It felt pleasant, as if her body was rocking gently. A faint smell of fine
incense tickled her nose. The swaying made her feel like a child in a cradle, but after a moment it ceased, and she felt she was being laid down on something soft.
Then time passed, but she didn’t know how much.
Where am I? Maomao thought upon waking. As her eyes fluttered open, she found a glorious canopy above her head. She recognized it—because she’d had to dust it every day.
She smelled the incense again, the finest sandalwood. This was Jinshi’s bedroom, and that would make what Maomao was sleeping in his bed.
“Ah, you’re awake,” said a calm, gentle voice. It came from an attendant in the first flush of old age, reclining on a couch nearby. She stood and took a carafe of water from a round table, pouring liberally into a cup. “Master Jinshi brought you here, did you know? He couldn’t stand to leave you to rest in the medical office.” Suiren chuckled and passed the cup to Maomao.
Maomao brought it to her lips. She was in sleeping clothes. (When had that happened?) A sharp pain shot through her head, and meanwhile her leg felt like it might cramp.
“Now, don’t strain yourself. You needed fifteen stitches.”
Maomao rolled back the covers to find a bandage wrapped around her left leg. The dull quality of the pain suggested she’d been given some kind of analgesic. She touched her head: more bandages.
“I’m sorry to ask this when you’ve just woken up, but may I bring the others to see you now? We can give you a few minutes if you’d like to change clothes.”
Maomao saw that her regular outfit was folded neatly beside the bed.
She nodded her understanding.
Suiren led in Jinshi and Gaoshun, accompanied by Basen. Maomao had
successfully changed into her day clothes; she welcomed them, but remained seated. A breach of etiquette, she knew, but Suiren had given her approval and Maomao decided, in this case, to take it.
Basen was the first to open his mouth: “What in the world is going on here?” He was staring straight at Maomao, looking unusually angry.
“Basen,” Gaoshun said sternly. The soldier only clucked his tongue and took a seat. Jinshi positioned himself on the couch, his expression carefully neutral.
His master was in considerable danger, after all, Maomao thought. But she had done nothing to warrant being yelled at, so she simply sipped her tepid water, her expression as cool as her drink.
Jinshi looked at Maomao, his hands stashed in his sleeves. “I’d like you to explain a few things for me. What brought you to that place at that time? How did you know that beam was going to fall? Tell me.”
“Very well, sir.” Maomao set down the water and took a breath. “First of all, these events lie at the confluence of a series of coincidences. When enough such coincidences occur at once, one might suspect that they aren’t happenstance at all. Thus perhaps this was not accident, but incident.” Maomao already knew of a number of related cases. There was
Kounen’s death the year before. Then that fire had broken out in the storehouse, while at the same time, ritual implements had been stolen. Finally, the very official who oversaw those implements swiftly came down with food poisoning.
“So you believe somebody caused all of these things deliberately?” “Yes sir, I do. And I believe there’s one further connection, which I had
previously overlooked.”
Maomao didn’t know exactly what had been stolen, but it would have been something appropriate to the celebration of an important ritual.
Something no doubt produced by a master craftsman. And she happened to have heard of one of those recently…
“You’re not saying…the metalworker’s family?” Jinshi said, startled.
Maomao knew he was quick. “That’s right,” she said.
She had a fairly good idea of what had killed the old craftsman. Lead poisoning, she suspected. It would be easy enough to dismiss it as an occupational hazard, but there was always the possibility that it was
something more. It was conceivable that this, too, was deliberate. Give him some wine and a lead drinking cup as a gift, then wait for him to waste away. That would be one way to do it, anyway; there were others.
“The old man didn’t personally teach his apprentices—his sons—about his most secret discovery. It’s possible the art would have gone with him to his grave, a riddle no one else ever solved. Someone might have found that very convenient.”
This would imply that whoever it was already understood the technique in question. They wouldn’t have to know exactly how it worked, just what it did.
“So you believe the stolen implements were produced by the dead craftsman?” Jinshi asked, but Maomao shook her head.
“No, sir. In fact, I believe the opposite: that the stolen implements were
replaced with something produced by that craftsman.”
Maomao got paper and a brush, and quickly sketched out a picture. In the center was a large altar accompanied by an iron fire pot, while a beam dangled from the ceiling above. Ropes were looped around either end of the beam. They passed through pulleys on the ceiling, and were secured to the floor with metal fasteners.
