The Corpse Reader (61 page)

Cí approached the throne with his head hung low and dragging his feet as though they were in shackles. He fell to his knees before the emperor, who glanced at Bo. Bo nodded. The emperor, pleased, calmly gestured to the scribe to prepare the deed.

Once the deed was written, an officer stepped forward to read it out. Everyone listened, and the emperor watched intently, as the officer slowly read the words. Cí’s culpability was established, and the charges against Feng were dismissed. All that was left was for Cí to sign it.

When the deed was handed to Cí, the ink wasn’t yet dry—as if offering some hope it might still be rewritten. Cí’s hands trembled violently. He tried to pick up the brush, but it fell from his fingers to the floor, leaving a black dash across the red carpet. Excusing his clumsiness, Cí picked up the brush and then stopped to reflect. There was no doubt: sign the deed and he would be admitting sole responsibility, and Feng would be off the hook.

Bo’s argument ran through his head. But could this really be what his father would have wanted? Cí could barely think straight.
He gripped the brush and wet it on the inkstone. Then, slowly, he began painting the lines that made up his signature. Again, though, his grip seemed to loosen on the brush; it was as if his ancestors were there in the room, knocking it away. When he reached the part of his signature that was his family name, something rose up inside him. And at that moment, he looked up and saw Feng’s triumphant smile. Cí saw his parents’ bodies buried in the rubble, and his brother’s tortured form, and his little sister in agony. He couldn’t leave them like that. He looked Feng steadfastly in the eyes until a grain of concern entered the older man’s face. Cí jumped to his feet, threw the ink and brush to the floor, and tore up the deed.

Ningzong’s wrath was immediate and terrible. He ordered his men to come forward, put manacles on Cí, and whip him ten times. When it was over, the emperor said the time had come for the verdict, but Cí demanded to be allowed his final defense. Ningzong bit his tongue. This was a centuries-old tradition, and Cí knew the emperor wouldn’t dare prevent him his rights in front of the whole court. Eventually the emperor signaled for Cí to go ahead.

“You have until the water clock runs out!” he said as it was brought forward.

Cí took a deep breath. Feng still stood looking defiant, but a glimmer of fear was in his eyes.

The water began to drop.

“Majesty, more than a century ago, your most venerable great-grandfather allowed himself to listen to poor counsel with regards to the case of General Fei Yue, which led to the condemnation of that man. Nowadays, we know Fei Yue was in fact innocent and we celebrate him as a great man. That abominable verdict has gone down as one of the darkest chapters in our history. Fei Yue was
executed, and though his name has subsequently been cleared by the efforts of his family, the damage was never fully repaired.” Cí paused, glancing around for Blue Iris. “I wouldn’t dare to compare myself with such a figure…but I do dare to ask for justice. I am also the son of a dishonored father. Now you ask me to declare myself guilty of the very crimes I have shown you that I am innocent of. And I can prove the truth of my assertions.”

“Just as you’ve been saying right from the start,” said Ningzong, glancing at the water clock.

“Allow me, therefore, to show you the terrible power contained in the weapon.” He lifted up his chains so they could be taken off. “What if such lethal force should fall into enemy hands? Think on that. Think on our nation.”

Cí allowed his statement to settle in Ningzong’s conscience. The emperor muttered something to himself, turning the weapon over and over in his hands. He looked to his councilors. And then back at Cí again.

“Take off the chains!” he ordered.

The same guard who unchained Cí then stood in his way as he tried to approach the emperor, but Ningzong said to allow him. Cí staggered forward, his stomach gripped by fear. Coming up a few steps to the same level as the throne, he knelt down. Then he got up, as best he could, and held his hand out. The emperor handed over the weapon.

Facing the emperor, Cí took the small spherical stone from his robes along with the small bag of gunpowder he’d taken from Feng’s dresser.

“The projectile I have in my hands is the very one that ended the alchemist’s life. As you can see, it isn’t perfectly round; a sliver has broken off of it. This fragmentation occurred on impact with the alchemist’s spine, matching a sliver I extracted from the corpse when I examined it.”

Without another word, and following what he’d read in the treatises on conventional cannons, he poured the gunpowder into the mouth of the weapon and then used the handle of a brush to stuff the small cannonball down into it. Then he tore a strip from his own shirt, twisted it into a sort of fuse, and inserted this into a gap in the side of the contraption. He then handed it to Ningzong.

“Here you have it. All that remains is to light the fuse and aim.”

The emperor looked as though he was holding in his hands some great wonder. His small eyes shone with perplexity.

“Majesty!” Feng said. “How long am I going to have to put up with this disgrace? It’s all lies, every single word—”

“Lies?” screamed Cí, turning on him. “Do you mind explaining how the remains of the mold you stole from my room, as well as the gunpowder and the small cannonball that killed the alchemist, were
all
in the drawers of
your
desk?” He turned back to the emperor. “That’s where I found them. If you send your men to look in the same place, I’m sure they’ll find many more projectiles.”

Feng, though stunned, was quick with a reply.

“If you took them from my office, you could just have easily planted more there.”

Cí wasn’t sure what to say to this. His legs felt weak. He’d assumed Feng would crumble against this last onslaught, but the old man seemed firmer than ever. Was there ever going to be a way out?

“Very well. In that case, answer me this,” Cí said finally. “Councilor Kan was killed on the fifth moon of the month, a night when you’ve already stated you were away from Lin’an on business. But we have the testimony of a sentry who allowed you into the palace that very evening.” Cí looked across at Bo, who was nodding in confirmation. “So, you had motive, you had the means…and from what we now know, despite your lies, you also had the opportunity.”

