3. The Banquet of Forty Curses

The investigator arrived at dawn on a black horse.

Wei Ming was not what Song Yun had expected. He had imagined a stern-faced official with the cold eyes of a predator. Instead, the man who dismounted at the main gate was slightly built, with the weathered skin of a farmer and the quiet hands of a calligrapher. He wore plain grey robes without insignia, and the only sign of his authority was a lacquered wooden tally hanging from his belt.

Song Wei greeted him with elaborate courtesy, ushering him into the main hall and ordering tea to be served. Through a crack in the screen wall, Song Yun watched the proceedings with the trained stillness of a hunter.

"Your reputation precedes you, Master Wei," Song Wei said, his voice carrying the practiced warmth of a merchant negotiating a difficult sale. "The magistrate in the county seat speaks highly of your work in the capital."

"The magistrate is generous with his praise." Wei Ming accepted a cup of tea but did not drink. His eyes moved constantly, cataloging the room. "Tell me about your household."

Song Wei launched into a carefully rehearsed narrative. He spoke of his father's tragic illness, the family's grief, the difficulties of managing an estate during wartime. He mentioned his brother Song Zhong's "unfortunate ambitions" and the "inexplicable illnesses" that had plagued the household in recent months. He spoke of a curse, of disloyal servants, of forces working to destroy what his ancestors had built.

He did not mention Song Yun. No one ever mentioned Song Yun.

Wei Ming listened without interruption. When Song Wei finished, the investigator set down his untouched tea and asked a single question.

"Where is the matriarch?"

Lady Zheng received the investigator in her private chambers, which had grown thick with the smell of incense and old sweat. She had not left her rooms in three days. Her skin had taken on a greyish pallor, and her hands trembled constantly. The packet of monkshood powder that Song Yun had hidden beneath her chair cushion was doing its slow work.

"I am dying," she told Wei Ming. "I have known it for weeks. Someone in this house is poisoning me."

The investigator knelt beside her chair and examined her face, her eyes, the beds of her fingernails. "Who do you suspect?"

"Everyone." Her laugh was a dry rattle. "My sons. My servants. The ghosts of the past. But most of all, I suspect the third one."

"Third one?"

"My husband's youngest. Song Yun." She spoke the name like a curse. "He was exiled ten years ago, but I feel his presence everywhere. In the shadows. In the taste of my tea. In my dreams."

Wei Ming's expression remained neutral. "I was told the third son died in exile."

"No one knows what happened to him. He simply vanished." Lady Zheng clutched at the investigator's sleeve. "Find him. Find his ghost and exorcise it. That is the only way to save this house."

That evening, Wei Ming summoned the entire household to the main courtyard. Every servant, every cook, every stable boy and chambermaid stood in nervous rows as the investigator walked among them.

"I will examine each of you individually," he announced. "You will answer my questions truthfully, or you will face the magistrate's judgment."

Song Yun stood near the back, his head bowed in the attitude of a humble laborer. He had rehearsed this moment in his mind countless times. His cover story was simple and verifiable: a carpenter from Xiapi, orphaned by the wars, seeking honest work. There were hundreds of men like him wandering the provinces. There was no reason for an investigator to look twice at such a man.

But when Wei Ming reached him, the investigator paused.

"Your name?"

"Wu An, honored sir."

"Where did you study carpentry?"

"In Xiapi, sir. My father taught me before he died."

Wei Ming nodded and moved on. Song Yun allowed himself a quiet breath of relief.

Later that night, Lian found him in the garden. The osmanthus tree had been pruned to a bare skeleton, its branches reaching toward the moon like supplicating arms.

"He questioned me for an hour," she whispered. "He wanted to know about Xiaowei."

Song Yun's hands tightened on his pruning shears. "What did you tell him?"

"The truth, mostly. That I served her mother's household. That I came here seeking work after her family was ruined. That I have no love for the Song brothers." She paused. "He asked if I knew anything about poisons."

"What did you say?"

"I told him that every woman in the provinces knows about poisons. It is the only weapon we are permitted to carry."

Song Yun almost smiled. Lian was clever, perhaps too clever. "Did he believe you?"

"I don't know. He is difficult to read. He asked questions that seemed to lead nowhere, then circled back to questions I had already answered. He was testing my consistency."

"Then we must be consistent." He turned to face her. "The powder in Song Zhong's wife's chambers. Has it been placed?"

