by Elsa Hart
“I cannot imagine a challenge that would please you more.”
“Indeed,” said Hamza. “I had a better time than I would have had at any mansion. I do not presume to liken myself to the incomparable Scheherazade, who performed in circumstances far more dire than mine. Still, grave consequences are never distant for those in prison, and I admit with some pride that the Tale of the Baker, The Goldfish, and the Seven Hundred Rubies served me well. I might have obtained my freedom earlier, but the guards insisted I finish the story.” He paused. For all the levity in his account, Hamza’s expression remained serious, his eyes trained on Li Du’s face. “Now you have heard of my adventure, and it is your turn to tell me of yours, for it is clear by your face that something has occurred.”
“I must explain to you,” said Li Du, “that Baldan’s mansion did not disappear. It was my inattention that led you to an uninhabited home. The invitation that came to Water Moon Temple was a trap I should have seen.”
“A trap?” Hamza’s eyes narrowed. He listened while Li Du told him what had happened at the Temple of the Fire God. When Li Du came to Feng Liang’s treachery, his eyes widened, but he remained silent until Li Du related his escape. “A handful of dragonbrain to sting the eyes,” said the storyteller approvingly. His expression became grave. “I, too, should have recognized the peril. It chastens me to know how easily I was flattered by an invitation written on costly paper. And instead of realizing my error and remaining by your side, I spent a frivolous night in prison. You might have perished!”
“I was safe in my cousin’s home.”
“Your cousin’s?” asked Hamza, the self-recrimination vanishing from his expression. “Did you see Lady Chen? Has she unraveled the schemes of the perfidious Feng Liang?”
“In a way, yes,” Li Du replied. The bells were tolling the hour of the horse. They had come to the heart of the market. Near them, almost obscured by dangling copper pots, stacked saddles, and baskets of garlic, was a shop promising the finest fried bread outside of Yunnan. It was crowded, and filled with conversation. Li Du pointed to it. “There is much I have to explain,” he said. “And we have little time.”
To those customers who happened to spot, through the crowd, the two men seated in the corner of the restaurant, they presented an odd sight. One wore the illustrious robes of office, though they hung a little loosely on his frame, and their formidable embroidered insignia was at odds with his gentle face and earnest, forward-tilted posture. The other wore a costume of blue and silver that one might expect to see on an acrobat. But despite the ostentatious attire, it was his face that compelled attention. Those who saw it would think of it again, recalled to it by an expression in a painting, or the soft regard of a horse. The friendship between them was evident in the quiet intensity with which the man in official robes spoke, and the other man listened. After a while, they rose and reentered the market bustle. The man in blue and silver issued parting words to the other, who, after a moment, turned and walked alone toward the palace.
* * *
Three white marble bridges sloped up and over a wide, deep moat. Of those approaching the vermillion walls of the Emperor’s domain, Li Du was the only person on foot. On either side of him, the glistening shoulders of horses and embroidered hems of official robes proceeded as if he was not there. He would have felt invisible were it not for the six hundred soldiers guarding the wall, training their eyes on every man and animal seeking admittance.
The outer wall was so thick that its entrance was more a tunnel than a door, a cavern at once vast and enclosing. Inside it, individual voices blended into a single, watery babble. The air was still. Collars clung to damp napes. A hot, sticky odor of hair pomade mingled with the musky presence of horses. Li Du presented his letter three times, and three times it was whisked away to some inner office. The third waiting period was the longest. Just as he had convinced himself that he would be turned away, three soldiers appeared before him. He was told to follow them.
They walked in silence through the vast hidden city within the city. At first they stayed in the center, where bridges crossed inner moats and streams, their white balustrades doubled in blurred reflections on the water. As clouds altered the light striking them, the yellow rooftops of the great halls shifted from the color of coins to wheat to lion’s fur. Below the tiles, painted latticework dripped like liquid gold through emerald and sapphire clouds.
Soon they turned away from the imposing halls and vast spaces into cooler courtyards shaded by trees and rocks. The path they followed was familiar to Li Du. He had taken it almost daily from the Meridian Gate to the library. He expected the soldiers to diverge from it, and lead him to whatever office now contained the records he had asked to see. They didn’t. The courtyards grew smaller and more secluded. For Li Du, each step was like a candle held to an obscured memory. Were it not for the soldiers escorting him and the weight of robes to which he was no longer accustomed, he might have been carrying a handful of paper slips with the titles of volumes written on them. He would present them to Shu, and together they would locate the requested books, required for a prince’s astronomy lesson, perhaps, or to answer a question of law posed by the Emperor to one of his advisors.
The reverie abruptly dissolved when he found himself looking across a bare courtyard at the library. It was unchanged. The roof gleamed the same obsidian black. The same line of animals paraded down its ridge, ending with the same dragons, crouched possessively over the corners. One of the soldiers spoke to him—he could enter alone, but was to remain within the library, and return within the hour—and he nodded, barely listening. No sooner had he walked away from them than he forgot they were there.
