ITIEQ C20

Chapter 20 – Heart of Disloyalty

Emperor Zhaohuan held audience with the Deputy Censor-in-Chief within Hanchang Hall, discussing for half an hour the follow-up to famine relief.

After Kong Zhengqing departed, the Emperor sat in silence. At last, he commanded Jinchang to fetch from its chest the unfinished scroll.

It was that half-done painting—the Spring Outing, Youth Drunk on Wine. The boy in red reclined against bamboo, cup raised high, his features still blank.

The young Emperor gazed quietly a while. Then he took up a fine brush, dipped it in ink, and drew.

Brow, eyes, nose—last the pupils. Lines so fluent it seemed his heart had borne them long, waiting for a single breath to bring forth.

Jinchang had been curious from the first, but dared not stare openly as last time. He shifted his eyes, only glancing sidelong.

The painting was vivid, spirited. Once he had thought it Shen’s son. But now, with features drawn—Shen’s eyes were longer, not so round; his hair shorter, not falling to the waist. The cheeks resembled… but the lips and jawline—like His Majesty’s own!

Jinchang froze as thunderstruck. Of course! The Emperor had a full brother—forgotten until now!

In younger days, when the Emperor was but a prince exiled to the northwest, the throne weak and the Duke of Ying triumphant in Jingdu(captial), princes were pressed to send their sons into the Ying household. They were “students,” in truth hostages—insurance against rebellion. When the decadent Hui Emperor collapsed, another puppet awaited ready to be enthroned under Duke Ying’s thumb.

At that time, the Emperor’s brother, Prince of Pingxiang, barely thirteen. Not quite boy, not quite man—perfect whiteboard monarch. The little prince was sent into Ying’s hands, along with cousins. Duke Ying, wolfish in temper, cruel without measure, left all to imagine what horrors such royal children endured.

Jinchang himself had not served then, but all knew the outcome: When the Emperor at last rose, allied with the northwest army and aided by an elder statesman, he stormed Jingdu and destroyed the Ying Palace. But by then, enraged, Duke Ying had slaughtered all his hostages.

Thus the Emperor ascended, and the faithful Chang Taibao was honored among the Three Excellencies. The Ying faction vanished, and with it, all memory of Prince Pingxiang, dead at fifteen, buried forever in the bloodied palace ruin.

This painted figure, surely, was that ill-fated younger brother.

Jinchang, cunning old hand, saw it all: Shen’s favor—the spared scoldings, the plucked flower titles, the rare rise to companion of the throne—all perhaps because he carried the shadow of that lost boy.

But what of now? The exempted charge, the sudden half-promotion, the painting redrawn—was it cutting loose at last? Or, why still promote Shen Qinghe to Shizhong? That post was never for outsiders, only trusted kin.

Jinchang could not be sure.

“Pity me? I thought my name already so foul none would dare touch it. To think Lord Yue, far off in Yanlin, should see me so brightly—that is unexpected indeed.” Shen Qinghe leaned across the palace pavilion’s chessboard, gazing at Yue Ji of the Yue clan.

One sat upright, aristocratic grace in every gesture. The other sprawled, rakish, easy charm flowing.

Yue Ji replied: “How can I watch a pearl buried in dust?”

Shen nearly laughed. That he, once Jingdu’s infamous wastrel, could be fought over as precious? And by the Yue clan? Who would believe it!

But Yue Ji did not press. Instead he stepped, his golden-threaded shoes crunching over jade chips scattered from the earlier game. “They say times make heroes. I say—the wise who bend to time are the true masters.”

This was not mere factional contest—it was conspiracy. To tempt the Emperor’s attendant was to dig openly beneath the throne. Without fear he might betray—clear, unhidden, brazen.

Shen Qinghe was not displeased. He preferred ambitious souls. But the Yue clan—mighty beast cloaked in mist, visible only in tusk and claw.

And men born so high often carried contempt for dust-born lives. Better not trust.

He grinned slyly. “No need. My talent is meager, unworthy of use. Surely, Lord Yue has many willing to serve.”

Even Shen Zhao, Minister of Rites, was courteous before the Yue heirs. This boy’s sarcastic refusal, however, drew not a flicker of anger. Yue Ji merely looked on with quiet fascination.

