Yan Chengzhao took the silver coins and hefted them between two fingers. “A little light,” he said.
He then fished a dragon coin from his waist and compared the two. Even in the dim moonlight, Yan Chengzhao spotted the difference at once. “Compared to the genuine coin,” he said, “the dragon’s tail is slightly longer, the clouds slightly shorter, the flame conceals the pearl, and there is something worth noting about this character for ‘circle’ as well.”
“Commissioner Yan truly has keen eyes.”
“This is precisely my line of work.” Yan Chengzhao asked, “Only… will these small markers actually deceive the opposing faction?”
Even without Yan Chengzhao’s sharp eyes, careful comparison would eventually reveal these subtle differences.
“These are deliberately made for them to find,” said Pei Shaohuai. “In addition to the hidden markings, the serrations along the edge are also different — genuine coins have sixty-eight serrations, counterfeit ones have sixty-nine. All of these are placed in plain sight, expressly for them to discover.”
Pei Shaohuai pointed to a row of tiny numerals at the bottom of the reverse side of the coin — nearly indistinguishable from the surrounding patterns — and said, “The key is here.”
“Sanskrit?” Yan Chengzhao asked after studying them.
Pei Shaohuai gave a nod. Arabic numerals evolved from ancient Indian Sanskrit; to call them Sanskrit was not entirely wrong.
As far back as the Tang dynasty, this system of numerals had entered the Central Plains through the introduction of calendrical texts. Yet since the people of the Central Plains were accustomed to writing vertically with the brush and had their own established numerical system, Arabic numerals encountered cultural resistance and were rarely adopted in either official or private documents.
During the Song and Yuan dynasties, Arabic numerals were introduced several more times, and yet were never accepted.
When Pei Shaohuai had been designing the anti-counterfeiting code for the silver coins, he had also considered using the Central Plains’ rod numeral system, or Suzhou numerals — but in the end decided to take the best from each and leave behind the rest. In the matter of numerals alone, the widespread adoption of Arabic numerals in later generations had already demonstrated that they were more scientifically sound, more convenient, and easier to distinguish than rod numerals or Suzhou numerals.
And he had persuaded the Emperor to agree.
Pei Shaohuai said, “Each time the Mint Bureau strikes a new batch of coins, the batch number is changed. Even if they can counterfeit the coins themselves, they cannot counterfeit this batch number.”
To counterfeit the batch number, one would first need to be able to read the Arabic numerals, and then calculate the pattern underlying the numbers.
“So, if the batch number is wrong, or if an old batch number reappears, the coin is a counterfeit.” Pei Shaohuai smiled, mimicking Yan Chengzhao’s earlier gesture of weighing a coin between two fingers. “And even if all of this is seen through, Commissioner Yan still has his two-finger technique, does he not?”
Pei Shaohuai had deliberately altered the silver-to-copper ratio, which Huang Qingxing had covertly learned and passed along — meaning the counterfeit coins would inevitably be lighter and duller in color.
Even if the opposing faction saw through that as well, there were still other vulnerabilities — such as the purchase of copper goods, the recruitment of craftsmen, and the sudden emergence of large quantities of new silver coins in circulation. As the saying goes, a carpenter has his chisels, a blacksmith his hammers, a tailor her shears, and a cook his knives — each has their own particular art. If a cook steals a blacksmith’s hammer, he is bound to expose himself. Besides, the opposing faction was in a hurry to convert their silver ingots into silver coins.
Yan Chengzhao tucked the counterfeit sample coins back into his robe and took on the task.
“What does Grand Minister Pei think they will do next?” Yan Chengzhao asked.
“Call for the elimination of the ‘treacherous official’ and the purging of the ruler’s inner circle.” Pei Shaohuai’s tone was light and unhurried, betraying not the slightest fear. In the moonlight he stood, his posture like the shadow of bamboo.
Yan Chengzhao, seeing Pei Shaohuai’s serene expression, jested, “Who would have thought — the man about to be fabricated into a great treacherous official is this young.”
Throughout history, there had really only been a handful of paths to rebellion. The first was to raise the standard of revolt, proclaim oneself a king, and march at the head of a multitude. The second was to hold the Emperor hostage and govern through him, the powerful minister eventually replacing the ruler. Both paths were immensely difficult — Cao Mengde, for instance, had labored an entire lifetime and never made the final step from “minister” to “sovereign.”
The third path was considerably less daunting — seize the succession to the throne. He who won gained the position; his followers gained the power. After all, they were all of imperial blood, which gave the struggle a somewhat more legitimate name.
The path the opposing faction had chosen was clearly the third.
