When the door of the council hall closed behind him, Jiang Zechen had already gone over every figure he had just heard in his mind once again.
City repairs, stone materials, construction schedule, grain, medicinal herbs, cotton-padded coats.
There were no obvious flaws in those numbers, but he knew that this was precisely where the problem lay.
—They were too neat.
Neat as if someone had carefully wiped everything clean before placing it on the table.
When he entered the courtyard of the Administrative Office, the sunlight happened to break through the clouds, shining onto the unmelted snow. The reflected light was so bright that it made his eyes narrow slightly.
He instinctively turned his face to the side and raised a hand to shield it, moving the bamboo fan in his hand to his left.
The motion was extremely natural. He had done it countless times already. The ribs of the fan turned half a circle between his fingers before he firmly caught it again.
His gaze swept forward unintentionally, and he saw Xia Lanshi standing beneath the corridor.
Xia Lanshi was wearing a thick white fox-fur cloak and holding a paper umbrella.
The umbrella was beige, with an extremely faint red floral pattern around its edge, like a stroke of ink brushed across paper.
He stood beneath the corridor waiting without hurrying away, as if he had known from the beginning that Jiang Zechen would come out at this time.
The sunlight fell onto the umbrella, making the ring of patterns slightly translucent and casting a faint shadow onto the snow.
Jiang Zechen’s footsteps slowed for an instant.
He remembered that Xia Lanshi had also carried an umbrella when they were at the academy.
At that time, his classmates at the academy would always gossip behind his back, saying he was affected, saying he was putting on an act, saying that it looked ridiculous for a man to carry an umbrella when there was no rain.
Xia Lanshi had never argued with them. He simply carried that old umbrella of his, walking from beneath the corridor to the classroom, and from the classroom to the study.
He carried an umbrella in winter, and in summer as well.
Jiang Zechen had never asked why back then. Thinking about it now, perhaps it was because Bai Zi was sensitive to light.
Those pale-red eyes would hurt under the sunlight, so he always walked in the shadows, or beneath an umbrella.
Jiang Zechen’s fingers holding the bamboo fan moved slightly.
“Lord Jiang.”
Xia Lanshi turned around, tilting the paper umbrella slightly to block the sunlight.
His complexion looked even paler than usual beneath the shadow of the umbrella.
His lips were faint in color, and beneath his long white lashes lay a layer of soft shadow.
He stood there like a bamboo stalk gently swaying beneath the wind and snow.
“The granary is in the west of the city,” he said, his tone calm. “It isn’t far, about two quarter-hours. If Lord Jiang isn’t in a hurry, we can walk there slowly.”
Jiang Zechen did not answer. As he passed by him, his gaze paused for an instant on the fingers holding the umbrella.
That hand was very white, its knuckles distinct and slender, as though it would break with just a little force.
He withdrew his gaze and did not stop walking.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Xia Lanshi followed at his side, the paper umbrella always held at an angle that kept the sunlight from shining directly onto his face.
He walked within the umbrella’s shadow, his pace unhurried, but his breathing was slightly shallower than usual.
Jiang Zechen did not look at him, but his pace was a little slower than before, as though accommodating someone who could not walk quickly.
The grain officer walked behind the two of them, keeping his head lowered and not daring to look up at their backs.
One was the Chief Secretary of Prince Su’s Residence, while the other was an inspector sent from the capital. The two walked along the same road, yet there was half a person’s distance between them.
The streets of Linbei City appeared quieter under the afternoon light than they had in the early morning.
The shadow of the city wall fell across the snow, dividing the street into alternating patches of light and darkness.
Xia Lanshi walked on the side where the sunlight was weaker. The edge of his paper umbrella cast a band of light and shadow onto the wall, gently swaying with his footsteps.
When they passed a newly built wooden shelter, Jiang Zechen glanced inside.
The bamboo fan in his hand lifted slightly, its tip pointing toward the wooden shelter.
“What is that place?”
Xia Lanshi followed his gaze and answered in a tone so gentle that it sounded as though he were introducing a place unrelated to himself.
“A porridge shelter. A place where the common people receive porridge. It opens every morning and closes in the afternoon. At present, the rationing system is being uniformly managed by the city districts, so porridge is no longer distributed from here.”
He paused.
“If Lord Jiang is interested, you can come and take a look tomorrow morning.”
Jiang Zechen did not answer, but he remembered those words.
He did not believe Xia Lanshi would voluntarily let him see anything truly important. But at the very least, the existence of that porridge shelter itself could confirm one thing: there really were people distributing grain in this city.
He lowered the bamboo fan back to his side. The ribs of the fan lightly tapped his palm, making an extremely soft “tap.”
From the corner of his eye, he noticed a gaze in the distance.
That gaze fell upon him, seeming like a silent urging.
