Chapter 3:
A Face Like Jade
THE UNFAMILIAR BED made a restful night’s sleep impossible. When dawn finally broke, Xiahou Lian rose and pushed open the door, noticing that Xie Jinglan’s house was already lit. He carried a cup of tea into the study to find Xie Jinglan at the table, book in hand. The candle beside him had melted nearly to its base.
This kid couldn’t have read all night without a wink of sleep, could he?
Xiahou Lian had guessed correctly: Xie Jinglan had indeed stayed up all night. The books he’d previously scavenged had had pages missing, or torn corners, or they’d been filled with Xie Jingtao’s nonsensical scribbles. This was different. Xie Jinglan had never before gotten his hands on a volume of such quality. He’d spent the entire night absorbed in it, savoring what he could comprehend and memorizing what he could not. By morning, he’d managed to get through over half of the text. Thirsty as a parched man encountering a long-awaited rain, he yearned to imbibe the entire book in one gulp.
To avoid disturbing him, Xiahou Lian quietly left the room. He grabbed a tray from the kitchen and wandered through the residence, pretending to be a servant at his chores.
A skilled assassin’s most important task was to become thoroughly familiar with the terrain, nailing down the best routes for both the assassination and their escape.
When he was young, Xiahou Lian had followed his mother down the mountain, chasing her while surveying his surroundings. Although Qiye Garden could have provided maps, his mother traversed every street, ditch, well, and hidden cellar on foot.
It took Xiahou Lian some time to locate the outer wall of the sprawling Xie property. The area was deserted. Seizing his chance, he vaulted over the wall. As soon as he landed, a large hand clamped over his mouth and lifted him clean off the ground. When Xiahou Lian turned to see who’d grabbed him, he recognized Uncle Duan, whom he hadn’t seen in ages. Excitement rushed through Xiahou Lian; his uncle must’ve come to give him his mission.
“Hey, kid. Did they punish you in there? Look at you, you little monkey! Even as a servant, you can’t sit still—always climbing around.” Uncle Duan set him down and handed him a few steamed buns, then lit a pipe for himself. He blew out a few swirling rings of smoke.
“Tell me who I’m supposed to kill, Uncle. Quickly! I promise I’ll do it swiftly and flawlessly!”
“You really think you’re ready to kill someone? You’d be lucky to survive! Stay inside, and don’t cause me any trouble. I have work to do. I’m heading to North Zhili. Your mother went to the Western Regions and won’t be back for another six months. Stay here and be good. If you find yourself in trouble, just seek out the manor’s elderly firewood collector,” Uncle Duan urged, pressing a few silver coins into Xiahou Lian’s hand.
When Xiahou Lian’s mind caught up to his uncle’s words, he was furious. “No way! You promised that if I succeeded this time, you’d give me my plaque, didn’t you?! You’re just leaving me hanging so I won’t get in your way!”
“Your plaque? Do you think we’re running a brothel? And do you really think a plaque would mean success? With your skills, you’d end up dead meat before you even got near the target.” Uncle Duan poked his forehead. “Listen, kid. This is for your own good. You don’t really think this line of work is easy, do you?”
“I’m going to be a mighty assassin like my mother! Somebody who makes everyone tremble with fear!”
Uncle Duan shook his head, gazing at Xiahou Lian for a long moment before sighing deeply. “You’re old enough now. It’s time I share some hard truths with you. Know what your mother is really up to right now?”
“She’s assassinating the Chakravarti of the Western Regions. I know all about it; I’ve seen the files on him. He’s really underhanded, skilled with traps and poisons, and he has godlike talent with the machete. So? Against my mother, he’s a dead man all the same.”
“Then did you know that two assassins from Qiye Garden have already died at his hands? The Western Regions are remote, the sandstorms treacherous. That area isn’t like the Central Plains. Skilled as your mother is with a saber, going there is still a threat to her life.” The typically lighthearted Uncle Duan’s serious expression made Xiahou Lian uneasy. “Assassins live on borrowed time; we often pay for the lives we take with our own. Tell me, have you ever seen an assassin over the age of forty in Qiye Garden? It’s not that we don’t allow older members, it’s that no one survives to that age!”
“B-bullshit! My mother’s different. She earned the position of Garuda by the time she was twenty! The leader of the Jindao Sect and the inheritor of the Blizzard Saber technique in the north—both were terrors of the jianghu, and they still lost their heads to my mother!”
“Fine, fine. Your mother is the best—I won’t argue with you there. Just keep your own limitations in mind. Your blade can handle pheasants and rabbits just fine. Maybe it could even hold its own against tigers and leopards. But assassination? That’s still beyond you. You won’t survive in the field with your current skills, and your mother entrusted me with your safety. If you throw your life away, don’t expect me to burn money at your funeral!”
With that, Uncle Duan donned a straw hat and picked up a rack of goods he’d propped against the wall. In an instant, he’d transformed into a traveling merchant. It was impossible to tell that he was a ruthless assassin of the jianghu.
As Uncle Duan walked away, Xiahou Lian watched his retreating back, his broad shoulders and strapping build. The coarse fabric of his uncle’s shirt did little to conceal his ropey muscles. When Uncle Duan wielded a saber, he transformed into a formidable assassin of Qiye Garden. He’d once pursued a then-Chief Grand Secretary across thousands of miles to an inn. The Embroidered Uniform Guard had surrounded the building, creating an ironclad enclosure. Yet, the next morning, an attendant opened the door to find a headless corpse. No one knew how Uncle Duan had infiltrated the inn and claimed the Chief Grand Secretary’s head.
Every assassin had their own tale, yet they all shared the same fate—an untimely death and a burial in the wilderness.
Uncle Duan walked along the cobblestones, carrying the rack of goods, one calloused big toe poking from a hole in his straw shoes. Watching him, Xiahou Lian was inexplicably struck by a subtle sense of desolation.
Clutching the silver in his pocket, Xiahou Lian kicked a pebble at his feet as he made his way to Longfu Temple Street in the western suburbs. There, he purchased ink, paper, and brushes. He’d never been one to save money—the silver Uncle Duan had just given him slipped through his fingers like water. Soon, he was left with only a handful of copper coins.
On his way back, Xiahou Lian noticed carriages parked in front of the Xie residence, which suggested that the lord had returned. Heading back to Qiuwu Courtyard, Xiahou Lian handed the ink, paper, and brushes to Xie Jinglan.
Xie Jinglan stared at him in surprise, momentarily speechless. Brimming with glee, Xiahou Lian awaited the boy’s tears of gratitude. To his shock, however, Xie Jinglan grabbed his hand and snapped, “Where did you steal these from? You need to break this terrible habit!”
Xiahou Lian was ready to retort, “How do you know I stole them?” But he stopped. A complete set of ink, paper, and brushes was pricey. If he claimed that he’d bought them, he’d also have to explain where the money had come from. Defeated, he replied, “Fine, I stole them. So what?”
“You—” Xie Jinglan was so furious, he didn’t know what else to say.
Xiahou Lian rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, I didn’t get caught. These won’t be traced to you. Just relax and use them.”