While the esteemed gongzi of Mao and the wise zongzhu of Ming partook in their secret counsel, the candles still burned in a corner of Cn Ming’s eastern library. As the starlight silvered the terracotta roofs of Yuchi, a lone man bored under the amber sheen of his mp. With scrolls id before him, and a thick ledger in hand, he ran his brush over folded rice paper.

  The letter he penned was addressed to the apothecary of a the nearest town. One of their youngest disciples had fallen ill again, and pld Ku Zhiyu had run dry of her Bai Zhu root. There was also a letter to the weaver, and a penned order for five sacks of rice from the southern rice farms. There were letters yet unopened, sorted and set aside for the cn’s zongzhu to peruse, three written compints from Sergeant Jiachong, and a small request from the head of an eastern vilge to consider. These had been set aside for the master to see. Accounts were there also, to be jotted down in the ledger, and these did this scribe attend with his own hand.

  What the scribe’s true name was, few knew or remembered. Disciples and servants alike called him Huijin, Ashes, the endearment given him when he first came to dwell under the cn’s roofs.

  More than a decade had passed since the te Ming-zongzhu, then a youth on the cusp of manhood himself, took him in; this quiet, reserved boy from some scandalized curate’s family.

  Too old had he been to be made a martial disciple, and too prized by the te Ming-zongzhu to be treated as a true servant. But though he was never assigned any duties or obligations, he no less did all that was needful; all burdens that he could relieve his friend and zongzhu from, he took upon himself. And so had he come to know the ways of Cn Ming; the rituals, the practices, the philosophies, the menial affairs. And by and by, in the frequent absences of the older brother Yin, he came to be the servant of the younger. From the first boot he had put on the five year old’s foot, to the st administrative letter he had signed for the boy who had succeeded his older brother, Huijin had followed in the shadow of young Yin Yue.

  Seldom was this loyal servant disturbed as he worked with his ink and paper. Those who knew the value of his toil were wise enough to leave him to it; those ignorant of his efforts did not often have the wit to appreciate his reticent character. Thus, the epitomized “little friend” of the te cn zongzhu had learned to recognize the steps of the few who would interrupt him. Two soft steps and a tap belonged to old Ku Zhiyu, who walked with a staff. Should the steps be broken by the tinkle of metal, they belonged to Sergeant Jiachong. Should his bors be interrupted by the ungracious falter of awkward feet, he needed but listen to the shout of surprise. If a woman’s, it would be young He Touming, the archivist’s disciple. If a man’s, it would be young Yin Yue himself.

  But one gait was there which he had never learned to discern, for it belonged to a man who did not betray his presence before his knock nded on the door.

  When the servant heard the sudden noise, his brush stalled. In the deep silence carved by a mind enthralled by the chore at hand had there been a void, a lull, a peaceful reprieve from past and present both. But one knock on the door was enough to shatter it. So sudden was the lift of the spell that the ashen one stared at the wet ink of his brush, his countenance like cold porcein.

  A heartbeat ter, the door parted, and in strode the Red Tiger of Ming; Lu Yuxin, the guardian of the te and present Ming-zongzhu. A renowned swordmaster had he been in his younger days, but now did vile tongues call him a pale shadow of his prime, for though his ways with the bde had once been profound, they must have fallen short of ascension. Silver veins ran through the wild mane which framed his hard, scarred face, and from the knot of his brows to judge, the night had found him displeased. His greeting was curt as he took in the chamber, outrage in the undercurrents of forced calm.

  “Huijin.”

  The ashen one peered over his shoulder, and at the sight of this hard countenance, his own mouth thinned. The imposed presence of Ming-zongzhu’s shifu augured one of two misfortunes; that the boy had been negligent in his studies, or that he had set his foot in the pit of mischief. Neither would be a welcome report from the mouth of this uncouth warrior, and the servant’s brows mirrored the tiger’s frown. He bowed his head, hands folded.

  “Master Lu Yuxin.”

  At st did the swordmaster’s gaze fall upon the servant. After the te Ming-zongzhu’s death, that gaze had often held quiet disdain, and with a scoff, Lu Yuxin rested his wrist upon the hilt of his long bde.

  “The young master,” began he, “he is not here.”

  “As you see,” came the short answer.

  “Ya Ruanshi had been told he was in the library. He had been told that Yin Yue writes orders, that he copies correspondence into our ledgers, that he practices calligraphy with you.”

  The ashen one rested his eyes on the swordmaster’s feet, his cheeks hidden by the errant tresses of his hair.

  “And as your own eyes see, he is not.”

