Chapter 43

At first, Zhuo Siheng's thoughts could only keep a grip on scarce calm amid the chaos; but when His Honor Zeng spoke of fishing, keen instinct and tenacious memory at once threw up a bridge to the truth.

Old Huyan, in his prime, had made his living hunting and fishing on the rivers, and in old age, after wine, would often tell of his valiant feats matching wits and courage with the taimen, forever moved by the old days; the first time Zhuo Siheng heard it his blood surged and his heart pounded, and now His Honor Zeng's few words struck open the floodgate of memory — in an instant the pouring water turned the baffling box-canyon into a rushing river.

He knew art comes from life; he hadn't thought politics could come from life too.

Before the big fish was drawn out, the water's surface lay flat and unstirred.

Gao Yongqing was shut in the prison three or four days; the emperor sent people daily to question him — who put him up to it, and to what end — and he neither defended himself nor showed anger, sitting cross-legged on the rotting mat and answering calmly:

"No one."

He shouted no slogans of loyalty and love of country, and said not a word more, only sitting quietly — which rather made the questioners feel it was they who were the overbearing ones.

Zhuo Siheng had sorted out his thoughts in the talk with His Honor Zeng; though he didn't worry for Gao Yongqing's safety, he still fretted for his health. A few more days, and even released he'd come out riddled with illness — the prison was no place to pass one's days in comfort.

After a few days' reprimand the emperor's anger cooled a good deal; the several impeached men had all submitted memorials in their own defense, but none demanded harsh punishment for Gao Yongqing — Zeng Xuandu especially, who even asked the emperor to deal leniently, declaring in his lofty way that an upright, remonstrating minister is rare, and he'd take a couple of undeserved curses as tuition paid for a junior. Gao Yongqing was young and hasty, and handling affairs without enough regard for the emperor's toils and difficulties was indeed not good; he ought to be seasoned more, and so long as the emperor would set him right and steady his heart, such backbone might yet, one day, make him a pillar. Reading the memorial, the emperor sighed much, and after long thought, under the name of inquiring into the truth, summoned another batch of Junzhou and neighboring-prefecture local officials to the capital, meaning to question them separately.

The emperor himself poured out his heart to the grandees at a small court session in the Chongzheng Hall: after all, the matter drew in more and more people, the stakes ever greater, and a hasty judgment would be irresponsible to both sides and to all his ministers.

This move won unanimous praise from the officials, gaining the already much-beloved emperor still more acclaim.

Only His Honor Zeng and Zhuo Siheng exchanged a look of tacit understanding.

The fish-meat had hooked onto the second hook.

The next day, a minister of two reigns — the sitting Minister of Personnel, Auxiliary Academician of the Bureau of Military Affairs, and Participant in Governance, Zheng Jingtang — memorialized that since the Tangs had already admitted their fault and Gao Yongqing could produce no more evidence, he hoped the emperor would punish each separately, but by all means leniently as expedient. Zhuo Siheng saw this memorial in the Secretariat; he was surprised this fish was a big one, but didn't know the species.

His Honor Zeng now all but regarded him as a disciple, and naturally explained patiently. It turned out this Lord Zheng had fallen gravely ill three years before, collapsing outright at a court session; the imperial physicians said it was a wind-affliction of the heart, very hard to cure, needing rest and care. Lord Zheng told the emperor he wished to retire, but the emperor was loath to let him go, feeling this was a grave minister who'd helped enthrone him back then; he only bade him rest easy — keep his titles and convalesce well — and said that if he himself erred or misbehaved, he'd still need him, as a pillar-minister entrusted with the late emperor's dying charge, to step forth and guide him.

Hearing it out, Zhuo Siheng badly wanted to laugh, but held it in.

Others must think how lofty and noble the emperor was! But Tong Shipei had told him that three years back was exactly the time many of Jingzong's trusted old ministers were being replaced or removed, when Gao Yongqing had taken the zhuangyuan and won deep favor, a period of great court upheaval; had this heavyweight contender been dealt with like the other old ministers, the emperor would surely fear leaving himself open to the charge of a warm face and a cold heart, cruel to his old ministers — not for face's sake, but for fear such gossip would hobble him and keep him from doing what he most wanted. Better to keep him nourished, as buying himself an "insurance policy" of "ruler and minister in perfect harmony" — after all, the Vice-Minister of Personnel Yu Kan now running things was the emperor's own hand-picked confidant.

