Han Ji

Chapter 151 The Mystery of the Yellow Turbans

As dawn approached on the 26th day of the twelfth lunar month, the outline of the Nanzheng city wall appeared in the snow and mist.

Before the city gates even opened, the garrison saw Qian Zhao's banner and hurriedly lowered the drawbridge. Twenty riders charged into the city, their hooves making a rapid, crisp sound on the bluestone road, startling a few dogs into barking.

Qian Zhao didn't return to the military camp; he went straight to the Commandant's residence.

The gates of the mansion were open, and the guards were sweeping snow. Seeing Qian Zhao approaching, they quickly made way for him. Qian Zhao dismounted, carrying an oilcloth bundle, and strode into the central military compound.

Liu Bei had already gotten up and was practicing his sword in the courtyard. When he saw Qian Zhao enter, he stopped his stance, pointed the tip of his sword at the ground, and took a breath.

"Zijing," he wiped the sweat from his brow, "so early?"

Qian Zhao knelt on one knee and presented the oilcloth wrapped in her hands.

"Brother, we intercepted five people on the Micang Road. They claimed to be medicine merchants from Jingzhou. The surface of their goods was medicinal herbs, but this item was hidden underneath."

Liu Bei took it and untied the oilcloth.

The first rays of dawn shone on the bamboo slips. He unfolded them, read a few lines, and his gaze darkened.

Where are they?

"Keep them in the camp and guard them separately."

Liu Bei rolled up the bamboo slips and held them tightly in his hand.

"Has it been reviewed?"

"Not yet." Qian Zhao looked up. "That man is called Liu Jun. He's tight-lipped, only saying he's a medicine merchant and the scriptures are for gaining the trust of the mountain people."

Liu Bei remained silent.

He walked to the stone bench in the courtyard, sat down, and placed the bamboo slips on the stone table. He tapped the surface of the slips with his fingers, making a soft tapping sound.

Once, twice, three times.

"A medicine merchant from Jingzhou..." he murmured, "entering Sichuan in the twelfth lunar month, taking the Micang Road, and hiding the annotations of the *Taiping Jing*..."

He looked up and saw Qian Zhao.

"Zijing, what do you think?"

Qian Zhao remained kneeling, not moving: "They don't seem like medicine merchants. The burlap sacks are military style, and those five men all have calluses on their hands, from practicing swordsmanship and archery. Their accent is from Jingchu, but their vocabulary... has a hint of Luoyang Mandarin."

Liu Bei nodded.

"Interrogate them," he said. "You interrogate them yourself, by any means necessary. I need to know who they are working for and what they're here for."

Qian Zhao clasped his hands in a fist and said, "Yes."

He got up to leave, but Liu Bei called him back.

"etc."

He beckoned back.

Liu Bei picked up the bamboo slips from the stone table and handed them back to him.

"You interrogate him yourself," he paused, "but don't tell anyone yet, keep it a secret from everyone for now."

Qian Zhao accepted it and nodded emphatically.

He turned and left the hospital, his steps quick and steady.

Liu Bei sat alone in the courtyard, watching Qian Zhao's figure disappear around the corner of the porch.

As dawn broke, the snow reflected a blinding white light. He looked down at his hands; his palms were broad, his knuckles distinct, calloused from gripping the sword.

Liu Jun.

Jingzhou.

Annotations on the Taiping Jing.

He closed his eyes, his mind racing.

Two years have passed since the Yellow Turban Rebellion was quelled, but the shadow of the Way of Peace has not yet dissipated. There are still scattered believers in various places, privately spreading scriptures and gathering to pray.

The imperial court issued a decree prohibiting it, but the problem persisted.

At this time, a well-trained medicine merchant arrived in Sichuan with annotated copies of the scriptures.

to whom?

Are there remnants of the Taiping Dao in Sichuan? Or... is someone trying to use the Taiping Dao's name for some other purpose?

Liu Bei opened his eyes and looked eastward.

The direction of Luoyang.

The wind picked up again, whipping up the snow in the yard and splashing it onto his face.

It was bitterly cold.

On the 27th day of the twelfth lunar month, in a secret room of the Nanzheng Commandant's Office.

