◎The Morning Court◎

Six months after Emperor Shang’s usurpation, Emperor Ming led his troops into the capital, executed Emperor Shang, and ascended the throne in accordance with the final edict, changing the era name to Chongjing. The people of the capital lined the streets to welcome him, and a general amnesty was declared throughout the realm.

Upon ascending the throne, Emperor Ming, honoring the terms of the final edict, elevated Zhou Tan to the Council of State, promoting him to Governing Advisor to lead the assembled officials, while Su Chaoci, Cai Ying, and Luo Jinglun of the Ministry of Works all joined the Council of State together, holding the Central Secretariat’s seal in support of the new reign.

The very first memorial submitted after the Council of State’s establishment abolished the Hall of Hairpin Gold that Emperor De had once favored, and used the Xishao infiltrators captured on Ting Mountain as grounds to press the matter further.

Emperor Ming dispatched Yan Fu to mobilize the army, and in the Battle of Dingxi, dealt Xishao a crushing defeat. Xishao’s ruler, left utterly without means to resist, sent a hostage prince into the capital to negotiate surrender, and forty years later, began once more paying tribute to Great Yin.

By the time news of the victory reached the capital, it was still only the tail end of spring in the first year of Chongjing. Emperor Ming rewarded the three armies generously, swiftly establishing a reputation of great renown among both the common people and the military across the land.

The assembled officials, whether they wished to or not, were forced to set aside their earlier condescension and take a fresh look at the eighteen-year-old emperor now seated upon the dragon throne.

Though Song Xixuan showed genuine interest in frontier affairs, he was no tyrant. The long-neglected Bureau of Remonstrance was soon filled once more with newly appointed young nobles eager to speak their minds, and the Court of Judicial Review, too, returned to prominence, overturning several long-standing miscarriages of justice.

The court, from top to bottom, presented a picture of clean and enlightened governance.

Only those officials who had not personally witnessed the palace coup remained unconvinced, resenting the young Governing Advisor who now towered above them all.

Song Xixuan sat upon the dragon throne, listening intently to a report from the Ministry of Finance.

“This summer, heavy rains have fallen throughout the Jiangnan region, and the dikes cannot withstand them; there has already been localized flooding in some areas. This subject petitions Your Majesty to plan ahead and dispatch men to repair the dikes, and to inspect the southern…”

“Your Majesty!”

Before he could finish, another voice loudly cut him off.

The beaded curtain before Song Xixuan’s eyes swayed at the interruption. “Who speaks?”

“This subject, of the Bureau of Remonstrance, Shen Luo,” the young official said, holding his ivory tablet as he knelt and bowed respectfully. “This subject wishes to impeach the Governing Advisor for improper conduct in office — disrupting the spring examinations, promoting his own relations and cronies, suppressing scholars, and, in years past, fabricating false charges against innocent men, all while his reputation remains tarnished. Now that the Governing Advisor is soon to be named Chancellor, this subject begs Your Majesty to consider, and consider again!”

Zhou Tan, standing at the front of the assembled officials, glanced back at him with cool indifference.

Song Xixuan’s gaze passed over his expressionless face; he rose to his feet at once, his voice rising slightly. “The rains in Jiangnan concern the lives of all the people beneath heaven. If the two bureaus of censors and remonstrance care nothing for this, so be it — but why, at a moment like this, do you deflect to other matters entirely? What is your true purpose here?”

Shen Luo did not yield. “This subject has likewise heard of the matter in Jiangnan — it is nothing more than an ordinary seasonal occurrence. Could it be that the Ministry of Finance exaggerates the danger, hoping to trouble Your Majesty’s peace of mind for some other purpose? With treachery running rampant at court, how can the people beneath heaven be blessed with prosperity? It would be better to resolve the present crisis first.”

Song Xixuan said nothing.

In truth, the Ministry of Finance’s report on the Jiangnan rains carried no real threat of flooding at all. In the previous reign, Gu Zhiyan, while managing water conservancy in Jiangnan, had built dikes strong enough to endure a century. The Ministry’s mention of the matter now was merely a pretext, offered so that the emperor might have grounds to thoroughly reorganize the Jiangnan bureaucracy.

During his time in Lin’an, canvassing the local nobility, he had seen firsthand how the great clans and powerful families held Jiangnan’s officialdom firmly in their grip, appointing only their own kin and cronies. Though no great disaster had yet resulted, such a state of affairs could not continue indefinitely. And so, once matters had settled somewhat, he had planned to send men to thoroughly reform the region, executing a few corrupt officials as an example — and, in doing so, sending a warning to the lands further south as well.

Such intentions, however, could not be spoken openly at court, lest someone within the capital conspire with allies in Jiangnan and leak word of the plan ahead of time.

