ITIEQ C73

Chapter 73 – As Despised as Grass

Even though he had anticipated something, when Shen Qinghe heard Gao Rong’s words, his heart still trembled.

“This year, were not all the prefectures blessed with abundant harvests?” He himself had transported a batch of carefully selected seed varieties to the capital, sparing no effort to spread scientific methods of farming through the mouths of regional Agricultural Officers across the empire. With the winds and rains of Great Yong so favorable, news of plentiful yields had flowed in from everywhere. Visible results had already begun to appear. By logic, this situation should have been… Shen Qinghe spoke halfway, then suddenly fell silent. In the end, even he felt his question sounded laughable.

A good harvest did not mean that every household had surplus grain. The truth of the matter could only be uncovered with further investigation.

After dawn, Shen Qinghe communicated this news to Kong Zhengqing. The Imperial Censor’s Deputy Minister deliberated for a moment and said: “His Majesty has already issued decrees reducing taxation. If this Yan Ruhai truly extorts and bleeds the people, then I shall immediately draft an impeachment memorial to present to the Court. He will surely be forced to remove his cap and resign from office.”

But to avoid alerting the target, Kong Zhengqing dispatched a boy servant to accompany Gao Rong to investigate. On the land where corpses were supposedly buried, they indeed discovered not one but many skeletons. By the time they arrived, several men dressed as guards were in the middle of digging, and in the earth was already a pit taller than half a man.

Gao Rong went forward and asked: “What are you doing here?”

The masked guards muffled nose and mouth with cloths. “Can’t you see? We’re burying the dead. And who are you people? Go, go, stay away.”

Gao Rong cast his gaze at the corpses piled upon a cart, and on the exposed arms found, as expected, wounds crisscrossing—deep and shallow. His brows furrowed. “I am a physician. I can treat their epidemic.”

The guards glanced at each other, muffled laughter rumbling beneath their cloth. “Already dead—and you think you can treat them? Move along, don’t hinder our duty.”

Gao Rong asked instead: “Then could you tell me where the ones afflicted with the epidemic presently are?”

The guard sized him up. Seeing his refined attire and air, indeed not like some commoner, his tone grew more formal. He pointed south-west. “There. But I remind you, more than a hundred have perished there already. It is most inauspicious.”

Even before he had finished speaking, the questioner had already turned and started toward that direction. The guard hollered after him, but when Gao Rong glanced back, he tossed over a small packet of paper. From it emanated faint scents of medicine.

“It is a preventative. The prescription is included. One decoction, daily.”

The guard stared blankly at the parcel, and when he raised his eyes again, the white-clothed gentleman was already far away.

…

“…To the southwest of Qingluo Prefecture, in Xin’an Town. Every household shuttered, doors chained, guards watching over the streets, not allowing a single person out. All those inside must be the plague-stricken townspeople.” Gao Rong reported everything he saw. “I did inquire further—the guards said it was by order of those above.”

By “above”? In Qingluo Prefecture, who else could it be? Only the Prefectural Governor, Yan Ruhai.

“Kinsman Yan of Qingluo,” said Kong Zhengqing, striking the table, “they are somewhat renowned here—a local gentry family.” He concluded firmly: “Bring him here now, so we may demand directly what is happening.”

Shen Qinghe thought for a moment, but raised no objection. Qingluo was not far from the capital, by no means so distant that the imperial authority was weak, and the Yan clan was no such entrenched power as the Five Great Clans. A Censor-in-Chief was akin to half an imperial commissioner; surely Yan Ruhai would feel constrained.

At daybreak, Yan Ruhai was summoned. In haste, servants bustled to dress him in his special tailor-made garments—his immense girth meant everything, from robes and shoes to even his bed and doors, had been crafted oversized. Finally dressed, he was carried in a sedan borne by four, then transferred to horse-cart at the gates, and puffed his way to the inn where the two officials lodged.

Kong Zhengqing and Shen Qinghe were already composed and waiting. Watching Governor Yan wheeze like an ox from a single flight of stairs, Shen Qinghe forced a smile, extended a teacup toward him.

