ITIEQ C14

Chapter 14 – I Have a Brilliant Plan

Shen Qinghe was now the favored subject of the Emperor. Granted the privilege of freely moving within Hanchang Hall and frequently summoned to accompany the imperial presence, he was presently enjoying days blazing like fire upon boiling oil, flowers layered upon brocade. Each day saw several visitors coming to pay respects, though often leaving disappointed as he was nowhere to be found. Within the Attendants’ Office,* his seat was often conspicuously vacant.

* (Attendants’ Office – the “值房” where the Gei Shi Lang 給事郎, junior officials working under the Secretariat, handled court documents, criticisms, and remonstrations.)

With such favor shown him, resentment naturally festered.

“These duties should be shared by all, yet only Shen Qinghe shows his face, while the rest of us become little more than foils. When will our day of recognition ever come?”

“He was already promoted out of precedent to Fifth Rank Lower. At this rate, within days the Chancellor’s seat in the Secretariat may well fall into his pocket. I, laboring here five years, see not the faintest road forward—yet he, in mere days, shows signs of soaring.”

“He was once but a frivolous wastrel—what true learning could he have? Nothing but the tricks of fawning and flattery. We disdain to tread that path, and so suffer setbacks…”

Upon entering, Shen Qinghe found precisely such a scene, the table still cluttered with disordered documents, the three other Attendants lounging and chatting idly. He greeted them as usual, then calmly took up papers to draft his day’s approvals.

But before he could rise, he was stopped by one colleague, Dai Yi.

“Off again to attend His Majesty at Hanchang Hall?”

Shen Qinghe nodded.

Dai Yi smiled thinly: “His Majesty truly favors Secretary Shen. Look—even Pan Liang has not come today. We must trouble you to lend us your strength.”

Shen Qinghe agreed. At once, the three piled more and more files into his arms, double his workload of days past. Shen Qinghe could hardly fail to discern the ploy—elders pushing off work, forming their own clique—this was an old trick, no longer novel.

The System, currently online, was baffled. “Host! Why let them trample you so?”

Shen Qinghe replied: “If one intends to act against the tide, one must first endure and conceal. To them, this is monotonous drudgery. Yet sheet by sheet, these memorials build up the very state of Great Yong. This experience surpasses what any text in your database can yield.”

When arrogance is needed, be arrogant; when humility is needed, be humble. To secure a foothold in turbulent times, one must first learn which ground is solid and which hides reefs, lest one topple face-first.

It was his colleagues who should quake now, not him.

He summoned Yuanbao, a young palace attendant, to help carry the tall stack of submissions.

Since the System had gained a simulated body with which to wander, it had grown closer to Shen Qinghe, always ready with questions. “So, what have you gleaned from them?”

Shen Qinghe replied absently as he walked: “For instance, the open strife between the Chang and Qi factions in court. On one side, upstart aristocrats and imperial kin; on the other, the venerable Five Clans,* gripping tight to suppress the rival house. Another—though His Majesty has curtailed the feudal lords and stripped hereditary privilege, striking at vital interests, the court still praises him as a benevolent sovereign…”

* (Five Clans – “五姓七望,” the ancient, long-prestigious lineages of high-born families who dominated politics.)

Going through memorials was like watching through a god’s eye, slowly threading each strand of the great net. Once, Shen Qinghe had savored the taste of holding fate strand by strand—through study, through promotion. But here in Great Yong, it did not work the same way. Especially now, serving at the Emperor’s side, witnessing punishments, rewards, manipulation, balancing of power—sometimes himself drawn into minor details—he sensed a swelling inner emptiness. With a single word, vast assemblies of power would tremble into motion. Like a wind stirring countless chimes to sound at once—such a feeling set his very blood alight.

He lowered his eyes to hide the feverish gleam. Perhaps deep in his marrow, he had always been this kind of man. Sloth, lying flat, content to drift? Faced with this intoxicating thrill, such notions scattered like down in the wind.

“In sum… very interesting.”

Within Hanchang Hall, the palace attendants had withdrawn at command; only Jinchang remained by Emperor Zhaohuan’s side. From the beast-headed copper incense burner rose curling smoke. Xiao Yuanzheng had removed his court robes, wearing only plain black attire. Before his desk, he painted.

Few knew the Emperor excelled at painting. Since his accession, he had little leisure to lift the brush.

Seeing his sovereign in such leisure, Jinchang flooded him with praise: “Your Majesty’s brush has long lain idle, yet this ancient thread-line style remains exquisite—a worthy heir to Master Gu’s legacy! The likeness breathes with such spirit it seems alive…”

Before the emperor stretched a painting of a youth, drunk and roaming in spring. The mountains framed his figure, red robes flaring, like jade mountains tipping—the scene perfect in all but one thing: the features were as yet unpainted.

