Chapter 4
STARTLED, Duan Ling scurried away.
Lang Junxia hastily threw on his outer robe and left the room barefoot, emerging into the corridor just as the door to Duan Ling’s room slid closed with a soft thud.
Lang Junxia followed him inside. Duan Ling had already burrowed back into his blankets and was pretending to sleep; Lang Junxia didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He went to the washbasin and wrung out the wet cloth, then dropped his outer robe to the ground and began to wipe down his once-again nude body. Duan Ling cracked his eyes open just enough to see him across the room. Lang Junxia turned slightly, and, as if to settle his restless emotions, pressed the cold, wet cloth over his erection, attempting to force himself soft.
A silhouette appeared at the window.
“I’m going to sleep; I won’t be coming over,” Lang Junxia said in a low voice.
Footsteps retreated down the corridor, and Duan Ling rolled over toward the wall. Moments later, Lang Junxia put on his underpants and slipped into bed, his chest pressed to Duan Ling’s back. Duan Ling squirmed his way around, and Lang Junxia lifted his arm so he could once more rest his head on his shoulder. Comfortable again, Duan Ling fell quickly back to sleep.
Lang Junxia’s firm muscles, warmth, and pleasant scent transported the dreaming Duan Ling to a southern winter, where he was embraced by a fiery sun.
The same night in Xichuan, it drizzled steadily, and the rain soaked everything.
Candlelight cast the shadows of latticed windows across the outdoor corridor. Two figures walked slowly through the shadows, followed closely by a pair of guards.
“He escaped, even though he was surrounded by twenty thousand soldiers,” said one of the men.
The other replied, “Don’t worry. I’ve set up an impenetrable encirclement, blocking Liang Prefecture and the northeast roads. Unless he grows wings, he won’t be able to cross the Xianbei Mountains.”
“I told you handing him over to those people wasn’t a good idea. He fought beyond the Great Wall for many years; he’s too familiar with the terrain. Once he enters the forest, we’ll never see him again!”
“We’ve made our move. There’s no turning back now. The emperor has grown old; he ignores government affairs. And with the fourth prince so sickly… Even if he were to return, we could still charge him with neglect of duty. Don’t tell me you’ve lost your nerve, General Zhao?”
“You—!”
This General Zhao, as he was called, wore a military uniform; his name was Zhao Kui, and he was a cornerstone of Southern Chen’s government as well as the commander in chief of their military. The man walking with him wore an official’s purple robe. He was a senior minister of the first rank, a man of significant status. The candlelight threw their shadows onto the stone spirit screen outside the corridor; after the brief exchange, they both fell silent. Behind them, the two guards followed with arms folded, unspeaking.
The guard on the left sported a White Tiger tattoo on his neck and wore a bamboo hat pulled low to cover the upper half of his face. The curve of his mouth peeked out as if he was smiling.
The guard on the right was tall, at least six feet, and every part of his body was hidden save for his eyes. He wore gloves and a cloak, and his face was covered by a mask. Above it, his gaze, sharp and sinister, swept over his surroundings—an automatic awareness.
“We must send someone to intercept him immediately,” Zhao Kui said, his voice clipped. “He’s in hiding while we are out in the open. If we delay too long, something could change, and that will mean more trouble for us.”
“We can’t mobilize troops beyond Yubi Pass. All we can do now is wait for him to show himself,” the official replied.
Zhao Kui sighed. “If he takes refuge in Liao and returns with troops behind him, I’m afraid it will complicate things.”
“The emperor of Liao will not lend him troops,” the official said. “We have already settled upon a plan with the Southern Court. He will not survive the journey to Shangjing.”
“You think too little of him.” Zhao Kui turned to face the dark, rain-soaked courtyard, the gray hair at his temples damp as he shifted toward the official and continued, “There’s a mongrel working for Li Jianhong, a man of mixed Xianbei and Han descent. I don’t know who he is or where he came from; I suspect he’s the one you’ve been looking for all this time. That Xianbei mutt’s movements are enigmatic, and nobody knows his name. He was the last pawn Li Jianhong had hidden.”
“If he’s as you describe, I imagine Wu Du and Changliu-jun here would like to meet him. After all, there aren’t many in this world worthy of being their rival,” the official said. He turned to the guards: “Have you ever heard of him?”