“I hear Shen Gongzi has founded an academy? Qingbei Academy, is it?”

At that, Shen stiffened, though face bloomed like spring. “A shabby shack, only for play! I was never scholar material. Now, having soared a little, I can at least enjoy being a teacher for once. I have heard of your Yue clan’s Upper Clarity Academy—that is the true wonder, worthy of longing.”

Yue Ji smiled proudly. “If Shen Gongzi would come, I’d welcome you with all honors. But schools… the world is mixed. Some may not know a pearl, cast it for stone.”

“You’re hinting at me?”

“Lift your eyes if you wish to see the whole game board.”

He picked up a lone white piece, rolling it slowly in his palm. “Great Yong’s mandate nears its end.”

Shen’s eyes snapped up, smiling grimly. “You understand what you are saying?”

“I know your unruly tongue; you will not be shocked. In your exam essays you wrote: ‘To repel barbarians, first pacify within.’ I agree. Great Yong is already riddled, inside and out. I lack an arm—yours will do.”

Shen laughed strangely. “Me? Does Lord Yue think I hold such power?”

“In the Red Walls of the palace, I need eyes.”

“You want me as spy? Has the court not already your agents? Who—I wonder—do you want watched… perhaps the Emperor himself?”

Yue Ji only smiled secret.

Right. The Yue clan harbored a traitor’s heart. A vast lineage, grown fat on state fabric, might yet dream of usurping. No surprise.

But gods’ war, devils perish. Caught between was never wise… Yet Shen’s words twisted:

“I help you… what reward?”

The wind rose; Yue Ji’s headscarf whipped behind him. Between his long fingers, the lone white stone spun.

“If Yong falls to our Yue clan, if all men are Yue’s men—our stewards will hold power of life and death, dominion over one’s own.”

He laid his white stone calm in his soft palm.

Shen’s gaze slid from his gentle smile down to that stone.

The Emperor’s caution still echoed in his ears. Yet Shen closed his hand, and the stone slipped easily into his grasp.

“Seems hard to refuse, indeed.”

At midwinter’s solstice, Great Yong froze solemn. North winds scoured earth, driving chill down men’s collars. Ministers cloaked in furs, hand-warmers in grip, carriage cushions thick.

Past the palace doors, robes must follow court ritual. Shen shed his warm cloak, face burning before cold wind as he strode to the Attendants’ Office.

It had been days since he worked there. His first return found the same colleagues—plus a new face: Pan Liang, the often-gossiped newcomer.

“Shen—no, ‘Attendant Shen’ now.” Dai Yi smirked. “I thought your special commission might vault you free of us—but only half a rank higher.”

He pinched thumb and finger barely apart to show how small.

Rumors told only this: that Shen’s edict had been stripped, his custom post revoked. Palace servants swore he’d knelt long, even pulled the Emperor’s sleeve, only wringing half a rank. A disgrace; rise with glory, end with hollow hands.

“Half a rank,” Dai mocked. “It shows.”

But Shen’s laugh spread wider with worse bite. “Yes—only Fifth Rank. At age eighteen. Too quick—best learn from you elders who walk slow, steady. Very, very, very slow.”

Faces blanched. Insolent brat! Few days in court and already mocking their decades? He had no roots, no ties, no guanxi. Let him rise—let him fall harder! Flight too high, destiny too fragile.

But Shen only smirked. He’d seen envy often. If one cannot strive nor lie at ease, yet gnashes teeth—why not stay salted fish?

He eyed the stacked piles of memorials. Was he to draft them alone again? He scowled. “Whose work? Take it back.”

Dai Yi waved. “You’ve been gone. Of course it’s yours. We even helped. Without us, your desk would drown.”

Shen sneered.

“And likely, His Majesty won’t summon you again. You have all the time in world to wallow in these papers. You are young—heed advice, curb arrogance.”

The others nodded with self-satisfied airs.

Then came the knock.

Pan Liang, free of quarrel, opened. Cold wind followed a young eunuch who peered inside.

“Attendant Shen. His Majesty commands you to Hanchang Hall. Upon relinquishing relief office, all duties of attending His Majesty return as before.”

The three gossips froze dumbstruck.

Who dared say Shen Qinghe had lost favor?