It was the middle of the twelfth lunar month, deep into the night, with snow driving hard.
The north wind swept fine snow across the Tonghui River. Floating ice knocked against the side of a black-awning boat.
A lone skiff lay moored on the deserted water.
At the bow, a small brazier warmed a pot of yellow wine, accompanied by half a plate of soy-braised beef.
Xu Wuyou sat cross-legged before the cabin, wrapped in a heavy cloak.
In his hand, a bare bamboo pole dangled in the water—no hook, no bait.
The withered willows along the bank were covered in rime. Whenever the wind blew, white flakes rustled down.
Staring at the surface, Xu Wuyou recited to himself, “An old fisherman in a straw cape, fishing alone in the snowy river.”
When he finished, he shook his head and laughed.
“I used to think only sour scholars would put on airs like that. Now that I’m sitting here in the north wind...” He picked up the wine jar and took a long swallow, smacking his lips. “I can finally appreciate the charm of freezing all the way to the bone.”
Before the words had faded, hurried footsteps sounded from the withered grass on the bank, crunching over the frozen earth.
A servant in a short cotton jacket burst from the grass and took two or three strides onto the bow.
The boat rocked, and the plate of beef nearly slid overboard.
“Young Master.” The man rubbed his frozen hands together, blowing white clouds of breath.
He was Old Zhao, the head of Xu Wuyou’s covert network along the Tonghui River.
Xu Wuyou did not even raise his eyes. “You came at this hour and scared away all the fish.”
With that, he tossed him a jug of warm yellow wine.
Old Zhao grinned and caught it with quick hands, then tipped his head back and took a gulp.
One swallow moistened his mouth and warmed his stomach.
Clutching the pleasantly warm jug, Old Zhao said ingratiatingly, “Young Master, you haven’t even put bait on that pole...”
“I’m not fishing for fish.” Xu Wuyou lifted the bamboo pole slightly. “Tell me.”
Old Zhao stepped half a pace closer and lowered his voice. “News intercepted from a grain ship heading north! The Chen and Fang families of Jiangnan have joined forces to submit an official petition sealed in vermilion wax. It’s being rushed to the capital under an eight-hundred-li emergency dispatch, straight to the Bureau of Transmission.”
“Against whom?”
“Against...” Old Zhao swallowed. “Against Minister of Revenue Xu Youde. They accuse him of forcibly seizing sacrificial fields in Jiangning, digging up ancestral graves, and embezzling a fortune.”
A gust of bitter wind swept past. Broken ice struck the boat with a clatter.
Old Zhao stole a glance at Xu Wuyou and rubbed his hands even faster. “Young Master, don’t be angry. I’m only passing along the message...”
The man being impeached, Xu Youde, was the young master’s own father.
Old Zhao did not dare say that aloud.
Xu Wuyou smiled instead of getting angry.
He set the bamboo pole down on the deck, filled a cup of yellow wine, and drained it in one go.
The wine slid down his throat, and he exhaled a cloud of white vapor.
“This is good news.”
Old Zhao stood frozen.
“Good news?” He wondered whether the cold had frozen his ears. “Young Master, that’s your own father! An emergency petition signed by the people of an entire region—this is the sort of thing that gets a man killed!”
Xu Wuyou set down his cup. He finished the wine, rose, and brushed the snow from his cloak before gazing southward. The night was as dark as ink, and only the snow striking his face brought any sharpness to it.
“Killed?”
“Yes, killed!”
“It’s time to head south.”
Old Zhao shuddered. “Young Master, are we...”
Seeing Xu Wuyou lost in thought, Old Zhao did not dare ask anything more. He turned and disembarked, his footsteps gradually fading into the distance.
Before long, Xu Wuyou stood at the bow and poured the remaining wine into the icy river.
“Father, you’ve raised this performance to its climax. Your son is on his way to applaud. After all, our family really is a nest of treacherous ministers!”
...
That same night, at the offices of the Bureau of Transmission.
It was just past midnight, and the candle in the duty room was burning low.
Secretary Sun was dozing over his desk when the gatekeeper’s shout jolted him awake.
“Sir! Courier! Eight-hundred-li emergency dispatch!”
Secretary Sun sat bolt upright and wiped the drool from his mouth. “Where’s it from?”
“Jiangnan! A vermilion-sealed wooden case!”
The gatekeeper brought in the case. Its seal was intact, and a yellow label had been pasted across the lid:
“Petition of the Three Jiangnan Clans, signed by the people. Humbly requesting the Emperor’s judgment.”
Secretary Sun’s hand stopped in midair.
A petition signed by the people?
In his six years as a secretary, this was the first time he had seen one in the flesh.
“Have the relay stamps been checked?”
“They have. All seven stations along the route have recorded their seals. It’s a genuine emergency dispatch.”
Secretary Sun swallowed, broke the wax seal, and drew out a thick sheaf of papers, holding them beneath the lamp. The more he read, the more violently his hands trembled. The papers slipped from his grasp, and he had to stoop three times before he managed to hold them steady.
