Chapter Thirty-Three: Scorched by the Blazing Sun (Part Two)

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With the end of his holiday, Quan Ce returned to Chang’an from Luoyang. This time, he intended to reside permanently in the city, bringing back all the servants and attendants from his household. Quan Zhong had gone ahead to the residence to prepare for their arrival.

On the road, they chanced upon a pair of middle-aged spouses: the man was covered in wounds and barely clinging to life, while the woman, disheveled and clothed in rags, clutched a wailing infant in her arms. Abandoned by bandits, the whole family lay sprawled across the official road, blocking the passage of carts and horses.

Quan Xiang, the steward, went to investigate. Upon seeing their plight, he was moved to compassion. After inquiring, he learned they were villagers from the outskirts of the Eastern Capital, whose home had been plundered and set aflame by marauders. Disowned by the village elders, they were now utterly destitute.

Quan Xiang reported truthfully and asked Quan Ce for a decision. But Quan Ce, intent on perfecting the posture of his writing hand, paid scant attention. He asked the girl beside him, Shuang Li, “What do you think we should do?”

Shuang Li swung her small legs, craned her neck for a look, pursed her lips, and tilted her head, speaking softly. “Master, we’re still short a gardener and a maid of all work in our household. Why not take them in?”

“Do as Shuang Li says,” Quan Ce agreed indifferently. “Be sure to have them press their handprints and sign indentures of servitude.”

At this, Shuang Li’s eyes lit up; she bit her lower lip and nodded happily. To her mind, signing an indenture was not a humiliation but a safeguard—becoming servants of the master was their good fortune.

“Yes, Master,” Quan Xiang replied, and went to see it done.

“Ah, Master, you’re gripping the brush by the tip again!” Shuang Li cried out. Quan Ce smiled gently, moved his hand back, and corrected his posture.

The party paused for half a day in Weinan, where a doctor was summoned to treat the man. His wounds looked ghastly but were only superficial, not touching bone or organ. After bandaging and care, and a bowl of ginseng decoction, he recovered substantially.

Quan Ce visited them in person. The middle-aged woman, her expression full of gratitude, knelt and kowtowed repeatedly. Quan Ce helped her up. “There’s no need for such formality. How should I address you and your husband?”

“My husband’s family name is Zhu, the third son. We have no given names,” the woman replied, her manner simple and kind.

Quan Ce looked at the child lying beside the bed, arms and legs flailing. “Madam Zhu, is this your child?”

She lowered her head, unsure where to place her hands and feet. “Yes, he is ours.”

Quan Ce smiled, reaching out to touch the child’s plump cheek. The boy seized his finger with surprising strength. “A sturdy little fellow. Does he have a name?”

“We are poor folk, and he has only a humble name—Tiger Cub,” she said, gazing at the child with motherly affection.

“That name does not suit him. Let me give him one—let him be called Ping’an, Peace.” The child, mouth toothless and wide, tried to shove Quan Ce’s finger into his mouth. Quan Ce withdrew his hand and walked away, thinking that peace and safety were more precious than anything.

“My deepest thanks for the name, Master,” Madam Zhu said, kneeling again in gratitude. To be granted a name by such a personage might, perhaps, bring them a measure of good fortune.

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They entered Chang’an through the Golden Light Gate and returned to the Princess Yiyang’s residence. Quan Xiang directed the servants in settling the household effects, while Quan Ce went to the study.

Quan Zhong was already waiting at the door.

“…They dug up the graves, threw three corpses—much alike—into the house, and set the place ablaze… silenced the village elder…” Quan Ce rested his right hand against his forehead, his expression unreadable. “What is the situation in Chang’an?”

“…Several dozen noble families of the Li clan have been arrested. The other day, the Vice Censor-in-Chief, Lai Junchen, came to blows with Censor Hou Sizhi over a prisoner… Duke Huang, Li Zhuan, gathered men to resist and his whole household was slaughtered… Princess Changle’s grandson, Captain Liu Tong of the Left Guard, fled in fear of punishment and has yet to be captured…”

Quan Ce fell silent. Quan Zhong hesitated, then added, “Master has been cultivating himself in seclusion lately, rarely going out.”

“Quan Li has returned. I’ve instructed him—any matters concerning money, speak to him directly.” Quan Ce’s voice was low and steady. “Remember this: better to gain nothing than to risk everything. Safety above all else.”

“These are extraordinary times. Keep a close watch on the Zhu couple—do not let them leave the residence. As for my father, increase his guard; when the time is right, take some action to startle him.”

Quan Zhong accepted the orders and withdrew.