Sharing a common insight and secret, His Honor Zeng spoke much more freely before Zhuo Siheng, and as if recalling it by chance said slowly: "In the handwritten decree His Majesty wrote to keep Lord Zheng, he even used the allusion from the Han Feizi — 'one hand clapping alone, however fast, makes no sound.'"

This remark of Zeng's sounded snide enough; humanities students really are the best at insulting people around a corner.

No — wait, Zhuo Siheng thought, I'm a humanities student now too; I can do it as well.

"His Majesty puts his learning to use; in three years his scholarship has much advanced — not only can he write it, he can wield it now."

His tone was so sincere it sounded like genuine high praise; His Honor Zeng was struck by the utter opposition between Zhuo Siheng's expression, manner, tone and the actual content of his words, and stared at him without a blink.

Zhuo Siheng hurried to add: "Which shows your lectures on the classics weren't given in vain."

Zeng Xuandu hadn't expected that, after so many years in officialdom, he could still break into such a spontaneous smile — whether pleased with his own eye for discovering so artlessly-wrought a pearl-in-the-rough, or a genuine smile of understanding. Then he set his face again and rapped the thick, hard-bound folder in his hand on Zhuo Siheng's skull.

"An attendant before the throne — mind you never speak carelessly."

He said the reproving words with a stern face, but not a shred of blame was in his tone.

Zhuo Siheng stood meekly to one side, as if he'd said nothing at all.

That very day the emperor called in person at Lord Zheng's residence, a fine ruler-and-minister reunion whose content no one else could know; only, back in the palace, the emperor issued a decree: this matter to be handled per Lord Zheng's memorial — Tang Lingxi had indeed the fault of a minister's indiscretion, and was to be recalled to the capital, his prefect's post suspended for now, his next appointment to be discussed later. Gao Yongqing, though bold to remonstrate and speak plainly, could not prove he had no possibility of avenging a private grudge, and had deliberately written his memorial in sensational terms — this was not the upright way of a censor; he was stripped of his Surveillance Bureau office, demoted to an eighth-rank county lieutenant, and banished to Weizhou.

With some matters, if the emperor wants to make a point of it, it's a great affair; if he doesn't, a great affair can be made small.

So long as everyone's glad of the outcome, no one makes trouble again.

What's more, the emperor hadn't come away empty-handed: finding the real crab-general behind this nest of shrimp-soldiers that was the Tang clan, the emperor turned a sure profit at no loss.

Only, a pity about Gao Yongqing.

Once again Zhuo Siheng had witnessed and tasted the emperor's craft firsthand.

Great as this court affair's storm was, for the emperor it held three gains and not one loss:

First, luring the snake from its hole, and reversing surface and depth. Back in the day the Tangs, on the strength of aiding Jingzong, had grown their power step by step and gained a firm footing, and were now deep-rooted and entrenched at court; the emperor could not have failed to sense it. Joining hands with Gao Yongqing, he drew out the greatest gentry clan in the court and the true cabal-chief behind it, reversing the weak posture of "enemy in the light, myself in the dark," perfecting the chain of suspicion and the chain of evidence in his mind, and confirming that among Jingzong's old ministers there truly was an out-of-the-ordinary mutual shielding.

Second, verifying Gao Yongqing's loyalty and usefulness. Mind you, the emperor had sent him to Junzhou a year before — showing how early the scheme was laid and how deep its intent; had Gao Yongqing been willing but unable, he'd surely have botched so confidential a task, and could only be dropped as a piece and used no further; had he been able but unwilling or afraid, then even if not discarded he'd have had to be discarded by artificial means. Withstanding such a test, the emperor could the more be sure this zhuangyuan, at feud with the Tangs and all Jingzong's old ministers, was his faithful ally.