“Many thanks, many thanks.” Fatty Yan gulped tea, while piggish little eyes—squeezed to slits by flesh—swiveled uneasily toward the seated officials. As no words were forthcoming, he grew fretful, tentatively ventured: “My lords were not departing today? Is there… some instruction you would have of your humble subordinate?”

Qingluo Prefecture, though small, was wealthy, untouched by wind or rain—a sheltered haven. That the Yan clan could preserve its comfort here, and he himself become governor, was thanks to his knack for gauging the times and trimming his sails. He never offended either the throne or the Five Clans, managed to scrape whatever fell from their tables, and kept footing firm.

The Emperor was in vigorous prime. The Imperial Censor could impeach him at any time. The other was a favorite before the throne. Two men, neither to be angered. He only hoped to remain a comfortable governor to the end of days.

But watching now this red-robed youth’s gaze, which swept coldly over his mountainous body, then leaned, elbow braced upon knee, and asked point blank:

“Lord Yan, my student is timid. Upon leaving his quarters he stumbled into your men burying corpses and was frightened. Explain—what is happening?”

Yan Ruhai wiped sweat, relieved it was only for this—so he thought.

“Yes, yes, such a thing occurred, an outbreak happened. I already ordered the infected area sealed. Hardly a major matter.”

“Hardly a major matter?” The iron in Shen Qinghe’s voice made Yan Ruhai’s belly quiver.

Shen Qinghe slammed the table, stood. “Hundreds of lives—and to Lord Yan, this is ‘hardly a major matter’?”

Yan Ruhai was genuinely bewildered. He had served them tea and comfort, had done no great wrong. On what pretext should they fasten this charge on him?

He sagged, pitiful: “My Lords! Treating plague is surely a prefect’s very duty. I promptly confined them, prevented chaos outside. Save Xin’an Town, all Qingluo lives tranquil, untouched. Have I not acted as a protector of the people? Wherein lies fault?”

Gao Rong’s face darkened. “False benevolence! Most of those dead starved to death. And you call it mercy?”

Yan Ruhai nearly wept. “Sir wrongs me grievously! Those afflicted lose all appetite, vomiting and purging. I am no cruel brute, to force food down their throats day by day! And as for wealthier families, I permitted them to buy medicine, even sent registrars to bury corpses for them, return them to ancestral soil. Is this not benevolence?!” Sniffling and sobbing all at once, he seemed ready to rip open his chest to prove sincerity.

His blubbering, sweating mien was grotesque. Flopping to his knees, the floorboards shook. He scrabbled closer, grasping at robes, until Shen Qinghe waved sharply for him to halt.

Crying though he was, he had wit enough not to approach further. “This humble one has left no duty undone. Pray instruct me—what must I do, to satisfy you?”

Shen Qinghe lowered his gaze, hand clenching slow.

Yes, he had not burned them, not flogged them, like other prefects might. But what difference was there, in truth? Chase down or look away, wolf or vulture—bowing with two tears in his voice—did this make a conscience?

The black-haired youth’s eyes were keen as blades.

“Lord Yan, how many years has the Yan clan stood?”

Stunned by this turn, Yan Ruhai ceased his weeping, stammered: “Since great-grandfather founded the house—over eighty years.”

“Eighty years. Only eighty.”

Three generations sufficed—to transform men into their own betrayers.

“In but a few decades—you forgot whence you came. Forgot that your forefathers, too, were among those common folk.”

Yan Ruhai hesitated. “My lord, to remember so—that is the mark of sages! I am but a mortal, yet have pitied enough. Would you not press me past my lot?”

Shen Qinghe’s eyes did not waver.

Yan Ruhai searched every angle, sought some hidden motive. Finally his eyes darted, and he said: “Could it be… that there was some particular one in Xin’an Town? Or imperial orders concealed? If some secret stands, pray reveal it—I will serve.”

Shen Qinghe: “No hidden reason.”

Yan Ruhai quaked, painfully submissive, for the youth’s hand held real power. Respect for power, never remorse.

“Then it is…?”

“It is by whose power you sit here. By whose bread you fatten.”

