“You overrate me, Miss.” Sijiu took the paintings to put them away as she spoke. “This humble one excels at Ruled-Line Painting; imitating the masterworks of the Imperial Painting Academy, I can reach nine parts likeness. But I have no gift for the delicate—those Academy paintings from before the Crossing South, if I copy them, experts easily spot the flaws.”
Jiang Man glanced at the small study-scene on the table that she herself could not split into true and false.
And this was called “no gift for the delicate”?
“Dark Gate Liu is the one I imitate best, but only a dozen-odd specified pieces; his style occasionally leaps about, and then I easily lose my grip.” Sijiu said. “Besides him, I often copy Li Song’s paintings. The Female Scribe favors Li Song—her collection is beyond counting. Just days ago when she entered the palace, didn’t the Empress bestow one on her? It’s in the storeroom now; even I haven’t seen it.”
Jiang Man nodded: “The Female Scribe must be much in the Empress’s favor.”
“She is. Even this humble one basks in the glow—in half a lifetime, I’ve seen so many master painters’ works.” With that, Sijiu sighed.
“Sijiu, what’s wrong?” Jiang Man’s brow furrowed slightly. “Why such a face when speaking of happy things?”
Looking down at the painting, she pursed her lips: “Do you know, Miss, whom the Female Scribe means to give the original to, once this copy is done?”
Jiang Man started.
“I’d say anyone at all—even Miss Xiaojiu here, waiting at her very side—so long as they didn’t know the inside story, would think the Female Scribe a mistress who plays favorites.” Sijiu walked to the corner and sat on a stool, gazing at Jiang Man from afar—or perhaps only at the great hanging scroll behind her. “Accountant He toiled his whole life for the Shen family—having followed them from Taizhou to help the Female Scribe with her affairs—and now he’s gone, not honorably, but hastily, dismissed like so. Steward Dong, meanwhile, came in halfway, only a few years in the garden, with credentials shallower than mine or Huailou’s—yet he cannot be struck or scolded, half a master in all but name.”
How keen Jiang Man was. She came closer and asked in a low voice: “The Steward is not the Female Scribe’s trusted man?”
“He is trusted—but truly not the Female Scribe’s trusted man.” Sijiu raised her brows helplessly and patted the spot beside her. “You, me, Huailou—we three are of one heart with the Female Scribe. That’s why I say these things to you, Miss. Hear them and let them pass—do not repeat them abroad.”
Jiang Man sat down: “Of course.”
“You’ve heard of the Lady Song affair?” Sijiu said abruptly.
Jiang Man was startled, then nodded.
“Lady Song was, after all, our Female Scribe’s person. In selecting her for the palace, Master Dong exerted no small effort. The Female Scribe incurred that debt of favor, but also built a bridge to Master Dong by it—one prospers together, one falls together.” Sijiu lowered her eyes a little. “The one who brokered it in the first place was our very own Steward.”
Jiang Man weighed her words: “Are they clan kin?”
Sijiu nodded: “Steward Dong and Master Dong are close kin, separated by only one branch. He was originally just a go-between, occasionally conducting business in Lin’an under Dong Chao’an’s name. His position is low, but don’t underestimate him—it’s like me and Huailou: nominally just maidservants, but through the Female Scribe’s connection, even outside the Hidden Osmanthus Garden, most people will show us some face.”
“May this humble one ask one more thing,” Jiang Man said. “That Inspector Dong—is he also kin to Master Dong?”
“You know Inspector Dong?” Sijiu was somewhat surprised.
“Yes.” Jiang Man told her about the Jiankang affair. “We met only once. Perhaps because the occasion was unusual, the impression stayed deep.”
Hearing this, she could not help pressing further. A Major’s post was one of real power and fat profit; ordinary people never sat in that seat. If Dong Chao’an’s hand, through Shen Wen, had already reached that far, then Shen Wen—and the Shen family entire—were hemmed in by him at every turn.
“Only the same surname, as it happens.” Sijiu said. “I’ve never met Inspector Dong. He’s a Major at the Jiankang Monopoly and Tea Bureau, formerly supervising the Wine Bureau—an old Shen family hand. The Female Scribe brought him along, presumably as a show of force. He’s a local official; though you don’t know him, your family and friends surely do.”
“So that’s how it is.” Jiang Man breathed easier, not knowing herself why she had grown tense.
“This painting is for Master Dong—call it an apology.” Sijiu braced both hands on the edge of the stool, swinging her legs. “Now that another line has finally been secured—the Female Scribe has endured our Steward for years. With this affair out, I’d say his days are numbered.”
The words were rich with meaning; Jiang Man listened carefully and nodded.
