Chapter Thirty-Three: The First Emperor’s Treasure

Zhou Xun and Fei Wuji’s faces changed at the same time; Fei Wuji even fell from his chair in alarm and stammered, “Impossible, the keys to the treasure haven’t all been assembled yet, how could the treasury—” His gaze swept toward Zhou Qian and Song Ci, and he immediately clamped his mouth shut.

Zhou Xun shook his head and said calmly, “It’s time he learned something. Three years from now, he might prove useful. Song Ci is one of us too; we’ll need his help with this matter.”

Zhou Qian mused, “Did Master go north for this reason as well?”

Zhou Xun nodded. “That’s right. For now, just listen in. Brother Lu, go on.”

Lu Xu began slowly, “There are six keys to the treasury gate. The whereabouts of four are known: one is in His Majesty’s hand, one once belonged to the great hero Linghu Ye, who passed it to you, one is held by the leader of the Red Lotus Sect, and one is in the Prince of Sansi’s Gold Vault. The remaining two are lost. A single key can’t open the treasury, but even with only one, it might be possible to release some monsters from the First Emperor’s tomb.”

He smiled faintly. “Of course, what I say is entirely conjecture, merely a possibility. But Lord Fei, just in case, you’d best have the prince check when you return.”

“Of course, of course,” Fei Wuji replied, wiping sweat from his brow, looking quite wretched. Zhou Qian couldn’t help recalling the strange tales circulating about Fei Wuji: he had served as an official for twenty years, and whatever his administrative achievements or literary talent, he was widely known for his uprightness and incorruptibility. When asked how he could maintain such integrity, Fei Wuji would usually evade the question; pressed, he would reply, “It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s that I dare not. Our dynasty punishes corruption most severely. Money is but worldly possession; my life is most precious!” Among the eccentric officials of the capital, none could match him. It was thanks to this very temperament that he could serve as magistrate in Luodu, where the powerful abound.

“There are too many variables in this matter to speculate. But as for this severed arm, I’ll have to trouble Brother Lu and Brother Song,” Zhou Xun said.

“I’ll hurry back to my ancestral home tonight,” Lu Xu replied. “There are some ancient texts there that might hold a clue.”

“As for dissection, that’s routine for me. Leave it to me. If I’m correct, that Miss Xiaoyue also fell victim to this fiend, who was in turn deprived of an arm by your master. He won’t elude capture for long. You can rest easy, Brother Zhou!” Song Ci reassured Zhou Qian.

Zhou Qian was silent. He hadn’t expected this murder case to be entangled with the great designs his master had plotted for years—he spent the night sleepless.

The next day, upon returning to the Quiet Fragrance Pavilion, Zhou Qian found Zhang Fu standing at the door with a sullen face. “Well, well, you Zhou brat, vanished all day yesterday and still have the nerve to stroll back in today. Get out! Get out! My Quiet Fragrance Pavilion can’t afford to keep a Buddha like you!”

Not satisfied after venting, and emboldened by his greater age, Zhang Fu rolled up his sleeves to shove him. Several cronies gathered round. Zhou Qian’s brow arched slightly, a trace of coldness in his eyes. In that instant, Zhang Fu and his cronies felt a chill in their hearts, as if they were not confronting a youth, but a tiger cub opening its eyes.

Zhang Fu involuntarily took a step back before regaining his senses. Why should he fear an uninitiated youth? He gathered his courage, ready to act—

“What are you doing!” A familiar, booming voice bellowed. The old black cook strode out of the kitchen, ladle in hand. “You lot, always learning the ways of street ruffians instead of working! Come on, let’s see if you’re so tough against me—”

The group scattered like birds. As he left, Zhang Fu shot Zhou Qian a venomous glare, clearly not ready to let the matter drop. Zhou Qian shrugged indifferently. Before learning martial arts, he and his elder brothers had often fought street urchins and beggars over territory and food; these childish games didn’t merit his attention.

“Come with me,” the old cook said, glancing at Zhou Qian and heading to the back courtyard.

“Don’t mind Zhang Fu,” the old man said as they walked. “I know his type—praised to the skies these years, with a good teacher too, but just a spoiled rich kid at heart. He wouldn’t dare do anything truly rotten…”

“Who knows who’d teach whom a lesson,” Zhou Qian muttered under his breath. The old man, taking it for youthful bravado, paid it no mind.

Following the old cook, Zhou Qian noticed his gait was unusual. Most people’s feet point slightly outward as they walk, and their steps are casual. But the old man’s toes pointed inward, his knees always slightly bent—a stance reminiscent of a crouching tiger or a hunting leopard, ready to pounce at any moment. Yet his muscles were relaxed and his steps a bit disordered, showing he’d never practiced martial arts. Noting his hooked nose and yellowish eyes, he didn’t look like a native. Zhou Qian recalled tales that when the steppe tribes entered the Central Plains, every noble son and warrior learned their ancestral wrestling art, known in their tongue as Ulubu. Could this old cook be descended from those tribes? But hadn’t the entire tribe been driven back to the Great Mountains by the famed General Li? Or could he be a spy left behind? A flicker of caution flashed in Zhou Qian’s eyes as he subtly watched his surroundings.

“Your accent doesn’t sound local,” the old cook remarked casually.

