It took His Majesty considerable effort to push his own jaw back up. He looked deeply flustered, and everyone around him didn’t dare so much as glance toward the cauldrons anymore.
Inside the carriage it was very quiet. Qiqian’er kept her head down, her heart in a complete panic—her own little troublemaker of a family had dragged His Majesty’s mother out here to misbehave. However was she supposed to settle this account?
This was the Emperor himself, and that was the Emperor’s own birth mother.
The Emperor lowered his head, thought for a while, then turned back to the carriage window, watching without blinking. His mother looked utterly joyful, as though she’d cast off every burden in the world, radiant and glowing as if lighting up all creation.
Qiqian’er ventured cautiously, “So… will you go down there?”
His Majesty refused at once. “No. Don’t disturb her. She looks… quite good like this.”
A hundred times better an outcome than becoming a nun, certainly.
Emperor Wu, Yang Zao, did his best to keep his composure in front of others, but he understood full well: his mother probably no longer needed him at all. Ever since he himself had come into her life as her burden to bear, she hadn’t known a single truly happy day.
He used to always think—later, once things settle down, I’ll treat my mother properly, I’ll be a proper filial son to her… But it was too late now, it seemed. His mother no longer relied on him at all.
As though she understood him perfectly, he suddenly understood her heart in that same instant.
That realization struck him right through, flesh and bone together—a mixture of grievance and bitterness all at once. What an awful feeling it was.
Qiqian’er kept quiet, watching this man with tears welling in his eyes, thinking to herself: oh, so even the Emperor has his own moments of misery.
Her opinion of His Majesty had always shifted back and forth. When Grandmother had gone to petition for reward money and he’d granted it, she’d thought him a good emperor.
When he’d sent Chen Dasheng and the others off to face death, she’d cursed him as a rotten emperor.
When he bestowed gifts on her own family—well, this man wasn’t so bad after all.
Whatever she’d been through in life, at her core she was simply an unpretentious woman who let her moods show freely; even drunk she might rail against Heaven itself, but sober, she knew better than to actually try.
She knew her own martial skills were formidable, yet she still felt afraid—so many people in her household depended on that rice bowl, made their living under this man’s roof. One misstep in serving him, and he could say the work was over, just like that, no more livelihood.
She glanced cautiously at her own father. He too looked rather stunned, leaning against the carriage wall, his soul seemingly wandering elsewhere—no doubt equally startled by his adoptive mother.
Outside, the sound of the ladle striking heads and the two old women’s furious scolding kept drifting in. Every time the noise grew loud, His Majesty flinched; sometimes he even laughed, then quickly caught himself and held it back.
You could hear it in the old women’s tones—they were having the time of their lives, that particular thrill of power that comes from being relied upon, of deciding with one ladle just how much or how little each person received.
But the dread in her own heart was every bit as full!
Qiqian’er glanced this way and that, then finally gritted her teeth and climbed out of the carriage, as though her father had called after her—though she pretended not to hear.
She had to do something, ingratiate herself with this Emperor somehow—her own child’s father was, in a sense, a hostage in this man’s hands. If anything went wrong, if he decided to make life difficult for them, what then?
She went up to the cauldrons and looked around, spotted a good number of coarse porcelain bowls inside the curtained-off pavilion, walked over, picked up two, and began scrubbing them vigorously in a nearby water bucket.
A man who’d immediately fallen in step behind Qiqian’er watched her actions closely. This unnamed individual was remarkably quick-witted—seeing her about to wipe a bowl with her own handkerchief, he stopped her at once and handed her a brand-new one he’d brought along instead.
Qiqian’er glanced up at him, smiled, and lowered her head to keep scrubbing.
Little did she know, this was none other than Meng Dichen, the very man she’d been cursing at least ninety-nine times a day lately.
The Old Madam’s eyes were sharp; spotting Qiqian’er, she called out excitedly, “Qian’er! What are you doing over here?”
Qiqian’er came out holding a bowl in each hand, smiling. “Missed you, that’s all.”
That’s what she said—but her feet veered the other way, and she carried the two bowls straight to the Ancestress’s cauldron instead. “…Could you fill me two bowls, please?”
Seeing Qiqian’er couldn’t quite get past her, Empress Dowager Jiang, ladle raised with great authority, shooed the crowd aside like a farmer herding ducks, clearing a path for Qiqian’er to come closer.
