beside the Emperor, who had just picked up his solid gold eating sticks to try the marinated cold cuts. The guard whispered in his ear. The Emperor cocked his head, cast his eyes in Zhong Ye’s direction. He gave a slight nod, and the guard waved his hand. Zhong Ye dropped to his knees beside the Emperor’s ornate dining chair.
“Your most humble servant, Your Majesty,” Zhong Ye said in a clear voice, so he could be heard. He was crouched low against the ground, and the din of festival guests seemed especially loud.
“What’s your name?” the Emperor asked.
“Zhong Ye, Your Majesty.”
“And you think my food has been poisoned?” The Emperor’s boots were also embroidered with pearls and rubies. His foot shifted as he spoke.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“All the dishes served to me are tested by a taster.” He tapped one jeweled boot. A hush spread among the guests closest to the Emperor; the clink of eating sticks against porcelain was like musical notes.
“Get him up,” the Emperor said brusquely.
Zhong Ye felt himself being pulled by the stiff collar of his tunic, the guard clutching a handful of his queue at the same time.
“You imply that my dish was poisoned somehow between being tested by my taster and arriving at my table?” Silence rippled like a wave across the enormous hall.
Zhong Ye clenched both hands, felt the slick of his palms. He had to have timed this perfectly; it was his only chance. “Yes, Your Majesty. The foreign enemy has an expert assassin within your court. I bid you with my own life to take caution.” He would have fallen to his knees again if the guard hadn’t gripped him by one arm.
“Very well then. Prove your claim.” The Emperor picked up a slice of beef tongue and whisked it in the soy and chili sauce. Gasps and murmurs rose until the Emperor slanted one look at his guests. The hall quieted. Zhong Ye gulped, his throat much too dry, as the Son of Heaven fed him the piece of beef tongue as tenderly as a mother.
It was delicious, the perfect mixture of salt and spice, with a hint of sweet and sour, garlic and chives. He chewed as if it were his last earthly act. The Empress pressed one hand against her delicate mouth, and the other gripped the curved armrest. He swallowed and felt his stomach grumble. He hadn’t eaten since before daybreak.
The Emperor leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, his silk sleeves swishing. “Release him.” He nodded at the guard. “How do you feel?”
Zhong Ye unclenched his fists and bowed his head. “Perhaps I was wrong—” His knees buckled as heat blazed from his chest outward to each limb. The world turned black, but he could still hear. His face was pressed against the cold stone floor, and hands grabbed at him. Voices sounded like distant echoes.
“Take him to the royal physician,” the Emperor said.
It was the last thing he heard.
Zhong Ye opened his eyes to a blurred world, light and dark spots skittering across his vision. He squeezed his eyes shut again, his head spinning.
“Drink this.” A man’s soft voice. The physician brought a steaming bowl to Zhong Ye’s lips, and the bitter stench of medicinal herbs filled his nostrils. He would havejerked his head away if he’d had the strength. He took a sip. The dark brew hit the back of his throat, and he gagged, but he forced himself to swallow. He had to be back in perfect health as soon as possible, and the royal physician knew what he was doing.
“More. Drink it all.” Zhong Ye opened his eyes and looked at the physician. He had a thin face, and he squinted back at him with curious intensity. “You’re fortunate to be alive. Most victims who ingest dragon’s rue do not live to see the next day.”
It had gone as Zhong Ye had planned. The maiden’s slipper, a wildflower with blooms shaped to inspire its name, mimicked the symptoms of dragon’s rue, but merely put its victim out for a few days, not forever. From his studies of herbs and
“Your most humble servant, Your Majesty,” Zhong Ye said in a clear voice, so he could be heard. He was crouched low against the ground, and the din of festival guests seemed especially loud.
“What’s your name?” the Emperor asked.
“Zhong Ye, Your Majesty.”
“And you think my food has been poisoned?” The Emperor’s boots were also embroidered with pearls and rubies. His foot shifted as he spoke.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“All the dishes served to me are tested by a taster.” He tapped one jeweled boot. A hush spread among the guests closest to the Emperor; the clink of eating sticks against porcelain was like musical notes.
“Get him up,” the Emperor said brusquely.
Zhong Ye felt himself being pulled by the stiff collar of his tunic, the guard clutching a handful of his queue at the same time.
“You imply that my dish was poisoned somehow between being tested by my taster and arriving at my table?” Silence rippled like a wave across the enormous hall.
Zhong Ye clenched both hands, felt the slick of his palms. He had to have timed this perfectly; it was his only chance. “Yes, Your Majesty. The foreign enemy has an expert assassin within your court. I bid you with my own life to take caution.” He would have fallen to his knees again if the guard hadn’t gripped him by one arm.
“Very well then. Prove your claim.” The Emperor picked up a slice of beef tongue and whisked it in the soy and chili sauce. Gasps and murmurs rose until the Emperor slanted one look at his guests. The hall quieted. Zhong Ye gulped, his throat much too dry, as the Son of Heaven fed him the piece of beef tongue as tenderly as a mother.
It was delicious, the perfect mixture of salt and spice, with a hint of sweet and sour, garlic and chives. He chewed as if it were his last earthly act. The Empress pressed one hand against her delicate mouth, and the other gripped the curved armrest. He swallowed and felt his stomach grumble. He hadn’t eaten since before daybreak.
The Emperor leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, his silk sleeves swishing. “Release him.” He nodded at the guard. “How do you feel?”
Zhong Ye unclenched his fists and bowed his head. “Perhaps I was wrong—” His knees buckled as heat blazed from his chest outward to each limb. The world turned black, but he could still hear. His face was pressed against the cold stone floor, and hands grabbed at him. Voices sounded like distant echoes.
“Take him to the royal physician,” the Emperor said.
It was the last thing he heard.
Zhong Ye opened his eyes to a blurred world, light and dark spots skittering across his vision. He squeezed his eyes shut again, his head spinning.
“Drink this.” A man’s soft voice. The physician brought a steaming bowl to Zhong Ye’s lips, and the bitter stench of medicinal herbs filled his nostrils. He would havejerked his head away if he’d had the strength. He took a sip. The dark brew hit the back of his throat, and he gagged, but he forced himself to swallow. He had to be back in perfect health as soon as possible, and the royal physician knew what he was doing.
“More. Drink it all.” Zhong Ye opened his eyes and looked at the physician. He had a thin face, and he squinted back at him with curious intensity. “You’re fortunate to be alive. Most victims who ingest dragon’s rue do not live to see the next day.”
It had gone as Zhong Ye had planned. The maiden’s slipper, a wildflower with blooms shaped to inspire its name, mimicked the symptoms of dragon’s rue, but merely put its victim out for a few days, not forever. From his studies of herbs and
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