The rice farmer shall tow his obedient mule; shall whip the willful one. But walk to the market shall they all the same.

  So said the old adage. And though the young zongzhu of Ming had been spared the whip, his servant still towed him back to his office and made him work his due. And though the ashen one corrected the boy’s mistakes, the needful letters were answered by the young man’s own hand, and the zongzhu’s orders were passed at dawn.

  A cultivator and two disciples were dispatched to the vilge pgued by the ghost. Deemed to be a lesser spirit, perhaps some huntsman’s faithful hound not id to rest, the cn elders judged one capable cultivator to be sufficient. But small plight or not, Cn Ming was obliged to answer it. For in the year that followed the te zongzhu’s disgrace and execution, the public favor had dwindled, and the once prosperous cn had fallen under the scrutiny of the public eye. Where the young Yin Yue treaded, he was met with reticence from vilgers and townsfolk alike, and town officials murmured their quiet doubts over shared wine.

  A few days passed. Within Yuchi Court, the disciples still rose at the break of dawn. The elders still held their calligraphy lessons; the cook still lorded over the kitchen. And young Master Yin Yue sought his reprieve where he could, lest he was caught in the pincers of his shifu, or was herded to the library for schorly pursuits, or became beset by concerns raised by a dozen cmorous voices.

  A zongzhu’s days were much encumbered. This did not appear to concern Mao-gongzi, the emissary of Cn Mao, who had thus far liked his stay so well that he decided to extend it in honor of his boyhood friend. He understood his friend’s plight all too well and did what he could to not be a burden. Thus did he spend long days of leisure by himself; he savored the gardens, admired the women of Cn Ming, dozed in the library or pursued the servants for the test scandalous news.

  Likewise had the zongzhu’s gray servant had his hands full. As the skies shone bright, sweetened with the mild breezes of spring, he sat by himself in a corner of the servant’s quarters, occupied with needlework. A few of Yin Yue’s sashes needed to be mended; a pair of trousers had suffered from tear and wear. So did he sit bent over his needle with only a thin thread of light to illuminate his work.

  To his misfortune, even needlework could not save him. As he sat bent over the cloth, he suddenly became aware of a fresh harvest from the fields of camity. For behind his door could he hear the tell-tale gait of Ya Ruanshi, the cn’s eldest. Here was a man who did not look to the strong arm of Lu Yuxin when concerns loomed on the horizon; Ya Ruanshi was one of the few to seek the counsel of the gray servant first.

  The elder struck his staff against the door’s wooden frame, looking past his shoulder and down the path from whence he came. His voice quivered as he spoke through the papered panels.

  “Huijin? Huijin, are you there? Let me in!”

  A moment ter, the door parted and admitted this cn elder into the dim chamber. The blinds were drawn; all but one of them. They sheltered the chamber from the warmth and light of a zealous sun and painted soft shadows on the walls. And the ashen one, hands hidden in his sleeves, bowed his habitual bow.

  Ya Ruanshi shut the door behind him with one st look over his shoulder. He carried himself with the demeanor fit for the dark of night; fit for mists and a hidden moon. Unheeding of the blithe sun above their rooftops, the elder turned for the servant and took him by the wrist, his wizened countenance awash in trepidation. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper and decred, “Praise be Fate that I found you first. You need not be frightened. No need to be frightened at all. I have made Sergeant Jiachong take a vow of silence, so we’ll have a little while.”

  Huijin held out his wrist as some act of courtesy. His gaze drifted to the old man’s withered hand, then to his face, and at this assurance, he asked at once; “Where is Ming-zongzhu? What has he done?”

  “Nothing -… yet,” answered the elder. “And praise Fate for that! I can see it now, Huijin! A vilge set afme under his wrath! Oh, the worst has occurred.”

  The ashen one blinked once, his shes a moth’s wings against his skin. The worst? The worst had befallen them after yesterday’s dinner. And before that, the worst had befallen them in the martial halls at noon. And before that, the worst had occurred when the cook took to quarrel with the winemaster. His answer was quiet, a breath of wind upon dry ashes.

  “Elder Ruanshi?”

  Ya Ruanshi drew a scroll from his sleeve. He waved at the servant with it, his voice a faint whisper as he decred their test camity.“Chen Luoyang is dead. Dead, I tell you! Taken by the ghost dog he was sent to banish!” The old man’s breath stuttered in and out of him. “The disciples just returned with this letter from old Ban Gouyu. He is Caodi’s vilge elder, you understand. Now, listen! I put young ones in seclusion, so neither Lu Yuxin nor the young master have learned of this yet.”

  At that, the servant’s breath hitched with concern. He unfolded the offered letter under the vein of light he had allowed into the chamber.

  “Are they unharmed?”

  “The disciples?” The old man cpped his hands once. “Yes, yes! They never met the ghost.”