After walking for a while, Jiang Zechen heard Xia Lanshi cough softly.
It was very light, as though his throat were merely a little itchy.
He did not turn around, and his pace did not slow.
But after three steps, he heard a second cough.
This one was heavier than the first, as though it had been suppressed for too long before finally leaking out.
Jiang Zechen’s footsteps slowed.
He did not stop, but it was as though he were waiting.
The granary was in the west of the city, an enclosed courtyard surrounded by walls.
The steps at the entrance were new, and the door panels had also been replaced, but several old marks still remained at the base of the wall.
The main gate stood open. Soldiers were stationed at the entrance, and when they saw Xia Lanshi approaching, they shifted slightly to let him pass.
Xia Lanshi folded his paper umbrella and paused at the entrance, turning his head toward Jiang Zechen.
“Lord Jiang, please.”
When Jiang Zechen entered the granary, the first thing he saw was the neatly arranged sacks of rice.
One sack after another was stacked on wooden racks, the corners pressed flat, as though someone had carefully organized them.
He did not immediately walk inside. Instead, he stood at the entrance for a moment, his gaze sweeping across every corner of the walls and every crack, as though confirming that this granary truly contained grain.
He walked to the first row of rice sacks and pressed his hand against one.
The grains inside the sack made a faint rustling sound. There was indeed grain inside.
He took two more steps, changed to another sack, and pressed it as well. It had the same texture.
He said nothing and continued forward, occasionally stopping to press a hand against a sack or lift the opening to take a look at the rice inside.
Xia Lanshi stood not far behind him. He did not follow too closely, nor did he urge him onward, quiet as a shadow.
The grain officer stood at the entrance with his head lowered, as though he did not dare look at Jiang Zechen inspecting the grain sacks.
He already knew that this batch of grain had been transferred from Hanchuan.
He also knew that there was a problem with the grain from Hanchuan. But Chief Secretary Xia had already given his instructions. Everything that needed to be replaced had been replaced, and everything that needed to be replenished had been replenished.
Everything Jiang Zechen could see was what Chief Secretary Xia wanted him to see.
And the things he could not see had already been arranged properly as well.
When Jiang Zechen reached the third row of rice sacks, his footsteps paused.
His fingers lingered on the outer edge of one sack for a moment longer, as though he had felt something.
He did not turn around. Instead, he slightly rotated the sack, revealing the stitching at the bottom.
The stitches were denser than those on the sacks beside it, as though the sack had been opened and then sewn shut again.
He said nothing. He simply returned the sack to its original position and continued forward.
But Xia Lanshi saw it.
He saw Jiang Zechen’s fingers linger on that sack for an extra instant.
He knew what Jiang Zechen had discovered—that sack had been opened, and the grain inside had been replaced.
He was not flustered, because that was exactly what he wanted Jiang Zechen to discover.
He needed Jiang Zechen to believe that he had “found something.” That way, he would not dig any deeper.
After Jiang Zechen finished inspecting the entire granary, he stopped in front of the final row of rice sacks.
Without turning around, he asked in a tone as calm as if he were confirming the weather:
“Chief Secretary Xia, how long can the grain stored in this granary last?”
Xia Lanshi’s voice came from behind him, gentle and calm.
“Under the current rationing system, approximately twenty days.”
“What about the military camp outside the city?”
“The military camp has a separate granary. It is not here.”
Jiang Zechen was silent for a moment before turning around to look at Xia Lanshi.
Xia Lanshi was standing at the entrance, the paper umbrella folded in his hand. His pair of pale-red eyes looked like cinnabar worn smooth by time, reflecting a hazy glimmer of light within the shadows.
The bamboo fan in Jiang Zechen’s hand remained motionless.
“Not here.” Jiang Zechen repeated those four words.
His tone contained neither a question nor doubt. It was merely as though he were confirming something that had already been answered.
Xia Lanshi said nothing and only nodded slightly.
Jiang Zechen did not ask anything further.
When he walked out of the granary, the sunlight fell onto his shoulders again.
He did not look back, but he noted in his mind the stitches that had been sewn again on that rice sack, as well as Xia Lanshi’s answer of “not here.”
That sentence was vaguer than he had imagined, vague like a half-closed door. He knew there was something behind the door, but it was not yet time to push it open.
When he reached the corridor, he heard a cough behind him.
He did not turn around, but his footsteps slowed by a beat.
Xia Lanshi opened the paper umbrella and walked out from the granary entrance. The umbrella blocked the sunlight, leaving a soft shadow across his face.
He did not chase after him. He merely stood where he was, as though waiting for Jiang Zechen to walk farther away, or as though confirming whether he had truly gone far enough.
◇◆◇◆◇
Inside the tent, the candle flame burned very steadily, as though someone had carefully adjusted the wick.
