ITIEQ C21

Chapter 21 – It Was My Fault

Everything in the Hall of Hanchang was just as it had been yesterday: the plain and spotless furnishings, the quiet palace attendants. Even though days had passed since the emperor last came, his desk had been wiped scrupulously clean, not a speck of dust upon it.

Court had yet to be dismissed, and in the outer hall the palace maids were sweeping in hushed silence. One of the serving girls would occasionally steal a quick glance through the beaded curtain, only to lower her head again at once. From the bronze incense burner patterned with beasts, thin threads of white smoke trailed downward, filling the inner chamber with a lingering fragrance of sandalwood—an enduring scent of Emperor Zhaohuan himself. For Shen Qinghe, who had remained in his presence for long, that fragrance would sometimes cling faintly to his own robes as well.

He kept his head lowered, quietly attending to his tasks. When Emperor Zhaohuan entered the chamber, Shen Qinghe rose and paid his respects with flawless courtesy.

Xiao Yuanzheng lingered on him with an extra glance.

The Guoshi—the national history, newly edited in the Secretariat^1—had been placed upon the table in advance. Xiao Yuanzheng turned page after page, noting the brilliance of Yue Ji: a man with volumes of learning stored in his chest, capable of supplementing broken fragments of history. His prose struck to the very marrow, masterful in clarity, such that in historical compilation matters his results came with half the effort, earning even the praise of the stern, taciturn historiographers. He truly held ability.

Yet the bangyan^2, also serving as historiographer within the same Secretariat, seemed dimmer by comparison under Yue Ji’s brilliance. As for the one most eye-catching… Xiao Yuanzheng tilted his head slightly. Listed together as the tanhualang^3 in the same jinshi rank, was a youth whose brush had already dripped an ink-spot on the paper, his head drooping so low it was about to touch the desk. Only the round back of his head was visible.

Jinchang had long seen this and grew anxious—how could someone fall asleep while serving before the emperor himself! Just as he was thinking of how he might rouse him discreetly, he realized the emperor’s gaze had already shifted from the documents toward that side table.

At once Jinchang gave up any intention of interference, lowering his eyes and steadying his breath: Young Master Shen, may fate shield you today!

Xiao Yuanzheng stared for a time. Seeing that round dark head about to knock into the ink-spot, he gave a light cough.

The quiet chamber made even the small sound ring conspicuous.

Shen Qinghe jolted awake like a startled bird. He immediately stood and bowed. Outside, the northern wind whistled, but within Hanchang Hall the underfloor heating and a brazier nearby had made it warm as spring, heat that could easily lull one into drowsiness.

“Your Majesty, I beg forgiveness.”

“Are you drowsy?” Xiao Yuanzheng recalled the youth’s tired eyes yesterday. Now with distance, he could not clearly see.

“I am not drowsy.”

“If weary, then take your rest.” Holding the histories in one hand, Emperor Zhaohuan’s glance shifted to the mountain of documents piled upon the youth’s desk. His brows knit.

“You write this much in a single day?”

The endless documents—they nearly rivaled the amount he himself must review daily.

Shen Qinghe was uncertain of his standing with this supreme sovereign. No trace of the friction from yesterday colored his mien now; his expression was cautious, impeccable.

He rotated his wrist with care.

“Not so many…”

“I shall finish today.”

On the emperor’s table lay petitions to be read. Flipping through several, he immediately recognized Shen Qinghe’s handwriting—clear and distinct. Eight or nine out of every ten documents were his drafts.

All the careful act Shen Qinghe had rehearsed in his mind crumbled the moment Emperor Zhaohuan drew nearer, sandalwood upon his breath mingling with the dark cloth about him and crowding in.

His breath stalled.

The young emperor merely brushed past, picking up the stack of his drafts.

“Tax levies, irrigation, tribute… these are all written by you?”

The clerical office had once four men, but one had retired due to injury. Claims of short staffing led to Shen Qinghe being reassigned there. In the past, Xiao Yuanzheng had little care, giving only cursory glances to their petitions—yet these days, when Shen Qinghe’s handwriting appeared, his gaze tended to linger.

