ITIEQ C11

Chapter 11 – The Emperor’s Close Minister

For a newly appointed official, the very first duty is to attend the morning roll‑call in the palace.

This was already Shen Qinghe’s third time entering the palace—yet the change was as if stars had shifted positions. Not only did his father, Shen Zhao, accompany him this time, but Shen Zhao himself now wore a deep pine‑green robe of the Fifth Rank, his yuan‑you cap correctly upright upon his head, looking every bit a dignified imperial civil servant.

In the carriage Shen Zhao scrutinized this son. In less than two months he had been transformed into a Fifth Rank official—faster even than Shen Qingfeng’s promotion! Already, before his own eyes, this son had become the Shen family’s second man of rank.

Shen Zhao had never been affectionate with this second son, and now his heart was a swirl of mixed tastes—he did not know how to interact.

Seeing Shen Qinghe slouched lazily in the carriage, he could not help frowning:

“I have some old ties with the Zhongshuling (Chief Secretary of the Chancellery[¹]); he will teach you how things are done. Affairs inside the palace are not the same as when you served as a petty clerk in the Secretariat. Conduct yourself with vigilance—never bring those tricks from outside into here.”

So in this life, I too have become the beneficiary of “connections”? Shen Qinghe laughed inwardly.

His father sat stiff and solemn, but Shen Qinghe only yawned and said languidly:

“Understood, Father. I’ll nap for a bit—just wake me when we arrive.”

Once through the palace gate, the two separated. Shen Zhao entered through the main doors toward the Hall of Governance to attend court. Shen Qinghe turned right, crossing a long cloister, and walked toward the duty office.

Three men were already inside. Around the room rose towering bookcases; at the center, one long table piled high with volume upon volume, scrolls stacked in disorderly layers.

At the sound of his entry, the three half‑buried in documents looked up. Seeing a new face, they broke into bright smiles.

“This must be Shen Tanhua? We’ve long heard the name.”

“Here, come sit by me.”

“I heard you were personally appointed by His Majesty—the rest of us will benefit by association with imperial favor.”

Shen Qinghe bowed politely:

“I am new here. Gentlemen, please take care of me.”

They looked at one another and grinned:

“Of course!”

Before long the Zhongshuling arrived—an austere, thin middle‑aged man with elegant beard. He nodded at Shen Qinghe:

“Nephew, since you are new, follow along with the others. The work here is not difficult, only rather tedious. Stay focused, and see that you make no errors.”

Shen Qinghe answered respectfully.

The Secretariat of the Central Office would draft edicts after receiving imperial orders; then their ministry, the Chancellery (Menxia Sheng), would scrutinize them; should anything be improper, they could be returned for amendment. As for the Office of Remonstrance, where Shen Qinghe served as Geishilang (Remonstrance Official), their duty was akin to an inspector‑general, operating independently outside the Three Departments and Six Ministries, and reporting directly to Emperor Zhaohuan. This was why they were commonly called the Emperor’s close ministers.

The awkwardness lay here: a Geishilang was but of the minor Fifth Rank, a humble title in the capital. Like giving a jeweled sword into the hands of a three‑year‑old—who would dare rebuke senior ministers, let alone cut down high nobles? The court was knit with interlacing noble clans; those with patronage might survive, but the low‑born? One wrong enemy and you’d be devoured by a hundred mouths.

Compared to the censorate officials with their fearless mouths and iron courage, these Remonstrance Officers were like sewer rats—occasionally biting, yet always trembling lest they be crushed down by powerful toes. A truly precarious station.

“Lord Shen, here are some piao‑ni (draft slips)[²] we’ve written. Have a look; in future you’ll be writing them too.”

Shen Qinghe leafed through the stack, grasping their essence soon enough. The Emperor received countless memorials daily, reports from the Six Ministries and a hundred bureaus endless in number. Many deemed less important were entrusted to the Remonstrance Officers to draft replies for—samples for the Emperor to review and approve, a sort of “crib sheet” for the rescripts.

Thus, rather than impeachments, writing piao‑ni was in fact a remonstrance officer’s daily bread.

Shen Qinghe read with astonishing speed, skimming hundreds of slips until he understood the structure. He also noticed amusing details: though in principle they were to be neutral advisers, each of his three colleagues’ writing betrayed clear biases—supporting some policies, opposing others, each with their own faction.

