ITIEQ C12

Chapter 12 – “A Bit of Madness”

When the morning session ended, Shen Qinghe excused himself and departed the Hall of Embodied Light (Hanzhang Dian). By coincidence, Eunuch Jinchang was also on his way to the palace kitchens to check on the noon meal. The two walked together for a while when the young man in blue suddenly tugged at the grand eunuch’s sleeve.

“Eunuch, please, stay a moment!”

Jinchang turned, smiling warmly:

“What is it, Attendant Censor?”

Shen Qinghe leaned closer and said softly:

“These days I have puzzled endlessly, unable to grasp it. His Majesty is kind and magnanimous, that much is true. But I have observed—the Emperor does not treat others the way he treats me. I beg you, Eunuch, resolve my doubt.” He even clasped his hands and bowed.

Truth be told, even Jinchang himself was puzzled. But he revealed none of it, saying:

“Perhaps His Majesty finds you young and quick‑witted, so he shows you more favor. This rain soaks the land like timely dew—others could never beg it nor hope for it. You should accept it gladly; surely it can’t be a bad thing.”

Round and round he circled the answer, yet Shen Qinghe gained nothing definite. He left with a belly full of confusion.

Meanwhile, Jinchang returned to the Hall of Embodied Light, whereupon an attendant entered at once to announce that the Empress Dowager invited Emperor Zhaohuan to dine.

Xiao Yuanzheng (Emperor Zhaohuan) kept his brush moving, finishing the comments upon the memorial before setting his brush aside. He pressed the folded paper neatly beneath a paperweight and only then departed from the hall.

The Phoenix Terrace lay to the eastern side of the inner palace, surrounded by towers, bridges, and waters. Its walls were painted with pepper‑red pigment, fragrant scents drifting—so that even in winter it seemed like spring.

Fresh delicacies filled the table: dozens of dishes roasted, braised, steamed, boiled, roasted on skewers, fried—everything was there.

The Empress Dowager sat at the table, her hair piled high in courtly style, golden and jade phoenix hairpins perched above. Her blackened brows and exquisite makeup, her carefully maintained appearance—together with Emperor Zhaohuan sitting beside her, they did not look like mother and son, but like siblings.

“Your Majesty has not come to the Phoenix Terrace for so long, I almost thought you had forgotten your mother,” she said, tucking a painted fingernail before her lips.

“Affairs of state in the outer court are busy. It was Our neglect,” Xiao Yuanzheng bowed slightly as he sat opposite her. “Since the Empress Dowager summons me—what is the matter?”

Lady Chang accepted a towel from a maid to dab her hand:

“I am of the inner chambers, shut up in the palace day after day—what matters could I have? Yet my son has grown more and more distant toward me. Even if state affairs press, you are the ruler of a nation—you cannot weary yourself so. There are many able men in the world; let them share Dayong’s burdens.”

Xiao Yuanzheng inclined his head:

“Mother speaks rightly.”

The Empress Dowager continued:

“My elder brother has just returned from the frontier to deliver his report. When he came to see me, he specially brought with him some camel’s hoof soup. Rare delicacy in Dayong! I had him send it to the Emperor as well, that you might try it.”

A maid presented a milky soup‑cup, thick and bright in color.

The Emperor tasted two spoonfuls.

“Indeed a fine dish. The State‑Uncle is thoughtful.”

“He still remembers you. He spoke of how he and you once stood together in battle against the Rebel Price, carefree days indeed. He said you have never come to see the frontier, and now you must have a taste. Alas, lately there has been some ‘trouble.’ My brother and I rarely meet—I, a woman in the inner palace, can say nothing. I can only beg the Emperor to look after him more.”

The Emperor laid down his spoon:

“Oh? What trouble could State‑Uncle encounter?”

The Empress Dowager replied:

“He is quick‑tempered, roughened from years commanding armies outside; such habits are hard to change at once. Don’t you agree?”

“The Grand Protector pacified rebels; his merit and honor are supreme. That much cannot be considered anything.”

At this, the Empress Dowager beamed:

“Exactly. Not a serious issue—nothing that could harm the bonds of family affection.”

