Chapter Two: The Mask

Back at the shop, I glanced at the clock and saw it was already four in the afternoon. Turning to my employee, who was making tea at the table, I asked, “Mengya, is there anything scheduled for this afternoon?”

Mengya was my shop assistant. With her delicate, arched brows and phoenix-like eyes, she was tall and carried an air of aloof elegance—a true beauty with a cool demeanor. We had been classmates back in secondary school and remained close friends. After she graduated, she hadn’t found a place to go, so I hired her to work with me.

Mengya stood up, walked over to the incense burner she’d just fetched, and glanced at me. “Where have you been? Xiao Xie came by earlier and said that Lord Jun is looking for you.”

I was taken aback, fanned myself idly, and said, “Mengya, if there’s nothing urgent, you can head home. If that old man’s looking for me, it can’t be anything good. I’ll have to go to Fengshan Hall.”

Mengya smoothed her hair, walked to the power switch, and shut off the main breaker. “Let’s go. I’ll come with you.” I nodded—why not? We locked up the shop, then took the elevator up to Fengshan Hall.

The elevator quickly carried us to the fourth floor. Stepping out, we saw that Lord Jun’s Fengshan Hall occupied the entire floor—about five or six hundred square meters. As we approached the entrance, a young man in his early twenties came toward us. Dressed all in white, his features were delicate—almost feminine—and before he even reached us, the heady scent of his cologne preceded him.

“Xiaomeng, Mengya, I’ve been waiting ages for you. Lord Jun is inside,” he announced.

Waving my fan, I complained, “Xiao Xie, could you use less perfume? I can barely breathe.”

Xiao Xie shot back, “Xiaomeng, you really have no taste. You’re becoming more and more like your master. With your attitude, not only will women avoid you—even men will steer clear.”

I spat at him, while Mengya chuckled beside me. Xiao Xie whipped out his little perfume bottle and spritzed himself a few more times. “Enough joking—the real reason you’re here: Lord Jun and Professor Sun are waiting for you inside. Hurry up!”

I was surprised—Professor Sun was here too. That old sage hadn’t shown his face in ages. Xiao Xie led us into Fengshan Hall.

Inside, the exhibition room was filled with display cases of every size. There were bronzes from the Shang and Zhou dynasties, gold and silver wares from the Tang, Song, and Yuan, and jade pieces from the three Qing emperors. At the far end stood a security gate with ornate designs on either side—on the left, an inlaid dragon totem from the Tang; on the right, a bronze Garuda’s head.

Xiao Xie pressed the Garuda’s left eye, which lit up with a green glow.

“Xiao Xie, is Qiu Tong here?” Lord Jun’s voice emanated from the Garuda’s mouth.

“Yes, Master. May we come in?” Xiao Xie replied.

“Come in,” Lord Jun answered.

Hearing the command, Xiao Xie moved to the dragon totem, twisted the dragon’s head, tapped its paw, and with a creak the security gate lifted. We entered a room lined with cubbyholes on either side. Two lantern-style tea tables, crafted from Qing dynasty huanghuali wood and adorned with lotus patterns, stood to the left and right, each holding a few imperial-style bonsai. In the center was a large antler armchair, draped with polar bear fur, where a man sat upright. He had a crew cut, a broad face, small eyes, a large mouth, and his lips and eyes drooped, giving him a fierce and intimidating look. He wore a suit and dress shoes, a necklace of rhino horn beads with a claw suspended from it, and a ring set with something resembling a tooth. In his hand, he toyed with a bronze and silver inlaid toad—this was the formidable Lord Jun. Before him sat a large golden nanmu tea tray. On his right was another man: bald, bespectacled, with a small goatee and a perpetual gentle smile. Dressed in a blue suit and white shoes, he wore a string of human bone prayer beads on his wrist and a necklace of pharmacist’s beads, from which hung a massive “sheep’s eye” dzi bead at the position of the sandalwood. This was Professor Sun.

Some time ago, a craze for bead bracelets swept the country. Everywhere you looked—streets, alleys, subways, supermarkets—aficionados played with their beads, some rolling them in their palms, others wearing them around their necks. The antique trade had a niche for these accessories, which we insiders called “Tibetan ornaments”—religious items from Tibetan culture. My “Starry Sky” bead, which I mentioned earlier, was one such piece. Professor Sun was a renowned lecturer at the Peking University Department of Archaeology and famous in the Tibetan ornament scene. Within the circle, four individuals were dubbed the “Four Princes of Tibetan Ornaments”—though, of course, Professor Sun’s nickname was not “Little Sun.” Outwardly, Professor Sun and Lord Jun appeared to be ordinary antique dealers, but in truth, their real identities were more clandestine: they were descendants of the “Mojin Xiaowei,” the legendary tomb raiders. Lord Jun was a leading figure in that world, his status rivaling that of the Nine Gates of Changsha, and he was known in the trade as a master “Iron Chopsticks.” Professor Sun was also under Lord Jun’s banner. Fengshan Hall, which seemed to be a relic shop, was actually a hub for their operations in Beijing—a base for appraising, trading, and fencing their finds.