“If several ritual implements disappeared, perhaps we can presume that various other parts went with them. Elaborate pieces, I would suspect.”
“That seems like a likely possibility,” Gaoshun said, but he didn’t sound completely sure. He probably didn’t have all the information on the subject
—this was outside of Jinshi’s jurisdiction, after all.
“As I recall, the wires that held the beam up ran directly past the fire pot. Suppose the fasteners that held them in place were made to give way when heated…”
“Ridiculous,” Basen snorted. “We would have known about that long ago. They would never use anything that might catch fire near the altar.” “And yet the beam did fall,” Maomao replied. “Precisely because the
fasteners broke.”
Jinshi agreed with Basen: “They shouldn’t break, no matter how hot they get. They’re made to stand up to a little heat!”
“They broke,” Maomao reiterated. “Or more specifically, they melted.” Everyone looked at her.
Maomao decided to divulge what she had discovered about the deceased
craftsman’s most secret art. “Many metals by themselves melt only at high temperature. But by mixing them together, believe it or not, it’s possible to create a substance that melts at a lower heat.”
The technique had been around for a very long time, but such substances still demanded substantial heat to melt. That was the crux of the old craftsman’s discovery: the ratio he had perfected melted the metal at a considerably lower temperature than usual. It would be enough, for example, if the metal were to be near a burning fire pot…
Silence descended on the room. The only sound was Suiren, blithely preparing tea.
The builders of the altar must have sworn up and down that the beam on the ceiling would never, ever fall. Otherwise such a construct would never have been approved. Important people stood under that beam to perform ceremonies, after all. If Maomao hadn’t connected the dots, there was a very real chance that Jinshi would be dead right now. Not that she had ever expected it to be him she found standing there.
Just who is this guy? she asked herself. But she felt her station was nowhere near high enough to actually ask the question aloud, so she stayed quiet. Besides, she suspected that knowing the answer would only lead to more trouble.
She thought it seemed most reasonable to assume there was some connection, however remote, among all these things. Whether directly or indirectly, somebody was pulling the strings.
“I’ve said all I can say,” she told them. Now that they had the information, she presumed Jinshi and the others would flush out whoever was involved. There was a chance Lihaku was already working on it.
The image of the tall lady flitted through Maomao’s mind.
Nothing to do with me, she thought, slowly shaking her head and casting
her eyes at the ground. Still, she couldn’t shake the memory of the woman’s detached expression: it was as if she no longer cared what happened, as long as something did. Maomao was still bothered, too, by what the woman had said to her when they were at that small patch of a garden.
A medicine to revive the dead…
They heard from Lihaku not long after. As Maomao had expected, his message concerned the lady, Suirei.
Suirei, it turned out, had taken poison and died.
Maomao was brought up short by this abrupt end to the woman’s life; somehow, it didn’t compute for her. When the Board of Justice—the officials responsible for keeping the law—had gathered their evidence and come bursting into Suirei’s bedroom, they had discovered her collapsed on her bed. An overturned wine cup had been confirmed to contain poison. The doctor had been requested to perform the inquest and had duly certified the death.
As a criminal, Suirei was to be punished in her coffin as she could not be in life. After one day and one night, she was to be burned—that is to say, cremated. At the moment, she was awaiting her punishment in the same place as those who had died in jail.
Maomao didn’t know if the Board of Justice had been able to move so quickly because Lihaku had done such a thorough job of gathering evidence, or if they had been pursuing this case for some time already. But ultimately, Suirei was the only conspirator named. Maomao wondered at this: Did she really implement such an elaborate plot all by herself? The idea lacked a certain persuasiveness.
Perhaps she was a scapegoat, then? Perhaps. But something more basic bothered Maomao. Would Suirei really accept that? They hadn’t known each other very well. Maomao was not such a good reader of people that she could understand who a person really was in the span of such a short acquaintance. It was always possible that Suirei’s apathetic manner sprang from a lack of will to live.
But still, something nagged at Maomao. It was the tone Suirei had taken when she spoke, as if she was testing Maomao. No, I can’t just go on intuition. I have to be sure. But Maomao had no way to be sure; all she could do was go silently back to her daily chores. Such was a maid’s lot in life.
Supposedly, anyway…
But her curiosity got the better of her.
