Lu Yan and Mo Yuncheng had only met once before. That chance encounter had been the night Xia Yonglin drugged Shen Qingfeng — if Mo hadn’t tipped him off, Lu Yan knew he wouldn’t have arrived in time.
“Brother Mo.” Lu Yan eased the door closed and stepped outside to salute him. Mo moved like a shadow, his skill obviously superior; though Lu Yan bore him no ill will over Shen Qingfeng’s affairs, he didn’t trust a man whose talents he could not measure. Pride made him stubborn; he hated standing beneath anyone. So even courtesy carried a thread of wariness.
Mo Yuncheng’s face was unreadable. He returned the salute perfunctorily, then asked, “Where’s Young Master Shen?”
“He’s resting.” Lu Yan blinked.
Something flickered in Mo’s eyes. He seemed about to say more, then hesitated.
“Is there something you wanted to tell me?” Lu asked.
Mo inclined his head. His collar rose high enough to hide the lower half of his face, giving him an air of deliberate secrecy. “I came to tell him that His Highness the Crown Prince was secretly brought in for questioning by Gu Mingde.”
Lu Yan’s body tightened. “What—how do you know that?”
Mo fell silent for a moment. “Qi Siyu asked me to help Young Master Shen, so I dropped by Sikou Tower while I was out.”
Qi Siyu — Lu Yan knew the name. The younger son of Qi Shuhuan, the one never mentioned, always kept at the margins by his father. That Qi Siyu would move to help them… it was unexpected. Could there be more than the claimed ‘instant rapport’ between him and Shen Qingfeng? Was there a grudge against Qi Shuhuan driving him?
Lu Yan searched Mo’s face for a trap and found only the same cool reserve. Mo scoffed softly. “Don’t overthink it. If Qi Siyu hadn’t told me that he and Shen hit it off, I wouldn’t have bothered.”
Lu Yan’s confusion eased into understanding. Qi Siyu had always been slighted by his father; perhaps bitterness and a sudden sympathy for Shen had combined into action.
“I passed the message along,” Mo said, tugging his collar up to obscure more of his face. “What you do with it now is your business.”
Xia Chuli’s trial had been handed entirely to Dan Chengkuai — legally speaking, Gu Mingde had no authority to summon the prince for questioning. Gu acting alone in the dead of night meant only one thing: they were trying to beat a confession out of him.
Lu Yan inhaled sharply; a vein throbbed at his temple. They weren’t aiming merely to punish — they wanted to crush Xia Chuli completely.
“Mr. Mo?” A sleepy voice came from behind the door. Both Lu Yan and Mo turned.
Shen Qingfeng stood in the doorway in a white robe, hair tousled, eyes still heavy with sleep. He looked bewildered, like someone who had woken in the dark and found the world rearranged.
He couldn’t remember how he’d woken. Lu Yan’s earlier exertions had nearly drained him, and when he’d opened his eyes a moment ago the bed beside him had been empty. Voices had drifted from the corridor — Lu Yan’s, and another that was too familiar. Now, pulling his robe tighter, he pushed the door open and peered out at the two men.
His voice was cool and quiet, like moonlight on still water. “What’s happened?”
—
Sen Ya kept his head bowed in the center of the room. This was the most splendid chamber in the Ten Directions Pavilion — even the beams were edged with gold and set with night pearls. Though it was night, one lamp made the room bright as daylight.
He stood respectfully while across from him Liu Mei lounged on a high-backed armchair, half-reclined. Her robe had slipped open, revealing much of the swell of her breasts, and in her lap lay a white fox pelt. One elegant hand stroked the fox’s furry head with languid amusement.
The brazier burned hot; she wore only a thin layer and felt no chill. A smile played at the corner of her mouth as she pushed herself up, lifted a pipe, and drew a slow, satisfied breath. “Is this true?” she asked.
Sen Ya kept his eyes lowered and answered carefully, “Madam Proprietor, the court’s channels are tightly sealed, but Xie Yun said it himself. He’s sitting in Hall One with everything he owns laid out before him. It seems credible.”
Liu Mei laughed softly, the sound syrup-smooth and mocking. She propped her chin on one hand and turned to stare at the dark window with all the indolent pleasure of someone letting a game unfold. “Fair-weather traitors, flipping whichever way the wind blows — the most contemptible sort. Even if he’s willing to spend every last coin, he’s not worth promising anything grand. At most a minor local post.” She tapped her pipe, smoke curling from her lips. “Still, since he brought us the information…”
Her eyes narrowed, the lazy charm sharpening into intent. She exhaled a ribbon of smoke that hung in the air and dissipated like the last shreds of patience.
“What should we give him?” she mused aloud.
Sen Ya waited for her command; without it he would not move.
She thought a moment. “The deputy generalship of the Bingshi Banner — isn’t the incumbent sixty-seven this year?”
Sen Ya bowed his head. “Yes, Madam Proprietor. He’s an old soldier retired from the field, basically an honorary post.”
Liu Mei’s smile curved. “Well then, let him have it. If it’s only an empty title, we might as well put it to use.”
Sen Ya straightened with a crisp salute. “At once.”
“Remember this.” Liu Mei called after him as he was about to leave. “The old man’s sixty-seven. Get a decent coffin ready — don’t say we don’t know how to be filial.”
Sen Ya inclined his head and vanished like a shadow.
Liu Mei lingered, pouring down the remainder of her tea until the cup was empty. She hung the white fox pelt across her elbows and rose with a slow, sinuous grace, hips swaying. Then, with the practiced ease of someone for whom cruelty and charm were the same art, she stepped out into the night.