The twenty-second year of the Yongle era, ninth month, Beijing.
I discovered that mark purely by accident.
Really. I was squatting outside that small room of the Embroidered Uniform Guard, my legs numb again. I switched legs, but it was still numb. The door was closed, I couldn't hear the sounds inside, only moonlight shining down from above, drawing the white line on the ground clearly. I stared at that line for a while, thinking about when he would come out, thinking about whether the gauze on his hand had loosened, thinking about whether he would come out with new wounds again and say "no pain". Then I looked down at my shoes. The tips were still wet, stained with the alley's puddles. There was a mark on the shoe upper, not mine. It was something I stepped on and rubbed onto it. I leaned in to look, it was a small piece of wax, red, flattened, stuck to the shoe upper, like a seal. I stared at that piece of wax for a long time. My heartbeat suddenly sped up. Not that kind of "discovered something" fast, but that kind of—you don't want to discover, but you already have, that kind of fast. In the Qianqing Palace side hall, when Zhu Gaochi was approving memorials, there was a lamp on the table, under the lamp was a piece of wax, red, melted and dripped onto the table, condensed into a small piece. Zhu Gaochi said he used it, for sealing documents after approving memorials, others couldn't use it. Others couldn't use it. This piece of wax wasn't something I stepped on by accident, it was stepped on today. Today I only went to one place—outside this door. I only stepped on one path—from behind him to under the door. I only followed one person—him. This piece of wax wasn't mine, wasn't his, it was left by that person who ran out of the door. The one who ran in the alley. He had a scar on his hand. His shoe sole had wax. Red, the kind Zhu Gaochi used. Others couldn't use it. I squatted at the door, staring at that piece of wax, my mind blank. Moonlight shone on it, red, like a drop of blood. I suddenly felt a bit afraid. Not afraid of those people hiding in the dark, but afraid that I knew too much. Knew the color of the wax, knew the origin of the wax, knew it shouldn't appear here. Knew this matter was bigger than I imagined. So big that I stood at the door, legs numb, hands cold, didn't know whether to tell him. He was already tired enough. Hand wrapped in gauze, shoulders carrying those things I couldn't see. I didn't want to add a piece of wax to him. But when he walked out of the door, I still said it.
The door opened. He walked out, pace neither fast nor slow, same as every day. Moonlight shone on him, dark grey clothes, cuffs gathered tightly, hand wrapped in gauze, white. He looked down and saw me squatting on the ground, frowned. "Legs numb again?" I shook my head. When I stood up, legs were indeed numb, swayed, he reached out and held my arm. His hand was very steady, could feel it even through the clothes.
"No," I said. "I saw something."
I pointed to that piece of wax on my shoe upper. He looked down, squatted down. Moonlight shone on his face, his expression didn't change. But his fingers paused on the shoe upper. Just once. Then he stood up. In that instant, I saw something flash in his eyes. Not surprise, not anger, but—he already knew, but didn't expect me to discover it.
"Let's go," he said. His voice very even, same as saying "drink tea". But I heard it. That "let's go" had something in it. It was him putting that piece of wax into his heart, putting it together with those lists, marks, names he carried. He didn't wipe it off, didn't throw it away. He kept it. Keeping it would be useful. I stood up, legs really numb, swayed. He held my arm, didn't let go. I didn't pull away either.
"You knew long ago?" I asked. He didn't answer. Holding me, walking slowly. Alley very narrow, walls very high, stone slabs very slippery. Same as when coming. But different. That piece of wax was still on my shoe upper, red, like a drop of blood under the moonlight. His fingers through the clothes clasped on my arm, not too loose, not too tight.
"Is it Second Prince?" I asked. He didn't answer. Walked a few steps, then said: "Yes, and no."
I was stunned. What does "yes, and no" mean? Yes is yes, no is no. He looked at me. In that glance was something, not explanation, but—he was letting me think for myself.
"What did you see?" he asked.
"Wax. Red. The kind the Emperor uses." I paused. "That person's shoe sole has it."
He nodded. "And?"
I thought about it. "That person has a scar on his hand. It's a burn. He's retired from the border army. Now a guard at a certain residence." I paused. "Which residence?"