And within the military ranks, men knew only their commanding general — not the Emperor. More compelling even than money was the promise of “noble titles for the family, and true power in one’s hands.” The opposing faction had come this far; they surely had troops under their command. To lead those troops into the capital and threaten the Emperor, they needed a righteous and reasonable rallying cry — “Eliminate the treacherous official; purge the ruler’s inner circle.”
Pei Shaohuai was that so-called “treacherous official.”
At the end of the Tang dynasty, when An Lushan launched his rebellion, the slogan he had used at the outset was precisely “Strike down the treacherous Prime Minister Yang Guozhong and drive out the pernicious influence of Lady Yang from the ruler’s side” — which was why Lady Yang had become the scapegoat, blamed as the beauty who brought disaster upon the nation.
The conversation being finished, there was no reason to linger. Yan Chengzhao leapt back up onto the top of the wall, cupped his hands toward Pei Shaohuai, said a single word — “Take care” — and then, like a nimble black cat, vanished without a sound into the moonlit night.
Pei Shaohuai tossed the golden token lightly from one hand and back with a single hand, smiling as he walked through the gate of the Earl’s estate.
“I’ll say this — it really is quite heavy.”
……
Within the palace, the Empress raised once more the matter of the Prince of Huai entering the capital to offer birthday congratulations, and the Emperor granted his approval.
Before this, the Crown Prince’s faction had still been harboring hopes and fighting on — but the moment the news broke, they had no will left to press further. What crime the Eastern Palace had committed, they understood in their hearts.
Wang Gaoxiang, as the figurehead of the Crown Prince’s faction, submitted a memorial stating, “…when one is determined to condemn, the charge can always be found. As the old minister who served as the Crown Prince’s teacher, I have become the target of a thousand accusers. I now beg Your Majesty to grant me leave to end my own life, so that the Eastern Palace’s innocence may be proven.”
He had exhausted all his options, and could only play on the sentiment of being the Crown Prince’s imperially appointed teacher.
The Emperor naturally could not permit a minister to take his own life — he merely had Wang Gaoxiang temporarily return home to “rest” and attend to his health. The Ministry of Personnel’s affairs would be handled by the Grand Secretariat in the interim. And so what the Crown Prince lost was not merely a single Wang Gaoxiang, but the entire Ministry of Personnel.
As Wang Gaoxiang was leaving the Ministry of Personnel, Pei Shaohuai, in his capacity as Records Supervisor of the Ministry of Personnel, came to see him off.
Wang Gaoxiang’s face was drawn and heavy — exhausted and unwilling to accept what had come. It was plain to see that he was genuinely and truly aggrieved at the Eastern Palace’s loss of power and his own loss of authority, though there was no sign of remorse.
When he saw Pei Shaohuai approaching, he could not conceal his fury. Before Pei Shaohuai had said a single word, Wang Gaoxiang erupted in angry rebuke: “Fire and ice cannot coexist in the same vessel; cold and heat do not share the same season. This world is no longer the age of Yao and Shun’s abdication of the throne… The Eastern Palace has lost its standing, and the Prince of Huai enters the capital — is this what you wished to see?” Water and fire cannot mix, cold and heat cannot share a season — there could only be one heir apparent under Heaven; if the Crown Prince did not hold firm to power, brothers would inevitably covet and seize it.
His meaning was: everything he had done, he had done so that the Crown Prince could hold the reins of power securely.
“I am the Crown Prince’s teacher — could I possibly be working to harm him?” Wang Gaoxiang said. “A future sovereign without a circle of loyal ministers is like one who has severed both arms. In all of history, no heir apparent has ever safely ascended the throne without the support and rallying of ministers around him.”
He challenged Pei Shaohuai: “You too have been standing on the Eastern Palace’s side — then why were you so foolish as to let yourself be used, to wound the Eastern Palace’s foundations and allow others to seize the moment?”
In his very real anger, Wang Gaoxiang said something he had not meant to let slip.
Upon hearing these words, Pei Shaohuai reflected inwardly: “Fire and ice cannot coexist in the same vessel; cold and heat do not share the same season” — these words came from the mouth of Han Feizi.
“The abdication of Yao and Shun” was because in ancient times, when productivity was low, leading the people was extraordinarily taxing — positions of power were more burden than privilege. In today’s world, even a county magistrate could accumulate in one lifetime enough wealth to provide for three generations — and where was the sense in abdication? This too was Han Feizi’s view.
Wang Gaoxiang was a thoroughgoing adherent of the Legalist school.
At court, a great many people wore the garb of Confucianism while governing according to Legalist thinking — this was perfectly normal, for Confucian virtues like filial piety and benevolence were fine for composing essays, but if applied wholesale to the practice of governance, the result would be nothing but a mess. Yet for Wang Gaoxiang to blurt it out as he had, with Legalist language always at the ready — that was unusual.