The Old Madam shouted after her in furious indignation, “Hey! Is there honey in her pot? Thinking of me, and you go over to her side instead?!”
Empress Dowager Jiang laughed heartily, her voice full of pride. “What’s wrong with coming to mine? She’s seen right through you long ago—stingy as you are, look at what color your porridge is, and look at mine! Thin, watery gruel, and you dare compare it to mine? Your pot’s got nothing on the substance of my side.”
The moment she said this, half the crowd gathered around the Old Madam’s cauldron promptly defected.
The Old Madam stamped her feet in fury.
Never mind that it was just a pot of porridge—it really wasn’t so simple. One moment’s carelessness and the bottom would scorch, so you had to keep scraping the base and folding it up constantly. The old Empress Dowager didn’t have the Old Madam’s physical strength, but she knew how to put people to work—she’d kept Eunuch Qiu Le utterly demoralized these past days, his whole body reeking of porridge.
This particular hour of the day was Empress Dowager Jiang’s most exciting moment. Almost without a second thought, she flipped the ladle and scooped up two generous helpings from the very bottom of the pot for Qiqian’er.
What an enormous honor, truly.
She said proudly, “My girl naturally has good taste. This good, thick porridge of ours—savor it a moment and you’ll catch the sweetness too. Eat with an easy mind, my girl—we sifted this rice eight times over, the nuns and I, no sand, no grit at all. You and your grandmother both eat this same batch.”
Inside the carriage, His Majesty heard his own mother calling this young woman “my girl” so tenderly, and his chest tightened all over again; he let out a long, heavy breath.
She Qingling coughed once beside him and remarked mildly, “My own Qian’er only has to be filial to the one mother-in-law. Look at what the Old Madam’s wearing—every stitch of it my girl’s own needlework.”
Never mind that you’re her own flesh-and-blood son—with an Empress and however many consorts in your own household, has any of them ever offered your mother so much as a stitch of filial devotion? A mourning period this significant, and if your own mother wants something plain and modest to wear, it still falls to my daughter-in-law to provide it. And you have the nerve to feel envious?
His Majesty said angrily, “What are you implying? Even if she wanted for anything, could she possibly lack for a few pieces of clothing? And you’re telling me your daughter-in-law made them?”
She Qingling pointed confidently out the carriage window. “Look at her cuffs. My mother is frugal—she never wears anything new inside and out. The lining of her clothes is always old fabric.”
Just as His Majesty opened his mouth to argue back, he heard his own mother’s joyful shout.
Empress Dowager Jiang reached into her apron with great generosity, fished out a couple of pickled vegetable chunks, and dropped them into the bowl, saying magnanimously, “Eat up, my girl. The nuns grew these pickles themselves, absolutely delicious…”
She was a simple, devout woman who’d lived on vegetarian fare and sutra-chanting for years now—she’d never look down on food like this. Ever since her son had left her, she’d lived this way every single day, never daring to touch so much as a scrap of any living creature’s flesh, wary of accumulating further karmic debt.
And so Qiqian’er carried the two large bowls of thick porridge back into the carriage.
Inside, it was very quiet. She Qingling looked at his family’s ancestrally fearless daughter-in-law and thought: my girl, our whole family has heads set aside and ready for the taking by this man, and here you are handing him anything and everything without a second thought?
Even something as simple as food going into his mouth wasn’t something to be handled so casually.
Qiqian’er, understanding none of this, held the bowl out with a beaming smile. “Do try it! The Ancestress’s cooking is the very best, truly. This has been simmering all afternoon, so thick and rich… I eat this often myself, really.”
His Majesty smiled and reached out reverently to take the bowl—only to have She Qingling snatch it away first. He took up a pair of chopsticks, scooped a portion out of His Majesty’s bowl, and began eating it himself.
His Majesty wanted to eat too, but She Qingling said with great seriousness, “Wait a moment.”
The posture of a man clearly saying: once I don’t drop dead from poison, then you can eat.
It was only then that Qiqian’er realized she’d made another mistake.
Her teeth clicked together, and she looked at her father. “Father?”
She Qingling swallowed and glanced at her. “Hm?”
“I… think I’ve done something wrong again?”
His Majesty’s sour mood lifted just a fraction, and he laughed aloud. She Qingling, however, nodded firmly at his daughter-in-law. “Yes. Next time, don’t feed him anything.”
He took another bite and added, looking up, “And don’t give him any needlework either. He has plenty of his own.”