His voice calm as still water. The fortress of flesh trembled before those hawk-keen eyes.

“By… the Court?”

Shen Qinghe laughed cold.

How subtle was Yan’s cunning—all calculations spun—but in the end the most impossible dawning struck him. His face twisted as though he had glimpsed a ghost. Was this official… taking the side of the common rabble?

He wished to speak, but shock struck him tongue-tied.

The black-haired youth flung his sleeve, departed. Behind, the fat prefect stood, dazed, utterly at a loss.

Why? Why for this reason?

The crafty fox had, for once, met walls at every turn. Was it Imperial Will? Did the Son of Heaven himself favor such conduct? Should he, then, imitate likewise?

He slapped his forehead, and quickly followed with smile restored.

…

“Master Shen, you need not so inflame your temper. This Yan is, in truth, far kinder than many.”

Kong Zhengqing tried to soothe him. Decades of office, countless cases red and black, all sheltered a thick hide. This Qingluo Prefect was scarcely the worst—merely harmless, neither good nor evil.

But young Shen had yet to weather such attrition. He was still a pure lotus. Kong sighed within—this, too, he must endure. Already he wondered whether recalling Shen to the capital had been boon or bane.

But then—

“What is this…”

They halted suddenly. Kong Zhengqing’s eyes widened in disbelief.

Shen Qinghe had gone silent at the front. They had reached the pit. Now it was filled in, earth mounded over still-warm bones.

But there—abundant, layered red flowers had sprung. Cluster amaryllis, petals curled, blossoms like blood. They swarmed across the graves, blazing crimson enough to dye every onlooker’s eyes.

Latecomer Yan Ruhai saw the bloom like purgatory, stumbled back and sat hard, stammering: “The… Soul-Summoning Flower?!”*

The Soul-Summoning Flower, said to grow upon the road to the Netherworld, the bridge between realms—an omen most unlucky. Did these peasants’ very souls… now rise before them?

Spirit above, earth below! He had done naught truly foul. Why haunt him?

Gao Rong’s tone cut like ice: “It is Lycoris radiata—soil turned acid by so many corpses. Nothing more.”

Acid soil? Yan heard none of it—his terror only confirmed the floral curse. He shivered.

Shen Qinghe stood amidst the blood-fed flowers. Wind stirred, hair unraveling, blossoms swayed like a sea of grasping hands, in echo to the currents within his heart.

As despised as grass—yet still able to stir fear?

His eyes closed faintly.

Even one with no guilt would falter at such a sight. Yan—supported upright by servants—rubbed his arms at phantom chill, cast glances toward the officials, stiff, unwilling either to flee or to stay.

“Lord Yan.”

He flinched, called to sudden. Shen Qinghe, a spectral smile upon his lips, plucked one crimson blossom, lifting his chin ever so slightly.

“If your utmost brings only this result, I shall intervene. You won’t deem me meddlesome—will you?”

“Of course not! Of course not!”

“Good.” Shen Qinghe nodded. Then turned to the white-garbed pupil.

“Put aside your studies for now, Gao Rong. Stay here till the plague is eradicated. Your skill I trust.”

It was no great matter, Gao Rong thought; he had just assented—when his teacher added:

“The funds in my baggage—draw as you need. And I leave you also the Sword of Imperial Mandate.”**

Gao Rong stared, shocked. He held no post nor title; to bear such a sword seemed far too irregular.

Shen Qinghe read his mind. “His Majesty bestowed that sword—pure trust. Today I bestow the same upon you.” His gaze flicked toward Yan Ruhai, as though speaking into his ear.

“Those who obstruct—kill. Those who defy—kill. Heard me?”

Footnotes:

• Soul-Summoning Flower (引魂花) – A folkloric name for the red spider lily (Lycoris radiata), believed to bloom on the path to the underworld. Associated with death, rebirth, and bad omen. 

** Sword of Imperial Mandate (尚方剑) – In imperial Chinese history and literature, a sword personally bestowed by the Emperor, symbolizing absolute delegated authority. Whoever bore it acted with imperial mandate: empowered to punish or execute without awaiting further consent.