Jinchang’s eyes, sharp, suddenly recognized, and exclaimed with a laugh: “Why, it is the Second Young Master of the Shen household! His graceful bearing, immortalized in Your Majesty’s hand, is an unparalleled honor. If he knew, he would fall to his knees in grateful tears.”

Xiao Yuanzheng pinched his sleeve, studying long. “Does he resemble him?”

Jinchang paled, hearing his misstep. Quickly he amended: “Ah… this decrepit servant’s eyes are clouded! I mistook it for the tan hua robe of the Gold-Scaled Banquet…* Secretary Shen is taller, looking closely, there is little true resemblance.”

* (Tan hua探花 robe, Gold-Scaled Banquet – titles and honors from the imperial examination and subsequent feasting, identifying ranks of successful scholars.)

The emperor gazed intently at the faceless youth, long unable to add features.

“Enough. Box it away.”

Jinchang hastily obeyed, carefully folding and sealing the painting. Even after leaving the hall, he still puzzled: if not Shen, then who was the boy who looked so strangely familiar?

Shen Qinghe, having saluted, returned to his desk. His small case had been replaced days before with a tall one, fit to hold more documents—and no longer dangerously low to bump his knees. He could work in comfort.

“I hear you attended the Qingtan Gathering?”

Startled, Shen Qinghe looked up to see the Emperor had spoken. He leapt up swiftly. The tone revealed neither delight nor displeasure, steady as tempered water. Forcing calm, he admitted: “Yes.”

Born from a village hamlet to now stand bathed in the gaze of all, Shen Qinghe’s keenest weapon was instinct—an alertness that let him skirt dangers. A kind of talisman secured by survival.

“I went, Your Majesty. It was unlike what I’d imagined—arguing endlessly over trifles, drilling points into the ear until callused. The wine was good, yet not half so fine as the green-bamboo brew from Your Majesty’s Gold-Scaled Banquet. A pity you forbade me more then; now I only remember its excellence, but not its taste. And oh—there were wild red berries in the woods, sweet and tart. I ate too many and fell to stomach pains. The physician warned me never again to eat strange things gathered outside…” Shen Qinghe feigned foolish chatter, babbling like a schoolchild’s diary.

The Emperor’s brow indeed smoothed. “So at the gathering, you thought only of eating and drinking?”

Shen Qinghe thought: not just eat and drink—I also made quite the scene. If the Emperor knew he attended, perhaps he had also heard of this “madness.”

He replied lightly: “Man is iron, food is steel—eating and drinking are life’s first affairs.”

The Emperor gave a low chuckle. Shen Qinghe exhaled at last.

“Your Majesty!” Jinchang hurried in from outside, so quickly his hat askew. “An urgent report from the Commander of Arms! Twenty li beyond the capital, tens of thousands of refugees have gathered!”

The Emperor’s mirth vanished; his brows knotted. “From where do the refugees come?”

“They are said to flee famine from Changzhou.”

“Summon the Grand Secretariat at once for discussion.”

Though urgent, Emperor Zhaohuan’s demeanor remained steady, fingers tapping lightly on his desk.

Changzhou was the empire’s granary, producing much of its yearly grain. If even Changzhou had failed, then the lesser provinces must suffer even worse at the sight of Heaven’s disaster, ruin of family and house inevitable.

Both Emperor and Shen Qinghe grasped the weight, sinking heavy in heart.

Changzhou lay hundreds of li from the capital—these refugees had walked for ten days at least. Already the local officials should have reported—but not a whisper was heard. Clearly, they feigned deafness, shut eyes to truth, to shirk blame.

So far had officialdom sunk—waiting for death at their desks!

Yesterday he had sat at the Qingtan, swimming in wine and meat. Today he learned that just twenty li away, corpses cluttered the ground, bones in heaps. Shen Qinghe’s mind reeled. He bowed: “This minister begs leave.”

The Emperor pressed down his hand: “Remain.”

He read the new report, attendants removing incense burners, lowering bead curtains. When the ministers arrived, he suppressed his wrath behind them.

Even so, the Emperor’s fury lashed out once the ministers gathered. With a crack he hurled the report at a man: “Changzhou was your territory. You, born of the Wei clan, served as Censor-in-Chief for that prefecture. This very year drought there baked the land, the Hu River dried, fields barren, famine widespread, corpses filling ditches. Yet in your memorial you wrote ‘seasons fair and balanced.’ This is your balanced season?”

The Censor fell to his knees. “I… I only reported what my observing envoy informed me…”

“If a single leaf remains upon the tree, he calls it no drought. If one drop lies in the riverbed, he calls it abundant water.” The Emperor sneered. “Your envoy blinds your eyes, plugs your ears—and while tens of thousands flee their homes, you heard not a whisper? Truly a peerless Censor!”

