Having done something against his own will, Gu Tingye could not feel at ease within himself. Minglan had no choice but to offer kind and gentle words of comfort, dragging out amusing matters to coax him to laugh—she was not gifted at telling jokes, and so had to resort to exposing her own childhood embarrassments to achieve her aim. They talked until deep in the night with heavy dew before settling down to rest. The next morning, Minglan inevitably woke a little late; she had not yet managed to sleep to a natural waking when the palace sent a messenger with an imperial edict.
Danju burst frantically into the room. Minglan was jolted wide awake on the spot, and scrambled out of bed in a dither to wash, dress, and put herself together. If she were to delay receiving the imperial decree because she had slept in, she would surely at once become the laughingstock of the entire capital. Fortunately, the capable head manager Hao of the outer courtyard was full of resource, plying the messenger with fine tea, good cakes, and a cartload of flattering attention to hold him occupied for a while, and so Minglan was able to come out dressed in her full pearl-and-cloud coronet and ceremonial robes to receive the edict in time.
The inner attendant who had come to convey the message was relaying an empress’s decree. Minglan’s mind was not yet fully clear; through the ornate and flowing four-six parallel prose that washed over her, she caught only what seemed to be compliments about herself—something about being “gentle and pure,” “filial, fraternal, and virtuous of character,” and so forth—along with a number of gifts being bestowed.
Once the reading was concluded, Minglan offered repeated thanks and obeisance for the imperial grace, and did not dare so much as glance at the boxes covered with imperial yellow silk brocade—she first hurried to offer a gratuity, pressing unobtrusively into the messenger’s hand a plain silk pouch, inside which, grabbed hastily in the moment, was a pair of solid, heavy amber-encrusted gold rings that she had always considered too gaudy and flashy to wear herself.
The palace attendant was around forty years old, with an honest and stout appearance. With practiced ease he opened the pouch for a quick look; a barely perceptible flicker of satisfaction crossed his eyes. Without changing expression, he bowed. “The Madam is far too generous—how could one accept such a thing?”
“It is only a little trifle—I happened to find it rather pretty. Please do not think it beneath you.” Minglan smiled modestly. This was her first time dealing face-to-face with a palace attendant, and she chose her words with doubled care.
“The Madam need not be so polite. What ‘Sir’ or ‘Sir’—this humble one would not dare claim such an address. The Madam need only call me ‘Little Tong.'” The palace attendant finally broke into a smile, and slipped the pouch unobtrusively into his sleeve.
Minglan knew she had not used the wrong form of address and felt a small measure of relief. Some eunuchs, after all, did not care to be called by certain terms.
Her smile grew more cordial. “To have troubled Sir Tong to make this trip so early in the morning—have you had breakfast yet? If you would not consider it beneath you, please dine with us here before you go. Some rice from the south has recently been delivered—it has been made into the softest, stickiest of clear congees, and there is marinated smoked river deer from the mountain hunt of a few days ago, along with small pickled vegetables. It all makes for quite a pleasant meal. Would you not try a little?”
The dignified, youthful noblewoman smiled warmly and spoke with gentle ease, without the slightest trace of flattery—as if greeting an old friend or family acquaintance, extending a sincere and natural invitation to come and eat breakfast.
The attendant surnamed Tong could not help but feel genuine goodwill toward her; his face broke into a broad smile. “This humble one would indeed like to impose for a little, but unfortunately must hurry back to the palace to make my report. Let us leave it for another day. The Empress often speaks of the Madam with high praise.”
Minglan was embarrassed and demurred: “Her Majesty is too kind—this subject-wife is unworthy of such words. To receive so generous a reward for no merit or service whatsoever—it is really more than one could bear.”
After all the pleasantries, it was this sentence that was the real point.
It was not as if she would speak ill of her own prospects—but in the two months since her marriage, she had done nothing but sweep before her own door. She had not distributed alms to the poor, had not burned incense or donated money with prayers for the nation’s peace, and had not been enthusiastic about attending social gatherings among noblewomen. In her leisure hours, she had done nothing but sleep or go over account books, and beyond muttering a phrase or two about “boundless imperial grace” when receiving gifts from the palace, she had given not a passing thought to the Emperor and Empress’s household.
Someone like her—making no effort and thoroughly indolent, with no excuse whatsoever—to suddenly receive a reward of this weight from on high: she could not help but think twice.
The attendant Tong was a man of great worldly wisdom, and laughed with meaningful significance. “The Madam need not be alarmed. Though the Madam lives in quiet retirement from the world, her reputation for wisdom has spread far and wide. Yesterday the Emperor also said that Commissioner Gu conducts his affairs with steadiness and discretion, with the manner of a great minister—and that it is surely the Madam’s virtuous influence at home that has allowed the Commissioner to maintain a household free of trouble and to devote himself wholeheartedly to the service of His Majesty.”
Minglan looked at the attendant Tong with an expression of deep admiration. The man certainly had a way with words—she was a homebody who never left her house, and her reputation for wisdom had spread far and wide? That was about as credible as calling NATO a peace organization.
After the procession bearing the imperial edict had been seen off, Minglan paced back to her room with a head full of thoughts and had Danju open the several gift boxes inlaid with gold and fragrant agarwood. First there were ten bolts each of imperial-tribute silk in four colors—rosy crimson, water blue, sky jade, and dusk mist—their luster flowing and exquisite beyond description.
Danju tallied the items one by one, turning back with a pleased smile. “What beautiful, vivid colors—and such lovely patterns. When this hot season is over, we’ll find the old master craftsmen at Jinzhi Pavilion to make the young lady a few new outfits, and she can wear them back home for the old lady to see—she’s sure to be delighted.”