“Master Jinshi, I have a favor to ask of you.” This was her opening gambit. “I’d like to speak with the doctor who performed the inquest.” At the mortuary, ideally.
Much to Jinshi’s mystification, Maomao’s face as she said this threatened to break into a grin.
The mortuary was dim, pervaded by the stench of death. According to the law of the land, no one who died in jail was permitted to be buried, but had to be cremated. Several coffins sat in a stack in one corner, housing criminals waiting to meet their fate. Suirei’s coffin was slightly apart from the others, and a black and white tag hung on it.
Jinshi and Gaoshun were both present. Gaoshun didn’t seem to like Jinshi being at the morgue, but if he wished to be there, Gaoshun couldn’t stop him.
The doctor when summoned wore an expression as grim as the morgue itself. Maomao didn’t blame him: a lady with whom he had been on good terms was dead, to be treated as a criminal, no less. But is that all there is to it? she wondered. If he was the one who had done the inquest, then he might know something no one else did. And Maomao had an inkling what it might be.
She got straight to the point: “The poison that woman drank. Did the ingredients by any chance include thornapple?” She studied the doctor from the chair where she sat; Gaoshun had made it ready for her on account of her injured leg. A hoe leaned against the wall beside the physician. This,
too, Gaoshun had prepared at Maomao’s request. Jinshi kept peeking at it as if he wondered what it was for, but it would have been time-consuming to explain, so she ignored him.
The doctor went pale almost before he could say anything. Still, he refused to be explicit, shaking his head instead. “The poison contained a number of ingredients, and it’s hard to determine what any given one was. From the condition of the body, I would say the possibility is distinct, but I can’t be certain.” The answer was surprisingly confident and collected considering the way he had blanched at the suggestion. And he was telling the truth as far as it went, Maomao thought. She hadn’t known what ingredients had been involved in the concoction either when she had evaluated it.
“There’s a field on a small hill behind the stables, as I think you may know. Isn’t there thornapple planted there? It may not be in season right now, but I can’t imagine your pharmacy doesn’t stock some of it.”
Thornapple was highly poisonous, but in a measured dose it could act as an anesthetic. Suppose Suirei had taken some from the doctor’s office.
The medical officer himself remained silent. This man was an excellent physician, Maomao had concluded. But not a gifted liar.
Thornapple had another name: the Uncanny Morning Glory. Maomao thought of Suirei’s flat affect as she told Maomao she planted morning glories in that field.
“Let us find out for certain whether that particular toxin was involved, then,” Maomao said. Then she picked up the hoe and advanced on the coffin with the black and white tag.
“What do you think you’re doing?” “This!”
She shoved the hoe under the coffin lid and pushed down on the shaft.
One of the nails securing the lid popped up. The others watched in astonishment as Maomao worked. When all of the nails had been freed, they lifted the lid to discover a woman’s corpse. It appeared to be some unfortunate night-walker who had died under a bridge.
“It’s…not Suirei?” the doctor said, peering into the coffin. He was clearly shaken; his hand trembled as he touched the box.
If he’s pretending to be surprised, then he’s a damn fine actor, Maomao thought.
“This woman, Suirei—you’re quite certain she was dead?”
“Yes. The most untutored amateur could have seen it. She was still as lovely as she was when she was alive. But the heart behind that beauty was no longer beating.” The doctor’s face was still white. He had treated
Suirei’s corpse with care, Maomao suspected. She also suspected Suirei had counted on it. She’d known he wouldn’t feel the need to chop her up to figure out exactly which poison she had taken.
“In other words, sir, she used you.”
The medical officer went from pale to visibly seething. Just as it seemed he might lose control of himself and lunge at Maomao, Gaoshun grabbed him from behind.
Suirei had used thornapple in her poison. And she’d had access to a wide range of other medicaments as well, had she wished for them. If they checked the medical office’s stores, it was likely they would find discrepancies with the listed inventory. The worst thing the doctor could be
accused of was a failure to keep close track of his supplies, Maomao supposed.
“Explain this,” Jinshi said, narrowing his eyes. “Why isn’t it the body of the condemned in there?”
“Because people would be suspicious if there wasn’t something in the coffin, even if it is to be burned,” Maomao said.
There were a number of coffins in the mortuary. Some of them were no doubt bodies destined to be burned, just like Suirei was supposed to have been. New coffins would presumably come with them, as well. Enough activity that a substitute corpse might be prepared and the two switched.