The masked guard, Changliu-jun, was first to reply. “I know of him, though I don’t know his name. Some call him the Nameless Assassin. He has a history of misdeeds and a reputation for being difficult to control; I’d be surprised if he obeys Li Jianhong’s orders.”
“What misdeeds?” Zhao Kui asked.
“He betrayed his sect, killed his master and his father, and turned on his fellow disciples. He is ruthlessly cruel, devoid of humanity, and never spares anyone,” Changliu-jun said. “If you’ve heard the phrase ‘the Chilling Edge seals throats in one strike’—that’s him.”
“That doesn’t seem out of the ordinary for an assassin,” the official said.
“A fatal strike to the throat,” Changliu-jun said in a deep voice. “That means he doesn’t listen to anyone’s explanations. An assassin’s duty is to kill, but not without cause; even if he killed the wrong person, the Nameless Assassin wouldn’t so much as blink.”
“But if I remember correctly,” the official said, “Li Jianhong still carries the Guardian of the Realm. As long as he holds this blade, this assassin must obey him.”
“Even if Li Jianhong has the Guardian, he must be able to bear its weight to command others,” Changliu-jun replied.
“Forget it,” Zhao Kui replied. The silence stretched until he said at last, “Wu Du.”
The guard in the bamboo hat murmured in acknowledgment.
“Set out tonight,” Zhao Kui said. “Don’t stop until you locate Li Jianhong. When you find him, wait to act—I will send someone to you. After this mission is complete, bring his sword and his head to me.”
The corner of Wu Du’s mouth lifted slightly. He cupped his hands, bowed, and was gone.
A short time later, a carriage rattled out of the alley beyond the back gate of the general’s estate. The wet stone of the road reflected distant lights.
“Have you seen that man’s blade, Chilling Edge, before?” the official asked from within the carriage.
“All those who have seen Chilling Edge are dead,” Changliu-jun replied from the driver’s seat. He seemed to consider saying more—then he cracked his whip and turned back toward the road.
“From what you’ve seen…” The official reclined on the carriage’s brocade couch and asked, casually, “How does Wu Du compare to this Nameless Assassin?”
“Wu Du has concerns, but the Nameless Assassin has none,” Changliu-jun replied. “Wu Du is too competitive, and he hates losing. The Nameless Assassin has nothing to lose.”
“Nothing to lose?” the official repeated.
“Only those with no one and nothing to lose are worthy of being assassins,” Changliu-jun said calmly. “If you intend to take a life, you must sacrifice your own first. But once love enters the picture, an assassin will begin to cherish his life—he’ll be afraid to die, and then he will be defeated. It’s said the Nameless Assassin has no family, and he doesn’t kill for fame or reward. Perhaps killing is just a hobby for him. Compared to Wu Du, he would be at a slight advantage.”
“And what about between you and Wu Du?” the official asked.
“I hope to exchange blows with him at least once.”
“A pity you will never have the opportunity,” the official said elegantly.
Changliu-jun did not reply.
“And what about between you and Li Jianhong?” the man asked, his tone still casual.
“Whoa!” Changliu-jun called to the horses. When the carriage came to a halt, he lifted the curtain to allow the official to step down. Hanging outside the estate where they’d stopped was a lantern with a surname printed on it: Mu.
They’d arrived at the residence of the prime minister of Southern Chen—Mu Kuangda.
“If I, Wu Du, the Nameless Assassin, and Zheng Yan were to band together,” the masked man replied, returning to the prime minister’s earlier question, “then we might be a match for His Highness the third prince.”
Under the bright morning sun, snowy Shangjing looked like a gilded city—and Qionghua House, a paradise. A servant girl brought breakfast and said, “My lord, Madam is waiting to speak with you after your meal.”
“Tell her not to wait,” Lang Junxia replied. “I have business to attend to this morning; I’ll be on my way after breakfast. Please send her my thanks.”
When the servant had gone, Duan Ling asked, “Are we going out?”
Lang Junxia nodded. “Just don’t speak too much while we’re outside.”
Duan Ling agreed that he wouldn’t. He realized he had probably interrupted Lang Junxia the night before, but as he didn’t know what his guardian had been doing in the other room, he didn’t dare bring it up. Fortunately, Lang Junxia seemed to have forgotten all about it. After breakfast, he and Duan Ling left through the back alley once more.