  His mouth hardened. He was aware that a certain young man from Cn Mao had arrived earlier, and could therefore surmise that the zongzhu had retired with his boyhood friend to ‘discuss affairs of importance.’ But as long as he had known Lu Yuxin, he had heard the swordmaster’s mouth spew little more than bck bile and harsh words.

  The night was old, the quiet sacred. And Huijin of Ming would not have it disturbed with yet another loud quarrel between the swordmaster and his wayward disciple.

  Through his silence, Lu Yuxin kept his stare on the servant, his jaw set tight. He stepped closer, voice lowered, face solemn but for the silent fury in his eyes.

  In a quiet whisper, he said, “The young master shall present his swordpy to me. I gave him explicit instructions before I left for Hangzhou.” His voice deepened. “Now I receive a different tale of his whereabouts from each man I ask. Worse yet, I would have thought he kept the insipid company of Mao Tainian’s brother, for I saw that boy flee me in Hangzhou, pursued by— women of poor character. But Mao-gongzi is in bed this night. The little drunkard must have emptied our reserves, for his entire chamber reeks of wine!”

  Huijin’s gaze did not rise from the feet before him, nor did his shoulders tense. His answer was that of a puppet, wooden and gray as the pallor of his skin.

  “That is unfortunate,” said he. “You shall have to receive your swordpy presentation tomorrow, Master Lu Yuxin.”

  The silence which met him could cleave a shadow. “Unless your calm belies a conspiracy between you and the young master to make a fool of me, Huijin,” sneered the swordmaster, “I do not quite believe you understand what I say to you. No one can tell me where the zongzhu is. No one has seen him. Where is he?”

  The ashen one’s mouth earned the faintest whisper of a derisive smile. If no one had seen their zongzhu, the boy did not wish to be found. No, the boy had to be in his garden, secluded under some tree. The sigh that threatened to leave his breast, the servant willed himself to smother. What kind of zongzhu hid himself from his obligations like some rat in a celr?

  But that was not a concession to make before a brute who, by manners to judge, did not know how to write the word ‘rat’ on paper.

  A cold whisper at the roots of his heart beckoned him to confess to his suspicions; to send this old warrior upon the inept child. Let him intrude upon the boy’s sanctuary and beat up a storm. But this was a whisper he smothered before he could allow himself to dwell upon this callous desire. Layer, he would rebuke the boy himself, and if this furnace of a swordmaster needed a quarrel, let another bear the barbs of his temper.

  Thus he answered, “how quick you are to see conspiracies, Master Lu Yuxin. Might be that the potholes of the road you rode upon conspired to make you step into them and fall. Might be that the swallows circle the skies above you so they can have their ugh at your expense.” He drew a breath. “Or, might it be that I do not know where the young master is, because I have not seem him since I id out his garments this afternoon? Ming-zongzhu has retired to rest,” he finished. “You may resume your lessons in the morning.”

  In return, he received a look of disbelief. And for a brief spell, no longer than the span of a dragonfly’s wingbeat, did the swordmaster’s stern demeanor shatter. Beneath his rage, beneath the molten iron in his veins, hid ashen ruin. He knitted his brows not of anger. No, in that moment, unseen by those lowered, gray eyes, the Red Tiger of Ming betrayed the twin ghosts of his soul; Burden and Terror.

  Ming-zongzhu was nowhere to be found. A boy from a rival cn slept in their court, and their own zongzhu had disappeared. Yin Yue could lie murdered on the road. He might have fled in disgrace. And here stood this man and threw such empty answers at him.

  He had but one answer to give; “If he does not present himself to me within half a shichen, I will wake the sergeant and sound the bells.”

  The ashen eyes rooted themselves to the swordmaster’s boots anew. With a voice low, with a cadence slowed for the ears of a half-wit and varnished with thick courtesy, he said;

  “Master Lu Yuxin, the young master has secluded himself because he wishes to be alone. This te at night, any practice of the bde is improper. Will it suffice if I find him and report to you?”

  The swordmaster made a throw of his sleeve at this, for he deigned not answer the evident slight in kind. He answered the rafters.

  “Find him.”

  That was all. And if Lu Yuxin believed the servant knew where the young master had hidden himself, yet chose to keep it secret, he kept the suspicion to himself.

  Huijin lifted his eye to the older man’s chin. Might be that it was indeed te, might be that the servant’s stoic demeanor had been whetted down by the long day’s arduous chores, but there was a distressed shade of red upon his cheeks, a small quiver to his mouth, an unbearable strain in his quiet and slow exhale. His eye brushed the swordmaster’s sheathed weapon; the token of strength that seemed to earn him the right to crown himself the chief here and let him force his will unto others. Bck disdain darkened the servant’s eyes, then left him in a slow and wearied breath.

  “Yes,” said he.