Third, forging an indestructible golden body. Ten years' unbroken forbearance brought to a beautiful close with this affair; already many in court and country had memorialized commending the emperor as "in accord with Heaven and earth, his virtue in concord with men and gods." Surely many ministers who'd once been on guard against his origins and fortunes would, after this, set their minds at ease — that there should be under Heaven so benevolent and mild a ruler, and with a touch of the waverer and the easy-to-please besides, was simply the very kind of emperor all subjects most love.

The important lesson Zhuo Siheng learned in this affair was: to know how to find the subtlest point of balance between long-term interest and immediate gain and loss.

The way of office truly held much learning.

But he felt not a shred of complacency or comfort, only because Gao Yongqing was, really and truly, about to go off to the far southwest in the form of a demotion.

Anything he wanted to prepare for him couldn't be delivered into his hands.

His Honor Zeng, as if knowing his thoughts, offered comfort too: "That he shut you out a thousand li away must be because he already knows how perilous the lone minister's road is; you should appreciate his intent, and go and fulfill the feeling with which he considered you through and through."

"Your junior understands." Zhuo Siheng knew it in his heart, yet still had a lingering, reluctant thought.

His Honor Zeng seemed to have something more to say, but in the end only told him to go home early.

Zhuo Siheng always felt His Honor Zeng seemed to have something to say but didn't know how to broach it; yet with a man like this, if he didn't want to say it, no asking or pressing would be any use.

Home again, the ease of settled dust didn't come drifting down; instead more worry took up residence in his heart. These days he'd left many letters unread and unanswered — among them his cousin's letter of safe arrival, a greeting Fifth Uncle Zhu had someone in the camp write out, Xiao Yong's daily chatter sent from Jianye, and banquet invitations from several fairly familiar colleagues.

Two were weddings, two were babies' full-month feasts, and one was someone's own birthday. Zhuo Siheng answered the first three important letters first, and while resting a little, suddenly noticed a letter from Xishi Temple among them.

Abbot Quechen's hand was weathered and forceful yet not without a rounded proportion; he asked after Zhuo Siheng's wellbeing, and said he'd heard his sister Ciheng did much good practicing medicine and gathering herbs in the capital's outskirts — the Zhuo family's gate brimmed with Buddha-light, and all its people would surely be blessed and safe. Greetings done, he said that recently someone had added four blessing-lamps at Xishi Temple, two of them said to be for Zhuo Siheng's parents, the names matching; that person was no one of the Zhuo family, about Zhuo Siheng's age, seemingly also an official at court, and each time, before the first and fifteenth of the month, came to worship all four blessing-lamps together, most devout. As abbot, he ought not meddle in worldly affairs, but he felt that between himself and Zhuo Siheng was a friendship in the Buddha that Manjusri had pointed out, and so it was fitting to tell him.

Zhuo Siheng's heart gave a violent jolt; reckoning quickly, tomorrow was the fifteenth of the fourth month — he hurried to make arrangements, couldn't sleep at all that night, and set out for Xishi Temple at first light the next day.

When he reached the old mountain temple the sun had just risen; through the pale, thin clouds still lingered the last downy tail of the newborn morning sun's soft golden light, and the ancient temple's several tiers of dense green trees were all wiped of their solemnity by this halo, leaving only the light, glad afterglow of a mild spring day.

Abbot Quechen, seeing Zhuo Siheng come, was a little surprised too, but in an instant seemed to know the reason, and after a bow said: "Benefactor Zhuo, that person came even earlier than you today; he is now worshipping in the Buddha hall."

Thanking the abbot, Zhuo Siheng strode through; having lived here the better part of a year, he knew it intimately, and went straight to the front of the Buddha hall where the offerings were made, and pushed the door open without the least hesitation.

The one kneeling on the prayer-mat, hearing the door open and close, slowly rose and turned his head to look at the newcomer.

In truth there was no need to turn at all. Zhuo Siheng didn't need to see his face clearly to know this was the boyhood one-meeting friend he'd sought so bitterly and been refused — Gao Yongqing.