Chapter 9

Zhao Ji stood frozen for a long moment before she understood what Ying Zheng had said. Her voice rose sharply as she flatly refused.

“We’re just a defenseless mother and son. How could we possibly escape to Qin?”

“This is an adult matter. It has nothing to do with you, and you have no business interfering. Life in Handan is hard, but at least we’re alive. If we try to escape to Qin and the people of Zhao catch us, we’ll both die!” Her voice trembled with fear.

As she spoke, she reached out and shoved Ying Zheng, roughly trying to push him back into his room.

“Nothing to do with me? I’m the great-grandson of the King of Qin. If Qin and Zhao go to war, I’ll be the first one killed to raise the battle standard.” Ying Zheng staggered from the shove, his voice cold. “We hide from one place to another, waiting for the people of Zhao to come humiliate and beat us whenever they’re in the mood. Is that what you call living, Mother?”

Ying Zheng was very young. He was taller than most boys his age, but nowhere near strong enough to overpower an adult woman. Before long, Zhao Ji had pushed him off balance again and again.

When she reached for him once more, Ying Zheng suddenly caught her by the wrist. He raised his head and shouted in her ear, “Father is in Xianyang. He has a new wife and a young son. If we can’t return, years from now, will there still be room for us by Father’s side?”

Zhao Ji shuddered. Her hand stopped in midair, and tears suddenly spilled down her cheeks.

That was exactly what she had feared, day and night.

She had always been proud of her beauty. She’d never been content with being a mere dancer. Back when Lu Buwei presented her to Yiren, the Qin Royal Grandson, and she fell pregnant, she’d been beside herself with joy. She thought at last she’d climbed to the top.

But the Qin Royal Grandson she’d pinned all her hopes on had abandoned her and the infant Ying Zheng and run away.

Why should a woman as beautiful as her have to hide from place to place, wasting away her youth?

And as the years passed, the beauty she’d once been so proud of had begun to fade. If Lu Buwei hadn’t kept her hopes alive, and if she hadn’t kept repeating to herself, My son is the legitimate eldest son of the Qin Royal Grandson. He won’t abandon his eldest son, Zhao Ji might not have held on.

“Mother, we’ve hidden in Handan for eight years. Are we going to hide for another eight? Eighteen?” Ying Zheng saw her wavering and seized his chance, pulling her into the room. His voice dropped, urgent and low. “Even if we make it back then, what good will it do?”

He held her gaze. “Father won’t love a woman whose youth and beauty are gone. He won’t value a firstborn son who didn’t grow up by his side. He’ll give his love, his attention, and even the foundations of Qin to his new wife and the son who’s been raised at his knee.”

His argument was clear and methodical, each word striking at the heart of Zhao Ji’s fears. She opened her mouth, but couldn’t find anything to say.

Her face went deathly pale. She was terrified by the bleak future Ying Zheng had described.

If they couldn’t get their wealth and status back, what had all her years of suffering been for?

“But… Zhao is at war with Yan. The roads are full of soldiers…” Zhao Ji stammered.

“That’s exactly why now is the right time!” Ying Zheng cut her off, his voice ringing with conviction. “Lian Po’s army is fighting the people of Yan on the front lines. Handan’s defenses must be thin, and everyone’s attention is elsewhere. Do you really think Zhao is foolish enough to fight Yan and kill the Qin royal grandson at the same time, making another enemy and leaving itself exposed on two fronts?”

“Even if we’re discovered now, there’s a good chance we’ll be spared. But if war breaks out between Zhao and Qin again in a few years, the angry people of Zhao will almost certainly drag us out and kill us as an offering.”

Ying Zheng laid out the pros and cons with perfect clarity.

He had learned the Diplomatic Stratagems from Fan Ju. To make someone who feared danger take a risk, he had to threaten and persuade in equal measure.

“Mother,” Ying Zheng said, his voice softening into a plea. “We can’t keep waiting. We can’t put our lives in the hands of the people of Zhao and sit here waiting to die. I have to go.”

He paused, then said something that made Zhao Ji’s heart seize.

“If you’re too afraid, you can hide here for now. Once I’m settled in Qin, I’ll come back for you at once.”

“No!”

Zhao Ji almost screamed. She spun around and clutched Ying Zheng’s arm, her nails digging into his flesh.