Getting carried away in her pleasure, she forgot the new form of address again.
Next came a white jade ruyi scepter inlaid with kingfisher feathers, gold, and motifs of good fortune, longevity, auspiciousness, and happiness—smooth and flawless throughout, without a single imperfection. These two items were all well and good, but the most alarming was the set of sixteen matching pale jade-green bowls in a single shade, as if carved from one solid block of jade. Each was no more than a few inches in diameter; around the rim was delicately carved a scene of flowers, birds, fishermen, woodcutters, farmers, and weavers, and resting in the palm of the hand it was like a pool of cool, refreshing blue-green water—luminous and dazzling, beyond the power of words to fully describe. Such a rare and extraordinary thing was probably worth an entire city in gold.
Xiaotao’s eyes went perfectly round at the sight; she stayed as far from that set of pale jade bowls as she could manage, terrified of somehow knocking one against something and cracking it, knowing that selling herself eighteen times over would not make amends, and could only stand ten paces away gulping down her desire to look.
“Useless creature!” Danju glared at her fiercely, then, fingers trembling, carefully placed the pale jade bowls one by one into a case lined with thick silk velvet before letting out a breath of relief. She then called Bisi and Qinsang to take the bolts of silk down to the storeroom, and herself carried the ruyi scepter and the jade bowls to lock in the wall cabinet in Minglan’s inner room.
Minglan’s heart was a cat’s claw scratching at her chest, and she could neither sit nor stand.
When a commanding officer gives out weapons and equipment to a second-rate regiment for no obvious reason, it’s highly likely he’s luring you in to hear a bugle call for an impossible charge. When a superior gives you benefits for no obvious reason, it’s to get more work out of you. When a man gives you benefits for no obvious reason, it is most likely because he has done something guilty outside.
But what of the imperial family? Or rather—perhaps there was a reason, but she simply did not know it.
“Xiaotao!” She stood up abruptly and raised her voice. “Go and invite Master Gongsun.”
…
At this hour, it was unclear whether Gongsun Baishi could be found.
Since giving up any hope of the imperial examinations, he had resolved to live as a recluse who dwelled in the countryside while his heart still yearned over the affairs of court. Being a recluse naturally required a recluse’s bearing: sleeping, for instance, until the sun was high in the sky; reading half-reclined; composing poetry preferably with hair undone; writing as a rule in the middle of the night. He greatly admired the free-spirited scholars of the Wei and Jin eras, but lacked the courage to actually strip naked and run about, or to go singing at someone’s graveside—his extreme measures stretched no further than rolling up both sleeves and practising wild cursive script on the whitewashed wall of his small courtyard.
Constrained by the strict codes of propriety, having been prevented from paying his idols more fitting tribute through his actual conduct, he had suffered deeply for years over this.
After hearing Minglan’s “profound” understanding of Gongsun Baishi’s character, Gu Tingye had burst out laughing so hard he could not straighten up, finding himself in complete sympathy with her view. In his estimation, Gongsun Baishi was, at heart, a man who professed to love the dragon but would have fled at the sight of one.
Those Wei-Jin scholars, after all, were creatures of magnificent wildness and total abandon—drunk on their faces two out of every three days, talking nonsense; whereas Gongsun Baishi, for all his outward air of casual ease, was in truth disciplined and cautious, guarded around people and unforthcoming on all but a fraction of anything important.
To ensure efficiency in the invitation, Minglan sent the powerfully-built Xiaotao; then, on reflection—since this was after all a matter of seeking another’s counsel—decided it would be more proper to show some courtesy, and added the reverential and cultivated Ruomei to accompany her.
She had two basins of ice set in the side flower room and a pull-cord swinging curtain fan rigged up, arranged tea, refreshments, and well-water-chilled fruit on the table, and sat waiting composedly. About half an hour later, Gongsun Baishi ambled in at a leisurely pace, preceded by Xiaotao—striding ahead with a face full of displeasure—and followed by Ruomei, who kept respectfully at his heels.
The side flower room was built over the water, enclosed on all sides by latticed partitions. After the host and guest had observed the proper courtesies, they sat at either end of a long table, each in an armchair. Minglan dismissed all attendants; Danju withdrew and stationed herself to keep idle servants and maids at a remove of twenty paces. Through the wide-open latticed windows on all sides, those outside could see only two figures seated far apart at opposite ends of the room, with only the sounds of water and wind carrying through—nothing of what passed between them could be heard.
This arrangement had been her own idea, conceived after much deliberation, and Gu Tingye had praised it greatly.
After a few words of pleasantry, Minglan went straight to the matter. “Is Master Gongsun aware that early this morning the palace sent someone to bestow gifts upon us?”
Gongsun Baishi waved his folding fan. “Just now, the Madam’s own people already informed me. Allow me to offer the Madam my congratulations.”
Minglan twisted her handkerchief, unable to put on a face of composure, and said urgently: “I don’t think it is for my sake—it must be connected with the Commissioner’s affairs. But I cannot work out the reason. I came especially to ask for your guidance.”
Every wrinkle on Gongsun Baishi’s old, creased face arranged itself into an expression of cheerful delight, and he fanned himself with redoubled vigor. “The Madam is too concerned. This must surely be the boundless grace of His Majesty—a testament to the Madam’s far-reaching reputation for virtue and her deeply blessed fate.”
Though these were his words, his eyes plainly glittered with amusement.
Minglan had been blocked twice in a row. She bit her lip and barely managed to restrain the urge to scratch that wrinkled old face—which, she had to admit, had already been thoroughly inscribed by wrinkles into a rather elaborate pattern of its own.
