The Imperial Tutor's Instructions - Chapter 10

As the window curtains were drawn back, sunlight filtered into the room, finally revealing the full appearance of the chamber. A small bed held two pillows, and the air was thick with the scent of damp, mildewed rot. Even the red bed curtains had faded into a sickly yellow. With the occupant long gone, it seemed as if the room itself had withered away with her.

Song Nanqing did not have many diverse memories of his mother. Since his birth, Imperial Concubine Jia had long since lost the Emperor’s favor. In his memory, she was always lowering her head, washing clothes for others, prone to tears but never complaining about the unfairness of heaven. She had tried her best to protect him, but under the torrential rain, a single small banana leaf could hardly shield him from the storms and lightning.

However, his mother loved to read. The palace held many books that had not been looted. In the imperial palace, it seemed only the “Golden House” of material wealth was coveted, while the riches within books were rarely sought after. She had taught him to read from a young age, making him mature beyond his years. This was why he was able to survive in the treacherous inner palace until he was six or seven, and how he later managed to scheme with Shen Heng, then a hostage prince, to plot for the throne.

Song Nanqing stood before the bed and sneezed as dust rose into the air. The blue ribbon in his hair fell loose and drifted under the bed. Pouting, he bent down to retrieve it. Just as he was about to give up in frustration, his fingers brushed against a cold, hard object.

He gripped the object and pulled it out, realizing it was a small wooden box; he had touched the silver lock. Time had worn the lock down, and with a firm twist, it fell away. Song Nanqing narrowed his eyes, wondering if this was a secret his mother had hidden under the bed in her youth. He crouched and pressed his palms together, whispering, “Mother, please do not blame me. If it is money, I will burn it for you. If it is some other secret, it should not matter if your son knows.”

The wooden box opened to reveal, unexpectedly, a handkerchief embroidered with a unique pattern, wrapping a stack of yellowing letters. The embroidery technique was unique, created by his mother, and the letters had clearly been cherished.

Song Nanqing flipped through them page by page. They were all written by the same person, filled with deep affection and occasionally accompanied by love poems. They spanned a great deal of time; initially, they were exchanges between friends about outings, then they became shy, hesitant, and awkward, and finally, they evolved into bold declarations of love and promises of marriage.

But toward the end, the letters became filled with confusion and questions, asking her why, asking if their love had been a lie.

The last letter was never sent:

Wenkang,

As a member of a noble family, enjoying the privileges brought by our lineage means we must bear its mission. My sister’s situation in the palace is precarious, and our father and brothers have ordered me to enter the palace to support her and revive our family’s standing, saving the Jia clan from fire and water. My brothers can bring glory to the family through their studies and official posts; I cannot abandon the Jia clan to follow you. Moreover, my elder brother told me that the Emperor intends to marry a princess to you. I do not wish to hinder your future.

Our love is real; nothing can diminish the feelings between us. Even though the Jia and Xi families have been at odds for generations, our bond has never been affected by these grievances. Do not blame my brothers; they, too, are often helpless.

May you rise to success, enjoy a harmonious family, and live in happiness.

Signed, Jia Xian.

This was the first time Song Nanqing learned his mother’s name. She was not merely Imperial Concubine Jia, not merely the woman spurned by the Emperor, but this name belonged to her alone.

Song Nanqing remained silent for a long time after reading. He had never known that before entering the palace, she had lived such an unknown past. The Jia and Xi families had always been at odds; from any angle, their love could never have blossomed, especially with the weight of power struggles. Yet, Song Nanqing had heard of Xi Wenkang.

Ten years ago, while the late Emperor was still alive, he had been a man of great literary talent, born into a prominent family and skilled in cartography. The designs for the current ritual halls were his work. However, he fell ill years ago, and after Song Nanqing ascended to the throne, Jia Liang became the Grand Secretary and the Xi clan was heavily suppressed.

He heard that Xi Wenkang remained unmarried. Song Nanqing knew of these private matters because Shen Heng was often compared to him in the lists of the capital’s most eligible bachelors, pamphlets that were all the rage for a time. Chun Jian had even bought storybooks that used them as prototypes.

That day, when Shen Heng mentioned a candidate for the civil service reform, he was referring to this man.

Song Nanqing gathered the letters, folded them, and tucked them into his sleeve. He returned the box to its place and brushed off the dust. The spring sunlight outside brought warmth, dispelling the gloom of the room. Looking out to the west, he saw a long alleyway. Under the guise of washing his hands, he led Chun Jian through it, only to find it led to a horse stable.

Over a dozen fine steeds were grazing. Tending to them was a tall, bronzed-skinned man with a strange hairstyle, shaved short in the back like a death row inmate, revealing a tattoo on his neck. Song Nanqing hid behind a wall to watch, and the moment he saw the tattoo, his eyes widened.

Just as he was about to step forward, a beautiful woman sauntered over, resting her hand on the stableman’s shoulder as she spoke with a smile. Her jade earrings glittered in the sun. Song Nanqing heard the man call her “Aunt,” and he retreated a few steps, not wanting to be seen.

“The Jia estate is truly fascinating,” Song Nanqing mused in the carriage after bidding Jia Liang farewell. He leaned back against the soft cushion, eyes half-closed, and asked Wei Jin, “What did you find?”

Wei Jin, sitting in the front, turned slightly. “The Jia estate seems to have many restricted areas. Furthermore, the servants all possess martial arts skills, and their techniques do not come from the same schools.”