The Emperor stood, bowing slightly:

“The afternoon requires deliberations with the Cabinet. I shall not disturb Mother’s rest.”

The young sovereign departed.

The Empress Dowager adjusted her hair and ordered:

“Send word to my brother: the Emperor has always a yielding disposition. Over trifles, it is not worth fussing. Let him put his heart at ease.”

Leaning on a maid’s arm, she returned to her chambers.

Palace attendants quietly cleared away the table of dishes, of which hardly a few bites had been touched.

—

Shen Qinghe, back at his courtyard residence, was greeted with glee by Lüsong.

“What great joy today? You’re grinning like a sunflower.”

“Master, indeed good tidings! A grand affair!” Lüsong grinned, teeth white, producing a card. “Lord Shen says—today is a qing‑tan assembly[¹]. He bids that you attend!”

Shen Qinghe turned the invitation in his hands:

“A qing‑tan assembly? Why suddenly include me?”

Such qing‑tan assemblies were social gatherings of noble scholars, who prided themselves on pedigree. The “pure conversation” fashion flourished in Dayong. Such gatherings occurred every few months—sometimes dozens, sometimes hundreds, sitting together in debate, savoring mountain scenery. To receive an invitation was no less than entry into high society’s gates.

Shen Zhao was no scion of the “Five Surnames, Seven Hopes”[²], but through connections and political success he secured the Ministership of Rites—thus gaining entry. Yet as for Shen Qinghe, the family’s dissolute son, he had never qualified. This was the famed adage: “A prodigal returned is worth gold; wearing rich robes, he returns home a sage.” With favor at Emperor Zhaohuan’s side, even he now received a taste of honor?

“Usually only the direct legitimate sons may attend. The eldest and third young masters always pass us by. Yet I judge my master a hundred times better than them! Why should you be excluded? Today at last they recognize your brilliance. Master, at the qing‑tan you must astonish all, gain instant renown!” Lüsong said eagerly.

Shen Qinghe smiled:

“Your courage grows ever bolder—wishing your master to fight and boast.”

He fingered the invitation card. In truth, such gatherings resembled a university alumni society of elite students. Know yourself and know your enemy—victory is assured. It was necessary to attend, to “communicate.”

Outside the side gate of the Vice Minister’s mansion, two great white steeds drew snorting, a grand carriage behind.

Up close, the horses were pure snow‑white, flawless—a rare luxury. Who could afford such steeds as mere carriage horses?

Young Miss Shen Yan’er’s eyes were instantly captivated. The carriage was twice the size of her usual bay‑horse cart, splendid beyond compare. She clamored to ride in it.

Shen Qingchun too circled admiringly:

“Father is extravagant indeed! Snow‑stallions wasted pulling carts! After today’s return, I’ll beg him to grant me one—it will dazzle in future hunts.”

Shen Qingfeng was puzzled—when had the family procured such a carriage? Yet seeing their own grooms leading it, he assumed his father bought it specially for the qing‑tan.

“This carriage is spacious enough for three. As for Qinghe—surely he wouldn’t wish to ride with us—let him take another.”

Yan’er sniffed:

“Best if he keeps his place. Father allowing him at the qing‑tan? I don’t understand—it will only disgrace our family. And now he’s not even here, leaving us to wait—already delaying us!”

Her twin braids jingled silver ornaments as she huffed.

“No more waiting. Let us go first!”

Calling her maid, she stepped to board—only to be blocked by the groom.

Her almond eyes widened:

“You dare stop me?”

The steward sweated profusely:

“Miss, no, it’s not—”

Yan’er spat:

“Father indulges me most. What carriage of the house could I not ride?”

“Such noise—are we in the marketplace?” Shen Qinghe’s voice cut through, striding up. He mounted the snow‑stallion carriage directly, waving off their stares:

“Apologies for disturbing your fun. Do continue your quarrel.”

Yan’er shrieked:

“Shen Qinghe! Get down!”

From within the curtain Shen Qinghe poked his head, lazily:

“What, you want to argue again? I will not spar with you—it costs extra.”

Behind him, Lüsong said politely:

“Third Miss, please excuse me, I must enter as well.”

