Chapter 55: Turbulence on the Grand Canal

In the cellar beneath the official granary in Yizhou, Liu Xun’s sword point lifted the last sack of moldy rice. The damp burlap split, revealing bundles of crossbow parts beneath it. Fresh tung oil still clung to the finely wrought iron mechanisms.

“Were all these made with the disaster relief funds?” His voice echoed through the cavernous cellar, edged with disbelief.

Torchlight flickered across the face of the granary clerk, making the scar that ran from his brow to his jaw look especially savage. He knelt on the ground, forehead pressed against the cold blue bricks.

“Your Highness, please understand. These were all made on the orders of Vice Minister Yang—”

Before he could finish, a sudden hiss tore through the silence. Liu Xun whirled around. Sun Ru’s gilded dagger had struck the wall, its tip pinning half an arrow, the fletching stained a strange, ghostly blue.

“Looks like someone doesn’t want Your Highness learning too much.” Sun Ru sprang lightly down into the cellar. Her deerskin boots crunched across the crossbow parts. Bending, she picked up a copper coin that had slipped from the clerk’s sleeve. The character for “Yang” engraved around its edge gleamed coldly in the torchlight.

“This is a merit coin specially minted by the Imperial Works Bureau. Your Highness, do you know what sort of achievement one must earn to deserve it?”

Liu Xun lifted the coin with his sword tip and suddenly noticed a tiny roll of paper hidden in its central hole. Unfurled, it proved to be a map of the grain-transport routes, marking a secret waterway from Yizhou to Henei. The vermilion markings seemed to bleed.

“What does Yuan Benchu want these weapons for?” His voice throbbed with restrained anger. “Could it be he truly intends to…”

“Does Your Highness think Yuan Shao wants only weapons?” Sun Ru’s dagger pointed abruptly toward the far end of the cellar. A flash of steel split the sealing clay, exposing bundles of bamboo slips amid the blackened millet. Ash from the White Horse Temple clung to the cover of the topmost scroll, A Study of the Jiangling Grain Routes.

“Yang Xiu even recorded the shift changes of the porters at the ferry.”

Thunder rumbled through the thick earth above them, setting the ceramic jars humming. Liu Xun suddenly remembered what he had seen at the ferry three days earlier: bare-chested porters chanting as they hauled, their ankles rubbed raw by hemp ropes soaked in tung oil. The knots in those ropes were identical to those on the crossbow winches in the cellar.

In the heated chamber of Luoyang’s Southern Palace, Jia Xu dropped a secret letter into the brazier. The parchment curled in the flames like a blackened butterfly, revealing the fading shadow of two words: grain transport. The vermilion brush in Liu Xie’s hand paused over Yizhou on the map. Ink bled across the silk like a bloodstain.

“Yang Dezu certainly knows how to choose a hiding place. He stowed the grain-route map beneath the merit box at the White Horse Temple.”

“Your Majesty, Gan Ning’s fleet has taken control of Lake Pengli.” Jia Xu stirred the medicine in his bowl. Through the steam, the dark iron mask of the Grand Steward seemed to take shape. “But Yizhou’s waterways are connected in every direction. I fear…”

Before he could finish, Sun Ru slipped into the secret chamber, bringing the cellar’s musty smell with her. Tung oil from the crossbows still stained her fingertips. A copper coin slid from her sleeve and rolled to Liu Xie’s feet.

“The seventh cellar beneath the granary holds three hundred scrolls of grain-route maps. They all use the Imperial Works Bureau’s special ink.”

On the unrolled bamboo slip, the vermilion mark at Jiangling Ferry seemed to bleed, slowly merging with the bloodstain on Liu Xie’s handkerchief.

Liu Xie broke into a violent fit of coughing. Beads of blood seeped between his fingers and fell onto the armillary sphere, winding through the grooves of its model of the Han River.

“Tell Gan Ning to burn the new warships he has built.” Dipping his finger in blood, he drew an arc across the sand table. “Make it look like an accident.”

“Burn them?” Jia Xu’s silver spoon halted at the rim of the medicine bowl. Goji berries bobbed in the decoction like bloodshot eyes. “Those are new warships capable of carrying three hundred shi of cargo, with keels made of—”

“Only when they are burned will Yuan Shao believe that Yang Xiu has seized control of my grain routes.” The emperor suddenly crushed the Jingyuan Tongbao coin in his hand. Copper fragments and blood fell onto the sand table. “Once his ironclad troops board the ships…”

The broken coin spun over Henei, its engraved “Yang” facing the place where Yuan Shao’s troops were stationed.

Night mist lay thick over Jiangling Ferry, so dense it seemed impossible to breathe. Gan Ning stepped barefoot onto the prow. Water seeped through the keel of the new warship; the river, mixed with sulfur, frothed strangely around it.

His deputy ran a hand over the ship’s carved, cloud-patterned rail, his voice hoarse. “General, are we really going to sink these treasures? On their trial run last month, they smashed Gongsun Zan’s warships to pieces.”