He didn't answer. The alley turned a corner, moonlight blocked by the wall, darkened for a moment. His fingers on my arm tightened. Just once, then loosened.
"Second Uncle's residence," he said.
I froze. That person was from Second Prince's residence. Shoe sole had Zhu Gaochi's wax. Second Prince's person, took the Emperor's wax. What did this mean? It meant someone brought the wax out from the palace, gave it to that person. It meant that person wasn't an ordinary guard, but someone arranged beside him. It meant Second Prince wasn't acting alone. Someone was helping him. In the palace. My hands started to get cold. Not afraid, but that kind of—you stand at a very high place looking down, know it's very deep below, but you're already at the edge.
"That person—" I started.
"Dead," he interrupted me.
I looked up at him. Moonlight shone on his face, his expression very calm. But there was something in his eyes, very deep, very heavy. He had pressed it for a long time. I suddenly understood. When he came out, his pace didn't change, his breathing didn't change, his speaking tone didn't change. But his hand was cold. Colder than the alley wind. Not tired from interrogation, but that person was dead. Died in front of him. He didn't save him. Or, couldn't save him. He didn't say. Just held my arm, walked forward.
"Did you kill him?" I asked.
He looked at me, gaze shifted slightly. "No." He paused. "Someone was faster than me."
I stopped. He stopped too. Alley very quiet, only wind, only my breathing. Someone was faster than him. In that windowless room, light shining from above, he stood before that person asking questions. Someone beside was listening, watching, waiting. Waited for that person to almost speak, then acted. Under his eyes. He said nothing. He walked out, held my arm, walked forward. Same as every day. But he knew. He knew that person was dead, knew someone was faster than him, knew that net was bigger than he thought. He said nothing. Just held my arm, walked forward. His hand was cold.
"You knew long ago," I said. Not a question, but a statement.
He didn't answer. Held my arm, continued walking. Alley almost at end, ahead was street, with light, voices,烟火气. When he walked in, steps still that steady. His hand holding my arm, didn't let go.
"Do you know who did it?" I asked.
He didn't answer. Walked a distance, then said: "Mm."
"Who?"
He didn't answer. Walked under a lamp, stopped. Lamp very bright, shone on his face, his eyes very bright. Not that brightness reflected by light, but that kind of—brightness with something inside. That thing very deep, very heavy. He looked at me for a long time.
"Embroidered Uniform Guard," he said.
I froze. Embroidered Uniform Guard. He stayed in Embroidered Uniform Guard for so many days, put on that black robe, went to those places I didn't know, did those things I didn't know. He knew those people, those people knew him. He thought they were his people. Now he knew, not. Among them, some were helping the other side. The person who took wax in the palace, was his person. The person who acted in that room, was also his person. His everything, they all knew. But he didn't know who they were. He stood under the lamp, hand holding my arm. His fingers very cold.
"Is that—" I started.
"Don't ask," he interrupted me. His voice very light, but very firm. "Knowing isn't good for you."
I closed my mouth. He was right. Knowing wasn't good for me. Knew who it was, I would know who he was guarding against. Knew who he was guarding against, I would know who he was afraid of. Knew who he was afraid of, I would know how big that net was. Knew how big that net was, I would never be able to go back. He didn't want me to go back. So he held my arm, said "don't ask". I nodded. He looked at me, suddenly smiled. Very light, very short. But his eyes curved, same as when he reached out to poke Huang Tuan's head in the Eastern Palace side room. There was fatigue, helplessness, "I know you're worried". Also—he could still hold on.
"Let's go," he said.
I followed him, walked beside him. His hand slid down from my arm, held my hand. His fingers passed through my fingers, clasped, palm against palm. His hand very cold, gauze rubbed against my hand, rough, astringent. Street very lively, wonton seller's hawking cry, kids' laughter, lamps lit one by one. He walked beside me, very quiet. His hand wrapped in gauze, white. My hand holding his hand, also white.
"Zhu Zhanji."
"Mm."
"That person is dead. Clue is broken. What will you do?"
He didn't answer. Walked a few steps, then said: "Not broken."
"How not broken?"
"Wax is still here." He looked down at my shoe. "You still have it on your shoe."