Yan’er’s face reddened:

“You—you get down at once! I will not share a seat with you!”

Qingchun joined in:

“We already planned to ride this carriage—why must you seize it by force?”

Qingfeng hesitated, yet said:

“Second Brother, sit if you must. But your servant presumes too far—climbing where only masters sit. I know you struggle to reform—yet if you indulge in such, outsiders will think you cheap by birth, rejecting siblings, overturning decorum. It will ruin your name.”

Shen Qinghe was struck dumb—but marveled.

Such shamelessness exists!

Lüsong lowered his head in shame: his master should of course ride with his own elder brothers. Habit had made him forget propriety. He could not harm his master’s reputation.

But Shen Qinghe saw his servant cowed, and sneered coldly, tapping the carriage board.

“Elder Brother, you err. You ape a gentleman, but I am a true wastrel—always willful. Do not speak of family bonds. Now look clearly: who but I could afford such a carriage? This is my private coach—don’t touch it, fools!”

“Lüsong, Nan Hong! Why do you still dawdle below? Must I invite you?”

Leaving the three siblings gaping, Shen Qinghe lay back, legs stretched.

The grooms stammered:

“It is indeed Second Master’s carriage, purchased personally. He alone may ride it.”

Qingchun flushed:

“Then does his horse not eat our hay? Does it not sleep in our stables? What arrogance!”

The grooms explained earnestly:

“Second Master said his horses eat only special grain, bought at his own cost, bred on his estate, kept in his racetrack—never in the family stable…”

Yan’er nearly gnawed her teeth, stomping onto another carriage.

—

The qing‑tan itself—amid bamboo groves and secluded forest, huts and pavilions raised between mountains and water. Shen Qinghe had thought it like a picnic, chatting ideals. But here musicians played flute and strings, servants attended, every item exquisite, silk tents, carriages and robes gleaming.

The display—his snow‑stallion coach fell short.

Shen Qinghe realized: he had underestimated Dayong’s sons of aristocracy. It looked like a scholarly exchange, but was truly a show of immense wealth.

He sighed inwardly: his shabby academy still had far to go.

His siblings, offended on the road, now refused to speak. They only glared at him. Shen Qinghe carelessly ignored their looks.

Guests sat cross‑legged on mats, the pine wind rolling overhead like waves against the shore, below delicate flutes and strings weaving gentle harmonies. Cups clinked, feather‑fans swayed—in such pleasures men could lose their minds.

A servant noticed Shen Qinghe sitting alone, brought a silver goblet:

“Please, young master.”

The liquor was clear rice wine (lao‑mi zhou), made from glutinous rice and barley malt with spring water—from October to February, rich and long‑aged, one catty wine for ten catties grain. Several great jars here, free to all.

Shen Qinghe sipped; compared with the bamboo wine at the Golden‑Scale Banquet, it felt less novel.

Around him, daughters and sons of nobles debated “being and non‑being,” “principle and phenomena,” or conversed of local customs, gossip, new fashions of Kyoto. Shen Qinghe found no interest and wandered away.

By the stream ladies gathered picking orchids. Yan’er felt a tap: a bosom friend asked:

“Who was that young man with you? I’ve never seen him before.”

She pointed—was it not Shen Qinghe! Yan’er answered sourly:

“He—the capital’s notorious wastrel!” She painted him with mocking stories, but her friend covered her smile with a cloth:

“Oh, I think he doesn’t seem such a bad person.”

Yan’er gaped:

“Don’t be fooled! He has nothing worth praise—it is disgraceful! Look—he stirs trouble again!”

Indeed, Shen Qinghe had come across an old acquaintance—the Champion Scholar (Zhuangyuan) Yue Jie, present at the gathering. Surrounded by admirers as ever, sharp and brilliant.

Sensing Shen Qinghe’s gaze, Yue Jie frowned in distaste.

But Shen Qinghe beamed:

“Brother Yue, long time no see—are you well?”

Yue Jie retorted coldly:

“Who shares greetings with you? You too are admitted here? I wonder at the host’s choice—I truly would like to ask him why.”

