If he had known, he wouldn't have been so stubborn. Everything Jing Xunche did now was for face—his reputation in front of his men.
There was a mean streak in Jing that bordered on cruelty. He had the bandit leader's flayed flesh collected into a basin and set it before the fallen chief and his men. When they saw strip after strip of human flesh in the bowl, several of them retched outright. The sight was enough to unsettle anyone. It wasn't long before the big man, already bleeding badly and racked with pain, lost consciousness.
Jing waved his hand and a shadow-guard stepped forward, fingers practiced and sure as he dressed the wound. He was the medicate among the secret guards—not a genius surgeon, but adequate for this sort of injury. The bleeding was stopped and the dressing applied; then the man withdrew.
"Bring out the other comb—the one soaked in chili water. Use that one," Jing said without expression.
Those cramped against the wall had gone white. Even the third-in-command, who'd managed to keep his composure until now, was trembling.
"Don't touch me! I'll talk! I'll tell you everything!" one of the younger men blurted, standing up on shaking legs. Better to spill it all and die quickly than to stay and be broken slowly, he figured.
Jing glanced at him, nodded, and had the man led away. The others relaxed at the sight—until they realized Jing wasn't finished. The ones who had already confessed were apparently not enough.
They watched as prisoners were dragged up and clamped to iron beds. One by one, their legs buckled; they fell to their knees, scrambling for mercy.
"You want to know more? We'll tell you! Spare us!" they begged, voices thin and raw.
Jing looked them over with satisfaction. This was working. "Take them all down. Make them say everything—what they should and shouldn't. If anything's missed, start cutting. Don't worry whether they live or die."
The bandits stared in disbelief. They thought that confession would buy them a way out—now this. Fear snapped their petty schemes shut. Every man strained to remember every scrap of knowledge, terrified that a forgotten detail would send him back to the iron bed.
Satisfied by their frantic efforts, Jing nodded and left one man in charge before withdrawing to wash properly and spend time with Qia.
When the secret guards compiled the interrogations into a report, Jing frowned as he read. He hadn't expected the Jiang family to be mixed up with the Five-Peak Mountain affairs. The goods said to be "stolen" had actually been sent there under the Jiang's name—no theft at all.
"Any movement from the Jiang house?" he asked.
"My lord, we've learned that a batch of goods will be sold from the Jiang estate in a month's time," came the reply. That was what the guards had been watching for days.
"Intercept that shipment. Seize it intact," Jing said, tapping the table. "And I mean intact."
"Yes, my lord." The man left at once.
For days Jing had stayed at home with Mu Fengqia, watching over her pregnancy as if the rest of the world had fallen away. He'd refused to raise a troop to attack the bandits, and that refusal was making others uneasy—particularly Yuan Yuchuan.
Emperor Yuan had already sent several imperial edicts calling for action over Five-Peak Mountain. The people were starting to grumble; Yuan could not afford to let public opinion sour because his favorite general refused to act. He had worked too hard to build his prestige. So Yuan made a show of it: he organized troops, spread word that he was asking the Marquis of Zhongning to lead the assault, and paraded the plan before the capital. Crowds gathered, hailing the emperor and praising Jing's name.
Jing heard of the pageantry and merely smiled. Then he had his arms and legs wound tightly with gauze, took up a pair of crutches, and went to court.
"I, Jing Xunche, pay my respects to His Majesty," he said with difficulty, bowing so slowly it looked painful. He stood there on his knees and waited.
There was no immediate reply from Yuan. The emperor simply stared, stunned. A few days ago Jing had been hale; now he seemed maimed. Yuan suspected it was an acting job—but without proof he couldn't order an examination in public. To demand such a thing would make him look unreasonably suspicious.
A court eunuch cleared his throat; Yuan recovered himself and rose to help the marquis to his feet. "You look…worse for wear, Lord Jing. What happened? You were well a few days ago."
"Your Majesty, you are not aware," Jing said smoothly. "We just learned that my wife is with child. I—was overjoyed and injured myself in the commotion. It's nothing serious, the physician says. Just a fracture. A few months' rest and I'll recover."
His lie was casual, but the excuse had weight. Yuan's jaw tightened; he did not believe Jing for a second, yet there was a stubborn logic to it.
The crowd was already sold. Men had been known to injure themselves in fits of joy; some had even nearly maimed themselves when they learned of a spouse's pregnancy. A marquis taking a tumble in celebration was not beyond belief.
"'Wife'?" Yuan's voice betrayed annoyance. Jing's marital status was common knowledge—he had always been single and supposedly enamored of Princess Mu Fengqia. Jing smiled and turned that expectation to advantage.
"Yes—Qia," he said, warmth blooming on his face that didn't belong to his injured body. "There were complications lately, but we've been preparing to wed."
A bulge of anger showed on the emperor's brow. Jing had covered himself well; every complaint Yuan might make jingled against the armor of the marquis's plausible tenderness. In the end Yuan could only feign regret. "That's a pity. I had hoped you'd take the field against Five-Peak Mountain, but if you must tend to family—"
Jing's voice stopped him, smooth and cutting. "Your Majesty, our dynasty has no shortage of talent. You must not cling to veteran hands alone. Promote the young. Do not rely on the old guard just because of familiarity."
Those words fixed Jing's image in the emperor's mind—calm, respectful, and yet reproachful. Yuan's stomach tightened with a private fury he could not show. He hated, in that moment, how limited the options before him seemed—how much he needed men like Jing even while being made to feel their insolence.