◎Audience in the Hall◎
The first time Song Chang had met Zhou Tan, it had also been in this very Xuande Hall.
At the time, the young man hadn’t yet reached the age of capping, dressed in the same dark blue robes as the other scholars, his eyes lowered respectfully, looking every bit the picture of deference. The moment he’d laid eyes on that fine, aloof young man, he’d seen him standing among the assembled students like a solitary crane, noble and self-possessed.
He’d posed a question, asking them to debate the relative weight of “establishing the heart of Heaven” against “establishing the fate of the people.”
Zhou Tan and Su Chaoci had debated policy before the assembled court, ranging from ancient sages to the extraordinary talents of the present age, holding forth without pause for three full hours, leaving the four court scholars in the hall applauding in astonishment.
Su Chaoci, born into a family of officials, had rather looked down on this newcomer from some minor locale at first, but after barely an hour of discussion had begun to feel genuine admiration, and by the end of the debate had willingly ceded first place to him, all but ready to rush straight out of the palace to claim him as a kindred spirit.
Song Chang named him the top graduate. Zhou Tan simply gave a mild bow of gratitude for the imperial favor, showing none of the usual unseemly displays other scholars fell into — either wild delight or arrogant self-satisfaction. Looking into those amber eyes of his, Song Chang couldn’t shake the feeling that something about him seemed strangely familiar.
But that feeling was as elusive as the young man’s own demeanor — the moment he tried to focus on it, it slipped away.
Gu Zhiyan had once been his own teacher, and after becoming chancellor had taken students without restriction of numbers, yet upon first meeting Zhou Tan had grown deeply fond of him — that year, Zhou Tan was the only student he took on.
Even so, Song Chang hadn’t thought much of it at the time — there were simply too many new scholars each year, and once they were sent out to their posts, they were easy enough to forget. By the time Zhou Tan returned to the capital again, several years had already passed.
Then, one winter, Song Chang was approached by an old acquaintance claiming to have a grievance to air.
And he heard an absurd story.
Having heard the whole affair, he’d had Gongshu Duan killed without a moment’s hesitation — the man wasn’t even of imperial blood? How could that possibly be… if such words ever got out, what would happen, what should be done?
He should have treated it as though it had never happened at all. But the more deliberately he tried to forget, the more vividly it kept coming back to him — why, in the end, had his late father refused to name him, his own true son, as heir, and instead secretly summoned Prince Jing back to the capital? He himself had poisoned his own father under the scheming of his mother and grandfather — and Emperor Xuan, on his deathbed, had refused even to see him, summoning his teacher into the inner palace instead, and saying — what, exactly?
His head split with pain.
One night, passing by the long-abandoned Zhenru Palace, he’d had a sudden thought — if he built a Buddhist shrine on the original site, he could openly search for the truth he was so afraid to learn, all in plain sight, with perfect justification.
It was nothing more than the reconstruction of a palace hall — why had Gu Zhiyan opposed it so stubbornly?
He looked at him from behind the beaded curtain of his crown, at those pleading yet resolute eyes, and felt a chill settle in his chest. He was certain, in that moment, that Gu Zhiyan already knew the truth.
And if he knew — how many others might know as well?
If there was even a possibility they knew, not a single one of them could be allowed to remain.
Song Chang himself couldn’t say whether he truly believed all these people might know the truth, or whether he’d simply grown resentful of Gu Zhiyan, who had constrained him at every turn for so long. He had never before killed so freely, so recklessly — and by the end, he’d found he rather enjoyed it.
He had finally forced Gu Zhiyan to remove his official cap, to kneel and beg for mercy with no dignity left at all, to resign his post of his own accord and petition to retire.
He’d also heard that someone in the Imperial Prison had submitted, and had written the “Rhapsody of the Candlelit Tower” for him — Gu Zhiyan’s most beloved student, writing a rhapsody in praise of his new tower. What a thing, to break a teacher’s heart so thoroughly — and yet Gu Zhiyan hadn’t seemed to care at all. Drawing on years of loyalty between them, he’d begged one last favor: since Zhou Tan had already bowed his head, would His Majesty spare his life?
Song Chang had angrily agreed.
Gu Zhiyan had returned home in desolate defeat, and before he’d even left the capital, had drowned himself in the river. The student he’d poured his life’s effort into protecting had never once gone to see him off.
