Chapter 33

With the crown prince's schooling settled, Zhuo Siheng was relieved of the work of being his study-companion, and the task of educating the crown prince was handed to several of the Hall and Pavilion academicians; though no one said so outright, the whole Hanlin Academy, high and low, plainly breathed a sigh of relief.

From then on Zhuo Siheng's work returned to its proper course. On the days he wasn't attending in the palace, he composed and copied in the Hanlin Academy — mostly weighing wording, hunting up precedents for reference, and transcribing and filing new edicts. When he was in the palace, he turned from copyist into confidential secretary: when a Hanlin academician gave the emperor a classics lecture, he read along at one side, keeping in order the materials and teaching-texts the academicians needed; and when the emperor discussed governance in the Tianzhang Hall and talked with his ministers about the policies of the dynasty's earlier reigns, if something needed looking up, he would hurry off to the Hongwen Academy — which served the palace as both archive and library — to find the corresponding entries in the ancestors' Veritable Records, and bring them back for the emperor and the court ministers to read and consult together.

The work was simple, but the volume of information was enormous.

Steeped in the sight of different officials summoned by the emperor to handle different matters, Zhuo Siheng gained a first understanding of the whole disposition of the court and the workings of the machinery of rule. These meetings held ordinary talks and routine inquiries, but also praise and reprimand. The emperor was diligent in government and quick to learn: apart from the grand assemblies and court sessions, almost every day he held routine governance in the Tianzhang Hall, with a classics lecture every five days; and now and then, when court business was more important, he would keep his senior ministers in the hall, have food brought and served, and deliberate further.

Zhuo Siheng's turn to enter the palace came about once every five days, coinciding closely with the classics lecture, so he was always running errands to the Hongwen Academy, and grew familiar with the steward eunuch there, Gao Gongwang.

The Hongwen Academy was set within the inner court, and so came under the Inner Court Department, staffed mostly by eunuchs and palace women who saw to storage, sweeping, and daily tidying. The Veritable Records of the emperors of every reign were confidential: only the imperial house might read them to study, they could not be copied or lent out, nor kept in the outer court. But the emperor would grant many officials the honor of reading the Records — such officials were usually his close ministers, specially approved because they had to discuss important matters together; and there were also the teachers of the crown prince and the princes and princesses, who, for the purpose of educating the imperial family, used the Records as lessons, reading and examining them to teach the descendants how hard-won the ancestors' foundation had been.

In short, there were a great many rules about reading the Records; Zhuo Siheng's rank was only enough to run errands — he couldn't so much as leaf through them at will.

Most of the eunuchs and palace women serving at the Hongwen Academy could read only a limited number of characters, so whenever the emperor ordered a book fetched, it fell to a low official on attendance duty from the Hanlin Academy or the Zhaowen Hall; and in his oversight Gao Gongwang never dared slight anyone for low rank, but was most attentive to all.

At today's lecture, the emperor, discussing with Academician Zeng and Grand Academician Bai the overhaul of education administration in the seventeenth year of Taizong's Yeping era, said: "Reading the Veritable Records of Taizong's reign, I find much to give me pause. The tone of study throughout our own dynasty is naturally more flourishing now than before; yet the Grand Academy and the Imperial Academy have no few ills, and the young men in them can hardly win degrees — truly not the equal of our forebears' days. It is rather the private academies, like the Jiangxiang Academy, that flourish; I recall that last year's zhuangyuan, Gao Yongqing, came out of that place."

That the emperor should remember his worthy friend Yongqing's name so clearly — Zhuo Siheng didn't know whether it was simply a good memory or truly some other connection. Just then he was standing silent in a corner of the room, and felt a gaze sweep quickly across him; keeping head and body still, he searched with his eyes alone, but it seemed he'd only imagined it — the other three were still discussing the education question warmly.

"Most families of meritorious officials get by on hereditary privilege, but there are a few far-aspiring sons who make something of their studies — few, yet enough to show the great houses value learning and talent too," said Grand Academician Bai Cong cheerfully. "It's only that, amid wealth and ease, quiet, hard study is truly very difficult; it has been much the same in every dynasty, and Your Majesty needn't take it to heart."

The emperor nodded, quite agreeing, and, as if remembering something, asked: "In this grace examination, was it not Commandery Princess Shanrong's son who won the jinshi?"