The interior was as it had ever been. There were no people, but he could almost see the ghostly shades of scholars absorbed in documents and books at the heavy desks. Familiar faces regarded him from the paintings hung on each wall. The sashes of gods and goddesses were fixed in the same loops and coils, caught in imagined breezes. The same books patterned the shelves in the same order. As he took in the rows of colored boxes and spines, he felt as if he were reading favorite lines from beloved poems. How many times had he dreamed himself back to this place? How like a dream this was, to be here with the books, and yet to be alone.
Realizing that he had been standing, unmoving, in the doorway, he drew in a deep breath and, with a small shake of his shoulders, stepped forward. Memories continued to whisper to him as he entered the maze of cabinets. He walked the most direct route to the room of records, a deep alcove lit by thin windows, and found the section he wanted. At first, he could not understand why the cabinet labels were blurred and indistinct. They were not so in his memory. It took him a moment to comprehend that, though the library appeared unchanged, time had not stopped since his last visit there. He searched his satchel for his spectacles and put them on.
It did not take him long to find what he wanted: Reports to the Emperor, Forty-First Reigning Year. The files were subdivided into provinces. Before he removed the records from Jiangsu from their place, Li Du lowered himself to his knees and bowed. The hand of the Emperor was to be treated as the Emperor himself. He remained for a moment, kneeling before the shelves, his forehead pressed to the cool floor.
He found the document he sought in the third slim box he opened. The report was written in black ink in the center of the page. Li Du pictured the southern magistrate who had composed it. The heavy, cramped calligraphy spoke of arrogance, insecurity, and fingers made heavier by rings. Two sections of the original judgment had been negated with broad vermillion slashes. The fiery ink spilled into the margin in a torrent of notes. Li Du read both the report and the commentary once, then again. Adrift in the dark ocean of his own thoughts, he stood, holding his answer.
“I am considering repopulating this place with scholars,” came a voice behind him. He spun around. A figure stood in gleaming silk, as if the palace rooftops and the ink on the page had cohered into a vision of yellow silk and re
d dragons. The face above the robe was in shadow, but the voice and bearing were unmistakable. The Emperor had come to the library.
Chapter 47
Once more on his knees with his forehead pressed to the floor, Li Du waited for the Emperor to speak. He concentrated on the minute sounds and currents of air within the library. Nine years ago, he had been so attuned to them that he would have known the instant someone had entered the door. He could feel the weight of the imperial gaze on his shoulders. The report he had been holding rested on the floor in front of him. He heard a footstep, a rustle of heavy silk, and a soft crackle of paper as the report was picked up.
“It is not often that an Outer City secretary is granted the opportunity to walk through the gates of the palace into a room closed to all but the Emperor. I am curious to know what document is so important that you would trade Wu the information you had—I refer to the actions of the prince, my son—simply to examine it.”
As he had not yet been invited to speak, Li Du remained silent. He heard the sound of pages slowly being turned. “And now,” said the Emperor, “I understand.” Forbidden from looking up until commanded to do so, Li Du could only wait, and wonder at the thoughts contained within the pensive silence that followed the Emperor’s words. He felt oddly calm, despite being aware that a decision was being made about his fate by a man who could command his death with a nod.
“We will sit together and talk,” announced the Emperor. “There will be no witnesses to our conversation other than the books on these shelves, and books cannot report anything beyond what they already contain. Stand up.”
Keeping his gaze averted, Li Du rose to his feet. Following the Emperor’s instruction, he pulled a chair from its place at a nearby desk and oriented it to face the one already in the alcove. A movement of the yellow silk sleeve indicated that he should sit. He obeyed. “This report,” said the Emperor, taking a seat in the other chair, “was submitted to me nine years ago by a magistrate in Jiangsu Province. It recommends the execution of a woman found guilty of murdering her husband. Is this the document you came here to examine? Speak naturally. I give you permission to look at me.”
Li Du removed his spectacles. Then he lifted his eyes and beheld the face of a man approaching sixty years of age. From small brows, the eyelids drooped expressively down to the outer corners of the eyes. Thin cheeks fell from high cheekbones in the same downward line, to a small mouth framed by a mustache and beard that were still dark. The outward signs of age and fatigue failed to dim the inner vigor expressed by the direct gaze and straight, slightly forward-tilted posture. The breadth of the Emperor’s shoulders was only slightly augmented by his stiff, voluminous robes. He was still a man of considerable physical strength.
“Yes,” said Li Du. “That is the document I came here to find.”
The Emperor looked down at his own writing. “No matter how numerous the responsibilities of a ruler, he should not permit a sentence of death to be carried out within his realm unless he himself has approved it.” The Emperor hesitated slightly. “As a father must bear the burden of punishing his children, so a ruler must bear the burden of punishing his subjects. With this report, I had a happier task. The magistrate had entirely misconstrued the evidence. It was clear to me that the woman was innocent.”
“Which is why the final version of the report,” said Li Du, “the one filed in the records room of the Ministry of Punishments, makes almost no mention of her. The case is listed as one of accidental death.”
The Emperor nodded. “One might wonder why a secretary of the North Borough Office, with no connection to this province or to this case, would take an interest in it. But you are not simply a clerk of the North Borough Office, are you? And you do have a connection to it.” Reading the answer in Li Du’s expression, the Emperor continued.
