A few nights after Dong Zhuo had shut Diaochan up in Meiwu, Lü Bu crossed quietly into the thatched hall of Wang Yun’s house. Wang Yun came out to the gate and met him. Under the lamp of the hall, four men gathered in silence: Wang Yun and Lü Bu, and Huang Wan (黃琬) and Li Su (李肅).

Li Su. That name lay quietly inside the air of the hall tonight. A man of Jiuyuan (九原) in Wuyuan (五原). An old townsman of Lü Bu. At the seat of Day 13’s Jeoktoga (赤兎價), he had delivered Red Hare to Lü Bu by Dong Zhuo’s order. The hand that had once drawn Lü Bu toward Dong Zhuo now stood at the seat that would draw Lü Bu back again from him.

Li Su was first to speak in a low voice. “Fengxian. Yesterday, by His Grace’s order, I went to Meiwu. I saw his two eyes divided between two seats. I also saw that his trust in me is still great. Now I place the seat of my trust upon tonight’s plan.”

Wang Yun spread out paper and wrote down a line of the concrete plan. “His Grace is weak before the pretext of the Son of Heaven’s abdication. We draft a false edict (矯詔); Li Su takes it to Meiwu and lures His Grace back to Chang’an. As His Grace’s carriage passes the Northern Yimen (北掖門) of Chang’an, a company of armored soldiers hidden behind the gate blocks the front. As the carriage halts, Fengxian comes with his halberd beside it. His Grace’s first line will be ‘Fengxian, where are you?’ Fengxian’s line must come first, before that line.”

Lü Bu read the paper. He nodded deeply. “Minister. Before His Grace’s first line, the first thrust of my halberd shall be placed.”

Wang Yun offered one more line to Li Su. “Su. For the characters of the false edict to be placed in His Grace’s two eyes as belief, the posture of your own single line is the most important. If His Grace asks, ‘Is it truly the Son of Heaven’s will?’, answer, ‘This morning the Son of Heaven, with his own countenance, instructed this Su directly.’ Beneath that line, the single grain of His Grace’s suspicion will grow thin.”

Li Su bowed his head. “Minister. The hand of my Day 13 shall move tonight in a different direction. That direction will be toward His Grace’s neck.”

Huang Wan produced the roster of the sympathizing ministers of the court. “Minister. As of today, twelve ministers are secured. Wang Yun, Huang Wan, Li Su, Fengxian, Shisun Rui (士孫瑞), Yang Zan (楊瓚) as the six pillars, and with them Zhong Yao, Zhao Man, Li Peng, He Shang, Zhang Zhen, and one secret deputy within the palace. At the seat of the Northern Yimen, the armored company of these twelve will surround His Grace’s carriage.”

Wang Yun nodded deeply. “Tomorrow, Li Su, cross to Meiwu with the false edict. The day His Grace returns to Chang’an will be our day.”

As the night deepened, the four rose from their seats. The tip of Lü Bu’s halberd trembled quietly beneath the low roof of the hall. Wang Yun’s hand tapped lightly upon Lü Bu’s shoulder. At the center of the twelve men’s armored company, the tip of a single halberd waited for the day to come.

Before leaving the hall, Lü Bu laid his palm upon the lamp-shade, not the flame itself, and held it there for a breath. The warmth against his skin was slight; yet inside that slightness a longer warmth waited. He thought of the warm cup of Day 21 before the Huzhao Pass that had not cooled before Guan Yu returned; of the heat of Red Hare’s coat against his palm at the first handover; of the steam above a cup in a rear garden. The wax was warm; the flame inside was steady. He left no line behind. Yet Wang Yun watched that palm and understood what the young captain had meant to say and had chosen not to say: that the steadiness of one flame could not be taken for granted on a night of conspiracy, and that a single hand laid upon a lamp was a private oath older than any written plan.

Li Su slipped out the back gate first. Huang Wan waited a breath and followed. Lü Bu went last, his halberd wrapped in cloth so that its iron would not catch the moonlight at the gate. Wang Yun remained at the lamp a long while, watching the shadow of his own cane upon the paper where the twelve names now lay.

The seventh night of Book 2 deepened quietly under the lamp of Minister Wang Yun’s small thatched hall. The three characters Dangmilgye (堂密計, the secret plan of the thatched hall) were planted as a seed: the breath in which twelve men’s armored soldiers, the tip of a halberd, and the characters of a false edict gathered at one seat. The divided two eyes of Day 36’s Mirojin were, this night, narrowed into the single plan of one thatched hall.

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