Chapter Eight: Prepare a Few More Hidden Weapons!

Li Zhao owned a large wooden chest, which he had always kept hidden beneath the bed in his dormitory. This time, he had brought it with him into Chang’an and concealed it in the same secret spot beneath his bed. Only Aunt Qing and White Bun were privy to its existence. As for what the chest contained and what its purpose was, even Qing and White knew nothing; it was one of Li Zhao’s closely guarded secrets.

After supper, everyone went off to rest. Li Zhao returned to his room, closed the doors and windows, then retrieved the wooden chest from under the bed. Unlocking the brass lock, he revealed its contents: hammers, pliers, drills, anvils, saws, and other small tools; copper tubes, iron pipes, steel hooks, steel needles, and other tiny parts; as well as several small porcelain bottles.

This chest was, in truth, Li Zhao’s private armory. Some of the items within were crafted by his own hand, while others had been forged by skilled blacksmiths and carpenters at his behest. The Bayi military dagger and the three-edged flying dart were both trusty weapons—though far too conspicuous. After all, this was Chang’an, and in many settings it was neither convenient nor safe to carry obvious weaponry. But then, what would one do if danger struck without a weapon at hand?

Thus, Li Zhao resolved to craft several new concealed weapons—powerful yet easily hidden on his person—to ensure his survival in perilous moments.

First, he took out several dozen exquisite Kaiyuan Tongbao coins and, using a small steel file, ground their edges into sharp, serrated blades. Thus was born his first hidden weapon—the Money Dart. Small and easy to carry, it could be slipped into a pouch without attracting notice. Within thirty or forty paces, he could strike an opponent’s eyes, throat, or wrist with unerring accuracy.

Next, Li Zhao assembled his second hidden weapon—a “Close-back Low-head Crossbow.” It was compact, able to be strapped flat against his back, its frame formed of three thumb-thick copper tubes housing three one-foot-long, half-inch-wide, three-edged bolts. A cord ran from the trigger to his waist. In battle, he need only bend low and tug the cord, and the concealed bolts would shoot forth from behind his neck, faster than lightning, catching his foe completely off guard. Within forty paces, the bolts could pierce heavy armor and could be fired in succession.

Strapped beneath one’s clothing, this crossbow was nearly impossible to detect.

The third weapon proved more challenging. After more than an hour’s work, Li Zhao finally completed his blowpipe. It consisted of a slender copper tube, a little over a foot long, hiding four steel needles within. These could be fired one after another, with a range of some thirty paces. Two of the needles had been soaked in the juice of the datura flower—one strike would render a person weak and drowsy. The other two were coated with venom from the short-tailed viper, a deadly snake native to the Qinling Mountains: squat, with a triangular head and a pale gray underbelly—its poison swift and fatal, deadly at the slightest contact with blood.

Li Zhao had previously captured several of these vipers in the mountains, harvesting and preserving their venom sacs for just such a use.

To increase the blowpipe’s concealment, he combined it with a nine-holed purple-gold flute, equipping it with several small mechanisms. When tucked into his belt, it looked like nothing more than a musical instrument. At the critical moment, a flick of the mechanism would set it into action; even in a crowded place, he could strike unseen and unheard.

As he finished assembling the device, Li Zhao played a tune on the flute—“High Mountains and Flowing Waters Meet a Kindred Spirit.” The nine-holed purple-gold flute’s tone was unchanged—in fact, a sense of chilling sharpness lent it even greater beauty.

To his surprise, as he played, the sound of a guzheng rose from the courtyard behind, playing the very same melody. Li Zhao couldn’t help but smile wryly; after only a few days apart, fate had reunited them again. It turned out the owner of this estate was a distant uncle of the Wu sisters.

The night passed without incident.

The next morning, Li Zhao rose early. After washing, he donned a white, round-collared robe, fastened a rhinoceros-hide belt, slipped on soft fragrant deerskin boots, and dressed himself neatly and smartly. After enjoying a hearty breakfast, he set off for the Ministry of Personnel with White Bun.

The Ministry was located in Taiping Ward at the southern edge of the Imperial City, occupying nearly half the ward—a vast complex dedicated to the assessment and selection of talent. Around sunrise, the two arrived smoothly at their destination.

Looking around, Li Zhao saw the Ministry gates crowded with examinees—some twelve or thirteen hundred in all, nearly all clad in splendid attire, scions of the elite and nobility. This was hardly surprising, for only those of high status could recommend candidates to the court, and those recommended were almost always friends, kin, or disciples of those in power—or, “You recommend my son, I’ll recommend yours,” each helping the other climb.

As for scholars of humble birth—no matter how gifted—they rarely won a recommendation, and their prospects were meager. In truth, the path to officialdom in the Tang Dynasty remained firmly in the hands of the aristocracy.

With time to spare before admission, candidates gathered in small groups, discussing the selection process. Li Zhao mingled among them, listening intently.