“You can’t leave me behind! Your father… your father already abandoned me once! I can’t stay alone in this wretched place!”

She gasped, her chest heaving.

After crying for a while, Zhao Ji suddenly wiped her face with the back of her hand. Her hair had come loose. She seized Ying Zheng’s hand, gripping it so tightly her knuckles went white.

“Fine. I’ll write to Lu Buwei!”

Zhao Ji had spent years hiding in Handan. She never worked; she and Ying Zheng lived on the money Lu Buwei sent them, and she had her own way of contacting him.

The next day, Zhao Ji went out in disguise early in the morning and didn’t hurry home until the sky had gone dark.

“Lu Buwei’s men will come for the letter tomorrow,” she said, biting her lip. She looked to Ying Zheng for help. “What should I write?”

“I’ll write it. You can copy it.” Ying Zheng looked at his own mother’s face, so guilelessly blank, and sighed in resignation.

I should have told the adults to study properly ages ago. What a bunch of useless grown-ups.

Ying Zheng wrote a separate letter to Lu Buwei himself. When he was done, he stared down at the folded piece of silk and thought for a moment before getting up to find Zhao Ji.

“Mother, do you still have any of Father’s old clothes?”

Zhao Ji was copying the letter by lamplight. She looked at him in surprise. “Why would you want those rags?”

“To write to Father.” Ying Zheng kept his answer brief and said no more.

Knowing his own mother, he doubted she’d understand even if he explained.

Zhao Ji stared at him for a while, then got up and dragged a bundle of old cloth from under the bed. Inside were several outfits, made of good fabric but worn with age.

“I threw out the ones that weren’t worth anything. These two good outfits came with him from Qin. I kept them.” She pushed the bundle toward Ying Zheng. “Take them.”

Her tone was casual. In Zhao Ji’s eyes, the things Ying Yiren had left behind were either “worth something” or “worth nothing.” Whatever affection there had been had long since worn away.

Ying Zheng tore off a piece of the clothing and took it back to the table. He drew a dagger from his sleeve and held it against his arm.

No. 108 shot out of his jade pendant.

[Ahhh! Player, what are you doing?!]

Words flashed wildly in No. 108’s database: depression, too lovesick for his father…

Did Qin Shi Huang have some kind of psychological problem as a child?

Ying Zheng calmly made a cut on his arm. “I’m writing my father a blood letter.”

No. 108 circled Ying Zheng for ages. Only after Ying Zheng had stopped the bleeding did it finally relax and retreat into the jade pendant.

Ying Zheng laid the blood letter on the table. Still unsatisfied, he went to the water jar, scooped up a dipperful, and used his fingers to sprinkle a few drops on the cloth.

Only when both the blood and water stains had dried did he tuck the letter away, satisfied.

The following night, someone knocked at the courtyard gate.

The visitor was a thin, middle-aged merchant dressed in a well-worn brown robe. As soon as he entered the room, he bowed to Ying Zheng and addressed him as “Prince.” His deferential manner made it clear he knew the boy’s identity.

“I am Gong Mao, sent by Mr. Lu to look after the Lady and the Prince in Handan.” He wore an ingratiating smile.

Ying Zheng invited him to sit. Zhao Ji brought him a bowl of water, and Gong Mao bobbed his head and thanked her repeatedly, but didn’t dare drink what she offered. After a few polite exchanges, Ying Zheng noticed that Gong Mao spoke of Lu Buwei with excessive familiarity.

Ying Zheng deliberately steered the conversation toward Lu Buwei. Drawing on the probing techniques he’d learned from Fan Ju, he soon coaxed Gong Mao into revealing who he was.

Gong Mao was a merchant who traded in lumber. He’d known Lu Buwei back when Lu was still doing business in Zhao. After Lu fled to Qin, he’d made contact with Gong Mao again so he could look after Zhao Ji and Ying Zheng. Lu had promised him power and wealth in return.

“So you’re an old friend of Mr. Lu’s.” Ying Zheng set down his pottery bowl, his tone carrying just the right amount of surprise and warmth. “Now that he’s risen so high, he’s one of my father’s trusted advisers. Yet you…”

Ying Zheng let the sentence trail off, his gaze falling on Gong Mao’s unmistakably merchant-like clothes.

