Fury of the Phoenix Read Free Page A

and Forty-first Year
of the Son of Heaven, Da Qian
Year Six Hundred and Thirty-three
Within the Palace of Fragrant Dreams
    E very available space in the giant banquet hall was taken. Guards dressed in black lined the walls, competing for room with guests who had yet to find seats. It was an invitation-only event to celebrate the Emperor’s forty-first year. Guards at the front entrance stopped those who did not carry the gold invitation.
    Zhong Ye had not been invited, but in his plain gray tunic and trousers he passed as a servant easily enough. It’d been almost two years since he’d joined the Emperor’s household as a palace eunuch, swearing his fealty. A huge banquet had also been given for the Son of Heaven’s thirty-ninth-year celebration, but Zhong Ye had been too busy emptying latrines, hisfirst official task. Even now he could recall the stench.
    He had soon been promoted from latrine boy in the servant quarters to one in the private chambers of the concubines. From there he was made a palace messenger. He had been searching for lychees for a high-ranking concubine when he impressed the royal chef with his intelligence and demeanor. This was how Zhong Ye had become the recipe keeper, ensuring that all the necessary ingredients were at hand for the dozens of dishes served to the Emperor each day. Early in the morning, before dawn, and even late at night, near the thieving hour, he still made himself available to the whims of the concubines, often fetching treats from the kitchen or fabric and new embroidering thread from the royal sewing quarters.
    Two years on four hours of sleep each night at best, and it was time to set his sights higher. Zhong Ye stood still, willing himself invisible behind the guests who all were finally seated, their chatter surging with the day’s languid heat. Sweat collected at his nape, trickled down his back, but he didn’t twitch.
    A gong reverberated across the hall. Everyone stopped speaking in mid-sentence, but the rustling of silk, the snapping of fans, and coughs could still be heard. The Emperor entered, trailed by his main consort and eight guards. They paraded down a red carpet embroideredwith golden dragons to a massive dining chair. He was attired in black stitched with crimson and gold designs and, despite the heat, wore a black and red cap encrusted with gold, rubies, and pearls.
    Zhong Ye followed the Emperor with his eyes. He’d learned much about the Son of Heaven’s routine through his time in the royal kitchen. He knew his likes and dislikes from gossip among the concubines. His Empress, dressed in deep purple, stepped daintily up to the throne beside him, her head held high despite her heavy bejeweled cap. She had given the Emperor one son and one daughter, but both were pale and meek, their voices as thin as their faces. Zhong Ye knew she was trying hard to become with child again.
    The gong sounded twice, loud enough that he felt it in his teeth. He allowed himself one full breath. The stout banquet master stood by the Emperor’s throne, intoning salutations and blessings for a most prosperous forty-first year in this earthly realm. He had quick hands and was known to fondle handmaids throughout the palace. All the girls tried to steer clear of him. The banquet master flourished those hands now as he spoke.
    Finally, he stilled, drawing his arms to his side, and the gong sounded three more times. He gave a sudden clap, and servers emerged from side entrances and beganplacing dishes covered with lacquered trays before the guests. Zhong Ye wove between them, along the length of the opulently laid table, toward the Emperor’s chair. He slammed into a wall of armored chests several feet from his destination.
    “You’re not the Emperor’s server,” one guard growled.
    “No, but I have reason to believe that at least one of his dishes has been poisoned,” Zhong Ye said in a steady voice.
    The guard’s mouth dropped open, and in three strides Zhong Ye was