The pages were filled with blood-and-tears accusations:
Minister of Revenue Xu Youde had forcibly seized sacrificial fields, dug up ancestral graves, and embezzled official silver. At the end were the clan seals of the Chen and Fang families, along with the handprints of several hundred Jiangnan scholars, densely packed together and impossible to ignore.
“This is going to get someone killed...” Secretary Sun collapsed into his chair, drenched in cold sweat.
The petition accused a second-rank minister, a hard-handed imperial commissioner who held the emperor’s seal.
Every hour he kept this death warrant on his desk increased the chance that his own head would be separated from his body.
He shoved his feet into his official boots, rushed out of the duty room, and shouted at the top of his lungs, “Prepare a horse! Go wake Lord Zhang and pound on his gate! The sky is falling! Quickly!”
...
Zhang Chenglu, Commissioner of the Bureau of Transmission, was dragged from his heated bed by his steward.
Wrapped in a cotton robe, he sat in his study and read the petition over and over.
“Last time...” His throat felt dry. “There were several hundred memorials impeaching Xu Zijin. The Emperor left them unanswered, as though he had never seen them.”
Secretary Sun nodded vigorously below him.
“And this time, whom do they accuse? A second-rank Minister of Revenue! An imperial commissioner!”
Zhang Chenglu slammed his palm against the desk, rattling the teacup.
He forced himself to sit still, then fixed Secretary Sun with a fierce stare. “Was there any evidence in the case?”
Secretary Sun blinked. “Evidence?”
“Copies of account books! Deeds to the land! Confessions!” Zhang Chenglu demanded in quick succession. “If they accuse him of embezzling eight million, they need something to back it up!”
“My lord, there was none.” Secretary Sun shook his head. “Only the petition and the cloth bearing the signatures. Nothing else.”
Zhang Chenglu’s brows drew together into a deep knot.
There was no evidence. Several hundred scholars had joined their signatures, creating a thunderous uproar, yet once reduced to paper, everything amounted to “I heard” and “It is said.”
There was something deeply wrong with it.
But he did not dare sit on such a dangerous matter.
The petition had been sealed in vermilion wax and rushed through the relay stations, each one leaving a record. If he suppressed it for a single night, the censors could impeach him for concealing an official report by morning.
“Tomorrow morning, send it directly to the Grand Secretariat’s duty office.”
...
The news spread through the capital faster than the snow-filled wind.
Before Zhang Chenglu’s sedan had even reached his residence, all six ministries had already heard.
The residence of the Left Vice Minister of the Ministry of Justice was the first to light up.
He had been a fellow examination graduate of Xu Youde’s and rose from his heated bed in the middle of the night. Summoning his aides, he gave them a single instruction:
“Investigate the recent official correspondence from Jiangning. Remember this: turn over every page.”
Soon afterward, candlelight appeared at the residence of Song Zhiyuan, Right Vice Minister of the Ministry of Rites.
A disciple knocked on his door late at night and reported the contents of the petition in full. After listening, Song Zhiyuan let out a cold laugh.
“Xu Youde has clearly provoked the fury of Jiangnan.”
There was unmistakable satisfaction in his tone.
At the Deer-Cry Banquet, the Xu faction had stolen the limelight from the great clans. Song Zhiyuan had remembered it to this day.
The disciple leaned closer. “Teacher, heaven itself has handed us this opportunity. Once Xu Youde falls, the lucrative Jiangnan post will have to go to someone else. Should we contact our colleagues tomorrow morning and ask them to support the petition...”
“Support it?” Song Zhiyuan raised a hand to cut him off. “Support it with what? An empty petition without a shred of evidence?”
“But all the scholars in Jinling have signed it...”
“The scholars signed it, but the clan seals belong to the great families.” Song Zhiyuan lightly tapped the armrest with his knuckles. “Xu Youde is carrying out an assignment personally appointed by the Emperor.”
“To bring him down would be the same as slapping the Emperor in the face.”
“When did these great clans become so short-sighted?”
“Whether we wade into these troubled waters depends on the palace’s attitude.”
The disciple stood below him. Seeing that his teacher had closed his eyes to rest, he had no choice but to bow and withdraw.
Inside the study, he finished hearing the secret report without showing either approval or amusement. Instead, he asked, “Which families’ clan seals appear on the petition?”
The aide replied, “The Chen and Fang families.”
“What of the Yang family?”
“…No seal from the Yang clan was found.”
Zhou Mingyuan’s fingers, idly rolling his prayer beads, came to an abrupt stop.
The three clans had long been known to be allies. Their alliance had been settled more than a century ago.
Yet now, as the memorial calling for them to charge into battle arrived in the capital, only two seals had been affixed.
Where had the Yang clan gone—the most prestigious of the three, with the strongest standing and the choicest territory?
“Find out.” His gaze was cold and grim. “Investigate Yang Bonian’s recent condition. Is he ill or dead? Has he left his residence, or shut himself away? Dig up every last detail.”
The aide understood at once and hurried into the night.