Song Chang had felt, on the one hand, smugly triumphant that he’d won — and on the other, a hollow, exhausted sense of emptiness. Such tangled, complicated feelings had knotted up in his chest, and had left even his feelings toward Zhou Tan just as complicated.
He knew that once Zhou Tan had bowed his head in the Imperial Prison, that single act of apostasy had left him no way back except to attach himself wholly to the emperor’s trust from then on. He also knew that Zhou Tan hadn’t been content to sit quietly at the Ministry of Justice, and had gone after one official after another who’d impeached Gu Zhiyan.
But Song Chang hadn’t bothered to interfere, turning a blind eye and quietly permitting his revenge — he’d long since mastered the art of statecraft, and none of it amounted to anything terribly significant anyway.
It wasn’t until Peng Yue had died so strangely on Jinghua Mountain that Song Chang suddenly realized that, under Zhou Tan’s maneuvering, the balance of power at court was no longer what it once had been.
Though he had long since established a crown prince, the ministers were locked in fierce factional strife, and it was precisely because of this that everyone was forced to tread carefully. If Zhou Tan’s outward obedience had been nothing but an act all along, if he’d never actually let go of his desire for revenge for his teacher’s sake, and had secretly aligned himself with the crown prince instead…
Song Chang had still been hesitating over the matter, until Fu Qingnian had come to the palace for a long private conversation and vaguely alluded to the way he had come to power — his patricide. Fu Qingnian was the only person at court who knew the truth of it, and his eagerness to eliminate Gu Zhiyan had come precisely from his deep worry over what Gu Zhiyan might do, should he ever learn of it.
If Zhou Tan turned toward the crown prince and helped him clean house at court, who could guarantee the crown prince wouldn’t do exactly as he himself had once done, and kill his own father?
It seemed, in the end, he would have to go against his teacher’s final wish after all.
Granting Zhou Tan one last audience before his death might, perhaps, be the closest thing to a final reckoning he could offer his teacher.
After all, his old friend had been visiting his dreams often of late — sometimes he found himself remembering his teacher’s hand guiding his own as he wrote the character for “benevolence” for the first time; other times, he remembered slipping out of the Eastern Palace with Xiao Yue and the others to wander the streets together. The past felt like a dream now, ultimately dissolved into the cold, forbidding palace walls.
Zhou Tan was brought into Xuande Hall by two Zanjin Guards and dropped at the foot of the steps. The white-robed top graduate who had once cut such a striking figure, having endured first the Imperial Prison and then the Zanjin dungeons, was now utterly broken down — even though he’d changed into fresh dark robes before coming, dull red bloodstains still seeped through the fabric on his back.
He seemed entirely unaware of the pain. Hearing the sound of the hall doors closing, he straightened and knelt properly, performing a formal bow to the emperor with steady composure, his voice not even trembling. “Your humble servant… pays his respects to Your Majesty.”
Song Chang said nothing, and Zhou Tan remained prostrate on the ground for a long while without rising.
“I hear that you refused to speak while in Zanjin Hall, insisting instead on an audience with me,” Song Chang said, resting a hand on the cold gilded ornament beside him. “If you had evidence to prove you didn’t commit murder, you would have produced it long ago, wouldn’t you? So why did you insist on seeing me at all?”
Zhou Tan rose and looked at him, a faint flicker in his amber eyes. “Your servant has come to beg Your Majesty to render judgment.”
“Judgment?” The old eunuch beside him presented Song Chang with a cup of tea, still steaming hot. He blew across the foam. “Judgment on what?”
Zhou Tan met his gaze without the slightest fear. “I ask that Your Majesty send everyone else from the room.”
Song Chang gave a short, surprised laugh, and waved for the others to withdraw. “Xiaobai, I’ve already had the Zanjin Guards investigate your case thoroughly. That afternoon, you and your wife went out together along the Bian River street, after which she returned home by carriage. That night, you weren’t at the residence, and you weren’t at the Ministry of Justice either, and you brought none of your guards with you. Where did you go? Does anyone vouch for you?”