“Brothers, have you heard? There are four questions in this selection exam: classics transcription, interpretation of texts, poetry composition, and policy essay. All to be completed within an hour. The chief examiner will review the papers, selecting one hundred and twenty outstanding candidates. The top three will enter the Academy of Scholarly Learning and accompany the princes in their studies—a top-tier position with limitless prospects. The fourth to fifteenth will be assigned to the Three Departments and Six Ministries as junior officials (Grade Six), and with diligence, they too will have bright futures. The sixteenth to fortieth will be dispatched to local offices as department heads. The remaining eighty will serve in small county offices, climbing the ranks slowly.”

A pale-faced middle-aged man, clearly experienced, related this information with an air of authority.

“The Academy and the central ministries—those are beyond my reach. If I could just secure a post in a prefectural office, I’d thank my ancestors.”

“If we fail, so be it, but let no one try any tricks. Do you know who the chief examiner is? It’s the Left Chancellor, Li Shizhi, famed for his iron impartiality and merciless enforcement. Anyone caught cheating will suffer terribly—if not death, then disgrace.”

Li Zhao was listening with relish when White Bun tugged his sleeve and pointed eastward. A lavish carriage was speeding down the street, coming to a stop before the gate. Out stepped two portly figures—Li Chong and Li Fei, the brothers.

At the same time, the two spotted Li Zhao in the crowd. Their gazes met, each secretly chuckling, knowing the contest ahead would be decided by their own abilities.

At the second quarter after sunrise, the Ministry gates swung open. Dozens of clerks in blue robes and a hundred constables with batons emerged, carrying thick yellow registers.

“All listen well! Every examinee must verify their identity. Any impersonator will face severe punishment—line up, quickly now!”

“They never checked identities before—why the extra step this year?”

“It’s the Left Chancellor’s order—no verification, no admission.”

The recommendation system had its virtues, but also its flaws—chief among them, impersonation. Noble families with power, connections, and wealth could easily secure a coveted spot for a candidate. But if their own sons were useless—skilled only in vice, ignorant of letters—how could they pass the exam? The solution: hire a poor but learned scholar to take the exam on their behalf and claim the position. Such cases were all too common.

Hence the satirical saying:

“They recommend scholars who cannot read,
Recommend the filial though father and son are estranged,
The pure and humble are soiled by mud,
While the best generals are cowards like chickens.”

The upright Li Shizhi, Left Chancellor, resolved to curb this corruption. He stationed dozens of clerks and armed them with the yellow registers to verify each candidate.

The yellow register was the Tang dynasty’s household register, recording every person’s name, origin, physical features, marital status, and property—updated every three years to ensure accuracy.

“I really am Zhang Dale, let me in, I want to take the exam... sob!”

“Nonsense! The register states clearly: Zhang Dale, twenty-four, seven feet five inches tall, a large red birthmark on his waist. But you’re shorter and have no birthmark—clearly an imposter! Guards, take him away!”

A candidate was dragged out, kneeling and weeping at the gate.

“Sun Yongqiang, caught with a cheat sheet in your boot—take him away for severe punishment!”

“Spare me, please, I won’t do it again, never again!”

Another was expelled. Right there at the Ministry gates, he was flogged with forty heavy strokes, then displayed in a cangue for three days, and forever barred from official exams—his hopes of public office dashed for life.

Seeing this, some with guilty consciences hurriedly discarded their hidden notes.

Next, some were refused entry for another reason—not due to their age or identity, nor cheating, but simply because their appearance was too poor. Crooked mouths, squinting eyes, pockmarked faces, bulging foreheads, flat skulls, or melon-shaped heads—too unsightly to be officials, for an official’s bearing must be dignified. If these misshapen fellows became officials, would it not disgrace the Tang Empire?

Thus, those lacking in looks lost their chance, no matter their learning. Blame, if any, rested with their parents’ handiwork.

Yet the court was considerate—they did not send them away empty-handed but compensated each with fifty strings of cash, to soothe their wounded pride.

Surprisingly, Li Chong and Li Fei made it through. By rights, with their looks, they should have been turned away—for how could pigs be allowed to govern in a world that prized appearances? But as the saying goes, lacking beauty, let wealth make up the difference. Two heavy purses discreetly changed hands with the gatekeepers, and the two fat brothers strode in with confidence.

They deliberately slowed their pace, glancing back repeatedly, excitement in their eyes. They eagerly awaited the moment Li Zhao would be caught with contraband, caned forty times, collared and shamed, his future ruined—so they could finally vent their resentment.

Alas, the greater the hope, the greater the disappointment.

Li Zhao’s identity was verified and his person searched from head to toe—nothing amiss. He entered the Ministry gates smoothly, even flashing the two brothers a smile.

That smile sent chills down their spines. How could this be? They themselves had slipped the cheat sheets into his clothes and pen case—why were they not found? Was there a flaw in the process, or had their plot been uncovered?

The two brothers were utterly bewildered.