The Jade Serpent Temple #2
The archivist’s expression shifts. Not surprise—archivists see everything and are surprised by nothing—but a flicker of understanding. “The restricted collection. Second level, eastern wall.”
“Thank you.”
“I will provide a guide.” She turns, and her gaze lands on Ailun, who has rejoined us at the temple gates with road dust in his hair and what appears to be a new scarf around his neck.
The scarf is hand-knitted. It was not part of his equipment this morning. It is also, I note, made of fine wool dyed in the particular blue that indicates careful, time-consuming work.
Tairui notices immediately.
“What,” he says, “is that.”
“A gift.” Ailun touches the scarf as if he has only just remembered it exists. “One of the villagers was concerned I looked cold.”
“You led Xiang operatives through three villages and stopped to accept knitwear?”
“She was being helpful. I did not want to be rude.”
“Did you at least maintain speed?”
“I maintained adequate speed. The scarf only took a moment. The barn took slightly longer.” Ailun adjusts it with complete unselfconsciousness.
Tairui’s face goes through several expressions in rapid succession. I watch him progress from disbelief to resignation to something approaching existential crisis.
“The barn,” he says finally. “Tell me about the barn.”
“The stable was full.” Ailun blinks. “She mentioned her family’s barn had clean straw and privacy.”
“Privacy.”
“I assumed she meant from the villagers who were gathering to watch.” Ailun’s brow furrows slightly. “There seemed to be a lot of interest in our route. Very hospitable region.”
Tairui makes a sound I have never heard a human being make before. It might be a laugh. It might be despair compressed into a single exhale. It contains the accumulated frustration of a man who has watched this pattern unfold in every town, every inn, every temple they have visited together.
Lián has turned away. Her shoulders are shaking in a way that suggests she is either crying or laughing. Given the circumstances, I strongly suspect the latter.
The agents, Tianlong comments. Are providing entertainment I have not enjoyed in centuries. The beautiful one is genuinely oblivious. The angry one is slowly losing his sanity. I am invested in this development.
The archivist’s expression changes. Warms. Something in her posture shifts.
“The restricted section has... additional records,” she says, and her voice has softened to something almost inviting. “I could provide a private tour.”
“That would be very helpful for the investigation.” Ailun’s tone is professionally grateful. Nothing more.
“Perhaps over tea? I have a private study. The collection there is quite... extensive.”
“Tea would aid concentration. Thank you.”
She waits. He has already turned back to examine a scroll case, his attention entirely absorbed by the recording system.
In the corner of my vision, Tairui has his face in his hands. His shoulders are shaking.
The archivist tries once more. “The private study has a window seat. Very comfortable for... extended research.”
“That sounds efficient.” Ailun pulls a scroll case from the shelf, examines the label, returns it. “Good natural light aids document examination.”
A junior monk passes behind us, catches the archivist’s expression, and stifles something that might be a laugh. The archivist’s scholarly composure is cracking at the edges.
“The seat is quite large,” she presses. “Room for two.”
“Excellent. Tairui and I can review materials simultaneously.” Ailun gestures toward his partner. “That would save considerable time.”
Tairui, who has been following this exchange with the expression of a man watching a shipwreck, makes a noise that sounds like laughter suppressed past the point of sanity.
“Actually,” Lián says, her voice carrying an edge of mercy, “we should begin the search. Time is limited.”
The archivist blinks, recalibrating. Her professional demeanor reasserts itself like armor clicking back into place. “Of course. The restricted collection. This way.”
As she leads us toward the eastern wall, Tairui falls into step beside me.
“Every town,” he says, his voice pitched low. “Every single town.”
“He continues to remain unaware,” I say.
“He is unaware. He is catastrophically unaware. Last month a merchant’s daughter wrote him a poem. He thanked her for the ‘commercial correspondence’ and filed it with the trade reports.”
I consider this. “That is... remarkable.”
“It is a disability.”
We climb the narrow stairs to the restricted collection. The wood is worn smooth in the center of each step, centuries of monks’ feet polishing the grain to silk. The air changes as we rise—cooler, drier, carrying the particular stillness of rooms where nothing has been disturbed in decades.
The stacks smell of camphor and old paper.
Scroll cases are stacked floor to ceiling, their lacquered surfaces dulled by time, labels written in brushwork that spans generations—some elegant, some hurried, some faded past reading.
Dust motes drift through the single shaft of light from a high window.
Somewhere below, a monk chants the afternoon sutras, the sound filtering up through the floorboards like memory.
Three hours in. My eyes ache from lamp-smoke and faded ink. The cheap tallow the temple uses leaves a film on everything, including my throat.
The official ledgers show standard trade payments: silk, iron, horses, porcelain. The amounts are reasonable. The contacts are legitimate merchants with verifiable histories. Everything balances. Everything is correct.
Too correct.
Lián pulls a scroll case from behind a false panel. “Eight centuries of breaking into places.”
The second set of books. Payments from a Xiang merchant house to domestic contacts. Seventeen entries across three years. Enough to fund small armies. Enough to buy loyalty at the highest levels.
One name, again and again, in careful script.
Tomor.
“The handwriting matches,” Lián says, holding two documents side by side. “These receipts and his official correspondence. Same hand.”
Three years. Three years Tomor has been selling information to Xiang while Shen took the blame.
“We need to get this to the palace. Before Tomor learns we have it.” I suggest.
“Both agents. Different routes.”
“They’ll argue about it.”
“Let them. It will give the monks something to watch.”
They argue about it.
The reading room’s silence has lasted four centuries. It does not survive Tairui’s opinion about route selection.
“I can be there in two days. Hard riding, minimal stops.”
“I can be there in two days.” Tairui does not look at him. “Better horse.”
“My horse is perfectly adequate.”
“Your horse is adequate. Mine is exceptional.”
Their voices rise. In the reading room’s ancient silence, they carry.
A junior monk clears his throat. “Are they… together?”
I turn to look at him. “They work together. Reluctantly.”
“No, I mean…” He gestures vaguely. “TOGETHER.”
“They argue constantly.”
“Yes.” The monk nods eagerly. “Brother Feng finds that very compelling.”
The decision is made. Both agents will ride—Ailun east, Tairui west. One of them will reach the capital first.
They face each other in the temple courtyard.
“If one of us doesn’t make it—” Ailun begins
“Die well,” Tairui says.
“…You too.”
They nod. Once. Then they are gone, riding in opposite directions.
Behind me, I hear scratching. Ink on paper. Brother Feng.
“That was beautiful,” he says.
“That was professional respect,” I respond. “Soldiers say that to each other.”
“That was a declaration.” Brother Feng does not look up. “Such passion. Such restraint. Such yearning.”
“They genuinely dislike each other.”
“The best love stories start that way. Did you see how his voice softened? Did you see the way he did not look away until the last possible moment?”
“He was confirming the route—”
“He was memorizing his face.”
Lián has her head in her hands. Her shoulders are shaking.
This is going to be magnificent, Tianlong observes.
He is not wrong.