Highly intelligent individuals—persons of great wisdom, to put it plainly—generally shared a common affliction: a fondness for playing the profound, for tantalizing you interminably before giving a straightforward answer. One wondered how much self-control it must have taken Emperor Liu of Han not to slap the fan-waving gentleman senseless.
She adjusted her composure, took two deep breaths, and spoke directly and seriously: “Several of the uncles and cousins, having acted without sufficient caution, have committed offenses that have not yet been fully resolved. The Commissioner has already petitioned the Emperor to show clemency and exercise leniency. I venture to ask, Master Gongsun—do you think this was right?”
“…That is well asked, Madam.” Gongsun Baishi at last put away his levity. He slowly closed his folding fan. “In recent days, I had urged Zhonghuai many times to go before the Emperor and petition for clemency. It was not until two days ago that he finally agreed.”
Minglan composed her expression, and stood with proper formality. “The matters that the Commissioner and you, Master, have been deliberating must be of great importance. This is not, by rights, something a woman should concern herself with. But now that these affairs have extended into the inner household, and tomorrow I must go into the palace to offer thanks for the imperial grace, I am concerned that I may inadvertently say something amiss. I humbly beseech you to guide me.” She concluded with a full and deep bow to Gongsun Baishi.
Gongsun Baishi immediately rose, stepped slightly aside, and bowed with clasped hands in return. “The Madam is too modest. The Madam’s temperament is gentle and refined, her household governance exemplary—she is truly Zhonghuai’s great fortune. Whatever the Madam wishes to know, this old one shall say all that there is to say.”
In the past several days he had been watching with a cool eye, and had noticed that she was a woman of real self-discipline. Though she was clearly trusted and cherished, she never overstepped; whenever anything touched on great affairs of state, she would not ask so much as one word more than necessary. (In truth, she was simply too lazy.)
Gu Tingye wielded enormous authority, yet even though people came to the door day after day to court and flatter her, she never used that influence for private gain or carried herself with arrogance. She was courteous and gracious toward everyone. (She simply lacked the nerve to accept bribes.)
The two sat down again. Minglan thought for a moment and found that even formulating the right question was a challenge—where to begin?
“Why did you counsel the Commissioner to petition for clemency on behalf of the Marquis household?” This seemed a reasonable entry point.
Gongsun Baishi stroked the sparse beard on his chin and said slowly, “How does the Madam think of the current Emperor as a person?”
Question and answer were completely at cross-purposes. Minglan tightened her grip on the handkerchief once more. Well then—one had to accept the peculiar architecture of a brilliant mind.
“They say a minister should not presume to read the Emperor’s intentions—but that is only half correct.” Gongsun Baishi had not expected Minglan to answer; he tilted his head back slightly and regarded the ceiling above. “Without reading the Emperor’s intentions, how does one carry out one’s work effectively? Among ministers and generals of similar backgrounds and learning, those who read the Emperor’s mind most accurately—most precisely—are the ones who rise without interruption.”
Minglan turned her face to look at Gongsun Baishi. In truth, this old man was not yet quite fifty, but half a lifetime of travel and hardship had weathered his face; it was lined with wrinkles and aged as a man of sixty, yet his eyes were sharp and vigorous, bright with keen intelligence.
“Zhonghuai is not yet thirty years of age. He is not the Emperor’s kinsman by marriage; he was not one of the men who stayed at the Emperor’s side during his years as a prince; he is not a veteran general or an entrenched official. Yet he commands a heavy force and holds a high position. What is the basis for that? Duan Chengqian, Geng Jiechuan, Zhong Dayou, Liu Zhengjie… and Shen Congxing—they have all been with the Emperor since his days as a prince, through more than ten years of wind and rain. Which of them did not protect the Emperor with his life? Which of them was not devoted through and through?”
Minglan smiled with a touch of wry resignation. “Even by simple seniority and precedent, it would not have come around to the Commissioner.”
Gongsun Baishi leveled his gaze and nodded toward Minglan in commendation, then continued: “When the Emperor had just ascended the throne, to appease the military, he showed great courtesy to several of the old generals, repeatedly granting promotions and titles. Those men who had stood by him during his days as a prince then became untouchable. At the time I counseled Zhonghuai: ‘Now that the new Emperor has taken the throne, there will certainly be occasions when force must be used. Either you compose yourself and keep your head down, trusting the Emperor to remember his past feeling for you and grant you some middling post where you can live out your days in peace—or you put everything on the line and strive to secure a position for yourself in the Emperor’s eyes.'”
“And of course he chose the latter.” Minglan was entirely unsurprised.
“Zhonghuai is bold and resolute—swift and decisive in action. At the risk of being dismissed, he used strict punishments and harsh discipline, had a good many heads removed, and worked urgently in those first few months to forge the troops under his command into a fighting force. The Emperor rebuked him several times, yet in truth this manner of proceeding was precisely what the Emperor had hoped for.”
Gongsun Baishi chuckled, stroking his beard with an air of self-congratulation. “Afterward, as it happened, there arose a rebellion. When hostilities broke out, the other generals were either hedging their positions, stalling, and speaking in slippery evasions, or had the will but not the capacity and could not rapidly and effectively direct their troops. Only Zhonghuai’s army could receive an order and act on it instantly, marching south with the full force of the command. At that time, in the army, there were those with ulterior purposes who covertly undermined operations mid-campaign, giving perfunctory and evasive responses to orders. In the midst of open battle, with life and death hanging on the instant, not the slightest error could be permitted. Zhonghuai had half of them executed on the spot and the other half bound in chains—among these was a veteran old general’s longtime subordinate, and that same general’s own nephew by clan.”
Minglan let out a soft exclamation, unable to conceal her astonishment.