  A curt letter greeted the servant’s eye. The calligraphy was decent enough, though it cked grace. It read: To Ming-zongzhu. Master of Ming, you are greeted by Ban Gouyu, eldest of Caodi Vilge. We are grateful for the efforts of your man, and may his soul find rest now that he has fallen to the maws of the ghost. Yet must this elder wonder; is this all we can expect, now that the young master has cimed his right and risen to lead his cn? Has Caodi Vilge offended the prosperous Cn Ming; that the zongzhu has forgotten the deep bonds of friendship which once bound us? This elder has not forgotten, and will recall several past heroes of Cn Ming who had been born in Caodi. Who could expect that such a rich past of friendship would be rewarded with such indifference to our plight in present day? We entreat the zongzhu to send strong cultivators to rid our vilge of this beast, lest worse fates befall us all.

  Huijin folded the letter, and his hand fell dead at his side. For a while, he stood with his head bent in thought, quiet and obscure. This was not the worst. This was a mere shallow cut; the pain of it bleak and insignificant. And this Ya Ruanshi, the shriveled old wart who ran to him when perils arose, but whispered to his peers, “the ambitious rat shall cause more grievance than the secluded tiger,” would never know the depths of anguish brought on by that which had been the worst.

  But Chen Luoyang’s death was still a loss and a concern for the cn. He thought he felt a stab of pain for the fallen cultivator, but was unsure, and it was not his way to dwell on it. The letter from Caodi was offensive to the st. Forgotten the bonds of friendship? Who was this old toad to address their zongzhu like this, when Cn Ming had sent and lost a capable man in service to this vilge? Absurdly, he had to quell the desire to sit down and rewrite the odious letter; mellow it down to more patable words before he could present it to his Ming-zongzhu.

  The next concern barreled into the first. A capable cultivator had died. The ghost had proved more fearsome than first assumed. The voices of Ming would deem this loss owed to their young zongzhu’s poor judgment and accuse him of negligence. And worse yet —

  The withered deadwood that was Ya Ruanshi had not brought the letter to the true zongzhu of Ming, but had stolen away to conspire with a mere servant like a thief in the night.

  The ashen one eyed the old man, his countenance composed, if tight. On one hand, he was grateful that the news and the harsh letter had not yet reached Yin Yue. Who knew what that pup might do?

  And yet.

  “Elder Ya Ruanshi,” began he, “these are grave news. I trust you have told our zongzhu?”

  A rictus stole over the elder’s face. Ever quick, he answered such foolish notions with wisdom.

  “Those who know not to dangle bloodied meat before the tiger’s maw are either wise or fingerless. The young master is with Lu Yuxin his right now. What, I ask, do you suppose would happen if Lu Yuxin read this letter?”

  Huijin bowed his head to this great wisdom and hid his cheeks in the loose tresses of his hair. He passed the scroll back to the elder.

  “Then, please ask him aside for a private word. Make certain that the cn sees you bring him a letter of import. Then tell the— zongzhu that I will be with him soon.”

  Ya Ruanshi wrung his staff between his hands, a plea written in the furrows of his face. “Or,” offered he, “ you could take Ming-zongzhu and head for Caodi now. Lu Yuxin would not know until nightfall! I am certain the ghost hound will be no trouble for you. When the tiger yawns, do you put your hand in his maw, I ask?”

  A brief silence passed before the ashen servant found his voice. His words were spoken like the tar flows; slow and unabated.

  “Elder Ya, Chen Luoyang was a capable cultivator. Forgive this one’s soft heart if he fears to see our young master face such a ghost by himself. And my own skills with the sword are poor.”

  Or do you wish him dead, since you dare ask for this, you wrinkled old toad? asked the ashen one’s hard, silent mouth.

  Ya Ruanshi paled. Palpable was his affront when he rebuked; “By the Jade Emperor! You should not journey alone with the young master! Take the sergeant with you! Take half the cn to cleanse and send this ghost! But by the grace of the Eastern wind, water your seeds of wit!”

  Huijin bowed his head, the very avatar of chastised submission.

  “Yes,” said he. Then, “please deliver the letter to the zongzhu in private, Elder Ya.”

  The old man turned for the door and scratched his bald scalp with his staff. He remembered himself and let his hand fall on the servant’s wrist with a beted sigh. A sigh of wisdom, a sigh of ancient knowledge.

  “The young master is blessed to have you, Huijin. Most blessed.”

  As the old man left, the ashen one enclosed his own tremulous fingers around his wrist. Blessed, thought he. The word clogged his throat like foul incense; roused a blunt pain in his chest. When the old man had left, he parted the door and swallowed fresh air to quell the unrest in his stomach. A while longer did he stay behind. Then he too walked down the stone path, past the martial courts and towards the gardens.