In the afternoon, Quan Ce went to the Bureau of Heavenly Offices to exchange his credentials. In an instant, he had been demoted four ranks and eight grades, now a civil official of the sixth rank. All around, the office buzzed with gossip about Empress Wu’s latest purge. No one could say for certain whose side Prince Li Zhen had truly been on—raising the banner of rebellion had led not only to his own destruction, but also sent a host of Li clan kinsmen to the executioner.

“I hear the Censorate and Lijing Gate have both been hunting for clues about Liu Tong, each trying to outdo the other in this case.”

“Outdo each other? Bah, just two mad dogs fighting for credit.”

“Tsk, both sides are formidable. Catch one and a whole string is implicated—the charges are so tightly woven, nothing escapes.”

“Word is someone tried to impeach the Quan family of Princess Yiyang’s residence, but Wu Tianguan suppressed it…”

“Hush!”

Conversation ceased. Several eyes, intentionally or not, glanced at Quan Ce. He greeted them politely and quickened his pace, leaving the bureau with a faint smile. To be ostracized suited him well—the Li family would not seek to use him, nor would the Wu family see him as a threat. Wu Chengsi, knowing the Empress’s attitude toward Quan Ce, would not allow anyone to trouble him.

Yet from the tone of these low-ranking officials, it was clear their hearts still leaned toward the Li clan; Empress Wu’s foundation, even now, was not secure.

Changing into the blue robes of a sixth-rank official, he presented himself at court. His superior was Wang Jiao, a gentleman of the Phoenix Pavilion—a man of few words, dignified and composed, learned in all things, master of political and ceremonial affairs, able to dictate edicts with a torrent of eloquent prose. Upon meeting him, Wang Jiao posed only two questions.

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“How fast can you write?”

“Reasonably fast.”

Wang Jiao insisted on a test: he dictated an edict appointing Zhang Shuo as chronicler, detailing Zhang’s talents, achievements, and examination performance. In moments, it totaled five hundred characters. Quan Ce struggled to keep up, but when the dictation ended, though the script was rough, there were scarcely any errors.

Wang Jiao reviewed the document and nodded his approval. “No mistakes. This edict is no longer needed.” He set it alight with a candle.

Then he asked, “Can you endure sleepless nights?”

Quan Ce answered cautiously, “One or two nights is no trouble.”

“Very good. You may assume your post. I will inform the attending official; the schedule for service beside Her Majesty will be arranged for you.” Wang Jiao beckoned a young eunuch to relay the message to the inner court.

“Left Chronicler Quan, this way, please.” Shangguan Wan’er did not appear in person; instead, a young palace maid led him onward. The title Left Chronicler was the elegant term for an imperial diarist, as opposed to the Right Chronicler. The Left Chronicler recorded the sovereign’s activities and major affairs of state; the Right Chronicler, the issuing of imperial commands and edicts. The titles derived from their standing on opposite sides below the red steps during court assemblies.

Passing through the Purple Emperor’s Gate, he saw Shangguan Wan’er standing high on the terrace, hands clasped behind her back, a smile on her lips but coldness in her eyes. “Left Chronicler Quan, you are truly an extraordinary man—a chameleon. Before me, you’re a boorish lout, oblivious to sentiment; in another setting, you become a gentle and refined scholar.” Her gaze blazed, locking onto him. Quan Ce knew that without a satisfactory explanation, he would be in trouble.

Thinking quickly, Quan Ce replied with feigned calm, “Lady-in-waiting, have you ever heard of the saying, ‘The closer to home, the more timid the heart’?”

“That is human nature. But what has it to do with your inconsistency?” Shangguan Wan’er pressed, her tone still cold.

“Because I have longed for home for so long, when I near it, I grow timid—and when it comes to people, even more so.” Quan Ce lifted his head, met her eyes for a moment, then lowered it again.

Her gaze lingered on him for a long while. Drawing two steps closer so their sleeves almost brushed, she said, “One moment you seem full of heroic spirit, the next, timid as a hare. I dare not trust you unless—unless you recite for me the entire ‘Touching Fish’ poem.”

Quan Ce, head bowed, turned slightly aside to put a little space between them, and recited: “Tell me, what is love, that it demands life and death in exchange? From the ends of the earth, two souls fly together…”

Shangguan Wan’er listened, heart stirred by the melancholy cadence. Watching his respectful, cautious, and faintly sorrowful demeanor, she suddenly recalled the abrupt encounter in the bathhouse—and the poem “You, My Lady” he had given her, still hanging beside her desk.

Quan Ce was indeed sorrowful. Tossed in the storms of political intrigue, he had grown hardened, his heart ever darker. Even his outward demeanor now felt like a mask he could ill afford to wear.