But now it seemed—no, it was never about short hands at all. Rather, petty factions were shirking, passing their burdens upon one new youth right under his very nose.

“Are the others merely idle eaters then?” His voice cooled. Anger stirred beneath the flat tone.

“It is not their fault,” Shen Qinghe lowered his eyes. So near now, Xiao Yuanzheng could clearly see the strained redness at the corners of those eyes, reddened from exhaustion.

“I am youngest of them all. The older gentlemen have eaten more salt than I have eaten rice. That they let me practice more is only natural.”

The emperor’s face darkened.

“A pack of useless wine-sacks.”

He summoned his chamberlain. “Those three clerks: if they refuse their duty, send them to the Bureau of Arms to clean stables. Their stipends—force it all back from them.”

Shen Qinghe quietly tugged at the corner of his lips.

There now—you call it slander and whisperings. He makes a direct report instead.

And suddenly it struck him—was he, with his underhand scheming, ever capable of truly manipulating this Emperor? That those three had lost their hats was perhaps only a stream the sovereign wished to push along. When disaster relief came, why then was he not this straightforward?

The faint smile quickly collapsed.

It was but theatre—only he himself had played into it with sincerity. How foolish. How stupid.

When those deserving punishment had been punished, Xiao Yuanzheng noticed the blue-robed youth—the gleam of levity upon his face faded fast into gloom. His once mischievous eyes now lowered, utterly subdued.

Could he not be coaxed? A rare helplessness stirred within him, unsettling, unfamiliar.

His glance turned, seeking Jinchang’s counsel. Yet the grand chamberlain had been a eunuch since boyhood, bereft of kinship, what counsel could he possibly give in matters of hearts?

Pressing fingers to his brow, he retreated inwardly: best await another chance.

—

After lunch, as was custom upon the Winter Solstice, Xiao Yuanzheng went to Fengyang Terrace to pay respects, returning thereafter to Hanchang Hall.

A palace attendant rushed out happily, clutching a golden kumquat. Startled upon encountering the emperor’s cortege, he stumbled in bowing; the fruit rolled to the ground.

Spotting it fall, Jinchang lashed out: “You thieving scoundrel! Dare you pilfer within the palace!”

Fresh fruits were rare delicacies, belonging solely to nobility, carefully recorded, distributed to various estates or bestowed upon ministers. Common enough within palace walls, but never for lowly servants; outside these walls, most common households would not taste a single fruit in an entire year!

All attendants in Hanchang Hall were of Jinchang’s choosing, strict under his watch. To be found stealing so blatantly under the emperor’s gaze—were they trying to ruin him? Thoughts raced, but without pause he waved his whisk, ordering guards to drag the youth away to the Justice Bureau.

The trembling youth knelt, his earlier delight wiped pale with terror: “Mercy, Grand Chamberlain! It wasn’t stolen—it… it was bestowed by a great lord! Eunuch Yuanbao was there, he can testify!”

“Yuanbao?”

Jinchang frowned. Yuanbao, his own pupil: a cautious and capable lad, never known to mingle with grandees.

The boy pointed anxiously toward a secluded courtyard behind several corridors, far from the main hall, long abandoned and desolate.

Jinchang grew ever less confident. Emperor Zhaohuan waved the others to remain behind, and alone strode inward.

Within the shabby court, sparse plum trees grew, budding faintly with tiny specks of green. At the center, a stone well, once for household water, stood. By it, a swing creaked.

Upon that swing sat Shen Qinghe, swaying gently, fixated upon the well.

“Harder! Pull harder!” cried a familiar voice—Eunuch Yuanbao, dangling at the rope, himself half-pulled into the well.

“Ah, so you see? The final strength lies with me!” Shen Qinghe leapt from the swing to help. Together they hauled the rope; eventually the pulley groaned to life, water spilling. A wooden bucket rose, full of sodden fruits.

“Long have I missed the taste of fruit chilled by well-water. Today I have quenched both appetite and desire!” He plucked a red date, rubbed it briefly upon his sleeve, and bit down immediately. The icy burst sent sharp pain to his teeth, making him grimace in comical contortion. “Natural cooling—better than an icebox^4!”