"Three days ago. Inside a jar of preserved plums that she keeps hidden beneath her bed."

"Good. Tomorrow, we will ensure that Wei Ming finds it."

The opportunity came sooner than expected.

At midnight, a scream tore through the silence of the estate. Song Yun was on his feet before he was fully awake, his body responding to years of training. He followed the sound to the eastern compound, where a crowd of servants had already gathered.

Song Zhong's wife had collapsed in the corridor outside her chambers. Her face was white, and her hands were pressed against her belly. Blood stained the hem of her robes.

"The baby," she gasped. "The baby is coming too early."

They carried her to her bed and summoned the household physician. But before the physician could arrive, Wei Ming appeared in the doorway, his expression unreadable.

"Search her chambers," he ordered the guards. "Thoroughly."

Song Zhong protested, his round face red with indignation. "My wife is losing our child! This is not the time for your investigation!"

Wei Ming ignored him. The guards fanned out through the rooms, opening chests and overturning cushions. Within minutes, one of them emerged holding the jar of preserved plums.

"Sir, there is something inside this jar. A powder of some kind."

The investigator took the jar and sniffed its contents. His expression did not change. "Summon the physician to examine this substance. I want to know exactly what it contains."

The physician, when he arrived, confirmed what Song Yun already knew. The powder was a mixture of dried monkshood and crushed rhubarb root, enough to cause a miscarriage within hours of consumption. Song Zhong's wife had been carefully poisoning herself, or so it appeared.

"She was trying to kill my unborn child!" Song Wei pushed through the crowd, his face contorted with fury. "My brother's wife has been poisoning herself because she could not bear to give my brother an heir!"

"That makes no sense," Song Zhong protested. "Why would she harm her own child?"

"Because she knows that if she fails to produce a son, your claim to the inheritance weakens. She would rather sacrifice a child than strengthen your position." Song Wei turned to Wei Ming. "Arrest her. She is the one who has been poisoning this household."

The investigator held up his hand. "I will question her myself. But first, I want to know who placed this jar in her chambers."

"It was already there," Song Zhong said. "She kept it hidden."

"Did she? Or did someone else hide it?" Wei Ming's gaze swept across the gathered servants. "I will speak to everyone who has access to these quarters. No one leaves the estate until I have answers."

The questioning lasted through the night. Servants were summoned one by one to the main hall, where Wei Ming interrogated them with relentless patience. Song Yun waited in the servants' quarters, listening to the footsteps in the corridor and counting the hours.

When his turn came, he entered the hall with the same humble posture he had perfected over ten years of exile. Wei Ming sat behind a low table, a single oil lamp casting shadows across his face.

"Wu An. The carpenter from Xiapi."

"Yes, honored sir."

"You were seen near the eastern compound yesterday afternoon. What were you doing there?"

"Repairing a broken shutter in the corridor, sir. The steward ordered it."

"Did you see anyone enter or leave the chambers of Song Zhong's wife?"

Song Yun hesitated, calculating. A simple denial might seem evasive. A fabricated witness might unravel under questioning. He chose a middle path.

"I saw a serving girl carrying a tray of food, sir. I did not recognize her."

"Describe her."

"Tall. Narrow face. Dark robes."

Wei Ming made a note on the paper before him. "That description matches several servants in this household. Can you be more specific?"

"I am sorry, sir. I was focused on my work."

The investigator looked at him for a long moment. Song Yun felt the weight of that gaze like a physical pressure. He had killed men with less effort than it took to remain still under that scrutiny.

"Your hands," Wei Ming said suddenly.

"Sir?"

"Show me your hands."

Song Yun extended his hands, palms up. They were calloused and rough, marked by years of physical labor. But beneath the callouses, the fingers were long and elegant, the fingers of a scholar rather than a carpenter.

"You have interesting hands for a laborer," Wei Ming observed.

"My father insisted I learn to read and write before he taught me carpentry. He believed a man should cultivate both mind and body."

"A wise father. Is he still alive?"

"Dead, sir. Many years now."

Wei Ming nodded slowly. "You may go. But remain available for further questioning."

Song Yun bowed and retreated. As he passed through the doorway, he felt the investigator's eyes still upon him, and he knew with cold certainty that Wei Ming suspected something.

The next morning, the household awoke to a new crisis. Lady Zheng had taken a turn for the worse. The physician pronounced her condition grave and recommended summoning a specialist from the county seat. But before the messenger could be dispatched, Song Wei countermanded the order.

