3. Feast of the Steward

The bolt slammed back, and the door swung open with the shriek of iron on stone. Wei Shang had only a heartbeat to compose himself. He let his head loll forward, allowed a thin line of spittle to trail from the corner of his mouth, and fixed his eyes on the floor with the vacant stare he had practiced in the darkness. The guards never looked closely at a broken man.

Two soldiers entered, their bronze helmets dull in the lamplight. Between them walked a third figure: a man of late middle years, his robes the deep blue of a senior physician, his beard meticulously oiled and shaped into a point. Uncle Zhao. He carried a bamboo scroll in one hand and a small bronze hammer in the other—an instrument used to test reflexes, though Wei Shang suspected it had other purposes here.

"Hold him," Uncle Zhao said, his voice as dry as old parchment.

The soldiers seized Wei Shang's shoulders and forced his head up. Uncle Zhao approached, studying him with the detached curiosity of a butcher examining a carcass. He tapped the hammer against Wei Shang's left knee, then his right. The legs jerked obediently. A flick of the wrist, and the hammer struck his elbow. Another jerk. Wei Shang maintained his slack-jawed expression, though his heart pounded so loud he was certain they must hear it.

"Responsive," Uncle Zhao murmured. "Interesting. Dr. Qi's notes indicate that the patient has shown significant improvement in cognitive function over the past three days. Reduced agitation. Coherent speech. A remarkable recovery, given the intensity of the treatment."

He leaned closer, his breath sour with fermented tea. "Tell me, patient. Do you know who I am?"

Wei Shang said nothing. The silence stretched. Uncle Zhao's eyes narrowed, and he pressed the cold edge of the hammer beneath Wei Shang's chin, tilting his head back further.

"A madman who has forgotten his name should not be able to fake madness so well. You hold your tongue deliberately. That is the act of a rational mind. And a rational mind, in this place, is a disease we cannot allow to spread." He turned to the soldiers. "Prepare the electrotherapy apparatus. I will administer tonight's session personally."

The soldiers moved toward the copper discs. Wei Shang forced himself to remain limp, though every instinct screamed at him to fight. The scalpel was behind the brick, useless now. If Uncle Zhao operated the voltaic pile himself, there would be no diluted current, no whispered word of encouragement. Only pain, and the systematic erasure of everything he had managed to hold onto.

Then a voice cut through the chamber, sharp and steady. "Director Zhao. The patient's file indicates that further treatment tonight would risk cardiac failure. His pulse was irregular this morning."

Dr. Qi stood in the doorway, a stack of silk scrolls in her arms. Her face was carefully neutral, but her knuckles were white where she gripped the records. Uncle Zhao turned to her slowly, his expression flickering with irritation.

"I do not recall summoning you, Doctor."

"I was making evening rounds when I heard the order. The northern Qi emissary has requested a full report on all high-risk patients by dawn. If this one dies before then, the paperwork will be... inconvenient."

It was a flimsy excuse, but the word "Qi" made Uncle Zhao pause. The emissaries were Sun Linfu's patrons, and Sun Linfu needed Wei Shang alive at least until the seal was found. A dead marquis could not be forced to sign anything, and a new moon signing without the genuine seal would raise questions even among bribed officials. Uncle Zhao tapped his hammer against his palm, calculating.

"Very well. But his treatment schedule will resume at dawn. And Dr. Qi—" he stepped closer to her, lowering his voice, "—I have been reviewing your personnel file. Your father was a physician before his unfortunate suicide. I wonder if you inherited more from him than his medical knowledge. Loyalty, for instance, can be a hereditary trait. Or disloyalty."

He swept out of the cell without waiting for a response. The soldiers followed, and the door clanged shut. Dr. Qi stood frozen for a long moment, the scrolls trembling in her arms. Then she set them down and pressed her forehead against the stone wall.

"That was too close," she breathed. "He knows. He does not have proof yet, but he knows."

Wei Shang let the mask of stupor fall away. "The emissary from Qi—was that real, or did you invent it?"

