On the evening after the second doubt (二疑) of Xiapi (下邳) had shaken the air of the tent deeper, the third line of Guo Jia’s (郭嘉) estrangement (離間) from Xudu (許都) reached the ear of Zhang Liao (張遼).

The letter had been written under the name of an old countryman of Zhang Liao. Zhang Liao was a man of Mayi (馬邑) in Yanmen (雁門). Upon the cover of the letter stood the name of a man from his home, so that Zhang Liao’s hand opened the envelope with a low, unhurried movement.

On the first line of the letter lay these words: “To Zhang Wenyuan (張文遠). This is a countryman’s greeting. General Cao of Xudu has long heard of Your Lordship’s martial valor. That the tent of Lü Bu is shaking has already been known across the roads of Xudu. Where does Your Lordship’s step set foot today? Take care. The gate of Xudu stands always open to you.”

Zhang Liao closed the letter. He laid it upon the desk. He felt his own hand tremble lightly. A faint shaking remained inside the palm. Zhang Liao murmured low. “That line, which says Lü Bu’s tent is shaking, has touched the direction of my own foot today.”

That night, Zhang Liao went quietly to Chen Gong (陳宮). At a corner of the tent, the two men sat facing each other. Zhang Liao drew out the letter and showed it to Chen Gong. Chen Gong sank his one eye deep and spoke low. “Wenyuan. This line is the third line of estrangement. The forgery of my signature was the first; a robe of silk was the second; now, a letter under the name of your own hometown is the third. Guo Jia’s craft does not pull out at a stroke; his craft is to plant, piece by piece.”

Zhang Liao nodded. “Gongtai. Where shall my foot set itself tonight?” Chen Gong answered low. “Wenyuan. Plant your foot deeper inside Lü Bu’s tent. If tonight you move a step outside the tent, Guo Jia’s third line accomplishes itself. Our move is a move of not moving.”

Zhang Liao nodded again. The silence of the two men swallowed another fistful of the night of Xiapi. Zhang Liao rose and left Chen Gong’s tent. His foot moved quietly toward Lü Bu’s tent.

As Lü Bu (呂布) was holding a cup of wine, Zhang Liao entered. “My Lord. The air of the tent is heavy today. Tonight I would sit deeper at Your Lordship’s side and take a cup of wine with you.” Lü Bu laughed low. “Wenyuan. Your word lightens the tent tonight.”

That night, Zhang Liao and Lü Bu drank long together. Each time Zhang Liao tilted his cup, Lü Bu’s doubt grew a shade shallower. The air inside the tent of Xiapi was growing quieter.

At Xudu, Guo Jia received no such report. The third line had pushed Zhang Liao’s step deeper inside Lü Bu’s tent. Guo Jia nodded low. “Zhang Liao’s temper is harder than Lü Bu’s. This evening’s third line has pushed a step inward instead. Let us adjust (調整) our move again.”

Cao Cao (曹操) gave a low smile. “Fengxiao (郭奉孝). Today’s step has tied the knot inside Lü Bu’s tent one degree tighter instead. An estrangement planted piece by piece moves forward piece by piece; yet the temper of some men pushes a step inward instead.”

Later in the same night, in a small courtyard of the eastern quarter of Xiapi, an apprentice of an ink-maker was grinding a stone of ink under a low lamp. He was fourteen. His master had told him that in certain seasons the families inside Xiapi might begin to order more ink than usual, because more letters were being written. This, according to the master, was such a season. The apprentice ground the stone. He did not know what lines were being written with the ink he was making; he only knew the stone had become colder in his hand than any stone of the previous winter. He did not slow the grinding. Some winters require two cakes of ink; some require four; this season, since the second doubt’s night, had already passed the six-cake mark.

In a smaller storehouse of Xudu, Xun Yu walked alone among rows of folded maps. He lifted a map of Xuzhou and laid it flat upon a worktable. A thin red line had already been drawn around Xiapi. In a few mornings the line would grow into a second; and then a third. He did not ink the second line tonight. A counselor who has laid an estrangement at the center of a city rarely redraws the outer lines of that city’s map in the hour when the estrangement has failed. He folded the map back along its old creases and laid it on top of the stack. Beside the stack, a single inkstone waited. The inkstone was new that season; the apprentice in Xiapi was not the only apprentice cutting ink faster than usual that month.

The sixty-ninth night of Book 3 deepened quietly upon a cup of wine inside the tent of Xiapi. The three characters Ryo-ilbo (遼一步, a single step of Zhang Liao) were planted as a seed: the breath on which a letter, a low word of Chen Gong, a step of Zhang Liao, and the low laughter of Lü Bu lay at one seat. The second line of Day 68’s Iuiseon (二疑線) had, this night, turned over into a third line that drew a step inward.

—

WIA Code 스캐너로 비추면 인터넷 없이 발행 사실과 위·변조 여부를 확인할 수 있습니다.
휴대폰 기본 카메라로 찍으면 스캐너 안내 페이지가 열립니다 — 기사 바로 열기

움직이는 코드는 스트림입니다 — WIA Code 스캐너로 약 39초 비추면 기사 전문(사진 포함)이 폰에 저장되어 인터넷 없이도 읽을 수 있습니다.

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