Heaven is always just
Wild geese returning north swept across the distant sky, their wings fluttering as they passed. Yu Jinnian lifted his gaze and thought that back in Xin’an County, when he first met Ji Hong, it had also been the season of migrating geese. Yet now, the southbound geese were making their way home.
With the White Beauty nestled in his arms as he dozed in the rattan chair, the May breeze drifted gently across his face, neither cold nor warm. Before long, sleep truly crept over him. The chair rocked lazily, and even the White Beauty’s tail swayed in slow rhythm. Lately, the White Beauty had grown sluggish—eating several meals a day, no longer leaping around to chase swallows. She simply followed wherever people went, apparently happiest curled beside someone for a nap.
It was only later that Yu Jinnian realized the White Beauty’s waist had grown considerably rounder. Unwittingly, she was about to be a mother, carrying kittens in her belly. As the saying goes—cats bear three, dogs bear four—there was to be more joy at Jinyouting. Hopefully, the little ones would take after their mother, and not their father.
Sanyu Tower had been fully repaired, yet remained unopened; Yu Jinnian was waiting for Su Ting’s safe return. Rumor had it that Su was toiling on the southern front, risking both smoke and flame as he shuttled the wounded back from battle, even saving General He’s life. There was no one in the Imperial Medical Office more skilled at suturing than Su Ting; his steadiness under pressure earned the gratitude of all ranks in the army. He Lianzhi even called in family favors, intending to recommend Su to serve in the Imperial Medical Office, but Su had yet to give an answer. Who knew what he truly wanted?
Su Ting had genuinely achieved something; even in the afterlife, Bai Haitang could rest in comfort.
Yu Jinnian mused to himself that in another two years, he would let Su Ting finish his apprenticeship. By then, young Haitang would also be grown; father and daughter couldn’t possibly spend their lives working as servants at Sanyu Tower. Whatever course Su Ting chose—the Imperial Medical Office or elsewhere—the future was his to decide.
The campaign to suppress the rebellion had left countless casualties. Many of the generals of the anti-rebel army bore injuries, bodies wrapped in layers of white cloth. By imperial order, Min Ji’s contingent was permitted to travel slowly, sending the tiger tally and sealed dispatches back to the capital on fast horses but not needing to hurry their return. Their wounds took priority.
Panic still gripped the capital, as searches for remnants of the traitors continued everywhere. Tugging up one weed often unearthed a clump of mud; even the inner palace was found to be infiltrated by Yan Chang’s agents. The Lu clan was finished. Back when the Marquis Li’s household fell from grace, the Lus had eagerly piled on; Consort Lu, ever shortsighted, believed the Noble Consort would soon fall, and stoked the flames whenever she could. Now all was settled—the Noble Consort remained favored as ever, with rumors even circulating that the Emperor intended to make her Empress.
To save their own skins, the Lus implicated a number of princes, nobles, and courtiers friendly with Yan Chang. Arrests by the Emperor’s guards now filled the streets, so much so that even at Jinyouting, one could hear the quiet press of armored boots outside. Who would be the next to mourn their losses?
Nearly half the officials in every bureau had been replaced—all familiar faces from Prince Yue’s circle. It seemed Yan Chang wouldn’t be lonely during his time in the dungeon.
The three-month moratorium on alcohol had just ended when a young servant snuck in a small jar of wine for Yu Jinnian. Breaking the wax seal, the aroma filled the air. Closing his eyes, he savored the faint scent of spirits, basking in sunlight with a cat in his arms, and let out a long, contented sigh.
—At last, he could sleep soundly, free of all distractions.
By the time the flowers in the capital reached their fullest bloom, Min Xuefei and his men arrived, at last, in the city. The sharp and ringing sound of drums and horns—proclamation of victory—rose from atop the city tower. Taian Gate slowly opened; officials gathered in welcome, aptly decorated streets lined the route, with crowds cheering loudly. After such a prolonged period of solemnity, the capital was eager for a grand spectacle to dispel the long-standing gloom.
Lianzhi’s carriage followed behind the generals as they entered the city. Lifting the curtain just a crack, he caught sight of Min Xuefei ahead, still in full armor, the fierceness of battle clinging to him. He wore his habitual faint smile—a slight curve at the corners of his mouth—sword at his side, spirited and handsome, his bearing nothing short of splendid.