“What of being impeached? What of being hated and resented? When all is said and done, a single great victory covers a multitude of wrongs! The Emperor extinguished the forces of the Jing-Tan rebellion and secured his dynasty—that made him an enlightened sovereign in the eyes of all officials celebrating in congratulation. Zhonghuai won the battle—that made him the preeminent merit-holder of the realm’s stabilization! Shen, Duan, Geng, Liu, Zhong and the rest could only acknowledge it in defeat!” Gongsun Baishi’s eyes blazed; his voice rang out high and spirited, as if ten thousand feet of heroic spirit swelled within his chest.
Minglan greatly admired Gu Tingye’s courage and decisiveness; but what she wished even more urgently to ask was, All this vast and wandering account of yours, old man—what in the world does it have to do with what I asked in the first place? But she knew that scholars of great wisdom were generally short-tempered, and she was afraid he would shake his sleeves and walk out, so she held herself back and did not voice the observation that this conversation had long since departed several thousand miles from the original subject.
“But this was an unconventional strategy—a desperate gamble. An unconventional strategy is not the orthodox course, and a desperate gamble is not something to be used again and again.” Gongsun Baishi leaned on the back of his chair and caught his breath slowly as he sat back down. “In the end, Zhonghuai must build step by step over time—slowly accumulating contacts and connections, quietly accruing merits. Having made too many enemies and been too aggressive is, in the long run, not a good thing.”
Minglan nodded again and again from habit. …Wait—hold on. She had the sense that she had encountered this line of reasoning somewhere before. Some renowned general who liked to drink red tea had said something very similar.
She was lost in thought when, without noticing, she spoke the words aloud: “…The so-called certain path to victory lies in concentrating forces that outnumber the enemy’s, committing fewer errors than the enemy, and then—fighting well. Victory against superior odds, triumph of the weak over the strong—this is not the ordinary way or the proper course of war.”
Gongsun Baishi, hearing this, looked up in mild surprise and broke into a laugh. “The Madam’s way of putting it is rather delightful—though the phrasing is rough, the principle is sound. That is exactly it.”
Minglan laughed drily. She had nearly forgotten every legal principle from her previous life, and yet this of all things she still remembered. The many years of effort by her nation and society had left less of a mark than a novel full of handsome men. How shameful.
“Zhonghuai is nothing more than a newly risen military figure: a second-rank official with no hereditary title, no honorary enfeoffment, no established base of support. Though he has the Emperor’s trust, there is still a whole array of department heads, senior cabinet ministers, and grand counsellors above him who can direct and oversee him. To hold his footing, let alone climb still higher, is by no means easy.” The old and hoarse sigh rocked the whole room.
Minglan was quiet. It had not occurred to her that building his position had been so difficult.
“So, let us return to the matter at hand. What manner of sovereign, in the end, is the current Emperor?”
Gongsun Baishi lifted his tea bowl, lightly skimmed the surface clear of tea-leaves, drank a few sips to moisten his throat, and continued: “The Emperor was enfeoffed as a vassal prince in his teens and dwelt long in the Sichuan borderlands. From the military to the court to the inner palace, he had no support anywhere at all. I must say, the counsellors around him during those years as a prince were quite capable. Since returning to the capital, the Emperor has handled every matter with step-by-step precision, always occupying the position of moral righteousness.”
Minglan had a sense of this. She had caught fragments here and there from her father and brothers, and said naturally: “That position of righteousness is the principle of filial devotion, I imagine.”
“Precisely.” Gongsun Baishi smiled, privately thinking: as one would expect from a household of letters, well-cultivated and exceptional. “The Emperor slept on the floor by the late Emperor’s bedside for half a month and personally administered his medicines and soups—this gave him authority of bearing before civil and military officials. The Emperor observed a full mourning year for the late Emperor, during which he did not hold imperial selections, wore plain clothes and ate plain food—and this gave him the standing to discipline harshly those nobles and gentry’s sons who were living in idle luxury. The single stroke of punishing those unworthy scions won him the applause of the reform-minded officials.”
Minglan gradually settled her mind. It seemed as though he had said nothing of her question—yet in truth he had said everything.
The fingers twisted tightly in her lap slowly loosened.
She raised her head and listened in silence, so still that she could hear her own heartbeat. This was, in her whole life, the first time she had ever truly experienced the seductive pull of political strategy—still on the surface, yet at its depth capable of stopping the heart.
“You have not yet finished, Master.” Her voice was calm and gentle, like a light drop of water falling from eaves after the rain and landing with a clear sound on a smooth stone step.
Minglan looked toward the ice basin in the corner. “What ‘step-by-step precision,’ what ‘occupying moral righteousness’—the Emperor was the late Emperor’s own formally appointed Crown Prince. Even without all this, what could happen? At most there would be a few memorials of remonstrance. Is there anyone who would refuse to recognize him as Emperor? Master—you, and others—what is it that you are truly afraid of?”
She lifted her eyes—clear and transparent, like a still and quiet pool—and looked straight across at the man before her.
Gongsun Baishi’s folding fan paused. He smoothed the smile from his face, looked steadily at Minglan for a long moment, and said with composure: “The Madam is correct. However—the Crown Prince designated by the late Emperor was not only the present Emperor alone.”
Minglan did not follow his meaning. The third prince and fourth prince were both dead; the fifth prince had rebelled and been executed; the sixth prince had been demoted to a commoner; the seventh prince had died in infancy. Was it not perfectly natural that the eighth prince should ascend the throne? What were they so worried about?
