Late spring. The Si River was in flood. Rain hammered the green tiles of the post station, crackling loudly. Hoofprints in the muddy ground had been washed into a murky stream, carrying dead grass, broken porcelain, and a drop of dark red, like blood not yet dry. "Urgent report! The imperial gold inkstone has been stolen!" The station master's roar pierced the curtain of rain. Constable Zhao Tieshan strode in through the mud, his saber clanging at his waist. The hall was dim, and five figures stood frozen in place. Rainwater trickled from their hems, gathering into small puddles at their feet. 1. Traces in the Porridge Bowl. Ziche Fu, nearing fifty, wore a coarse cloth robe stained with rice bran. On the table before him, a half bowl of cold porridge had a skin of oil congealing on top, its rim