"My mother has been poisoned," he announced in the main hall. "And I believe I know who is responsible."

He pointed at Song Zhong. "My brother has been plotting against me for years. He corrupted his own wife to eliminate my mother and then made it appear as though she acted alone."

"This is madness," Song Zhong protested. "Why would I harm my own mother?"

"Because she knew the truth about you. She knew that you were not Father's biological son."

The hall fell silent. Even the servants stopped breathing.

Song Zhong's face went pale. "That is a lie."

"Is it? Mother told me herself, on the night before she fell ill. She confessed that you were the product of an affair with a traveling merchant. Father never knew, but he suspected. That is why he intended to revise his will and leave everything to my son."

The accusation landed like a stone in still water. Song Zhong lunged at his brother, but the guards restrained him. His wife, still weak from her miscarriage, began to wail from her bed in the eastern compound.

Song Yun watched from the back of the hall, his face carefully blank. He had not anticipated this development. Lady Zheng's confession, whether true or fabricated, had shifted the ground beneath everyone's feet. If Song Zhong was illegitimate, his claim to the inheritance was worthless. And if Song Wei had known this all along, then his accusations against his brother were not paranoia but strategy.

Lian appeared at his elbow. "This changes things," she whispered.

"It changes nothing. We adapt."

Wei Ming had been observing the confrontation with clinical detachment. Now he rose from his seat and addressed the brothers.

"These are serious allegations. I will investigate their veracity. Until then, both of you will remain confined to your quarters."

"You cannot confine me," Song Wei protested. "I am the head of this household."

"You are a suspect in multiple poisonings. I can confine whoever I wish." The investigator's voice was soft but absolute. "Guards, escort the masters to their rooms."

The investigation continued for three more days. Wei Ming questioned every member of the household, examined every jar and vial in the kitchen, tested every source of water on the estate. He uncovered layers of deception that Song Yun had not anticipated.

The cook had been selling spoiled meat to the household and replacing it with fresh cuts from his own pockets. The stable master had been stealing grain from the stores and selling it to a merchant in the village. The tutor hired to educate Song Cheng had been carrying on a secret correspondence with someone in the northern provinces.

But none of these revelations pointed to the poisoner. Wei Ming seemed to be circling the truth without quite grasping it, like a hawk riding thermals above a hidden rabbit.

On the fourth night, Song Yun found himself alone in the garden with Lian.

"We must accelerate the plan," she said. "The investigator is getting too close."

"Close to what? He has found nothing."

"He has found you. He asked me about your hands today. He wanted to know if I had noticed anything unusual about them."

Song Yun felt a chill that had nothing to do with the autumn wind. "What did you tell him?"

"I told him you were a hard worker who kept to yourself. But he is not satisfied. He told me he has sent a messenger to Xiapi to verify your background."

The news hit Song Yun like a physical blow. His cover story would not withstand serious scrutiny. There was no carpenter named Wu An in Xiapi. The village records would show nothing.

"How long before the messenger returns?"

"Three days. Perhaps four."

"Then we have three days to finish what we started."

He outlined his revised plan to Lian as the moon rose over the garden. The original strategy of slow, subtle poison had been compromised. They needed something more decisive, something that would force a conclusion before Wei Ming could expose them.

"The Ghost Festival is in two days," Song Yun said. "The family will gather for the ancestral banquet. It is tradition."

"It is also the one night when all of them will be in the same room together."

"Exactly. We will give Wei Ming the suspect he is looking for. And we will give the brothers the war they have been avoiding."

The day of the Ghost Festival arrived beneath a sky the color of bruised plums.

The household prepared the ancestral hall for the banquet with the mechanical efficiency of servants who had learned not to question their orders. Red candles were lit, incense was burned, offerings of food and wine were arranged on the altar before the memorial tablets of the Song ancestors.

Song Wei and Song Zhong were released from their confinement for the ceremony, though guards remained posted at every door. The brothers sat on opposite sides of the hall, their wives and children arranged behind them like chess pieces awaiting sacrifice.

Lady Zheng was carried in on a litter, too weak to walk. Her eyes were sunken, and her skin had taken on the waxy pallor of a corpse. But she insisted on attending, clutching a jade amulet against her chest.

"The ancestors must see that I am still here," she whispered. "They must know that I have not abandoned this house."