“I have not forgotten you. Nine years ago, I sentenced you to exile. I took this action because of your close friendship with a man who, in this very room, plotted my death. Three years ago, I pardoned you. With your sentence lifted, you were freed from any association with the traitor, Shu.” The Emperor lifted the paper so that it caught the light. “Why, then, have you come here to read a report concerning his daughter?”
Li Du looked at the ink that shone red as blood. “Because I wanted to find the truth.”
“And did you find it?”
“Yes.”
The Emperor lowered the report. Though his expression did not appear to change, his eyes now bored into Li Du. “What is it you think you now know?”
Li Du met the Emperor’s gaze calmly. “Your son, the prince, has been manipulating the examinations, but that is only his most recent transgression against you. I know that, nine years ago, he was guilty of another treachery. I know that it was Prince Yinzao who plotted your death. He was the ninth conspirator. And I know that Shu had no part in it.”
It seemed to Li Du that the books around them leaned closer, waiting in breathless silence for the dragon’s jaws to snap closed around their old friend. The Emperor said nothing. He turned his face away from Li Du, and fixed his attention on the thin window closest to him. “It is the trouble with raising a son within walls,” he said finally. His tone, thoughtful, betrayed no strong emotion. “Boys should grow up in open spaces. The sight of a bird should inspire him to urge his horse to a faster gallop, in imitation of that soaring freedom. It is unhealthy to be so confined.”
If he agreed with the Emperor’s words, Li Du would be acknowledging fault in the imperial family. If he disagreed, he would be disagreeing with the Emperor. He remained silent. The Emperor turned to face him again. “After I pardoned you, I invited you back to the capital. You refused my invitation. You were going to follow the path of a scholar recluse, and disappear into the mountains.”
Li Du understood that a response was expected from him. He cast his mind back to the towering shoulders of the mountains, the forests of craggy oaks, and the silent, enclosing clouds. He had journeyed through that other world in order not to think of where he was now, not to think of the library. “I believed Shu was guilty,” he said. “I thought the only way to escape my confusion, my disappointment, and my grief was to stay far away.”
The Emperor was watching him closely. “What made you come back?”
“I no longer believed Shu was guilty.”
A shadow appeared between the Emperor’s brows. “You suspected I had made an error in condemning him?”
Li Du was careful. “I suspected that there was more to what happened.”
“I was informed of your return,” said the Emperor, relaxing. The trace of a smile touched his lips. “Exiles, even if they are pardoned, do not pass through the gates of this city unnoticed. At the time, I wondered what you would do here. When I heard you had accepted a humble position in the Outer City, I was disappointed, and did not think of you again. I see now that your choice was strategic. You wanted to remain inconspicuous. But from such a lowly vantage point, how did you arrive at this version of events you claim is the truth?”
The light in the room altered with a shifting cloud. It became difficult to see the Emperor’s face above the golden silk that glowed so brightly. Li Du drew in a breath, and began. “I used my access to ministry files to learn everything I could about the conspirators, and about Shu’s trial. My research led me to the conclusion that Shu, for reasons I did not know, had assumed the blame that belonged to a conspirator whose identity had never been discovered.”
“And so you began a search for the unnamed conspirator,” said the Emperor.
“Yes. It led me to the man called Feng, a reclusive book collector who, like the other conspirators, had connections to Ming loyalists. Thinking I had found the man Shu had died to protect, I went to Feng, and demanded the truth.”
“What was his reply?”
“He told me that while he had known the conspirators, he had never been one of them. He told me he didn’t know anything.”
“And you believed he spok
e the truth.”
“I did, until yesterday, when he sent a man to kill me.”
At the Emperor’s command, Li Du gave a full description of the attack in the Temple of the Fire God, and the theft of the book that had revealed Feng’s hand. When he was finished, the Emperor was contemplative. “You escaped death,” he said. “And you identified the man who orchestrated the attack. But how did you come to present yourself, not a day later, to my trusted employee Wu, and inform him that my own son was guilty of examination corruption?”
“I had the information I needed,” said Li Du. “But I hadn’t been looking at it correctly. I knew that Feng had a place on the Examiner Selection Committee. I had learned, in the course of my investigation, that he was using his position to ensure that certain candidates received passing scores. But I dismissed this as corruption, irrelevant to my questions.”
“A mistake,” said the Emperor.
“It was,” Li Du agreed. “After the attempt on my life, it occurred to me that Feng’s involvement in examination fraud was more significant than I had initially assumed.”
“And that is how you discovered that the candidates he was assisting were all connected to my son.”
“Yes.”
“Which led you to the conclusion that my son has been surreptitiously filling ministry offices with compromised men who will support his eventual claim to the throne, an accusation I have spent the past several hours verifying.”
So the plot has been toppled, thought Li Du. He tried not to let the anxiety that clutched his heart appear in his face. “I must tell you,” he said, “that the families implicated in his scheme were ignorant of it. The candidates didn’t know they were being given an advantage.”