Under the radiant sunlight, amid rooftops and blossoms, the image was enough to set every young lady to dreaming of such a hero.
The road to the palace seemed endless. Though they circled the imperial city, to Lianzhi it all passed in a breath, and in the blink of an eye the red palace walls already loomed ahead. Fusheng, his trusted eunuch, came bustling forward at the gate, leading a line of young attendants to kneel in two rows. Behind them were court officials waiting to attend, concealing among them Ji Hong.
With some reluctance, Lianzhi stepped out of the carriage and glanced back at Min Xuefei.
When would they meet again? Had he known the parting would come so soon, he would have given himself to him days ago—at least then there would be no regrets.
Startled out of his drifting reverie, Lianzhi was shocked by his own thoughts. Min Xuefei was injured! In broad daylight, before they had even parted, his yearning had already begun—an ache so urgent. He looked on foolishly as Min Xuefei was ushered through the palace gates, beset by gathered officials. Lianzhi hurried after, but the crowds pressed close and Min Xuefei quickly vanished from sight.
Still, his heart was tinged with disappointment.
Fusheng drew near and whispered quietly in his ear. Lianzhi steeled himself and made his way toward the Sigong Terrace.
Inside the western annex of Sigong Terrace, a dozen inner attendants bustled about, nerves on edge. With arrests ongoing outside the palace, there was no refuge within either; every day someone simply vanished, and though most had grown used to it, fear never left them. The metallic scent of blood hung heavy above the palace walls, keeping everyone in constant dread.
Suddenly—bang!
The doors of the Sigong Terrace burst open as a contingent rushed in, a mix of palace guards and eunuchs.
They were here to make arrests—to kill! Now it was the Sigong Terrace’s turn! The young eunuchs scrambled, falling to their knees in terror as columns of stern-faced guards swept through the halls. The din of hurried footsteps, shouts, and anguish filled the air as those within shivered, unable even to raise their heads.
A single figure glided in, steps light and assured, seating himself with ease at the head of the hall, the hem of his robes flicking as he sat. He drummed his fingertips along the tabletop as chaos reigned around him—pleas and weeping echoing continuously—yet he observed it all coldly, unmoved. One foolish eunuch dared sneak a glance: bold embroidery on jet-black boots, the robe of a high official in purple and crimson, and above all, eyes framed by peony-like brows, now gazing down upon them with utter disdain.
He looked a eunuch, yet not a eunuch—an air of pride still clung to him, not entirely worn away.
One by one, those who had served as Feng Jian’s eyes and ears were dragged out and forced to kneel. Those who protested or defied were executed on the spot; wrapped in mats and carried out without a second glance.
The young eunuch’s heart beat wildly. Had this new arrival, just back in the capital, come to purge Feng Jian’s clique on his very first day? It seemed the Sigong Terrace was finally changing hands. Yet only heaven knew that this Lian Shaojian was in fact Feng Jian’s most trusted protégé.
Feng Jian himself was dragged from his lair of gold and silver; reportedly he had tried to hang himself but failed, a blade from a palace guard had cut him down. Hauled before Lianzhi in the western annex, Feng Jian’s hair was in disarray, his whole frame haggard, as if he had aged rapidly in an instant. Lifting his head and seeing Lianzhi seated in judgment, he let out a wild, gasping laugh. “Ungrateful wretch! Treacherous dog! Had I known your divided heart, I’d have let you rot in the dirt years ago—perish like filth!”
Lianzhi rolled his thumb over the ring on his finger and, abruptly, broke into a smile. “We all serve by the Emperor’s grace, in receipt of his favor. I’m afraid I don’t know what ancestors Grand Steward Feng is referring to.”
Feng Jian struggled feebly in the guards’ grip, spitting curses all the more fiercely for being silenced. After everything, it was the son he had raised who brought about his capture.
“You think climbing to the Chancellor’s household will shield you forever? That Min fellow regards you as a man? At most, you’re his plaything! Good fortune never lasts; do you think he’ll protect you all your life? Born a palace lackey, die a lonely ghost—who will ever see you as a real person? Lianzhi, my son, you’re a fool! Only your godfather truly loved you!”
“I am no son of yours!” Fusheng, glancing at Lianzhi’s expression, quickly stepped forward and snapped, “Gag him and take him away!”
