Fragrance.
At Zhao Jiao’s waist, a red silk ribbon tied an incense sachet. The openwork gilt-silver sachet held some unknown blend of spices; as he moved, it slipped down among Jiang He’s skirts.
It was as mellow and rich as sandalwood, as elegant as clove, yet wrapped in the crisp sweetness of osmanthus and the coolness of borneol. All manner of scents were blended in perfect measure, gliding past the nose and lips like a gentle breeze, unforgettable once smelled.
Jiang He stepped back. Fortunately, Zhao Jiao had not been gripping too tightly; her arm broke free first, then she drew out her sleeve.
Only, in the instant the last bit of fabric slid from Zhao Jiao’s palm, he trembled in fright. The loosened sleeve flipped up, revealing Jiang He’s wrist.
The skin of that fair wrist was smooth and delicate, save for a faint red mark upon it—the trace left by last night’s binding.
Jiang He sensed Zhao Jiao’s gaze seem to freeze there for an instant before he abruptly looked away with a frown.
Without betraying anything, she lowered her sleeve and rose. Zhao Zheng had already arrived.
Though he had yet to speak, it was as if thunderous wrath were circling and gathering. In an instant, the air within the hall turned bleak and icy, as though deep winter had descended.
Cowering on the floor, Zhao Jiao fumbled about in search of a place to hide. Suddenly spotting a broad desk, he was just about to crawl beneath it when he felt his lower back tighten.
Every hair on Zhao Jiao’s body stood on end.
He cried out in alarm, and his feet left the ground.
With his right hand, Zhao Zheng lifted Zhao Jiao by the belt, hoisting him half a zhang into the air as though carrying a chick, then let go and tossed him to the floor.
The floor was hard; Zhao Jiao was thrown into a daze, seeing stars.
Though the Empress Dowager’s face showed worry, she did not dare stop him. Zhao Jiao wailed to heaven and earth, begging loudly for mercy.
“Royal Brother, Royal Brother, spare me! This younger brother knows his wrong! I was wrong…”
“Where were you wrong?” Zhao Zheng’s voice was low and unhurried, without the slightest breathlessness.
Zhao Jiao barely managed to adjust his posture and kneel before Zhao Zheng. Aggrieved, he said, “This younger brother should not have kept singing girls, much less singing girls from Chu.”
“And?”
There was more?
Zhao Jiao lifted his head in bewilderment. His eyes, full of terror, did not dare look directly at Zhao Zheng; he only stared with lingering fear at that pair of long, powerful hands.
“This younger brother also… should not have gone to the Palace Guards’ office demanding people, and should not have come to complain to Mother.”
He felt as if every bone in his body was about to break. As he spoke, his teeth chattered; there was a faint salty tang of blood in his throat, and he did not know whether he had bitten his tongue.
But Zhao Zheng would not let it go. “And.”
What else was there?
Zhao Jiao mustered his courage and lifted his head, looking at Zhao Zheng’s inscrutable face, then shook his head blankly.
Zhao Zheng bent down. The twelve emblems embroidered upon his black upper robe and cinnabar lower garment seemed to flow in the play of light and shadow; the black dragon patterns upon them were so lifelike they seized the soul.
He drew close to Zhao Jiao and said, word by word, “You are not allowed to be disrespectful to your royal sister-in-law.”
His voice was neither high nor low, yet it was like a drumstick striking through taut hide, making one’s blood run cold.
Zhao Jiao collapsed onto the floor, so horrified that he forgot to offer any defense.
He had not meant it.
He had not meant to speak frivolously or act rashly. He had not meant to burrow into his royal sister-in-law’s arms seeking protection. Give him a hundred times the courage and he still would not dare show disrespect. Besides, had Royal Brother not been in the front hall? How had he seen everything?
Cold sweat slid down his back, soaking through Zhao Jiao’s clothes.
Zhao Zheng had already turned around and respectfully taken his leave from the Empress Dowager. And the bride he had married only yesterday followed behind him step by step, appearing exceedingly docile and obedient.
Zhao Jiao gathered his wits and scrambled up, rolling toward the Empress Dowager’s embrace.
Zhiyang Palace, it was said, had originally been called Zhiyang Palace with the character for “angelica.”
Yang was fire, while Great Yong honored water, and so the first character had been changed to the zhi meaning “to halt.” And because, among the five phases, the color black belonged to water, the furnishings and decorations within the palace halls also made much use of black.
Occasionally, a touch of madder-red drapery softened the gloom of the ink-dark hues, brightening the eye.