Several account books were spread across the desk. The edges of the pages had turned slightly yellow, and several figures had been circled in red ink, with brief annotations added beside them.
Xia Lanshi read through them once more. Only after confirming that everything was correct did he close the account books.
He did not stack them. He simply laid them flat on his left, like a pile of old matters he did not intend to deal with for the time being.
He took the letter from the corner of the desk.
The envelope was pitch-black, like the night.
In one corner was a tiny silver-embossed owl pattern, giving off an extremely faint sheen beneath the candlelight.
When he unfolded the letter beneath the lamp, the first thing he saw was the black paper.
There was no scent of ink, but there was another faint, elegant fragrance that did not belong to this world.
At first, he did not think much of it. He simply naturally lifted the letter toward the lamplight to read it.
Only then did he realize that today’s handwriting was easier to make out than usual, as though someone had adjusted a perfect distance between the paper and the light for him, and it was not nearly as harsh on his eyes.
He paused for a moment, as though confirming the change.
The silver-white handwriting was exceptionally clear against the dark paper, its edges clean without any bleeding.
He finished reading the entire letter without stopping halfway through to rub his eyes as he usually did.
He read it once.
The handwriting on the letter was somewhat casual, like the person writing it was not accustomed to lengthy explanations, yet did not want the recipient to feel that he had been brushed off.
After finishing, he did not immediately put it away. Instead, he let the letter remain in his hand for a little longer.
The letter had answered almost none of his questions.
Xiao had not explained how he knew that there was an ancient Door beneath Linbei City.
Nor had he explained his connection to that empty hall.
He had not even directly answered the question of how he could reveal the answer with a single sentence despite never having set foot in the Northern Frontier.
After reading the entire letter, Xia Lanshi realized that there was only one answer he had received—
Xiao would not answer.
But at the end of the letter, he had said: Once your health is better, there is no harm in writing again.
Xia Lanshi placed the letter on the desk, the candlelight illuminating his profile with a faint glow.
That sentence turned several times in his mind, like a small stone placed into his palm. It was not heavy, yet impossible to ignore.
He had originally thought he would feel disappointed at not receiving an answer, or that Xiao’s avoidance would make him even more certain that the other party was hiding something.
But what surfaced in his heart at this moment was not either of those things.
Xiao had not answered his questions, but he noticed that the handwriting in the letter was slightly lighter than in the previous one, as though the writer’s hand had still been somewhat unsteady when putting pen to paper.
Xia Lanshi knew what that meant—
Xiao had been injured.
That was what Xiao Yuan had told him. Xiao had been attacked by Sheng Chengxiu’s people, and they wanted him dead.
Although the injuries should not have been serious, Xiao had refused Doctor Su Muchen’s examination.
In addition, he had reminded him to add another lamp when reading accounts at night, lest his eyesight become damaged too easily.
His fingertips gently rubbed along the edge of the black letter paper.
Besides worry, there were questions in his mind.
He could never help wondering what Xiao’s deliberate avoidance of Doctor Su Muchen’s examination meant.
Countless questions circled endlessly in his mind, yet he could obtain no further information.
Xiao had completely omitted the matter of his injury in the letter, just as he had not told Xiao that he himself had recently been ill.
Xiao had even instructed Xiao Yuan not to tell him.
He unfolded the letter again and looked once more at that sentence.
“—Once your health is better, there is no harm in writing again.”
This was not a polite remark. There was no “if you have time” or “if it is convenient,” the sort of words used to brush someone off.
Xiao was saying: I am willing to continue receiving your letters, as long as you want to write.
Xia Lanshi looked at those words without moving his gaze away.
That sentence was like a chess piece that had already settled onto the board, landing in his heart.
He discovered that, in truth, he did not care why Xiao knew about that Door.
He cared about Xiao’s injury. He cared whether he was safe now.
And he cared that Xiao was willing to leave that sentence at the end of the letter.
If a person truly wanted to sever contact, he would not add at the end, “There is no harm in writing again.”
Perhaps that sentence was the answer Xia Lanshi wanted, and even more important than the answer itself.
The sound of the tent curtain being lifted broke the brief silence.
When Chi Banyue walked in, she still carried the chill from outside. Her long hair had already been tied up again, as though she had just finished running around handling matters and had made her way here.
She glanced at the account books on the desk, then at the letter in Xia Lanshi’s hand. She sat down beside him and spoke casually, though a trace of worry could be heard in her voice.
“The Su family has repaid the debt. The ownership of Guichen House will be recovered soon.”
She paused.
“What do you think Doctor Su will do?”
Xia Lanshi did not raise his head. He merely said lightly:
“Doctor Su is kindhearted. The Northern Frontier remains difficult. Before the grain shortage and epidemic are brought under control, he certainly will not stop cooperating.”
