The Emperor’s words were clearly not directed solely at the official who had boldly stepped forward to offer remonstrance — they were a warning to all those assembled below: if they had the leisure to “nitpick” the examiners for the Capital Evaluation, they would do better to go home and prepare themselves thoroughly.

The hall fell into immediate silence.

“Furthermore,” the Emperor continued, “the self-assessment memorials for this Capital Evaluation — let us dispense with the old ways.”

Fourth-rank officials and above were, for the most part, men of high station and considerable authority, holding key positions within the Six Ministries and the Nine Courts of Deliberation. They were frequent presences before the Emperor, participating in state deliberations, and the Emperor knew them well enough. Such men could hardly be expected to present themselves for formal examinations the way minor officials of the fifth, sixth, or seventh rank would.

Then there were the Hanlin Academy scholars, men chosen for their intellectual refinement, whose duties lay in the realm of learned discourse rather than administrative achievement — they too were exempt from the formal examination.

During the Capital Evaluation, these men needed only to submit a self-assessment memorial to the Emperor, setting forth their own merits and failings.

Through the accumulated “wisdom” of their predecessors, the self-assessment memorial had developed a well-worn formula, proceeding in several established steps:

First, one identified oneself — one’s name, rank, and service record. Those who were close personal attendants of the Son of Heaven might skip this formality.

Next came the expression of gratitude for the Emperor’s gracious favor. In years past, those most skilled at flattery had been known to wax at extraordinary length on this point — phrases such as “Your humble servant, a man of common origins, has been blessed by Imperial grace to serve in office for over thirty years” and “The Imperial benevolence defies expression; though I were to give my very bones and skull, I could not repay it” were by no means unusual.

Following this, regardless of how well or poorly one had actually served, there came the obligatory declaration: “Your servant has been remiss in duty, having accomplished nothing of note, and humbly begs to be dismissed in order to restore proper discipline to the Evaluation” — in other words, this old official has served wretchedly, and begs the Emperor to relieve him of his post. Or one might simply claim to be aged and spent — forty-five years old, missing two teeth, no longer equal to the demands of office — and play the pitiable card.

Then, with a deft turn of the brush, the memorial would begin to extoll the immense importance of the position in question, conveying essentially one point: that without this particular man in this particular post, the machinery of the court would grind to a halt. From there, the author would arrive at his intended theme: “Your servant, willing to step aside for someone more worthy, wishes to resign and yield to more capable hands, that the path of service may be kept clear” — a grand display of magnanimity, proclaiming that this foolish old official was unequal to so weighty a post and urging the Emperor to appoint someone more gifted.

Only at this point could a “proper” self-assessment memorial be considered complete.

It was plain enough to see that such memorials were nothing more than bureaucratic performance — dressed in the language of self-reproach, they were in truth an argument that the position could not function without the author, designed to elicit an Imperial response of retention and reassurance.

And to be retained by the Emperor — that was a considerable mark of distinction indeed.

Thus the Capital Evaluation, conducted once every six years, had become the occasion for fourth-rank officials to display their finest dramatic gifts.

Now, with the Emperor openly declaring in court that “the old ways must be done away with,” it seemed clear that he had grown weary of reading these empty formalities and hoped the self-assessment memorials might contain something of genuine substance.

As for what form they should take, or how long they should be, the Emperor said nothing — leaving the assembled officials to exchange bewildered glances and puzzle it out for themselves.

“If there is no further business, court is dismissed,” the Emperor declared.

The morning audience had lasted well over an hour; by now, beyond the palace gates, the sun shone brilliant in the late autumn sky, its warmth undiminished by the season.

The Emperor’s approach — advancing two steps and yielding one — had effectively silenced the murmuring of the court officials while also cutting off Grand Chancellor Hu’s scheme to play the victim for sympathy.

Although Wang Gaoxiang had achieved his objective of drawing Pei Shaohuai into the Office of the Heir Apparent and making him a close attendant of the Crown Prince, he found no cause for celebration.

A Censor of the Left with authority to investigate and impeach the hundred offices, to right injustices, to purify discipline and assist the Emperor — the Censorate and the Ministry of Personnel already served as mutual checks upon one another. Such an official was hardly one Wang Gaoxiang could easily suppress.

The concurrent appointment as Junior Supervisor of the Heir Apparent seemed rather more like a hidden imperial token of authority, granting Pei Shaohuai free passage in and out of the Office of the Heir Apparent and the ability to involve himself in the affairs of the Eastern Palace.

Wang Gaoxiang realized he had badly miscalculated.

Moreover, the Emperor’s arrangement — with regard to the Eastern Palace, the Office of the Heir Apparent, and the Three Preceptors and Three Guardians serving beside the Crown Prince — what did it signify? It was a question well worth pondering.