"Real. They arrived yesterday with a retinue of twenty armed men. Sun Linfu is hosting a banquet for them tonight in the main hall of your ancestral home. The same hall where you were arrested." She turned to face him, and there was something new in her eyes: not just hatred, but a grim, weary determination. "The new moon is four days away. They have set the date for the signing ceremony. But the emissary is growing impatient. He told Sun Linfu that if the seal is not produced by the new moon, the deal will be void, and the state of Qi will find other partners."

"The seal." Wei Shang closed his eyes. "I remembered something. The incense burner on the altar—the bronze one shaped like a dragon. I think I hid something there. But I cannot be certain. The memory is like a dream, half-real."

Dr. Qi was silent for a moment. Then she said, "I can arrange for a message to be sent to someone inside your household. The mute girl, Mei—she has a brother who works in the stables. He is slow-witted, but he is loyal to your family. If the seal is in the incense burner, he might be able to retrieve it."

"Sun Linfu will have the hall guarded. The stables boy will be caught and killed."

"Perhaps. But what choice do we have? If you sign the mines over under duress, Sun Linfu gets what he wants whether you live or die. If the seal is destroyed before the signing, he cannot complete the transaction. Either way, we must act."

Wei Shang opened his eyes. "The man in the next cell. He spoke to me through the wall tonight. He said 'seal.' I need to know who he is."

Dr. Qi's expression shifted—surprise, then a flicker of something that might have been hope. "The next cell has been empty for months. No one was assigned there after Gong Zhao died."

"The voice was real. I heard scratching, a pattern of knocks. Then footsteps, and the guards came. I thought they were coming for him, but they came for me instead."

She moved to the wall where the loose brick was hidden, pressing her ear against the stone. For a long while, there was only silence. Then she pulled back, shaking her head. "I hear nothing. But this asylum is old, and the walls have cracks that run between the cells. Sometimes sounds travel in strange ways. If someone spoke to you, they must be in a cell further down the corridor—perhaps one of the isolation chambers."

"Isolation chambers?"

"A row of cells at the far end of the west wing. They are reserved for patients who are too dangerous to be kept near the others, or too connected to be killed outright. Political prisoners, mostly. Men whose families still hold some power, and whose deaths would raise awkward questions. Gong Zhao was kept there for six months before they moved him closer to the treatment room. If there is someone still alive in those cells, he has been there for a very long time."

Wei Shang's pulse quickened. "Can you get me there?"

"Impossible. The west wing is guarded by Uncle Zhao's personal attendants. I do not have access, and neither does Mei. But—" She hesitated, reaching into her sleeve. "There is a map. Gong Zhao drew it before he died. He hid it in the binding of a medical text that I keep in my quarters. It shows a ventilation shaft that runs between the cells. The shaft is too narrow for a grown man to crawl through, but sound carries along it like water through a pipe."

She unfolded a scrap of silk, its edges frayed, its surface covered in ink that had faded to brown. The map was crude but legible: a series of rectangles representing cells, linked by a winding line that snaked through the walls. At the far end, marked with a circle, was a cell labeled with a single character: "Bo."

"Bo," Wei Shang read aloud. "Who is Bo?"

"I do not know. But if he spoke to you, and if he knows about the seal, then he may know more than we do. The ventilation shaft opens near the floor, behind a loose stone in your cell. Gong Zhao used it to communicate with the other prisoners. That is how he learned about the conspiracy—before they caught him."

Together, they searched the base of the wall. Behind the shelf where the oil lamp sat, behind a stack of discarded rags, they found it: a stone that shifted slightly when pressed. Wei Shang worked his fingers into the gap and eased it aside. The smell that wafted out was cold and stale, carrying the faint iron tang of old blood. The shaft was dark, barely larger than a man's fist, but he could feel the air moving through it.

He put his mouth to the opening. "Bo," he whispered. "Can you hear me?"

Silence. He tried again, louder: "This is Wei Shang. You spoke to me before. The seal—you know something about the seal. Please."

A long pause. Then, so faint it might have been imagination, a voice drifted back through the shaft. It was reedy, broken, like wind through dead reeds.