Seating himself once more on the swing, he offered: “Yuanbao, have one too. At home I would always eat my brothers’ leftovers. Now, everyone gives me fruit! Let them see how glorious I am—take whichever I please! The palace fruit is sweeter than outside; they could never dream of this.”

“You couldn’t even eat one at home?”

From between the plum trees, Xiao Yuanzheng emerged. Both turned. Yuanbao nearly fainted from terror, prostrating himself flat.

Shen Qinghe instantly lowered his gaze, withdrawing his smile, bowing deeply.

Xiao Yuanzheng retrieved a date from the bucket, toyed with it between his fingers. “Is it truly so delicious?”

Caught red-handed in idleness, Shen Qinghe pressed lips tight. “It was His Majesty who permitted me to rest.”

“Yes, I do not fault you.” With a soft chuckle, he pulled the youth’s hand and pressed the cold fruit against his palm. “Eat.”

Shen Qinghe stepped back. “I thank Your Majesty’s grace.”

“Unhappy again?”

The emperor frowned, scrutinizing his expression. In silence he pondered, before speaking at last:

“You bear resentment against me.”

The phrase caught Shen Qinghe off guard. Resentment? Against the emperor? The very wording made his teeth ache.

“Your servant dares not.”

Yuanbao, drenched in sweat, trembled upon the ground. This—this—was not a conversation he dared overhear! One glance from the emperor, and he scrambled away like a spirit fled.

Now only two remained in the plum garden.

“You resented me for dismissing you without cause, for ignoring your defense, for ruling arbitrarily. And so, you are displeased. Is that not so?”

In truth, it bordered on absurdity—like a child sulking against his parent. Between sovereign and servant, inequality so vast, how could such small grievances register at all for the Emperor? To him, yesterday’s conflict was yet another drop in the torrent of state matters; to Shen Qinghe, an immovable rift. To the ruler, his decrees flowed like thousands each day. Use what is useful, discard what is not—no more than that.

To dredge the past unbidden, to acknowledge such turbulence—was itself remarkable. The very act cast a towering figure glancing downward, remarking gently:

—What need to sink so deep?

It was akin to his sporadic favors—the brighter the blaze, the swifter the wood burned through. Shen Qinghe, ever wary, glanced inward at his dwindling time. Before the fire burned out, he must secure some footing of his own.

The colder his heart grew, the steadier his mask became.

“Your Majesty surely had his reasons. Your servant has never once harbored resentment.”

“Lies.”

Who could dare speak the truth? To accuse oneself before the emperor? He would be forced into peril regardless—was this not to drive him up the mountain as a bandit, with no retreat?

“It was my fault.”

Shen Qinghe froze. An apology?

He answered carefully: “How could Your Majesty have erred?”

“I knew of your toil amidst the disaster camps. I should have rewarded you properly, clearly explained the reasons behind my decisions. Instead, I succumbed to arrogance—believing all I did was for your own good, imposing my will. That was wrong.”

Shen Qinghe’s features stiffened.

An emperor’s apology—dreamlike, unreal. Another part of him calculated frantically: what purpose lay beneath? Why would the emperor ever speak soft to a mere subject? Was this a ploy, to later silence him forever? Thoughts tangled, threatening to burst.

Yet, despite himself, resentment eased, half if not more.

Choosing to sidestep, Shen Qinghe picked up a fragrant musk melon, cracking it in half against the well’s edge. The sound rang crisp as shells splitting, scent spreading fragrant through the garden.

A ladder offered—he could not dismiss it, nor fully grasp it.

“Would Your Majesty care for melon?” He offered the larger half with both hands.

Xiao Yuanzheng gazed, then took both halves into his broad palms, lifting also the bucket of fruit as though weightless.

“In this cold, chilled fruit is unwise. You enjoy sweetness—let Jinchang slice and sugar them, easier on the mouth.”

“Do you know of stewed plums?” he continued, “With crystal sugar, made into plum syrup. Back when I was in the Northwest, children dearly loved it.”

Under his clear eyes, Shen Qinghe strangely felt cherished. He shook his head gently. “Never tasted it. It sounds delicious.”

The emperor smiled kindly. “The kitchen still retains my old cook from the Northwest. I shall have him prepare you a cup.”

