On the evening after a fragment of jade seal had entered the bosom of Xiapi (下邳), a quiet plan of Guo Jia (郭嘉) at Xudu (許都) entered the tent of Xiapi as a single letter.

Upon the outside of the letter was written the name of one of Yuan Shu’s (袁術) old subordinates. The name was Yicheng (義成). The inside of the letter did not match its cover. The cover appeared to come from one of Yuan Shu’s old men; yet the inside was a line written by Guo Jia of Xudu.

On the first line of the letter lay these words: “To Lord Lü, Marquis of Wen (溫侯). General Cao of Xudu has long pondered the grain of Your Lordship’s loneliness. News has reached us that one of Your Lordship’s retinue, Chen Gong (陳宮), has begun to pass a line of his mind toward Xudu. On the back of this letter, a copy (寫本) of a writing Chen Gong has sent to Xudu is attached herewith.”

On the back of the letter was attached a forged copy (僞造本) in Chen Gong’s handwriting. “General Cao. This body passes a line of its mind toward Xudu. I shall transmit, strand by strand, the grain of the inside of Lü Bu’s tent; please promise me a seat in days to come.” At the end of the forgery, a signature (署) resembling Chen Gong’s style (號) was inscribed.

Lü Bu (呂布) read the letter. His two eyes trembled lightly. His hand gripped the surface of the fragment of jade quietly. Lü Bu’s mouth moved low. “Has Chen Gong laid such a grain at my ear for long?” Lü Bu set the letter upon the desk. Diaochan (貂蟬) spoke low from beside him. “My Lord. The truth or falsehood of this letter cannot be told easily. Yet the moment a grain of doubt enters the official document case (公文袋), the air of the tent from today on changes, grain by grain.”

That night, Lü Bu called Chen Gong into the tent. Chen Gong entered. Lü Bu’s two eyes lay low and sunken. Lü Bu spoke low. “Gongtai (公臺). A letter arrived upon my desk today. On its back your signature is attached. Look upon this signature with your own hand, and answer me.”

Chen Gong took up the letter and read it. His face stiffened a grain. His hand trembled lightly. “My Lord. This is a forgery. This signature is not the signature of my own hand. It is the first line of Guo Jia’s estrangement (離間) at Xudu. The grain of the ink (墨) used here and the grain of the ink I use daily are different. The end of the style (號) is also tilted a grain lightly. This is not the grain of my hand.”

Lü Bu nodded. Yet behind Chen Gong’s words, a grain remained quietly in his one eye. A seed of doubt had been planted inside Lü Bu’s chest this evening.

At Xudu, Guo Jia received that news. Cao Cao laughed low. “The first line of estrangement has been planted inside Lü Bu’s chest. Let us send the second in sequence.” Guo Jia smiled low. “My Lord. A single line of estrangement does not pull out Chen Gong’s grain at one stroke. Only when grain after grain is planted in sequence does the air inside the tent change, grain by grain.”

Meanwhile, Zhang Liao (張遼) stood before Chen Gong’s tent. “Gongtai. Today, a grain of doubt has entered Your Lordship’s one eye. Take care.” Chen Gong laughed low. “Wenyuan (文遠). I, who left Cao Cao’s tent in the time of the Li Jue and Guo Si chaos and came to Lü Bu’s tent, stand this evening once again beneath the ear of a grain of doubt.” The silence of the two men swallowed together a fistful of the night of Xiapi.

Behind them, the lamp of Gao Shun’s tent went out earlier than usual. Gao Shun had heard, from a servant, only the shape of the evening’s audience: a letter, a signature, a denial. He had not heard the detail of the ink-grain. He did not need to. A captain of a lord’s personal guard rarely needs the detail to know the shape. He lay down without undressing and slept three hours. When he woke, he tightened the laces of his own armor by one notch over the night before. Some seasons require a single notch tighter; some require two; this season would, before its end, require all the notches there were.

Inside Diaochan’s chamber, a small bronze mirror sat upon a low table. She lifted the mirror and looked into it for a breath, then set it down. The face inside the mirror belonged to a woman who had lived, for many seasons, between two large men each of whom had taken, in his own hour, a single promise as his whole grain of the world. She did not speak, even to the mirror. Some evenings, the mirror is an older counselor than any counselor at the flap of any tent. She turned the mirror face-down and walked away.

The sixty-seventh night of Book 3 deepened quietly upon a single letter inside the tent of Xiapi. The three characters Igan-seo (離間書, the letter of estrangement) were planted as a seed: the breath on which the outside of a letter, a forged signature, a grain of Chen Gong’s breath, and a grain of Lü Bu’s doubt lay at one seat. The fragment of Day 66’s Habihoe (下邳懷) had begun, this night, to unravel the grain of its own surroundings strand by strand.

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