If Steward Dong stood behind such a great patron, he indeed could not be lightly punished; parting on good terms was more fitting. In the court today, the powerful—apart from Dong Chao’an, the favorite risen from eunuch rank who could speak persuasively before the Emperor—were the power ministers Ren Guangshan and Liu Fufeng. Both were on the closest terms with Dong Chao’an, having risen early under his patronage; and behind them, Noble Consort Song whispered on the pillow. To call them grasshoppers on one string would be no exaggeration.
All this Huailou had touched on before, when instructing her, in speaking of the Princess of Rui. Jiang Man had thought, since Shen Wen was close to the Princess, and the Princess was now raised by Noble Consort Song, and with all those rumors about Song Ningning—that Huailou had been hinting the Shen family belonged to that faction.
Hearing Sijiu’s words, Jiang Man couldn’t help growing curious. Dong Chao’an and his like, though their reputation was vile—winning favor neither at court nor among the people—held power that pressed upon the very sky. Whom, then, had Shen Wen cast her lot with?
Her heart stirred; it seemed she had found the answer.
“I thought for sure you’d ask me, Miss Xiaojiu.” Sijiu looked at her, smiling. “You’ve already guessed?”
Jiang Man’s words were veiled: “Is it that Bureau Director Zhen is especially fond of watching crickets fight?”
Sijiu laughed: “Miss, you’re truly clever as ice and snow. The Female Scribe has arranged this for a long time. Only now, with relations grown somewhat closer—thanks to the Princess putting in a good word—was Bureau Director Zhen finally persuaded.”
Jiang Man started: “That day I was out with the Female Scribe, and we happened upon Bureau Director Zhen’s people coming to invite her to tea. The Female Scribe seemed rather cool toward that person called Qu Chai.”
“That’s the Female Scribe’s brilliance.” Sijiu said. “Bowing and scraping to beg favors is the worst policy. For a relationship to last, you must see what the other needs—and what you yourself can provide.”
“But what would the Female Scribe ask of Bureau Director Zhen? This wine business has nothing to do with him…” Jiang Man put on a look of perplexity—but she was probing.
She had never known what role Shen Wen actually played outside: was she a shop-front sign for the Shen family, or did she stand only for herself?
Sijiu noticed nothing; she seemed long since to have stopped guarding against her, and said only: “Bureau Director Zhen managed military affairs in his early years, tempered in posts across the land, with deep roots. Though Consort Zhen passed early, and of their clan Bureau Director Zhen is now the most eminent, they originally had nothing to lean on. But Bureau Director Zhen won favor and rose straight as the clouds; the Calling Cards that arrive daily are beyond counting. What is useless to him is useful to the Female Scribe; what the Female Scribe has no use for, Bureau Director Zhen can use.
“Exchanging name cards, seeing whose Retainers write the finest hand—count that a refined pastime too, wouldn’t you say?”
Jiang Man only smiled and nodded slightly.
There was clearly a great article hidden in Sijiu’s words—she had only used a metaphor, not spoken plainly. From brewing to sale, the wine trade’s taxes had not been so harsh at the founding of this dynasty; after the Crossing South, military expenses grew daily, and the assorted levies of the State Wine Monopoly grew heavy with them. Now, though the Liquor Monopoly had been gathered under the Ministry of Revenue’s Left Section, in the provinces the various commanders and bureaus, for the sake of feeding their troops, openly or covertly administered their own Wine Depots. With Bureau Director Zhen there, the Shen family’s grip on the State Wine Monopoly was like a tiger given wings.
Hearing this, far from marveling at how Shen Wen occupied the strategic passes, her power pressing upon all—Jiang Man saw only her difficulties.
The Shen family was no thin-blooded house of scant members, yet they pushed forward a woman to speak for them in Lin’an—while on the surface washing their hands of it entirely. Even in such matters it was Shen Wen, alone and unaided, who maneuvered in the middle. In private, when a loan was put out, the name inscribed upon it was Shen Wen’s as well.
She looked, of course, glorious—wind when she wished wind, rain when she wished rain; honored guest at high officials’ tables, treated with courtesy by power ministers. Setting aside praise and blame, among the women of this world, none, one imagines, could match her for such unbridled brilliance.
Yet even to dismiss a single steward of her own residence, Shen Wen had needed to lie in wait for years, waiting on a chance, before she could seize the moment to send him off. And had she not abandoned Dong Chao’an for the new tree of Zhen Youwei, whether she would have had the room to let Steward Dong go without scathing herself—even that was hard to say.
Shen Wen’s exalted standing was real; her imperiousness was real; her power and influence were real. But her hardship was real, her endurance was real, her painstaking scheming was real too.
This life of walking on thin ice—had she chosen it herself?
This cage riddled with hidden mechanisms—had she willingly moved in?
Jiang Man’s heart, from no origin she could name, knotted itself into a ball.