“Eh, and what shall you be asking?” A man with feather‑fan, Liu Ci (Liu Xianglin), approached.

His elegant crane‑wing fan caught Shen Qinghe’s eye.

“Oh, Brother Shen admires my fan?” He lifted it lightly.

“Looks fine indeed—very xing (pun: stylish / criminal),” Shen Qinghe quipped.

Liu Ci did not catch the pun, but laughed heartily.

“I’d heard of you, but never thought you joined the Third Rank with Brother Yue. When I learned, I was astonished for days! Meeting today proves I was too narrow‑minded. Please accept my apology.”

Yue Jie scowled:

“Liu Xianglin, why waste words on him?”

Liu waved his fan easily:

“You are ever thus, Brother Yue. Yet all who come are friends; as friends we must be courteous. Brother Shen, do you agree?”

He gestured for servants to bring up small jade bottles. Instantly many gathered.

“This is called Spring‑Water Brew (Chunshui Jian). Drink it and feel as though floating in warm waters, bliss beyond telling! It wards a hundred illnesses, clears the spirit—a top medicine, worth a thousand gold.”

Each received a jade vial. Shen Qinghe uncorked his; the smell of herbs, nothing unusual.

“System—what is this?”

The system, obsessed with farming, took long to reply:

“Composition includes red clay (chi‑shi zhi), silicates, poria, white atractylodes…”

While they spoke, one person already drank—soon his cheeks flushed, clothes loosened, face ecstatic as if borne onto clouds.

The system cried:

“Danger! Combined, these stimulate the nerves. In small dose, medicinal; in excess, poison! I leave you a moment—you stumble into peril!”

Shen Qinghe gripped the vial:

“You mean—it is addictive?”

“Yes. Not highly potent—less harmful than modern narcotics you once knew. Yet prolonged use dulls wit, alters temperament.”

Shen Qinghe’s expression sharpened.

What scholarly salon—what noble banquet—it is a drug den!

He hid his bottle, ready to leave—when he saw his siblings clutching theirs, corks half‑opened.

They never fail to court disaster.

A blur—suddenly the handsome youth strode straight to them.

Yan’er gasped:

“What are you doing!” But at once all three were shoved; the brothers staggered upright, Yan’er tumbled to the ground. Three bottles rolled, spilled.

At least they couldn’t drink.

The gathering stared. Liu Ci frowned.

Qingchun sprang up, supporting Yan’er:

“Shen Qinghe! Have you gone mad?”

“Mad? Yes, I’ll go mad!” Shen Qinghe burst into wild laughter. “Ha ha—Spring‑Water Brew is so delicious! I love it—ah, what is this, drink more—ha ha!”

The assembly had not yet reacted when Qingfeng seized his wrist, hissing:

“What are you doing?”

Shen Qinghe suddenly broke down, weeping:

“It was only a baby snow‑stallion, so precious—why must you all want to ride it! Insult me, but not my baby! In your eyes I am only a wastrel! No one understands my fragile heart beneath the mask! Alas, my fate is so bitter—I need a brother to confide in—Brother Yue, oh Yue Jie, where are you!”

Yue Jie retreated steps, lips pressed flat:

“Madman.”

Those near him also edged away, fearing contagion.

Liu Ci was stunned, hastening his servants:

“Lord Shen is drunk—quick, move him away.”

But Shen Qinghe shouted:

“I am not drunk! I am wide awake! Your coldness has wounded me deep! I am tired, so tired—my heart is black as night! Brother Yue, do you see me—Brother Yue—”

All eyes turned to him and Yue Jie. Even Liu Ci blinked in confusion: Yue’s usual hostility toward Shen was known—yet now the crowd thought they must be close in private.

Yue Jie’s face darkened; veins stood on his hand.

“Take him—away!”

—

FOOTNOTES

[¹] Qing‑tan (清談 Assembly) – “Pure Conversation,” a fashionable pastime in late Han–Wei–Jin history, where aristocratic literati debated philosophy and indulged in elegant amusements. Here, adapted into Dayong.

[²] Five Surnames, Seven Hopes (五姓七望) – classical term denoting high aristocratic clans with entrenched social power.