Chapter Thirty-Five: The Most Charming Man

Chapter Thirty-Five: The Most Charming Man

Tokyo always seems to invent new standards of beauty. Today, some ladies might adore shoes that are outrageously wrong, but tomorrow, they will insist that red slippers embroidered with lotus blossoms are the loveliest of all. Some women even take exaggerated strides along the street, purposely letting their shoes peek shyly from beneath their skirts, much like the parade horses showing off in the market square.

Their taste in men follows similar whims. When a dazzlingly handsome man, a veritable Pan An, strolls down the street, women sometimes pelt him with fruit, acting like incensed monkeys. This unchecked passion once led to the death of Wei Jie, the most celebrated beauty in Chinese history. It is said that this flower-like, tender young man was literally frightened to death by the madness of women in the streets.

But women of the Song Dynasty are more refined. They prefer men of talent, such as the poet Liu Yong, whom even the emperor found disagreeable.

Tie Xinyuan had met Liu Yong once: just a withered old man with a goat’s beard, whose health had no doubt suffered from years spent in pleasure houses.

Men of true talent are rare. Most poets who frequent brothels cannot compose a line to rival “Willows on the riverbank, dawn wind and waning moon.” Thus, all sorts of odd characters appear in the pleasure quarters, hoping to win a courtesan’s laughter.

Today, a very different man has come to the Huichun Pavilion. He is robust in the extreme, with arms as gnarled and solid as old tree roots, and a chest broad and powerful. Sitting there, he is a living tower of iron.

Such a towering figure is seldom seen in Song.

Countless women steal glances at him. As they pass, many flutter their handkerchiefs his way.

The man has been drinking in the main hall for some time now, and he is a lavish patron. Any courtesan who sits to drink a bowl of wine with him will have a pouch of coins flung her way. Though the scramble for coins draws laughter, courtesans continue to flock to him.

Tonight, Flower Lady cannot believe her luck: she has been chosen to keep this patron company, while even Meizhu, the most beautiful in the house, had only shared a single bowl of wine with him.

After three bowls, Flower Lady is dizzy and dazed. She tries twice to carry her three bags of coins back to her room, but her legs are too weak to make the journey.

The man bursts out laughing, lifts her by the waist, and with three swift kicks, sends the bags of coins flying onto his shoulder.

As he carries Flower Lady up the stairs, the brothel erupts with wolfish howls from the other patrons.

A madam, twirling her handkerchief, leads the way, praising his strength and reciting the house rules. When a bag of coins thuds against her chest, nearly knocking the wind out of her, she still clings tightly to the money, grumbling about injury to her livelihood.

When Flower Lady’s startled cries echo from the room upstairs, the entire brothel falls silent, all ears straining, faces—men and women alike—alight with a peculiar excitement.

Her cries gradually fade into silence. Only then does the brothel stir to life again. No one seems to notice just how long the episode has lasted.

After the drum sounds three times, the man emerges from Flower Lady’s room, still striding with the vigor of a dragon or tiger. Yawning, the madam at the door can’t help but give him a discreet thumbs up.

“Flower Lady is tired. Don’t disturb her before noon tomorrow. She’s mine for the night.”

“You really are a tender and considerate man...”

Ignoring the madam pressing her chest against his arm, the man throws open the door and strides out into the night.

That evening, Tie Xinyuan, seized by a strange unrest, cannot sleep. He sits before his oil lamp, book in hand, but not a word penetrates his mind.

His mother has told him to go to bed three times already, but he sits there, staring blankly at the lamp, his thoughts wandering far afield.

The lamp’s wick suddenly snaps with a sharp crackle, flaring bright before dimming again.

“Something isn’t right!”

Tie Xinyuan mutters to himself. Even now, he cannot recall what it is he has forgotten. Hearing the clapper strike outside four times, he yawns and decides to go to bed.

Though the man’s build is formidable, his steps are light as a wraith, flitting through the shadows of the street. The night watchman glimpses a ghostly silhouette, but when he looks again, nothing is there.

Shaking his head, the watchman continues down Royal City Street, clapper in hand.

“The air is dry, beware of fire...”