“I was separated from my family as a child, wandered the northern borders, and later, by chance, was recognized by a fur-trading relative and brought back to the capital,” Zhou Qian replied, half-truthfully.

“The northern border, eh?” The old man paused. “That’s quite far indeed.”

Zhou Qian grew more suspicious and followed him into a woodshed, body tensed and ready for anything.

“Take these two pots of narcissus to Master Yi’s room,” the old cook said, adding, “Tell him I sent you.”

Zhou Qian was taken aback. What did this mean? Could Master Yi also be of steppe descent...? Impossible! He immediately dismissed the absurd idea—not only because of Yi’s peerless culinary skill, but also his great wisdom and broad-mindedness. Moreover, his wife, surnamed Hu, had been killed by steppe soldiers precisely because Yi refused to cook for the steppe king’s fiftieth birthday. There was no way he’d be involved with those tribes. But then, what was with this old cook?

With these doubts, Zhou Qian carried the rare narcissus flowers to the Quiet Fragrance Pavilion’s only small courtyard and knocked. Somewhat anxious, he called, “Is Master Yi in? Master Hei sent me with these flowers.”

The door opened—it was Zhang Fu, who greeted him with a snort and turned away, leaving only the back of his head. If not for the flowers in his hands, Zhou Qian would have scratched his nose in bemusement. Why did this fellow dislike him so? A mystery indeed!

“Come in!” came a gentle, peaceful voice. In the courtyard, an old man in coarse hemp clothes was bending to water the flowers and pull weeds.

“Master Yi, greetings. I brought you some flowers,” Zhou Qian said nervously.

“Ah, greetings, young friend Zhou.” Yi smiled kindly. “Old Hei is thoughtful; he brings me rare breeds every year. These are Putuo narcissus, aren’t they? Just set them down.”

Only then did Zhou Qian notice that the already small courtyard was crowded with flowerpots. While “a hundred flowers in bloom” might not be quite accurate, there were certainly hundreds of varieties, all pure white. Looking around, the little courtyard seemed blanketed with snow, a world of white mist.

“I’m not much of a botanist, really,” Yi chuckled, white eyebrows and beard framing his genial face. “I just have a fondness for white flowers—that’s all. You must find it curious, young friend?”

Setting down the watering can, Yi continued, “Come in and have a seat.”

Zhou Qian complied. In the middle of the courtyard stood a bamboo hut, ramshackle and ready to collapse at any moment. Zhou Qian worried that one day a strong wind would blow and the culinary master would be crushed.

“Haha, I built this little garden house myself. What do you think?” Yi asked, sounding proud.

For a moment, Zhou Qian was speechless; he couldn’t very well dampen the old man’s spirits. Besides, men of great talent always had their oddities, and this was hardly outrageous. He comforted himself with the thought that even the famed General Li Guang was said to have a fondness for killing.

“Your performance the other day greatly impressed Old Hei,” Yi said as he brewed tea. “That pumpkin dish was quite innovative! Judging by your clothes, you must come from a good family—so why are you working as a runner in the pavilion?”

“I was a beggar as a child, often hungry. I swore then that when I grew up, I’d be a chef—a great chef—so I’d never go hungry again!” Zhou Qian replied, a little embarrassed.

“Oh? But now, even if you’re not a chef, you won’t go hungry, will you? A cook’s status is low, does it not weigh against your ambition as a man?” Yi asked, intrigued.

“Heh, my master probably won’t let me be a chef. But I can’t lose my passion for cooking,” Zhou Qian admitted honestly.

“Haha! No wonder Old Hei took a liking to you. ‘One who is eager to learn is not as good as one who loves learning; one who loves learning is not as good as one who delights in learning.’ Old Hei was just the same in his youth! Report to the kitchen tomorrow.”

Zhou Qian’s eyes lit up. He was about to say something, but Yi shook his head as if reading his mind. “It won’t be me teaching you, but Old Hei.”

“Oh.” Zhou Qian sounded disappointed. “But I still have evening and morning lessons, and there are chores at home. If I were just a servant, I’d have time, but…”

Yi shook his head. “You misunderstand. I’m not asking you to be a cook in the pavilion. I wouldn’t want your parents to blame me. Just come when you can and learn a trick or two from Old Hei, enough to inherit his craft.”

“How does Master Hei’s skill compare to yours?” Zhou Qian asked, a little disappointed.

“Haha! Didn’t expect you to be such a snob. To tell the truth, there are countless chefs in the world who surpass me, though most are just less flamboyant. Old Hei, though his fame is dimmed by certain reasons and because he lost a bet and was forced to be my disciple, is in fact far superior to me.”

Though Zhou Qian didn’t quite believe Yi’s self-deprecation, the fact that he would say so meant Master Hei must have great skill. Zhou Qian nodded happily in agreement.

One pot of tea later, though Zhou Qian and Yi had a delightful conversation and Yi’s guidance had solved his culinary puzzles, the sky was darkening and it was time to leave. At the door, Zhou Qian turned and asked, “Why does Master Hei want to teach me to cook?”

Yi laughed heartily. “That’s related to another bet between us. As for why Zhang Fu always troubles you, it’s all because of this. Ask Old Hei if you want to know, not me.”