“Your Majesty doesn’t truly care whether anyone can vouch for me,” Zhou Tan answered respectfully. “Your Majesty believes I’ve already thrown in with the crown prince, that I committed murder and colluded with a witness in order to slander another, all to eliminate the chief minister’s trusted man. As for evidence — naturally, I have no proof that I didn’t commit murder. But if Your Majesty truly had proof that I did, why would you have the Zanjin Guards hold and torture me, instead of simply having me executed outright?”
The words were remarkably insolent. Song Chang shot him a cold glance. “What exactly are you trying to say?”
Zhou Tan suddenly lifted his head, as though he’d finally made up his mind about something, and bowed deeply before him. “Your servant has come here at the risk of death, having retreated as far as I possibly can with nowhere left to yield. There is an old matter from years past—”
Before he could finish, three soft knocks sounded at the hall doors. When Xuande Hall’s doors were closed for a private audience, no one but the emperor’s own personal chief eunuch would dare disturb it — for him to do so now meant something urgent enough that it couldn’t wait.
Zhou Tan fell silent at once. Song Chang, somewhat impatient, called for the man to enter, and asked irritably, “What matter could possibly be urgent enough to interrupt at a time like this?”
The eunuch stole a glance at Zhou Tan, still kneeling to the side, and just then the hall doors swung open, and Song Chang heard, carried faintly on the wind, the distant sound of a drum being struck.
Zhou Tan’s face turned deathly pale in an instant.
The eunuch stammered, cold sweat dripping from his brow. “Your Majesty — Lord Zhou’s — Lord Zhou’s wife has struck the Drum of Grievances a second time on the Imperial Avenue, saying that Lord Zhou was with her the entire night in question, and that the Three Judicial Offices have presumed his guilt unjustly.”
Song Chang blinked, stunned. “What?”
The eunuch continued. “She — she also said… that if she cannot clear her husband’s name, she is prepared to dash her own head against the drum-stone. The Right Forest Guard didn’t dare delay and has brought her into the palace. Since this concerns Lord Zhou’s case directly, your servant didn’t dare hold off on reporting it — Your Majesty, how should this woman be dealt with?”
Song Chang said nothing for a long moment, then let out a sigh, his tone unreadable.
“Xiaobai, you really did marry yourself a fine wife.”
The composure that had held steady on Zhou Tan’s face finally broke. He seemed to want to say something, but instead broke into a fit of coughing, his face flushing a deep red from the strain — clearly overcome with alarm. “This is reckless of her… she knows nothing of any of this!”
The eunuch answered carefully. “The drum-striking has drawn quite a crowd — the whole Imperial Avenue is packed with people who came to watch. I fear word of this, connected to Lord Zhou’s case, will spread through every street and alley of the city before the day is out… And when the Forest Guard brought the Vice Minister’s wife into the palace, they happened to encounter the Noble Consort as well…”
Zhou Tan turned and bowed his head to the floor again. “Your Majesty, my wife’s conduct is truly wild and unreasonable. Let your servant bear the punishment in her place — please have someone coax her out of the palace and send her back to the residence!”
Song Chang studied his expression, finding it all rather amusing. He considered it for a moment, then said, “Never mind. Since she’s already here, the two of you might as well get to see each other. Since you have something to say that requires everyone else to leave, have your wife go sit with the Noble Consort for a while first.”
Zhou Tan cried out, his voice anguished. “Your Majesty!”
“What are you so afraid of?” Song Chang rose from his throne and stepped down. “What could the Noble Consort possibly do to someone I myself intend to see? Wasn’t it the Noble Consort herself who arranged this marriage of yours in the first place? You were gravely ill at the time and never brought your wife to the palace to offer thanks — having her go see her now hardly counts as any breach of propriety.”
He walked up to Zhou Tan and stood over him, looking down, his pale gold dragon robe elaborately embroidered.
“Now then, my dear subject — what was it you were about to say?”
Fu Mingran sat up straight, gripping the handle of her fan, feeling restless with no outlet for her irritation, and could only cast a cold glance down below her.
She’d seen Qu You once before, at a banquet, and remembered only that she had a fine complexion and considerable talent — though guileless and easily bullied, she carried herself with a certain proud integrity, very much in the manner of a woman of the pure scholarly class.
Wouldn’t a woman like that despise a scheming sycophant like Zhou Tan?
That had been exactly her thinking when she’d arranged the marriage — she’d been certain at the time that once Qu You married in, she’d turn the Zhou household upside down, giving Zhou Tan no peace even while ill, and if by some stroke of luck he recovered, he’d get a taste of what it felt like to have his own household set ablaze against him.