“Then what happened to Suirei’s body? It can’t have been carried away; somebody would have noticed.”
“It didn’t have to be. She walked out on her own two feet.” Shock silenced Maomao’s audience.
“Would you be so kind as to help me check those coffins over there?” she said to Gaoshun. She wanted to do it herself, but her leg was throbbing. Gaoshun didn’t so much as flinch as he regarded the empty boxes. Alert as he was, he could tell something was off about one of the coffins; he pulled off the one above it to free the suspicious casket. The thing would normally have taken at least two men to move, but Gaoshun was strong enough to slide it aside by himself.
Maomao went to the coffin Gaoshun had freed, dragging her foot as she moved. “You can see a nail mark here,” she observed. “I suspect this is the coffin Suirei was in. She lay here, awaiting rescue.”
By the time her help arrived, Suirei was breathing again. After she was free, they would have switched the coffins, and then Suirei would have escaped the mortuary dressed like one of those who delivered the dead. People went out of their way to avoid paying attention to those who did such unclean work, and the uncommonly tall Suirei could easily have passed for a man.
Now Maomao asked the doctor, “Did you know there are medicines that can cause a person to appear dead?”
He opened his mouth, briefly stupefied, but finally he said, “I’ve heard tell. But I have no idea how to make them.”
It would have been easy to dismiss the idea of a “resurrection medicine” as pure fantasy, but that wasn’t wholly true. Certain substances existed that
could produce an effect very much like coming back from the dead. “I’m sorry to hear that,” Maomao said, “for I don’t know the details
myself. However, I have heard that the ingredients include thornapple and blowfish poison.”
Once—just once—her old man had told her a story. In a far country, he said, there was a medicine that could kill a person and then bring them back to life. It required several other toxins in addition to the thornapple and blowfish poison. These substances, each normally immensely poisonous, somehow neutralized each other, so that after a brief period the subject began to breathe again.
Naturally, Maomao’s father had never made this drug, and he wasn’t about to tell Maomao how to do it. Even the fact that she knew about the thornapple and the blowfish was only because she had secretly read her father’s book. He’d evidently never imagined she could read the writing of that far, strange country. It was his own fault for underestimating her, or at least her obsession with poisons. She’d wheedled the occasional customer from those lands to teach her, and gradually assembled a working knowledge of the language. Unfortunately, her father discovered the subterfuge before she had read the entire thing, and he had simply burned the book.
“Do you really think Suirei would have used such an uncertain method?” the doctor asked.
“What did she have to lose? She was facing the death penalty. If I were in her shoes, it’s a bet I would gladly take.”
“I don’t think it would take impending doom to make you do it.” Why did Jinshi seem so eager to butt in? Maomao ignored him lest he derail the conversation.
“The fact that there’s no body here suggests she won her bet. If no one had thought to look until after the cremation, her victory would have been complete.”
I just didn’t let her get away with it, Maomao thought. She smiled as she stared at the coffin. Inside was an anonymous woman, dead of who knew what. It didn’t seem like much to smile about. She was sloppy. Maomao wasn’t so soft as to bewail the death of a complete stranger. There were more important things to worry about.
The laughter bubbled up from deep in her belly, heh heh heh. Something
was rising from within her, something that threatened to take over her entire body. “If she is alive, then I’d love to meet her,” Maomao said to no one in particular. No, not so she could arrest the woman. Another reason entirely.
It was the wit Suirei must have had to make so many cases look like accidents, and the nerve to pull it off. And above all, she’d had the guts to wager her own life in hopes of fooling them all. What a waste it would be, Maomao thought, for such a person to simply kick the bucket. Yes, there had been casualties because of her, but Maomao couldn’t deny what she was feeling.
The resurrection drug. I must know how to make it! The thought almost overwhelmed her. Maybe that was why she was suddenly cackling. The three men in the room looked at her doubtfully.
At length Maomao cleared her throat and looked at the doctor. “Pardon me, but might I trouble you to sew up my leg? I seem to have reopened the wound.” Maomao brushed her leg as if she hadn’t been dragging it around all this time. The bandages were soaked with blood.
“Tell us that before you disappear into hilarity! Before!” Jinshi exclaimed, his agitated voice filling the mortuary.