She was somewhat confused—there seemed to be nothing to fear, and yet a vague, intangible unease was rising within her. In her ears, as if from a distance, a low, resonant drumbeat had begun—slow, rhythmic pulses growing nearer, growing nearer—and in an instant a flash of light broke through her mind, and the words were out of her mouth before she had formed the intention:
“It is the Prince of Yu! It is the young prince that the sixth prince adopted from the third prince’s line!”
Gongsun Baishi gave a silent exclamation of admiration and bowed toward Minglan with full respect. “The Madam possesses the wisdom of an orchid and a clear mirror for a mind. That is precisely that young prince—not yet ten years old. For it must be known that when the young prince was first adopted, it was by the Emperor’s own imperial decree; the establishment of the third prince as Crown Prince was also formally decreed and had been all but publicly proclaimed to the realm—when, unexpectedly, the rebellion broke out.”
At this the old man could only sigh. “When the late Emperor was gravely ill, how many people sobbed and pleaded at his sick bed, urging him to establish the young prince as his heir? Fortunately the late Emperor was clear-minded in the end and understood the principle that the realm requires a grown man to rule. Given the situation at that time, installing another child emperor would have invited power struggles between in-laws and powerful ministers and would likely have brought immediate upheaval. So he withstood the Empress Shengde’s wailing and supplications, forcibly established the current Emperor’s birth mother as sovereign of the six palaces, and then proceeded with the enthronement. Alas… these inner palace secrets are not widely known.”
Minglan thought for a moment, then said decisively: “Is this not simply leaving behind a source of endless trouble? Was there no one to suggest to the late Emperor that the matter be handled with greater… finality?” The third prince’s branch had spent how many years entrenching itself in the capital—deeply and broadly intertwined in terms of connections, influence, and wealth—compared to which, what could the eighth prince possibly match?
“The straightforward and upright ministers in the grand secretariat had all had their heads taken off; the grand counsellor Shen was a slippery old fox who was not going to commit himself to any course—and besides, even if the late Emperor had perceived the difficulty, he could not harden his heart to act. The third prince, after all, had died a terrible death; the Princess Consort had always been gentle and virtuous, greatly beloved by the late Emperor. The Empress Shengde had suddenly lost her protector—how pitiable she was. To strip her of her inherited son as well would be too great a deprivation, leaving the third prince without any continuing lineage. The late Emperor’s heart was not hardened enough for that, which is understandable. Alas… from the moment the late Emperor passed, not a moment has been quiet, either in court or in the inner palace. The Emperor himself has had no easy time of it.”
Gongsun Baishi, too, privately felt this situation was unworkable, but the person in question was both a dead man and a former emperor, and too much criticism was not appropriate.
Minglan said nothing. Her professor of political science had once said: behind every proposal stands a vested interest group lending it support.
The eighth prince’s enthronement meant that the makeshift team he had brought from the border region could rise to positions of power overnight; the third prince’s enthronement meant that the forces that had supported him could grasp dominion over the realm. Once a person has tasted the flavor of power, no one is willing to set it down.
She now understood why the Emperor had been so insistent on the marriage alliance between the Shen family and the Duke of England’s household—it was nothing more than two factions competing for the swing vote in the middle. And why the Emperor kept pressing relentlessly on the case of the fourth prince’s treason—it was simply using that pretext as a handle, weaving in connections, taking the opportunity to root out and eliminate a portion of his opposition.
“The forces in court at present can be roughly divided into four. The Emperor’s own faction; the Empress Dowager Shengde and the Prince of Yu’s faction; the reform-minded scholar-officials are also something of a faction; and then there is instability in the regional provinces.” Gongsun Baishi furrowed his brows deeply, pressing his fists together as if in hard deliberation. “Something like that, I imagine—though there may be other obscure currents not yet clear to this old one.”
“Master need not worry unduly.” Minglan had grown absorbed in listening; she was beginning to enter a state of focus. “The Emperor’s handling of affairs strikes me as quite methodical—there will always be a way forward. First, the reform-minded scholar-officials—those men of letters…”
She chose her words carefully. This group was, in truth, the most cunning of all, and her own family had produced two of them. They operated under the banner of following the sages’ teachings to assist the sovereign, and never openly crossed the line—always making certain to stand on whichever side could be called righteous.
“The Emperor’s hold on the throne will grow more secure with each passing day, and they will gradually draw closer and align themselves accordingly. As for the regional instability—so long as the center holds firm, it can be gradually and steadily subdued. The truly difficult matter is—ahem—and besides, I have heard that before his death, the late Emperor personally charged the Emperor to give special care and consideration to the Empress Dowager Shengde and the young Prince of Yu.”
Gongsun Baishi slapped his knee and heaved a deep sigh. “Who would say otherwise? It clings like a bone-deep affliction, utterly impossible to shake off. However, it is not an insurmountable concern. One can only hope that the Emperor does not grow impatient—if he can wait out ten years or eight, with the obstacles slowly diminishing, it should be possible to deal with the matter step by step.”
“Perhaps after ten years or eight, everyone will have resigned themselves to it and will stop making trouble anyway.” Minglan offered this optimistic prediction. These were, after all, interest groups, not members of a cult whose minds had been so warped they were determined to press on down one road to their own destruction.
“Let us not let the topic wander too far—let us circle back and talk about our own situation.” Gongsun Baishi wore the expression of one who was thinking, young people these days simply cannot maintain their focus. Minglan felt deeply embarrassed—who was it, exactly, that had taken the conversation from the Water Curtain Cave all the way to the Mountain of Flames?
“Now that the great upheaval has been suppressed, undercurrents still run below the surface, and the court is turbulent and unpredictable. To secure a firm standing, one must not only read the Emperor’s intentions, but also assess the direction in which events will flow.” Gongsun Baishi stood, turned his back to the room, and gazed out the window at the water and mountains beyond. “If things go badly for the Emperor, Zhonghuai will necessarily fare badly. Yet if things go entirely smoothly and well for the Emperor, Zhonghuai may not necessarily fare well either.”