Jiang He followed Zhao Zheng back from the Empress Dowager’s residence. When she entered Zhiyang Palace, where she had rested the previous night, a palace attendant reported that the imperial meal had already been properly arranged.
Palace maids helped Jiang He change out of the formal robes she had worn to pay respects to the Empress Dowager and into a pale-yellow gauze blouse, with a cloud-patterned shoulder cape worked in silver draped over her shoulders, a madder-red gauze skirt tied at her waist, and shoes brushed with gold upon her feet. Only then could she go dine.
Twelve palace maids attended on both sides, fanning, carrying incense, holding basins, and raising towels. Their busyness was orderly, yet even Jiang He, who was familiar with the court etiquette of Qi, felt it was far too grand and cumbersome.
The palace maid leading the way brought her into the side hall for dining. As soon as they reached the doorway, she caught the intoxicating aroma of food within.
Jiang He could not help walking a little faster.
Zhao Zheng was already seated at the table.
He wore an informal deep robe. The Tongtian crown had been removed, and his hair was bound at the crown with a jade clasp. With a few degrees of maturity shed, he seemed all the more like a valiant youth.
Seeing Jiang He arrive, Zhao Zheng raised his head slightly to look at her. His eyes brightened faintly, but he did not speak.
Jiang He was too lazy to look at him much and immediately turned her gaze toward the table.
This place was unlike Qi, which bordered the sea, and so there was no seafood among the imperial dishes.
At the center of the table stood a two-tiered food cauldron. Charcoal fire had been placed in the lower tier, while a pale-yellow broth in the upper tier had already come to a boil. Judging by the color of the oil floating on top and the fragrance it gave off, it should be a clear broth with beef tallow.
Beneath the food cauldron was a delicate pottery dish, and in the dish lay a fish. Looking closely, though the fish’s shape remained unchanged, its scales had already been removed. From beneath the head down to just before the tail, the entire fish had been sliced into more than a hundred portions by masterful knife work.
Holding wooden chopsticks, Zhao Zheng picked up a slice of fish, dipped it into the boiling broth, then lifted it out and coated it in seasoning on another pottery dish before putting it into his mouth to chew.
Jiang He’s appetite was immediately stirred. She first set aside the Fengxiang cured meat, Zizhou fruit pastries, warm-dressed shredded kidney, and golden-thread oil cakes beside the food cauldron, then imitated Zhao Zheng, picking up a slice of fish, scalding it in the broth, dipping it in seasoning, observing it for a moment, and placing it into her mouth.
The thin slice of fish had neither fishiness nor fine bones. The fervent richness of beef tallow collided with the fresh sweetness of the fish, while the numbing fragrance of the seasoning surged across her lips and tongue. It was savory, tender, and left a sweet aftertaste.
Seeing Jiang He interested in the fish, the palace attendant serving before the table softly explained, “This way of scalding fish in a food cauldron is common in Shu Commandery. Her Highness the Queen comes from Qi and must often eat fish, which is why you like it.”
Jiang He was just about to speak with the attendant about Qi’s abundant produce, fish, and seafood when she heard someone report from outside the hall.
“Su Yu, Commander of the Palace Guards, requests an audience.”
Su Yu, Commander of the Palace Guards—he must be the one who had seized Lord Chang’an Zhao Jiao’s singing girl and then thrown Zhao Jiao a head.
Jiang He looked toward Zhao Zheng and saw that he had already set down his chopsticks. He seemed about to rise, then changed his mind and said, “Have him answer from outside the screen.”
An eight-panel black jade screen painted with rivers and mountains was soon carried into the hall by palace attendants, blocking the view of the person seeking audience outside the door.
Su Yu knelt outside the screen to speak. Jiang He could not see his face, but his voice was resonant; though respectful, it was not servile.
“Reporting to Your Majesty, that singing girl from Chu was indeed a spy. However, she confessed nothing. This subject is incompetent.”
“This subject has discovered that most of the singing girls in Lord Chang’an’s residence were gifted by others, and several great clans frequently exchange singing girls and female servants among themselves. This singing girl had once stayed in three residences. The previous one was Chancellor Wei’s.”
Chancellor Wei, Prime Minister of Great Yong, had shared hardship with the late ruler of Yong and had rendered meritorious service in supporting him to the throne. Zhao Zheng respectfully called him “Uncle-Father.”
A man like that could not even be suspected.
Zhao Zheng’s fingers tapped lightly upon the table. He did not speak.
Su Yu continued reporting, “This subject does not dare inquire into the affairs of the Chancellor’s residence. I interrogated the assassin captured outside the traveling palace that day as well, but the assassin had merely accepted the singing girl’s silver and knew nothing else. After three days of torture, he is nearly unable to hold on.”
