007. Offering Advice

Shi Xiong’s plan was, in essence, an extension and refinement of Li Lao San’s classic substitution ruse—a ploy in itself not particularly novel, but one he executed with boldness and finality, to the point where a single misstep could well cost him his head.

The heart of Shi Xiong’s scheme lay in concealing the death of Yang Zan—not only from Madam Yang Ge, but also from Marshal Liu Zhen, and, more perilously, from the imperial court itself. Concealing it from Madam Yang Ge was, perhaps, an act of kindness; hiding it from Liu Zhen might incur blame if discovered, but likely not death. To keep it from the throne and the Son of Heaven, however, was to step into the realm of unpredictable fortunes.

Yet Shi Xiong was filled with confidence, relying on two main reasons:

First, though Yang Zan held a hereditary barony, his family had been in decline ever since the Marquis of Jingbian had been framed and ruined by the eunuch faction fifteen years prior. In name, the Yangs were of noble lineage, but in reality, their circumstances were even worse than those of a modest, comfortable household—a textbook example of fallen aristocracy. Moreover, because the late Marquis had died falsely accused, his old associates avoided the Yangs as if they carried plague; thus, their social standing in Chang’an was virtually nonexistent.

Save for the blind Madam Yang Ge and a few remaining acquaintances, their doors saw no visitors and their courtyard was barren. For such a man, life and death were nearly indistinguishable; so long as the handful of household staff kept silent, his death could remain an eternal mystery.

Shi Xiong, meticulous as ever, calculated that the Yang household had scarcely ten servants. Of these, only three—beside the rough laborers—were close enough and bold enough to distinguish a substitute for Yang Zan and report to Madam Yang Ge. Dealing with these three would not be difficult.

Second, though Yang Zan bore the title of Baron of Pingshan, his military position was modest; he served as a personal guard to Liu Motong. Such positions were akin to private retainers—shadows of their commanders—appearing or vanishing at the commander’s whim, with no one else empowered to question their presence. Moreover, reserved by nature, Yang Zan had no friends in the army apart from Liu Motong. Outside of his duties, he secluded himself in the camp, reading military treatises or practicing with weapons, never participating in social visits. Fewer than ten men in the army could recognize him by name. To ensure secrecy, it would be a simple matter to isolate the substitute from outsiders—no one would even question it.

Third, the traitor who had corrupted the ranks was already executed, and the army’s triumphant return to the capital was imminent. In the aftermath of a campaign, the encampment was always in disarray—various officials grasping for last-minute profits, seeking amusements, and none with the mind to scrutinize the identity of a mere personal guard.

With these three points, Shi Xiong believed it would not be difficult to keep Yang Zan’s death a secret. Finding a voice mimic in Linzhou to act as Yang Zan’s double would be easy enough—what talent wasn’t available in the city’s bustling livestock market? Even if one couldn’t be found immediately, it wouldn’t matter; there would be time to find one in Chang’an. In the meantime, a slave with similar build and features could serve as a temporary stand-in.

Once the death was concealed and a double arranged, it would be Liu Motong’s turn to step forward. As the principal hero who had slain the traitor, if he were to request a post for his own meritorious guard Yang Zan, his uncle the Marshal would likely find it difficult to refuse. Especially since the requested post was not some high office, but merely a minor official appointment in a distant southern prefecture.

Civil or military, it mattered little; the prestige of the office could be negotiated. If the Marshal was willing to issue a letter of recommendation to a colleague’s staff office, all the better; even a formal court appointment would suffice, as long as it wasn’t in the capital.

If asked why Yang Zan didn’t wish to stay in Chang’an, the answer would be that the young man was ambitious, eager to temper himself in the distant wilds, to acquire skills and later repay his sovereign and country—a reason as proper as any.

With the post secured, upon the army’s return to the capital, the custom was to enter the palace and offer thanks for imperial favor. With all arrangements in the army properly set, what could possibly go wrong during the audience? Who would sniff out the ruse like a dog, trying to discern if the one present was a substitute? The very thought was laughable.

Especially since the emperor, having recently quelled the Huai West rebellion and now receiving news of a great victory in the northwest, would be in high spirits, graciously meeting his meritorious subjects, perhaps even hosting a palace banquet in their honor. Of course, only officials of sufficient rank would be admitted to such audiences—a mere personal guard would have no place there.

Still, to be cautious, it was wise to rehearse responses for the palace audience, to be fully prepared. In truth, it was simple: follow eight words—speak little, listen much before the emperor; eat more, drink less at the imperial feast. With such conduct, it would be hard not to pass unnoticed.

After the imperial audience and banquet, there would inevitably be further official invitations—these would be even easier to handle.

Once all these matters were settled, the final and most difficult challenge awaited: returning to the Yang residence to face the old lady.

The first hurdle was to prevent the grandmother, who had not seen her grandson in years, from touching his face—a potentially disastrous moment. Shi Xiong had no illusions of finding someone identical to Yang Zan; even a close resemblance would be a rare stroke of luck. But even if he did, he dared not let the grandmother touch him—a grandmother’s intuition could not be underestimated.

Shi Xiong’s solution was to overwhelm and distract. The false Yang Zan would not enter the residence alone, but arrive with Liu Motong and a lively group of young nobles. With Liu Motong’s broad circle of friends, gathering two or three dozen companions for the occasion would be a trivial feat. None of these wealthy scions knew Yang Zan personally—who could distinguish the real from the fake?

With such a crowd clamoring before the old lady, their boisterous greetings would deafen her, and the overwhelming scent of their perfumes would dull her sense of smell. The honor of so many distinguished youths visiting her home—how many years had it been since such a thing occurred? Surely she would feel pride above all else, too exhilarated to think of touching her grandson’s face.

Once this hurdle was cleared, the plan was halfway to success.

Returning as a hero from the frontier and newly appointed to office, there would inevitably be visitors coming to congratulate him. All the comings and goings would naturally be handled by the “Yang Zan” of the Yang family, keeping him so busy he’d scarcely have a free moment. Before any suspicion could arise, Liu Motong would reappear, leading another group of friends to drag Yang Zan off to a banquet.

At that point, even if the old lady was uneasy, she would have to acquiesce. As a lady raised in a great house, she knew well that being an official meant being part of society; without a circle of supportive brothers-in-arms, one was doomed to become a solitary and doomed official. Besides, her grandson owed his current fortune to the Liu family’s favor—how could she refuse such a gracious invitation? She would have to let him go, and do so gladly.

After the banquet, of course, he would return. The Yang family maintained strict discipline, and Yang Zan was known for his quiet, reserved nature—how could he possibly be the type to get drunk and not come home?