“You’re a eunuch, Lianzhi! Remember that, day and night; you’ll always be a eunuch!” Even from a distance, Feng Jian refused to stop. “Ha! Watch and see—today me, tomorrow you…”
He had never expected a happy ending for himself; it was folly to dream of one. Lianzhi well knew what he was. Yet, he harbored no regrets.
Feng Jian’s followers were dragged out one after another. Those left kneeling exchanged uncertain glances, unable to believe it. Feng Jian, the tall mountain—the patriarch whom all had served diligently for decades, through both previous and current emperors—was crushed, just like that. Would Sigong Terrace now fall entirely under Lianzhi’s rule?
Lianzhi’s face was pale as he paid no heed to the furtive whispers around him, simply massaging his brow with downcast eyes. Fusheng brought him tea and urged him gently to rest. After all the bloodshed, the terrace had lost many men, and more matters still awaited his handling. He also needed to change clothes and prepare to report to the Emperor after court. From now on, no one on the Terrace could match Lian Shaojian’s abilities.
No, he should now be called Grand Steward Lian.
Lianzhi nodded and retired to his rooms, shedding his robes to nap on the chaise. Even with turmoil at Sigong Terrace, order persisted, and work continued methodically. Meanwhile, several guards searched every inch of Feng Jian’s quarters for evidence of his crimes.
Just one wall separated Feng Jian’s lodgings from Lianzhi’s own. Fusheng closed the door, lit a calming incense, and pressed Lianzhi’s clothes with a sigh, reflecting on how, for all his corruption and abuse of power, Feng Jian had truly doted on Lianzhi, almost as his own son. With Feng Jian gone, Sigong Terrace really was left with only Lianzhi.
The future—the future… Fusheng thought of that gentle Young Master Min, then shook his head. How could a eunuch and a court minister ever last? It must have been a good while since court adjourned; Fusheng was debating waking Lianzhi when a young attendant burst in, demanding to be seen.
Fusheng recognized him as a spy from the imperial library—Lianzhi’s informant—and did not dare bar his way.
The youth said breathlessly, “Something’s happened! Lord Ji defied the imperial edict in open court, the Emperor is furious—almost stripped him of his rank… Now Lord Ji is kneeling outside Yingqian Hall as punishment! From the look of things, if he won’t yield, His Majesty will have him kneel to death there.”
Fusheng was stunned.
……
The noonday sun blazed fiercely; even in May, the square before Yingqian Hall was a vast, shadowless expanse fit for a parade ground. As court officials left in pairs and clusters, some stole glances, others hurried away, averting their eyes.
Min Xuefei, resplendent in armor and recently rewarded, was the picture of glory. The family’s position had reached its apex: the elder Min already Chancellor, and the distinguished young master both scholar and general—the perfect successor. Once it would have seemed treasonous to say so, but should the Emperor pass and a child take the throne, with the elder Min in the court, Lianzhi in the inner palace, and the Noble Consort in the harem—holding sway over the realm would be child’s play. Best to curry favor before it’s too late.
Congratulations were exchanged, murmured in low voices. Min Xuefei, unaware he’d somehow become a “powerful minister,” slipped away from the crowd and walked out into the brilliant sunlight at the head of the square, looking down at Ji Hong, who knelt there as punishment. After a while, he laughed. “Do you realize this is sheer audacity? Beyond all decorum.”
Ji Hong seemed in good spirits. Dusting his sleeves, he knelt upright and unbowed. “That’s something you could never imitate.”
“…” Min Xuefei’s jest backfired—his heart stung by the retort—so with a glare, he strode off, leaving Ji Hong behind.
When Lianzhi learned of this, his face turned white with fear. Defying an imperial edict—what nerve! Fusheng reached Yingqian Hall too late. The square was empty now, with only Lord Ji remaining, kneeling gracefully and composed, not at all like someone being punished. Fusheng watched from afar, sent a servant to slip Ji Hong a pair of kneepads, only for him to refuse, unfazed by heat or cold.
After watching a while, Fusheng hurried back. Lianzhi, brows furrowed, asked, “What is this really about?”
Fusheng pulled him aside and whispered.
Lianzhi was aghast. “He’s lost his mind?!”
Fusheng couldn’t help but agree. Openly defying an imperial command and demanding rewards—not only for himself, but for others as well—it had left the entire court speechless and stunned. The low-level secretaries and historians had been at a loss for words, unsure what to record. In all the hundred years of the Xia dynasty, there’d never been a more unconventional official than Ji Hong, and likely never would be again.