“Is this for certain?” asked Ningzong.

“No!” erupted Feng. “It’s anything but certain!”

“Can you prove it?”

“Of course,” snorted Feng. “I returned from my trip that night. I was at home with my wife, enjoying her company.”

Hearing this, Cí’s jaw dropped. That was the night he and Blue Iris had been together.

He still hadn’t recovered when Feng came at him with a question.

“And you?” said Feng. “Where were you the night Kan was killed?”

Cí went deep red. He looked at Blue Iris, trying to find something in her face to suggest she might throw him a lifeline to get him out of this quickening whirlpool. But Blue Iris was impassive as ever. The submissive wife. Cí knew then that he’d never beat Feng, since he couldn’t condemn Blue Iris by revealing their secret. He wouldn’t destroy her life.

“We’re waiting,” said Ningzong. “Do you have nothing further to add before I deliver the verdict?”

Cí, glancing at Blue Iris again, was quiet for a moment.

“No,” he said.

“In that case, I, Emperor Ningzong, Heaven’s Son and Sovereign of the Middle Kingdom, declare Cí Song to be—”

“He was with me!” came a resounding voice from the back of the room.

Everyone turned around to see who had spoken. Blue Iris was on her feet, and she looked unshakable.

“I didn’t sleep with my husband,” she said firmly. “The night Kan was killed, I lay down beside Cí Song.”

Feng stammered helplessly as hundreds of eyes turned to look at him. He stumbled backward in shock, his eyes fixed on Blue Iris.

“You—you couldn’t!” he shouted, but he was clearly out of his mind now. He turned and tried to run for the door.

He continued to stammer and cry, “You couldn’t! After all I’ve done! You snake!” as guards dragged him back into the middle of the room. He managed to get free of the men holding him and leaped up the steps to the throne, seizing the weapon from the astonished Ningzong.

“Get back, all of you!” he shouted. Before anyone could react he struck a flint and lit the fuse. “Back, I said!” The soldiers, who had begun to creep forward, stopped as Feng turned the weapon on the emperor. “You bastard,” he said, lifting the muzzle and putting it to Ningzong’s head. “I gave up everything. I did it all for you.” The flame was advancing up the fuse. “How could you?”

The people next to Blue Iris crouched down. Feng was holding the contraption in two hands. It was shaking, just as Feng was. Cí held his breath. The flame was almost there. Feng cried out, turning the weapon around and pointing it at his own head. A dry report rang through the room; instantly Feng was down on the floor and blood was pooling around him. The guards leaped on him and looked up when they were sure he was dead. Ningzong stood, his face flecked with Feng’s blood. Wiping at it, he muttered a few words: The trial was over. Cí was free to go.

Cí woke feeling stiff. It had been a week since the trial, and, though he was starting to feel the lack of exercise, he also felt his wounds were healing well. He rubbed his eyes and looked around his dormitory room, feeling content. Early-morning light streamed through the orange paper blind. Outside, there was the sound of students clamoring to get to class; he was home again, surrounded by books.

The doctor who had been monitoring him the past week came in, medicinal tea in hand, but before he could say anything, Cí asked how Ming was feeling.

The doctor’s sparkly eyes lit up.

“He won’t stop chattering! His legs are healing better than a lizard’s.” He examined Cí’s scarring. “He is particularly keen to see you, and…I think the time has come for you to try walking!” He gave Cí an encouraging pat on the back.

Cí couldn’t have been more pleased; he’d been lying down for a week, and his only news of Ming had come from doctors and servants. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood shakily, then went over to the window. He had a sense that the orange brilliance of the paper blind contained something of his
ancestors’ spirits and that they were encouraging him to feel proud of his surname once more. For the first time, he felt at peace with them. He lit incense and, breathing in its aroma, said to himself that, wherever they all were, they might now also be at peace.

He dressed and left the room, using Blue Iris’s red stick for support. She had sent it to him along with a get-well message; he’d been dreaming of getting better partly so he could use it. On his way to Ming’s quarters he passed a number of professors who greeted him as though he were one of them. Cí found this surprising, bowing back to each in turn. It was a warm day, and the warmth was comforting.

Ming was in bed, and the skin on his arms and face still looked very bruised. The room was in semidarkness, but Ming’s face lit up at seeing Cí.

“Cí!” he exclaimed happily. “You’re walking!”

Cí came and sat beside him. Ming appeared tired, but his eyes were still full of life. The doctor had said it would do Ming good to see Cí, and they chatted about their wounds, about the trial, and about Feng.

Ming asked for tea to be brought and told Cí there were several things he still didn’t fully understand.

“The motives, for one.”

“It was very complicated to pull apart. The bronze maker was a vain man, both talkative and egotistical. Feng invited him to the Jin reception only because of the pressure he was exerting. We found out from Feng’s Mongol aide that the bronze maker was desperate to enter high society and had no qualms about trying to squeeze Feng for it. But he had no idea how dangerous Feng was. According to the Mongol, the bronze maker was becoming so greedy and indiscreet that he might have compromised Feng’s interests; at that point, Feng couldn’t allow him to go on living. With the Taoist alchemist and the explosives maker, Feng simply
preferred to kill them rather than risk delays in the development of the weapon because he couldn’t pay them. It seems he owed them both a lot of money.”