“How do you mean?” Minglan’s delicate brows drew together.
Gongsun Baishi turned back, smiling with helpless resignation. “Though Zhonghuai and the Emperor had some dealings with each other, compared to the close confidants who had been at the Emperor’s side for over ten years during his years as a prince—those who had shielded him through everything—he still falls somewhat short. What is more—the eighth prince and the Emperor are two entirely different people.”
“…The son of Heaven has no family, only subjects; the son of Heaven has no friends, only the distinction of ruler and minister; the son of Heaven has no private concerns, for his heart holds only the realm and the people.” Minglan suddenly recalled the words of Master Zhuang, and recited them quietly to herself—even the bonds of Xiao Xuan and Xiao Gui had not been able to transcend that truth.
“Since the Madam understands this so clearly, I am greatly relieved. I spent considerable effort repeating it to Zhonghuai, and I do not know how much of it he took to heart. As a minister, one must be careful on one’s own behalf. Do not think the Emperor will shoulder everything for you.” Gongsun Baishi nodded with a look of approval. “It is precisely for this reason that, when the Marquis household ran into trouble, I urged Zhonghuai with all my strength to go and petition for clemency.”
This shift came quickly; Minglan blinked, not quite following.
“First: Zhonghuai, at his age, already holds such high office—and this is bound to attract sidelong glances. He had barely risen to his position when he appeared utterly indifferent to his own family and close kin. Regardless of whether there is justification, public opinion is something to be feared.” The old man shook his head slowly.
Minglan nodded gradually—this had also been one of her own early concerns.
“Second: in this matter, what, in truth, does the Emperor think?”
Gongsun Baishi narrowed his eyes with a look of calm amusement. “The offenses the Marquis household committed were not things the Emperor truly cared about one way or another—whether they were dealt with or not made no real difference to the larger picture. What matters is: what manner of minister does the Emperor wish to have at his side? Easy Ya, Shu Diao, and Gongzi Kaiafang—let the warning of Guan Zhong’s counsel to Duke Huan of Qi serve as a lesson not far in the past.”
Minglan was full of admiration—these words struck at the very heart of the matter. She asked herself sincerely: when she managed the household, which did she prefer around her—someone who recognized neither friend nor kin, or someone who still held their family in their heart? It was a very subtle psychological truth.
“Third—and the most troublesome.” Gongsun Baishi sat down again, picked a few grapes from the carnelian dish, and began slowly peeling them. “Zhonghuai’s grievances—I know them; the Madam knows them; the people on that side of the Marquis household know them. But how many people outside are aware? Zhonghuai’s old reputation as a dissolute young man of leisure still clings to him, while the Marquis household has no particularly glaring handles exposed to the outside world. Alas—accumulated slander erodes the bones; decades of entrenched prejudice.”
Minglan’s lips moved a few times, then fell still.
“Could Zhonghuai expose what happened in those years?” Gongsun Baishi added. “He could not. To do so would be to dishonor his father in a grave way.”
Minglan turned the meaning over slowly, and nodded.
The affair of Bai Shi’s entry into the Gu household was the Gu family’s own disgrace—taking money to marry a woman into the family, then mistreating the son she left behind, subjecting him to such pressure that he was effectively driven from home. If such things were told to the outside world, the old Marquis’s reputation would be ruined, and the Marquis household would become a laughingstock.
Yet to expose a father’s failings—if Gu Tingye were truly to go around broadly proclaiming things that damaged his late father’s good name, he would be accused of error even if none could be found.
“Given this barrier between what may and what may not be said, I have continuously counseled Zhonghuai to take the longer view, not to become entangled in the victories and losses of a single town or battle. There will be time ahead—he has more than enough of it to clear Madam Bai’s name and reclaim justice for himself. Why be in such haste?” Gongsun Baishi took a chilled cloth from nearby, wiped his hands, stroked his beard, and continued. “A while back Zhonghuai was in the thick of his anger; it was not the right moment for me to say much. Two days ago, after the two of you returned from the Marquis household, I noticed he seemed somewhat more open to reason, and I went immediately. After some considerable effort, I finally managed to persuade him.”
Minglan felt a wave of genuine warmth in her heart, sensing that this old man was truly, at his core, concerned for the two of them—that it was this that had driven him to persist so stubbornly in offering counsel.
“…You have worked hard, Master. I, Minglan—I truly do not know how to express my gratitude.” She bowed to the old man with complete sincerity.
Gongsun Baishi waved his hand again and again, laughing. “Think nothing of it. Zhonghuai and I are friends who have crossed the bounds of age—we are very well-suited to each other in temperament. And besides, it was not a selfless undertaking on my part. I told Zhonghuai not to approach anyone else about this, and not to argue or defend himself with anyone—only to go to the Emperor and petition. If he could work himself up to shedding some tears at the right moment, so much the better.”
Minglan’s mouth opened slightly. What a marvelously subtle piece of strategy.
Which was to say: Gu Tingye was not going there to exonerate those troublemakers—they had indeed committed offenses. He was simply asking the Emperor, as a personal favor to himself, to handle the matter with leniency.
Or to put it another way—the weight of this petition lay not in its outcome, but in the act of petitioning itself. Whether those troublemakers could avoid punishment mattered little; what mattered was making the Emperor understand Gu Tingye’s difficulty, making him see a Gu Tingye who was bound by loyalty, capable of softening, broad-minded and merciful.