Lianzhi’s head throbbed; he could just imagine tomorrow’s memorials, denouncing Ji Hong’s arrogance, would pile high enough to collapse the rafters.
From noon until sunset, the palace was careful to avoid mention of Ji Hong. As if nothing had happened, the Sigong Terrace remained unworried, sending the occasional servant to deliver tea to the square outside Yingqian Hall. Night fell, and Lianzhi ate a few mouthfuls of porridge before plunging back into a mountain of official documents, as if he had utterly forgotten the man still kneeling outside.
At another table, Fusheng absentmindedly sorted old records and reassigned staff to the various palaces, glancing now and then at the night sky through the window. Stars glittered like fine dust; the darkness was thick as ink, though not cold. There was no worry that Lord Ji would suffer from the chill. After trimming the lamp wick twice, Lianzhi finally put down his brush, flexed his sore wrist, and asked the daydreaming Fusheng, “What’s the time?”
Fusheng quickly replied, “Almost midnight.”
Lianzhi: “Still kneeling?”
Fusheng nodded. “He hasn’t moved.”
Lianzhi asked again, “Has the light in the imperial study gone out yet?”
“No—and just a while ago, I heard His Majesty inside, in a rage, smashing teacups and coughing from anger. The servants took it upon themselves to invite the Noble Consort to his side; she kept him company all evening, and only just now has he calmed a little. They’re still at an impasse, and there’s no word to let Lord Ji rise.”
Lianzhi lifted an eyebrow. “Come, let’s go see for ourselves.”
Fusheng hurried to follow. The two made their way circuitously to Yingqian Hall, where they beheld, in the darkness, a solitary upright figure—Ji Hong, lean and resolute. Lianzhi watched for a while from the shadows, then abruptly turned and walked toward the back of the palace. Fusheng, absorbed in observing Lord Ji, looked up only to see Lianzhi already several yards ahead, heading toward the Imperial Study. He gave chase, asking his intention.
“What are the greatest talents of powerful eunuchs throughout history?” Lianzhi suddenly asked. It was a dangerous, inauspicious question; Fusheng dared not reply. Lianzhi flicked his sleeve, dust motes gleaming in the moonlight. “Sowing discord, fanning the flames—subtle intrigue. Now that Lord Ji himself delivers me the opportunity, how can I not take advantage? Come, let’s go serve tea at the Imperial Study.”
Fusheng’s heart pounded. He planned to provoke conflict—between His Majesty and Lord Ji? Had this group all returned from the south transformed, hell-bent on ruin? Lord in heaven, Fusheng folded his hands in silent prayer—let nothing go awry.
Under cover of darkness, just as they crossed Chengxin Gate, they encountered a figure pacing nervously outside the Imperial Study, suspiciously clutching a bowl of soup. Closer inspection revealed it was the Crown Prince.
The young prince circled the steps, then, seeing Lianzhi with a teacup in hand, froze for an instant. The Crown Prince blinked, coughed softly, and feigned aloofness: “Does Steward Lian bring tea to Father?”
Lianzhi bowed with a gentle smile. “Indeed. Your Highness’s filial piety—bringing soup as well.”
“…”
Fusheng swallowed hard.
It was said that last summer, in Chunan City, His Highness caught a deadly plague and nearly died. If not for the quick intervention of the little divine doctor Yu, he would surely have met his end in the underworld. The epidemic was so fierce that the dead in the capital and beyond were uncountable; Chunan left ten rooms empty out of every nine, and the palace remained haunted by the memory. For the Crown Prince to be alive and vivacious now, competing with his younger brothers for favor, was nothing short of a miracle.
Lianzhi discreetly stepped aside, allowing the young prince through. The child, not yet fully grown, hair still soft atop his head, did his utmost to assume the posture of an heir apparent.
Suddenly he asked Lianzhi, “Have you ever met a young divine doctor?”
Lianzhi’s expression did not falter. “This servant knows not which divine doctor Your Highness means.”
The prince dug at the steps with his toe in discomfort. “I owe him a reward.”
Lianzhi turned his head slightly, watching the boy’s face flush rosy pink—radiant in youthful grace. He bent to straighten the prince’s attire and sashed belt, watching the boy draw himself up in proper dignity, steeling his brows as he readied himself to go in and demand honors for his little benefactor.
Kindness is always repaid; heaven is always just, Lianzhi thought.