At the time of the palace coup, Zhou Tan had held two final edicts in hand — one left by the late emperor for Gu Zhiyan, and another written by Emperor De. Emperor De’s edict, however, had been written in such haste that it bore neither the imperial seal nor the chancellor’s supplementary seal; aside from Cai Ying and a few others who could testify to its authenticity, there existed no other proof of its legitimacy.

The assembled civil and military officials were willing to accept the late emperor’s edict, but when it came to Emperor De’s own edict, all fell into careful silence, unwilling to say much on the matter.

The day Cai Ying had held Emperor De’s edict aloft in Xuande Hall, inviting all present to examine it, Qu You had understood almost instantly the true source of the whispered slander that had followed Zhou Tan ever since.

The vague phrase “authenticity uncertain,” so often found in the history books without further explanation, had meant exactly this.

Because Song Shiyan had controlled the inner palace during Emperor De’s final illness, when Song Chang left his edict behind, he had had no opportunity to retrieve the imperial seal or the chancellor’s seal to affix to it. By strict protocol, this rendered the edict deeply irregular — and had the court, acting in deliberate unison and silence, chosen not to recognize this edict and instead installed a different heir, there would have been ample historical precedent for doing so.

What was more, Emperor De’s edict had failed to address the single most crucial matter of all — the establishment of the rightful successor to the throne.

It seemed likely that when Emperor De had secretly summoned Zhou Tan earlier, and asked him about candidates for the succession beyond the crown prince, Zhou Tan had told him that the late emperor’s own edict had already settled the matter of succession. And so Emperor De’s own edict had only vaguely stated that he would “abide by the late emperor’s instructions.”

An edict so incomplete in protocol, so silent on the matter of succession, was bound to raise suspicion — and so later historians, too, had found themselves deeply conflicted over it, and its full contents had gradually been lost in the passing down of history.

Having read through the annals of the Yin dynasty from beginning to end, she had always believed that only the late emperor had left behind a final edict.

Like her, the assembled ministers of the court had accepted the late emperor’s edict, and after verifying its authenticity, had duly welcomed the grandson of Prince Jing to the throne, as was proper. But as for who exactly the “minister entrusted with the decree” named in Song Chang’s own edict truly was, no one could say for certain.

Within the Council of State, Cai Ying was a minister who had served through two reigns, Luo Jinglun commanded immense prestige, and Su Chaoci’s reputation was spotless — yet Zhou Tan, even after passing his birthday at year’s end, had only just turned twenty-five.

To hold the position of Governing Advisor at twenty-five, and without any prominent family background besides, was almost unheard of; never before in the history of Great Yin had a minister risen to the chancellorship at such a young age.

What was more, he still carried the weight of old scandals from the previous reign, secrets from his time at the Ministry of Justice, and a connection to the death of the previous dynasty’s virtuous chancellor. Given how ambiguous the edict itself remained, why should a man just recalled from Ruo Prefecture be permitted to lead the entire Council of State?

Once the officials had taken the measure of the young emperor’s temperament, memorials of impeachment began flying from the Censorate to Xuande Hall like snowflakes in a storm.

While preparations were underway for Emperor De’s funeral rites and Emperor Ming’s own enthronement ceremony, the Censorate even seized upon this occasion to petition that Emperor Ming strip Zhou Tan of his title as Imperial Tutor. Song Xixuan, under pressure, was forced to change how he addressed him — from “Teacher” to the more formal “Sir.”

Though he wished dearly to protect him, Zhou Tan would not allow him to show excessive favoritism.

The principles of kingship Song Xixuan had learned from both Zhou Tan and Su Chaoci held that a sovereign must listen carefully to remonstrance and show no favoritism. The first time someone impeached Zhou Tan at court, he had been unable to hold his tongue and had spoken out in his defense — but after court was dismissed, Zhou Tan had knelt in his study for a full hour.

He had said only: “Your Majesty ought not to have done that.”

And so Song Xixuan now stood in silence before the dragon throne, unable, for a long while, to decide what to say.

It was Zhou Tan who spoke first, coughing lightly, then turning to address the matter calmly. “Let me ask the Remonstrance Officer — between the affairs of the common people and the affairs of the court, which matters more?”

Shen Luo, himself a successful examination candidate, was hardly one to shrink from confrontation. “If the court itself is not at peace, how can it possibly look after the common people?”

Zhou Tan asked, “Why do the officers of the Bureau of Remonstrance and the Censorate hold their ivory tablets and speak with such bold candor?”

Shen Luo answered with conviction, “We hold our positions and carry out our duties, upholding the teachings of our ancestors in taking office, and observing the Son of Heaven’s conduct to offer honest counsel — this is how we remain worthy of Great Yin’s thousand-year foundation, worthy of Your Majesty’s and the court’s trust in us!”

“Oh?” Zhou Tan continued, unshaken. “Lord Shen, in serving as an official, do you answer to those above you, or to those below you?”