Wei Ming attended as well, standing at the back of the hall with his arms folded. His eyes never stopped moving.

The banquet began with the traditional toasts. Wine was poured from a single ewer into cups for each family member. Song Yun, serving as a temporary attendant for the evening, held the ewer with steady hands.

He had prepared the wine himself. Half the cups contained nothing more than rice wine. The other half contained a mild dose of datura extract, enough to induce hallucinations and delirium within the hour. The distribution was random. Even Song Yun did not know who would receive the poisoned cups.

The first to show symptoms was Song Wei's ten-year-old son, Song Cheng.

The boy had always been fragile, and the datura hit him harder than the others. He began to shiver halfway through the meal, his eyes growing wide and unfocused. Then he began to speak in a voice that was not his own.

"Grandfather is here," he said, pointing at the empty seat at the head of the table. "He says someone at this table killed him."

The hall went silent.

"He says it was not the third son. It was someone else. Someone who is here tonight."

Song Wei grabbed his son by the shoulders. "Stop this nonsense. You are frightening your mother."

But the boy continued, his voice growing stronger. "Grandfather says the poison was in his cup, but not in the third son's cup. He says the third son was meant to die too, but he did not drink."

Lady Zheng began to moan. "The ghosts are speaking through the child. The ancestors have come to judge us."

Then Song Zhong's wife began to scream. She had also received datura, and the hallucinations had seized her with terrible force. She clawed at her face, shrieking about spiders crawling beneath her skin. Her husband tried to restrain her, but she fought him with unnatural strength.

"It was her!" she screamed, pointing at Song Wei's wife. "She gave me the powder! She told me it would make me strong! She said it would protect my baby!"

The accusations flew like arrows in the dark. Song Wei's wife denied everything, then collapsed into hysterical weeping. Song Zhong accused his brother of orchestrating the entire affair. Lady Zheng alternately cursed and prayed, her mind crumbling under the combined assault of poison and terror.

And through it all, Wei Ming stood motionless, watching.

Song Yun slipped through the chaos toward the door. His role in the evening's entertainment was complete. The brothers were at each other's throats, the matriarch was unraveling, and the investigator had more suspects than he could possibly pursue.

But as he reached the threshold, a hand closed around his wrist.

"Leaving so soon, Master Wu?"

Wei Ming's grip was surprisingly strong for such a slight man. His eyes, in the flickering candlelight, held no anger. Only curiosity.

"The messenger from Xiapi returned this afternoon," the investigator said quietly. "There is no carpenter named Wu An in the village records. No orphan, no carpenter, no father who taught his son to read and write. There is, however, a very interesting story about a third son who vanished ten years ago."

Song Yun did not try to pull away. "What will you do?"

"That depends on you. I have spent four days in this house, and I have seen what the Song brothers are. Greedy, cruel, utterly without honor. I have also seen what was done to your wife." Wei Ming released his grip. "I am an investigator, not an executioner. I was hired to find the truth. I have found it."

"What truth is that?"

"The truth is that this family destroyed itself long before you ever returned. You are merely the instrument of its final dissolution." Wei Ming stepped back. "I will file my report tomorrow. It will state that the poisonings were the result of internal family disputes, that the matriarch's confession implicated her eldest son, and that no outside parties were involved. The magistrate will not pursue the matter further."

Song Yun stared at him. "Why?"

"Because I once had a wife. She died in childbirth because a wealthy family bribed the physician to attend to their daughter instead of mine. I have no love for those who abuse their power." He paused. "But I will give you a warning. Whatever you intend to do next, do it quickly. I will not protect you a second time."

Wei Ming turned and walked back into the chaos of the hall. Song Yun stood alone in the darkness of the courtyard, his heart pounding in his chest.

He had been spared. He did not know why, and he did not trust the reason. But he had been spared.

And now he had a choice.

He could slip away into the night, disappear into the war-torn provinces, and leave the Song family to its self-inflicted destruction. Wei Ming's report would cover his tracks. No one would pursue him.

Or he could stay. He could finish what he had started. He could watch the brothers destroy each other and then claim the inheritance that should have been his.

The choice, he realized, was not really a choice at all. He had come too far to retreat. He had sacrificed too much to walk away.

He turned and walked toward the garden, toward the skeletal osmanthus tree, toward the darkness that awaited him.

Behind him, the screaming continued.

He did not look back.