Zeng Xuandu answered: "Commandery Princess Shanrong's son is Jin Jia, twenty-first in the second class, now serving as a rank-seven-b vice-director in the Water Bureau; some days ago he went to Suizhou to inspect the spring ice-flood, and his report, submitted through the Ministry of Works to the Secretariat, was praised all round for how capably he handled the business."

Zhuo Siheng had never guessed that the easygoing, good-tempered Jin Jia was, of them all, the one of the finest birth.

You really couldn't judge a person by looks.

The emperor praised Commandery Princess Shanrong for raising her son so well, then spoke of Taizong's achievements in promoting learning in his day, and so today's lecture took that for its starting point. Zhuo Siheng was ordered to go to the Hongwen Academy and fetch the Veritable Records concerning the overhaul of education administration from the fifth month of the seventeenth year of Taizong's Yeping era; taking his orders, he stepped out of the Tianzhang Hall and walked the familiar imperial way through the spring.

The fourth-month palace gardens breathed green in his face, carrying scent; the peach and plum were faintly, sweetly fragrant, and even the tension of the patrolling and standing guards was thinned away by it.

The Hongwen Academy's buildings weren't tall, but you could see it from far off, because outside its courtyard grew many towering nanmu and cypress, and the inner court was planted all over with camphor and osmanthus. Elsewhere everything was a soft, pale new green, gentle and pleasant; but the trees here stayed always grave and coldly verdant, their deep, heavy green meeting the blue-green tiles — a sight that bred stillness in you.

Even time seemed to move slower here than outside. Zhuo Siheng came every time with duties on him, and hadn't yet been granted the favor of coming to read the Veritable Records for himself; he could only wish from the heart that one day he might, with nothing to think about and nothing to do, spend a whole day reading in the Hongwen Academy.

Gao Gongwang was leading a troop of eunuchs and palace women in the courtyard, airing the old Records as usual; seeing Zhuo Siheng come, he hurried to bow and said with a smile: "Attendant Zhuo, in the palace to attend on His Majesty again today? What has the emperor ordered, I wonder?"

Peng Shihu was too proud and aloof, Xu Yanfeng too slick and glib; of this year's Hanlin men who regularly came into the palace, only this year's zhuangyuan — whose every word and deed left you feeling like you were basking in a spring breeze — carried himself just right. So Gao Gongwang was glad to have someone pour him a cup of tea and exchange a few more words.

Zhuo Siheng gave Eunuch Gao the range of dates he needed, and once Gao had brought the register of where the Taizong-reign Records were kept and they'd checked the volume counts and shelving, he made a little small talk: "You've had a hard morning of it, Eunuch Gao, out airing books at first light. Though camphor leaves really do smell good — books smoked with them don't yellow, either."

"Hard, this is nothing; what's hard is how many came today — the tutors for the crown prince and the princes are all in a great hurry, so there's no end of checking things one by one." Gao Gongwang always felt a man of Zhuo Siheng's character was surely destined for far greater things; he wanted nothing from him, but there was never any harm in getting a little friendly, so he said: "There's been little rain this year, and the camphor's giving off a strong scent; I've had a good lot aired, and I'll set aside some for you to take back for bookmarks — keeps the worms off and clears the head."

"Then I thank you, Eunuch Gao." A few leaves were nothing, Zhuo Siheng thought; to refuse would seem too guarded, as if he had no sense of proportion or measure.

Business first: after no more than a couple of pleasantries, Zhuo Siheng went inside to search by the shelf position he'd looked up.

The weather was fine today; the Hongwen Academy had windows on all sides that let the thin sunlight pour in and shine right through the hall, while a cool, sharp breeze carried the camphor scent in on the sly. If only, Zhuo Siheng thought, he could hide away in a corner of the Hongwen Academy at this season, this hour, and steal a nap — then he'd forget all about emperors and Taizong and the rest.

But work was work, and pleasant notions he only entertained and let go; duty was on him now, so Zhuo Siheng hitched up the hem of his official robe, climbed the tall ladder, and reached for the Record volumes shelved at the top of the ceiling-high cabinet.