“So, even the Emperor’s direct officers are like this. What of the great mire of the court itself?” He chuckled inwardly.

Soon the three began chatting idly. Shen Qinghe pulled back his attention.

“Lord Pan Liang again absent today—his work, all upon our backs!”

“They say a runaway horse frightened him—broke his bones. Now he’s confined to bed.”

“You truly believe it was a horse?”

“Oh?” said Zhang Ke, sporting a small mustache, interested. “Not so?”

Here Dai Yi smirked knowingly:

“Just recently, Grand Protector Chang returned to the capital. The Censorate impeached him for mobilizing soldiers without imperial sanction to chase after salt‑smugglers from Linzi, harming commoners along the way. Chang reported only three lightly wounded. That document just happened to land in Pan Liang’s hands—he adamantly returned it, wrote that the Grand Protector ‘feigned deceit, clearly injuring over three hundred innocent commoners.’ But he isn’t of the Censorate—why meddle? In the end, more drudgery for us, and he offended a mighty Protector! Now Pan Liang surely…”

He trailed off at a colleague’s warning glance, quickly looked at Shen Qinghe, and forced a smile:

“Lord Shen, pay us no mind—we’re only gossiping.”

Shen Qinghe gave a graceful smile.

“I have long heard the Protector’s august renown.”

Dai Yi grinned:

“Indeed, a hero who battled rebellions alongside His Majesty. Not someone to trifle with. But that Pan Liang, born humble—his sour, stubborn temper led him astray.”

Shen Qinghe only smiled, giving no more comment.

In barely a single day, he had mastered independent drafting of piao‑ni. At first, his colleagues did not believe him capable—but reading his slips and finding them indeed competent, they gleefully shoved Pan Liang’s backlog upon him, lightening their own loads.

The next day Shen Qinghe arrived on time. Pan Liang still absent, but instead a palace eunuch summoned him—His Majesty required his attendance.

He was led before a small desk by a young eunuch.

“Lord Shen, you may sit here. His Majesty will descend from court in two quarters’ time.”

When the eunuch withdrew, Shen Qinghe gazed curiously around. The Emperor’s “office” differed sharply from what he imagined. The exterior glazed tiles with green trim gave splendor, yet inside the Hall of Embodied Light (Hanzhang Dian) was only somewhat larger than an ordinary room, without excess ornament. On the sill stood merely two pots of white orchids, budding. Servants waited beyond, separated by beaded curtains.

Emperor Zhaohuan likely worked at the large desk in the center—not far from Shen Qinghe’s small low table. Upon that imperial desk sat only brush‑rinse, a paperweight, a square inkstone, and a few seals in the corner—simpler and cleaner than Shen Qinghe’s own decadent scholar’s mess.

It suited sharply with the impression Shen held of this sovereign.

Kneeling at his assigned table, Shen Qinghe piled official memorials at hand and began drafting slips. He found most memorials tediously repetitive—formal greetings, banal tributes dealt with in a few strokes of his brush. Only when touching upon livelihood or domestic governance did he pause thoughtfully to phrase with care.

At this moment, reading a report on military expenditures, Shen Qinghe drifted into a silent conference with his system. Absorbed, he failed to notice the arrival of Emperor Zhaohuan until the sovereign stood before him. Startled, he scrambled to rise, only to trip at the low table, smacking his calf painfully.

“Hiss—” He drew a sharp breath, bowed with trembling hand:

“Your servant greets Your Majesty.”

The Emperor steadied him by the elbow.

“You are now a Remonstrance Officer—yet still so rash and clumsy?”

The words were admonition, but Shen Qinghe clearly saw the Emperor’s eyes smiling—mere playful reproach.

Dayong’s Sovereign, it seemed, delighted in teasing him.

The Emperor’s gaze swept over his green robe, then suddenly lifted his hand, gesturing briefly around Shen Qinghe’s narrow waist.

Shen Qinghe nearly jolted; he forced his abdominal muscles not to twitch, refusing to flinch away.

“Your robe is loose,” Emperor Zhaohuan remarked amiably. “Have you eaten breakfast?” Without waiting for a reply, he ordered the eunuchs to lift the plate of pastries from his own desk and place them upon Shen Qinghe’s small table. “These scrolls are dull. Should you grow bored, servants may escort you out for diversion.”