Shen Luo opened his mouth, but found himself suddenly at a loss.

The question was a cunning trap — to answer that he served those above would suggest he held no true concern for the common people; to answer that he served those below would contradict his own conduct just moments ago, when he had interrupted the Ministry of Finance’s report before it was even finished, rather than hearing it out.

Seeing Shen Luo kneel there in silence for a long while, Zhou Tan spoke first to spare him further embarrassment. “Your Majesty, as for the charges the Remonstrance Officer has raised — disrupting the spring examinations and suppressing scholars — this subject would never dare commit such acts, even at the cost of his own life. As for promoting his own relations and cronies, and bearing a tarnished reputation, these two charges are indeed my own faults. After court is dismissed, I ask to receive ten strokes of the court rod, to correct myself and demonstrate my sincerity.”

He turned. “Does the Bureau of Remonstrance wish to impeach further?”

Song Xixuan took a step down from the dais, but Zhou Tan looked up at him and shook his head.

The “promoting his own relations and cronies” that the Bureau of Remonstrance referred to was nothing more than an incident, not long after Song Xixuan’s enthronement, in which he had — without proper justification — restored Bai Shating to his former office upon his return from Lingnan following the general amnesty.

This had been the emperor’s own decree, though it had passed through the Council of State and the Central Secretariat for approval. Now that the censors and remonstrance officers sought someone to hold accountable, the blame naturally fell on Zhou Tan.

Shen Luo rose and stepped back several paces. “The Governing Advisor speaks with clear reason. This subject has nothing further to say.”

And so the Ministry of Finance resumed its report. Song Xixuan, coming back to himself, dispatched Su Chaoci to travel south to inspect the various provinces, and none of the assembled ministers raised further objection.

Morning court ran somewhat longer than usual that day, ending only just before the morning mist had fully cleared.

The moment Song Xixuan left the morning court, he leaned on the arm of the young eunuch Qingyi and murmured, low, “Go quickly to the Imperial Medical Bureau and summon Physician Bo.”

By the time Qu You learned the news, Zhou Tan’s punishment by the court rod had not yet finished.

Song Xixuan, disciplined and mindful of propriety, had, after ascending the throne, revived nearly every ceremonial rite that Emperor De’s reign had allowed to fall into disuse. No civil official was to be executed at court, and before undergoing punishment, one was first required to kneel before Zhangde Gate and recite the entirety of “The Great Learning” from the Book of Rites.

Because of Emperor De’s instruction to “reduce the rites by half,” his funeral had not been especially grand, and with Emperor Shang’s six-month usurpation having already consumed so much of the customary mourning period, the full period of mourning had not even lasted six months.

And so, not long after his enthronement, Song Xixuan, at the urging of his assembled ministers, married a young lady from Su Chaoci’s own family as his empress. The Su clan was a prominent and distinguished house, and its women were, without exception, held up as models of refinement throughout the capital.

The emperor and empress lived in harmony together. Song Xixuan, young and burdened with many affairs of state, had, aside from the empress herself, taken only a single consort into his harem thus far.

The empress, knowing of her husband’s deep admiration for Zhou Tan and his wife, often summoned Qu You into the palace, and Qu You had grown quite fond of the young woman as well. On this particular day, she happened to have received an invitation from the empress and was on her way into the palace to pay a visit.

But as her carriage approached the eastern gate, she learned the news.

Amid the lingering morning mist, Zhou Tan knelt before Zhangde Gate, while the officials dismissed from court filed out in groups from the other side, whispering among themselves, casting glances in his direction, discussing something she could not make out.

She heard his voice.

“…When the heart harbors resentment, it cannot attain uprightness; when it harbors fear, it cannot attain uprightness; when it harbors excessive delight, it cannot attain uprightness; when it harbors worry and grief, it cannot attain uprightness. When the mind is elsewhere, one looks but does not see, listens but does not hear, eats but does not taste what one eats. This is called…”

She wanted to step forward, but the eunuch beside her stopped her, bowing his head respectfully. “My lady is a woman, and it is against propriety for you to cross the central gate while the dismissed officials have not yet fully departed.”

Qu You gripped the vermilion door post beside her and murmured, half to herself, “…Propriety?”

She could not say how long she stood there before the threshold, until she heard a sigh beside her. “Funny, isn’t it — everyone becomes such important people, and yet they still cling, day and night, to the same tired old excuses: ‘I had no choice,’ ‘it could not be helped’…”

Qu You turned and found Bo Ying standing beside her.

Bo Ying, his medicine box slung casually over one shoulder, shook his head as he always did, musing aloud to no one in particular. “Tsk. A man without freedom is like a crane in a cage — unable to spread its wings and fly, unable to live, yet unable to die.”

He turned to her with a smile. “When I first met you, I never imagined that one day, you too would become someone standing so properly behind a threshold like this one.”