Chapter 16: A Matter of Great Importance

Under the watchful eyes of the crowd, Liu Jin showed not a trace of fear. Instead, he straightened his back, cupped his hands respectfully toward Xu Dun and the others, and said, “Gentlemen, Scribe He often served on tasks for the Director and has always been of great assistance to him. His recent trip out may well have been at the Director’s behest. Perhaps if you ask Scholar Peng, you might glean some clues.”

At these words, the faces of the supervising officials darkened. It was no secret that Liu Xin and the Director did not get along. Liu Jin’s suggestion smacked of shifting blame; if it weren’t for Liu Xin’s standing, Xu Dun would have lashed out at him on the spot. The other astronomy students began whispering among themselves, speculating whether there might be any truth to his words.

Peng Ying stood amid the crowd, his face alternating between pale and livid. He wanted several times to step forward and berate Liu Jin, but each time the words reached his lips, he forced them back down. The matter concerned the Director, and was of no small consequence; the supervisors were in no hurry to escalate the situation. Exchanging glances, Gao Mian stepped forward and sternly rebuked, “Liu Jin, mere conjecture cannot serve as evidence. Besides, any official errand requires a signed pass. Scribe He had no such pass, so his leaving is considered unauthorized. Let this matter rest!”

The others nodded in agreement. In the Ming dynasty, any official dispatched from a department required a pass signed by the presiding officer, to be presented as proof when carrying out tasks. Without it, their actions lacked legitimacy.

Though reprimanded, Liu Jin was undaunted. He bowed slightly again and said, “Gentlemen, it is true that official errands require a pass. But what if Scribe He held an ivory token granted by the Director?”

Ivory token? The crowd turned to Liu Jin in confusion.

The ivory token was a credential carved with the official’s name and rank, a symbol of their authority. The Director’s token, in particular, would be more useful and expedient than the department’s official pass. Yet, with the Director out of the capital, how could Scribe He have obtained it? This became the crucial question.

Xu Dun shot Peng Ying a look and asked, “Scholar Peng, did the Director grant Scribe He an ivory token?”

Peng Ying’s face grew even more unsightly. He glowered fiercely at Liu Jin before replying slowly, “My lord, Scribe He does indeed have the Director’s ivory token.”

The courtyard erupted in a buzz. Since he possessed the token, and with no other supervisors dispatching him, Scribe He’s departure during duty hours was very likely at the Director’s command. People began speculating about what errand the Director could have entrusted that would result in the deaths of three men.

Seeing the commotion, Peng Ying hurried to explain, “Everyone, please calm down and let me clarify. The Director gave Scribe He the ivory token because last month he was to travel to the Nanjing Astronomical Bureau to retrieve archived almanacs from the Hongwu era. The token was meant to facilitate travel. However, due to the urgent military campaign, the Director left the capital before Scribe He returned, so the token was not yet handed back. Still, though the token remained with Scribe He, I can guarantee he never used it for personal matters. Moreover, as Lord Xu noted earlier, Scribe He’s body had only official documents from the Bureau, no ivory token, and the Director is not in the capital. This should sufficiently prove the Director had nothing to do with this incident.”

In truth, whether the token was found on the deceased was insignificant; what mattered was whether it had been granted in the first place, as the nature of the case changed completely depending on that fact. Peng Ying’s detailed explanation was not only to distance his father from the murder but also because granting one’s token to another’s use was an extremely sensitive matter, easily punishable.

In the eleventh year of Hongwu, the founding emperor decreed: ivory tokens were to be made of ivory, inscribed with the official’s title. Without the token, entrance would be denied; if lent to another, both parties would be punished according to the law.

In other words, lending one’s token was a breach of Ming law. Yet, as years passed, enforcement had grown lax, and it became common for civil and military officials to lend tokens for official business, provided no problems arose. It had become an unwritten rule.

Still, for the Director to lend his token to Scribe He, who then died alongside others while using it, was much more serious than mere unauthorized lending. Should it be proven that the deaths were linked to the token’s use, and the censors took up the matter, even if exile or forced labor could be avoided, demotion and loss of salary were certain—enough, in itself, to bring ruin to Peng Deqing.

Liu Jin’s knowledge that Scribe He held the token was a reasoned guess. His father, Liu Xin, before leaving the capital, had mentioned Scribe He’s trip to Nanjing, since the almanacs retrieved were to aid his own calendrical work. During his complaints, Liu Xin had let slip that Scribe He had been given the Director’s token. Liu Jin hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but just now, when seeking to implicate Peng Ying and his father, the idea struck him. Upon consideration, it seemed likely the token was still with Scribe He—and indeed, it was.

Liu Jin, ever scheming, sensed this might be an opportunity to bring down Peng Deqing, and pressed his advantage, saying with a sly tone to Peng Ying, “The Director’s absence from the capital hardly means he had no errands to entrust. To say that no one could dispatch Scribe He is dubious; at the very least, that would not be difficult for Scholar Peng.”

Peng Ying, as Peng Deqing’s own son, was inextricably linked to him. Should he have given any orders, Scribe He would not have dared refuse. The situation suddenly became far more delicate.

If Peng Deqing had given the orders, whether for official or private matters, he could not escape responsibility for the deaths. But if Peng Ying himself had done so, the matter was even more serious: being neither supervisor nor official, he had no right to assign Bureau staff to outside tasks, and his duties afforded no reason for such errands. Sending Scribe He out during duty hours could only be a misuse of his father’s authority for personal business—a grave taboo in officialdom.

If exposed, Peng Ying would be held accountable, and Peng Deqing would also face charges for lending the token, lax discipline, and failing as a father. Both would suffer punishment—truly, harm to one would be harm to both.

The assembled crowd, sensing drama, grew visibly excited, their eyes burning with the fire of gossip. News that Scribe He had held the Bureau’s token was new to them; his audacious departure during duty hours was surely emboldened by this credential. Perhaps the Director had indeed sent a secret order from afar, or Peng Ying had dispatched Scribe He on private business—either seemed possible. Now that disaster had struck, it was unclear how Peng Ying would clear himself and his father of suspicion.

Inwardly, Peng Ying was full of regret. Had he known, he would never have sent Scribe He and the others to deal with Xue Rui. Now, that fellow stood among the crowd looking unfazed, while the three men he sent were dead. Not only could he not expose the truth, but he had to do everything to conceal it, a most stifling predicament.

Now, with Liu Jin dragging himself and his father into the murder case, he began to panic. After a moment’s quick thought, Peng Ying reasoned that, though Liu Jin’s words were sharp, as long as he steadfastly denied ever dispatching Scribe He and the others, and since they were all dead, there could be no witnesses to contradict him. As for Xue Rui, who stood silent, there seemed no evidence that Scribe He had acted under his orders—proving any connection to the murders was pure fantasy.

Taking a deep breath, Peng Ying sneered, “Liu Jin, cease your slanderous nonsense. I hold no office or position—how could I possibly command Scribe He or the others? Besides, I have been idle myself; what business could I have that required their help? And yesterday, I was in the archives room teaching you all, and afterward went straight to the registrar’s office. I never once met with Scribe He. Your baseless accusations are utterly reprehensible!”