As Wang Gaoxiang made his way out after the conclusion of court, he fell so deep into thought that he lost his bearings entirely, failing to respond even after the Minister of War, Chen Gongda, had called out to him several times.

The poem says: “Say not that parting on the autumn river is hard — your vessel sets tomorrow for the capital.”

The vessel that carried Pei Shaohuai was not bound for Chang’an, but homeward to the capital. Arriving just before the first snows of early winter could seal the river, Pei Shaohuai and his family finally reached the ferry crossing outside the city.

The courier post had sent word ahead two days earlier, and the Pei household had made all preparations — young and old alike had come to the dock to welcome Pei Shaohuai home.

What none of them had anticipated was how extraordinarily crowded the dock would be that day, with people lining the shore in every direction — half small merchants and vendors, half scholars and young men of letters. The fault lay with a loose-tongued clerk at the courier post who, having indulged in a few cups of wine, had let slip the news of Pei Shaohuai’s return, giving rise to this spontaneous gathering of well-wishers.

Pei Shaohuai’s reputation in the capital was already considerable — three consecutive issues of the court gazette, and the proclamations posted outside the Changan Gate, with their resounding record of achievements, had made him once again a regular subject among the storytellers in the capital’s many teahouses.

Scholars revered the Zhuangyuan Lang; the common folk loved an upright official.

A student standing beneath the proclamation at the Changan Gate had recited a line from Wang Anshi: “The mountains roll like green waves surging toward the river; the waters gleam like blue sky, dazzling and clear.” It was the second line in particular that people found especially apt.

Huai being associated with water — was he not like “the blue sky itself,” bringing clarity of sight to all who looked upon the world?

And so, in addition to “Pei Sanyuan,” Pei Shaohuai acquired a new name: “Pei Qingtian” — Pei, the Clear Sky of Justice.

As the official vessel eased toward the dock, Pei Shaohuai stood at the gangway holding Xiao Nan and Xiao Feng’s hands, one on either side, preparing to disembark. He had not yet learned that his reputation had been proclaimed across the realm by Imperial decree, and had made no preparations whatsoever. When the waves of cheering from the shore reached his ears — wave after wave of voices calling “Pei Qingtian!” — he was so startled that his cheeks immediately flushed a scalding red. He was not a man who welcomed public display.

Xiao Nan and Xiao Feng had heard the shouting too. Xiao Feng asked: “Father, are they calling for you — ‘Pei Qingtian’?”

Yang Shiyue explained: “Your father has done good things for the people, and that is why they call him ‘Pei Qingtian.'” Then she turned to her husband and urged: “Come, let us disembark. Today, there is simply no escaping it.”

Pei Shaohuai stepped off the boat and bowed in return again and again until his arms ached, yet the cries from the scholars showed no sign of abating. Fortunately, the Prefect of Shuntian had dispatched constables in advance to maintain order, and although the scene was lively and boisterous, nothing went amiss.

The scholars were well enough behaved — but the behavior of the small merchants and vendors was something else entirely. They had spread out their mats on the ground and arranged upon them rows of small glazed blue-robed official figurines, then turned in the direction of Pei Shaohuai and began murmuring under their breaths: “These little Clear Skies have been in the presence of the true Clear Sky himself — they have received his blessing! Blessed, blessed indeed!”

They then began calling out their wares: “Blessed little Clear Skies! Guaranteed success in the Imperial Examinations, guaranteed a swift rise through the ranks, guaranteed the love of the people! Small ones three hundred coins, large ones five hundred — first come, first served—!”

They sold out in moments.

Had Pei Shaohuai heard any of this from where he stood at a distance, one could only imagine what he would have made of it — most likely he would have grown even more embarrassed than he already was.

“Jin — what did you say?” Inside the carriage, Pei Shaohuai had only just recovered from the shock of “Pei Qingtian” when he received yet another startling piece of news. “The Emperor has transferred me to the Office for the Evaluation of Merit?”

Another title to add to the list — Pei, the Bureau Director.

Pei Shaohuai had never once imagined this. His official appointment had come down from on high while he was still on the road. He had expected to return to the capital for the Capital Evaluation — only to find himself, in an instant, transformed from one who would be evaluated to one who would conduct it.

“It is a temporary transfer,” Pei Shaojin said, smiling as he made the correction. Seeing the uncharacteristic look of astonishment on his usually composed elder brother’s face, Shaojin could not resist a teasing remark: “Elder Brother will always be a man of the Censorate at heart — the Office for the Evaluation of Merit is nothing more than a brief detour.”

The two brothers were alone in the carriage, and there was no need to restrain such casual banter.

