Chapter Fifty-Eight: A Cave Full of Ghosts

Chapter Fifty-Eight: A Den of Ghosts

Every morning, the sun rises in the east, the bells and drums of the Bell and Drum Tower ring as expected, and the gates of the Imperial City swing open precisely when sunlight touches the tip of the Kaifeng Tower. Officials, whether brimming with passion, weighed down by worries, or plotting schemes, march into their own battlefield.

Thus, a new day begins for the people of Song.

Many gather at Little Flower’s wonton stall, for she cannot count properly and always gives diners an extra wonton or two. Now that she excels at cooking them, those who quietly enjoy this little advantage leave content, dropping their coins and departing with smiles.

After suffering a blow from the Fox, Aunt Gu’s noodle stall has yet to recover. No matter how hard she tries to attract customers, only a sparse handful ever linger. Local folk, for the most part, avoid eating there.

The vengeful Fox, intending to revisit Aunt Gu’s stall to clear his stomach, was caught by Tie Xinyuan and redirected into a side alley.

Mother was right; everyone needs to eat, and there’s no need to smash someone’s livelihood out of momentary anger. The harshest punishment in this world is to take away a person’s means of survival.

Turning the corner, Tie Xinyuan arrived at Yu Qilang’s tea house.

Yu Qilang’s establishment doesn’t actually sell tea; it is a legitimate shop, meaning Yu Qilang possesses the right to brew and sell wine independently. Such shops are rare in Tokyo, and every one is renowned—though there are exceptions, for the illustrious Fan Tower is, curiously, only a tenant.

Yang Huaiyu was already seated inside, ignoring the attentive staff and watching with interest the group of songstresses crowded under the corridor.

Some embraced the pipa, others the huqin, and still others brandished flutes or long bamboo pipes. Noticing Yang Huaiyu’s gaze, they fluttered their eyes seductively; even the more reserved ones feigned shyness.

These women were different from those in the pleasure houses; their art was not for sale, only their craft. Their families had invested heavily in tutors to train them from childhood, hoping they would earn wealth for the household once grown.

The young lady aided by Lu Zhixia was one such person—poor Zhen Guanxi knew nothing, and was fatally beaten by a reckless brute.

“How about I play the villain, snatch one of the songstresses, and you step in to right the wrong? Perhaps you’ll win the beauty’s heart in the end,” Tie Xinyuan suggested.

Yang Huaiyu looked disdainfully at Tie Xinyuan’s slight frame and pointed at the women below the corridor. “Which one could you even carry?”

“Can’t I have two henchmen?”

Yang Huaiyu sighed, lacking enthusiasm. “Let’s forget it. Listening to music is pleasant enough; bringing one home isn’t wise. One careless move and you might kill her. More women than men have died in our family’s rear courtyard—not many lived out their years.”

Tie Xinyuan’s interest was piqued, and he leaned closer. “So you’ve snatched women before? Are these songstresses free for the taking?”

Yang Huaiyu’s cheek twitched. “Listen well: I can snatch them, you cannot. You wouldn’t get past Bao Zheng.”

“You snatch them and Bao Zheng turns a blind eye? Truly officials protect each other.”

“Nonsense. Look at those women—every one stretches her neck, waiting for me to snatch her. If I rush in, they’ll latch onto me and wail for outsiders to see. I wouldn’t be able to shake them off.”

Tie Xinyuan nodded; women loving wealthy, handsome young men is universal, nothing hard to understand.

He grabbed a handful of fragrant, crispy beans from Yang Huaiyu’s plate and pointed at the tea shop. “Why are there no teas here? And you’re drinking wine—what’s this, selling dog meat under a sheep’s sign?”

“You know nothing. Who told you a tea house must sell tea?”

“Let’s talk business. The person you’re looking for is in the tea house ahead—the one called the Den of Ghosts. Tokyo’s city foxes and alley rats gather there in the afternoon. If you want information, that’s where to inquire.”

Tie Xinyuan stared at Yang Huaiyu in surprise. “You overestimate me. Don’t you think a child barging into the Den of Ghosts is excessive? I’d be snatched up and sold to traffickers before I could finish a sentence.”

“Who would bother trafficking you? Even pigs wouldn’t fetch the price!”

Tie Xinyuan ignored Yang Huaiyu’s vulgarity and took his hand, leaving the wine- and beauty-filled tea house.

A mother’s worry is the greatest matter under heaven. If things aren’t clarified, she might be driven mad by invisible pressure and suspicions. If she loses patience and confesses everything at the prince’s residence, the family elders might grow even more suspicious.