This row of books had probably not yet had its spring airing, and long-gathered dust lay thick; as Zhuo Siheng tipped his head up to look, dust fell into his eyes — itching and stinging, he wanted to sneeze and couldn't, though the tears came fast enough, and it was thoroughly miserable. And so it was that a book he'd loosened but not yet taken in hand slid off and fell to the floor with a slap, like an overripe fruit smacking the ground.

Zhuo Siheng's eyes were blurred; he shut them, bowed his head a little, and held his breath a moment before he could open them again — and saw a wisteria-purple skirt, misty as smoke, drift gracefully past the edge of his still-unclear sight.

By the time he saw clearly, a swath of that same hazy purple had been raised, from below, to his side.

"Sir, there's book-dust on your hands — don't rub your eyes."

In the mild warmth of the spring day, a woman's voice somehow colder than ice and snow.

Looking down, Zhuo Siheng saw, behind the offered handkerchief, an unfamiliar woman in a plain, elegant palace dress; her looks were of a piece with her words — coolly striking, her brow and eyes finer than a painting, the whole of her carrying the air of a secluded orchid grown in an empty valley.

"I'm truly sorry." Zhuo Siheng took the handkerchief and wiped around his eyes, working the dust and spilled tears away together until he felt much better at last, then came down the ladder and thanked her again: "Thank you, miss."

Zhuo Siheng wasn't sure whether it was quite proper to ask a young woman her name; but if he didn't, he'd have no way to address her, which would be less proper still. The last woman he'd spoken to directly in the palace had been the empress bringing her son to school. This one wore a palace dress, but of a plain, dignified cut nowhere near lavish, so she was surely no consort; yet from her bearing she was nothing like the palace women who swept the Hongwen Academy either.

Luckily a little eunuch, hurrying up just then, answered the question in his mind for him.

"Scribe Luo, the books you wanted have been found — only that one volume from the seventeenth year of Taizong's reign is missing; Eunuch Gao says His Majesty needs it."

So this woman was the younger sister of the Madam Luo made Noble Consort a few days before — Luo Yuanzhu.

Seeing Zhuo Siheng, the little eunuch smiled and said: "It's this Attendant Zhuo here who's come to find it for His Majesty."

"Thank you for your trouble." Luo Yuanzhu gave a slight nod, then looked to Zhuo Siheng: "Since His Majesty needs it, please take it first, Attendant Zhuo."

She spoke rather slowly, yet somehow without making one impatient. Zhuo Siheng took the thick Record volume from her hand and returned the handkerchief, thinking this scribe was probably higher than him in office and rank; though she taught the princesses and commandery princesses of the inner palace, that was no reason to neglect courtesy — so he made her the sort of bow he'd give a colleague met in the Hanlin Academy, and then took his book and left.

On the way back, Zhuo Siheng thought it over — the handkerchief he'd wiped his tears with, she'd surely find distasteful; he ought to have taken it home, washed it clean, and returned it. But then again, this wretched place was full of trouble: here, that sort of thing might well be read as an improper private exchange between a man and a woman, and being in the palace, there'd be uglier words besides. Better to let it go — men and women, they were all just colleagues, and the fewer complications the better.

Bringing the Records back, he naturally heard the emperor's assessments and the two academicians' fine opinions. Zhuo Siheng too felt the business of education administration was a thorny one: it didn't bear on the lifeblood of the state as directly as canal transport or the salt trade, but over the long run, if its ills weren't cured and its good fostered, it would be like a latent virus — only waiting for the day it broke out, past all medicine.

But from what the two officials and the emperor discussed today, the dynasty's education troubles came mostly from too much hereditary privilege handed to noble sons, so that these children of great houses and officialdom wouldn't study properly and wasted their places at the Imperial Academy. The emperor found it something of a headache, yet didn't seem to treat it as pressing; what he touched on ran more to Taizong's methods and strategy.

Zhuo Siheng listened closely, but had thoughts of his own.

Taizong was a sage ruler, to be sure; but Zhuo Siheng felt Taizong's skill at educating his daughters was no less than his skill at governing.

After Taizong passed, the crown prince Muzong took the throne, only to be murdered before long by Taizong's sixth son, the Prince of Chen, leaving no heir of his own. Taizong's two daughters fought to secure the succession for their ninth brother, Yingzong: within the palace they faked a testamentary edict, tricking the Prince of Chen with word that Muzong had meant to name his son emperor, and so caught the Prince of Chen and his heir in one net when they entered the palace.

