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墨書 Inktalez
He needed the architectural blueprints of the examination hall, documents that only a few officials from the Ministry of Revenue and the Ministry of Rites could access.
My photographic memory came into play once again. Drawing from a faint recollection of a blueprint I had seen in my father's study, I worked day and night, using the finest stitches to outline the general layout of the examination hall on a small embroidered handkerchief. This included key entrances, corridors, and potential hidden spots.
In one inconspicuous corner, I marked a special location with different colored threads. This was a place I inferred might hold important items, based on snippets of information from my father's words.
The handkerchief was exquisitely crafted; to outsiders, it appeared to be an ordinary item from a lady's chamber. Only those who truly understood could decipher the hidden secrets within.
Three days later, at the hour of the rat, I arrived punctually at the ancient temple in the south of the city with the handkerchief in hand.
The temple was bustling with activity, filled with incense and visitors—a perfect place to convey messages without drawing attention.
I waited by the designated prayer wheel, where the air was fragrant with a subtle sandalwood scent, reminiscent yet distinct from the agarwood that Xie Yao wore.
I spotted him standing on the opposite side of the prayer wheel, dressed in dark attire that blended into the surroundings. His fingertips brushed against the cool metal.
He did not look at me; instead, as I approached, he deftly slipped a rolled-up note into the gap at the bottom of the prayer wheel.
Understanding his intent, I feigned a pious demeanor and began to turn the prayer wheel. Just before the note slipped into my palm, I also tucked my handkerchief into the same gap.
At that moment when our fingertips brushed, a chill coursed through me as if an electric current had passed between us.
I quickly withdrew my hand and concealed the note, completing my act of ordinary devotion before turning to leave.
The note was soaked in the familiar scent of Agarwood, its edges marked with bamboo patterns.
I returned to a secluded spot and unfolded the note. A few hastily scribbled lines made me clench my fist tightly.
It contained a new location, a new date, and… a name I least wanted to confront.
Following the instructions on the note, I arrived at "Futai Rice Shop" in the northern part of the city, a shadow of unease hanging over me, for that name seemed intricately linked to this rice shop.
Inside, the shop was bustling with voices, the air thick with the smell of rice and dust, mingled with an old mustiness that starkly contrasted with the elegant embroidery workshop I was accustomed to, causing me to instinctively frown.
Pretending to be a woman selecting rice, I covered my mouth and nose with a handkerchief and carefully observed the customers and workers coming and going, searching for any clues hinted at in the note.
Soon, I noticed a detail: several farmers selling rice received banknotes that appeared brand new on the surface but gave me an inexplicable sense of dissonance, like meticulously crafted forgeries lacking the soul of genuine articles.
With my photographic memory, I recalled some official silver notes my father had handled; their textures and paper were unique, imbued with a profound weight. These before me felt like they were missing something, like distorted echoes.
I found an excuse to ask one of the workers for a cup of tea, claiming thirst. Then, discreetly, I dipped my fingertip into the tea and lightly touched one corner of the banknote, my movements as subtle as a needle falling from an embroiderer’s hand.
Instantly, faint patterns emerged on the paper, nearly invisible to the naked eye, resembling ink bleeding on paper. Indeed, it was fake.
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