I was stunned. Looked down, that piece of wax was still on shoe upper, red, very conspicuous under the lamp. He didn't wipe it off, didn't throw it away. He kept it. Keeping it would be useful. That person was dead, but wax was still there. Wax flowed out from the palace. Someone gave it to that person. Someone had to be responsible for it. He knew. He waited. Waited for that person to come to him himself.
"Will he come?" I asked.
He looked at me, moonlight shone on his face, his mouth corner moved. Not a smile, but that kind of—he knew the answer, but didn't want to say it, that movement.
"He will."
I didn't ask again. Walked beside him, stepping on my own shadow. Hand still holding. His fingers passed through my fingers, clasped, palm against palm. Gauze rubbed against my hand, rough, astringent. But I got used to it.
"Zhu Zhanji."
"Mm."
"You just said, it's Second Prince—and not Second Prince. What does it mean?"
He didn't answer. Walked a distance, suddenly stopped. He turned around, looked at me. Moonlight shone on his face, his eyes very bright.
"Second Uncle participated," he said. "But not only him."
I froze. Not only him. There were others. In the palace, in the Embroidered Uniform Guard, in those places I couldn't see. They wove that net together. He stood in the middle of the net, couldn't move, couldn't shout, couldn't run. He could only wait. Wait for them to walk to him themselves. Wait for him to see the net clearly. Wait for him to take those threads apart one by one. He knew who it was. But he couldn't move. Moved now, net would close. He would be trapped. So he waited. Waited for that right moment. He held my hand, palm against palm.
"You know who it is," I said. Not a question, but a statement.
He didn't answer. Looked at me for a long time.
"Mm."
"Then why don't you move?"
He looked at me, moonlight shone on his face, his expression very calm. But there was something in his eyes, very deep, very heavy. He had pressed it for a long time.
"Moving now will cause chaos," he paused. "Not the time."
I looked at him. He stood under the lamp, hand holding my hand. His hand wrapped in gauze, white. His shoulders very straight, same as standing on the high ground in the north. But I knew, the things on his back, heavier than in the north. In the north it was cavalry, was knives, was visible enemies. Now it was invisible. People standing beside him, calling him Your Highness, doing things for him. He couldn't move them. At least not now. He could only wait. Waited for that right moment. He held my hand, didn't let go.
"Then when will you move?" I asked.
He looked at me, moonlight shone on his face, his mouth corner moved. "Soon."
I didn't ask again. Walked beside him, stepping on my own shadow. Hand still holding. His fingers very cold, but very steady. People on street less and less, lamps lit one by one, then went out. Wonton seller packed up, kids went home. Only us two, walking on the empty street. His hand holding my hand. Didn't let go. Won't let go in the future.
"Zhu Zhanji."
"Mm."
"That person—the one who acted. How will you handle him?"
He didn't answer. Walked a distance, then said: "Those who need handling, will be handled."
"How handle?"
He looked at me, moonlight shone on his face. His eyes very bright, but very cold. Not that kind of angry cold, but that kind of—he already thought it through, doesn't need to think again, that kind of cold. Like in the north, when he stood on the high ground watching cavalry. Like in the Eastern Palace, when he sat before the table interrogating Official Zhao. Like in the alley, when he faced three people alone. He knew what to do.
"Keep those who should be kept, clear those who should be cleared."
I looked at him. When he said "keep those who should be kept", his voice very even. When he said "clear those who should be cleared", his voice also very even. But I knew, different. Those who should be kept, are those who can be used. Those who aren't the mastermind, just used. He kept them, not for mercy. For use. Those who should be cleared, are those who acted. Those who can't be kept. He wouldn't be soft. He was Zhu Zhanji. The one who stood on the high ground waiting in the north, the one who faced three people alone in the alley, the one who sat before the table, made Official Zhao collapse by himself. He knew when to wait, when to move. He knew when to keep, when to clear. He knew everything. He held my hand, walking on the empty street. Moonlight shone on us, casting shadows on the ground, very close.
"Zhu Zhanji."
"Mm."
"Are you tired?"
He didn't answer. Walked a distance, then said: "Still okay."
I tightened my grip on his hand. He didn't let go, tightened his grip on mine too. His fingers very cold, but very steady. I held, didn't feel cold anymore. He held, probably the same.
(End of Chapter 34)