He tried to let the lapping water lull him to sleep. Every now and then a distant gong marked the passing hours. Strong images of his university days took over, and he was calm. Then he was in a dream, seeing himself graduating…when he suddenly woke to an unknown man’s hand clamped over his mouth and Xu shaking him awake. Xu’s face was right up against his, and he motioned to him to get up quietly.
“We’ve got problems,” he whispered. “Hurry!”
“What’s happening?”
“I told you it would be dangerous.”
16
They followed the man who’d woken them. Cí had no idea who he was, and only caught brief glimpses of the man’s face beneath his threadbare hood. He stopped at every corner to make sure they weren’t being followed before signaling them on. They kept to dark streets and headed westward, toward the mountains, where the main Buddhist monastery, the Palace of Chosen Souls, was located. By the time they reached the Great Pagoda with its tower of two thousand stairs, the night had grown particularly gloomy, with clouds almost entirely obscuring the moon.
The man signaled to them to wait while he identified himself to the entrance guard. Cí tried to get Xu to explain what was happening, but Xu just told him to keep his mouth shut.
In place of the unknown man, an old monk with pale eyes appeared. Xu bowed, and Cí followed suit. The monk returned the reverence and warmly asked them to come with him. Cí was surprised by the ornate gilding on the temple walls and its contrast to the dour solemnity of Confucian temples. After passing through the first rooms, they entered a hallway, plain in comparison, which led to the wing where cremations took place. The smell of burning flesh grew strong. Cí was strangely intimidated by it all.
They came to a cavernous room hewn out of the mountainside. A pall of ash hung in the air. A large pyre was burning up ahead, and, by Cí’s count, there were about ten people in the room aside from the deceased.
Xu walked toward a body next to the pyre. He gestured for Cí to follow and asked the people present to give Cí room for his examination.
As Cí knelt down next to the corpse, Xu whispered to him. “Don’t be nervous, but this was the boss of one of the city’s worst gangs. And these men around us are his sons. They would like it if we could tell them who killed him.”
“What makes them think we can find that out?” he whispered back, trying to appear calm by beginning to prod and examine the body.
“Because…I told them you could.”
“You what?”
Xu signaled for him to keep his voice down.
“Well, tell them you got it wrong, and let’s get out of here.”
“Mmm…can’t.”
“Why’s that?”
Xu gulped. “Because they’ve already paid.”
Cí glanced at the family members. Their expressions were cold and cutting—just like their daggers, thought Cí. He knew if he didn’t play this right, there could be two more corpses added to the pile.
He asked for more light and did his best to appear unconcerned, gruff even. Secretly he was praying he could remember Feng’s teachings.
He brought the lantern up to the dead man’s face: a mess of dried blood and cuts, one ear missing, and the cheekbones smashed in. This was gratuitous violence; none of these wounds looked mortal. The rigidity of the body and the coloration of the skin suggested he’d been dead at least four days. Cí turned to the family members to ask them what they knew about the circumstances of death, and whether any kind of official had looked at the body.
“No one’s examined him,” said one of the elders. “He was found at the bottom of a well in his garden, by a servant.” The elder went on to remind Cí of the deal, in case he’d forgotten: he had to give them the name of the assassin.
Cí shot an angry look at Xu and took a deep breath. The most important thing, he knew, was to seem infallible.
“Remember, it isn’t all down to me,” Cí said, raising his voice so everyone could hear. “Yes, I have the gift of sight and telling, but first come the gods, and as we all know, their will is inscrutable.” He looked toward the old monk for approval.
The monk agreed, bowing. The family members didn’t look impressed.
Cí cleared his throat and returned to his examination. The neck was intact, but when Cí pulled back the sheet covering the body, he found the intestines exposed and covered with writhing maggots. The stench was so strong that Cí vomited immediately. When Cí recovered he asked for some cotton soaked in hemp oil, and he stuffed them up his nose the moment they were handed to him. Then he asked the attending monks to make a pit to lay the body in.
“But he was Buddhist,” said Xu. “They will cremate him.”
Cí explained that the pit wasn’t for burying the body but to warm it. It was something Feng often did as part of his examinations, and it would buy Cí some time, too. As the monks dug, Cí began the more detailed part of his examination.
“With the firstborn’s permission: We have here an honorable male of approximately sixty years. There are no scars or marks on the body to suggest that he had any sort of serious or even mortal illness.” Cí looked around at the family members. “His skin is tender and gives easily under touch, but it is also brittle. He has thin, white hair, which comes out easily when pulled. The bruises to his head and face were likely caused by a blunt instrument.”
He stopped, looking closely at the corpse’s lips. He made a mental note, and then carried on with his commentary.
“The upper torso shows scratches, probably from having been dragged along the ground. In the abdominal area,” he continued, trying his best to hide his revulsion, “there is a deep cut reaching from the bottom of the left lung to the right groin; the innards have spilled out of this incision.” He broke off to force down another retch. “The intestines are distended, unlike the stomach itself. The penis looks normal. The legs don’t have any scratches on them.”
What have you got me into, Xu? It’s not easy figuring out how someone died—what on earth made you think I could identify the killer, too?
He got the monks to stop digging for a moment and help him turn the body over; unfortunately, there were no marks on the back to help him complete a theory he’d begun to form, so he covered up the body.
“It would appear that the cause of death was the large gash across the gut. That led to the viscera—”
“Gods!” shouted one of the older men of the family. “We haven’t paid you to spell out the obvious!” He gestured to a young, thin man with a scar down his face, who stepped forward and, without a word, grabbed Cí by the hair and held a dagger to his throat.
The older man took a stub of a candle and placed it on the ground next to Cí.
“You’ve got until this burns down to give us an answer. If you haven’t figured it out by then, we’ll be mourning you and your partner, too.”
Cí shuddered; he still hadn’t much of an idea of the cause of death. He glanced at Xu, who didn’t return the look.
Cí had embers brought from the kitchen and spread out across the pit. Once they died down, Cí laid a wicker mat over them and sprinkled it with vinegar. Then he had the body laid on top of the mat and covered with a blanket.
Cí’s stomach was in knots. He kneeled down to examine the corpse’s ankles.
“As I was saying, it might seem as if the gash killed him, but all it actually proves is how cunning and depraved the killer was.” He ran his fingers over the ankles. “The killer was cold, calculating, disturbed. He made sure he had plenty of time to carry out the crime, and he manipulated the body so that we’d mistake the cause of death.”