proclaimed.
The assembled sages and scholars were appalled when the prince explained some of his proposed experiments, but their protests abruptly ceased when he pointed out that he would need lots and lots of subjects. “Lots and lots and lots and lots,” he chanted, breaking into his little dance step, “lots and lots and lots and lots… of subjects!” The sages and scholars danced right along with him.
Close to his estate was a grotto. He transformed it into his Medical Research Center, and sages who came to observe the experiments either applauded and praised—and then staggered outside to vomit—or protested, and became subjects for the next experiments. Nobody argued about the prince's expertise. Unquestionably he was the world's greatest expert on the effects of stretching, compressing, slicing, dousing in acids, burning, breaking, twisting—seldom if ever has the human body been so carefully studied. People who enjoy such pastimes need never be lonely. The Laughing Prince gathered like-minded fellows around him. He called them his Monks of Mirth, and he dressed them in robes made from clown's motley, and they danced and laughed beneath the moon as they capered through the valley with a brigade of soldiers to gather peasants for more experiments.
The Laughing Prince was hopelessly, homicidally mad. Some say that his imperial brother finally had enough and sent the yellow scarf, which is the imperial command to commit suicide. Others deny it. At any rate, the prince fell ill. He tossed and turned in a delirium of fever, screaming and swearing, and in his lucid moments he gazed out the window at the ruins of the valley and swore to return from the grave to finish the job.
He died. He was placed in his tomb.
“Seven hundred and fifty years later, capering monks in motley have been seen in the Valley of Sorrows,” Master Li said. “Brother Squint-Eyes has been murdered, and it appears that part of the valley has been destroyed in a way that is worthy of the Laughing Prince.”
“Whoof,” I said.
“Whoof indeed, although in such cases the poetic promise almost always turns out to be pathetically prosaic,” Master Li said, rather sadly. “Let's go see what the body of Brother Squint-Eyes can tell us.”
The monastery was very old, and quite large for such a small valley. The abbot had his monks lined up like an honor guard, and he was disappointed when Master Li declined a tour of inspection. Master Li also declined to begin with the scene of the crime, stating that it was unwise to come to a corpse with one's mind crammed with preconceptions, and we were led down a long winding flight of steps to the lowest basement and the cold room.
Lanterns were hung all over. The room was very bright, which meant that the shadows were very dark, and the play of light and shadow over the body on the block of ice highlighted the head. I stopped short and caught my breath. Never in my life had I seen such terror on a human face. The bulging eyes and gaping mouth were permanently fixed in the expression of one whose last view has been of the most horrible pit in Hell.
Master Li said that the expression was interesting, in that three or four drugs could have caused it, but none of them was common to China. He rolled up his sleeves and opened his case, and the blades glinted like icicles in the cold musty chamber. The abbot appeared to be on the verge of fainting, as did his four assistants, who hovered on the staircase. I myself will never get used to it, and I had to force my eyes to watch. The minutes passed like molasses dripping in winter. After ten minutes Master Li straightened up, and the murderous expression on his face was not entirely a trick of shadows.
“Bat shit,” he said.
He bent back over the cadaver, and his knives moved angrily.
“No yak manure, no volcanic ash, no nuns’ pigtails, and no Tsao Tsao,” he muttered. “Nothing but another corpse.”
He went back to work, and various pieces of Brother Squint-Eyes landed on the ice beside the body.
“Our departed friend was recently in a large city,” Master Li said matter-of-factly. “His death occurred not more than four hours after his return.”
The abbot stepped nervously backward, as though fearing witchcraft. “Brother Squint-Eyes went to Ch'ang- an,” he whispered. “He died within a few hours of his return.”
“He had also been playing fast and loose with his vows,” Master Li remarked. “I would rather like to know how he could afford thousand-year eggs.”
“No monk can afford thousand-year eggs,” the abbot said flatly.
“This one did. At least three of them.”
“Eggs can last a thousand years?” I asked skeptically.
“Fraud, Ox! Fraud and forgery,” Master Li said disgustedly. “Paint slapped over the rot of reality and gilded with lies. They're simply duck eggs that have been treated with lime. The lime works through the shells and slowly cooks the contents, and after eight or ten weeks the treated egg is billed as being a thousand years old and is sold for a ridiculous price to a credulous member of the newly rich. Delicious, actually. Certain barbarian tribes grow a fruit that tastes quite like it. It's called avocado.” He deposited some revolting stuff in a bucket on the floor. “Constipation is a godsend to a medical examiner,” he said. “Abbot, you might also consider the fact that in addition to the eggs, Brother Squint-Eyes regaled himself in Ch'ang-an—it had to be a large city to get the eggs—with carp and clam soup, lobster in bean curd sauce, pickled ducks’ feet smothered with black tree fungus, steamed shoats with garlic, sweetmeats, candied fruits, and spiced honey cakes. I estimate the cost of his last meal at three catties of silver.”
The abbot reeled. “Check the books!” he screamed to his monks. “Take an inventory of the candleholders and incense burners! See if there have been any reports of highway robbery!”
“While you're at it, somebody find out if Brother Squint-Eyes ordered an unusual amount of ink for the library,” Master Li said. “The type called Buddha's Eyelashes. Also parchment of the type called Yellow Emperor.”
The monks galloped up the stairs, and the abbot lifted his robe and wiped his forehead with it. Master Li displayed another gory object.
“Ox, you should learn a lot more about physical sciences,” he said. “This thing is the spleen. It isn't a very good spleen; functional, but not completely reliable, which is unfortunate because the spleen is the seat of good faith.”
He detached another unpleasant object and waved it around.
“The same applies to the heart, the seat of propriety; the lungs, the seat of righteousness; and the kidneys, the seat of wisdom. The only first-rate organ Brother Squint-Eyes possessed was his liver, which is the seat of love, and I would suspect that the late librarian led a somewhat tortured existence. It's damned dangerous to walk around overflowing with love when you're deficient in wisdom, righteousness, and propriety.”
“That was Brother Squint-Eyes,” the abbot sighed. “He was something of a specialist in abject confessions.”
I closed my eyes tightly, education or no education. Sawing sounds echoed from the stone walls. When I opened them Master Li had removed the top of the corpse's skull and was fishing out the contents.
“You know,” he said conversationally, “in the days of my youth I once visited the court of Muncha Khan, who had just destroyed another enemy army and was celebrating with a banquet. It was held on the field of battle, and servants casually dropped priceless rugs over corpses so we could sit on them. Muncha's tree was trundled out—I never did learn the symbolism of it—and a couple of fellows with pumps were concealed inside. The tree was silver, with jeweled leaves, and four silver lions at the base held their jaws over four silver basins, and at a signal the lions’ mouths began spurting mare's milk. Four jeweled serpents wound up toward the top of the tree, and two of them began spouting carcasmos, which is fermented milk that can take your head off. The other two spouted bal, fermented honey, and when we were nicely drunk the chefs rolled out the main course. Turned out to be the brains of the slaughtered soldiers. They were delicious. I cornered one of the chefs because one never knows when a good recipe may come in handy, and he told me it was simplicity itself. You just grab somebody and chop off the top of his head and pull out the brains and wash them in salt water. Then rub them with garlic, pan fry them briefly, stuff them into rolled cabbage leaves, and steam them for two minutes with onions, ginger, and a touch of turnip sauce.
Master Li held the brains up to the light.
“Never do for a banquet,” he said. “Tuberculosis, although in an early stage. I doubt if Brother Squint-Eyes noticed anything more than an occasional headache.” He tossed the brains down on the ice and turned to the
