The 20th day of the 9th month, Shaosheng Era, Year 3. Morning.
The lamps in the Qingzhou Palace had burned all night. I stood before the bronze mirror. The phoenix crown pressed down on my bun, with strings of pearls featuring nine dragons and four phoenixes hanging down, casting a mesmerizing halo in the candlelight. The huiyi robe was heavy; one hundred and forty-eight pairs of pheasant motifs pressed on my shoulders, and the gold-threaded wings dug into my collarbones.
Zhao Xu stood behind me, watching me in the mirror. He wore the gunmian robes and the black silk cap, with twelve strands of white beads hanging before his forehead. On the day of his coronation, the eyes behind the beads were fearful. Today, they were steady.
"Let us go."
He extended his hand. I placed mine upon it. He closed his fingers, clasping tight.
"Today, you stand in the hall. You need not kneel."
The Chongqing Hall. Hundreds of officials lined the path from the gate to the steps—crimson, azure, and green, like a colorful cloud illuminated by the morning sun. As I walked in, the hall fell deathly silent. It wasn't that there was no sound; it was that everyone held their breath simultaneously.
Zhao Xu ascended the throne. I took my stand in the center of the hall. The huiyi dragged on the floor; the phoenix crown was heavy, but my back was straight.
"Empress Shen has a memorial."
Zhao Tingzhi stepped out. He did not look at Zhao Xu; he looked at me. In his eyes was something—not anger, but a twisted feeling of being bested by someone who shouldn't be standing here, shouldn't be speaking, and shouldn't be winning.
"The Empress, with the dignity of the Central Palace, has privately established a tea house, vying for profit with the common people. I request Your Majesty to order its immediate closure."
I did not look at him. I looked at Zhao Xu.
"This servant has a memorial."
Zhao Xu tapped his finger on the armrest. "Granted."
I drew a sheet of paper from my sleeve and unfolded it. It was large, covered densely with characters.
"Tea Ji has been open for three months. Daily turnover ranged from five to fifty strings of cash. Taxes paid: one thousand two hundred taels of silver. This is the tax receipt from the Ministry of Revenue." I held the paper slightly higher. "According to Great Song law, merchants paying taxes is a heavenly principle. Every coin from my Tea Ji has been taxed. I am not vying for profit with the people; I am generating profit for the Imperial Treasury."
Zhao Tingzhi's eyes widened, his lips trembling soundlessly. "The Empress... the Empress engaging in trade with the dignity of the Central Palace damages the dignity of the state—"
"Master Zhao." Zhao Xu's voice was not loud, but it was cold. "Do you wish to see the Ministry's tax receipt?"
Zhao Tingzhi stepped back. I did not wait for him to finish. I drew a second sheet of paper from my sleeve. Larger, folded twice, with neat corners.
"This servant has another memorial."
The hall grew even quieter. I unfolded the paper.
"Imperial City Bureau Archives: Year 4 of Yuanfeng, Emperor Shenzong campaigned against the Western Xia, using fire weapons to besiege the city, defeating the Western Xia army at Yinzhou. Year 5 of Yuanfeng, the fire weapon blueprints were stolen by Western Xia spies; since then, border troops have suffered repeated defeats. Year 2 of Yuanyou, someone brought the fire weapon blueprints back from the Liao Kingdom and submitted them to the Ministry of War—the Ministry suppressed them and did not act." I raised my head, looking at everyone in the hall. "I opened Tea Ji not to make money. But to raise funds. To build fire weapons."
Zhao Xu's hand froze on the armrest. Fan Chunren raised his head. Lü Dafang's fingers rubbed his tablet once. Zeng Bu stood in the middle of the queue, expressionless, but his eyes moved—briefly, like something swimming beneath the water's surface.
Zhao Tingzhi's face turned pale. "The Empress... discussing military affairs with merchant tactics—"
"Master Zhao." Zhao Xu's voice suddenly softened, soft as the glint on a blade. "The fire weapon archives the Empress speaks of, I have seen them. The blueprints suppressed by the Ministry of War, I have also seen them. Do you know who brought them back from the Liao Kingdom?"
Zhao Tingzhi said nothing.
"It was Zhang Dun."
All eyes turned to the very back of the queue. Zhang Dun stood there. He did not raise his head, did not speak, did not move. Just standing. But his fingers twitched within his sleeve. Briefly.
Zhao Tingzhi knelt, his forehead pressed against the golden bricks. His hands trembled.
Zhao Xu did not look at him. "The three counts Master Zhao raised yesterday—commerce, interference, heresy. Today, I answer for the Empress. Commerce: taxes paid, one thousand two hundred taels. Interference: she discusses fire weapons. Heresy—" He paused. "What she speaks is not heresy. It is military merit."
The hall was dead silent. Zhao Tingzhi prostrated on the floor, his shoulders trembling slightly. I folded the two papers, tucked them back into my sleeve, raised my head, and looked at everyone in the hall.
"What I do is not business. It is national power."
Zhao Xu stood up from the throne and walked to me. The pearls of the crown clashed, making a fine, crisp sound. He extended his hand; I placed mine upon it.
"Court is adjourned."
The officials bowed. He pulled me toward the back of the hall. At the door, I looked back. Zeng Bu stood in the queue, already straightened. He was not looking at me; he was looking at Zhao Xu's back. His eyes were calm, like a pool of water. But in that pool, something was moving. Not anger, not fear, but sizing up. The kind of sizing up he had done for twenty years in the court. He looked for a long time, so long I thought he wouldn't move. Then he withdrew his gaze, adjusted his sleeves, and turned to leave. The hem of his robe flicked once—light, steady.
That afternoon, Zhang Dun sat in the Imperial City Bureau's study for the entire afternoon. He flipped through the fire weapon archives again. Year 4 of Yuanfeng, the great victory at Yinzhou. Year 5, blueprints stolen. Year 2 of Yuanyou, blueprints returned. Eleven years. The blueprints had been suppressed in his hands for eleven years. Not by him, but by the Dowager. The Dowager had said, Not yet. He had said, Very well. He had waited eleven years. Now, the Empress said, Build fire weapons. The Emperor said, Discuss.
Zhang Dun closed the archives, his fingers pausing on the cover. He stood up and walked to the window. The ginkgo leaves were yellow, covering the ground in gold. He watched for a while, then turned, shoved the archives into the deepest part of the bookshelf. Then he picked up his brush and wrote two characters on the paper.
Fire Weapons.
He folded the paper, tucked it into his sleeve. With the old archives. With those eleven years. The ginkgo leaves were still falling. The wind had risen.
[End of Chapter 52]