"The dragon does not breathe fire," the voice said. "It breathes water. The seal rests in the belly of the dragon, but the dragon is hungry. It will not release its meal unless you feed it first."

The words were cryptic, half-riddle, but they confirmed something crucial: the dragon incense burner. And the seal was inside—but there was a condition, or a trap. Wei Shang pressed his ear closer.

"What does the dragon eat? Tell me how to retrieve it."

A dry, rattling laugh echoed through the shaft. "Ask the girl with no tongue. She knows the way into the dragon's throat. But hurry, young master. The new moon approaches, and Sun Linfu grows impatient. If he cannot have the seal, he will settle for your death. He has already sent men to search the ancestral hall. They will find the burner soon enough."

The voice faded into silence. Wei Shang called out again, but there was no response. Dr. Qi pulled him gently back from the wall.

"We need to move fast," she said. "If Sun Linfu's men are already searching, the seal could be discovered any moment. Mei makes her rounds in the morning. When she brings your gruel, hold your bowl in your left hand. She will know the signal. I will prepare a message for her to carry to her brother. It is a slim chance, but it is the only one we have."

She left him with a small oil lamp and a promise to return before dawn. The bolt slid home, and Wei Shang was alone again.

He did not sleep. He sat with his back against the cold wall, the map of the asylum spread across his knees, the scalpel hidden in his sleeve. The voice of the old man in the isolation cell echoed in his mind: "The dragon does not breathe fire. It breathes water." Water. What did that mean? The incense burner was bronze, shaped like a dragon. Its mouth was open, and the hollow inside was where the incense was placed. But water? Perhaps there was a hidden compartment, a vessel inside that required liquid to open it. Or perhaps it was a metaphor for something else entirely.

He thought about his father, Wei Ju, and the last time they had spoken before the poisoning. His father had been agitated, pacing the hall with a scroll in his hand. "The dragon's tongue must be kept wet," he had muttered. "If it dries, the seal will crack." Wei Shang had assumed it was a proverb, a piece of old wisdom about the family's fortunes. Now he wondered if it had been literal instruction.

The hours crawled by. The lamp burned low. At some point, he must have dozed, because he was jolted awake by the sound of the bolt scraping open. Dr. Qi stood in the doorway, her face drawn, her robes disheveled.

"It is worse than we thought," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Sun Linfu's men found the incense burner. They smashed it open. The seal was not inside."

Wei Shang's heart plummeted. "Then it is lost."

"No. There was a note inside the burner—a slip of bamboo, inscribed with your father's handwriting. It read: 'The dragon's meal is in the well.' Sun Linfu's men are searching the well now. They have not found anything yet, but it is only a matter of time."

"The well," Wei Shang repeated. The estate's well was deep, fed by an underground spring. If something had been dropped into it, retrieving it would require diving into the cold, dark water. But the note suggested the seal was there, or that something was there that would lead to it.

"The well is outside the ancestral hall, in the inner courtyard. It is still guarded, but not as heavily as the hall itself. If Mei's brother can reach it before Sun Linfu's men drain the water—"

A scream cut through the morning air. It came from the direction of the kitchens, high and sharp, then abruptly cut off. Dr. Qi went rigid, her face draining of color.

"Mei," she breathed.

They waited in agonized silence. The asylum was waking up around them—the shuffle of guards, the distant moans of patients, the clang of pots from the kitchen. But no further screams came. Dr. Qi pressed her hand against the door, listening.

"I have to go," she said. "If they have taken Mei, they will question her. She cannot speak, but they have ways of making the mute confess. If she breaks—if she reveals the signals I taught her—they will know everything."

"Then run," Wei Shang said. "Take the message to the stable boy yourself. Get the seal before they do."

"And leave you here? Without me, Uncle Zhao will have you on the treatment table by noon. The trepanation—"

"Will happen anyway. If they find the seal, I am dead. If they do not find the seal, I am dead. The only chance for either of us is to get the seal out of their reach. Go. Now."