The secret chamber was underground. Go down twelve stone steps from behind the bookshelves in Liu Bei's study, turn a corner, and you'll find a stone chamber about ten feet square. The walls were made of bluestone, with no windows, only a fist-sized ventilation hole in the ceiling. A straw mat was laid on the floor, and in the center was a charcoal brazier, its fire crackling and casting a red glow throughout the room.

Liu Jun was chained to a stone block by the wall.

He sat on a straw mat, leaning against the cold stone wall, his eyes closed, the scar on his face writhing in the firelight. The iron chain wrapped from his wrists to his ankles, then fastened to iron rings embedded in the wall; it was only long enough for him to barely stand up and take three steps.

The door opened.

Qian Zhao walked in, followed by two bodyguards, one carrying a bowl of water and the other holding a file. The bodyguards put down their things and left, the door closing and locking with a click.

Qian Zhao sat down opposite Liu Jun, across the charcoal brazier.

"Liu Jun," he began, "a native of Jiangling, Jingzhou. His father was Liu Cheng, and his mother died early. He went to Luoyang at the age of seventeen and has been missing ever since. Am I right?"

Liu Jun's eyelids twitched, but he didn't open his eyes.

"Sir, you've investigated thoroughly." His voice was hoarse. "But I am indeed a medicine merchant. I've been involved in the underworld since childhood... so naturally, my reputation is not well-known."

Qian Zhao nodded and picked up the short knife. It was seven inches long, with a thin blade, and the handle was wrapped in cowhide, already polished to a shine. "This knife is military-grade, the style of the Northern Army's armory. You, a medicine merchant, carrying this?"

"For self-defense," Liu Jun answered readily.

Qian Zhao put down the knife, pulled out a piece of paper from the file, which was covered with densely packed routes and dates.

"Your journey to Sichuan this time," he pushed the paper in front of Liu Jun, "left Luoyang on the third day of the ninth month, took the Wuguan Road, and arrived at Shangyong on the second day of the tenth month. You stayed in Shangyong for half a month, supposedly to collect medicinal herbs, but according to the records at the Shangyong city gate, you only left the city twice during that half month, both times heading west towards Hanzhong. On the seventeenth day of the tenth month, you left Shangyong, took the Micang Road, and arrived at Mianzhu on the twelfth day of the twelfth month. You stayed in Mianzhu for another five days, turned back on the seventeenth day of the twelfth month, and were intercepted by me on the twenty-fourth day of the twelfth month."

He paused, staring at Liu Jun: "Liu Jun, tell me, which medicine dealer goes straight to these remote mountain valleys to buy herbs? And why does he stop in Mianzhu for five days? What kind of medicine does Mianzhu produce? How come I don't know anything about it?"

Liu Jun's Adam's apple bobbed.

"Sir... I'm buying contraband from the mountain folk, it's cheap. The route is a bit roundabout, but it saves money."

"Saving money?" Qian Zhao laughed, a cold laugh. "The oilcloth bag at the bottom of your sack is made of official oilcloth from Yizhou, costing thirty coins per foot. Your four attendants wear coarse cloth, but their boots have leather soles, costing five hundred coins a pair. And you're telling me you're saving money?"

Liu Jun fell silent.

The fire in the charcoal brazier flickered, sending up a few sparks that landed on the back of his hand. He didn't move, as if he didn't feel anything.

Qian Zhao wasn't in a hurry. He picked up the bowl of water and took a sip. The water was warm, with a slightly bitter taste, and contained invigorating herbs. After drinking, he put the bowl down, the bottom of which hit the stone brick with a thud.

"Liu Jun," he said calmly, "you're a smart man. A smart man should know that once you get here, if you don't tell the truth, you won't get out."

Liu Jun opened his eyes and looked at him.

The two looked at each other.

Three breaths.

Liu Jun smirked, "Sir, I really am a medicine merchant. If you don't believe me, just kill me."

"Kill you?" Qian Zhao shook her head. "Too cheap."

He got up and walked to the wall, where a row of torture instruments hung—whips, clamps, and branding irons—all cold and untouched. Qian Zhao ran his fingers across the handle of the branding iron; the metal was icy cold.

"I don't like using torture," he said. "It's dirty, troublesome, and can easily kill people. But sometimes, you have to."

He turned to look at Liu Jun: "Like now."

Liu Jun's face paled, but he straightened his back.

"Please proceed, sir."