Chapter Sixty-Eight: Schemes and the Imperial Censor

Lai Wangcai gave a sinister laugh that sent shivers down one’s spine.

“Di Ying still has plenty of cases in hand, and with his intelligence, he’ll surely guess whose blade we are. Unless our master gives the order, he can’t make a move. Rest easy.”

“That’s good.” Qin Tiezhong relaxed, then brought up Li Sujie.

Lai Wangcai replied, “Leave that man alone for now. His Majesty has shown signs of loosening his stance toward those people recently; we shouldn’t make ourselves too obvious a target. Pick someone else.

“That Censor Zhang—he never stops submitting memorials against us, an endless nuisance. Tomorrow, take some men, arrest him, and confiscate his household while you’re at it.”

“On what charge?” Qin Tiezhong pressed.

Lai Wangcai shot him a venomous, sidelong look.

Qin Tiezhong slapped his forehead.

Whoever they wished to condemn was guilty enough. Was it so difficult to fabricate a crime? Zhu Tou had long since helped them by compiling and listing every possible offense into a single book.

...

“What kind of book is that?”

As Di Ying strolled down the street, he mentioned the book, and Peng Liang asked this question.

Di Ying gazed at the various beautiful lanterns decorating the street, and replied coolly, “We compile cases; some compile crimes. If we can produce a book of case law, others can write a compendium of charges.”

Peng Liang fell silent.

He gripped the hilt of his sword at his waist a little tighter. Glancing at the passersby along the street, he felt that every expression bore a trace of sorrow.

Well, not every face. Some wore expressions of great joy.

On the side of the street stood a two-story building, its entrance adorned with bright candles and fluttering colored silks, clearly decorated for a celebration—a scene livelier than even the New Year.

Di Ying glanced in that direction, at the building, the carriages and horses parked on both sides and across the street.

He seemed to think of something, stopped, and turned into a dim, narrow alley.

The manager of the “Heart’s Delight Brokerage” failed to notice the two of them among the passing crowd.

In the manager’s eyes, only the distinguished guests arriving in high spirits tonight mattered.

Not long ago, when the young master of the house had visited a pleasure quarter and witnessed people bidding vast sums for the courtesans’ first night, he’d conceived an ingenious idea.

Why shouldn’t their brokerage imitate such an event?

Invitation cards were sent to the mansions of the rich and powerful, and a batch of “fine goods” would be presented tonight.

No guest wanted to miss such entertainment.

Even as dusk fell, the street outside the brokerage was already jammed with carriages.

The manager, bowing and gesturing repeatedly, was flushed with excitement.

Just then, a portly, round-faced middle-aged man approached, accompanied by an unremarkable, dark-skinned bodyguard.

The manager hurried forward, bowing low. “Please, esteemed guest, this way. May I ask your name and title?”

They needed to record the names of guests, after all; once the bidding was done, the brokerage was responsible for delivering the goods.

But as soon as he opened his mouth, he was interrupted, and the bodyguard brushed him aside.

“Step aside! My lord’s name is not for the likes of you to inquire about.”

Scolded, the manager barely managed to keep his footing, forced a smile, and did not dare utter another word. With his gaze lowered, he saw two pairs of deerskin boots disappear inside.

His manner became even more deferential.

But inwardly, he was puzzled. In the capital, he recognized nearly every official of note. Why did he have no impression of this one—so domineering, with such a build?

He racked his brains but could not recall ever seeing such a person.

Suddenly, a figure flashed through his mind. He was about to concentrate and recall it, but another guest arrived. Dismissing the fleeting thought, he rushed forward, plastering a smile on his face.

Inside, the brokerage was ablaze with lanterns and noisy with chatter.

The main hall was spacious, with a raised platform more than a meter high at the front. A gently sloping wooden “bridge” extended from the platform into the center of the hall.

On either side of the “bridge” stood small round tables already set with snacks and fruit.

The second-floor gallery, draped with curtains and red silk, featured private rooms, some with doors open—inside, guests could be seen conversing merrily. Others were closed, but guards and retainers with weapons stood at the doors, indicating those rooms were not empty either.

The main hall, too, was nearly without an empty seat.

Clearly, many notables had come for the festivities tonight.

Disguised as a portly middle-aged man, Di Ying, having been aggressive at the entrance, now made himself as unobtrusive as possible, choosing a table in a secluded corner, beside a pillar and with his back to the window.

A servant soon brought freshly brewed tea.

Di Ying lifted the cup, opened the lid, and inhaled the aroma, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

The brokerage had gone all out—this was a top-grade tea, hard to find even in the best shops.

He took a slow sip and overheard a conversation at the next table.

“Censor Zhang, you’ve come as well? Aren’t you afraid someone might report you in turn?” said a sycophantic voice.

“What’s to fear? I am here precisely to see what ghouls and monsters come to conduct illicit business,” came a firm, resonant reply.

The sycophantic voice continued, “Forgive me for saying so, Censor Zhang, but this is a brokerage, and all transactions here are aboveboard. Why not simply enjoy the spectacle? If you fancy anything, allow me to bid on your behalf.”

“Hmph!”

Censor Zhang snorted and said no more.

Di Ying cast a brief glance at the pale, slender middle-aged Censor Zhang.

The sycophant, seeing his words unwelcome, shifted his chair to another table to strike up conversation elsewhere.

Di Ying withdrew his gaze and returned to his tea.

In fact, the man hadn’t misspoken—the brokerage was indeed legal, as was the buying and selling of people within.

Not only was the brokerage’s trade in people lawful—so too were the street markets and even those who stuck a blade of grass in their hair to signal a sale.

The difference was, the brokerage registered origins and identities, and would investigate and train those they sold. That way, the goods were less likely to cause trouble or tarnish the brokerage’s reputation.

Censor Zhang had come in hopes of catching someone in a misdeed, but that would not be easy.

But then, censors were always to be found wherever commotion arose. Brokerages, taverns, restaurants, teahouses, even pleasure houses—they might appear anywhere, seeking to grasp the officials’ weaknesses.

After all, that was their duty.

If they failed to submit a single memorial in three months, they could pack up and go home to farm.

Peng Liang, seated beside Di Ying, glanced once at Censor Zhang, then asked in a low voice, “I can understand why he’s here. But you, sir—why are you here?”