Chi Banyue nodded, finding it reasonable.
“Then what do you think Your Highness will do?”
Xia Lanshi’s fingers stopped at the edge of the envelope. He did not answer immediately.
Chi Banyue watched his movement, her gaze unintentionally sweeping across the envelope in his hand. Her eyes paused for an instant on the owl pattern.
She was silent for a moment, but leaned slightly forward.
Xia Lanshi raised his eyes.
“Miss Banyue, this letter isn’t for you to read.”
“I know,” Chi Banyue said, though her gaze did not immediately move away. “I just thought the envelope was unusual and exquisite, so I took another look.”
After saying this, she leaned back against the chair. Her gaze moved away from the envelope and fell onto the neatly folded piece of cloth at the corner of the desk.
The handkerchief was only half embroidered. It was a branch of plum blossoms slanting outward. The branch had already been embroidered, and only two petals had bloomed. The rest still showed traces of the drawn thread outline.
Xia Lanshi followed her gaze. He did not put the handkerchief away. He merely moved it to the side, as though making room for the account books, or as though he did not want too much of it to be seen.
Chi Banyue looked at the handkerchief without commenting.
When Xia Lanshi was young, he had not been free. The only person beside him was a wet nurse who took care of him, neither particularly cold nor particularly warm toward him.
The wet nurse often embroidered in the room. After Xia Lanshi watched her for a long time, he unexpectedly learned the needlework as well, and afterward taught himself to embroider.
He would only take out this handkerchief late at night, when everyone was quiet, and under a single lamp, stitch by stitch, embroider one flower.
“You were testing him again in the letter?” she asked.
Xia Lanshi’s fingers tightened slightly.
“I was only curious.”
“Being curious for too long can be tiring too.”
Chi Banyue looked at him. There was no reproach in her tone, as though she were merely reminding him of something she had already observed.
“Every letter, you ask how he knows, why he knows, and how much more he knows. He answers every letter, but he never directly answers you. If it were you, and someone questioned you like this for a year, would you still want to write back?”
Xia Lanshi said nothing.
Chi Banyue continued, “The two of you don’t necessarily have to keep testing each other. You can also tell him about other things. For example, what’s happening on your side, that the snow in Linbei City has stopped, or that your wintersweet is about to bloom.”
She paused.
“Or the plum blossom you’re embroidering.”
Xia Lanshi lowered his long white lashes, his fingertips resting on the white jade peace buckle, as though weighing something.
He did not answer. But when he placed the letter into the wooden box on the desk, his movements were gentler than usual, as though he were putting something that should not be treated carelessly back where it belonged.
There had been no answer he wanted to know in that letter, but Xiao had given him something else.
That something made him want to hold on even more than the “Door.”
He realized that when he wrote letters to Xiao, perhaps it was not only to test him.
Perhaps he simply wanted to receive letters like this in return.
Chi Banyue did not press him. Instead, she turned the conversation back to business.
“His Highness’s expression tonight was rather strange.”
Xia Lanshi raised his eyes to look at her.
Chi Banyue said, “After he came back, he also stood in the storeroom for a long time.”
Xia Lanshi was silent for a moment.
“He needs to figure things out for himself.”
“Of course he needs to figure it out,” Chi Banyue said. “But what after he figures it out?”
She really was going to be driven crazy by Xiao Yuan and Xia Lanshi.
One was passive and passive-minded, simply letting things take their natural course until the person was practically about to leave.
The other was always probing and testing the other party, thinking they were playing a game of chess.
Couldn’t they find some middle ground?
Xia Lanshi did not answer, but he knew Chi Banyue was right.
Xiao Yuan had never been someone who would take the initiative to speak, while Su Muchen was also not someone who would take the initiative to move forward.
Both of them were waiting for the other to take the first step, but now the road between them was gradually becoming narrower.
The tent was quiet for a while. Wind seeped in through the gap in the tent curtain, causing the candle flame to sway slightly.
Xia Lanshi reached out and steadied the lamp base, his fingertips pausing for an instant against the edge of the copper base.
Chi Banyue was just about to speak when footsteps suddenly sounded outside the tent, hurried and heavy, as though whoever was walking had not bothered to lighten his steps upon the snow.
She stopped speaking and listened for a moment. She had already understood something from that rhythm.
The hurried footsteps stopped outside the tent. The personal guard’s voice came through the thick felt curtain, urgency already impossible to suppress.
“Chief Secretary Xia, urgent report from the northern watchpost. Helian Cang is leading approximately five thousand light cavalry southward, moving toward the northeast direction of Linbei City. They have not yet approached the city walls, nor have they formed an attack formation.”
Xia Lanshi’s expression remained calm. There was even an almost imperceptible trace of a smile at the corner of his lips.
This game of chess was finally about to begin.