After the playful exchange, Pei Shaojin gave his elder brother a careful account of the court discussions that had taken place during his absence, and added a word of caution: “Much has changed in the court over these past three years. You have only just returned, Elder Brother, and yet you take up a position of great importance — tread carefully in all things.”

Even in the most refined of places, linger long enough and fresh foxes will always find occasion to show their tails.

“I understand,” Pei Shaohuai said. “Let us return to the house first, and find a moment to speak more fully.”

Back at the Earl’s residence, a banquet had been laid to celebrate the family’s reunion. Grand Secretary Xu, the Marquis Chen, and several sons-in-law, each being officials who needed to avoid the appearance of impropriety, could not attend at this time. But the daughters who had married out had every reason to return, and they came with their children in tow, filling the courtyard at once with noise and life.

This residence had seen no major renovations in over a decade, yet year after year it showed no sign of decay — if anything, the warmth of the lives lived within had only made it seem more renewed.

Xiao Nan and Xiao Feng went through the hall greeting each elder in turn, and the women — the Old Madam, Lin Shi, and the others — smiled until their eyes curved like crescent moons.

Lin Shi noticed that her son had grown somewhat more serious in bearing, though not careworn or aged. Seeing her grandchildren — sturdy, bright, and clearly well-read — she could not bring herself first to draw close to Xiao Nan and Xiao Feng, but instead took Yang Shiyue’s hand and said: “These years, following Huai’er south, raising two young children alone — you bore a great deal, Shiyue. That was hard on you.”

She herself had followed Pei Bingyuan south once and knew well enough how trying it was to be far from home — all the more so with two such small children.

Lin Shi examined Yang Shiyue’s palms, then looked at her complexion — rosy and healthy — and sighed with relief. “Thank goodness that rascal of a son knows how to cherish a person. If he had not, I would have had to discipline him on your behalf.”

Her words were warm enough to bring a blush to Yang Shiyue’s face.

“I have had some small gifts prepared — have a look later and see if there is anything more to add. Tomorrow morning, have Huai’er take you back to the Yang household first.” Lin Shi continued: “They have been thinking of their daughter and grandchildren all this while.”

“Mother has been so thoughtful,” Yang Shiyue replied. “Please let my husband attend to court matters first — a day or two makes no difference.”

For matters of urgency, the Son of Heaven must always come before all else.

Xu Yancheng was nearly nineteen and had inherited the Pei household’s tall stature — he stood a touch taller and straighter than his father Xu Zhan, handsome and graceful in bearing, though still carrying something of boyishness about him. The round cheeks that his two little uncles had always delighted in pinching had now resolved into a firm and defined jawline.

He had already claimed four of the six examination honors in the sequence, and as for whether he would capture the last two — the Metropolitan Examination title and the Palace Examination title — surpassing both his younger uncles, that would depend on the spring examinations two years hence.

Pei Shaojin had told Pei Shaohuai of it before — his elder sister and her husband had already identified a prospective match for Yancheng, and were awaiting the outcome of the spring examinations before formally proceeding with the betrothal ceremonies.

Xu Yancheng caught sight of Xiao Nan standing behind Pei Shaohuai — his little cheeks round and pink — and could not help reaching out to give one a pinch. He laughed: “Now I finally understand the pleasure my little uncles used to take in pinching me.”

He gave Xiao Nan’s other cheek a pinch as well.

Xiao Nan covered his cheeks with both hands, baffled. “Why does Cousin Yancheng always pinch my face?”

The small boy who had been following Xiao Nan since his return — Xu’er, who seemed long accustomed to Xu Yancheng’s pinching — piped up in his childish voice with a ready explanation: “It’s called repaying the father’s debt through the son.”

“Let him pinch, Older Brother,” Xu’er advised. “When we grow up, we can go pinch his son.”

“Little Brother speaks good sense.”

The two small brothers were soon playing happily together.

As for Xiao Feng, she had already nestled herself in among the aunts and was being showered with affection from all sides.

After the midday banquet, Pei Bingyuan asked his son when he intended to present himself at the palace to report for duty.

Pei Shaohuai was still turning the matter over in his mind and had not yet formed a reply when the steward hurried in to announce that someone had arrived from the palace.

It was Chief Eunuch Xiao.

“Bureau Director Pei, congratulations on your return to the capital.”

Pei Shaohuai returned the greeting. “Chief Eunuch Xiao — it has been a long while.”

Chief Eunuch Xiao came straight to the point, and said with a smile: “His Majesty has sent this old servant with a message — the Bureau Director is summoned for an audience this afternoon.” He leaned close to Pei Shaohuai’s ear and added in a low voice: “His Majesty says it is merely a meeting to play a few games of chess — so as not to take up the time the Bureau Director will need over the next day or two to pay his respects to family and mentors.”