Living in Tokyo, Tie Xinyuan felt no inconvenience, save the lack of modern amenities; every kind of person could be found here.

For instance, buying information at the Den of Ghosts.

Escort agencies and swift couriers are veterans in this business. In the old days, the founding emperor himself worked as a courier—a thousand-mile delivery for Lady Jing’s legend may or may not be true, but storytellers in the tile markets spin it with vivid detail, immortalizing the emperor’s grand image in people’s hearts.

In Song, even women could be sent by post—a far cry from later generations’ express services.

“The contact I arranged for you is Old Dog. He comes from a family of constables, but after being dismissed due to a lame leg, he retired. Unwilling to fade away, he wants to earn more before he’s completely incapacitated. Your matter is best left to him,” Yang Huaiyu explained as they walked.

“I have no money…”

“Beast!”

Yang Huaiyu cursed, then strode ahead, entering the Den of Ghosts.

It wasn’t the smoky den Tie Xinyuan had imagined; the atmosphere was eerily quiet. Attendants stood stiffly by the counter, saying nothing. Two large bowls of greenish, mysteriously aromatic tea were placed before Yang Huaiyu and Tie Xinyuan.

The proprietor was considerate: not only was there a fire in the room, but the vast tea house was divided into private chambers. Through bamboo curtains, shadowy figures could be glimpsed moving outside. Soon, Tie Xinyuan saw seven or eight men with covered faces; one was especially striking, wrapped entirely in a red cloak, his form indistinguishable.

A swarthy man lifted a curtain and entered. Seeing Tie Xinyuan scrutinizing him, he rasped, “Don’t look, don’t look. One matter, one end, no further entanglement.”

Yang Huaiyu pointed at Tie Xinyuan and left the booth. Clearly, he was familiar with the place, leaning on the counter and chatting amiably with the staff, whose faces resembled corpses.

Old Dog, seeing his client was a child, showed no surprise—he must have dealt with stranger employers.

Tie Xinyuan gave Old Dog the name and address of the intermediary. Old Dog glanced at it, tossed the slip into the fire, and said, “I know Chen Zhong. He’s an intermediary in the West Water Gate area, handling miscellaneous commissions, meeting all sorts of people. Since you want me to investigate him, I suppose something happened to a client he introduced while acting as guarantor. What do you want me to find out?”

Tie Xinyuan smiled. “Simple: I want a list of everyone he’s met in the past three days.”

“That’s not simple! People aren’t objects—they move around. Especially an intermediary, who meets countless people daily. Are you sure you want everyone?”

“All of them. You needn’t select; I’ll judge for myself.”

Old Dog gave a sinister smile. “Seems you already suspect someone—just want confirmation whether they did something, right?”

Tie Xinyuan grimaced after sipping the awful tea. “What’s the rate for murder?”

Old Dog chuckled, showing yellow teeth, and tapped the table. “I don’t kill, but if you need someone, I can refer you.”

Tie Xinyuan smacked his lips. “Clear up the matter first; murder can wait.”

“Two strings of coins! One more after the job.”

Tie Xinyuan tossed Yang Huaiyu’s purse. “Take what you need.”

Old Dog took two silver ingots from the purse, weighed them, and pocketed them. Leaving, he said to Tie Xinyuan, “Meet here at noon tomorrow.”

Tie Xinyuan nodded. Old Dog rose, left the booth, and through the bamboo curtain Tie Xinyuan saw him hand an ingot to the attendant before limping into the bustling crowd.

“I just feel he’s not very reliable,” Tie Xinyuan complained when Yang Huaiyu returned.

“There’s no one completely trustworthy. But for business, Old Dog’s reputation is solid—he’s never slipped up. If he tried to abscond with your payment, someone would kill him. Many in Tokyo make a living this way. If one person fails, the whole industry suffers; he’d become a hunted outcast. Unless he dies, he’ll handle your affair honestly.”

Tie Xinyuan smiled silently. These are underground rules—often stricter than the law. Some dare challenge the law, but not these rules.

“If you have any trouble, tell me. I’ll help however I can,” Yang Huaiyu suddenly said.

Tie Xinyuan looked at him. “I never swallow my grievances. If I lose my teeth, I’ll tell you straight—help me knock out theirs too.”

“Good!”

Yang Huaiyu strode off, hands behind his back, moving so fast that Tie Xinyuan had to run to catch up.