But she’d never imagined things would turn out so peaceful instead. Even the last time she’d gone to see Zhou Tan at Zanjin Hall, she’d still assumed the two of them might be estranged, and had rather looked forward to watching the show.
She hadn’t expected today’s drum-striking to catch her so entirely off guard.
Fu Mingran suddenly realized that the last time Zhou Tan had thanked her with that faint smile for arranging his marriage, he might not have been joking with her at all. If the drum incident on the Imperial Avenue was truly as Qu You had just proclaimed before the crowd, then the two of them were likely genuinely in harmony as husband and wife — perhaps even regarded each other as true confidants.
Wasn’t that so?
If it weren’t, why would this woman come forward today, at the risk of destroying her reputation entirely, to plead her husband’s case before the throne?
What a fine matchmaker she had turned out to be.
The palace maids lowered the raised lattice windows, and for a moment the room fell so quiet that only the faint sound of incense burning in the censer could be heard.
Qu You knelt on the floor and heard the woman above her ask, “Vice Minister’s wife, I hear that you and Lord Zhou weren’t on particularly good terms before. Is that true?”
The Noble Consort had granted her a pear-blossom fan; what answer she wanted to hear was obvious enough. Qu You, though unsure exactly what was on the woman’s mind, went along vaguely all the same. “Your Highness is too kind.”
Fu Mingran, however, said nothing for a long while.
With her silent, Qu You naturally didn’t dare say more either. After a long pause, she finally heard Fu Mingran rap her hand sharply against the wooden table beside her, and the fan she’d been holding was flung down, landing abruptly at Qu You’s feet. “You dare lie to my face?”
The accusation had come from nowhere, and Qu You genuinely couldn’t understand why the Forest Guard had brought her here to the Noble Consort first, nor could she work out what purpose lay behind the Noble Consort personally arranging this marriage in the first place. But one thing was certain — the Noble Consort surely didn’t want to see her and Zhou Tan of one mind, and now, with Qu You having struck the drum with no regard for her own reputation, it must have come as quite a shock to her.
Qu You blinked, momentarily stunned, then bowed her head. “Your servant would not dare.”
Whatever the woman was thinking, it was best to say as little as possible for now.
Fu Mingran rose from the couch, the long embroidered hem of her skirt brushing across the back of Qu You’s hand as she took a few steps, then turned back and gave a scornful laugh. “You really are willing to go to any length, aren’t you — even something as bold as striking the Drum of Grievances in public. Before I arranged this marriage, I never would have guessed you had it in you.”
Fu Mingran’s manner still caught her somewhat off guard — she’d assumed that even if the woman were displeased, she wouldn’t make it quite this obvious.
Since Emperor De had kept her in the palace, he clearly meant to see her eventually. No matter how furious the Noble Consort might be right now, she still didn’t dare do anything more drastic — only left her kneeling in the hall.
Qu You knelt there on the cold lotus-patterned gold tiles, her headdress pressing heavily down on her aching neck, thinking to herself, half-amused despite everything, that ever since coming to Northern Yin, the thing she’d found hardest to accept, the thing she disliked most, was this custom of kneeling. Kneeling to one’s own parents was one thing, but back when she’d rarely gone into the palace, whenever she’d met powerful ministers or princes, it had always been in private settings, requiring nothing more than a deep bow.
Having grown up in a civilization a thousand years further along, in an age that had never carried such an intense sense of rigid hierarchy, even watching someone else grovel before another made her uncomfortable — let alone doing it herself.
Only for Zhou Tan’s sake could she kneel here now, with no thought for dignity, no concern for pride, waiting for whatever mercy those above chose to grant her.
She knelt on the floor for roughly the time it took two sticks of incense to burn down, until at last a young eunuch came hurrying in from outside. Fu Mingran personally came over to help her to her feet, her long fingernails brushing along the side of her face, and murmured something in a voice pitched low enough that only the two of them could hear — contemptuous, and utterly cold.
“You’re quite something, aren’t you. Once Zhou Tan is dead and you’re implicated and sent down to the Bureau of Court Entertainers, I’ll arrange another marriage for you myself. When that day comes, don’t forget to come thank me for it.”