“Third!” Cí shouted, getting to his feet. “Leave those ducks, and let’s go!” Turning back to the Rice Man he said, “Fair enough. I suppose it’s to be expected that the sergeant gets his way, and the landowner is powerless to stop him.”
“How dare you!”
Cí didn’t answer. He began making his way down the steps from the pavilion.
“Two hundred thousand qián!” the Rice Man shouted. “I’ll give you two hundred thousand qián for the land.”
“What about four hundred thousand?” asked Cí calmly, stopping and looking back at the Rice Man.
“Are you serious?” the old man sneered. “That land isn’t worth half what I’ve offered; anyone would know that.”
You might know it, but your green-eyed monster doesn’t.
“Bao-Pao has offered three hundred and fifty thousand,” Cí lied again—it was all or nothing now. “The price of getting one up on him will be another fifty thousand on top.”
“No child tells me how much I should pay for a piece of land!” roared the old man.
“As you wish, sir. I’m sure it will make you happy looking out over Bao-Pao’s lands in the future.”
“Three hundred thousand. And if you try and go a grain of rice above that, you’ll be sorry.”
Cí began down the steps again but stopped—300,000 qián was at least one and a half times the worth of Lu’s lands. Turning, he found the Rice Man on the step immediately above him. They both knew it was a good deal.
“One last thing,” said the Rice Man when they had the lease papers in front of them. “You can be sure that I’ll measure the property, down to the very last mu. And I swear, if there is even the tiniest bit missing, you’ll regret it.”
By midmorning Cí was at the market with the objects he’d saved from the house, but getting anything like the 500 qián he needed was going to be difficult. He reached the 500 qián by throwing in the iron pots and the knives, which he had hoped to keep. Hardly anyone in the village could read, so the books were desirable only for burning. In exchange for them, he got the use of an abandoned barn—a place for Third to rest. He kept only the food and his father’s copy of the penal code. After the market, he left Third at the barn and charged her with guarding the ham.
“Watch out for cats! And if anyone comes, scream really loudly.”
Third stood beside the ham and made a face like a ferocious animal. Laughing, Cí promised he’d be back soon. He closed the barn door and set off in the direction of Bao-Pao’s residence.
When he arrived at the annex where the corpses were being kept, he began thinking about the funeral arrangements for his parents. His father’s coffin had been made a long time before, as stipulated by the Book of Rites, the Liji. When people reached their sixties, the coffin and all the objects necessary for a funeral were supposed to be serviced once a year; when they were in their seventies, once every season; in their eighties, once a month; and when they were in their nineties, every day. His father had been sixty-two, but his mother had not reached fifty yet, so Cí would need to have a coffin made for her. He found the carpenter busy speaking with other victims’ families; it was going to cost Cí a lot to get a coffin quickly.
He went over to his parents’ bodies and bowed. They hadn’t been washed, so he scrubbed them down using a bundle of wet straw. He hoped his parents would forgive the fact that he didn’t have candles or incense. He prayed again for their spirits, promising them he’d look after Third. It hit him then that his life would never be the same, and he realized how very alone he was. But he was wasting time—time the Being of Wisdom had given him to negotiate his brother’s release—and after bowing once more to his parents’ corpses, he left the annex and headed out into the overcast day.
A servant led Cí to the magistrate’s private apartments. The magistrate was in the bath, being washed by one of his aides. Cí had never seen such an enormously fat man. When he entered, the magistrate sent his aide away.
“Very punctual—just the kind of person I like to do business with.” He reached out for a tray of rice pastries and offered them to Cí, who declined.
“I’ve come to talk about my brother. Your honor guaranteed me that you would commute the death sentence if I paid the fine—”
“I said I would try. Have you brought the money?”
“But, your honor, you promised—”
“Hold on! Have you got the money or not?” The magistrate got out of the bath, totally naked. Though somewhat embarrassed, Cí refused to be intimidated.
“Three hundred thousand. It’s all I have.” He laid out the notes on top of the rice pastries.
The magistrate counted the money enthusiastically. “We did say four hundred thousand…” He raised an eyebrow but held on to the money.
“But you’ll set him free?”
“Set him free? Don’t make me laugh. We only discussed transferring him to the Sichuan mines.”
Cí grimaced. It wasn’t the first time someone had tried to cheat him, but there was a lot more at stake this time. He managed to appear unruffled.
“Maybe I misheard, but I understood that the money corresponded to the compensation established by the Ransom Scale.”
“The Ransom Scale?” The magistrate feigned surprise. “Please. The scale you refer to has entirely different quantities. Commutation requires twelve thousand ounces of silver, not the pittance you’ve brought.”
Cí was quickly realizing there would be little point in appealing to the magistrate’s good will. Luckily, he’d come prepared. He took some notes from his bag and read them aloud to the magistrate.
“Twelve thousand ounces if the offender is an official in the higher levels of government, up to the fourth echelon; five thousand and four thousand for anyone up to the fourth, fifth, and sixth echelons.” He found himself gaining in confidence as he read. “Two thousand five hundred for anyone in the seventh echelon, as well as inferiors and those with degrees in literature; two thousand for any person with a degree.” He tossed the notes down triumphantly on the rice pastries. “And one thousand two hundred ounces of silver for a normal individual, as in the case of my brother!”
“So!” exclaimed the magistrate. “A legal expert, all of a sudden.”
“Looks like it.” Even Cí was a little surprised at his own forthrightness.
“Your knowledge of numbers, however, is somewhat less impressive, seeing as twelve hundred ounces of silver is worth only eight hundred and fifty thousand qián.”
But Cí kept on. “I knew that. Which is why I also knew you were never going to reduce the sentence. You just came up with a fee you thought I might be able to raise. Tell me, what will your superiors in Jianningfu think about this?”
“Quite the learned little man…” And the magistrate’s tone hardened. “Let’s see, then, since you know so much: Is there any chance that you might also have been involved in your brother’s crime?”
Cí remembered what the magistrate had said about the murder having something to do with ritual magic.
Vermin. This man is pure vermin.
He changed his approach. “My humblest apologies, venerable magistrate—my nerves must have gotten the better of me. It was a bad night. I barely know what I’m saying.” He bowed. “But please allow me to point out that the amount I’ve brought is more than the penal code asks.”
The magistrate covered himself up and began drying the rolls of his belly with a black towel.