Standing in the shadows, the man coolly watches the Tie house across the street extinguish its lamps. He takes a few steps forward, glances up at the dazzling moon, then at the city guards patrolling the walls, and finally melts back into the darkness, vanishing entirely.

After a sleepless night, Tie Xinyuan endures a tedious morning lesson from Master Guo, then leaves the schoolhouse.

Today, Water Pearl does not wait for him outside as usual, which worries Tie Xinyuan. Taking his fox, he heads toward the abandoned garden.

By now, it is midday. At the Huichun Pavilion, the madam curses the lazy Flower Lady, who, having entertained only one guest last night, is still not up.

She kicks open Flower Lady’s door, eliciting a sharp scream...

Detective Zhao Feng stands frowning at the corpse hanging from the beam, silent for a long time.

Years of police work have not prepared him for the sight before him—a woman so brutally tormented. Her naked body is crisscrossed with small knife wounds, her limbs limp and twisted at unnatural angles, clearly broken while she was still alive, her flesh peeled back.

This is textbook torture. Zhao Feng, born into a family of constables, knows it well. But what secrets could an ordinary courtesan possess to warrant such treatment?

He orders his men to cut the corpse down, wrap it in burlap, and send it to the county morgue for further examination. As for pursuing the burly suspect, Zhao Feng decides it’s best to bring more men.

Such a case cannot be kept quiet. Reporting it to the Criminal Court is inevitable, and Zhao Feng can already imagine the magistrate’s fury.

One must be accursed to end up magistrate of the capital’s county. Although his rank equals a provincial governor, in a city teeming with nobles and royals, his position is a wretched one.

First, street ruffians brawl under the eyes of the city inspector; now, a vile torture-murder in the heart of the inner city—Zhao Feng sweats for his superior.

Tie Xinyuan is also sweating profusely as he walks. The lingering summer heat is fierce, and after a morning spent reciting texts, his throat is parched. All he wants is to reach the abandoned garden and gulp down cool boiled water.

His fox bounds ahead into the garden, frolicking in the tall weeds. When it finally emerges, its fur is thick with burrs.

Tie Xinyuan sighs, kneeling to help pick the burrs from the fox’s coat—a chore usually handled by Water Pearl and the others.

It is a tedious task. It takes nearly half a stick of incense before the fox is itself again.

Once the fox is clean, Tie Xinyuan prepares to head home.

A burly man, grinning broadly, suddenly speaks behind him: “You’re here—why leave so soon? Don’t you want to see your friend?”

Startled, Tie Xinyuan falls to the ground, tears streaming down his cheeks before he can even speak.

The man strides forward, grabs him by the nape, and marches into the ruined house. The fox has already vanished into the weeds.

Little Qiao, bound hand and foot, turns deathly pale when she sees Tie Xinyuan captured.

“The Divine Arm Crossbow of Great Xia has finally fallen into the hands of Zhao Song’s foolish emperor. Now, you must face the consequences.

I have only one question: did you leave behind any copies of the crossbow’s design?”

Just as Little Qiao is about to speak, Tie Xinyuan interrupts, “That useless drawing is full of flaws. If you want, I can redraw it for you right now.”

The man is taken aback, then laughs. “Truly?”

Tie Xinyuan points to his satchel. “There are brushes and ink inside. I can draw it now. There are also some details and measurements that will need his help.”

With a kick, the man slides Tie Xinyuan’s satchel back to him and unties Little Qiao.

Leaning in, he growls, “If you can really draw it again, I’ll let you both live.”

Tie Xinyuan hurriedly nods, “I will, I will, just please don’t kill us.”

The man grins, “I want the design, not your lives. But if you try to fool me, I’ll snap your neck.”

As he speaks, he casually breaks a wrist-thick stick in two.

Tie Xinyuan shudders, quickly unpacks his brush, ink, paper, and inkstone. He pours water from the nearby teapot onto the inkstone, lifts the lid to see plenty of water left, wipes the dust from the spout, and drinks deeply.

After drinking, he politely passes the teapot to the man.

The man sets the teapot on the table beside him and sits down to wait for Tie Xinyuan to finish the drawing.

Little Qiao glances at Tie Xinyuan, then at her siblings, all bound together in a row. She bites her lip and whispers, “There’s no way out.”

Tie Xinyuan murmurs, “Let’s try.”