So that was how it was.
Jiang He ate as she thought.
The assassin who had broken into the traveling palace that day to kill the princess of Qi had been captured by the men Zhao Zheng had hidden outside in ambush. And the assassin had confessed that a singing girl from Lord Chang’an’s residence had paid for the murder. Now the singing girl was dead, and the assassin knew nothing. The interrogation had reached a dead end, troubling Su Yu greatly.
Zhao Zheng considered for a moment, then said in a clear voice, “Release him.”
Outside, Su Yu was startled for an instant before immediately answering, “This subject understands.”
Sometimes, a dead man was useless; a half-dead one was what had use.
The assassin had been interrogated but not killed. If the singing girl’s master saw him, they would surely grow suspicious. The moment any clue was revealed, Su Yu could follow the vine to trace the melon and continue the investigation.
Outside the screen, Su Yu took his leave and departed. Zhao Zheng turned back around.
Wisps of pale smoke curled within the hall, dispelling the cold austerity of the ink-dark palace. The woman in pale yellow sat opposite him, contentedly tasting delicacies.
The way she ate was very different from the women Zhao Zheng had encountered before.
Most of them would take a bite or two and set down their bowls and chopsticks, their conduct dignified and proper, without the slightest breach of etiquette to fault.
Jiang He, however, though still naturally graceful, ate with pleasure and delight. She carefully picked up meat, chewed lightly, one bite after another. Sometimes, when she put on too much seasoning and found it numbing, she would, flustered but unpanicked, scoop up a spoonful of shaved ice with glutinous sugar and place it into her mouth. Then a smile would appear; the corners of her lightly pressed lips did not chew, but slowly let the shaved ice melt.
It was as though this black palace enclosure was not a cage, but a foreign land where everything was abundant and interesting.
The palace attendant serving Jiang He also grew happy along with her, softly introducing all kinds of foods to her.
Across the warmth and smoke of the meal, Zhao Zheng looked at Jiang He, whose nose and forehead were dotted with beads of sweat, and did not understand why the mere sight of her eating earnestly could stir another’s appetite.
Zhao Zheng picked up his chopsticks and reached toward the pottery plate, but immediately stopped in midair without moving.
On the pottery plate lay a fish—complete head, bones, and tail, but not the slightest bit of flesh.
Seeing Zhao Zheng move his chopsticks and come up empty, the attendant who had been serving Jiang He instantly panicked.
“Your Majesty, this servant will go bring another plate at once.”
“No need,” Zhao Zheng withdrew his chopsticks and said. “It is the same if I eat something else.”
Night fell in an instant, like a bronze mirror covered with black silk.
This time, Zhao Zheng waited until Jiang He had finished washing and grooming before binding her hands. In order to confirm that she had not hidden anything on her person today, the customary search was not omitted either.
Perhaps because she had eaten too much, Jiang He fell asleep a little earlier than Zhao Zheng.
The summer heat had receded, and the night was already somewhat cool.
Zhao Zheng pulled the thin quilt up to his chest and lay flat on his back, perfectly proper, to sleep.
This was a habit he had developed when he was six.
At that time, he had left Yong to be a hostage in a foreign state. Once, he had kicked off his quilt and caught a chill, nearly losing his life to a cold. From then on, Zhao Zheng never turned over in his sleep and never kicked off his quilt, all the way until now.
But the woman who had now married him was clearly not the same.
Deep in the night, Zhao Zheng suddenly felt something touch his thigh.
Zhao Zheng opened his eyes. In the faint light of the lamp and candles, he saw that Jiang He had long since kicked the thin quilt down to the floor. At this moment, she was lying on her side facing inward, and her bare feet, seeming to feel cold, were searching in her sleep, slipping beneath his thin quilt.
A pair of small, soft feet searched for an opening.
Zhao Zheng felt a boom of heat scorch through his entire body.
Notes
[1] The twelve emblems generally refer to the twelve decorative motifs painted or embroidered on the formal robes of emperors and high-ranking officials. Among them, the sun, moon, and stars signify illumination from above; mountains signify steadiness and composure; dragons signify the wondrous and transformative; the pheasant signifies brilliant literary grace through the beauty of flowers and five-colored feathers; the sacrificial vessels signify worship and filial nurture; waterweed signifies purity; fire signifies brightness; powdered rice signifies nourishment; the axe signifies severance and decisiveness; and the fu pattern signifies discernment, clear judgment, and turning away from evil toward good.