Gong Mao gave a bitter smile. “We only traded together a little when we were young. Brother Lu has the ambition of a swan and was never meant to stay in a small pond. Now he’s one of the Qin Royal Grandson’s most trusted advisers. I don’t have the ability to match him.”

He shook his head and said no more, letting out a quiet sigh.

“You risked coming here today because of an old friendship, and to carry out Mr. Lu’s errand.”

Ying Zheng took a brocade pouch from inside his robe. It held the blood letter he’d written the night before.

He gently pushed the pouch across the table toward Gong Mao.

“Would you be willing to do me one more favor while you’re at it? I’d like you to find a way to deliver this letter to my father.”

Gong Mao went rigid and looked up sharply.

Ying Zheng met his gaze without flinching. “Mr. Lu rose to where he is because he bet on my father as a rare commodity. But is he the only rare commodity in the world?”

Gong Mao’s breathing quickened. He stared at the eight-year-old boy before him, whose presence was far greater than his age, and felt his throat go dry.

This fallen Qin prince, now trapped in Handan, Zhao, was the most exalted person Gong Mao could hope to reach.

Danger and opportunity tightened around his neck like two venomous snakes.

After a long silence, Gong Mao drew a deep breath and held out his trembling hand to take the light brocade pouch.

“Prince, I will see this delivered.” His voice was hoarse. He bowed respectfully to Ying Zheng, then tucked the silk letter carefully inside his robe.

With the letter hidden against his body, Gong Mao left Zhao for Qin. He went first to Xianyang and delivered Zhao Ji and Ying Zheng’s letters to Lu Buwei’s residence. Then he found the residence of Yiren, who had since changed his name to Ying Zichu, and delivered the brocade pouch to him.

When Lu Buwei returned home, one of his retainers presented him with letters from Handan.

After reading the letters from Zhao Ji and Ying Zheng, Lu Buwei was both surprised and troubled.

He was surprised that the eight-year-old Ying Zheng could write such elegant Qin script—and had such a clear understanding of the situation.

He was troubled by the requests Zhao Ji and Ying Zheng had made.

He was no longer the merchant from Puyang who had once needed to risk his life on a single gamble. Now he sat securely at the head of the Qin Royal Grandson’s advisers, with both fame and wealth. Why should he risk himself again?

Lu Buwei had always wanted to bring Zhao Ji and her son back. After all, Zhao Ji was the woman he’d presented to Ying Yiren, which meant they were naturally on the same side. But he’d imagined a safer plan: negotiations between the two states, bringing Zhao Ji and Ying Zheng home without incident—not helping them escape from Zhao a second time.

But one sentence in Ying Zheng’s letter pierced his heart like a needle.

“Father has only Chengjiao at his side. I am far away in Handan, thinking of you day and night. But can a father and son rely on a letter to preserve their bond? If we remain apart too long, then even if I return someday, we may be strangers.”

It was true. Ying Zichu had only Chengjiao, the son of Lady Huayang’s faction, at his side. The boy had been raised by Lady Huayang since he was young. What did that have to do with Lu Buwei? If Ying Zheng returned soon and grew up beside his father, their bond would be entirely different.

Then Lu Buwei would be more than the man who had helped Ying Zichu ascend the throne. He would be the benefactor who saved the legitimate heir and reunited father and son. And, to be honest, Ying Zichu had never been in good health. Lu Buwei needed to plan for his own future, too…

He was still thinking when a servant rushed in with a report.

“The Royal Grandson has arrived! He’s in the front hall!”

Lu Buwei hurried to meet him. As soon as he entered the hall, he saw Ying Zichu standing there with an old strip of clothing clutched tightly in his hand. It was blotched with rusty red stains and smelled of blood. Ying Zichu’s eyes were red, tears still streaking his face. When he saw Lu Buwei, he stepped forward and spoke in a hoarse voice.

“Buwei! Save my wife and child!”

Ying Zichu held the blood letter up before Lu Buwei. His voice trembled. “This is a letter in Zheng’er’s blood. He’s in Handan, longing to come home day and night! How can I, his father, stand by while my wife and child suffer in an enemy state?”

“Even this piece of cloth came from the old clothes I left behind in Zhao. My poor wife and child… They must have been crying over it every day…” Ying Zichu broke into sobs.

Lu Buwei let out a sigh. The last of his hesitation vanished.

Well, that settled it. He no longer had any choice but to stop hesitating.