His Majesty, furious to the point of laughing, said, “Who wants any of it?”
She Qingling shook out his sleeve at him, revealing the patched, mismatched old lining underneath, and said, “I do!”
At that, complete silence fell, broken only by the steady sound of She Qingling slurping down pickles with his porridge.
However wealthy and noble a person may be, eating porridge still means slurping it down in circles just the same.
Only once his bowl was empty did he finally grant permission: “…Go ahead and eat.”
His Majesty, with no other choice, reverently took up the now half-cooled porridge with both hands, sniffling as he ate.
Qiqian’er thought to herself: so this is all the Emperor really amounts to—slurping away just like anyone else.
That night, father and daughter went home together, and Qiqian’er personally heated water in the iron pot to give her father a proper wash.
Once She Qingling came out of the bathhouse, they sat together in the room to talk things over.
Having not seen his grandson in a few days, the grandfather bounced the boy on his knee. An’er thoroughly enjoyed this treatment, putting on his most lordly airs, making little “eh eh eh eh” sounds with his mouth.
“Heh… this child’s gotten even chubbier. Can’t even make out his features anymore.”
She Qingling fondly stroked his grandson’s bald little head, his temper as easygoing as ever.
Qiqian’er, however, offered an apology with some caution. “Father, I did something wrong today.”
Without looking up, She Qingling asked, “Where did you go wrong?”
Qiqian’er pursed her lips, somewhat self-deprecating. “Just… everywhere, it seems…”
Perhaps tired from all the bouncing, She Qingling switched the child to his other knee before speaking. “It’s not that you were wrong, exactly—it’s that… in certain matters, once they decide you’re wrong, you start being wrong. Be more careful going forward. Don’t put your head out there and hand people the opportunity to make trouble for you.”
Qiqian’er nodded, feeling somewhat aggrieved. “From now on I’ll keep my distance from that household! It’s just… unsettling.”
She Qingling nodded with a smile. “Mm. That man isn’t someone to fear these days. It’s just—get too close to him, and others will start scheming against you, plotting around you. Once they’ve got designs on you, you’ll never know peace again.”
Qiqian’er nodded, frustrated. “But our own Old Madam has gotten herself all tangled up with his mother now.”
She Qingling sighed. Even he didn’t quite know what to do about that.
He’d told himself he’d seen every kind of person there was, knew every manner of handling affairs—but his adoptive mother’s temperament, thunderous one moment and calm the next, truly defied easy explanation.
He gazed out at the dark window for a long while before saying, “Let it be. When you want nothing from someone, you can act with a clear conscience. She’s a pitiable woman after all—simply someone who never got what she felt she deserved…”
But then again, who in this world is ever truly satisfied?
He went on, giving instructions. “In the past we pretended not to notice, but now that we know, we should prepare accordingly. Have the courtyard at the front of the old residence cleaned out—let… the Ancestress live there. From now on, just think of it as having two elderly women to attend to in the household…”
Qiqian’er blinked, startled, and asked, “So… she’s not going back?”
She Qingling nodded. “Not necessarily. But we should be prepared for it either way. That convent won’t be able to hold her back any longer, I’m afraid.”
Hadn’t he seen how thoroughly she’d been enjoying herself today, commanding troops like some celestial general reviewing her ranks?
Power is a fine thing—once you’ve held it, who’s willing to give it up? Even if it’s only a ladle.
That night, spring snow fell unexpectedly. Qiqian’er, rising early the next morning and seeing it, ordered a stack of thick plain cloth coats sent to the front residence, along with over a thousand jin of charcoal to go with them.
She’d shown this same kind of filial devotion before, but today, somehow, it felt less pure than it used to.
Outside the window, everything carried on as usual—servants sweeping the courtyard, young maids carrying hot water queuing past the corridor, an occasional mischievous manservant stopping to join in the fun before being chased off with a glare from the maids.
Beside her, the two darlings slept soundly, the picture of perfect worldly peace.
Qiqian’er leaned in and stroked An’er’s head, and, as if possessed by some strange impulse, found herself murmuring, “Your father—when’s he coming home, I wonder?”
How strange. Why was she thinking of him today, of all days?
Perhaps because hearing the word “father” upset him, Gennu gave a little shiver. Without dwelling on it further, Qiqian’er quickly pulled out a small tiger-shaped chamber pot from under the heated bed table, lifted the child up with one arm, and pressed the tiger’s mouth against his little dog thing—instantly, a whole night’s worth of dammed-up river came pouring out.