“What His Majesty needs is charred wood that can drift to the river mouth.” Gan Ning’s finger guard caught on a hidden hatch in the hull. Three copper nails engraved with the character for “Yuan” dropped out with a clatter. The divers were laying a trail of kindling in the hold. The acrid smell of incendiary oil reminded him of the medicinal fragrance in the Southern Palace’s secret chamber—the day Liu Xie coughed blood while testing the oil’s formula, he had been just as resolute.

Fire suddenly flared on the opposite bank. Yang Xiu’s gray squirrel-fur cloak appeared and vanished in the mist.

“General Gan, burning ships in the middle of the night—are you making a sacrifice to the river god?” His laughter drifted over on the river wind. The tortoise shell in his hand gleamed blue-black in the flames. “Last night’s omen was ‘Heavenly Fire, Fellowship with Men.’ It seems…”

“I’m making a sacrifice of the devils who betray their own!” Gan Ning flung an iron chain. Its steel hook ripped through the planks of the pier. The burning warship drifted downstream, flames licking at its “Yuan” banner and turning the river red. As Yang Xiu stumbled backward, the tortoise shell slipped from his sleeve. A spark caught it, and black, viscous liquid seeped through its cracks. It was unmistakably incendiary oil mixed with cinnabar.

The cellar beneath the Yizhou granary suddenly shuddered. Liu Xun grabbed the wall to keep from falling. The instant Sun Ru pushed open the concealed door, blinding daylight and a crack of thunder burst into the cellar. On the training ground, a ten-foot iron bolt had pierced the center of a granite target. Artisans testing a powerful arm crossbow strained its winch with a teeth-grating creak.

“Does Your Highness know what kind of iron these crossbows use?” Sun Ru’s dagger scraped across the bow’s arm. A brilliant blue spark lit the cinnabar between her brows. “It was forged from ore mined in Wenshan.”

She abruptly turned the blade west. “But the richest veins are all in Zhang Lu’s hands.”

Liu Xun’s pupils contracted. An image from yesterday’s battle report flashed into his mind: Xiahou Yuan’s powerful arm crossbows piercing the bandit troops’ shield wall, Jingyuan Tongbao coins tied to the arrow shafts spinning in the flames. The “Yang” engraved on their edges was identical to the mark on the coins found in the cellar.

From afar came the porters’ chant. Suddenly Liu Xun could make out its words: “The road to Shu is hard—harder than climbing to the blue sky.” Every turn in the melody matched a bend marked on the grain-route map.

When the seventh green plum blossom opened in the Southern Palace’s heated chamber, Jia Xu burst in carrying a bloodstained battle report. The old strategist’s cough mingled with the smell of blood.

“Xiahou Yuan has beheaded Zhang Lu. His head is being sent to Chengdu. But on the grain boat intercepted on the Han River…”

The silk he unfolded was covered in tiny drawings of refugees bound with iron chains.

“The cargo is all women and children from Yizhou.”

The jade chess piece in Liu Xie’s hand suddenly shattered. Sharp fragments cut into his palm.

“Yang Dezu certainly knows how to balance the books: using my grain ships to transport his human cargo.” He dipped his finger in blood and marked a red cross on the route map. The blood ran along the characters for “Jiangling” and dripped from the edge of the table. “Tell Gan Ning to burn every warship that remains. Not a single one is to be spared.”

At that moment, Sun Ru entered, dragging in the steward from Yang Xiu’s residence. Half of the man’s right ear was missing, and his wound was still bleeding.

“Your Majesty… Yuan Shao’s five thousand ironclad troops will reach Henei in three days…”

“Wrong.” Liu Xie suddenly hurled his dagger. It struck the blue brick beneath the steward’s crotch. “Five thousand corpses wrapped in iron armor.” He turned to gaze at the thunder beyond the window. “Tell Xiahou Dun that the new trebuchets at Hulao Pass are ready to draw blood.”

As the rain poured down, the last warship sank in the Han River. Gan Ning stood upon its burning mast and watched Yang Xiu tear at the grain-route map on the opposite bank. When flames devoured the sheet of Shu brocade, he suddenly noticed the “Jingyuan” watermark hidden in its pattern. It was the very security mark Liu Xie had asked him to print with his own hands three days earlier.

Wind swept ashes across the Yizhou granary. Standing in the rain, Liu Xun watched the grain-route map curl and blacken in the brazier. The cinnabar on the bamboo slips glowed an eerie purple in the fire, tracing the shape of the dragon veins. Suddenly he understood why the map of Shu’s mountains and rivers in his father’s study was always hung in the southeast corner: that was the direction of Jiangling Ferry.

“Would you be willing to be His Majesty’s eyes, Your Highness?” Sun Ru’s voice came from behind him. The tally token in her hand caught the firelight. “To find out whose blood truly flows through the lifeline of these grain routes?”