As we entered, Lord Jun quickly stood up and clapped me smartly on the shoulder. “Where have you been, boy? I’ve been looking for you all afternoon!”

Professor Sun added a word or two, but I just shook my head. “What’s the rush? It’s not like I’m leaving tomorrow.”

Lord Jun grinned, sat back into his antler chair, and gestured amiably. “Come, sit, sit. Xiao Xie, close the door.”

Xiao Xie nodded, walked over to the dragon totem, tapped its tongue, and with a clatter, the gate descended. He returned to sit to Lord Jun’s left.

Once we were all settled, Lord Jun nodded at Xiao Xie, who went to a compartment in the tea table, produced a glass vial, and took out a piece of dark green wood. He lit it with a windproof flame and set it in the ancient Boshan incense burner in the center of the tea tray. Ten seconds later, fragrant, sweet smoke began to waft from the green-patinated burner.

Mengya inhaled and remarked, “Lord Jun, you’re really generous. Just a chunk of this Qinan parrot-green is worth thousands—maybe tens of thousands. They say a sniff can add years to your life.”

Lord Jun chuckled, producing a small folding fan the size of a toothpick, and waved it around. “Here, have a waft—may you all live a few years more.”

I laughed and said, “Lord Jun, you didn’t summon us in such haste just to enjoy this parrot-green incense, did you?”

Lord Jun smiled and told Xiao Xie, “Bring out Item Three from the Hong compartment—the pieces from the Inner Mongolia depot.”

Xiao Xie answered, went to the wall of cubbyholes, and twisted the bottom three dials. With a click, the cubby labeled “Hong Three” popped open. With a tap of his foot, Xiao Xie leapt three meters in a serpentine motion, reaching the compartment four or five meters above the floor, and retrieved a wooden box.

Lord Jun shook his head. “Xiao Xie, your technique needs work. Too slow—go down into a tomb at that speed, and you might not come back out.”

Xiao Xie scratched his head and grumbled as he returned to his seat, “If I’d known, I would’ve learned something else from Professor Sun. I’m exhausted and haven’t even been in the tomb yet.”

Professor Sun laughed. “You lack enough yang energy; you couldn’t handle it.”

Mengya smirked. “Maybe when you become more manly, you’ll manage.”

I joined in, teasing, “No worries. If Xiao Xie lets loose with his cologne in a tomb, even the corpses would be smoked out.”

Xiao Xie pouted at me, and everyone burst out laughing. When the laughter died down, Lord Jun took the wooden box, tapped its frame, and a seam opened down the middle. He handed the box to Mengya and me. “Take a look at this.”

I opened the box. Inside lay a golden object—a mask, about twenty centimeters across, shaped like what we now call a “pancake face.” The mask had carved eyes, ears, and mouth, all quite lifelike. The strange thing was, at the mouth, the mask was carved with many sharp fangs, like a Western werewolf—baring its teeth in a fierce, snarling expression.

“Hey, why does this look so familiar?” Mengya said, examining the mask.

Fanning myself, I scrutinized the mask and asked, “Professor Sun, doesn’t this look almost exactly like the golden mask unearthed from Princess Chen’s tomb by the Inner Mongolia Liao-Jin Research Institute?”

Professor Sun nodded. I turned to Lord Jun. “Where did you get this?”

Lighting a cigarette, Lord Jun sighed and began to recount the mask’s origin.

“It happened two days ago. Two clients from Xi’an came to buy old ceramics. I chatted with them until past ten, and after they left, it was already half-past ten. Xiao Xie and I locked up and drove home. By the time I got in, it was nearly half past eleven, and my family was already asleep, so I went straight to bed.

The next morning, I slept in until nine. When I woke, I found nearly a hundred missed calls on my phone—all from the same person: Han Jinming.

Han Jinming was the manager of my Inner Mongolia depot and an expert on Liao-Jin culture. Not knowing what was wrong, I called him back immediately. To my astonishment, the message said, ‘The number you have dialed is not in service.’

I called Xiao Xie upstairs from his morning practice and asked him to try calling Han Jinming as well—same message, ‘The number you have dialed is not in service.’ I knew then something was wrong and immediately phoned the Inner Mongolia depot.

An elderly man answered, ‘Who is it?’

‘Old Li? It’s me.’

The old man recognized my voice at once. ‘Lord Jun! I was just about to call you—something’s happened at the depot.’

I was stunned. ‘What happened? Where’s Jinming?’

The old man’s voice trembled with tears. ‘Han is dead!’”