Not long after Yingzong took the throne came the Chengzhi Rebellion: the Prince of Chen's surviving followers joined with the Princes of Lu and Teng to revolt, and many of the regent ministers at court sat on the fence — keeping up a pretense of holding their posts while secretly colluding with the Prince of Lu's faction — so that by the time the capital was besieged, these men had long since slipped clean away, the city's defenses were empty, and the loyalist relief troops were slow to come.

Once more the safety of the realm owed much to Yingzong's two elder sisters, the princesses: they put on armor, commanding the palace guards against the enemy while marshaling the loyalist troops, and held the capital fast for a full month until at last the frontier armies arrived and the revolt was put down.

For this matchless service the two princesses were invested as Grand Princess Zhenguo and Grand Princess Dingguo — and that is the origin of the Princesses Zhen and Ding.

After their investiture, the two princesses came before the emperor with a memorial not only to give thanks for themselves but to petition, especially, for a title for a deceased woman surnamed Han. It turned out this woman had once been a palace attendant; her father had been a high official of the former dynasty, of a hatpin-and-tassel family, who after the change of dynasties had hidden his name. She was deeply versed in writing and in the classics and histories, and as chance had it she had taught the two princesses in their childhood. Both princesses pleaded that, had they not from an early age been taught, and shown by someone where right and wrong lay and how the great Way and Heaven's order shone clear, how would the two of them ever have come to stand unbending for their country in a display of honor and loyalty to their sovereign?

All under Heaven were deeply moved by the virtue of the two of them, and Yingzong too treated his elder sisters with added courtesy, and from then on set the precedent of women studying to understand principle and be shaped by virtue.

Later generations, moved by it, even built a Temple of the Princesses Zhen and Ding in the capital — not far from where Zhuo Siheng now lived, its incense flourishing, where women gentle and common alike came to pay their respects.

Once, drinking tea with Tong Shipei at a teahouse, Zhuo Siheng had heard a storyteller from the entertainment quarter tell this very tale; the man told it vividly, and set to it a neat little doggerel verse in praise:

Two sisters of the imperial house, the capital's crown, prized not for face or talent but for valor's renown; upholding the realm, they bettered any man — Zhen and Ding, fair and fierce, left a name of thunder.

It had no real meter, but it rolled off the tongue — a sign of how deeply the two princesses' image had sunk into people's hearts.

Nowadays, whether the princesses and commandery princesses of the imperial house or the daughters of official families, that women could study at all was thanks to the legend of these two; that Luo Yuanzhu could enter the palace to teach was a benefit of it as well.

This too was a kind of great achievement.

Of course, that Taizong could cast off prejudice of pedigree and let the daughter of a former dynasty's high minister educate his own daughters showed a breadth of mind and foresight all his own.

Zhuo Siheng spent the whole day attending the emperor over books, and much of the time it was by this kind of sweeping churn of knowledge in his head that he got through the empty stretches. After work he went back to his little courtyard, meaning to have a nice hot bath and a good sleep; tomorrow was a rest day with no toil, so he'd read at home, look a little more into the history of Taizong's period, and fill in his knowledge — a pleasant enough way to pass the lush spring days.

Fu Ji, seeing him back, at once handed him two letters, said to have come by the official post-station. Zhuo Siheng's heart leapt; he tore them open in haste. The first, sure enough, was as he'd guessed from his cousin: Fan Xiliang had reached Tongtai County — the land there steep but the scenery lovely, the people's ways simple and honest — and but for a touch of not taking to the water and soil, all was well with him, so his elder cousin needn't worry; he asked too whether the sisters and younger brother had arrived, and whether all was well at home.

His questions were answered in the next letter.

The second letter was one Huiheng had sent a month before: she wrote that the family had reached Ningshuo City the very day the letter went out, and would head south before long — in about a month they'd be reunited with their elder brother.

Zhuo Siheng counted the days: the family would arrive today or tomorrow. He was overjoyed at once — for the first time since becoming an attendant, he let his inner, uncontainable delight show through completely, chuckling away to himself, so that Fu Ji and Widow Chai stared at each other in alarm, and neither dared say a word.