For the Legalist school also had another representative — Lord Shang. His work The Book of Lord Shang had been regarded by rulers of every dynasty as a forbidden text, because what The Book of Lord Shang embodied was the craft of sovereign governance, and rulers feared that those who read it would master the methods of controlling the populace and thereby threaten the throne.
In ordinary households, even those who wished to study Legalism did so wearing a Confucian disguise — they would not display it so openly.
Facing Wang Gaoxiang’s overflowing indignation, Pei Shaohuai replied, “What you and I see are, in the end, different things.”
Even having both chosen the Eastern Palace, their positions were not the same.
“Your subject sees Minister Wang off to his home to rest and recuperate.” With a respectful bow, Pei Shaohuai turned on his heel and strode away.
……
The capital inspection system had grown cold and quiet. By contrast, the Birthday Celebration was being prepared in grand fashion — the Office of Imperial Banquets even needed to borrow staff from elsewhere.
Because they both had a pair of triangular eyes, Pei Shaohuai kept finding himself strangely struck by the resemblance between Wang Gaoxiang and Huang Di — yet from their backgrounds and histories, there was no conceivable way the two could have any connection.
“Huang” against “Wang.” “Rushes and reeds” against “the Grand Academy.”
Having once served as an official in southern Fujian, Pei Shaohuai knew that in many parts of that region, the family names “Huang” and “Wang” were pronounced identically. Some villages called “Wang Village” had even been established as offshoots of “Huang Village.”
To establish great schools and academies, to cultivate fine talent — the name “Gaoxiang” carried the meaning of a grand hall of learning. Yet the reeds on the riverbank sway in desolation — “Di” was a wild grass growing in the fields and margins.
One carefully raised and educated in the halls of a great institution — the other cast out into a farmer’s household to grow wild and unchecked? Set against each other as rivals, each serving a different master?
Pei Shaohuai smiled to himself, feeling that his thoughts had drifted off course. Not that such a thing was impossible — but everything required a basis, and one could not proceed on speculation alone.
He was in his study, lost in quiet reflection, when he suddenly heard Little Nan and Little Feng calling out in the courtyard: “Mother, come out and smell this — it smells wonderful!”
Pei Shaohuai assumed Little Feng had picked some flowers, or perhaps had been given a sachet, and was simply wanting to share the delight with her mother — and so paid it no particular mind, continuing to sit in his study with his thoughts.
Then he heard Shi Yue’s footsteps pause — and then change, from slow to hurried, making quickly toward the study.
Pei Shaohuai’s brow furrowed; a sense of foreboding settled over him. He had just set down his brush when his wife pushed open the study door and said, “My lord — it is the scent of phoebe nanmu.”
Phoebe nanmu carries a natural fragrance of its own, and items fashioned from golden phoebe nanmu, even after years of storage, would retain a faint, lingering scent.
Golden phoebe nanmu was precious and rare; the place it was most abundantly used was the imperial palace.
For the scent of phoebe nanmu to drift from the palace all the way to the Earl’s estate, there could only be one cause — a great fire.
Pei Shaohuai had no time to say anything more. He grabbed the hem of his robe and ran toward the upper floor of the building, calling out to Chang Zhou as he went: “Go and fetch the Second Young Master.”
From the upper floor, looking into the distance, a column of black smoke surged up into the clouds — its source unmistakably within the palace.
Not long afterward, the common people of the city also became aware of the fire. The windows of teahouses and taverns were crowded with onlookers, all craning toward the direction of the palace.
With nanmu incense this dense, and smoke this thick and black, the fire within the palace was surely no small affair. Which palace hall was burning, there was no telling.
The fire burned on through the night, its force undiminished; the towering flames lit the entire imperial city as bright as day.
……
This time, what burned was the Emperor’s Qianqing Palace.
The fire was put out, but not until the third watch of the night. By great fortune, the imperial guards had arrived in time, and no other palace halls were consumed.
The Qianqing Palace was destroyed by the blaze, leaving only a few broken walls and a deep accumulation of ash. The Emperor’s sleeping quarters were gone, and his Imperial Study with it.
“Investigate — investigate thoroughly. Every single person who entered or left the Qianqing Palace that day — not one may be overlooked!” the Emperor commanded in fury.
The Qianqing Palace, and only the Qianqing Palace, had burned — if this was directed at the Emperor, it was an attempt on his life.
Pei Shaohuai had not yet managed to enter the palace and present himself to the Emperor when another piece of news reached him, one that sent a chill straight to his bones.
On the very night of the Qianqing Palace fire, Director Wu of the Bureau of Astronomy had suffered a sudden acute illness and died at his residence.