches to war. May he return safely.
Winter, the third year of Wuping. His Highness coughed blood in the night. He would not allow me to summon a physician. May he be safe.
The original owner of this body—the fragile Zheng woman of Xingyang—had spent her days in this viper’s nest writing her fears onto paper.
Zheng Wantang picked up the thin sheets.
To leave your life to heaven was the most pitiful way to live.
She held the paper to the candle flame.
The fire ate it greedily.
The safety you prayed for—I will fight for it. The life you could not protect—I will change it.
Ash scattered across the desk.
Her gaze returned to the ledgers.
Lack of silver was a death sentence.
To raise loyal soldiers, to build a shadow network—eight hundred taels was less than nothing.
Her eyes traced the numbers downward through the oldest volumes.
First year of Wuping.
Second year of Wuping.
Third year of Wuping.
Her gaze stopped at a corner of the expenditure column.
Fifth day. Three hundred taels of silver disbursed. Reason: Regular allowance.
Every fifth day of the month.
Three years.
Three hundred taels, vanishing with clockwork precision.
Three thousand six hundred taels a year, draining silently from a household with barely eight hundred left in its coffers.
“Lin Ruo.”
The maidservant, still kneeling outside, crawled in.
Zheng Wantang dropped the ledger before her.
“The three-hundred-tael allowance on the fifth of every month—did you handle it?”
Lin Ruo’s face went white. She kowtowed frantically.
“I-It was household expenses!”
“Captain Han commands a hundred men. His monthly salary is ten taels.” Zheng Wantang looked down at her. “Three hundred? Were you paving the floors with gold?”
The lie shattered. Lin Ruo collapsed, weeping.
“Your servant deserves death! His Highness decreed it before he left!”
“The drafts—the drafts were all sent to the rear courtyard!”
The rear courtyard?
The east wing was servants’ quarters. The front courtyard housed the guards.
But the rear courtyard—vast, sprawling, choked with weeds—had been abandoned for years.
Or so it was said.
“Who lives there?” Zheng Wantang pressed.
“Your servant does not know!” Lin Ruo shook her head wildly. “The walls are sealed! Three locks on the iron gate! I only push the money through the gap every fifth day!”
“His Highness gave a death decree.”
“Anyone who sets foot in the rear courtyard—executed without mercy!”
Three years.
Tens of thousands of taels, poured into that place in secret.
A decree of death from Gao Changgong himself.
This was no hidden mistress.
This was a chasm that could swallow the entire household.
Zheng Wantang picked up a paperweight, pressing it down on the household register.
Gao Changgong had yielded, step by step, in the court. Perhaps it was never about saving himself.
He had a weakness. A fatal one. Someone held it against him.
Or—he was keeping a secret in his own backyard. One that could bring down everything.
She rose and strode out of the study.
“Bring a lantern.”
“We’re going to the rear courtyard.”
- Writer