The tension between them lightened, reminiscent of times before yesterday.

Later, Shen Qinghe indeed tasted sugared fruit slices. Yuanbao, seemingly frightened witless, hid away fully till duty was done.

On his way home, a palace eunuch deliberately brushed past him, slipping something into his sleeve. A folded slip of fine paper.

Opening it in the seclusion of his carriage, Shen Qinghe read the delicate script:

“Court officials have impeached you for misconduct during disaster relief—claims of superstition and disordering the law. The Secretariat has already dismissed them in full.”

“Do not worry over disputes with the Qi clan.”

“As for the matter of salt taxes, the following corrupt officials are implicated. Seize this chance.”

…

Folding the paper flat, Shen Qinghe’s suspicions confirmed. He already knew who had sent it.

He marveled—the foremost of clans indeed! Though absent from court, they could still bend wind and storm, seal or release words at will. What the emperor saw, whose voice reached his ears, were never accidental.

To say such hands held sway over sun and moon was scarcely exaggeration.

Such an effortless gift thrown into his arms, opportunities delivered to his lips—endless favor suffusing him until dizzy.

To serve both as double agent, walk the tightrope with one hand grasping a thigh of gold—what a heady, intoxicating thrill.

As he dismounted before the Shen family residence, raucous cheer struck his ears. Firecrackers roared, servants tossing coins into the crowd, lanterns blazing red ‘Double Happiness’ characters.

“What occasion is so jubilant?” Even when he had won third place in the examinations, the household hadn’t been this lively.

“Second Young Master, it is a wedding betrothal—our grand joyous affair!” the servant answered, beaming. “The Fourth Young Lady’s marriage match has just been set! The family hosts three days of banquets! Mistress is so delighted our wages doubled!”

“Fourth Young Lady…” That meant Shen Yan’er. She was barely fifteen—yet marriage already?

“Such celebration for a betrothal? What of the actual wedding?” He pointed at the lantern. Must it be even grander?

“Not just any match. The suitor is from the Qi clan. She will become principal wife within a great lineage!”

“…Qi clan?”

Seizing the servant’s sleeve, Shen Qinghe demanded: “Which Qi?”

The youth blinked innocently. “Surely the Second Young Master jests. Among the Five Great Clans, can there be more than one Qi?”

His heart grew cold as he returned to his own courtyard. Lüsong and Nan-hong, seeing his pallor, quickly barred the gates to mute the din of drums and fireworks.

“Is the noise outside displeasing?” They fumed righteously: “The Fourth Young Lady always sought to mock our courtyard. After this, she’ll surely go further! But we fear not—you are now Fifth Rank official!”

“Your young master is no petty man,” Shen Qinghe patted one’s head. They grinned sheepishly.

“But indeed—the Five Great Clans never intermarry lightly. Even the most learned and virtuous of daughters cannot climb their gates. Yet our young lady is welcomed as principal wife… this is most strange.”

His mind raced. Was it accidental? He himself had just crossed blades with Qi Lianjun of the Qi clan. Days later, they extended a marriage proposal? Impossible coincidence.

But amidst the family’s ecstasy, should he raise protest, his father and Lady Qin would flay him alive. Even if into fire, they would leap blindly for a chance to marry into the great clans.

Helpless.

Drawing that clandestine slip once more, the second line struck his gaze anew:

“Do not worry over disputes with the Qi.”

How not to worry? Tie the clans by marriage, and grievances vanish into kinship.

Absurd. Ridiculous!

What power Yue Ji wielded—to sway even the nuptials of another ancient clan.

Dark light shimmered across his gaze.

They sought to bind him utterly to this ship.

Footnotes:

1. Secretariat (秘书省, Mishusheng) – one of the central government institutions in imperial China responsible for drafting and reviewing state documents. 
2. Bangyan (榜眼) – title for the scholar who placed second in the highest level of the imperial civil service examination. 
3. Tanhualang (探花郎) – title for the scholar who placed third in the jinshi examinations; the top three scholars had individual titles. 
4. Icebox – historical equivalent in China and elsewhere would be an ice storage pit or box, but here the comparison reflects Shen Qinghe’s modern awareness and phrasing.