“Raising private soldiers?” Song Nanqing asked.

“I suspect as much,” Wei Jin replied. “The estate is too large, with many places to hide things. Also, today was too hurried; I could not map the entire layout.”

Song Nanqing thought back to the stableman, the jade earrings, and the tortoiseshell spoon, his brows arching. “Find time to visit Yun Xiu. Tell her I have found her lover.”

Wei Jin accelerated the carriage. “Understood. Your Majesty already has a plan.”

Song Nanqing smiled. “Let us see just how far Yun Xiu’s lover is willing to go for her.”

The carriage turned onto a street filled with the bustling atmosphere of food stalls. Song Nanqing, who had barely eaten at the Jia estate, felt his stomach growl. He lifted the curtain, eyed the steaming stalls, and swallowed. “Stop, I want to get off.”

The sun shone through the curtain onto Song Nanqing’s hand, as well as the flag of a food stall. The blue banner bore the characters “Chen’s Eatery,” and beneath it were wooden tables surrounded by long benches. This stall was packed. Song Nanqing rubbed his hands together, sat on a newly vacated bench, and stared at the menu.

“Young Master! Let me wipe it for you first!” Chun Jian hurriedly pulled out a handkerchief, but Song Nanqing’s eyes were already glued to the menu.

“I want a bowl of eel noodles and these bean curd skin buns.” He looked at what others were eating and pointed to the mung bean cakes on the table. “Bring me a plate of those as well.” He inhaled the savory aroma and told Chun Jian and Wei Jin, “Order whatever you want, the Master is paying.”

He was always enthusiastic about food. Although Shen Heng rarely allowed him to eat street food for fear of a weak stomach, Song Nanqing believed an Emperor should share in the pleasures of the people.

Before the food arrived, he was doused with a bucket of cold water by his table neighbors.

“I pool my money for a single bowl of plain noodles, while the wealthy and powerful can order whatever they want. Forget the examinations; even in food, we are worlds apart.”

Wealthy and powerful? Song Nanqing blinked. He did not think he had ordered anything too extravagant—just three dishes, one of which was dessert.

A scholar-looking man sighed nearby: “I have been in the capital for months, pinching every penny, yet the fees for Lord Jia’s tutoring sessions keep rising. If I do not pay, I fear falling behind. It is truly difficult.”

“There are only so many spots for the examinations, and the majority are taken by aristocratic families. We eat their leftovers and learn the scraps they let slip through their fingers. It has always been hard for commoners to become top scholars.”

“Do not be so discouraged. There is still hope if you work hard. Look at the new Censor, Lord Chen. He was born to poverty and now has the Emperor’s favor. No official in the palace dares to defy his impeachments; even the Grand Secretary has to respect his scrutiny.”

A young man in green cloth interrupted: “I am from the same hometown as Lord Chen. At the time, the local official owed his family a debt, and his father died because of it, so they granted him an extra spot, which gave him the chance to enter the court.”

Song Nanqing listened intently, lost in the conversation, until his noodles arrived, forcing him to refocus.

The clear soup held thin noodles topped with glistening, oil-fried eel strips. The green onion added a vibrant touch. Song Nanqing picked up a mouthful of noodles and eel; the fresh, sweet, and savory explosion was divine. The eel was firm, the bamboo shoots crisp. A sip of the hot soup warmed his entire body.

He buried his face in the bowl, eating so enthusiastically that the neighboring critics were drawn to him.

The man in green swallowed hard, preparing to continue: “Do you know who that local official was?”

His companions shook their heads, wondering if they should order a basket of bean curd skin buns too, given how delicious they looked.

“It was Lord Jia,” the man whispered conspiratorially, blocking his mouth with his hand.

But Song Nanqing was sitting right next to him; he heard every word. As he picked up a mung bean cake, he thought: So that is the connection between Chen Liwen and Jia Liang. No wonder he sends memorials questioning Jia Liang’s morality every single day.

As the mung bean cake touched his tongue, it melted, but within the freshness of the mung beans was a faint, lingering sourness. Song Nanqing frowned. Seeing that everyone else was eating happily without complaint, he forced himself to swallow.

Before leaving, he heard the students discussing what gifts to give for Jia Liang’s birthday, and Song Nanqing lost interest. He had thought, based on the butler’s words, that Jia Liang provided lessons for free. It turned out he not only charged fees but also expected gifts.

The carriage headed toward the palace gates as the massive doors slammed shut. However, the doors to the Emperor’s bedchamber were opened repeatedly. The imperial physicians and the attendants who had accompanied Song Nanqing were called in for questioning. Even Jia Liang’s estate was visited by palace servants inquiring about what dishes had been served that day.

Inside the inner hall, on the high bed, Song Nanqing lay with his eyes closed. His ink-black hair spilled over the pillows. His palm-sized face was delicate and fragile, devoid of the tenacity and sharpness he showed when awake.

Shen Heng entered the room, lifting the curtains to carefully observe the color of the boy’s face. He pressed the back of his hand to Song Nanqing’s forehead to check his temperature, then wrung out a wet towel from a copper basin to wipe the sweat from his brow.

His once-rosy lips had turned pale, and a strand of hair, dampened by sweat, clung to his cheek. Shen Heng swept the hair aside, wiping gently along his temples.

With the cunning eyes closed, he had lost his usual vitality and spirit. Shen Heng’s brows furrowed tightly as he gripped Song Nanqing’s hand and asked the imperial physician in a cold voice:

“What exactly is wrong with His Majesty?”