Minglan understood. She smiled with considerable slyness and asked in a low voice: “So—did he cry?”
“This particular detail, old Gongsun actually wished to ask the Madam.” Gongsun Baishi feigned an aggrieved stare and puffed up his beard.
Minglan covered her mouth and laughed lightly, finding this tiresome old man rather endearing. She finally gathered herself, smoothed her skirt, and smiled. “It is said that one conversation with a wise man surpasses ten years of reading. Thanks to you, Master, for not thinking this young woman too dull-witted and taking the trouble to explain all this so carefully and thoroughly—today I have truly gained a great deal. I offer you my sincere thanks.”
“Think nothing of it—I did not speak entirely without purpose.” Gongsun Baishi shook his head with a smile. “This time Zhonghuai did listen to counsel and went to petition, but he was seething inwardly the whole while. A great man of action must have his spirits and heart flowing freely—otherwise he is bound to either give offense to others or stew himself into illness. Yesterday at noon, after he had spoken with the Madam for a while, when he left the room his expression was considerably better. And last night—ahem—I was told by Xiao Shun that when Zhonghuai went out this morning, his brow was open and easy, and he seemed quite fully recovered.”
The old man offered one commendation after another, and had quite succeeded in making Minglan’s face thoroughly red, her head bowed in shy embarrassment.
“It is not as though I can nag at him for the rest of his life—that is for the two of you to do, growing old together. It is always better for him to speak plainly to the Madam sooner rather than later.” Gongsun Baishi laughed with great openness and ease.
“It is all thanks to your great ability, Master.” Minglan was flustered with embarrassment; she quickly shifted the subject.
“It is also that Zhonghuai had worked things through for himself, which is why my counsel was able to reach him.” Gongsun Baishi was generous with his own modesty as well.
Minglan was only too eager to talk about something else, and asked quickly: “What do you mean, Master?”
“Zhonghuai was stewing in his anger, and asked me whether there was any way to vent his frustrations without causing harm to anything else. I said: yes.” Gongsun Baishi’s face became one of profound inscrutability. “As long as Zhonghuai is willing to be a solitary minister.”
“A solitary minister?!” Minglan was greatly alarmed. No—she had no wish to be the wife of such a man.
“Yes—a solitary minister with no attachments, wholly devoted in loyalty, who relies for his entire life on nothing but the Emperor’s trust.”
Minglan was speechless for a good while. Factional scheming was of course wrong—but in court, one could not live without a single ally, either.
As far as she knew, across the long sweep of history, about half of those praiseworthy and celebrated solitary ministers had not come to good ends—classic cases: Shang Yang, Wu Qi, Chao Cuo. The other half had managed to end their own lives well enough, but their children and grandchildren afterward had had no one to protect them (their fathers had made enemies of everyone), and the family’s glory had ended in a single generation—classic case: the “harsh official” Tian Jing.
“The Madam may set her mind at ease.” Gongsun Baishi, seeing Minglan’s face fall into an expression of worry, suppressed a laugh. “The moment those words left my mouth, Zhonghuai refused them flatly.”
Minglan let out a breath of relief and soothed her own startled heart—very good, very good. Fortunately Gu Tingye was a reformed libertine turned apparently-competent pillar of state, whose political consciousness had not quite kept pace with his political acumen.
Gongsun Baishi glanced sideways at Minglan, saying nothing, a quiet smile on his lips as he stroked his beard.
In truth, Gu Tingye’s exact words at the time had been: he had taken a wife in order to give her a good life, not to make her share in his hardships.
…
Seven or eight days later—one deep night.
Shao Furen carried a bowl of hot medicine in from the doorway, and found Gu Tingyu had sat up from his bed and was leaning against the head cushion, lost in thought. Her brows contracted at once in worry, and she called out gently: “Why are you up again? Lie back down, please.” She moved forward to help him.
Gu Tingyu waved her hand away. “Lying there day and night—I am tired of it. Let me sit for a while.”
Shao Furen said nothing, only sat beside him and blew on the medicine to cool it.
“A while ago, Aunt came again.” Gu Tingyu looked up at the bed canopy, his face haggard, his eyes sharp.
Shao Furen sighed almost imperceptibly. “Why does she keep coming—she knows you’re ill. What is there to disturb you with, back and forth like this?”
“She is growing anxious.” The corner of Gu Tingyu’s mouth carried a trace of mockery. “She wants to settle that matter while there is still breath in me.”
Shao Furen seemed to want to speak, but held herself back; in the end she could not resist. “Have you given any thought to what she said—?”
A sickly flush of color rose on Gu Tingyu’s sallow face; he suddenly laughed, and the laughter brought on coughing. Shao Furen pressed close to pat his back, and only after a long while did the coughing subside. He gasped for breath. “What are people saying outside these days?”
Shao Furen thought for a moment. “That day when the imperial guards came to deliver the edict, they said that while the Marquis household’s involvement with the rebel prince had indeed occurred, in light of Second Brother’s meritorious service, and given Fourth Uncle’s advanced age and the shallow involvement of the rest, they were all released. All except Bing—there were quite a few people who pointed to him, alas… he is to go to that frozen northern land for years. His wife and younger sister have been weeping and making a scene terribly these past few days.”
“Is that all?”
Shao Furen thought again, then shook her head.
“You!” Gu Tingyu laughed. “Always the honest one.” He straightened himself with effort and said quietly, “Have you not heard the talk going around these days? That Aunt is a wicked stepmother—coldhearted and cruel—who deliberately drove Second Brother away all those years ago, so that she could wait for me to die and let her own son inherit the title.”
Shao Furen shook her head again. “What need have we to pay attention to groundless rumors like that?”