The elder boy peed while still half-asleep; the younger one stirred at the noise, but His Lordship couldn’t be bothered to even open his eyes.
Bending down to kiss the top of her elder boy’s head, Qiqian’er praised him with complete sincerity. “Such a dear thing.”
The nursemaid who’d been keeping watch outside heard the commotion and came in just as Qiqian’er was handing her the little tiger chamber pot; she praised her in a low voice. “There’s no one more capable than you, Madam. Holding both these children through the whole night, and not a single diaper’s been soiled.”
Qiqian’er laughed softly, rocked the baby a little, and tried to set him back down in the covers, only to have a tiny hand grab onto her collar and refuse to let go.
That look of total, wholehearted dependence was enough to make any mother willing to die for her children.
A few days earlier, Gennu had watched An’er nursing, and perhaps feeling he’d been deprived of something, he’d wanted to nurse too. Qiqian’er had refused, and he’d cried so hard his little face turned purple with heartbreak.
This was a child who, since coming into this world, had never once tasted his own mother’s milk.
With no other choice, Qiqian’er had unfastened her robe and let him have a couple of mouthfuls. And that was that—from then on, she couldn’t be without him at night either.
He’d been satisfied with that, and only made a fuss the one time.
It was from those two mouthfuls of milk that Qiqian’er had started, in her own heart, calling Gennu her “elder boy”—this child, this dog of hers, she’d decided, was as good as one she’d birthed herself.
She was certain of it.
Rocking the child, her father’s words from the night before still echoed in her ears—he’d said that everything used to have its proper rules, but people are never so simple, are they. Everyone insisted the Ancestress ought to have followed the rules befitting her station, yet the Yang family had once allowed her to personally raise her own son for seven years, and that had bred a mother’s fierce, protective instinct into her.
On one side, rules and propriety; on the other, human nature and a mother’s heart.
In the end, her father’s usually placid face had taken on a strange expression of great satisfaction as he’d said, “Serves him right. He always thought everything would go according to his own wishes. What a fool!”
Qiqian’er took a deep breath, bent down, and kissed her son a few times, murmuring, “What a fool, what a fool!”
Having said this, she called out, and the nursemaids who’d already been waiting outside came in with heads bowed to report on household matters. Qiqian’er, a child in one arm and a household token in the other hand, was, after all, someone who held real authority herself.
Ten thousand li away, a bitter wind howled and a hawk soared overhead. Several unlucky souls lay in a disguised pit dug within the tribal encampment.
Overhead, men shouted and horses neighed. Guan Si’er tossed two freshly severed heads down beside Chen Dasheng and said in a low voice, “Brother, four short—they got away… This job’s not as easy as it used to be. These bastards are getting sharper.”
He wiped a hand across his own neck, coming away bloody.
Chen Dasheng tilted his head to look, then pulled a vial of medicine from inside his robe and tossed it over. “Go easy on it. That’s half the bottle left.”
“Nah, don’t need it. It’ll close up on its own in a bit.”
Furious shrieking rang out, countless hooves carrying angry pursuers scattering off into the distance.
A thin, shackled slave staggered out from a corner. Passing near the edge of the encampment, one of the slaves stumbled and fell, and was whipped several times by an overseer for it. Unable to bear the pain, he rolled around on the ground, and as he rolled past the pit, he tossed in a cloth bundle he’d had ready.
Chen Dasheng let out a breath, opened the bundle, and divided up the bean pulp meant for livestock among himself and his brothers, one handful each.
The bean pulp tasted awful and was hard on the teeth, but Chen Dasheng savored every single mouthful, chewing it over and over before he’d allow himself to swallow.
These were people of Daliang who’d been carried off in the past—no, perhaps in truth they hadn’t even been “people of Daliang” back then, simply human livestock led away like animals.
They had dug this pit themselves, given the intelligence themselves, shared their own rations to feed them—no matter how long they’d been taken, the bones of the Central Plains still lived in them, and their blood… still ran hot!
Reaching down, he untied a leather pouch filled with ice-flake fragrant powder from his waist, stuffed the heads roughly inside, and said with a cold smile, “No matter if a few got away. There’ll always come a day they show their faces again. I’ll be waiting for them. Not a single one who’s done us harm gets to run forever.”