to be occupied with those hogs from your assistant.” Kaifeng nodded toward the pig carcasses stacked on the back counter. “Once your back was turned, he crept by to swipe a few coins.”
This boy was in rags very much like the first one. He started to squeak out a protest, but Kaifeng merely let him drop to the ground. A quick search of his person revealed two copper coins tucked into his shoe.
There was no need to test the coins in water for streaks of grease and blood. The boy, in the typical fashion of the guilty, piped up that this was only his first time stealing from the butcher.
“It wasn’t me all those other times,” he insisted.
The butcher’s face flushed red and his jowls shook as he roared, “I should chop off your hand myself, you no-good dog.”
He raised his cleaver to make good on the threat, which sent the thief scrambling behind Kaifeng for protection. “Sir! Constable, sir. Don’t let him kill me.”
On any other day, Kaifeng would leave the thief to the butcher to mete out punishment. There was no use in taking such a petty crime to the magistrate where the youth would only receive a few blows with the light rod as punishment.
“Put him to work,” Kaifeng suggested, seeing the butcher was less enthusiastic about wielding his cleaver on a person than on a side of pork.
Once the failed thief was on his knees scrubbing the floor, Kaifeng returned to his original intent for coming to the shop.
“There is a favor I must ask of you,” he said to the butcher.
“Anything, Constable.”
Kaifeng looked to the pigs stacked on the back counter, still intact. “If I could borrow two of those. You will get them back shortly, I assure you.”
The butcher shot him a questioning look, a look that said he wasn’t certain whether Wu Kaifeng was entirely sane. It was a look the constable got often.
“This might make your job easier for the day,” Kaifeng added.
The butcher set his son at the counter to take care of customers while he helped haul the two carcasses to the storeroom in back.
Hooks hung from the ceiling and the smell of old blood and gore clung to the air. This was where the meat was hung to drain after slaughter. The reformed thief made his way back there and plunked his wash bucket down. Scrunching up his face, he sank down to his knees and started scrubbing with an air of resignation.
Kaifeng secured the pigs onto the hooks, heads up so that their necks were exposed at his eye level. The weight of them was nearly equal to a man’s.
He thanked the butcher for his assistance, but the man remained in the storeroom, too curious to return to his counter. When Kaifeng positioned himself in front of one of the pigs and drew his sword, the boy stopped his scrubbing to watch with fascination.
Setting his feet and squaring his shoulders, Kaifeng sank into his stance. He gripped the broadsword in both hands—he had the feeling he would need the extra power in his swing—and pulled the weapon back.
Tension gathered in his shoulders as he prepared himself. He had watched the executioner deal such a blow, but had never done it himself. He had, however, wielded his sword against a flesh and blood enemy enough times to know the impact of steel into bone.
With a deep breath, he reared back and then struck with the exhale, directing his blow not into the body, but to a point on the other side. The broadsword sank deep, but not through the corpse. The resistance in the body stopped him short even though he was swinging at full force. It took another swipe to sever the head from the body. The carcass fell to the floor with a thump and the boy gasped in amazement.
“A little harder next time,” the butcher said encouragingly.
For the second carcass, Kaifeng circled around so he was facing the back of the pig.
“It’s going to be more difficult that way, Constable,” the butcher warned.
Kaifeng readied himself and struck again. Once again, he’d failed to sever the head in one blow, but that hadn’t quite been his aim. He inspected the cuts he’d made with his broadsword.
The first blow had indeed resulted in a clean cut. The secondary cut was easily discernible from the ragged edge of the wound. Next he tested a few cuts from the butcher’s cleaver and his machete. Tools that the butcher necessarily kept honed. Again, the cuts were discernible. The cleaver was blunter. The machete sharper and cleaner, but not as precise as his sword.
“Did you get the answers you were looking for, Constable?” the butcher asked.
“Too soon for conclusive answers.” Kaifeng cleaned his sword with a rag and sheathed it. “Just gathering information.”
General Deng had been beheaded with a single stroke, by a man who was both sword-trained and strong enough to deliver the death blow. There had been a slight angle to Deng’s wound, a downward cut that would seem more natural for taking a head, especially when the victim was sitting or kneeling. Most likely the blow was dealt from the front. By someone who was right-handed.
It was still possible that someone Deng trusted had positioned himself behind the general, but very unlikely. A fighting man wouldn’t allow anyone who was dangerous such an advantage. Even though Kaifeng’s size might render most men less threatening, he was still aware of who was around him. Especially if that person was armed.
The killer would be an experienced fighter, most likely tall in stature, possessing a good sword. Deng’s bodyguards were immediately suspect. Kaifeng had been unable to track them down the day before, but it was only a matter of time.
There was another explanation Kaifeng hadn’t yet considered. Deng had gone without his bodyguards and without his weapon. Was it possible that Deng had expected to die? But why summon Mingyu that morning?
A chill settled in his blood. The general might have wanted to see her one last time before dying. Or he could have planned for her to accompany him on that last, long journey into darkness. Perhaps Deng had planned it that way all along.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“I DON’T KNOW why we have to entertain at a public drinking house,” Ziyi complained.
Mingyu was accompanied that evening by Ziyi and Jing-min, one of the younger girls of the house. Their destination was a tavern in the northern quadrant of the ward, reachable on foot, but still a good distance away.
“It will be loud, crowded. Full of all sorts of who-knows-what.”
“It’s good practice and there is a sizable gathering there tonight.” Mingyu led them toward the pair of lanterns flickering at the end of the street. “Good opportunity for introductions.”
“But you’re not performing.”
“I’m in mourning,” Mingyu replied serenely. “And I have less need to cultivate a following than my younger courtesan-sisters.”
Ziyi snorted. Jing-min remained quiet as she kept pace beside them. She had her pipa held close to her side. At fifteen and having been in training for a short five years,