In the lamplight she looked at her husband’s face—gaunt and skeletal as a skull—and felt a pang of sorrow.
Gu Tingyu leaned slowly back against the head of the bed, with a faint, sardonic smile. “Earlier I told Aunt: now that Second Brother has both wings fully formed—with his methods and his cunning—he would not have taken my words at face value and waited obediently just because I said a few things to him. Even if I changed my mind, he has countermoves ready. Now that he has already secured the Marquis household, he will be even less inclined to yield the title. I told her to put the matter to rest: there is to be no more talk of adopting Xian Ge’er as heir.”
Shao Furen stared blankly. “You mean—these rumors—it was Second Brother who…”
“It is not necessarily just rumors.” Gu Tingyu smiled with self-deprecating irony. “Aunt has not been without that intention herself.”
After a pause, Shao Furen, her eyes red and exhausted, suddenly let tears fall. “With Second Brother’s abilities at this point, could the title possibly slip from his grasp? Why push things so hard? We only wanted to adopt a son—just so that after you are gone, there is someone to continue your line, someone to bring a bowl of rice to your grave. We would never compete with him for the title. He—he—can’t he even allow this?”
Gu Tingyu looked at his wife with tenderness and said softly: “Don’t cry anymore—you’ll ruin your eyes. One cannot entirely blame Second Brother for this. He has been wronged and stifled for twenty-some years. Now that he has made his way in the world, he naturally wants to receive that title in a clean and open manner. If I were to leave an adopted heir behind, there would always be someone with a grievance, always a handle for others to seize. Once trouble is stirred up, it never ends. And besides—others would be one thing—but adopting Xian Ge’er? That would be playing straight into Aunt’s hands. How could Second Brother possibly agree to that?”
Shao Furen knew the matter was beyond all hope of reversal; she could only weep silently. Gu Tingyu reached up with a great effort and wiped her tears away. “Forget about adopting a son. I have never believed in what lies beyond death. Now, the one thing I still worry about is you and Xian Jie’er. Alas—you have followed me, and it has cost you a lifetime.”
“Don’t say such things!” Shao Furen cried out in anguish, and collapsed onto her husband’s legs, weeping. “I have no talent and no beauty, and my family’s standing is ordinary. To have married you was the greatest fortune of my life.”
Gu Tingyu gently stroked the top of his wife’s head, and with the little strength remaining in his frail voice, spoke with gravity: “I am going to give you a few instructions now. You must keep them in mind.”
Shao Furen looked up and acknowledged his words with all her strength.
The man, weak and withered as a dry branch, gathered the weight of his voice and spoke with composure. “First: after I am gone, no matter who comes to you with suggestions, you must never again raise the matter of adoption—even if not for your own sake, then for Xian Jie’er’s. So long as I leave no heir, Second Brother and Second Sister-in-Law will treat you well. Even after Xian Jie’er is married, they will look out for her. That is far better than some adopted son of unknown character and ability.”
Shao Furen wept until her face was streaming; she buried herself against the side of the bed and could do nothing but nod over and over.
“Second: from now on, if there is any conflict between Second Sister-in-Law and Aunt, you must absolutely not get involved—and especially if Aunt asks you to do something, you must be very, very careful.” Gu Tingyu gave these last words particular weight.
Shao Furen wiped her tears, her face full of confusion.
Gu Tingyu smiled with a note of sadness. “It was only in these past years that I came to see Aunt clearly. She has always had a gift for using others as her frontmen. Before, it was the fourth and fifth branches, whom she played against Second Brother until they were enemies with water and fire between them, while she herself played the role of the kindly figure in the old Marquis’s eyes. Even I—hmm—I fear I was taken in as well.”
Shao Furen stared at him blankly. “Surely not. I have always thought the Madam was a good person.”
“The old Marquis, I think, finally saw through it in the end—which was why he left letters to the clan elders in Jinling and Qingcheng.” Gu Tingyu said coldly. “Why do you think the fourth and fifth uncle branches worked so hard to press the clan elders for answers—it was to intercept the private legacy the old Marquis had left for Second Brother. That was a matter of the main branch. What concern was it of theirs? None at all—except that Aunt promised to divide that private wealth equally among them. Pulling others to her side, setting them against one target—that has been the one move she has played most masterfully her entire life.”
Shao Furen’s whole body turned cold as she listened to words that sounded like a deathbed testament; she was so heartsick she could barely breathe, tears no longer flowing—as if she had moved past sorrow into a kind of numbness, only mechanically nodding.
“I can see that Second Sister-in-Law is not domineering or unkind. As long as you observe these two things and treat her with courtesy and warmth, I think you will be able to get on. …Wait—let me think—perhaps I should arrange something as a gift for her too? I cannot afford to offend her. Very well… yes, that will do—that way you two will be able to live somewhat better, and Xian Jie’er’s marriage will not need to worry anyone.”
Exhausted to the point of collapse, Gu Tingyu’s voice grew softer and softer as he spoke, almost talking to himself, no longer certain who he was addressing. A strange smile drifted across his face, and his lips moved quietly, barely audible:
“Father, Mother—I will be coming soon. Don’t be impatient. Old Marquis—you must surely be pleased now. Little Two has made something of himself—and the wife he’s taken is lovely too. Mother—look—I have shamed you. In every way he has outstripped me…”
…
In the Chongde reign, on the nineteenth day of the sixth month, Gu Tingyu, Marquis of Ningyang, passed away.
In the seventh month of the same year, an imperial decree was issued formally conferring on Gu Tingye the title of Marquis of Ningyang with a rank surpassing the second degree, and granting his wife, Lady Sheng, the first-rank official title of Lady of the Realm.
(End of this volume.)