The court bent heads, not daring to breathe, as the Emperor scourged him. One youth in white, however, strode forth—having rushed without even changing robes.

Stern in bearing, righteous to the bone, this was Kong Zhengqing, Deputy Censor-in-Chief, famed for iron firmness.

He declared: “This Censor has falsified reports, deceived his sovereign, cloaked truth while countless lives perished, unfit for office, guilty of graft, bribery, malfeasance beyond count. The Censorate has drafted impeachment already. Such vile harm to the state must be punished, Your Majesty—let him receive his many crimes together, to calm the hearts of the people!”

The Emperor, wrath still burning: “Eighty strokes, exile to Tingzhou—never to return to the capital!”

Eighty strokes! Flesh and bone would be flayed apart. On exile’s road, death was certain. This was no sentence, but execution.

At once, golden-armored guards dragged him gagged and struggling away.

Those who had ties with him suppressed words in their throats. Rarely had the Emperor blazed with such anger—they quickly chose silence, preferring the doctrine of “better he than I.”

Yet all eyes in court turned wary toward the White-Clad Censor, Kong Zhengqing.

Having removed the offender, the Emperor next purged a string of others complicit in negligence. Some were jailed, others degraded. Those struck low held their tongues, inwardly cursing the fool wailing outside.

Then came the greater matter: the refugees’ fate.

These were farmers, dependent upon Heaven’s mercy. Great Yong had only lately seen war’s end—its people had barely tasted peace before this blow. Grain prices soaring, famine deaths rising. Such disasters ever bred unrest: refugees, desperate to live, turned bandit, turned thieves.

The former dynasty fell to such a tide, upon which the Yong founder seized power. The cautionary tale stood too close—the same mistake must never repeat.

But the ministers had only the stale three measures: distribute grain, ladle congee, appropriate emergency funds. The Emperor’s gaze darkened, unsatisfied.

If even a prefectural Censor could be so deaf and blind, what chance had those alms of reaching hungry mouths through layers of filth?

At this, Shen Qinghe spoke timidly: “Your Majesty, this minister has a plan.”

He had no right to sit within this discussion. At first they thought he was but a diary officer, a human recorder. Only when the Emperor himself nodded did they see with surprise this favored attendant allowed to speak.

Shen Qinghe said: “Since we fear unrest from unsettled refugees, let us give them a place of settlement.”

Minister Situ Qixiang scoffed: “Settlement? What, shall the court build houses for beggars?”

Shen Qinghe smiled shyly. “This requires not only the court’s hand, but also yours, honored lords.”

Wandering people were seeds of chaos. In his time (the 21st-century mindset), education programs could stabilize society—but in Great Yong this was impossible. Another path was needed.

“Since refugees lack grain and land to sustain themselves, alms can only ease fire for a moment. Then let relief come through labor. Whatever the court needs—dredging canals, raising dikes, digging rivers— employ refugees first. Likewise, if your noble houses raise towers, host feasts, hire tenant farmers—seek them first. Cheap labor for you, survival for them—it serves both sides.”

Raise employment to lower crime. Shift burden from throne to noble clans. A shared risk.

Shen Qinghe thought drily: even a Qingtan Gathering musters hundreds of scions. If they compete in wealth, they can also do good works. Call it accumulating merit.

Deputy Censor Kong Zhengqing clapped his hands: “I find this plan workable!”

Situ Qixiang gaped. That Censor, born low, kept only a handful of servants—easy for him to say. Now he would shove the task upon their shoulders!

“This can only delay, not cure. Secretary Shen, Censor Kong—do you mean to keep all these peasants forever in the capital?”

Shen Qinghe shook his head. “Of course not. As Lord Situ says, this is but temporary. For full solution—we must resettle. Once settled through relief labor, they may be re-registered in common census, assigned lands and livelihoods. When Changzhou’s drought ends, they return. If still unmanageable, Great Yong holds vast empty lands—move them to Jiuli, to Puyang, to open wilderness. What fields they reclaim shall be theirs. Ask—when life has hope, who would prefer to turn bandit?”

Deputy Censor Kong could not restrain applause. “Excellent! Splendid!”

Shen Qinghe turned expectantly. “Lord Situ, famed for your benevolence— the late emperor said you came from a house of compassion. Then surely you must lead by example. The people’s eyes are keen and bright. Such virtue, they will sing daily.”

The Emperor pondered, then conceded: this was indeed another path. He cast Shen Qinghe an unexpected glance, then decreed at once:

“Let all offices immediately register the refugees. Every noble must employ them. The Censorate shall oversee. Any who exploit, abuse, or betray shall share the fate of that Censor!”

Situ Qixiang, caught, already cursed Shen Qinghe to his marrow.

But however unwilling, he and the others could only bow, voices trembling: “We shall see the matter earnestly done.”