Dr. Qi hesitated. Then, with a swift movement, she pressed something into his hand: a small clay vial, stoppered with wax. "Extract of monkshood. A full dose will stop the heart in minutes. A half dose will slow the pulse until it is nearly undetectable—a death-like trance that can fool even a trained physician. If they come for you before I return, if there is no other way, take half. They may declare you dead and leave you unguarded long enough for me to retrieve you."

She was gone before he could argue. The door closed, and the bolt slid into place. Wei Shang stared at the vial in his palm. Monkshood. The poisoner's plant. To use it was to gamble with the threshold between life and death, trusting that someone would pull him back before he crossed over entirely.

He tucked the vial into his sleeve alongside the scalpel. Two tools of last resort. He hoped he would need neither.

The morning wore on. No gruel came—no signal from Mei. The asylum was uncharacteristically quiet, the usual rhythms disturbed. Wei Shang pressed his ear to the ventilation shaft, hoping for another word from the old man in the isolation cell, but the silence was absolute. He tried knocking, a pattern of three short, two long, three short. No answer.

By the time the sun slanted through the high, barred window, he knew something had gone terribly wrong. The guards were not making their rounds. The attendants were not delivering meals. The entire wing seemed to be holding its breath.

Then the door opened, and Uncle Zhao walked in. He was not carrying his reflex hammer. Instead, he held a bronze drill, its spiral blade gleaming with fresh oil. Behind him, two soldiers dragged a limp figure: a girl in a stained kitchen smock, her mouth a dark, empty wound. Mei. Her eyes were closed, her face bruised, but her chest still rose and fell. She was alive—barely.

"The mute girl was found in the east corridor, carrying this." Uncle Zhao held up a scrap of silk. Wei Shang recognized Dr. Qi's handwriting. "A message to a stable boy, instructing him to search the ancestral well for a hidden object. Dr. Qi confessed to writing it, after a brief conversation with my assistants. She is currently in the west wing, receiving a more... thorough debriefing."

Wei Shang's hands clenched into fists, but he forced them to remain still. "Where is she?"

"Where you will never see her again. But do not worry. You will be joining her soon enough. The trepanation has been moved to this afternoon. A pity—I had hoped to wait until after the new moon, but Sun Linfu insists. The Qi emissaries are growing restless, and the seal remains elusive. If we cannot have your signature, we will at least have your silence."

He nodded to the soldiers, who dropped Mei's body on the floor and seized Wei Shang's arms. They dragged him toward the door, toward the treatment room where the drill waited. Wei Shang's fingers closed around the scalpel hidden in his sleeve, but he did not draw it. Not yet. There were two soldiers, plus Uncle Zhao. Three against one, and he was weak from days of drugs and electroshock. A single strike might wound one, but it would not save him.

As they hauled him into the corridor, he caught a glimpse of Mei's face. Her eyes flickered open for just a moment, and her hand moved—a tiny gesture, almost imperceptible. Her fingers curled into a circle, then pointed downward, toward the floor.

The well. She was telling him something about the well.

The soldiers dragged him around the corner, and she was gone from sight. The corridor stretched ahead, dark and narrow, leading toward the treatment room where the bronze drill waited. Wei Shang's mind raced. The vial of monkshood was in his sleeve. The scalpel was in his other sleeve. The map was hidden in his cell, but he had memorized it. And somewhere in the walls, a ventilation shaft connected the cells, and an old man named Bo knew the secret of the dragon's meal.

The treatment room door loomed before him, its iron surface scarred and stained. The soldiers pushed it open, and the smell of old blood and burnt herbs washed over him. The table was waiting. The drill was waiting. And Uncle Zhao was smiling.

But as they strapped him down, Wei Shang noticed something that made his heart leap: on the windowsill, half-hidden behind a jar of leeches, was a small clay cup. And on its bottom, scratched into the glaze, was a single word.

"Breathe."

Dr. Qi had been here. She had left a message. She was still alive, and she was still fighting.

The drill began to turn, its blade catching the light, and Wei Shang closed his eyes. He held the word in his mind like a talisman. He breathed.

And in the walls, faint as a whisper, the scratching started again.