Shen Qinghe’s mind whirled ever more confused, but his lips answered in abashed formality:

“Your servant thanks Your Majesty.”

The red ink of imperial rescripts scratched sharply in the silence.

Shen Qinghe, at first tense from sitting so close to the highest superior, gradually calmed, soothed by the white musk scent drifting through the hall. The Emperor’s kindness was excessive—yet compared with arrogant leaders he had known who treated subordinates with contempt, the experience here was like Heaven against earth.

Shen Qinghe was not one to torment himself. Better to decide clearly and act firmly—so, comforted, he resumed calmly drafting.

He did indeed have a streak of work‑devotion. Emperor Zhaohuan was no slacker either. Eunuchs scurried back and forth, carrying stacks of memorials in and out.

The youth in blue finished his last slip, stretched his wrist—and looked up to see that even with his help, the mountain of documents on the imperial desk had diminished only a little. Watching closely, he noticed: hidden slips within the memorials the Emperor did not skip nor accept blindly—he read every original one by one, writing his rescripts personally.

From grindstone student to career zealot, Shen Qinghe’s admiration for strength was absolute. Anyone who mastered his craft to this degree—so long as it broke no decency—earned Shen Qinghe’s unconditional admiration. And Emperor Zhaohuan carried the aura of one truly dependable—a natural “big boss” who commanded respect.

Though Dayong’s state of affairs was worse than he had thought, like a sieve leaking on every side—if the Emperor was strong enough, Shen Qinghe decided he could ignore his unease, cling firmly to this golden thigh.

—For early retirement and comfortable old age, he could strive a bit harder.

Perhaps his gaze had burned too ardent, for Emperor Zhaohuan paused mid‑stroke.

“Bored?”

Shen Qinghe shook his head:

“I have finished writing.”

The Emperor, coaxing like to a child:

“Then go play.”

A superior tells you to rest—if you really rest, you have lost! Thus thought workplace‑savvy Shen Qinghe.

So the youth stepped lightly no more than five paces from the Emperor and chirped:

“Your Majesty’s ink has dried. Allow me to grind you fresh ink.”

The Emperor approved. Shen Qinghe moved with perfect decorum—not too close, not too far—took up an inkstick, and poured clean water into the inkstone.

Behind him, Eunuch Jinchang nearly jumped. That was His Majesty’s beloved Duan inkstone—how could the boy grind so roughly!

“Ah, Lord Shen—you mustn’t—!”

But Emperor Zhaohuan, without lifting his head, said mildly, “No matter.” Jinchang snapped his jaw shut, astonished: His Majesty treated this Shen son far too kindly…

Realizing he had blundered, Shen Qinghe cast frantic glances at Jinchang, silently begging for instruction. But the eunuch dared not speak, only shook his head desperately until Shen Qinghe was utterly bemused.

“However you like—it is only a tool,” Emperor Zhaohuan said, setting down his brush. He handed over a kerchief. “Wrap it, lest your hands be blackened.”

“Oh…Yes, Your Majesty.” Shen Qinghe accepted simply, and soon produced a glossy pool of ink.

Ah—so it worked! He had thought himself mistaken.

He cast a reproachful eye at Jinchang, proudly presenting his dark ink.

The eunuch forced a sheepish grin.

“Mm?” Emperor Zhaohuan lifted a memorial, plucked out the slip within. “This one—you wrote it?”

Leaning near, Shen Qinghe nodded.

(So the Emperor does read them! Did I err somewhere?)

The Emperor explained the very next instant:

“The characters are poor. You must practice harder.”

“…Yes.” So it was just his ugly handwriting.

“The content is acceptable. Fit for use.”

The Emperor spoke thus, and marked his rescript upon Shen Qinghe’s slip.

FOOTNOTES

[¹] Zhongshuling (中書令) – Chief of the Zhongshu Sheng (Secretariat), one of the Three Departments in Tang–Song style bureaucracy.

[²] Piao‑ni (票拟) – Draft slips or preliminary notes prepared to summarize or propose responses to petitions/memorials before the Emperor gives his zhupi (red‑ink rescript). Often the emperor would use or reject them as guides.